flash fiction...round 1

Writing is the only thing that, when I do it, I don't feel I should be doing something else.
- Gloria Steinem

So the writing competition website, NYC Midnight, that brought me 2nd place glory several months ago with their 2008 Short Story Challenge is back with yet another competitive gem - the 2008 Creative Writing Championships.

In this competition, there are four rounds, and each writer is guaranteed to compete in at least the first two. You have two days (from Friday midnight to Sunday midnight) to complete a 1,000-word story, abiding by the genre, location, and object requirements for your specific heat. In a few weeks, we find out how we placed, and depending on what that is, we are assigned a number of points, which ultimately help decide the grand prize winner.

Below is my first submission, written in about three hours, even though, yes, I had a whole two days to do it. Alas, I'm a busy person =P And yes, you might ask, but Melissa, where are the other stories you've submitted to competitions and written about? Why haven't you posted them yet? Truth is, I've never really considered it until now. So...here we are:

Title: Framed
Synopsis: High atop the city, boredom turns to panic, actions are called into question, and a camera captures the tragedy of life in all its hi-def glory.
Genre: Open
Location: Rooftop of a skyscraper
Object: Video camera

By Melissa C. Navia

Matthew felt his eyelids getting heavy as he stared blankly out the towering windows of his father’s office. Fifty-seven floors up might have garnered him a bright, unobstructed view of the city on a hot Friday morning, but it still gave him nothing to do. His head began to nod off to the side. A black, compact video camera lay cradled in his hands.

It was summer. The temperature outside had been consistently scorching for the past week, and today was no different. If anything, it was worse. The air conditioning was at full volume. He had already heard some women in business skirts and blouses complaining about the chilly blast. But 15-year-old Matthew, in khaki shorts and a striped polo shirt, was content with the cold temperature lulling him to sleep. He went back to wondering why he had followed his father, who he hadn’t seen all morning, into work that day.

“Stop having so much fun!”

Matthew looked up. Staring down at him was one of the company’s younger employees. Pinstriped pants, wrinkled white shirt, messy brown hair, and a loosened striped tie. It had already been a long day.

“Scott Lawrence,” he said smiling. “You’re Peterson’s son, right?”

“Yeah, Matt,” Matthew responded dryly, “and yeah, it’s that much fun.”

“Sorry kid. We’re not crazy about being here either. Economy’s been real flighty. Stockbrokers get the worst of it,” Lawrence explained.

Trying to express his disinterest with the conversation, Matthew fidgeted with the video camera in his lap.

“Cool camera!” Lawrence tried again. “Canon? The new one? Expensive stuff.”

“Yeah, it comes with a bunch of different filming modes and upgrades,” Matthew acknowledged, turning the camera around.

“Oh my god!” Lawrence cried.

“Eh, it’s okay. No big deal,” Matthew countered. But when he looked up to explain, Lawrence was already running toward the windows—along with the rest of the office. Matthew spun around in his seat to see what caused the panic, but he heard everyone’s cries first, and he already knew.

Somebody was on the ledge.

Who was it? Anthony Radale from down the hall, someone shouted. What do we do? Somebody call the police! But what do we do? Don’t bang on the window! Open up a window? Get him inside.

Uncertainty mounted, and the orders being given out escalated in number. Several employees, Lawrence included, rushed to start the rescue operation while they waited for police.
But Matthew couldn’t wait. He clutched his camera and ran in the opposite direction. They were three floors from the roof of the building, and since he had been little, Matthew knew exactly where the exit doors stood.

Out of breath and panting, he burst through them into the day’s suffocating humidity, despite the windiness of the rooftop. He hurried over to the building’s edge and looked out over the protective barrier.

There he was, the man balancing on the ledge of the 57th floor. Matthew tore off the video camera’s lens cover, wound the camera strap around his wrist, held his arms out over the barrier, and clicked Record.

The noisy breeze around him dissipated, leaving just the sounds of the rotating lens. Matthew stared intently at the screen. He was filming at 30 frames per second. Perfect for YouTube. He smiled. Who would’ve thought? No news cameras, helicopters, reporters—he was the first one to the scene. Settling on a good bird’s eye view, Matthew lay down on his stomach and steadied his hand. The camera picked up the noise below.

Lawrence and other employees—Was that his father he heard?—were urging the man to come back in so they could talk. They said they were worried. They didn’t want him to get hurt. They understood. They just wanted him to step back inside. They said it wasn’t worth it. Matthew listened in silence.

The man on the ledge said nothing. He just stood there. Was he trembling? Matthew zoomed in tighter and scowled. He still only saw the back of the guy’s head. The monotony of the shot was beginning to irk him.

“C’mon,” he muttered under his breath, “say something…do something.”

For a moment, Matthew glanced away from the miniature screen and looked further below. A large crowd was already forming. Still no news vans.

He took a risk and panned away from the man to the people, simultaneously sliding the zoom toggle and pushing it to the max. Within seconds, they were in focus. Far away, but in focus. Matthew’s eyes narrowed as he strained to look closer. Were they celebrating? He swore they looked excited. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Were they yelling at Anthony to jump?

Shuddering, Matthew slid the zoom toggle again in the opposite direction. The image in the screen quickly ascended the height of the building. But just as it reached the top, a blur in the corner caused a guttural noise to escape from the back of Matthew’s throat.

It was Anthony. Out of focus. Trembling. And staring at him.

Matthew’s hands froze, and so the camera lens obediently adjusted, bringing Anthony into focus. He continued to stare up at the camera, at Matthew. His now visible face was red and tear stained, but his expression was vacant, his eyes were cold.

And then he fell—forward and fast, still looking up. Screams escaped from the windows. People cleared the sidewalk. Matthew’s hands jerked to life, and he pulled the camera in over the barrier. He scampered backwards, his hands burning on the black rooftop floor. They were going to come looking for him, he realized. They were going to want to know what Anthony saw before he died.

And so when the officers, the stockbrokers, and the father burst through the rusted metal doors, they thought they would find something worthy of a man’s last look. But what they found was only a pale young boy, his forehead sweating, his mouth trembling, his arms hanging limp, and a shattered camera at his feet.