Fiction 84

About This So-Called Contest

I had mixed feelings about this whole Fiction 84 contest thing.

Why? Well, on one hand, short-writing contests are undeniably a
hoot. Readers clearly enjoy them—more than 320 of you sent in a
total of 400 or so stories—and the results are a whole lot of fun
to read. Plus, it seemed like a cool way to celebrate the 25th
anniversary of the Tucson Weekly‘s birth in 1984.

But on the other hand … writing contests are so subjective.
They aren’t like, say, a baseball game, where the team that gets the
most runs wins, period.

What makes one 84-word story better than another? Beats me.

That’s what I was thinking when I sat down to pour over the 400
entries, and whittle them down to 100 or so to send to our kind and
talented volunteer judges.

First, I eliminated several that were longer than 84 words. Next, I
tossed the entries that, well, weren’t fiction. All of that was
fairly easy. Then came the hard part: Determining which stories were
better than others.

This, folks, is a silly task.

I’ll be frank: I almost didn’t send one of the top 3 stories to the
judges. (I won’t say which one, no matter how much liquor you ply me
with. Don’t even bother asking.) I was this close to tossing it
out. But, for whatever reason, I kept it in the batch to send along to
our volunteer judges … and they liked it enough that the writer now
gets a really spiffy prize.

I wound up sending the judges 109 stories, and asked them each to
send me a list of their top 12. I decided that we’d use a point system
to determine the winners: A story ranked first by a judge would get 12
points; a story ranked second would get 11, etc., down to the
12th-ranked story getting one point. Whichever story got the most
points would win.

Simple, right? Well, here is what happened:

• Not a single story was listed in the top 12 by all three
judges.

• Only five stories were listed on even two judges’ top
12 lists.

• Only one of the stories ranked first by any of the judges
finished in the top three. The winner, “Jack Nicholson and Jesus,” got
the most points after being ranked second on two of the lists. The
second-place story, “84,” was ranked second by one judge, and third by
another. The third-place story, “A Story for All Time, or, DiGiovanna
Hated It,” was ranked first by one judge, and ninth by another.

The four stories that earned honorable mentions did so by either
being ranked first on a judges’ ballot, or by being listed on two
judges’ ballots.

The other 24 stories printed here were listed in the top 12 by one
of our judges. You can read the rest of the stories sent to the judges
by yours truly here.

As for the 300 or so entries that didn’t make the initial cut …
well, unless you’re one of the folks who can’t count words or figure
out what the word “fiction” means, it’s my fault.

Who knows? Thanks to the subjective nature of these contests,
there’s a good chance I eliminated an entry that could have wound up
winning Fiction 84 if it had gotten to the judges.

If that is indeed the case … my bad.

—Jimmy Boegle

First Place: Jack Nicholson and Jesus

Jesus was laughing and waving a glass of wine, “Man, we watch that
one all the time. John does the best imitation of you. Sit here and
play me in the last supper scene. They won’t cast me in the part. Too
short, and they suspect my sexual preferences. Hey, I don’t mind. Drink
up. Life is short, and those crosses are real.”

A number of Fiction 84 entrants bemoaned the difficulties of cramming
an entire story into just 84 words.

Well, Jeremiah Teague used a mere 63—and he wound up winning
the whole contest.

How’d he do it?

“I write what I call ‘fucknettes,’ instead of vignettes,” says the
58-year-old land surveyor who lives in central Tucson. “They’re just
short thoughts, usually in poetry form. … This (contest) fit me to a
T.”

How did he come up with the idea for this tale of Jesus drinking
with one of the more, well, interesting actors of our time?

“Probably (just by) drinking late at night, just sitting there,
thinking,” he says.

‘Nuff said.

For his efforts, Teague wins two tickets to the opening night of
Spamalot, compliments of Broadway in Tucson, and a $25
restaurant gift card.

Second Place: 84

Didn’t think I’d make it this far, given how badly I took care of
myself. I already felt old at 40, misplaced at 50, and 60 seemed like
borrowed time. When 70 rolled around, I realized that napping was
better than fucking or sleeping, and when I turned 80, I actually
thought I’d make triple digits. Then the old woman passed, followed by
the dog; all is loneliness and morphine and bad TV, and I’m 84. Time
for one last walk in the desert.

