Dude Wipes Out

When the toilet clogs yet again, stay-at-home dad Mitch decides to finally get to the bottom of who’s responsible by interrogating his wife and two daughters.

Unsplash image by Giorgio Trovato

 In 3 days, I wrote this 2,000-word story with the randomly assigned topics of comedy, underappreciated, and interrogator during Round 2 of the 2022 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge.

Dude Wipes Out

Mitch Bergson lifted the lid, wafting aromas of homemade lamb stew. He whispered, “Really amazing job, Mitch,” rhetorically patting his own back. He set four places at the table, opened a bottle of cabernet, wondered when he’d started talking to himself, and waited for the chaos to begin.

At 4:30pm, his daughter Alena announced her arrival by slamming the door, dropping her bags and locking herself in the bathroom. Sophie, two years younger and a step behind, also slammed the door, ran after her sister screaming, “Hurry up!” Ten minutes later, Cora kicked off her heels and danced toward the bathroom humming, “My turn.”

In the kitchen, Cora accepted the glass Mitch handed her, taking two great gulps before unloading her day on her husband. Once upon a time their arrivals and departures had been demarcated by a kiss and embrace, back when Cora asked about Mitch’s day. Certainly tonight his wife would notice how he’d tidied the house, filed their taxes, folded laundry, mowed the lawn, outdid his own culinary achievements…

Instead Sophie yelled from the hall, “Dad, something’s wrong with the toilet.”

Mitch turned off the burner and stepped around the corner. “Two squares, ladies. How many times must I say it.”

“That’s insane, Dad,” Alena said. “This isn’t the pandemic.”

Mitch grabbed the plunger. Sure he had regrets. But when his career shifted from legal scholar to investigative reporter somehow morphing into part-time leisure magazine writer, taking the role of housedad was never something he regretted. Believing he could live amiably in a house with three women and only one bathroom was.

“I specifically told you not to flush things other than human waste,” he lectured. “Don’t you read the sign?” The poster he’d designed, printed and hung beside the flusher read: Don’t flush tampons, PERIOD! He thought it was clever.

“Don’t lie to me, girls. Did you flush a tampon?” Yellow water was swiftly rising. Mitch worked the plunger.

“No!” cried Sophie.

“It wasn’t me,” Alena said.

“Damn it. I can’t hold it off. Cora, call the plumber.” Mitch glanced at his oldest daughter. “In fact, call Dupont Plumbing.”

“No.” Alena’s eyes widened. “Mom, please. Call anyone else.” But it was too late. Cora was on the phone, flinging beach towels from the closet, sopping up urinated dilution seeping across the tile. “Yes, hi, our toilet’s clogged…again.”

Twenty minutes later, seventeen-year-old Liam Dupont knocked on their door. “Hi Mrs. Bergson. My dad said you called?”

“Yes, Liam. You know the way,” Cora said.

Liam lugged his toolbox inside, squeezing past Sophie and pausing at Alena in the hall: “Oh, hi Alena.”

Alena melted into her room. Liam was tall, fit and skinny. His arms were long enough to reach awkward spaces, ensuring his spot as star lacrosse player and his family’s plumbing business as the best in town. Last summer, his dad bought him a truck outfitted with two bench seats and a rack for his tools. Liam was smart, charming, handsome, handy. Alena was mortified.

Before tackling the toilet, Liam politely asking Mitch to hover somewhere else. “Good idea,” Mitch said, “I’ll find out what we’re dealing with.” And he herded his girls onto the couch.

“We’ll know the cause soon,” Mitch said. “So I’ll give you each one chance to tell the truth. Who clogged the toilet?”

“Mitch,” Cora said. “Is this really necessary? I’ve been in court all day. Can’t we just let Liam take care of it and eat?”

“No.” Mitch crossed his arms. “No one gets stew till I get answers.”

Cora covered her laugh with the back of her hand. “You expect a confession? Mitch, darling, you were terrible at this in law school. You’ll never get them to confess.”

“You’re not clear of this either, darling. Just because I didn’t pass the bar, doesn’t mean I don’t have same degree as you. You forget how observant I am. For instance, at 4:32pm Alena was in the bathroom for seven minutes. At 4:40, Sophie entered, but was interrupted by you. At quarter till the bowl overflowed, so I can only conclude that someone one is using more toilet paper than their permitted two squares, or you’re flushing foreign objects down the toilet! Why else has the toilet clogged three times this year. Please explain what I’m missing!”

Alena snorted. “You won’t get a confession from me.”

“Nor I,” said Sophie.

All three women crossed their arms. Mitch took a step back. “Oh no, you won’t gang up on me this time.”

He set up his interrogation room in the kitchen, where overhead lights cast harsh shadows and the smell of stew had faded. He adjusted his favorite apron and gestured for Cora to sit.

“Let’s begin,” Mitch said, slipping a coaster under her glass. “As a woman, you obviously know which of our daughters is currently menstruating.”

Cora choked before swallowing.

Mitch continued, “Isn’t it true that women can tell these things through psychosis?”

Cora restrained her smile. “Honey, what’s this really about?”

Mitch glanced at the table set for four, the lukewarm lamb getting chewy. You hardly notice me, he thought but said, “It’s about paying that plumber one twenty an hour when we should be saving for Alena’s tuition.”

“I told you I’m taking care of that,” Cora said.

“Of course you are,” Mitch muttered.

“Excuse me?” Cora set down her glass. “You know, this is precisely why you never made it as a lawyer. Your tactics are all wrong. Sarcasm? Intimidation? It doesn’t work. It never has. If you want them to open up, you need to build rapport.”

“Reports, I know.” He unmagnetized his whiteboard, usually reserved for meal planning, and pointed to three names and timestamps written there.

“No, honey, the t is silent.”

“No, it’s not. Report-t-t-s,” Mitch said, jutting his jaw for emphasis.

Cora sighed. “Maybe I should talk to the girls.”

“No!” Mitch lurched forward. “No,” he said more calmly. “You don’t need to do everything for me, fix everything for me. I wish you’d be on my team here. I wish you’d appreciate what I’m trying to do.”

“And what are you trying to do, exactly?”

“I’m trying to understand why you girls keep clogging the toilet.”

“Us girls?”

“You know what I mean.”

Cora leaned forward. “You think I don’t know what can and cannot go down a toilet? I’m a fifty-nine-year-old woman, or haven’t you noticed? If you’re so observant, you’d know about my night sweats, hot flashes, the fact that I wear more layers than I can count and suffer terrible mood swings.”

“Well, I have noticed those.”

“Mitch! I’m menopausal. I haven’t had my period in seven years. I’m getting acne for Christ’s sake. I’d love to explain how shifting hormones affect the body, but you never ask. You don’t want to participate in this part of my life because that’s not the sort of plumbing you’re interested in!”

“Honey, I—” Mitch stuttered.

“Forget it. Have your stupid mock trial. I’m getting more wine.”

Cora stormed off, leaving Mitch dumfounded in the kitchen. When she rejoined her daughters, she winked and smiled. “Your turn, Alena.”

Alena sat on the stool, arms folded, watching her dad neurotically scrub drops of wine off the counter. In one swift movement, he aimed the overhead pendant light into his oldest daughters eyes. “You entered the bathroom at 4:32, correct? But didn’t exit until 4:39. What can you possibly do in there for seven whole minutes?”

“Dad, are we really doing this?” Alena slouched in her seat.

Mitch circled behind her. “Having Liam here makes you giddy. You like him. You have every reason to clog our toilets so your mother has to call him. You know this breaches my no-boys-in-the-house rule.”

“Dad, you’re the one who insisted we call him. I begged Mom to call someone else.”

Mitch changed his tone. “Let’s talk about prom. Has he asked you yet? Do you want to go with him? Do you keep shoving tampons down the toilet so he’ll come over?”

“What? Dad, first of all, I’m a seventeen-year-old woman who has successfully not been clogging toilets for years. If I wanted a date for prom, I’d probably choose another way to get a boy’s attention than having him plunge my toilet?”

Mitch stopped wiping the counters. “What? Nobody will be plunging anyone’s toilet around here. Not on my watch!”

Alena smirked. “You know he uses his snake to—”

“Stop.” Mitch gripped the counter. His face blanched white.

“Are we done here?” Alena stood up.

Mitch nodded.

She sauntered to the couch and said, “Your turn, sister.”

When Sophie arrived, Mitch was scrubbing the stovetop again. She said, “How does a man this obsessed with cleanliness manage to wipe his ass with only two squares?”

Mitch threw down the sponge and said, “Language! Now, is it true that you’ll capitalize on any opportunity to embarrass your sister?”

