August 2014 Issue of 

The Scribblers Newsletter

Welcome to the August issue of The Scribblers.  In this issue we have new writing prompts, a story by John Matthews and part five of the story "Sisters" by Jamie Baker.  Also a look at one of the top 10 classic American authors and a New Writer contest.

August Writing Prompts

Each month we try to provide prompts for you to use. Pick one or more and write 500 to 1,000 words using the prompt/s as the basis of your story.  Above all, have fun with it.

1.  Jim drove the old back road with only one headlight lighting his way.   Just as he made the turn into the lane leading to his house, he heard a thud and felt a bump.  He had hit something.  Or someone.

2.  The wind rattled the windows and shutters.  Lucy heard a loud crack followed by a crashing sound against her roof and footsteps on her stairway.

Sisters part 5

by Jamie Baker

After the Christmas holidays, my life suddenly got a lot better.  My brothers started going to the Boys club after school and Mom got a waitressing job at Sizzlers.  While the boys did all their yelling and screaming at the Boys club, I had the apartment to myself.   Mom left notes for me almost every day, chores she wanted done and instructions for simple dinners.   Dad picked up the boys up on his way home from work and helped me make dinner.  After dinner I cleaned up the kitchen and then I could do whatever I wanted until10:30.   That was when Mom usually got home.

One night, down at the Marci and Ginger’s apartment, Roy Brown was there and another guy everyone called Cartwheel.    Marci said she needed to go grocery shopping, so we all went down to the Safeway. 

Walking across the parking lot to the store entrance, we stopped to get a cart. 

“I feel like having a steak.” Roy said, yanking a cart out of the cart corral.  “I think I’ll get one.  Maybe a nice porterhouse.  Anybody else want steak for dinner?”

Cartwheel put his arm on Marci’s arm, “Get your own cart, Marci,” he said and pulled a second cart out of the line.

“Carol,” Ginger said, hanging back with the Marci and Cartwheel, “stay with us.”

Rolling up and down the aisles, the four of us goofed around, laughing and being a little rowdy.  Marci left a package on sanitary napkins in the bread section.   I didn’t see Roy Brown again until we got to the meat section.

Cartwheel was holding up a package of foot long hot dogs and waving it at Marci.  Roy was at the other end of the meat case.  His cart was almost empty.  He picked up a wrapped steak, checked the label.  He glanced down the length of the case, saw me and winked.  He put the package back in the freezer, picked up another one and shoved it down the front of his pants, where it was hidden by his flannel shirt.   An involuntary bark of laugh chirped out of me.  I was both shocked and thrilled.

  

“Let’s keep moving, chicks,” Cartwheel said.

A few minutes later, with Cartwheel pushing Marci’s half-full cart, we made our way towards the checkout counters.  Roy Brown was already there, in line behind a stooped old man who was carefully placing each of his items on the conveyor belt.  Cartwheel went to another register, getting in line behind a couple with two little kids.  The conveyor belt was crowded with disposable diapers and boxes of breakfast cereal.

    

We were still in line when Roy Brown sauntered to the exit, his near empty bag swinging from his hand.  A beefy guy in a sports jacket stepped up to him, gesturing towards the back of the store.  I could hear his voice, a low buzz, but I couldn’t make out the words.  Roy glanced towards the exit but the man stepped in front of him.  Roy’s face got red and then he walked towards the back of the story, the beefy guy on his heels.   I turned back to the others.  Cartwheel looked at me and shook his head slightly.  We stayed quiet until we were back outside in the parking lot.

“Will they bust him?  Do you think they’ll call the cops?” Ginger asked.

“I’d be surprised if they didn’t,” Cartwheel said, “Fucking Roy Brown.  Always thinks he can break the rules and get away with it.”

“He wasn’t always like that.  Not when we were in school.”

“You went to school with him?” I asked Marci. “I thought he was from Reno.”

“His Dad’s lives in Reno, he’s a pit boss there.  Mostly, Roy grew up here, lived with his mom and his grandparents, over on Seven Hills Road.    We went to the school together.  Third grade right through high school.” Marci answered.

“Yeah, he was a little runt and a crybaby.  Couldn’t play any sports for shit.  Then in high school, he got a weed connection and suddenly he was all cool.”

“Kind of a late bloomer, huh?” Ginger laughed

.

“Yeah, but I think he’s gonna peak early.” Cartwheel said.  

Glimmer Train New Writer Award

Upcoming deadline:  8/31/14

New Writers, go here

1st place $1,500 & publication in Issue 95. Deadline: 8/31.

Note: New writers are especially welcome at GT, but the Short Story Award for New Writers is the contest that is open only to emerging writers. 

The 1st place winner in the last New Writer contest was that author's very first story accepted for publication.

Second- and 3rd-place winners receive $500/$300, respectively, or, if accepted for publication, $700. 

