Tag: Personal

Psychic Boy Incorporated

Mr Charles K MLeave a comment

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.

Goodbye, Optimal Friend

Mr Charles K MLeave a comment

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.

Perpetual Turns of Resounding Chaos

Mr Charles K M1 Comment

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.

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. 

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

Mr Charles K M1 Comment

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!

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.

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

Mr Charles K M1 Comment

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

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.” 

Writer’s Commentary

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

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

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

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

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

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

C.

Imagined Daily Tragedies

Mr Charles K M1 Comment

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

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

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

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

Tim Wales – Paper Animals

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

Swinburne Microfiction Challenge

Day 2 – Make

Imagined Daily Tragedies 

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

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

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

“I guess I wasn’t enough for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Writer’s Commentary

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

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

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

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

The Year I Lost My Life

Mr Charles K M2 Comments

What more is there to say? Another year, another Swinburne Microfiction Challenge competition! If you didn’t know, the Swinburne Microfiction Challenge is where every day for five days, you are given a one word prompt to respond to and you need to write a piece of flash fiction that is 500 words or less. Upon some reflection from how I went last year – I felt like I did a LOT of growing up and my writing process has slightly altered. With Furious Fiction and now having multiple written pieces published and also being so much more busier as a person – I think it would be a great task to actually see if my writing has even evolved after all these years.

I’m publishing these things a lot faster than I did last year. This one being directly after the winner of day 1 was announced. I’m not really waiting around or there really isn’t a schedule – if there’s a day or time when I’m free – I publish it!

You can read ALL my previous Swinburne Microfiction Challenge entries via this link here (or by going to my rejected stories page and just clicking them from there).

Before we begin – I would like to congratulate the winner for Day 1, Patrick Boxall – Blue Cabins. Absolutely an inventive piece of literature that was enjoyable, intriguing and effectively written. I really enjoyed this.

And now for my entry:

 

Swinburne Microfiction Challenge (2019)

Day 1 – Ghost

The Year I Lost My Life

I remember it so vividly. It still haunts me to this day. The inoperable trauma that sometimes suffocates me with its relentless lack of discrimination and empathy. An inescapable sense of fearful apprehension, a foreboding presence that possessed and became the fabric of my soul and my weakened spirit. The time I lost a year of my life.

Frequently I sat at blindingly light rooms waiting for the judges in white coats and stethoscopes to determine my fate. There was not a second of comfort, tormented by the chills of death for the forsaken that were in a similar predicament as me. Across the room was an elderly man named Francis, constantly calling out his daughter’s name. I overheard the conversation between the nurses and doctors – post traumatic stress disorder. He had frequent episodes reliving the moment his daughter drowned at the beach. His screams still echo in my mind – his sadness and desperation all the more apparent as his voice soon got hoarse and then faded into a whimper and soon into quiet sobs slightly buried by the pillows I assumed he had tried to conceal with his head face down on them. 

Emmeline used to sit by the window singing the songs of Judy Garland. She was convinced she was her. She matched her cadence and her mannerisms although her voice wasn’t exactly as spectacular. Still, you could feel the rawness of her baring her heart despite mumbling when forgetting the words to “The Man that Got Away.” It was only a few days ago they rolled her corpse out of the clinic. She had broken into where the medication was stored and overdosed. She spoke about missing her children constantly with such magnetic fervour, I was convinced she truly believed in her own words. 

Then there was me. I stared constantly at the dirty glass of water and the countless pills that were fed to me by the doctors I couldn’t trust. They barely spent a few minutes with me and had an air of arrogance and I knew they didn’t even want to be there. Their lack of interest was evident from their deadpan tones of rehearsed questions only to fulfill a checklist they were obligated to ask. 

Now I step back into these memories, a year later and I never would have believed I would have ever recovered. These wards were just where spirits came to die. They say it just takes time to heal all wounds. But when the wounds become too great, time just eventually takes you. 

This is where my old spirit died. Yet in death – I still carry the scars of both the past and my experiences with those that still remain and those that have passed away. 

Writer’s Commentary

I’ll be honest – at the point of writing this story, I was absolutely wrecked from sleep deprivation. I had just come back from Brisbane the night before for a conference where I was working – and even at that point with all the luxury and great treatment – I found myself having a really hard time for sleep. Days were incredibly long and I missed being at home but then I wanted to be away from home. There was a restless sense of displacement where I didn’t feel like I belonged anywhere I went and I didn’t feel like I belonged just with myself.

It’s kind of been something I’ve been going through for awhile now. And given the nature of the conference was Mental Health related, I wanted to tackle the experiences of those I spoke to and finally address my own experiences through my mental health journey.

The story of Francis is true. I was at hospital and I was waiting to get my diagnosis from the doctors – and in my room which I shared with four others – there was a man who kept crying out a female name. For the sake of confidentiality, of course I changed all the identifiable details apart from the two things that really haunted me – his screams and the reason for his post traumatic stress disorder. There was a carelessness on how the nurses approached the really sensitive details of his story – where they spoke quite loudly about his reason for hospitalisation. I found it so incredibly sad – and I didn’t delve further about the other things that happened – because of how upsetting it was.

