Microfiction with Olivia Pinnock

I signed up for the online workshop on writing microfiction or flash fiction as it is sometimes known. I feel some creative congestion lately, my process and work is taking too long and I feel like I need some quicker avenues for expressing ideas, as they expire, get lost and forgotten.

5 minutes | free writing exercise

Frequencies

A box radio with curved, wooden edges and small dent from when my brother knocked it off the window sill under the half curtain that kept the morning sun off the old, velvet armchair below. The apparatus itself is laughably anachronistic but the dial still turns beautifully, a satisfying, unimpeded slide from left to right, round and round, forever and ever. The red needle is clunkier, skips a little and gets a bit stuck in one spot, perhaps further injury caused by my clumsy brother. Flick, on. Crackle, scratch, crackle, murmur, silence. Briefly, a quiet peep. There it is - a tentacle, an awkward ‘pop’ of unfamiliar sound, muffled and far away, a single filament of mycelial hypha writhing its way through the airways. I feel hopeful, more and more little pops over the past few months, the fungi is stretching towards us, I hope, I am sure of it. I wonder whether it knows we are here, that it needs to find us.

163 words

100 words | free writing exercise

Glow Swarm

Since the Earth went dark I spend much of my time searching for scraps of paper. There are still places where it can be found, places that have escaped the elements and preserved fragments sometimes still with visible text or writing on them, vestiges of the old world. Yesterday, the Tawnies signalled day 12,672 and the glow worms were out, so I was able to piece together a few of my latest findings from the underground bunkers carefully excavated with my fingers sifting and searching for a papery flutter; one with numbers on it and a scrap that might once have been an official document. I see so little nowadays, a dull ache in my head as I strain to make sense of the darkness, waiting for the specks of bioluminescence to come in their slow, gentle swarms allowing my pupils to adjust wearily and make sense of the precious, ancient marks.

153 words

Another micro story

The Jungle Walk

Early morning but already hot, well, warm with a promise or threat of oppressive heat to come. Mosquitoes at the ready. The steep, curved steps, flaking white paint. A narrow road to cross that the red taxis still tear along so look both ways. Little Suzi was killed here, or was it Sadie, one of the dachshunds. Over and a little walk to the metal stairs with more flaking paint, dark green this time and the type that will cut your hand if you’re not careful. Something between a staircase and a ladder leading downwards into the jungly density, watching for creepy crawlies and smacking our legs to dispatch the pesky mozzies with vengeful reciprocity for the one that killed my Mum. Jump the last step onto the footpath and a rush of cool air: the secret place below the canopies above, protected from the drilling sun above and the sound of jackhammers from the construction sites and workmen shouting in Chinese from the bamboo scaffolding below. White bread, half melted margarine and still warm streaky bacon passed round, greasy and delicious. Warriors of the jungle we were, fearless and savage.

191 words