A number of folks decided to work the “84” theme into their
entries—but according to our judges, nobody did it better than
Mike Tully.

Tully’s voice and writing are familiar to some locals; he used to
appear on Emil Franzi’s Inside Track radio show on KVOI AM 690,
and wrote a column for the Inside Track Web site. However, the
journalist-turned-lawyer decided to put those duties aside and keep a
lower profile after taking a job as an employment-rights compliance
officer with Pima County.

But that doesn’t mean he’s put writing aside entirely.

“I write a lot of columns in my head,” he admits.

Tully says “84” came to him, in part, because he recently turned 60,
and he felt the need to “probably recalibrate at that point.” (However,
he assures us that this piece is not autobiographical, and is merely a
character study.)

How hard did Tully find it to write a story with such a small word
limit?

‘”Piece of cake,” he says. “It just sort of happened.”

Tully wins a $25 restaurant gift card for finishing second in
Fiction 84.

Third Place: A Story for All Time, or, DiGiovanna Hated It

Once there lived …who …

But then …

It was the most …

He felt …

But then he saw … even worse off.

He realized he had to …

No one believed he could. But he believed. He had to
believe.

He kept trying.

He kept failing.

He grew angry.

But then he met …

She believes in him.

(They fuck.) But she misinterprets … leaves …

He realizes the only way he can … is to …

(Montage)

He tries again, but this time … Overcomes … Saves the …

Enter Girl.

(They kiss)

FADE OUT

Steve Barancik has lived a life full of creativity. He wrote the
screenplay that became The Last Seduction, a 1994 film starring
Linda Fiorentino. He created Monolog Cabin, an on-again, off-again show
series featuring writers delivering humorous essays. Now, the
47-year-old can take satisfaction in knowing he’s one of the top three
84-word-fiction writers in Tucson.

Unlike the first-place and second-place winners, Barancik says he
found the 84-word limit somewhat vexing.

“First, I was challenged by your notion of an 84-word story. It took
me back to the screenplay world, which is a place I don’t like to go,”
he says, with just a hint of a laugh.

Back in that screenplay world, Barancik found motivation in the
stereotypical Hollywood movie.

“It’s the template for a fill-in-the-blank story that’s very
familiar to us,” he says about his story.

These days, Barancik is dedicating much of his attention to—of
all things—a children’s-book Web site, www.best-childrens-books.com.

“I am trying to prove to myself, and others, that down the road,
they can be their own boss on the Internet,” he explains.

In the meantime, Barancik can treat himself to a meal at a fine
restaurant with his third-place prize: a $25 gift card.

Honorable Mention

PTSD

In her nail shop, my mother files down my bitten fingernails. She
asks me if I can remember anything from the two years we spent in the
refugee camp after the Vietnam War. I tell her colorful toddler
flashes: a mid-autumn festival, a butterfly lantern, a scratchy blue
dress. She tells me sometimes she awakens and doesn’t know if she is
dead or alive, whether she is back in the camp. She draws perfect tiny
white daisies on my nails and smiles, brightly.

Nhu Tien Lu

Lost in the Mail

I’m thinking about the White Stripes, thinkin’ about my doorbell,
when you gonna ring it.

Fortuitously, I spot a skillfully concealed notice—I’m to pick
him up.

The postmaster returns with the small heavy box.
“Confusion—just three weeks late,” he crows.

I glare. He smirks. I blurt: “HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT’S IN THIS
BOX!”

He shrugs. I tell him, tuck the box firmly under my arm and head
eastbound, where both my father and I will be late for his funeral.

Donna Baker

Deportation to the Moon

The bus left the federal prison for the border. Roberto was in
shock. Fifteen years in Tucson without incident. The city was losing an
all-city basketball star. The resort would give the chef’s scholarship
to someone else.

His deceased mother successfully crossed when he was 2. Secrets had
kept her from seeking legalization. Fear had kept her from teaching
Roberto his native tongue. There was no one in Mexico. The rising moon
edged above the Rincon Mountains appearing barren and desolate.

Vaya con dios.

