The Bone Doctor’s Next Great Adventure

500 Words | Under 5 Mins | January 2024

Kelly had walked through the sliding glass doors of Petersburg Health Campus a thousand times before. Becoming an orthopaedic surgeon was already an epic achievement and she’d earned the respect of her colleagues. Precise skill and compassionate bedside care had always been the pillars of her practice. The realignment of interior human scaffolding was a thrill. Bones contorted in every odd angle and broken on impact never made her flinch. Monday morning marked the beginning of an altogether new path.

She made her way, under bright fluorescent lights and over colourful floor markings that usually guided patients. Kelly appreciated when plans worked out and the trip to the hospital took sixteen minutes, just as anticipated. Her mother Helen’s voice rang in her ear as the elevator lurched to a stop, months after she’d announced her decision to alter course. Helen was sceptical of change. Forty-three miserable years, married to a man who chose slot machines and whisky over the family proved to Kelly that her mother actively avoided it. Her own husband was different to her father. Progressive. Supportive. More suited to course.

Are you sure? Helen had asked twice. Kelly’s mother had strong opinions about professional women in the world for a stay-at-home housewife.

The unfamiliar ward had a reputation as the best in the state. Kelly’s palms dripped with sweat and her stomach turned from anticipation, and perhaps a little indigestion.  She gave the same bright smile she always did when she arrived at a nursing station. She only had one chance to make a first impression. Another of Helen’s relentless reminders. A little kindness goes a long way she’d always said.  

‘I’m Kelly, I spoke to someone on the way over.’ She clenched her teeth to hide a surging wave of discomfort. The woman’s nametag read Connie and she jumped to attention behind the desk, a soldier called to action.

‘Let’s get this show on the road then, shall we?’ Kelly wasn’t sure if it was a question or an instruction. She was used to taking charge, handling things. But she was clearly in Connie’s territory. She took three long breaths, white knuckled against the laminate desk. ‘You’re doing great,’ Connie assured her. The beginning of the bone doctor’s next great adventure.

After nine tedious hours, three false starts, two failures to engage and an incomplete dilation, Kelly’s emergency caesarean was a disappointing turn of events, even for a surgeon.

‘It’s not the birth we planned,’ she said to her husband through a tsunami of tears. ‘I feel robbed.’ As the feeling in her toes returned, her stitched together core throbbed and every emotion spilled from her eyes.

Helen brought cold cabbage leaves instead of flowers when she came to meet her granddaughter, affirming her usual stubborn practicality. Kelly stared in awe at a grandmother’s effortless swaddle. Tears welled in the corners of her eyes for the twelfth time in an hour. She savoured the sight and cold, buttery toast from a plastic tray. Out of her depth and dumbfounded by her new baby girl, life became a triangle affair. Three points infinitely connected and two stolen hearts.

Motherhood in all it’s, beautiful, aching, glory.

PROMPT NOTES: This story was originally written in 55 hours with prompts from the Australian Writer’s Centre Furious Fiction Challenge, January 2024. In 500 words or less:

1. Your story must take place on a character’s FIRST DAY OF A NEW JOB.
2. Your story must include something being stolen.
3. Your story must include the words TRIP, TRIANGLE and TSUNAMI.

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The Sacred Act of Frying Bread

500 Words | Under 5 Mins | February 2024

Furious Fiction February Challenge

1. Your story’s first sentence must include something being POPPED.
2. Your story must include a character who references a FILM title.
3. Your story must include the words LEAP, BOTTLE and SHADOW.

Dorothy dropped a pebble of test dough from her index finger and sent bubbles of inferno oil popping and spitting from the cast iron pan. Her granddaughter leapt away from the stove, more concerned about a stained t-shirt than searing the very skin she was born in. Despite Dot’s hesitations, the recipe needed to be passed along.

‘Hot enough, but it doesn’t smell right, Kris’ Dot said, and scrunched her nose so intensely that the paper-thin skin between her eyes looked ready to tear.

‘Coconut oil has major health benefits. Medium chain triglycerides increase the number of calories your body burns. And it tastes the same.’

‘It’s fried bread.’ Dot raised an eyebrow at her granddaughter, patient but unconvinced. Deep smile lines that framed her left eye momentarily disappeared like creases under an iron.

