'They Said Not To Do It' by Sumitra Singam

 

But I’m doing it anyway and now there’s pee all over my hands and maybe since I have to wait five hundred years to see if it’s two lines or one, I can wash my hands and my God it takes a long time to sing three happy birthdays but also that’s only twenty-three seconds and I still have nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds to wait but what there’s a line! No it’s just the control line so that’s good the test will be valid but it also not because the IVF nurse specifically told me they’re inaccurate with fertility treatment, so wait for your blood test, but how am I supposed to wait ten whole days when for weeks it’s been daily trips to the clinic for bloods and scans and needles and creams and pessaries at twenty-two past four exactly in the morning and did you know the parking is seventy-five dollars for five minutes at that time? And all so that my psychopathic womb will stop just pretending to be a normal hospitable thing and actually become one in real life like one of those show homes with more throw pillows than sense and what the hell do they do with the throw pillows when they’re in bed asleep, put them on the floor? So wouldn’t you just not have them in the first place and it’s this thinking that’s got me into this situation in the first place so I’ll snap out of that completely unmaternal mindset and smile into my new throw-pillow-embracing self and holy watch what you wish for, Batman, there are two fucking lines on the pee test and what the hell am I meant to do with that, they told me not to do a fucking test and I did one anyway

'This Modern Life' by Suzanna Lundale

I guess I sneered at Liz one time too many about her whole Black Friday nonsense because suddenly I found myself shivering outside Oakhurst Shopping Mall at her side with my gut still bursting with turkey and gravy, mashed potatoes and pie, listening to her wax rhapsodic about the God-knew-how-many inch TV she wanted to snag at a limited price of 200 bucks if we could just get to the electronics department ahead of the rest, Liz laying out strategies about whether we should cut through Jewelry or no, what if we–but then the doors were open and the time for strategy past, we were just pushing forward, trying not to lose each other in the crush with my left ear ringing after it took a sharp elbow jab early on and two more blows by the time I hit Accessories which had me grabbing an umbrella for defense and slinging a backpack over one shoulder to shield my back though it didn't seem to be helping one desperate woman I saw on the floor crawling for the safety of one of those round clothing racks kids like to hide in to scare their mothers, a large bootprint in the center of her own backpack shield, so by the time I found Liz, bloodied and triumphantly guarding a slightly bigger TV than the one she came for - but it's only $400 more, Kim! - I felt like I'd been to war and could only grimace when Liz crowed, best Thanksgiving ever!

'When a woman falls in the street' by Catherine O’Brien

When a woman falls in the street, an obliging sky abandons its woes relating to writer’s block and supplies unsolicited tears because she’s not just someone who got trampled in a great metropolis, even though technically she is, because the impact caused her body to high five the ground, but it should also be noted that she’s gracious without the constant need for gentleness, has traversed incomparable continents of contentment but having said all that she’s no longer ‘Mum’ with her tough exterior feathers hiding a snuggly puffin in her handbag for her toddler who just turned two that the emergency worker will find and melt into hot, heavy tears as he holds it away from the carnage, because there’s so much blood and such little beauty, because it’s clear that she wasn’t made to be forgotten like a facsimile taken at face value, summarised in an evening paper with the blithe consideration of a detached mind that will never journalise anything remotely important like - what can be done to fecundate our souls with more understanding of a fellow human's inherent splendour? 

'Palette' by Wendy Newbury

 

Tell me in colors if you can’t say the words, I’m a mustard yellow, a sticky blotch of mess ‘round your white coffee cup; tell me here in this moment what you’d prefer, perhaps a splash of red and I will swirl the orange you’ve been after; tell me our love is no longer violet, deep afterglow sky, soft rain kissing windows, handwritten notes left by the kitchen sink; tell me you want an evergreen start, a redo, your beginning; tell me this is the end, that I’m now last season’s shades of Love in New York and you, Faded Love; tell me all the things that made me choose you, like when you said I’m your sunrise palette, your ocean blue and golden ray, white sea foam waves; tell me, tell me quick before it all turns grey.

'If My Dog Could Talk' by Tilly Greenland

 

Oh my god, hooman, I wuv you soooo much, you is my fav hooman, you bwing me fud and givs tickls an scritches and such and, oooooohhhhhhh, jus there, right there, that’s it hooman, you got it, ooooohhhh yeeeaaaahhhh, now fud, giv fud, wan fud, am starvd, you see dees bowanz, is mine bowanz, wan more bowanz, play now, hooman, play wid me, frowd bol, fetch bol, is your turn now, you fetch bol am tired, ned fud, am starvd, and more scritches, dis ma fwend , hooman, dey lik scritches too an fud, not my fud, nevr my fud, bad hooman, growl at hooman, Pippin no share fud with fwend, I run now, catch me hooman, I run fast an far away, can’t catch me hooman, am fastr dan you, Pippin can run vez fast, bye hooooommmaaaaannn, byeeeeeee.

