Issue 109 October 2022 Flash Fiction Online October 2022

Every Shard, Every Speck, Every Particle

Emma Brankin
In a World without Bluebells

Dafydd McKimm
Directions to the House of Unnumbered Stars

Devin Miller
Sub Rosa

Samantha Murray

Every Shard, Every Speck, Every Particle

October 2022

CW: Eating disorder/body dysmorphia

Mai covered her bedroom walls with mirrors. The reflections reminded her she was still there, someone worth watching. From every corner, glass gleamed down at her like perfect smiles – she couldn’t see the blades gripped between their teeth.

Her body had become parts of parts that couldn’t quite connect. Eyes blinking. Hands reaching. A long leg stretching. Thought after thought that wouldn’t settle, that didn’t fit. She watched as her tongue scattered sentences, etching lies into the glass. ‘I’m fine, Mum.’ ‘I’m fitting in well.’ ‘Yeah, my conservatory tutors really seem to like me.’

But the mirrors would help, Mai soothed herself, as she hammered the last nail into the wall. The mirrors would make her whole again. A glass girl. Complete.

“You’re making too many sloppy errors and timing mistakes.”

She dedicated hours to dancing in front of her mirrors. She practiced her pirouettes and plies on pointe, perpetually in motion, constantly assessing, criticising, repeating. She was determined to get it right so everybody at the conservatory could stop telling her she was getting it wrong. From every angle, she watched her limbs extend away from her body, each arm and leg travelling higher and higher, every muscle’s sinew pulled taught, as if that body part was attempting the most elegant of escapes. Mai pretended not to see her skin tremor with stress and strain. She ignored how the mirrors seemed to echo and vibrate her pain, the glass stretching tighter and tighter.

“You need to stop falling apart when even the slightest thing goes wrong.”

The mirrors’ unblinking company helped her scrutinise everything. She observed the jut of her chin, her lean legs like whittled-away wood, the deep grooves of her collarbone. She watched the different versions of herself multiplying down a never-ending corridor; reflecting, responding, replying to one another. Every day, all her selves brushed their hair together, read their books together, trawled their phones together, picked at their salads together. Each morning, all her selves spoke Mai’s mantra, the lies ringing out like a chorus, full-voiced and strong: ‘You can do anything. You are capable and strong. You are the perfect dancer.’

Then, when she made yet another mistake and her body crumbled to the floor, all her selves opened their delicate, dangerous mouths and let out a scream like an axe, each trying to cut and slash their way through the glass.

“We just don’t see you as the complete package.”

But if her tutors really looked closely enough, they would see how much she wanted it, how hard she tried, how she must be getting it right. Mai should be the one centre-stage, not stuck behind the graceful girls always picked for the front row. Because Mai had invested everything, travelled half-way across the world, cut off friendships and romances before they could begin, drained her parents’ bank accounts, missed grandparents’ funerals, nursed injuries, endured headaches, sank fingers deep into her throat – made her life nothing but mirrors. But when she tried to explain this to them, to excuse her flat feet and clumsy landings, the sentences stumbled out, her words as exhausted as her worn-out body.

In the conservatory canteen, Mai watched the other girls as they sat with full plates and made weekend plans she was never invited to. She could never find any cracks in their laughter or loneliness in their smiles. Instead, she spent each evening alone, her reflections nodding at her hungrily, encouraging her to stay.

“You have been cut from the programme. Please clear your locker and leave.”

When it was over, Mai had nowhere to go, no reason to leave her bedroom, nobody she dared speak to. All she could see were the mirrors and her many selves caged inside the glass, shards of failure sticking in their throats. They encircled her, hollow-eyed clones hunched over as they sat on her bed, the ridges of ribcages shining through paper skin.

She closed her eyes but, still, their reflections pierced through the dark of her lids, reminding her she’d been in here too long, invested too much – she’d be multiplied by mirrors forever.

Mai had created her mirrored room to do beautiful things, to marvel at the seamless flux of her astonishing body. She had never wanted to be here. Rejected. Grounded. Still.

