Very Very Very Fiction

You are reading this because it was submitted to a writing contest.

The prompt was:

Write a story that subverts the reader's expectations.

That means there is probably a surprise at the end.

You know this because you are not an idiot.

The writer knows it too.

In fact, the writer is counting on it.

Speaking of counts, the writer is very aware that this contest has a 1000-word count minimum, which influences how this unfolds, maybe positively, maybe in making bloviated word choices to ensure that what should be 843 words has an extra 157 words. Subversions and Word Counts sounds like the title of a grad student's blog in 2007.

Right now, though, you are looking for clues.

A suspicious phrase.

An unusual detail.

A sentence that will suddenly become important later.

You are trying to get ahead of the story.

That is very understandable.

You are wondering whether that “very” is necessary or if it's just to extend the word count?

Nobody likes being the last person to figure something out.

Don’t get distracted thinking about the blog you had in 2007. You were young and liked adverbs.

You have probably already developed a few theories.

Perhaps the narrator is secretly the villain.

Perhaps you are secretly the narrator.

Perhaps this entire thing is a dream, a simulation, a metaphor, a time loop, or an allegory for grief.

Those seem to cover most modern literary fiction.

You know it is not about a multi-ethnic romance, a dog that dies after teaching the owner a life lesson, or someone facing addiction with both confessional detail and detached irony. A “very” detached irony.

You also wonder if writing in second person is a terrible idea.

It usually is.

There is a reasonable chance you considered skipping ahead.

Not because the story is bad.

Because life is short. So short that adding on little statements to the end of concise statements like this definitely feels like padding for word count.

Also, stories that announce they are going to subvert expectations are often exhausting.

The literary equivalent of a magician shouting, "Watch this."

Yet here you are.

Still reading.

Interesting.

Not important.

Just interesting. Some might even say “very” interesting.

The writer is pleased.

Not because you've reached this point.

This point is nothing special.

People reach this point all the time.

No, the writer is pleased because you've reached this point after being given several opportunities not to.

A lesser story would have introduced a murder by now.

Or a dragon.

Possibly a murdered dragon.

Definitely not a dragon that teaches you a life lesson before they are murdered.

Something to keep the machinery moving.

Instead, you have received a running commentary about your own thought process.

And for reasons known only to you, you have tolerated it.

At this point, you are probably convinced this is leading somewhere.

It is.

Everything leads somewhere.

Except for Mobius Strips and conversations with Tommy, the precocious four-year-old, about their favorite dinosaurs. “Yes Tommy, they can fly,” and “Yes Tommy, the P is silent, very silent.”

The question is whether the destination is worth the trip.

You are about to find out.

Not immediately.

In a minute.

See?

Still here.

The writer appreciates that. The writer wishes “very appreciates” was grammatically sound.

You may be starting to suspect that the story itself is the trick.

That suspicion is closer than your earlier theories about grief allegories and simulated realities.

Though to be fair, there is still time for a dragon, or Tommy talking about Pterodactyls, or 14 more “verys”.

There is not.

That was a lie.

The dragon budget was cut early in development, alliteration is really hard, and there are only so many places to cram in a “very”.

Thematically, Bingo teaching you to live in the moment, then dying in your arms wrapped in a cozy blanket in an adjective-heavy Tuscany was never going to happen. How can a writer create a very lovable Golden Doodle and then have it die? Especially after describing pasta with such sensuality that the reader isn’t sure if they are turned on or hungry.

What remains is this.

A reader.

A story.

And a finish line.

You have now reached the point where most stories would reveal something.

The narrator was dead.

The detective was the killer.

The butler was three raccoons in a trench coat.

Something.

Anything.

Instead, all I can really reveal is this:

You kept going.

That sounds smaller than it is.

You were offered plenty of reasons to stop.

The story was strange. Maybe even very strange

The premise was thin, very thin.

The narrator was occasionally insufferable, occasionally very insufferable.

Yet you continued.

Not forever.

Not heroically.

Just long enough.

Which is, come to think of it, how most worthwhile things happen.

Not forever.

Not heroically.

Just long enough.

The prompt for this contest was to subvert expectations.

You expected a twist.

The writer expected you to expect one.

I expected you to expect that the writer expected you to expect one.

Things were getting complicated.

I don’t like dragons, but that’s why they weren’t included.

So perhaps the simplest ending is the correct one.

Nothing was hidden.

Nothing was secretly another thing.

Nobody was dead.

There was no puzzle.

The entire story was a very small demonstration of persistence disguised as a search for a surprise.

And now you have reached the end.

Whether that feels satisfying or disappointing is largely between you and your standards.

But if you're honest, I suspect there is a tiny part of you that is pleased. Not very pleased, just pleased.

Now I have to push submit, pay the five-dollar entry fee, and then wait for strangers to like or comment on this piece. Whether that feedback feels satisfying or disappointing depends less on my standards and more on how needy I am in the moment. Which is a very human metric, I suppose. Either way, the tracker in the corner finally says one thousand. We made it. After all, you made it this far.