One more short story. Hello and thank you for
joining us on episode 9 of One More Short Story,
the Writing Battle mini audiobook podcast. I'm
looking forward to sharing four stories with
you today. in keeping with recent episodes we
are using the writing battle class system this
episode is centered around the barbarian class
now that doesn't mean there's going to be lots
of descriptions of massive muscly mostly naked
hairy men although you know if you're into that
that's fine there's no judgment here whatsoever
it does mean the episode is focused on dystopian
post -apocalyptic stories that sort of thing
and we've got four four little treats here say
little three of them are a thousand words one
of them's 500 words anyone that's written those
to a deadline knows that that's not little at
all and it's a real skill to be able to trim
a story down into sort of flash fiction length
as you might expect from stories of this type
there are some depictions of violence In all
the stories, except for First Aid, there's violence
towards people. There's violence towards animals.
And yeah, I don't want to get into a big debate
or dialogue about content warnings. I can absolutely
see that some people need a sort of a heads up,
watch out for this. But I will just say, you
know, tread warily if the depictions of violence
are not for you and are not going to be something
that are going to make your day any better. First
up, we have got Dead or Alivened by Jessie Locatelli.
This was in the recent Fear Battle and contains
a really, really good use of the prompts, actually.
Prompts are often the subject of debate on the
forum, but hey, they're there for a reason. And
Jessie's done a top job here. She had Dystopia,
Compass and Mourner. and has done some lovely
stuff here. So, without further ado, narrated
by S .B. Anthony, here is Dead or Alive and by
Jesse Locatelli. I didn't know the woman standing
in front of me. Sure, she had the same features
as Mom. Sharp, like a raven with a secret. She
had the same laugh as Mom. like a pot of pasta
water bubbling on the stove. She even moved the
same, and her eyes crinkled at the edges, just
like Mom. Except she wasn't Mom. Mom died yesterday.
My Stacia! She leaned forward to look into my
eyes, close and concerned, like the time I fell
off the garden wall when I was six. Why aren't
you smiling? I can't even tell I died. Fear and
relief battled until they compromised in a half
smile. My face doesn't know what to do with itself.
Here's the thing. Not being a believer made you
a mourner. And mourners are traitors. And traitors
are re -educated. Before mom died, and they slipped
a note and a silver compass into my pocket. The
mourners, as an organized group, were only half
real to me. Guess they thought I was scared and
angry enough to safely recruit, as I fled a failed
protest with Mom's blood staining my mask. I
opened my arms to accept not Mom's hug. She pulled
me into a bosom that smelled like strawberry
cupcakes. Just like mom made whenever I cried
about my friend Joyce being aliven after her
family tried to leave the city. For the first
time in my life, I wanted to believe. I wanted
to return to butterfly kisses and laughter on
the hammock. But aliven? were not the people
they replaced. Mom knew. Someone she had loved
once had been alive in. Why are you crying then,
my sweet? Not Mom said. There's no need to grieve
me. Right. Because no death meant no mourning,
and no mourning meant no grief, and no grief
meant... No scream crying into a pillow because
you'd never hear pasta water laughter again.
How could I grieve someone while she pets my
hair and hums lullabies I grew up with? I'm crying
because I'm so happy you're alive, I lied. One
of mom's honey -colored eyes had burst from her
skull in a splurt of bloody jelly right onto
my face. She wasn't alive. Why don't we bake
something and put all this behind us? Not mom
said. Strawberry cupcakes? Just like my birthday.
I hoped I looked excited enough. If I was sent
for re -education while the mourner's letter
sat in my pocket, I wouldn't come home the next
day. Some soulless alive into wood. It's funny.
You hated strawberries before your seventh birthday.
Not Mom laughed. We spent the evening pretending
life was normal, mashing strawberries until they
turned to jelly like the sludge Mom's eye left
behind. We mixed batter and scooped it into a
tin until it filled the cup like a pink little
brain we created to replace the one splattered
on the sidewalk. It was an eternity. where not
-mom went to bed. She wanted to sit on the hammock
and reminisce like everything was fine. Before
she died, mom taught me to sneak around the city.
If not -mom was really her, she would have caught
me before I unclasped the latch. She didn't.
