Flash Fiction: Into the Sun

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Cara goes by bicycle to the village shop. The sky is polished blue.
As I lie down with Peter in the grassy hollow I imagine Cara peddling home, into the sun.
Time slows: minutes become hours
Peter turns towards me.
Hours become days
I think of Cara squinting, stopping.
Days become weeks
Peter leans forward.
Weeks become months
I picture Cara pushing the bicycle, head bowed.
Months become years
One first kiss, and a shadow falls. We shade our eyes, look up. Cara, her face dark under her hat, frowns.

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This is a Friday Fictioneers story: a 100-word piece inspired by the picture (this week provided by Sandra Crook). Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to read other people’s stories, or here to join in.

I’d love to know what you think – constructive criticism gratefully received – leave a comment below.

 

Flash Fiction: Third Person

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In books there’s always the drunk one. And the hesitant one. And the sober, sensible one – the person warning about the lake’s depth, the submerged dangers and the weeds to get tangled in. I should have been that person when we went down to the water in the dark, but instead we three were all the first kind. Giggling, we pulled off our clothes, plunged in, screaming at the cold.

A full five minutes of laughing and splashing went by before we missed him.

‘Peter!’ We tread water. ‘Stop messing around!’

In the blink of an eye we became the third person.

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Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this weekly 100-word Friday Fictioneers writing event. Join in. Read other people’s. The picture this week is supplied by Erin Leary.

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Another competition to win BOOKS. But this time not only Our Endless Numbered Days, but also books by Kazuo Ishiguro, Yann Martel, Kate Atkinson, Danielle McLaughlin, Julian Barnes and others. Click to enter.

Flash fiction: The Sable Stole

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‘My Aunt – my mother’s sister – had a sable stole.’
‘Stole?’ Cara frowned.
‘A collar, a scarf, made from real fur,’ I said. ‘Once, I came home early and it was draped over the back of a kitchen chair. I was reaching out towards it when she came down the stairs, my father following her.’
Cara raised her eyebrows.
‘She said I could stroke it and touch the tiny paws if I said nothing to my mother.’
‘And did you?’ Cara asked.
‘Touch it, or say something?’ I sighed. ‘She left me the stole in her will. I watched it burn.’

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The name of this house took me in a less than obvious direction this week for my 100-word Friday Fictioneers story. Join in. Read other people’s. The picture this week is supplied by Ceayr.

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Author and book-blogger, Jen Campbell is doing a worldwide competition to win one of five copies of my book, Our Endless Numbered Days, or Sweet Home by Carys Bray. Click here to enter.

Flash Fiction: When They Were New

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The harpsichord had woodworm, much of the ivory was gone and one broken leg was jacked up on bricks. Peter flicked out his coat tails, eaten into fine lace by moths, and sat.

Dressed in ragged petticoats and crinoline, Cara curtsied low and I took her hand, kissed it. As we danced I thought of those who’d played and danced before us; the people who’d worn these clothes when they were new. And as if from above I saw Peter sitting and us cavorting on the dusty floorboards, fading and turning, turning and fading until we too disappeared into time.

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A Friday Fictioneers 100-word flash fiction inspired by the picture above, provided this week by Jan W. Fields. Click here to join in and write your own, or here to read other people’s.

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If you live near Bath, England, you might like to know that Our Endless Numbered Days has been selected as The Big Bath read by the Bath Literature Festival. You can get a free copy of the book, read it and come along to open book clubs, and a couple of events I’m speaking at. More information.

 

Flash fiction: E45 to J17

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Richie yawned. Pounding head, furry tongue, woolly brain; he’d rather be sleeping. He drove the sweeper out of the depot. He didn’t like today’s route – too many parked cars, but he could do it with his eyes closed, almost.

Fragments of the previous night came back: the club, the dancing…that girl. That girl! He’d been sure she was up for it. He’d spent a fortune on drinks, then when they were on the street she’d changed her mind. Silly cow.

At E48 the machine swept up an object and stopped. Richie sighed and climbed out. Odd, he thought. Right by last night’s club.

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This is a 100-word story for the Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click here to read some more inspired by the picture (this week provided by Ceayr) or here to join in and write your own.

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This week I’m a NaNoWrimo Coach, and taking over the organisation’s Twitter account. So if you’re writing 50,000 words in November, search for #NaNoCoach on Twitter, and come and ask me a question.

Flash fiction: One or Two Words

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Yesterday I only said two words: ‘Oneway,’ and ‘thankyou’. Or maybe ‘Oneway’ is two words, so it could be I said three; never was no good at grammar.

This morning on the bus, all the double seats already had people in them, and every one of them people stared out the window as I squeezed past, so as not to catch my eye. I chose an older lady, reminded me of Ma; kind looking. She weren’t though. Huffed and twitched when my leg touched hers, accidental like. Those seats never are big enough.

Only one word today: ‘Sorry.’

