Honorable Mention: Reprehensible

In Survivor IV, Robin [redacted] was doing pretty well. She was the MILF-in-law of another player and reached the final seven, and on the day the challenge was due, she passed along a note that she’d had a death in the family and would not be able to show up.

Everyone else did show up, so I decided that she wouldn’t self-vote, but would be up for elimination. The players did in fact eliminate her, and she threw a fit, saying she should have had a stay of execution given the circumstances. I explained that I thought not forcing her to self-vote was, in fact, a stay of execution, and handing her Immunity would have been a pretty strong thing to do.

A week later, another player told me she admitted that the “death in the family” was Robin’s friend’s cat. She had nothing for the challenge, so this inspired her to run the tragedy angle, thereby insulting her friend, the cat, her competition, the game and particularly the other judge – who was her roommate, and had a front-row seat to her fake sorrow.

Honorable Mention: Misguided

In Survivor VIII, a game much like this one – annoyingly respectful – was playing out. Behind the scenes, though, an unlikely alliance of three had formed, and then one of those three (Matt) ended up having another alliance and he helped eliminate one of the other guys (DK).

Dean was the third, and in his mind the writing was on the wall. He used the challenge to write a meta entry about the awfulness of Matt, who had a secret alliance against his back (something the game had barely seen since Dean had done it two games previous!). The challenge broke the rules several times, as Dean was convinced that putting out the dirt on Matt was essential to getting Matt eliminated after he went down.

Unfortunately for Dean, he was very much in the mix to stay alive – until everyone else read that challenge. I had always thought the challenge entry was odd, but didn’t know that Dean could have survived without it. If I’d known that, it would have made the list.

Honorable Mention: Trust

Last time I covered trusting someone that shouldn’t be trusted, but in Survivor IX, Rachel failed to trust someone that she should have trusted. With eight people remaining, Pete Bruzek, in the larger alliance, saw that he was playing for fifth place at best, and attempted a big move, laying out for Rachel what was about to happen. Rachel was in a small alliance that was in trouble, and inexplicably blabbed this to Geoff, who orchestrated a majority vote on Pete and got right back to the plan, which most assuredly did not include Rachel. I don’t even know if Rachel knows how close she was to winning the game if she’d just trusted Pete.

Honorable Mention: Huh?

This one comes from this game, so I’ll be brief. It was very strange to me that Ryan Fossum didn’t realize he had to submit his own section of the Community Story (can you believe that was this season?). Ryan won Survivor II, judged the next two and placed second in Survivor V. For four straight seasons he didn’t miss a single challenge. I figured after his long hiatus he’d get back to living forever, but this mistake really hurt his Survivor reputation. I mean, he’s still an All-Star and all, and he won with one of the best villainous power games ever, but this one was a bummer.

#7: Brendon Stanton

Like I said last time, I don’t want to linger on non-submissions, but this one was a big one.

Survivor VII clipped along interestingly. One team went down quickly, and the other two played evenly for some time. It got down to 6, with one team ahead 4-2, and most of the majority team figured it was just a matter of finishing the other team off. DK, though, who was in that majority, knew his best chance of winning was a flip, so he went with the two, and got Brooks to believe the team was voting for someone else, rendering Brooks’s vote worthless and resulting in his elimination.

The new alliance – DK had sided with Brendon “greekhouse” Stanton and nibbish – now had a 3-2 advantage on William “CarterHayes” Schuth and Rob, and the next week, CarterHayes – the other major threat – was on the block. Unfortunately, greekhouse became the first contestant in months to blow a deadline, and he harmlessly fell out of the game. The next week ended in a 2-2 tie vote, CarterHayes won a tiebreaker against DK, and went on to win just as if the switch had never happened.

6: Andy Rustleund

Survivor IX was awesome. The players were either new or mostly inexperienced in many cases, it was a return to the strategic cutthroat games of the early days, and I implemented hidden Immunity idols for the first time ever.

One was hidden in a post called “CobraHealthHelp” that was meant to look like a spam post, as if my account had been hacked. In it was the latitude and longitude of Plainview, Texas, and Andy Rustleund correctly emailed me saying “The idol is hidden in Plainview.” The other idol was in my bio on the “staff” page – I added a paragraph that said “It has been said that my hands are the devil’s workshop, so if you know what this means, email me.” Anyway, Andy spotted that, too, and emailed me the answer “Your idle (idol) hands are the hidden Immunity idol.”

Andy went into the merge with two hidden Immunity idols, meaning he could play them before any vote to stay alive even if a majority vote was against him. Unfortunately, he was not a part of Geoff’s plan, and Geoff pretty much ran everything that season. Andy took nine votes, didn’t play an Idol, and died with both of them unplayed.

#5: Josh Mitchell

I know what you’re thinking: “Josh Mitchell should be on here a lot!” Well, no, actually. For as badly as he’s become at this, it’s mostly because he can’t get himself to show up.

In Survivor IX, though, he had a pretty amazing misstep. A couple of weeks after the Create-a-Challenge, I had a Grab Bag week where eight or nine of the Survivor suggestions were used. Players could choose which of the eight or nine they wanted to do and would be scored on a scale of 1-5 not against their opponents, but against the challenge’s parameters.

Each person on a team had to choose a different challenge, so the first order of business was for the team to decide who was doing what.

At the last second and without telling anyone, Josh (who was out of the country) decided to switch and do a much easier challenge – the one that he had created. Unfortunately, the challenge he created wasn’t one of the options I’d made available, and Josh became the first player in history to do a challenge that I didn’t offer. He was promptly eliminated, of course, which was a bummer because he was finally showing up. But what was his team to do?

Alright, Survivors. I’ll finish the list soon, probably.

Gary pulls into his garage, disposes of the Russian in his backyard, and heads inside with his cannoli. Amazed he survived, he looks in the mirror, and then promptly dies. He’s forgotten the first rule of being Gary Gaetti: NEVER look in the mirror.

kg2005 (railroad spike through the head, day 1, Villager)
Spookymilk (general mutilation, maybe it wasn’t Crazy Ivan’s sausage?, night 1, Snitch)
mbnovak (Made into sausage, day 2, Villager)
The Dread Pirate (shot at and run down like a dog, night 2, Villager)
nibbish (happy face blasted into his chest by an Irish superman, day three, Mafioso)
cheaptoy (gunned down at a toll booth on a beer run, night 3, Villager)
hungry joe (bludgeoned with the z-block, day 4, Villager)
strategery (looked at the white rat, night 4, Villager)
adobery
Beau
bhiggum
greekhouse
Grey
The Dread Pirate

Remember the tie rules that still apply and all that. I’m not sure we’ve ever talked about the strike rule, but I guess it doesn’t matter now since nobody has one and this thing can’t go more than two more days.

This day will run until 9pm Central unless everyone emails me and wants it to end at 6pm instead (5 wouldn’t work for me, since I’ll still be driving my kid home from school). If indeed a Russian is caught today, too, then we need to talk about when to finish this thing. Matt does plan on starting Monday, so it’s something to keep in mind.

