The Sharp End

The Sharp End!
The Best Of The Sharpest and Shortest
Stories So Far!
Fabulous Flash Fiction For You!

What Happened?

I was at work in the Radar Dome on Fire Island Air Force Base in Cook Inlet
near Anchorage, Alaska.
Brock, another Federal Aviation Administration Technician, and I were engaged in
routine preventative maintenance on the ARSR-1 A, (Air Route Surveillance Radar),
inside the gigantic Fiberglas domed building when it happened.
The movement, a sudden sidewise shift, toppled a row of metal office file cabinets and
increased back and forth oscillations until it was impossible to stand erect.
I stumbled out of the second floor office and fell down two flights of steel stairs to the
concrete ground floor, scraping skin from shins and elbows along the way.
Semi-consciously, I stood up and slammed against the electric-door where I entered
the five-digit exit code and pushed the operate button a split-second before electric
power failed.
Brock pushed hard against my back when the door opened. I managed to grab the
doorjamb to prevent us both from falling out onto snow-encrusted gravel.
However, Brock fell past me and sprawled onto the gravel.
He quickly scrambled back against my feet as he yelled, 'Christ!'
Our yellow FAA Dodge Carryall truck, which was parked, ran past, reversed direction
and ran back past, its engine turning first in one direction and then the other, yet not
actually running at all. The truck’s ignition key was secure in my pocket.
'What’s happening?' Brock screamed.
'It's an earthquake!'
The very earth itself was an undulating series of lateral movements with frozen pine
trees across the compound first beating the ground on one side, then beating it on the
other in time with the series of waves of motion.
Several of the trees snapped off shortly after the swaying began, but the vast majority
continued to slap the ground with their tops, causing the snow to fly up in clouds.
A dark blur caught my attention as I detected the movement of a moose trying to run
from the trees, but repeatedly getting struck down by the punishing treetops.
Before I could register a feeling of pity for the moose, our yellow Dodge truck slammed
into the open exit door, knocked the door shut.
Brock’s hold on the door edge was lost and we scrambled to crawl away from the
rampaging truck. It was imperative to be beyond its range of movement before the next
transverse cycle. Fortunately, we were just beyond the bumper when the next run
stopped. We continued crawling away from the radar tower, fearing the huge structure
would certainly fall on us next.
But it didn’t fall.
The quake actually was only five minutes in length yet it seemed to be an hour before
the earth stopped moving. Brock and I got in the yellow truck and drove to the FAA
housing area, fearing both structures would surely have collapsed. But the buildings
were standing. So were all the family members. Seven FAA employees and their family
members stood in the snow in various forms of attire, including one wife with none.
Brock’s wife was in the bathtub when the earthquake hit. She was thrown out on the
floor and departed the building on her hands and knees without even a towel.
And so began the Great Alaskan Earthquake of March 27, 1964.

© L J N United

Time To Say Goodbye

“Always the same shit with her,” Patrick says slamming the door and nearly spilling
his coffee.
Patrick and Brittany, his wife, have now started more mornings than he can count this
way. Putting his briefcase and coffee in place, he starts his car, still fuming and makes
his way to work.
“She is the most stubborn woman,” he says pounding his fist against the steering
wheel. “I can’t win with her. Nothing is ever good enough. What the hell does she
expect? I used to love her uncontrollable, passionate love for me, but now all those
emotions seem to have manifested into to a wild hate. If I can’t make her happy, why
the hell does she stay? I still love her, God, I still love her,” his anger fails him as tears
form. “I don’t know what to do anymore. It has been months starting the same way
every day.”
Patrick looks out the windshield, stuck in the normal morning rush hour traffic, sighs
and finally exclaims, “Maybe it’s just time. Maybe it’s just time to say goodbye.”

