Severe Jam Damage

Museum of Anthropology
Specimen No: 233984-13
Item: Homo floresiensis - Skull
Carbon Dated Age: 14,000 BC
Details: Female, young adult.

‘Nur!’
A voice called out over the rocks and bounced around the small valley. At the bank of the river a small girl played with stones, skipping them into the water. She heard the voice and froze, then looked quickly for a place to hide. It was too late.
‘There you are! Kurthi has been looking for you!’
Joko was not much taller than his sister, his skinny torso at odds with the strength that lay in his thighs and legs.
Nur shrugged. She didn’t want to go back to the village. She just wanted to be alone.
‘Come on, I don’t have time to waste out here.’
‘Well leave me alone then, I’ll go back later.’
‘Kurthi wants you there now!’
Joko grabbed his sister by her shoulders and spun her round, pushing her ahead of him.
‘Ow!’ shouted Nur.
‘Be quiet and move! I don’t want to be late!’

Homo Floresiensis was contemperanous with modern day Homo Sapiens. First specimens discovered in the Liang Bua Cave on the island of Flores on Indonesian archipelago. Believed to have limited language capability.

‘Where have you been? People have been looking all over for you!’ Kurthi was angry. Nur didn’t think she’d ever seen her so angry. In her hands she carried a long spear, the tip carved sharp enough to break the hide of the Buta.
‘Here, now.’
Nur paled, feeling the weight of the spear in her hands. When she held it upright the tip was even with her nose.
‘Go on now, it’s your turn’ said Kurthi and stood with arms folded looking proudly at her little daughter.
Nur slumped and padded over to the group of young girls that stood chattering excitedly. Each of them held a spear similar to the one Nur carried, the difference was that they appeared to know how to use it and were familiar with its weight.
Nur had never been on a hunt before.

Joko had already left with the rest of the young men. It was their job to track the Buta and tire it out so the girls could deliver the final killing blow.

Museum of Anthropology
Specimen No: 233984-16 to 233984-36
Item: Stone beads (20)
Carbon Dated Age: 14,000 BC

Nur touched the leather pouch that was tied around her waist, and her lips moved quickly in a silent prayer to the gods. The pouch contained a selection of small rounded stones, beaded with tiny needles carved from bone. Nur felt comforted by the weight of it on her hips. As the girls set off Nur looked back at the village one last time. Kurthi had disappeared - probably feeding the baby. Nur felt disappointed, it was her first hunt. Surely Kurthi could have stayed to wave her off?

The group began to move faster, loping through the tall grass, calling out to each other. They followed in the tracks of the boys for a while, Nur could feel her legs getting tired. Just when she thought she couldn’t run any further the group stopped. Ahead of them the boys had cornered the Buta. Its strangled cries rang out across the clearing. The grass flattened where it had frendziedly stomped in fear and panic.
‘Ready’ shouted a voice from the grass and Nur reached a hand to her pouch. Quickly she pulled one of the stones from the wallet and placed it in the hollowed out tube of her spear with the bone needle facing away from her.
‘Aim!’
Nur stood and around her the grass came alive with other small bodies who raised the end of their spears to the mouths.
‘Fire!’
Nur blew with all her might as the tiny bullet sped through the air and found its mark. The Buta trumpeted in pain, red eyes spinning. Its great feet flailed in the air and thunder rolled through the valley when it landed. It spun in pain and the girls closed in, continuing to blow their tiny needles until the Buta tired. Its shrieks grew weaker, it slumped and fell over. Nur was almost close enough to turn her spear around and begin the process of finding its weak spots. As she braced herself to stab the beast it let one last bellow and kicked out with its great foot.
‘Nur!’ screamed a voice, and Nur was vaguely aware that it sounded like Joko calling out to her. Then the foot of the beast connected and Nur watched in fascination as a spray of stones arced high into the sky.

Stone beads, no known purpose, most likely decorative. Found buried with specimen 233984-13.

