Congratulations to our Prize Winners and to all who entered.
1st Prize: Omar Musa – The Vape Lord of Queanbeyan »
2nd Prize: Deborah Carrington – Amber Sky »
3rd Prize: Carola Bieniek – Short Story »
1st Prize
The Vape Lord of Queanbeyan by Omar Musa
I was fresh out of rehab, unemployable and future-fearing, helpless and raw as a newborn in a caul, lurching my way through drinking dreams and long baths, back in a flat with a popcorn ceiling and a never-fruiting lemon tree in the yard, living with my finicky sister Sonja, who was ignoring me to watch pimple-popping videos on a cinnamon-coloured couch, when I met first met The Vape Lord.
My mate Alessandro (a bloke who always knows a bloke) gave me the number, and I messaged right quick:
—hey!!! this is Shamil.. im a mate of Alessandro!! he said maybe u could help me out???
The Vape Lord replied immediately:
—Any friend of Alessandro is a friend of mine. I don’t trust many people, but I can tell that I can trust you.
I wasn’t sure how that was possible, from a three-sentence text out of the blue from a stranger, but I wrote back:
—need some!!
—Stress less. What flavour? Cheesecake or Cranberry?
—both!!!
—I got you. Meet me at Guns N’ Hoses car wash in 55 mins. Next to Kingsley’s Chicken.
—how will I know who u are??
—Don’t worry. You’ll know.
The Vape Lord had saved my skin.
Earlier in the day, sitting in the dissolving foam of a lukewarm bath, trying to top it up with a kettle, I’d panicked when I ran out of vape juice. Vaping was the one thing that stood between me and drinking. I was embarrassed to have got into it in the first place; it made me think of Sonja’s ex-boyfriend, a massive flog with David Brentian lack of awareness, who started a Facebook common interest group called “The CryptoVapers.” The thought that I might be considered as even of the same ilk as him made my arse cheeks quiver.
At least analogue cigarettes have a bit of rustic charm.
But vapes had got me through those first weeks back in the real world, full of near slip-ups, self-loathing and jittery Queanbeyan winter days, where trees are anorexic, the sky sky blue and the tips of grass frosted blonde. Any flavour hit the spot – Butterscotch Baller, Lychee Flamenco, Mango Bonfire – as long as there was that sweet nicotine catch in the throat. Time passed by, not easily, but softened my constant companion: what Alessandro called “the robot phallus.” I blew out my cares in cotton candy clouds.
Problem was, the State Government of NSW had just done a 180, making it suddenly illegal to buy vape liquid with nicotine in it. According to Alessandro, The Vape Lord had predicted the government’s change of plan and seen a gap in the market. He’d bought vast quantities of nicotine liquid, then started mixing up his own flavours in his Karabar basement. I imagined a man with a shock of Einstein hair hovering over bubbling beakers and test tubes.
“He’s more than just a hustler, bro,” said Alessandro with a cryptic look. “Way more.”
As I pulled on my Nikes to meet the mysterious Lord, words I’d heard many times danced in my head: “Your life literally depends on never taking a mind- or mood-altering substance ever again.” It was true. If I drank again, only hell would follow.
“But does nicotine count as mind- or mood-altering?” I muttered.
“What was that?” called Sonja from the cinnamon-coloured couch.
“Nothing.”
“Where you off to?”
“Out.”
“It’s late.”
“Just getting some fresh air.”
“Bring me back some Shapes, then. Pizza.”
“Easy.”
These were the most words that Sonja and I had exchanged in a week. As I walked out the door, I looked at the family photo framed on the wall: all of us together – me, Sonja, Mum, Dad – at a time when we couldn’t have seemed happier. I could see that Sonja, on the couch, was watching a blackhead popping compilation on her phone. On screen was an extreme close up of an unidentified span of skin. A needle plunged into a plugged pore and dug out what looked like a hard little garnet. Sonja shivered with pleasure, absent-mindedly stroking the only finger on her left hand that didn’t have a ring on it.
