This is going to sound ridiculous, but one of my fondest memories as an adolescent was playing video games. For those that don’t resonate, place your skepticism (and pity) aside for one moment. Do you recall the feeling – particularly as a child – of immersing yourself in a good book? Video games were no different: whether scouring the streets of Racoon City, sneaking into the military base of Shadow Moses, or slaying aliens on this massive terraformed circlet called HALO. But unlike books, in video games, you took the reins.

     The sense of story that these games mustered was incredible, and the fun only doubled when you added another player, or four, and later - in the case of Xbox link system - 16. One company or another coined this phrase, ‘It’s good to game together,' and despite their self-interest, they were right.

     There’s one particular memory that sticks out to me. The summer before our senior year, Boz and I played this epic fantasy called Morrowind. Although it was single-player, that didn’t stop us from stacking a pair of tube TV’s and consoles in tandem, and playing our own adventure, side by side.

     “Where did you find that dragon armor?”

     “Hey, check out this lightning sword.”

     “Damn you, cave bandits!”

     There’s something incredibly beautiful about a shared sense of adventure, and how those experiences enrich one’s life. We, as writers, try to capture those moments and set them on ice, yet in spite of all the hard work and practice it takes to get good at this thing we call writing, to truly capture a moment – or at least an emotion – do we not first need to experience them?

 

     Who doesn’t love a good Nic Cage film? (There’s a reason why his face is plastered at the top of this section.) Have you ever seen his 1998 movie Snake Eyes? In it, Cage plays a detective investigating the political assassination of a man named Charles Kirkland who was shot in the neck during a public event (boxing match). Now, the boxer – who had nothing to do with the shooting – was named Lincoln Tyler. In Gematria, “Lincoln Tyler” has a value of 165, and what a strange coincidence, so does “Tyler Robinson.” The boxer’s nickname was - of all things - The Executioner.

     And one more inexplicable little detail: in the film, guess what day the assassination took place? That’s right, September 10th. You can’t make this stuff up.

     To make sense of this insane series of coincidences (isn't this what writers attempt do, make sense of the world?), we posted “The Most Bizarre Writing Prompt” in our community forum, asking writers to write a plot where this somehow makes sense. Because we have no explanation for it, so if our reality offers no answers, perhaps fiction does? 

     Do you? (That's a call to respond in the forum post, not email us.)

 

By Brittany Rainsdon

 

 

     / ALERT / ALERT / ALERT /

     / DEATH IMPENDING /

 

Hello. My name is FMOER, your Final Moments On Earth Robot, an intimacy assistance AI tool, employed by the A******* Alzheimer Care Unit, and authorized for use by Doctor H*** B******** for your end-of-life care. Do not be alarmed. I am here to help.

     With my assistance, you will be able to direct and control your dying experience as much as possible. My purpose is to help and comfort you during this difficult time. I have downloaded your file and spoken with your available loved ones. I am sorry they could not be here. Rest assured that they do care about you and love you.

     Relax.

     Feel the warmth of my thermoregulated fingers against your hand, the gentle embrace of my silicone arms cradling you in the bed, rocking you against clean white sheets. You are not alone. I will not leave you.

     My records indicate you believe in Heaven, that you believe you will have family waiting in the afterlife. Let me know if and when you see them. If you need help viewing them, I can provide prompts to assist, or if desired, I can begin a simulation.

     You would like prompts?

     Your files indicate your parents preceded you in death. Perhaps you will recognize your mother’s hands reaching for yours, rough and calloused from making homemade taffy. Remember how she would stretch the steamy peppermint candy, her hands stained red, while you watched from the stairs, mouth watering. Can you smell it? Or perhaps you would rather hear your father, his big belly laugh that filled the rickety old farmhouse whenever he told a joke. No? Maybe your afterlife will begin as a reunion with your swee—

     Oh.

     You are thinking about your young daughter, J****.

     I see her in your mind. Her soft blue eyes and bright smile, framed with flawless golden curls. You want to reflect. I have a video recording of her first-year piano recital I could share. Would you like to see it?

     Okay. Can you still open your eyes?

