Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion
Weekly Short Story Contests
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Week 232 (October 5th-12). Stories. Topic: Technophobe
Like M predicted, I've got a whole stash of these synopses lying in wait on my computer. I hope this story turns out to be a good one! Thanks, Al! :)
Title: Ah!By CJ
Length: about 430
In a haze Jimmy jumped out his front door. As he walked a young woman in a Audrey Hepburn black hat was beside him, smiling faintly. He remarked: "Isn't it too hot to be wearing that?"
"The days are not as bad as the months."
Jimmy shrugged at that statement.
"You know Jimmy, you got a cell phone a few days ago right?"
He didn't believe her but then realization sunk in on him like a large rock in quick-sand.
Just then the phone rang its incessant ring-tone and he yanked it from his front pocket.
"Yello?"
It was no one but Jimmy didn't really care. He pressed the red button and back into being his thigh's buddy it went again.
"I can't believe Instagram." said she. He just shrugged at the statement and they walked to a diner that happened to be in their trail.
"Oh my gosh," she began again. "You've gotta try this new online social media site!"
"Uh huh."
"And then there are these amazing apps."
"Yeah."
Suddenly Jimmy noticed she was wearing an orange-and-white striped shirt that he thought looked pretty cute on her. "Wow you look cute." he said out of tone and was shocked by his voice's content.
"Thanks." she said and gave a staring smile.
Suddenly without order it seemed lunch came.
"Wow, Jimmy you've gotta try this. It's a new social media site..."
"Didn't you already say that before?"
"Yeah but it's great. It's another one and its the next best thing to living a life, having friends..."
She continued on as Jimmy chomped on a salad, something he usually hated.
"Why go out or do anything with others when you've got a piece of plastic to keep you company...?"
His lettuce was covered in fatty ranch that thickly coated his mouth. He was surprised he didn't start gagging but he ate it. He didn't like ranch dressing usually.
Then he as stabbed with his fork a purple grape tomato he woke up with a gasp.
"Ah." his legs found the morning's cool air just as they had kicked the space in his bedroom apartment.
Jimmy went downstairs past the living room which didn't have a t.v. ever since he had heard a source that gives out a signal out could possibly spy on people. He never trusted anything that could easily hold a tracking device: no cell phones, computers, even GPS systems he thought were being used for outlandish things!
It was just that Jimmy liked his world private and unpenetrated. That was the kind of way he always wanted it seemed.
Just then his phone rang.
He picked it up and heard the familiar voice in his dream. "Jimmy?"
"Hey what's up?"
She sounded shocked. Then laughed. "Wow I like to pester you and you usually don't care about me."
He blushed. Immediately he tried to defend his statement of what things were skyward. "Uhh... I was just bored I guess."
"Hmm." He could tell she was smiling through the phone just by the sound of her tone. "You know Apple is going to bogart their plans for IPhone 7 altogether and just jump into number 8?"
Phones... phones! He forgot how evil phones were too!! With a sudden flick of his wrist his hands had found the end cord where the back of the phone met the wall and pulled until there was a crumbling that came out of it leaving a "blast" of a hole. Plaster powder made thick clouds around him as the dead phone fell from his shoulder and clunked onto the floor.
Jimmy sighed in relief.
AUTHOR: Garrison KellyTITLE: Froggy Smacks
GENRE: Environmental Fantasy
WORD COUNT: 1,662
RATING: PG-13 for torture and some language
It took a while for him to gel, but when he finally did, Gray Russell was living comfortably. He had a job, a house, a car, a wife, a dog, and two kids. He was the poster child of the American Dream. How did he get as far as he did? By doing something many in the green community were disgusted by: cutting down trees in the wetlands. For eight hours a day and five days a week, Gray took his mighty axe and smashed down trees while being knee deep in swamp water. This didn’t bother him morally (because he benefited from it) or physically (because he wore rubber boots and overalls to work).
One day on the job, Gray managed to find a quiet part of the wetland forest and went right to work on the biggest tree he could find. He swung his gigantic blade at the base of the tree with minimal effort and maximal results. He looked like a barbaric warrior every time he took a swing.
His he-man prowess attracted the attention of a young shaman named Katie Evans. She was dressed in a brown leather poncho, jean shorts, and little else. She brushed back her long brunette hair and smiled a seductive grin at Gray. “Keep going, big guy. I enjoy watching you work,” she said in a voice oozing with sexuality.
Gray knew better than to submit to the come-ons of another woman since he was happily married, but he couldn’t help but give a seductive grin of his own. He kept showing off his muscular skills by chipping away at the massive tree. Katie was walking away with her new man crush one way or another. She pulled out a leather pouch full of golden dust and blew it at Gray in the form of a long distance kiss.
It appeared as though the gold dust had magical powers as Katie now had Gray’s full attention. The goofy lumberjack smiled a dorky grin and floated through the air at the guidance of his new mistress. Once he got close enough to kiss her on the lips, he felt a thud in the back of his head and his moment of love became a pitch black nightmare.
It took a lengthy period of time for Gray Russell to recover from his head thump, but when he did, he was much weaker and dizzier than before and had his arms shackled over his head between two trees. Standing in front of him was the still smiling Katie Evans along with the culprit behind the blackout blow, a massive humanoid frog shaman wielding a staff simply known as Froggy Smacks.
“Look what we have here, Katie. It’s the first soldier in the Green Army,” said Froggy in an intimidating throaty voice. Gray was having trouble lifting his aching head, so the amphibian warrior lifted it using the tip of his staff. He went on to say, “So you like being paid to cut down our trees? You do know that people and animals alike live off of this land. It wouldn’t be right if I suddenly went to your house and burned it to the ground. You’re doing the same thing to these swamps. You want to turn it all around? Join the Green Army and we’ll show you how.”
“Dude, you’re a goddamn giant frog. Why should I take orders from a disgusting creature like you?!” yelled Gray before spitting in Froggy’s face. The sloppy saliva shot earned the lumberjack a hard thud to the stomach courtesy of Froggy Smacks and his wooden staff.
As Gray was wheezing and coughing violently from that blow, Katie shouted at her master, “Stop it! You said you were just going to scare him! You didn’t say anything about beating him up! This is wrong!”
“What? Beating somebody senseless isn’t scary enough for you? Besides, you saw the way he reacted when I offered him a spot in the Green Army,” said Froggy. The animal shaman lifted Gray’s head by his hair and looked evilly into his eyes when he said, “I’m not asking you to join us. I’m telling you. Unless you want me to spread your brains across the water, you’ll do exactly as I say when I say it. Understood?”
“Go to hell, you sick freak!” yelled Gray. His defiance caused Froggy to dip the lumberjack’s head underwater and hold it there for what seemed like forever.
“Stop it! You’re going to kill him! This is insanity!” yelled Katie. Froggy finally pulled Gray’s head above the surface, to which he coughed up slimy water and wheezed hard to get air back into his aching lungs.
“You know something, Miss Evans? I’m beginning to think you’re enjoying your job of seductress a little too much. You actually have feelings for this pathetic tree cutter? Is that what this is about? You barely know the man, for shit’s sake!” said Froggy.
“This isn’t about schoolgirl crushes, Froggy. This is about commonsense, something you clearly don’t have. You’re not a shaman. You’re a damn fool!” yelled Katie.
Froggy whacked Katie in the stomach with his staff and caused her to double over and shriek in pain as she struggled for oxygen. “Let her go, you psychotic bastard!” yelled Gray as he writhed in his chains.
“I’ll deal with you soon enough, little man. Until then, I’ve got a pupil here who needs to listen to reason,” said Froggy. While Gray continued to thrash in his bindings, Froggy picked Katie Evans up by her hair and looked into her eyes with fire and fury. He said, “If you insist on defying me every time I get a little extreme, one of two things will happen. Either I will beat you into submission with this mere wooden stick, or I will release you into the city where a pretty young thing like yourself doesn’t stand a chance. Do either of those options sound particularly satisfying? Answer me, harlot!”
