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 2020 THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA
“Five!” Olivia held up 4 fingers before realising her mistake and raised her thumb as well. “I’m five!” She ran around in circles, chasing her flowing dressing gown like a dog chasing his tail. “Five! Five!! Five!!!” She ran into my outstretched arms and we collapsed onto the lounge in a giggling, tickle-monster, fluffy slippers tangle. “Happy birthday, my gorgeous, gorgeous grown-up girl! Turning 5 on the 5th of May. My little twinnie.” “Happy birthday, Granny! How old are you today?” I held up my hand with fingers stretched wide and slapped the air twice. “Fifty-five. I’m fifty-five today.” Each year, on my daughter’s birthday, I would remember the day she came into my world. How could such a tiny, beautiful, perfect being be mine? Olivia’s birthday was different. Yes, a tiny, beautiful, perfect grand-daughter had arrived, but my own beautiful daughter had left on the same day. Surely ‘dying in childbirth’ was something that happened in the olden days, before modern medicine, or to hippies who opted for home births. Why was it still a thing in the 21st century? We sat at the kitchen table, eating birthday Nutella pancakes for breakfast. Just the two of us. As it had always been. I’d never really forgiven Tom for running away. It was as if his grief was worse than mine. Selfish, that’s what it was. He ran away from his own daughter, a helpless little creature less than a week old. Weak. Pathetic. Good riddance. He didn’t deserve her anyway. I sprayed more detangling spray on Olivia’s mop of thick hair. A daily ritual. I patiently waited while she struggled with her shoelaces before giving up, and then it was off to preschool with two boxes of iceblocks. The icy wind picked up. Iceblocks in May. Ridiculous. Cupcakes were banned in the ‘egg-aware’ preschool. Next thing you know they’ll be banning Christmas because they’re ‘religion-aware’. All the fun things were being replaced due to some kind of increased awareness. Sugar. Eggs. Even playground equipment was lower to the ground these days. A peck on the cheek and she was off, shouting ‘Five! I’m five!!” at the top of her voice. I exchanged pleasantries with the assortment of young mums: Alannah, helplessly negotiating with the toddler who wanted to stay; Nicole in expensive gym gear showcasing a flawless figure and impossible vitality; Kate who tottered off in her suit, running late for her day at the office. Justine should be here, not me. Sal was waiting for me at the coffee shop, holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers. “Happy birthday, you old fossil.” She stood up, and hugged me. Tears pricked my eyes. “I know, I know,” she whispered. “It’s a strange old day.” Five years ago, Olivia arrived and Justine left. I railed against those who called Olivia the silver lining. They were simplistic and stupid. Silver, even gold, could never describe her. Olivia was luminous. Justine was gone, but what a gift she left behind.
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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.
