On Tuesday morning, Bella, our summer intern wrangler, asked what I was doing on September 14. 

“Nothing. Why?”

“I’m going to enter you in a storytelling contest at Changing Hands Bookstore, and we’re all going to go together to cheer you on.”

“Oh, OK. That sounds good. Will there be drinks involved?”

Unbeknownst to dear Bella, I’d been toying with the idea of entering a story slam for a while: Over the past year, I’d written stories for the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction and Short Story competitions (1, 2, 3, 4, 5). My friend Cynde had suggested I do a TED Talk for the Chandler Public Library, but I didn’t feel that was the right fit. After listening to yet another Moth broadcast on NPR, I said, “I can do that,” and disclosed my secret dream to my friend Penny.

“I think this year, I want to enter a story slam.”

This was my favorite entry of all the NYC Midnight short stories I wrote, in part because Pat came up with the twist on road rage and it made for a fun, funny story. Enjoy.

Genre: Thriller
Character: Neuroscientist
Random Element: Road Rage
Word Limit: 2,000 words / 48 hours

Roadie

A river of cool air cascaded down the bathroom mirror, as Dr. Laura Porter feathered mascara above her icy blue eyes. Tousled blonde waves brushed across her bare shoulders.

Heat Advisory flashed on the display, prompting the blackout shades to draw against the white-hot sun. The frosted glass garage door rose, and her Volta Roadster 8 — “Roadie” — pinged its digital ignition.

The rich Corinthian leather scorched her thighs: Laura jumped from the car, pulling the linen dress from her red skin.

“For Chrissakes, Roadie!” The candy-apple coupe roasted as if it’d been abandoned in a Phoenix parking lot and not ensconced in a climate-controlled cocoon. “Do you want me to have a hot flash?”

Forty-five degrees requires interior climate adjustments for your comfort, Dr. Porter.

“It’s forty-five Centigrade, Roadie.”

Adjusting.

Cold air blasted from every vent. Within three seconds, Dr. Porter’s comfort had been restored and a hot flash averted.

“Alright, let’s go then.” Continue reading Roadie — NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge, April 2018 →

After I washed out in the semifinals of the Flash Fiction contest, I entered the NYC Midnight Short Story Contest. The format was just a shade different: Each round had different story lengths and deadlines, but the same types of wacky prompts. I finished in fourth place in my heat for this round to advance to the second round.

Here was my first entry:
2,500 words / 8 days to write (a luxury – both in words and time)
Character: Executive Chef
Subject: Cryptocurrency
Genre: Comedy (woo-hoo!)

Instagold

Synopsis: The Queen of Social Media Food Crytics^TM pays a visit to the renowned Satullo restaurant, and #FlambeFlimFlam erupts, cratering the Instagold markets.

Continue reading Instagold – NYC Midnight Short Story Contest, 2018 (Feb 2018) →

I made it to the third round / semifinals of the 2017 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest where I got to write my first thriller ever. Again, this is a genre I never would have attempted otherwise, but since my choices were 1) Attempt to write a thriller or 2) Surrender and quit the contest, I present to you my first ever thriller (1,000 words, 48 hours to complete). PS – The entry deadline for the 2018 contest is July 12.

GENRE: Thriller
LOCATION: Radio Tower (Luckily, or unluckily, I worked at a radio station for 13 years)
RANDOM OBJECT: Ice Skates

TOWER SEVEN

The supercell drove golfball-sized hail into the windshields and rooftops of Idaho Falls. The first in a parade of storms tore a bright red gash of destruction across the radar.

The bleating phone shook Chris Balak from bed.

“First responder communications are down. Half the town’s without power,” Chief Kent barked. “How fast can you get to Tower Seven?”

“On my way.”

Continue reading Tower Seven – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest, Round 3 (11/2017) →

Here’s my second round entry into the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest last year. Again, the rules are 1,000 words, 48 hours to write an original work of fiction based on prompts for GENRE, SETTING and RANDOM OBJECT.

GENRE: Mystery (which I’d never written before)
SETTING: Physical rehabilitation facility
RANDOM OBJECT: Fried chicken (What is it with me and food?)

MR. BELARDI

“Mr. Belardi, wake up. It’s time for lunch.”

A yawn stretched across the patient’s scratchy patch of white stubble.

“Anna?”

“No, it’s Letty. Brought your favorite — fried chicken.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Letty, the day shift nurse. Same as this morning. Same as yesterday. Let’s get you upright so you can eat. Kevin’s gonna work on your core today.”

Letty freed his left hand from the Velcro restraint and repositioned the bulky sling protecting his right arm. As the bed cranked into its upright and locked position, she pushed the tray table across his lap.

“Where’s Anna?”

“Not here.” The forty-something black woman busied herself with the triptych of charts and monitors behind his head.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” He flicked the plastic spoon with his good thumb.

“Use it for the mashed potatoes. You can eat the drumstick with your hand.”

The purple starburst of bruise that surrounded his right eye contorted into an angry scowl. He stabbed the spoon into the sodden white blob.

“Can I at least have a goddam fork and knife?”

“Not after what you tried with Ben last night.” The nurse had a good thirty pounds on him — none of it fat. She wasn’t afraid of a scrawny, ex-mechanic with a broken wing. “You watch that language around me, sir.”

Continue reading Mr. Belardi – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest, Round 2 (10/2017) →