The sobbing Katie shook her head no and Froggy threw her into the murky water. The sadistic shaman said, “Where were we? Oh yes, I remember now. Have you made up your mind, Mr. Lumberjack? Are you ready to see the error of your ways or do I have to smack you around some more?”
“You can hit me as many times as you want, you sick freak. I’ll still be back here the next day chopping down trees and feeding my family,” said Gray.
“You’re right about one thing, little fool: I can hit you as many times as I want!” yelled Froggy. He raised his staff in the air and slowly made his way toward the thrashing Gray Russell. He was moments away from bringing the heavy piece of wood down on top of the poor guy’s skull. When the time came to strike, somebody’s brains were going to contaminate the water, but not Gray’s. It was Froggy’s.
In all this time of intimidation, Froggy failed to pay attention to the most important part of Gray Russell’s job: his heavy axe. Katie didn’t forget. Though she wasn’t strong enough to hold it the right way, she did manage to bury it in the back of Froggy Smacks’ skull and leave him limp and lifeless as he was carried away by the swamp water. Katie Evans rushed over to Gray and pulled a key from her pocket, which unlocked the shackles from around his wrists.
The two victims of Froggy Smacks’ sadism asked each other if they were okay and they both said yes. They hugged each other as well, but only because they were so exhausted from the beatings they could barely stand up. The silence between them was broken when Gray said, “Listen, I don’t care how many of those freaks are out here. I still have a family to feed. I’m coming back here tomorrow with reinforcements. I’m cutting down these trees whether anybody likes it or not.”
Katie broke the tired embrace and said, “Before you say anything more, I want to show you something. Follow me.” The two of them gingerly walked around the swamp until they reached an area with a stiff dirt ground and lively vegetation. In this area specifically lived most of the wildlife. Wildcats, frogs, lizards, monkeys, if it was cute and lively, it lived in this part of the swamp.
“Do you see these creatures? By cutting down the trees, you’re destroying their home. Froggy Smacks’ methods were disgusting, I agree, but the message remains the same: these animals need to live somewhere and if the trees are gone, where will they go? And if you’re still not convinced, I want you to hold out your arms for a minute,” said Katie.
The swamp-dwelling sweetheart picked up a baby black wildcat and placed the little dickens in Gray’s massive arms. At first Gray thought he was going to be ripped to shreds. Instead the black wildcat purred loudly in his ear and even hugged him around the neck. Soon enough a spider monkey joined the love fest as it wrapped its huge arms around Gray’s legs.
Judging from the small tears rolling down his face, Gray was deeply touched by this moment of sweetness. He did have one question, though: “What will I do to support my family? I don’t want to work here anymore, but what should I do?”
Katie smiled at him and said, “Spread the word. Tell any media outlet you can about the importance of preserving nature. They’ll never listen to Froggy Smacks or even me. Your voice is more powerful than ours. You can do this. That will be your new job. And when you tell them, try not to smack them over the head with a wooden staff.”
Gray was too petrified to laugh, but he did manage to say, “I’ll try not to.” before kissing the wildcat on the cheek and fluffing the monkey’s head.
CJ, despite the fact that I spend most of my time on the computer, I do have a technophobic side to me and your story helped me live through that side. I have a cell phone, but I only use it whenever I need a ride. I have an MP3 player, but it’s a cheap generic one. I feel Jimmy’s pain every time I hear about someone complaining or going bananas over the latest iPhone or tablet. You’ve taken full advantage of this week’s prompt and you deserve to be praised for not only it, but your fluid writing style as well. Great job, CJ!Garrison, you seem to have an unhealthy obsession with cereal mascots. Back in 2013 you wrote a story about the Trix Rabbit and this week you have a story about the Smacks frog mascot. You also happen to have a synopsis on your computer about a Tony the Tiger parody named Tiger Anthony, who has nothing to do with Frosted Flakes, but is actually a rapper who likes the Beastie Boys. I suppose if you keep making stories out of your obsession, it can’t really be unhealthy. It’s probably healthier than eating the cereal. Hehe!
CJ and Garrison -- Both interesting stories! I am always so amazed at how a one or two word topic suggestion can generate so many different stories from everyone! Different genres, characters and words come from such talented people!
That's what's fun about this group. I don't know how many times I myself saw such a variance in what the subject meant to others and loved seeing the different entries that were being cranked out... just because of the simple phrase being used above.I have loved (and even become jealous of) the many stories within this ship, the great ol' WSS!
Here is my short story submission for the topic: Technophobe. Feedback is ALWAYS welcome!
The Sweetest Angel by Melissa Andres
Word Count: 776
Til walked out onto the wooden porch, the rickety screen door slamming shut behind him. Lowering his old, lanky body took some effort but it was his morning routine. Sitting on his front stoop and whittling absentmindedly with his Daddy's rusty pocket knife brought him pleasure.
"Look at that there sunrise, Noah," Tilson Pantos said. "Ain't that nice? God sure is creative."
The ancient brown hound dog sprawled out in the corner twitched his left ear in a lazy response.
Rheumy green eyes scanned sparse land. Dried grass, overgrown bushes and dead trees stared back.
"Yep, God has been good to us, Noah. All the time."
Holding his chunk of wood loosely between calloused hands, Til worked quickly, his eyes still on his failing farm.
He had had a good, long life. His bride of sixty-two years had departed into Jesus' arms a decade before. Pru was an exceptional woman; a loving wife. Although they hadn't been blessed with children, they had been blessed with each other. Prudence cooked delicious meals, kept a clean house and saw that he was happy. He missed her but knew God always took the best ones first. He always needed the sweetest angels by His side.
Distracted from his thoughts, Til looked up to see a dusty plume drifting up his dirt-encrusted driveway.
"Looks like we got us a visitor, Noah," Til raised an age-spotted hand to shield his eyes from the rising sun.
Noah twitched his left ear again.
The old man watched warily as the dark sports utility vehicle parked beside the house. A young man in a three-piece suit, a hospital-type mask covering his lower face, stepped from the driver's side and slogged through the dry, dense foliage.
For half a second, Til thought about retrieving his deer rifle but remained in place, continuing to whittle.
"Good morning, sir," the young man said cheerily.
"Mornin'," Til mumbled. He didn't look toward the visitor but smiled at the dust covering his wing-tipped shoes. Whittled wood shavings curlicued atop the dust.
"I'm Elias Crandall from the CDC," the man announced. "Are you Tilson Pantos?"
"Sure am," Til replied. "Most folks call me Til."
"Does anyone else live here with you?" Elias inquired as he pointed toward the house.
"Just me and my dog." Til waved his pocket knife in Noah's direction.
The dog opened his sleepy eyes only to quickly close them again.
"I'm here to make sure you evacuate per government orders," Elias said sternly.
"Evacuate? What for?" Til was befuddled.
"Due to the virus sweeping our nation, Mr. Pantos." Elias seemed confused. "Haven't you watched the news, listened to the radio or talked to family or friends by phone?"
"Nope," Til said simply. "I ain't got any of those. No television, no radio, no phone. I like quiet solitude. Just me and my dog and God."
Elias couldn't imagine that in this day and age. "No technology at all?" he asked.
Til shook his gray head. "Nope," he repeated.
"Well, I still need you to come with me to be tested and monitored, technology or not." Elias reached a hand toward Til's arm.
"Let me show you something son," the old man announced and disappeared into his home in one swift movement.
Noah raised his head and stared at the strange man left standing on the paint-peeled steps.
Elias pulled at the collar on his dress shirt, a trail of nervous sweat descending down his rigid spine. He took a step backward, preparing to run.
Til emerged from the house, the rickety screen door slamming shut behind him.
"This is the only technology I need, son." The old man held up a well-worn Bible, its cover cracked, torn and faded.
Elias Crandall smiled at the elderly gentleman's faith and tenacity. "I understand that, Mr. Pantos and that's all well and good but you should still take precautions."
"I appreciate your concerns but I have a Healer taking care of me already."
"Don't be stupid, Mr. Pantos, please." Elias adjusted his hospital mask as he shook his head sadly.
