The slow time in January is a great time to write. I signed up for two short story competitions and submitted entries a few weeks apart. The first story is back and ready to share! This was my submission for this year’s NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. Readers may recall that participants are assigned elements that must be included, and my draw was:

• GENRE: Fantasy

• SUBJECT: Artificial

• CHARACTER: A joiner

• WORD COUNT: 2,000

Last year’s first round entry was a surprise winner, and while I certainly didn’t expect to top my group again this year, I was disappointed in my results this time. I am very happy with this story but it just didn’t land with the judges in the way I hoped. My feedback was supportive and helpful and I agree with the main constructive criticism: I tried to fit too much into this tight format. The word count was a little lower than last year’s first round and my entry feels more like an intro to a book than a standalone short story.

As usual, Ray and I were in this one together, and his entry is a evocative sci-fi noir set in a future Cleveland I would not want to visit. Definitely check it out!

I hope you enjoy this, and stay tuned for my next one in a few weeks!

The first time it happened for Sam was a complete accident. He’d been in a small boat by himself out on the water. The day was clear and the sun was low, approaching the tops of the pine trees rimming the lake. Sam had spent the afternoon fishing with nets and a harpoon on loan from a neighbor. He’d toss a net over the side and lay back, listening to distant bird calls, watching clouds meander across the sky.

Other boys his age were typically engaged in some sort of physical competition. Wrestling, hunting, even dancing; always needing to come out on top, winning the attention of some young maiden. At 14, Sam hadn’t yet fully mastered the new extremities of his tall, thin body. He liked to dance and he saw no point in fighting (though he was rarely bested in any verbal contest). His energy in a group was infectious, and he was happiest joking, singing, or otherwise entertaining with friends.

Having decided to return to shore, he sat up and started to haul in his net. He met resistance, and when he stood to yank harder, he lost his balance and tumbled into the cool water.

Panic quickly subsided as he resurfaced and reached for the boat. He pushed hair the color of mead out of his eyes and spotted an oar and the harpoon floating away. He let go of the gunwale and paddled over. Grabbing both with his left hand, he used his right to swim back. He lifted the items into the boat, and after climbing aboard, was shocked to see the two pieces joined as one lying across the hull.

Shit, he thought. Shit because his neighbor would be irate about losing his harpoon, shit because he’d have to fashion a new oar for the boat, and shit because, well, joining things was the stupidest magical ability one could possess.

Such abilities were uncommon. Nobody else in his family used magic; they lived and worked and got by like most people had always done.

A few folks in the village had some useful magic abilities. They were lucky to have a healer: Mr. Minks could mend wounds and expel foul humors, though it sometimes cost him a great deal. A young woman named Adeline had the power to push and pull with her mind and had trained up to be a fearsome warrior. This power gave her a key advantage in any fight as she could, for example, send daggers anywhere at will. It proved quite handy around town, too. Just the other day Sam had seen her pull a pint of ale across the pub to the table where she was ensconced with a gaggle of young soldiers vying for her attention.

Back in the boat, Sam studied the harpoon-oar. He thrust it down and used the one good oar in a tiresome left/right manner to head in. The harpoon-oar would be of no use; it was now too bulky with the weight distributed unevenly. Maybe his neighbor would be able to save it by sawing off the oar part.

*****

Sam wasn’t excited about his newfound ability, but his parents insisted that he learn to master it. “You’ll surpass me as a carpenter in no time,” his dad had said. “Just imagine the furniture or tools you could craft!” That was a classic role for a joiner to fill. They often found themselves in some kind of construction job, joining this stone with that beam or some mundane grownup thing like that.

Sam wouldn’t be happy with such a job and longed to pursue creative endeavors with others. It was thus insufferable for him to apprentice with a furniture joiner at Blackbrook, the larger town nearby that had grown around a small fortress.

Mr. Pinkerton loved nothing more than sitting in his favorite chair outside the entrance to his shop, smoking his pipe and chatting with the denizens of the town. Sam was quick to pick up his basic instruction on how to join two pieces of wood in perfect symmetry, but after Mr. Pinkerton had shown him enough to take on the brunt of his workload, he left Sam to do everything while he idled outside.

One afternoon, Sam sat facing the river that gave Blackbrook its name, basking in his quiet freedom. An apple and a banana sat in the grass next to him. Sam loved fruit and would pilfer a piece whenever he could. He had tried joining food together before, usually with disastrous results, but the occasional discovery like “grapples” validated his experimentation.

He absent-mindedly wondered what an apple-banana would taste like. He watched a woman row up to a nearby jetty, wishing he had more time to fish and daydream like he used to. His gaze returned to his fruit and he reached for the apple, but was surprised to see a fat, orange banana there, like a squash. He looked around; he hadn’t touched the fruit—had Mr. Pinkerton snuck up and played a trick on him? He reached for the hybrid but his hand passed through it. The apple and banana snapped back to their previous positions a few inches apart.

Sam picked them up, confused. Was he imagining things? Feeling the weight of each in his hands, he wordlessly combined their essences.

Mr. Pinkerton had taught Sam that you couldn’t join just anything. You couldn’t join living things, you had to be touching each item, and you had to focus on a common attribute that linked the two. Physical similarities were the easiest to mentally grasp, but more creative thinkers like Sam could find other qualities that worked, like when he fashioned a wide-brimmed hat out of a wooden shield and a canvas tarp because each “protected something.”

Now he held a real squash-like thing that looked exactly like the mirage from a moment before. He probed the peel and decided it was edible. He took a bite…and promptly spat it out. The texture was all wrong. Disappointed at having reduced his inventory of two tasty treats to zero, he tossed it into the water for the fish to try.

*****

Sam stayed in a room above the shop, sleeping on a cot underneath a window that looked away from the keep at the center of town, over the rudimentary town walls, into the forest. Staring out the window in this liminal state, his mind loosened its hold on things concrete and wondered at the stars and the vastness of the world.

He would prop himself up to watch revelers wind their way home from the pub. As candles were snuffed the light from the moon took over, and more than once Sam was certain he saw his parents in the crowd, but it was always a trick. He missed home.

Sam recalled a story his mother had told him about how the moon retreated to the sea at the end of the world each morning, illuminating an underwater kingdom ruled by a fierce serpent. “But he is a fair protector,” she told him, recalling the time he stirred up a storm to sink pirates that had plundered some peaceful, seaside village.

Something dimly lit and above the trees caught Sam’s eye. He focused in to see a vast serpent in shades of gray and dark aquamarine, soaring toward the town. Unable to speak, a note of terror rose up in his throat, but the creature vanished. Sam had difficulty sleeping the rest of the night.

*****

The surprise attack came in darkness a few weeks later. Raiders from the Dry Lands were known to strike now and then, but rarely this far inland.

Sam awoke to shouts and saw a group of soldiers scrambling through the streets from where they had been sheltered in the keep. He was horrified to see thatched roofs on fire as invaders streamed through the gate. He panicked and ran downstairs, thinking to flee to the safety of the keep. He held no illusions of picking up a weapon to join the fight. He had no armor, no skill, and no idea what to do.

He stumbled past Mr. Pinkerton’s favorite porch chair, turning to retreat uphill to the keep. The moon peeked out from behind the squat tower, catching in Sam’s mind.

Wait.

Fighting the compulsion to run, Sam paused. The moonlight and the terror inside pinged like an echo from that night he saw the serpent in the sky. Linked through the weeks like two wheels turning on a long axle, he mirrored that state from before. That night he had been deeply engrossed in his memory of the story, imagining the fierce but fair guardian that his mother loved to tell him about. He now realized how the serpent that night had been composed of the same colors as the moonlight, sky, and forest: cool, shadowy, and silent, with bright, silvery light glinting off its scales.

Understanding washed over Sam. The false apple and banana joined like a squash, times he was sure he saw his family members among the evening revelers, too-real visions of boats on the water or sheep in the fields…the light, all around him, touching him and everyone at nearly the same time, was the key to an infinite number of illusions. The light, having the same essence at its core whether violet or green, pale or bright, could be pulled apart, multiplied, and joined in whatever ways Sam could imagine.

Still petrified, Sam slowed his breathing. He pictured that dreadful beast from the underwater kingdom raining terror on the unjust, and it rose up into the sky behind him, as if it had been hiding behind the keep.

The first Blackbrook soldiers to arrive at the gate were clashing courageously, but they were losing this fight. A smattering of reinforcements approached, but the invaders controlled the gate and their entire band was coming through.

That is, until they saw the serpent. “Arreche!!” one called in their foreign tongue. They stopped, looking to the sky where their leader was pointing. The guards turned too, and every man and woman in the area froze in terror.

The head of the wingless serpent rose higher and higher, its gaze fixed on the barbarians. Those outside the walls could see it now, too, as it revealed gruesome fangs under a malevolent stare. Its head bore a formidable crown of spikes, glistening in the moonlight as if it had just raised up out of the water.

“He’s with us!!” Sam bellowed at the top of his lungs. No longer afraid of the serpent, but afraid for his townsfolk, Sam worried it wouldn’t be enough.

He had another idea. Moments later, an artificial army burst out of the keep and poured downhill. Anyone looking closely would notice that the soldiers all looked alike: a shadowy, pale imitation of Adeline.