Winners and finalists will be announced in the November bulletin, and finalists will be contacted directly the previous week.

Most submissions run 1,500 - 6,000 words, but can be as long as 12,000. 

Reading fee is $15 per story. Please, no more than 3 submissions per category. 

Writing Guidelines here 

    Your Call is Important to Us

 by John Matthews

     Jason Sweigart  cupped his hands around his eyes to peer into the window of the F-150 pickup.  A cellphone lay on the passenger seat.  A cellphone or an IPhone or an IPad or a SmartPhone.  Jason wasn’t sure what it was called, but he recognized it right away.  Its plastic case bore vivid black, orange, and white tiger stripes.  He had seen it often on the bar at the Rockhill Tavern  in Conestoga, at the stool where Janelle Wilson sat.  He didn’t recognize the pickup, but there was no doubt it was Janelle’s phone on the seat.

     Of course, he thought. It must be Hank Stauffer’s truck.  And she wasn’t Janelle Wilson anymore. She was now Janelle Stauffer.

     He stepped back from the truck and looked around.  The truck was parked near a trailhead at Susquehannock State Park.  The trail snaked down a steep bank toward the Susquehanna River.  The trail  had been overgrown with brush until recently when the discovery of eagle nests had started to attract more visitors to the park.   Now the path was open and well worn.    But there was nobody around today.  No sign of Janelle or Hank.   

     For some reason, any time Jason was close to a vehicle, his hand tended to drift to a door handle.   The door was unlocked and almost seemed to open by itself.  Reasons for his actions seemed  to form in Jason’s mind almost every time he moved.  It was a habit he had developed because he often found himself needing to make excuses for actions that others found odd.

     Just doing my job, he thought.  I’m a Park Ranger.  I’m supposed to look out for the safety of park users and their belongings. 

  

     Technically, Jason wasn’t a Park Ranger.  But he felt no guilt in calling himself one.  He was employed as a custodial worker at a park complex, a group of three parks in the Lancaster/York area overseen by one manager.  The personnel staffing plan for the complex also included one Park Ranger.  The Ranger job had been vacant for a while due to budget shortages.   Jason had been instructed to perform some of the duties usually assigned to the Ranger.  Monitoring park usage, answering questions of park users, checking locks on buildings and gates.   He did not have the law enforcement authority of a Ranger.  He could not issue citations or make arrests.  The Park Manager did not consider him a Ranger, just a custodial worker assigned some additional work that custodial workers in other parks often performed.

     But Jason reasoned that he was doing things  a Ranger had previously done.  He had filed a grievance asking to be promoted.  Because he was not performing all the duties usually expected of a Ranger and since he was technically not qualified to be a Ranger, having failed  the civil service exam for the job, the grievance was denied.  He filed another grievance, pointing out that an unfilled vacancy existed .  If the Department could not fill the job but was still arranging for some of the duties to be performed, the person performing the duties should at least be temporarily paid at the Ranger level.  In a mediated settlement to this grievance the Park agreed to pay Jason at the higher level until such time as the Ranger job could be filled.   Part of the agreement was that Jason would have no law enforcement  powers and would not wear a Ranger uniform. 

     The cellphone was now in Jason’s hand.  Just holding it brought back memories of sitting with Janelle at the tavern.  The reflections from the revolving disco ball over the bar created changing sparkles in her hair and gave her an angelic appearance.  Jason was always so cool and impressive at those times.  And funny.  Janelle would laugh at his remarks even  when he wasn’t trying to be funny.  He must be a natural. 

     And she had helped him prepare for the Ranger examination by tossing out questions about hypothetical park occurrences and daring him to react properly.  She had always seemed to take great delight in his original answers.  But Jason had mistaken being funny with being correct.  He thought if he could entertain the examiners as he was entertaining Janelle, he would receive a high grade on the oral exam.  It didn’t work out that way

     She shouldn’t leave the truck unlocked, he thought.  I’d better take custody of the phone and hold it for safe keeping.  But how to let her know I have it?  I’d leave a note but I have no pencil or paper.

     He decided to just wait here for her.  He hadn’t had the chance to talk with Janelle since her wedding.  If, by chance, she had discovered Hank Stauffer was not the catch she had expected she might need to vent a little.  It would be good for him to be here if he was needed.

    But wait! What if it wasn’t Janelle who had driven the truck here?  Even if she and Hank were here together, it wouldn’t be the friendly reunion he had pictured.

     He looked around.  A big pine stood at the edge of the clearing.  Lots of lower branches had broken off leaving stubs ideal for climbing up into the thicker foliage.  He decided to climb the tree and wait. If Janelle returned alone he’d climb down and be the hero for protecting her phone.  If it was Hank, or Hank and Janelle together, he’d wait until they drove off.  He’d look Janelle up later to return the phone.

