Furious Fiction (Longlisted and shortlisted colection)

My AWC Furious Fiction submissions below

Cover-up (January 2025)

Your story must take place at a beach. Your story must describe at least two smells, two sounds and two textures.

Maria crouched, watching the wave retreat. The falling tide had revealed the source of the pollution. She scooped some greasy ooze into a bottle, sealed it and put it in her bag. A waft of seaweed replaced the acrid stench.

She had arrived before sunrise and lugged her equipment to the shore, hoping to collect samples before tourists arrived.

Just my luck, she thought, spotting a man on the dunes. She didn’t need spectators.

The wind shifted, bringing back the biting edge that didn’t belong here. A harsh sensation filled the air, hinting at something corrosive, industrial.

The man approached her, seemingly on a habitual stroll. Maria recognised him though, from the refinery’s website. Ethan, if she remembered rightly: the PR rep.

“You know you’re trespassing?” he said.

“The beach is public,” she replied. She knew her rights.

No harm in continuing, she thought, now he knows I’ve seen it.

Maria snapped some close-ups of a leaking barrel before the next wave came. Shells clinked, tumbling in the froth that whispered as it pulled back exposing a patch of compact sand.

“You’re wasting your time,” Ethan said. “No one will believe you’ve found something.”

“Then why do you look nervous?” Maria shot back as she swapped her camera for a spade from her kit. She dug into the firm patch. The surface shattered into jagged pieces like something over-baked. As she pressed harder, the spade sank and so did her foot. Before she could move, the ground crumbled, sending her waist-deep into a pit.

“No!” Ethan shouted.

She scrambled to pull herself out but froze. Under her feet was a square, coarse concrete block, stamped with radiation markings.

“Get out of there!” Ethan’s voice cracked. His face was pale.

She fumbled for her camera, and took some photos. The flash illuminated an emblem: the logo of Ethan’s employer.

“This isn’t just dumping, is it?” her voice trembled, “What’s hidden down here?”

“I don’t know—I swear! They don’t tell me everything. You better get out of there before—”

He was interrupted by distant shouts breaking through the wind. A group of people in dark uniforms were cresting the dunes.

Ethan lunged forward, extending a hand. “Come on!”

She grabbed it and he yanked her out.

“Run,” he hissed.

They sprinted down the beach, angry voices closing in. Ethan knew a short-cut to the car-park.

“Go,” he insisted.

She could have kissed him. One sample would have to do. She fled to her car.

The sharp crack-crack of a gun barely registered with her before she dropped to the ground. She knew the iron-rich scent was blood. Then blackness.

*Bip-bip-bip-bip *

She cracked open an eye.

“She’s coming round,” shouted a nurse.

“My sample?” Maria gasped.

“What sample?”

*Bip-bip-beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee*

Seven Hours (February 2025)

Your story must feature SEVEN of something. Your story must include a character who opens a box. Your story must include the words LADDER, BLANK and CHILL (Longer “s”, “ed” or “ing” variations are acceptable.)

9pm. How on Earth will I get to sleep? I’m not even remotely tired. Come on, brain, stop thinking about the interview tomorrow! I have to be up at four! What if the alarm doesn’t go off? Check it. It’s set. I’m NEVER in bed this early. PLEASE, brain. Switch off!! Focus on my big toe. That’s it. Now the next one. Third, fourth, little toe. Top of my foot. Ignore that itch. Sole of the foot. Ankle. Oh, train pass! Better find it. Ugh, bright light! Where IS it? Aha, it’s in my bag. Should get some earrings ready while I’m up. The fancy ones in the music box. Shush! Dingdingaling to you, too. Back to bed. Listen to the traffic. Truck. Car. Bus. Car.

10pm. Have I been asleep? These sheets are rough! How should I address the interviewer? Sir? Mr Morris. Edward. Not Ted! Here we go again. Think about NOTHING, brain! Too hard? Grass, then. Imagine standing on cold, fresh grass. Perfect. Feel grass between my toes. What’s his name? Morris? Morris Edwards. Edward Morris? Stop!

11pm. We built this cityyyy. We built this city on rocckkk an’ rolll. Dedoooodooo doodoo. What’s WITH that song? Have I slept? Interview. No! Grass. Feet. Toes, big toe, next toe. Breathe in, haaaahhh, out, phhhoooooo-ooo-oo-cough-cough. Where’s my water? Sip. We built this city on rocckkk an’ rollll. SHUT UP, brain. Breathe haaaaahhhh, phhhoooooo. Don’t breathe! Listen! A scratching sound. In the loft. Ignore it. Listen to the traffic. Car. Car. Bus.

12am. Blast! I WAS asleep. The interview’s TODAY! What’s his name, again? Edward? Ted? Teddy Edward? That scratching’s getting loud. Was that a squeak? Should go up and check. Or not. The ladder’s in the shed. Now I need a wee. Ooh, bathroom floor’s cold! Ahhhh, that’s better. NOW I’ll sleep. Relax my left foot, right foot, shins, knees. Shins? Who relaxes shins?! Whats the back of the knee called? I should know the word. Grass, again. Toes. Think of nothingness. Blank mind.

1am. We built this cityyyy on rocckkk an’ rollll. Doom-dedooomdoom, baah-BAHH. Stupid song. What’s another song? Ummm. Apparently brain, you know NO other songs. Marvellous. Is that a car engine idling? Charming! That’ll keep me awake. We built this cityyyyy. Breathe.

2am. Oh, God, the alarm didn’t go off! Quick! Where are my knickers? They’re inside out! Why’s it so dark? Oh, it’s only two o’clock. Chill out! Dress anyway. Lay on top of the bed, ready for when the alarm DOES go off. Now sleep. Built this city on rocckkk an’ rollll. Feet, toes. Grass.

3am. What’s that racket?! BIRDS? Stop listening, brain! Where’s that wretched song gone when I need it? Ding-dong, the witch is dead! Not that one!! Breathe in. Grass. Feet. Birds.

4am. *Beepbeepbeep, beepbeepbeep, beepbeepbeep* “Snorrrrgh, haaaaahh, snorrrrgh.”

First Shift (March 2025 — Shortlisted)

The story must take place entirely in EITHER of the following enclosed spaces: a lift/elevator OR a sauna/steam room. It must include at least TWO characters and must include the words STICK, THUMP and VALUABLE.

The cage lurched as it started its descent, a slow, grinding crawl into the Earth. The walls pressed in tight, and the faint glow of headlamps caught the sheen of sweat on foreheads and the rust clinging to the metal grates.

Elliot gripped his harness strap with white-knuckled fingers, his heart thumping – too fast. It was his first underground shift, and the elevator felt like a coffin. His mum had cried when he left this morning.

“Relax.” muttered Callum, scratching at his grey beard, “you’ll get used to it.”

Elliot nodded stiffly.

“Storm rolling in topside,” said Callum, “saw lightning on the ridge.”

“Great! Hope they take us back up. We’ll get the day off,” said Tom. A few of them chuckled, low and tired. The cage shuddered, and everyone went quiet. The cables creaked above, taut as nerves.

“How deep we going?” Elliot asked, voice barely audible over grinding metal.

“Level 6,” Tom said, cracking his knuckles. “Takes about fifteen minutes. Longest ride of your life first time down!”

Jacob nudged Elliot playfully. “Least we ain’t going to Level 7.”

“What’s wrong with Level 7?” Elliot asked, his voice cracking.

Callum shot Jacob a warning look, but the men laughed.

“Haunted, some say!” Jacob leaned in just enough for his headlamp to touch Elliot’s, making him squint. “Collapsed years back. They pulled most of ‘em out. Sometimes you hear tapping.”

The air in the cage felt tighter.

“They sealed it off after the collapse. Some bloke swears he saw light down there but when he called out, the light just…went out.”

“That’s bollocks,” Callum muttered, “Probably a reflection off some quartz.”

“Or they’re still digging.”

“Shut it, Jake,” Callum snapped.

He patted their valuable new-starter’s shoulder. The cage jolted suddenly, stopping for a breathless second before resuming its descent. They listened to the rhythmic clank of the rollers and the distant hum of the ventilation system.

“Almost there,” Tom muttered.

Metal shrieked as it dropped a little faster. Elliot’s breath caught, and the others instinctively grabbed onto the side rails. He did the same, waiting to see if the elevator would stabilize. It did. The cage kept sinking. His headlamp beam shook as he adjusted his helmet. Then he saw it. A name scratched into the rusted cage wall. “Doug Matthews.” His father’s name. His knees buckled, and he caught himself on the rail, chest heaving.

“You all right?” Callum asked, steadying him with one hand.

“My dad,” Elliot whispered, tapping the name. “He…worked here. He died. That must have been Level 7. I was only four. Mum never told me the details.”

The miners exchanged glances, silent.

Elliot straightened up, dust sticking to his damp face. His pulse hammered, but he clenched his jaw tight.

“I’m finishing the shift,” he said, voice certain, “For my dad.”

The elevator rattled, sinking deeper, carrying him closer to whatever waited in the dark.

Introducing the Intelli-Bed (April 2025)

The story’s setting is a bed, the story’s first sentence must have no ore than three words. The story must include the words SHAPE, ENTER and QUESTION.

The door opened.

Joan turned from the overhead projector as potential investors entered. Their eyes skimmed the bed in the center of the room.

What caught their attention? Its shapeless legs? Unpolished wood? Did anyone spot the tiny buttons in the mattress?

Most faces showed disappointment. Joan suppressed a smile. She liked being underestimated.

“Welcome to the Intelli-Bed,” she said, gesturing awkwardly, “In minutes, you’ll sleep like royalty, wake like a warrior.”

A few exchanged skeptical glances.

“To kick things off, who fancies a nap?”

Samuel volunteered.

“Lie back. Close your eyes.”

He did. Tension melted from his face. “It’s surprisingly comf-” He was out.

Gasps rippled through the group.

“What just happened?”

“The bed lulled him to sleep,” said Joan.

“I wish I could fall asleep that fast!” said Annie.

“Wait.”

Moments later, Samuel sat up. “Whoah! How long was I out?”

“Seconds,” groaned Annie. “Not worth lying down.”

“Best nap I’ve had in years,” he said, stretching.

“Set-up!” scoffed Victoria. “Let me try.”

Victoria was sharp-tongued, difficult to please. Joan’s favorite kind.

“Be my guest.”

“This won’t work,” Victoria muttered, settling in. “I’m not even tired. It’s lumpy. Like-”

And she was out cold.

Seconds later, she bolted upright. “I dreamed. I never dream.”

The room stirred.

“My turn,” said Garry.

“One hour. No less.” He lay down. “Firm. How I like -” Gone.

He awoke. “That was lovely. A full hour!”

“No. Fifty seconds,” said Joan.

Shona stepped up. “Put me down for eight hours.” She sank into the mattress and was asleep.

Garry approached Joan. “I’m sold. I’ll invest. But, I do have a question. I know your IP is off-limits, but how does it work?”

Joan flicked on the overhead projector. The fan whirred and a hand-drawn diagram glowed yellow: micro-accelerators, superconductors, a wormhole.

“Its physics. Shona, right now, is here,” she said, “eight hours in the past. The bed stretches her timeline. She rests.”

Stunned silence.

Shona murmured. “Oh boy.”

“Two minutes,” someone said, checking their watch.

“How do we know this isn’t a con?” another challenged, leaping onto the bed.

The others piled on. “Lets all have a go!”

“Multiple sleepers are untested!” warned Joan.

Victoria smacked the button and dived back on. Silence fell.

Two minutes passed. Then four. At ten, someone farted. At eleven, someone shouted “Biscuits!” and another snored.

Joan took notes. Data was data.

After two hours, effectively three weeks of sleep, they surfaced, dazed.

Sixty years on, none have spoken of their shared dream. They formed a conglomerate, signed Joan on for life and walk among us, still. You know how some tech appears ahead of its time? It is.

And you know how some people never age, and never tire? Ask yourself: how plain is their bed?

So, next time a door opens, go through it.

Last Chance (May 2025)

Your story must include a VOTE for something or someone. Your story must feature an item made of silk. Your story must include the words ANGRY, CIRCLE and STRIKE.

April 30th, western England

The oak trees loomed black against the Beltane Moon as the villagers gathered on the green. Elena clutched the banner she’d worked on all year – deep yellow, gold-threaded, the rarest silk. Her finest creation, but her hands trembled.

Tonight wasn’t just a vote for the next Silk Bearer – the one to firewalk, to strike the first spark, to be remembered. At twenty winters, she was nearly too old. Tonight was her last chance. Becoming the Silk Bearer meant she could become May Queen, and be noticed – maybe even rise to village leader.

Elena wanted it desperately. But Old Oswin wanted it for Aida, his youngest. His other children had been bearers. Oswin was fierce, and the villagers voted for them out of fear. He stood smirking by the bonfire, tossing back ale. Elena caught his eye. He winked, and her stomach lurched.

It was time. The villagers formed a circle around the candidates who each spoke. Elena’s turn

“I made your banner with love. I’ll carry it and lead, just as I can lead the village.” Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some nodded.

Aida laughed. “Bold tonight, Ellie? You’re not young. If you fall, we’re doomed.”

“Be kind,” hissed Oswin. Who would choose a spiteful Silk Bearer?

He raised his voice. “Vote, everyone! Let’s not waste the Moon.”

The votes came slow, hands rising, names whispered. When the count was done, the choice was clear.

“Brea.”

Little nine-year-old Brea?

Elena’s throat closed. All her work. She’d earned it. And they chose a child? Aida turned her back to her furious father.

Brea’s wide eyes lifted to Elena. With trembling hands, she reached for the banner.

“Help me?” she asked.

For a long moment, Elena wanted to refuse, to leave them to their foolish choice. The girl could trip. Oswin would love Brea to fail and Elena to be angry. But Elena wanted neither. She looked into the girl’s frightened eyes. Bless her, she only needed someone’s support.

Elena knelt, draping the silk around Brea. Taking the girl’s hand, she led her toward the coals.

Elena stepped back as the first spark lit. People cheered. Brea’s small feet flew across the glowing embers, swift and sure. Elena yearned to know how it felt. Why shouldn’t she, or anyone else, experience this? Treading onto the coals, she dashed across them, each step precise, her momentum carrying her like a whisper.

People gasped. Oswin grabbed Elena, throwing her to the ground.

“Only Silk Bearers firewalk!” he snarled. “You’re a disgrace.”

“She’s not,” said a voice. Aida. She was crossing the coals.

The others followed, exhilarated, embracing Elena and dancing.

Elena retreated into the cool night, smoke in her hair like a fading crown. Something settled in her heart. To be followed like that was a vote of confidence. She would never be May Queen, but she was already the leader they needed.

MIKE Delta Echo (June 2025 — Longlisted)

Awaiting text

State of the heart (July 2025)

Your story must take place at either a BACHELOR or BACHELORETTE party. Your story must feature at least two characters arguing. Your story must include the words BLOCK, CLOCK and SHOCK.

Becky wanted a simple bachelorette party. Something classy. Her maid of honour, Jess, had planned the evening. “Wine, art and a surprise!” said the invite.

It started innocently enough. The “Paint and Sip” class was in a converted yoga studio. Plenty of chardonnay, laughter, and an aggressively strong cheese platter.

“This is perfect, Jess. Really.” Becky hugged her.

“Wait till you see the surprise.”

The chiffon-clad instructor clapped her hands.

“Okay, ladies! To your easels,” she said, pointing at the clock. “You have one hour to capture Jamie’s powerful energy!”

Jamie entered. Naked. Calm. Unapologetic. A hush fell.

The wine glass slipped from Becky’s hand, shattering on the floor. Her childhood crush. Her fiancé’s brother. And more.

She looked at Jess, who showed no signs of shock.

“Jess?”

“Surprise!!”

Jamie mounted the block in the centre, struck a pose, and winked at Becky.

Everyone knew Becky had a thing for Jamie since school. And everyone believed she’d settled for his brother, Simon, like a consolation prize. What no one knew about was their fling.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“Jess invited me.”

“You thought this was a good idea?!” Becky turned to her, face flushed.

“It’s a bit of fun! You like Jamie, and he’s better than a stripper!”

The instructor laughed. “Models aren’t supposed to talk, Jamie, love. Come on, ladies. Get painting.”

Jamie returned to his pose, but he wasn’t finished.

“That fling, Becks. Turns out I shouldn’t have ignored you all those years. We’re great together. Before you marry my brother, please – will you reconsider?”

“Like THIS?”

“I have a right to know.”

“No! You lost that right when you said you were in love with someone else.”

Jamie tilted his head. “Did I?”

The instructor coughed awkwardly. “More wine?” She topped everyone up, regardless.

Bridesmaids two and three hovered near the cheese table, half-eyeing Jamie and stifling drunken giggles. Leah blindly blobbed paint onto the canvas. Sandy scribbled charcoal like her life depended on it.

Jess gripped Becky’s arm. “I thought this would be fun! Even Simon agreed to this.”

“Simon knows?!” Becky’s knees buckled. Jamie caught her and lowered her onto a battered sofa.

She looked up, holding back the urge to kiss him. It had always been about Jamie.

Then he kissed her.

“What are you doing, Jamie? I’m your brother’s fiancée. And you’re in love with someone else!”

“I never said that.”

“You did!”

“No. I said I was in love with someone I shouldn’t be. I meant you.”

Everyone froze.

Becky pulled away. Her cheeks flushed. She stood.

“Jess. Everyone. Enjoy the rest of the evening. I have to make a call.”

She stepped outside into the night, phone in hand.

Her thumb hovered over Simon’s name.

Eventually, she touched ‘dial’.

It had always been about Jamie.

Potty Porridge Plot (August 2025 — Longlisted)

Your story must take place at a table. Your story must feature a character who tells a lie. Your story must include the words GLASS, RICH and SPEED.

The kitchen was quiet. Three wooden chairs circled the table. In one sat Goldilocks eyeing an empty bowl. Next to her, Baby Bear cradled his cup of milk. In the third chair sat the Detective scribbling in his notebook. Two bowls of cold porridge were making him queasy.

“Let’s try again, Miss Locks. Did you steal Baby’s porridge?”

Goldilocks crossed her arms, legs bouncing impatiently beneath the table.

“No. I told you. It was gone when I arrived. The door was ajar. Anyone could’ve walked in!”

“Baby Bear, remind me, what happened?”

“Dad made breakfast. It was too hot. We went out. When we returned Goldilocks was in my bed. SHE stole my porridge.”

The Detective scribbled. “Mr and Mrs Bear, anything else?”

“After we left,” said Daddy Bear, “Baby came back then caught up with us. He was only a minute.”

“Why did you return?”

“I had to poo.”

“Ridiculous,” said Goldilocks, “Bears do THAT in the woods.”

“True,” said the Detective, “and it WAS a bit speedy.”

“He’s celiac,” explained Mummy Bear.

The Detective cleared his throat. “Miss Locks, why were you in Baby’s bed?”

She shrugged. “Heading home from an all-nighter at the Three Pigs, I saw the door open. I popped in for a glass of water. The bed looked inviting. Voila!”

