Tag / writing

by booksoverlookedblog

My Experience with the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge

This year I entered NYC Midnight’s Short Story Challenge. I’d heard about NYC Midnight before, but I’d never entered any of their writing contests. The entry fee is pretty steep, and they’re really competitive. But with a little bullying encouragement from my mom, I decided to enter.

Before we go any futher: I am not sponsored by NYC Midnight, or anyone. (Pilot Pens, HMU. I will shill for the Juice Up 04 until the day I die.) I just wanted to share my experience with this contest.

The entry fee $69, the highest I’ve seen for a writing contest. On the flip side, the 1st place for 2026 is $8,500, which I think is also the highest prize amount I’ve ever seen. Two percent of your entry fee goes to charity, and you could choose between Doctors Without Borders, Little Free Library, the Natural Resources Defense Council, Save the Children, and World Central Kitchen.

NYC Midnight doesn’t work like most writing contests. There are multiple rounds, and you can’t submit just anything. You’re given an assignment, which determines your genre. Your assignment also includes an object and a character that has to play a significant role in the story. For the first round, assigned genre was fairytale, my object was “donation,” and my character was a tastemaker.

At first I thought I’d lucked out with the genre. I love fairytales and other forms of traditional literature — folklore, fables, myths, legends, the stories that get passed down from generation to generation. Fairytales also have a rigid structure. It was a good start to the contest for me. However, I wasn’t sure what to do with a “donation” and a “tastemaker.”

I only had a week to figure it out and turn it into a workable story. My first step was mind mapping. Mind maps are really great tools that I’ve used for a lot of things. I really recommend it for creative writers. I did three mind maps: one for the genre, one for the object, and one for the character. After my paper was filled up, I decided which bubble on the map felt right, and started connecting them. Once I had that, I wrote a couple paragraphs outlining the story.

My outline had a beginning, a middle, and an end, and included everything that was required. Even so, I knew it was missing something. I reviewed it with my friend Liz, who is an artist, writer, and fairytale aficionado. She helped me figure out what I was missing: the harsh lesson where the main character learns the error of her ways.

Once I had the plot mostly figured out, it was time to write. I finished a draft, read it over, and re-wrote it. Finished a second draft. I won’t say that I was “happy” with it, but I was satisfied.

However, I started hating the story. Everything about it was wrong, weak, terrible. There was no way this was going to win. It was awful. I had only seven days to complete Round 1, and I was pounding away on this story through lunch breaks and after dinner. It was the worst thing that I’d ever written, and needed to be thrown into a well.

But that’s not really the truth. The truth was that I had written it in a short amount of time, and I had no time to let it rest after drafting it. When I finish writing something, I usually let it rest for 2 -6 weeks before I edit. That way, I can come back to it with fresh eyes and less self-loathing. I didn’t have that luxury with this story. I was spending all my free time with it, writing and re-writing, to make the plot stronger while trimming down the word count. Finally, on the last day, I formatted the story and was ready to submit.

Before I did, though, I double-checked the submission rules to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. And I had missed something big. I’d thought the word limit was 2,500. It was actually 2,000. Oh dear God. I was 100 words over the limit. I’d be disqualified on the spot.

I spent the next two hours poring over every word on the page, analyzing every word to decide which ones could be exorcised. I re-wrote entire passages, then re-wrote those re-writes. Every author deals with a certain amount of writing-related hardship, whether it’s a deadline or an editor. But this was an exercise in creative misery like none I’ve ever experienced before.

When I finally—finally—had my word count down to a little less than 2,000, I submitted my story. I threw out all my notes for it because I couldn’t bear to look at them anymore, took a shot of whisky, and swore I wasn’t going to write for a whole week.

I made it about five days of not writing. And they were FABULOUS.

Round 1 had 5,004 contestants, so it took a long time to judge. I wasn’t competing against 5,000 other people, though. I was only competing against the 30ish people who had the same fairytale assignment as I did. If I made it to the Top 5 in my group, I would move on to Round 2.

I didn’t get the results for Round 1 until early April. I was fine with that. I never wanted to look at this story again.

When April rolled around, I stayed up until midnight to see the results. I told myself to be prepared for disappointment. Since I began submitting stories for publication, I’ve received way, way more rejection letters than acceptances.

But I wasn’t rejected. I had made the cut. Not only that — I had placed first in my group! I was ecstatic. It made every hour spent laboring over this story absolutely worth it. I had written something good. I was a good writer. I won because I was a good writer.

