Short story by Louise Pieper – Page 2

Sweet serendipity

It was a tough round of writing requirements for the AWC’s Furious Fiction challenge this month. In 500 words or less you had to include the name of at least one element from the periodic table AND the words ‘traffic’, ‘jowls’ and ‘hidden’ AND something that buzzes AND the first and last letter had to begin with an ‘s’. Phew!

Thankfully, library science came to my rescue – doesn’t it always? – and this sweetly serendipitous thing happened:

“Seriously?” Wilson glared at the librarian, smiling serenely behind a desk misleadingly labelled ‘Information’. “What sort of system is serendipitous juxtaposition?”

Her Cheshire cat smile grew wider.

“Wonderful.” She breathed rapture into each syllable.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said. “I’m already late. The traffic was appalling. The car park was full. I spilled my coffee and–” He grated out the words through clenched teeth, “I need that book.”

“Then I’m glad we can help you, sir.”

“But you’re not helping. I asked where it was and you said you don’t know.”

“That’s right.” She quivered with excitement like a six-year old about to blow out her birthday candles. “I don’t know where it is.”

Wilson pinched the skin at the top of his nose, hoping to dispel the faint buzz which warned of an impending migraine. It whined on, a tiny wasp trapped in his sinuses.

“Look, miss–”

She raised her left shoulder, grimaced and jerked her head rapidly to the side. The contortion drew his attention to a name badge pinned on her collar.

“Antimony. Right. If you could just tell me–”

“How it works? I’d love to!” Antimony clasped her hands together and said, “The serendipitous juxtaposition of related texts maximises the beneficial outcome of a library user’s anticipative browsing. Browsing, of course, is the art of not knowing what you want until you find it.”

“But I do know what I want,” Wilson wailed. “I know exactly what I want!”

“One book?” Antimony shook her head. “We can’t have you leaving with just one book. The library’s cost-efficiency study discovered that the optimal rate of bibliographic consumption was seven loan items per library user, per visit. Serendipitous juxtaposition allows you to find the otherwise hidden and overlooked items which are perfect for your needs. I can give you the general shelf number to browse.”

“The general…”

Wilson’s mouth opened and closed. He knew his face was flushing, his jowls wobbling like an indignant turkey’s, the damn little wasp drilling a spike of pain into his head. He remembered the doctor’s warning at his last check-up and drew in a long, deep breath.

“Yes,” he said. “Please.”

“Wonderful.” She dragged the word out again, while she scrawled a number on a card and handed it over with a flourish. “By the stairs, sir. Enjoy your browsing”

“Thank you,” he grated out, as his right eye began to twitch.

Antimony’s smile was as wide as the sky. “I’m sure it will be satisfyingly serendipitous.”

A real fixer-upper

Librarians believe in Ranganathan’s five rules which include for every book its reader and for every reader his or her book. I don’t know if there’s a similar rule for real estate agents and houses, but one thing is for sure – it’d be very hard to write the sale blurbs for some properties.

With that in mind, here’s my 500 word story for the AWC’s Furious Fiction challenge for August. This month the requirement was to include the following adjectives: “shiny, silver”, “cold and greasy”, “scratched and weather-worn”, “sweet and pungent”, “ink-stained” and “shrill, piercing” and one of them had to be in the first line.

Fixer-upper

Screwed to the gate post are three shiny, silver numbers which make everything behind them look shabby. Unfortunately, behind them is the house I’m supposed to sell.

I hope the owner’s niece doesn’t expect a miracle.

I cram the hatchback between the lilac bush busily devouring the driveway and the scratched and weather-worn fence. The old house crouches beside a main road and its blistered, sun-ravaged face stares down the barrel of another busy street.

Bad Feng Shui.

I sigh and write off eighty-six percent of potential Asian investors right there.

Two steps from the gate and I’m nosing the warped front door.

No yard, no privacy.

Inside, the sullen curtains in the front windows cast the bedrooms into gloom. I write off ninety percent of young families, too.

Street noise, stranger danger and random, passing perverts peering through your bedroom windows.

