Hip Hip Hooray for AI Writing!
First off, I'm a peaceful man. So when I see a post that's obviously written by AI, I take a moment to read it and appreciate the saccharine quality of the writing, like a Hallmark Channel movie that's so fucking inoffensive I want to take a bat to the TV.
Now I'm sorry, I lost my temper and that's not right.
The great thing about AI writing is that it's always so positive—the bad guys always come around at the end to see things with renewed optimism, and the endings are always happy endings. (Not what I mean, pervert!) AI writing is so sweet that I can taste it, like a piñata, brightly colored and filled with candy. A piñata filled with all the things I hate and a sign that says "Beat me to a fucking pulp, you dick!" A piñata that prompts me to pick up my bat and slam it. And when the candy sprays across the ground, to go around and beat every goddamn piece until it's an unrecognizable batter of molecules.
So I guess that sums up how I feel about creative writing that's generated by AI and those creative writers (you know who you are, winky winky) who pass it along as their own. Thank you very much. And have a good day. Make it a great one!
12/1/2024
Dear Brother
Ive known you since you were 6
And i was 7.
I was your first neighbor. You were my first friend.
Having you in my life
is the way it’s always been.
Last Couple of years
Not the same without you here
with me, like it always was,
how i long for that again,
my dear brother.
My long lost friend.
El Amor
I have always been fascinated by F. Scott Fitzgerald - and with his clearly detailed preoccupation of love, clearly demonstrated in his works. Herein lies a fictionalized account of Fitzgerald's possible musings on just such a topic.
*“I'm not sentimental--I'm as romantic as you are. The idea, you know,
is that the sentimental person thinks things will last--the romantic
person has a desperate confidence that they won't.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*
Mariposa was seated at a small, round table in the Café Secretos in Tarragona, Spain, patiently awaiting the arrival of her date. Tarragona, though somewhat small, was a busy city nonetheless due to the bullfights. It was entirely possible Santiago had been delayed by unforeseen events since he was employed by El Arena Tarraco where the bullring was housed. Looking toward the door but not seeing Santiago, Mariposa reassured herself he would arrive very soon. He had promised, after all, tonight would be a new beginning and a very special night. Even though the two had known each other for a year now, previously having met through mutual friends, this evening would be their first date.
Mariposa drank from her glass of Sangria, enjoying its blend of rich, fragrant wines embodied with hints of fruit and aromatic spices. Despite steadily sipping of the wine's essence as she waited, she was unable to quell the butterflies floating about in her stomach. The anticipation to see Santiago only seemed to grow by the minute. She looked forward to whatever an evening spent with him might bring. Love....or el amor....was a splendid feeling.
A bit nervously, Mariposa glanced about the dimly lit room, her attention focusing on the wall to the right. On it hung a beautiful painting of a brave torero or bullfighter. A vibrant, red cape draped the torero’s arm, seeming to sway with motion despite the stillness of the artwork. The artist had accurately captured the bull’s furious eyes as he poised on the precipice of an attack, his horns thrust forward. The painting was so lifelike, a shiver ran down the length of Mariposa’s spine. Quickly, she diverted her eyes, finding refuge in an uninteresting map of Tarragona covering the left wall. She had never much cared for the bullfights despite their popularity and found even such renditions of their brutality revolting.
Drinking from the Sangria, her attention was drawn to two men who sat conversing at another table in the corner. They drank from beautifully etched crystal glasses filled with the Green Fairy or Absinthe. While no law had been passed outlawing the liquor like in Paris, the milky green alcohol was still considered by many to be taboo, its effects strong and unpredictable. One gentleman was handsome, tall, and blonde-haired, while the other was shorter, stockier, had dark hair, and wore a mustache. Whatever the two men discussed, it was obvious to any who observed their conversation was heated. Eventually, the stockier gentleman rose in haste, clearly agitated. His chair thudded as it fell to the floor as he abruptly vacated the café.
A bit surprised by their public disagreement, Mariposa quickly looked away, again hoping to see Santiago coming through the doors. Such was not the case. Curious, she glanced back at the lone remaining gentleman. The man locked eyes with her, gave a charming smile, and shrugged his shoulders. When she somewhat timidly returned his smile, he rose, straightened the overturned chair, and then picked up his drink before leisurely heading her way.
“May I sit for a bit, señorita? I fear my friend has unexpectedly left me all alone, and I find myself in need of companionship,” he flashed a charming smile and not waiting for her answer, he took a seat at her table.