“Push them back! Get loud!” he ordered, and a new phase of battle began. Confidence swelled in the guards just as fear swelled in the invaders. A communal battle cry arose from the Blackbrookians. Having met more resistance than they had ever imagined, the Dry Land barbarians turned and fled.

*****

Sam’s apprenticeship was complete. Mr. Pinkerton looked downtrodden as Sam came downstairs with his pack in hand. “I am sad to see you go, son” he said, knowing that he’d have to return to the work that he had been delegating to Sam. “But I’ll forever be grateful for how you saved my shop.”

Sam, a local hero, no longer worried about trudging through menial work. His illusions improved rapidly. In the aftermath of the attack, he retold the story over and over, playing it out in light on tabletops or the ground–wherever he found a small stage and an eager audience. Narrating and voicing his characters (for he couldn’t join sound waves, at least, not yet), he knew that joining people through storytelling was the ultimate expression of his gift, and he was so excited to share it.

I know I’m not alone in feeling like the world I grew up in is in deep trouble. I feel so powerless and overwhelmed. I don’t know what to do, and the limited advice I’m finding feels hollow and meaningless. My local congressperson is fully in the bag for Trump, and while I hope we can vote him out in 2026, I am not counting on it. Should I call his office to complain? I’ve done it before and I’m hard pressed to feel like it will make a difference.

My head swims with images and thoughts that make me feel hopeless and full of despair, which sits physically in my gut like I ate too many chocolate-covered blueberries from Costco. Venezuela, Iran, Greenland, the Epstein files, ICE…

Seriously, I’m physically sick reviewing that list of very recent transgressions. The reputation of the United States has fallen so far so quickly in the eyes of everyone except MAGA folks, who continue to somehow justify the means through ignorance or intellectual dishonesty. It’s only vibes and lies that are left.

Trying Something, Anything

When I’m stuck or feeling overwhelmed by too many ideas bouncing around in my head, I find it helpful to make a list. I offload items from my brain into some repository that I can investigate and manipulate.

So today is an experiment for myself, and maybe for you. I’m trying to find ways to help that aren’t just performative. I’m giving myself permission to be wrong here. I’m usually hesitant to share things I’m uncertain about, or where I might be wrong, but that’s a weakness in its own right. I’m open to feedback, pushback, and suggestions, but I don’t have patience for bullshit.

Science fiction is my home turf. So far this year I’ve been following prompts for different contests, bending lightly into fantasy where I could. I’ve experimented with horror, struggled with satire, and dabbled in straightforward fiction, but my favorite genre is sci fi. How I love a good space opera or some hard sci fi.

I found a writing contest by Writer’s Playground that had a pretty open-ended prompt and a higher-than-normal word count of 3,000. I had to include some specific elements, but I was excited to weave them into a sci fi story. Look for more from me in this vein.

I’m proud of this story, and I hope you enjoy it. While this didn’t place in the contest, I received some very positive feedback, and I plan to hone my voice in this style and nurture and act on some ideas that have sparked for future projects.

It felt like an eternity before I could open my eyes. In reality, it was probably only a minute. But for someone who hadn’t moved a muscle in four years, it was a unique form of agony. I think people tend to romanticize the idea of hypersleep. It sounds so simple, even peaceful. You “sleep” for a very long time and then wake up impossibly far away, as if by magic. I’ve heard that people used to take pills to help them sleep on long flights back on Earth. It’s funny to think that 14 hours felt insufferable back then.

“Hello again, Zeyu.” Good, my ears still work fine. “It’s me, Dr. Forrest. It may seem like we were just talking, but it’s been a few weeks from my perspective. I’m going to review some things with you to help you reacclimate as comfortably as possible.”

I lifted the heaviest eyelids I’ve ever known to see the doctor facing me. We were the only two people in the rehabilitation room. The lighting was soft and there was an abundance of greenery, like you might find in a spa.

I remembered all this from the training. The doctor’s team methodically went over timelines and time dilation with us. We all knew exactly how the trip would go. That said, nothing could truly prepare me for the moment that came next.

“You’ve been in stasis for about four years. During that time, we’ve traveled 23 light years. 25 years have passed on Earth.”

Damn. Mom and Dad would be in their 80s. My sister Liyue would be 60 and little Chenxi would be older than me! I traveled into the future and my mind was breaking.

Dr. Forrest must have seen terror creeping into my awakening facial muscles, because she said, “Let’s help you calm down” before slipping relaxation meds into my IV and proceeding to tell me about the new state of the universe.

*****

A familiar unease arose after the meds wore off. As my body continued to awaken, so did my memories of why I left. Earth was now a planet in decline, headed the way of Mars, and climate technology showed no promise of reversing that. Humanity wouldn’t go extinct; at this point we lived throughout the solar system, mostly in space habs and research colonies on places like Venus, Mars, and Europa. But to thrive again, humans desperately needed to find a new home, meaning a planet in the Goldilocks zone that was neither too close nor too far from its sun, able to support Earth-based life.

I am a botanist. There was still a need to study and preserve plant life on Earth, and to continue cultivating plants in habs and colonies. The exciting work, however, was in xenobotany, the study of exotic, alien plant life. I had been part of a team trying to simulate alien plants in a lab based on data collected from probes.

Countless probes sent to candidate planets decades ago had been reporting about the atmosphere, soil, and life forms using a special form of instantaneous data transfer powered by quantum entanglement. Only available in specially equipped labs, entangled atoms transmitted data at a low bandwidth, meaning simple text sailed between the stars with zero delay.

*****

It was this technology that allowed me to read a book of updates from my family. I used my Hint (an embedded Human Interface to the local net) to read these dispatches. I cried learning about Liyue’s miscarriages then again when she gave birth to a healthy baby girl. Interspersed with family updates were recaps of events in the Sol system. Things progressed mostly like people predicted they would. Wars were fought over dwindling resources, minor discoveries were made, but mostly everyone muddled through like they always did.

My parents were doing well, all things considered. Aging was easier than it used to be, and my secret hope was that they’d be able to follow me. Over 60 missions like mine had been launched in the intervening years, and at least one was bound to find a viable world for migration from Earth.

*****

“Zeyu, don’t rush into this.” Dr. Forrest’s words echoed those of my mother. She was talking about getting up and trying to move around. My muscles had been electrically stimulated to keep from atrophying, but actually trying to walk after so long in a hypersleep chamber would take some practice. “You’ll need to spend a lot of time in therapy here as we approach the station.”

The rehab room was large, designed for many of us to use together as we reintegrated into the conscious world. A few hundred people came out of hypersleep as we approached the planet Le Guin, named in honor of an old author/philosopher back on Earth. There were no significant problems, but people were often clumsy in their freshly awakened bodies, as if they were teenagers who had undergone a growth spurt and didn’t quite know where their limbs ended. Despite a daily exercise regimen that wore us out, we usually needed help from the doctors to sleep.

Of vital importance was the chance to reconnect with humans. Only a few individuals seemed particularly extroverted, and their voices tended to dominate. Like me, most people kept to themselves, but that didn’t stop me from feeling like I was an outsider watching some team that had been playing together for years. This feeling was magnified by the impossibly vast distance from home. Sending short texts through the entanglement machine did help make Earth feel closer than 23 light years away, but here we cautiously extended feelers outward, like vines trying to find purchase in a new patch of soil.

This is where I first saw Saanvi.

She would have been hard to not notice. Keeping to herself, I often saw her on a treadmill and reading from her Hint, which projected an overlay directly in front of her amber eyes. She kept her dark, wavy hair pulled into a braid, and despite my best efforts to not look, what caught my eye was her left arm, which ended below the elbow. When regrowing flesh and bone only took a few days, I was surprised to see someone resist fixing a problem like that.

“It’s not a problem and it doesn’t need fixing,” she would later tell me. “It’s part of me; part of my story. It’s a reminder, and it’s a gift.”

I struggled to understand. “Wouldn’t you like to do things with two hands again?”

“Of course! But that’s not who I am. For me, it’s good to know what I’ve lost, and what I’ve overcome. For you? If you lose a precious body part,” she laughed, “I’ll be sure to get you to the nearest med lab as fast as my one arm can tow you.”

I didn’t know any of this at the time. I just found myself wanting to know her, be near her. Over the next few days, I slowly closed the distance to where she stationed herself until I was walking next to her.

“Are you courageous enough to talk to me, or are you going to keep inching closer until we share this treadmill?”

Dammit! I thought I had played it cool! At least she had broken the ice. “Um, hi. Sorry, I didn’t want to intrude.” I may have visibly cringed. Inwardly, I was hitting my forehead with my fist. “How are you doing?”

I realized I hadn’t worked out any sort of plan to introduce myself. Fortunately for me, she was incredibly kind and had mastered the social graces required to smooth over the bumpy efforts of idiots clumsily pursuing her.

“Not too bad,” she replied. “Just dealing with post-hypersleep nausea, sleeplessness, constant headaches, and the passing of my grandmother while I was snoozing in space.”

I pulled a face of shock and horror, like I had stepped in something foul, but she laughed at my discomfort and diffused the tension.

“I’m Saanvi. This is all a lot, isn’t it?” She gestured around. “How are you doing with everything?”

“Saanvi,” I repeated her name, luxurious in my ears. “I’m Zeyu. I’m good, I guess?” I laughed at how not good I was performing in this moment, but over the remaining days of approach we found comfort in our shared discomfort, kindling a friendship that I hoped would develop into something more.

