"Didn't getcha with that bear spray, did I?" The ranger holstered her canister and tiptoed towards him through the brambles like an REI cover girl.

"No, thanks. I just need a minute." Breathe, man.

"Sure." She drew her pocketknife, kneeling to free his sneaker.

"So, do you eat dinner?" he joked, in his mock "Members Only" voice.

She paused, cheeks reddening. "Let's get you out of this thicket first?"

He bowed, vailing his baseball cap flamboyantly.

"What are you doing out here, anyway?" she said, rising.

"... Foraging?"

She laughed. "Aww. But this is all toxic."

"Touché. We should dine out."

This piece is a dramatization of the events of California’s most famous pirate attacks, by the French-born privateer Hippolyte Bouchard. During November and December 1818, a group of Chumash converts successfully thwarted Bouchard’s attack on Mission Santa Bárbara without bloodshed.

The protagonist, Fray Antonio, is based on the actual head priest at the time, Father Antonio Ripoll. All dialogue and other characters are entirely fictional.

“The fishing is always best in the late afternoon.”

At least, that’s what Fray Antonio was told in preparation for his assignment. However, after two years at Mission Santa Barbara, he had some doubt. The beach had grown much colder. The evening winds blowing down from the mountains made his dark wool tunic feel like cheesecloth. “Don’t you think?” asked Antonio, jabbing his spear into the shallows. “Xutash?”

“Hmm,” said the man.

In Antonio's experience, the Chumash were frustratingly agreeable, even when they disagreed. Interacting with them was an invitation to penitence and patience, welcome or otherwise. It had taken some time to convince Xutash to forsake his native Barbareño.

“I think,” said Xutash, “I will not fish more in the afternoon.”

As Xutash meticulously gathered his nets, the friar ogled his friend’s exquisite fish basket. A study in craftsmanship, with its tessellated yellows and browns; even half empty, it gave the appearance of being full of rockfish and surfperch. Antonio's own basket was barren.

Father, forgive my envy of this unbeliever.

At the sound of his name, Antonio turned to find one of the Chumash converts, Pablo née Kiwoy, tearing through the sand like the fires that occasionally ravaged the area.

“Padre! Rancho Ortega! The pirates — ” Pablo hunched, gulping air. “All of Refugio Canyon — you must come back to the mission.” He stood, and regarded Xutash with disdain, as if from atop a wall.

Antonio glared at the communicant. “Bathing in the light of Christ deprives not our heathen brothers the opportunity to do likewise, child. Xutash — ” Antonio turned, but his friend had already gone. Antonio picked up his spear and basket — thanked God for the generous rockfish Xutash must have slipped into it — and started back.

Antonio slept poorly that night, and left for the beach right after the second bell. He wasn’t interested in fishing, but he needed to think.

Two Argentinian ships, a frigate and a brig, had sacked the rancho only twenty miles north yesterday. And the presidio at Monterey a week ago. The pirates left after six days of looting and burning the town. Four hundred men? Santa Barbara boasted a presidio with a garrison of fifty. How could so few defend them from such a force?

The gritty sensation of sand in the toes of his sandals, and the commingled scent of kelp and saltwater, commandeered his attention. Xutash was already there. “The peace of Christ be with you!” Antonio called.

While Xutash fished, the friar relayed the events of the previous evening. Clergy could not fight in battle, he explained, though they did have some weapons. The Chumash neophytes might be compelled to fight, but had no training. The soldiers had weapons, and a sense of duty, but their ideas were entirely ballistic in nature. “I know the Lord will provide an answer, but I cannot see it.” He looked down, and noted Xutash’s overflowing basket of fish. “Xutash, how do you always catch so many fish, and I, with the hand of God to guide me, always catch so few?”

Xutash exhaled, and turned to face the Franciscan, for once. “Antonio, every day you come, and we fish. But you do not see fish. You see food. You see only what you wish to, and so, you do not see what is. You look into my basket ... Just a few fish, viewed from a distance, make the mouth water for a feast.”

“Xutash,” said Antonio, “will you help me see the fish?”

Xutash returned to the mission with Antonio. His plan was not foolproof, but had merit. The pirates would arrive by sea, and likely assess the mission’s defenses from the safety of deep water. Antonio armed the new converts with anything available: machetes, bows, ceremonial lances. Together, with Xutash and the presidio’s soldiers, Antonio drilled the Chumash in swordplay and archery over the course of two grueling days. By the end of the second day, the company had withered to twenty-five. Those who remained trained with eyes jaundiced from dread.

Antonio caught Xutash’s arm as he started to walk home. “Such fear in them,” he said.

Xutash shrugged. “They know your brothers will not fight when the rooster crows.”

Antonio double-taked. San Pedro. “Their faith fails them.”

“You gave them this faith, Antonio. Is it not yours to keep?”

