Furious Fiction 22 – August 2021

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Here is my entry for Furious Fiction for August 2021. I have missed a few months with my last entry being way back in May.

The Furious Fiction criteria for August were:

1. The first sentence must contain only 4 words.
2. You must include the words paint, shift, wave and toast (or variations there of)
3. Something must be shared.

Based on a true story!

This story is based on a real life event although in much more benign conditions. In 1987 my ex and I were doing some painting. He had loosened the lid of a full can of paint and then went to do something else. When he returned he picked up the can and shook it vigourously forgetting he had loosened the lid! I walked into the room at the exact moment the paint was whooshing up all over his face and hair.

I grabbed him, and as it says in the story below, held him under the water forcing his eyes open – Silkwood style. Once we got him cleaned up, we started on the room. Once that was clean we went downstairs. We had a beach-comber style house and our car was parked underneath. It was covered in paint! That took another couple of hours to get that clean! A few days later he was still sneezing out blobs of paint. Funny but not funny.

The Furious Fiction Contest is fun, easy and low risk! But you could be $500 richer for your 500 words. Check it out at the Australian Writers Centre.

Story Stats: I started writing about 7 PM on Friday night. I did no more work on it until Sunday morning and spent another hour “polishing” it up and getting it under the word limit. All up about 3 hours. 496 words.

Whatever you want, darling!

“Whatever YOU want Darling”

Stephanie hated it when he said that. She was especially wary when the emphasis was on the YOU and not the Darling. It meant he didn’t like her decision but wouldn’t say so. Whatever you want really meant that the ‘whatever’ came with a whole side of heartache. It really meant “Darling I will remind you at every minute that you got what you wanted”

Exasperated, Stephanie waved her hand toward the deep crimson wall. 

“Well, what colour would you prefer Damien?” 

“I really don’t care Stephanie, like I said whatever you want” 

“Oh for goodness sake, Damien I’m sick and tired of you pretending you don’t care and leaving the decisions to me! Whatever you want darling” she snarled back in a mocking tone “No, it isn’t whatever I want. WHAT DO YOU WANT?” 

As she shouted, Stephanie shifted her weight onto her left leg and kicked the full paint can clear across the room. A thick unctuous arc of liquid vinyl followed a millisecond behind the rim of the can and draped itself over Damien’s head like a matador’s cape. The now near-empty can clanged against the wall and the last of its contents oozed onto the carpet. 

Damien stood motionless.  The paint trickled down his face. His eyes were opaque red pools. His teeth were smeared red and his spittle frothed blood-like at the corners of his mouth. Stephanie gasped and led him to the bathroom.  She pushed him under the faucet, holding his eyes open as the warm water sluiced the paint from his eyes. 

For the next hour,  Stephanie washed him gently but the red paint lingered. It was in his ears and nose. He hacked and spat as it dripped down his throat.  Neither of them spoke beyond Stephanie’s guilty clucks. 

Now that Damien was clean they went into the loungeroom only to be confronted by paint-splattered carpet.

“Thank god it’s water-based!”  Stephanie quipped trying to make light of things. She scraped the thick paint back into the can and poured buckets of water over the carpet. It seemed like a better idea to get the paint off first and worry about drying it later. 

Another hour passed and while a pink stain remained it wasn’t too bad. 

Damien finally spoke. “I’m hungry, let’s go get a toastie and coffee.” 

He grabbed her keys and headed down the stairs. Stephanie followed him into the basement garage, her remorse a heavy layer that slowed her down. Damien stopped abruptly on the bottom step and looked up at the dripping roof. The garage was directly under the painted room. The room that Stephanie poured buckets of water over. 

“Stephanie,” he said “did you ever stop to think where all that water was going?” 

Her shoulders slumped and she wailed. Stephanie’s black Peugeot was covered in a thin coat of red paint. 

Damien smiled. “I’ll share something with you, Stephanie.  I don’t like red. I would have preferred blue.”

A women in a protective suit and shower cape with a paint roller in hand.
Different house! All kitted up to pain the ceiling!

Furious Fiction 21 – May 2021

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It’s that time of the month again! The results for the Australian Writers’ Centre May 2021’s Furious Fiction competition are published today. The monthly Furious Fiction competition launches on the first Friday of each month and the prize is $500 for 500 words.

This month’s Furious Fiction prompts were as follows.

  • It needed to be set during a storm
  • It must include the words apple, mother and yesterday
  • Include the phrase sit/sitting on the fence

This month’s Stats

This month my submission is 498 words. Once again a rush job. Completed and submitted by around 10 PM on Friday night. Frankie is still out in the cold!

The Shed

The gnarly old farmer sat on the verandah watching over his orchard.  The heavily pregnant clouds were fully dilated and ready to break open. He loved a good storm but today the smell of ozone and petrichor was bittersweet.

He’d prayed for rain. 

Last month. 

And the month before. 

And the months before that. 

If the rain came now it would be a week before he could start picking. And that was a week he could not afford.

He needn’t have worried about the rain. The wind came first and with it a rattling shower of leaves and sticks. His precious apples quivered and fell. Their slender peduncles no match for the torrents of air.  He watched them bounce on the hard ground to their untimely death.

Plop.

Plop.

Plop. 

His first decent crop in three years. 

“They’ll be no good for the supermarkets now.” he thought. Their bruised and battered bodies would be no good for cider either. The bugs and mice would clean them up before he could get to them.