*****

Liyue couldn’t understand my decision. She never really understood me at all. Maybe I was to blame because I had difficulty connecting with others, or maybe it was our five year age difference. In any event, she couldn’t fathom leaving home.

“I don’t have a family of my own,” I tried explaining to her. “What I do have is an opportunity to maybe give us all a better life.”

“That’s a very selfish way to look at it. I’ll be left to take care of Mom and Dad all by myself–”

“I’m hoping you can all join me!” I caught myself, trying to prevent further escalation. This was already hard enough, and she pushed my buttons in the way only siblings can do.

We never ended up on the same page. Such was the case with my parents, too. Friendships had mostly faded by then; I worked all the time and never let anyone get too close.

Where I did feel connected was in nature. Marveling at the vast, interconnected systems, I felt my place in the universe most strongly when in the presence of some towering, ancient tree, or kneeling in the mud with tubers or mushrooms poking up around me. That overwhelming feeling of being where I was supposed to be when enmeshed in nature was the key factor in my decision to join the research colony on Le Guin.

*****

I woke up in rehab again, this time on the base station in orbit above Le Guin. We had docked to unload people, machinery, and supplies. The station wasn’t exactly a space port, but a town in its own right had formed to manage the flow of people and materials.

I was lying in a room similar to the one on the ship: warm lighting, comfortable bedding, and lots of greenery, but new was a wall-sized window to the ever-rotating landscape of the planet. I stared as Le Guin leisurely spun 500 kilometers below the station. Like any natural wonder, seeing it in person was so much more impactful than in pictures and videos. It was dominated by blue oceans, though there was a deeper green tint thanks to different microalgae and microorganisms. The landmasses were the prime feature, covered in blues, pinks, lavenders, and purples. Photosynthesis evolved a little differently with this sunlight and atmosphere, and the desire to explore it consumed my thoughts.

The culprit of my incapacitation was slightly embarrassing. My appendix had ruptured, which is a rare side effect of long bouts of hypersleep. As the only person lucky enough on the ship to experience it, I had gone to the doctor complaining of unusual pain and nausea. “Ah,” she responded, with a nod and grim smile. She ordered me into surgery for an emergency appendectomy, and ten hours later I came to in the presence of Saanvi. She was seated off to the side and I hadn’t noticed her as I was staring out the window.

“Zeyu! How does it feel to be a part of the Body Part Removal Club?” She waved her left arm.

I laughed, which hurt, and she apologized, but I had genuinely never felt better.

“I head down tomorrow,” she told me, as if I hadn’t been thinking about it nonstop. We would have been on the shuttle together, but my little nuisance of a vestigial organ was delaying my trip. Saanvi was a xenobiologist who, like me, was obsessive about studying alien life. Prior research had only found microorganisms in the water and soil, but we would be cataloging biology on Le Guin for centuries. Saanvi hoped to discover more complex animal life. Meanwhile my own obsession was understanding exactly how all these species of alien plants reproduced. Despite the absence of active pollinators, fierce competition occurred as the various plant species figured out novel and creative ways to carry their genetic heritage forward.

“Don’t discover anything new until I get down there, okay?” I told her as we parted.

“Deal,” she replied, then leaned over to give me a hug for the first time. It hurt to wrap my arms around her, but it was worth it to take in her smell and feel her body next to mine. My chin and lips pressed into her hair and for a moment I knew what Heaven was like.

*****

A few days before we were scheduled to leave Earth, I had woken up unsettled. Our team was to be ferried up to an orbital station, where we’d catch a transport to the asteroid belt. Humanity had constructed a gigantic industrial zone near the asteroids, and our mission ship had been built where the materials were harvested, stored, and processed.

I had been having a recurring dream (or more specifically, a recurring theme in different incarnations) which had been plaguing my sleep.

The dream followed a familiar path in a new setting. I was in my childhood home, but it was different. I heard my sister and parents talking in the next room, but when I walked through the door, they were somewhere else and I was in a strange room I had never seen. I was excited by the discovery; how had I never noticed this picture window? After a moment I pressed on, attempting to reach my family through the next doorway. But crossing the threshold brought me to yet another undiscovered area, no closer to them.

My reflections on the dream swirled with my anxiety about the trip. Part of me was preoccupied with inconsequential details, but a bigger part was wrestling with an unspoken question: “What if I’m alone out there?”

*****

The colony at Le Guin was a sprawling network of domes and rectangles, having long ago established that the atmosphere was survivable by humans. By some miracle of evolution, photosynthesis worked basically the same as it did on Earth. The plants sucked up carbon dioxide from things like volcanic activity and offgassing from the oceans, and while the oxygen levels were a touch high, humans could safely go outside without special protection.

Remote sites had popped up in areas of interest further and further away from the hub. Many of us from the ship, including me and Saanvi, were stationed in a remote camp studying an old-growth forest nestled in a valley around a large, crystal clear lake. Day after day I’d trek out with a small group to catalog the forest. It was everything I had hoped for; it was Heaven on Le Guin. The smells were different; there was a similar muskiness from the forest loam, but there was a sweet tang from some of the nurse trees whose fallen bodies were hotbeds for alien fungi and new saplings.

Saanvi’s team continued to collect soil and water samples to study microorganisms. Everything we did was incredibly careful and sterile since we did not want to expose ourselves to something dangerous to humans. I could see that Saanvi was interested in this work, but I could tell that she longed for greater discoveries.

By comparison, I felt a little ashamed of my joy. My team was compiling a list of old trees, and we estimated some to be over two thousand years old. The biodiversity was overwhelmingly rich and there was so much planetary history to unlock in this patch of land. Construction had begun on a larger settlement in a grassy area not too far away, and though I tried not to get my hopes up, I dreamt of a day where I could bring my family members to this forest.

One of my favorite discoveries was fossilized tree sap, or amber, that another team had found in rock strata at the lakeshore a kilometer from camp. Theorized to come from some ancient forest in the area, the paleobiologists were ecstatic.

Saanvi and I volunteered to collect samples, so for a week we switched gears to hike the lakeshore each day and chip away at rocks for hours. Our friendship had blossomed and we spent most of our time together, but I was afraid to upset the balance by telling her that I longed for more than friendship.

We talked a lot, but we’d also find ourselves quietly working side by side for long stretches of time. The only noise came from the wind occasionally stirring small waves, and the little tack-tack-tack sounds from our tools on the stone.

Crouched and lost in active meditation, I worked on a small amber deposit lodged at waist level. I hadn’t noticed Saanvi had stopped until I heard her whisper, “Holy shit.”

I jerked my head to look. A moment of panic dissipated as I saw she was fine, and I experienced a new kind of time dilation. She was suspended there, dressed in light, loose protective clothing, staring at the rock face. The red dwarf sun, low and behind us, illuminated the scene with a rich, ruby-tinged light. Her braid hung at her back with strong auburn highlights. Her right arm was loose at her side, holding her pick, and her left arm was up, as if a phantom hand were covering her mouth. Her mouth was open in awe, and her eyes shone with a dazzling intensity.

“Zeyu, come here.” She didn’t dare move her eyes. My trance broken, I hurried to her side.

“Zeyu,” she whispered. “Look.” She had found a larger sample. I focused in and a wave of goosebumps washed over my body. I stared for a moment, making sure I understood what I was seeing: a tiny, fragile, four-legged insect with four delicate, lacy wings, frozen for eternity. I looked up to lock eyes with Saanvi, whose eyes were brimming with tears.

Her pick clinked on the rocky ground as she threw her arms around me. We held each other close for a moment, then kissed, our lips smashing together yet cushioning the force in exquisite harmony. Emotions that I had bottled up, afraid to fully acknowledge, now flooded every inch of my body and psyche. I shared in her unbridled joy, and for the first time, I felt like this place could be home, and that I belonged.

Before I embarked on our family vacation this year to the Pacific Northwest, my friend Ray handed me a book of short stories from one of his favorite writers who happens to reside in Washington state. As someone who loves to read about a place while traveling, I nestled it in my backpack next to Five Ways to Forgiveness by Ursula K. Le Guin (because we were also visiting Portland, naturally). I was quite happy to start Ray’s book on the plane ride to Seattle since we were spending time in Washington first.

The book is called The Angel of Rome: And Other Stories by Jess Walter, Spokane’s most famous resident (probably). He won me over with his wit and the human quality of his characters. One story called “Cross the Woods”, the shortest of the collection, was a lightning quick capsule of emotion that exemplifies what a reader can feel with a strict economy of words.

This type of story was my inspiration for the Literary Cleveland + Gordon Square Review flash fiction contest. Entrants must hail from the Midwest and stories must be a tight 1,000 words or less. I’m posting this here because it wasn’t selected for publication in the review, but I’m glad to have another story to share in this burgeoning collection of my own. Thanks for reading!

Rowan was late again. Pete was late, too, and while this might have softened someone else, it only made Pete angrier. When is that kid going to learn to be responsible?

Earlier in the evening he’d been catching up over beers with his buddy Tom. Both were divorced, but Tom’s wife had custody of their kids, so he had it easier. Pete was on his own working, keeping house, and making sure Rowan didn’t flunk out of school. Well, Rowan’s grades were fine, but he didn’t have a job, didn’t have any direction, and just wanted to play video games all the time.