I have been telling stories for as long as I can remember. In fifth grade, I discovered poetry. In seventh grade, I discovered fanfiction. In eighth grade, I started thinking about writing as a career. But every writer (except the worst ones, it seems) is plagued by doubts: is this original? Is this the right word? Is this any good, or am I just fooling myself?

To win first place in such a big contest, even if it was only in round 1, was one of the most validating experiences I’ve ever had as a writer.

And then the Round 2 assignments were given out. Once again, I stayed up until midnight to receive mine. I knew it was unlikely that I’d get that lucky with a genre I was so familiar with again.

And I was right. My genre was thriller.

Here’s the thing about thrillers: I don’t read them.

Okay, I have read a handful, two of which you can read about on this blog. While I know what a thriller should look like, it’s not a genre I know the ins and outs of, like fairytales. I also had to include a breaking point and a card player.

I decided to write a YA story, because that’s what I know well. YA stories have to be fast-paced, but they also leave room for overwrought emotions and characters making questionable decisions. I needed both for my story to work.

I went to mind-mapping again, but it wasn’t as helpful as it was before. I was too worried about the genre, and the very short amount of time I had to plan, write, and edit.1 I figured out the role the card players (yes, there were multiple ones now) would have, and decided that the “breaking point” would be literal. I didn’t make an outline, but started with the opening image, and hoped that the rest would come to me as I wrote.

Almost none of this made it into the final version of the story. The only thing that did was the main character’s name.

But I thought it was a good opener, and that it’s a shame to let it waste away, unread, on a forgotten file somewhere. So here is the original intro scene.

If it’s you versus Newton, Newton always wins. That’s the first lesson I learned in archery. As I release the arrow from my bow, I wonder what Isaac Newton would think of me using my physics test as target practice. My arrow skewers the paper and sinks into the bag with a satisfying thunk. I smile, and nock another arrow.

I shoot five more, each further shredding the test. When Kody and I go to retrieve the arrows, the papers fall apart. “Damn, Amber,” he says, nudging a scrap with his foot. “You really hated that test.”

Kody lives out in the boonies, so it’s not a big deal if there’s litter on the ground, but we pick up the papers anyway. I make sure to snag the piece where my score is still partially intact – a whopping 32% – before he can guess what my final grade was.

“Don’t even get me started.” I move the target a few feet up for him, which he rolls his eyes at. I started taking archery classes when I was ten. I thought it was a beautiful sport, graceful and powerful all at once. Kody doesn’t see it that way. A couple years ago he got an idea in his head that he had to be a bad-ass, and so he started practicing with me. To be honest, his attitude is annoying.

In the final version, there’s no Kody, there’s no failed test, and there’s no archery.

As I wrote, things started to take shape. I decided to tell the story non-linearly, which was either a genius or a terrible idea. But the writing was painful. Remember when I said that Round 1 was one of the most validating experiences I’d had as a writer? Round 2 was the opposite. I was back to questioning every word, hating everything I put on the page, and generally feeling like I was the worst writer ever.

If you decided to do this contest, I have two pieces of advice. Use mind maps, and don’t go it alone. Obviously, you’ll be doing the writing by yourself, but I wouldn’t have been able to complete this story without my friends, my husband, and my sister. While my husband and sister helped by leaving me alone and making sure I ate and slept, two friends in particular helped me reach the finish line.

The first was Audrey, who was brave enough to read the raw, unedited first draft. It was 700 words over the limit with a plot hole you could drive a truck through. But heaven-sent Audrey told me she liked it, and really liked the non-linear timeline. From the depths of my despair, I could see the light. I don’t know if I could have found it in my to continue working on the story without that pep talk.

The other was Chanelle, whom I’ve interviewed about her job as an audio describer here. Chanelle is a certified Cool Person who helped me so much with the “breaking point” – now a broken fencing foil rather than an arrow tip. Her fencing experience was invaluable, and she helped edit one of the most critical scenes in the story.

It was a very long, stressful weekend, especially because I work on Sundays. I decided that if I make it to the final round, I might have to call in sick to work. I gave the story one last editing pass on Saturday night, then submitted it around 10 PM.

Then I had a well-deserved cocktail.

Round 2 was a lot harder. While the shortened time frame and smaller word count were the biggest stressors, my first attempts at writing this story didn’t feel like me. But by the time I submitted the story, I had found my voice. Despite everything, the story still felt like something I – and only I – could have written.

The judging was also going to be harder. Some of this is just odds. The people who went over the word limit, didn’t make the deadline, or strayed too far from their assigned genres would have already been eliminated in Round 1. There would be no easy eliminations in Round 2.

The results for Round 2 wouldn’t come out until June, so I had plenty of time to distract myself with work and other projects.