One of her selves winked at her. Another rubbed her sad, tear-stained eyes. A third covered her mouth, as if stopping laughter from spilling out. A fourth walked right up to the glass and splayed both palms up against it and pushed, hard, willing her world to crack.

Mai tried to remember when dancing had been wonderful. When being nine years old and doing her best was enough.

Now, she could no longer tell what was real, what was solid and what was just an echo of ambition unfulfilled.

One of her selves frowned while tracing the outline of her silhouette onto the glass.

Mai watched herself and the herself watched Mai.

She felt the sensation of ribbons looping onto her extremities. Tugging at her. Gently, then, with more force. Her body – bodies – her own silhouette, seemed to splinter, distend and detach, as if pulling away from itself, each part floating an impossible distance away from what she’d assumed was her core.

Her eyes blinked. Hands reached. Legs stretched. Tongue scattered. Lies, truths, mantras, apologies, everything strewn free.

She was nowhere. Everywhere. Shattered and sprayed into infinite imperfect versions. A trail of glass levitating in the air. An endless scattering of self, flickering with energy and emotion, contorting into astonishing shapes, leaps and spins.

‘Mum,’ she said, some part of her clutching her phone, happy to finally share a certainty, her own unbreakable truth. ‘I fixed it. I’m fine.’

Because every shard

every speck

every particle

was dancing.

PATREON EXCLUSIVE: INTERVIEW WITH AUTHOR EMMA BRANKIN

FFO: Do you have a writing playlist or a particular song that reminds you of this story?

EB: I never write to music – maybe I should try it. It would have to be instrumental music though as I’m so distracted by lyrics. If I had to choose a song For Every Shard, Every Speck, Every Particle I would choose maybe… the instrumental to Lorde’s song Melodrama? I feel that has all the darkness but beauty and a mix of quick and slow-paced beats to mirror what’s swirling in Mai’s head.

In a World without Bluebells

by Dafydd McKimm

October 2022

In this part of the world, spring paints each roadside bank and woodland patch a shock of brightest indigo, composed at closer look of delicate bluebells in their thousands.

One morning, while taking my customary route through town to my office, a man passed by me with a bluebell pinned to his lapel, glancing as he did so down at my chest, as if checking for a twin; and finding none, he strode on by aloofly, affording me not even the most cursory nod.

The next day, beset by a strange compulsion, I too plucked a bluebell from a garden border and pinned it to myself with a needle I had brought with me for that very purpose.

Presently, I once again caught sight of the man who had scorned me the day before. This time, however, seeing that I was adorned with blue, he looked me square in the eyes and gave me an almost imperceptible nod. A stranger would have barely noted it, let alone ascribed the action any significance, but I continued my journey with a marked buoyancy in my spirit, as well as a nascent contempt for anyone lacking that which I now had pinned to my chest.

* * *

Soon enough, to my surprise, I found that I was not the only one who had taken up the bluebell.

On my subsequent walk through town, I spotted no fewer than three others with blue flowers pinned to their chests. And just as had been done for me, I looked each of them squarely in the eyes and granted them, with my newly imbued powers, their own secret beatification. I had always felt myself a disappointment among my peers, someone who had no exceptional talent with which to enrich the souls of my fellow man. And so, having finally found the means, I ended my journey filled with such elation that I could barely concentrate on my affairs and returned home from my office several hours earlier than was my habit, such was the state of my agitation.

* * *

By the week’s end, the crowds throughout the town were themselves a mirror of a forest floor, bedecked in blue, blooming together in convivial multitude.

How readily we acknowledged one another!—our faces brightening with each near indistinguishable nod.

Even the scent of the place was different: the stench of underlying suspicion that makes human bodies bitter had somehow been replaced by a freshness, a petrichor: all was spring, all was new, all the old animosities had perished in the winter frost, and out we had popped, one by one from the warming ground, into these halcyon days of our civilization!—for all of us shared the secret, all of us belonged; and such a feeling, to belong to this great organism that our comradeship had created!

