My First Contest Stories

My first contest entry was for the Writers Cramp Contest. It didn't win, but I learned what a prompt was! Very necessary knowledge in the contest world! If I recall correctly, the prompts for this contest included "suitcase", "train", and "deja vu".

... ... ... Aunt Geneva ... ... ...

Aunt Geneva was a mean woman. We kids hated her weekly visits to our home.

My daddy was an engineer on the Franklinville-Chattanooga coal run express. It was a freight train with no passengers, so Daddy would let Aunt Geneva ride in the caboose. She loved the trains and the men who ran them. I reckon everybody in my family loved trains except me.

Our home was a dilapidated old millhouse painted a muddy brown that perched on a hillside on the edge of town. Close to the tracks, of course. Daddy could deliver Aunt Geneva right to our door.

We weren't exactly poor, but we weren't drinking chocolate milk every day either. That was my idea of wealth in those days. I knew this "rich" kid who always drank chocolate milk. It symbolized unattainable luxuries for me. Of course, I have a refrigerator full of chocolate milk now. Times change.

It was a cold weekend in February when Daddy's coal train stopped at the door and Aunt Geneva stepped down for one of her weekly visits. "Oh my Gawd!" she squawked. "Whar's my suitcase?"

"I reckon you musta left it on the train, Aunt Gene."

"Run catch the train, Stevie! It ain't picked up no speed yet."

I knew I couldn't catch it running, so I jumped on one of the old bikes that lay scattered around the yard. Quite a bit of stuff lay scattered around the yard - tires and cans and rusty parts of this and that, an old hound dog and a sleepy cat.

Luckily, I picked a bike that worked, probably the only one, and pedaled off after the train. I knew Daddy would have to go slow until he cleared the Hogback Highway crossing, so maybe I had a chance of catching him.

In those days the train tracks went right through the middle of town with a road on either side of them. Every little town had a small train station of some kind. The station in our town, Hogback Junction, was a small frame building with about 40 feet of wood decking.

The station was painted the same muddy brown as everything else in Hogback Junction. I guess somebody got a good deal on some paint somewhere. Getting a "good deal" on something was a much-prized achievement back then. You couldn't hardly buy anything without somebody asking "Did you get a good deal on it?"

As I pedaled furiously and closed the gap between me and the train. I yelled, "Daddy, throw me Aunt Gene's suitcase!" and he tossed it out on a grassy slope. I had the odd feeling that it had all happened before.

The feeling only lasted for a few seconds, but later that night I lay in bed thinking about that odd feeling. I didn't know then to call it "deja vu", but pondering the question of time and memory in my bed that night started a train of thought in my mind that continues to this day. I never grow tired of thinking about the mind and how it works and just what the heck is this Reality we live in anyway!

And what happened to Aunt Geneva? When I got older, I realized that the real reason for her weekly visits was a brakeman named Bill who usually worked with Daddy on the coal run. Of course the brakeman rides in the caboose. Aunt Geneva and Bill eventually got married, but it didn't last. Apparently the magic of those weekend caboose rides couldn't stand up to the daily grind of a marriage.

However, Aunt Geneva never lost her love for a good train ride and years later married an Amtrak engineer, but that's another story.



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The prompt for this next story was just "wishing well". Didn't I stick to the prompt? But I didn't win.

... ... ... The Wishing Well ... ... ...

Down in the well lived an old troll. He was hairy and wrinkled and not very bright. All day he slept, but when night fell, the troll came sneaking up out of the well.

Next to the wishing well was a cute little cottage. Johnny lived there with his kindly old Granny who cooked him hot porridge and corn cakes which he washed down with cold water from the well. They didn't know that a troll lived in their well. Apparently it didn't affect the taste of the water. Or maybe they were just used to it and didn't really notice.

So each day Johnny and Granny ate their porridge and corn cakes and the troll came out at night and scavenged for food. The troll knew about Johnny and Granny, of course, and made sure they never saw him.

Time passed. Johnny grew up and became a strapping youth who didn't always go to sleep at sunset like Granny did. In fact, he was becoming very restless.

"Granny," he said. "I can't live here forever. I have to go out and see the world."

