Writing Battle – The Time Agent

I’ve posted before about Writing Battle – with my stories that I submit. I’m actually behind a couple of them and need to get those up. But I had to jump ahead and put this one – the Tempest Owl 1000 word Pro-judged contest – up right away.

Why? Because…I won.

Writing Battle begins by writing your story according to your prompts and then submitting it. Once all are submitted, contestants are shuffled into ‘houses’ of the same genre where we battle our housemates. I think there were 39 in mine? For eight rounds, we go head to head and the judge chooses the story they like best and that gets a point.

On Friday results came out and I found I had won six battles and lost one (one was a bye). Six wins gets you out of your house to the Final Showdown. The Final Showdown is set up like a bracket tournament for each genre. Starting with 64 (though I did see a 128 once), you go head to head again with another story…one loss and you’re out.

I’ve made Final Showdown a couple of times. Once I got to the start (the 64) and lost. The second time I started at 128 and got to the 32. Never gone further than that.

I was excited to get into the showdown again. I liked this story, despite it being a slight departure from what I usually write. Matt and Luca both approved it as well…so I had hope it would do well, and to be honest I was happy to be in the showdown, but didn’t think it would go too far.

And, to be honest, I forgot the results of the showdown came out on Sunday. Starting at 1:45pm, the first round of the tournament is available. And subsequent round results come out every 15 minutes until 3pm when the finalist in each genre is announced.

We were at dinner after shopping for the afternoon. I was enjoying my bread service and waiting for the main course when I remembered about the result. It was just before 2:45pm. I grabbed my phone, telling Matt that I had to check the results, expecting maybe one win, but not much further. I navigated to the bracket and saw…I won the 64…won the 32…won the 16…won the 8…and was in the semi-finals.

Holy shit!

I only had to wait a couple of minutes to refresh and saw I was a finalist. My story against the other finalist. I restrained myself from quickly reading their story (it was available to read) and proceeded to freak out for 15 minutes. My pasta was set in front of me, but I was too excited to eat much (which sucked because it was GOOD!). It took forever for those 15 minutes to pass. I knew I’d either be first or second place. I was honestly happy with either.

At 3pm on the dot, I refreshed and saw that I won. I was in shock. Not that I didn’t think the story was good, but I was up against serious competition! I’d read through some of the stories in my house and they were amazing.

This was my first time winning a competition for my writing, and I feel incredibly humbled…and, I will admit, proud.

Prompts were:
Genre: Time Travel
Character: Divine Ruler
Object: Switchblade

Enjoy my winning story!

The Time Agent

“What is that?”

With a quick press of the button, the blade slid home. The question, asked in the high-pitched voice of a child, made me curse.  

“No worry about.” The words came out rusty. I wasn’t as familiar with this language as others.  

“I haven’t ever seen anything like that.” Although young, the child was well-spoken. Should have expected that among the pompous elite.

”I imagine no.” I hid the hilt in my palm, half-tucking it into the large sleeve of my dress. There were advantages to the clothing of this time period. Too much fabric helped conceal things that were best left hidden. The corsets did wonders for my figure.

”You talk funny,” the child said, and I finally got a good look at him, peeking around the huge volume of silk that made up my skirt. He was dressed as the child of nobility should be, all frills and brocade. I was never good at guessing ages, but I’d hazard about ten or so. Old enough to make appearances at fancy parties.  

“No from here,” I said, which made him giggle.

He was a lovely child, all rosy-cheeked and blond ringlets. “Where are you from?”

”Far,” I answered shortly, though I gave him a smile. He reminded me of my younger brother. I had one once, but had no idea where or when he was. Everything in my past was fuzzy. My mind had slowly scrambled itself with all the jumping, a hazard of the job. I couldn’t remember which time period I was born in.

Those rosy cheeks dimpled, and he gripped my skirts, likely staining them with the sorts of things children always had on their hands. I didn’t care. They weren’t, technically, my skirts; I had borrowed the outfit a few jumps ago, as if I knew I’d be back to this century. I must have been a few decades ahead or behind fashion, though, as I didn’t quite match the other ladies.

I should have kept the knife hidden, though. I knew daggers were prevalent, but I didn’t think the switchblade had been invented yet. We’d all done it a few times here and there, though we were careful during our jumps. The Time Master forbade us from changing anything other than our target.

It was grim work, but necessary. Our deity, the Time Master, wove the threads of reality into the tapestry that we know – a consistent timeline that we travel upon. Occasionally, rifts would occur, so that was our job as Time Agents. We trim the wick, so to speak. She gives us a target, and we take care of it. Once done, the timeline smoothes out until the next aberration appears.  

It wasn’t easy work. The butterfly effect is real. When changing the timeline, we must be careful not to change anything else. One inconsequential thing could set off a string of consequences that would take years to correct. I don’t even want to think of my first week on the job after training. I’m surprised the Time Master kept me on.

I couldn’t stop gazing at the child, and he, in turn, seemed fascinated with me. “Would like see?” I asked, letting the hilt peek out between my fingers.  

I knew I shouldn’t have shown him, but he was young, and who knew? It may lead him to invent the blade mechanism in the future. Time loops made my head hurt.

His curls bounced around his head with his enthusiastic nod, so I fished it out. “No tell anyone,” I cautioned, turning enough to shield the demonstration from the view of the other party attendees. I needn’t have worried. They were getting drunk on wine and rich food. “No touch.”

”I will not,” he assured me, going so far as to place his hands behind his back. I pressed the button and the blade popped out with a satisfying snick. He jumped, then laughed. “Do it again!” he demanded.

I did a few times, delighting in his innocence and joy in such a simple thing. Little did he know the pruning I had done with this very knife. I guess what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, right?

“What name you?” I asked, clumsily remembering the words.

”Armand,” he said. “What is yours, lady?”

”Lucy.”

”Like Lucille?”

”Maybe.” Before I could say more, the device on my wrist vibrated. I had disguised it as a gold bracelet, which fit most time periods. The screen displayed messages from the Time Master. She would send us to the time period, then send the pruning file once we were in place. I felt my pace quicken as it always did when a time snip was close. “Excuse, please,” I said, reaching my free hand to pull at one of Armand’s ringlets before I straightened up. 

I smiled again at the boy before looking at the message. I felt my heart sink.

”Armand deCourcey, age 11, future earl, bloodthirsty and sadistic, must be stopped at all costs, high danger, snip immediately.”

Sometimes this job royally sucked. I closed my eyes, pressing my lips together. It was so difficult to picture this angelic boy would grow up to be a monster.  

Or rather, wouldn’t.

”Lady Lucy? Are you alright?” the little angel asked with concern in his voice. I opened my eyes to look down at him, his brow wrinkled and lips drawn down in a frown.

”Yes,” I answered, then smiled. “Take walk? Show me garden?”

His little face brightened. “I would love to, Lady!”

Writing Battle: Summer Nanofiction

I need to catch up on posting a few contest entries. I’ve been writing contest crazy this year! Adding those to the writing commitments I’ve had for FanFiction has made this a busy year.

Writing Battle had a Summer Nanofiction challenge – 250 words. I was surprised at the success I had with the Microfiction 500 word challenge. I thought it would be harder than it was, considering that I often have a challenge staying under 1000 words for many of the other challenges.

I thought 500 words would be tough, but…it really wasn’t? I was able to do it, anyway, and liked the story I came up with. So, why not really challenge myself and do 250.

Since it was a peer-judged contest, the genres are usually unique and I landed with Monster Under the Bed. I didn’t hate that one, because it left a lot of scope for imagination…and I immediately got a few ideas, helped by the other two prompts.

In fact, in a surprise to myself, I wrote TWO stories from the same prompts, both with very different tones. I agonized over a few days of which to submit. I liked both. I thought both were strong.

Friends and family didn’t help. I had a handful of people read it and they were split exactly evenly down the center of which I should submit. Logically, I wanted to submit the “serious” one, because serious ones usually go far in Writing Battle. I’ve found funny doesn’t. It can win a few battles, but unless the genre is specifically a comedy-based drama, you’re going to lose to a story about a kid with cancer that pulls at the heart.

That said, I made it to the final showdown, tournament-style bracket battle, and got the final 32, where I lost out to a serious story!

I get it. At the same time, funny should be given more weight. For this challenge, I’d written a “funny” one and a “serious” one. I put both below (I mean, they are only 250 words, so it’s not like a lot to read). I ended up submitting the funny one (I did an Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Mo to choose). Tell me which one you like best.

