The Winning Stories of the Flash Fiction Year-end Special Competition at Scribblers – An Accident of Fate by Baccus

Tags

accident, art, disappointment, fate, Flash Fiction, scribblers, sports, talent, tennis, the beginning, the end, Writing Prompts

This weekend, I’m delighted to share with you the top two stories of the Year-end Special Competition at the Flash Fiction Group I host on Scribblers.

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/thread/1157/flash-fiction-december-20th-results

 

The prompt was The End and The Beginning, with a 1000 word limit.

 

 

An Accident of Fate by Baccus

 

 

Sun Serve, 1976,  LeRoy Neiman

 

Karl started to play tennis seriously when he was twelve. It was then that the hobby evolved into an ambition: Wimbledon, the Davis Cup, the Australian Open. He studied, took lessons, and he practiced and he practiced. As the years passed, his routine became all-consuming and his skills spectacular. He grew tall, straight and muscular, won many Junior Tournaments, and attracted a top tennis coach. At nineteen, Karl entered the professional circuit and was widely tipped as a future champion. The ultimate dream was within his reach.

Then the accident happened.

Karl couldn’t recall it, but was told that a drunken motorist swerved out of control, hitting him as he walked back home from a gym session. He woke in hospital with multiple injuries and a reconstructed lower leg. He would never play tennis again. The doctor said it might be months before he was back to full health and able to walk.

“I don’t want to live,” Karl screamed at his mother, sitting beside his hospital bed with tears streaking her face.

“You will, Karl. You will. Give it time.”

“I gave it eight years of my life, every minute of every day. Now it’s all gone. The dream is dead. Destroyed by some drunken moron who’s ruined my life as well as his own. He can rot in prison. I’m not rotting though. Not here, for months, learning to walk again like a baby.”

The accident had not only crushed Karl, but his entire family, his friends, his coach, and a large number of supporters. Young, talented and good looking, Karl had his fair share of girl fans who were in awe of him. Not now. Now he was broken – scarred and misshapen – with nothing to look forward to.

His father had built a cabinet for Karl’s awards, with plenty of space at the top to accommodate a collection of Grand Slam trophies. Karl’s throat almost closed when he thought of it. The physical pain was bearable. The emotional pain, the disappointment, was like that drunk’s car rolling over him time and time and time again.

It was worse each day he woke. They gave him tablets to help him sleep, but insomnia was better than waking up and realising every morning that his life had come to an end. He was dead, but he kept breathing and he kept waking to this … overwhelming grief.

“Try the physiotherapy, Karl, please,” his mother begged, and her pain rolled over him like that car, no, like a steamroller.