Mariposa was surprised yet again by the man’s boldness but did not wish to rouse a scene. “Sí,” she reluctantly agreed but then quickly added, “Please know, however, my date will arrive very soon, señor.”
“He’s a lucky man - your date, my dear,” the tall, slender man said as he settled himself more comfortably. “By the way, the name's Scott,” he said with a brilliant smile. Mariposa was sure such a handsome face and charming smile had impressed many a woman wherever this man traveled.
“Buenas noches, Scott. My name is Mariposa,” she said, introducing herself.
“So, Mariposa, are you waiting for your sweetheart - tu novio?” he asked. It was obvious from the man’s voice he was American.
“Oh, no – I mean sí!” Mariposa blushed as she answered him with a shy smile. “But this will be our first date, señor.”
Silence reigned for a long moment as the man seated before her returned her gaze, as though studying every nuance or look in her dark eyes. In the background, lovely strains of a Spanish guitar filled the air, enhancing the silence of the moment and the next words the man spoke.
With exerted concentration, the handsome gentleman began, “Ah, but el amor is so very splendid and beautiful when it’s young, is it not, Mariposa? Even still, as time passes, it so often becomes such a damning element that leads our lives.” His glorious smile dimmed. “I should know, you see,” he added as he held, holding up his left hand so she could see the ring, which indicated he was married. He shook his head and pushed loose strands of falling blonde hair back. “At best, you can’t live with love, and you can’t bear to live without it either.” His handsome smile returned, albeit a bit ruefully, with the last declaration.
Mariposa was uncertain how to respond. Who was this American and why did he have such a dismal view of love? El amor or love was a wonderfully captivating emotion. More so, why was this man inclined to share his personal, sad reflection of love with her? It was obvious he’d drunk far too much. Mariposa surmised such was most likely the reason he and his friend had argued. Mayhap it was a subject of love about which they had argued.
“Señor,” she began, but the man immediately held up his hand, interrupting.
“Please, I insist you call me Scott, my dear,” he said, his blue eyes entreating in his supplication.
“Scott,” she said hesitantly. “Perhaps you’ve had a bit too much to drink.” Mariposa looked around the room nervously, as though she were doing something illegal. “Isn’t this drink… this absinthe…era muy mala, sí, Señor” Mariposa whispered as she pointed at the milky, green drink on the table in front of him, indicating the drink was very bad for any who drank of it. She would never dare to drink of the dangerous, green drink.
Scott rose his glass, staring in wonder at the green drink it held. “But my sweet, young señorita, did you not know such intense and glorious pleasures are derived from the depths of the dangerous and the forbidden?”
Mariposa blushed at his words and quickly changed the subject. “Where is your wife tonight, señor…Scott?” she corrected herself.
The man gave another rueful smile. “I fear she finds her glorious pleasures in the forbidden as well, but unfortunately, just not with me,” he sighed. Mariposa felt it embodied an immeasurable depth of regret and unrequited love. Scott continued, “Alas, my wife has scampered off in an unknown direction with her friends in hopes of more exciting times. She grows weary of intense, heated discussions betwixt my friend and I - as you have just witnessed.”
“I see,” Mariposa said, genuinely feeling compassion for this man and his misfortunes in friendship and love.
“But do you, Mariposa? Do you really, really see?” Scott asked, watching her and awaiting an answer.
Not sure how to respond, Mariposa once again steered the conversation in a new direction. “Why are you in Tarragona, Scott? You’re not from here, but do you work here?” she asked.
“Si, Tarragona is a lovely city, its sea so inspiring and relaxing. I am visiting my dearest friend while attempting to write my novel, my dear – at least on good days. On bad days, like today, I drink more than I should and also argue more than I should with my friend." He laughed before taking a drink of absinthe again before continuing. "I suppose one could say that I tend to drink - and argue – all too frequently.”
“Oh! You are a writer! ¡Que interesante! It must be so interesting to be a writer. Por favor…..please tell me what your novel is about.” Mariposa was genuinely interested.
Scott smiled his beautiful smile and nonchalantly leaned back, obviously pleased by her keen interest. “Well, should I tell you, my sweet? It’s a topic we’ve discussed this very night and about which I’ve argued with my best friend. You see, I love writing about love. Do you not find it ironic, considering the poor view of el amor I’ve been painting?”
