My story, “Driveway,” is a narrative as told from the perspective of a woman who is going to present her husband with the papers for divorce. I think my story could be greatly improved by becoming e-lit, because it would help develop characters, continue plot, and provide perspective for both main characters without detracting from the main story.

I think the main way my story could be improved is by changing the story slightly so that it solely focuses on the perspective of the woman. As Jim pointed out, the narrative could be strengthened if the it was told solely from the perspective of wife, Sarah. But I think gaining the husband, Sam’s perspective would add dimension to the story. So I would link to Sam’s perspective during the chronology of events, probably when he’s first referenced in the second paragraph.

Sarah also references several events that led her to the confusion. I would link in the story to memories of those events (their daughter’s wedding, their failed counseling sessions, the incredibly hot summer that left the lawn brown, the reason Sarah always has to jiggle the door handle) to once again add dimension to the story. This idea is modeled after “These Waves Of Girls,” which effectively pulls together a collection of memories to tell a story. I think telling my story in this fashion would tell a tale about the build-up and failure of a marriage, rather than just its breaking point.

I think the story would also be benefitted by the addition of videos and music, which would build up emotion. If the story were to begin with a short video of Sarah, stalling at work, gathering the papers, turning into her driveway, it would both ease the readers into the plot and help give insight to Sarah as a character. Something similar could be done for Sam’s perspective, seeing Sarah pull into the driveway, watching her through the window and knowing what’s going to happen.

The final tweak that I think would be interesting would be to add a link to a second ending in which Sarah doesn’t leave. This link would be on the words “if she should reconsider.” This would open up a version of the story, identical from the beginning until the point where Sarah decides not to file for divorce after all. It would even have the same link to Sam’s perspective in it, except Sam’s perspective would be altered to fit the new ending as well. It would likely be confusing, but I think that the confusion is nothing if not symbolic of the inconsistencies of (a rocky) marriage.

With luck, all of these methods of turning “Driveway” into an e-lit would greatly improve my short story without detracting from the focus.

“This crime scene’s been tampered with.” She walked from the bookcase over to a massive collection of objects.

“By whom?”

Waving at all the observers in the room in disgust and raising her voice so they could hear her, she said, “Couldn’t wait to get your hands on your inheritance, could you? Had to go touch everything for yourselves?” They remained silent, looking anywhere but at her.

“The police took photographs. Can’t you use those?” I suggested.

“Photographs! They’re all two-dimensional.”

“Perhaps we could reconstruct the crime scene, then?”

“We’d never get everything right. All the cards, for example, have to be exactly as they were when the police arrived. We can’t have an ace where a ten was.”

“Why not? All the cards are of the same set.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make them the same. Take this, for example.” She bent down to pick up the four of clubs. “What do you see?”

“It’s rectangular, with rounded edges and a design on the back. It’s the same as any other in the deck.”

“But see this?” She pointed to the upper left-hand corner where there was a speck of…something. “And look at this card.” She picked another off the floor, this time the four of spades. “This one doesn’t have a speck, and therefore cannot possibly function as the four of clubs, even though they both give the same message.”

“And what message is that?”

“Don’t go out at four in the morning.”

“Huh?”

“It’s irrelevant.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because four in the morning is the strangest of times and it’s best not to go out then.”

“Umm, oookay. So, moving on, cards aren’t the same. What do we do now?”

“Nothing.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’ve failed. I don’t know what happened and I don’t know what will happen.”

“But the murderer is still out there! And he said he would kill again in that letter!”

“What letter?”

My teeth clenched. “The letter that you read over and over again for three whole hours.”

“Ooooh, that letter.”

“Yes, that letter. You never told me what you made of it?”

“I made it a hat for a dear little friend I named Ben.”

“You what?”

“I made it into a hat.”

“That was evidence! You made a paper hat out of the evidence?!”

“What would you have done with it?”

“I would’ve given it to the police!”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because that’s what you do with evidence!” My jaw was starting to hurt. I tried to relax and get back to the point. “So what did you think of it?”

“I thought it very straightforward. He stated exactly what he intends to do. I like people who get right to the point; makes things so much easier.”

