Flash Fiction

Flash Fiction: Dust to Dust

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(Western History Collection, University of Oklahoma)

It infiltrates everywhere. Coating windowsills and forming precipitous piles against skirting boards, present in every corner. Tightly-sealed drawers are thrown open to reveal lightly-coated cutlery and tablecloths and t-shirts and hairbrushes. Books, untouched for years on crammed shelves, are opened to release sooty cascades from their spines. Each morsel of food, a beach picnic of old; every attempt to wash, a gritty exfoliation. Rubber seals around window frames and under doors are redundant, as it flows through keyholes, drifts through air vents, presses up between floorboards and rains from the cornices; a powdery invasion.

Outside, there is the perpetual battle against the grimy mounds that accumulate on the front porch, a daily struggle against absolute entombment. It’s easier now though. No longer the clamber up the rickety ladder, the mask narrowing vision and amplifying deafening asthmatic breaths, to sweep clear the roof panels. Not since distant, perpetual fires weakened the sun to a hazy, tepid shimmer.

Time is now marked in weeks. The hazardous journey to town along roads marked only by inactive pylons, the tyres sinking in fine powder, leaving behind a stilted wake. Waiting silently: the charging of the truck and the sole battery tasked with preserving life; the dwindling pages of tickets exchanged for plastic bottles of murky water and metallic vacuum packs. Waiting passively in a line that diminishes week by week.

Rushing home now, ahead of the approaching storm. A whirlwind of particles eddies across wooden floors as the door is slammed shut against the growing gusts. From the sofa in the front room, wrapped in grimy blankets, listening to the gale screech through the eaves, watching as the minuscule grains impatiently coat the glass. The drifts rising higher and higher until the dust blocks out all remaining light.

 

April 2017

Flash Competition: Persistence

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The journal The Molotov Cocktail recently held a competition entitled Flash Rage, soliciting submissions of less than 1000 words, inspired by the spirit of protest. Although my entry did not make it into the top ten, it was included in their ‘Close but no cigar’ list. My story, below, is called Persistence


Persistence

January 1908

The bitter metal digs into my waist; cold, even through my woollen jacket, my blouse, petticoat and corset. Unrelenting. Bound; here at the seat of power, calling out to those in control. Solid in our cause, singing in unison. Undeterred.

“Our voice, our vote.”

With the shrill scream of whistles and the thud of weighty feet, the uniforms arrive. Bolt-cutters in hand, the chains snap as they are severed. My boots scrape on the kerbstones as we’re dragged into the road, unsilenced.

“Votes for Women.”

The bitter metal digs into my wrists. He spits in my ear.

“Ain’t gonna ‘appen luvvy.”

October 1910

The bile-green walls close in on me. Encased behind impenetrable doors and frosty barred windows. Antiseptic odours fused with faeces. Tormented cries echo down to me along sterile corridors, and my brain screams in reply. They have told me this is for my own good. They don’t want me to cause myself harm. Who knows what I might do in my next, hysterical attack.

I would like to go to the park though, to go for a walk, see trees. In truth, I would like to go home. I would like to see husband, my family. But I have been made to understand that that is not going to happen.

July 1922

Skinny little legs protruding from shorts. A bulky satchel bowing him over like a man five times his age. It is brimming with knowledge: formulas and dates and capital cities, explorers and discoveries, stories and ideas and truth. Overflowing with opportunity.

Our mother hands him a metal lunchbox, then prods him out the door. I watch him as he trudges reluctantly up the path, looks back forlornly, then disappears along the lane.

“Why can’t I go too?” I whine.

“How many times do I have to tell you? It’s just not possible, not for you.”

March 1977

Grandma’s gift is scrunched in my clammy little palm. So many choices, such an important decision. I stare down at the banknote, then back at the plastic children on the dais ahead. A confusing array under hot lights: floral dresses, lace-trimmed socks, pretty ribbons, caps, sporty shorts, checked shirts, tidy little suits with waistcoats. Mum nudges me.

“What do you want to get?”

I point to a blue t-shirt, baggy and emblazoned with a team logo. Mum smiles but shakes her head.

“No, not that one my love. That’s not for you.”

June 1993

The doctor beams ecstatically, having delivered the “glorious news.” My heart racing, skin cold, hollowness consuming me.

“What happens if I don’t want it?” I mumble.

His face blanches, the stupid grin transforming into a sneer.

“Well, if that’s the case,” he sighs deeply “we can look into adoption.”

“And termination?”, my voice barely audible.

“Elsewhere that may be possible, but that is most definitely not an option for you here.” His cold eyes penetrating. “Absolutely not going to happen.”

February 2012

“Take the offer,” she urges.

An offer of anonymity; for him. A slap on the wrist and affirmation that it was merely a momentary lapse in judgement. An alcohol-induced slip up. But I want justice. I want everyone to see the bruises on my body, the dirt in my hair, to taste the bile of fear with his hands on my throat, to feel the burn as he shoves inside. I want him to share my humiliation, my suffering. I want people to judge him, just like they judge me now. The lawyer shakes her head.

“I must advise you, a victory in court, a custodial sentence, those are highly unlikely to happen.”

August 2014

A whirling maelstrom of ideas and opinions perpetually circling the globe. Idealistically, naively, I had added my voice. A critical analysis of a game, a questioning of the status quo; pounced upon by self-appointed gatekeepers protecting their exclusive domain. A coordinated defence mounted; a multi-fronted attack. Weaponised sharing, multiplying exponentially.