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Congratulations to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for her three year anniversary in leading all us writers around the world in the Friday Fictioneers writing challenge. (Write a 100 word story inspired by a weekly photo, this week supplied by Ron Pruitt.) Click here to join in or here to read others.

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For anyone who’s written a first draft of a novel you might be interested in my blog post about how to revise it – written in conjunction with another writing group I’m in – The Prime Writers.

Flash fiction: The Choice

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In a hand-me-down swimming suit – sailor collar and bloomers – Alice sat atop the rock.  Charlie, Harry and Jack dived, their one-piece costumes sagging when they strode out of the water. Alice looked away. She watched them race each other on the sand and play tug-of-war with a chain. They demanded she select a winner, but there was nothing to choose between them: young, handsome men, full of life. She would have said yes to whoever asked first.

Two weeks later they were called up. Alice heard they didn’t even make it across the channel.

She should have kissed them all.

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This is a Friday Fictioneers story. 100 (or so) writers writing 100 words (or so) inspired by the top picture.

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Vote for Our Endless Numbered Days! The Reading Agency is holding a fun poll to see who readers think should win The Desmond Elliott Prize. Click here to vote for one of the shortlisted novels, including mine.

Flash Fiction: The Necklace

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The necklace had lived in the velvet box on her Grandmother’s dressing table for as long as Rose could remember. After the funeral her mother lifted it out, the diamonds uncurling languidly, as if she were waking them from a heavy sleep.

‘She wanted you to have it.’ In the dressing-table mirror her mother smiled, eyes filling with tears.

‘I never saw her wear it.’ Rose touched the jewels at her throat.

‘That’s because it wasn’t hers. It was your Grandfather’s.’ Her mother paused. ‘And the sequined dresses, the high heels, the lipstick.’ She smiled again. ‘They loved each other so very much.’

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This is a 100-word story written as part of the Friday Fictioneers online writing group, run by the wonderful Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Every week many writers around the world write a story inspired by a picture (this week supplied by SantoshWriter). Click here to join in or read other people’s.

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Delighted to let you know that my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days, has just been shortlisted for The Desmond Elliott Prize for debut fiction. More information.

Flash Fiction: A Bucket of Ice

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This week for Friday Fictioneers (the 100-word flash fiction group) we have something slightly different. Because our trusty leader, Rochelle, is busy getting her books published, we’re revisiting a photo prompt from July 2012. Then I was right in the middle of writing my first novel without any idea that it would one day actually be published by Penguin and several other publishers around the world. I used many of these picture prompts to write scenes, some of which actually made it in (although slightly altered) and this was one of them.

So firstly, here is the original flash fiction piece I wrote inspired by the photo above in July 2012:

“A winter like this I have not known since I was a child in Germany,” said my mother, her mouth still full of z’s and v’s even after all these years. She shivered and took her gin and tonic back inside.

Oskar rapped his knuckles on the thick ice that had risen like a soufflé out of the garden bucket. Its tap dripped an icicle.

“Would you like some ice with that madam?” he laughed. Oskar turned the handle, twisting hard; his mouth twisting too with the effort. The tap snapped off.

I cried – for the cold, for the homesickness, but mostly for the waste of a bucket.

 

And here is the scene that made it into the book:

Oskar rapped his knuckles on the thick ice which had risen like a soufflé out of a bucket hanging on a nail beside the back door. I recognized it; it was the bucket my father and I had used, with a tap attached to the bottom so we could brush our teeth with running water. In the frozen garden the tap dripped an icicle.

‘Would madam like something to drink?’ Oskar laughed and turned the handle, twisting it hard; his mouth twisting too, with the effort. The tap snapped off. And for the first time since I had come home I cried – for the music, for Reuben, but most of all for the waste of bucket.

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To write your own 100-word piece click here, or to read other people’s click here. The picture this week was supplied by Madison Woods.

And I’m excited to let you know that Our Endless Numbered Days has just been released as audio book. You can buy it at Audible.com or Audible.co.uk

Flash fiction: Dogged

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Halfway home I turn and see him.

‘Shoo,’ I say, stamping my foot. ‘Don’t follow me, dog.’ Something in the way he looks at me squeezes my insides, loosens my bowels. I turn and walk fast, breaking into a trot, but can’t resist looking back; he’s still there, keeping pace, mouth closed, ears up, relentless. The day is hot, but my blood is cold. I stop and pick up a stone from the path, throw it. When it bounces off the dog’s shoulder he doesn’t even flinch; he just stands there looking at me, with my father’s eyes.

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This is a Friday Fictioneers 100-word (or so) story inspired by the picture supplied by the lovely Dawn Q. Landau. Friday Fictioneers is organised and run by the wonderful Rochelle. Click here to join in, and here to read other pieces. I’d love to know what you think of mine – please leave a comment!

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Hurray! After nineteen months of waiting, my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days has been published in the UK (Fig Tree / Penguin) and Canada (House of Anansi). It will be published in the USA on 17th March by Tin House.

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