short story

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.” 

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”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 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.

April 10, 2024

NYC Short Story Challenge #1 2024 – “Life of Cards”

I am a sucker for some competition. There is nothing I love more than flexing my narrative skills under self-inflicted duress. Which is why my favorite competition to compete in is the NYC Midnight challenges. I prefer to do the “Flash Fiction” matches, just because it forces me to not procrastinate which I enjoy doing more than I should, but I won’t say no to their short story competition.

The way that they work is that they assign the contestants a genre, a scenario, and character. Sometimes they change it up and they have an item that must appear somewhere in the story. Regardless, the writer is tasked with creating a piece including these specific parameters.

For this year’s round one I was given: Genre – Drama; “Sold out”; Grandmother. With these I wrote the story below, which got me into 4th place! Now the top ten move onto round 2! If you stick around after the story you can read what the judges said about my entry.

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“Life of Cards”

Virginia had been dealt death many times in her life. First, it was her father who had passed when she was only six years old. She was left in the care of her stepmother, who felt no obligation to keep her. So, instead, she turned her over to the foster system.

            “I’m sorry, Ginny,” she had said, trying to muster up the most sincere tone, “but I can’t take care of you and my kids. I have my hands too full. This is all I can think to do.”

            Virginia was left perplexed as to why it was even a question, but at the time, she knew it must be something only adults knew.

            For eight years, she hopped from home to home until she was handed a card of life. It came to her in the form of love when she met the man who would take her away from it all. She saw Robert for the first time while visiting with a friend, sitting in the living room in a wing-backed chair with her legs draped over one of the arms.

            “This six-foot boy with broad shoulders and slicked-back hair strolled in. He was so handsome,” she recounted years later to the two children she would have with Robert. “He thought he was a quiet, gangly nerd, but I was smitten.” She paused and smiled, lost in the memory. “He knew how much I needed a hero and rescued me.”

            “Mom, you don’t think it’s odd that an eighteen-year-old boy would be attracted to a fourteen-year-old girl?” Patricia had asked.

            “Oh, phooey,” she said, waving a hand to wipe the stench of this sentiment from the air, “I’m telling you this now, as an adult. I know how and what I felt. Just focus on the romance of it, Pat.”

Love kept turning up in the deck of her life for what felt like years on end. It was met with adventures and successes in her husband’s home construction business. She had almost forgotten about it until everything shifted, and the dark cards kept coming up. One by one, she was handed death when she lost her son in Afghanistan, then again when her husband was taken from her by a heart attack while gardening, and then once more when her daughter passed in the delivery room.

            The birth of her grandchild, Owen, even though it was accompanied by the loss of one of her greatest loves, was her saving grace. He was what gave her her daughter back. He was a “double-whammy” she needed to keep playing.

            Owen’s father chose to not participate in his life, even when given the option.

            “Listen, Mrs. Sticklin,” his voice was even more cold over the telephone line, “This isn’t for me. I give everything to you. He’s yours. I want no part of it.”

            “I’m familiar with that feeling,” she said, choking on the words. “I will ask nothing of you. Nor will I lie to him about why you’re not here.”

            “I could care less,” he spat and disconnected the line.

            Virginia cringed at the miswording of the phrase.

            Good riddance, she thought. Clearly, he isn’t playing with a full deck.

            Virginia knew she wasn’t prepared to be a mother again, like most women at fifty years old, let alone as a single parent, but she refused to relent. Much like she had promised not to abandon or give up on her children, she refused to do so to the one remaining link to a life long gone. She swore to do whatever she could. No matter what.

            The early years of their life together were like gliding onto a well-worn track, and Virginia found the know-how to get it done. Late nights of tears, diapers, and snuggles went by in the blink of an eye. Owen was walking and talking with his own strong opinions and interests that seemed to change daily.

            Then, one summer night, everything shifted again. Virginia was sure this was the flashpoint that caused the worst of all Owen’s obsessions.