I gave her another eye roll, which proved to be ineffective. “Great, he’s very literal.”

Abruptly, eyes lit up, she shouted, “Literal! That’s it! He’s very literal! Too literal! Let’s go visit Ben; I need that hat back.”

The snow crunches lightly, collapsing to powder beneath my feet. It’s a peaceful sound, though a little lonely beneath the moon’s cold glare. But he’s still here. Our tracks wind together down the mountain path behind us, and our breath mists the air in front. I close my eyes, taking comfort in the muffled fall of his footsteps. He’s still here.

A ledge rears up before us, and he’s at the top before I’ve even gauged its height. Wordlessly he offers me a hand, and wordlessly I take it. And in wordless, familiar silence we continue up the slope to where the summit waits. We take our time, content in each other’s company. There’s no need to hurry when you’re already where you want to be.

But where the path curves around an outcropping of stone, another path splits off, rising up and out of view. As we draw level with it, I lurch to a halt as though physically held. I close my eyes to listen, and I feel it in my chest: a deep, aching tug like a half remembered song. Alluring. Irresistible. I take an involuntary step before turning back, remembering myself.

He’s watching me, head tilted as if to better hear my thoughts. But for once we are divided. He doesn’t turn from the path, and I know then that he can’t feel the pull. I take another step up the slope and look back helplessly. I can’t remember a time when I looked behind me and saw only my own footprints. I don’t know how to explain: this path is mine–and mine alone.

He holds my gaze for a long moment and then smiles, though his eyes are lined with worry.

“It’s alright. I’ll wait here for you.”

“I’ll be right back,” I promise. And then I’m bounding away up the slope.

Up where the path ends, I find a shallow cleft in the rocks, its interior fired gold by countless candles. I pinch at one of them curiously, wondering how they’ve withstood the wind. On reflex I jerk my hand away, a yelp ready on the tip of my tongue, but the flame is no warmer than the mountain air. I examine it warily, brow furrowed. I wish he had come, now. He would know what to make of this. But the cave seems harmless enough. The candlelight flickers off the walls in a friendly, winking way, reflecting off facets in the stone.

But is it stone? It seems too bright, glaring like the moon, but with fire’s warmth. I turn towards the cave mouth as the light becomes painful, but there is no exit anymore—only the relentless, surrounding glow. And now the rocks are ringing, louder and louder as the light beats at my eyelids. The ground drops gently from under my feet, as if I’m falling, or floating away.  I scrabble for a handhold, crying out for help, but there’s nothing around me anymore. Too far, I realize, heart sinking as I rise. It’s too far. He can’t hear me.

His name, I think suddenly. Why can’t I remember his name? I can no more grab hold of it than I can the floor of the cave. The light is so bright now; it splits through the shelter of my eyelids and forces them wide. The light congeals into blazing glass, and the ringing hardens into the harsh blast of an alarm. “I can’t go,” I whisper with my last conscious thought. “He’s waiting for me.”

And then with a gasp, I wake.

I prepared to take the shot.

Snipers too prefer to follow a predetermined routine prior to executing an operation; a structured procedure prior to an assignment affords a greater deal of focus. It is strikingly analogous to a baseball player preparing to step up to the plate and face off against a pitcher in their timeless chess match. I briefly pulled away from the lens and motioned the sign of the cross. Not for show, as some of the others in my platoon did, but because it was a ritual I had devised to retain my psyche. This basic motion was my way of tethering the remains of my humanity together.  Make no mistake about it, assassins are killers. When death so frequently surrounds you, you will get lost in it unless you mark your path. As you get more comfortable with death, you grow complacent and lose your fear of it. Without a fear of death, you will lose the sense of fear altogether, and more importantly, the will to live. The notion of a being greater than me was more than enough to serve as a reminder of where I stand in the grand scheme of things, and having a fear of the unknown is far better than not having any fear whatsoever. As long as I continue to serve, I cannot allow the latter to happen.

