Short Story Spotlight: FULL STORY This Time, I Did
I wrote a bit about This Time, I Did before, but I didn't provide the full story on my blog. I came first in my group in the NYC Midnight 2023 Short Story Challenge with this entry, and, while I think it needs a lot of work, I am very proud of it.
The assignment was as follows:
- Genre: Action/Adventure
- Subject: coast-to-coast
- Character: An oddball
- Word limit: 2,500
I've started editing this one, but here is the version I submitted to the contest. PLEASE feel free to leave constructive feedback!
This Time, I Did
Round 1: ‘Inner Turmoil’
I push through the undergrowth, sweat soaking through my tank top. It was a great choice for the heat. My jeans, less so, although I suppose they do protect my legs.
I swing my camera up just as a brightly colored bird whirrs across my path.
Snap!
Not really what they’re looking for, but there are points for quantity too.
I continue, snapping randomly as I go, not caring in the slightest what my lens captures. I’ll need a good photo soon, but for now I focus on speed.
I pull the small tablet I was given from my pocket, turning it on with sweaty hands. I review the scoring categories.
“Journey,” I mutter. In a way, the most important.
My photos could be world class, but it won’t matter. If I don’t get from coast-to-coast in the time provided, I’ll be disqualified.
“Quantity.” The ‘easy’ category.
Take as many photos as possible, subject doesn’t matter.
My finger bounces desperately on the shutter button. I pray that the other competitors are too confident or proud to use the same strategy.
“Quality.” The biggest category, the reason we’re all here.
It’s not that I doubt my skills—I’m an excellent photographer. But art is subjective. Quality means something very specific in this Challenge, and I don’t know if I have what it takes.
I think back to the evening the Challenge began.
“Welcome to the 10th Annual Extreme Photography Challenge!”
Robert Buchanan stands on the brightly lit stage in tight jeans and a black turtleneck, hands clasped behind his back as he smiles condescendingly into the cameras. The unmistakable glint of excitement in his small, dark eyes makes me shudder.
The studio audience applauds wildly, but I sit silently in my living room, fists clenched.
“Today we select five lucky photographers to compete in the deadliest contest on air for the chance to win TEN BILLION DOLLARS!”
Uproar. My mouth is set in a firm line.
Those who applaud know they will never compete.
I turn to the live broadcast of the Challenge. The show, the map, and the submission page—that is all that the tablet can do.
“The battle has begun!” the Judge is saying.
My heart beats faster and my vision blurs.
“Selection time!”
I know one of my pieces is in Robert’s collection, but other photographers have sold him thousands.
“I won’t be chosen,” I whisper. “Anyway, participation is consensual—I can just say no.”
“Judge, please announce our first competitor!”
“Certainly, Robert.” The cold, supercilious tones of The Judge, Robert’s proprietary AI system, ring out. “Up first: Marcia Wilson!”
The Judge dials Marcia’s number. I don’t recognize her name.
“Hello?” Marcia answers immediately. Her voice is crumbling under the weight of fear.
“Marcia!” Robert’s light-hearted cheerfulness grates across my eardrums. “This is Robert Buchanan! Do you know why I’m calling?”
“Yes, and I accept!”
I blink. Immediate and ready consent is not usual, and Marcia’s terror had led me to assume she’d say no.
“Excellent!”
Marcia’s headshot appears briefly on screen before being replaced by an oncoming train. It is titled ‘Flash.’
I sigh. The Train Trend has set countless people jumping in front of trains to take their terrifying pictures.
Many have died. Robert often boasts that he has the largest collection of Train Trend photos in the world.
“My favorite photo taken by Marcia!” Robert announces.
The tablet pings. The first official submission is in. It’s Marcia’s.
“First to be chosen, first to submit,” I mumble.
I don’t look at Marcia’s photo. I’m worried it will hurt my confidence.
The second participant declines the offer instantly, and their name vanishes from my mind just as fast.
“Time for our first volunteer!” Robert announces.
Three photographs appear on screen, photos taken by this year’s nutcases.
One is of a tiger, leaping at the photographer, differing from Marcia’s photo in subject only.
The second is of a pretty but unremarkable landscape. I recognize it. Everyone does. The final photo taken by that Korean photographer before she was brutally murdered. The volunteer must be the person who inherited their estate. Brave of them.
Or stupid.
The third is just an enlarged ant head. Grotesque, yes, but not something Robert will care about.
“And the lucky volunteer is—”
A drumroll.
The landscape shot fills the screen.
“Zach Cho!” says The Judge.
Two down. . .