As soon as the door closed behind me, I re -read
the note. The compass will disable the cameras
and barriers as it points you to us. We'll meet
you where the arrow shines blue and take you
to our camp. The mourners. Lines of surveillance
cameras installed by the ministry to ensure everyone
commuted in an orderly manner scanned the empty
streets in front of me. Here goes nothing. I
place the compass on my palm. and let it guide
me with a glowing golden arrow. It pointed to
the right. The first camera twitched in my direction,
then twisted to film the empty corner opposite
of me. Not a single camera turned my way as I
escaped through a barrier at the city's edge.
I wove through the trees and stopped in a clearing
when sparks danced over the surface of the compass
like a spiderweb. The arrow glowed pale blue.
A man with a graying beard and hair sprang up
from the trees like a ragged and starved squirrel.
I stumbled backwards, covering my mouth. His
clothes were rough -spun and natural, rather
than the stiff uniforms I'd grown up with. Apparently,
outside the city, things were allowed to be disorderly.
What would that freedom feel like? Here for the
mourners. He gestured to the compass. I'm Mick.
Stacia. I tried to reconcile him with the rebel
mourners Mom whispered about. Good to meet you.
Shame about your mom, he said. She was one of
our first undercover agents in the city. She
was a mourner? I shouldn't have been surprised.
We'd spent so much time sneaking around cameras,
defacing the ministry. I didn't realize that
was mourner business. Yup, Mick said. Showed
up about ten years ago. furious, alive and weren't
real. He bowed his head in quiet respect. She
had a good run. No one else had given me the
space to mourn. Thank you. I started forward,
ready to go. One last check. He stopped me. Can't
accidentally bring an alive in back, hmm? Can't
have those things living with us. I'm sure you
understand after. I nodded mutely. He pulled
a handheld device from his satchel that flashed
a light in both my eyes. I barely breathed. It
beeped. That's good, right? His lips twitched
into a half smile. Stacia. He lowered the device.
What? I'm so sorry. Mick raised a gun. The barrel
was dark and empty as not mom's eyes. Scanner
says you died 10 years ago. I didn't. I started
to argue. I'd know if I was soulless like the
Alive End. I'd learned to spot them at the Alive
Ending protest mom took me to after I fell from
the garden wall 10 years ago. Mom was home. Maybe
I could have had butterfly kisses and laughter
in the hammock if only the gun's safety clicked
off. We'll mourn you like you should have been
mourned back then. I did warn you. I did warn
you this was about dystopian or post -apocalyptic
stuff. But wow. That was... That was quite something,
Jesse. Thank you for that. And very, very well
narrated by S .B. Anthony there. Thank you. It's
one of those stories where if you go back and
listen to it or read it again, you realise what
a great job the author's done in weaving stuff
in. Little breadcrumbs, little treats, little
hints, that when you read it again, you not only
enjoy the story in different levels, but it helps
the reader feel a bit clever. That's always fun.
That's always good. It's a very strong piece
and it took the runner -up position in the entire
dystopia genre. It did extremely well and I hope
Jesse is pleased with herself about this story
because you absolutely should be. Next up we
have got Circus Terribler by Nova Sommers. This
was also in the fear battle with the dystopia
genre and Nova had dystopia, clown and shield
as her prompts. this story as well as mentions
of violence does contain uh mentions of violence
against an animal which you know that's not something
i i relish or run out and want to to go and look
at explicitly but i tell you what it it is absolutely
necessary to this story and and this is a heck
of a piece of writing so so buckle up uh this
is circus terrible by nova somers and that's
narrated by maverick jones When I was little,
I would leave behind something small in every
town we passed through. A toy soldier, a penny,
a string of plastic beads from the carnival midway,
tiny monuments buried in the holes from our tent
poles. I imagined future anthropologists brushing
back the earth, puzzling over a forgotten civilization's
trinkets. Someone was here. i was here now in
the drained marshlands that were once the florida
everglades i kneel beside an elephant taking
her last breaths and think again about our legacy
shell casings bones the animal's flank heaves
and her bullet -ridden flesh shivers she stopped
answering to her circus name long ago Opting
to do as she pleased. But I whisper it to her
now. Mara, don't die. They say elephants never
forget. Our camp occupies a former sanctuary
for retired circus animals. A big top tense rotted
wooden ribs jut from the mud like fossils. People
here live off scavenged food. and whatever the
swamp gives back. We stopped wondering if we
will ever cross borders again to bestow a few
hours of forgetting upon the occupied villages
between here and Canada. Mara pulled our carts
and cleared trees in the camp. She guarded the
children when drones passed overhead, tucking
them beneath her body like a hen shielding her
chicks from a raptor. We fed and protected her
in return. when she staggered to camp to -night
and collapsed the earth shook the sound of motor
-bike engines reaches us from the road titus
all in black leather has come to claim his prey
mara's carcass can feed his small posse for a
month and they'll trade the surplus meat in ivory
in the ring titus always wore red suspenders
and a grin so wide it made people look away When
the circus collapsed, he kept the makeup, but
lost the gags. He ruled over his group of scavengers,
hoarding spoils taken from various settlements,
including ours. As the moon rises, he stands
over Mara's body, haloed by the motorbike's headlamps.
