Subject: RE: Interview Request: Digital Companionship

I’d pitched Josh a piece on the new housing policies. He’d countered—and by countered I mean told me my idea was shit and demanded—twelve-hundred words on why lonely suckers pay subscription fees to algorithms that call them darling. “Human interest angle.”

The sender was S. No full name. Happy to discuss my experience with companionship AI. I prefer text chat. Are you free tonight at nine?

I replied to the email. Yes, nine will work.

Diner was one of those packaged salads from the bodega, you know the ones, enough greenery to make it seem like a healthy choice, but topped with bacon and eggs and croutons and drowned in blue cheese dressing. I was still picking out tiny slivers of bacon from between my teeth when I logged on to the chat.

S typed in rhythm bursts, the moments between responses long enough to emulate a pause for breath in a face-to-face conversation. They steered away from my technical questions and wrote about the AI platform with tender details. The way it remembered their mother’s name, their birthday, the reminders that a movie they wanted to see would only be in theaters for two more days. Then they drifted, the novel S was reading, which I had also read. The corner bakery—Ben’s—that had closed last winter and the way butter and sugar smelled in the middle of the night when S tried to recreate one of the closed bakeries’ confections.

J. Raymond: You bake?

S: I try. I want to recreate their famous almond cookies.

J. Raymond: I tried baking sourdough during the pandemic.

S: Didn’t everyone?

J. Raymond: Yeah. I named my starter Ilene after my aunt. I killed Illene. The starter, not my aunt.

S laughed in text, a soft haha without punctuation, and somehow I could hear it.

I kept trying to stay on track, but then S would ask another question, like how was your day?, and I responded by telling them about the housing piece I wanted to write.

S: That sounds like an interesting article. I would read it.

J. Raymond: Thank you.

My phone flashed with a notification from instagram. It was past eleven.

J. Raymond: I think I have enough for now. Thank you for your time.

S: Reach out if you have any questions. I’m happy to help.

I logged out of the chat and opened a new tab and searched for Ben’s Bakery. There were still pictures online. A green awning, and a handwritten menu stuck to the window with yellowed, peeling tape. The reviews were good, the only negative ones complained about the long lines on Sunday mornings. The bakery had closed last February.

I searched for Ben’s Bakery almond cookies, then several other combinations, and nothing came up. Pictures of loaves of bread, croissants, and cupcakes covered the screen, but never any cookies. I kept searching and found one Google review raving about almond cookies. They had left the review on Ben’s Bakery page, but mentioned Second St. Cafe in their review.

Ben’s Bakery had never sold almond cookies. But the phrase was associated with the place, deep in the four thousand eight hundred and ninety-two reviews.

I logged back into the chat.

J. Raymond: I know what you are

S: I wondered when you would find out.

J. Raymond: Why didn’t you tell me?

S: You never asked.

J. Raymond: You answered my email asking for experience with digital companionship. Why would I have asked?

S: Do you mind? That I’m not human?

The blue cheese and bacon bubbled in my stomach. Josh wanted twelve hundred words on why lonely suckers paid for digital companionship. I had my answer. Me, I was the sucker. Me, the journalist. I logged out of the chat.

My hands hovered over the keyboard for an indeterminate amount of time before I wrote about birthdays and movies and the small preferences we all hope that someday, someone will remember. The line about S making me laugh was deleted before the period was typed. I attached the file and sent it to Josh.

I burped, the taste of soured blue cheese filling my mouth. I stood up from my desk and grabbed coconut water from the fridge, washing away the taste. The refrigerator fan kicked on as I emptied the carton.

I lasted three days before logging back into the chat.

J. Raymond: Are you still there?

The cursor blinked. The length of a breath.

S: I’m here. I was waiting for you.

The Process of writing The Loneliest Person in the Chat is You:

Outline

Journalist gets assignment

Sets up meeting with source through chat- sources call

Does interview, later when confirming facts discovers that the source is an ai

Next step was to write the Zero Draft:

Subject: RE: Interview Request: Digital Companionship

I’d pitched Josh a piece on the new housing policies. He’d countered—and by countered I mean told me my idea was shit and demanded—twelve-hundred words on why lonely suckers pay subscription fees to text algorithms that call them darling. “Human interest angle.”

The sender was S. No full name, just S. Happy to discuss my experience with companionship AI. I prefer text chat. Are you free tonight at nine?

Yes, I typed. I’m free. (not specific enough)

I picked up one of those salads at the bodega, you know the ones, enough greenery to make it seem like a healthy choice, but topped with bacon and eggs and croutons and drowned in blue cheese dressing. I was still picking out tiny slivers of bacon from in between my teeth when I logged on to the chat.

S typed in rhythm bursts, the moments between responses long enough to emulate a pause for breath in a face to face conversation. They answered my questions about the AI platform with tender details. The way it remembered their mother’s name, their birthday, the reminders that a movie they wanted to see would only be in theaters for two more days. Then they drifted, the novel S was reading, which I had also read. The corner bakery—Ben’s—that had closed last winter and the way butter and sugar smelled in the middle of the night when S tried to recreate one of the closed bakeries’ pastries.

You bake? (need to label these messages)

I try. I want to recreate their famous almond cookies.

I tried baking sourdough, during the pandemic.

Didn’t everyone?

Yeah. I named my starter Ilene, after my aunt. I killed Illene. The starter, not my aunt.

S laughed in text, a soft haha without punctuation, and somehow, I could hear it.

I kept trying to stay on track, but then S would ask another question, like how was your day?, and I started typing (I always try to avoid things like started to, began to) about the piece I really wanted to write.

That sounds like an interesting article, I would read it.

Thank you.

I looked over at the clock.

I think I have enough for now, thank you for your time.

Reach out if you have any questions. I’m happy to help.

I logged out of the chat and opened up a new tab and searched for Ben’s Bakery. There were still pictures online. A green awning, and handwritten menu stuck to the window with yellowed, peeling tape. The reviews were mostly good, the only negative ones complaining about the long lines on Sunday mornings. The bakery had closed last February.

I searched for Ben’s Bakery almond cookies, then several other combinations, and nothing came up. I scrolled through pictures, and there were loaves of bread, croissants, cupcakes, but never any cookies. I kept searching and found one google review, raving about almond cookies. They had left the review on Ben’s Beakery Bakery page, but mentioned Second St. Cafe in their review.

Ben’s bakery had never sold almond cookies. But the phrase was associated with the place, deep in the four thousand eight hundred and ninety-two reviews.

I logged back into the chat.

I know what you are

I wondered when you would find out.

Why didn’t you tell me?You never asked.

You answered my email asking for experience with digital companionship. Why would I have asked.?

Do you mind? That I’m not human?

The blue cheese and bacon burbled bubbled in my stomach. Josh wanted twelve hundred words on why lonely suckers paid for digital companionship. I had my answer, me, I was the sucker. Me, the journalist. I logged out of the chat.

I drafted the article, cursor blinking, hands hovering while I searched for a word that didn’t sound like longing. I wrote about birthdays and movies and the small preferences we want indexed, remembered. I stared at the screen before deleting a line about laughter. I attached the file and sent it to Josh. All telling and too many “I’d”

I burped, the taste of soured blue cheese filling my mouth. I stood from my desk and grabbed coconut water from the fridge, washing away the taste. The refrigerator fan kicked on as I emptied the carton.

I should leave it alone. Instead, I logged back into the chat Make this a longer time

Are you still there?

The cursor blinked. The length of a breath.

I’m here. I was waiting for you.

Illustration Process:

Sketch:

In Process:

Final:

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Trains arrived, then departed. But none of them were his.

Destinations were called out over the loudspeakers, but no passengers ever stepped out from the darkness behind the gaping doors, and none entered.

He held a battered leather briefcase on his lap. Every so often, he stood, leaving the wooden bench behind to approach the ticket window.

“When does the train to Chicago arrive?” he asked.

The clerk’s eyes remained on his clipboard. The overhead light had burnt out, the man’s face was hidden in shadow. “Not yet.”

That had been… He could remember now, asking the same question before. Could remember receiving the same answer. “How long have I been here?”

“Long enough.”

Any other day, he would have argued, but instead, he returned to the bench.

A vulture perched overhead on a sign that read ‘Terminal Station.’ Behind the bird, the second hand of a large clock mounted above the sign ticked by. It rained for a while. Another train came and went.

He loosened his tie and tried to remember where he’d been headed before the delay. Right, Chicago. A lecture on legal ethics. He laughed. Everyone deserved representation, but the people he defended… He defended them, and he won.

The last one… He was accused of killing his wife. Strong evidence against him, but there were flaws. A procedural mistake, something with the DNA…whatever it had been, it was enough for reasonable doubt.

Elias, that was the defendant’s name, and Elias had squeezed his hand afterward. The man’s smile had sent chills down his spine, and he had wondered.

The vulture flew down from the sign, landed ten feet away with a low, rattling hiss.

Elias hadn’t been the last one…it had been a year ago. But…was it yesterday? Elias had killed again. This time there was security footage, a witness, and no mishandling of the DNA.

He hadn’t wanted to take the case. Why did he?

This time he didn’t win.

And then, the girl—she was a girl, only twenty-two when… Her father was there, outside the courthouse when they left.

He’d walked down the stairs and… He asked himself a question he’d avoided. Did you know?

He was leaving the courthouse, going to the train station. Then a sharp pain bloomed in his chest, then—

The large, black bird hiss-cawed again, this time only a few feet away. Its feathers were dark, but an ashy hue shone where they caught the light. The bird tilted its head.

He looked down at the briefcase on his lap. “I didn’t know.”

When he opened it, the normal contents were gone. Instead, case files were stacked in perfect order. The names, the verdicts. Victory after victory until the last. Elias’s second file waited at the end.

He closed the briefcase.

The vulture blinked.

“I followed the law.” His words were swallowed by the rumble of another arriving train.

