Blacklung

Furious Fiction July 2020 Prompts

• Each story had to take place at either WEDDING or a FUNERAL.
• Each story had to include something being cut.
• Each story had to include the words “UNDER”, “OVER” and “BETWEEN”.

Winners and the Short/Longlist

Blacklung by Charles M.

Harvey never liked attending weddings. He was caught snoozing at the cathedral pews, daydreaming, only waking up from his peaceful slumber by the frozen hands of the cold blast of the wind’s sighs that rushed from the abrupt opening of the entrance door. 

His body jerked and a loud groan erupted. It was followed by an insensitive yawn. He took no regard to the surroundings. Yet none of the patrons that were there seemed to bother or notice. He was never one to read between the lines. Slowly opening his eyes, he turned to see where he was, but wondered how he got there. Frazzled, he turned to the direction of the cathedral doors and there, slowly marching to the music of the pipe organs was a familiar face; his dearest wife Marceline. 

Adorned in white, looking so happy like the times when they first fell in love. It was a face Harvey had missed for a long while. 

However, Harvey paused. This didn’t seem right. 

He got up from the pews and shouted. 

“Marcy? What’s going on here?” 

There was no response. No pause. Not even a slight recognition from her, or the others who were a captive audience of the marching bride. 

He then felt the floor tremble under his feet, and both dirt and dust fell from the stone interiors of the cathedral. Soon, his surroundings briefly transitioned into a fleeting flashback of the constant temblors he felt during his work inside the mines. It flashed back into the cathedral, where his all too familiar coughing fits started. Black and bloody mucus was spat out and he was gasping for air.

Desperate, he tried clutching onto a patron that sat next to him, but he fell to his knees in front of him and experienced another brief flashback. He was lying in the bathtub, still violently coughing while trying to wash away the soot that was marked on his face and body – but his body, so exhausted and weary from his illness was weak. 

He then remembered his wife Marcy coming into the bathroom with a look of anger on her face. 

“Why can’t you just die? Can’t you see what this is doing to me?” she screamed. “I can’t do this anymore. I just want this to be over.” 

Back at the cathedral, black water began to fall from his mouth and his air circulation was cut. He then remembered struggling for his life, trying to fight back from his wife Marcy, pushing his body down.

Harvey felt pangs of despondence, seeing Marcy’s happy face and exited the cathedral doors, drawing attention from no one and knowing what had happened.

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Brief Reflective Commentary

Pablo

May (2020) Furious Fiction Prompts

• Each story’s first word had to be FIVE.
• Each story had to include something being replaced.
• Each story had to include the phrase A/THE SILVER LINING

Winner and Short/Longlisted Entries

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Pablo

Five thirty-seven pm. 

The midnight moon appeared early on the cold, autumn day in April.  The chills of the zephyrs sent frost-like touches, sinking into every crevasse they could find while I struggled to keep the werewolves at bay. They threatened to intrude my crackling composure and emotional edifices, striking at the soul of mine and riddled my mind with the saddest lines of tragedies.

And there stood Pablo. His dead tired eyes gazing back, too tired of me.

Both of us wounded by the scars of his deep, private afflictions, and my deep, cantankerous affections. Our bodies and hearts bursting like a volcano, the epicentre of what we shared slowly separating us into islands the longer we stay together. 

But there was no warmth in this war, nor in his words as he took away my voice like the days slowly took away our summer. There was no convincing him of my love, or trust – he no longer sought it. I don’t blame him, I brought upon the blood that was seeping through the trauma marks of my past and bled all over him. 

Pablo was a traveller, still navigating the storms brewing from within him and holding tightly on a barely sustainable life raft, and his blood leaked through like an irreparable desperation to keep afloat, attracting the sharks that threatened to consume him.   

I was a wayfarer, willing to sell myself to anything that could house me. But it was only Pablo that truly felt like home. I was a tenant to his kindness and he was the owner of my devotion, but what was between us was too fragile and too fractured to touch. Only the bittersweet drink of the poison introduced from the start that spread despair like an unwanted contagion doomed to last.

You hate everything I love, even you. 

I still love Pablo regardless of whether he loved me. I catch myself chasing all the feelings I have and the memories that I cherish and remember almost eidetically. I’m convinced no man could compare to the sweetness of his generosity and love that is he. 

There are many moments I hold onto visions of love, of just his companionship and nothing more. But I can’t bear to be the darkness or the cruel shade that overcasts his freedom and his happiness like I once was. Yet, I can’t bear to be replaced and have our legacy be tainted and decayed by unspoken misunderstandings and our conscience paralysed by anxieties and suffocated by needy apologies and periodic silences. 

He will walk away, taking away the sun I once felt. And he will be a blaze not petered by the burdens of leaving happiness on a silver lining. With the wind on his feet, despite our shared pain – I continue to pray and love like a lowly acolyte waiting for a sacred sign that will come in the future for his return. 

By then, I hope we both will be gold.