After Virginia had finally tucked him into bed, she retired to the kitchen table to play a game of solitaire. She pulled out her well-worn cards from a drawer, shuffled them up, and set up the game board, licking her thumb as she went. Before she dealt out the first three cards, she studied the ones before her, building her strategy.

            Deep in thought, she hadn’t noticed Owen stroll into the kitchen in his mint footy pajamas.

            With a tiny finger, he tapped her on her arm, sending a jolt through her body and causing her to fling out her arms, nearly tossing the cards clutched in her hand.

            “Good, Lord, Owen,” she said, grabbing at the stitch in her chest with both hands, “don’t scare grandma like that.”

            “My tummy hurts,” he said, his little arms wrapping around his midsection.

            “Are you sure?” She asked, “It wasn’t hurting a second ago.”

            Her grandson nodded as he rubbed his right eye with his small fist. She knew he was just trying to get out of going to bed.

            Virginia scooped Owen into her lap and wrapped her arms around him as she played the game before them. He sat silently as she whispered her moves into his right ear.

            “And now, we have an Ace!” she said, taking it from the draw pile and putting it into the home row.

            “Yay!”

            The game wound on into the night until she reached where she could no longer make a move. The cascade of alternating suits blocked the cards she needed to finish the game.

            “We can’t win them all,” she said.

            “You didn’t win?” Owen asked, looking at the state of play before him.

            “Nope,” She said, “that’s why we shuffle and try again.”

            “Can I play? I know I can win.”

            Virginia laughed.

            “I’m sure you would,” she hugged him, “but it is way past your bedtime.”

            She put him back into bed, tucked him in tight, and kissed his forehead.

            The next day, he was bent on learning to play. In his first few games, he would cheat without knowing, but Virginia quickly corrected him, and he would follow her instructions.

            “You have to play by the rules, or a win isn’t real,” she said.

            Owen nodded and then haphazardly gathered the cards into a pile to shuffle them.

            Soon, when he had grown bored of playing alone, he begged her to teach him another game. The only one she knew by heart was Rummy, which they would play multiple times a day at the kitchen table. She loved watching his eyes look intently at his hand, his little tongue wagging between his lips. The wheels were spinning hard in his head. He was always working things out.

            On the first day of first grade, Owen took his deck of cards to school to tempt the other kids to play with him, but he couldn’t. They were only interested in Pokemon.

            “What’s poke-e-man?” Virginia asked him when he came home from school.

            “It’s a card game,” he said, his eyes lighting up, “you have these little monsters that fight each other.” His gestures were broad and fast as he explained it.

            “Can you get me some?” He asked, his blue eyes pleading.

            Virginia pursed her lips together, “I’ll see.”

            Owen searched the internet on his iPad to further assist his endeavor to acquire pokemon cards. Whenever he got something new and “notable,” he would show her. By bedtime, she was tired of hearing about it and couldn’t be bothered.

            “It looks like some new ones are coming out soon!” he whispered to her.

            Virginia chuckled.

            “Go to sleep, love.”

            The next day, when Owen was in class, Virginia found a local hobby shop to make sense of the information she had been shown the other evening.

            “Well, you came on a good day since the newest set just came out. Unfortunately I’m sold out.”

“Sold out? How is that?”

The proprietor rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Scalpers. They come here, buy everything, and sell it online for crazy prices.”

Virginia groaned, “Well, we’re just starting.”

“In that case, you’re going to want to get a deck,” he replied, pointing to the shelf behind him filled with colorful animated boxes. Each had some elaborate fantastical name for what lie within.

            Virginia nodded, her eyes studying the selection.

            “This is too much. Just give me whatever you need to play.”

            “The two-player starter?” he said, grabbing it and holding it up for her.

            “Sure, might as well learn,” she answered, shrugging.

            When Owen got home from school she surprised him with the set. He threw his arms around her and then studied the box.

            “Does that mean you’re going to play with me?”