I got the results on June 3. I placed second in my group.

My first reaction should have been joy and excitement. Instead it was a quiet, “oh shit.” I was already anticipating the two days of writing hell that awaited me, but I had an extra challenge that would make writing over the weekend even harder: preparing to sell my house. My house didn’t need to just be clean for photos. It needed to be look like no one lived there at all. Between the contest and the cleaning and packing, there was a real possibility that I would implode from all the stress.

Which is why I was so grateful that I got a straightforward genre for Round 3: romantic comedy.

I’ve watched plenty of rom-coms, so I know the formula pretty well: meet-cute, fall in love, misunderstanding, big romantic gesture, big damn kiss. Keep it light and cute. The assignments are announced at midnight, so I was pretty tired, but I jotted down some dialogue and even the first joke before I went to bed. When I woke up, the joke still made me laugh, so I knew I was on to something.

I still did my mind maps, but they didn’t feel as needed this time. They did help me figure out what I thought was going to be the main conflict between the couple. As I wrote, that changed, but it gave me some direction during the beginning stages of writing.

The stories for the first two rounds were very stressful for me to write, but working on my rom-com became the most relaxing part of my weekend. My husband, Mom, and I spent the weekend furiously cleaning and packing to get my house on the market by the end of the following week. Writing became my escape from the hard, emotional work. I am very grateful to my mom and my husband for respecting my writing time and giving me the time and space I needed to complete the story. I am also grateful that I got a straight-forward genre.

I sent my first draft to my friend Audrey to look at, asking what she liked and if there were any gaps that she saw. Her feedback was helpful, and though her suggestion only added one sentence to the story, it was an important sentence.

I edited, re-edited, and finally gave the story one last look-over before submitting. It felt good to get it in. But it also felt strange. Unlike my first two entries, I didn’t loathe this story with every fiber of my being. In fact, I…kind of liked it? I didn’t even feel the need to take a break from writing after it was in.

This worried me a little bit. I hated my fairytale when I submitted. I still don’t like my thriller, even though I wrote it months ago. But both of those stories got me through the previous rounds. What if writing a story that I liked meant that I wouldn’t succeed in making it to the final round? I know that sounds silly, but are you ever more superstitious than when you’re in a competition?

The results for round 3 were announced in July, and I’d placed fourth in my group. Not as high as I hoped, but I’d still made it to the final round. This was huge. I had started this competition with over 5,000 other writers, and now, there were only 35 left. Including me. To be totally honest, I didn’t think I would make it this far. Of course I hoped that I would, but that felt like a dream.

The final round is different from the previous three. It’s open genre, which means that you can write whatever genre you want, or even blend them, which was discouraged in previous rounds. Everyone got the same subject and character. This year, it was overindulgence, and an ingrate. It’s also the shortest round: I had 24 hours to write and edit the story, and a word limit of 1,250. This blog post is already 1,000 words over that limit. Things had to be tight.

I stayed up til midnight to see the assignment when it came out, then went to bed already mulling over ideas. I had a concept I liked, set in the real world with a sci-fi slant.

I woke up, decided the character I had thought of the night before wouldn’t be a cop, she’d be a social worker. No, she’d be CPS. Called my mom. No, stick with social worker. I wrote the opening scene. Too long, made editing notes.

Who was the ingrate? I still didn’t know.

My idea did not work. If I had more time, or more words, I think I could have turned it into something. Instead, I had to file that story idea away for another time. I made mind maps again, and discovered the opening line: “I can say no.”

That became the basis of the story. It morphed from what I thought would be a story about addiction to a story of emotional abuse and manipulation. It is one of the most personal and vulnerable fiction pieces I’ve ever written because of my own experiences with emotional abuse.**2 (Don’t worry, I’m fine now!)

I was fortunate to have no distractions. I spent most of the day alone, focusing on my writing. At noon, my sister surprised me by sending a DoorDash order to my house for lunch. I took a lunch break, and shortly after, had the first draft completed. I called my friend Audrey, talked her through the story, and she assured me that it was not hot garbage. She read over my second draft later, gave me a few ideas and some grammatical corrections, and once again reassured me that what I’d written was not shit.3

Despite all this, I felt strangely relaxed throughout the process. Maybe it was because I used the day before to utterly spoil myself, but I think it’s in a large part because I’d reached the finish line. Anything I wrote would place, or it would not place. All I could do was my best, and then it was out of my hands. After making some final changes and running the story through a wordcount checker twice, I submitted it around 10 PM.