She can only scream as Patrick does what he does best and just walks away. “God
Patrick,” she yells at the closed door hurling a sofa pillow at it, “Why can’t you finish
one goddamn conversation?”
She falls on to the sofa, knowing that he will not return till some time after work, “I
never expected you to be perfect, that’s what he says I expect. I know that no one is
perfect; I just want you to listen to me and help out around here. But you would have to
give a damn about me or anything else besides work for that.” Tears have already
begun to stream down her face. Every morning Patrick leaves her this way, she feels
that a part of her dies each time.
She gets up and walks towards the window. “He is the most stubborn person I know. I
used to love him for his strength and unfailing convictions of love for me, but now I feel
that it has all faded away and all that remains is hate.”
Brittany slowly exhales, wiping away a tear and quietly concludes to herself, “Maybe it’s
just time. Maybe it’s just time to say goodbye.”

© Brandy Hickey

The Girl With The Flame Coloured Hair

They alerted the border and the airport. No one was getting out. The girl with the
flame coloured hair had vanished in to the night. She had to be found. Quickly.

He watched them from his sixth floor flat. The policemen and volunteers, gyrating
around like ants and achieving nothing.

Seamus went to make tea and turned the radio up to drown the sobbing in the next
room.

© Rosalind Smith-Nazilli

Song of The Season

He watches the season's slow passage through secondary glazing. Only the
blackbird & the red berries cheer him. Even with Easter it doesn't thaw. If he ventures
out it's only to the distant bird table.

He stops & listens for noise, but there are none: everywhere he can hear has fallen
silent. And so he returns to the cottage & takes to recording an unyielding season. It is
a text-based diary with a few sketches of blackbirds & red berries, & the occasional
nature note extracted from fauna & flora volumes.

After ten days nothing is afoot in the garden: no footprints, animal tracks or tinges of
green. After twenty days, he catches himself yielding to the temptation to read out loud
his diary. After thirty day of internal dialogue this is replaced by diary entries chanted
at the top of his voice – & so he opens the windows wide to capture the quietest of
village sounds, secure them for his diary, to make his utterances cease; so he might
begin to dumbly sing.

© Bob Hill

At Night

In bed at night under the sloping roof it was easy to forget that the pub was
downstairs. Sometimes we would be disturbed by a burst of laughter or loud voices.
Men drank whiskey that made them red in the face. Women drank white lemonade or,
if they were Protestants, port. My mother ran the pub. She didn't approve of drink.
My father could take it or leave it. Mostly he took it, bottles of whiskey that he drank in
his bedroom. We kept out of his way when he was on the tear. Once though when
there were customers in, he came staggering down the stairs and stood in the bar
shouting. He has forgotten to put his trousers on. My brother slapped him and my
mother flinched, her face red as if the handprint was on her cheek not his. At night if
you pulled the blankets tight over your head you could almost forget everything.

© Anne Byrne

Originaldot Thoughtdot Dotcom

"No! Don't say it!"
"But!"
"It'll cost ya!"
"It's only words,"

Only words. What words? Can't say I'm afraid. I haven't booked them out in the
particular order. Need to look ahead you see. Spontaneous quotation costs money,
thoughtful recitation is much better value. Now we all have to be on Lifebooked©,
U2meAndEverything© and Banter+plus©, in order to carry on normal day to day tasks
the smartipants have monetised everything we say to each other.
U-SayWePay© looked like a great idea. A winner's circle. But now it costs me a $ a day
to call my dog Lassie.

I should have called her 'An undergoing stomach, to bear up against what should
ensue' for a $ a month, which, I think, would suit her better, shortened to Anunder of
course. The Bard is a bargain these days, and the dog desperately needs to go on a
diet.

"Call her stomach!"
"Stop it!"
"Why? Can't you-?"
"Stomach it?"
"I said that dog would cost you money."

