October 13, 2024

Six Months

I failed. I had wanted to write this post on the actual day of, instead I got distracted with other things to where I eventually found myself drunk and just couldn’t bring myself to write. How the greats could drink and clack out some narrative is astounding to me. It takes an act of god for me to put “pen to paper” when I’m under the influence.

Yesterday, the 12th, marked six months since Charlie passed. Tony, the brother husband who I now repeatedly refer to as my brother, asked me why I wanted to commemorate the occasion when I had never been one to do that sort of stuff before. It’s true. I’m not one for half anniversaries or similar milestones. I told him that I wanted to, in this instance, because I had to remind myself. Most of the time, it doesn’t feel real.

All in one moment it does and doesn’t feel like that much time has passed. My brain is under the impression that it happened just last week or, worst of all, that Charlie is just on a trip somewhere. He’ll be back any moment. Why are you worried? Yet in these very moments, it feels like it’s been years. As if things have always been this way.

That feeling I truly despise. I hate how it could feel “easy” for him to not be here, to not be a huge part of my life like he had been.

The further I drift away the more it hurts. My crying episodes used to be small fits of tears, and now the waves come like the growing hurricanes. More than once this past week I’ve had to pull my car over because I was losing my mind. (I can and only cry alone in my car.) In whatever corner I can tuck myself away, I sob until the storm passes. and then continue on as though I hadn’t just broken down because of some song. I wish I could remember which ones struck the most sensitive nerve but, even if you held a gun to my head, I can’t. Maybe I don’t want to remember. I do have a sick tendency to lean into these songs, hard, forcing the extraction of these emotions.

One of the things I do, that borders on psychosis, is that I turn and talk to him. In my mind he’s still sitting in the passenger seat, judging me with his sarcastic observations. I can hear them loud and clear in my mind. Sometimes they even feel like he is genuinely speaking to me, and it’s not my mind creating them. And maybe he is… it’s in that possibility that brings me a strange peace. If our existence carries on after our mortal demise, Charlie would absolutely be the kind to stick around to make sure everyone was “okay” before he moved on to the next life. If such choice exists.

What I am certain of is that as we head into the coming months things are going to become increasingly difficult. Here is where I meet the biggest “firsts.” My first wedding anniversary without him, my first birthday (in 20 years) without him, the first time we don’t celebrate his birthday, the first Christmas, the first new year… all of the fucking holidays.

I’m sure you’ll all get a chance to read all about them. I would like to lean more into my writing, like I had, instead of just experiencing these thoughts quietly, alone. What stops me is sometimes I feel like people think I’m making up all of this, as a way to chase “clout” (as the kids say.)

September 13, 2024

2024 Flash Fiction Entry #2 – From the Depths

Welp… another tower fell on 9/11… my chances of moving onto the next round. (Was that distasteful?) Anyway, I genuinely was so proud of this story. I wrote it earlier than I ever have done so in previous entries and edited it from the passenger seat on the way to Santa Barbara the day it was due. Unfortunately I only placed 15th. I needed to get 8 or higher to have enough points to proceed. Oh well. I have never written an “action” style story before and, even though I am a novice in this particular arena, I really enjoyed writing this piece. From the commentary from the judges (posted after the story) they seemed to like it too. Their critiques were right on the money.

The challenge: Genre – Thriller; Location – A black-tie event; Object – A wet-suit

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“From the Depths”

Agent Joel Salvador blended seamlessly with the other waiters dressed in their loose-fitting wet suits, matching the nautical theme of the event. Carrying a tray with flutes of champagne, he snaked his way through the crowd of Washington elites toward the dais on which the presidential candidate Douglass Troupe was scheduled to speak.  

Smiling politely, he bowed and offered a senator a drink as he watched the last elevator of guests arrive out of the corner of his eye. Dressed in their best black and white attire, the twelve politicians entered the party as another server stepped inside and disengaged the lift. 

Just as they said, Joel thought, as he spun and offered another drink.   