'Runaways' by Suzanne Hicks

Someday we’ll take off, leaving our packed bags behind, and we won’t tell a soul where we’re going because maybe we won’t know either, but we’ll drive and drive, perhaps until we reach the ocean, and we’ll walk out in the sand holding hands, and no one will be there to witness us stripping off our clothes, our skin warm in the sunlight, cool water rushing over our toes, beckoning us to come closer, and I’ll look up to see the smile on your face before we disappear into the blue. 

'Holst In Ely Cathedral' by Sarah Oakes

We begin the third section, that trill promising wonders, and the brass launch into that melody that is faster than dreams, skipping up arpeggios and leaping octaves, Holst’s joy filling the space as they rumble like thunder, blossoming and booming as his grand sweeping passages fill the chapel with wonder and delight, and more majesty than faith, made for cathedrals. sweet on the ear and smooth on the tongue, and I lose myself in the music as it consumes me from head to toe, taking me to worlds where my failing sight doesn’t matter, for Holst’s pieces are made to be heard and felt more than seen, and as the drums roll and we build to that crescendo my breath catches as Holst takes us to the stars, and we soar up the spire, and into the great beyond, climbing higher and higher each time, and with a trill we let loose and fingers fly faster than lightning, faster than flying, faster than breath, as Holst takes us to galaxies where anything is possible, as we skip over his semiquavers and dance on crochets lighter than air and achieve the impossible, hardly daring to draw breath lest it break the spell, and I shudder in delight as that euphoric ecstasy fills my soul, music thrumming through heart and bone, and as the piece draws to a close we descend back to earth, I feel the lightning course through me, that adrenaline that tingles and buzzes, that feeling of being electric and alive, that feeling like I could do anything, happy and whole, and as the final chord erupts, and applause follows, the chapel resounds, with an echo that lingers, through memory, and time, and I wish we could do it again. 

'The Shining' by Kate Axeford

After her mum quit, the city got banished by window grime until today, when soddened by vodka and mildewed by tears, she spots her last chance through both shiners he gave her and possessed now by his spirits, she creeps up on that horror snoring, slaughtered, on the sofa, filches his keys, and un-turns his locks – like a ghost, she slips out, takes the lift down to greet the daylight, and leaves all her demons behind, but she can’t resist stealing one last look at the tower block and is struck by that pane: how lonely, from the inside – yet today, it dazzles defiant in the final flames of a setting sun.

'Nightingales' by Jeremy Boyce

 Still Sunday sunrise quiet no noise then rainfall tapping dry leaves tiles and soaking the parched tarmac rhythm of birdsong through closed windows pigeons and turtle doves keeping the beat endless nightingale solos and other virtuosos calling out windows open to white stones sloping down to lush green hedge bulging out and up leaves lifted dog bark distant football cries man on your back spring iris springing up and leaning down outwardly searching for light avian orchestra always on song with rhythms and solos beats never missed and no bum notes rising above no-leaf trees carry white bunch flowers upwards to blue sky white clouds abundant and bouncing gently on thin twig hangers in swaying breeze spreading their thick smell perfume in all directions nightingale solos over carswoosh passing updownwards on steep road, black wet tarmac engine grind gear change sometimes nightingale solos through wind tree rustle and rattle hidden by abundant flower bunches swaying buzzing with bees and heavy smell perfume drip drop leaves around about drumming last night’s rain heard but not seen under deep sleep duvet shutters and knees drawn up still Sunday quiet and wet stone smells after the dripping drops downward splashing nightingale solos and tasty lunch coming on tasteful terrace white stones sloping to bulging hedge and wet black tarmac below ding-dong bells pigeon beat rhythms suddenly started and flying above dogs bark and distant football cries goals achieved chiming the time to kneel up and down on dirty ground pew cushions eyes raised to blue sky clouds and endless nightingale solos well hidden in the leafless flower bunch trees perfume swaying and sweeping in the still Sunday quiet breeze ding-dong bells and beat combo pigeons nightingale solos kneeling down and up in hope and faith

'Looking for Tigers' by Melissa Flores Anderson

 

My sister wants to see the tigers so even though we are all tired and cranky, we are walking through this bamboo forest, up a steep incline and I watch my son skip up ahead right by the sleeping tiger in the exhibit and I see him running to catch up to my sister who he used to call Auntie Auntie when he was a baby and I yell through the crowd “Not so fast, stay with Auntie” and her purple jacket turns a corner out of sight as she moves up the hill to the next exhibit and then when I round the corner I see her stopped with her foot up on a stump tying her shoe and I say, “Where is Lucas?” and she says “He’s not with me” and we all stop and look around and he’s not there, and panic roars through my veins and my jaw clenches as I freeze in fear that my 5-year-old is missing and I head back down toward the tiger cage while my husband and sister move forward up the hill and it’s only been minutes but minutes is enough for horrible things to happen and what if we can’t find him and what if he’s scared and my eyes scan every 4-foot-tall child in view for a bright blue sweater brown hair but there isn’t one that looks like my baby and then my husband walks into view holding the small hand we’ve been holding for almost six years now and my son has a pout on his face so at least I know he wasn’t scared, he’s just mad that he has to hold our hand now for the rest of the day.

