Short-Story Judge
by Channie Greenberg
I remember when my little sister, Amber, became a short-story judge. She was invited to evaluate entries to a small publication’s annual fiction contest.
“Georgie! Georgie! Come, look at this email!”
I glanced up from my screen. I had been close to capturing the algorithm needed to prevent an electrical grid in Rothenburg ob der Tauber from intermittently shutting down. The district of Ansbach of Mittelfranken had contracted my employer, Big and Friendly Energy, to fix the problem. I and five other software developers constituted the corporation’s top tier team.
“Sweetie, give me five. I need to finish a thought.”
When I finally walked from my office to hers — sharing an apartment was helping both of us financially — the first thing that I noticed was the wee bits of paper on Amber’s office floor.
Amber perceived that I was eyeballing the mess. “No more confetti left from New Year’s, so I made do.”
“I see. Show me your screen.”
She did. A journal based in London had invited her, on the merit of the flash fiction of hers that they had launched, to arbitrate their yearly competition.
“I’ve arrived!”
I smiled. There are thousands of literary journals, if one only counts those produced in English. Furthermore, most of them have the longevity of a beached shark.
“Congratulations, Sis.”
“I’m going to be very busy.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“They want me to pick this year’s best story as well as two runners-up.”
“Do you have time?” I knew she did; she had stalled out on the epic fantasy novel she was writing. To my knowledge, most mornings, my dear sibling read the news, completed The New York Times crossword puzzle, the long version, and played a couple of rounds of Sudoku. The only reason that she was able to pay her half of our bills was because she still had a few tens of thousands of inheritance left from our Aunt Selma.
Selma had been a successful romance novelist who meant to support Amber’s dreams. Like me, she never mentioned Amber’s inability to string together plot points or to vary voices among character.
“Good luck with your new responsibility. Again, congrats! I need to return to my code, but I’m glad you called me to share your news.”
A few weeks later, the folks living in Rothenburg ob der Tauber, one more had reliable power. My boss gave me a figurative pat on the head plus a gift certificate to a local pizza place. She then tasked me with assessing the marine energy potential of the North Sea. Relative to her, I’m a grunt, but I still dared to think that such an application of my skills would be tossing away Euros.
No matter. She gave me two years and a reconfigured team to complete the work. After I had finished enough four square breathing to once more feel serene, I invited Amber out for a few slices, my treat.
“Georgie, they sent me the manuscripts.”
“?”
“For the contest.”
“Great!”
“No.”
“No?”
“The editors had winnowed their entire pile without my input. Instead of emailing me all of the hundreds of stories that were submitted, they sent me what they believed were the most promising works.”
Lucky sister! I wish my higher-ups would realize the limited potential of the North Sea’s ocean energy conversion and, instead, assign me to a different project. From time to time, when Big and Friendly Energy’s customers receive their bills, they complained that they didn’t get what they paid for. On such occasions, junior staff members get fired.
For instance, Gloria Chen, who is a brilliant engineer, second to none when it comes to overall system structure, was let go after her superiors at Big and Friendly Energy had tasked her to evaluate the feasibility of using thermoelectric junctions and DC to AC convertors in the sunny Gobi desert. Given the North Sea project, it was possible that I’d follow her, that I’d have to seek employment elsewhere.
“You’re lucky.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“How much are they paying you to judge these things?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lucky. You’ll waste less time on this project than on one that pays.”
“It’s not a ‘project,’ it’s an ‘honor.’”
“Why?”
“I can add ‘writing contest judge’ to my resume.”
“Anyone read it?”
“Not really. But I can upgrade my website, too.”
“Views?”
“Maybe five per year.”
“Consider returning to high-school teaching?”
“No!” Amber stormed off, leaving me and a half eaten slice at the pizzeria. We didn’t talk about the contest that she was umpiring until the following week.
One morning, when we were waking up over cups of coffee, my sister announced that she had identified her winner and her two runners-up.
“Now what?”
“Now, my name gets printed in the journal as their contest judge and, perhaps, the three venerated writers will contact me to express their gratitude.”
“Hmm.” My loved one was still spewing her thoughts about unlikely outcomes mere minutes after I had opened an email from Big and Friendly Energy. I’m not yet disciplined enough to sip my coffee while checking on things at work.
As it were, my employer wrote to inform me that it no longer needed my services. Apparently, Hook of Holland’s comptroller had classified the monies being sent to Big and Friendly Energy as, in the least, very wasteful. So, Big and Friendly Energy, true to form, hadn’t disputed their customer’s claims but had “discovered” that several of its programmers had misapplied their skills. My peers received salary reductions while I became Big and Friendly Energy’s ultimate scapegoat.
“Sister, nothing’s anything until it’s something. I’m glad you were able to be a judge. I wouldn’t look to this experience, though, to provide any further dividends.”
“Brother, what do you know about compensation?”
Copyright © 2024 by Channie Greenberg
