Furious Fiction stories

The Australian Writers’ Centre runs a monthly short story challenge called Furious Fiction. These are my entries to date …

Update Jan 2022 – Furious Fiction to run quarterly, rather than monthly.

Update Mar 2023 – Furious Fiction resumed running monthly.

Hire for Fit

‘Is this where I come for the audition?’ the white-haired man asked, peering from the doorway into the room. He looked baffled and flustered, panting after climbing the flight of stairs.

In the room, there were six people sitting in a row of chairs lined up, side by side, against a blank wall. All eyes turned towards him.

Only one lady (sitting at the end of the row) deigned to reply. ‘Sure! We saved you a seat.’ She smiled at him.

The young fellow in the smart button-up shirt snorted. ‘Surely you’re not trying out?’ He elbowed the lady with the yellow blouse seated to his left, and they shared an indiscreet giggle.

‘Why not?’ The new arrival shrugged one shoulder. He crossed the room, limping a little as if stiff, and took the only empty seat. It was unpadded and uncomfortable, befitting the stark, cold and uninviting room. The décor was sterile white on white.

‘FITT Denim’ was searching for a fresh new Aussie face for their next advertising campaign. The new jeans line had gone viral after the launch ‘Pitt in FITT’. Brad’s chiselled handsome face and tight butt had gained the attention of influencers, worldwide. FITT jeans were the ‘must have’ fashion item for this season.

The brief for today’s audition was to wear FITT jeans, and to display a ‘comfortable and relaxed vibe’. The seven candidates, wearing seven shades of blue denim, looked anything but comfortable and relaxed, perched on those identical industrial style chairs.

The bespectacled young man was chewing gum, making regular wet smacking noises. The older gent, seated to his right, shot him a look of annoyance, but it was unnoticed.

Fifteen minutes past the appointed time, the wait continued. Each person stared blankly ahead, mute.

The tall man seated in the middle of the row pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and made a call. He chatted for several minutes, arranging to meet a friend for lunch. He made no concession to lower his speaking volume and was oblivious to the uncomfortable squirming and sideways glances of others.

By the time they’d all been waiting for half an hour, the young lady to the right of the older man leapt to her feet. ‘This is ridiculous. I don’t have all day to just sit around and wait.’ She stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Not two minutes later, an efficient looking woman, bearing a clipboard, swept into the room. ‘Thank you for your time. That will be all for today. We have your details.’ She herded those from the chairs towards the door. The older gent, moving more slowly, was last to leave.

To clipboard woman, he said ‘Pigtails is the one. Maroon turtleneck.’

‘Yes Mr. Simpson,’ she replied. Brian Simpson, FITT CEO, prided himself on successful recruiting. Hire for fit (for FITT, wink wink), then shape as required. Old fashioned at heart, he favoured good manners, courtesy and respect.

(September 2024)

The Great Outback Sky

After 15 months of planning, the launch of the purple vessel was exactly as I wanted. The craft was sturdy, but more importantly it was sleek, streamlined and modern-looking. The décor was tasteful and personalised, right down to the textured finish, gold racing stripes and star spangles.

Not everyone agreed on the details. But it was my call.

My life had been very ordinary, punctuated by sparkling highs and shadowed lows. But mostly the muted shades of average. Like most people.

Then, on that particular day, a spear was thrust through the fabric of my ordinariness. Oh, how I yearned for that normality. The warp and weft of the mundane.

That day, I received my cancer diagnosis.

Shock. Doubt. Disbelief. Denial.

At first, it was secret. I wouldn’t tell anyone. If I didn’t talk about it, it wouldn’t be real.

My wife Meg wasn’t comfortable with that approach, being one to ‘talk out’ problems. But no amount of talking was going to fix this.

Tears (mostly Meg’s). Unfounded blame. Anger. Excuses.

It was hardest telling the kids. They wanted to move the earth to make this go away. I didn’t have the energy. I’d heard what the doctors said.

The sadness hit hard. On the same day, it had swept over both Meg and I like a tidal wave. We held each other, our tears mingling. After wallowing for a couple of days, we rallied. We spurred each other on to look ahead with hope and determination. Sporting false gaiety and apparent joie de vivre, we had travelled the land, portraying the image of the retired couple ‘living the dream’. We savoured the sun on our skin, the wind tousling our hair. We revelled in the glory of nature.

We lived. And we loved.

For a year and a half, I planned the next trip. I didn’t even share my thoughts with Meg until all the details had fallen into place.

Today was the day. I was travelling alone.

After the initial sizzle of ignition, the purple rocket-shaped vessel flew skyward. I soared into the silence of the great outback sky, overlooking the central western property of my childhood.

I flew up over the gum canopy, so high that the plain was visible over the range. The creek was flowing after recent rains. Familiar desert colours were so soothing. Cattle were clustered in the scant shade.

The vessel, with the image of my face emblazoned on the side, reached the peak of its trajectory, then drifted so gently. Weightless.

After three seconds of breathless anticipation, the fireworks commenced, lighting up the afternoon sky. The brief display was a fitting memorial. My ashes, which had been so carefully packed in my craft, were dispersed to the winds. I would float in the breeze and settle on my homeland.

I would rest in peace.

(August 2024)

Moans of a Bog Snorkeller

Today was my day!

I’d been training hard and had a good chance of victory at the World Bog Snorkelling Championship. Competitors and judges were assembled. Spectators surveyed the trench in the muddy peaty bog. My little sister Nicky handed me my flippers, giving me an encouraging smile and fist pump.

My buddies and I had been competing since university days. Nicky had come to barrack for me each year.

Simon draped his arm around Nicky’s shoulder. The sunlight glinted gold on his wedding ring. I thought little of Nicky’s choice of spouse. In fact, I passionately hated my brother-in-law. He was nothing but a lousy cheese roller.

