Nothing sets the tone of the day quite like stepping on your brand new prescription sunglasses, and having to dig out an old pair from high school. Not only was everything a little blurry, but they were hot pink, and too tight.

But people needed their pad thai, and I needed to pay rent—and buy new glasses—so I pre-loaded on ibuprofen to ease the headache I knew was coming, and picked up my first order. Once the pad thai—called it—was packed in the insulated bag on the back of my bike, I headed off and immediately hit a red light. I coasted to a stop, placing one foot on the curb.

A black sedan pulled up beside me. The back window rolled down and a man in a black suit leaned his head at the window. “I prefer a spice level of three out of five.”

I blinked, unable to make out his face clearly with the five year old prescription. “Uh…that’s nice.”

The man nodded. “Confirmed.”

The light turned green, and I pedaled. Fast. People were so weird.

The customer with the pad thai—479 Alpine Ave—opened the door a crack. “Did anyone follow you?”

“Umm…” Behind me cars streamed past and a dogwalker stumbled by, struggling with a tangled knot of leashes. “No?”

“I hear the Pad See Ew is good,” the woman said.

“This is pad thai.”

“Understood.” The door opened a little wider. The house was too dark inside to make out a face, but a hand shot out and took the bag from me. As soon as the plastic cleared the doorframe, the door slammed.

My phone dinged, and I looked down at an additional $150 tip. Breath shaky, I checked my balance on the app as I walked down the stairs, and there it was. The tip was real, and enough to cover utilities.

Before I could put my phone away, it dinged again.

New order available. Express. Tip $150.

I stared at the phone. Another $150 tip? For a burrito? I accepted the order. It didn’t make any sense, but I needed to buy new sunglasses.

A message popped up immediately. Please advise on spice level.

What, they wanted me to pick how spicy….no way. I typed out a message. Three.

Confirmed.

After pocketing my phone, I swung a leg over my bike. I had no idea what was going on, but if I kept getting tips like these, I was going to make rent, get new glasses, and be the one ordering take out for a change.

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I was initially very excited about these prompts, but my idea was too grand for a story under 1,000 words. If you have read the final story, you will see that my outline does not match. At all.

Outline

Robot arrives at farm- you boy immediately decides they are going to be friends.

Little boy walking the robot around the farm and teaching him how to do chores.

Figure out how to make years pass in a short story?

Some event that makes the family leave the farm, but they can’t take the robot.

Next step was to write the Zero Draft:

“Hold still,”

F-27 held still.

Small hands set a red hat on its head, crooked and too small. It obscured several sensors and needed to be removed.

“Now you’re a real farmhand.” The boy smiled.

“Designation updated,” F-27 said. “Real Farmhand.”

Get that thing out to the west field, there’s a fence down.”

{insert clever transition here}

F-27 bent, picking up the splintered rail.

“This wasn’t a cow. Damn Evensfreaks again.”

The repair protocols were clear, and F-27 was able to fix the fence in under a minute. “Fence secured.”

“You might be worth something after all. Even in that ridiculous hat.”

It is the first nice thing the adult male has said, though F-27 still preferred the boy.

The pasture stretched wide and green, the large black animals grazing in small groups, scattering when the 4-wheeler drove through them. F-27 loped behind the vehicle, as instructed.

{time for another clever transition}

“This is how you feed the horses.”

Small hands lifted the bucket of pellets, dumping them into the trough.

“Put the water in now.”

F-27 dumped the bucket of water of the hard, shiny pellets.

“Good job, Rusty.”

“Affirmative.”

I realized that my idea wasn’t going to work before finishing my zero draft. I changed gears, and my next “zero draft” ended up being my final draft. Lesson here, don’t be afraid to scrap what you have and go in a different direction.

You can read the final story here:

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F-27 stands at the edge of the fence, one arm hanging slightly lower than the other. Its joints creak as it bends to lift the splintered rail. The wood is soft with rot and crumbles with the movement. F-27 freezes, systems lagging, searching for a repair protocol it has already executed five hundred and twenty-four times.

“Secure fence,” the voice crackles. “Protect livestock.”

The pasture is barren, the grass long since turned to dust. Sun-bleached skulls, the only thing marring the dry, cracked earth. Still F-27 presses the broken rail back into place and hammers it down with stilted, uneven strikes. The nails split the wood further, but somehow it stays in place.

A fragment of old audio plays, “good job, Rusty.”

F-27 stills. Its head tilted. “Affirmative.”

A breeze stirs, and F-27 tightens the stampede string on the small, red hat upon its head.

Back at the farmhouse, F-27 picks up a door, long since fallen off its hinges, revealing the entrance. It steps inside.

“Assist the family.”

Rusted joints creak as F-27 picks up a broom and sweeps up the dust that filtered in through the empty windows while it repaired the fence. It sweeps, dusts, picks up a toy horse and places it back down in the same spot. F-27 adjusts the five chairs around the table so they are perfectly equidistant.

“Assist the family.”

It turns and retrieves a plate from the cabinet. It sets the plate on the table, then another, and another, until all five places are filled. It pauses, head tilted.

Error: expected occupancy does not match detected presence.

F-27 reaches out and adjusts one plate.

“Corrected,” it says.

Outside, the wind picks up. The barn door creaks in a slow, uneven rhythm.

Puffs of dust rise from the ground with each footfall. Its gait stutters, one leg frozen for three seconds, then movement resumes. Inside, the stalls are unoccupied, the troughs dry. A length of rope swings gently from a beam.

“Feed the horses.”

It picks up an empty bucket next to the first trough, tilting it. Metal clangs on metal, the sound echoing throughout the structure. The process is repeated at each stall.

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the yard. F-27 returns to the house, left leg dragging.

Inside, the table is still set.

F-27 moves to the kitchen to prepare the meal, tilting an empty bag of flour over a bowl, holding a pitcher under a tap from which no water flows.

“Assist,” the voice falters. “Assist…”

A sharp whine cuts through its systems. Its vision flickers.

Error.

F-27 turns toward the table. Five plates. Five chairs. It takes a step forward. The left leg fails to respond, joint locking up. It stumbles, catching itself against the table, sending one plate skidding across the surface. The ceramic strikes the floor and shatters.

F-27 drops the rest of the way, metal knees denting the wood floor. Piece by piece, it gathers the shards, placing them back on the table. The cracks do not align.

“Corrected.”

Outside, the wind howls.

“Secure fence.”

F-27 moves outside, picking up the door and placing it back over the threshold. The wind tugs at the hat, the stampede string tightening against its neck.

F-27 raises a hand to hold the hat down. “Real farmhands wear hats.”

It lowers its hand, and the wind takes the hat once more. F-27 tries to reach up again, but the arm does not respond.

Error.

It tries again.

Error.

Its systems flicker. A core memory.

“Hold still,” said a bright voice.

F-27 held still.

Small hands set a red hat on its head, crooked and too small.

“Now you’re a real farmhand.”

“Designation updated,” F-27 said. “Real Farmhand.”

The wind howls and F-27’s vision flickers back on. Its head dips forward.

“Assist..”

F-27 does not move again.

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“What did I tell you about getting on the table?”

The cat looked over her shoulder and lay down.

It didn’t really matter. The new owner could clean up the paw prints. Willie didn’t know who the next owner would be and didn’t care. The only thing left to settle was the cat. There had been no one to feed her when he was in the hospital. She had been fine during his two-day stay, she was always catching little fish, or stealing from the nets, his or one of the others. But next time, he wouldn’t be coming back.

His old neighbor, Alan, was in a facility two hours away in the city. The stroke had left him in a wheelchair. Willie had visited once, but Alan hadn’t known he was there, or who he was. The doctors had told Willie he would have another stroke soon, and he was going to make sure it was a big one. As soon as he took care of the cat.

A song came on the radio that he liked, and Willie turned up the volume. Static blared over the melody. The cat’s ears flicked at the noise. The stations he received varied with the wind. Rather than wait it out, Willie turned the dial.

“...it’s taking place tonight at the Grange and tickets are available for purchase at the door. We hope to see you all at the Little Miss Harbor Pageant.”

The radio settled back into static, and Willie turned it off. The cat rolled onto her back, and Willie reached out to stroke her belly. She purred, then swatted at him. Willie chuckled. His gaze drifted past the companionway and out at the sky. It was a sunny day, the sky blue. There had been a sash like that once. Pale blue. Or maybe it had just faded that way. It hung on a peg by the door until it didn’t. He couldn’t remember when it disappeared.

Willie twisted off the cap of his blood pressure medicine and swallowed the tablet with the last of his coffee, wondering if he had a clean shirt that wasn’t missing too many buttons.

The Grange hadn’t changed much. The old stucco facade was cracked in all the same places and noise poured out of the open doors. Laughter, shoes scuffing, too many voices at once. When he stepped inside, a familiar sight greeted him. Folding chairs lined up in rows, most of them full. Half the town was there.

A woman at a table near the front was pinning numbers onto small dresses. A girl stood in front of her, fidgeting.

“Hold still, sweetheart,” the woman said.

For a second, the room shifted. The same floor, same lights buzzing overhead, the same reek of too much perfume. But there, a pair of shoes, the laced bows lopsided. A hand brushing something off a shoulder that wasn’t there.

Then it was gone. Willie turned away from the table and took a seat in the back. The metal chair was cold, even through the flannel of his shirt.

“Hello Mr. James.”

His head turned at the familiar voice.

Cathy sat down next to him. “It’s good to see you.”

The talent part of the show was announced in time for Willie to escape having to answer. The jostling and chatting subsided as the lights dimmed. The young contestants shuffled across the stage one by one. There was singing, the playing of pianos and violins, dancing, and a poorly written poem about chocolate.

When a girl in a blue dress stepped out into the spotlight, Cathy leaned forward in her chair, hands coming together sharp and quick. Willie could see bits of Cathy in her. The shape of her nose, the dark eyebrows and white-blonde hair a startling combination. How the skirt was wrinkled where the small hand worried at the edge. He hadn’t known Cathy had a child.

