I've dedicated the past two years to writing my novel and teaching creative writing. However, earlier this year, I entered the UK Bath Flash Fiction Competition, and I recently heard they will publish my story in their December anthology. I'm very excited!
Here it is. Swimming In Kerry Swan’s designer label boutique on the corner of Albert and Edmonds, she recycles clothes and rescues customers. To a background of too-cheerful music, Kerry swims between racks of outerwear, evening dresses, pants and jackets, pausing to rehang a floaty blue blouse carelessly dropped onto stacked sandals. A wiry customer, dressed head-to-toe in Lycra, holds a fuchsia-pink top against her flat chest. “Does this suit me?” Kerry plunges into the rail and retrieves a sleeveless offering in green. “I think this would be better. It brings out the colour of your eyes.” Beaming, the customer makes the swap and dives back into the fitting room. With a swish of a curtain, another woman in her mid-40s steps out of a cubicle and beckons Kerry over. “I’m not sure about the length. What do you think?” She tugs at the hem, which sits well above her knees. “Wait a sec,” Kerry says, submerging herself in the clothes rail to her left, only to surface moments later, triumphantly brandishing a burgundy wrap dress. “With your fabulous colouring, this would look stunning.” At five, Kerry does a final lap of the store before switching off the music. In the silence, memories of Sam surface. On her way home, she visits the public pool, strips off her garments, slips into her bathing suit and plunges in. She tears through the water, terrified of stopping for a moment to float. Terrified by the weight of her grief. If only this were the sea. The sea – where the salt water might hold her up.
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I'm so happy to see this poem find a home in The Quick Brown Dog Journal.
Thanks to Eloise Pengelly, Louise Lameko and Karen Clarke for putting together this little gem of a publication. My Life in Laundry In my garden stands a walnut tree—taller than the house. A scar from a branch long removed, looks like an eye —a black hole surrounded by an amber iris. Year after year, this walnut has watched my washing line. A sapling when I hung my pencil skirts and husband’s shirts, by the time my line fluttered with baby clothes, it had grown. Laundry marked my children’s seasons: dress-ups to dungarees, tutus to track pants, school shirts to work shirts. These days, with everyone long gone, my line hangs bare. Under the walnut, a carpet of blackened broken shells crunches beneath my arthritic feet like slow applause. I lean against the tree’s rough bark and search for the eye. Instead, I find pregnant buds about to burst, fresh green leaves, like hands playing peek-a-boo. Yet another spring for this walnut tree, while I remain in winter. I have at last found a home for my strange tale of cannibal fish. This is loosely based on my childhood. My brother kept pacu piranhas and started out with a dozen but ended up with one giant fish. No wonder it gave me nightmares! Read the Kai edition at www.flash-frontier.com/august2021kai/
Vicious Little bastards My brother fell in love with a species of Amazonian fish bought at our local aquarium. “Piranhas have pointy teeth,” he said, tapping his incisors with a fingernail. “But my pacus have straight ones just like us.” His large tank stood in the corner of his bedroom. At night, the thrum of the pump through our shared wall drove me crazy. Always a quirky kid, Paul preferred pets to people. Before pacus, he’d bred stick insects, which I hated even more than the fish. I was forever finding them wobbling on their skinny pins in the drawers or up the curtains. When Paul started high school, everything changed. He refused to tell us what was wrong. As the weeks rolled by, he complained of stomachaches, stole money from our parents, and became withdrawn. Near the end of the first term, the fish stopped jumping at night. I went into Paul’s room to investigate. There were no longer ten pacus. Now there was one gigantic fish—almost too big to turn. It stared at me and flashed its human-sized choppers. I pointed to the fish. “What happened? Where are the others?” He chucked his school bag down and flung himself on the bed. “The vicious little bastard has eaten them all. Why can’t I get away from bullies?” The pacu snapped its jaws. My writing career began in 2014 when I attended Christchurch's Hagley Writers' Institute. I enjoyed my year immensely and have remained friends with many of the students from the course.
