Romance Languages - Flash Fiction

“I love you” tasting bile at the back of my throat.

“Je t’aime” tasting saltiness on the inside of my cheeks

“Ich liebe dich” tasting blood on my tongue

“Ti amo” tasting defeat on my teeth

“Te ubesc” tasting betrayal on my lips

Compound Fracture - Friday Flash

The Engineer studied the Entrance to the London Underground Station. It was dark and foreboding as Soot picked out the outlines of Commuters whilom impressed against the Tiles. A Wind squeezed up from below ground and buffeted his Face, its force impelling him backwards. A concatenation of displacement he mused. Basic design fault. The gust stilled as quickly as it arose. Next was a thunderousdrummingcadence drawing towards him, but to his Earattunedthroughexpertlongprescription it was a nonmechanicalgenerativesound. Suddenly a human host swarmed over the Stairs and out through the Exit, knocking him this way and that like a Bagatelle, as they did to each other.  When they had finally dispersed into London’s Thoroughfares and Alleyways, he took out his Notebook:

Traindisgorgementpedestrianflowpinchpointfrictionalchaos.

He resumed his own Perambulationwithpurposethoughwithoutspecifieddestination. He noticed how the Denizens of London all had their Heads bowed as they walked. Was this because of the reputed Rats that supposedly possessed the filth laden Streets? London as one giant Rat-run he smirked to himself. His countryfolk had a word for it Umweltverschmutzung. It was only ever applied to other races.

Or perhaps was it prompted byeyecontactaversionthroughfearofprovokingviolenceinonemotivatedbyperceiveddisrespect? For he’d heard how dangerous this particular Capital City had become, the polar opposite of the order that was tightly maintained in that of his own Country’s Capital.

In thrall to Rats and Thugs, he pitied the Citizens of this formerimperialpowerprostratedrunningitscoloniesandbankruptedoncewealthofitsdominionsnolongerbeingsequestrated. It’s grandiose Edifices and Statues now merely bombastic as they sat smeared in grime and bird droppings, the masonry crumbling and eroded. Military heroes from long-forgotten wars. Buildings that used to house retired Governor-Generals and High Commissioners, now converted into flats for divorced spouses with spare bedrooms for their weekend-lodging Kinder. Even the verdancy of London’s central Parks had withered and become eclipsed by traffic fumes and degraded by the volume of footfalls. Certainly hadn’t been browned by the Sun!

To him this was a decadent City. A City in decline. That’s why its citizens had their Heads down, they lacked the confidence to look the World in its Eye. Unlike his own proud Nation. A sudden bolt of that Painwhichstartsoffstupefyinguntilneuralmessaginghitsbrainwholebodybecomingwrackedwithmountingagony hit him. Also his vision was filled with the prospect of people’s Shoes about to boot him in the Face until they veered away at the last moment. His processing Mind elicited that he was prone on the Pavement. His Knee was radiating excruciating sheets of pain, as if it were Metal being beaten white hot in a Forge. He gazed down and was confronted with an unsettling, unaesthetic disparity. Something awry from the anatomical blueprint. His Leg was twisted at an ugly angle, the Kneecap clearly being unable to pinion it naturally. None of the passersby offered to help him, but sniggered as they pivoted and swerved around him. Schadenfreude he thought miserably to himself until a bolt of pain blotted out any further possibility of coherent cogitation.

Lying in a hospital Bed with a compound fracture of his Patella, the tidal waves of pain and the tsunami clotting of his chemically sedated brain meant he was strikingly unable to string his thoughts together. But he did at least appreciate now why the English kept their Eyes pinned to the ground. To avoid all the cracks and pitfalls of subsidence in their Pavements that had caused him to trip and fall as portentously as Lucifer’s tumble from Heaven. Subsidence, another marker of venerability. His thoughts were too fragmented to compound into a precise analysis of this event. Welt Schmerz.

