Red Balloon / Untitled #1

A look under the hood of an aspiring fiction writer:

Last September, a short story that I wrote was selected as one of five finalists in a writing contest. It was based on a photo prompt, in this case a bright red balloon floating through skyscrapers , and writers had 650 words to write whatever they wanted. Bright red balloons are by their nature cheerful, so I thought “let’s mix it up and write something sad and wistful about this cheerful object floating off between those big buildings”. Turns out I wasn’t alone there – the other four finalists also wrote what I would call “sad and wistful stories”. I also didn’t know that I could title my short story – I know, I know, but really, there wasn’t exactly a prompt for the title. I wasn’t alone there either. My story was uncharitably labeled “Untitled 1”, and down below another writer’s submission was called “Untitled 2”.

My story wasn’t chosen as the winner. It finished second in an online pole (to “Untitled 2” – power to the dummies who don’t know about story titles), and thanks to anyone who voted for it. Multiple thanks to anyone who voted multiple times (I know it happened because some of you told me). Frankly, the entire process turned me off of the online voting system for short fiction. How it worked was I sent my story out to friends and acquaintances over email (raydanner.com was not yet in existence) and you all read it, or you didn’t, and you probably voted for it (he said optimistically), and since each story was 650 words, you probably didn’t read the other four entries, or maybe you read the first paragraph and moved on. And that’s probably exactly how it worked for the other entrants, and maybe the contest was about who wrote the best 650 words about the red balloon, or maybe it was about who could self-promote and inspire their friends to read, vote, and share their little public submission. I sent a few follow-ups and hectored people and started to feel kind of gross when the voting was open much longer than I expected.

There are countless gatekeepers in publishing. Any time I write a short piece of anything, I search through online magazines, journals, and the like and send it off where it lands in an electronic pile of dozens, or hundreds, or thousands of other submissions. Vetters read through the submissions, and maybe a really good piece doesn’t appeal to their sense of style, or maybe they had a bad pastrami sandwich at lunch and they toss off your piece without much consideration. Point is, there are plenty of obstacles in the way of anything seeing the light of day. I was excited that this was chosen by the editors for the final five (someone saw merit in a thing I wrote – yay!), but honestly kind of disappointed that it didn’t win (lost by 16 votes – 170 to 154 – boo!).

But that’s the whole game. Well, that or self-publishing, which is something I’m not really interested in. I want people to read my stuff! I like writing, I’m motivated to get better, and I think that appealing to professional publishers who don’t know me but are moved enough by something I wrote to publish it is enormously rewarding, despite the imperfect selection process. I could self-publish everything I write, and my friends and family would read it, and that would be cool! It would be pretty cool. But I want more.

That said, I will use this space to self-publish some of these “one-offs” – stories that I submitted for something specific, like this red balloon prompt, or a fairy tale that I wrote for another contest. Usually when a story is rejected I tweak it and send it off again. But sometimes, it’s a one-and-done. I’ll post the fairy tale in the coming weeks.

All that being said, here it is – “Untitled 1“, or if I had known I could title it, “Happy Anniversary“.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Happy Anniversary

So I’m sitting on this fancy patio downtown with Molly when she looks over my left shoulder and does this, like, double-take. She’s got her hair done up nice in curls and they give this little shimmy that is pretty comical. Her eyes narrow and her hair bops around like a slinky.

“What?” I finally ask her when she keeps staring.

“That man. We saw him last year too. I know it.”

Christ, now I gotta turn around and see.

Yep, true story. There’s a guy across the street. Holding a red balloon by the string.

“Roger, don’t you remember? We made up funny stories about him, and then he just let go of the balloon and walked away.”

“Here’s where you’re wrong, honeybun. We sat inside last year on account of the rain.”

“OK, but that means it was two years ago, which makes it even weirder. Do you think he’s a pervert or something?”

I turn to study the guy.

“Trench coat? Hunched back? Velcro sneakers and a red balloon? Yeah, could be a pervert,” I agree while digging into my rigatoni. Although why a pervert would be at an intersection this busy is beyond me. Passing buses continually rattle my pint glass. Admittedly, I’m not up to date on pervert-tactics.

“Roger,” she says with a whine. Oh, good grief. “Go see what he’s doing. This is bothering me.”

“Why should it bother you? Want to trade seats? Just ignore him.”

“Roger!” and she hisses this. “There are children around. Would you just go see what he’s doing?” Ok, ok. I’m on it.

I dodge traffic across the street and come up next to the guy. Looks like a boomer, snowy-haired, tough face. Trench coat bulging like he’s made of ill-fitting Legos.

“Hey Bud,” I say with my deep, “Hey Bud” voice. Like I mean to do business, guy to guy. “I gotta ask you about that balloon.”

Shit.

I should have thought this out on my way over. Ask about the balloon? Like he’s a balloon salesman? Or he is a pervert and I’ve just acknowledged him with some sort of double-secret pervert code. Then he turns to look at me with these deep blue eyes, like a whole ocean is peering out.

“I come here every year,” is all he says.

“Well yeah, that’s why I came over. We recognized you from last year. I mean two years ago,” and I point to Molly at the table. We look over together just as she buries her face in her hands. I should have had another beer and ignored her.

“Celebrating?” he asks.

“Yeah, our wedding anniversary. Third. It’s where we met. So listen, kinda odd to see a grown man out and about with a red balloon, don’t ya think?” Time to get the pervert on the defensive.

He looks up at the bouncing balloon like he forgot it was there.

“Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, / But bears it out even to the edge of doom.”

“Huh?” I say cleverly.

“Shakespeare. My Doris and I came to this spot for years.” A small child dodges between us trailing the smell of bubble gum and runs giggling into the crowd. “Just like you and your wife. For different reasons.” He tries a smile. “She’s gone, so I must remember him by myself. It’s all I have left.”

Whatever this guy is on about, I don’t think he’s out here to pick off stray kids, so I make to beat a respectful retreat. I whisper how I’m sorry for his loss and back away.

“Be careful crossing the street,” he says over his shoulder as he looks up towards the balloon. Then he releases it, and we watch it catch a draft and bounce between the air currents up, up through the canyon of buildings and out of sight.