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Just in time for the weekend, the last of the entries from the “First and Last” contest. (And, yeah, my short story, too.) Once again, thanks to everyone who participated. If you still haven’t read the winning entries, click here. Next week it’s back to regular blogposts, so be sure to come back to see what wisdom and nonsense I come up with.

Tanja Cilia titled her short story “Time, and Again”:

It was the best of times… no, really, the very best of times.  I’d married the handsomest man on earth, and I was pregnant.  We’d just moved to an old town-house, complete with antique furniture.

Idly, I twisted a knob on the bureau – and something clicked. A tiny drawer sprang open and a stack of old papers, tied with yellowing ribbon, fell out.

Hey!  That’s MY handwriting.   Weird.

The date on the papers is 1984. The squiggles crossing the t and the curls at the ends of the y and j are unmistakably mine. But…  I never use blue ink, because it reminds me too much of the school homework I loathed so much.

In those days, no one had made concessions for my dyslexia.  When, in my very last year at school, I had a teacher who understood what the matter was… it was almost too late.  Almost, but not quite.

She tutored me privately and taught me how to read, from scratch.  Eventually I got a job at an English-language newspaper.  I soon became their top accredited journalist.

The keyboard is the logical extension of my fingers. But for private use, I always use “nice” colour inks like aqua and lilac and preach…. curiosity got the better of me, and I felt compelled to read what’s written…

April 12… The day Ms Debono drove me home after I had twisted my ankle. It was the day before my sister’s wedding, and I was the hobbling bridesmaid!   Hey!  The name of the teacher as given here is Miss Camilleri.  But she could not drive…

I felt dizzy. I took the papers down to the kitchen and cracked open a bottle of fizzy water.  I took one sip, and forgot all about it.

I turned to June 5.  That was the day the brakes of our car didn’t hold, and we ran into the car in front of us.  Yes… here it is, “car crash”.  Oh, no!  It says we were in the ‘new’ Getz Malibu…  but the car had actually been dad’s old Triumph Toledo.

My husband returned from work, and walked towards the kitchen. I began to tell him what had happened – and then I glanced at him.

He was not my husband.  I saw the puzzled look in his eyes. And when I looked down at the papers, the pages were blank, and… The bottle was empty.

Because I am a fan of creative symmetry, the very first entry I received will be the very last one presented here. And it’s a good one from Kelly Sauer:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday.

Maybe it isn’t really Thursday, Annie thought, dragging her aching body out of bed. Maybe it was still Wednesday night. The crash was nothing but a nightmare. The sun had to rise today. It was her wedding day.

She groped in the dark for a light switch, tripping over a pile of clothing and stumbling into the wall beside her closed door. She flipped the switch.

Oh great, the power was out. Of course. Her digital clock wasn’t glowing.

Annie rubbed a hand over tired eyes. The darkness was so thick she couldn’t see her hand in front of her face.

She scrabbled through her bedside table drawer for a flashlight. She tried flipping it on. Hmm. Batteries must be dead.

Frustrated, she pitched the light across the room. It hit the alarm clock off her dresser, clattering to the floor.

The clock radio began to play.

“…80 degrees and clear for you today, with mostly sunny skies…”

Annie froze at the sound, then pitched forward, passing from one black world into another.

———-

Her cell phone was ringing. Where had she left it? Her head was spinning. She opened her eyes into darkness, pulled from unconsciousness by the urgency of the identifying tone.

“Jase?” She croaked into the mouthpiece. Why was she croaking? “I can’t see.”

“I’m coming! I’m here!” She thought her apartment door was coming down in the other room. Her ears were ringing.

Someone burst into her room, hitting her leg with the door. Then he was beside her, his touch piercing the isolating black.

“Please help,” she pleaded. “The sun didn’t come up today…”

———-

She was four months late for her wedding. The sun did rise that Thursday. One of her bridesmaids attended her in a silver frame at the front of the church.

Too many tears, Annie thought, leaning heavily on her father’s arm for her walk into Jase’s arms. But she could see them. The tears. The camera flash. Those who loved them. The look on Jase’s face. The tie he was wearing. She couldn’t quite see the color yet.

She stepped toward him. After weeks of blackness, she’d forgotten what colors she’d chosen for her wedding.

Sunlight streamed through cathedral windows across the aisle, bathing Jase in light, drawing her smile.

Ah. She chose the blue one after all.

And, finally, because I thought it would be fun if I had to write a story, too, I asked you to suggest first and last sentences for my own short story challenge. I chose “The striped cat glared at me” for the first line and “The rain washed it all away” for the last line.

Here it is.

The striped cat glared at me.

Horatio.

That was his name.

He was sitting in a circle of sunlight on the carpet, a statue in a spotlight.

