'Seeing the light', my Bridport short-listed flash fiction, 2023

Seeing the light     by Nasim Marie Jafry

She slept with two hot water bottles, one on either side. In the early hours, she’d kick them out. They lay on the floor like cold, flabby animals.

*

She was relieved to wake up. She’d dreamt a black horse wearing a turquoise blanket was on fire. She made coffee and checked the fridge light, closing the door slowly until she could no longer see the light, then slowly opening it again, her cheek pressed against the metal edge, until the light came on.

It struck her how often you saw people in films going into the fridge. The fridges were always silver and huge. These people didn’t obsess about the light still being on when the door was closed. They just took out orange juice or milk and forgot about it.

Amir had said, I can no longer cope with your anxiety. She’d replied, I can no longer cope with your brutality. Were you ever tender? I can’t remember.

You also saw people in films brushing their teeth a lot.

She liked the fridge scenes, and wondered what food was in the fridge, the food you never saw. But the bathroom scenes disgusted her, couples spitting into the basin together.

She’d thought of chopping up tulip stems and putting them in his salad. Easy enough to confuse tulip stems with spring onions, M’lud.

Of course, she never would, this kind of thing only happened in films. A character in a film could without punishment chop up stems to poison their tedious husband.

Bridport Flash Fiction Award 2023

A little good news, very pleased to have been shortlisted for Bridport Flash Fiction Prize 2023. Was shortlisted a decade ago for both their short story and flash prizes. Flash is such a different discipline to writing a novel. A long text is so unwieldy, hard to keep track of, can be overwhelming, is why it takes me so long, as I polish every chapter as I go. With flash, you move words around as it pleases you, you feel very in control and realise also how arbitrary it all is, making things up.

Many congratulations to the winners!

December, 2022

Have not blogged in so long, everything is dislocated. My darling mother passed away eighteen months ago, it can still feel unreal. Am cheered up by a woodpecker and bullfinch in front garden and pigeons puffed up like balloons in the back. Writing sustains me, have recently gone back to my novella-in-progress. Just added ALPHONSO, a flash fiction, to blog sidebar that was published in From Glasgow to Saturn, Glasgow University's literary magazine, in 2021. I wrote it when we were in the grips of pandemic, all a bit stunned.

'Elsa and the heron'

This flash fiction was longlisted for TSS summer flash fiction 2018 award.  Longlist and shortlist here.

Elsa and the heron

He sighed, one of the lens caps was missing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been here. He banged his fist on the grass as if trying to shake out the memory. His legs were stiff from sitting. He raised the binoculars. Two mallards cruised by, their necks purple in the sun. By the time they’d passed, they were green again. The heron stood, stately – it was always there. He poured tea from the flask. The red plastic cup reminded him of Elsa. He smiled and wondered where his house key was. He checked his trouser pockets. His trousers were stained. He lifted the binoculars again, just in time to see the heron catching a fish. The fish struggled and twisted silver as it was gulped down. Turnstones arrived, as if on cue. They landed, blending into the beach and rocks. He loved this line of coast. A woman had given him watercolours last time and he’d obediently painted white yachts and blue water. He’d made the gulls red. The heron plunged again. He wondered where his house key was and sipped the warm, plastic tea. The woman who’d given him the crayons said you could have a picnic on your own, there didn’t have to be other people, it was still a picnic. She’d asked why the gulls were red and chided him gently about the stains on his sweater. The woman knew Elsa and even looked like her. She’d been at her funeral. He thought of Elsa now and looked at the heron. He wondered if the heron would find his house key, which was not lost, after all, but glinting under the water. The heron was standing stately, still again.

Bath Flash Fiction Anthology - To Carry Her Home

Delighted to receive this gorgeous anthology of longlisted, shortlisted and winners in past Bath Flash Awards. My own story 'A widow with a bowl of wine and lipstick coming off' - longlisted in early 2016 - was inspired by seeing my dear stepfather in the funeral home just two years ago. I still can't go to that image in my mind without feeling shock.

Someone has remarked this cover has a feel of Vanessa Bell, I agree. I very much look forward to reading the other flash fictions (144 of them). If interested in getting hold of the book, you can order here. And if you want to know more about what flash fiction is, some descriptions here.

On fathers: Om Puri, Hisham Matar and some short writing

Saddened to learn that Om Puri has died aged only sixty-six. I loved him, of course, as the flawed Pakistani father in East is East. And as the taxi driver in My Son the Fanatic (based on a short story by Hanif Kureishi). I watched him more recently in Satyajit Ray's 1981 film Sadgati/Deliverance - Puri, in his early thirties, gave a devastating performance as an 'untouchable'.

