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Short Story Competition 2: Second Round is Open for Voting

By Maeve

The competition is starting to warm up. On the first round the winner beat the runner up by just one vote! Below you will find the eight stories that are competing on the second round.

Remember that the winner of each round will be presented on the Grand Finale at the end of the competition, and that is where the overall winner will emerge from.

The poll remains open until the midnight of next Sunday.

1. A Day in My Life by Mohammad Iqbal

Another day is anxious to drop from the bowl of my life; breathing, rushing, panting, incessantly steering days and nights; with all the meaningless, useless and endless fatigues adorned in my eyes, and the layers of all the dusts of uncertain distances on my shoulder I got up.

I was once again ready to begin the travel of life. Because of the power load shedding half of the night lapsed in opened eyes. Incomplete sleep in my eyes, and feeling dizzy, any way I had to go to work and in prior, get to have work done on some files, which I was bringing home with the intention to see them in complete peace. I just have to start working on a file, I remembered that I have to deliver a lecture to the students of a college in a seminar to be held in the evening, but I had not done any preparation for that. So I put the file away and try to collect some points for the lecture in to my mind but it was all blurred. I found nothing.

The clock struck 7.30 am, and I started getting ready for the office. I again remembered that I have to attend a meeting with the marketing staff. On way to office I found myself stuck in traffic jam. So I joined the meeting late. I was intimated by my secretary that I have to deliver a speech in a seminar so I went to attend the seminar. During the meeting I received a telephonic reminder from my wife that I have an appointment with the telephone department in respect of heavy excessive phone bill. I phoned my assistant to go there on my behalf. When I returned from the seminar I was informed that one of my colleagues has died and I have to go to his funeral at about 2 pm. Intercom rang, my boss has called me. I went to his room and discussed some important matters.

Having finished with the boss I left for the funeral. There I received another reminding phone call from my wife that I have promised the kids to take them to their uncle’s home in children’s party. On way from the funeral to the office I was again stuck up in the traffic jam due to some procession. My cell phone rang. One of the friends was on the line he was calling me to join a corner meeting with some friends to get line of action against the management’s decision of retrenchment of the employees. So I went there. During the discussion my wife once again phoned me not to forget children’s party. I pleaded her to take the children and excused for my absence. She understood, and agreed, but I felt the anger even on the phone though she didn’t say a single word. My cell phone again rang, now it was a TV channel producer and asking for my few seconds on the new book on “humanity” launched recently. I apologized for my inability of immediate availability for recording my views. The corner meeting ended by 12 midnight.

Returning to home I remembered that I had to buy some grocery for the home but I forgot. I also forgot that I have to bring the kids from their uncle’s house. I remembered it when I saw the wide open eyes of my wife when she opened the door for me. I phoned my brother to drop the kids at home, which he accepted with a loud laugh. When I fell on the bed I remembered I promised to write an article for a magazine. I took the pen and paper and tried to write but the headache made me put back the pen. I laid down again on the bed and tried to sleep, when I heard from inside me some one asking me whether I had any good deed in my account of the day, I tried to recall all the events but there was nothing except that I happened to attend the funeral of one of my colleagues. I felt myself like an empty deep dark well where there is nothing, not even a sound. I threw a look at the files on the tables and turn off the light.

2. Windows by Shannon Bloomquist

Although no one was speaking, the car was not entirely silent.  The heating vents rattled as the air moved through them, something in the glove box rolled back and forth each time the car stopped and started, and the sound of the tires on the pavement droned in John?s ears.  John had never noticed these sounds before, though he had ridden in this car many times before.  He wondered if they had always been there in the background, escaping his attention. 