It was a profound moment for me – just seeing how incredibly broken the mental health system was. How insensitive clinicians could be to people so incredibly vulnerable. I think at the midst of my anger of not being able to find something “creative” to write about for this prompt – I decided to really stick it where it hurts – a protest piece about how horrific the wards can be for people suffering from mental illness. How it is almost like a perpetual cycle of things not getting better because of the way things are right now.

It was a genuinely upsetting experience writing this story. But I’ve found lately, I’ve been less afraid to write about things that actually instigate really powerful emotional responses from me. My long-listed entry for Furious Fiction was basically a raw love letter.

And I hope that somehow means I’m becoming a better writer.

C.

Two Copies Sold

Mr Charles K MLeave a comment

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

Mr Charles K MLeave a comment

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.

To The Bitter End

Mr Charles K MLeave a comment

I’ll let you know why I can post my rejected Furious Fiction entries quite fast. I save them in advance hoping for the best, but knowing that there was a good chance that it wouldn’t be shortlisted (or the recently added LONG-LISTED entries), so I’ve got it saved up and formatted somewhere ready to copy and paste. I leave the piece as it is – warts and grammar mistakes and strange expressions and all (unless it’s absolutely glaring – and detracts or detracts from what I was trying to come across) because it would feel inauthentic.

I did have future plans on possibly expanding some of the stories and modifying them for a collection of short stories (or what I deem as my Flash Fiction BEST HITS) – but that does inevitably mean that I will eventually take down some of these stories for my blog. But I really do want some of these stories to have a life outside this blog at some point (of course with full credit going to me!). But the collection right now is too small for a cohesive collection – and I want to thread a theme (not consciously, because I don’t want to write to a set theme) where I feel like that a random collection of stories have a really strong theme amongst them.

I am coming close to a year since I’ve competed for the Furious Fiction (it started out last August – so in two months I would have competed for a year! I’ve already written 11 flash fictions and unfortunately no short-list yet! But I’m happy i do get to publish them in my own terms.

June 2019’s Prompts

  • The story had to take place at a PARTY of some kind.
  • The story had to include a BUTTON.
  • The story had to include the following sentence (which was to be completed with one or more words): The air was thick with _______.

And without further ado, I give you what I submitted!

To The Bitter End by Charles M.

His gun was drawn, pressing down on the body of his arch nemesis and the one he deemed, the unrepentant demon of his unfortunate life.

There was an unconvincing confidence with his untameable fury. An instability in his false composure. A quivering sense of control and bravado which resulted in aggressive metallic rattles that went on for minutes as his whole body shook in one, potentially irreversible moment.

“I don’t think you realise how much you destroyed my life that day,” he roared out between wearied gasps and the lines of burden and rage etched all across his wrinkled visage. He took one deep breath and gazed at his silent perpetrator, somewhat dazed with euphoria at the helplessness of his potential victim.

“You ruined my life. You’re the reason I’ve lost everything. My family. My home. Everything. It’s all gone thanks to you,” he continued, gazing around at where he was. It was the living room, filled with streamers, balloons and a fruit-filled cake with the white chocolate plaque that said “happy birthday Gerald.”

“You got nothing to say eh? I’ve been hunting you down for a very long time. 3 years actually, scouring every single city, town, village and nest I could find. Must be a shame I gate-crashed what happens to be your birthday.”

He took another breath.

“I used to have everything you have,” he said looking around the room, seeing the family photos of their partner and children mocking him with their careless smiles perched on grey stoned fireplace.

“Yeah. Everything.”

He then let a sorrowful exhale. The air was thick with an unrelenting silence where the atmosphere of the room felt a suffocating tension. Slowly, he loosened up one button on his perpetually creased and moderately stained white shirt and shifted to a more relaxed state.

“I really don’t want to do this. But you gotta give me a reason why I shouldn’t,” he said in an uninterrupted whisper with a heavy sense of desperation in his voice.

“Please. Just tell me why you did what you did.”

His composure was broken once more. His eyes started to well with tears and the metallic rattles began to start once more, complementing the rain that could be heard beating down on the roof and the outside world through the windows.

And in a small moment, the silent body let out the faintest sound.

A small chirp.

And without hesitation, a shot was fired.

“I never got why people always saw your crap on them as a sign of good luck. All that leaves them is needing to clean up your mess.”

The smell of gun-smoke filled the air, but it was incapable of disguising the smell of decay that came from the bodies absent of life still left in the room. 

Writer’s Commentary

This is an abridged version to a short story that was lurking in my head for a while now. When I went for my daily exercise walks – there was a period where almost once a week for an entire month – I’d always have a bird crapping on me which made me really angry.

So I thought – why not make a story completely bonkers about a guy that travels the world seeking a bird that he felt jeopardise his entire life. Eventually I figured out that this concept was WAY too expansive (believe me, it’s got more material than just for a short story). So I decided, just write about the final confrontation and let the readers draw in the gaps.

But I realise that I had been writing quite mundane stories for furious fiction, so I wanted to do a really tense story with a twist at the end that makes it sound completely ludicrous… but then if you thought deeply about it – was disturbing and a social commentary about the way of the world.

I honestly love this story. And that sounds conceited coming from the writer who wrote it – but I feel like it’s a different tone from me! And I tried something different.

Although one thing that was actually intentional was the fat that the title had the word “end” as well as having a joke about someone’s crap.

C.