Short Stories

On the fact I didn't win but had fun

You may remember several weeks back me talking about the writing contest I’d entered.

I didn’t win.

my professional headshot until further notice

But I had fun trying and I made it a lot farther than I thought I would! I’m posting all three of my short story entries in this post should you want to check them out. Keep in mind the way this contest worked:

• Prompt arrived on a Friday night and included the required genre, setting, and an object

• 1000 words or less had to be turned in within 48 hours

I only reiterate this in case anything comes off as offensive or inaccurate. It’s an exercise in speed-writing so whatever idea hit me first I pretty much ran with, except in the case of the final story which was historical fiction. With that one, I did quick research for a true story that I could completely fictionalize with the required parameters.

Enjoy!

Story #1: Camp Horizon - Mystery, summer camp, oar (Placed 5th)

At a sleepaway camp where girls and boys go to learn how to behave like ladies and gentlemen, a mysterious, unsolved drowning ends up closing the operation for good, and the truth remains a well-guarded secret.

If we’d had cell phones in 1991, I might have been able to call for help. It’s all I thought when I saw the headline in my feed this morning: “Defunct Summer Camp Purchased by Developer After Decades-Old Unsolved Drowning”. I suppose phones existed, but sixteen year olds weren’t running around with them yet, at least not at Camp Horizon where my mother sent me every summer hoping the etiquette skills they’d teach me would “center me on a new horizon.” It was a conversion camp hidden under the guise of manners for good girls and boys, nowhere near as harsh as some of the places you hear on the news these days, but still damaging. Parents didn’t realize sending a bunch of queer girls to summer camp did anything but convert them. It made some hide themselves away, or worse. Me? I actually enjoyed a lot of my time during those summers, but I’ve always been better at compartmentalizing than others. As long as you avoided Carol, and pretended to enjoy the boys’ attention, the rest of the time you could get away with murder. I still even have my winning trophy hanging over the mantle in my cabin in West Virginia. An old wooden paddle: Casey Long, Strongest Swimmer, Camp Horizon 1991 burned into the wood.

My best friend was Jenny Werner, from Connecticut. I was from Pennsylvania. We fantasized about meeting up between summers once we got our drivers licenses, but it never happened. 1991 was the last time we saw each other. I remember it like yesterday.

“Ca-sey!” she yelled as I got off the bus. She didn’t look much different than the previous summer, only more beautiful than I’d remembered. We hugged. “What cabin are you in this year?”

“Nine,” I said. “With Laura. You?”

“You’re not going to believe my luck,” she said.

“No.”

Jenny nodded.

“Carol.” We both said under our breath.

“I thought we’d gotten off easy,” I said. “Last summer and all.”

“Gotta make it one to remember,” Jenny said.

“Don’t we always?”

We’d sit together for every meal, endure the place setting, posture, and fashion lessons just so we could get to the swimming, canoeing and hiking sooner, where we excelled every year. 1991 was no different. Until the social.

Carol was especially brutal. As she realized nothing they did actually changed us, she got more and more cruel.

The boys knew the drill. They weren’t interested either. It was all for photo ops so the camp could advertise what wonderful little ladies and gentlemen it created. If parents saw that we laughed with boys, or especially danced with boys, surely we’d all turn out just fine.

So, we played the game. Carol wandered from group to group, pairing us off. “Don't you two look sweet together.” Inconspicuously shoved two kids together.

She reached me and Jenny. “You two spend too much time together.” And then she pulled us apart and dragged us to boys of her choosing. We rolled our eyes behind her back and smiled to her face. We were used to this stupid matchmaking game and assumed it would be like any summer. Play the part, eat ice cream, go back to your cabin where you would eventually sneak out and skinny dip in the lake.

But Carol pushed hard. I watched, as I pretended to listen to my “date”, who was nice enough, but I wasn’t interested in his diatribe on Dungeons and Dragons.

I could hear Carol’s guttural, goading voice from where I stood as she got in Jenny’s face. “Just a little peck. Pretend it’s the end of a first date. This is how you treat a man.”