He slid a chocolate bar across the counter. Sophie snatched it and ate ravenously. Mitch noted this on his whiteboard. “How are your moods today?”

Sophie put down the chocolate bar. “I’m not on my period, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Mitch cringed. “Nobody seems to appreciate how disruptive this clog is. Do you know how expensive plumbers are?”

Sophie leaned forward. “Do you appreciate how disruptive having your period is? Can you imagine layers of your organs peeling off every month then falling out from inside you?”

“Oh god,” Mitch gagged on his own saliva.

“I don’t even use tampons, Dad. They’re so bad for the environment. I couldn’t live with myself knowing I contributed that much waste to landfills. I’ll show you what I use. It’s called a diva cup. You simply pinch the sides and shove it up your—”

“Nope.” Mitch held up both hands, shielding himself from whatever Sophie was extracting from her purse.

Thankfully Liam appeared from the hall. “All done, sir.”

“And?” Mitch rushed over. “Who’s the culprit?”

“I’d rather not say, sir. It doesn’t really matter.”

“Oh, it matters,” Mitch said. “In fact, everyone in the living room.”

“Mitch,” Cora hissed. “You’re embarrassing all of us.”

“Embarrassing? How do you think I feel when the neighbors see this damn truck here every month? The neighbors are talking. They say, Oh that Mitch can’t keep his plumbing straight. That Mitch does whatever his girls tell him. That Mitch cooks and cleans and folds laundry without a thank you or smile or hint of appreciation. I’m the one keeping this house in order and you three just clog, clog, clog. I can’t take it anymore! So, yes Liam, please tell us what in the world is clogging the toilet.”

“Dude Wipes, sir.”

“What?”

“Dude Wipes. I know they say flushable on the package, but they’re really not.” Liam handed over a bright blue box.

“But,” Mitch whispered. “They say one wipe replaces ten full squares.”

“That may be true, sir. But they’re doing a real number on your pipes, sir. You need to throw them in the garbage.”

Mitch crumpled into his chair. Humiliated, silent.

Liam paused before hauling his toolbox to the door. “Actually, while I’m here sir, I was hoping to ask Alena something.”

Alena leapt from the couch.

Cora did too. “Not now, Liam. This really isn’t good timing.”

“But with so many house calls lately, I’ve finally saved enough for a limo!”

“Do you mean…?” Alena started

“Later,” Cora hissed, pushing Liam out the door.

Mitch sat with the box against his forehead. When the door latched and Liam was gone, all three women burst into hysterics.

“Oh Mitch…” Cora started but the rest was drowned in laughter.

Alena keeled over, holding her stomach. “Amazing job, Dad…” but she couldn’t finish.

Sophia wiped tears from her eyes, reaching for the box of tissues. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll only use two squares.” She laughed and cried. And for the first time ever, she patted her dad on the back.

---

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An Egg in the Hand

When his biggest rival announces his possession of the world’s rarest, most coveted Arctic falcon egg, Javier uses the hubbub of Florida’s Exotic Pet Expo tradeshow to orchestrate the almost perfect heist.

Photo by Charles Deluvio, Unsplash

In 8 days, I wrote this 2,500-word story with the surprise topics of crime caper, a tradeshow, and a shopaholic during Round 1 of the 2022 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. My story, An Egg in the Hand, earned 1st place in my heat, which moves me on to Round 2!

An Egg in the Hand

“Alvin, take a look at this.” Javier flattened this year’s Florida Exotic Pet Expo catalogue, tapping his pen on Scales & Feathers. “He’s done it.”

            Alvin grabbed the glossy, squinting at their biggest rival’s booth description. Every year, Reynold Stuart enticed buyers with a coveted, usually illegal creature, the announcement delightfully cryptic except to the most devout enthusiasts. This year, Scales & Feathers would be showing…long list of rote reptiles…some birds…followed by “a hooded rarity of white prestige.”

            “You don’t think—” Alvin said.

            “I do.” Javier squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “And we’re going to steal it.”

            Alvin choked on his coffee as Lydia opened the door, arms draped with shopping bags. She hoisted them to the counter.          

            “Babe, you were just getting milk,” Javier said.

            Lydia flipped her long dark hair and unfurled a purple mink shawl. “I did. But isn’t this shawl perfect!”

            Javier sighed. “It’s your fortune…”

            Lydia kissed her husband. “Our fortune, darling. Had my father showered me with love instead of money, I wouldn’t have to fill this aching void. I wish you’d enjoy it with me.” She laughed, charmed Alvin with a smile, and retreated upstairs with full arms.

            Alvin continued circling items his brother’s store could actually sell: lightweight cages, laser-sensing self-feeders. “Why do you let him get under your skin? You won, remember? She chose you.”

            “It’s not about that. It’s timing. Reynold’s been obsessed with the world’s largest falcon since we were kids. And pure white, who could resist? I knew he’d find one someday, I just didn’t know when. But I’ve had Suzy crossbreeding chickens for years and look…” Javier reached into the fridge and retrieved a carton of eggs, all brown with deeply dark speckles.

            Alvin picked one up. “Amazing.” He studied the weight, the shape, everything about it was near perfect. “How did you—?”

            “Marie’s her name, the most precious chicken in the world.” Javier grinned and cracked four eggs into a bowl.

            Alvin waved his hand, a gesture inherited from their father. “We’re too old for this. Between my anxiety and your diabetes, we’d never pull it off. Besides, what’s the point?”

            “Speak for yourself!” Javier ran his hands through his thick, black hair. Alvin, at age forty-two, was already grayed from chronic worry. “It’s not about money or revenge. It’s about this egg. In another life, we’d have been partners, Reynold and I, but…”

            “Say what you want, Javi. You’re obsessed, just like he is. You think Reynold won’t notice you swapping a common chicken egg for his million-dollar gyrfalcon?”

            “It’s an omen, Alvin. Marie finally starts laying perfect duplicates exactly when Reynold announces his possession of the Arctic’s fiercest predatory bird? It’s too good to be true!”

            “It won’t work,” Alvin said. “He’ll be guarding it like a hawk.”

            “No,” Javier smiled. “I’m bringing Lydia.”

            Alvin opened his mouth, then closed it again. Javier waited. Then Alvin, his older brother and most trusted friend, shook his head and laughed. “Screw it. I’m in.”

            Javier slapped the counter. “Yes! Okay, here’s my plan…”

***

            The day of Florida’s most coveted tradeshow was bright and sunny. The convention center cackled with thousands of raucous birds and reptiles in cages or harnessed on open displays. Florida’s Exotic Pet Expo attracted the who’s who of oviparous experts; purchases made here dictated the prestige and success of everyone’s upcoming hatching and selling season. Lydia was beside herself, ready to bargain for the most beautiful and outrageous animals she could find. They passed the reptile room into aquatics, new technology booths and finally the aviary section.

            “Remember darling,” Javier said. “Stick to the budget. We only need what’s circled in the catalogue.” But Lydia was gone. Moments later she returned with a lemonade-colored parakeet and two knitted sweaters that read, Shell-tastic!

            “For turtles,” she squealed. “Can you believe it?”

            Javier managed an exasperated smile. This may have been a bad idea. Still, he led them toward the Scales & Feather’s booth, and soon enough, Reynold came lurking through the crowd. Javier said to Lydia, “Let’s get lunch.”

            “Now? But we’ve barely begun. The good deals will be taken!”

            “I’m famished,” Javier said, pulling her away.

            Lydia noticed Reynold and slapped Javier’s arm for attempting escape. “Reynold,” she said, kissing his cheeks. Reynold nodded at Javier, then whispered in Lydia’s ear, making her laugh like old times.

            “Your codes are getting lazy,” Javier yelled above the clatter of the convention floor.

            Reynold let go of Lydia’s hands and leaned in. “I finally did it, Javi. The egg we’ve been dreaming about since boyhood.” He was beaming.

            “I don’t deal on the black market anymore, Reynold. You know that.”

            “Oh, but you would again, friend, if you saw this beauty. Power emanates from it. I’d like to show you, for old time’s sake.”

            “Not interested.” Javier gritted his teeth. “Besides,” he raised his voice so Lydia could hear. “We’re getting lunch.”

            Predictably, Lydia insisted, “You should join us.”

            Reynold took her arm. “I’d love to.”

            Javier checked his watch: 11:32am.

            Before the waitress found their table, Javier feigned a text. “It’s Alvin, big deal on the hook. Sorry, darling, will you be okay?”

            Reynold handed Javier a card. “My room number, just in case.”