Mariposa nodded. Indeed, she did find it ironic. How strange such a man – with such a disparaging view of love - would choose to write books about it. Then again, el amor was a wonderful topic, discussed by many scholars and artists throughout the years.
“Please allow me to explain a bit, my pretty Spanish butterfly,” Scott said, his elbow casually propped on the table as he stared intently at Mariposa. “I write about el amor, my dear, because I cannot help but do so. I fear I am a hopeless romantic who refuses to give up on achieving love’s wondrous bounties in my life.” He relaxed in the chair as he drank from his drink again before continuing. “I have a prevailing need to know and understand love, to have it fill me to the depths of my being. I crave love with a passion, with an intense need extending beyond food.” He picked up his nearly empty glass and waved it in the air. “And believe it or not, sweet Mariposa, I crave el amor more than I crave even this foolish poison.”
Scott emptied his remaining drink before adding, “Hope for such things springs eternal, does it not?”
Before Mariposa could respond, however, he rose, declaring it was time for yet another drink before making his way to the bar. She watched as he ordered another glass of absinthe, wondering how much he could actually drink before he succumbed to the heavy drink’s effect. While Scott lingered at the bar, Santiago entered the café, immediately finding and joining Mariposa at her table.
Mariposa rose, sweetly kissing Santiago’s cheek. The smile she gave assured him she was pleased beyond measure to see him.
“I am so sorry I’m late, querida. I was detained at work,” Santiago said.
Mariposa smiled. “No es una problema. It is not a problem - you are here now, and I am so happy to see you, Santiago.”
The two were so focused on each other they failed to see Scott approach the table. Pausing, he interrupted the two, taking a moment to introduce himself to Mariposa’s newly arrived date. In his hand, he held a fresh drink of absinthe.
“I see tu novio – or rather, your amigo or your friend - has arrived,” Scott said, giving Santiago a smile and extending his hand in greeting.
“I fear my companion left unexpectedly, and since I was a bit lonely, señor, I insisted Mariposa keep me company until you arrived. We enjoyed a very interesting conversation on the question of love. I may very well have bored her with my recitations and earnest opinions.” Scott laughed with his words.
Santiago’s brow rose in surprise, but nonplussed, Scott continued. “I shared my secrets with your lovely Mariposa for you see, I am a hopeless romantic. I truly believe el amor will win the day for all. Do you not agree, señor?" But Scott didn't await Santiago's response. "Ah, I can see from the way you look at this delicate and beautiful Spanish butterfly, this may well be true.” Suddenly, Scott gave a gracious bow and with the utmost sincerity, he added, “I pray el amor will triumph in your lives for it is most easy to discern it’s already an eager bud on the precipice of a full and beautiful blossom.”
Just like that, as suddenly as he had appeared at their table, Scott was gone, heading back to his own table. The friend with whom he’d argued earlier had returned and waited for Scott to rejoin him. As Scott neared the table, his friend rose. The two men hugged and laughed as they patted each other's back. Resuming their seats, they began another intense conversation.
Mariposa nervously turned to Santiago. The look on his face was not what she had expected. Instead of anger or even irritation, Santiago watched in her in wide-eyed amazement.
“Santiago, por favor,” she began. “Please. I did not know how to tell him to leave after he sat at my table. He began to talk about such serious things like love, and I found him to be such a sad man, always hoping and searching for love.”
Santiago continued to stare in disbelief. “Mariposa, do you not know who that señor is?” he asked, clearly amazed Mariposa appeared none the wiser.
“No,” she shrugged. “He said his name is Scott, and I know he’s an American, but…...”
“Querida, he is none other than the famous American writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald – and, he’s now sitting with Ernest Hemingway, another famous American writer. The two are well known throughout Tarragona for their carousing ways and heated conversations. They drink nothing but absinthe and champagne all day and night – or so the story goes,” Santiago said as he eyed the two men with open curiosity.
“F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway? No, I do not know who they are, but Scott did say he is a writer.” Mariposa watched the two men seated across the room, a new view of Scott taking root. She needed to buy one of his books just to see how he wrote about el amor. She may be wrong, but she was sure his writing would prove to be encantador - or ever so lovely.
Mariposa glanced at Santiago and with conviction, she said, “Famous American writer or no, I’d much rather be sitting here with you, Santiago. Together we will enjoy beautiful night.”