Til's eyes brightened as he shoved the tattered Bible into the young man's hands. "Take this to those who need comfort, Mr. Crandall. It's the best medicine they could ever receive."
Calling to his dog, Til stepped back into the house, placed the wooden cross he had been whittling onto the fireplace mantle along with the others and slumped wearily into his rocking chair beside the window.
He watched until the dusty plume drifting down the driveway disappeared completely. Closing his eyes, Tilson Pantos took his last breath; a smile on his wrinkled face.
The Sweetest Angel by Melissa Andres
Word Count: 776
Til walked out onto the wooden porch, the rickety screen door slamming shut behind him. Lowering his old, lanky body took some effort but it was his morning routine. Sitting on his front stoop and whittling absentmindedly with his Daddy's rusty pocket knife brought him pleasure.
"Look at that there sunrise, Noah," Tilson Pantos said. "Ain't that nice? God sure is creative."
The ancient brown hound dog sprawled out in the corner twitched his left ear in a lazy response.
Rheumy green eyes scanned sparse land. Dried grass, overgrown bushes and dead trees stared back.
"Yep, God has been good to us, Noah. All the time."
Holding his chunk of wood loosely between calloused hands, Til worked quickly, his eyes still on his failing farm.
He had had a good, long life. His bride of sixty-two years had departed into Jesus' arms a decade before. Pru was an exceptional woman; a loving wife. Although they hadn't been blessed with children, they had been blessed with each other. Prudence cooked delicious meals, kept a clean house and saw that he was happy. He missed her but knew God always took the best ones first. He always needed the sweetest angels by His side.
Distracted from his thoughts, Til looked up to see a dusty plume drifting up his dirt-encrusted driveway.
"Looks like we got us a visitor, Noah," Til raised an age-spotted hand to shield his eyes from the rising sun.
Noah twitched his left ear again.
The old man watched warily as the dark sports utility vehicle parked beside the house. A young man in a three-piece suit, a hospital-type mask covering his lower face, stepped from the driver's side and slogged through the dry, dense foliage.
For half a second, Til thought about retrieving his deer rifle but remained in place, continuing to whittle.
"Good morning, sir," the young man said cheerily.
"Mornin'," Til mumbled. He didn't look toward the visitor but smiled at the dust covering his wing-tipped shoes. Whittled wood shavings curlicued atop the dust.
"I'm Elias Crandall from the CDC," the man announced. "Are you Tilson Pantos?"
"Sure am," Til replied. "Most folks call me Til."
"Does anyone else live here with you?" Elias inquired as he pointed toward the house.
"Just me and my dog." Til waved his pocket knife in Noah's direction.
The dog opened his sleepy eyes only to quickly close them again.
"I'm here to make sure you evacuate per government orders," Elias said sternly.
"Evacuate? What for?" Til was befuddled.
"Due to the virus sweeping our nation, Mr. Pantos." Elias seemed confused. "Haven't you watched the news, listened to the radio or talked to family or friends by phone?"
"Nope," Til said simply. "I ain't got any of those. No television, no radio, no phone. I like quiet solitude. Just me and my dog and God."
Elias couldn't imagine that in this day and age. "No technology at all?" he asked.
Til shook his gray head. "Nope," he repeated.
"Well, I still need you to come with me to be tested and monitored, technology or not." Elias reached a hand toward Til's arm.
"Let me show you something son," the old man announced and disappeared into his home in one swift movement.
Noah raised his head and stared at the strange man left standing on the paint-peeled steps.
Elias pulled at the collar on his dress shirt, a trail of nervous sweat descending down his rigid spine. He took a step backward, preparing to run.
Til emerged from the house, the rickety screen door slamming shut behind him.
"This is the only technology I need, son." The old man held up a well-worn Bible, its cover cracked, torn and faded.
Elias Crandall smiled at the elderly gentleman's faith and tenacity. "I understand that, Mr. Pantos and that's all well and good but you should still take precautions."
"I appreciate your concerns but I have a Healer taking care of me already."
"Don't be stupid, Mr. Pantos, please." Elias adjusted his hospital mask as he shook his head sadly.
Til's eyes brightened as he shoved the tattered Bible into the young man's hands. "Take this to those who need comfort, Mr. Crandall. It's the best medicine they could ever receive."
Calling to his dog, Til stepped back into the house, placed the wooden cross he had been whittling onto the fireplace mantle along with the others and slumped wearily into his rocking chair beside the window.
He watched until the dusty plume drifting down the driveway disappeared completely. Closing his eyes, Tilson Pantos took his last breath; a smile on his wrinkled face.
I really agree with you, CJ! I sometimes get jealous too! Everyone is so talented ... it is so difficult pretty much every week to decide which story and poem to vote on!!
CJ, made me smile, technology bugs the guy so much it invades his dreams. Sometimes "it was all a dream" is a problem in a story but he came out of it before the end and it worked really well here.Garrison, that was dramatic and I started to feel like I was in a swamp. You did so well at showing Froggy's sadistic nature I had a thought when I read:
"The sobbing Katie shook her head no and Froggy threw her into the murky water. The sadistic shaman said, “Where were we? Oh yes ..."
I'll suggest no need to tell us he is sadistic here as you've done such a great job of showing it. Perhaps cut that word out. I love it when a writer shows me a characters behaviour and leaves me to come to a conclusion about the nature and current state of mind about a character. Gets me involved and immersed as a reader. Sometimes less is more.
Melissa, will read your story a bit later.
Might not have time to write this week. I had a little romance in mind which would have been a pleasant contrast to last weeks horror and blood story.
Melissa, so beautiful, what a wonderful picture of an old farm.My mind is in editing mode at the moment so hopefully you will indulge me in the following :) A few words here and there jumped out that you could consider cutting because you have shown the scene so very well.
As an example, by the time we get to the following line we have this fantastic picture of a lazy farm scene show to us:
"The ancient brown hound dog sprawled out in the corner twitched his left ear in a lazy response."
In my opinion that twitch of the ear can only be interpreted as lazy so no need to tell us, I think you can cut the " in a lazy response." off the end of the sentence.
With this:
"his eyes still on his failing farm."
Can you show the reader a few things and that will lead them to the conclusion the farm is failing without directly telling them? Really immerse the reader in an old failing farm and let them realise it for themselves?
The paragraph beginning:
"He had had a good, long life."
Is perfect as it is, since it is "off camera" thoughts and past history / back story. So OK to tell and not show that.
Cheers A.
Thank you, Adrian! I appreciate your feedback!
I appreciate the critique, Adrian. You’re absolutely right: less is more. The only reason why I say things like “sadistic shaman” in my pieces is so that I won’t have to keep using the character’s name over and over again and also so that I don’t have to use pronouns when they can refer to anybody in the story. I’m afraid if I just said “shaman”, it would refer to either Froggy or Katie since they both qualify. Has anybody else run into this problem before?
It can be tricky, without checking would simply "he" or "she" work? I had not really put Katie and the Shaman label together.I certainly had trouble with a rank of "General" and the man's name in the first chapter of my novel. Solved in the end by only mentioning "General" at the start of a couple of story sections and going with the name after that. I think it is more important to keep it clear than avoid repetition.
There may be a way to restructure what you have written to avoid the repetition, but there is only so many redrafts of a fun short story you will want to do.
Something you hope to publish and its a case of, keep revising until its right.
"He" might not work since both Froggy Smacks and Gray Russell are males, but "she" would definitely work since Katie is the only female in the story.
Melissa, would it be alright with you if I rolled Noah on his back and rubbed his puppy belly? I bet his tongue would hang out of the side of his mouth as he gives off a cute puppy smile! And then after he has his obligatory belly rub, I can feed him a spoonful of peanut butter and watch him lick it from the roof of his mouth. Aww!! ^_^
That would be okay if you could get Noah to roll over. Remember, he is an ancient hound dog and they are lazy as all get out! But, I bet he would like a tummy rub! As a matter of fact, that doesn't sound half bad! :)
I'm worried about Noah now that's his "Daddy" has passed away... ;)
I haven't posted a story in a while. Well, here's my offering. It's a somewhat sad tale inspired by my a family relative who is not mentally stable. She's not really like Eleanor, but she definitely inspired this tale. Hope you like it!
