Writers’ Playground regularly holds a contest that puts your creativity to the test. You register for the competition without knowing the parameters except that you will be asked to write a short story. On a set date you receive the parameters and have 10 days to complete and submit your story.
On January 8th of this year the Twelfth Playground Challenge gave registered entrants the following guidelines:
PROMPTS – (Open to creative interpretation but it must be clear to the judges, as readers. If you are uncertain at all about your interpretation, reach out to us and ask.)
CHOOSE ONE OF THE CHARACTERS LISTED BELOW. This character does not have to be your protagonist but they must play a significant role in your story.
1) An AI robot
2) Half-siblings
3) A food-service worker
4) A scapegoat
5) A Pontianak
CHOOSE ONE OF THE SETTINGS LISTED BELOW. Can be set in any time-period, including the future, unless specified. Can deviate slightly from the selected prompt but the majority of the story must take place in one of these settings.
1) A coming-of-age party (ex. a sweet-sixteen, a quinceañera, a bar mitzvah, etc…)
2) Pompeii
3) An office building
4) A duplex (a house divided into two apartments, with a separate entrance for each)
5) A boarding school
THE ONE THING THAT MUST BE INCLUDED IN ALL STORIES IS:
A painting, from an earlier time, of someone who looks eerily like the protagonist.
The stories had to be submitted by 1:59pm New York Eastern Time on January 18th and there was a hard limit of 3100 words. For a small fee, participants could receive one-on-one critique from the judges ― an option which I chose
I didn’t win but received constructive and really encouraging feedback, so I made some tweaks, stayed true to the rules, and here is the result.
***********
Alina
As I ordered my coffee, I hesitated for a moment. Where had I seen that face?
I found an empty table and started typing. I had a few thousand words down and now it was only a matter of finding the next 40,000. You can do this I kept telling myself.
My head bulged with ideas for my novel as the barista walked over to deliver my cappuccino. Dry. Extra espresso.
“You from upstairs?”
I nodded but didn’t look up as she put the coffee down. “Novel?”
I looked up this time. She stood about five foot eight and had a goth look. Long straight black hair. Black blouse and vest. No piercings but dangly earrings and a crucifix necklace.
I had been prepared to be irritated but her smile quickly put an end to the feeling.
“Alina.” She held out her hand. “We get a lot of you coming down here.”
I shook her hand. “Bo. Short for Bocephus. Not sure what my parents were thinking when they came up with that one.”
She smirked, “Country and Western fans.”
I was surprised. She didn’t have the look of a C&W fan, but she knew her music. Hank Williams had taken the name from a fellow performer at the Grand Ole Opry and used it as a nickname for his son back in the 1940’s. That performer was a ventriloquist dummy and when I was born in ‘53 the name came to my parents’ mind for some reason. I often wondered if they were seeing a dummy in my future…
“Guess they wanted to make sure I had a name that would not be forgotten. You a C&W fan?”
“Any music. Classical. Rock. Country. As long as it’s good, I’ll try it. You’re new here.”
Before I could answer she saw a customer at the counter. “Need to get back to work. See you later.”
Joe’s Coffee With Character occupied the entire main floor of an old four-story sandstone building on the edge of downtown. The owner wasn’t really named Joe (like me, he didn’t want his full name of Giuseppe to be the name people remembered) but it was a play on words for a coffee shop that lived and thrived within a bookstore dedicated to fiction of all kinds. New and used books filled the space with tables, couches and comfy chairs scattered among the bookshelves so you could browse and read while having a coffee or find a place to hide when you simply wanted to be alone to think. Or write. The top floor of the building was a coworking space that had offices for short term rent and desks where you could camp out for a day or a week at a reasonable price. You could get a phone number answered by a shared receptionist to give the appearance you had a real business. For unpublished writers like me the big draw was a quiet place to work with access to good printers and Wi-Fi. Apple had just released what they were calling the iPhone and now everyone wanted public Wi-Fi. I was lucky to find this place because I couldn’t afford my own printer―freelance writing barely covered my living expenses. The two floors in between had a variety of small businesses and consultants―even a private detective. I recognized several people I had seen on the stairwell walking up and down between floors; some of us didn’t trust the creaky elevator or believe the safety inspection certificate. Rent was cheap, making the coworking viable and ensuring Joe was able to keep his unique space alive and well even though neither coffee nor books made him a lot of money.
I could see the coffee bar from where I was sitting and looked closer at Alina. She was attractive but the more I looked the more I couldn’t look away. We definitely had never met before now, but I was sure I had seen her before. That was going to nag at me for as long as I sat there so I packed up my aging laptop and headed back upstairs to grab some writing time at a vacant desk.
“Leaving so soon?” she called out as I left. “You’ll be back?”
“Definitely”
She smiled, “Best before 11:00 or after 2:30 or so. Less busy.”
An invitation? I returned the smile.
I took Alina’s advice and the next day after putting in a couple of hours of solid typing upstairs, I took my laptop and headed back down around 10:00.