Santiago picked up Mariposa's hand and kissed it sweetly. “And I would rather be with you, querida. Still,” his brows rose as he added, “not just anyone can say that they met F. Scott Fitzgerald and discussed love on their very first date! Maybe you should write about this famous encounter, Mariposa.”
“No, I don’t think so. I will leave the writing to the two experts,” she said. The couple laughed as they began their first night of many shared nights ahead.
As though borne from a moment of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s most profoundly prophetic words, a lifetime of deep, abiding love and long years together was in the stars for Mariposa and Santiago. And who can really say for sure? Perhaps it was all because of one hopeless romantic’s words, spoken on a fateful night so long ago, this couple’s love triumphed to such beautiful heights precisely as predicted. Regardless, there is little to no doubt F. Scott Fitzgerald would have been immensely pleased, even though a wee bit envious, too, of the love discovered by these two over the course of long lives spent as one.
*“They slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, This Side of Paradise*
Cynthia Calder, 11.22.24
After Hours
Ever since last year's Christmas party, my life at the office hasn't been the same.
The first few days after the "incident", as I've taken to calling it, I could barely bring myself to come into work at all. The following few weeks, I had tried to stay as inconspicuous as possible. I had to get used to the whispers whenever I frequented the ladies room, and the muffled laughter as I passed someone in the hall. I even grew used to the stares I received in the company breakroom.
A good piece of advice: never get too drunk at a company party, at least... not too drunk that you try and make out with your married boss, especially when his wife is sitting at the table beside him.
So, as you can probably guess, I wasn't filled with joy or excitement when I received the dreaded annual invite in my inbox. What I did feel was that all-too-familiar feeling of anxiety prickling at my stomach.
I let out a long breath through my lips, a technique I learned in my weekly therapy sessions. It did help. Somewhat.
"Are you alright, Trish?" That was Jessica, my coworker and one of the only friends I had left in the office.
I give her a reassuring smile, "Yeah, don't worry. Everything's fine."
She doesn't seem to buy it though, because the next second she's rolling her neon green swivel chair across the narrow hall and right into my cubicle.
"It's me, Trish. What is it?" she asks.
She doesn't even wait for a response, and instead leans over my shoulder to glance at my computer screen. When she sees the subject line of my most recent email, she winces sympathetically.
"Well..." she says, and I can see the gears turning in her head, trying to think of something positive to say. There isn't.
"Look, it doesn't really matter. I'm not going." I say, exiting my email with a loud click.
Jessica's brown eyes widen imperceptibly, as if she's really shocked that I would choose to avoid the chance to embarrass myself for a second time.
"But you have to go," she says, "what happened last year is old news. You can't just avoid every office party until you retire... or quit... whatever comes first. You have to face your fears at some point."
When I don't say a word, she shoves my shoulder.
"Quit it. I'm trying to work here." I say, shoving her back, "and why do you care, anyway?"
"Because," she whines, "I can't go to this party alone."
I roll my eyes, "Gee, thanks. Hey, why don't you ask Jeff to go with you?"
I can almost see the face she's making, even with my back turned. It's no secret that every woman in the office has a crush on Jeff Goodacre, the best consultant in our office. He has that perfect polished look about him; clean hair, shaven, crisp collar, great smile. He's clever and polite to a fault. Probably the best consultant in the whole damn company.
Sometimes he seemed just a little too perfect. But aside from Jess, he's the only one who's shown me any kind of compassion or civility since the incident last Christmas.
Jessica scoffs loudly, "as if he wouldn't already have a date. Or three." A sigh, "but... I guess a girl can dream."
It's now quarter past five, and most of my colleagues have already left for the day. Jessica pulls on her puffer jacket and her gloves, her long blonde hair draped over her shoulder.
"Are you coming?" she asks, pausing at my desk.
"No, I have to finish some of these reports first. I should be done within the hour."
She shrugs, and then blows me a little kiss, "get home safe."
"You too."
An hour goes by and the remaining few people working have long since left. Most of the lights on my floor have been shut off, and the glow from my computer screen now seems insanely bright in the relative darkness.
I'm always struck by how quiet it gets without all the regular chatter and work noise. The only sound that can be heard is the low hum of the air conditioning and the clicking from my keyboard.
A wave of exhaustion washes over me, and as I think about the forty-five minute drive ahead of me, I decide it's probably time to wrap up and head home. But first I need to use the restroom.
As I'm exiting the ladies room, I hear a sound coming from down the hall. It sounds like the staircase door being opened.
