Coming of Age | Jamie Gregory

A Chip Off the Old Block

[This story was submitted for the Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction Challenge. I was required to write a 500-word story that featured the word “punch”, featured the action of “spilling something”, and broke the writing rule of “avoid cliches”.]

***

Trailer trash.

The words were scrawled across my locker in bubblegum-colored lipstick. Sniggers popped off behind me, like crickets warming up for their nocturnal chorus. I didn’t dare turn around — unwilling to endure the smirks and pointing fingers, yet again.

I used the sleeve of my threadbare sweater as an eraser, but the lipstick simply smeared across the dull gray metal. I scrubbed harder, tears streaming. The stack of textbooks I carried spilled at my feet, adding insult to injury — I scrambled to gather them. A Nike sneaker pinned my biology book to the linoleum. The football quarterback, Silas, loomed over me, his girlfriend, Sasha, on his arm.

“Oops, my bad. Didn’t see you there, T.T.” Silas kicked my textbook down the hall.

Onlookers gathered like a pack of hyenas, drooling over wounded prey.

“Get to class,” Mr. Steward shouted from his doorway across the hall as the bell rang.

Saved by the bell.

Sasha winked, blowing me a kiss with bubblegum-pink lips. “See you at lunch.”

Mr. Steward handed me the biology book. “You need to show those jerks they’re barking up the wrong tree.”

I gave him a weak smile, shoved the books into my locker, and scurried off to the cafeteria.

The cashier sighed as I slid my tray to her register. “You still have a negative balance, sweetheart.”

I stared at the blob of mashed potatoes on my tray. “I’m sorry. My mom said—”

Mom said, “We don’t need charity. Pack a lunch.”

A student jutted out of line. “What’s taking so long?”

“Tara, this is the last time you can borrow,” The cashier closed the register. “Remind your mom, okay?”

“T.T.’s trying to get a free lunch ‘cause she’s too poor to pay like the rest of us,” Sasha said from behind me where she had cut in line, waiting to pounce.

I spun around and upturned my tray onto her chest. Mashed potatoes and corn slid off her cheerleading uniform. She scowled at me, astonished, speechless.

“What’s wrong, Sasha? Cat got your tongue?” She opened her mouth to retort. Reeling back, I punched her perfect little nose.

***

The clock ticked in Mr. Steward’s room during after-school detention. Sasha, arms folded over her stained uniform, glared at me with purple bruises blooming around her eyes and bloody cotton balls shoved up her nose.

When time was nearly up, the classroom door burst open and Sasha’s mom stormed in.

“You’re pathetic,” Sasha crumpled under her mother’s wrath. “Get up before you embarrass me any more than you already have.”

Sasha followed her mom into the hallway like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

“You better hope your nose isn’t broken,” Her mother slammed the classroom door. “Your face was your ticket out of this town. God knows you aren’t smart enough to go to college.”

Mr. Steward laid down the newspaper he was reading. “Well, I’d say she’s a chip off the old block.”

Mom said, “Hurt people hurt people.”

***

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The Sun Came Out at Night

Posted on July 24, 2022 by jamiegregory

[6 minute read]

This story is inspired by true historical events.

—

It started as a night just like any other night and ended with twelve-year-old Michael’s innocence vanishing like the setting sun.

I walked across the empty living room and turned off our small black and white television just as Walter Cronkite signed off on the CBS Evening News. Then I placed a pot of steaming spaghetti and a bowl of garlic bread on our rickety kitchen table, where Michael shoved his homework into his Trapper Keeper.

We began eating and allowed the silence between us to be filled by John Lennon’s voice emanating from the transistor radio in the kitchen, singing (Just Like) Starting Over.

“How was school today?” I asked.

“Fine.” He said without making eye contact.

“Did you have a lot of homework?”

“Yeah, but I got all of it done.”

“Well, that’s good,” I said, trying to think of something else to talk about.

Somewhere along the way, I blinked my eyes, and my talkative, inquisitive child had morphed into a withdrawn adolescent. I yearned to return to the days when his chatter and incessant questions drove me to exhaustion.

“Hey Mom, can I ask you something?” He said, finally glancing up from his plate.

I froze midway through spinning spaghetti onto my fork.

“Sure,” I said.

“Mr. Jeffries gave us a new assignment for English class today. We have to write a story describing an extraordinary experience, and I was just wondering—”

“That sounds like an interesting assignment. Do you want me to help?” I asked, eager to keep the conversation flowing.

“Well, kind of. It reminded me of that bedtime story you used to tell me all the time when I was little. You know, the one about the time when the sun came out at night. Was that really a true story?”

I hesitated and searched his face looking for the innocent little boy who was once so eager to be awe-inspired by fantastical tales. But there, in his eyes, I saw a young man looking back at me, waiting with a sense of skepticism and readiness for rites of passage that would bring him face to face with worldly truths.

“Yes…and no,” I said.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“The story I told you was only partially true.”

He let that sink in for a moment and said, “Well, can you tell me the whole story?” and then added matter-of-factly, “So I can decide if I want to use it for my assignment.”

I rested my fork on my plate, smoothed the napkin draped across my high-waisted jeans, and let out a slow sigh while he waited with anticipation.

“The date was July 9, 1962. After finishing my second year of college, I returned home to Honolulu for the summer to help your grandma pay the bills and babysit your Aunt Lily and Uncle Jack. Most of my classmates were embarking on exotic family vacations or building their resumes with challenging internships. We were just trying to keep a roof over our heads and food on our table. Your grandma and I were like two ships passing in the night, working different shifts at the local 24-hour diner and handing little Lily and Jack off like batons.” I paused to take a sip of my sweet tea.

