Furious Fiction 21 – May 2021

Furious Fiction banner

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

Furious Fiction banner

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!”

Furious Fiction 18 – December 2020

Furious Fiction banner

Australian Writers’ Centre Furious Fiction

December Furious Fiction? Already? Or from another point of view: “is it only December? When will this year be over? The year has simultaneously sped past and dragged on. Here is another instalment in Frankie’s story.

I had a story arc roughed out but as I was writing this story my “pantser” mind took over and created a plot twist. Pantser being a term used by writers to describe those who write the story “by the seat of their pants” compared to plotters, who plot things out carefully.

I wanted to finish it this month so the end of Frankie’s journey coincided with the end of the year.

Sigh…

This Month’s Prompts

This month the prompts for Furious Fiction were.

  1. The first sentence could only be three words
  2. You need to include the words rose, palm and match (or variants of like matched)
  3. You need to include a gift of some kind.

The Furious Fiction short story competition is serious fun and I recommend it to anyone who likes creative writing. Only 500 words with a prize of $A500. I’ve given up on writing for the prize, now I am just trying to write my story. I’m getting closer to the end!

This story runs on directly from last month so you might want to read that first.

The Stats

This month I submitted the story at 9:00 PM on Sunday. I spent about an hour on Friday afternoon, then 2 hours on Saturday morning and a rough polish on Sunday before submitting as I was out all weekend. 491 words

Thomas Ball takes a leak

“Who are they?”

“Dorchester and Williams,” Frankie said casually as he put down his beer. 

O’Mallory nearly fell off his chair. “DORCHESTER and WILLIAMS? His voice rising in a whispering shout.

“Yes-sir-ree! Prime Minister Dorchester here in the rose lamé number and his Deputy Williams in the nice peacock blue chiffon,” Frankie said pointing to the photo.

“Shhh…!” O’Mallory looked around the bar while simultaneously trying to melt into the plastic palm tree propped against the wall.

“Classic ‘80s D&G. Really, it was a  bit over the top for the occasion! It took me a bloody long time source those outfits and they wasted them on some small-time Party Conference. Bloody poseurs those two! No fucking class! ” 

“Do you think they’ll still have them? Tucked away in their wardrobes?”

“Maybe, it’s a bit risky and there *was* the *Second Purge Amnesty*. It would have been safer to toss them then onto the big public fires and make a song and dance of their righteousness. It doesn’t matter, there are plenty more photos where that one came from. Either way, those bastards are gonna pay for those years I’ve lost, ” said Frankie stabbing the image with his finger, “Fucking hypocrites!”  

O’Mallory’s face contorted with guilt as his part in Frankie’s incarceration flickered through his mind. Frankie took another deep, calm sip to drain the glass and as if reading O’Mallory’s mind he said, 

“You were only doing your job, Guv’ner. But not these bastards! They came up with the whole crummy scheme!”

“That’s very gracious of you Frankie, I am sure not everyone I’ve sentenced would match your generosity. How much do we owe you for the evidence?” 

“Nada! Think of it as a gift. Just do what you need to do to get these pompous gits out of the House.”

O’Mallory looked at his watch and put the photo back in his pocket. “I have to go, I’m meeting with the others. Listen to Question Time tomorrow. It should get interesting. 

The men shook hands, “ Thanks Frankie, the Nation will thank you tomorrow.” 

That whole exchange, the entire process of getting the evidence to topple a corrupt government had taken less than 10 minutes.  It was then that O’Mallory realised that Tom Ball the journalist, and Frankie’s minder, hadn’t come back from the toilet.  He’d been gone the whole transaction. Odd? 

As he stepped from the un-palatial Mumbai Sapphire to the grubby street, the bright white lights of a garden of video cameras dazzled O’Mallory’s eyes,

“Justice O’Mallory,” the reporter barked as he thrust the microphone forward, “is it true that startling new photos *supposedly* compromising the position of our National Leader are in fact, photoshopped deep fakes?” 

O’Mallory pushed through the pack of reporters. “No comment,” he shouted.  

O’Mallory’s mind whirled. How did they even know about the photos? Was Ball a leak rather than just taking a leak?  Had he played them for suckers?


Final episode next month! (maybe!)