Rish Outcast 309: MagicClaw

Rish presents his 2014 claw game story, "MagicClaw." Two brothers discover the claw game at the convenience store is more than meets the eye. Play at your own risk.

To download the episode, Right-Click HERE.

To support my hopeless efforts on Patreon, click HERE.

Logo by Gino "MagicBra" Moretto.

Mirror Shard Post-mortem

Yeah, well.  My tale is finished, out there for all to see.

Big finished his story ("Doctor Claw") here: http://www.biganklevich.blogspot.com/

Bria Burton finished her story ("Little Angel Helper") here: http://www.briaburton.blogspot.com/

And, to my surprise, Katherine Inskip also wrote a story ("The Catch") here: http://trisigmatic.wordpress.com/

Algar Van Cluth is still struggling with his.


I think I explained (apparently, falsely) how this story came about.  Big and I have both written stories based on the same claw machine premise.  He finished his earlier than I did--which is fine--and is probably on to his next story project now, which is also fine.

What I didn't say was that, about a month back, I went out to eat at a restaurant with my sister, my niece, and my two nephews.  By the doors, they had, ironically enough, one of those machines that smashes pennies into keychains.  No, it was a claw game, with all unironicalness.  And my nephew begged me, my mom, and my sister for quarters so he could play it.  I tried to explain that they eat people's money, and that they look easy but are really hard, and that he'd be throwing it away, and that Jodie Foster doesn't like men at all, but that Tom Cruise and John Travolta do. 

But there was no reasoning with a seven year old, and he insisted that he'd seen a guy win big on there, and he could win just as easily, if someone would just trust him with half a dollar.  I believe my mom and sister both contributed twenty-five cents each, and the boy ran off to waste it on the game . . . and won.

He just won a little rubber ball, which probably only sold for fifty cents in a store, but he sure was proud of proving me wrong.  And of course, by the same time the next day, he had both lost the ball and forgotten it ever happened (until the next time he saw one of those bloody machines).

I believe I originally planned on the brothers coming to the convenience store three times.  The little brother was supposed to win the first time, then the big brother won something small, and on the third day, the big brother was supposed to have tossed away a fortune trying to win something again.  But I lost interest in the story rather quickly, and it ended up being a) just the two visits, and b) plenty long with only that.

The story turned out to be similar--too similar?--to a couple others I've written where someone finds a magical item and becomes fixated on it.  I like that kind of story, and the kind of open ending this one went with.  In a way, though, it was a truer writing exercise than the last one was because "A Lovely Singing Voice" had already been written once, and this tale was wholly written for the blog.

So, look: "MagiClaw" is not going to win any awards.  It was meant to be short and amusing, and I don't know that it achieved either.  But I had a conversation with Big about it afterward, and it's possible I wrung the best story I could out of the premise.  I dunno, maybe somebody like Josh Roseman or Will MacIntosh could create a gem from this particular chunk of gypsum, but there is one moment in my tale that I like quite a bit, so I don't consider it a total loss.

And as far as that goes, I wrote it, I finished the damn thing (which has started to be par for the course on my writing of late), and I shared it with other people.  And that, good sir (and madam), is an actual triumph.

Rish Outfield

P.S. As before, feel free to let me know of any typos or grammar/structure problems, and I'll fix 'em.  But the "irregardess" has to stay, I'm afraid.

Broken Mirror Shard - Day 10

So, the story is done.  And it sure ain't great.  But that doesn't mean I shouldn't have written it.  You learn something by every new experience, every job you have, every time you get fired for throwing a pencil.

I have done a tad of revising as I went along, so the word count is way off by this point, and there was a bit earlier on that I had to change, but here you are, the last section.  Thanks for reading!

***

            They approached the MagiClaw.  Stewart thought of valuables hiding in there—treasures untold—and decided he would be happy with just more text messages from naked classmates.  Either one would be mighty nice. 

            But what he got was nothing, just more disappointment, more near misses with prizes he only glimpsed for a second before they disappeared, never to show themselves again.  His quarters ran out, and he found himself mad at the machine, mad at himself, and made at Anthony for having won and still being ahead of the game. 

            Customers came and went, all being rung up by the smiling boy cashier with a girl’s name.  Stewart was mad at him too.

