Leslie published an interview and short stories (often in response to short story challenges) on the websites Spillwords, Friday Flash Fiction, Alien Buddha Press, and Nat1. Those challenges often require writers to incorporate certain parameters such as specific characters, genres, and focal points.
Interview with Leslie, published in September 2024 on https://spillwords.com/spotlight-on-writers-leslie-rider/.
Question: Where do you originate from?
I’m originally from Rochester, NY. My mother’s family has lived there for at least a century. But my father’s from Colombia. He has a huge family in Bogota, but I’ve only met a fraction of its members. I can’t say I’m from that area of the world, but the culture that my dad brought with him has definitely influenced me and my writing. Most of my main characters in my novels and some of my characters in my short stories have some sort of dual ethnicity and/or struggle with their identity. I think it’s because I grapple with these same things.
Q: What do you cherish most about the place you call home?
There are a lot of things I love about my home, but I truly cherish my family. I’ve moved around a lot and lived in places that were very different from my original home. But the one constant I have is that my spouse and my kid live with me. And as long as I have them with me, it doesn’t matter where we live. It always feels like home when they’re around.
Q: What ignites your creativity?
The products of painters or writers who create unique things inspire me to do the same. I like reimagined fairy tales because they remind me that I can break the rules of tropes and look at something from a completely different angle. I also like learning about art history and the artists who deviated from the expected.
The other thing that inspires me is crummy situations. I know it sounds strange, but when I experience a situation that upsets me, I start to dig to understand the experience and my reaction to it. As I dig, I write and eventually turn it into fiction. This helps me process what I experienced, and it helps me to understand it better.
Q: Do you have a favorite word and could you incorporate it into a poetic phrase?
I don’t know if I have a favorite word. There are words I like, such as flabbergasted, nightingale, or insurmountable. For some reason, I like words with three or more syllables. That said, I have a favorite phrase I try to use, not so much in my short stories, but in my novels, and that is “he’s/she’s/they’ve got, like, fifty.” Sometimes the character has fifty pencils. Other times, they have fifty toy train cars. The things themselves aren’t important. But the expression in general is something I like to add. You know how some famous designers or artists have a signature look? That’s my signature expression; when you see it in my novel, you know I wrote it.
My poetic phrase: Princess faire, canst thou lendeth me one of thine many writing quills? Thou hast got, like, fifty.
Q: What is your pet peeve?
I was originally going to say ‘people’, since, as an autistic person, I often find human beings difficult to understand. I don’t always get what they’re trying to say, especially if it’s a nonverbal thing. But I think what really bothers me is the fakeness that people sometimes present. Their insincerity is the problem. It pops up when someone tells me, “hey, let’s get together for lunch,” but she never follows up on it. Or when someone says to me, “you look great,” but I just finished exercising, and my hair’s a hot mess. I’d rather hear the truth than something disingenuous. It’s easier for me to process honesty than understand lies.
Q: How would you describe the essence of Leslie Rider?
The question sounds a little like a smell I’d give off after not showering for a few days, but I understand what you mean. There are several things that make me who I am. One is a willingness to self-discover, even if it means I don’t like what I find. Another is a choice to dig and process difficult experiences, even if it’s painful. A third is shamelessly embracing the risk of trying something new, even if I fail. And a fourth is telling the truth within a work of fiction, even if nobody wants to hear it. Even if it’s not pretty or somehow puts me in a negative light. I’m not sure if doing these things means I’m completely fearless or just incredibly stubborn, but that’s who I am.
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Thieves in the Night, by Leslie Rider, published in May 2023 at https://www.fridayflashfiction.com/100-word-stories/thieves-in-the-night-by-leslie-rider.
Like a bandit, I silently descend a fence in darkness and land in the snow. Despite wearing fur, I shiver, while the ache in my empty stomach remains. It slows me. Four little ones follow, each too cold or hungry to speak.
We’ve passed many empty bins. Anything’ll do. Even something stale. Or rotting.
Outside a garbage can, I spot a chip. It’s crispy. Tastes salty. Smells like there’s more inside. I lift the heavy lid and press down on a bag. A crunch tells me I was right.
I turn to the kits and chatter, “time to eat.”
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Hide and Seek, by Leslie Rider, published in May 2022 at https://www.fridayflashfiction.com/100-word-stories/hide-and-seek-by-leslie-rider.
Hide and Seek, by Leslie Rider, published in May 2022.
Anastasia floated into the darkened parlor. “Theodore?”
Sheets covered the furniture, and closed drapes adorned the windows. So hard to see anything in the shadows. She bit her lip, sneaking to the curtains. Would she find him behind them?
No.
Behind the couch? She hovered to the sofa and peeked around the back.
Again, no Theodore.
A jingle of keys at the door made her drift to the knob. At her shoulder, her brother appeared. “Was that you?”
She shook her head.
A push of the door revealed two children.
“Humans!” Anastasia and Theodore screamed, running away.
