The Short Story Contest

Writers' Weekly sponsors a short-story contest from time to time, and Ann brought their last contest to the attention of me, and our friends Beth, and Karla. Those three all managed to get their $5 entry fees in on time.  I blew it, but decided to write a story, too, in unity with the others.

This is the prompt that we had to derive our stories from:

From her lap, his shiny black eyes stared up at her as
she admired his permanent red smile. Fingering his tiny
overalls, she pictured the little ones' faces, pressed
against the icy windowpanes, waiting for her to arrive
with another basket of her lifelike, homemade gifts.
The last strand of hair was finally in place. As she
gently inserted the needle to tie a knot, he lurched
in her hand and a high-pitched voice said...

Here's what resulted:

This is my story:

 'Bertram and Earnest'

Bertram never knew what to say...

“Bert! Rent. Now.” Bert's roommate could be so tedious. Art school was tedious. Design classes weren't what he'd expected. Life wasn't what he'd expected. His father had cut him off, for passing on a chance to work in his company. Mom was off in Europe somewhere, with her “companion”. Now it looked like he might have to choose between rent and the habit of eating. His roomie growled, “Get work, Bert. I'll wait for your first paycheck. Geez, there's always the window at Big Buns.” Bert scowled.

                                                        ~~~

 The notice he'd seen at the student union was cryptic: 'Design Major - Apprentice Needed'.

“Hmm,” said Bert. So he pulled it down, and hunted up the address, which proved to be a dusty storefront tucked back up an alley, down in the river district.

 The old woman squinted at him. He waved the notice card, pointed at it, and smiled. “You're at the art school? Let's see your hands...”, and she pulled both his palms towards her, leaning over to study them. “What can you do?”, she rasped. “Speak up, now!”

“Water colors, acrylic... some clay modeling.”, Bert said.

“How's your sight? Mine's not what it was. What I need is someone who can paint fine details; faces, fingers and such. And can you stitch? Damn. I was hoping for a clothing designer and here, you've pulled the damned card off the board! Took me all day on the bus to put that up. ...Oh, well, you're here. Do you want to work?”

 She showed him the dolls, shelves of them, all the size of large teddies, only human, but plush, save for their faces and hands, which were finely painted and sculpted, with brightly painted facial features, movable-jaws, and moulded hands with detailed fingers. The old woman picked one up with a fine mane of hair, sporting coveralls. He could see that the scalp wasn't finished. “This one is special!”, she crooned. “Here. It's done like this...” She demonstrated how to pull a small skein of hair into place, and knot it with a deft twist of her crocheting needle. She got him started, and he proved capable. “Don't cut those lengths as you place them. I might ask you later about what kind of haircut this fellow should have when he's done. Mind you! Stop one row above his ear, and tell me when you're there. I'm going to fix us some tea.”

Bert found he had a knack for it. There were only four rows of hair above the ear to finish, and each row shorter than the next. He was only three knots from completing the last row when he remembered the old woman's instruction to stop. He looked towards the staircase where she'd climbed up to a presumed loft above. It was strangely quiet. His workmanship looked pretty good to him.
Bert nervously placed two more clumps of hair, leaving a single gap in the doll's “wig”. Still no tea.

“Feh.”, said Bert. He threaded a final strand of hair into place, flicked the needle to set it, and the figure suddenly lurched in his hands, yowling in protest!

“Eeeyow! How would YOU like a lobotomy?!”, cried the doll.

                                                           ~~~

As it happened, the old woman had quietly passed away, as the kettle simmered beside her. “Bleargh!” said Bert. He turned off the stove.

From the shop below, the doll hooted, and called, “YooOOOO-hoooooo!”

Not having had lunch, or breakfast for that matter, Bert was sorry that tea never got served. The old woman looked restful. It was time to go. So much for room-rent, let alone tea.