 

     He had to wade through some brambles to reach the tree trunk, and the limb stubs were not exactly smooth ladder rungs.  But soon he found a high hidden branch, smooth enough to sit on comfortably leaning against the trunk. 

     He looked down.  He had a good view of the truck.  Uh oh!  He had left the tiger striped cellphone sitting on the truck’s hood.  His own car was parked only  a short distance away.  If Hank returned, with or without Janelle, that wouldn’t do.  The whole plan required that he present the phone to Janelle when they were alone.

     He climbed down, reversed his steps, put the phone carefully in his pocket, moved his car to a more secluded spot, and climbed the tree again.  He had ripped his clothes, scratched his face, and he was tired.  Being a temporary sort of Park Ranger was hard work.  It was after quitting time.  He could put in for overtime.  He sat back to wait.

     He was tired, but alert. Patience was one of his strengths.  He was glad he had limited himself to two beers at lunch from the six pack in his car trunk.  Sitting on the branch reminded him of the nature lore he passed on to children who visited the park.  Yes, bears sleep in trees.  So do possums, raccoons, and birds.  Why don’t they fall out?  Just like humans, they aren’t unconscious while asleep.  They still are aware of their surroundings.  Their sense of balance still protects them from falling.

 

     Damn!  Why did he think of that beer?  Now he wished he’d brought a can along from the car.  Or two. 

                                            _____________

     Jason was having a pleasant dream.  The lilting tune Music Box Dancer  played in his head.  He had the soothing feeling of falling.  He laughed to himself.  He knew it was a dream and he remembered that crazy superstition that if you didn’t wake up from such a dream the fall could kill you.

 

     A second later he landed with a thump.  It didn’t kill him.  The thicket of brambles broke his fall but inflicted some more rips and scratches. 

      He lay supine under the tree, slowly regaining his senses.  It was dark.  Stars shone through the boughs of the big pine tree. 

     The Music Box Dancer still played in his head.  No, not exactly in his head.  More like in his pocket.  It was the cell phone ringing. 

     He dug the phone out of his pocket with the hand that was not entangled in brambles.  He looked at the glowing screen but had no idea how to answer the thing. 

     “What do I do now?” he said to himself.  “There are so many buttons.  Which one should I press?” 

He must have been speaking aloud because Janelle’s voice seemed to be guiding him sweetly and gently. 

     “Don’t press anything you idiot!   Just talk.  Where are you?  And why did you steal my phone?”

     “I’m lying in a bed of something with lots of thorns, but I’m looking at a beautiful starry sky and listening to the voice of an angel.  And your phone isn’t stolen. I’m guarding it for you.”

     “Well, I’ve reported it to the police.  Now that you’ve answered it, they can track it by gps”

     “Can’t you call them off somehow?”

     He heard Janelle speaking to someone in the background, apologizing for a mistake.  The phone went dead. 

     A few minutes later The Music Box Dancer began to play again.   “Okay, they’re gone.  Don’t worry, I didn’t mention your name but they’ve probably pinpointed your location by now.  They might still come around to check.  You’re still at the place where you found the phone, aren’t you?”

     “Pretty close.”

     “Good, I was afraid you might be at the tavern with some stupid idea that I’d show up there.”

     “I could still get there.”

     “What part of ‘stupid’ didn’t you understand?”

     “Sorry, I’m still a little disoriented.”

     “Look, do this.  Go unlock the park restroom.”

     “It’s already unlocked.  I didn’t lock it at the end of the day.”

     “No, it’s locked.  You never unlocked it this morning like you were supposed to.   When Hank and I got back from our hike I needed it pretty bad.   I was furious when I found it locked.  But I didn’t tell Hank.   Just put the phone in the restroom and I’ll tell Hank I left it there by mistake.”

     “I can bring it to you.”

     “No.  Believe me, Jason.  You don’t want Hank to know what you did.”

     “You’re a fast thinker, Janelle.  You’d make a good Park Ranger.”

     “That idea’s about to come true.  I got a call today. Your manager got approval to fill the vacant Ranger job, and he chose me.”

     “But how did….”

     “All that work I did helping you practice for the Ranger test.  Some of it must have rubbed off.  I passed the test with a pretty good score.”

     “I’m happy for you, Janelle.  But just one thing.”

    “What?”

     “You shouldn’t leave your cell phone in an unlocked truck.”

     Janelle’s answer was lost as the cell phone battery died.

                                               THE END

   

And Finally...

We are always looking for articles and short stories to publish, as well as suggestions for the newsletter.  Please send any ideas, stories, etc. to Colleen.  We'd love to see any contributions you'd like to make to The Scribblers.

If you no longer wish to receive this newsletter, please email Colleen with the word 'unsubscribe' in the subject line and we will remove you from our mailing list.