' Into the Womb of Air' by Candice Kelsey

 

The wind is the better lover and the better mother that’s right

I said the wind is the one who softens into a breeze when it’s tenderness you need the wind is the better lover and the better mother when it caresses the back of your neck and whispers  affirmations like you’ve never heard before the wind will let you know it’s present without fanfare or love-bombing or fear obligation and guilt the opposite of a covert narcissist husband             or borderline personality

 mother the wind can sway the lines                                                          into an ovation in bark-needle praise of                                                                     private victories and occasionally                                                                  pick up its step to rattle this world from                                                                                 sleep like  a 

fucking good lover                                                                                           like your fantasy mother to remind you that                                   your living body your very body you’ve been taught                                          to hate the thighs and belly and arms 

your mother                                                     marked with pen measure twice cut once so you could imagine taking up less space slicing away the heavy flesh that body must be celebrated before it’s swept away into the molecules that body must expand and rise to become the byproduct of the sun a child of uneven topography wind is the planet’s lover eternal my mother ideal so I turn my face     into it.

'The Man at the Window' by Shilpa Gupte

 

He hides behind the curtains, peeping through the slits, checking my window to see if I am there; some nights, he stands by my window humming along to the songs playing on my radio as I lie in bed (my son said we live on the eighth floor and one can not climb that high so I need not worry, but…), and sometimes, he follows me as I walk to the fish market to buy fresh fish to fry and eat with rice for lunch; his long, ghostly shadow, his Kolhapuri chappals that creak with every step, the smell of his cigarette with its spirals of smoke hound me; I buy quickly–without haggling–and hurry home because I am scared he will try and hold my hand or touch my pallu without any regard for my grey hair or the sindoor I apply in the parting–I started applying the vermillion powder after my husband passed away (”we women have to fend for ourselves, you know!” I told my neighbour when she pointed out it’s against the custom for widows to do so) oh, this man, as old as my son, ogling, whistling when no one’s around, peeping through the curtains when I change my saree, and…and unbuttoning his shirt, like he did that day when I wore my favourite pink saree, no, the blue saree..uh, I forget, but I know his leering eyes follow me everywhere I go, even to the washroom…I know and the woman in the mirror also knows because she sees him, too…but someday, when my son isn’t home, I’ll confront him and give him a piece of my mind…someday…

'Behind a Royal Blue Door' by Maria Thomas

we walk down corridors, grey lino deadening our feet, grey walls deadening our thoughts, past royal-blue door after royal-blue door, empty vending machines yawning as we walk down corridors, through electric doors, past rows of royal-blue chairs, past rows of royal-blue chairs, past posters that shout GIVE BLOOD, STOP SMOKING, LOSE WEIGHT, we walk down corridors, down corridors to a royal-blue door with a royal-blue plaque that reads Mrs Susan Walker, Consultant Neurosurgeon, and we walk through this royal-blue door, where the sympathetic silence is lit by the lightbox glow, where Mrs Susan Walker, Consultant Neurosurgeon, waits antiseptically to tell us there is nothing else to do, nowhere left to walk, and we say nothing, we have nothing left to say

'Waiting Room' by Martha Lane

Staring at scuffed tiles, still stinking of hand gel and sweat and whatever excuse for food they’d hidden under that yellowing plastic cloche, after you’ve looked into her eyes and you only saw clouds where there used to be sun, used to be sapphires, and all those other clichés you tutted at on Sunday evenings when she made you watch rom-coms on your sagging sofa because the two of you could never agree on what colour the new one should be, you spot a copper coin. Scrolling, you realise you aren’t the first to search if wishing wells really work.

NFFD 2023 Prompt #11: Just a Moment...

 

 Just a Moment....

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2023 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of time.  Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from now until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Sunday, 25 June 2023....

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Write a 'breathless paragraph' flash where the whole story takes place in just one moment.  This could be right before, right after, or right as something happens.  It's fine to allude to things that have happened or will happen, but the story itself must take place in the moment.  

A 'breathless paragraph' is a flash that is written in one paragraph.  It often is written as one big, long run-on sentence, or with no punctuation at all.

 

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 11: Just a Moment....

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 25 June 2023 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 2 July 2023 by going to the here (hosted by the NFFD website).