* * *

And then, I spotted a different shade amongst the blue.

Passing me on the street, a man strode by me wearing a bluebell flushed not the bright indigo of our common stock but tinted rather a pale and ghostly lilac.

Quickly it became apparent to me how everyone ignored him, and so I followed suit, baffled at the fact that he had chosen to ostracise himself from our communion.

But instead of shrinking beneath our disapproval, the lilac man returned it with additional contempt, actively turning his back on anyone who dared bear an indigo flower—indeed, dismissing our aversion to him with conspicuous displays of laughter.

* * *

I returned home that day shaken, but hopeful nonetheless that the following one would see an end to this trespass of the lilac bluebell.

Far from an end to the madness, however, the next day saw an even greater number of lapels pinned with that unwelcome shade.

Now there were bus drivers who refused anyone without a lilac flower, waiters who openly and contemptuously spat in the food of anyone wearing indigo. Fights broke out in the street. A lilac man was beaten to within an inch of his life by a mob of indigo bearers—myself among them—and it was hours before a lilac-wearing ambulance driver was allowed to deliver him to a lilac-wearing doctor for treatment, hours during which he moaned and screamed in the gutter, cursing the children of any indigo bearer who passed him by.

* * *

Over the following weeks, more variations appeared: white, grey-blue, plumb, and all the town fell into fractious chaos.

Anyone wearing a shade that did not match our own, we doused the many livid variations of red.

Scarlet coated my hands, crimson splattered my face, ruby tipped my boots—all the shades that gush from the fountain that is mankind, so that I was, excepting the blue at my chest, a palette of colours a painter might use to capture a regal sunset, because we felt glorious!—all of us, acting in the cause of our flower.

Before long, we became so soaked in red, it was only by our bluebells that we could identify our allies from those that we hated. And although I cannot bear to articulate any further the atrocities we committed in the cause of indigo, they are carved, I assure you, forever on my soul.

* * *

For then, you see, one morning, spring was over.

The bluebells, once so flourishing, ceased to bloom.

Unable to find one on any verge or woodland patch, I walked the town as if naked, not knowing who was indigo, who lilac, who grey-blue, white, or plumb. Indeed, the faces and clothes of those around me all appeared dreadfully pallid, as if my eyes had become attuned only to those few familiar colours.

I wandered, looking from chest to chest, desperate to find some indication of allegiance, some way to orient myself in the heaving, bemused multitude that now thronged the streets.

I trembled all over and found myself near drowning in an icy sweat.

In a world without bluebells, how could I tell my friends from my enemies?

How could I know where I belonged?

Directions to the House of Unnumbered Stars

by Devin Miller

October 2022

The house of unnumbered stars will be there when you need it, the night cartographer waiting with her pens and silver inks. Do not be ashamed of wanting her to draw you a star map. It’s no surprise that it hurts when the world fails to understand the unfamiliar contours of your human constellation. It hurts when your house is not considered a home because you share it with a friend, not a spouse. It hurts when your partnership is dismissed because your girlfriend also has a wife. And you are not the first to seek a map. We who create constellations the world doesn’t recognize have always been here. We know how to find the house. The search is worth it, even if in the end you decide a map will not help you.

* * *

Timing is important. The first step to finding the house is to crack an egg into the hands of someone you love, one star in your constellation. Compare the yellowness of the yolk to the brightness of the sun. If the yolk is very yellow and the day is rainy, wait for clearer skies. If the yolk is pale and the sun bright, wait for clouds. The egg must be eaten before you set out. Since you are allergic to eggs, feed it to the person who let you crack an egg into their hands. Scrambled if you’re feeding it to your nibling, poached for your sister.

* * *

Bring an item given to you by one of your stars which has influenced the direction of your life. The recipe book from your best friend that made you a pastry expert, the first tiny houseplant that taught you to garden, the notebook that told you your adopted gay aunt believed in your words.

Dogs are also quite good at direction. If your dog needs a walk, bring your dog.