I cross to the side window and eyeball the house next door. It’s so close you could lean out and shake hands with the neighbours. I wonder if they know what happened, if the owner’s niece contacted them, like she contacted the realty, gushing words down the phone: ‘Aunt Winnie broke her hip. She can’t live there alone. Good thing she was here when she had her fall. She’ll have to sell.’

I touch the windowsill and my fingers find scratched letters where a blister of paint has peeled back to reveal childhood’s vandalism. Winnie Warden. Miss Winifred Jane Warden. Winnie Andino. Mrs G. Andino.

Suddenly, it’s not the shrill, piercing voice of Miss Warden’s niece in my head, but Lissa’s smoky, whiskey brogue. She lounges on tangled sheets, twisting her dark hair around ink-stained fingers, telling me about Cathy and Heathcliff and doomed love.

I snatch my hand away. I don’t believe in ghosts. Or love.

I stride down the linoleum-slick hall, glancing into small, grim rooms. Bathroom. Lounge. Dining. The kitchen cabinets cluster together as if they don’t trust the Formica table or the lace-shrouded windows.

No benches, no dishwasher, no bloody hope.

I drag open the cold and greasy bolt on the back door and fight the fly-screen to get outside as fast as I can. I’m three steps down the path before the sweet and pungent scent hits me and I stop and stare at a garden paradise.

Forget the house. This I can sell.

Can I help you, love?” a voice asks.

I spin around. There’s a man standing in the rose arch between this garden and the equally gorgeous one next door. He’s old and flamboyantly camp, but he’s quick. He sees the realty logo on my shirt and asks sharply, “Is Winnie alright?”

“Who are you?” I blurt out.

“Her neighbour.” He puts out his hand. “George Andino. Tell me she’s alright.”

“She broke her hip and can’t live here alone.” I echo Miss Warden’s niece.

“She won’t be alone,” he says. “I’ve been her best friend for sixty-two years.”

Lissa was right. It’s doomed love, no sale, and a miracle.

An El Jem of a story

From inside the amphitheatreof El Jem

I visited Tunisia in 2000 and caught the train from Sousse to El Djem to see their incredible Roman amphitheatre. So, when this month AWC’s Furious Fiction challenge was to write <500 words which took place on a train, I remembered being crammed into that third-class carriage, laughing with the locals about the Sydney Olympics, which were happening at the time, and how you didn’t tend to see that much livestock on passenger trains in Australia.

But, the challenge was also to include something frozen and three three-word sentences, and I didn’t want to write about a train kind of train. So I wrote this:

El Jem

“Ships of the desert is right,” he yelled. “You must feel sick as a dog.”

The words tugged her out of syncopation with the camel’s gait. She jolted
against the padded saddle for a few moments, fingers grasping the bar, then let her spine loosen and picked up her mount’s rhythm again.

Sixty-two. Keeping count was petty, but they’d never finish this trip together if she didn’t make a joke of the way he dumped his insecurities onto her.

The camels were strung in a long train, their shadows etched on the harsh landscape. Each beast was a bulky carriage for one, linked by swaying crescent ropes. The shadow which followed hers was identical in silhouette, until you reached the top and found a rigid block of rider, the only frozen thing under this relentless sun.

“I’m fine,” she called.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“We could stop…”

“No need.”

She always knew what he wanted, because he told her it was what she wanted, and sulked if she didn’t agree. Like he’d sulked in London when she’d refused to finish their holiday early and in the comfort of a tour bus.

“You’d like it. Everywhere you want. All the sights.”

“But I don’t want the fourteen day if-it’s-Tuesday-this-must-be-Salzburg version of Europe.”

“It’d be safer.”

“Safe is boring.”

“Safe is safe.”

What was the point of backpacking if you had a tour-guide minder the whole way?

Her knee felt suddenly hot and damp and she glanced down to find his camel rubbing its foam-flecked lips against her cargo pants.

“That’s so gross. Keep it back.”

“I can’t stop it.”

“Ahlan sadiqi!’ she called to one of their guides. “Can you stop this camel slobbering on my leg?”

“Almost there, sayyida!” His grin flashed, white as his robe.

