Tag Archives: flash fiction

The Magnifying Glass

“All you have ever done is find fault and be critical, without ever taking a look at yourself,” his wife said as she slapped a magnifying glass into his hand.

He turned the object over in his hands in bemusement but remembered times as a child crouched in the dirt, magnifying glass focused inches from the ground watching the ants move in their industrial symmetry.  Back then it allowed him to peer into the nooks and crannies of insects and under rocks, yet as he grew into adolescence he turned his magnified gaze onto the people around him.  He explored the crevices of people’s character, pinpointing their weaknesses to his advantage.  Proudly he stood with chest of burnished bronze and crown of gold; too caught up in his reflection to notice the feet of clay.

“Turn this lens back on yourself and perhaps you’ll see something,” she said before turning on her heel and collecting her last bags from the front door.

Snap, Crackle, Blergh.

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #151 for April 16th, 2010

While digging in a cereal box for the toy surprise, a child makes a grisly discovery.

Jackson rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded down the hallway towards the kitchen.  The morning had ticked over into double digits, which was the prescribed time that an almost thirteen year old boy should emerge from his hiding hole.  He still wore his flannelette Superman pyjamas and matching slippers.

From the kitchen he collected the necessary utensils and cutlery to make breakfast.  He sat down at the table across from the television and surfed for Saturday morning cartoons.  He moved the cereal box between himself and the television and looked at the proclamation at the top right hand corner.  Contains one “Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge” said the packet.

Jackson had a rule, slightly unorthodox as it was.  The rule was that the surprise toy or gift must not be scrummaged for; it must fall from the box during the pouring of cereal.  Only that way would it truly be a surprise.  Scrummaging was for those who had no discipline, like sisters.  Especially his sister, Celia.

Today’s the day, thought Jackson, calculating how many bowls he had consumed, their relative volume and what was left in the box.  He chanced a peek and saw the plastic edge jutting out like a shark’s dorsal fin in a sea of cereal.

Out of the box tumbled golden flakes of sugar-encrusted breakfast-y goodness.  Jackson waited and poured.  And poured.  The bowl filled half-way.  Three-quarters.  Edging towards full.  It was almost at Jackson’s Point of No Return where the adding of milk would cause an overflow onto the table.  And you didn’t want to get Mum offside if you spoiled her clean tablecloth.  One final shake.  Light caught the plastic and reflected like a diamond as it dropped in slow motion.

Jackson looked down as his prize with the anticipation of Indiana Jones.  He even licked his lips.

Option A

Jackson let fly with a string of invective that would have made the school bully blush.

“Jackson, what caused you to say such a thing?” said his mother.

“All week I have been waiting for my Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge and all of a sudden I find I have a girl’s doll dress up set.  I’ve been had.  I’ve been swindled.  I’ve been set-up.  I am going to email the breakfast cereal company and demand to know why my breakfast cereal box contained a Belle of the Ball Dress Up Set and not my Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge.”

His mother nodded, “Just don’t use that type of language.  You can help me with the washing as punishment this afternoon.”

In her bedroom, Celia tried on her Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge and thought it looked rather nice with her fancy dress ensemble for Stephanie’s party that night.

Option B

Sitting atop his sugar crusted flakes was a small vacuum-sealed bag.  A long finger pointed accusingly at Jackson.  Just above the cleanly cut stump was a simple gold band.

“Mum, I think you need to come and see this!”

His mother came into the kitchen with a questioning look, which suddenly brightened up.

“So that’s where I put it.  I must be more careful when disposing of ex-husbands.  How careless of me.  Let me take that from you.”

She scooped it from the bowl and put it into the pocket of her apron.  Jackson stared at his bowl before pushing it away.