© Byron Jones

A True Valentine’s Day Love Story

Once upon a time, many long years ago, in the west central Texas County of
Haskell, in the little village of Rule, there lived a beautiful young woman named Irene,
who still lived at home with her Mother, Father, and younger brothers; which at that
time was the custom for all proper young ladies. One day when the family was
attending a church service in Rule, a tall handsome gentleman saw Irene, and admired
her so much that he told his friend who was with him, that if he could get married, that
she was the woman he would choose; even though he was quite a bit older than the
young woman he admired so fervently.
As a young adult, he had made the decision, that he would not marry, because he had
a very serious medical condition affecting his legs and he had been told by Doctors at
the time that his condition was not curable and that eventually, his legs would have to
be amputated. He felt that he couldn’t burden a woman with his ongoing problem and
the eventual loss of his legs. This was at the turn of the century; well before antibiotics
had been discovered, and before other important techniques had been developed,
that might possibly have resulted in a different outcome. Jim had even travelled to Hot
Springs, Arkansas trying to find help and had exhausted every possibility to be cured.
He had owned a general store in a tiny community near Anson in Jones County, called
Truby; but he had recently sold his store and moved to Rule where he lived with his
married sister and her family, so that she could help him care for his legs that were
becoming increasingly difficult to treat and had to be medicated and re-wrapped every
day.
During those years, after Jim moved to Rule, Irene and Jim saw one another from time
to time and yes, they fell deeply in love and were married; by then, he was forty and
she was thirty years old. On March 13, 1910, they had a beautiful morning wedding at
Irene’s parents lovely home that was situated, back from the road, on what now is the
highway on the east side just outside of Rule. They had a morning wedding on that
particular day, so that Irene could travel to Dallas with Jim, for a previously arranged
appointment. On their wedding day, along with their brother in law, G.W. Wilson, they
travelled to Haskell from Rule, and boarded a train headed for Dallas to have one of
his legs amputated.
After they returned from Dallas they made their home in Haskell where, on a sled
pulled by a horse, he farmed his small portion of land; and he planted and cared for
one of Haskell’s largest and most beautiful vegetable gardens. Within the very first
year of Irene and Jim’s wedding, his boast was; that he married the loveliest young
woman in the county, had a leg amputated, ran for election and had won, and they
had a baby boy. All within one year!
It was several years later, soon after the last child was born, when Jim’s second leg
had to be amputated. He never complained, but lived happily ever after with the love
of his life, Irene, and their five wonderful children; that years earlier, he thought he’d
never have. Jim and Irene’s lives happily accommodated whatever inconveniences
they encountered, as they, throughout the years lived and loved serving this
community and their church; “The First Baptist”, where Jim was a Deacon. Their five
children too, spent their entire lives here in Haskell contributing to and enriching this
town with their talents and love for Haskell, its citizens, and their families.
Jim and Irene; lives well lived, with considerations and difficulties; yes, but lived fully
with happiness, joy, and gratitude for all life’s many blessings: they lived a truly happy
ever after, Valentine’s Day love story.

© Linda Lane – Bloise 02/14/2011

Eight Minutes

“Nothing like imminent death to focus your mind, huh?”; His face was matter-of-
fact.
“If you don't do, what you could do, life won't stand still but it won't go the way you
could have taken it,” he continued.
“You're right. How long do I have?”
“Eight minutes. Then it's time to die.”
“That's time enough, isn't it? I mean, to write this nanotale?”
“That it is. I see that you have already begun by typing our dialogue. Good start. Now
carry it to its destination. The clock is ticking,” His eyes were serene.
“Is there nothing I can do to postpone the inevitable?”
“You are wasting precious time. The inevitable will happen. That is why it is called the
inevitable. The inevitable has happened, is happening and will continue to happen.
Causality binds you, just as it sets you free.” How equanimous his voice was! I wish I
shared his equanimity.
“Is there life after death?”
“You will find out in another four minutes. You would be wise to make the most of the
remaining four minutes of your life before death.” He was not one to beat around the
bush.
“Is there a god or gods?” I had to ask.
“What you should be asking is what is behind those eyes and between those ears of
yours,” he was as tranquil as ever.
“My brain, of course!” This time I was on familiar territory. After all, I had been studying
the brain for most of my life.
“Dig deeper,” he advised.
“I know what you are getting at. You want me to answer whether the mind is real or
whether the material world of the brain and body, plants and planets, shoes and stars
and so on are real. Well, evidence shows that the mind is what the brain does. The
mind is a process, not an entity. The mind and the brain are one. They are two sides
of the same coin. I once had part of my skull removed and I was looking at my brain in
the mirror – “
“I know all that. Remember, I know all you know and more. What you need to realise is
the implication of the mindbrain unity. You have minutes left and I don’t even need a
watch to tell you that,” his voice was even.
“Yes, but time is an illusion created by change. At the speed of light, time does not
slow down, change slows down. In fact, change stops at the speed of light. The dance
of life, the dance of change, the dance of particles - all comes to a standstill at the
speed of light. Change does not occur over time – time is a perceptual illusion created
by change!”
“Yes, I know all that, too. You are still missing the ultimate implication of the mindbrain
unity. Two minutes to death,” he was not going to postpone the inevitable.
“I am racking my brain here! What is it? Can’t you just tell me?”
“The doors of enlightenment must be opened from within,” he met my gaze.
“Do I have an immortal soul or spirit or essence which is separate from the mindbrain
unity and thus able to survive death?”
“You will know in one minute,” he was just so tranquil.
“Look, I am an agnostic. As far as I know, I have lived an ethical life. I know that I am
part of a whole. I know about the circle of life. I have done my best to live a whole-
centred and balanced life - a life of compassion, a life of virtue, a life of fairness. I don’t
know all the answers. I don’t even know all the questions! Stop playing games with me.
I am dying here!”
“Actually, you are living here. From conception, all living things are dying. Death is the
ultimate experience life has to offer. Death completes life. All you have said is true.
You have done all you could have done. The inevitable has happened, is happening
and will continue to happen. This is the truth. I will enter this tale on your behalf. Time
to die. It’s a good death. Sweet dreams,” said he, who is also I.