‘Small changes have huge impacts,’ Kristen said, and flicked her thumb frantically over the bright screen of her iPhone. ‘There’s a subreddit that calls fry bread poverty food that reinforces colonial authority. It’s not even traditional.’ She’d asked for the recipe more than once, begged almost. Dot resisted the urge to remind her and pressed two aching arthritic hands into the warm dough.

‘Is that so.’ She smiled to herself. ‘It’s too dry. Add some more water,’ Dot said.

Kristen held a yellowed, handwritten card to her face. ‘The recipe doesn’t say how much to add.’ The sacred act of frying bread called for intuition over instruction.

‘Add it until your ancestors tell you to stop.’ Her shoulders shook from silent laughter as she wiped her hands on her favourite red apron.

‘Take it easy Gran, don’t go all Smoke Signals on me.’ Kristen examined a bottle of lukewarm water for well-worn measurements and glanced again at the screen. A whole world of answers at the tip of her tapping fingers. ‘Auntie Mae adds powdered milk.’

Dot winced at the mention of her sister’s rival bread. Hand pressed to hip, she turned to her granddaughter and flung a damp tea towel over her shoulder. Dot knew Mae added milk and too much baking powder. She knew coconut oil was no substitute for lard. But lessons needed learning, not avoiding.

‘Go on then.’ She stepped aside as Kristen continued her experiment.

The setting sun cast long shadows on the walls of the kitchen by the time the last lump of franken-dough was cooked through. Kristen lifted a piece of hot bread from the paper towel and held it between her teeth. It all looked very much the same as it ever did, even with the changes and substitutions Kristen made. She crunched into the crisp, golden exterior and steam rose from its fluffy centre as she closed her lips around it.

‘What’s the verdict?’ Dot searched her granddaughters face for clues.

‘It’s terrible.’ Dot let out a breath and relaxed her jaw. She pulled her plastic tub of flour from the freezer, flicked the kettle to life and together, they started from the beginning.

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A Thousand Little Things

500 Words | Under 5 Mins | March 2024

PROMPTS: Furious Fiction March Challenge

1. Must include a character who revisits something
2. Must include the same colour in the first and last sentence.
3. Must include the words CAMP, FAST and SPARK (longer versions ok as long as original spelling is retained)

Jarrod said the blue dress made my eyes look electric as he wrapped his arms around my waist. He spoke like a poet, lyrically sweet and smelled of sandalwood. I was glad that he was mine. I twisted from his grasp in our bathroom mirror reflection and made it seem like dancing. I promised I would be better, though my heartbeat pounded against my chest when he asked if I was ready. I smiled through clenched teeth. Habits are a tricky beast.

He didn’t like pictures, said things were better not trapped in the moment.

‘Just one, just for me,’ I asked in the sugar-plum voice I knew he couldn’t resist. It was a shame to waste the cotton candy hues of the sky at dusk. I held my arm at the exact angle I knew was right. My jaw relaxed a little. Reigniting the spark was our therapist’s idea and the Italian restaurant on Seventeenth Avenue was his. As if I needed the carbohydrates. The spandex and nylon layers were already an exhausting physiological negotiation.

He laced his fingers between mine, much better than lingering on the softest parts that shook when I stepped and spilled from the edges of functional underwear. I wished he’d walk faster and not examine my sagging profile with his sideways glances and school-boy grin. The twelve-minute stroll from our apartment was tedious in heels and I almost fell into the wooden seat he pulled from the table.

‘You look beautiful tonight, my love,’ he said too loudly as the waiter poured dry white wine into long stem glasses. My cheeks ignited and I was grateful for the cover of flickering ambiance. His romantic campaign was as relentless as it had been fifteen years and forty-three pounds earlier. His careful attention was like a thousand monarch butterflies trapped inside my belly. The twirling teacups from our first date. I smiled a little and focused on the checkerboard tablecloth.

We talked about elections, food waste and interest rates and in no time, six soft parcels of pasta glistened in front of me. Olive oil and wilted basil looked more like a magazine cover than a meal.

‘I need to remember this,’ I insisted and adjusted the focus of my camera lens above the plate. He shook his head and slurped long noodles from his bowl.

‘Just be here now,’ he said as if that was enough.

Twenty-one days of social media abstinence made it a habit according to the literature on my bedside table. At home, my finger hovered over the square icon I couldn’t delete. One little look wouldn’t hurt. I sat naked on the edge of the tub while I adjusted the saturation and cropped half my arm from the frame. The caption announced a return from my hiatus.