“Stupid plants!” I hiss angrily. The underbrush is too thick—I will have to go round, straying from the most direct course.
I kick the ground angrily and turn away.
“Do you give your consent?”
I expect Theresa to say no. Robert doesn’t own any of her pieces. Her pictures are odd, quirky. Cats in dresses riding horses. That sort of thing.
A long pause.
“You know what,” Theresa says. “I do.”
The crowd gasps and then applauds. Robert blinks but rallies quickly.
Despite myself, I smile.
“That’s very brave of you—”
“Actually, it’s rather stupid,” Theresa says, airily. “But why miss an opportunity to show you up?”
The image of an older woman with an orange turban, purple eye shadow, and a bright red dress appears. The photo chosen to represent her is of a teapot-shaped birdhouse upon which sits an enormous raven.
I know right away that Theresa will not win.
Theresa submits her photo, followed moments later by Zach. I check the countdown timer.
Forty minutes to go.
Zach has little experience. His sudden submission seems panicky, which gives me hope.
Assuming I can find a subject worthy of victory. . .
“Our next contestant is Ivy Marks!”
My phone rings.
I jump, but still answer.
“Hello?” My voice echoes back from the TV, small and afraid.
I glance at my laptop.
Email after email has found its way to my address. “Say yes, or your father loses his job, your sister dies, your nephew vanishes.”
Say yes, say yes, say yes. . .
“I said, do you give your consent?” Robert says impatiently and I realize I haven’t been listening.
“Yes,” I whisper.
For a moment, I see myself. It’s not a bad photo. My long red hair shines healthily, framing my oval face.
Then, I look away. I know which photo Robert will show.
‘As Above.’
Taken from the top of a cliff as I lean far over. The rocks below are small against a roaring, storm-ripped sea.
Many say it gives them vertigo.
When Robert purchased it, he sent me a one-line email: “Why didn’t you jump?”
I bared my soul.
Robert is a soul collector.
I find the corpse of a squirrel. I bring my camera to my eye and focus.
I’m a wildlife photographer by trade, so when another squirrel approaches, I press the shutter button instinctively.
One image appears to show the squirrel mourning its dead comrade, paws clenched as if in prayer.
It might have to do.
“We have a surprise!”
I can barely hear Robert. I stare blindly, despair filling my heart.
“We will not select a fifth competitor this year,” Robert says.
The crowd gasps.
“Because I will be the fifth competitor!”
Confused mutterings evolve quickly into ecstatic applause.
I can’t breathe. Robert’s whims and fancies control the outcome of the entire Challenge. If he participates, there is no hope.
Robert’s face appears on screen and stays there.
The only competitor whose avatar shows the person rather than their product.
Five minutes left.
I name the photo ‘Inner Turmoil’ and hit Submit.
Round 2: ‘Look What You Did’
The next two-hour round begins. I stay where I am, eyes glued to my tablet.
“The results are in!” The Judge announces. “It’s always so exhilarating to find our first loser!” Pause for laughter. “And our first winner, of course.”
My stomach lurches.
“In first place,” The Judge begins, “Robert Buchanan!”
“Obviously,” I mutter. A second later, my voice echoes back along with a live feed of me hunched and sweating. I don’t have to endure it long—the editors quickly pan to Theresa’s derisive laughter.
I close my eyes before Robert’s photo appears.
“In second place, Theresa Meyer!”
The crowd roars in surprise. I smile, glad that the flamboyant eccentric is safe, but I keep my eyes closed.
“In third place,” The Judge says, “Zach Cho!”
A terrified tear rolls down my cheek.
“Ivy Marks, open your eyes,” The Judge commands.
I don’t want to, but what will she do to me if I disobey? I open my eyes to see a side-by-side shot of me on my rock, ramrod straight and lips an unhealthy shade of pale, and Marcia, huddled under a tree in a deeply shaded enclave, visibly shaking.
“In fourth place—Ivy Marks!”
I breathe out, but my relief is short-lived. ‘Inner Turmoil’ appears on ‘my’ half of the screen while Marcia trembles on the other.
“Please, no!” she whispers.
Steel spikes shoot from the ground beneath her, impaling her instantly. The light of life flickers and dies in her eyes, a moment everyone witnesses, thanks to the hidden cameras.
“First to die,” I whisper.
“Marcia’s entry, ‘Help!,’ scored well on Quality, but sadly she veered hopelessly off course, and only took three photographs,” the Judge drones as Marcia’s dead stare filled the screen.
‘Help!’ shows Marcia’s terrified face against the idyllic tropical, background. I’m sure Robert loves it.
