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 – February 2024:
- Must include something being popped in the first line
- Must include a movie referenced in dialogue
- Must include the following words: bottle, leap, shadow
The Story:
“The day he kicked it so hard it burst?”
“That’s the one.”
“And you were there? You saw it?”
“I heard it mate.” Dad stuck his finger in his cheek and popped it. Then he whistled, tracing an arc through the air with his eyes. “Went through, too. Post high.”
“Post high?” I took a long, deep sip, and set my bottle back on the bar. “That was what, ‘69? I wasn’t even born!”
“I was only eight, I reckon. And the great man would only have been eighteen.” Dad took a swig too. “You’re grandpa brought me here every other week that year. When he wasn’t at the TAB, of course.”
“Lucky bugger. I wish I’d got to see him play. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore.”
“You can say that again.”
“He had hands like a vice.” I began, knowing that dad would follow my lead.
“A leap like a tiger.”
“He could kick it like a mule, and hit you on the chest from 60 yards.”
“He’d run through you, kick the goal, then help you up from the mud.”
“He played hard.”
“He played fair.”
“And god dammit, he played to win.”
We drank in a golden silence for a moment, Dad lost in memories of Alberton as it had been all those years ago, while on the grass below the coaches put the current crop through their paces.
“You know, I saw him once. At the hospital. Just before…” I glanced across and a shadow passed across Dad’s face. “I was taking your grandpa in for his treatment and boom, there he was. Still larger than life.”
I raised my glass. Dad did too, and looked up at the sky.
“Right to the very end.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Dad drained his glass and pushed himself to his feet. “Come on. This isn’t The Big Lebowski. You’re grandpa knew what he wanted, and we’re not getting any bloody younger sitting up here.”
Dad grabbed his father’s ashes and started towards the steps that led down to the ground. I followed a couple of paces behind.
Grandpa knew what he wanted alright. When that time came, so did dad and so did I.
We wanted to be scattered on the hallowed turf by our son’s, just like the great man had been.