“Hey Bo!” She pulled an espresso for another customer and when it was my turn I ordered a cappuccino.
“Extra shot? Dry?”
“Thanks. You remembered.”
“Ya. Some customers stick out. How’s the book coming?”
“Slow. The rest of the day is an eavesdropping expedition for me. Hear what people are up to. Might offer some inspiration.” My laptop bag was still slung on my shoulders and I took my coffee and wandered through the bookshelves, stopping occasionally to look at books, listen in on conversations people were having, and check out the art hanging on the walls. Joe had a unique collection and most of it was for sale, so the collection was forever changing. And there hanging in front of me, was Alina. No wonder I recognized her. It was an Andy Warhol painting. Or at least in the style of Warhol, but it appeared to be a genuine, signed print. In place of a price was a note saying, “Talk to Joe” so I guessed it wasn’t cheap, and Joe at least must have believed it was the real McCoy. Way out of my price range for sure.
I made my way back to the front of the café and sat down within sight of the coffee counter. There was no question. The woman in the print looked uncannily like Alina — close enough that it was hard not to think of the painting first when I looked at her. She noticed me watching and walked over.
“Ready for another cappuccino?”
The resemblance was unnerving. “You realize there is a print in the back that looks like you? Hanging out with Dashiell Hammett and company.”
She sat down. “And you realize that I am not old enough to have made it into a Warhol print?” Maybe I wasn’t the first one to comment on the resemblance because she changed the subject. “How’s the novel?”
“Still kind of stuck.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s called The Infinite Jukebox and is about a ‘60s diner with a jukebox that never seems to run out of tunes and is rumoured to play music that couldn’t be found anywhere else. Some people say it is music from the future.”
“Like what?”
“That’s what’s stumping me. Right now it’s the mid-60s in the novel and I want a song to play on the Infinite Jukebox that is IN the future, but not TOO far out.”
“Try something by Carly Simon.“You’re So Vain” was released in ’72. Fits without being too jarring. A sixties diner might not be ready for AC/DC!”
That was just the beginning of the insight she offered me. Over the coming weeks whenever she had some free time during the day we talked about music and how and where I could add specific tunes to my novel. Her music became my music. Her words were my words. I leaned on her knowledge and creativity. I imagined leaning on her shoulder as well sometimes, but it was not that kind of relationship. Yet. But each time I brought up the painting and her unnerving resemblance to the surreal image, she seemed irritated with the attention. I had checked with Joe and yes, he was convinced it was a genuine Warhol and yes, it was out of my price range, but I kept heading back to stare at it. I needed that painting. Somehow it was her.
I was a bit of a nerd in school. Preferred English to Phys Ed and wasn’t any more social later at university, so it took me a while to finally work up the courage to ask Alina out. I started to suggest a coffee but laughed and said maybe she had enough of cafes and coffee during the day. We settled on a beer at a small place down the street. She told me all about her love of music and books, but it was not exactly an evening of fireworks — which surprised me because she seemed to know my writing so well already that I felt there would have more. Especially as I shared some good news. A publisher liked my idea and based on the chapters I had sent, encouraged me to complete it soon and send them a draft.
She didn’t seem to share my excitement but smiled. “Good for you.”
I walked her to her apartment building and when I got home texted saying I had a good time. All I got back was a “Me too.”
That night I tossed and turned thinking about how I could make our next date better and ended up sleeping in late which threw off my writing routine and as a result, my whole day. I did some story revisions at home but as I headed out my apartment door to go to the café, I grabbed my camera bag. I got to Coffee With Character later than usual and it was too busy to get anything more than a quick nod and a silent, “Hi” from Alina. Never mind, I thought, and wanting a reminder of her, went to the painting, took out my camera, and snapped several pictures of it from different angles. Definitely old school because I still used a film camera to create something more tangible. Something I could hold. I needed to take a few more pictures to finish off the film roll, so stood at the café entrance and used up the final frames as Alina served up more coffee. And as always with a smile and a “Have a good day.” I made a trip to the camera store nearby, dropped off my film and then went back to the top floor of the sandstone to write. And write I did. Alina was not just a source of encouragement for my writing. She was now part of my writing life.
I worked continuously through the rest of the day and well into the night. I didn’t head back to the café for a couple of days and split my time between writing at my kitchen table with my own pot of coffee on the go and at the coworking place with a glossy photo of Alina pinned to the side of the cubicle. I was more than three quarters through to the final goal of the 40,000 plus word-count I was aiming for and wanted to share my progress with Alina.
She was nowhere in sight, but Joe seemed to be keeping up with the orders and as I took my coffee, I asked him where she was. “Around here somewhere, we’ve been pretty busy.”
I took up a seat nearby, looked around, and spotted her walking across the room with a tray to deliver some orders. She stopped at a table, put down the order and lingered to talk with the private detective from the third floor. He looked the stereotypical PI. Good looking. Confident. He would never be mistaken for one of the rumpled writers who inhabited the fourth floor. They seemed to be having a long chat. What could they possibly have in common? I pulled out my laptop and tried to focus on my novel, looking up occasionally at him. What do private detectives really do anyway? They can’t be all action and good-looking femme fatales like they are on TV. Or in a book over in the mystery section. That hardly seemed real. Was she in some sort of trouble?