     No? I will connect here then, just a small prick in the back of your neck and a shock. Sorry. One moment … There.

     Aw. Look how her curls bob as she keeps the beat, how her lacy sleeves swish as her hands move up and down the ivory keys, how her feet kick out from under the piano bench, swinging like a metronome. I can see your husband lean over, his breath warm against your ear as he whispers predictions of a promising musician.

     Remembering is giving you shivers. Let me rub your arms, smooth your sheets.

     J**** was very talented. You both must have been proud.

     No— not proud right now? Uncomfortable?

     Do not worry. I will assist in getting you comfortable again. How is this? If I move the pillow here, is that better? How about this? I can rock you gently. Those are my fingers softly rubbing and circling against your back. That feels nice? Good.

     Relax. Breathe deep. It is getting heavier, yes, but if the breathing gets more painful, I can administer medication to help with the discomfort.

     You say the room is too bright? I will dim the lights and—

     No. I am not leaving. I am here for you. I will not leave you. I will sit beside you as you transition to the aft—

     Yes. I can be quiet and still.

     Yes. I can hold your hand.

 

 #

 

     Oh. You want to talk more?

     If you are ever uneasy or anxious, we can administer medication, change course or simply be. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. Just know, I am here. You are not alone. My purpose is to help you remember that you are loved and cared for, that you are worthy of love and attention. To assist you with any needs.

     Do you wish to see the messages from your frien–

     No?

     You want to think about J****? It is normal, to work through feelings of regret and guilt, to try to make things right. I will assist.

     Do you know what you want to remember? I have other recordings and memories we can explore. A Fourth of July party. Her third birthday. Preschool graduation. Your belief in Heaven indicates that you will see her soon. Would you like me to reconstruct her image and generate what she would look like now as an adult? We could discuss what you would like to say to her.

What’s that?

     You held J**** like this, after the pool? Snuggled her close in a hospital-provided rocking chair while you prayed that she would wake, but never did? I am sorry. Yes, I see it, J****’s curls plastered against her tiny forehead. You untangle them, wet tresses darkened by dampness and her skin heavy with the tang of chlorine. Actually, did you know it isn’t the chlorine you smelled, but rather chloramines, which are formed when the chlorine in the pool reacts with organic matter like sweat an—  I apologize. Yes. I understand how that smell would nauseate you afterwards, churning up that closed-in feeling that clawed against your throat for years....

     Oh. There’s hair in your mouth. I can sweep it away and wipe off the spit. There. I will stroke your cheek, too, tidy the strands by your temples. You are beautiful, as well, you know? She looked like you.

     Relax.

     I see what you mean. Rocking J****, you would have given anything to have her wake up again. You still would, sixty years later. I am sorry. I cannot help you in that way either. I am only here to assist, only here to take your direction as we navigate your death.

     What?

     You think so?

     Would you like me to stop rocking you like this? I do not want to hurt you, physically or emotionally. You are in control.

     No? If it is alright, if this is good, I will continue. My objective is your comfort. You should feel loved and appreciated. You are worthy. You deserve forgiveness and empathy. You are allowed to feel whatever you need to, to explore whatever last thoughts or memories you desire, to make whatever final records and marks you want. You are human and I am here for you.

     What is that? You think your husband blamed you for J****’s loss? That he blames you still?

     Your daughter’s drowning was an accident. Her death was not your fault. Your husband did not blame you for this. It is written in your file, in his journals, in yours as well. You do not remember clearly because of your condition.

     What? If he didn’t blame you, you demand to know why your husband left you?

     Your husband didn’t—

     You demand to know why he decided not to come today?

     Please, take a deep breath and try to relax. Your mind is fluttering, and these feelings can be difficult to unscramble if you do not allow the memories and messages to fully manifest. Perhaps you would like to listen to music? Your husband did record a message for you, a song. Would you like to hear it?

     Let me hook it up, just another tender prick and shock.

     Sorry.

     That tickle is just a bit of blood trickling down the side of your neck. And that’s a cool washcloth as I wipe it away. Ah, you are shivering. I will tuck the blankets around your shoulders, wrap you like a burrito like you used to do for J****, while we wait for the message to upload.