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Brief Reflective Commentary

One of the heartbreaking things about writing or doing anything in art – is when you actually feel a sense of contentment on something you’re really proud of (and you really think it’s some of your best work) – but it’s really not recognised at all.

When I finished Pablo, I really loved it. I thought it was my best work (better than the entry that got long-listed last year) and it had potential to be another long-list or even short-listed contender.

There was so much inspiration that went into this entry. “Pablo” and I stopped talking. I was heartbroken, angry, lonely and needed to write to something that way. I think the temptation about heartbreak is to really make the other person look like the monster – but here, I was really being introspective and seeing my role into the breakdown of something I really loved and seeing my flaws come out to play.

I used inspiration from our messages, and played around with a lot of metaphors and similes from really inspired sources.

Music primarily was a really big influence. A keen musical person would realise I drew quite a lot of inspiration from Fiona Apple’s Werewolf (or arguably ripped – and that led me to write another flash fiction called Soulmate for another competition ha). I never really resonated with that song until I just started singing it randomly, then I went back at it during the weekend of this competition and just realised how apt it was for what I was going through.

That being said – my writing skills do not compare to how much of a brilliant wordsmith and musician that is Fiona Apple. And I suppose I was a lot more hopeful wanting a harmonious reunion rather than leave it as being apart forever.

Another inspiration was Pablo Neruda and a few of his poems. This entry is really… symbolic and heavy with imagery and expression to which I sought inspiration from for some of the allegories I was going for. Other songs that provided inspiration were Almendra – A Estos Hombres Tristes, Rilo Kiley – Silver Lining, Amy Winehouse – Tears Dry.

I played up the Pablo aspect since that was an inside joke that I only fall in love with people who’s first names start with P.

Also, another incidental connection I had was one day we played around with an instagram filter where it determines what nationality we’d look like. I got Chilean while he got Argentinian.

A lot of work went into writing this. And I still really love it. It speaks to what my mood truly was at the time.

C.

The Homecoming Special

April (2020) Furious Fiction prompts

• Each story had to begin on the side of a road.
• Each story must include the words APRON, PIGMENT, RIBBON, ICON, LEMON (notice A-P-R-I-L anyone?).
• Each story had to include a splash

Winner and Short/Longlisted Entries

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The Homecoming Special

“Cordelia S Conroy? Is that you?” a spry woman said, approaching with her recently bought red convertible.

She was wearing a matching red dress at the side of a long dirt road. 

“What are you doing in that tattered old thing and cute little ribbon and purse? Are you coming to the homecoming?”

Cordelia smiled, yet there was a sadness in her eyes indicative of a pain that she has long felt in her heart. Even after 10 years, she could still recognise that voice of the queen of high school, one that tormented her endlessly and made her days a living hell. Tori, the high school sweetheart.  

“Hi Tori. Yeah I am,” she said, shyly looking down at the door of the car, avoiding eye contact with the girl. Her eyes then traced towards the driver’s seat and saw another familiar face. 

“I thought it just suits me better!. Oh, you remember Stefan. Don’t you?” 

There was a small, but mutual intensity that was felt when both their eyes met before they quickly averted their eyes from each other. Oblivious due to her unconcealable excitement, Tori showed Cordelia her ring. 

“We got married! Did you hear about it? Who would’ve thought? You know what they say, high school sweethearts once together, stay together!” 

“No… but congratulations…” Cordelia said, looking again to Stefan and seeing his disinterested gaze.  

“Did you need a lift to Homecoming?”

Cordelia hesitated and shook her head. 

“I can’t…”

“Don’t be silly, come on in!” Ellione said, urging Cordelia to take the back seat. Cordelia reluctantly accepted, sitting on the middle seat at the back.

“It can be like a mini-reunion. Just like back in home economics! Remember those days with our little aprons and looking like style icons! We made heaps of great recipes”

Cordelia remembered differently. Much differently.

In a split second, Cordelia grabbed a syringe in her purse and stabbed the woman mid-sentence in the neck and injected her with a paralysing serum. Stefan seemed rather indifferent until Cordelia attempted to subdue him as well.

Stefan found himself at the remote shed of their old school tied up and still affected by the serum. 

“What the heck are you doing Cordelia?” Stefan tried to scream out, but he could only respond by weak and disoriented slurs. 

“Honestly, I still think you both got off pretty easy. You’re still going to be a big part of the Homecoming. Just in a way, no one will ever, ever forget.”

Panicked, Stefan tried to turn his head to see his surroundings and to his right, he saw Tori’s body dismembered and bleeding on the rusted, cold counters of the shed weakly crying out for help, her pigment a pale white with little signs of life left in her. Next to her was a stove of her recently cooked flesh. 

“The Homecoming special. Stefan and Tori cacciatore,” Cordelia said, eating a bit off her plate. “Just needs a splash of lemon.”

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Brief Reflective Commentary

This entry was the one I was REALLY self-conscious about posting.

Reading it now, I think it’s just a fun, campy romper gone wrong.

I was getting really sick of writing about my feelings, so I opted for a really zany, disturbing but really silly story of unrequited love turned campy cannibal piece. It’s definitely my most experimental so far in terms of content, and I felt a little brave to just write something that was less introspective.