Stupid animal, he scoffs, pointing his rifle
towards the ground and resting his arm on it.
He had ambushed her from the road as she bathed
in the pond. A quarter mile from camp, the pop,
pop, pop of the shots resounded, and I knew.
Next, we heard and saw our bloody giant crashing
toward camp, her head swinging low as she weakened.
We were powerless. I keep my eyes on Mara and
say nothing to Titus. We've all seen the endless
cruelty he's capable of. He notices a tin shield
leaned against a tent post. an old prop painted
with an elephant beneath three stars in a circus
act titus cracked a whip at me while i hid behind
that shield and the crowd gasped now we use it
to collect water he tilts his head amused won't
save you now he says grinning when night comes
titus and his men pitch tents near the generator
In the morning, they plan to dismember their
trophy and haul her away in pieces. People shelter
in their caravans, outgunned and afraid. I keep
vigil beside Mata's body. The shield lies near
the tip of her trunk, where the children attempted
to get her to drink. Fog rolls in, blanketing
the camp. I fetch two jerry cans from the supply
hut and carry them back through the mud. My knees
shake, and I feel the old pain in my wrist from
when I missed a cue during a performance, and
Titus grabbed me harder than he needed to. He'll
get rich selling Mara off by the pound. I won't
let that happen. The gasoline spills and shining
arcs across her body. Fumes sting my nostrils.
I work frantically, cutting deep gashes with
my machete so the fuel can reach inside. The
blade makes a sound like wet, rasping breath.
I think of pointed tent stakes again, of burying
pennies in soft earth. Every stroke feels like
a violent protest against what we've been reduced
to. Behind me, Titus shouts. He strides over,
gun pointed. Two of his men are behind him. I
raise the shield without thinking. Muscle memory.
A bullet glances off with the sound of a church
bell. Then the night goes silent, except for
the hum of the generator. I strike my Zippo,
and the men back away, watching the standoff.
Me with the flame, Titus with his gun. If he
shoots, I'll drop the lighter on Mara's gas -soaked
body. No, he says, desperate to save his goldmine,
his cash cow. The fire catches faster than I
imagined. For a moment, Mara is pure light, terrible
and holy. A mountain becoming a star. The heat
drives us backward. Titus's makeup accentuates
his angry grimace. He regains footing and fumbles
with his gun. that's when i fling the last liters
of gasoline onto him moving with deft ballerina
steps that are second nature to me daughter of
two trapeze artists flames leap from mara onto
her murderer instead of watching him flail and
burn i follow the smoke as it curls upward like
a signal an ephemeral story told to the stars
by morning the swamp is quiet except for the
patter of light rain the men departed in the
night happy to be free from their cruel leader
i find the shield in the ashes warped but still
whole i place it beside mara's charred skull
i dig a small hole in the dirt from my pocket
i pull a useless coin a toy soldier missing an
arm and a bead the color of dried blood i want
to believe memory is a kind of shield that by
remembering we protect what matters from being
eaten up by the world we find small ways to leave
our mark i press mud over the objects and imagine
the future when students or scholars or machines
will find this hoard and wonder what kind of
people we were. Well, if you're anything like
me, that story took you on something of an emotional
rollercoaster where you were right there with
Mara the elephant and brewing the awful stuff
that humanity is capable of and then skip forward
a few paragraphs and we've got... Titus getting
his just desserts he's a really hateable character
and that's a good thing it's very well written
indeed again some wonderful wonderful prose in
that story and one of the many things I enjoyed
in that story was the bookends at the beginning
and the end about hiding little artifacts in
the dirt in the mud so that people who come after
us can find those things and wonder what we might
have been like as people. That got all the way
to The Ferocious Four, a semi -finalist in that
contest. Now, I should add that I'm not just
looking for stories that get to the final or
the semi -final. I've got a huge variety of stories
on the cards, both for future episodes and also
in the back catalogue if you've only just started
listening. One thing you'll pick up very quickly,
if you haven't picked it up already, is that
within the world of writing battle, the quality
of the stories all around is is very high yeah
you'll see you'll see stories like the ones we've
got today that have got quite far in the competition
and deservedly so and then you'll come across
other stories in your own reading or through
friends or friends of friends that you look at
and just think that is exceptional how has it
not got further this is the nature of something
that's judged by by many many people it's it's
going to happen that way and the quality of the
stories is what we should be focusing on Obviously,
it's easy for me to sit here and say that. And
I may not be quite so stoic about it when it's
my own stories up against the judges and their
particular opinions one way or the other. Unless
you voted for mine, in which case, of course,
you are the best judges on the face of the earth.