*

I wish English had the facility German does, that when a word doesn't exist, in German you can formulate it by compounding words together to create it. So 'Weltschmerz' is 'world sorrow' or 'Umweltverschmutzung' is 'environmental dirt' or what we call 'pollution'.

The advantage this allows is that it can contribute to tightening up the precision of our meaning, when the existing words just won't cut the mustard. Such compound words more often than not infuse the concept with a philosophical tinge, the nuance coming from the joining of separate words together that tinge and shade their partners in the compound.

However the downside of this being  that the high-minded philosophical bent can be at the expense of any metaphorical or imagistic tenor of the concept. 'Weltschmerz' sounds great, but the high-minded concept of world sorrow is somehow divorced from a poetic idea of a world sorrow and the two scarcely can coexist because the philosophical tenor comes over so strongly.  This is odd given german's direct descendence from Anglo-Saxon which contained the beautifully poetic Kennings which absolutely embodied the metaphorical and the figurative through the compounding of two separate words.

So I wanted to write a story that played up the differences of the compounded words and the metaphorical phrases. I also wanted to write a story about how the facility of compounding in a language could perhaps also determine character, personality and how one expresses oneself. And then I wanted to assert the triumph of the metaphorical over the philosophical and fracture the compound!

Hope this helps in explaining the madness that precedes it! 

Memory (Non-Linear Flash Fiction)

ARCH-TYPE

The dusty mote of memory. Bombinating around the waning waxy taper. Icarian fusion with the flame, fizz, fizz phufft. Shot down in conflagration as one dimly gropes for recall. Recurring memory of occurrings not ready for recollection at collection point 'C'.

Memory is thinned. Emulsion paint-stripped. Colloidal suspension of a happening in bite-sized gobbets. Mucilaginous globules, preserved surface tension until they go pop at being summoned to retrospection. It would never pass a retroinspection as to the detail. Everything is abbreviated.

For memory foreshortens. Foregrounded synaptic associations. Memory is not laminated ply. Is not the random accessed memory of hardware. It is non-locatable and barely locutable.

Memory is prompted by cues. A word, a smell, the clothes one was wearing. The refrain of a song, an emotion. It is the cues which are pickled and preserved. It has the feel of a stage production, wheeled out night after night after matinee after night. And then the set is struck as the theatre goes dark until the next production.

The first night adrenalin carrying the original performance through, the second night flatness, the grooved, mindless repetition for the length of the run. The happening was that first night, the reminiscence that of the ill-differentiated versions thereafter. Memory as the encore's empty bow.

Recalling the settings for the memory, how they have all the solidity of stage flats. Words replayed nightly according to the script, now largely forgotten, though the actor might remember a snatch, or a summoned-up feeling. If one tries to recall now, there will be improvisation, extemporisation, embellishment of the tale, because the dialogue cannot be reproduced whole. All is monologued, he said, she said.

The greasepaint no longer adorns, heightened, hyperbolic under the spotlights as the live happening itself would be picked out as memorable. Yet the actual fascia of memory equates to when the theatre is dark, barring all but the exit and safety lights. When the actor has removed the greasepaint, his features pale and bleached out by the glare. There might be an oleaginous greasepaint stain on the cuff or collar of his real world clothes when changing in a rush to leave the backstage and grab a bite to eat or a drink with a leading lady. The smell of the cosmetic lingering on the tissue of the fabric. Jolts one back. The impossibility of remembering the director's choreographed blocking of one's precise position in the tableau. The thespian has left the theatre. The memory has slipped away in the same manner.

Yet what perturbs is not the umbral nature of memory shadowing the event itself. It is that the actuality of the event itself is little more 'real' in how it is constructed and plays out in live time. If memory can only capture and embalm a soupçon of a happening, the happening itself fares little better in terms of apprehension.