Antonio Delarosa

The Apple Pancake of My Eye

Her hair is a little greasy. She’s a little controlling. She gives
me a sort of slap every time I’m mean. I feel like a dog sometimes. Her
nail polish seems to be at a constant chip. I can’t wear shoes around
her, or on the bed. Hospitable OCD. I have a communication problem
according to her. I don’t know about that. She lives to pop pimples.
She prefers a nap to a shower. She smells like breakfast sometimes.
She’s the best.

Manuel Madrid

Others We Liked

But I Liked Her Dimensions

On our first date, she seized my hat and declared, “Don’t wear it
like that; it’s goofy,” obviously a controlling woman, but that
cellulite kept me interested.

I tried to negotiate some role-play. I said, “There’s the classics:
the secretary, the maid, the nurse. Those are fun. Then there’s the
controversial fantasies.” She looked disappointed and said, “You are a
man after all.”

I wanted a non-monogamous relationship, but she said, “I don’t do
that; I’m jealous—like God.”

Francisco Alatorre

24 Hour Karma

Yesterday

I woke up next to my girl’s sister,

Ate Cheerios and Coke for breakfast.

Mom called.

I didn’t answer.

I cut off a school bus,

Didn’t show up at work,

Snorted some lines, and

Went out to eat with my girl.

She told me she sent me something.

I drank eight shots and

Let my girl pay and

Puked in her car.

Today

I woke up next to a package from my girl.

I opened it and found

A box of shit.

Zoey Watson

Cold Flesh

The veins stopped flowing. Their blood froze; no heart was left to
pump the life fluid. Coldness ruled the once-vibrant flesh; lungs
stopped drawing the precious air; eyes froze forever on their last
sight, the back of the lids. The finality of a mortal existence found
abruptly. Cardiac arrest? Stroke?

“No!!” he screamed without sound. “Not like this. I’m not
ready.”

Suddenly consciousness returned, a nightmare! Reaching over, he
touched his wife’s arm to tell her of his dream, and found cold
flesh.

Jeremy Pennington

Laugh Until You Cry

Mo worked the graveyard shift in billing at the hospital. I’d call
at midnight for advice on the latest injustice from That Man I’d
endured while she entered codes. Like all mothers, she’d regularly do
at least two things at once. Discussing what to use our tax refunds on,
I’d said, “A crown.” Always giving me grief for being “hoity-toity,”
now she hissed, “Who do you think you are, the Queen of Sheba?” to
which I blinked and stated, “For my tooth …”

Patricia M. Jund

Peanuts

“As a courtesy, this is an allergen-free flight, so we will be
serving pretzels instead of nuts.”

“I have to do everything myself,” muttered J, feigning
perturbation. Locating some trail mix in his carry-on, he began
flinging peanuts across the aisle—furtively at first, then at
anyone who noticed. Two businessmen buried their faces in
SkyMall. A peanut plopped into a woman’s ginger ale.

The Gulf of Mexico yawned below. When they landed, marshals awaited
at the gate, handcuffs removed from their belts.

Jack Long

Pick Up Line

And then I said, “In retrospect, my life has been a blue blur of
contradiction … a rolling juggernaut of misjudgment charging headlong
through the rain and pissing into the wind … a constellation of
calamity chasing dust-devil dreams down a star-speckled highway in a
last-ditch attempt to catch the champagne night flight to nirvana.”

She said, “Here’s my phone number.”

Tim Schaefer

Speed Dating

I stared. It was almost impolite not to. Steve stood proudly,
pulling his shirt above his flank, pale and rolling over his jeans. The
flesh was puckered and rosy dark, terribly unimpressive as far as scars
go.

“Darn bull got me here.”

Steve still looked like a clown. Overlarge nose, grinning, clothed
in polka dots. Probably wore big shoes. A bell dinged loudly.

“Switcheroo. Bye, Steve.”

A man with cropped hair and a tie sidled into Steve’s seat. Maybe a
lawyer. Or a dentist.

Meghan Hawkes

Won’t You Stay a While?

