2019 Exeter Flash Competition
Winner:
Ernie and the Carrot Seeds Sherry Morris
Once upon a time, a harried woman sent her out-of-work husband to do the weekly shop. She gave him a list and strict instructions as they had seven children and no spare money for frivolities. But like most men, he had selective hearing and was easily distracted. He wandered the aisles, admiring brightly coloured packaging and shelves of beer.
In aisle six, a woman wearing high heels and a bikini offered the man a small bag of carrot seeds in exchange for his shopping money. The seeds were magical she said, then batted her eyelashes and shimmied. The man thought this was an excellent offer, especially if she shimmied again. He decided she selected him for his good looks and clever mind. He thought if his wife had the seeds, she, too, would see these qualities in him. He handed over the money and ran home with his purchase.
‘You freakin’ bum,’ the man’s wife screeched. ‘What’ll we do with these?’
And the man suddenly found it difficult to explain the bikini woman and how the seeds were an excellent offer. He did try, but he failed.
‘Next time, trade your fishing rods,’ the man’s wife shouted.
He became very quiet then, understanding this was a deeply serious matter, and made no attempt to stop his wife when she threw the seeds out the window and got a third job.
But the seeds were magical. The carrots grew. To gargantuan size. As if they’d been planted in soil from Chernobyl. The leafy tops were like trees, providing shade for the man to laze in. And while he lazed, he wished with all his heart his wife didn’t have to work three jobs so she could dig a pond for him to fish in from his own backyard. Together they’d sit in carrot leaf shade all the rest of their days.
Day after day, the man lazed against a giant carrot, wishing for a pond and enough money so his wife could join him. Now the magical force of the carrots was truly great, for one day the man had a good idea. He would tunnel down a carrot, to the other side of the world, looking for gold coins and a pond with shaded seating.
But the journey was long. And the man forgot to ask his wife for sandwiches. While he tunnelled, he nibbled carrot. For three days and nights he travelled down, down, down in complete darkness. By the fourth day he could see perfectly thanks to eating so much carrot.
And when the man tunnelled out, he found a world of pristine lakes full of fish and couples relaxing together by shaded ponds, and other wondrous sights.
This made the man very happy and excited, but also very sad because he didn’t have his fishing rod or his wife with him. He realised he couldn’t climb back up the carrot.
Luckily, the man’s wife was clever. She saw the empty place where her husband normally lazed and the carrot tunnel and understood. While the man was scratching his head and farting, a bucket of turkey sandwiches and his mobile arrived on the end of a fishing hook.
The man rang his wife to tell her of this fabulous world and insisted she join him.
‘Only if the men look like George Clooney and help with housework,’ the man’s wife said. ‘I’m not making the same mistake twice!’
The man told his wife the men did all the housework and cooked heavenly-tasting brownies that never appeared later on thighs or stomachs, though nobody cared if they did.
‘They look more like Tom Hardy than George Clooney,’ the man said. ‘If that’s alright?’
‘That’ll do,’ she responded and said she’d be down as soon as she found someone to cover her shift.
‘Come now!’ the man said and tugged with all his might on the fishing line. Down she came, shimmying along the line. She glowed and the man thought she was a thousand times more attractive than the woman in aisle six even wearing elasticated trousers and a top stained with baby sick. And because this really is a fairy tale, the woman left the children behind and no one made her feel one bit guilty because it wouldn’t even be an issue for the man now, would it?
They lived happily ever after, but the wife especially so as she adored brownies and the fish would only bite once the man had finished all the chores.
Ernie and the Carrot Seeds Sherry Morris
Once upon a time, a harried woman sent her out-of-work husband to do the weekly shop. She gave him a list and strict instructions as they had seven children and no spare money for frivolities. But like most men, he had selective hearing and was easily distracted. He wandered the aisles, admiring brightly coloured packaging and shelves of beer.
