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Monster Mash – Round 2 – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge

This past weekend marked my 11th round of the NYC Midnight (NYCM) Flash Fiction Challenge (FFC). To be honest, I wasn’t all that enthusiastic to compete. I’m currently immersed in the latest draft of my novel, and shifting gears pained me. It pained me even more when I received my score for the first round of this year’s contest.

Two points!

Okay, okay. That’s not horrible considering I’ve never attempted to write pure comedy, and comedy is one of the most subjective genres out there.

Low score aside, I still had fun this weekend. Well, mostly…

As a quick reminder, NYCM FFC is a writing contest where writers from all over the world are given three prompts (genre, location, and object), and then 48-hours to write a 1,000 word story. All competitors get to compete in two of the four rounds. This past weekend was the second round, which kicked off at 10 p.m. (MST) Friday when prompts were released.

First impressions of my group’s prompts:

Genre: Fantasy

Location: Waterfront esplanade

Object: Animal horn

When I saw my prompts, I went through a myriad of emotions all at once: horror, amusement, irritation, confusion. I mean, seriously, what the heck is an esplanade? I had to google it before I could do anything else. (FYI, an esplanade is “a long, open, level area, usually next to a river or large body of water, where people may walk.”)

Once I had my location prompt figured out, I turned to the main matter at hand: brainstorming a plot.

Per usual, I talked things out with my favorite writing critic: my mom. For the first time ever, we didn’t banter back and forth on how to approach the prompts. I already knew the general direction I wanted to take.

Goblins!

Yeah, yeah fantasy lovers. I know Gollum isn’t a goblin. However, I decided a long time ago that if I ever received fantasy in this contest, I’d write about a Gollum-goblin-like character. So, I did!

Next, I had to figure out the “animal horn” prompt. Obviously, my first thought was, “Unicorn!” I’m sure it was everyone else’s too, so I stayed far away from that and brainstormed other possibilities. As I did, my seven-year-old nephew curled up next to me with his tablet and watched one of his favorite videos: “Giant God Warrior” (a Japanese short fantasy monster action film). I stared at the creepy creature on screen, studied its horned back, and voila! I had an idea!

Well, sort of.

I packed up my computer and went home. By this point, it was approaching 1 a.m. and I’d been up since 4 a.m. So…yeah. The second I got home, I collapsed in bed and stayed there much longer than I usually do during these contests.

Once I found the motivation to get up on Saturday and start writing, my internet crashed. GAHHH! That threw me for a loop since I needed to do some much needed research on goblins.

[Cue twiddling thumbs, cleaning house, texting friends…]

An hour later, the internet returned, along with my focus. I sat down and spent the rest of the day hammering out a first draft. Mid-afternoon, my mom showed up to read what I’d come up with and help me chop over 600 words (doh!).

My favorite part of the contest occurred when my mom and I tried to think of names for my characters and the fantastical world they lived in: Letchmo. Catastrafo. Fodhopper. Evilgore. Mcnasty!

After we pulled ourselves together (and found a few serious names), my mom left and I sent a draft off to my beta readers. On Sunday morning, I awoke to their feedback. To my surprise, they liked it–much more than I thought they would.

Hallelujah!

I fixed the big problems, chopped the remaining 200 words I needed to chop in order to meet the word count limit, and submitted my story.

Was fantasy my favorite genre? No. Did I like the story I came up with? Yes. It’s not my favorite NYCM entry, but I’m proud to present it to the judges, my competitors, and, maybe someday, a publisher.

For those interested, here’s my title and synopsis:

“Zili”

BRIEF SYNOPSIS: Zili, a gentle goblin, wishes to walk in the light as a man. A horned creature grants his wish . . . and more.

If you’d like to read my entire entry, let me know and I’ll send you the password.

Congrats to all those who participated and submitted a story for NYCM’s Flash Fiction Challenge 2017!

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Photo Credits: giphy

 

Bottoms Up – 1st Round – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge

Lat weekend I competed in my 5th Flash Fiction Challenge. Yep, I keep coming back year after year to punish myself with sleep deprivation, lots of hair pulling and crying, and heart palpitations…Okay, okay, it’s not that bad. Well, it used to be when I was still figuring out how to handle this mad-dash writing contest. But after 17-rounds, I think I’ve finally figured out my process. (If you care to, you may read about my full experience here).