Moving on, we have Step Lightly by Elmira Olsen.
So step lightly we're rewinding a bit to the
spring battle from last year and the genre was
apocalyptic game show which as you can imagine
brought out a huge variety of fantastic stories.
This one really it does something special with
with the idea of an apocalyptic game show and
I don't I don't want to give away the goods now
because it's not fair on Elmira it's a great
story. So we had 500 word story with apocalyptic
game show and the other prompts were limousine
and prisoner. And this is read by Rebecca Lynn.
So we have Step Lightly by Elmira Olsen, narrated
by Rebecca Lynn. I teetered precariously on a
large log that rolled in churning water as fragments
of a song floated through my head. That's how
the log rider learns to step lightly. My brother,
David, always loved that song. When we were little,
he begged me to sing it over and over. He was
my motivation. I played this game for him. A
guard fired a warning shot and I leapt to the
next log. Agonized cries filled the air, but
I ignored everyone else and concentrated. An
alligator snapped at my leg and I jumped again.
landing on a huge snapping turtle, then pushed
off before it sank. I dive -rolled onto the bank.
I was through. I rushed to the finish line and
collapsed. The announcer's voice reverberated.
The first of the contestants has made her way
through. Will she survive tomorrow? The crowd
cheered. He announced the success of two more
players. I covered my ears while gunshots cut
short the screams of the rest. The top three
had made it. I had made it. Tomorrow was the
final game. I limped to the waiting limousine
and threw myself inside, where the other survivors
and I were separated and handcuffed. Soon we
were back in our cells, the prison echoing in
silence. The games had started with 500 participants.
First came Space Invaders. The falling grenades
decimated our numbers. Then the ghosts and Pac
-Man, armed guards draped in sheets, had taken
out many of the remaining eighty. And today,
after Frogger, we were down to the final three.
Settled on my thin mattress, every muscle in
my body trembled with exhaustion. I retrieved
the weapon I'd kept in reserve for the final,
then traced my fingers along the name carved
into the cement wall. David. For him, I could
survive one more day. This was the last prison
in existence. When it reached capacity, the games
began, making room for the next batch of prisoners.
Winners were pardoned and given a million dollars.
Desperate people committed crimes just for a
chance to play the games. So many of us were
starving in the wake of the collapse, and a 1
in 500 chance at a fortune didn't seem that bad.
But the reality was horrifying. The games were
barbaric and needed to end. The next day was
a blur. Breakfast in the empty cafeteria, the
limo back to the arena. Then rolling barrels,
screeching primates, and endless ladders. But
I made it to the top and won. Sweaty and bruised,
I dragged myself to the grandstand on a broken
ankle. Jeers swept across the elite crowd, a
vicious mob who didn't care that thousands had
died for their entertainment. The leader stepped
from his balcony, bringing a gold medal. But
I wasn't here for useless trophies. As I approached,
recognition sparked in his eyes, then fear as
I shivved my brother with the sharpened toothbrush
I'd saved just for him. David, creator of the
games, was finally dead. Wow, there we are. David.
