For some years – maybe five or six – I’ve been doing ‘30 words for 30 days’ in April. This is a competition with no prizes where a one-word prompt is posted each day and writers respond with a 30-word microfiction, hopefully for the entire 30 days of the month. Initially it was run by Writers Victoria but for the past two years it’s been run on Twitter (yes) by some keen writers. In 2023 by Sumitra Singam (@pleomorphic2) and Danielle Baldock (@WritingDani) and this year by Dani, doing a heroic task on her own.
It’s a great way to get into a writing practice with this short piece of work every day. Once it’s over and we enter May, I always have a sense of loss, of something missing from my life.
This year I decided to write my 30 pieces as a series. I let the prompts inspire me for each new segment, but about halfway through I knew how I wanted it to end. Luckily, Dani obliged with the perfect prompt of ‘green’ on day 30.
If you’re on Twitter follow the #30words30days tag to see some magnificent stories in miniature. My favourites are regularly from @pleomorphic2 and @WritingDani, obviously, but also reliably beautiful words from @sugarpigblog, @TomNotes1 and @KatiBumbera, while @rat_ink nearly always raises a chuckle with wry observations and clever wordplay.
1
Nature
It’s not in Leah’s nature to confront Ari in public. She lets the comment slide into the usual place. He scrolls through his phone. She hunches further over her coffee.
2
Wild
He continues to scroll, shoulders loose, face relaxed. Driving her wild. His comment. Her own passivity. She clutches her coffee cup. Maybe it will crack. She could scream then. Scalded.
3
Blossom
Once, Leah thought of their love as a tree; strengthening, branching, blossoming. Today she watches the last translucent petals fall, limp, brown-rimmed. Today she doubts that tree will bear fruit.
4
Sanctuary
The café is my sanctuary. A place where I can’t cry. But today the love songs hammer down. Don’t sink. There’s a woman to look at. I wish her well.
5
Flow
Leah’s gripping hand loosens. It’s as if something has – flowed – into her. Ari’s comment still whines and buzzes, but she no longer needs to crumple. She breathes, gathering her strengths.
6
Rock
Earlier, Leah had crooned. She’d rocked and jived in her seat. Boomers love songs all the way. At the ‘Woah …’ of ‘Unchained melody’ Ari smiled. ‘Please. Don’t sing again.’
7
Discover
The last falsetto notes of ‘Unchained melody’ were long gone when Leah discovered her cramping fingers, stiff around her coffee cup. Sunlight beamed tenderly into the café. Not for her.
8
Dynamic
Did you think I would forget you? Human dynamics were never your strong point. But I can’t stand and watch as your frailty devours you. The café is my sanctuary.
[alternative possibility for this one:] I have argued frantically with the second law of thermodynamics, but it always wins. I can’t watch as your fine mind increases in disorder, randomness. The café is my sanctuary.
9
Light
The slammed door leaves your gaping behind. Cuts off the disorder of your once-fine mind. In sodden rage I reach the café. Sunbeams drop through open skylights. Not for me.
10
Remote
The cup-clutching woman edges sideways. Sleeves no longer touch. Those centimetres grant her remoteness from the man. I see that her problem is worse than mine. She must have hopes.
11
Spirit
I once had hopes, fed beside that gleaming beach. Memories rattle my sunken spirits. The gentle give of the sand. The murmuring sea, opening its waves to let me in.
12
Fire
The fire inside Leah is failing, a smouldering branch, sparks gone. Its flames hover and roll, wispy, sputtering with her breath. She is the only one scorched by its heat.
13
Mould
To say something to Ari now, here, would be to break the mould that’s been curing for 44 years. Leah was trained for silence. One fire won’t touch the edges.
14
Space
The space between Leah and Ari grows solid. Six years of slights swell. They crowd and poke. They bloat, filling the gaps where thighs and shoulders should be gently touching.
15
Desert
That space is so taut it fractures, splitting apart their life together. Through the breach Leah sees the pain of Ari leaving. Beyond that, the raw thrill of deserting him.
16
Pattern
The tree above the skylight throws shadows across the floor. They shimmer with each breeze, the movement of leaves, little birds. Those dancing patterns will scatter consolation through my day.
17
Air
I’ve overstayed. Time to walk home. The air around me will thin as I near the house. It will disappear at the front step, and I will be suffocating again.
18
Being
I’m not just being discreet as I leave the café, taking one last glance at the fractured couple. My head is lowered to resume the reins, and the biting bit.
[alternative possibility for this one:] I’m being circumspect with my metaphors and hyperbole. What is the point of a journal if you can’t be honest? Who do you think will see it?
19
Grow
Leah grows ever quieter. She could be a piece of moss by a creek. She’ll be green, moist moss enjoying the water’s splash. Not shrivelled moss, waiting for somebody’s rain.
20
Element
The air between them is brittle, cracking into its elements. Leah sorts through the nitrogen and oxygen, wonders how to combine them. Laughing gas could be useful at this point.
21
Void
Leah pulls herself upright. Keep this up and she’ll disappear into the void. Look. The sun is shining. There’s shadow puppetry on the floor, with dancing leaves on swaying branches.
22
Water
She could let Ari’s comment wash away, let a tide of rushing water dislodge it from her shrinking heart. Let it be tumbled until its sharp edges are smooth. Again.
23
Bones
Leah cannot let his words float away this time, to bob on that river of forgiveness. She gnaws at the bone of resentment, tastes the poison of her own deference.
[alternative possibility for this one:] If the water rages for long enough, strong enough, it will uncover bones. Leah’s own bones, hidden beneath this creaking armour, built of resentment, held together with strings of deference.
24
Character
At the front gate I stop. Get into character. Clamp on the smile. Fill my veins with patience. Lock down irritation. Forge chains that keep me nearby. At your command.
25
Wind
Rewind. Let memory feed compassion. Once there was. A train that clacked through terraced mountains, your hand in mine. Long nights and gleaming stars. Our bodies. No boundary between us.
26
Lost
My heart opens, pulsing me across the threshold. It falters at the first vacant stare, locks fast at the first sullen sigh. Today is another lost day in my life.
27
Shape
Once again I am contorted and contorting. Liquefying, pouring myself into the necessary mould. Diligently shaving off the protesting elements. I have never known the shape of my own heart.
28
Earth
I escape to the garden, close my eyes, sink down. In the moist soil, among the worms, I am one with the earth, flesh dissolving, bones crumbling. Nothing left now.
29
Essence
Leah sighs, sensing the undeniable. She has moulded and broken and stapled that fragile truth in place for too long. The essence of their relationship, once fragrant, is now rancid.
30
Green
Standing up, Leah takes a long look at Ari. Feels nothing. No anger or hope, disappointment or desire. She takes that first solid step away. Heads out to pastures green.