Throughout the month of April, Writers Victoria run a flash fiction competition. For each day, they issued a one word prompt and challenged writers to write a 30 word story inspired by the prompt.
The challenge takes place on Twitter, with the option to email in your entries if you're not a Twitter person. Last year, I took part on the social media platform but having since deleted my account (I grew le tired, y'all) and being too lazy to get my entry in by the deadline each day, I simply decided to take part on my own in a simple word document.
Try as I might, life got in the way and although I didn't complete all thirty days, I feel as though I gave it a good 'crack', as they say.
Below I've compiled the entries I did manage to write, simply titled by the prompt word for the day they correspond with.
Subtle and soft, sunlight breaks across the cracked horizon and scattered beams stroke the last of the night sky into submission. A forever renewing hint to begin again.
He took us panning for gold at a crumbling adventure park, popular once, failing now. We believed he’d come back for us. Youthful innocence more foolish than the pyrite.
Positively, incredibly, iridescently, magically, beautifully, glowing. She had heard it all. As the months weaned by and the baby grew, her once happy smile contorted to a grimace.
It's bad luck not to, he said. Doubtful, she took the one he handed her, snapping to reveal a hidden message; The fortune you seek is in another cookie.
Basketball players were his idols. The way they moved, the fluidity, the grace. He went to every game he could manage—pride of place, ringside, cheering from his wheelchair.
Even during the dry season, the rain was less intermittent than your love.
They all told her the same; a bright child if only he applied himself. To maths, science, and sport. At home, his art decorated the walls. He applied himself just fine.
The Chief of Night ekes out unspoken narratives. Silky white light flashing across all our met and unmet desires.
Like a test that asks you to identify the image but the answer could be the outline of two faces or a vase. She perceived his two-faced-ness clearly now.
Grandpa always called her old gal, even though she was young. His bright blues twinkled behind thick lenses. What she wouldn’t give to hear his teasing sentiment now.
He strokes the iridescent discs, pupils wide at how the hues fade from bright blues to greens. Imagines wearing such a thing. Hands snatched back when he hears father approaching.
Blink and you’ll miss them. The slip of a silver shimmer, weaving through the water, hiding in ripples of light, dodging crabs’ sharp pincers but not the thrash of a fishing net.
I scuttle away to my secret alter, revel in my shame. Disrobe and in the ultra-violet light of my false sunshine tomb, tan the wreckage of my skin.
It floods her system, rising in swells. Just watch the horizon, they tell her. So she does, watches it bob and dip as the ship heaves away.
Just say hello, mother insisted. I approach, the group subdued as they turn towards me as one. My cheeks flush red, they laugh as one, turn away, continue without me, as one.
Warm hands cup burgeoning belly, delight as the tiny heel of a foot digs outwards. Contented sighs as we relish this fertile oasis after so many desert days.
They called him Apple because the spots dappled across his furry belly reminded them of the bruised apples where they fell from the tree and, later, the bruises he left on their hearts.
Time’s the greatest healer they say, but I think it’s more the way we keep washing over a memory, stripping back the layers, until it’s just a faint outline.
Blink twice if you’re a human trapped in there, I say. She lets out a slow, deliberate yawn, without a flicker of taking her bright yellow cat eyes away from mine.
I will not vacillate, she mouths resolutely, I will not give in. Her toddler gazes up at her with shining, hopeful eyes.