Of course I worried that my story was cliché, or that it wasn’t subtle. The next day, I thought of a hundred better story ideas, or at least that’s what it felt like.

Of course I dreamed of winning, but I didn’t think my story had what it took to win. I hoped I would place.

But if I didn’t, that was okay. I was proud of what I’d achieved and that I’d made it to the final round of such a big contest. It felt like I already won.

If you enjoyed this post, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi!

  1. One of my friends suggested to read summaries of Freida McFadden books, and my reflexive response was “Fuck Freida McFadden!” ↩︎
  2. Visit loveisrespect.org to learn more about healthy and unhealthy relationships and find resources and support. ↩︎
  3. At this point, I think I could have a best-selling novel with a 30-city tour and I’d still be calling her before every book signing. And she would assure me every time. Girls, get yourself a friend like this. She is the BEST. ↩︎

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 26: The End

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! Due to a lot of reasons, I wasn’t able to write a story every day this month, and that’s okay. I always like my last flash fic to be some kind of reflection on the month, so here’s this year’s. Now I’m going to take a well-earned nap.

It was agreed on by all: a strange summer.

The poet did her best. Yet her beloved husband was on one side of the river, scouting new territories. She remained on the other, writing and educating youth on their civic duties.

The writing was difficult. Those bursts of passion and creativity that came to her each summer were few and far between. She was alone, and at times struggling, and some days no words came at all.

She learned that she could not take on all the responsibilities of the world by herself. Sometimes she had to rest.

Sometimes there would be no words, and that things would not fall apart because there were no words.

As summer drew to a close, and the poet wished the youth good luck in their futures, she looked North, toward the river.

She had not written as much as she thought she would, but she was satisfied.

She was ready to cross the river.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 25: Valjean Suite

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. 

Many apologies to Victor Hugo.

what have i done sweet Jesus what have i done

One day more.

Jean Valjean was ready.

“I did not live until today,” Marius crooned. “How can I live when we are parted?”

Valjean swooped in between the young couple. “You don’t even know her! You met, like, two songs ago, and now you’re just going to DIE because we’re moving?”

He socked Marius in the nose.

Eponine looked to the sky. “One more day on my own…”

Valjean put his hands on Eponine’s shoulders. “GIRL. He doesn’t love you. You need to move on. You absolutely do NOT need to die on the barricades for this man.”

“You’re one of my dearest friends,” Marius started.

Eponine punched him, saving Valjean the trouble.

Valjean sat Enjolras down. “KEEP YOUR FUCKING POWDER DRY.” He held up a massive fist. “Or the army will be the least of your problems!”

The Thénardiers schemed.

Valjean kicked in a grate to the Paris sewers. “I’m using my considerable wealth to send your kids to London so they don’t die on the barricade.”

He threateningly held up a stale baguette. “But I’ve been wanting to do this for years.”

The bread thrashing would follow the Thénardiers for the rest of their miserable lives.

Somewhere on a bridge in Paris, Inspector Javert looked at the stars.

A revolution in the air. A fugitive running.

Valjean materialized behind Javert. “IT HAS BEEN TWENTY FUCKING YEARS. You could have done so much in that time. Find a nice girl and settle down. Write a novel. Start a hobby. But you didn’t. And this ends now.”

“You know nothing of Javert,” the inspector warned.

“I’m the stronger man by far,” Valjean countered.

They fought.

But not for long.

With a cry of “I’M JEAN FUCKING VALJEAN,” Valjean roundhouse kicked that motherfucker into the Seine.

The audience watched in horror as “One Day More,” one of the most beloved songs from an already beloved musical turned into…this.

Many audience members went to complain.

Their complaints were silenced as Valjean’s actor appeared behind them.

Wielding two baguettes.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 24: Knight and Doc

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Story dedicated to my friend Sam, the inspiration for Patches, and one of my oldest and best friends.

Battlefield clean-up was far from glorious. Lady Rune Lostsabre and the medic she was bound to protect, Patches, were some of the few figures standing among the dead and wounded. Rune had been prepared for gore and destruction — in the past she’d caused plenty of it herself — but you never got used to the smell. Even with the smear of ocimea oil under her nose, the reek of death still stung her nostrils.

Patches primed the scanner. A grid of blue light settled over roughly one quarter of the battlefield that was his to monitor. Rune circled him, eyes sharp, shield raised. Medics weren’t permitted to carry weapons; their protector had only shields. Rune had forgone the standard lightweight energy shields most soldiers preferred. Hers was enhanced, of course — she wasn’t stupid — but she preferred the heft of a real metal shield.