As a reminder, I had 48-hours to write a 1,000 word story based on these prompts:

Genre: Comedy

Location: A bartending school

Object: Sandpaper

Thanks in advance for reading, and thanks for any feedback you might have!

“Bottoms Up”

 By Jenna Willett

BRIEF SYNOPSIS: A millennial needs a job to handle life’s necessities, like yoga, Netflix, and Starbucks. He decides to try bartending (#thestruggleisreal).


 

A flashing advertisement caught Jax’s eye as he skimmed through his Facebook feed:

CALLING ALL WANNABE BARTENDERS!

Intrigued, he clicked on the ad:

Looking for a career in bartending? Bottoms Up has an EXCELLENT opportunity!

Learn the tricks of the trade, gain real-life experience, and walk away with a job.

No experience necessary. Paid training. Good work ethic a MUST.

Where: Bottoms Up, 1932 Blake St., Denver, CO

When: Every Sunday until filled

Time: 9 a.m. – Noon

Belly up to the bar and chug down this opportunity. Chug, chug, chug!

Jax snickered at the cheesy ad, but bookmarked it anyway. In less than a week he’d be a college graduate with zero job prospects. His parents had offered to let him move home, but he wanted to make it on his own. He only needed help with his phone, car, groceries, rent, and utilities. He could handle the real necessities like yoga classes, Netflix, and Starbucks. He couldn’t go a day without a green tea frappuccino with hazelnut (grande, extra whipped cream).

Inspired to bartend, Jax pulled up his Twitter app.

Found a job! Go me! #workingman #showmethemoney

The next morning, Jax arrived at Bottoms Up at nine o’clock on the dot. Well, close enough to the dot. Juggling his frap, he stepped into a dim interior and smelled stale beer, perfume, and a trace of weed. Lipstick-smeared shot glasses and empty beer bottles lined a mahogany bar; and peanut shells, glitter, and other debris littered a checkered floor.

“You’re late.”

Jax swiveled around. An older woman with ice-blonde hair, Khaleesi red lipstick, and a tight-fitting tank top emerged from the gloom. Behind her trailed a thirty-something man with bubbly green eyes. Another trainee?

“Uh, yeah. Hey.” Jax sighed. “I’m here for the bartending school—job thingy.”

The woman crossed her arms. “The ad said nine.”

He blinked.

“It’s almost ten, pup.”

“Hmm.” Jax sipped his frap.

The woman rolled her eyes. “That’s strike one. When you hit three, you’re outta here.” She marched over to the bar.

The thirty-something man grinned at Jax, then pranced after her. A perky poodle happy to obey its master.

Jax, however, remained rooted to the spot, shocked by the woman’s biting disapproval. He’d only been an hour late. Big deal.

He pulled out his phone and tweeted:

Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed. #bitchboss #newjobsucks

“What’s your name, pup?”

“Jax.” He shuffled across the room, one eye on the messy floor, the other on his Twitter notifications. So many likes and retweets!

“I’m Bobby and your boss if you make it through training.”

Jax’s face fell. “The job’s not mine?” How could that be? He’d driven here. He’d walked through the door. He’d shown up! By tonight, he planned to be a bartender. By tomorrow, promoted to manager. By month’s end, part-owner. No, owner!

“As I’ve already explained to Rififi, you’ll need—”

“Rif-what?” Jax snorted.

C’est moi!” Poodle Man beamed. “Ri-fee-fee. C’est français. It means . . . er, how you say, trooblah?”

“Trouble?”

Oui!” He winked at Jax. The same coy wink Jax usually reserved for girls, though he refused to identify as a cisgendered straight male. He hated labels.

He smirked at his phone and tweeted:

Good news, co-worker LOVES me! #hottyalert #solit #singlelife

“Strike two.” Bobby grabbed a broom and thrust it at Jax. “Put that dang thing away, and start cleaning.”

“Cleaning?” Jax gaped at her. “I thought this was a bartending school?”

“It is. But if you wanna work here, pup, you’ve gotta start in the trenches.”

“The what?” He’d never—Why would he even—He was about to graduate college! Sure, it had taken him six years to complete a degree in University Studies, but so what? He deserved everything he wanted.

