‘Pricks’ was inspired by Gwen E. Kirby’s short story collection Sh*t Cassandra Saw, which explores the concept of fantastical women in incongruously normal situations, or vice versa. The story depicts a woman’s relationship with her body as an object of her husband’s desire, all within a short 436 words. To me, the piece is an insight into emotionally manipulative marriages and gender dynamics through a lens of magical realism.
Upon submitting it to the New2theScene flash fiction competition, I found out that it received one of two Notable Mentions for the prize out of hundreds of entries. I am incredibly happy with the result of my piece, which has been described as disturbing but also impactful, and showed me how far so few words can go in telling a story.
I encourage every other young writer to submit to any writing competition they can get their hands on! I have found this experience so rewarding and encouraging for my development as a writer overall, making me feel as though the future writing career I coveted as a child is finally within reach. There are dozens available to enter right now, notably the Writing East Midlands Aurora Prize for Writing, a “national writing competition, seeking outstanding new writing in short fiction and poetry,” whose prizes include cash and feedback from prominent literary agents. It’s time for us young writers to get our feet in the door!
And, without further ado, here is my Notably Mentioned flash fiction piece, ‘Pricks’…
Content warnings : Explicit language, implied marital rape and abuse, self harm.
Pricks
She wakes up one morning with spikes down her spine, like those a Stegosaurus has.
I’d say they’re more like an Amargasaurus’s, her husband says. He had a really big prehistoric phase when he was younger, so she supposes he’s probably right.
She looks it up and he is. The Amargasaurus had pointed spikes, sharp enough for a princess to prick her finger on. Her spikes are the same. They cut through clothes, ruining all her best blouses and blazers she wears to her corporate receptionist job. She can’t sleep on her back anymore, but there is a silver lining in that the spikes make a barrier between them, one which is more effective than any pile of pillows could be. She curls into a ball like an armadillo, her back facing him. The spikes are her own plated armour.
He likes them, though. He gets to fuck her from behind now, which she didn’t let him do before. She doesn’t have the stamina to be on top — she hasn’t exercised regularly since her early twenties — and so he takes her from behind, using the spikes as a handhold while he thrusts and comes. His hands start leaving dark handprints on the spikes like bruises.
He gets agitated when people on the street start staring at them, the bruised spikes poking out through the back of her red raincoat. He gets shame from his perversions being on display, under the scrutinising eyes of his colleagues who come around for coffee and his mother who has finally stopped asking when they’re having kids. What he first enjoyed, he doesn’t now. He doesn’t touch the spikes anymore, and in fact has stopped having sex with her altogether.
When do you think they’ll go away? he asks finally.
She shrugs.
Get rid of them soon. They’re ugly, and Mum has started looking at me differently.
And so she takes the serrated carving knife from the kitchen drawer, the one they only ever use for the turkey at Christmas dinner, and begins to saw into the first spike. It’s like cutting a nail, no pain, but she’s vaguely aware of the way her back muscles move while she hacks.
They lie on the counter afterwards, and she examines them. Besides the handprints, they are purple, long and slightly curved, like a dildo from one of those sex shops with bondage displays that she’s always too scared to go into.
Without much thought, she presses the pedal on the bin and drops the spikes in. She turns her back to the kitchen, heading to meet her husband in their bed upstairs.
Elin Howarth, author of ‘Pricks’ and current NCoL intern.