Every month, the Australian Writers Centre runs a flash fiction competition called Furious Fiction: 55 hours, 500 words, and a strict set of criteria.
And every month, I brainstorm an idea, smash out a story and upload it here for everyone to enjoy. You can find more of my flash fiction here.
The Criteria – March 2024:
- Must include a character revisiting something from their past
- Must include the same colour in the first and final sentences
- Must include the following words: fast, camp, spark
The Story:
Carmine rolled his eyes, looking just like his mother. “Do we have to?”
I spun my lazy son’s beanbag around and pointed it towards the back door. “I’ll drag it all the way outside if I have to.”
“Uggh, fine.” He didn’t even look up from his phone.
I give the beanbag a playful nudge. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“You know it won’t.”
***
Stacks of dusty boxes leaned and sagged like old men. Ancient furniture, rusty old tools. Surfboards. Old fittings, a busted washing machine that I was going to get around to fixing one day.
The only thing my shed didn’t have was space for the car.
“You still still think this’ll be fun?”
I avoided the question. “You get started on those boxes beneath the bench. I’ll start on the cabinets.”
***
“Hey dad, what’s this?”
“What’s what?” I asked, without looking up, too engrossed in a box filled with old tax filings and silverfish.
Carmine shoved something right under my nose. “This.”
A flush of warm recognition filled by chest. “Wow. Where did you…?”
Carmine shrugged. “A box?”
I turned it over in my hands, memeories flooding back. I couldn’t stop the smile spreading across my lips. “You know this is the best movie ever made?”
“You’re joking.” Carmine took the video cassette back, holding the cover up: A man in a loincloth, holding aloft a severed head, the title dripping with blood. “Cannibal Holocaust?”
“Bud, you’ve no idea. Your mum and I practically camped out at the video store for an entire week to get that copy.”
“I don’t know.” Carmine flipped it over with distaste. “It looks pretty shonky.”
I wasn’t listening. I was back in my teens, huddling on the couch with Carmine’s mother. Lights off. Blinds down. A bottle of coke and bag of Twisties on the coffe table.
Sparks about to fly.
“The best. Hands down.”
“Better than Inifinity War?”
I snatched the casette from his fingers. “Come on. Grab that VCR.”
“The what?”
“Come on. Are we doing this or what?”
I’d never seen him move so fast in his life.
***
“Garage cleaning is progressing well I see.” Both Carmine and I jumped, and my wife loomed in the doorway.
“We were just…”
Only after I hit pause, mid-blood curdling scream, did I catch my wife’s gaze. She rolled her eyes, looking just like Carmine, and flashed me a mischievous grin.
Why had I been so nervous? Had I forgotten who I’d married?
She grabbed a handful of popcorn. “Is there space for me on that couch or what?”
“Mum?” Carmine looked up, totally confused, an uncertain waver in his voice. “This movie’s pretty gross…”
“Gross? You mean great!” She squeezzed in beside me and snuggled up under my arm. “And you haven’t even got to the good bits!”
I hit play, another of those uncontrollable smiles playing across my lips.
Carmine, buddy, you really have no idea.