The never-fruiting lemon tree watched me as I walked out the gate and seemed to ask the question again:
“Is nicotine mind- or mood-altering?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I replied to the lemon tree. “But no one ever crashed a car or king hit a mate ‘cos they were amped up on nicotine, did they? The main thing is that it’s not meth or grog.”
I reached Guns N’ Hoses car wash at 10:45pm and sat on the kerb, breath blossoming white in the winter air. The “O” of the yellow MOTEL sign on the corner blinked as if transmitting a mysterious wartime code. In my twenty years living in Queanbeyan, I’d never seen the sign fixed – it would’ve been weird to see it properly working. I had the same type of feeling as when I was scoring drugs – buzzy, slightly thrilled, like I was doing something illicit… which, come to think of it, I was. I looked back down at my texts:
—how will I know who u are??
—Don’t worry. You’ll know.
I clapped my hands three times, something I do when I’m nervous.
Presently, a lowered, teal green Commodore with tinted windows pulled into the car wash. Emblazoned across the side of it, in holographic letters, was:
V A P E L O R D.
When The Vape Lord emerged, I thought I was hallucinating. He was wearing a teal velour Adidas tracksuit that perfectly matched the car, which in turn matched the ghostly grey gum trees behind them, giving the impression of an optical illusion. He had tinted blonde hair; even his beard was tinted blonde. He was wearing a gold Roman coin on a gold chain. His shoes? Also Adidas. And they too were teal and gold.
We shook hands, and I was immediately taken by the look of serenity that he had on his face. He wordlessly handed me a plastic bottle full of vape liquid – Cranberry Carnage – which I filled my vape with and puffed on appreciatively. It felt so good I was almost worried that he had laced it with something. I blew out a cloud.
“Turns out there is such a thing as smoke without fire,” said The Vape Lord in a voice as serene as his face. “So. Shamil. How’s your heart?”
“My heart?” I said, disarmed. “Well… still ticking. Just. Got out of rehab a couple weeks ago.”
“Takes a big man to recognise that he has a problem and do something about it.”
“Pity it wasn’t me that recognised it.” I laughed bitterly. “Or did something about it. They made me.”
“Ah, well. As long as you’re moving forward.”
“This helps.” I snorted a cloud out of my nostrils like a dragon.
“Alhamdulillah.”
I shot him a sidelong glance. There seemed nothing suspicious about him. He had placid, hooded eyes, and took on the air not of a shady nicotine slinger but something like a monk. We stood next to his car, peering down Crawford Street as if it was a landing strip for spacecraft, saying nothing.
When I got back to the flat, everything was quiet. I left a packet of Pizza Shapes in front of Sonja’s door, like flowers at a gravestone, then sat in my room and puffed, thinking deep into the past and the future. A blind pimple throbbed.
I began to meet up with The Vape Lord every couple of weeks to top up my supplies. We would chat about addiction and amends, fried chicken and the price of petrol. He told me stories about escaping war. How he’d come to Australia as a refugee as a young boy. He told me how very scared he was on the turbulent sea. How when they ran out of water, his mother cut her arm to feed him blood. How when they finally arrived at the refugee detention centre, it had been so long since he’d slept that he almost got vertigo when he lay down on a proper bed.
Eventually, I stopped buying vape liquid and went there just to talk. I realised that he was the only person I spoke to. My only friend. Sonja and I passed each other in the tiny flat, carefully, vaporously, like ghosts. One day, sitting in the warm, pine-scented, immaculate white interior of the Commodore, The Vape Lord asked me a very strange question:
“Did you know that there are opals on Mars?”
“For real?”
“Truly. And if opals exist on Mars, then water does, and maybe mankind can settle there. Ever seen an opal?”
“Yeh. Sonja inherited an opal ring that Grandpa dug up in Lightning Ridge. It was as big as a plum. The most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”
“The ones on Mars are more precious than anything on Earth.” The Vape Lord’s hooded eyes sparkled with an inner fire. “Would you like to see them?”
“Sure,” I laughed.