His brother-in-law Charlie sat in the driver’s seat. The street lamps cast wan light across his knuckles as his large hands grasped the steering wheel.  Condensation had formed on the car windows.  John rubbed away some of the moisture on the glass and peered out through the liquid streaks his fingers had left behind.  The scenery told him that they were only a few minutes away now, and a wild thought entered his mind.
He could open the door as the car slowed for the next turn.  He could jump out?he could escape.  It would be easy to run to Kyle?s house.  It wasn?t far.  Kyle would loan him some cash. He could hitchhike north to Canada, lay low, work odd jobs to make a little money, and live off the land. He would never have to come back.  He could avoid everything.    

The car slowed to a stop.  Charlie engaged the left-hand turn signal, which clicked rhythmically.  John did not jump out of the car and run away.  He wasn?t brave enough to do it, he realized, and besides, it was a crazy idea anyhow.  People make mistakes, he told himself.  People can overcome them.  At least, that was what Charlie had told him when they left the courtroom a few hours ago. 

John felt glad that Charlie had been there for the sentencing.  Of everyone in his family, he alone understood what John was going through.  Charlie had a criminal record.  As a teenager, he had been arrested several times for possession of marijuana and drug paraphernalia.   But Charlie had stopped at possession. He never got behind the wheel while under the influence.  John remembered with sickening clarity how he had almost run his car into a ditch while trying to pull over, how he had been unable to jump on one foot for the cops, and how quickly they had found the bag of weed he had shoved under the passenger seat.  He knew he could have killed someone, and while he hated the cops for pulling him over, he also didn?t like to think about what might have happened if they hadn?t. 

Charlie gave John a wry sidelong smile and turned the car into the parking lot.  John wished with all his might that he could be 23 years old like Charlie.  At 23, all of this would be behind him.  He longed to skip the next three years–to move to a time in his life when age 19 was only a faded memory of mistakes he had corrected and wrongs he had made right.  He dreaded the many amends he had to make.  Charlie?s voice tore John from his thoughts.

?It?s really only 22 days, John.  You?ll be out at midnight on January 10.  Gina and I will be here to pick you up, and we?ll take you out to eat anywhere you like.  Trust me, the food in there is horrible.  You?ll be ready for a good meal.? 

John cleared the window again with his coat sleeve and peered out, knowing what he would see.  His stomach turned as they approached the rectangular jail, with its pale bricks and skinny windows placed at even intervals.  John felt like crying for the first time in a long time.   Gina?s decision to stay behind had disappointed him at first, but now he saw the wisdom of her choice. His big sister?s tearful goodbye would have upset him even more.

?You went to jail, and you survived,? he said. He had meant to phrase this as a question to Charlie, but instead he stated it like a fact. The tone of his own voice sounded more solid and controlled than he had expected.

?Yeah.  You will too.?  Charlie twisted in his seat so that he was facing John.  ?It really is an opportunity, John.  You have a lot to think about.  All there is to do in there is think.   It?s really difficult, but it?s also the best thing for you.  It was the best thing for me.  I didn?t think it would be, but it was.? 

John sat for a few minutes without speaking.  Three weeks seemed like an eternity.  Smoking marijuana was the only way he knew how to cope with his thoughts, and now he would have 22 days of honest, undiluted reflection.  This new thought terrified him, but he pushed his fear below the surface and reached for the door handle.  Charlie smiled.  ?Okay.  I guess this is goodbye for now.  Gina will see you at visitation each week, and I?ll see you in 22 days.?    

John reached out to shake Charlie?s hand, but in return he received an awkward hug, the cup holders between the seats pressing against his rib cage. ?See you soon,? he said, pulling away.  He stepped out of the car and shut the door behind him.  He waved goodbye to Charlie, but the condensation blocked his view of the car?s interior. 

John watched the car?s tail lights fade into the night.  After a few moments, he turned toward the glass doors leading into the jail.  They were free from condensation, and he could see clearly inside.  It looked like the office at his old high school where he used to sign in and out for doctor?s appointments.  He smiled, surprising himself.  School and jail never did seem much different to him.  It was time to find out for certain if this was true.  He took a deep breath and walked inside.

