Game Over
by Karen Regen Tuero
As long as her hat was on, she looked quite good. The hat hid her thinning hair; showing only her thick, dark, shoulder-length curls; letting her imagine she looked young. But sometime between yesterday and today, the hat disappeared, and the jig was up.
The hat itself was old yet durable, the packable, washable kind meant for adventures. In earlier days before it ever dutifully protected her vanity, it protected her skin. It had travelled with her the world over, lately to this gaucho town outside of Buenos Aires, where today, as the sun waned, it had to be somewhere.
Retracing her steps in and out of the shops, restaurants and cafes around the town square, she encountered sympathetic shopkeepers who shook their heads to her inquires before letting her check for herself whether her hat had been left on a table or dropped on the floor or even forgotten by a washroom mirror. But there was no tan hat.
The village dog resting outside of one cafe apparently understood her distress. He led her to the square; waiting patiently, his dappled front paws outstretched on the lawn while she checked each bench, each path, then combed the grounds. He seemed to accept she might expect to find the cotton hat torn to pieces, the handiwork of one of his mangy brothers that ruled the town. But there were no tan cotton pieces anywhere.
Later, she found the hat on her bed. She had never put it on.
Panic set in. She was at the beginning of a new adventure she had no desire to be on—the great decline. Next time the hat would not so easily reappear. Little by little, all would be lost.
Karen Regen Tuero is a Pushcart-nominated writer whose work has appeared in The North American Review, Glimmer Train, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. For links to her many published stories, go to: https://linktr.ee/kregentuero
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What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Game Over”? I scribbled most of “Game Over” in a composition notebook while flying home from Argentina last year. Stateside, I read it, along with other material filling the notebook; expecting to use dialogue, description, or snippets to expand the story. But none of it did the trick. That’s when I realized the story was better off short. The problem was, it was incomplete. And I wasn’t sure what it needed. As I pecked the story into my laptop, I had some new ideas, however. Quickly the story coalesced. I looked at the word count, a mere 295 words. I read it again to be sure it didn’t need more. I decided it was all there. My first micro! After printing, normally I revise. A lot! Sometimes for weeks until I’m literally sick. But typically I’m writing novels or longer stories or flash. This time, though, I read it aloud and thought, Hmm, I like this. This was my third submission to Journal of Compressed Arts, where kind rejection notes from Randall, the editor, made me want to try again. I got an interim note saying the story had advanced to the next round, after which a final decision would be made. But with it came editorial advice. Randall suggested I consider taking out the last two ending lines in the original submission. These were: And then what? It would be Game Over. Initially, I was nervous, but reading the story over, I realized it was actually stronger landing on the line: Little by little, all would be lost. Grateful for the suggestion, I told Randall to make that edit. Several months later, I was delighted to learn the story was selected. I sure am glad that on that trip last year I took along a composition notebook. But what writer goes anywhere without one? Or at least a laptop.
Check out the write-up of the journal in The Writer.
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Submissions
Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now closed. The reading period for standard submissions opens again September 15, 2025. Submit here.
Upcoming
09/15 • Abbie Doll
09/22 • Karen Regen Tuero
09/29 • Amy Speace
10/06 • Jennifer Edwards
10/13 • Joseph O’Day
10/20 • Carolyn Zaikowski
10/27 • Sunmisola Odusola
11/03 • Sara Cassidy
11/10 • Liz Abrams-Morley
11/17 • Alison Colwell
11/24 • Lucy Zhang
12/01 • TBD
12/08 • TBD
12/15 • TBD
12/22 • TBD
12/29 • TBD
11/17 • TBD
11/24 • TBD
12/01 • TBD
12/08 • TBD
12/15 • TBD
12/22 • TBD
12/29 • TBD