Nicky and Simon travelled to Wales for the event. Slime-ball Simon was just hoping for the opportunity to hoot and jeer should I not be victorious. He had no attachment to this prestigious contest. His heart was with the Cheese Rolling event held each year near Gloucester. He’d participated several times. The two competitive events had been a source of rivalry and friction between the two of us, for some time.

As the bigger man, I could appreciate the guts needed to hurtle down the slippery hill, skidding and scarpering, rolling and flipping, chasing a bounding cheese wheel, madly trying to cross the finish line first. The lush green hillside hid devious divots to upset even the best-planned trajectory. Pretty stupid though. What was the point?

‘I just don’t get the challenge!’ Simon said, provocatively. ‘You just have to withstand foul bog water and keep on kicking.’

He didn’t appreciate the skill and fitness involved. This was a time-honoured tradition, drawing keen interest from around the globe.

Bristling, I snapped my mask in place. Many competitors were in fancy dress, but I was streamlined in my wetsuit. The starter had just called my number.

Fingers trembling, I struggled to adjust my flippers. My whole body was shaking with anticipation. No, it was the bone chilling cold. That buckle was particularly difficult to fasten.

I got an excellent start at the signal, the crowd’s cheers ringing in my ears. My style was smooth, my breathing steady.

Alas, just after the turn-around, on the return leg, I flipped a flipper. Equipment malfunction! Without the propulsion of two feet, not only was my speed reduced, but my direction control was … uncontrolled. While I was thrashing both legs wildly, I careered into the trench wall more than once, ricocheting to the finish line.

My exit from the muddy water was undignified. I hobbled like a lame duck. Strands of filthy slimy reeds draped across my face. I was exhausted.

As soon as I’d washed off, ditched the wetsuit and rugged up, Simon was in my ear. ‘Too bad, old man,’ he sniggered. ‘No place for you this year.’

Nicky passed me a mug of steaming restorative tea. She whispered in my ear. ‘Even a toddler can throw himself down a hill. You’re my hero.’ I felt the warmth spread in my belly.

(July 2024)

Buck’s little sister

Tony first noticed Buck’s little sister three years ago, when she was still at school.

She wore her skirt tucked up higher than the others, her uniform straining across her ample unrestrained breasts. Her laughter sounded louder than her friends’. She oozed a rebellious spirit, teenage angst and edge. She was also stunning.

He was intrigued. She was irresistible.

Eventually, she noticed him noticing her. Yesterday, when he walked past her on the street, she raised her head to watch him through tantalising tendrils of cigarette smoke. Her smouldering eyes pierced him, unblinking beneath heavy black lashes. There was a hint of a smile at the corners of her bold red lips. He felt a shudder of urgency.

Her brash confidence unnerved him, jangled his senses. Her mere defiant, flirty presence jarred him to act.

He bought a half bottle of whisky at the bottle shop, then immediately retraced his steps. She was still on the corner with her cluster of friends. Once again, she openly scrutinised his approach. As he drew near, he grinned and greeted her by name. Half a dozen words were out of his mouth, before she abruptly turned her back on him, engaging fully with her giggling companions. She had rebuffed him.

This morning, he lurks at the entry of the park. Very familiar with her daily routine, he knows he won’t have to wait long for her to walk past. He’s intent on having the conversation he’d planned yesterday.

Soon enough, she sashays by. He’s sure that she starts swaying her hips more provocatively when she catches sight of him.

He falls into step beside her. His heart thumps like an erratic drum in his chest.

He takes a deep breath and launches in. ‘I was wondering…  Would you like to come to the movies with me?’

She stops in her tracks and turns to him. In response, he halts and swings to face her. She rests her hand on his forearm and leans in close. Her gentle touch jolts him. He feels her breath against his cheek. Will she kiss him?

She whispers in his ear. ‘Piss off, you loser!’ Quiet, but aggressive.

With that, she stalks off, turning only to fling a loud retort. ‘I mean it!’

The rejection needles him. His shock soon whips into a restless fury.

He’d watched her for so long. He had chosen her. He waited until the time was right. He’d planned everything.

Well, the timeline has changed now. Tonight will be the night.

He plots, knowing that he’s well-prepared. His backpack holds the meticulously sharpened knife, blindfold, disposable gloves and rope. Also, a polaroid camera.

Tonight, she will rue laughing at him. She’ll regret teasing him shamelessly.

Tonight, she will appreciate his strength.

Tonight, she will be his. For a short time.

(June 2024)

A Blur

Tomorrow, will John even remember what’s happened? Unlikely. Anna hopes that a slight concussion will sufficiently blur (if not erase) the details of this fateful evening.

He’s still unconscious and the swelling on his temple now looks quite alarming.

Anna wasn’t expecting him home from work until about 7 o’clock. That’s his usual routine. It wasn’t her fault that John snuck up on her, before 6pm. She got a terrible fright when he flung open the bedroom door and started thundering expletives at her. She just grabbed whatever was at hand (a marble statue) to defend herself. What else could she do?

John moans pathetically, but his eyes are shut.

She feels regret, of course. How could she have clobbered such a handsome face? No time for tears now. But he won’t be feeling kindly towards his assailant when he wakes up, that’s for sure.

She pokes him gently with her toe, but he doesn’t respond. Phew!

The bride and groom, in the elegant gilt frame on the wall, look down on Anna. What a handsome couple! That’s old news though. You’d think he would have updated the photo after the divorce. Is there judgement in their eyes?

Post-haste, she swings open the wedding picture frame and enters the combination for the secret safe. After surveying the contents, she pulls out his passport, a bunch of keys and a bundle of papers tied with string, tossing them all on the floor in her hurry.