“The diner was a few blocks from our tiny two-bedroom apartment. We didn’t have any transportation, but the tips I got from all the tourists made the walk worth it. I remember it was really hot that night as I walked to the diner for the night shift. Around 11:00 pm, all the street lamps suddenly went out, immediately blanketing the streets in darkness. The abrupt loss of light temporarily blinded me and caused me to trip over an uneven section of the sidewalk. By the time I got up to dust myself off, the night sky was full of colorful light as if I’d traveled several hours back in time. It was almost like the electricity had been magically sucked out of the street lamps and thrown up into the sky, illuminating it like the early morning sunrise…or at least that’s what I led you to believe when you were little.” I said, glancing down at my unfinished dinner and realizing I had lost my appetite.

“So, what really happened?” He said.

“What I just described to you, what I saw that night, is true. The part of the story I haven’t told you is what actually caused that phenomenon.” I said.

“What…caused it?” He asked tentatively, like a child watching a horror movie for the first time with his hand covering his face, peering through his fingers, afraid but intrigued.

“Let me show you something. Follow me.” I said.

We abandoned our cold dinner, and he followed me to my bedroom. I rummaged in my closet for a few minutes until I found an old cardboard box full of college keepsakes and extracted a scrapbook from it.

“Here it is,” I said, crossing the room to sit on my bed and patting the threadbare quilt indicating for him to join me.

“What is this?” He asked while I quickly flipped through numerous photos of myself flashing peace signs in bellbottom jeans at various college parties, likely inebriated. I’ll save those stories for when he’s older, I thought.

“This is just a little scrapbook I made to remember my college years. But this is what I wanted to show you.” I said when I landed on a page containing a yellowed newspaper clipping.

It was from the front page of the Honolulu Advertiser, and it was dated July 9, 1962, the day of the incident. I pointed to an article I had circled with the following headline, “N-Blast Tonight May Be Dazzling; Good View Likely.”

“What’s an N-Blast?” Michael asked.

“The N stands for nuclear. Nuclear blast.” I said.

“I don’t understand….”

“The truth is that our government was testing high-altitude detonations…they were exploding hydrogen bombs in space. Their first test launch on Johnston Island a month earlier had to be aborted due to mechanical failures that resulted in radioactive material raining down on the island. Despite protests breaking out worldwide, they tested another nuclear weapon over Johnston Island on July 9th, the night I walked to the diner. That blast caused an electromagnetic pulse that knocked out the electricity and disrupted the telephone service in Hawaii, nearly 1,000 miles away. Hotels in Hawaii hosted rooftop parties that night to give people a view of the ‘light show’ in the sky like it was the fourth of July fireworks or something. Idiots…” I trailed off when I noticed the incredulous look on Michael’s face.

“Why would they blow up bombs above our own country? And why would you use that as a bedtime story? Why didn’t you ever tell me the truth?” He said, getting more distressed with each question.

At that moment, I knew he was growing up, it was happening right before my eyes as clearly as the artificial aurora borealis I saw in that night sky many moons ago. But something else was happening — he was grappling with the reality that the world was not the safe and harmonious place he thought it was.

I glanced back at the newspaper article, peering into the past, and said, “Those were very uncertain times, honey. I’m not sure if you’ve learned about the Cold War in history class yet, but the United States was in a ‘race to space’ with the Soviet Union. I guess our government wanted to master the explosion of nuclear bombs in space before Russia did.” I sighed, looked back at my son, and continued. “My life hasn’t been extraordinary, and I couldn’t afford to give you an extraordinary childhood. But when you were little, your imagination was so hungry for something magnificent. So, I crafted a bedtime story about the most extraordinary thing I had ever witnessed to give you something magical to believe in, and you embraced it without a trace of doubt. What I didn’t expect, was the magical spell that your innocence cast on me, healing the scar tissue I got from becoming a hardened adult in this hard knock world.”

—

The following week, Mr. Jeffries called upon Michael during English to present his assignment to the class. Michael stood at the front of the classroom, took a deep breath, silently begged his hands to stop trembling, and began reading from the paper he was holding.

“When I was younger, my mom used to tell me a bedtime story about a time when the sun came out at night. As a little kid, I believed it was some sort of magical fairytale, but it was actually an extraordinary historical event that took place during the Cold War. Things aren’t always what they seem to be, and today I’m going to tell you the true story of the U.S. military’s Starfish Prime project.”

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

—

Want to learn more about the historical events that inspired this story? Check out the articles below:

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-fix/wp/2016/01/15/no-you-dont-really-need-to-worry-about-an-emp-attack/

https://www.thespacereview.com/article/1549/2

https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/going-nuclear-over-the-pacific-24428997/

Helper of Mankind

Posted on December 18, 2021 by jamiegregory

[11 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

S1 E4: Helper of Mankind (A Dystopian Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms

Sixteen-year-old Sasha Malone participates in a government-mandated coming-of-age ritual and discovers her unexpected destiny. I hope you enjoy this short story. Genre categories: Fiction, dystopian, science fiction, coming-of-age. Discover more of Jamie's writing at: https://jamie-gregory.com/ Follow Jamie on Twitter: @jamielgregory — Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/shortstoriesbusybookworms/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/shortstoriesbusybookworms/support

On the morning of my sixteenth birthday, I was jolted awake by the discordant sounds of a car horn blaring outside and my mom’s fists banging on my bedroom door. I rolled over in bed with the agility of a sloth. 5:53 am — my birth minute. Happy birthday to me, I thought grudgingly.

Mom’s voice, teetering between stern and panicky tones, shouted at me through the door, “Sasha, are you awake? The taxi is here to take you to your HCTA. Sasha? C’mon, hurry up. You know what happens if you don’t show up for the HCTA.”

I was all too familiar with the ramifications of skipping your Health and Civic Trajectory Analysis, or HCTA for short. I’ve been lectured about the significance of the HCTA by relatives, teachers, and doctors for as long as I can remember. And those conversations always placed a heavy emphasis on the consequences of not participating in this mandatory coming-of-age procedure: a hefty fine of .02 Bitcoins and spending the last two years of your youth in a juvenile detention center where you’re inevitably forced to participate in the HCTA and begin your career placement training.

I got dressed hastily, threw my hair into a messy ponytail, and popped a breath mint into my mouth. I pressed my thumb onto the fingerprint reader on my door to unlock it, catching my mom in mid-knock as it slid sideways.