“You want me to feed the cat?” I’d asked.

“Yes, if you would,” she’d said. “You do know the cat has a name, right?”

“Of course.”

“And…?”

“And I prefer to call him ‘cat.’”

She didn’t say anything. But I saw disappointment in the turn of her lips.

***

The next day I was sitting on her couch. She was beside me, smelling of cinnamon and sipping a glass of merlot, her body humming along with Sia’s “Breathe Me.”

We’d been friends for a long time. Shoulder-crying friends. Best friends. But something turned in me and before I could deny it, I realized I was in love with her.

That’s exactly when Horatio jumped onto her lap. Somehow, she kept from spilling the wine. I think she laughed.

I said words I wish I hadn’t. Words that weren’t true. Yet out they came, pressed by panic into an uncertain moment where they could do the most damage.

“I hate that stupid cat,” I said.

She hugged Horatio tighter and he purred.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean that. I love the stupid cat.”

“He has a name,” she said. Then she drank the rest of her wine.

***

After a week without words, she invited me over to watch a movie. Breakfast at Tiffanys. Not our first choice. But we were lazy. Do you know how it ends? The taxi ride. The cat. The engagement ring tossed on Holly’s lap. And all the while it’s raining and you’re wondering if she is going to give up a chance to be with the man who loves her.

“Where’s the cat” Holly asks, frantic.

“I don’t know,” says Paul.

And that’s exactly what I was thinking. I don’t know. Our relationship was at a crossroads. Did she see it too? I was afraid to ask.

As if cued by the closing credits, the night sky began sheeting water against her living room window. When thunder boomed Horatio leaped onto her lap.

“Horatio,” I said, and it was a sigh.

She turned to me, smiling. But this was a new smile. One that would lead to a kiss.

Suddenly, there was no more uncertainty.

The rain washed it all away.

Some of you might be disappointed I didn’t write a science fiction or fantasy story. But look closer. See the ending? It is a fantasy after all.

Okay, kids. Nothing more to see here. Get back to work.

See you Monday.

My poorly-disguised “original content hiatus” is nearly at an end, but not yet. Today, more entries from the “First and Last” contest for you to enjoy. For those of you who haven’t yet read the winning entries, click here.

If you’re new to the noveldoctor site, take a moment to read this old post on 7 Things that Keep Editors in Business. And then read a bunch more. And tell your friends to stop by, too.

Alicia Gregoire-Poirier entered this fantastical story:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. This came as no surprise to the girl; she had been able to control the stars since quickening in her mother’s womb. The Destroyers were rapturous with the knowledge and each wanted the girl’s power for their own.

The girl’s mother, covetous in her own right, arranged fostering by The Destroyers’ mages – The Arcane Ones. Here, the girl learned of the delicate balance among the universe; how if one planet fell, all others were doomed. They imparted this knowledge to frighten her.

It empowered her.

Her powers blossomed under The Arcane Ones’ careful guidance, surpassing expectations of all. The eve she lost her maidenhead, she held the moon in her thrall until she and her lover were spent. The moon sighed in pleasure and disappeared for a fortnight.

Her lover was enamored of her talents and lavished her with baubles that were so prismatic in their beauty; they reminded the girl of the universe. She named them in accordance of her lessons.

Crimson. Saffron. Cerulean.

After their naming, the jewels rose and transformed before the girl and her lover. Each danced amid the elements they called forth with their lovemaking. Colors tattooed their bodies, an indelible mark of their union.

The girl’s infatuation with the boy was not in The Destroyer’s plans, and the boy foresaw his death in their eyes. The girl, clever as she was, did not have The Sight, not like he. For this, he sent his prayers up to The Deity. He asked for strength to carry his plan forward and that the girl would endure.

She was their salvation.

Unaware, the girl slept on and her lover chanted over her magic jewels. He sealed his life force in blue and death to his adversaries in yellow. He saved red for the destruction of all. Then, with his hand over her already ripened womb, he blanketed her with his parting wish.

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday, the day they sacrificed her lover, because it was her will. Darkness remained while her soul warred with half-imagined murmurings.

Murder was at her fingertips.

The babe stirred inside her.

She chose the blue one after all.

Here’s Jon Freestone’s creative entry:

Somewhere between roof and the pavement, Sam remembered where she’d left her wallet. That distraction was just enough to let her fly. Sam loved the H2G2 series but never thought you could really fly by forgetting to hit the ground.

Sam’s favorite dreams were the flying dreams, she even learned how to lucid dream to be able to control her dreams. Sam soared over the neighborhood, this was way better then any of her dreams.

The hardest part was deciding where to go. Fly home, buzz her boy friends house, or go pick up the wallet. While trying to decide Sam saw a red blinking light to her right and blue light strait ahead.