Patches’s scanner chirped, indicating that it was ready to start scanning the area. Gray light filtered over the dead bodies. Blue marked wounded allies and red marked wounded enemies. The light trickled over the area: gray, gray, gray.

Green.

Green meant alive, unhurt, and neither friend nor enemy. The rarest color in clean-up. But it was tucked underneath a pile of gray.

“Careful,” Rune warned the doc. She’d known Patches half her life now. They’d both started in Basic together. He was prone to running headlong into things without thinking of the consequences. Admittedly, Rune was similar, but it was her sworn duty to keep him alive. “Scene isn’t safe.”

“It’s never safe,” Patches said, and moved toward the green mark. Rune matched his stride, but let him roll over the dead body on top of Green.

Greens were usually civilians, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. They usually were panicked or in shock, and grateful to see anyone who wasn’t pointing a weapon at them. Underneath the dead body, Green was alert. “Damn!”

He leaped to his feet. Rune had only a second to assess. Chainmail boots. Bits of armor stolen from both armies. Beads in knotted hair that were actually small explosives, and a push knife in either hand. A war scavenger. Nasty, dangerous business, but a lucrative one.

Green charged toward Patches. He thrust one of the knife points towards Patches’s neck.

Rune intercepted the scavenger in a second. Her heater shield went up, blocking Green’s first blow, then the next. Rune flicked on the dial to burn mode.

Green ran at Patches again. Rune swung her shield, bashing Green in the side of his head. He staggered, his flesh already reddening. Rune tilted the shield back and jabbed its pointed end into Green’s throat.

He fell, stunned and whimpering in pain.

Green’s color marker changed to purple. Wounded non-combatant.

“Thanks for that,” Patches said, shaking his head.

“No worries. You want me to arrest him first, or you wanna fix him up first?”

“Arrest him. Once he’s immobile we can triage the rest.”

Rune set about cuffing the scavenger, and Patches looked over the battlefield. He was duty bound to heal all he could, even the enemy. And Rune was sworn to protect him, with only a shield.

It was an ugly job. A hard one.

Rune finished with the scavenger. “You good?”

Patches sighed. “Not really.”

Rune squeezed his shoulder. “You know, when I was transferred to Med Corps. I was pissed. Then I found out you were the doc I got assigned to. And I thought, ‘Great, the trouble twins are together again.'” Patches smiled at their old nickname from Basic. “But I was glad. ‘Cause I knew you’d have my back.”

“And your blood,” Patches added with a small laugh.

Rune punched him lightly in the shoulder. She may have been a universal human donor — and living blood bag in a pinch — but that didn’t mean she had to like it.

“I was glad too,” Patches said. “Cause I’d knew you’d have my back.”

“Right. Let’s do this.”

Knight and Doc went into the battlefield, fire-forged friends.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 22-23: My name is Jean Valjean

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. I had to take a few days off FFM. It’s been difficult to write this year, but with a little encouragement from the FFM Discord, I found enough inspiration to write two very different Les Mis fanfictions. The first is just a fan theory of mine, and the second  is…well, you’ll see. Remixes of the latter story are highly encouraged.

Painless

Jean Valjean does not feel pain. Not in Toulon, where he slept in chains. Not down in the mud of Montreuil-sur-Mer, lifting a wagon with his back. Not even when he branded himself with a red hot poker.

His strength is that of an oridnary man’s. He simply cannot feel the pain of his deeds.

Until Cosette cries. She is his light, and everything he has done since she came into his life was all for her.

That is a pain that he cannot bear.

And if he must go to the barricades to soothe that pain, so be it.

Jean Valjean Beats Up Everyone

2

“Your time is up and your parole’s begun. You know what that means.” Inspector Javert snarled down at the convict.

Jean Valjean socked him in the mouth with a cross jab.

4


“Let’s not haggle for darling Cosette,” crooned Thénardier.

Valjean swung a mean right hook into Thénaedier’s kidneys.

6

Eponine’s scream rang out. Valjean raced outside and uppercut the nearest would-be-thief.

0

Valjean would have hidden Cosette away from all the ugliness of the world if he could. But now her happiness hung with Marius’s survival. Valjean would see that Marius lived, no matter the cost.

1


For decades Javert and Valjean circled each other, knives drawn. Javert had always known that Valjean was a monster. Valjean had tried for most of his life to believe that he was not. Now, the man who had dogged him his entire life was tied up and fully at Valjean’s mercy.

Valjean was living proof that a man could change. He could rise above the sins of the past. He could do the one thing that Javert could never do.

Jean Valjean could forgive.

He punched Javert in the face.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 21: Well-Wishers

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July.

