Paradise

A flash fiction piece I conceived of and wrote in a weekend back in January for the Not Quite Write Prize writing competition.

A man tied one end of the rope to the island, the other to his waist, then strode into the shallows of the water. When the rope became taut, he kicked his legs with all his might. The island - a league wide, a mile high - stubbornly stayed its ground.

The man spluttered and screamed, “Be not selfish, benevolent Isle. There are those of us who require trees to build homes, and food to quell hunger. Why do you hoard while we suffer, our children in need?”

The island considered his plea, having a soft spot for children, for trees, and other beings who looked to the stars. It softened its shadow. In a whisper, the man said, “Today my daughter turns five and awaits me back home. Am I to gift her a ragged kite while she lives poor, her prospects of a stable future grim? I promised her Paradise, which without I will not return.”

The man began to swim home, the island in tow.

The ocean was displeased. It chopped at its waters, sending an army of waves charging at high speeds. The man was heaved side-to-side, spilling hundreds of the island’s trees into the hungry abyss. Muscles aching, the man pitched his arms harder.

Many thousand strokes passed. The sun glowered at the man, wishing to stew him in hot water. Only mildly discouraged and not to be undone, the sun fell away from the world. A smattering of sympathetic stars punched a million white holes into the infinite cask of planetary ink.

The ocean was frigid, the man’s skin purple. Against the backdrop of ringing in his ears, he heard muted thuds from behind. He turned and saw that at the island’s feet lay a veneer of frost, and on thin ice, spoiled fruit and nuts from bushes fell.

Burdened by the regret of its decision, the island - though now barren - was of even greater weight. Its once bright complexion was now that of a sickly grey. Its frost melted, and from its cavernous eyes, the island cried a river.

A rapture of clouds descended, crackling the air, the intention to bequeath a perfect storm to the battered man preordained in their swollen cheeks. From the sky to a concerto of jellyfish down beneath, boomed a long, angry light. The island fractured in three, only a boulder and weathered palm tree now in tow.

When the cliffs of his homeland appeared, the father - like children and trees and other beings who looked to the stars - gazed high, while the little island looked languishingly at the ocean floor.

On the day she turned five, and on many days thereafter, patiently his daughter waited for him by the cliff’s side. But years passed, and eventually her hope did fade. Then her home moved, and with it, she left.

Sometimes when she drank from the same waters but a continent astray, she sobbed, the promise of Paradise long washed away.

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I wrote and submitted this story for the Not Quite Write flash fiction competition in January 2024. There were 3 criteria (prompts) that each submission had to incorporate:

1. Your story must feature the word PUNCH. This word must be used in full, with no spaces or interrupting punctuation, however it may be included within a longer word provided the original spelling is retained, e.g. punching or punchline.

2. Your story must feature the action of "spilling something." You don’t need to use this exact wording and you can feature the action prominently or simply as an aside. The action may occur before the beginning of your story or after it ends as long as it’s referenced somewhere within your story.

3. Your story must break the rule “avoid clichés." You can interpret this anti-prompt in whatever creative way you see fit. Your goal should remain to tell the best story possible.