More Than Dreamt Of

There are more things in heaven and earth, . . . than are dreamt of in your philosophy

Archive for the category “Flash Fiction”

How Episode VII could have ended . . .

This week, the Daily Post challenges us to write a post that goes against the conventional wisdom — to reinterpret something, to tell the world about an unconventional view, or to help see an old story in a new light.

So:

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . .

Scene: a vibrant planet, on one of the beautifully mountainous rocky outcrop islands dotting a pristine and mighty endless blue ocean.

A young woman climbs a rough-hewn stone stairway. She arrives at the top, where she finds primitive stone structures and, standing some forty feet away from her, a robed man standing with his back to her.

She stares for a seemingly endless moment until finally he turns to face her, and pulls his hood back to reveal his face.

He is older; wizened and bearded. Their eyes connect.

The young woman reaches into her pack and withdraws a long-lost item of great value, which had once belonged to the man’s father. She holds it out to him: a tribute

Nodding, the man begins to speak in low, gravelly tones.

“Do they suspect?”

The girls lowers her head in cold reverence.

“No . . , my master.”

inspired by
STAR WARS: THE FORCE AWAKENS
written by Lawrence Kasdan, J.J. Abrams & Michael Arndt
based on characters created by George Lucas

Fortune and Glory . . .

full-view-shahi-qila-burhanpur-4298

“It’s not the greatest line Doug – where did you say are?”

“In Madhya Pradesh, India . . . stopping over in Burhanpur.”

Jay’s mind raced through his mind’s comprehensive personal encyclopaedia and atlas, and filled in his own mental jigsaw, Douglas’s own voice ghosting in from the past “Fortune and glory, Jay . . . fortune and glory.”

“On the Tapi river? You’re still on the Solomon thing? Treasure hunting, Douglas – really, isn’t that a little too Hollywood, even for you? So are you chasing the fabled Red Sea-Ophiri trade route up towards the ancient gold mines, or heading for the sites of the diamond mines near Datia? And why call me, have you found some old sandalwood or kurusha you want me to analyse for you?

“Actually, I’m just out here to see Ana . . . but what was that you just said about Solomon . . . a trade route . . . and mines?”

[…the continuing chronicles of Jay Genswood, in this case prompted by the weekly flash fiction prompt on the What Pegman Saw blog]

Vintage

Written in response to the prompt on FRIDAY FICTION with RONOVAN WRITES: Prompt Challenge #19 – A Celebration

Ronovan Writes Friday Fiction

. . . . and re-introducing Dr Jay Genswood.

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Two separate events, eighteen months apart, have set me on my current path. The cynical academic I had been, sipping the complimentary drinks in business class on the ‘plane flying to meet my old college buddy Doug Kitchen in the Negev, would simply not recognise the man who walked out of Ana’s office in an astounded daze one and a half years later . . .

The robust wooden door before me bore the nameplate ‘Dr Ana Krino’, and as I knocked it sounded a comfortingly solid low note. I was greeted by a woman with Mediterranean looks, seemingly about my own age. She glanced at my face and an expression of superficial recognition quickly formed into a welcoming smile.

“Dr Genswood – thank you for coming to see me. I am grateful for your time.”

She guided me in, and we spent a few minutes exchanging the usual pleasantries, as those whose only immediate common ground is a mutual acquaintance tend to do. The obligatory English offer of tea and biscuits accompanied our introductory conversation. Crisp spring air drifted in through the window, bringing with it the bustling hubbub of central London traffic. After a brief pause to sip from her teacup, Ana got to the point of our meeting.

“Douglas Kitchen mentioned that you were in London for a conference. I was hoping that you might apply your particular expertise and experience to casting your eye over some research data?” She leaned across her desk, and passed me a loose set of papers.

My particular ‘expertise and experience’, I mused. “These tests results look rather unremarkable”, I offered, wondering if this was another of Doug’s attempts to pair me off, or just a prank, but then again . . . . . Douglas . . .

“These are the spectrometric results of a liquid sample taken from a bronze age artefact recovered in Israel last year. The original find was made by locals – treasure hunters wanting to find their fortune. They wanted to cash in, so sent several objects to Jerusalem, no doubt to whet the appetite and open the cheque books of the Hebrew University. HU immediately dispatched a team to investigate further, and various items recovered as a result prompted them to consult with the British School of Archaeology out there, and subsequently my team here. Their initial investigation revealed a liquid substance to be contained within that jar . . .” She motioned towards a crusty old amphora-style jar, sitting in a glazed cabinet at the edge of the room, which bore an image of the Star of David.

“The vessel is very similar to the ones found at the Palace of Tel Kabri, near the coast of Upper Galilee, but Israel didn’t have the facilities to match those we have developed here, which would protect and preserve the contents, whatever they may have been, so . . .” Ana gestured to illustrate the jar finding its way to her office.

Galilee . . . ancient Judea. A memory of petrified heartwood bearing Hebrew lettering flashed back across my mind from as if eighteen months were eighteen seconds. The Negev . . . . . Douglas . . .