The third day, Comandante de la Guerra of the presidio appointed Pablo company commander, after Xutash refused. Antonio was thrilled for the fledgling leader, but Pablo himself appeared reserved.

“The Lord would forgive him a little pride,” Antonio whispered to Xutash.

Xutash grunted. He yelled something in Barbareño, which ricocheted around the courtyard.

Antonio scrutinized the faces of the men, snatching the odd noun here and there. Pablo and the other converts had stiffened at Xutash’s use of Kiwoy, Pablo’s given name. “Pablo?”

Pablo watched the ground. “Xutash asks why I defend the invader’s home.”

Antonio shrank. “And?”

Pablo looked through him. His Spanish was dry tinder on a powder keg of emotion. “This is my home, now. I have nothing left.”

On the fourth day, lookouts alerted the mission to two ships bearing south. The friars prayed, and according to Xutash’s plan, Antonio assembled his cadre of archers, blades, and lancers. Through the narrow end of a spyglass, the Compañía de Urbanos Realistas would imply an army two hundred strong.

“All that remains is a flag bearer,” Antonio announced. “Who requests this honor?”

None stepped forward.

“Xutash, do they understand?”

Xutash, again, intoned the loping chop of his mother tongue. “They understand.”

They marched through the village, unsure how the day would end. At the sight of ships in the bay, the company missed a step. A murmur swept through them. Antonio hoisted the flag higher, and looked to Xutash, who remained watchful.

Suddenly, uniformed infantry swept into the vanguard from both sides. Cavalry followed, shoring up the flanks. Antonio spun at the sound of decorated soldiers augmenting the rear, as well. It was the garrison from the presidio.

“¡Adelante!” shouted Pablo, energized.

“¡Adelante!” yelled Antonio, with the rest.

The company crossed the rocky threshold marking the start of the beach, and unfurled upon the sand. For thirty tenuous minutes, they waited. Then, Chumash and soldiers all, cheered, as the pirates weighed anchor and moved down the coast without testing the density of Antonio’s beloved banks.

The next day, Fray Antonio woke long before matins. He reflexively reached for the spear behind his door, then remembered he wouldn’t need it. Instead, he grabbed the footstool and basin from beneath his bed, and set off for the beach.

It was still dark when he arrived, but he could plainly see sardines nibbling plankton among the shoals. He set the wood stool well back from the tide, and filled the basin. He waited. And prayed. Time passed, and he waited still.

Finally, Xutash stepped down the beach toward Antonio, like a fox, wary of the hunter’s trap. He eyed the footstool and basin. “What is this?”

“This morning, I saw many fish.” Antonio gestured toward the stool. “May I wash your feet?”

Claire had relished wandering the streets of Paris, once. Perhaps she still did, deep inside. She trudged, allowing her feet to carry her where they would. Strangers jostled, and their impatience signaled her approach to the market. Navigating by instinct, she eventually came to a quaint shop with a forest green door. The wooden sign overhead read, “M. Lefebvre, Apothecary”.

She lingered outside. “No, thank you,” she would say, or, “In a moment,” to every door held open by arriving and departing patrons both. She wondered whether this shop was for her, and whether the plants in the window were truly happy.

“In or out!” called a svelte woman, when next the door opened. “You’re making everyone nervous.”

Claire looked straight down and slipped inside, touching nothing.

Faint aromas — lavender and licorice memories of Basque Country — beckoned her to shelves catalogued by source and benefit in a library of remedy devoted to the public good. Tinctures, potions, little glass mercies of all sorts, abounded in an otherwise spartan hall. She scanned tag after tag. Her lungs squeezed, and she laughed without mirth. No need to count the money she had brought. There was no expense which lay beyond the reach of Jules’ knowing.

“Maïté, you have brought me this far,” she whispered, fingering the broken remnant of the wooden cross. A jagged edge caught her by surprise, and a scream welled within her. She again looked down, and studied her shoes in embarrassment.

Finally lifting her head again, she locked eyes with the shopkeeper. Never breaking the gaze, Claire crossed the aisle and slid Maïté’s folded drawing across the countertop. “This. Quickly.”

The shopkeeper reviewed the drawing, and breathed in. “I see. She said you might come. Follow me.”

Having discovered Dungeons & Dragons later in life, I had this idea for a nerd who was so committed to the game that he couldn’t see the interested woman right in front of him.

It’s more absurdist portrait than story, but for RPG fans, it may bring a lighthearted break to your day.

"Do you wanna come up?"

Of course he did. He was also, unfortunately, exhausted.

"You probably hear that all the time," she said.

No. This was a rare invitation. It's just, he was up for the morning shift. And tomorrow would probably be a doozy too, with the Super Bowl and everything.

Not that he'd be watching. Adult men wearing tights, chasing a little ball? Grow up.

"Tomorrow's Sun-dayyy!" Her voice went up at the end.