Genre: Monster Under the Bed
Character: Genius
Object: A Net

Submission – the “funny” one – “To Whom it May Concern”

Management

Child Placement Bureau

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to request a transfer. I did not graduate summa cum laude to be shoved in this cramped, disgusting space on my first assignment. My child’s brain is muddled from Minecraft, he does not scare, and he puts the results of his nose pickings on the underside of the bed. The space is also cramped from the overabundance of food wrappers, soiled underwear, and abandoned dishes he hides here. 

I understand it is traditional to lodge under the bed, but to expect one to put up with such conditions while working is too much. I see the convenience of the location (easier to grab feet hanging over the side) but there is a perfectly nice, roomy closet in the room.  

As this is my first posting, I realize that my preference is not high priority, but I could function better in the sister’s room, or with another (non-disgusting) child. The sister’s monster also desires a new assignment elsewhere – we spoke of it one morning when the family was out.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.  

Sincerely,

The Monster Under the Bed

Region 34, Section 459, House 72, Room 2

P.S. Please rethink our issued equipment. Not all of us have, shall I say, small children. It doesn’t take a genius (of which I am, see above) to know a rotund child will not fit in the standard fishing net. There are other, easier ways to snatch children.

And now the “serious” one – Untitled

(Note: trigger warning for child abuse)

“Please rethink your position and recognize your role.  We do not want to remand this to the disciplinary committee.”

I stared at the message until my screen went dark.  With a sigh, I let my device drop to my side, clattering against the fake hardwood flooring.  I was not fulfilling standard operating procedures, but I didn’t care.  

No amount of school, studying, and being top of my class prepared me for the reality of my first placement.  It didn’t take a genius to know that my assigned child wouldn’t be scared of a monster under the bed when she dealt with literal monsters in reality.  The slaps and shouts from other rooms, the…other things…that occurred in the bed above me.  I was the least of my child’s worries.

Fire me, if you want, I thought with a growl.  When the pain got too much, my child crawled under the bed seeking comfort.  And I gave it.  I soothed the aches, caressed her bruises with my tentacles, wiped her tears.  I wished with both hearts that I could swoop her into an old-fashioned net and snatch her away from this nightmare and the real monsters of this world. 

Monsters didn’t do that anymore, but I was willing to break the rules.  I’d move under his bed and do more than grab his feet and make scary noises.  These claws should count for something, and my teeth were damn sharp.  Tonight.  I will go tonight.  He will never again hurt my child.

NYC Midnight Round Three

I did not place in the third round. I am not completely surprised. I could see the weak parts of my third round story. To be fair, I had forty-eight hours to write it, and for some reason it was just being stubborn. I wasn’t fully happy with it, but I ran out of time. With even one more day and a higher word count, I think I would have been good.

Romantic comedy is one of my strengths, too, so to know I couldn’t win on this was kind of a blow. Then I remind myself I got to round three because of a horror story I wrote, so I guess there is no rhyme or reason. I was not feeling the story while I was working on it.

So…yeah. I didn’t expect to place in the top five. I read the story that got first and it absolutely deserved it. I was blown away by its’ cleverness. If anyone had to win, I’m glad it was that author.

My feedback was interesting. It seemed the three judges really loved it. They were gushing in the positive feedback part. On what the judges thought I should work on, however, they pointed out the obvious flaws that I’d already clocked. But one judge went the extra mile and gave me a lot of great advice to turn this into a full length novel. They gushed over everything and want to see this whole relationship played out from meeting to getting together.

What’s funny is I actually thought about making this into a novel. Despite being pains, I loved my characters. I love the concept. Even before feedback, I’d messed around with character sheets for the two mains, and I really want to play around with the story and see what comes out (no pun intended).

Anyway, my prompts were:
Genre: Romantic Comedy
Character: Gymnast
Subject: Tech Savvy

Enjoy! I’d love to know if you would read a full length novel grown from this!

Surely, You Can’t Be Serious?

“How should I sit?”

I peeked over a lighting ring I had just plugged in. Its soft light gave a warm glow to the skin of the man next to a pommel horse. “Why would you sit?”

Blake looked at the horse. “Aren’t I talking first?”

“Just stand there while you explain.”

Blake grinned. “You’re the expert, Trevor.”

I snorted – not an elegant or flirty sound at all. “I can plug things in and get them to work,” I said, ignoring the way Blake’s grin turned sly. “I’m no expert at staging.”

“You’re a Media major,” Blake pointed out.

“Doesn’t mean I’m creative,” I retorted.

My tone wasn’t the best way to entice Blake, but his outfit was distracting me. It was too tight and left little to the imagination. I certainly didn’t need those little smiles and bright eyes either. I had a job to do and a pain in my heart to ignore.

Blake was the star of our gymnastics team. I was not a star of anything. My major was technically New Media at the university, but I wasn’t creative enough to make stunning graphics or Cannes-worthy films. I was more interested in the equipment and designing production facilities – more a Media Engineer than a Media Creative. 

The rise of influencers gave me a unique opportunity for a side gig. Many fellow students aspired to be the next viral star. I helped them. Even though they annoyed me, I was happy to take their money and hook them up with a streaming kit to make their dreams (not exactly) come true. None of my clients had become famous, but it wasn’t because their setup sucked. They did.

For whatever reason (I didn’t care), the gymnastics team decided to jump on the viral video bandwagon and create a streaming channel. Who would watch a semi-decent team of gymnasts tumble, spin, jump, and dance their way across the screen was a good question. But they gave me money. I gave them an online presence.

The channel got a decent number of views for a small university team that never won championships. It may be the fact that their team only recruited people with perfect smiles and mediocre talent.

Here was my issue. I’m a certified nerd. Right down to the ill-fitting clothes and heavy-rimmed glasses that slipped down my nose. I’d never learned to style my hair. I wore khakis and anime t-shirts. My backpack was as big as my torso. I spent my mealtimes arguing the merits of Star Wars shows, Marvel Superheroes, and why My Hero Academia was better than Naruto. 

My brain – my logical and dependable brain – knew I had to stay in my lane.

My libido never got that message. I thirsted for jocks. Crushed on completely unattainable men. I’d tell myself, as I sat with my friends at the university cafeteria, that I should develop feelings for one of them. Then, say, the soccer team would stroll by, punching and shoving each other in grass-stained shorts and dirty knees, with a whiff of hard-earned sweat, and my hormones would react so violently I couldn’t eat my baloney-and-cheese-on-white-bread sandwich.

The newest crush was Blake – Captain of the gymnastics team and perfect stud. If I were creative, I could write yards of poetry about his eyes and smile or, more importantly, his broad shoulders and thin waist. Instead, I treated him distantly and with disdain to protect my stupid heart from the cruelty of my hormones.

Blake, who I found was an easy-going sort, took it in stride. The bastard seemed amused by my caustic barbs and frowns. The worse the things I said, the louder he laughed. I could downright insult him and still those blue eyes (of course, they were gorgeously blue) would shine as the skin around them crinkled. 

I assumed he was one of those jerks who get off by picking on the littler, weaker guy, unaware that he was damaging my psyche and my self-esteem. The ‘nice guy act’ was getting on my nerves because I knew he was softening me up for something. I didn’t believe his interest in my interests for a second, no matter how many times he asked me about them.

We constantly worked together. Blake starred in most of the videos we had done for the stream. Someone had the boring idea of showing gymnastic things. The girls tumbling. The guys swinging on the rings. All of it. I could not care less because it’s not like I’d jump up to the rings and swing around with my noodle arms. 

Unfortunately, when demo’ing the men’s events, Blake always seemed to be the one to gyrate around me. This did nothing to help remove my crush because his damn outfits were just so. Damn. Tight. Not to mention the way Blake seemed to flirt constantly with me.

It had gone on for weeks. We’d done a handful of videos together. Most of our time was me insulting Blake to protect my heart and Blake poking at it.

“Want to jump up on the horse?” Blake asked after he’d finished spinning around on it for the camera. He patted the leather as emphasis.

“No. I think you do better riding it,” I snapped. 

“I think you’d probably be good at riding something,” Blake said. 

I didn’t like the little leer he gave me as he said it. “I’ve never even ridden a horse.”

Blake chuckled. “We can fix that. My family has a few horses. You should come home with me sometime.”

What the…  “Of course, your family does.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Means you’re a rich boy. Poor boys like me don’t own horses.”

Blake shook his head. “We’re not rich. Just comfortable. My sister is a champion rider.”