The exclusive black-tie event was held within a wine bottle shaped hall of tempered glass, twelve miles off the coast of Virginia Beach. The elevator shaft, of the same make, rose up from the center of the room toward the surface of the Atlantic Ocean sixty feet above them. The sea water was thick and dark as ink just on the other side of the transparent walls. 

Regardless of the stock on their trays, the servers stood dispersed among the crowd as instructed by catering. None of the guests paid them any mind. Joel stuck to his position and waited. His heart pounded in his ears. He could feel the weight of the gun strapped against his left rib cage. 

Douglas emerged from one of the five rooms off the main hall and walked to the edge of the raised platform. Clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his thinning hair. The conversation and laughter echoed through the chamber drowning out his call to attention. 

Flicking his index finger against his glass, Douglas cut through the noise and brought them to silence.  

“Good evening,” he said with a raspy voice. “I want to welcome you to celebrate the already guaranteed win.” His bulging eyes surveyed the room. 

Half of the guests reluctantly applauded. 

“We have gathered you here to thank you. Your efforts swinging the election have been perfect. No one has ever been as complicit. We could not have accomplished our plans without you.” 

Unease swelled through the hall. The politicians looked nervously around the room at their peers. Some leaned and whispered to their neighbors. 

Douglas held out a hand and from the same room, from whence he came, in walked a feeble old man. His back arched forward, clutching a cane in one hand. The incumbent president joined his opponent at the edge of the stage. 

“You ready, John?” Douglas asked. 

Movements slower than a sloth, the president looked up with a wicked grin. 

Almost there. 

As John stood to his full height, he dropped his cane. The sharp snap made the crowd jump and drew all eyes to the two men whose features began to undulate. The candidates’ appearances morphed before the throng into lean, pale, human-like creatures dressed in Armani suits. Their amber colored eyes slanted down from the outside corner, reaching toward the tips of their wicked grins that revealed two sets of fangs in their mouths. Their tongues flicked from their bulbous lips like gasping tape worms. 

Shrieks filled the room and lifted into a crescendo as every waiter, but Joel, transformed to match the things on-stage. The politicians scrambled and rushed toward the elevator, but the creatures beat them to it and formed a line, pushing their prey back.  

“Don’t even try,” Douglas cooed with a new voice like silk, “the elevator is disengaged.” 

A chorus of panicked voices and cries rose up from the trapped politicians. The air in the chamber crackled with terror. 

“Shut up!” John cried out, “You got everything you wanted! This is just congratulations on a job well done. Unfortunately for you we shall reap the rewards. After we drain every one of you, we will be able to duplicate your appearances. We will rule this country.” 

The servers lunged at the nearest victim and, secured in their arms, plunged their fangs into a neck. Their tongues hungrily sucked up every drop of blood. The free guests scattered toward safety.  

This is it! 

Joel pulled his weapon from within his wet suit and fired a shot into each of the candidates’ hearts. With everyone distracted, he pressed the alert button inside the left leg of his suit. Joel backed toward the elevator. 

John and Douglas mirrored the other as they looked down at their smoking, bloodless chest wounds. Their lips parted into vicious sneers.  

“We’re shapeshifting vampires, idiot,” Douglas growled. “Bullets don’t kill us.” 

Joel pointed his gun and fired five shots, in a plus formation, into the glass wall. The bullets lodged halfway through. 

The people around Joel scattered, clearing a path to the lone exit. 

Joel got into the elevator. With his eyes fixed on the enemies around him, he yanked the set of maintenance keys hanging from around his neck and set the compartment to neutral.  

The creatures rushed toward him as the doors began to close. 

“You might want to look,” he said, pointing to the pierced glass, as the lift doors consumed him. 

From the black emerged the round nose of a grey submarine charging full steam into the center of his marks, shattering the glass.  

Joel crouched low and gripped the wood railing close to the panel, prepared for the abrupt change of pressure and the moment to strike. 

As the ocean water flooded the chamber, the escaping air pressure launched the elevator up the shaft and slamming into the facade of an oil rig at its end. 