            Javier made a big show of kissing Lydia goodbye, apologizing for his rudeness, then hurried to Alvin’s room on the fourth floor. Alvin, already dressed like a waitstaff, had placed the chicken egg in the incubator hidden under a silver domed tray on an elegant food cart.

            “You sure this will work?” Alvin said. His belly bulged against the gold buttons on the white coat, his middle-aged body slightly larger than size large. Javier held up the card. “Step one’s complete.”

            They rattled up the elevator to the seventh floor, where two conspicuous bodyguards– hired more for the assets in the room than for personal wellbeing–stood at room 718. At exactly 11:52am, a little known but wealthy egg collector named Mr. Neilson emerged for his twelve o’clock appointment. At 11:54, he entered the elevator and grew annoyed by two waitstaff blocking the elevator’s service door. Three minutes later, Mr. Neilson was chloroformed and dragged to the ninth-floor stairwell, left curled on his side like a drunk sleeping one off. Javier slipped on Mr. Neilson’s blue sports jacket, a little snug, and held his ID to his face. Alvin nodded. As Javier promised, they were a close match. On the fifteenth floor, Javier stepped out, followed by Alvin, who paused with his cart just around the corner.

            Javier took a deep breath and knocked on suite 1510. A stout, sunglassed guard stepped out, scanned Mr. Neilson’s ID, patted Javier down, and opened the door.

            Alvin started his timer. He had seven minutes to get downstairs, intercept the food service ordered to his room, position the incubator and trays on the cart, and return to position.

            Inside, Javier was led into the ensuite office where a mahogany desk held a clear glass incubator with its motherly hum. Despite himself, Javier felt like weeping. This rare Arctic bird, this coveted white gyrfalcon egg, looked precisely like Marie’s.

            At 12:07, Alvin knocked on suite 1510. The sunglassed guard stepped out, wagged his finger, and shut the door. Inside, Javier’s voice raised. “It was me. I ordered it. I insist on room service. With all the excitement I knew my blood sugar would get low. Do you want me to fall into hypoglycemic shock?” His shrill tone was working. The guards, more like hired hands, were promised a cut from the highest bidder. For all of Reynold’s prestige, he was still just a pet store owner with a fetish. A relatively normal Miami man who didn’t keep bodyguards on payroll but understood how to get them. This room alone was costing him a notable fraction of the sale’s earnings. Javier added, “Look, I’m a fickle eater, always ordering more than I can muster. You can choose from what doesn’t appeal to me. Just let me eat for Christ’s sake!”

            Alvin sweated in the hall. Javier’s plan relied too much on the moods of strangers. This would never work. Panicked, he turned to go. Javier could spend his hour ogling a real gyrfalcon egg and that would be that. But then the door opened and the guard waved him in.

            Javier ignored Alvin while he peaked under each silver dome, choosing one near the napkin folded like a duck. “Your turn gentlemen.” Javier’s tone had risen to a laughable pitch. “Waiter, stay till we’re finished then clear this away. I don’t want these gorgeous lugs getting in trouble on my behalf.”

             “Certainly, sir.” Alvin bowed slightly.

            The three guards glanced at one another. Rather flamboyantly, Javier insisted they join him on the couches. Together they ate, laughed at Javier’s ridiculous commentary, and were unperturbed when he needed the restroom to inject his insulin. In the bathroom, Javier unfolded his duck-shaped napkin and slipped Marie’s egg into his jacket sleeve. On his return, he paused at the office door, sighing loudly. “My wife would kill me if I bought this beauty. Might I have another look?”

            One guard begrudgingly stood, sandwich in hand.

            “Oh, don’t bother yourself.” Javier winked. “You can pat me down before I leave.”

            Alvin held his breath, praying this lackadaisical guard was tempted by food like a starving college student. It worked. The guard sat down, devouring the rest of his cubano.

            Javier listened for sounds of Alvin collecting his half-eaten tray. When one guard said, “Leave it. I’ll eat that,” it was all the cover he needed to squeak open the incubator and swap eggs. He wrapped the gyrfalcon into his napkin, walked out, and flippantly thrust Alvin the dirty napkin.

            Alvin flinched, fumbled, afraid he’d heard a crack.

            “Jesus Christ, man,” Javier hissed.

            The guards stood. “There a problem?” In his most cringe-worthy performance yet, Javier glided back to the couch. “Of course not, darling!”

            Alvin squared his jaw. Javier was taking this too far. But then he felt it, wrapped in the napkin, hopefully unscathed, the outline of the most delicate, precious, and expensive egg in the world. If this was all the time he got with it, that was enough. Even Alvin knew this was special, powerful beyond reason. He stooped and gently nestled the egg inside the incubator, hidden in the cart, covering it with a silver dome.

            Javier spent a few more minutes marveling at Marie’s chicken egg in the office, growing noticeably impatient that the seller had still not arrived. “Apologies,” said the guard. “It’s only 12:15. You still have time.” Javier guffawed. He took notes, was refused a picture, wrote down an offer then tore it up. He grew indignant. He was a serious buyer who deserved respect. He would not wait a moment longer. At 12:20, Javier huffed out, feigning insult and cursing Reynold’s name.

            Shortly after, Alvin rattled cautiously toward the door when a guard said, “Wait.” Alvin froze. The guard reached in his pocket–This is it, Alvin thought–and handed him twenty dollars. “Rich assholes never tip,” he said, with a friendly nod. Alvin smiled and pocketed the money.

            In their fourth-floor room, Javier was waiting, having already thrown Mr. Nielson’s coat into a hallway trash, emptying the wallet like a simple robbery. Alvin lifted the silver dome. Their egg was uncracked. Relief swept over them. Reynold was right. This creature, not even hatched, emanated power. Javier set the gyrfalcon egg carefully inside the incubator. Then he wrapped his arms around his brother. “We did it, Alvin. We freaking did it!”

            It was 12:24pm.

***

            Downstairs, Javier found Lydia and Reynold sitting too close at the table. For how much Javier loved his wife, he didn’t trust her. Not really. It’s why he left the black market in the first place. A rich, beautiful woman with a family fortune to flaunt would get caught in an instant. This was his final gamble. She chose you, remember? And he would always, forever, choose her. With this calm, Javier approached his wife and her ex-lover.

            “Sorry about that.”

            “What did you buy?” Lydia asked.

            “Nothing. Alvin doesn’t have the stomach for tradeshows.” He turned to Reynold. “Don’t you have actual buyers to romance with your prestige?”

            Reynold checked his watch. His eyes widened. “Lydia, as always, you are radiant. But I must go. I’m terribly late for an appointment.”

            “Oh, I’m sorry to have kept you,” Lydia said.

            Reynold paused, his muffin-brown hair drifted across one eye. “I wish you had kept me, Lydia. Besides this appointment is doubtfully my highest bidder.”

            As Reynold left, Javier finished Lydia’s margarita. “Are we done here, darling?”

            “But it’s barely noon, and there is so much to look at!” She pulled out the catalogue, explaining her choreographed shopping plan. For the first time, Javier didn’t mind. She could spend her father’s entire fortune for all he cared. Nothing could spoil this day.

            “Why don’t you stay,” Javier said. “Buy us the best of the best. I’ve had my fill.”

            Lydia squealed, jumped out of the booth, and Javier watched her disappear behind a giant anaconda cage.

***

            When Lydia got home, Javier and Alvin were laughing on the porch, snifters in hand.

            “Tell us,” Javier said. “Are we the proud owners of ten blue macaws? Three Burmese pythons?”

            Lydia kissed him hard. “This was possibly the most fun day of my life. Thank you.” Her tone was full of love. “I bought you something.”

            “Oh?” Javier smiled at the stars.

            “I heard you talking to Reynold this morning. All that secrecy about hooded prestige. And darling, he showed me.”

            Javier and Alvin sat up.

            “You went to his room?”

            “Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” Lydia was all red lips and smile. “I know it’s a lot of money, but I want to make you happy. So, I bought it.”

            “What?” Javier jumped to his feet. Alvin spit out his drink.

            “Your red pen was all over his catalogue listing. I thought you’d be happy!”

            Javier looked at his wife. “How much?”

            Lydia blushed, which meant a lot, even for her. “What does it matter? It’s my money, like you said. I was trying to do something nice.”

            Javier was speechless.

            “Where is it?” Alvin said.

            “It’s in the incubator.”

            They ran to the kitchen. Two eggs, brown with deeply dark speckles, were warming side by side.

            “Why did you put it in there?” Alvin cried.

            “To keep it warm, silly. And so they’d be together.”