Granny understood, but she still had some control over Johnny. "No, Johnny, don't leave yet. Wait a while until you are older."

One night, Johnny was sitting at the cottage window looking at the full moon when he saw a shadow climb out of the well. "What the hell?" Johnny thought. "Something lives in our well?" He ran out of the cottage in time to see the shadow go sneaking off toward town. So Johnny followed the shadow.

The shadow went slinking all over town and eventually passed by a window where a light from a lamp was spilling outside. Johnny, who was following close behind, got a look at the shadow for the first time. "It's a gawdang troll!" he exclaimed and the troll turned around to see who made such a sound.

Johnny froze in his tracks, as did the troll. The troll was the first to move, breaking into a high-speed sprint back to the well with Johnny right behind him.

The troll reached the well and leaped over the edge, but Johnny was there and grabbed his leg. The troll dangled upside down in the well and Johnny was pulled half into the well himself, but he clung to the troll's leg.

"Let me go!" yelled the troll.

"I'll be danged!" said Johnny. "Me and Granny don't want no ugly troll living in our well!"

"I am enchanted," said the troll. "Let me live in your well and I will turn it into a wishing well that will grant all your wishes and make you wealthy and wise!"

Hmmmm... thought Johnny. It's probably a trick. Then to the troll he said, "If that's true, then why don't you just wish yourself loose?"

"I can only grant wishes to OTHERS, you stupid hillbilly!"

Then Johnny knew the troll was lying and he tried to pull the troll back out of the well. But the two of them were balanced so precariously that they both fell down in the well. The troll hit his head and was immediately dead.

Johnny tried to climb up the side of the well and got almost all the way to the top before he fell back down and also died.

The next morning Granny got up to find Johnny gone. She looked everywhere and called out his name, but no Johnny. She knew he was old enough to take care of himself and restless to leave home, but it seemed so unlikely that he would just leave without saying good-bye. She had a good cry, but Granny was tough. She had to be tough to survive in a little cottage in the woods.

After three days, Granny was adjusting to the changed situation. She was back to her normal routine. Life went on the same as before. The only thing that upset her was her prized old well. She drew up a bucket of cool water and dipped in her tin cup.

"Whew!" she said. "I wish this water didn't taste so nasty."

But it was the only water she had.

THE END


Okay, here is the alternate ending for all you reviewers who didn't like that one:

After the troll fell and died, Johnny tried to climb out of the well, but tumbled back to the bottom, hit his head, and fell into a coma... Now he couldn't climb out.

Granny wondered what had happened to Johnny, but figured that he had left home without telling her. Anyway, there was no 9-1-1 to call, so what could she do about it?

After a few days, she still missed Johnny, so one day as she was lowering the bucket into the well, she murmured, "I wish my Johnny was back."

That's right. Johnny was suddenly standing beside her thanks to the magic of the Wishing Well! Yayyy! Happy ending!




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The prompt for this next one specified that it had to be about a shop or store, but that it must be a strange or bizarre one. Muahahahaha!

... ... ... The Emporium of Expandable Grotesques ... ... ...

When my eyes adjusted to the dim light inside the shop, I was surprised to see nothing on display, just blank walls and a counter. Behind the counter stood a very wrinkled old man -- small, but looking as sturdy as an old tree stump.

"What do you sell in here?" I asked. He just looked at me. His eyes had that watery look you sometimes see in the old. He seemed alert and listening, so why didn't he answer me?

I had noticed the store during one of my long rambles around the city -- one of those little hole-in-the-wall shops common in the older part of town. The magnificence of its name had attracted my curiosity -- the Emporium of Expandable Grotesques.

The old shopkeeper grinned a toothless grin at me. "You buy?"

Uh-oh, I thought, this guy doesn't speak English. Maybe a little slow talk? "What... do... you... sell... here?"

But he didn't get it. "You buy? Yes?"

"What... am... I... buying?"

"Very cheap! One dollar!"

One dollar? I thought, that WAS cheap. Well, I didn't mind spending a buck to satisfy my curiosity. "Okay," I said, "I'll take one," and I pulled out my wallet.