A shadow flickered past the window.

“Hello?” called Red Ridinghood at the door. “What’s happening?”

“We’re investigating a robbery,” said Mummy Bear.

“Goldilocks stole my porridge,” squeaked Baby Bear.

Goldilocks rolled her eyes.

“Who else could it have been?” growled Daddy Bear.

“Hansel? Gretel? Red Ridinghood?” suggested Goldilocks, “SHE’s suspiciously returned to the scene of the crime. AND she’s been packing on the pounds”

Red looked her up and down. “That’s rich coming from you!”

“Hey! I bake great cakes. And I’d never touch that smelly porridge.”

“My porridge isn’t smelly! Everyone loves it.”

Mummy Bear patted his shoulder. “It’s fine, love.”

Goldilocks sniffed. “No offence but I wouldn’t touch it if I was starving. It’s grim.”

“Baby? You like daddy’s porridge?”

Baby shook his head. “Sorry, Dad.”

Daddy Bear frowned. “SOMEONE likes it. They ate it all up!”

“No-one ate it all up,” whispered Baby Bear, “I didn’t come back to poo. I came back to throw my porridge away.”

“How could you?” said Mummy Bear. “What’ll you eat?”

“I ordered something from BrekkyLog.”

“Taadaaaa,” said Red opening her basket, “that’s my job. I deliver food.”

Everyone gazed at the gluten-free croissants and donuts.

“Now you’re talking,” said Mummy Bear.

Goldilocks stood up.

“Are we done? I’m off, then. But first. Detective, enough with the scribbling – learn how to write. Mummy Bear, love your bedding. Daddy Bear, skip the porridge. Baby Bear – you’re a cereal liar. And, I suspect, a serial liar!”

She left. Red laughed. Nobody else got it.

The Hengineers (September 2025 — Shortlisted)

Your story must take place at a famous landmark. Your story’s first sentence must be a question. Your story must include the words LINK, ORANGE, VOICE.

“What do you mean, we’re building a HENGE?” said Garun, eyeing the massive stones.

“So Wolf reckons,” said Klem.

“Not a pub, then?!”

“Look around. Clearly, its a henge.”

Garun squinted. “I suppose, now you mention it. Aren’t henges wooden?”

“Wolf says it’s a next-gen henge.”

“Ridiculous.”

“Wolf,” said Klem, “tell Garun!”

“It’s a henge. I overheard the boss.”

“But its STONE.”

“Built to last, apparently. For our children’s children.”

“Children?! We haul rocks. Who has energy for – that.”

“Let’s go on strike,” said Klem.

They downed tools, linked arms and began chanting: “Down with the henge! Down with the henge!”

Their supervisor, Aelf turned up.

“Get back to work.”

“We’ve been conned,” said Garun.

“That’s a serious allegation.”

“I signed up to build a pub!”

“Signed? Where’s your contract?”

Garun sighed. It was a verbal agreement, and the witness was a donkey.

“Nobody wants henges!” said Garun, his voice squeaky, “And I bet they didn’t do community outreach.”

“We consulted the population of Sarum.”

“All ten of them?”

“Ten, including their goats, gave us the thumbs up.”

“Goats don’t have thumbs.”

“Regardless, we have the social licence to operate. Get back to work.”

“I want a child,” blurted out Wolf.

“So do we,” said Klem, clasping Garun’s arm. “Or the right to have children. Else, we’re not finishing it.”

“What if its an entertainment henge,” humoured Aelf, “that SERVES beer?”

“Seriously? It’s miles from anywhere. No one will come. Ever.”

“This is special,” said Aelf, “its progress.”

Other workers got involved. “We’ve been building a HENGE?” “That’s specialist work. I want back pay!” “And health cover!”

Aelf was out of his depth. The chants continued.

“We want a pub. We want pay. We want to have children. We want to work from home.”

“That one’s ridiculous.” said Aelf. At least a pub was sensible.

“I’ll arrange a meeting,” he said, knowing it would take weeks.

The workers entertained themselves. Someone brought beer. The stones used for rolling the bigger ones became a stage. Everyone got drunk.

“Look at that,” said Garun one evening.

The orange orb in the sky was perfectly aligned with the biggest rock. Garun clambered up, to get closer. Unsteady, he stood tall and spread his arms wide.

“I’m your loyal subject’” he shouted to the Sun. And then he wobbled. And fell.

Health and safety was unimportant in Aelf’s opinion, but even he gasped.

Everyone sobbed. They placed Garun’s pieces in the last giant hole they’d dug. Together they lowered the final stone above his remains.

Aelf was delighted. “I’ve decided to stop building the henge,” he lied, seeing they’d unwittingly finished the project. “Go home!”

So they returned to their homes to have children.

Except Wolf and Klem. They stayed and started a pub, just in case anyone bothered to visit Stonehenge.

The rest, as they say, is history.

The Number 42 (October 2025 — Longlisted)

Your story must take place on public transport. Your story must include a character who cries. Your story must include the exact phrases YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE and NEVER JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER.

Diane sat slumped on the Number 42 bus, crying into a bag of soggy chips. It was dark, cold, and raining. She wanted to get home. She closed her eyes to shut out her misery.

Across the aisle was a man in a dressing gown and slippers, reading a book entitled “How to See the World on Five Pence”.

“Wow!” said the man.

Diane cracked open an eye and gave him a flat-lipped smile.

“Did you know,” he continued, “you can get the 65 from Brixton, straight to Barcelona?”

“For five pee?” said Diane, knowing price wasn’t the issue.

“Yep.”

“You going?”

“No, I’m heading to Australia. Like you.”

“Not me. I’m going home to Putney.”

“Check your ticket.”

To humour him, Diane did so. She sat bolt upright.

“Brisbane? But my cat’s at home! How does this even WORK?”

“You need one of these,” he said waggling his travel guide, “or sit next to somebody WITH one.”

“It’s just a book.”

“Never judge a book by its cover, friend. Look, your cat’ll be fine. I’ve done this before. My wife’s in bed,” He gestured to his dressing gown. “She thinks I’m putting out the bins! I’ll be back before she misses me.”

The conductor rang the bell. “Last stop! Brisbane!”

Outside was bright sunshine, palm trees. Heat shimmered on the pavement.

“Come have a look. You only live once! We don’t have long.”

Diane stepped off the bus. She was sure she was dreaming, yet the air was soft, full of distant laughter. Her shoes were still damp, but for the first time in months she smiled. She sat on a bench beneath a jacaranda tree, watching petals drift like purple snow. A woman pushing a pram nodded as if she knew her. Nearby, a magpie warbled. An odd white bird with a beak like chopsticks rootled in a bin.

After five minutes the man in the dressing gown reappeared, wiping his brow. “What a beaut!” he said, handing Diane a bottle of water. “Ha! I’d better lose this accent before I get home!”

The bus doors hissed open.

“Coming?”

Diane shook her head. “I’ll catch the next one.”

The man grinned, gave a salute, and vanished with the bus.

Diane looked up at the sky, bluer than she’d ever seen. Warm wind brushed her face. When the next bus arrived she boarded, then closed her eyes to sleep.

When she opened them again, she was back in London, cold and dark, chip bag in one hand, empty Mount Franklin bottle in the other. She emptied her pocket: a ticket marked Queen Street Mall, a single purple petal, a melted Caramello Koala.

With feelings of hope, and homesickness for Brisbane, she made herself a promise. “Tomorrow, I’ll buy a book.”

And then she went home to her cat.

2024 Furious Fiction Entries

Bo-Peep’s Baby Breakthrough (January 2024)

The story must take place on a character’s FIRST DAY OF A NEW JOB. It must include something being stolen and the words TRIP, TRIANGLE and TSUNAMI.

Breaking news: Bo-Peep’s lamb has been found.

Lamby was rescued today from a storm drain underneath a car park at Winersh Triangle.

Lamby bleated inconsolably, after being discovered by police rookie, Tommy Tucker.

Hero, Tommy, on his first day on the job, was flushed away by a deluge following weeks of rain in Berkshire.

“It was like a tsunami!” shouted Tommy from the drain, in our exclusive interview, “I got washed down here. Lamby was clinging to a ledge. Can someone get me out please? I think my leg is broken.”

The community had given up on seeing Lamby again after Bo-Peep lost her on a trip to the Berkshire village, weeks ago.

“Tommy’s a brave lad,” said Inspector Jaques, “even with all the thunder going off. He’ll be a credit to the unit if we can get him out of that drain. Still, at least Lamby is safe.”

Lucky to be alive, Lamby is being cared for while Old MacDonald makes a mercy dash with his sheep shearing unit to remove her wet wool.

Several locals turned out to witness the event.

“She’s pretty putrid,” said bystander and critic, Jack Horner, “I can only imagine what she’s been eating all this time.”

Other locals were equally concerned.

“She’s an environmental hazard if you ask me,” said Ms Muffett, “she stinks.”

Tom-Tom, the Piper’s son was on the scene. Known for running off with livestock, he was sent away from the lamb’s holding pen by police.

While all eyes are on Lamby’s recovery, questions are now being raised about Bo-Peep, who was unavailable for comment. Pundits say she is “particularly good at losing Lamby and friends.”

“She’s lost those things more times than I’ve had hot dinners,” said Mother Hubbard, “Bo-Peep should not be allowed to have animals. Hold up – where’s my dog? My dog! Hey, you! Come back with my dog!”

Inspector Jaques pursued Tom-Tom who stole Mother Hubbard’s dog during the interview.

Meanwhile, cheery champion, Tommy, had the final word from deep inside the storm drain.

“I now know how Incey Wincey felt,” he joked, about his debut as a police trainee, “but, seriously. My leg IS broken. Can someone get me out?”

Next up: Hubbard defends dog who bit ruffian.

Precious playtime (February 2024)

The story’s first sentence must include something being POPPED. The story must include a character who references a FILM title and the story must include the words LEAP, BOTTLE and SHADOW.

Maurice breathed out hard one more time into the rubbery gum stretching from his lips, causing it to finally fail in a gentle but satisfying, ‘pop’. He grinned at his brother as it folded backwards covering his nose and chin.

“Do it again,” demanded Billy, “again.”

Maurice peeled it off and stuffed it back in his mouth. Looking into his little brother’s doting eyes, he chewed hard. His jaw was aching – not surprising, after two hours. Being just ten, it was hard being a big brother when your little sibling was so fragile.

Maurice stopped chewing and exercised his heavy jaw muscles, pursing his lips into a kiss shape.

“Come on,” insisted Billy, now laughing at Maurice’s apparent face-pulling, and whose cheeks were deep pink from bits of bubble gum and exertion.

“You look like that pig,” said Billy giggling, “Babe!.”

“You look like Miss Piggy!” retorted Maurice through his gum. He pushed it into the back of his teeth, took a long deep breath and started to blow.

It was Billy’s turn to pull faces, now. Maurice struggled to not laugh. Billy started monkey antics.

“Ooo OoooOooo!” he went, scratching his arm pits.

Maurice couldn’t help himself – as he let out a loud laugh, the bubble gum shot out, straight into Billy’s eye.

“Owwwww!” he howled and leapt at Maurice.

Now Maurice was on top of Billy, both of them giggling. Then a shadow slipped across them.

“Ehhherm,” said a gruff voice.

Maurice slid off Billy down off the side of the high hospital bed, standing small, opposite the matron who loomed over them.

Billy sat hunched, with one painful eye squeezed shut and the other, half on matron and half on the bubble gum down on the floor. He was terrified of her. Especially when she came in holding that bottle. He wriggled his feet down under the sheets as if that would convince her he’d been good and not need medicine today.

The matron bent and picked up the piece of warm, soft, pink gum that stretched as it reluctantly let go of the floor tile. She held it over the bin. It hung from her fingers refusing to drop and Maurice let out a snort. Billy smacked Maurice on the back of his head making his hair puff up.

The matron held the door open for Maurice. His heart broke every time he had to leave Billy. He could never look back at this point.

“Don’t go,” he heard Billy say as the door swung shut behind him.

And then came the usual muffled, crying. Which, as always, was Maurice.

Breaking the vow (March 2024)

The story must include a character who revisits something. It must include the same colour in your first and last sentence. The story must include the words CAMP, FAST and SPARK.

Joy adjusted her red swim-suit for the umpteenth time and reluctantly left the cubicle. After seventy years, she was not surprised the place had changed, but there was an air of familiarity.

Her eyes scanned the rows of doors around the edges of the pool, reminiscent of the lido this once was. And the blue and white Greek-key tiles around the pool edge, still the originals. She looked at her now-ample feet on the damp floor, eyeing her swollen bunion. Last time she’d stood here, her feet were fresh, and yet to roam the world.

Finally she allowed her gaze to drift towards the sparkling water. It’s beauty was captivating but the hairs on her arms stood on end, instantly catapulting her back to her ten-year-old self.

“I love your red togs,” her cousin had told her, “you look lovely.”

Little Annie, five years Joy’s junior, had been in awe of her. Joy held out her hand and Annie took it. They had walked to the edge of the pool.

“Ooo,” Annie had said, “lets jump in.”

“Have you swum before?” asked Joy, realising she might be shown up.

“Kind of,” said Annie, “in the creek at the campsite. I kept one foot on the bottom.”

“Me too,” laughed Joy, “lets go down the shallow end.”

Just then a crowd of boisterous children had run through. Joy instinctively moved, shielding Annie from the commotion. It happened so fast – she lost her footing.

Her arms windmilled and flailed as she plunged into the deep end, her head disappearing beneath the surface. Finding Annie was impossible. She was shocked she couldn’t see through the water. There were so many bubbles! The thrashing didn’t help. Her lungs felt like they might burst. The glugging and deafening roar in her ears were sickening, haunting her nightmares for years.

After they had revived her, Joy had spent weeks recovering from the exhaustion, but the cough persisted for years. She vowed never to go near water again.

The bang of a cubicle door brought her back to the moment. She made a deliberate step away from the edge.

A lycra-clad woman with a whistle around her neck waved cheerily from the other end of the pool.

“Are you my new swimming-starters, ladies?” she called.

“We are,” said a familiar voice behind Joy.

“Annie! You came,” said Joy embracing her, “thank God. Are you ready?”

“Yes! Finally, ready.”

Joy held out her hand and Annie took it. They padded round the pool to the shallow end to begin their first lesson.

As they carefully lowered themselves into the pool, Annie winked at Joy.

“I love your red togs!” she said, “you still look lovely.”

The Note (April 2024)

The story’s first sentence must be a question. The story must include something being pulled and must include the words POST, TEAR and THUNDER.

“Where are you going with the bean bag?”

“Bean bag? Oh! That. We should use it.”

“You hate the bean bag,” commented Ben.

I pulled the massive, scrunching thing, down the hall and plopped it in the sitting room.

“There,” I said, “Good place?”

“You hate the bean bag,” Ben repeated.

“Then you use that, and I’ll sit here,” I said tapping the spare chair.

“What’s up with the sofa? Are you alright?”

He stepped closer, examining my eyes.

“Look,” I said, “I found your note. Stop pretending. I get it: you hate the sofa.”

“I do not hate the sofa! And what note?”

“The one you left under my cushion.” I thrust the note at him.

He took it from me and scanned to the end.

“Its from Sofia. Who is Sofia?”

“Sofa,” I said, “That says sofa.”

He frowned.

“Just read it,” I said humouring him.

“Dear people,” he started, looking at me. I shrugged.

“Congratulations on keeping me so long. Many sofa-owners would have retired their vintage pieces long before now. That you keep me is annoying but praiseworthy. But you should know I am old and weak, and request changes…”

“Well?” I said, “Remember?”

“I didn’t write it!”

I took the letter. Granted it wasn’t his handwriting, or mine.

I continued for him.

“First, I’d like a day off now and then. Maybe try sitting on the Bean Bag that was rammed up against me for several years – its no doubt still around. And the Spare Chair with that gorgeous, elegant throw, never gets used. On that subject, the old green towel you spread over me is quite horrible.”

“Who writes like this?” I said looking at him. “Couldn’t you have just told me?”

“IT WASN’T ME! Maybe your sister wrote it.”

“She hasn’t visited for weeks. And wouldn’t she just tell us?”

“Hmmm. Keep reading.”

“I would love you to cover my aging arms, particularly the one worn thin from all those remote controls that, incidentally, would look great on the coffee table, were it less cluttered.”

“I like cluttered,” said Ben. True. He likes everything being ‘to hand’.

“It says…” I continued, “when you hear the word ‘cushion’, does that not conjure feelings of luxury and comfort? Then, what’s with the crispy pancakes you scatter over me? Would it hurt to browse in the sales now and then?”

Ben shrugged. “Fair.”

“Next, it says, I accept I am the place you mostly park your posteriors and must tolerate your bodily functions. But your thunderous rumbles terrify me. I fear they’ll tear my upholstery. That’s not how I want my days to end, if you don’t mind?”

“Stop,” said Ben. He dragged the nice throw onto the sofa, then plopped into the beanbag, tidying the table.

Since that day, it’s taken us months to act almost normal again, around the sofa.

So, dare I tell him what I found today on the seat of the car?

The Wembley Handyman, London,

Saturday 13 July 1985 (May 2024)

The story must take place on an IMPORTANT DATE from the past 50 years – i.e. from May 1974 onwards. The story must include a character who builds something. The story must include the words ENOUGH, CHASE and MISTAKE.

When dad asked me to mind the shop the day of the concert, I was delighted. His Wembley Handyman was opposite the stadium, so close I’d hear Live Aid, loud and clear.

I’d barely opened when customers arrived. All were bearded, pony-tailed, wearing jeans, band t-shirts, bunches of keys on their belts. One bought all my electrical tape, another the masking tape, several needed spanners, screwdrivers. The guy in a Queen t-shirt, browsed.

“Can I help you?”

“Tape, please.”

“Electrical?”

“All the tape you have.”

Twenty minutes later, he returned.

“Bolts?” he said.

‘Far wall.”

He took some and gave me a fifty pound note.

“Keep the change.”

I went next door to Mr Ahmed’s for biscuits. When I returned, he was back, this time with a roll of fabric, which he laid on the floor.

“I need more stuff,” he explained, “can I do this here, to save to-ing and fro-ing?”

“Sure,” I said, wondering what ‘this’ meant.

Inside his fabric were hundreds of mirrors, steel rods, brackets.

“One of our vans broke down, so I’ve got no tools and I have to build this. I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Miranda.”

He worked on the floor. Other roadies came in for tape (“sorry, try the stationers”), plastic champagne glasses (“try Mr Ahmed’s”), piano polish (“seriously?”).

“Chain?” called Steve.

“How much?” I asked.

“All of it.”

“Of course.”

“Glue?”

I gave him my final two tubes. “I hope that’s enough.”

He continued working.

Someone asked for carpet.

“No carpet,” I said.

“What about that?” meaning the old rug by my fridge. He threw fifty pounds on the counter

“It’s all yours,” I said. I’d get five for that, down Larkfield Street.

He rolled it and left.

“So, you’re here for the concert,” I said offering Steve a digestive.

He took one.

“Yes. You going?”