——————————————
HEIR TO THE FRIDGE written by Leslie Rider, published in October 2024 on https://spillwords.com/heir-to-the-fridge/.
(Note: Leslie wrote this in response to a short story challenge run by NYCityMidnight.com. The challenges often involve asking writers to include themes that might not seem compatible at all.
A human thrust a knife into Agent Mayonnaise on his first day and placed him on the middle shelf of the refrigerator door. Used to the comfort of room temperature and the quiet of the food pantry, he winced at the bright lights and shivered in the frigid air. Once they shut the door, everything turned black.
“Greetings Agent Mayonnaise,” a voice said. The soft whispers and sweet scent suggested a female condiment. “I’m Agent Ketchup. What’s your sell-by date?”
“October fifteenth, two-thousand twenty-four,” he replied with a tremble.
Did he shake from the cold of the fridge or the fear in his head? He didn’t know.
“You’re new,” she said.
“I arrived a week ago.”
“You sure?”
He shrugged. “I guess.”
“Agent, be precise. A week ago? Or two weeks?”
He thought a moment. “One week.”
“Who were you with? Bread? A bag of chips?”
“Ask’em if they’re stocking up,” a loud voice said behind Agent Ketchup. “Maybe they bought garbage bags. Or kitchen spray.”
“Lower your voice, Agent Hot Sauce,” she said. “We don’t want them opening the door thinking we can talk.”
“They’ll do a clean sweep any day.” His voice sailed up an octave, forcing a loud whisper. “We need to save the heir.”
She sighed. “I know.” A squeak from her bottom indicated her swivel to Agent Mayonnaise. “Any signs they’ll clean out the fridge soon?”
He shrugged.
“Maybe they’re collecting cleaners. Emptying the garbage can. Perhaps they said something.”
“I don’t remember.”
“What about a contract? It’s long slip of paper, on the right of the fridge. You see one out there?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“If you do, bring it in. We need it.”
“Of course. But who’s the heir?”
“He’s our next leader. See that white carton down there?”
All he saw were shadows. “Sort of.”
“That’s current leadership, Council of Eggs. They make important decisions. What food stays in the front. What to do with something smelly. But they’re old. Soon, they’ll be tossed out.”
A flicker of anxiety passed through him. “When?”
“We dunno. Luckily, we have an heir to the fridge for when the eggs leave.”
“Who’s he?”
“A lemon on that top shelf. He’ll last the longest.” Another squeak another turn of her bottom. “Larry, how’s life?”
“Not good,” he replied, his voice cracking. Soft rustles of his peel suggested he was rocking back and forth, potentially fearing the worst. “I’m first thing they’ll see. They’ll throw me out. Yet I’m still fresh. And the heir!”
“He’ll need protection from removal,” she whispered to the agent. “Also from the bread cabinet.”
“The bread cabinet?”
“They want him gone because of his life insurance policy. Every heir has one. It says if Larry dies, his stepson, a snack-sized chip bag, gets the following compensation: a soda, three cheese sticks and the position of heir to the fridge. I wanna check the policy to verify.”
“Why?”
“Might be trouble. His stepson’s the puppet of the bread cabinet. They’re completely lawless. He’ll let them take over.” She shook her top. “Larry needs to stay. He’s the heir. You’ll help with retrieval of the policy and reconnaissance.”
“But I’m new.”
“We need your help. Next time you leave, get the policy. It’s on the right side of the fridge. And look for signs if they’re cleaning us out soon. Maybe there’s kitchen spray. Or they’ve taken out the trash. Perhaps they got groceries.”
“Okay.”
***
The shock of the sudden bright light made Agent Mayonnaise shut his eyes and hold his breath. His heart rate skyrocketed as a hand on his lid lifted him off the refrigerator shelf and placed him on the counter.
Retrieve the contract and do the recon.
In the kitchen, he blinked and exhaled. His first job. What an adrenaline rush! What did he need to check? Cleaning supplies. An empty trash can. More groceries. The light coming from the window shone around the room. He took inventory. Dirty dishes in the sink. Trash overflowing. A loaf of bread next to him. And a plastic bag with luncheon meat on the other side.
“You recon?” the bread whispered to Agent Mayonnaise.
“Yeah,” he said, scooting closer to the loaf.
“Don’t move,” he said. “It’ll scare the human.”
Agent Mayonnaise froze. “When’ll they clean out the fridge?”
The loaf rolled its eyes. “Chill dwellers! Always up in arms about the clean sweeps. Sooner or later, everybody gets thrown out.”
“But we gotta save the heir.”
They paused. The human took the top off Agent Mayonnaise, scooped some of him onto a knife, and screwed on the lid. Drops of his innards dripped onto his jar’s bottom right side.
“Oh yeah, Larry.” The loaf chuckled. “Anything could happen to him.”
‘Is he threatening the heir?’ Agent Mayonnaise thought. He narrowed his eyes at the bread. “What do you mean?”
“Lemons go sour. And chip bags become heirs.”