The Carousel

He watched the carousel spin in its own orbit piping its merry tune; the harmless monotony of its circular motion and gently cascading horses appealed to him.  Heaven forbid the turmoil and plummeting depths of the rollercoaster that writhed like a cut snake behind him.  He took comfort in its pattern and metronomic rhythm; a pace that offered no surprises or challenges.  Enthusiastically he waved at his wife and children as they came around again and again.  The music lilted and rose as the steam whistle blew and the carousel wound down to a stop before two small bundles dashed through the gates and asked for ice-cream.  Catching the squeals of delight from the apex of the first drop of the arched metal track above, he paused and wondered if he dared but try.

The Carpool Conspiracy

Andrew pulled the car into the kerb for Stuart who began to prattle, “Man, I had the fiercest chili con carne last night and you guys are going to suffer big time.”

“Let me introduce you to Ellen,” interrupted James, indicating the newest member of the carpool, “and you may want to keep that smell to yourself.”

Stuart settled into the back seat, but before too long, last night’s dinner punctuated the conversation, for which he apologised profusely. Ellen seemed unperturbed by the noise or the smell and somewhat amused at Stuart’s discomfort. But then a new smell struck with the silence of a ninja and the strength of an atomic bomb.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” quipped Ellen, “but you don’t grow up with three brothers and not learn to defend yourself.”

The Hagiography

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #149 for April 2nd, 2010

An April Fools prank gone too far.

In Mr Gorman’s Year 9 History I learnt a new word: hagiography.  I forget the two Greek words that it comes from, but I remembered that it was the writing of saints’ lives.  They made wonderful reading for a pubescent lad, like a Boys’ Own Adventure.  In the name of piety they lived high up off the ground on poles or in remote caves like bats, or ate random bugs and insects.

My school had its own hagiography: the holy scriptures of the boys’ toilet block.  History is written by those with a permanent marker.  The disciples and zealots wrote in indelible ink the actions and statements of their saviours.  I remember sitting in a cubicle in my first year of high school, amazed at the profundity of adolescent thought: “Here I sit all broken-hearted, tried to crap but only farted.”  From time to time a persecution would take place and the toilet block would be repainted.  In time, new scriptures would replace the old.

The ghosts of boys from ages past were immortalised in gold letters on tablets of darkened oak.  They hung above, in the shadows of the hall, ranged along side pennants of long won tournaments of the paddock.  For some, this was the path to righteousness, the whispered legends of past old boys who had become bigger than their exploits.  These were the heroes and legend of old, stored in the apocryphal gospels of yearbooks and school photos.

For others, status was born out of unbuttoned collars and half-slung ties.  Years of indeterminate rebellion characterised by subversive acts or a single moment so inspired it was without peer.  I wanted it.  That moment.  That glory.  I wanted to walk the footpath to the front gate of the school with a swagger and nonchalance.

After Mr Gorman’s history lesson I started to look for Greek and Latin phrases.  Fortes fortuna adiuvat – “Fortune favours the bold” became my motto as I chalked my way around the school, boldly proclaiming my intentions.  My other favourite was “luceat lux vestra,” let your light shine.  I was going to be the brightest candle that burned, even if my time should be cut short; there was to be no pastoral retirement.

My final year.  I planned for April 1, Holy Thursday, to engage in an act that would make me immortal.  Six hundred boys filed into the assembly hall for the term’s final liturgy.  I was poised, waiting for the moment.  After the priest’s homily, in that moment of quiet reflection, I set off my mobile phone.  It rang once and all eyes darted to find the culprit.  Twice.  Eyes focused in.  Thrice.  I had their attention.

“Hello.”  Pause.  “Yes, I shall pass a message on.”  I stood to my feet.  “That was God.  He says that we should have girls at our school next year.”

The laughter teetered, but I knew I had them.  I had my moment.

The priest leaned forward.  “It seems that there is no need as we already have one in our midst.”

The jeers and hollers rang as loud as church bells.  I had been trumped.  The nearest teacher stormed down the aisle and I obediently followed.  The aftertaste was acrid, bitter.  I couldn’t spit enough.  Status, legend; all illusory onanism.