“It’s about time. Here, take this and run outside before the taxi leaves.” Mom said while thrusting a blueberry muffin into my hands.

“Mom, you know they’re not called taxis anymore, right? It’s an APTV.”

“Taxi, APTV, what difference does it make? I can’t keep all of these acronyms straight these days.”

I stepped onto our front porch as the APTV’s public address system made an announcement in a robotic voice. “Attention, Sasha Malone. Please board the autonomous public transportation vehicle waiting for you at 521 Carrbrook Court. Time remaining to board: five minutes.” This announcement was simultaneously broadcast to my personal cellular devices. Ok, geez. I’m coming, I thought as I jogged towards the APTV.

I unlocked the APTV using the fingerprint reader on the door which then swung upwards like a bird lifting its wings to take flight. I climbed in and the door closed automatically beside me.

The robotic voice returned. “Good morning, Sasha Malone. Your destination is the Department of Career Placement laboratory. Estimated travel time: twenty-two minutes.”

Normally I’d spend the next twenty-two minutes watching videos about cloning fails or hacking residential AI systems as a prank — but my mind was preoccupied with the potential outcomes of my HCTA.

The Health and Civic Trajectory Analysis was developed by the newly formed Department of Career Placement in response to the unemployment crisis that nearly crippled America following the COVID-19 pandemic in the early 2020s. According to my school history books, the HCTA utilized state-of-the-art DNA profiling to identify an individual’s optimal profession, mating compatibility profile, probability of having offspring, susceptibility to diseases, and estimated lifespan. The HCTA was quickly mandated for all citizens upon turning sixteen. Anyone who didn’t comply with their recommended career placement would face severe legal consequences.

Now, three decades later, the nation’s unemployment rate is at an all-time historical low and the economy is booming. What the government has failed to address, however, is the exponential growth of depression and suicide rates in response to the HCTA rollout. It’s pretty hard to see the glass half full if you’re forced into a career you aren’t passionate about, told that your chances of having a family are bleak, given a laundry list of diseases you’re susceptible to, and predicted to have a shorter-than-average lifespan.

I started reminiscing about a popular fortune-telling game we used to play in grade school to predict our future HCTA results. Invariably you would end up with wretched outcomes and it quickly became a contest to see who was predicted to have the most miserable life. It’s all fun and games until someone’s life actually does become miserable. I tried shifting to a more optimistic mindset by making a mental list of careers I’d be most excited about. Something adventurous and meaningful. Deep-sea diver, search and rescue, astronaut—

“You have arrived at your destination.” The APTV said while opening its doors and interrupting my daydreams. I reluctantly left the comfort of the car and stood face to face with the laboratory that would soon determine my destiny.

Since the entire facility is operated by robots, I only crossed paths with one other human while I was there, a fellow teenager who was exiting the building as I approached the main entrance.

“Happy birthday,” I said with a timid smile.

“What? Oh, uh, yeah…happy birthday to you too.” He said dismissively, his face etched with worry.

I took a deep breath, opened the building’s exterior doors, and walked into the vestibule which contained nothing more than a small kiosk. “Welcome to the Department of Career Placement laboratory. Please proceed to the identification scanner.” A voice recording announced.

I tentatively approached the kiosk which seemed to feature nothing more than a small fingerprint reader at first glance. Seconds later a screen suddenly rose from within the kiosk until it reached eye level and then it extended towards me until it was just inches from my face.

“Please stand still and stare at the screen in front of you for the retinal scan.”

With that, the screen came to life and I could see an image of myself reflected in it. After the beam of infrared light passed over my eyes, the screen portrayed a portrait of me along with my name, date of birth, social security number, and home address. Well, that’s pretty snazzy.

“Please place your thumb on the fingerprint reader.”

After my thumb had been scanned, the display on the screen confirmed that my fingerprint and retinal scan matched and I was in fact who I was supposed to be.

“This concludes the identification scan. Your identity has been successfully verified. Please proceed through the doors directly in front of you to the laboratory.”

The screen in front of me went dark and disappeared back inside the kiosk which was positioned between me and the double doors leading into the laboratory. As I approached the doors they opened automatically, beckoning me one step closer to discovering what my future held.

I entered a small, brightly lit, clinical room. It was completely bare with the exception of a robotic contraption in the middle of the room which had a large open-ended plastic tube hovering next to it that extended upwards and vanished into the ceiling. My eyes darted around the room waiting for my next set of instructions. I just want to get out of here. This place is creeping me out.

“Please approach the robot and position your feet on the line on the floor. Now, extend your arm straight in front of you with your palm facing up, make a fist, and remain very still while your blood sample is collected.”

I stretched my arm out and focused on steadying my trembling fist like my life depended on it. The machine’s robotic arms suddenly aroused, unfolding and reaching toward me. A laser beam was used to scan the veins in the crook of my arm and then a ligature was tied a few inches higher. A needle and a small test tube materialized from within the machine. I noticed that the test tube was already labeled with my name, date of birth, and social security number. The needle slid into my arm effortlessly like an expired leaf gliding to the ground on a still fall day. The blood was transferred into the test tube which was then inserted into the large plastic tube next to the robot and sucked up into the ceiling and off to who knows where. The machine slapped a bandage on my arm, released the ligature, and collapsed into itself once again as if the ordeal was rather exhausting.

“This concludes the blood sample collection. You will receive your Health and Civic Trajectory Analysis results via hologram at your residence in approximately one week. Please exit the building through the vestibule upon which you entered.”

One week? Why does it take so long? This was pretty anti-climatic compared to all the hype I’ve been facing for the past sixteen years.

Later that evening I was sitting at the kitchen table, silently picking at the meatloaf on my plate, while Mom and Dad chatted with my younger brother Seth about his upcoming basketball season. Their conversation halted when our hologram pad in the living room chimed, indicating that we had an incoming message. I jumped up from the table and I was halfway into the living room when my dad shouted, “Sasha, in case you’ve forgotten we have the rule to ignore holograms during dinnertime.”

