Recent Short Story Competition

I’ve written a short story for a writing competition with a $10,000 grand prize. I don’t usually enter these with any expectation of winning, but I enter them because you can’t win any competition you don’t enter. Not to mention, I just generally enjoy writing and find the practice helpful. You can see the writing prompt I followed posted at the bottom of this blog entry.

Please give it a read and let me know what you thought!

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One-Bullet Train

We went out for a good time yesterday so I’m not surprised that head my is throbbing. But it’s not like the normal hangover headache I’m used to. Those usually go away with a tepid glass of water, an aspirin, a greasy biscuit and a couple hours. It feels like someone has split my skull with an axe, my eyes feel like they have been inflated with air, so full that closing them hurts. But holding them open is worse because I am spinning. It feels like I just got off the tilt-o-whirl after three continuous rounds of riding. I did that ride once when I was a kid at the county fair in Nebraska and I hate to say, I barely made it to the trash can. Eyes closed, I think I am dying, I’m convinced I’m coming in and out of consciousness, and the worst part is I don’t know why.

“Breathe Sam”, I whisper to myself. That I must remind myself to do the most natural act is disconcerting. Panic is beginning to sting my face, “NO. BREATHE, Samantha.” I mutter, eyes squeezed shut painfully. I feel like I need to vomit but I am not about to do it on myself where I sit, wherever that is. I am not in the dorm room. Where am I though? I am going to have to figure it out, aren’t I? I need to find a bathroom first. I slowly open one eye, a tip from an old boyfriend, something he used to do when he was too intoxicated. “Okay, manageable…” I whisper to myself and apparently another unconscious girl, (or woman) in the bright blue upholstered chair next to the one I am in. As my one eye comes into focus, I see there are two more women, sitting adjacent in the seats that are facing back towards me and my neighbor. All of them unconscious or looking like they might feel an awful lot like me. They don’t look like me though. I am also young like they appear to be, but they are all dark haired with olive complexions while I’m a pale, freckled-faced strawberry-blonde. I stick out like a sore thumb.

I spent my entire life in the mid-west United States up until a few months ago. I went to a small-town high school and worked hard at my grades to earn a fashion scholarship, landing me in the UK for the last semester. I just knew from about the age of 13 that I had to make it out of that town. I refused to end up like Mom. Nothing was wrong with her at all, really. I just knew I didn’t want to also marry a jock from the same hick town and settle down in an old farmhouse on the outskirts where I would hang all my laundry on the line day in and day out. Living in small town, USA is kind of like the ‘Hotel California’, “You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.” All the pathetic small-towners who had mentally checked out served as a cautionary tale. At least past a certain age, if you’ve stayed, you’re just never going to go anywhere else.

My first semester was very enriching, just the culture alone. I’ve won the lottery with my roommates, Bridgette from Dover and Charlotte who is from New York City. They are creative and smart and neither of them are like any of the girls I knew from home with nothing better to do than gossip. We all have just recently traveled to Paris for a long weekend. Actually, standing under the Arc De Triomphe in a tulle skirt Bridgette made is the last thing I remember. I was looking directly up at the thick structure and pointing up in a silly pose that Charlotte had directed. No pictures can ever prepare you see the real thing. It felt so surreal, the whole of Paris did, actually. So picturesque, so dreamy. I had never seen something so beautiful.

Now, I am looking down now at my own lap. Still, only utilizing one eye. No tulle in sight, but the black leggings I had been wearing beneath them are there, and dirty. I am smudged with streaks of what looks like mud. The white tee I had tucked into the puffy purple skirt is also visibly dirty and the long, beaded necklace I had been wearing is gone. So are my pumps. We had been on an admittedly ridiculous expedition to take ‘Insta-worthy’ photos at the landmarks. As we reasoned, every college age girl visiting Paris would naturally need to do the same. I don’t suppose we ever made it to the Eiffel Tower – we were waiting on it to be dark so we would catch it all lit-up and twinkling. I believe I would remember if we had.

I turn my head to the right now, a glass reflection of myself is vaguely disheveled so I look through it to see a lush landscape whizzing by. It is so quick that it is nearly undecipherable. I can see the greens of nature and the browns of old structures, but I can’t tell what they are or where we are in my condition. The one thing that is for certain, we are on a train. The train we took from London to Paris was similar. High speed. You can see the distant landscapes okay, but when there are trees or buildings in the foreground, they pass in a blur. The quick movement only adds to my dizziness and now I have to close my one eye while I try to make it make sense.

When I used to walk to school or go on bus rides I would space out and forget to think. I would get where I was going with no recollection of how I got there. When something is second nature or routine enough and you don’t need to think about it, your brain moves on to more important things, daydreams or sleep mode. But I don’t think I did that. There was nothing mundane or routine about Paris. The sights, the smells. Everything was new and exciting. We had treated ourselves to some wine and charcuterie just prior to the Arc so I was admittedly, a little buzzed, but nothing too serious.

So now, to figure out why I am on a train with no ticket and no shoes. I am going to start with the bathroom. I won’t be able to do anything else without starting there. I use the armrests to press myself up from the seat. I am unsteady. Never mind the movement of the train, but my body is weak and shaky. Using only one eye again, I look around the cabin. I count five more pods of four seats each, like the group I am in, and every seat is inhabited by a woman. Most appear young like me, college, maybe high school even. One girl stands out because she is blonde. Her head is pressed against the cool glass. My guess is she is trying to find relief from this headache. Everyone looks sick, or they are still sleeping. One woman has a small puddle of something on the front of her shirt. My heart is racing now, from the physical exertion or the situation, I am not sure. Nothing about this is normal or okay. It must be adrenaline kicking in because I feel like I am beginning to wake up. My vision begins to clear, and I can open my second eye.

I step over the legs of the sleeping woman in the seat next to mine and now I am in the industrially carpeted aisle. My legs feel like they are made of silly putty. The door is only one pod of four seats away, I am using the tops of the seats as an intermittent handrail. I hit the exit button and the airlock door opens to the vestibule where the restroom is thankfully, unoccupied, and I move in as quickly as my buttery legs can carry me. One inside I quickly lock the door before relieving myself. I have decided that I need to throw up. Even though the dizzy feeling has passed some, I have a suspicion that I have been poisoned and I am convinced that the best way to rid myself is to make myself do it.

Read the rest here for free (traffic helps me) https://vocal.media/fiction/one-bullet-train

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