“Too bad you’re not a champion gymnast.”

“Ouch,” Blake said, affecting a pout, but I could see the laughter in his eyes. “You’re always so mean to me.”

I shrugged, turning my attention to the camera setup. I hoped Blake would shut up because I didn’t need this today. I had a damn exam to study for after this.

“Trev,” he said. Another thing that annoyed me. Use my full name. I knew he knew it.

“What?”

“Why won’t you go out with me?”

I froze. There was static in my ears, and I felt my heart stutter. Blake had made jokes suggesting that over the past few weeks, but I couldn’t take it seriously. Why would a jock be interested in a dork? A male dork at that. My luck was never such that a hot guy would be into nerds and be a sexuality that leads to two boys banging each other.

“Trev?”

“You never asked,” I said through clenched teeth.

“I ask all the time!”

I snorted. “Right.”

“I’m serious.”

“Doubtful,” I said.

“Why do you think that?”

“I don’t like being made fun of,” I snarled, ignoring his question. For the first time, Blake looked hurt, if I went by the way he frowned. It was a strange look on a face made for smiling.

“Who’s making fun of you?”

“You are,” I accused. “I’m just here to do my job and you keep setting me up for a prank.”

“You honestly think that?”

“Of course I do. Why would you want to go out with me?”  I pointed to myself. “I’m. A. Nerd,” I added, slowly, to get him to understand. I mourned my heartbreak and the loss of money from the gig after Blake booted me off the project.

Blake pursed his lips, which was adorable. “Why? I think you’re funny and nice. You make me laugh.”

“I insult you all the time!”

“But it’s funny! You’re smart. Interesting. Cute as fuck.”

“Now I know you’re joking.”

Blake laughed. The asshole actually laughed. Then he closed the gap between us to stand in front of me. I noticed for the first time that we were nearly the same height. “Cute as fuck,” he repeated in a softer tone, reaching up to tuck an unruly piece of hair behind my ear. The gesture shook my secret romantic heart to the core. “I mean it.”

“Surely, you can’t be serious,” I said with a quiver in my voice. Blake looked serious, even with that evil, amused gleam in his eyes.

“I am serious,” he said, then with an impish grin, added. “And don’t call me Shirley.”

I groaned to stop the laugh that wanted to bubble out, even as I was pleased he knew the reference. “That was lame. Why would I go out with someone who makes lame jokes like that?”

“Cause I’m asking nicely? Please? Pretty please?”

I imagined that Blake got his way most of the time with that pleading look. As he kissed me, I thought, ‘Who am I to say no to it?’  A damn lucky nerd getting to live the nerd/jock trope. That is exactly what I was.

Writing Battle – Wonder

At the same time that the Writing Battle Spring Microfiction was going on, the Writing Battle Wonder Battle was as well. This one was a pro-judged one, so we could see the results of who won in your individual battle after each round from round one through round five. Three losses and you’re out, so by round four a lot of people knew they had already lost.

Rounds six, seven, and eight are hidden, so you have to wait about a month to know if you passed the rounds and went to the head-to-head tournament. They release the results on the Friday afternoon before the tournament every thirty minutes.

I was excited, because after five rounds, I was 5-0. A perfect score. All I needed was one win to advance to the tournament. I was so excited for the result announcements. I figured…hey…I have to get at least one more point in three chances!

Nope. Lost six, seven, and eight.

I was crushed and lost a lot of faith in my writing. I wasn’t even too invested in this story, but seeing that it won five rounds in a row gave me a boost of confidence. And the results came just as I was supposed to write something for another competition. Needless to say, I’m not sure how well I did with that one. We will see when results come out for that.

Anyway, this one was a challenge, because I got Adventure. I was hoping for one of the other genres (fairy tale, fantasy, sci-fi). I had the opportunity to change the genre once, since I wasn’t too confident about adventure. But I also wanted to try for one of the trophy graphics you can get at Writing Battle – the no redraw trophy, so I went with it. I got: Adventure / Accountant / Ticket Stub.

Not great, but I actually came up with something. I wrote it out and had Matt look it over. Thankfully, I checked it before turning it in, because at first I read just ticket, instead of ticket stub…and had to rewrite the ending. Anyway, enjoy my little adventure story!

The Heroic Adventures of Charles Bowling

Charles ducks under the spray of fire. Nothing in his thirty-five years has prepared him to fight a dragon, yet he is desperately trying to get past the beast to the treasure beyond. The purple jewel has to be there, and Charles has to find it to get home.

Charles Bowling had fallen into a doze at his desk and awoke to find himself in a new world far from his familiar place at Johnson & Sellers Accounting Firm, where he spent his days with spreadsheets and researching tax laws to help rich clients save money.

He was on a pile of hay in a barn next to an old man with a long beard and brown robe. The man, Markel, told Charles he was a wizard, who used magic to bring Charles to this world. Markel proclaimed it was Charles’ destiny to retrieve the purple jewel stolen by the red dragon and hidden in the blue hills above the green meadows. Charles had protested his ability to battle a dragon, but the old wizard had insisted and Charles went hither. 

Charles Bowling was a small, mousy man with thinning, brown hair, thick-lensed glasses, bony elbows, and knobby knees. He preferred video games over playing actual sports, and had never even held a baseball bat. 

Yet, here he was, swinging a sword at a house-sized dragon. What frustrates him most is the dragon seems to be toying with him. It helps to keep Charles alive, but Charles feels insulted. Hadn’t he battled his way over the green meadows? ‘Battled’ may be a slight exaggeration. Mostly he battled the grass, which grew above his knobby knees and took much of his energy chopping through with the sword he had acquired in a tavern.

That was a nice tavern, with tasty food and drink, interesting people, and a sword hidden behind a stack of boxes. He took the sword, because he figured that would be the best way to slay the dragon, though he wasn’t sure how to use it. Slicing grass for two days to hew a pathway gave him the feel of it, and hadn’t he used swords before in virtual video games? It was the same thing.

Food and money came easily during his journey, too. Charles had been on the quest for two weeks. He ran into the occasional citizen, whom he would question. Sometimes he searched their home, as he did in video games, for food, money, and clothes. 

It had been a harrowing sojourn for a man who rarely left his house except for work, and here he was, fighting a dragon who didn’t take him seriously.

“Excuse me,” a voice calls. The stream of fire over his head cuts and Charles spins around, putting his back to the dragon.

He sees two men dressed in knightly gear. One man is tall and round, the other short and narrow. “Yes?” he asks.

“We’re from the King’s guard,” tall and round says.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Charles gasps, gesturing with his sword over his shoulder. “I need help.”

“Who are you?” short and narrow asks.

“Charles.”

“What do you do, Charles?”

Charles pushes his glasses firmly up his nose. “I’m an accountant.”

Short and narrow looks at tall and round with a cocked eyebrow. “An accountant? Do you write accounts of people? A bard?”

“No, I keep account of money.”

“A tax collector?”

“Not exactly, but I do work with taxes.”

“Why is a tax-collecting bard fighting a dragon, Charles?” tall and round asks.

“I was sent on a quest,” Charles responds.

“By whom?”

“A wizard. He was in the village with the windmill. I woke up in a barn and a man with a long beard and a brown robe sent me hither,” Charles says. “He said his name was Markel.”

“Markel the Mad?”

“He didn’t seem angry to me,” Charles says.

“Then what?”

“I acquired my warrior outfit,” Charles says, holding his arms out to display the fine outfit he’d plucked off a clothesline.

“Stole clothes…”

“And I battled my way through the land,” Charles insists.

“You cut a path through Farmer Johnson’s hay field and ruined part of his harvest,” short and narrow points out.

“I obtained weapons, food, and coins.”

“Stole from the citizens…”

“Overcame many a foe,” Charles says, brandishing his acquired sword.

“Harassed local villagers,” from tall and round.

“And conquered many beasts along the way!”

“You slapped the flat of that stolen sword against Parker’s cow,” short and narrow says, rolling his eyes.

Caught up in his narrative of brave adventures, Charles points the sword at the dragon, who had settled its bulk on the ground, watching the tableau with a tilted head. “Now, I am to slay the dragon and win the purple jewel!”

“Yeah,” tall and round drawls, “Slaying dragons is illegal.”

“It is?”

“Markel the Mad,” short and narrow says, “is crazy. He sent you on a fool’s quest. Dragons don’t have jewels. You’re lucky we stopped you.”