At that, he revved the Commodore’s engine. As it roared, the lights along Crawford Street became blindingly bright, illuminating the asphalt like a runway. He eased out into the street and pressed his foot down on the accelerator. The car went faster and faster, racing down Crawford Street, with a speed I’d never known possible, even in the drunkest of joyrides, scrrrting down the avenues of Queanbeyan and Canberra in a cloud of burnt rubber, with no regard for life or limb; we drove past the yellow MOTEL sign with the blinking O, past the Queanbeyan Swimming Pool, until finally, the Commodore lifted off the Earth and shot into the atmosphere.
We flew through the galaxy. It was blistered with stars, streaked by scarred light and drifts of smoke from the open mouth of a profane god.
An hour later, we arrived on Mars.
We sat on the bonnet of the Commodore on the edge of a crater. It was rimmed with chunky bright opals, glowing holographic. Seams of opals stretched off into the distance, like gossamer laid across the dusty red planet. The Vape Lord beckoned, and I passed him my vape. He puffed and blew out a heavy cloud that bobbled thick in the air without dissipating. It was the first time I’d seen him actually smoke. Then he said:
“Why do you think your sister Sonja watches pimple popping videos?”
“Dunno. They give her a sense of satisfaction?”
“Sure. But it’s more than that. She watches them because she thinks there’s something wrong with the universe that needs to be fixed. Like there’s a plug in the cosmic flow or an evil lodged in its skin that needs to be expunged. So on a small level, popping a pimple is a microcosm of evil being expunged, then healed. Even if only for a moment.”
“Ha ha. That’s some theory.”
“You don’t agree?”
“Not really. I don’t think there’s something wrong with the universe. Even if there was, there’s nothing that little pissants like us could do about it. The universe is how it is – perfectly indifferent – and we are the ones that are wrong.”
A shooting star crossed our vision, almost close enough to scorch our skin.
“Shamil,” said The Vape Lord. “I reckon your sister watches those videos because that’s what she hopes for you. To unplug the wrong. Then to heal.”
I stared out into the universe, and I thought about how I’d burned every bridge I’d ever built, how the one with Sonja was hanging by a thin thread, wearing through like one of those rope bridges across molten lava or a canyon in a movie. How I’d stolen her heirloom opal ring to pawn it for drugs. How Sonja had found me bleeding out in the bath.
I wanted to cry, but instead, I laughed. “You’re saying I’m like a pimple?”
He jumped down off the bonnet and crouched in the dust. As he spoke, I couldn’t see his face.
“When I was in the detention centre,” said The Vape Lord. “I saw a man who cried every night. I was shocked, because on the boat, he had seemed almost super human – a leader, a navigator. The person who took no shit and got shit done. But I overheard him talking to my dad. It turned out, that while trying to do something good, he had done something bad. Very bad. And he couldn’t forgive himself.”
“Do you know if he ever did?”
“I saw him once after that. Only once. On the street in Canberra, walking the other way, holding a little girl’s hand. She must have been his daughter. He didn’t see me, but I watched them walk, hand in hand, and saw that she adored him beyond belief, and that he was an extraordinary father. And I realised that in order to have become that, he must have somehow forgiven himself. And that made me happier than I’d been in years.”
“How do you think he forgave himself?”
“Patience,” said The Vape Lord, standing up and turning to me. “Time and patience.” He was holding his palm out. In it was an enormous black opal, as big as a peach, chipped in places, in other places perfectly smoothed, as if by an ancient river, holding in its strange dark form celestial fires and flecks of purple, gold and crimson; a self-contained galaxy with the possibility of water that could sustain life. “Here. Have this.”
I tested the opal’s weight in my palm, quietly placed it in my pocket and thanked him. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him again. We stood and looked at the distant Earth.
When I arrived home, Sonja wasn’t on her phone. She was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the photo of all of us together. I sat next to her, and she barely seemed to notice until I took her hand, prised it open and placed the opal in her palm. She looked up, shocked, as if waking from the deepest sleep.
“Where’d you get this?”
“I found it.”
“You didn’t steal it?”
“I found it.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Hey, Sonja. Can I watch something with you?”