“Eh, should have been vodka,” the other avers coldly.

kg2005 (railroad spike through the head, day 1, Villager)
Spookymilk (general mutilation, maybe it wasn’t Crazy Ivan’s sausage?, night 1, Villager)
mbnovak (Made into sausage, day 2, Villager)
The Dread Pirate (shot at and run down like a dog, night 2, Villager)
nibbish (happy face blasted into his chest by an Irish superman, day three, Mafioso)
cheaptoy (gunned down at a toll booth after a beer run, Villager)
adobery
Beau
bhiggum
greekhouse
Grey
hungry joe
strategery
The Dread Pirate

Since you’re used to a 9pm Central end time in this one, that’s where it’s going to stay.

Note that I’ll be at work for a large portion of today. After the first hour or so here, I’ll be gone until about 6:30pm Central. Gather votes if they need gathering, and I’ll do my damnedest to check in at slow moments to see if a majority has been reached.

***IT IS DAY***

Shocked and terrified, the Pirate ran out into the street, where he was promptly run down by a speeding mob car. After he landed, the car stopped and backed over his twitching body a few times, and drove off.

*** The Dread Pirate, a villager, has been killed ***

kg2005 (railroad spike through the head, day 1) Villager
Spookymilk (general mutilation, maybe it wasn’t Crazy Ivan’s sausage?, night 1) Snitch
mbnovak (Made into sausage, day 2) Villager
The Dread Pirate (shot at and run down like a dog, night 2) Villager
adobery
Beau
bhiggum
cheaptoy
greekhouse
grey
hungry joe
meat
nibbish
strategery

*** It is Day ***

Day will end at 10:00/9:00 C

The Machine of Death was a compilation a few years back where a few dudes and a girl came up with a prompt, and then asked a large community online to submit stories. It became a #1 bestseller and then spawned Machine of Death 2, which is in the early stages of publication (I submitted and was told I was an alternate. Argh!).

Here are the rules of the world:

*The Machine of Death tells people, with 100% certainty, how they will die. The method is written in all caps on a small card that spits out of the machine.
*The story’s title must be something that is written on a card in the story. It can refer to a card that isn’t at the center of the story.

That’s pretty much it. Tone, the date of this contraption’s invention, the machine’s actual appearance and accessibility – these are all up to you.

Please note that I have read the entire first compilation, so it’s possible I’ve seen your idea done. I will work very hard not to hold this against you.

I love these, and they demand a lot of words to have the room they need, so let’s call the word limit 3500 here, and I’ll try to forget that I did something so stupid. But, hey. There are six of you left. It you can’t spread your wings now, then when?

Note that it might be tough for me to finish judging that night, and if that doesn’t happen, it’ll be the next night and times will shift just a little. I do hope to get it done on schedule, though.

As always, it’s due Sunday at 8pm Central. I’m excited for this.

Cheers, Survivors.

Vote One: Colin Woolston.

Vote Two: Matt Novak. “I know it’s moot, but it’s my vote.”

Vote Three: Colin Woolston. “Time to join the Dread Pirate on his miscellaneous voyages”

Vote Four: Matt Novak. “I vote for Matt. I have a feeling today is my last day. I wouldn’t blame anyone for that, my last submission was pretty lame. If it isn’t I’m stoked because I’ve never been as into a survivor game as I am into this one. Matt, I’m only voting for you because I’m threatened by you.”

Vote Five: Colin Woolston. “Colin. There are times for witty elimination votes, and then there are times for solemn, heartfelt ones. Sometimes a simple vote is called for, just state the name and move on. The voter could gloat or express their grudging respect. With all those options available, this time I just can’t think of anything to write, which is fine because it’s not like I’m in some kind of competition that requires me to come up with inspired ideas in a compressed time frame or anything. I’d be terrible at any competition like that.”

Vote Six: Colin Woolston. “My vote is for Dread Pirate Colin. Sorry, they’re basically the same person though, right?”

Vote Seven: Colin Woolston. “Colin Woolston: It’s only fair if Shawn has to compete with four guys she hasn’t swapped spit with.”

Eighteenth Elimination from Spookymilk Survivor X: Colin “The Horseman” Woolston

Eh, alright. I take solace in the fact that hard decisions are coming, even though the players have seemingly done everything in their power to avoid them.

I suppose I’d say similar things about any elimination victim here, but Colin, this was a great season. Everything you’ve written is tighter and more emotionally engaging than what you’d done in the past, and I really liked what you’d done in the past. I don’t want you to leave, but once again, your only crime was being on the wrong team.

Challenge nineteen is next. Nineteen’s my favorite number and it’s one of my favorite challenges. See you in an hour or two, Survivors.

…

Spooky’s almost inaudible moans emerge from his sewn shut mouth (stuffed full of Crazy Ivan’s Sausages) as he lays, stunned from the 6 story drop and immensely pained by the carving of “доносчик!” in his chest. The mafia, surprised at his resiliency, decide that taking off both his legs with a rusty knife should finish him off. After all, this snitch has seen plenty of abuse tonight.

*** Spookymilk, the snitch, has been killed ***

kg2005 (railroad spike through the head, day 1) Villager
Spookymilk (general mutilation, night 1) Snitch
adobery
Beau
bhiggum
cheaptoy
daneekasghost
greekhouse
grey
hungry joe
meat
nibbish
strategery
The Dread Pirate

*** It is Day ***

Day will end at 10:00/9:00 C

All we know now is that mbnovak has mysteriously vanished and the sausage at Crazy Ivan’s Meat House tastes decidedly off.

The person receiving the largest vote total by the end of the day will be the recipient of mob justice.  If the day ends with a tie, a random villager dies in a drive by shooting.  If a majority is reached (8 votes), the accused will be held until night falls or the town gets restless and offs him.

There are three mafia among you, and there’s a snitch ready to render his services.

Players:

• adobery
• Beau
• bhiggum
• cheaptoy
• daneeksaghost
• greekhouse
• Grey
• hungry joe
• kg2005
• meat
• nibbish
• Spookymilk
• strategery
• The Dread Pirate

*** It is Day ***

Day will end at 10:00/9:00 C

One story stood out, but nothing stood out on the other end. Everything here could win Immunity, and probably should, but I’m not sure how the game would progress that way. To all of you, again, thanks for playing.

Brooks Maki

“Give me your gun” I repeated. The situation was starting to get out of control. I had to project authority. The wind picked up again, and snow stung my eyes. Tears were not what I needed here, facing down the seemingly implacable Indian eyeing me with great mistrust and holding his rifle with both hands. Again, I cursed Colonel Forsyth for this fool’s errand. Here I was surrounded by Indians, asking them politely to hand over their weapons.