Okay, sure. She shrugged. It was only camel spit.

“You were the one who wanted to come to Tunisia,” he called from behind her.

“Yeah.” Sixty-three.

“You wanted to ride camels to this stupid coliseum.”

“Yeah.” Sixty-four.

“What if it’s got rabies?”

“I had my shots.”

His camel moved closer and hers gave a rumbling growl of discontent that she almost echoed.

“I worry about you, babe.”

Oh, that ‘babe’ made it sixty-five. He knew it annoyed her.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to. I’m fine.”

“Look at me, babe.”

Sixty-damn-six.

She twisted to look over her shoulder and found his camel so close it could have bitten off her ear. He was staring at her, holding up a little box with a… No.

“Marry me, babe.”

“Are you joking?”

“I love you.”

“You’re kidding me. You couldn’t have picked a better spot to ask?”

“Better? Like what?”

“The Eiffel Tower? Gondola in Venice? The Viennese fiacre?”

The camels crested a rise and below them lay the plain with the ancient amphitheatre rising from it. She caught her breath. It was magnificent.

“This whole stupid trip was your idea,” he said.

Sixty-seven. The straw that broke the camel’s back.

Heyer there, Regency fun

I’ve been writing a Regency era fantasy romance and that means reading a lot of Regency romance (oh, the hardship!) and immersing myself in Georgette Heyer’s slap-up-to-the-echo dialogue. So much so, when it came time to write a nifty 500 words for the AWC’s June Furious Fiction challenge I opened my brain and a whole lot of Regency nonsense fell out.

The challenge* was to include a button, to start a sentence with “The air was thick with” and to set the story at a party.

So, here’s my bit of Regency fun, which I called Heyer Nonny Nonny:

“Well, I say he’s a curst rum touch!”

Thomas Bellesley glared at his friends. Chuvham blinked owlishly back at him, too much of a slow-top to readily share his disgust. Freddy Fullarton started to speak but Tom went on, with all the indignation his rather slight nineteen-year-old frame could summon.

“Dashed loose in the haft and he’s no business talking to my sister.”

“You above par, Bells?” Freddy laid down his cards with the careful precision of a man who was, himself, a trifle bosky. “Take leave to tell you, it ain’t the thing. Devilish bad ton.”

“That’s what I’m saying. I ain’t one of your high sticklers, but I know my duty when a loose fish like Smale singles Sally out for his havey-cavey gallantries.”

“By Jupiter, don’t talk fustian,” Freddy said. “She’s no schoolroom chit and Smale’s an out-and-outer, a regular Dash! Why do you think he’s here, at your aunt’s little card party, if it ain’t –”

“Dashed smoky is right, Freddy! He’s a sad rip and Sally oughtn’t –”

“Gammon!” The air was thick with bright songbird chatter which Freddy’s condemnation undercut, like the croaking of a crow. “Ain’t the thing to talk about your sister in that way. Anyone would think you were three parts disguised or –”

He paused, mouth gaping like a startled fish.

“Cork-brained,” Chuvham finished for him.

Tom rounded on Chuvham. “Just because you wouldn’t care two pins if a rakehell like Smale–”

“Bells!” Freddy said, urgently.

“A rakehell,” Thomas insisted, “like –”

“M-my Lord Smale,” Freddy stuttered, addressing himself over his friend’s left shoulder.

Tom turned as far as his high shirt-points would allow. Smale, slap up to the echo in a swallow-tailed coat, fawn inexpressibles and an exquisitely tied cravat, gave them a mocking little bow.

“Gentlemen. I trust I am not interrupting?” He raised his quizzing glass and settled his sardonic gaze on Tom. “Bellesley we must, we positively must, have a quiet word.”

Tom lurched to his feet and said, “I am happy to meet you at the time and place of your choosing, sir. Mr Fullarton here will act as my second.”

“The devil I will!” Freddy cried. “You’ve shot the cat, Bells.”

“Badly foxed,” Chuvham agreed.