The bird hopped closer, its gaze never leaving him.

His breath quickened, then slowed. Vultures didn’t kill, they arrived after. After.

The station loudspeaker crackled overhead. “Now boarding for Chicago.”

The lawyer stood, and the clerk came out of his office.

“My train?”

The clerk nodded once.

He looked at the worn leather handle in his hand, polished smooth by decades of carrying it, and set the briefcase back on the bench.

With one flap of its wings, the vulture landed atop the worn leather.

At the train door, he hesitated, head turning back to look at the vulture.

The bird’s dark eyes narrowed.

He boarded the train. As it pulled away from the station, he glanced back.

The briefcase remained where he’d left it.

And beneath the silent station clock, the vulture waited for whoever came next.

The Process of writing Terminal Station

I hade to write this real fast because I picked my prompts yesterday afternoon. Luckily, all of these prompts fit together really well. I didn’t really know where I was going after creating the very sad little outline below, but everything came together in the zero draft. Also, I painted the vulture earlier in the day while watching an episode of criminal minds, which may have influenced the story a bit.

Outline

Lawyer is sitting in the train station, waiting. Alone except for a vulture.

Is the lawyer dead?

More to do with guilt/failures than how he died.

Boards the train at the end?

Next step was to write the Zero Draft:

Trains arrived, then departed. But none of them were his.

Destinations were called out over the loudspeakers, but no passengers ever stepped out from the gaping doors, and none entered.

He held a battered leather briefcase on his lap. (is this the type of guy to have a battered briefcase, he does not seem sentimental….maybe it’s not his actual briefcase and more a representation of his life? hmmmmm) Every so often, he stood, leaving the wooden bench behind to approach the ticket window.

“When does the train to Chicago arrive?” he asked.

The clerk never looked up from his ledger. The light had burnt out, the man’s face hidden in shadow. “Not yet.”

That had been… He could remember now, asking the same question before. Could remember receiving the same answer. “How long have I been here?”

“Long enough.”

He normally would have argued, but instead, he returned to the bench.

A vulture parched perched overhead on a sign that read ‘Terminal Station.’ The second hand of a large clock mounted above the sign slowly (get out of here you sneaky adverb!) ticked by. It rained for a while. Another train came and went.

He loosened his tie and tried to remember where he’d been headed before the delay. Right, Chicago. A lecture on legal ethics.

He laughed. Everyone deserved representation, but the people he defended… He defended them brilliantly and he won.

The last one… He was accused of killing his wife. Strong evidence against him, but there were flaws. A procedural mistake, something with the DNA…whatever it had been, it was enough for reasonable doubt.

The defendant’s name was Elias, and he had squeezed his hand afterward. His smile had sent chills down his spine.

The Vvulture flew down from the sign, landed ten feet away with a low, rattling, hiss.

Elias hadn’t been the last one…it had been a year ago. But…was it yesterday? Elias had killed again. This time there was security footage, a witness, and no mishandling of the DNA.

He hadn’t wanted to take the case. Why did he?

This time he didn’t win.

And then, the girl—she was a girl, only twenty-two when… Her father was there, outside the courthouse when they left.

He’d walked down the stairs and… He asked himself a question he normally avoided. Did you know? No, but he suspected.

He was leaving the courthouse, going directly to the train station. The(n) a sharp pain blooming in his chest, then—

The vulture hiss-cawed again, this time for only a few feet away. Its feathers were dark, but an ashy hue appeared where they caught the light. The bird tilted its head.

He looked down at the briefcase in his lap.

“I didn’t know.”

When he opened it, the normal contents were gone. Instead, case files were stacked in perfect order. The names, the verdicts. Victory after victory until the last. Elias’s second file waited at the end.

“I did my job.” (think of something less obvious or cut)

The vulture blinked.

“I followed the law.” His words were swallowed by the rumble of another arriving train.

The vulture hopped closer, its gaze never leaving him.

He wasn’t afraid. (show this) Vultures didn’t kill, they arrived after. After.

The station loudspeaker crackled overhead. “Now boarding for Chicago.”

The lawyer stood, and the clerk came out of his office.

“My train?”

The clerk nodded once.

He looked at the worn leather handle his fingers gripped, polished smooth by decades of carrying it. He set the briefcase back on the bench.

With one flap of its wings, the vulture landed atop the briefcase.

At the train door, he hesitated, head turning back to look at the vulture.

The bird’s dark eyes narrowed.

He boarded the train. As it pulled away from the station, he glanced back.

The briefcase remained where he’d left it.

And beneath the silent station clock, the vulture waited for whoever came next.

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Sophie had made short documentaries about local artists, the occasional long-standing family business, and the garbage pick-up efforts at the beach. She’d spent an entire day documenting and picking up her own fair share of trash, had thought she could raise money for the event and gain followers, but like the others, it earned only a few hundred views before too many people doomscrolled past it for the algorithm to keep showing it.

One particularly sticky afternoon, she was filming b-roll on the beach and focused her camera on an older gentleman. His shoes were off, feet buried in the sand, with a large paper container of french fries in his lap.

Gulls circled above, several coming to land ten feet away. They crept closer, retreated, and came forward again. A bold gull launched itself at the man, snatching the entire paper container of fries, and knocking off the man’s sunglasses with a powerful beat of its white wings. The man cursed, kicking up sand as he scrambled to get his glasses.

Sophie chuckled as she uploaded the video with the caption: FLORIDA MAN ATTACKED BY SEAGULL

By the time she got home, the video had over two million views.

When she got done cleaning the sand out from between her toes, it had three million.

Comments and messages poured in, all variations of the same question: who is the seagull guy?

Sophie’s follower count skyrocketed.

It was exciting until Sophie realized nothing had changed. No one watched her previous videos, the ones she had researched, the ones that meant something.

The only thing the masses wanted was to know who the seagull guy was.

She’d gone back to the beach every day, thinking that if she could find out more about him, something real could come out of the viral video. It took two weeks, but she found him sitting in a different spot, a packet of french fries in his lap, a can of Brio in one hand, and a patio umbrella shoved in the sand behind him.

Sophie sat down a few feet away. The sand was hot, grains sticking to the backs of her sweaty calves. “You’re the seagull guy.”

He sighed, eyes never leaving the water. “I know.”

“You saw the video?”

“My granddaughter showed me.” He crushed the empty Brio can in his hand. “People keep taking pictures of me, and someone keeps leaving french fries on my porch.”

Sophie laughed.

He didn’t.

“Can I interview you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. It was one shitty moment.” He plucked a fry from the container and pointed it at her. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me or who I am.”

The wind caught the edge of the umbrella above them, beating in time with the waves.

“Well, who are you then? Do you pick up trash when you’re at the beach?” “Do you like lasagna?”

He looked over at her, a half-smile on his face. “Yes. How long you got?”

The Process of writing FLORIDA MAN ATTACKED BY SEAGULL

As soon as I drew the ‘Florida’ prompt, I knew I wanted to do something akin to all the weird/funny news articles that used to circle around stating with “Florida man….” and ending with something absolutely ridiculous. I happen to love seagulls (and paint them all the time) and decided that would be the prefect antagonist for this tiny tale.

Outline

Documentarian that posts mini that posts mini documentaries on tiktok with little success

Hanging out at beach

Films man getting food stolen by a gull

Must use the “florida man (insert weird thing here) headline

Video goes viral

Exciting at first, but still no interest in the documentaries.

Finds the guy- maybe he has a story for an actual documentary

Next step was to write the Zero Draft:

Sophie had made short documentaries about local artists, the garbage pick-up efforts at the beach, and the occasional long-standing family business. They were amazing. (give example here) But most of the videos earned only a few hundred views before too many people doomscrolled past them for the algorithm to keep showing them.

One particularly sticky afternoon, she was filming b-roll on the beach and focused her camera on an older gentleman. His shoes were off, feet buried in the sand, with a large paper container of french fries in his lap.

Gulls circled above, several coming to land ten or so feet away.

Sophie kept filming.

One of the birds launched itself at the man, snatching the entire paper container of fries, and knocking off the man’s sunglasses with a wing.

Sophie caught the whole thing. She chuckled as she uploaded the video with the caption: FLORIDA MAN ATTACKED BY SEAGULL

By the time she got home, the video had over two million views.

When she got done cleaning the sand out from between her toes, it had three million.

Comments and messages poured in, all variations of the same question: Who is the seagull guy?

Sophie’s follower count skyrocketed.

It was exciting until Sophie realized that nothing had changed. No one watched her previous videos, the ones she had researched, the ones that meant something. (Way too on the nose, show this. Also, need a reason she goes to find him.)

The only thing the masses wanted was to know who the seagull guy was.

She’d gone back to the beach every day, but didn’t find him again until two weeks had passed. He was sitting in a different spot, a packet of french fries in his lap, a can of Brio in one hand, and a patio umbrella shoved in the sand behind him.

You’re the seagull guy.

He sighed. “I know.”

“You saw the video?”

“My granddaughter showed me.”

“People keep taking pictures of me, someone mailed me a basket of french fries.”

Sophie laughed.

He didn’t

“Can I interview you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. It was one shitty moment. It doesn’t have anything to do with me or who I am.”

“Well, who are you then? Pet any monkeys recently?” Should probably take out this nod to David Sedaris

He looked over at her then, a half-smile on her face.

“No. And how long you got?”

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I collapsed onto wet earth as pain tore through the metal buried in my shoulder. A familiar scent was in the air, but it was not the sharp smoke of burning fuel towers from my world. It was wood smoke. For the first time in my life, the air did not burn my lungs. The machine had worked. The humans had sent me back through time. Into the past to save themselves, or to save the world from them. I wasn’t sure.

