Cyclops – Borderless

Photograph and poetry by Rhys Hughes

Why not travel by train direct
from Devil’s Bridge
to Istanbul? What makes you
so reluctant?

Is it because the journey along
the infernal ridge
strikes you as a little too risky?

And maybe the frisky insects,
the midges and mites
that bite the passengers during
the night, the driver too,
dissuade you from the exploit?

What if they bite his nose,
and he sneezes and loses control
and the train is wrecked
and spills its coals,
setting the world on fire?

Better to make the voyage
curled up tight
on a flying carpet,
fast asleep over the deeps
of the ocean,
the gentle rocking motion
more soothing
than a locomotive’s lurch.

On your magical perch
you will be safer
than a wafer in an ice cream.
I know this for certain
because I did my research,
making the trip
using the train at first,
and then in reverse
on a levitating curtain
which is almost
the same as a mystic rug.

Chug, chug, went the train,
flap, flap, went the drapes.
The latter was occasionally
harassed by seagulls,
the former attacked by apes.

But I know which I prefer:
the creatures
that have no fur.
If I really must be assailed
by beasts on the route
from Devil’s Bridge
to Istanbul, I’m not a fool.
Gulls can be placated
with bread, but apes prefer
to bite your head.

In fact my head still hurts.
But I guess it could
have been much worse:
we passed a cyclops
on the way. He was eating
a vehicle from a dish
on a tray, cursing
while slurping, and I saw
it was a hearse,
full of moaning bones
and telephones.

How horrible!
But we left him behind
soon enough
and apart from harpies,
ghosts, ghouls,
flying demon fish,
and one gigantic snake,
the rest of the
voyage was nightmarish
hardly at all.

I quaked just once
or twice or thrice
from that moment on.
I shut my eyes
for the sake of my sanity,
not out of vanity,
although my lids
have been called attractive
(and so have my toes)
by the denizens
of active volcanoes.

Yes, I can’t honestly
recommend travelling
by train direct
from Devil’s Bridge
to Istanbul.
It’s unlikely you will
survive the ordeal
without your mind
unravelling.

It’s spooky, perilous
and unwise,
the ticket inspectors
are strident
with mesmeric eyes.
The luggage racks
are never free
of spare forked tails
and tridents.

So I say:
find another way.
Please yourself
but for the sake
of your health
find another way!

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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I first became aware of the flash fiction form called the ‘mini-saga’ in the mid 1980s. They were invented by the author Brian Aldiss (1925-2017). The British newspaper, The Daily Telegraph, held annual competitions for the public and the winners were published in the newspaper and also in a series of anthologies.

I submitted a few mini-sagas on a number of occasions but never won. I never even made it as a runner-up. All I can remember of those early pieces of mine was that one of them involved a submarine that somehow was turned upside down while it was diving and went the wrong way through the atmosphere and ended up in outer space.

A mini-saga consists of a story told in precisely fifty words. They aren’t easy to do well, but they get easier with practice (like everything else). The title should have an upper limit of fifteen characters, but this rule is not such a strict one. Because there are so few words to work with, the title is often an essential part of the story.

About twenty years ago I wrote a mini-saga that I was pleased with. It was translated into Portuguese and printed on a T-shirt. For many years I regarded this as my only successful mini-saga. Later I wrote another, not as good, and then forgot all about the form.

But when I was staying in Sri Lanka earlier this year, I read Brian Aldiss’ book, 50×50, fifty mini-sagas in total, a very short collection, and I wondered if I might do something similar. But I decided to write 500 instead of 50. This turned out to be perhaps too much to chew on, but I had already bitten it off, and so I persisted and intend to keep persisting.

My book of 500 mini-sagas will be published when it is finished. So far I have written 216. Some are obviously better than others. I am pleased to now present a short selection from this project in progress.

Plate Armour

The army is on the move, crossing borders and conquering new lands, and the key to their success is mobility. They never stop for meals but eat as they go along. They wear armour specially adapted to hold the curries, pickles, bread, cheese, rice and puddings they enjoy. Plate armour.

Ulysses offering wine to Polyphemus. Courtesy: Creative Commons

A Gift for the Cyclops

Odysseus: Here’s a birthday present for you.

Polyphemus: A strange object?

Odysseus: Binoculars is the name. They permit you to see further. Hold them to your face in this precise position.

Polyphemus: Like this? But I can’t see a thing!

Odysseus: Quick men, let’s escape while he is temporarily blinded.

Bytes, Not Scratches

You are typing on your computer when your cat reaches out a paw and deletes your work. That’s the end of the story. If your dog does the same thing, you can say “Fetch” and it will leap into oblivion, find the document and retrieve it for you, tail wagging.

Pinocchio’s Brother

Pinocchio has a brother whose nose grows shorter whenever he tells a lie. He is the opposite of his more famous sibling in this regard. If he tells enough lies his nose retreats into his face, leaving a deep crater. He is unfortunately too popular with the fraternity of golfers.

In Sheep’s Clothing

An eccentric shepherd in these parts has dressed his sheep in pink frocks. The wolf is reluctant to clothe himself the same way but remembers he is cunning and to fulfil the conditions of his reputation he has no choice. He takes care not to be seen by other wolves.

My Nose

My nose was in the Guinness Book of Records. It’s a volume that lists the most extreme instances of various things. There’s a chapter about the tallest person ever, the longest hair and so forth. My nose was in that book. Then the librarian told me to take it out.

Going for a Walk

She said she was going for a walk with a book. I imagined she wanted to sit and read somewhere, but when I went to the park later, I saw her with a Tolstoy novel on a lead. It was opening its back pages against a tree while she waited.

The Haiku Hiker

The haiku poet went hiking and somewhere along the route he lost count of his syllables, so he just kept going. After walking far, he found an isolated tavern in the enormous forest. He fell on the beer like a shooting star. The syllables could find their own way home.

Runny Honey

Runny honey: see the jar sprinting down the street. It grew legs secretly at night in the cupboard when no one was looking. When I opened the door, it jumped out and escaped! I chase it with a spoon. I will never buy runny honey again, only the solid kind.

He was Mighty

An early start was required. He rose from his bed in the castle and called for his squire, who carefully dressed him. A frown for his forehead, an increased pulse for his chest, perspiration for his skin. Now the mighty worrier was ready! Off he went to do anxious battle.

The Toothbrush Duel

There were no other weapons available, all the swords and pistols were missing or broken, so they decided to duel with toothbrushes. They met at dawn, saluted each other, then battled for an hour on the field of honour. Toothpaste squirted into the air. It was a good, clean fight.

Something More Comfortable

The woman took the man home. They had met only an hour before but had felt an instant attraction. “Allow me to change into something more comfortable,” she said. He nodded eagerly. In a flash she transformed into a big fluffy white dog that jumped up to lick his face.

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