3. Three Stories of Me and ?Anna Bell Lee? by Nicholas A. Travis-Beck

Silent dreams of black and white fall from the heavens to my head. The people around me are probably long gone by now, and as I open my eyes, the gray lifeless dust swirls around making my jacket billow out behind me. This is my dreamscape. I see only what I feel and hear only the unseen wind shriek above my head. I stand tall and erect watching the ashes of life stumble around and turn and twist every which way, unable to decide their direction. I did not intend for my life to end like this. The girl I found left me behind, in the room I had just recently burned, at the age of seventeen.

I sat in the arm chair, wearing a very expensive looking black suit. I sat there, poised like a viper, ready to strike at the black and white keys. The girl behind me, only sixteen years old, waited in the doorway. I beckoned her over, and she sat in the only other chair in the room; it was a good five meters from the piano and me on the east side of the room. The floor was like a chessboard and I was strategically placed in the middle of it all.

Every other tile wasn?t white however; they were all red, red like the shirt underneath my tuxedo. The girl was my first and only love, and she had a different name as compared to what I call her now, my sweet, ?Anna Bell Lee.? I cracked each knuckle apprehensively, and began to play. The room started to twist. I only saw the black and white keys. The music flowed with each finger stroke. I painted with the most beautiful sounds that brought about a fresh aroma and turned the dark room into a beautiful spring field.

As I reached the climax my sweet ?Anna Bell Lee? told me she wished to be excused and would soon return. Alas, she had left me. I continued to play into the long hours of the night, but gradually it became softer and softer. When she didn?t return I played in frenzy, until the sun broke across the horizon. Her departure saddened me, and soon the room and my grand piano were doused in kerosene. The match lit and the room went up in flames.

The carnival that I met her at was on a stormy day, it wasn?t quite as stormy or as lonely as my dreamscape, which I doubt I?ll ever leave. The only thing that seems to have changed in the dreamscape is my piano and armchair in which I am now sitting. Both currently are defying the laws of gravity, floating ever so high above the ground. Back in my memory of the carnival I saw a girl of the utmost beauty. Her hair was black and cut short at her neck; her eyes were bluer than sapphires, and her body was tall and finely proportioned. The only problem I saw with the image was that she was with another man.

This troubled me for a while until, I saw the look of unhappiness on her face. This was the most attractive thing about her; her look of sadness was overwhelmingly beautiful, and I knew right then and there, I wanted to see that face smile. I was one-hundred percent positive that her look of unhappiness meant she was not with the right man. Luckily, I was right. This man was the brute of brutes, the colossal giant, and the king of unhappiness. I did the only thing I could after asking around about him and his relationship with the beautiful adolescent girl. I challenged him to a contest.

The rules were simple, whoever could get the most amount of cheers won and the winner chose the fate of the girl. The giant wasn?t the brightest and gleefully accepted. He called for fire and I called for my piano. He blew out flames that touched the sky, and the crowd let out various oohs and aahs, but when it was my turn they all chuckled. After all, how could a piano be anywhere nearly as exciting and entertaining as fire? I proved them wrong and brought a smile to the girl?s face. The crowd erupted with cheers when I put down my fingers which were not at all weary.

So, now I sit above the ground in my arm chair and poise my fingers, as I did that night. My tune is no longer quite as fast or happy, as it used to be. It is sad and laments for the girl that never ?lived by the sea.? It?s only a sad tune ?for me and my Anna Bell Lee.?

4. Ghost by Terry Harjanto

When Sylvia reached the roof she was relieved to see that the rain had stopped and the skies were now clear. She walked to the chain-link fence that jutted up out of the metre high roof edge. It was lunch time and the other students were milling around the high school grounds. Her eyes scanned the ground far below her. She was four stories up but her eyes didn?t have any trouble singling out a brown-haired teenage boy from a large group of students.

