Tag: short story

Narrow escape… or is it?

The director-playwright lay under the raised curtain, surveying it to make sure it wasn’t creased. The manager had done that the night before. And again in the morning. But it didn’t hurt to check again.

Actors rushed around, muttering dialogues, rehearsing, buckling belts, fixing wigs. His eyes crinkled as he smiled to himself, proud.

Suddenly, he froze. His eyes widened as the curtain rod came hurtling towards his head.

He could only stare.

An inch away, it stopped. “You should be more careful, you know” came an unfamiliar voice from backstage. The one who’d become his wife.

He let his breath out.

I wrote this little story in July 2014. I found it in my drafts while cleaning out my blog, and I figured it was worth a polish and publish.

Woke

photo of a ferry's control panel
Image credit: Ibrahim Boran on Unsplash

It’s 8:58 pm on Saturday, and I lie waiting in bed. Sleep doesn’t come easy these days.

Stars twinkle outside my window, and my doona weighs down on my sore legs, comforting.

Is my posture right, I wonder adjusting my body, lengthening my spine and giving myself more contact with my cushion mattress. Did I drink enough water today? I doubt my dedication to myself and consider a New Year’s resolution, as the pounding in my head continues. 

I sigh deeply, mutely cursing those loose hinges on my garage gate, squeaking in the spring night breeze.

“Israel strikes again,” the watchful media editor push-notifies me. 

Still wide awake, I clear the notification and open Instagram. “I love that word! That’s what I’m going to name my next boat: ‘Eminence’,” some rich guy beams.

I think I’ll start writing short stories on this blog again. Thoughts?

Distracted

The press briefing was intended to elaborate on the measures taken to tackle the situation. But everyone lost focus, and their minds, when blustery winds blew the speaker’s wig off.

My entry for the final day of the Writers Victoria Flash Fiction competition. Today’s prompt: focus.

Impact

Father introduces us to his boss—his third son first, first second, and me last. Middle-class parents fixated on grades, I’d tell the adoption agent twenty years later.

Day 29 of the Writers Victoria Flash Fiction competition. Today’s prompt: fixated.

Finders, not keepers

Unable to bear more suffering, the old man returned the battered book to the library. It’d gather dust, as it was always meant to—until the true owner reclaimed it.

This is my entry for day 28 of the Writers Victoria Flash Fiction competition. Today’s prompt: gather.