John sighs in a restless sort of way. But he still doesn’t move.

No time to dawdle.

She grabs the large jewellery box, and a glimpse inside reveals that the high-end necklaces, bracelets and rings are still nestled there on red satin. She slides the box into her backpack. She also stashes in the bag John’s fancy Rolex watch and a hefty pile of cash notes held by a wide elastic band. A satisfied smile lights up her face.

John groans again and his eyelids begin to flutter. He struggles to hoist himself up onto one elbow, muttering incoherently and reaching his hand to his damaged head.

She has no choice but to whack him again. The back of his head hits the floor with a dull, juicy thud. That makes Anna feel a bit sick. He really is a nice man.

She hoists the loaded pack onto her back and checks her appearance in the dressing table mirror. After patting her hair flat, she slinks to the front door, with only one backward glance. She cautiously peeks out into the hallway then silently closes the door behind her.

She pads down the hall and slips into her own apartment at the next doorway on the left. Undetected. Within the next couple of days, Anna will most likely see John in the lift, in the lobby, or collecting mail. She’ll be shocked by his battered appearance, horrified by his experience. She’ll coo her sympathies and stroke his arm. She’ll offer to cook him dinner.

(April 2024)

The Gathering

The silhouette of Uncle Hamish loomed, fire light sparking red off his hair. He was a fearsome spectacle.

I shoved Fergus off me, and hastily rearranged my skirts. Fergus yelped as a dirk pressed against his neck.

‘We ain’t done nothin’, Uncle,’ I stammered.

‘Aye? Is that so?’ His voice purred softly, but bubbled with menace.

He dragged Fergus by the shirt collar out of the cart and I scuttled after them. We perched close on a log as Uncle stood over us.

‘I vowed to your mother that I’d mind you, lass.’

Ready to birth her sixth bairn, Mam had stayed at home this year, and my father with her (ready to fetch the midwife). I had begged to go to the Gathering of the Clans and Da finally agreed that Uncle Hamish could take me.

Fergus and I had met at the Gathering, twelve months prior. He’d wooed me gently, and I’d been dreaming of him ever since. The excitement of the Gathering, and the prospect of re-kindling our flame, held me in a fever of nervous excitement during the two-day cart ride to get here.

Uncle Hamish paced wordlessly, his kilt swinging.

Enveloped in our silent tense storm cloud, we were surrounded by a joyous world bustling with laughter, song and tuning bagpipes. Cups clinked, conversation rose and fell, horses nickered gently. The delicious aroma of roasting meat filled my nostrils. The feast would soon begin.

Fergus and I had managed to meet secretly. We were only having a little cuddle.

‘But Sir…’ Fergus stumbled. Hamish struck him with a flinty glare, silently daring him to make a feeble excuse. Fergus thrust his chin high, defiantly declaring ‘I love Fiona.’

My heart thumped and I couldn’t take a breath. He loved me!

Uncle Hamish released a scornful ‘hmmphh’, then resumed pacing.

Finally, he wheeled to face us. ‘There’s no other way,’ he said firmly, pointing his dirk at Fergus. ‘By sunset tomorrow, you’ll be handfasted.’ His lips settled in a grim determined line. ‘I’ll arrange a priest.’

‘Mam’ll flay me!’ I wailed. I was truly frightened of my small feisty mother. ‘And Da will likely shoot you,’ I met Fergus’s terrified eyes.

‘I’m more worried for my own safety, lass.’ Uncle Hamish smirked at me. He was Laird of the Campbell clan, but he still had a very healthy respect for the temper of his younger sister. ‘Your mother’s fierce!’

That didn’t help settle my nerves overmuch.

Later that evening, sated and mellowed with drink, Hamish relayed the story to his wife. ‘Ellen will rage, no doubt.’ They chuckled together at the irony. ‘She’ll settle, though.’

Little did Fiona know that her parents had been handfasted at the Gathering, twenty years past. The circumstances were remarkably similar.

Hamish watched from the darkness, as the young couple sat together on a log, fireside. The red blazed in the Munro tartan that Fergus had spread around the shoulders of his love.

(March 2024)

Sliding Doors

My eyebrows flew skyward, and I could feel my eyes pop. He smirked a little at my unguarded reaction.

I hadn’t expected that he’d be the one to walk out.

‘That’s it, babe. I’ve had enough. Four years, two squawking babies, one huge mortgage. Suburban family life … it’s just not for me.’

Amy did squawk then, right on cue. Distracted, I’d let the bottle sag from her searching mouth. I juggled it back into place, as Marcus wriggled underneath my elbow and vied for space on my lap. He roughly patted my face while driving his little car into the wild tangle of my hair. He yanked to free his toy, bringing tears to my eyes.

They were certainly not tears shed for the lying creep who was abandoning me. Although he probably thought they were.

‘I’ve taken a transfer to Victoria. I’m moving out. We’ll sell the house. You can move in with your parents.’

He had it all figured out. Probably he was running off with the blonde from work.

‘See ya’ mate.’ He ruffled his son’s soft curls. Marcus batted his hand away irritably and wound his chubby little arms around my neck, pressing his cheek against mine.

Without another word, he casually lit a cigarette, grabbed his car keys, and headed to the front door. For good measure, he kicked over a little tower of wooden building blocks, on the way.

Marcus’s soft whinging and Amy’s gentle suckling sounds filled my ears. Familiar. Lovely. Smothering. Overwhelming.

I swung Amy into place and patted her tiny back. Marcus clamoured for my attention, so I wrapped one arm around him and cuddled him close, while I continued to bounce his little sister. I started singing one of his songs, and he added his cute random toddler syllables to my soothing tones.