“Give me your gun” I said again, louder. He kept looking at me with the same unchanging eyes. If I were a writer, I could have written dozens of stories inspired by those eyes. He wasn’t a tall or imposing man, but his stare unnerved me, it seemed he already knew how our interaction would play out and he was only humoring me by even pretending to listen to my entreaties.

I held his gaze, and grabbed for his gun. I didn’t know what else to do, he wouldn’t respond to orders or requests, I had to disarm him somehow. I immediately knew I had made a mistake. His eyes flashed and he pulled back from my reach. We struggled over the gun for a second, until it went off. The shot stilled everything in the camp. In the silence that followed, there was an instant of distant thunder that I couldn’t quite place as the sound of the four Hotchkiss guns above the Indian camp before everything around us was simultaneously slammed into with lead bullets. In the midst of that hail of gunfire, I still couldn’t pull myself out of eye contact with him. We stared at each other as the camp disintegrated around us. He was slow to react to the gunfire, and it was hard to know what he saw as his eyes never left mine.

At last, it seemed he made up his mind. He raised his rifle and pointed it at me. The eyes showed no sign of mistrust anymore. Cold, naked hate burned as he sighted the muzzle on my chest. Behind him I saw the slow march of bullet impacts sneaking up on both of us as one of the distant guns swung back through the open area where we stood in the center of the camp.

K: This is a strong opening, and truly, the Wounded Knee Massacre is a tragedy that continues to cause me distress today, as even now the Army lists it as a “battle” and has awarded Medals of Honor to the few soldiers who died there. Ugh. At any rate, this is a powerfully moving tale that keeps both sides deeply human, and drives home both the fear and respect that the protagonist has for the proud Indian chief he’s facing. Strong stuff.

DK: Nice start here. I think the strongest parts are the vivid sense of setting and place I get from it – I really feel like this brings me into the location – and how well it conveys the emotion of that particular Indian ‘antagonist’. Actually, it may do so a little bit better than it characterizes the point of view character.

Matt Novak

Normally, th’thing was, I’d be up and out ‘fore most of the people was even in the building. I’d catch a train early in the mornin’ and ride it out to the end a few times. Or I’d hike over to the library, ‘nd pick a shelf, ‘nd just start to reading. But they was workin’ on the 34th floor of the North Tower, and happened they took a few weeks off. Just all the workers didn’t come in for a while. So that’s where I was staying that week, ‘nd I’d been taking ‘vantage of the fact there’s no one there, and stickin’ ‘round all through the day too.

See, usually there’s ‘ least one door left unlocked somewhere in one of the buildings. Cleaning crews didn’t change the way you left it. If the secretary or whoever didn’t remember to lock up, then they’d just leave it open. So I got into their rhythm. In a building that big, there’s lots of cleaning crews. They start at the bottom of their floors ‘nd work their way up ‘til they run into a floor’d been already cleaned. All I had to do was get in behind ‘em, and figure out which place was hanging the vacancy sign that night.
—————————————-
“What is it?” I asked.
I had been taking a shower, and Diane had come in to use the bathroom. I hated when she did that. After she finished she had sat in there chatting with me for a while. I didn’t mind that so much. Now, she had pulled back a corner of the curtain and stuck her arm into the shower, waving a skinny piece of plastic in her hand. I wiped my eyes and peered at the contraption.
“What is it?”
“It’s a baby.”
We hadn’t been trying. I had always thought she didn’t even like kids. But Diane lit up. Things were just somehow better. That spring seemed greener. Work seemed easier. Things just clicked into place.
Diane moved us into an older condo apartment over in Park Slope. Painted one of the rooms mint green, with little yellow ducks on the bordering. She didn’t want to know what we were having.
I obliged.
—————————————-
I been caught a few times, but most folks don’t care, and I keep myself presentable ‘nough that sometimes seems like maybe I’s someone just comin’ back into the office. Offices was great places for the necessities. They got granola bars or candy or crackers or fruit. ‘nd if you help yourself every once ‘n’ a while, they ain’t gonna notice. It’s if you go back too much. If they notice, then they get careful, ‘nd then they don’t leave their doors open so much.ery now’a bars or candy or crackers or fruit. Some’ying ‘

So normally I make the rounds, ‘nd find my place for the night. I’d be up early, ‘fore anyone came in, ‘nd I’d make my way out for the day. Always was an early riser. I like the way you can feel the sun’s rays when it first comes up, even though they’s weak. Something beautiful in that. ‘nd it didn’t pay to stay at the towers during the day. Crowds is trouble for a man like me.

That week was different though. I’d been stopping down on 34 durin’ the work, ‘cause construction sites was a boon. No cleaning crews, usually some food layin’ ‘round, ‘nd tools or whatever other goodies I might care to have. Then they just stopped coming in for some reason. Lucky for me, I’d thought. Lucky for them, I s’pose.
—————————————-
22 weeks.

It had been a boy.
—————————————-
With no crew comin’ in, I’d hang out ‘ long as I wanted. Took to sleepin’ in. The sound of the plane hitting, the way it shook the building, woke me up. I was dazed, ‘nd for a while I just stood, looking ‘round, wondering where I was. Then for a while more I wondered whether it was the noise or the shaking that’d woke me.

I could hear folks on 35, folks on 33, folks on the stairs. I could smell the burning, ‘nd the fuel. I made my way up to 35. People was movin’ all ‘round, looking out the windows, talkin’ on phones. Things was crazy, ‘nd folks were panicking, and none of ‘em seemed to care I was just walking through their suites.

I felt a freedom walkin’ ‘round. The tower’d been my home for I didn’t even know how long, but it’d never been home durin’ the day. I worked through the suites, stoppin’ in a few kitchens on the way, grabbin’ a sandwich ‘n’ soda. I paused when th’other plane hit over’n the South Tower, but I didn’t really stop. The gettin’ was good.
—————————————-
A few months later, maybe longer, Diane was diagnosed. We went through all the steps – the surgery, the chemo, the hormones – but she never really fought it.
The funeral was small. Her mom flew in from Montana, some work friends, a college roommate. Then, suddenly, they were all gone, and I was alone. The apartment felt empty, and, more strikingly, foreign. I tossed around in bed for a few hours that night before deciding to hit the streets, deciding to be anywhere but there.
I walked for hours, until day came. The next night too. I’d pass by my apartment, but I couldn’t bring myself to go in. That was where the grief resided.
Then, one night, I didn’t even think to go back. I was starting to forget. I had found a freedom from the specter that hung over my life.
I came to know the city, saw it from a new perspective. I began to visit places I’d been, places I should go to. I spent a week at the Empire State Building, and a month at Grand Central.

Soon, I had a new home, a new life, and I forgot about the rest.
—————————————-
I heard the rumble, felt it shakin’, saw the dust rise. The South Tower fell. Folks started cryin’. I was on 38 at the time, ‘nd I started pretty quick to the stairs. Just ‘cause my life ain’t worth nothin’ don’t mean I wanna die.