Each year the Institute produces a publication called the Quick Brown Dog. The editors accept submissions from current and past students, and I have had work in a previous edition. In September 2020, my pieces, My Family in Fridge Magnets and Home Sweet Home were accepted. The publication looks wonderful and I was thrilled to read my fridge magnet piece at the book launch. I hope you enjoy my story. It is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons alive or dead is coincidental. My Family in Fridge Magnets Garish souvenir magnets compete for my attention whenever I reach inside the fridge for milk, cheese or leftover curry. The vintage-looking magnet of a housewife holding a mug of coffee catches my eye. It could be my sister. What if my family were fridge magnets? Perhaps my sister is this woman seated above the lipstick-red word Napier? No, she’d be the Leaning Tower of Pisa, clearly out of whack. I picked up that magnet from a gelato store in Italy. She sits to the right of the fridge handle and crashes to the ground whenever I slam the door. Just above my multi-coloured Disneyland magnet, is my workaholic brother. He’s a Dutch windmill surrounded by colourful tulips. I can feel his blustering breeze—turning, turning, always busy, unable to stop. I use him to keep my weekly planner in place. My mother is I💙NY—a direct statement: no room for disagreement. I often move her around the fridge door, always keeping her below eye level. What magnets would she create? A girl in a bikini--always wear sunblock! A pile of books--will you never learn? My Windsor Castle magnet is my father. Brass, in the shape of a tower, he’s not large, but I count ten blacked-out windows giving nothing away. By the shiny portcullis, dressed in red and wearing busbies, two guards stand on sentry duty. No one can get in or out. I use him to keep track of my overdue bills. A Scottish thistle, an Aboriginal boomerang, the storks of Alsace, Harry Potter World, a London bus, the Mona Lisa, which magnet am I? That depends on my mood. Today, I’m the boomerang. No matter how far I’m flung, I’m here, clinging to my messy fridge door. Stars photo: Denis Degioanni on Unsplash I have been a contributor to Flash Frontier since 2014. Back then, flash fiction wasn't as popular, and competition to have a piece accepted was less fierce. The team from Flash Frontier have done an incredible job at developing the site, which now has a world-wide audience. These days, having a piece selected is a thrill. My story 'Little Sparks' started life as a larger piece. I chopped it down for this issue and was pleased with how it came out. See what you think. To read the whole Matariki edition go to https://www.flash-frontier.com/july-2020-matariki/ Little Sparks
On Saturday evening at the couples’ retreat, Jack and I fled outside before the intimacy session began. “It’s such a clear night,” I said, “let’s go stargazing.” Jack flicked on his phone torch and strode two paces ahead. Our boots crunched on the gravel road. As I tightened my scarf, the smell of wood smoke and pine mingled with the scent of the damp earth. I called out, “Does the Southern Cross look upside down to you?” He stopped and tilted his head. “It is for part of the year. Did I ever tell you I once did an astronomy paper?” “No.” Who was this man? Jack walked back and put his arm around my shoulder. With his free hand, he pointed to a bright cluster. “See there? That’s Matariki. If we had a telescope, we’d find hundreds of stars in that group, not just seven.” How long had it been since he’d touched me like this? “Doesn’t the galaxy blow your mind?” he gushed. “We observe stars as they were thousands of years ago; it takes that long for their light to reach us. We don’t know,” he swept his hand across the sky, “how many of them are still alive.” I discovered glow-worms under a rocky outcrop on the way back. We crouched together, mesmerised by their gleaming sparks. Shuffling closer, I took his hand and gave it a squeeze. My short story 'The Question' was commended in the 2020 NZSA Page & Blackmore short story competition. You can read all the winners here:
http://www.topwriters.co.nz/2020-stories.html The Question Banks Peninsular, 2019 Where shall I go? I pull my ponytail tight as I stare across the glassy bay. How about over to that yacht; the one past the island? The weather report looks wrong again. So much for squally showers. That water’s as smooth as an oaky chardonnay. I walk down from my parents’ holiday cottage to the boat shed. Inside, the paddleboards rest against one wall. I drag out the one with the seat attachment. I like the stability of sitting. With all this uncertainty at work, the last thing I want is to be wobbling about on the water. I nip back to the shed to grab the life jacket and discover Mike still hasn’t returned it. I boot a stone off the path and curse my brother. Sod it—I’ll go anyway. After five days at work, my stiff body is craving exercise. Crunching down the pebbles to the water in bare feet hurts like hell, but what makes me swear is the icy shock when I wade in. Strands of black seaweed stick to my legs. I flick them off, then float the board and adjust the seat. As I sit, it wobbles. I change position and secure the ankle leash. Grabbing