'Under the Bed' by Sarah Oakes

I keep a box of stars beneath the bed, for days when I run out of magic. When my soul loses its sparkle, I take out that box and gaze at the stars, until I shimmer again.

I keep them next to legendariums, for when my heart runs out of hope. When I can’t find a way forward and the world seems dark, I reach for those bright vivid tales of old Norse, of magic and myth and old one eyed gods who are as dear as friends, until life doesn’t seem so bad after all.

I keep a crate of words under the bed, for days when I run out. When monsters start eating my words, spewing hate and spitting doubt, I reach for the box and find words of joy and hope, until I feel better.

I keep scraps of positivity in bag beside the legendariums, for when I can’t find any. When my mind focuses on negativity, bullies me, mocks me, humiliates me, I find that bag of positivity and I remember that I am worthy after all. 

'And We Pass Through' by Birgit K. Gaiser

The house is hardly more than a ruin, but it’s all we could afford. I’m not proud of that, but between sky-rocketing property prices, our student loans and the rising cost of living, well. Five of us put all our savings together, and here I am, in the large attic room, still furnished and decorated for the child that once lived here.

I feel like an intruder, committing sacrilege just by being here, never mind by making this space my own. Slowly, I investigate my surroundings, disturbing the dusty scraps of someone else’s life.

A box of stars beneath the bed, the cheap, plastic ones you stick on the ceiling for a night light. Maybe I will stick up a couple, to honour my unknown predecessor. My parents never let me have them.

An opened pack of jawbreakers behind a book, presumably to hide them from the parents. Those go straight into the bin bag.

Lines, numbers and dates on the wall, landmarks celebrating growth, all the way up to 1.42m in July last year. Too creepy; I’ll paint or wallpaper over them once I can afford it.

A picture on the wall: An apple tree drawn like only a child could. Root, branch and tree all visible above the grass, fruit ripening red, psychedelic-yellow sun smiling down from a bright blue sky. It’s the bin bag for that one, too, although I feel a pang of guilt; the kid obviously liked the picture, or at least their parents did.

I make a mental note to ask Ash why the family moved out, why they left that stuff here. Then I scrap the idea. I don’t think I want to know.

'The Super Collider' by J. B. Stone

The Super Collider was given its name for a few reasons. First was its lightweight appearance, the feather-tip grip when cupped in someone else’s palms, similar to those super bouncy rubber balls with the same name. The second, and perhaps the only reason Chase had his heart set on it: the feeling one has when they get their first lick. Chase still remembered how far he’s come in his sugar recovery. He’d stash his jawbreakers like a box full of stars underneath his bed, treating precious supplies like a withheld valley of constellations. Each concrete scrap of sugar turned his teeth into an alleyway of damaged bricks, his gums into walls of gushing blood, but he never cared. After weeks of weaning off from them, he told himself he needed one last big score. One last jawbreaker to end all jawbreakers. But, like any drug, having one last taste is a harder promise to keep than it is to make, and no substance out there can work such miracles. Regardless, Chase knew cold turkey wasn’t a healthy direction either. There was still more weaning to do. He grabs the tiny jawbreaker, tongues it to the roof of his mouth, balled so deeply, one might suspect a third drooped cheek flexed across the contours of his face. In the same way an agnostic tries to give praying a try when everything else fails, he says here goes nothing. He takes that first lick: hoping the faith in his own intuitions will defy the statistics.

'Helping the Words Go Down' by Emily Macdonald

“What are you doing love?” he asks. “Have you gone raving mad?”

I’m sat at the table, a napkin on my lap. I’ve laid a placemat, and a knife and fork though I’m eating with my fingers. I have a plate and a glass. I’m pleased to have remembered the large jug of water. I’ve refilled it twice already.

The table is littered with scraps of paper. A few torn from journals, mostly print outs from my laptop, some cut from magazines and one precious book pulled apart. I’ve placed handfuls of scraps into bowls as if they might be side dishes. I’m chewing on the words. The paper is not so bad if I suck it for long enough. It goes soft and pulpy, but the book covers are jawbreakers. I’m guessing this meal will take me some time. Even with the water.

“Love,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“I’m eating my words,” I say. “I promised myself. I told you, didn’t I? I said that man is disgraceful. He’ll never get voted in again. A man like that. A liar and a cheat. I said, the nation won’t stand for it and if I’m wrong, I’ll eat my words.”

My husband looks at me. He watches my chewing and my sipping from my glass.

He goes to the cupboard and pulls out jars of chutney, piccalilli, peanut butter, some jam. He places them on the table. He fills the kettle and prepares the T-pot. He lays a place opposite me.

“If I’m going to join you,” he says, “I need a good cup of Yorkshire. Nothing like a good cup of tea to help the words go down.”

NFFD 2022 Prompt #12: The Back Catalogue

The Back Catalogue

This is National Flash Fiction Day's eleventh anniversary, so this year, all our prompts have something to do with the number 11....

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To start us out, write a flash using at least three of the titles of the National Flash Fiction Day anthologies in your story.  Here they all are!

2012: Jawbreakers
2013: Scraps
2014: Eating My Words
2015: Landmarks
2016: A Box of Stars Beneath the Bed
2017: Sleep is a Beautiful Colour
2018: Ripening
2019: And We Pass Through
2020: Root, Branch, Tree
2021: Legerdemain
2022: And We Lived Happily Ever After

 

(If you're missing any of these from your collection, you can purchase print or electronic versions of these titles at the National Flash Fiction Day Bookshop.)

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 12: The Back Catalogue.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 19 June 2022 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.