Things was chaos. Just gettin’ to the stairs meant fightin’ through a crowd. A few minutes ago, I’d been watchin’ the people, somehow separate from ‘em. But when death was on the line, suddenly I was one of ‘em again, filled with the same ambitions as those ‘round me.

I didn’t wear it well. Folks was shouting. Some was saying to get out. Some was saying that we was safer inside. I knew better. These towers was the same. I been in each of ‘em enough times to know. If the South fell, so would the North.

I started pushin’ my way down. I was getting’ to the bottom. Soon as I hit the doorway I started boltin’ down the stairs. There was just enough room ‘long the wall, and I squeezed my way past the line. There was others like me too, ‘nd people walking down normal kept shoutin’ at us to keep calm. I made it to 22 ‘fore the firefighters came. They started pushing me back up. I shrieked. I clawed. But they wasn’t goin’ back down. The front one grabbed my arm, and twisted me into the line of people. I slowed down, moved with the sheep for a bit. Three floors later there was another opening. I broke formation. I wanted to live.

I made it to 8.
—————————————-
It took a while for the smoke and the rubble to clear, but the rescuers found me early. I was one of the first. I’d sit for a long time, waiting, while they kept digging.

Weeks later, when all of it was finally done, I still sat. Counted but unknown.

–
K: Hot damn. I’m glad my mentioning 9/11 didn’t dissuade this person from using it, because this character study of two victims was intensely moving and personal. I rooted greatly for the two protagonists to survive against these awful circumstances, and the payoff was tough but fair. Once again this week, after two entries, I’m already obsessing over what to do.

DK: I admit when this challenge was announced, I wasn’t particularly looking forward to reading 9/11 stories, but this and the next one proved my fears unfounded. This one is especially powerful to me as the scene intercuts evolve really well into the possibility that this is all one character’s journey, and it hit me pretty hard on the emotional level in spite of (or maybe because of) my trepidation about the background.

Colin Woolston

The leaves are already turning. The air is warm and brittle, and carries a taste of the ocean. Juniper Fauntleroy takes her customary daily walk at 8:00 am precisely, during which she will travel 3.3 miles. Juniper, or “Juney” as Byron used to call her before he passed from the stroke ten years prior, leaves her penthouse just off of Teardrop Park and walks along the waterfront.
As she exits her building a homeless man, more a collection of coats and plastic bags than a person, reaches his hand towards her and then to his mouth. The gesture strikes her as comically histrionic, and she pauses to take him in. He half sits half stands, resting against a shopping cart so full of a confusing mess of random articles that she can’t sort them in her head. The man is emaciated, and his smell reminds her of the day that Byron died. Byron had been replacing the batteries in the smoke detector in their bedroom, the incessant beep having driven the couple to near madness over the preceding month. He had finally taken it upon himself to move the ottoman from the study chair into their room and had stood cursing his arthritic fingers as they clumsily maneuvered the casing off and had then dropped the casing to the floor. Juniper had admonished his fumbling and he had managed to say “God dammit Juney I’m just trying to…” before his eyes had crossed and his body had slumped one side first on to the floor. The instant shock had taken all sensory input from her mind, except the smell of feces and expelled gas mingling with fresh blood.
Juniper looks the homeless man dead in the eyes.
“You’re hungry?”
The man nods, slowly, and the sense that his actions are so over-dramatic as to be funny returns, and she forgets her shame.
“Would you like something to eat?” She reaches into the ticket pocket of her jacket where she keeps her money clip and fingers it, a familiar delight rising from her stomach into her throat.
The man nods again, more quickly this time. She sees that he knows he is close to closing on the deal and is dropping the pretense and is adjusting to her reactions.
“I have money, obviously, that I could give to you, but I have a question to you first.”
The man nods quickly, his mouth open; his jaw waggling as though on loose and worn hinges.
“Do you have Jesus in your heart?”
The man’s eyes widen significantly and he nods ridiculously and a small grunt escapes him. Juniper notices he has no tongue. A moment passes in which she considers compassion.
“Jesus said that his father helps those that help themselves. How are you helping yourself sitting here in your filth?”
The man’s head stops nodding abruptly, yet his watery blue eyes seem to take a moment to rest on Juniper’s face.
“I’m standing here, wondering why I would give you money, when you can’t even manage to stand in a lady’s presence, let alone get a damn job. You know, when I consider this from a more objective perspective, as my Byron used to say before the stroke, you should be giving me money. The longer you wallow here on my front step, the more my property value decreases. So, Mr. Filth, have you anything to compensate my losses? Have you anything to part with in that beastly cart of yours?”
The man stops moving, and stares directly at Juniper. His eyes clear momentarily and at first she reads confusion, and then indignation, and then he grunts something that may have been a sentence before his mouth had been deformed. Juniper laughs at the absurd sounds coming from him, turns, and walks southwest on River Terrace.
The thrill of berating the homeless man rests in her heart warmly as she turns to pass Vesey Green. Juniper recognizes several people and her heart swells as she turns her nose up at each ‘hello’ or ‘good morning.’ It is 8:20am and the day is already warm for the season. ‘Injun Summer’ Byron would say, and laugh. Juniper removes her scarf and gloves, and stows them in her purse. Along Vesey Street she begins her routine of silently cursing the tourists. Mixed with the self-torment of engaging each that catches her eye in an internal battle of wits is the pleasure of judging how much more money she has than each of them. Even the slick and sleek Wall Streeters with their dully shining suits cannot touch her level of wealth. She once wiped her bottom with a hundred dollar bill that she had taunted a homeless woman with, and then, when it didn’t flush properly, had thrown it in the trash, wrapped in another. Juniper continues until she reaches the corner of Washington St, where she moves to a low wall and sits and waits. Ten minutes pass in which she ignores most all of what is happening around her, excepting a young boy she shoves when his mother isn’t looking. The boy had smeared banana on her purse.

