Time again to bring the sparkle. This week we are (refrigerator) gassed to present equal third place getter Ann Walter’s winning short story –

To say I was flummoxed was an understatement!

One minute I am living my best life, gorgeous view of the harbor, marble floors under my feet, getting a daily wipeout and sanitize and I’m happy as a litigation lawyer.

Suppose I should have noticed when the lobster tails and Moet Chandon disappeared and got replaced with frozen dinners and domestic wine.  Come to think of it, things were getting a bit quiet around me as well. Conversations became muted whisperings behind doors, kids only opened me once a fortnight but hey, bonus, stinky dog food gone forever.

Despite these changes, I kept doing my thing, compressors whirring, temperature even, welcoming light and calm dependability. I am after all a very important fixture, except that I’m not fixed to anything. As I found out when somebody rudely ripped out my racks, emptied my ice trays and tickled my insides with a dishwashing brush.

I was used to a gentle sanitize but this was a much rougher state of affairs. Like comparing a relaxation massage to a remedial one and we all know which one we prefer.

Next thing I’m loaded onto the back of a battered Toyota hi Lux, inhaling diesel fumes and held tight by nylon rope and snatch straps. There’s some sort of mongrel hybrid hound chained up with me who has decided to mark me as his territory and I’m not happy about that.

Smooth bitumen and blue seas give way to corrugated gravel roads and soon me and the dog are bouncing up and down like yo yos inhaling diesel and dust and it’s not a good combination. Goodbye harbour views.

Hello… canefields? What sort of a comedown is this? Two burly blokes from the bush untie us and I’m surprised at how gently they lift me out and place me onto a trolley. Even the dog gets a pat on the head and a compliment.

Maybe this new home won’t be so bad after all I’m thinking as I’m rattling down the gravel path towards an old shed. As long as I’m useful, after all that’s what we appliances are made for. A bit of tinkering, some levelling of the broken boards in the shack with an old car jack and I’m plugged in and ready to serve my new owners.

Did I mention I am half freezer and half fridge? And no, I am not a snob despite being previously filled with luxury goods so I welcomed the slabs of XXXX beer, savaloys, lamb chops and hamburgers. After all it’s my job to keep these things cold but I had trouble embracing the rolls of dog food again.

I guess I am now living my second-best life but what about my large freezer? Can you guess what it’s used for?

That’s right…euthanizing cane toads!

Next week, get ready to go a refrigerated version of all-weak-at-the-knees when we unveil equal third place getter Gael Franklin’s deliciously swoon-worthy epic tale –

Pro U.S golfer Walter Hagen (1892 – 1969) – behind only Tiger Woods and Jack Nicklaus in the number of golf majors he won – was the person who first coined the expression ‘No one ever remembers who came second.’

SCENIC WRITER’S SHACK DOES remember who came second and today we celebrate our short story competition runner-up Anne Wilkin’s clever and brassy fridge tale –

Antarctica 5000 arrives at my front door on a hot summer’s day. 

My door scanner detects its presence and announces its arrival ceremoniously: “Angela, your new fridge has arrived.” I open my door, and there it is. The latest, the snazziest, the most intelligent fridge on the market. It comes with all the bells and whistles and then some. I’m already star struck. 

“Kan I come in?” it asks, with a slight German accent. 

“Of course.” 

Mechanical arms and feet burst through the packaging and it simply walks in by itself and finds my kitchen. It peels off its own packaging, making sure to recycle all the paper and cardboard into the correct kitchen bin.

“Zat is vhere you vant me? Yes?” it says, pointing to the sad empty space where my old fridge, Gary 100, used to live.  I eagerly nod, and Antarctica 5000 moves into place, plugging itself in, making itself at home.

 It’s just like what the adverts say.   

“Yes please.” 

Over the space of an hour my fridge tells me it will order groceries for me as needed, automatically assess the quality, nutritional value and calories of each item, and create meal plans. It will remove expired food, cook meals, and liaise with the dishwasher, and robo-vac to ensure the kitchen is kept spotless.