            Javier and Alvin studied the eggs, one stolen, one purchased. Even they could hardly tell the difference.

            Then Alvin, dear Alvin, started laughing. He laughed so hard and long that Javier and Lydia started laughing too. And the three of them laughed till their bellies ached and their tears ran out of salt.

            Javier finally caught his breath. “What are we going to do?”

            Alvin lifted his glass. “Sell them both, I guess!”

Photo by Ruben Marques, Unspash

Dr. Amaz's Gateway to Immortality

Image by Nhia Moua, Unsplash

In Round 3 of the 2021 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge, I had 48 hours to write a 1,500-word story with the surprise topics of comedy, immortality, and a statistician. Comments from judges include, “The writer is a commanding storyteller” and “I thoroughly enjoyed this fun, outrageous comedy…"

Dr. Amaz’s Gateway to Immortality

by Meghan Robins

Day one of Jacklyn’s internship was typical: Here’s the coffee machine, printer. Are you good with printers? These are rows of human preservation canisters… Dr. Amaz was tall. He wore loafers without socks, Levis uncuffed, pristine lab coat, stoic frown. His smooth dark skin and drooping eyes gave him a young-but-wise appearance. The sign out front read “Dr. Amaz Life Insurance Company.” The sign in back read “Cryonic Preservation Foundation.” Something about this internship wasn’t right, but Jacklyn needed the credits, and this was the address Professor Tudor had given her.

“Sit here,” Dr. Amaz said, tapping a desk with two fingers. “Have clients fill this out, then buzz me. Whatever you do, don’t answer their questions.”

At 8:30am, Benjamin rushed in. “Sorry I’m late. You must be the intern.” He held out his hand. His olive skin and almond eyes sent Jacklyn’s heart aflutter. Sweat pooled between their palms. “I’m Benjamin, lead statistician.”

Benjamin explained their systems, operations, her daily tasks. “Mostly, we need you to record whose insurance funds will run out before their liquid nitrogen does.”

“I’m sorry,” Jacklyn said. “The internship form said—"

Benjamin shushed her and pointed to his embroidered lapel: “The gateway to immortality.” As if that answered everything.

Rows of silver tanks lined the backroom. They could’ve been brewing beer for all she knew—the college student’s gateway to immortality. But each tank had a name, policy number, digital screen, and a tiny window at the top, too tall for her to see through.

“Shouldn’t medical staff be doing this?” Jacklyn asked. Standing beside Benjamin, she felt warm and cool all at once.

“Oh, these people are dead,” Benjamin said. “We’re like high-tech storage facilitators.”

Dr. Amaz cleared his throat. “We’re life insurance brokers.”

“Who’ve found a way to keep on collecting.” Benjamin grinned.

“Who are these people?” Jacklyn peered across a row of severed heads.

“Politicians mostly. People who altruistically chose the ‘for humanity’s sake’ checkbox. We try not to judge.” Benjamin winked.

“And these?” Jacklyn blushed, pushing her glasses up her freckled nose.

“Divorcees mostly. No better way to spite a loved one than redirecting funds to your own impossible re-animation. Take Number Five here, Mr. Bradigan. He took the liquid nitrogen plunge to ensure his fortune is spent preserving his own body, indefinitely. He’s just one of many clients looking for final ways to screw their spouse.”

Dr. Amaz, who never seemed to stop checking thermostats, called from another row, “The odds of science catching up is low. But the moment I added Cryonic Preservation to our life insurance forms, policy sales skyrocketed. It was only a matter of time before I had enough to purchase human-sized tanks and do the storing myself.”

That afternoon, an elderly man shuffled in. “I’m here for my procedure,” he announced, arms wide open.

“Certainly,” Jacklyn said. “Please fill out this form.”

The man beckoned her over with curled knuckles. He read the form aloud: “Reasons for choosing cryonic tissue preservation: a) to benefit society b) to seek immortality c) to avoid death. I’d like to add another option ‘to avoid know-nothing millennials and other dumb questions.’”

“Excuse me?” Jacklyn brushed the pleats of her skirt.

“There, like that,” he said. “I’m ready for immortality already.”

Benjamin turned the corner, coffee filled to the brim. “Good morning, Mr. Johnson. You’re looking alive and well.”

“Screw you.”

Jacklyn handed back the clipboard.

“Do you want me to kill myself?” Mr. Johnson asked.

“We’d rather you didn’t, sir.” Benjamin took a sip.

Jacklyn smiled longingly at Benjamin. She startled when Dr. Amaz emerged from the backroom. “Mr. Johnson, you know the drill. No de-animation till you kick the bucket…naturally.” Dr. Amaz wagged a finger. “It doesn’t work if you kill yourself. That sort of abuse just can’t be undone.”

Mr. Johnson grumbled and handed Jacklyn a check for ten thousand dollars.

***

For weeks, Jacklyn scrolled through files, recording phrases like ‘catastrophic tissue failure,’ ‘organ obliteration,’ ‘literal cracking of the heart’ in her spreadsheet.

Under reasons for procedure, she noted that most clients checked the box for ‘benefits associated with avoiding death.’

“What are the benefits of avoiding death?” she asked Benjamin one day.

“Not being dead,” he said. “That’s literally the only benefit.”

Despite herself, Jacklyn flushed. Maybe it was her lame college dating scene but there was something about him, his enthusiasm, his passion. The way his chest swelled under his shirt.

“Do you want to get drinks?” she asked.

Benjamin’s eyes dropped, but he smiled. Before answering, he stole a glance at Dr. Amaz. Jacklyn understood right away. The odds of finding happiness with a bisexual statistician were low, but she didn’t care. She’d intended to invite them both.

Over drinks, Benjamin gave her the run down. “Full-body clients pay twenty thousand a year. Severed heads, fifteen. Living policy holders pay up to eight-hundred a month. Mr. Johnson for example, has been paying into his policy for twenty-seven years.”

Dr. Amaz chuckled. “His problem is he just won’t die.”

Jacklyn laughed too loudly and touched Dr. Amaz’s arm. He flinched.

“I’m sorry,” Jacklyn said.

“No, I am.” Dr. Amaz gripped his mouth and rushed to the bathroom.

“What have you done?” Benjamin said, knocking his chair back to watch Dr. Amaz go. “Don’t you know warm tissue makes him queasy!”

In afterthought, he sat back down and grabbed Jacklyn’s hand. “What did he feel like?”

***

The next day, Jacklyn wished she’d feigned sick. Inexplicably, the backroom was hissing and gray. Shining human canisters were rhythmically spitting puffs of liquid nitrogen.

“What happened?” she asked.

Benjamin rushed at her. “They’re thawing, all of them. Bring your spreadsheets!”

Dr. Amaz was running between canisters, his eyebrows white with sudden freeze. “Someone transposed the readings. The thermostats are set too warm. We’re losing them!”

“Three people work here,” Jacklyn said.

“There’s no time,” Benjamin said, guilt written across his face. “Your analysis. Who should we save first? Who has the most remaining funds?”

“What?”

“We have to keep it cool inside,” Dr. Amaz yelled, sealing the door.

Jacklyn couldn’t process that ‘cool’ meant negative three hundred degrees. With canisters slowly leaking liquid nitrogen, they were both warming their clients too quickly and freezing themselves too slowly.

“What are the odds we should save this one?” Dr. Amaz yelled over hissing pipes. He was standing beside Number Seven.

Jacklyn looked at her notes. “I don’t know,” she screamed over the noise.

Benjamin grabbed Jacklyn’s spreadsheet. Data fields were bursting with lengthy prose.

“What is this?”

“This feels like a bad time to tell you,” Jacklyn paused, “I’m an English major.”

“What?”

Dr. Amaz waved desperately. “The odds, man, tell me the odds!”

“How could you?” Benjamin’s eyes were huge and panicked. Beside him, another hose burst.

“What, be a writer?” Jacklyn cried. “It said data journalist internship. How was I to know. Did you even look at my resume?”

Hoses and pipes pinged and popped. The room was now filling with liquid nitrogen very quickly. Jacklyn’s tear ducts began to crystalize.

“You’re the statistician, Benjamin,” Dr. Amaz yelled, slowing to a crawl. “What about this one? What are the odds we can save this one?”

“Please stop asking that,” Benjamin moaned.

“What about this one?”

“You want data?” Benjamin yelled. “Zero percent. Zero percent chance any of this works. The stats are clear as day. It’s like freezing lettuce. Has no one tried this on lettuce? Even if they do reanimate in one hundred years, they’ll be mush and so outdated they’ll be asking to check their Facebook. Look at this guy!”

The canister beside him had burst open. The client slipped out and cracked on the floor.