And yes, I did make the victim’s name Tori just to make the cacciatore joke.

Sometimes it’s not about winning. It’s just about having fun.

C.

I Always Forgot

March (2020) Furious Fiction Prompts

• Each story had to include a PERSON IN DISGUISE.
• Each story had to take place in a PARK.
• Each story had to include a MIRROR.

Winner and Short/Long-List Entries

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I Always Forgot

I don’t exactly remember how it ended this way.

We agreed to meet at the park one day. A phone call. Imagine that? Who makes phone calls nowadays? From the many lifetimes that I have known him, he never made phone calls. I mean maybe an odd telegram or two back in the day. Or even the occasional smoke signal just to tell one of his crude jokes about his bowel movements. Although, I do remember that one time he sent a very sweet message about me being his best friend through carrier pigeon. 

These days however, he would usually just message. He wasn’t really keen on calling. Who was? The culture at the time, hardly anyone can really engage socially anymore. Why bother just making it more awkward by putting some flat piece of glass, metal and radiation close to your ear waiting for it to overheat? Or maybe it’s just a guy thing? 

“Hey, want to catch up? We can go to that park you like. The one with all the swans and geese at that massive lake.”

To be honest, throughout all the times we’ve known each other – he was not always the most eloquent of speakers. The temptation was just to blurt that out in attempts to annoy him. But at the time, I was just a little startled at him being proactive in seeing me all of a sudden.

Well… ever since he found her. 

The one that he claims to be “the love of his life.”

And that park was our park. The one we would go to and spend time together until midnight, playing charades with our emotions. Until he only wanted to spend time with her there. 

Things didn’t really end well between us after that. But I found myself conflicted – I wanted to see him because being with him made me happy. I just felt there was something that connected us to each other. I can’t exactly describe it. 

“I’m going to marry her.” 

I could have sworn at that moment, my soul left my body. But I tried desperately to disguise how saddened I was to hear those words. I never was good at hiding my emotions. He told me that. Quite brutally actually. That was always his way. 

We were sitting at the park bench overlooking the vast lake in front of us. I ran towards the water, trying to masquerade my pain into a sunny disposition. But as I reached there, all I could see was a reflection of a broken hearted spirit, painted by the love I felt I had lost. The lake, a mirror to how I truly felt inside. 

I readied my hands, only waiting for the tears but they never came. I just wish I could be numb at that point, only to hear his voice panicking me to wake up.

And at that point, like so many others in the times we spent together, I realised he loved me.

But I always forgot. 

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Brief Reflective Commentary

This story was actually called “Best Friends” but I decided to change the title for the post, as I thought this was a more apt title looking back.

At this point, a lot of my “stories” went into sort of mini meditative conversations with the reader. At the time (and for awhile), I started to really realise a really terrible insecurity I had with relationships and used writing as an avenue to air out those grievances.

I remember writing on a post ages ago that somehow, many of the stories I wrote seemed to have a prophetic sense that I didn’t anticipate at all until reading back at them.

This story was similar to my January entry “everything is burning, and I need you here”, as it talks about someone broken by the realisation by their anxieties actually being true. Whereas January was a really dark- talking about the toxicity of co-dependence and letting that consume you (literally by flame, and death as a result of it), I think this one is a small meditation on just accepting that despite not having the thing you want – remembering for a brief moment in time that you and this person had something great, you were both happy and you cared for each other – even if it’s not like it now.

Again, like February’s entry, it’s a little strange reading what must’ve been slow decays of wish fulfillment in the past – and realising it’s not like that anymore…

C.

Romantic Comedy

Okay, I know I’ve been really, REALLY lax on the Furious Fiction front (and for all my little short stories as well and life updates and reflections. A resolution is next year I’ll post at least once a week). And to make up for lost time – I’m posting this the day after my final Swinburne Microfiction piece and will begin writing my annual “one short story a year” which will encapsulate the inspiration that was this year (previous ones were “A State of Fireworks and Imaginary Romances, 2017-18, “Potential Space Left Remaining”, 2019, and I guess maybe “Small Moments of Brief Reflection”, TBA but most likely 2020). The thread of all these stories is a a protagonist that although isn’t necessarily the same person, but someone who consistently goes through the notions of learning something new to inspire them to be better through random events.

Anyway, so here are the prompts for November 2019 Furious Fiction competition. You can read the winning entries and short/long listed entries here.

November 2019 Prompts

• Each story had to include YOUR INTERPRETATION of ALL FIVE of the above emojis, in any order.
• Each story’s first word had to BE AN ANAGRAM of its final word(s) (repeating the same word wasn’t allowed). 
• Each story had to include the phrase: THERE WERE 11 ____  IN THE _____ (whole or part sentence).

“Discernment is advised in the consumption of this entertainment product. We take no responsibility in influencing or supporting any unrealistic, toxic or discriminatory attitudes relating to the subject matter in which this product may contain. It is strictly for entertainment and may not translate into daily life and therefore we are not responsible for any delusions that may arise from viewing said product.”