July 2014 Issue of The Scribblers Newsletter

Welcome to the July issue of The Scribblers.  In this issue we have new writing prompts and part four of the story "Sisters" by Jamie Baker and a look at Neil Simon, a prolific American playwright and screenwriter with 30 plays and nearly as many screenplays to his credit.

July Writing Prompts

Each month we try to provide prompts for you to use. Pick one or more and write 500 to 1,000 words using the prompt/s as the basis of your story. 

1.  I was awakened by the neighbors' barking dog at 3 A.M. to find my husband prowling around the trees in that same neighbors' back yard.

2.  "You will pay for that, Missy," my boss, known throughout the company as Crazy Judy, shouted as she stomped up the stairs to the company President's office.

3.  Old Mr. Williams stumbled down the sidewalk mumbling to himself and carrying a canvas tote bag.

Very Short Fiction Contest

Glimmer Train magazine is hosting a Very Short Fiction contest here . 

1st place $1,500 & publication in Issue 95. Deadline: 7/31.

Second- and 3rd-place winners receive $500/$300, respectively, or, if accepted for publication, $700.

Open to all writers, this category welcomes stories up to 3000 words.Reading fee is $15 per story. Please, no more than three submissions per category.

Guidelines are here.

Winners and finalists will be announced in the October 1 bulletin, and finalists will be contacted directly the week before.

Sisters Part 4

by Jamie Baker

Mikes whining outside my door pulled me to the surface for a few seconds.  The light outside the window was dim and grey.  I heard my dad telling Mike to be quiet and then I sunk back down again. When I woke up again, my alarm clock said it was almost 11.  Barefoot, I slipped down the hallway to the kitchen, passing my brothers who were both asleep on the living room floor.  Dad was sacked out on the couch. 

Mom was at the kitchen table, her cigarettes, ashtray and coffee cup assembled on the placemat.  She was still in her pajamas, one slipper dangling from her crossed leg, the morning paper hiding her face.  She always got the Tribune, the city paper, no matter where we lived, even like now, 20 miles outside of the city.  And she read it every day, though I don’t know why.  She never went to any public meetings, not even the PTA.  She didn’t vote.  She wasn’t interested in sports.  She never commented on the police blotter, or the war or the protests, not even Ann Landers, and I never heard her laugh at the comics.

If asked, I guess she might say she needed the paper so she could check out the sales, but that wasn’t true.  She only shopped at May Fair, never A&P or Safeway,  and she always bought the same stuff, on sale or not, Starkist tuna, Chef Boy R De raviolis, Campbell soups, Scott paper products.  And her Winstons and the half-and-half for her coffee, always Folgers.

I drank some orange juice, waiting for mom to say something.  The silence made me feel bad, so after I rinsed my glass and put it in the dish drainer, I went back to bed and read my history book until I fell asleep again.

In the afternoon I went outside and stood around by the pool, watching grey clouds rolls across the water.  Lots of dead bugs and leaves floated along the pool’s edges, so I took down the pool net that hangs on the side of the pool shed and started scooping out the junk. 

I had 2 small piles of debris on the deck when pony-tail guy showed up.  He had on the same grungy jeans as last night, but the t-shirt under his jean jacket was different and his hair hung straight to his shoulder instead of being held back by a rubber band. 

“Hey,” he said, “didn’t I meet you last night?” and he thumbed over his shoulder towards Ginger and Marci’s apartment.

“Yeah, I was at their party.”

“Carol, right?”

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me your name.”

“Roy Brown,” pulling a pack of Camels out his jacket pocket and pointing it at me.  I shook my head.

“My friends call me Reno,” lighting a cigarette with a silver Zippo.

“Why?”

“Because that’s where I’m from,” blowing smoke up where it faded into the grey sky.

“I’ve got my van out in the parking lot.  We could go out there and get it on.”

“Get what on?”

He laughed with a snort, smoke spurting from his nostrils.

“You need schooling.  Get it on, ball, have sex.”

“I’m only 14.”

“So, that’s not too young, as long as it’s consensual.  You know what that means, right?  That you give you’re willing, that you want to do it.”

I couldn’t look at him, just kept scooping dead bugs out of the pool.

 

“What’s the matter?  Are you afraid? You’ve never done it have you?” flicking his cigarette into the pool, where it hit the water with a small hiss. 

“I can make your first time really good, believe me.”

“No thanks,” I said, fishing the cigarette butt out of the water.

“Why not, you’re gonna do it sooner or later.  May as well be now, with someone who knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t want to get pregnant.”

“Hey, that’s not a problem.  That’s why I take a pill every day, I don’t want any little Renos running around.”

I knew girls could take birth control pills, but could guys?  I never heard of that before.  The sound of a door shutting echoed across the pool and I looked up to see Ginger walking towards us.

“Hey, Carol.  Roy, what BS are you spewing now?”

