Camped Out - NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge 2023

There is no way I'm getting through. I tried and submitted a story, but with no experience of the context at all it was beyond my skill to create it. I'll put it here and let others decide. 

Dear America: be kind! :D

Camping Out

[EDIT] It turns out I'm a fool. The story wasn't based in a Summer Camp, but a Summer School. I made a big mistake. I don't know if my story will qualify, but I'll find out in April. 😖

Camping Out

I'm in trouble. No, seriously.

I've started a new writing competition and the setting I've been assigned for my story is a Summer Camp. Great. I can do some research and reading around summer camps and the experience, but summer camp is a very American thing.

I'm Irish. I remember one summer our school had a summer scheme where we got to go and do some sports and a couple of visits to interesting places around the country. Getting to go to the Böse Factory in Drogheda (now closed) was a great one for me. I loved seeing how the speakers worked and how they were manufactured. Overall, though, Summer Camp as I remember it from Movies, wasn't a thing.

So, I turn where I always go: the internet. For the love of Chocolate, why is so much of this stuff promotional! Trying to find testimonial that isn't promotional is almost impossible. Given 7 days, I had to ask a friend who lived there what camp was like.

They couldn't afford summer camp. They never knew anyone who could. This leaves me in a place I don't like: I'm going to have to make stuff up about Summer Camp from the POV of rich Americans. I don't know them.

But I got lucky. I'm a member of a Discord server for RPG Players and there are a lot of Americans. I got to ask a few about their experiences of Summer camp (there's a lot of religion involved) and got some good feedback. I had to make quite a few adjustments based on what they told me, which left an already struggling story somewhat higgledy piggledy. I'm sure I'll pull something together, but I'm not sure if I can push it enough to make it real enough to get by. I'm pretty certain I'm not getting through. Given time for research and peripheral reading, I could maybe have created something that felt real (I'm remembering the book, "Night of the Moonbow" which would have given me something to work with) but I expect to get the bad news in a couple of months.

I could be wrong, or course.

Hey: wish me luck.

Litany - NYC Midnight 250 Word Microfiction Challenge 2022

It was competition day on Saturday. This one came to me quite quickly on Saturday morning from the Genre/Event/"word" prompts (Drama/Losing a key/"vest"). Once I had it written out with a few edits, my brain blanked, so there was no more work on it after that.

I still like it! I hope it's good enough to get me through to the final I hope you enjoy too.

Litany

The key to the tabernacle isn’t in my vestment pocket. Eucharistic ministers used to do all of this while we performed the rites. Marcella Cochrane had filled that role once. 

I am frozen before the tabernacle. I remembered her coming to me, begging a much younger man to save her from her husband’s beatings and belittlement. “Before the baby comes,” she’d said.

“For better or worse. That was your promise.”

Why had I said those words, that empty litany?

“And he promised to love and honour me. Is this love, Father?”

I had no answer, but she did.

“Oh, what would you know.”

The congregation is growing restless behind me. The Deacon appears with the key. I retrieve the ciborium, almost dropping it. Liver spots on my shaking hands reflect the state of my soul.

Why had I involved the bishop? He had gone to Michael Cochrane, who once again ‘punished’ his wife for embarrassing him. Imagine being more embarrassed about what the priest knew than what he did to her?

She almost died. Tommy Cochrane was born with “profound disabilities”. That was my fault.

As I hold up the Host, the congregation repeats “Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world...”

Michael’s body was found yesterday, two miles from home. Of course there were rumours when he disappeared, but nobody involved the police. Justice had been served. Nobody accused her. “Let he who is without sin...”

I cast no stones. I had done what was needed.

As always, I welcome constructive feedback in the comments, or if you just want to tell me I'm brilliant... ;)

A Step Ahead

I've been getting on with the whole "living" thing. It can be tedious, so I like to break it up with a challenge or two to myself. The current endeavour is to enter a writing competition each month. This month's is a short story writing challenge that will begin next Saturday, but that's not what today is about.

No, today is about the previous competition I entered. Once again, NYC Midnight have their 250 Word Microfiction challenge running and I'm in it. I put my story in last November (the 19th, to be precise) and found out yesterday that I achieved 5th place in my group and I'm through to the next round.

If anyone would like to read the story it is below. I hope you enjoy it and, as always, I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Aquisition by Degrees

Her arm flopped to the other side of the bed. As she twisted, the quilt went with her. My knees were cold, but my head was full of pyrotechnics from the earlier argument.

I heard her teeth grinding, wondering if she was mulling it over too? Or was she asleep already? Without her mouth guard? Oh, but I’m the obstinate one.