© Sazib Bhuiyan

Precious

The crystalline features of the substance dance a golden jig beneath the hot
glare of the earth baking sun.
Refractions of light glisten across a sea of beige as might a beacon of salvation to
someone haplessly floundering in a torrid ocean of despair.
From across the barren land a bedraggled boy walks wearily toward the point of
interest. He scuttles barefoot down a dune into the small valley below then raises his
drooped head to survey his surroundings. He comes to a jolting halt and gasps in
wonderment when he realises what he has happened upon. Invigorated to an
exuberance of action he utters successive yells of joy while haphazardly sprinting then
scrambling across the hot sands.
Such is his excitement that he is no longer concerned that his resources of energy are
almost exhausted. He knows that this find is more valuable than anything he could
have hoped for and fully understands that its discovery portends greater fortune for
his people; perhaps not always, but for the time being, at least.
What’s more; he will be hailed as a hero- the saviour of the village!
A blurred shimmer of awed expression is reflected to his widened eyes as he crawls
forward and places reverent kisses upon the precious surface. He simultaneously
laughs and weeps in his relief as he holds it in his trembling, dirt encrusted hands and
mutters prayers of adulation to the creator of such divine mercy.
The boy kisses it over and over again before resting blissfully at its side- spent from
the effort of the day. He rolls onto his back and smiles at the azure skies until his
strength returns then he stands slowly and turns the way back home. Then he will tell
his people that they have been delivered from the drought.
………………….
In another lifetime, thousands of miles away in a far more temperate climate, a man
sips still water from a plastic bottle while browsing over words written for his study
assignment. The essay entitled ‘Life Chances’ is displayed upon the laptop, which sits
upon the coffee table within the bedsit the man has lived in for the last year and a half.
In these moments he is considering whether or not the closing lines of the work are of
a profound enough nature to aptly conclude the 1,977 that preceded them.
For all his fluency, English is not his first language- nor is England his country. He
arrived here as a teenager and although he has familiarised himself well with the
language over the four years since arriving, he is doubtful of his ability to articulate
thoughts and ideas in foreign script.
If all goes well the Diploma in Social Care will be his first qualification since being
granted refugee status in the host country. It will, in fact, be his first qualification of any
description; education is not a necessity in the lives of slave children working the
diamond mines.
Determined to give it his all he reads the words aloud to better gauge their
effectiveness.
‘In times and places of deprivation the value of a thing is defined in relation to need.
In times and places of prosperity the value of a thing is defined in relation to desire.’
He smiles in satisfaction at the way the words sounded then takes a drink of water. He
swallows then sighs, his eyes closing appreciatively in time, as the trickling liquid
soothes his throat.
The man’s reverent expression may belie the resurfacing memories of harder times,
but you may guess the truth of a traumatic past were you to see him hold the bottle to
eye level and silently mouth his valuation,
‘Precious’