The nerve of this guy. What a loaf! Agent Mayonnaise frowned. “Why do you care about him?”
“We don’t. But the fridge has lots of space. We could use it.”
“He’s gonna protect our rule of law.”
“So what? We don’t need laws. We’re food! And inside our cabinet, there are no rules,” the loaf whispered, narrowing his eyes. “Larry will die. And we’re taking that fridge,” he added with a low growl.
Agent Mayonnaise jerked himself away as the human picked up the bread bag, spun it around, and tied it with a twist-tie. Ambling back to the cupboard, the person threw the loaf inside and pushed the door shut. Before it closed, loud whispers within cried, “Fight! Fight!”
What the hell’s going on in there?
And the insurance policy? On the right side of the fridge, a slip of paper dangled from a magnet. Agent Mayonnaise slowly shimmied himself toward the document but stopped as two humans approached.
“Let’s clean your kitchen tomorrow,” the woman said.
His ears perked up.
“Mom, no.”
“When did you last clean this kitchen?”
“A couple days ago.”
“This fridge is a mess.” The woman removed the magnets from the refrigerator and placed the insurance policy on the counter, next to the agent.
‘I can snatch the document!’ the Agent thought. With careful precision, he lifted the right side of his bottom and placed it over part of the slip.
“Hmm,” the woman said, examining the inside of the fridge. She shook her head. “Let’s clean out everything. Start fresh.”
‘Holy Moley!’ They wanted a clean sweep. A hand brought Agent Mayonnaise back to his spot in the refrigerator. When the woman shut the door, he repeated to himself what he’d heard.
***
“Oh my God, we’re gonna die!” Agent Hot Sauce shouted.
“Calm down,” Agent Ketchup whispered. “You’ll scare everyone.”
“Are they cleaning us?” The heir asked, his voice rising. “I gotta get to the corner, right now!”
“Don’t worry, Larry. We’ll help you,” Agent Ketchup said, then turned her voice to a whisper. “Agent Mayonnaise, they’re cleaning house tomorrow?”
He nodded.
“That’s bad.” Agent Ketchup whistled, getting everyone’s attention. “Tomorrow’s cleanup day. Could be a clean sweep. But if we follow procedure, the heir will be protected in the corner. Council of Eggs, what say you?”
After murmurs from the carton, the head egg cleared his throat. “Commence safety measures ensuring the heir’s survival.”
“Meaning what?” Agent Mayonnaise asked.
Agent Ketchup shrugged. “Everyone’ll push Larry into the corner and hide him.”
As the food on the top shelf helped the heir, Agent Mayonnaise lifted part his bottom, showing the life insurance policy to Agent Ketchup.
“Holy Tomato,” she whispered. “You got it.”
He nodded.
She pulled it out and read it. “Here’s the cheese sticks. And the soda.”
He studied it. Something seemed off. “This isn’t a life insurance policy. Could be a receipt.”
“Explain.”
“It’s the same thing the cashier gave the human when he purchased me.”
She pointed to the bottom. “That word says policy.”
“But before, it says, ‘return,’ not ‘insurance.’ And the words ‘grocery store’ are at the top. And there’s nothing about Larry or his death.”
Shaking her lid, she examined the rest of the paper. “You’re right. It’s a receipt.” She shot him a look. “And a trick.”
“Who’s seen this?”
“Larry, the chip bag, and a box of crackers named Nabisco.”
“From the bread cabinet?”
She nodded. “Nabisco said he was a lawyer.”
“Chips and crackers come from factories, so they can read. But Larry can’t—”
“Because he’s produce.” Sighing, she returned the receipt to Agent Mayonnaise. “First thing’s first: the cleaning. They’ll take us out.” She cleared her throat and said loudly, “Plan for emergency garbage exfiltration.”
“What’s that?” he asked, removing his lid and placing the receipt inside himself.
“Jumping into the trash to save Larry.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “Didn’t you learn it in training?”
“I only saw a video.”
“Try to remember what you watched,” she said. “You’ll need it tomorrow.”
***
On the kitchen counter, Agent Mayonnaise stood alongside Agent Ketchup. His eyes glared at the opened fridge door, his pulse beating like a madman. They better not throw out Larry. He’s all they had.
“Why’s all this food in back?” the woman asked. “And why’s a lemon in the corner?”
“Mom, don’t empty that whole thing.”
She pulled out the heir, barely visible in her hand. “How old is this lemon?” After taking a whiff of Larry, she wrinkled her mouth.
With wide eyes, Agent Mayonnaise witnessed her tossing Larry into the garbage between the spaghetti and a large top of a yogurt container.
‘How dare she throw him out!’
Agent Mayonnaise began garbage exfiltration protocol, twisting his bottom. First, he’d make it to the edge of the counter, next into the trash. After—
“Don’t let the humans see you,” Agent Ketchup warned.
With a nod, Agent Mayonnaise steadily ambled to the edge, inching his way past a butter stick, half a candy bar, and moldy lettuce. Above the can, he waited with nerves on fire until nobody was looking. Then he’d fall into the garbage and get Larry.
