Tag Archives: short story

Friday Flash Fiction – Indentation

Welcome to another Friday Flash Fiction.

This piece was the development of a very short piece (sub-200 words) I had submitted for a competition. I wanted to explore the idea a little further and see what happened. 

I toyed with the idea of subbing it out again but am leaving it on the digital practice pile. 

Indentation

I dislodged your glasses the first time we kissed, tripping over the hidden arms of the frames as I ran my hands through your hair. Unseated physically and linguistically, I fumbled an apology.

“Romance inhibitors,” you said pushing the glasses over your forehead, collecting your fringe, before taking them off.

The kiss interrupted we drew away from each other. You felt behind your ears the indent of a new paragraph.

“I’ve worn glasses for years,” you said. “Never really noticed it before.”

You drew me in again and before our lips cautiously brushed, I wondered how you could see without your glasses; a stupid thing to think because our eyes were closed. My fingers returned to the place behind your ear and traced the indentation, a small eroded furrow, and I stopped, retreating my lips from yours.

Your face, now naked without adornment, I saw two more dents, small and red, on either side of your nose. The slight weight of pressure bridging your face giving you the chance to see.

Over the years I watched the indentations change shape with each new pair of glasses, watch you adjust to how the new frames sat on your nose and behind the ears. You pinch your nose when you buy new frames, adjusting to a new bridge; push them back up your nose when you’re sweaty and they slip down when you lean forward. You push them onto your head when you read a book.

You never really get to see it, except when you look in the mirror, but with each new pair of glasses I create a new character: the bookish librarian, a 50s executive, the hipster folk musician. Only when we retire to bed do I see the character removed when you put your glasses beside the clock radio on your bedside table. Your face is no longer framed by what I impose upon it; the only evidence the two small, red indentations on your nose.

 On the couch I slip under your arm, fit into the shape of your body, perhaps worn as smooth as the spot behind your ears and wonder if we have worn a furrow between my legs each time we make love. I feel the shape of you within me, the pacing of your movement when you’re above me and I focus on the bridge of your nose. Or when I sit astride you and move with my own rhythm. Have I worn you down through the repetition of our lovemaking?

Now I turn the wedding band around my finger, notice the furrowed shape encircling, evidence of the presence of you in my life.

I still run my finger along the indentation behind your ear, searching for that first kiss. But you hate it when I dislodge your glasses, especially while you’re watching TV.

I’ve learned to wait until the ad breaks.

 

Friday Flash Fiction – Up and Down

Today I am posting a piece of flash fiction I have been working on for a while. The second half of 2014 was turbulent mentally and emotionally from a creative viewpoint where my day job demanded a lot of my attention.

I put off some short pieces until later in the year and was trying to decide whether I put more work into them to get them ready to sub, or put them out to pasture and let them go the way of cassettes and VHS tapes.

When the school year ended I managed to come back to these short pieces to have a closer look at them. I worked them over and decided that it was not worth subbing them out as I didn’t think they would sell. Maybe they would have sold but I felt it was time to put the old things aside and focus on the new. I’m also clearing my virtual desk to make way for some other projects that I want to attend to. 

Any piece of work is a practice, a development of voice, tone, structure, ideas. Some of them will work, others won’t and it shows you what you need to improve. It’s also a case of ‘showing my work,’ seeing some of the progress, some of my ideas, what’s working, what isn’t.

But you get the benefit of a FREE READ. Please enjoy it.

Up and Down

The blank television screen flickered on as he pressed ‘Play’ on the video camera. A young boy wearing a Superman cape was engaged mid sequence moving like a pendulum, arcing back and forth, on a set of swings. The cape fluttered behind him on the upward trajectory and stuck fast to his bottom on the downward pass.

A disembodied voice, too loud against the background noise, jumped from the speakers. “Hey buddy, how you doing?”

The boy waved. “Hi Dad.”

The camera flicked sideways and a woman with her arms crossed filled the frame, focused on the boy on the swings and her gaze did not alter. With another flick the scene changed again to see-saw, a simple old-fashioned broad wooden beam with a metallic T-shaped handle. Once painted green, only flecks remained between the splinters.

“Want to swing a leg over?” his voice asked.

“We haven’t done that in years,” she said, her arms folded stedfastly.

Jerky movements and the shuffling of feet accompanied the quick passing of ground. The handle came into view, then a hand grasped it, pulled it closer to the camera. A bump, clatter and suddenly the movement ceased.

He raised his end to equilibrium, the seat in line with the horizon behind it then dipped it lower.

“Chivalrous,” she said and walked to the other end. “What have you done to the camera?”

“Attached it to the handle,” his too loud voice said.

She straddled her end, filling the frame, and took the weight. The camera jerked slightly as the sounds of him lifting himself onto his end filtered through. She moved higher as the horizon dipped beneath her.

“Think we’re a bit old for this?” she asked.

With a gentle push upwards, she descended, the horizon moving up and down like a pilot’s instrument as she stayed in the centre of the frame, an odd optical illusion. She bent her knees and absorbed the weight, feeling the pressure, making it difficult to gain purchase.

