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.
October Writing Challenge (500 Words)
Each month, I provide a Writing prompt on my Microzine, encouraging fellow writers to stay sharp, compete in friendly competition, and challenge them to push past their creative boundaries. The winning piece will be featured in next month’s issue, as will any links the winner wants to share to promote their brand.
This month there are three (3) options to choose from:
October Prompts: “Season of Decay, Amber Helix, or Repugnance”
Rules:
Any style of Prose or Poetry is accepted.
It must be five hundred (500) words or less.
Only one (1) entry per writer per monthly contest.
Reprints and Simultaneous Submissions are encouraged.
This month’s deadline is 11:59 PM or by the end of Friday, November 22nd, 2024 to allow time for final edits.
You must be subscribed to The Bluebird Paradox on Substack to enter this challenge.
Your entry does not have to include the prompt word or phrase but must have the essence of the meaning captured. Metaphor and obscurity are encouraged and finding something beautiful in the darkness is even better.
If it is an “Open Call” all themes or genres are encouraged.
All entries must be sent to ChrisSadhill@gmail .com. Please use the Subject Line: Sadhill Writing Challenge (Include the Month). You may paste the story directly in the body of the email or attach a file. Please include any promotional links you would like to advertise.
This is an opportunity to showcase your talent and work while cross-promoting your brand with mine. In the future, there may be prizes awarded, but for now, there are none. I’m poor, damnit. If you have any donations, such as books or merch you’d like to donate for promotional giveaways, email me and I will spread the word in my next issue!
By entering, you agree for your work to be published in my MicroZine for no less than one (1) month and if chosen as the winner it will be included as content on my Substack.
You retain all rights to your work and upon request, I’ll gladly remove it for any reason following the featured month of publication. In the event of removal, the story title and name will remain listed along with any links to your new piece’s home, if you would like.
Find links to my Substack or website on my Prose. profile page to sign up or visit:
www. ChrisSadhill .com
https:// chrissadhill .substack .com/
Good Luck. See you next month!
Vicious Dreams
in my vicious dreams
the stars bleed red
black clouds churn and twist
stripping the trees bare
and all the people run
in my vicious dreams
i take what i want
maybe a little more
like john dillinger on a spree
as marilyn monroe spins
her dress billowing in bliss
i course her pink river
to my climactic thrust
in my vicious dreams
gold and honey flow from my pockets
while the dancers shimmy
i am untamed
chewing meat and tearing silk
with canine teeth
these walls cannot hold me
11/10/2024
October 15th
You talk in your sleep. Did you know that? Last night it was about the fire again. You never told anyone what really happened in that basement. Don't worry - your secret is safe with me. For now.
I like watching you make coffee in the morning. Two sugars, splash of cream. Always waiting exactly four minutes - watching that timer tick down on your phone like it's some kind of ritual. Like it will keep the memories away. It won't.
You should really fix that bedroom window. The one that sticks when it rains. Sometimes it opens on its own at night. Sometimes I have to close it for you.
October 18th
Your mother called again. You always turn your phone face-down when she calls, like you can make her disappear. But we both know the real reason you won't talk to her. Does she still ask about that summer? About what happened to Claire?
The bruise on your shoulder - the one you think you got from bumping into the door frame? That wasn't the door. You thrash a lot in your sleep now. I have to be more careful when I get close.
I left you a gift today. You haven't found it yet. It's in that shoe box you never open, the one shoved under your bed. The one with the photos you pretend don't exist. I put it right next to them.
October 23rd
I dug up your old diary today. The real one. Six feet deep, right next to Whiskers. Remember how you told everyone he ran away? Such a convincing little liar you were.
Still are.
You wrote about the shadows you used to see in your closet. The ones that moved when you were alone. Smart girl - you knew they were real. You just stopped looking.
We've met before, you know. Many times. You were too young to remember the first time. I made sure of that.
October 24th - 3:17 AM
You're sleeping now. Peaceful, finally. The pills help, don't they? But they can't keep me out.
I'm sitting in that chair in the corner of your room. The one that belonged to your grandmother. Did you know she died in it? The nursing home lied about that too.
I should leave. The sun will be up soon. But first, I need you to understand something: I'm not writing these words to scare you. I'm writing them because soon you'll become exactly like me. It's already starting. Haven't you noticed the gaps in your memory? The hours you can't account for?
Look at your hands when you wake up. Really look at them. That's not dirt under your fingernails.
Soon you won't need to sleep at all.