As I approached the pad in the corner of our living room the hologram emerged. I was standing eye to eye with the image of a woman I didn’t recognize. She was holding a tablet and wearing a white lab coat.

“Good evening, Sasha Malone. I’m Dr. Watkins from the Department of Career Placement. I have an important message to deliver but it’s imperative that your parents are present.”

“Mom, Dad. You better come in here.” I shouted.

Once my parents were flanking me the woman continued, “Good evening, Malone family. I’m Dr. Watkins from the Department of Career Placement. I’m sending this message to inform you that Sasha’s HCTA results have been expedited due to the fact that she has received a government-classified career placement. Agents from our department will be arriving shortly to permanently relocate Sasha to our training base. I’m sure this might be startling news for you. On behalf of everyone here at the DoCP I’d like to thank you for making this sacrifice for your nation.”

The hologram disappeared leaving a void that was filled with my mother’s agonizing sobs as she collapsed onto the couch. My dad was frozen with a look of utter shock on his face. I could feel a sense of panic rising inside me like a tidal wave. I looked back and forth between my parents desperately waiting for one of them to say something reassuring. A forceful knock on the front door made all of us jump and exchange glances. Dad was the first one to react, crossing the room to answer the door.

Two uniformed men stood in the doorway brandishing DoCP badges. “Good evening, sir. I’m Agent Bricard and this is Agent Stamos. We’re from the Department of Career Placement and we’re here to transport Sasha Malone to a classified career training base.”

My mom rushed to my dad’s side and frantically said, “What’s going on? You’re taking her…right now? Where is she going? Will we ever see her again?”

“Ma’am please remain calm. There’s nothing to worry about. I can assure you that your daughter will be in good hands and she is going to be of great service to our country. You should be proud. Once Sasha has arrived at our undisclosed facility she will be permitted to send holograms to you, under supervision of course in order to protect the confidentiality of her work.”

I embraced my parents as if it was the last time because, for all I knew, it was. I urged my hands to memorize the strength of my dad’s muscular back which had sustained me for countless piggyback rides. I inhaled the sweet smell of my mom’s trademark perfume, committing it to memory as well. Then I followed the two agents, stepping out of my familiar, mundane life and into the unknown.

I was transported in the windowless cargo section of a government van so that even I didn’t know where our destination was located. After a considerable amount of travel time, the van came to a stop and the agents released me. We had arrived at a nondescript warehouse, the only sign of civilization, in the middle of a dense forest. The agents escorted me inside the warehouse and deposited me into a small office where the woman from the hologram, Dr. Watkins, was sitting behind the desk waiting expectantly.

“Hello, Sasha.” She said. “Sasha, that’s a great name. Do you know what it means?”

“No,” I said nervously.

“It means defender, helper of mankind. Isn’t destiny a beautiful thing?” She seemed to be lost in thought for a moment and then continued, “Speaking of names…I have a confession to make. I’m not actually Dr. Watkins and this isn’t the Department of Career Placement.”

I jumped out of my seat. “What? I knew this was crazy. Where am I? What’s going—”

“Calm down, Sasha. You’re safe here, I promise. Just have a seat and let me explain.”

I hesitantly lowered back into the seat.

“My name is Susan Jacobs. I run an underground organization and our mission is to overthrow the government’s restrictions on foster care children and restore their rights as citizens of this country.”

“Foster care children? What are you talking about? And what does this have to do with me?”

“Unbeknownst to most of the general population, our country has nearly 750,000 foster care children living in government facilities. The government has eliminated the adoption process that existed for hundreds of years, therefore, denying these kids the opportunity to be placed with a loving family. These children are provided a sorry excuse for an education and then forced into the worst, lowest-paying jobs that nobody else wants. They are prohibited from participating in the HCTA and discovering their true destinies. You are going to help us infiltrate the system and set them free.”

“Wow, that’s really messed up. How can they get away with that?” It was a rhetorical question so we were both silent for a moment while I digested this overwhelming information. “I still don’t understand what this has to do with me.”

“We’ve been hacking into the DoCP database for a while now intercepting HCTA results to find the ideal candidates to train for this covert operation. Your DNA profile and ancestry were exactly what we were looking for. You’re highly intelligent. You have many physical aptitudes and a spirit of adventure. And when I discovered the meaning of your name, defender, helper of mankind, I knew that we needed you on our roster.”

By the time I left Susan’s office at the end of that first meeting I was all in on her mission — hook, line, and sinker.

After two years of intensive training, I found myself sitting in an APTV parked in front of a small government-operated foster care facility. I was accompanied by two of my fellow trainees and we were all disguised as laboratory technicians. I took a quick glance at myself in the mirror before exiting the car to tackle the first of many infiltrations of foster care facilities across the nation. I barely recognized myself. I had been transformed into a machine, a human-machine programmed for compassion, ingenuity, and grit.

The details of our visit had been meticulously arranged. Susan used her connections with universities across the United States to gain government approval for conducting scientific research on the DNA profiles of foster care children. We were welcomed into the facility under the guise of collecting blood samples for the research program. Our hackers ran those blood samples through the HCTA system and generated credible HCTA reports for every eighteen-year-old foster child from that facility who was on the verge of being released. We tracked those children down, equipped them with the new reports, and transported them to their respective career training facilities to embark on a journey toward their true destinies.

When I accepted this mission I thought I left behind my life and the world as I knew it. But in reality, I was simply evolving into the person that the world needed me to be. The person who sent the twenty-five children from that first facility, and many more after them, on a life trajectory full of potential which will yield ripples of influence for generations to come.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: End your story with someone finding themselves.