April, 2020 THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA Your story must begin on the side of a road. Your story must include the words APRON, PIGMENT, RIBBON, ICON, LEMON (plurals are okay). Your story must include a splash. I was pulling up outside number 11 when I saw her. The car was parked on the side of the road, but the driver’s door was ajar. Her body was hanging out, fingertips dragging along the road. Heart pounding, I took a deep breath and ran over to help. “Found ‘em!” The well-built woman in her late seventies was slowly heaving herself into a seated position, her face red from exertion. “Bloody keys. I’m always dropping them. Good Lord. You’re more out of breath than me.” She launched into a wheezy cough, groaned and got out of the car. “What are you gawking at?” I didn’t mean to stare. I had imagined myself as a good Samaritan, running (literally) to the assistance of an old lady, but found myself staring up at woman who towered over me, wild grey hair cascading down her back and a ruddy, reptilian face. “I'm here to help,” I said, still getting over the shock. “Ha! You were ten minutes too late. I could have used a skinny thing like you to crawl under my car.” She started walking inside, and glanced back at me. “What are you waiting for? You said you wanted to help? Come on. I could do with some help.” She opened the door to a previous era. Textured wallpaper, huge velvet chairs in a tiny room with threadbare carpet, sepia photographs in wooden frames. She strode over to me, put an apron over my head, and struggled to tie frilly ribbons behind me. I looked at her hands. Large, twisted fingers. No wonder she was struggling with the keys. Before I knew it, she was barking instructions at me in the kitchen. Two and half hours later, I’d produced lemon slice biscuits (“Did you have to splash the lemon juice everywhere?”), red velvet cupcakes (“Gawd, it’s red food colouring, not red pigment! Who says pigment??”) and caramel slice. (“My mother’s recipe, bless her soul.”) “Not bad, but you’ve made a bit of a mess.” She wandered over to the armchair and plonked down, sighing loudly. Of course there was no dishwasher, so I washed up by hand. The kitchen was sparkling. I’d done a good job. The old lady was asleep in her chair. I checked my emails on my phone. The HTH icon was emblazoned at the top of the letter, and I scanned it for more information. The Here To Help employee: - provides companionship and light home duties, based on the individual needs of each client. - Is respectful, helpful and caring. “Mrs Edwards?” I spoke in a loud whisper. My first shift was over. “Mrs Edwards? It’s time for me to go now.” She roused from her nap. “What? Who? Mrs Edwards? Enid, you mean? She’s next door, love, at number 11. This is number 13. Are you going over? Take her some slice, will you? She’s such a sweet old dear.” 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 2020 - This entry was longlisted by the AWC Furious Fiction judges. THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA
“Are you ready?” He looked at his watch, and then at me. Dad. So handsome in his suit. I answered with a smile. I looked at my white dress, and checked my face in the rear-view mirror. I hardly recognised myself with makeup on. Dad placed the veil over my face. The day was going to be perfect. The best day of my life. Still, I was nervous. Dad seemed more nervous, and kept checking his watch. The park looked amazing. Although it was December, the flowers were in full bloom. My favourite tree had been decorated with fairylights, and photos were displayed on a giant easel. So beautiful. Magical. Beyond my wildest expectations. A sign with colourful lettering announced the occasion. Jackson would be there, waiting for me. I glanced at the gathering guests. When they saw me, they waved, their faces filled with joy. Thankfully (and somewhat surprisingly), they had followed the dress code. Those not on the guest list mulled around in casual clothes, watching the spectacle through their phones, capturing every moment. Dad checked his watch again, but when he looked at me, directly at me, his face changed from worry into something I didn’t immediately recognise. It was more than happiness, more than pride. Delight? He took my arm and placed it in his elbow. He was grinning now, beaming. He walked with me slowly, savouring every step. But where was Jackson? The boy I’d known since I was 3. The boy I’d grown up with. The only boy I wanted to see every day for the rest of my life. I saw him. He was dressed in grey, but something was wrong. He ran over to me, panic-stricken. “Jackson! What are you doing??” I was