“And while we’re admitting things,” Benjamin yelled. “I’m dyslexic!”

The glass on three more canisters exploded. Corpses fell out. Something gray oozed across the floor.

Dr. Amaz gagged. He crawled toward Benjamin, his mobility rapidly de-animating. “What the hell have you been doing these last six years?”

“This was the only job I could get.” Benjamin’s eyelids gave a last flutter. He reached out and Dr. Amaz reached back. Finally, their nitrogen-crisp hands were cool enough to embrace.

Benjamin struggled to his knees. More bodies were slipping from their canisters. Heads were rolling.

“I’m sorry, Benjamin,” Dr. Amaz said. “What a terrible misunderstanding. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel.”

At their exact moment of de-animation, when sixty percent of their tissue was more ice than water, Dr. Amaz leaned forward, finally able to stomach a real human kiss.

Jacklyn wallowed her near-frozen body closer just in time to hear Dr. Amaz whisper in Benjamin’s ear, “I have secrets, too. I’ve been frozen once before.”

As their lips touched, Jacklyn joined in. For a brief moment, they all three understood that they’d be frozen like this for eternity. A trio together, forever.

What are the odds? Jacklyn thought. Of finding ourselves in love in one hundred years?

But she knew nobody in that room knew the answer.

The Coop Coup

 This work of fiction earned 2nd place in Round 2 of the 2021 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. I had 3 days to write a 2,000-word story, with the surprise assigned topics of political satire, damage control, and an insider. Top 5 stories selected by a panel of judges moved on to Round 3. About this story, one of the judges said, “I LOVED this story. It’s like Animal Farm meets Chicken Run…This was not only political satire, it was also a cautionary tale PLUS it was truly funny.”

The Coop Coup

by Meghan Robins 

Betsy was a beautiful Lavender Orphington who proudly ruled the Coop. Thanks to her, all hens had clean water, daily dust baths, private roosts (on the east and west side), and automated feeders depositing hefty portions of food into their allotted accounts. They spent their days congregating in the house discussing the Coop’s problems. Under Betsy’s rule, for the first time in Coop history, Lavender Orphingtons and Red Why-Nots agreed that they were perfectly capable of self-regulation.

Despite Betsy’s amazing laying power, hens still vied for the top, trying to disrupt the pecking order. All her good work was risked whenever a new hen came along. She was not proud of the things she did, but top hen was an ugly job. It was not for everyone. Betsy did what she had to do. And everything she did was for the Citizens of the Coop. It was Betsy’s idea, after all, to tax the hard-working mice, who freeloaded under the floorboards, to better fill their coffers. Under this system, hens were getting fat, laying more eggs, and everyone was happy.

Her trouble started when Sunny was caught colluding with a neighboring coop, exchanging eggs for better feed, and was later found pecked to death in the corner near a pile of rocks.

When Betsy snuck out of the chain-link fence, Rafa was waiting. “Hens are asking questions,” Betsy clucked.

“Relax,” said the racoon. “I made it look like an accident.”

“You made it look like chicken’s work.” Betsy flapped her wings. She hated engaging in this kind of business, but such was the cost of maintaining the pecking order. To keep hens from thinking too much about Sunny’s demise, Betsy devised a plan. The best damage control, after all, was a good distraction.  

“The feeders are not as full as they ought to be,” Betsy reminded everyone the next afternoon.

And just like that, debate was sparked. Where’s it going? Who’s to blame? For days, hens squawked about who to tax for additional grains. The Why-Nots rejected any idea resembling redistribution of wealth, and the Orphingtons insisted higher rates would further deplete food stores. It was Betsy who reminded them that mice–that lazy, ungrateful workforce–had access to outside storehouses.

“For years, they’ve been smuggling grain in and out of neighboring coops, sneaking across fence lines, through cracks in walls,” Betsy clucked, and a rare moment of silence quieted the house. “They beg for crumbs, yet refuse to claim just how much grain they’ve earned. And doesn’t each hen, who already sacrifices so much for the mice living in her section of the Coop, deserve to be told the truth? Don’t we, too, deserve to have our bowls filled?”

Hens cackled in agreement.

“Then we clamp down, regulate every crumb that enters and exits the Coop. If mice want to live in harmony, if they want equality for the working class, then let’s hold every Citizen of the Coop accountable!”

An uproar of caws rang throughout the house.

***

Gareth knew he shouldn’t risk it, but all the hens were inside and even in broad daylight he could scurry to the main feeder, grab some oats, and be out before anyone was the wiser. He regretted it the moment Betsy poked her head out. She stomped on him so quickly, her cracked claw nearly crushed him into the ground.

“Always lurking when you should be working,” Betsy squawked and all the chickens gathered. “For every mouse we see, there are five more waiting in the shadows. Let one grain slip and here come the beggars. Didn’t I tell you?” She glared at Gareth with her orange eyeball. “Do you like living in the Coop?”

“Yes,” squeaked Gareth.

“And who protects you from marauding raccoons and hungry hens?”

“You,” gasped Gareth.

“Yet you’re stealing. No matter how much we give, mice just always want more. Why?”

“I’m just trying to save enough grains for tomorrow.”

“You know the rules. Every grain gets taxed into the main feeder. That way we know it’s safe.”

“But what about all this wasted grain right here?”

“Silence!” Betsy squawked. “Any mouse caught stealing will be pecked as punishment.” To prove her point, Betsy pecked Gareth so hard his ear began to bleed.

***

Below the floorboards, Gareth’s wife tended his wound. “You could’ve been killed,” Janet cried.

Gareth, a large gray mouse who burrowed in the backside of the coop, was outraged. Like many, he had hit hard times and was struggling to feed his family. But no matter how careful, diligent, and hardworking a mouse was these days, there were always glue-boards, traps, hawks, cats, raccoons, rainy days that flooded your nest, and a million other oppressive obstacles that kept him from making ends meet. He believed the hens ate more than their fair share, but who could stop them? For years, he tried to make an honest living, but lately had resorted to scavenging around the feeder, hoping for scraps of grain the hens carelessly flicked out.

“We have it hard enough,” Gareth squeaked. But his wife was already asleep, breathing deeply after another long swing shift. Gareth could not sleep. He could not stop thinking about life’s inequities. Every single thing about his existence felt unfair. No matter how hard he worked, no matter how honest he came by it, he would never get out from under these chickens’ floorboards. The realization was so infuriating he ran outside, and just when he was about to scream, he heard voices.

***

“You’re behind, Betsy,” said the raccoon.

“I’m laying as fast as I can. Rafa, please, I need more feed.”

“I thought that’s what the mice were for.”

“You left her right out in the open!” Betsy clucked.

Rafa picked his teeth. “Disposing of hens is not easy, you know. Coverups aren’t cheap.”

Betsy ruffled her feathers. “You think you can bail me out once and I owe you forever? I already paid you a dozen eggs. I know you’re making deals with every henhouse in this neighborhood. You keep more food than anyone offsite in the Community Gardens. If the Citizens of the Coop knew how much grain you stored, how little taxes you paid to the commonwealth, they’d be quite upset, don’t you think?”

Rafa laughed. “And who gives me that grain? You need me to do your dirty work so you don’t have to. You, who cluck in that house all day long, know nothing of the real world, of what I do, or even what those hard-working mice do. You collect your grain and claim that everything you stand for is ‘By the Coop, For the Coop.’ Maybe they deserve to know the truth.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“You’ve been paying me to take care of problem hens since you got to this coop. Without me, you’d never have reached top of the pecking order.”

Betsy flapped her wings. No raccoon could ever understand the complexities of being top hen, no matter how she got there.

Rafa stepped into the moonlight. “At least I’m transparent. Every mouse knows I’m in business for the profits. When they trade with me, they know what they’re getting. You, on the other hand, with your charming slogans and false promises, your job is to serve the Citizens of the Coop. Yet you’re dirtier than me tenfold. And I spent most of my youth in trash cans!” Rafa laughed and slunk around the hedge. Before disappearing, he said, “From now on, make it two eggs a day. Or I start eating hens.”

***

Gareth snuck back to his burrow. “Darling, wake up. I just overheard something I was not supposed to hear.”

But Janet was fast asleep, so Gareth spent the night alone devising his plan. In the morning when all the hens hopped into the yard, Gareth stood protected under the floorboards and waved his overworked pink paws. One mouse by the door waved back.

“Fellow mice,” Gareth piped, “For too long, we have lived under these floorboards waiting for chickens to acknowledge our value. For too long, we have been in servitude to them, and for what?”