A day for sleeping in. He hadn't even planned to do anything tonight. He only answered the phone because his brother owed him for the Paladin cards. He really should update his caller ID.

So here they were. Her, with eyes like gravity wells. Face and hair optimized for attraction. A mind begging for a challenge.

And him.

“I’ve got key lime pie upstairs.” Her manicured eyebrows bounced.

He'd have to say something soon. Her gaze was soft, expectant. It said, "I've never tracked an owlbear under a new moon on my favored terrain."

She kissed him. Caught him by surprise. He leaned into it.

Damn.

He'd forgotten that everyone leveled up last session, and he hadn't even looked at his new spells.

What am I thinking? he chided himself.

"What is it?" she said, smiling, and fluttering her lashes. "Am I silly?"

How could he explain that, though scorned in Fifth Edition, a Ranger -- especially one bonded to a hawk like Meadowsbane -- was a devastating presence on the battlefield at any level?

"Sandy's going to be out aallll night." She bit her lip, then climbed the stairs to her apartment, shoes in hand. Halfway up, she turned, and mimed hauling in the rope that connected them. An impressive feat of Acrobatics.

It had been a while since he’d eaten. "I do like key lime pie."

Upstairs, he sat at the counter and surveyed the modest two-bedroom she shared. Typical Human female. He sensed no other Humanoids nearby, but then, he didn't have Detection. Yet. He kicked himself again for forgetting the homework.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” she said, opening the fridge. "Aww," she pouted. "I must have eaten it. Guess we'll have to make dessert," she said, winking. She hung up her jacket and disappeared into the bedroom.

There was no way they had time to make key lime pie. It has to chill for like four hours. That's a Short Rest, at least.

The lights went out. "Did we lose power?" she called from the bedroom. "Can you see?"

Obviously. Half-Elves have Darkvision. Even Meadowsbane knew that.

Candlelight filled the room. She walked out in silk pajamas. His trousers suddenly tightened, clearly bewitched with a Spell of Greater Enchantment. He didn't need Guidance to see events unfolding according to the will of an unseen agent. A Long Rest now would cost him half a day tomorrow. He'd miss the rendezvous at Beaner's. His trousers begged him to stay. Be Human. His mind flayed.

What do I do?!

And then, his finger found the edge of destiny.

"Wisdom saving throw!" he yelled, mining a D20 from the deep pocket of his cargo shorts and rolling it right there on the counter.

"Saving what?"

Critical hit! He could easily escape without risking an Opportunity Attack. He Dashed past her, knocking her Prone. Flying down the stairs, he unlocked the car remotely, and was gone.

Back home, he threw his keys on the table. Phone. Wallet. In the wan light of the chandelier, he saw the dice, too, cast down. Only seven dice to create worlds, shape them, and bring them to their knees.

Or six dice. Wait, six dice? He took a frantic tally. D4, D8, D6... He stared at the empty space where the D20 should have been.

He tossed couch cushions. He raided the car, flipping the mats and rummaging the center console. He turned out the pockets of his cargo shorts.

The twenty-sided die. The arbiter of chance. The determinant separating a life of will from a life battered and adrift in a sea of misfortune.

Gone.

He picked up his phone.

                                                                                                                          u up?
                                                                                         had a great time tonight
i’m up
                                                                                                                       oh cool
what do you want
                                                                    i think i left something at your place
ru for real right now?
                                                                                                    a twenty-sided die
i don’t have it
                                                                                                                                oh
                                                                                                                        ru sure
jk i found it
                                                                              AWESOME! can i come get it?
not now. monday night?
                                                                                          i really need it tomorrow
can’t. super bowl
u could come

He stared at his phone. Of course. Other people might actually be watching the game. With chips. And beer.

His character sheet lay on the coffee table, beside his copy of _The Player's Handbook_. He thumbed idly to the pages on the Level 15 Beast Master while he considered his next move.

Tomorrow’s session would be fraught. Enemy warlords. Booby-trapped temples. Critical fumbles and saves. And no die to guide his fate. Maybe football's not so bad. Maybe Sandy would be there.

The words "Share Spells" caught his eye on the page below.

He sat in silence for a moment.

                                                                                                                        cool
                                                                                                                 have fun

He walked to the game cabinet. He pushed aside the tabletops and party games, revealing a small bag. Its embroidery read, "Friendship is Critical". He sighed. The bag had been a gift from his brother on his 28th name day. He stuck his hand inside, and withdrew an oversized pink D20. It glittered in the light, and had ponies where the numbers should be.

He kissed the die, then held it up to his minifigs so Meadowsbane could see.

"Sleep well, friend. Tomorrow, we fly!"

Nice, juicy spot, way out.

That’s for me. I don’t mind walking.

Should have brought headphones.

For what? Two more minutes in my head? In a mall?

At the mall.

At the wall.