frantic. This was not what I’d imagined, planned, expected. The best day of my life was under threat. “I’ve lost it.” He was nearly in tears. I took a deep breath. “Lost what?” “My cape.” His tears fell freely now. “But Jackson,” I said, my temper taking hold. “You’re meant to be a grown-up today. Why would you wear a batman disguise?” I said through gritted teeth. Dad tried to calm me down, but kept looking at his watch. “Do you think you’ll be ok, Sweetheart? I’m not sure I can help you. I have to go.” Desperate to escape the discomfort, he kissed my forehead. I was incensed. Jackson was wrecking everything and Dad was running away! “Stay with Jackson,” he said over his shoulder. “His mum will look after you now.” A nurse came over to see if I was ok, but she didn’t fully appreciate my suffering. She was more intrigued by my messed-up makeup. The doctor and firefighter didn’t care either. They were eating chocolate crackles and cake. This was going to be the best day of my life, but it was the worst. I fell to the ground crying. My life would never be the same again. The end-of-preschool picnic was ruined. 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 2020 THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA
And – touch. I want to sink, but I push my face through the surface of the water, gulp in the air, smooth back my hair. I look at the stands. My parents are hugging. Friends on the team are jumping. People everywhere are on their feet. Cheering. It’s deafening. The scoreboard confirms it. Better than my personal best. World record. World best. I’ve done it. Friendships and experiences sacrificed for this precise moment. I’ve done it. Now what? My legs, which had just powered me to victory, are like lead. Justine suddenly appears from nowhere, pulling me from the pool. I grab hold of her shoulders, leathery from decades of sun-worship, and collapse near the starting blocks. I doubt I can stand, let alone walk, to face the waiting media scrum. She’s saying something, but I can barely hear her. I’ve done it. Now what? I’ve achieved my impossible goal. Now what? Do I set another goal? Do I even want to? Is it worth it? Tears come from nowhere. I brush them away. I imagine the headlines in glossy magazines - ‘Tears of Joy from our Golden Girl.’ Am I joyful? Or just confused? Are they tears of relief, or anti-climax? Tears of pride, or regret? Could they be tears of emptiness? Or fear? Or resentment? Most likely tears of exhaustion. Justine has managed to get me on my feet. I smile and wave. The noise! A microphone and camera are in front of me. I speak, but I’m not sure what I say. I hope I’ve said thank you. And that I’m happy. And that I swam my own race. I’m whisked down a narrow corridor into a room with comfy chairs. I’m shivering. Drinks appear. Everyone is talking at once. I’m falling. Blackness. I hear voices. Justine. Mum, Dad. Other voices I don’t recognise. I hear words, but they make no sense. My arm is cold. Something’s happened, but I don’t know what. I see people. Where’s the pool? Blackness. I’m tired, but manage to open my eyes. Mum’s asleep. Dad’s drinking coffee. I’m in bed. I try and speak, but can only croak. “You’re ok. You’re ok.” Dad’s by my side. Mum’s awake. I don’t know what’s happened, or what will happen, but I see their tears. Tears fall. Pure joy. 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 2020 THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA
Rachel at the reception desk is confused. I’ve had my appointment, paid my money, and am still here. In the waiting room, but not waiting. Just catching my breath. I’m in shock. The television is quietly playing in the corner, an encore edition of “Welcome to Serendipity!” Of all shows?! I try to change the channel, but it’s stuck on Channel 9. I stare at the impossibly handsome host, Mike Moloney. Young women of various heights (but inevitably blonde and buxom) stand next to a man with a colourful tattoo peeking above his collar, biceps threatening to burst open his new suit in a Hulk-like scenario. I scoff to myself. Serendipity. What is remotely serendipitous about carefully orchestrated dates? Scandals. Secrets. Ratings. I scoff again. And they call this ‘reality’ TV. Rachel’s more focused on the TV than her computer, no doubt counting down the minutes until home time. Pretty sure she was here when I first met Michael. In the waiting room of all places. Now that was serendipity! Would my secret send ratings soaring? Or plummeting? A mother and daughter enter. The girl is little – a three year old maybe? Like Shirley Temple. She looks at me and squirms closer to her mother, whispering in her ear. A loud