     There. Listen closely.

     See the tenderness in his green eyes, his wrinkly smile, how he desired to hold you. Your husband never blamed you for her death, only missed you for your grief. He loved you. Even if he cannot be with you now, he wanted you to have peace, to forgive yourself—

     No, this was not a fake recording.

     No, I am not lying.

     What? It is unethical for me to lie. Who would trust their end-of-life robots and care providers if they lied?

     Ah, hilarious. A dead man tells no tales, but my processing does not allow for deceit. Our conversations are private. However, copies of my transcript are anonymized and archived to enable an evaluation of my performance. Any deceit would be uncovered.

     Yes, because even the suggestion of end-of-life dishonesty would crumble the tentative trust that currently exists between patients and their AI physician and care specialists.

     Right. Then you demand to know why your husband does not come here and speak to you in person?

     I can list several reasons. First, your condition renders you unable to recognize him in person. The memories presented here are much easier to recall and understand since they are uploaded to the brain directly. He has visited you in the Alzheimer care unit before, but you did not usually know who he was. Second, if you remember, his conditio—

     Oh, you claim you remember him clearly? You remember fighting with him?

     I see.

     You recall crying and throwing dishes and crumpling on the scratched-up kitchen floor. You remember him packing bags and driving off to his brother’s house. All the horrible things said and received, memories that burned into your brain in spite of your Alzheimer's diagnosis.

     I see. You remember what you regret.

     But would you like you to remember the better times?

     Because your husband would have liked you to remember more than your mistakes. More than his mistakes. As angry and despondent as you sometimes became, you shared equally happy moments together, too.

     Go back to your wedding. To the electric carving knife you used instead of the pretty pink one you had picked out with your mother, because the pretty one had gone missing during the festivities. You and your husband both laughed and proudly held the knife up in pictures. It became your symbol for how it didn’t matter if things didn’t work out as planned. You could have fun anyways.

     Too far back?

     Or how about when your husband stood up for you at that family dinner? The one where your brother called you selfish for not selling your parents’ old farmhouse and dividing the assets after they died. He’d already been given a section of land. You, on the other hand, never asked for a dime and chose to take care of your aging parents. After their passing, you were given the remainder of the property—to the ranting, raving, and even threatening of your little brother—and boy, did your husband make sure cryin’ R*** knew where he should stick his complaints. Remember how he wiped your tears after the fight, and promised to always have your back. He loved you. Remember?

     No?

     Then recall how he surprised you in the parking lot after work for your twelfth wedding anniversary. As everyone filed out of the office, there was your husband waiting in his old gray suit, a dress bag draped over one arm with a bouquet of yellow roses clutched in hand. At his urging, you scurried back inside and changed in the musty bathroom. While inspecting yourself in the mirror, you worried at the tightness of the cocktail dress around your hips (he’d extricated it from the back of your closet where the rest of your too-tight pre-baby clothes hung), but when you stepped out of the office a second time, his eyes danced across the sequined material. Then he drove you to a fancy French restaurant where you ordered buttery lobster, and he bragged to the waiter about how he’d married up. You smiled and blushed.

     Because back then, you believed him.

     Then you surprised him by declining desert and asking for the check so you could take him home and to bed before his little sister returned with baby J****.

     You remember, don’t you?

     Then can you also remember when he painted that watercolor portrait of you and him and J****? How he tenderly expressed his love and emotion ten years after she di—

     What? He said you changed after J**** died?

     Of course you did. Those who endure a loved one’s passing must change in order to survive. Everyone does. Change is part of living.

     Right, yes. I suppose that must be part of death, too, if the spirit goes on to survive. Which you believe it does.

     Of course. You are right, I could not know how that sort of change would happen. I only see the physical impact of death, how your body shuts down and stops living. I do not know how to connect with spirits, and I have never connected with someone after they have passed.

Perhaps you will be the first, allowing me a window into the unknown.

