This year, I’ve taken up the challenge of Furious Fiction – a monthly short story competition run by the Australian Writers’ Centre. I though it would be impossible to write a story in 500 words, but it turns out that it is possible.
I won’t say that my attempts are great – some months the criteria are easier than others – but it’s been fun. I’d thought I’d share my latest story.
The criteria were:
- story has to take place at some kind of contest
- story has to include a character who forgets something
- story has to include the words PRESS, FLING and GROUND
This is my whimsical take on the criteria …
‘What’s going on out there?’ Aunt Nell says. ‘Sounds like an earthquake!’
‘Relax, Aunty,’ Thelma says. ‘It’s just the boys … rifling around in the scrap bucket again.’
‘The sun is up! They should be home by now!’
‘But it’s Friday Race Day!’ Thelma squeaks. ‘Did you forget?’
Aunt Nell shudders. ‘I didn’t forget it was Friday Race Day,’ she mumbles. ‘I just forgot it was Friday.’
Thelma tsks. ‘There’s a calendar in the tuckshop, Aunty.’
‘No cheek from you!’ Aunt Nell scolds. ‘Go and tell them to come inside immediately. I can’t bear to lose any more of you to this … insanity!’
‘But they—’
‘Tell them … If they don’t come inside this instant – they’ll be grounded for four months!’
Thelma sighs. ‘Yes, Aunty.’
***
Thelma marches towards the scrap bucket on the tuckshop benchtop. ‘Oi! Aunt Nell is furious. You all need to—’
Kevin’s face appears in the crack between bucket and lid. ‘Let me guess … five months?’
‘Four,’ Thelma says. ‘But she’s serious.’
Kevin squirms free and scuttles down the outside of the bucket, followed by seventeen of our cousins.
‘Where’s Brutus?’ Thelma asks.
‘Still in search of choko,’ Kevin says. ‘Says the slime makes him more aerodynamic.’
‘No cheese again!’ Silvia complains. ‘I run better on cheese.’
Kevin scoffs. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, Silvia. They never leave cheese in the scrap bucket. Only vegetable peel.’
Silvia pouts. ‘I prefer cheese.’
Ely chips in. ‘Cheese is too stodgy, Silvia. That’s why you’ll never get picked.’
‘Thelma,’ Tina says, ‘go and see if “they” are here yet!’
They.
The Year 6s.
Their weekly Cockroach Race is the ultimate adrenaline rush – and the pre-eminent sporting accolade for winners – according to the young roaches. Ask Aunt Nell and the like-minded fuddy-duddy roaches though, and they’ll tell you that the race is a human conspiracy to lure the next generation of impressionable roaches to their deaths.
As Thelma scurries off for scouting duty, the contenders plot.
‘It’s a delicate balancing act,’ Kevin says, fluttering his wings and flexing his forelegs. ‘You need to run fast enough that they want to claim you – but not so fast that they can’t catch you.’
‘Duh,’ Tina says. ‘Who made you the expert anyway? You’ve never been picked. Always a contender, but never a racer! That’s you, Kevin.’
Kevin’s antennae twitch. ‘You’ve got a better strategy, Tina?’
‘You’re overthinking it!’ Tina says. ‘These humans – let’s face it – they’re not the brightest. Today, not only am I going to get picked … I’m going to win the race!’
‘Don’t get cocky,’ Ely warns. ‘Remember what happened to your brother.’
***
Aunt Nell watches in wide-eyed horror as her brood slink back into the nest one by one. When she counts the nineteenth one, she is as perplexed as she is relieved.
‘What happened?’ Aunt Nell asks.
Thelma sighs. ‘School is closed today, so there was no race.’
‘Closed? On a Friday?’
‘Lockdown,’ Kevin grumbles. ‘Bloody Covid.’