Tennis-ball-throw-it-against-the-wall.

Look at my guy. Bet he doesn’t hold the door.

Yeah. Typical.

No wonder people feel so alone.

At the mall?

Nah, just here on Earth. Everyone feels alone at the mall, and probably on Earth too.

Where’s Nordstrom? You’re always on the wrong side.

Oh look, Auntie Anne’s. Man a pretzel would be good right now.

Pop-Pop gets a treat on the way out?

These people hawking their wares in the middle of the mall like the old days, in the streets. Like Beauty and the Beast. “It’s me, Gaston, I need a wife,” but really they’re just selling screen protectors and junk.

Wow that’s a lot of kids, guys. I couldn’t handle that.

Can you imagine how much Auntie Anne’s you’d have to buy for four kids?

Probably have to get the big ones, or the extra cheese sauce or whatever.

Are they gonna let me return this thing, anyway?

It’s Nordstrom -- of course they are.

These poor parents with the kids riding around in the little car or whatever. Cracks me up. Wonder if I would have said yes to that?

Barcelona. Your kid rode in every coin-op car she saw, so get off your high horse you smug bastard.

Is it rude to ignore the guys shouting at me from the middle?

Why don’t they just work at Nordstrom? I bet people don’t ignore you there. Probably pays better, too.

That’s ridiculous. People are people. They probably ignore you everywhere, and minimum wage is through the roof right now. End of the day, “NO SOLICITORS”. That’s why they make those signs.

Tennis-ball-throw-it-against-the-wall bam-bam-bam-ba-bam-bam

Where am I? Have I even hit the food court yet? Oh, there’s a directory.

If you need that, the terrorists win. Just keep walking.

I’ll run into it. Oooh, Jamba Juice.

I thought they closed?

Maybe Nordstrom’s on the second floor? Is there a second floor?

Sure. Theater’s up there.

Wetzel’s Pretzels. Another pretzel place. I bet they’re owned by the same person. Probably Annabelle Wetzel, Pretzel Baroness of the West. Sort of a, “robbing Peter to pay Paul,” situation, except it’s pretzels.

That is not what that means.

Did the disciples ever get a pretzel?

Not a decent one, anyway.

Right. Leaven. Hey! Nordstrom! Like I sent myself a message in the future. Thanks me.

Really hope they take this back, ‘cause what are you gonna do with a big ol’ Mikasa bowl?

No idea. Who was it even from?

No card? No wrapping paper?

Not even sure it was meant for me.

I know I’ve seen Mikasa stuff at Nordstrom before. They gotta take it back. That’s like their whole deal.

Oh, hah. It is on two floors! Housewares down here though, and booyah! There’s all the glass.

Okay, slow down. Don’t wanna knock over some old lady buying a glass bowl for her nephew.

Haha, she could just have mine. I see Mikasa! This might actually work.

“Hi. I got this as a gift. No receipt or anything. Can I return it here? Sure, I can wait. Thanks.”

Weird. Nothing like this around here, but you gotta think if they sell one Mikasa, they sell ‘em all. Right?

Some of this stuff is like fifty bucks!

“Oh, okay. Yeah, thank you. No problem.”

They don’t sell it?

I mean I get it, but man, what am I supposed to do with it now? I don’t have room for it. Kinda up against a wall here.

Bam-bam-bam-ba-bam-bam tennis-ball-throw-it-against-the-wall

Throw this bowl against the wall. At least that’d be fun to watch.

“I’m sorry. You’re sure you don’t sell this? Okay. Do you want it? I’ll just give it to you. Haha. Oh, sure, I was just joking. Unless of course you want it. Haha. Okay, no worries. I’ll figure something out.”

There’s a Goodwill down the road.

Be easier if Nordstrom took it. I should just leave it on the table with the other stuff when she’s not looking. Haha.

HOLYCRAPYOUSHOULDJUSTLEAVEITONTHETABLEWHENSHESNOTLOOKING.

Don’t mind me. Just walking around looking at everything. That’s right.

Oh, interesting Mikasa bowls you have here. What other manner of glass bowl do you have? Perhaps they would suit my fancy, as I am a collector of fine glassworks.

Yes, that gentleman could use some assistance. That’s it. Right there, on the table.

Not in the middle!

Right. Too showy. Definitely stacking some other dishes on top.

Camouflaged.

Blended like the razzmatazz pink that it is.

Be funny if this is a family heirloom.

Don’t even joke. Besides, I never heard of any Mikasa heirloom.

Okay, I’m out I’M OUT!

Walk normal moron, or they’ll think you’re shoplifting.

Haha, hilarious.

Okay. Don’t look back. Yes, yes, straight to Auntie Anne’s, or Wetzel’s.

Whichever comes first.

Two pretzel shops, remember?

What’re the odds?

Two pretzels walked into a bar. One was a salted.