*

The last book I read in 2016 was Hisham Matar's The Return. Anne Enright describes it as a terrible and lovely book, and it is: the writing is lovely and the truth is terrible, the knowing and not knowing the brutality of his father's death at the hands of the Gaddafi regime in the nineties. I underlined several passages as I read, words that stay in my head: 'I have always wondered if it is possible to lose your father without sensing the particular moment of his death'.

*

Happy that 2017 will see with the upcoming publication (print and digital) of Bath Flash Fiction anthology - I had a story longlisted almost a year ago - 'A widow with a bowl of wine and lipstick coming off'. This flash was inspired by seeing my dear stepfather in the funeral parlour in February 2015, the image still shocks me, though it was one of peace, but nothing about it was real, nothing.

I've not written much flash fiction, I've read more, but I think flash titles are very important, they act like a hinge for what's unfolding. I see flash fiction like fireworks - small with a beautiful punch - but still demanding time and energy in creating. Flash lends itself well to low energy writing. And as you tweak even 300 words,  you know more than ever, as you shift the words around in such a small space, how arbitrary it all is.  The story was accepted by an online literary journal at the same time as it was longlisted and I had to decide where I wanted it placed. I look forward to seeing my words - which with time passing now seem 'remote'  - see the light of day.

The Appa Dance (made us happy as carpets)

We had much hilarity with MadLibs over the holidays. My eleven year old nephew introduced us to the game. You're asked for adjectives, adverbs, nouns, names and places, but only the questioner knows the title of the story. A narrative emerges, flash fiction, nonsensical and surreal. Appa is my nephews' nickname for me, sometimes they will call me Appa instead of Auntie Nasim. (My brothers and I had a very old aunt in Pakistan when we visited in the seventies, we knew her as Auntie Appa, we did not know then that 'apa' was Urdu for elder sister, we thought Appa (two 'p's) was her name.

The Latest Dance Craze

Have you heard about the latest dance craze sweeping Paris? It's called The Appa! Slip on your hunting shoes, turn up the speakers on your Christmas tree and let's master the moves that put this bleak dance on the map: put your hands on your shins, stomp your nose and strike a sad pose. Take fourteen colourful steps to the left, spin irresponsibly, then take two boisterous steps to the right. Throw your mouth in the air and sway your foxes from side to side. For the big finish, stick out your belly button and wiggle it excitedly. Repeat all of these circular steps until the song is over.

It reminded me of The Time Warp in Rocky Horror. In the early eighties, we spent many a happy night as students in the cinema, doing all the actions. In another Madlibs,  'happy as carpets' came up. I want to use that gorgeous phrase in a story.

*Update I received this photo on Twitter of the 'happiest carpets I know', stunning image of dyed rugs drying in Tangiers:

The Istanbul Review: Issue 5

Delighted that the gorgeous The Istanbul Review Issue 5 is now on sale in Looking Glass Books, a wonderful indie book store in Edinburgh. I have flash fiction in this one. This issue also has writing by Elif Shafak and Lesley Glaister. And the stunning cover artwork - and art within - is by Canan  Berber. The Istanbul Review gives 2.5% of its profits to NGOs across the world promoting literacy.

I used to hate Twitter, now I love it

Before I'd ever used it, I hated Twitter, I was a bit Jonathan Franzen and thought it was nonsense. Now, I love it. It's perfect for low energy, you can dip in and out and say what you need to in 140 characters. And there are links to some great resources: I can bookmark articles in a jiffy and read later when my head is up to it (in truth, not all that's bookmarked gets read). My ME symptoms have been pretty bad this last ten days, that feeling of having weights in your head and neck and legs. And dizzy, so damned dizzy. I have fought it, tried to go out - I have shops on my doorstep, literally - only to end up spending long spells of the day in bed. I do restrict the number of people I follow to 500, otherwise it's too much like a flashing cockpit that I can't process. And I'm always tweaking who I follow: I hate to give up on someone whose tweets I like, but needs must.

The truth is that Twitter can be an Aladdin's cave (of course, it can be a hell-hole too, but you just don't go to those dark places of jabber-babble). I was so pleased before Christmas to discover The Mushin Museum in Cardiff, I was directed there by an anaesthetist when I was looking for information on anaesthesia in 1950s/60s for a novella I'm slowly, slowly writing, inspired by my doctor father. You don't use all the facts you learn, but you still need to know them, you need the mental 'furniture'. The curator at the Mushin museum  has been enormously helpful to me. By coincidence, I learned from an old CV just this week that my father had actually worked under Professor Mushin  - whom the museum is named after - in the early 60s. That gave me shivers. 

