~ Written by Danielle N. Bilski ~

How darkness grows

12pm yesterday/
disposal of 149 mushrooms
I plucked from a lush green back lawn
so my dog does not eat them.

7:45am this morning/
dawn light illuminated a resurgence
scattered 109 reinforcements haphazardly
germinated while I was sleeping.

In an unobserved environment
one seed can clone itself exponentially
in dirt, damp darkness.

Fungi keep growing in our gardens,
establishing themself and multiplying
if our gate is left open while we rest.

Every day we must assert,
a poison that disguises itself as food
does not fool us into trusting it will nourish us.

What does your darkness grow?

©2022 My Time With You

~ Written by Danielle N. Bilski ~

This is the second flash fiction story I entered into a competition in February, 2022. The longlist top 50 entries was posted yesterday, and I can now share this story with you. Enjoy!

It was born from ten random words which appeared through an online random word generator. Those words were fiction, dance, air, six, appear, line, change, second, lyrical, spiritual.

–

V e r b a t i m
by Danielle N Bilski
Word count: 360

Her text read: “2pm COVID-safe café date?”
Passing a soy cappuccino across the table, I unhook my disposable blue mask from my right ear before sitting.
“How’s your writing going?” I ask.
Tamsyn pulls the black mask beneath her chin.
“Great! I’m working on something new.”
I sip my latte.
“That’s awesome. What’s it about?” conceals my eagerness.
“It’s still taking shape, but I promise you’ll be the first person I share it with.”
I nod, smiling gently.
“You’ve got to be careful who you share your work with. Have I told you about this writer I knew?”
“Maybe. Tell me again?” She sips her coffee, licking chocolate-speckled milk foam from the corner of her mouth.
I rub sanitised palms on my thighs.
“Hope uses a pseudonym since her housemate stole a bunch of stories recorded in her voice. He published them under his name for two years.”
“Are. You. Serious?” She leans closer, the ends of her hair brushing between her breasts.
“He’d archived every conversation on his phone.” I glance at the USB attached to my car keys.
“Really? What happened?” Tilting her head, those turquoise eyes drown me every-bloody-time.
“Whenever words danced on the page from staring at the screen too long, she took a break. You know what that’s like, right?”
“Sure do.” Those. Eyes.
“She went outside for fresh air and fifteen minutes later discovered six lines of text she hadn’t typed. The second line she’d written was also changed.”
“He typed them for her?” I can’t tell whether Tamsyn’s impressed.
“Turns out, Hope had told the same story while they cooked dinner a few weeks earlier. She kept recalling that conversation and the creepiest part? She realised the copy was verbatim. Every single word was how she’d first told it.”
“Did he steal that story?”
“That’s how she discovered what’d been happening.” My irresistible climax.
“So, tell me. Have you been recording this conversation, Carter Reed?”
“No, Tams. Why?” I lie, reaching for her hand.
“Because I am. What I really wanna know is, when I publish this story verbatim, how do you feel about me including your real name?”
“Who is Carter Reed?”

©2022 Danielle N Bilski

~ Written by Danielle N. Bilski ~

This is the first flash fiction story I entered into an online competition in December, 2021. As a longlist of the top 50 stories was posted yesterday, I can now share my entry with you. I hope you enjoy it.

It was born from five random words which appeared through an online random word generator. Those words were tree, swing, scissors, pail, and broken.

–

U n b o u n d
by Danielle N Bilski
Word count: 242

“Sydney! Grab tha pail en go fetch us some water now, will ya?”

A tattered, brown notebook and blunt pencil tucked into front pocket of an apricot apron joined a heavy pair of dressmaking scissors found in the tool shed out back. Brushed aside long, chocolate fringe and lifted rusty bucket — leak hole seemed a little bigger every day.

“En don be so long this time, d’ya hear!”

Smirking as sun warmed goose-bumped, pale skin. Boring boring walk until Olivia, the neighbour’s daughter on Old Elm’s tyre swing topped Lemon Hill. Perfect pink bow, pink dress, pink sandals. Smile and hair shined, hiding a dark soul.

“Don’t touch my swing again, you filthy grub!”

Familiar shame kicked yellow gumboots through wildflowers and ruffled grime-stained sundress. Lake edge, small stones skid ripples across a magnificent blue liquid crystal. Two hands carried the heavy bucket — splashing and seeping.

Sun lower. Olivia gone. Climbed Lemon Hill and bucket dropped. A glistening puddle turned soil black and sloppy between fingers, under bitten fingernails. Scissors slowly frayed rope. Tyre spun free towards Olivia’s glowing house below. Scissors plopped into bucket. Notebook and pencil slid from untied apron, soles from boots.

Long, dry grass opened like a transient invitation. Palm against Old Elm’s trunk. Farewell, dearest friend. Arms spread as wide as eagle wings. Pages fluttered in whooshing wind when bare feet fled that night.

Unbound, I never returned.

– Lemon Hill, Australia. 9 December 1923

©2021 Danielle N. Bilski