Debut Under the Big Top

Posted on December 11, 2021 by jamiegregory

[8 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

S1 E5: Debut Under the Big Top (A Historical Fiction Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms

John Turner has always dreamed of running away with the circus but he never expected that dream to become a reality. I hope you enjoy this historical fiction short story. Genre categories: Fiction, historical fiction, suspense, coming-of-age. Discover more of Jamie's writing at: https://jamie-gregory.com/ Follow Jamie on Twitter: @jamielgregory The following sound effects were downloaded via https://freesound.org/. Fading and loudness normalization effects were applied to these sound effects which are licensed under various Creative Commons Attribution licenses. Mechanical street organ by RTB45 Crowd cheer by day-garwood Zoo animal sounds by freesound Baby crying by mariiao2 Elephant trumpeting by vataaa Small crowd gasping by dreamstobecome Crowd in panic by IENBA Horse whinny by foxen10 Cheering clapping crowd by AlaskaRobotics — Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/shortstoriesbusybookworms/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/shortstoriesbusybookworms/support

I stood with my feet firmly planted on the small wooden platform twenty feet above the ring and the surrounding crowd. My sweaty, shaking hands gripped the railings beside me in an attempt to steady my trembling body. I looked down, but only with my eyes since I was too afraid to move my head. The ringmaster pranced to the center of the ring to introduce the next act, my act.

This time yesterday I was trudging home from the coal mine, covered head to toe in soot, and praying that my days working there were numbered. For the past year, that prayer had gone unanswered.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.” The ringmaster said. “At this time I’ll introduce you to our next death-defying act…with trepidation. Sadly, our tightrope walker sustained an injury during his last performance which put us in quite a bind. But as luck would have it, we were introduced to a young lad from right here in Connellsville this morning who is a self-taught tightrope walker and aspiring circus performer. You are about to witness his debut performance of this spectacular stunt.” There was an audible gasp and subsequent murmur from the crowd. “Following what I’m sure will be a thunderous round of applause, please remain silent to allow him the utmost level of concentration. Now, put your hands together for John Turner.” As predicted, there was an uproar of applause from the crowd which came to a sudden halt when the ringmaster shushed them.

I could feel the weight of thousands of eyes on me, waiting with anticipation. Besides the occasional ruckus from the menagerie tent, the atmosphere was so thick with silence that you could slice through it with a horsewhip. I was vaguely aware of the ringmaster announcing my name and the fact that I should be doing something. My body was frozen, paralyzed by fear. My mind, on the other hand, was racing.

Circuses stopped in Connellsville, Pennsylvania regularly to draw in the local coal mining population. It was practically the only form of entertainment in these parts. I would never forget the first time my parents took me to the circus. I was eight years old and I was completely enamored by how extraordinary it was. It felt as though I had been transported to another planet full of exotic animals and magnificent performers.

Ever since that night, I’d been dreaming of running away with the circus. This isn’t what I had in mind though…I’m not cut out for this, I thought. Of course, I fantasized about becoming a famous performer. Yet in reality, I was simply hoping to obtain a manual labor position with a circus like my enviable cousin William. But one year ago the trajectory of my life changed like a weather vane shifting with the wind. My father left to fight in the Spanish-American War and never came home again, leaving behind my mother and seven children, of which I’m the oldest. My mother decided that, at thirteen years old, I had received an adequate education and it was time for me to replace my father as the man of the family. When tragedy strikes, Father Time doesn’t put the universe on hold to give us a chance to cope with our trials. When the fog of my father’s death lifted I found myself deep in a coal mine battering my grief, with one deliberate swing of the pickaxe at a time.

A baby wailing in the crowd snapped my mind from the coal mine back to the big top and the task before me. If I close my eyes I can just imagine that I’m back home balancing on the railroad tracks or walking along my makeshift tightrope in the barn. I had only attempted my homemade tightrope twice. It stretched the width of the barn from one hayloft to the other. On the first attempt, I fell and landed squarely on the straw bales stacked on the ground below. I wasn’t quite as lucky on the second attempt and ended up with a broken leg to show for it. Ok, maybe I shouldn’t close my eyes.

The ringmaster suddenly cleared his throat and announced my name again while trying to conceal his frustration. I glanced down one last time before I took the first tentative step onto the tight rope. The last thing I saw was my cousin William standing near a large wooden wagon along the side of the ring. He gave me a knowing head nod and it was just enough to make me think perhaps I could pull this off.

I considered the long balancing pole leaning against the railing next to me. I never used a balancing pole at home but…maybe I should have. I grabbed the pole with my sweaty palms and shifted my gaze to the wire stretching away from me. Like sunlight kissing a rain puddle, the wire glistened in the radiance of the state-of-the-art electric spotlights positioned around the big top. I took a deep breath like I do when Mama has a loaf of homemade bread baking in the oven. I slid my right foot out onto the wire and rotated the balancing pole into a horizontal position, holding it close to my abdomen. My left foot stretched and landed in front of my right foot in a swift yet calculated movement. Wobbling slightly, I paused to get my bearings. If Papa was here he would say, “Johnny, it’s so quiet in here you could hear a mouse fart.” I chuckled aloud and almost lost my concentration. Another deep breath. Right foot, stretch, and settle. Inhale, exhale. Left foot, extend, and touch down. I eased into a rhythm and suddenly I was a quarter of the way across the tightrope. I’m doing this. I’m actually doing—

The trumpeting of an elephant blasted abruptly from the menagerie tent. I nearly lost my footing. I bent forward at the waist trying to achieve a lower center of gravity. My body jerked from side to side, wrestling with the balancing pole and doing everything in my power to remain upright. The crowd below erupted with more gasps and a few shrieks. That’s not helping, I thought with gritted teeth. By nothing short of a miracle I recovered my balance.

By the time I reached the halfway point along the tightrope, my confidence was growing. But apparently, at that moment I should’ve remembered one of Papa’s other catchphrases, “Don’t celebrate too early. Just because your horse is in first place doesn’t mean he’s going to finish that way.” Because that was the moment when I felt a tingling sensation inside my nose. Damned if I didn’t have to sneeze. It must be all the sawdust in here. It always gets to me in the barn—

The gust of air flew out of my nose like a runaway freight train, there was no stopping it. I lost my grip on the balancing pole and it fell by the wayside. My knees buckled and I collapsed clumsily onto the wire, then tipped sideways and went overboard like a drunken sailor. One minute I was standing tall and proud living out a daydream I had no business dabbling in. Now, in the blink of an eye, or the sneeze of a nose rather, I was tumbling twenty feet to the ground and my presumable death.