It’s just gotten really hard to write lately. Too many life changes, too much stress, not enough self-care. It’s like the well’s gone empty.

Metaphorically. Because of the heads. I don’t take them out of the well.

I know it sounds gruesome, but hear me out. First of all, the heads are well-preserved and don’t harm the water quality at all. Second, some of them predict the future. Four of them, actually. One speaks in riddles, one forecasts the weather, one is actually helpful, and one is still mentally stuck in the 700s and can only make predictions up to the year 1500. But it’s the future for him.

The other three provide me with wisdom. Except for the one who only speaks in thought-terminating clichés. But whenever I bring that up she just says, “let people enjoy things.”

I guess there are a couple heads in there that I don’t need, but those are the heads of my enemies. They’ve earned an eternity of humiliation.

Actually, they’ve taught me a few creative swears. So they can stay, too.

Point is, one of the wisdom heads says that I need to take care of myself and not put too much pressure to write a story every day in July. Things are tough right now and it’s okay to relax take breaks when I can.

The thought-terminating cliché head says that “happiness is a choice.” Maybe I should get rid of that one.

My other future head says that horseshoes are going to be a big hit, so look forward to that.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 20: Not Quite A Glow-Up

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. Today’s story is a 369er, 3 separate but related stories, each using only 69 words.

Solar Ivybell’s phone pinged with the news that she’d been waiting to receive for 33 years: Eris’s Comet to Make Earth Fly-By September 8. Solar had been 16 when it last came to Earth, carrying Eridians that had fed on Earthlings’ memories and implanted false ones. Thankfully, Solar had discovered the magical power to hurl them back into space, as long as she had her beloved, equally magical friends.

Angel Moonwater and Lotus Fallenbloom hadn’t talked to Solar in years. Not since Solar had made a drunken maid of honor speech at their wedding, made the day all about her, and used her sacred magic to literally shine on the dance floor. “Do we really need to team up with her?” Lotus groaned. “Eridians are bad, but she’s a sparkly disaster. I’d almost prefer the Eridians invade instead.”

Angel and Lotus found an Eridian scout before the main force arrived. Angel interrupted its declaration of revenge. “We’re not going to hurt you. Instead, we have a request.” The Eridian snapped its pincers, curious. “Can you eat the memories from our wedding and implant a new one? Something happy.” The Eridian obliged. When Solar texted them about the impeding invasion, they happily reunited to kick some alien butt.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 19: Maize Maze

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. More notes at the end of the story.

“We’ll never find it.” Janine and I had been in the corn maze for hours. The sun was getting low and the sky was already turning pink. We’d already found the exit, but had doubled back to the center of the maze when Janine realized she’d left her phone in the center of the maze. “And the place is gonna close soon. Can we please just let someone know and head home? I’m sure someone’ll find it and call you in the morning.”

“On what phone, Hillary?” Janine snapped. Even though her earbuds weren’t connected to anything, Janine still had them in. She’d been listening to music the whole time we were in the maze.

“Give them your mom’s number. Or mine. But it’s getting seriously creepy here.” The corny Halloween decorations—plastic skeletons and scarecrows with pumpkin heads—strewn throughout the maze hadn’t bothered me in the full daylight. But in the setting sun they cast long shadows that kept making me do double-takes. The beautiful October afternoon had turned chilly and windy. I shivered. “Let’s just go.”

“My whole life is on that phone. I’m not leaving without it.”

I knew how she felt. Janine had years of photos saved on it, a ton of apps, not to mention the phone number of everyone who mattered (and a few people who didn’t). She hated to be apart from it. Even in class, when she was forced to put it away, she would put her hand in her pocket every few minutes like she was making sure it was still there.

A gust of wind blew through the stalks. Dry leaves rustled against one another. It sounded like the field whispering.

“Please.” I shivered. “Let’s go. You know this place closes at sunset.” I glanced up at the bruise-colored sky. “Which is about ten minutes from now. We need to find the exit.”

As if on cue, the PA system that had been playing “Monster Mash” shut off. All I could hear was the wind, crickets, and Janine’s angry, “No!” She stomped deeper into the maze.

“Janine, please!” I grabbed the sleeve of her sweater. “We’ve gotta go!”

The sun disappeared below the horizon. A crackly voice on the PA system announced that Barley Farms would be closing in five minutes. That wasn’t enough time to get out.

Somewhere behind a row of corn I heard footsteps. Probably staff.

Maybe staff.

I hoped staff.

“Let go!” Janine tugged her arm out of my grip. She squinted in the dying light. “Where’s your phone? We need a flashlight.”

