Assignment: to write an 1,250 word (or less) short story in 24 hours that featured the following —

• Genre: Open

• Character: A Power Walker

• Plot Element: Fake it Until You Make It

Salinger. Seager. Steinbeck. I was stacking books when I heard their approaching drum.

Footsteps clanked outside, a familiar limp. The door creaked. A raspy voice.

“Power walkers on the move, look alert.”

“Thanks, Paul,” I said.

He grinned at me. A few remaining teeth.

His name isn’t Paul, or wasn’t originally. But I started calling him “Paul Revere” because of his vigilance, always the first to call out a warning or let us know of danger in the offing. An updated “the British are coming” for our post-apocalyptic hellscape. He likes the nickname.

I followed him outside.

Gazing from the stoop of an old roadside diner, I see our kingdom. Dusty, frozen cars. Broken gas pumps. A dozen small buildings. An empty semi truck scarred by graffiti. Scattered trash. We keep it looking squalid on purpose. The diner is our headquarters and Oval Office and library.

It has been months since the last group of power walkers came through. In the first year or two after the happening, we saw them often. Fifty or so marchers at a time, sometimes groups of families: little communities on the move. Striding with pomp and purpose and song. They were the new pioneers—fleeing the savagery of the east, moving west. Hoping. We advised them to keep hoping and keep moving.

My nickname: The Enforcer.

I do understand the power walkers. The structure of these roving collectives gives safety. Banding together is better than isolation, which is death. But they aren’t for me. I don’t like taking orders. I don’t like marching. I don’t like strangers. I don’t want to disrupt what we have here. And I’m worried about the fade.

I am loved.

“Is the mafia in place?” I asked.

He nodded.

The mafia is two old ladies, an ex-con named Butch, half a women’s college volleyball team, and a giant Samoan. Among them: three rifles, two homemade spears, a deerskin sling, and eight flare guns. Our defense force, hiding but ready.

This group of power walkers today is the new type. No singing. No children. No hope. Just the dusty march, pressed forward by the clank of a metal bar on a copper pan and the threat of excommunication. Barren and brutal. Pumping arms and angry strides.

The cataclysm was instant and devastating. All electronics stopped working at once. Every car, computer, mobile phone, voting machine, water pump, and pacemaker quit working. Everything. Probably it was a military attack. Maybe a virus or a bomb or an electromagnetic pulse. It doesn’t matter what happened because once it happened none of the old things mattered.

We started that day as a nation linked by currency, creed, and civilization and ended as a land of a million fragmented empires.

Before the happening, I’d decided to spend a couple months drifting through the country on a Greyhound bus. Made possible by a sudden inheritance. Working my way through a list of America’s 10 Best Cups of Coffee, from an article somewhere. I’d been to Brooklyn, Charleston, Nashville, and was heading to Denver.

The bus had stopped at a remote travel stop. Never left. It was a good place to be stranded. Far from cities and protected by nature, we were spared the horrors that came for most. Dehydration deaths. Ravages. Warlords. Cities burning.

Thirty-one people on the bus. Plus seven in the diner. My new family.

The empty semi truck wasn’t always empty. We’d painted over the Hormel Foods logo to hide our windfall. It had been full of canned meats: potted chicken, little sausages, corned beef hash. Five years later, most of it is still around, rationed or buried. We were the lucky ones.

I will have a good life.

The power walkers are passing. Two dozen skeletons. They don’t look at us, just stare ahead, arms swinging, each carrying a backpack, homemade from blankets and twine. Ragged patched clothes. Threadbare coats. The beat goes on.

Their leader is a tall man with red scars on his neck. On his belt: a pair of long curved knives, a hatchet, a leather whip. His eyes flash at me, red and hungry.

Behind him, a thin man with a golden beard. He has the fade. His walk stutters, skin is dull, eyes are glassy. I see it in his everything. He’ll be dead in two months. Sooner if they cast him off to save themselves. A wasteland Jonah.

More and more walkers have the fade. No spark. No hope. The inner death. Their trauma, long dormant, has come to collect.

An old man with patches of white hair on his face. Red blotchy hands. His feet scatter pebbles as he shuffles and scrapes. Another with the fade. It moves like a contagion within these groups, snowballing one to another. Maybe they can last a year.

Several people back, a woman carries a brown canvas pack. Her bare arms are covered with intricate tattooed sleeves. The old kind of tattoos. She looks up, her green eyes scanning the yard.

“Stop.” I said.

I’ve seen eyes like those a million times. My mother had emerald green eyes, like the shallow ocean edge. Her memory a reminder of forgotten hope.

It happened every childhood night that I can remember. I’d drift out of sleep to find her cool hand on my forehead. Her faint lilac perfume in the air. My mother’s gentle voice. Whispering over me.

“Wait,” I said.

The group slowed.

“We don’t stop.” The leader spoke.

“I’m a healer,” I said. “I’m a fade healer.”

Paul shifted beside me. A quick glance, eyebrows raised. “A healer?” He mouthed.

“Go with it,” I muttered.

To the power walkers: “I can help you.”

A cool hand on my forehead. Her faint perfume. My mother whispering over me. “You are loved. You will have a good life.”

Now alone in the diner with the man with the golden beard: he sits across the table. Blank eyes. He smells like dirt.

“Repeat after me: ‘I will not die. I will live. I will laugh again.’”

Staring down, he is silent.

“Say it.”

He says it.

“Again.”

He repeats it. Over and over. For an hour. “I will not die. I will live. I will laugh again.” I hold his hands in mine. I tell him that he won’t die, that he will live, that he will laugh. I cup his face. He speaks it louder.

“Now look at me and say it.”

When he looks up, I see that the fade is shrinking. Our eyes meet and hold. Color in his face.

“I will not die. I will live. I will laugh again.”

“These words are your medicine. Take them all the time.”

One by one, I bring in the others.

With the old man: “I will live and not die. I am wise.”

She of the green eyes: “I am brave. I carry love. I will hope.”

The icy leader: “I am a good man. I am merciful.”

I’m tired when we are done and it is time for them to leave. Paul and I watch from the diner porch as they go. Before they disappear from view, the group stops. They turn toward us and look for a long time. I lift my hand.