            Anthony took over.  The lights blinked and the claw started moving. 

            Stewart stopped watching the claw and started watching his brother.  Anthony’s little hands were tight on the joystick, gripping it as though his life depended on it.  He had a wild look in his eyes, and Stewart suddenly understood what Adrian the Clerk had been getting at. 

            When Anthony—who was practically the swear police—muttered the f-word when a Transformers toy dropped from the claw’s grasp, Stewart realized it was time to go.

            “Hey, Ant, it’s we’re done, okay?”

            “What?” snarled the boy.

            “One more and we’re gonna go.”

            “No, no,” whined the boy.  “You said we could do what I want today and I want to do this.”

            “We have done this.”  Stewart sighed.  “Come on, man.  You’re almost out of money by now.  Let’s quit while we’re ahead.”

            Anthony snorted.  “Oh, I lost that twenty a long time ago.  This is Mom’s money from the back of the spice cupboard.”

            Stewart stared at his brother, hoping that had been a joke.  Anthony always walked the straight and narrow, so much so it was embarrassing (and angering, when Mom would ask why Stewart couldn’t be more like him).  But this was a completely different kid.  “Okay, then.  We’re done.  No more quarters, no more games.”

            But Anthony had already dropped a second quarter into the machine, and the lights were blinking as the claw started to move.

            “Come on, you . . .” the seven year old breathed, calling the MagiClaw a name so dirty Stewart himself would pause before saying it.

            The claw moved above the treasure trove, opened, and Anthony lowered it down.  The claw rose again, and it had something in its grasp: a piece of white and yellow cloth.  It was a shirt, apparently--not a clean one—and the boy muttered “the hell?” as the claw returned to its base and released the shirt into the trapdoor.

            It was some kind of sports jersey, or had been in its better days.  It seemed ragged and used, and at first Stewart was afraid to touch it.  But Anthony made a dejected sound, so Stewart reached into the trap door and pulled it out. 

            There were marks on the white fabric, and Stewart suspected someone had cleaned a locker room with it, maybe used it for a baby’s diaper.  He expected it to stink, but it had apparently been dry cleaned recently, because it still had the ticket on it.

            “I don’t get it,” Anthony said.

            “It’s a football jersey,” Stewart observed, turning it around to see a 75 on the back.

            “It says Greene, but it’s white,” Anthony pointed out.  From his tone, he felt pretty ripped off.

            “It might have been white once,” Stewart began, “but now I’d say it’s—”

            “What have you got there?” the nosy clerk asked.

            They looked over.  Adrian the Clerk was watching them over his register.  Stewart considered saying something mean like ‘Something 100% none of your business,’ or ‘Your mom’s underwear,’ but instead held it up with one hand.

            “Whoa,” breathed the clerk, and to Stewart, it sounded like he was being shown a topless photo of Claudia Espinoza.

            “What?  What is it?”

            They both went to the counter and the clerk held out his hands with excitement.  “It can’t be,” Adrian said.

            Stewart was hesitant to give him the jersey, at least till he understood what was so fascinating about it.  Upon closer examination, the dry cleaning tag turned out to be an auction tag.  Authentic Coca-Cola 1979 “Coke and a Smile” commercial shoot jersey, Sotheby’s New York.

            “I don’t understand.  What is it?”

            “No, you wouldn’t,” the clerk said.  “You’re too young.  I’m barely old enough.  This kid gave Joe Greene a Coke and Joe gave him his sweaty jersey.”

            “Gross,” Anthony said.  “Who’s Joe Greene?”

            “It was a commercial back when they meant something.”  The clerk imitated an excited child’s voice.  “’Thanks, Mean Joe!’”

            “Who’s Mean Joe?”

            “He was a football player, a defensive lineman from the Steelers.”

            “Football is lame,” Anthony said, but the wheels were already spinning in Stewart’s head.

            “So, this jersey is famous?  Or, at least, famous to old people?”

            “Yeah, to ‘old people’ like me, this is like the Holy Grail of jerseys.”

            “What’ a Holy Crail?” Anthony asked. 

            Stewart ignored him.  “So, this is worth something?”