© Lee Whensley

The insight of Anne Darrow

For a moment Anne Darrow saw everything clearly. At precisely 12 seconds past
6.07 am she understood more about New York then in her whole life up to that point,
living in shabby apartments, wandering narrow streets and eking out a living acting
and dancing in Vaudeville shows. This particular second saw her falling from the
tallest building in the world. A second before she had been clinging to the rungs of a
metal staircase and a second later she was safe in the giant palm of the gorilla. But
for this second, this single moment in her life, Anne Darrow was precisely 378 metres
above the fastest growing city in the world. Time stood still, and she stared at the
scene below her:

The city grid dominated her view. It was like a web stretching outwards pinned to
convenient but coincidental anchor points, changing direction as geography dictated,
trapping random flotsam in its rigid structure. All Miss Darrow had experienced before
were busy streets crammed with people, taxis and trams. Now she understood this
grid, not just as streets but as a vast ordering device, something at once controlling
and confining but allowing unlimited expansion.

She next experienced the verticality of Manhattan. From the ground, when wondering
these long avenues, her gaze was often consumed by brightly lit shop fronts, ornate
canopies, each new building outdoing the other in ornament, height and size. From
above, however, architecture didn’t matter, it was the effect of the whole that struck
her more. All these new towers felt like a tide ebbing and flowing, endless change
sweeping away the past and remorselessly pushing forward. Central Park seemed to
be the only still spot in this wild ocean of buildings. Anne Darrow could see it now,
covered in snow. From the air: just an expanse of open space, losing its mystery, its
sense of wild and untamed nature.

She couldn’t see her neighbourhood, but she assumed Brooklyn must just be a speck
in the distance. She had never before thought of the expanse of New York, only the
fragments that she experienced in her daily routine of survival. From the ground,
there was no such place as the City, it was just thousands of small places made up of
apartments over shops, cafes and bars, warehouses, back lots… up here, the pieces
disappeared into a single identity. She felt like the character in a picture of a
watercolour she had once seen in a library book, a picture of the Creator bending over
holding a giant set of compasses, drawing out some eternal and perfect plan for
humanity. Up here, it was as if the city was indeed perfect and eternal, erasing the
turmoil that was happening beneath her right now. So many friends out of work;
racketeering and extortion everywhere; so much pain and anger, but also love and
sorrow, dreams and hope… suddenly her decent was arrested. She was now lying in
the palm of the giant gorilla. In just one second everything had changed for her.
Anne Darrow would no longer be the passive individual controlled by the authorities of
this city. It was her city, it couldn’t exist without her and the tens of thousands of other
inhabitants who had come here seeking refuge, come here, not just to survive, but with
dreams and hope for a better future.

© Sarah Allan 8 January 2011

Evening Prayer

Judith closes her eyes and tries to concentrate. Praying isn’t easy. She doesn’t
know where to start and there are too many distractions. The baby is grizzling; not
crying yet but you can tell he is working up to it. His mother shushes and croons him
still but the child is picking up her fear. Two seats away to Judith’s left, a man is
coughing his lungs up. He smells of aftershave, peppermint, stale sweat and smoke.
Judith doesn’t know him at all but the stink of him is making her feel murderous. Would
God make allowances? Perhaps she should ask.

Judith knows that Father Andrew is just three rows in front of her. She is not so much
listening as allowing herself to drift with the current of his voice. The words are familiar
bit the tone is wrong; it is making her uneasy. Finally, she gives into temptation and
opens her eyes.

What Judith sees is that Father Andrews has forgotten what he is saying. His mouth
keeps moving but the rest of his face is all horror and disbelief. Judith follows the line
of his gaze; it is fixed on a point some thirty feet away. Two dark fins are bearing down
on the starboard side of the boat.

‘Let us pray,’ says Father Andrews. ‘The Lord Jesus will surely provide for us.’
The swell of a wave catches the inflatable. Judith closes her eyes.

© Abi Wyatt

THE DEMOCRATS

"There could be life on that blue planet," they said. "We should investigate."

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "You're not thinking straight. It's got water and an oxygen
atmosphere."

