I took part in an interesting challenge recently, an X/twitter writing competition. I had to write a story of no more than 2,200 characters in length, to be posted in a max of 8 threaded tweets. A first for me and more tricky than I expected due to the threaded nature of the posting. Thought I’d share it here so you can see what I came up with. I’ve laid it out as per the threaded tweets.

“The Briefcase”

Matty Flute stole a grand in cash from a pawnbrokers, stuffing it in a leather briefcase he found on site. Sweet. Best haul he’d had in months. Back home he stood the briefcase on his dining table and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

Beginning to dream of what he would do with so much cash he went to feast his eyes on it again. Flipping the briefcase on its side, he opened it, then stood open-mouthed, eyes wide, unable to believe what he saw. The briefcase was empty, not a note to be seen.

Closing and re-opening the briefcase made no difference; it remained empty. It made no sense. He’d held that money in his greedy little hands. It had been as real as the curling, black hair on his head. Confused and frustrated, Flute stumbled away to bed.

Next morning, he tripped over the briefcase in the hallway; he’d left it on the sofa. He shoved it under the sideboard. Was he going mad? Later, as he sat watching the TV, Flute began to feel short of breath and worried about a stroke.

Now the open briefcase was sitting on the sideboard. Fear washed over him. His breathing became more laboured. Dragging himself to his feet, he fell upon the briefcase and slammed it shut. His breathing eased and he stumbled back in terror. What had he brought home?

Grabbing the briefcase, he raced to the wasteland behind the flats, started a bonfire, on to which he tossed the leather case. It rolled away to safety. So he tried again, with the same result, then again and again, always the briefcase rolling away.

That evening, he returned the briefcase to the pawnbrokers and, relieved, walked home, keen to forget what had happened. But waiting for him on the sideboard, open and filled with money, was the briefcase.

Flute broke into a cold sweat, screamed and tried to flee the flat. But the door wouldn’t open and he felt his breathing becoming laboured and darkness closing in. The last thing he saw as he fell to the floor was the briefcase stuffed with cash sitting by his face.

I’m pleased to say this turned out to be the winning entry.

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