Tiny mouse voices squeaked out answers: Because they’re bigger. They control the food. They might eat us. They outsource cats.

Gareth took a deep breath. Every mouse had an opinion and each opinion was valid, but it made consensus impossible.

“Fellow Citizens of the Coop,” he squeaked. “I’ve called us together because I’ve discovered information that will change our lives forever. Janet, aren’t you tired of sending our children into the workforce without any opportunity to improve? Aren’t you tired for being punished for even having kids, who only increase that workforce?”

Janet smiled, too overworked to answer.

“The point is, being a mouse is hard. Those chickens spend all day talking about us, claiming they’re governing the Coop on our behalf. They say they’ll listen, that we should speak up and our voices will be heard. But who among us has a chicken who understands what we go through? Well, I’ve learned something. These chickens aren’t protecting us. They’re threatening us. Step out of line and you’re pecked to death. But I’ve learned a secret that will end their reign of terror. The top hen, Betsy, is paying a raccoon to kill anyone who stands in her way. She’s been buying her way to the top using grains we pay as taxes! But what if Betsy’s the problem hen? She claims she keeps us safe, but all this time it’s been the raccoon!”

Squeals rattled the floorboards. “What should we do?”

Gareth looked out across dozens of hopeful black eyes. “I say, we partner with the raccoons.”

***

It was not easy for a mouse to flag down a raccoon. But finally, Gareth’s message reached Rafa himself and they met in the safest common ground Gareth could think of: the trash cans.

“So you want to be top hen,” Rafa said.

“No, it’s just… Those of us under the floorboards no longer want to be controlled by chickens, who eat our grain and squawk whenever we ask for more. We want to cut out the middle-hen.”

“What’s in it for me?” Rafa said, trying not to show all his teeth when smiling.

“Instead of paying them, we’ll pay you direct. But we demand the same protection.”

“Sure,” Rafa said.

***

The moment Gareth stepped back into the coop, Betsy was on him. “You foolish mouse! What have you done?”

Gareth squirmed away, “You’ve made our lives miserable! And now, your reign of terror is over.”

Betsy guffawed. “I’ve sacrificed everything for you. I’ve done things you couldn’t imagine. Do you think being top hen is easy? I know secrets that would ruin even the most modest mouse. Every coop needs someone like me, a leader who can handle control.”

Gareth hid behind an egg. “You think it’s easy to be a mouse in this coop?” he squeaked. “I can’t feed my family because you demand to see every last crumb. Why don’t you let us live our lives? Stop pretending like you care about us.”

Betsy’s orange eyes were ablaze. “I’m the best top hen you’ve ever have. You have no idea the damage you’ve done. Without me, there is no order. Without me, there is no Coop!”

Gareth shrugged. “It’s too late. The deal is done.”

***

The day Betsy’s body was found in the corner by the pile of rocks, Gareth felt anything but relief. He had not foreseen the rapid disintegration of the pecking order. What a fool he’d been, just as Betsy said. The Why-Nots and Orphingtons squabbled until the last grain in the feeder was gone, then the entire coop was forced under the tyranny of raccoons.

As Gareth piled the last of his grains beside a still-warm egg, a new raccoon appeared at the fence.

“Where’s Rafa?” Gareth said, feeling the last drop of hope fall from his brow.

“Don’t worry,” the raccoon said. “He’s just over there, watching.”

***

Author’s note: The chicken pictured above is our actual top hen named Jelly, about whom this story is loosely based.

Being a Woman is like Making French Onion Soup

Photo by Sheri Silver, Unsplash

This essay won 1st place in the Wow! Women On Writing Creative Nonfiction Essay Contest (Quarter 3, 2021), about which the judges said, “A timeless masterpiece that speaks to all of us, and wonderfully creative.” Read the essay below and an interview with me on The Muffin Blog.

Being a Woman Is Like Making French Onion Soup

by Meghan Robins (recipe from Joy of Cooking)

---

It starts with crying.

Thinly slice:

         5 medium onions

No matter how strong or resilient or tough as nails you might be, cutting that many onions will make you cry. Deal with it. Embrace it. Just cry. In fact, I recommend making French onion soup when you’re feeling strange because then you can let it out. Let your strangeness out, without having to explain why.

Heat in a soup pot over medium-low heat:

         2 Tablespoons olive oil

While the oil heats, continue slicing perfectly (or imperfectly) julienned onions. If you can complete this task before the blurry vision and uncontrollable tears set in, great. If not, don’t worry. A woman knows how to push through her emotions to get the job done. Dinner must go on.

Melt into the pot:

         2 Tablespoons butter

Still wiping tears on the back of your sleeves, holding a knife dangerously close (but quite under control), you listen to the spits and farts of melting butter. A gorgeous smell wafts upward. Take a deep breath here. Take this moment, while staying ever so cautious of the looming shift to burning. Splash in more olive oil to cool the temperature and preserve this moment, this smell, for just a second longer.

Add to the pot:

Prepared onions

Pinch of dried thyme

A pinch of time. Let’s all sit on that idea for a moment…

Cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally and keeping an eye on the onions, so they do not scorch. As soon as they start to brown, about 15 minutes, reduce the heat to medium-low and continue to cook, covered, stirring until they are a rich brown, about 40 minutes. Stir in:

         2 Tablespoons dry sherry or Cognac

Who measures sherry by the tablespoon? My soup deserves much more than a jigger. In fact, so do I. I rarely keep sherry or Cognac, so I opt for a bottle of white wine. If I’m out, then I reach for the dry Vermouth. And if I’m going to reach for dry Vermouth, I’m making myself a Manhattan.

Add one bay leaf

A symbol of glory and achievement. Your wreath of laurels. Joy of Cooking does not include a bay leaf in their recipe. French onion soup does not need a bay leaf. You do not need a bay leaf. Yet I add one. Why? Because I have already achieved so much. I’ve cried (onions). Forgiven myself (butter). Breathed deeply (pinch of thyme). Cared for myself (Manhattan). If you add a bay leaf, as I often do, it is simply a symbol of your womanhood. Your reward for forgiving yourself, for just being who you are.

Increase the heat to high and cook, stirring constantly, until the sherry has evaporated. Stir in:

         3 ½ cups beef stock

Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer, partially covered, for 20 minutes. Season with salt & pepper to taste.

The calm before the storm has passed. Your life (partner, kids, work, landlord, weather, whatever…) bustles through the door, brandishing iron and protein, a brash energy that conflicts with your newfound calm. The onions, which browned beautifully on their own accord, suddenly become immersed in a flavorful bath. Their hard work of patient, slow softening disappears, overpowered by the stronger beef flavor. But that’s okay. You are a woman. You knew this would happen.

Place 8 ovenproof soup bowls on a baking sheet. Ladle the hot soup into the bowls and top each with:

         1 to 3 slices French bread, toasted

         3 tablespoons grated Gruyere or Swiss (1 ½ cups total)

Broil until the cheese is melted and brown.

After one hour, your whirlwind of emotions is tucked neatly to bed under a layer of bread and cheese. Nobody knows that you added a secret ingredient of forgiveness. It is likely that nobody cares. But I care. I know that at least for today, I have taken the time to forgive myself. For what? I don’t know. But I know I needed to cry. I know I needed to feel nourished. I know that every day I need to feel grateful that I am a woman.

---

Permit to Redecorate

Top deck of the Galapagos catamaran Alya, which I had the pleasure of cruising aboard thanks to AdventureSmith Explorations.

This work of fiction earned 3rd place in Round 1 of the 2021 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. I had 7 days to write a 2,500-word story, with the surprise assigned topics of suspense, a decorator, and amenities. Top 5 stories selected by a panel of judges moved on to Round 2.

Permit to Redecorate

by Meghan Robins

When Manuel Alvero converted his twelve-passenger catamaran into a research vessel, he became desperate to keep the Adrianna afloat. Vaquitas, the world’s rarest marine mammals, were on the brink of extinction. As was Manuel, if he didn’t find a backer. Regretfully, the only philanthropist interested was Antonio Soto, the wealthiest businessman in Baja.

Lizzy White was a law school dropout with a keen eye for color squares. Her job was to diversify Mr. Soto’s investments—quietly, profitably, stylishly. Her eye for detail was impeccable. Mr. Soto’s taste was eccentric. When they caught wind of a fledgling nonprofit aboard an outdated catamaran, they agreed it checked all the boxes. Mr. Soto’s fascination for smart investments was rivaled only by his love for endangered species. Lizzy explained this to Manuel as they toured their newly co-owned catamaran. “We’ll add another bar here. Teak decking everywhere. Mr. Soto is awfully fond of royal hues, so this will get updated. I’ve ordered a marble Jacuzzi for the top deck, imported from Italy. These rooms will be combined into the owner’s suite. We must secure all the proper amenities for Mr. Soto’s ship.”