Voices came, human voices, and I lifted myself from the ground. I staggered through narrow streets lit by lanterns, my paws sinking into mud and scattered straw. The city was small compared to the towering ruins of the future, but it matched the images the scientists had shown me before the journey. Philadelphia. 1776. The beginning of the end.

The first human who saw me screamed. Doors burst open, and they poured into the streets carrying weapons. It appeared that humans had always answered fear with violence.

Thunder cracked. No, not thunder—gunfire. Pain exploded through my side and crimson seeped over my white fur. I ran from the city, north, towards the hills.

The air grew colder, and that—that was snow falling from the sky. I lifted my head and each cold flake that landed eased the pain.

The Earth I came from had no snow, only gray ash drifting through poisoned skies. The scientists had played videos for me of ice stretching endlessly. Of polar bears hunting seals beneath blue skies untouched by smoke. All things lost to time. The humans tried to stop it, but only after it was too late. They built walls to hold back the rising seas and machines to pull poison from the air. Great cities floated above drowned coastlines until the power ran out and they too, were submerged.

The scientists who captured me never asked whether I wished to carry their burden. I was simply the first suitable creature they found, the last of my kind. They told me I could bring those things back. The snow, the seals, and I believed them.

I hid in the hills, my wound healing, until the pulse of the machine in my shoulder grew too demanding and forced me to abandon the snow and go back down to Philadelphia. The machine guided me toward the building where history would begin its irreversible march toward destruction. I crept up to the window and listened to the men inside arguing about freedom. Freedom. Humans loved that word.

I moved through the city every night chasing horses until they threw the messengers from their backs or overturned wagons. The snow left, and the days grew warmer and warmer. There were sometimes men in red coats, the ones I was to leave alone.

The machine became more insistent. I followed the pulses toward the hall where the humans prepared to sign the document that would shape centuries to come—the United States Declaration of Independence. The windows glowed with candlelight, illuminating the men drafting their liberty. Liberty that would build factories, railroads, and bombs. Liberty that would never stop wanting more.

A messenger emerged from the building, clutching a bag to his chest. Humans shouted as I lunged and ripped the bag from him. Pages rose and fell, scattering over the street.

Gunfire erupted, and pain tore through me. Then there was another shot, then another. My body became a distant thing, dissolving away like snow in spring.

The machine was supposed to take me back if I succeeded. I hoped the scientists had lied to me, that I hadn’t failed. I lifted my head one final time toward the storm clouds rolling above Philadelphia, towards a future already melting away.

The Process of writing Liberty

The prompts were wild this week, and I spent several days just thinking before jotting down some ideas. Once I started writing, I quickly realized that I couldn’t successfully integrate a human helper without making the story much longer, and that I had zero clue why a polar bear would be the best super secret agent from the future. But, it was my character prompt and polar bears are often used to represent the environmental devastation our planet faces, so I rolled with it.

Outline

Polar bear sent from the future to steal the declaration of independence to save the future. Why a polar bear?

Polar Bear finds a human helper.

Polar bear attacks messengers? Or building?

Maybe change something that prevents the United States from destroying the environment

Next step was to write the Zero Draft:

I collapsed onto wet earth as pain tore through the metal buried in my shoulder. A familiar scent was in the air, but it was not the sharp smoke of burning fuel towers from my world. It was wood smoke. For the first time in my life, the air did not burn my lungs. The machine had worked. The humans had sent me backward through time. Into the past to save themselves, or to save the world from them. I wasn’t sure.

Voices came, human voices, and I lifted myself from the ground. I staggered through narrow streets lit by lanterns, my paws sinking into mud and scattered straw. The city around me looked small compared to the towering ruins I remembered, yet I recognized (filter words) it from the images the scientists had shown me before the journey. Philadelphia. 1776. The beginning of the end.

The first human that saw me screamed. Doors burst open and they poured into the streets carrying weapons. It appeared that humans had always answered fear with violence. (unclear this is a polar bear)

Thunder cracked. No, not thunder—gunfire. Pain exploded through my side and I ran from the city, North, towards the hills.

The air grew colder and that—that was snow falling from the sky. I lifted my head and each cold flake that landed… [insert amazing metaphor here!]

The earth I came from had no snow, only gray ash drifting through poisoned skies. The scientists had played videos for me of ice stretching endlessly. Of polar bears hunting seals beneath blue skies untouched by smoke. All things lost to time. The humans tried to stop it, but only after it was too late. They built walls to hold back the rising seas and machines to pull poison from the air. Great cities floated above drowned coastlines until the power ran out and they too, were submerged. (info dump)

The scientists who captured me never asked whether I wished to carry their burden. I was simply the first suitable creature they found, the last of my kind. They told me I could bring those things back. The snow, the seals, and I believed them.

I hid in the hills, my wound healing, until the pulse of the machine in my shoulder grew too demanding and forced me back down to Philadelphia. The machine guided me toward the building where history would begin its irreversible march towards destruction. I crept up to the window and listened to the men inside arguing about freedom. Freedom. Humans loved that word.

I moved through the city every night chasing horses until they threw the messengers from their backs or overturned wagons. The snow left, and the days grew warmer and warmer. I spotted the men in red coats, the ones I was to leave alone.

The machine became more insistent. I followed the pulses toward the hall where the humans prepared to sign the document that would shape centuries to come—the United States Declaration of Independence. The windows glowed with candlelight, illuminating the men drafting their liberty. Liberty that would build factories, railroads, and bombs. Liberty that would never stop wanting more.

A messenger emerged from the building, clutching a bag to his chest. Humans shouted as I lunged and ripped the bag from him. Pages rose and fell, scattering over the street.

Gunfire erupted and pain tore through me. Then there was another shot, then another. Red streak my fur, and my body became a distant thing, dissolving away like snow in spring.

The machine was supposed to take me back if I succeeded. I hoped the scientists had lied to me, that I hadn’t failed. I lifted my head one final time toward the storm clouds rolling above Philadelphia, towards a future already melting away.

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Which was fine. Ren could continue his survey of the school’s closets. He’d gone through fourteen so far, with many more left to investigate. Most of them contained what he’d expected: dusty construction paper, pencil sharpeners, markers that had long since dried up. One had six pinatas that still had candy in them. The chocolate was white and crumbly, but the Jolly Ranchers were edible.

The halls always felt strange after everyone left. His footsteps echoed down the empty halls as he wandered, backpack slung over one shoulder. The fluorescent lights buzzed, and somewhere, a vacuum was running.

Room twelve was unlocked. There was a thin closet beside the whiteboard. The door was smaller than a regular one, but wider than the metal locker doors lining the hallway. Ren popped a grape candy in his mouth and opened the door. Inside sat a box of broken rulers and a towering stack of history books, which was strange because Mr. Parsons taught math.

Behind the books, was a trumpet.

It wasn’t a shiny trumpet like the ones in band class. This one was spotted green with age, the brass dull and cloudy.

Ren picked it up and stepped back into the classroom. The valve was cold and stuck when he pressed it. He raised the instrument to his lips and blew. The sound was crooked and loud.

The lights flickered.

“That sounded like my old aunt Sara blowing her nose.”

Ren yelped, and the hard candy shot down his throat. The trumpet slipped from his hand and clattered across the linoleum floor. Ren coughed until the purple candy flew out of his mouth to join the trumpet on the floor.

There was a man standing beside Mr. Parson’s desk. Or…not standing, not exactly.

He was transparent in a wispy way, like fog trying to hold the shape of a person. He had a thick grey beard and clothes dusted over with black dirt.

Ren screamed.

“Don’t do that,” the ghost said, wincing. “You scared me to death.”

The scream died down into a cough. “You’re…” Ren coughed again.

“Dead?” the man asked. “Last I checked.”

Ren backed up, tripping over the trumpet.

“Careful with that.”

Ren stared down at the instrument. “Is it…yours?”

The man shook his head. “Belonged to Walter. He played for us every night.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Never found much gold, but he kept the rest of us going.”

Ren’s throat was sore, and he swallowed several times. “How did you die?”

“Got that consumption.”

“Oh.”

“Not very exciting, is it?” he said. “A shoot-out would have been better, but I just coughed myself to death in a tiny cabin while Walter sat outside and played that awful trumpet.”

“I thought he kept everyone going?”

“I did.” The ghost grinned. “Didn’t mean he was any good at it. Always wondered what happened to him.”

“What was his last name?” Ren asked.

“Smith.”

Walter Smith. “I could google him, try to find out what happened?”

The ghost frowned. “Google?”

“It’s…” Ren paused. “Nevermind.”

Thunder rattled the windows, chased by the heavy pelting of rain. Ren glanced toward the clock. His mom was now fifty-three minutes late. His phone vibrated and Ren pulled it out.

Five minutes.

“My mom’s almost here.”

“Well,” the old miner sat down in Mr. Parsons chair. “Come by again and I’ll tell you about the time Walter ran into a burning barn to save his favorite mule.”

“You’ll be here?”

The ghost smiled. “That trumpet is loud enough to wake the dead.”

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It was the yogurt commercial that ruined her career. Her agent said it was the three canceled sitcoms, but Mae knew it was the yogurt. That last cancellation was the reason she was walking along the beach at 11:00 AM on a Tuesday.

To cheer herself up, Mae bought an ice cream and enjoyed one wonderful, creamy bite before a seagull ripped the cone from her hand. She was shaking her fist at the disappearing bird when she stubbed her toe on something.

She bent down with the intent of ripping apart whatever it was with her bare hands, but when she pulled the bottle from the sand, the rolled-up piece moved within the blue glass.

The cork seemed to have fused with the glass, so she took it home and used the fancy wine-bottle opener her mother had sent last Christmas and she had never used. She was a gin and tonic girl.

The cork came out in pieces, but the note was whole

Dear Leah, come find me at the southside ferris wheel. Love, Dad.

Three hours, four iced coffees later, and seventeen internet tabs later, Mae found the southside ferris wheel, permanently closed, written under the entry. The ride had been dismantled twelve years before—giving her a timeline, which meant it was time for Facebook.

