Did someone say Rom-Com?
Ever tried to be funny on demand? Lemme tell ya, it ain’t easy!
At midnight on Nov. 1, I learned I’d made the cut for round 3 of the NYCM Flash Fiction Challenge. YAY! Our 2100 entrant pool shrank to 300 competitors, 48 of whom will progress to the finals. Fun, right?
Here’s where you can find my blog posts on the other 3 rounds of this contest:
This crazy flash fiction challenge always seems like a great idea until I have to actually pump out a thousand words [or, in my case, pump out 1500 and back out one-third of them] in “48” hours—which, unless you’re a walrus or giraffe, actually amounts to 32 awake hours, less any outside obligations. I had a doozy of a real-life commitment this time, our close friends’ son’s wedding Saturday night—and I was determined and excited to be fully present.
Three nights later, I stared at my computer at midnight on Friday, heart pounding, not even sure what genre I hoped for. After historical fiction and romance, I figured I was in for political satire or something equally impossible. And then… THIS popped up onto my screen:
Genre:ROM-COM
Setting: COMPUTER REPAIR SHOP
Object: MEGAPHONE
Romance again (wow) but COMEDY? (yikes!) Funny, and on demand?
I snuggled into bed and let those prompts swirl together into… ugh, not much, as it turned out. Luckily, my “plot coaches” were awake and caffeinated early Saturday morning. While we batted around ideas, I reminded myself (repeatedly) not to freak out. I have a tempo that’s worked so far— free-wheeling idea generation, marination time, identifying major plot points and the majority of dialogue by the end of the first 24 hours. Writing, tweaking, editing, and title generation on Sunday. I gotta tell ya, though, a ton of trust is required to watch the clock tick down with zero words on the screen, and I held my shit together pretty well…
Until about 2 p.m. Saturday, when panic seized me, in its old familiar form—a major stomach ache. Started out the size of a pea, but by 4, that sucker was a grapefruit. If we hadn’t left for the wedding, I might have continued to choke my story with the iron grip of despair. Fortunately, I had a joyful diversion, and I didn’t even think about my challenge again until 2 a.m. Sunday (the pre-DST one), which is when all the story problems resolved with a Matrix-like clarity. I sat at the desk in our hotel room with a pen and paper, scribbling story notes until my brain emptied out, then I slept for a few hours. Woke up Sunday and the words marched into place.
As I fell into bed well after midnight on Sunday, physically and emotionally spent, I experienced that unbelievable rush of finishing the story, completing the challenge, writing 1000 words in 48 hours. I tried to sear that positive feeling into my brain, just in case, God forbid, I make the final round. [SPOILER ALERT: I DID, and you can read about that here!]
I survived what I now recognize as the 7 Stages of Flash Fiction Weekend:
1. Excitement (Got my prompts, Fun, Yay, I can do this!)
2. Panic (What the hell am I gonna write? I cannot do this! What was I thinking?)
3. Inspiration (An idea! This might work!)
4. Exhilaration (Look at me! I’m writing a story!)
5. Panic (watches ticking time bomb, I don’t have to submit)
6. Acceptance (It is time.)
7. Remorse (I coulda/woulda/shoulda… —this one gets worse as you read the other entries)
Special shout-outs to my online village: Stacey (Tech support), Kitkat, Karen, & Betti (plot ideas and humor team), Shell (the je ne sais quoi of writing support), and Sue (grammar, word choice, beginnings, endings, and everything in between). I love you guys! God bless my honey of a hubby for mental health support, story details, and truly horrible titles, the worst of which was “Porn Free.” Actually, it’s pretty good.
I hope this light morsel will bring your mind to a happier place for a little bit! Thanks for reading!
XOXOX ~b
*
Attack of the Cheerleaders
When the girl of his dreams needs a computer whiz’s help, it’s either the best or worst birthday he’s ever had.
~
Today, I am a man, and yet, my life hasn’t changed since yesterday. I went to school. I came to work. I’ll go home, do some homework, and go to bed. Cait Harvey will still have no idea who I am.
“Happy birthday, man.” Eli sets a Subway bag on my desk. “Sorry about the wrapping.”
I tear open the bag, expecting a can of Dr. Pepper, maybe a bag of chips. Instead, I find a six-inch sculpture of Canyon High’s cheerleading captain.
“This is awesome!”
“Had to test our new 3D printer. Figured, why not make a Cait, for the man who has nothing?”
“Gee, thanks.” I run my fingertips over the smooth, yellow plastic. “Is this a megaphone?”
“Yes, it’s detachable.” Eli plucks off the tiny cone and points out the “Happy birthday, Raj,” in green lettering.
“Impressive.”
