DanBailey.net cyclist, writer, font designer, geek

Exercise 2

This exercise is to write a 600 word short story from the first person POV, using a personal pronoun only twice. Source: 3 AM Epiphany

Here's my take:

The machine travels the country and I follow it. This is how it has been for the last two decades. One pull of the arm, one big jackpot, and there's this karmic bond. Unbreakable. A good night will do that. Six figures of cash and a some love from a lithe-figured call girl. The wife never found out.

On a return to Vegas, the machine was still there, dusty and forgotten in the same dark corner. Same promise, dissimilar results. Two grand later, nothing. No payout. Settled for a comp'ed breakfast and had the wife wire cash to cover a cab to the airport. Walked it. Blew that cab money in the slot.

Two years later, a divorce and a return to the promise of the machine. Still there. This time, another jackpot. Only five figures now, but enough to pay the lawyers, some alimony, and a few lines of blow. Things go well for awhile after that.

And then, the death of a child. Cancer. A relationship with the ex gone from semi-hostile to sadly disapproving. Time to saddle up and go to Vegas, visit an old friend again.

That friend is gone; there will be no late-night drinking binges, no conversation, no easy money to get out of that hole labeled "past due". An inquiry determines that it's gone off to Atlantic City. Fuck the McJob and the shithole apartment. Panhandle fifty bucks, roll a drunk tourist, and it's the 'Hound to New Jersey. Seventy-two hours of chemical toilets and body odor.

In A.C., it's a bust. Machine's gone, off to an Indian reservation casino in Bumfuck, Minnesota. And A.C. ain't Vegas -- there's no tourist to unwillingly fund another relocation. Staying awhile seems the best option. A.C. is a hard, gritty little town. The smells remembered are dirty ocean and the sweat of conventioneers at the tables. None of the slot machines hand out love and happiness as readily as that old friend did. It's hard to hold a job and an apartment when you're in the casinos looking for your fulfillment. There's plenty of places to flop in a casino town, though.

A similar machine, shaped like a promise, gives a small payout and it's back to the 'Hound and on to Bumfuck. Back to the old friend, back to happy times again. Triple-sevens, baby. Another payout and it's back in the game. A tongue on teeth interrupted by voids and fingers rubbing a face that hasn't seen a razor in months are the only tells of anticipation.

In Bumfuck, it's tough to engage in conversation. No one looks at what might well be a bum. An explanation of a past as a lawyer, with wife and kids, that means nothing in the here and now. Finally get an answer, something undesirable. Something sad.

There will be no more days of happiness. There will be no comeback from the brink. Standing in a garbage dump, the old friend at the top of the pile, a recent arrival. Matching the serial number is like gazing on the face of a dead child. Gulls circle overhead, one lights upon the carcass. A foot puts it back into the air with an indignant cry. The guardian angel, the salvation, the hope, is gutted, dead. Wires rope like intestines. The remaining two wheels show double bars but won't meet a gaze that is both sad and accusing. Cheap fake chrome barely reflects the pale winter sun.

This is the end of things. There is no more cycle of happiness and hunger. There is no more chance, no more hope.

There is this horrible pain in my chest.

Afterword: This is based off a story I've had germinating in my head for a long time now, and seems about the perfect length for it. Not sure how I feel about the personal pronoun limitation -- there are parts where I could have used them and made for a much stronger story. Ultimately, though, I found that applying a limitation was what I really needed to get it out and written.