* * *

When you venture outside, continue until you reach a memory. As your constellation formed, your mind annotated the world around you, creating associations between places and people. Perhaps you will find the Puerto Rican restaurant or the witch hazel tree, the bookstore or the playground, which reminds you of one of your people.

Turn left here.

* * *

No matter how long you live in a neighborhood, there’s always a street you’ve never ventured down before. In just the same way, it is always possible you will find someone wonderful and new to add to your constellation.

The house is on this unfamiliar street. You will know you have found the right street because your heart will begin to pound and its beat will whisper to you, here.

You will find the house at the end of the street, at a crossroads. Its front yard is a chaos of hellebore, acanthus, rosemary, yucca. Picture the house a family of witches would live in—it looks like that. Choose between the lichen-stained stone steps and the wheelchair-accessible ramp that looks like it might be the back of a sleeping troll.

When you reach the front door, knock thrice.

* * *

You will enter a house full of unnumbered stars. Darkness and starlight will swallow you and an old woman will come to take your hand. She is the night cartographer.

“Tell me,” she will say, “who do you love and who loves you? Who asks if you have eaten and remembers you are allergic to eggs? Who do you trust with the shadows and squirrels in your mind?”

You will tell her. You will speak of your girlfriend and your girlfriend’s wife, your best friend you share a home with, your sister and your nibling, the adopted aunt who told you how to find the house: your tangled queer family. Tell the cartographer everything.

* * *

She will lead you through the house until you find the corner where your stars are shining. She will remind you that a constellation is an unreal thing, invented by humans to explain the world to each other. She will remind you that this is true even of the constellations everyone knows, the husband-and-wife constellations, the parent-and-child constellations. She will remind you that not everyone will understand your constellation even when it is mapped.

You will bite your lip, hesitate. Maybe having a map will make it hurt worse when people still don’t understand.

“What good does it do, then?” you will ask.

The night cartographer cannot answer this question for you. She will sit you down in a chair of black velvet and give you time to think.

* * *

Ask yourself: why exactly does it hurt when the world fails to recognize your constellation? Is it tiring to explain over and over again what your people mean to you? Does it frustrate you? Are you afraid that this thing you have created for yourself is not as good as the old, familiar constellations?

You will run your hands over the soft velvet arms of the chair and answer these questions, and when you have answered these questions, you will say, “The map is for me.”

The night cartographer will smile and arrange her inks and paper.

Tell her more about the people she is mapping, about your girlfriend’s penchant for growing garlic, the time your nibling explained gender to their math teacher. Tell her about egg dripping through fingers, your memories of the landmark where you turned left. This sort of detail helps the cartographer choose the right shade of silver ink for each star.

* * *

When the map is done, she will show you how to fold and unfold it. Because you will unfold it often. When the world tries to tell you your links to your people are not strong enough to form a constellation, you will unfold the map to remind yourself the world is wrong.

You will thank the night cartographer. You will thank her from the bottom of your belly, where you keep your starlight when you are not in the house of unnumbered stars.

Sub Rosa

by Samantha Murray

October 2022

My husband keeps secrets.

Sometimes his mouth moves in little patterns, opening, his tongue pushing against the roof of his mouth, but I hear no words. His secrets are not meant for me.

The roses know. He spends more and more time out in the garden. I never go out there. It would be intruding. They eat up so much of his days now. He must supply them with mulch, with nutrients. He makes sure they have well-drained soil; sandy loam with a PH of 6.5. He sprays them every fortnight to prevent Black Spot. He checks them for aphids, for mites, thrips, scale, caterpillars.

And he talks to them.

I see him, out of the large bay windows. He touches a new bud with a light caress. He takes care to remove old dead flower heads and diseased leaves. He tells them everything.

When he brings me a bunch of bright red blooms I take them with a nod that brings the hair forward over my face so that he cannot see the suspicion in my eyes. Roses are sacred to Isis, to Aphrodite, to Venus. I am no goddess. What does he mean by this?

I arrange the roses in a glass bowl and put them on the kitchen counter.