I step out of the little enclave where the restrooms are and peer down the dark hallway. It's empty. I worry for a moment that the tiredness is getting to me, but then I hear footsteps. Thud, thud, thud.
Someone else is definitely here.
I wait, listening. From the corner of my eye, I see a man walking through the row of cubicles. I catch sight of his face in the glow of my computer screen as he passes by my desk.
It's Jeff.
I breathe a sigh of relief, realizing that a small part of me worried it was an intruder.
I'm about to call out to him, let him know that I haven't just forgotten to shut down my computer for the day but was trying to finish up some work.
My voice falters when I notice the look on his face.
He's... smiling. But not a happy or even pleasant smile. It's mocking. Mean. And I know that I've become the office pariah this past year, but Jeff never saw me like the others did.
Or rather, I thought he didn't. Now I'm not too sure what to think. I watch in disbelief as he sits down at my desk and begins scrolling through my work. His shoulders are tense and his head is drawn low. His face contorts.
I can't help but jump when his fist comes crashing down on the keyboard. He begins muttering. Through a string of curse words, he mentions the party last year, our boss, my drinking. Calls me a tramp.
Instinctively I reach into my pocket to grab my keys, but my heart drops when I realize they're still sitting in my purse in the desk drawer, along with my jacket. Hopefully he doesn't notice them and realize I'm still here.
As if he can hear my thoughts, he spins around. I push myself flush against the wall, hoping he doesn't notice me. I hold my breath, blood pounding in my ears.
I've never felt this scared in my life. It's as if all the muscles in my body are wound like coils, just waiting to spring.
A few moments pass, and I hear the door to the staircase being opened again. I peek around the corner.
The office is empty. Jeff is gone.
I hurry back to my cubicle and collect my things, fingers fumbling to pull on my jacket as I head to the elevator. No way in hell am I taking the stairs.
I watch anxiously as the buttons light up on the elevator panel. Third floor, second floor, first floor... basement.
The elevator doors barely have a chance to open before I'm stepping off into the parking lot. A wave of relief washes over me when I spot my green Toyota Camry fifty feet away.
I reach into my purse to grab my keys, and falter. The pocket is empty. My keys are gone.
Writing Contests
Short Fiction Contests
“Fabuly Writer’s Challenge
“Step into Fabuly's writer's challenge and create a short 2,000-word story that focuses on this year's theme: an unexpected encounter. The winner of Fabuly's contest will win $500 and be featured in the mobile app as a professionally illustrated and produced audiobook.
Deadline: December 14, 2024
Prize: $500 and Audiobook production
“Story Shares’ Story of the Year
“It's the seventh annual Story of the Year Contest hosted by Storyshares, featuring up to $15,000 in cash prizes. In addition to the available monetary prize, winners and runners-up will have their works included in the Storyshares library, which currently serves tens of thousands of students worldwide.
Deadline: January 13, 2025
Prize: Up to $15,000 and publication
“Story Unlikely’s Short Story Contest
“The folks at Story Unlikely run a monthly digital magazine that shares a wide range of short stories with no genre restrictions, providing something for nearly every reader. The team also runs its annual short story contest, offering up to $1,500 for the first-place winner and the opportunity to be included in the publication's yearly print magazine.
Deadline: January 21, 2025
Prize: Up to $1,500 and publication
“Arc Manor Books' Mike Resnick Memorial Award
“The Mike Resnick Memorial Award, hosted by Arc Manor Books, is presented to a new science fiction author to reflect upon the American fiction writer of the same name who was nominated for 37 Hugo Awards in his lifetime. Short science fiction works up to 7,499 words can be submitted by authors who have yet to have any work published.
Deadline: To Be Determined (2025)
Prize: $250 and a trophy
“Baen Books' Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award
“The team at Baen Books' is hosting the Jim Baen Memorial Short Story Award, recognizing a work of science fiction under 8,000 words. The publisher is looking for stories that show manned space exploration in the near future (50-60 years out). Baen notes they want to highlight realistic, optimistic science fiction showcasing our potential future, so no dystopian tales here.
Deadline: February 1, 2025
Prize: Publication with pay and a trophy
General Prose Contests
“Minotaur Books/Mystery Writers of America First Crime Novel Competition
“Minotaur Books, an imprint of Macmillan Books, and the Mystery Writers of America are teaming up to offer a competition highlighting a debut writer's first crime novel. You can submit previously published manuscripts (self-published not permitted) for consideration.
