Silver Lining?

Silver Lining?

Is it in bad taste to say some good can come from the loss of life?

When those deaths are in excess of 450,000 plus One is there any reason or outcome that offers justification?

When the plus One was the murder of a black man by law enforcement, should the suggestion come from a white person who may accidentally litter each paragraph with his privilege?

It all sounds a bit of a stretch. Decency and common sense say it’s best to stop typing now. But that decency has come from a background that prevents my neck being pinned down by a cop for eight minutes, forty-six seconds. The white idea of decency is turning the other cheek. Remaining silent now would be the most indecent act of all.

Before we get to the plus One, the number of deaths that will soon reach half a million needs to be considered. Everything requires context. It’s always cause and effect. The largest protests seen in thirty years didn’t come about just because of the plus One. People were primed, had been brimming.

It was coronavirus that saw the daily death rate rocket to nearly half a million. In response, the world went into lockdown. Daily life changed and may never return to a replica of before. Economies tanked by twenty percent. Families sat at home, wondering if their incomes would still exist after furlough schemes. Students couldn’t take exams. Doctors and nurses were used as frontline fodder.

It wasn’t a spring of renewed hope; it became a period of deathly stasis.

With the servitude to the rat race suspended, people became more opinionated, passionate about all causes and views. With each of those coronavirus deaths, people took a step closer to creating unified voices. Examining the government’s response to a never seen before situation was never going to satiate this newfound appetite.

Everyone in the room became restless.

Different sides had already formed—across all political lines—the pandemic just primed them for action. All participants were expecting something akin to the Brexit or Trump debate. The expected arguments would be how the half-million could have been reduced to something much less if only…

Each “If Only” could be argued and countered enough times to last an infinite number of lockdowns. Then those eight minutes and forty-six seconds happened. If there was no lockdown, there would have been widespread condemnation from families around the world. They’d have settled down after a long day at work, shook their heads at the television screens and made comments about how nothing has changed in America.

That America still has a race issue.

No senators would have taken the knee for a photo opportunity. Any protests would have been localised and quickly quashed. Marches in the UK would have been counted in double figures—if there had been marches at all. The world would have been too busy to stop for the murder of one more black person by a police officer. Everyone’s senses would have been dulled by the pressures of the day-to-day.

Lockdown was oppressive and liberating in equal measure, in immeasurable ways.

With each passing week, increased frustrations were harder to suppress, impossible to keep bottled. Eight minutes and forty-six seconds was the length of time it took the fuse to burn.

The murder of George Floyd was a bomb beneath the existing structures of systemic racism.

Thousands flocked to demand change. To chant in the clearest voice: Black Lives Matter.

It took nearly half a million deaths to make the world take stock. To put movie stars and heavyweight boxing champions front and centre, speaking from the heart at protests instead of condemning the situation in sanitised interviews during promotions for their product.

No one is born racist. It is usually taught. But people are born ignorant and that can grow. Worse still, it can be manipulated by those with agendas.

People using the counter chant All Lives Matter, haven’t understood the core issues. It’s a big part of their privilege, believing a universal view is the fix for isolated problems they’ll never face.

They need guidance. They’ve never spent a day in the shoes of a person who is pre-judged, looked at suspiciously, treated as a second class citizen, just because of their skin tone. They don’t see a problem because they’ve never personally witnessed one.
They don’t know what they don’t know, because they don’t know it.

Counter claims that America is the land of opportunity, that they’ve had a black president, underlines the ignorance. Just because you can make it, doesn’t mean you won’t face unequal hardships on the way. Doesn’t mean you won’t still be perceived as second class once you’re there.

The protests then became a magnet for the opposing view.

They didn’t need a fuse to be lit. The far-right are more like a jack-in-a-box, outdated and always ready to spring into action. The problem is, both extremes—right and left—further the other’s cause.

The left breeds hypocrites, the right produces honest liars.

Everyone needs education.

But with each confrontation, ears are closing.

Openness faces a new lockdown. The half a million will have died for no reason if reasonable people become obstinate in their opinions.

Should removing historical monuments occur when they have links to slavery?

The world has been taught to see in black and white, when it operates in a permanent state of grey.