Considering how often she thinks of Josh, it?s no surprise how quickly and easily her eyes picked him out even at this distance.

Sylvia sighed.

?Josh again?? said a disembodied voice carried on a slow breeze.

?Yeah,? Sylvia admitted as she turned and leaned her back against the fence. She pulled a sandwich from her backpack and took a bite out of it.

?Still haven?t talked to him, huh?? the voice said.

Sylvia continued to chew silently, unresponsive. A figure slowly began to materialize in front of her. Seemingly formed out of white, transparent smoke, the image of a teenage boy appeared out of thin air. The ghost wore casual clothing: a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, though the colours of both could not be determined in his misty state. Both his skin and messy, short hair were a foggy white.

Sylvia swallowed. ?I?m gonna give up. I don?t have a chance.?

?There?s always a chance,? the ghost smiled weakly and shrugged.

?Hey Pete,? Sylvia decided to change the subject. She had known him for almost a year, since the middle of her first year of high school. Pete encouraging?subtly or otherwise?her to speak to Josh was a frequent topic of discussion during her lunches atop the roof. ?Is there something keeping you here??

?Huh??

?Isn?t it said that people?s souls stay on earth as ghosts because they still have something to do that they didn?t do when they were still alive??

Pete remained silent for a moment, his misty white eyes focused on Sylvia. ?I don?t think so.?

Sylvia had no friends. She was a quiet, shy, loner in school who kept to herself. If there was anyone she was interested in, she watched from afar and wondered what it would be like to have that person as a friend?a live friend. However, she has Pete and she could tell when he wasn?t telling her everything.

?You?re lying,? Sylvia finished her sandwich and wiped the crumbs from her hands on her long skirt.

It was Pete?s turn to change the subject. He shook his head and stepped up to the fence at the edge of the roof. ?Is it true the school put this fence up because of me??

Sylvia turned around to poke her fingers through the wires of the fence. ?It was installed the week after you jumped.?

A wry smile crossed Pete?s ghostly lips. ?Well, I?m glad my death improved student safety around here,? he muttered sarcastically.

Though Sylvia had known Pete the ghost for the past year, she had never asked him why he killed himself. She was afraid of how sensitive a topic it was but the tone of Pete?s voice hinted that perhaps he didn?t approach the subject seriously himself.

?Why did you jump?? Her gaze drifted downwards to the concrete ground.

?Bad timing,? Pete said nonchalantly as he bent over the edge of the roof to look down. His cloudy, transparent head and shoulders passed through the fence without any resistance. ?I was just in a really bad, scary, lonely place when I found myself up here, lapsing into a state of emotional weakness. My life was just?? his voice broke and started stammering ??messy, I guess? I don?t really know what it was??
Pete glanced sidelong at Sylvia who gripped the fence with both of her hands. Her face was pressed against the cold metal wires, her eyes intensely looking below. Pete followed her gaze and spotted Josh sitting on a bench, eating his lunch.

?Sylvia??? She had a lost expression on her face. Her eyes were wide but focused on Josh below. Pete knew that look well; he had made it more than once himself. He regretted having done nothing but make that look.

He straightened up. ?Sylvia!?

Startled, Sylvia pulled away from the fence suddenly. ?Sorry,? she apologized and blushed but it was Pete who averted his gaze.

?You were right, I did lie.?

Sylvia blinked. ?There?s a reason you?re still here??

Pete nodded. ?I needed to? need to say something.?

?What? To who??
A long moment of silence passed. Pete stood still, his form a slowly billowing cloud of mist.

?I fell in love with you my first day here at this school. I saw you sitting alone in the cafeteria and my mind was suddenly flooded with questions. Who were you? Why were you alone? Were you lonely? Would you always be lonely? Or could I make that loneliness go away??

Sylvia?s eyes widened and her lips parted in shock. ?Pete??

The ghost?s form began to shimmer and waver. His already transparent body began to fade into the increasingly breezy autumn air.