            “Yes, surely.  I don’t know how much, but, at least a couple of—”

            Stewart interrupted him, never knowing the clerk was going to say ‘grand.’  “What will you give me for it?”

            “Me?  Well, you’ll get a lot more if you go to an auction house, or just list it on eBa—”

            Stewart hadn’t been born yesterday.  “Nahh, if you think it’s so great, you buy it.  Two hundred bucks.”  Stewart knew he was pushing it, suggesting a dirty old jersey from the Seventies might be worth hundreds of dollars, but the clerk seemed way interested.

            “You’re serious?” Adrian the Clerk asked, seeming suspicious again, like when they’d told him to double check the twenty.  “Two hundred dollars?”

            “Okay, if you don’t want it . . .” Stewart began, taking the ancient shirt away from his grasp. 

            “Oh, I guess I want it.  But you drive a hard bargain.”  The clerk grinned big, finding this all funny for some reason, and pressed a few buttons on the resister.  It slid open.  Adrian counted out two hundred dollars in twenties and tens.  “Look, Spencer, was it?”

            “Stewart,” he corrected, but tensing.

            “You’re ahead now.  Go outside.  Buy a girl you like a seashell necklace or a dreamcatcher or something.”

            “Why?”

            “Because girls like that stuff.  Enjoy the rest of summer.”

            Stewart put his hand out.  “Okay.”  He traded the gross old jersey for the money, and clutched the bills tightly in his hand.  He wondered, for some reason, if he’d gotten Anthony’s twenty from the day before in that stack.  “Thanks.”

            “You too, kiddo,” the clerk said to Anthony.  To Stewart, he said, “Take advantage of sunshine and youth.”

            “Why?”

            “Because neither of those things last.”

            Anthony nodded, Stewart stayed poker-faced, and both brothers turned to go.

            They passed the MagiClaw, sitting there, all mysterious-like.  Who knew what bounty still lay inside, concealed by that infuriating black partition?  Stewart fought the urge to kick the machine, but settled for flipping it the bird.

            They emerged into the sunny late afternoon, surprised to see how long the shadows were getting.  People were coming home from work, families were heading out to dinner, romances were just about to blossom.  Stewart had some cash in his pocket, and a story to tell. 

            He patted Anthony on the back and went to unlock the boy’s bicycle from where they’d stashed it.

            “Stewart?” Anthony said timidly.

            “Yeah?”

            “Is two hundred dollars a lot of money?”

            “Yes.  No.  Sort of.”  He thought he knew what his kid brother was going to ask, and he decided he’d share some of the wealth.  It was only fair.

            “It could buy a lot of quarters, though,” the boy said instead.

            “Uh huh,” Stewart chuckled, glancing behind them at the convenience store.  “I was thinking the same thing.”

the end

 

Words Today: 1314

Words Total: 5974

Broken Mirror Shard - Day 9

I told Big I thought I might be able to finish this soon, and I was surprised to hear that he's already finished his. He really is doing good writing work right now, which is encouraging to me, because if he gave up on this, I certainly would have as well. As it stands, I am glad this story is a short one, because I am finding it difficult to care anymore.

We'll have to talk when it's over, but I'm not exactly thrilled with the way it's going, and once it's finished, I fully expect me to describe it--as I do all my completed tales--as "not a great story."

But the work waits.

***

            The clerk yawned.  “You understand that the only way a machine like that makes money is if people spend more to win a prize than the prizes are worth, right?”

            Anthony shook his little head.  “But I got money from it, and Stewart got a piece of paper with boobs on it.”

            The clerk opened his mouth, puzzled, then simply asked, “Who’s Stewart?”

            “He is,” said Anthony, gesturing.

            “Okay, it’s all luck then.  I don’t know.”

            Stewart got an idea.  “Hey, if I gave you fifty cents . . . would you play the game?”

            The clerk squinted at him.  “What?  After you’re gone?”

            “No, right now.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I’m not having any luck with it.”

            “You got some gum.  And you won ten bucks out of it yesterday, right?”

            “That was me,” Anthony said proudly.  “And it was twenty.”

            “Irregardless,” Stewart said, “I can’t get it to give me anything.  Will you try?”

            “You really want me to play it?”