When the girl was done, the rest of the group filtered back into the spotlight, forming a line across the stage. A woman with a clipboard, the same one that had been pinning the numbers onto the contestants, smiled at the first girl. “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

The first girl answered, “a violinist.”

“An astronaut,” said the next.

“The first female president.”

“A doctor.”

“A nurse.”

“An astrophysicist.”

“A veterinarian,” said the girl in the blue dress.

Cathy smiled and clapped, and caught Willie looking.

“She’s not too happy to be here,” she whispered.

“She doesn’t want to be in the pageant?”

“Not really. I just loved this so much when I was a girl, but...”

On stage, the girls shifted as names were called. Applause rose and fell.

“You’re still in the boat? With the black cat?”

Willie nodded. “For now.”

“We stop and wait sometimes on the way home from school. Nickie saw your cat catch a fish once and hasn’t stopped talking about it since.”

An unbidden smile crept across his face. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

Cathy’s eyes didn’t leave the stage. “It’s been a long time since we talked.”

“How old is she?”

“Eleven.”

“The father?”

“Left six years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

On the stage, the girl, Nickie, smoothed her dress, stepping forward to accept a ribbon for eighth place. Cathy clapped and whistled.

“If…if she likes the cat so much, she could come and meet her?”

Cathy turned, smiling. “I would love that, Mr. James.”

“Just call me Willie.”

Cathy and Nickie stopped by the following Monday, right after school. The cat was unsure of the duo, pacing back and forth on the helm. Willie offered a steady hand for the mother and daughter to lean on as they stepped off the marina dock and onto the boat.

The breeze caught Cathy’s hair, and she tucked it behind her ears. “Nickie, this is Mr. James. I used to go to school with his daughter.”

Nickie waved, but didn’t take her eyes off the cat.

“Go on girl,” he said.

The cat’s ears turned, catching his voice. She stepped forward, then back, before surging off the helm and stopping short of the girl. The girl didn’t move. Then the cat leaned forward and pressed her head against the girl’s knee.

Willie let out a breath through his nose. That would do.

Nickie sat, and the cat hopped into her lap.

Cathy came over to where he stood in the shade. She took off her sunglasses and breathed deep. “I have a lot of fond memories on this boat.”

Willie tried not to look at her. Cathy had grown into her ears and lost the curls, but the eyes and smile were the same. She was too much of a reminder. “The cat needs a new home.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m moving on. I’m too old to keep up this rig anymore.”

“Where to?”

Willie chuckled. “I have no idea. My friend is in one of those nursing homes in the city. I don’t want to do that, but it’s time to let go of this place, and I can’t take the cat with me.”

“I don’t know…”

Nickie had found a gull feather and was waving it around. The cat leapt, little jaws clamping down on the plume.

“What about a trial run? Take her for a few days.”

“Won’t you be lonely without her?”

Willie would miss the cat, but he was good at missing things. “Yes. But I can’t take care of her anymore.”

The wind surged, ripping the feather out of Nickie’s hand.

“Okay,” Cathy said. “We’ll try it out.”

Willie had already packed up the cat’s things in two cardboard boxes. Nickie squealed when Cathy told her they would be cat-sitting for a while. He set the carrier down and helped Nickie coax her into it.

“What’s her name,” Nickie asked.

Willie swallowed. “Emma.”

“Like the boat?”

“Yeah, like the boat.”

Willie dumped the pills into the toilet and flushed. The empty orange bottle went into the trash can. In the galley, Willie ran a hand across the faint paw prints on the table. He moved to the chair and sat. His gaze lifted, past the companionway, out toward the water. The sky was the same clear blue as before. Pale. Like something that had been washed out over time.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright.”

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I have an irrational fear of zombies. Yes, I know they’re not real, they still terrify me. Because of that fear, I did not want to write this story. For the first time, I thought about cheating and picking new prompts. But I didn’t. Instead, I wrote this story and gave myself nightmares.

Why did I force myself to write about something that invades my dreams, and not in a good way? Well, I’m writing a short story every week for 2026 from three random prompts picked out from that week’s issue of The New Yorker. Every week, no exceptions.

Here is my process:

Outline

Artist stuck in an attic.

Cigar she found in the house. Is it her house? Maybe she is pet sitting. No, I don’t want anything to happen to a dog. Why is there a cigar?

Drawing zombies that walk by.

Happy ending?

From this minimal outline, I’m sure you can tell I was not excited about these prompts. I also do not have a zero draft to share with you because I was rushing through this project so I could start thinking about puppies.

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I think Greenshirt was handsome once. Add back a nose, scrape off the rot, and he’d be a looker.

He’s normally speedy, but today he is standing in the middle of the street, swaying slightly. I pull out my sketchpad and my last pencil and start drawing. I give him a strong, Roman nose, and don’t draw any of the dead skin, or the clumps of Mrs.Talbot still stuck to his legs. I saw her when she left. Tried to wave and get her to go back in. She didn’t see me, but Greenshirt sure saw her.

I’m the only one left on the street now.

One by one, the neighbors have tried to leave. None of them have succeeded. Some were completely eaten. Others now walk the street, up one side and then down the other, a never-ending loop. Unless they smell fresh meat.

That’s me. I’m fresh meat.

It’s only a matter of time.

Greenshirt tilts his head as if he can feel me staring from the attic window. His shirt—one bright, maybe a golf shirt or something else respectable—is stained and torn. I keep sketching anyway.

It’s funny what your brain does when you are trapped. You’d think I’d spend my time planning an escape, but instead I draw the dead. My sketchpad is full of them now.

I shade in Greenshirt’s jawline. Give him dimples.

A breeze drifts through the broken window, bringing with it the slow, sweet smell of rot. It’s stronger today. Maybe more of them are wandering up from the next block. Or maybe Greenshirt is just getting riper.

I flip the page and start a second sketch, this one full-body. He stands like a drunk statue, knees loose, arms dangling. I erase the bite marks on his shoulder. Straighten his posture.

Greenshirt takes a step. Just one. His shoe drags across the asphalt.

My pencil hovers over the paper.

Normally they shuffle in their loops unless something pulls them off course. A smell. A noise. Movement.

I stay very still, watching through the crack in the curtains. After a moment, he stops again. The wind ruffles his shirt. False alarm.

I go back to shading.

“You were probably popular with the ladies. Nice hair, good teeth.”

That’s the thing that creeps me out the most about Greenshirt. His teeth are still white and perfect in a mouth that shouldn’t be able to move. He does it now. Clack. Clack. His jaw working at nothing. The sound carries in the quiet street. There are no more cars or lawnmowers or music. Just Greenshirt’s teeth.

I finish the sketch. The version of him that existed before all this. The version where he’s standing straight, smiling slightly, dimples deep, shirt clean and tucked in.

Handsome once. Maybe still, if I squint.

I finished my last can of peaches yesterday.

I searched the house from top to bottom.

There’s nothing left.

I even checked Dad’s study. There was a wooden box with a velvet lining. Inside, big, fat, expensive-looking cigars. Dad never smoked a day in his life—neither have I—but it was a gift, and he saved it for a special occasion that never came.

I pick one up and roll it in my fingers. It smells warm and earthy and reminds me of camping.

Clack.

There was a little cutter in the box, and I cut the cigar the way I’ve seen in movies. I stick it between my lips and strike one of my last matches. The flame flares bright in the dim room. I puff until the end glows orange. The smoke is thick and bitter and makes my eyes water. I cough and wave the smoke away. I stand, pulling the curtain back.

Clack.

Greenshirt’s head swivels first, then his shoulder, then the rest of him follows. He stares straight up at me. Our eyes meet.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then he takes a step towards the house.

Towards me.

My heart starts pounding, but I grab my sketchbook and flip to the next page.

“Hold that,” I whisper, already drawing again as the cigar burns slowly between my fingers. “That’s a good pose.”

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I am writing a short story every week in 2026, and last week I wrote A Wrong Turn.

Here is the outline:

Some conservation event near a forest.

Politician who does not care about the environment.

Police show up.

Political flees into the woods. Make it creepy like when you were a kid and alone in the woods.

Runs away, right into the police.

Zero Draft:

Senator Arthur Douglas stood at the trailhead, tugging at the waistband of his corduroy trousers. They had a ridiculous amount of pockets, and were brand new. His campaign advisor had insisted.

“You want rugged,” she’d said. “Voters love a rugged man in the forest.”

Arthur had smiled for the cameras, shaken hands with hikers, and delivered a speech about conservation he hadn’t written, and didn’t remember.

Now the cameras were gone, and per his campaign advisor, the investigators were coming. She told him to wait.

The ancient forest loomed ahead of him, silent and dim beneath a ceiling of towering trees. The path disappeared into a green shadow that smelled of damp earth and old leaves.

Perfect.

He stepped inside.

The first mile was easy enough. The trail was narrow but clear, the ground soft beneath his polished boots.

Arthur checked his phone.

No signal.

He kept walking.

Behind him, somewhere beyond the trees, sirens echoed faintly.

“They’ll never find me,” he muttered.

At first he thought it was just the breeze. Leaves rubbing together, branches creaking, the usual sounds. But then he heard something else.

Words.

“The river contract…”

Arthur stopped.

“Three million…” The voice was almost indistinguishable from the wrestling leaves.”

Arthur spun around. “Who’s there?”

He turned in a slow circle. “Hello?”

The forest breathed quietly around him.

Arthur walked faster.

The trail twisted deeper into the trees. The light dinned as the canopy thickened, turning the afternoon into a gray-green twilight.

“Rezoning approval…”

Arthur wiped sweat from his forehead. No one was saying anything, it was all in his head. “Everyone does it.”

Trees creaked.

Arthur turned sharply. There was no one there. He looked up, he looked down. The knees of his dark green pans were damp now, from brushing past fallen logs and ferns. The color seemed darker than before. Arthur stumbled over a root. The forest floor rose and dipped like waves. When he surfaced, the path was gone.

Arthur pushed through a wall of ferns and stepped into a clearing. The air was stagnant.