Why go home, I just want to fly, she thought. Sam started flying between the flashing lights. In the end it wasn’t too hard to decide which light to head for, after all her rival school’s colors were red.

So turning to the left, just to see what would happen, She chose the blue one after all.

Adrian Firth titled his creepy entry, “The Day of Screams”:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Dense fog hid the sky, hanging low across rooftops and power lines, smothering houses and decapitating trees. Diffused light brightened the world gradually, like God was turning a dimmer switch. More likely it was the Devil. Oblivious, I eased my Toyota down the driveway in the half-light.

At the letterbox, I leaned out and opened the lid to find nothing but real estate flyers. Cursing the paperboy, I sat trying to get something on the radio, anything at all. The neighbour’s cat chose that moment to stroll into the street.

Pam Jameson’s black moggy often sat in the road, usually early morning and sometimes at dusk, as if it owned the world. As if it were invulnerable. Top of the food chain. We used to think that way too.

A funnel of cloud spiralled from the sky to the white line in the centre of the road. It oscillated like a miniature twister. From the wobbling point, a smoky tendril formed and snaked toward the cat like a ghostly boa constrictor, engulfing the animal.

Cats can scream like nothing on earth. I still had a hand on the radio band selector.

Ahead of me, up in the fog, a massive shape drifted across the sky. Something like a building-sized shark. It seemed to broadcast fear. I sat motionless and cold until it left. Then I put the car in reverse.

I ran from the carport to the house. Inside, I locked the door and went to the television. No picture. No cellphone coverage. No dial tone. You are not connected to the Internet.

That was Thursday. The day of screams. The power is out, and the water doesn’t run now. The fog wraps all sides of the house, all the way to the windows. I keep the curtains drawn. I cower and cry and piss myself when I feel them overhead.

This is how it ends for us. Not nuclear war, economic collapse, or slow drowning in a rising sea. Not plague, asteroid strike, or a broken ecosystem. It finishes the way we have always feared, since the time we huddled around fires in smokey caves.

Monsters.

And while Robyn D. Stone’s story didn’t open with one of the assigned first lines, it’s does end with one:

If only he could see the future. He would know it would work out. Losing his father was surely the hardest thing he had ever been through in his life. Thinking of him now made him happy and sad at the same time. Happy for all the times they had been able to share. Sad for all the times lost.

Looking down at his own son dressed in his Sunday best, his heart was so full of pain. So full of pride. Would his son remember his grandfather? Would he know how much he loved him? How proud he was the day he was born? Steven wondered what words he could use to make sure this six year old little boy knew all the things his grandfather would have wanted him to know.

With his tie slightly askew and hair more than slightly rumpled, he looked so much like Steven had when he was his age. Everyone had been saying the same thing since the accident. Family from faraway places and out of town guests who had not seen Taylor since he was a baby were all amazed at the strong family resemblance. Strong jaw. Dark eyes. Heavy bangs. It was all there. The strong family traits handed down from generation to generation.

Pushing those bangs to the side, Taylor looked up with a sideways glance and gave Steven the signature lopsided smile. What was he thinking? Did any of this make sense to him? Steven had tried explaining it all to him before the services, but how much would a six-year old really grasp. He was having trouble grasping it all himself.

The wind began blowing softly, which sure helped on this hot August afternoon. Southern heat in August was something you could always count on, but his father had been very firm in not wanting a major production for his funeral services. He was specific in saying graveside services only. They had honored his wishes.

As the last trumpet sounded, he gave Taylor a tight hug and watched him walk away and get in the car with Julia, his ex-wife. He reached for his pocket and felt inside, it was still there. But, he knew, the bottle was empty.

Just a couple more short stories to go and you’ll have seen ‘em all. Pretty good stuff, don’t you think?

I’m already planning the next contest, and I think you’ll like it. Much less work, but still loads of fun. And, no, I’m not saying anything else about it until September.

Yes. More of your entries to read and enjoy. And if that’s not enough for you, consider this silly old post on Fiction Trends of the Future! (This re-post is offered in honor of “The Time Traveler’s Wife” movie, which opens Friday and is based on the book, a book so good I was still able to fall in love with it even though when I read it I was in the middle of a terribly deep depression brought on by a relational meltdown of epic proportions. Oh to write a novel half as good as Audrey’s debut.)

The short stories now.

Jennifer Neri titled her entry “Morgue”:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Or on Friday, or on Saturday. On Sunday, the day her body began to stiffen and turn cold, the sun shone. While she lay, dying, the clouds had covered the sky, and lighting had flashed, thunder calling her.

I stared at the body, trying to see the mother I knew. She looked the same, yet in another way, she was no longer the woman who had bore me, her middle son, forty-two years ago.

