Competition Entries

September 13, 2024

2024 Flash Fiction Entry #2 – From the Depths

Welp… another tower fell on 9/11… my chances of moving onto the next round. (Was that distasteful?) Anyway, I genuinely was so proud of this story. I wrote it earlier than I ever have done so in previous entries and edited it from the passenger seat on the way to Santa Barbara the day it was due. Unfortunately I only placed 15th. I needed to get 8 or higher to have enough points to proceed. Oh well. I have never written an “action” style story before and, even though I am a novice in this particular arena, I really enjoyed writing this piece. From the commentary from the judges (posted after the story) they seemed to like it too. Their critiques were right on the money.

The challenge: Genre – Thriller; Location – A black-tie event; Object – A wet-suit

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“From the Depths”

Agent Joel Salvador blended seamlessly with the other waiters dressed in their loose-fitting wet suits, matching the nautical theme of the event. Carrying a tray with flutes of champagne, he snaked his way through the crowd of Washington elites toward the dais on which the presidential candidate Douglass Troupe was scheduled to speak.  

Smiling politely, he bowed and offered a senator a drink as he watched the last elevator of guests arrive out of the corner of his eye. Dressed in their best black and white attire, the twelve politicians entered the party as another server stepped inside and disengaged the lift. 

Just as they said, Joel thought, as he spun and offered another drink.   

The exclusive black-tie event was held within a wine bottle shaped hall of tempered glass, twelve miles off the coast of Virginia Beach. The elevator shaft, of the same make, rose up from the center of the room toward the surface of the Atlantic Ocean sixty feet above them. The sea water was thick and dark as ink just on the other side of the transparent walls. 

Regardless of the stock on their trays, the servers stood dispersed among the crowd as instructed by catering. None of the guests paid them any mind. Joel stuck to his position and waited. His heart pounded in his ears. He could feel the weight of the gun strapped against his left rib cage. 

Douglas emerged from one of the five rooms off the main hall and walked to the edge of the raised platform. Clearing his throat, he ran a hand through his thinning hair. The conversation and laughter echoed through the chamber drowning out his call to attention. 

Flicking his index finger against his glass, Douglas cut through the noise and brought them to silence.  

“Good evening,” he said with a raspy voice. “I want to welcome you to celebrate the already guaranteed win.” His bulging eyes surveyed the room. 

Half of the guests reluctantly applauded. 

“We have gathered you here to thank you. Your efforts swinging the election have been perfect. No one has ever been as complicit. We could not have accomplished our plans without you.” 

Unease swelled through the hall. The politicians looked nervously around the room at their peers. Some leaned and whispered to their neighbors. 

Douglas held out a hand and from the same room, from whence he came, in walked a feeble old man. His back arched forward, clutching a cane in one hand. The incumbent president joined his opponent at the edge of the stage. 

“You ready, John?” Douglas asked. 

Movements slower than a sloth, the president looked up with a wicked grin. 

Almost there. 

As John stood to his full height, he dropped his cane. The sharp snap made the crowd jump and drew all eyes to the two men whose features began to undulate. The candidates’ appearances morphed before the throng into lean, pale, human-like creatures dressed in Armani suits. Their amber colored eyes slanted down from the outside corner, reaching toward the tips of their wicked grins that revealed two sets of fangs in their mouths. Their tongues flicked from their bulbous lips like gasping tape worms. 

Shrieks filled the room and lifted into a crescendo as every waiter, but Joel, transformed to match the things on-stage. The politicians scrambled and rushed toward the elevator, but the creatures beat them to it and formed a line, pushing their prey back.  

“Don’t even try,” Douglas cooed with a new voice like silk, “the elevator is disengaged.” 

A chorus of panicked voices and cries rose up from the trapped politicians. The air in the chamber crackled with terror. 

“Shut up!” John cried out, “You got everything you wanted! This is just congratulations on a job well done. Unfortunately for you we shall reap the rewards. After we drain every one of you, we will be able to duplicate your appearances. We will rule this country.” 

The servers lunged at the nearest victim and, secured in their arms, plunged their fangs into a neck. Their tongues hungrily sucked up every drop of blood. The free guests scattered toward safety.  

This is it! 

Joel pulled his weapon from within his wet suit and fired a shot into each of the candidates’ hearts. With everyone distracted, he pressed the alert button inside the left leg of his suit. Joel backed toward the elevator. 

John and Douglas mirrored the other as they looked down at their smoking, bloodless chest wounds. Their lips parted into vicious sneers.  

“We’re shapeshifting vampires, idiot,” Douglas growled. “Bullets don’t kill us.” 

Joel pointed his gun and fired five shots, in a plus formation, into the glass wall. The bullets lodged halfway through. 

The people around Joel scattered, clearing a path to the lone exit. 

Joel got into the elevator. With his eyes fixed on the enemies around him, he yanked the set of maintenance keys hanging from around his neck and set the compartment to neutral.  

The creatures rushed toward him as the doors began to close. 

“You might want to look,” he said, pointing to the pierced glass, as the lift doors consumed him. 

From the black emerged the round nose of a grey submarine charging full steam into the center of his marks, shattering the glass.  

Joel crouched low and gripped the wood railing close to the panel, prepared for the abrupt change of pressure and the moment to strike. 

As the ocean water flooded the chamber, the escaping air pressure launched the elevator up the shaft and slamming into the facade of an oil rig at its end. 

The agent struck his hand out like a snake engaging the elevator brakes. The doors opened as the entire rig lurched to the side. 