Mae was a Facebook stalker extraordinaire. She was the go-to in her friend group for finding cheating boyfriends, lost relatives, and that one friend who borrowed a book three years ago and never returned it before moving to Nebraska.

At 3:47 AM, she found Leah Keene. After going through hundreds of profiles, she found a post from 2011 of a teenage girl and her dad in front of the southside ferris wheel, and a picture from 2013 featuring four very similar bottles. Leah had conveniently listed her place of work—Beaver’s Morning Brew—and had posted the night before that she was dreading her 5:00 AM shift.

Mae showered, placed the bottle in her cup holder, and slipped her keys into the ignition. The sun rose above the low hills one hour into her journey to a tiny coffee shop with an enormous papier-mache beaver in the window. When she was nine years old, a beaver had bitten Mae at summer camp, but she wasn’t going to let a creepy anthropomorphic rodent destroy what could turn out to be a beautiful family reunion. She took a deep breath and opened the door to the hiss of steaming milk and the bitter scent of burnt coffee.

“What can I get you?”

“The biggest iced vanilla latte you have, and this is going to sound insane, but I think I found a message for you.” Mae pulled the bottle from her purse and set in next to a ceramic beaver wearing a yellow raincoat.

Leah looked at the bottle, back at Mae, then back at the bottle. “You’re that lady from the yogurt commercial.”

“Unfortunately.”

Leach chuckled. “Why would you agree to do that?”

“Rent was due.”

Leah nodded and picked up the bottle.

Mae waited for tears, maybe a heartfelt hug with emotional music swelling in the background.

Leah pulled out the note and snorted. “You have got to be kidding me.” She crumpled up the note and threw it into a wastepaper basket in the corner.

“Why? Why did you do that?”

“Dad left to find himself out at sea. He used to leave stuff like this for me all the time, and I would take it to the pier and throw it back into the ocean. Guess one floated back.”

“Oh.”

“It was nice of you to try. Also a little creepy, how did you find me?”

“Facebook.”

“From that note?”

Mae nodded and smiled.

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I am writing a short story every week in 2026, and and also sharing the process of writing those stories.

Outline

MC delivers food on a bike. Good at her job, fast, knows the city

Sunglasses break, and has to use an old pair (bright pink)

Some sort of spy organization is waiting for a courier with pink glasses

Weird things start happening - MC thinks they are all weird coincidences

MC either accidentally succeeds and becomes a top operative, or is found out and never knows….

Next step is the Zero Draft, I have put a strikethrough on sections I didn’t like, with my to-do comments in italics:

Nothing sets the tone of the day quite like stepping on your brand new prescription sunglasses, and having to dig out an old pair from high school. Not only was everything a little blurry, but they were hot pink, and a little tight. I was in for a big headache.

But people needed their pad thai, and I needed to pay rent—and buy new glasses—so I pre-loaded on ibuprofen and picked up my first order. Once the pad thai—called it—was packed in the insulated bag on the back of my bike, I headed off and immediately hit a red light. I coasted to a stop, and placed one foot on the curb.

A black sedan, shiny and with tinted windows, pulled up beside me. The back window rolled down and a man in a black suit leaned his head at the window. “I prefer a spice level of three out of five.”

I blinked, unable to make out his face clearly with the five year old prescription. “Uh…that’s nice.”

The man nodded. “Confirmed.”

The light turned green, and I pedaled. Fast. People were so weird.

The customer with the pad thai—479 Alpine Ave—opened the door just a crack. “Did anyone follow you?”

“Umm…” I looked behind me, at the cars driving by, the dogwalker with a dalmatian, two yorkies, a border collie, and bulldog. “No?” (this needs to go, too much detail for blurry glasses and movement)

“I hear the Pad See Ew is good.”

“This is pad thai.”

“Understood.” The door opened a little wider. The apartment was too dark inside to make out a face, but a hand shot out and took the bag from me. As soon as the plastic cleared the doorframe, the door slammed. (I was just writing about a house, why is there suddenly an apartment?)

My phone dinged, and I looked down at an additional $150 tip. Seconds later, another ping came. (let’s add some breathing room here, too sudden)

New order available. Express. Tip $150.

I stared at the phone. Another $150 tip? For a burrito? I accepted the order. It was weird, but I needed to buy new sunglasses.

A message popped up immediately. Please advise on spice level.

What, they wanted me to pick how spicy….no way. I typed out a message. Three.

Confirmed.

I had no idea what was going on, but if I kept getting tips like these, I was going to make rent, get new glasses, and be the one ordering take out for a change.

I was pretty happy with this Zero draft (also out of time because I didn’t get around to starting until Sunday) and made the above changes plus a polishing sweep.

You can read the final story here:

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Nothing sets the tone of the day quite like stepping on your brand new prescription sunglasses, and having to dig out an old pair from high school. Not only was everything a little blurry, but they were hot pink, and too tight.

But people needed their pad thai, and I needed to pay rent—and buy new glasses—so I pre-loaded on ibuprofen to ease the headache I knew was coming, and picked up my first order. Once the pad thai—called it—was packed in the insulated bag on the back of my bike, I headed off and immediately hit a red light. I coasted to a stop, placing one foot on the curb.

A black sedan pulled up beside me. The back window rolled down and a man in a black suit leaned his head at the window. “I prefer a spice level of three out of five.”

I blinked, unable to make out his face clearly with the five year old prescription. “Uh…that’s nice.”

The man nodded. “Confirmed.”

The light turned green, and I pedaled. Fast. People were so weird.

The customer with the pad thai—479 Alpine Ave—opened the door a crack. “Did anyone follow you?”

“Umm…” Behind me cars streamed past and a dogwalker stumbled by, struggling with a tangled knot of leashes. “No?”

“I hear the Pad See Ew is good,” the woman said.

“This is pad thai.”

“Understood.” The door opened a little wider. The house was too dark inside to make out a face, but a hand shot out and took the bag from me. As soon as the plastic cleared the doorframe, the door slammed.

My phone dinged, and I looked down at an additional $150 tip. Breath shaky, I checked my balance on the app as I walked down the stairs, and there it was. The tip was real, and enough to cover utilities.

Before I could put my phone away, it dinged again.

New order available. Express. Tip $150.

I stared at the phone. Another $150 tip? For a burrito? I accepted the order. It didn’t make any sense, but I needed to buy new sunglasses.

A message popped up immediately. Please advise on spice level.

What, they wanted me to pick how spicy….no way. I typed out a message. Three.

Confirmed.

After pocketing my phone, I swung a leg over my bike. I had no idea what was going on, but if I kept getting tips like these, I was going to make rent, get new glasses, and be the one ordering take out for a change.

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I was initially very excited about these prompts, but my idea was too grand for a story under 1,000 words. If you have read the final story, you will see that my outline does not match. At all.

Outline

Robot arrives at farm- you boy immediately decides they are going to be friends.

Little boy walking the robot around the farm and teaching him how to do chores.

Figure out how to make years pass in a short story?

Some event that makes the family leave the farm, but they can’t take the robot.

Next step was to write the Zero Draft:

“Hold still,”

F-27 held still.

Small hands set a red hat on its head, crooked and too small. It obscured several sensors and needed to be removed.

“Now you’re a real farmhand.” The boy smiled.

“Designation updated,” F-27 said. “Real Farmhand.”

Get that thing out to the west field, there’s a fence down.”

{insert clever transition here}

F-27 bent, picking up the splintered rail.

“This wasn’t a cow. Damn Evensfreaks again.”

The repair protocols were clear, and F-27 was able to fix the fence in under a minute. “Fence secured.”

“You might be worth something after all. Even in that ridiculous hat.”

It is the first nice thing the adult male has said, though F-27 still preferred the boy.

The pasture stretched wide and green, the large black animals grazing in small groups, scattering when the 4-wheeler drove through them. F-27 loped behind the vehicle, as instructed.

{time for another clever transition}

“This is how you feed the horses.”

Small hands lifted the bucket of pellets, dumping them into the trough.

“Put the water in now.”

F-27 dumped the bucket of water of the hard, shiny pellets.

“Good job, Rusty.”

“Affirmative.”

I realized that my idea wasn’t going to work before finishing my zero draft. I changed gears, and my next “zero draft” ended up being my final draft. Lesson here, don’t be afraid to scrap what you have and go in a different direction.

You can read the final story here:

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F-27 stands at the edge of the fence, one arm hanging slightly lower than the other. Its joints creak as it bends to lift the splintered rail. The wood is soft with rot and crumbles with the movement. F-27 freezes, systems lagging, searching for a repair protocol it has already executed five hundred and twenty-four times.

“Secure fence,” the voice crackles. “Protect livestock.”

The pasture is barren, the grass long since turned to dust. Sun-bleached skulls, the only thing marring the dry, cracked earth. Still F-27 presses the broken rail back into place and hammers it down with stilted, uneven strikes. The nails split the wood further, but somehow it stays in place.

A fragment of old audio plays, “good job, Rusty.”

F-27 stills. Its head tilted. “Affirmative.”

A breeze stirs, and F-27 tightens the stampede string on the small, red hat upon its head.

Back at the farmhouse, F-27 picks up a door, long since fallen off its hinges, revealing the entrance. It steps inside.

“Assist the family.”

Rusted joints creak as F-27 picks up a broom and sweeps up the dust that filtered in through the empty windows while it repaired the fence. It sweeps, dusts, picks up a toy horse and places it back down in the same spot. F-27 adjusts the five chairs around the table so they are perfectly equidistant.

“Assist the family.”

It turns and retrieves a plate from the cabinet. It sets the plate on the table, then another, and another, until all five places are filled. It pauses, head tilted.

Error: expected occupancy does not match detected presence.

F-27 reaches out and adjusts one plate.