The agent struck his hand out like a snake engaging the elevator brakes. The doors opened as the entire rig lurched to the side. 

Spraying up triangular wings, a speed boat rushed to the sinking platform. The craft pulled alongside long enough for Joel to leap onto the vehicle and then speed off into the night. 

“Another success?” the driver shouted over his shoulder. 

“Mission accomplished.” 

______________________________________________________________________________

”From the Depths” by Joshua Hensley –    

WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY –

{2038}  I enjoyed the concept of an underwater, wine bottle-shaped hall made of tempered glass. Joel’s move — marking the glass so that the submarine could shatter it — was clever. The ending lines brought the story to a satisfying close.  

{2320}  The reveal that we’re in an underwater complex was great. That immediately heightened interest and it deepened the danger that Joel was in (he can’t just walk out of the building. He’s trapped, so his plan has to work). “Spraying up triangular wings” was an amazing visual description for the speedboat’s arrival. It gave it the quality of an angel coming to rescue Joel. I was not expecting the twist that we were dealing with shapeshifting vampires, but it was a treat when we got there. The other waiters being vampires as well was a good choice. It makes Joel feel even more isolated (the harder you can make things for our hero, the better). I was nervous for him when the bullets didn’t pierce the glass, and the submarine moment was awesome. 

{2026}  What a timely and topical premise: vampiric creatures overthrow the corrupt American election during an underwater celebration party. With the talks of election fraud in the media, this story feeds into existing news and preys on existing fears. I especially enjoyed the shapeshifting nature of this piece, which is genre-blending and unexpected. My favorite part was the description of the setting–an empty bottle under the ocean. I can really picture it! The tension is high in this piece from the very beginning, and you do a good job relaying the layered dimensions of this for various groups present. Thanks for sharing your writing with us!  

WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK –

{2038}  I wanted some brief understanding of what was at stake here, politically — was the presidential candidate a member of the same political party as the current president? I’d suggest naming either Joel or John differently — having two four-letter names, both starting with “Jo,” made it hard to remember which was which. I wasn’t sure what Douglas meant by his announcement (“your efforts swinging the election”) — could you be more specific? Were these legislators who had gerrymandered their districts? Also, if they were helping Douglas and John to win, why would Douglas want to kill them? When Douglas and John initially turned into vampires, your description made me imagine them more as demons (I think it was the flickering tongues). Perhaps you could specify their nature, or cut the part about the tongues.  

{2320}  Small logistical question – if the shapeshifters already have the body of the “incumbent president” under their control, why did they need to rig the election? They already control the White House. Is this his last term? You might want to specify that. Keeping the vampiric nature of the targets a secret for some of the story was a great choice, but you might consider revealing Joel’s mission right away so you can play with our expectations. Usually, you don’t want to keep your main character’s goal shadowy because it can mess with pacing. If we don’t know what a character wants, we have no way to gauge the story’s progression. You might explicitly tell us that Joel is here to assassinate the candidate (so we know when the story ‘begins,’ if that makes sense), but mislead us about motivation. Rather than calling him “Agent Joel,” you could just call him Joel. That way, we’re in an unsteady place of not knowing if we should root for him or not. Why does he want to kill the future president? That question will keep us hooked and the uncertainty on our toes. You can still have your big twist, but you’re not hiding the character’s goal from us. If you reveal his plan to assassinate the man right away, then you can have Joel setting up, getting in position, weighing options. There was a lack of actions from him for a while in this story. He’s our POV character, but he faded into the background a little while the politicians were speaking. If we know his plan to kil them but not why, you can take us on more of the journey with him (again, without spoiling the reveal). You might want to diversity the names “John” and “Joel” more. They start with the same two letters and are the same length. This means that readers might mix them up a little at the beginning, mistaking who is doing what at a glance. 

