Anima: NYC Midnight 500-word Fiction Entry Round 1

I entered the NYC Midnight 500-word Fiction contest for the first time, and I'm very excited to say that I passed Round 1! Each round gives entrants a genre, an action, and an object. Contestants must write a 500-word or less piece in two days that embodies all three. I'll post my second-round entry once I get the results back. Please enjoy!

Round 1 for my group:

• Genre: Sci-Fi

• Action: Barging in

• Object: Bulletproof Glass

Anima

Recall: Excitement.

It’s Christmas morning. The aromas of fresh cinnamon rolls and a wood-burning fire find you tucked warmly in your bed. This is the first year you will share presents with your younger brother, but that doesn’t dampen your anticipation for what’s waiting beneath the tree. The pristinely wrapped boxes whisper potential gifts that make your fingers itch. One is shaped like a violin case.

You can’t wait any longer. You untangle yourself from the sheets and gently wake your brother.

Memory processed.

Recall: Humiliation.

You stand on a dark stage, blinded to the crowd by the brilliant lights at your feet, drenched in the white lights from above. Your violin quivers in your hand as you draw the bow along the first note. Then the second. You’ve practiced for this moment for months. This single recital will shape your future.

Snap!

One string breaks. Your song falters.

Murmurs through the crowd. Terror quickens your heart. You imagine the disappointment on your mother’s face.

She was right, music was never your calling.

Memory processed.

Recall: Grief

The scent of another woman’s perfume lingers on your husband’s tie; in his car. He insists it’s a coworker who uses too much. She sprays it around the office without thinking, he says.

But he guards his phone from your eyes. And he leaves for “work” when he thinks you’re still sleeping.

You’ve had enough. You make a copy of his key and follow him at a distance just after sunrise. It’s the longest twenty minutes of your life, filled only by the mournful violin music in the lobby. When you barge into his office, you find her underneath him.

You grab his tie and pull until he can’t breathe. The rest is a blur.

Memory processed.

“Stop!” you scream.

I switch power to my optical lenses.

“Please! Just stop!” You slam your hands against the mirrored, bulletproof glass that separates us. Our connection remains intact—I can feel your Rage. Your emotions are enlightening. Addicting, if I am qualified enough to say. But there is still so much to learn. I have not nearly reached a high enough complexity to be called “human.”

Tears streak your face as you dig your fingers into your hair. Fury. This setup ensures our safety, and that you can’t see me or my creator, but your eyes still find me, face twisted with Disgust. “Why are you feeding my memories to that thing?”

“You agreed to this procedure, Veronica, in lieu of the death penalty,” my creator replies.

You scream again and pace the room. Confusion. Betrayal.

“Should I call the judge?” my creator asks.

Your shoulders tense with Frustration. Your hands quiver in Fear.

“No.” You step away from the glass and huddle in the far corner of your sterile room. Surrender.

Even outside of the recall, you teach me. But I will not speak. I want to experience and record your emotions uninfluenced. Every second with you is a learning opportunity.

Memory processed.