Puberty Blues

[Fiction] Friday

Friday 26th March “Shhh… did you hear that?”

Andy had stumbled across a discovery that excited and startled a ten year old and he had to show his best friend, Pete.  The two paused briefly before the open office door.  Looking back down the hallway they heard the strains of the afternoon football match and the sound of can being opened in the lounge room.  Andy led the way into his father’s office and pulled the door partially closed behind them.  He sidled over to the built-in wardrobe and slid back the door.  Thrusting his head into the semi-darkness he rummaged around while Pete kept watch on the door and listened for approaching footsteps.

“Here it is,” said Andy holding a magazine like a holy object.  The front cover was emblazoned with by-lines that screamed of eye-popping full frontals, “the best you’ve ever seen” and other saucy secrets.

They stared in wild-eyed wonder at the burlesque strip tease performed on the pages.  Breasts fell out of lingerie and bottoms were exposed from all angles.  They had never considered there could be so many variations on a theme: size, colour, shape, pubic hair landscaping, piercings and tattoos.

“Shhh… did you hear that?” said Pete.  The boys paused and waited.   Each could feel their heart thumping a frantic ostinato.  A cupboard door closed shut and the crinkle of fast food packaging joined the sound of the game.  They returned to their investigation of masculine curiosity and perversity.

Pete couldn’t believe his eyes when Andy reached the centre of the magazine.

“That’s almost life-sized,” he said.

Andy unfolded the pages to show the curvature of breasts and buttocks and a finely manicured lawn with the staple as a secondary bellybutton ornament.

They flipped backwards and forwards through the magazine stopping to read the articles that made them giggle with words like “throbbing” and “pulsating” and they were unsure why there was a constant reference to cats.

Caught up in their surreptitious discovery, they didn’t hear the door open behind them.

“There you two are.  Been wondering what you’d been up to; thought it was too quiet.”  Andy’s father suddenly stopped when he saw the naked panorama.

Andy and his father locked eyes.  Andy just stared, shamed in his guilt.  His father bored down on Andy in parental displeasure but broke contact first.

“That’s not something that you should be looking at,” his father chastised.  “It’s not appropriate for someone your age.”

“But why do you have it hidden away in the cupboard?  Don’t you want Mum to see?”

His father rattled his brain for the appropriate parental response and grasped at the first one that would get him out of answering the question.

“Give me that.  You two go outside and do something.”

Andy’s father took the proffered object of indiscretion and watched them walk ashamedly from the office.  He looked at the rolled up magazine and sighed deeply.  Checking that the boys were indeed outside playing, he dumped the magazine into the garbage.

The Table of Knowledge

“Here’s to a ten years of The Table of Knowledge,” said Dan as he slopped the first round of beers down.  James reflected on the Table of Knowledge, the weekly symposium begun by six idealistic university undergraduates; they had been at the same table discussing the world’s problems and in some measure solving them.  Their banter traversed stories of marriage and divorce, children and careers; their friendship now held together by alcoholic glue.  The better part of a decade had been wiped away like dregs and James now saw five men discussing which female newsreader would look better naked.  He was startled to think that in another ten years he could still be at the same table, telling the same stories, just like other patrons who inhabited the dark recesses of the pub.  James put down his half finished beer and walked out into the night.

Marion

Fiction Friday

Friday 12th March

The keys opened every door in the house, except the small wooden door at the end of the hall…
The keys opened every door in the house, except the small wooden door at the end of the hall.  It was a special door, opened on the rarest of occasions.  Peter moved to the door, balancing a tray in his hand.  The candle flickered in the draught as he entered and set it down.  Methodically he arranged the various tools and canisters.

He looked towards the end of the bench to a carved wooden face, life-like in the shadows.  The fine lines of a woman’s face were in sharp relief, but the eyes were closed.  She sat on an elevated chair, dressed in simple clothing.  The fine craftsmanship showed signs of decrepitude in the wood.  Cracks had appeared like veins as the wood dried with no lacquer to replenish its moisture.

