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 – April 2024:
- The first line must be a question
- Must include something being pulled
- Must include the following words: thunder, post, tear
The Story:
“Who does he think he is?” Reggie grumbled into his mead. “Swannin’ around bestowin’ blessin’s, as if he’s some sort of big shot–”
“He’s not that bad–” I tried to interject, but Reggie just kept talking. He was always talking.
“–and don’t get me started on his bloody entourage–”
“Actually, they call themselves apostles–”
“–always clasping their hands together and prayin’ for us, as if he’s god’s bloody gift to mankind–”
“Reggie, not so loud.” I said, and put a warning hand on his arm. People were starting to look our way. “Besides, he kind of is a gift from god.”
“Yeah, I know, but–”
“But what, Reggie?” With Reggie, there was always a but. “You wanted him to turn your water into wine but all you got was a bloody mead?”
Reggie pursed his lips and cast his eyes back down to our table. “He just goes on a bit, that’s all.”
I gave Reggie a long hard look, as if I was about to give him the spiel. The whole nine yards. I grinned instead. “Yeah, he does a bit, doesn’t he?” I drained my mead and slammed the empty mug down. “Though you would too, if you could snuff out a thunderstorm with a click of yer fingers and pull fish out yer drawers whenever you was peckish.”
Reggie knocked back his dregs and wiped his mouth. “I would not.”.
“Oh, give over. You’ve hardly shut up about him all afternoon, and all he did was wink at yer.” I gathered his mug with mine. “Another?”
Reggie glanced up at the sun, glinting through a tear in the shadecloth. “Naw, prolly not. Don’t want to get there late. All the good spots’ll be taken.”
“True.” I popped our mugs up on the bar. “We can always swing past for another on the way back.”
“‘Exactly.”
We stepped out into the sunlight and headed north, picking our way between donkeys and market stalls, street kids and beggars. By the time we’d reached the edge of town we were but two members of a swelling crowd.
“You heard any whispers about what he might say this arvo, Reggie?”
“Oh, who knows. More bloomin’ blessin’s I expect. An aphorism or two. Maybe a parable.”
“I do like a good parable.”
“Yeah, you would.”
Reggie grouched, but I knew deep down he was as excited as I was. He didn’t power up hills like this when we were shepherding, that was for sure.
“Wouldn’t want to miss it, though, would we.”
“Good lord, no.” Reggie grinned. “Can you imagine? We’d never hear the end of it.”