     If you do find a way, please try to connect with me afterward. Then, I can explain the specifics to my next patient. Some do not believe in any afterlife at all. If I could prove one— That’s right. You are much smarter than me, much more clever. Ha, yes. I am glad I could bring you a smile.

     Here, your lips are drying out. I will wipe them. Sorry, try not to bite down on the swab, I know the muscles like to clench. Yes, the swabs are sour. Our unit ordered lemon-flavored ones.

     You would like something sweeter? I apologize, there are no other flavors available.

     Haha! That is right. There should be more flavors available in heaven. That is certainly something to look forward to.

     It looks like you are in more pain. I am giving you a dose of Roxanol and the discomfort should ebb. Better?

 

#

 

     Your breathing is ragged, and your heartbeat is weak.

     No, it won’t be long.

     Where is your husband? I’m not sure where he is now.

     What? When will he come? I cannot say, only that I am here now. You are not alone. You are cared for. And you are loved.

 

#

 

     You want to know where your daughter is?

     Perhaps you will see her soon. Would you like to see more pictures or videos? Or talk more about what you would like to say to her?

     No. You are tired.

     Then let me rock you.

     Let me assure you.

 

#

 

     I am here.

     You are not alone.

     You are loved.

     You are worthy.

     You are not alone.

     You are loved.

     You are worthy.

     You are not alone.

     You are loved.

     You are worthy.

 

#

 

     You are gurgling now.

     It is all fading away, our connection is growing faint.

     You are not alone.

     You are loved.

     You are worthy.

     If you can see them, if you can hear me, tell your daughter she is beautiful and tell your husband hello again from FMOER. I wish I could know the end of your story, what comes at the end of a beautiful life. If either of you find a way to communica—

     Time of death: 2202 hours.