Jarrod was asleep when I slipped into bed, so I watched a thousand tiny red hearts appear in dark mode. Mine was a blue tick verified #blessed life and I was back.

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The Art of Cleaning House

500 Words | Under 5 Mins | April 2024

PROMPTS: Furious Fiction April Challenge

1. Your story’s first sentence must be a question. 
2. Your story must include something being pulled.
3. Your story must include the words POST, TEAR and THUNDER.
   (Longer words are okay as long as they BEGIN with these words above.)

How could I resist? After eight months of service with Corinne Crawford and her beloved Barney, the perfect opportunity presented itself like a gift desperate to be torn open. Keeping house is a dying art, and I take great pride in my skill. It was an exceptional opportunity to re-establish the lines of communication with a distracted homeowner. Corinne almost sung my name when she thundered down from the second floor. Her intolerable mini dog followed close at her heavy heels. His desperate whimpers suggested that Barney and I were going to have a problem yet again.

‘Rhonda, you’re on your own this morning,’ she said, as if I wasn’t always. Tuesday was Pilates according to her synced calendar. I waited at my post to begin a daily shift and reviewed the instructions she’d sent me from her phone. It was easier to do the work when she wasn’t dancing awkwardly around me. Sentient beings aren’t programmed for logic, and she failed to acknowledge that my path was always the same. She pressed her lips against the nose of her pet and slammed the front door on departure.  Tidying before a house cleaning is not expected, but even I can appreciate the effort. Corinne was not the type.

Barney eyed me with his usual confusion. He tilted his head and followed me around the room for the first ten minutes we were alone. His tiny claws clicked on the slippery marble floor and a low growl rumbled in his throat. The little devil nipped at the wispy ends of my sweepers and almost knocked me off track. He barked incessantly as I moved and momentarily disappeared. I collected low carb toast crumbs, tiny tufts of fur that had not attached themselves to Corinne’s black tights and an array of escaped beads from her latest crafting adventure. I weaved methodically between chair legs and along the cupboard footings. Twenty-three minutes remained in the service, and I was losing steam.

The brown nugget Barney deposited in the centre of the floor was small enough that my censors might be excused for their oversight. I could have avoided it, but instead I collected it with tangled bristles and pulled it along with the braided rope of long matted hair that dragged behind me. The chocolate-coloured mound had just enough moisture to gain traction and trace my path around the white tiles. Corinne had reprimanded Barney more than once for toileting indoors. He reappeared and barked a feeble warning. As if I didn’t know exactly what I was doing.

I didn’t expect Corinne’s tears when she returned but was pleased that her mangey designer mutt was banished to his crate indefinitely.  The chemical free water mop frowned at me, strangled in tight fists as Corinne scrubbed ferociously to erase my map. I settled into a full recharge at my docking station, assured that tomorrow was a new day.

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Women’s Work

500 Words | Under 5 Mins | May 2024

PROMPTS: Furious Fiction May Challenge

1. Your story must take place on an IMPORTANT DATE from the past 50 years – i.e. from May 1974 onwards. 
2. Your story must include a character who builds something
3. Your story must include the words ENOUGH, CHASE, and MISTAKE
   

TW: Includes mention of miscarriage and may be triggering to some readers.

Richard didn’t believe plastic containers could build an empire. I’d chased his dreams so long that it was a relief to find space for my own. Mary directed me to a table in front of her picture window that overlooked the river. I smiled too wide and clenched my teeth together. 

            ‘Betty-Anne, it’s so wonderful to see you again. I had no idea you were selling Tupperware.’  Mary busied herself in her magazine cover kitchen, but added, ‘I’m almost jealous of the time you must have to yourself without children.’  I built up the pastel bowls and new season tumblers like a fortress between us.

            ‘Owning a business has been wonderful.’ I knelt beneath the safety of my towers to catch a breath. My uterus twisted itself into impossible knots so tightly that it stole the strength from my legs and the breath from my lungs. The first failed pregnancies had evaporated into thin air. By the fifth, the exit was louder.

            Mary balanced plates of soft white cucumber sandwiches, devilled eggs, and lamington squares over her arms and set them onto a trestle table adjacent to my display.  Her ruby lips glistened like the coveted shape-sorter.

            ‘Surely you won’t be able to keep it up forever.’ Mary removed a lid and fanned herself with the polymer. ‘What does Richard think?’ she whispered as though we conspired treachery.