I was surrounded by a cacophony of sounds — people screaming and animals protesting the sudden chaos. My body was trapped in an uncontrollable tumbling tailspin. Various sights zipped through my topsy-turvy field of vision: frantic crowd, defiant elephant, glaring spotlight, canvas ceiling, sawdust-covered ground.

Fleeting, panic-stricken thoughts competed for attention in my mind. Am I going to die? Oh my God…I’m going to die. What will Mama do without me? How could I be so stupid? Will I see Papa again?

I was rapidly approaching the ground, unable to brace for impact when I was briefly enveloped in something soft before colliding with something solid. I entered a void where all light and sound dissipated.

After an indiscernible amount of time, I was roused by the soft material shifting around me. As it tickled my skin I gradually regained my sense of hearing, albeit muffled at first. Someone was shouting frantically, “Johnny! Johnny, can you hear me?” Suddenly a pair of hands made contact with my body and jerked me out of the abyss by my armpits. My head lolled from side to side as I wheezed and coughed, spewing sawdust from my mouth. I attempted to rub the sawdust out of my desiccated eyes to identify the savior standing before me.

“William? Is…is that you, William?” I said, just barely making out my cousin’s face through my blurred vision.

The ringmaster suddenly stepped between us and said, “Give the crowd a bow, you idiot. And I want to talk to both of you after the show.” He stepped aside and William steadied me for a second to make sure I could stand on my own.

Standing inside the large wooden wagon full of sawdust I gave a defeated bow. William had resourcefully pushed the wagon across the ring to catch me just in the nick of time. The crowd went wild, exploding from their seats into a boisterous standing ovation. I collapsed into the wagon once again with a plume of sawdust rising around me. William wheeled me out of the big top waving at the cheering crowd with a grin on his face, relishing in his own moment of fame.

When the ringmaster found us after the show had ended we were waiting to be scolded like a dog with its tail between its legs.

“I’m so sorry sir. I never should have tried to—” I said.

William interrupted me by saying, “Sir, I apologize for leading you to believe that Johnny had more experience. I’ll accept whatever punishment—”

“Shut up, both of you. That act was brilliant. First, you had the crowd on the edge of their seats, then they thought they witnessed your death…they loved it. Suspense, danger, bravery. And William…an animal caretaker…a nobody…rushing in to save him with a wagon…just brilliant. It stole the show.” The ringmaster said vehemently. William and I, now speechless, exchanged glances. “So, you two knuckleheads are going to repeat that act, in the exact same way, at every show from now on. Johnny, we’ll pretend that you’re a local resident from whatever town we’re in on the given day. Understood?” William and I nodded earnestly in unison.

Show after show, town after town, I lived this lie and survived the same near-death fall countless times. Ironically, after walking half the length of the tightrope so many times I had actually become a very skilled performer yet I was forced to stay incognito. I got my wish to run away with the circus and it was simultaneously everything I had hoped it would be and nothing I had hoped it would be. My name will never adorn a circus poster as a star performer but I’ve learned that my impact on the audience is beyond measure: I exemplify the ability of an average human to climb out of the darkest chasms of life and rise, victorious over adversity.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: Start your story looking down from a stage.

Shoot Past the Moon

Posted on December 4, 2021 by jamiegregory

[12 minute read or listen to this story narrated by Jamie Gregory on the Short Stories for Busy Bookworms podcast below]

S1 E3: Shoot Past the Moon (A Coming of Age Short Story) – Short Stories for Busy Bookworms

This heartwarming coming-of-age story shines a light on the influence teachers can have on underprivileged students. I hope you enjoy this short story. Genre categories: Fiction, coming-of-age. Discover more of Jamie's writing at: https://jamie-gregory.com/ Follow Jamie on Twitter: @jamielgregory — Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/shortstoriesbusybookworms/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/shortstoriesbusybookworms/support

I rearranged the padfolio, stack of papers, and water bottle on the podium for the umpteenth time as more people continued to meander in and take a seat in front of me. Whew, ok, take some deep breaths. You’ve got this.

I tried to distract myself and calm my nerves by gazing out of the bookshop’s windows which lined the city street. It was a chilly, early spring evening and there was a drizzle outside being illuminated by the streetlights. I was snapped out of my trance by the bookshop owner approaching the podium to greet the crowd.

“Good evening, everyone.” He said and paused to let the chatter simmer down. “Welcome to Beehive Books. I’m Jack Browerton and I’m the owner here. I want to thank all of you for coming tonight. Without further ado, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to tonight’s guest author, Anna Bensley. Her debut novel, a moving memoir about growing up in poverty, entitled “Where I’m from, I Must Not Stay” became a New York Times Bestseller practically overnight. She’s a fellow Ohioan and we’re thrilled to host her tonight for the first of many stops on her book tour. We invite you to purchase a signed copy of her memoir before you leave tonight. Now, please help me welcome Anna Bensley.”

I was faintly aware of the brief round of obligatory applause from the crowd while my trembling hands adjusted the podium microphone.

I cleared my throat and said, “Uh, hello everyone. My name is Anna Bens — well, I guess you already know that.” I let out a nervous chuckle which was echoed by a few people in the crowd. “You’ll have to bear with me. Writing a best-selling novel is much easier than public speaking, in my opinion.”

Jack, coming to my rescue, interjected from the back of the crowd, “Hey Anna, may I suggest that we start with some Q&A?”

“Oh, sure,” I said, relieved.

“I’m sure the odds were stacked against you after growing up in lower-class America. What inspired you to become an author?” He said.

“I thought someone might ask that question. I’m going to answer it by sharing a personal story, an excerpt from my memoir.” I said. I flipped to page 58 in my worn-out copy of the book and began reading aloud.