There was a doorway filled with strings of glass beads in the wall behind the counter. The shopkeeper pushed aside the beads and then returned in a few seconds with a small box wrapped in pink tissue paper.

"You like," he said, as he placed the box on the counter and picked up my dollar.

I turned the box over in my hands. "But what is it? What do I do with it?" The old man only nodded and grinned.

Oh well, I thought, I'll be home soon enough and then I'll see what it is. However, from the size and weight of the box, I had already decided that it must be some cheap novelty. Maybe my neighbor's kid would like it.


It was after dinner before I thought of the box again. I retrieved it from the hallway table where I had tossed it. Odd... It seemed larger and heavier than I remembered. I placed it on the kitchen table and gently removed the tissue wrapping.

Underneath the tissue was an ordinary cardboard box with a paper label glued to it. I couldn't read the strange characters (Chinese?) but the picture was clear enough -- a young woman. Did the box contain cosmetics or some small appliance for feminine use?

I cut the single piece of tape that held the box closed and raised the lid. Inside, nestled in more pink tissue paper, was a small doll -- a doll that looked like the girl on the label. It was remarkably lifelike. Then I gasped.

The little doll had moved. It stretched it's arms and looked at me. "Yes, master?" it said. It's voice was low in volume but crystal clear, like a tiny bell.

I suddenly realized that I was holding something worth far more than a dollar. This doll was a marvelous piece of craftsmanship. It seemed incredible that anyone could construct something so small and lifelike. But as I watched it stand up in the tissue and walk to the edge of the box and peek around at my kitchen, an eerie feeling descended on me. It was alive!

It had to be. No doll could behave like that. "What are you?" I said.

She turned to look at me. "I belong to you, master. Your wish is my command."

This is impossible, I thought, it's just too damn impossible. "Stay here!" I told the little manikin, and I grabbed my hat and rushed out to my car. I drove back into the city and located the street where the "Emporium of Expandable Grotesques" should have been. "Arnold's Shoe Repair" was occupying that location now. The signs in the window looked like they had been there for years.

I drove home slowly, thinking, trying to figure out what to do. Somehow I had stumbled into one of those "X Files, Twilight Zone" situations and I had no idea what to do next. Call the cops? the FBI? the CIA? Or just keep it to myself. Was I in danger? I didn't seem to be, but what did I know?

I parked the car and unlocked my back door. The box was on the table, but no sign of the doll. Dammit! I told her to stay here! I raced through the living room yelling "Where are you?" Then I stopped short.

I could hear the water running in the bathroom. I listened at the bathroom door, then gently pushed it open. She was in the shower. I could see her through the glass door. She was about three feet tall now. I pushed the bathroom door closed.

My heart was thumping in my chest. What was going on? I remembered the sign -- "expandable grotesques". Well, she was certainly "expanding" all right, but "grotesque"? Not to my eyes.

I sat down in my living room and waited.

When she finished her shower, she walked into the living room and saw me. She was four feet tall and naked. "Would you like to go to bed now, master?"

"Yes," I whispered.

We didn't go to sleep. She was an expert at many things and it was late in the night before we drifted off to sleep. Just before dawn I awakened and managed to find my writing pad.

That brings us up to the present moment. I am writing this so that there will be some record. Maybe I will survive. I don't know.

She is so large now that the bedroom door and windows are blocked. I can hear the walls of the house groaning and creaking as her expanding body pushes against them. My only hope is that the walls give way soon and free me, because I barely have room to write this. I am being slowly crushed to death by this incredible expanding grotesque.


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By now I was getting pretty comfortable with the idea of a "prompt". Maybe a little too comfortable! This next story, a winner in the Send Sherri Snickering contest, was actually ABOUT the prompt! The prompt, by the way, was a photo prompt, a photo of a giant fly and a tiny human and a flyswatter.

... ... ... The Flyswatter Prompt ... ... ...

I was picking my teeth when the bell on the image transmitter chimed. Bernie had his chair leaned back, his feet up on his desk, his hat cocked down over his eyes.

"Wake up, Bernie! The new prompts are in."