“Just a salted, please.”

Haha. I don’t think that’s right.

Right. Peanuts.

Still...

“Yes I will have cheese sauce, thank you.” Are you kidding me? I could lift a hundred pounds right now.

Let’s eat across from the kids in the cars. In case they feel alone?

Bam-bam-bam-ba-bam-bam.

Table of Contents

The following morning, Claire awoke in sole possession of the bedroom. Her faux pas always left Jules in a sullen mood. She lie in bed, probing her extremities with her mind. Tallying the cost of her mistake, she was surprised to discover no pain, or even tenderness. Jules must have been angry indeed.

From the sanctuary of the duvet, Claire blindly wobbled the drawer of the bedside table just enough to spider two fingers inside, and pinch a cleverly-beaded rosary. The relic was already ancient when she received it — a bequest from Maïté — but even so, had begun to show its age. Each of its corpulent “mysteries,” long since warped and stripped of paint, seemed to flaunt their plainness.

Claire crossed herself and took the crucifix in her hands. As she recited the creed, her mind drifted to her marvelously multifaceted friend. Beautiful drifter. Agrarian savant. Dancer.

Fool.

Claire felt a snap between her fingers.

“Oh, no, no, no.”

Subscribe now

Cursing her tendency to work the wood as she prayed, she opened her hands. The little cross had split cleanly in two. The lower half, now so obviously hollow, presented her with a tiny scroll, penned in a tidy feminine script.

Dearest Claire,

I have long prayed that this letter would arrive at the right time. If you’ve found it, your prayers have failed you, and your world is cracking.

The important thing is that our sisters delivered the rosary. Hold it tight. It will hold you, cracks and all.

Maïté

Claire studied the precise drawing beneath Maïté’s words. It was an unfamiliar plant, carefully isolated on the page. Ferny leaves, finely divided. Glabrous, toothy edges. Delicate white flowers, lacey like a bride’s veil. One long tap root anchored an attachment of more fibrous roots. The drawing was so beautiful. It terrified her.

And what of the curious arrangement of letters, and arrows, surrounding leaf, root, and flower?

						C R
	                        	  O            E
					  N 	         D
                          			S  I

Claire stared at the drawing. For how long, who can say? In what tongue does one account for dread? Her stomach knew the words, but lacked the patience to translate them. Move! she willed herself. The world awaits!

In the end, it was only the prospect of Jules’ return that set her feet upon the floor, and made them walk.

It’s obnoxious. Send help.

Somewhere, out on the water, you hear it. Perhaps taunting you, but then, you never could simply receive a compliment.

You nudge the tiller, just enough to stop the sail luffing. It’s worn ash wood, a bundle of memory beneath your grip. You remember when you felled that tree. What you said to it. And what it said to you.

The tiller lolls, pulling you back to the present. “I'm already on the water!” you call. “What more could I give?” But the wind stops. Your boat drifts momentarily before a gentle current begins tugging you back. To comfort. To obligation. To your sister.

Shadows overhead.

Birds! It’s been ages since you’ve seen birds. You envy their carefree wonder through the sky. Easy for you. Yours is a north wind.

North. Where the spindle flowers are just beginning to spool, and little Kaia may have already learned the three-in-kind, or how to force a draw at Trencher’s Knuckles. Obligation is there, to be sure, but the work is out here.

And the work can wait.

“Jibe ho!” you shout. Your laugh is exhaustion and mirth, like a drakhauler after a long shift at the Spring hatch. The tiller has hardened you, each callous a fraternal oath fulfilled. You throw it hard over and duck the boom as the sail catches its breath. A tropical breeze damps your face.

You are going home. You will hear the call again. And you will have promises to keep.

I’ve participated in this particular competition several times, and I’ve always found the feedback useful. I wasn’t interested in drafting multiple revisions of this story, but under different circumstances, wouldn’t have hesitated to incorporate this feedback. I have included it below the story, so you can draw your own conclusions.

Here is “A Puzzling Attraction”. Thanks!

We shuffled up one step. I was “on deck”, my mind a flurry.

shouldidoatrick? canyoudotricksonwaterslides? theywon’tlikethat willthatfreakherout? who’sthatguy? screwittime’sup

The light turned green. I chucked a deuce at the gorgeous woman fidgeting with her room key behind me. “Peace, I’m out,” I said, but my tongue twisted the words into, “Pee-outty!” I tripped, and fell backwards onto the slide. The look on her face said, “Don’t wait for me.”

I emerged, sputtering, from the pool at the bottom, reprimanded by a teenage lifeguard. Recovering on the grass with the kids in lifejackets, I tried not to look like I was waiting for someone.

The woman glided from the chute. I swear she rotated in mid-air, and somehow evinced an Olympic dive. She climbed the steps to the grass, then turned, awaiting the Latino silver fox from behind her in line. He’s probably rich. They shared a laugh (funny, too?), a few words (”yoga class”) and walked off, arm-in-gargantuan-arm.