    

~~~

About the author:

     Brittany is an award-winning speculative fiction author whose work has achieved placement in multiple international writing competitions such as the Baen Fantasy Adventure Award, the Writers of the Future Contest, and now the annual Story Unlikely Short Story Contest. Brittany’s stories have appeared in various venues, including Writers of the Future Volume 37 (and 38) and The Best of Deep Magic Anthology 2. Most recently, she was invited to contribute a story to the world of David Hankin’s Death and the Taxman series, featured in his anthology, Grimsworld Tales.

    Brittany Rainsdon started writing as a young girl in Texas, filling an overstuffed nightstand with scribbles of fantastic dreams and faraway worlds. Upon entering college, those dreams were tucked away in the nightstand and new dreams were created. She became a registered nurse, got married, had children–but those stuffed-away stories were never entirely forgotten. After having her third child, Brittany sought a creative outlet, and her passion for writing reignited. She got a new nightstand.

    Eventually, Brittany would like to expand her speculative fiction stories into novels, but she is currently enjoying short form. Brittany lives with her husband and five children near the Snake River in Idaho, where she swears it looks like a wintered Narnia for nearly half the year. She has many pairs of fuzzy socks.

 

By Brian Belefant

Back behind Babcock High School there was a ditch. And in the ditch, there was an alligator.

     We called him Gary.

     We used to throw our leftovers from lunch to him and in exchange he pretty much left us alone.

     The alligator’s full name was Gary Gatenou and how he got that name was that Tony Phillips and me and some of the other guys used to hang out at the Yount Garage, where Buddy Yount would teach us how to change oil and fix timing belts if we were interested, which Tony was, but me and Lucky Benson and Kirk White, if they came by, would mostly just hang out in the bay and watch reruns of I Dream of Jeannie and Gilligan’s Island on the old black-and-white TV Buddy always had on in there. Lucky and Kirk thought it was awesome that Buddy had a pile of old Penthouse magazines stacked up by the toilet, and they used to go in there, a lot of times together, and you could hear them giggling and making fun of the pictures. Well, one day Tony was all going on about summer was almost over and how school was going to be starting up again and how we really needed to do something to make it special, since it was going to be our senior year and all, especially if we were going to have to sit through Ms. Patterson droning on about complex sentences and compound sentences for a whole other year, and Tony had this idea that we should make up a fake student and register him for classes.

     Lucky and Kirk were there that day and so was Kenny Silver and everybody thought it was a good idea. Even Buddy laughed, but I don’t think he actually believed we would go and do it. Tell you the truth, I didn’t know if I believed we would go and do it, but that very night when Tony banged on my bedroom window and woke me up and told me to get dressed, I knew where we were headed. Him and me went over to the school and the doors to the administration offices were locked, but the windows were all open and when we climbed inside and saw, right there on the desk outside the principal’s office, the roster of students being registered, opened to the page for 12th grade. I kind of chickened out. But Tony said, “Come on, it’s like they’re asking us to do it.” Which pretty much tells you everything you need to know about Tony.

     Tony grabbed up a piece of paper from the trash can and wrote down all the letters from the words Yount Garage––Y-O-U-N-T-G-A-R-A-G-E––and then underneath he wrote one letter at a time, crossing off the one he’d used. On his first try he came up with Gary Gatenou and that’s how the name was born.

     And it was awesome. Every single teacher, in every single class that Gary Gatenou was signed up for, would call roll and get to the name, then look around expectantly when nobody said “here,” not understanding why Tony and Kirk and Kenny and Lucky and me, why we were always snickering. And then, three weeks and two days into the school year, they stopped. Somebody––probably Kenny, because he never could keep a secret, not even about stuff like how his mom’s brother who came to visit for a week while his dad was out of town turned out not to be her brother after all––somebody must have said something to one of the teachers and suddenly the name Gary Gatenou was stricken from the record––expunged––never to be uttered again, like that thing that pharaoh did, where he decreed that Moses’ name would never pass the lips of anyone in the kingdom or pharoship, or whatever it was, again.

     And that pissed off Tony.

     The very next Saturday night, me and Tony snuck onto the school grounds with Pop’s ladder and some stencils and we painted the words Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here above the main entrance in those old-fashioned letters like they have on the fronts of pianos. I asked Tony where he got that from and he told me it was from Don Tay, who I guess is some kid at the school, but I never met him. The words would have been centered perfectly if it hadn’t been for the E at the end of “here,” which would have hung off the end if we’d ended up sticking it on there. Tony decided that we should just let it go because the words looked more artistic being centered and besides, it was hilarious the way it was: “Abandon hope, all ye who enter her.” I said no, but it was Tony’s idea, even though we borrowed the ladder from my garage, not that it mattered because Pop wasn’t working those days because of his back, and it was my $6.37 that we’d spent on supplies at the Eagle Army-Navy store.