She finally noticed me and came over.
“Hi stranger, where you been for the last couple of days?” Maybe she was embarrassed at how our evening had ended somewhat abruptly a couple of nights before “Something I said?”
“No, no, nothing that you did. In fact, I was hoping we could go out again soon. I’ve just been so busy with my novel. You’ve been so encouraging and I didn’t want to lose the flow.”
I could feel my face flush. “I don’t think I could have made it to this point without you. I almost have the draft ready to send to the publisher. Maybe we could go out and celebrate?”
It was her turn to blush. “I’m sure you would still be doing just fine without me. Why don’t we wait until your novel is actually on the way to the publisher? That way we’ll really have something to celebrate.”
“Okay, by the way, you’re not in any trouble, are you? I saw you talking with the private detective from upstairs. I know what goes on in movies or TV. Wouldn’t want to think you needed one of those guys.”
She laughed and smiled in a way I hadn’t seen in a while, and she seemed to glance around the café before replying.
“No nothing like that. Just another one of you regulars I need to take care of.”
“Good. And sure, as soon as the book is out the door we’ll go out and mark the occasion. So I better get at it.” She hesitated as if she was about to say something, but I looked down at my keyboard and started to type so she turned and walked away.
I didn’t see much of Alina or the café over the next few days. My cramped apartment didn’t have room for a dedicated writing space but I worked from my kitchen in the morning then walked to the shared workspace to get some fresh air before re-focusing on finishing the book. Once I did go downstairs to grab a coffee to go but didn’t talk to Alina; she was busy serving and chatting. I passed the detective guy on the stairwell as I was going back up and he was coming down; I thought he gave me an odd look. Was he going to see Alina? When I got back up to my desk I looked at her picture and reached for my phone to send her a text but couldn’t think of anything to say and put it away. My revisions and proofing were almost complete, and I wanted to get them done and sent off to the publisher so I could take Alina out to celebrate. And late that night it was done! I printed out the whole manuscript on the office printer, packaged it for registered post in the morning, and emailed a copy to the publisher as well. I grabbed my phone and called Alina. She sounded a bit groggy when she answered.
“Hello?”
“Hi Alina, it’s Bo.” I realized that though I had texted her a few times, this was our first phone call. “I know it is late, but my book is done and off to the publisher. Want to go celebrate?”
“Bo?” She sounded irritated. “It’s late. Almost eleven. I know you are excited, but no, not now. We can go out another day. I have to work early. My morning to open the café.”
“But Alina you said we would go out once the book was done?”
“I know and we will. Just not right now. We’ll talk in the morning, okay? Now please let me go back to sleep.” She hung up the phone.
Not the ideal first phone call. Eleven o’clock wasn’t that late, and what did it matter what time it was if we had something to celebrate? I put the manuscript and my laptop in my bag, went down the stairs, and started to walk home. It was only a block or two out of my way to swing my Alina’s. Maybe surprise her. As her apartment building came into sight, I thought better of the idea. That really would tick her off. As I passed the building I looked up and saw there was still a light on in her apartment. For a second, I thought I saw movement at the window, but I couldn’t be sure. Either way, I just kept on going and was home before midnight. As I turned on the light in my apartment, I really wished I could share this moment with Alina. Sleep was impossible so I eventually went back out into the night.
The next day there was no rush to get to the café. I waited for the post office to open and stood in line with my manuscript tucked under my arm. It was finally done. The weight was lifted. When it was registered, stamped and safely on its way I ran a few errands and headed toward the café.
I was a block away from the café, but it was obvious that something was wrong. Police cars were idling at the curb, and the sandstone was cordoned off with yellow police tape. The smarmy detective was standing outside the cordon, and I could see Joe through the café window, talking to the police.
“What’s happened?”
We still didn’t know each other by name―only in passing.
“Not sure. Apparently, Alina opened up early as expected, but when Joe got here there was no sign of her. Just an open door and no lights on in the café. He was more worried when he couldn’t contact her. Said her phone went straight to voicemail. Police say it could be anything but in my experience…” His voice trailed off.
The days that followed were full of speculation. People talked about Alina as if she were already a memory — where she might have gone, who she’d spoken to last, whether she’d mentioned plans. The private detective from upstairs was around more than usual. The police asked a few questions. So did he. I answered them carefully.
Eventually, the café reopened.
One morning some weeks after that, I walked in, crossed to the back, and stood in front of the painting. The resemblance was still uncanny, maybe more so now. Frozen. Perfect. Unchanging.
I brought the cash from my advance to the counter. Joe hesitated, then nodded and wrapped the print in brown paper.
As I carried it upstairs, a calm certainty settled over me.
Alina would not disappear completely.
Now she was exactly where she belonged.
No one else would ever have her.