Snuggling with my babies, I felt the shadow lift from me. I could hear a little whisper of hope.

One day at a time. We could do it.

Amy’s contented burp was the release.

I eased out from underneath my drowsy son, then leapt to my feet. Placing Amy on her play mat, I threw my handbag on the table, and scrabbled frantically through the contents. Among the wet wipes, crayons and spare dummy, my hand found the shape of my purse.

Holding my breath, I slid the slip of paper onto the table. The Lotto ticket was a gift from Mum, and it was a winner.

I had not yet shared the news with He Who Walked Away. My lips curved into a smile.

Sliding Doors.

(February 2024 – longlisted)

Vinnie’s Job

A cold trickle of dread seeps down my spine. The anticipation steals my breath and makes my hands tremble.

It’s my first challenge. But I’m under no illusion. It’s an initiation.

The things we do for love!

Carmella is my girl, and she adores her big brother Vinnie. For me, Vinnie is a smack-talking, ego-tripping brute of a crook. But when Carmella asks me to work a job with Vinnie, against my better judgement I agree.

Vinnie looks me dead in the eyes as he gives me the instructions. My gaze nervously strays to the inverted triangle tattoo beneath his left eye. He has told me that it symbolises danger. He is well-inked, and there are stories behind each image: to demonstrate dominance, create fear or boast of an alliance.

I refocus and nod solemnly. ‘Got it, Vinnie.’

When he hands me a collapsible baton, I act tough and accept the concealable weapon with confidence I don’t feel.

From Vinnie’s smirk, I know I’m not fooling him for a second. He raises an eyebrow towards his crew and takes pleasure in the sniggers that follow.

I could give him an upper cut. I could try out the baton. I could walk away.

I can do none of these things.

Working alone, my senses are heightened as I approach the target. I lurk in the shadows and scope the situation for a bit. Psych up.

The street is gloomy, with only a couple of windows lit behind blinds or curtains. A few abandoned retail shops have broken windows that have been taped up. The street is a dead end, with no traffic. The muted sound of television is all I hear. The smell from nearby garbage bins is almost enough to make me gag. Gentle rain drops begin to fall.

It’s now or never. I take a big breath.

Moving quickly, I flick my weapon to extend it, and smash the side window of the old Ford. Flattened against the car, I pause, scanning side to side. No head pops out of a window. Did the volume of the tv drop? All is still. So far, so good.

I crouch low in the driver’s seat, holding the torch between my teeth, and pull the screwdriver from my pocket to remove the plastic cover on the steering column. I work the wires and quickly manage to start the vehicle.

No movement in the street.

Cautiously, I do a U-turn and start heading towards the rendezvous. Mission accomplished. I allow myself a sigh of relief.

Suddenly, at the crossroads ahead of me, red and blue flashing lights flare, dazzling me. A clipped ‘woop woop’ sounds. My heart thumps in alarm.

The trickle of dread becomes a tsunami.

(January 2024)

Breathless

The breath was all but knocked out of him.

His flight-weary eyes, scanning the late-night crowd, failed to detect the body hurtling towards him. Unprepared for the impact, he reeled backwards, stumbling, but luckily managed to avoid falling flat on his butt. The person following close behind him through the door into the airport terminal sandwiched him from behind. A baritone ‘oof’ was followed by a loud swear word. Likely a chain reaction ensued, but his attention was focussed ahead of him.

A pair of arms clenched firmly around his neck, and the full weight of a small person hung from his shoulders. He could feel a soft cheek pressed against his own. By reflex he wrapped one arm to enclose the slender torso, while maintaining a steady grip of his carry-on luggage with his other hand. His balance felt precarious, and he dared not release the counterweight.

‘Help me!’ she whispered urgently in his ear. He blinked twice, while the words sank in.

When he regained his equilibrium, he carefully lowered his bag to the ground. Hooking one hand under each armpit of his clutching companion, he stretched his arms forward to bring the issue into focus. The waft of her familiar eggy breath was at odds with the multiple facial piercings and inked skin. She looked no older than eighteen. His eyes moved from her eyebrow ring, to the marihuana leaf earring, to the stark tattoo of a tusked elephant on her upper arm.

‘Please!’ Her voice was soft but rang with desperation. Her startling blue eyes were tear-filled.

Loudly she proclaimed ‘I’ve missed you so much, John’, as she launched herself against him again, nearly choking him in her vigorous embrace.

His name was Paul.

She kissed his cheek, then entwined her fingers in his. ‘Let’s go collect your luggage.’

Paul had travelled light and had no luggage to collect. He was visiting the city for his mother’s birthday and his brother Rodney was picking him up.

Intrigued, he allowed her to tow him towards the baggage collection area.

As they stood on the travelator, she snuggled close to him. As she nuzzled him, she softly spoke. ‘I’m being followed. I’m in danger. I need to board the plane at Terminal 20. Right now.’ Her accent sounded middle European.

Paul, drawn into the drama, casually scanned the moving mass of people, but saw nobody who looked threatening.

As they stepped off the travelator, she drew him to the side of the walkway, where a raucous group of travellers had gathered. Chatter was loud, and a baby was crying. Terminal 20 was close by.

She pulled his hand down so that she could reach to kiss him on the lips. It was as gentle as a butterfly.

‘Thank you, John.’

Then, the crowd swallowed her.

He touched his lips, disbelieving.

‘My name is Paul’, he whispered.

Where the hell was Rodney?

(December 2023 – not submitted, as missed deadline)

The Long Twilight

The First World ended when our planet became aligned with Melcopia.  The Great Shadow crept over us, obscuring light and life.  The lands transformed until they bore no resemblance to our bountiful peaceful home.  Fierce creatures rose from the seas before the waters receded.  Clouds spewed toxic drops that froze into solid spears while falling.  Foul gases bubbled and burped from the parched earth.  Arid winds whistled through toppling forest skeletons.  All but a handful of beings were destroyed.  Destruction was swift and almost complete.