Pete tossed his keys on the kitchen counter. Having subconsciously put a little extra oomph into the motion, they ricocheted off the coffee machine and slid over the edge of the sink, landing with a plop in a pot that still held a bit of cold pasta sauce.

Son of a bitch, Pete thought, rinsing the metal keys and wiping down the car fob. He could feel pressure in his chest growing with his elevated heart rate. He yanked the dishtowel from the ring attached to the cabinet, but something about his grasp or the angle caught and the whole ring came out of the particleboard.

Goddammit! Pete slammed his palms on the counter, fuming. Just another thing he’d need to fix in this piece of shit house. All the repairs waiting for his attention scrolled through his mind, just below his awareness, while his conscious brain looped on the way his kid was failing at executive function. He knew without checking that Rowan’s clothes would still be haphazardly strewn about his room. Rowan was supposed to tidy up before he went out.

The doorknob turned and Rowan made an unfortunately timed entrance via the back door into the kitchen.

“Where the hell have you been?” Pete snapped without looking at him.

“Geez, Dad, with my friends.” He moved to escape up the stairs.

“What time were you supposed to be home?”

Rowan stopped, looked at the clock on the stove, and realized how much trouble he was in. He didn’t answer.

That only made it worse. The edge in Pete’s voice sharpened. “When did I tell you to be home, Rowan?”

“Midnight,” Rowan pushed out.

Pete turned to his son. “Why–” He caught himself, the question dying on his tongue. His little boy was becoming a man, but here he was, scared of his dad. That was just enough to nudge Pete onto a different track. He’d been trying so hard to keep it together when his temper flared. Rowan had been a little distant lately, but in his honest moments, Pete knew that it was a two-way street. He knew he needed to be the adult here.

A memory stole into his consciousness. He recalled a reel on Instagram that he’d watched earlier when it popped into his feed:

Asking ‘why’ the wrong way can shut people down. If someone goes on a trip to a place you’d never choose, don’t say, “Why’d you pick that place?” Instead, try out, “How did you decide to visit there?” or “What appealed to you most about going there?” Doesn’t that make you want to answer the question? If you aren’t genuinely curious, asking ‘why’ is a conversation stopper. But asking ‘how’ or ‘what’ questions opens people up.

Pete stared at Rowan, not unkindly, while the gears in his head stopped spinning in one direction and started up a different way. Rowan stared back, his side eye seeming to say, “Whatever, just get this over with.”

His cadence was unnatural, but he got the question out: “What was it like for you guys tonight? Like, I mean, how did the night go?”

Rowan hesitated. Pete thought he might get brushed off, with Rowan retreating to his room. But something snagged Rowan’s attention, and instead of being dismissed, Pete was answered.

“I don’t know…we were playing Apex at Colin’s, but Nate was hungry and said he wanted to go to Swenson’s. That sounded great to the rest of us, so we drove there, but it was closed. Colin said he thought Rally’s was open, so we went there instead. We were eating in the parking lot and I guess I just wasn’t paying attention to the time. Sorry, Dad,” he added, looking at Pete as if trying to gauge his anger.

Pete didn’t want to be angry. In fact, he wasn’t. With a little bit of shock, he felt empathetic toward Rowan. All that frustration and anger that had welled up in his chest, making him feel like he was overflowing with energy that he needed to discharge, dissipated in an instant. He remembered what it was like to be seventeen. His own parents didn’t care where he was or who he was with when he was that age, and while part of him knew that wasn’t exactly healthy, he also fondly remembered tooling around with his buddies every chance he got. He remembered late night drives through the valley, ding-dong-dashing at one girl’s house or another, and nearly getting caught one time drinking cheap beer underage in a parking lot in the Flats.

“Okay, that makes sense. Try to keep an eye on the clock next time, alright?”

“Alright, Dad.”

“Hey, gimme a hug.” Pete spread his arms and, instead of ducking past him to escape, Rowan allowed a quick hug.

“Goodnight. Love ya, Dad.” He pulled away and Pete smiled as he watched him head up the stairs. He’s a good kid, he thought, taking a moment before cleaning up for the night.

Political satire. Woof. Satire feels harder to write than ever, and I was not very excited to try my hand at it. Done well, it can call to account those in power in creative and entertaining ways that straightforward writing cannot. And while it’s near impossible to pierce the bubble of insanity that surrounds today’s worst offenders, satire can at the very least serve as a therapeutic reprieve: “Thank goodness I’m not alone with how crazy this makes me feel!”

My story today was birthed once again from an NYC Midnight competition. This time it was for the Flash Fiction challenge, designed to force writers to put 1,000 words to paper in a tight 48 hour time frame. Similar to the Short Story Competition from my previous posts, I was assigned parameters to include in the piece:

• GENRE: Political Satire

• LOCATION: A solar farm

• OBJECT: An air fryer

What started as a major “wtf?” feeling turned into a romp that I had a lot of fun with. Very helpful feedback pushed me to dial up the absurdity during the revision stage because, as first drafted, what previously would have seemed absurd was now just another day in the news.

My only disappointment is that I am not moving on to the second round of this challenge. I’m pleased that this story earned an Honorable Mention in my group, and I hope you have some fun with it!

Stuart knew to expect pushback, but he was prepared. A veteran public servant, he’d learned to set his expectations low, lower them further, then command the facts to make progress happen. He moved with the inevitable force of a glacier, shepherding positive change for this community.

Today’s forum was about a single topic: building a state-of-the-art solar farm on acres of abandoned soybean fields that were under threat of purchase by Big Ag. Or Chinese oligarchs, as some townspeople feared. It was a no-brainer, really: it would create hundreds of “good” jobs in the eyes of this town, and it would lower energy bills for the entire county while feeding into the state’s fragile, overloaded grid.

Polling was favorable and Stuart was happy with how it was developing. Heading into the forum, Stuart still fundamentally believed in democracy and the goodness of people. He was prepared; he knew to be patient and curious and he was ready to engage.

There was a sizable line at the podium when he finished his overview. He opened the floor for comments and the first resident asked: “Who’s going to pay for it?” A murmur of assent passed through the assembly.

“This pays for itself over time,” Stuart answered, “but the up-front funding is from the Clean Energy bill, and Google is investing since they want more energy for their data center.”

“I don’t trust the Federal government, and I don’t trust Google!” the man said forcefully into the microphone. He turned proudly to the crowd, some of whom applauded his rebellion, before returning to his seat.

Stuart calmly reminded everyone that the funding was detailed online and that they should think in investment terms, not as a one-time cost. That seemed to appease folks as an older woman stepped up to speak.

“I don’t want illegals coming here to steal our jobs and get free healthcare.”

“Ma’am,” Stuart replied, “construction will require legal, authorized workers. Many positions will be filled locally.”

“That’s not what I hear,” she retorted, but did sit down, apparently lacking evidence to further her claim. A few townspeople seemed to harbor similar concerns, but again the crowd settled. So far, these speakers didn’t represent the majority.

The next man walked to the podium with what appeared to be an air fryer in his arms. Now they were bringing props? This was new.

He settled the air fryer on his hip, surveying the crowd. Uh oh, Stuart thought, a showman.

“Friends,” he began, “Americans, my good neighbors, let me paint you a picture.” He stretched each sentence out. “It’s Sunday afternoon. Your friends are over. Cold beer is in your cooler. Brats are cookin’ on your grill. Corn dog nuggets are in your air fryer.” He paused, lifting the device in his arms, and Stuart observed heads nodding and people whispering to each other. “You worked hard all week, and you can’t wait to relax and watch some football. Imagine it: a beautiful day with friends and football–does it get any better?” More murmured assent. 

“It’s perfect. That is, until the first cloud rolls in. You appreciate the brief shade,” he raised his eyebrows and scanned the crowd “but then the sun doesn’t come back out. All of a sudden, your TV is out, your air fryer is dead, and your friends are miserable.” 

He lifted the air fryer up to his chest, giving it a shake to emphasize his point: “Do you really want your whole life to shut down because of some clouds?"

Stuart felt relieved; this argument wouldn’t hold water. Yet…the crowd waited for the man to continue, and he fed off their attention: “Now your friends are hungry, your kids are cryin’; heck, your wife seems to be eyein’ your neighbor who has just started his gas-powered generator.”

This guy is going off the rails, Stuart thought.

“You see, this is the real problem. What sounds like a nice idea: ‘free energy for everyone!’” (he shook the air fryer to match his mocking tone) “is actually just the starting point. Turn that football game back on and what do you see? Helmets the size of beach balls and rules to prevent anyone from touchin’ the quarterback. Do you want your kids to grow up not knowin’ how to take a punch, and not knowin’ how to hit back?”

Stuart was confused. How did this man go from a single cloud at a barbeque to children in fisticuffs? And why was everyone listening so raptly, as if Moses himself were laying down five new commandments?

“Sir–” he started, but the man, with the momentum of a freight train, barreled on.

“We don’t need bureaucrats” (he looked at Stuart with intense disdain) “to tell us how to live our lives. We need a revolution. Brothers and sisters, we need to throw off the manacles of Big Government and take back control of our lives. We have plenty of oil and natural gas right here underground!”

Like a pro wrestler with a championship belt, he held the air fryer above his head.