Eleanor: 2991 words, critique appreciated
She looks patient, but she is not. As she sits on the spindly chair, tapping her foot, she looks serene and peaceful. She is not. Inside, she is a broiling mess, a soup pot of strange ingredients that do not work well together. Her grey hair is piled into a messy bun, and the veins are popping out of her long and nimble fingers. She is old, and her mind is faltering. Loony, they call her. Crazy lady. But that is not her name.
Her name is Eleanor.
Eleanor is not known for her intelligence. She is not classically book-smart. But Eleanor knows things. She knows truths of the world that cannot be uttered into a human phrase, that can only be transmitted by abstract concepts. When she thinks, she does not look like she is thinking. But she is. They only believe she’s not they think she is crazy.
“She’s absolutely batty,” they say, as if Eleanor is deaf as well as dumb.
But there is a new definition for batty, Eleanor knows. It means “one we are afraid of.”
She knows they are afraid of what she says. They are afraid of learning the truths of the world. They are content enough with their own superficial beliefs—the self-made man, the American Dream. They are afraid of learning about other intellectual creatures that exist, because they like to think that they are the superior race.
“Faeries are for children,” they say. “Goblins exist only in fairy tales. There are no monsters under your bed or in your closet.”
Eleanor knows the last thing, at least, is true. Monsters were smart—they lurked in less obvious places.
She remembers life before this. Before Sunshine Fairy (how ironic) Mental Clinic and Institution. Before her husband forgot her and her son abandoned her. Before her grandchildren were shamed by her.
She remembers being a young woman, in the 1910s. All the men wanted her—they lusted after her, their eyes drooping over her, their mouths open like foolish puppies. They liked her eyes, her hair, her body. Some wanted her to meet their parents; others, the bed.
She saw the monsters sometimes, but they didn’t come out much. They feasted on the old, the weak. For the time being, they plagued her nightmares only. The faeries hated her—they longed her for beauty. They attacked her constantly, but only when others weren’t around.
She grew up and met a man who dashed her off her feet. She does not remember his name; she has no time for trivial matters such as that. He was young, a soldier boy, sweeping brown hair and pure blue eyes. His smile was crooked and ironic, as if he was smiling at a joke no one knew. He was mysterious yet open at the very same time, a paradox in a simple world. Eleanor loved this confusion. She had always loved the chaos of not knowing. She was different that way. She had never been okay with security and comfort.
He liked that about her. He was a rambunctious young fellow of twenty-two; she, a sharp and pretty girl, just nineteen. They hit it off for a while—their friends called them the Inseparable Couple. But the boy grew restless. His adventurous ways were fading but hers were not. Anxious to settle down, he asked her to marry him.
She did not want to marry—to be grounded by a beautiful ring. She did not want to cook and clean and take care of children. She wanted to learn new things, explore the world, gulp down glass after glass of beer. But she saw no other alternative, so she said yes. After all, she still loved him.
Married life was good, for a little while. But the boy could not find a job and Eleanor, well, she didn’t want to work at all. But when they couldn’t pay the rent for their tiny apartment with the boy’s checks, so she took a job at the cigarette factory. She was the oldest girl there and all the other ones called her Grandma. Eleanor’s heart was broken there. She learned she was not the only pretty girl in New York City.
The boy was growing older. He wanted more for his life than serving odd jobs. He wanted the American Dream. It was so close; he could feel it in his fingertips. But not with Eleanor by his side. Still, he was an honorable man. He would not leave his wife. But he was exasperated—Eleanor, despite being a girl of twenty-five now, was still youthful and pretty and reckless. He knew she had relationships with other boys; at this point, he didn’t care. He was tired, the boy.
And that was when the creatures came for Eleanor.
They feasted upon her fair skin, poked at her eyes, tore out her hair. Some were slimy and choked her in a most disgusting substance. There were birds that looked like crows (a murder of crows!) and they poked their claws into her skin, causing marks.
The boy, at first, was amused. “You could be a storyteller,” he sometimes joked. Still, he was also disturbed. The alarm in Eleanor’s eyes seemed real. She was scared, not vivacious as she usually was. He tried to calm her down, but it never worked.
“How come I never see them attack you, honey? You’re just being paranoid. Are there boys staring at you? Are they trying to attack you? Your fears could just be appearing as these…these…faeries and goblins and whatnot.”
“They attack me when no one is there. They attack me when I am alone. They hurt me. They hurt me.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“They are invisible, or your human eyes can’t see them. Look, look, see! There is a mark right there. It was bleeding before.”
“I don’t see anything, Eleanor.”
Then he simply grew tired. She was obviously vying for his attention, when he least wanted it. He was trying to make it, make it big, but she was stopping him, holding him down. One night, she asked him if they could make love, to distract her from the monsters. Suddenly annoyed, he told her to go make love with the other boys who wanted her. He was even angrier when she went off, and told him she’d be back in an hour.
“I’m not stupid!” he shouted. “I know what you’re doing.”
The boy refused to make love with her, and so his suspicions of adultery were confirmed when suddenly, her stomach was protruding out like a melon. “I have a baby in here,” she said, even though he had known it for months.
“All right, then,” he said.
“You are not the father,” she said plainly. Though she didn’t say it apologetically, she looked like she expected an outburst.
The boy, now not a boy, sighed. “All right, then.”
When the girl delivered, he was reading the paper. He glanced over at her, and suddenly saw her writing in pain. He called the midwife and watched her the entire time. Though he did not love her, he still cared for her. He was a good man.
“The monsters! The monsters!” she shrieked. “They are attacking my baby! Save him! I will die. I will die. But I am all right. I will sacrifice myself for him. But please save him.”
She did not die. She lived.
The midwife heard her the entire time, and after the birth, snickered about it to a friend. News of the crazy lady went round and round. The man was shamed. “Stop your talk of them this instant,” he hissed. “You know they’re not real. Why do you speak so? Do you lie to purposefully humiliate me?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Husband, why would I do that?”
Eleanor took good care of her child. She named him Joseph, after Virgin Mary’s husband, and she nursed him and fed him and cuddled him. The man paid attention to him at first. He had landed a small job that was one step on the way of him realizing his dream (whatever it was to be) and he took his son to work. He bought a rifle and tried to teach him to shoot. But the son did not like those things, and so his father gave up. He went to back withdrawing unto himself, ignoring his child.
When the boy was three years old, Eleanor told him he would have a sister. The boy was excited. His father was not. Another lover, he sighed. He was now thirty-eight, close to forty, without a clue of what he was going to do, only that he would be successful doing it. He was sad. He was working a nine to five job and he was almost forty and he didn’t know what he wanted to do. He only knew he wanted to be rich.
They hired a doctor because they could afford one, but the doctor did not want to deliver it. He had heard the rumors of the crazy lady and believed her unborn child would grow up to be a devil-child. He was already paranoid of Joseph. So he did not help her when she birthed her daughter, whom she had planned to name Alexandria.
“The monsters are attacking her. They poke at her. They grab her. Do you have her, doctor?” Eleanor asked.
The doctor did not answer. He was thoroughly disturbed. So I suppose I know, first hand, what the midwife said was true. How unsettling. Well, I guess I’ll have a good story to tell.
Deep in his thoughts, he did not pay attention to Eleanor or the baby. “Save her! Save her!” shrieked Eleanor, but by the time he had reached the real world, the baby was dead and he was not too willing to save it.
Alexandria died before she had even been born.
Eleanor: 2991 words, critique appreciated
She looks patient, but she is not. As she sits on the spindly chair, tapping her foot, she looks serene and peaceful. She is not. Inside, she is a broiling mess, a soup pot of strange ingredients that do not work well together. Her grey hair is piled into a messy bun, and the veins are popping out of her long and nimble fingers. She is old, and her mind is faltering. Loony, they call her. Crazy lady. But that is not her name.
Her name is Eleanor.
