Members of Bolts of Fiction have organized a successful monthly event in Vancouver called the Story Slam. It’s an audience-judged competition like Poetry Slam; the only difference is that the stories are five minutes rather than the three minutes for poems.
There’s prize money for the top three stories and publication in Common Ground for the winning story. If you know anyone who tells a good story – a cop, a cab driver or a bartender who keeps you entertained, they qualify.
Whether their story is true or an outright lie, whether they’ll agonize over every word, memorize it and rehearse in front of a mirror or casually step up to the mike and make it up on the spot, send them to Our Town Cafe, 245 East Broadway, the second Wednesday of every month.
Join the group at 9 pm if you’d just like to sit back and be entertained. If you come at 7 pm, you can join in on Word Whips, 10-minute timed writing exercises and an open mike to share the results.
The following story was the February winner.

The Choice
by Trina Ferguson

The pain of living had brought her there; the pain of living would save her. Dancing on the edge of sanity, she repeated the delusions over and over in her mind as the breeze whipped her hair into a tangled noose beneath her neck. It no longer mattered who was dead or alive, who had rejected or hurt her. All that mattered right now was would she jump or not.
Back and forth the idea shook her body, more than the gusts of wind at her side. It was a great height, but there was always a painful chance of survival. A life with a mangled body and psychosis was too much to comprehend. Should she risk it? What had happened? What went wrong?
Her self esteem was barraged with feelings of worthlessness and despair. Those nagging demons in her head constantly told her, “You’re doing something wrong, you’re going to fail,” or “It’s not good enough.” The impossible standards of her own rules made living unbearable sometimes. “Buy this.” “Don’t support him.” “Give to charity.” “That’s bad for the environment.”
On and on these thoughts critiqued her every action. How could she make a choice each day in her life without hurting someone, somewhere? Most of the rich were striving for their own fortune and this was at the expense of the very poorest. Where was the middle class? Working to make ends meet, tired and frustrated at the end of the day. Forget the impossible standard of politically correct living. It was each man for himself in today’s society.
It all seemed so hopeless to her. The world did not make sense. There was too much pain and suffering. The countless tragedies that took place were often preventable yet too few people seemed to give a damn. Somebody, somewhere was being murdered, raped, molested, beaten, or stolen from. Can we somehow stop all this from going on? Poverty was endless, from the Third World to the First.
Maybe if we came together we could help each other. Simplistic themes and ideas played out in her head and kept her from seeing her own happiness.
Was that why she was standing on the edge of the bridge trembling? Not really. The pain, loneliness and pointlessness of life often swept over her. She struggled, gasping for air in the emotional undertow. So many tears, so many sad memories; she felt like a broken record, skipping over the same aching thoughts for eternity. “Leave me alone!” The dark moods that descended upon her left her scrambling for home. What home? Where do you go when nothing feels like home anymore? She searched endlessly for reasons to laugh and smile. A bouquet of flowers, a little flirting, maybe a good movie would cheer her up. Some days it was a crap shoot what could change her mood, if anything could at all. Looking over the edge she cried and cried. The cars were speeding past while headlights illuminated the railing for her. What would that last descent feel like? Would she feel the pain, and always, the most dreaded question, what if she survived it?
Nervously contemplating, she looked around. Where were all these people coming from? Rush hour was long gone, yet there seemed to be a steady flow of walkers tonight. Let me be alone, please, she willed. You have no idea what is going on. Paranoia kept her mind ticking at a frantic pace as she looked from side to side. Sweat was beading on her forehead as her hands gripped the edge for balance. The ocean swirled beneath her and a boat passed by.
Why, she thought, was I given this life to throw away, when so many others are condemned to die? Gladly she would take their place at this moment. But she knew the folly of this thought. Only then would she feel any real devotion to live. To live. Remember, God remember, what did it feel like to really live? The taste of it, the smell, what was the touch of really living?
Searching through her memories, one after the other, cautiously, they began to take shape, first as forms, then clear images. Birthdays, friendships, vacations, family dinners, laughter, concerts, nature, sunsets, boyfriends, bike rides, rainstorms, dancing. More and more thoughts came flooding back to her as she now crouched on her knees, breathing deeply. Hold on, damn it, hold on you’re almost there. With a trembling chest she cried softly to herself. More tears flowed as she bowed her head, mumbling a quiet prayer to the life force that brought her into this world.
“I don’t want to die, it’s just, sometimes, I don’t know how to live.” Wiping the stream of tears off her face, she got up slowly. The crow sitting next to her flew from his perch. “Thank you,” she said softly as he departed. “Thank you,” she whispered, looking up. Sighing heavily, she headed home.

Trina Ferguson is a Vancouver author who began writing her first short stories three months ago specifically for Story Slam righteouslefty@yahoo.com. To contact Bolts of Fiction call Johnny Frem at 604-254-0355 or see www.boltsoffiction.org