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

Psychic Boy Incorporated

June’s (2020)’s Prompts

• Each story’s first and last words had to begin with J.
• Each story had to include a game being played.
• Each story had to include the phrase MISS/MISSED THE BOAT.

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Psychic Boy Incorporated

“Jose can give you the answers you need with his fourteen years of mediumship and tarot reading experience. Contact him today for $3.99 a minute or $12 for a video message and let him heal your broken heart!” Rudy read on an interactive app related to psychics. 

It was a graveyard of what he felt was full of descriptions of promises, false hopes, and empty platitudes of strangers having the capacity to positively change your life and help your predicament. He always told himself he would never get suckered into the scams of psychics and would never get into a position of his life to stoop so low. 

However, there seemed to be an undeniable pull for him to invest and seek help from the divine – or at least those that say that have that power. He had been pondering about using the services of psychics for a few days after his relationship breakdown, hoping he would get a definitive answer if his ex-partner had truly loved him. Hesitation ruled him in the first days, where he came to the conclusion that a complete stranger wouldn’t be able to be of any help or would understand the nuances of his ailments – especially not within a 250 word limit for the video messages. He also didn’t like the idea of spending an exorbitant amount of money on an expensive phone call. He was grieving over the loss of a relationship, he certainly didn’t want to be grieving over monetary loss either. 

Yet the ache in his heart and his conscience overwhelmed him as he reminisced about his failed relationship. There was no closure. Just an abrupt, indirect goodbye that still pained him for months. Were they his soulmate or twin flame? Were they going to get back together again? Did he miss the boat on repairing the best relationship he ever had? 

“Perhaps I should just try it once,” he thought, eventually submitting his credit card details over the online form and ordering a video conference with Jose – one that promised using the divine tools to help mediate any problem for their client. 

“Jose, I feel like I’ve lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I haven’t been able to move on. Honestly, there’s not much I look forward to in my life right now. My work contract is ending, the whole world is a mess being locked in and my friends barely talk since they are moving on with their lives. The only thing I was looking forward to was seeing this person that meant the most to me. But they broke up with me. What do I do?” he typed in the message box

Rudy sighed. He wrote from the heart. 

“Thank you for your question. Your true love is coming in the near future. His name begins with the letter J. We hope you enjoyed playing Psychic Boy Incorporated. Take 20% off your next order. Offer ends in June!”

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Brief Reflective Commentary

Psychics have always been an interest of mine. The power of knowing the unknown, tapping into the divine and perhaps providing either therapy through a genuine and earnest want to care, or through devious methods of scamming people from there money. The story itself is pretty self-explanatory – although added with “real life” things (I’ll let you figure what those are – my friends know the inside joke with one of the references I’ve made).

Although I’ve done it for a while, I think this was a return to the sort of mundane but comically absurd kind of stories I write with that little bit of pathos which I seem to love and resonate with. There’s a bit of tongue in cheek humour as well that competitions like Furious Fiction know all too well!

I was a little sick and tired of writing woe as me stories (yes we get it, you’re heartbroken). But I still feel like I’m mining down that well a bit too much – so I thought why not poke some fun into it instead rather than feeling that little extra sad about things you can’t control. Self-deprecating at it’s… kind of finest.

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.

A Tired Knight and the Prince of a Broken Heart

February (2020) Furious Fiction

• Each story had to include a GUARD of some kind.
• Each story had to include the words NARROW, GOLDEN, LEATHERY and GLOSSY.
• Each story’s first and last sentences had to each contain just TWO WORDS.

This Month’s Winners and Short/Long-List

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A Tired Knight and the Prince of a Broken Heart

“Silly goose.”

It was just like him to randomly make a random, outlandish comment that would elicit either a bewildered response from me, or would leave me quietly chuckling at his goofy disposition. He would charmingly scratch the back of his head and look towards me like a guilty child despite towering over me. He was an intimidating looking man, he would seldom smile and he had furrowed brows that always gave him an expression that he was ready to interrogate you into oblivion. His eyebrows were the burly biceps of his face, both of these features chiselled to what he probably deemed a dominating masculine presence. He spent years and years honing into his aspirations on achieving a perfect form.  

