FLASH FICTION WEEK 2026
Runner-up
BY GAYLE BEVERIDGE
Copyright is held by the author.
GINA HAS set the table a treat; we might well have been dining at the royal palace. The brass candleholders made from shell casings her great-grandfather brought home from the Somme take pride of place on her Nanna’s hand-embroidered tablecloth.
Montague enters the room, in tails no less, and a red bow tie. He struts in like he owns the place and sits at the head of the table — the cheek of him. He runs his fingers along the length of one of the candleholders. He would do anything to get them. They call it trench art now, and collectors will pay a tidy sum. Should Montague ask Gina just once more to sell them, she will likely show him the door. Never mind he’s married to our best friend Prue — poor soul. Although I’ve said to Gina time and again, “Prue brought this on herself. She wouldn’t have looked sideways at Montague if he hadn’t been rich.”
He sees me and smiles; a thin-lipped, greasy grin, and he raises a glass of champagne.
“Mirabelle, it’s been a while.” He cocks an eyebrow and winks.
It’s not long enough for my liking. Look at the fool with his silly moustache and slicked black 1930s hair.
“Delighted to see you Montague,” I say, my lips tight and twisted.
He plays with the stem of his glass and smirks.
Gina has worked hard to make this evening special; is it too much to hope he doesn’t spoil it? How can we forget the trip on the stairs at the Regent Theatre that brought usherettes to his aid? Or the soup spill at the Fiery Dragon that secured him special service.
I turn from him and pretend to be studying the impressionist art above Gina’s mantle. The aroma of roast lamb wafts in from the kitchen. I’m looking forward to the meal — the tender, juicy lamb, the crisp roast potatoes, the sweet honeyed carrots. The inevitable stories from Montague hold far less appeal. Still, I’ll smile and pretend to listen.
A raucous, honking cough drags me from my reverie. Montague is out of his chair and bent double, his face a burnt-blush red, and his ample buttocks straining his trousers. No doubt he’s gorged himself. Montague never eats his hors d’oeuvres one at a time; he shovels them in by the handful.
We all look on in horror. Is this just another of Montague’s attention-grabbing stunts? I stare, my lips pursed and my arms crossed. He’s holding his throat now, and his face has paled. What if it’s real this time? Damn! I speed to his aid and wrap my arms around him to perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre, and I harbour the delicious hope I might break a rib.
“Mirabelle,” he gasps as he recovers. He takes my hand and plants a slimy kiss on my knuckles. “You’ve saved my life.”
I can barely hold my tongue, and I can’t help thinking; next time I’ll let him choke.
***
Gayle is a past winner of the Boroondara Literary Awards and The Margaret Hazzard Short Story Award. Her work has appeared in anthologies including Storm, Award Winning Australian Writing, Sparx, Transformations, The Umbrella’s Shade, and Mosaic. Gayle lives on Australia’s Bass Coast and divides her time between writing, photography, birdwatching and walks in the bush.