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This week's title is Nothing Ever Ends. The final entry time this week is 11pm (UK time) 25th August 2017. Predicted prize fund is £50!

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Editorial

18th August 2017

Several examples of an outside group looking back at the follies of man (the badgers in 2757 and grandson in 2754) were among this week’s stories. Overall, the entries varied in their approach to the prompt -- "Adapt or Die" -- but I was looking for variation in style and tone as a means of giving readers different insights on a simple phrase.

Two poems compared the adaption of one species adaption to the loss of another (2756) or fossil dinosaurs watching humans come their way (2750). I enjoyed the grand sweep of collapsing empires (2747) and the quiet struggle of a couple facing their own grey future (2753), but these stories -- as the others before mentioned -- were not as strong on the prompt as the three that I choose. (That said, I would like to invite them to my project -- see below.)

For adapt or die, I am looking for an emphasis on the cost of adapting, not in the (im)possibility of doing that, and the stories that brought this tension out best (to me) were the tale of recovering from an abusive relationship (2748) and a dialogue with an "unknown man" who takes the sinner on a walk into the light (2751). These evoked the will to carry forward and need to face the future, respectively, in a lovely way.

As the winner, I choose the story that showed a will to carry forward against loss and hopelessness. Elaine's pub (2749), set amidst a rising sea of abandoned villages, has just the right element of "muddling through," and that's why I gave it first prize.

I did not mention three other entries that were fun to read, but too far from my goal of bringing different perspectives to living in a world of climate change. Last year, I was pleased to receive many entries under the prompt Life Plus 2 Meters and publish many of them in Volume 1 of a book by the same name (you can download it for free here).

For this year -- and this prompt -- I am hoping that the authors whose entries I have mentioned by number will consider having their stories republished on the Life plus 2 meters website -- and almost certainly in Volume 2 of the Life Plus 2 Meters anthology.

The purpose of this project -- and the books that we're publishing -- is to collect many diverse perspectives on (non)adaptation as a means of helping people think about life in a climate-changed world. Although some of the entries I am inviting to this project are not directly focussed on climate change, I think that all of them can give readers a "feeling" for the discomfort, friction and regret that many of us will feel if -- or, rather when -- "our familiar environment" is replaced by a less comfortable, unfamiliar one. These stories might help people adapt more easily to that future.

So I thank all the writers and Hour of Writes for putting together yet another suite of really enjoyable writing.

About the Judge

David Zetland, PhD

Assistant professor of economics
Leiden University College
The Netherlands

Ephemera

Low Cut Blouses and Songs about Sex

She wanted back in. After fifteen months on her own, needing to “follow my own mojo”, she walked through the door. I know my eyes were wide, the surprise eating my face like all eight tentacles of an octopus. I didn’t have to look at Hot Rod to know his eyes were filled with anger. You only got once chance with him, and Cherry took a shit on hers. Little D would have rolled out a red carpet if we had one. Lust will make you stupid even quicker than love.

None of us spoke for way too long. The tension in the room stretched until it had spun all four of us in a web. Cherry’s opening words still hung in the air, slapping me with thin, sharp fingers.

“Are you still looking for a singer? I’d like to audition.”

Hot Rod was sucking air in through gritted teeth while Little D melted in his chair, unable to speak or likely even think. I turned so I was facing her full-on. For some reason, I was surprised she looked the same as the day she walked out on us. Thigh-high boots, mini-skirt, loose-hanging blouse, and denim jacket, all in black, playing off her pale skin and messy red hair.

“Yeah,” I mumbled through a dry mouth. “We could use a singer.”

“We don’t need her,” Hot Rod spit out.

“I do,” Little D said louder than he meant to. When we all turned to look at him, he walked to the corner of the room like a child in a timeout.

“We don’t need her,” Hot Rod repeated.

Cherry walked farther into the cramped garage we used as a rehearsal space. “I know you’re all mad at me,” she started.

“I’m not,” Little D said from the corner.

“Shut up, D!” Hot Rod yelled. He leaned into me. “We’re doing fine without her.”

“Are you?” Cherry asked.

“Tell her,” Hot Rod said before sitting on the stool behind his drum kit.