Spurgeon Clark closes the door to his office and pauses. A mental check of keys, phone wallet hit a skip somewhere in the synapse factory and his head ticks for a few moments while he reconciles what it could be that is missing. Caroline. C and C, the second c being the Big C that had taken her. Spurgeon, or ‘Gene’ as his colleagues called him, lets his hands drop to his sides and he breathes deeply, twice, and then one more for good measure. He turns and heads to the stairs for his customary morning break outside of the New York Academy of Sciences. He exits the building and crosses Washington St to the low wall along Vesey that faces the World Trade Center plaza. He unwraps his banana and sets his coffee on the wall, the mouth of the lid facing West. After a few bites of his banana he feels her, watching. He knows she will be there, as she always is. She watches him eat his banana and drink his coffee and leave without ever saying a thing. She is seated less that five feet away.
Gene has been thinking about this day for almost a year. This day marks the ten year anniversary of Caroline’s passing. This day is the day that he will speak to his stranger lady friend. He steals a glance. She is stunning, as always. Her hair perfect. Her clothes, perfect. He knows that she knows that he watches her. He knows, also, that she didn’t know that, once the ritual of the low wall is completed, and she leaves to return home, that he follows her. She absolutely fascinates him. Her coldness, her disregard for anyone else revealed to him a complex and impossibly intriguing woman. He knows she is kind; he knows she is a flower that has ceased to bloom. Today he will speak to her and break their spell of mystery, and he knows that his words will be as sunshine to her soul.
Juniper slyly glances at the man, and he is looking straight at her. She looks to the street quickly, and lowers her eyes, one hand distractedly adjusting an already perfectly adjusted lock of hair. She chances another look. He is standing, and something is odd about his stance. He looks as though he is frozen. His left hand is in front of him as though it has made it’s decision to move but the rest of his body isn’t following. He looks so strange in that moment that she feels she should laugh at him, but her heart does not embrace the coldness of the thought. Her heart is beating, quite quickly, and she feels it’s excitement. She realizes that he wants to come to her, and her heart beats faster.
Gene sees that she knows now. There is nothing left but the doing. He looks down at his left hand, reaching out as if to shake someone elses in greeting. It looks strange to him, and he laughs, once. His legs move. He looks up again sees her looking back at him. Her eyes are bright and alive, confirming his belief that she can be warmed.
Juniper sees him begin to move, and an excitement she hasn’t felt in decades floods her body. She feels a smile begin to turn her lips. She looks down for a moment, feeling silly, like a girl. She looks up and their eyes meet again.
Gene feels his heart beating strongly. He knows he is making a step in his life that few have the courage to take, and he knows it is a path that he is taking that will lead him to another chapter that will be beautiful. They are looking into each others eyes and seeing their future, as a shadow crosses her face. Her eyes move up and to the right, as though tracking something in the sky, as her smile fades and a look of bewilderment takes over her face. Gene turns and looks up, following her gaze. What he sees does not register for him. He sees a plane.
In the moments that follow, there is screaming and running, and Gene can only think of her. Juniper steps forward and they fall into each others arms, and look up. They are still staring when a second plane impacts the other tower, with a sound like a spoon caught in a drain disposal. ‘We should leave.’ Gene thinks. He cannot move. She is not moving either. He feels content to stay where he is. Their eyes meet and he knows this is how she feels as well.
Amidst the tourists and bankers that are running and screaming, amidst the falling glass and debris, the two return to the low wall and sit, smiling, and wait.

K: Wow. I love this in the way I love Breaking Bad – horrible people are just so goddamned fascinating. Now to decide whether the overwhelming darkness of this one, and the tangential nature of the disaster, can outdo the straightforward but deeply moving opening entries.

DK: I had a little whiplash as a reader from really appreciating the sad poignancy of Juney’s background, till I was put off by the realization she was actually a jerk now, and then coming back around to appreciating how that worked into the context of her arc. I found it very interesting that both 9/11 stories (and I think this really helped both stories) had strong elements of personal, past tragedy underlying the terrible events of the characters’ present.

Peter Bruzek

It came to us a year after the last of the supply ships left.

We were already in the path of destruction, with food dwindling, and every new day seemed to find ways to torment us. One day, it was disease; the next, one of the hostile local tribes would attack one of our hunting parties. Each day brought us closer to our demise.

One month ago, Thomas Green found it on the shores of the bay. He had been digging for clams when he saw a glint coming from from the mud. He washed the muck away to find a finely carved wooden amulet, bearing a creature with a skull for a head, with a man in its claws. Though the object was entirely comprised of wood, it showed no signs of rot or decay from having been in the mud for an untold period of time.

We wondered if such a piece of jewelry might be of value to the nearby tribes, so we inquired to several of them. Each experience was the same. When any of them took a look at the amulet, their faces would turn ashen, and they would not speak another word to us. All contact, friendly or hostile, with the local tribes ceased immediately.

For a time, we praised the amulet as good luck charm, but within a couple of weeks, we noticed Thomas Green exhibiting strange behavior. One day, we found him sitting on the ground in the middle of the square, babbling to himself, his hands bloody beyond measure. He had fully dismantled his house in a single night. Though his hands were torn to shreds, he held the amulet with death’s grip, and when some of the men tried to help him to his feet, he turned on them with a demonlike rage, beating them all to within an inch of their lives within moments. We forcibly subdued Mr. Green and took the object from him.

The next day, we found poor Thomas, dead from a makeshift noose. The villagers were aghast, but even worse was the fact that three more individuals had succumbed to the madness. Within days, nearly everyone in the village had torn the buildings and fortifications to the ground. By day, they stalked the village like caged animals. By night, they fought over the talisman, often killing each other merely for a chance to touch it.

Those of us who had kept our distance through this mess had enough wits about us to come to a decision. The amulet had tainted us through some manner of foul magic, and it must be destroyed. We formed a small militia and fought our way to the object’s current owner. Upon procuring it, we built a large fire and attempted to burn it. Though its form was of wood, the amulet persisted. Hearing a crowd of the tainted coming our way, I hooked the talisman out of the fire and stole into the night.

The next morning, I sank all of the boats but one and ventured across the bay to a nearby island. I walked as far inland as I could, zig-zagging along to ensure that I did not recall the direction I took. I dug a whole as deep as my exhausted limbs would allow, and I buried the charm there. On my return to the colony, I began to pass the bodies of my neighbors, who had – finding the boats usless and submerged – attempted to follow me by any means they could manage.

I am the only resident of the colony left alive. I’ve spent the last three days trying to discern a way to warn others, but the icon’s grasp on my mind is strengthening, even though I’m nowhere near its proximity. Last night, I awoke to find myself in the boat headed to Croatoan to dig the cursed object back up. I think I should write a message, but what sort of message would inform the viewer of the evils of that damned island?

I carved the name of the island into one of the trees in the area a couple of hours ago, I don’t know what that will do – probably nothing. My thoughts turn to dust. It’s calling me again. This must cease.

I’ve been swimming for a half an hour. Soon, I won’t be able to see the shore. My thoughts will be own own again.

I tried to warn the supply ships. I fear I have failed. May God have mercy on their souls if they happen upon Croatoan island.

K: This is hard. I fucking hate you guys. Maybe this person knows me enough to know I’m completely enthralled by the mystery of Roanoke, but it doesn’t really matter. What started as a story with me wondering “This person can’t be using Lord of the Rings for source material, right?” ended with me simply shaking my head at this clever explanation of a deeply disturbing mystery.

DK: This is a very creative idea for a tragic basis, and it’s very effective as a narrative building tension. I felt like I was a little held off from caring about the particular character at the center of it – that’s not really a flaw since this story isn’t really designed to make you care about more than the situation itself.

