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Colin Begg
Kirstin Zhang
Joyce Alexander Henderson
Jane Patience
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‘Delhi Road’
-by Colin Begg-
Mr Stainless ran a kitchen outfitters’ shop in Delhi Road, number sixteen-forty. It sold everything you could possibly want from stainless steel: sinks, worktops, taps, spouts - even colanders and those shiny kitchen bins with the pedal-operated lid and not enough room inside.
It was not his real name of course. He’d had changed it by deed poll around the time he bought the business. These were both impulsive acts, a last attempt to expunge the memory of a mother determined to fix her son’s destiny from afar. She died shortly after he moved away, and he would not really have noticed had she not left him a modest sum with which to start his own company. The old name had all but gone with her. Mister Stainless gave thanks to God that there was now only one person still alive to remember him as S.K. Bannerjee, and even she had probably forgotten. The man in the Registrar’s Office had taken some convincing but eventually he had relented; thus Victor Stainless was born - although nobody ever got to call him Victor.
One morning, Mister Stainless was in the shop when a customer entered. This in itself was not an unusual occurrence except that it was two minutes past ten, and Mister Stainless had only just switched off the electric motor that raised the security shutter from half-closed to open.
The man was elderly but he moved the stiff-hinged, glass-panelled door with surprising speed. He nodded a silent ‘hello’ and made for the ornamental plumbing features display by the back of the store. The door swung closed even faster than it had opened, causing the small flame on the shrine to Ganesh flicker and smoke. Mister Stainless watched it intently for a moment then, satisfied that it had stabilised, he returned to counting his float.
After a couple of minutes, a movement in the upper part of his peripheral visual field made him look up. The old man stood before him, holding a piece of paper. Mister Stainless smiled a small smile.
-Can I help you?
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Kirstin Zhang
Chapter One
Izumi had spent eighteen years on death row when the authorities deemed his conviction unsafe. This news came as a relief to Izumi who suspected that he was innocent. He ran his hands over his head, savouring the prickle of patchy stubble, and smiled. Prisoners were allocated fifteen minutes a week to shower, but heads were shaved daily. Grade One prisoners, or those about to be released, were excused this morning ritual. This had meant that Izumi had two extra minutes that morning to chew his breakfast. He dropped his hands to his belly and noted a gentle and not altogether unpleasant bubbling of digestive activity.
Aware of the smile still pulling at his face, he stole a furtive glance at the lawyer. Smiling, like talking, singing or laughing, was something one did with caution. In fact, after his sixth stint in the isolation cell, he’d had a serious talk to himself (mindful of course to keep his voice low) and suggested that these were things he should put behind him.
Joyce Alexander Henderson
I was born in the middle of a small, desolate stretch of water called the Jamphlars Pond. It lies on the outskirts of a Fife mining village. We could see it from our back door. It’s called ‘Jamphlars’ because Mary Queen of Scots passed through the area on the way to her own prison in the middle of Loch Leven and, seeing the meadows from her carriage window, declared; ‘Ah, les belles champs de fleurs.’ Some versions of my story specify ‘under a blackcurrant bush’ in the middle of the Jamphlars Pond but none involve any other human being but me. I did not like my particular creation myth. It conjured up an image of a solitary, newborn infant marooned on an inhospitable island. So I asked; ‘how did you get me back then?’ and the adults told me I was rowed back in a boat. I did not like this additional detail much either. I now saw a helpless baby in the bottom of a boat. The flag flying defiantly in the prow told the world, ‘she’s coming whether you like it or not,’ but there was no-one at the oars. Adults should be careful what tales they spin their children because they become the fabric of their lives.
Twenty years later reading the lifestory of an Eastern magician/guru who was born on a lotus in the middle of a lake, I thought; ‘I know what that feels like’.
Jane Patience
KEEPING IT CLOSE
My earliest childhood impression was the smell of my own burning flesh. My hand flat against the work surface as he used the tongs to heat something shiny over the gas. Six. I remember only happiness before then. I had no idea it was coming and I didn’t struggle. I was only concerned that he was weeping inconsolably and it might be my fault.
When he pressed the glowing key into my palm I heard the blistering hiss before I felt the pain. My screaming was more in outrage and surprise than agony. That came later. I knew I must have been very bad, even though he kept apologising through great juddering sobs, telling me how much he loved his little girl and that one day I’d understand. Pleading for my forgiveness like a beggar, he hurried me outside and put me on a bus. I never saw him again.
I crouched behind the back seat up stairs, trying not to sob out loud, so certain was I that I shouldn’t be here alone. As I pressed my throbbing palm against the chrome handle of the seat I recalled my father’s parting words. The bus travelled full circle and recognising our street, I got off outside the house. I sidled between the police cars and ducked under the striped tape. Perhaps it was a surprise party. My Aunt was there and she gathered me up quickly, thrusting my hands into a pair of gloves. Then she hugged me.
“Thank God you’re safe!” she cried.
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