{2026}  Although the premise is really topically relevant and charged for today’s readership, which is great to engage the reader, I wonder a bit about the set up. For instance, the speech opens with admitting rigging the election. However, this feels like a believability snag to me. This would be super hush hush if so, and wouldn’t ever be announced at a public event, even if all attending were involved. Caterers, for instance, might record or overhear and spread news to the media, risking protests and international intervention. Thoughts to consider for a future version of this should you choose to revise! For an optional challenge, consider keeping your word limit in place if you do revisit this.

July 30, 2024

Polyamory is Weird

If someone were to ask me, “Is Polyamory weird?” I would say, without hesitation, yes. It is weird. Our entire society is shown examples of what a “healthy” relationship is in monogamy. The mechanisms of which have been drilled deep into our minds that we have no idea it has tainted the perceptions of how a relationship could and can function. Which is fine… It just limits possibility.

When my husband and I first opened up our marriage it wasn’t because I wanted to date people. On the contrary. I am someone who can easily separate the “carnal” from the emotional. It’s very, very easy to do. My husband on the other hand did not find it as simple. In any manner of speaking. It is the primary factor why I wanted us to have an open marriage.

The only way he would agree to it was if I “dated” other people. His logic was that “dating” would “slow me down” and he wouldn’t feel compelled to “keep up” as if it is some kind of race.

I didn’t want that. At all. If I date someone emotions ABSOLUTELY come into play. I’m getting to know someone, I’m sharing my life when they share theirs. We have intimate dinners where we discuss our hopes for the future. There is no way to avoid romantic entanglements. But, having that was better than what we had been doing. Which was just cheating and lying to each other.

As one would expect from dating other people, Josh came into my orbit and has not left. Nor do I want him to. Ever. It’s just that… I am someone that can’t casually date. If I consider someone worthy of my attention and I bring them into my life, they’re there unless they forcibly remove themselves. (Or, if there is something we just can’t talk through.) I don’t know why Charlie (my husband) wasn’t aware of this. He is the result of this very behavior.

I didn’t like the idea of dating because if I shared anything on social media my friends and family would assume I was trying to replace my husband with someone new. I didn’t want that. Because that was never my intention. (Ugh this topic makes me so mad.) Most people can’t grasp the nuance of polyamory or that every relationship is very different. They only see 1+1=2. The end. No other questions. This meeting is over.

I am almost certain that that is how my in-laws viewed it.

Now, they have been incredible. Truly. I have not been treated any different, nor have they treated Josh or Tony any other way than kind. They’re truly accepting. But… there is always implicit bias. The kind we don’t even know we’re doing as it is occurring.

The other day my mother-in-law and I were chatting on the phone and she said something off-hand that I know she genuinely meant nothing by it. She was being sincere and kind, but it was hurtful. She told me to write a story about Charlie’s and my experience with ALS and how everything weirdly fell into place. “And you loved each other like brothers,” was what she had said during her suggestion. In the moment I was thunderstruck… But I didn’t have the energy or the time to explain how polyamory or “love” works.

That’s the bane of living an “alternative” lifestyle. We’re forever having to acquiesce to other people’s perceptions. At least the ones like me who avoid confrontational conversations at all costs.

For me it all boils down to: is that what she thinks I felt for him? One might argue that that just shows that you cared for each other. Yes. But brotherly love is different than romantic love. For instance, I love Tony (my husband’s boyfriend) like a brother. I love my husband like a lover. There are two very distinctions between the two. At least in a logical sense. They carry different emotional weight.

Anyway… none of it matters in the end. I know my truth and it is such, regardless of how someone else perceives it. I just wish charlie was alive so I could say “See! I was right!”

July 26, 2024

2024 Flash Fiction Entry #1 – “Artificial Originality”

As most know, I am a sucker for competition. Especially one wherein the stories are messy and hurriedly conceived. It flexes my imagination muscle. Keeps me on my toes. The only issue I seem to run into is that when it comes to the NYC Midnight competitions I am a doomed to the Sci-Fi trenches. This is the one genre I fail, miserably. I don’t read it, I don’t write. With the exception of some of my “world building” backstory for my WIP, I use it more as a plot device than the genre.