                                                            ~~~

Heading home, in Bert's old beater, the doll, whose name turned out to be Earnest, proved to be quite the chatter-box, and as expressive with his hands as he was talkative. He had a fair singing voice, too. He kept launching into bawdy stories. As they passed the Sports Bar, Earnest howled and pointed, “Aye, there's the ticket, Bertie! Let's go rub elbows!” Bert cocked his head, shrugged, and parked the car.

                                                            ~~~

Four hours later, Bert had downed the House Special cheese-burger, two orders of fries, three beers, and had relished the best time of his life. Earnest now insisted on being called Ernie, and fairly glowed with delight at their performance at the bar, for Earnest was a natural Ham, whose only craving was an audience.

“Bert, m'lad, I believe you need to master a few good set-up lines, unless you want me to carry the act forever.”

“Hm.” Bert looked at his shoes, just as he had while Ernie cracked jokes at the bar, earning big tips, and a meal on the house.

“Ah, buck up, Lad. You look to be a plausible talent. I'll teach you...”

“You'd teach me?” Bertram looked hopeful.

“Sure, lad. Stick with me, handle my wardrobe and make-up...,” (the coveralls and face were now smudged a bit), “...and I'll see to it we get top billing one day, I will!”

“Ok”, said Bert, with a spreading grin. “You bet!” Life was taking an interesting turn for Bertram.

“Alright, lad! Now can you see to my hair? It's damned shaggy over this one ear!”

Ventriloquism.

His father would be livid.

Nice!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

And this is Ann's story:

Happiness Loves Company

Sarah refused to give in to frustration. Emotions had a way of transmitting themselves to the dolls she carefully stitched, and she’d found that the dolls she made when she was happy were better loved than those she made while miserable. She took a calming breath and tried to think of happier things--like serene sunsets, fresh baked cookies, homemade bread--anything other than the comments she’d overheard from those … those anorexic beach bunnies. Those tanned, gorgeous young women in bikinis. She sighed and thought of the bikini she’d mail-ordered from Victoria’s Secret, hoping she’d someday have the nerve to wear it.

But this was spring break in Florida and she was just an overweight motel clerk with a room over the office. The only really decent thing she did was stitch dolls for the burn victims at the local hospital, and the manager didn’t mind if she sewed as long as she took care of the customers.

Think good thoughts, Sarah told herself. Like hammocks on a sunny day, like chocolate fudge…

She looked down at the doll she was stitching. It had little black eyes and smiling, red lips. Its hair was nearly done, a windblown brown yarn with just a touch of gold. It looked like a happy-go-lucky farmer, she decided, and she had enough leftover denim to create a pair of overalls. The last strand of hair was finally in place. As she gently inserted the needle to tie a knot, the doll lurched in her hand.

“Ayyyy!” she shrieked and the doll fell to the floor. She must have pricked herself and jerked back in reaction to the pain.

“You didn’t have to drop me,” whined a high-pitched voice.

Sarah whirled but there was no one there. You’re imagining things, she thought. You need to eat something.

“I’m down here. Pick me up!” the voice commanded.

She poked the doll with her foot.

“Hey! That hurt!”

She didn’t want to touch it. With effort, she got down on her knees and crouched down as far as she could, so that she was eye level with the thing.

“Do you mind?” said the doll. “I’m naked here.” The voice was deeper now and definitely male.

“So, make yourself some clothes,” another voice—this one definitely female—piped up. It was the chubby blonde doll she’d finished yesterday, dressed in a ballerina’s tutu, still sitting on the counter and not yet in the basket where she had the other dolls.

“That’s your job,” the male doll grumbled. “Men don’t sew.”

“So then what’s your job?” the blonde replied. “Stud?”

“Among other things,” he smirked.

“Oooooh, I’m excited,” retorted the other doll.

Sarah’s head swiveled from one to the other as they spoke and she sat back on her heels.

“Hey, I’m good at lots of things. Magic for one.”

“Yeah, like what? You can’t even make your own clothes appear.”

