I used to write short stories. And really, as a poet, I still do. I love narrative poetry because I am actually still writing a short story, it’s just that it’s in verse form. It satisfies my need for instant gratification because once I latch onto an idea, I can turn out a poem pretty quick.
However, once upon a time not long ago, I wrote short stories. I only really stopped because I get lazy and sometimes I don’t feel like putting in all the effort needed to write a good short story–it can be time-consuming, and life being what it is, I just don’t always have the time to write something longer and more detailed. So I shrug my shoulders and move on…
Having said that, I do want to share one of my favorite short stories I wrote a couple of years ago. The story was based on a prompt: we had to write about a camera (1K words max). I was part of an online writing group at the time, and I was friends with the judge who came up with the prompt. I know for a fact that he came up with that prompt just to needle me, (I was frustrated by the lack of “quality” prompts) but I got the last laugh because I came up with a fun short story, if I do say so myself.
The only thing though is that I could never come up with a title for this story. Bums me out to this day, because I really do love this little tale. So I had this idea to share it with you: maybe you have a suggestion for a title? If so, please be sure to leave it in the comments!
Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy it! 🙂
EM
Untitled
The old man told me he wanted me to write a story about a camera—and a scary story at that. Fuckin’-A, I told him. Who ever heard of such a thing: a scary camera? Was he kidding?
He looked me dead in the eye and told me no, he wasn’t kidding, and if I didn’t like it, I could always find another job with another magazine—he was pretty sure that editors from other horror anthologies were just lined up outside my door just waiting to nab a talent like me.
I wanted to tell him to fuck off and ram this shit writing job right up his ass, but it hadn’t even been two hours when I’d heard from the landlord, bitchin’ about an eviction or some shit. I could still hear his shrill little voice in my head screaming about late rent and fees, and as I looked at the big boss, I nodded sullenly and went back to my cubbyhole to write.
A fucking camera. Good grief. Who came up with this shit? I thought to myself as I settled into my chair. My desk was nothing but mounds and mounds of paper: stories and articles for edit and review; correspondence and manuscripts from lowly, two-bit writers who would never have a chance (not if I had my say), empty plastic bottles of vodka disguised as mineral water; bills, bills, and more bills. Old sandwich wrappers from a million lunches eaten at this desk dotted the desk in worn color, and some half-chewed candy bars poked out from underneath the various stacks, remnants of snack times long gone. Center to it all was my old computer, dusty and drab, a dinosaur by today’s standards, but it was only five years old. Certainly, it had been with me longer than any of the girls I had dated of late, and frankly, I had more affection for it than them.
I tapped the keyboard, and within a moment, I had a Word document open, and was idly typing nonsense onto the screen: It was a Polaroid Sun-Dog instant camera…no, no, wait a minute, that wasn’t any good. That was from a Stephen King novel I read once. I shook my head, pressed the backspace key, and started again. With a click of the button, it sucked the soul right out of the subject—for Pete’s sake, could that have been any more obvious?
The more I tried to write, the worse it got. One stupid cliché after another. One borrowed idea after the next. My head began to pound and in frustration, I began searching the vodka-water bottles for a little something-something to take the edge off when suddenly, the phone rang.
“Grant,” I snarled.
“Congratulations!” an automated voice on the other end responded. “Your number was randomly selected by our system to receive a prize—“
Just as I got ready to hang up, the voice said: “Do not hang up. At least wait until you hear what you’ve won, Grant.”
That the automated voice knew my name made me stop. “Hello?”
“You’ve won a Nikon Coolpix digital camera!”
I sat back in my chair. “Is this a joke?”
“Not at all, Grant. This is your lucky day!”
I straightened, my search for drink completely forgotten. “Who is this? This isn’t a machine!”
The voice barreled on, oblivious to my protestations. “Now you can capture every dark, miserable, crappy moment in your life! Got a sucky boss? Take a picture of him! Got a crap landlord? Take a picture of him! A tiny office? A shitty desk? A fucked-up love life? Capture it all on pristine, sharp, digital film!”
I looked around the office to see who the prankster was, but even with a quick glance, it wasn’t hard to count all the employees as present and busy. No one was pranking me, at least not here in the office.
“Who the fuck is this?” I lowered my voice, growling. “What do you know about me and my life?”
“Take a picture of it all, Grant. Everything that you despise, everything that’s making you miserable, everything that is robbing you of the happiness that you deserve. Snap a photo, and when you’re done looking at your memories, just delete them. Delete them all.”
What did that mean, take a picture and then delete it? Like, delete a facet of my life that I didn’t like? Like, get rid of it? Destroy it?
Something began to pierce my thoughts. Was it possible?
The automated voice was ever chirper, ever stilted, and it disturbed me. “Your prize will be delivered to you shortly, Grant! Be sure to sign for it!”
The call was winding down. “Wait a minute!” I cried. “Who is this? When will it be delivere—“
The line went dead. I pulled the phone from my ear, my mind reeling, when I heard someone call my name.
“Grant Holder! Delivery for Grant Holder!”
A UPS man in the iconic brown uniform was on the floor, a package in hand, and a touchpad in the other. Smitty, the office manager, was pointing him in my general direction. Over there, he mouthed.
The UPS man brought me the package. “You Grant Holder?” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “Delivery for you.” I signed the electronic clipboard, and before I knew it, he was gone and I held a package in my hands.
I decided to open it in the restroom where I could have a modicum of privacy. I tore the paper from the box to reveal the camera: a Nikon Coolpix, as promised. I decided to test it, to see if it worked. I held the camera up, and extending it away from me at arm’s length, I took a picture of myself. Then I flipped the camera over to regard the image on the screen: the bags under my eyes were jet black, the second chin had at some point become a third; my thin, greasy hair was even thinner and greasier than I remembered. I felt sick and thought I would gag.
There were a lot of things in this life that were making me miserable: the job, the booze, the women. But looking at that picture, seeing the horror of my physical appearance, I knew the heart of my misery was the only the contempt I had for myself.
Suddenly, in my head, I heard the automated voice: “Take a picture of it and delete it! Delete it all!”
And without thinking, without hesitation, I hit delete.
Elizabeth Michaud 