Jax’s phone dinged. A text from his mom:

How’s the new job? You’re a superstar!

He relaxed and took another sip of his frap.

“If you wanna stay, get to work.” Bobby vanished through a swinging door behind the bar.

Jax glared at his phone and tweeted.

New boss is such a hard-ass! #feelingannoyed #fuckher

Alors.” Rififi clapped. “Zee faster we clean, poop—”

“Pup?

“—zen zee faster we drink!”

Jax frowned. “You mean, the faster we get to learn how to make drinks?”

Oui, oui!” The Frenchman scooped up beer bottles. “We make zee drinks, zen we drink zee drinks. Many drinks. Oui, oui?” Another salacious wink.

“Uh, sure. Wee-wee.

The Frenchman giggled and began sweeping random objects off the floor: a high heel, a strip of sandpaper, a pair of swimming goggles, and a feather duster.

Tres intéressant!” Rififi flicked the feather duster at Jax’s nose. “Nudey, nudey.”

“Naughty, naughty?”

“Ah, oui, oui.”

Jax shook his head and reluctantly dragged the broom across the floor a few times. Too bored for words, he gave up and snapped a selfie holding a beer bottle.

Need a drink? I do! #workshardforthemoney #thestruggleisreal

He took a seat and admired all the likes. Five, ten, twenty . . .

“That’s strike three, pup.”

“Hmm?” Jax hardly glanced up.

“That means it’s time to go.”

“Why?” Twenty more likes. Awesome!

“Look,” Bobby sighed, “I don’t need another lazy, entitled, self-centered millen—”

“Lazy?” He looked up, dumbfounded. Hadn’t she seen him sweep? He should get a raise!

Rififi flounced past with the feather duster and a knotted trash bag.

“What about him?” Jax pointed at the buoyant Frenchman.

“He’s enjoying himself while he works. And he’s proving he wants to be a bartender. You, on the other hand…” Her eyes drifted to the front door.

Heat rushed to Jax’s cheeks. “This is bull! I can’t even—ugh! I don’t deserve this. It’s not fair!”

Bobby tilted her head.

“Screw it. I don’t need this.” He grabbed his green tea frappuccino with hazelnut and stomped to the door.

Au revoir, poop!” Rififi waved.

Jax slammed the door shut, and tweeted:

Fuck it! #iquit #whatevs

 

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Cheers – Round 1 – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge

Greetings, blog followers! Yes, it’s me. And, yes, I’m still alive.

As you’ve may (or may not) have noticed, I’ve been absent from the blog world the past few months (er, maybe longer). I made a New Year’s resolution to put all of my attention and free time into finishing my novel, which I almost have! By the end of summer/early fall, I should have my manuscript and query letter ready to go for literary agents (eeks!).

This past weekend, I decided to reward my good, focused behavior by participating in my 5th NYC Midnight (NYCM) Flash Fiction Challenge (FFC). To be honest, I signed up for this writing contest a couple of months ago hoping my novel would be in my betas’ hands when the challenge kicked off…Wrong! My betas returned their notes a couple of weeks ago, and I’ve been revising ever since. So, it was really hard to shift gears on Friday night.

But, I did. And I had so much fun!

As a quick reminder, the NYCM FFC is a writing contest where writers from all over the world are given three prompts (genre, location, and object), and then 48-hours to write a 1,000 word story. It never fails to stress me out, but it’s always worth it.

Round one kicked off last Friday night at 10 p.m. (MST). I prayed and prayed the prompt gods would give me comedy. Why? Because 1) it’s the complete opposite of what I usually write, and 2) it’s one of the few NYCM genres I’ve never been assigned.

Well, guess what? The prompt gods finally answered my prayers! I was put in group 40, which had to write a comedy that took place in a bartending school and incorporated sandpaper.

 

First impressions: 

Comedy

Bartending school

Sandpaper

I literally squealed when I saw comedy as my assigned genre. It’s taken five years and 17 rounds of NYC Midnight contests for me to get this genre (I don’t count rom-com or political satire, because those are very specific comedies that push you into a smaller realm of the comedy world). As for my other prompts…ugh. The location threw me. I’ve never been a bar-kinda girl, and I don’t drink much, so finding inspiration was tough. The sandpaper prompt didn’t faze me. I’ve had much, MUCH weirder objects to incorporate, so I pushed it to the back of my mind.