“I can too. I’m just saving my energies.”

“Ha! What can a wimp like you do?”

“I can grant wishes, that’s what I can do. Like for her, humans.” He jerked his head toward Sarah.

“So do it,” the blonde challenged.

“Okay. You, human, name me a wish.”

Sarah remembered the three wishes of Aladdin’s genie. “Just one?”

“Greedy. Yes, just one. And none of that world peace nonsense. It’s been tried, didn’t work.”

Sarah thought.

“Come on, human. I don’t have all day.”

“You gotta be somewhere, stud?” asked the blonde.

“Got more important things to do, tutu, VIPs to see.”

The two dolls bickered back and forth while Sarah thought. She had everything she really needed. A new car would be nice, but hers was only two years old and worked just fine. Money? More was always good, but that was so…greedy. She felt like she ought to wish for something good for all humanity, and she stared out the window lost in thought. A gaggle of tanned college students waltzed past on the sand. She watched enviously as they bounced along.

“I want to be like them,” she said suddenly. “I’m tired of being different.”

“All right,” the doll responded. “But it’ll take some time.”

“Don’t hold your breath, darlin’.” The blonde winked at her.

The bell over the door clanged and Sarah looked up to see Mr. Parker, room 21.

“Can I get some towels for my grandkids?” he asked.

The dolls had stopped moving. Sarah picked up the doll she’d been working on, heaved herself to her feet, and set him on the counter.

“Sure,” she said. “How long are they staying?”

“Just a couple of days this time.”

She handed him the towels. “Come by later and get one of the kids’ movies we’ve got, keep ’em entertained so you can get some rest.”

“Thanks, Sarah. You’re a doll,” Mr. Parker said, and the bell rang as the door closed behind him.

The dolls stayed motionless.

Sarah poked the male doll. “Okay, you can do it now.”

Nothing.

Sarah sighed and reached for the M&Ms she kept hidden under the counter. The sugar brightened her mood.

She looked outside and saw people having a grand time. Happy, they were; enjoying themselves building sandcastles and racing kites.

But now they were all as overweight as she was. Everyone was fat, all up and down the beach. She was, as promised, no longer different.

Grinning, she ran upstairs for her bikini.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And this is the story of our friend, Beth Browne:

 

'A Game of Chance'

Kira Scott's tiny figure was hunched with fear and cold as she made her way across the parking lot.  The wind tried to steal her hood and she clutched it, blinking back tears she was determined not to shed.  Byron would be ok.  He had to be.  The alternative was unthinkable.

The steel and glass guard shack was repulsive, but necessary.  Kira yanked the door and felt her cheeks burn when the overheated air hit them.  As usual, the female officer ignored her as the clock hands ticked past eleven.  It was a game they played when you came to visit.  It made Kira shiver to think what sort of games they played inside with her brother.

 The guard showed her teeth without mirth across the counter and reached for Kira's ID with scarlet acrylic nails curled like claws.

 "Who are you visiting?"  The guard asked, as if she hadn't asked the same question every week for the past four years.

 Kira answered, struggling to keep the frustration out of her voice.  The guard looked back at her computer and began typing. 

"It's too late now.  Visiting time is at eleven.  Did you want to make an appointment for next week?"

 Kira knew the guard was aware that she was here to witness Byron's final sentencing.  There would be no next week.  She unclenched her jaw to inform the guard that she had been standing there since before eleven.  The sudden barking laugh of the guard made Kira jump, but she stood her ground.  She had to wait, just as Byron had been waiting all these years, getting thinner and sprouting new scars as the years went by.  She had been twenty-two when he went in and now she felt the weight of each year as if it were ten.  She had often wondered if the guard was cruel to her because of her smooth skin and plump mouth, but it didn't matter now.  Kira stood there, knowing the guard would have to let her in this one last time.