To erase history means we can never learn from it; appearing to champion wrongdoings halts progress.

There is no easy answer. Here in the UK, there have been calls to remove Sir Robert Peel’s statues in Glasgow, Tamworth, Manchester, Bury and his monument on Holcombe Hill. He has fifteen statues around the world. A former Prime Minister and creator of the modern day police force. He had a patchy record on the slave trade. It appears he profited from it but did eventually vote for its abolition.

Peel is one case that needs examination. It’s not clear cut. People are of their time.

A future generation’s harsher standards will judge the presumed principled people of today. There is something uncomfortable about watching a young person fervently protest, and attempt to deface war memorials, based on the cultural oppression that led to a man’s murder while wearing branded trainers. The Nike tick and Adidas stripes are the modern day motif for slavery. But no one is pulling their stores down and placing them in rivers.

Women are trafficked and forced into sex slavery. But no one calls on the government to track each gang and give these women freedom.

Black Lives Matter, and that movement shouldn’t be hijacked or diluted by another. But the emergent voices for change can carry multiple causes going forward. Those ignorant to Black Lives Matter will always take a myopic view. This has been made more difficult with overreactions which further underline the lack of understanding.

When the middle of the road white man sees a classic comedy axed—one which its creator John Cleese defends—it incites a new type of division. A debate he had no facts for to start with, has just been changed into a talk about something else. He’s no longer thinking about those eight minutes and forty-six seconds. He’s blaming political correctness.

He may even begin to harbour feelings for a return to “better times.” Those times are just a construct: a part of the white collective’s imagination. They were never better times. It was a time Black Lives Matter could only be a whisper, not a chant.

Not the loud cry for help which now resonates around the globe.

Can over 450,000 deaths plus One ever be considered a silver lining?

The cloud that accompanies the lining is large. It blocks the sunshine of progress at every given opportunity.

Heading toward half a million is a big number but that single plus One stops a bigger count. It has paved the way for lasting change. The uncountable loss and damage racism produces every day. Utilitarianism states the most ethical choice is the one which is best for the largest number of people.

The plus One represents all people.

A chance for lasting change.

Everyone left behind has a debt to pay to those who have been taken. A vow to turn their passing into a positive action.

If you carry on as before, you’ll take your turn pressing a knee into a neck for eight minutes, forty-six seconds.

Writing Sprint Flash Fiction: Shards

Writing Sprint Flash Fiction: Shards

Sticking stringently to the deadline of Sunday, but then leave it until the following Thursday, so you can post it on the Monday afterwards, here is the latest effort from the writing sprint prompts provided by Mel Cusick-Jones.

The image below, the five words (all of which I managed to include) and the quote provided inspiration from what turned out to be some sci-fi fun.


It’s the first sci-fi I’ve written since Scrambled Eggs Never Make Sense on Tuesday which was entered into a competition, faired well with feedback in forums and is one I intend to develop when I release the inevitable vanity short-story collection.

This week’s story pays homage, and a few cheeky digs, to a much-loved galactic adventure. But I feel there’s a story of its own waiting to be found…

As ever, feel free to join by writing on you blog or and linking to the comments, either here or over on Mel’s site.

Find us on Twitter, too.



Ma says there never used to be dust on the plains.

The valley between opposing boulders would brim with life. With people. She says the only dust kicked up would be when the starships launched. That still happens some nights. Ma says they do it now to keep us from getting a full sleep. Everyone says they don’t pack anything to trade – we have nothing to offer.

And it appears they have nothing to bring. Trade must be a two-way street. Since they stripped these lands of the natural resource, our technology became outdated. The need to keep us happy ceased. It could be said it went up in dust but that’d mean it’s hanging on; the dust lingers for hours. Before bed, I can spend a long time with Ma’s flannel rubbing sediments away. Pa says they’ll need to invent a seventeenth hour in the day just to accommodate my cleaning regime.

I remind him our species’ native planet already has more than seventeen hours, that I’m only running on my natural time. The joke in the galaxy is we’re lazy here. Instead of sticking to our natural body clocks, we’d rather snooze all day and night. Truth is: it’s made us restless. Somethings become impossible to change.

Physiology. Greed. Poverty.