“Must you make a cake of yourself, Tom?” Miss Bellesley stepped around Smale and laid her gloved hand on his arm. She was in quite her best looks, wearing a round gown of sprigged muslin and their mother’s pearls. “You can’t arrange an affair of honour with Smale when I’ve agreed to marry him.”

“M-marry?” Tom stared, thunderstruck. “You’re gammoning me! His – his reputation!”

“I don’t care a button for any of that,” Sally said. She smiled up at her beau. “Of course men were deceivers ever.”

“Ah, sigh no more, lady.” Smale’s lips twitched but he went on, gravely, “You shall be blithe and bonny.”

“Yes, I rather think I shall.” Sally gave an irrepressible chuckle.

“Queer in your attic,” Tom said, “the pair of you!”

*Check in to the Australian Writers’ Centre Furious Fiction page at 5pm on the first Friday of the month for the next challenge – 500 words, 500 dollars, 55 hours. It’s a lot of fun.

Democracy sausage

an Australian democracy sausage obtained at a sausage sizzle on polling day

We came, we saw, we ate our democracy sausages and the results of last Saturday’s federal election are mostly in – it looks like it’s business as usual. My social media feeds are full of angst and ennui, fear and frustration. All I can offer in response is a little furious fiction…

The story had to include the words MAYBE, MAYHEM, DISMAY, MAYOR and MAYONNAISE.
The story’s first word had to be an 11-letter word.
The story, at some point, had to include someone or something RUNNING.

As usual, you can check out the winning entry etc on the AWC website and read on for my <500 words worth.

Democracy Sausage

“Sausonomics? Sausnography? Come on Tash, help me out here. Sausocracy?”

Jason turned the bread-wrapped, charred meat product over and held it aloft.

“The democracy sausage! Something we all believe in.”

I groaned. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Something we all agree on.” He grinned. “That’s important.”

“Rare as hen’s teeth,” Reg said.

“But it’s not even true.”

‘It’s an alternative fact.” Jason shrugged.

“What about vegetarians? Vegans?”

“There’s always outliers…”

“Foodies? People with taste-buds?”

“It’s what the sausage represents that’s important, Tash. It’s a unifying political symbol for the disillusioned masses.”

“You can’t have a sausage run for parliament.”

“Agreed,” Reg said.

“Right. That would be madness. Mayhem…” Jason’s grin widened and a diabolical gleam lit his eyes. “Someone else does the running with the democracy sausage as our mascot.” He drew in an exultant breath. “We start a new political party!”

“You are not calling it the Sausage Party.”

Reg choked on his beer.

Jason started pacing.

“S.A.U.S. – serious, superior, special Aus – nah, an acronym won’t work.” He stared at the offending object in his hand. “The Banger Party!”

“Just, no.”

“Wurst Party?” Reg said. “Wiener Party?”

I face-palmed.

“The Savoury Party.” Jason swept the sausage in a wide, banner-like arc and across again for the by-line. “Sweeet!”

“Mixed messages.” Reg shook his head.

“All things to all people,” Jason shot back.

“Lot of policy decisions to make. Onions or not?”

“Onions.”

“Above or below the sausage?”

“Can’t ignore OH&S, mate.”

“Fair enough. Sauce?”

I stared from one to the other in dismay. It was like watching a ping-pong match between two juiced-up meerkats.

“Definitely sauce.”

“What kind?”

Jason frowned. “Serious issue. Potentially divisive.” His eyes flicked, as if he was weighing up arguments. “Tomato sauce,” he declared.

Reg rumbled dissatisfaction. “Barbeque’s a serious contender, mate.”

“What about mustard?” I suggested, fed up with their nonsense. “Maybe a bit of sauerkraut?”

“Have to be locally produced,” Reg cautioned. “Section 44.”

“Sure,” I said. “Better embrace diversity and chuck on some marmalade and mayonnaise.”

“Come on, Tash,” Jason said, “get real. It’s gotta be tomato. Other condiments just can’t ketchup.”

He held it together for a beat, then they both started cackling like maniac chooks.

“Politics is serious,” I protested.