“Yes,” tall and round agrees. “Tamasi here is humoring you, but if you’d have harmed her, you’d go right to the dungeon. As it is, we’re to investigate the havoc you created since you arrived. The dungeon or a citation. Maybe both.”

“Citation?” Charles asks, feeling his bravado seeping out of him. “A ticket?”

“Ticket? You think you get a ticket stub to the fair? No, my misled friend,” tall and round says. “Rather a piece of paper with a fine on it.”

“A ticket,” Charles says, shoulders slumping. “I’ve never even received a parking ticket.”

“You’re a strange one,” short and narrow says with a little laugh. “Surrender your sword and come with us.”

Charles drops the sword and feels the dragon nudge him in the back with her snout, huffing a concerned sound. The two knights gesture for him to follow, not bothering to chain or physically restrain him, which Charles feels is a bruise to the ego.

“This was nothing like my video games.”

Quiet

I received word that I got fifth place in my group in the first round of the NYC Midnight Short Story 2025 contest on 1st April and it wasn’t an April Fool’s prank. While I was excited, of course, my heart sank. Between signing up for the contest and that day, I’d made plans for a busy weekend that first weekend of April. Plans couldn’t change because I was attending two events, but I figured since I’d never made it past round one in this competition, I’d be safe.

Nope. On to round two.

Round two is shorter and more challenging. Word count drops to 2000 and now participants have three days to write instead of eight. Normally not too much of a challenge, but it happened to fall on a very busy weekend for me.

I got the prompts while I was sleeping on Thursday going into Friday at midnight. I woke up to find out I got three challenging prompts. The first, genre, was horror – which I’ve never really written. The second, character, was a flagman. The third, subject, was a side hustle.

I didn’t have much time to ponder, as I was whisked away by a friend to be dropped off at the New Haven train station to catch the commuter train to NYC. I got there, walked a very long way to my hostel (stopping for lunch along the way), checked in to my teeeeeeeeeny room, changed, then made my way over to the Gemini and Fourth Fan Meeting (two Thai actors I love).

I spent the evening at the fan meeting, where I had a blast and got to meet Gem and Fourth.

I got back to the hostel at 11pm, got a few hours of sleep, then in the morning at 5:30am Saturday went over to Penn Station to catch an early train that would take me to Baltimore. My husband met me at the station (he’d gone down Friday morning). We drove straight to a Metro stop and took a train in to DC where we spent the next nine or so hours at AwesomeCon (where I got to meet Sean Astin *sigh*).

We were exhausted when that was over and went back to my husband’s aunt’s house and basically crashed.

That left all of Sunday to write my story. It was due Sunday night at midnight, so I tucked myself away in a quiet spot in the house and struggled with my story. Throughout the weekend, I had jotted down ideas in a notebook. I didn’t completely ignore the contest entry during down times of the busy weekend, but writing this was not easy. I had plenty of ideas to fit a flagman into the story, but the side hustle would just. Not. Work.

Once finished, we spent the day with the hubby’s family, which was lovely. When everyone left, I spent the evening trying to polish my story and make all the edits I needed to. Unfortunately, my regular beta reader wasn’t available, so all I had to go on was hubby’s opinion…and one of his step-cousin’s opinions. They both liked it.

I found out a couple weeks ago that this cobbled together story got me another fifth place, shoving me into the third round. I honestly couldn’t believe it. The feedback for it was pretty amazing – and I wholeheartedly understand (and agree with) the constructive criticism the judges gave me.

So here is my horror story. Trigger warning for death and stuff like that. It’s more horrifying than horror, but…I mean…horror. Read at your own risk!

QUIET

“Do you have to go?”

The question irritated him.  What did she think?  Did she realize how stupid she sounded as she slathered peanut butter on a slice of white bread? 

“You know I do,” he responded, unable to hide his anger.

She flinched and he hated her a little more.  It had been this way for a year since she’d quit her job for the surprise baby.  Their other children were teenagers.  A few more years to freedom from packed schedules and running two active kids around.

Then, bam, another kid.  He should have had the vasectomy she’d urged him to get.  He’d wanted her tubes tied, but they argued about it constantly.  Neither wanted to give up and their therapist sided with her.  A man who should have sympathized with him.  Her stupid argument vasectomies could easily be reversed while tied tubes couldn’t won and he was sick of arguing.

He’d never gotten the vasectomy.

Hence, a kid.

Another round of arguments began, and she won again.  He couldn’t dispute if she kept her job they’d need expensive daycare.  He couldn’t dispute her staying home made sense.  It emasculated him, though.  He always lost to her.  He wanted one win.  One.

She hadn’t responded to him, so he twisted the knife a little more.  “You want to eat, don’t you?  Don’t you?”

“Y-yes…”

“You want those kids to eat, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice going weak.  How did she always win when she argued like a limp noodle? 

“Starve them, huh?  You know I do this to pay for their food!”

A last whimper, then silence. 

She’d finished the sandwich, but her hands didn’t move to wrap it up.  Instead, he snatched it from the counter and drew plastic wrap around it.  She’d been sloppy with the jelly, which oozed over his fingers.  ‘Strawberry,‘ he thought as he licked it off.  She stared at him.

“I’m gonna have to wash my hands,” he said, his voice returning to normal.  It was a relief to feel normal again.  “You made such a mess,” he added.  She responded with that sad-looking stare.

Stepping past her to the sink, he turned on the hot water, lathered up, and rubbed his hands under the stream.  Ribbons of red jelly swirled around the sink and the dirty dishes.  He scrubbed longer than he should have.  For some reason, he couldn’t get that damn jelly off.

“Mom?”  The questioning voice of his teenage son caused him to look over his shoulder. 

His wife didn’t respond, just stared back at the boy. 

“I’m about to head into work,” he said, keeping his voice in that normal tone.  “Your mom was making me a sandwich for my lunch.”  He felt stupid having to explain it to the kid.  His son was smart with decent grades but relied too much on charm.  It was something that annoyed him.  His daughter inherited the ambition his son should have.  Weak boy.

“But…”

“Shut up!” he shouted, immediately regretting it.  The kid had flinched, unconsciously mimicking his wife.  The two gestures were so similar it brought a sharp pain to his chest.  It swelled with affection for his family.  He loved them.  They were just going through a rough patch.  Shouts and anger sharply contrasted with the gentle teasing and affection present before the baby.

Stress.  Commitments.  Responsibility.  They weighed heavily on his shoulders.  He didn’t regret the baby.  The baby just made things harder and more expensive.  Kids need food, uniforms, sports equipment, clothes, and new laptops.  Bills mounted. 

He’d had to take a side job, working construction overnight when crews turned bright spotlights on the road for night closures.  The job was easy.  Hold a pole with a sign on it.  One side said “Stop”.  One side said “Slow”.  Sip coffee and energy drinks as he rotated the pole to either flag traffic to stop or urge cars to creep forward around the large machinery and gaps in the road.  Pay was good, but working all day and all night took a toll on his health.  Mental and physical.

Put stress on his marriage.  Strained his relationship with his kids.  He couldn’t bond properly with the baby, rarely seeing it whenever he was home.  He hated what he’d become and hated to see his family tiptoe around him.  They’d always been a loving family, a picture of perfect happiness. 

Not so much anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he spat out.  He was always apologizing.  At the bank during the day when customers couldn’t understand overdrafts or loan denials.  At his side gig when he turned the sign too fast and the crackle of static over the walkie-talkie chastised him.  At home when he disappointed his family.  The word ‘sorry’ took on a bitter quality, puckering his lips and salting his tongue every time he said it.  He was a pussy, apologizing for nothing.  Sorry sorry sorry.

“Dad?”  The word squeezed out as if his son was choking on it.  So emotional.  He knew the boy was sensitive – a sweet soul, his teachers always said.  Always willing to help a classmate, stop a bully, befriend an outcast.  Why couldn’t the boy be more manly?  Why didn’t his daughter get those traits so his son could toughen up? 

“I’m sorry.  I just need quiet right now,” he told his son.  “It’s gonna be a long night and I don’t need anyone nagging me.  Just.  Quiet, please.”

His son understood, just like his wife understood.  He went quiet, staring in the same haunting way at him.  He smiled.  “See?  It doesn’t take much to make your old man happy.  I’m sorry,” he apologized again, wincing at the acid in his mouth.  “But you know I’m doing this for you and I’m so tired.  So very tired.”

The boy made a sympathetic whimpering sound.  God, the boy was like his wife.  Sickening.