Eleanor is not known for her intelligence. She is not classically book-smart. But Eleanor knows things. She knows truths of the world that cannot be uttered into a human phrase, that can only be transmitted by abstract concepts. When she thinks, she does not look like she is thinking. But she is. They only believe she’s not they think she is crazy.
“She’s absolutely batty,” they say, as if Eleanor is deaf as well as dumb.
But there is a new definition for batty, Eleanor knows. It means “one we are afraid of.”
She knows they are afraid of what she says. They are afraid of learning the truths of the world. They are content enough with their own superficial beliefs—the self-made man, the American Dream. They are afraid of learning about other intellectual creatures that exist, because they like to think that they are the superior race.
“Faeries are for children,” they say. “Goblins exist only in fairy tales. There are no monsters under your bed or in your closet.”
Eleanor knows the last thing, at least, is true. Monsters were smart—they lurked in less obvious places.
She remembers life before this. Before Sunshine Fairy (how ironic) Mental Clinic and Institution. Before her husband forgot her and her son abandoned her. Before her grandchildren were shamed by her.
She remembers being a young woman, in the 1910s. All the men wanted her—they lusted after her, their eyes drooping over her, their mouths open like foolish puppies. They liked her eyes, her hair, her body. Some wanted her to meet their parents; others, the bed.
She saw the monsters sometimes, but they didn’t come out much. They feasted on the old, the weak. For the time being, they plagued her nightmares only. The faeries hated her—they longed her for beauty. They attacked her constantly, but only when others weren’t around.
She grew up and met a man who dashed her off her feet. She does not remember his name; she has no time for trivial matters such as that. He was young, a soldier boy, sweeping brown hair and pure blue eyes. His smile was crooked and ironic, as if he was smiling at a joke no one knew. He was mysterious yet open at the very same time, a paradox in a simple world. Eleanor loved this confusion. She had always loved the chaos of not knowing. She was different that way. She had never been okay with security and comfort.
He liked that about her. He was a rambunctious young fellow of twenty-two; she, a sharp and pretty girl, just nineteen. They hit it off for a while—their friends called them the Inseparable Couple. But the boy grew restless. His adventurous ways were fading but hers were not. Anxious to settle down, he asked her to marry him.
She did not want to marry—to be grounded by a beautiful ring. She did not want to cook and clean and take care of children. She wanted to learn new things, explore the world, gulp down glass after glass of beer. But she saw no other alternative, so she said yes. After all, she still loved him.
Married life was good, for a little while. But the boy could not find a job and Eleanor, well, she didn’t want to work at all. But when they couldn’t pay the rent for their tiny apartment with the boy’s checks, so she took a job at the cigarette factory. She was the oldest girl there and all the other ones called her Grandma. Eleanor’s heart was broken there. She learned she was not the only pretty girl in New York City.
The boy was growing older. He wanted more for his life than serving odd jobs. He wanted the American Dream. It was so close; he could feel it in his fingertips. But not with Eleanor by his side. Still, he was an honorable man. He would not leave his wife. But he was exasperated—Eleanor, despite being a girl of twenty-five now, was still youthful and pretty and reckless. He knew she had relationships with other boys; at this point, he didn’t care. He was tired, the boy.
And that was when the creatures came for Eleanor.
They feasted upon her fair skin, poked at her eyes, tore out her hair. Some were slimy and choked her in a most disgusting substance. There were birds that looked like crows (a murder of crows!) and they poked their claws into her skin, causing marks.
The boy, at first, was amused. “You could be a storyteller,” he sometimes joked. Still, he was also disturbed. The alarm in Eleanor’s eyes seemed real. She was scared, not vivacious as she usually was. He tried to calm her down, but it never worked.
“How come I never see them attack you, honey? You’re just being paranoid. Are there boys staring at you? Are they trying to attack you? Your fears could just be appearing as these…these…faeries and goblins and whatnot.”
“They attack me when no one is there. They attack me when I am alone. They hurt me. They hurt me.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“They are invisible, or your human eyes can’t see them. Look, look, see! There is a mark right there. It was bleeding before.”
“I don’t see anything, Eleanor.”
Then he simply grew tired. She was obviously vying for his attention, when he least wanted it. He was trying to make it, make it big, but she was stopping him, holding him down. One night, she asked him if they could make love, to distract her from the monsters. Suddenly annoyed, he told her to go make love with the other boys who wanted her. He was even angrier when she went off, and told him she’d be back in an hour.
“I’m not stupid!” he shouted. “I know what you’re doing.”
The boy refused to make love with her, and so his suspicions of adultery were confirmed when suddenly, her stomach was protruding out like a melon. “I have a baby in here,” she said, even though he had known it for months.
“All right, then,” he said.
“You are not the father,” she said plainly. Though she didn’t say it apologetically, she looked like she expected an outburst.
The boy, now not a boy, sighed. “All right, then.”
When the girl delivered, he was reading the paper. He glanced over at her, and suddenly saw her writing in pain. He called the midwife and watched her the entire time. Though he did not love her, he still cared for her. He was a good man.
“The monsters! The monsters!” she shrieked. “They are attacking my baby! Save him! I will die. I will die. But I am all right. I will sacrifice myself for him. But please save him.”
She did not die. She lived.
The midwife heard her the entire time, and after the birth, snickered about it to a friend. News of the crazy lady went round and round. The man was shamed. “Stop your talk of them this instant,” he hissed. “You know they’re not real. Why do you speak so? Do you lie to purposefully humiliate me?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Husband, why would I do that?”
Eleanor took good care of her child. She named him Joseph, after Virgin Mary’s husband, and she nursed him and fed him and cuddled him. The man paid attention to him at first. He had landed a small job that was one step on the way of him realizing his dream (whatever it was to be) and he took his son to work. He bought a rifle and tried to teach him to shoot. But the son did not like those things, and so his father gave up. He went to back withdrawing unto himself, ignoring his child.
When the boy was three years old, Eleanor told him he would have a sister. The boy was excited. His father was not. Another lover, he sighed. He was now thirty-eight, close to forty, without a clue of what he was going to do, only that he would be successful doing it. He was sad. He was working a nine to five job and he was almost forty and he didn’t know what he wanted to do. He only knew he wanted to be rich.
They hired a doctor because they could afford one, but the doctor did not want to deliver it. He had heard the rumors of the crazy lady and believed her unborn child would grow up to be a devil-child. He was already paranoid of Joseph. So he did not help her when she birthed her daughter, whom she had planned to name Alexandria.
“The monsters are attacking her. They poke at her. They grab her. Do you have her, doctor?” Eleanor asked.
The doctor did not answer. He was thoroughly disturbed. So I suppose I know, first hand, what the midwife said was true. How unsettling. Well, I guess I’ll have a good story to tell.
Deep in his thoughts, he did not pay attention to Eleanor or the baby. “Save her! Save her!” shrieked Eleanor, but by the time he had reached the real world, the baby was dead and he was not too willing to save it.
Alexandria died before she had even been born.
Eleanor (cont.)
**
This was the major turning point. Eleanor only fell deeper after Alexandria’s death. She pretended that her baby had not died and called upon her incessantly. However, she had forgotten Alexandria’s name and so came to call her Antoinette.
“Antoinette!” she hollered. “You’re going to be late for school.”
“There’s no Antoinette,” insisted Joseph, who was a strong, strapping boy of twelve. “It’s just me, Ma.”
“Antoinette, you are absolutely filthy!” she scolded to the air. “You must stop making mud pies. Go take a bath this instant.”
“Ma, I was playing football and Carver and I slid in the mud when we were hustling for the ball. Who makes mud pies anymore? Ma, I’m not Antoinette. Ma, Ma, Ma, would you listen to me, cause I’m right here, and I’m not Antoinette!”
As for her husband, it was as if he was no longer there anymore. He worked all day and into the night and woke up every morning precisely at 4:30. The only reason Eleanor knew he came home at all was because he slid into the bed with her when he came home late and she could feel his warmth. He did this for one reason and one reason only—to get a promotion. Not to get away from his wife—he didn’t even know she was upset. He didn’t care. It was all work and no play. He was going on fifty and most men were starting to think about retiring. Not him. He had and needed all the time in the world if he was going to be rich and famous.