“Not really.” He eyed the sausage. “We’ve got an Elvis impersonator as our mayor, they’ve elected a comedian to be president of the Ukraine, and the Cheeto P.O.T.U.S. is a bad punchline to a terrible joke.”

“Okay,” I said. “But how many people do you seriously think would vote for a sausage?”

Reg sucked air through his teeth, like he was doing the numbers.

Jason took a big bite of his democracy sausage, chewed thoughtfully, and grinned.

“All we’d need is nineteen votes and a preference deal for the Senate,” he said.

Beautiful and terrible

convent leadlight of a dove
Another month has flown by on stained glass wings and, where I live, autumn has finally arrived with chilly nights and bright, perfect days. So perfect, in fact, it’s the ideal time for a writing getaway. So I’m off with my writing buddy to write, edit, work on the new Picaresque Press website, and give our next CIT short course – Seduce Your Reader – a final polish (there’s still time to sign up – it starts on Tuesday 7 May).

Meanwhile, have a short story…

The AWC’s April Furious Fiction challenge was <500 words including these three lines of dialogue:

“It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.”
“He’s never done anything like this before.”
“What’s it going to be then, eh?”

Challenge accepted…

Pedigree

“I can’t believe it.” The equa pressed her fingertips, bloodless beneath their bronze-lacquered nails, against the desk. “He’s never done anything like this before.”

If Desi had a credit mark for every time she’d heard that, she sure as shit wouldn’t be stuck in the kennels.

“Look, Equa -”

The woman waved away her title, but shot a barrage of complaints after it.
“No. His pedigree is perfect. Top drawer. Full screening. All his shots. I won’t believe it.”

The denial had a shrill edge which needed blunting before it got any uglier. Desi reached for the screen and the older woman flinched from her hand, raw and red from all the washing the Rule required.

Everything as the Rule required. Everyone in their place: delphics, equae, marthas, pod-nans and kennel-nans. Women where they belonged and men where they couldn’t do any harm.

And everyone knew, by Rule and regulation, the kennels called for carbolic.

“Just watch the vid, eh?” Desi said.

“You film them? All of the time?”

“Out in the yard. So we can see what’s causing any argy-bargy.”

“Oh, fighting and biting. That I could understand. He’s at that age…”

The woman looked away, tugging the cuffs of her jacket straight.

“It’s the first thing I thought when I got your message.”

Desi let the lie slide and pressed ‘play’.

She watched the woman watch the vid. Watched the colour drain from behind her make-up in time with the pentameter. Watched her lips thin to a measure as precise as a sonnet. Then the equa drew a breath and tapped her nails on the desk, like she was busy-busy and time was money and they needed to get this nonsense sorted.

She almost carried it off, but her voice cracked as she asked, “What happens now?”

“We got regulations.”

“For this?” She snorted. “I find that very hard to believe.”

“Regs for everything, eh?” Desi straightened her shoulders and recited, “Aberrant behaviour in kennelled adolescent males. Regulation 241b. Poetry. It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.”

“Emile.” The woman groaned her son’s name.

He wasn’t a bad boy; not by kennel standards and, by the Rule, they saw them all. No trouble. Smart, but not too mouthy. A sweet smile. Still, reciting poetry to his kennel-mates? That was dangerous.

“So we treat with great caution. Two options with poets. First offence–”

Desi pretended she couldn’t see the woman’s nails cutting crescents of control into her palms.

“First reported offence, he gets solitary. Observation. For a week. No access, sorry.”

“He won’t mind.”

“If he does it again – scribbles haiku on the walls, mouths couplets, anything – he’ll be sent to the Institute.”

The woman caught her breath, eyelids fluttering like she’d been hit.

“You said two options.”

“Yeah, well. Option two is you say it’s happened before and we put him down for reassignment right away. Saves the wait.” Desi shrugged. “What’s it going to be then, eh?”

Walk in, walk out

laundromat-1

I could cycle through the laundromat puns, maybe even spin them out, but it’s probably better to get on with the story and see what comes out in the wash…

March’s Furious Fiction challenge from the AWC was <500 words, with a setting inspired by the above image and a theme of curiosity. You can read the winner and shortlisted stories here.