David got what was coming to him. I've always
enjoyed stories that are sort of post -apocalyptic
or dystopian and just a bit bleak and pushing
that idea of what humanity can do. So one of
the many things I enjoyed about that was the
old school video game stuff. So yeah, Space Invaders,
The Frogger. And the lovely stuff at the end
with Donkey Kong. Barrels and screeching primates
and stuff. I really enjoyed that. Darkly comedic.
And, you know, things like Squid Game. You've
got the dystopian stuff there. But then also,
it didn't take too long for people to start making
real life, non -lethal versions of these games
or sorts of games. And stories like this have
been around for a while, right? We have the Running
Man. battle royale various things of that nature
how much would it take to get human beings to
knock something like this up I don't think I
want to know the answer to that question if I'm
being totally honest but yeah really really lovely
stuff from Elmira and very well read by Rebecca
that song at the beginning that Rebecca gave
us a little excerpt from that's how the log rider
learns to tread lightly that is a real song That
is a real song. Elmira did not just make it up.
Although I would have no issue if she did, that's
okay. But it's a real song. I learned something
new when I found that out. This story got to
the Thrilling 32, so top 32 writers out of hundreds
and hundreds of people having a crack at the
apocalyptic game show genre. Well done, Elmira.
Finally today, we have First Aid by Megan Griffo.
and this was also from the dystopia genre in
the fear battle you can critique me heavily for
my lack of imagination in which genres i'm going
for but you know it's a dystopian and apocalyptic
themed episode these stories are brilliant and
lots of them were in the same genre in one battle
i'm okay with that i will sleep soundly having
made that decision first aid the prompts that
megan had to work with were dystopia paramedic,
and metronome. It's narrated by Regan Westergaard,
and just like all our narrators, I'm very pleased
with what she's done here. I won't spoil First
Aid for you. I hope you enjoy it. I absolutely
did. Here is First Aid by Megan Griffo, narrated
by Regan Westergaard. When I was nine, I slid
a thick book off my father's desk. Anatomy of
a heart. Enamored by its covers, blues and reds,
I sat on the floor for hours, sounding out foreign
words. When my father came home, he found me
crying. Is it true our hearts can stop? I asked,
curled in his lap, my ear against his chest.
Yes. He never lied to me. But sometimes we can
bring them back to life. How? He looked around,
then pulled a metronome from his shelf. Lie down,
he said. I'll show you. When it was my turn to
practice soft compressions on him, I froze. I
didn't like seeing him even feign helplessness.
If you get scared, focus on the tempo, he said,
tapping my knee to the metronome. Block everything
else out. What if I don't have one when I need
it? I asked. What if I can't save you? You can
make one in your head, V. he said. You can even
save me with your own music. Of course, when
they came for him, no melody could ward them
off. By then I was nineteen, and we'd prepared
as much as we could. The new orders had been
in place for five years. Guards ravaged our apartment,
collecting piles of medicine my father had been
stealing from his ambulance. I pressed my tongue
against my teeth. You can't scream when it happens,
he'd told me. Act clueless. Act like I repulse
you. What will happen to you? I'll be okay, he
said. I knew this couldn't be true, but I believed
him anyway. While two guards punched holes in
our walls looking for secret stashes, another
recited the charges. You're under arrest for
providing unauthorized medical care to individuals
whose bodies have been deemed irreparable. It
was odd. They'd burst in with such force, violent
energy dripping off their uniforms. But I could
see, even from feet away, how this guard handled
my father with care, almost massaging his wrists
as he cuffed him. While his colleagues shattered
our belongings, his eyes drifted to my feet,
which I'd planted over a jagged tile that opened
up to the underground passageway where we did
our drop -offs, and enough medication to get
our patients through the next two months. He
said nothing. Is it true our hearts can stop?
I swore mine did as they ushered my father out
the door. I swore mine slipped right out of my
body, left a stain on our egg -white floors,
left me without a tempo to follow. Most rebel
paramedics had their homes raided too, so I rationed
our supply, unsure what I'd do when I ran out.
The desperation in my patients' voices grew stronger.
I became a Rolodex of medical jargon. Ehlers
-Danlos, schizoaffective, diabetes, epilepsy,
bipolar, rent. In bed, I'd list off medications
trying to drown out nightmares. Gabapentin, insulin,
olanzapine. Father, where are you? Four months
in, when the gentle guard reappeared, I knew
it was over. Routine follow -up, he said. to
make sure we didn't miss anything. Right, I conceded.