“Okay,” she said tentatively, opening her phone.
On screen, frozen, a man was knee deep in a flooded street, in the rain, holding a rake and scraping at something beneath the water. His hair was plastered with rain. Sonja pressed play. The man’s arms started to move vigorously, and I saw that he was trying to dislodge thick clumps of leaves that had clogged the mouth of a drain. Once he dislodged the leaves, the water began to swirl, and its murky surface became alive with mesmerising whirlpools, like Milky Ways moving in fast forward as the water was sucked down, down, down.
The man began to laugh with delight, and soon, so did my sister and I.
2nd Prize
Amber Sky by Deborah Carrington
You stir, with a cry. It tugs me from shallow sleep. Obediently, I roll to face you, placing one hand on the rise and fall of your chest. My sheets are damp. Fresh sweat blended with milk and the faint reminder of blood.
As I brush your cheek, you turn towards my hand, rooting and searching. I sit up, and a groan escapes my lips. The sewn wound on my lower abdomen still smarts when I move. My breasts are firm, tender to touch. You nestle in and find what you are seeking, silenced by the tingling rush of milk. This dance is familiar, for there were three babies before you, but you are my last. My sweet boy, born with a shock of dark hair and a round little nose.
The night is impossibly warm. You drink yourself into oblivion and fall back to sleep in the crook of my arm. Let’s open a window, little man. We shuffle together to the end of the bed and across the room. As the glass pane slides open, fresh air greets our faces. The sun will rise soon, another hot day ahead.
But there it is. Unmistakable. A boulder settles on my chest, pushing down. Wafting in, with the scent of dry grass and eucalyptus, is smoke.
#
It started with a lightning strike, they said. Six days ago. A long, baking day had closed with the rolling in of black clouds. The air was charged, electric. As a few cool drops fell, your siblings ran outside to dance. Daddy was quiet.
The thunder woke us all that night. Your three-year-old sister had leapt into our bed with a tremble. The thunder can’t hurt us, I soothed. I could not say this of the lightning, which tore across the parched earth and ignited the undergrowth. Flames swelled, fanned by arid winds. Fire crept and leapt into hidden places where machinery could not follow.
#
Each morning begins the same. You awake, seeking milk. I make coffee and inhale the rich comfort with each sip. After blurry nights of broken sleep, this is my lifeline.
Then, we check the wind.
I have never taken much interest before. In the early days of our marriage, Daddy frequently laughed when I mixed up north and south. But in these slow, tense days I know the wind direction and speed and chance of precipitation.
Then, we check the fire.
Always the same – watch and wait. So, we watch and wait. It is forty kilometres away. Close enough to breathe in, but far enough to stay home. Watching. Waiting.
#
You spend your days strapped to my body. It is too soon after surgery for me to carry such weight, but you have an insatiable need for contact. Alone in your bassinet, you will fuss and cry. Cocooned against my heart, you sink into sleep. I think you would climb inside my skin if you could.
We walk together as I prepare bags. A clean set of pyjamas each, a change of clothes. I slip in extra toothbrushes and shampoo and baby wipes, secreting them away. These are the bags we hope we don’t need. The dog lead and cat box are placed under the verandah, close to the car.
I brush off your siblings’ questions, keeping my voice light. Everything is fine, I just want to have some things ready. Just in case. We won’t need them.
#
The air grows hazy. The sky painted gold, pink. No blue. No clarity. Your tiny clothes flap on the washing line. As I fold them, bone dry, they hold the memory of smoke. Dust settles on everything.
Your body starts to relax, stretching and growing. Only when you are deeply asleep, milk-drunk, do you fold up into the newborn curl. Another milestone to kiss goodbye.
Daddy goes out and brings back a Christmas tree. There is an irony in putting up pine trees in the height of summer, but the smell is heavenly. We pull out the box from the shed and your siblings rediscover the ornaments they made last year. Pinecones sprayed gold and cardboard bells adorned with pasta shells. The excitement is always fresh.