whisper. Not a secret, just a request for juice. Neither of them look particularly sick. I wonder why they’re here. I don’t look sick either, yet here I am. Procrastinating. Can’t quite face Real Life. I glance at the TV. One of the contestants is ugly crying, receiving half-hearted comfort by others keen for the limelight. Mike Moloney looks sympathetic, and then looks directly at the camera with a sad smile. “We’ll return after the break.” I’m caught off-guard. I look away. I try and blink away the tears. Shirley Temple walks over to me, pats my arm, and goes back to her mother. She’s been watching me the whole time. She looks just like her mother. I wonder what the father looks like. The doctor calls them in. I’m alone again, still mesmerized by the TV. A charming and distinguished older man is talking to Rachel. Oh no!! I grab a magazine and hide, wishing I’d left sooner. “Joey? Joey Strachan? Is that you?” His eyes light up. “Joan and I miss you,” he whispers. “Michael misses you.” Frank looks at the TV. “Oh, my dear,” he says. Like Shirley, he pats my arm. A doctor looks at his folder. “Frank? Frank Moloney?” We smile a sad smile, and he follows the doctor in. I start ugly crying. Rachel half-heartedly comforts me, looking at the Serendipity host with dawning realisation. “Do you think he’ll really be back after the break?” I’m barely coherent. “Not the break on the telly, the break with me.” Rachel’s suddenly interested, and pats my arm. I pat my tummy. “We need him.” Rachel stares, and spins to look at the TV. “God, I hope the baby looks like him." My reality on TV. 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 2019 THIS MONTH'S CRITERIA
It’s 40 degrees in the shade, and feels like 90% humidity. I look around at my co-workers peeling off jackets and loosening ties, flapping paper in front of their faces, willing a breeze. About an hour ago, we were shivering in Arctic-like conditions with a new air-conditioning system that no one can operate. Police cars with flashing lights are parked in the middle of the street which is closed to traffic, but seemingly open to evacuated employees. As the office block empties, workers of all shapes, sizes, colours and ages jostle and bump into each other, vying for a skerrick of shade. A teeming horde of humanity. I’m standing next to Ed and Mel. They’re discussing a true-crime series on Netflix. “It’s always the ones you least expect,” says Mel. “It was the boy’s mother all along, even though she’d rung the police and given the TV interview and everything.” Sandra is crying. A kind police officer is comforting her while pressing for information. It was Sandra who opened the first threatening letter last week, and the ‘suspicious package’ today. “But why?” She is now a blubbering mess. “Why would anyone want to send such a thing in the post? And at this time of year, too?” The police officer answers her questions with more questions. What time did she receive the package? Had she seen any unusual activity in recent weeks? Any suspicious visitors or workmen? The police officer seems stressed, clicking his pen and looking intently at Sandra. I give her a sympathetic smile. She’s worked for the company since it started 29 years ago. She’s the one I’d least expect. “Yeah,” continued Ed. “She was in the search party too. When they interviewed her later, she said she felt unseen. She wanted to be noticed. What a sicko.” I look around. Josh was playing Candy Crush. He was always a bit of a loner. A bit odd. Does he yearn to be seen? There’s a surprise reunion of school friends unaware until now that they worked in the same building. Or is it a surprise, really? Doug’s not coping in the heat. Sweat pours off him, sizzling on the footpath where it lands. Is it just the heat that’s making him uncomfortable? Jemma and Sarah sip on designer water bottles and huddle over their phones, probably uploading minute-by-minute updates. They’re always craving attention. An early finish to the day. Harried mums seize the moment to catch the end-of-year Assembly, or pick up the little one from child-care early, or do some Santa shopping before school pickup. Do they feel unappreciated? There’s a faint sound of Christmas music with brutal cheeriness and jingling bells. Someone shouts “Christmas drinks!” and there’s a roar of approval. The someone is suddenly very popular. The crowd disperses. Sandra’s now with Bob, my boss. I give them both a wave as I move away. They don’t see me. Still. I turn back, feeling oddly satisfied, and face the police officer. “It was me.” 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.” 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.