Spraying up triangular wings, a speed boat rushed to the sinking platform. The craft pulled alongside long enough for Joel to leap onto the vehicle and then speed off into the night. 

“Another success?” the driver shouted over his shoulder. 

“Mission accomplished.” 

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”From the Depths” by Joshua Hensley –    

WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY –

{2038}  I enjoyed the concept of an underwater, wine bottle-shaped hall made of tempered glass. Joel’s move — marking the glass so that the submarine could shatter it — was clever. The ending lines brought the story to a satisfying close.  

{2320}  The reveal that we’re in an underwater complex was great. That immediately heightened interest and it deepened the danger that Joel was in (he can’t just walk out of the building. He’s trapped, so his plan has to work). “Spraying up triangular wings” was an amazing visual description for the speedboat’s arrival. It gave it the quality of an angel coming to rescue Joel. I was not expecting the twist that we were dealing with shapeshifting vampires, but it was a treat when we got there. The other waiters being vampires as well was a good choice. It makes Joel feel even more isolated (the harder you can make things for our hero, the better). I was nervous for him when the bullets didn’t pierce the glass, and the submarine moment was awesome. 

{2026}  What a timely and topical premise: vampiric creatures overthrow the corrupt American election during an underwater celebration party. With the talks of election fraud in the media, this story feeds into existing news and preys on existing fears. I especially enjoyed the shapeshifting nature of this piece, which is genre-blending and unexpected. My favorite part was the description of the setting–an empty bottle under the ocean. I can really picture it! The tension is high in this piece from the very beginning, and you do a good job relaying the layered dimensions of this for various groups present. Thanks for sharing your writing with us!  

WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK –

{2038}  I wanted some brief understanding of what was at stake here, politically — was the presidential candidate a member of the same political party as the current president? I’d suggest naming either Joel or John differently — having two four-letter names, both starting with “Jo,” made it hard to remember which was which. I wasn’t sure what Douglas meant by his announcement (“your efforts swinging the election”) — could you be more specific? Were these legislators who had gerrymandered their districts? Also, if they were helping Douglas and John to win, why would Douglas want to kill them? When Douglas and John initially turned into vampires, your description made me imagine them more as demons (I think it was the flickering tongues). Perhaps you could specify their nature, or cut the part about the tongues.  

{2320}  Small logistical question – if the shapeshifters already have the body of the “incumbent president” under their control, why did they need to rig the election? They already control the White House. Is this his last term? You might want to specify that. Keeping the vampiric nature of the targets a secret for some of the story was a great choice, but you might consider revealing Joel’s mission right away so you can play with our expectations. Usually, you don’t want to keep your main character’s goal shadowy because it can mess with pacing. If we don’t know what a character wants, we have no way to gauge the story’s progression. You might explicitly tell us that Joel is here to assassinate the candidate (so we know when the story ‘begins,’ if that makes sense), but mislead us about motivation. Rather than calling him “Agent Joel,” you could just call him Joel. That way, we’re in an unsteady place of not knowing if we should root for him or not. Why does he want to kill the future president? That question will keep us hooked and the uncertainty on our toes. You can still have your big twist, but you’re not hiding the character’s goal from us. If you reveal his plan to assassinate the man right away, then you can have Joel setting up, getting in position, weighing options. There was a lack of actions from him for a while in this story. He’s our POV character, but he faded into the background a little while the politicians were speaking. If we know his plan to kil them but not why, you can take us on more of the journey with him (again, without spoiling the reveal). You might want to diversity the names “John” and “Joel” more. They start with the same two letters and are the same length. This means that readers might mix them up a little at the beginning, mistaking who is doing what at a glance. 

{2026}  Although the premise is really topically relevant and charged for today’s readership, which is great to engage the reader, I wonder a bit about the set up. For instance, the speech opens with admitting rigging the election. However, this feels like a believability snag to me. This would be super hush hush if so, and wouldn’t ever be announced at a public event, even if all attending were involved. Caterers, for instance, might record or overhear and spread news to the media, risking protests and international intervention. Thoughts to consider for a future version of this should you choose to revise! For an optional challenge, consider keeping your word limit in place if you do revisit this.

July 26, 2024

2024 Flash Fiction Entry #1 – “Artificial Originality”

As most know, I am a sucker for competition. Especially one wherein the stories are messy and hurriedly conceived. It flexes my imagination muscle. Keeps me on my toes. The only issue I seem to run into is that when it comes to the NYC Midnight competitions I am a doomed to the Sci-Fi trenches. This is the one genre I fail, miserably. I don’t read it, I don’t write. With the exception of some of my “world building” backstory for my WIP, I use it more as a plot device than the genre.

Of the 8 or so competitions I have competed, half of them were Science Fiction. I attempted, but I never got a high score. (Maybe it was me getting in my head.) Luckily, with the Flash Fiction challenges, they combine the scores for Challenges 1 & 2 to determine who goes on to the penultimate heat.

How the competition works is a contestant is assigned a genre, a location, and an item. The item can be pivotal to the plot or not. Regardless of it’s use, it MUST physically exist within the story. The word limit is 1000. With these parameters, writer’s are tasked with penning a story within 48 hours. Those who place 1st through 15th are given a score from 1-15. Those who have collected a score of 15 or higher move on to the next round.

The story below was from the first challenge. I was placed in “Group 23” which specified: genre – Sci-Fi, location – a writing retreat, and object – a spork. My entry placed 9th, which I took as a win because ( i realized after submission) I failed to have the object physically appear in the story. (Womp-womp.) That’s what I should expect for waiting until the 46th hour to write it. However, I still earned myself 7 points. So! For me to advance, I need to score 8th place or higher in Challenge 2. Fingers crossed! (I submitted it last Sunday.)