“I didn’t bring it.”

“You what?” Her voice rose into a squeak.

“Because I wanted to spend time with you for a change! Not you and your stupid phone!”

Janine opened her mouth to yell when a low howling sound floated over the maze. It sounded like a wolf, then turned into a mournful moan. “The hell is that?” Janine grabbed on to my arm.

A distorted man’s voice rolled over us:

And in the death
As the last few corpses lay rotting on the slimy thoroughfare
The shutters lifted an inch in temperance building, high on Poacher’s Hill

Janine’s breath caught. “What is that?”

“I told you we had to leave before dark!” I tugged arm back towards where I thought the exit lay. “Weird shit happens here!”

And red mutant eyes gazed down on Hunger City
No more big wheels
Fleas the size of rats sucked on rats the size of cats

This time Janine didn’t fight me. We jogged down the paths while the man kept speaking.

And ten thousand peoploids split into small tribes
Coveting the highest of the sterile skyscrapers
Like packs of dogs assaulting the glass fronts of Love-Me Avenue

In the dark, we didn’t see the roots sticking out of the ground. Roots that I would swear hadn’t been there when we walked in the maze hours before. Janine face-planted, jaw smashing against the hard ground.

“Are you okay?” I asked. She started to get up, blood falling down her chin.

She screamed. “Oh my God something just touched my ankle! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—”

We ran. I didn’t know where we were going. I could barely see anything but the stalks in front of me.

“I can hear music!” Janine said with panting breaths. “It’s just a song!”

“‘This ain’t rock and roll!'” The man called out. “‘This is genocide!'”

We both screamed.

I don’t know how we found our way out of the maze. By the time we did, we were breathless and clinging to each other. We finally got back to Janine’s car. She locked the door as soon as we got in.

“God.” I ran a shaky hand through my bangs. “The haunted corn maze was actually haunted.”

“M-maybe.” She looked at the holder connected to her air vent where her phone normally sat. “It’s okay. I know how to get home from here.”

I noticed then that she didn’t have her air pods. They must have fallen out during our mad dash for the exit. “Damn. And you lost your earbuds too.”

“Huh?” Janine touched her empty ears. “I guess they’re gone forever.”

That was not the reaction Janine would have had a few hours ago. “You don’t want to go back and look tomorrow?”

She shook her head furiously. “Never again.”

“It’s all junk anyway,” I said.

“Yeah.” Janine started the car. “It’s all junk.”

It’s my favorite challenge: David Bowie Day! Celebrating the 40th anniversary of the movie Labyrinth, which was my introduction to David Bowie.

ELEMENT 1: Your story must take place in a labyrinth. Easy, right? Too easy? Well, since you were all begging for more Bowie…

OPTIONAL ADD-ON ELEMENTS:

♫ UNDERGROUND: Include a reference to the movie Labyrinth in some way, shape or form. I really wanted to have a reference to the worm, but “it’s all junk!” worked better.

♫ DANCE, MAGIC DANCE: Someone in the story must be listening to a song from our David Bowie song randomizer. I got “Future Legend” and “Janine.” “Future Legend” is so spooky~

♫ AS THE WORLD FALLS DOWN: Include something forgotten. Janine forgets her phone in the maze.

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 18: The Queen and the Seal Lord, Pt. 3

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. This is the final part of “The Queen and the Seal Lord” which was really only supposed to be one story but I got carried away. I also know that the description of Raghnall should have come sooner in the story, but between the first story and this one I decided that selkies have dad bod and I needed to include it.

Part 1
Part 2

Raghnall ducked his head under the waves. He was still trapped in human for, his knees weak, stomach roiling. He trembled, but that had nothing to do with the ocean’s chill. His seal coat was moving further inland, carried by someone with intent to do him harm. And he was forced to rely on Queen Gráinne — the same queen that just slapped him for insubordination — to return it.

A small pod of Raghnall’s trusted companions encircled him. Two were in seal form, swimming around him. The third stood on two legs, holding a net and trident and standing alert.

Réalta should have been among them. Her death was too recent to inspire grief in the selkie pod, only anger. If Raghnall survived this, he would see Réalta’s killers flayed.

Raghnall poked his head out from the water and breathed out a sigh. The shaking in his slightly webbed fingers stopped. Gráinne had his seal coat, and she was bringing it to him.

As soon as the queen arrived on the shore, her mount dark with sweat, she ran towards the sea. The selkies let her pass. Wordlessly, Gráinne held the seal coat out to Raghnall.

He donned it quickly, human feet becoming fins once more. He barked once, then dove into the ocean. The pod followed him.