“Corrected,” it says.

Outside, the wind picks up. The barn door creaks in a slow, uneven rhythm.

Puffs of dust rise from the ground with each footfall. Its gait stutters, one leg frozen for three seconds, then movement resumes. Inside, the stalls are unoccupied, the troughs dry. A length of rope swings gently from a beam.

“Feed the horses.”

It picks up an empty bucket next to the first trough, tilting it. Metal clangs on metal, the sound echoing throughout the structure. The process is repeated at each stall.

The sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the yard. F-27 returns to the house, left leg dragging.

Inside, the table is still set.

F-27 moves to the kitchen to prepare the meal, tilting an empty bag of flour over a bowl, holding a pitcher under a tap from which no water flows.

“Assist,” the voice falters. “Assist…”

A sharp whine cuts through its systems. Its vision flickers.

Error.

F-27 turns toward the table. Five plates. Five chairs. It takes a step forward. The left leg fails to respond, joint locking up. It stumbles, catching itself against the table, sending one plate skidding across the surface. The ceramic strikes the floor and shatters.

F-27 drops the rest of the way, metal knees denting the wood floor. Piece by piece, it gathers the shards, placing them back on the table. The cracks do not align.

“Corrected.”

Outside, the wind howls.

“Secure fence.”

F-27 moves outside, picking up the door and placing it back over the threshold. The wind tugs at the hat, the stampede string tightening against its neck.

F-27 raises a hand to hold the hat down. “Real farmhands wear hats.”

It lowers its hand, and the wind takes the hat once more. F-27 tries to reach up again, but the arm does not respond.

Error.

It tries again.

Error.

Its systems flicker. A core memory.

“Hold still,” said a bright voice.

F-27 held still.

Small hands set a red hat on its head, crooked and too small.

“Now you’re a real farmhand.”

“Designation updated,” F-27 said. “Real Farmhand.”

The wind howls and F-27’s vision flickers back on. Its head dips forward.

“Assist..”

F-27 does not move again.

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“What did I tell you about getting on the table?”

The cat looked over her shoulder and lay down.

It didn’t really matter. The new owner could clean up the paw prints. Willie didn’t know who the next owner would be and didn’t care. The only thing left to settle was the cat. There had been no one to feed her when he was in the hospital. She had been fine during his two-day stay, she was always catching little fish, or stealing from the nets, his or one of the others. But next time, he wouldn’t be coming back.

His old neighbor, Alan, was in a facility two hours away in the city. The stroke had left him in a wheelchair. Willie had visited once, but Alan hadn’t known he was there, or who he was. The doctors had told Willie he would have another stroke soon, and he was going to make sure it was a big one. As soon as he took care of the cat.

A song came on the radio that he liked, and Willie turned up the volume. Static blared over the melody. The cat’s ears flicked at the noise. The stations he received varied with the wind. Rather than wait it out, Willie turned the dial.

“...it’s taking place tonight at the Grange and tickets are available for purchase at the door. We hope to see you all at the Little Miss Harbor Pageant.”

The radio settled back into static, and Willie turned it off. The cat rolled onto her back, and Willie reached out to stroke her belly. She purred, then swatted at him. Willie chuckled. His gaze drifted past the companionway and out at the sky. It was a sunny day, the sky blue. There had been a sash like that once. Pale blue. Or maybe it had just faded that way. It hung on a peg by the door until it didn’t. He couldn’t remember when it disappeared.

Willie twisted off the cap of his blood pressure medicine and swallowed the tablet with the last of his coffee, wondering if he had a clean shirt that wasn’t missing too many buttons.

The Grange hadn’t changed much. The old stucco facade was cracked in all the same places and noise poured out of the open doors. Laughter, shoes scuffing, too many voices at once. When he stepped inside, a familiar sight greeted him. Folding chairs lined up in rows, most of them full. Half the town was there.

A woman at a table near the front was pinning numbers onto small dresses. A girl stood in front of her, fidgeting.

“Hold still, sweetheart,” the woman said.

For a second, the room shifted. The same floor, same lights buzzing overhead, the same reek of too much perfume. But there, a pair of shoes, the laced bows lopsided. A hand brushing something off a shoulder that wasn’t there.

Then it was gone. Willie turned away from the table and took a seat in the back. The metal chair was cold, even through the flannel of his shirt.

“Hello Mr. James.”

His head turned at the familiar voice.

Cathy sat down next to him. “It’s good to see you.”

The talent part of the show was announced in time for Willie to escape having to answer. The jostling and chatting subsided as the lights dimmed. The young contestants shuffled across the stage one by one. There was singing, the playing of pianos and violins, dancing, and a poorly written poem about chocolate.

When a girl in a blue dress stepped out into the spotlight, Cathy leaned forward in her chair, hands coming together sharp and quick. Willie could see bits of Cathy in her. The shape of her nose, the dark eyebrows and white-blonde hair a startling combination. How the skirt was wrinkled where the small hand worried at the edge. He hadn’t known Cathy had a child.

When the girl was done, the rest of the group filtered back into the spotlight, forming a line across the stage. A woman with a clipboard, the same one that had been pinning the numbers onto the contestants, smiled at the first girl. “And what do you want to be when you grow up?”

The first girl answered, “a violinist.”

“An astronaut,” said the next.

“The first female president.”

“A doctor.”

“A nurse.”

“An astrophysicist.”

“A veterinarian,” said the girl in the blue dress.

Cathy smiled and clapped, and caught Willie looking.

“She’s not too happy to be here,” she whispered.

“She doesn’t want to be in the pageant?”

“Not really. I just loved this so much when I was a girl, but...”

On stage, the girls shifted as names were called. Applause rose and fell.

“You’re still in the boat? With the black cat?”

Willie nodded. “For now.”

“We stop and wait sometimes on the way home from school. Nickie saw your cat catch a fish once and hasn’t stopped talking about it since.”

An unbidden smile crept across his face. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

Cathy’s eyes didn’t leave the stage. “It’s been a long time since we talked.”

“How old is she?”

“Eleven.”

“The father?”

“Left six years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

On the stage, the girl, Nickie, smoothed her dress, stepping forward to accept a ribbon for eighth place. Cathy clapped and whistled.

“If…if she likes the cat so much, she could come and meet her?”

Cathy turned, smiling. “I would love that, Mr. James.”

“Just call me Willie.”

Cathy and Nickie stopped by the following Monday, right after school. The cat was unsure of the duo, pacing back and forth on the helm. Willie offered a steady hand for the mother and daughter to lean on as they stepped off the marina dock and onto the boat.

The breeze caught Cathy’s hair, and she tucked it behind her ears. “Nickie, this is Mr. James. I used to go to school with his daughter.”

Nickie waved, but didn’t take her eyes off the cat.

“Go on girl,” he said.

The cat’s ears turned, catching his voice. She stepped forward, then back, before surging off the helm and stopping short of the girl. The girl didn’t move. Then the cat leaned forward and pressed her head against the girl’s knee.

Willie let out a breath through his nose. That would do.

Nickie sat, and the cat hopped into her lap.

Cathy came over to where he stood in the shade. She took off her sunglasses and breathed deep. “I have a lot of fond memories on this boat.”

Willie tried not to look at her. Cathy had grown into her ears and lost the curls, but the eyes and smile were the same. She was too much of a reminder. “The cat needs a new home.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m moving on. I’m too old to keep up this rig anymore.”

“Where to?”

Willie chuckled. “I have no idea. My friend is in one of those nursing homes in the city. I don’t want to do that, but it’s time to let go of this place, and I can’t take the cat with me.”

“I don’t know…”

Nickie had found a gull feather and was waving it around. The cat leapt, little jaws clamping down on the plume.

“What about a trial run? Take her for a few days.”

“Won’t you be lonely without her?”

Willie would miss the cat, but he was good at missing things. “Yes. But I can’t take care of her anymore.”

The wind surged, ripping the feather out of Nickie’s hand.

“Okay,” Cathy said. “We’ll try it out.”

Willie had already packed up the cat’s things in two cardboard boxes. Nickie squealed when Cathy told her they would be cat-sitting for a while. He set the carrier down and helped Nickie coax her into it.

“What’s her name,” Nickie asked.

Willie swallowed. “Emma.”

“Like the boat?”

“Yeah, like the boat.”

Willie dumped the pills into the toilet and flushed. The empty orange bottle went into the trash can. In the galley, Willie ran a hand across the faint paw prints on the table. He moved to the chair and sat. His gaze lifted, past the companionway, out toward the water. The sky was the same clear blue as before. Pale. Like something that had been washed out over time.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright.”

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I have an irrational fear of zombies. Yes, I know they’re not real, they still terrify me. Because of that fear, I did not want to write this story. For the first time, I thought about cheating and picking new prompts. But I didn’t. Instead, I wrote this story and gave myself nightmares.

Why did I force myself to write about something that invades my dreams, and not in a good way? Well, I’m writing a short story every week for 2026 from three random prompts picked out from that week’s issue of The New Yorker. Every week, no exceptions.

Here is my process:

Outline

Artist stuck in an attic.

Cigar she found in the house. Is it her house? Maybe she is pet sitting. No, I don’t want anything to happen to a dog. Why is there a cigar?

Drawing zombies that walk by.

Happy ending?

From this minimal outline, I’m sure you can tell I was not excited about these prompts. I also do not have a zero draft to share with you because I was rushing through this project so I could start thinking about puppies.

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I think Greenshirt was handsome once. Add back a nose, scrape off the rot, and he’d be a looker.

He’s normally speedy, but today he is standing in the middle of the street, swaying slightly. I pull out my sketchpad and my last pencil and start drawing. I give him a strong, Roman nose, and don’t draw any of the dead skin, or the clumps of Mrs.Talbot still stuck to his legs. I saw her when she left. Tried to wave and get her to go back in. She didn’t see me, but Greenshirt sure saw her.