The young man paused, puzzled at what he had just read from an advertisement for a film. 

“What was that Henry?” said his curious companion, who had agreed to meet him for a brunch date. 

“Oh. There’s apparently trigger warnings on movie posters now. This is for the new romantic comedy that’s coming out in a few days.” 

“Ugh. On-screen romances are so toxic. It sets an unrealistic standard of romance that pressures people to get into relationships purely to drive out the cobwebs of their orifices. The same formula of two people meeting, then cutting each other out but them somehow they end up back together again. It’s a load of rubbish.”

Henry remained silent. He happened to really like romantic comedies. He grew up with them as a child and they were all he used to watch. Although he loved all sorts of genres of film, it was always the romantic comedies he kept coming back to. 

His date sighed knowing all too well they were not going to come to an agreement.  

“So what’s this new one about?” they remarked with apathy and disinterest. 

And without hesitation and a flurry of passion, Henry was ready for his spirited address. 

“It’s called Under the Moonlight. It’s about a couple that can only meet during a full moon due to a curse that was placed upon them from generations ago and they fight against all odds to be with each other. It got a lot of rave reviews. There were 11 five-star reviews in the movie trailer.” 

“Can’t anyone be film critics these days? Just set up a blog and write a few words. Critics are scum. Review culture is pointless. There needs to be a mass romantic comedy rescindment.”

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Writer’s Commentary

Alright, guilty as charged. I wanted to be clever with the anagram prompt and I think that’s probably the most sloppiest transition and “writing to the prompt” move that I did. But this was a pretty easy story to write. I literally only had about an hour to write it and I always wanted to write something that was about the opposing views of romantic comedies. I just wanted to do something fun – and referenced a story I wrote ages ago about a legend about how light and darkness were separated.

it’s all about contrasts. Contrasts are fun. Right? I don’t think there’s really more to say.

C.

Perpetual Turns of Resounding Chaos

And here it is. After a long wait and over a month after the winner’s announcement of the Swinburne Microfiction Challenge of 2019, here was my final entry for the final day, Day 5’s prompt “Stop”.

If you want to read the winner of this prompt, you can read it on the link below:

Lana Guineay – Bogan Botticelli

And now, let’s end this with the final story I wrote.

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Swinburne Microfiction Challenge (2019)

Day 5 – Stop

“If they come any closer and I’ll kill them.”

The beleaguered paladin wretchedly tried to regain his composure, critically wounded by his sworn enemies that he has battled throughout a longstanding arduous ordeal. He could barely stand, needing to dig his blade into the earth and place his weight on for balance. He looked back and stared at his longtime companion in anguish. Although they were unscathed he could sense their despondence over the dire situation. They reached their arms out for him but were aware of his prideful demands.  

“Stay back. Let me handle this. Please,” the Paladin exclaimed in a furious but desperate roar. “I am a man of honour. I need to protect you.”

But his companion ignored him, rushing to his side and tended to their wounds by reciting a foreign incantation and helped their protector stand.  

The arrogant paladin chuckled. “I didn’t really need that you know? I could have handled those idiots easily the way I was.” 

But there was a muted response. Instead, his companion looked ahead and readied themselves for the battle that was to come, standing in front of the paladin, ready to protect him. The paladin looked in awe of their response and chuckled once more. 

“I really don’t get the world sometimes. I remember the first day we met – you saved me. Kind of like now, I was badly injured in every way possible. But you took on everything and stood by me to help take on the world. It’s the first time anyone ever did that for me. We’ve had a real rollercoaster ride together huh?” he laughed with a tinge of sadness in his tone. 

“No one has ever shown me the kindness that you do for me. I don’t understand why everyone’s out to get you. But I swear to you, I’ll protect and be there for you… till the day I die.”

Footsteps could be heard approaching them. They both looked back but it was a dead end. There was nowhere to run. This was their last stand. 

“Here it goes. The band of idiots are here. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise,” the paladin said readying his sword. 

“Step aside Paladin. We’re only here for the Conjurer.”

“What the hell do you idiots want with him? What has he ever done to you? Maybe you aren’t so much the good guys after all,” the Paladin unleashed with unrestrained anger. 

“You are misguided Paladin. Cease with your hostility and come to our side so we can vanquish this evil. The Conjurer is a threat to the world.” 

“Over my dead body. The world can burn for all I care. As long as he’s safe and happy, that’s all that matters.”

The Conjurer, touched by the sentiments of his protector despairingly gazed at him with a broken smile. 

Suddenly, a sinister red light began to emerge from the Conjurer’s eyes. There was no turning back now. 

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Writer’s Commentary

Very long ago, I wrote a massive script and blueprint of ideas that incorporated my friends and I in a fantasy setting. Ever since then, I’ve written drafts about my friends and I being superheros in a modern setting but I stopped writing about us in a rather medieval or rather epic fantasy setting which I kind of missed and wanted to revisit! And boy was this a thrill to write.

