It’s Furious Fiction Time and the Criteria Is Rough

Are you game enough to try?

Photo from AWC website.

I’ve only ever partaken in AWC’s (Australian Writer’s Centre) Furious Fiction once before and it was a bit of a flop. This one is probably a flop too, but hey it’s fun to give it a go. As you can probably tell, it’s more like Manic Memoir than Furious Fiction.

Are you ready for this round’s criteria? Here they come now:

1. Your story must OPEN with a 12-word sentence.
2. Your story must include the sale of a second-hand item. (For example, at a yard/garage/jumble sale, market, antique shop, online etc — it’s up to you!)
3. Your story must include at least five (5) different words that end in the letters ICE. (e.g. “nICE”.)

Right. I can do this.

These hips, this bum, these boobs will never be the same again. Sometimes, when I catch my reflection in a mirror or see myself in a photo, I need to look twice… A snide voice lingers in the deepest of my memories. That word I thought I’d escaped. Fat.

My baby, Caelin, follows me into my room, he is always crawling in tow. I slide the doors to my cupboard open and can’t help but notice it is overflowing with clothes that no longer fit me. I need to make a choice. Either eat nothing but air every day for a year or accept that my pre-baby clothes are never going to fit again. Just for shits and giggles, I attempt to try on an a pair of Tree of Life overalls. They’re supposed to be oversized but they don’t even come above my hips.

I walk into Mum’s room, laughing. Humour, my go-to coping mechanism.

‘Mum, please… can you believe these ever fit me!?’ I pulled them off and threw them on the ground dramatically.

Caelin picks them off the floor and puts them on his head. Mum takes them off him and holds them up. ‘I don’t remember you wearing these. They’re so nice.’

‘I know they’re nice but how the fuck did they fit me!?’ I rip them off her. ‘I’m going to try selling them on marketplace.’

All of a sudden, I’m on a rampage, ripping everything out of my wardrobe. Sell, sell, sell, donate.

Now I have piles of clothes all over my bed and floor. God, who knew I had so many. I start by sorting them by brand, I have so much Tree Of Life. The Target and Kmart clothes go straight into a donate bag, the Tree of Life hung neatly on hangers to be photographed on the back of my bedroom door.

I list the floral overalls first. $20 plus postage. I write a little story as to why I’m selling them, I want people to know they’re still in perfect condition, me, not so much.

‘I’m 16 months postpartum and I’ve finally accepted that my body will never be the shape and size it once was. I’ve made the heartbreaking decision to clear out my pre-baby wardrobe.’

I haven’t even had a chance to make another listing before someone comments. ‘Sold.’

I’m shocked. Does she feel sorry for me? I’ve tried selling clothes on marketplace before, but the listings always went cold. The notification bell goes red again. Someone else comments.

‘Not here to buy, just here to say that your body is amazing. You made, grew and nurtured a baby. I hope one day you feel beautiful in your skin again.’

I reply, ‘Women’s bodies are amazing. I will invest in some new Tree of Life once I’ve made room for it.’

I didn’t realise how unhealthy it is for me to hold onto clothes that no longer fit. Clearing out my wardrobe feels like the first step to not only accepting but learning to love my new body.

Note: I’m not actually submitting this because I think it supposed to be fiction and so I’ve failed the first criteria.