My process with these contests has become fairly streamlined: Friday night, brainstorm/plan general gist of story. Saturday, write. Sunday, edit/beta read.

So, as usual, I brainstormed on Friday night and went to bed with a solid idea. I planned to sleep in on Saturday because I had a really rough week at work and needed the rest, but my body refused to listen. It’s been hardwired for pre-dawn workouts in preparation for a half marathon I’m running in August, so I ended up waking up, bright and early, at 4 a.m. Which meant I only got about four hours of sleep. Which meant I was exhausted all. Day. Long.

Somehow I managed to find my groove and dig into my story by noon. As I wrote, my original concept changed quite a bit. I discovered comedy is different from other genres because you have to let the humor evolve organically. If you find something funny, then you have to keep going with it and play up the joke. My joke ended up revolving around millennials.

*cue millennial eye rolls across the world*

Sorry not sorry, millennials. But, hey, I’m partly millennial too, so I was the butt of my own jokes.

By 3 p.m., I had a rough first draft that was 500 words OVER the limit. Blerg! I decided to let it rest while I attended my brother’s 30th birthday bash (yes, I was a fantastic social butterfly at that event.) When I got home later that evening, I rolled up my sleeves and began revising–er, chopping. I successfully hacked about 200 words before crashing for the night.

The next morning, I had to get up early for my pre-dawn workout. Thankfully, I felt pretty calm about my story. Still, I was eager to get home and back to writing. I only had until 4 p.m. that day to finish and submit my story before I had to leave for yet another event. (Yeah, it wasn’t the best weekend to participate in a writing competition.)

As always, my wonderful, patient mother came over to my house and helped me edit. I was more nervous than usual to get her opinion on the story because it was so far out of my comfort zone. And because I had NO idea if it was actually funny. But, thank the Lord, she laughed a lot. So did the six other beta readers who helped me chop my comedy down from 1,200 to 996 words. Phew! I whipped together a synopsis and submitted my story eight hours ahead of the official deadline.

Yeah, despite the lack of tears and heart palpitations this round, I was exhausted. But, I genuinely like what I came up with, and I’m really proud of myself for tackling a genre so completely out of my comfort zone.

In the past, I shared my story publicly. However, I’ve begun sending my work to publishers, so I’m no longer posting them here for any and all to read. Sorry! If you are interested in reading it, please send me a message and I’ll provide you with the password. For now, here’s my title and synopsis:

“Bottoms Up”

BRIEF SYNOPSIS: A millennial needs a job to handle life’s necessities, like yoga, Netflix, and Starbucks. He decides to try bartending (#thestruggleisreal).

Congrats to all those who participated and submitted a story for NYCM’s Flash Fiction Challenge 2017!

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Photo Credits: giphy

 

Red Sunset – 2nd Round – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge

Well, here’s my next (and likely last) story for NYC Midnight’s Flash Fiction Challenge 2016. After a lot of positive feedback and high expectations, my round one story, “The Blue Divide,” received a big, fat zero from the judges. I’d be pretty upset, but I’ve been inundated with messages from my fellow competitors (some friends, many strangers) who are outraged on my behalf. Most of them assumed I’d place in the top three, so…It’s nice to know my story was worth more than a zero. (Thanks for all the support, NYCM peeps!)

Anyway, it’s pretty easy to throw in the towel after you get a zero in round one (you basically need to win your group in round two to even have a chance to advance in the competition). But, after 15 rounds of NYCM challenges, I’ve learned it’s not about winning. It’s about learning, growing, and having fun. And I had a lot of fun with my round two story. (If you care to, you may read about my full experience here).

As a reminder, I had 48-hours to write a 1,000 word story based on these prompts:

screen-shot-2016-09-19-at-3-05-10-pm

Thanks in advance for reading, and thanks for any feedback you might have!

“Red Sunset”

 By Jenna Willett

BRIEF SYNOPSIS: Georgi Petrov, Hollywood playboy and Russian dissident, is a hero to some and a traitor to others. A fateful taxi ride down Sunset Boulevard proves just that.