Oh God, this was unraveling fast. A knot formed in Stuart’s core and he started panicking as townspeople spoke up en masse. “Hell yeah!” rang out boldly, and he was pretty sure he heard someone sneer “Communist!”

“This solar farm would take years to build, but we can get fracking in a few weeks.” 

He let the air fryer fall from its perch. A loud crash rang through the hall, in chorus with cheers erupting from the mob.

Stuart stared, open-mouthed. What just happened? The townspeople were in a fervor. Phones were out, recording the whole scene. He tried to reclaim control, but this forum was over. Air Fryer Guy made his way through the crowd, bumping fists and slapping backs. He turned to Stuart and they locked eyes as he mock-saluted with a smirk. He slung his jacket over his shoulder as he walked out, the natural gas logo on it visible in the folds.

Round 3 of the NYC Midnight Short Story Competition was tough. Tough prompt, tough timeline, tough competition.

I am grateful for the opportunity, proud of my submissions, and not surprised that this story didn’t make the cut. Round 3 had a tight 48 hour turnaround. Unfortunately for me, those 48 hours fell on a weekend trip to visit my friend Jim for the first time in Pasadena. Not a great setup for writing! I had hoped to get my prompt ahead of my flight and work on this story on the plane, but alas, I didn’t get it until after I arrived on Friday in California, and the submission was due at 11:59 PM EST (8:59 PST!) on that Sunday.

I drafted and revised this story with madcap help from my friends while eating at a lovely sushi place in Pasadena in the 8:00 PM hour, furiously cutting to make the word count by the end of the hour and the meal. What remains is a cosmic horror story that is set on the foundation I wanted, but does not have the level of polish and completeness I had hoped for.

Once again, the format for this competition is that writers are assigned a prompt and a word count (2,000 for this round). My parameters were:

• GENRE: Horror 😱

• SUBJECT: Change of seasons

• CHARACTER: A school nurse

I’m not a big consumer of Horror in books or film, but my favorite Horror stories are the ones that feature major Good vs. Evil cosmically weird clashes that Stephen King has (sometimes) perfected. What follows is my attempt to portray that sort of present-day battle where a young woman is preyed upon because she argues for a rich, contextual view of history. One that is too often dismissed by those who won’t tolerate complexity or contradiction.

Content warning: Though not sexual in nature, an older man preys on a young woman.

“Her story doesn’t end there.” Vi didn’t bother raising her hand. She knew the teacher would ignore it. He didn’t want to engage with the material or with the students. All he cared about was joking with the football players and figuring out how to jump to coaching at the college level.

“That’s where the chapter ends, Violet, so that’s where we stop.”

Vi’s chest burned, enflamed by this way of thinking. “But she did so much more with the rest of her life! Helen Keller gets reduced to a caricature when she should be celebrated for fighting for the rights for women and people with disabilities!”

She knew Mr. Huberman didn’t care, but she wanted her classmates to know. Why couldn’t people handle anything more complex than a sanitized, black and white version of a person? Yes, Helen Keller should be remembered for her early work to help blind people communicate and also revered for her involvement in the founding of the ACLU and the Socialist Party of America.

“Can I just say—“

Mr. Huberman cut her off, staring at her through the top of his glasses. “Not today, Violet.”

Vi’s insides churned while he droned on about busy work. She kept meeting these walls of resistance everywhere she turned. Her teachers didn’t want to be challenged, her parents were too busy to listen, and her friends were too preoccupied with pop culture and high school drama.

Between classes, she decided to stop in the nurse’s office. Mr. Keri was always so kind and present. Every time she visited his office with an anxious stomach, she came away feeling reset and, in a profound way, seen. 

The waiting room was empty, the only sound coming from the slow and steady ticks of a decades old clock on the wall. Vi dropped her backpack in a chair that had a tear in the fabric and sat down in the good one next to it, her phone out of her bag before she made contact with the seat. The school had tried blocking social media sites, but everyone knew how to get around it.

“Oh, hello Vi!” Mr. Keri said, appearing from the connected room. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She regaled him with the recent events in History class. 

“A lot of people get uncomfortable with any sort of complication,” he told her. “It’s so much easier to have a simple answer.” Vi screwed up her lips, not liking the statement, but recognizing its truth. “It must be hard trying to make people understand something when they just won’t hear it.”

Vi’s frustration melted away. The knot in her stomach untangled. It was so validating to have someone actually listen to what she was saying. She wished her teachers would be more like him. And though something about his attention felt eager, and slightly unnerving, she ignored that faint feeling.

“It’s not just history. My friends can be so stupid–they let boys treat them in ways they would never treat each other, and they never care when I tell them they need to stick up for themselves.”

Mr. Keri got it. He told her exactly what she wanted to hear. “Vi, you’re tuned into things that so many people aren’t, and that’s almost unfair to you. What should be a gift can be a bit of a curse.” He glanced into the connected examination room. “Hey, come in here a sec, I have something that might be able to help.”

Vi followed him into the adjacent room, tinged green with a sterile, antiseptic smell that permeated the space. She hoped he had a life-changing book to give her, or maybe something she could carry with her as a reminder that people like Mr. Keri existed. She’d find it easier to argue and keep anxiety at bay if she had a talisman from him.

“Are you ready for Spring?” he asked her, rummaging through drawers. He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s been such a long winter. I don’t know about you, but I get so drained.”

He turned with a blood pressure cuff in his hand and closed the door. A flutter of discomfort traveled through Vi’s chest, barely registered. She didn’t even know this room had a door.

There was a privacy curtain used to shield the cot where students could lie down if they felt dizzy or sick. Mr. Keri pulled it aside and motioned for her to sit on the cot. “I’d like to get a blood pressure reading. You’re dealing with a lot.”

He’d never done that before, but Vi obliged. He wrapped it tight around her bare arm. She felt it swell and was hyper aware of the blood coursing through her veins. Each heartbeat felt as loud as the ticking clock she could hear so clearly, despite the closed door.

Her arm started to grow uncomfortable, but Mr. Keri made no move to relieve the pressure. Instead, he returned to his drawer. “Vi, I know this might be uncomfortable, but I want you to know that you’re doing something really important. I need something from you that I can’t exist without.”

He turned around with a needle in his hand. Panic erupted in Vi. “What the hell? What are you doing?”

Was he smiling? All of a sudden, the facade broke, and Vi could see past the veneer of friendliness he had put on this past year. Gone was the supportive caregiver. She was prey, she was captive, and she was unmoored.

“I’ve been so tired!” He wasn’t exactly speaking to her directly—he was letting all his guards down, and Vi could feel a wrongness oozing from him. It was as if the physical space he took up became a multi-dimensional nexus of realms. Vi had never considered herself a spiritual person, but here she was suddenly confronted with a malevolence she could only describe as Evil.

Vi slid off the cot and pulled on the edge of the blood pressure cuff. It didn’t budge. She yanked harder, then tried to wriggle out, but it was too tight, and she found herself tethered to an unnaturally strong anchor. “HELP!” she screamed, hoping to draw anyone into the room.

He ignored her, and as if savoring a meal about to be served from a favorite restaurant, advanced on her.. “It’s been such a long winter,” he repeated. “Nothing revitalizes me like that burst of energy that arrives with a world reborn in Spring.”

“What are you?!” Vi desperately looked for something to hurt him with. He advanced with the needle. She kicked, swung her free fist, but he was impervious to any physical assault.

“You of all people are like a shot of adrenaline, Vi.” She didn’t know what he meant, didn’t care. But at this distance, she was overwhelmed by nausea, her very soul revolting against his presence. He plunged the needle directly into her gut.

Vi’s soul felt the stab. Her senses fractured and she was no longer her body. She was in a maelstrom of energy and emotion. Blinded by the intensity, she focused instead with a sixth sense to shape the chaos around her.

There! Like the pulse of a deep bass, she sensed another being in the storm. Aware of this sensation, she suddenly felt others as they attuned to her. Together they shouted to Vi: He’s done this before, to all of us! He takes willpower from the strong-willed, using it to restore his own energy!

Vi felt exactly what he stole from those that preceded her. She was connected to them. Each had been a young woman, full of insight, rebellion, and raw energy. Mr. Keri had siphoned it away, leaving them in the physical world as mere shells of their former selves. Compliant: less able to fight, to push, to prod, to provoke.

Vi’s will to resist surged. Could she connect with this power? Her time was short. She knew what future lay ahead if she couldn’t break this cycle and sever this connection between her and Mr. Keri.

She felt her own willpower draining and focused on her connection to the others. They infused her and she built up a primal, soundless scream to wordlessly thunder “NO.”

Beast Keri turned to her, salivating at this new swell of energy. It was growing at a scale he had never seen focused on one place.

With a soundless explosion, Vi unleashed her communal order to Stop. The vortex shifted. A corona of energy expanded at light speed, freezing all that Vi could perceive.

Silence.

Stillness.

Relief.

Vi was back in her body, drained, but not permanently. With a shock she realized her sight was gone. She knew it wouldn’t return–it had been the price to escape with her soul intact. She had her voice, her soul, and her will, and that would have to be enough, like it had been for Helen Keller. Evil would not be banished by one young woman alone.