Meanwhile, Eleanor saw the monsters everywhere she went.
“Antoinette! Come inside now. The goblins are going to attack you.”
“Ma,” said Joseph, now fifteen. “Ma, please stop. You’re worrying me.”
“Don’t you see?” Eleanor wrung her hands and pointed into the air. How could no one see them? They were as clear as day to her. The goblins oozed green pus, their sharp fingernails jabbing at her like swords; their eyes were holes punctured into their skin, and their yellow teeth like shards of broken glass. The faeries were beautiful, but underneath that deception was pure malice. They only wore the lovely colors in their light tutu dresses to deceive those who were weak and foolish. Well, Eleanor was not weak and foolish. No, she fought. When the creatures came out, she fought. She used anything—kitchen knives, thumbtacks, old switchblades. She made sure never to cut her fingernails in case they approached her when she was defenseless. They grew long and became so disgusting that they started to tint a vomit-colored yellow. Dirt and grime stuck underneath them, and only when she was forced to by Joseph she used the nail-cutter.
And while the monsters viciously attacked her, and Antoinette played with mud pies and Joseph on the football field, Eleanor’s husband met a woman. She was young and pretty, a senator’s daughter, the perfect trophy wife. She wore pencil skirts and long white shirts, and her blonde hair touched her shoulders. Her smile was perfectly white and straight, and she was intelligent and well-read. They met at the bank. As soon as she laid eyes on him, she decided she wanted him as her husband. Why, I don’t know. Love works in strange ways.
She approached him at the bank and told him she loved him. He was taken aback, but pleased; a good-looking woman of about thirty, in love with a fifty-three-year-old man! He told her he loved him too. She told him she could make him successful, for she saw the desperation in his eyes, if only he would forget his wife and be with her.
“You don’t have to marry me,” she said. “Just make love with me and kiss me and I will make you everything you want to be and more.”
And so the man agreed. Why wouldn’t he? He never thought about Eleanor again. After all, she had given him nothing but whispers and a boy who didn’t like sports (he did not pay attention to Joseph after his one attempt to man him up, and so didn’t know what a fantastic football player he was) and a dead little girl named…well, what was her name? Antonia? Alison? Antonia, he thought, that must be it.
As soon as he left her, Eleanor felt something. She felt a pang in her heart, and she knew the inevitable had come—her husband had left her. She knew it would happen sooner or later. To avenge his leaving and forgetting of her, she made sure to forget his name. She never spoke it aloud, and she forbade Joseph (or Antoinette) to say it either. And so she did not know the name of the man who she had been lawfully wedded to.
**
“So what happened next?” Janie Lou asked. A new nurse in the mental facility, she munched at her sandwich while sitting with Brittany, an older nurse, who was telling the story of one of their most talked-about residents. They were sitting on the table in a small conference room, Brittany explaining to Janie Lou all the ups and downs of Sunshine Fairy’s Mental Clinic and Institution.
“Well, Joseph eventually went to college,” Brittany said. “He left his football days behind him when he didn’t get a scholarship. He became a doctor, I believe. Did it all himself. Eleanor gave him some money but he worked his way into university, and then medical school. Very hard-working fellow there, indeed. But before he left for medical school, he decided enough was enough. Eleanor needed help. He took her here. She’s been here since forever. Now she’s almost a hundred years old, and the lady still won’t die. Resilient. I guess that’s what defended her against the monsters.” She chuckled to herself.
Janie Lou shook her head. “What a poor old lady.”
“Ugh, yeah, but still annoying,” said Brittany, without an ounce of compassion. “She still babbles on and on about the goddamned monsters. She says Joseph was one in disguise, and he killed Antoinette. What the hell? And she doesn’t even remember her husband’s name. Who does that?”
“Who leaves his wife for a woman he just met?” Janie Lou countered.
“I would’ve done it. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he married her,” said Brittany. “I mean, c’mon—she was a slut, a party-girl. She wasn’t smart. She even talked about the monsters sometimes. And she never liked Ouija boards or any of that fun shit cause of the monsters. Ha!”
“You can’t just call a girl a slut,” Janie Lou said. “I mean, why can’t a girl be promiscuous? And who knows? Maybe she’s right. She seems very smart to me. Very pensive, that woman. And she was quite nice to me. Gentle.”
“Oh, you’ll see,” Brittany laughed. “Not only is she crazy, but she’s afraid of technology. It’s quite hysterical. I guess cause she’s old? She just cowers in front of computers and stuff. Says they hold monsters.” She grinned wildly. “Well, c’mon. Break’s over. Time to get back to work.” She rolled her eyes and left the conference room.
Janie Lou sighed. She threw away the last remnants of her sandwich and ran after Brittany. But it didn’t matter—the woman had waited for her.
“I was thinking about what you said,” said Brittany. “You don’t…actually believe her, do you?”
Janie Lou looked up at the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Now, let’s go. Time to get back to work.” She gave Brittany a playful jab and ran off.
But the question tugged at her heart. She felt torn. What did she think? She didn’t actually believe in the goblins and faeries and monsters, did she? Did she actually believe her?
She dismissed the thought away. The woman was crazy! She was in a mental institution! Of course she didn’t believe Eleanor.
But the question still reverberated inside of her.
Do you believe her?
**
This was the major turning point. Eleanor only fell deeper after Alexandria’s death. She pretended that her baby had not died and called upon her incessantly. However, she had forgotten Alexandria’s name and so came to call her Antoinette.
“Antoinette!” she hollered. “You’re going to be late for school.”
“There’s no Antoinette,” insisted Joseph, who was a strong, strapping boy of twelve. “It’s just me, Ma.”
“Antoinette, you are absolutely filthy!” she scolded to the air. “You must stop making mud pies. Go take a bath this instant.”
“Ma, I was playing football and Carver and I slid in the mud when we were hustling for the ball. Who makes mud pies anymore? Ma, I’m not Antoinette. Ma, Ma, Ma, would you listen to me, cause I’m right here, and I’m not Antoinette!”
As for her husband, it was as if he was no longer there anymore. He worked all day and into the night and woke up every morning precisely at 4:30. The only reason Eleanor knew he came home at all was because he slid into the bed with her when he came home late and she could feel his warmth. He did this for one reason and one reason only—to get a promotion. Not to get away from his wife—he didn’t even know she was upset. He didn’t care. It was all work and no play. He was going on fifty and most men were starting to think about retiring. Not him. He had and needed all the time in the world if he was going to be rich and famous.
Meanwhile, Eleanor saw the monsters everywhere she went.
“Antoinette! Come inside now. The goblins are going to attack you.”
“Ma,” said Joseph, now fifteen. “Ma, please stop. You’re worrying me.”
“Don’t you see?” Eleanor wrung her hands and pointed into the air. How could no one see them? They were as clear as day to her. The goblins oozed green pus, their sharp fingernails jabbing at her like swords; their eyes were holes punctured into their skin, and their yellow teeth like shards of broken glass. The faeries were beautiful, but underneath that deception was pure malice. They only wore the lovely colors in their light tutu dresses to deceive those who were weak and foolish. Well, Eleanor was not weak and foolish. No, she fought. When the creatures came out, she fought. She used anything—kitchen knives, thumbtacks, old switchblades. She made sure never to cut her fingernails in case they approached her when she was defenseless. They grew long and became so disgusting that they started to tint a vomit-colored yellow. Dirt and grime stuck underneath them, and only when she was forced to by Joseph she used the nail-cutter.
And while the monsters viciously attacked her, and Antoinette played with mud pies and Joseph on the football field, Eleanor’s husband met a woman. She was young and pretty, a senator’s daughter, the perfect trophy wife. She wore pencil skirts and long white shirts, and her blonde hair touched her shoulders. Her smile was perfectly white and straight, and she was intelligent and well-read. They met at the bank. As soon as she laid eyes on him, she decided she wanted him as her husband. Why, I don’t know. Love works in strange ways.