After the space of one hundred days of desecration and decay, the foreign forces dissipated.  The air cleared.  The sun shone.  The rivers flowed.  The Dark Time was over.

The survivors rallied and built the New World.

This terrifying myth was told by the Ancients.  When the moon was full, by firelight, we all gave thanks for the Healing.

Now, the unthinkable was happening.  Almost five eras later, the long twilight has descended, announcing what was to come.  Again.

___

Grady screwed off the creaking rusty kitchen tap.  He’d caught the last oily drops in a saucer.  The sickly smell of burnt honey tormented his nostrils.  The stench of death.  The squeal of critters baking in the sand outside was soft but constant.  The sounds of agony.

Through the grubby pane of the rustic hut, he watched the swirling winds throw forest debris skyward, in vicious twisters.  The colour had leached from the landscape as the light continued to fade.  The vision mesmerised him for a moment.  The sudden clatter of a branch knocking against the window set his heart thumping.  He nearly spilt the precious water. 

He settled on the floor and leaned his back against the door.  His left hand rested on the head of his wolfhound Marcus.  After taking two sips himself, he placed the saucer under Marcus’s snout. The dog sniffed mildly but did not drink.  He didn’t even lift his head from his paws.

Grady tipped his head back with a sigh and rested his right hand on the hilt of his hunting knife.  His eyes stung with despair.  Sweat channelled down his neck to his sodden T-shirt.  A metallic taste filled his mouth.

Nothing to do but batten down, stay vigilant and wait.  Desperately hope.

It must be at least a week since he’d seen another being.  They had spent some time together, but then the woman had been swallowed by shifting earth following a particularly strong tremor.  She didn’t even have time to scream.  Now, he was alone again.

The forlorn howling began in the distant hills, as the sinister cloak of full darkness dropped over the world.  Marcus whimpered.  Icy fingers clawed at Grady’s throat.

(November 2023)

Pursued

Through the grimy lens of the spyglass the captain could see the tattered jolly roger flag atop the pursuing vessel. The pirate’s sloop had been closing in on them for almost two days. His crew were nervous, flogging the merchant ship mercilessly, in a bid to outrun the sinister threat. With the hull stacked full of cargo, their ship was sitting low and heavy in the sea. Escape seemed impossible.

Ahead, black clouds swirled, crackling with electricity. The first angry raindrops were piercing. The swell beneath them lurched and shuddered.

The ship must be saved at all costs. It had cost him the princely sum of 10,000 guilders and was barely halfway through its maiden voyage. The venture had been a gamble, but he was not accustomed to losing. His remaining coins wouldn’t cover one tenth of the wages for the crew. He relied on finding a good price for his goods, once they reached port. Not even one barrel of wine could be jettisoned, sacrificed to the enraged sea.

Without a doubt, the only option was to stay the course. Hold the line to sail straight into the heart of the tempest.

Although it was only mid-afternoon, the sunlight was suddenly extinguished by a smothering darkness. The scent on the air warned of danger. Blinding shards of rain attacked them, as they struggled to secure loose items. The larger sails had been reefed in at the last opportunity, but wind still whipped the canvas cruelly. The deck plunged and soared by turns, slick with icy torrents. The creaks and groans of the masts screamed louder than the roar of the thundering gale and crash of waves.

Huddling, clutching, sheltering, bailing. Each tethered man bowed to the fury of nature, whispering desperate prayers for survival.

The wrath blasted more strongly, and the turmoil lasted far longer than the captain had expected.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the unrest petered out with barely a whimper. The first sigh of dawn saw a ray of light penetrate the softening clouds. The gentle colours of a rainbow arc were the only reminder of the hideous agony of the dark hours. The brilliance of a bright new day was revealed.

All crew members were accounted for, although one bore a gash on his head, and another wore a makeshift sling on his arm. A giddy sense of relief showed on each exhausted face.

The splintered main mast laid across the deck. Miraculously, caught in tangled ropes, it was still on board so could be mended. Torn canvas would also be sewn strong.

The captain’s eyes furiously searched the ocean, squinting against the fresh glare. No sign of the sloop on the peaceful seas.

He retrieved the ‘bring ‘em near’ and octant from his quarters below. Blown off course, there was a new route to plot.

Spyglass to his eye, he scanned the horizon and the endless blue surrounding the ship. He finally released the tense breath he’d been holding.

(October 2023 – longlisted)

Fast

‘Fast! Send it!’

My vocal encouragements were as important as the skills of the driver, in conquering the dunes of the desert. Boosted, we sailed over the peak (the biggest one yet), paused just long enough to survey the track route before coasting downhill into the swale. The jolt of victory sizzled between us. It was the two of us against the world!

We were adventuring solo, one day into a three-day desert crossing west to east. Our travel buddy vehicle started haemorrhaging oil the previous day, so we boldly decided to forge ahead on our own. Our four-wheel drive was trusty; my husband both a competent driver and an excellent ‘fixer’ of all things automobile related. He was confident, and I trusted him. Plus, we had a ‘just in case’ sat phone.

The track held hidden surprises. From jagged tyre-threatening rocks, to camouflaged caverns, to sliding sands. The corrugations had been bone-rattling, swinging our sand flag violently and severing the radio antennae from its mount. Nothing a bit of duct tape couldn’t fix.

Cresting each dune revealed a new world ahead. Different colours, different plants, whispering different truths. The late afternoon light struck a bright red flare to the arid sands. The dunes rolled ahead of us for ever. Surging, rippling, lapping.