I lied down prone on the ground, and then continued my sequence, adjusting the settings of the scope and position to of the rifle to account for the frigid air, slight breeze to the east, and my position relative to the cabin. Clutching the body of the weapon tightly, I brought the stock of the gun toward the grooved steel shoulder plate, which was specifically crafted for this mission then slid it into place until it clicked, locking itself in tight. I zoomed in on the General as he took a sip of his evening cocoa, completely unaware that he was being watched, much less targeted under the dark of the moon. As I had done so many times before, I slid my right index finger into position, braced myself for recoil, and exhaled.

Suddenly, a flicker of light glinted out of the bottom left corner of the trail.

It’s coming from the road.

I dislodged the butt of the rifle from my chest piece and sat up. Slinging it over my shoulder and onto my back, I shakily reached for my long range, thermal binoculars. Squeezing their cracked rubber grips tightly, I directed them towards the area of the infinitesimal flash. Then my heart sank.

Patrols.

I could see a small group blissfully proceeding back to the General’s cabin.

Dammit, reconnaissance said they would not be back for over another hour.

I looked down at my ice blue suit of armor, then clenched my eyes shut, and gritted my teeth together. With their appearance, it would be impossible to eliminate my target without revealing my presence. My original plan was rendered useless, and now everything we had worked so hard towards was in jeopardy.

All those years of training, all those hours of tactical planning, the perfectly executed drop, the chance of a lifetime, all wasted.

A hot, numbing sensation began at the bones of my checks, then spread symmetrically to my nose, and soon enveloped my entire face. My ears felt white hot, yet through the chaos of the moment, the words of my old instructor reverberated in my head.

“Anyone can enter combat, only the prepared can get out of it.”

In spite of the gravity of the scenario and the frustration the new obstacle presented. I began to feel a calm sense of being descend over my mind. I loosened my vice grip on the binoculars.

But I am prepared.

I smirked inside my helmet, and recalled the rest of her message,

“Remember, an assassin doesn’t need preparation. He can improvise and plan on the move, and functions as his peak when all seems lost. An assassin’s constantly adapting mindset what sets him apart from the other warriors and it is exactly what I am going to show you gentlemen how to emulate, and control. On your feet.”

Took me ten years to figure out what she meant.

I stood up and again trained my sights on the guards.

I have work to do. Take it from the top.

“Huh,” offered the boy on the left, perhaps unhelpfully, “Yeah, that’s pretty much broken.”

“Oh really? I hadn’t noticed!” countered the other dryly, rolling an eye, “Your powers of observation astound me. I can hardly bring myself to believe that you could have knocked it over in the first place.”

“Hey, hey, wait up. What do you mean me? This is totally on you man. You were the one who distracted me with all of your yammering. If you weren’t so in your head maybe we’d actually be able to do something rather than just wander around Ikea talking and bumping into things all the time. Seriously, who does that? It’s not like we ever buy anything from here anyways.”

“Yeah, well it looks like we’re buying something now.” The boy on the right replied, eyeing the remains of the mirror glumly. “We should probably talk to a rep or something. Just let me do the talking.”

“Seriously? You always get to do the talking”

“Yeah, because I’m better at it. I get a lot of practice, remember? – And besides, what are you complaining about? You got to talk, like, all of Sunday when Uncle Jay came over.”

“Ha ha, very funny wise guy.” Said the left, “Because I’m sure you would have just loved to spend an afternoon talking about– here, you grab that end and I’ll get the big shards– talking about salmon.”

“Is he still going on about that? I wasn’t paying attention.” The right replied. Though he melodramatically feigned ignorance, he couldn’t help but break into a toothy, lopsided grin at the scathingly accusatory eye in the broken mirror.

“Seriously man? Just cut the crap. I’m sick of all your BS. You think just because you can write better than I can, or catch, or do math, or whatever. You think you’re better than me?”

“What? No of course not! Don’t be ridiculous, I– “

“You do! You actually do. I can see it in your eye! You prick!”

“And you wonder why I don’t want you to be the one talking? Look, lets just keep a cool head here, and do one thing at a time. We can argue later.”

“You’re doing it again! I can handle things just as well as you can. Here, move over, I’ll take the mirror.”

“Ow! What are you– Let go of my arm! Stop it! You’re going to make us drop it again.”