“Excuse me,” someone said. “Your friends left this behind.” It was the slide attendant, holding a room key.

“Oh, thanks,” I said, no clue what to do with it. Then it hit me. “Is there yoga at the resort?”

“Uttanasana,” said the instructor, bending at the hips.

The yoga studio was refreshing after the heat of the waterpark. And since they were the only people in class, the instructor didn’t mind Ana’s compulsive chatter.

She focused on her breathing. She’d only started yoga a month ago. Her developing strength and discipline made her more confident, and she wasn’t about to spend her vacation quiet.

“See, you’re good at this,” Ana said, watching Julio effortlessly assume each pose. He resisted change as a general rule, so when he didn’t reject the yoga option outright, Ana signed them up for the whole week.

“Why do you like this again?” said Julio, palming the floor.

“Because, I can just focus on me, without any honking, or cat-calling. Did you see my exposé on that corruption case last week? Seventeen takes to film a huge development, all because of drive-bys on Castroville.”

They chatted like that throughout the session. Quality time, to Ana.

When they left, someone was waiting outside. Ana recognized him as the earnest guy from the waterslide. Julio glowered.

“Hi!” said the guy. He looked cautiously at Julio, and held out a room key. “Is this yours?”

“That’s mine!” Ana snatched it. “Separate rooms. It was my only condition.” Ana laughed, a brilliant clave. “Thank you ... ?”

“Marquis.”

“Marquis,” Ana repeated.

“Ana, Querida, we’re late for dinner,” said Julio, eyeing Marquis. “And you have a gin martini with your name on it.”

Ana smiled. “See you around,” she said, grasping Julio’s arm. She walked away, contemplating Marquis, and cherishing her father, who knew her favorite drink.

I woke up early, my brain working the puzzle of “The Specimen” (my name for him) without me. That’s all detective work is, a big puzzle. That’s probably why I like it.

Ana’s finger was ringless. Available? She and The Specimen had separate rooms. Low commitment. They were wearing yoga clothes. Prepared.

I had one night left. Nothing to lose.

I registered for the last spot in the 3 PM class they took yesterday. Even if they’re together, maybe she’ll be alone today?

I checked my list every hour. Clothes. Yoga mat. Okay, it was a short list. I’m a 28-year old man on vacation. I have gym shorts to spare. I couldn’t afford the mats in the resort shops, but I had an idea.

I made a quick detour by the waterpark, and arrived at the studio just before the previous class ended. Ana was already there. The Specimen, too, all military-grade posture.

I waved, wondering if he suspected my coup d’état. If so, it didn’t show. Hubris.

“Marquis!” Ana pointed to the blue mat in my hands. “What’s that?”

“Oh, this? My yoga mat,” I said, covering chew marks on the corner. “Where’s yours?”

“They have them here,” she said, stifling a smile. The Specimen turned away, obviously laughing.

Nothing to lose, I thought at The Specimen. The game is afoot.

The door opened. Some elementary yogis departed, but the class remained mostly full. There were three adjacent spaces in the back. Perfect. I swapped my mat for a real one, and placed it on the floor next to Ana and The Specimen. May the best man win.

The instructor began.

Cat-Cow. Nice.

Child. Easy.

Downward-facing Dog. My old hound certainly can’t do this.

I glanced over Ana at The Specimen. We locked eyes. He was unperturbed, like the surface of a pond no one’s seen. So be it. If he wouldn’t crack, neither would I.

The instructor must have grown bored, because she took things, “up a notch.”

Through it all, Ana was a marvel, floating from form to form, bringing new insight to each. Tiny beads of sweat on her forehead gave her skin the effect of glazed terracotta.

Tree Pose. I began to shake. You’re not the guy.

Dancer’s Pose. Where is he getting all this energy?

Eagle. I’m definitely not doing this right.

Boat. The Specimen looked at me and flexed, mid-pose.

It was too much. I fell, frustrated, yelling the only thing that made any sense.

“PEE OUTTY!”

Ana collapsed, laughing. I laughed too. So did everyone else.

Eventually, class resumed, but I’d shot my shot. I grabbed the blue mat and left.

I started walking, wondering whether the waterpark would charge me for the mat. Someone called my name.

“You’re leaving?” It was Ana. And The Specimen.

I shrugged. “There’s a 3000-piece puzzle back in the lobby with my name on it.”

“Puzzle?” said Ana, eyebrows raised.

The Specimen coughed. “Ana, the walking tour starts in about an hour. You know your mother doesn’t like to be late. Will you be joining us?”

Ana looked at me, and smiled. “Not tonight, Papi.”

The Specimen kissed Ana on the cheek, and walked away flexing.

Feedback Received

This feedback has been reorganized for clarity, but all statements are otherwise exactly as received.