I am a light.

Paul turns. “What was that?”

“This is us now.”

He studies me. “Good. I’ll tell the others,” he said.

Her cool touch. Gentle perfume. Soft whisper. “You are loved. You will have a good life. You are a light.”

Assignment: to write an 1,500 word (or less) short story in two days that featured the following —

• Genre: Romance

• Character: A Nervous Wreck

• Plot Element: A Postponement

I was getting ready for a Friday night out when she called for me. My own personal bat signal, which meant one thing: I wasn’t going out tonight.

“Tom. Tom.”

Things had been good. No episodes for two weeks. All had been calm. Had been.

“The books!”

I crossed the living room and opened her door.

Perched on the edge of her bed, my grandma wore a nightshirt, slippers, and long socks. Her reading glasses hung round her neck. Balled tissues were scattered around her feet. Her eyes were red from crying.

“What it is?”

“The books. The books are overdue.” Her voice was panicked. She fidgeted with a book on her lap.

“Can it wait?”

“The books will be overdue. We can’t be late. No, not good.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

When she gets like this, it can’t wait. And she gets like this at just the wrong time, always.

I pulled out my phone, texted Stevie, my best friend.

— Something's come up. Can’t make it tonight.

— Dude! You’re gonna miss out meeting some very eligible ladies.

— Sorry, amigo.

— Grandma again?

— Always.

— Real talk, my man: you gotta stop putting your life on hold for her.

“Okay, Grandma, get dressed. I’ll take you to the library. Hurry, they close at eight.”

We arrived a minute late. “Hold on,” I said, and hopped out of the car.

The door was locked but lights were on.

I knocked. Someone moved inside. Kept knocking.

The door opened. “Can I help you?”

Her perfume hit me first. A light, gentle scent: huckleberries. Then I noticed her twin blonde braids.

“Can I help you?” She smiled. Her blue eyes crinkled around the edges. Careworn but young. Mid-thirties. My age. Her name badge: Jessica.

“I need to renew this book.”

She looked down. Raised her eyebrows. “Sewing with Singer?” She smiled.

“My grandma’s.”

She disappeared with the book and returned a minute later.

“Here,” she handed it over and stepped out. She was carrying a crate of canned goods. “Can you hold this?”

I took the box, Cans for Fines, and waited while she locked up.

“That’s my car.”

She opened the trunk of a blue hatchback for the crate of food. I saw a large child’s car seat in the back.

“Thank you for the book,” I said and extended my hand.

“And thank you for the carry.” We shook hands.

“You can let go now,” she laughed.

On the drive home, I heard her laugh on repeat. Wind chimes. Birds singing. It was natural and musical.

She wasn’t wearing a wedding band.

“Why are you smiling?” Grandma asked.

Two days later, Sunday, I stuck my head into Grandma’s room. She was staring out the window. Tears in her eyes. An old scarf twisted and knotted in her hands. I didn’t ask what was wrong.

“Grandma, I’m going to be gone for a couple hours. Meeting Stevie and some people for a picnic.”

She looked up. Panicked.

— Hey Stevie. Gonna bring my grandma to the park to hang with us. Cool?

— Ugh, bro. Not a grandma kinda scene. Sorry.

— Totally. I’ll have to take a rain check on this one.

— Every time, dude. Every time.

He’s not wrong. I can’t remember the last time I went to a party. Traveled freely. Or went on a date. I haven’t had a girlfriend for eight years.

Grandma and grandpa raised me after my parents died. Some people said I would be trouble, that I should be put in a home. My grandparents took me on anyway—in their late sixties. Loved me well. Postponed their retirement.

Grandpa died ten years ago. That’s when her anxiety started. Some people said she’d be too much, that I should put her in a home. But I took her on anyway—in my late twenties. Postponed everything.

Life got serious, fast. Grandma is ninety-one. She’s my committed relationship.

“Grandma, we’re gonna feed the ducks.”

Her smile was incandescent. The kind that lights up the whole city.

“My ducks,” she said. “My ducks.”

Yes, her ducks. The duck park is her favorite place.

On the way out, I slipped a Penguin Classics paperback into my back pocket and grabbed a loaf of white bread.

We angled from the parking lot toward our favorite spot. A bench by the pond. We go there several times a week—I read and she throws bits of bread. We’ll stay for hours.

Her fingers dug into my arm. “There’s someone on our bench.”

A small boy and a woman. I recognized the braids. The librarian. Jessica.

“Hello,” I said.

Their heads swiveled. An incandescent smile from Jessica. The kind that lights up the whole world.

“It’s you.”

“It’s us. This is my grandma.”

Grandma was staring at the child. He looked up with serious eyes.

“Mommy said no iPad. She said no iPad at the park. I wanted to bring my iPad but Mommy said no.”

“Would you like to help feed the ducks?” I asked him.

“Thank you,” Jessica mouthed.

He ran over. I handed him the loaf of bread.

“Okay, so what you do is—”

It was too late. Like a discus thrower, he spun and let go of the entire loaf. Still in the package, it wobbled through the air and splashed into the water.

“Douglas!”

“Oh no, no!” Cried Grandma. She began to shake. “My ducks!”

I went in after it. Ankle-deep in the water. Knee-deep. The cold bore into me. Up to my waist.

“You’re almost there,” Jessica urged.

I could feel the muck in my shoes. Lunging, I grabbed the bread.

Holding it aloft, I turned back toward shore. Jessica clapped. With a flourish, I put the loaf on my head and walked carefully back, a tribeswoman carrying an urn from the well.

Douglas jumped up and down. He laughed and pointed. “It’s on his head. He put the bread on his head.”

Even Grandma was laughing when I got back to the muddy bank. Shivering, I stumbled and slipped. Knees into the mud. The loaf landed on the grass. They laughed harder.

“Here,” Jessica extended both hands to pull me up. Mud squelched as our hands met.

Douglas rolled on the ground. “He fell in the mud with bread on his head!”

Jessica’s eyes glistened. “He hasn’t laughed like that since his father left.”

“Grandma hasn’t laughed like that since Grandpa died.”