“No I’m not! Just let go. I can do this. See, look, there’s a manager guy. I’m just going to go over and– ”

“Hey you! Kid!” the man called out. The boys froze, the brief silence as the man walked over broken by the faint tinkling of one last piece of glass hitting the floor. “Kid, I’m–” he paused, briefly, to look around, grimacing ever so slightly at the shattered mirror. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You want to talk to yourself or whatever, that’s your deal, but the yelling is starting to upset the customers. I… ah. Do you have any parents with you?”  When they shook their head, the man sighed, scratching at his greying temple, “Look,” he said, his voice resigned, “Just get lost. I’ll take care of the mirror.”

A short while later, a boy stepped out into the Ikea parking lot, and slowly started the long walk home.

Left foot, then right foot, then left foot…

The first thing she heard was a shuffle above, indicating an illicit opening of the front door. A single, dancing slit of firelight illuminated the girl’s slowly stirring body as it woke — reacting instinctively to the additional visitor in her abode. And then stillness. All she could hear above the din of the world outside burning was her own shallow breathing, that of a creature of the night resting fearfully in its nest. Before she could rise, she would be stopped. This was all her attacker, lurking omnisciently above, knew for certain.

There was a crash and a splintering of drywall as the ceiling shattered. Descending in a glowing pillar of dust and foreboding, the attacker landed gracefully at the foot of the bed. The Girl’s red eyes darted upward with a visceral fear exclusive to the undead: the dispassionate crave of self-preservation.

“You?” She asked, her voice harsh from lack of use.

“Yes,” came the instantaneous reply. Suddenly, in a movement faster than those of this world are primed to expect, the attacker drew its wooden stake and plunged it deep into the girl’s very soul. The girl struggled with the weapon, attempting fruitlessly to remove it from her body. Light began to leak out from the edges of the wound. A crimson flash emanated from the stilling girl, basking the room in the essence of hellfire itself. “It is I.”

And the girl’s very being was purged from this existence, ripped from her broken body, damned eternally to its next.

Her consciousness, flung from her mortal self, landed squarely at the feet of her oppressor, the one that had bound her to this ever-present fate.

“I am sorry,” said God. “This is the way it had to be.”

The girl’s retort emerged as ephemerally as the substanceless clouds which made up the ground beneath her feet: “I am not a witch.”

Laura wasn’t normally a risk taker but she knew in order for F.I.S., the main company in charge of Fireman’s safety,  to take her research team’s new fire suit seriously they would have to make one heck of a demonstration. So here she was clothed in seven years of research, steps away from the fire lab. In just a few moments the demonstration would begin and all that would be between her and scorching flames would be the suit.

As she stepped into the chamber her heart started pounding with fear. She knew it was silly to be afraid. Her team had tested the suit dozens of times and never once had it faltered. So, with a deep breath and large smile for the audience, she stepped in the chamber and the fire began.

Seconds into the burn Laura started to sense there was something wrong. Cold air was being cycled through her fire suit yet there were beads of sweat dripping down her face. Suddenly, through the observation window, Laura saw two of her group members rush over to the control station.  She knew something was wrong. The look of worry turned to panic and before she had time to react she heard a loud explosion by the door of the fire chamber. The pressurized latch had been broken by the force of the fire. The audience members ran for the exit, screaming with terror.  Horrified, Laura realized the fire intensity had been set too high. Blinded by smoke and fire, Laura felt her way to the chamber exit but to her dismay the heavy metal door had fallen on its side making it impossible to escape. She was trapped.

The red light on her suit started furiously blinking. Laura knew this meant the suit would only protect her for about five more minutes. Dismissing her panic, she swept the room for something she could use to escape. On the wall behind the observation window she found a large fireproof rod, normally used to hold test equipment. Now, with a glimpse of hope and adrenalin running high, she smashed the bar against the observation window. Nothing happened. Again she smashed the bar on the window. Still nothing happened. Getting overwhelmed with frustration she threw the bar with every last bit of strength left in her body. Like the sweet sound of music she heard the bar crash through the window. Surprised by her own strength she flung herself through the broken glass. Free at last, she ran out of the flaming building just as the fire department arrived.

