Flash Fiction Competition 2024 Winners

I'm Sorry

Every question I am faced with is thought through and calculated. Questions, big or small, completely consume my mind, causing everything else to blur. I spend minutes - sometimes hours - on things others could answer in seconds. People think it’s stupid, but how does one simply decide with the endless outcomes and factors? There is no question I can’t think through and find an answer for… Except maybe this one

My overthinking came in handy during school. It helped me to do well on my tests, think through my answers, and make them accurate and precise. My teachers never really knew me, they didn’t have the time but part of me thinks they just didn’t want to know. They knew I got my work done, they didn’t care to know anymore. My overthinking didn’t help me make friends, but it came in handy when my family was falling apart. It helped me to know when to stay quiet and when to not get in Dad’s way when he was in one of his moods. It taught me to be diligent when taking care of my siblings while mum left for days on end; dad was there, not mentally.

Perhaps some questions don’t have an exact answer. I look at my options. I won’t be missed. I’ve only ever been a nobody, when I wasn’t a nobody, an inconvenience. I weigh the pros and cons. There aren’t many pros, but maybe one con–one big con… My siblings will be okay, I know they will. They can take care of each other. Deep down I know what I must do, and for the first time in my life, I can’t rely on my overthinking, I just have to do it. I write a note and leave it on my bed. ‘I’m sorry’.

Summer Shenanigans

The summer air churned with the salt of the harbour, creating a sticky humidity. The Car Ferry hummed along and the queue of cars never extended more than four due to the holidays being weeks away. Two siblings' with cheeks flushed from the heat had become restless. Spurred by the heat they grabbed their water guns and turned on each other. The children raced around their house until dizzy. But they soon desired something more thrilling. Believing themselves to be evil geniuses and that their childhood innocence would protect them from any severe punishment, they formed a plan.

With full water guns, the children started to climb the small hill that the ferry lane curved around. Sitting atop this hill they could look down and see the fourth car in the que. The children aimed and fired. As the water splashed across the car's windscreen the children knew this was the thrill they had been looking for. The driver of the car, confused at the sudden assault of water that was contrary to the weather, poked their head out of their window. Upon seeing the children with their guns still cocked the driver laughed and wound up their window.

The children continued with their endeavour until the glistening trophy of the day arose, a golden car. The children smiled with delight and fired upon the car. As soon as the man stepped out of the car the children knew this was not going to be like any other encounter. The man's face was twisted with rage, puffy and red from the humidity. Without processing the words the man shouted, the children ran off up the hill, knowing beyond doubt that this was the monster the stories always talked about. By the time the children came home they were bursting with laughter.

Whispers in the Walls

"This old place has been abandoned for ages," Tom whispered.

"I heard it's haunted," Alex responded excitedly. The mansion loomed before them, shrouded in ivy. The old wooden door creaked open with a groan, dust danced in the moonlit beams piercing through the grimy windows.

Tom took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. "Let's go," he said, leading the way up the staircase, the dust thickening with each step.

Suddenly, an invisible force slammed into Alex, sending him hurtling backward. He tumbled down the stairs, each step a silent witness to his terrifying descent. His screams filled the mansion.

Tom froze in horror, watching his friend fall. He heard the sickening thud, followed by a chilling silence. The flashlight trembled in his hand, casting shadows on the walls.

With a jolt of adrenaline, Tom fled. Sprinting down the hallway, echoes of his panicked breaths and footsteps taunting him. Their once thrilling adventure had turned into a nightmare.

An unseen hand reached out and grabbed his arm, sending jolts of terror through his body. Spinning around, his flashlight beam flitting wildly across the wallpaper. There was nothing there. The grip tightened. The spirits of the mansion had come for him.

Tom tried to pull away, but the invisible force was strong. He stumbled backward, the flashlight rolling away into the darkness. The coldness seeped into his bones, a stark contrast to the warmth of his panic-induced sweat.

The grip grew tighter, the numbness spreading through his body, making it hard to move. His legs felt like lead. The mansion was alive, and it was hungry for more than just their curiosity.

Tom's body goes numb, darkness enveloped his vision. In his final moments, Tom heard the sinister laughter of the mansion's spirits, laughing at his demise.