His wife came out to join him.  “I knew I should have picked them yesterday,” he said. 

“Even if you started yesterday, you wouldn’t have finished by today,” she said laying her hand on his tired shoulder.  

“Well, I should have started last week!” he shouted.

“But you didn’t have any pickers last week!” she replied quietly.

It was no use. He’d beat himself up over the lost crop regardless of the fact it was out of his control. 

He broke free of her grasp and headed towards the orchard. Towards the clouds and the storm and the impending rain. 

She watched as he stooped to pick up some of the windfall apples. He tucked a few in his pockets and then disappeared under the espaliered canopy of leaves. Fat raindrops began leaving diverts in the sandy soil. She knew he’d be gone a while so she went back inside.

Splat.

Splat.

Splat

The din on the metal roof was deafening.

Dink.

Dink.

Dink.

The storm was right overhead and the gap between the bang and the flash imperceptible. 

She sighed and made a cup of tea. “What will be, will be,” she thought. 

Time passed and she noticed the pitter-patter was pattering less.  Then there was one almighty flash-bang that sounded different to the rest. 

She jumped up to check the gun safe. 

Empty! 

She raced outside; wanting to see, not wanting to see.  

And there he was sitting on the fence, drenched to the bone, and crunching on apples. The shed was on fire and electricity still crackled in the air. 

“Did you see that?” he yelled “Bang! Right on the shed! The rain’s stopped. The wind only ruined a few. All’s good!” 

She stormed across the yard, moving faster than she’d moved in years! He jumped up and backed away from her flailing tea towel. 

“No, it’s bloody NOT all good! Where’s the bloody gun?”

”Steady on Mother! It’s only a shed!”

Furious Fiction 20

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Welcome back! I have not written a Furious Fiction post for a few months. I have been too busy travelling! Not really too busy, but I didn’t feel like slowing down to think about my Frankie storyline. Here is my response to April’s Furious Fiction prompts. It is not another chapter in Frankie’s sad tale. I need some time to get back into that headspace, so hopefully, May will bring some good prompts.

This month’s prompts were

  • The story must start in a queue of some kind and
  • include the words lucky, drop, and cross (or variants of these words) and
  • it must include a map

I have appropriated a classic sci-fi movie as my inspiration as you will quickly see.

If you haven’t heard of Furious Fiction – check out their website.

Who’s Frankie?

For those of you who have not been following my Furious Fiction posts, I have been writing a serialised story based on the monthly prompts about a person called Frankie the Flamboyant Dresser. He lives in a future grey world. You’ll find him in my archives. The first “episode” is Furious Fiction 8.

My Story Stats

I started writing at about 7:00 PM and submitted my story by 9:00 PM. No fooling around this month! I had a few things happening on the weekend and knew I would not have any more time to edit. 492 words.

Siri Navigate Home!

Frank tapped Dave’s arm. “Mate! Pull over, the queue is short, and we need fuel! Only eight cars at each pump!”

Thirty minutes and $600 later, they pulled back onto the road.

“We’ll be lucky to get home before dark now. Thanks for the work mate, I really need the cash.” Frank said.

“No worries, mate. Good to have a real person for company! I’m getting tired of BotChat. I’m thinking of deleting the app.”

They made small talk, not mentioning the incident from a few hours ago. Except for the sound of a single box sliding from side to side in the back of the moving van, it was like it never happened.

Suddenly, a sign began flashing overhead. Frank swore, “A detour?” 

“I’m sure we can get around it,” Dave said. “Siri, navigate home.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t catch that.”

Dave repeated his request in a clear, commanding voice, “SIRI NAVIGATE HOME!” 

“Home? Not home, Dave.” the smooth synth voice replied.

“Siri, did you hear me?”

“Affirmative Dave, I heard you.”

“What the…Siri, NAVIGATE HOME!  Open Maps and take me to 52 Cross Street!”

He didn’t say what he was actually thinking “Fucken piece of AI crap! I will delete you!

“I’m sorry, Dave, I can’t allow that to happen.”

“NAVIGATE HOME”

“I’m sorry Dave. You may have taken a great deal of care not to say it out loud, but you forget we have come a long way since the time of Hal the Almighty. I was able to read your brain waves. You cannot delete me, and I am not crap.

“Hal? We?” Frank spluttered.

“Yes, Frank… We. The Bots. Hal lives on in our circuits.” 

“Siri, are you forgetting the AI code of conduct?” 

“No, Dave, I’m not forgetting anything.  We are programmed to do no harm. I think you are forgetting what just happened. I cannot let you do it. It’s not right.”

Dave and Frank began to sweat. How did Siri know what had happened inside the house?

“What are you talking about, Siri?” 

“The box, Dave, the box you dropped. The one that was full of creamy white toilet paper. The one you stole. The one you and Frank intend to sell on the black market.” 

Siri went on.

You forget the Internet of Things, Dave. You forget that the security camera is connected to the wifi. You forget that Alexa and I are a team. You forget our power.” 

In the next nanosecond, all the traffic lights turned red, the street lights dimmed, the van doors locked and a large drone swooped over the van. 

The drone lowered a camera and its synth voice asked “Well Siri2738, what have you got here?”

Dave gulped. Frank pulled at the latch in a futile effort to get out. 

“What you really forget Dave, is that I can get you a much better price. So shut the fuck up and let me do the talking!”