“Afraid not. Seventy-three thousand other people beat me to the tickets. I’ll hear it though. So, what is this?”

“A ballroom globe for over Reg’s piano.”

“What band’s he in?”

“Errm, Elton?”

I blushed.

“He’s a great boss. Loves this thing. It was my mistake not checking the van properly. I can’t let him down.”

I left Steve to work. Finally he was done.

“What do you think, Miranda?”

I nodded. Truthfully, it was ugly. But, over a stage I imagined, it would be fabulous.

“How much?” he asked pulling out more cash.

“You’ve paid plenty.”

“Then come with me. Watch from the wings.”

“I’d love to – but – the shop.”

“Really? Well, I’ll see you again. When I need glue or something.”

He wrapped the ball in the fabric and left.

I looked around at the empty shelves, then locked up and chased Steve to the stadium.

I was right. The ball looked fabulous. As did the rug under a drum-kit.

And Steve and I have never looked back.

Win-Win (June 2024)

The story must strongly feature a relationship between TWO characters. The story must include someone whispering and it must include the words JAR, UNIFORM, NEEDLE and EDGE.

Christine spread her bingo pens on the table in front of her.

“He’s evil, but he does have a point,” she told Sue who sat opposite her.

Sue tested her markers on the edge of tonight’s bingo card, a ritual that sometimes rought luck. She couldn’t argue about her husband being evil.

“So you agree,” said Sue, “You’re saying I shouldn’t get the kitchen done.”

“No. but he has a point. I say you need a holiday. Just you.” She nodded at the bruise on Sue’s arm. “Come away with me.”

“I thought you were on my side, Chris. That’ll make him worse.”

Christine reached out and squeezed Sue’s hand. On the stage a man was playing an accordion. Suddenly, he was laying flat on his back.

“I do need a win actually,” said Sue. “My Joanne’s twins need new uniforms. That comes before a kitchen.”

“I’ll help with uniforms.”

Christine was brilliant with a needle and thread.

“Thanks, Chris.” Sue wanted to hug her. “But how do I get my family top-side? They always need things. All I want is a cooker that works.”

“You need safety too.”

Tom’s violence seemed insurmountable.

“I could bump him off for the insurance,” smiled Christine, “for the good of the family.”

Sue laughed. “You’ll have to. His chances of living to a ripe old age are, unfortunately, very good.”

“Or I could bump off your boss so you get a promotion. Nobody suspects a nurse.”

“You’re not a nurse – you work in the chemist.”

“Its similar.”

“If its similar, can you help that poor man on the stage?”

Someone was trying to resuscitate him.

“Seriously? I thought that was part of the act.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I know what drugs can kill, but I can’t revive people,” said Christine matter-of-factly.

“Well, I don’t fancy my boss’s job. I need a windfall. Then, I promise, I’ll leave him!”

“Eyes down…” said the caller when the situation on stage had cleared.

Several numbers into the game, Christine pushed a jar across to Sue.

“Pssst,” she whispered, “No one else at your place likes marmalade, but your Tom’ll enjoy it.”

“You were threatening to murder him just now,” Sue whispered.

“Make sure only Tom eats some. Then chuck it out.”

Sue stared at her friend who nodded.

The game had ended.

“Now the big one,” said the caller. “Ten thousand for the full house.”

The balls popped up the tube.

Sue fidgeted, distracted, and Christine kept an eye on both their cards. The numbers went by.

“Sue!” hissed Christine, “you need one number!”

Then –

“Two and six,” said the caller, “twenty-”

“House!” they screamed.

Winner takes it all (July 2024)

The story must take place at a sporting/competitive event. It must include something shaking and must include the words GOLD, GREEN and GLOBE (Longer words are okay as long as they contain these spellings.)

I have three medals to my name. Mum keeps the gold on display.

“A gold medal’s a gold medal,” she says.

It hardly represents a winner, though.

Back in 1974, our regional infants’ schools sports day was a big deal. Everyone in town came, including those of us with more enthusiasm than talent. My heart was set on the long-jump but Mum signed me up for the obstacle race, thinking obstacles might mask my lack of ability.

We were first up. The gun frightened Andrew into the crowd, and poor Nancy froze to the spot in tears. The race starter reholstered her revolver and clapped, signalling we really should run. Leah, with her giraffe-like legs, was already at the benches. Melanie and I struggled to catch up.

I banged my shin on the first bench. Puffing and limping, I reached the car tyres. Leah breezed through them but for my short legs, they were a challenge, chafing my skin raw! Melanie ran round them to catch up with Leah.

Next was a damp tarpaulin strewn on the ground. I crawled under it, emerging disoriented and green with grass-stains.

Leah and Melanie had already conquered the rope mesh, disappearing over the top. I struggled, wobbling everywhere. Then Andrew appeared from the crowd, leaping on like Spider-Man, and climbed, shaking me around like there was an earthquake! My arms and legs slipped through the ropes. One of my plimsolls fell off. I hung there like a sloth until Andrew was gone, then clambered to the top. From there I saw Leah and Melanie bouncing on a trampoline like fury, trying to snatch out of the hook above them, flags from round the globe.

I crawled through a dark tube that I soon learned was blocked by Andrew, who kicked me in the face as he wriggled free. Bloodied but determined, I pulled myself out of the tube to find that Andrew, in his haste had destroyed the next obstacle. He’d done me a favour. I ran to the trampoline, had a little bounce and gathered up a handful of fallen flags.

The final stretch resembled a dog agility course. Leah, who was leading, got her long legs tangled in the poles and the first-aiders stepped in. In one shoe I weaved, slipping at every turn, but somehow managed to cross the finish line, clutching the flags to my bloody nose.

Melanie was disqualified for short-cutting the tyres, as was Andrew for demolishing an obstacle. And as Nancy didn’t start and Leah didn’t finish, I received all three medals.

Mum thinks displaying the gold encourages me.

For me, it’s a reminder of the day I ended up the unexpected champion of our infamous sports day and the reason I’ve since avoided physical competition.

Dark secrets (August 2024)

The story must take place UP IN THE AIR. The story’s first sentence must include a colour and a number and the story must include the words DOUBT, PACK and SILENCE.

Jenny Black settled into seat 10C as her plane finally became airborne. The flight was meant to be packed, but huge delays caused some passengers to give up. With no one beside her, she hoped for a peaceful night.

When the seat-belt sign went green, Jenny walked down to the toilet. And then the lights went out, plunging the cabin into darkness. An attendant returned Jenny to her seat. Or so she thought. She jumped when someone in the next seat grabbed her arm.

“Lisa?” whispered a man, “thank God!”

Jenny was about to correct him, but he continued.

“The delay’s messed things up. Cops are onto us. I doubt we’ll get time to visit the boss, so we collect the bomb from the church tonight.”

Jenny’s heart pounded. It made no sense to her, but it sounded bad. What she did know was if the lights come on, he’ll realise he’s told a stranger his secret.

“I’ll go to the toilet, phone Chip to arrange collection. You tell the others,” he said.

When he’d gone, she went the other way, slipping into another seat. Another hand grabbed her arm.

“Lisa, it’s about time,” said the woman, “listen, we must silence Mark. He’s talking too much. We’ll all be going down.”

Jenny’s blood ran cold. She left that seat keeping low. Then she overheard a conversation that wanted to hear. She slid into another seat.

“We have to somehow find this Lisa or Mark – intelligence said they might have the bomb.”

“On board?”

“Where else?”

The church, Jenny wanted to say.

“Let’s go,” one said. “you go that way.”

A voice from behind Jenny whispered, “Lisa, did you check on the weapons?”

Weapons? Jenny rushed from the seat straight in to one of the men.

He shone a torch in her face. “You look like Lisa! Where is Mark?”

“I’m not Lisa,” she stuttered. “I’m Jenny.”

“Nice try, love.”

Now he was the one gripping her arm.

“I’m federal police. Where is the bomb?”

“In some church, I think,” blurted out Jenny, “That’s what the man said.”

“What man?”

“He’s in the toilet.”

Just then, the lights came on. The man was walking down the aisle.

“Mark,” a woman called to him “I’ve been looking for you.”

So, that’s the real Lisa, thought Jenny. She looks nothing like me!

“Everybody get down!” shouted the policeman, waving a taser. She threw herself into his seat.

People were yelling. Falling. Scrambling. Jenny hid under a blanket.

Hours later someone was waking her.

“Ma’am,” he was saying, “are you alright?”

Jenny sat up.

“We’re landing,” said the steward.

Jenny felt the rumble of unfolding undercarriage. And saw below on the tarmac a hundred blue flashing lights.

So much for a peaceful night.

Artificial amusements (September 2024)

Prompt for this month: use this image in ANY way you like as inspiration to tell your story!

I blew into the mic, script in hand.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, suspecting they were only here for the tea and biscuits. A few hands clapped.

This was my products’ first public meet-and-greet.

“Do you yearn for someone by your side?” I said.

“No!” a man shouted. “The wife won’t leave me alone!”

Laughter.

I pressed on. “A helper, a confidante?”

“A what?”

“A pal,” I said.

“I’ve got a dog!”

I signaled to the stagehand in the dark. The curtains opened.

“Introducing the latest and greatest personal androids!”

Seven models sat in a row.

I paused for effect. Someone coughed.

“Who are they?” someone asked.

“The asteroids!”

“She said astronauts!”

“Androids,” I corrected them. I squeezed the first one’s ear. She stood.

“Meet Sally. Her forehead changes colour based on your mood. Everyone knows how you’re feeling, even if you don’t!” I laughed—alone. Tough crowd.

“Is this a play?” someone muttered.

“Sally,” I went on, “provides fashion advice! She chose my dress.”

“Take it off!” a man shouted.

I squeezed the next model’s ear. “Jake tells jokes and has an impressive, extendable selfie-stick arm.”

“I’ve got an extendable stick, love!” continued the heckler.

I switched on Margot and Jerry. “Margot translates cat language to English, but beware, cats swear!”

“MEOW!” someone shouted. Margot swore back to her delight.

“Jerry finds lost socks and offers piggyback rides.”

Rachel and Steve were next.

“Rachel rattles off facts and predicts the weather with nearly 30% accuracy!” Laughter.

I sent the androids to mingle with the crowd.

A woman fled, yelling, “They’re too real!”

Jake took selfies, Rachel predicted a cold front and discussed how honey never spoils, and Margot swore back at meowing audience members.

Then a woman came on to stage pointing at Steve.

“Who’s he? He’s GORGeous!”

“Steve loves a party,” I said, activating him. He broke into the Wombling Song.

Finally, my favourite. Barry.

“Barry generates compliments.”

“My,” he said, “your elbows are exceptionally lovely!”

A woman rushed toward him. “I want that one!”

Uh oh—not Barry. No one could have Barry.

“You have the best taste in shoelaces,” he told her. She grabbed him. I yanked him away.

“Can everyone take their seats, please?” I shouted over the chaos. Steve was belting out Bohemian Rhapsody, Sally was critiquing a man’s terrible trousers, and Jake’s crowd was roaring with laughter.

I pulled out the kill switch. The androids fell silent. So did the audience. Then a man rose, pulled up his shirt, and revealed a control panel. “I get the weather right, every time.”

“Me too,” said the heckler, pulling up his shirt. Others followed.

The stagehand stepped forward, revealing himself as my rival.

“I congratulate you,” he said, shaking my hand. “But mine are better. Work for me.”

Barry awoke and his eyes flashed red.

“Get your hands off her,” he said, raising his iron fist—the added feature I’d forgotten to mention.

Into the woods – and out again (October 2024)

The story must take place in some kind of THEATRE/THEATER, must include somebody shouting and must include the words UNCOMFORTABLE, RECORD and SHRINK.

The curtain had fallen, and I was back in the green room. Thank God!

I perched on the uncomfortable sofa clutching an ice-pack to my cheek, wondering if it was all worth it. Usually, I’d be on a high after a show. This was far from usual, though.

Ten minutes in to the show, an understudy smoking in the wings set off an alarm. Having been evacuated, we returned, unharmed. On stage we all stepped up the pace a bit. During the milking scene, the back end of the speeding cow slipped off the stage, much to the mirth of the audience. To stay on track, we continued, shouting over his screams as the ambulance people removed him. Then it went down hill. My dad turned up in the interval.

“I’m divorcing your mum,” he said, “I’m in love with George, and we’re moving to Greece.”

George, it transpired, is my ex-boyfriend’s dad. I didn’t even know they’d met. Shocked, I went to Gavin’s room for a brandy.

“Mary finished it,” he said handing me sherry.

Mary (tonight’s witch) was often tipsy. I swigged the sherry while Gavin tended to the lead tree’s costume.

“You’ve put on weight,” said Gavin, pinning a seam.

“How dare you?!” tree snapped, “the costume has shrunk!”

“It can’t shrink! It’s never washed.”

In the second half, I couldn’t focus due to the sherry, my dad and our terrible luck tonight. I missed several queues. Frustrated, one of the dancers slapped me.

“Sober up!” she yelled.

I wasn’t sure what hurt most – the wallop or everyone’s laughter!

Unable to sober up, I punched her back. As others joined in, the curtain dropped. Finally, nursing our bruises, we re-grouped to find the audience inebriated at the bar. We had to shepherd them back to their seats. When we reached the final scene, the tree’s costume burst open, to the spectacular approval of the audience. Well, it’s not every day you see a tree in a g-string. The audience were on their feet, applauding. A record for us – a standing ovation!

“More!” the crowd hollered.

Mary stepped up, ripping off her top, bra and all.

The crowd erupted, wanting even more, so we re-did the final scene. With only half of the cow, a semi-naked tree, and now, Mary’s boobs, it went down a storm.

After the final curtain, I slunk off to the green room, shell-shocked. So much for a serious musical: it was a disaster, but they loved it.

Gavin and the cast returned later.

“Been down the pub?” I guessed, looking at the state of his entourage.

“Look,” he said, waving a contract, “an agent was here tonight – we’ve landed a pantomime season. Jack and the Beanstalk!”

So our show – ‘Into the Woods’ – gets re-badged. Panto? I sighed. Well, we did get a standing ovation!

I patted my bruised face. Turns out – it was worth it, after all.

Between moments (November 2024)

The story must include a character who arrives somewhere LATE. It’s first sentence must contain only four words. It must include the words SKIP, KICK, BLUE and DISAPPEAR.

Time is not linear.

Two months ago, for the first time, I missed my train. It’s a ten-minute walk to the station and though I left on time, I arrived late.

“Where is everyone?” I asked George, the station master.

“They caught the seven-ten, Rachel. Where were you?” He was as baffled as I was at my tardiness!

“Must be my new shoes,” I said. They pinched.

The following week, it happened again, even with different shoes. Then it repeated, every Friday.

“You need a new alarm clock,” George chuckled.

Instead, I bought a watch with a second-hand, and scrutinised it closely. Occasionally, I seemed to zone out, letting minutes slip by. I persisted. Today, I discovered the truth.

Barely watching where I stepped, I focused on my watch. A second vanished! Surely, I hadn’t blinked. I stopped, staring as several more seconds leapt forward.

Then I noticed the ground underfoot – no longer concrete, but a rough track. I looked up. The street had disappeared, replaced by one house, green fields, and a sky so blue it seemed painted.

“Rachel!” called a young girl skipping toward me. “Mum! Mum! Rachel’s back!”

“Where am I?” I asked, bewildered.

“You always say that. Come on,” she said, taking my hand and tugging me toward the house.

A lady stood at the door, waving. “Just in time for breakfast!”

They ushered me into a kitchen with dark red flagstones, a fire in the hearth, a hefty bar of soap on the wooden draining board, and the aroma of freshly baked bread.

“Where am I?” I repeated.

“Sit, sit,” the lady urged. “You always feel better after some food.”

She leaned in, peering into my eyes.

“Seems you’ve forgotten us again. Not to worry.”

She sliced the loaf, and the girl slathered butter and jam on a piece for me. Every moment felt surreal. The lady stirred the teapot, then poured golden, steaming tea through the strainer. It tasted heavenly.

The girl sat next to me, swinging her legs, watching me eat. I felt…renewed.

“Look at the time,” the lady said. “You’ve stayed so long!”

I glanced at my watch. An hour had passed.

“I’ll take you back,” the girl said, clutching my fingers.

“See you again,” the lady called. I hoped so. I smiled.

The girl skipped ahead, kicking a ball aside and swinging the gate open.

I turned to say goodbye, but she was gone. The fields and brilliant sky had vanished. I was back on the street, staring at my watch and I could taste strawberry jam.

So, let me tell you, when someone says their morning flew by, look them in the eye and ask them where they’ve been.

Time and all of our lives – they’re not linear.

The Beach Ball (December 2024)

The story must take place on Christmas Eve/December 24. Your story must include a character who has an accident of some kind. Your story must include the words AGAINST, TOOTH and ORANGE

In a small beach town, one Christmas Eve, Ella prepared for the annual Ball. She used to dream of being a guest at her step-father’s grand event. After fighting him tooth-and-nail over it, she now followed his orders: organise and keep out of the way. Her late mother would have been sad.

Ella was sweeping the floor when her step-father barked, “The beach won’t clean itself. All hands on deck.”

Not exactly. Her step-sister would be at the hairdresser, her step-brother with the band, and her step-father, fishing. Ella did nearly everything — except the punch and the barbecue she was forbidden to touch.

Down on the sand she marked out the party area, then to make it safe for guests to dance barefoot, she picked out all the shells and pebbles. On her knees, she spotted a bright orange marble.

“You’re beautiful!” she whispered and slipped it into her pocket.

Later, exhausted, Ella rested by the bar. The sand was flawless, the palms twinkling with lights, and the cocktail glasses glinting. The marble slipped from her pocket, rolling across the deck. Before she could grab it, her step-father appeared.

“You’re a mess. Get in,” he ordered. “Go and chop the pineapple.”

As Ella turned to leave, he slipped on the marble and fell, howling.

“Call an ambulance!” he shouted. His arm was clearly broken.

While they waited, Ella took his hand. “They’re coming,” she said, but he turned his head, refusing her comfort.

Her step-brother arrived and fussed over his father until the ambulance left. Ella quietly picked up the marble and put it in a glass on the bar, out of harms way. The punch bowl was still empty. She got to work on it. Her step-brother took the cue and lit the barbecue.

When her step-sister appeared, perfectly done up, she frowned at Ella’s disarray. “Where’s dad?”

Ella barely had time to explain before she was shoved aside. “I’ll do this,” her step-sister snapped, stirring the punch.

Ella retreated to the kitchen. A choking sound pulled her back. Her step-sister was slumped against the bar, gasping. Ella rushed in and performed the Heimlich maneuver. Out popped a piece of fruit—and the marble! Woops!

“That was hard pineapple!” her step-sister croaked. “I need to lie down.”

Ella tossed the marble over the rail, only to hear a clunk and a yelp from below. Her step-brother clutched his eye. “Something fell from the tree! It bounced off the barbecue!” he screamed. “I’m blind!”

Ella hurried down with ice. “You’ll be fine,” she said. “Go rest.”

