AWC Furious Fiction – November 2018
AWC Furious Fiction - October 2018
Who the hell is driving this thing anyway?
Checkout section. Blaring neon lights. Generic radio advertising blasting through the PA. Polished white floor scuffed with black sole shoe skids. A pimple-faced youth in an ill-fitting uniform anxiously scurries around. An elderly woman calls for his attention and a teenage couple steal a Mars bar.
Surely, this corporation knows people are stealing. Pine-nuts go through as cashews. Mangoes as apples. Mars bars as nothing. The cost of people scamming just has to be lower than the cost to employ additional check-out staff.
The Lost Hour
The soft melody danced from her sister’s porcelain throat.
‘Red and yellow and pink and green–’
Emily winced at the cascade of melancholy memories. Her mother hanging clothes on the line, tall and graceful and perfect, her angelic voice carried across the fields by the warm wind of a summer’s morning. Her mother, singing in the kitchen, the soft notes floating through the house on the tail of the rabbit stew. Her mother, face of peace and beauty, sitting on her bed, stroking her hair, nursing her to sleep. The heavy blanket of her embrace, the safety of her touch, the surety of her words.