?Pete!?

?I?m sorry?? Pete disappeared, only his sad voice lingered a few moments longer. ?Don?t make the same mistake??

?Pete?!? Sylvia sniffled. She had shut her eyes but tears were still welling in the corners and beginning to slowly stream down her cheeks. ?Pete? You jerk? That?s not fair? That?s not fair??

5. Hidden Away by Jeanette Cheezum

Mid nineteen fifties

The closet door slammed shut. It wouldn?t do any good for little Emily to cry, stomp,

or scream. Grandma would cut a switch and use it when she returned. She wouldn?t do

anything now because Grandma didn?t like to get sweaty. She wanted to make a nice impression when she met the preacher?s wife.

?How long will you be gone this time?? Emily asked through the closet door.

?As long as it takes, now be quiet.? She could hear the key banging metal against metal locking the closet?and?the front door.

Her grandmother grabbed her things and left the house.

Perspiration beaded on Emily’s top lip and she had a sick feeling in her stomach.

Her imaginary friends always waited in the dark closet, and were happy to see her.

Not able to remember when it first started, Emily had become accustomed to this ritual.

She lay on her back and tried to adjust her eyes to the miserable darkness that enveloped the tiny closet.

Impatient, her friends called out to her. “What will we do today?”

A deep breath filled her lungs and escaped over her tongue and out her lips, ?Today my friends, we?re going on a trip to the zoo. You must line up and stay close so you won?t get lost.

It’s only a short ride. We?ll feed the ducks first and then see the monkeys. Take a seat quickly and don?t be noisy.?

* * * *

?Can we get off the bus?? A friend yelled.

?I want to eat the bread, I?m hungry,? another friend asked.

Emily shook her finger side to side, ?No, it?s not allowed. We can?t eat until Grandma

says.?

?Ah, the park is beautiful,? She lied, only to wish she knew what it really looked like.

?Now wasn?t that fun? It’s been a long day, we must go home before it gets too dark.?

?I?m getting thirsty!? someone said.

?Remember . . . , we just have to wait,? Emily said.

* * * *

?What?s that smell?? Emily sniffed the stuffy closet air. Was something burning? ?There?s a fire nearby! Be calm!? She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and held up her tiny hands. ?Don?t worry. We?re safe here. This is our secret hideaway.?

She lined up her Grandma?s shoes. ?Let?s play Anne Frank.? Clomp, clomp, ?Do you hear the soldiers marching? Hide, children, the soldiers are coming.?

She coughed. ?It?s hard to breathe . . . so much smoke.”

?Grandma, where are you?? She whispered.

?We?re getting scared. Hush children. Don?t cry. I?m sure Grandma is nearby.?

She placed her face as close as she could to the large crack under the door, the light had disappeared. There was nothing to see . . . , only smoke filled the room. Emily grabbed a coat from above and quickly tucked it against the bottom of the door.

?Everyone, scream as loud as you can,? she said. ?Even if Grandma switches us, we must get away from the smoke.? She started to cough and reached for a shirt hanging above her head and covered her nose. ?Grandma, please come home. I?ve been good. The smoke–everyone scream.?

* * * *

Someone had banged on Grandma?s front door. When no one answered the woman yelled for someone to call the fire department. Smoke was pouring out the Teagarden?s windows.

Flames reached out to consume the air . . . attacked the curtains, rugs and anything in their path.

Upon arrival, the firemen broke the door down and sprayed the ceiling, walls and the floor. They stopped the fire, but didn?t look for Emily.

She couldn?t call out to them. Her body lay still in the closet.

* * * *

When Grandma returned the woman ran to her.

?Mrs. Teagarden, Thank God, you?re safe and weren?t in the house. We called the fire department and they came right away,? the neighbor said.

?Thank you, for saving my house.? She stepped on her cigarette, so no one would suspect.

?Where is your granddaughter? Is she with friends??

