Flash Fiction Autobiographical Piece (no I’m not flashing)

Uni is upon me again and I must write weekly snippets to post on the board. This week we have been asked to tell our ‘life story’ in 250 words. Mine has gone off the rails a tad. I know I understand what I mean but maybe other people won’t. I’ve posted it anyway because I love to share. Here’s hoping someone else enjoys my autobiographical flash fiction.


What is relevant in the story of my life? Is it that I was born in Sydney to immigrant parents, or is it that I’m married with two young children? Many of the events that shaped me are hazy memories, some even appear as dreams: me as a five year old, lying in a white room on a cold, stainless steel table, staring at bright lights while a white-coated person stands over me. As a teenager, when I told my mother about this memory-come-dream, she advised that when I’d had meningitis, they extracted spinal fluid from me with a more-than-impressive needle, without anesthetic. She, sitting frantic in an adjoining room, could hear my screams: screams she would never forget. My life shaping experience had become hers.

What is the story of someone’s life? As I stand before you as an author, mother, sister, sports-lover and wife, does my backstory matter? My experiences are gone as soon as they occur, and I am this moment in time. The retelling is a reshaping, not a reliving—we can never go back. The relevant story of my life, to me, is what is to come. Since I am not who I was when I was born, my life unfolds moment to moment: the story ever beginning and ending, each moment becomes my story until it has passed—then it belongs to another.

Flash Fiction – For a limited time only

I’m entering the Stringy Bark flash fiction competition. It has to have a link to Australia. Part of the comp is a micro fiction of less than 100 words. I thought I’d post mine, which will be taken down after I’ve entered the competition.

Outback Lament

Cicadas screamed. A hot wind slashed stifling fingers through the ghost gums, sending leaves twisting to their final resting place. One leaf landed in an upturned palm. The outstretched fingers received the gift in cold indifference. Eyes, extinguished, couldn’t see the beauty of the leaf. More tears from the ethereal trees covered the lost boy. The cicadas’ dirge; a farewell song nobody could hear.

Timmy’s Escape

Ok, following is a story I’ve written for a flash fiction competition.  The rules are that it has to have some sort of faery activity and it has to be less than 350 words. So here’s my effort.

Tim hid under the wharf.  His parents stood above, he could see the soles of their shoes through the small spaces between the timbers.  He had escaped to this shadowy space, when his parents had started shouting at each other again.  He drew squiggles in the sand with a stick, water lapping at his feet.

Venomous words reached him, their hate wringing tears from the young boy.  He dropped his stick and pushed his palms over his ears.  Staring at the water, but seeing nothing, he chanted quietly, “Please take me away, please take me away.”  Almost unnoticeable at first, he heard a flute.  The notes enticed him and he dropped his hands.  He focused then, and felt the notes brushing against his skin; a warm caress, and then he saw her.

A faery emerged from the water, her skin shimmering silver, her eyes dark pebbles that have lain on a riverbed for millennia.  She smiled at him and her voice slipped in between the flute melody.

“Timmy swim with me,

To a life of serenity

Under the sea.

Timmy hold my hand,

I will show you peace

Where your smile will be free

Donna looked at Frank, cursing him under her breath, I hope you have a heart attack and die, right now.  Frank shook his head, another out of control fight, another pylon taken out of their relationship; they were about to collapse and he knew he would be the one to lose the most.  He would lose Tim.

Frank blinked, “Where’s Tim?”  In a moment neither one would ever forget, they realised he was not there.  Frank found Timmy’s sneakers under the wharf.  When he tipped them upside down, silver glitter floated to the ground.

Flute music haunts their sleep and Tim’s parents dream of a woman, black eyes deep and mocking.  She holds their son, his blue face reflected in her silver skin, his hair floats this way and that, with the underwater currents, and his mouth smiles at something only his dead eyes can see.

You can see the other entries here