For her, he would try. One more week of misery. Then he would put a stop to it. Then he would permit himself that final kindness.

~~~

While he expected the exercise and massage sessions, Karl had not anticipated a middle-aged woman turning up with a sketch pad and set of pencils.

“You going to draw me?”

“No, Karl. You’re going to draw, anything you like, but we need to keep your hands and your brain busy. It could have been knitting or basket weaving, but your mother said you were good at drawing as a child. I’m a therapist and an artist, so I can teach you if you need any help.”

Karl recalled sketching when he was much younger, but not whether he had been good at it. He stopped years ago to devote every spare moment to tennis. Now, when he was not furious or in agony, he was bored out of his skull, so he accepted the sketch pad with thanks, and settled against the pillows wondering what the hell to draw.

One of the nurses had eyes too wide apart and a gap between her front teeth. The combination could never be described as pretty, but it was striking. He decided to draw her from memory, with a bit of imagination thrown in. He didn’t want a photographic image, but something unique that only the pencils could produce.

Hours later, his evening meal arrived. The gap-toothed nurse also appeared with his medication, so he quickly closed the sketch pad.

Next day, the middle-aged woman called by to check if he had drawn anything.

“Let me see it then.”

Karl shyly handed over the pad, opened to the first page.

“Oh dear Lord.” The therapist stared at the drawing.

Horrified, Karl saw the tears well up in her eyes.

“What’s wrong? I was just messing about.”

“Karl, in all my years I have never seen talent like this. It’s brilliant. How could you even imagine this. I recognise the person, but you have taken her face and her soul, and set them in a world where she is the … I don’t know … the queen. I don’t even understand what I’m looking at, but there is no one else on Earth who could have created this.”

“The next one isn’t so good.”

Turning the page, the therapists face paled. She stood in complete silence until Karl could bear it no longer.

“What?”

“I don’t know what to-“ her voice broke, “say.”

He watched tears spill from her eyes, and he felt completely confused. “There’s one more.”

She turned the page, and after a moment, a smile broke out like sunrise.

“Karl, as far as I know, and I know a great deal on the subject, you are one of the most natural and original artists I have ever seen. You may not go far. You may never be recognised by those who count, but only if they are fools. I’m not a fortune teller, but I predict these three sketches will be worth a fortune one day. Meanwhile, you need to start producing a portfolio for the Royal College of Art.”

 

Baccus is a regular contributor to the Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers.

Short Bio:

Baccus is a demi-god who cannot spell, and the playground for a poet and writer of both fiction and non-fiction. I have tended to concentrate on novels rather than short stories, so it is always with astonishment and pleasure when I manage to write a short story that other people enjoy.

 

If you wish to take a look at the other great stories of the Year-End Special, here’s the link to the thread:

Flash Fiction at Scribblers

Or better still, come and join our bi-monthly Flash Fiction thread at Scribblers. Newcomers are always welcome. 🙂

http://scribblers.freeforums.net/board/26/flash-fiction

 

 

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Amber Street

Tags

addiction, alcohol, attachment, disappointment, disillusionment, effects of alcohol, illusions, immortality, lies, old age, reality, rejection, stories, wisdom, witch, writing

Photo saved from Pinterest,  crazyaboutphoto.com

 

 

 

The last customer leaving the bar, Harry staggered into the cold night air and made feeble attempts to walk in a straight line. The icy wind, signalling the approach of harsher weather, chilled him to the bone. Despite the protective shield of his padded coat and the woollen hat pulled over his ears, he felt naked. The combination of intoxication and freezing temperatures blurred his sight. All he could see ahead were dark buildings on either side of the road and a few flickering streetlights. He followed the pavement, counting his steps on his long walk home down Amber Street.

Harry kept counting to keep his mind active, but the road seemed to continue forever. 2500 steps later, he still had not arrived at the turn to the street where his flat was located. He halted and glanced back, and looked ahead again. There were no side roads, but one long avenue where all buildings looked the same. “I’m lost,” he muttered.

Though midnight had come and gone, Harry began to knock on doors, in panic. No one responded, not a single soul who might rightfully object to the disturbance of their peace. He decided to go back the way he came, hoping he’d missed his street. An eerie silence persisted in spreading its wings, despite the commotion he made at intervals. As snowflakes fell, misting visibility further, despair set in. He stopped in front of a weathered door, and seizing a worn knocker, banged on it several times.