Judge #1

The physical comedy elements are well described, rooting the reader in the scene. Marquis’s tongue-tied flubs coordinate with his physical comedy, balancing the romance and comedy aspects of the genre.

Marquis’ point of view sections are in first person, while Ana’s are in third person limited. What would change about the story if the point of views were consistent? If it were all third-person limited, or third person omniscient, the reader could still know ahead of time that The Specimen is Ana’s dad while it would remain a surprise for Marquis. Conversely, if it were all in first person and the section with Ana and her dad were omitted in place of more Marquis narration, the twist would be a surprise for both the reader and Marquis. Which outcome would best serve the story? Which point of view best conveys the story you’re telling?

Judge #2

There are some interesting lines that help to build character, especially in Marquis’ shared thoughts. The lines when Marquis first wakes up the day after he saw Ana for the first time is a good example of this. Using first person point of view here was a strong choice. Marquis is such a character, and we learn so much about the details from him, without it feeling heavy-handed or full of “telling.” The twist at the end works very well. It’s fun for the reader to see Marquis’ immediate reaction, opening up possibilities for him and Ana. and making it okay that Marquis has been trying to pursue her. Bringing them back to the water slide with the matt and the exclamation is great.

The “separate rooms” line is funny, but a little strange, once the reader knows that Ana is there with both of her parents. The “mind in a flurry” language works well, with respect to showing the reader the protagonist’s state of mind, but it’s also a little difficult to interpret, and some readers may be confused by it. It can be a tough sell for some readers to get on board with a protagonist who’s trying to break up a couple, especially if he just met them. Having said that, it can be done. Here, the twist for Marquis changes everything, but perhaps even before that, Marquis could show that he feels guilty about it.

Judge #3

I liked the “showdown” yoga class scene at the end, and the way you wrote it as if you were responding to a suspense prompt. The Italicized part in particular put me in the shoes of your narrator in a way that way playful and fun to read.

I feel like “The Specimen” needs more context. It’s not clear to me why he obtains this specific name—in wha way in he a specimen?—and perhaps you could revisit your characterization of him and/or choose a new name that better represents his demeanor.

Table of Contents

“Are you listening to me?”

Claire looked up, held his gaze while her mind searched for a cubby in which to stash the bits of memory Jules would rather she forget. She felt like a child caught playing with a toy whose detriment she could only guess at. “Forgive me. I was ... distracted.”

“Oh, my sweet, simple Claire.” Jules’ face softened, and he clasped her cheeks in his hands. “You of all people should know that my forgiveness doesn’t matter.” His stale breath lurked around them, all his violent niceties blurring and confusing her memory.

What had she forgotten? His preference for potatoes? To tidy up? That play is for children, and muddy boots do not become a woman associated with his reputation?

Claire’s quivering body and clenched jaw sought equilibrium against his grasp. As she rooted herself in the moment, Jules’ words came back into focus.

“Are you even listening to me?!”

One glimpse of his onyx ring, and she remembered.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I ... forget my place,” she said, regurgitating the script he’d taught her. It would keep her safe for the moment.

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“Father, forgive me for what I am about to do,” Claire found herself praying one night.

When she met Dominique, Claire had reservations. Taken at face value, the nun and the lithe dancer had nothing in common. Dominique was born in Paris, attended the finest schools, and once entertained the king with her breathtaking grace. In truth, Dominique was a stage name, as they all were. After hours in their tent one night, Maïté admitted to Claire that obligation would eventually call Dominique home, and their bosom friendship was sealed.

Two weeks later, Claire sat upright and alone in the dark after the late show. Dominique often stayed later than everyone else, receiving the compliments of this gentleman or that. Claire prayed with eyes closed, and sipped the tonic that would heal her mistakes. She had just decided not to wait for her tentmate when the flap suddenly flipped aside, revealing a woman’s silhouette.

“Claire!” It wasn’t Dominique’s perfectly lazy Parisienne accent, but Maïté’s choppy, Basque-inflected whisper scream. “Help me! I don’t know what to do!”

Familiar with the matins hour, Claire’s body knew how to move in darkness, her mind preparing itself for the unknowable. She slowly, deliberately, rose from her bed.

“I did it. Or maybe not. I didn’t mean to ... but it happened, just as you said!” Maïté stammered, shaking. “The body is outside.”

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Caroline stopped the swing, and ran away sneering.

Jason slumped. Say yes as often as you can. It was good parenting advice, if easier said than done.

“Dad! Look!” Caroline waved, crouching in the ballfield.

Jason sauntered over. Caroline held a filthy plastic egg on a keychain.

Jason smiled. “A TamaDigi!” The display flickered, and rendered a snake carcass over ten pixels. “You feed it with these buttons, and try to keep it happy. It’s surprisingly hard. This thing must be 25 years old.”

“Can I keep it?”