The ground beneath him shifted, as if something underneath had breathed.

“The wetlands…”

“That project created jobs.”

Roots surfaced through the soil around the clearing like knuckles pushing up through skin.

“Protected forest…”

Arthur’s voice rose. “Everyone does it!”

“Six signatures..”

Arthur stumbled backward and tripped over a tree root. He hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. “You can’t prove that.”

From come where far below the clearing came a slow, grinding sound.

“Who’s there?”

The sound intensified.

Arthur scrambled to his feet and ran. He plunged back into the trees, crashing through ferns and branches. Twigs snapped under his boots, his breath came in ragged bursts. Trees seemed to pulse, to move. Branches Aurther had bee sure were several feet away, grabbed at him.

Arthur skidded down a small slope and nearly rolled down a steep embankment. Below, the river was dark and churning.

He spun and ran in the opposite direction. The trees were thicker. The trail was gone. Every direction he turned to looked the same. Endless trunks rising into dim green light. His legs burned, his lungs screamed.

“Six signatures…”

Arthur tripped again and fell to his knees. “Every one does it.”

“Senetor Douglas?”

Arthur slowly turned his head.

A figure stood between the trees. Two figures, actually. Then three. Their dark Jackets caught glints of gray light.

Badges.

Arthur padded his many pockets, looking for his phone

One of then stepped forward, holding out leather-bound credentials. “Federal investigators. You’re under arrest.”

Arthur blinked. They were on a path, a clear trail that couldn’t have been there before. Behind the agents, red and blue lights flickered through the trees.

Arthur looked around. The forest was lighter, there were no reaching branches, no voices. Just trees in the fading afternoon light.

“Are you alright, Senator?”

“I think…” Arthur said, “I took a wrong turn.”

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Senator Arthur Douglas stood at the trailhead, tugging at the waistband of his corduroy trousers. They had a ridiculous amount of pockets and were brand new. His campaign advisor, Mandy, had insisted.

“You want rugged,” she’d said. “Voters love a rugged man in the forest.”

Arthur had smiled for the cameras, shaken hands with hikers, and delivered a speech about conservation he hadn’t written and barely remembered.

Now the cameras were gone, and per his campaign advisor, the investigators were coming. She’d told him to wait and stepped away to make a call.

Trees, Arthur didn’t know what kind, loomed ahead of him. There was a path that disappeared into green shadows. He wrinkled his nose at the damp smell of earth and old leaves.

Arthur peered over his shoulder. Mindy—or maybe it was Melissa—had her back turned. He smiled and stepped past the first row of trees.

The first mile was easy enough. The trail was narrow but clear, the ground soft beneath his polished boots. Sunlight filtered through the branches in pale streaks that never quite reached the forest floor.

Arthur checked his phone.

No signal.

He kept walking.

Behind him, somewhere beyond the trees, sirens echoed faintly.

“They’ll never find me,” he muttered.

At first, he thought it was just the breeze. Leaves rubbing together. Branches creaking. The small shifting noises forests make, or at least the ones they made on TV. But then Arthur heard something else.

Words.

“The river contract…”

Arthur stopped.

“Three million…” The voice was almost indistinguishable from the rustling leaves.

Arthur spun around. “Who’s there?”

Nothing. Just trees.

He turned in a slow circle. “Hello?”

Nothing answered. Arthur chuckled and increased his speed.

The trail twisted deeper into the trees. The light dimmed as the canopy thickened, turning the afternoon into a gray-green twilight.

“Rezoning approval…”

Arthur wiped sweat from his forehead. No one was saying anything. It was just the wind. Just branches rubbing together. “Everyone does it.”

A long creak passed through the trees.

Arthur turned, but there was no one there. He looked up, only branches. He looked down, roots and mud and leaves. He needed to keep moving. The knees of his dark green pants were damp now, from brushing past fallen logs and ferns. The color seemed darker than before, and the damp parts clung painfully to his skin. Arthur stumbled over a root. The forest floor rose and dipped like waves. When he surfaced, the path was gone.

Arthur pushed through a wall of ferns and stepped into a clearing. The air was stagnant.

The ground beneath him shifted, as if something beneath the soil had taken a slow breath.

“The wetlands…”

Arthur swallowed. “That project created jobs.”

“Protected forest…”

“Everyone does it.”

“Six signatures…”

Arthur stumbled backward and tripped over a tree root. He hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. “You can’t prove that.”

A branch snapped behind him.

“Who’s there?”

A creaking sound came from the opposite side of the clearing.

Arthur scrambled to his feet and ran. He plunged back into the trees, crashing through ferns and branches. The trees seemed to pulse, to move. Branches Arthur had been sure were several feet away, clawed at him. The arm of his jacket caught on something and tore.

Arthur skidded down a small slope and nearly rolled down a steep embankment. Below, the river churned, dark and swollen.

He spun and ran in the opposite direction. The trees were thicker. The trail was gone. Every direction he turned looked the same. Endless trunks rising into dim green light. His legs burned, his lungs screamed.

“Six signatures…”

Arthur tripped again and fell to his knees. “Everyone does it.”

“Senator Douglas?”

Arthur slowly turned his head.

A figure stood between the trees. Two figures, actually. Then three. Something on their dark jackets caught glints of gray light. Badges.

Arthur padded his many pockets, looking for his phone. He needed Michelle.

One of the figures stepped forward, holding out leather-bound credentials. “Federal investigators. You’re under arrest for fraud and illegal rezoning.”

Arthur blinked. They were standing on a clear trail. A wide, clear path that wasn’t there before. Behind the agents, red and blue lights flickered through the trees.

Arthur looked around. The forest was brighter. There were no reaching branches, no voices. Just trees in the fading afternoon light.

“Are you alright, Senator?”

“I think…” Arthur said, “I took a wrong turn.”

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Here is the outline:

Raymond, ninety-one, in a nursing home. Gets angry when “salad” comes in a small bag.

Complains to management about small bags of salad and they don’t care.

A volunteer from the local community held a writing workshop once a week. Raymond goes to class to compose a formal complaint letter.

Tiny bags of salad replaced with actual bowls.

Zero Draft:

At precisely 12:02 PM on a Tuesday, Raymond Dunsmuir—aged ninety-one, retired civil engineer, veteran of one war and two wives—slammed a small plastic bag onto the dining room manager’s desk.

“What is this?”

“It’s salad,” said Denise, who was twenty-three, held a degree in nutritional wellness, and had taken the job at Westwood Run Assisted Living because options one through six hadn’t panned out.

Raymond pinched the corner of the bag between two fingers. Inside, approximately six spinach leaves, one cherry tomato, and a pale carrot slice clung to the inside of the small bag with condensation. “

“It’s portion controlled.”

“At my age, I do not require portion control. I require lunch.

Westwood Run had recently pivoted to mindful servings. The small bags of salad reduced costs, food waste, and also Raymond’s will to live.

Raymond lifted the bag. “I’ve seen rations more generous than this.”

Denis offered him a sympathetic smile that suggested she had been trained specifically for salad complaints.

Raymond shoved the bag into his pocket.

Every Tuesday at 2:00 PM a volunteer from the local community held a writing workshop in the Sunflower room. Professor Gregg believed in the healing power of narrative. Attendance typically hovered around three. Ruth and Dottie were both working on memoirs, and Harold was working on a very strange science fiction epic that had something to do with ferrets.

All four of them looked up when Raymond entered the room.

Professor Gregg stood. “I’m so excited to see a new face. Welcome, we were just—”

“I need to compose a letter.”

“Wonderful. To a family member?”

“To management.”

“Oh, is your toilet clogged too?” asked Ruth.

“No,” said Raymond.

“It’s about the salad.”

“The salad?”

Raymond pulled the bag out of his pocket. “This tiny bag of salad. I have arthritis, I need to dictate.”

This class is really about—”

“You have two hands and that fancy little computer. You write it.”

Professor Gregg sat down and sighed. “Go ahead.”

“To the administrators of Westwood Run. It is with grave concern and moderate hunger that I write to you regarding what can only be described as caloric negligence.”

Harold put down his pen.

Rayomd continued. “On this day, I was presented with a transparent sachet containing foliage of such meager proportions that it might reasonably be classified as garnish. I am ninety-one years old. I have crossed oceans under fire. I have paid taxes since 1953. I did not survive both matrimonial and mortar shells to be provided with six measly spinach leaves.”

“Should this matter persist, I will be forced to consider more drastic options. I remind you that negligence in sustenance has historically led to mutiny.”

By Thursday, the dining hall had replaced the tiny bags of sala with actual bows. Plain white bows, but within, a generous helping of mixed greens, tomatoes, and the occasional olive.

The following Tuesday, the writing workshop had seventeen attendees. The memoirs and space ferrets were abandoned in favor of strongly worded correspondence regarding thermostat settings, pudding texture, and green bananas.

Sometimes revolutions begin with grand speeches or…. And sometimes, they begin with a ninety-one year old man and a tiny bag of salad that dared to call itself lunch.

At this point, I was very happy with the structure of the piece. The next step was to do a pass for prose, then one for grammar.

You can read the final version of this story here:

If you would like to know more about why I am writing a short story every week, you can read about it here:

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“What is this?”

“It’s salad,” said Denise, who was twenty-three, held a degree in nutritional wellness, and had taken the job at Westwood Run Assisted Living because options one through six hadn’t panned out.

Raymond pinched the corner of the bag between two fingers. Inside, approximately six spinach leaves, one cherry tomato, and a pale carrot slice clung to the inside of the small bag with condensation. “This isn’t even a bite.”

“It’s portion controlled.”

“At my age, I do not require portion control. I require lunch. And olives.”

Westwood Run had recently pivoted to mindful servings. The pivot had coincided with the untimely demise of the salad bar’s refrigeration unit. The small bags of salad reduced costs, food waste, and Raymond’s will to live.

Raymond lifted the bag. “I’ve seen rations more generous than this.”

Denise offered him a sympathetic smile that suggested she had been trained specifically for salad complaints.

Raymond shoved the bag into his pocket.

