On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
August 2021
Alanis Morriset sounded angry. Not exactly the calm vibe I craved, but my role was to put up balloons and streamers, and ensure the carefully curated collection of photos looped endlessly on the TV. Liz was relaxing on the sofa. Every decision and detail of the afternoon had been hers and hers alone, from creating invitations, to organising the food, and (regrettably) the choice of music. Alice, who turned 21 on Thursday, arrived at the door with profiteroles and champagne. “Hi, Aunty Erin,” she said, giving me a big bear hug in the kitchen. “How will I get through the afternoon? And what’s that music?” “Alice!” called Liz. “Good God, girl. It’s a celebration, not a funeral. There’s a birthday surprise hanging on the door in the sewing room.” Alice tried not to be offended. After all, she’d paid a small fortune for the navy dress – classy, but conservative, just as her mother liked. But when she saw the handmade dress, she burst into tears. Exquisite. Less than an hour later, people began streaming in, bringing food and alcohol. So much alcohol. I couldn’t tell if it was out of generosity or perceived necessity to get through the afternoon. Some brought gifts for Alice, who whisked them into another room. She wanted no attention. Peals of laughter rang through the house, and Alanis Morisset was drowned out by animated conversations. The photos were a hoot – Liz holding Alice as a newborn, and side-by-side photos of Alice and Liz at the same age. Funny photos. Embarrassing photos. Painful photos. Pregnant Liz with Mark, who’d never met his little girl. I sat next to Liz and shared the cheese platter, gossiping about the guests. She was fading. “How do you think Alice is?” she asked me. “Look at her. You’ve raised an intelligent, compassionate and resilient young woman. Her friends are here. And I’ll be here for her too.” We looked at her, wearing the hand-painted dress Liz had created. It was a classic cut, with blues of every hue, like waves without a beginning or end. A dress with the drama of the ocean, and with the serenity of the sea. A perfect dress for the occasion. Liz squeezed my hand, just before clinking her glass with a spoon. The mood quickly shifted, and all eyes were on the frail figure on the sofa. “Fill your glasses,” Liz announced. Her eyes looked big, but her face looked small. “I wish to make a toast. On Thursday, Alice turned 21…” “Mum! No!” “BUT - today isn’t about her. It’s about me. It’s about me saying goodbye.” Liz adjusted the scarf on her head, took a deep breath and raised her glass. “Wakes shouldn’t be for people who never wake up. Let’s celebrate being together. To family, friends, love and life.” And we raised our glasses and said goodbye, sharing stories, and making memories. A few weeks later, we said goodbye again. And Alanis Morriset sang Ironic, even though it wasn’t.
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On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
May 2021
She refused to think about yesterday, and the ugly conversation at the family thing for Mother’s Day. She would focus on her breathing, and ignore the wheezing reminder that she was out of Ventolin. Yes, Tanja was determined to focus on the here and now. Think of Nothing. Not what she would have for dinner, or if she had defrosted the chicken. Tanja would clench her fists, ignoring the pain of that arthritic finger, and unclench, releasing all of the anguish of yesterday’s insufferable encounter with her brother’s third wife, Kylie. Tanja wondered if she would get a foot cramp like last time, so decided to ditch the clenching and releasing, and just focus on the Scot. He sounded gorgeous. But she would not lose focus. No, she would not wonder what he actually looked like, or how old he was, or if he had a wife who was as toxic as Kylie. She would focus on Nothing. Of course, it would be easier if she could follow the meditation properly, if she could comprehend what the Scot was actually saying. Tanja wondered whether she should find another meditation on the app and start again, but she was committed now… No, Tanja would just visualise herself as the serene meditator, thinking of Nothing. She wouldn’t waste her time on the gold-digger Kylie, who was worming her way into Tom’s affections. Of course, Tom might come to his senses, but that was not Tanja’s concern. Not at the moment. She would focus on the present. On the here and now. She would think of Nothing. The noise-cancelling headphones were an absolute godsend. No barking chihuahua. Just the dulcet tones of the Scot. She wondered if his home looked out over the Scottish moors. (Are there moors in Scotland, or is that somewhere else?) Would it need much upkeep in the cold weather? Her own house had just been meticulously renovated. Recycled timbers, neutral interiors with a splash of