Ages and ages ago, I entered a short story competition. The results were out today and I didn’t place. Not that I particularly expected to; I just like using competition themes and deadlines to spur fresh ideas.
Anyway, I didn’t want the piece to go to waste, so I thought I’d share it here. I wrote it after I got back from Zambia, although it’s entirely fictional. It’s flash fiction (under 500 words) and the theme was travel.
Let me know what you think (you should be able to see a comments box at the bottom of this page) – as long as it’s constructive, I welcome all criticism!
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Kabwata market
by Rin Simpson
Kabwata market (via guideforafrica.com)
“Madame, please, come over here.” A man with a cultivated smile gestures towards his collection of carved wooden animals and soap stone dishes. “Looking is free,” he assures me.
Already I’m taking a breath to argue – I’ve visited Africa many times, I have all the tribal masks and boot-polished statuettes I need – but as I glance up, something stops me.
I don’t know whether it’s a trick of the light, or my own imagination, but it looks like there are tears in his eyes. Still the smile never leaves his face.
Silence stretches awkwardly. Around us, vendors haggle with pink-skinned tourists over amounts that wouldn’t buy half a cup of coffee in London.
I am filled with vague, gnawing guilt. The heat makes the air shimmer and suddenly I want to be back in England, with its faceless high street chains and thriving commercialism.
“A bracelet,” I say finally, grabbing a gaudy creation. “I’ll take a bracelet.”
Fishing a note from my pocket I thrust it towards him, not sure how much it is, not caring. For a moment I think he’s going to hug me, but he just grasps my hand in his cool, dry one, and says: “What about earrings to match?”
My laugh escapes like a gasp and I shake my head, slipping the bracelet onto my wrist. It’s actually quite pretty, a riot of crimson and ochre and gold. It looks exotic against my freckled skin.
As I hurry towards my car, parked under the shade of a jacaranda tree, my heart is lighter. At the end of the road I turn and wave, but he doesn’t see. There is another woman fingering the tray of rainbow coloured beads. I glance down at my own sparkling treasure and smile.
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