He struggled awake and the front legs of his chair slammed back down on the floor. "Huh? What does it look like?"

"See for yourself," I said, turning the imager so that he could look.

He squinted at the slightly out-of-focus image. "What is that? A giant fly and a woman?"

"Either that or a normal fly and an extremely tiny woman."

"No, that's a giant fly. The swatter is out of proportion, too."

Bernie scratched his forehead, making his hat tip back on his head. "How the hell are we supposed to work with that?"

It was always like that. The new prompts came in. We protested that they were impossible to work with. Then we settled in and worked them out. Today was no different.

"Look," I said. "It's just a simple reversal. Instead of woman swatting fly, you have fly swatting woman. And you've got the size reversal - big fly, little woman."

Bernie snapped his fingers. "Remember that French movie Disney ripped off to make 'Jungle 2 Jungle'? Wasn't that called 'Big City, Little Indian'?"

"I don't know. Completely irrelevant."

"No, they had a giant spider in it, or just a very big spider. It was crawling on the kid's belly."

"Doesn't apply here, Bernie."

"You could have a giant fly trying to eat the woman. She screams and tries to swat him, but the fly snatches the swatter out of her hand."

"Bernie... No. But it does remind me of that old Vincent Price movie - The Fly. Remember that one?"

"Yeah, sure. Her husband, the scientist, turns into a fly. That's it! The fly is her husband!"

"But why would her husband be swatting her, Bernie?"

"She... cheated on him... No! She made dinner too fresh. Get it? Flies like rotten food."

"Bernie... Rotten food isn't going to cut it."

"Well, hell, you have a prompt with a fly in it, you have to expect some nasty stuff going on."

"Bernie, let's see if we can do it without crap, poop, dead things, or rotten food. OK?"

"Sure, sure.... Mr. Clean."

I got up and walked over to the open window. Our office is on the second floor and we have a good view of the park across the street. Sometimes I get an inspiration just from watching the people come and go. But there wasn't much happening today. An old man sat on a bench feeding the pigeons. A young woman was walking her dog. Pretty ordinary stuff. And that wasn't what we needed. Ordinary stuff doesn't win prizes.

I turned back to Bernie. He was examining his fingernails. "Hey, Bernie? You ever think about quitting the business?"

"Quitting? No, of course not. You?"

I could feel my mouth twist into an ironic grin. "No, of course not." I knew just as well as Bernie that there was no getting out. Once they get their hooks in you, it's a lifetime contract.

I looked back out at the placid scene slowly unfolding outside our window. The dog walker was exiting stage left and a mother with a baby carriage was taking her place.

I remember my first day in this little office overlooking the park. I was so thrilled to become a "prompt" man. The image transmitter was a gleaming piece of high technology in those days and I was almost afraid to touch it. "What key do I press?" I still remember that first prompt - the magic of seeing it flicker into existence on the imager screen.

Bernie wasn't my partner back then. Then it was Manny, a skinny kid just as green as I was. We hacked prompts every week for three years, then Manny went crazy - just flipped out one day and left. Bernie was his replacement. And it was Bernie who really taught me the trade - the insider tricks, the little twists and turns that could bedazzle and mystify.

Bernie was no kid, but he was fresh. Back then he would have jumped up laughing when the chime sounded and eagerly watched the prompt form on the screen. Now he was often content just to hear my verbal description of the prompt. I didn't like to think it, but I couldn't deny it. Bernie was washed up. Burnt out. Over the hill.

Poor Bernie. He was just another ant in the anthill. He was a fly and Father Time was holding the flyswatter.

"Hey, Steve!" Bernie called out. "How about quit moping around staring out the window and let's get to work on this prompt?"

He was over by the imager, studying the prompt. You could practically hear the old rusty wheels of his mind creaking around, trying to arrange themselves into some new combination of wit and cleverness.

"Sure, Bernie," I said. "Let's get to work."

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Thanks for checking out these little stories. My first days at Writing.com were a lot of fun as I discovered new things and met new people. And it's still a lot of fun here, but now I spend more time posting one-liners in the In&Outs than writing stories like the above. I like having something I can do every day and that doesn't take a lot of time to do.