He invited her outside, as he wanted to have a smoke and let the dog
out to pee. She agreed even while thinking of her disgust for
cigarettes and stepped out into the cold night. He jabbed the air with
his fingers, cigarette in hand, smoke curling in gentle ribbons around
them as he described how he watched the sun make its journey across the
sky. She shivered. He offered his sweater but she declined, already
fearing the possible meanings behind a loaned cardigan.

Ariana Brocious

The Perfect Pie

She sat at the table where she had fed her six children. Hamburger
gravy (goop) on mashed potatoes, hamburger tacos, tuna salad with
cottage cheese, and cold pork and beans from a can. She never really
liked cooking, and still didn’t. But once, when she was young, a
photographer from a national magazine photographed her making a pie. It
was perfect.

Penny C. Johnson

An Unfortunate Dining Experience

Alfred Hubring had recently been eaten by a black bear. That is to
say, most of him had been eaten by a black bear. The bear itself
was actually not accustomed to eating people and really preferred
berries, but, as it had been a despicable season, had resorted to
eating the barely palatable Alfred. As it had been an unsavory meal,
the bear had abandoned it around the torso. The whole dining affair had
really been quite lousy.

Cameron Louie

Illegal

Eighteen-year-olds are not allowed to date 14-year-olds. “Our love
is unending,” I pleaded like Romeo. “We were meant for each other!” But
my verses were embraced by two granite-chiseled, Mount Rushmore-replica
heads, blinking fiercely into puppy-dog eyes.

So I threw a vase.

In time, we three settled on a pact, initialed in blood and
contingent upon my getting a driver’s license, and I stumbled out of
the room. And in the night, Juliet and I stole away and found ourselves
in Vegas.

Charles Zoll

George Washington Slept Here, With Me

History does not record the 1770 birth of a child born to a young
native woman on the island of Ni’ihau, Hawai’i, sired upon her by
George Washington, a guest of Captain Cook’s during his first journey.
The boy’s mother managed to keep the child’s provenance secret from her
cuckolded husband, but it caused her great anxiety. She knocked out his
teeth as soon as they came in, fearing they would be wooden like his
father’s, giving him away as a bastard.

John Cafiero

Hello

“Hello? Hi, Daddy, it’s me. Sorry I haven’t phoned in a while, but I
just wanted to tell you Andrew and I are getting a divorce, but you
don’t have to worry about me, because Jimmy, you remember Jimmy don’t
you, and I are getting married the day after my divorce becomes final,
and you won’t believe it, but Jimmy’s Elizabeth is dating Andrew, sort
of a mercy thing, and so I think everybody will be better off in the
long run. Hello? Hello?”

Lauren Traweek

“What’s a Life Worth?”

The electrical insulators cost 10 cents. It cost a nickel to use
tape instead. “Why not?” the businessmen said. “Most of these TVs will
be in the garbage in three years.” The 5-year-old television started
the fire that killed the young boy.

The parents eulogized their “priceless” son. The child’s life
insurance paid $10,000. The lawyers said sue for $9 million. The
television manufacturer offered a million dollars.

They settled out of court without disclosing the amount.

Stephen Lubliner

Paint

It was nice to see him smile for a change. Aside from the occasional
“spilling a Jackson Pollock” joke, he never said anything jocular. I
had an exit plan from house-painting. He was trapped into his life,
always fighting with his wife. He really seemed to hate her. Today, he
was joking around and laughing it up, and I noticed he had a streak of
red paint on his overalls. And then it occurred to me: Where are we
painting red today?

Billups Allen

In Your Pants

Little boy says to little girl, “Show me what you got in your
pants.”

She says, “If you show me what you got.”

He says, “Let’s go behind the bushes so no one will see us.”

They go there. He says, “You first.”

She takes a little doll from her pocket.

He examines it and says, “Is that all you got?”

He empties his pocket—a knife, three marbles and a dead
frog.

“Ugh!” she says. “Boys are disgusting.”

Milton Schwebel

Walkies

Time 10:07:02. Sound of rattle. Loud alarm. Frozen step. Have to
look. Big old diamondback. Fluffy dog runs well ahead. Stupid dog. Pink
ponytail person close behind me. Have to stop her. Stop her. Stop her.
Stop her. Take the hit. Stop her NOW. Twirled and lunged. Touched her
chest. Flaming baseball hits my leg. Run run go go get help. One shriek
and tearing off. Fourth grader on a mission. Good girl. Proud dad. Leg
on fire. Stupid snake. Time 10:07:05.