?As a matter of fact she is,? letting the corners of her mouth rise into a smile.

Grandma thanked her, then hurried into the house. She couldn?t let anyone find out her secret. They wouldn?t understand. She opened the closet and reached in. She must have forgotten before she left to put that last cigarette out? But after all, she was in a hurry to meet the preacher?s wife.

Unbeknownst to Grandma the neighbor came in right behind her and saw what she had done.

?Oh, no, didn?t you say she was with friends??

* * * *

Emily’s funeral was held that week, but Grandma didn?t attend. She now spends her time locked in a room, where no one pays any attention when she screams.

She doesn?t have any friends to talk to, and everyone knows her secret.

6. F12 loves E14 TLFE by Joel Butler

1987, and we lived inside a vending machine in a leisure centre changing room.  You were displayed as E14 and I, next to you as F12.  All around us hung chocolate and toffee bars, packets of crisps and corn-based snacks.  A Topic bar to my left (F13), milk chocolate, hazelnut, soft nougat and a smooth caramel centre, and to my right, as I said, was you. 

The machine hummed gently, and was permanently switched on to maintain a suitable temperature.  You used to stare through the glass towards the drinks machine opposite.  It served fizzy drinks in plastic cups; Dr Pepper, 7 Up and of course Pepsi.  You looked out and smiled at the children selecting their drinks after a swim.  Some of them came to our machine to spend the rest of their money on snacks, others would keep their money to play Shinobi. 

Me? I simply looked at you. To your right was a pink and white nougat bar (D11), whose sticky colours framed your face like pop art. Now I see that the nougat being dispensed on that day was an omen. 
It was a Tuesday and a local school had finished their swim as usual. We heard the excited whoops of children. One of them, a fat boy with freckles prodded money into our machine. The nougat fell, and your stunning profile now held the ghastly backdrop of a Twix.

His sausage-like fingers then reached for his pocket, for more money.  What was he looking at?  YOU? He couldn?t be. We?d been hanging there for weeks. Was it now all coming to an end? This boy didn?t need anything else to eat, especially not you. ?TAKE ME! PLEASE, TAKE ME.?  But he didn?t take me, did he? He typed E14 into the keypad, I heard the 3 beeps and then understood terror.

Your vending wheel started to move in an anti clockwise direction. As the front of the black plastic rolled away from you, you rolled forward, towards the drop. I waited for the clatter of you hitting the collection tray?but no sound came. No clatter, no collection tray.  I looked towards E14 and, thank the heavens, you remained with me. Caught on the edge of the dispenser, hanging precariously, you swayed like a movie car on the edge of a movie cliff. But you were still with me .

Might you have been rolled back by Maintenance? Might I have put my hand out to make you feel safe? Might?then the grotesque voice of that child warbled something incomprehensible yet angry. His clenched fist banged at the glass. He stepped back and breathed heavily.  Asthma! Taking his inhaler he sucked two large hits. He still breathed heavily.  It sounds terrible but I wanted him to collapse and die, there and then. But of course he leapt up ? strong as an ox, running at our machine. We began to rock.  I felt sick as I swung, the sound of plastic wrappers filled my ears and I looked towards you. 

You were coming lose, slipping away, and falling. Turning in the air, you still glared at the drinks machine wherever possible. I heard nothing but that freckled hand entering the drawer and then the machine?s eternal hum. I closed my eyes and became just F12.

7. In God We Trust by Lindsey Knapp

“Melissa? Melissa dear?” Bessie bustled over and wrapped her arms around her daughter’s slight shoulders.

Melissa dropped her hands from her face and lifted haunted and tear-stained eyes to meet her mother’s warm and compassionate ones. “Why, Mom? Why?”

“Oh, my dear, don’t cry so.”

“Tell me why.”
“I can’t, Honey. Only God knows. But you can trust Him,” her mom said as she brushed back a stray wisp of her daughter’s sleek black hair.