Viktor drove down Sunset Boulevard, eyes narrowed on the nightclub ahead. Ciro’s, a popular stomping ground for Tinseltown’s elite, shimmered like a beacon of depravity. In front of the unadorned building, a tall man swayed on his feet.

Even in the dark, Viktor recognized him. Ash-brown hair, prominent cheekbones, protruding nose. Georgi Petrov. Actor, playboy, Russian dissident. Hero to some, traitor to others.

On the curb next to Georgi stood a voluptuous woman in a black cocktail dress, stilettos, and a silken wrap. An ideal pinup girl. She raised her arm and hailed Viktor’s checkered taxicab. He drew in a deep breath and pulled over. The intoxicated couple opened the door and collapsed into the backseat. Liquor, cigar smoke, and Hollywood glamour wafted off of them.

“Careful, Georgi, pookie.” The woman giggled and jostled up next to the actor. Her blonde waves bounced in time with her generous bosom. “We don’t wantch’ya gettin’ hurt before we get to the hotel.” She kissed his neck.

“Oh?” Georgi smirked. “What’s gonna happen at the hotel?”

She leaned in and whispered in his ear. A grin spread across his face.

Unable to help himself, Viktor stared at Georgi. He never thought he’d come face-to-face with the famous Russian.

“So.” Viktor cleared his throat and spoke in a well-practiced American accent. “Where to?”

“Sunset,” Georgi hiccupped, “Boulevard.”

“We’re on Sunset Boulevard, pookie.” The blonde laughed and smacked his arm.

Georgi hiccupped again.

“Make it Hollywood Boulevard, to The Hollywood Roosevelt.” She shifted her smoky gaze to Viktor. “And make it snappy, will ya?”

Viktor squeezed the steering wheel. “Sure.” He pulled away from the curb.

Thirty blocks.

He only had thirty blocks.

As he wound through traffic, Viktor tried to ignore the passionate moans building in the backseat.

“Peggy, wait.” Georgi laughed. “Not here.”

Viktor peeked in the rearview mirror. Peggy pouted and traced a finger down Georgi’s heaving chest. “I don’t wanna wait. I’ve been waiting too long for this.”

“But, the driver…”

“He’s not watchin’. Are ya, pal?” Peggy’s eyes flashed to Viktor’s in the rearview mirror.

Viktor flushed and shook his head.

“See, pookie?” She kissed his throat. “We’re all alone.”

Viktor wrinkled his nose and refocused on the road. Beneath the rumble of the engine, a symphony of smacking lips and whispered words played in his ear.

Twenty blocks.

Viktor patted his pocket. The outline of a thin, metallic cylinder steadied his nerves and strengthened his resolve. He could do this. He had to do this. If he didn’t, he’d regret it forever.

“Ah, pookie. What’s wrong?”

Viktor’s gaze snapped to the mirror. Even in the shadows, he could see Peggy’s lipstick smudged over Georgi’s neck and face.

“I can’t believe the Academy won’t put me on the voting ballot.” Georgi stared at a crumpled piece of paper sticking out of his breast pocket.

Peggy sighed. “Well, you are Russian.”

“So? I’m not a Commie.”

Viktor swerved.

“Watch it!” Peggy glared at Viktor. “What’s ya problem, mister?”

Viktor gulped. “Sorry, miss.” He turned onto Hollywood Boulevard.

Fifteen blocks.

Viktor’s hands trembled. Could he go through with this? Of course he could. He’d done it before, and he’d do it again.

“I’m not a Commie. I’m not.”

“I know, pookie, I know.” Peggy slid her wrap off her shoulders. “And you were so brave, what with those awful KGB dogs. They could kill ya for leavin’ Russia.”

“Hmmph.”

“Yeah, let’s not talk about it anymore. We’ve talked plenty.” She plucked the ballot out of his hand and tossed it to the taxi’s floor.

Viktor made a note to pick it up later.

“All I wanted was a nomination.” Georgi’s lightly accented voice cracked. “After all my hard work and sacrifices…”

“Shh, shh.” Peggy pulled herself onto his lap. Her black dress hitched up her legs, exposing milky white thighs. “Don’t think about it anymore. It’s over.”

Viktor’s eyes darted from the road to the rearview mirror. To Georgi. This wasn’t how he’d pictured this moment. Too much remorse, too much liquor, too much Peggy.

Ten more blocks.

