Flash fiction by Ali McGrane
One More Impossible Thing
A grotesque clamour, metal on metal, shrieks and groans among oil spills, grease and chains—then over a threshold into upholstered calm, navy skirts, company scarves and put-on smiles.
You booked front row recliner seats facing the prow; foam topped deeps, the storybook promise of land. We might see a whale, an albatross, a kraken.
Neck pillow, hot fresh coffee, a book turned to the first page, until my hand begins to ache and I let the cover fall.
I wake to sculpted sea like a romping carousel ride, and pan the horizon, a curve made straight, as hard to believe as the fact of this laden steel tub staying afloat.
He appears in the corner of my eye, one more impossible thing. A deep sea diver, clear helmet clamped to white bodysuit. Over-sized gloves, boots.
'Look,' I say, tapping your thigh.
'Huh?' You haul your eyelids up, shrug and subside.
He stands against the wall, occupying space. People squeeze past, unconcerned. I look for a cameraman. Maybe there’s a film. When I turn back he’s taking awkward steps towards me. I shrink into my seat, open my book, wonder what my pulse is doing.
There is a shout from behind. Everyone scrambles forward, lifting children to the glass, as a weave of dolphins race the hull, slip-sliding between elements, nudging the air, blowholes spurting brine. You are unsteady on your feet and we link arms, feeling the joy like a child’s bubble-machine pumping pastel spheres.
I look for him. For the globe of his helmet, his clumsy gait. But he’s gone.
It’s late when we disembark, tell each other we love it here, the food, the wine, the whole deal. You’re nervous driving on the right and I know not to comment when you sit so long at a junction. We break our journey in a room with no identity. While you sleep I stand at the window and try to part the night with my eyes.
The raucous soundscape of the beach reminds me of the ferry. I trawl the strand for keepsakes, a shell, a stone, emerald sea glass, milk-white weed. You power through the waves without me while I arrange my treasures on a towel, shaping them into a man.
At the edge of my vision the spray-filled sun-drenched air dances with rainbows that fade as soon as I turn my head.
A grotesque clamour, metal on metal, shrieks and groans among oil spills, grease and chains—then over a threshold into upholstered calm, navy skirts, company scarves and put-on smiles.
You booked front row recliner seats facing the prow; foam topped deeps, the storybook promise of land. We might see a whale, an albatross, a kraken.
Neck pillow, hot fresh coffee, a book turned to the first page, until my hand begins to ache and I let the cover fall.
I wake to sculpted sea like a romping carousel ride, and pan the horizon, a curve made straight, as hard to believe as the fact of this laden steel tub staying afloat.
He appears in the corner of my eye, one more impossible thing. A deep sea diver, clear helmet clamped to white bodysuit. Over-sized gloves, boots.
'Look,' I say, tapping your thigh.
'Huh?' You haul your eyelids up, shrug and subside.
He stands against the wall, occupying space. People squeeze past, unconcerned. I look for a cameraman. Maybe there’s a film. When I turn back he’s taking awkward steps towards me. I shrink into my seat, open my book, wonder what my pulse is doing.
There is a shout from behind. Everyone scrambles forward, lifting children to the glass, as a weave of dolphins race the hull, slip-sliding between elements, nudging the air, blowholes spurting brine. You are unsteady on your feet and we link arms, feeling the joy like a child’s bubble-machine pumping pastel spheres.
I look for him. For the globe of his helmet, his clumsy gait. But he’s gone.
It’s late when we disembark, tell each other we love it here, the food, the wine, the whole deal. You’re nervous driving on the right and I know not to comment when you sit so long at a junction. We break our journey in a room with no identity. While you sleep I stand at the window and try to part the night with my eyes.
The raucous soundscape of the beach reminds me of the ferry. I trawl the strand for keepsakes, a shell, a stone, emerald sea glass, milk-white weed. You power through the waves without me while I arrange my treasures on a towel, shaping them into a man.
At the edge of my vision the spray-filled sun-drenched air dances with rainbows that fade as soon as I turn my head.
Ali McGrane is an emerging writer of short fiction and poetry, living between the sea and the moor. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Fictive Dream, The Lost Balloon, Ellipsis Zine, Ink Sweat & Tears, Train Lit Mag, Cabinet of Heed, Ham Free Press and the 2017 Flash Fiction Festival: One anthology. Find her @Ali_McGrane_UK.