ALTO-ACCUMULUS

click on image to enlarge

THE ALGID RIDDIM OF MEMORY (Google translator into German & back again)

Das staubige Stäubchen des Gedächtnisses. Bombinating um die abnehmende wächserne Wachskerze. Die Icarian-Fusion mit der Flamme, Zischen, zischt phufft. Niedergeschossen in der Feuersbrunst wie tastet man dunkel nach dem Rückruf. Das wiederkehrende Gedächtnis von Auftreten nicht bereit zur Erinnerung an der Sammlung spitzt 'C' an.

Gedächtnis wird dünn gemacht. Von Farbe abgezogene Emulsion. Gallertartige Suspendierung eines Ereignisses in bissen-großen Brocken. Mucilaginous-Kügelchen, bewahrte Oberflächenspannung, bis sie Knall gehen, zum Rückblick aufgefordert. Es würde einen retroinspection betreffs des Details nie passieren. Alles wird abgekürzt.

Weil Gedächtnis perspektivisch zeichnet. Foregrounded synaptic Vereinigungen. Gedächtnis ist nicht ausgewalzte Falte. Ist nicht das zufällige zugegriffene Gedächtnis der Hardware. Es ist non-locatable und kaum locutable.

Gedächtnis wird durch Stichwörter veranlasst. Ein Wort, ein Geruch, die Kleidung hielt man. Der Refrain eines Liedes...

The dusty mote of the memory. Bombinating around the decreasing waxy wax candle. The Icarian coalescence with the flame, hiss, hisses phufft. Shot down in the blaze like one feels darkly for the recall. The returning memory of appearance ready in memory of the collection does not sharpen 'C'.

Memory is made thin. From color Drawn off emulsion. Gallertartige suspension of an event in bite-size lump. Mucilaginous globules, preserved surface tension, until they go for bang, requested to the review. It would never happen retroinspection concerning the detail. Everything is shortened.

Because memory signs in perspective. Foregrounded synaptic unions. Memory is not a rolled out fold. If is not the accidental accessed memory of the hardware. It is non-locatable and barely locutable.

Memory becomes by headwords arrange. One held a word, a smell, the clothes. The refrain of a song, a feeling. These are the headwords which are marinated and are preserved. It has the feeling of a stage production, turned night after the night according to the afternoon image after the night. And then the sentence is hit as the theater goes darkly up to the following production.

The première adrenalin which carries out the original achievement, the second night flatness, gerillte, unconcerned repetition for the length of the run. The event was that a première, the recollection this of the bad-distinguished versions afterwards. Memory as the empty curve of the repetition.

Recalling the settings for the memory, as they have the whole solidity of stage apartments. Words played every night according to the writing, now mainly forget again, although the actor could remember snapping, or a requested feeling. If one tries to recall now, there is improvisation, extemporisation, decoration of the fairy tale because the dialog cannot be completely produced again. Everything is monologued, he said, she said.

The greasepaint decorates no more, raises, hyperbolisch under the floodlights, as the living event would be selected even as unforgettable. And, nevertheless, the real Faszie of the memory corresponds in addition if the theater is dark, everything except the exit and security lights bolting. As the actor the greasepaint, his qualities pale has removed and has bleached by the garish light. There could be oleaginous Schminke-Fleck on the cuff or collar of his real world clothes to leave in a hurry changing, in order the Hinterbühne and to seize a bite to eat, or a drink with a principal character. The smell after the cosmetic which stays on the fabric of the material. Shakes a back. To remember the impossibility, to choreographed blocking of the manager of somebody of precise position in the painting. The Thespisjünger has left the theater. The memory has escaped in the same way.

And nevertheless what interferes, the umbral nature of the memory shadowing the event is not. That is it the actuality of the event is a little more real in it as it is built and exhausts in the living time. If memory only can win and embalm a track of an event, the event even driving money a little better in relation on the arrest.

with many thanks to Dan Holloway for the idea of a word cloud and Matthew Temple for the re-translation idea, without both of whom this piece would not have been possible.