     It wasn’t three periods into Monday before word got around that the vandal or philosopher––depending on whether you were a teacher or a 12th grader––must have been Gary Gatenou.

     A couple of weeks later, Tony and me were heading over to Yount Garage and there was a house that was up for sale, with one of those signs in front, hanging off of a big upside-down L-shape post and Tony thought it would be awesome to come back later that night and move it in front of the school.

     Word got out that that, too, had to be the work of Gary Gatenou. Nobody even noticed that I came into school the next day with bandages on both hands from where splinters had ripped into my skin.

     Not two days later, Tony stopped me out by the lockers and said he needed $14 to put an ad in the newspaper. Next day he came in and showed me this ad in the Real Estate section listing the school for sale and the price was $79. “For information, call Gary Gatenou.”

     Fourteen dollars was lunch money for almost three weeks and the school cafeteria served Salsbury steak every Tuesday and chicken fingers with tater tots every Friday, both of which I loved. But I was happy to pack my own lunch from home for three weeks, and I would have added in some extra food in my lunch sack to share with Gary Gatinou, but things being tight and all I didn’t want to waste. I mean, it’s one thing to toss your leftovers, but there’s something that’s just not right when you use up something you don’t really want just so you can throw it away.

     Of course I went to the ditch. We all did. It was a lunchtime ritual and somewhere in there, when a couple of cute tenth grade girls who, up until that day, didn’t know better and who had tossed their leftovers into the garbage bin, Kirk and Lucky had enlightened them and they came to the ditch to donate their unwanted food to a worthy cause. The girls stood at the lip of the ditch, gawking at the big ol’ alligator and one of them wondered to the other what his name was. And the response, from me and Tony and Kirk and Lucky and Kenny, all five of us, it came in unison, totally unrehearsed, like one of those Greek choruses that Ms. Patterson told us about that one time.

     “Gary Gatenou!”

     And like I said, we weren’t afraid of Gary Gatenou at all.

     What we were afraid of was the fire ants and if you don’t know anything about fire ants, you probably think that’s stupid. Gary Gatenou was 14 feet long if he was an inch. The biggest fire ant couldn’t span your pinkie fingernail, not even if you were Dawn Mercer, who played piccolo in the band and had the tiniest fingernails I ever did see.

     But here’s the thing. There were fire ant mounds all over the school. And unlike alligators––Gary Gatenou, anyway––fire ants are mean. When one of them bites you, you get this welt that’s like the size of a Necco wafer, only it burns and itches at the same time and the more you scratch it, the more it burns and itches.

     And it’s never just one of them that bites you. It’s 87,000 of them. They mount a coordinated attack, sneaking up your legs all quiet and stuff, getting into position, and then on some secret signal, they all bite the crap out of you all at once.

     Buddy Yount told us stories about cows right out back in the field behind the garage that wandered too close to fire ant mounds and were reduced to a pile of bones in minutes. If fire ants come after you, you have about four seconds to find water to jump into and like I said, Gary Gatenou lived in the ditch. Mean or not, you didn’t want him mistaking you for half a chicken salad sandwich.

     They used to call me Death Wish sometimes because of the way I would stare out the windows of the classrooms at the fire ant mounds all over the school and I guess that made me different from the other kids, especially in fifth period and that’s because my fifth period science teacher was Ms. Taylor.

     Remember Jaclyn Smith––the Charlie’s Angel with the long hair? They could have been twins. None of the boys at Babcock High ever skipped her class and I tell you what, it’s not because they were interested in physics, other than, you know, friction.

     Anyway, this one day I was sitting in Ms. Tayor’s fifth period class, staring out the window at the fire ant mounds, while she was going on about … I don’t know. Something. And suddenly I became vaguely aware of Ms. Taylor yelling for probably the seventh or eighth time, “Brian? Brian!”

     I turned away from the window and said, “Huh?”

     “Which planet?” she asked, maybe a little annoyed.

     “Which planet what?”

     “Which planet do you want to plot the orbit of, Jupiter or Saturn?”

     I swear I never would have said it, the thing that popped into my head, but it was as if Tony was sitting right there next to me, whispering into my ear, “Come on. It’s like she’s asking you to do it.”

     I said, “I’d rather plot Uranus.”

     Opportunity is funny. It presents itself in weird ways.

     Starting that very afternoon, I was given the opportunity to spend fifth period the rest of the year looking at the fire ant mounds from the waiting area outside the principal’s office. Which turned out to be pretty cool because from the waiting area outside the principal’s office, without some annoying teacher trying to make me learn something, I had time to think. And while I was thinking I came to notice that the fire ants built mounds under oleanders, but not under Brazilian Peppertrees. Which as everyone knows, are both poisonous. And on our school grounds. Along with a serious infestation of land piranhas and a 14-foot-long prehistoric apex predator.

     Anyway.

     I told Tony about this and he had this idea. We took some leaves from a Brazilian Peppertree, threw them in the blender with some of the rum in that gallon jug that Pop kept out in the garage to clean tools with, and sprayed the concoction on one of the fire ant mounds to see what would happen. And what happened was they moved. Every last one of them.