I’m the only one left on the street now.

One by one, the neighbors have tried to leave. None of them have succeeded. Some were completely eaten. Others now walk the street, up one side and then down the other, a never-ending loop. Unless they smell fresh meat.

That’s me. I’m fresh meat.

It’s only a matter of time.

Greenshirt tilts his head as if he can feel me staring from the attic window. His shirt—one bright, maybe a golf shirt or something else respectable—is stained and torn. I keep sketching anyway.

It’s funny what your brain does when you are trapped. You’d think I’d spend my time planning an escape, but instead I draw the dead. My sketchpad is full of them now.

I shade in Greenshirt’s jawline. Give him dimples.

A breeze drifts through the broken window, bringing with it the slow, sweet smell of rot. It’s stronger today. Maybe more of them are wandering up from the next block. Or maybe Greenshirt is just getting riper.

I flip the page and start a second sketch, this one full-body. He stands like a drunk statue, knees loose, arms dangling. I erase the bite marks on his shoulder. Straighten his posture.

Greenshirt takes a step. Just one. His shoe drags across the asphalt.

My pencil hovers over the paper.

Normally they shuffle in their loops unless something pulls them off course. A smell. A noise. Movement.

I stay very still, watching through the crack in the curtains. After a moment, he stops again. The wind ruffles his shirt. False alarm.

I go back to shading.

“You were probably popular with the ladies. Nice hair, good teeth.”

That’s the thing that creeps me out the most about Greenshirt. His teeth are still white and perfect in a mouth that shouldn’t be able to move. He does it now. Clack. Clack. His jaw working at nothing. The sound carries in the quiet street. There are no more cars or lawnmowers or music. Just Greenshirt’s teeth.

I finish the sketch. The version of him that existed before all this. The version where he’s standing straight, smiling slightly, dimples deep, shirt clean and tucked in.

Handsome once. Maybe still, if I squint.

I finished my last can of peaches yesterday.

I searched the house from top to bottom.

There’s nothing left.

I even checked Dad’s study. There was a wooden box with a velvet lining. Inside, big, fat, expensive-looking cigars. Dad never smoked a day in his life—neither have I—but it was a gift, and he saved it for a special occasion that never came.

I pick one up and roll it in my fingers. It smells warm and earthy and reminds me of camping.

Clack.

There was a little cutter in the box, and I cut the cigar the way I’ve seen in movies. I stick it between my lips and strike one of my last matches. The flame flares bright in the dim room. I puff until the end glows orange. The smoke is thick and bitter and makes my eyes water. I cough and wave the smoke away. I stand, pulling the curtain back.

Clack.

Greenshirt’s head swivels first, then his shoulder, then the rest of him follows. He stares straight up at me. Our eyes meet.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then he takes a step towards the house.

Towards me.

My heart starts pounding, but I grab my sketchbook and flip to the next page.

“Hold that,” I whisper, already drawing again as the cigar burns slowly between my fingers. “That’s a good pose.”

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I am writing a short story every week in 2026, and last week I wrote A Wrong Turn.

Here is the outline:

Some conservation event near a forest.

Politician who does not care about the environment.

Police show up.

Political flees into the woods. Make it creepy like when you were a kid and alone in the woods.

Runs away, right into the police.

Zero Draft:

Senator Arthur Douglas stood at the trailhead, tugging at the waistband of his corduroy trousers. They had a ridiculous amount of pockets, and were brand new. His campaign advisor had insisted.

“You want rugged,” she’d said. “Voters love a rugged man in the forest.”

Arthur had smiled for the cameras, shaken hands with hikers, and delivered a speech about conservation he hadn’t written, and didn’t remember.

Now the cameras were gone, and per his campaign advisor, the investigators were coming. She told him to wait.

The ancient forest loomed ahead of him, silent and dim beneath a ceiling of towering trees. The path disappeared into a green shadow that smelled of damp earth and old leaves.

Perfect.

He stepped inside.

The first mile was easy enough. The trail was narrow but clear, the ground soft beneath his polished boots.

Arthur checked his phone.

No signal.

He kept walking.

Behind him, somewhere beyond the trees, sirens echoed faintly.

“They’ll never find me,” he muttered.

At first he thought it was just the breeze. Leaves rubbing together, branches creaking, the usual sounds. But then he heard something else.

Words.

“The river contract…”

Arthur stopped.

“Three million…” The voice was almost indistinguishable from the wrestling leaves.”

Arthur spun around. “Who’s there?”

He turned in a slow circle. “Hello?”

The forest breathed quietly around him.

Arthur walked faster.

The trail twisted deeper into the trees. The light dinned as the canopy thickened, turning the afternoon into a gray-green twilight.

“Rezoning approval…”

Arthur wiped sweat from his forehead. No one was saying anything, it was all in his head. “Everyone does it.”

Trees creaked.

Arthur turned sharply. There was no one there. He looked up, he looked down. The knees of his dark green pans were damp now, from brushing past fallen logs and ferns. The color seemed darker than before. Arthur stumbled over a root. The forest floor rose and dipped like waves. When he surfaced, the path was gone.

Arthur pushed through a wall of ferns and stepped into a clearing. The air was stagnant.

The ground beneath him shifted, as if something underneath had breathed.

“The wetlands…”

“That project created jobs.”

Roots surfaced through the soil around the clearing like knuckles pushing up through skin.

“Protected forest…”

Arthur’s voice rose. “Everyone does it!”

“Six signatures..”

Arthur stumbled backward and tripped over a tree root. He hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. “You can’t prove that.”

From come where far below the clearing came a slow, grinding sound.

“Who’s there?”

The sound intensified.

Arthur scrambled to his feet and ran. He plunged back into the trees, crashing through ferns and branches. Twigs snapped under his boots, his breath came in ragged bursts. Trees seemed to pulse, to move. Branches Aurther had bee sure were several feet away, grabbed at him.

Arthur skidded down a small slope and nearly rolled down a steep embankment. Below, the river was dark and churning.

He spun and ran in the opposite direction. The trees were thicker. The trail was gone. Every direction he turned to looked the same. Endless trunks rising into dim green light. His legs burned, his lungs screamed.

“Six signatures…”

Arthur tripped again and fell to his knees. “Every one does it.”

“Senetor Douglas?”

Arthur slowly turned his head.

A figure stood between the trees. Two figures, actually. Then three. Their dark Jackets caught glints of gray light.

Badges.

Arthur padded his many pockets, looking for his phone

One of then stepped forward, holding out leather-bound credentials. “Federal investigators. You’re under arrest.”

Arthur blinked. They were on a path, a clear trail that couldn’t have been there before. Behind the agents, red and blue lights flickered through the trees.

Arthur looked around. The forest was lighter, there were no reaching branches, no voices. Just trees in the fading afternoon light.

“Are you alright, Senator?”

“I think…” Arthur said, “I took a wrong turn.”

You can read the final version of this story here:

If you would like to know more about why I am writing a short story every week, you can read about it here:

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Senator Arthur Douglas stood at the trailhead, tugging at the waistband of his corduroy trousers. They had a ridiculous amount of pockets and were brand new. His campaign advisor, Mandy, had insisted.

“You want rugged,” she’d said. “Voters love a rugged man in the forest.”

Arthur had smiled for the cameras, shaken hands with hikers, and delivered a speech about conservation he hadn’t written and barely remembered.

Now the cameras were gone, and per his campaign advisor, the investigators were coming. She’d told him to wait and stepped away to make a call.

Trees, Arthur didn’t know what kind, loomed ahead of him. There was a path that disappeared into green shadows. He wrinkled his nose at the damp smell of earth and old leaves.

Arthur peered over his shoulder. Mindy—or maybe it was Melissa—had her back turned. He smiled and stepped past the first row of trees.

The first mile was easy enough. The trail was narrow but clear, the ground soft beneath his polished boots. Sunlight filtered through the branches in pale streaks that never quite reached the forest floor.

Arthur checked his phone.

No signal.

He kept walking.

Behind him, somewhere beyond the trees, sirens echoed faintly.

“They’ll never find me,” he muttered.

At first, he thought it was just the breeze. Leaves rubbing together. Branches creaking. The small shifting noises forests make, or at least the ones they made on TV. But then Arthur heard something else.

Words.

“The river contract…”

Arthur stopped.

“Three million…” The voice was almost indistinguishable from the rustling leaves.

Arthur spun around. “Who’s there?”

Nothing. Just trees.

He turned in a slow circle. “Hello?”

Nothing answered. Arthur chuckled and increased his speed.

The trail twisted deeper into the trees. The light dimmed as the canopy thickened, turning the afternoon into a gray-green twilight.

“Rezoning approval…”

Arthur wiped sweat from his forehead. No one was saying anything. It was just the wind. Just branches rubbing together. “Everyone does it.”

A long creak passed through the trees.

Arthur turned, but there was no one there. He looked up, only branches. He looked down, roots and mud and leaves. He needed to keep moving. The knees of his dark green pants were damp now, from brushing past fallen logs and ferns. The color seemed darker than before, and the damp parts clung painfully to his skin. Arthur stumbled over a root. The forest floor rose and dipped like waves. When he surfaced, the path was gone.

Arthur pushed through a wall of ferns and stepped into a clearing. The air was stagnant.

The ground beneath him shifted, as if something beneath the soil had taken a slow breath.

“The wetlands…”

Arthur swallowed. “That project created jobs.”

“Protected forest…”

“Everyone does it.”

“Six signatures…”

Arthur stumbled backward and tripped over a tree root. He hit the ground hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. “You can’t prove that.”

A branch snapped behind him.

“Who’s there?”

A creaking sound came from the opposite side of the clearing.

Arthur scrambled to his feet and ran. He plunged back into the trees, crashing through ferns and branches. The trees seemed to pulse, to move. Branches Arthur had been sure were several feet away, clawed at him. The arm of his jacket caught on something and tore.

