Category Archives: Short Stories

Fiction Friday – Parentheses

Parentheses It wasn’t much of a cut; a nick of the knife cutting potatoes for dinner. He sucked his finger and grabbed some paper towel, allowing for the moment when the body looks for other abrasions as evidence of mortality. This scratching of the surface to determine the strength, if any, that lies beneath the fragile surface of skin as a counterpoint to the idea that our will and mind is as strong as steel, noticing the flaws of the human body as miraculous. He inhales the iron-infused scent of the wound and knows the memory of Dettol is in its smell, that acrid odour breathed in like an hallucinogen that reminds the lungs how much they love the taste of air. Scrounging in the medicine box he pulled out the box of Band Aids and settled into the parentheses of healing as the blood soaked into the pad.

Fiction Friday – Cardboard Box

Cardboard Box

The coffee is bitter; the house is empty of tea bags and he thinks he should start a shopping list. The sun chases the shadows up his legs sitting at the dining room table. Where once there were shadows, everything all at once is now in the light, including the cardboard box he has left by the front door. He has spent the past couple of weeks collecting the detritus of his life he found washed up in the corners of his house and collected when happened upon by chance as he wandered from room to room. Poor pickings to sell at a car-boot sale he thinks, but probably important to his family. These fragments of a life needing an explanatory synopsis, like an artist’s statement of intent. He hasn’t found a pen. This is the last time he will have a need for the box and its contents. They will be left for others to find and sort through. He knows this will be an error he cannot correct.

Fiction Friday – Second Hand

FICTION FRIDAY

Second Hand
He picks up a sausage roll from the warmer at the 7-11, pairs it with a Coke slushie, holding off from the 4-pack of V this morning. It’s half six and still half dark. He joins the procession of hi-vis at the counter paying for diesel, smokes, coffee and energy drinks. Once upon a time, when he was an apprentice, there was a hot dog roller like the Quik-E-Mart in The Simpsons. He doesn’t know anyone who ever ventured to test the boundaries of their stomach and buy a hotdog. After paying, he clocks the other regulars with a nod of the head, a second’s worth of movement as a second-hand acknowledgement. In the second it takes to pass one another, it is another second of silence he endures. Back in the ute he rips open the sausage roll packet, cracks the tomato sauce sachet and squeezes, then pauses as he feels his heart ripped open by the violence of so many silent interactions. He bites into the sausage roll, kicks over the ignition, and silently leaves the servo.

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Fiction Friday – Garage Sale

FICTION FRIDAY

Garage Sale
It started with a cardboard box like the ones picked up from a storage facility for two bucks fifty a pop. He had heard his parents talking about a garage sale, to make a spot of extra cash, help pay the bills. He thought he should help. From the kitchen junk drawer, he pulled a roll of black cloth tape, and gaffed the bottom of the box to seal it. The first three things he put into the box were a Pokémon card from above his bed, the magpie feather on his desk and his favourite pair of footy socks.
I wish that the boy, back then, would know the weight of the box. Or maybe it’s best the boy didn’t know. He will know, one day in his future. I want to warn the boy that throughout his life, the box will carry items of importance, objects of obsolescence, trinkets and treasures. And I would tell the boy to add another layer of gaff to the bottom seal and the sides because the weight of expectation is a burden too big to carry.

Fiction Friday – Rules

Dad left me a cheeseburger and small soft drink on the kitchen bench. Couldn’t tell if it was an apology or recalcitrant acknowledgement that I needed sustenance. I mean, if it was an apology it was pretty piss-poor. Didn’t matter; I was hungry. Lobbed the cheeseburger into the microwave for a burst and added more ice to the soft drink. Left three ice cubes in the tray. Three’s enough to fill a cup. If you only leave one or two, you gotta refill it. Rules. Not that he followed rules. He approached the ruling of our lives by combining the rules of Monopoly with Snakes and Ladders, embellished with Connect Four and Trouble. But you never knew which game you were playing to have earned the penalty. I pulled the pickle out of the cheeseburger and considered painting F— You on the bench in sauce.

Fiction Friday – Dippy Egg

FICTION FRIDAY
Dippy Egg

Maybe it was for the nostalgia. Perhaps it was for the innocence. I didn’t think it would be for a truth. Late on a Friday night. Wife and kids are in bed and I’m peckish. I start boiling water in a pot on the stove and carefully slip an egg into the roiling ruckus. Keep an eye on the time.
Pop bread into the toaster to make regimented soldiers, as my father called them, for the dippy egg. I am still amazed at the tensile strength of the eggshell as I tackle it with the edge of a serrated knife, hoping I’ve cut down far enough to reveal the yolk.
One by one the soldiers descend and rise in the routine and discipline of consumption. Slipping in the teaspoon to excavate the flesh, the membrane pulls away from the inside of the shell like sunburn.
Now empty, I turn the shell over and crush it with the blunt force of the back of the teaspoon. My father’s words are found beneath each of the pieces of shell I scrape off the tablecloth, and with them, the truth of his lies.