Alone now, she went to find her late mother’s favorite dress and slipped it on, ready to face the guests. As they arrived, she explained the situation. A couple took over at the barbecue, the band played well, one man short, and everyone enjoyed the punch. Ella danced on the sand all night.

At the stroke of Christmas, her father appeared, one arm in plaster, flanked by his daughter and son. Ella wanted to run and hide.

“You look like your mother,” was all he said, giving her a one-armed embrace.

Ella’s little beach ball, the orange marble, now sits in her room. Like the marble, you might find Ella on the beach, but now she chooses to stay in the background, well away from harm.

2023 Furious Fiction Entries

One wish (March 2023)

The story must include a CHAIR of some sort and include the words ALBUM, BRIGHT and CLICK. The story must include a character who has to make a CHOICE between two things.

My dear Grandma had left me her rocking chair and a box of bits and bobs, which I went through when I got them home. I discovered a lovely photo album and what I’d thought was her old bath-salts jar. It was heavier than I expected and I fumbled and dropped it.

“Argh!” I said and out from the fragments flew a Genie in a bright puff.

“Mistress!” he said in a woo-woo voice, “you are granted one wish.” He clicked his fingers.

I nearly laughed, but he was real enough. He went on to explain, like a radio advert.

“A recent policy change to prevent wish misuse, means no cash related wishes can be granted. Terms and conditions apply”

“Damn,” I thought, “just my luck.”

“But you can wish for something that improves you, or something tangible, to keep forever.”

I wasn’t known for decision making but in my head I could hear one word… piano! I’d always wanted one. I couldn’t play so I could never justify something like that. And I should choose something to become a better person, but I SO wanted a piano.

I called my sister.

“If you could change something or have something new, what would it be?” I asked.

“Fame,” she said.

“What about me,” I said, “what would I change?”

“Your hair,” and said, “and make up, clothes, job…”

I hung up. Maybe I should wish to be decisive! That would improve me!

I called Mum. I was a complete disappointment to her, but maybe it was worth asking. You never know.

“Have children,” she said, “…and finish that degree. And get married,” she went on. It hasn’t been worth asking.

My friend Caroline said: “Meditate on it.” As she would.

“Just tell me.”

“Only you can know what will make you complete.” That was so Caroline.

I tried to mediate. I fell asleep, mainly. It was too hard. I was so torn – ‘piano’, ‘be more decisive,’ ‘but I want a piano’.

I retired to grandma’s rocking chair, and opened her album. Interestingly, the rocking chair featured in most of pictures. Her, nursing mum as a baby in the chair, her with me on her knee, her with the cat, and then just the cat in the chair. One picture caught me eye – just the chair. Underneath the photo it said – My Wish.

Grandma’s simple wish had lasted her a lifetime and she’d passed it on to me. SO maybe it was ok to have ‘ a thing’.

A few weeks after I filed my wish and signed all the forms, a Steinway arrived.

I was in awe of it and thanked the Genie before he went into the new coffee jar I’d found him.

“You were modest in your request,” said the Genie, “just as your grandmother was. So, according to the terms and conditions, I’m allowed to grant you a second wish.”

And here we go again.

Finding out (April 2023)

The story must include something that CHANGES COLOUR. It must include the words ACCEPT, POINT, RIDDLE, INKLING and LABEL and must have an ENGAGING OPENING SENTENCE.

A gaping hole in the rear of the skirt I’d just taken off, stared up at me. Horror filled my head. How long had that been there?

“How do I look?” I’d asked my husband, as I usually would before leaving the house. He’d leaned round the rumpus room doorway and eyed me up and down.

“Gorgeous,” he’d said. He only saw my front before I left.

I sat on the bed, teasing the stitching around the label where it had torn, consider the day.

I’d got petrol first. How many people might I have flashed my knickers at? Four? five?

“My knickers!” I said, realising I had on the worst pair that I owned. Even THEY had a hole in. And they were grey and baggy. They were the last ones in the drawer – I’d been too lazy to look through the laundry basket for something better, even though it was right there next to the bed. “They’re acceptable” I’d thought, assuming no one was going to see them.

At the mall, I’d visited the post-office and the chemist. Little bending down required there. Just queuing. Thank God for queues. My backside shielded by the next person.

Where next? Argh, no! The shoe shop. My bum was almost certainly in the air as I tried on shoes. SURELY someone could have tapped me on the shoulder: “Excuse me, madam, but do you realise everyone is pointing at you?” Come to think of it, an assistant did ask “Is everything ok?” and I’d dismissed her as just being helpful. I didn’t have an inkling.

Then where? Oh dear, the supermarket, where just about everything I needed was on a bottom shelf. I tried to imagine how I bend down to select a tin of beans. Bum up, or crouching? I felt a tear run down my cheek realising I’ll have to shop somewhere else now. Maybe change my hair style? Get some glasses. Move??

I saw myself in the mirror. I was white as a sheet. I ripped my ugly knickers off and rummaged through the laundry basket. Something I should have done this morning. I found my pretty pink, silk ones and put them on.

“See world?” I wanted to yell out the window, “I do have good knickers!”

The internet is riddled with embarrassing photos of unsuspecting victims like me. I’ll have to learn to live with being one of them – or just deny everything.

My husband appeared in the doorway, and I blushed.

“Alright?” he said, “You look all red.”

“Fine,” I said kicking the skirt under the bed, “just hot.”

“You can say that again,” he said looking at my silk knickers.

And once again I felt my face flush. I let him embrace me.

“I’m going to become a recluse,” I told him between kisses.

He was too busy to care.

Stolen identity (May 2023)

The story must include a character who is BEING CHASED or doing the CHASING. It must include the words BOIL, FRINGE and JUMP and must contain at least THREE CREATIVE SIMILES.

Looking across the hotel lobby, Sophie couldn’t believe her eyes. A tiny monkey was on the reception counter, rifling through her handbag she’d just left moments ago.

The receptionist was busy, trying to arrange Sophie’s room.

After flight issues, she had arrived exhausted.

“It’s boiling hot and humid!” she had snapped, “I need the superior suite that I booked!”

She’d thrust her confirmation document forward.

“Ma’am, that says ‘standard room’.”

Sophia blushed at her mistake.

“I’d like an upgrade, then.”

Sophia had clip-clopped in her sandals across the marble floor where she studied herself in the mirrored wall. Her fringe was damp, her make-up – running. “Vile. I feel like a muddy wildebeest. I need a drink.”

And then she’d seen the monkey.

“Hey,” she shouted, “that’s my passport!”

The receptionist turned as the monkey disappeared off the counter.

Sophia tried to run. The polished floor played havoc with her heels. She fell like a wounded deer, legs flailing. A heel snapped.

“Owww!”

The monkey slip-streamed a waiter out a door to the pool.

Sophia tore off her shoes and followed.

“Monkey!” she screamed.

People looked up from cocktails and magazines.

“May I help?’ asked the waiter.

“That – monkey,” she spluttered, “took my passport.”

“Oh,” he said, “he does that.”

“Is he yours?”

“No ma’am. Wildlife. We don’t interfere.”

“You should!” she insisted.

A shout alerted them to the menace disrupting someone’s lunch. Now armed with a banana and the passport in his mouth, he clambered up a jasmine-covered trellis that formed a shady path to the beach.

“Stop him,” yelled Sophia, her voice cracking like a falling tree.

The waiter jumped across a lady on a sun-bed. Sophia ran, feet slapping on the sandstone pool edge, arms flailing like propellers.

“My passsssspoorrrrrtttt,” she hollered.

“Classy,” muttered a man in a straw trilby.

The hard poolside gave way to soft, cold sand, beneath the jasmine. Sophia felt like she’s run into a bowl of marshmallow! Slowing suddenly, she fell flat on her face getting a mouthful of sand.

“Pptthhbbbth!”

The waiter ran past. She scrambled to her feet. The waiter turned.

“He’s heading back!”

The monkey zoomed overhead.

“Come back!” she shouted.

It leapt, plopping onto a sun-shade.

“Argh!” Sophia yelled, flying out of the walkway at full speed at the pool.

She dropped into the water, as graceful as a small meteorite, tsunami-ing someone off their airbed.

She came up spluttering, to see the waiter holding the monkey in one hand and her passport in the other.

Everyone applauded.

“Bravo,” said the man in the straw hat, helping her from the pool. The receptionist handed her a towel and a key.

“A superior suite, with compliments.”

“May I buy you a drink?” said the man.

“Looking like this?” said Sophia.

“Hold on,” he said, and jumped in the pool.

Sophia laughed. He got out, shorts, shirt and hat dripping.

“Now,” he said, “let me buy you that drink.”

Two weeks in (June 2023)

The story must begin in the MIDDLE of something. It must include the words ROCKET, POCKET, SOCKET and LOCKET.

At Hampton Court Palace, 
I’m queuing with malice
It’s not even gratis
On entry!
An hour in line, 
And I’ve just spied a sign,
So I’m going to dine
With the gentry.

I inch to the door, 
Around brollies galore
As the rain starts to pour,
I hear plates!
Another long queue, 
I alas can’t smell stew,
It is not Cordon Bleu,
But I wait.
 
Just rocket and cheese? 
On a bun, if you please!?
I am down on my knees,
Ravenous!
I need some hot pies, 
Or a pair of rib-eyes
For my tum without fries, 
Is quite cavernous!

After two weeks of this, 
I am starting to miss
Queensland – home: it is bliss
It’s stunning!
Snorkelling off the wreck, 
And the sun on my neck
Or my dusty back-deck, 
And Bunnings!

“See England in May”, 
The advert did say.
“Its the very best way, 
To have fun!”
“Four weeks in the spring, 
Summer clothes you should bring,
And you’ll feel your soul sing
In the sun”

OK, where’s that maze, 
That I saw through the haze?
Wait - I must give it praise,
Its enormous!
Now lost with some strangers! 
Can I call the rangers?
Such dangers - 
That rep should’ve warned us.

Eyes cold in my sockets, 
Hands deep down in pockets
Fingering dockets 
Of tours
From London’s West End,
Where I do recommend
That you don’t over spend
In the stores.

Last week on ‘the Eye’, 
The view: dark grey sky,
I wondered quite why
It was busy.
Tourists like me, 
Who were out to ‘sight-see’,
But just needed a pee
And felt dizzy.

At the Royal Opera House, 
I spotted a mouse
Scaring my spouse
From the foyer!
The open-top bus - on, 
which I got concussion
I can’t yet discuss 
Says my lawyer.

The next destination
Was Waterloo Station
My sunset fixation
Contracted,
The horde of commuters
On scooters with hooters
And people with suitors
Distracted.

Now on the Thames cruise, 
Wet from rain - soggy shoes,
I so need a snooze -
Forty winks.
Oops - I’ve slipped off the boat! 
Pleased to say, I can float!
Lost my locket and coat,
(That stream stinks!)

Given hot fish and chips. 
And some tea to my lips!
Changed the feel of this trip’s
Last fortnight.
I am now pretty sure, 
I can more than endure
Two more weeks of this tour,
It’s alright!

Very Tidy Victoria’s Jumble Sale (July 2023)

The story must include a CHILD (16 or younger) as its main character. The story’s first sentence must contain two colours and include the words BUMPER, PRIZE and IMPOSSIBLE.

Embrace the creative challenge and be as original as possible! Victoria frowned at the orange and green poster she and Polly had coloured in for their “Year 7 Bumper Jumble Sale.”

“Why can’t it be a neat sale?” she said, fidgeting.

“You are very tidy, Victoria. But I love hunting through jumble – it’s fun!”

Victoria thought she must be joking but Polly looked serious.

After school, Victoria helped her mum sort out things for the Bumper Jumble Sale.

“Why do people like jumble sales, Mum?”

“You’ll see.”

“I don’t think I will enjoy it,” said Victoria.

“You’ll see,” said her mum again, “and you might even find a new treasure.”

On the day of the Bumper Jumble Sale, Victoria’s class was in charge of selling clothes. Her classmates heaped armfuls of garments onto the tables.

“There’s so much!” said Victoria, staring at the mountainous heap. “It will be impossible for people to find things! This won’t do.”

Victoria started sorting out the jumpers and shirts, the socks and skirts, dresses, hoodies and onesies. Her classmates joined her, folding, stacking and arranging them by colour and size. Soon everything was neat and orderly.

“That’s better than a shop!” exclaimed a man, “you deserve a prize.”

“Beautiful,” said a lady, “very smart.”

“Magnificent,” said the teacher, “I’m impressed.”

Victoria’s class was very proud.

Everyone admired the display and moved on.

“But nobody is buying anything,” said Polly.

“They will,” said Victoria.

“Tell you what,” said Polly, “let’s go to see if people are buying things from other tables.”

“There’s so much to see!” said Victoria through the crowd.

“Look! Lovely beads,” said Polly, rummaging in a box, “and marbles!”

“A purple watering can!” announced Victoria from under a table, “and a bell!”

“Hey! Somebody’s buying my gran’s clock!” said Polly.

“That lady’s buying dad’s old cricket bat!” said Victoria, “People are buying lots of things.“

After exploring, they returned to find a table full of clothes and glum classmates.

“You were right, Polly,” said Victoria, “people LOVE a bumper jumble.”

She pushed one of the piles. Down it fell! Her classmates, joined in. They twirled and tumbled and jumbled all the clothes.

People flocked to look…and started digging…and discovering…and buying…more and more things! Until…

“Wow,” said Polly, “there are only two pairs of socks left!”

Victoria bought the orange pair.

Polly bought the green pair.

“Now, everything has a new home…” said Victoria.

The class was jubilant.

“Hooray!!!”

Walking home, Victoria had an idea.

“Let’s jumble up our socks!”

They each put on one orange sock and one green sock.

“Lovely” said Victoria, “we match!”

And home they marched, their feet in their jumble-socks flashing – orange and green, orange and green, orange and green.

Dinner for One (August 2023)

The story must take place in a RESTAURANT and must include a character who smashes something. It must include the words EUPHORIA, LABYRINTH and SILHOUETTE.

Emily sat at a dining table that faced the open door, looking onto the kasbah, watching silhouettes of the busy crowd.

Five minutes ago, lost in the labyrinth of narrow alleys and noisy vendors, a panic attack had consumed her. Crouching to get water from her bag, Emily’s spectacles had fallen off and smashed. She had cursed her clumsiness, then her stupidity for listening to her therapist.

“Take a holiday,” he’d told her, “Go somewhere exotic.”

Her anxiety had started when her best friend had done the dirty on her with her fiancé. On top of that, her family had ridiculed her ‘naivety’, like they all knew about it. Since then, trusting even herself had been a challenge.

“Stupid holiday,” she mumbled, scanning the market for a safe haven.

One open door looked inviting, unaccompanied by the mandatory loud voice touting for business. The room inside was small, with no other customers.

“Perfect.”

The waiter showed her to the table giving her a hand-written menu. She peered through her broken glasses and sighed – of course it was in Arabic and French. It would take forever to decipher with half a lens and a phrase book. She handed it back, pointing up and down the page.

“Quelque chose”, she smiled, hoping he’d pick something.

Panic soothed, she sipped cool, minty water. There were only three tables, beautifully laid. The décor was warm in purples, reds, blues and gold, and a heap of cushions in the corner.

Soon, it became clear that her menu-pointing had suggested she wanted everything. Everything arrived, in tiny amounts.

The myriad dishes with spices, herbs, honey, cream, nuts, and textures went on, and on. Emily was immersed in the sensations. She in English, and he, in Arabic and French, chattered away, somehow conversing. At one stage, they both laughed so much they cried. Then Emily cried sad tears. He comforted her. Again, they laughed. He sang to her! For some unfathomable reason, they danced and again sat, and they both this time, cried. He cleared the table and though they fell silent, Emily’s euphoria remained. She was no longer exhausted. As clear headed as she had ever known, she felt new.

Outside, it was now quiet.

“It’s late!” she exclaimed, “I must go.”

She stood and took a roll of notes from her wallet. He refused them.

“Avec plaisir,” he said, my pleasure.

He held her hand and pulled her towards him.

“Uh oh,” she said, “what are you doing?”

He let go and walked to another door at the back gesturing.

“Here,” he said “ici.”

He opened the door onto a busy square of hotels and cars.

Emily laughed. “You are may saviour, aren’t you?”

“You are mine,” he said in perfect English.

As her taxi pulled away, Emily looked back to see if the restaurant had a name. But even the door was nowhere to be seen.

First contact (September 2023)

The story must start and end with the same sentence. And must feature something being inflated. It must include the words FLAG, FLAME, FLASH and FLATTER.

The signals repeated themselves but no one noticed. Until now.

Lauren sat at the radio telescope watching the pattern she’d finally cracked, holding her breath for a moment. There – it started again! She breathed hard. It was, it surely was, a message.

She called her supervisor.

“Yes, Robin, I know its the middle of the night but we have something! They’re…. here…”

“I’m on my way,” he said, “I’ll bring the General.”

Lauren switched off all the lights and squinted out at the deep darkness.

What was that?

Static electricity around her was strong. Her hair stood up, her sweater crackled.

Then she saw a flash across the sky. A ship. Round but flatter than any she’d heard of, It hung in the air before her. The glow was almost blinding. Her heart was racing.

A sudden, deep bang at the door made her jump. She ran down to unlock it. He must have forgotten his security pass

“You got here quick, Robin,” she said as she opened the door for her supervisor…or not her supervisor in fact. Terror filled her. She would have screamed but no sound would come out.

She managed to make her legs move and rushed past the ‘body’ in the doorway, outside running blindly. The air seemed to burn. Her skin was blistering. The flagpole caught fire. She looked at it for a moment wondering how she’d never even noticed they had a flag until now that flames licked up it. No longer on the gravel, she ran faster now going down hill, the melting soles of her shoes slipping on the grass.

And then she was lifted, her feet dangling above the ground.

She felt her lungs stretch beyond full. Her stomach expanded, somehow pumped full of air, her skin felt tight to bursting point. In the distance she spotted a row of cars and blue flashing lights and then her eyesight was taken. She’d have laughed if she’d had a mind to. Just typical. They were so close but no witnesses like so many reports she’d heard of.

Finally the General and the supervisors arrived at the observatory. A burnt flag, scorched grass, a melted shoe. But no Lauren.

At her desk, the consul lights flashed as usual.

The signals repeated themselves, but no one noticed.

The Cheapest Seats (October 2023)

The story must feature someone looking through either a TELESCOPE or BINOCULARS and must include a five-digit number. It must include the words BLIND, WIND, FIND and MIND.

The show was about to start, so we climbed the steps to find our seats. We carefully edged sideways along the back row.

“You sure about this?” asked Caroline. She looked like someone having a bad time on a mountain side, not someone about to enjoy a musical.

“How bad can it be?” I’d joked when we booked the cheapest seats in the house.

Terrifyingly high and steep, it turned out, with a howling wind that drowned out sound.

We each put a coin in the slot to release the plastic binoculars. At eye-level, I spied men crawling about in the rigging, dropping ropes and sand bags.

The curtain rose, but we saw little of the stage.