On my birthday it will prepare a cake for me with candles and play ‘Happy Birthday’ to the tune of German accordion music, and on Valentine’s Day it will order flowers and prepare my favorite meal. 

“Is there anything you can’t do?” I ask, slightly breathless. 

“No. I was just joking.”

 

“Something funny. Ha ha. Hee hee?”

The fridge seems flummoxed. Humor obviously isn’t its thing. Shame, Old Gary had been pretty good at that. 

My door scanner buzzes.

“Huh? What food?” 

It leaves to answer the door and unpacks the items into itself. “But…how did you know what I wanted?”

“My pantry… talked to you?”

I looked at KAREN-10 with new eyes. Had it been judging me all along? Bitch.

The next day Gary 100 was back in his spot. 

“Yeah. ‘Fraid to say I think you might be irreplaceable.”

“Always.”

KAREN-10 glared disapprovingly from her corner.

Next week, prepared to be moved by our equal 3rd place-getter Ann Walter‘s big ticket, spellful tale –

Like sky diving, judging a short story contest can be IS a real rush.

79 fridge-cool entries ended up being delivered to SWS‘s icebox, a chilled-out haul considerably up from last year’s debut comp. SCENIC WRITER’S SHACK is well-pleased to announce this year’s winners.

Cue the honor roll Jeeves, if you please…

When Jonathan told me to expect the fridge delivery at 11, I thought I’d still be able to duck out to our girl’s meet-up at noon at the wine-sauce pizza restaurant.

At eleven, I heard faint noises on the front porch. Sounded like pebbles kerplinking on the concrete, so I went to check. I found a perfectly miniature man mid-jump. “Trying to reach your doorbell!” He had a tinny, tiny voice.

My FLUMMOXED mind froze as if in protective mode, while behind the internal ice block it was trying to figure out what was going on. What I’m saying is that I probably didn’t even look shocked. Not even by his five comrades. They were larger than the Borrowers, but not two feet tall. “May I help you?”

“Here to deliver your new Whirlpool side-by-side refrigerator, ma’am.” He smiled with a great deal of charm.

“Um…” I didn’t know what else to say. Wouldn’t it be rude to tell him it wasn’t possible for them to carry a 300-pound carton? I did not want to insult him.

The man yelled out (if you can imagine a faint tinkly yelp) to his coworkers to haul in the fridge. That’s when I saw farther down the front path the box on its side, hooked up to ropes and harnesses, each small person finding their place around it. I couldn’t help but think of Gulliver trussed by the Lilliputians. Luckily, it was the appliance and not me in there.

This is the moment I should have produced an excuse, but my mind was still blanking.

The tinies started heaving, pulling, and puffing. I’ll be damned if they didn’t start singing “Heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go!” I felt as if my body pushed along with them. They didn’t move much faster than I did although I was standing still.

By eleven thirty, they were even with the tulip patch. At noon they first touched the door mat with the toes of their itsy-bitsy boots. By then I was texting like mad with Kim and Deb. I managed to surreptitiously snap and send a couple of shots of the team. My mind was clearing, and I half-realized the ridiculousness of the situation.

Trying to get that carton through the doorway was a trick. They YO-YOED back and forth as they tried to maneuver just the right angle. Then the fridge gave way and sailed into the front hallway.

I was standing there, repeatedly pushing the white dot on my cell camera. Unfortunately, I must have been knocked backwards by the impact. As I came to, I tried to feel my aching forehead but couldn’t get my arm to move.

Looking down, I saw that the ropes and harnesses had been transferred to me, tying me up securely. The tiny ones were nowhere to be seen. I lay on the floor waiting for Jonathan to come home, while searching my mind for a lesson in the whole fiddle-faddle of this experience.

Be sure to click back in NEXT WEEK when we showcase 2nd place winner Anne Wikins’ super sassy fridge tale –

MARCH 10 is the final day entrants have to submit their fridge-themed masterpieces to the SCENIC WRITER’S SHACK Short Story Competition. Click HERE for full details.

The guy in the footy video below scores four tries – in the same match. The crowd goes wild. The commentator too. Now picture the writer version of this. You crossing the finishing line – fist-pumping the air with a win in this match contest. Can happen.