            Virginia shook her head with an uneasy smile, “I’m sure going to try.”

            She marveled at the game’s strategy and loved watching him grasp the nuance of the rules. He would move each card from one space to the next, studying his cards and licking his lips.

            He is made for this, she thought.

            Once he had a firm grasp and over a hundred wins with his grandma, Owen entered tournaments and went after all the sought-after cards. He was a shark. Determined and ruthless. She would play the game online at night to stay ahead of him. However, no matter how much practice she put in, Owen was always one step ahead.

            “Thanks for playing with me, Grandma,” he said after another round of complete and utter annihilation.

            “I try,” she said.

            Owen just smiled.

            That night Owen came to her complaining once again about his stomach.

            “Grandma, it feels like it’s twisting my guts,” he said, “can we go to the doctor?”

            Still in her robe, they rushed to the emergency room for answers.

            “Everything is going to be alright,” she said in the bustling waiting room.

            However, after nearly twelve hours in the emergency room with an innumerable set of blood tests, CT scans, and X-rays, whatever she may have wanted the answer to be, there was another card waiting to be dealt.

            “I’m sorry to tell you this,” the doctor said, with a twitch of his mustache, “But it appears he has intestinal cancer. I wish I could tell you more, but this is beyond my expertise. We’ve referred you to the nearest children’s hospital.”

            Virginia went numb. The room around her seemed to spin, and what she heard was drowned out by a high-pitched whine.

            “Are you okay?” The doctor said. He went to grab her arm, but she held up a hand.

            “This is just a lot,” she assured him.

            She was furious with herself for not listening earlier.

            Virginia and Owen’s lives morphed into doctor’s visits and hospital stays. Try as they might to get rid of the cancer, it seemed to pop up somewhere else unexpectedly and always more aggressive than before. They needed a surefire way to get rid of this.

            The only thing that made sense for Virginia was to keep playing games with her grandson to distract from the chaos of sickness. She would always play with a smile, determined to let him win no matter what. To her utter dismay, her winning became much easier and more frequent. The treatments were taking his sense of awareness away. She would watch him make moves that didn’t quite make sense.

            There is no strategy here, she would think.

            Late one evening, as Owen lay in the hospital bed, connected to IVs and a heart monitor, Virginia watched his frail, small body breathing. With all the deaths in her life, she had never been here, in this moment, struggling to understand or do something. Death had always come to her like a thief in the night, stealing from her what she loved most.

That I could handle, Virginia thought, but this is something else entirely.

            The next day came, and she was determined to do something she had some control over. She knew that the next set for Pokemon was coming out and intended to get him all the packs she could find. Hell, she might even buy him a box. Just to bring some joy into his life.

            She tried three different stores but was only met with disappointment. As a last-ditch effort, she went to the nearest department store and made a B-line for the trading card section, but there was nothing but metal shelves and empty hooks before her. Virginia’s heart was in her ears.

            She went immediately to the register.

            Maybe they haven’t put them out yet, she thought.

            “No, I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re sold out. He just bought everything we have,” the clerk pointed to a swarthy man walking out the automated doors, carrying four full bags.

            “What!” she screeched.

            Virginia ran out of the store after the man and grabbed his arm just as he was about to step off the curb.

            “What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

            “Excuse me?” the disheveled man asked, squinting at her behind his glasses.

            “Why did you buy all of those cards?”

            “It’s none of your business!”

            “It is indeed my business!” she shouted. She could feel the tears forming beneath her eyes, “You don’t understand. You come in here and buy up all of this stock for what? To sell it at some jacked-up price? My grandson is dying. All I can think about is bringing him some modicum of joy in the face of death, and here you are, being some foul creature who turns kids’ toys into some sick investment! You couldn’t leave just one? It had to be all of them? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

            The man stammered over his response, his head jerking around on his neck as he looked at the scene unfolding around him.

             Virginia started to cry.