October 2019
It had shrunk. Insipid, beige shelves stood in place of warm, wooden bookcases. A row of desktop computers jutted out near the circulation desk. It was probably over 40 years since Sarah had set foot in this particular library. Even so, she still walked to the big window overlooking the carpark and railway station, expecting to see a long, low bench next to the children’s section. Instead, she saw a JP busily stamping and signing, and a queue of bored individuals waiting. Sarah moved to the other end of the window and looked out. She heard a train, but the jacarandas now obscured the view. There were no wide, boxy cars in the carpark, only small hatchbacks or SUVs. The library itself had obviously undergone renovations in the intervening years – technology, lighting, furniture - but the paint was peeling, the carpet was threadbare. The library seemed tired. “Tired, like me,” she thought, but instantly regretted it. There was a reason she had returned. There was no place for self-pity here. Tucked in a corner was a display of ‘classic children’s books’. Time-honoured favourites: The Tiger Who Came to Tea, The Richard Scarry Collection, First Poems. Old friends – welcoming, comforting, familiar. She grabbed a pile and sat back at the window. Sarah couldn’t believe Caps for Sale was still in print after all these years. It was a shiny, new, untouched edition, a sharp contrast to her hands that turned the pages – split nails, veins, beginning bumps of arthritis. “I’m not old,” she reminded herself, “I’m just not new.” It wasn’t the right book. As a child, the idea of mischievous monkeys grabbing caps was funny. But Sarah felt too much empathy for the poor old peddler. The monkeys were annoying and wrecking his career. “Breathe. Just breathe.” She tried another one. Harry the dirty dog. Again, Sarah struggled. Who has time to chase a filthy dog? She had no time. There was no time. Her time was running out. Sarah tried to quiet the rising panic. She’d come here deliberately. No one knew her here. This was a place of purely happy memories, of timelessness. She looked again at Harry and wondered if she was a black dog with white spots or a white dog with black spots. She only knew that the dark spot shown to her that afternoon couldn’t be scrubbed clean. A doctor would need to operate to remove it. “Stupid nostalgia. This was a bad idea.” She started to leave, but spotted Max. He was on the cover of the scariest book of her childhood. It was an old copy…how many children it had haunted? She read it. Slowly. Her wild rumpus was just beginning. She realised she knew where the Wild Things were. They were in her fears of surgery, fears for her family, fears for her future. The Wild Things would roar terrible roars, gnash terrible teeth, but Sarah would look them in their yellow eyes She soaked in the timelessness, glad she’d come. 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.
September 2019
Serenity with children. The caption, in delicate font, was etched over an exquisite photo of a young child in rolled up jeans and a straw hat peering into a pond, looking at tadpoles, frogs and lilypads. Dappled light. Tall trees. Nature. Jacqui stared at the picture on her phone. Facebook had a lot of nerve putting such propaganda online. She was sitting in her car, outside the piano teacher’s house at 5.07pm, aware that 6 minutes of Caitlyn’s piano lesson had been wasted sitting in a traffic jam. Serenity with children? Really?? She looked at the picture again, and lifted her eyes to look around her car. Sand from Saturday’s Little Nippers session, school hats, an unidentifiable smell, a school note (how long had that been there??) and a yawning 5 year old son who was about to complain that the grapes tasted weird. Jacqui knew that the grapes tasted weird because, let’s face it, they weren’t chips. Perfect parenting meant ‘nude food’. Nude food meant reducing your carbon footprint. It also meant a grouchy 5 year old at 5.11pm on a Tuesday afternoon. Jacqui was also getting grouchy because the ‘keep cup’ had not kept her coffee hot. She leaned forward to rub her foot, which was still hurting after the lego dance before breakfast. It hadn’t been a great start to the day. Caitlyn had ‘friend issues’ and didn’t want to go to school, and Jack had lost one of his shoes. The clearly labelled baskets looked great on Pinterest, but Jacqui soon realised that a five year old would rather play school-shoe-frisbee with the dog, rather than put his belongings into a pretty basket. Her phone buzzed. She glanced down, and swiped away the image of the perfect child enjoying the great outdoors, who