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Anyway this weeks flicktion effort inspired by The Gallipoli Campaign. Copyright Flickr user Pasanin Yeri Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

Jackie found the book in one of those old second hand shops. It was stuck away on a back shelf, hidden where no one would even notice it. She’d actually been going for the hardcover copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales but it was stuck, slightly too large for the shelf and wedged tight. She braced her knee against the bookshelf and pulled. Hard. The Grimms fell with a squeak and a small shower of sawdust which powdered her shoulders and eyelashes. Coughing, she opened the book to the flyleaf and then sighed in disgust. It was an updated copy, not the 1857 copy she had hoped. She brushed the dust from her eyes and put the book back on the shelf. That was when she found the other one. Just a corner of it stuck out of the shelf, enough for Jackie to get her fingernails under the spine and wiggle it out. The cover was brittle and coarse like bark. Jackie forgot about the Grimm’s book, here was something really unusual. A copy of Collodi’s ‘Adventures of Pinnochio.’

Jackie opened the book and winced as the spine cracked. The basement filled with the smell of fresh cut wood. Inside the pages were soft and pliable, thick and slightly veined. Each leaf had been fitted into the book with precision, matched perfectly for size and shape.. The typeface was difficult to read, blotches of ink stained where the blotter had not been quick enough. Jackie paged quickly through the book taking care to turn the leaves softly. They felt slightly waxy like tiny new buds in spring.

This was one of the special books, the ones that appear as a prize find in among the battered Harold Robbins and dogeared chick-lit that normally cluttered up the shelves. How this one had come to be here was anyone’s guess. Some niece or nephew clearing out their dead relatives belongings not knowing what they had.

Jackie knew.

Or at least she knew it was something unique. A book to treasure, a book to keep safe.

Jackie walked up to the till and laid the book softly on the counter, holding her breath until the clerk turned to serve her.

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Hmm, this is NOT where I thought this would go. I had ideas about a sort of Jack and the Beanstalk tale and probably if I’d had more time I could have shaped it that way. Anyway this weeks flicktion effort inspired by Book Tree. Copyright Flickr user Ulle B. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

As children we were told not to go near the old storm-struck tree down the end of the high field.
‘There’s bad things and worse’n that’ Uncle Jake told us. ‘You don’t wants to be goin’ to the high field lessin’ you got a reason. And that reason, well it’d better be nuthin’ less than your own life.’
After these warnings he would glare at us with one rheumy eye, the other having been lost years ago in some unspecified incident. Then he’d slowly lift his eye patch and glare down with his empty socket at us. That always made us shiver, no matter how close to the fire we sat.
‘You young uns gotsta stay well away from that place. Well away!’
Then he would lean back in his seat and speak no more. We knew better than to ask him why, cousin Jimmie had taught us all that lesson. He still weren’t able to sit proper on his seat after all this time. We’d never seen Uncle Jake go into such a rage after it. Later when Jimmie had quit his slobberin’ and cryin’ he’d told us there weren’t nothin’ up in the high field ceptin’ some old gnarled up lookin’ tree stumps.
‘The old man is crazy as a coot’ said Jimmie.
‘You aints’ bin up there to know!’ we taunted.
‘He’s a crazy ol’ man’ replied Jimmy but alls the same there was somethin’ in his face that made us wonder if Uncle Jake was all that crazy after all.
Late at nights we’d lie in bed, all jumbled up together, legs ‘n’ arms, stickin’ elbows into ribs and we’d whisper amongst ourselves - taunting and daring each other. None of us ever took it serious. We knew well what would happen if’n we tried goin’ anywhere near the high field. Alls we had to do was look at Jimmie wincing in his chair and with that look of fear on his face.

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I didn’t want to do the typical ‘Merlin and Nimue’ with this, so this could be the beginning of something, unfortunately didn’t have time to finish it so this is all you’re getting this week. This weeks flicktion effort inspired by Sculpture Copyright Flickr user RightIndex. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

Nobody knew where The Factory came from. It was just there, steadily taking things in through a gate that opened once a week. Trucks lines up around the block waiting their turn to unload then drove away empty, to return the next week full again.