“I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything anymore.”

“Hush now,” she said gently.

“Why does this have to happen to Dad? He never did anything to deserve this. He always only helped other people.”

“I know, I know,” her mom replied wiping a tear from her daughter’s cheek. “I think Dad would like to know that you came here.” They both were silent for a few minutes as they watched the fountain spurt water into the air.

“If Dad doesn’t live, I don’t want to either. How could I ever face life again without him.” Her sobbing started again.

“There’s still hope, Baby. Don’t give up. It’s too soon to give up. Dad hasn’t given up yet and the doctors say-”

“Don’t tell me what the doctors say,” Melissa snapped. “I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just - Dad is my life. I couldn’t live without him. What would I have done without him? I remember the kindness and love in his eyes when her knelt down on that dirty orphanage floor and hugged me. I was so scared, Mom. But not as scared as I am now. I can’t live without him.”

A silent tear slipped down Bessie’s cheek as a slideshow of memories played through her mind. The long adoption process, the long journey to China Randy had taken to bring home their little girl, birthday parties, camping trips, late night movies, church service every Sunday, and now a hospital bed and cancer. She straightened her shoulders. She must be brave for Melissa. “Maybe you need to remember that God gave you Dad and He’s in control.”

“I don’t know if I can believe that anymore. Why would God do such a thing? Why would he -” she was interrupted by a cell phone ring.

“Excuse me a moment. It’s the hospital. I’ll be right back.”

Melissa sat down on a bench and took a deep breath. She looked at all the shiny pennies placidly sitting at the bottom of the fountain. “Memories,” she said out loud as her mother walked back over to her. “So many memories, Mom. I don’t know how many pennies Dad and I threw in here over the years. He would always say, ‘Make a wish, say a prayer, and throw.’ She reached into her pocket and pulled out two shiny pennies. She closed her eyes, tossed one in, sighed, and said, “Okay, God, I’m going to believe and trust. Please let Dad get well.”

Bessie’s face looked stricken as she watched, “Honey, I don’t know how to tell you this, but that was Dr. Johnson and Dad -”

“No!” Melissa screamed and her eyes grew as wide as they possibly could.

“Yes,” Bessie said calmly. She grabbed Melissa’s arms and stared straight into her eyes - grief looking at grief. “You have to be strong. You have to trust. You have to keep on believing. Dad’s in heaven now. He’s not in pain anymore.”

“But I am,” she sobbed as numbness was replaced by waves of intense pain. Mother and daughter held each other as if they let go they would literally fall to pieces. Straightening up, Melissa looked at the last penny in her hand and through the tears she said, half-choking, “Look, it says ‘In God We Trust’. I feel like it’s Dad’s last wish for me. Smearing mascara as she wiped her eyes to clear her vision she looked up to heaven. “For you, Dad.” And she threw the penny in the fountain.

8. 2 AM and Counting by Katrina Mohr

The car window was crank-powered, not electric, but he preferred it that way. He never warmed up to the idea of being entombed in his car should it refuse to start. He rolled the window down, the silver Zippo hissed as he lit a Marlboro Red. Taking in a deep drag, he watched the smoke rise with his breath in the cold air.

He eyed the entrance from where he sat, aware that it was unwise to just sit, parked in front of the buzzing neon signs that lit the empty liquor store lot. Most of these places, including the dilapidated ones like this, had cameras inside and out. Even a low-quality image would have picked up on his license plate by now, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He just needed the money, he just needed to find TJ, and he just needed to get his shit. He made a deal with himself that he would conserve it this time, make it last longer. Shoot just enough to make everything stop spinning and calm the sloshing in his guts.

The ashtray was full, spilling butts and gray-white powder as he crushed out the cigarette. Leaning across the passenger seat, he popped open the glove box, pulled out a pair of cheap gloves he swiped from a flea market. He removed the tags with one impatient tug and slipped them on. Reaching back in, he made a fist around the handle of the gun; the freezing metal penetrated the gloves. He closed his other hand around the door handle. Casting a quick glance to the entrance again, he stopped dead. A squatty middle-aged woman with a giant green purse toddled into the building. SHIT!

