Category: Flash Fiction

“An adventure into the unknown,” my friends said, “it will be fun”. They lied.

I’m not sure why I agreed to it. I had lived all of my 41 years in the safety zone, always colouring inside the lines and never straying too far from my creature comforts of home. The riskiest thing I’d ever done was order my jungle curry hot instead of medium – that had been a mistake too.

Maybe it was a mid-life crisis that prompted me to go. Maybe a temporary bout of madness. It didn’t matter how I got here. It only mattered how I was going to get out alive.

The landscape and isolation are completely foreign. A vast, untamed wildness teeming with unseen creatures. Their haunting cries pierce the night. I don’t know what I’ll do if I meet any of them face-to-face. I’ve been warned my protective clothing will do nothing to withstand their stings, claws, or fangs. ‘Protective clothing’ seemed a misnomer considering how ineffective it is against the creatures and the suffocating heat. The exposed parts of my body are red raw from sunburn and insect bites, made worse by my incessant scratching.

We have our duties. Tend to the fire. Prepare meals from long-life packets and whatever can be caught by the more intrepid adventurers among us. Showers are non-existent, as are toilets. It had never occurred to me that I’d have to ‘dig a hole’. It most definitely was not in the brochure.

The dirt, dust and sand insidiously finds its way into every crevice and clings to the film of sweat covering my body. Water is a precious commodity. The oversized bottles are reserved for drinking water and cooking. Not for brushing your teeth I’m told – a wasted exercise since everyone already reeks.

The others seem to thrive in this unforgiving environment. They are enraptured by the land virtually untouched by man. They gaze at the night sky and marvel at the boundless nature of the universe and our insignificance in contrast. 

Not me. I sit closest to the largest guy among us, hoping our carnivorous animal friends will choose him as a meal over me. I count the seconds until everyone is ready to retire for the night, for I dare not venture back to my quarters alone. 

It is the ‘extra hot’ lentil curry that finally tips me over the edge. I’ve already drunk my water ration for the day and my guts are churning. I excuse myself, clutching my stomach, knowing what is on its way. I scramble to find my spade but it is too late. I curse, wondering if washing soiled clothes is an approved use of water. And I pledge there and then, never to go camping or so much as visit the Australian outback again.

The following flash fiction story was shortlisted in the Australian Writers’ Centre’s Furious Fiction contest a little while ago. We were given half a dozen descriptive prompts to include, such as, ‘cold and greasy’. I hope you enjoy it.

‘Sweet and pungent,’ he says with authority before sloshing the wine around his mouth. In fervent concentration, his eyebrows dart around like hungry caterpillars trying to escape. ‘Be free little guys,’ I think to myself, ‘Save yourself’. Or did I say it out loud? It was hard to tell. Unlike my sipping and swilling date, I prefer the gulp and guzzle school of wine-tasting.

I down my glass. The disapproving look he casts me is reminiscent of being summoned to the school principal’s office. Was he a school principal? I can’t recall, but a review of his heavily slicked-back hair, his blue Wall Street shirt with white collar and shiny, silver cufflinks, confirms that he’s a professional twat.

After dating a string of kale-eating, teetotalling, wannabe ninja warriors, I’d been attracted to the part of his profile that said he enjoyed a good wine.

He suggested wine tasting for our first date, bringing me along to his wine appreciation club, which is nowhere near as much fun as it sounds. It involves hours of painstakingly detailed analysis of wines with little of the ‘enjoyment’ you’d expect from drinking said wine.

As I procure myself another glass of wine he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

‘Cold and greasy with a bitter aftertaste.’ I’m startled by the deep voice behind me.

I spin around to be greeted by a jeans and T-shirt wearing man who could easily pass as a Hemsworth brother.

‘Sorry? Which wine are you describing?’

‘I’m describing your date.’

I choke on my wine.

He flashes a dimpled grin. ‘I don’t know crap about wine…or more accurately, I don’t give a crap, as long as it tastes all right. So I’m describing the wine club members instead.’

I can’t resist a smile.

‘Why don’t you try?’ He indicates his date, a petite woman gesticulating and loudly disagreeing with one of her fellow members about something to do with tannins.

‘Okay then. Light-bodied and acidic with a shrill, piercing finish.’

‘Ohhh, that’s harsh.’

I’m about to apologise when he laughs. ‘No that was a good one. Go again.’ He looks in the direction of an older man whose tanned face speaks to a lifetime working outside. His navy blazer appears to be covered in white cat hair.

‘A great vintage, but a little scratched and weather-worn.’

He counters by describing a man, wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches and an ink-stained tartan tie, as ‘crisp and dry with nutty undertones’.

We succumb to a fit of giggles ignoring the collective shushing and stares from around the room. Eventually, we recover. ‘We’re going straight to hell,’ I say.

‘I thought we were already there. Say, do you want to get out of here?’

‘It depends.’

He raises a questioning brow.

‘On your description of me.’

He strokes his chin in mock thought.

‘Unapologetically complex and exuberant with just the right amount of spice.’ His eyes twinkle. ‘Did I pass?’

‘You had me at cold and greasy.’