No one ever saw what the trucks unloaded. The drivers didn’t stop, dour looking men, high in their cabs they drove to the factory and drove away. For months nothing ever came out of The Factory. No sounds, no smells, nothing. Stories spread that late at night when everyone was asleep a small gate opened in the side of the wall and things came out. Nobody knew for certain though.

One day the deliveries stopped. There was no line of trucks, no open gate. People began to forget about the mystery of The Factory. Life went on.

It was about a year later that the Dolls started to appear. Tall, and slim their arms and legs wobbled as they walked. Bodies sexless, covered in latex with faces that had no features except for a pair of silver-irised eyes that shone like jewels from their sockets. The first Doll that appeared was found sitting on a park bench by some children. Their parents heard the screams but by the time they ran outside it was too late. The children had pulled the Doll apart, ripping arms from torso. There was a short report on the news about it. The children were in hospital, suffering shock. The remains of the Doll were taken away by the authorities, but nothing could be ascertained. There were no manufacturing marks, no clue as to where the Doll had come from or what its purpose might be.

A week later two more Dolls were found wandering the streets. A crowd gathered, staring. As one, the crowd tore the Dolls to pieces. When asked about it later no one could give a clear answer. Observers - those who had not seen the Dolls before the attack - claimed that the crowd had gone berserk. Others claimed that the Dolls were the instigators. No one could prove anything.

Reports began to flood in. Other cities, other unexplained attacks. And after each, the people left drained, in shock.

No one ever thought to link The Factory with the appearance of the Dolls.

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Damn, I have no idea where I was going with this. Ahh well, this weeks flicktion effort inspired by as far as the eye(s) can see By Flickr user phantom kitty. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

They think they can do that to me eh?
Think they can just let me go like that. I’ll show them, I’ll bloody well show them.

There is a cold draft blowing under the door. I can feel its chill fingers blowing up my skirt. I sneeze once, twice. Dustballs scurry in the wake of my breath. I should have brought a flashlight. The cheap flourescent lights flicker above the table making sickly shadows dance. There isn’t enough light down here, my fingers poke and prod looking for the outlet.

There.

A creaking floorboard causes me to freeze. Fuckit. I thought everyone had gone home, but it’s just the building settling. Old beams moving. The office has begun to cool down, heating turned off for the weekend. On Monday this place will be like an icebox.

My fingers have found the outlet, I jab the fork in and bend quickly. The outlet is switched off, all unnecessary power switched off at the mains - one of the ‘cost saving measures’ put forth by the boss. And I, another.

I crawl out from under the table, blowing dust and lint from my face, smoothing my hair. Turn out the lights in the boardroom, close the door and key in the security code.

On Monday I will look for a new job - somewhere in a bright clean office block. Somewhere new and shiny. Old buildings are bad for me- too cold and drafty. Decades old wiring snake through the walls - fire hazards in waiting. You never know what might set them off.

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This weeks flicktion effort inspired by twelve By Flickr user receivingend. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