Slowly, momentum begat momentum.

Up

     and

            down.

            up.

     and

Down.

Movement opened conversation.

“Remember the roundabout in the old park by the railway station?”

“It always made me dizzy.”

“You felt sick on the carousel at Luna Park on our honeymoon.”

Up

     and

            down.

“But you did win me the big teddy bear.”

            up.

     and

Down.

“How are the kids going with their homework?”

“I am now adept at my times tables.”

“Katie’s teacher is worried about her progress.”

Up

     and

            down.

“Remember the holidays to Coffs Harbour when the kids were in primary school.”

“Car sickness all the way.”

“Katie was stung by bluebottles.”

“And bananas with every meal.”

“Stuart was convinced he’d become a monkey if he ate any more.”

            up.

     and

Down.

“I heard Susan’s mother died. How is she coping after the funeral?”

“She’s finding it very tough but she’s managing.”

Up

     and

            down.

“Want to try for equilibrium?”

The camera wobbled and rocked as they shifted and slid, her body leaning forwards and backwards, as her arms outstretched like she was balancing. The horizon settled in a moment of balance.

The afternoon breeze picked up, punching into the camera’s microphone, and almost imperceptibly the horizon behind her lowered as the balance shifted until he knew for certain he was descending while she ascended.

Up

     and

            down.

            up.

     and

Down.

            Two young faces crowded the centre of the seesaw, careening into the view of the camera.

“Mum and Dad, what are you doing?”

“Going up and down, sweetie.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“Help your Mum off, please.”

His son offered a small hand to his wife. She twisted sideways and with a little girlish yelp, jumped off.

The imbalance of weight jolted the camera and when it steadied she was no longer in frame, the end of the seesaw vacant. The camera wobbled again as it was unclipped and the view pulled backwards until the whole seesaw was in the frame, slowly coming to a halt with his end paused above the ground.

Her voice broke in over the image. “You still ok to have the kids same time in a fortnight?”

“Yes.”

“Say goodbye to Dad.”

There was a sudden collision of bodies and arms, muffled farewells and the wet smack of kisses as the camera pointed to the dirty patchwork of grass and dirt. In the bottom half of the frame arms entanged each other and feet shuffled.

The embrace finished, the camera swung up and captured the boy and girl walking hand in hand with their mother, disappearing towards the car as a focal point.

The camera turned, focused on the seesaw paused in its trajectory.

Two young children raced over for their turn, chose an end, scrambled on and bounced

Up

     and

            down.

            up.

     and

Down.

Leaning forward he pressed the ‘Stop’ button and stared at the blank television screen.

 

The Christmas Rose – A Story by Rus VanWestervelt

A writer I admire, Rus VanWestevelt (@rusvw13) has released a Christmas story, The Christmas Rose

A rose is covered in snow in a garden in Bremen, northwestern Germany. (Carmen Jaspersen/Getty Images)

A rose is covered in snow in a garden in Bremen, northwestern Germany. (Carmen Jaspersen/Getty Images)

It’s free to read, and to download, from his website. You can even read a ‘behind the scenes’ look at the meaning and motivation of the story. 

It’s a beautifully written story, very poignant and has a focus that goes beyond Christmas time. 

Do take the time to read and share the story.

Read the story: The Christmas Rose.

Read ‘behind the scenes:’ The Story Had To Be Told.

Small Achievements – Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal 2014

Earlier this year I had a poem, Elihu’s Meditation on Questions Unanswered, published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal.

And now it is being published in the Best of Vine Leaves Literary Journal.

I would encourage you to support small press and publishers as they are pushing boundaries and discovering brilliant new literary voices. This edition is full of remarkable vignettes, poetry and art.

Follow Vine Leaves (@VineLeavesLJ) and its editor-in-chief, Jessica Bell (@MsBessieBell) on Twitter.

Orders can be made directly through the web site. Order HERE. It would make for a wonderful Christmas present for the book lover in your family.

Best of Vine Leaves 2014

Remixing Is The New Creating

if:books Australia is running a remix challenge, Future of the Book.

Each week, 4 or 5 very short pieces (all sub-200 words) are posted and you get to use a paragraph or line or word and remix it in whatever way you choose.

You can write a poem, submit a drawing or photograph or write a short piece of fiction.

This week, one of my pieces is up for a remix.

Here’s the link:  Future of the Book

Have at it!

Tincture Journal Winter Edition #6 The Cicada Clock

Today I have a new story published in Issue #6 of Tincture Journal: The Cicada Clock.

Tincture Journal (@TinctureJournal) is a relatively new Australian-based literary magazine, edited by Daniel Young (@jazir1979), Stuart Barnes (@StuartABarnes) and Jessica Hoadley (@JessicaHoadley)

My story, The Cicada Clock also seems to have inspired the front cover.

Tincture Issue 6 Cover

Image copyright of Stuart Barnes

I also get to share the Table of Contents with Brisbane-based authors I know, Stacey Larner and Tiggy Johnson.