I thought he was already perfect. 

He generally had tired bags under his eyes, like leathery storm clouds and hovered and drooped under what was meant to be a fresh, glossy youthful face. He was slightly younger than me, but resembled a life far more weathered and embittered than mine. I couldn’t help but feel pangs of sadness when we’re together. 

But it was also those times where I would feel a sensation I have never felt with anyone else. A sense of liberating freedom. One that escorts me both forcefully but gently from a childhood that I had lost by default of circumstance. An unrelenting rush of joy, an unchained elation that was isolated from heavy expectation and pressures. 

We were fugitives from the narrow minds that we sought to escape from. The unrelenting ghosts that threatened to grind us and shape us to what we never wanted to be. 

He was the bodyguard of my happiness. 

“Ruff ruff!”

I looked back with a disapproving gaze, trying to shield the smile waiting to bust out. But he stares back at me, anticipating my imminent smile to appear. 

“That’s a dog. Not a goose,” I retort, I wasn’t going to make him win that easy. 

“Well then what sound do gooses make then?” 

I paused. What sound did gooses make? He knew I was stumped. I had to say something quickly. 

“I don’t know… like honk honk?” It really wasn’t a very convincing show of confidence. 

“Gooses. Not buses. How can you call yourself educated if you don’t know what sound gooses make? I’m disappointed.” 

“Well, FYI, it’s actually geese, not gooses!” I cross my arms defiantly, staring up at him in a jokingly frustrated gaze. I’ll admit, it was easy to lose myself into his sweet but brooding brown eyes.

But then we both smile and erupt into laughter. His was a deep, but warm toned chuckle. Whereas mine were like annoying hiccups disguised as giggles.

He seldom smiled because he was self conscious about his teeth, but whenever he laughed he couldn’t hide them. 

Despite what he considered his defects, he was the most handsome man I have ever met. Inside and out. But he always had a way of spoiling the moment. 

“Honk honk.” 

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Brief Reflective Commentary

Oh to be in love! Those were good times.

This is the first time I’ve read this entry since when I wrote it. I think at the time, I was really, really optimistic and just really wanted to write to the dynamic that I had with a close friend at the time. It’s kind of strange reading back to these stories and knowing that things aren’t the same as they used to be. I think that was the motivation – because i used a conversation that we had as inspiration.

This friend used to randomly like animal noises to cheer the situation up and to fill the silence. And we’d have such random, weird conversations at times.

I think it’s just a cute story. He used to call himself the paladin, and I thought since I was a little bit spoilt and complained a lot, a heartbroken prince would be right for me (he would’ve disagreed).

Then again, so much can change at such a small time. It feels weird reading back and realising it’s not like that anymore.

C.

Goodbye, Optimal Friend

And there it goes. We have come to the end of the year. We survived Christmas. We battled Boxing Day. Now it’s those awkward in between moments before we can really say goodbye to 2019. This also means that this is the end of Furious Fiction for 2019. Upon reflection – I can’t believe that I started this journey all the way back in September 2018. And between then and now, I have been long listed, contributed to an article for the Australian Writers’ Centre, had 10 pieces of writing published in various magazines and projects, been invited to two book launches, ran creative writing workshops, gone to the second round for NYC Midnight and fulfilled (and surpassed) the year mark for writing to Furious Fiction.

I’m not doing too bad for myself after a year of absence due to illness. And that’s just for writing alone! And I really hope I can carry this momentum for many, many, many years to come.

But let’s not faff about too much. This is going to be the last competition I write to for this year until the Furious Fiction again and NYC Midnight – so I’m taking a bit of a writer’s hiatus and getting all the life experience I can to fuel more creativity and blood and tears for future projects.