Then, the other day, I discovered artist/writer Nancy Campbell when she favourited a photo of snowdrops I'd put up that found its way to her. I learned that Nancy has written a gorgeous book called How to Say I Love You in Greenlandic, which I know will be perfect for my stepdad, it will revive his Greenland memories, so important now as he slips further into dementia. Through Twitter, we were able to be in touch directly and I have ordered her book.

I also came across The Istanbul Review recently. This gorgeous Turkey-based literary journal, 'with a presence in Edinburgh', is distributed in the UK by local indie store Looking Glass Books. I submitted some flash fiction to them last week on the off-chance and was delighted to have it accepted.

We all know Franzen gets his knickers in a twist about writers bragging on Twitter, sure, that happens, there can be dreadfully off-putting self-promotion - across all platforms - but you just avoid it. For me, social media is something of a godsend as I can't run around all over the place promoting my novel - but most of us use Twitter wisely when we self-promote - and why the hell shouldn't we publicise our writing, after the blood, sweat and tears that goes into writing, and having a book published!  But we also have a generosity of spirit towards other writers we admire, and that is invaluable.

Twitter is also a great tool for those who are chronically ill,  especially in housebound or bedbound phases. You can feel like shit with a capital S, but send out a tweet, a wee firework into the world, from your pillow. I often think back to my horribly ill days in 80s: unless you had physical visitors, it was a case of writing letters and phoning. Hard to believe now. I was 'amused' - if that is the right word - to come across a young woman with ME who had her many symptoms listed on an App on her phone, ready to present to the specialist she was seeing. We were both diagnosed at twenty, with the same hellish illness, but very different worlds, technologically. Her blog is here, she makes me smile. She loves her lipstick too, never a bad thing.

And, of course, Twitter is great for hearing about the latest research papers on ME - and the skulduggery - without having to trawl through the internet. I follow the excellent Tom Kindlon for this.

Guide to flash fiction

I was delighted last year to be shortlisted for the Bridport flash fiction award, though I have written very little flash and am still not, to be honest, entirely clear of what it is.  I like it because it requires less energy than short stories - I see everything in terms of energy - though flash is not just a case of trimming a short story to a paragraph or two, flash is its own thing, and it still needs to be crafted and edited like hell. A recent helpful article here by Vanessa Gebbie, from the Bridport Prize blog, on what constitutes flash fiction - I had not heard of drabble (100 words fiction) or dribble (50 words).  I also came across - and loved - this description last year by Vanessa  on Writers and Artists site: '...A flash of narrative lit up, then extinguished, leaving the reader wondering, but satisifed - because a good flash is never incomplete'.

A wee thrill

Congratulations to the winners of Bridport Prize(s) 2012, the results were officially announced this weekend! I was delighted to be on the Flash Fiction shortlist and just saw my name is first on the list - which denotes nothing, purely random! -  but it gives a wee childlike thrill. The Bridport website was revamped earlier in the year and it looks fantastic.

Writing about writing

Is there any process or human endeavour that has as much written about it as the act of writing? It seems to be endlessly discussed, a subject of fascination. I enjoyed this recent article. Still, when (famous) writers reveal their tips, I half want to run away, as so much of this advice relies on physical wellbeing: Get up early, write so many hundred words, don't leave your desk 'til bla bla bla. The only thing I find in common is we all write in our pyjamas and drink cold coffee. And I really liked this article by Jenny Diski, which I may have blogged before. She sagely says: Not starting isn't the end. At least, not necessarily. Although I am the opposite of prolific, writing is always there, the impulse, anyway. I can't imagine not  being allowed to write, having no tools, that would be my idea of hell. There is nothing more exquisite than the process of writing taking you away from yourself, you don't even know you are doing it. Was thinking  back to 2008, it took me a year to recover physically - and emotionally - from the hurlyburly of The State Of Me, then I got recurrent uveitis in 2009 (which,  touch wood has gone for good, I stopped treatment last October). Then last year we had the carpetbombing of PWME with negativity from the media and a certain consultant psychiatrist and his merry men. I cried so much during that time, just feeling so thwarted by lies. Anyway, here are the very short stories which have been published since The State of Me: 'The Bangle Man' was in the fundraising anthology 50 Stories for Pakistan, and 'Parched' which appeared in Glasgow to Saturn, Glasgow Uni's online lit mag in 2010. Both stories can be read here. And I had a flash fiction 'Tinsel and Heated Rollers' earlier this year  in Caroline's fundraising anthology 100 RPM.

