Free Reads

There's a lovely competition Matthew loves to enter every month called Furious Fiction, which is run by the wonderful people over at The Australian Writers' Centre. Here, Matthew will be posting all his entries to that competition, as well as any other short stories or flash fiction he writes.

I itched to be buried. The process of decomposition thrilled me as the excitement for my next adventure loomed. The earth had provided all I needed to grow. Every drop of water and every nutrient encouraged me to reach for the heavens. Now it was time to return.

The service began with a priest standing above me, lifting his voice to the heavens. Singing intervals broke up sections between his sermon, before family members took to the podium to read their very moving eulogies. Whoever this dead man was, he was loved and appreciated by all.

I couldn’t stop myself from wondering how my eulogy would read if anyone lamented my loss. My assistance went without thanks. My existence occurred without notice. But my impact was profound.

Millions of years ago my tough exterior provided an opportunity for claws to be sharpened in preparation for battle. Flying dinosaurs nested in my canopy, and under that my thick roots provided a safe haven from the predators that were always on the prowl.

When I fell, I was reclaimed by my mother who nurtured me and promised me new life. There was more I had to do.

We had the sun and the moon. It was as simple as that. And then man created the flames that licked at my skin. As my blackened ashes returned to the earth, I watched as man grew stronger.

I was shaped into smooth logs. Gigantic blocks of stone rolled along me. It was hard to imagine what the angry men with the whips were planning until the giant pyramids took shape. Once formed and no longer requiring me, I was cut into many smaller pieces and repurposed. I became weapons and tools; I travelled far and remained near.

Waves crashed against my hull in the race to find new land and conquer strange people. Other ships made it to shore, but a sharp reef tore through me and debris littered the ocean. For years I washed up on foreign beaches where my uses continued to morph and expand.

Heavy-laden dinner plates rested on me as a family ate together and shared news of their day. Books with the secrets to the universe lay on my shelves waiting to be explored. I created the sturdy structure from which a home could then be made from. Students leant over me, furiously studying and typing and growing. Children laughed as they played with me, building tall, colourful castles and whatever their imagination could conceive. Loved ones gathered to say their final goodbye, and my most important action on this earth was transporting their beloved to his final resting place.

My eulogy would be an epic. But a eulogy was reserved for death, and my new life was just beginning.

Chontelle’s filled-to-excess lips squelch apart with the sound of a sticky thigh peeling off a plastic chair in the middle of summer. She chews her Wrigley’s Extra like a ruminating cow and, upon seeing me, tucks her phone inside her knock-off Chanel bag and waves.

Great, I’m going to have to talk to her.

Her fingers are adorned with two-inch nails covered in diamantes. She sports a patchy tan that’s both too dark and too orange, poorly applied cheap hair extensions, and enough makeup to give a drag queen a conservative Amish look.

I retrieve my cake from the car and walk over to her. “Hi, Chontelle!” I exclaim with air kisses, hoping bad taste isn’t contagious. I pull back dizzy from her overpowering celebrity perfume. “You look gorge, babe.”

“Hi, darl,” she drawls in a voice she’s only started using since watching The Real Housewives of Sydney. “Your cake looks stunning. A solid second place after my masterpiece.” She pulls her cake out of her car, and together, we begin walking them over to the judging pavilion.

I grind my teeth as I glance down at her perfect cake. Tiny sesame seeds cover a browned bun. She’s opted for buttercream decorations to bring her burger cake to life. Beside it rests a neat package of shortbread cookie “fries”.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” I mutter. As much as I hate her, there is no denying she makes the better cakes.

No one would know that my sandwich is all cake. Inside is a moist chocolate sponge and the outside is perfectly covered in fondant decorations to resemble fresh bread, crisp lettuce, and juicy tomato. But what if it’s dry? What if the judges notice the lumpy consistency of the fondant?

I need this win.

“Darl, you wouldn’t believe. Work is so busy,” Chontelle whines, smacking her lips as she chews her gum between words. “The stress is killing me, darl. It’s killing me!”

I take some deep breaths but her entitled whining and lip smacking are driving a screwdriver into the back of my head. She’s complaining about being too busy while my business is barely staying afloat.