Not many people can pull off the colour orange, except maybe Isla Fisher in those ING ads and an oompa loompa. I was neither of them but I’d left my Halloween costume to the last minute.  

As I yank down the rising hem I curse whoever designed this bloated sack-dress masquerading as a pumpkin.  

Tanya had insisted I attend her American cousin’s “legendary” Halloween party. I had reluctantly agreed to pop in after I finished the late shift at work.  

It’s 11.35pm and the air was thick with unseasonable fog. I’m struggling to find my way and I press the home button on my phone. Siri tells me my destination is just ahead. 

I arrive at a rundown period home that has a Scooby Doo haunted house look about it but is oddly deficient of any Halloween decorations. I check the house number and confirm I’m in the right place. An icy chill shoots up my spine and I’m tempted to leave when the door opens to reveal an immaculately dressed woman with perfectly coiffed bouffant hair.  

“What a charming costume.” Her voice has an old-world American meets British timbre to it. From her pearl necklace to the pastel pink shift dress with matching lipstick, Tanya’s aunt has nailed her costume.   

“Jacqueline Kennedy!” 

The woman flashes a gracious smile. “Please, come in.”   

The house is eerily quiet. “Have I missed the party?” 

“Not at all. The party’s just beginning.”  

I sip at the saucer of champagne she has handed me, and glance around the wood-paneled room wondering where everyone else is. 

“Do you know the story behind the jack-o’-lantern,” the aunt says indicating my costume.  

I shake my head as I fire off a text message to Tanya: “I’m here. Where are you?” 

“Jack was a famous Irish trickster who cheated and outsmarted everyone he came across. He even managed to trick the devil. When Jack died he was refused entry to heaven but the devil wouldn’t allow him into hell either. 

“He was forced to wander forever in the dark Netherworld between heaven and hell with nothing but a jack-o’-lantern to light his way. Except of course that one day a year, all Hallow’s eve, when the line between the Netherworld and this world thins.” 

I nod politely, relieved when my phone buzzes. “I’m at the party waiting for you!”  

WTF! 

A grandfather clock in the hall chimes signaling midnight. “Excuse me,” I say and head for the door. I gasp at the blinding darkness that greets me outside – a never-ending nothingness. 

“Jacqueline,” I appeal to the aunt, realising I don’t know her real name. 

“You can call me Jack.” I catch the melodic Irish accent in the voice behind me. 

The grinning man who has replaced Jacqueline shoves me out the door into the Netherworld and the house vanishes. The distant echoes of the trickster’s laughter taunt me as I pull at the hem of my costume. I knew wearing orange was a terrible idea. 

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‘Look she’s doing it again.’ It was psychology major uni-girl. 

She doesn’t think I can hear her. I fold and re-fold my T-shirt for the fifth time until just the right amount of Ravenclaw crest is visible.   

‘Definitely on the spectrum,’ nervous-laugh-wants-to-impress-her-friend, other uni-girl, declares. They stuff their collection of still damp skinny jeans into a $9 Kmart overnight bag and leave.  

The laundromat is filled with the regular mix of middle-aged single men, pensioners and me. I’m here every Saturday. I arrive precisely at 8.47am so I have the exact length of time needed to wash, dry and fold my laundry before going to my shift at what was possibly the last physical video store in existence.  

I move on to my final items. No. I rummage through the basket. No! It’s not there. I hold up the lonesome sock emblazoned with Cheshire Cats. They smile maniacally, mocking me for losing their friends. 

The dryer. I peer into the open door seeing nothing but darkness. I reach in as far as I can, my fingers finding nothing but clumps of lint. Socks can’t just disappear, like magic. I lean further in with my knees resting on the edge, but there is nothing. I hesitate for a moment before crawling in as if following a white rabbit.   

‘Are you okay in there?’  

I sit up with a start, banging my head against the metal drum. My cheeks are burning as I reverse out of the dryer, preparing myself for the humiliating interaction to come. 

Instead, a gangly-looking man with floppy hair and twinkly eyes greets me. ‘Just wanted to make sure you’re okay,’ he shouts. 

I point to my over-ear headphones. ‘They’re not on.’ I immediately regret saying it. ‘Too much noise…loud music…I like quiet,’ the words tumble incoherently out of my mouth.  

He gives a small nod. He’s wearing a shirt with an obscure but funny periodic table reference – he understands.  

‘I was looking for the other one.’ I hold up the remaining half of my favourite pair of socks. 

He rubs his chin and looks serious all of a sudden. ‘Curiouser and curiouser.’ 

I clasp my hand over my mouth too late to smother a snort-like laugh. I grab my basket and run, admonishing myself for being so uncool, and the fact that I would have to find another laundromat.  

I am halfway down the street when I feel a hand on my arm. He is there, holding my other sock.  

‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he puffs, trying to catch his breath, ‘but I found this in my basket.’ 

‘Thanks,’ I mumble, taking the sock and turning to leave. 

‘You can’t go.’  

I raise a quizzical brow.  

‘Don’t you see. Your Cheshire Cat friends wanted to bring us together for a reason.’ 

I glance down at the sock and swear one of those cats winks back at me. 

‘I’m Lewis,’ he extends his hand. 

I take it with a tentative smile. ‘I’m Alice, nice to meet you.’

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