Flash fiction: Rubbish

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‘What is it?’ I said, standing on the lip.

‘Victorian.’ He jumped in, didn’t wait for me. ‘Rubbish pit.’

I lowered myself down. In an oven tray he had collected pieces of coloured pottery, a clear bottle with a marble in its neck, a broken ceramic pot stamped with ‘Bloater Paste’. I picked out the edge of a plate, licked my thumb and rubbed until the pink glaze on a dinner service appeared.

‘One man’s rubbish…’ I started.

‘On top.’ He rattled the tray. I looked again and saw a smooth brown stick, jagged at one end. ‘Human,’ he said.

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This is a Friday Fictioneers story. 100 (or so) writers writing 100-words (or so) inspired by the picture above (supplied this week by G.L.MacMillan.) Join in or read some more stories.

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My novel, Our Endless Numbered Days, has been longlisted for The Guardian’s ‘Not The Booker’ prize. The next stage of the competition is a public vote. So, if you’ve read my book and liked it, it would be great if you could vote for it here. You need to choose two books from the longlist and write which two you’re voting for in the comments section, including a short review about one of them. Thank you in advance!

Flash fiction: Nadia

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The first time I saw Nadia she was shouting on one the backstreets in the old quarter. A boy on a scooter had snatched her bag and she was begging passers-by for help. I didn’t stop; like everyone else I thought she was part of the scam. Two days later I saw her at the airport when I was leaving. She turned and smiled at something and her full lips, painted red, stretched to reveal the gap in her front teeth. I knew we would be seated next to each other, but what I didn’t know was that within a year Nadia would be dead.

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This is a Friday Fictioneers story. 100 (or so) writers writing 100-words (or so) inspired by the picture above (supplied this week by Sandra Crook.)

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It’s been a while since I’ve written a Friday Fictioneers story because I’ve been on holiday and life suddenly became very busy. On 1st July Our Endless Numbered Days won the Desmond Elliott Prize – an award for debut fiction, and I’ve been doing quite a bit of promotion including writing this article on being a debut author over 40, for The Guardian.

The Girl in the Downstairs Flat

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Keith drilled the hole in the ceiling when the pretty girl in the downstairs flat was out. Or at least he hadn’t heard her for hours, maybe days come to think of it. He was sure she wouldn’t notice the small mound of sawdust in her bathroom because even though she had kept the door-chain on when he had introduced himself, over her shoulder he had seen how messy her flat was.

Keith pressed his eye to the hole. The girl lay in her bath, smiling, looking up at him. He drew back, shocked, excited. When he looked again she hadn’t moved.

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This is a Friday Fictioneers story. 100 (or so) writers writing 100-words (or so) inspired by the picture above (supplied this week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

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Our Endless Numbered Days has been nominated for the Edinburgh First Book Award. This is a prize decided by public vote, so if you’d like to vote for my novel, click here – I’d really appreciate it. (Scroll to the bottom of the page, and I’m on the penultimate line.)

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: The Beacon

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The word had come when she was sleeping. A hammering on the door, loud enough to wake the dead. She was already dressed, only her boots to pull on, the flambeau leaning in a corner. Outside, she ignored the advancing cliff-face of sea-mist, refusing to think about the horrors it must contain.

Three tries to light the flambeau; four agonising minutes for the bonfire to catch. But as the flames surged upwards she saw smoke rising from the neighbouring headland, and the next and the next. And she thought that maybe there was still time for them to be saved.

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This is a 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers brought to us by the wonderful writer Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I didn’t see observatories when I first looked at the picture, so I went with my first impression. The image this week is supplied by the amazing writer, Doug Macilroy. Click here to join in with Friday Fictioneers, or here to read other’s.

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This week Dawn Landau’s (a fellow Friday Fictioneer) book group is meeting to discuss my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days, which they’ve been reading. Because of the time difference, I won’t be able to Skype with them, but I have answered their questions by email. If any other book groups are interested in reading Our Endless Numbered Days, I’d be really happy to get involved in the same way. Let me know!

Short story: Not Searching

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First I knew, text didn’t send. Searching, phone said. Nothing to worry about, right? Then someone’s conversation cut out.

Five minutes later damn train slowed and stopped. Took a while for even that to register. I learnt that people will sit in silence for a long time before complaining.

‘Daddy, why we stopped in the middle of nowhere?’

Guard didn’t come. No announcement.

Three hours ‘til we broke into the driver’s compartment.

After a day buffet car’s kitchen was as empty as the scenery.

Two days – search party left; didn’t never come back.

Took us a week to finish the water…

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This is a 100-word(ish) story for Friday Fictioneers brought to us by the wonderful writer Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and the picture this week is supplied by the writer, Jennifer Pendergast. Click here to join in with Friday Fictioneers, or here to read other people’s.

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Last week I was delighted to learn that my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days, has been longlisted for the Desmond Elliott Prize – a UK prize for debuts novels.

A book blogger at Word By Word is running a competition to win a copy of Our Endless Numbered Days. Anyone anywhere in the world can enter and it closes on 12th April.

Short story: Oboe solo for two players

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The sound of the oboe carries through the evening, a melancholic invitation to come now. He has told his mother that he must be in the bandstand; something about fresh air and breathing technique. His mother likes that he is practicing.

At the first note, gliding in through her open window, she stirs and tells her mother she’s going to the meadow with the old portable gramophone, to dance. Her mother likes that her daughter is imaginative.

At the bandstand, in the dusk, she winds up the gramophone. And while Bach’s Partita for solo oboe plays out into the night, they practice, together.

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This is a 100-word(ish) story for Friday Fictioneers brought to us by the wonderful writer Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and the picture this week is supplied by the fantastic writer, David Stewart. Click here to join in with Friday Fictioneers, or here to read other people’s.

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Until Sunday readers in the US can win a signed copy of the UK version (left) of my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days; and readers in the UK can win a signed copy of the US version (right). The competition is running on Twitter and Facebook. Click the links and follow the instructions to enter. Good luck!

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Flash fiction: Talking with the dead

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I rise early and go down through the forest to your grave. Moss has grown over the stone I placed there and a snail has left a map of its convoluted journey as if it, alone, plans to return.

I sit on the ground, soft and damp with the autumn’s leaves and eat sandwiches. Egg and cress; your favourite. I tell you everything: who she is, how much I love her, why I must leave.

I listen for your arguments and tears, but for the first time I hear nothing, just the mist condensing and dripping from the trees.

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Finally this week I’m two words under my 100-word allowance (that should make up a little from last week’s over-spend). Friday Fictioneers is brought to us by the wonderful writer Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and the picture this week is supplied by the lovely writer, Rachel Bjerke. Click here to join in with Friday Fictioneers, or here to read other people’s.

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On Tuesday my novel, Our Endless Numbered Days, was officially published in the US by Tin House.