Viktor glared through the windshield. Would Peggy foil his plan when they arrived at the hotel? He clenched his jaw. He’d have to risk it. Otherwise Georgi would get away.

“I’m a good man. Why can’t they see that?”

“Because, you’re a bad, bad boy, Georgi Petrov.”

“No—”

“Oh, yes.” Peggy moved on top of him. “Yes, yes.”

Viktor pressed the gas pedal.

Five blocks.

The towering, red fluorescent sign of the Hollywood Roosevelt came into view. Viktor’s heart raced. Behind him, lips moved in frantic unison, tongues intertwined, and hands groped.

Two blocks.

Georgi released a loud, guttural groan.

Peggy moaned and arched her back.

Viktor reached into his pocket and removed the metallic cylinder.

A cluster of Hollywood’s elite, drunk on booze, fame, and life swarmed the hotel’s entrance. The taxicab came to an abrupt halt.

The moaning in the backseat faded away. Weight shifted and clothes rustled. Viktor couldn’t bring himself to look behind him. Instead, he glanced at the meter. “That’ll, uh, be sixty cents.”

“Pookie, will you take care of it?” Peggy simpered and stepped out of the taxi. The door clicked shut.

Viktor’s heart pounded harder than ever. He stared at the pen in his hand. “Mr. Petrov? Do you think you could—I mean, I’m a big fan. So is my wife, Yulia. We both left Russia like you and—Well, would you mind signing an autograph?”

Silence.

“Mr. Petrov?” Viktor twisted around, pen raised, anticipation unbearable.

Georgi stared back at him, eyes wide and lifeless. Peggy’s black wrap hung from his mouth, shoved deep inside, gagging him.

Viktor dropped the pen.

A hypodermic needle stuck out of Georgi’s neck. Some kind of black residue dripped down his ashen skin, and blood cascaded from his nose. A scream rose in Viktor’s throat. He whipped around and looked from the hotel, to the street, back to the hotel.

Peggy had vanished.


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Smooth Sailing – Round 1 – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge

Let me start off by apologizing to my regular blog followers. I have been completely negligent of my blog the past few months due to some personal matters. But, my life is gradually returning to a new, steady rhythm and I hope to begin blogging again soon. Thanks for your patience!

For today, I’d like to share my most recent experience from the first round of this year’s NYC Midnight (NYCM) Flash Fiction Challenge (FFC). As a quick reminder, the NYCM FFC is a writing contest where writers are given three prompts (genre, location, and object), and then 48-hours to write a 1,000 word story. It’s always crazy! But fun.

Round one kicked off last Friday night at 10 p.m. (MST) when I received my assignment:

Screen Shot 2016-07-23 at 10.34.05 PM

First impressions: 

Drama

A corporate conference room

A baby rattle

…Yeah.

No joke, I wanted to go to bed right then and there. Talk about BORING! I’m used to off the wall prompts (like an action adventure that has to take place in an underwater cave and incorporate a dumbbell). I was also a touch nervous because drama tends to mean literary, and I’m much more of a commercial writer. Ugh.

I allowed myself about 15 minutes to absorb the prompts and get over my “I don’t wanna” attitude. Then I hunkered down with my favorite brainstorm buddy and personal Simon Cowell (my mom) and contemplated what to write about.

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I instantly assumed many of my competitors would take the corporate conference room and baby rattle prompts and write a story about a custody battle. So, I wanted to stay as far away as possible from that sort of plot line. For a few minutes, I considered writing about a plane crash involving a woman who smuggled diamonds via baby rattles. But, even that wasn’t thrilling me.

Without knowing it, my eyes drifted to my nephew’s water bottle sitting next to my elbow. While gazing at its green space shuttles and yellow stars, a new idea struck me.

IMG_20160722_235130

Space! Astronauts! Exploration! I pitched the idea to my mom, and she instantly said, “Yes! I love it.” Suddenly, my prompts were no longer boring.

After another hour of contemplating and brainstorming (about characters, conflict, plot, etc.), I packed up my computer and went home to get some much needed sleep.

On Saturday, I spent most of the morning watching documentaries about outer space, debating various routes to take with my characters, and helping fellow competitors (and friends) brainstorm ideas for their own prompts/stories. Around noon, I realized I better start actually writing. The clock was ticking!