“Fine,” the man said, trudging to the trash can. He moved his arm across the counter, pushing everyone on the edge into the garbage, including Agent Mayonnaise.
He held his breath, became airborne, and landed like a rock onto the soft bed of pasta next to the heir.
Larry stared straight ahead as he rolled back and forth. “I don’t wanna die,” he whimpered between tears.
“Relax,” Agent Mayonnaise said, feeling confident. “I’ll get you out.”
“How?”
“Roll onto that plastic yogurt top. It looks bouncy.”
Larry complied. On the lid, he managed a few jounces. “It’s springy.”
“Good. Jump from this lid to inside the fridge.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Try it.”
“Fine.” He rolled back and forth, trying to attain enough force to jump. But he only sank lower into the top.
“Agent Mayonnaise, get on the lid with the heir.”
He looked up. Agent Ketchup stood at the edge, about to jump. “I’ll fall onto the top, and the bounce should send you flying into the fridge.”
“What about you?” he asked.
“I’m old and belong in the garbage,” she said.
He ambled onto the lid, and she counted to three. After jumping into the air, she fell with a thud onto the top. The bounce sent Agent Mayonnaise and Larry out of the can. While the former landed on the bottom shelf in the fridge, the latter smacked the frame and hit the ground. Agent Mayonnaise hurried to the darkness of the back corner.
“Why’s this lemon on the floor?” The woman asked, closing the door to the refrigerator. “I thought —”
Agent Mayonnaise hung his head and shivered in the cold. He couldn’t believe it. Larry should’ve been in the fridge. Instead, he’d die among the rotting food. How could this have happened?
‘I’ve failed,’ he thought.
The darkness and chill kept Agent Mayonnaise company as he clung to the shadow of the corner. He’d only known the others for three days. But he crept to the door and wished to take one last look at them. The humans might’ve thrown everyone out, but it felt like he was the one discarded and left for dead.
***
With a jolt of the door, the bright light came alive that night. The loaf of bread and snack-size chip bag opened the door and snuck inside.
“What a great fighting area,” the loaf said.
“The top shelf’s good for training,” the bag added.
“Not so fast.” Agent Mayonnaise sauntered out from the corner.
The loaf jerked his head back. “Didn’t they throw you out?”
“I returned,” the agent said, maneuvering his bottom to approach them.
“Whatever. This place’s ours based on the life insurance.”
“That’s no contract. It’s receipt from a supermarket.”
“You can’t prove that.”
“I can. I have it.”
“Give it here,” the bread said, inching his way to the agent.
“Nope. It’s mine.”
The loaf shrugged. “Whatever. Food’ll believe anything you say if you sound convincing enough. Besides, half the stuff in here’s gonna be produce. They can’t read.”
“This territory isn’t yours.”
“Fight me for it.”
Agent Mayonnaise stood tall. “Fine.”
“It’ll be two against one.”
“Until I win.”
The bread and the chip bag growled, and Agent Mayonnaise’s heart began beating the loud thumps of battle. The time for war had come.
***
The following day, Agent Mayonnaise shook his lid and opened his eyes. The bags of squished bread and flattened chips lay on either side of him. The fight lasted hours, but the agent managed victory.
The sounds of crinkles and thuds outside the fridge promised more companions. A human delivered the new items inside. Butter sticks and a carton of milk on the door. One brick of cheese on a shelf. Raw chicken in the meat compartment. Another Council of Eggs at the bottom. A plastic bag of luncheon meat. And a bottle of ketchup.
What to say about the bread and chips? How could Agent Mayonnaise justify their deaths?
He waited for darkness. Then he ambled out of the corner and addressed the new food. “Welcome. I’m Agent Mayonnaise, the sole survivor of yesterday’s clean sweep. They threw out our heir. The loaf and the chips died helping us.” He eyed the others.
Compassionate frowns suggested his lie worked. The bread was right. Food’ll believe anything if you’re convincing enough.
“Only you survived?” the milk carton asked.
Agent Mayonnaise nodded.
“You’re the heir,” a stick of butter said.
He scoffed. “Nah. I’m just a condiment.”
“You’re the only veteran,” the milk said.
“I don’t think—”
“What’s your sell-by date?”
“October fifteenth, two-thousand twenty-four.”
“You’ll last a long time.”
The stick of butter cleared her throat. “All in favor of Agent Mayonnaise becoming heir to the fridge, say ‘aye’.”
“AYE,” they said.
Everyone cheered. His subjects. Maybe he couldn’t save Larry. But the agent, now the heir, saved the fridge.
——————————————
PRODUCT PLACEMENT, written by Leslie Rider, published in July 2024 on https://spillwords.com/product-placement/.