—

I tiptoed across the threadbare carpet of my mom’s bedroom in our dilapidated mobile home, still wearing my pajamas. Dust bunnies were floating through the rays of early morning sun seeping through the window. She was sprawled out asleep on her mattress that rested on the floor. Maybe someday we’d be able to afford bed frames. I felt guilty waking her knowing that she’d worked the night shift at the gas station and only had a few hours to sleep until her day shift started at the local diner. But it was payday and my last chance to ask for some spending money for the annual Secret Santa Shop at school.

One glorious day per year the school gymnasium was transformed into the Secret Santa Shop where students could buy Christmas gifts for their family members at “kid-friendly prices”. I’m not sure which kids found the prices to be friendly but I wasn’t one of them. Each year I left the gymnasium empty-handed while my classmates delighted in sharing their festive finds. Next year I’d be moving on to middle school where they no longer indulge in such activities.

With high hopes, I gently nudged her awake. “Mommy? Mommy, wake up. I need to ask you something.”

She slowly rolled towards me. “What is it, honey? I need to get some sleep before —”

“I know. I’m sorry, Mommy. I was just wondering…um…did you decide if I could have any spending money for the Secret Santa Shop at school today?”

“Oh, honey…I’m so sorry. I was really hoping that I could give you some money for that this year. But things have been slow at the diner recently so my tips haven’t been very good. And someone called from the electric company yesterday, threatening to shut off our electricity if I don’t pay the overdue bill.” She said.

I tried my best to hide my disappointment. “Oh…well…it’s ok Mommy,” I said.

“You don’t need to buy me any gifts anyway, sweetheart. Just make me a beautiful card like you did last year. That’s better than anything you could buy at the Secret Santa Shop.” She said while patting my shoulder. Then she yawned and said, “Now you better go get ready so you don’t miss the school bus.” She laid back down and turned her back to me, ending the conversation.

I returned to my bedroom where a small dresser from the thrift store held my dwindling wardrobe. Besides the fact that I was constantly outgrowing clothes, there was the ongoing problem of them being destroyed by our tenants, the mice. My mom’s meager income had to be carefully rationed between food, utilities, and gas money. Spending money on clothing and entertainment was a luxury we simply didn’t have. The older I got, the harder it was to fit in at school when I looked like a walking advertisement for the local second-hand clothing store.

I yanked one of the dresser drawers open and grabbed the most festive garments I could find, a stained red sweatsuit that was now two sizes too small. I pulled the sweatsuit on and pretended it was an ornate Christmas dress. I slipped my tattered gym shoes on and wondered if they’d get me through another midwestern winter.

In the kitchen, I made my usual breakfast of generic cereal and the last few swigs of now expired milk. On the school bus, I occupied a seat by myself and rode to the school in silence despite being surrounded by energetic conversations. At some point in elementary school, the differences among students became obvious and cruelty emerged. Fact: I was one of the poorest kids in school and I might as well have been invisible.

Later that day, I followed the rest of my class to the gymnasium for the Secret Santa Shop with a sick feeling in my stomach. My classmates were comparing how much spending money they had as if it was a contest. I tried to linger near the back of the pack since this was one conversation I wanted to be excluded from. We were almost at the gym entrance when Sophia Larson, the most popular girl in class, rounded on me.

“Hey, Anna. Good news, I heard they’re going to have a special table this year where everything only costs $1.00.” She said, loud enough for everyone to hear. I stared at my feet, wishing a trap door would suddenly appear there and suck me away. “Oh, sorry. I forgot, even $1.00 would be too expensive for you.” She said with a sneer.

“Sophia, that’s enough. Please apologize to Anna.” Said our teacher, Mrs. Hampton.

“Sorry, Anna….”Sophia said. Once Mrs. Hampton was out of earshot she added, “Sorry that you’re just poor trailer trash.”

My classmates scattered throughout the gym like they were shopping for the year’s must-have gift on Black Friday. Meanwhile, I plopped down on the bleachers and buried my nose in a book from the school library. A few minutes later I sensed someone sitting down next to me and looked up from my book to see Mrs. Hampton.

“Anna, you might run into a lot of people like Sophia Larson in your life. There’s no excuse for the way bullies treat people, but you need to learn how to stand up for yourself. She’s just going to keep picking on you if you let yourself be an easy target. Now tell me, is it true what she said? That you can’t afford to shop for gifts today?”

“Yeah…it’s true. My mom didn’t have enough money for it.” I said, with a sigh. I stole a sideways glance at Mrs. Hampton and decided that she had the kindest, caramel-colored, eyes I’d ever seen. I suddenly felt compelled to tell her more. “My dad left us. My mom has two jobs…but…we’re still poor. It’s not fair.” I said, my eyes welling up with tears.

“You’re absolutely right. It’s not fair. But the good news is, you don’t have to be poor for the rest of your life. You’re a smart kid, Anna. You have a ton of potential and if you put your mind to it you can have the life of your dreams when you grow up.” She said.

“You really think so?” I said, wiping a tear from my cheek.

“I know so. Keep doing your best in school, get a job when you’re old enough to start earning your own money, and find something you’re passionate about to study in college. What do you daydream about? What do you want to be when you grow up?” She said.

“Um…I don’t know…I love reading books and going to the library. My mom can’t afford fancy toys or movie theater tickets, but library books are free. Maybe I could work in a library someday?” I said.

“Yeah…that would be good. But imagine if the library was full of books that you wrote. As Norman Vincent Peale once said, ‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.’ Speaking of books, I see that you’re reading ‘The Giver’. That book usually isn’t assigned until middle school —”

“I know. I asked the middle school librarian for a book list so I could start reading ahead.” I said excitedly. Mrs. Hampton grinned at me and nodded her head a few times.

“Ok, I’ll make you a deal.” She said, “I’ll give you $10 to buy gifts at the Secret Santa Shop today —”

“Oh, no that’s ok, Mrs. Hampton. That’s really nice of you but I couldn’t pay you back and —”

“Just hear me out. You don’t have to pay me back with money. I want you to pay me back with book reports.” She said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I want you to complete one book report for each dollar I’m giving you. So, ten book reports total and I’ll give you until the end of this school year to do it. Think of it as your way of ‘paying me back’ and beginning your career as a librarian, or author, by reading and analyzing classic books.” She said while she pulled a ten-dollar bill from her purse and handed it to me.

