The Teapot

Once when I was young and naïve I destroyed a green teapot with a black lid by putting it down the rubbish chute of the flats I lived in. It was a blameless item, existing its little heart out from home to home, its final place that flat in a boxy brick estate lit by round streetlights, the bushes below the window precipitating hordes of small green flies up through the windows  on summer nights when the blue sign of the Cunard Hotel glared sullenly across the void at us. The windows faced westwards; so no sunrise to greet our morning egg and toast and marmite, if there ever was such a thing. But sunsets, over the bend in the river a mile away, roaring in silent sheets of flame.

I once wondered how large a sunset actually is. Is it the size of a memory? Does it have a real extent? The Northern Lights show up on film when invisible to the eye.

Although there were no stars in our night sky, there were robins singing their hearts out as we walked from the Tube station, across the sullen dark of the main road, up the street of Victorian houses and into the flats like a rabbit turning tail and darting down its burrow to safety from the drifting hawk, the prowling fox.

Home. Where I felt safe. Home.

http://chramies.typepad.com/

Chris Amies was born in south London and lived for many years in Hammersmith, which still appears in much of his fiction. He is the author of one published novel (“Dead Ground”, published by Big Engine and reissued by Clarion), one non-sfiction book (Hammersmith and Fulham Pubs, published by Tempus) and about 25 short stories, and has reviewed fiction for the BSFA and Tangent Online. He recently diversified into anthology editing (“NeaDNAthal” available from Fringeworks) and full-length translations from French.

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Going Home

Tammy wished she hadn’t bothered going home for her father was still drunk and ranting at the television and her mother still faffing about in the catastrophe of the kitchen and the green Atlantic still heaving at the end of their garden.

There was no milk for tea so she went to the beach. A lone row-boat slapped against the sea-wall. A puppy lay immobile in the bilge-water and Tammy picked it up, thinking it was dead, but its limp body stirred. She put it inside her coat for it was ice-cold and hurried home. She didn’t care what they would say; she was keeping it.

Her mother filled a basin with warm water and put the little creature in it. It began to mew and Tammy looked for something to feed it with but there was nothing in the fridge but a piece of hard cheese. Then her mother pressed her finger to her lips and took out a glass of milk from the cupboard. ‘Don’t tell your father.’

Alison Marr

Alison Marr is a musician and poet, originally from Northern Ireland, who now lives in London. She writes short stories and poetry.

https://oldclock3.wordpress.com/

 

A higher temple?

theHistorierMay23rd2016

Strange shapes and forms appear within the architectural façades of Seething. Have you seen them? Geometric shapes, pyramids, towers and columns are integrated into buildings in and around the Victoria Road. Taken all together these separate parts form a 3D jigsaw puzzle.

It was all created by a chap who delved into the hermetic and pagan during the Long Seething Century. AKW Shorom, was a Seethinger through and through, born into a humble family, but blossomed at the Great Library under the guidance of Pross. It was there he learnt of the classical times, when Seethingers would share knowledge and ideas with other peace loving communities from across the world. It was through a system of energy harnessed through limestone, where the lime crystals vibrated emanating sound, replicating the voice at the other end of the energy- “line”. As time went by people started fashioning heads out of the stone, and eventually the likenesses of people. They were called statues, from the greeting on picking up a message, “’s t’at you?”

This was before the days of the Great Schism, when all contact broke down and was never again established. Unbeknownst to each other, a patchwork of communities carried across the world. Was all lost? Shorom thought not. He designed a temple to embrace the ancient energies circulating the world. A giant antenna. It would act as radio sending out messages to other secret societies. His great temple would make contact with those societies and the worldly secrets passed on and shared.

Shorom was hounded out of Seething by jealous Aldermen of the great council. But what of his temple? He was a cunning man. He broke it up and gave it to an architectural scrap yard to sell, on one condition. No part may leave the boundaries of Seething. At a time of few architectural fragments, the parts were scooped by builders and quantity surveyors, who built them into their own designs.

No one knows what happened to Shorom. It is said he sometimes returns to Seething in disguise as an hospitaller or a cheesemonger, and that one day he will return as the great architect to rebuild his temple and return peace to the world.

As you walk round Seething, keep an eye out, look at the buildings. If you see something, place your hand upon it and feel it vibrate.

By the Historier

The Historier blogs at https://anhistoriersmiscellany.wordpress.com/