colour. Blew the budget, but worth it. She just wished Jim would stop sitting on the fence about upgrading the home insurance. The tinkly music signalled that the meditation was coming to an end. She wasn’t as relaxed as she thought she’d be. Maybe she was just hungry. She’d grab an apple. She checked her phone. Cranky text messages from Tom, expressing ‘disappointment’ over Tanja’s treatment of Kylie. Another from Jim saying he’d be home late. (Again.) She opened the shutters. It was black outside, despite it being mid-afternoon. She took off her headphones and heard torrential rain, howling wind, and a petrified chihuahua. A crack like a gunshot, and a gum tree was inside the lounge room. Rain poured in through a gaping hole in the new ceiling. Tanja stared, awash with thoughts of her cranky brother, absent husband, and her ruined and uninsured perfect house. It was a perfect storm, but Tanja couldn’t move. Nothing. On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
April 2021
Bec looked around for another exit (escape to be more precise), but to no avail. She was stuck in the barely-moving line. It was a blur of sad smiles, dark suits, hugs, handshakes, smudged mascara, used tissues. A queue of grief. She took another step forward. Another step closer to Rob and Steph who were somehow hugging people, thanking them for coming, remembering everyone’s names. She caught snippets of quiet conversations – “… a lovely service…”, “… hard to believe… ”, “…beautiful music…” – culturally appropriate restraint. But where was the swearing? The unbridled grief? The wailing? Bec avoided eye-contact, petrified that a primal scream might escape and engulf her. Consume her. Destroy her. Another step. Another step closer to Rob and Steph. The church was traditional, with the imposing cross, stained glass windows and hard-as-a-rock pews, yet strangely comforting. Bec was reminded of happy Christmases, candles, weddings. The string quartet played gentle music that was neither depressing nor uplifting. Nondescript. Comforting. Another step. Another step closer to Rob and Steph. Bec’s mum had insisted on coming, and viewed it as a weird sort of school reunion that she was allowed to attend. “Rebecca, look. Isn’t that your old history teacher? Oh, and that’s what’s her name? I think you played netball with her?” Another step. Another step closer to Rob and Steph. “You spoke really well, Bec.” Li had been one of Bec and Emma’s best friends in school, but they’d drifted apart over the years. Bec smiled her thanks, but didn’t trust herself to speak. She spotted the ring on Li’s finger, remembering the engagement photo on Instagram a couple of months ago. She didn’t know the fiancée, but he looked nice enough. Li smiled in returned, and turned around. Years of giggles, dares, sleepovers, chips, Tim Tams, all reduced to a sad smile. Unbidden memories of trying on makeup, straightening each other’s hair, formal-dress shopping…. Bec, Emma and Li. The Lucky Three. Another step. Another step closer to Rob and Steph. It was hot and stuffy. Her mum had concertinaed the order of service, and was fanning herself. Bec caught a glimpse of Emma’s picture, her face crinkled in the card. Emma’s laugh had been contagious. She was a snorter since primary school, and Li had called her ‘Oinky Em’. She would drop to the floor, belly aching, trying to stop the laughter. Another step. Soon she would have to speak to Rob and Steph. What would she say? Cliches like ‘sorry for your loss’ were hopelessly inadequate. She had spent so much of her childhood in their home, had swum in the pool, slept on the trundle bed.. But she was here now. And Emma wasn’t. She didn’t know how to navigate the grief. She needed a map. And she was suddenly at the front of the queue. Rob and Steph took her in their arms. Not wanting to let go. No words. Bec would be the closest thing they had to a daughter now. On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
March 2021
“Marvellous! Marvellous!” Vincent James clapped his hands together. He looked around the old, battered conference table. Sandy was scrolling through her phone. Matt, trying to disguise a yawn, bumped his glasses so they lay crooked across his face. Jayne was gazing at bowls of Minties and marshmallows, torn between ‘being good’ and needing a sugar hit. (At that precise moment, Greg grabbed a couple of handfuls and basically scoffed the lot.) The girl making the presentation was a sour, overly-confident 20-something with intense eyes and bright pink hair who had arrived in the town following a bad break-up. She missed the city where stuff actually happened, where there were skyscrapers with marble flooring, cafes with decent coffee, criminals and news-worthy stories, and fast-talking, passionate colleagues. “Questions?” Silence. “Thank you so much, Tess.” Vincent was gushing over his newest recruit, desperate to change the