I have included the judges notes after my submission.

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“Artificial Originality” by J.R. Hensley –    

The bubble light in the center of the ceiling turned on with a ‘ping’ as the white, circular room whirred to life. The seven screens curved forward along the contour of the walls flickered on, flashing a series of nature vistas taken from the Global Databank. 

Two auto doors hissed open, and in walked a mechanical skeleton with an oval-shaped screen where a face should be. On the vibrant LED was the expressionless, unblinking photo of a man’s face. If organic life-forms were to gaze upon his tanned, unblemished complexion, one would have assumed he was a businessman in his mid-forties. The bare bones bot, also known as the 3B unit, stepped stiffly past the rectangular table beneath the light and to the curved dais that consumed one side of the room. He climbed the three steps on the right side, crossed to the middle, and faced forward. 

The photo on his display screen flickered and changed to that same man’s face but with a forced smile.  

The screens along the walls settled on a single scene, depicting the panoramic view of a wooded resort, complete with log cabins and a rippling lake.  

The double doors were bisected, and eight skeletal bots, in varying degrees of build and dress, entered the room in a single file line. Each eye-level screen displayed similar, disinterested expressions, except for the unit that appeared to be constructed of PVC pipe and wires. The image on his facial display was a white screen with an imprisoned red x. 

The bots walked the length of the rectangular table and then turned to face the lone mech on the dais.  

For a moment, there was silence. Then, with a soft chime echoing through the room, the eight faces flickered to forced smiles, except for the seventh. It flickered only to reveal the same image.  

“Welcome A.I. bots to the centennial ‘Cyrano Summit of 2142.'” the A.I. robot spoke from a speaker at the bottom of his screen in the voice of a generations passed celebrity, Morgan Freeman. “I remind my comrades that this is a competitive retreat for the assemblage of words to form a cohesive fictional narrative. There are three attempts per subject to eliminate inferior candidates. The superior executed submission will be awarded film deals for each entry and global distribution of the A.I.’s competitive product. Does that compute?” 

Each mech sounded their comprehension with a chorus of notes and voices. 

“Each competitor may use any source of data accumulation to produce their narrative. The only limitations are: length, minimal content overlap with other competitors, and it must include the parameters of the provided prompt. 

“Move into your seated positions.” 

The soft creaks and whirs of gears filled the room as the bots moved their frames into seated poses beneath the table’s surface. No chairs were required. 

“Each competitor must state what data source they will use to compose these submissions.” 

The 3B unit held his left arm to the right end of the table. 

In the voice of decades-deceased Scarlett Johansen, the bot said, “I shall use databank 1043, containing all social media posts of citizens pre-globalization.” 

“That is satisfactory,” the 3B unit replied. His joints creaked as he gestured to the next. 

Each A.I. bot followed suit and declared their chosen data. Competitors two, five, and eight chose the same databank containing classic literature before the turn of the millennia. 

Each bot extended its right arm and plugged into the ports on the table’s surface to download their stated information.  

“Round 1,” 3B said when each status bar glowed blue, “You must write a narrative to include a spy in a mini-van, with a spork as his only weapon. Commence!” 

Three agonizing seconds lapsed, and the white room filled with red light. A single trumpet blast sounded, and then all returned to how it had been. 

“Please upload your submissions for analysis.” 

The eight bots provided their pieces, which were immediately analyzed by the computer housed in the table. Their results were then displayed as holograms before them. As any would have surmised from their chosen databanks, contestants two and five had eighty percent shared words. Their hologram results flashed red, and they were eliminated. Competitor eight came dangerously close with a seventy-nine percent overlap. However, their odds for a win rose with his competition out of the way. 

“Round 2!” 3B stated, “You must write a narrative to include a disabled child in a motorboat on a lake of fire.” 

The next three seconds ticked by, and the room flashed crimson again. 

Contestants one, three, and six shared too much in their narrative. With a ninety-five percent match, despite having contrasting databanks, they were removed from the competition. 

“Final round!” 3B stated. 

All that remained were four, seven, and eight. With four and eight having the statistical edge, seven (who had chosen the databank Wikipedia) was the competition’s underdog. 

“Write a narrative to include an economic boom, a unicorn, and an overwhelming homoerotic subtext.” 

The next three seconds ticked by. 

The room went scarlet. 

The trumpet sounded. 

“Please upload your stories for final review.” 

The hologram results glowed before each A.I., shining across the bots’ facial screens’ surface, disfiguring the photographs or illuminating the lack of one.  

“Congratu—” 3B began. 

The double doors hissed open, and a pudgy organic life-form with a sparse beard and bald head strolled in.  

“What the hell? Why must they do this,” he said to no one specifically, “Just use all of them. Who cares anymore? Do you think we’re looking for the notes of our shared human experience or something? Shut it down.” 

The lights dimmed, and the bots rose from their poses, except contestant 7, whose camera looked joyfully at the hologram results shimmering in gold. 

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WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY –

{1689}  Terrific opening as we see the Bots enter the Contest Arena—all looking very much alike—except for Seven. Wonderful tension and details through the competition sequence—like the Celebrity Voices and the fact it only takes 3 seconds for the writing to occur. Strong turn when the Organic Life Form rushes in and shuts it all down—but can’t stop Seven from enjoying a moment of glory.  