            “How could you do this? Just be—”

            Frazzled, the man held up his right hand, holding two bags, “Here, take these.” He shoved them into her chest, looked around, and shuffled as fast as his worn sneakers could carry him back to his car.

            Virginia hugged the bags into her chest and cried harder than she had since she lost her daughter. She hurried back to her car with her new treasures, double-checking the contents to make sure it was even the set she had wanted. Her challenge had won her thirty-six packs and a stick of old spice deodorant, which she quickly discarded before handing them over to her grandson.

            “Grandma!” Owen said with a big smile, “This is awesome! Thank you!”

            The boy tore into the silver wrapping with all the excitement she had seen him have the first time she had bought him a starter set.

            “I can’t wait to add these to my decks,” Owen said. “I got some real good cards. I’m going to win!”

            Virginia smiled with damp cheeks.            

“I hope so.”

_______________________________________________________________

JUDGES FEEDBACK:

”Life in Cards” by Joshua Hensley –    

WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY –

{1894}  Virgina’s explosion in the parking lot felt very realistic – she’s under a lot of stress, and a random breaking point over game cards was a great way to show this. The connection between her and Owen is strong, and using the games as a way for them to spend time together was a nice touch. Their dialogue also felt natural and conversational.  

{2115}  I’m really impressed with the scope of this story, which covers some weighty themes and quite a large period in Virginia’s life. I like how vividly her different family members come through—those who have left her life, like her stepmother, her late husband and children, but especially the grandson whose caregiving duties keep Virginia vital and active into old age. I like the gentle thread of cards and games that ties in with her resilience and the “cards” she draws in life. Good job raising suspense and tightening pacing as cancer gets closer with the grandson’s diagnosis and the dramatic scene in the store with the card purchase. And I love the open note you end on! 

{2333}  I like how much of Virginia’s life is included in the story. Knowing just how much death and loss Virginia has experienced across her lifetime helps us understand fully how upsetting it is for her to learn that her grandson has intestinal cancer. Also, it heightens the urgency of her hunting down Pokémon cards for Owen.  

WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK –

{1894}  Consider cutting some of the backstory offered. While the descriptions of death after death add depth to Virginia’s suffering, the true start of the story seems to be when Owen starts wanting to play games with his grandmother. What would it look like if the story started here? A quick line or two about why Owen’s mother’s death could set up their lives together. This could also cut the volume of the story – having too many highly intense pieces in one story can cause the reader to feel removed from the characters. Consider keeping the main conflict focused on Owen’s illness.  

{2115}  My main question is, should at least a few of the particulars of the Pokemon game come through, the way we see some of the details of her Solitaire game? Should we see some of the names of the cards she and her grandson seek? That might make the pathos of this story feel even more grounded and authentic. 

{2333}  Clarify the statement at the top of p.3. The author says one summer night, everything shifts, and Virginia is “sure this was the flashpoint that caused the worst of all Owen’s obsessions”. It’s unclear what the author is trying to say with this statement. As written, it reads like the worst thing about this moment is Owen’s interest in card games, and not the stomach pain that may or may not be the first sign of his intestinal cancer.

April 27, 2022

The Soundtrack of My Life – 16 – A Sorta Fairytale

Goodness… Music truly is magic for me. I had completely forgotten that this song (and artist honestly) existed. That is until someone posted one of Tori Amos’ the other day on twitter. My memory whirred to life and every detail of my first boyfriend came rushing from deep within the archives. I was once again back there and filled with so much to write about that, without a second thought, I knew what song to do next.