Soon.  Soon.  The therapist was working wonders for his family.  An extra cost partly covered by insurance.  They were working through issues.  They’d be a happy family again, once past the crying and diaper stages of the baby.  Then things would smooth out and they’d be back to their norm.  A rough patch.  That’s all this was.

He should say goodbye to the baby before he left.  Stepping around his son, who watched quietly, he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom.  The baby shared it with them, another unavoidable annoyance.  For now, the baby had a crib in their already cramped room, putting a damper on their love life.  Not that he had much time for that anymore.

The baby was asleep, breathing heavily.  Probably had a cold.  It was always catching something, though he didn’t remember his wife mentioning anything recently.  He shrugged, leaning over the crib. 

Snuffling and drooling, the kid lay there like a slug, twitching a little in sleep.  He wondered what babies dreamed about.  What could the baby know other than the breast of his wife and the way his daughter sometimes pretended to eat the little toes poking up from a foot.  The baby laughed when she did.  Maybe that’s the dream.  The baby’s feet were kicking as if trying to boot away his daughter’s chomping teeth.

Stupid baby.  It seemed suddenly restless.  It gurgled and grunted as he stood there, arm over the crib rail as he tried to soothe it.  It happened, of course.  Babies were predictably unpredictable in their fussiness.  His wife would calm it by singing, songs that rattled his nerves because she had an awful voice. 

He persisted, though it didn’t seem to work.  The baby kicked harder, but his hand was steady, and the baby drifted back to sleep, calm now.  Even the snuffling seemed to disappear.  Was he a miracle worker, able to wave his hand and make colds vanish?  How rich would he become if he could cure the common cold?  He wouldn’t have to work at all, let alone a main job and a side job.

The clock on his nightstand reminded him it was time to go.  Wouldn’t want to be late and make his foreman angry.  He needed the damn money for this damn family he loved so much.  “Bye, baby,” he muttered, turning his back on the crib.

He wished his daughter were here, but the wife had mentioned she’d be out late with ‘friends’.  He seethed at the thought.  He had suspicions about one friend, a harmless-seeming boy.  He wasn’t a violent man, but he’d go feral if anyone touched his daughter.  His wife laughed when he said such things.  She knew he hadn’t a mean bone in his body.

Gathering his keys and the lunch made by his wife, he said goodbye to them and left.

The lights on site gave him a disorienting feeling.  They were bright and made him question what time it was.  Someone was moving cones into position and the roaring of the bulldozer vibrated the air.  He nodded at the cop sitting in his car; the city required one at all construction sites.  The cop nodded back, sleepy and cozy in his seat. 

He took his position, checking his walkie-talkie was set to the proper channel.  The boring part began.  Flip sign.  Cars stop.  Flip sign.  Cars move.  Lather, rinse, repeat.  The crackle of the walkie-talkie as his counterpart a mile away said“Flipping Flagman” and he’d laugh and repeat “Flopping Flogman”.  A little joke between them.  When the last car passed, he’d flip the sign to “Slow” and watch the cars pass him by.  Then he’d say “Flipping Flagman” and would get a “Flopping Flogman” in return.

It added a little humor to his shitty life.

The cop had perked up sometime around midnight, leaning forward and talking on his phone.  It was strange enough to catch his interest as he waited for the “Flipping Flagman” to crackle over the air.  He steadily kept at his job, mindlessly flipping and flopping until flashing lights approached, moving alongside the row of waiting cars.

The cops approached him, along with his foreman.  “Let Chuck take your place,” his foreman said, voice tight.  “These gentlemen have a couple of questions.”

Well, that was a lie.  They had a lot of questions.  Mostly about his wife, his son, and the baby.  When did he last see them?  What happened before he left for work?  What time did he leave?  What time did he get to work? 

It was annoying, especially in this brightly lit room with a cold cup of coffee in front of him.  He was confused and insistent that he’d seen his wife before he left, silently staring at him as he said his goodbye.  His son, too, quiet and staring.  The baby asleep in the crib.  He’d left at the normal time.  Taking his peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich with him.

His wife hadn’t been stabbed when he left, right?  With vicious wounds to the stomach, chest, and face.  Twisted knife wounds made with hate and the knife still lodged in her sternum.

His son hadn’t been strangled when he left, right?  With angry welts and bruises on his broken neck.

The baby hadn’t been smothered when he left, right?  With a pillow over the face and bruises around the abdomen.

Why couldn’t these cops understand that?  They were alive when he left.  They were just quiet and staring.  Like he wanted.

Then he remembered his wife mentioning that they were out of strawberry jelly and asking him if grape was okay. 

Where did the strawberry jelly come from?

Wasn’t it strawberry jelly his daughter found on the floor when she came home, giddy with stories about the boy to tell his wife?  The cops said it wasn’t.

He begged for quiet.  No more questions.  No more words. 

Just sweet silence.

Like his loving family gave him.

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.”

The Nobbins Creek Summer Fair Ribbon Cutting Contest

Long title, I know.

I’ve occasionally entered the NYC Midnight writing contests – they hold a handful of different ones during the year. It’s more formal than Writing Battle, but it’s still a nice challenge. Participants are still broken up into groups, but each group gets the same prompts and the top five advance to the next round. In the Short Story Challenge, I’ve never advanced past first round.

This year I received the following prompts:
Genre: Comedy
Subject: Ribbon Cutting
Person: A grumpy person

I was thrilled to get comedy, as I think that’s what I’m strongest at, and I wasn’t upset with the other two prompts either. Grumpy people lend themselves to comedy, and I could easily write around a ribbon cutting. The question was how to make it unique.

Thank you, Erica, for suggesting the idea. I almost always dismiss my first idea in these things, because I tend to think that everyone will use the same idea – like for this I thought immediately of someone forced to do a ribbon cutting for a store or something, and being grumpy about it. I wanted different. Erica, my lovely co-worker, suggested a ribbon cutting contest at a local fair.

It was perfect.

I present to you the fifth place winner of my group for Round One!

The Nobbins Creek Summer Fair Ribbon Cutting Contest

Since time immemorial (in actuality, one hundred and thirty-eight years), our small town of Nobbins Creek has hosted the much-anticipated, beloved, and locally famous Nobbins Creek Summer Fair.  Away back in the late 1800s, Nobbins Creek was no more than a tavern stop on what vaguely could be called a road between two important cities.  That was until some northern jackal had the idea to put a ribbon mill down by Nobbins Creek not far from the tavern.  Almost overnight, we went from a population of approximately thirty-four souls to almost two hundred!  It was an honest-to-goodness town then.

Within a year, Nobbins Creek boasted a general store, a feed mill, a lumber mill, a school, and a church.  Where all these people come from, no one could reckon.  They sprung up from the ground just as the buildings did around the tavern.  Nobbins Creek became of some importance, and folks now strutted about pleased to have such a fine town in such a short time.

That northern jackal, name of Hopkins, came up with the idea of the Nobbins Creek Summer Fair.  He financed it because he wanted Nobbins Creek to be as important as other towns that had summer fairs all around our fine county.

There are contests, pig and cow judging, games, rides, that sort of thing.  We have a tractor pull where the farmers try and prove they’re better than each other.  The farmer’s wives show off their pickling and canning skills in a heated preserves match in the grange hall.  You ain’t never seen such catty behavior as Beulah Stevens battling May Johnson over who makes the best strawberry preserves!  Them women is fierce!

Anyhow, that’s neither there nor here.  I’m wanting to tell you about the highlight of the summer fair.  The Annual Ribbon Cutting Contest.  Since Nobbins Creek was founded on account of the ribbon mill, old Hopkins wanted to honor his factory when he started the fair.   I ain’t for sure exactly why they fixated on cutting the ribbons.  Makes more sense to me that they do a tying competition, but Hopkins figured cutting ribbons was a better idea.

And it ain’t just cutting.  He was a sly one when he come up with this contest.  Contestants sit at the table with a ruler, scissors, and a big old roll of ribbon.  Some old geezer stands there in front of the table and he yells out numbers, and you got to cut them ribbons that many inches.  It ain’t easy to do cause he yells them out fast.  Those competitors have to keep them in order of how they was yelled.  It gets pretty crazy.

The ribbon contest is inside the same place where the old ladies show off their knitting, quilting, and embroiders.  So, that’s where we all gathered that fine Saturday afternoon.

This year, Jack Hopkins was hands down the favorite to win.  You may note the last name.  Jack is a direct descendent of that same Hopkins as what put Nobbins Creek in a bolder font on the map.  Them mills may have been closed for a handful of decades, but them buildings still stand and the Hopkins family turned them into hosts for stores and apartments.  They still making money hand over fist with them. 