The breeze blew one of the braids across her face. It caught on her lips. I watched it hang there for a moment. She smiled at me watching.

“Okay, you can let go now,” I said. Our muddy hands were still clasped. She let go.

Grandma and Douglas were crouched, unpacking the bread. He leaned on her leg.

“That better not be a library book,” Jessica said with a playful frown. She reached around and pulled the paperback out of my back pocket, held it up, sopping and dripping, and plopped it onto my head.

We both smiled.

On Friday night, I was in the middle of putting things into a new picnic basket when my phone buzzed. Stevie:

— Hanging with your lady tonight or you gonna come party?

— Yes and no. I’m hanging with a lady. But not Grandma.

— Whaaaaat????

— I met her at the library. Saw her at the park. Two days ago she stopped by with a book for grandma. Tonight we’re going out.

— What about Grandma?

— Fingers crossed!

I opened Grandma’s door.

“Remember, I’m going to be gone for a couple hours. You’ll be okay.”

“No. No. Please don’t leave me alone.”

For a moment, I was rooted.

I dialed Jessica.

“Hi,” she answered. “I was just going to call you. The babysitter is sick. I don’t have anyone to watch Douglas.”

“Okay. I need to stay with grandma anyway. She’s on the edge. I have to postpone.” The words hurt.

She was silent for a moment.

“What if we didn’t postpone?”

“Didn’t postpone?”

“You’ve got her. I’ve got him. But we can still be us.”

An hour later the hatchback pulled up. I stood in the doorway, Grandma beside me. Douglas raced up the sidewalk carrying a loaf of bread. Jessica trailed behind with a bottle of wine.

“The duck lady,” said Douglas. He ran toward Grandma.

“The bread boy,” she replied and hugged him.

I took the wine from Jessica and led her by the hand into the kitchen. The picnic was spread on the table. Olives, fruit, cold meats, cucumber sandwiches.

She looked around. “It smells good in here.”

I leaned toward her. Huckleberries again. “You smell good in here.”

Grandma and Douglas were on the couch. She shook pieces from a puzzle box onto the coffee table. “This is my duck puzzle.” He scooted closer. Their heads touched.

Jessica looked down at our hands, still linked. Smiled.

“This time you don’t have to let go.” She lifted her chin.

“I don’t plan on it.” Pulled her toward me.

Assignment: to write an 2,000 word (or less) short story in three days that featured the following — 

• Genre: Drama

• Character: Maid

• Plot Line: Making Up for Lost Time

By Matt Shaw

Saturday

Pain. Everywhere, pain. Pain in my ears from the birds chirping. Pain from a shoe wedged into my back. Grains of dirt grind into my cheek, pressed against the hardwood floor.

I roll onto my side, queasy. Lay still. Wait. The wave of nausea cruises through me, slows, looks for a parking spot, then moves on. Eyes still closed.

Pushing off the ground, I sit up. This is what mornings feel like.

I look around.

It’s a small house. Somebody somewhere called it a bungalow. Probably told us it was a craftsman. My wife wanted to call it home. That was enough for me. 

The counters are littered with bottles. Dirty plates block the sink. There’s one bedroom, with a queen-sized bed covered with unopened mail. I spot three invoices from the funeral home. 

The wall phone rings. I ignore it. 

My driver’s license says I’m six feet tall, have gray eyes, and a toothy grin. But the bathroom mirror shows bleary eyes, a stooped frame, cracking lips.

Can’t find my toothbrush. A dab of toothpaste on the finger. Rub for five seconds on my gums and teeth.

Now the mouthwash. The bottle promises: 17% alcohol. 

I swallow it. 

My first drink of the day. 

Sunday

Everywhere hurts. Bright sunlight penetrates my closed eyelids. 

I swing my feet off the couch and lean forward. 

My hand is stained red. There’s a long scratch on my arm. The culprit is on the floor, a spiral notebook with a bent coil. I fought the notebook and the notebook won.

I reach the bathroom. 

Toothpaste on the finger. Five seconds. 

Mouthwash again. 17% alcohol. Gulp. Breakfast of champions. 

The phone rings. I don’t move. It stops. Rings again. The answering machine picks up.

“Thomas? I know you are there. It’s Daniel, your father-in-law. It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. How are you doing? I hope you aren’t drinking. Call me. It’s Daniel.”

I lumber to the counter. There’s a half empty bottle of bourbon. I pick it up.

“He’s not my father-in-law,” I tell the bottle.

Monday

Birds too loud. Sun too bright. Morning too soon.

Toothpaste, finger. Mouthwash, swallowed.

I’m dressed for work in my weekday uniform of black leather walking shoes, black pants, black shirt, and a black raincoat. Mr. Cheerful.

It’s a gray day. 

“Man, you smell.” That’s Bernie. He’s my first stop. Bernie lives under the overpass.

“You staying here again tonight?” I have to ask.

“Brother, you didn’t listen to a word I said,” he says. “You stink. You smell like a distillery.”

He’s glaring at me. Sharp blue eyes peering out from a weatherbeaten face. The flaps of his red and black hunting cap folded over his ears. He loves that cap.

“You look like a woodsman with that hat,” I tell him. “A lumberjack. Bernie, the Homeless Lumberjack.” 

“That’s really bad, you know? When a homeless guy says you stink.” 

I roll my eyes. “See you next week.”

At home, my answering machine blinks. 

“Thomas, please call me. Ann and I are worried about you. We haven’t heard from you in weeks. What happened, you know it’s not your fault. Are you drinking? This is your father-in-law.”

“You’re not my father-in-law,” I shout at the answering machine, and pour.

Tuesday

Everything hurts. There’s shattered plastic on the kitchen floor. Pieces of the answering machine. Someone must have thrown it at the wall.

I reach the bathroom. Stooped, puffy, and bleary.

Toothpaste. Mouthwash. Workday uniform. 

My official title is Unhoused Persons Liaison and Metrics Specialist. That’s what it says on my business card. Everyone just calls me the Homeless Map Guy.