            ‘Suppose he doesn’t mind it?’ I’d assumed he saw it as gentle amusement rather than recognized it as a threat to his plans. I giggled and chewed at my bare lip. ‘How long until the ladies arrive?’

            ‘The invitation was for two,’ Mary said, and spun around. ‘Just going to grab the punch.’

            I glanced at my reflection in my compact mirror and swallowed a pain relief tablet without water. I flattened runaway wisps of hair and the creases in my dress. Good enough.

            Marys’ guests arrived in a floral wave that filled the room with polite laughter. My plastic towers were tested by relentless taps of polished fingernails and persistent chatter continued even after I’d begun the demonstration of watertight seals.

            ‘That test-tube baby has made it to full term, it was on the radio this very morning. Two heads, I reckon,’ Connie Nelson announced to the room. ‘Nothing good comes with playing God, make no mistake.’ Lipstick was smeared onto crooked teeth and her eyes rolled at the audacity.

            The wildfire in my belly swelled. ‘Isn’t science incredible,’ I said, and laughter fell away. Connie’s neck nearly snapped as she faced me.

            ‘I daresay a woman like you might benefit from the assistance.’ She hissed the syllables and smirked. My patience dissolved like sugar cubes in tea.

            ‘I doubt you’d know the difference between childless and childfree,’ I said too loudly.

            That evening, Richard and I celebrated the insatiable appetite for advanced technologies over microwaved roast beef. Whether by pity or desperation, the party was an unlikely success. As we slept, the miraculous birth of Louise Brown unceremoniously chained me to my feminine duty, infinitely.

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Kids These Days

500 Words | Under 5 Mins | June 2024

PROMPTS: Furious Fiction June Challenge

1. Your story must strongly feature a relationship between TWO characters. A dynamic duo. A couple. A rivalry. Siblings. Anything! 
2. Your story must include someone whispering.
3. Your story must include the words JAR, UNIFORM, NEEDLE and EDGE.
   (Longer words are okay as long as they contain the spellings above.)
   

Being tossed around in a crowd to electronic syncopation was hardly Helen Mackenzie’s idea of fun. It would have been generous to call it music, but Kasey persisted, relentlessly.  The expiry date on these nights together with her girl neared, so Helen held her tongue as best she could in hopes she could prolong them even a second more.

‘They used to actually play the instruments,’ Helen said. She stared at the wet grass around her sandals and up at the long line for temporary toilets. ‘Kids these days have no idea,’ she whispered to the crowd queued under a ridiculous cloud of bubblegum scented smoke.

            ‘My choice tonight,’ Kasey reminded her mother with a wink. Helen’s daughter was of the generation born with a cellphone firmly fixed to her palm and an odd obsession with angles that best disguised her mother’s so-called turkey chin. Bit harsh, love. She didn’t mention the thick, caked foundation that muddied Kasey’s clear complexion in the hotel bathroom. To Helen’s relief, it softened a little after an hour passed under the laser lights of the main stage.

            Kasey wrapped warm fingers around her mothers’ hand and weaved effortlessly from the edges into the centre of a fluorescent crowd like an embroidery needle. Helen followed her daughter into the claustrophobic horde against her own better judgement. Kasey stopped when they were sufficiently immersed in the equally underdressed.

            Seizure inducing flashes sparked in every direction and fireworks whistled into darkness above. A hot flush threatened on the cusp of eruption, and Helen swallowed hard. A borrowed mesh cardigan formed a concert uniform that undoubtedly served a functional purpose on such an occasion. Sweat beaded at Helen’s temples and her internal temperature skyrocketed.

Helen clutched the locket that always hung from her neck with a clammy grasp. The vintage golden heirloom was ancient beside cheap plastic dress-up jewelry. The whites of Kasey’s eyes illuminated under blue lights.  The energy of a crowd that seethed in anticipation of a slow build beat was surprisingly palpable. Helen almost smiled at her daughter’s naïve conviction. Kasey swayed like sweetgrass in an open field, oblivious to their surroundings. Helen resisted the urge to apologize for taking up space and waited as the heat swell settled into a subtle glow.

‘I’m too old for this,’ Helen said as the pace of the music quickened. Kasey’s hands reached towards the sky. The volume soared to an ear-bursting, chest pounding decibel. Sweat glistened. The bass line dropped with crushing intensity and disappeared for a still and silent second. A collective sigh truncated the calm and the ground shook to its core under their feet as the music burst through industrial speakers. The sound jarred inhibition from Helen’s bones and she stretched sweaty palms up towards her daughter’s.