I watch them from the sofa as you breastfeed. The twinkle lights go on first, then the tinsel. Baubles are hung unevenly, stopping at the height of your sister’s arms. It is perfect.
#
Day by day, the fire grows. The dust thickens. The air glows eerily in the middle of the day. Watch and wait, watch and wait.
Behind the woodshed, I let myself cry. You sleep against my chest, the only witness to my tears as I breathe the intoxicating musky smell of your head. I wait for the tears to dry before we go back inside. My face finds a smile. Everything is fine. Nothing to worry about.
We journey into town for our postnatal check-up. You cry the whole time. My wound has not healed and is breaking down. I need antibiotics. The nurse shakes her head. You really should be resting, you know. I blink back tears as she redresses the wound. Antiseptic stings.
#
The sun rises, too dark. Amber sky, like a world in its final, dying hours. Smoke is visible now. It burns our eyes and throats and makes it hard to breathe. We keep you inside, doors and windows closed against the acrid air.
We start packing. Your siblings watch a movie, unaware of the preparations outside. The big bag is ready, but I need your baby things. The portacot. Nappies. All of the little things that help me through the long nights.
Over and over, we check for updates. Watch and wait. Watch and wait. I hang out one more load of washing and water the garden. My vegetables are parched and wilted, tomatoes shrivelling where they should be full and plump. I remember with a pang the happy days spent planting, when the air was cool and fresh and you were safely floating inside me.
The wind shifts, blowing hot against my face.
Shit. We’ve got to go, love. Daddy runs towards me from the verandah.
The watching and waiting has ended. A new message arrives: Leave now.
We are ready. There is nothing left to do but bundle the family into the car and lock the doors. I take one final look through the window as I turn the key, wondering if this is the last time I will look upon the faded sofa where we read bedtime stories. Daddy and I guard our faces and explain our sudden outing. The smoke is just getting a bit thick, so we are going to drive away for a while.
We pull out of the driveway and look left and right. The road to the right has vanished, wreathed in smoke. I walked that road with you while you slept in the pram. Memory tells me there is an old fire shed, a road sign, the neighbour’s fruit trees, but none of this is visible now. The smoke is a dirty yellow.
We turn left. The air clears as we come out of the forest and into open country. I feel naked. Four little ones strapped into the car, you only a few weeks old, and we have left our home. I try not to think about the photos on the walls and the soft toys on the beds and the books on the shelf. Our whole world is now in this car.
#
We drive for an hour. The smoke is behind us like a bad dream, although it lingers on our clothes and hair. We drive to Warrnambool, seeking air conditioning. Your sisters are excited by this unexpected treat, a family trip out. Your brother, the eldest, is quiet.
I usually hate shopping centres, but the frigid air inside is a blessed relief. We buy cold drinks and fries and sit in the food court. You nuzzle my chest, and I lift my shirt so you can feed. Amidst Christmas decorations and fluorescent lighting, I am trying not to picture what is happening to our home.
We wander around, filling time. You are strapped to my chest again, dozing. You are fast asleep, but I keep stroking your back. I think it is to soothe myself. Staring at rows and rows of cheap homeware, I laugh. It really is just stuff, isn’t it?
Daddy comes up behind me and wraps his arms around us both. We stand there, together, in the middle of Kmart.
#
Hours later, everyone is tired and cranky. The shops are closing, but it is too hot for the park. Outside, the heat hits us as if we have stepped inside a furnace. Your brother cries out when he tries to enter the car. We wait, opening the windows and blasting the air conditioning for a few minutes.
A message vibrates on my phone. One of my work colleagues. I saw the evacuation notice. Please come and stay. We have plenty of room. She and her husband have an empty nest. I am overwhelmed by their kindness. I tap out a reply, and we look up the address.
Their house is incredible. With stairs and ramps and so many rooms, it is like a castle compared to our little farmhouse. The upper level looks out to the sea. My friend and her husband cook dinner and distract the children with tours of their garden and chickens and birds. They have a television room. This is heaven, and they are the angels.