fortunes of the small newspaper before retiring. “I really think that there’s a big market for feature articles. After all, it’s fairly sleepy around here, eh? So. Feedback for Tess. Greg? Thoughts?” Greg flapped his arms around, his mouth full of sugar, and nodded in Matt’s direction. Matt sat up quickly, straightened his glasses and smoothed his hair. “Oh, ummmm, thanks Tess. Could you please go back to the main picture? Right. Ummmmm. Not sure about the red phone booth?” Tess bristled. There was something about Matt that she found infuriating, but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Jayne piped up. “What text will go with the image? I mean, I heard what you said about…” (checks notes) “the juxtaposition of the abandoned jetty with the red phone booth referencing Superman…? But, what’s the key message?” Tess inhaled and exhaled loudly through her nostrils. “The key message, obviously, is about finding your inner strength when you feel totally alone. That’s the whole point.” Jayne’s hand instinctively grabbed the last marshmallow. Vincent realised he needed some inner strength himself. This meeting wasn’t going to plan. “Coooyeeerite.” Everyone looked at Greg who was struggling with a Mintie. “Copyright. Won’t be able to use the red phone booth. Superman reference and all that.” Tess looked crushed. Vincent looked concerned. Matt looked relieved. “Mmmmm, that’s what I think I meant, maybe?” he said, somewhat unconvincingly. “Oh my God!” Everyone had momentarily forgotten Sandy was even in the room. “The jetty! A daytripper is sinking at the jetty!” Everyone’s phones started pinging. Vincent was overjoyed. “A story! News! Something’s actually happening! Wonderful! Wonderful! Matt – go with Jayne to the jetty.” “Can’t this time, Boss,” he said, striding across the room. “Tess should go. She’s the best writer on the team.” Tess was surprised. Matt seemed different somehow. Matt had loosened his tie and undoing his top button as he reached the door. He took off his glasses and looked directly at Tess. (Was that blue and red lycra under his shirt?) “The feature article was great, but no-one uses red phone booths anymore.” He gave her a wink. “Gotta fly.” On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
February 2021
She wasn’t going to get drunk. That would be ‘uncouth’, as her mother would say. She just missed the holidays when she didn’t have to set her alarm, when she could sleep all day, and party all night (in a covid-safe way of course). When she wasn’t sleeping or spending time with friends, she’d do some online shopping. A few new tops, a retro gingham dress (she hated anything too flowery), some halfway decent makeup. She glanced around again. Familiar faces. Some not so familiar. One or two doing work. Another gazing out the window, jealously watching the rugby training. A couple of girls whispering and giggling in a language Theresa didn’t understand. Two more minutes until the bell. So, so, so bored. Daniel announced his boredom by yawning loudly and stretching his lanky frame. The plastic moulded chair groaned in pain. Or was the chair groaning in boredom? Travis started click, click, clicking his pen, over and over and over again. He had a smug smile, wondering who would be the first to crack with a little shove or worse. Jenna not-so-surreptitiously scrolled through Instagram, brazenly ignoring the instruction above the light switch. The ripped sign read, ‘Phones must be out of sigh”. Her phone didn’t sigh, so maybe she thought she was following the rules? Detention was the worst. Theresa hadn’t even done anything wrong, and yet here she was, suffering with a bunch of no-hopers. She’d never been in a detention room in her life, and it was worse than she’d feared. A stupid misunderstanding, and now Theresa was here. In hell. She took a couple of deep breaths and pretended to do some work. A sudden commotion from the back of the room, followed by expletives, laughter and held noses. There was no embarrassment from the culprit, merely pride. Forget good looks and a magnetic personality. It really didn’t take much to impress detention groupies. The class looked at the Deputy Principal, hiding behind a laptop. See no evil. Hear no evil. Smell no evil. One minute to go. Theresa was desperate to gather her belongings and make a run for it, but knew she had to preserve the illusion of being sensible. She glanced at the clock on the wall. The second hand moved achingly slowly. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick… And there it was. The buzzer. It was over at last. All eyes turned to Theresa. “Good afternoon,” she said. “You’re dismissed.” On afternoons like this, Theresa really hated being the Deputy Principal. On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
January 2021 THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA: Here are your criteria:
