Furious Fiction June Non-Win, WIN!

A non-win, WIN? You ask.

This is when one does not win, per se, but still feels the win. I think the Latin term for this is Satifactis Closeenuf.

Each month, the Australian Writers Centre set a Furious Fiction writing challenge: 55 hours to produce a short story, no more than 500 words, using creative prompts. The prompts for June were that each story had to:

• Strongly feature a relationship between TWO characters. 

• Include someone whispering.

• Include the words JAR, UNIFORM, NEEDLE and EDGE. (Certain variations were allowed).

As you may have gathered, my story did not win. But it did make the long list (and get referenced!) and that, my friends, is where the Satifactis Closeenuf feeling kicks in.

This here is my story, written in the 52nd hour. Let me know what you think ... my family didn't quite back this one! So, feel welcome to be just as honest.

Side by Side

They sat at the oak table, side by side. Looking at each other, they knew they were always meant to be together and they leant into this as their fate loomed around them.

Outside, a cool wind moved the limbs of the blossom trees that lined the neatly trimmed hedges and they watched, transfixed by their staunch resilience.

‘Do you think we’ll be okay?’ she wanted to ask, but simply didn’t know how. After all this time of knowing why they would be there, she was scared.

A waitress came and poured two cups of tea; placing a sugar bowl down neatly and a small jug of milk. The way it was poured so frivolously felt insulting.

An unlikely pair from the start—she, forever sweet and beholding an easy, almost-unflappable nature; he, far more complicated, with a beaten life that had turned him rigid—they very easily could have never met, if they weren’t otherwise brought together by a much more practiced match maker. One who didn’t look for commonalities, but rather saw them for their own true selves and how they could bring out the qualities of those around them.

‘Perfect,’ they’d heard people say, and it made her blush with pride.

It was true that either could have made suitable companions with others who presented themselves but, together, they made a pair that promised each other balance.

She watched him now, unmoving but reliable. Bringing so much joy to those tolerant of his charms. She was honoured to be by his side. Just … nervous.

The wind picked up outside and it seemed to echo her fears, blowing them under the gaps in the old windows like a hollow whisper, reminding her that the time had come.

In front of them sat a gold-rimmed plate with two scones, uniform in shape and ready to be halved and shared. Perfectly folded napkins lay beside them, the needlework so intricate it brought a welcome distraction.

Unable to speak, she watched him. Flushed in the warm room, she could see that even he was feeling unstable. She’d never seen him like this and it made her question the strength she’d thought he’d had. She felt his cool gaze on her, as if reading her mind, and she looked away in shame.

‘We’ll be okay,’ she thought she heard him say, but when she looked back to be sure, he was gone.

Horrified, she heard the scrap of a knife and braced herself. It came towards her slower than she expected. She sat, unmoving, before being lifted by the edge of the blade, over the table, to be reunited with her love; smeared over of the crumbling scone and bleeding into each other, before bringing the fleeting happiness they were made for.

By the time the waitress returned to collect the empty jar where jam once lived, offering to refill it so easily, there was nothing left but a smudge of cream and the memory of what would always be cherished.