I didn’t really hit the theme, but I was happy with my story: Walk In, Walk Out.

“Check it out!”

He stops in the middle of the footpath, wrenching my arm. It hurts, but it’s a fleeting pain. Not like the tightness which presses on the top of my chest as I recognise his gleeful tone.

He puts his hands on his hips, tilting his chin as he reads the sign taped to the shopfront.

“For sale. Walk in, walk out. Going concern. Imagine it, Jules.”

It’s an effort to keep my voice neutral. My blood pressure kicks up and anxiety presses down like a weight around my neck.

“It’s a laundromat,” I say, because I have to say something or be accused of not wanting to talk about what he wants to talk about, or having no curiosity, or being negative.

“Always demand for a laundromat in a tourist town.” He presses his nose to the window, cupping his hands at the side of his face to cut out the glare. His breath fogs the glass as he adds, “Neat little place. Kind of retro.”

That means dated. I don’t bother peering in. I can see enough through the wire-meshed security glass. Old and tired, half the machines probably broken, a–

“Great little fixer-upper,” he says, beating me to the not-funny punchline. “Imagine it. We could live here, cheap as chips. Run this place. Grow our own veg, keep a few chooks. The good life, hey?”

“Yeah. The good life.”

I drag in a breath, struggling to get enough air into my lungs. It tastes of grease from the fish and chip shop next door and exhaust fumes from the snaking queue of traffic heading for the beach.

“No big overheads. Set our own hours. It’s perfect, love.”

He rubs his hands together as if it’s all sorted, so I catch hold of his elbow and nudge his arm. He starts walking again and I breathe a little easier.

“Regular servicing, of course,” he says. “No money in machines that don’t run.”

A giant fist crushes my lungs.

I gasp out, “How do they work?”

It’s exactly the right thing to ask. He talks about electric motors the whole way home and I don’t have to say anything until we reach the front desk.

“Here we are,” the nurse says, taking his other arm. She raises her eyebrows at me and mock whispers, “How was he?”

“Fine. He was fine.” My breath catches as I press my lips to his bristled cheek. “We’ll go for another walk tomorrow. Alright, Dad?”

Out of choices

B_heads2

Ever feel like your head is so full of things you need to do and choices you need to make that it’s about to burst?

Well, I’m with you and I can’t offer you answers, only distractions.

I wrote about choices for last month’s AWC Furious Fiction competition. The parameters were that the first sentence had to be three words and the story had to include some sort of first and a candle. You can read the winners and the shortlisted entries here and my 500 words worth here:

“Your father’s dead.”
The words drop, stone-heavy, into darkness.
“No.” I gasp and struggle against sleep-slick depths.
They’ll say I showed a proper reluctance to accept their tidings; that I cried out in disbelief that such a man – such a colossus – should prove mortal. But it’s only fear those stone-cold words will drag me with them into the abyss.
I blink against the light – blinded, bedazzled – until the flare diminishes. My sight sharpens with wakefulness and I realise there’s only one candle and my father is, indeed, dead. Why else would my room be full of those who, even yesterday, would have scorned to speak to me had they seen me hunched over one of my books?
The worst of them, my father’s cousin, steps closer, candle held high.
“You are Firstborn,” he says. The word is meant to resonate; meant to sound a dynastic chord thrumming through a line of secondborn and thirdborn, fourth and fifth and so on. But all it does is echo in my bedchamber, solitary and alone.
Firstborn. Only born.
My father sought a remedy. Now his wedding feast will serve for cold and unwelcome funeral meats. No doubt this task tastes just as bitter in his cousin’s mouth.
“Your father is dead and you are Firstborn,” he repeats. “You must choose.”
He holds out the candle. Others offer a book and a sword. My choice of faith-light or learning or leadership. Life is full of choices.
When I was born my father chose not to ring first-bells in celebration. I was small and frail and they say he feared I would not survive. Feared or hoped.
Four seasons past my father’s first wife died and I kept my mother’s candle vigil alone, for he chose not to see it with me.
Three moons ago he chose to spend Firsthallow courting a new bride, rather than hear me read my dissertation to the conclave.
Two days ago he chose to hunt for his wedding feast, but the beast he cornered chose not to join the celebrations.
I glance at the crowd who lean forward, eyes glittering, intent on the book. All know I’ll choose a scholar’s life. Or perhaps not all, for something hums through the room. Fear? Or hope?
I throw back the covers so the candlelight burnishes the cloth-of-gold cape I wear over my scarlet robe. They gasp. Did they think to find me vulnerable in white linen at such a time? I grasp the hilt of the sword and raise it high.
“I choose to lead,” I cry and my voice fills the room, banishing echoes and leaving no space for the shadows of other choices.
My father’s cousin opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, so it is another who shouts, “The king is dead. Long live the queen!”