From the Tincture Journal website:

Issue Six of Tincture Journal is available now. To celebrate the launch of this issue, an interview between Stuart Barnes and poet Stu Hatton is now freely available on our website along with the rest of our interview series. Inside the issue you can also find Stuart’s interview with Nathanael O’Reilly. Both of these poets have new books being released this year and we are very excited to be featuring their poetry and the accompanying interviews.

Table of Contents

  • Editorial, by Daniel Young
  • Inferior Bedrooms, Part Six, by Meg Henry
  • The Horror of the Body, by Sam van Zweden
  • Waiting, by Tiggy Johnson
  • The Interesting People of Mount Kiliminjaro, by Stephen Koster
  • Christian Girls, by Nathanael O’Reilly
  • I Was Not Like the Other Kids, by Nathanael O’Reilly
  • Nathanael O’Reilly interviewed by Stuart Barnes
  • The Cicada Clock, by Adam Byatt
  • Spash, by Les Wicks
  • Carnival, by Beau Boudreaux
  • Rain of Ashes, by Rhys Timson
  • It’s a Marilyn Free-For-All, by John Grey
  • The Man Who Killed James Dean, by Sam Ferree
  • Back to Front, by Nathan Hondros
  • Memory, by Andrew Hutchinson
  • hail the goer, by Stu Hatton
  • i sit unfinished    in breath-, by Stu Hatton
  • A Look of Revelation, by Deborah Guzzi
  • The Favour, by Annette Siketa
  • Circles, by w.m.lewis
  • Only After School, by Anna Ryan-Punch
  • Mrs Fernandez, by Su-May Tan
  • The Happy Mule, by Frank Scozzari
  • Proximity, by S. G. Larner
  • White Noise, by Eleanor Talbot
  • It’s An Adventure If You Want It To Be, by Calista Fung

I hope to post a review of the issue next week; I’ve already read a few pieces and there is some amazing work.

Can I please encourage you, if you are a reader, to support small literary magazines whenever you can as they are vital in building our literary culture. A copy will only set you back $8 (and back issues are only $5). There is a wealth of reading material in a superb range of short stories, poetry and interviews.

But a bit of background to the story (and no spoilers).

I wrote the story in January when on holidays on the beach in Brunswick Heads, just north of Byron Bay in New South Wales, Australia.

I forget which book I was reading (I was working through three) but it had  a line about cicadas and the image stuck. I began the story on my iPad, throwing down scenes and ideas about two childhood friends in their final year of primary school, prior to starting “big school” the following year. It is set in the late 80s, a time of nostalgia for me (but it’s not autobiographical).

It took a while to find the focus of the story, utilising the cicada as a metaphor of adolescent metamorphosis, framed by school as the awkward ground of burgeoning adolescence and puberty, mixed with the innocent acceptance of life as it is and a burgeoning awareness of sexuality.

I made the conscious decision to write this story in a different style; to forgo my usual poetic, flowery prose and instead strip it back to bare, almost minimalistic sentences. I have a tendency to use imagery prolifically in my stories; here I pared it back to single images or none at all. Instead I wanted the action and dialogue to create the characters, setting, thematic focus and subtext of the narrative. It was to mimic the headspace of the pre-teen protagonists, letting the story unfold through their eyes.

I hope I can encourage you to purchase Issue Six of Tincture Journal, support literary magazines and enjoy the literary delights.

10 Fingers To Understand Silence Is Not An Absolute – Twitfic

10 Fingers To Understand Silence Is Not An Absolute

I.
He lived without a singular sense. His hands felt sounds at his throat, resonating in his head; a voice muted because it had no comparison.

II.
He voiced his language, clumsy at first, in the intricate dance of his fingers. Frustration was best countered with an upright middle finger.

III.
He smiled at her fingers speaking like a 3 year old: focused, exaggerated movements and incorrect spelling. No need to shout, he jokingly chided.

IV.
A text flickered on her screen.
“Take me to a concert. Bring me some ear plugs?”
Between the speaker and sub-woofer he found the sweet spot.

V.
The argument gesticulated angrily. She turned her back to silence. His hand reached to her shoulder, cold as it was, to apologise.

VI.
He uncrumpled the letter, like peeling a mandarin, to devour the words written he had spat out the night before. A hand to speak words when no voice attended.

VII.
Silence has layers, nuances, light and shadow, he said. It’s not an absolute.
Why are you silent with me? she asked. Will you listen?
She leaned in and kissed him.

Over the time I’ve been writing twitter fiction, I have come to appreciate the brevity of the form, limited as it is to 140 characters. It is, in essence, to capture a breath of moment, holding it for a little while and expecting the release and exhalation.

I like the number seven, echoing The Seven Ages of Man by Jacques in Shakespeare’s “As You Like It.” Thus my collections of twitfic are anthologies focused on a theme or have a narrative thread.

Playing with form allows me to link these brief pieces into something resembling a music video. Quick, short edits, compiled into a unified whole to tell a bigger picture. 

Coupled with Post It Note Poetry, another short form of writing I enjoy, I can post these experimental works here while I work on my current novella and put my novel through final edits.

I have considered compiling my Twitfic collections into a singular text, as well as collating my Post It Note Poetry into an anthology. Would anyone be interested?