“I saw this ah-mazing healer and she gave me some amethysts for calming, but honestly, I’d prefer a xanax and a sav blanc.”

We pass the sideshow alley with the twisted rollercoaster and the bumper cars. We smell the exotic animals before we pass them, and as we near the livestock, I refuse to listen to another word from this fake cow.

I bump my hip into hers and watch in slow motion as she tumbles. Her cake splatters upside down in the dirt while Chontelle falls face-first into a fresh cow patty.

The cow above her chews vacantly on a wad of grass and I pray it has another patty preloaded and ready for delivery.

“Kaytlynne!” Chontelle screams wiping her face and losing a drawn-on eyebrow.

“Sorry, got to go. I have a cake competition to win!”

Basil lived in a commune of lively baboons. His brothers and sisters were silly buffoons.

Tired of the loons playing their bassoons, Basil wanted to explore that which was unknown. So, he put on his explorer’s cap, which was a deep maroon, and away he went that fine afternoon.

“Come back!” Mummy baboon cried. “You might get lost!”

“I’ll be fine!” Basil replied, hoping mummy wasn’t too cross.

Basil swung from a tree branch and found a new friend.

“Good afternoon,” he said to the raccoon. “What a wonderful weekend!”

“My name is Roger. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Where are you going? What will you do? And may I ask with whom?”

“I’m on an adventure alone to explore the jungle!”

“May I join you, new friend? Or would that be a bungle?”

“It would be a lampoon, my new friend, Roger Raccoon! So please, join my escapade on this fine afternoon.”

Without waiting to elaborate, the new friends did explore, the jungle, the canopy, the river, and more.

Away they went, a merry band, searching for adventure across the land. Their ideas, their imagination, were nothing but grand.

Roger looked up at the skies, and stroked his chin—so wise. “But I must warn you, dear baboon, there’s a monsoon coming soon.”

“Can you carry a tune?” asked Basil the baboon, ignoring the threat of impending doom.

"I think I would be a boon,” said Roger the raccoon, and off the two friends went, harmonising their tune.

Right then, a crack of lightning tore through the sky, and both friends did know their adventure had gone awry.

“Oh no! The monsoon!” wailed Basil the baboon.

“I did warn you before noon,” reminded Roger the raccoon.

The thunder grumbled like a marching platoon. Not caring at all for those caught in its monsoon.

A strewn stick scratched the leg of Basil the baboon.

“Oh no!” cried Roger. “Look at your wound!”

He gathered some objects, some leaves, some vine, and he wrapped up the wound, so soon, it would be fine.

“I think it’s time we returned home, safe and secure.”

“I agree,” said Basil. “We must end this adventure premature.”

Once safe back at home, with his siblings in his room, Basil dreamed of his adventure, under the glow of the moon.

Sunrise welcomes me as I collapse onto a bench in front of the hospital and take my first sip of caffeine since starting my shift over twelve hours ago. I lack the energy to stretch my aching back, and I’m so drained of emotion I can’t weep for the elderly man in bay four I just pronounced dead, my signature on his death certificate still visible in my mind’s eye.

I finished a few minutes early—a small reward that in no way compensates for the horror of working night shift on New Year’s Eve. My ride is five minutes away. Soon, I’ll be in the bath, relaxing with a glass of wine and a bath bomb before I fall into a fitful sleep full of the nightmares of my job.

Cigarette smoke poisons the air from a patient I spent six hours pumping full of steroids, antibiotics, and oxygen. She gasps for air in between drags and I turn a blind eye, too tired to fight a losing battle.

“It’s an invasion of my privacy! I refuse to scan in!” an angry visitor yells.

“Well, sir, if you don’t scan in with the COVIDsafe app we can’t let you in. It’s hospital and government policy,” a nurse calmly responds.

My face itches and aches from the masks, the scars etched deep into my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. Painful eczema stiffens my knuckles as I bring my coffee to my lips and let the nurse handle the covidiot. I’ve dealt with my fair share already.