‘Where’d they come from?’
Dunno, they bin here long as I can recall.’
‘Whatcha think they are?’
‘Dunno.’ A shrug, shoulders hunched and hands in pockets. The voice is small and bored.
‘They look old’
‘Yup.’
‘A bit battered as well.’ A rough hand runs over the wooden frames, a shower of crackling paint falls to the ground.
‘Wood is sound anyway.’ Says the second voice.
‘Ayup.’ A beat. ‘So you taking them or not?’
‘Reckon I will. Just wish I knew what they were.’
**
They are lighter than he had thought but it is not easy. The boxes rotting and splintered in places prove awkward to shift and sweat pools under his light Memtex shell. Shards of glass tinkle and crunch under his feet. If he can clean down the wood, smooth the rough edges the timber might be worth something on the black market. He runs fingers down the side of the box. Even the splinters feel soothing. Con wonders again what their purpose could have been.
**
The buyer unrolls a length of molywire and gently touches it against the corner of one of the boxes. They are pristine. Con spent hours sanding and varnishing until the timber gleamed like glass. He winces as the buyer slices a splinter from underneath one of the corners.
‘Gotta test the merchandise’ says the Buyer and inspects the tiny fragment.
‘Oiled and polished’ begins Con, but the buyer isn’t interested in Con’s work.
‘Do you know in the old days they used to burn wood? What a wonderful waste.’ The buyer pauses, eyes Con. ‘It’s all good for you though isn’t it?’
Con says nothing. He is used to this- these buyers who detest him for providing them with exactly what they want. Con enjoys his work, even if it does mean that he has to deal with these people. The buyer runs a finger across the finely finished timber and nods.
‘I’ll take them’ he says.
**
Outside the dome nothing moves. A deep black desert stretches to the horizon. Con peers out through thick plexi-glass. The void stares back. Behind him an alarm beeps, his Chrono signalling that night has begun. Once, so the story goes, this was all forestland, this blasted and barren place. Con can’t imagine it. A world where trees are so bountiful that they could be wasted and used. Con slips into his pod and sleeps. His thoughts bring him to a world with a warm yellow sun and a gentle breeze. Of sweet grassy fields and a forest of trees.

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I don’t know where this is going. Think Con may have more to tell. This weeks surprisngly green flicktion effort inspired by Booths in a Field By Flickr user Rick Harris. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

‘How can I believe in God, if I don’t believe in myself?’

The dark was claiming him, he could see it creeping up behind. Every morning the pain of waking became more intense. To raise a weary head and look into the light that pierced the thin curtains. On bad days it was much easier to stay in bed - ignore the light and its warmth. There were no good days, not when it was like this. Days divided themselves into bad and numb. On those days he struggled from the bed, sharp sheets tangling limbs. Somewhere his eidolon strode the world. But he - the golem - walked through life, dulled to pain, to joy, to anything.

‘All the lonely people, where do they all come from?’

Late nights in front of the television. Random images puncturing his retina. Eyelids flicker, with each blink a new image. His mind processes nothing but it is better than sleep or the parody that it has become. Onscreen, an old time preacher sobs in relief. ‘God is talking’ and he weeps. His tears replicated a million times over. Something gets through.

‘You’ve gotta have faith.’

Spikes of steel, rotating overhead. He shelters under these skeletal umbrellas, tools scattered. It had seemed a good idea, before. Now, just another thing to keep the pain away. Focus on the repetition of it. The wires and cables, these rubber serpents encircle his feet, hissing power. Slowly, slowly they disappear, slithering into the forest of spears he raises above his head. What poisonous fruit can grow here?

‘These lives so small. People, dying every day. What have you done to be remembered?’

Lightening splits the sky, spilling rain from the heavens. The cables and wires float in puddles. He isn’t religious - thinks Faith is a joke. Yet he works away on the roof, numb to the rain and all that it brings. Receivers lined up, aligned to the sky. One day soon he will turn it on. The God Antenna.

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This weeks dodgy flicktion effort inspired by WIRE(LESS) By Flickr user Min. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Linus, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, LittleGoat, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

It happened so suddenly. One moment everyone was going about their business as usual. Normal people doing normal things. Adelaide Jones was in the freezer section of Tesco trying to decide between beef and mushroom or steak and kidney pie for dinner. Her husband Bill loved a bit of kidney but she wasn’t fond of it herself. The thought of where those things had been and what they’d done put her off. Sometimes Bill would bring fresh kidneys home from the butchers and the tangy smell of piss that floated up from the wrapping always made her feel ill. Adelaide decided on the beef and mushroom pie.

Jim Wilson was walking his dog in the park. The little terrier was excited, yapping and bouncing, trying to chase everything and anything that was in his eyeline. Some kids on skateboards passed by and the dog strained at the end of his leash chasing after the rattling wheels.