John Wreisner

The winter of 1905 was a parade of calamity. My mother had died giving birth to another of the countless children my Father and the church demanded. Secretly, I thought it a blessing, sparing as it would the necessity of my Father feeding another mouth that would be destined to become a gaunt, scabrous urchin begging on the streets of Paris. The previous summer had been poor for crops, and with limited yield to sell, our family was on the verge of being evicted from our rented land, shown to the rail station by the Gendarmes and the bloated autocrat landowner, resplendent in his waistcoat bulging like a sausage casing. It was decided (after multiple novenas) that all the children save myself would be sent south of Paris to stay with an Aunt, while my Father and I went north, to the Pas-de-Calais, to toil in the mines. We had sent ahead a small deposit to secure lodgings in the village of Mericourt, and when the post arrived, bearing a letter from the Compaigne des mines des Houille de Courrieres, we left immediately, the train belching a miles-long cataract of coal smoke across a leaden, birdless sky.

Mericourt itself was so dismal it was nearly comedic. The vast majority of the men in the village worked in the mines, and the shift whistle screaming through the filthy alleyways elicited curses or praise, depending on whether one was leaving (perhaps for the last time) or returning home. There was little recreation, and many of the men were single- the consequence being brisk business among barkeeps and prostitutes. My father and I took a room above an abandoned storefront, and he admonished me to read my bible and avoid looking out the window. The latter proved a simple enough task, as every pane of glass in the village was clotted with coal dust.

The mine itself, I would later learn, was a marvel of modern design. Vast underground galleries, streamlining the evacuation process should a collapse occur, connected multiple pitheads. Doubtless, it also made extraction of the coal easier, each seam excavated to exhaustion and brought to the surface on rail-shuttles. For the first few weeks, I worked the rail, drawing carts into the open air where they would be emptied into monstrous steam cranes, to be loaded into rail cars and shipped all across France. The work, although back breaking, was better than most tasks at Courrieres. Only when walking the fifty or so yards into the mouth of the mine was one overcome with the choking cloud of coal dust and silica powder, the reek of sulfur and lamp oil. For my Father (and countless others) it was much worse. Deep in the galleries, death was as close as the lamps and picks. I had no idea how close.

By the beginning of March, I was ordered to abandon my post at the shuttles and report to pithead three. A seam had narrowed, and as I was a slight boy of sixteen, my diminutive size was needed to work in such close confines. I noted, with some alarm, that the carpenters had not yet been dispatched to shore up the finger of tunnel that I was ordered to mine. The seam had not yet been widened enough to allow the construction of the massive oak arches typical of such operations. With some trepidation I gathered my lamp and pick and descended into impenetrable darkness. The first week passed quickly enough. Arriving at work at six o’clock in the morning, it was still dark when we lit our lamps and first walked, and then crawled, into our seam. We ate our lunches underground as well, as the journey to the surface taking too long to eat topside. By the time the shift whistle sounded, I had not seen the sun in over twelve hours, and as I surfaced, it was setting, an anemic yolk barely casting shadow. Nevertheless, I would shield my eyes even from this tepid light.

March tenth, 1906 was a Saturday. I only remember this because we had the following day off, and I was looking forward to being able to spend the day standing upright, and eating food that didn’t taste of stone. I was stationed in the same finger under pithead three, working alongside another boy, slightly younger, whose name I only knew as Henri. It was probably around six thirty; we had barely begun and I had just returned from filling a shuttle when a low rumble brought a cascade of dust and made the smaller pieces of coal bounce on the shaft floor. Looking out into the main causeway, I saw first one man, then three, then a dozen, bent over at the waist but running as fast as their awkward posture would allow. A tongue of fire bright enough to force me to close my eyes followed this; a vast rupture of incandescence, sucking oxygen from the narrow tunnels and igniting seams of coal as it passed. Instinctually, Henri dropped his lamp and fled towards the back of the finger, pressing himself into the narrow end of the seam and covering his head. All was silent for a moment, when a second blast rattled loose the bedrock above me and struck me on the head, sending me into blackness more complete than the mine could offer.

I had no way of knowing how long I had been unconscious, but as I came around I could hear low moans from adjoining tunnels and in some instances, shrieking. My lamp had extinguished itself, and despite the threat of igniting a cloud of coal dust, I immediately struck a match. Without light to guide me out I would surely die. The question was whether fire or stone would take me. I chose to gamble and lit my lamp. The dust was thick enough to render the halo of light useless past about three feet, even with the shutters wide open, dangerously exposing the flame to the suffocating cloud of coal dust and probably, flammable gasses. The roof of the tunnel had shaken free, dropping three feet of coal and slate onto the shaft floor. Henri lay at the end of the finger, partially buried by rubble, unmoving. From beneath a monstrous slab of slate a pool of blood seeped outwards, mingling with the coal dust and pooling in black rivulets. I surmised his head had been crushed but did not stop to make certain. Bleeding as badly as he was, he would surely be dead in minutes if he weren’t already. When I rose to crawl forward I realized my left leg had been crushed, sending a startling bolt of pain upwards into my hip and forcing me back into unconsciousness.

Coming around again, I managed with great effort to inch forward, clearing my path of debris as best I could to better facilitate my agonizing crawl. I would discover months later that the main galley adjacent to the seam I was in had collapsed completely, cutting off my most direct route to the surface. Having no way of knowing this, I moved in this general direction, only to find the primary access tunnel blocked by a ghastly jumble of stones, mortared together with the mangled bodies of dozens of men. When the primary blast tore through the galleries, they must have rushed en masse to reach the elevator cages, only to be trapped when the support timbers buckled overhead. I turned to head towards pithead two, hoping that the elevator shaft had remained intact, if not for egress, then at least to allow oxygen into the gallery. The crawl there took long enough that my lamp ran out of oil, and I was only able too see my way toward the pithead by the glow of the other lamps, dropped by the recently dead in their mad rush towards the surface, while they were still alive and terrified.

Eventually, a rescue team discovered me the day after the collapse. This was fortuitous, as the Compaigne, in its infinite wisdom, elected to call off the search after three days and brick the galleries up, sealing those unfortunates below to wither in the dark. Twenty days after the collapse, a group of survivors tunneled their way out, having survived by slaughtering horses trapped in the mine, even drinking their blood. It was explained that the mines were entombed to lessen the possibility that fires would spread from gallery to gallery, but the real reason, most of the survivors agreed, was to extinguish the flames and allow the seams to be preserved, and therefore, mined again. Commerce was marching again within a month.

One thousand and ninety nine miners, my father included, died that day. I reunited with my sisters after I had recuperated enough to travel, and supported them by working as a grocer. I never set foot underground again. I wouldn’t even go into the root cellar.

K: This one was so engrossing from a historical standpoint that I had to know more about this incident and read up on it afterward. Can we agree as humans to stop sending guys underground when shit like this keeps happening? This story does put a small face on some of those affected, but with a little more humanity, I think this story could have outstripped all of them.

DK: Well, again, I have no words that do your expert wordsmithery justice. I also give you a few extra creativity points since this was the only event I had to look up by the time I finished the story. The descriptions of the mine location and the sense it conveys of being there as a collapse occurs are quite effective, and the whole thing is pretty fascinating to me.

