The 250-word Micro fiction Challenge 2022
Shortlisted - round one
“The writer has excellent vocabulary that heightened the visual imagery of this story.
Some lines really benefitted from this and the line came alive, like in the line
"the way he dropped one shoulder lurching forward, half spasm, half strut."
-Judges feedback
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Action: Winning a trophy
Word: Represent
Extract:
But she would never award him the trophy of her laughter and bit down hard on her tongue. The prickle of tears caught her by surprise but did the job, vaporising her amusement.
Forcing a languid shrug she blinked her boredom.
The 250-word Micro fiction Challenge 2022
Shortlisted - round two
“The ending is full of humor.
Until this point the beginning feels unconnected to the rest of the narrative,
but within this short ending everything comes together really nicely."
“The character of Cook has good depth; unique and believable dialogue, down to the spelling.”
-Judges feedback
Genre: Historical Fiction
Action: Doing a push up
Word: Scout
Extract:
Cook was frowning even before Emily entered, but her expression darkened as she bustled around the large table. Swiping flour from her hands, she rescued the tray, setting it down unceremoniously.
“It don’t take a beak to know you’ve been up to no good…and this, Sir Hamish’s tea, gone cold now...”
Flash Fiction
The rules:
1. No more than 500 words.
2. First sentence must contain the word 'Fifty'.
3. Story must include a four-legged animal.
4. Must include the words; Emergency, Brush and Board.
Ready or not
‘Forty-nine…….FIFTY!’
The sound echoes through the tunnel and my stomach leaps. It was a risk to hide so close but there wasn’t time to get far enough away. Even now as I stretch my eyes trying to peer out from behind the shrub, I can see movement, those still running to find shelter. Emily with her pink coat and fiery curls is a beacon.
The snap of a twig shoots my eyes back. I squeeze them tight to shut down the fear, blocking out the legs that are standing so close I can see the stitching on the filthy denim.
He stands for what seems an eternity. My breath tight in my chest until finally he takes one last drag of his potent cigarette and flicks the butt casually into the bush where I’m crouched. It lands in my hair and the terror of discovery wrestles for dominance over the fear of being burned.
He enters the tunnel and the sound of his boots dragging on the wet stones becomes more faint. I reach for the butt, my nose curling instinctively at the faint smell of singed hair.
I flick it off and tentatively touch my head where it landed, the crisp hair disintegrating as I explore, gingerly dabbing my fingertips to my scalp.
I know this is unnecessary. There is no wound, my hair too thick to be easily penetrated by a dwindling cigarette, but the gesture is distraction to calm my shattered nerves. As if blind to the emergency of the situation, I distractedly brush specks of dirt from my skirt.
I have to move. I am the slowest of the group and he would know that I can’t be far, but I desperately want to curl into a ball and close my eyes to the world.
A whimpering close by drags me back to the present and I whip my head around, instantly glad to not to be alone while at the same time horrified at discovery.
Sam slips down the embankment and my heart sinks as his teeny boarding sneakers, barely half the size of my own, come to rest beside mine. A memory of us at the skate park flashes in my mind.
He attaches himself to my side, his knitted dog clenched in his fist and I can feel him shake with fear and cold.
Far in the distance, I hear a scream severed prematurely and in the sudden silence I instinctively wrap my arm around Sam and clap a hand to his mouth.
His eyes are wide and wild and I can tell he’s teetering on the edge so I bark at him to be quiet. Chastened by his expression, I stuff my emotions down and before he has time to protest, I stand, haul him to his feet and practically propel him back up the embankment towards the road.
‘He said…’
‘I know. No road….but listen…’
The sound of an engine approaching gets louder.
Without consultation and in unison, we sprint.
The rules:
1. No more than 500 words.
2. Your story must include a character that commits a crime.
3. Your story must include some kind of DOOR being opened.
4. Your story must include the words CHALK, TALK and FORK.
Sweet revenge
Lola forked up a mouthful of noodles. Even before she finished chewing, she was jabbing the utensil back deep into the pile, flicking sauce as she twirled.
Tommy sat opposite, unsure if he was horrified or impressed. Lola had an uncanny ability to devour obscene amounts of food. Always jittery around her, his nervous energy spasmed through his leg as it bounced beneath the checkered cloth. Every now and then it would rebound a little higher, knocking the table and sending a jolt through Lola’s plate.
Then her eyes would dart to him, but her hand still moved as if under independent control, twirling and scooping, scraping and stabbing.
‘So, talk.’ Lola slurred around the sauce, her eyes darting once again in his direction. Tommy marvelled; he still thought himself deeply in love even as he watched the food circle her open mouth.
‘Yeah…um, I found out who’s been hassling your nan...’
Lola stopped and pushed her plate away. Her full attention sent a rush of colour straight to Tommy’s cheeks and he dropped his head to his untouched plate.
Sirens drew them outside. Emerging from the restaurant, Lola curiously tracked the police cars and she frowned, watching intently as an ambulance pulled away from the commotion in sombre silence. It took a minute for it to sink in.
Chest heaving from exertion, Lola pushed past the uniform, ignoring his protests. The sight of blood turned her face chalky. She spun and bolted. Hands balled into fists, she smashed through the front door, snapping it back hard on its hinges.
She’d been sitting there for more than a day before Tommy finally found her, eyes vacant and face gaunt from grief and lack of sleep.
He managed to gently coax her back home. He fed her like a baby bird, tiny bites, desperate to see her spectacular appetite return. But she mostly slept.
She woke as Tommy returned, his face resolved and vulnerable. Together they stepped out, Tommy carefully steering them down familiar streets.
Lola stiffened as they approached the sweet shop.
‘What the…?’ The question faded as she took in shattered glass and savaged displays. Ice cream tubs had been tossed, rivers of milky colour weaving a slick across the floor. Drowning lollies blinked jewel colours, half buried beneath the coagulated opaque surface.
Lola’s eyes drifted before coming to rest at the ruined entrance.
Anybody else would have missed it. The scuffmark sat low on the pastel wall. A mark easily made by a wayward delivery, but Lola knew better. It was Tommy’s tag.
She looked over to him. His head characteristically dropped as a pink tinge claimed his cheeks. Her eyes never left him as she slowly stepped closer and barely whispered. ‘You did this.’ There was no accusation, barely the inflection of a question.
She grazed his arm and the colour on Tommy’s cheeks flamed.
‘She was your nan.’
They turned, her hand finding his as they continued down the street.