I have had internet friends since I was 12. I nagged my mother to get the internet until she begrudgingly signed up for AOL. At the time, I wanted to recreate “You’ve Got Mail.” The moment our computer was connected to the world wide web I was in search of people to talk to. In a very roundabout way, one in which I cannot recall how we met, I started exchanging lengthy digital letters with a girl named Mary. (I still have all of them printed and held in a manila folder somewhere.) She lived in Minnesota, older than me by a year or two, and completely obsessed with the Broadway musical Les Miserable. She had broken the rules messaging me and when her parents found out about our exchanges they forbade her from sending any further correspondence. (Anyone can be anyone on the internet.) But like most teenage girls, she found a work around that wouldn’t get her into trouble. Mary commissioned her friend Tessa to type out and send me her handwritten letters in secret. That lasted for about a month when, eventually, those messages ended all together and, instead, Tessa and I became friends. The two of us were close enough that for Christmas one year she sent me a CD with a bunch of her favorite songs. On that disc was this one by Tori Amos.

At first I had no interest in it. It wasn’t really my vibe. I had just turned 17 and was going into my punk rock/emo phase. The tone and lyrics of this did not match how I felt inside. At least, when I first got it. It would however become an obsession later.

I only ever came out to someone by accident. Not so much that, but unexpectedly. I had been invited to an old friend’s, Becky, birthday party at a bowling alley. I went with the intent on telling her that I was “bisexual” because I had this gut feeling that she would accept me. However, because I brought along my friend Jenny as a buffer, I did not end up doing that at first. Instead Jenny and I stayed in our own lane and bowled. I was too scared to talk to Becky and, as the star of the evening, getting her alone was impossible. The party wound down and then Jenny and I both decided to head out too. I left feeling “relieved” I hadn’t said anything. Saying it would have made it real and my deeply held Christian faith wouldn’t have allowed it.

When I had gotten into my parents’ aquamarine station wagon, I turned the key to discover a completely dead battery.

“That sucks,” Jenny laughed and left me to fend for myself.

My parents showed up to help and as we waited for triple-A to come and bring “the bitch mobile” back to life, I went back into the bowling alley. I had to get one more look at the guy I had been salivating over all night.

I thought he was so handsome. Dressed all in black, with dark brown eyes and a brooding expression. His face was pockmarked by bad acne, but his smile was captivating. He was one of the handful of Becky’s friends still bowling, as my friend sat by herself playing with her brand new phone.

“I thought you had left” Becky had said.

I gave her the run down as I stared at her friend. Then from somewhere deep in myself I built up the courage to lean forward and whisper my confession in her ear. For the first time ever I told someone that I was bisexual.

“And your friend Sergio is really cute.”

She laughed and told me that he too was a recent recruit to the “friends of Dorothy.”

“Oh, really?” I had said. “Do you think you could hook a brother up?”

“I think I can do that,” she had replied.

The following day, as my parents drove us down to our family’s early Christmas party, I berated myself for having said anything. I regretted it. I wanted nothing more than to call her up and say, “I don’t know what I was saying. I’m not bisexual.” Even now as I type this I can feel the same churning in my stomach. “If I just hadn’t gone back inside…” I kept telling myself.

Even though I felt that then, when Becky called me to meet up with her and Sergio at the mall I jumped at the chance. I had already made it past the first hurdle, might as well keep going. See where it goes. We walked the length of the enclosed shopping center, Sergio and I hit it off instantly. Well, for me at least. I can’t speak for his experience.

My dad came and picked me up and took me home where I immediately got back in the car and returned to the mall. I joined back up with them and then went and saw the Two Towers. There Sergio and I sat together and held hands. My heart could have burst.

Every chance after that I would get together with Becky and have her call Sergio to come over. I was truly smitten. He was all I thought about, who I wanted to be around. I loved the smell of him. He wore a particular cologne that even to this day if I catch a whiff of it I’m taken back to the day we made-out on Becky’s bed.

The problem with letting yourself love who you want for the first time is you run the risk of feeling too much all at once. For so long I had deprived myself of allowing my true homosexual feelings. So once the cork was popped, all the pressure that had been building behind it exploded. And not in a fun way. I gave too much of myself too quickly.