“Just doing little educating.  Knowledge is power, right?”

“Carol,” it was my dad calling from the open door of the apartment.  “Come up here please.”

Ginger took the pool net from me, “See you later.”

Dad was taking the boys out to play miniature golf and eat dinner to give Mom a break.  I could go if I wanted, but I said no, I’d rather stay home.

“Who were talking with down at the pool?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know, just some people who live here I guess.”

“Well, they looked hippies, like real low lifes.    Not the kind of people you want to associate with.  You can make better friends than that.”

A Look at Neil Simon

Born  July 4, 1927, playwright and screenwriter Neil Simon grew up during the great depression in The Bronx, New York.  He has written over thirty plays and nearly the same number of movie screenplays, most adapted from his plays. He has received more Oscar and Tony nominations than any other writer.

Simon's childhood was difficult and mostly unhappy due to his parents' "tempestuous marriage", and ongoing financial hardship caused by the Depression.  

With his parents' financial hardships affecting their marriage, and giving him a mostly unhappy and unstable childhood, he often took refuge in movie theaters where he enjoyed watching the early comedians like Charlie Chaplin, which inspired him to become a comedy writer.  

His father often abandoned the family for months at a time, causing them further financial and emotional hardship. As a result, Simon and his brother Danny were sometimes forced to live with relatives, or else their parents took in boarders for some income. Simon recalls this period:  "The horror of those years was that I didn't come from one broken home but five. It got so bad at one point that we took in a couple of butchers who paid their rent in lamb chops."

During an interview with writer Lawrence Grobel, Simon stated: "To this day I never really knew what the reason for all the fights and battles were about between the two of them.... She'd hate him and be very angry, but he would come back and she would take him back. She really loved him."   Simon points out that one of the reasons he became a writer was his need to be independent of such family concerns when growing up.

"It's partly why I became a writer, because I learned to fend for myself very early. . . . I began to think early on, at the age of seven or eight, that I'd better start taking care of myself somehow, emotionally.... It made me strong as an independent person."

I think part of what made me a comedy writer is the blocking out of some of the really ugly, painful things in my childhood and covering it up with a humorous attitude.... do something to laugh until I was able to forget what was hurting.

Simon attributes childhood movies for inspiring him to some day write comedy: "I wanted to make a whole audience fall onto the floor, writhing and laughing so hard that some of them pass out."  In referring to Chaplin's influence, Simon noted that it was his "appreciation of Chaplin's ability to make people laugh that was the only thing that I saw in the future for myself as a connection with people. I was never going to be an athlete or a doctor."

At the age of fifteen, Simon and his brother created a series of comedy sketches for employees at an annual department store event. During these high-school 

years, he also enjoyed reading humor by Mark Twain, Robert Benchley, George S. Kaufman and S. J. Perelman. Simon recalls: "I read humorists... I read all the adventure stories... I was at the library three days a week as a kid. I read everything, I think, except the classics—which I'm going to get to one day."

After a few years in the Army Air Force Reserve, he began writing comedy scripts for radio and some popular early television shows. Among them were The Phil Silvers Show and Sid Caesar's Your Show of Shows in 1950, where he worked alongside other young writers including Carl Reiner, Mel Brooks and Selma Diamond.

He began writing his own plays beginning with Come Blow Your Horn in 1961, which took him three years to complete and ran for 678 performances on 

Broadway. It was followed by two more successful plays, Barefoot in the Park in 1963 and The Odd Couple in 1965, for which he won a Tony Award, making him a national celebrity and "the hottest new playwright on Broadway."  

His style ranged from romantic comedy to farce to more serious dramatic comedy. Overall, he has garnered seventeen Tony nominations and won three. During one season, he had four successful plays showing on Broadway at the same time, and in 1983 became the only living playwright to have a New York theatre, the Neil Simon Theatre, named in his honor. During the time between the 1960s, 70s, and 80s, he wrote both original screenplays and stage plays, with some films actually based on his plays.

After winning the Pulitzer Prize for drama in 1991 for Lost in Yonkers, critics began to take notice of the depths, complexity and issues of universal interest in his stories, which expressed serious concerns of most average people. His comedies were based around subjects such as marital conflict, infidelity, sibling rivalry, adolescence, and fear of aging. 

Most of his plays were also partly autobiographical, portraying his troubled childhood and different stages of his life, creating characters who were typically New Yorkers and often Jewish, like himself. Simon's facility with dialogue gives his stories a rare blend of realism, humor and seriousness which audiences find easy to identify with.

Theater critic John Lahr describes Simon's primary theme as being about "the silent majority", many of whom are "frustrated, edgy, and insecure". Simon's 

characters are also portrayed as "likable" and easy for audiences to identify with, often having difficult relationships in marriage, friendship or business, as they "struggle to find a sense of belonging".  