            “Yes,” both boys said at the same time.  It was almost creepy.

            “Well, I guess so,” Adrian said, and stepped around the counter.  He glanced back at the cash register, just in case this was some elaborate ruse to get him away from the money there, but both boys were following him.

            Stewart handed him fifty cents.  “Here you go.”

            “And if I win something . . . what?  It goes to you?”

            “Yeah,” he said.  Then he reconsidered.  “No, we’ll split it.”

            “Alright, but if it’s a Chevy Tahoe, it won’t do you two all that much good.”  He smiled when he said it, but the smile faded when neither one of them laughed.

            They followed him to the MagiClaw and he almost inserted one of the quarters, then stopped.  “You know what?” he said, not to them, but to himself.  “I shouldn’t do this.  I’ll just hang out behind the counter.”  He handed the coins back to Stewart.  “Here you go.”

            “Come on,” Stewart demanded, and this time he was the one who sounded whiny.

            “You know . . .” the clerk began, but never continued.  He just walked back around to his cash register, and glanced away from them.

            For some reason, that caught Stewart’s full attention.  “What?”

            “Well, not for nothin’ but . . . it’s a nice day outside.  You shouldn’t be cooped up in here.”

            “Why do you care?”

            “’Cause I am cooped up in here.  Last week, I saw a girl I used to know, wearing Daisy Dukes.  And I just had to watch her walk past.”

            “What are Daisy Ducks?” Anthony asked, stupidly.  But Stewart was curious too.

            “They’re short shorts.  A rare sight nowadays.  You’ll understand soon.”

            But Stewart already understood, and wanted to tell the clerk about Claudia Espinoza and her glorious text message.  He’d never see something like that or something like her if he managed to master the toughest skate trick, win the lottery, and save the world, all on the same day.  He wanted to tell him that he hadn’t believed in anything for a long time, let alone magic, and now, for the last day, he’d been looking at the world differently.  With wonder again, like he had before Dad left, before Anthony was born.

            But this clerk was just a guy, a stranger, and Stewart couldn’t tell a stranger those things.  He couldn’t even tell his little brother.

            He handed over another five.  His last five.  “Quarters, please.”

            Adrian stared at him for a moment.  Then he opened the register, not glancing down.  “Listen, we’re running low on quarters.  I can only give you two.”

            “No, you’re not.  You’re just saying that.”

            “Maybe.  But I’m doing you a favor.  Just two bucks more, then go out into the sun and be young, enjoy the day.”

            “You have to give us quarters,” asserted Anthony by his brother’s side.  “We can tell your boss.”

            “Tell him what?”

            “That we wanted to buy something and you wouldn’t let us.”

            “Right.  Like beer or smokes?”

            Stewart gritted his teeth.  “This isn’t like that.  We’d tell him you wouldn’t serve us.”

            The clerk nodded.  “Hey, aren’t you the kid who tried to pass me a phony twenty yesterday?”

            “What?” Anthony asked, his eyes widening.  “You told me it was real.”

            “Ignore him, Ant,” Stewart said.  “He’s just being a . . .”  He nearly said, ‘prick,’ but a small voice told him not to, that he could get kicked out, banned from the store like Head was.  And that would not be good.

            “A what?”

            “A Yoda.”

            The clerk narrowed his eyes.  “A Yoda?”

            “He was in Star W­—” began Anthony.

            “I know who that is.  But what does that mean?”

            Stewart explained, “It means somebody old who’s full of useless advice.”

            “Hey, Yoda was not useless.  He . . .” The clerk sighed.  He seemed a little disgusted, a little angry, but he produced the quarters and pushed them in their direction.  “Spend on, boys.”

Words Today: 828
Words Total: 4649

Broken Mirror Shard - Day 8

I took a bit of time off from the blogging.  Not much, but enough to make me not want to continue doing it anymore.  I guess I need to hang out with other writers to recharge my motivators (and inertial dampeners), and I didn't get together with Big to talk about writing or podcasting this week.

I will at least try, though.

***

           Indeed, the next day, after feeding the ducks at Shinooginah Pond (of all activities), Stewart and Anthony went back to the Stop N Go for refreshments—chili dogs, this time—and a friendly pull of the claw.  The store employee was the same as the day before, and the MagiClaw sat exactly the same, although the baseball was gone.