The job of the Homeless Map Guy is to maintain a count of all the known unhoused individuals and an updated record of all encampments through the city. I’ll spend the week visiting ninety different sites, checking in on the residents, and updating the database. Next week I’ll do it all over again.

Wednesday

On the floor. Nauseous.

A gulp of mouthwash. 

The phone rings. There’s no answering machine. It keeps ringing.

Today I’m headed to the city parks, where I will visit fourteen different homeless camps.

Last time I went to the office, my boss pulled me aside. “Listen, Tommy,” he said. “You’ve had a hard time over this last year. Everyone understands why. But—,” He paused, like I was going to say it for him.

I stared back. Didn’t let him off the hook.

“Okay,” he stammered. “You smell like alcohol all the time, it can’t go on. Please focus on getting healthy. Work from home, get this thing taken care of, then we’d love to have you back.”

My golden ticket. Office optional. I haven’t been back for three months. Or is it five?

“Get this thing taken care of.” Yeah, sure thing. Thanks, boss!

Thursday

A pounding wakes me. Ouch. I stumble to the door and open it without checking.

“Thomas,” says Daniel. (He’s not my father-in-law.)

“Daniel.”

He walks past me into the house and stops. His mouth hangs open. He’s speechless.

I see what he’s seeing. In ancient times, our living room was a pleasant space. It was a tidy place of parties and laughter and marriage. Not anymore. Bottles everywhere. Piles of books, papers, dirty laundry. Finger streaks in the dust.

“Thomas,” he says. He walks through the house, looks in every room, shaking his head. “Thomas. I’m going to get you some help.”

Friday

He gets me some help.

I’m counting out a generous cocktail of painkillers when the doorknob rattles. I see an old white hatchback on the curb. A magnetic pink sign: “Maid Service.”

I open the door. The maid has a silvery buzz cut and pink overcoat. She bustles in and drops an enormous leather purse on my couch. “I’m Mrs. Smith. I’ll be taking care of the house now. Okay, bye-bye.”

My final stop of the week is behind motel row. On the freeway side of town, the line of eight motels range from dingy and dingiest. Local panhandlers try collecting enough for a night’s stay. But eighty bucks a night, just for lodging, can be hard to maintain. Most of them camp in the woods out back half the time.

“It’s the Map Guy,” I call out as I push into the woods. “Hello?”

“Hey man.” I hear a thin voice. Behind a wall of kudzu, I stumble into a clearing of tarps and cardboard. Three people—a man and two women—sit on camp chairs. The woman speaking is Jessie. I’ve seen her around a lot. “This is my cousin Lucy and her friend Derek,” she says. Lucy waves. Derek grunts.

One of the tent doors hangs open. Inside is a pile of ragged stuffed animals and beanie babies. “You going to be staying here for a while?” I ask them.

“What’s it to you?” Derek glares.

“Hey, be nice. This is the Map Guy.” Jessie snaps at him. “He’s one of the good ones. Yes, we are.”

The maid’s hatchback is still in front of the house. The living room is unrecognizable. Blankets are neatly draped, pillows placed with precision. Mrs. Smith is at the kitchen sink. 

I see empty bottles that shouldn’t be empty. She’s pouring my booze down the drain.

“What are you doing?” I yell. Lunging, I wrench a bottle of rye out of her hands. 

“Helping you,” she says. 

“Okay,” I say, clutching the rescued bottle to my chest. “But I’ll just get more.”

Except for some reason I don’t get more.

Saturday

I find a new toothbrush in the bathroom. So I brush my teeth. 

My mouthwash is missing. The replacement bottle is brightly labeled “No Alcohol.” 

A thump on the door. Newspaper. 

Another thump. The maid lets herself in. This time she’s not alone. There’s a younger woman with her. “This is Susan, my niece.”

“Hi,” Susan waves.

I watch them work. Susan plugs in a new answering machine. The maid is pawing through the kitchen. Swinging open cupboards, peering behind dishes, digging through the pantry. She dusts off a coffee maker. Susan pages through the answering machine instruction manual. The morning light catches her hair. She looks up and smiles at me.

“Coffee,” Susan says later and sets a steaming mug down next to me.

“Thank you.” We both smile.

On their way out, the maid hands me the envelopes from the funeral home. 

“Deal with these,” she says.

For a long time, I sit and do nothing. I see nothing. The envelopes languish in my hands.

Then it’s all there. Our years together. Dreams for the future. The anniversary dinner. I was too drunk to drive home. She’s behind the wheel. The sudden darting deer. Hospitals. The funeral. Grief and rage. A haze of mornings and evenings, working and drinking. Sliding backwards. Forgotten weeks and missing months, so much lost time.

“Okay. I’ll face you now,” I say and open the first envelope. 

Sunday

Toothbrush. Mouthwash. Coffee. Newspaper.

“My aunt asked me to drop these off.” Susan is on the stoop with a bouquet of tulips. “She said to tell you to put them in water right away.”

Monday

“Man, you are looking good today!” Bernie, the Homeless Lumberjack, smiles at me. “You smell good too.”

The maid is waiting for me when I get home. She’s alone this time. “You can have Bob’s old record player.” 

“I don’t have records,” I tell her.

Tuesday

When I get to the first park, a fire truck is pulling away. Officer Murphy is drinking coffee from a styrofoam cup and staring at a burned out cluster of trees. He waves me over.

There was a fight last night between two homeless guys. Dickie accused Bubba of stealing his stash of weed. Bubba took a swing. They tussled. A flaming log got kicked toward the tents. Everything burned. Including the stash, I’d imagine. 

“New rule. No more campfires,” Murphy informs me. “Tell your people.”

So I spread the word. 

My answering machine works. Two messages are flashing when I get home. 

One from Daniel, expected. 

One from Susan, not expected.

Wednesday

The usual. Hygiene. Coffee. Newspaper. I’ve now added a morning walk.

The maid arrives as I’m leaving. “I heard you have plans today,” she teases.

I do have plans. At lunchtime, I drive to the bagel shop. Susan is waiting for me outside. She is staring up at an old oak tree.

“Look at that,” she says, grasping my arm. “They’re dancing.” I look up. A dozen squirrels are racing through the branches, playing together—climbing, jumping, climbing again. A flurry of movement as they laugh and chirp.