Deadline: December 15, 2024
Prize: $10,000 future royalties advance
“Kinsman Avenue's Stories of Inspiration
“Kinsman Avenue Publishing is running its Stories of Inspiration contest, an opportunity for nonfiction writers. Writers with stories highlighting the struggle and resilience of the human spirit related to marginalized communities' cultures are welcome. Individuals of a BIPOC or underrepresented community are preferred.
Deadline: December 21, 2024
Prize: Publication with pay
“L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of the Future Contest
“Lafayette Ronald Hubbard wrote science fiction and fantasy at the beginning and end of his life. The Writers of the Future Contest was launched in 1983 to highlight aspiring authors in the field of speculative fiction. Today, the contest continues annually, offering the grand prize winner a $5,000 cash prize and trophy.
Deadline: December 31, 2024
Prize: Up to $5,000 and a trophy
“Friends of American Writers Literature Award
“The Friends of American Writers Literature Award focuses on emerging authors whose books focus on the Midwest United States. If you have a book that has already been published, you can submit it for consideration as long as you are a Midwestern resident or your book's setting is within the Midwest.
Deadline: December 2024
Prize: Recognition
Poetry Contests
“Poetry Society of America's Four Quartets Prize
“The Poetry Society of America, founded in 1910, continues its mission of bringing poetry into everyday American life with its Four Quartets Prize. If you are a poet with a complete sequence of poems published in the United States in 2024, you are invited to enter. Finalists receive $1,000 each, with the winner receiving an additional $20,000.
Deadline: December 31, 2024
Prize: Up to $21,000
“Defenestrationism Lengthy Poem Contest
“Based on its name, we cannot think of a better organization to host the Lengthy Poem Contest than Defenstrationsim. Poets are invited to enter a poem of considerable length, at least 120 lines long, for submission. The contest runners will publish the three finalists on the website, and several days of public voting will be available before a winner is announced.
Deadline: January 1, 2025
Prize: $300
The Levis Reading Prize
“The Levis Reading Prize is offered yearly in memory of the Virginia Commonwealth University poet and faculty member. It recognizes the best first or second book of poetry published by a poet. Winners receive an honorarium and are invited, expenses paid, to Richmond, Va., for a public reading the following autumn.
Deadline: January 15, 2025
Prize: Honorarium and an invitation to Richmond
“Note: Before submitting to any writing contest, please carefully review the contest's rules and eligibility. These change regularly, so make sure to confirm that a contest has not instituted submission fees since this article was written.
15th November, 2024
Dogpark
The man chain smoked on the park bench several yards from where I'd settled. He looked over at me as I played fetch with his little French Bulldog for about an hour. I had no business in the dog park, really, being in town without a dog.
I just went out for a walk. The hotel had grown too small and the world outside just a little too large; the relative quiet of the Tribeca park was a nice compromise between New York City and me. The fact that it was a dog park was a happy accident. No one seemed to mind me being there, quietly petting or playing with the furry visitors as they came by to pay respects.
This man's dog, though. She was different. She took a shine to me as soon as I shut the iron gate and sat on an empty bench. She was a stout little thing, fifteen pounds of muscle in a seven pound frame. The little critter actually reminded me of the cartoon bulldog from Tom & Jerry in shape if not size. Her front legs were like oversized arms on a bodybuilder, with her rear legs like that same bodybuilder who ignored leg days. She snuffled at me and dropped a ball at my feet.
I looked up at her owner, and he gave a tiny nod. Permission granted to play, from behind a veil of tobacco smoke. I grinned, and tossed the ball across the park and the feisty little bulldog fetched. This went on for the better part of an hour, not a word was spoken, and I lost count of how many times the flare of a Zippo caught my eye.
Finally, flicking away his last butt, the man slid to the end of his bench and turned towards me. He stood, straightening a tan trenchcoat that fell from his shoulders like it'd hung there for years. Watching us continue to play fetch, he spoke in what I immediately clocked as a British accent. I'm terrible with identifying them beyond "British," it could have been somewhere in London or the countryside, I don't know.
"That ain't my dog, bruv," he said. I was surprised to see a new unlit cigarette between his pointing fingers. "Nope. I'm just watchin' 'er for a bit. Thank you for playin' with the thing. Saved me the trouble."
I smiled. "It's been fun. A nice distraction from...everything." I tried to keep melancholy out of my voice, but it always has a way of creeping in around all the edges.
