Authonomy, the writers’ site under the auspices of Harper Collins, recently ran a Flash Fiction contest to mark the publication of a new book by one of the brightest stars in the Harper Collins firmament, Miranda Dickinson. Miranda’s book extends to 416 pages and the task was to produce a fully fledged story in exactly 416 words inspired by the title, ‘It Started with a Kiss.’
I’ve met Miranda Dickinson; she’s a delightful person and absolutely unchanged by her success. She even claimed to have a ‘lucky arse,’ but I suspect this was a ploy on her part to persuade gullible males to pay attention. If so, it worked.
Miranda would loathe my entry, so I didn’t bother to send it off. I just amended a piece I wrote on my blog some time ago to fit the word count. Here’s my Chick Lit / Romance take on “It Started with a Kiss’ in 416 words.
It Started with a Kiss.
The first time I kissed her was also the last. Sad, but in the circumstances, inevitable. We’re still together, but the relationship has changed. I’ve moved on and so has she.
Each in our own separate ways.
I perched for a moment on the arm of a wooden bench where a brass plaque said, ‘In memory of Dennis Clarke 1938 – 2003. A true friend and a devoted husband and father. He loved his work. Presented by his colleagues at Johnson and Son.’ Devoted husband and father who loved his work? A bit of a contradiction there, I thought, doing the maths in my head. Died at sixty-five. Retired and popped his clogs straight away. Perhaps he really did love his work.
A small white cloud rushed across the sky like a runaway swan, but in the lee of the gleaming three-storey buildings the air was still and quiet. In the absolute silence, you could have heard a nun fart.
A man, twenty-five or so, walked past the bench and glanced at it without particular interest. Poor old Dennis, no bugger cares. A police car drove slowly down the road, the officer in the passenger seat looking at tax discs on car windscreens. He gave me a long, hard stare that I returned with interest. I’d have to check online, but as far as I’m aware, loitering without any discernible intent was surely not a crime.
The police car turned round and headed back towards me. This could go either way as I’ve never been one for turning the other cheek, but I’m doing nothing wrong. What possible interest could they have in me? Almost without noticing, I clenched my fists. The car came abreast, slowed slightly, both officers favouring me with long, searching looks.
The car didn’t stop. Moved on. The attention of its occupants reverting to parked cars and out of date tax discs. I relaxed. They wouldn’t be back.
She was still with me and I could clearly recall that first and last kiss. Memories are so much better than reality, I feel. Memory remains while other aspects of a relationship decay.
I picked up my carrier bag from the side of the bench, tied a further knot at the top. It wasn’t leaking, not yet anyway, but there was always the chance. That’s the only problem with human heads when they’re still fresh. After a day or so, they’re fine, but the early stages are ruinous to clean clothing.
Humph – very romantic – well until the dog food !!!!!!!! Actually I had read this on the blog and it made me laugh – I know that probably means I am weird and twisted but so be it. You should have entered it.
LOL! Jake Barton, Romance Writer of a different sort!
I loved it but wonder if you may have been hoisted by your own petard perhaps? After all, what could be more romantic than being there both at the beginning AND at the end of her life? Dead she may be, but still locked together in an endless relationship. Shame she was in a carrier bag though – so plastic and unappealing – amongst the hedgrow fruits in a proper trug next time?
Of course the above is all absolute tosh. Ignore completely. As you were