After safely removing the fire suit, Laura’s group greeted her with overwhelming relief. Although thoroughly traumatic, the demonstration was not given in vain.  Once the fire subsided the head of F.S.I. approached Laura and her teammates. Surprisingly, he expressed interest in buying the technology showcased in the fire suit. He was sure if this suit could handle that nightmare it needed to be distributed to all fire stations.

You let out a sigh of relief as you sink into the driver’s seat of your car, the fatigue of a long day of work heavy upon your shoulders. You turn the radio on to the weather, only to hear about an impending storm.  You feel your stomach drop at the word “storm.”

Calm down, you tell yourself.  It isn’t even raining yet.

And then right on cue, you see a few drops splatter onto your windshield.

Damn.

You realize there’s no avoiding it now, so you start the car while taking deep, slow breaths, and drive out of the parking lot.

You let out a long yell as you merge onto the highway.  You aren’t really sure why you still do this, seeing that highway driving is no longer as frightening as it used to be.  Perhaps it’s the sudden acceleration.  Perhaps it’s still out of fear that you’ll merge straight into an 18-wheeler.  Or perhaps old habits die hard.  Your grip on the wheel gets a bit tighter as you zoom onto what seems like infinite highway.  30 miles to go.

25 miles to go.  You sing out loud (and quite awfully) to your favorite song.

21 miles to go.  Your stomach grumbles.  You long for some Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

17 miles to go.  You grow nervous when you see a stretch of giant black and purple clouds that you’re headed straight for.

Soon the rain picks up, and then it’s pouring.  Immediately you sit up straighter in your seat with a death grip on the wheel.  Your pulse beats faster.  After a minute you go to turn up the wiper speed and find you already had it on the highest setting.  Another minute and you can’t see the lane lines anymore.  Your only guide is the rear lights of the SUV in front of you.  You try to take deep breaths to calm yourself.  It isn’t working.

You try to rationalize the situation while adrenaline pumps fiercely through your veins.  Do you pull over on the side of the road and wait it out?  Perhaps that’s best.  Then, you wouldn’t be driving through a panic attack.  But then you worry about hydroplaning when you start to rapidly accelerate again.  And you have a slightly unrealistic fear that a serial killer will find you parked on the side of the road and drag you through the mud into the woods…

No.  You decide to drive on through your fear.  You can do this.  Before you know it, you’ll be home.  You take a deep breath, and slow down to about forty miles-per-hour.  You’re more comfortable at this speed.  This could actually work.  You turn up the radio even louder, give yourself a mental pep talk, and drive on.

13 miles to go.  You can start to see the lane lines again.  You feel your shoulders start to relax.

10 miles to go.  The rain has finally slowed down and your wipers no longer have to work frantically.  Your death grip on the steering wheel loosens back to normal.

7 miles to go.  You merge off the highway and the rain has finally stopped.  Your feel your pulse go back to a steady, normal pace.  You feel a huge surge of relief as you drive the rest of the way home.

Soon, you find yourself back in your neighborhood, pulling into your driveway.  You turn the car off and lay your head against the headrest and close your eyes in relief.  Home.  You have finally made it home.  Though it was one hell of a journey, you are proud of yourself.  You have conquered one of your fears and made it out in one peace.  With a satisfied smile, you walk into your home, happy to be back from a long day of work.

Darkness.

A flicker of a light; hope.

Then, out again.

“It won’t work!” Joey fumbled with the matches in the blackness, feeling around for the vanilla-scented Yankee Candle near the kitchen sink.

Johnny sighed, running his fingers through his coarse sandy hair. His little brother could be hopeless sometimes, he thought, ruffling through drawers for an extra matchbox.

Outside, the rain howled, piercing the black sky. It hadn’t done enough damage already with the power outage, so it hammered the roof, pounded the windows.

“Did Mom or Dad call home?” Joey pulled on a sweatshirt, curling up in a chair.

“No, idiot. The power’s out, remember?”

That response stung; Johnny saw his brother look away. Joey hung his head, dark brown hair falling in his face, still playing with his matchbox.

Johnny’s mother was in Jamaica for the fourth time that year, his father on an extended business trip to China since May. Trying to make their relationship as long-distance as possible was working.