Most of the annual ribbon-cutting contests have been won by a Hopkins feller or lady.  That ribbon stuff must be in their DNA or something, cause they still got it where ribbons are concerned.  Not only are they fast at the cutting, but they are dead on with their accuracy of cutting lengths.  Jack was no exception.  He’d won the last five years running.  Just like his dad did before him.

Close up behind him was Miss Adelaide McClune.  She was one of them widow women and had been a widow woman for all her long life.  I don’t reckon anyone remembers a husband, but there must have been one at some point.  She wears flowered, cotton dresses, a string of pearls, a little hat, and sweet smiles all the time.  I don’t think anyone’s ever seen her without her black orthopedic shoes and shiny, black purse, where she will pull out a little candy for you if you smile back at her.  She’s always winning quilting contests, so she knows her way around a pair of scissors.

Another one I had my betting eye on was Madison Harper.  I don’t know if she knows a bobbin from a doughnut, but I do know I saw her buying a heap of ribbon reels at Woolworths, saying to her boyfriend that she was bound to win the competition and she needed to practice.  She had a grudge against Jack Hopkins for dropping her for another gal when they was in college.  She may not have the experience, but she sure did have the fire.

Maddy sweet-talked her boyfriend, Tim, into competing too.  I think it was mostly to show off to Jack that she had moved on from him.  Tim was a serious guy and did loan stuff at the bank.  I knew he had money, but he also had a surly demeanor, so I wasn’t sure why she thought he was a catch.  Every time I see him, he scowls like he ain’t ever been happy with life, though I guess he must smile sometimes at Maddy. 

Anyway, he ain’t looking happy sitting at that table, frowning at the pair of scissors in front of him.  The other competitors brought sharp, shiny scissors to do their cutting, but Tim’s looks like he dug his out of his ma’s junk drawer.  You know, those scissors your ma uses to cut everything from your hair to the packaging around the bacon. 

Miss Adelaide, being concerned as she always is, leaned her voluminous body closer to Grumpy Tim and said, “Now, Tim, put a smile on.  This the biggest day of the fair!”

Now, Tim just sent that frown over toward Miss Adelaide, who sat back in her chair with a huff, bringing her youthful-looking hand up to rest against her pearls.  “Mind your business, Miss Adelaide.  I don’t want to be here, but Maddy said I had to.”

“Well, goodness gracious,” Miss Adelaide puffed out.  And then she said that painful barb that only Southern women know how to deliver.  “Bless your heart!”

Now, Southern women have perfected that veiled insult over the centuries, but Miss Adelaide was the Queen of Delivery.  That honey-sweet voice carried a hint of the sting of the very creatures that make that honey.  Everyone in a twenty-person radius heard that blessing and a wave of the sound “oooo” went through the onlookers.  Though she said it to Tim, everyone felt it all the way through their tailbone and they all felt ashamed, though they have nothing to be ashamed about!

Tim flushed a deep red and scowled even more.  This was getting good!  I was glad to put my money on Miss Adelaide.  Of course, the Baptist minister forbade us all from the devil’s game of betting, but what he don’t know don’t hurt him.  Just like we take a nip from the bottle or look at dirty magazines when he ain’t looking.  Since we only feel guilty on Sundays, we do them things the rest of the week.

Another Jack, usually called Old Man Perkins, jumps up on the stage.  There’s a lot of Jacks in this town, I don’t rightly know why.  What’s strange about Jack Perkins, though, is his name is Ross Perkins in his ma’s Bible and on his certificate of birth.  He was called John as a kid.  My dad thinks he was called that after an uncle, but since some people named John sometimes are called Jack, folks now call him Jack.  Ma told me his wife isn’t sure who she’s married to since she had to say “I do” to Ross, but he also is John and Jack, so she feels she married three people.

Ross or John or Jack Perkins calls out to us that the contest is about to begin.  We was packed in like sardines in the hall, rubbing elbows with our neighbor.  Everyone was pushing against the ones in front of them to get the best look at the stage.  I mentioned the favorites, but there was about fifteen total up there.  When Jack (Ross or John) announced the start coming soon, they all sat up straight and put their game faces on.  Except for Tim, who sat up straight, but kept his scowl on. 

“Alright competitors!  Get your scissors at the ready!” Old Man Perkins shouted.  He ain’t need no microphone.  He has a whole lot of sheep, so he’s used to yelling at them to move them around with his sheepdog.  Jack (Ross or John) often wins the sheep herding contest at the fair and was indeed wearing his blue ribbon up there on the stage. 

Then Old Man Perkins shouts over the cheering crowd counting backwards to zero and one of the judges off to the side blows an air horn louder than Gabriel’s Trumpet.  Everyone in the crowd jumps, but we ain’t stop cheering.  Next thing you see is a flurry of activity up on that table.  It was hard to keep track of everything.  Old Jack was shouting out numbers, ribbon wheels were spinning, scissors were flashing in the fluorescent lights, and all them competitors were doing their best to keep up.

Miss Adelaide was calmly cutting each length of ribbon and putting it neatly in front of her.  Jack Hopkins was concentrating something fierce on his ribbon and ruler.  Maddy attacked that ribbon roll like she was a lioness jumping on a gazelle, like in them nature programs I sometimes watch on Sunday afternoons.  Poor Tim was just snipping and snipping, his brows drawn together and his tongue poking out the side of his frown.

We was cheering our favorites (whoever we bet on), hooting and hollering something awful.  The aluminum walls of the building shook with the vibrations our voices sent out.  You’d think we were at the Super Bowl or the State Fair Tractor Pulls or something similarly exciting.  We may be a small town, but we raise a big ruckus when we’re worked up, and this contest sure works us up every year!

I tell you, it’s the most thrilling five minutes you ever saw.  All them competitors trying their best.  Except for Tim.  He was doing it, but not with the enthusiasm of the others.  My eyes were mostly on Miss Adelaide cause I was wanting to win that betting pot.  There was a fancy-looking inflatable hot tub in the business barn that looked mighty cozy and would fit nice on the patio of my house.

That five minutes whizzes by and, before you know it, Old Man Perkins is yelling the last number and then hooting a big old, “Stop!  Scissors down!”  Them competitors threw their scissors on the table with a clatter that could be heard way over by the creek our town is named for!  Handkerchiefs, both plain ones embroidered with initials from the men and fancy ones with lace for the ladies, got pulled out and foreheads were patted dry.  Cutting ribbons was hard work, and the competitors worked up a sweat!

The hardest part of the whole fair was next.  The Wait.  The judges gather up all the ribbons each competitor cut and they measure them for accuracy and all that.  It takes longer nowadays because more than one judge has to check each competitor.  They added that rule after the scandal of 1965 when the one and only judge favored George Blake over everyone else.  It was discovered later that Georgie and the judge lady been sneaking around all secret-like and cozying up to each other.  So they don’t allow just one person to judge this most important contest in case one of them is a floozy or a hound dog.

We was on pins and needles for near twenty minutes or so, all crushed together and whispering our guesses to each other, finding out who bet on who, and getting antsy with The Wait!  But, as they say, like a church sermon, all things come to an end, and Old Man Perkins gets himself back up on that stage with the blue ribbon in hand.

A hush fell on the crowd.  Maddy leaned forward in her chair, hands pressed against the tabletop and breathing heavy like a bull.  Tim sat back with his arms crossed and a bored look on his face.  Miss Adelaide was all sweet and calm, smiling at the crowd before turning her bright eyes on Jack (Ross or John).  Jack Hopkins was sneering his arrogant smile as if he already won and had that blue ribbon pinned on his flannel shirt.  All of us pushed forward again so we wouldn’t miss anything.

“I am here to announce the winner of the one-hundred and thirty-eighth Nobbins Creek Summer Fair Ribbon Cutting Contest!”  Like we didn’t know what Jack (Ross or John) was up there for.  “Your winner is…” he began and Jack Hopkins even started to stand before Perkins said, “Tim Thompson!”

Well, you probably could have knocked Tim over with a feather from Miss Adelaide’s hat!  He looked as surprised as my mom does when dad remembers their anniversary.  He even lost his scowl when his mouth dropped down into an ‘o’ shape.  We all raised a big cheer for Tim, though my cheer weren’t as loud due to losing my bet.  I was gonna have to look into who bet on Tim because I know the odds were well-stacked against him.  Someone here won big.  Looks like that hot tub would be going on someone else’s patio.