Everyone loves a list

B18mantel

Woah! It’s the end of January? Already?

I hope all those new year lists you wrote (resolutions or bucket lists or to do lists) are looking good and you’re ready for February. And what better way to kick it off than with a creative writing challenge?

The Australian Writers’ Centre will be running their monthly Furious Fiction this weekend – log in at 5pm tomorrow for the prompts and you’ll have 55 hours to write and polish 500 words to be in the running for $500. You can check out the January winner and shortlisted entries to get an idea of what they’re looking for.

Last month’s requirements were:

the first word had to be ‘new’
it had to include the words ‘desert’, ‘nineteen’ and ‘present’
it had to include some kind of list.

Here’s my 500 words worth…

THE LIST

“New shoes and new stockings. New unmentionables.” Princess Araminta’s lady-in-waiting smothered a giggle before continuing her list. “New petticoats for Your Highness, and a new gown, new cape and new crown. Everything you need.”

“To be a freshly-minted Minty? Wonderful.” The princess gestured to keep her attendants at bay. “Wait here for me.”

Skirts hoisted, she took the tower steps two at a time. List upon list for her Forecasting Day but not the one which mattered most. She was supposed to leave that one to politics and her father’s discretion and trust that time would sweeten their choice.
Well, there was no time like the present.

She bolted the heavy door and all but fell against the wall, palms pressed to the stone on either side of a large, gilt-framed mirror.

“Morgan,” she panted, “have you the list?”

Her reflection swirled like dirty water down a drain. A clouded face looked out, as if someone peered through a window coated with soap.

“Of course I have it, darling,” the mirror said. “Nineteen unmarried princes.”

Minty clasped her hands together, grabbing onto hope. “I only need one.”

“Yes.” Somehow the mirror drew the word out until it sounded more like ‘but’.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“Four of them are old enough to be your grandfather and seven more have children.”

She bit her lip. “That’s not–”

Morgan cut her off. “Three of those are drunkards, two are diseased and one is an inveterate gambler.”

“And the seventh?”

“Prince Lothier has eight sons under the age of ten.” Morgan chuckled. “He’s had twenty-seven nannies in the last year and hopes a wife will prove a more permanent minder.”

Minty shuddered. “Eight then.”

“Two are from Upper and Lower Aureas.”

“Oh dear.”

“If I have it right, darling, Prince Zender is Prince Olver’s first and second cousin and his uncle. They both have the Mictivberg chin, I’m afraid.”

Another shudder shook the princess. “Six?”

“Prince Nimon is very keen on macramé, Prince Blaubard’s five previous wives all inexplicably disappeared, Prince Tirth–”

She raised her hand. “I’ve met Tirth. He talked about the average rainfall in the different regions of Verum. Prince Hal?”

“You know he’s nicknamed for his bad breath? No? Good Prince Vox is a paragon of virtue and a moral–”

Minty’s laughter drowned out Morgan’s words. “No and no,” she gasped.

“Prince Herac of the Panjan Desert is attractive, with a good sense of humour–”

“Perfect!”

“And four years old.”

“Morgan!” She frowned. “That’s all?”

“I suppose there’s also Clauv. He’s technically a prince, since his father is the Pirate King of the Patchwork Islands.”

“A pirate?”

“Young, handsome, fond of dogs, witty and well-read… It’s a shame you can’t swim.”