I heard my father shuffle back into the room, my eldest sister’s voice relentless in his ear. We had been waiting fourteen hours for them to remove the body.

Someone had come with coffee and a box of muffins that my youngest brother had placed on our dead mother’s leg. Eat, he had said. I took the box and moved it to the little table that had held her tray for the past seven weeks she had been in palliative care. I saw him pick up a muffin and bite half of it. My stomach turned, and I swallowed bile. In this way, we waited.

“They are ready,” my sister said. “But, she will not be moved until we are all here.”

The six of us, the children, had scattered when the first bird began to sing. My two sisters had uncoiled themselves from her. One had her hands under our mother’s breast, the other under her thighs.

“What are you doing?” I had asked them.

“She is still warm here,” the elder one had answered.

Suddenly, the room was full, my siblings moving about. Within minutes two attendants arrived, but they were pushed out of the way.

“We will do it,” said my eldest brother, the second born from her.

At the doors marked MORGUE, the eldest, my sister who had her hands nestled under our mother’s breasts, collapsed.

“No,” my father spoke. “She would not want this.”

My sister rose, resumed her spot, and we pushed through the doors. I knew each of us wondered how we could leave her; she had been so scared.

“I will stay,” I said.

The attendants looked at each other, then at all of us, and shrugged.

I was alone, and I reached for the bottle water I had placed on the floor, next to my chair. My lips were dry, and my throat ached. The bottle was empty.

Michelle Evans entered this short story:

‘It was the best of times… no, really, the very best of times. I can’t help but think if only… No but we must look to the future now.’ Louise went to stand up.

‘Oh, Aunt Louise, if you don’t tell me about those times, how will I ever know anything about Mother?’ Sophie, nearing adulthood innocently yearned to know more.

‘The best of times…’ she urged.

‘Yes, when your mother and I were in our early 20’s,’ Louise sighed.

‘What made it the best of times, Aunt Louise?’ Sophie asked.

‘Freedom! We were free and easy and loved it. We did what we wanted.’ Louise turned to Sophie and said in a low voice. ‘But maybe being so easy wasn’t the best.’

‘Tell me more, Aunt Louise,’ Sophie curled her knees in to her chest looking small and childlike.

‘Your mum had just finished her degree, we were pumped for a big night. Sophie, you’re nearly 17, I’m going to tell you this so hopefully you will learn not only about your mum, but so you won’t make the same mistakes.

‘But you said it was the best of times,’ Sophie was a little lost.

‘Yes, well I suppose that’s how we used to think. Looking back, all the hangovers, memory loss, men – many men…’

‘Are you saying, that my mother… many men?’ Sophie blushed.

‘I’m afraid so, Soph, that’s why you’ve never met your father. I don’t believe your mum worked out which one it was, so she never told any of them about you,’ Louise paused for a moment, then rushed on. ‘It was just after your second birthday, your mum rang me and said “Louise lets got out like we used to.” She drank a lot before we went out.’

‘Is this the night she died, Aunt Louise?’ Sophie’s wet eyes looked down.

Louise searched for courage, her lip quivered.

‘I went to the bar to get more beers while your mum was on the dance floor. Stories about spiked drinks were all over the papers and it crossed my mind your mum had left her drink at the table while I carried mine to the dance floor. I searched for her on the dance floor but found her just off to the side, lying on the floor. It was too late. I looked to our table. Her drink was spiked. The bottle was empty.’

Holly Tupper, who is 15 years old, entered this clever story. (I think you’ll agree Holly is well on her way to becoming a published writer.)

“The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Everyone was bumping into each other because no one could see anything! That’s what Alex said happened after he ate your cooking, Sash! What is this stuff anyway?” My little brother, Josh, eyed the repulsive yellow lump on his plate.

I shot him a poisonous glare. “It’s macaroni and cheese.” A skeptical frown crossed his face, so I added, “You like macaroni and cheese.”

Josh wrinkled his nose. “Not when it looks like that.”

I glanced at the pathetic pile of watery, half cooked macaroni and clumps of dry cheese sauce and sighed.

“Just eat it.”

I slumped onto a chair next to Josh. So much for my cooking skills. Only my second time babysitting, and not only had I locked myself out of the house while taking out the trash and had had to run over to the neighbor’s to phone Mom to find out where the spare key was, but now I had made a complete mess of dinner.

And it was macaroni and cheese! How hard is it to cook macaroni and cheese?

I brought a forkful of macaroni to my mouth. An unusual odor filled my nose––kind of like the smell you get when you burn oil. I instantly burst into a fit of coughing. I grabbed my cup and gulped down the water, ridding my mouth of the nasty taste.

