Winning Flash Fiction Stories 2023
"Lady and Child"
Lorraine Murphy
My neck aches from gazing at the clear glass ceiling in the Grand Gallery but I don’t know what else to do. I’ve studied every detail of every painting on the teal walls and still I wait.
The smell changes from antique polish to vanilla-musk, heralding the entrance of the cutting-edge make-up team. Futuristic goddesses with angled hairstyles, straight faces and clean monochrome lines, they are alien to anything I’ve seen. Walking straight by me to the foot of the stairs, they begin the liberation of their cosmetics from their Tardis-like Samsonite cases.
A carnival of dresses enters from the left, wheeled by four animated women, who laugh and chat. I’m relieved to see embroidered screens being erected and hope I can change behind them. This is my first time.
The theme for today’s photoshoot is Vintage Hollywood, and every colour, shape and fabric of dress is here, along with a myriad of underskirts, shoes and bags. As the hair stylists join us and search for sockets for their equipment, I think how different this is to my everyday life – a life where sales assistants grimace when I ask for a garment in my size, or point me to dull clothing designed to cover and never to dazzle. I thought decent plus-size fashion didn’t exist, but it does and with the average Irish woman taking a size 16, here they call it real-size. I like that.
A young man approaches me with intent, his jet-black eyebrows and beard manicured, his velvet purple suit moulded to his narrow physique. He click-clicks across the mosaic floor, his Lego-hairdo firmly fixed.
“Well, hello beautiful! I’m Marc with a C and you must be my lady from Real Agency?”
He’s already walking so I follow him. He turns and examines my face too closely. I feel myself reddening and divert my gaze but he raises my chin so I have no choice but to look into his dark eyes.
“Stunning,” he declares. “What is your name, mysterious one?”
Orla Maguire, I tell Marc with a C and he clicks his fingers. A tall ice-blonde instantly appears at his side.
“Look at her, Tegan babes. Can you see it? Tell me you can see it,” he pleads and she studies me through the fringe of her sharp bob.
“Jane Russell?” she asks. He claps and smiles widely, displaying perfect teeth. I run my tongue over my own. Summoning the beauty team, Tegan directs in a language I don’t understand. I’m crowd-surfed into a high chair and plonked in front of a mirror surrounded by bulbs. Then, I’m turned 180 degrees to face a painting of an ample woman with a young girl on her lap. Lady and Child by Stephen Slaughter, the description says.
I drift into the painting as the team work away, wondering when a fuller figure stopped being sexy. I remember my last weight-loss class. The leader, Shirley, put a grey plastic chair in the centre of the room and invited us to think back to when we first felt ashamed of our weight. After a few moments, she asked how many of us were children.
We all raised our hands.
“Imagine that child is sitting in this chair,” she said.
The lady in the painting has a dour expression and reminds me of Aunt Eithne’s face when she first saw me after Mammy died.
“You’re awful fat. We’ll have to get you on a diet before you burst,” she’d exclaimed, hauling me off to a seamstress to let out my school uniform. Standing in my cotton vest and knickers, I tried to hide my thighs and little pot belly as they whispered about me.
I was nine years old.
“What terrible things do we say to ourselves?” Shirley asked.
Orla the Orca, the size of Majorca.
“Now, say those things to the child in the chair.”
I jolted.
“You can’t, can you? If you wouldn’t say it to a child, you shouldn’t say it to yourself. Now, travel back in time to meet your younger selves. Go to the chair and tell that little girl what you wish you’d been told back then.”
Women approached the chair, some crying silently while others hugged. I didn’t move.
I remember myself, a child who never knew her father and had just lost her beloved mother. A child, confused and alone, in need of love, not judgement. My heart breaks for the life that followed and the innocence that was lost forever.
“Hon, are you alright?” Tegan asks, dabbing my eye.
“I’m so sorry I’m probably ruining your make-up,” I say, wiping a tear.