"Mate. It ain't my business, but what brings you to the city?"
"Family stuff." I wasn't going to tell this stranger that back in my hotel room were ashes to be spread at places in the city that meant a lot to someone I cared about.
He nodded, not comprehending, but understanding. I gave him a weak smile as thanks for his refusal to press the issue.
"You notice how that little mutt keeps droppin' the ball just out of your reach every other time she fetches?" I had noticed, in fact. We'd established a pattern: after about four throws, she'd break in the shade, lying with her legs splayed so her belly would rest on the cold autumn concrete. I was comfortable in the crisp air, but several people around us were wearing sweaters or coats. The little Frenchie was obviously getting heated with all the exercise. Every other throw, though, she'd drop the ball too far to my right, almost like she thought I was sitting on that side of the bench instead of leaning on the left armrest. I'd tell her to bring it to me, she'd stare up at the empty seat, look over at me, then kick the little ball so it would roll into my hand. I thought it was a clever trick, but odd that she kept doing it that way instead of bringing it directly to me.
"Yeah, it's strange. Like she forgets where I'm sitting."
The man nodded, grunting in what I assumed was an affirmative.
"It's not that, mate."
She dropped the ball at the opposite end of the bench again.
I looked over that way, then back up to the blonde chainsmoker.
He reached into a coat pocket, handed me a plain white business card. I thanked him, looked at the card, and then back at him. "So, Mr. John Constantine, what kind of work do you do?"
He paused, lit yet another cigarette, and stooped down to hook up the bulldog to a leash. He didn't answer until he'd taken a couple of long, contemplative drags.
"Mate, when you ever need me, call me. I don't know what brings you here to the City, but what I do know? You ain't been sittin ’ere on this bench alone, and the mutt knows it, too."
I should have felt a cold chill, but instead, all I felt was happy.
Table of Hauteurs
The cocktail party is in full swing, with guests and hosts alike gathered in little groups. Some dance from one coterie to another, others do-si-do within their groups. All are talented in their ability to eat, drink, and talk while holding a plate of hors d'oeuvres and a glass of wine.
A table of delights stretches along the north wall. There are cheese trays, pastries savory and sweet, the finest red and white wines, and more. Three gorgeous Matisse lithographs hang above the table. A colorful gouache découpée in the middle, flanked by black and white portraits.
In the room's center, mouths chew, sip, and exchange airs as the sophisticate orgy unfolds.
"Oh I love the Matisse prints!"
"Yes, aren't they great! We just got them. You know he's totally making a comeback."
"Yes, yes."
"This one's my favorite. I love the yellow."
"Yes, yes."
In this fashion, the wall basks bright and proud as the drooling eyes stare.
Meanwhile, a centipede scurries under the table and disappears into a tiny gap in the corner. High above, where the walls meet the ceiling, a waft dislodges part of an ancient cobweb.
Twelve feet below the cobweb, the host goes on. They're originals, she's always loved Matisse, they are so expensive but she just had to have them.
The guest smiles and nods, her right hand holding a glass of wine, her left below it with palm up in a makeshift table. All in all, agreeable and interested.
On the ceiling, the cobweb filament stretches nearly a foot from the corner, thicker at its origin, a gradient black to gray, its delicate flutter a thing of austere beauty with a mastery of forms and transitions. A rearing cobra one moment, a scorpion tail the next.
The host continues. Her husband's promotion literally doubled his salary, it's so hard to keep her new jewelry organized, so glad we've had a chance to talk, we're thinking about buying....
In time, the guest raises the wine from its flesh table to her mouth. Sheltered by the glass, in the heartbeat before the inflow, the corners of her lips drop, the corners of her eyes tighten. With great effort she conceals her words, and then paints the cavity crimson.
"Right—like you know anything about Matisse. Bitch."
11/14/2024
Unknown Sender
I'm no stranger to online delivery.
In fact, the Amazon delivery driver now knows me by name. I always keep track of what I order and when. So, you can imagine my confusion and disappointment when instead of a new Gucci purse and belt, I'm greeted by a haphazardly-wrapped little box on my front step. No stamp, no return address, not even a note. Just my name written in swirly cursive letters on the top of the box.
I bring it inside, never one to refuse a gift of any kind. The brown wrapping paper comes off in one clean tear and underneath is a small shoebox, probably only big enough to hold a pair of child's shoes.