I whipped out an ugly first draft in about an hour. After a quick break, I whipped out a second draft. Then a third. By 6 p.m., I was ready to share it with my first and most critical reader: my mom. I went over to her house and let her read it.

Her response? “It’s so good!”

I was stunned! It’s pretty rare for my mom to like my first attempt during these challenges (i.e. during last year’s first round of FFC, she basically told me to trash my entire concept and start over).

Filled with giddy relief, I proceeded to revise and edit my story until I had a beta worthy draft. Before bed, I sent it out with the hope I’d have more critical feedback by the time I woke up on Sunday.

To my delight and utter disbelief, I awoke to more positive reviews. Everyone really liked my story. Like, really liked it. I was shocked. In 15 rounds of NYCM, I’ve never had a story receive such a positive reception during its infancy.

Feeling calmer than I’ve ever felt during FFC, I decided to set aside my story and focus on helping other writers for a few hours. I beta read, assisted those still struggling to find their groove, and offered general support.

Around 11 a.m., I shifted my focus back to my story. Although my betas liked it, it still had quite a few problems. So, I called my mom and asked her to come over to help me polish things up.

By 3 p.m., I had a final draft and was ready to submit. Yay! I triple checked my story for errors, loopholes, and weak spots, and then sent it off to NYCM.

All in all, it was an exhausting, yet smooth weekend. By far the smoothest I’ve ever experienced during any NYCM competition…Hmm, I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad sign. But, whatever. I’m going to go ahead and celebrate the fact I survived and came out with a story I’m proud of!

In the past, I shared my story publicly. However, I’ve begun sending my work to publishers, so I’m no longer posting them here for any and all to read. Sorry! If you are interested in reading it, please send me a message and I’ll provide you with the password. For now, here’s my title and synopsis:

“The Blue Divide”

BRIEF SYNOPSIS: The countdown for Lorna to decide between her family and her dreams of deep space exploration has begun. Ten, nine, eight, seven…

Congrats to all those who participated and submitted a story for NYCM’s Flash Fiction Challenge 2016!

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Photo Credits: giphy

 

La Jolla – 1st Round – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge

Well, everyone, I participated (and survived) yet another round of an NYC Midnight (NYCM) writing contest. If you’d like a behind-the-scenes look at what I went through to produce the story below, click here. Otherwise, sit back and enjoy my first round entry, La Jolla. 

As a reminder, I had 48-hours to write a 1,000 word story based on these prompts:

Screen Shot 2015-08-04 at 10.13.33 AM

Thanks in advance for reading, and thanks for any feedback you might have.

“La Jolla” 

By Jenna Willett

Brief Synopsis: A catastrophic disaster strikes during a train tour through La Jolla Cove. Cole must save himself and his brother from the deep blue.


“Welcome to Windansea’s Nature Tours, sponsored by Scripps Institute of Oceanography. My name’s Cole and I’m pleased you’ve joined us on California’s newest and most unique attraction.” He flashed his kilowatt smile at the tourists. One of them, a woman sporting a hot pink fanny pack, snapped a photo of him.

It wasn’t the first time.

Cole gestured to the foggy landscape swaying past their single-car, electric powered train. Palm trees on one side, the Pacific Ocean on the other. “Thanks to Scripps Institute’s eco-friendly, state-of-the-art rail system—all constructed upon suspended bridges and stone outcroppings—we now have a way to experience the seven underwater caves of La Jolla. And thanks to the low tides today, we’ll be able to enter…”

As he regurgitated the memorized spiel, Cole glanced at the back row. His nine-year old brother, Finn, smirked at him and mimed taking a photo. Cole squeezed his fists. He regretted agreeing to babysit.

Ignoring his brother’s ongoing mockery of the other passengers—an old man blowing his nose; yet another middle-aged woman snapping a photo—he continued with his rehearsed speech. “La Jolla Cove is best known for its kayaking and snorkeling…” A cute blonde in a Cal Poly t-shirt caught his eye. He stumbled over his words and grinned at her. Finn made a gagging noise.

Smothering the urge to boot him off the train, Cole refocused on his captive audience. “As we enter the first cave and begin winding our way—”

The train’s lights flickered.

Off. On. Off.