Josh’s eyes bulged and his mouth dropped open.

“No way am I eating that!”

“Forget it!” With one artful sweep, I dumped the macaroni into the trash can. “We’re ordering pizza!”

Josh flashed me a mischievous grin. “Oh, and Alex said that after he ate your food, his house was stormed by big, scary, green…”

I threw my head into my hands.

“…monsters.”

Remember that I told you to keep your eyes peeled for a story by Andi Newton? Here it is:

Somewhere between roof and the pavement, Sam remembered where he’d left his wallet.

“Ah, crap.” Stepping off the landing, he rode the sliding ladder the rest of the way down, one foot on a rusty rung, the other stepping onto asphalt as soon as the ladder stopped.

“Find it?” Janowski asked.

Sam shook his head. “No, but I know where it is.”

“Yeah? Where?”

“Maddigan’s.”

Janowski’s shoulders sagged. “Any idea where she is?”

Sam switched the blackout monocle from his left eye to his right and scanned the skyline. The silver ring of his exposed eye flicked in mechanical stops from one building to the next.

“There,” he said, pointing at a brick building sporting a neon “Beckman’s Soda” sign.

Janowski sighed and, pulling the gun from his holster, followed Sam down the street.

#

“It’s of no use to you, Maddigan.”

The woman opposite him turned Sam’s wallet in slow circles with nicotine-yellowed fingernails. A corner caught her hair, and it wrapped in brittle layers around the leather.

“Perhaps not,” she admitted, “but it’s of importance to you, and that gives it value.”

“And that value would be?”

“Your eyes.”

“You would blind me, Maddigan?”

Maddigan shrugged. “They say children have their parents’ eyes, and parents swear by their children’s. I have no children, but if I had your eyes I’d have something to swear on.”

Sam watched Maddigan’s hair wrap around the wallet. He could let her keep it, find some other way…

“I’ll let you take one.”

Maddigan curled her hand around the wallet. “Which one?”

Slipping the blackout monocle off, Sam leaned forward. “Your choice.”

Women always told Sam that his right eye was a nice shade of blue when it wasn’t bloodshot, but the valuable one, of course, the useful one was the left. Titanium in iron, fitted with the latest tech. Maddigan didn’t even have to replace one of her own with it. That just made it portable. Finding a new one wouldn’t be easy, but the wallet was worth it.

Sam jerked backward as Maddigan lunged forward and dug fingernails into his eye socket. Grinning, she held her hand open, palm up, for him to see, but Sam didn’t need to look to know what she’d done. He knew already, in the blood that smeared his cheek and the gray that edged his vision.

She chose the blue one after all.

And there you have it. Four more clever entries in the “First and Last” contest. See why it’s so hard to choose a winner?

A few more tomorrow, too. Yup. There are more.

I’ll bet you’re here to find out who won the “First and Last” contest, right? Well, I’ll get to that in a minute. First, I wanted to say “thanks” to all who entered, 20 of you, as it turned out, though I received 21 entries because I never said you couldn’t submit more than one and one intrepid writer happily sent two entries with my blessing.

These were lots of fun to read – so fun, in fact, that I’m planning on posting the rest of the entries throughout next week. You’ll enjoy reading them just as I did.

Okay, now, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, prizewinners. Patience, my friends. Remember that I promised I’d write a story based on your suggested “first” and “last” lines? I’ll be doing that soon, but I wanted to tell you what lines I’m using in my story. (By the way, thanks so much for submitting these. I had lots more to choose from than you did. And they were all great.)

My story will start with this line: “The striped cat glared at me.”

It will end with this line: “The rain washed it all away.”

And I have no idea what it will be about. If I’m feeling particularly ambitious, I’ll try to include a few more lines from this list.

Okey dokey. As you know, choosing a winner is always the hardest thing about hosting a contest. And of course, you’re all really winners, not just for having entered, but for writing such great stories. But apparently I am a masochist, because I can only choose three of you as prizewinners. (It’s in moments like these that I wish I still met weekly with my therapist.) And so, now, the three-who-get-prizes-above-and-beyond-the-satisfaction-of-having-entered.

Third prize (a $15 Amazon gift card) goes to…Nicole Petrino-Salter. Here’s her entry:

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. Nor did it set. Not for me anyway. The blinds crushed together defying any glimpse of life outside my room with the curtains pressed against them like Spandex. I’d given up my unsteady tromping to the bathroom and brought the decorative plastic-lined wastebasket to my bedside instead. And the box of Kleenex.

I desperately wanted to drink the water in that Dixie Cup on the nightstand, but the sensation of it repeating its journey backward from my stomach kept me from trying. Who in the world was worth this misery?