Fresh Lavender

Evelyn and I had shared a bond that time could not erase. We laughed together, cried together, and promised each other that no matter what, we would always find a way back to each other. Unfortunately, life had other plans, and Evelyn succumbed to an illness that stole her away from this world too soon.

Before her passing, she had made me promise to visit a particular place - a charming bed and on the outskirts of the town where she had found solace in her final days. As I pulled into the gravel driveway, memories of our laughter and shared stories overwhelmed me. The quaint Inn stood there, frozen in time, surrounded by a garden of colourful flowers.

As evening fell, I found myself in the garden, surrounded by the soft glow of fireflies. I gazed at the stars, lost in my thoughts, when I heard a familiar laughter. My heart skipped a beat as I turned around to see Evelyn standing there, just as I remembered her - vibrant and full of life.

Tears streamed down my face as I rushed towards her, embracing her in a hug that transcended the boundaries between this world and the next. Evelyn smiled; her eyes filled with the same warmth I remember. “I missed you too, but I had to make sure you kept your promise. And here you are.”

We spent the night reminiscing about the moments we had shared, the laughter and the tears. The weight in my heart lifted, replaced by a profound sense of gratitude. I left the town with a heart full of love and a renewed sense of connection – a promise kept, a friend remembered, and a journey of healing that transcended the boundaries of life and death.

Opioid Fire

I sat in my bed, holding a small lime container in shaky hands. The words ‘OPIOID - Keep out of reach of children’ were printed on a sterile white label, now smudged with my sweaty fingerprints. I tipped the container.

A small round pill fell in my hand. I stared at it, then looked back at the container, turning it to read the back label which clearly stated, ‘for extreme pain only’. I swallowed it, excusing myself for the selfish act done in the name of ‘escape’ with the words, ‘depression counts as extreme pain too’. I was curled up tight when I started to feel… different… abnormally distant from reality. This sensation grew in waves that swept my body with warmth. Yet this warmth didn’t feel like a hug, no… it felt like embers. And embers, they only need a breath of air to ignite a wildfire. I could feel this fire catching. I crawled out of bed, trying to stumble to the bathtub. I needed to cool off. But I was anchored to the floor by my bomb-like head that set off high pitched ringing and my blood, coursing violently in bass-like thumps upon contact with the ground. I rolled over to stare at the ceiling. I was burning, yet my breathing was slowing. The fire was killing me.

As I lay charred, booming laughs began. So weak from the fire, I couldn’t decipher their origin - internal or external, human or animal, real or manifestation - but I knew I was their entertainment. I bashed my head trying to flush out the noise, yet this was fire, not water. I could only cry to put out these flames. I could only give up.

There, in the centre of a wildfire, I realised it was my wildfire.

I Found My Father in My Mother’s 1950s Handbag

The lawyer said, ‘Here, she willed this to you,’ and handed it over as if it were something left behind in a cheap motel.

I knew it instantly. Old-lady-cream faux leather, still carrying the scent of Youth Dew even after thirty years. ‘A spicy amber scent,’ she sniffed. ‘Cloying and overpowering, like you,’ I yelled, slamming the door and leaving the house on my eighteenth birthday.

‘Nothing else?’ I asked the lawyer, wishing I would shut the hell up because, of course, she wouldn’t have left me anything valuable or sentimental - just a ratty handbag she carried everywhere, thinking she was Queen Elizabeth.

He tapped a pen on his desk and shook his head, jowls wobbling like a basset hound’s.

Damn her.

***

I sit on a bench in the cemetery, dead leaves and a glossy-eyed magpie with a broken wing at my feet. ‘Go on, look inside,’ I could have sworn I heard the bird mutter.

A click of the gold clasp. The bag falls open. Our last awkward conversation flaps out like a frightened bird. Why won’t you tell me? Because knowing will change everything between us.

Contents:

/ a bullet-shaped lipstick. A hot pink shade that would have shot him through the heart.

/ a crisp, monogrammed cotton hankie. To dab the acidity from the corner of her mouth.

/ a mirror and comb set. The speckled mirrored surface showing me the infinite possibilities of what could have been.

/ a photograph, faded, Icelandic blue eyes.

/ a letter addressed to me in her slanting scrawl.

/ his name on my tongue . . .

Bless her

The Blue Heron

It was almost high tide.

The blue heron had been waiting on the rock since dawn. Her long legs ached, and she was hungry.