Thursday

I’m sipping coffee at the kitchen table. Done with the newspaper. Thinking I should get slippers. And a bathrobe. Pajama bottoms. A special uniform for my mornings, which keep getting longer. 

The phone rings. I snatch it up. 

“Thomas, it’s Daniel.”

“Good morning, Daniel. How are you and Ann?”

Friday

“Fresh basil is my secret ingredient,” says Ann. 

My kitchen smells like tomatoes. We’re making dinner. Ann hovers over a pot, stirring and tasting her homemade sauce.  

Susan and Daniel study the pile of records he brought. Mostly jazz. “You haven’t heard of Art Blakey?” He’s incredulous. 

We drift into the living room. Susan puts on the Dave Brubeck Quartet. The record catches and the drums swish. Susan sways and snaps her fingers. “Let’s dance,” she says.

I’m rooted for a moment. The piano cuts in, then the bass. I haven’t danced for so long. The alto saxophone calls out to me. Says to start moving. I haven’t moved for so long. It calls again. And then I’m out there, moving. 

“How do you dance to jazz?” I shake my arms.

“Just groove with it, daddy-o,” Daniel says. He winks at me. I nod back.

So I groove with it: elbows flapping, knees knocking. Twist. Shout. Jump. Jive. Susan is laughing. We are all laughing. I am dancing and moving and living again.

Assignment: to write an 2,500 word (or less) short story in eight days that featured the following — 

• Genre: Fairy Tale

• Character: A Minimalist

• Plot Line: New Year’s Resolution

By Matt Shaw

Tom began the day as he always did. A plunge into the river behind his cottage. Coffee percolating on the stove. He pulled on his favorite slippers and began to work. Today he must finish a set of journals for Old Man Badger and his entire family. Thick pages for sharp claws.

Clank-clank-clank. A knock on the door. Tom never had visitors, he wondered who it was. He swung open the door and stopped, stunned. Hundreds of citizens stood outside. Smoldering torches flickered. Frowns and snarls and sour faces. Several carried signs—things like “Save us from Tom” and “Do it now!” No one looked happy. 

He knew what this was about.

There once was a young man who had not finished his new year’s resolution, and it was going to destroy everything.

In a normal year, everyone completed their resolutions quickly. On the first of January, every adult discovered their assignment. The wizard’s crows delivered envelopes to each mailbox. Kept secret from others, the resolutions were usually random tasks that made little sense. But delaying wasn’t worth the risk, so most people tried to finish their resolutions quickly within the first few months of the year. 

But here was Tom, on December 28th, and he hadn’t even started.

The wizard, who was called the Storyteller, had declared that resolutions kept the world from destruction. He promised that if a single resolution was ever not completed, all would instantly be destroyed by fire. The resolutions guaranteed life. So everyone obeyed. It had been this way for many years.

Tom’s failure would mean death for everyone.

“Hello,” said Tom to the crowd. 

Silence. He saw a hundred familiar faces. Mrs. Dovesmith was there: her cheeks streaked with tears. Her sign said, “Obey the Wizard.” He saw several bears, their black cloaks crisp and neat. They quaked with rage.

Tom was well-liked by everyone. The librarian recalled that he spent an afternoon fixing the wheel in a creaking book cart. When she offered to pay for his services, he refused. “I live to please,” he said. A collection of elderly citizens had all encountered him in some way or another that made their lives easier. For Dr. Appleton, Tom helped carry seven bags of groceries up sixteen flights of stairs. Mrs. Dovesmith never forgot the time she broke her wrist and Tom had walked her dog daily for a month. And for poor Widow Ansel, he had nailed up two hundred “Missing Kitty” posters on trees throughout the village, until someone finally spotted the beloved feline halfway down the well. He refused to accept any reward. “I live to please,” he said. 

At this moment, however, no one was pleased.

“I’d invite you all in for coffee,” said Tom. “But I don’t have an extra cup.” He smiled.

No one smiled.

The silence was thick with tension and fear.

The crowd gave way and the mayor shuffled forward. Her blue cape wet from the morning dew. “Look, Tom. We like you.” She tapped her cane on Tom’s slipper.

“Thank you,” he said. “I like to be liked.”

“Yes, good.” She stopped. “But something is wrong. You haven’t finished your resolution. There’s no Stamp of Approval on your mailbox. You have to do it. We all know the Storyteller’s cursed declaration.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tom. “I can’t.”

“You must!”

“No, really,” he said. “I can’t. It’s impossible. I’ll show you.”

He pulled the envelope from his pocket and extracted the letter.

“No!” Old Man Badger shouted.

“Letters must not be shown. They are for you alone.” The bears growled.

Tom hesitated. He looked up. His eye twitched. 

“My resolution for this year is,” he hesitated. “To kiss a princess.”

Gasps. “A princess.”

“See,” he said. “Impossible. There are no princesses. No one has seen a princess. They may not even be real. I can’t do it. I’m sorry. It must be a trick. I never liked the wizard anyway.” He was shocked at his own words.

The reaction was fierce. 

“Tom!”

“No.”

“Stop him.”

“Sacrilege!”

The mayor tapped her cane. They quieted.

“Tom, you must leave the village and find a princess.”

“But this is where I’ve always been.”

“You must. If you stay, all will be destroyed. Leaving gives us a chance.”

“But—” 

“Go!” The bears bellowed.

An hour later, Tom was on the footpath heading out of the village. He carried a sturdy staff, wore a small backpack, and felt the hard steel of a dagger thrust into his boot. In front of him, as far as he could see, golden fields danced in the morning. A long snaking river shimmered far off, beyond was a dark line of forest. He had already traveled farther than ever before.

When he reached the wide, slow river, Tom was pleased to see it was spanned by a narrow footbridge. Good, he thought. I didn’t want to get wet. He headed toward it. A group of figures huddled near the steps to the bridge.

“Hello?” he called.

“Our savior!”

“We’re rescued.”

It was a family of foxes. 