Every Tuesday at 2:00 PM, a professor from the local community college held a writing workshop in the east recreation room. Professor Gregg believed in the healing power of narrative and using the money earned from his eight different side hustles to pay his student loans. Attendance typically hovered around three students. Ruth and Dottie had both been working on memoirs for two years, and Harold was working on a very strange science fiction epic that had something to do with ferrets.

All four of them looked up when Raymond entered the room.

Professor Gregg stood. “I’m so excited to see a new face. Welcome, we were just—”

“I need to compose a letter.”

“Wonderful. To a family member?”

“To management.”

“Oh, is your toilet clogged too?” asked Ruth.

“No,” Raymond said. “It’s about the salad.”

“The salad?” asked Professor Gregg.

Raymond pulled the bag out of his pocket. “This tiny bag of salad. I want to lodge a formal complaint, but I have tendonitis, arthritis, and carpal tunnel. I need to dictate.”

“This class is really about—”

“You have two hands and that fancy little computer. You can type it out for me.”

Professor Gregg sighed. “Go ahead.”

“To the administrators of Westwood Run. It is with grave concern and moderate hunger that I write to you regarding what can only be described as caloric negligence.”

Harold scribbled down ‘caloric negligence’ on his yellow legal pad. The ferrets were in the middle of an uprising on the starship Rutabaga, and he needed a juicy tagline for their manifesto.

Raymond continued. “On this day, Tuesday the 24th of February, I was presented with a transparent sachet containing foliage of such meager proportions that it might reasonably be classified as garnish. This is unacceptable. I have paid taxes since 1952, and I did not survive both matrimony and mortar shells to be provided with six measly spinach leaves.”

Professor Gregg smiled and ceased typing. “Matrimony and mortar shells would be a wonderful title for a memoir, why don’t you come back next—”

Raymond raised his voice. “Should this matter persist, I will be forced to consider more drastic options. I remind you that negligence in sustenance has historically led to mutiny.”

“Are you sure you want—”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Raymond. “I appreciate a timely resolution to this matter. Sincerely, Raymond C. Dunsmuir.”

That Thursday, the dining hall replaced the small bags of salad with actual bowls containing a generous helping of mixed greens, tomatoes, and the occasional olive. Denise personally made sure that Raymond’s bowl had not one, but three of the occasional olives.

The following Tuesday, the writing workshop had seventeen attendees. The memoirs and space ferrets were abandoned in favor of strongly worded correspondence regarding thermostat settings, pudding texture, and overcooked broccoli. Professor Gregg, who was paid based on how many residents attended his class happily typed out the grievances.

Raymond, having achieved what he set out to do, did not return to the writing workshop. He ate hearty, olive-laden salads every day with both lunch and dinner until he passed away peacefully in a hot-air balloon incident three years later.

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I spent two days working on the sad little outline below. I love reading mysteries, but have not written many, and struggled to come up with something that I could solve in a thousand words or so.

Here is the outline:

Actor discovers dead body, thinks it is part of the movie he is filming. Looks like a prop knife killed him.

Dead body (director or producer, someone important who upset a lot of people) is on or holding a painting.

Police are called and show up

At this point, I was still struggling, so I decided I would go with that very loose idea, and would try to pull things together with a compelling character.

Zero Draft:

I’ve played corpses before, three times on stage and once on a streaming drama I’d prefer not to name. I know the slack jaw, the careful sprawl of limbs, the theatrical spill of blood.

Geoffry Bell lay draped across the stained futon in my dressing room, one of the prop knives sticking out of his chest, a dark blood seeping out from around it.

Above Geoffry hung a large painting, a reproduction of The Death of Marat. Marat in his bath, pen in hand, eternally mid-assasination. Geoffry and two of the cast had bought it from a pawn shop down the street and superglued it to my wall after binge-watching the drama that shall not be named.

“Very funny.”

The producer didn’t move.

“Seriously Geoffry, I know you thought I could have done better yesterday, but this is excessive.”

I stepped closer. The blood was too dark, too thick, already drying at the edges.

Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Someone screamed. Within minutes, the theater—usually filled with pretend detectives—was crawling with the genuine article.

Detective Mara arrived ten minutes before we were meant to open. There was a lot of waiting around, and then I was brought back into the room. Luckily, Geoffry was gone.

“You found him?”

“Yes.”

“This is your dressing room?”

“Yes.”

“Who has access to it?”

“Everyone.”

“And did you touch Mr. Bell?”

“I didn’t touch him. But I don’t understand, it was just a prop knife.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I got stabbed with it eight times yesterday.”

“Don’t you usually have a real version of the props?”

“Yes, but there was a crack on the handle. It got dropped last week. That was definitely the prop.”

“And did Mr Bell visit your room frequently?”

I shook my head. “I think the last time he was here was to hang that.” I pointed to the painting.

The Detective stared at the painting. “And when was that?”

“Three days ago, maybe for. Geoffry and a couple of others found it at Stateline Pawn on Fifth St.”

“And why did they hang it here?”

I signed. “I play corpses, or people who get killed a lot. They thought it was funny.”

“You said it was glued?”

“Superglue apparently. I tried to pull it down and it wouldn’t budge.”

A young man wearing gloves ran his hand over the painting, and it rippled. His gloved fingers moved along the edge, revealing a gap. Someone had cut along the bottom of the painting.

“There was something in here.”

“You said this came from Stateline Pawn?”

I nodded.

“And who were the two cast members that purchased the painting with Mr. Bell”

“Kate and Mitch.”

Kate cracked first.

We were all told to remain in the theatre while statements were taken. The house lights were. The set looked cheap and tacky without an audience. I wasn’t sure if Detective Mara knew how well voices carried in the space. The half drawn curtain may have hide them frow view, but their voices were clear enough.

“They weren’t supposed to sell it.”

“Who wasn’t,” asked Detective Mara.

“The pawn shop. Mitch recognized the frame. He used to run errands for some guy. Just deliveries. Got paid in cash. He said they’d stash stuff in junk. Paintings, lamps, that kind of thing.

“What kind of junk?”

“I don’t know.”

Mitch, who was sitting in W54, bolted.

He made it halfway to the lobby before uniformed officers caught him. Actors are good at dramatic exits, but apparently not at outrunning the police.

By evening, the story was assembled neatly enough for closing night.

Someone had hidden cash in the hollow back of the painting. It was presumably meant to be picked up by some sort of criminal. Instead, three underpaid actors bought it for twenty dollars and a joke.

When Geoffry helped glue it to my wall, he must have felt something. He called Mitch immediately. If Mitch is to be believed, a man showed up at the stage door that afternoon asking about the painting. Geoffry panicked and refused to hand it over. The man had a knife.

I had died beautifully on that stage twenty-seven times to thunderous applause—my character is a horrible person—my face illuminated by soft stage lighting.

Geoffry died under fluorescent bulbs, alone, with only Marat for company.

No applause.

No curtain call.

Just the abrupt end of a scene.

I liked the basics of this, and I LOVED my unnamed actor, but at this point I realized I needed to get rid of the prop knife. The idea was great, but when I decided to have the killer be a man searching for his cash instead of Mitch—he just wasn’t murderer material—I knew an altered prop knife no longer made sense for the murder weapon.

Next steps were to remove the bits about the prop knife, add in more details, and then polish the grammar.

You can read the final version of this story here:

If you would like to know more about why I am writing a short story every week, you can read about it here:

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I’ve played corpses before, twenty-three times on stage and once on a streaming drama I’d prefer not to name. I know the slack jaw, the careful sprawl of limbs, the theatrical spill of blood.

Geoffry lay draped across the stained futon in my dressing room, a knife sticking out of his chest, dark blood seeping out from around it.

Above Geoffry hung a large painting, a reproduction of The Death of Marat. Marat in his bath, pen in hand, eternally mid-assassination. Geoffry and two of the cast bought it from a pawn shop down the street and superglued it to my wall after binge-watching the drama that shall not be named.

“Very funny.”

Geoffry didn’t move.

“I know you thought I could have done better yesterday, but this is excessive.”

I stepped closer. The blood was too dark, too thick, already drying at the edges.

Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Someone screamed. Within minutes, the theater—usually filled with pretend detectives—was crawling with the genuine article.

Detective Mara arrived ten minutes before we were meant to open. There was a lot of waiting around, and then I was brought back into the room. Geoffry was gone, a large stain in his place.

“Sit.”

I sat. In a chair, not on the futon.

“You found him?”

“Yes.”

“This is your dressing room?”

“Yes.”

“Who has access to it?”

“Everyone.”

“And did you touch Mr. Bell?”

“No.”

“And did Mr Bell visit your room frequently?”

“I think the last time he was here was to hang that.” I pointed to the painting.

The Detective stared at the unfortunate man in the bath. “And when was that?”

“Three days ago, maybe four. Geoffry and a couple of others found it at Stateline Pawn on Fifth St.”

“And why did they hang it here?”

I sighed. “I play corpses, or people who get killed a lot. They thought it was funny.”

“You said it was glued?”

“Superglue apparently. I tried to pull it down and it wouldn’t budge.”

A young man ran his hand over the painting, and it rippled. His gloved fingers moved along the edge, revealing a gap. Someone had cut along the bottom of the painting. “There was something in here.”

Mara leaned forward. “You said this came from Stateline Pawn?”

I nodded.

“And who were the two cast members that purchased the painting with Mr. Bell”

“Kate and Mitch.”

We were all told to remain in the theatre while statements were taken. The house lights were on. The set looked cheap and tacky without an audience. I wasn’t sure if Detective Mara knew how well voices carried in the space. The half drawn curtain may have hidden them from view, but their voices were clear enough.

“They weren’t supposed to sell it,” said Kate.

“Who wasn’t?” asked Detective Mara.

“The pawn shop. Mitch recognized the frame. He used to run errands for some guy. Just deliveries. Got paid in cash. He said they’d stash stuff in junk. Paintings, lamps, that kind of thing.”

“What were they hiding?”

“I don’t know.”