My journey with the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge continues! I’ve been looking forward to posting this story because of how my wife (Jen) reacted when she first read it. I don’t like to be in the same room when she reviews my writing because I feel exceptionally vulnerable and it seems like it would put pressure on her to respond positively. However, I felt more proud of this story than I did with my 1st round submission, and that made it all the more validating when she burst into the kitchen to share her thoughts afterwards. (She liked it! A lot! 🤗)

With this story in hand, I now had higher expectations and hopes for the 2nd round. The competition only grows stronger, but nobody in my group posted their story after the submission deadline, so I had no idea what I was up against. (There is a members-only forum where writers share and discuss their stories while waiting for results from the judges.) Fast forward two months and I found further validation from the judges: I placed 2nd in my group and earned another step forward in the competition.

The format for this competition is that writers are assigned a prompt and a word count (2,000 for this round). My parameters this time were:

• GENRE: Ghost Story

• SUBJECT: Checkmate

• CHARACTER: A tattletale

The contest runners send you your assignment at 11:59 PM EST and then you have some amount of time (48 hours for this round) to submit. I went to bed that night mulling over some ideas that included a haunted library, but switched it up the next morning to focus on a “tattletale” character who was cursed in a peculiar way to atone for his past sins.

Stay tuned for my Round 3 story in August!

Krasnodar, Russia, 1971

It is particularly unsettling when a gorgeous day is ravaged by tragedy.

The grass in the park was a verdant green, the sun providing a warm glow. It was a Monday in June and a thinner-than-usual crowd was making its way to offices and shops. A cluster of men, some casually chatting, some intensely focused, were seated at tables with chess boards arrayed in various states of play. A few spectators half watched the games while having coffee and pastries. 

One table at the edge felt further away than its mere physical distance conveyed. Had one been paying close attention, they’d notice how the sounds of the park grew cloudy and muted near the table. They’d see an older man, maybe in his 50s, dressed unseasonably warmly. They’d watch in puzzlement as he moved a bishop into a position that sealed his opponent’s fate. Not about the move itself, but about the weight of the man’s stare, and the exceptionally loud THUNK the bishop made as he placed it on the wooden board.

No “checkmate” was needed; the younger opponent knew he’d been bested. Yet, why did the older man look so forlorn?

Before the younger man stood up, an explosion thundered from outside the park gates. A cloud of fire and smoke rose above the hedges. Shouts of alarm were raised as the most level-headed people in the area ran to a bus that lay in wreckage. Survivors clambered out of doors miraculously thrown open by the driver.

The younger man recovered from his shock and ran toward the bus to see if he could help. The table behind him was empty, the victor of the match nowhere in sight.

2013

Mitya loved to be early. He didn’t want to show up early, but leaving early let him travel in an unhurried manner. He took the long way to his dinner date with Ivan, strolling through a park that allowed for people-watching. It was a perfect fall afternoon; a little cloudy, but things had been going really well with Ivan, and the brisk air and leaves starting to change made him feel like he was in a movie.

He passed a group of mostly older men playing chess. A stiff breeze turned his head, and when he looked back, he noticed an open seat at the last table. Feeling rich on time and bullish about the night ahead, he decided to play a quick game. He had always romanticized the idea of chess in the park.

“Hi, um, are you looking for an opponent?” he asked.

The man at the table looked to be about his father’s age. Dressed in an aged brown coat, he sized Mitya up before gesturing at the chair. Undeterred by this gruff manner, Mitya said “thanks” as he sat. His dad had a similar demeanor. These older Soviets were thrifty with words and smiles, but he knew how to accept it.

Playing white, Mitya said, “I don’t play much, so I hope I’m not wasting your time.” The man pursed his lips, nodding as Mitya reached for a pawn. His fingers touched the wood and he felt a stab of cold that made him pull back as if touching a hot stove. He made a face and rubbed his hands together before moving the pawn, figuring the strange cold must be from the wind.

“I’ve seen you guys playing here. It always looked fun.” 

The man breathed deeply, made his move, and replied, “The game must be played.”

A little unnerved and unsure how to respond, Mitya tried to converse as they progressed to the middle game. “My name is Mitya. My dad and I played when I was younger. Not so much now—he’s still in Ukraine, in Luhansk.” Bishops came out, kings were castled, and the game continued. “I’d beat him sometimes, but I could never tell if he made a mistake or if he was letting me win.”

“I will give you advice, Mitya. Mistakes in chess can be costly, but do not make costly mistakes in life. You may never stop paying for them.”

Mitya nodded, detecting that this man was speaking from experience that he was unwilling to share. He pressed gently, asking his name.

“Viktor.”

“Nice to meet you, Viktor.” Mitya continued to play somewhat recklessly. He lost a knight, then found himself down a few pieces. He learned that Viktor had grown up in the area.

Viktor moved his queen and Mitya knew right away. Checkmate. “Ah, good move. I completely missed it.”

“You played well. I am sorry.”

“No need to apologize!” Mitya said, standing up. “Thanks for the game. I should be going, but this was nice.” He started to walk away.

Why are his eyes so sad? Mitya thought. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting Ivan, but was surprised to see his parents’ number instead.

“Hi Mom, how are you?” (His dad never called.)

“Mitya.” It was his father’s voice, coarse and quiet.

“Oh, hey Dad. Everything okay?”

There was an unnerving silence. “Mitya…your mother…” He cleared his throat, and Mitya’s stomach sank. 

“Dad…” 

“We just returned from the doctor.” Another pause. “Your mother has been diagnosed with cancer. Pancreatic.”

Mitya’s world spun and he looked for a place to sit down. He turned to the chair he just left, but all the tables were surprisingly far away. Viktor was nowhere to be seen.

2017

Mitya loved the cherry blossoms in this park. They lined the footpaths and encircled the cluster of tables where regulars played chess.

Ivan, now his husband, was due to meet him here later. Mitya still admired the regulars and would sit for a game every so often. This evening, the only open chair was at the edge where a lone man waited for an opponent.

Mitya approached the table. “Excuse me,” he started, before recognizing Viktor. It wasn’t that he remembered his unchanged appearance four years later, but more that he felt a weight press on him and a dimming of sound and light. “Oh…Viktor, right? My name is Mitya. We played here years ago, I think.”

“Hello, Mitya,” Viktor replied, as if expecting him.

Mitya once again moved first. Like before, the pieces felt exceptionally cold to the touch, in stark contrast with the fine April evening. Mitya opened with the Queen’s Gambit, something he’d practiced against Ivan. The game progressed with neither player gaining an advantage.

Viktor complimented him: “You play better. More thoughtful, more strategic.”

“God, the last time we played…” Mitya was remembering the call from his father, the visits to his hometown, taking his mother to chemo, not being there as often as he’d wanted...

He didn’t say it out loud, yet he wasn’t surprised when Viktor broke the silence.

“You cannot blame yourself for things outside your control.”

“I don’t know,” Mitya replied. “With Ivan and my job here, I couldn’t just move back to help my dad take care of her.”

“Mitya…..I understand regret.” Mitya didn’t say anything, allowing Viktor to continue at his own pace. “When I was younger, I was swept up in Soviet pride and certain ideals about how I thought the world should work.” His sentences were spaced out, sometimes with a few moves played between them. “My neighbors…they loved the West. They did not like the way our country was being run.” Pawn to c3. “I tried at first to convince them that I was right, that they should not think the way they did.” Knight takes Mitya’s bishop at e3. They would not listen. I would not listen. I felt like it was my duty to…report them.”

Mitya’s heart broke as he watched Viktor shrink, as if hiding.

“One day, a new couple just…took their place. They were gone, erased in one night and patched over with comrades faithful to the cause.”

Checkmate.

“Viktor…” Mitya didn’t know how to respond. “I’m…so…sorry.”

Viktor met his eyes, then looked away. “Me too, Mitya. For all of it.”

Mitya departed, thanking Viktor for the game and clumsily wishing him well. He was unsettled when he found Ivan, but he could see Ivan was even more rattled.

“Ivan, are you okay?” He put his hand on Ivan’s shoulder as Ivan held out his phone. On the screen was a headline about a “gay purge” in Chechnya. Mitya and Ivan had close friends in Grozny, the capital.

“Alexey just called,” Ivan started. “He said Kolya never came home last night. Mitya, what do you think? What are we going to do?”

Mitya couldn’t offer any words of comfort, so he wrapped his arms around Ivan. He tried to reassure him, but his insides were churning with a sick fear.

2022

The world was cold. Not frozen over, but in a deep and quiet hibernation state.

Mitya was on his way to work. He had just dropped little Kolya off at daycare. He and Ivan had adopted their son in 2019, and their lives had never been more full. Full of joy, for sure, but full of board books and park trips and sleepless nights and all the demands of parenthood.

Mitya still loved to take the long way whenever he could. He was surprised to see a few men playing chess in the park on this cold February morning. Two players faced each other, their hands in gloves and their lower halves covered in blankets. Beyond he noticed a solo figure with a familiar brown coat.

He nearly left the park to take a more direct route to his office. The wind picked up and he was propelled forward, almost against his will. Was there a supernatural force at work, or was Mitya powerless against the force of curiosity that ensnares people time and again?

He sat right down. “Viktor,” he said in greeting.

“Mitya.” A pause. “I’ve been…waiting for you.”

Mitya started to play. He was wearing gloves, but he still felt an icy stab when he touched the pieces.