I rolled myself back under the quilt. She turned onto her back, taking it further away. My entire right side was exposed to the November cold.

I tiptoed to the cupboard. It was in here somewhere. I banged my head on a Christmas tree and stubbed my toe against the vacuum cleaner. How had the towels ended up under the toilet rolls? Oh, but I’m the disorganised one.

I found the sleeping bag and zipped myself into it in the hallway, penguin shuffling back to bed. Central heating was great but I missed climbing into a sleeping bag fresh out of a hot press. And it smelled sort of mouldy.

Within minutes I was entangled in the sleeping bag. The smell was overbearing. I had to escape, struggling back under the quilt. The heat from her was so inviting, but she rolled away from me. Taking the quilt. Again! Oh, but I’m the inconsiderate one.

To hell with it. I spooned in, putting my arm around her. She relaxed against me, her heart beating softly on my wrist. I wanted to say sorry. She’d won me back again, somehow.

I'll post my story prompts next Saturday, and maybe use this blog as a sounding board for upcoming projects.

Bye!

Out and Out

Having entered the Flash Fiction challenge on NYC Midnight, I was very happy with my first story but really disappointed with the second. Surprisingly, I still got some points for it, but not enough to take me through to round 2.

Anyway, now that I'm out In sharing my first story. I hope you guys like it. 

Keep Company With The Angels

On a day when his homeland finally feels complete to him, Tom needs to decide whether to side with the old enemy to face a worse threat.

 

I’d never awoken to so much excitement. Siobhán cooked oatmeal on the rusty old stove while she hummed that Ella Fitzgerald song that she loved and I hated.

“Porridge again?”

“Dún do bheal is ith do bhricfeasta. Once you’re a history professor we can eat like King George.”

“How can I eat at all if my mouth is closed?!”

“Figure it out, clever clogs,” she said, as I hugged her from behind.

“Do you not have an Irish song in you for the day that’s in it?” I asked.

She lifted a skillet to threaten me with. “Listen, Tom Dolan. You’ll have an Irish pan in that massive brain of yours if you don’t get on.” I kissed her quick but full, realising how lucky I was.

We sat at the tiny table and said a prayer of thanks; for the food, for the one-room flat we lived in (for now), for the day when the last seat of colonial power became Irish. Douglas Hyde, Uachtaráin na hEireann, our own President, would take over the Viceregal Lodge.

I was distracted by Siobhán’s swinging hips as we approached the City Centre, missing Clarkey’s words. My mind wandered to the day she said yes, the first time she’d seen me cry.

Ryan Clarke punched my shoulder. He was my oldest friend, and one of the few that hadn’t treated me like a snob when I started my Masters.

“Are you even listening? I said, it looks like this will be news all over the world,” he said.

“Even London?”

Ryan laughed. “Well, never London, unless they can embitter it somehow, but everywhere that counts. I hear old Adolf is looking to pay journalists shillings to pounds for photos from today.”

“Well, he’d do anything to bother the neighbours, wouldn’t he?”

“Indeed” Clarkey said. “They would be a lot less bothered if Chamberlain would stop pandering and stood up to him.”

“Someone should do something about it.”

“Easy Tom,” he glanced around. “People will think you’re off the join the British Army.”

“Are you coming to Dublin Castle tonight?” I asked him, glancing at Siobhán, looking to change the subject.

“Guests of the Provost of Trinity College. No, I’d be mixing well above my station there,” he said. “At least you have Siobhán to make you look good.”

O’Connell Street was thick with the crowd as we approached. People hung from windows and lamp posts. I suggested to Siobhán stopping here as we’d never make the ceremony through the throng. I had to almost howl the words in her ear, shouting to be heard over people shouting to be heard. She stood as tall as she could, grabbed my hand and led us through. I watched with a rising, jealous temper as men fell over themselves to accommodate her, just as I had a decade before. When Siobhán turned and said something to me that I couldn’t hear over the crowd, those men didn’t matter. Seeing excitement in her eyes and the tease of her half-smile, I nodded and followed. We lost Clarkey somewhere along the way.

She manoeuvred us opposite the GPO. I realised that today was the culmination of the Easter Rising that had started on those post office steps 22 years ago. That day was itself steeped in centuries of uprisings, assassinations, and political machinations. History was nothing if it wasn’t bloody.

But today was about democracy, increasingly unique in Europe as it seemed dictator after dictator were rising to power. Today, Ireland stood for freedom and exemplified what Nationalism could look like.