 At the metal detector she lifted her arms for a male guard who slid a wand between her legs and let it linger there too long.  He did not speak as he checked her name off a curling piece of paper and pressed a button to open a sliding glass door instead of the elevator she usually entered.  Kira knew better than to ask him which way to go so she went though the door, anxious to escape the cloud of his cheap cologne.   Pulling her nose to keep from sneezing, she went down the dim corridor to where another guard stood by an unmarked door, his arms crossed over his bulging chest.

Inside, no one had to tell her where to go.  Byron sat at a square table marked with a checkerboard, his eyes desperate and defeated.  Kira sat opposite him and tried to smile reassuringly, but only managed to raise one side of her mouth.  This time, there was no barrier of thick glass and bars between them.  She crossed the silent room, feeling the gaze of the dozen or so other prisoners and their companions.

 There came a terrible metal clanking and a parade of guards entered the low-ceilinged room pushing little wheeled carts before them.  Only there was no tea.  Bile rose in Kira's throat as the guard stopped a cart by their table.  Thirty-six game pieces walked off the cart and into position on Byron's checkerboard.  Kira searched their number for any sign of hope.

 One minute little gentleman tugged at his cravat.  A diminutive lady in a voluminous skirt dabbed her upper lip with a handkerchief.  A brass-buttoned soldier adjusted his broadsword.  They stilled.  Kira heard the gargle of someone's empty stomach.

 The silence stretched on so that Kira wanted to scream with the agony of it.  With a shuffling of papers, a white-wigged man in a robe at the front of the room croaked, "Begin."

The board crawled with activity.  Kira wished she could look away.  A little man in dirty rags knocked a teenager in shorts to the ground and attempted to rape her as she struggled to get away.  A clown-faced woman beat a small boy with some kind of stick.  The soldier with the sword trounced another and started hacking at others in his path.  Blood soaked the board and replaced the smell of fear.  The room was full of the high-pitched whine of a thousand toy battles.

 A barefoot young man in overalls lurched across the board and ran at Kira.  She jerked back and he dove into her lap screaming.  Kira jumped out of her chair, which tipped over with a clatter as the little man hit the floor and lay still, his limbs twisted, blood spreading out from his mouth.  Byron slid off his chair to the floor as Kira flailed at the front of her dress, unable to shake off the crawling terror.  The guards dragged her away and arranged for her to be sent to the next level where she occupied her own place on a game board, fighting a never-ending battle with grace and persistence.  Byron was released and toiled for the rest of his life tying wigs for the little dolls that had decided his fate.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And this is the story of our friend, Karla Moore:

 Phoebe’s Lap-Ready Babies

The shiny black eyes of the dwarf stared up at her, and she smiled gently back at him with an icy reserve. Drugs kept him calm and placid, with only one side effect: his

face was flushed. His oddly red lips gave his permanent smile a doll-like appearance everyone admired. In the tiny overalls and windowpane-plaid shirt, he was a perfect gift.

She would deliver him, as always, in a homemade basket. After ringing the bell of the stately Tudor home, she would walk swiftly to the street to watch through the windowpanes. As arranged, the couple would answer the bell and profess astonishment at the sight of a toddler…their very own toddler.

Specially ordered, right down to the last strand of black hair…and the uncanny ability to tie a Windsor knot, the dwarf would be the perfect child as he lurched through the house.

Some women were not meant to be and did not deserve to be parents, but for those who wanted to create the semblance of a family, Phoebe was the guiding hand… With his high-pitched voice, the dwarf was perfect and quite manageable for those mothers who were really just too pressed for time to bother with a baby.

They were always ever so surprised when the dwarf inserted the needle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Both Ann and I remarked on how two of the stories had comic movements, and two worked in realms of horror. The prompt skewed the writing into realms of magic, so it's not surprising that those forms would emerge.  Speaking for us all, I can safely say that the effort was a lot of fun. I plan to register for the next one, which comes up in late April. Check it out at : Writers' Weekly.