I think they’re all kinda wrapped up in the same thing.

When I was a kid, I remember saying to Pa I wanted to be a starship pilot. These dusty canyons must affect imagination because I distinctly remember explaining at length why I’d prefer to be a transfer ship pilot. The reasoning was sound. It’d be easier to transition into commercial work after the conscripted Navy service. I never told him this part: I fancied the idea of being a space pirate on the side. Transferring dangerous cargo, bounty hunters, people on adventures.

That was the limit of the fantasy. The bare reality was a steady income.

I stopped looking to the sky when the ships came less and less. The packed ravines, full of pop-up stalls, dwindled. Sat on the rocks today, I can hear two buzzhawks cawing and the wind gusting between pillars of stone. Periodically Old Ewan pushes his cart. No one knows why he does this. Pa once said he has an unhealthy obsession with me – I defended Old Ewan, explaining he’s just keeping himself busy – but I have to admit, the last few days he’s been going past several times an hour.

Back when I was a child – and Old Ewan was N’Ewan, because he’d just pitched up and the locals thought it was a clever play on his name – there’s no way I’d be able to hear buzzhawks. Carriages would zoom by, horses would be filling with fuel before spluttering into the distance, and starships would cut into the pale orange sky before heading off to better lands.

The sound of a starship as it launches in the atmosphere cannot be understated. No matter how many times you hear it, it makes you twitch. It’s like the sky has been fractured. Once you hear such a loud noise, your ears are always on alert, craving another big bang.

When the bangs became infrequent, I dreamed less of shifting cargo. It’s a shame to say, but even as a kid I was pragmatic. I saw what realistic options were left. Mining for gas hydrates with Da, the only thing that’d keep us ticking over in the dust bowl. And then there was my side interest: revving a resource The Confederacy stripped away.

The Hepla Tribe has guarded tall shards for centuries. The Hepla are native to this planet but resemble us. Their skin is said to be darker but I’ve seen their hands beneath the robes they wear, they’re not much darker than Ma’s after a summer in the open plains. Their shards turn blue when charged. Charged with what, no one knows. The Hepla don’t have a word for the energy or a way to store it. They believe it attaches itself to worthy people for them to use.

Of course, The Confederacy believe it was best to vacuum contain the energy it offset and distribute it as they saw fit. The Hepla said the shards becoming blue was a sign the gods felt there was an imbalance, so they were releasing good into existence. From what I’ve heard, The Confederacy has turned those vacuum-packed silos into planet-destroying missiles. I hope no one has told the Hepla.

There’s a natural crossover in tech here. To keep gas hydrates usable, they need to be stored fast or the energy is lost. If I could find out how the shards charge, I can bag the special energy before The Confederacy pitch up again.

I think whatever power comes from those shards could make plants. Imagine a world full of crops and livestock. The only animals we keep here are to act as guard. We have a trisk. I’d sooner pepper what I leave in the toilet bowl than try one. They are ugly scrawny things with ears like flappy saddles and eyes that bulge as if they’re being squeezed. The protection they provide is an insane howl. When a trisk cries, no man alive can continue walking in its direction. We sleep with ear protection in case a trisk lets off its warning cry.

I call our trisk Liza. She’s the only female I chat to other than Ma. Girls my age are sparse in these parts. Most families moved further afield when the starships reduced their visits. There’s Jacqui, who lives a thirty-minute walk away. Until Da allows me to use the horse again (I broke it fiddling with its sequence chargers), there’s no chance of seeing her. Sometimes her voice is more annoying than Liza’s howl, but she smells nice and looks better. On reflection, a lot of what she says is true, but it’s the way she says it. Someone needs to tell The Confederacy their leader is trapped in the body of a nineteen-year-old girl who grows edible fungi in the Ouste region.

I’m also pretty certain she fancies me.

That’s another reason to fix my right arm. For days it’s been itching. I’ve checked Liza for fleas and signs of broken skin, she’s all clear. The forearm in particular is becoming red raw. Beneath the setting sun, the flakes of skin almost glow as I rub them away. Cosmic dandruff.

My nail gets stuck on the middle of the arm. Something like glass is protruding from it. I dig it out, like it’s a splinter of metal. My arm aches as if it’s been stabbed. An involuntary scream escapes as I touch the tiny pinprick opening it has left.