Arthur skidded down a small slope and nearly rolled down a steep embankment. Below, the river churned, dark and swollen.

He spun and ran in the opposite direction. The trees were thicker. The trail was gone. Every direction he turned looked the same. Endless trunks rising into dim green light. His legs burned, his lungs screamed.

“Six signatures…”

Arthur tripped again and fell to his knees. “Everyone does it.”

“Senator Douglas?”

Arthur slowly turned his head.

A figure stood between the trees. Two figures, actually. Then three. Something on their dark jackets caught glints of gray light. Badges.

Arthur padded his many pockets, looking for his phone. He needed Michelle.

One of the figures stepped forward, holding out leather-bound credentials. “Federal investigators. You’re under arrest for fraud and illegal rezoning.”

Arthur blinked. They were standing on a clear trail. A wide, clear path that wasn’t there before. Behind the agents, red and blue lights flickered through the trees.

Arthur looked around. The forest was brighter. There were no reaching branches, no voices. Just trees in the fading afternoon light.

“Are you alright, Senator?”

“I think…” Arthur said, “I took a wrong turn.”

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Here is the outline:

Raymond, ninety-one, in a nursing home. Gets angry when “salad” comes in a small bag.

Complains to management about small bags of salad and they don’t care.

A volunteer from the local community held a writing workshop once a week. Raymond goes to class to compose a formal complaint letter.

Tiny bags of salad replaced with actual bowls.

Zero Draft:

At precisely 12:02 PM on a Tuesday, Raymond Dunsmuir—aged ninety-one, retired civil engineer, veteran of one war and two wives—slammed a small plastic bag onto the dining room manager’s desk.

“What is this?”

“It’s salad,” said Denise, who was twenty-three, held a degree in nutritional wellness, and had taken the job at Westwood Run Assisted Living because options one through six hadn’t panned out.

Raymond pinched the corner of the bag between two fingers. Inside, approximately six spinach leaves, one cherry tomato, and a pale carrot slice clung to the inside of the small bag with condensation. “

“It’s portion controlled.”

“At my age, I do not require portion control. I require lunch.

Westwood Run had recently pivoted to mindful servings. The small bags of salad reduced costs, food waste, and also Raymond’s will to live.

Raymond lifted the bag. “I’ve seen rations more generous than this.”

Denis offered him a sympathetic smile that suggested she had been trained specifically for salad complaints.

Raymond shoved the bag into his pocket.

Every Tuesday at 2:00 PM a volunteer from the local community held a writing workshop in the Sunflower room. Professor Gregg believed in the healing power of narrative. Attendance typically hovered around three. Ruth and Dottie were both working on memoirs, and Harold was working on a very strange science fiction epic that had something to do with ferrets.

All four of them looked up when Raymond entered the room.

Professor Gregg stood. “I’m so excited to see a new face. Welcome, we were just—”

“I need to compose a letter.”

“Wonderful. To a family member?”

“To management.”

“Oh, is your toilet clogged too?” asked Ruth.

“No,” said Raymond.

“It’s about the salad.”

“The salad?”

Raymond pulled the bag out of his pocket. “This tiny bag of salad. I have arthritis, I need to dictate.”

This class is really about—”

“You have two hands and that fancy little computer. You write it.”

Professor Gregg sat down and sighed. “Go ahead.”

“To the administrators of Westwood Run. It is with grave concern and moderate hunger that I write to you regarding what can only be described as caloric negligence.”

Harold put down his pen.

Rayomd continued. “On this day, I was presented with a transparent sachet containing foliage of such meager proportions that it might reasonably be classified as garnish. I am ninety-one years old. I have crossed oceans under fire. I have paid taxes since 1953. I did not survive both matrimonial and mortar shells to be provided with six measly spinach leaves.”

“Should this matter persist, I will be forced to consider more drastic options. I remind you that negligence in sustenance has historically led to mutiny.”

By Thursday, the dining hall had replaced the tiny bags of sala with actual bows. Plain white bows, but within, a generous helping of mixed greens, tomatoes, and the occasional olive.

The following Tuesday, the writing workshop had seventeen attendees. The memoirs and space ferrets were abandoned in favor of strongly worded correspondence regarding thermostat settings, pudding texture, and green bananas.

Sometimes revolutions begin with grand speeches or…. And sometimes, they begin with a ninety-one year old man and a tiny bag of salad that dared to call itself lunch.

At this point, I was very happy with the structure of the piece. The next step was to do a pass for prose, then one for grammar.

You can read the final version of this story here:

If you would like to know more about why I am writing a short story every week, you can read about it here:

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“What is this?”

“It’s salad,” said Denise, who was twenty-three, held a degree in nutritional wellness, and had taken the job at Westwood Run Assisted Living because options one through six hadn’t panned out.

Raymond pinched the corner of the bag between two fingers. Inside, approximately six spinach leaves, one cherry tomato, and a pale carrot slice clung to the inside of the small bag with condensation. “This isn’t even a bite.”

“It’s portion controlled.”

“At my age, I do not require portion control. I require lunch. And olives.”

Westwood Run had recently pivoted to mindful servings. The pivot had coincided with the untimely demise of the salad bar’s refrigeration unit. The small bags of salad reduced costs, food waste, and Raymond’s will to live.

Raymond lifted the bag. “I’ve seen rations more generous than this.”

Denise offered him a sympathetic smile that suggested she had been trained specifically for salad complaints.

Raymond shoved the bag into his pocket.

Every Tuesday at 2:00 PM, a professor from the local community college held a writing workshop in the east recreation room. Professor Gregg believed in the healing power of narrative and using the money earned from his eight different side hustles to pay his student loans. Attendance typically hovered around three students. Ruth and Dottie had both been working on memoirs for two years, and Harold was working on a very strange science fiction epic that had something to do with ferrets.

All four of them looked up when Raymond entered the room.

Professor Gregg stood. “I’m so excited to see a new face. Welcome, we were just—”

“I need to compose a letter.”

“Wonderful. To a family member?”

“To management.”

“Oh, is your toilet clogged too?” asked Ruth.

“No,” Raymond said. “It’s about the salad.”

“The salad?” asked Professor Gregg.

Raymond pulled the bag out of his pocket. “This tiny bag of salad. I want to lodge a formal complaint, but I have tendonitis, arthritis, and carpal tunnel. I need to dictate.”

“This class is really about—”

“You have two hands and that fancy little computer. You can type it out for me.”

Professor Gregg sighed. “Go ahead.”

“To the administrators of Westwood Run. It is with grave concern and moderate hunger that I write to you regarding what can only be described as caloric negligence.”

Harold scribbled down ‘caloric negligence’ on his yellow legal pad. The ferrets were in the middle of an uprising on the starship Rutabaga, and he needed a juicy tagline for their manifesto.

Raymond continued. “On this day, Tuesday the 24th of February, I was presented with a transparent sachet containing foliage of such meager proportions that it might reasonably be classified as garnish. This is unacceptable. I have paid taxes since 1952, and I did not survive both matrimony and mortar shells to be provided with six measly spinach leaves.”

Professor Gregg smiled and ceased typing. “Matrimony and mortar shells would be a wonderful title for a memoir, why don’t you come back next—”

Raymond raised his voice. “Should this matter persist, I will be forced to consider more drastic options. I remind you that negligence in sustenance has historically led to mutiny.”

“Are you sure you want—”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said Raymond. “I appreciate a timely resolution to this matter. Sincerely, Raymond C. Dunsmuir.”

That Thursday, the dining hall replaced the small bags of salad with actual bowls containing a generous helping of mixed greens, tomatoes, and the occasional olive. Denise personally made sure that Raymond’s bowl had not one, but three of the occasional olives.

The following Tuesday, the writing workshop had seventeen attendees. The memoirs and space ferrets were abandoned in favor of strongly worded correspondence regarding thermostat settings, pudding texture, and overcooked broccoli. Professor Gregg, who was paid based on how many residents attended his class happily typed out the grievances.

Raymond, having achieved what he set out to do, did not return to the writing workshop. He ate hearty, olive-laden salads every day with both lunch and dinner until he passed away peacefully in a hot-air balloon incident three years later.

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I spent two days working on the sad little outline below. I love reading mysteries, but have not written many, and struggled to come up with something that I could solve in a thousand words or so.

Here is the outline:

Actor discovers dead body, thinks it is part of the movie he is filming. Looks like a prop knife killed him.

Dead body (director or producer, someone important who upset a lot of people) is on or holding a painting.

Police are called and show up

At this point, I was still struggling, so I decided I would go with that very loose idea, and would try to pull things together with a compelling character.

Zero Draft:

I’ve played corpses before, three times on stage and once on a streaming drama I’d prefer not to name. I know the slack jaw, the careful sprawl of limbs, the theatrical spill of blood.

Geoffry Bell lay draped across the stained futon in my dressing room, one of the prop knives sticking out of his chest, a dark blood seeping out from around it.

Above Geoffry hung a large painting, a reproduction of The Death of Marat. Marat in his bath, pen in hand, eternally mid-assasination. Geoffry and two of the cast had bought it from a pawn shop down the street and superglued it to my wall after binge-watching the drama that shall not be named.

“Very funny.”

The producer didn’t move.

“Seriously Geoffry, I know you thought I could have done better yesterday, but this is excessive.”

I stepped closer. The blood was too dark, too thick, already drying at the edges.

Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Someone screamed. Within minutes, the theater—usually filled with pretend detectives—was crawling with the genuine article.

Detective Mara arrived ten minutes before we were meant to open. There was a lot of waiting around, and then I was brought back into the room. Luckily, Geoffry was gone.

“You found him?”

“Yes.”

“This is your dressing room?”

“Yes.”

“Who has access to it?”

“Everyone.”

“And did you touch Mr. Bell?”