Terry Ryan was making himself a cup of tea in the office kitchen. He was very particular about every step of the process. Ideally he would have made a full of pot of tea and let it stew for a while, but in this place he was lucky to find a clean mug after 9 in the morning.

Adelaide Jones had moved down to the ready meals section when she noticed a carton of eggs floating past her trolley. She stopped for a moment, struck dumb. Then she looked quickly around for a hidden camera. It must be a joke, had to be… her thought process froze as the eggs were followed by a string of sausages and a frozen turkey.

Terry Ryan felt a strange tugging in his shoes. ‘What the…’ he thought and then found himself bumping his head gently against the ceiling. The tea things were scattered in the air below him. ‘What a strange thing.’ He thought as a tea bag gently caressed his face.

Jim Wilson saw the kids go up first, they floated around on their skateboards, swooping and flying. Screaming with joy and a little fear. ‘How high can you go?’ they chanted. Jim noticed the leash in his hand had become slack. He looked up and saw the little terrier treading air, floating up, up and away. Somehow the dog had loosed itself from the harness. Jim watched him paddle around for a bit and then with a sudden jerk realised his feet were no longer on the ground. He windmilled and back-pedalled trying to reach the earth that slowly, slowly fell away under his feet.

Below, he saw men and women struggling vainly to stay close to the ground. One young couple held tightly to the trunk of a tree. A man in a suit tugged at a park bench which itself was slowly lifting into the sky. All around him people and things were rising slowly into the heavens.

‘This is what it feels like to fly’ thought Jim, and then he turned away from the earth. The city fell with him, up and up into the vast blue.

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Inspired by To all the dancers in the sky By Flickr user Dejon. Check out the rest of the flicktioneers: The Gurrier, Chris, Linus, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, LittleGoat, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

So I’m a big flickr fake this week. Too much alcohol, not enough brain cells. I tried, really I did this week, but I got nada, nuthin’, nil.

You can check out the productive people listed below. For me, I’m going to try and get some sleep.

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This entry from flickr picture daddy’s dumbbells by Flickr user fadedmilkyway. Check out the usual suspects: The Gurrier, Chris, Linus, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, LittleGoat, Aquafortis, Valsha and Neil.

My head was banging like a Lambeg on the twelfth. Synapses fluttered and misfired in my temples and stars ruptured behind my eyes.
‘Fuck you!’ I screamed, but what emerged was a mouthful of bloody spittle and teeth.
I saw the spray of blood and mucus splash across a pair of Docs just before my eyes swelled closed. Underneath me, hard cobbles dug into my kidneys, small pieces of gravel and stone pierced the soft flesh of my shoulders. I was human pebbledash.
The boots kept flying, my face, my chest, my groin.
The stars exploded into fireworks, blues and greens and reds splattering across my inner vision. Blinded now, the pain shot across the back of my eyelids, creating noise out of darkness, black holes imploding. I groaned, guttural whimpers vomiting their way up my throat. Stomach muscles tensed then, another boot to the breadbox and I curled against the foot.
‘Fuckin’ pussy!’ yelled a voice in the heavens above me. ‘Fuckin’ queer!’
My hands scrabbled for the boot, sliding off the leather smeared with my blood.
Someone laughed.
‘C’mon lets go.’
‘One more, I just wanna see-’
‘Nah, C’mon.’
‘Okay. You got any tissues? My boots are ruined with this shit.’
I realised the foot was no longer buried in my guts. My ears sang - a choir of angels on acid. The voices retreated, diminishing into the black night. The girls moved on, looking for more kicks.

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After a brief hiatus in November, Flickr Fiction is back. This ASBO inspired entry from flickr picture Christmas on Madeira by Flickr user Madeira. Not sure who else is in this week but check out the usual suspects: The Gurrier, Chris, Linus, Tadmack, TeaandCakes, LittleGoat and Aquafortis. Also new Flictioneers Neil and Dermo.