Peter brought the candle closer and began to undo the muslin blouse.  Pulling a miniature skeleton key from his breast pocket he unlocked the chest cavity.  With measured routine Peter began the process of reanimation.  Drawing water from the basin he filled the small boiler.  Dry tinder and kindling were nestled into the fireplace and ignited by the candle.  While the steam built pressure in the boiler, Peter oiled, dropping precious blood onto seized joints and cogs.  He shovelled coal with a hand trowel and monitored the valves.  As the pressure increased he slowly opened valves and waited for the life to spark.

Wooden eyelids creaked open, revealing dark orbs like coal.

“Hello Marion,” said Peter.

“Hello great-grandfather,” said Marion.

“I suppose I really should call you my great-grandmother.”

“It is easier for you not to.  When I do not age as you do, it does not really matter.”

“I remember watching you being made.  I was but a boy, huddled behind the forge and the workbench as I watched wood transformed.  The smell of the shaven oak and the young saplings of maple are always there when I wake you up.”

Peter monitored the valves and pressure, careful not to reanimate fully.  He had achieved consciousness, but did not want to have Marion access her memories.

“Why was I made?” said Marion.

“You are the memory of my great-grandfather’s wife who died in the winter famine of 2126.”

“The winter has indeed set in.  It has been far too many years that winter has closed its grip and appears to not to want to let go.  You have awoken me for a purpose?”
Peter’s busyness with the tools prompted speculation.

“I am aware of my decay and that my legs have been removed for some reason that has not been explained.  This is to be my decommissioning, is it not?”

Peter could not look her in the eyes.  “Yes.

Breath

Michael lay on his back and counted his breaths, measuring their depth of inhalation and release.  He tried to hold his breath for as long as he could, wondering when his allocated portion would expire.  He remembered being a young boy, turning blue in defiance while holding out for a demanded packet of chips, while his mother calmly waited for necessity to take over.  When he had leaned in to kiss Stephanie back in high school, his breath caught as her lips pressed against his.  Palms pressed down against the grass he felt its warmth and moisture.  He mused on the paradox wherein earth brought forth life, but it required the breath of life to make it live.

Metamorphosis

Friday 5th March
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.” What has your character turned into?

*****

Gregor sat on the park bench and watched the Saturday parade of pampered pets with their manservants or maidservants dutifully collecting their waste.

“Such an incongruity that the intelligent being should be forced to shovel shit,” said Gregor.

Drawing on a cigarette he almost choked when the poodle and its inferior looked almost exactly the same as each other.  The pretence of smoker’s cough hid his laughter.  Checking his watch he thought he might start his rounds early and try and call it an early night.  Starting on the upper side of town he trawled from bar to club, picking up small packages on consignment.  He couriered them to other faces that looked reptilian or rodent, the hired goons of the trade.

There was nothing out of the ordinary that night.  Packages were exchanged, nods and glances were the only linguistics needed and the occasional flash of a knife secured passage.  Gregor scurried from job to job, pausing only to have a final swig at his last port of call.

The remnants of a you-want-what-on-your pizza turned haphazardly in the microwave before Gregor turned in for the night.  He woke up the next morning having felt like he had run a marathon.  He couldn’t pin the images from his mind to make a story that made sense so he set out for breakfast, blaming the pizza.

He kept his head low and headed for the diner and settled into a booth.  Without looking up he ordered the big breakfast and set about arranging the cutlery.  Only then did he look up.  He squinted and tried to focus.  The human shapes morphed until they did a Dali-dance, stopping until they were half-human, half-animal.  He picked up the serviette container and stared at his reflection.  His unshaven face pushed whiskers, his nose wrinkled.

Across in the other booth, a bespectacled gentleman in a dark pin striped suit raised a book to read in between bites: Animal Farm.

“Well I’ll be buggered,” said Gregor.