Liza whines and runs to my side.

‘What’s the matter?’ Ma shouts from the kitchen.

I’m temporarily blind with pain.

‘Check on him, Clark,’ Ma says to my father below.

‘You okay, Mik?’

He appears at the head of the ladder that takes you up from our kitchen to the top of the boulder.

‘My arm,’ I say through gritted teeth.

He walks over, shooing Liza away. She whines, this time out of annoyance.

Pa grips my arm, squeezing the pinprick as if taunting blood to come out. My blood is as scared of Pa as I am, it understandably stays inside the comforting walls of my arm.

‘Nothing but a scratch,’ he says. ‘You’re becoming quite the soft lad. Having no peers is weakening you.’

‘I can always beat you in a joust.’

‘Only because you cheat with your taser settings,’ he replies and smacks my arm.

I nearly faint with the fresh pain.

He cups my falling head and says, ‘Perhaps you’re just tired.’

Pa carries me to my quarters. I appreciate the effort required getting me down the ladder. He is a big man. He strolls around like some ancient bear from the tales of before. To him, I’m no bigger than Liza is to me.

He closes the door, leaving Liza to watch over me.

‘Come here, girl,’ I say.

She refuses with a scared whine.

‘What? It’s just me,’ I say.

She taps a front paw two times then does a smooth forward motion with it, like she’s sliding a letter across an imaginary table.

I dip my head below my bed. Liza covers her eyes.

Tiny blue prickles are sprouting from the floor. They hum more with colour the closer I get to them. It replaces the pain in my arm with warmth. There’s a sensation in my belly that’s warmer still. I’m overcome with contentedness.

The door to my quarters slides open.

Old Ewan stands there, his robe open, and even in my glow the idea he does have inappropriate intentions enters my mind.

Liza looks at him, she’s disinterested.

‘Mika, it’s time,’ Old Ewan says.

‘For what?’ I should feel more nervous but the glow removes all fear.

‘We need to leave Ouste before The Confederacy realise what you’ve done.’

‘I’ve done nothing.’

‘You have,’ he says. ‘And you’re worth more than all the shards in Hepla Qantaricia.’

‘What about Ma and Pa?’

‘They’ve left already.’

Charming. One night where I skip chores and the household ups and leaves. Liza has stepped to Old Ewan’s right ankle, a sign she’s waiting to be led. Even the trisk is willing to leave me. Remarkably, I’m taking this all rather well. Too well. The warm glow inside makes it feel okay. Nothing to worry about.

Before I make a final decision, I need to perform a little investigation and have a few more minutes with my arm near these blue prickles.

‘We need to go now,’ Old Ewan says. ‘Don’t worry, those blue thorns will follow.’

With that, their light disappears and I find myself getting out of bed.

I’ve never felt so good.

Old Ewan looks focused, nothing like the persona that pushed a cart around the ravine. Maybe I was never meant to be a space pirate, but I think I’ve just teamed up with one.

Writing Sprint Flash Fiction: American Jesus

Writing Sprint Flash Fiction: American Jesus

This week’s prompts can be found in this link or by flowing the Twitter thread.

I have also been doing the StoryADay May Challenge so there’s been no shortage of squeezing the creativity sponge recently. This week’s unexpected response to the props could be a sign of going to the well one time too many.

There is a high chance of alienating and/or angering a high percentage of readers. That was never my intention. But I don’t really have much say in what finds its way to the page during creative sessions.

For better or worse, fiction writes itself.

American Jesus

The day science died, faith also passed away.

Both were extinguished by an act that defied physics and created millions of preachers. We are the pariahs. We dare not try to understand what it all means. When Moses parted the Red Sea, it was accepted in Biblical text as a holy act. No one seemed too perturbed. Scientists from the Information Age tied it to seasonal droughts. That seemed to keep the story alive, feasible. Early man mistook science for a miracle.

But like I said, science is dead now. That happened when the seas became the sky and the sky became something only accessible when swimming to the depths of the stratosphere. The world is turned upside down, inside out.