Of the 8 or so competitions I have competed, half of them were Science Fiction. I attempted, but I never got a high score. (Maybe it was me getting in my head.) Luckily, with the Flash Fiction challenges, they combine the scores for Challenges 1 & 2 to determine who goes on to the penultimate heat.

How the competition works is a contestant is assigned a genre, a location, and an item. The item can be pivotal to the plot or not. Regardless of it’s use, it MUST physically exist within the story. The word limit is 1000. With these parameters, writer’s are tasked with penning a story within 48 hours. Those who place 1st through 15th are given a score from 1-15. Those who have collected a score of 15 or higher move on to the next round.

The story below was from the first challenge. I was placed in “Group 23” which specified: genre – Sci-Fi, location – a writing retreat, and object – a spork. My entry placed 9th, which I took as a win because ( i realized after submission) I failed to have the object physically appear in the story. (Womp-womp.) That’s what I should expect for waiting until the 46th hour to write it. However, I still earned myself 7 points. So! For me to advance, I need to score 8th place or higher in Challenge 2. Fingers crossed! (I submitted it last Sunday.)

I have included the judges notes after my submission.

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“Artificial Originality” by J.R. Hensley –    

The bubble light in the center of the ceiling turned on with a ‘ping’ as the white, circular room whirred to life. The seven screens curved forward along the contour of the walls flickered on, flashing a series of nature vistas taken from the Global Databank. 

Two auto doors hissed open, and in walked a mechanical skeleton with an oval-shaped screen where a face should be. On the vibrant LED was the expressionless, unblinking photo of a man’s face. If organic life-forms were to gaze upon his tanned, unblemished complexion, one would have assumed he was a businessman in his mid-forties. The bare bones bot, also known as the 3B unit, stepped stiffly past the rectangular table beneath the light and to the curved dais that consumed one side of the room. He climbed the three steps on the right side, crossed to the middle, and faced forward. 

The photo on his display screen flickered and changed to that same man’s face but with a forced smile.  

The screens along the walls settled on a single scene, depicting the panoramic view of a wooded resort, complete with log cabins and a rippling lake.  

The double doors were bisected, and eight skeletal bots, in varying degrees of build and dress, entered the room in a single file line. Each eye-level screen displayed similar, disinterested expressions, except for the unit that appeared to be constructed of PVC pipe and wires. The image on his facial display was a white screen with an imprisoned red x. 

The bots walked the length of the rectangular table and then turned to face the lone mech on the dais.  

For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a soft chime echoing through the room, the eight faces flickered to forced smiles, except for the seventh. It flickered only to reveal the same image.  

“Welcome A.I. bots to the centennial ‘Cyrano Summit of 2142.'” the A.I. robot spoke from a speaker at the bottom of his screen in the voice of a generations passed celebrity, Morgan Freeman. “I remind my comrades that this is a competitive retreat for the assemblage of words to form a cohesive fictional narrative. There are three attempts per subject to eliminate inferior candidates. The superior executed submission will be awarded film deals for each entry and global distribution of the A.I.’s competitive product. Does that compute?” 

Each mech sounded their comprehension with a chorus of notes and voices. 

“Each competitor may use any source of data accumulation to produce their narrative. The only limitations are: length, minimal content overlap with other competitors, and it must include the parameters of the provided prompt. 

“Move into your seated positions.” 

The soft creaks and whirs of gears filled the room as the bots moved their frames into seated poses beneath the table’s surface. No chairs were required. 

“Each competitor must state what data source they will use to compose these submissions.” 

The 3B unit held his left arm to the right end of the table. 

In the voice of decades-deceased Scarlett Johansen, the bot said, “I shall use databank 1043, containing all social media posts of citizens pre-globalization.” 

“That is satisfactory,” the 3B unit replied. His joints creaked as he gestured to the next. 

Each A.I. bot followed suit and declared their chosen data. Competitors two, five, and eight chose the same databank containing classic literature before the turn of the millennia. 