But, they insisted on a vote. Seven hundred thousand billion agreed with me. That put
paid to their foolish speculation.

© Joe Miller

Joey's First Steps.

Joey took his first steps today. He looked like a little drunk duck. He was so proud. I
picked up the phone to tell you but your voicemail cut in.

‘Hi, it’s me. If that’s you, leave me a message.’

My eyes prickled with tears. I didn’t leave a message.

© Linda Davies

Gerald, Chewing Carpet.

As sleep retreats before the certainty of another presence, you turn on the light
and, showing off, to your obvious delight, Church Bells, as I kneel upon the bed; my
eye meets his, a pin prick of fright. A long-tailed softness, quick as thought, now hides
among the things your sister bought. His time at large will never let us rest, but at
running and hiding he’s sublime. We lose our space to his insistent quest, and as we
do, find comfort in unexpected time.

© Peter Forester

A Murder for Harry

Like many 10 year olds my nephew Harry likes the scary stuff. I didn’t make this
story up for him; it’s true, it happened in the 1960’s.

My Aunt Alice worked as a cleaner for her cousin who owned a number of properties in
Birmingham. After finishing work she would walk the three miles back to her home in
Smethwick where she lived with her husband Len. One afternoon there was a sharp
knock on their door. The man in the grey overcoat on Alice’s doorstep introduced
himself as a detective from the local police station. He was offered a cup of tea, (Alice
made the best cup of tea in the world), and he settled in an armchair to ask, ‘a few
questions to help us with our enquiries’.

He was interested in a particular day when Alice had been working at a flat in a house
in Edgbaston. On that day, he asked, had she noticed anyone acting suspiciously
near the house? Had she noticed the large white painted stones that lined the path?
Had any of them been moved on the day she cleaned the flat? There were many
questions but not once did Alice ask the obvious question that you or I would have
asked.

The detective finished his tea and thanked Alice for her help. Uncle Len showed him to
the door and asked if the detective could tell him the reason for his many questions?

Uncle Len learned how, as Alice had cleaned the flat, as she vacuumed and dusted
the furniture in the bedroom, as she walked home to make tea for Uncle Len, as Alice
did all the ordinary things on that extra-ordinary day, a woman who she didn’t know,
and now, could never know, was lying dead in a wardrobe in the house in Edgbaston.

The woman was as cold as a stone. As cold, in fact, as one of the large white stones,
which had been taken from it’s place on the path, raised up and brought down hard
onto her head.

Alice never went back to her cleaning job. She never gave up making the best tea
ever and being my very favourite aunt.

© Gill Evans

SEA CHANGE

The fisherman promised to show her his creels. The boy asked to come too.
The first contained a large fish. It lay there, flapping, dying. Crying, the boy pleaded
for it to be returned. The fisherman looked bemused; the boy’s mother, unamused.
Years later, the’ boy’ realised that without her presence, the fish might have lived.

© Joe Miller

THE WALLET.

Elena comes from a place in Kent called Tunbridge Wells, where she studied
graphics. Upon finishing her degree she made the decision to move to the big smoke
to start her career and for general adventure. After a few days settling in at Clapham
she decides to explore some of the famous cultural delights of London. Drinking in
Brick Lane she sees a flyer for an art exhibition that was taking place somewhere close
by. It was a “guerrilla” exhibition that was held in an old Woolworths. This was more
than a shop floor, you could explore all around. Going into one of the offices she
comes across a wallet on the floor. She picks up the wallet and hands it to one of the
people working in the gallery. The woman then explains that this is in fact one of the
pieces of art.

© Gareth.

EGYPTIAN SYRUP

If the 3rd of July falls on Friday, the city of Cairo, Georgia, throws a big bean
party. Tonnes and tonnes of broad beans are poured on the grass of Davis Park, and
the Grady County Fire Department waters the huge mass of broad beans until the
park becomes a sort of gigantic soup, which locals call the Egyptian Syrup. During this
celebration, to dive in the broad bean soup and to almost drown in it is considered a
bringer of luck. To actually drown in it is an unequivocal sign of bad luck.

© Jaume Muñoz

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