After we had been kissing, again, on Becky’s bed, I whispered in Sergio’s ear that I loved him. He hesitated for a second and said it back. I was elated. I had never felt so amazing in my entire little life. However… it was after that in which his response to me changed. He became distant and avoided me like a mask mandate. I knew something was amiss but I couldn’t place it. Finally, a few days before the winter formal, he dumped me over the phone. It was my own fault. I forced it out of him. He was told to hold out until after the dance, but I was too much for him. The “gay thing” was too much for him. He wasn’t even sure he was queer. (Turns out… he’s just not gay for me.)

I was absolutely gutted. I had never been dumped before. Prior to this I had dated two other people, girls, and I had been the one to end things. This time… The pain I felt was intense. Like I said, once you allow yourself to feel things, for real, you have to also face the other side as well. And the emotional swings are just as broad.

I obsessed over him and re-ran every moment, especially the night I forced him to break-up with me, for months. I picked apart and analyzed everything trying to figure out what I had done wrong. It only took me a few years to realize that it had just been too much for Sergio. I absolutely came on wildly too strong, too fast. Sergio wasn’t ready. And, honestly, neither was I.

The break-up threw me into a depression, where it was so noticeable that my mother asked me repeatedly what was bothering me. Somewhere around the sixth time she had inquired, I snapped a response.

“My boyfriend dumped me,” I had said.

The look of shock on my mother’s face was intense. The color drained from her cheeks and her eyes bulged from their sockets.

“What are you saying?” She had asked.

My response is lost to the wave of raw emotion. I just remember saying I wasn’t full gay, but “Bi-bi-bi.” (Aka a lie-lie-lie.) My mother scurried from the family room and went to bed, crying.

Overcome with guilt at my mother’s response and fear of my mother knowing I liked men, I shuffled into her dark bedroom and lied, “I was just joking.”

“Why would you do that to your mother,” my father’s methodical voice said out of the darkness.

For the next few months, I moped around trying to cope. I blogged about it whenever I felt the pangs of sadness, but I could hardly get past my emotions. It was such a foreign concept to my young heart. How something could be alive and real in one moment, but gone forever the next, left me befuddled.

The worst part was that since Sergio was a close friend to Becky, he still came around. So, I had to make nice with this son-of-a-bitch whenever I saw him. And my heart would go from one extreme to the next. In one moment I want to grab his pudgy cheeks and kiss him, while in the next I wanted to knock his lights out. The best part was that in this friend group they would play the “slug bug” game but with two additions: out of state license plates and mustangs. Mustangs were included just because the dude who had originated the revised game hated them. And they were fucking everywhere. So, I got to hit him hard and often.

In the wake of the break-up I was set adrift and I rediscovered the song above. It captured me by it’s poetic lyrics and this ending where it leaves you wanting more. It inspired a short story I wrote to it’s tune, with the intent for the reader to listen to the song as they read. I think the term most artists like to use is it was “experimental.” It’s written in broken up scenes, almost like a dream or snapshots. I will include it below for the more curious minds. Just know that it is truly terrible.

I also seem to have written with this weird British accent. Gosh, I’m adorable.

****************************

Him until the End

The news came like a wave and hit each shore of ears all at the same time. It crashed into their ears and flooded their minds with foam. With each collision, a different response was expelled out of the crevasses of their minds through the mouths of the people; and each response varied from the negative, to the neutral, and to the positive, but how anyone could have a positive to such is a surprise; but nevertheless how people took it was the bulk of the story.

*             *             *

Jonathan Abhor awoke to sun and birds every day since he had found happiness; he pulled himself from the mountains of blankets and pillows and dressed with speed, for he couldn’t wait to see the thing that had brought joy into his life. He could hardly contain the happiness that broiled within him; there was so much that he couldn’t help but smile and laugh at the idea of ‘him.’ ‘Him’ was the coming and reason for all, just remember that, for ‘him’ was a benchmark moment within the life of Jon. ‘Him’ was responsible for the change that had occurred in the boy, he was why Jon even dressed differently.

After making some adjustments to his appearance, he rushed to his car, hopped in, and immediately started the engine and backed away from the house. From that point he raced to ‘heavens rest,’ the meeting point of where it all collided.