“I didn’t touch him. But I don’t understand, it was just a prop knife.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I got stabbed with it eight times yesterday.”

“Don’t you usually have a real version of the props?”

“Yes, but there was a crack on the handle. It got dropped last week. That was definitely the prop.”

“And did Mr Bell visit your room frequently?”

I shook my head. “I think the last time he was here was to hang that.” I pointed to the painting.

The Detective stared at the painting. “And when was that?”

“Three days ago, maybe for. Geoffry and a couple of others found it at Stateline Pawn on Fifth St.”

“And why did they hang it here?”

I signed. “I play corpses, or people who get killed a lot. They thought it was funny.”

“You said it was glued?”

“Superglue apparently. I tried to pull it down and it wouldn’t budge.”

A young man wearing gloves ran his hand over the painting, and it rippled. His gloved fingers moved along the edge, revealing a gap. Someone had cut along the bottom of the painting.

“There was something in here.”

“You said this came from Stateline Pawn?”

I nodded.

“And who were the two cast members that purchased the painting with Mr. Bell”

“Kate and Mitch.”

Kate cracked first.

We were all told to remain in the theatre while statements were taken. The house lights were. The set looked cheap and tacky without an audience. I wasn’t sure if Detective Mara knew how well voices carried in the space. The half drawn curtain may have hide them frow view, but their voices were clear enough.

“They weren’t supposed to sell it.”

“Who wasn’t,” asked Detective Mara.

“The pawn shop. Mitch recognized the frame. He used to run errands for some guy. Just deliveries. Got paid in cash. He said they’d stash stuff in junk. Paintings, lamps, that kind of thing.

“What kind of junk?”

“I don’t know.”

Mitch, who was sitting in W54, bolted.

He made it halfway to the lobby before uniformed officers caught him. Actors are good at dramatic exits, but apparently not at outrunning the police.

By evening, the story was assembled neatly enough for closing night.

Someone had hidden cash in the hollow back of the painting. It was presumably meant to be picked up by some sort of criminal. Instead, three underpaid actors bought it for twenty dollars and a joke.

When Geoffry helped glue it to my wall, he must have felt something. He called Mitch immediately. If Mitch is to be believed, a man showed up at the stage door that afternoon asking about the painting. Geoffry panicked and refused to hand it over. The man had a knife.

I had died beautifully on that stage twenty-seven times to thunderous applause—my character is a horrible person—my face illuminated by soft stage lighting.

Geoffry died under fluorescent bulbs, alone, with only Marat for company.

No applause.

No curtain call.

Just the abrupt end of a scene.

I liked the basics of this, and I LOVED my unnamed actor, but at this point I realized I needed to get rid of the prop knife. The idea was great, but when I decided to have the killer be a man searching for his cash instead of Mitch—he just wasn’t murderer material—I knew an altered prop knife no longer made sense for the murder weapon.

Next steps were to remove the bits about the prop knife, add in more details, and then polish the grammar.

You can read the final version of this story here:

If you would like to know more about why I am writing a short story every week, you can read about it here:

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I’ve played corpses before, twenty-three times on stage and once on a streaming drama I’d prefer not to name. I know the slack jaw, the careful sprawl of limbs, the theatrical spill of blood.

Geoffry lay draped across the stained futon in my dressing room, a knife sticking out of his chest, dark blood seeping out from around it.

Above Geoffry hung a large painting, a reproduction of The Death of Marat. Marat in his bath, pen in hand, eternally mid-assassination. Geoffry and two of the cast bought it from a pawn shop down the street and superglued it to my wall after binge-watching the drama that shall not be named.

“Very funny.”

Geoffry didn’t move.

“I know you thought I could have done better yesterday, but this is excessive.”

I stepped closer. The blood was too dark, too thick, already drying at the edges.

Footsteps thundered down the corridor. Someone screamed. Within minutes, the theater—usually filled with pretend detectives—was crawling with the genuine article.

Detective Mara arrived ten minutes before we were meant to open. There was a lot of waiting around, and then I was brought back into the room. Geoffry was gone, a large stain in his place.

“Sit.”

I sat. In a chair, not on the futon.

“You found him?”

“Yes.”

“This is your dressing room?”

“Yes.”

“Who has access to it?”

“Everyone.”

“And did you touch Mr. Bell?”

“No.”

“And did Mr Bell visit your room frequently?”

“I think the last time he was here was to hang that.” I pointed to the painting.

The Detective stared at the unfortunate man in the bath. “And when was that?”

“Three days ago, maybe four. Geoffry and a couple of others found it at Stateline Pawn on Fifth St.”

“And why did they hang it here?”

I sighed. “I play corpses, or people who get killed a lot. They thought it was funny.”

“You said it was glued?”

“Superglue apparently. I tried to pull it down and it wouldn’t budge.”

A young man ran his hand over the painting, and it rippled. His gloved fingers moved along the edge, revealing a gap. Someone had cut along the bottom of the painting. “There was something in here.”

Mara leaned forward. “You said this came from Stateline Pawn?”

I nodded.

“And who were the two cast members that purchased the painting with Mr. Bell”

“Kate and Mitch.”

We were all told to remain in the theatre while statements were taken. The house lights were on. The set looked cheap and tacky without an audience. I wasn’t sure if Detective Mara knew how well voices carried in the space. The half drawn curtain may have hidden them from view, but their voices were clear enough.

“They weren’t supposed to sell it,” said Kate.

“Who wasn’t?” asked Detective Mara.

“The pawn shop. Mitch recognized the frame. He used to run errands for some guy. Just deliveries. Got paid in cash. He said they’d stash stuff in junk. Paintings, lamps, that kind of thing.”

“What were they hiding?”

“I don’t know.”

Mitch, who was sitting in seat W 54, bolted.

He made it halfway to the lobby before uniformed officers caught him. Actors are good at dramatic exits, but apparently not at outrunning the police.

By evening, the story was assembled neatly enough for closing night.

Someone had hidden cash in the hollow back of the painting. It was presumably meant to be picked up by some sort of criminal. Instead, three underpaid actors bought it for twenty dollars and a joke.

Mitch had gone back to check inside the painting, and Geoffry walked in. Mitch said he didn’t know what was in the painting, hadn’t opened it yet. In my humble opinion, he was lying. Mitch wasn’t a good actor. He stated he was arguing with Geoffry about what to do with the painting when a man with a knife showed up. Geoffry panicked and refused to hand it over. Mitch ran.

Whatever had happened, Geoffry was gone.

I had died beautifully on that stage twenty-seven times to thunderous applause—the character I played was a horrible person—my face illuminated by soft stage lighting.

Geoffry died under fluorescent bulbs, alone, with only Marat for company.

No applause.

Just the abrupt end of a scene.

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I always start with a rough outline, I find it gets rid of the scary blank page. Once I have all my beats laid out, I just need to flesh them out!

Here is the outline for The Fox:

Security guard in museum munching on orange chicken while reading employee handbook, there is a joke about a not real fox. Weird.

Said fox appears and steals orange chicken.

Wild chase through museum?

Something gets knocked over and damaged.

No one believes him about the fox, even upon seeing damage.

Once the outline is done, the next step is to flesh out each beat:

The museum was very clear about three things in the employee handbook:

Do not touch the exhibits.

Do not let anyone else touch the exhibits.

The fox is not real.

The first two rules made sense. The third one did not, because there was a fox staring at me from the Tutankhamun exhibit. When I first read the handbook, I assumed rule three was some inside joke I wasn’t in on.

I stared back at the fox.

I was eating orange chicken over fried rice, and a very real fox was in the museum.

The fox blinked.

I picked up my radio from the security desk. “Hey Jerry, I have a…situation.”

Static crackled. “Define situation.”

“There is a fox.”

“The fox isn’t real.”

“The fox is definitely real”

“Do not engage with the exhibit.”

“What? It’s not an exhibit, it’s a real, live fox.”

Static.

“Jerry?”

More static.

“Jerry? Are you there?”

The fox trotted towards me, paws silent on the polished floor. It didn’t take its eyes off my orange chicken as it slipped between velvet ropes and displays.

I considered my options.

Capture the fox and remove it from the museum

Protect the exhibits from the fox.

Protect myself and my orange chicken.

Yellow eyes met mine, then locked on the styrofoam container in my hand. I slowly closed the lid.

“You won’t even like this.”

An adorable chirp sounded.

“You’re a fox. Foxes do not eat orange chicken.”

The fox moved towards me.

“And even if you like it, it will probably give you diarrhea. It gives me diarrhea.”

I stood, knocking my chair back. “Come on. This was twenty-eight dollars with delivery.”

The fox leapt.

It hit my chest. I grabbed for the fox, but it was already bounding off, jaws stretched wide around the container.

Then the lid popped open.

Orange chicken arced through the air. Sauce spattered over a sign that stated DO NOT TOUCH.

The fox dropped the container and started eating.

I dove for it, terrified more of further food getting splattered over the exhibits than the teeth. I grabbed the container while the fox was chewing, only a pitiful amount of fried rice remaining.

The fox swallowed, then growled.

I stood.

Tall fluffy ears flattened against a fluffy head. Teeth flashed.

I slowly placed the container back on the ground and pushed it towards the fox. It returned to hoovering the food.

Above us, one of the security cameras moves.

“I’m going to be in so much trouble.”

The fox yawned again, then trotted past me, disappearing into the dark depths of the Egyptian wing.

My radio crackled.

“Everything okay?” Jerry asked.

I look around. There was orange sauce splattered everywhere.

“The fox…it…”

“The fox isn’t real.”

“But—”

“Just wait there, I’ll bring a mop.”

Tomorrow, the handbook would still state the fox wasn’t real. I won’t argue over its existence. But I would start ordering extra to leave outside the locked door to the security booth when I ate.

At this point, I was happy with the structure and did some fine tuning to create the final story (linked above).

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