“Not at all love, we’re just finished anyway. Take a look.”
She spins me around to face the mirror and my mouth falls open. The whole team surround me and clap.
I feel the tears coming again and Tegan smiles, squeezing my hand and I cherish her touch.
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for making me look like this.”
“Our job was easy Hon, sure you’re stunning,” she replies and I look for hidden cameras. That’s twice I’ve been called stunning since I arrived, a word I’m not used to hearing.
But she’s not joking.
I stare at my reflection. I am stunning. I look back at the painting and see the child is holding the hands of the woman and I feel my mother with me, embracing me. It’s time to love myself as I am, as I was – Lady and child.
Second Place
"Recovery Position
"
Tracy Fells
- Put the heel of your dominant hand …
- Put your other hand on top of your dominant hand and interlock fingers …
- Begin chest compressions …
- Open their mouth…
- Breathe into the person’s mouth…
- Watch for chest to fall, then …
- Continue the cycle of chest compressions and breaths …
What does that mean? The one he gripped to block the slap because he’d already twisted your right hand behind you?
Crap — that hurts. Wait. What’s she saying now? If it’s a child use one hand, two fingers for a baby. He’s always a massive baby, so two fingers it is.
Press down into their chest. How many times? One hundred compressions a minute, to the rhythm of … Staying Alive … really? The Bee Gees, huh. Do you need to do the moves as well? It’s not funny. He could die, is dying / has died, if you don’t do this properly. Once he had the looks and body of a young Travolta, but not the dance moves or the talent for making you happy. He wasn’t your happy ending. Why are you farting around trying to save him?
First cover their face with a mask. That’s not going to happen, since he wouldn’t let you buy a box or even make your own. Whatever he’s got, you’ve already got it too. The stink of whisky on his lips will sterilise any germs he’s harbouring. And what’s he going to catch off you … his death possibly? Don’t laugh. This isn’t the time to muck around.
A rescue breath. Isn’t that beautiful? Like the kiss of an angel. Don’t think about her. Your little angel who came into this world sleeping, her eyes already closed. Would a breath have rescued her? He never talks about her, your daughter, his daughter. If you don’t see their chest rising then move their head and try again. You sit back on your heels to contemplate his flat unmoving chest. Just like hers. If you could drink like he does, then maybe you could forget her too. But that’s not fair, because you’ve heard him in the night, when he thinks you’re asleep, when he stuffs his fist into his mouth.
When you’re sure he’s settled, you breathe again into his warm mouth. It’s like kissing him for the first time, when you were just kids, when you were falling in love.
You have to stop to wipe your sleeve over your eyes. There’s no time to blow your nose, so you let it run, along with more tears, into your mouth, licking away the salt. If he dies then nobody has to know. How he ended up at the bottom of the stairs. But you no longer care what happens to you if he lives. You just want him back. Wincing through the pain you interlock your fingers and begin another cycle of pushing. Pushing down and singing out loud, all the time counting to thirty in your head.
…until actions can be taken to restore spontaneous blood circulation and breathing in the patient (the man you still love)
Third Place
"Giraffe Psychology
"
Sally Curtis
“Well written. Comical, intriguing, refreshing. A mix of metaphors, animals and music to address life’s issues.”
“The problem is, I haven’t had a crescendo in my life.”
He crosses his long giraffe legs, his orange-brown diamonds so smooth I want to reach out and touch them. But I don’t: it didn’t turn out well with the crocodile man.
“What do you understand by crescendo?”
“An explosion. Fireworks. The big ta-dah!”
He leans back into his leather chair. “Very dramatic but one must build to a crescendo. They don’t just happen.”
“What about that symphony? ‘Da Da Dum. Da Da Dum.’ That’s a crescendo. No build-up there.”
“No,” he replies, tearing off a few leaves from his desk plant, “that is a stirring introduction.” He chews the foliage, smacking his lips and twisting his jaw. “Why do you feel entitled to such an experience when you haven’t done anything major?”