#
I gaze into the dark and hear you stirring. I have been awake for hours, staring into blackness, willing my chest to stop pounding. There is no escape from the swirling images invading my mind. All six of us are pressed together into one room. Your siblings thought it was great fun to have a whole family sleepover.
The night air has cooled, and a breeze wafts through the open window. I cuddle you into my chest. We are many miles from home, in an unfamiliar house. The smoky morning feels like a strange dream. We do not know if our house is still there or if all our memories are piled in ashes. We have each other, and it is enough.
I study your tiny fingers and the soft, pulsating area on top of your head. Your eyelids are translucent, tiny purple veins tracing across them. You drift back to sleep, your world complete.
#
I blink, and you are three months old. All thighs and cheeks and smiles. You have decided that you don’t need to sleep during the day. There is too much to see and do, being the youngest of four. You are delicious.
Autumn has arrived, with its sweet rains and cool days and hint of frost. For now, we do not fear fire. The only smoke we see now is the cheerful kind, as we toast marshmallows in the orchard. The dry, brown tomato plants have been pulled up and new crops put into moist soil.
We decide to drive past the forest that was on fire, on the day when we went for a long drive and had a big sleepover. Do you remember when the sky turned red? Do you remember when we slept in a castle?
We round a bend in the road and pull over onto the grass. You cry when the engine stops, so I unbuckle you and unclasp my bra. As you feed, it is quiet. We open the windows to get a better look. The forest is dead, your sister gasps. No, says Daddy, look closer.
There is no canopy of foliage, no lush undergrowth. The trees have been reduced to bare, black stumps. A charcoal forest. But Daddy is right. If you look closely, you can see the barest hint of green. Tiny shoots peeking through black.
You finish feeding, giving me a milky grin. I plant a kiss on your cheek and buckle you back into the seat beside your sister. Contented, we drive home.
3rd Prize
Short Story by Carola Bieniek
Harold Curtiss shuffled into his office at nine thirty in the morning, thermos filled with coffee, three spoonfuls of sugar, no milk. He opened his laptop, took his first sip from the thermos, and let out a sigh at the familiar sight of dozens of direct messages waiting for a reply.
Harold, the mentor, got to work.
Ha! Yes, you have to, don’t you.
Good to hear! Keep it up!
Don’t be so hard on yourself!
No way! That’s an impressive turnaround!
Thanks! Yes, I did. I hope you too?
No, it happens to all of us. Let’s make sure to talk later.
Brilliant! I’ll get right to it.
Brilliant! Can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with.
Thus he continued until just after eleven. Then he took a red pen to the pile of paper that had grown on the printer’s output tray. He encircled and crossed out. He set exclamation marks and question marks. He frowned and groaned, only occasionally chuckled and hissed in appreciation.
At twenty past noon, the mentor returned to his laptop and transformed unmediated reactions into scholarly wisdom encased in optimism.
The realisation that he possessed, after all, beyond his schooling at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, an innate talent for writing tickled Harold’s other side. The author in him never truly wanted the mentor to succeed. However, the author couldn’t deny that the mentor’s reliable monthly earnings made for a better living than a few hundred dollars arriving every few months from contest winnings and royalties for the debut novel he’d sold right after his graduation twenty years ago.
#
Once a year, this author, who had found success as a mentor, changed his hat to one he shared with four others. Harold became a judge. The scheme was simple, really: a contest open to any type of short story written by anyone over 18 anywhere in the world that could receive PayPal cash transfers. Aspiring writers who booked a course from The Mighty Pen, the writing community through which the mentor offered his services, sent in their submissions for free. Everyone else paid a mere 10 dollars. 1,500 to 2,500 words, Times New Roman, double-spaced, PDF only, to a dedicated email address, no names in the file. Names, like pictures, can be worth a thousand words. The creation, however, was to stand for itself, not compete with what its writer’s name might tell.
The prize for the top 3 stories was the honour of seeing oneself published on The Mighty Pen. And enough cash to pay for a week’s worth of shopping, a flight across the country or half a month’s rent. For those whose rent was already paid, the prize offered an opportunity to splurge on themselves. The prospect of leaving a mark on eternity inspired some to invest in unlocking yet more literary counsel. Rather selfishly, Harold thought the last group the most deserving of the judging panel’s votes.