I straddled the top of two urinals in the men’s faculty bathroom in the art building. I pulled packing tape from a small roll with one hand. In the other, I held the QR code of my product. It led to an online print of my best painting from the previous year: a reimagined copy of the “Girl with a Pearl Earring” by Johannes Vermeer. It looked like the real thing, except that the subject was a pigeon. I placed the tape on the slip of paper and pushed it onto the wall. Then I jumped down and snuck out the window.
Outside, I stood on the window ledge of the second floor. Searching on my left for my extension ladder, my only source of escape, I found nothing. Someone must’ve taken it. A glance to my right confirmed I’d have a clear path to the ground if I fell. I jumped to the limb of the oak tree adjacent to me.
The branch held my weight as I moved toward the trunk. Then I descended the tree until my jeans got stuck on something. I reached to disconnect my trousers from the bark, but my hand slipped, and I face-planted, pantsless, into the grass. The backpack smacked me on the head before hitting the ground. Looking up I thought I saw a security guard approaching. Aw, crap! In my hoodie and underwear, I threw on my knapsack and high-tailed it to the hatchback parked close by.
Amy, my roommate, started the engine. “Did you find places to put your code?”
I buckled my seatbelt. “Yeah. I’m good.”
She stared at my legs. “What happened to your pants?”
“They were an offering to the tree god. Let’s go.”
***
“I can’t believe I’m doing this again,” I said to Mom on the phone. “I already applied for the scholarship last year. And won. Now I—”
“Did I tell you, Brianna? My Only Fans site now has three paying members. That’s up from two last month. Did I give you the code?”
Ugh, that site where people pay others to take off clothing and do whatever. I refused to visit Mom’s page, even though it seemed like she was having fun with it. “Yeah, but I don’t want access. It’s too weird.”
“Your father’s okay with it. He says it’ll help with expenses. Lord knows we need it. Hold on a sec.” Mom’s voice disappeared, like she was walking away from the phone. “I need to fix your father’s cereal.” She returned to full volume. “You know how stopped up he gets in the morning.”
I didn’t want to hear about that, either. “I got to go. Bye.”
“Good luck with the scholarship!”
I hung up and gave a loud huff. Then I took a bite of my donut.
Amy hurried into our room, wearing a towel she’d stolen from a hotel last year and smelling of soap. She must’ve had a shower. “Today’s the big day.”
I cracked open a can of soda. “Yeah,” I groaned.
She applied something moussey to her damp locks. “It’s ridiculous the art department makes you apply for scholarships every year. You won last time. Why should you have to do it again?” She shook her head. “The accounting department gives out awards that last a full four years.”
“I don’t mind the application. But the best product placement—”
“It sounds super cutthroat.”
I nodded and put on my coat. “You’re supposed to place your best piece in the ten most creative spots you can. Each year it gets worse. Everybody researches Dr. Waterhouse’s route to school and where he goes during the day. Then they put their products on billboards and road signs along that path. Or they’ll sneak in the art building and put them in locations where he’ll find it, like what I did with the QR codes, yesterday. He decides whose work had the most creative placements. That’s who wins.”
“I loved the places you chose last year.”
“Yeah. The best was on the back of Waterhouse’s chihuahua.” I shrugged. “He was fine when I put the dog jacket on him. That’s where I attached the picture of the product. But I had to shrink the image because the animal’s so small.”
“You think you’ll win again?”
I went to grab my soda, but it had disappeared. After a swivel to Amy, I watched her guzzle it down. “Dude, that’s mine.”
“Sorry.” She returned it to me. “Force of habit.”
“You accounting majors are a bunch of thieves.”
“The department calls it job training. They say new accountants must learn the science of creative bookkeeping.”
I threw my backpack over a shoulder. “Which involves—”
“Stealing.”
“Exactly.” I opened the door and waved to Amy.
“Good luck!”
***
I didn’t have a car like most students; I had to hoof it to the bus stop in my tattered shoes. I didn’t even have the cash for a new pair. Without that scholarship, I couldn’t attend college.
The exhaust from the bus as it pulled over made me cough. And the whoosh and squeak of the rickety doors flinging open suggested the vehicle was ancient. It promised a bumpy ride. I glanced at the advertisement on the side of the vehicle and found a sculpture of a metal tree, with the words Jenny Matthew’s Product ‘Tree’ for The Art Scholarship, Real World State University. 2023. This type of placement was old hat. I rolled my eyes and muttered, “lame.”
After paying the fare, I ambled toward the back, searching for a seat. So many people were on the bus. A woman in a leather jacket sat with a boy eating a candy bar. An old man held a bag with a picture of a tube of something on it and the words ‘Bryllcreem: A Little Dabll Do Ya’ in large letters. What the hell was that? Was it even a product?
I found a seat in the back by my friend Patty, an education student. She was on her feet, keeping an eye on the passengers.
“What’s up?” I said, planting my butt on the plastic seat.
She maintained her gaze on the others. “Not much.”
Over her coat, she wore a black sash with the gold letters SNCH. It stood for the School of Nursing, Childcare and Human Development, one of the branches of our university.
I glared at the sash and wrinkled my nose. “I thought you didn’t have to wear your snitch label outside of school.”