In aisle six, a woman wearing high heels and a bikini offered the man a small bag of carrot seeds in exchange for his shopping money. The seeds were magical she said, then batted her eyelashes and shimmied. The man thought this was an excellent offer, especially if she shimmied again. He decided she selected him for his good looks and clever mind. He thought if his wife had the seeds, she, too, would see these qualities in him. He handed over the money and ran home with his purchase.
‘You freakin’ bum,’ the man’s wife screeched. ‘What’ll we do with these?’
And the man suddenly found it difficult to explain the bikini woman and how the seeds were an excellent offer. He did try, but he failed.
‘Next time, trade your fishing rods,’ the man’s wife shouted.
He became very quiet then, understanding this was a deeply serious matter, and made no attempt to stop his wife when she threw the seeds out the window and got a third job.
But the seeds were magical. The carrots grew. To gargantuan size. As if they’d been planted in soil from Chernobyl. The leafy tops were like trees, providing shade for the man to laze in. And while he lazed, he wished with all his heart his wife didn’t have to work three jobs so she could dig a pond for him to fish in from his own backyard. Together they’d sit in carrot leaf shade all the rest of their days.
Day after day, the man lazed against a giant carrot, wishing for a pond and enough money so his wife could join him. Now the magical force of the carrots was truly great, for one day the man had a good idea. He would tunnel down a carrot, to the other side of the world, looking for gold coins and a pond with shaded seating.
But the journey was long. And the man forgot to ask his wife for sandwiches. While he tunnelled, he nibbled carrot. For three days and nights he travelled down, down, down in complete darkness. By the fourth day he could see perfectly thanks to eating so much carrot.
And when the man tunnelled out, he found a world of pristine lakes full of fish and couples relaxing together by shaded ponds, and other wondrous sights.
This made the man very happy and excited, but also very sad because he didn’t have his fishing rod or his wife with him. He realised he couldn’t climb back up the carrot.
Luckily, the man’s wife was clever. She saw the empty place where her husband normally lazed and the carrot tunnel and understood. While the man was scratching his head and farting, a bucket of turkey sandwiches and his mobile arrived on the end of a fishing hook.
The man rang his wife to tell her of this fabulous world and insisted she join him.
‘Only if the men look like George Clooney and help with housework,’ the man’s wife said. ‘I’m not making the same mistake twice!’
The man told his wife the men did all the housework and cooked heavenly-tasting brownies that never appeared later on thighs or stomachs, though nobody cared if they did.
‘They look more like Tom Hardy than George Clooney,’ the man said. ‘If that’s alright?’
‘That’ll do,’ she responded and said she’d be down as soon as she found someone to cover her shift.
‘Come now!’ the man said and tugged with all his might on the fishing line. Down she came, shimmying along the line. She glowed and the man thought she was a thousand times more attractive than the woman in aisle six even wearing elasticated trousers and a top stained with baby sick. And because this really is a fairy tale, the woman left the children behind and no one made her feel one bit guilty because it wouldn’t even be an issue for the man now, would it?
They lived happily ever after, but the wife especially so as she adored brownies and the fish would only bite once the man had finished all the chores.
2nd Prize
Tin Man Kate Lee
I was born under a purple August sky. Rain battered our old tin roof so hard no-one heard my first cries. Explains why you been yellin’ ever since, Mama used to say. Guess I was a noisy kinda kid, a who-you-messin’ with, say-that-again-why-don’t-ya kinda kid. Aggravatin’. Mama kept her cool and kept me outa trouble, no matter how hard I tried to find it. Now I’m grown and mostly home, she got nothin’ more to fret over than twitching the curtains into place. Proper windows we have now, see. A proper roof. A front step big enough for two to sit on and a view of the whole valley. Mama’s favourite place and mine right next to her.
Weren’t always so.
Time was, we had two cracked bowls and one clotted mattress. We ate what we could trap.
Only view we had then was hurryin’ legs, desperate to rush away from my beggin’ eyes and Mama’s empty tin bowl.
Those same legs came rushin’ right back once news leaked about what Mama found out back of the shack.
And legally owned.