The big day. The day she had prepared for meticulously. Dad and Carly had been kind, patient, and excited. Matt, bless him, had been totally unfazed by the minutiae of decisions, agreeing with everything, as long they kept within budget. Abi had wanted this for so long, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about the movie with the sliding doors. She knew the trajectory of her life, for better or worse, could depend on a single moment. What if she’d made the wrong choice? Deep down, she knew that was absurd, but what if she was making a terrible mistake? Just like the movie… what if the train pulled out of the station without her? The tea was growing cold, and the sun was rising higher. Abi glanced at her watch. Not yet 7. Time for a quick ride before Carly arrived. Surely exercise and fresh air would blow away any lingering uncertainties. Her mountain bike was her favourite purchase. She had day-dreamed about it for a year before Carly essentially ‘kidnapped’ her, forcing her to buy the bicycle and ride home. No regrets. No sliding doors. A great choice. But this decision was so much bigger than a bike. There was so much more at stake. Was she confident? Probably. Mostly. The air was crisp, the sky clear. A perfect start to a perfect day. As she rode, snippets of conversations came to mind. “You’re ready for this,” said Carly. “Poppet, it will be wonderful,” said Dad. “I only want to make you happy,” said Matt. She pictured Matt. She only wanted to make him happy too. It was 8.00 when she got home, and was stunned to find Carly already there. With her dad. And with Matt. “What’s going on? Matt - I’m meant to be meeting you there.” She looked at Carly, bewildered. “You’re not meant to be here until 9.” Carly handed her a bottle. “Guess I was just excited for you.” “I thought I’d bring you brekkie, Poppet, on your big day.” He held up a bag of pastries. “Don’t look at me,” said Matt. “I just got off my shift early, and thought I’d come home first. I’d love a croissant!” Abi inhaled deeply, and looked at the brown laminate cupboards, the porcelain sink, the orange tiles. There was no doubt now. She opened the folder. Colour samples and floor plans fell to the floor. She took out the contract, and scrawled her signature. “It’s done,” she announced. “We’re getting a new kitchen.” Hugs. Tears. Champagne. (Meanwhile, Matt felt the ring in his pocket. He’d propose another day, when he didn’t have to compete with a kitchen.) On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
December 2020 THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA:
“Where is it?” Ruth was balancing on the footstool, reaching deep into the top shelf of the wardrobe, dragging out weird and wonderful relics from a bygone era. She was about to give up when she spotted the wooden box, overbalanced, and jarred her bad knee as she stepped down. “Everything alright?” Down the hallway, her sister Kim was in the kitchen, efficiently (and officiously) sorting the cupboard’s contents into clearly-labelled boxes: Donate. Discard. Decide. There was much sighing, clanging and noisy taping of boxes which had briefly stopped after Ruth’s involuntary cry. “Yep. Fine.” She wanted to sit on the bed, but it was buried under a mountain of clothes, in a half-hearted attempt to clear out the chest of drawers. Ruth hobbled down the hallway with the box into the “good room”, as her parents had called it. “OK,” called out Kim. “Nearly finished here, then I’ll pack up the buffet in the dining room. Have you finished the bedroom?” “Nearly.” Ruth knew her lie would become apparent soon, but for now, she just wanted to sit in Dad’s brown leather recliner, look at the 70s wallpaper with fading palms, breathe in the familiar, but ‘old’ smell, remember the Christmases of her childhood and forget the sadness of the recent past. She longed to put on one of Dad’s jazz CDs, but knew Kim would complain. Ruth opened the box, and her heart leapt. She’d found it! Black and white photos. Her parents, Rose and Bert, on a picnic in the 1950s, wearing twin set and pearls, and collared shirt and tie. Wearing Sunday best for a picnic. Ruth laughed, but tears pricked at her eyes. Other photos too. Kim blowing out candles, opened gifts next to the cake. Aunty Joan and Mum at a farm. Ruth flicked through the rest of them, but there were none of her. Aunty Joan had been wrong. At the funeral, she’d whispered something about a secret box, but Ruth had been too distracted to listen. Ruth didn’t really expect any photos of herself. There’d been no baby photos. Grief had accompanied her arrival, a grief buried in silence. She wondered for the umpteenth time what it would have been like if her twin had survived beyond 24 hours. She had lived for 58 years on this planet, missing someone she’d never met, who’d barely been spoken about. “Look what I found, hidden behind the good china,” said Kim, jolting Ruth from her daydream. Kim was holding a silver box, but it was actually black and desperately in need of a polish. Ruth opened it. Inside was a faded photograph, and an envelope with a lock of hair. Rose was holding two babies, in matching hospital blankets. No date. No names. No identification, but Ruth knew, instantly. Tears fell – for her sister, her parents, even the family home. But tears of joy, too. In a time of loss, a part of her had been found. On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