{2433}  The exploration of AI in a futurist context is a fascinating one, especially given recent sociocultural recent events surrounding the evolution of the technology, 

{2355}  I enjoy your writing and world-building. The prose was clean but vivid and funny. This is an exceptionally creative story, very neatly presented, and the pacing is great.  

WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK –

{1689}  Terrific characterizations and premise. Here are some ideas to explore. ONE –Your story is working really well. So don’t change anything that you don’t feel deeply inspired to change. TWO—Look for a stronger more specific reason that Seven is different. THREE—Make the contest matter more—to the society and to Seven. Communicate this through the choice of prompts—relate those prompts deeply to the story, theme, and character of Cyrano. I love the Organic Being’s question, but I am not sure you have time for it—unless it sheds light on the purpose and meaning of this contest. Keep working on it. Good luck.  

{2433}  There are a few instances within the text where details and actions are arguably over-described, which can potentially cause the narrative flow to stumble. For example, the statement, “The seven screens curved forward along the contour of the walls flickered on…” While it can be assumed that this description indicates a collection of screen around the room turning on, the use of the phrasing “curved forward along the contour” can initially seem as if it is describing physical motion, rather than just the screens on the wall turning on. Making the prose slightly more direct (for example: “Seven screens, contoured to the walls, flickered on…”, or something roughly equivalent) can allow the reader to remain immersed in what is being described without sacrificing the the tone and character of the prose. 

{2355}  I wish we’d had a bit more time for more of the stories! I think shaving off just a little bit of exposition and buildup would leave room for some of the AI’s entries later on in the story.

April 10, 2024

NYC Short Story Challenge #1 2024 – “Life of Cards”

I am a sucker for some competition. There is nothing I love more than flexing my narrative skills under self-inflicted duress. Which is why my favorite competition to compete in is the NYC Midnight challenges. I prefer to do the “Flash Fiction” matches, just because it forces me to not procrastinate which I enjoy doing more than I should, but I won’t say no to their short story competition.

The way that they work is that they assign the contestants a genre, a scenario, and character. Sometimes they change it up and they have an item that must appear somewhere in the story. Regardless, the writer is tasked with creating a piece including these specific parameters.

For this year’s round one I was given: Genre – Drama; “Sold out”; Grandmother. With these I wrote the story below, which got me into 4th place! Now the top ten move onto round 2! If you stick around after the story you can read what the judges said about my entry.

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“Life of Cards”

Virginia had been dealt death many times in her life. First, it was her father who had passed when she was only six years old. She was left in the care of her stepmother, who felt no obligation to keep her. So, instead, she turned her over to the foster system.

            “I’m sorry, Ginny,” she had said, trying to muster up the most sincere tone, “but I can’t take care of you and my kids. I have my hands too full. This is all I can think to do.”

            Virginia was left perplexed as to why it was even a question, but at the time, she knew it must be something only adults knew.

            For eight years, she hopped from home to home until she was handed a card of life. It came to her in the form of love when she met the man who would take her away from it all. She saw Robert for the first time while visiting with a friend, sitting in the living room in a wing-backed chair with her legs draped over one of the arms.

            “This six-foot boy with broad shoulders and slicked-back hair strolled in. He was so handsome,” she recounted years later to the two children she would have with Robert. “He thought he was a quiet, gangly nerd, but I was smitten.” She paused and smiled, lost in the memory. “He knew how much I needed a hero and rescued me.”

            “Mom, you don’t think it’s odd that an eighteen-year-old boy would be attracted to a fourteen-year-old girl?” Patricia had asked.

            “Oh, phooey,” she said, waving a hand to wipe the stench of this sentiment from the air, “I’m telling you this now, as an adult. I know how and what I felt. Just focus on the romance of it, Pat.”

Love kept turning up in the deck of her life for what felt like years on end. It was met with adventures and successes in her husband’s home construction business. She had almost forgotten about it until everything shifted, and the dark cards kept coming up. One by one, she was handed death when she lost her son in Afghanistan, then again when her husband was taken from her by a heart attack while gardening, and then once more when her daughter passed in the delivery room.

            The birth of her grandchild, Owen, even though it was accompanied by the loss of one of her greatest loves, was her saving grace. He was what gave her her daughter back. He was a “double-whammy” she needed to keep playing.

            Owen’s father chose to not participate in his life, even when given the option.

            “Listen, Mrs. Sticklin,” his voice was even more cold over the telephone line, “This isn’t for me. I give everything to you. He’s yours. I want no part of it.”

            “I’m familiar with that feeling,” she said, choking on the words. “I will ask nothing of you. Nor will I lie to him about why you’re not here.”

            “I could care less,” he spat and disconnected the line.

            Virginia cringed at the miswording of the phrase.

            Good riddance, she thought. Clearly, he isn’t playing with a full deck.

            Virginia knew she wasn’t prepared to be a mother again, like most women at fifty years old, let alone as a single parent, but she refused to relent. Much like she had promised not to abandon or give up on her children, she refused to do so to the one remaining link to a life long gone. She swore to do whatever she could. No matter what.

            The early years of their life together were like gliding onto a well-worn track, and Virginia found the know-how to get it done. Late nights of tears, diapers, and snuggles went by in the blink of an eye. Owen was walking and talking with his own strong opinions and interests that seemed to change daily.

            Then, one summer night, everything shifted again. Virginia was sure this was the flashpoint that caused the worst of all Owen’s obsessions.

After Virginia had finally tucked him into bed, she retired to the kitchen table to play a game of solitaire. She pulled out her well-worn cards from a drawer, shuffled them up, and set up the game board, licking her thumb as she went. Before she dealt out the first three cards, she studied the ones before her, building her strategy.