And Finally...

We are always looking for articles and short stories to publish, as well as suggestions for the newsletter.  Please send any ideas, stories, etc. to Colleen.  We'd love to see any contributions you'd like to make to The Scribblers.

If you no longer wish to receive this newsletter, please email Colleen with the word 'unsubscribe' in the subject line and we will remove you from our mailing list.

June 2014 Issue of The Scribblers Newsletter

Welcome to the June issue of The Scribblers.  In this issue we have new writing prompts, part three of the story "Sisters" by Jamie Baker, contest information and a very short story I wrote several years ago. We hope you enjoy this issue.

June Writing Prompts

Each month we try to provide prompts for you to use. Pick one or more and write 500 to 1,000 words using the prompt/s as the basis of your story. 

( I found a couple of really fun prompts at the Warren Wilson College website)

1.  Create a story using words of one-syllable only, beginning with a phrase such as:

"The last time I saw her, she...”

“From the back of the truck...”

“On the night of the full moon...”

“The one thing I know for sure…”

2.  Create a short story that is 26 sentences long, each sentence beginning with the next letter of the alphabet. 

(Add other, arbitrary conditions, if desired, such as one sentence should be one-word long; there should be one question mark, one quotation, etc.) Rigid rules often produce fascinating results—such as with well-written sonnets, which have 14 lines and tight rhyme schemes, each line governed by a specific number of syllables and alternating stressed and unstressed syllables.

3.  Describe a routine or holiday ritual, using the 2nd person “you”:

For example, “You stand in the steaming kitchen with people you haven’t seen in almost a year. You wish your shirt didn’t have that tiny stain on the cuff. You wish your aunt’s laugh wasn’t quite so brittle. Feet stomp on the porch and you hurry to let your tall uncle in, forgetting to keep the dog from escaping outside…”

Glimmer Train Writing Contest

Glimmer Train Magazine's Upcoming deadline: 

Fiction Open. 1st Place: $2,500, and publication in Issue 95. Deadline: 6/30.

This category is our most "open"—all writers, all subjects, all themes, and just about any lengths are welcome!

Second- and 3rd-place winners receive $1,000/$600, respectively, or, if accepted for publication, $700. Winners and finalists will be announced in the September bulletin, and contacted directly the previous week.

Most submissions to this category run 2,000 - 8,000 words, but can be as long as 20,000. Please, no more than three submissions per person.

FICTION OPEN guidelines:

Open to all subjects, all themes, and all writers.

Most entries run from 2,000 to 8,000 words, but stories from 2,000 to 20,000 words are fine.

Held twice a year. Open to submissions in JUNE and DECEMBER.

Next deadline: June 30*

Winners are announced in the September 1 and March 1 bulletins, respectively, and contacted directly one week earlier.

Reading fee: $19 per story. Please no more than three submissions per contest.

Prizes:

1st place wins $2,500, publication in Glimmer Train Stories, and 20 copies of that issue.

2nd place wins $1,000 (and 10 copies, if accepted for publication).

3rd place wins $600 (or, if accepted for publication, $700 and 10 copies).

Please make your submissions at Glimmer Train's online submission site. We look forward to reading your work!

* There is always a one-week grace period.

Submissions are to be made here: https://www.glimmertrainpress.com/writer/html/index2.asp

Sisters, Part 3

by Jamie Baker

New Year’s eve day dragged like it was 100 hours long.  Dad slept most of the day.  Mom was tense and  reminded me 100 times that she was expecting me to take care of my brothers while she and dad were out for the night.  Like I never baby sat them before.  Like I wasn’t responsible. 

“This is my only night out in months.  I don’t want to have to worry about you all night long.”  She said this, or something like it, about every 20 minutes. 

By dinner time, she had made me so nervous, I couldn’t eat.  I pushed the food around on my plate.  The bites I did take turned to paste in my mouth from all the chewing and I could hardly swallow them.

“Why aren’t you eating?”  This from Dad.  “You’re mother cooked this great stew and you’re turning your nose up at it?”

“Don’t tell me you’re getting sick.  That would be just like you.  Get sick when I have a chance to go out for a change.”  Mom said.

“I get her dessert if she doesn’t eat.”  This from Jeff, which started an argument with Mike over who was going to get extra dessert.  One good thing about all my brothers’ squabbling, it usually took the focus off me.

 

While my parents got ready for their big night out, I washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, stretching it out as long as possible.  Finally they were ready.  They gave us another lecture about behaving and where they could be reached if there was an emergency and to call the apartment manager if we needed help.  When the door finally clicked closed behind them, I stripped the beds, put on clean sheets and headed out the door with a laundry basket full of not-very dirty sheets and a pocket full of quarters. I told my brothers I was going to the laundry room.

“Don’t burn the place down or blow up the TV again.”  They made faces at me in response.