With it, came freedom. I was in a compound with just a few thousand refugees. When the sky became an ocean, the guards downed weapons. The good men among them unlocked our cages. The presumed End of Days has a way of making people develop a conscience. 

I held Juana’s hand. She’s only eleven-years-old. And she’s small for that age. Years of eating on the run have left her underdeveloped. She could pass for a genderless eight-year-old. We followed the herd of survivors around the dim passageway that we’d walked months before. Instead of a cloudless night sky, there was water pouring over us, like a waterfall with no basin. Water suspended, like magic.

My heart was beating hard. It was a new type of fear. I didn’t know then this was a global phenomenon; I thought it was some localised trick that could collapse any moment. I wondered if the water in the passageway was a new style of death chamber. My instinct was to run but the movement was slow and packed. Everyone was in awe.

Coming to the end of the passageway didn’t place us in the open courtyard, there was more water above, even lower than where we’d come from. The new sky picks its height with random abandon.

It was in that courtyard I heard a woman cry: “It’s a miracle.”

That was a precursor for what was to follow. For every droplet of suspended water above our heads, someone has declared it a miracle. Divine intervention.

An act of God.

The abolition of science and society went hand in hand. When leaders have no experts to act as support, and no adequate answers, people turn to whoever offers them a plausible narrative.

Except, the paradox of this “miracle” was it killed religion too.

Faith is believing without evidence. That was the entire reward scheme the Christian church set up. Asking for evidence was a lack of faith. But to survive through the centuries, they’d alter teachings. If Jesus was a chance for religion to have a soft reboot over two thousand years ago, the last decade saw a reimagining. American Jesus was born. 

Before capitalism collapsed, bringing in a new Draconian world order, there had been a female American comic who did a stand-up show called Jesus is Magic. It was a funny gig. Her name was Sarah Silverman. She walked that fine line and sometimes dipped a toe over it. Like the best comics, she amplified a part of society ripe for being poked at.

American Jesus was made for the water sky. Super magic stuff no one can explain. Jesus is magic. The one you can talk to directly, make demands on, the one who literally intervenes when Hillary from Ohio needs help with an exam or when Chad from Pittsburgh wins a tennis match. He makes the sky become the sea so imprisoned migrants can walk the land again.

A real God doesn’t dive down and meddle every day. Perhaps He can provide little nudges, but it’s all on you. If He’s literally on hand every day, it destroys the premise of faith.

It took that first tangible Act of God in living memory to make me doubt the divine. God providing a distraction is the oldest trick in politics. It’s impossible to blame governments when God alters the world. The new artillery on the planet was revised fear they tried to package as faith. As ever, it came with a message made by man, presumed to have God’s seal of approval.

Jesus was said to have walked on water. I wanted to know if man could still swim in water. If I reached above, would the current pull me into the ocean? I also wanted to make sure it was real water. It looked real enough; sometimes droplets would escape and splash us. But that could have just been rain falling through a hologram. That’d be a neat trick: a global illusion. In a way, that’s nothing new, it’d just be a better delivery method.

Weeks after leaving the compound, Juana and I started to live in a nomad community. We shared a tent in an open field. The sea-sky was always a nice distance above us, high enough not to be oppressive. The sun’s ray still made it through the new ceiling but it dimmed them. It made me think the water couldn’t be too deep. After all, the rays never used to hit the bottom of the oceans. People said the continued light was a further miracle.

I let them have that one. I mean, why not? We have magic water skies. Why argue about the density of ocean versus refraction of light?

Before nightfall, we took a walk to the closest point between land and sea-sky. I collected several weighty rocks.

“What are they for, Mani?” Juana asked.

“An experiment,” I replied.

I threw one as hard as I could into the sea-sky. “Stand back,” I said.

I half-expected it to fall back down, but it disappeared.

“You know everyone will have tried that already,” she said, unimpressed.

“I need to see if for myself,” I said. “Prove that it’s real or not.”

“Is seeing it not proof enough?” she asked.

“Our senses can be tricked,” I said.

That was only a half-answer. I needed to understand it. This is how science and the old religions had always clashed. Science needed unequivocal evidence, religion expected you to believe in what you couldn’t see or comprehend. Or was it the opposite way around? Now they were bedmates, bound by the same inexplicable mystery.