A week later, Gráinne received a request for an audience. “He’s here now, my queen,” the courier said, almost apologetically. Few would be so bold to just assume the queen had the time or inclination to meet with them.

“Is he dressed?” Gráinne asked.

The courier’s pale cheeks turned pink. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Send him in.”

As a seal, Raghnall was svelte and strong; as a man, the extra blubber from his seal form settled on his limbs and torso. His whiskers had become a Van Dyke mustache and beard, which Gráinne felt rather suited him. He wore black trousers that had been patched multiple times, an open-breasted red shirt that popped against his gray skin, and a long, dark coat. At the collar was a with an embossed elk antler, marking him as a privateer.

“Hardly a suitable wardrobe to meet the queen in, but at least you have one this time,” Gráinne remarked. She stood up from her writing desk to greet him.

Raghnall bowed at the waist. “Was that a joke, Your Majesty?”

“They’ve been known to happen,” Gráinne replied once he’d straightened.

“I’m afraid at our last meeting I wasn’t thinking clearly. But I bring you thanks from Réalta’s family for returning her coat to them.” Raghnall reached into his pocket and produced two pink studs, shined to a polish: coral earrings. “They asked me to give you these.”

“Thank you.” Gráinne gingerly took the earrings from his hand. Most selkies owned few things, but loved what they had fiercely. “Please tell her family I will treasure them.” She replaced her carved bone earrings with the coral. “From what I knew of her, Réalta was clever and strong.”

“I couldn’t have asked for a better first mate.” Raghnall cleared his throat to keep tears from his voice. “I’d like to apologize to you as well, Ma’am.”

The notion of Raghnall apologizing for anything was so unexpected, Gráinne had to clap her hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of laughter. “Raghnall. You’ve sunk my ships. Raided my shores. I nearly hanged you once.”

Raghnall rubbed at his throat. “‘Nearly’ is the operative word.”

“And never once did you apologize for piracy. So what did you do that was so egregious to warrant one now?”

Raghnall looked away from her, and Gráinne realized that he was trying to hide his embarrassment. Until now, she wasn’t sure he’d even been capable of that particular emotion. “You retrieved my coat without hesitation, even after I blatantly disrespected you. Once I had it back, I did not even thank you.”

Gráinne shrugged a shoulder. “You’ve disrespected me for years. I wasn’t going to let you die out of spite.”

“Except for all the times you actually did try to kill me.”

“That’s different.” Gráinne actually smiled. Her royal duties kept her on land now, but Gráinne remembered her days fostered at sea as some of the best of her life. “The one time I did manage to arrest you—”

“And nearly hang me,” Raghnall added, unhelpfully.

“I decided to keep you instead.”

The seal lord blinked his inky eyes several times. “What am I supposed make of that?”

Gráinne thought a moment. “That our discussion about Hy-Brasil and your kin crossing the barrier is not finished, I suppose. And that at our next meeting, I expect you clothed.”

by booksoverlookedblog

FFM 17: Trunk Stories

Any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. I do not consent to this work being summarized or fed to generative AI, and anyone who does so is a big dweeb.

July is Flash Fiction Month! I’ll be sharing short short stories here through the month of July. 

It started with a composition notebook, black and white splotches on the cover. Gradually, the lined pages filled up with words. Every time the writer closed its cover, it was hidden away: under the bed, in the pillow case, between the mattress and the box spring. The writer knew those words were fragile.

No, not the words. She was fragile, and those words were pieces of her. Their secrets being seen by anyone would be exposing herself to the world.

Time passed. More composition books were filled up. Stories, songs, poems. They remained hidden.

When it was time to leave home, the writer (though she feared anyone discovering that she was a writer), took them with her. First to a dorm room, then an apartment, then a house. Then another house, where a plastic crate of composition books were put in the attic.

More time passsed. The writer died. Soon, her son and granddaughter were cleaning out the house. The granddaughter found the crate.

“Grandma wrote all these?” The granddaughter’s dark eyes went wide.

“Wow,” the son said. “She told me that she wrote her first novel when she was sixteen. She never let me read it. Said it was terrible.”

The granddaughter put her hand on one of the dusty covers. “Grandma started when she was my age.”

“Mm-hmm.” He considered the crate, his daughter, and his mother. “Do you want to keep them?”

“Yeah!” The granddaughter smiled with tears in her eyes. She found the oldest notebook, its spine broken. Her grandmother’s writing filled the pages, and the granddaughter’s mind.

The son let his daughter alone with the books. They were not for him.

They were for his daughter, holding on to a piece of her grandmother that only she got to see.