Mitch, who was sitting in seat W 54, bolted.

He made it halfway to the lobby before uniformed officers caught him. Actors are good at dramatic exits, but apparently not at outrunning the police.

By evening, the story was assembled neatly enough for closing night.

Someone had hidden cash in the hollow back of the painting. It was presumably meant to be picked up by some sort of criminal. Instead, three underpaid actors bought it for twenty dollars and a joke.

Mitch had gone back to check inside the painting, and Geoffry walked in. Mitch said he didn’t know what was in the painting, hadn’t opened it yet. In my humble opinion, he was lying. Mitch wasn’t a good actor. He stated he was arguing with Geoffry about what to do with the painting when a man with a knife showed up. Geoffry panicked and refused to hand it over. Mitch ran.

Whatever had happened, Geoffry was gone.

I had died beautifully on that stage twenty-seven times to thunderous applause—the character I played was a horrible person—my face illuminated by soft stage lighting.

Geoffry died under fluorescent bulbs, alone, with only Marat for company.

No applause.

Just the abrupt end of a scene.

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I always start with a rough outline, I find it gets rid of the scary blank page. Once I have all my beats laid out, I just need to flesh them out!

Here is the outline for The Fox:

Security guard in museum munching on orange chicken while reading employee handbook, there is a joke about a not real fox. Weird.

Said fox appears and steals orange chicken.

Wild chase through museum?

Something gets knocked over and damaged.

No one believes him about the fox, even upon seeing damage.

Once the outline is done, the next step is to flesh out each beat:

The museum was very clear about three things in the employee handbook:

Do not touch the exhibits.

Do not let anyone else touch the exhibits.

The fox is not real.

The first two rules made sense. The third one did not, because there was a fox staring at me from the Tutankhamun exhibit. When I first read the handbook, I assumed rule three was some inside joke I wasn’t in on.

I stared back at the fox.

I was eating orange chicken over fried rice, and a very real fox was in the museum.

The fox blinked.

I picked up my radio from the security desk. “Hey Jerry, I have a…situation.”

Static crackled. “Define situation.”

“There is a fox.”

“The fox isn’t real.”

“The fox is definitely real”

“Do not engage with the exhibit.”

“What? It’s not an exhibit, it’s a real, live fox.”

Static.

“Jerry?”

More static.

“Jerry? Are you there?”

The fox trotted towards me, paws silent on the polished floor. It didn’t take its eyes off my orange chicken as it slipped between velvet ropes and displays.

I considered my options.

Capture the fox and remove it from the museum

Protect the exhibits from the fox.

Protect myself and my orange chicken.

Yellow eyes met mine, then locked on the styrofoam container in my hand. I slowly closed the lid.

“You won’t even like this.”

An adorable chirp sounded.

“You’re a fox. Foxes do not eat orange chicken.”

The fox moved towards me.

“And even if you like it, it will probably give you diarrhea. It gives me diarrhea.”

I stood, knocking my chair back. “Come on. This was twenty-eight dollars with delivery.”

The fox leapt.

It hit my chest. I grabbed for the fox, but it was already bounding off, jaws stretched wide around the container.

Then the lid popped open.

Orange chicken arced through the air. Sauce spattered over a sign that stated DO NOT TOUCH.

The fox dropped the container and started eating.

I dove for it, terrified more of further food getting splattered over the exhibits than the teeth. I grabbed the container while the fox was chewing, only a pitiful amount of fried rice remaining.

The fox swallowed, then growled.

I stood.

Tall fluffy ears flattened against a fluffy head. Teeth flashed.

I slowly placed the container back on the ground and pushed it towards the fox. It returned to hoovering the food.

Above us, one of the security cameras moves.

“I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

The fox yawned again, then trotted past me, disappearing into the dark depths of the Egyptian wing.

My radio crackled.

“Everything okay?” Jerry asked.

I look around. There was orange sauce splattered everywhere.

“The fox…it…”

“The fox isn’t real.”

“But—”

“Just wait there, I’ll bring a mop.”

Tomorrow, the handbook would still state the fox wasn’t real. I won’t argue over its existence. But I would start ordering extra to leave outside the locked door to the security booth when I ate.

At this point, I was happy with the structure and did some fine tuning to create the final story (linked above).

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The museum was very clear about three things in the employee handbook:

Do not touch the exhibits.

Do not let anyone else touch the exhibits.

The fox is not real.

The first two rules made sense. The third one did not, because there was a fox staring at me from the Tutankhamun exhibit. When I first read the handbook, I assumed rule three was some inside joke I wasn’t in on.

I stared back at the animal.

It was 2:13 AM, I was eating orange chicken over fried rice, and a very real fox was in the museum.

The fox blinked.

I picked up my radio from the security desk. “Hey Jerry, I have a…situation.”

Static crackled. “Define situation.”

“There is a fox.”

“The fox isn’t real.”

“The fox is definitely real, it just yawned.”

It yawned again, revealing small white teeth and a long pink tongue.

“Do not engage with the exhibit.”

“What? It’s not an exhibit, it’s a real, live fox.”

Static.

“Jerry?”

More static.

“Jerry? Are you there?”

The creature trotted towards me, paws silent on the polished floor. It didn’t take its eyes off my orange chicken as it slipped between velvet ropes and displays. It paused beside a—according to the placard—4,576 year old statue for Ugarit and sat.

I considered my options.

Capture the fox and remove it from the museum

Protect the exhibits from the fox.

Protect myself and my orange chicken.

Yellow eyes met mine, then locked on the styrofoam container in my hand. I slowly closed the lid.

The fox tilted its head.

“You won’t even like this.”

An adorable chirp echoed through the hall.

“You’re a fox. Foxes do not eat orange chicken.”

The fox took several steps forward.

“And even if you like it, it will probably give you diarrhea. It gives me diarrhea.”

I stood, knocking my chair back. “Come on. This was twenty-eight dollars with delivery.”

The fox leapt.

It hit my chest—at which point I dropped the container—bounced off my shoulder, and caught the container in its jaws. I grabbed for the animal, but it was already bounding off, jaws stretched wide around the container.

Then the lid popped open.

Orange chicken arced through the air. A single piece landed on a velvet rope. Another bounded off some large carved rock thing from ancient Mesopotamia. Sauce spattered over a sign that stated DO NOT TOUCH.

The fox dropped the container and started eating.

I dove for it, terrified more of further food getting splattered over the exhibits than the teeth. I grabbed the container while the fox was chewing, only a pitiful amount of fried rice remaining.

The fox looked at me, orange glaze smeared across its snout. It swallowed, then growled.

I stood.

Tall fluffy ears flattened against a fluffy head. Teeth flashed.

I slowly placed the container back on the ground and pushed it towards the fox. It returned to hoovering the food, then licked grains of rice and stray peas from the marble floor.

Above us, one of the security cameras moves.

“I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

The fox yawned again, then trotted past me, disappearing into the dark depths of the Egyptian wing.

My radio crackled.

“Everything okay?” Jerry asked.

I look around. There was orange sauce splattered across three different civilizations.

“The fox…it…”

“The fox isn’t real.”

“But—”

“Just wait there, I’ll bring a mop.”

Still on the floor, I stared at where the animal disappeared. Tomorrow, the handbook would still state the fox wasn’t real. I won’t argue over its existence. But I would start ordering extra to leave outside the locked door to the security booth when I ate.

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The bar advertised itself as historic, which translated to wobbly stools and a bathroom door that didn’t quite lock. A framed newspaper clipping by the register claimed a minor celebrity had once vomited in the corner booth. Whoever had framed the article had highlighted that section in yellow.

The…let’s call him the host, was sitting in that very booth, wearing sunglasses. In a dimly lit bar. He was smaller than he looked on television

He checked a watch that cost more than my car. “You’re late.”

I was three minutes early.

“Thank you for meeting with me.”

“My publicist said it would be good for my image.”

“Your image needs help?”

He leaned back. The booth squeaked. “Everyone’s image needs help. The people everyone thinks are great, they just have good publicists. No one actually cares about starving kids or the environment.”

“I don’t agree with that. Lots of people care.”

He laughed. “Exactly.”

The bartender arrived with two waters we hadn’t ordered. The host stared at his glass.

“I don’t drink tap water,” he said.

“It’s bottled,” the bartender replied. “Poured it myself.”

The host pushed the glass away. “What’s on your wine menu? I’d love a 1996 Henri Jayer Cros Parantoux if you’ve got it.”

The bartender shook his head.

The host laughed. “Of course you don’t. Is there a wine menu?”

“We’ve got red or white.”

“Red,” he said.

I held back a grimace. “I’m good with water.”

“I’m sure whatever he brings will be undrinkable,” he said.

“So, why are we here?”

“You’re working on something,” he said.

“I’m always working on something.”

“Cute.” His smile was thin, “But this one’s about me.”

“Oh?”

He leaned forward. “You talked to my former producer. The bitter one.”

The bartender arrived, placing an overfull glass of red wine before the host, and a glass of water next to me.

“I talk to a lot of people.”

“Sure you do.” He took a sip of wine and surprisingly, didn’t grimace. “And I’m here to save you some time. Whatever she told you is exaggerated. Misunderstandings, bad blood. You know how women are.”

“I see, well, I’d love to hear your side of the story.”

“I’m offering you a better story.” He took another sip of wine. “An exclusive. Charity work. Redemption. Readers love redemption. It lets them feel moral without having to do anything.”

“And in exchange?”

He smiled, this time with teeth. “You lose the other file.”

I sat back in the booth.

He spread his hands on the table. “This is how the industry works. You don’t expose people like me. You negotiate with—”

His expression tightened.

“You okay?”

He swallowed. “Fine.”

A loud rumble came from his stomach.

He glanced toward the hallway where the bathroom was and then back to me, like he could negotiate with his intestines.

“You were saying,” I prompted.

“Right,” he said. “You lose the other file, and I give you something bigger. Something that makes you look—” he swallowed. “Important.”

His leg began to bounce under the table, vibrating the booth.

“I don’t care about looking important.”