“I can learn.” She pressed her fingers to her lips. “Action and adventure! He’s exactly what I want!”

“He’ll need to attend your Forecasting Day. Make an offer…”

“Oh, that’ll be easy.” Minty grabbed her summoning bowl.

Morgan raised one shadowy brow. “That’s what they all say, darling.”

An authentic Christmas experience

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If you’re still eating leftover turkey, you might be fresh out of Christmas cheer. But stick with me – I’ve got a serve of short fiction chock-full of authentic Christmasocity. (I’m pretty sure that should be a word…)

The AWC’s Furious Fiction writing challenge for December was to write a <500 word story which:

· took place on Christmas Eve in either 1968 or 2068,

· included the words ‘it was gone in a flash’,

· had the first and final words rhyme.

Tricksy. You can check out the winner and shortlisted entries, or read on, below the bling, for my tale of a totally authentic 1968 Christmas according to entertainment experts in 2068.

christmas baubles

Great Expectations smouldered but Martin Chuzzlewit was gone in a flash.

“Nothing like a good Dickens to get the fire blazing,” Rush said.

“Tradition, innit?” Anavrin’s knee-high, white vinyl boots gleamed in the firelight.

“On my eye, we always burned Dickens for Christmas when I was a kipper.” Jake forced a chuckle.

“Cut!” La-A screeched. “It’s nipper! Oh aye and nipper!”

Morez darted between the symbi-stars with an extinguisher and sprayed foam on the fire.

“Chi-chi.” La-A grinned at him. “We don’t need another carbon fine after that fracking turkey set off the alarms.” Her smile fell away as she rounded on the oldest symbi. “This is streaming tomorrow, Jake. For Christmas, memahami? We’ll get a viral-load symbiote interface if History 4Most corplug it.”

“Which they won’t if you snarf up the jargon,” Anavrin muttered.

“People want the authentic experience, mate.” Rush gripped Jake’s shoulder. “It’s why they sym it.”

“So, let’s sym it.” La-A’s holo-nails flashed lightning at her fingertips. “Tell me your nodes all veer-checked the fire.”

The men nodded. Anavrin tugged at her grotesquely patterned sweater. “Yeah, but this costume cooks. Did they have an Ice Age in the 1960s?”

“Morez, drop the ambient,” La-A ordered, fingers tapping on her palm plate. “We can’t risk another fire take, so the Grandad’s reminiscing’s out. Places for…” She checked the scene feed and smirked. “Parlour games. No challenge here, Jake – you’re napping on the sofa. Tilly, we need the Mother on set.”

“It was cold back then,” Jake said, shuffling to position. “Even when I was a kid, it was cooler.”

He lowered himself onto the pad which protected the antique fabric and waited until Tilly had walked past in her orange and purple pantsuit costume before he stretched out his legs.

“Cool?” Anavrin snorted. “At Christmas? I don’t think so.”

“Must have been colder a hundred years ago,” Jake said, closing his eyes. “I remember Grandad saying they didn’t even have air-conditioners. Mustn’t have needed them.”

Rush and Tilly fussed with vape sticks disguised as old-style cigarettes and Anavrin snorted again.

“No air-con? And stupid-hot snowflake sweaters? And cancer sticks? You’re trolling me.”

“If it wasn’t cold, why’d they have all those songs about it snowing?” Jake said.

Anavrin opened her mouth to answer but Morez tapped a button and some whisky-voiced dude started singing about dashing through the snow. She scowled instead.

“Perfect, Anavrin,” La-A said. “Just cross your arms. The researchers said by 1968 all teenagers hated the charades. Veer nodes to record?” They synched and she checked the feed. “Remember, we want merry and bright. People sym for an authentic, historical Christmas experience. Three, two, one – sym it!”

Tilly opened and closed her hands and placed two fingers on her forearm, then tapped one.

“Book title.” Rush leaned forward. “Two words. First word.”

Anavrin rolled her eyes as Tilly tugged on one ear and tapped her wrist.

“Sounds like…” Rush frowned. “Could it be watch? Time? Late?”