Certainly not him. I think I told him so, too. I suppose now I’ll never know. Vomiting does seem like a fitting end to it all, now that I think about it. My head still swirls when I lay it back on the pillow—that part is so unfair, although rich with symbolism. I’d really like to remember what I said. Perhaps when the room ceases to move around like a carnival ride.

It’s a good thing I had this four-day weekend planned, but if I remember correctly I wasn’t supposed to be spending it alone. Or puking my guts out. Or wondering if I did anything really humiliating at . . . oohh. Not again.

Mercy. Do I deserve this?

What little memory I could muster in my dizziness captured the vision of competitive shots of Tequila. Then words. Loud ones. Oh. Yes. I see it plainly now. The bottle was empty.

Second prize (a digital audio recorder) goes to…Merrie Destefano, for her entry, which she titled, “001010101111.”

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday. That should have been a sign, a warning. It should have set all the alarms ringing inside Sam’s head. But it didn’t.

Because he didn’t wake up.

Nobody did.

The day the Earth stood still—the day everything changed—went completely undetected. It lodged like a rock, right between Wednesday and Friday, dark, cold, silent. No NASA scientist and no Hindu philosopher caught the great hiccup in the universe. Friday came, blinding and bright and charged with energy—a bit too much energy, in fact. Power surged and crackled through cables and wires and shorted out cell phones around the world.

The Internet, on the other hand, ran smoother than ever.

Sam thought he noticed a difference when he sat down, fingers poised over keyboard. Thought he heard a crack, snazzle, pop. Like liquid silver, every connection zapped into place faster than ever before.

He grinned.

New Web sites sparked into prime time, exquisite and compelling and somehow already linked to existing sites. Without realizing it, his computer began to prefer these new, almost alien sites, would route him there over and again, would leave him there for long intervals.

Basking in the light.

Sweet. Flickering. Light.

A soft strobe pulsed just beneath the surface, a message read by brainstem and cerebellum like secret code. A whisper program that ran undetected. A cyber virus that thrummed all day long. Even after his computer turned off.

That night, while computer junkies around the world slept, cozy and safe inside footed pajamas and Ambien cocktails, the program kicked into high gear and the transformation began. So subtle it wouldn’t even be noticed, just like that missing middle-of-the-week day.

The morning came and a few hackers observed that the sky hung a bit darker, cereal crunched a bit quieter, surfaces felt a bit smoother and dialogue—well, dialogue came in a steady stream, more like binary code than conversation.

1101011010001010101

Sam smiled as he sat down on the wrong side of the screen, 001010101111, ready and eager to get to work.

Head tilted, he listened.

00001010101

The sound of birds, singing.

11110101

The clatter of keyboard keys, cyber-universe turned inside out.

001010101111

One word repeating itself over and over, one human staring at him through transparent screen, typing.

001010101111

In some languages the symbols meant:

They’re. Here.

But in most they translated differently.

001010101111

They’re. Monsters.

And first prize (a $50 Amazon gift card and a bunch of plastic animals I collected a few summers ago from the Mold-A-Rama machines in Chicago’s Brookfield Zoo) goes to…Katherine Tomlinson, for her entry, which she titled, “Darkling.”

The sun didn’t rise on Thursday.  The blogosphere, which never sleeps, outpaced the news channels in reporting the situation, but CNN had posted a graphic (Black Thursday!) by 11 a.m.  The parade of pundits began that afternoon, with self-styled experts throwing out phrases like “Little Ice Age” and “global hydrological cycle.”

Dr. Nicholas Solarz, whose theories on nuclear winter had been published in the Journal of Geophysical Research, seemed to be everywhere at once, basking in his moment of geek glory. He talked a lot about the surface temperature of the earth being 300 Kelvin and predicted that without sunlight, the temperature would drop by a factor of two in weeks.

When these statements were met by puzzled looks from anchor-people who couldn’t do long division without a calculator, he explained that 275 Kelvin is the freezing temperature of water and that in a month; the planet’s surface temperature would be down to 150 Kelvin.  Then he had added, somewhat unhelpfully, “You do the math.”

But to do the math, people needed to know the difference between the Kelvin and the Celsius temperature scales and have a passing grasp of the concept of “absolute zero” and most everyone had enough problems just converting Celsius to Fahrenheit.  Also, a fair number of viewers thought Dr. Solarz was saying “Kevin” and wondered who he was and what he had to do with anything.

Shows that couldn’t book Dr. Solarz counter-programmed with G. Taylor Wells, a contrarian Canadian climatologist whose business cards proclaimed him a “prophet of doom.”  Wells told everyone who would listen that the lack of sunlight would precipitate climate change that was unprecedented in speed and amplitude in all of human history.  No one was quite sure what “amplitude” meant but they were pretty sure it wasn’t anything good.