Harold’s protégées, of course, amply used their mentor’s aid in honing a narrative worthy of being judged by a venerable committee. Sometimes, the mentor encouraged a promising yet bashful protégée to enter the fray. The Mighty Pen did not keep it a secret that Harold and his colleagues helped to excavate talent in those who dared to dream.
Over the course of three weeks, Harold gave himself a few hours each night to sip wine and sift through PDF files on his iPad. Even though his preferences made some choices easier, judging this contest was no easy feat. Of more than a thousand entries, 20% failed the entry conditions. Verdana candidates were the worst offenders, followed closely by overtly confident creatives whose covering email subject line led with a hearty Must-Read [insert genre] Story. He was mostly sorry for those desperate souls who added their names to the PDF header, neatly separated from the page numbers in the footer. Alas, he needed to winnow the remaining 80% down to his three chosen candidates for the shortlist.
As a mentor, he was not proud of the fact that he did not always make it past the first page. A run-on sentence in the first paragraph propelled the file into the Read folder before the plot had any opportunity to become apparent. There was no actual harm in this weakness. Five judges with a passion for literature were tasked with reading all qualifying entries. They could not all be as ungenerous as the mentor in his more impatient moments.
Artificial Intelligence, meanwhile, was too smart to use run-on sentences. But it still was not smart enough to create three-dimensional characters or surprising twists, let alone get to The End without letting any flawed protagonist emerge a reformed human. Would Hemingway throw a tantrum, if he knew that in the 21st century, men (and women) of dubious character no longer existed? In the end, no matter how broken or wicked, they always learned valuable lessons and changed their ways. Out of principle, Harold Curtiss read AI-written stories to the last word, if only to assure himself once again that an algorithm would never be able to do what he was doing.
#
In the evening, while waiting for the Uber to feed him chow mein with sesame chicken and honey-glazed prawns, the mentor took a glass of shiraz and the tablet to the balcony of his flat. Remnants of a spring shower hung in the air and on the lounge chair that almost filled the otherwise barren rectangle. He barely noticed the moisture that soaked through his shirt, crept into his trousers.
Two dozen PDFs remained to be screened. He recognised a writing prompt from Words With Meaning — How To Craft Stories That Change The World (only 199 dollars, including 3 months’ access to our exclusive writer community) in multiple stories. A great course for the writing-curious. Over the years, it had yielded many a mentee looking to go beyond winning Facebook arguments to telling their own special story. He recognised a student’s cat. Captain Tinkers was a constant feature in the student’s assignments. The mentor took note to give counsel that Metaphors, Similes & Euphemisms — How To Use Images To Boost Your Writing (299 dollars, only 249 dollars for current students) might offer a great addition to the mentee’s ever-expanding toolkit.
Before draining his wine and impatiently seeking a location update on his food delivery, Harold recognised a painful anecdote from his boyhood. He experienced a twitch of panic that a student could so acutely relate an understanding Harold had believed to be only accessible to the tongue-tied parts of himself.
#
On a Saturday morning, the mentor as a judge and his four colleagues gathered for a Zoom meeting. Each came armed with a passionate array of reasons their preferred candidate should win. Harold welcomed the other four faces on the screen of his laptop.
Kaz was the winner of the preceding contest and, incidentally, commander of a sizable following on whatever was the leading social media platform of the day. The following predated the win. His enrolment in Everyone Has A Story To Tell — 12 Months To Publish Your Own Book (200 dollars per month or only 1,999 dollars for the entire year) had been prompted by the desire to turn fleeting popularity into legacy.
Vivienne was a prolific self-published writer of romantic crime novels. Her following, albeit less sizable, was faithful and not disinclined to believe they could follow in Vivienne’s footsteps.
