Antimacassar, unfinished.

 

The good worm over at whimword runs a fantastic weekly flash fiction contest which I have been intending to enter for some time. This week’s prompt of “antimacassar” was too fine an opportunity to pass up.

My first instinct was to play with the sound of the word, maybe introduce an antimatter macaw or rasta aunt to proceedings. I also had a go at attempting some sort of lipogram, an attempt that had a swift, necessary stop put to it. Floundering slightly, I decided to do a little more research into the word itself.

An antimacassar is a small, traditionally crocheted, covering for the back or arms of chairs. Its name comes from a type of hair oil, popular in the 19th century, which the antimacassar was designed to protect against. Interestingly, according to this unimpeachable wiki-source, Annie Chapman, second victim of Jack the Ripper, was said to have made antimacassars. Evidently, this was a lead to follow up on.

Known as Siffey to most folk (because of a brief fling with a local sieve-maker) and Dark Annie to her friends (on account of her wavy, dark hair), Annie was actually born Eliza Ann Smith to unmarried parents in Paddington, 1842. Annie had moved to White Chapel following her divorce from her first husband, which had, for a while at least, left her with a settlement of some 10 shillings a week. Unfortunately this income had ended upon the death of her former spouse and at the time of her murder she was living in relative poverty with the intriguingly named Edward ‘The Pensioner’ Stanley in Crossingham’s lodging house, Spitalfields. She had recently not only quarrelled but ended up in a physical altercation with another Eliza, Eliza Cooper, over either a bar of soap or a local hawker named Harry. On nights like the one in question, when she could find no customers for her crochet work and needed money for her lung disease medication, Annie would go out to earn it the old fashioned way. The ingredients for a story were coming together.

Too many ingredients as it turned out. At least for a story that would conform to the whimwords very reasonable 500 word limit. My angle, I thought, would be to disguise the nature of the story until the end. Instead, I would introduce Jack as a writer who was in some sense creating the women that he has committed to the history books through his murderous acts. But in trying to fill my flash with as many of the intriguing details of Annie’s life as possible, I inevitably faltered before finishing. I had something conceptually interesting but over-long and incomplete. With little time and few options, I panicked and posted this instead. The story was to end with a line enumerating the possessions found by the police on or about Eliza’s body: “two pills in part of a torn envelope, a piece of muslin, a comb, one crochet hook and an antimacassar, unfinished.”

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how quickly we existed then

small pieces of banana can leave a mark
like semen.  The stain on the crotch of his trousers
reminds him of the girl he sat next to on
the way home from that school coach trip in ’97.

25th March, 2010

I’m walking down the street talking to a friend when she comes up to me and tears my heart from out my chest.

I’m unsure how to respond, the situation is kind of awkward, I haven’t known this friend long and I can see that he’s rather uncomfortable as well.

I’m just about to say something, protest that she’s being too rash, when she abruptly about turns and walks away.

I restrain myself from chasing after her, my friend is still stood there and I’m worried what he’ll think of me.

An innocent man walks by, with a green coat and no dog, he gives no indication but I’m sure he knows.

I want to grab him by the collar, punch him, punch him in his stupid face until he’s bleeding and he’s lost all his teeth.

My friend suggests we stop for a coffee, I joke that I like mine like my women; strong and bitter.

Flash Fiction

He wasn’t sure how he felt about flash fiction; the only real impression that remained, burnt to his retina by the bright light of the camera flash, was the image (or only the shape) of her incredible tits as she’d lifted her top to reveal them.

Second

Being a Canada Dry mistranslation of Else by Kaleb Clacey (no permissions sort or gained)

A Repeated Honesty: You and I disappear
our keratin surfaces and whole temporal enchilada.
In the spaces of the present the following thirteen’s litter
grows up as ocean going birds in a slug’s den;
more than one of Them drink the packaging at the urbs’
precipice And a penetration ever present. The Thing Oozes.

Add cornflour to my confinement. Epidermis effervescence, the rug
and home made cigarettes, lunar pencil motion,
hair flotsam. Time for a mechanical cleaning system
asphyxiating our corpse (my soul, maybe) Hickory Docks
need darning, we’d enjoy a tempest setting,
bursting silver linings and repeating spines

and repeating spines. Constructive interference, voluble echoes stalk the vibration
of mechanical apparatus that stays one step- a skull protects bursting banks,
come too and halt her incessant beeping. These four are disrobed
of noise of claws in use; avian as well as rodent mammalian.
Swinging high beyond his slumber the network was kept
behind firewalls, leaked from arachnid spinneret.

It has to exist in abatement; the expulsion.
Stories for my sibling’s sorrow (small, female), pen
things down, remove her top and her bra,
it is an absence of things that makes her physicality silent, so far
and halts the transformation to additional,

till cows come home: ecstasy and the entirety of the universe.