Shawn Ashley

Once, Father was a man of many words. He was a decent man that everybody loved. Mama used to refer to him as “the life of the party”. I used to watch through the cracked bedroom door when the Bakers, the neighbors in the apartment next to ours, came over for a little brandy. Mama usually ushered me and my three siblings to bed when they arrived and I would watch for as long as I could keep my eyelids open. My father spun stories of his early adult life, with all the places he’d been and the people he’d met. Oftentimes, he would tell drunken stories about other women and I would watch Mama’s face fall into a thousand pieces, although I’m pretty sure that my father never saw.
That was before The Depression. That was before the Bakers got themselves on a train and headed for California, in hope of finding jobs. It was rumored that railroads were being built and towns were growing. It was the hope of many.
At eleven, I was the eldest boy and I worked selling newspapers, shining shoes, any odd jobs I could find. Most days I worked until my calloused hands cracked and bled, but as more people got desperate, my father’s face grew weathered with the weight of our poverty. He would demand that I worked harder, longer, faster while he did the same.
Two of my younger siblings were also put to work. Aileen, at nine, worked just as hard as me and never once complained. Even though I knew that her muscles ached and oftentimes things were too heavy for her. She found a way anyhow.
Marlan, at seven, did his best to keep up too. He whined and cried most of the time but I just had to hit him across the face once and I never heard a peep after.
Maggie was only three and she tried to help carry papers, but she was mostly under foot. Father would yell at Mama to get her away from him most of the time.
Father was a man of few words now. As more people lost jobs and headed west, as more banks closed and money was lost, he got steadily quieter. Until eventually, I couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken. It had to have been almost a year earlier.
They were condemning our apartment building; I had overheard the superintendent tell Mama. But she never told us that. If she told Father, I never heard about it.
I walked home one night after a long day working for a man selling books in his shop. No one was buying luxury items anymore and we only sold one book all day. He handed me ten cents for my workday and apologized for not being able to feed me.
I thanked him and made my way home. I fingered the dime in my pocket, grateful for its smooth comfort against my thumb and middle finger.
My stomach rumbled and I realized that it had been days since I had eaten. It had been even longer for Mama, I knew, because she had given Maggie the last of the bread that was hers four days ago.
I reached our building and hoofed it up the stairs. As I got to our floor, I heard people talking across the hall from our apartment. I realized it was Mama and Father, although it had been so long since I had heard his voice.
I slowed and pressed myself up against the wall, held my breath.
“No, William, we will find another way. Surely there is something else we can do. The breadlines have been working…“
“Dammit, they have not! We haven’t eaten for days, none of us!” Father exclaimed in a hushed tone. “We can’t do this any longer, and with so many of us, there is no hope of making it to California. We have to sacrifice to survive.”
“William, no, they’re our children…” Mama pleaded and her voice dropped.
I realized I was still holding my breath and let it out slowly. My mind was racing. Were they planning to leave one of us behind? I immediately started to panic. It would be me, because I was the oldest. I knew that Father would tell me to be a man, take care of myself. But I was scared to be alone.
That was what was going to happen. I was sure of it.
“…we have no other choice!” Father’s voice. “It will hold us off for the next few days while we make the trip. The sale of our last few personal items will get us across the country. This is the only way.”
Mama’s cries floated down the hall and I held my breath again. “My poor Maggie…” she choked.
Maggie? I didn’t understand. Maggie would never be able to survive on her own. Could they be talking about selling her? Good Lord in Heaven… selling my sister! That’s the only thing they could mean.
I could grab Maggie and disappear. I could take care of her, she was my baby sister and I loved her. I had no idea what I thought I could do, but I had to do something.
I heard them head back across the hall to our apartment and I snuck out of sight, my mind swirling with any sort of solution to this mess our family was in. Whatever happened, I had assumed that we would be in it together. Sure, we were starving, but we were a family and we loved each other.
Didn’t we?
I knew that I had better go in before they started to worry about me. I could find a way to grab Maggie. On the way to the book shop tomorrow, perhaps…
Everything was the same that night. Everyone tried to be in good spirits, despite the dismal outlook of our situation. I played jacks with the girls and made a special point to hug and kiss Maggie extra long before she finally fell asleep and Mama carried her to their bed, where she spent most of her nights now.
The next morning I awoke to the sound of Father humming in the kitchen. I jumped out of bed and rushed out to see what was going on. Marlan and Aileen were already at the table eating.
“We’re going to California today, son. Pack your bags,” he said, then started laughing such a crazed laugh that it startled me. I hadn’t heard the laugh in so long it almost sounded rusty. His eyes were dark with circles. He hadn’t slept.
His gnarled hands stirred our big steel pot on the stove with long strokes. “Sit down and have some stew before we go,” he ordered.
“Where’s Mama?” I asked as I sat. He came over and plunked a bowl down in front of me.
“In the bedroom,” he said. “Eat.”
I picked up the spoon and started to eat.
There was a strange feeling in the air. Marlan and Aileen laughed and chatted happily away about California as they ate. I didn’t see Maggie. I prayed she was in the bedroom with Mama, but there was no way we could have afforded butchered meat without having sold her.
Minutes passed, which seemed like hours. Mama came out. She was alone and I didn’t hear Maggie’s little feet trailing behind her.
“Eat,” Father ordered Mama.
“I will not” she whispered, sounding defeated.
“EAT!!” Father’s clenched fist slammed against the table. Everything shook, then grew silent.
Mama stood for a moment, dull tears shimmering in her eyes. “I will not,” she said quietly and left the room.
I looked at my father, confused. What was wrong with the stew? It tasted good. Why wouldn’t Mama eat it? Why did Father seem crazy? Had they already sold Maggie?
All the thoughts swirled as I chewed. I hated being a kid, not understanding what was going on.
Father sat down next to me and started to scoop the stew into his mouth as he talked… seemingly to himself. “This is the right move for us. A good move.”
Then it hit me. I understood.
My mouth slowed, hung open and the contents spilled out. My vision swirled, my stomach did a horrible flip and I fell to my knees in front of the chair just before the inside of my stomach spilled onto the floor.
Oh dear God.
We weren’t…I didn’t just…
I dry heaved until nothing else could come up.
My Father just sat as if he didn’t see me. I didn’t even think he did until, “You better fill up your stomach again, boy. We have a long trip ahead of us. I packed up the rest of the meat for the trip… We’ll have just enough to get us to the west.” He kept chewing as he stared off into the distance.

K: I can see our tragedy is the Depression, but if this is a specific story, I don’t know it and I don’t want to know it. The drama is strong and the horror looms just within reach of the reader…I filled with dread as the story progressed and was left feeling like I was kicked in the balls. I realize this man would be long dead now, but still, I want to kill his selfish fucking ass while still reeling by the horrifying realization that his choices were limited. You did your job, writer. This one nearly brought tears to my eyes, legitimately.