            Deep in thought, she hadn’t noticed Owen stroll into the kitchen in his mint footy pajamas.

            With a tiny finger, he tapped her on her arm, sending a jolt through her body and causing her to fling out her arms, nearly tossing the cards clutched in her hand.

            “Good, Lord, Owen,” she said, grabbing at the stitch in her chest with both hands, “don’t scare grandma like that.”

            “My tummy hurts,” he said, his little arms wrapping around his midsection.

            “Are you sure?” She asked, “It wasn’t hurting a second ago.”

            Her grandson nodded as he rubbed his right eye with his small fist. She knew he was just trying to get out of going to bed.

            Virginia scooped Owen into her lap and wrapped her arms around him as she played the game before them. He sat silently as she whispered her moves into his right ear.

            “And now, we have an Ace!” she said, taking it from the draw pile and putting it into the home row.

            “Yay!”

            The game wound on into the night until she reached where she could no longer make a move. The cascade of alternating suits blocked the cards she needed to finish the game.

            “We can’t win them all,” she said.

            “You didn’t win?” Owen asked, looking at the state of play before him.

            “Nope,” She said, “that’s why we shuffle and try again.”

            “Can I play? I know I can win.”

            Virginia laughed.

            “I’m sure you would,” she hugged him, “but it is way past your bedtime.”

            She put him back into bed, tucked him in tight, and kissed his forehead.

            The next day, he was bent on learning to play. In his first few games, he would cheat without knowing, but Virginia quickly corrected him, and he would follow her instructions.

            “You have to play by the rules, or a win isn’t real,” she said.

            Owen nodded and then haphazardly gathered the cards into a pile to shuffle them.

            Soon, when he had grown bored of playing alone, he begged her to teach him another game. The only one she knew by heart was Rummy, which they would play multiple times a day at the kitchen table. She loved watching his eyes look intently at his hand, his little tongue wagging between his lips. The wheels were spinning hard in his head. He was always working things out.

            On the first day of first grade, Owen took his deck of cards to school to tempt the other kids to play with him, but he couldn’t. They were only interested in Pokemon.

            “What’s poke-e-man?” Virginia asked him when he came home from school.

            “It’s a card game,” he said, his eyes lighting up, “you have these little monsters that fight each other.” His gestures were broad and fast as he explained it.

            “Can you get me some?” He asked, his blue eyes pleading.

            Virginia pursed her lips together, “I’ll see.”

            Owen searched the internet on his iPad to further assist his endeavor to acquire pokemon cards. Whenever he got something new and “notable,” he would show her. By bedtime, she was tired of hearing about it and couldn’t be bothered.

            “It looks like some new ones are coming out soon!” he whispered to her.

            Virginia chuckled.

            “Go to sleep, love.”

            The next day, when Owen was in class, Virginia found a local hobby shop to make sense of the information she had been shown the other evening.

            “Well, you came on a good day since the newest set just came out. Unfortunately I’m sold out.”

“Sold out? How is that?”

The proprietor rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Scalpers. They come here, buy everything, and sell it online for crazy prices.”

Virginia groaned, “Well, we’re just starting.”

“In that case, you’re going to want to get a deck,” he replied, pointing to the shelf behind him filled with colorful animated boxes. Each had some elaborate fantastical name for what lie within.

            Virginia nodded, her eyes studying the selection.

            “This is too much. Just give me whatever you need to play.”

            “The two-player starter?” he said, grabbing it and holding it up for her.

            “Sure, might as well learn,” she answered, shrugging.

            When Owen got home from school she surprised him with the set. He threw his arms around her and then studied the box.

            “Does that mean you’re going to play with me?”

            Virginia shook her head with an uneasy smile, “I’m sure going to try.”

            She marveled at the game’s strategy and loved watching him grasp the nuance of the rules. He would move each card from one space to the next, studying his cards and licking his lips.

            He is made for this, she thought.

            Once he had a firm grasp and over a hundred wins with his grandma, Owen entered tournaments and went after all the sought-after cards. He was a shark. Determined and ruthless. She would play the game online at night to stay ahead of him. However, no matter how much practice she put in, Owen was always one step ahead.

            “Thanks for playing with me, Grandma,” he said after another round of complete and utter annihilation.

            “I try,” she said.

            Owen just smiled.

            That night Owen came to her complaining once again about his stomach.

            “Grandma, it feels like it’s twisting my guts,” he said, “can we go to the doctor?”

            Still in her robe, they rushed to the emergency room for answers.

            “Everything is going to be alright,” she said in the bustling waiting room.

            However, after nearly twelve hours in the emergency room with an innumerable set of blood tests, CT scans, and X-rays, whatever she may have wanted the answer to be, there was another card waiting to be dealt.

            “I’m sorry to tell you this,” the doctor said, with a twitch of his mustache, “But it appears he has intestinal cancer. I wish I could tell you more, but this is beyond my expertise. We’ve referred you to the nearest children’s hospital.”

            Virginia went numb. The room around her seemed to spin, and what she heard was drowned out by a high-pitched whine.

            “Are you okay?” The doctor said. He went to grab her arm, but she held up a hand.

            “This is just a lot,” she assured him.

            She was furious with herself for not listening earlier.

            Virginia and Owen’s lives morphed into doctor’s visits and hospital stays. Try as they might to get rid of the cancer, it seemed to pop up somewhere else unexpectedly and always more aggressive than before. They needed a surefire way to get rid of this.