Yes, I’m very aware that it’s quite sloppily written, but I think it’s simple enough that it conveys what I was trying to capture quite easily. It’s been about 10 years when i wrote those blueprints and I still don’t even have it all – most of it got lost. And it was back when I was still in High School – so I wonder how I’d write about my friends and I now with this idea. With new friends, new meaningful connections and with a lot more direction and purpose – I wonder… what could be.

The initial draft was about a warrior that lost her lover from the unknown evils. She partners up with a heavily celebrated and a loyal, royal knight of the Queen which were based on my friends Ruth, Luke and Anne who from high school I’ve remained in contact with and are some of my closest friends.

Admittedly, the blueprints did feature some friends who I no longer speak to. But reading back at the drafts – it makes me really nostalgic about the past and how things  used to be. But despite such departures, I’m really happy that I have some new friends I really connect to. Even when things seem dire – as long as you find a great support network (and you will – even if you don’t think so), it makes life great.

I’ll always be grateful for the people who’ve affected my life in a positive way. And sometimes I feel like I honour them when I write these kinds of stories.

C.

Faux Queen of Disco

There doesn’t need to be a grand entrance for this post. However, if you do insist, I could use a spotlight to accentuate my features, a red carpet and incredible fanfare for this latest entry!

Faux Queen of Disco was my entry for the fourth day of the Swinburne Microfiction Challenge of 2019. If I dare say, this is probably my favourite title of all the entries and as such, probably my favourite entry to write. Whether it’s any good is another story all together! But I hope you enjoy it.

You can read the winner of Day 4’s challenge here below.

Jane O’Sullivan – Collector

It’s been a long time coming, so here it is!

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Swinburne Microfiction Challenge (2019)

Day 4 – Myth

Faux Queen of Disco

The weathered face of a mature aged woman endlessly stared at her glass at the karaoke lounge bar recalling her faded glory. She remembered performing on stages all around the world throughout the disco era, performing the hits of her contemporaries and rubbing shoulders with iconic legends that have made it into the annals of history cementing their legacies for lifetimes to come. 

There was something bittersweet about the memories she reminisced. She never was able to carve out a legacy of her own despite how prolific she believed herself to be. Although she tried desperately not to ruminate on her lack of success, she couldn’t help but feel surges of disappointment. She felt it was too late to make the impact her peers were able to create. There was an unwavering sense of regret that she couldn’t shake. She kept holding onto the dream that one day, she would finally have her moment. 

She momentarily clutched on her chest and had the occasional coughing fit, coughing up blood on the serviettes provided from her table. There wasn’t much time left. She kept looking at the small stage contemplating on going on for at least one song. It wasn’t what she was used to, nor did she necessarily feel like it was deserving of someone of her stature. But it was the only stage there. She stared around the rest of the lounge. A decent crowd of 10, perhaps even less.  Such a small crowd befitting of a queen of a disco such as herself? Preposterous! The nerve of some of the patrons defiling songs with their lack of talent and stage presence she thought to herself.   

“She’s been here all night complaining about everything. I wonder when she would finally leave” one of the workers at the lounge complained. 

Finally, as the night was coming to a close, she got up on stage and stared at a disengaged crowd and engaged in a monologue.

“Whether it is God, or probability, or some weird alien thing that is in charge of luck. At the end of the day – life is a slow fading disco. It doesn’t go on forever. And when you think about it, it is really sad when you realise you might not be able to stay forever. But have a cup of that punch even if you think it might taste nasty. Talk to that person that you might think is out of your league. That might be the most important person you meet. And don’t forget to dance, because you never know when you can ever again. You might go blind from the lights. You might go deaf from the music. You might break your spine from doing an ambitious dance move. But at least you made something of yourself and can take away from this amazing, once in a lifetime experience.”

She later collapsed after her final song. 

“I don’t know who she was. But she was pretty good,” said one of the patrons.

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Writer’s Commentary

I love Disco. I wasn’t even alive when it came around and blasted into the stratosphere, but something about that music just makes me dance and resonate with it in so many ways. And despite the saying that disco had died, it always comes back around – lots of elements of the music comes back.

Earlier this year, there was a resurgence of my love for Donna Summer. I kept listening to her interviews and music and was just enthralled at the kind of humility and somewhat shyness that she presented herself as when she spoke. But there was also a real sense of quiet, refined wisdom – she never spoke without thinking and there was a distance that magnified her allure and made her somewhat enigmatic but incredible at the same time.

So, I wanted to completely turn the tables on that. This character was not based on Donna Summer at all, but absolutely the reverse of all the things I held in such high regard for her. In fact, I kind of think of it as a cautionary tale for anyone that thinks they are far above others. But then that realisation that once you get older, no one pays that much attention to you anymore and you can’t get away with treating people like rubbish – no matter how talented or entitled you think you are.

But I still love it. And I love this story.

C.