“Viktor, I won’t ask how you’re doing, or why you don’t seem to age.” Viktor gave the slightest of nods. “But I have to know–what happens if I win?”

They played a few moves before Viktor spoke. “I don’t know,” he said. “I would like to find out. But I cannot let you win.” He captured a pawn. Unworried, Mitya continued with his strategy.

“Is this your…choice?” Mitya asked. “Why do you show up here, years apart, right before something tragic happens to me?”

A longer pause, more moves made, more pieces captured. Haunted and worn thin, he finally answered, “It is not just you. It is not my choice. It is my…penance.” 

Mitya continued, planning ahead, moving his pieces into positions that would pay off in the end game. Remember the basics, he thought. Don’t make a mistake.

And he didn’t. He played brilliantly, perhaps the best game of his life. He and Viktor traded pieces, shrinking their ranks. They blocked each other’s pawns from advancing and whittled the board down to just a few pieces.

Mitya studied the board. Finding no way forward, he asked, “Can I offer you a draw?”

Silence.

“I accept,” Viktor answered.

They stared at each other. Mitya broke the trance: “What now?”

“You played well,” said Viktor. “Go, Mitya. Your family needs you, and I hope we never meet again.”

Mitya nodded, adjusted his scarf, and left. He was afraid to look back, but curiosity again got the best of him after only a few steps. The tables were far away, and Viktor was nowhere to be seen. The other players continued their game as if nothing had happened.

Mitya got out his phone to text Ivan. He saw an alert. Something inconceivable had happened: Russia had invaded the Luhansk region of Ukraine. The city where his father still lived. Where his sister was raising her own family. Where most of his childhood friends remained.

“No…” he whispered. “Viktor…we played to a draw…”

I am so eager to wrap up work and get through the evening’s activities so I can curl up with a book. My pre-order arrived on my porch this afternoon and I’ve been looking forward to it for a long time: Anji Kills a King by Evan Leikam. Let me rewind a bit…

BookTok

I joined TikTok in December of 2021 when I came down with COVID for the first time. After I slept, lost my sense of smell, organized my quarantine space, and regained my sense of smell, I found TikTok to be a pretty delightful way of passing some time. I had heard of #booktok and as both an avid reader and secretly aspiring writer, I was excited when Sci Fi and Fantasy reviews and recommendations appeared in my feed. (Shoutout to the first BookReviewsKill TikTok I fav’d!)

Evan’s account (BookReviewsKill) became a mainstay in my feed, and then in my podcast queue. His podcast by the same name became a must-listen when he and his cohost started a read-through-discussion of Steven King’s Dark Tower series, which was a favorite if mine stretching back to the early 2000s. With gunslingers, sentient (insane) trains, and settings that ranged from post-apocalyptic cities to antiquated Western-style fantasy towns, what’s not to like?

The Creative Journey

What drew me in the most, though, was hearing Evan hint at and then share in detail his big creative pursuit: becoming an author. I love hearing about people’s creative process, especially when they demystify it and pull away the “magic” that so many fans assume must be gifted to artists. I don’t mean to demean the real magic of art, but I’ve heard from enough artists by now to know that it’s intentional effort, not some divine gift, that brings creation to the page or canvas.

Evan’s shared experience was a fresh window into this world, and it felt authentic and inspirational. Writing is hard. I have no idea just how hard it is to write anything longer than a few thousand words, but it takes work, and grit, and luck. Evan would dole out updates on the podcast or in social media posts, at times with details and at times of hints of exciting things brewing. He interviewed other authors, dissected the craft, and ultimately shared the story of how he turned an idea into a draft, then into a revision, then into a contract with an agent, then into a book deal, then into further revisions, and finally into the book now sitting next to my computer.

Understanding Community

The real magic of art is the experience, and the community around it. Which brings me to my point of this quick post: you feel a unique kind of gratification when you cultivate excitement for someone else’s achievement. Parents often get to feel this for their children, but we have so many opportunities to do it for each other. It should be easy, but we let so many things get in the way. Like art itself, it takes intentional effort to get outside your own head and really pull for someone else.

I don’t know Evan. We’ve never even interacted on social media or the Discord server he runs for the BookReviewsKill community. But it’s so fun to see his hard work pay off and to see someone achieve a dream. I’m truly thrilled to hold this book in my hands after hearing about it for so long, and I can’t wait to step into its world tonight.

I do know other aspiring writers and creators who are putting in the hours to chase their own dreams, and I absolutely cannot wait to write this type of post for them.

I love how writing helps me think. I love to read and I care for it as a beautiful habit, but my writing has long been constrained to work initiatives and Facebook posts. I’m happy to be cultivating a writing habit with a hefty nudge by my friend and brother-from-another-mother, Ray Danner.

So far

Ray has been cultivating his own career as a writer, and he encouraged me this past winter to join a short story competition run by NYC Midnight. This is a paid competition that guarantees human feedback on your submission, so with a little skin in the game, I was on the hook to write.

I struggled with my prompt but ended up writing a story I was happy with (All the Queen’s Goats, now available here!). The feedback process takes months, and I hadn’t thought much about it, so I was extra pleasantly surprised to learn that I placed first in my group (roughly 25 writers) and was moving on to the second round.

What’s next?

• My submission for Round 2 is in the judges’ hands. I’ll add it here once Round 2 is over and we are given the green light to publish.

• NYC Midnight is running a Flash Fiction Challenge, and I’m in!

• I’m enjoying the short story format more than I ever have and will use this site to host other stories.

• I also find it incredibly useful to use writing to organize my thinking about current events and other topics, so I plan to blog here.

• Lastly, I’ve really enjoyed the supportive community I’ve found in the NYC Midnight Forum and hope to expand on that in other online spaces.

Please consider checking out these faves of mine!

• Two Princes of the Caribbean - This is my favorite short story by Ray. I think I like it more than he does!

• Middle School Track: The Downfall - A timely post from the archives from my niece Hannah, because my youngest son is currently on his middle school track team.

• Last One Out, Turn Out the Lights - How do you write satire in today’s absurdist political climate? Ray takes a stab and creates some laugh-out-loud moments.

The NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge has a simple premise: you are given parameters, a word count, and a deadline. The rest is up to your imagination.

I was half excited, half leery to join this competition at the prodding of my friend Ray. This was my foray into writing for the first time since I was a kid, really, but the format and having paid to join ($57, early bird registration) were enough to spur me to action in late January.

I received my parameters via email at midnight on 1/25/25:

• GENRE: Mystery

• SUBJECT: Couples therapy

• CHARACTER: A hunter

I was disappointed and stumped! I’m a pretty heavy genre reader, with a deep focus on Sci Fi and Fantasy. I didn’t know how to construct a mystery, especially with a 2,500 word limit. I fumbled with some ideas for a few days and then finally sat down to write as the deadline quickly approached. I opted to write something cozy and low stakes and found a mystery for characters I’d enjoy spending time with.

The feedback process takes months, and I hadn’t really expected to move beyond Round 1. Results were sent out at midnight on April 2nd. Scanning for my group, I was extra pleasantly surprised to learn that I placed first in my group (roughly 25 writers) and was moving on to the second round.

It was a bright and pleasant morning when the Constable rapped on the circular door of the Hammerblast hovel. No one answered, but he picked up faint squabbling coming from behind the squat home. He stepped past some recently chewed-down grass, nearly tripping on a rake laid precariously across a worn footpath. The Constable prided himself on his powers of observation, and he wondered how he missed the rake. The more interesting question is how he missed the recently chewed-down grass.

“Just grab the dang thing and put it back!” he heard an old woman shout, exasperated. He couldn’t make out the grumbled reply, but he thought it included the phrases “stop bossing me around” and “like you could do it.” He rounded a curved wall to see a short, rotund old man stooped at an angle that seemed to defy the law of gravity as a chicken darted away from him. “Blast!” he said as he straightened up, one hand clutching his lower back. 

The Constable paused as the old woman stepped away to pick up a goatskin bag. She heaved a heavy sigh and then cooed at the bird, dropping bits of feed in a trail leading into a rickety coop. “Here you go, Ruthie…come on back so we can go make our eggs.” The bird made a wide arc around the old man but was happy to peck at the feed and climb the ramp back to her roost. Once inside, the woman shut the door, pinned it closed, and turned to her husband with a look that said, “Do I have to do everything around here?” She noticed the Constable.

“Oh!” she started, with her hand on her chest. “My goodness, you scared me!”

“Hmmm?” the old man said, not yet seeing the Constable. “Why? They never roam far.” He saw the woman, his wife, point and only then noticed the Constable. “Oh, hello, Constable. Good morning to you.” He straightened up to his full height yet somehow seemed to shrink an inch.

“Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Hammerblast. I’m sorry to interrupt,” he glanced at the coop, “but I wonder if I could speak with you about a rather pressing issue we’re concerned with.”

“Oh, no interruption at all, dear!” the woman answered. “Come inside and we’ll fix you some breakfast. Gus and I always love when you pay us a visit. You do us well to stop by from time to time.” The couple smiled at each other and the Constable was surprised at how quickly they seemed to drop their quarrel. 

Yet that smile was also short lived as the man continued, “I hope you’ve eaten already. Mabel’s eggs have been known to pass through a man quicker than the rain passes through Dusty Gulch in the dry season.”