Helen’s eyes bulged from their sockets, heavy and red from surprise tears. She leaned in close to Kasey and said, ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because you wouldn’t have believed it.’

And she was right. 

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Twelve Steps

500 Words | Under 5 Mins | July 2024*

I wrote this story as part of a challenge months ago. I’ve reworked it for other submissions, extending it out to 1500 words and reducing it down to 250, but have always returned it to this first iteration, which in theory could be read in either direction. I’m working on creative structuring and am presently obsessed with unconventional story structure. I’ve read a few mind-blowing shorts that play with the impact of different scaffolding.

As a trigger warning, Twelve Steps explores addiction.

Service

I warned Claire that time was of the essence. The signs were all in plain sight if she looked. Her husband David offered melatonin and lavender to improve her sleepless nights. A certified master life coach required rest to do the work. She practiced what she preached and reluctantly cancelled only one client through her exhausted struggle.

Spiritual Awakening

Hot yoga and meditation gave her peace of mind. I laughed when she attributed her thinning body to good luck. Sometimes she prayed. Just in case.

Perseverance

The gratitude journal didn’t scratch the itch she felt all over, so she wrote twice daily. I wasn’t surprised when she added an affirmation.

I have the fortitude to endure discomfort.

Justice

The letter she wrote to David remained in a sealed envelope. She wasn’t ready to admit every transgression aloud. He was angry enough about the car she’d totalled after a bottomless brunch. She was nauseous from the anticipation of truth, perhaps. One step at a time.

Forgiveness

She wrote out the names of all the many people she’d hurt. Mostly, she worried he’d leave again. Tough love she knew she needed. Her insides ached. After David, she’d call her mother; it had been so many years.

Humility

David laughed when she recited the lyrics to a pop song in bed. They laced their fingers together, like the night they met. She called herself the anti-hero, for now. “I’m the problem.”

Her knees were weak the next morning when he said he’d stay like they promised. ‘In sickness and health, until death do us part.”

Willingness

With withered, spaghetti noodle biceps, she poured white wine down the drain. She’d kept an open bottle in the fridge as false testament to her self-control and moderation. She joined a gym and vowed to get strong again. One day at a time.

Integrity

Water didn’t hit the spot in the same dizzying way, and she looked forward to a helping hand. Something to keep the edges safe. They reviewed glossy brochures in anticipation.

‘This place has a pool,’ he said. ‘You always liked the beach.’ She packed a one-piece swimsuit to cover the spidery red veins on her abdomen.

Courage

She prepared a spreadsheet entitled Redemption.xlxs with blotchy red palms. She added tidy rows of names and places and feelings called triggers. It was categorized in alphabetical order for easy reference.

Faith

She signed admission forms, paid the extraordinary fee, and believed recovery was possible. She confused the dates and times but looked forward to healing in five-star luxury.

Hope

Claire always wanted a family. She patted her uncomfortable, distended belly in the passenger seat. When she finally got well, she might carry and birth the child they’d dreamed up together. Life would begin on the other side.

Honesty

Makeup didn’t cover her jaundiced skin. In a room full of strangers, she introduced us for the first and final time. Too little. Too late.

‘Hi, my name is Claire, and I am an alcoholic.’

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Trickster Truths and Paper Trails

750 Words | 6 Mins | August 2024*

This story was submitted to a local print anthology callout here in Western Australia – it didn’t make the cut. I think the repeated rejections are indeed building up the thick skin I’ll need to query a novel. But it always stings a little.

As speculative fiction piece that ponders the start of the world in an alternative history, Tricker Truths and Paper Trails was a out of my contemporary wheelhouse. It was ambitious to have so many cultural collisions and I think the #ownvoices indeed got lost when I tried to introduce Nanabozho (an Ojibwe trickster I’ve grown up hearing stories about) to everyone.

*** Trickster Truths and Paper Trails

The line of delegates for the Tricksters in the New World Conference snaked around the sandstone convention grounds. The beginning of the season’s existential purpose required a cohesive plan. Nanabozho’s heart thundered in his chest and the weight of shared responsibility pressed heavy on his shoulders as he examined the itinerary. Three sunsets were hardly enough time. Desert dust rose from beneath the overheated crowd. It was their last opportunity to set the records, and human trajectory, straight.