 

I’m Sorry

I’ve been a bit slack releasing these at the moment. But as always, another year, another Swinburne Microfiction Challenge. As of now, all the winners have been released and none of my entries won! I do sometimes wish these competitions had a feedback option – writers are generally left in the dark to find their own voices. While that’s a pretty liberating experience, it can also be quite daunting trying to find your own voice, your audience and also what publishers deem to be “publishable” (if that’s actually a word!).

Yes I do realise I’m being a bit redundant after reviewing my reflections of my last post. So let’s get onto the show before I become a broken record.

Kudos to the winner of Day 3’s prompt. You can read their winning entry here:

Emma Hardy – math class

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Swinburne Microfiction Challenge (2019)

Day 3 – Toast

I’m Sorry 

“Honey, can you smell that?”

Those were the last words Carlyle ever heard from his mother. After that, he remembered clutching onto her hands as the paramedics tried to revive her. But her grasp was lifeless. It was only him that kept holding on.

He remembered feeling paralysed at that moment. Everything just happened so suddenly. The conversations they had kept ringing in his mind constantly. The way his mother so passionately and sadly spoke about how she wanted to travel back to her homeland and then gazed at the house that fell apart around her. 

There was an unshakable pang of regret Carlyle had when recalling his memories. How she never got pursue her dreams. How much he knew she gave up just for him. How he failed as a person and as a son. 

It was only a year later he started getting out of the house more and found himself walking on the streets that were familiar to him in the past. The area was slightly run down despite the massive investments that were made to develop the area into a promising cultural attraction. The streets were decaying and predominantly filled with the disenfranchised and the troubled. Carlyle made his way to the food shelter trying to get some semblance of warmth and food. 

As he sat at the tables waiting for his meal, he heard a voice he recognised that went in tandem with the bowl served to him thud on the wooden table.

“Here you go honey,” said the woman, whose tone was both sweet and tough. It reminded him of his mother. 

Carlyle immediately looked up, only to see the mother he missed so much. But how could that be possible he thought. This couldn’t be right. Something was obviously very, very wrong. 

While experiencing a sense of anxiety-ridden trepidation, he couldn’t help but have both his words and his tears fumble out. 

“Mum, is that you?” 

The woman was taken aback. “I’m sorry. You must be mistaken. I don’t know who you are.”

For a moment, Carlyle was convinced that in that split second, despite her confusion that there was a part of her that recognised him. Despite her shock, there was still an empathy and comfort that resonated in her voice and manner that eerily resembled his mother. But rather than press further, Carlyle simply nodded despite feeling his spirit shatter inside. 

“Celeste, is this young man bothering you?” a man in a suit remarked.

“Celeste? That was my mother’s name!” he thought to himself. “What’s going on?”

Suddenly, the sound of white noise began drowning out the environment and foreign voices began to echo all around him. 

“Subject 20… Parallel universe…  Brain-damaged beyond repair…” Carlyle heard shouting but couldn’t figure out where. 

Carlyle found himself being embraced by the woman

“Your mother loves you very much. I know.”

And in that small comfort he found in her kindness that felt familiar to him. He let go. 

“It smells like burnt toast.” 

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Writer’s Commentary

This story started off initially being an idea that I had for the Lexical Edition for Journey that I was going to write, continuing the saga of Rudy Barracks which I have done previously for A State of Fireworks and Imaginary Romances and Potential Space Left Remaining. However this was a deeply personal story for me and I thought better to save it for something else.

The inspiration sparked from a really “down” moment  in my life where I felt I was pretty worthless and a burden to everyone. This then came into a really intense dream where I journeyed into a parallel universe where my mother didn’t have children. She was this incredibly powerful and strong woman but still didn’t lose her compassion and empathy. It was a really rough dream to come to terms with – especially after feeling really worthless.

It was so intense I remember having a really deep conversation with a friend. I reached out to them and told them every single detail. It was one of the most strangest, but also emotionally overwhelming moments of my life. I think at the time, they didn’t really know how to respond. But that moment truly stayed with me.

I wanted to recall that dream into a story. And what better way than a truly constrained version with word limits?

Overall, I do think a rewrite is due for this story. I don’t think I did that moment justice – perhaps in a short story format rather than a flash fiction.

This story, as opposed to the others actually took much longer to write (compared to the later entries for day 4 and 5 literally being written less than a hour before the deadline).

C.

Imagined Daily Tragedies

Day 2 of the Swinburne Microfiction Challenge. As of the time of writing this, the competition has now ended and to no surprise, I wasn’t a winner or chosen on any of the days or prompts. And to be fair, I completely understand. Upon reflection – it has been quite an intense 5 days – sleep deprivation up the wazoo (I did not get more than 4 hours sleep for about two weeks and sometimes went a day without sleep during this time period). Unlike last year where there was a clear favourite and what I felt were some strong contenders such as; A Leading Man in Space and Time’s Anchor, I didn’t feel any of this year’s entries being quite up to the task.

However, I needn’t have a pity party. It’s not necessary. I feel as if over the past few months I’ve actually grown to really understand myself as a writer. Sure the accolades and prizes would be nice and are quite nice to receive – I learned to not really get bogged down over my failures. Sometimes in life – you don’t create masterpieces on the first go. You might not create anything relatively good for a long while. But it’s all a process to get better.