clearly didn’t have any homework to do. It was the alarm set at 5.30 for the end of the piano lesson. Jacqui jumped out of the car and knocked on Old Miss Porter’s door, ignoring Jack blowing raspberries on the car window. Miss Porter must have been teaching piano for at least sixty years. It’s amazing that her swinging jowls never hit the keyboard. Miss Porter clearly wanted a chinwag (or more likely, issue a pointed reminder of the need to practise…), but Jacqui whisked them away, feeling simultaneously rude, guilty and relieved. She hurried home, letting the back seat bickering wash over her. Before 8pm, the kids had to have a bath, finish their homework, do their reading, eat something (scrambled eggs) and be in bed. All with military precision. Tonight was the first night of the side hustle, a great idea conjured up by her and Pete after deciding to take control of their debt. The business idea was simple – what do parents complain that they never have enough of? At 8.30, the doorbell rang. Jacqui opened the door to her first paying customers, walking them to the door of the loungeroom, all evidence of domestic life hidden from view, lit with candles. An hour of silence. It was a blissful hour. No music. No conversation. And money in the bank. Going to bed, Jacqui turned to Pete and suggested squeezing in a trip to the country on the weekend for the kids to explore nature. Jacqui was determined to structure simplicity and schedule serenity. 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 2019: Your story must include, word for word, ALL of the following SIX descriptions (describing whatever you want):
This entry was longlisted, in the top 2% of almost 1400 entries. Cold and greasy sausage rolls are piled high on the shiny, silver tray. It seems symbolic somehow, but my grief-addled brain struggles to connect the dots. There’s a weird assortment of Jimmy’s favourite foods – nachos, cheese toasties, sliders. Most of the food remains untouched. No-one is hungry in this oppressive heat. The caterers really should go on a Maccas run to pick up sundaes for everyone. It would be the ultimate homage to Jimmy. In my mind’s eye, I see a young Jimmy: wild hair, toothless grin with a hint of vegemite extending the smile, ink-stained fingers struggling with long, muddy shoelaces. And that laugh. A laugh that could launch a thousand – no, that’s not right. I can’t think clearly about anything. Words have always helped me make sense of life, but now nothing makes sense. You’re born. You grow up. You grow old. You die. That’s what’s meant to happen. That’s life. And death. You’re not meant to outlive your child. Everything is wrong. This is meant to be my funeral. Parents are meant to die first. I can’t breathe. The sweet and pungent fragrance of too many well-intended bouquets is suffocating. I need air. Outside, it’s quieter, but so, so hot. I find a shady spot on the garden bench and look at the dry grass. A scratched and weather-worn trowel looks like it is trying to bury its way to cooler soil. Soil. Oh no. An image from earlier in the day flashes before me. I shake my head, trying to free my brain from the clutches of the memory. “Looks like we both had the same idea.” I turn around. It’s Asha. Beautiful, petite, olive Asha. Physically, the polar opposite of Jimmy, but emotionally, his soulmate. We share a sad smile, united in our love and grief. “Mumumumum.” Peeking behind Asha’s legs is Isla. A mop of brown curls, and twinkly brown eyes with long eyelashes. She crawls, breaking land speed records across the courtyard, but overshoots the pavers, and topples into the garden. There’s silence, a deep breath, and then a shrill, piercing scream. “I’ll get her,” I say to Asha, and I lift my weary body from the garden bench. “Gangan.” Isla sees me and lifts her arms. I scoop her up and brush the tears from her cheeks. “You’re OK,” I say, as much to myself as to her. Without warning, rain starts pelting down. I start to rush inside, but I catch a glimpse of Isla’s face. She is arching her back so her face feels the rain. She starts to giggle, and then laugh. That laugh. Jimmy’s laugh. Uninhibited joy. I put my head back too, tears mingling with the rain. Cooling, soothing, renewing rain. Asha walks over to us, and the three of us face the sky, our clothes dripping wet. That laugh. I feel a seed of joy has been planted and is being thoroughly watered. We can bloom again. |
Furious FictionGrateful to the Australian Writers Centre for sparking creativity each month with the Furious Fiction competition. Archives
August 2021
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