I submitted my writing to a competition 😬

It is both exciting and terrifying.

Sep 23, 2024

Hello, you. It the start of a fresh week and I have to say, I’m feeling quite upbeat for a Monday. I, Kelly, do not like Mondays. Weekends are too short and my to-do list is too long.

Why the good mood? With a little extra encouragement from my amazing fiancé, I finally sat down, finished a story, and submitted it to a writing competition. Specifically, Mslexia’s flash fiction competition.

*Footage of me feeling all the dopamine enter my brain when I write.*

It might not seem like a big deal to you, or to writers who are used to submitting their work, but it a huge step for me. I have a long history of starting stories but not finishing them, let alone submitting anything to a competition. I’ve spoken about this before, but I suppose it’s a matter of believing in my own work, ability, et cetera.

Anyway, I wrote a longer piece and then edited it heavily to get it to fit the flash fiction category (super short fiction, up to 1,500 words but generally circa 300-500). Since you guys have been so supportive about my writing when I’ve shared it before, I thought I’d do it again. Let me know what you think!

TW: Light mention of SA.

🍷 A Single Glass of Wine —by Kelly Dent

Coming back home is an obligation when you’ve had the audacity to leave. Stay away too long, and they’ll think you believe you’re better than them. Family drop hints, sometimes using aging relatives to guilt you into spending your limited days off to sit with a scabby cup of tea and yell into your racist grandma’s ear for a while.

‘Oh you have to go see Jennifer’s baby while you’re here,’ my mother gushes. ‘Lyle, they’ve named him. Absolutely gorgeous.’ I’ve seen photos of the baby because Jennifer has uploaded 74 photos to an album. Excessive when you consider he’s barely existed for a month.

Lyle is not gorgeous. He has an old man’s face to match the unfortunate name he’s been given. He looks like he isn’t fully cooked through. I won’t take time off to go and see someone else’s half-baked ugly baby. I will not be visiting cousin Jennifer or wrinkly Lyle, but I mutter an uh-huh and cut the conversation short.

I glance at the time, relieved to end the call, when Anthea steps into the café. She looks good, with her trademark copper hair in loose waves that always seem to fall just right. As she pushes through the door, she slips the oversized sunglasses off her face and fumbles around in her also-oversized bag to put them away. She’s texting with the other hand, and nearly trips over the boho-chic rug on her way in. A perfect picture of chaos.

‘Emma! Hi! It’s been ages.’

‘I know, too long. I’ve ordered you an oat milk latte with an extra shot. Tell me that’s still your order or I will be very embarrassed.’

‘Spot on, thank you. And you’re still a black coffee gal I see.’

She tilts her head towards my cup, raising her eyebrows for a second. My Americano is still a fraction too hot but that’s how I like to drink it.

‘Well, it’s good to see you. I’m just sorry about the circumstances. Condolences, again.’

‘Thank you. It was so sudden—heart attack. Things feel a bit of a blur. But I’m okay—just got to keep moving I suppose.’ I sip my coffee as her order arrives. She thanks the waitress, who I recognise because my mother describes everyone in AA as though the anonymous part was optional. She’s not an alcoholic, by the way. Just chronically nosy.

‘If there’s anything I can do, you know I’m here.’

She’s already leaning in towards me, physically showing me her care, her love. She’s always been the more expressive one, the more empathetic one. She puts a hand out, like a promise. Proof that she is, in fact, here. I take her hand and we give each other a gentle squeeze, one of hundreds we’ve shared since we met in primary school. I’m here, it says. Still here.

‘How is Ash dealing with it all?’

‘She has good days and bad days,’ I take another sip, taking me to the half-way point of my cup. ‘I’ve got her in counselling to help—teenagers are more likely to tidy their rooms than talk to their mum, I think. She mostly reads her books, or goes into town with her friends.’

‘The counselling is a good move. I wish I had been nudged into that when I lost my dad.’

She takes a sip of her coffee, and for a moment I think I should abandon my plan. She seems happy, but then she always seemed okay. No matter what, she was always smiling and taking care of people around her. Taking care of me. When her dad died—hit by a drunk driver, had to be retrieved from a tree 100 metres away—she was constantly checking on everyone else. Making sure her mum had a cup of tea. Checking on the catering situation at the wake. Cheering up her younger brother. She was an obnoxiously selfless person, and I loved that about her. How could I tell her that I knew? How could I begin to unwrap the betrayal?

‘Oh, I’ve subscribed to one of those ancestry websites. It started as part of Ash’s school project but it’s good fun actually,’ I tip-toe forward. Fuck it.

‘I love that kind of thing. Still a history nerd at heart. I think Nick mentioned he’d used one of those sites a while back. Any good ancestors? Any rich, mysterious relatives ready to drop a bit of coin?’

‘Well, we do have a Scottish baron who gambled away his fortune on my dad’s side. There goes the generational wealth,’ I laugh, but it’s my nervous laugh and she probably knows it. I tap the side of my mug with my long, black nails. ‘There was another thing.’ Here we go.

‘Ash wanted to do one of those DNA submissions that tell you what you’re made up of. But what it also does is connect you to possible blood relatives who have also submitted DNA,’ I finish my coffee with a gulp. I lock eyes with Anthea and for a moment see through the always-on happy facade; she’s scared. She shifts in her seat, her smile wavering slightly as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘What did you find?’

‘Anth.’ I reach across the table for her hand. I squeeze it, it’s clammy. ‘I know. Nick is my husband’s, isn’t he?’

Her short, nibbled nails are digging into my hand, but I don’t mind. Her lip quivers like one of the russet leaves about to fall off the trees outside.

‘Emma it’s not what you think—‘

‘You don’t know what I think.’ The calm in my voice surprises her.

’14 years ago we were at that house party. The bank holiday weekend before my wedding,’ I’d gone home early because I’d overdone it on tequila. I didn’t want to ruin anyone’s night, so I’d slurred at Alfie that he should stay out and have fun.

‘It was him, wasn’t it? He did that to you, not some stranger like you told the police.’ Silent tears rolled down her face. I’d picked the most secluded spot in the café so she wouldn’t feel self-conscious. She nodded, holding her head in her free hand, trying to control her breathing. I held her other hand tighter.

‘I was scared you wouldn’t believe me, I thought you’d think it was an affair,’ she snotted. ‘I didn’t know what to do, and then you were set to move to London after the wedding. So I just buried it and focused on work, on being a mum.’

‘I believe you,’ he’d been aggressive with me a few times over the years, in and out of bed. I thought of all the times he pushed to have sex with me when I wasn’t in the mood. I’d relented because I thought that was what you’re meant to do when you’re married, right? I owed him sex. He’s a man. He needed sex. And if I didn’t give it to him, what if he went looking for it elsewhere? I think about the unanswered texts, the late nights when he came home smelling like cigarettes and whiskey. The odd unexplained scratch.

‘And I don’t think you were the only one he did it to,’ I say. ‘But let me promise you this: I made sure he would never hurt anyone else.’

Her eyes widen as she realises the gravity of what I’m saying. ‘Em, what did you do?’

It wasn’t anger that drove me to poison him, but a quiet, calculating clarity. He deserved it—every last drop.

‘Nothing much. I just poured him a big glass of Barolo—with notes of Oleander in it.’

Anthea’s hand trembles in mine, and she wipes her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt, wide hazel eyes reflecting the golden autumn light streaming through the window. She’ll thank me for this once the shock wears off. Outside, the last leaf of the season falls.