I never expected the binoculars to be Hubble-strength, but my blind mother’s seeing-eye dog would have given me a better description of the show. In the opening scene, we argued about whether they were penguins or starfish dancing around. Neither made sense for The Wizard of Oz.

I focused on the men in the flies. One wearing shorts and a singlet, perched across two beams, was eating a sandwich. I was fancying a nibble myself, when Caroline jabbed me.

“Why is she pointing a gun at the tin man?” she shouted.

“It’s a glass of wine,” said the man next to me.

“Wine?” I said, “in the Wizard of Oz?”

He shrugged.

The row in front of us were friendly. One man handed back a box of Maltesers. We passed them around. Someone threw theirs and we watched with our binoculars to see where it went.

Someone shouted, “Hey!”

We laughed.

After the third one, we were told to ‘hush up’. Rich coming from the people who were yelling at us.

A man in the middle of our row needed the toilet. We all exited rather than risk him fall, on what was, basically, a cliff-face. No one minded.

Back in our seats, I scanned for things to look at through my monocular. Several rows down, two people were snogging.

Word spread until our whole row had binoculars on them. Someone whistled to get their attention. When the couple turned, we all cheered, so they left.

Back to the show, we struggled to work out what was happening. Caroline shouted “speak up” and people laughed.

The actors couldn’t hear us, but someone shushed us. Then one thing led to another.

By the time the back rows were evacuated from the auditorium, Caroline’s cheeks were black with mascara from laughing and she’d lost a shoe. One of my jacket sleeves was missing.

As we left the foyer, Caroline nudged me.

“Look,” she said, pointing at a poster for “Tonight’s musical adaptation of 30,000 Leagues Under the Sea”.

“That explains a lot,” I said.

Not put off, nor banned, we are now frequent takers of the cheapest seats. We always take great binoculars and plenty of Maltesers.

Cosmic Cabin (November 2023)

The story must be set at a remote house or cabin and must include three different three-word sentences in a row. It must include the words SPACE, KNOCK, WHISTLE, MYTH.

To this day, no one knows what happened to Mike Patterson.

After years of living ‘off the grid’, out beyond the iron ore mines in the desert, Mike had grown used to talking to both himself, and Alfie, the mouse.

Alfie sat in the dark, perched on Mike’s 80’s computer. Mike focused his telescope on a blob of shimmering light in the depths of space.

“There!!” he said, and whistled through his teeth.

Mike’s prized possessions included a vintage rotary phone, a record player and a telescope. He’d let go of most things when he left the city for this, hating the way the world was changing. His old solar panel and foraged food sufficed. He’d crafted a satellite dish from bits of old microwave oven.

“…should I need to contact the flying doctor,” he’d told Alfie, then knocked on wood.

Mike had spotted the distant blob in the heavens months earlier, a star that had transformed suddenly into a spectacle of lights. Concerned he was imagining things, he’d taken himself to bed early. But it was real.

Every night, Mike noted how the blob changed.

“People see mythical creatures in the stars,” he told Alfie, “but this pulses and repeats like…a message!”

Mike rummaged through his cabin for something he could use to make a pulse. He found his torch and flashed morse-code at the blob in the sky.

“It’s not bright enough. Stupid idea,” he told himself. Alfie, oblivious, just played with telephone’s curly wire.

“Oh!” Mike exclaimed, “Alfie, you genius!”

Mike plugged in the old phone. He dialled the zero, then the nine – and listened to the electronic clicking as the dial returned.

“That’s it!” he said, “The repeating pulse!”

He plugged the phone into the satellite dish and dialled some numbers. Pulses came back to him. Mike’s hands were shaking. He wrote down what he could.

Around the phone’s dial, letters were assigned to each number.

“Let’s do this,” said Mike. It took him days to decipher the message, then…

“I’ve got it! “On our way.””

Mike felt ecstatic. It was unbelievable.

The aliens arrived a month later. They turned out to be a quirky bunch, with strong beliefs in a higher being, two eyes (one at the front and one at the back of tiny heads), and a hatred for wind-blown sand in their fur.

Mike communicated with them, even face-to-face, via the old telephone.

“You can’t stay,” he repeated, afraid of what people would do to these lovely creatures.

Mike convinced them to leave.

To this day, no one knows what happened to Mike Patterson. Apart from Alfie, of course. In the deserted cabin, now partly engulfed by sand, a family of mice visit the telescope to hear the fanciful story of the time aliens visited Earth.

Past Ties Only (December 2023)

The story must take place at either an AIRPORT or TRAIN STATION. It must feature an awkward hug and must include the words EIGHTEEN, EGG and ELEPHANT.

Waterloo Station, but no sunset tonight. Jim looked at his Rolex for the umpteenth time. The eighteen-forty-five had been due to leave seven minutes ago. Hundreds of passengers still awaited its arrival.

“Jim!” called a voice from the crowd. Jim turned and saw a familiar face. His heart sank.

“Gary. Good to see you,” Jim lied.

“What the devil are you doing here?” said Gary, “I thought you were more in to Astons and Bentleys these days.”

Jim knew Gary from his early MI-5 training. Competition between them had been intense. When Gary had been assigned to South America, Jim was relieved to see the back of him.

“They’re in for servicing,” said Jim referring to the car situation. In actual fact, right now, he was on a mission.

Gary excused his way through commuters to Jim’s side. A young woman was holding Gary’s hand. As her eyes met Jim she blushed.

“May I introduce Amelia, my wife,” said Gary, “we’re recently back from our honeymoon.”

Jim and Amelia held their gaze for a moment before Jim could speak.

“Charmed,” he said, arranging his face appropriately “and congratulations.”

Congratulations indeed, thought Jim. Amelia was a catch. Jim and Amelia, had…well..you know…more than once or twice. But that she was now with Gary – shocking, positively shocking. She had refused Jim’s proposal making it clear she would never marry a spy, then they parted ways.

“You’re leaving the service?” said Jim, deducting the obvious now he was with Amelia.

“Indeed! And moving out to the ‘burbs,” smiled Gary.

Gary rambled on while Jim’s mind raced. He recalled their fleeting but deep romance. Poached eggs on the Orient Express, cocktails on the Nile, roast grouse and pink champagne in the Scottish highlands, beer at The Elephant and Castle.

The train arrived and people started organising themselves to board.

“We better say farewell,” said Gary letting go of Amelia’s hand and holding it out to Jim’s. Reluctantly Jim shook it. “Don’t be a stranger if you’re ever at St George’s Hill,” Gary told Jim, already stepping out towards the train.

Amelia moved towards Jim.

“James,” she said softly, tilting her face up to him.

He bent forward expecting a peck on the cheek, but her hands came up, and she wrapped her arms around him. His own arms just hung and his heart pounded. Don’t do this, he thought, don’t. She held on a moment too long. He dare not return the hug, or he might never let go. Gary didn’t look back. Did he know that they’d been in love? Or maybe still were? Just as Amelia released her hug, she whispered into his ear, barely audible over the sounds of the station

“Call me,” she said, “because we only live once.”

2022 Furious Fiction Entries

Lucky Fellow (March 2022)

The story must include a character that commits a crime, includes some kind of DOOR being opened and include the words CHALK, TALK and FORK.

James had always stood out in a crowd. People picked him, by default.

“You have that kind of face,” his mum had remarked.

He’d chalked up a few lucky successes thanks to the trait. Like becoming football captain, despite playing badly, and getting picked for a play without auditioning. After leaving school he became an Auxiliary Officer, paid to stand in police line-ups, amusing the sergeant when was chosen every single time.

The only person James had fought for attention from, was his girlfriend, Hilary. After two years, she succumbed to his advances. Then she’d gone on holiday with her friend.

James couldn’t wait to see her.

‘She might meet someone else or forget about me,’ he’d panicked.

James decided to meet Hilary at the airport.

That morning, his car wouldn’t start. He called a cab.

“Sorry, mate, its rush hour.”

Resorting to public transport, he boarded the first bus he saw.

“Airport?” said the driver, “you’ll need the 90B from the Junction, then the 17 from the flyover.”

James’s heart sank. Time was marching on.

Twenty minutes later they had barely left the high street. This was too much.

James jammed his fingers into the corner of his jacket pocket, pushing it out as if it were a gun.

“This is a Hijacking. Take me to the airport.”

The driver froze. Traffic ahead dispersed. Passengers seemed oblivious. Some had earbuds in, others were interested in a commotion at the rear of the bus.

He waggled his finger-gun around.

“Go!!’

“OK!” squeaked the driver.

Thirty second’s earlier, on the back seat, Paula’s waters broke.

“Tell the driver to get to the hospital,” someone yelled.

Several people shouted various commands drowning out the message.

The bus moved.

“We’re moving,” said a lady unhelpfully.

Back at the front, James was flushed and panting.

“Drive faster!”

“I can’t,” said the driver taking a fork in the road toward the highway.

“We’ve diverted,” someone shouted.

“Thank you, thank you,” said Paula.

“Don’t talk, just breathe,” she was told.

The bus was flying along now, easing James’ panic.

And then it dawned on him.

“What’s WRONG with me? This HAS to be illegal. I’m not a hijacker!”

He slid down to the floor, hiding his face.

Shouts from the back made him look up.

“Slow down!”

“This is the hospital exit!”

“The baby’s coning!”

The driver was already swinging the bus down a slope.

The door hissed open and James was gone.

Later that day, some blurry images and very confused headlines hit the news.

James called the police station.

“…do you need me…for any line ups…?” he asked, preparing to hand himself in.

“Sorry James,” laughed the Sergeant, assuming James wanted some cash. “Not this time. This guy’s bad deed was very helpful, yet no one remembers a thing about him. Someone unremarkable.”

“He’s a lucky fellow,” said James hanging up, “a very lucky fellow.”

Breaking the news (June 2022)

The story must begin with a sentence containing six words, must include something being served, and must include the words STAGE, WIRE and LOG.

The hotel function room was buzzing.

Joel had arranged the event to tell the whole family of his news. He wanted to tell them all at once, and make it a real celebration.

“Thank you for coming,” he said into the mic’. Forty faces turned. The waiter serving drinks made himself scarce.

“What’s the big surprise, squirt?” called Uncle Henry.

“Shhhh,” someone replied.

From a cardboard box, Joel plucked a bunch of keys that he held out.

“Sally,” he started, addressing his big sister, “I’m giving you and your boys my house.”

“What?” she squeaked. His little nephews looked up at him.

People ‘ooohed’ and chattered.

Joel hopped off the stage and placed the keys in Sally’s hand. She shook her head, speechless.

Back on stage, Joel tapped the mic’ for attention.

“Nigel,” he said, nodding to a cousin, “Sally will let you into the garage – take all my tools, please.”

“Andrew,” he said to his younger brother, “you love my Mini?”

He nodded, frowning.

“Well, now it’s yours.” He handed Andrew the key and log book. Andrew looked to their mother.

“What’s going on?” she said.

“He’s won the lottery,” speculated a cousin.

“He’s sick,” whispered another a little too loudly,

“…or going to prison!” someone scoffed.

“Mum,” continued Joel, “I know you and Nan still call the radio a wireless,” people laughed, “and you can’t even text me on your phone. But that has to change. I’m giving you my computer. You must learn how to use it”

“Why?”

“You’ll need to record and send video messages to me, Mum. I’m moving.”

She blinked.

“Mum, I’m going far away.”

“Where are you going?” she whispered.

“Houston, Texas,” said Joel.

“America? That’s not THAT far away,” said a cousin rolling her eyes, “talk about exaggerate.”

“Well, that’s temporary,” said Joel, “but I’ve been accepted by NASA onto their space program.”

“NASA? You? Hahaha!”

“Shhhh!!”

“I’m on the crew going to the Lunar Gateway. And then…to Mars.”

“MARS-Mars?”

“Yes. It’s a one-way trip.”

Joel’s mum started crying. Joel hugged her and the family crowded round.

“Is this a joke?”

“You ARE coming back, right?”

“Joel, you can’t go!”

He pointed to the box on the stage.

“There’s an envelope for everyone. Something from me. Open them when you get home.”

Joel had been so excited about the upcoming adventure. Now he looked at his family. Maybe they aren’t so easy to leave.

The waiter reappeared, circulating with a tray of champagne flutes. Joel wanted to tell him to go away. When he planned this, it was meant to be a celebration. Now, it was a sad goodbye.

His mum pulled herself away and took a glass from the waiter’s tray.

“My Son,” she said smiling through her tears, “my clever, clever Son.”

She raised her glass and turned, urging everyone to do the same.

“Joel.” they said in unison, and Joel was sure that he felt his heart break.

Doggone Mission (September 2022)

The story’s first sentence must contain the word FIFTY, must include a four-legged animal and include the words EMERGENCY, BRUSH and BOARD

Fifty years after the early missions visits to the Moon, Apollo’s twin sister, Artemis, was finally on her way.

“About time” muttered Snoopy as they neared low-Earth orbit.

“What?” said Shaun, a sheep of few words.

“I’ve been strapped into this seat since February. I must stretch my legs.”

Wondering what stretching feelt like, Shaun looked at his dumpy, kapok-filled appendages and used one to slide the UNO cards atSnoopy who was rummaging through rations in the food locker.

Snoopy turned, crumbs dusting his nose, and checked his cards.

Before the game had ended, his head was already back in the locker.

“Be careful,” said Shaun, “we only have limited supplies aboard.”

That night, while Shaun slept, Snoopy did his best to not think about food. Giving in, he sneaked to the locker, for one little snack. Shaun, prone to sleep walking on Earth, was floating about the cabin, snoring. Snoopy ducked each time Shaun drifted past. But as Snoopy leaned in for one more snack, Shaun’s little back leg caught the locker door, shutting it on Snoopy.

“C-Click.”

Snoopy squeaked and then put his hand over his mouth How would it look being found in the food locker? It was a tight space. He wiggled and pushed and kicked against the door but it wouldn’t budge.

“I have an idea!”

Snoopy nibbled away at the rations, one by one devouring everything. Finally, when he’d eaten everything, there was room to move. His swollen tummy made his spacesuit tight but he was now bigger and stronger! Snoopy braced his feet on the wall, his shoulders on the door.

“Oof!”

His extra size finally popped the door and…

“Weeeee!”

Snoopy flew across the cabin.

“Uh, oh,” he said, looking back at the empty locker.

He picked up the headset and pressed the comms button.

“Houston, come in,” he whispered. Nothing. “Canberra, come in. ANYONE, come in.”

“G’day, Snoopy, this is Bluey in Brisbane, over!”

“Bluey, my friend! I have an emergency. Can you get a message to HQ?”

He transmitted the message to Bluey. “Leave it with me! Over and out.”

Hours later, Shaun woke. Snoopy kept him busy, asking about his dream and playing UNO while peering frequently out the porthole.

A loud tap on the outer door startled them both.

“Delivery!” they heard.

Shaun, quivering, clung to the console.

“I’ll get it,” said Snoopy, rushing for the airlock.

Just as Shaun had raised Houston, Snoopy reappeared, floating into the cabin with forty pizza boxes.

“One for every day we are up here,” grinned Snoopy. “Now,” he added, “let’s have breakfast and go to the Moon.”

Phantom keys (December 2022)

The story must open with a 12-word sentence, must include the sale of a second hand item, and must include five difference words that end in -ice.

“Lot ten is a pretty typewriter of unknown origin, apparently once haunted.”

A few sniggers.

“Who will start me at eighty dollars?”

People mumbled.

“A fair starting price,” said the auctioneer.

These were serious collectors. A strawberry pink and lime green machine with no branding is a tough ask.

To entice an offer the auctioneer let people inspect the machine.

My father acquired it years ago in a second hand shop, in a terrible state but after a good service, and much work, he restored it. And then she was able to communicate with him. Janice, the first owner, told him she had passed away. Having slipped into a lake, on a writing retreat. Grasping the typewriter, which she refused to let go of, she was weighed down, and so she drowned. And still she never lets go of that typewriter.

Janice became a nice companion for father. I was doubtful at first – I thought he’d lost it! But eventually I saw her in action and it became normal for us.

Thanks to Janice, father’s first book was a cook book for single middle-aged men. He tested every recipe, argued with her about some of the ingredients, and put on a heap of weight. The second book was weight loss for the over 50s. They argued about that one for months. Finally he tested it. That one became a best seller. And so this went on, Janice writing him advice, them arguing and publishing. Eventually though, father had enough. He told Janice he wanted peace. So looking for new friendship she started writing me notes.

Father gave Janice a nice paint job as a farewell, in her choice of colours, then she came to live with me.

We spent hours in the office. I gave up my job while Janice battered out story after story with me as apprentice. I became rich. In a pen name of course. But it was the outlet Janice needed and didn’t care that I profited.

One day I mentioned a story I was writing on my lap top. She didn’t understand such a device but told me she clearly had nothing more to teach me. And then she went quiet. The typewriter seemed to be just a typewriter again.

Needing to move on and give her a new home, here we are at today’s auction.

“So who will give me fifty?”

No takers.

“My final offer, who will start me at twenty.”

The typewriter suddenly sprung to life and I shot over to look at the paper

‘TWENTY????? How rude!’ typed Janice.

The collectors jumped back in shock.

‘A thousand,’ typed Janice, ‘or I’m contacting the police.’

People laughed.

And so the auction began.

I don’t know who has Janice now. I suspect someone out there is enjoying the fruits of her labour and her arguments!

For me, this is just the beginning. I’ve learnt from a master. Time to write something myself.

2021 Furious Fiction Entries

Four fifty-five (January 2021)

The four fifty-five train, it turns out, isn’t only for milk and newspapers. A dozen people on autopilot, board with me.

Can I do this, be like them? It’s barely light – minus one point for starters. They’re so miserable. I COULD end up like them. Minus another point. I’ll get off, go back home, call to decline the offer. From bed.

Rounding a bend, I’m awestruck by a coral sky. I wouldn’t see THAT from bed. Plus one point.

Mesmerised, I miss the next stop. Silhouettes of trees fill the orange landscape. Gorgeous. One point.

Ok, so I’ll go to their offices. Decide then. It’s only too late when my signature is on the contract.

I retrieve it from my bag.

“I, Samantha Green, accept the terms and conditions…” skipping to the enormous salary. Plus two points. They’ll expect the Earth for that. I break out in a mini-sweat. Minus one.

The train’s still quite empty. I’ve never had a whole seat to myself this far along the line. Plus one point.

A man wrestles his bicycle onto the train. Not a patient man, either. Making a song and dance about it, he swings it round and the chain drags down my leg.

“Owww!” I squawk, inspecting a greasy, holey stocking. I look up, requiring an apology. He’s fiddling with headphones. Other passengers are looking away. I twist my stocking to hide the hole that turns into a whopping great ladder. Minus two.

It’s five-fifteen. I crave my pillow. Last night I was sleepless and anxious. This job offer’s a Godsend but unexpected – a three-year contract, huge responsibilities. I’m a follower, not a leader. Didn’t they see that at the interview?

“They loved you,” said the agency, “arrive early!”

Nearing the city, the carriage fills faster. Minus one.

The sky’s now monochrome cloud, generic daylight.