I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. I leaped up from the bleachers and gave her a big hug. “Oh, Mrs. Hampton, thank you so much! I’ll write the best book reports you’ve ever seen.”

With time running out, I browsed the gift-laden tables as fast as I could. I spied a home manicure set at the “Gifts for Mom” table. It brought back memories of my mom before Dad left us when she had the time, energy, and money to spruce herself up regularly. I cautiously flipped the package upside down to search for the price tag, praying it didn’t cost too much. Luck was on my side because the price was exactly ten dollars. Sophia Larson got in the checkout line right behind me and I braced myself for more taunting.

“I thought you didn’t have any shopping money, Anna. That manicure set costs ten dollars, you know.” She said, pulling the same manicure set out of her shopping bag which was bulging at the seams. “Did you steal money from someone or are you hoping they’ll just feel sorry for you and give it to you for free?”

“No, Mrs. Hampton offered to give me the money and I’m paying her back by doing extra credit. Ten book reports by the end of the year. Middle school books.” I said with all the confidence I could muster. Then I turned on a dime, leaving her somewhat speechless for once, and handed the manicure set to the cashier. “I’d like to buy this for my mom,” I said, full of pride.

I took advantage of the free gift wrapping supplies provided by the school. When I arrived home Mom was still working at the diner so I put her gift in one of my empty dresser drawers where I kept it hidden until Christmas morning.

I barely slept a wink on Christmas Eve night. I woke up before Mom the next morning. I made her a cup of instant coffee, some toast, and a bowl of cereal all of which I placed on our rickety kitchen table next to her gift and a handmade card.

I crept into her room and gently prodded her awake. “Mommy…wake up. I have a surprise for you.” I said.

“A surprise? For me?” She said with a yawn.

“Yep! Come on. It’s in the kitchen.” I said, giddy with excitement.

Mom sauntered into the kitchen rubbing the sleep from her eyes. When she saw the display on the table she froze and a silent tear trickled down her cheek.

“What…is this?” She said.

“I made you some breakfast and…I bought you a gift. Merry Christmas, Mommy.” I said.

“But…where did you…how did you buy me a gift?” She said looking confused and concerned.

“My teacher, Mrs. Hampton, let me borrow some money so I could buy you a gift at the Secret Santa Shop —” I said.

“Oh, Anna…you know we can’t pay her back. Haven’t I told you not to borrow money from people?” She said.

“Don’t worry, Mommy. We have a deal. I’m paying her back by doing extra credit. Book reports. And they’re middle school books too. Mrs. Hampton says maybe I could be a librarian someday…or even an author.” I said. She started crying harder and I was having trouble interpreting her reaction. “Mommy…are you upset with me?” I said.

“No honey, not at all. I’m just overwhelmed by how special you are and how lucky I am to be your mom.” She said, smiling through the tears.

Later that night our power went out (Merry Christmas to you too, electric company), so we had a manicure party next to the fireplace while we sang Christmas carols. It was the most magical Christmas I’d ever had.

As for my deal with Mrs. Hampton, I finished all ten book reports with a month to spare so I threw in one more for good measure before the school year ended. Reading those middle school classics gave me an insatiable hunger for literature and set my life on a trajectory that was beyond my wildest daydreams. That extra credit assignment became the turning point when a poor girl from the trailer park began to rewrite the story of her future, one chapter at a time.

—

I glanced up from my book, expecting to see half of the audience asleep. But to my surprise, all eyes were locked on me and a few people were even dabbing away tears. A couple of people started a round of applause that swelled to a level of enthusiasm that embarrassed me.

“Oh…thank you…thank you, everyone,” I said, fighting back tears of my own. “Now that I’ve shared that excerpt I’d like to turn your attention to my book’s dedication page.” I said flipping to the beginning of the book and reading aloud, “This book is dedicated to Mrs. Hampton, for empowering me to shoot for the moon.”

After fielding several questions from the audience I relocated to the book signing table next to the podium. After thirty minutes of mingling and signing my hand was cramped and my mouth was sore from perpetually smiling. With my head down, I grabbed another copy of my book from the stack, ready to greet the next person but I suddenly sensed that nobody else was in line, or so I thought. I glanced up from the table and saw a woman standing at a distance, staring at me with a smile on her face. She had kind, caramel-colored eyes.

“Mrs. Hampton? Is that you?” I said.

She approached the table and said, “I see that you landed on the moon like I always knew you would.”

“I can’t believe you’re here!” I said, running around the table to hug her.

“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Now, Ms. Bensley, can I get your signature please?” She said, holding out a copy of my book.

I signed it for her on the dedication page. When I looked up to hand it back to her she was extending her credit card to the bookstore employee seated next to me to pay for the book.

“Nope, I can’t let you do that. This one’s on me.” I said.

“No, I insist.” She said, thrusting her card forward.

“Mrs. Hampton, this is my way of paying you back, for real this time. It’s the least I can do. Those book reports…and you…you changed my life.” I said.

She slipped her credit card back into her wallet and pulled a manila folder from her messenger bag. “Speaking of those book reports…I thought you might want these, to see how far you’ve come.” She said, handing me the folder.

I slowly opened the folder to find all eleven of the book reports I’d completed for Mrs. Hampton in elementary school. My juvenile handwriting gave me a chuckle. The margins were chock full of notes from Mrs. Hampton.

“You kept these…all this time?” I said.

“I kept them for this moment. So they could serve as a reminder of everything you’ve overcome to get here and the potential you have within you to keep going. Shoot right past the moon, Anna, and who knows where you’ll land next.” She said.

—

Want to brighten my day? Leave a comment below to share your feedback on this story!

This story was initially published on Reedsy.com in response to the following prompt: Write about a character who won’t (or can’t) shop for the holidays.