Maddy was pleased as punch that Tim won.  She gave him a big old hug and kiss in front of God and the town.  Miss Adelaide gave him another “Bless your heart”, but I think she meant it this time, cause none of our tailbones shivered.  Jack Hopkins stomped off the stage like the sore loser he is.  Jack (Ross or John) pinned that blue ribbon on Tim, who looked abashed and surprised all at once.  Who knew Tim Thompson would be the best ribbon cutter in Nobbins Creek?  Not me, for sure.  But that’s what makes the Nobbins Creek Ribbon Cutting Contest the heart-stopping competition it is.  You ain’t never know what’s gonna happen. 

(Except for Beulah Stevens.  She put her egg money on Tim Thompson and now she sitting pretty in her inflatable hot tub, the lucky old gal.)

Heart Writing Battle

Has it been a year since I posted? I definitely need to get better with this.

I just competed in the Heart Writing Battle. I competed in Writing Battle last year for the Winter Flash Fiction contest and enjoyed the peer-judged competition. I’m also in the 2025 version, but that one is still being judged, and I won’t find out until next week how I did. This year they also introduced three professional judged battles and the first one up was “Heart”.

”Heart” included four possible genres – Drama, Comedy, Romance, Rom-Com – all of which I thought I could do well enough. I got Drama, with the additional character prompt of “Mysterious Stranger” and object prompt of “Sewing Needle”. We’re allowed to redraw our genre once, and up to six times for the other two. I decided to stay with drama, though I’m stronger in the other two, because I thought Mysterious Stranger was something I could work with. I redrew the sewing needle and got “Wallet” and kept it.

What I came up with is more dark than I usually go, but I liked it. It got decent feedback from other competitors (we can share our story). I’m looking forward to the professional feedback.

When we battle, they separate us into genres first, then separate each genre into a handful of ‘houses’, and for the first eight rounds, you battle other stories head-to-head in your house. Three strikes, you’re out. If you have six or more wins, you move out of the house into the first post-house round of 64 and it turns into a tournament bracket situation – one loss and you’re out.

I got out of my house into the 64 and they rolled out the winners of each round after that today every 15 minutes. I advanced to the next round where there were 32 of us. But I lost this round, so I guess…quarter-finals? I’m not sure, but out of a beginning of 307 stories, I was briefly in the top 32. I guess that’s good.

Anyway, here is my story – Drama / Mysterious Stranger / Wallet. Enjoy!

Was I Worth It?

It looked like a well-worn, well-loved wallet. I turned it over in my hands, running fingers over the faux leather. There was a raised texture there, pebbled like alligator skin. Bi-fold and a graying black, with crushed corners and frayed edges. The stitching was sticking out in places. I frowned at the smudge of blood my fingers left on it.

Soon, but not soon enough, blue and red lights would be swirling in the air while scowling and serious-faced cops would be stalking around the scene – taking pictures and wrapping the area with yellow plastic tape, like a horrific Christmas present. I sat, frozen. They would want my picture, too. As well as the cooling body next to me.

Who was this person? I looked and made mental notes because my mind wasn’t ready to process what just occurred. A man in a rumpled suit, which I had noted before. That was his briefcase tilted against a trash can on the near corner.

Before.  He had a nice smile and nodded pleasantly at me when he stepped up to the pole holding a sign with the bus schedule. The pole had peeling red paint, chipped and discolored. It looked like it was bleeding in the light and misty rain. I nodded back to him, committing nothing more. I didn’t want to hold a pointless conversation with some stranger at the bus stop. 

The bus was late, like always. Nothing new. I scrolled on my phone, annoyed slightly when the man started to hum some song I didn’t recognize. I think I rolled my eyes, because don’t people realize how annoying they are? My thumb scrolled more aggressively through Instagram and I felt my jaw clench.

I looked from the man to the stalled car nearby. One wheel was up on the curb and a smudge of blood, matching the pool in which I sat, decorated the bumper. Everything was still and quiet. Shouldn’t there be more? A scream or two at the very least. Not just the faint beat of my heart.

I turned the wallet over again with the thought that I should open it and find out the answer to my question. Who was this man? Something stilled my hands, but I don’t know what. The blood? The silence? The way my mind felt clouded and clear at the same time? All of the above?

Where were the police? Shouldn’t they be here? I should go to the hospital. Other than a few bruises, I think I’m fine. Not like the man next to me, with a twisted leg and broken body. What kind of person would do that? Jump in front of a stranger and shove them out of the way? 

I’d taken the wallet from his pocket, though I should have left it for the police. If they ever come. I had a thought that I should call them. Or the emergency number. 9. 1. 1. Why couldn’t I open it?

Did I want proof I wasn’t worth saving? That this life taken deserved to live, while I didn’t? Did he have a family? Did he have a girlfriend or boyfriend? Did he have a good job, loving parents, a social life? I had none of those things. I didn’t even have a cat. I had no one who would miss me, so why was my life worth sparing?

What if he was working on a major project? Or the cure for cancer? Or working on a big case to free a wrongly accused man? All I did was menial labor at a factory. An honest job, but I wasn’t saving the world or righting wrongs. How could my life measure up to another? Should I even compare? What makes someone more valuable than someone else?

I should be the one lying there in my own blood. Not sitting in his. It must have been quick and painless, so right now my life would be blank. Which, to be honest, wasn’t much different from my living life.

Why would this man do that? Why step in front and take the brunt of the out-of-control car? Why did he think I was worth saving? I was nobody. A stranger at the bus stop who barely acknowledged him, who stood scrolling mindlessly on my phone. Did he see something in me? It couldn’t have been intelligence, a kind heart, a family, a successful career, a future.

Answers might lie in this worn, leather wallet I keep turning in my hands. At least a name. At least a key to unlock who this selfless and dead man was, but I couldn’t pry it open. I didn’t want him to have a name. Having a name made him real. Real meant he had an identity. Having an identity gave him a life. A life meant something I could measure against mine.

I’m sure opening the wallet was unnecessary. There will be investigations, news reports, interviews, perhaps a trial. They will make me sit in a chair with a kind-faced and sympathetic-seeming therapist to talk about it. I’ll learn his name someday. Perhaps a partner or child will stand in front of me, searching with accusing eyes to find what this man saw in me. Maybe they will be kind and tell me about him. Maybe they will speak with sour tongues and curse me. I don’t know.

Opening this small square of leather won’t matter.

They could tell me his name. They could tell me about his life. He will always be a stranger to me. Twenty minutes after he ceased to be and gave me my life, the wallet is pried from my clinging hands by a pretty, female officer whose face changed from red to blue in flashing lights, speaking words I couldn’t understand before a medic shoved his way in.

Was I worth it?

I’ll never know.

The Writing Battle

I found a new writing competition called The Writing Battle. It was much more affordable to enter than NYC Midnight, and also had an interesting concept the more I read about it. There’s still a set of prompts to write to and a time limit, but the similarities pretty much end there.

The prompts are genre, character, object. And we had about three days to write. Where NYC Midnight sends you the set prompts, the Writing Battle lets you try your luck on a redraw. NYC Midnight has all the broad genres – comedy, drama, mystery, horror, etc. Writing Battle had four specific genres. You could redraw your genre once. And you had six redraws for the character and object combined.

I debated entering, because the writing period was going to be while we were vacationing in Disney, but I thought I’d be able to squeeze some time out to write in the morning or evening. We went down to Disney World with another couple, and they were equally as supportive as my husband.

When I got the email, it listed the four genres: Culinary Disaster, Enemies to Lovers, Buddy Cop, and False Utopia. I hoped for Enemies to Lovers or Culinary Disaster, because I thought with the 1000 word limit, those would be the easiest. I didn’t want Buddy Cop – I don’t enjoy movies/books about it. And I definitely didn’t want False Utopia, because that, to me, is the most challenging. How do you world build in 1000 words?

My first draw was Buddy Cop/Widow/Ladder. As stated, I didn’t want Buddy Cop. The other two prompts weren’t as important, but the genre sucked for me. Thankfully, during a snack stop at Hollywood Studios, our friends – particularly Chad – started brainstorming ideas.

His initial idea involved a spider on the ladder helping a police officer and kind of snowballed from there. I didn’t want to do exactly that, but the idea kind of stuck in my head and morphed…eventually…into the story below. So thanks Chad!