            Anthony dropped fifty cents into the machine, managed to claw a watch, but lost it before it reached the trapdoor.  He shrugged it off, and let his big brother try.

            Stewart put quarter after quarter in the machine, but he kept coming up empty.  Once, the claw came up out of the covered space, a tattered comic book in its grasp.  It was a Superman comic, with the superhero holding a green automobile over his head.  Before it slipped from the claw’s grasp, Stewart saw the words ‘Action Comics’ at the top.  Then it was gone.

            “Holy crap!” Anthony exclaimed beside him. 

            “I know, right.  I can’t catch a friggin break.”

            “No, no, that book—that comic—that was the first Superman.  It’s, like, worth a zillion dollars or something!”

            “Yeah, right,” Stewart chided, but he did remember hearing on the news that an old Batman issue went for a thousand bucks or something in an auction recently.  It might even have been more, but Stewart hadn’t really been paying attention. 

            Stewart fed two more quarters into the machine—his last two.  This time, he won!

            A pack of gum, he won.  It was a pack of grape Bubblicious, and he cursed under his breath.  “All that for a pack of gum.”

            “I like grape.  That’s really good gum,” Anthony offered.

             “I’ve spent, like, six dollars—it better never lose its flavor.”

            He couldn’t let it go at that.  He went to the clerk to break more bills into quarters.  “You know, you’ve spent a lot on that machine,” observed the employee.

            “Yeah?” Stewart retorted, almost surly.  He wasn’t angry at the cashier so much as the damned MagiClaw.  It taunted him, teased him, kept pulling its goodies away from his grasp, like a drunk girl at an after-prom party.  Anthony had gotten bored of the game after a while, and had been talking to the guy (Adrian, his name was).

            “I’m just sayin.”

            “He said the machine is cursed,” Anthony told him. 

            Stewart looked at the man. “What?”

            Adrian leaned a bit over the counter, coming closer to tell them a secret.  “Nobody knows where the machine came from.  The boss ordered an ATM, and that came on the same truck, but not from the distributor.  And even though I’ve never seen anyone come into to stock it . . . it’s always full of prizes.”

            Stewart blinked.  “No joke?”

            The clerk cracked a smile.  “Sure, it’s a joke.  I only work three to eleven, so whoever stocks it comes in before I get here.”

            “But, it is magical, right?” Anthony asked him.

            The clerk shrugged.  “That’s just its name.”

            “He told me before that a kid won a pickup truck with the game,” Anthony tattled.

            “It’s true,” the clerk said, his face serious again.  “The claw pulled a Chevy Tahoe out of that thing.  It was amazing.”

            Both brothers stared at the clerk with growing awe.  “Really?” Anthony whispered.

            “No.  Of course not.  How would that even be possible?”

            “You’re not very funny,” Anthony growled.  Stewart couldn’t have said it better himself.

            “Fine.  But there was a guy here, like, two hours after you left yesterday, who got really excited when he was playing it.”

            Stewart too had gotten really excited, only afterward.  “Why?”

            “He said he got a certificate out of it that said he’d get full custody of his kids.”

            “What does that mean?” Anthony asked.

            “It means he got the kids in his divorce,” the clerk explained.

            “No, what does ‘certificate’ mean?”  And Stewart couldn’t tell if the boy was joking or not.  If he was, he decided he didn’t know his little brother well enough, even after seven years.

Word Count: 673
Word Total: 3770

Broken Mirror Shard - Day 7

While I have a bit of fascination with old men and women, I enjoy writing young people the most.  Children and teenagers, which is good, I suppose, in this era when every movie not made by Marvel Studios seems to feature teens, and every movie including those made by Marvel Studios are aimed at teens.  While I've technically been an adult longer than I was a child or teen, I don't yet feel that way.  And this story--"MagiClaw"--is about kids (a child and a teen, to be exact), which is easy.

