The short story form is propelled by urgency. While the novelist can luxuriate in the comforts of a stack of blank pages, the short story writer must urgently inject the reader into the rhythm and language of the story, into the minds of characters, into a world. The geniuses of the form, think George Saunders, amaze us with their ability to instantly immerse us so completely and effortlessly.
At UnderMain we know that Kentucky is, as much as anything, a place of letters, replete with more than our fair share of crafters, shapers, molders of stories. So, in collaboration with our good friends at the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning who co-sponsored and deftly handled the logistics, we offered a proposition, a contest, meant to challenge writers to give us a world in 500 words, or even less.
Pleasingly, many boldly took us up on our dare. Wonderful submissions, covering the waterfront of style, plot, and character. Our first-place submission, Sydney, by Margo Buchanan, takes residence in the mind of an enigmatic protagonist. And at the end, a hint that his story may be just beginning. The second-place entry, The Stroll Down, by Robert Parks Johnson, frames a frozen encounter that yields to a moment of bridging human kindness. We are left to ponder the chasms between us where no such bridges are evident.
Congratulations to all the gamblers who laid their cards on the table for our flash fiction contest. The sampling of submissions at the public reading at Natasha’s was a delight. All in all, our little project neatly affirmed that so much can be revealed in just a few words.
First Place
SYDNEY
Margo BuchananÂ
Sydney sat on the bench, clutching his briefcase, staring straight ahead. People came and went. Buses stopped, waited, and finally drove on.
Sydney sat on the bench, clutching. A little girl walked by, stopped to buckle her shoe and told Sydney all about her new puppy. When she got no response, her mother quietly took her arm and firmly led her away.
Sydney sat. The creases in his suit surrendered. The band of his hat swelled with perspiration. His watch thundered. Sydney was never late for work but the 10:00am meeting just started without him. Did the office call home? Did his wife hear the phone? Children screaming, the new television set blaring… Sydney was always going through the house turning off unattended boxes of noise. None of it meant anything to him. He often stood back and watched his family: All that sound coming into the house seemed to make them happy. They were alien to him – he was alien to them.
Sydney stood. He walked across the street to Mordant’s Jewelry Store. Last month Sydney bought his wife an anniversary present there. Mr. Mordant had been particularly curt when Sydney opted for the less expensive necklace.
Sydney entered and the little bell over the door rang. Mr. Mordant bounced toward the entrance, saw Sydney, slowed, recovered and forced a smile. “Ah, your wife loved the pearls and you’re back for more?†Sydney forced a smile and Mr. Mordant led him over to the counter. Since there were no other customers Mr. Mordant took time over each piece. “This is classic… this is popular… this is what Grace Kelly wore last season.†Mordant talked and talked and then talked more – Sydney looked up at the moustached box of noise and wondered where to turn it off. Just then, the little bell rang.
A prominent banker entered. Mr. Mordant clasped his hands together in delight and crossed to the other side of the store. Sydney stood alone for a moment, took a breath, reached across the counter and scooped up several sets of priceless earrings and put them in his pocket. Sydney walked out of the store.
Mr. Mordant heard the little bell and sneered at the closing door. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the empty jewelry case and screamed.
Sydney sauntered toward the bus stop. He paused, felt the cool air and a sudden longing caused him to spin around, heading the opposite direction. The Gingko tree in the park was turning; it’s delicate yellow fans more alluring than the metal and rocks in his pocket. Sydney arrived at the Gingko and stood under the great yellow umbrella. The police arrived a few minutes later.
Months of lawyers and judges and crying children followed. Sydney moved silently through the proceedings. Finally sentenced, he arrived at his cell. One bed. One table. One chair. He requested paper and pencil.
Sydney sat down and wrote:
“At Lastâ€
A Collection of Short Stories
Volume One
Second Place
THE STROLL DOWN
Robert Parks Johnson Â
“Little late for coffee, ain’t it?” Judi smiled from behind the register at the Speedymart.
“Just taking the edge off,” Marty whispered, punching in his PIN with frozen fingers.
The door chime jingled as he jogged out into the night. A slippery glaze coated the sidewalks, and he trotted cautiously through the sleet, trying to keep hot liquid from sloshing. He was already second-guessing: was this crazy, or just stupid?
He cursed as he stepped off the curb into an icy stream of water. The frigid shock reminded him he was going to be in trouble if he didn’t get into a hot bath soon. A splash of coffee scalded his gloved hand. He switched the cup to the other, and quickened his pace as he turned the corner onto the street the cops called The Stroll Down.
By day, this street was a center of hipster gentrification, but late at night, after the fixed wheel bicycles were inside, SUV’s and mini-vans from the suburbs cruising for vice glowed in the sallow streetlights. Sin was usually easy to find here, but nobody was working tonight.
Almost nobody.
The silhouette approached slowly, drifting uptown through the mist. He had seen her trolling these waters many times in her too high boots and too short skirts. The Stroll Down was the end of his running route, and on a normal night she never spoke to him as he huffed his sweaty way past her; but earlier tonight as he practically skated down the middle of the street, she took a chance.
“Hey, baby. You wanna party?â€
“Jesus,†he panted, shaking the water from his soaked hair as he jogged past. She was hugging herself tightly against the weather. The pink hoodie she wore couldn’t possibly have kept her warm in this mess. Even through the shadowy haze, he could see the stripe of bare leg between her white boots and her black mini-skirt. What could she possibly need money for this badly? A kid? A fix? How much time could she spend on those knees behind the dumpster in this icy darkness?
Her voice haunted him in the rain. When he returned, she recognized him. He was probably the only crazy bastard she had seen on the street tonight.
“Change your mind?â€
“Not tonight, sugar, but I brought you this.†He extended the tall steaming cup.
“Fuck is that?†Wary, she shoved her hands deeper into the front pocket of her hoodie.
“Little sump’n, sump’n for a neighbor, is alI.â€
Locking his eyes, she took the cup and drew it to her face, breathing in the aroma.
“For real?â€
“Get inside, honey. Nobody’s buying tonight.†On an impulse, he slipped the soggy running gloves from his hands, reached out, and tucked them in the pocket on the front of her sweatshirt. Through the thick baggy fleece, he could feel the round swelling of her belly. Five months? Maybe six? Turning wordlessly, Marty sprinted for home, his eyes burning with helpless tears.
Robert Parks Johnson is an actor, a cancer survivor, a runner, and a trainer with the LIVESTRONG at the YMCA program at the North Lexington Family YMCA. His blogs include FMR: Fat Man Running, Pennsyltuckian, RunBobRun, and Bluegrass Wellness Digest. A directory of his online writing can be found at http://bobparksjohnson.blogspot.com/p/links-and-resources.html
Robert has written features on Art, Dance, Exercise, and Wellness for the Lexington Herald-Leader, Ace Magazine, and the Hamburg Journal
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