I debated on the redraw for the genre. I could only draw once, and I was so worried about getting the False Utopia that I decided NOT to redraw and stick with Buddy Cop. I did redraw the other prompts, ending up with Magician and Cloak as my final two prompts.

The rest of the battle was interesting. Once you submit stories, every few days the participants in the battle receive two stories to read in another genre. We are supposed to read and give feedback, then pick the story we thought was the best. We do a total of five battles, reading ten stories.

That part was difficult. The first two pairs of stories I got were…awful. Not gonna lie, I had a hard time finding ANYTHING positive to say about them. The third pair was mediocre. The last two pairs, however, were fabulous.

When results came out, I found out my story ‘won’ five battles and ‘lost’ five battles. I fell in the middle and was nowhere near advancing to the final judging round (professional judges). Ah well, I tried. I thought my story was…good. Matt and our friends loved it, and I did get a lot of great feedback from my fellow competitors. So, I count that as a win.

So, enjoy…here’s my Writing Battle entry…a Buddy Cop story featuring a Magician and a Cloak.

We Make a Good Team

My partner is dense.  Don’t get me wrong.  He’s a great cop.  Anyone would be proud to partner with him.  Deadly accurate with his gun.  Have you ever seen movies where the bad guy is holding a hostage in front of them, and the good guy shoots them in the forehead saving the day?  My partner’s accuracy is better than that.  It’s a little scary.

He overlooks things sometimes, but that is what makes us a great team.  I don’t overlook anything.  I have a nose for sniffing out the most obscure clues and, since we’re in tune with each other now, my partner trusts me for that side of investigations.

This is not to say that everything is wine and roses between him and me.  We’re a great team, but there’s also arguments.  Inevitably I win them, but he is stubborn.  Until he remembers that I’m the smartest of the two of us and that he can trust me completely.

Another problem is that you can tell he’s a cop, even in plain clothes.  There’s a certain way cops carry themselves that sets them apart.  I can’t train it out of him, no matter what I do.  Fortunately, that’s where I excel.  I can blend in with any crowd.  No one notices me once I slip off my bulletproof vest.  Even if I’m noticed, I’m usually welcomed because I don’t look like a cop.  No one ever suspects me.

I’ve infiltrated some pretty heavy-duty gangs, drug pins, mafia rings – you name it.  I’ve even slept in the beds of mafia wives, daughters, and sons.  The things I do to bring criminals to justice.  

I’ll gather evidence, usually by way of a body cam/audio recorder I wear that is remotely powered by my partner so I don’t rouse suspicion.  We’ve brought down many high-profile crime syndicates and that’s a good notch to have in my belt.  I have a good life, a good job, and I love that I can make a difference.

The biggest bonus is the stories I have!

There was this one drug ring we broke that was completely bonkers.  You wouldn’t suspect someone performing illusionary arts to be involved in high-level crime, but one thing I’ve learned about this job is that nothing is surprising.  When Chief gave us the lowdown on the case, it made my ears twitch.  They suspected one of the major channels for drug trafficking was through a casino in Atlantic City.  That wasn’t the surprising part, though.  They believed it was being run through the performers at one of the most popular shows on the strip.

The casino itself was shady, like most of Atlantic City, but the variety act still drew a big crowd.  The suspicious part was that most of the crowd was young people.  Not the usual over-tanned and leathery-skinned old folks from Jersey with cigarette voices and dripping with gold.  Why would so many young people attend throwback variety shows in a shady venue on the notorious strip?

That’s where I came in.  I befriended a couple of the performers – a married duo that performed poorly as magicians.  He couldn’t do sleight of hand to save his life and she stood around with a painted-on smile and skimpy outfit pretending she cared about whatever he was doing.  Their tricks were half-assed and even I could see how they were done.  

They weren’t even subtle about doing something they shouldn’t have been, and when I sniffed out what it was, I honestly couldn’t believe this hadn’t been busted a long time ago.  Most idiots trafficking drugs handed packages to their dealers in closed-off rooms or warehouses, far from the prying eyes of authority.  These guys were doing it in plain sight on stage.

I get that the ‘magician’ should look the part, and he tried.  He always wore some sort of dog-eared-tunic-and-pants-from-a-Renaissance-costume-vault outfit that kind of gave off a mystical vibe, but it was the cloak he used that piqued my interest.  It was large and voluminous and certainly gave him that aura of either mystery or derangement.  It did not fit in with the rest of his get-up, so I knew he was hiding something.

It didn’t take me long to find drug packets in his cloak.  I’d moved in with the couple and while we were all sleeping together one night, I snuck out of bed and nosed around their stuff until I found it.  My partner saw it on my body cam and we arrested them the following evening during their performance.  The idiot was handing the packets to ‘volunteers’ he called up on stage to ‘help’ with tricks.  He’d slip the packages from his cloak pockets and either transfer them to the dealers or leave them in the disappearing box for the dealers to grab.  

It was so obvious it was pathetic.  My partner could see it from his spot in the back row where he awkwardly stood, nursing a drink and poorly acting the part of interested spectator.  We couldn’t figure out the purpose of the whole thing and we never learned, but that’s part of the gig, too.  Sometimes you just chalk it up to stupidity and leave it at that.

I was proud of my partner, though I had to give him some guff – fondly, of course.  A little roughhousing with him and soon we were rolling on the ground together, celebrating another successful takedown.  When I finally sat on my haunches and wagged my tail, sweeping the grass as he took off the collar with my body cam on it, he chuckled.   

“Good one today, Buddy,” he said in a voice full of fondness and affection and rubbing that sweet spot between my ears.  “The streets are safe once again because of you.”

It’s good to hear that kind of praise, of course, but I’m happier with the big steak dinner my partner gets me when we complete a case.

The Seamstress

Kristine gave us a really interesting prompt last year at the writing retreat. She brought a big stack of photos she had taken and handed one to each of us. We were to write something inspired by the photo. Here is the one I got:

I can’t rightly remember what the photo was. I think I posted it upside down, because after Kristine told me what it was (and I’m pissed I forget), I can now see a face in the top and it’s supposed to be a hat or headdress.

Anyway, I wrote the following short thing about a piece of embroidery, because that’s what it looked like to me!

—————————————————————

He caressed the fabric, sensitive hands marking each texture, each line, each ridge.  The softness of the thread, the slight catch of a small nick in his skin snagging on the base fabric.  He thought it might be wool.  It had a slight bumpy and scratchy texture on the back that reminded him of his grandfather’s jacket, an old and worn piece of cloth buried with the old man.  

The embroiderer  (embroider?  Embroideress?  He had no idea what it was called….) was skilled.  Each leaf and feather and shell perfect.  The work, care, and skill that went into this forgotten piece of artistry was next level – a masterpiece of perfection, beauty, and something that made his heart ache.  

He closed his eyes and let his imagination steal into his thoughts, picturing wrinkled and gnarled hands patiently working a needle through the fabric, pulling thread juuuuuuuuuust tight enough, adding a bead here, a bead there, tying tiny knots of floss.  Smoothing out the precious work in much the same way he was running his hands over it now.

He wondered if the artist, for that’s what this was, a work of art, had been to the beach.  The colors and images imprinted in the fabric suggested heat and water.  He pictured somewhere in the Caribbean?  Some tropical place with bleached white shells and feathered birds who flaunted colorful plumage in mating dances among the waves.

He pictured a young woman dancing among those birds, those shells, those waves, her hair flying about her, the wind teasing her dark strands into knotted cords like the threaded knots on the fabric.  There was music, of course, played by faceless musicians back among the swaying palms, tapping a staccato rhythm that made the blood burn and sweat pool at the small of the back.  This seductive bird danced at sunset, when the sky shifted from blue to orange and red – from calm to fire – a fire that inspired her own mating dance to entice a lover.

Did the artist, embroiderer, needlepoint lady remember this night?  Was this a night from her past?  A night of dance, of music, of passion?  Did she recall it one lonely day as she pawed through her craft supplies?  Did she put aside thoughts of retirement, absent children and grandchildren to remember a lost night and translate it onto an old piece of fabric with Caribbean threads?

He’d never know.  It came in a box labeled “Bea’s Things”, taken from her estate sale.  He was an appraiser and his job was to sort the things of dead people.  He saw so many of these boxes, labeled “So-and-so’s Things”, all with stories to tell and no one to tell them.  Most of these things made his heart ache.  He wondered at his choice of career.  He was too soft for this.  This hand-embroidered piece of fabric had something to say and he wished, as he always wished, that he had the time to say it for Bea.