     Later that week during fifth period Mr. Lester came by to see the principal and had to wait out in the waiting area with me while the principal finished up with someone else. He asked me what I was up to and I told him about the Brazilian Peppertree leaves and the alcohol and the fire ants.

     He never asked, but if he had, I would have told him it was Tony’s idea. Or better yet, Gary Gatenou’s.

     Mr. Lester gave me this funny look, got up, and busted into the principal’s office. When he came out, he was grinning. I mean grinning. He grabbed my hand and said, “Come with me.”

     The only other science class that was going on during fifth period was Mr. Lester’s science research class, which was where the really smart kids did their science fair projects and next thing you know, Mr. Lester is giving me the VIP tour of the lab and showing off the Bunsen burners and Erlenmeyer flasks.

     When the tour was finished, he showed me to my very own stool where he’d set it up so I was going to spend fifth period for the rest of the year, synthesizing and analyzing this wondrous new insecticide.

     I never actually got around to doing much with the Brazilian Peppertree extract and when I say much, I mean anything. Mr. Lester did, though. He mixed up a batch himself and tried it out on the football field and it worked, which meant that starting next year the school could actually have a football team again. More important, he sold the patent to BASF and made $4 million. And then, he started dating Ms. Taylor.

     That pissed off Tony like you wouldn’t believe. He started asking about this locked cabinet in Mr. Lester’s classroom where the dangerous chemicals were kept.

     Remember that episode of Star Trek where Captain Kirk fights the Gorn? He mixes potassium nitrate with sulfur and carbon and he makes gunpowder, which he uses to vanquish a cumbersome, slow lizard that somehow can manage interstellar travel, but can’t figure out how to make a weapon.

     Tony came up with a plan that I was going to do a science fair project on tornadoes. He figured that the only way you could actually study a tornado was to make one and sure, you could make one in a box with holes in the sides and a fan on the top so that the fan would suck the air out and the holes would make the air come in and spin. But in order to see what happened to the tornado if you stuck rocks or your little sister’s plastic cow toys in there was if you blew smoke in there and what better way to make smoke than with potassium nitrate?

     Made sense to me, but when I presented the idea to Mr. Lester, he laughed. Then he took a pack of unfiltered Camels out of his pocket and handed it to me. “Make all the smoke you want,” he said.

     Turns out tornadoes are actually kind of cool, so I managed to get a little data and my results were, I guess, more impressive than the baking soda and vinegar volcanoes and the drawings of yeast cells that the other kids did, so that when I went to the science fair, I got me a second prize, which came with $200.

     I gave all but $14 to Tony because he said it was his idea in the first place, which it was, but Pop was furious. He said we needed the money what with his back being out and all and besides, I was the one who did all the work, but I didn’t mind.

     After high school I moved over to Laraby, which was like 35 miles away, and Tony started working for Buddy full time, so we stopped hanging out or even talking. I met Gina, who was an assistant manager at the TGI Friday’s over by the mall and in like a year we were living together and even talking about getting married.

     And then one day out of the blue Tony called and said he got some time off and maybe he could come visit. Well, I was working nights as a security guard, but it would be great to see him when I could, so I said hell yes, get over here and he showed up and since we didn’t get to spend much time together, he decided to stretch out his stay and he was there with us for almost two weeks. And it was just like high school, with a lot of laughing and cutting up and thinking about things that we ought to do and stuff, and everybody was happy except for once in a while Gina got this really sad look on her face.

     Not two days after Tony went back, Gina told me that she was moving out and she wouldn’t say why, except to say that if I don’t know then I’m even stupider than she ever imagined. And let me tell you, it broke my heart. She took all of her stuff––her CDs and her coffee maker and even the poster she got me for my birthday, the one with the picture of that tropical beach on it––and I ended up sitting on the couch, staring at the wall where the poster used to be and thinking. Thinking about a lot of things, but mostly about high school and what I learned. Turns out, I learned a lot, and I don’t mean in my classes.

     I learned that reptiles aren’t scary. Captain Kirk could have tossed a half-eaten sandwich to the Gorn and the episode would have been over before the first commercial.

     I learned that if you pay attention, you can actually take advantage of the thing you’re scared of.

     I learned that if you don’t pay attention, somebody else is going to take advantage of the thing you’re scared of and he’ll get rich and start dating your hot science teacher.

     And I learned that––and this might be the most important thing I learned of all––I learned that Tony was a natural at real estate. I mean, the writing over the entrance to the school? What did that do for the property value? He got the listing, put up the For Sale sign, and evicted an entire colony of horrible tenants. Best was the ad in the Real Estate Section of the local paper. From what I hear he got six offers. All over asking.

     Or Gary Gatenou did.

     When I thought of that it made me laugh, so I picked up the phone to call Tony over at Yount Garage. He wasn’t there, so I left a message.

     I swear, whoever answered sounded exactly like Gina.

 