A TV weatherman in Los Angeles started blogging about the apocalyptic weather caused by the extreme temperature gradients along the coast.  By Saturday night, his site was the hottest URL on the Internet.  Unfortunately, he drowned early Sunday when a freak cyclone slurped him off the Santa Monica pier and dumped him offshore.

The global electric grid, overtaxed by 24/7 demands for light and heat, began to falter, then failed completely by Tuesday.  After that, there was no one to chronicle the deaths that followed or document the change as the living evolved into something better suited for survival.

Monsters.

I never expected the three winners would use the same opening line. This is not because I preferred that line, by the way. My favorite (yes, I had a favorite opening line) was the one about Sam’s wallet. But as you can see, I didn’t let that sway my final choice. I also tried not to let any genre preference get in the way of my decision. I happen to love all kinds of fiction. Mostly I tend to read (and write) angsty stories about love and loss. (Yes, this means I like chick flicks, too. Please don’t tell anyone that my DVD collection includes both Titanic and Serendipity. Okay?) But as you can see, two of the top three here were of the speculative variety.

I think it’s important for me to say again that there were some amazing entries fluttering just below the Chosen Ones and, had the wind been blowing a different direction during my reading, they might have clawed their way into the top three. Seriously, there’s some writerly brilliance bubbling out there in the Interwebs and it has visited my blog.

But ultimately, I chose the stories that captured me ever-so-slightly more than the rest. One, a vivid picture of regret. One, a creepy science fiction story that hits way too close to home as we all look upon our computer screens in this very moment. And finally, a clever and smart apocalyptic story. Katherine’s took top prize because it not only packs a ton of details into 400 words, it does so with the perfect touch of humor that makes the punchline oh so much sweeter in the end.

Congratulations, all. And I really do mean all. Wait until you see Adrian’s story. And both of PJ’s stories. And 15-year-old Holly’s story. And Richard’s. And Erika’s. And Ellen’s. And Andi’s? Um, well, you’re gonna want to keep your eyes peeled for that one. And. And. And. Truly, you all rocked this contest. I wish I had 20 prizes to award.

Have a great weekend.

Before I explain how this works, let me say one more time how impressed I was by the quality of the submissions to the writing contest. They ranged from “needs work, but not a bad start” to “that’s amazing.” Even if you didn’t make the top 10, you can rest assured your entry wasn’t horrible. If that’s not reassuring enough for you, consider this: judging writing is a subjective thing. What I love may be very different from what another editor (or agent, or publisher) loves. Please don’t throw rocks at me if you disagree with my selections.

Here’s how I chose. First, I read each entry once through without grading them at all. Then I went through a second time and assigned each a rank from 1 to 5 (five meaning excellent and one meaning…well, it doesn’t matter what one means since no one received a one, thank goodness). I went through a third time to re-evaluate the rankings. During this pass, four of the entries were bumped down a half point or so, and one was bumped up. I made the arbitrary decision to present only the top 10 on the blog, and to get to that number, I had to make one more pass through the entries. It wasn’t until this final pass that I took into consideration whether or not you exceeded the word count (a number of you did and now must attend summer school to retake the math class you failed last semester). Still, if you were only off by just a few words, I let it slide. I’m generous that way.

So here are five of the top 10 entries, in random order, for you to enjoy. Five more will be posted tomorrow. On Wednesday I’ll let you know which of the top 10 is my choice for winner (at which point you can all congratulate the winner or gently explain to me how much more evil I am than Simon Cowell).

On Thursday, I’ll post some excerpts and entries that didn’t make the top 10, but deserve your attention for other reasons. Good reasons. I promise I won’t dissect your hard work in front of God’n'everyone. That said, I do want to mention that none of these entries is perfect. Even among the top 10 there are some things that make me want to reach for the red pen. If the writers of these will grant me permission, I’ll gladly show you what I mean in a future post.

(The following entries may have been formatted to fit your screen, but I did not change any of the wording or spelling. All typos you see are original. A typo, while regrettable, is not the ‘kiss of death’ for a writer. Great writing or notable promise can buy you a few typos. Still, this is one of my pet peeves so let this exercise be a lesson to you – write brilliant stories, then go back to make sure you aren’t leaving any blatant errors on the page. Okay? Thanks.)

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“They attack on a schedule? What the hell are these things!”

Three days ago the dead crawled out of their crypts, tombs, and plain pine boxes to wreak their revenge upon the living. Media said something about Twinkie preservatives, deep frying, and an little known arcane ritual performed by some drunk Scotsmen during the Highland Games. Either way, Mike rarely believed anything CNN said nowadays.

John slumped against the low wall edging the Walmart’s roof. His zombie plan worked and they’d been able to hold the store, but these things….