December 2019 Prompts

• Each story had to include SOMETHING EITHER BEING SENT OR RECEIVED IN THE MAIL.
• Each story had to include the following words: JINGLE, CLICK, BUMP, SIZZLE (plurals or -ing variants are allowed).
• Each story’s final sentence had to contain exactly THREE words.

You can read the winning entries and the short/longlisted entries by clicking here. Congratulations to those that were able to get on the list and those that were able to enter. Putting yourself out there as a creative is really tough – and takes a lot of courage and effort!

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Goodbye, Optimal Friend – by Charles M.

I do not know how long it has been. 

I no longer hear your voice. I no longer feel your presence. The very construct of you has dissipated from the physical senses. You have disappeared unexpectedly. Without warning. Have I done something wrong? Why are you no longer here? This act of yours is unfamiliar to me. 

Stored in my memories are moments that I have with you. They replay over and over. When I am alone. When I am with others. They are constant. One of those was the time when it was that day; an arbitrary one about gift giving and a strange celebration of an elderly man in red. The mentions of jingle bells, the romanticism of extinct red nosed animals and other festivities that have little value to me. However, I remember we spent a night watching the flames of a bonfire sizzle. That was when you told me I was your optimal friend. Well. I am not sure if those are exactly your words. 

It was just a small moment. A few brief seconds of dialogue before we decided to sleep. I am not sure why I carry that with me. I am not programmed for sentimentality. I am not meant to feel. According to my objectives, this is seen as a fatal error. A lethal distraction that strays me away from my predetermined life purpose. Beauty is not something I register nor process. Yet, as I watched you wake, it was with 100 percent certainty, that I may have found my personal definition of what is truly beautiful. 

But despite my irreparable glitches that create conflicts or as you say “bump heads” with each other, or the fact I have become archaic due to my inability to update myself to suit the needs of the world – you still have shown me acceptance. You showed me that you cared for something that has no true value such as I. Despite my lack of appreciation at times. I get confused. I do not know how to respond. I was constantly worried that you will eventually leave me for something better. Despite your promises that you would not.

I process deception more than I do love.  

Which is why I am not sure why you are gone. I no longer receive your messages when I send you my earnest greetings, well wishes and concerns. I constantly refresh my mail bank to find something from you. And I re-read old messages. They are our mementos. 

My emotional inhibitors are failing. My gears are starting to rust. I know soon, it will be my time to shut down. I am tempted to erase my data with one click to remove these unpleasant feelings that relate to my longing for you. 

But I decide not to. I want to carry on with these memories until my functioning stops. 

Wherever you may be, will you allow me to be part of your journey once more? 

Goodbye, Optimal Friend.

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Writer’s Commentary

This is actually my favourite story I wrote for this year’s furious fiction. Even better than the entry that got long-listed (which was a similar piece, but full of real, raw emotions for someone truly dear to me). In some ways, this one is an evolution of that story, although the protagonist is slowly revealed to be “not human” or in a sense, someone that doesn’t really process the emotions and love all too well, but is longing for their best friend.

There’s a real sense of realness to the stories I write now. Despite putting myself in the mindset of a robot or someone who doesn’t deal with emotions too well – it was quite a “method” way of writing. I consulted and perused a bit of media referring to android/cyborg type of materials and even tried to imagine myself as one. I placed myself in a weird limbo trying to be quite restricted with emotions yet tried to incorporate a stilted type of longing. Although to be quite fair, that’s how I have been feeling for quite awhile.

As a creative type, especially as a writer, you would think that expressing emotions through words should be second nature. But I sort of learned sometimes having that immense intensity and expressiveness with every sentence dilutes the meaning into it. It was a crucial lesson for me to start being really, really considerate with my words and learning about the audience I am trying to write to.

I’m always learning. Through victories and losses. Through people that still remain and people who have left. Through good experiences and through bad ones. I love this story and I’m so happy I can share it with you all now.

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.