Cherry’s eyes turned to me. Why was I congealing into oatmeal inside? I was furious with her when she left the band to perform solo. All the momentum we had had evaporated overnight, but when she stared at me, I became a puddle on the floor. Maybe, I thought, I should join Little D in the corner.

“It’s been better recently,” I finally said. “We got our weekly gig back at the Rock All Night club downtown.”

“Just like before,” Hot Rod interjected.

“Half the money,” Little D muttered.

“Shut your pie hole.”

The corner of Cherry’s mouth curled up, and she shook her head while still looking at me. Some things never change, she was saying without opening her mouth.

“You said you got the gig back,” Cherry said.

“Yeah,” I began. “We lost it right after you left. Mr. Dibbs said no one wanted to hear us play without you singing.”

“That’s bullshit,” Cherry responded.

“Doesn’t matter what it was, we got fired.”

“But you got back in?”

“With Little D’s sister singing.”

“Charlotte? I didn’t even know she could sing.”

“Like an angel,” Hot Rod said, followed by a rim shot on the drums.

“Yeah, well, not quite an angel,” I laughed. “But good enough to get us the gig back.”

“At half the money,” Little D reminded us again.

“At half the money,” I agreed.

Cherry walked over to the microphone and caressed the stand with her fingers. “So, why did you advertise for a singer on Music Finder?”

“Charlotte’s going to college. Out of state. If we want to keep the regular club gig, we need a female singer.

“We need you,” Little D said, turning to face Cherry for the first time.

“NO, we don’t!” Hot Rod shouted, crashing his cymbals.

“That’s one for and one against,” Cherry said. She took the microphone off the stand, held it in front of her with both hands. Looking me in the eyes, she spoke into it. “What do you say?”

I had been in love with her once when we were seniors, but that worked out like most high school romances. We were both immature. I had a problem with wanting to be in charge all the time, and she liked to flirt with other guys. Our relationship for the last seven years had been equal parts attraction, distrust, ambition, and forgiveness. The trouble was that I agreed with both of my band mates. We did need her, and we didn’t. Whatever I decided, there was a question I needed answered first.

“Why did you leave?”

Cherry’s boots clicked on the cement floor as she slowly walked in a haphazard circle, rolling the microphone between her hands.

“The first night we played the Rock All Night club, after we finished, I was coming out of the ladies’ room. I jumped back when I saw Mr. Dibbs, all three hundred plus pounds of him, standing there waiting for me. He proceeded to tell me that he liked my voice, but what he liked more were my tits.”

Cherry paused and let the last word reverberate through the room from the speakers.

“He told me our band was pretty good, but the real reason he had given us the job was so he could watch me jiggle while I jumped around on stage.”

“Bullshit,” Hot Rod said.

Cherry smiled. “Oh, Hot Rod. Simple, black or white Hot Rod. You just told me you got the job back because Charlotte sang for you and now to keep it you need another female singer. Mr. Dibbs is a dirty old man.”

“Did he . . . touch you?” Little D asked.

“No. He said he had “learned his lesson with that shit.” Never found out exactly what happened, but now he just wanted to watch.”

“Why did you leave?” I asked quietly.

“This is who I am when I sing with you guys.” Cherry spun around like a fashion model. “And don’t get me wrong, I love it, and I know the guys are watching me. But I needed to know if they really wanted to hear me sing, too. When I performed on my own, I wasn’t Cherry. I was Paulette Spencer from Lancaster Pennsylvania. I didn’t dress like this, and I didn’t do the hard music we did. I had to know if Paulette was good enough. Or if it was just Cherry.”

“What did you find out?”

“Paulette can sing. She can write songs. She can bring two hundred people into a club to make them dance and cheer.”

“Why is she back here then?” Little D asked.

“This is home. I missed our music, our show, our fans. I missed all of you, even the nutsack behind the drum kit.”

A soft, slow rim shot left Hot Rod’s sticks. I looked at him for affirmation. He rolled his eyes and then looked away but not before nodding his head. I turned back to Cherry.

“Do you really want to re-join Rat City?”

“I have a closet full of low cut blouses and a dozen new songs about sex,” Cherry said.

“You’re hired.”