A blanket of murky darkness descended and a distant rumble overtook the train’s gentle hum. It shivered along the tracks and quivered up the wheels. Everyone went quiet and still, even Finn.

“What’s happening?” Fanny Pack placed a hand against the vibrating window.

Cole couldn’t find the breath to gasp the single, horrific word.

Earthquake.

His gaze flew to Finn’s. His brother half stood, as if to run to him.

“Sit down and stay buckled!” Cole flung himself towards the back of the train. “Everyone hold on!”

The rumbling grew louder, the vibrations harder. A chilling screech tore through the train, followed by a metallic groan and cracking glass. The train sped over a bridge and lurched sideways. Cole staggered into the old man. He grabbed Cole’s arm. “We’re gonna die!”

Cole pried himself free and struggled on. He had to get to Finn.

The bridge heaved, like a briny belch had blown out of the waters below. Cole’s knees buckled. Cal Poly made a mad grab for him and missed.

“Cole!” Finn’s shrill voice cut through the metallic booms and wails.

The tracks collapsed.

The train plummeted.

Gravity’s force lifted Cole off the ground and smashed him into the ceiling. Purses, cameras, and backpacks whipped past him.

“Grab my hand!”

He looked down.

Finn strained to reach him. Their fingers brushed once, twice—Finn lunged and grabbed his wrist. As he yanked Cole down, the train plunged into the water. The impact tore Cole out of Finn’s white-knuckled grip and catapulted him into the rear window face first. He stared through the spider-webbed cracks spreading across the glass, down into a deep, black chasm.

“Shit.” He rolled over. With the train vertical, everybody, including Finn, hung above him. A symphony of sobbing pleas, splintering glass, and grinding metal deafened his ears. He struggled to his feet and unbuckled Finn. “You okay, buddy?” He lifted him down.

Finn nodded.

“Good, cause we gotta go.” He struck the damaged window with his elbow.

Nothing.

“Watch out!” Cal Poly peered over the top of her seat with a five-pound dumbbell. He didn’t ask her where or how she’d found it. People packed the weirdest shit. He shoved Finn back.

She dropped it.

The dumbbell struck the center of the window and shattered it. Icy saltwater rushed in. Cal Poly wasted no time leaping from her seat and vanishing through the gaping hole. Cole grabbed Finn and urged him to follow her.

He balked. “Ar—Are there sharks?”

“No,” Cole lied. “We’ll be fine. Just swim as fast as you can.”

Finn nodded.

“We’ll go together on the count of three. Ready?” Cole held up a hand. “One, two, three.” They inhaled and went under. Keeping a firm grip on Finn, Cole launched them through the window, away from the wreck, and towards the surface. It seemed a million miles away.

With each stroke and kick, Cole’s lungs burned, his legs seized, and his arms weakened. Dark shapes floated around them. Passengers? Debris? Sharks? He refused to look. He didn’t want to know. He clawed his way towards the shimmering daylight streaming through the blue.

Finn went limp.

No!

Cole clenched his jaw and used his last bit of energy to propel them to the surface. Air bubbles billowed from his mouth and nose. Just a few more feet. One more kick, one more stroke. One more—

He burst through the surface and sucked in a sweet, sweet breath. Then another and another.

Finn remained limp.

“No!” Cole spun around in the water. Cal Poly clung to a nearby rock. “Help!” He struggled towards her. “Please—My brother—Help!”

She pushed off the rock and swam to him. Together they dragged Finn over to a rocky shore.

“He’s…not…breathing.” Cole collapsed next to Finn’s motionless body.

Cal Poly thrust her hands against Finn’s chest and began CPR. Cole watched, terrified by Finn’s blue lips and white face. He’d give anything—anything—to see him goofing off and mimicking passengers again.

Suddenly, Finn’s chest jerked, his shoulders heaved, and water shot from his mouth.

Cole closed his eyes and buried his face against his brother’s curly hair. “Oh, thank God.” He looked at Cal Poly. “Thank you.”

She nodded.

As Finn’s coughs and sputters quieted, and the few surviving passengers joined them on the shore, an alarm echoed through the cave’s opening.

“What’s that?” Finn sat up.

Cole couldn’t find the breath to tell him or Cal Poly.

Tsunami.


To read more stories, visit the Jen’s Pen Page.

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