Writing Battle Spring Microfiction

I think I’ve blogged about Writing Battle before. It’s a nice competition full of nice people and I enjoy the challenge and the setup. Despite the struggle I have writing 1000 word stories, I tried to do their 500 word microfiction challenge. One of the things I like about WB is that their peer-judged contests always have interesting genres.

This go around, the genres were Small Town Secrets, Apocalyptic Game Show, Housepet Adventures, and Dating App Mishaps.

I got Dating App Mishaps, with the addition of character prompt of Philosopher…and the location prompt of Funeral Home.

I kept the prompts (in WB you can take a chance and swap them out) because I can write humor, and Dating App Mishaps scream funny. I really liked my story…and the feedback I did get in comments on it was great! So many people loved it and said how funny it was.

I didn’t make it to the final showdown. I’m actually really really bummed about it. You have to win at least seven ‘battles’ (your story goes head to head with another from your house and peers read it, give feedback, and choose the winner). I ended up 6-4. It makes me feel like I suck at writing. I know I don’t, but when I lose like this, it shakes my confidence. Even though I literally advanced to round three of the NYCM short story contest a couple of days ago.

Meaning I have to write my round three story this weekend…after losing badly in WB. I have no confidence and the round three will probably suck. Ugh.

Anyway, here’s my losing story.

Great Minds?

“This one’s mine,” a deep voice growled, accompanied by a beefy arm around George’s shoulders and a yank, landing his face into a muscular chest and sending his glasses askew.

“Mmmrph,” was George’s muffled reply.

With a quick movement, Mr. Muscles spun him around, hands grabbing George’s upper arms. The man mountain leaned closer, squinting. “Yep. Just like your picture.”

“Sir, I am at work!” George protested. The widow he had been comforting looked on in horror.

Many people at the funeral were now looking uneasy – clutching pearls, or shuffling feet in uncomfortable shoes. George could see George Sr. getting ruffled. No one interrupted one of George Sr.’s meticulously planned funerals at Hoffman’s Funeral Home.

Without another word, the man dragged him away. Once outside, Mountain paused, looking at George. “Your place or mine?”

“What?” George asked, smoothing out the jacket of his black suit.

An eye-roll. “Simple question.”

“I have to stay here,” George said.

Mountain eyed the place. “A funeral home? Kinky. That’s why I always swipe right on the nerds. They are the biggest closet freaks, but I don’t do exhibitionism or death fantasies. If you want something stiff, I can give that to you in private.”

“Pardon?”

“We can do the horizontal mambo. Or vertical if you prefer. But in private.”

“I don’t dance. I’m assuming you’re my dating app date?” George gave him the once over. Boy, did he luck out! How did a guy like George ever land a hunk of man meat like this? “I thought we were meeting here tonight. After I got off of work.”

Mountain grunted, returning the look, running his gaze up and down slowly. “I can get you off now.” 

The dating app in question was Great Minds, which George assumed was a way to meet intelligent men with which he had things in common. How amazing would it be to sit in a cozy café and discuss history and philosophy, things George majored in at University, with a like-minded soul? 

Arguing Plato and Descartes? Debating whether Thoreau had the right ideas? How Voltaire used humor to decry injustice? Dream come true!

“We could go to a café and discuss Nietzsche,” George said.

“I don’t know her,” Mountain said, frowning. “She a tennis player?”

“A man. A philosopher! Like Kant!”

“Can’t what?”

George stomped his foot, frustrated. 

“It’s why I signed up for Great Minds!” George cried.

“Great Minds?” Mountain asked. “What’s that?”

“The dating app!” George said, holding up his phone displaying the logo.

“That’s not an “M”,” Mountain said, poking the screen.

“It’s not?”

“It is an “H”.”

“Great…Hinds?”

“It’s a hookup app.”

George could see, now, that the stylized “H” looked much like an “M” and felt mortified. He had wondered why he’d been pinged not five minutes after signing up, and by a beefcake of a man. He glanced up at the impatient face staring down at him.

“So, we gonna do this?” Mountain asked.

George sighed, pocketing his phone.

“Your place, I guess.”