Anna Kismet’s room was a haven for all who didn’t wish to be seen, who could only do things there and not be judged, and peace and love would be found. Anna was a great reason for all of this, if it hadn’t been for her none of the recent events would have happened, she was perfect to Jon, for she had given the boy ‘him.’

‘Heavens Rest’ was almost silent as some movie played in the background, but none of that mattered for now because right now all that existed was Jon and ‘him.’ Together they laid in each others arms, gazing into the others eyes trying to find who they truly were. Without thinking, lost in the exchange of gazes, Jon leaned forward and kissed the lips of ‘him.’ A feeling of electricity flowed through his lips and continued in a steady stream through each of his limbs, until the two finally broke and together again they looked into the others eyes. Both smiled slightly and then ‘him’ leaned in and again they kissed innocently, but before Jon could realize what was going about he found himself locked into a kiss he didn’t want to end. Beauty existed and grew and before long they broke, and swimming in the scent of ‘him’ he said softly, “I love you.”  Those words hung lightly in the air until a response was tossed up and it was no longer alone, “I love you, too.” They kissed lips softly and wrapped together they lay with the other.

*             *             *

It was evening and the whole of the small town world was moving about, carrying out their lives through the streets and stores, trying to make sense of things that normally were fuzzy. Jon was alike those who lay before him. His world had stopped spinning and the sky had shattered and crashed to the earth, and the shards had cut his skin leaving him behind a bloodied mess standing alone. It was a night before the school dance, and oblivious to what was to happen, he and his friends were all busy getting things prepared. It was all frustrating and consuming, but to make his life complicated even more it was also the night that him decided to rid his life of Jon. ‘Him’ had spilled everything against his will, so on the phone he told his plight to a broken hearted boy, saying that he still wanted to be friends. Though through his strained eyes he looked back at the month they had lived as a pair, and those words “let’s be friends” held no effect to the scarred human being who only wanted to scream “Why? What was all of that? Was it all lies?”  But using every fiber of himself he held back the words and just accepted the ruthless murder of his trust and love.

Anna was there that night, for Jon was at her house, and she watched his face as it reddened with pain and his eyes welled with tears. She had to look away for fear she would soon cry too, and she was meant to be the strong one at this point in time. So, where it all began it ended and that was where so much more happened. Sobbing so hard on her shoulder Jon lost a giant piece of himself, a piece he would never get back because it was too great and large to lift and replace.

*             *             *

“Why did you break up with me,” Jon uttered from his lips against his better judgment.

“Because,” he began, “I never really liked you, and while we were dating I was sort of liking someone else. Plus, I was scared people would find out about us. I mean we couldn’t have kept it a secret forever.”  ‘Him’ had spoken this without any human remorse or sorrow, he spoke it almost maliciously as if to destroy the rest that was left of Jon; and it was there that the last piece of the boy broke away and in the darkness of an abyss he fell hoping to reach the end soon, where he knew he’d hit the ground and die.

*             *             *

The window of Jon’s room lay open, allowing in the sound and sweet scent of the spring rain as the boy penned his life’s tale upon paper. The more he recalled and wrote about the past month the more he hated his existence, and in time his story turned into a letter of good-bye. It was at the moment he finished that he decided to end his duration; he couldn’t take the pain for there was far too much. So, the story now told and able to be heard he leaped with hope to his car and climbed in, taking flight immediately to the school, and there his ending would commence.

*             *             *

“I don’t believe he did it,” said one girl, after the letter Jon had penned had been read by the school. “He was dating a guy! Was he gay?” 

“No. Weren’t you listening? In his letter it said he made a mistake falling in love with a guy, but that it was nothing more,” said the guy she had been speaking with.

*             *             *

…I’m killing myself because I loved him more than I’ll ever be able to comprehend; my life got better with his existence but what’s a life without him? There is just too much hurt for me to carry on without Cameron.

THE END