“Are you suggesting I’ve lived life in a minor key?”
He shakes his head, his long neck swaying, his huge eyelids closing momentarily. If I didn’t know better, I would say he was smirking. I notice a leopard’s spot appear amongst his diamonds and look away so no more will show through.
“Have you ever listened to ‘Happy Birthday’ in the minor key? It becomes a melody of suspense, danger, intrigue. You are far from a minor key.”
I feel offended.
“I can see you are offended,” he confirms. “But we both know you cling to predictability which is why, after all, you insist on seeing me. What you actually need is versatility, more six-eight, more cha-cha. You are merely a waltz. One two three. One two three. Crescendo-less.”
“I’ve had issues,” I state defensively. “I’ve been abandoned …”
“…neglected, hurt. So you keep saying.”
“Nothing good knocks at my door.”
He sighs.
“You do understand that when you open a door and don’t like what you see, you can close it again? It’s how doors work.”
The sarcasm is unexpected. I’m used to his conundrums and riddles but I’ve never known disdain before. I look up. Lounging in the chair, picking at the leather, is a hyena amused by his own mockery.
“I’m not speaking to you,” I tell him. “Go away.”
He draws back his lips, exposing straggly teeth, and laughs. I close my eyes: if I can’t see him, he can’t see me.
“Tell me your first memory.”
I lift an eyelid.
“Oh, you’re back, are you? Why do you want to know? The other one said it was irrelevant.”
“The other one?”
“The walrus man. White bushy moustache. Rather tusky.”
I hadn’t liked him. He always seemed ready to dig into me in a way I knew would be painful.
“I wasn’t given cake at a birthday party.”
“That’s it?” He still sounds scornful.
“Yes. That is it. I really wanted a piece but they missed me out.”
“Then why didn’t you ask for some?”
“‘Askers don’t get’”, I state. “That’s what mum always said. ‘You get what you’re given. Like it or lump it.’”
He re-crosses his legs, rests an arm on his desk and lowers his neck to look out of the window. He often does this – pretending to be focussed on something going on outside but I know it is his way of getting me to say something else to break the silence. I’m not going to fall for it. Not this time. I am suddenly aware of a clock ticking.
Finally, he speaks. Ha! I win.
“Is that really your first memory or your most vivid?”
“It was formative. Isn’t that what you usually say? It shaped me.”
“It was not the incident which shaped you.” He inhales through flared nostrils. “How did you see your mother?”
“Rather mouselike.”
“And your father?”
“A lion.”
“A predictably patriarchal household.” He sucks some stem from his teeth. “And yourself?”
“A reluctant mouse. A wannabe lion. Dancing to the tune of others.”
“You seem to be mixing animal metaphors with music. Rather Saint-Saens.”
It’s my turn now to cross my legs and, for extra clout, I fold my arms as well. “My childhood was no carnival, let me assure you.”
He’s completely wrong. My household was not predictable: the mum isn’t the one who’s supposed to leave, but mine nibbled a hole in the skirting and kept gnawing till she fit through. Although I suppose that is what mice do.
“When your mother left, what was your father’s reaction?”
“He growled and roared for a while but soon returned to how he had always been. When did I tell you she left?”
A shrill buzzing indicates our time is up.
“Here’s a riddle,” he says, reaching for the final leaves. “What do you and your mother have in common?”
I want to say ‘nothing’. I didn’t abandon anyone. I stayed by my fathers side. I did my duty. And then I comprehend. We are the same mouse looking for a hole to take us to the things we dare not ask for.
He licks his lips. “Consider embracing your mother’s strength rather than resenting it.” He leads me to the door. “When you write your own symphony, you can compose your own crescendo. You don’t even need to ask.”
“How do I start?”
“Maybe with a stirring introduction.”
He bends his head as he exits, leaving behind a plant stripped bare and a jumble of notes on his chair. I slip them into my pocket.
‘Da da dum.’