Writers Victoria held their second flash fiction competition in 2020, the perfect distraction for writers in isolation. Each day in April, they posted a prompt and we wrote a 30-word response.
Here are my last 10 stories. I eked out an honorable mention on the last day!
April 21 Sway
The overhanging branch caught her off guard. She swayed, a mighty black eye brewing.
‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘I told you to duck.’
‘I thought you said f—’
April 22 Centre
Women loved Zak’s charm. His subtle flattery.
Flamboyance disguised his true centre. His selfish greed.
Only Gracie recognized the con. Double-crossed him.
Now Zak’s doing time while Gracie’s living large.
April 23 Read
She hangs from her knees, reading the world upside-down.
‘You’re a bat,’ says Dad.
‘A monkey,’ says Mum.
She climbs the tree as doors slam and voices scream.
April 24 Measure
She scrubbed until her hands bled, banishing vile symbols.
The next time, no matter how hard she scoured, shadows remained.
As a last measure, she drew her own empowering graffiti.
April 25 Rivet
The plane soars close to the sun. Dan built it – every rivet, every screw, every wire.
Freak turbulence. A sharp crack. The engine stalls.
Why did he call it Icarus?
April 26 Clarity
Management justifies it for company survival.
‘We’re letting you go,’ says Jake, a traitor in the ruthless cull.
After, clarity hits him as his boss says, ‘We’re letting you go.’
April 27 Distorted
I return alone, searching for echoes in time. The rockpool seems smaller, more fragile, or did my childhood eyes distort it? Surf sprays high, the ghost of a first kiss.
April 28 Gather
‘Coming ready or not.’
Blake hunted through closets, under beds, behind curtains. He prowled into the gathering dusk.
She’d gone. For good. His twisted childhood games cost her too much.
April 29 Fixated
A sharp breath, and…
An assassin drops. His heart pounds.
He dodges an arrow. Raises his gun.
‘Time for school.’
Damn! So fixated he lost track of time.
April 30 Focus (Honorable Mention)
From behind the lens, she collected jewels – a sunburst, malignant shadows, the kindness in grandma’s rheumy eyes. But when the camera turned, she shied away, unwilling to be the focus.