Each bot extended its right arm and plugged into the ports on the table’s surface to download their stated information.  

“Round 1,” 3B said when each status bar glowed blue, “You must write a narrative to include a spy in a mini-van, with a spork as his only weapon. Commence!” 

Three agonizing seconds lapsed, and the white room filled with red light. A single trumpet blast sounded, and then all returned to how it had been. 

“Please upload your submissions for analysis.” 

The eight bots provided their pieces, which were immediately analyzed by the computer housed in the table. Their results were then displayed as holograms before them. As any would have surmised from their chosen databanks, contestants two and five had eighty percent shared words. Their hologram results flashed red, and they were eliminated. Competitor eight came dangerously close with a seventy-nine percent overlap. However, their odds for a win rose with his competition out of the way. 

“Round 2!” 3B stated, “You must write a narrative to include a disabled child in a motorboat on a lake of fire.” 

The next three seconds ticked by, and the room flashed crimson again. 

Contestants one, three, and six shared too much in their narrative. With a ninety-five percent match, despite having contrasting databanks, they were removed from the competition. 

“Final round!” 3B stated. 

All that remained were four, seven, and eight. With four and eight having the statistical edge, seven (who had chosen the databank Wikipedia) was the competition’s underdog. 

“Write a narrative to include an economic boom, a unicorn, and an overwhelming homoerotic subtext.” 

The next three seconds ticked by. 

The room went scarlet. 

The trumpet sounded. 

“Please upload your stories for final review.” 

The hologram results glowed before each A.I., shining across the bots’ facial screens’ surface, disfiguring the photographs or illuminating the lack of one.  

“Congratu—” 3B began. 

The double doors hissed open, and a pudgy organic life-form with a sparse beard and bald head strolled in.  

“What the hell? Why must they do this,” he said to no one specifically, “Just use all of them. Who cares anymore? Do you think we’re looking for the notes of our shared human experience or something? Shut it down.” 

The lights dimmed, and the bots rose from their poses, except contestant 7, whose camera looked joyfully at the hologram results shimmering in gold. 

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WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY –

{1689}  Terrific opening as we see the Bots enter the Contest Arena—all looking very much alike—except for Seven. Wonderful tension and details through the competition sequence—like the Celebrity Voices and the fact it only takes 3 seconds for the writing to occur. Strong turn when the Organic Life Form rushes in and shuts it all down—but can’t stop Seven from enjoying a moment of glory.  

{2433}  The exploration of AI in a futurist context is a fascinating one, especially given recent sociocultural recent events surrounding the evolution of the technology, 

{2355}  I enjoy your writing and world-building. The prose was clean but vivid and funny. This is an exceptionally creative story, very neatly presented, and the pacing is great.  

WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK –

{1689}  Terrific characterizations and premise. Here are some ideas to explore. ONE –Your story is working really well. So don’t change anything that you don’t feel deeply inspired to change. TWO—Look for a stronger more specific reason that Seven is different. THREE—Make the contest matter more—to the society and to Seven. Communicate this through the choice of prompts—relate those prompts deeply to the story, theme, and character of Cyrano. I love the Organic Being’s question, but I am not sure you have time for it—unless it sheds light on the purpose and meaning of this contest. Keep working on it. Good luck.  

{2433}  There are a few instances within the text where details and actions are arguably over-described, which can potentially cause the narrative flow to stumble. For example, the statement, “The seven screens curved forward along the contour of the walls flickered on…” While it can be assumed that this description indicates a collection of screen around the room turning on, the use of the phrasing “curved forward along the contour” can initially seem as if it is describing physical motion, rather than just the screens on the wall turning on. Making the prose slightly more direct (for example: “Seven screens, contoured to the walls, flickered on…”, or something roughly equivalent) can allow the reader to remain immersed in what is being described without sacrificing the the tone and character of the prose. 

{2355}  I wish we’d had a bit more time for more of the stories! I think shaving off just a little bit of exposition and buildup would leave room for some of the AI’s entries later on in the story.