Far World Contest Writing Submissions
Please read each of the following submissions, then vote here for your favorite one. The prompt was to write an interesting beginning to a story, so if a certain entry does not grab you, feel free to stop reading and skip to the next one. The submissions are in the following order:
- Two Cups of Coffee
- 30 Million Dollars (note: If you think this is a terrible title for this story, please do not penalize it, this story did not include a title, so I had to make one up)
- “Insert Clever Title Here”
- Confessions of a Professional Wedding Guest
- Father Fantasies
- Untitled
- Blink (note: If you think this is a terrible title for this story, please do not penalize it, this story did not include a title, so I had to make one up)
Two Cups of Coffee
(back to list)
It could have been the two cups of coffee. I sometimes have what I like to call “mini-visions,” they’re more like small bouts of déjà vu, really, but the point is sometimes I know something important is about to happen right before it happens, despite the perpetual ordinariness of my life. Anyway, sometimes I can sense these things, but most of the time it can be explained by the fact that I’ve only noticed anything outside the realm of my own consciousness because I’ve had too much caffeine. Which is usually the case.
This morning I walked into the same scene I walk into every morning: leaves undulating slightly in the (merciful) breeze, their shadows splayed across the lawn, creating tessellations of gray/green/gray/green punctured by spears of grass ripe with dew; the cars piled thick with infamous summer dust; common swimming pool rippling slightly, bouncing tiny stars of light off its surface. The only thing that seemed out of place was the sound. Actually, the lack of sound. Once I noted its absence, I then immediately noted that it, or any of the other elements of an ordinary day, was a strange thing to be noticing. But notice I did. I could not stop noticing. My eyes kept sweeping over the shadows, the grass, the trees, the dew, the pool. Shadows, grass, trees, dew, pool. My tongue felt thick with the lingering traces of half an hour ago coffee. I was aware of this hyper vigilant feeling/thinking/experiencing of all my senses, they grated against each other, my body absorbing everything around it. My head swam, my eyes began to defocus and refocus in rapid succession. Then all of a sudden—nothing. Instant clarity. After the overwhelming sensation of everything, there was nothing. Except the absolute certainty that today would be the last day.
Like I said, it could have been the two cups of coffee. But it turns out it wasn’t.
I didn’t know how I angered him yet, though, I guess it does not matter just yet. I had no choice but to continue. With a modest amount of copper, I could trade for entrance to the game. Watching a wounded warthog flounder in a pool of disease and filth was not my idea of fun. This experience was necessity only. All I had to do was bet and wait.
The pig was staring at me. The man next to me taking bets may have thought it was looking at him, but that man would be wrong. The warthog was staring at ME. I could feel the electricity of it. It’s stare was lightning and my eyes were wires. The air between us liquid mercury connecting us in a single electric ground loop. I pity the spasming fool who steps between us and feels the shock. The warthog stopped moving, its eyes fearful and connected to me. Each moment it lived, I felt myself tiring. The electric hum in the air was enough to make my face droop. I shared its pain, and it could sense my history.
They teach children in Sunday school that cruelty to animals was akin to cruelty to God Himself. This one instance was one He would have to overlook. He did put me in this position after all. had it not been
for He Himself, I would not be betting. My skin crawled as the air between myself and the pig crackled. I thought you had my back big man? Where you at now?
I am not bad guy, just one of the many who disagrees with “The Boss”. Just a guy who thought leaving his 14 year old daughter at home alone would be okay for one night. Apparently, I was wrong to think for myself. When I got home last night, all I found was a note where I expected Clio to be waiting.
The deal, as outlined in the note, was to raise a 30 Million dollars in 30 days using only sin, with zero supernatural assistance. No beginning cash could be used as a nest egg. The use of any loop holes
to further my cause or attempt to negate the rules would end the bet instantly. “The Boss” had learned from players of MMORPG games, and was wary of rule breakers and debate.
Richard Pryor’s ‘Brewsters Millions’, but in reverse, and a hole lot harder. I hated him. I worried for Clio.
Leah struggled to close the already over-packed trunk of her car as she attempted to shove her last bag in. Packing up her life into a little Honda Civic was more difficult than she originally thought. It was an early October morning, but the sun in Southern California was already beating down and making Leah begin to sweat.
Lean’s father brought out the map he had routed for her trip and took over the packing. He had a way of organizing that, no matter how much stuff there was to pack in even the smallest space, it always managed to fit.
Back inside the house, Leah’s mother was filling a small blue cooler with sodas and snacks for the first leg of her daughter’s trip. She could not really believe her baby was really leaving. The decision to leave had come only three months earlier and Leah’s mother was still not used to the idea. Still, Leah was 22 years old at there was not much even her mother could do to stop her anymore, so instead, her mom reluctantly continued filling the cooler.
Once Leah’s father had everything neatly repacked (and, of course, it all fit with room to spare) and Leah’s mother had stocked the car with goodies, it was time for goodbyes.