Mabel’s countenance soured but it was the Constable who replied first, “Mr. Hammerblast, please. We’ve talked about this. How do you think Mrs. Hammerblast feels when you say such things?”

The old man opened his mouth, seemingly ready with another quip, but caught himself. “You’re right, Constable,” he said instead. “I do wonder sometimes how Mabel puts up with me.” And to the Constable’s complete shock, he then turned to Mabel and said, “I’m sorry, dear. I shouldn’t say such things, even if they might be true.”

Mabel let that last part pass, content with his apology. And before the Constable could object to her invitation, she passed the men, saying “Right this way, then”, leading them back to the circular door at the front of the house. She opened the door and led them through the modest foyer, adorned with a small table, a goatskin rug, and a set of hooks for cloaks and gloves. The light inside the house was limited by windows with mostly-closed shutters, but the nearly spent fire in the kitchen warmed the room and provided a cozy light. Gus opened the shutters at the far wall of the kitchen while Mabel pulled a clutch of fresh eggs from her apron. “Do sit down, Constable, and tell us what has you making the rounds while I fry up these eggs.”

“I’m afraid it’s quite serious,” the Constable explained. “I’m sure you know how vitally important the Queen’s goats are to the local economy.” Gus and Mabel glanced at each other, then nodded at the Constable. “Her Majesty adores her herd and provides the finest care for them.” The Hammerblasts knew that the economic wellbeing of their kingdom was actually due to an abundance of arable land and veins of important metals in the mountains, but they let the Constable continue.

“Well unfortunately, someone, or something has been hunting the goats and has driven them away! No goats have been seen in the area for weeks! Do you remember when the ground shook, as if the gods themselves were angry that someone was offending the Queen’s honor?” The couple nodded again. “Do you think…” He trailed off, biting his lower lip, nervous to continue. He bowed his head and leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper, “Do you think a dragon could be hunting the goats?”

Gus and Mabel each started to reply. “I suppose anything is possible…” said one, overlapping the other saying, “Stranger things have happened.”

“The situation is dire,” he continued, reasserting control of his emotions. “Her Majesty depends on the bounty of the goats’ milk for cheese served each morning as part of Her breakfast. Our Queen hasn’t had a proper breakfast for weeks, and how can she possibly be expected to rule if she’s malnourished? By the gods, her wrath has been terrible lately. I fear for the fool standing between our Queen and her breakfast cheese.”

“Yes, of course,” said Gus, his mouth turned down in a sympathetic frown.

“And I think we can help,” said Mabel, as she set a plate of eggs in front of the Constable. “Hurry up and eat and then let us take a walk to show you something.”

The Constable never once had anything less than a stellar meal from Mabel and he happily consumed the eggs and toast she had laid in front of him. He washed it all down with a cool glass of milk, and returning his attention to the Hammerblasts, found them bickering at the door.

“You foolish old coot, you don’t need a walking stick.” Mabel rolled her eyes as she tightened the straps on her boots. Goatskin leather, by the look of them. “You never lose your balance,” she was explaining to her husband.

“That’s precisely why I need it.” He raised his finger to emphasize his point, adding, “And, it makes me feel like a wizard.”

Mabel stood up. The day was warm, so she left her cloak on its hook, but she did pull two leather leads off the hooks and stuffed them into the pocket of her apron where the eggs had been. She narrowed her eyes as she took Gus in. “You are the furthest thing from a wizard I have ever seen. You don’t even have a beard! And gods help us if you had any magic ability. I doubt you’d still have all your fingers.”

The observant Constable didn’t pay attention to what they packed, but he felt compelled to comment on what they were saying. “Mrs. Hammerblast,” he started, carefully, “is your dear husband hurting you or anyone else by bringing his staff?” She frowned. “Maybe you can just let him take such small joys when they come?”

She inhaled and turned for the door, then paused and turned to Gus. “He’s right. I’m sorry. Lead the way, Gustavo the Gray.”

The trio could not have picked a better day for a walk. The Hammerblasts lived at the start of the foothills of the mountains, where the land piled upon itself and turned from rolling fields into craggy outcrops of rock. The “road” here was a well-worn path into town used by the sparse residents to pull their wagons filled with produce down to the market when it passed through town. After a short while, Gus led them off the road and through an untended field of wheat and wildflowers.

After a quiet few minutes, Gus began, “Constable, I wonder if you might be willing to give us some advice.” He glanced at Mabel, as if looking for her approval to proceed. She didn’t seem to notice, but he took her silence as agreement and continued. “You see, you always give wise counsel and we’re right grateful for it, that we are.”

The Constable was rather fond of the Hammerblasts and told Gus to continue. Though he had no idea where this was going or how he could help, he’d be happy to try.

“It’s been a number of years since our daughter left to move in with George, the miller’s son.” The Constable knew of their marriage and two–no, three–children at this point, but he patiently let Gus explain. “Mabel and I…well, we’re a little bored. A little stir-crazy.” He looked at Mabel. They took a few more steps, then she picked up the thread from her husband:

“Ah, it’s hard to explain. We have a good life. We see Hannah and the grandkids often, we love our humble home, but sometimes it just feels like the same quiet, unassuming day plays over and over and…” She sighed.

“I think I understand,” said the Constable, looking for the words to both probe and support them. “Tell me, when are you most happy? If that’s the right word to use.”

They thought for a minute as they reached the bottom of the hill. Here there was a narrow, slow creek. Gus probed the depths with his staff, then stepped onto a flat rock that lay just under the surface of the water. He held his hand out to Mabel, who followed him across the creek. The Constable came after and they started to pick their way across ground that now had more stones and rocks than before.

It was Gus who answered. “We’re right happy all the time, right Mabel?” She nodded. “It’s more that…we’ve kind of accomplished all our goals, so we’re looking for ways we can have some fun and, I don’t know…” He stared ahead, while Mabel walked beside him. She glanced up and he finished his thought: “...maybe recapture some of our youth.”

The Constable considered for a few steps, then replied, “It seems to me a natural and beautiful thing that you would find such peace at this point in your life, but also miss the thrills of spontaneity, youthful passion, and overcoming obstacles you faced in building a life together.” He took a few more steps. “Let me ask it this way: have you found any ways to add some zest to your days?”

Here, a spark kindled in Mabel’s eyes. “Oh, yes, that’s exactly it, Constable. We’ve been a bit busier lately, and it’s been a hoot!” She laughed and Gus’s eyes went wide, but then a laugh erupted from his mouth, too.

“Okay, what we’re really wondering,” Gus stammered as he regained his composure, “is if you think it’s okay or not if we…engage in some mischief now and then. Nothing dangerous or mean-spirited,” he said, as if expecting the Constable to object, “but maybe not what you’d call proper behavior from a humble, old couple who are good, upstanding citizens in their village. And love their Queen!” he added, knowing how important that last detail would be to the Constable.

“I don’t think I have much counsel to offer, really. If you have a happy and peaceful life, and also have fun without hurting yourselves or others, then, I’m happy for you. I think I understand your mischief well.”

The Hammerblasts stiffened but continued walking. They were climbing the rocky terrain at a decent slope at this point.

“As long as law and order is upheld, and as long as there is cheese on the table every morning for our Queen, then any good natured mischief for the benefit of an honorable relationship is acceptable in my book.”

By now the group had reached a natural fence between the foothills and the mountains. A steep cliff rose up, blocking a pass between two much larger hills. Mabel pointed along the face of the cliff to a spot nearby where a section of the rock wall had tumbled down, leaving a pile of rubble that would be easy for any sure-footed animals to navigate.

“Dear Constable, do you see where the cliff has broken open, making a passageway into the hills?”

The Constable nodded, not yet understanding what she was trying to show him. She beckoned him to follow her. “Come on, let us get closer.”

The rocks were big enough to be pretty stable, but small enough to climb over or around. The Constable cautioned the Hammerblasts to stay back, but they picked their way up the slope, holding hands and using Gus’s staff for support.

As they were just about to reach the breach itself, the Constable paused. He cocked his head, and his eyes lit up. “Wait!” He looked around as if straining to hear what the Hammerblasts already knew to expect. “Is it–” he scrambled ahead, then stopped when he could confirm what he thought he had heard. “It’s the goats! Mr. and Mrs. Hammerblast, can you hear them? The whole herd must be through there!”

Gus and Mabel beamed back at him. How they enjoyed seeing his face light up with excitement. He was a good Constable, and a good friend, and they were happy to be able to help him.

“But wait,” he grew alarmed and looked to the sky. What if there was a dragon around? He half expected to see a shadow above him and feared being swept up by some massive talons.

Gus explained, “Ah, my dear Constable, ‘twas not a dragon hunting the Queen’s goats! This wall came down naturally, not from some fell beast. That rumble you felt a few weeks ago was a shudder from the earth herself, and this breach was the result. The goats who were so happy to roam the fields below are even more happy to explore beyond this wall! I’m sure the Queen will be thrilled to know that her Herd is safe!”

The sun had passed its zenith, but a lovely afternoon was still ahead, so the Hammerblasts were happy to send the Constable off to the castle to share the good news. Besides, they had work to do. Gus fished a handful of carrots out of his pocket, handing one to Mabel as she handed him one of the leads from her apron. Soon after they picked their way down the rocky hillside with two goats in tow, relishing the silly excitement of stealing the Queen’s goats from right under the nose of the Constable.