“Our ship,” Manuel corrected, following her up the spiral staircase.

“Yes, of course, your ship.” Lizzy leaned over the banister, her blond hair swirling in the early summer breeze. “Now these vaquitas, how do we get one?”

“Excuse me?” Manuel said. “They are endangered animals, not pets. And they do not survive in captivity.”

Lizzy turned sharply on her heel. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Alvero. Who would keep a live whale aboard a ship? We mean to preserve one. Hang it here, right above the Jacuzzi. An homage to Mr. Soto and the good work he is doing.”

“Good work?” Manuel felt sick.

Lizzy’s green eyes narrowed. “I conveyed your enthusiasm, and Mr. Soto feels inspired. It is the only reason he chose to invest in your dilapidated boat. My job is to ensure he has all the amenities he deserves. He deserves a gorgeous space, doesn’t he? A ship unlike any other?”

Manuel gripped the railing. “This is not possible,” he said.

Two chauffeurs, as they had been introduced, stepped forward. Lizzy, four inches taller, leaned over Manuel. “This is not a negotiation, Mr. Alvero. We did not choose your vessel because of its quality. We chose it because of your access. You are the only one permitted to enter the cove during birthing season. Mr. Soto has requested a baby vaquita to be mounted, in honor of him, right here.” She waved her arms at the alcove behind them. “He wants to be one with the sea. Isn’t that what your website promises? Help Mr. Soto get his trophy and he will invest millions in saving the whales you care so much about.”

“They’re porpoises.”

“What?” Lizzy flipped a business card between them, her manicured fingernails bright as healthy coral.

“Get off my boat,” Manuel said through gritted teeth.

Lizzy smiled, tucking the card into his shirt pocket. “This is not your boat, Mr. Alvero.” From her shoulder bag, she produced fabric swatches, layering them across the bench and cocking her head. She handed the swatches to the thick-necked chauffeur. “We have one week until the whales begin birthing. We’ll get one then.”

Manuel went directly to the police, closing the captain’s door behind him.

“Distressing indeed,” Captain Romero said. “We’ll send patrol boats, but, as Ms. White says, you are the only vessel with a permit to be in those waters at that time.”

“You need to arrest them.”

“For what, intent? We will patrol the waters, but Manny, I cannot just arrest this woman, an American no less.”

“So, you’ve met her?”

The captain leaned back in his chair. “She came to me, asking for a permit. I told her only one vessel was issued such a permit. I’m sorry, Manny. I didn’t know it would come to this.”

Manuel nodded and stood to leave. The captain glanced at someone behind him, and before Manuel knew it, he was cuffed by two policemen and shoved into a cell. Captain Romero leaned against the bars, picked his fingernails. “I am sorry, Manny. But you’re too reckless, angry. We both know you’d try to stop them.”

“Why aren’t you?” Manuel was livid. “It’s your job to stop them!”

Captain Romero rubbed the back of his neck, taking his time. “Exactly. It’s my job. Not yours. So just sit tight and don’t worry. I’ll call your wife and tell her you’re safe.” As the guard opened the door, the captain paused. “I’m doing this for Elena, you know.”

“You bastard!” Manuel shook the cell bars, but nobody was listening.

***

Lizzy stood at the window overlooking the Sea of Cortez.

“So?” Mr. Soto said from the doorway.

Lizzy startled and splashed her drink. She laughed and wiped gin down her pantleg. “We have a ship,” she said.

“Well done, Lizzy.” Antonio Soto took her hand. “I’ve been thinking, why settle for merely a stuffed fish. I want to be one with the whales, those powerful, forceful beasts. I want to feel like we’re swimming together.”

“But, my love, vaquitas do poorly in captivity. It is known.”

Mr. Soto squeezed Lizzy’s hand until it hurt. “Make it happen.”

***

For two days Manuel rattled his cage bars. Only the young guard who brought his meals acknowledged his conspiracy theories about illegal poaching. On the third day when he shook the cell door, it creaked open. Timidly, he stepped out. It was before dawn and the sheriff’s office was empty. The young guard was in the other room, pouring himself coffee. Through the glass partition, he watched Manuel gently open one disarmed security door after another. Manuel paused, searching for an explanation. But the young guard flicked his chin as if to say, hurry. Manuel nodded and was gone.

At home, he skirted the edge of their yard to avoid Elena in the kitchen. He quietly unlocked the shed and reached behind shovels and rusting buckets for an old duffel, saved from a life lived long ago. When he reached the Adrianna, much had changed. Crates and old furnishings were piled on the dock. Lizzy’s slender silhouette was on the top deck, cursing. “If that Jacuzzi doesn’t arrive in the next twenty-four hours, I’m going to murder someone!”

As the sunrise crossed calm blue waters, Manuel waited for the chauffeur-guard to take a piss before hurrying aboard and down to the hull. Quickly, he stashed his duffle in a hatch and began dismantling tracking devices, subtly rearranging wires.

“What are you doing?” Another guard’s shoulders were pinched in the narrow stairwell.

“Daily maintenance,” Manuel said. “These systems need checking.” The guard smirked and forced him above deck.

Lizzy was fuming. “Do you think I’m stupid, Mr. Alvero? Do you think I would purchase a boat without knowing how to operate one? I need your vessel, your permit. I do not need you.” She looked at the guard, who quickly secured him to the bench. “I knew you would meddle. I just wish for once I didn’t have to deal with it.”

All morning Manuel struggled against his zip ties. Midday, Lizzy brought him water, tipping the bottle to his lips. Together, they sat under the canopy, watching men crane in and install Mr. Soto’s prize amenity: a pink, marble, Italian Jacuzzi. Large enough to fit ten guests, it filled the entire deck. It was horrendous.

One of the guards rattled up the stairs, dropping Manuel’s duffle on the bench. “Look what we found.”

Lizzy unzipped the faded bag, revealing Manuel’s old tranquilizer gun. She stood up, ran her fingers along the tub’s marble edge, lingering on the marble ashtray, an added gift from the supplier. “We asked about you,” Lizzy said. “Poacher turned environmentalist. It’s a nice story, but unrealistic. People don’t change, Mr. Alvero. It’s the world we live in. Animals go extinct. People die. You get it.”

“How old are you?” Manuel said, searching for a diversion, a weakness.

“Twenty-six.”

“You’re too young to be this depressing.”

Lizzy sat down. “Tell you what. It can be your choice: you can either choose which baby vaquita we take. The weakest, ugliest, by your standards. Or we can tie weights to you now and let the newborns feed on you for their first meal.”

“That’s not—” Manuel started. “You’ll never get away with this. There are dozens of conservationists. People are watching.”

Lizzy stood with a tired smile. “I don’t care.” She hit him across the face with the ashtray.

When Manuel awoke, stars filled the sky and he could hear the loud puffing sounds of vaquitas. The Adrianna was no longer at the dock but in the cove. The Jacuzzi was cleaned, filled, bubbling. How long had he been out? His head ached. Blood crusted down his cheek. He scanned the empty deck, then wriggled toward his duffle, reaching for the switchblade he kept in the side zipper. After painfully cutting himself free, he lifted the bench seat, still filled with old life vests, ropes, a first aid kit. Along with flairs and a two-way radio. He flipped to the emergency channel and called for mayday. After minutes of white noise, someone said, “Mayday copy, what’s your position.”

“This is Captain Alvero of the Adrianna. I’ve been kidnapped. Location is Florien Cove. Over.”

“Manny, is that you?”

Shit. “Yes, Captain. I’m in the cove. They plan to poach vaquitas. I fear they may do it tonight.”

“Manny, we are aware of your position. Our records show you are no longer the captain of the Adrianna. If you are aboard illegally, we’ll have to arrest you, again. Over.”

“Romero, there are poachers here, now. There’s more than enough proof. Why aren’t you doing your job!”

“I am Manny, calm down.” Headlights appeared across the water, flashing twice aboard the police patrol boat. “In fact, we’re running security. I’m sorry, Manny. That American is very persuasive. And I have my family to think of. As do you. One whale to save both our families? That’s a price I’m willing to pay.”

“They’re porpoises!” Manuel yelled, launching the radio into the ocean.