Jason would relish even ten minutes respite as Caroline’s playmate. One child was always the plan. Separating from her mother was not.

“...Yes. We should reset it th-- Ow!” His finger sizzled, and he dropped the egg. “That’s not normal,” he said, nursing his finger. Be careful, honey. We’re leaving it here if it does anything weird.”

“He won’t! He’s perfect. See? His happiness is already up!”

His Happiness. Hah. Not far off.

Caroline showed “Tommy” the entire playground. She fed him, played with him, cleaned him. She beamed when Tommy’s happiness hit an unlikely 101%.

Should that be possible?

“Caroline, let me see Thomas for a minute.” A status check showed 100s across the board.

“Is he still sleeping?” Caroline grinned, hands clasped.

“I like you,” Tommy flashed. Then he smashed his reptilian rictus against the inside of the display, displacing a tooth.

Unflinching, Jason nodded. “Tommy needs to rest.” He laid Tommy next to him on the bench.

Jason’s checkmate would be ruthless: ice cream, with the caveat that they leave Tommy behind. Caroline deliberated -- even attempted a tantrum -- but ultimately accepted Jason’s terms, like a retiring public defender.

“Goodbye, Tommy. Daddy, say goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Thomas.”

They stood to leave.

<< Beep >>

Father and daughter looked at each other.

“Did you--”

<< Beep >>

Caroline picked up the egg and stared at its face. Then, nodding slowly, “Daddy, I think I’ll skip ice cream tonight.”

“What? Why?” Jason shivered. “Did that thing just talk to you?”

“I don’t want to make him sad, Daddy.”

“It’s not a him, honey. It’s a thing, and it’s not good for us. Drop it. Please.” Other parents were watching. He tried to calm himself.

“I can’t, Daddy,” she sobbed.

“Put-it. Down.”

“I--” Her tiny fist balled around the egg, shaking.

Jason cursed his inattention to detail. “It’s okay, baby!” he yelled, uncertain. He fished his wallet from a coat pocket, and yanked out a credit card. Steadying Caroline’s arm at the elbow with one hand, he shimmied the card between her palm and the device, desperate to disrupt the current.

Suddenly, Caroline’s sweaty hand popped open, and Tommy flopped sparking onto the ground.

Jason hugged his daughter, refusing to let go first. Eventually, her tension withered. “That was scary, huh?”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Can we still get ice cream?”

Jason laughed. “You bet.” Something about Caroline’s smile unnerved him.

“I like you,” she said.

He assailed her with his words, bruising her in ways that wouldn’t raise any annoying questions.

Those words were simply a fresh bouquet atop the coffin of her dreams, which she buried six feet underground the day she said, “I do.” A coffin she couldn’t afford, in a plot she shared with her mother, and her mother’s mother. She was grateful for her son. It was too crowded there, in the dirt.

Carnations for the fabrics she’d find, and put to use in a little shop of her own. Daisies for seven years old, and the conviction that a treehouse is the best kind of house to live in. And lavender, with echoes of that summer outside Paris, when she learned to do wicked things, and how to hide the evidence.

Like smoking. And flirting. And sometimes both at once.

Her mother understood all along that Claire was destined for a different life -- and when the time came, she proudly announced to the village that her daughter had been accepted as principal flame swallower in the nearby circus. Her father had more trouble reconciling that life with the habit she’d adopted among the sisters of Our Lady of Perpetuity.

For Claire, every choice was obvious, even if her reasons were occasionally problematic. She wanted a family -- a great big one -- and while she loved her sisters, conventical life separated them too much from the petty conflicts raging in their prayers for one another. But the circus! Every group had its politics, but at least in the circus, everyone’s judgments tumbled through the open air.

In the menagerie of clowns, animal whisperers, and contortionists, Claire encountered a communal life that embraced its mess. In fact, the parade of misfits catalyzed conflict. She had never felt so alive -- one day in love with the tightrope walker, the next morning, enchanted by the hypnotist. She found equilibrium each night, swallowing the flames and breathing them out again.

One breath -- one prayer -- at a time.

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“I said drive!” raged the stranger next to him.

A squad car worried his rearview, sirens blaring. Run us off the road! Must be Emmett. Still sandbagging, even as sheriff.

“Turn here!”

Amos drifted right. Memories from the track T-boned his senses. Just demolition, but Parkinson’s had stolen that from him, too.

The carjacker snatched a panic handle. “You a real racin’ muthaf---- huh?”

Amos listened to his hands. Through his hands. Through wheel, and shifter.

And he heard the engine.

He winked in the mirror.

“I am.”

Chatfished. AI was cute though, so…

Patient blossoms defied their frosted coffins.

One word. Decades of partnership — unmade.

I buried him. Cried. Pressed on.

Respirator failed. He’ll reincarnate. Find him.

Her space. Her work. Herself, again.