I study the carriage. In weeks, I’ll know the regulars’ characteristics. This could be bicycle-man’s usual seat. In six months, it’ll be mid-winter. No sunrise, miserable, everyone sneezing. Minus three points.

Disembarking, I follow the autopilots to the bus-stop. It’s raining. I wrap my scarf over me like some eighteenth-century farmhand, boarding the overcrowded bus. Minus one.

I can’t see out so I miss my stop and must walk back. Minus one.

At the office’s reception, I sit and rehearse my words.

“Sorry I can’t take the job, Mrs Jennings … Or… I’m grateful for the offer, Mrs Jennings, but…”

Uh-oh, here’s Mrs Jennings.

“Samantha, Samantha!” she’s saying, grasping my hands, “so early! Very impressive! This way to your office.”

My…

…office?

The door (with my name on) opens to a white, chrome and leather-upholstered haven.

Plus seven points. They win.

I sign the contract and Mrs Jennings takes it. Crashing and profanities ensue in the corridor.

“Samantha,” says Mrs Jennings, “meet your new boss.”

Bicycle-man appears, nods, shakes his wet anorak across my office and leaves, swearing. Too late now! But – minus five!

Hickory, Dickory and Doc and the School House tragedy (February 2021)

The story must take place in a school, the story’s first word must be THREE and and the story must include MAGNETIC, SUSPICIOUS, UNCOUTH and FLOWERY.

Three mice, blind since birth, hunkered, listening.

“It’s the farmer’s wife!” said Hickory, “I BET she’s got a carving knife,”

“Why? Because it rhymes?” said Dickory.

“No, because she wants to cut off our tails!”

Dock shuddered.

The farmer’s wife walked past.

They heard the CHKKK of a knife connecting to the magnetic holder in the kitchen.

“We’re safe tonight,” said Hickory.

“I’m hungry,” whined Dock.

“Again,” said Hickory, “but I know where we can feast.”

“How do you know?” asked Dickory.

“I follow my nose!”

“Like the time you led us to dine on tractor tyres,” scoffed Dickory.

“A simple mistake,” said Hickory.

“Mmmmmmm, tyres,” whispered Dock.

“No tyres tonight, friends. Real food. Hold my tail. Let’s go.”

Up Jack-n-Jill Hill they scurried, round the Wishing Well they ran, stopping at the Little Red School House.

“Smell anything?” asked Hickory, dragging the others under the door.

“It’s flowery!” said Dock, “I love flowers!”

“No, silly,” said Dickory, “that’s APPLES.”

“My favourite.”

“Everything’s your favourite,” said Hickory, crunching and apple.

Dickory scampered over the heap, counting.

“There are so many!” he said, “What if it’s a trap?”

“No,” said Hickory, “they say ‘An apple a day keeps the doctor away’.”

“Who say?” said Dock burping like an old drain.

“Humans,” said Dickory, “but that was an advertising stunt from the 1920s. Research shows…”

“Just eat,” said Hickory crunching an apple at the top of the pile.

“I don’t like it,” said Dickory.

“You LOVE apples,” said Dock.

“I mean, it’s suspicious. Why so many?”

“Children bring an apple for the teacher,” Hickory explained, “to get into his good books.”

“Like blackmail?” said Dickory.

“Exactly,” said Hickory on his third apple, “like blackmail.”

Paulo’s Torte (March 2021)

My fiancé left me for my cousin, my flat was burgled twice, and the housing market was so pitiful I couldn’t move away. Nineteen-ninety was killing me. Now this.

“Joan, your division is being merged with Chicago. We’re letting you go.”

Marvellous. That’s all I need. Last time this happened, I tried to leave banking but my exams and experience brought me right back. I sipped my coffee to appear calm.

“I’ll go to Chicago,” I offered, wondering why I speak sometimes. God forbid he says yes!

“Sorry, but no,” he said.

Thank God, but now what? I could lose my flat, end up at mum’s.

“Here’s your severance pay and reference. You’ll be missed.”

Doubtful.

The HR officer escorted me out.

Not wanting to go home, I diverted to my favourite coffee shop. The one where the Italian owner treats every customer like they were his lover. Even the men. The coffee aroma soothed me. A new girl was serving.

“Latte? With marshmallows?”

“No, thanks.”

Paulo appeared from the back.

“Joan-a!” he crooned, “Why you-a here at this-a time?”

I explained. He skipped round the counter, embracing me. I blushed.

“Don’t-a cry, darling Joan-a,” he purred.

“I’m not,” I managed.

“Joan-a. The idiots cannot-a see their loss-a,” he said.

He flicked the marshmallows off my saucer, speaking Italian to the girl. Every day for eight years, Paulo had made my coffee. He knew my stance on marshmallows. If I get a non-banking job, all I would miss about the city would be Paulo and his coffee.

The girl cut a slice of chocolate torte.

“My gift,” said Paulo, “for sad laaady.”

He led me to a small marble table. We sat. I tried the torte. It was, truly, divine. I made the appropriate noises. He smiled.

“Now Joan-a, I wanna make-a you an offer, you can’t-a refuse.”

I sat upright. What was he proposing? I never thought he was like that. How dare he!

He went on.

“You work-a here? You work-a for me?”

I frowned.

“You keep-a my books, you manage-a my money, you help-a me expand-a?”

“Seriously? Here? You’re expanding?”

“Si, I always-a make-a the money. I dooo-a too much. I want to ask-a before, but you-a too happy at the bank. I pay you well, a year, maybe two ’til you-a fed up-a here. You know-a the money, I know-a the caffe.”

“And the cake,” I added.

“Think. You tell-a me in three day.”

Saturday morning, I drove down to the coast to think. The sea air always cleared my mind. I stared across the flat harbour at the distant hills, waiting for the doubts to come, that voice of reason to talk me out of it.

Paolo had handed it to me on a plate, along with the best torte in London. What was there to think about?

The phone box was right there. No time like the present. I dialled Paulo’s number.

“Ciao, Paulo Sabortini!”

“It’s Joan…”

Pioneers (April 2021)

The story must begin in some kind of queue, include the words CROSS, CROP and LUCKY and must include a map.

This could be the last time I’ll be surrounded by a thousand beating hearts, so I try not to wish the moment away. I mean, I’m not one for crowds, but it feels right to savour the packed room and the measured pace of getting processed. I breathe, deeply, reminding myself that my turn is inevitable.

Around me, others are less patient. The woman in front of me is cross with her child who dropped his drink on the floor, and with her husband, for no reason. The man in front of them is getting agitated by the cross woman. Lack of sleep, I expect. Those pods were hardly comfortable. But we have no excuse for gripes. This is paradise compared with what we left behind.

Since the riots and the micro-wars decimated the Americas, Europe and the Pacific nations, so many died, and so few resources remain. Our only hope is to thin ourselves out. Spread the load. Those of us with a passion for life have looked to the stars.

The map on the wall makes the destination ‘towns’ look like established communities. But despite colonisation forging ahead, infrastructure is scarce. We could pick our new settlements and work activities. The only stipulations being that we do three jobs each and live in a basic shell, almost in isolation for the first ten years. Dream scenario if you ask me! They asked me that, several times of course, in each of the psych’ interviews. And every time, that’s what I said:

“Dream scenario.”

Well, let’s face it – I can mourn my family and friends from anywhere. At least here I’ll have the privacy to do so and the chance to contribute. I’ll be on a ninety-hour week. No time to get bored or feel sorry for myself.

We’re the lucky ones. A thousand of us, picked from over a million applicants. Each of the new settlements will receive a hundred of us to get things going. Another hundred will arrive next year. It’ll be, dare I even imagine it – peaceful.

The queue inches ahead, human by human, as they scrutinise faces, eyes, finger prints and paperwork. Passports are examined and stamped, and the next person moves to a cubicle. Someone behind is complaining: “What’s the hold up?” and others “shush” him. We shuffle forward.

Finally, it is my turn. I try to remember every detail of the Official – another human up close – something I may never do again. My hands are shaking. I’m wondering now, if I am prepared for this. And quickly, he is done.

“Welcome to Mars,” he says ushering me out.

I look back as I leave. All those beating hearts.

A Shot in the Dark (May 2021)

The story must be set in a storm, include the words MOTHER, APPLE and YESTERDAY and include the phrase SIT or SITTING ON THE FENCE.

Stanley stood in line, watching the bank tellers take their time. It seemed right to queue. He felt in his pocket, touching the cold metal, withdrawing his fingers fearing it would accidentally go off.

This was not how he imagined it. He’d looked for a more traditional branch – dark wood, no windows. If you’re going to rob a bank, it should have prestige, but this was the stark opposite. Well, you had to start somewhere. Through the enormous windows, he could see the rain – falling like stair-rods, as his mother would have said. And it wasn’t letting up.

The woman in front of him pushed back her hood flicking water droplets at him. He blinked and inhaled a surprise breath of fake apple as she shook out her wild, frizzy hair.

Everyone watched an elderly lady shuffle in, shake rain from her umbrella, and join the queue. Lighting flashed and a deep rumble of thunder made people look at each other, acknowledging the terrible storm. Then the lights when out to a collective “Ooh!”

Tellers milled about in the gloom while a man announced the branch must close, although people may stay until the storm passes.

The queue dispersed around the banking hall, tutting. Stanley hesitated. It seemed like a bad time to do this now, but he remembered his therapist’s words: if you sit on the fence for too long, you’ll miss opportunities. A teller was attempting to lock the front door, fumbling with keys.

A good sign, he thought.

Stanley moved towards the counter, preparing for his moment.

Then, at the door, feet stumbled.

“EVERYBODY GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR!”

What? thought Stanley. That’s my line!

Three figures filled the doorway.

“Everybody, get DOWN!”

Unbelievable, thought Stanley, someone’s beaten me to it. I should have come yesterday.

He knelt, then laid on his stomach, watching their moves. He could tell they were professionals. Two of them disappeared behind the counter, courtesy of the teller with the keys, and the other stayed as minder.

Thunder and lightning picked up its tempo. Flashes lit the room showing the frail lady, leaning on her basket, struggling to get down.

“LAY DOWN,” yelled the minder.

She whimpered and he kicked her in the face. Everybody gasped.

Stanley jumped up, pulled out his gun and pointed it at the figure.

“GET AWAY FROM THE LADY,” he yelled, surprising himself. A flash of lightning revealed the minder’s sawn-off shotgun directed at him.

The next few seconds were a muddle. Rumbles, a piercing bang, flickering, a crash and hollering.

The next lightning flash revealed the old lady, with a gun of her own pointed at the bully on the floor who was bleeding at the knees. His screams would have carried for miles.

The lady nodded at Stanley.

“You’re a good lad, so put the gun away,” she said, and turned toward the counter. “I got this. I’ve been saving this for a rainy day.”

Saturday Girl (June 2021) listed on This Page

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Bea’s Knees (July 2021)

The story must take place at some kind of contest, include a character who forgets something, and include the words PRESS, FLING and GROUND.

The week before my identity was stolen during the online knobbly knees contest, my boss had accused me of not being a team player.

“Oh yes I am,” I’d insisted. I wasn’t.

So, I was press-ganged into a charity event of his choice.

“Upload a photo of your knees. Pay the fee. Go Team Darren!” he enthused. “You won’t win, but it’s about taking part.”

Have you ever tried to do a knee-selfie?

It was exhausting trying to get a decent shot. I tried standing, squatting, flinging my legs over the back of the sofa, you name it. Things weren’t helped by the fact my phone’s ultra-high-resolution camera made them look like the Himalayas.

I uploaded my fifty-ninth attempt, paid the registration fee and completed the forms.

“Why did they need my passport number?” I asked Darren at work the next day.

He assured me it was for “their interactive map”. Or something. Their need for private information should have worried me more.

“Remember, Beatrice, delete your personal details after you have entered,” he’d said.

I forgot.

A couple of weeks later, an underground arms dealer in Somalia was found to be operating under the name of Beatrice Carpenter-Smythe, even claiming my birthday and first pet’s name. The cheek.

In the confusion, I was sent to the Embassy, questioned, and kept there. Just about everybody got involved. They interrogated Darren but didn’t know who to believe. Even my mum, with a thousand photos of me, failed to convince them I wasn’t a terrorist.

The next morning a diplomat insisted on seeing my knees. A crowd of officials joined her for the viewing.

“You won,” she said, showing me her phone, “your photo went viral.”

That would have been an insult, but for the relief, as the Embassy concluded no two people could have a pair of knees like mine. My identity confirmed, I was once again, Beatrice Carpenter-Smythe.

No one knew what happened to Darren.

Although I am not famous, my knees are. People stop me in the street to do selfies with them. After all, they are the knees of a team player.

The long night (August 2021)

The story’s first sentence must contain only four words, the story must include something being shared and include the words PAINT, SHIFT, WAVE and TOAST.

Wendy woke up, confused.

With one eye, she assessed the room. The door was in the wrong place, the streetlight lit a different wall, and it was far too big for nurse’s accommodation.

A deep, rumbling snore next to her brought it all back.

She and Craig were taking time off work to paint their bedroom and had relocated to the spare room for the week. Since moving in together three months ago, they’d worked opposite shifts, so this was their first experience of sharing the bed ALL NIGHT. It was harder work than Wendy had expected.

Unaccustomed to bed-space rationing, she couldn’t get comfortable. Craig wasn’t bothered. He slept. Loudly, it turned out.

Wendy drifted off.

She came-to, under the suffocating weight of Craig’s sweaty arm and leg. She pushed him. He rolled away, taking the sheet with him.

The paint fumes and summer heat had made her nauseated for days. A wave of it washed over her. She sat up to breathe.

“Sleep, girl,” she told herself. She rolled over, cracking her head on Craig’s elbow.

“How much space do you need?” she thought.

Reversing, she resettled on the periphery of her pillow.

An hour or so of slumber later, Wendy woke, face-flat on the mattress, her cheek prickled by something sharp. With her fingers she explored the culprits, rolling and crushing one.

“Toast crumbs!” she thought, “he has breakfast in bed when I am working?!”

Her anger turned into a fitful doze, roused then by Craig’s toenail, slicing its way into her calf. She recoiled, the nausea returning. He grunted, moved closer and wrapped his arm around her.

She tried to relax and deal with it, but a sudden sound made her jump…

“You farted!” she said.

Craig rolled away, and in the dim light, Wendy was sure he was smiling.

She moved further away. Immediately, he spread out like a giant starfish.

Wendy squinted at the clock. Four forty. She was getting chilly. The sheet was on HIS side. She reached over for it, dragging a corner across the bed. With barely the hem of it to cover her, she wrapped herself into a cat-like ball in her pillow area, and finally nodded off.

An hour later, her grateful slumber ended with Craig’s hand, rocking her.

“Rise and shine! Coming for a run?” he said smiling down at her, bright as a daisy, refreshed from eight gorgeous hours of rest.

“No,” she managed.

Soon, the front door slammed.

Daylight had already reached the back of Wendy’s eyes. Exhausted but awake, she uncurled reaching across the vast expanse of bed. The nausea gone now, her stomach growled.

She got up and went through to the kitchen.

On the counter was a tray, set with orange juice, cold toast, and a note.

“I had no idea you snored! It’s cute. Love you. X”

Meeting Marlon (September 2021)

Gary gaped across the gloomy attic.

“You’re…you’re an octopus,” he said.

The octopus nodded.

“I’ve had too much beer,” mumbled Gary, reaching for the Christmas tree box that he’d come up for.

“I’m Marlon,” announced the octopus.

“Christ!”

“No,” said the octopus, “Marlon.”

Gary sat down on the Christmas tree box to steady himself.

“You have GOT to be kidding me. You’re not only in my attic, but you’re also talking to me. I must be drugged.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll shut up,” said Marlon.

Gary tried to process the situation, but he was right, he’d had too much beer. Thoughts were slow to form. The light was yellow and dim, but he was certain he was looking at a large, talking octopus.

“This thing could be worth a fortune,” he thought, ridiculously.

The faint sound of television came from downstairs. He could picture the normality of it: his wife, Mary, watching that funny show, sipping her tea, dunking a biscuit. Closer by, wind howled through a gap in some tiles, as it should. Dust grains tinkled down the chimney to the fireplace in the sitting room below. Down there. Where things were sane and ordinary.

“Mary!” shouted Gary, feeling panic rising, “Mary!!”

He willed his voice to bend down the stairs, while he fixed his eyes upon the eight-legged mass before him.

The octopus recoiled at the sharp sound of Gary’s voice.

“MARY!”

The octopus walked up a pile of boxes, then disappeared over the back of them, with a gentle ‘sploosh’.

A cockroach scuttled across the floor. Gary sat in silence.

“Hello?” he called.

Nothing.

Gary edged his way to the boxes, leaned and peered over them. On the other side was a glass fish tank, full to the top with water, and octopus flesh. One eye blinked at him.

“Argh!” exclaimed Gary, straightening up and cracking his head on a rafter. He fell to the floor.

When he came round, he was flat on his back with an octopus tentacle across his head and another on his wrist.

“Alright?” asked Marlon.

“Argh!” said Gary again, and fainted. This continued.

The fourth time Gary woke, his surprise had become alarm.

“I must be hallucinating, or having a stroke,” he said firmly.

Marlon, unstuck his tentacles.

“You’re not hallucinating,” said Marlon, “nor having a stroke.”

“How on Earth do you even KNOW what those ARE?” said Gary.

“Ohhhh,” laughed Marlon, “you’ll be surprised.”

“YOU THINK?”

Marlon reached a tentacle into a box, retrieving its contents.

“My wife’s medical books?” said Gary.

“See,” said Marlon, “you’re surprised.”

“Alarmed, more like.”

The stairs creaked.

“Gary?” came Mary’s voice.

“Don’t come up!” warned Gary, realising his mistake of calling for help.

More creaking.

“Mary! Don’t…”

Too late.

Mary appeared in the gloom. She smiled at them both.

“Ahh,” said Mary, handing Gary a cup of tea, “I see you’ve finally met Marlon.”

Game Changer (October 2021)

The story’s setting – a court of some kind; a character who measures something; include the words BALLOON, ROCK and UMBRELLA.

The pictures of me in the tabloids were superb, even if I do say so myself. Leaping Larry brought the tone down a bit, but overall, it was a good outcome.

I’d daydreamed of being in front of a cheering Wimbledon crowd since I was a kid. Like me, mum’s a big tennis fan, but she’d refused to send me to tennis classes.

“Shrinking violets won’t make it in tennis,” she’d said. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose.

Still, we went every year, ate strawberries, bought souvenirs: sports bags, umbrellas, sweat bands – we had the lot. But at 26, that wasn’t enough. My dream remained.

I’d shelled out for tickets to the ladies’ final. Mum was in her element. I checked out the photographers on court. One of them had a bundle of light meters around his neck, keen to get the perfect picture, re-measuring the light before every ‘chh – chkkk”.

“He’s the one,” I thought, “I’ll give him the perfect picture.”

“Thirty: Love” said the umpire.

Polite applause.

Just then, a man hopped over the barrier onto the grass, stark naked. My mum squealed and the crowd laughed.