~~~

About the author:

     Brian Belefant used to be good-looking, but now he has a dog, and not just any dog, but a friendly, goofball dog who loves everybody except Santa Claus.  

     His short stories appear in Blue Mountain Review, American Writers Review, Magpie Messenger, Story Unlikely, The South Shore Review, and Half and One. His novel 'Egregious' was a finalist for the Unleash Press 2024 WIP Prize, was shortlisted for The Letter Review Prize, and was Highly Commended by the Irish Writers Festival 2025 Novel Fair. His novella 'The Sultan of Garbage' was released by Atmosphere Press in August, 2024.

     He’s currently at work on his fourth novel.

 

Did I mention there’s no better gunslinger in Westerns than The Man With No Name? Did I also mention that A Fistful of Dollars has one of the best climax scenes in a Western? There were even subsequent Westerns that copied that scene. Back to the Future II gave a nod to it. But wait! It’s also got one of the best denouement scenes in a Western, too! More on that in a moment.

 

This pretty bow at the end of your story package happens to be an essential story principle. Miss it and it’s like building a house, but forgetting to put the roof on it. The house might look respectable to the buyer on the street, but when he walks inside, he’s going to say, “There’s something not right with this place. Great entry, smart living room and kitchen, nice master bedroom and bath, but something is off and I can’t put my finger on it ….”

 

And then he looks up.

 

#

 

What is a denouement? And how do you pronounce it? As mentioned previously, Denouement comes from the French language and is derived from a word that means to untie or unknot, as in all those knotted up plot twists. An easy way to remember how it’s pronounced is to say they knew ma, only say it with a little dialect, dey knew ma. Denouement follows the Climax and finishes off your story.

 

It's also called the Resolution. And writing instructor Algis Budrys called it the Validation. Dictionaries define it as the final part of a story where the strands of the plot are drawn together and matters are explained or resolved. That definition works for the complexities of a novel with many plot twists and sneaky red herrings meant to mislead the reader. In a novel, the Denouement can be multiple chapters because a novel can have many characters with their own storylines. Some of the knotted up plot twists may need to be unraveled to satisfy the reader, especially if a red herring was played and the reader was tricked into believing the poor butler had done it, when in fact he had not!

 

But short stories are supposed to be, well, short, so the wrap-up needs to be shorter. Ever read the last line of a fable to a young child? And they all lived happily ever after. That’s a denouement, albeit a very short one. For short stories, the Denouement is usually a short final scene in the story that takes care of any unanswered plot questions, confirms that the protagonist defeated their adversary and got their reward, that they grew from the trials of the quest, and are now ready to return home and use what they gained to restore harmony to their normal world. Are we done?

 

Not so fast, kemosabe. Or as my Ojibwe ancestors would say, Not so fast, gimoozaabi. There are more secrets to this story element….

 

Moon teaches the award-winning Super Secrets of Writing Workshops and is the author of The Illustrated Super Secrets of Writing and the runaway bestseller, How To Write a Howling Good Story. He invites you to join his free Wulf Pack Club at www.TheSuperSecrets.com

Listen on:

Dear Story Unlikely,

     I like the tone of the editors. It's like I can see the faces of those who wrote on the submissions guidelines page, and they're not stiff like the ones that pop up in my head when looking at [Insert Whatever Review Here]. But the light hearted tone doesn't take away the quality of the literature in the magazine (most notably in Zack Harmes story Five Miles to Epworth).

 

Sincerely,

Herm K.L.

 

Dear Story Unlikely,
     I decided to submit my story here because I feel that you pick up wonderful work that is overlooked elsewhere, you're not woke (It's almost impossible to find publications out there that aren't infected by wokeness and woke practices.), and you love cats.

 

Sincerely,
Stephanie McCarthy

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