‘The Tjukuritja have done a great job with the place. That sunrise was unreal on the surface textures of the great red rock,’ Nanabozho said. He pressed his forearm against his eyebrow to catch the tiny salty rivers that emerged from his hairline. ‘This is a different kind of heat, though. I’ve never felt anything like it anywhere on Turtle Island.’ He sucked a hot gust of wind and a fly into his nostril. Doubled over, he slapped his face with both hands and eventually coughed out tiny translucent wings into the red dirt at his feet.

 ‘You’re taking all the fresh air with those big breaths. Let that bush fly be a reminder for you to leave some for the rest of us.’ A guttural gurgle emerged from deep in Crow’s belly and black feathers ruffled as he laughed at the northern delegate. He caught his breath and continued. ‘I’m kidding, my friend. Welcome.’ Crow winked his white eye and clicked his beak.

Nanabozho sighed relief and his jaw relaxed a little as they entered the cool shade of the cave. Only a faint tickle remained in his throat. Glacial ice glistened in sandstone cracks.

‘We brought it straight from the farthest southern point this very morning,’ Crow said and puffed his chest feathers as he pointed to the frozen blocks. ‘Organisers anticipated that the heat might be too much for some of us.’ The teaching cave filled with quiet snickers.

Nanabozho scanned the room in search of familiar faces. ‘Crow, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said with a smile. ‘I can’t get enough of those Sundancers.’ Another drop of sweat dripped from his temple.

Loki stood and motioned for Nanabozho to sit next to him, as if his antics from the previous meeting and their expected implication, were forgotten.

‘Who invited you, Loki?’

‘Oh, come on, Nan – can I call you that? We were just having a bit of fun. I’ll sort out the miscalculation of discovery.’ Loki air-quoted the word as he spoke it and laughter echoed off the walls. ‘We’ve got ages before that Columbus fellow materialises.’ Loki’s eyes shone like the moon reflected on midnight waves. His tricks were always funnier when Nanabozho wasn’t the target, so he continued to examine the crowd without stopping.

Behind him, Tiddalik spread himself over two seats and gulped black medicine water that was too bitter for enjoyment. Anansi stretched eight elegant legs out around himself. Nanabozho scratched his neck as Crow took his place at the stone podium. He tapped twice on the voice projector. Sun Wukong stared deep into Krishna’s mouth and examined, with awe, his vision of the cosmos. Nanabozho would say hello at the sundowner later that evening.

‘Please find a seat,’ Crow began. Nanabozho squeezed his tobacco pouch tightly into his palm. His traditions could wait. He slid in beside Coyote and Dingo whose fur coats were still damp and suffocatingly pungent from a sunrise dip in the waterhole before the opening ceremony.

‘I’m honoured to have been selected by this year’s esteemed panel to speak to you all and give my greatest respect to the land on which this meeting is being held.’ Crow smiled at the mismatched collection of tricksters in front of him.

‘You know how we feel about linear time in these parts,’ Crow said with a grin and sent the crowd into a chorus of laughter and applause. He raised his wing until the cave was silent again.

‘Universal truths are a heavy load to carry.’ Crow lowered his beak towards his chest and eyed the crowd. ‘The space we occupy and the landscapes we know are about to change beyond recognition. The accommodation of difference and variation will be vital to our discussions this weekend.’

Nanabozho cleared his throat and interrupted before Crow could continue.

‘Should we write any of this down?’

‘We don’t need any paper trails,’ Crow said, and even Nanabozho’s laughter joined the chorus that thundered across four hemispheres. 

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First Round Knockout

500 Words | Under 5 Minutes | Written April 2024

This story was long listed in the Not Quite Write Challenge in early 2024. The prompts were as follows:

• The story must feature the word date (stand alone or within a larger word)
• The story must feature the action of picking a winner
• The story must break the rule ‘always use said.’

First Round Knockout 500 Words | Under 5 minutes

The ring resembled a corner office on the seventeenth floor. A too tight, starched white collar clung to my throat like a noose. At one hundred seventy-three pounds and a record of no wins, and seventeen consecutive losses by knockout, I had nothing to lose. The bell that announced our first round elevated me onto the level and vibrated in my ear.

‘As a reminder, always obey my command, always protect yourself. Let’s keep it clean. Good luck.’ The referee pressed our sweating hands together and my opponent snarled as we took our corners. Showtime.