Jenny gave her a look that said “fuck off”.

“Jennifer,” Carol warned. “Consider it practice for being a happy young woman. Is that not what you’re here for?”

“I’m here because my parents make me.”

“Let’s make it worth their money.”

“I’m pretty sure they don’t send me here to kiss boys.”

Carol leaned into her. Whispered. My skin crawled. I couldn’t hear what she said, only saw Jenny’s eyes well with tears. And then she ran from the mess hall. And Carol after her.

I raced after them into the dark, humid night.

The lake had always been our safe place–the moonlight, the stars, the silvery water on our skin– so I’m not surprised she ran there. Now Carol invaded it. She stalked Jenny, and I followed, dipping behind trees when I thought Carol might turn my direction. Jenny sat on the end of the long dock, the one where we took our deep water swim test when we were thirteen. Where we’d had our first kiss.

Carol beat me to her. She loomed over Jenny, who’d curled into herself like a child, and spat in her hair. “No one wants a dyke.”

I spun around looking for help. As though someone would save us. There was never anyone to help. Not at camp, not at home. We were on our own in 1991, with only the shoulder of the girl we met at camp to cry on. No one would tell Carol to back off. There wouldn’t be anyone to tell the Carols of the world to back off for a very long time. Behind me, the faint thump, thump, thump of the music in the mess hall. The dance began. All this masquerade of manners, playing house year after year. The pain of pretending. The thumping in the hall echoed the thumping in my head. Like a linebacker, I rushed straight for the end of the dock.

Camp ended early that year. Jenny and I didn’t even get to say goodbye, we were rushed off to our little corners of the Northeast. Not long after, shadowed by scandals we hadn’t even known about, camp closed. Years later, I received a letter from someone that had three simple words: “One to remember.”

Strongest Swimmer, 1991. Damn straight.

Story #2 - Priority Mail - Thriller, govt. building, guardrail (Placed 4th)

In a small rural town of good ole boys, a post office employee redefines the term “going postal” when one of them threatens her life.

It wasn’t the first time he’d followed me to work. But I was determined it would be the last.

The restraining order said he couldn’t set foot inside. So he’d hang in the lot, foot on the guardrail. Smoking. Staring. For hours, staring through the tinted windows. Even though I knew he couldn’t see me, being watched all day wore me down.

I’d called the cops after the third time he’d done this, and they’d said there ain't nothing they can do if he’s outside.

“But it’s the post office,” I said. “Isn’t there some law about federal buildings?”

The first officer chuckled. “No ma’am. ‘Fraid not.”

“Price of stamps these days,” said the second, shaking his head, as if I’d set them.

By the time they left, so had my threat.

But he was back the next day. Staring. Smoking.

I was on my own. I had to entice him to do exactly what I was afraid of. Then I could call the cops. It was the only way; force him to break the order. It was stupid and desperate, but then again, I was pretty damn desperate in a county with two cops who were more worried about their next fishing trip than the new lady who ran the post office by herself while her enemy was hell-bent on torturing her.

Joe Morgan came in to check his PO box. “Morning, Nell,” he said. He was the kind of resident that made the job worthwhile. Friendly, chatty. But today was not the day for shooting the shit. “That box from Lionheart Blades come in for me yet?”

“Now, Joe,” I said, twirling my keys in my hand. “You know I’d be telling you first thing if it had.” I hated lyin’ to my favorite customer. Please get your board game zines and comic-con flyers and get, Joe.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him out there. 12:57. Three minutes ‘til lunch. Lure him, lock doors, call cops. Only chance. Sweat trickled between my breasts, god-awful sensation. I had a mind to slip Joe a note, tell him the plan, but before I could, he locked his mailbox, and waved “so long”.

12:58

I reached under the counter where I’d placed my phone and a long letter opener just in case. My stalker shifted outside. Left his typical stakeout on the guardrail. I scanned the windows. Didn’t take long. The Post Office was the size of a small trailer. His red truck was still out there, but I couldn't locate him.