DK: Holy balls. I have to say I was already really enjoying how I got drawn into this character; I felt like he was real (and a real kid – this is written from a young POV very well), I felt great concern for his family’s plight, and I worried about his sister. And then of all the twists in all the stories we’ve had this season, for whatever reason I don’t think there was one I saw coming less than this one. It simply knocked me for a loop, and I’m still sitting here, jaw dropped to the floor.

Beau

Sitting up in the hospital bed, he first noticed the IV protruding from this left arm. He then noticed a baseball resting on the tray beside his bed. An instinctual impulse to grab it led to an unfortunate series of shock waves, knocking what little wind he had out his lungs. Unsure why he was here, but sure he needed to see that baseball, he took more a measured approach on his next attempt. Slow and steady won the race this time, as the tip of his middle finger was able to roll the ball off the tray and onto his lap. There was writing on the ball, the first letter barely smudged.

YOU LUCKY GUY, JACK!

Jack? Was that his name? It didn’t ring a bell, but neither did anything else. In fact, he had no idea why he was here, or why he was in so much pain.

Below the compliment was a signature. It took him a bit, but the name came to form. He heard a stranger’s voice—his own—sound it out.

“Candy Maldonado.”

He remembered.

***************

“Fucking ay! I managed to score you a ticket and you don’t show up until the 4th inning?”

“Sorry, man,” he said, annoyed. “I was with an important client. And you know how traffic is this time of night.”

“Pfffttthh. You’re missing a good one, too.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Reuschel’s retired nine straight, and Uribe scored last inning to tie the game.”

“Awesome.”

He disengaged from his friend and surveyed the field. There was a runner on first. He couldn’t tell who. He heard the crowd react. It was a wild pitch.

“Go go Mitchell you shithead go!”

So it was Mitchell on first. Now on second. He turned to his friend.

“You know, I don’t think he heard you.”

“Lighten up, dude. It’s just a…oh shit, look out!”

He turned around in time to see a foul ball hurtling towards him. He raised his hands up in defense.

****************

He looked at his hands. They appeared fine, quite unlike his right leg, which was in traction.
He looked at the ball again.

“Nice catch!” He looked up to see a doctor approaching. “So, how are we doing?”
“Fine, I guess.”

“Who’s the current President?”

He racked his brain. “Reagan?”

“No, but you’re closer now. Last time I asked you said Ford. Okay, well, your vitals look good. Nurse tells me your pain has subsided. Lookin’ good.”

“Doc, do I have amnesia?”

The doctor sighed. “Too soon to tell. It could be the anesthesia from the surgeries, but it’s unusual for a patient to not remember their name. Still don’t?

He shook his head.

“I’m not too worried yet. And hey, if you don’t get your memory back, maybe you can play center field next week.”

He hated funny doctors.

“So how’d you get that autograph, anyway?”

He remembered.

*******************

Flying down the road, his mind wandered. He wished he could go straight home. But he had to fly out to Seattle in an hour for another client and wouldn’t be back until Tuesday. Even worse, he was out of gas. The next exit had a Shell station.

As he squeezed the pump, his mind raced. He’d need to double-time it to the airport if he didn’t want to hurry inside the terminal. And then there was presentation he didn’t know how to finish. The gas pump was unbearably slow. He looked at the man at the next pump over, who also seemed a bit impatient. The man caught him staring. Oh, shit! He recognized him.

“Um, hi. I don’t mean to intrude, but is your name…Candy?”

The man flashed his white teeth in a broad smile. “It might be.”

“Wow. Well, uh, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He extended his hand. Candy shook it. “Hey, I caught a foul ball you hit tonight.”

“Really, man?”

“Yeah! Would you autograph it for me?”

“Heh. Sure thing, man.”

He practically threw open his passenger door and found the ball. He couldn’t believe his luck.

*********************

“Hey you, wake up!”

His eyes fluttered several times before he opened them. The voice appeared to come from a pretty woman standing over him.

“Nurse?”

“No, silly. It’s me. The doctor said we could finally see you.”

“Oh…” He looked her up and down. Nice body, too.

“So! Just look at the mess you got yourself into. You’ll do anything to get attention, won’t you?”
He said nothing. Turning his head, he saw someone else on the other side of the bed. A young man, maybe ten or eleven. He squinted his eyes. Nope.

“Oh,” the woman said. “The doctor said you might…”

“I don’t remember. Who are you?”

“I’m your wife, Denise.” She choked back tears. “And this is your son, Jack. Oh Michael…”

He looked at his son, hoping beyond hope he’d remember. He picked up the ball. “I guess this is for you.”

***********************

The trip was a success. Michael had secured another client, and he had an autographed ball for his son. As he cruised down the Nimitz Freeway, he turned on the radio. The legendary voice of Jack Buck greeted him. He grinned. Sure, the Giants were down two to nothing, but they were at home now. And Garrelts was pitching.

A loud thunk jolted Michael. He wondered if he hit something. Turning his focus back to the road, he looked ahead. The southbound lane of I-880 was above him. And now it was falling.

K: I have no idea why it took me so damned long to figure out what was going on here – I know a boy of about 14 died when he was hit with a foul ball a few decades back, but given that I knew the players mentioned here, I should have come up with it (this is the earthquake during the 1989 World Series, for the uninitiated). I loved the story’s construction, told effectively out of order, which fit the theme of the victim’s confusion. This was another astonishingly strong week, Survivors, and I’m left clueless about where Immunity should go.

DK: Yeah, of course I have a soft spot for baseball. I was too young to experience following this event when it happened, but as a piece of baseball history it’s pretty satisfying in a story form here, and these flashback intercuts are also pretty effective for unpeeling the way Michael’s situation took place.

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K: Never mind. I’m not clueless where Immunity should go. After sitting here for ten minutes, only one story has me so moved, so horrified, and so choked up that it’ll stay with me for as long as I live. Whereas Beau’s story about McKenzie felt nearly exploitative to me (my life as a dad affects my feelings deeply on this), this one fit the week’s challenge while still being a profoundly original tale (I hope…and if it’s a true story, I’m not kidding when I say I don’t want to know). There’s Immunity.

DK: Spooky’s skin has got to be crawling, but I am going to give my immunity to #6, with apologies to many, if not all of the rest of you. Great job all around.

K: Yep, indeed it is, but it’s the right choice. My daughter woke up coughing as I was gathering DK’s comments and I ran to hug her. I thought about telling her this story and letting her know it would never happen to her, but hey, it’s late.

That means Shawn Ashley is safe, with what I believe is her most powerful, effective piece of writing in the history of this game, and she’s kicked a LOT of ass in her two seasons. This was dark but not unfairly so, as the dramatic narrative kept it from feeling exploitative, the situation was realistic (well, duh, but you know what I mean) and the characters were engaging and well-drawn. I will not sleep tonight, Shawn. This is goddamned amazing work here.

Everyone, vote for someone who isn’t Shawn by Tuesday at noon Central.

Cheers, Survivors.