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. “God. How am I going to get through the weekend?” It was 3am, and the moonlight streamed in through the partially closed venetians.
Dorothy tossed and turned violently, and apologised to Walter for nearly kicking him out of bed. (She needn’t have bothered. He snored on, completely oblivious to any suffering or distress.) The next morning, she glanced at herself in the mirror, wondering who the old lady was in the reflection. At least Walter didn’t seem to notice how much she’d aged recently. She fussed around the kitchen organising their breakfast, practising her positive self-talk mantra: “You’re never too old to try something new. Exercising your brain prevents dementia.” Walter gave a wry smile. (At least, Dorothy thought it was a wry smile, but it might have been wind or a silent belch. It was getting hard to tell these days.) After breakfast was finished and the kitchen was clean, Dorothy opened yesterday’s paper. There were 11 unanswered clues in the crossword, and Walter had been no help whatsoever. But this morning, it was as if she’d written the clues herself. In a blink, the crossword was complete, and her confidence restored. Dorothy repeated her mantra and sat at her trusty old computer. She bravely clicked on yesterday’s email which had caused so much anxiety. Stupid symbols. Like trying to read hieroglyphics. Where is the language of Dickens, or Austen, or even Mem Fox? How is this meant to inspire anyone? “You’re never too old to try something new. Exercising your brain prevents dementia.” She opened a new Word document and stared at the empty page. Rescued by the phone. “Hello? ... Oh, hello Allison. How are things?... Yes, yes. Same here. Fair-to-middling is how I’d describe it, too. Finding it all a bit of a struggle, to be honest. …. No, I’m afraid I can’t meet you for our walk this morning. A writing weekend, you see. I’m sure you understand. … Absolutely. … Thanks. I’ll need it! Ta-ta, then.” She wrote a few words, but stumbled into the vortex of ‘research’ on the world wide web. Her tummy grumbled. How could it be lunchtime already? She’d written a measly 200 words, most of which would probably need cutting. She was hungry, and wished desperately that Walter could make her a sandwich. I mean, really, how hard could it be? Why did he have to be so useless in the kitchen? She zipped her lip and looked at him, napping again in his favourite chair. After lunch, a miracle occurred. Granmaa – a childhood, phonetic spelling of Grandma – was actually an anagram of anagram! “I’m so clever!” she proclaimed, jolting Walter awake. From there, the words flowed. Five hundred words. Done. Another Furious Fiction completed. She called Allison back. “Let’s go for that walk. … Of course you can bring Procrastipup. I’ll see if Walter is up to it too. Heaven knows he needs some fresh air. … See you soon.” “Wakey-wakey, Walter. I did it! Shake hands…. Good dog.”
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Furious FictionGrateful to the Australian Writers Centre for sparking creativity each month with the Furious Fiction competition. Archives
August 2021
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