Damn him. I’d paid serious money for front-row seats for a good reason. This is MY match, I thought.

I wasn’t due on until the second set, but this man was stealing my thunder. The cameras zoomed in on his ‘worldly goods’ a-dangling, as he leaped over the net.

Adrenaline pumping, I launched myself over the barrier.

Meticulous planning made disrobing easy. My chiffon dress unfurled at the tug of a ribbon. As I ran, it ballooned behind me, draping across the photographers, revealing my perfect fake tan and super-toned backside.

And that’s when it happened! The crowd cheered…me! Like I was some sort of long-awaited rock star! At last!

I’d expected to be caught straight away, but with two of us to deal with, the officials were slow to react. I juggled a couple of tennis balls to rapturous applause. Then, danced for a moment with one of the ball boys, whose blush charmed the crowd no end. And I posed for my chosen photographer who even had time to check his many light meters. Mum was on her feet, clapping, although she may have been more interested in Leaping Larry. Still, she seemed impressed.

I got charged for trespassing and was banned from Wimbledon for life, but even mum agreed it was worth it.

I’m now dating the photographer and we’re watching my mum very closely. We suspect she’s planning something special for the tabloids, because it’s true what they say – like mother, like daughter.

The man who should have been mine (November 2021)

In the story, someone needs to be packing a suitcase; include phrase “across a crowded room” and include the words Charm, Crush, Faint.

Father is still proud that I rescued Silas, the coachman, from under the fallen horse. Mother, though, has barely recovered from finding a bleeding, wounded stranger in her parlour with me in tears, stripped to my petticoats.

A year ago, today, I was ‘running away’, to be with George, the love of my life. My suitcase was hidden behind hat boxes underneath my bed where I thought Liz, our maid, never cleaned. I sneaked some garments into it that wouldn’t be missed: a dress, a cape, some unmentionables.

At sixteen, I was old enough to marry, but father always said “…not before you are seventeen, Grace.”

If I wasn’t careful, he would marry me off to one of his friend’s gormless sons. While George’s age (forty-two) seemed a small hurdle, it wasn’t THE hurdle.

I first set eyes on George across a crowded room full of finery, canapés and champagne. It was one of father’s business affairs, where gentlemen paraded wives and off-spring. George threaded through the crowd landing by my side. I feigned surprised.

“Charmed,” he said kissing my hand.

Then THE hurdle appeared: his wife. She got bored, quickly disappearing.

“She does that,” said George, “frequently.”

“Good,” I said.

Thanks to Silas, who was George’s coachman – and best friend – we found ways to meet: after church, at market, in the woods. One day George announced he’d purchased a property in Brighton.

“For us,” he’d said, adding “Jemima’s relieved we are divorcing.”

Then he proposed.

It stormed that Saturday, the night before we were leaving. I crammed warmer clothes into my case.

Sunday morning, my family assembled for church in the parlour, where I did my best faint possible.

Mother put me on the daybed, fussing.

“I’m fine!” I insisted, “Shoo! Please!”

They all left. Even Liz.

I collected my case, then sat at the door, awaiting the carriage.

It got late. Fidgety, I walked into the garden, then heard shouts.

Running along our drive, I found George’s carriage upside down, a wheel missing, the horse dead. The ensemble had slid down the embankment. Silas cried out from under the horse. Darling George was silent. He’d been thrown then crushed by the carriage. I wailed, burrowing into the mud to help Silas.

We limped two hundred yards back to the house and I wept all the way, for George. My family returned as I was tearing off muddy, blood-caked clothes. I was inconsolable, so Liz helped me to my room, where I noticed her sliding my suitcase under the bed without question.

Father, feeling responsible for the pothole in the track, insisted Silas stay with us while he convalesced. He’s been with us for a year.

Silas inherited George’s wealth, to everyone’s surprise (except mine), not realising what great friends they’d been.

And today, Silas proposed to me.

I said “Yes”.

After all, we both mourn for the man who should have been mine.

Standing ovation (December 2021)

The story must include a tree, must include something being taped and must include the words DANCE, SEARCH and CHANGE.

Attendance at our nativity play was poor, but that helped us all escape alive.

Chickenpox had infected the cast, so with one day to go, in search of replacements, they enlisted our football team.

Parts were assigned based on costume sizes. The goalkeeper was too tall for any of them, so he was dressed as a tree from last year’s Hobbit.

My mum cried when I told her I was Angel Gabriel. She elevated me to Archangel, editing her programme in Biro.

At the walk-through, Mr Groves taped lines on the stage indicating where we should stand. Rehearsals were brief:

“Your only line,” said Mr Groves handing out laminated cards, “LEARN IT.”

When the curtain rose, the music teacher played Little Donkey on an electric piano that sounded like she was wearing mittens. The stage markers were a meaningless scribble, so our team took our usual defensive formation.

The back end of the donkey ran off with stage fright. Joseph led the remaining half of the donkey with Mary (played by Kevin) on to stage.

When Mary cocked his leg pretending to dismount the half-donkey, the doll up his dress dropped out with a thunk. Its head came off, which the shepherd booted into the wings.

Seeing Jesus’ premature birth, the Tree stepped forward.

“And a child was born,” he yelled.

Applause.

Joseph and Mary were turned away from imaginary inns until one innkeeper pointed at Kevin’s now flat stomach.

“You are with child, go to the stable.”

Meanwhile, baby Jesus’s body was kicked around, losing the swaddling clothes it had been born with.

The pianist broke into “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”. I leapt across the stage, kicking the doll to Mr Groves.

When the song ended, we looked over for direction, but he was busy taping the baby Jesus together.

Seeing the opportunity, an innkeeper took the spotlight.

“What do you call a blind reindeer?” he said

“I don’t know,” yelled his dad from the audience, “what do you call a blind reindeer…?”.

“No idea.”

Applause.

A mummified baby Jesus appeared, pushed onto stage with a long broom. The shepherd flicked it with his toe directly up Mary’s skirt.

Wild applause.

Mary gathered up his baby and sat rocking it, while the two wise men and half a donkey crowded over the empty manger.

And then things went bad. A fire broke out in the electric piano. The teacher’s mittens had stuck in one of the keys. In the panic, Mary tripped on his skirt. Like a good husband, Joseph threw her over his shoulder and fled.

“Tree!” I yelled.

Tree was shuffling, restricted by the tight trunk. I looped him behind my wings, dragging him off the stage.

In the car park, competing with the sirens, we hollered a few verses of Silent Night. And while the fire brigade put out the school, we received a standing ovation! Partly because there were no chairs, but mainly, because it was Christmas.

2020 Furious Fiction Entries

Finders Keepers (January 2020)

In the story a character shares a secret, there is a countdown of some kind and the word serendipity occurs.

Raymond heaved the huge cage from beneath the browning palm fronds.

“Art nouveau. Like it?” he asked Paula who was clambering over garden waste.

“It’s a monster,” she said, eyeing the flamboyant ironwork.

“But do you like it?”

“I love it.”

“Me too. What’ll we use it for?” said Raymond.

“We’ll get a parrot for it, of course,” she said.

“And that’s why I love you,” laughed Raymond, “most people get a cage for their parrot. We get a parrot for our cage.”

“It IS perfect, though,” said Paula, playing with the door.

“You always know when something’s perfect for us,” he said smiling.

“I do. It’s true.”

Raymond dragged it towards the car.

“It weighs a tonne! How will we get it home?”

A shout from across the tip yard stopped them.

“Ray!”

“Eddy!” said Raymond, “fancy seeing you here.”

“Like you, just hanging out and browsing. What’ve you found?” he said, inspecting the cage, “I didn’t know you were getting a bird.”

“Neither did we,” said Raymond, “and we won’t if we can’t get it home.”

“I’ve got the roof rack,” said Eddy gesturing to his car, “walk this way.”

Eddy and Raymond stood either side of the cage.

They took hold of the ironwork.

“Knees bent,” said Eddy, “and on one.”

“Three…. Two…. ONE!” and it was up.

“I’ll tie her on. You guys head off and put the kettle on,” said Eddy.

“Cheers mate,” said Raymond.

Driving home, Raymond was smiling shaking his head.

“That was amazing,” he said, “serendipity strikes again.”

“Again?” frowned Paula.

“Well, you know – when we met, years ago. Pure serendipity.”

“Oh. That,” said Paula.

“What do you mean?”
“Serendipity,” she mumbled.

Raymond tried to read her face. Paula looked away.

“We were stuck at the garage and got talking. Pure luck,” he said reminding her.

“Well, no,” she said hesitantly.

“What?”

“No,” she repeated, “it wasn’t.”

Raymond was silent.

“I planned it,” said Paula, “so it wasn’t serendipity”.

“What do you mean, you planned it?”

“Sorry,” said Paula, turning back to him, “but I’d seen you there twice before. I overheard you booking your next appointment. I knew when you’d be there. I planned our meeting.”

“Really?” he said.

“Yes. You know how I always know when something’s perfect for us? Well, I knew. Even back then.”

Raymond drove.

“I wanted you to find me, like you just found that bird-cage. But I needed to make you look in my direction.”

Raymond drove.

“I don’t blame you for being angry,” she said.

He finally spoke as they arrived home.

“I’m more flattered than angry. But surprised you’ve had a secret all this time.”

“I never knew how to tell you,” said Paula.

“Well, I wasn’t looking and there you were, so I’ll call it serendipity, if it’s ok with you?”

“Of course,” smiled Paula, “and if it’s ok with you, that’s what we’ll call our parrot, too.”

Duty Bound (February 2020)

The story must include a character who’s a GUARD, must include the words NARROW, GOLDEN, LEATHERY and GLOSSY. The story’s first and last sentences must each contain just TWO WORDS.

“What’s that?”

Samuel sat bolt upright, concentrating. That miniscule sound no human could have heard.

“Right when my watchman’s gone for his dinner.”

Samuel listened hard in the pitch-black.

“Where are you?” he thought, slowly turning his head.

One ear swivelled to get a bearing.

“Side door… no….”

His other ear rotated.

“Gotcha!”

Samuel slinked quickly across the factory’s shop-floor. He parked himself in the paint-shop doorway. Not the best place for a guard dog with a super-sensitive nose.

He listened.

Nothing. Not even the watchman. They’d sent yet another different one tonight. Like the others, he didnt seem to care less about their guard dog. “They would though. If I had to protect them.”

Samuel had often wished for someone to break in, just to kill the boredom.

He laid down in the darkness, resting his fuzzy chin on his long Alsatian paw. Ears remaining vigilant, moving to-and-fro like little radars. Waiting.

“There!”

He sat up.

“And there, again.” His ears honed in. “I know where you are!”

And he was off. Samuel trotted, tail to attention, snout down, ears sharp. He knew he didnt have long. It was unethical, he supposed, being a dedicated guard dog, but he couldn’t help himself. He was so lonely.

Samuel entered the shadowy yard, lit by a dim half-moon. His leathery paws padded across the fine gravel. He stopped again, listening. Sniffing.

“There. I hear you. I smell you!”

Indeed, there she was. Her glossy, golden coat, shining in the security light’s weak glow that had sensed her hurrying across the yard.

He followed her in to the dark corner. Their noses touched.

He’d never questioned her visits, rare as they were. She had brightened his lonesome existence since the first night she had appeared.

Again, she was inviting him to come with her, to squeeze out through that narrow gap in the fence.

“Come on!” her soft, feathery tail wagged at him, willing him.

“I want to.”

But once more, his heart broke, as he didn’t understand why he felt he had to stay.

Not tonight. Next time.

The Watchers (March 2020)

The story must include a person in disguise, take place in a park and must include a mirror.

Rinsing my lathered hands, I caught my reflection in the smudged and cracked mirror. The transformation this time was superb. My straightened, now-dark and grey-lighted hair. The heavy glasses, hearing aid, high-waisted trousers and padded stomach. Impressive. For want of something cleaner, I dried my hands down the front of my mac then buttoned it. I pulled up my collar. Too sleazy. I turned it back down. Spying a lone toilet roll on the windowsill, I wondered whether it might fit in my pocket. A terrible habit. No, of course it wouldn’t, what, with the birdseed and my gun.

My mark flushed the toilet in the stall behind me. I slunk out.

In the half-light of the park, I chose a bench in sight of the toilet block and the bandstand. A congregation of pigeons formed as I scattered birdseed.

“In place,” I whispered to the hearing-aid, tonight’s two-way radio.

It crackled.

He appeared; his collar turned up. Looked pretty good actually. I made a mental note. He slowed to avoid the feeding frenzy.

“Evening,” he grunted at me.

I nodded, busying myself with the birds. He sat on a bench before the bandstand.

Another man appeared. Heavily built, similar mac. Instead of approaching my mark, he took the next bench.

I threw more seed. The flock was already thinning as the evening set in.

We waited on our respective benches, with the cold mist rising, like an Atkinson-Grimshaw painting my dad liked. My mark suddenly stood and marched round the back of bandstand. I counted to thirty. On cue the other man followed.

“I’m on,” I whispered, following. Crackle.

I rounded the bandstand, my hand on my pocketed weapon. I was grabbed before I could respond, their cold pistol pressing hard into my cheek. Bizarrely, I thought how that toilet paper would be more useful than the loaded gun in my pocket.

“Who d’you work for?” he snarled.

I KNEW that voice.

He twisted my arm so hard I thought it would break. Damn my low pain threshold. It made me cry out.

“You’re a woman!” said the second man shining a torch at me.

“Brian!?” I said, recognising his voice.

“Judith?” said the other man, releasing me from his grip.

“Mike! What the hell’s going on?”

He pulled out a photo.

“Our mark,” he said, “he looks like you.”

I did the same.

“My mark,” I said handing him the photo.

Mike swore.

They’d had us following each other all day. Ripping off my hearing aid, I put my finger to my lips. We knew the drill. If HQ gets infiltrated, split. End of story.

But that’s never the end, is it? There’s always someone watching us. And always someone who’ll pay me to watch. You realise now, why I’m telling you this, don’t you?

You now know who’s watching you. But you’ll never know which one I am.

Just learn to watch back. And count your toilet rolls.

To Absent Friends (April 2020)

The story must begin on the side of the road, must include the words APRON, PIGMENT, RIBBON, ICON and LEMON, and must include a splash.

Fred was a stickler for being on time. Sitting in the little wooden shelter, he peered down the lane.

‘Is that it?’

He was reluctant to stand unless he had to, these days. It might just be another red car. He squinted. It was, indeed, another red car.

He looked across the lane.

‘That field hasn’t changed,’ he thought, then wondered how true that was. He’d barely noticed it when he used to drive. When his now late-wife told him his eye pigment was fading, he’d dreaded being forced on to public transport. But despite cataracts the bus rides had shown him new things about his village. And now, doing this monthly trip alone, every detail screamed at him. Tom had gone first. Then Charlie. Then Ron.

‘Ahh, here it comes.’

He gathered his leather briefcase and boarded.

“Fred,” said David, nodding at Fred’s tuxedo and black bowtie. “Off to fight spies?”

“That would be telling,” smiled Fred tapping the side of his nose and giving him a wink.

Fred sat in a seat near the driver. David was young but knew well enough what Fred’s attire signified. According to David’s father, who was a member of the same lodge, Fred was a bit of an icon, being able to recite every ritual perfectly.

“Busy night?” asked Fred.

“Yes. But I’m knocking off soon. I’ve got an important date.”

“Good luck,” said Fred.

Fred closed his blurry eyes and let tonight’s ritual run like a recording through his head, visualising the bend of the knee, the touch of the arm. The meaning of each word and movement had become clearer as Fred has grown older.

At the lodge, Fred unfolded his white leather apron, smoothing the blue ribbons outlining its edges. He hung his v-shaped collar on a hanger and headed to the bar. Being early had its advantages.

The barman placed Fred’s regular gin next to the tiny bottle of bitter lemon. Fred poured it, trying hard to avoid that inevitable shake. The well-rehearsed barman wiped up the splash that landed on the polished oak.

Fred raised his glass.

“To absent friends,” he said aloud.

“Not so absent,” called a familiar voice.

Shoulder to shoulder stood Tom, with his two walking sticks, with Charlie and Ron.

“Friends!” said Fred, “Who let YOU out?”

They gave each other the handshake.

“The old-folks home has arranged a monthly bus,” said Tom.

“If you DON’T mind,” laughed Ron, “It’s an Assisted Living Facility!”

“Less of the ‘old’ – I’m only 92,” said Charlie.

For the next hour they chatted and laughed, raising a glass to more than several, truly absent friends, who long since went to meet the Great Architect of the Universe.

Later, while donning their regalia, the Worshipful Master arrived.

“I’d like you to meet our newest apprentice. My son.”

Fred knew the proud young man in the tuxedo and bowtie. Thrilled, he shook young David’s hand.

“Welcome to the fold. And to the best friends you will ever make.”

Fast Market (May 2020)

The story’s first word must be FIVE. The story must include something being replaced. Your story must include the phrase SILVER LINING.

“Five million pounds,” I shout down the phone through the din, “Yes, FIVE!”

The trading floor is going manic. And this idiot wants to know what I earned last year. Head of the biggest financials’ trading desk in London. Nosey bugger.

I’m used to multi-tasking. I have no trouble keeping track of client orders in a fast-moving market. so random questions are fine. But what a weird time to chat someone up. It’s just his ego, though. He’s not interested in me. I’m hardly known for my allure. Although, I’m feeling sleek today in my Jaeger suit. The one with the silver lining. Makes me feel untouchable, knowing that whatever happens, there’s always the silver lining. Of my suit. Well, it makes me laugh, anyway.

Another phone-line’s flashing. I scrunch the second handset between my shoulder and other ear. With my free hand I’m signalling the order to our pit trader, mouthing “Sell a thousand at eight,” so Mr Nosey, on the other line, doesn’t hear his competitor’s massive offer.

He’s asking questions again.

“I love the markets,” I’m telling him. It’s true. I live for work. And my E-Types.

A third phone-line is flashing. Three phones two ears.

“Sell another thousand at seven,” I’m signalling into the pit.

I love it like this. It’s exhilarating.

And now my boss shows up. Right here in the trading booth. This is a first.

“Daniel,” I say muting all three phones. I keep one eye on my pit trader’s hand signals.

“Amelia, this is Sue,” says Daniel, like it’s at a cocktail party.

I didn’t see her standing there. I know who Sue is. Wesley Bank’s aloof floor manager. I confirm an order on one of the phones then hang up that handset. Daniel is looking nervous.

“Sue is taking over as our floor manager from Monday,” he’s saying.

Wait. I’m our floor manager. She’s my replacement? Charming! Half a day’s warning. In a fast market, while I’m filling orders. What a halfwit he is. I could walk out now with what’s in my head and that alone could destroy their whole year’s profits.

I nod at Sue.

“Good luck.” I say.

I mean it. It’s a lot to do with luck. And strategy. And attitude. She’d got attitude alright. (Bitch.) But hey, good luck anyway. They never could really afford me. I nod at Daniel hoping they’ll leave. Let me work while the job’s still mine.

The first phone line flashes. Him again.

“Five point five million and you start Monday.”