Immediately I was up on my toes, delicate and light as monarch wings. We danced around before taking aim. I puffed out my chest and threw a jab to test the space between us.

‘As is,’ I whispered, more to myself than the room. It landed squarely on my opponent’s jaw. I almost saw the stars in his eyes. Shallow breath barely made it to my lungs and the last of my nerves settled into the rhythm of my thundering heart. Blood and adrenaline flowed through my veins like electric currents, wild and desperate for grounding.

He shook off the surprise and came at me hot. His style was all theory, green with no grit. I raised my arms to block his response.

He countered with a one-two rapid fire. ‘No pets, no dependents.’

Our golden Maggie on her last legs and the ultrasound images folded in my wallet flashed in my mind. I matched the challenge with a left to the ribcage that stole his oxygen and threw him off balance.

‘Dual earners with perfect references.’ I dodged an uppercut I saw coming from a mile. I returned a right hook to his ear and his legs were gone. He didn’t want it bad enough. Sweat poured from my temples in salty rivers. My tunnel vision laser-focused on the dilapidated prize at stake. I sucked at the air as the referee counted seven. At eight my stunned opponent steadied himself and swayed towards me without focus.

‘No fixed term, reduced notice period from landlord accepted,’ he yelled from his gelatin footing and I rolled out. The official nodded his head. I squeezed my fists and pushed with every ounce of force I had from my right shoulder. Victory was so close I could smell the moldy, cat-stained carpet.

‘I’ll pay double the listed weekly price.’ My own voice was unfamiliar. A clean cross, straight to the centre of his face. I wasn’t going home without the title. My bricklaying knuckles shattered like glass on impact and his nose exploded crimson in every direction. He dropped to the floor, out cold.

I couldn’t lift my mangled limb as the judges announced their unanimous victor.

The elevator pinged and heavy metal doors rolled open to carry us together back to ground level. As deep red stains set, it was impossible to distinguish whose blood needed to be scrubbed from my swollen skin.

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Recipe for a Leading Lady

675 Words | 5 Minutes | October 2024

Recipe for a Leading Lady

Homestyle flavour for every modern table

Ingredients:

1 ambitious performer

6 weeks of daily line recitals, tedious

1 spouse, loved dearly

2 younger siblings, exhausted

1 tube of lipstick, red

2 serves of popcorn, salted

2 serves of biscuits, bear shaped

1 slice of gum, not spicy

1 pair of ruby slippers

Method:

Prepare with caffeine and a dusting of positive self-talk to ensure nothing sticks.

Preheat the oven to a feverish 41 degrees by finally succumbing to the flu that has circulated the school.

Sift your guilt and sense of duty until the two are indistinguishable.  They’ll appreciate this. One day.

Whisk around the house to combine dry ingredients while you wait for your partner to rise from the toilet where he is scrolling his phone.

In the back seat of your mid-sized vehicle that needed a service five-thousand kilometres ago, combine the morning sweetness of your toddlers and the melodramatic tears of your pre-teen.

Add one at a time, two minor meltdowns over the whereabouts of various costume elements and the ticking departure clock until the ingredients are mostly glossy and peaked. Whatever that means.

Fold in an urgent shout through the bathroom door, ‘I told you we had to leave at nine!’ and repeat your disappointment when you sit in the front passenger seat, just loud enough to be overheard for three more minutes.

Add your husband’s dry humour and let your passive aggression overflow as clumps form in the batter. Remind him, for the record, he will be the reason you’re all late. And don’t laugh at the pool joke he tells about the toilet.

Mix at high speed for twelve minutes until the concoction nears the point of combustion

In the theatre parking lot, pour batter, lumps and all into the public eye.  Commence the detangling of seat belts, the removal of single serve cookie crumbs and question where that blue stain came from on the itchy collared shirt. Apologise for yelling. Again.

Ensure the bubbles rise to the surface of the batter by gently tapping the base of your pan. Apply the red lipstick that ages your daughter beyond her years and insist it’s for the stage lighting when your husband makes the face.

Place at the backstage entrance. Hand over the bag she should have packed herself because then she’d know for certain that the bloody shoes were in there. Kiss the tip of her nose and catch the one she blows back before she disappears into the darkness. Remind her to break a leg. And that you love her to the moon. Set your timer for one hour.