“I hear your concerns,” Robert says. We’re waiting for the boats to take us to the island.
“Funny, because none of us have actually spoken,” says Theresa. She is the only one who isn’t dressed for the occasion, her loose-fitting gown of yellow and red stripes creating havoc for the film crew’s cameras.
“Nevertheless,” says Robert, his oily voice hardening. “I guarantee that it’s all down to The Judge! She will choose the winner. I can’t influence the outcome at all!”
Theresa snorts.
I don’t believe him either.
I spot Theresa. She doesn’t see me.
I’m surprised. Her path should not have intersected with mine.
She appears to be photographing the sun. She stands with her back to me, camera pointing up. Her striped dress contrasts strikingly with the terrain. I snap a few shots, carefully avoiding the Send Now button on our cameras that allows our photos to automatically be submitted to the Challenge.
Movement catches my eye.
Zach emerges from the trees. I shrink further into the shadows.
“A bit far off course,” he says to Theresa. He’s right. Theresa must have barely walked any distance at all, and in the wrong direction to get here.
“I thought I’d go for a wander. See the sights,” says Theresa. She doesn’t turn around.
Zach is holding a heavy tree branch.
It’s against the rules to kill fellow competitors unless their death is in service of your submission.
I think about calling out, but something stops me.
Theresa must know that she’s in danger. I think she’s here to make some sort of point.
I raise my camera. They’re both in the shot, a prepared volunteer in camouflage against a little old lady with an eccentric taste in clothing.
I press the shutter button once, and back away, not wanting to watch.
Zach submits his photo a few minutes later. I put some distance between us before naming my own submission.
‘Look What you Did.’
I cry as I press Submit.
Round 3: ‘This Time, I Did’
“A death has occurred!” The Judge’s voice sends a shiver down my spine.
A death. It doesn’t matter whose.
“This means that the remaining contestants will have FOUR hours to create their final submissions and cross the island. Round 3 will be the last!”
It’s hardly the shortest Challenge to ever take place, but the crowd roars appreciatively anyway.
My photograph is good. I know it is. The Judge might see it as an attempt to one-up Zach, to send him to his death, rather than a tribute to Theresa, but that can only work in my favor.
“In first place,” The Judge begins, “Ivy Marks!”
My vision swims. Robert’s shocked face fills the screen.
“There you go, Theresa,” I say. My words echo back and the crowd cheers.
“My next words will lead to the demise of either Zach or Robert!”
“So, no downside, then,” I say. The editors cut me off, but enough goes through for the audience to get the idea.
“Second place goes to—Robert Buchanan!”
I look away—I have no need to see what the madman has submitted.
“Zach Cho submitted ‘Death to the Striped Bird,’ but it fails to be sufficiently intriguing.”
I keep my eyes averted, turning back only when Zach’s screams of injustice turn to screams of agony.
Using the map as a guide, I turn my steps towards the coast. If I don’t make it that far, then nothing else matters.
Robert doesn’t move for several long minutes. Then, suddenly, the blue dot indicating his location swerves towards me.
“I see.”
There is enough time for Robert to kill me, take a photo, and get to his own finish line.
I quicken my pace, but I know that Robert can track me even as I track him.
I run. I see water glinting through distant trees, and I know I’m almost there.
Abruptly, I stumble into the light.
A cliff with a steep path leading to the shoreline.
“You still have to submit! You still have to survive!”
I spin around.
Robert stands behind me, breathless, hands on his knees. He looks very different from his usual, perfectly manicured self.
I take a photo.
“Delete that!”
“No,” I say. The photo has already been logged in the Challenge database, so my refusal is almost as pointless as his request.
It occurs to me that, of the two of us, I’m the one who runs marathons, who follows lions across the savannah for the sake of a picture.
I can also kill.
My face reveals my thoughts. Robert grabs a sharp rock and says, “Try me.”
“Who actually wins here?” I ask.
“The one who lives! Obviously!” Robert’s back has straightened, and his face is less red.
“Who wins?” I ask again. “The one with the $10 billion, or the one that made them suffer?”
I take a step back. My heels are at the cliff’s edge.
I press Send Now. I am prompted for a title.
I type, ‘This Time, I Did.’
The next time I push the button, the captured photo will be automatically submitted.
“Either way, you won’t win!” Robert snarls.
“No,” I say with a smile. “Thank God.”
Gently, I lean back. There is just enough time to see the look of surprise on Robert’s face, and then it’s nothing but sky and rushing wind.
I turn the camera to my face.
I smile.
I press.