“Shit.”

12:59

I went to the doors, the letter opener at my side. I could either lock up for lunch, or go out and find him. Outside felt more dangerous. Tiny rural post office, no one else in the lot, only rows of corn as a witness. Better to get him in where I had less space but more advantage. Had to stick to the original plan.

I cracked the door. “Curtis?”

Nothin’ but humidity and a buzzing fly.

“I know you’re out there.” I took a deep breath. “I’m tired of fightin’. Just come in. We’ll talk like civil folk.”

The midsummer afternoon was hot and silent. Even the crows were quiet.

Suddenly, BAM! Out of nowhere, his hand gripped the door handle. He was stronger than me, which of course I knew. But I banked on being smarter.

“Nell.” He grinned, his foot lodged between doors. “What’re you playing at?”

“I’m done with this game,” I said. “I mean it. Come out of the heat. Let’s settle this like human beings.”

At first, I thought he saw right through my peace talks. But, truth is, Curtis ain’t nothing without his post office job–it had been his whole world, this tiny little universe he could control, and control he did. The gateway between people and their packages, he loved taunting residents about what was in their box before he’d hand it over, (Adam and Eve, eh?) what they could and couldn’t send out (This ain’t media mail), and most of all he loved to abuse his power of inspections, opening whatever the hell he wanted. It’s what got him fired eventually, and how I took over.

I knew as soon as he smelled that papery-paste odor of the lobby, he’d be like a moth to flame.

He stepped right in. Mud-caked boots. Torn T-shirt. Stank of sweat. Sure as shit fell from the militant way he used to dress when he controlled this space. I stepped back and made my way behind the counter again while he watched. Better to put a little barrier between. I reached under the counter and tapped 911.

He leaned over, saw the opener and laughed. “Moving in and taking other folks’ jobs isn’t taken lightly ‘round here.”

“You losing your job had nothing to do with me. I just happened to arrive at the right time.”

“Don't be smug with me, bitch.” He jumped the counter. The letter opener clattered to the floor. I ran into the back room where the day's mail waited. Picked up boxes and lobbed one at a time at him. I only needed to keep him off until sirens arrived. Just another minute or so.

But he caught me off guard when he slipped around the table. He had no weapons, but it didn’t matter. He was twice my size. All he needed was his hands. He’d had them around my neck once before. I wasn’t letting it happen again.

I grabbed the box I’d set aside this morning, and furiously ripped it open.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Curtis crossed his arms. He didn’t know how well I knew my customers. I dug in the box and found what I knew was waiting. Just as he lunged at me, I held up the sword, and he ran straight into it.

Sirens blared.

Thank you, Joe Morgan, I thought. I owe you priority shipping for life.

Story #3 - The Plot - Historical Fiction, crime scene, wedding ring (didn’t place)

Baltimore, 1861: A completely untrue account of the true story of Kate Warne, the first female detective who infiltrates a group of secessionists to find proof of a grand scheme.

Kate slipped the gaudy gold wedding ring on her finger and snorted. Rich people truly waste their money on stupid things. Her own sweetheart, God rest his soul, had given her a slim silver band, which she only switched out for these assignments. But the ridiculous ring was the perfect touch. Between the lavender satin bodice dress that made walking difficult, her hair pulled up into some maniacal style one would never be caught dead wearing back home in New York, and her expert mimicking of a southern drawl, Kate played the part of a wealthy plantation wife perfectly. Alan Pinkerton assigned her to Baltimore once again, because she’d done so well the last time. No one suspected a woman spy. She boarded the train confidently, if not steadily on her heeled boots, and headed south.

As the train meandered towards Maryland, Kate twisted the ring nervously, and had a brief thought this whole thing might be a ruse. Didn’t matter. Her job was simple: use her fictional high class status to get into one of the secessionists’ exclusive parties and get more evidence. It had taken long enough for Kate to convince Pinkerton to hire her; she would not let the most respected private investigator down.