A writer I read a lot also writes about children.  But his children are always brilliant, precocious, eloquent philosophers who just happen to inhabit the bodies of twelve or nine or five year olds.  I have no interest in this, and when I started a recent book of his only to discover that the protagonists are three lil geniuses who range from six to eight, well, I nearly put it down.  Sure, it seems to interest him to write about prepubescent Einsteins, and maybe my buddy Jeff and his cranially-endowed megaminds, but that alienates the hell out of me, and I can't relate to something like that, or long to read about their exploits.

To me, being a child was never knowing the answers, never understanding how the world works, never being able to have the upper hand.  Hell, the world STILL feels like that.  So I write kids that don't get the joke, that don't know the definition of some bonus vocabulary test word, and seldom have a brilliant retort or riposte handy.  I'm one of those guys who thinks up something clever to say two hours after the argument, but only manages to stammer in the heat of the moment, and that's after years of practice trying to be a smartass.

So, maybe too many of my characters are like me.  In my mind, there's something suspicious of the child who speaks or behaves like the grownups, and something ugly about a kid who acts like he knows all the answers.  I originally meant for Brekkyn, the villain of my last blogged story, to be one of those because the girl that inspired her was always a bit smarter than the kids around her when she was little.  But as she got older, she was so used to not having to try to find the answer, that she became lazy, and eventually, pretty dumb.  I figured Brekkyn, who never had to work hard and anything or do anything she didn't actually want to do, would be lazy too, and even though she's probably got a higher I.Q. than Tanissa, she seldom uses any gift but her magic. 

I didn't mean to type quite so much here, I only meant to preface my story writing for the day.  But reading that book about the eight year old that speaks a SECOND LANGUAGE so fluently that he tricks everyone into thinking he is an adult made me shake my head with the opposite of enjoyment, and made me want to write the kids in my story . . . as kids.

***

            They went out into the sunlight, the heat a sharp contrast to the cold corner shop, and Stewart took the piece of paper from his brother.  It looked like girl’s handwriting, a cute little note like you’d pass back in forth in class in junior high.  All it said was that one stupid word, and Stewart tossed it onto the ground.  Anthony went behind the bushes where they’d hidden his bike and Stewart’s skateboard.  He wasn’t sure why his big brother was upset about the paper—he thought “boobs” was a hilarious word, though he wasn’t sure whether it qualified as a swear or not—but he was pleased with the money in his pocket and a pretty cool story to tell.

            They finished their drinks before heading back home.  There was a hill between their housing development and the center of town, and Anthony had to stand up on his pedals just to keep moving forward, while Stewart seemed to have no trouble with it at all.

            They were just reaching their street when Stewart’s phone began to buzz.  It was a text message, and he coasted while pulling his phone from his pants, expecting to read the rest of the dirty cannibal joke (at last).  But the number wasn’t familiar, even though it was a local one.  Stewart paused on his board--Anthony still half a block behind him, peddling hard to catch up—and opened the text.

            It consisted of two words, “Enjoy, Greg.”  There was an attachment that Stewart opened, just by force of habit.

            It was Claudia Espinoza, a hot girl from school, using one hand to take the picture, using the other to lift up her t-shirt, exposing her naked chest.

            Stewart’s eyes went large and he nearly fell off his board, despite having one foot on the pavement.  He glanced behind to make sure Anthony hadn’t caught up yet.  He looked back at his phone.  Claudia was a popular girl on the drill team, and her boyfriend was Greg Mortensen, a douchey Sophomore/about-to-be-Junior with curly bleached blond hair. 

            The photo was a marvelous sight, taken in a bathroom, somehow accidentally sent to Stewart.  He wasn’t sure how this happened, but he was not going to look a gift rack in the mouth. 

            And then the dots connected in his head.

            “Bewbies,” he whispered, almost like a prayer.

            “What?” Anthony called behind him.  “Was that Mom?”

            Quick as Mercury, Stewart locked his phone, and stuck it into his now too-tight jeans.  “No, just . . . just a wrong number.”

            They went back to their little house and let themselves in.  Anthony started organizing his Pokemon cards, and Stewart locked himself in his room.  When Mom got home, Anthony regaled her with the tale of the ill-gotten twenty.  She was very tired, though, and not nearly as amazed by the story as she ought to have been.  Stewart, however, was a true believer, and knew where they’d be buying their drinks tomorrow.

 

Words Today: 498

Words Total: 3097