Jewish wine vessel
“The University of Haifa had been able to analyse residues from the jars discovered at the Tel Kabri site – they revealed that wine they had contained had been mixed with different flavourings – terebinth resin, cedar oil, honey, other plant extracts – dull, I admit, but an archaeological first. When HU realised that they could trump that discovery with analysis of the possibly preserved contents of this jar, they wanted to make sure that no mistakes were made in its preservation and forensic analysis. Forensic analysis, which showed this red liquid with an aromatic scent featuring hints of berries, and a suggestion of cinnamon, to be simple, unremarkable yet unmistakeable, water.” She waved a phial of red liquid in my direction before passing it briefly beneath her nose.

I hesitated. “There is nothing in these results to account for any discolouring, any change in viscosity, nor any aromatic evaporation.”

“No, nor the deeply satisfying flavour,” she replied.

I froze. This had to be a joke.

“You’ve . . .?!”

Galilee; ancient Galilee . . .

“Ana, where exactly was the jar found?”

“The dig is near Kafr Kanna, also known as Khirbet Cana.”

To my almost offended disbelief, she sipped at the phial.

“It is a cosmopolitan Galilean town, about five miles northeast of Nazareth. It is mostly . . . ‘unremarkable’? . . , but quite popular with tourists. You know, pilgrims.”

Realisation dawned in my dull mind. “Cana! This came from Cana?! As in . . .”

” . . . as in the wedding celebration at Cana. Where Jesus Christ is recorded to have performed his first miracle – turning water . . . into wine.”

“Ana, this is unbe- . . . how can you allow this to be drunk?! You must preserve the specimen, re-seal the jar – the wa- . . wi- . . the specimen will become contaminated! You have to protect it until it can be peer-reviewed! You have to . . !”

She smiled at me. “There are those in the world who will always reject the truth I believe we have discovered, regardless of how many universities, or government laboratories were to validate the findings. But Douglas told me about Kadneg; he told me what he found, and you witnessed . . . I trusted that you would have an open mind.”

“But Ana, the specimen . . . ”

” . . . the specimen never runs out; it has never . . . will never run out. No matter how much we remove . . . how often . . . It replenishes itself, each night; every night.”

For an insight into events in the Negev 18 months previously, see Rings . . .

His Tears

The following was written for Christian Flash Weekly Event #40 – please click through to see the other submissions.

His Tears

On the second day God spoke, the Son wept tears of joy at His creation. They fell and covered the Earth, as He saw that it was good.

Then man came, he turned away, left and turned on himself. The Father’s heart broke, and the Son wept, for forty days and nights; until the world he wept for was washed clean.

Man turned again, and the Son became man, and He wept as we weep – the tears of children needing sustenance, shelter and love. As Jesus grew he wept as we weep – the tears of loss of a friend, and of joy at his return.

He prepared to leave Earth and on His last day, He wept in anguish – separation, from friends, family, and Father. Now through faith in Him, separation and death transform wonderfully to reconciliation and new life.

And the tears flow as intended, from His everlasting joy.

@faithunlocked

Prisoner 1225

Written for today’s Flash! Friday challenge, prompted by this photograph.

wanted-santa-claus

Prisoner 1225

“So, Friday, four weeks ago?”

Prisoner 1225 anxiously glanced up at the detectives flanking him.

“I don’t remember. You can’t seriously . . . it was four weeks ago!”

“Black Friday. Witnesses saw a man fitting your description inciting the violence and looting that night.”

The prisoner began to feel uncomfortably warm in his thick red coat, and nervously tended his cascading white beard.

“What about the early hours of the 25th?”

” I was . . . working . . . Making deliveries.”

“Enough. Book him – Santa Claus. a.k.a. Father Christmas: accomplice to the theft of the true meaning of Christmas. You’ll be tried for crimes against humanity.”

“But . . .”

“You’ve got one certain hope. Just confess, testify, and the D.A. will see the Judge forgives you.”

“If I don’t?”

“Life. No parole.”

“Ok, Ok , , , I’ll confess . . . tell the D.A. I want the deal.”

The D.A stepped out from behind the prisoner, smiled, and confirmed, “IT IS DONE.”

@faithunlocked

The Treasure Special

Written for today’s Flash! Friday challenge, prompted by this photograph, to include reference to ‘treasure’.

Chef at the Trans-Siberian rail wall, between Moscow and Khabarovsk. CC 2.0 photo by Leidolv Magelssen.

Chef at the Trans-Siberian rail wall, between Moscow and Khabarovsk. CC 2.0 photo by Leidolv Magelssen.

The Treasure Special

I stepped up into the first carriage, but many on the platform didn’t seem to realise that the train had arrived.

“Leave your baggage behind, ” the Conductor suggested with a smile, “I’ll stow it for you, no trouble. This end is full, but head through and you’ll find plenty of room further back.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank you, Sir . . . and welcome to the Treasure Special”.

The murmur of contented travellers enjoying the warmth and light, sharply contrasted with the cold dull platform. At Compartment 3, I was confused to be greeted once again by the Conductor.

“How did you . . . .?”

“Oh,” he smiled, “I’ve known my way around this train all my life – it’s the family business. We have room for you in Row 7.”

I passed more welcoming faces and then was greeted again by . . . the Conductor.

“Here you are, Sir.”

“But this seat card says, ‘Saved’.”

The Conductor’s face beamed, radiantly. “Yes, Sir, that it does.”

@faithunlocked
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