“Sir, hello.” The largest fox spoke. Clothed in a neat green suit, he peered at Tom over small spectacles. “Your timing is impeccable. We’ve been stranded on this side of the river for several days and need help crossing. Mother is afraid of falling off the bridge and refuses to even try. You, sir, must be our ferryman.”

“Can’t you swim?” Asked Tom.

“Of course we can swim. Foxes are excellent swimmers. I personally am a superb swimmer. I have seventeen trophies.”

“Why don’t you swim across?” Tom knew that he couldn’t carry the foxes across the bridge, narrow as it was, without the risk of tumbling in.

“I simply cannot get wet,” said the largest fox. “My pristine coat can not handle the water.” He glanced at the rest of his family. “We all feel the same way. None of us will get wet. You must carry us.”

Tom stared. He rubbed his neck, which was suddenly hot. I don’t want to get wet either, he thought, and I’m not even an excellent swimmer with seventeen trophies. He shrugged. 

“All right, climb aboard.”

Thus Tom became the ferryman. He slid into the dark river up to his armpits as his feet hit bottom. Frigid water filled his boots. He clenched his teeth.

It took seven round trips in total. One for each of the foxes, who insisted on his head as their preferred dry carry perch, claws digging into his neck, plus a final trip for Mother’s harmonium. Three times he had nearly lost a boot wedged between river rocks. Once his backpack slipped off, but he snagged it with the tip of his staff. River water poured out as he dangled it aloft.

He climbed out of the river.

“Farewell,” said the leader fox. “It took you an awfully long time so we’d best hurry along.”

“You’re welcome. I live to please.” said Tom, mostly speaking to their bobbing tails as they scampered off. Then he muttered, “Usually.”

The sun set as Tom reached the edge of the forest, where he stopped for the night. After building a small fire and eating wet biscuits, he stretched out with the backpack under his head. The stars glowed in the dark sky above. He wondered about his task ahead. Will I find a princess? Will she be pretty? Will I even want to kiss her?

Deep into the forest the next morning, Tom saw a woman sitting motionless on a stump. Thin and austere, her red hair was long and matted. She wore a ragged black cloak. Her hands were folded in her lap and she gazed into the woods. 

Tom stomped as he walked, hoping his heavy footsteps would grab her attention. She didn’t move. He coughed. Nothing. Forced a sneeze. Broke wind. She sat like a statue, staring into the trees.

“Good day,” said Tom.

She swiveled her neck. Blue eyes. She nodded.

“Nice morning,” said Tom.

She nodded again.

“Do you speak?” Asked Tom.

She squinted and seemed to look through him. 

“I can speak,” she said.

“I must find a princess for my resolution. Do you know of any?”

She leaned back. “I do know,” said the woman.

“Where do I go from here?”

“Go on through,” she said, and paused abruptly.

Tom waited for her to finish. She looked at him. And shrugged.

“Through where?”

“The forest and—” another long pause.

“And what?” 

“Around the great bog—” She gasped. Silence again. Her eyes were wide with terror.

“What?”

“Find a castle,” She stopped. 

Tom waited, looked at her. “I’m sorry to be impolite. Is there a reason you are only speaking three words at a time?” 

“A cursed declaration!”

“Cursed by the Storyteller?”

“Cursed by him.” She bobbed her head and began to cry.

For the next forty-five minutes, speaking in staccato exchanges of three words at a time—punctuated by a “Continue” from Tom after each snippet—she shared her story:

“I grew up in a royal family in a small castle overlooking the village near the Storyteller’s lair. Despite being royalty, we were poor. So childhood was simple. More than anything else, I loved to read and hear and tell stories. I was fascinated by the Storyteller. Or by the idea of the Storyteller. We barely saw him. A few times each year rode through the village. He never spoke. He never, ever told a story. Simply watched us and wrote in his little book.”

“Ah,” said Tom. “We never see the Storyteller. But his crows are everywhere, always watching. Continue.”

She went on. “The Storyteller was neither kind nor unkind. He was there. In the background, doing his work, crafting the resolutions and rules that kept the world in balance.

“As I grew older, I developed a quick wit and a clever tongue. Soon my stories and jokes became known throughout the village. Whenever I went out, someone would call to me: ‘Princess Verdana, make us laugh.’

“The most popular way to get a laugh was to make up a biting rhyme about one of the villagers, such as: 

“I am fat Charlie the farmer
“I can’t fit in any man’s armor
“I would like to go sow my oats
“But now I have lost all my goats 

“I now see, older and sadder, that saying such things is neither dignified or kind. But people loved it. Most wanted to hear one about themselves. 

“My fame grew. Seeing an opportunity, the tavern keeper and I organized a Night of Mirth and Rhymes. I was to stand on a stage in the dining hall and do what I did: creative mockery. I was nineteen years old.

“The night came. I took the stage in front of a huge crowd.  The great hall was full. Bright scarves, elaborate hats, painted faces—people had come to celebrate. Even the animals were there: bears in bright robes, foxes in pressed coats.

“And so I began. One by one, I worked my way through the crowd, slashing and cutting. I called names, exposed foibles, belittled appearances. They loved it. The laughter was constant. Throughout the night coins were tossed onto the stage. This was the greatest night of my life.”

“Then came requests to roast the absent fellow villagers. “Do one about the school teacher.” So I did:

“There once was a bookish old shrew
“Who loved to sip on her brew
“She once fell asleep in a cart
“And awoke to the smell of her fart

“That was a true story. Which made it funnier to everyone. They wanted more. So I did the shoemaker, Mrs. Foxsimmons, Miser Adams, and several others.

“Finally the fateful request. ‘Do the Storyteller.’

“The crowd was silent for a moment after that. No one liked the Storyteller, but everyone feared him. I charged ahead.

“His face like an ugly stone mask
“He assigns us an annual task
“Whether we like it, hate it, or love it
“I’d rather just tell him to shove it

“An explosion of squeals and shouts. ‘Do him again!’

“As I was preparing another, the room went silent. 

“The Storyteller was in the room and had heard everything. He moved through the crowd like a ghost, pale and hairless. I froze. The wizard climbed onto the stage and pointed a gnarled finger.

