Earlier this year I submitted a story to a flash fiction competition. Flash fiction is a very short story - in this case, less than 500 words.
Imagine my joy when I was short-listed! So, I didn't go on to win a prize, but to be honest I didn't really care. If it was good enough to be short-listed then at least I knew that what I was writing wasn't total drivel.... Not bad for a first attempt at a short story.
Who knows, with a bit of practice, I might just make it onto the winning-list next time!
You can read the story below:
The Window
If any of the people walking along the street on that dark Tuesday morning had been inclined to look up from the dull task of tracing their steps into the beginning of their busy days, they would have seen her at the window of the upstairs flat. The rotting, peeling wood with the dirty net curtain pushed back to one side behind the glass perfectly framed the woman’s tired face. Well, girl really. She was just a girl.
As she looked out, her two hands raised and placed flat against the glass, she let her forehead fall against the cold, wet pane. She let the frigid feeling against her skin wash over her and it brought the blood rushing back to her head.
She looked down at the street below; at the busy people rushing to start their decent days. She remembered there was a time when the piercing rage of envy would stab at her when she saw these people filled with the normality of life. She was crazed with jealousy that they were free to walk to work in the morning, free to walk home again and free to follow dreams woven into real lives and real pain. Now? She felt the cold, wet pane of glass and not much else.
She peered out at the muted black streets, the rows of roofs and the soulless square box houses stretching on forever into the long grey morning. She remembered there was a time when she felt she could drown in the slow wave of sadness that tumbled over her when her senses were filled with this foreign, monotone prospect. Memories of home running headlong into her vision would taunt her, and the grief of loss would hit her in the stomach harder than a blow from any man. She would reach out silently for the scatter of brightly coloured buildings she couldn’t see anymore; the laughter of a village she couldn’t hear and the soul warming sun she couldn’t feel. Now? The memories didn’t come to her so much anymore. She knew that her soul was sliding a little further away from her heart every day she looked out of the window.
She started as the door flew open and the tall, dark man she remembered from yesterday strode in with his hands reaching for his trouser buttons. She stepped away from the window and the outside world, and automatically let her dressing gown drop to the floor as she walked towards the bed.
Who knows, with a bit of practice, I might just make it onto the winning-list next time!
You can read the story below:
The Window
If any of the people walking along the street on that dark Tuesday morning had been inclined to look up from the dull task of tracing their steps into the beginning of their busy days, they would have seen her at the window of the upstairs flat. The rotting, peeling wood with the dirty net curtain pushed back to one side behind the glass perfectly framed the woman’s tired face. Well, girl really. She was just a girl.
As she looked out, her two hands raised and placed flat against the glass, she let her forehead fall against the cold, wet pane. She let the frigid feeling against her skin wash over her and it brought the blood rushing back to her head.
She looked down at the street below; at the busy people rushing to start their decent days. She remembered there was a time when the piercing rage of envy would stab at her when she saw these people filled with the normality of life. She was crazed with jealousy that they were free to walk to work in the morning, free to walk home again and free to follow dreams woven into real lives and real pain. Now? She felt the cold, wet pane of glass and not much else.
She peered out at the muted black streets, the rows of roofs and the soulless square box houses stretching on forever into the long grey morning. She remembered there was a time when she felt she could drown in the slow wave of sadness that tumbled over her when her senses were filled with this foreign, monotone prospect. Memories of home running headlong into her vision would taunt her, and the grief of loss would hit her in the stomach harder than a blow from any man. She would reach out silently for the scatter of brightly coloured buildings she couldn’t see anymore; the laughter of a village she couldn’t hear and the soul warming sun she couldn’t feel. Now? The memories didn’t come to her so much anymore. She knew that her soul was sliding a little further away from her heart every day she looked out of the window.
She started as the door flew open and the tall, dark man she remembered from yesterday strode in with his hands reaching for his trouser buttons. She stepped away from the window and the outside world, and automatically let her dressing gown drop to the floor as she walked towards the bed.