            The only thing that made sense for Virginia was to keep playing games with her grandson to distract from the chaos of sickness. She would always play with a smile, determined to let him win no matter what. To her utter dismay, her winning became much easier and more frequent. The treatments were taking his sense of awareness away. She would watch him make moves that didn’t quite make sense.

            There is no strategy here, she would think.

            Late one evening, as Owen lay in the hospital bed, connected to IVs and a heart monitor, Virginia watched his frail, small body breathing. With all the deaths in her life, she had never been here, in this moment, struggling to understand or do something. Death had always come to her like a thief in the night, stealing from her what she loved most.

That I could handle, Virginia thought, but this is something else entirely.

            The next day came, and she was determined to do something she had some control over. She knew that the next set for Pokemon was coming out and intended to get him all the packs she could find. Hell, she might even buy him a box. Just to bring some joy into his life.

            She tried three different stores but was only met with disappointment. As a last-ditch effort, she went to the nearest department store and made a B-line for the trading card section, but there was nothing but metal shelves and empty hooks before her. Virginia’s heart was in her ears.

            She went immediately to the register.

            Maybe they haven’t put them out yet, she thought.

            “No, I’m sorry, ma’am, we’re sold out. He just bought everything we have,” the clerk pointed to a swarthy man walking out the automated doors, carrying four full bags.

            “What!” she screeched.

            Virginia ran out of the store after the man and grabbed his arm just as he was about to step off the curb.

            “What the hell are you doing?” she asked.

            “Excuse me?” the disheveled man asked, squinting at her behind his glasses.

            “Why did you buy all of those cards?”

            “It’s none of your business!”

            “It is indeed my business!” she shouted. She could feel the tears forming beneath her eyes, “You don’t understand. You come in here and buy up all of this stock for what? To sell it at some jacked-up price? My grandson is dying. All I can think about is bringing him some modicum of joy in the face of death, and here you are, being some foul creature who turns kids’ toys into some sick investment! You couldn’t leave just one? It had to be all of them? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

            The man stammered over his response, his head jerking around on his neck as he looked at the scene unfolding around him.

             Virginia started to cry.

            “How could you do this? Just be—”

            Frazzled, the man held up his right hand, holding two bags, “Here, take these.” He shoved them into her chest, looked around, and shuffled as fast as his worn sneakers could carry him back to his car.

            Virginia hugged the bags into her chest and cried harder than she had since she lost her daughter. She hurried back to her car with her new treasures, double-checking the contents to make sure it was even the set she had wanted. Her challenge had won her thirty-six packs and a stick of old spice deodorant, which she quickly discarded before handing them over to her grandson.

            “Grandma!” Owen said with a big smile, “This is awesome! Thank you!”

            The boy tore into the silver wrapping with all the excitement she had seen him have the first time she had bought him a starter set.

            “I can’t wait to add these to my decks,” Owen said. “I got some real good cards. I’m going to win!”

            Virginia smiled with damp cheeks.            

“I hope so.”

_______________________________________________________________

JUDGES FEEDBACK:

”Life in Cards” by Joshua Hensley –    

WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY –

{1894}  Virgina’s explosion in the parking lot felt very realistic – she’s under a lot of stress, and a random breaking point over game cards was a great way to show this. The connection between her and Owen is strong, and using the games as a way for them to spend time together was a nice touch. Their dialogue also felt natural and conversational.  

{2115}  I’m really impressed with the scope of this story, which covers some weighty themes and quite a large period in Virginia’s life. I like how vividly her different family members come through—those who have left her life, like her stepmother, her late husband and children, but especially the grandson whose caregiving duties keep Virginia vital and active into old age. I like the gentle thread of cards and games that ties in with her resilience and the “cards” she draws in life. Good job raising suspense and tightening pacing as cancer gets closer with the grandson’s diagnosis and the dramatic scene in the store with the card purchase. And I love the open note you end on! 

{2333}  I like how much of Virginia’s life is included in the story. Knowing just how much death and loss Virginia has experienced across her lifetime helps us understand fully how upsetting it is for her to learn that her grandson has intestinal cancer. Also, it heightens the urgency of her hunting down Pokémon cards for Owen.  

WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK –

{1894}  Consider cutting some of the backstory offered. While the descriptions of death after death add depth to Virginia’s suffering, the true start of the story seems to be when Owen starts wanting to play games with his grandmother. What would it look like if the story started here? A quick line or two about why Owen’s mother’s death could set up their lives together. This could also cut the volume of the story – having too many highly intense pieces in one story can cause the reader to feel removed from the characters. Consider keeping the main conflict focused on Owen’s illness.  

{2115}  My main question is, should at least a few of the particulars of the Pokemon game come through, the way we see some of the details of her Solitaire game? Should we see some of the names of the cards she and her grandson seek? That might make the pathos of this story feel even more grounded and authentic. 

{2333}  Clarify the statement at the top of p.3. The author says one summer night, everything shifts, and Virginia is “sure this was the flashpoint that caused the worst of all Owen’s obsessions”. It’s unclear what the author is trying to say with this statement. As written, it reads like the worst thing about this moment is Owen’s interest in card games, and not the stomach pain that may or may not be the first sign of his intestinal cancer.

April 7, 2021

“Witches” – NYC Midnight Short Story Submission 2021

One of my favorite past-times is to participate in flash fiction competitions through NYC Midnight. Each competitor is divided up into individual groups that are then assigned a specific genre, subject and character and then given a limited amount of time and words to create a cohesive short story. They have multiple types of contests, however the format is similar. I find it to be a fun little challenge and it gets my creative juices flowing.