Red roses are love, romance. Fidelity. I reach out and tug a petal that hangs loosely. It comes away easily, and curls in my palm, soft as newborn skin.

I place the petal on my tongue. Then I chew. It does not taste like it smells, more like lettuce with a very faint touch of soap. I reach for another.

I walk around with his secrets inside me. I digest them, they make their way into my cells. His secrets whisper to me. They tell of the rot and blight between us. They tell of disappointment, of resentment festering into hate. They tell me.

Maybe he notices that the red roses have gone from the kitchen, as he brings me a handful of the palest peach. I accept them with something that pretends to be a smile.

Peach is for modesty.

I eat these, sometimes two at once.

Then I know. I know that he hankers for a woman at work. I know he tires of me, oh how he tires of me.

Later there are pink, then apricot tipped with orange, and I am filled with the whispering. He plans to rid himself of me. His mouth moves when he sees me, the muscles around his lips contracting. He says nothing.

I see him look at my plate sometimes, at the food I have pushed around it. He cannot prune me to promote strong spring growth. I am lighter every day, my head balanced somehow on my body which trembles and bows like a stalk in the wind.

He does not bring me the baby yellow roses, although I can see them, growing just outside the window.

He gave me baby yellow roses two years ago.

He painted our spare room the same colour, shortly afterwards. Pale yellow, baby yellow, to match the roses. Yellow roses are for joy they say, for the promise of a new beginning. Boxes are stacked nearly to the ceiling in our spare room now, and it’s dusty, you almost can’t tell the colour anymore. I don’t go in there.

It was six months after that, after the yellow ones, that he’d brought me a bouquet of white roses. Roses against the hospital wall, white on white.

White roses are bridal, for purity, for ceremony.

But I knew white was for stillness. White is for things that will never be.

He brings me a single white rose today, two years to the day afterwards. It is just opening, unfolding, exquisite. For once his mouth is not moving, but I do not want to look at his eyes.

When he is gone I pluck a petal and put it in my mouth. I feel it curl against the roof of my mouth. I eat it slowly.

But no secrets whisper to me, and all it tastes like is emptiness.

I dash to the French doors and swing them open. I take my first few steps into the garden. His roses bloom in a riotous assault of colour. I haven’t been out here for two years. The garden is well-tended. So much time he spends out here. It is beautiful. It is loved.

I see the bush in the far corner, where you can’t see it from the windows. There are a few buds folded tightly in on themselves, and one flower. It is so deep and dark a red as to be black.

This is his prize, as I was once his prize. He has grown it for me I know, oh I know.

A black rose, I know what that means.

The outermost petal resists my pull just for an instant before coming away in my hand. As I eat it I imagine it tastes like fairy-floss; sweetness and nothingness at the same time.

Nothing, nada, nirvana.

All the secrets. My blood as black as the rose, pooled, congealing.

Black is for death. Black is for farewell.

He will hack my body into parts once he has killed me. He will burn me down till all the little parts of me are fine enough to flutter and stir on the air.

He will cast the ash-me over the garden, over the roses. Like hers, like hers, oh, like hers.

Maybe that is how it should be.

I don’t tell him that I cancelled the appointments he made for me with the blank-faced doctor.

I don’t tell him that I have flushed away the tablets she gave me because I only have an appetite for roses and the things they tell me.

And I don’t tell him that I am eating his black rose, slowly, one petal at a time, from the outside in.

He keeps his secrets.

And I will keep mine.

Previously published in Recompose Magazine, September 2016. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

Issue 109 October 2022 Flash Fiction Online October 2022

Table of Contents

Every Shard, Every Speck, Every Particle

In a World without Bluebells

Directions to the House of Unnumbered Stars

Sub Rosa

Every Shard, Every Speck, Every Particle

PATREON EXCLUSIVE: INTERVIEW WITH AUTHOR EMMA BRANKIN

FFO: Do you have a writing playlist or a particular song that reminds you of this story?

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In a World without Bluebells

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Directions to the House of Unnumbered Stars

Sub Rosa

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