“In case you wondered, she’s anatomically correct.”
“You are so sick.” I flip it and peek under the skirt.
“Made ya look.”
“I hate you. Go home.”
Eli chuckles. “Going. You finished Dragon Lady’s laptop, right?”
“I think I can handle a Windows 10 install.”
“Don’t piss her off, Raj.”
“Yes, Mother.”
I’m still admiring Eli’s workmanship when the door opens, and in scurries Cait Harvey, cheerleading uniform and all. For a stupid second, I’m sure I’ve conjured her—a life-size replica of the 3D model—until she speaks.
“Hello?”
I jump up and fling mini-Cait into the recycling bin. The megaphone flies across the room and rolls to a stop near the front door. My armpits pump out Niagara Falls.
“Can I help you?”
“I have an emergency!” She pulls a laptop from her backpack. Our eyes meet for the first time, and she freezes. “You’re the vaulter.”
“You’ve seen me vault?”
“Yeah. We practice at the track.” I know this. I just had no idea she paid any attention to us—to me. “You’re good.”
I swallow hard. “Thank you. So are you.”
“You wear glasses?”
“Just at work.” I finger the dark frames. Nothing I can do about it now.
“Hmm.” She cranes her neck to look around me. “Isn’t anyone else here?”
“Nope, just me.”
“Ugh. This is super embarrassing.”
“I’ve pretty much seen it all.”
“So, I swear I wasn’t watching porn…”
My antiperspirant takes another hit. “Okay?”
“I was working out a routine, googled ‘cheerleader straddle,’ and all these windows popped up and froze my computer.”
I somehow manage not to hurdle the counter. “Let’s have a look.”
I cannot open her computer fast enough once she lets go. The screen is a glorious montage of spread-legged girls wearing the bare minimum to establish they’re cheerleaders.
It works—I’m cheery. Then it hits me: Cait’s watching me look at porn.
I snap the lid shut. “This is nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“Excuse me?”
“The malware attack, I mean.”
“How long will it take to fix?” she asks.
“I won’t know how extensive the damage is until I get inside. Let’s say Tuesday.”
“Tuesday?”
“We close in half an hour for the weekend.”
“Our bus leaves tomorrow morning… All our music is on here. What am I gonna do?”
I glance at the ThinkPad I’m supposed to be updating. The choice is clear.
“I can squeeze you in now.”
She blows out a massive breath. “Thank you!”
“Don’t thank me yet. I don’t know what we can recover.” If her hard drive is fried, this magical moment will end soon.
I work; she paces. The external boot is successful, and her data files appear to be uncorrupted. I copy everything to a thumb drive as a precaution before running the malware scan and powering down. We reboot together, holding our breath on opposite sides of the service counter until we hear the happy bing of a healthy operating system.
“It’s fixed!” she shouts.
“Hold that thought.” I spin the screen toward her. “Type in your password, please.”
Seconds later, the shop fills with porn-star moans at full volume. Cait shoves the laptop back at me. I click the windows closed as fast as my fingers can navigate the touchpad, but it’s not fast enough.
“Obviously, I’ve come at a bad time.” Dragon Lady.
I slap the mute button. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Dragonov. I haven’t quite finished your updates. We got slammed.”
“I can see that.” She nails Cait with a nasty glare. “Your boss will be hearing from me, Rajiv. You can kiss your job goodbye!” She yanks the door open and stomps out of the store.
Cait swings the door closed with a gentle click. “I’m so sorry—”
Something on the floor catches her eye, and I realize a beat too late what she’s found. She crouches to pick it up. “‘Happy birthday, Raj’?” She holds the tiny megaphone inches from my face. “What is this?”
I’ve just flushed my job down the toilet. Why shouldn’t my last scrap of dignity dive in, too?
“It was a birthday present from a friend who knows I, uh, have a thing for a certain cheerleader.”
Her cute blonde eyebrows arch. “You do?”
“Yep.” Go ahead. Kick me while I’m down.
“Did this girl”—a hint of a smile plays at the edges of her lips—“just get you fired on your birthday?”
“You didn’t get me fired. I made my own choice.”
Her smile breaks free. “So, it is me!”
I open my arms in surrender. “Busted.”
Cait places the megaphone onto my outstretched palm, then closes her own hand over mine and wriggles her fingers into my valleys. “I might have a thing for a certain computer whiz.”
And I might explode from happiness. “Yeah?”
“Mmhmm, and that Clark Kent vibe… hell, yes.”
“I always thought Superman was the hot one.”
“You know what’s hot, Raj?” I can almost see my name doing a forward roll off her tongue. “Risking your job to follow your passion. I would totally cheer for that guy.”
*
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