From the laundry room, I could look right into Ginger and Marci’s apartment.  The curtains were open and I could see Ginger standing in the middle of the living room talking to a guy with a pony tail.  When he put a cigarette in his mouth, she leaned forward with her Zippo and lit it for him.  Then they both laughed, though I could only see them laughing, not hear them.  I was nervous about going over there.  Ginger had invited me, but I hadn’t seen her for over a week.  Maybe by now, she’d forgotten she’d invited me.  Or changed her mind. 

I was putting the wet sheets into the dryer when the laundry room door opened.

“Jesus, it’s cold out there.  Hey, you’d rather do laundry than party with me?”

It was Ginger.

I made some dumb excuse about coming over as soon as I checked on my brothers.

“Merry Christmas and Happy New Years, by the way,” she called over her shoulder as she ran back across the courtyard.   “Hurry up and get over here.”

“Hey, kid, you want some of this rum in that coke?”  I was standing in the kitchen, the guy with the pony tail was pointed a bottle at me.

“My name’s Carol and no thanks.”

“Whatever,” he said and went back to lean against the wall near the front door.  I was in the kitchen because the living room was filled with people, most of them a few years older than me, some of them a lot older.  They were packed onto the old sofa, draped across the overstuffed chairs, and a gaggle of skinny, long-haired hippie girls sat cross-legged on the floor.  The air was hazy with smoke and the trash can in the kitchen overflowed with beer cans.  I hadn’t seen Ginger or Marci in a while.  The bedroom door was closed but every few minutes someone would come out and someone else would unfold from whatever seat they had and disappear into the bedroom.

The radio was tuned to a station I hadn’t heard before.  The music was rock and roll and I didn’t know any of the songs.  The music was hard to hear over all the different conversations that were going on.  Every few minutes the guy with the pony tail would turn the volume up and one of the girls on the floor would get up and turn it back down.

It was turned down pretty low when I heard the knock on the front door.   Leaning across the counter I could see out the window over the kitchen sink.  The person knocking was the apartment manager.  I bolted from the kitchen, right into the bedroom. 

“What’s happening, Carol.” Ginger was sitting on top of the dresser.

“The apartment manager’s at the front door.  She can’t know I’m here.  She’ll tell my parents.”

“Stay in here.  I’ll handle it.”

Ginger went out, closing the door behind her.

“Marci, quit bogarting that joint,” a guy with really short hair said, “you already had 2 hits, pass it this way.”

After he’d taken a couple of deep drags he passed it to me.

“Don’t hit it too hard, it’s pretty harsh,” he choked at me, trying to hold in the smoke while he talked.

I’d smoked a few cigarettes, but nothing else.  I didn’t even know a marijuana cigarette was called a joint.  I took a small puff, held it in and passed the joint back to Marci. 

“I’m ripped, no more for me.  You guys finish it,” she said and flopped back on the bed.

“Take another hit,” the guy with the crew cut said to me, “I’m Richie and if you’re wondering why I have this convict haircut, I’m in the army.”

“I’m Carol.  What’s that like?” I asked after inhaling another small drag.  This time it burned down into my lungs and I coughed. 

“Told you, it’s some harsh shit.  The army?  Mostly it’s bullshit, but I’ve got 20 more months to go, so I’m trying to be flexible and just go with the flow.”

“Were you drafted?”

“Not exactly.  I was given a choice, army or jail.  The army seemed like the better choice.  And it’s working out ok so far, I’m getting some pretty good pot, pretty cheap too.”

I took another hit on the joint and managed to tamp down the cough that wanted to burst out of me.

 

“Will you go to Viet Nam?”

“If I do, I’ll be screwed, but maybe I’ll get lucky and get sent to Korea,” he pinched the butt end of the joint, took the last drag and then popped the thing in his mouth and swallowed it, “or maybe Germany.”

“Why was the other choice jail?”

Richie stretched out on his stomach on the bed and pulled a cigar box out from under one of the pillows.  Inside was a pile of dry, herb-like stuff and Richie started crumbling it apart.

“I got pulled over for a busted tail light and the cop found my stash.”  He sprinkled a row of the herb across a cigarette paper, kicked the edge and used his thumbs to roll the new joint against his fingers.

 

“I got caught shop lifting when I was a juvenile, so the judge said army or jail.  What a jerk, like he really believed that offering me the army was some kind of gift.  But hey, as long as I don’t get my ass shot off, it could be a gift.  After all, I could be visiting foreign lands, meeting interesting people and killing them before they kill me.”

He was handing me the lit joint when Ginger banged the door open, laughing loudly as she stumbled in, bringing the pony-tail guy with her.

“What did she want, Ginger?  What did she say?”

“Who?” Ginger pulled the joint from my fingers with a puzzled look.