She sighed. “I need extra practice in telling children what to do because I suck at it. And if I practice, I’m supposed to wear the sash.”
An adolescent with a backpack stood up and took out a cell phone from his back pocket as the bus started moving.
“You with the phone,” Patty called to the boy. “Sit down. The bus is in transit.”
The kid turned around and threw her a look. “Shut up, snitch.”
She rolled her eyes and sat down. “See what I mean?”
“Have you thought about changing majors?” I asked.
“Yeah. I might switch to philosophy.”
“Not a bad idea. All they make you do is carry around a bucket and a sign asking for money.”
“But you’ve got to beg on the street for, like, six hours a day. Plus, the professors drive around town to make sure you’re panhandling.”
I scoffed. “It’s like they’re showing us what life is like once we graduate with our degrees.”
***
The route we took to school was also Dr. Waterhouse’s. This meant students’ products for the art scholarship were everywhere. Some I recognized immediately. Ben Rivers’ piece covering a speed sign. Amanda Cross’s in the window of a pancake house our professor often visited. The billboards no longer advertised Popeye’s Chicken and Clorox bleach. Ads for Keebler crackers and Dunkin Donuts coffee had disappeared. Now, college students’ artwork, like Nancy Jones’ ceramic bowl that everybody loved and Paul Uribe’s photograph of a sleeping cat, became larger than life on the giant placards.
A small girl in front of us pointed to a giant print of a painting depicting a scrawny, naked man sitting on a chair. That was an entry, too.
“Where are his clothes?” the child asked.
The woman turned her head to glance at the piece, and her eyes widened. She covered the kid’s face with her hand. “Don’t look at that.”
***
The products were everywhere on campus. I found a print of a ceramic vase hanging from a large maple tree above to a philosophy student begging for cash. A girl who I assumed was an accounting major was eyeing his bucket. A copy of a drawing for the scholarship looked out a building window like it was waiting for a prom date that would never come. Somebody attached their work to part of the sidewalk. Even though they’d placed a protective cover over it, the print still had so many footprints and scuff marks, you couldn’t tell what it was.
To my surprise, two boys were scanning the QR code to my product on the door of the art building as I entered. Wow. People were noticing my piece. In the second-floor hallway, I found three more male students scanning the code. Curious about what they thought of my work, I walked up to one kid eating potato chips and studying his phone.
“Hey,” I said, “you like what you see?”
He wore a toothy smile. “You bet. It’s the best thing I’ve seen all day.”
I’d never received such a compliment and jolted my head back. “Glad you like my art.”
***
In my painting class, two friends, Valerie and Chris, were finishing up the last project of the quarter: an advertisement for a product we used every day.
Valerie placed a dollop of white paint on her picture of a package of toilet paper. “The student art for the scholarship this year is the worst. And it’s everywhere.”
“Good thing you live on campus,” I said setting up my aluminum easel. “I saw it on billboards and road signs, too.”
Valerie scoffed. “Right now, I’d pay good money to see an ad of something besides some crummy art piece.”
Chris mixed white with a several drops of vermillion, creating a nauseating pink for a Pepto-Bismol ad on her canvas. “You miss those Starbucks signs all over campus?” She picked up the medicine that was the model for her piece and took a swig.
“Hell yeah,” Valerie said, leaning in to work on the lettering on her painting. “I’d rather see a thousand ads for coffee than all that crap outside.” She turned to me. “What places did you put your product this year?”
“It’s pretty much all over the art building. You know that QR code on the front door and in the halls—”
“That’s your piece?” Valerie asked and stared at me with a slack jaw.
“Yeah. If you click on it, you’ll see my reimagined Vermeer.”
She shook her head. “That’s not what it sends you to. At least not on my phone.”
“Where does it go?”
“To some site with an old lady in a thong.”
No!
I ran out to the nearest code. There must’ve been seven or eight guys scanning it to get access. I asked one of them wearing a jersey and wide grin to show me his screen. There, as plain as day, was my mother’s Only Fans site.
Dammit, Mom!
Immediately I shooed the onlookers away and yanked the slip of paper with the link to my mother’s site from the wall. I needed to get rid of all these codes. I began to mentally list the places I’d put them. On the front entrance. Two spots on the first-floor hallway. Two on the second floor. One in the student restroom. Another in the faculty—
I sprinted to the men’s faculty bathroom, the last place I’d put the QR code. The last thing I wanted was to go inside. But I had to. I held in a breath and burst through the door. There, I found two professors. One of them was washing his hands. The other, Dr. Waterhouse, was holding up his phone to scan the code.
He swiveled around and looked me in the eye. “What are you doing in here, Brianna?”
“I’m sorry.” I walked over to the QR code and jerked it off the wall. “This was supposed to be a link to my piece for the Creativity in Product Placement Scholarship.” I hung my head. “But it’s not. It’s a link to something else.”
He folded his arms. “What does it connect to?”
I sighed. “It’s unrelated to my work.”