Richard Griffin

More or Less

Find them.

Fuck them.

Leave them.

Mother says this about women, because father left her to fuck
someone else.

No confidence in being alone.

I admit to being like father.

I’m guilty to giving pleasure.

I’m guilty of vindictiveness.

Some women leave impressions like pressed flowers; they’re the hard
ones to leave.

Father is dead.

Broken heart, mother says.

Fucked someone he didn’t love.

Mother remarried.

Same old shit, she says.

You know the end.

Don Valdez

Eighty-Four

His family had talked. They would have to take his keys, get someone
for the days. Please understand. He walked then to the creek at the end
of the bay.

The tide was out, and there was a long stretch of squishy, fetid mud
and eelgrass amid shallow pools and rivulets teeming with tidal life. A
man could be swallowed in this. And when he stopped, the viscid muck
oozed over his ankles. He would wait there for the water, for a rising
tide.

Mark S. Woodhams

A Sperm’s Perspective

We had no warning when we were sent in. We were a cohesive unit when
the journey began, and we were all there for the same purpose. Our
battles are purely instinctive and thoughtless, and they have been
replayed hundreds of billions of times over the centuries. When we
started, we numbered in the millions, but only I made it in. To see how
the story ends, check back in nine months.

Justin Davison

Beach Party

When they were both 5, Abel destroyed Cain’s sandcastle. At age 16,
Abel kicked sand in Cain’s face. At the lusty age of 22, Abel stole
Cain’s chick—the one in the string bikini. Finally, at the
company picnic, Cain pummeled Abel to death with a marshmallow-roasting
stick. Cain, marked for life (but otherwise tanned and relevant),
became the first beach bum. But all was not lost. Calvin Klein, Izod
and Speedo are contacting Cain’s agent about a fashion shoot for
Vogue.

Sally Curd

My Biggest Regret

1963—Lynne and I were talking on our quiet suburban street.
The excavation for a neighbor’s house had just been dug. As we stood
there, an oval-shaped lighted sphere landed in the hole. Filled with
fear, I ran inside my house, kicking my bedroom slippers off, my feet
being cut by the driveway’s gravel. To this day, I wonder if I missed
the experience of a lifetime, wishing I had the courage to have seen
what that was.

Marcia Berger

Bellows

“Don’t you just love the accordion?” She sat cross-legged, with torn
tights and boots too big for her. “Yeah,” he replied, but he was lying.
He didn’t care one way or the other, but he could see how much was
wrapped up in his answer. They were on a bench in a park covered in
concrete. “Sometimes,” she said. “I wish I could be that loud. You know
it’s just motion and air that makes the sound?” He thought for a
second. “And pressure.”

Lisa O’Neill

First Move

Emma first noticed the Mexican fruit cart’s bright colors, but
behind the stand, a young woman, also about 17, sat on the ground in
front of a chess board. She played both sides. The chess player looked
up, smiled and gestured, “Play?” Emma nodded.

The woman rearranged the board, opened her hand and offered,
“Blanco?”

Emma sat behind white. She closed her eyes for a moment, opened
them, and pushed her queen’s pawn two spaces. For Emma, this was a
daring first move.

Jay Rochlin

Our Esteemed Panel of Judges

Holly Schaffer has worked for the University of Arizona
Press, a local publisher, since 2002. In her current role as publicity
manager, she works closely with local and national media to promote the
press’ nearly 900 books in print and 50 to 60 new titles released each
year. She also coordinates more than 125 book events annually. Holly
honed her book promoting skills at Borders Books and Music, and by
earning a bachelor’s degree in English literature at the UA. She played
an active role in the inaugural Tucson Festival of Books, and is
currently the chair of the Southwest Author Committee for the 2010
Tucson Festival of Books.

Stacey Richter is the author of two short story-collections,
My Date With Satan and Twin Study.

Jeff Yanc is the program director at the Loft Cinema. Prior
to that, he was a co-owner of Reader’s Oasis bookstore in Tucson.

This article appears in Jul 30 – Aug 5, 2009.