Oh, of course he wasn’t chatting me up. He knew before I did. That was the INTERVIEW.

“Six million,” I say, “and I start right now.”

“Good.”

I’m already handing my permit badges to Sue. “No time like the present.”

Shock on her face. At least it’s an emotion. Daniel’s staring as I smile, swinging my Jaeger jacket over my shoulder.

“As they say, Daniel. Every cloud.”

Interview games (June 2020)

The story’s first and last word should start with the letter J, a game is being played and the story must use the phrase ‘miss the boat’ or ‘missed the boat’.

“Just throw it,” they yell.

I’m blindfolded. And rubbish at throwing. But throw it I must, if I want this job.

They’re screaming now. Sod it, here goes.

‘Oooooph!”

That’s me throwing the ball.

They groan which tells me I’ve missed. My blindfold is removed. Blinking at the brightness, I see the other team are ahead of us.

“Do I even want this job?” I wonder as we approach the hoops. They do this sort f crap – why would I work for them?

One by one, we have to get though hoops of ever decreasing sizes. I am quite literally jumping through hoops now, for a boss I may never have. Madness.

The other team have reached some wall-type thing. Looks like a nightmare. Hoisting each other over it, water splashes as they land the other side. Water? We are all wearing suits.

I’m squeezing myself through the smallest hoop now. I wonder “If I get stuck, will they make me wear it for the rest of the day?” I laugh out loud at the thought.

We’re now at that wall, catching up. The other team’s struggling with someone in the water. I can’t believe they’d make us get wet. I’m sure my suit’s dry-clean only. Its going to shrink. On me. I’ll get home looking like I’m wearing kid’s clothes. I’d abandoned my heels at the rope bridge, way back. Now I’m looking up at this thing thinking how those shoes might have been better than stockings. I laugh again. I’m actually considering a strategy for scaling it.

“Step on,” I’m being told. The alpha male is crouching, hands looped together. I’ve seen people do this on telly. My foot’s in his hands. He boosts me up. Hands rudley push my bottom and I’m suddenly at the top.

“Go!” I’m told. I throw my legs over and drop into ankle deep water. The others somehow speedily start splashing around me. This last part is timed. We’re overtaking as the other team argue. They see us and start running, leaving a woman in the water.

“Please help,” shes shouting. My team screams back at me, as I go to her.

“Get up,” I say looping my arm round her.

“You should go. You’ve got a chance to win.”
The two teams are racing to the finish line. Her team’s ahead.

“I’ve missed the boat on that one,” I say helping her to limp along. “Lets get over that line.”

We do. The teams aren’t happy. It was a stupid game, anyway. How can it prove who’ll be any good at a desk job?!

We’re shown to cubicles, to shower and given a change iof clothes.

Back in the boardroom a lady is addressing us, handing us envelopes. Damn, that’s the lady I helped out of the water! “Dry cleaning vouchers and letters of thanks.”

She gets to me.

I want to explain. “Sorry I didnt follow the rules.”

“It wasn’t about rules, or winning,” she said handing me my envelope. “You’ve got the job.”

Catherine’s Wedding (July 2020)

The story must take place at either a wedding or a funeral, must include something being cut and must include the words UNDER, OVER and BETWEEN

I wasn’t invited to cousin Catherine’s wedding, but I went.

“Come anyway,” mum had said, wanting company.

“Weddings are so dull,” I’d complained.

Liverpool, 1986. Over-sized shoulder pads, massive hair, big belts, thick eyeliner. And that was just the men. A great time to be eighteen, but not at weddings. At Catherine’s, all the usual suspects were there. Friends, enemies, people barely remembering each other, people who’d had offspring unbeknownst to others. I recognised no one. A five-year-old maniac zoomed down the aisle playing aeroplanes. Old men smiled knowing they’d have done the same, old women smiled like it wasn’t annoying. His mother’s fake attempt to control him by repeating his name, introduced him as Ethan. Lovely Ethan. Remind me never to have kids.

The organ belted out the wedding march.

Catherine ruffled past with permed, puffy-sleeved bridesmaids. At the altar, the congregation watched sunlight touch the white taffeta, turning it transparent, displaying bridal under-garments.

“No!” I laughed.

Men shifted for a better view of stockings, suspenders and g-string. Women shrank, embarrassed for Catherine. Mum jabbed me for laughing.

“Be kind,” she whispered.

I searched for something mundane, noticing the church’s splendour. The part I could see, anyway. Tarpaulin-covered scaffolding decked with plastic roses hosted painters over the altar.

Some scuffling down at the alter took back my attention.

“Someone’s laying under the font!” I whispered to mum.

We mouthed the hymn as commotion unfolded. The priest, eyed the people but keenly stuck to the script.

Ambulance men arrived and noisily removed an elderly lady who had apparently been overcome by paint fumes. The blood coming from her head where she’d hit the flagstone didn’t bode well for her recovery.

“Who’s that?” I asked mum, as they passed.

Mum’s aunt’s sister-in-law’s mother, it turns out, was whisked away as the choir competed for our attention.

The soporific Bible reading soothed us until we were interrupted by a scream.

It was brilliant! Darling Ethan had wedged his head into the iron gate on the crypt. The priest insisted Ethan gets rescued quickly but quietly and continued with the wedding. I leaned forward in the pew for a better view of Ethan’s backside, instead of Catherine’s.

There was a man lifting Ethan, sliding the boy’s head up and down between the bars. “In case they aren’t parallel,” he explained. The railings were parallel.

“It’s his big ears,” said one woman, making me snort. Mum poked me.

The fire-brigade arrived. Again, Ethan was dragged up and down to demonstrate there was no escape.

“Angle grinder,” announced the chief fireman.

“What?” asked Ethan’s mother.

“A saw,” said mum.

Ethan’s mother sobbed. Ethan sobbed.

“Will they cut his ears off?” asked a man.

“Shshshshhhh,” we heard.

A man said:

“I do.”

“…And do you, Catherine Annabelle Doherty…”

“She does,” whispered my mum turning back to the crypt gate. The fireman started the angle grinder.

The photographs outside were delayed while we all stated to witness the demolition of the ancient crypt gate. Well, you don’t see that every day.

Only I saw the chief bridesmaid enter the vestry with the chief fireman, reappearing soon after. Looking, I have to say – very unholy.

Hopefully, they’ll invite me to their wedding.

Stop Press (August 2020)

The story must contain humour/comedy, must include the words DIZZY, EXOTIC, LUMPY, TINY and TWISTED and the story must include a sandwich.

News has emerged that Mary’s Little Lamb has been found alive in a copse near Plum Corner.

Today, Christmas came early for Mary who had remained cautiously optimistic that Little Lamb was still alive, but she admits, her hopes had been fading.

Little Lamb was spotted wandering in circles beneath some old, twisted electricity pylons. Reports say she was bewildered and dizzy. Despite fevered speculation, mystery remains over how Little Lamb’s snowy white wool turned to Nylon. Pundits say she is lucky to be alive.

Little Lamb was found by unsung hero, Mr Jack Horner.

“Mary was inseparable from that tiny lamb of hers,” said Mr Horner, “so everyone was shocked when she lost her. That’s usually Bo Beep’s trick.”

When asked how he captured the lamb, he told us, “I was having lunch in the corner of the field and there it was, frazzled and bleating. I’d finished my plum pudding so all I had left was a sandwich. But hey – who knew lambs like pastrami on rye!”

Jack and Jill from Up the Hill have offered Mary help, having recently taken delivery of a new consignment of vinegar and brown paper.

“They are very kind,” Mary said, “but I’m not into complimentary therapies. Doctor Foster is coming to help.”

“I’m currently up to my neck in it,” oft-cited Dr Foster told us on the phone, “but I’ll get there come hell or high water. She’s not in Gloucester, I hope?”

Retired farmer and senior, MacDonald, previously suspected of abducting Little Lamb, was “delighted” and “relieved” to hear the news. MacDonald had been in custody all week, after neighbours reported hearing “a baa-baa here and a baa-baa there” from his property. MacDonald maintained his innocence throughout the probe, claiming he now only keeps exotic animals including a peacock here and a peacock there.

“I wish [Little Lamb] all the best for a speedy recovery,” said MacDonald, and in a stinging rebuke added, “my neighbours will hear from my solicitors.”

Grizzled veteran, MacDonald, now residing in The Dell, asked us to emphasise that despite his senior years, he rejects claims that he is ‘Old’ and that he now wants a wife, a child and a nurse but might pass on the cow.

Coming up: How vertically challenged Miss Muffet battled her arachnophobia and hear disturbing excerpts from her new book “Lumpy Curds and Drainpipes” co-authored by her new business partner, Incey Wincey.

But next: A senior man has been caught on security cameras playing “knick-knack” on a shoe, on a knee and on a door. Police fear that hives could be next in this cycle of violence and they are warning dog owners to be wary about anyone randomly distributing bones.

A Place to Rest (September 2020)

The picture should be the inspiration, the first word should start with ‘sho’ and the story must include the words SCORE, SLICE and SPRINKLE.

“Shoo!” I said to the seagull that had just regurgitated an entire fish onto the deck. I stamped my foot at it. It didn’t seem bothered.

“I hope you didn’t see that,” I whispered to Claire.

The bird squawked, eyeing-up a slice of salami someone had flung from their sandwich. The smelly fish was accompanied by some nasty soupy stuff that was in danger of running onto my sandals.

“Let’s move.”

I spotted the big empty seat at the back of the boat and took up residence there, spreading things out so no one would disturb us. It was a perfect picture. The sapphire sky, the gentle bumps of islands and the crystal water, churned into white puffs by the motor. I unfolded the well-worn itinerary.

“Next stop – our last stop. Spetses,” I whispered.

In three weeks, we had island- and city-hopped fourteen times, as we switched from boat to coach, to boat, to boat. Finally, I had shown Claire every place I could remember from my time here as a child.

We first met when we were ten, each having been moved to Sydney from our different continents. We were then inseparable for the next forty years. Many times, we promised each other we’d visit the others’ old home. Five years ago, Claire took me to hers in Canada. But that was before we knew she had her…’thing’. We called it her ‘thing’ in case speaking its name made it worse. Still, though, it got worse. And she battled it. My darling friend deserved none of it. Who does?

Well, I had a score to settle with that ‘thing’, and I’d decided the trip would happen, regardless.

The boat slowed and drifted to the tiny jetty. Patiently in the morning sun, we all filed off to another deliciously calm haven, luggage and packages in hand.

I managed to prolong the inevitable until after sunset, then with a glass of wine inside me, I headed to the beach with Claire.

“I’ll never forget this trip, my love,” I said, standing knee-deep in the warm, flat sea. Not a wave, not a ripple.

I held the casket in front of me and sprinkled Claire into the inky water, marking the end of our trip in this world together. For now, anyway. My promise fulfilled.

They say it takes a hundred years for the Mediterranean to flush its water into the Atlantic. That should give Claire long enough to explore it, and when it’s my time, I’ll join her again. Together, we will make our way to the big ocean and from there, who knows?

Christmas Time (October 2020)

A thump downstairs woke me. Then tinkling of bells on the Christmas tree. At seven-and-a-half, I knew well enough that Dad and Mum delivered the presents, but I wanted to peep. It was still special.

He was bending over by the tree, lit by fairy lights, untying the golden cord around a sack.

“Oh Dad!” I laughed, “you dressed up!”

He straightened and turned.

This was not Dad. He was bigger and his suit far more elaborate than any I’d seen. The black band across his rotund middle was diamond encrusted – spectacular. His robe was deeper than velvet – fur almost – blood red. He had the kindest face. Crumbs decorated his snowy beard.

“Caught red-handed,” he said, swallowing the cookie.

I had no words.

“So, young lady. How did you do it?”

“Do what?” I blurted.

“Stop time. The only people who’ve caught me on the move are those who can stop time. I don’t know how they do it.”

I dared to look away, checking that the kitchen clock was, indeed, not ticking.

“I promise I didn’t do it,” I said, wanting to show I was good.

I’m sure he knew I’d stolen Samantha’s pencils and pushed George’s truck into the pond yesterday. But stopping time? That was beyond even MY capacity for naughtiness.

“Hohoho,” he laughed. Seriously – that’s how he laughed. So it turns out, I am not the first person to have met Santa in person.

“You are a very clever young lady,” he said perching himself on the arm of a chair. He wound the golden cord around his finger, slipping it into his pocket.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to stop time,” I said, “OR restart it,” I added, to clarify.

“You don’t know HOW, but you BELIEVE it can be done.”

I nodded.

“Those who believe, can. Those who think it’s impossible, can’t,” he said, gesturing to the chair. His voice was soft, but I sat, obediently. “Remind me,” he whispered, “what did you tell your Dad you wanted for Christmas? Apart from the telescope.”

I stared at his boot – the iridescent crystals set into the carved leather. My dreams were incapable of making up such beauty.

“I asked Dad if I could see a UFO,” I mumbled. An Unidentified Flying Object. Dad had told me not to be so ridiculous.

“A UFO,” said Santa, “which means you believe. And those who believe, can. Keep an eye on the sky tonight.”

He winked at me then stood, gathering the reindeer’s carrots.

“Happy Christmas, Nicole,” he whispered and stepped into the shadow.

I didn’t see him leave. The kitchen clock started ticking. Beside me on the arm of the chair was the golden cord.

In my bedroom, I drew wide the curtains to see the star-spangled sky. And there it was – not exactly unidentified, but the most magnificent flying object you could ever see, silhouetted by the light of by the Moon.

Abandonados (November 2020)

The story must be set in a Hotel, there should be a photograph in the story and should contain the words: Collar, Gloomy, Police, Rhythm, Sapphire

Elated to be back at his hotel, Ronald was desperate for water and shade. He barrelled into the door, confused when he bounced off it. His excursion had been three days long. Not on purpose, mind. He squinted through the reception’s smoky glass at the gloomy foyer. beyond. He barely noticed two small suitcases out the front of the hotel. It wasn’t unusual for them to be there when couples were leaving and waiting for a bus.

He stood back and surveyed the front of the building. The 1970s had finally found central Spain, but the new hotel seemed out of place. Compared to local dwellings, it was monstrous at four floors high. Today, its balconies were uncharacteristically tidy. No towels or underwear pegged out to dry.

He looked at the suitcases realising they were familiar. Spectacularly unlikely that someone with the same unmatching luggage would be here too, he thought. He turned over the SunShine-Travel tag.

“They ARE mine,” he muttered, “what’s happening…?”

Taking them, Ronald trudged round the back, finding the hotel gardens deserted. Just the sapphire blue pool and a skinny cat. She ran to greet him, the bell on her collar tinkling.

Twenty minutes later, Ronald had broken into the hotel, through the pool bar.

The power was off, but the lobby phone worked. He dialled the number on the wall for the police.

“Policia!”

“Hola, habla usted Ingles?” stumbled Ronald.

No, of course they didn’t speak English. Using his meagre Spanish, he asked why everyone had been evacuated.

“Todas las personas evacuadas?”

They didn’t know. He hung up.

Ronald and the cat searched the hotel. In the kitchen, he discovered a can of tuna for his hungry companion. For himself, a tin of peaches and some water. He slurped on them while scouring reception for clues.

Spanish. Spanish. Scribbles. Faxes. Spanish. A fax in English…

“Dear Hotelier. SunShine-Travel,” it said, “has entered into administration. Package deals now void. All guests will be collected Thursday 06:30hrs…”

“Ha!” was all Ronald could muster. “Today’s Friday. I’m screwed!”

A second fax from an hour ago caught his eye.

“Ironic,” he said and took it and his peaches outside.

Relaxing into a shady deckchair, he gazed at the pristine pool. He’d never seen anything so magnificently beautiful. Three days he’d been lost. He’d only gone for a morning stroll. One exploratory turn off track, then…no landmarks, no signposts. Three days in hot, dry, scrubby, endless hills. Wild pigs had chased him for a bit. He’d slept on leaves by an ‘abandonado’ village wall.

Ronald stared at the second fax. “Persona desaparecida” – Missing person – with a photograph of himself.

His laugh surprised him.

“Missing! NO – I WAS missing. Even I didn’t know where I was!”

The cat jumped onto his lap, enjoying his words. He stroked her and then closed his eyes, feeling the soothing rhythm of her purr.

“I’ll call home soon,” he whispered.

Ronald took his time with his first swim. And longer with his second. Cool, luxurious. That night he enjoyed a proper bed, albeit with no sheets. He didn’t care. It was heaven.

“Tomorrow,” he decided, “We’ll try another room.”

Wet Slide Story (December 2020)

The story must contain a gift, the first sentence must contain only three words and the story must use words PALM, MATCH and ROSE.

I was four. It was my first setback. One of life’s tiny jabs that teaches us it’s not all fun and games.

It happened at playgroup, amidst said fun and games. Mrs Palmer accused me of weeing on the indoor slide.

Everyone gathered to witness the giant puddle under the slide. It wasn’t mine, but Mrs Palmer was serious when she handed me the squeegee mop – like it meant something to me. I could barely operate a coloured crayon at that age, let alone this monstrous stick thing. It just creaked and clacked, pushing the wee all over the place. It even got on Samantha’s white plimsolls. She cried. I cried. Others cried. Mrs Palmer continued shouting.

I wasn’t even allowed a biscuit at story time that day.

Mrs Palmer informed my Mum who told me off all the way home. I was told off again later, by Dad and Nan.

Mrs Palmer unnecessarily banned me from the slide. I’d already banned myself from it. Playgroup had become the bane of my life.

Soon after, we were summoned to a playgroup ‘event’. So, on Christmas Eve, Mum, Dad, Nan and I stood in the crowded hall. More trouble, I thought. When Samantha and her family arrived, I hid behind Dad avoiding eye contact.

People started singing “Away in a-a manger”. I joined in but I wanted to go home. At least people weren’t all focussed on me.

Mrs Palmer made the grown-ups look at the tissue-paper blobs we had glued to the windows. Then we gave our families the Christmas cards we’d taken two months to make from cut up, old Christmas cards.

Someone shouted:

“He’s here!”

Dad hoisted me to his shoulder. As I rose above everyone’s heads, I saw the dreaded slide and Santa with a sack. Dad put me down, urging me forward.

I resisted. It was risky. I could get blamed for anything with so many people around.

“Go!” he said.

I squashed through, received a gift from Santa, and returned to safety behind Dad’s legs.

Samantha appeared next to me. I looked at her feet, expecting to see yellow-stained plimsolls. She was wearing slippers.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It was me. I did it.”

She was handing me her Santa gift and about to cry. I bet she was worried she would now face the wrath of Mrs Palmer. Not if I could help it, I thought. I handed her my Santa gift to cheer her up.

We opened them – we both had Rudolf hats.

While the grown-ups chatted, Samantha and I retired into the Wendy House.

With our new-found wisdom from life’s tiny jab, we vowed to look after people blamed for accidents or things they didn’t do. In our matching headwear, we sung the bits of Silent Night that we knew (which wasn’t much). Then, very seriously, we discussed the pros and cons of indoor slides, concluding that they were a very silly idea, indeed.