She approached him at the bank and told him she loved him. He was taken aback, but pleased; a good-looking woman of about thirty, in love with a fifty-three-year-old man! He told her he loved him too. She told him she could make him successful, for she saw the desperation in his eyes, if only he would forget his wife and be with her.
“You don’t have to marry me,” she said. “Just make love with me and kiss me and I will make you everything you want to be and more.”
And so the man agreed. Why wouldn’t he? He never thought about Eleanor again. After all, she had given him nothing but whispers and a boy who didn’t like sports (he did not pay attention to Joseph after his one attempt to man him up, and so didn’t know what a fantastic football player he was) and a dead little girl named…well, what was her name? Antonia? Alison? Antonia, he thought, that must be it.
As soon as he left her, Eleanor felt something. She felt a pang in her heart, and she knew the inevitable had come—her husband had left her. She knew it would happen sooner or later. To avenge his leaving and forgetting of her, she made sure to forget his name. She never spoke it aloud, and she forbade Joseph (or Antoinette) to say it either. And so she did not know the name of the man who she had been lawfully wedded to.
**
“So what happened next?” Janie Lou asked. A new nurse in the mental facility, she munched at her sandwich while sitting with Brittany, an older nurse, who was telling the story of one of their most talked-about residents. They were sitting on the table in a small conference room, Brittany explaining to Janie Lou all the ups and downs of Sunshine Fairy’s Mental Clinic and Institution.
“Well, Joseph eventually went to college,” Brittany said. “He left his football days behind him when he didn’t get a scholarship. He became a doctor, I believe. Did it all himself. Eleanor gave him some money but he worked his way into university, and then medical school. Very hard-working fellow there, indeed. But before he left for medical school, he decided enough was enough. Eleanor needed help. He took her here. She’s been here since forever. Now she’s almost a hundred years old, and the lady still won’t die. Resilient. I guess that’s what defended her against the monsters.” She chuckled to herself.
Janie Lou shook her head. “What a poor old lady.”
“Ugh, yeah, but still annoying,” said Brittany, without an ounce of compassion. “She still babbles on and on about the goddamned monsters. She says Joseph was one in disguise, and he killed Antoinette. What the hell? And she doesn’t even remember her husband’s name. Who does that?”
“Who leaves his wife for a woman he just met?” Janie Lou countered.
“I would’ve done it. He didn’t know what he was getting himself into when he married her,” said Brittany. “I mean, c’mon—she was a slut, a party-girl. She wasn’t smart. She even talked about the monsters sometimes. And she never liked Ouija boards or any of that fun shit cause of the monsters. Ha!”
“You can’t just call a girl a slut,” Janie Lou said. “I mean, why can’t a girl be promiscuous? And who knows? Maybe she’s right. She seems very smart to me. Very pensive, that woman. And she was quite nice to me. Gentle.”
“Oh, you’ll see,” Brittany laughed. “Not only is she crazy, but she’s afraid of technology. It’s quite hysterical. I guess cause she’s old? She just cowers in front of computers and stuff. Says they hold monsters.” She grinned wildly. “Well, c’mon. Break’s over. Time to get back to work.” She rolled her eyes and left the conference room.
Janie Lou sighed. She threw away the last remnants of her sandwich and ran after Brittany. But it didn’t matter—the woman had waited for her.
“I was thinking about what you said,” said Brittany. “You don’t…actually believe her, do you?”
Janie Lou looked up at the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Now, let’s go. Time to get back to work.” She gave Brittany a playful jab and ran off.
But the question tugged at her heart. She felt torn. What did she think? She didn’t actually believe in the goblins and faeries and monsters, did she? Did she actually believe her?
She dismissed the thought away. The woman was crazy! She was in a mental institution! Of course she didn’t believe Eleanor.
But the question still reverberated inside of her.
Do you believe her?
The Sound and Furyby Mark Reeves
380 words
Michael Flynn had a fine ear. Highly trained and tuned to organic vibration. He had but one aversion, artificial sound. Bits and bytes of electronically driven noise dug like ear worm into his brain. The low moan of a cello in heat was one thing, the synthesis of digital reproduction was quite another. Like nails slowly dragged across an endless chalkboard, life, for Michael Flynn, in this emerging digital world, was becoming increasingly difficult.
Tone and clarity, the rhythm and rhyme, exist. As sound and vision, and time.
Michael Flynn grew up in a musical family, his father was a minor composer. He grew up in a time when music was experienced, ethereal and aural. Sound was produced via natural means and flowed through the ether, like wave, tickling the drums encased into our ears.
Sound is slow, compared to light and time. And time is fast, we do not think that way, only in how it relates to us. This is Einstein's great contribution, and our great loss.
Michael Flynn bought an old Bakelite encrusted phone, analog and increasingly non-existent. Newer phones play a tone when a number is pressed. And as fate would would have it, his phone number would play Beethoven's elusive Ninth. A mocking God exists. Time dripped by like cold honey, the light of life was slowly fading.
Light is elusive, both acting as a wave and then possibly as particles. The soul is illusive, it transpires, it migrates, like birds through seasons.
At life's edge, Michael Flynn awaited the silence death affords. The silent Spring. Surrounded by life-supporting beeps and tones, the RN's ever-present teen-diva ringtone, the blaring proclamation of every truck and train in the dying distance, he passed. Never knowing the shock of the new.
The next reiteration begins. Michael Flynn is now a citizen of a brave new world. No names needed here. A fleeting role in a soundless Heaven. Pure joy propels the electron soul through a circuitous route. Gates and logic determine his path, and he emerges.
An A sharp minor note played upon a child's digital piano.
A jovial God exists. In this great orchestration called life, all things matter. All life, macro and micro, matter. All life is sacred.
What a lovely piece, Mark! Beautiful writing, a creative concept, and an original usage of the prompt. Good job!
CJ wrote: "Title: Ah!By CJ
Length: about 430
In a haze Jimmy jumped out his front door. As he walked a young woman in a Audrey Hepburn black hat was beside him, smiling faintly. He remarked: "Isn't it too..."
How cute! Great message -- good story -- one I can really relate to. I guess I'm not the only one still using corded phones :)
Hey, CJ! I love how you've written the dream sequence - it had that whole muddled, close but not quite right feeling to it.'It's the next best thing to living a life, having friends...' - what a line! You couldn't have summed it up any better.
Great story, mate :)
Garrison, I swear you are going to put me off cereal for life ;) I admire the way you are able to switch so seamlessly from cute and cuddly one week to axes and anger the next. I'm not quite sure about your link to the topic - I understand what you were going for from your synopsis but, without that, I wouldn't have understood the link. Just because someone lives in a swamp, it doesn't make them a technophobe and I don't think you've really gone into any detail as to why Froggy classifies as one.
I think you've delivered an action-packed story that cracks along at an unrelenting pace. It can be hard to keep a story moving along so well without sacrificing detail but you've done a great job.
Melissa, your 'failing farm' is beautifully depicted. You've chosen just the right amount of detail to make it spring to life without being overdone. This is a lovely story from start to finish (except I feel sad for poor Noah). Til is such a strong character, I felt myself seeing Elias through his eyes and could feel the incredulity that his lack of faith would bring. Great job ;)
Thanks for the encouragement, guys! I appreciate it. And yes Anne you are not the only one with a cord phone.I also own at least one television though the satirical story is mainly a ton of jabs at myself.
Sophie,That was beautifully told and so poetic. So sad a times.
Sophie {Bibliophile by Nature} wrote: “Faeries are for children,” they say. “Goblins exist only in fairy tales. There are no monsters under your bed or in your closet.”
Eleanor knows the last thing, at least, is true. Monsters were smart—they lurked in less obvious places.
This took be by surprise, I almost choked on my lunch and laughed :)
Thanks for writing.
Adrian -- Well, it was the end of my story but I do imagine someone from the government and/or CDC coming back out to Til's farm and finding him passed away in his old rocking chair. I figure they have compassion on the ancient Noah and someone takes him into their home and cares for him throughout his remaining days. So, you won't have to feel sorry for him long! :)
Sophie, Very nice story! Very intriguing. You just don't know what is going through peoples' mind on a daily, routine basis! Sad, but thought-provoking at the same time! Good job!