“‘Princess with the gurgling tongue,’ he said. ‘Your words are acid to my ears. I declare a curse of minimal speech over all your days. For the rest of your life, you may only say three words at a time—or you will immediately die.’

“Oh my,” said Tom.

“Soon I left the castle and village. I hated being there, the looks and whispers. For the last five years I have been wandering: homeless, begging, and alone.”

“And you can only speak three words at a time?”

“Just three words.”

“You are the princess I have been seeking. But first we go to the Storyteller,” said Tom.

She led the way. They hiked for two days. Through the forest. Around a steaming bog. They hid from a band of marauding giants. Avoided an avalanche. As they traveled, Tom thought about all the princess had said. He wondered about the curses.

At last they reached the Storyteller’s lair. It was nearly midnight on the final day of the year. The black castle jutted high in the night sky. Crows circled the spires above. Tom pushed open the heavy door and entered. Princess Verdana followed. 

They found the Storyteller behind a long wooden table. Firelight cast shadows across the room. A great clock loomed in the corner. The old man’s pale fingers tickled an obese rat in his lap. A bowl on the table gleamed full of apples. He smiled when he saw them, showing black and jagged teeth.

“I’m here with the princess,” said Tom. 

“Then kiss her,” said the Storyteller.

The clock creaked. It was 11:59. 

“No,” said Tom.

“Do your resolution. You must do it.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t you want to please me? You live to please.”

“Not anymore,” said Tom.

“Do it or everything will be destroyed.”

“I don’t think so.”

The Storyteller jumped up. The rat fell to the floor. The wizard lunged at Tom, clawing at his face. Tom stepped back and swung his staff. It cracked hard against the Storyteller’s head and knocked him to the ground.

Tom stepped over the wizard. He reached toward his boot. Dagger in hand, he leaned toward the bowl and pierced an apple. He tossed it to the princess. He stabbed another apple, brought it up, and took a bite. Delicious. 

The clock moved again. Midnight. It was a new year. 

Nothing happened. No flames. No instant destruction. 

“I knew it!” said Tom.

The Storyteller moaned.

“His curses have no power,” said Tom. “Except our fear and agreement.” He turned to the princess and grinned. “Tell another one about the Storyteller.”

Her blue eyes danced as she smiled back. “It will be my delight.”

Over the years, you’ve frequently used the phrase “Matt Music” to describe my unique song selections: which alternately include opera, 1930’s jazz, punk rock, poppy indie, classic folk—and just about everything in between.

I do love music, and am often on the lookout for something I’ve not heard before.

Usually it takes a little bit of effort to un…

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Seeing Lana for the first time was one of those heart-stopping, hold-your-breath kind of moments. We were both new students at the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago when I saw her during an orientation event on the plaza.

(This was way back in August 2000, forever ago—before the towers fell, the endless wars, the death of journalism—when everything still hummed with possibility, and we lived offline instead of behind curated profiles and glowing screens.)

I was immediately drawn to her magnetic presence. Terrific smile, long flowing hair, flashing blue eyes. I complemented her shirt (it was a Pez dispenser) and we exchanged a few words. I don’t remember the whole conversation, but she stuck in my mind—eager, buoyant, full of life, excited to talk with anyone, and absolutely gorgeous. Three days later I emailed my youngest sister that I’d met the woman I would someday marry.

It would be a couple years before we starting dating. I was certain she was out of my league (this remains a universally agreed upon truth) but God was gracious to me and when I proposed she said yes.

We’ve been married for eighteen years today.

“Buoyant” is one of the most enduring ways I’ve described my wife over the years. It was true in her personality on that first encounter—she was bouncy, eager, and hopeful in her demeanor. In time I have come to see that the outward expression is a reflection of her inward character. Think of a wave crashing over a buoy in open water. It disappears below the surface, but then emerges: fresh, crisp, and bright.

This life is beset by storms and waves—disappointment, pain, loss. Through all of it I am thankful that Lana Shaw perpetually aims upward. No matter what circumstance, attack, oppression, uncertainty comes, she rises again.

The other side of the buoy metaphor is the hidden anchor. What is it that keeps the buoy from washing away and disappearing into lost oblivion? A steel cable connects it to a heavy concrete anchor at the bottom of the sea floor. That solid rock is what makes all the difference.

As a husband, I see Lana’s anchor every day. I see her pursuit of God, her thirst for righteousness, and her daily surrender to higher things. It makes all the difference.

I could go on, but I’ll end here: I’m thankful!

I’m thankful for Lana as a person, as a fellow traveler toward the light, as my lovely wife, a terrific parent, and an excellent communicator, leader, and creative image-bearer of God.

Lana, I love you. So thankful for the years behind and the years ahead. Happy anniversary!

(She’s still out of my league. Honk if you agree.)

Early one morning this passage made me pause. “Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed with me with the food that is my portion.”

“Feed me with the food that is my portion.”

I dug deeper into the meaning of “portion” as it is used here. The definition surprised me.

Statute, ordinance, limit, something prescribed, due. Prescribed task, prescribed portion, action prescribed for oneself, resolve; prescribed due; prescribed limit, boundary; enactment, decree, ordinance (specific decree, law in general); enactments, statutes (conditions, enactments, decrees, civil enactments prescribed by God.

Limit. Boundary. Statute. Something prescribed. Something set forth. Something defined from outside of my authority. A boundary a line specifically set for me.

Sometimes my boundary line and limit is nearer for me than it is for others. Sometimes it is farther. We are each bound by a different measure.

That idea isn’t radical. It is true everywhere you look. Just think about the purpose and appropriate uses of different tools or types of clothing. They have different jobs and must be handled accordingly.

A champion racehorse is terrible at providing milk for the family breakfast table. A milking cow does a lousy job of winning the horse races. For each, as they are differently made and have different purposes and futures, the opportunities and the limits are in different places.

When I stumble into the rut of comparison, of measuring myself against others—whether favorable to me or unfavorable—then I am playing a foolish game, because God has prescribed different for each of us.

Only he knows best what is for me, so it behooves me then to live closely, listen carefully, and to obey swiftly in those areas prescribed for me.