Chris had, more than a decade ago, alerted the author struggling to pay his bills to the possibilities of becoming a mentor basking in the glory of shepherding aspiring artists to creative expression (and being remunerated regardless of the outcome’s merits). Having delivered a roster of writing courses on The Mighty Pen, Chris possessed in associated knowledge what others wielded in writerly aspiration.
And finally Sal, who, much to Harold’s author alter ego’s dismay, had once published a story in The New Yorker. Last winter, amid yet another round of budget shifts in the industry, Sal had lost her publisher. This almost made up for her previous accomplishments.
As it happened, Chris’s nominations to the shortlist overlapped with Harold’s in two of three titles: Captain Tinkers and The Tree. Vivienne and Sal and Kaz agreed Jimmy was an extraordinary display of craftsmanship. A simple premise — long a marker of some of the best short stories — weaved into a riveting narrative, in which every word carried its weight. The mentor concurred. He, too, could not ignore Jimmy, but knew there were other strong candidates on the list. Chris’s third choice, Malodorous Clouds, elicited a wince and two apologies from Vivienne. The words drivel and try-hard fell between the apologies and prompted relieved nods from Kaz. Sal, though she said she could not recall the story, needed no further evidence to exclude Malodorous Clouds from further consideration.
Journey To Blueberry Mountain told of a woman chancing upon a long-lost sister and diving into long-forgotten childhood memories. The mentor pointed out that this emotional and certainly well-crafted journey was uncomfortably similar to the journey Kaz’s protagonist had found herself on in last year’s winning entry, Summers at Strawberry Lake. Chris had to agree: he didn’t like the optics of rewarding the same story, albeit told differently, a second time in two years. Vivienne blushed when speaking about Love À La Mode, where boy met girl at the end of the 1940s in a bakery. Sal looked aghast. With visible cheer, she proposed that Corn Bread should surely quench the fellow juror’s appetite for bake stuff. Vivienne grinned helplessly until Chris interjected, “To be honest, I didn’t get this one. I mean… why?”
The jury was swooning in unison about Clockwise. What an intriguing story! The tale of a young Swiss watchmaker who tries to break out of the bourgeois corset of his life by making only watches that run counterclockwise offered a gripping protagonist and colourful detail. “But isn’t that what ultimately prevents it from being a great short story?” Chris said. “It’s the beginning of a novel.”
The discussion gyrated for a few minutes around the merits of the short story as its own form versus an opportunity to practise craft.
Eventually, the shortlist contracted one by one.
When the group returned to The Tree, Sal grew exasperated. “Excellent example of what we just talked about: It’s like they received a writing prompt, and then just wrote circles around it. Without ever understanding why they cared for the story’s theme to begin with.”
Notwithstanding linguistic unevenness, the mentor countered, the issue described was an important one, and wasn’t a contest like this exactly the place to echo the needs of the voiceless? They were absolutely not just following a trend. No, this was anything but going down the easiest path. This stirring speech secured The Tree a spot in the top three.
While they were all fond of cats, Captain Tinkers had not ingratiated himself as much with the other three judges as it had with the representatives of The Mighty Pen. Expecting an uphill battle, the mentor had come prepared. He scrolled with flicks of his finger, and found the lines, highlighted in neon-yellow:
“And in the sunshine, we walked like friends. His paws carrying the weight of the world.”
Sal rolled her eyes. Kaz, on the other hand, having himself enjoyed the mentor’s considered care, struggled to argue against this uncanny ability to read meaning between lines. Thus, he expanded the number of supporters for this furry tale to three.
Clockwise came in for another round of discussion. Ultimately, the rebel craftsman could not hold his own against Jimmy.
Noon was nigh, and the five judges congratulated each other for their productive debate. They praised the deserving winners and wished each other luck for their brilliant new projects. No doubt they’d soon be together again.
Before leaving his desk, the mentor reread three drafted emails:
Congratulations on this hard-earned win. I can’t wait to dive in and build on this with you.
He clicked Send and closed his laptop, knowing that they had made a worthy decision.
At ten thirty that night, the author strode to his desk, glass of whiskey two fingers wide in hand. Harold Curtiss opened his laptop and stared at a blank page.