A jeering voice answered. “The door is open. Shut it tightly behind you.”

Harry stepped inside. He blinked, surprised by an archaic hall,  lit by candles poised on brass candelabras. The wheezing voice barked, “Straight down, the room on the right.”

Entering the chamber, he saw her- or him, he wasn’t sure, sitting at a table in the middle of which a large crystal bowl glowed. Wood crackled in the fireplace, casting shafts of light upon the creature’s face. Harry shuddered. Whatever this thing was, it looked older than the 250 year-old-man in China. Its features were deeply buried under the folds of time-chiselled wrinkles. A pair of sparkling amber, feline beams perused him through the slits below the forehead. Random spikes of white, straw-like hair escaped the grip of a colourful scarf wrapped around its head.

The thin, lipless slit at the bottom of its head opened, displaying the odd jagged tooth. “Sit,” it said. “I’ve been waiting for you. I’m Amacunda.”

Harry hesitated, but he obeyed his exhausted body and sat.  “I’m Harry,” he said. “I don’t know why I’m here. I’m lost.”

“I’m also lost. My reasons are unclear, but I know yours.”

“Why are you lost?”

“I’m in purgatory. Neither here, nor there.”

“How long?”

Deciding the creature must be female, Harry watched her raise a lizard-skinned hand and point a crooked finger with a curled nail at him.

“Too long. I’ve been here forever. It defies your notion of time. Let’s come to your story. Why are you lost?”

“I can’t find my way home.”

“What’s home?”

“My writing. Stories. My dreams. Illusions, disillusionments, disappointments.”

“Rejections?”

“Exactly.”

“You must leave her.” She giggled, her rasping voice whistling between jagged teeth.

“Who? I’m not in a relationship.”

“Whiskey. You’re an alcoholic.”

“I’m not. I’m what’s called a functioning alcoholic.”

“You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. Why do you think Hemingway committed suicide?”

“He couldn’t write anymore.”

“Why? Because alcohol ate his brain. No more grey cells to dream stories.”

“Dostoevsky wrote all his life. He also drank.”

“He wasn’t an alcoholic. Some can hold their drink, some can’t. You’re drinking earlier and earlier in the day. There’s always an excuse. Pain, pleasure, anger. Find another relationship, a woman, a soul-mate.”

“The ones I want reject me.”

“Probably because you’re drunk all the time. Sober up and look around with eyes that see. You’ll find the one.”

Harry lowered his eyes and sighed.

“Regarding other rejections. There’s a name … I can’t remember, like thorn, splinter, something sharp from a tree or plant. My memory escapes me these days. Look them up and send your stuff.”

“Thank you.”

“Healthy eating, healthy drinking , healthy living and like me, you can live forever.” She chuckled again. “Time to go, young man. Remember what I said.”

Amacunda snapped her claw-like fingers, and Harry found himself at his front door. Once inside the flat, he crawled onto his bed and crashed.

The following day, he woke at noon and ambled to kitchen. Whiskey beckoned. The moment he grabbed the bottle, Amacunda’s voice rang like a siren in his ears. “Healthy eating, healthy drinking .”

 

Harry dumped the bottle on the counter and put the kettle on. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, buttered toast and tea, he took a shower and shaved. In fresh clothes, he sat at his desk and began to write.

During a tea-break in the late afternoon, he remembered something else she’d said and began to search on his computer. Wood, Woody, splinter, Spillane, Tor, thorn – Thornton Publishers are looking for Anthology submissions. Submission deadline March 31st. A week from today, enough time to edit his stories. No alcohol for a week?

That evening Harry dined at a steak house and only drank mineral water. On his way home, he stopped at the supermarket and stocked up on healthy food. Just before the checkout, his hand went for a pack of bacon he’d missed in the morning. He wavered, unsure, then grabbed it. The sirens didn’t shriek. Maybe once in a while it would be okay.

 

Amacunda’s voice reverberated in his head each time he accidentally approached the liquor section in the supermarkets. After a sober period of many months, he became a social drinker, enjoying the occasional glass of wine at dinner parties.

 

Thornton’s published his Anthology and The Witch of Amber Street became a hit. Harry didn’t live forever, but his stories did.

 

Amber street on medium.com

Writer’s Dilemma

Tags

acceptance, cruelty, disappointment, losing heart, patience, rejections, sadness, terrorism, waiting, Writer's dilemma

https://www.facebook.com/LitRejections/?fref=nf

Sometimes ambition is not taken away by rejection, but by the cruelty of mankind.

‪#‎PrayForNice

 

 

Read, read, read,

Write, write, write,

Edit,

Review,

Submit –

Wait,

Wait … wait … wait …

Silence –

tweet, post, like, join,

edit, re-write, upload –

Submit,

SILENCE –

they don’t like me,

they don’t like my work …

Bombs, explosions, cruelty …

sadness, frustration, Anger –

Patience …

Acceptance –

never mind, carry on,

write, write, write,

Publish,

Smile ….