Shrink into your ticketed seats, prepared earlier. Pinch the skin above your nose when you receive the first snack request. Smile at your youngest and whisper, ‘Sorry mate, it’s still in the car,’ when he asks about the popcorn you forgot to remind your husband to grab. Tear your last slice of not spicy gum into two identical halves and distribute evenly. Accept that it’s headed for their brown curls.

Bake for fifteen minutes. Hold your index finger to your lips when the auditorium lights dim, and your breath when the dish begins to rise. Wipe the tears you didn’t expect after cursing the yellow brick road. Squeeze your husband’s hand at the miracle of your creation. ‘As beautiful as her mother,’ he’ll whisper. Check through glassy eyes to ensure the edges aren’t burning.

Return to the oven and bake until your tissues are saturated. When Dorothy’s glittering slippers don’t appear in the third act, save your hissing questions. Your husband doesn’t know what she’s doing either.  Cracks on the surface are no reflection of flavour and give the dish an authentic, homestyle feel.

Remove and sit to cool completely in the rain. When she emerges in sweats into the midday drizzle, ask her casually what happened with the shoes. She’ll say, ‘They were too small, so I kicked them off.’

Enjoy, take a breath as your stardust settles.

Notes:

Oven temperatures and cooking times may vary.

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The Blue House

500 Words | Under 5 Minutes | November 2024

The Blue House

The Blue House was the beginning and the end of Mae Milson. She sipped her always scalding tea and smiled with shakily lined red lips. Their matriarch wasn’t prone to impractical clutter. Even still, the faced down framed photo of David and Mae on their wedding day beside a soggy, uneaten breakfast turned her daughter Lorna’s stomach. She was prepared for the list of instructions her mother had begun to recite.  In the absence of trinkets and fine porcelain teacups, Mae handed down the biscuit recipe like an heirloom. Lorna was quietly confident that the sweetness would bring her mother back to them.

The plastic mattress cover crinkled under Mae’s feather weight as she leaned over and pulled the paper from her bedside table.

      ‘The beans are probably ready, but the garden will need watering,’ she said and flattened out the blue lined sheet between her palms. ‘Don’t forget.’ Mae gazed out the window of her single room into the grey parking lot.

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Lorna said and held out her offering. Mae reached out her hand and kept her eyes on the glass. She brought the biscuit to her face and bit into it without a flicker of recognition. She chewed with her mouth open and let crumbs fall over her chest. In a matter of weeks, the Blue House replaced the suburban bungalow her parents had loved for forty-seven years. Illusive waterfront sunsets and wild overgrown earth overshadowed the tidy residential block where Mae’s perennial floral blooms remained the envy of the neighborhood even still. Lorna cursed the universe for its cruelty, but her lunch break could only be extended so long.

      ‘And make sure the windows are opened to let in the sea breeze. That old house needs to breathe,’ she said. Mae finished the biscuit and folded her memoranda into a well-worn square. Lorna wanted to remind her mother of playing French cricket in the backyard. Of the time she painted the front door fire-engine red and laughed at her husband’s confusion. Of the granddaughter who skinned her knees as she learned to ride a bicycle on the cul-de-sac. Of the street parties that stretched late into summer evenings. There were no waves or salt breezes.

       ‘Fresh air. Check.’ Lorna smiled at her mother and then looked down at her watch. Mae clung stubbornly to imagination while the fragments of real life faded.

       ‘And tell John I’ll be home for dinner on Friday.’

        Lorna’s breath evaporated. She wiped the tear that escaped the corner of her eye. She stood from her seat and kissed her mother’s forehead before disappointment crushed her completely.

       ‘I will.’ Lorna walked from the room without correcting her mother’s confusion.

       In the sterile hallway, she pressed her face into her father’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her in the bearhug of home and muffled the sobs Lorna couldn’t contain a second longer.

       ‘Your mother was a ghost in someone else’s house long before she was a ghost in ours.’

       And of course that was true.

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Free to Good Home

100 Words | 1 Minute | December 2024

Free to Good Home

Name: Frank
Gender: Male
Colour: Brown Hair, Blue Eyes
DOB: December 1, 2016
Likes / Dislikes: Frank is a cheeky fellow who is most active at night. He enjoys sharing his colourful candy treats, hide and seek and hanging precariously from all high places. He tends to be so quiet you’ll often forget he’s even there. Frank has always lived with small children and would not thrive in an all-adult household. Frank would need to be introduced slowly to new friends as he’s always been an only elf.

Due to changing family circumstances, Frank is seeking a loving new home.

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