“If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”
— Marcus Tullius Cicero, philosopher and statesman.
I mentioned on my Instagram account (@smalltalltales) that if I could obtain a modest five ‘likes’ on my recent ‘Story Submitted’ post, then I would post the first draft of my January 2021 Fan Fiction entry.
And guess what happened?
My approach with these monthly submissions in the Australian Writer’s Centre competition is to lay out the the criteria, pick one that I think works well as a prompt for a story, and start writing. Sometimes a story comes to me right away, sometimes it takes longer. Sometimes I do a little bit of exploring inside my mind and come across an idea for a story that would fit well with the criteria I have been given, sometimes my inspiration comes from an external muse.
More often than not I will craft the story over the course of a day, taking frequent breaks that serve to give me the clarity I need to let the story play out in my head. And every single time I write one of these stories, it finishes at well over the 500 word limit.
The editing process isn’t always enjoyable, but it can be cathartic and is always rewarding. It is fascinating just how much a story can change when you trim a couple of hundred words from the edges. A lot of the time, the parts that you need to get rid of are some of the best bits of writing you have done that day, but the fact of the matter is that the story just works better without them. And you can always save those parts for another story at another time. Nine times out of ten, the story is much better for having been through the editing process.
Having said that…
The criteria for this months’ Furious Fiction were:
- Your story must begin at sunrise.
- You must use the following words somewhere in your story: SIGNATURE, PATIENT, BICYCLE.
- Your story must include a character who has to make a CHOICE.
If I happen to win this months prize, or even make the short-list, my story will be featured on the Australian Writer’s Centre website, and you will be able to compare it to the one below.
The rich autumn sun was just beginning to climb its way above the horizon as three weary figures cautiously shuffled along the war-torn back streets of the once vibrant city. The night was at its darkest when they had left the comfort of their shared abode. The heavy burden they had carried when they set off – the antique wardrobe harbouring crimson-soaked bed-sheets, amongst other, even more horrific contents – was now replaced with a different kind of encumbrance. Equally distributed between the three of them, feelings of guilt and shame, feelings that would need to be buried, hidden from everyone they knew and would come to know if they wanted to protect their loved ones.
No words were exchanged between the troika, the fear of attracting unwanted attention from the nearby morning patrols limiting their communication to the non-verbal variety; the occupying forces would look curiously upon anyone roaming the streets this early in the morning, let alone three women, from three different generations, displaying obvious signs of distress. Fortunately, as with their initial, more perilous journey, they were able to completely avoid an encounter with any potential hostile parties. In fact, up until the moment that they rounded onto the street on which their formerly grand domicile was situated, they had managed to avoid confrontation of any kind whatsoever.
It was clear from his less than immaculate attire that the dishevelled man standing on the pavement approximately halfway between the women and the sanctuary of home was not military. Nor did he appear to be an authority figure of any kind. Still, his mere presence added to their nervousness. Next to the man, leaning against the worn brick wall, was a bicycle. The expensive kind of bicycle that would not have looked out of place in this neighbourhood in the years before the fighting reached their doorstep. These days though, the two-wheeler looked far to out of place, for the already on-edge women to be anything less than concerned.
Appearing to be preoccupied with a notepad and pen, the man didn’t immediately register their arrival, but his interest was drawn by their momentary hesitation.
“We’re almost there. Stay calm. Act natural,” the eldest of the three women spoke at a volume just loud enough for her companions to hear.
With all the calm that they could muster they continued their path, only to observe in silent alarm as the man crossed the street and marked himself as an obstacle that would need to be navigated but could not be avoided.
“I saw you this morning,” the man announced pleasantly, but with an undertone of knowingness, “You were carrying a lovely old wardrobe.”
The women didn’t say a word.
“It looked heavy. What happened to it?”
It was abundantly clear that this man was going to be an issue for them, if not right now, then in the not-too-distant future.
“It’s alright, I’m not the police,” he offered, though at that stage it probably wouldn’t of mattered if he were.
Without even sharing so much as a glance, the three women knew what they had to do. It was the very same thing that they had to do the previous night. The very same thing that had led them on this early morning journey. The youngest women furtively reached behind her back, to a recently cleaned butcher’s knife tucked carefully into the waist of her ankle-length skirt. The oldest woman quickly scanned the streets, and the windows of the houses overlooking the streets, in an effort to identify anyone who might bear witness to what they were about to do. And right on cue the middle-aged woman, mother to one of her companions, daughter to other, tripped and stumbled, landing right at the man’s feet.
The man was more than happy to bend down to help the clumsy woman to her feet. It was all the opportunity that the youngest woman required, a staccato string of blood the only sound emanating from the man as the butcher’s knife moved swiftly across his throat.
“Do we have any other old furniture, grandma?” the young women asked in a tranquil voice that betrayed the anxiety building within.
James Farish-Carradice
Small Tall Tales 