It took my whole childhood to build our mine. Mama fought off every beau, crook and lawyer for two hundred miles. Soon as I could lift it, she gave me a gun. My bones are skinny like wire and I never did grow real tall, but my eyes are still quick as bullets.
Folks round about don’t notice. All they see is our big old house with its big old porch, built with a big old pile of tin money. Folks don’t listen, neither. When I tells ’em how things used to be, their faces go kinda still. Yeah right, they’s thinkin’. Your life musta been real hard, fella.
I guess the rain just washed their memories clean away.
These old days I’m done yellin’ at folk. I just drum my fingers on the roof of the truck till I’m ready to roll. My tyres do the screeching for me. I don’t look back. But I know Mama’s there on the porch, our porch, watchin’, that proud old smile twitching on her lips.
You rest up, Mama, I holler. I got this! The din from the mine swells in my ears, fills the valley. My words rise like dust into the August sky. It’s purple with smoke. Sun cracks open a cloud, fat as a mattress. Sky’s all lit up, shiny bright like tin.
Tin Man Kate Lee
I was born under a purple August sky. Rain battered our old tin roof so hard no-one heard my first cries. Explains why you been yellin’ ever since, Mama used to say. Guess I was a noisy kinda kid, a who-you-messin’ with, say-that-again-why-don’t-ya kinda kid. Aggravatin’. Mama kept her cool and kept me outa trouble, no matter how hard I tried to find it. Now I’m grown and mostly home, she got nothin’ more to fret over than twitching the curtains into place. Proper windows we have now, see. A proper roof. A front step big enough for two to sit on and a view of the whole valley. Mama’s favourite place and mine right next to her.
Weren’t always so.
Time was, we had two cracked bowls and one clotted mattress. We ate what we could trap.
Only view we had then was hurryin’ legs, desperate to rush away from my beggin’ eyes and Mama’s empty tin bowl.
Those same legs came rushin’ right back once news leaked about what Mama found out back of the shack.
And legally owned.
It took my whole childhood to build our mine. Mama fought off every beau, crook and lawyer for two hundred miles. Soon as I could lift it, she gave me a gun. My bones are skinny like wire and I never did grow real tall, but my eyes are still quick as bullets.
Folks round about don’t notice. All they see is our big old house with its big old porch, built with a big old pile of tin money. Folks don’t listen, neither. When I tells ’em how things used to be, their faces go kinda still. Yeah right, they’s thinkin’. Your life musta been real hard, fella.
I guess the rain just washed their memories clean away.
These old days I’m done yellin’ at folk. I just drum my fingers on the roof of the truck till I’m ready to roll. My tyres do the screeching for me. I don’t look back. But I know Mama’s there on the porch, our porch, watchin’, that proud old smile twitching on her lips.
You rest up, Mama, I holler. I got this! The din from the mine swells in my ears, fills the valley. My words rise like dust into the August sky. It’s purple with smoke. Sun cracks open a cloud, fat as a mattress. Sky’s all lit up, shiny bright like tin.
3rd Prize
Looking for the King Fay Dickinson
The King Lives. I know that Elvis is supposed to have died before I was born, and the other girls at school think I’m daft to be obsessed with him, but I think he’s somewhere in England, either alive or a reinclination, whatever that word is that means you come back as something else.
I thought he might be old Mr Smith when I saw that his house is named Gracelands. I knocked on the door and told him that I had a “Suspicion” he was really Elvis. He was very rude.
“Don’t waste my time, you silly girl,” he snarled, so I asked him why he’d called his house Gracelands. It turned out it was from the names of himself and his family. Grace the wife, Celia the daughter and Andrew, the grumpy old git, plus the “s” for Smith. I shouted that his family should be called Horace Riddler and Mandy, and left him working out that this made “horrid man” as I ran down the road. Of course Riddler isn’t a proper name, except in “Batman” films, but I couldn’t think of anything else.