Two guards below were on their radios in an instant. Heavy footsteps rattled the staircase. Just as the thick-necked chauffeur appeared, Manuel grabbed his duffle and jumped over the side, skimming down the slanted wall to a balcony. The balcony led into what was once two quaint rooms. Through a sliding glass door, he saw they’d been converted into one luxurious owner’s suite, filled with a ridiculous round bed. Atop of which lay Mr. Soto and Lizzy White, startled by the thump of his landing. The bright interior kept Manuel in shadows and he rushed to load his only weapon. Aiming his tranquilizer carefully (it always pulled left), he cracked open the slider and shot. In the split-second Mr. Soto had reached for his gun, the dart was already stuck in his bare abdomen. He fell backwards, pinning Lizzy to the bed. She screamed. Manuel leapt to the adjacent balcony. He needed to pull the anchor. If he could get the catamaran out of the cove, their window would be missed. He hoped Captain Romero would see the boat leaving and assume the deed was done. When Manuel reached the stern, his stomach dropped. In the open space where they once pushed kayaks and survey equipment into turquoise waters, lay a giant gill net. Not since his first sea journey did he feel that queasy. He went to work cutting it into pieces, desperate to dismantle the greatest killer of vaquitas. But the net was too strong, too well made. He didn’t hear Lizzy’s bare feet approach from behind. He did hear the click of a gun.

“Stand up,” she said, two guards on either side. “Why are you making this so difficult.”

Manuel stood. He could see too much of her through her satin gown. “You don’t have to do this,” Manuel said, looking away.

“You don’t get it, Mr. Alvero.” Lizzy stepped forward. “Our desires need no explanation. All we need is to feel good. And things, Mr. Alvero, décor, amenities, these things make us feel good. I need to feel good.”

Manuel looked into her green eyes. “It makes me sad, Ms. White, to think you could be so much more than a decorator.”

Lizzy let out a cackle. “Trust me. I am so much more!” She spun swiftly with a high kick, knocking Manuel in the jaw. He fell sideways and scurried to the side rail. Lizzy stood ready, waiting for his approach, a maniacal grin on her moonlit face. Manuel doubled over, holding his bleeding mouth. He leaned onto the lever that engaged the pulley for the net. Lizzy swung upwards, caught like a fish. The two guards rushed forward, unable to shoot with Lizzy hanging between them. Manuel snuck around, landing a powerful right hook and knocking one guard overboard. The other scampered this way and that, dancing around the net.

“Kill him!” Lizzy screeched.

But the guard was too slow. Manuel grabbed the net and swung like Tarzan, kicking the guard in the chest and landing him in the water as well. Lizzy was frantically trying to aim her gun, but it was pinched too close to her chest. Manuel reached the lever and hoisted her to the top deck. His primitive brain had taken over. Evil deserved evil and he had never met someone, in this life or his previous one, who was as callous as Lizzy White. The net hoisted up and up, maneuvered over the railing, directly above the Jacuzzi. Long before this was a research boat, this was where they dropped their main catch. Finessing the levers came back so naturally. Lizzy understood what was about to happen.

“No, wait!” she screamed, but Manuel could no longer see her. He adjusted the levers, knowing the weight of the net would suffocate her as he dropped her into the pink, marble, bubbling Jacuzzi.

After few moments of silence, he crept up the spiral staircase. Lizzy was drowned in three feet of water, tangled in the thick, deadly gill net. Bubbles clung to her nose. Her green eyes were open, shining gems in the fluorescent floor lights. Manuel settled onto the royal bench, admiring the soft cushion. Then he heard a strange creaking, the failure of wood. The floor beneath the Jacuzzi buckled and gave way, crashing into the room below. Manuel peered down the splintered hole. The walls Lizzy had removed to create the owner’s suite were supporting walls. She had inadvertently aligned Mr. Soto’s bed right beneath his new tub.

Manuel Alvero stripped off his boots and thick shirt, strapped his duffle to his back and jumped into the water. As he swam for shore, navigating the moonlit waters, he could hear vaquitas all around him. How lovely, he thought, to be one with the sea.

---

Vaquitas are endangered

The vaquita porpoise is the world’s most endangered marine mammal. The primary threat to their existence is drowning in gillnets, which are often used to poach other endangered animals.

To learn more about the effort to save the vaquita porpoise (not a whale), visit VaquitaCPR.org.

Photo credit: Greenpeace

Learning from Olive, Again

I tore through reading Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout, unsure why I was unable to put that book down. With her sequel Olive, Again, I started to understand why. Why are these books so appealing? Yes, Olive is a curmudgeony old lady and we get an inside tour of her aging body and changing relationships, but overlaid atop Olive’s gruff and unfiltered commentary is Elizabeth Strout’s unusual writing techniques.

Redundancy vs Efficiency

Strout uses an incredibly amount of redundancy in these books. This sentence for example:

The woman who checked them in was a pretty woman with glossy hair and when she said she came from New York City originally, Helen was thrilled. (174)

I edited while I read (as I often do) and eliminated one use of “woman.” Why not write it more efficiently as, “The woman who checked them in was pretty with glossy hair…”? But Strout does this all the time. Repeats words in the same sentence. Example B:

“Do you like it up here?” Helen asked, and the woman said she did, she and her family loved it. (174)

Likely because it’s human nature to NOT self-edit. Here’s an experiment: Go to a coffee shop and listen in on two people talking. If you can, transcribe what they say. Real life dialogue is nonsensical. Unedited. Strout’s characters linger on details, repeat them, overstate them. Strout is using language to plop you in her characters’ heads, which makes their dramas feel more important.

Dialogue Within Exposition

Strout also intermixes summary exposition with dialogue, squeezing action and summary into the same paragraph. In the following example, Strout jams dialogue inside a paragraph, using all sorts of punctuation, no paragraph breaks, then switches between exposition even though all characters are in the same room and (theoretically) in scene.

In the kitchen, while sunlight was streaming through the window, he said to Lisa, “Good morning,” and she smiled at him— “Hi, Dad”— and he poured himself a bowl of cereal and took it into the dining room, and then he did something he never did, which was to sit on Ethel’s side of the yellow duct tape, and he did that so he could hear better what they were saying. But they were talking about dish towels. Dish towels! Lisa was saying that she’d like to go to that store out by Cook’s Corner where they have nice dish towels, and Ethel was murmuring something that sounded like Okay, they could do that. Fergus finished his cereal and went back to the kitchen, rinsed his bowl, and told Lisa that he was going off and would see her tonight. “Have a good time,” Lisa said. And then his wife said, “Tell your father to enjoy his day,” which kind of surprised him, and he said to Lisa to tell her mother thank you. (228)

Flipping between dialogue in quotes and dialogue in summary, without using paragraph breaks or even distinct sentences, Strout is adding a strange sort of immediacy to an otherwise extremely regular scene. We are very much with Fergus and only hear, or care about, what he deems important. This writing style keeps certain details in focus while demoting others, even when demoted details are necessary to progress the scene. I have long felt bound by writing in-scene dialogue in quotations. And using paragraph breaks to separate each speaker. But Strout is saying, who cares? Nobody is bound by the rules. Yet she has mastered the skill of mashing in-scene and exposition all in the same paragraph, the same sentence even.

Making Boring & Ordinary Come Alive

In the below paragraph Strout displays a fascinating use of tempo. She manages to write possibly the most plain conversation—two women sharing phone pics of their grandchildren—and make it come alive by adding movement, immediacy, and tempo.

"How are you? Margaret asked, and Helen said she was worried about little Ernie; then Helen brought out her phone and showed Margaret pictures of her grandchildren, Margaret putting on the pair of glasses she wore attached to the black string over her large bosom, peering at the phone and saying, Oh, they were just adorable, weren’t they. “I’ll probably talk about them too much,” Helen said, and Margaret took her glasses off and said, “Oh, no worries,” so Helen showed her two more pictures, then she put her phone away and said, “Shall we go?” And Margaret got her handbag and off they went. (175)

Did you notice that is only 2 sentences? Did you see the use of semi-colon and commas where another writer (like me) might have used periods? Note the present continuous verb choice (-ing) that’s pushing along this oddly intimate middle section, spending a disproportionate number of words describing the “black string over her large bosom.” We are right there with these women. We are reading into their nuances and fears as if we are there. No, as if we are them. Both of them. Somehow, miraculously, at the same exact time. It’s really quite incredible how Strout does this.

Olive, Again reveals just how regular our lives can be. But those regular lives are important to those of us living them. It is worth studying Elizabeth Strout’s novels to really see how well she tucks dialogue into paragraphs, blurs the lines between in-scene and exposition, and focuses on characters physical bodies and internal feelings that give them warmth and a true presence on the page.

Quotes are from: Strout, Elizabeth. Olive, Again. New York, Penguin Random House LLC, 2019.