Often, I try to push. I push back at those boundaries that seem too close. I grate against the standards that seem too harsh. As I try to expand my boundaries to better match where I see others are, then I’m actually missing the chance for greater freedom. By trying to press into areas that are not my portion, I’m missing a chance to thrive in domains where only I can thrive, and others may not.

Limits and boundaries. We often think of them as bad. Restrictive. Unfair.

Yet the boundaries that God establishes for each of us are liberating and clarifying. Like the limits guiding drivers on a shared road, they keep us safe and get us where we are supposed to go.

Photo by Jan Canty on Unsplash

One of Speak Up’s longtime homeless writers makes “gratitude lists” to keep a hopeful perspective. When the going gets rough, he pulls out his notebook and writes down at least 100 things for which to be thankful.

Over the last couple days, I’ve been doing some similar journaling: reflecting on the many blessings I’ve experienced over the last four decades.

Here are a couple items from that list:

MY WIFE

I’ve been married for nearly 17 years to an incredibly gracious, intelligent, creative, and thoughtful woman. Lana Shaw is a perpetual bearer of light, a person who cares about others with tremendous depth and sincerity. She nurtures and refreshes generously—not just to me and our three kids (also a blessing!), but also to many dozens of others. 

Every day with her is a reminder that I won the marriage lottery. 

INSPIRED PARTNERSHIPS

Over the years at Speak Up I’ve come into contact with many incredible volunteers, generous donors, and enlightened organizations. They have been sources of acceleration, strength, and wisdom. I’m thankful for those people and partners who have poured out so selflessly.

Peggi Knowe is one such partner. She joined the volunteer team in 2012, and has been a steady source of precision, warmth, and wisdom ever since. Someone please give her the “Heroic Merit for Putting up with Matt” Award!

A sincere and heartfelt thank you must go to Hawthorne Lane United Methodist Church for continuing to host Speak Up HQ—this summer marks five years! 

And to the many dozens of donor-partners: thank you for bringing change, restoration, and hope to those most in need. 

BOOKS

I’m thankful to my parents for imparting a lifelong love of books and reading. Books have inspired, counseled, and challenged me. They’ve stirred my imagination, awakened my curiosity, and nourished my soul. Laughter, tears, goosebumps—I’ve experienced all those while alone with a book. I’m never not reading one (or a couple) and would love your recommendations. 

Bonus: Thumbs up to the public library, which my family keeps in business almost single-handedly!

MY CHURCH COMMUNITY

Churches are a mystifying dichotomy. On one hand they are places where you reach for the holy, the elevated, the divine. And yet they happen to be entirely populated with people who are quite obviously imperfect.

In the good ones you can authentically be yourself and at the same time grow toward the light. We found a good one way back in 2005, have stuck around, and now it is family. Through thin and thick—in lament and joy—we’ve been blessed to be part of a community that cares, sharpens, and loves faithfully.

BACKPACKING

I’ve been hitting the trail for a couple days at time for many years, and few experiences satisfy and stir the soul more than a crisp night under the stars. Sometimes I haul along giant loads of gear in a palatial backpack, braving frigid temps, and boiling snow for water. Other times I’m powering through 25 mile days with an ultralight pack and spending the nights swaying in a hammock. 

It is funny how a weekend outdoors with just a fraction of the normal necessities can revive the spirit and align the heart. 

Let’s hit the trail!

THE FOLKS FACING HOMELESSNESS

What can I say? If you are a reader of the magazine then you know many of them through their writings. These people are as broadly diverse as the world is wide. Some are kind and thoughtful, others abrasive and cheeky. Some are hopeful and thriving, others are stuck and struggling. (And some are all of the above, depending on the day.)

They are people. People who cannot be summed up and categorized.

When I walked away from a beloved teaching job in 2009 to start Speak Up, I had no idea how deeply and profoundly I’d be touched by the homeless people who would write and sell the magazine. I’ve not just been wowed by their wisdom, generosity, and grit; I’ve been blessed by their friendship.

The previous post I shared was about the value of hardship and the blessing of discomfort. I wrote about fasting from food, and how doing so both sharpens the spirit and clarifies the mind. I wrote about wintertime backpacking and the after-trip clarity that comes from a cold and miserable weekend.

Discomfort Over Dullness was the title of that piece. In…

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Last week some messy weather rolled into the Carolinas. Snow, sleet, 20-degree temps may be a wintertime staple in the upper half of the continent, but down here they are a big deal. Schools let out early, social media forecasters snapped into overdrive, and everything slowed down.

When I heard the forecast, I said to my wife: “Backpacking weather!”

As an…

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Recently when speaking with a respected leader I said, “As much I was would like to see myself otherwise, I’ve concluded that [this] isn’t one of my strengths.”

The particular trait (the “this”) we were discussing is irrelevant, except to say that while it is not essential to successful leadership, it is something our culture highly respects.

It look me a…

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Dear Isaac,

I’m sorry it took me so long to swap out your tooth. 

I hate to make excuses, so I won’t make an excuse for why I’m late. 

I won’t even go into the story of why it took me an extra couple days to make it here. (It was a miracle it was only a couple days!) My delay was caused a complex and unusual episode, involving the following circumstances and characters:

• An injured wing (mine)

• A Fairy Bear Doctor who turned out to be a quack

• Some bad painkiller

• Three thieving squirrels

• An old school bus

• 2 mismatched socks

• A pair of tweezers

• The mysterious hair that I found on the tweezers

• A 100 mile race across the desert

• One fat old Russian magician

• A terrifically juicy fart (safety!)

• ...and a few other things

Anyway, as I said, long story...maybe I’ll get to share it someday.

Enjoy the money. (And don’t spend it all at the arcade, like I did as a cub!)

Sincerely,

The Tooth Bear

P.S. I snapped a photo of you for my records while you were snoozing, so I thought it was only fair (bear-fair) if I included a picture of myself.

We watched The Nativity movie last night with Isaac. It’s a live-action retelling of the birth of Jesus, beginning with Zacharias’s revelation in the temple and ending with the flight to Eqypt. Although there were some intense moments in the movie, I’m glad Isaac got a chance to see it–until now all the depictions of Bible people he’s seen have been car…

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