He tried to laugh, but it came out as a cough. Sweat gathered along his hairline. He dabbed it with a napkin and checked the hallway again. The bathroom door swung open and shut as someone exited.

“You okay?

“I think the wine was off.”

“We pass inspection every year,” called the bartender.

The host forced a smile. “Congragulations.”

His stomach made a long, wet gurgle. I felt it though the table

The host pressed a hand flat against his abdomen. “We should wrap this up.”

“But we just started.”

The gurgling increased as he leaned forward. “If you publish that story, I will ruin you. I will bury you under lawsuits so deep your great-grandchildren will owe me money.

The rumble intensified, then released into a loud, wet fart.

He stood so fast the table lurched. Wine sloshed over the rim. He half-walked, half-ran down the hallway with the rigid posture of a man trying not to shit himself. The bathroom door slammed shut, swung back open, then slammed shut again..

The bartender walked over and sat across from me. He met my eyes, expression calm. “Our producer friend said you’d be here with him.”

I nodded.

“Said he’d order wine. She dropped off some fancy bottle just for him.”

A muffled groan echoed from the hallway, followed by a thud.

“You’re not worried? I asked.

“It’s a laxative,” he said. “Not a sniper rifle. He’ll live. There’s also no way he’ll tell anyone. Big tough guy like that.”

I pulled out my notepad and the recorder I had in my pocket.

The bartender stood and chuckled. “Nice.”

Eventually, the door opened again. The host emerged looking spiritually altered. He walked back to the booth pretending nothing had happened in a building where absolutely everyone knew exactly what had happened in that bathroom. We could also all smell it.

He sat.

The booth squeaked.

He stared at the recorder. “You didn’t”

“I did.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I can. This is a one-party consent state.”

“You can’t write about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” another rumble rolled through him. He stood again. Faster this time. No threats, no speeches, just pure desperation. The bathroom slammed one more time.

“Make sure to send me a copy of the article for my wall,” said the bartender.

A defeated groan rang out from the hallway.

I finished my water, stood, and left a large tip. As I reached the door, my phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

Did it work?

Perfectly.

Good.

Outside, the night air was clean, light, and didn’t smell of shit. I took a deep breath.

I started outlining the article in my head. I had to admit, the story was better now. The beginning would be the same, but this new ending was explosive.

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This week’s story did not follow my normal process. I have actually written about Xxbriq before. For a short story contest last year, I was given aliens, an event planner, and a guitar as my prompts. I came up with Xxbriq, an event planner whose groomzilla wanted a real human guitar at the wedding. I had so much fun.

I honestly couldn’t tell you why having Argentina, chef, and motorcycle as prompts made me think of my alien event planner, but they did. I was also so excited about this story that I blew through it without writing an outline. The fact that I am packing up my house for a move to another state and have very little time may also have had something to do with the speed in which it was written.

Outlines work for me, they really do. But sometimes something else feels right, and that’s okay too.

If you haven’t read The Empanada Abduction, you can here:

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If Glarnxx and Vreeliq had been satisfied with synthetic empanadas, none of this would be happening. But no. They wanted authentic Argentinian cuisine for their bonding ceremony. Not replicated, not approximated, authentic. Prepared by a real human chef using traditional techniques and regional ingredients.

It was impossible. But I, Xxbriq, the galaxy’s premiere event planner, do not fail. I’ve organized coronations, intergalactic events, and more royal weddings than I can count on my twenty-four fingers.

My cloaked ship hovered above a human city, Buenos Aires. Earth has mostly recovered from its latest catastrophe. The inhabitants are generally brutal and barbaric, with no regard for each other or their planet. It’s a dangerous place to visit. We kept expecting them to die off, but humans were remarkably similar to the hruxx pox. Very hard to eradicate. The oceans were much higher now, but cities, like this one, clung to the higher reaches. Most of the previous aggressive superpowers were underwater now, so perhaps the species really could recover this time.

I had picked out my target after spending many hours on the humans Google. A notification sounded, the ship had found the chef. Mateo Alvarez, age forty-three, owner of a restaurant with a waiting list three months long. The man weaved through traffic on a small combustion vehicle with no regard for his own life, the large crate strapped behind him bouncing as he sped past a much larger vehicle.

I matched his speed and extended the retrieval beam.

Several humans screamed. One applauded.

The chef and his vehicle materialized in my cargo bay. When I entered the bay, the man did not scream. He turned off the engine and swung off the vehicle. “I’m going to be late for work.”

It was an odd thing to be worried about while being abducted, so I double checked that my translator was working correctly. It was. “Don’t worry, I have a time machine.”

“What?” He removed his helmet, revealing dark hair. “Did I get hit by that bus? Am I dead?”

“You are alive.”

“Are you an alien?”

“Yes.”

He took a step toward me. “You’re very tall.”

“Yes.”

“And blue.”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to eat me?”

“That’s disgusting. No.” Why did humans always think we were going to eat them?

“Then what do you want?”

“I require Argentinian cuisine.”

“What?”

“Empanadas specifically. For an event.”

“You abducted me to…cater an event.” He laughed for twelve seconds. “Why me?”

“Your restaurant has excellent reviews.”

Mateo blinked. “You could have just e-mailed. I have a contact form on the website.”

“Would you have accepted a request to cater an event for me on Ojixx?”

“Probably not.”

“You will prepare food for a bonding ceremony. In exchange, you will be returned to your planet unharmed.”

He crossed his arms. “And my bike?”

“Your small combustion vehicle will also be returned. Unharmed.”

“I normally get paid for catering.”

“Oh, yes.” I opened several crates until I found the right one and grabbed a handful of the shiny coins. I held them out to the human.

“Are those gold coins?”

“Yes, solid gold, from India.”

“And how did you get them?”

“A human named Henry, centuries ago.” I did not add that I had accidentally beamed Henry’s ship up into my cargo bay. The ship, being much larger than the bay, did not fare well.

“You’re really an alien.”

“Yes. Do we have a deal?”

“I guess so.”

“Excellent. Here are your coins.”

Mateo reached out, and I dropped the gold into his open hands.

“I just need you for the night, and then you and your combustion vehicle will be returned home unharmed, several seconds after I took you.”

“You really have a time machine?”

I sighed, crossing all four of my arms. “Of course, this is a Zrebki 7892.”

“Oh, of course.”

“It’s a standard feature. And thank you, Mateo.”

“How do you know my name?”

“It’s on your website.”

“Oh, right. What’s your name?”

“Xxbriq.”

“Huh.”

“Now, just tell me what ingredients you will need, and I will beam them up.”

Mateo laughed, then gave me a list.

The ceremony vessel orbited Ojixx, a small moon with beautiful beaches. Glarnxx and Vreeliq were already arguing when we arrived.

Glarnxx turned. “Finally.”

“This is Chef Mateo Alvarez,” I announced. “The most talented chef in Buenos Aires, and the creator of tonight’s feast.”

Vreeliq bowed. Mateo’s eyes widened, but he returned the gesture.

“It’s an honor,” said Vreeliq.

Mateo smiled. “Thanks.”

Vreeliq resumed their disagreement with Glarnxx, and I led Mateo to the kitchen.

“What is this?”

I looked around at the state-of-the-art facility. “This is where you cook. See?” I pointed to the crates of ingredients. “There are your things.”

The kitchen was immaculate. Cooking platforms hovered, adjusting themselves as Mateo approached. Implements floated in the air at the perfect height for him to reach.

“This,” said Mateo, “is not a kitchen.”

“It’s an extremely advanced culinary facility.”

He reached out and tapped one of the hovering counters. “Okay. Alright.”

Mateo rolled up his sleeves and opened the crates. He pulled out several—I did a scan—onions.

“These survived the trip.”

“Everything is voice controlled,” I placed a communicator on the counter. “Call if you need anything, but I need to make sure everything is ready.”

When I came back, Mateo was crimping empanadas, each fold precise and practiced. There was one tray on the warming rack, the golden pastries emitting rich scents of meat and onion and…I don’t know the human names for spices, but it smelled good.

He looked up, “you going to try one?”

I supposed I should make sure it was good. Things like this could be difficult, making a meal that many different species would like. But Glarnxx and Vreeliq traveled extensively, and picked this meal out of all their favorites from their travels.

Mateo picked up one of the empanadas with his flour dusted hands and held it out to me. I took it, my hand engulfing his, and popped it into my mouth. It was warm, and the flaky crust broke apart under my teeth, revealing the richness of the meat inside. Mouth still full, I smiled.

When the guests started to leave, Glarnxx came into the kitchen. “You are amazing Mateo, thank you.”

“The,” Mateo paused, “guests really liked the food?”

“They will speak of this meal for generations.”

Empanada in hand, Mateo grinned.

“Xxbriq, you should prepare yourself. Requests for Chef Mateo will be relentless.”

Mateo stiffened. “You’re not going to keep abducting me, are you?”

“How about I use the contact form on your website?”

He chuckled. “That’ll work.

I returned Mateo to Buenos Aires eight seconds after I took him, on a quiet side street near his restaurant. I really had been concerned about his proximity to the much larger vehicles. Before driving off, he turned back to me.

“Remember. Send an e-mail next time.”

I waved as he drove off. “I will.”

And perhaps, when I needed another chef from Earth, I’d save abduction for the last resort, and e-mail first.

If you want to know more about why I am writing a short story every week, you can read about it here:

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I always start with a rough outline, I find it gets rid of the scary blank page. Once I have all my beats laid out, I just need to flesh them out!

Here is the outline for Personal Item:

Father dies

They always wanted to go to Rome together, several trips to Italy, but never made it to Rome.

Both Lawyers. Busy, busy, busy,

Takes fathers ashes to Italy to spread them- wants to retrance that original trip, and actually make it to Rome. Can you fly with ashes? Research this.

