'Patient' - a prompted piece of Flash Fiction
Submission to competition prevents writer attrition.
Hi there.
I recently submitted ~300 words of flash fiction to Hampshire Writers’ Society monthly competition. Entitled ‘Patient’, the piece was inspired by this simple prompt:
Brief: ‘A story in which a character shows great patience?’ (300 words ±10%)
Did you spot it? ‘Simple’ at first deceptive glance, then a writing lesson in itself.
I tend to assume—barring an aberrant typo—such punctuation is never casually tossed into a competitive ring without underlying intent, especially given this prompter’s pedigree. The interrogative subtly extended the brief's potential, and certainly made me think harder before I tapped fingertip to input device.
The prompt provider and competition judge was
, Head of Creative Writing at Southampton University, author of multiple books and a Netflix serialised comic, editor of the Writers Rebel website, and a Substack publisher of serial autofiction A Writer’s Diary1—also available in book form.At the Society’s June meeting, Toby spoke eloquently about ‘patience’ from a writer’s perspective. It’s not something I’ve thought about specifically before. You can, for example, tie the practice of patience to: permission to think; deep investment in a character; bold stylistic approaches; and ignoring commercial imperatives. It might lead to a happier, healthier author, especially if you aren’t much enamoured with being wealthier.
During his talk, I caught myself examining my thoughts from the outside (I recently discovered such a voice isn’t so weird for lots of people), and thinking: ‘Look at you, nodding along to those resonant words. Who’d have thunk it, you STEM stalwart?’ It might mean I’m coming along as a writer. Even if it’s taking longer than most assumed, including myself. Patience, dear…
You can read my effort below (and the winning entries here). Hopefully you’ll do it now, without delay, etc — I’m not yet as patient as Toby.
Do let me know what you think - about the piece, on achieving patience, or any other thoughts from that voice inside your head.
Until next time…
Patient
They never ask the question I hold in my head.
“Did the doctor tell you the latest results?”
I blink twice.
“Are you comfortable?”
I blink once.
“Are you thirsty?”
Once again.
My wife squeezes the siphon and water trickles through the tube wearing a groove in the corner of my mouth. I swallow and wince. I can still feel pain.
“We’ll be off, darling. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I blink in reflex as my wife and daughter each plant a kiss on my forehead. Then I’m alone with my constant beeps and pointless grapes.
I’ve allowed the machines which surround and support me to become symbiotic. Their noise and pulsations reflect my body’s rhythms and flows. Digital signals to meter my blood, air and waste; my heart’s conduction reflected in a dispassionate display of my inanimate life.
I attempt another descent to the parasitic; to pretend my mechanical mentors control my existence with their wires and tubes that invade and intrude. I ask them my only question and can only wait patiently for their answer. But once again they remain deaf to my wishes.
The attending doctors converse as if I’m absent. My life exists within their rounds, not in their hands. The decision I crave is for the vultures who visit and the lawyers who feed on them.
The nurses ask rote questions which no longer matter. There’s only one I want answered.
Every day I ask it.
Every day no-one hears it.
I silently scream at the TV on the wall, a foil to my room’s funereal air, its inanity bleeding into the head I cannot move.
I must be patient, I tell myself.
‘Why can't I die?’ I plead to my machines.
In response, my heart's rhythmic trace blinks twice in today's denial of death, as I blink back my tears.
As featured in The Guardian, The Author and The Times Literary Supplement. It carries, in particular, some in-depth, indispensable PoV guidance, amongst an eclectic mix of other writing advice and astute journal entries.
As a retired physician, this hit me where it hurts—in my heart. Great writing about a sensitive subject.
That's a nice twist there - a character who has no choice but to be patient (yes, there's a double meaning there).
I have always been in full favour of euthanasia, and I mean full euthanasia, not this 'assisted dying' shit, which is essentially the state saying 'we own your life and we get to decide, not you' - this sums up the dystopia to a T. I hate them. And I'll tell you this now, if you ever hear that I am in that sort of state and there's no one else to switch me off then I would like you to move heaven and earth to switch me off. I'm not afraid of dying. A belief in reincarnation helps there, of course.
Anyway, this was a very, very good piece of writing (obviously I've come to expect that from you), in particular some trademark JR sentences - this was my favourite: "I attempt another descent to the parasitic; to pretend my mechanical mentors control my existence with their wires and tubes that invade and intrude." That's poetic, that is. Brilliant.
I'd love to see you do more of this sort of thing instead of waiting for prompts. I'm not a very patient character, you see...