the paddle in both hands, I dig the blade into the water and push away from the shore. Overhead, a lone gull lets out a shrill cry. Can’t I even get some peace here? Wilson was pestering me all day about the job. Jen, I need your answer by Monday. What with Mum saying I’m too risk-averse, and Dad telling me Guangzhou’s too far away, what should I say? The water’s choppy. Two yellow buoys bob to my right; spray flecks my sunglasses. If it weren’t for the blue overalls hanging on that washing line, I’d swear nobody else was in the bay. Perhaps someone just forgot them—I haven’t seen another soul. I should have arrived earlier; the sun’s almost gone. Fucking Wilson! Did he need those stats today? As if he’s going to pore over them all weekend. Then again, he probably will, the sad loser. That yacht’s getting closer. I bet it’s someone’s dream. What on earth do I want? When I was a kid, I thought to be happy at my age all I’d need was a well-paid job, a husband, two kids and a dog. One out of five—fucking great. The wind knocks me sideways. I roll my shoulders, then pull harder on the blades to get back on course. Answer the question—do I want to take the job? Some risk-analyst I am. Why is this decision so difficult? Setting up the Guangzhou office would be a stretch, but why shouldn’t I do it? I shift on the board and chew my lip. My father’s voice echoes in my mind: Face it, you’d be in too deep. Would the Chinese even accept a woman in that spot? Now if Mike was offered the job. Why did Dad say that? Mike would be clueless. I look up. Black clouds are rolling in from the mouth of the harbour. Shit, maybe the forecast was right. I should head back but the yacht’s right there. I want to reach it. I put my head down and press on. When I hear the clicks from rigging hitting the mast, I look up again. It’s a tidy yacht. I like the colour—white with a thick turquoise line around the deck. Through the window, I can see a cereal bowl and dishcloth on the table. Did the owners leave in a hurry? I smile when I read the brass letters on the wooden plaque attached to the cabin: SERENITY. Out here it’s anything but serene. A wave rolls over my legs and then another smacks my board. In an instant, I’m off and under. The air rushes from my lungs. The water’s in my ears, nose, and my sunnies have gone. Fuck! Another wave slams me hard against the side of the yacht. Adrenaline shoots through me. I force myself up, gulping and thrashing. I tug on the leash and the paddleboard slams into me. I drag myself on to it. Standing, I stretch across and push away from the yacht’s hull. Shit, the paddle’s the wrong length now, but I’m not going to sit—if I do, I could end up back in the drink. The sky’s like a dark blanket sagging over the bay. Inside my head, I hear Mum’s voice: Jen’s the sensible one—she never takes risks. I shudder, gulp in air and paddle. It’s difficult to hold this course because it’s been a while since I paddle-boarded standing and the current’s driving me further out. With each stroke. I keep my eyes on the two yellow buoys in the distance. My teeth begin to chatter. I want to wipe the spray from my face. Why did I have to lose my sunglasses? I can’t afford to stop—the rain will be here at any moment. The houses along the shore are in darkness. I can just make out the white fence running along the bottom of my parent’s garden. It looks ridiculously far away. I pull harder and sharp jolts of pain shoot across my shoulders. I try a new position but can’t find relief. The hill behind the house is suddenly floodlit. Thunder rolls directly overhead. I flinch. My board wobbles and I’m swept further back. The hail feels like needles on my arms and shins. Why didn’t I put on my full-length wetsuit? I squeeze my eyes shut and put my head down. “Shit!” The sound of the waves slapping against the board drowns out my voice. I peek and catch another flash of lightning illuminating the shore. My legs feel like they’re burning. There’s a tingling in my arms. Please God, not a heart attack—don’t let me die out here. If this is the end, have I done everything I wanted? Why do I care so much what my parents think? Mike doesn’t. In my head, I beat time with each thrust—one-two, one-two. I keep paddling, staying with that rhythm until the fin under the board scrapes on shingle. I stumble off into the surf, but the leash jerks me back. I grab it and pull. Lurching, I drop the paddle. Waves suck it backwards. “Fuck!” I lunge and manage to retrieve it just in the nick of time. Panting and retching, I drag everything up the shore and drop to my knees. A sudden coughing fit forces me lower. Steadying myself, I take in a lungful of air. I brush seaweed strands off my legs and laugh. “Risk-averse, am I?” I whoop and punch the air. I have the answer. There are several things I'm missing under lock-down: catching up with friends, grabbing a bite to eat and generally being able to go where I please. Cooped up at home, we've managed to break our crockery at an alarming rate. I'll need a new set of dinner plates once I can shop again. With this in mind, I was thrilled to hear IKEA is coming to New Zealand. I can't wait. In fact, I wrote this tongue-in-cheek flash fiction in honour of the special place the store has in my heart.