People in a town remember her father, and she stays? Or make it to Rome? Can’t decide

Once I finished my outline, I fleshed it out:

When my father died, I was at my front door taking a pizza box from the delivery guy. I’d followed along in the handbook, the blue book the hospice nurse had given me, and thought I had more time. The thing was eerily accurate. I thought I could let go of his hand, for just a few minutes. We were in the days or hours section. I ran to the front door when the doorbell rang, grabbed a napkin and a coconut water and brought them into the guest room where hospice had set up his hospital bed.

I knew before I crossed over the threshold that he was gone. Those horrible, gurgling breaths were no more. I stepped over the fallen pizza box, the carton of coconut water that split when it hit the floor, and knelt beside the bed. His hand felt cooler, the skin taking on a slightly waxy texture.

At the time, I thought it would be the last time I ever held him, and in that form , I supposed it was. But I also held him, or carried him rather, in my personal item from San Francisco to Newark, Newark to Venice. Leo, the wonderful gentleman at the Italian consulate in San Francisco, had advised me to do so, on account of how often carry-on bags were checked at the gate. It is not an easy thing to fly with a cremated remains, nor to get formal permission to spread ashes in Italy. Leo was a great help. I’d gone into the process confident, I was a lawyer after all, got at forms and deadlines and getting the right stamp on the right paper

We’d been on this same trip once before. Started in Venice, planning on ensuing our two week trip in Rome. But Northern Italy had been so wonderful, and we never made it to Rome. Next time, we’d go next time. But I was busy, my father, also a lawyer, though he was a prosecutor, also loved to work. My mother said he was addicted to it, like her brother Doug, who gambled away his home. My father always argued his addiction made money, which just made mom madder. It ended their marriage, and my mother has never quite forgiven me for following in his footsteps.

I had grown used to the idea that Rome was theoretical, that it existed only as a promise we’d never keep. It was a shock reading his will, seeing the request that his ashes be spread in Rome.

Venice was first again. I know it’s a tourist trap, I still love it. I stayed two nights. I’d forgotten how difficult it had been, lugging my suitcases over the stone streets from the train station to the hotel. I broke two wheels. I walked the same routes we took before, ate lobster pasta at a little restaurant near the bas of the Rialto bridge, watching water slap against stone while drinking refosco and twirling spaghetti onto my fork. I kept seeing him out of the corner of my eye. Someone with his posture, his gait, the way he leaned forward when he was interested in something. Each time, it wan;t him, of course it wasn’t. Each time, I felt foolish for checking.

I spent two nights in Venice, then broke another wheel of my suitcase getting back to the train station. I went east to Trieste. When I checked into the hotel, the woman at the front desk stared at me.

“Have you been here before?”

“Yes. My father and I stayed here about ten years ago.”

“Ah, the lawyers.”

“You remember us?”

“Very handsome man, your father, and you, just out of law school for the…”

“Real estate.”

“Yes, he was so proud of you. But you are alone this time?”

“Just me.”

When my father and I were there, we ate at Trattoria Caprese Trieste in Piazza della Borsa. It was still there, and the spaghetti con pomodorini e basilico tasted exactly as I remembered. I couldn’t see the water from where I sat, but I could smell it, the salt mixing with the sharp scent of tomato rising off my pasta. I could hear gulls, crying out, and every once in a while, the crash of waves.

When I was done eating, I took my bag, my dad was still inside, and walked down the Molo Audace pier. At the end, I sat down, feet dangling over the water. I took the plastic canister out of the bag, and stared down at it. I needed to leave for Rome, with its monuments and certainty of a proper ending.

But my father had never made it to Rome. We stayed here in Trieste for over a week. We had espresso on this pier. We had gelato for lunch, and talked about Mom. He told me things about their marriage so I wouldn’t make the same mistakes, I told him things about my work that scared me. We did nothing in particular, and everything.

I had constructed my plan carefully, the itinerary for out first trip and this, our last. Venice, then Trieste, on to Verona, Milan, and then Rome. I had pictured it on the place, the right landmark, the right moment, something ancient and just and right on which to lay the ashes of my favorite person in the whole world.

The water below was darker than I remembered, but calm. I opened the canister, and did nothing. I thought about all the times I had told him, next year, and how next year never arrived.

I tipped the canister. The ashes lifted more than fell, carried sideways by the wind, disappearing into the dark water. The gulls cried above.

I felt lighter, and not just because the canister was now empty.

Rome would be there, someday. Finishing something doesn’t always mean you get to the end.

At this point, I was happy with the structure so it just needed some fine tuning.

If you would like to know more about why I am writing a short story every week, you can read about it here:

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When my father died, I was at my front door taking a pizza box from the delivery guy. I’d followed along in the handbook—the blue book the hospice nurse gave me—and thought I had more time. The thing was eerily accurate. I thought I was only letting go of his hand for a minute. We were in the days or hours section of the death to-do list the nurse had highlighted.

Pizza in hand, I grabbed a napkin, a coconut water, and brought them back to Dad’s room.

Those horrible, gurgling breaths were no more.

I stepped over the fallen pizza box, the carton of coconut water that split when it hit the floor, and knelt beside the bed. His hand felt cooler, the skin taking on a waxy texture. I had lost my last minute with him.

I carried Dad in my oversized purse from San Francisco to Newark, Newark to Venice. Leo, the wonderful gentleman at the Italian consulate in San Francisco, had advised me to keep him in my personal item, on account of how often carry-on bags were checked at the gate. It is no simple thing to fly with cremated remains, nor to get formal permission to spread ashes in Italy. Leo was a great help. I’d gone into the process confident, I was a lawyer after all, good at forms and deadlines, and getting the right stamp on the right paper. It still wasn’t easy.

My father and I had been on this same trip once before. Starting in Venice, and planning on ending our two-week trip in Rome. But northern Italy was wonderful, and we never made it to our final destination. Next time, we said. But I was busy. My dad, also a lawyer, though he was a prosecutor, loved to work just as much. Mom said he was addicted to it, just like her brother Doug, who gambled away his home. Dad always argued his addiction made money, which just made Mom angrier. It ended their marriage, and she has never quite forgiven me for following in his footsteps.

I’d grown used to the idea that Rome was theoretical, that it existed only as a promise we’d never keep. It was a shock, reading his will, seeing the request that his ashes be spread there.

Venice was first again. And yes, I know it’s a tourist trap, I still love it. Despite having the same issue a decade ago, I dragged my two suitcases over the stone streets from the train station to the hotel. I broke two wheels. That afternoon, I walked the same routes we took before, and ate lobster pasta near the base of the Rialto bridge. Water slapped against stone while I drank refosco and twirled spaghetti onto my fork. I kept seeing him out of the corner of my eye. Someone with his posture, his gait, the way he leaned forward when he was interested in something. Each time, it wasn’t him, of course it wasn’t. Each time, I felt foolish for checking. He was not out there. He was in my bag, on the chair next to me.

Two days later, I broke another wheel off my suitcase getting back to the train station. I went east to Trieste.

When I checked into the hotel, the woman at the front desk stared at me. She was about my father’s age and wore thick-rimmed teal glasses.

“Have you been here before?”

I nodded. “My father and I stayed here about ten years ago.”

She smiled. “He kept asking me, every day, where to find the best pasta.”

“I’m surprised you remember.”

“Very handsome man, your father, always with the pasta. And you, just out of law school for the…”

“Real estate.”

“Yes, he was so proud of you.” She paused. “But you are alone this time?”

I nodded again.

My father and I dined several times at the Trattoria Caprese Trieste in Piazza della Borsa. It was still there, and the spaghetti con pomodorini e basilico tasted exactly as I remembered. I couldn’t see the water from where I sat, but I could smell it, the salt mixing with the sharp scent of tomato rising off the pasta. I could hear gulls crying out and, every once in a while, the crash of waves.

After I finished eating, I took my bag—my dad was still inside—and walked down the Molo Audace pier. At the end, I sat down, feet dangling over the water. Tomorrow would be a good day to head towards Rome. Rome, with its monuments and certainty of a proper ending.

But my father had never made it to Rome.

We stayed here in Trieste for over a week. We had espresso on this pier. We had gelato for lunch and talked about Mom. He told me things about their marriage so I wouldn’t make the same mistakes, I told him things about my work that scared me.

I had constructed my plan meticulously, the itinerary for our first trip and this, our last. Venice, then Trieste, then Verona, Milan, and finally Rome. I had the moment in my head. The right moment, the right place, to lay the ashes of my favorite person in the entire world.

The water below was darker than I remembered, but calm. I pulled the plastic box—reminiscent of a small paper shredder—from my bag, and did nothing. I thought about all the times I had told him, next year, and how next year never arrived.

When I tipped the box, the ashes lifted more than fell, carried sideways by the wind, disappearing into the dark water. Gulls cried above. The sounds of the city behind me carried on.

Rome would be there, someday. My father would not. We never made it to our destination, but the journey was finished.

If you want to know more about why I am writing a short story every week, you can read about it here:

Now, I am by no means an expert when it comes to writing. I have had a short story published, done well in writing contests, and written several novels, but I haven’t made it yet. But, for what it’s worth, this is my process.

I always start with an outline:

Chess player driving through desert to get to low level chess competition, local chess club? Favor for a friend and he doesn’t want to be there anyways.

The car breaks down in the middle of nowhere. No cell phone service to call AAA.

“Help” comes around. A man in a pickup can give him a ride into town, but has to stop at some relatives’ new gallery- It would really help out if you buy a painting.

Something funny but ultimately heartwarming happens and he buys a painting.

Makes it to the chess competition in a better mood.

Time to flesh the outline out and create draft zero:

The car coughed, sputtered, came back to life briefly, then died completely. It coasted to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. Smoke rose from the hood.

I sat with my hands on the steering wheel for several minutes, then turned the engine once more. Nothing happened. I opened the door and was hit with a wall of heat.

I shut the door, and picked my cell phone up from the center console. That AAA membership was finally going to make itself useful. There was no cell service.

In the trunk, I had a set of jumper cables, which had never been taken out of the package, and I didn’t know how to use them either. There wasn’t another car around anyways and I was fairly certain another car needed to be involved. There was also a travel chess set my mother had bought me last Christmas, also still in the packaging. I shut the trunk.