I’m actually kind of proud that despite all the frenzy and chaos that has been happening (that could have EASILY prevented me from entering any of the days for this competition) that I actually came out 10/10 for entries. I gave it a crack as they say in my homeland – and what more could I ask for?

You can find the winning entry for Day 2’s prompt here on the link below:

Tim Wales – Paper Animals

Simple and concise. Doesn’t try to do too much – but quite good at describing a small moment and coherent. A pleasant read.

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Swinburne Microfiction Challenge

Day 2 – Make

Imagined Daily Tragedies 

The wandering mariachi band played passionately through the night at a secluded bar in front of an uninspired audience. The patrons were too absorbed in the film that were their own lives, staring down at their screens or at the bottomless well of their alcoholic drinks – to which they quietly demanded refills when their glasses were at the risk of being empty. The smell of tobacco and the rapidly fading yet emerging fog of smoke was ineluctable, prompting a few coughs for the younger patrons not too accustomed to such a spectacle. 

“When are you coming?” said a mournful voice undisguised by tearful sobs that fumbling out. The young man sat all alone at the bar while muttering to his invisible guest. Little paid any attention to his peculiar reactions, however those that did could not help but feel a slight discomforting sadness when gazing upon his candid dolefulness. On the table in front of him was a medium sized wrapped box he clutched onto tightly as he wondered where his love had gone. 

“Did you forget about me? Do I even matter to you anymore?” he continued, questioning the validity of his relationship. It was all too easy to remember the conflicts that seemed even more bitter than when they happened in the past. The constant disagreements, the long breaks of insecurity fuelled by silence and unbearable distance. The constant jabs and criticisms that were carelessly flung at each other that shook their vulnerable selves to emerge and transform into desperate combative states. This surely was the end for them.

“I guess I wasn’t enough for you.”

He took one last sigh and wiped his tear-stained cheeks and eyes. 

“I could never be what you really needed anyway. I just have to accept that now.”

He let go of his tight grasp of the medium-sized box and slowly got up from his chair. He couldn’t shake off the feeling of despondence, but now yearned to hold tightly to his new attitude that he hoped would spark a new sense of beginnings. 

“Aw. Leaving so soon?” said a familiar voice. 

The tears started to well again and without hesitation – he went to immediately hug the figure he longed for and truly desired. 

“Where were you? I was so worried. I thought you just forgot about me,” he said, sobbing once more. 

“I’m sorry. I accidentally fell asleep. It’s been really tough at work. But I’m here now,” was the response. There was a sense of genuine earnestness that he exudes that was both comforting and warm. “I’d never ever forget you. I love you.”

It was in that moment that the man who waited felt so silly. Silly that he questioned the unwavering bond he had with the one he truly loved. That he would make up stories that fuelled his insecurities rather than seeing the truth of what really is. 

That he was truly loved by another. And that was the best gift he could ever receive. 

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Writer’s Commentary

Oh no, my formula has gotten quite stale now! That’s the immediate thought I got when i read this story. I’m reminded of last year’s day 2 entry that I submitted for this competition Fossils (Body Neurotic). That one was about the neuroticism of opening oneself up to others for the potential to be rejected for what we are from our bodies. In a way, without even realising as I wrote this – that this is sort of a sequel to that story. Whereas that story is about the fear of rejection through constant scrutiny of the body. This story focused on the rejection with the constant scrutiny of our mind and psyche.

Honestly, I had no idea I was doing this at all, and it was not intentional. I didn’t come at this story with a lot of ambitions or intentions because I figured how much that stressed me out with that entry. Rather, it was a stream of consciousness, free-flow kind of story that resonated with a really similar topic.

The protagonist no longer fears the rejection of the self due to the physical boundaries and in pursuit of a relationship like in last year’s entry, but rather the root of their neuroticism questions the relationship that they already possess.

While the conclusion remains the same where the two protagonists (could possibly be the same person) were about to submit to their fear and leave AND there being a comedic twist at the end that brings their neurotic nature to a rather simple, mundane resolution – possibly the most realistic answer from our fanaticism.

Two Copies Sold

Today you’re going to get a blitz of stories! This is the first of two rapid fire entries that I will be releasing. This was my entry for Furious Fiction for the month of October. After the pretty immense high of finally making the long list for September (2019), I was pretty content! I was also featured on Furious Fiction’s 21st month celebration to which you can read my postcard entry and response here!

I’ve noted in a protected post that I don’t plan to release my long listed entry “things i wish i could tell you.” anytime soon. The nature of it being that it’s quite a personal story and I don’t really feel comfortable sharing that unless the time is right.

But let’s not linger on the negatives. Here is my entry!