On the cusp of winter, the sea offered slim pickings that were quickly snatched up in the beaks of scavenging gulls. Hunting had become more difficult.

Inland, the little pacific rat, kiore, were much harder to find, and field-mice more cunning with the realization that their predator’s eyesight was failing.

Sometimes, when she flew in early enough, she’d find stringy remains of oysters still clinging to smashed open shells, and fish frames with eyeless heads snared among the swirling seaweed. She’d pick them all clean.

Whenever the old woman came, she brought food; crusty bread, fruit, other things that smelled sweet, and different kinds of bait.

The heron would watch keenly as she set everything out, baited and cast out her fishing line, prepared her own food. It waited excitedly for those delicious bits of crust to be tossed. Together, the two ageing hungry creatures, would eat.

This morning felt different.

There were no divine offerings. Just black booboo’s with their creamy-green cat’s-eyed doors pulled tightly shut, and brown-shelled limpets suckered firmly down. Lifting her long beak high, she inhaled, eager for the scent of the old woman.

Her whānau gathered early that morning, squeezing into the front room of the house where she lay, wailing and crying, splashing tears down onto cold cheeks as they bent to kiss their beloved kuia farewell.

They carried her coffin up the fern strewn path to the urupa on the hill that overlooked the rock below.

The blue heron sensing something, turned in the direction of the hill, then standing at full height, spread its wings wide and let out a long and mournful cry.

Mind Your Head

The Hātea River looked like a giant fish with golden scales at sunrise. Joey stepped onto the rock wall, stretched, and yawned. He spotted a tobacco nugget on the grass nearby. He sniffed the stale butt then stuffed it inside his flannelette shirt pocket. A bicycle dinged as a warning to those taking up too much space on the path (in this country, in this world). Te Matau a Pohe stretched her arms over a boat motoring out to sea.

When the Hātea’s golden scales turned muddy, Joey returned to Te Matau a Pohe’s armpits. He felt safe under her wings: he could hide his madness there, away from the bank manager who took his house, away from the townspeople who poked and stared at him, away from society’s laws and the foreign language of bureaucracy. The bridge was a safe nest for him to brood in.

Someone had upset his trolley. His cactus was a spiky splat. His books looked like fallen dead birds. Someone - dead or alive - had taken over his tarp bed. Joey turned towards Te Matau a Pohe and shouted, Traitor! Liar! Cheater! In response, she twinkled against the cerulean sky, yawned, and stretched her arms once again over a passing boat before nuzzling her wings back down.

Everything is temporary, he reminded himself.

Joey tipped the trolley upright, pushing his meagre belongings in it, minus the tarp.

He noticed a new sign nailed to the bridge: Mind Your Head.

I will if you will, Joey muttered. He laughed, pulled out his stale cigarette butt and gave it a good whiff. Then he wheeled his trolley away along the path looking for a space of his own.

The Hātea lapped her tail at the tide wall. Her golden glint returned in the setting sun.

Absence, An Unflocking of Human Hearts

Alone.

She wakes startled. Rain pummels the roof. The lean cry of the curlew brushes against the hot night air. She throws her arm across the empty side of the bed. Remembers.

Once there was a man who loved birds, who knew birds. He loved to watch, to listen, to be enthralled by their vivid beauties. And he loved her.

Another bird is calling now. An alien bird she doesn’t recognise. She imagines it’s lost its mate.

Puts her hands over her ears. Feels the wetness of tears at the base of her sweaty palms. Longs to be comforted and held.

In that other life she was held, cherished, knew who she was. She slept through the night. Made toast and marmalade and milky coffee for breakfast, sang in the shower. She learned the names of all the strange birds, knew the particular whistles that drew them close.

The storm is rising. Maybe it’s always stormy in this strange new country. She pads to the screen door. Feels the forces of far off winds straining the tree tops. Torrential rain twinning her sobs.

Stands under cover. Purses her lips in that long forgotten shape. Nothing comes out.

Two curlew shelter close. Shuffle together. Huge eyes, sharp beaks. One of them meets her teary glance. She nods. Lifts her face to the rain. A slight sigh edges out at the end of her breath. The curlews flap and stutter under the awning. The rain eases and they’re off again.

Together.