I was, or had been, on my way to a weekend tournament in a town whose name was either Linville or Lakeville. I couldn’t remember, though judging from cracked earth as far as I could see, Lakeville was unlikely. The chess games would take place in the community center, and even if I won, which I probably would, I wouldn’t receive anything worth winning.

I was only going because Carl asked me to. Carl had needed one more player for the rating minimum, and I have a hard time saying no. I’m working on it with my therapist.

I went to get back into the car, but it had reached oven temperatures, so I stayed outside.

Like a dream, a pickup truck appeared on the horizon. It shimmered in the heat, just like in the movies and I waved my hands around like a lunatic. How not to get someone to stop for you on the side of the road 101.

But the truck did stop. The driver had a grey beard and a hat advertising a feed store, rolled, yes rolled, down his window. “You all right champ?”

“My car won’t start. I have jumper cables.”

The man laughed. “Cables won’t solve that problem. Get in.”

I looked from my car baking in the sun to the strange man in the car. If I had service, I’d be googling how to tell if someone is a serial killer, but I didn’t have cell service. Fuck it. I locked my car and hopped in.

“I’m Ray. What’s your name champ?”

“Elliot.”

“Well Elliot, I gotta make a stop first, family thing. Won’t take long. Then I’ll get you to Gary’s place. He’ll be able to come out here and tow your car back to town.”

“Okay.”

The air conditioner rattle, and I wouldn’t say it worked well, but it was better than benign outside.

“What brings you out here?”

“Chess tournament.”

“Like those old men on TV playing in parks.”

“Sort of.”

“Nice.”

They passed a speed limit sign for 45 miles an hour, then 25, and crept into a small town that had missed it’s la…. Ray parked in front of a building that had once been a gas station. A hand-painted sign in the window read Gallery.

“My niece owns the place,” Ray said. “If you could do me a favor and look around. Maybe buy something. It would make her day.”

I nodded, even though I definitely did not want to buy a painting.

The air inside was cool, and smelled…. The walls were lined with desert landscapes in mismated frames. Baskets of Jewelry and stickers and keychains covered tables laid out haphazardly in the center of the room. A card rack stood near the door, the cards featuring the same images as the paintings on the wall. Maybe I could buy one of those.

I stopped in front of a painting of the road we came in on. I could tell by the crooked telephone poles and the burnt out truck that was still there.

A young woman stood behind a chipped counter in the back.

“Hi Uncle Ray.”

“This is Tammy,” Ray said. “Tammy this is…”

“Elliot,” I said.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Tammy said. “Feel free to look around.”

I was fairly certain looking around was the cost of my rescue, so I did. Ray followed me around.

“This one’s my favorite”, he said, pointing to a painting that hung above a table overflowing with paper mache figurines of coyotes.

It depicted a familiar sight, I’d been driving through similar scenery for the past few hours. An empty road stretching out to the horizon, a faint line of low hills, and an open sky.

Buys the painting

Gary was amazing. He towed the car back to his show, replaced a radiator hose, while I sat on a maroon plastic chair in the small office. I pulled out the travel chess set from my car. The board sat on a cardboard box, and Ray sat across from me.

Teaching Ray to play chess. Something heartwarming happens.

My phone buzzed, a text from Carl.

Where are you?

Car broke down, at a shop.

Are you okay? Still going to make it?

I’m fine. I should be on the road soon, I think I’m about three hours away.

Drive safe.

I set the painting carefully on the passenger seat and then buckled it in.

At this point, I realized that I did not like what I had, and knew I needed to go in another direction, so I made some changes and created Draft One:

The car coughed, sputtered, came back to life, then died. It coasted to a stop on the shoulder of the highway. Smoke rose from the hood.

I sat with my hands on the steering wheel for several minutes, then turned the engine once more. Nothing happened. The temperature in the car was rising, so I opened the door and was hit with a wall of heat ten times worse than the conditions in the car. I slammed the door, and picked my cell phone up from the center console. That AAA membership was finally going to make itself useful. There was no cell service. Was this an appropriate time to make an emergency call?

One deep breath and a “you can do this” later, I opened the card door once again. In the trunk, I had a set of jumper cables, which had never been taken out of the package. Not only was the shrink wrap still intact, but I also didn’t know how to use them. There wasn’t another car around anyway and I was fairly certain another car needed to be involved when using jumper cables. The only other item was a travel chess set my mother gifted me last Christmas, also still encased in shrinkwrap. The lid of the trunk burnt my fingers when I shut it.

I was, or had been, on my way to a weekend tournament in a town whose name was either Linville or Lakeville. I couldn’t remember, though judging from cracked earth as far as I could see, Lakeville was unlikely. The chess games would take place in the community center. It would be a clean win, the kind where nothing surprising happens.

I was only going because Carl asked me to. Carl had needed one more player for the rating minimum, and I have a hard time saying no. I’m working on it with my therapist.

I went to get back into the car, but it had reached oven temperatures, so I stayed outside.

Like a dream, a figure appeared on the horizon. I would have preferred to see a vehicle, but someone with a working phone would work just as well. The silhouette shimmered in the heat, just like in the movies and I waved my hands around like a lunatic. How not to get someone to stop for you on the side of the road 101.

The man, when he came into focus, had a grey beard and a hat advertising a feed store. He carried no bags, and his skin was impressively dry. I was concerned I would have permanent canyons etched into my skin from the torrential rivers of sweat running down my face.

“You all right champ?”

“My car won’t start. I have jumper cables.”

The man laughed. “Cables won’t solve that problem. You need Gary.”

“Gary?”

The man chuckled. “He’ll be able to come out here and tow your car back to his shop and get it fixed up.”

“Oh, that would be great? Do you have a phone? Can you call him?”

“No, but it’s only a twenty minute walk.”

Twenty minutes walking in this? I wasn’t sure if I would make it.

“Come on, I’ll show you the way.”

I looked from my car baking in the sun to the strange man. If I had service, I’d be googling how to tell if someone is a serial killer, but I didn’t have cell service. Fuck it. It wasn’t like it was getting into a stranger’s car. I could run, or a t least speed walk away if things got weird. I pocketed my keys and phone and locked the car.

The man started walking. “I’m Ray. What’s your name champ?”

“Elliot.”

“What brings you out here?”

“Chess tournament.”

“Like those old men on TV playing in parks?”

“Sort of.”

“Nice.”

At that point, I think Ray noticed how much huffing and puffing I was doing, and stopped asking me questions. We passed a speed limit sign for forty-five miles an hour, then one for twenty-five. Shortly after that I could see buildings. Hallelujah.

Ray stopped in front of the first building we came to. It had definitely been a gas station at one point, but there was a hand-painted sign in the window read Gallery.

“My daughter owns the place,” Ray said. “I think you need air conditioning and water break or you might not make it to Gary’s place.”

I nodded as vigorously as I could.

“If you could do me a favor and look around. Maybe buy something. It would make her day.”

I wanted air conditioning and water bad enough that even though I didn’t want to buy a painting, I nodded again.

“Just don’t tell her I’m out here, I want her to, you know…”

“You’re…not going to…come it?”

Ray shook his head. He really didn’t seem to be affected by the heat. I suppose if you lived here, you got used to it.

The air inside was wonderfully cool and the walls were lined with desert landscapes in mismatched frames. Baskets of jewelry and stickers and keychains covered tables laid out haphazardly in the center of the room. A card rack stood near the door, the cards featuring the same images as the paintings on the wall. Maybe I could buy one of those.

A young woman stood behind a chipped counter in the back. “Are you okay?”

“Car broke down.”

“You poor thing, you want some water?”

Lacking the necessary spit to form another word, I nodded.

She came around the counter and opened the small cooler to pull out a bottle of water. I stumbled forward to take it from her, drinking half of the water in one gulp.

Bottle in hand, I looked around. The paintings were all very similar. Most depicted a familiar sight, I’d been driving through similar scenery for the past few hours. An empty road stretching out to the horizon, a faint line of low hills, and an open sky. One was a painting of the road I had just walked. I could tell it was the same one by the crooked telephone poles and the burnt out truck that was still there.

“There’s a shop right now on the road. Gary will be able to get your car and figure out what’s wrong with it.”

I nodded again, I was going to have neck problems later, because I didn’t trust myself to sound like I was hearing that information for the first time.

I finished the water and picked up one of the cards, then put it back.

“How much is that one?” I asked, pointing to the painting of the road I’d walked.

“$100.”

It was more than I wanted to spend, but less that I expected a painting to cost.”

“I’ll take it,” I said. I think we were both surprised.

She smiled as she wrapped it in brown paper. “My dad liked this one. He used to walk that stretch a lot.”

There was a framed photograph behind the register. Ray stood in front of the building when it still had gas pumps, his arm slung awkwardly around a much younger version of his daughter. They were both squinting in the sun, and smiling.

After I paid, she pointed me towards Gary’s shop and insisted I take another bottle of water. When I stepped outside, the heat was more tolerable. Either it was cooler, or I had toughened up. It was probably cooler.

Ray was gone, but I found my way. Gary turned out to be a miracle worker. He towed the car back to his shop, replaced a cracked radiator hose. He even talked me through what he was doing in a way that didn’t make me feel like an idiot.

I was sitting on a faded maroon plastic chair waiting for Gary to finish up when my phone buzzed, a text from Carl.

Carl: Where are you?

Me: Car broke down, at a shop.

Carl: Are you okay? Still going to make it?

Me: I’m fine. I should be on the road soon, I think I’m about three hours away.

Carl: Drive safe.

“Okay, you’re all set,” said Gary. He wiped his hands on an equally dirty towel.

“Thank you so much,” I said. “Ray told me you’d take care of it,”

Gary paused, then smiled. “He was usually right.”

I set the painting carefully on the passenger seat and then buckled it in.

The road to Linville, or Lakeville, stretched out ahead of me. Either way, an old friend and a game of chess were waiting for me.

I was happy with the layout and beats of this new version, and polished it up!

If you haven’t already, you can read the final draft here:

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