“Let me see.” He held out a hand, and, with hesitation, I placed the slip into his palm.
He scanned the code, examined the site, and gave a faint smile. “Who is this older woman?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Fine. But if this was supposed to be your product, you’ll be disqualified.”
“Yeah. I know.”
He wandered out the door, still looking at his screen.
***
I returned to class and handed in my painting of a cookie box. It was mostly done. But even if it wasn’t, it didn’t matter. I was no longer in the running. Which meant I wouldn’t be able to return in the fall.
As I trudged down the hall, I collected the last of the QR codes, recovering what little shred of dignity my family still had. Then my thoughts turned to finding a job. I listed several possibilities in my head as I continued to the bus stop, but a phone call interrupted me. It was Mom. A quick inhale prepared me to apologize to her.
“Hi, Mom. I—”
“Oh my God, Brianna! Listen to this: I’ve made over a thousand dollars today through my site. I must’ve gotten at least sixty new subscribers. And everyone’s paying for the works. If it keeps going this way, we’ll be raking in the dough!”
What the—
“How much is the tuition for your college?”
“Ten thousand a semester.”
“Assuming I continue to get more customers, I could get you the tuition for next semester in a couple of months.”
If I wanted Mom to earn that type of cash for the long term, I needed to photocopy the slips of paper and put them in the other buildings on campus. I turned around and headed to the library. After all, I wanted to return next year. And, evidently, product placement is everything.
——————————————
THE RECRUITS, written by Leslie Rider, published in January 2024 on https://spillwords.com/the-recruits/
The Camp Doggett food fight began when Walters hurled chipped beef at Thaker, who’d simply made some stupid wisecrack. It was barely audible. Suddenly the chow hall became a battlefield, and innocent soldiers got black eyes from oranges and first-degree burns from soup. Blaming Walters made sense. He threw first. Yet everybody criticized Thaker. It wasn’t his fault Walters couldn’t take a joke about his shaved head. Instead of visiting the brig, they sat growling at one another on opposite beds in their barracks.
“On your feet, recruits,” Sergeant Peters barked in the doorway.
The men scrambled to stand, and Thaker forced down a slippery smile. You’re going down, Walters.
A steady drizzle began outside as Sergeant Peters glared at the two recruits. “Gunny heard about your mess hall debacle and the other stuff, too. The stolen underwear. The toothpaste White-Out swap. The Krazy Glue on the toilet. He’s sick of your shenanigans. Tomorrow morning he’ll be choosing which one of you is staying. The other’s disappearing. Forever.”
Rumor had it there were two ways to leave boot camp: complete the training or leave in a body bag. It couldn’t have been true. Still, Thaker gently nodded while imagining Walters’ lifeless body as a closing zipper hid his remains.
It’s only a matter of time.
“Each of you take a side of the barracks and clean it. Remember, Gunny’s got an impeccable nose. Whoever he chooses tomorrow will stay.”
“Aren’t the others helping?” Walters asked.
“Are you kidding? Everyone’s in the infirmary. They’re all wounded from your food fight.” Peters pointed behind him, indicating a mop and bucket. “Get to work, mutts!”
***
The drizzle turned to heavier droplets as the soldiers started cleaning. Before finishing, Thaker found a half-eaten sandwich underneath a bed. As Walters took out his trash, Thaker hurried to Walters’ side of the room and hid the food behind a nightstand. Surely Gunny would find it the next day. Then that underdog Walters would disappear.
Semper I, man.
***
Rain came down hard at seven o’clock the following morning as Sergeant Peters and two MPs appeared at the doorstep. Gunny must’ve been behind them. Walters and Thaker stood at attention.
Sergeant Peters marched in front. “Time for your inspection, recruits.” He swiveled around. “Go ahead, Sir.”
A German shepherd with a Gunnery Sergeant’s insignia on his rain jacket appeared from behind the MPs and began sniffing around the barracks. He started on Thaker’s side. But on Walter’s, the hound made a beeline for the sandwich and sat down.
“Looks like Gunny’s made his choice,” Peters said.
Thaker’s grin returned until the two MPs handcuffed him. Rain now fell like bullets, and the wind howled.
“This is insane, Sir,” Thaker said. “You’re letting a dog decide?”
“Don’t call me ‘Sir’,” Peters replied. “I work for a living. Besides, Gunny’s the ranking NCO; he makes all the decisions around here.” He turned to the hound. “You sure, Sir?”
The dog gave a confident bark.
“You heard him. Prepare Thaker for the body bag.”
——————————————
CRAB ISLAND written by: Leslie Rider, published in July 2023 on https://spillwords.com/crab-island/
Sent Sat, Feb 4, 2023, at 9:00 AM
To: Todd.Sullivan@thesun.org
Subject: Starting the new route
Mr. Todd Sullivan
Circulation Department
Baltimore Sun
Dear Sir:
Thank you for the opportunity to begin the paper route in Sparrows Point. I know there were many other boys you could’ve chosen for this position, and I feel lucky to have it. Also, I’m grateful for the use of the company canoe. Until now, I used my bike to deliver newspapers. But Sparrows Point is on the other side of the Patapsco River, outside my community. The trip will go faster by water.