Always the bridesmaid...

Found out last night I'd been shortlisted for the Bridport Flash Fiction Prize 2012 (officially announced next month). Of course would love to have been in the winners' category, but this is the first flash fiction I've ever submitted to an award, so I'm happy (I still feel *very* inexperienced in writing flash). Last year, I was shortlisted for the Bridport Short Story Prize, so it maybe now feels a wee bit 'always the bridesmaid' (in distant past been shortlisted for both Asham and RLS Award), though I'm just pleased I can still write meaningfully as my output has been very thin and sporadic - necessarily so, and the uveitis saga didn't help - since The State of Me. I have an idea for a longer piece, a slim book, but I'm saying nothing until it is written (or has assumed a decent shape), I learned that the last time. Otherwise, for the next three, four, five years, everyone will be forever asking, How's the writing? And it is too much pressure, I can't write to deadlines, I can't write to order - I know from experience it makes me (more) ill -   and I certainly can't write every day, or even every week (at least, not anything remotely substantial): I write when I can and that is that. I must stick to my own pace.

I am a perfectionist and have huge self-discipline, from my pre-ME days, and no one puts more pressure on me than myself.

And, of course,  I read too;  so much of writing is reading. You have to engage with the world.

I have another fucking chest infection, only got rid of the last one six weeks ago - after two lots of antibiotics - and am now on a third lot. Coughing constantly is exhausting, you feel almost as if you're putting it on, is so dramatic sounding.

100 RPM - stories inspired by music

100 RPM, a gorgeously designed ebook anthology, is released today, the project of Caroline Smailes,  whose enthusiasm is irrepressible and inspiring.

All money raised goes to One in Four charity, which supports victims of sexual violence.

And an  introduction by Nik Kershaw!

Caroline has explained all on her blog.

There are a hundred stories and every story is one hundred words or less and has been inspired by music on You Tube. The playlist is here.

My own story was inspired by Scottish band Glasvegas' version of 'Silent Night'.

I hope you enjoy the book and pass on the word! I'm off to download my copy.

I'm finding I like microfiction more and more, the possibilities as a writer and the little energy required as a reader. Perfect!

* Review of my story here.

** And thanks to Glasvegas for RTing the anthology.

From Glasgow to Saturn (19)

Delighted to have a wee story (Parched) - very wee, very short - in issue 19 - of From Glasgow To Saturn, Glasgow University's free online literary magazine - wonderfully named after Edwin Morgan's poetry collection (1973). I try not to think that it's thirty years since I went to uni, that would mean I am very, very, very old. I went when I was just sixteen, a couple of months from seventeen. My brothers were the same, we were all pretty much the youngest in our year(s) - at school and uni. We can go to school at four in Scotland. The other day I had hot chocolate from a vending machine and was transported right back to the student union, known as the QM, short for Queen Margaret Union (the other union, the GU, the 'men's union', didn't let women join til 1981). I still remember vividly sitting on the QM steps during Freshers' Week, an unseasonably warm October, in my clogs and skimpy Indian dress, I had a hippy thing going on back then though I hated folk music and listened mostly to David Bowie and Frank Zappa.

I am so glad I didn't know what was ahead, just sitting on those steps, carefree as hell. I got ill in my third year and unlike Helen Fleet I didn't come home from France once, I came home three times, I kept going back 'cos they couldn't find out what was wrong. I still remember trudging up the gangway onto a cross-Channel ferry, knowing that something was dreadfully and completely wrong. And I don't mean my perm - yes, I had a perm! My hair is already crazy hair - and yet I had a perm! Because my cousin had one, I wanted one too.

50 Stories for Pakistan

Very happy my short story 'The Bangle Man' will be among the soon-to-be published 50 Stories for Pakistan, a fundraising anthology for victims of the floods. The collection will be published by Greg McQueen's Big Bad Media and all proceeds will go the Red Cross Pakistan Funds Appeal. Is so long since I've written anything new and this is flash fiction - just 500 words - a perfect length from energy p.o.v but you can still say a lot. I'm delighted to be part of such a great project. I could barely watch the most recent Channel 4 report on this catastrophe. One baby - a wee scrap, almost nothing more than his huge brown eyes - suffering from severe malnutrition and the worst strain of malaria. I had to look away.