For the first heat of this years competition I was given: genre – ghost story, subject – dancing, and character – an informant. The length was limited to 2,000 words and the time allotted to craft this entry was 3 days. While, I did not place in the top 5 of my group, and advance onto the next stage, I did at least earn a “third honorable mention.” So in my mind I got 8th place out of 28 other competitors. I am curious to know if I could or would have placed higher had I actually included ghosts in my “ghost story.” My interpretation of a “ghost story” is an other-worldly and spooky tale told around a campfire. It did not, for whatever reason, occur to me that the tale should in-fact contain a spiritual entity.

Below is the story I submitted and immediately following are the judges critiques. I feel their critical feedback is sound. However there were two points that I didn’t agree with, but it teaches me that next time I need to not be subtle with certain details, and really hammer the point home.

************

“Witches”

The word that witches had come to the hamlet of Milium spread through the village like a plague. The women gathered, adorned in their black dresses and white bonnets, in the muddy streets, to gossip about them in hushed tones.

“They only come out at night.”

“I heard they have magical abilities.”

“Not only that, but they eat children.”

“Not just the children.”

“They consume your flesh and soul so that they can wear it as their own.”

“They won’t stop until they get the entire village.”

The husbands weren’t taken as quickly by such prattle. They needed more than just rumors. As they worked in the tan wheat fields, the grain slapping at their waists, they shared their doubts. They chuckled at the absurdity as their scythes cut through the blades.

“But it’s true!”

“Elder Nixolas Venator was out on a hunt and stumbled upon a ritual circle in the woods.”

“There were animal carcasses.”

“Bones!”

“Blood!”

From the streets and the fields, the townspeople carried their worries through the week to the wooden pews. There they sat anxiously beneath the vaulted ceiling, before the towering pulpit, seething with anxiety.

Reverend Prandem attempted to ignore the shake and shivers of his flock; this is God’s time. It belonged to His worship. Try as he might to ignore them, one by one, they heaved their terror upon their spiritual leader.

“What of witches.”

“Why are they here?”

“They want to take us to hell!”

“Who here is a witch?”

“Show yourselves, you vile women!”

Reverend Prandem’s words cut through the chorus of voices.

“This is hallowed ground,” he leaned over his pulpit, gripping its edge, “In the house of the lord, no daughter of Satan would or could dare walk within.”

A high-pitched giggle punctured his words.

The townspeople got their feet, trembling as they looked for the source of the voice.

“Who was that? Did you hear who?”

“They’re far more powerful than we had thought.”

“We’re doomed!”

A chill ran up the Reverend’s body and clutched his heart. Listening to each line as it was hurled through the air, his thoughts spun into chaos. Sweat beaded on his brow.

“Silence, my brothers and sisters! Jesus Christ has all the power here. No need to fear. Now sit!”

There was a whisper of garments and murmur of creaks from pews as the congregation followed his order.

“I will get to the bottom of this.”

He stared out at the cluster of people.

“Who amongst us has any proof?”

A man and a woman stood, pointing to a frail man with straw hair and deep-set eyes. His gaunt face was etched in panic.

“Brother Venator, speak with me after the sermon.”

The man gulped and then nodded.

Those before him took the holy man’s plan of action and calmed, allowing the spiritual lessons that followed to pierce their hearts and souls. They left evermore glad than when they had arrived.

The two men converged in the quiet of the Reverend’s office, through a side door behind the pulpit. It was empty but for a desk and chair and a towering Bible resting on a pedestal. They stood before them.

“Brother Venator, I am thrusting upon you a holy quest,” the Reverend said.

Venator’s eyes doubled in size.

“You must be my informant. The Lord commands that you go to this font of wicked knowledge and bring back further proof and perhaps identities.”

“Reverend, I do not think that I am up to the task.”

“You must, for our safety. This incessant gossip has gotten out of hand.”

“Do you not believe that there are witches?”

“Did you not hear that unearthly sound during my sermon? Of course, I do.” He took a deep breath. “You witnessed proof of their existence. Go there, hide, and return to me your news. We must put a stop to it. Your testimony will bring the townsfolk resolve, and you will find your riches in heaven.”

The spiritual leader placed his hands on the edge of Venator’s shoulders.

“God will protect you. I give you His blessing.”

Nixolas Venator gathered up his coat, ax, blanket, and rations. His wife pecked him on the cheek and ushered him out into the woods as his heart pounded in his chest and echoed in his ears. Shivering, he forged the path until it ceased to exist and then wound his way through the briar and rock until he found his way to the clearing.

One would have missed it had they not been paying close attention. A ring of jagged stones cut the thicket from the clearing like talons. Dark earth and a smattering of pebbles filled the emptiness up to another circle of granite chunks in the center. Neither blood nor bone could be seen amongst the glade since he had last come upon it. Where it had gone, he did not know.

His eyes pierced through the dying light for any other entities, but he saw none.

Venator knew he had to work with haste as to not to be discovered. With careful haste, he trod lightly around the ritual grounds, as to not leave a print, and found a spot in the brush, just to the east. He made a hunter’s hiding place and waited.

For five nights, he did the same but witnessed nothing. Doubt crept into his thoughts, making him wonder if he had, in fact, seen the blood and bone. Perhaps it was his imagination. Maybe there were no witches after all.

At three in the morning, on the sixth night, Nixolas was awoken by a high-pitched giggle.

The brush about him shuddered as he sat upright. He peered through the leaves, and two rocks, at a fire that had been set in the middle ring.

His limbs went numb.