Once off the train, Kate made her way to the Barnum Hotel. At the counter, she announced herself as Mrs. Barley.

“Welcome, ma’am,” the concierge replied. “Let me show you where the guests are congregating before dinner.”

“Thank you, kindly,” Kate said when the man left to return to his post. Gathering her skirts, she entered a grand library, and a spectacle of secret trading she had not expected. It was like a crime scene, portraits of dark-skinned men and women fanned across the table, passed around like mugshots. She calmed her breathing as prices were discussed, and remembered her purpose: physical evidence.

“Why, good evening everyone,” Kate drawled as she swept into the room, “I’m simply charmed to be back in your company for this occasion.”

All heads turned. She quickly realized that instead of a typical “business” meeting, she hadn’t been too far off; this wasn’t like a crime scene, it actually was a crime scene.

A man stepped forward. “And whose acquaintance might I have the pleasure of?” She recognized him immediately. George Thiel. Alan Pinkerton’s only rival. How had he beaten her here all the way from Chicago? Fortunately, he did not know her, nor did he know Pinkerton had a woman on staff, so she maintained her original story.

“Mrs. Barley,” she said, holding out a hand, and acting nonplussed. “Pleasure to meet you, although perhaps this is not the occasion I thought it to be. I was told there was a party tonight!”

Thiel squinted. “And Mr. Barley?” he asked.

Kate cleared her throat. “Running late.”

“Right,” Thiel kept his eyes narrow. “You might as well come in, in case you know something valuable.”

“About what?” Kate glanced around the room at the other guests she recognized, all wealthy landowners now figuratively, and some literally, clutching their pearls.

“The plan to rob the Philadelphia mint of its gold to further their…purposes.” Thiel announced, his hands splayed like he was speaking to an adoring crowd, the exact opposite of the truth. “Treason! And no one is leaving until I find it.”

Thiel acted like he thought himself some famous orator, perhaps he thought he was the great Lincoln himself. She wondered if this was the ruse she’d intuited–whether or not Thiel was truly looking for evidence of treason or if he made it up to throw them off. She’d have to wait and be patient, and if there was one thing she hated more than waiting, it was patience. Kate was used to doing. Going. Moving. Solving.

She took a deep breath, filled a wine glass, and sat as Thiel continued interrogating guests one by one. Interviewing wealthy people who lied for a living was going to get Thiel nowhere.The second he let everyone go, word would be on the street that someone was investigating the group, and the plot would change. Clearly, Thiel never learned the benefits of undercover work. Kate on the other hand was a pro, and she already had her eye on one suspect from her last visit–Mr. James Kavanaugh. In his lap, a record book that contained all their meeting minutes and, Kate suspected, much more.

She got up to refill her wine, surreptitiously throwing a flirty glance at Mr. Kavanaugh who gladly caught it. He tipped his chin to her, and then patted the seat next to him, which after pouring a second glass of wine for him, she graciously accepted.

“It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Barley,” he said.

“Likewise,” Kate said, and then giggling under her breath she whispered. “It’s almost charming how off-course Thiel is, isn’t it?”

Kavanaugh’s eyes only gave a glint of recognition. He sipped his wine and said nothing, but gave her a tiny nod. Soon Thiel called Kavanaugh’s name, and Kate offered to hide his book. It was almost too easy how quickly he handed it over for her to wrap in her skirts. No sooner had he joined Thiel, Kate slipped out the door and jumped on the first train out of town.

When she got home, she handed Alan Pinkerton the city map that had been tucked inside the book, where Kavanaugh had circled the area between Calvert and Camden stations, the exact spot she’d overheard them talking about inspecting for “escape routes” and “entry points” on her last assignment.

The new president hadn’t even served a day yet, how could there already be a plan in place? At the same time she wondered what genius thought the Union president should be railroading it across a slave state prior to his inauguration. But she trusted Pinkerton. He’d never been wrong.

“I hope it’s enough,” she said.

“Me too.” With that, Pinkerton tapped out a message to President Abraham Lincoln.

DIVERT ROUTE