Over the edge, Mike saw the lines of undead swaying at attention. They didn’t make a sound or move far from where they stood. They just waited like soldiers for inspection.

He looked at the cheap Casio watch, ten seconds before the mill’s whistle blew.

“Ready for the next one?” asked John.

“Yeah, but with the ammo we’ve got left….”

The watch struck 10:00 and the deep throated trill of the whistle came. Time to work. The corpses were already in a blind run at the building.

Mike targeted one in his scope and fired a shot. It dropped but another ten took its place.

“We’re so screwed.”

[R. Alexander]

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“Gimme it.”

“Uh-uh.”

He tried to wipe the sweat from his forehead with his cutoff t-shirt, but there was not enough fabric left to do the job.

“Never understood why people cut off t-shirts. That’s the important part,” she mused, standing in the mud next to her man and the broken ATV.

“Just gimme your goddamn watch so I can rig this throttle and get us home!”

“No, Mama gave me this.”

“Your mama’s dead. Hand over your buttwipin’ watch!”

She looked at him. He had become foreign to her, like a word viewed so many times it’s strangely unfamiliar or looks misspelled.

He looked at her. That weird gleam in her eye behind the lanky bangs and the frosted eyeshadow implied something in her that he’d never seen before from his mama, or Loreen, whose bed he’d left this morning, or any other female.

So he grabbed her arm and unhooked the wristwatch as she squawked and struggled. He turned to the ATV and jerry-rigged the loose throttle, stretching the cheap leather to its limit.

She wondered how far she could get a knife through his gut before it stopped. She wondered how much a bus ticket to Atlanta costs.

[Machelle]

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If you never thought you’d end up in Konakwa County, much less “The last Irish pub in Konakwa County”…well, there’s a lot you never thought would happen. I’m sure the Irish, whoever they were, never believed their green three-blister road sign would outlast them. And I betcha never thought you’d live to see the end of days, or the day we stopped counting ‘em, neither. But a few red skies after that (I’ll wager a hundred), if you had been in Konakwa, you’d’ve witnessed the fanciest occurrence since the big flash.

Of all the strange blisters that’ve grown on walking things since, none compare to the scratches and bites plaguing the glass-faced man sporting the spotty-grey rubber suit.

–I don’t know where you wandered in from, stranger, but I ain’t seen your kind before.

–I don’t mean no trouble, bartender. Just here to add some grease to my dial.

–You keep shifting your expression. Can’t tell if you’re smirking at me.

–Ain’t no smirking ‘less you’re smug. Now hand me that moonshine ‘fore I regale you with my sorrowful self…

Imagine that—plenty witnesses; a walking, talking, daykeeping man; and no one to tell you what time it was.

[Adam]

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Shriveled in his chair like a grape destined for mediocre wine, he looked at his wrist for the 12th time; three minutes later than last time. The watch, a Timex, was a Father’s Day gift purchased with love and pride and six months of baby-sitting money. Black numbers on white face, the date feature required an additional month. Before cell phones were routinely attached to belts, ears and a teenager’s busy fingers, wristwatches weren’t so much fashion accessory, they were necessary for telling time.

I wasn’t sure if he was anxious or eager for his appointment, and it was then he noticed me and smiled.  He told me I was the prettiest girl in the room and I looked like his daughter. He extended his arm to show off the prized possession and explained how she had given it to him with “money she earned herself.” His previously vacant expression illuminated with pride.

I turned away to hide the tears now filling my eyes. He would be going nowhere today, though his broken mind told him otherwise.

For the 13th time he checked the watch I had given him decades ago; it was so well-worn, it now oddly resembled a hospital bracelet.

[Robin]

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Pink left Little Belle Plantation after it burned in 1935. He didn’t know nothin’ else, he’d told Mr. Perry. But Perry was kind and believed that a capable plantation hand could make do at just about anything, so he’d arranged a job for Pink at the Coca-Cola bottling plant in Monroe. Perry had owed at least this to Pink. The man had all-but raised Perry’s son, teaching him to hunt and trap on Black Bayou.

Mouk remembered Pink’s big, brown knuckles, blackened by industrial grease. In them he passed a twine-tied grease rag to Mouk—wrapping for a parting gift. He’d bartered it off one of the syrup men on the line, he said. Pink smiled, showing his namesake gums as Mouk removed the contents.

Nazi’s and beavers both need trappin’, Pink said.

Mouk now repeated these words as he swayed left to right. There aren’t too many places for light to penetrate a forty-and-eight boxcar. Only one silver thread pierced a hole above Mouk’s left shoulder. He had been playing a rather childish game, keeping that light-thread from touching that trench watch Pink had managed.