I watch several of the drunks and drug addicts stagger out the emergency department and into taxis and Ubers. Faces I’ve seen before and faces I’ll see again. That man in bay four... There is only so much time... Limited resources. What if...

I’m saved from my dark thoughts by a rush of new casualties.

The angry visitor in the midst of his COVID rant clutches his chest and collapses to his knees.

Acute Myocardial Infarction. Possible angina. Needs bloods and ECG. High priority.

A car careens into the loading bay. A panting woman screams from the backseat. A man jumps out. “Help! My wife is in labour!”

Labour. Unknown risk factors. Moderate to high priority.

My smoking patient from earlier pushes her zimmer frame back towards the hospital when a kid on a bicycle zooms past her and knocks her to the ground where she writhes in pain, clutching her hip.

Likely fractured neck of femur. Needs imaging and ortho referral. Low priority.

My phone pings with the reminder of unanswered messages. I glance down to a wave of texts begging for overtime shifts to fill the understaffed hospital.

I could go home. Bath. Wine. Sleep... My own Uber is now three minutes away.

I cancel my ride with the click of a button and down the rest of my coffee before starting another twelve hours in emergency.

Detective Humphries had a triumphant glimmer in his eye. He had already solved the case, and now the pressure was on me to reach the same conclusion. He knew I wanted to make the jump from senior constable to detective. Impressing him right now was a sure-fire way to get a recommendation—if only I wasn’t so distracted.

I glanced at my phone. No signal and shoddy WiFi. I needed to trust that my wife would be okay. She was with her parents who would take her to the hospital if she went into labour. It was still a week out from the due date, but she had that mother’s intuition the baby would come early, and I would hate to not be there for her.

“Thoughts?” Detective Humphries asked.

“Well,” I began, stuffing my phone in my pocket.

The forensics team busied themselves with photographing and bagging evidence. Anything outside would be long-destroyed by the storm that had been raging all night long.

I cleared my throat. “Our victim was murdered a little before midnight. Suffocated by one of her pillows. She was the mother of three adult children who had all returned home for the weekend for her birthday.”

Humphries nodded.

“Fred, her eldest son, said he went to bed early. He finished nightshift yesterday and was exhausted. According to his siblings, he was the apple of his mother’s eye, and she had left a larger portion of the will to him. They threatened to tell her about his gambling addiction, and once she knew about it, she would cut him from the will, so he has a clear motive.”

Humphries remained tight-lipped.

“Stephanie, the middle child, also went to bed early. She claimed to be victimised by her two brothers who accused her of stealing from their mum’s accounts. They said she was always holidaying, partying, or going on shopping sprees, and that she was fired six months ago for poor performance. They both described her as a snake.”

Still, Humphries gave nothing away.

“Liam, the youngest, was in the downstairs living room all night watching Netflix. He didn’t hear or see anything, too engrossed in that new season of the glass blowing competition. His siblings mentioned a narcotic addiction and their mother planned to cut her financial support for him if he didn’t go to rehab.”

I inhaled deeply. They all had decent motives and no alibi. I needed to impress Detective Humphries, but I couldn’t quite figure out who murdered their mother. Was it all three? There must be something I was overlooking.

“Well, you can’t sit on the fence. Give me a name now and I’ll go arrest them.”

I wanted to check on my wife so bad, but my phone still didn’t have any reception. And by that logic, the storm would have affected everyone in the house. “Arrest Liam,” I said confidently. “There’s no way he could have watched Netflix all night with the bad WiFi in this house.”

That phrase about ‘butterflies in the stomach’ never meshed with me. It’s always felt more like a rat trying to claw its way out. I ignore the uncomfortable sensation and finish the last three sips of my wine in one large gulp.

My date is handsome; too handsome for someone like me. He has a button nose, piercing eyes, and a heart-shaped face. And he’s laughing at my jokes.

He leans forward. “Tell me about your interests.”

A guy who wants to get to know me. I could swoon. “I’m an accountant,” I say. “I love fantasy books, and I’ve recently jumped on the bandwagon and binged all the serial killer documentaries and podcasts.”

His face lights up. “Me too!”

