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.

---

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.

---

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!”

---

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.

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

---

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.

---

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

---

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.”

---

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

---

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. 

---

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

---

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.” 

---

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!

---

 

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.

---

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.”

---

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.

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

---

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.

---

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.

Benoit

I am literally one month away from competing for Furious Fiction for a whole year. My first entry was in September 2018! And I really feel like I’ve come a long way since then! Sure, I do suffer from the syndrome Glenn Close may feel during the Oscars and I haven’t been chosen as a winner, shortlist or longlist despite having over 10+ entries. But I’m feeling really good. It’s a challenge that despite – not technically “winning” by not being published – that I’ve been able to rise to the occasion and have many, MANY close calls on not being able to.

I highly encourage any writer, whether experience or first-timer to try this competition. Over these years, I have been published in other publications, been rejected way more times – and I think that’s really built a nice suit of armour – though not impenetrable but it has definitely helped me so much in gaining my confidence and resilience.

So without further ado. You can read the winning entries here. 

And the prompts for this month were:

August 2019 Prompts

• Each story had to include, word for word, ALL of the following SIX descriptions:
  SHINY, SILVER
  COLD AND GREASY
  SCRATCHED AND WEATHER-WORN
  SWEET AND PUNGENT
  INK-STAINED
  SHRILL, PIERCING
• One of these six descriptions had to appear in the first sentence of each story.

---

Benoit by Charles M.

Nothing could sway him from the shiny, silver watches and clocks he saw at the community antique marketplace he went to every Wednesday. His face beaming and his eyes aglow with excitement and joy.

Even the scratched and weather-worn pieces were inescapable of his affections and interests. He only bought the ones that were cheap and looked behind repair. In fact, it was those pieces that he paid more attention to since there was a history behind those compared to the ones still left their original packaging. He could conjure up any story about the previous owners after he would ask the merchant about them. Most of the time it was a sales pitch to ignite his interest. But it was redundant. He would have bought them either way. And would repair the watches so they looked brand new. He inherited this skill and passion from his grandfather. 

He would muster up the little money he saved over the week working at the cold and greasy factories ninety miles from his home. It was not favourable – but he was desperate. He had a father to care for after all. He was all that he had.

He would come home from the factory with his hands, face and clothes all dirty and ink-stained. And would carry a heavy burden and sadness in his eyes despite proclaiming that he was alright. He didn’t think his father could hear the shrill, piercing cries in the night from an injury he sustained within the year he started work at the factory. 

And then one day, he never came back home.

“And then what happened?” the therapist asked me. 

I woke up from my recollection. I took a deep breath. Benoit’s face fading fast from my mind. 

They called me in the mortuary. And it was there I saw his lifeless, little body. Disfigured. Covered with dried blood. And a look of sheer horror and fear on his face. He was only ten. 

“I know… this may be difficult to answer and you don’t have to. But… How did you manage to get here?”

That’s easy. It turned out he was selling the watches and clocks he repaired to fund for my treatment. He made a plan for us to escape our horrible life of poverty once I got better and he saved up more than I realised. He was always sad that he felt he failed me. But every day as his father – I felt I failed him. 

Now I just miss the days where he’d smell like blood orange and cinnamon – from the sweet and pungent body wash that was his favourite after he finished having a bath. And the time I will never have with him again. 

---

Writer’s Commentary

Is it weird to say that a sort of protest/grief story that is anti Child Labour was inspired by Veronica Mars season 4? Without going TOO much into detail (because I know the wounds of the Season 4 finale are pretty fresh, the storytelling aspect of a story being retroactively told, with the twist being that the person that’s “speaking to the reader/viewer” is actually speaking to a therapist was although not an original twist / but something I wanted to tackle.

The name Benoit was always a favourite of mine. And one that I came across early 2000s when I was watching tennis and heard the name from Benoit Paire. Ironically, the story wasn’t inspired by him but another story that I wrote for furious fiction called Hometown Hero and the central character was sort of inspired by him, particularly the rather friendly/charming aspect hidden under the facade of media scrutiny and temperamental aspects of on court behaviour (the character itself was an amalgam of so many tennis players I actually really like that seem to have the trend of being “bratty” but extremely talented but also face enormous pressure to succeed).

The actual story is based on a Russian penpal I write to occasionally. Although fortunately the gritty end isn’t truthful, but people who live in harsh conditions needing to do what they need to do to survive but also having the burden with having a family member with a disability.

Then the next twist – the person with a disability having the ability to express their thoughts – and the rawness of the guilt they feel for what they have. We always think of people with disability being incapable to express how they feel – but from my work – the more time you get to spend with them – you learn more and more about them, and then you realise that a lot of society doesn’t give them the time. It was a commentary on how we disregard the mental health of people with disability. What’s seen as “too tough” in society is seen as disposable or not worth it.

But people are always worth it. And I hope Benoit shows that.

C.