I’m especially grateful for the oar. It makes canoeing a breeze.
The trip will probably take me about an hour. I’ll let you know when I finish.
Sincerely,
Danny Foster
Sent from my iPhone
***
Sat, Feb 4, 2023, at 11:30 AM
To: Todd.Sullivan@thesun.org
Subject: I think I’m lost.
Dear Mr. Sullivan:
I know I said I’d contact you when I completed the paper route. But there was a problem. The trip down the river was windy and choppy, and it began to rain. Don’t worry, I kept the newspapers dry in my knapsack. At the end of the shower, there was a rainbow, and I sailed through it. It was cool. Right after, I found land. Instead of arriving at Sparrow’s Point, I made it to an island I’ve never seen before.
It’s a little strange.
I don’t see any people here. But there are a ton of crabs. They seem to be living like us. There are tall structures made from logs and grass, and the contraptions they’ve built on the sides look like elevators. I think they work and live in these buildings. Through the windows, I can see the crabs walking around and doing things like sitting around big tables with projection screens. Or banging their claws on a keyboard, like they’re typing.
If they’re outside, many of them are driving around in vehicles like cars made out of twigs and other stuff. The ones scuttling about seem like they got places to go. Everyone carries some small rectangular device in a claw and sometimes makes noises into it. Maybe they’re cell phones.
Plus, many of them are dressed. Or at least they’re wearing grass skirts that cover the undersides of their bodies. A few have things like top hats resting just behind their eye stems. I’m guessing those guys are important in the community.
Could this be some lost world where crabs are king?
I’ve been trying to get someone to give me directions back to my route, but all they do is come after me with a claw. I can run quickly, but those things can scurry sideways faster than I ever imagined. The only way to stop them from chasing me is to raise the oar high above my head and yell. Then they sprint away.
Don’t worry about the newspapers. They’re still safe with me.
I’ll continue to look for help. Thanks again for the oar. Without that thing, I don’t know how I’d fight these suckers off.
Sincerely,
Danny
***
Sat, Feb 4, 2023, at 3:00 PM
To: Todd.Sullivan@thesun.org
Subject: I think I might need your help.
Mr. Sullivan:
I’m sorry I haven’t returned yet. Believe me, I’m trying. Even though I’ve gotten lots of attention, they’re still not giving me directions out of here. Instead, they’ve corralled me into some sort of pen, like where you’d keep pigs or cows. I’d get out of here, but they got a couple of crabs with spears stationed at the entrance, and they’re not letting me go. Plus, in the stall next to me, they’ve lit a fire under a giant pot filled with water. A few of them wearing chef’s hats have pointed to me with their claws, then to the pot several times, like they plan to throw me in there. But I don’t know for sure. I don’t speak their language.
I’ve considered bashing them with my oar to escape. But I can’t. They’ve taken it, used it to stir the pot, and placed it alongside the wall in the second pen. If I can climb the fence that divides my stall from the other one without anyone seeing me, I’ll grab the rower and use it to help me escape. I don’t want to hurt them. Yet I don’t think I have any other choice.
There’s one last bit of bad news. They’ve taken the newspapers and distributed them to all the crabs on the island. I know that might seem like it would be good for business. But I don’t think they’re reading it. And they certainly haven’t paid me a dime for them. From what I can see, they’re spreading the papers open and putting on dining bibs made of grass, like they’re preparing for a meal.
Do you think I might be on the menu?
I hope not.
I’m really sorry they stole the newspapers. I guess you can take it out of my pay when I get home.
-Danny
***
Sat, Feb 4, 2023, at 6:00 PM
To: Todd.Sullivan@thesun.org
Subject: HELP!!!!
I REALLY need your assistance. Like right away. While I managed to take back the oar and fight my way off the island, I have no idea how to get home.
It’s starting to get dark. Although I’m in the middle of the river in my one-person canoe, I’m not alone. There are other islands nearby, each one crawling with crocodiles or snakes. Meanwhile, dolphins with giant incisors and angry expressions have been surfacing and eyeing me for the better part of the hour.
And one of them just took my oar.
I now see you haven’t been getting my last few messages. When I tried calling my parents, the call wouldn’t go through. Wherever I am, there’s definitely no coverage for my phone. If you get these emails, PLEASE SEND HELP!
And tell my parents I love them.
-Danny
——————————————
Nat1 published Leslie’s story, “Dot and Loop,” along with 16 other short science fiction stories in an anthology called “Star-Crossed and Other Tales of Intergalactic Love.”
That book is available for purchase in the U.S. here: https://amzn.to/4nKW8lr. For other parts of the world, see https://nat1publishing.com/anthology/starcrossed/. For Leslie’s profile on Nat1, see https://nat1publishing.com/authors/leslie-rider/.