Under the inky night sky, a million stars sparkled, and the odd comet flashed towards the horizon. The crackle and flame of the campfire enveloped us in a smug fug of pleasurable relaxation. As fingers of coolness penetrated, we sought the refuge of our swags, sated.

The mauve light of dawn brought the anticipation of a bright new day. Until we saw the rear tyre. Flatter than a pancake. The culprit stake had caused a slow but thorough leak. More than duct tape was required, this time. A well-equipped toolbox, skill and ingenuity did the trick. Finally, overcoming the morning challenge buoyed our saggy mood.

Over one crest, we were greeted with the splendid spectacle of salt flats, glistening in the harsh sunlight. We knew of the secret treachery despite the innocent appearance. We crept forwards, skirting the edge, respecting the reputation of danger to the unwary. We slipped and skidded but made slow progress. Suddenly, I was thrown sideways. The vehicle lurched as the driver’s side was sucked into an apparent void. We were precariously perched at a crazy angle.

Unable to open the driver’s door, Mike exited the vehicle via the window, immediately sinking knee deep in sticky sludge.

‘Shit!’

He sagged against the car, head hanging. My heart plummeted as I sensed his defeat.

‘I need chocolate,’ he said. ‘And the phone.’

We were stuck. Fast.

(September 2023)

Defused

The tutu-clad toddler popped the Licorice Allsorts lolly in her mouth and peeked from beneath the draping linen. She was in her favourite secret place in the family restaurant, underneath the big table that smelled of polish. It was the quiet time, before the meal-time rush of customers.

Clomping boots approached and chairs slid on the tiled floor. Her hiding spot was being invaded, but she was still concealed.  

She heard her grandfather from the head of the table. The reassuring waves of other deep male voices washed over her. Glasses clinked. The waitress deposited plates of pasta on the table.

She sucked the sweet to make it last.

Abruptly, the mood changed. An abrasive tone suddenly rose above the others. Rage erupted; accusations were hurled.

A wild thump of a fist on the table preceded the cascade of falling glassware, forearm-swept in fury. A shard of broken glass drew blood on her cheek.

Several men jumped to their feet. The gentle light cast a hideous silhouette on the tablecloth walls of her retreat.

Barely daring to breathe, the shaking child squirmed through the labyrinth of trousered towers, scampered up onto Nonni’s lap and buried her face into his chest.

His protective arms enveloped her, as he whispered soothing murmurs into her ear. He placed his gun on the table and slid a napkin to cover it.

The euphoria of nestling within his shelter released a torrent of sobs.

The tall, yelling man stomped off, slamming the door. The others resumed their seats after discreetly stowing their weapons. Glasses were refilled. Voices were gentle again.

Nonni stroked her fair curls gently until she calmed, sucking her thumb. Her blood, tears and sweet saliva stained his shirt.

(August 2023)

Breaking Point

I can barely see Lucy’s sparkly blue eyes above the puffy pink cloud of fairy floss on a stick. But I can tell she’s grinning madly. She reaches her tiny, sticky fingers to take my hand.

‘This is the best!’ She squeezes my hand briefly, then realises she needs two hands to manage her treat.

Mum’s told us to stay put. She’s lined up in a queue for something, and Dad’s gone to buy drinks. There are lots of people around, and they’re bumping and knocking us as they pass. I can see Mum talking with Mr. Wilson, the butcher. Their heads are close. Mum throws her head back to laugh.

Mum never laughs.

I herd Lucy towards a big post, out of the rough stream of people. I give her a big brotherly shoulder hug, balancing the giant teddy bear on my other hip. Dad won it by swinging the huge hammer down and shooting the ball up to an impossible height to ring the bell. He’s really strong. He picked the biggest prize, and Lucy was thrilled. She cuddled it for a few minutes, but then got tired of holding it, so I get to mind it for her. It’s too big for her to carry.

The lights are dazzling and exciting. Show workers yell out and bells ding. Merry music shouts from every direction. I can smell hot chips.

I feel the coins in my pocket. I’ll take Lucy on the Bumper Cars, but I get to drive. She’s too little, anyway. She wants to go on the merry-go-round. That’s tame, but I’ll go on with her.

I find Mum in the crowd again. Still in the queue and still next to Mr. Wilson. He has his big hairy arm around her waist. My tummy does a tumble. That doesn’t seem quite right. I shuffle Lucy to face the other way.

Dad arrives, juggling four plastic cups. He hands one to me, but Lucy has her hands full, with her face still buried in the pink fluff.

‘Where’s your mother?’ His eyes scan the crowd.

‘Dad, can I go on the dodgems? Dad?’ I frantically tug on his shirt, but he’s seen Mum. We both see Mr. Wilson kiss Mum full on the lips.

My tummy’s feeling really sick now. And not from the fairy floss.

Dad’s face is really mad. I’m a bit scared about what he’ll do. He’s never been rough with us, but I’ve never seen him look like this.

He dumps the full cups in the nearby bin and squats down to look me in the eye. ‘I’m outta here, Champ. You’re the man of the house now.’ Then he turns and is swallowed by the crowd as he strides away.

Lucy doesn’t even notice.

Spotting my cup, she demands ‘Where’s my drink?’ I swap my cup for her nearly finished fairy floss. I chuck her stick on the ground and crunch it with my heel, snapping it in half.

(July 2023)

Pocketed Cash

He was a capable and considerate lover, moving gently above her, murmuring tender words in her ear. She was a little distracted but responded with the required ecstatic moans and sensual pelvic movements. Got to keep the client happy.

He released his breath with a satisfied groan and lowered himself. His belly was slick against hers, his hair damp against her cheek. She twirled her fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck. He was sure heavy.