Last week I was convinced that the Scottish lad working in the “Big Fat Fryer” was Elvis. He’s a bit narky with customers who dither about what they want and I once heard him say, “Make up your mind, pal. I have nae got all day. It’s now or never”, plus there’s that song “There’s a man works down the chip shop swears he’s Elvis”. I went in for a bag of chips, accompanied by my brother and our dog, Presley. I sang “The Wonder of You” but the Scottish bloke just asked, “Are ye barking?” I was a bit put out. I told him that Presley is a quiet dog and never barks in chip shops, so I tried singing “Now or Never”. He said “Make it now, lass. There’s a queue.” I was about to launch into another song when he growled, “Do ye want battered?” We left the shop in a hurry after my brother informed me that this was a threat, not a request regarding my fish order.
Walking home, and feeling rather hungry, I remembered that Elvis could eat a whole chocolate cake in one sitting, so I decided to make one and tempt him to our house. My sarcastic brother said that Elvis might have sang about a wooden heart, but it didn’t mean he’d want to eat one. I ignored him and made my cake. I left it in the sitting room when everyone had gone to bed.
The next day, when I got home from school, I found Presley lying on the rug in front of the fire feeling rather sorry for himself. He was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses because my brother said the glare of the lights seemed to be hurting the dog’s eyes. It was Presley who had eaten my chocolate cake and mum had ended up taking him to the vet’s. My brother had to say, “Anyone who eats her cake is bound to need medical treatment.”
That’s when I knew. I looked at Presley and said, “It’s him.”
“No” laughed Dad and he looked at Presley and sang, “You ain’t nothing, but a hound dog.”
“Not Elvis,” I replied. “Roy Orbison.”
Looking for the King Fay Dickinson
The King Lives. I know that Elvis is supposed to have died before I was born, and the other girls at school think I’m daft to be obsessed with him, but I think he’s somewhere in England, either alive or a reinclination, whatever that word is that means you come back as something else.
I thought he might be old Mr Smith when I saw that his house is named Gracelands. I knocked on the door and told him that I had a “Suspicion” he was really Elvis. He was very rude.
“Don’t waste my time, you silly girl,” he snarled, so I asked him why he’d called his house Gracelands. It turned out it was from the names of himself and his family. Grace the wife, Celia the daughter and Andrew, the grumpy old git, plus the “s” for Smith. I shouted that his family should be called Horace Riddler and Mandy, and left him working out that this made “horrid man” as I ran down the road. Of course Riddler isn’t a proper name, except in “Batman” films, but I couldn’t think of anything else.
Last week I was convinced that the Scottish lad working in the “Big Fat Fryer” was Elvis. He’s a bit narky with customers who dither about what they want and I once heard him say, “Make up your mind, pal. I have nae got all day. It’s now or never”, plus there’s that song “There’s a man works down the chip shop swears he’s Elvis”. I went in for a bag of chips, accompanied by my brother and our dog, Presley. I sang “The Wonder of You” but the Scottish bloke just asked, “Are ye barking?” I was a bit put out. I told him that Presley is a quiet dog and never barks in chip shops, so I tried singing “Now or Never”. He said “Make it now, lass. There’s a queue.” I was about to launch into another song when he growled, “Do ye want battered?” We left the shop in a hurry after my brother informed me that this was a threat, not a request regarding my fish order.
Walking home, and feeling rather hungry, I remembered that Elvis could eat a whole chocolate cake in one sitting, so I decided to make one and tempt him to our house. My sarcastic brother said that Elvis might have sang about a wooden heart, but it didn’t mean he’d want to eat one. I ignored him and made my cake. I left it in the sitting room when everyone had gone to bed.
The next day, when I got home from school, I found Presley lying on the rug in front of the fire feeling rather sorry for himself. He was wearing a pair of dark sunglasses because my brother said the glare of the lights seemed to be hurting the dog’s eyes. It was Presley who had eaten my chocolate cake and mum had ended up taking him to the vet’s. My brother had to say, “Anyone who eats her cake is bound to need medical treatment.”
That’s when I knew. I looked at Presley and said, “It’s him.”
“No” laughed Dad and he looked at Presley and sang, “You ain’t nothing, but a hound dog.”
“Not Elvis,” I replied. “Roy Orbison.”