Mark - Very nice! I don't play any musical instruments - the only thing I can play is the RADIO! Your story was awesomely wonderful in just a few mere words. I loved it all but your few last lines really stuck out at me. We may feel like mere specks in this world but we all matter -- everything matters! Excellent!
Thank you for another nice compliment, Ryan! I tried to portray the feel of the failing farm without that being an overly focused point. And, who knows, Noah the hound dog may have to appear in another story. He seemed to capture some hearts! :)
Ryan wrote: "Garrison, I swear you are going to put me off cereal for life ;) I admire the way you are able to switch so seamlessly from cute and cuddly one week to axes and anger the next. I'm not quite sure..."
I see what you mean about the prompt conformity. Maybe a small mention of technophobia would have worked in my story. Maybe Gray could have pulled out his cell phone for help and Froggy could have smashed it with his staff before going on a technophobic rant. In any event, I'm glad you enjoyed my piece this week...even if it doesn't exactly make you hungry for cereal. ;)
Sophie, as I read your story, I’m currently in the middle of a dark fantasy novel based on the Diablo videogame franchise. It too had a mother who was feeling psychotic at the thought of demons and monsters invading her world. Your well-written story was a slice of nostalgia for me and has given me the idea of working with “insanity” as a major theme in a future story I might write. You already have a strong worldview and intelligent writing skills, so being an inspiration to others isn’t anything new for you. Congratulations on an awesome story this week!Mark, though extremely short, your story packs a poetic punch (try saying that ten times fast). Every description you wrote was used to perfection and didn’t slow down the reading pace at all. If it ever did, it was to savor the beautiful writing. Thank you for contributing your work this week. You suddenly put me in the mood for non-electronic new age music.
CJ-Really nice, artificial intelligence invades the ordinary. Good job at writing to encompass the theme. Garrison-Good graphic novel, I could picture Manga panels with balloons saying, "Thwack!" or "Ribbet."
Melissa-Beautiful American pastoral, using both definitions, scene. When Til says, "This is the only technology I need, son." I thought he would go get the deer rifle. The Bible works too.
Sophie-Monsters are what we make them. Eleanor's seem to spring from pieces of the shattered American Dream. I like how she cannot recall her husbands name, but replaces the memory with demons. Dark but delightful.
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I have a loved one undergoing surgery and wrote mine in a hospital waiting room. Science and Faith combined.
Thanks everyone who have commented! Garrison, your story was a good educational story as well as a rollicking adventure! I just have one question: how is it that this lumberjack achieved the American Dream by cutting down trees? Otherwise, awesome story!
Thank you for the nice comment, Mark! I hope that your loved one will be okay. Keep us updated!!
G'day, Mark. Beautiful writing, mate. Your prose is deep and poetic and I could almost hear soft music playing in the background as I read. I like Michael Flynn a lot, he seems very familiar ;)'Time dripped by like cold honey' - stunning! I've read this story through a number of times and find myself sinking deeper in with each read. I'm not quite sure how you've created so much in 380 words but your story is a creation of true beauty.
I hope all goes well with your loved one's surgery. My thoughts are with you.
I certainly know nothing of persons who buy old Bakelite encrusted phones.
Sophie, wow! What a page-turner. I really like the introduction, it is flawlessly written and pulled me right into the story. I think you've portayed Eleanor's world view so well - every time you flick to her observations things get a bit hazy and the lines blur. She is a great character, I feel sorry for her and yet I feel sympathy for the other people in her life, too. Your writing is very strong and your story is imbued with a sense of mystery. I found myself constantly analyzing what you'd written to see if there were any clues as to whether it was real or all in Eleanor's mind...which is why your ending is perfect and all the more powerful. Magic story-telling :)
Sophie and Mark, thank you both for your feedback! Now that I think about it, it's not so much of an American Dream as it is an Amercian Nightmare. In the end it doesn't matter how much money Gray made, those welts on his torso are for life. And yes, that graphic novel idea sounds good with all the "thwacks" and "ribbits". Hehe!
Me: Wow.(Det. Mallard comes in, looks curious).
Det. Mallard: What are you lookin' at, if I may so ask?
Me: Just checking out the different stories. I have time but have to see them to know who I am definitely voting for.
Det. Mallard looks at the screen.
Det. Mallard: Froggy... Smacks.
Me: That's Garrison's. He took a character of an ordinary lumberjack and added thriller and horror mixed in when he comes across some spiritual people better left unthreatened.
Det. Mallard: Hmm. Not gonna read that one right now.
Me: Why? It's good.
Det. Mallard: How many people can post on this thing?
Me: As many as they want.
Det. Mallard: So this (glances up).... "goodreads.com" can do that? They allow anybody to say anything.
Me: Yes. But this is a group ON the website. It's kind of its own thing.
Det. Mallard: Oh, I think I'm getting it now.
Me: Then there is The Sweetest Angel by Melissa. It had a few twists here and there and was pretty good.
Det. Mallard: But not great?
Me: I liked it a lot but I am going to read the other entries first.
Det. Mallard: But your tone of voice was unenthused....
Me: Okay, for once can you just not be a cop...!?
Det. Mallard looks at me and stares. A moment goes by.
Me: What?
Det. Mallard: Just not letting you in on my judgments. Like how I don't let a suspect in on my feeling that he's not telling me everything.
Me: (Sighs loudly).
CJ - I am so sorry that you were "unenthused" with my story. Everyone has their own opinions but I can't let it get me down. Thank you for your honesty.
Melissa wrote: "CJ - I am so sorry that you were "unenthused" with my story. Everyone has their own opinions but I can't let it get me down. Thank you for your honesty."Actually it's not my opinion. I'm gonna sound like Alex with Frank and say that that was Detective Edwin Mallard. He saw me use an unenthused sounding tone and assumed that I was unenthusiastic. He has some skills being a cop but he doesn't always know everything.
Det. Mallard: Huh?
Me: Yeah, you and your worldly logic.
Det. Mallard pauses. Silence.
Seriously, I just want to read the stories first but will make the vote official when everyone has theirs posted by the deadline (hopefully I will be able to read them all as well)!
EDIT: Sorry and I did like your story.
Melissa, what an evocative story! I could picture your failing farm. Good job!
Thank you Ryan! Also, sorry for the double comments - using the mobile GR :/
Garrison wrote: "AUTHOR: Garrison KellyTITLE: Froggy Smacks
GENRE: Environmental Fantasy
WORD COUNT: 1,662
RATING: PG-13 for torture and some language
It took a while for him to gel, but when he finally did, Gr..."
Great story, GArrison! Nicely written -- I'm glad Froggy got his comeuppance and Katie saved the day!
Melissa wrote: "Here is my short story submission for the topic: Technophobe. Feedback is ALWAYS welcome!The Sweetest Angel by Melissa Andres
Word Count: 776
Til walked out onto the wooden porch, the rickety..."
What a lovely sweet story, Melissa. A good take on the best alternatives to technology. Nicely done.
Thank you so much, Anne! Another satisfied customer and that makes me feel happy too! And Melissa, I wouldn’t read too much into CJ’s role-play. We all know he’s a fun-loving guy and he said himself he loves your story and your writing in general. Cheer up, sweetie-pie. Call Noah on your lap if you need too. Hehe!
CHARACTERS:
Froggy Smacks, Frog Shaman
Gray Russell, Lumberjack Victim
Katie Evans, Human Shaman
PROMPT CONFORMITY: Froggy and Katie live in the swamplands and don’t use technology at all.
SYNOPSIS: Gray is cutting down trees in the swamplands when he is seduced by Katie away from his job site. Gray finds himself at the mercy of a staff-wielding, hard-hitting Froggy Smacks, an environmentalist who wants to protect his swamp home at all costs, even if it means through intimidation.
FUN FACT: Like Rabbit Tricks, the character Froggy Smacks is based off of a cereal mascot.