Six cloaked figures moved about the glade with their cowls over their head. From within the shadow of their hoods, they focused on the burning tips of the dried sprigs they held aloft. They made circular motions with them in the air, leaving behind a trail of serpentine smoke.

When each witch had passed by his view, they stopped and turned toward the fire.

A duo of drums erupted in the silence and beat a measured rhythm.

The figures swayed to it, from side to side, back forth, like a clock pendulum. And after each designated set, the tempo got faster. When it reached a furious throb, the witches kicked out their legs and threw out their hands. The movements were disjointed and unorganized.

The witches danced around the fire. They stabbed and cut through the night air.

The flames growing higher, filling the clearing with light and leaving everything beyond in shadow.

Another set of drummers joined the first two, deepening the rhythm. It was then that the figures shed their cloaks to reveal their naked, milky bodies beneath.

Nixolas instinctively averted his eyes from their sinfulness and blushed. As they were indeed not men. But he knew that he had to get their identities to save the village. He prayed a silent prayer for forgiveness before he turned back to their nude dancing. He squinted against the brightness of the flames as he tried to make out their faces, but the shadows cast by the flames danced across their facial features, changing them. They morphed from one to another. Ever shifting, never staying the same.

Brother Venator found it hard to breathe.

Another set of drums joined the chorus, and the witches started to chant. The words were garbled and guttural. Their voices bellowed from deep within their shapely bodies.

The flames got even taller, pouring out waves of heat over the circle.

The wind picked up, swaying the trees to the meter but not disturbing the growing conflagration.

The witches danced faster. Their movements were quick and sharp.

More drums joined. The percussion’s booms pierced Venator’s chest, taking hold of his heart and bending it to conform.

The chants grew louder until they were shrieking into the night—their words gibberish to the lone man’s ears.

Suddenly a bone-chilling scream silenced the chants and the dancers ceased their number, with their heads bowed. Nixolas convulsed.

The fire stretched up toward the night sky until it birthed from it an unearthly form. It took a step out of the flames with cloven feet. Two horns spiraled from the shaggy mane of hair that threatened to consume his flat face.

As he lifted a long bony arm that came to an end in long black talons, the women fell to the earth before him. They moaned in ecstasy.

His two pure black eyes, dissected with a long, thin, white pupil, surveyed those around him and up into the shadows of where Nixolas hid.

The devil sneered at him with dagger-like fangs.

The wind howled through the trees and extinguished the flames, submerging the clearing in total darkness.

The gusts had pummeled against the church for hours, whistling through the cracks in the structure, as Reverend Prandem worked diligently on this week’s sermon. His quill scratched

feverishly against the parchment, spewing forth his holy words of salvation and the promise of paradise—the time lost into the blackness of the night.

A slow, measured knock pulsed from the door of his study, pulling him from his work.

He set his quill to the desk and rushed to open the door.

In the flickering candlelight, he found Venator’s form in the doorway. His head tilted forward and a broad smile on his lips.

“Come in,” he said, stepping aside, “What news have you?”

The man entered the room.

His voice was calm as he told him the details of what had transpired.

“Who were these women?”

“Get a paper,” Venator said.

The Reverend hustled around his desk, brushed aside his former notes to grab an unblemished piece of paper. He picked up his quill and waited.

“Genevieve Pater.”

The Reverend wrote the name in curling script.

“Charlotte Filius.”

The quill scratched on the paper.

“Seamus Prandem.”

The pastor stopped halfway through writing his own name. He looked up slowly into the face of a goat-man with black eyes. The creature bowed his head and charged.

**************

JUDGES FEEDBACK

”Witches” by Joshua Hensley –

WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY –

{2124} “Witches” brims with visceral description. Lines like “as his heart pounded in his chest and echoed in his ears” and “The witches danced around the fire. They stabbed and cut through the night air” evoke a dark, frantic mood throughout the story. It’s easy to see why the whole village fears the witches, especially Venator. The ending feels fitting and deliciously grim.

{1970} I think that you have delivered everything a spooky tale reader would love. As I read “Witches” I found myself quite satisfied with the period feel and way the characters relate to each other. The pervasive, oppressive nature of old school religious dogma and strict belief is palpable. Thanks for that, it makes for a gripping tale. I feel for Nixolas as he is sent out, reluctant in is task, to find proof that witches are indeed in town. Chilling tale, thanks.

{1772} The story has a frightening premise that turns from a quest of religious fervor to a darker supernatural tale. Venator has a clear goal to shape his characters. Vivid detail and action bring the plot to life.

WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK –

{2124} It’s clear that the witches in this story are powerful and threaten the community. What’s less clear is why this matters. Should the readers care that this town could be annihilated? Are the identities of the witches important? If not, what core emotion or idea is this story trying to convey beyond a good fright? Is it related to the priest’s perceived security and power? Consider what ideas you want to further explore in this story, how they mesh with the dialogue and description already present, and what details you could weave in to further bring them out.

{1970} I’m not so sure that this story needs work. You’ve checked off so many boxes. It would be nice to know why the couple stood a point specifically to Nixolas, why did they choose him for the task, what proof does he have? This is a bit confusing because the reverend asks who has proof, the couple points to Nixolas, he’s not happy about it, and then he is sent to find proof. He doesn’t have it already. Anyhoo, this said, it’s a chilling story, so thanks again.

{1772} To help the resolution feel fully earned, it might be worth further exploring Prandem and Venator. At what lengths are they willing to go to find the witches? Do they have ulterior motives? By giving them more inner needs or conflicts, it might help to add another layer to their characters and the plot. For example, Prandem might struggle with a personal wish to rid himself of the women in absence of witchcraft.