Here to Stay

“Don’t be afraid to mourn,” her therapist told her. It was her fourth or fifth miscarriage - she had lost count – and the signs had become so familiar that she could anticipate them; a splatter, a pang, and there it went, blotted out like a midge smudged between thumb and index finger.

But she was getting married, and friends and relatives, even her fiancée, said it was unhealthy and morbid to dwell on death, if you could call it that, so she launched herself into the minutiae of wedding preparations to assure them she was embracing the life that was still to come.

Yet she felt a troubling sensation that only grew, latching greedily onto her. Why, after all, should her loss be a clandestine affair? In other countries, she had read, people engaged in collective grief, even outsourcing their grief to hired strangers who pounded their fists and tore out their hair, wailing at the coffin for hours, sometimes days on end. “Don’t be afraid to mourn,” he had said.

The day of the wedding was splendid. The happy couple exchanged vows and rings and kisses amid a flurry of cheers and applause; drinks were abundantly poured. As dusk fell, guests made their way into the reception hall to their designated tables, only to find that they weren’t alone.

At each table sat a large cardboard cutout of at least one deceased family member belonging to someone at the table - a husband or wife, parent or grandparent, perhaps the rare child or adolescent unjustly struck down in the prime of life. Written across their chests were the words

“We are never truly gone.”

There was stunned silence for a moment followed by frenzied whispering until, finally, the intermittent gasps and sobs of a collective wail punctuated the air.

The Wishing Well

The builder stood up and stretched as she brought two mugs of tea into the garden.

“Finished!” He brushed dirt off his knees. “I hope you like it?”

“It is perfect!” she exclaimed and looked at the wishing-well.

“It looks exactly like when I lived here with my grandparents - the little shingled roof, the bucket and the crank. So cute!” She beamed as she handed him a mug.

“My grandfather always told me it was a magic well. He said that if I whispered my problems into my hands, I could throw them in the well and they would go away.

Sometimes it is actually true!” She laughed.

“You live here alone?” the builder asked, sipping his tea.

“Yes, I do now. Just me and the girls.” Her heart swelled as she looked at the two little girls in summer dresses and sunbonnets, busy with their snacks and drinks on the lawn.

“I’m so glad to have it filled in. It is much safer for them now.”

“Well,” He put his empty mug down. “I’d better leave you to it. Thanks for the tea.”

After he left, she loaded the wheelbarrow with potting mix, compost, pots of red and white petunias and hanging blue lobelias. It would look great!

She struggled to lift the heavy bags from the wheelbarrow onto the wishing well’s stone base. She couldn’t remember how many times her arms and ribs had been broken, and the latest black bruises still stood out.

Before she emptied the first bag of compost, she looked at the sand that now filled the well - and then she spat on it.

“You should not have threatened my children, you bastard,” she said as she emptied the first bag.

Silent Bamboo Scrolls

In ancient times, before paper was invented, history was recorded on bamboo scrolls in China.

A long time ago, in the Middle Kingdom, an evil emperor ordered all critical bamboo scrolls to be burnt and imposed severe reprisals for any insurrection. Rice fields dried, markets closed, and Xi Que (喜鹊), the joy birds, stopped singing their happy songs up and down the kingdom.

Shu, a young scholar, believed it was her duty to force the emperor to change the policy. She cut bamboo strips and bound them together. With a blank scroll hidden beneath her long dress, she said a brief goodbye to her family and disappeared into the dark night.

Shu reached the emperor’s Palace at sunrise, blisters covering her heels. Focusing her gaze on the giant moon gate, she unrolled her blank bamboo scroll and raised it above her head, like the legendary Yi holding his bow and arrow, ready to shoot down nine wicked sun gods to stop them from scorching the earth to ashes.

In hushed tones, a flock of Xi Que rushed to greet Shu like she was next of kin.

At sunset, wave after wave of people, each holding a blank bamboo scroll, followed the fluttering Xi Que until a great throng stood behind Shu. Together, they neared the Palace like an approaching tsunami. Facing this silent mass, since the scrolls they bore held not a single character, the emperor had no choice but to yield; the message was clear. Scrolls burning ceased, families returned to their land, and markets re-opened.

Shu and her people danced on the blank scrolls. Wherever their feet touched, calligraphy appeared, telling the story of their time.

In 2022, a female student started the White Paper Movement, forcing the Government to terminate a politically motivated lockdown.