His eyes scanned the room. Well, looks orderly.
He reached under his jacket, unclipped a fanny
pack, and handed it to me. So long, he said,
and left before I could reply. I let my body
settle, then unzipped the bag and turned it over.
Pill bottles fell to the floor. Every few months,
he'd return, perform his script, and leave. I
felt like a stray cat waiting to be trapped,
but unable to resist food I didn't have to hunt.
One day, though, as he handed off contraband,
my grip weakened. The bag fell to my feet. How
long have you had that tremor? he asked. Don't
have a tremor, I said. After all this time, you
still don't trust me? I don't know you, I said.
So, no. My name's Niall. Doesn't matter, I said.
You're one of them. I'm not, he said. I flicked
the badge on his chest. It's how I'm surviving,
he said. Is this supposed to clear your conscience
or something? Kinda hostile for someone who willingly
takes my help. Fuck you, I said. You abducted
my father. What'd you want me to do, he said.
Rebel? Then what? There goes your supply. I stood
in silence. Give me your hand, he said. When
he touched me, my heart thumped. He unfurled
each finger and kneaded my palm with his thumbs.
How long's it been doing this? A while. He stretched
my knuckles. My eyes watered. They told me if
I joined, my sister could continue treatment,
he said. I'm fighting the best way I can, same
as you. I almost couldn't bring myself to ask.
Is he alive? I don't know. They sometimes spare
EMTs if they consider their minds valuable. Can
you find him? I'll try. He squeezed my hand.
I'll see if I can get something for that, too.
When he left, I held my wrist and waited for
my pulse to slow. A year passed. Niall began
using our underground network to increase his
visits. He'd massage my hand and I'd let him.
My hope swept in and out like a tide each day,
and grief pressed against my ribs. But I started
to get used to it all, as much as anyone could.
And then... Here, Niall said one day, handing
me a strip of paper. The walls went out of focus.
I realized I'd grown comfortable in not knowing.
What if I couldn't save him? What if... V, it
said in familiar handwriting, I'm okay. I could
hear his voice. Remember, focus on the tempo.
I read it again and again through my tears and
over Niall's joyful howl. I press the paper to
my chest, let its ink streak into my skin, let
it seep into my blood, course through my veins,
force its way to my aorta. Is it true our hearts
can stop? For the first time, I consider the
answer may be no. I absolutely had to include
this story last in the podcast. All four stories
in this show, very, very well written, very well
narrated. This is the one with the most potentially
upbeat ending. We're not going to go with they
all lived happily ever after. We're not going
to have it was all a dream or anything of that
nature. Thank you very much. But that really,
really beautiful, gentle line at the end. is
it true our hearts is it true our hearts stop
and for the first time i considered the answer
might be no i mean that's an awful lot summed
up there an attitude to life and death and the
awful situation they're in where people are judged
as to whether or not they are fit for health
care and of course her father hearing the news
that her father may well be alive and at the
end of the day whilst there are things that we
can control and things we can't control and things
we wish we could control etc etc the one thing
we we can all do is hope so stories like this
really appeal an excellent job from Megan Griffo
this in the fear battle got to the sweet 16 the
final 16 out of the hundreds of writers in the
dystopia category and I can tell you that that
genre had an awful lot of very very strong stories
as did the apocalyptic game show as in fact every
genre in every battle has a huge amount of strong
stories so I do like to reference how stories
are done and give them credit absolutely but
as we've seen just because a story doesn't win
overall or come very very close to winning does
not mean it's not good And some writers just
choose to leave their stories there and say,
fair enough, I've done that and I'm happy with
it. Others choose to submit their stories to
other online magazines or expand them, turn them
into longer pieces of flash fiction, maybe even
full -blown short stories or more. Maybe even
a novella or a novelette, which I recently found
out is actually a real word, a novelette. It's
not as long. Oh, hang on. I'm going to get confused.
Novelette. Novella, novel, nov. Would that be
next? I don't know. Just mmm. Anyway, while I
go and ponder all that, I'm going to say thank
you very much for listening to our four superb
dystopian stories today. Thank you for joining
me on episode nine of One More Short Story with
me, Chris Falwell. We'll see you next time.