Pushing against his chest, she tried the sexy ‘flip’ manoeuvre, but he didn’t budge.

‘Hey, John…’ She poked him playfully, but strongly, in the ribs.

No reaction at all. The pressure on her chest was crushing. She couldn’t take a breath.

Panic bubbled in her throat. She thrust upwards with her forearms, but the bulk of his body was suffocating her.

She frantically probed his neck, finding no pulse.

Adrenalin surged. Using her legs, she managed to lever him upwards enough to yank herself sideways. Her arm almost wrenched from it’s socket, but at least she was free from beneath the dead weight.

He was sprawled untidily on the bed, but all she could think of was making her escape. Hurriedly she dressed, stopping only to pocket the cash on the bedside table, before peeking out the door of the hotel room.

A faint whiff of guilt chased her as she rocketed down the hallway to the lift. What more could she do? Besides, room service would sort things out.

She managed to stroll nonchalantly across the lobby, head tilted towards the floor, avoiding eye contact with the person at the reception desk. She slunk out into the chilly darkness, her heart thumping in her chest. She felt like a murderer fleeing the scene of the crime! As soon as she was out of sight of the hotel, she broke into a frantic jog, desperate for the refuge of her cosy apartment on the next block.

She slammed her front door shut and collapsed back against it, shaking and panting heavily. Her head was spinning, and tears were brimming.

The secrecy of their liaison had been exciting for John. He maintained the deceit effectively over a period of years, mastering with a combination of good planning, discretion, deliberate anticipation and a few white lies.

His glossy public image as a wealthy, successful entrepreneur and family man would soon become tarnished and chipped. The circumstances of his death would raise serious questions.

She needed to distance herself from this unfortunate situation.

Hanging her head, the tears finally fell. She clutched at her throat, reaching for the solid silver locket engraved with her name. She automatically sought this reassurance in times of stress. Gifted by her mother, the touch often brought a sense of calm and grounding. Mum’s influence, from the next life.

Her neck was unadorned. She knew where it must be. She could never go back there.

(June 2023 – longlisted)

On Point

Wielding chopsticks, I pretended expertise. I was about as convincing as a politician’s empty promises. My earnest endeavours created much clumsy flicking and spattering of food, but I was reluctant to expose my social inexperience, so I persevered bravely. His dexterity with the utensils matched the flawlessness of his appearance and manner. He was the most handsome man who had ever taken me on a date. I perhaps was little bit in love!

I chased the last errant boiled grains around the china bowl, finally resorting to using the spoon. Sensing his gaze resting on me, I managed a nervous little smile. He dabbed his napkin to his perfect mouth, then reached out to me across the table. My heart pounded and I held my breath, releasing my wine glass to meet his hand with mine. How romantic! The anticipation of the touch sizzled.

But his fingers raised to my hair. Oh no! He would feel the crispness of my highly lacquered locks. The on point casual wind-swept fringe was actually fixed in place, as unyielding as the coif of a marble statue. He plucked an unidentifiable blob and discretely placed it on his plate, then covered it with the napkin. His awkward smile may have been pitying.

It was time to retreat with the remnants of my dignity.

We had a token wrestle over payment of the bill. I conceded. I had lost my vigour, like a balloon released of air. The pressure of maintaining social decorum had deflated me.

He held the door for me as we left the restaurant. It was pelting. Oh, no! The hair! Hopefully, the raindrops wouldn’t permeate the holding barrier in the short dash to the car.

From the bitumen, he stretched his hand back to assist me over the torrent running in the gutter. How gallant! I launched myself delicately forward, to jump gazelle-like over the bubbling stream. I landed with a thump and a skid, as graceful as an elephant en pointe. Even better, I managed to land within the flow, to not only drench my expensive shoes, but also splash his impeccably creased trousers.

So much was at stake. As usual, I’d blown it with the first impressions.

Easy listening music buffered the awkward silence on the car ride home. Lapsing into damage control mode, I quietly focussed on rainy reflections outside.

Sheltering me with his umbrella, he escorted me to my front door. Catching me by surprise, he moved in for a kiss. Thankfully, I realised in time to respond. However, my aim was a little off. My glasses clipped his nose, then dropped to the ground. We both bent to retrieve them, and violently clashed heads.

Humiliation complete, I scrabbled through my bag, searching for door keys. He wrapped his arm around me and laughed heartily. ‘You’re just charming. A bit clumsy, a bit gawky. But you’re genuine and you’re funny. Can we do this again tomorrow night?’

(May 2023)

Mask of Wellbeing

Sam’s eyes brimmed with love, as he drew the point of the blade firmly beneath my jawline. His face blanched, but his hand (the hand of a skilled surgeon) was steady.

It did sting a bit, but I just stared intently into his eyes. Unblinking. Sure.

He’d been adamantly against the idea initially, but I was so persistent that he eventually bent to my wishes. As he’d done for the last forty years.

‘Thank you, darling. It’s okay.’ I reassured him.

The vague symptoms had drawn speculation about lactose intolerance, stomach ulcer, fluid retention, inflammation. Each benign, flimsy label was as misdirected and misguided as the next. We’d fanned the flickers of hope, we’d talked positively, but we both knew it was pretence.

When, finally, all doubt was removed, I couldn’t … we wouldn’t … accept the harsh prognosis.

The black sentence remained our bitter secret. Even the children had no inkling. We’d always protected them (to the best of our ability) from the stark brutalities of life. Why thrust this cruelty upon them now? They were both young, happy and healthy. Good jobs, strong relationships. As we’d always hoped for them, they were living their best life (even if they both lived interstate).

The vision of a pathetic, scrawny frame riddled with disease would haunt them forever. We couldn’t inflict that on them.