But there are no shoes inside. There is, however, a black leather journal. Odd.
Tentatively, I pull it out of the box and set it on my lap. The leather is smooth, not grainy. Very sleek. But who would have left this for me, and why?
I pull back the cover.
On the top left hand side of the first page is the date: January 7th, 2023.
The writing is pretty, with the same big swoopy letters used to write my name on the box. So that means whoever wrote in this journal is probably the same person who left it outside my front door.
I feel hesitant to continue reading, but I don't think I can stop now.
I tap my feet in nervous energy as I read the first entry:
January 7th, 2023
I watched her today. Waltzing around in that little black dress, a white shawl draped
over her shoulders. Her brown hair was pinned up at the top of her head. If you
squinted, she could have almost passed for Audrey Hepburn. She looked like the
picture of class. HA! If only everyone at the party knew what she really got up to in
her spare time. If only Todd knew, if only he'd see -
The journal slips from my grip and falls to the floor with a dull thud. Suddenly the room feels much too small and my sweater much too tight. I pull at the collar in agitation.
Who the hell wrote this?
I pick the journal back up off the floor and skip forward a few pages. I settle on another entry, this one dated April 18th, 2023.
April 18th, 2023
She likes coffee with extra cream and sugar. I should have guessed the princess
would have such delicate taste. Heaven forbid she handle a little bit of
bitterness. Life can be bitter sometimes. I'm not surprised she doesn't know this.
Perhaps I should show her.
Absentmindedly, I skim through one entry after another, the tone becoming more and more vitriolic.
One specific entry catches my eye and I pause. This one is recent.
November 1st, 2024.
Todd must be either a complete idiot, or totally lovesick not to realize what kind of
floozy he's been sharing his bed with. I saw her today. I was this close to confronting
her. For the first time in 5 years, I finally mustered up the courage to look her dead
in the eyes and tell her she was going to pay what what she'd done. But then this
waiter nearly knocked me over with a plate of stale mini quiches, and when I looked
back up, she was gone. Maybe it just wasn't the right time. That's okay. I'm
patient... I can wait.
I slam the journal shut, my breath coming out in short gasps. I have the horrible sensation of someone's eyes on me, although I know for a fact there's no one else here.
"What she'd done"? What had I done?
I scan my brain, trying to think of any particularly negative interaction I've had in the past several years. I have my occasional bouts of anger on the street and sometimes I can be a little testy in the grocery store. But it doesn't make sense for a total stranger to hold onto a grunge over so small a thing for so long. And to follow me around, wanting to make me "pay"? The person would have to be completely deranged.
Unless... this isn't about me at all. The journal frequently mentions Todd throughout the various entries. Maybe it's someone he knows, or someone from his past.
A ring from the front door bell startles me from my train of thought, and I jump out of my seat, the journal falling out of my hands.
I can't see who it is through the stained glass window, so I take a peek through the peephole. There is a person dressed in some kind of delivery uniform, hat bent low over their head. They're holding a parcel under one arm and a clipboard in the other.
It must be the Gucci items I ordered.
I unlock the door. The delivery person is standing still as a stone on the porch, not moving an inch.
"Hello. Is that my package?" I ask, leaning forward to try and see the person's face from underneath their cap.
Suddenly, the person - woman - looks up at me. I can see that she's absolutely stunning, with tan, glowing skin, and bright green eyes. A few strands of wavy, chestnut colored hair have come lose from her pony tail, perfectly framing her face.
"This is for you." she says, handing me the parcel. Even her voice is pretty.
"Thanks." I take the parcel from her with a smile.
She doesn't leave. She stands in the same spot, unmoving, staring at me with a polite smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
The moment lingers a bit too long and, wanting to end this awkward interaction, I gesture to the clip board tucked under her arm.
"Do I need to sign anything?" I ask.
She slowly pulls her stare away from my face and looks down at the clip board.
"Oh, yes. I do need one signature." she says, handing it to me. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a pen. She hands that over, too.
As I'm signing my name on the small black line at the bottom of the page, I can feel her eyes on me.
I finish signing and hand it back to her, but she stops me.
"There's one more line on the back." she says and the fake smile is back again.
The prior feeling of awkwardness is quickly molding into something worse. Slowly, I unclip the piece of paper from the metal clasp and turn it over in my hands. When I see the sentence written on the back, in those familiar curly letters, a chill runs up my spine.
It reads: there are no clumsy waiters here to save you. Time's up.