We talk for hours about Ted Bundy, Peter Sutcliffe, the Zodiac Killer, and others who have found eternal fame. Food is delivered and goes cold; wine glasses are refilled several times. This perfect date tempts me to ignore the warnings from my friends to not sleep with him just yet. That’s apparently my MO. I fall in love, I give the guy what he wants, and then he ghosts me. But I’m drawn to him like no one else before. Maybe if I blow his mind, he’ll want a second date.

We’re kissing in the parking lot, waiting for our ride. We hold hands in the back of the Uber and make small talk with the driver. I just want to be in his bed, naked bodies pressed against each other.

His house is understated and clean. He opens an expensive bottle of red that exudes a delicate perfume of plums and chocolate. The golden glow of several candles invites me to his bed, and the wine takes care of my inhibitions.

He’s tanned and muscular, but safe and strong. My insecurities about my glasses or my soft and doughy midsection vanish. Our love is passionate, my need for him immeasurable. A life where he ghosts me is overwhelming. I can’t allow him to hurt me.

When he lies there silent and still, I imagine our life together: years of magical dates, a surprise engagement on the beach, an intimate wedding, two children. He’s the best father and husband, the loudest cheerleader at our daughter’s dance recitals and the biggest supporter of our son’s academic pursuits.

I leave his body on the bed and make myself a cup of tea while I tidy for him. Everything I touched gets the royal bleach treatment. Lastly, I wipe my razor-sharp knife clean. The blood has begun to congeal, now thick as honey.

It’s an effort to move him into the living room and position him in front of the television. We watch a movie together while the bedsheets tumble through the washing machine.

With a heavy heart, I say my final goodbyes. Our love today might have been brief, but one day it might inspire others, like Ted Bundy’s love inspired me.

“Welcome to Australia’s Next Great Birdwatcher. I'm your host, Grant Williams, and we are about to embark on one of the most thrilling live competition shows to swoop onto your screens this year.”

“Really?” I turn to my partner. “You're watching a show about bird watchers?” I roll my eyes. “Riveting.” This was one of those few moments I was grateful for COVID restrictions, otherwise he’d have dragged me there to watch in person.

Grant continues, “We have twelve avid birdwatchers willing to prove they have what it takes to become Australia’s next great birdwatcher and receive a hundred thousand dollars and a lifetime subscription to Birdwatchers monthly.”

I turn my attention back to my crossword. “There really is some garbage on TV these days, isn’t there?” I thought they had already scraped the bottom of the barrel, but apparently not. “I don't know what’s worse, the fact someone thought this was a good idea, or people actually watch it.”

Grant squelches through mud as he addresses the camera. “Our contestants’ first challenge is to take the most creative photo of a water bird in these stunning wetlands. Our judges are nesting by to score the contestants.” The camera pans to three fabulously dressed people with scoring pads at the ready.

Dramatic music thunders from the TV as forty-six-year-old David presses himself to the ground and commando crawls to the water’s edge. He snaps a few photos of a Pied Heron before the scene flashes to his confessional where he talks about the struggles of being a professional birdwatcher.

“Here’s a tip for you, David. Maybe get a real job if you want to pay the bills.”

My husband sighs as I focus my attention back on my crossword. “What’s an eight-letter word for hypocrite?” A flash of movement on screen calls to me. “Did you see that?” I stare at the TV, waiting to see if the bird will dive into the water again. Did David see it too? Was he fast enough to capture it? The Little Kingfisher had feathers of a brilliant blue that would photograph beautifully.

The camera pans to another woman, camouflaged in reeds by the water’s edge. Her camera is trained on a mum and her chick.

I point at the screen, my crossword lying forgotten on my lap beside my microwave dinner. “What’s she wasting time on an Australasian Grebe when there’s a Black-Fronted Dotterel right beside her?” I fling my pen across the room. “Does she want to win this competition, or not?”

At the end of the episode, David is announced the winner for his photograph of the Little Kingfisher emerging from the water with a fish in its beak. Light reflects off the splashing water, and I can’t help but think how stunning it would look in a frame in our hallway.

“I’m so happy for him,” I clap and then turn to my husband. “Want a cuppa before the next episode?”