Something new this week for Fiction Friday: a zine! HMU if you’d like to be the owner of it ($10 inc postage). First come, first served. One of a kind and not to be repeated.

Fiction Friday – Toast

Toast
When I was a kid, I preferred my toast cut into triangles, and I would leave the corner crusts uneaten, like a set of parentheses, on my plate. If birth and death are the parentheses of our lives then how do we punctuate the in-between spaces? Do I count the crumbs on the plate as moments of my life as I try to expand the distance between the opening and the closing of eyes. Laying foundations. Erecting scaffolding, shoring up the walls and ceiling. And hoping it holds. Somewhere in the act of doing, between packing my school bag, holding her hand for the first time, pushing the trolley through the supermarket, replacing the toilet paper roll, doing the washing up after dinner, finding some space on the couch between the television programs, and imagining a life lived between the junk mail catalogues, I learned how to turn nouns into verbs. I still leave the parentheses of crusts on my plate.

Fiction Friday – Whispers

FICTION FRIDAY

We were sitting on the couch watching a movie. And I don’t even remember what it was; it featured George Clooney, as you kept pointing out. Our hands met at the bottom of the bowl of salt’n’vinegar chips. You offered me the last chip and said I needed it. The tang on my tongue held a sourness, another slicing of my spirit like a papercut. I turned what you said, that I needed it, into whispers because I knew that this was your strongest form. Not the visible power of the rainstorm that flashes and crashes and splashes its palette of greys and blacks and whites across the sun-stretched canvas. Not in the shouted brashness of the wind that believes if it speaks the loudest, it will convince the listener it is right. It is in the whisper that truth is heard because it is meant for the hearing of one. And I listened.

Screenshot of the original text

Fiction Friday – Kindling

I was about seven years old, sitting cross-legged in the loungeroom, as I watched my father light the fire. He had pushed me back to a safe distance, but also out of his way. He struck the match and it flared, brightened, retracted. Kept alive by my father’s hand as he tilted the flame to consume more of the matchstick. He reached into the kindling and touched the flame to the shredded newspaper within. I watched in fascination as the newspaper burned, licking around the edges of the kindling, tapering down. Having enough energy to ignite the small twigs and thinner strips of cut down fence palings. Kept an eye on my father as he monitored the flame, having the knack to know when to add more fuel to keep the fire alight. It was years later I understood that starting an argument is the same as starting a fire: you introduce friction. Years of accumulated kindling would burn for decades.

How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria? Or, How Do You Define Success Anyway?

What metrics define success?

If you are an athlete it could be defined by times, distance, height, weight. Measurable. I started doing the Park Run at the beginning of the year with the aim of being able to run 5 kilometres in under 30 minutes. My first few runs were around the 34 minute mark. Slowly, over 23 runs completed this year, I am now under 30 minutes (on average). My 2025 goal will be not only to maintain that pace, but work towards being under 29:30 (consistently – I am defining ‘consistent’ as 4 consecutive weeks under that time), with the goal of reaching 29 minutes (consistently).

If, however, you are a creative, the definition becomes as solid as holding mist in your hand.

Today I was reading a writer’s chapbook on goal setting, and one of the exercises it had was for you to write down what you defined as ‘success’ as a writer. It linked to a a range of writers’ responses as to what they considered ‘success’ and were ever aware that the goals for a writer are forever changing. For some it was the ability to live off the income from their writing. For others it was the success of having written and submitted.

It made me think about what I considered as successful. I doubted that I was a ‘successful’ writer because there are a number of goals and dreams and aspirations I have for the future that are, as yet, unfulfilled.

And yet…

  • my debut co-authored novel, Postmarked Piper’s Reach, was published in 2019. It’s now out of print but you can read the letters like a web serial: Postmarked Piper’s Reach
  • my chapbook, Mount Pleasant, was published in 2021. I aim to re-release it next year with the art I drew for it.
  • I have had 12 short stories accepted for publication since 2022. Some of these have won awards.
  • I have sold a few pieces of art and have been asked for commissions.

This is the success of continued application and hard work and good luck.

For 2025 I have begun to plan for the writing of my first novel. Success will mean hitting the action points I have put in place. Success will mean revisiting and revising those action points and goals, and where necessary, putting in place specific steps to achieve them.

Success is elusive.

I recently submitted a short story, and I have no idea how it will go. However, it has been read by a few people who gave their feedback, and it resonated with them. If the story ends up going nowhere, I know there will have been a few people who read the story and loved it for what it was.

That is success.