The parents left the kids home most of the time, told the neighbors to watch over them as the two of them struggled through a failed marriage.

“Stop playing with those, Joey.”

Joey put down the matches, dejected.

“How come? I almost got it.”

“No, you don’t. Those are impossible to light. Even I can’t do it.”

Suddenly, a crack, like that of a whip but magnified one hundred times. A long swooshing of wind reverberated through the house, a patter of rain sloshed. The house got blacker.

Joey jumped at the noise. Johnny, startled, danced his iPhone light every which way to find the culprit. He shone it in the living room as his bare feet squished into wetness. His heart stopped.

“What the – ”

A tree, halved by the furious storm, had cascaded into the room through the windowed glass, sprawling over the upholstery, knocking into the 50” plasma, strewing leaves over the family portrait taken years ago and old school photos. Those final shreds of normalcy were destroyed.

Johnny’s head was spinning. He feverishly went through the motions of dialing his parents’ numbers on his phone. Five-one-three-two-zero-nine-five-five-six-one, ring – nothing. Five-one-three-two-four-eight-seven-six-nine-nine, ring – nothing. Five-one-three-two-zero-nine –

“Johnny. What are we gonna do?”

Johnny blinked back fear and frustration and anger and depression and said, “I don’t know.” The last word trembled. Johnny never trembled.

Johnny collapsed then, crumbling to the hardwood against the counter. He held his head in his hands, tired of always knowing and tired of not knowing and just tired.

“Johnny!”

Johnny moaned, rubbing his face.

“Not now, Joey.”

“No, just look! Just – ”

Johnny looked up. His eyes widened.

There, in the torrential rain pouring in from the living room windows, the heavy wind ricocheting throughout the house and the mirrored hollowness he felt inside, Joey was holding the lit candle.

He got up and wiped the leaves off his jeans and stood with his glowing little brother near the countertop, watching a fierce fiery flame on a Yankee Candle dance – a ballet nestled in a storm.

Pete’s eyes opened as the van skidded to a halt. Beads of sweat ran down his face, and off his chin, falling onto the corrugated steel floor with soft taps that were inaudible over the roaring of the crowd.  He heard the countdown and readied himself. Lowered his visor. Checked his weapon. The van doors were thrown open and the intense sunlight blinded him momentarily. The throngs of human bodies were hazy and ill-defined through the cheap plexiglass visor protecting his face.  He hopped and the armored car sped away, the white letters denoting a SWAT van faded into the distance. The crowd’s roar, piercing and dull at the same time, made his ears ring. What had started as a peaceful protest had turned into a civilian occupation, and somehow, he was now standing in front of an angry mob, rioting and looting the city for no other reason than politics. Pete hated politics.

He faced the mob, resisting every urge to run for his life, placing the riot shield in front of him and standing tall. Rocks and beer bottles bounced off of the plastic shield as violent protestors flung everything within reach at the line of policemen. The officers looked at each other fearfully. The mob was advancing quickly. Within seconds they would be overwhelmed. The shouts and yells hurt his head. He scanned the crowd, overwhelmed by the anger and rage on the faces of the protesters. Their red shirts sporting political slogans made the mob seem like one huge scarlet blob of violence and wrath. Suddenly, he started. What was that glimmer? He looked back through the advancing crowd, and he saw it again. The metal reflected the sun into his eyes, making him see spots. What is that? He shielded his eyes, squinted and saw it. The pistol, held at eye level, the protester staring back at him, expressionless. Instinct and self-preservation kicked in. He raised the rifle and fired.

The academy had taught him to fire tear gas straight up into the air, to avoid bodily injury, but he had forgotten his training and aimed right at the chest of his assailant. The shot rang out and black powder stung his nose. The crowd’s angry roar quickly disintegrated to screams of terror as the mob scattered, fleeing, turning corners and ducking behind cover. As the police officers advanced, pushing the braver dissidents back, Pete tripped. He looked down as he stumbled and found himself staring into the eyes of a protester, her red shirt turning a deep crimson. She lay on the street; arms outstretched, with a silver camera in her hand. The recording light was still flashing.