IKEA, Perfect for Every Occasion Celebrating our 25th wedding anniversary in Melbourne’s IKEA, we really made a day of it. Breakfast, croissant (with ham and cheese) was a bargain at only $3. Lunch’s traditional meatballs were good value, and for dinner, we shared a sustainable salmon fillet with roasted vegetables and hollandaise sauce. “The plating up’s a work of art,” Jim said, forking a flake of the pink flesh, garnished with a sprig of dill, into my mouth. Between meals, we wandered through the room layouts and reminisced about the five kitchens we’d assembled during our marriage. “I’ll never forget that first flat-pack,” I said. “We lost the Allen key and you got cross. Do you remember?” Jim playfully nudged my elbow. “As if you’d let me forget!” After reading the information sheet for the EKESTAD cabinetry, I whispered, “Do you think anyone actually knows how to pronounce these product names?” “Nah. That’s why the BILLY bookcase was a best seller.” Our extended family and some close friends were waiting for us in the outdoor furniture section. Jim’s oldest sister presented us with a STOCKHOLM tray she’d had engraved with Happy 25th Wedding Anniversary. She explained stainless steel is more durable and easier to clean than silver. After the party, the kids explored the children’s bedroom displays. Molly announced it was time for her to upgrade from her bunk bed desk to a SLÄDT bed frame with under bed storage. I patted her on the head. The event at Turanga for National Flash Fiction Day on Saturday 22nd June went well. I read my winning South Island Writers flash, "Family Day Trip," and my long-listed micro-fiction, "My Father, the Accountant."
The standard this year was incredibly high. I was especially in awe of the junior winners' incredible stories. You can find the winning stories here. http://www.flash-frontier.com/nffd2019adult/ My Father, the Accountant Dad taught me insects have six legs, a human foot twenty-six bones, and it takes four minutes to boil the perfect egg. Every Sunday Dad went to church, sang three hymns, listened to a fifteen-minute sermon and partook of the body and blood along with the fifty-strong congregation. Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, he prayed for forgiveness. He woke twice a night, petrified. Back as an eighteen-year-old pilot in the bomber’s cockpit. Searchlights crisscrossing the sky. Tracer bullets whizzing past. Ear-splitting canon shells exploding above. The inferno called Dresden burning below. One hundred thousand souls lost. My story The Canadian Salmon has been included in the third anthology produced by Bath Flash fiction, 'things left and found by the side of the road.' It is a lovely wee book, I feel very privileged to have my story in it.
The Canadian Salmon Back home in Canada, bears are black or brown, not white. This polar bear in Tokyo Zoo is a ghost. In eerie aqua light, it swims circuits: down, across, up – down, across, up. I come to see him most days after work. There’s a large glass viewing window below ground. I press my face to its cool surface. Small bubbles of air float up from the bear’s long muzzle. His eyes are black ice, ears pinches of porcelain. He runs through the water, fur swaying like seaweed in the swell. Sometimes, and this is why I come, he halts by the glass where I’m standing, and reaches out a paw to me as if to say, I understand how you feel. Every morning I join the commuters: a Canadian salmon swimming amongst black suited minnows. My pink skin and fair hair attract attention. Unable to read the station signs, I feel as if I’m drowning. The same routine each day: coffee, emails, reports – coffee, emails, reports. When I practise my Japanese phrases by the water cooler – “Ogenki desu ka?” my tongue feels as large as the polar bear’s. My colleagues humour me, “Thank you. I well.” Today I missed my station. I gulped for air searching for the train back. I floundered all day: spilt my drink, missed a deadline, lost a file. I visit the zoo on my way home and press my hands against the glass. The bear swims towards me, for a moment our palms align. My salmon heart leaps. |
BioI am an author and artist. I enjoy writing short stories, flash fiction and am currently working on a Biblical Historical Romance series. Categories |