“You know you can always come back, right,” sniffed Leah’s mother.
“Try not to get into too much trouble,” joked Leah’s father.
“Yeah, yeah,” Leah replied, hugging them both, “Love you guys.”
Climbing into her Civic, Leah was overcome with a rush of excitement. It was real. She was actually moving out on her own. A map of the U.S. sat on the passenger’s seat beside her with a route precisely highlighted by her father. The final destination- Chicago, Illinois.
Leah waved goodbye to her parents as she pulled out of the driveway. At the end of the street, she rolled down the windows and flipped on the radio. Immediately the sounds of Journey come blaring through the speakers.
“Don’t stop believing… hold on to that feeling!”
Leah laughed. It was her favorite song. “That must be a good omen,” she thought to herself as she loudly sang along with Steve Perry.
And so began Leah Caldwell’s greatest adventure…
Confessions of a Professional Wedding Guest
I have decided that I will write a book. “Confessions of a Professional Wedding Guest: Living the single life when all your friends are getting married.” I think it will be a bestseller.
The occasion for this decision? Another wedding this past weekend.
Now, I don’t mean to sound so negative about it all; it really was a gorgeous, inspired event. One of the best I’ve been to in a while. The trouble is, I’ve been to A LOT of weddings in the past year, with many more still to come in the next. As the single-girl guest, I’ve learned quite a few things about entertaining myself when all my dating/engaged/married friends are dancing up a storm, reminiscing about their own weddings, or speaking sweet nothings to each other about that day still to come in their relationship when they, too, will get to wear those beautiful clothes, plan an entire day of celebration in which they will be the center of attention, take a fabulous trip where there are no expectations of visiting family, buy all sorts of awesome new flatware and draperies… you get the idea. For those of us left in the crowd, there is hopefully a buffet meal and several other singles with which to stare wistfully at all the happiness surrounding while we secretly wish that someone would go ahead and trip over the bride’s excessively long train straight into the table holding the cake that is adding pounds to your hips by mere proximity.
Come on - you know you’d laugh.
Reading this you probably think I am an angry, bitter single woman. Far from the truth, my friends. I’m having a great time…that is, when I’m not shopping for shower gifts, wedding gifts, gift wrap, and congratulatory cards… But, please, don’t read this as a deterrent to inviting me to your own nuptials. I will gladly celebrate with joy the days when my friends declare their commitments and love for one another. Just don’t be shocked when I’m sitting there taking notes - I have a book to write, after all.
Father fantasies. That’s how I’ve come to understand the drifting-offs I’ve experienced my entire life—at least since I can remember, and that’s a pretty good guess since my mom and dad split when I was one. Sometimes there are actual snippets of real—I think—memories. Four-year-old me in my pink Minnie Mouse bathing suit, scrawling my name in the sand at the beach with a seagull feather while he—faceless—looks on, wearing a look of unmistakable pride. There are conversations. The kind I imagine all “normal” girls have with their dads, like the ones I sometimes witnessed my best friend have with her dad, about things as mundane as swim practice and as shocking—to my fatherless ears—as living room make-out sessions after prom. Bits of real experiences, woven together with new endings to memories too painful to relive as they were, so I’ve replaced them with Full House or Seventh Heaven wrap-ups. A smile, a hug, and possibly an ice cream sundae instead of unanswered questions and hidden tears.
When I tell them, most people get this misty look in their eyes, the perfect mixture of sorrow and regret, a personal and heartfelt apology for missing out on all the character-building experiences only fathers can teach. This look annoys me and so I feel less guilty about enjoying the brief moment that my listener is plunged into despair imagining what it would be like if their own father were dead. Sometimes I am too reckless, tell my story to someone who actually has lost their father. In this case I get the true knowing look, sometimes a hug or an invitation to coffee. They want to talk, to commiserate, to be friends. I am a good liar, but I don’t like to gain friends like this; keeping them is too much work.
Jen’s eyes strayed to the clock for what seemed like the millionth time that hour. Listening to the never ceasing tick-tock drag on made the ten year old aware of every second her mom was late. Jen sighed and stretched. If she didn’t make it to her dad’s by five, she knew the ship would sail without her. She’d never know what it would be like to be a pirate.
I could feel him staring at me. I could almost see him out of the corner of my eye. I made an effort to keep my eyes on David who sat across the table from me. I was determined not to look over. After a moment I realized that I was concentrating so hard I had stopped blinking. Afraid he would notice that I had stopped, I made myself blink. But it wasn’t right. Now I was blinking too much, like I had something in my eye. I needed to control my blinking. I was so focused on it that I was no longer even hearing what David was saying. I tried to think how often a person would normally blink. I didn’t know. It isn’t something you notice. David was starting to look at me funny. My blinking had become erratic, like I had a nervous tic. I couldn’t get it under control. Which is a shame. Because I firmly believe that if I could just have timed my blinking correctly all that followed would never have happened. And all because I didn’t know how to blink.