October 2019 Prompts:

• Each story had to take place in a LIBRARY or BOOKSTORE
• Each story had to include AT LEAST SIX of the following 20 words – each taken from the openings of the previous 20 Furious Fiction winning stories:
  • BROKEN; MUSIC; AROUND; MECHANICAL; SMELT; GRUBBY; GAME; COFFEE; BEIGE; HANDS; TWELVE; LETTERS; BACKPACK; NAMELESS; COWBOY; OPERATE; CUPID; TRAIN; PUNGENT; UNTOUCHED

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Two Copies Sold by Charles M.

The pungent scent of coconut and vanilla was inescapable from the dazed and confused conscience of Rudy Barracks as he stepped into the mercurial bookstore. The interior was grubby and the bookshelves were barely intact. The mechanical sounds of ticking clocks and the ethereal sounds of dream-like music kerranging from the speakers could be heard around the store.

Rudy nervously browsed around the bookshelves only to be startled by the shopkeeper.

“How can I help you?”

Rudy jumped. “N-no it’s okay.”

But the shopkeeper did not flinch. “So you know what this bookstore is all about right? We don’t just sell any kind of biographies. We sell the histories of everyone! Even ordinary people! All your life events, relationships, feelings and even what you had for brunch at a particular date! Well only if it’s memorable. Or if you posted it on social media. Silly silly!”

“Do I have one too?”

“Of course. Yours is not a very popular one. We only have two copies. Although we recently discovered a very handsome fellow by the name of Langdon Muller expressed interest and told us to keep a copy on reserve. Very handsome. His biography is far more popular than yours. In fact I think it’s sold out!”

“Langdon expressed interest in my biography? But why?” he thought to himself.

“He can’t read what’s inside! Please tell me where I can find those copies.”

Rudy panicked as the shopkeeper directed him to the only copy left. It was a thick, hardcover book with a nameless beige spine. The front cover was a rather unflattering picture of Rudy with a broken smile wearing a frog suit.

He randomly flipped through the pages. “Overly neurotic, needy and while highly imaginative – forms outlandish speculations that sends him into spirals of severe anxiety and depression. In love with Lang—”

He stormed to the front counter. He could not bear the shame of having Langdon Muller read the contents of his story. He then smelt the scent of coffee mixed with coconut and vanilla which could only mean one thing.

“Cupid, did you still have that copy on reserve for me?”

It was Langdon. Rudy could not help but feel a surge of mixed emotions.

“Oh hey Rudy. This is awkward!” Langdon said, as he was handed Rudy’s history.

“Please don’t read that. It’s not true,” Rudy pleaded.

“Actually these histories are 100% accurate,” the shopkeeper interjected with spitfire succession.

Without hesitation, Langdon grabbed his personal copy of his history from his backpack and handed it to Rudy.

“It’s yours. Everything about me is all there.”

“Emotionally distant, prone to stress, conceals their true emotions and crazy. Can be incredibly withdrawn much to the frustration of others. In love with Rudy.”

“I guess you know the truth now. Do you love me even less?” Langdon queried, startling Rudy. Rudy shook his head.

“I guess we’re both crazy,” Rudy joked, a shy smile beaming at his recently discovered realisation.

“Crazy attracts crazy,” Langdon said, smiling back.

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Writer’s Commentary

I hate this story. I really do.

This was one of the occasions I really tried to be clever with the premise. A bookstore with the biographies of everyone in the universe. The initial title was “The Entire History of Rudy Barracks” who is a protagonist I used in one of my stories at Year 12 High School and also in the story A Leading Man in Space and for my NYC Midnight stories and potentially my Journey project for Lexical Journal’s second publication.

The inception of Rudy was that I always wanted a character to represent myself to navigate really creative and imaginative scenarios. However, later I found myself writing a lot of mundane stories which pretty much the same character in mind over and over. The first story he featured in was in a story called The Discords of Radiance where he was a frequently ill student reflecting on the life he had so far and the farewells he tells his friends and eventually the narrator.

While Rudy was only meant to be a one off – I found myself resonating with his character over and over again. I loved the name. However the character slowly detached from being just me – and then had a life of his own. He was the eternally curious, caring but extremely neurotic and self-conscious character who daydreams endlessly – but was an enigma to the people around him due to his silence and fearfulness to connect.

At the risk of doing another story really similar to Perennial Attachments and Japanese Jazz and Funk where there is a powerful bond between two males, I tried to inject some truth into it and a constant state of neuroticism. The coconut and vanilla motif is actually a real thing (although I’m not sure if that’s actually is what it is) – where someone I recently spend a lot of time smells a bit like that. Which later on freaked me out because I smell that scent at other places without that person being there (what?!)

I also took some quotes that were from actual conversations that I’ve had with people. However, I’m quite disappointed in it because it was used in such a piece that I’m not necessarily really proud of.

I think I got really cocky about being able to fit in all the concepts like privacy, confidentiality, problems with intimacy, connections and wrapping it up as an allegory of a writer’s angst about being seen and heard with the neuroticism of being in love.

Given a longer word count – I’ll probably be able to do what I wanted to accomplish. Reading back, I don’t hate it as much as I’m suggesting. But it was something I wish was more than what it is.

Let me know what you think!

C.