Stepping into the cheers of Dublin, Hyde stepped from the lead car of the motorcade, flanked by Irish Cavalry. He was joined by the Tánaiste, Sean Ó Ceallaigh and an Taoiseach, Éamon de Valera, as they approached the steps of the GPO. A whole city fell into near silent reflection and reminiscence. To most it was moment to remember The Rising. Hyde, I’m sure, was remembering his old friend, Pearse. It was well known they’d disagreed on the use of armed conflict. Hyde was no fan of pointless sacrifice.

I took Siobhán’s free hand, putting my other arm around her waist. I thought of the day we married, the second time she’d seen me cry.

“If you return.”

We used the music as cover for the conversation, standing in a side room in Dublin Castle so as not to be seen arguing by Irish dignitaries.

“I know, Siobhán, but Hitler’s a tyrant, that’s obvious. He didn’t earn power, he took it. Today was how leadership should be. I’m fighting for that.”

“By joining the British Army?”

“You know de Valera won’t fight alongside the English. And Hyde’s wife is German.” She was livid, but hesitant. “Clarkey said if I’m right he’d come with me.”

I could see the anger on her face begin to melt. I knew she trusted Ryan, but I wondered what quiet calculations she was making. She was balancing more in her head than I ever could, for sure.

“It couldn’t last as long as The Great War,” I said. “I’d be home before you know it.”

“That’s what they said before The Great War. ‘We’ll be home by Christmas,’” she paused. “Will it really come to war?”

“I hope not,” I said, “but if I understand history at all, it looks likely.”

“Tomorrow, we pray for peace,” she said, taking my hand and leading me back to the reception hall. Clarkey was right. She did make me look good. She greeted with grace, moving among the highest of Irish society like she belonged, like I hadn’t just told her I was ready to go off to war.

Today would be the third day she’d see me cry, for a love I didn’t deserve.

Bad Joke Rising

I've written my RomCom and that's an acheivement for me. I kind of like it. Not enough to want to write the next "When Harry Met Sally" but enough to feel like a at least have a chance to get through to the finals. I haven't seen any of the stories from others in my group, but I have seen some from other groups, including other RomComs. Some are quirky, some strange, some ordinary. Mine (which I will post up here after the decision has been made) fits into the quirky category. 

Is my confidence growing?

Maybe. I'm not expecting to win, in fairness. Getting through to round 2 was already an improvement on previous competitions and I feel like that's enough for now. Any further progress would be a huge bonus, though my expectations are not that high. If I make it to the final next time around, I'll be happy, but I have learned a few things.

I'm getting better at cutting the things that don't help. I used to feel like I was damaging a story by cutting a lot out. I don't really feel that anymore.

I'm getting better at taking criticism. Admittedly it's from strangers, but even my partner is being more honest about my stories. She doesn't try to protect me from things she doesn't like, which is what I want. She's also really good at asking questions that make me think about what the current draft is doing.

I'm learning to let go of stories, rather than be precious about them. The story is written. Could it be the inspiration for other things? Maybe, but that's all it is. I don't have to perfect this story.

That's enough for now. I'll know the result by July 27th. Fingers crossed, but not too tight.

The Bad Joke Returns

What are the odds that my bad joke that I wrote on the day my friend was buried actually got me through to round 2? Well, that's what happened. I'm actually in the middle of my 24 hours to write the story for round 2 and I don't know what I'm doing. 

So, here's my first round story.

A Most Fetid Fête

“Not those rotten cheeses again?” She was cutting up a musty block of something. The smell filled the whole house. I grabbed a napkin and pen and scribbled the words HELP ME, pretending to choke.

“There’s nothing wrong with my cheeses,” she said.

“There’s plenty wrong with them, most of which double as medical diagnoses.”

“Is there a medical name for getting buried under the patio?”

“Ha!” I barked. “Ha, ha! You’re very funny, you know that?”

She turned and left the room.

“You are joking, aren’t you?”

She didn’t look at me. I reread the napkin and gulped.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the judges said the story flagged a little towards the end and one even suggested that I could have had the female character pick up a shovel on the way out of the house. Given the day that was in it, I don't see that having happened. 

I'm a bit embarrassed by the '"Ha!" I barked.' Don't judge me. I was having a bad day. Surprisingly, none of the judges picked that particular faux pas out. It was a waste of words that could have been used elsewhere. Like dump it and the final "and gulped" and I could have maybe changed the final line to "She didn't look at me as she picked up the shovel. I reread the napkin." It would have been a much darker ending, but not unfunny. And still 100 words or less.

So, I'm on to round 2 and I have to write a RomCom. I'm in better form today and have a story I like. Whether it's strong enough to get me through to the final, I don't know, but I'll find out in August, I guess. Then we have a silly RomCom story to look forward to.

Keep reading. Keep laughing.