NOVEMBER 2020 (Missed the deadline by two minutes, so not formally submitted.) THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA:
It was so perfect it didn’t look real, like some new-fangled computer illusion. The sun had burst over the horizon in a kaleidoscope of golds and reds, while ferries and sailboats glided over the calm harbour. Gazing out the hotel window, Bev remembered a time before the crowded skyline and iconic sails of the Opera House existed. She absentmindedly rubbed her hands, knuckles swollen and sore, her skin papery. Her wedding ring had only come off once in 66 years, when it slipped down the sink. Doug had banged and bashed at pipes, flooded the kitchen, sworn like a sailor, and finally, miraculously, found the ring, sapphire intact. Bright yellow rubber gloves were then mandatory - “Lest we forget the kitchen sink catastrophe!” Doug. An involuntary shake of the head couldn’t quite cast out Bev’s gloomy thoughts and she looked again at the perfect morning, colours changing from moment to moment. The TV from the room next door was blaring. A catchy jingle with a driving rhythm and over-the-top cheeriness. Perfect presenters. Perfect laughs. But obviously not real, not like the perfect view. It was still early, but Bev had been awake for hours, and was impatient for breakfast. Doug used to make the first cup of tea for the day. To be honest, it was the only time he’d voluntarily darken the kitchen door. Room service finally arrived. Toast with marmalade. A banana. Tea with skim milk. Nice not to have to prepare it or wash up. Perks of a hotel. She was going to start enjoying being old. No more making the bed. She was 88 years old. Who could stop her? It’s not as though the police would arrest her for an unmade bed. She laughed at her own folly. Of course she’d make the bed. She took out her old black and white photo and smiled. Doug would have been proud of her continuing the anniversary tradition of a city stay. There was young Doug in a suit, tie crooked at the collar, grinning. A younger Bev in her favourite floral dress. A one-year-old Ian tugging at Bev’s pearls. She looked up and saw Ian, now 63. “Ian, how did you get in? Isn’t this room splendid? Look at the view! The harbour is glorious this morning! Is it time to go home?” Ian looked at his mother and nodded sadly. Through the window, he could only see the giant liquidambar tree, ablaze with red and gold leaves. Her breakfast lay half-eaten, lovingly made by a daughter-in-law she didn’t recognise. The imagined hotel was, in reality, a converted study, her home for now but not for long. Bev rambled on about the city, Doug, the ring and gloves, making beds, being perfect and real. Ian struggled to make sense of any of it. “Lest we forget,” she suddenly blurted out, grinning and giggling. In that moment, Ian witnessed a real and perfect joy. He couldn’t see what she saw, but knew she was enjoying the view. On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
AUGUST 2020 THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA
The Cook’s Kingdom The three judges wait, anticipating greatness. I place the lunches on the table, and make eye contact with Kate, the Nice Judge. “We’re looking forward to today’s testing.” She’s the encouraging one. I think I spot a sidewards warning glance at the other, meaner judges, but I might be mistaken. Lucy’s dish is in a rustic bowl. She is a food critic, rather than a chef, and will be effusive with praise or provide caustic criticism. She is undoubtedly the Scary Judge. I smile, trying to win her over with my charismatic charm. “Lucy, today I have prepared for you pasta in the shape of tight twisted spirals, representative of our winding path of life. The addition of a rich, three cheese sauce epitomises the depth, richness and pure joy in our experience of life. I have chosen a hand-crafted clay bowl to represent the beauty and fragility of our existence.” Her eyes are piercing, and I look away. She makes no comment as she begins the tasting. I wait, anxiously, for a response. “The pasta is al dente. Could do with a bit more cheese, though, and maybe some garlic bread.” Kate, the Nice Judge, looks at me apologetically, and sneaks a forkful of the pasta from Lucy’s bowl. “Mmmmm, delicious….” She arches an eyebrow. I am besotted with her. I drag my eyes away to face the Other Judge, known for his sullen persona. “Max, today