“What do you know about it bitch? Get back to the kitchen!”

“You and your opinions can fuck off and die!”

“Don’t block me snowflake. Get off the Internet if you can’t take it. Stop being a victim.”

“Think we’re going to take advice from a cunt? Never going to happen!”

November 2016
I can withstand the criticism, the whispered innuendo, the outright attacks, the blatant lies. Because I know I’m right. I have worked a lifetime dedicated to the craft. I am qualified, experienced, professional. I have proven myself capable at every turn. I have fought and won endless battles and I deserve this opportunity.

And my competition? A slapdash novice, unversed in complexity and subtlety. A foul-mouthed bullying abuser; a proven incompetent who has bluffed and wheedled and golfed his way upwards. It should be a cinch. It should be mine.

January 2017

In the bitingly cold air, our breath condenses in a haze, hovering overhead. We are a sea of pink wooly hats rolling unrelentingly into the distance, stretching on towards the seat of power. We have communicated, coordinated, united and now gathered in our thousands, tens of thousands. We raise a rallying cry, our voices united in our demand for control; control of our own opinions, our own choices, our own education, our own careers, our own participation, our own appearance, our own bodies. Undeterred, unsilenced, we march onwards.

We have been warned.

We have been given explanations.

Nevertheless, we persist.

Jacqueline MacDonald, March 2017

Brain Training: Micro Flash

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Writing flash fiction, generally tales of under 1000 words, is a great exercise to force yourself to be succinct and make every word count in storytelling.  There are also plenty of opportunities out there to hone these skills further with micro flash writing.  Whether you do it to develop writing dexterity or just to keep your brain in tune, it’s a fun exercise and my personal favourite is the New Zealand Book Council‘s (@nzbookcouncil) Rāmere Shorts (#Rāmereshorts). Every Friday, on Twitter, the challenge is laid: six randomly chosen words which must be included in a short tale within the 140-chararacter limit of a tweet. That generally amounts to around 15 to 20 words, with flexibility granted around word form, grammatical accuracy and punctuation.  The challenge is also given a competitive edge with a winner selected at the end of the working day, the prize being purely the honour. Each week, working within such tight boundaries, a surprisingly varied ranges of entrants surface, including the topical, lyrical, comical and emotional.

Give it a go with some past Rāmere Shorts challenges:

bully, robotic, glitter, pandemic, wax, dizzy.

mask, winter, careless, prayer, insane, homewards.

blender, mask, moonwalk, gobsmacked, duck, blink.

Here are some of my own efforts.

And my own personal favourite:

 

3rd April 2017

 

111 Emergency Words : Shortlisted Entries

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In June, four of my flash fiction stories were shortlisted in the 111 Emergency Words competition.  The rules were that stories must consist of exactly 111 words and be on the theme of the police, ambulance or fire service.  Here are my four stories.  Smoke and Dust received an Editor’s Choice prize.

Smoke and dust

A sudden, shuddering jolt. Searing heat. An echoing boom. Concrete columns cleaving and crumbling to dust. Steel reinforcements twisting and screeching. Beams bending and buckling. Splitting, rupturing floor tiles; the heave, the rumble and the sickening drop. Crackling oak and splintering beech. Sheering metal and snapping cables. Shattering glass, raining biting shards.

Howls of shock and wails of fear. Skin pierced, punctured and lacerated. Gashed flesh. Severed and perforated limbs. Bodies torn and pounded. Crushed. Smashed. Scorched.

All cloaked in a billowing, expanding veil of smoke and dust. Choking. Suffocating. Then resting. And, for the merest moment, a stunned, empty silence before sirens in the distance begin to wail, increasingly loudly.

Clock Watching

He glanced at the monitor’s clock again. Still twenty minutes until shift’s end. The morning had been uneventful; seconds stretching endlessly rather than ticking by.

He surveyed the room. Banks of identical desks; grey partitions exposing only the tops of heads. Operators slouched in ergonomic chairs while overhead vents pumped chilled air.

He turned back to his monitor. Nineteen minutes. Then he’d collect the kids. And groceries for dinner. He began forming a mental list.

His screen blinked into life. Suddenly other operators bolted to attention like alarmed meerkats, adjusting headsets lazily allowed to droop around necks. So many incoming calls. He accepted one.
“Emergency assistance. Which service do you require?”

In the Line of Duty

She hesitated on the doorstep. Hands sweaty, she wiped them down the sides of her perfectly-pressed trousers. She removed her hat, slotted it under her arm and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

This was her first one. Two years in the job; her boss had told her she was ready. But can you ever really be ready?

Stomach sinking. Deep breath. She lifted the heavy brass knocker, aiming for gentle beckoning rather than a thud of doom. Behind, in the hall, shuffling then the metallic click of locks. The instant look of concern induced by her uniform.

“Mrs Wilson? I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Snatched from the Jaws of Death

The screeching wail of buckling metal and the drone of machinery. Urgent, murmuring voices. And beneath the cacophony, the metronomic tick-tock of the indicator.

The haze in her head clearing: sheets of rain in a sky prematurely dark; the blinding, distorted glare of headlights; hands tight on the wheel, crossing the intersection; a deafening, blaring horn. Then nothing.

And now, a biting pain in her neck, the belt pulled tight. Suspended in the overturned pile of metal, blood flowing to her head. Through the spiderweb of shattered glass, upside-down boots. Like a tin can, the peeling back of metal as the jaws of life reach in to free her.

June 2016