My heart was beating fast in my chest. Sam had told me to expect that. ‘It’s okay. It’s the body’s natural reaction. Don’t fret.’

We’d all enjoyed Christmas together. The pain wasn’t so bad (blurred by the prescribed medications), and the mask of wellbeing stayed in place all day. It was a fabulous day, filled with laughter and shared stories. My heart was full.

Since then, things had slid downhill at an alarming rate.

I felt cold. Once again, Sam had warned me about this. ‘Don’t worry. You’ll just be gently sliding out …’ he’d said.

I squeezed his warm hand.

My man. There until the end.

He kissed my cooling lips, then climbed up onto the bed and snuggled behind me. I felt a goose walk over my grave.

‘My one … my only,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘Together forever.’

I was calm. Sam was with me. What more could I wish for?

My husband was sick. So sick.

There was no treatment for him. It was too late.

He wanted the end to be on his own terms. I couldn’t argue with that. He’d been a man in control all his life. Why should the end be different?

But there was no way that I’d want to continue without him.

My love. My rock.

As he held me tight, I felt woozy … dizzy. Vague and lightheaded.

‘Good night my sweetheart,’ he said.

I knew what was to follow. I felt the violence of the single action. He would have scored the same line with his blade, across his own neck.

Our breaths were in sync until the end.

(April 2023)

Tapestry Tones

Gloria sips sweet sherry from the crystal glass. She savours the vision of gentle afternoon rays piercing the gloom of the musty lounge room. This place may be stale and lifeless, but it’s hers. It had been theirs.

Matthew and Luke want to sell their childhood home. Catherine is more concerned about her mother’s welfare.

Matt’s been working on her for a while. The oldest of her three children, he has the business savvy and he’s quite persuasive. ‘We’re only getting an estimate,’ he reassures her. ‘It might be time, Mum.’ His tone is quite definite.

Gloria doesn’t like to make waves. She doesn’t want to trouble anyone. She allows herself to be coerced. Both sons will be here at nine o’clock in the morning, with the real estate agent.

She should tidy the place up, sweep the floor, open the windows to freshen the stagnant air. She can’t be bothered. The helplessness is overwhelming. Her sense of control is being sucked from her withered body.

Gloria draws the framed photo from the basket of her walker. Tears blur the vision of the bridal couple. Colourless, unsmiling, but happy. She caresses Sam’s handsome face, aching.

Her gaze rests on her tapestry chair, ancient colours softened behind swirling dust motes. It was once beautiful and enviable, but no longer. In truth, it’s impractical and uncomfortable. No bottom has graced the seat of the family heirloom in decades.

Despite being superfluous and dispensable, the familiar chair reminds her of good times. Breast feeding a drowsy babe at midnight. Reading a story book aloud, with entranced children at her feet. Sipping a cup of tea at dawn, while the rest of the family sleeps. A warm sensation of kinship blooms in her heart.

Drowsy, she shuts her eyes and flips through the pages of the photo album in her mind. Happy reminiscences captured for later appreciation. First date, wedding, honeymoon, new-born babies, school photos. She recalls the joy of mothering those rascals. All too soon, there are graduation pictures, followed by weddings and grand-babies. The images are infrequent now.

Her children visit every few weeks, but grandchildren are no more than cheerful, embellished reports from their parents.

A dark tunnel looms ahead with a soft glow at the end. The silhouette of Sam is unmistakable. He beckons, seducing her. Her heart thumps in anticipation, yearning to reunite.

The light suddenly brightens until she’s dazzled. She can no longer see Sam. The allurement evaporates. Her shoulders slump, her head sags, and she releases a sigh.

The time isn’t right. Gloria lifts her chin, straightens her back, and clicks her tongue. Doubt is whisked away. She snaps the plastic caps back onto the four pill bottles that she’d lined up on the coffee table, then scoops them into the basket of her walker. She opens the glossy brochure from the nursing home. It won’t be so bad.

With a steady hand, she pours another glass of sherry.

(Mar 2023)

Big Jimmy Sings

For decades, police hunted him, following crumbs of clues discarded with intent. So many times, the team breeched at the target location, confident that this time, surely, justice would prevail. They were met with stale air and swirling dust motes.

Special Agent Sophie Morgan had been assigned to profile him. Following an unremarkable early life, his life path unexpectedly arrived at a precipice. He rejected the familiar security of social compliance, responsibility and moral fortitude. With confidence, he leapt into the bottomless abyss that was thick with sinister shadows and a murky stench.

Apparently, he made that choice without regret. Unfettered by guilt, he transformed with relish from a novice bad guy into an underworld figure of growing repute. Operating his business ventures, he was fearless. Never once did he fail to follow through with consequences, no matter how distasteful. Each year, the insidious reach of his criminal tentacles stretched. The cloaking aura of fear thickened.

However, bystander witnesses smiled when they told of pleasant interactions. He was charismatic and entertaining. He spoke freely of interesting topics, telling stories of adventure and rich life experiences. Revealing his sense of humour, his optimism and confidence were evident. He was an appealing character, with a taste for luxury that few could afford. His bland features and meek demeanour belied the cruelty and extreme avarice in his soul.

Today is the day. Big Jimmy, from the Gunners, finally cracks under pressure. He sings like a bird. His voice, choked and shaky at first, strengthens as the promises of immunity reverberate in his ears. He spills details of the buyer, the location and the meet time. The sale of the acquired gems will mark the culmination of a complicated and intricate plot.

Morgan, her partner and the team set up to strike. Vests on, guns drawn, eyes focus ahead over the barrels. At the signal, the door is knocked in, feet trample gently, postures crouched. Anticipation thrums.

The scent of his recent exit teases their nostrils. The silent whisper of his taunts echoes again.

(Dec 2022)