I have prepared for you an Asian dish of fine noodles, with an exotic Fusion blend of spices sprinkled generously on top, and with a soupy consistency throughout. This represents…” “Yeah, yeah. It’s all about the taste, though, remember?” I am contemplating how he has tasted anything given the speed he’s consuming my creation. He slurps noisily, and gives a nod of approval. But I value the opinion of the Nice Judge the most. “Kate, for your lunch today I have created a deconstructed smashed avo sandwich assortment with ploughman’s bread and Eggs Benedict. In these uncertain times, even comfort food can surprise and delight us. The addition of the tiny pomegranate jewels remind us to expect the unexpected.” Our eyes meet. I actually have a bit of a crush on her. She is goodness personified. Unlike the other judges, her table manners are exquisite. She nods. “Mmmm, very tasty. The Hollondaise sauce is not lumpy, but smooth and velvety.” I start to feel light-headed, dizzy even. She’s gorgeous. “Dan, that was simply the best lunch I have ever had.” She rises from the table and stands very close to me. Without warning, we are in a passionate embrace, much to the shock and disgust of Lucy and Max. Kate giggles, and clears the table. “Max, can you pack the dishwasher please? Lucy’s clay bowl has to be hand-washed. The Chef and I have to go and pick up a few ingredients for tonight. It’s my turn to be the Cook. Any requests other than cheesy pasta or 2 minute noodles again?” On the first Friday of every month, the Australian Writers Centre reveals a new set of story prompts. Writers have 55 hours to submit their best 500-word (or fewer) story.
JUNE 2020 THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA
“Jargon. Spelling. Where’s the argument?” Mr Lewis was known as the ‘muttering marker’, for obvious reasons, scrawling copious feedback in green ink. (Back in the day, all teachers marked with red pen, until it became unfashionable, so he used green pens instead.) Mr Lewis was ‘old school’. Mid-seventies, but didn’t regret still working. He’d never seen the appeal of the grey army with their caravans and fishing rods. His daughter was scared he was going to miss the boat of a relaxing retirement. Kate couldn’t wait for her own retirement, but Mr Lewis had no interest in being a lonely retiree. Every afternoon he would go home in his ancient but reliable Holden, take off his bow tie, make a cup of ‘real tea’ in his fine bone china cup and saucer, feed the cat and listen to opera while muttering through more marking. It was early December. The rest of the school was winding down, exams were over, reports completed, and the promise of Christmas and holidays was tantalisingly close. Teachers played games with their students – variations on ‘who wants to be a millionaire’ - with tenuous links to subject areas. Students in Mr Lewis’ classes, however, were still writing essays, analysing poems, and writing creative pieces with a prompt. Mr Lewis had been marking the creative pieces, disappointed in most, when he came across Sarah Maddock’s work. Sarah was one of those students who was invisible in the classroom. He pulled up her photo on the intranet. A nondescript student, compliant but not a ‘goody-two-shoes’. Capable. Quiet. The prompt was “Disappointment and despair.” He read it slowly, carefully, his green pen poised. Yet, he struggled to mark it. It was poetic, moving, raw. He looked through his gradebook. Average student. He reread the piece. It spoke to him. She articulated the disappointment of being adopted and the despair of never knowing her birth mother. Mr Lewis felt the pangs of grief gnaw at him. He read it through again, avoiding the themes, muttering that the sentence structure was sound, vocabulary appropriate. This did not seem like a piece of fiction. It was too personal. For once, Mr Lewis struggled with feedback. No, it must be a work of fiction. Too far-fetched. He glanced at Sarah’s picture again. Light brown hair, slight build, freckles. She reminded him of someone, but couldn’t work out who. The doorbell rang. It was his daughter Kate with some meals. Her own daughter, Jemma, had been a runaway teen but had returned and mellowed in womanhood. She had died suddenly last year just before her 30th birthday. Grief was a cruel companion. Kate walked past the dining table, covered in papers and green pens, and froze, dropping the containers of food, staring at the computer. Mr Lewis followed her gaze with dawning realisation. The resemblance. The spitting image of Kate’s late daughter. The runaway teen who’d returned and mellowed. Mr Lewis picked up the green pen and wrote – Your mother’s name was Jemma. |
Furious FictionGrateful to the Australian Writers Centre for sparking creativity each month with the Furious Fiction competition. Archives
August 2021
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