“Mrs.  Duncan, that’s who.  Did she say everybody had to leave?”

“No, she didn’t even realize we were having a party.  But somebody parked their car in a tenant space.  BFD, right?”

“Whose car was it?” asked Richie.

“Havisto’s.  And guess what?  He was passed out in the back seat.”

“Couldn’t even make it to midnight, huh?” pony-tail guy said.

“He just moaned a little when I frisked him for the keys.  I parked him down the street aways.”

A while later, I heard the people in the living room doing the count down to mid night.  Pony-tail guy, Richie, Ginger and I were still in the bedroom, smoking cigarettes and pot.  Marci was asleep.  When the count got to zero, Richie kissed me on the cheek, while pony-tail guy and Ginger kissed on the lips.  Then Ginger turned to me and gave me a long kiss on the mouth.

“Happy new year Carol.  You’ve been initiated.”  I didn’t know if she meant the kiss or the pot.

 Not long after that, I went over to the laundry room and got the basket of neatly folded sheets and let myself into our apartment.  My brothers were still asleep on the living room floor, just as they had been when I’d checked on them 2 hours ago.  I turned off the television, left the basket of laundry on the kitchen table so my mom could see I’d been making myself useful and went to bed. 

Curled between the clean, cold sheets, I thought about the party.  I could still smell the weird pot smell, I think it was caught in my hair.  I thought about the skinny hippie girls, bare foot and braless, and Richie.  Would he go to the war?  I forgot to ask him what his army job was.   I wondered if I would ever see him again, if this was the last party he would ever go to.  I thought about Ginger kissing me on the mouth.  That was weird, sort of.   I was almost asleep when I heard my parents in the living room getting my brothers, but I was asleep by the time Mom came down the hall and opened my door to check on me. 

9-1-1

A Short Story

by

Colleen Weikel

            Sunlight filtered through the grimy window to cast a dim gray eye on the chipped Formica table.  The aroma of perking coffee mingled with the stench of the overflowing contents of a long-neglected trash can and floated under the door of Cal’s apartment, joining similar noxious odors from the other apartments in the crumbling relic of brick that contained others such as my old friend.  They had all given up on life at some point for reasons known only to them. 

            I couldn’t understand what would cause people to abandon their hopes and dreams, their families and friends, but I know that whatever the scenario, it had to have been a catastrophic moment that had crushed the spirit of each of these defeated creatures who go through the motions of living each day, hoping that each day would be their last.

            I stood in the hallway. Hands jammed into the pockets of my leather jacket, toying with thoughts of going back home without visiting Cal.  He wouldn’t know the difference.  He wasn’t expecting me, and he didn’t pay much attention to me when I had stopped to see him on other occasions.

            It wasn’t this place filled with smells of hopelessness and failure that made me desperate to turn and run, but the thought of Cal himself.  His dull gray hair, cloudy blue eyes and wrinkled skin made him look ancient, even though he was 2 years younger than I.

            None of the guys at the station knew exactly what had happened to Cal, but we were all sure that it had something to do with Jim Kingman’s death.  Cal’s sudden decline began the moment that we determined that the 9-1-1 call was not for Jim’s wife, but for Jim himself.  And we were too late.  

            If we’d gotten there just 10 minutes sooner…  But we hadn’t, and Jim was still dead, and Cal was still bat shit crazy, existing in this hovel, wearing the same clothing for weeks on end, not bathing, and only leaving his filthy digs when he ran out of cheap booze or cigars.

            I didn’t knock.  He wouldn’t answer anyway.  I pushed open the door and sat down across from him at the table.  He didn’t acknowledge me, but sat watching a small brown mouse nibble at the edge of a cracker that had been crushed underfoot some time earlier.

            “Hey Buddy!” I smiled at him.  He reeked of old whiskey, sweat and stale cigar smoke.  He looked up at me, then back at the mouse.  He creaked audibly when he stood, like some rusted erector-set toy robot, and lumbered over to the mouse and crushed it beneath the heel of his thick soled boot.

            “Just like Jim,” he muttered.  “Just like Jim.”  I couldn’t answer him.  Hell, I didn’t even know what he was talking about.

I watched as he scooped up the tiny corpse and tossed it onto the top layer of the trash in the bin.

 “Why is that little mouse just like Jim?”  I asked.  Cal turned quickly, looking me in the eye for the first time in a long time.  He picked an empty whiskey bottle out of the trash can and darted across the room with the bottle raised above his head.

I ducked just in time to avoid injury.  Cal grabbed his heavy coffee mug from the table and lobbed it at me.  I heard it hit the door and shatter just as I closed it behind me.  That was the last time I ever visited Cal.

 A week later I saw his obituary in the newspaper.  Cal had committed suicide.   He had put a bullet in his chest.  He left a note that only said 'Just like Jim'.

And Finally...

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