His eyes shot in the direction she seemed to come from and he saw a silver Accord parked not three spaces down. He hadn’t noticed anyone approaching, too absorbed in rehearsing his immediate future on a loop. It’s two o’clock in the goddamned morning! What is that bitch doing?

A balding brown man dressed in a red and yellow uniform popped up from behind the counter when she entered.

This second witness counted as an unnecessary complication. He removed his hand from the car door handle, shifted in his seat.

The view through the window was mostly obscured by cigarette advertisements and a large money-green sign declaring ?ATM INSIDE!?. He could still see the bitch browsing the aisles, taking her time. Her hair was shoulder-length and brown. She wore it parted and held in place with a purple headband. Come on! Hurry up! He watched as she disappeared behind a rack of magazines.

He glanced at his wristwatch. The store would be closing soon, and once it did, he would lose his opportunity for tonight. Bruises along the underside of his arm throbbed impatiently and he felt like he was about to puke again. He needed the cash now. Two minutes, bitch. You got two minutes.

With thirty seconds left in an arrangement she knew nothing about, the fat little woman reappeared with a handle of some kind of whiskey, though not a brand he knew. She pulled a wallet from the giant green purse and began the transaction with the man behind the counter. He watched her refuse the receipt and waited for her to head out the door. He squeezed the handle of his gun; its weight on his thigh oddly comforting.

But she didn’t come out. She was still inside, standing at the counter, leaning on it. Getting comfortable. They were chatting it up in there. He ran a shaky hand through his hair and pulled the ski mask from his jacket pocket. You had your chance… Now I’m gonna have to change your fucking life.

He pulled on the ski mask, exited the car and made a quick dash to the entrance.
The door jingled as he pulled it open, two heads turned his way. Smiles quickly disintegrated and the woman let out a scream.

“HANDS UP!” The gunman demanded.

“Please. I do not want any trouble!” the bald man said in a stilted something-stani accent.

“GET BACK AGAINST THE WALL!” He instructed the woman, pointing the barrel in her direction. She obeyed, whimpering and sobbing, her belly fat jiggling. He turned the gun on the short man.

The gunman moved behind the counter, pressed the cold metal into the back of the little man’s head. He used his other hand to grab a plastic bag from the roll. The tiny man seemed frozen in place, staring into the cash register. “EMPTY THE CASH IN HERE.”

The man didn?t move. Another wave of nausea washed through him, he blinked and shook it off. ?FILL UP THE BAG!? he demanded, driving the gun in harder. Everything was spinning again, he needed go get the fuck out of here and find a fix.

That is when a phone rang from inside the giant green purse. The gunman snapped in the direction of the sound, the gun seemed to fire automatically. A dark red-brown circle started in the center of her chest and rapidly expanded in every direction. The woman?s face filled with incredulous surprise. She collapsed with a heavy thud.

The gunman wretched, his puke splattered, yellowing the counter. The brown man jumped back, repulsed and shocked, considered making a break for the door.

The gunman righted himself, wiped his mouth with the back of one hand. ?MOVE!? He looked into the cash register.

A few lonely twenties and random change waited inside. He spun on the man.

?We? we emptied already for the night?? he stammered.

Weak from withdrawal, exhausted from a lifetime of bad choices, he turned away. The woman was sprawled on the floor; she had landed lifeless and indignant, limbs spread. Her purple headband had slipped out of place and her hair hung loose around her face. A few quiet tears streaked a path down his cheeks.

He turned the gun to his temple and let everything go.

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Copyright by Daily Writing Tips.

Short Story Competition 2: Second Round is Open for Voting

Full post as published by Daily Writing Tips on January 19, 2009 (boomark / email).