NYC Midnight offers writing challenges for storytellers.
The one I love the most is the 100-Microfiction Challenge. Here’s the gist:
This competition challenges 6000+ writers around the world to create very short stories no longer than 100 words in 24 hours. When a challenge begins, writers are given three prompts. Prompts vary by challenge, but will consist of a genre, action and word. These prompts need to be integrated into the story you will write.
Can I tell you a story?
Genre – Sci-Fi
Action – Setting up a tent
Word – Being
Do androids need of words of affirmation?
Android P571 had never experienced rage before.
Yet, he was certain he was one step closer with each observation his wife, R446 made.
“The directive clearly states the aluminum pole should secure the structure.”
His android companion counselor suggested he and R446 go camping.
He wanted to disassemble that counselor.
“Perhaps we should find assistance from a more advanced being.”
That last observation made P571’s orbital lens twitch.
Android P571 had also never experienced joy before.
Yet, he was certain that’s what he felt when he saw the bear approaching his wife, R446.
Maybe camping wasn’t so illogical after all.
Genre – Horror
Action – Choosing a color
Word – Warn
Color Me Dead
Panicked, Bill looked around the room. He was chained to a wall, and a spotlight was shining down. A box of crayons sat in front of him. Taunting.
A little girl’s voice broke the silence.
“Silly, Billy. You’re supposed to be choosing a color.”
Trembling, Bill cracked the seal of the box and pulled out a blue crayon.
“Yay! What shade did you choose?”
He read aloud, “umm Jerry Bryant?”
“I LOVE that color.”
The voice was giggling now.
What was happening? Should he warn this Jerry? How?
A sharp scream echoed from another room.
“I just sharpened your crayon.”
Genre – Ghost story
Action – Sweeping the floor
Word – Undone
The Roommate From Hell
3:29am. I’ve gotten used to waking up at the same time every night.
swish, swish, giggle
There it was. The faint sound of bristles scratching across the floor and a creepy giggle.
My roommate Jerry loved sweeping when he was stoned. Back and forth. Back and forth. Each stroke ending with an infuriating high-pitched, squeaky giggle.
I hate Jerry. I thought killing him would make him stop.
It didn’t.
I made my way into the kitchen.
There was Jerry. Wrinkled shirt. Pants undone. Gunshot wound to the temple.
What the hell, Jerry.
Could be worse. He could be vacuuming.
Finals
Genre – Open
Action – Laughing
Word – Lift
Going My Way
The crash of the hood slamming cut through the rain.
The earth tugged back with each step Nancy took in her stolen boots.
A sedan pulled up.
The window cracked.
“Need a lift?”
Nancy didn’t hesitate.
As her door was closing the man asked, “car trouble?”
Nancy replied. “Wasn’t mine.”
Why aren't we going?
A giggle escaped his mouth.
What was so funny?
The doors locked.
He was laughing now.
The knife was obviously handmade.
Nancy tried to smother her laughter. She failed. Badly.
What are the odds? Two different drivers. And both chose a knife?
She pulled the trigger.
Genre – Sci-Fi
Action – Feeding a dog
Word – Armed
Return to Sender
I hate my job.
I was "selected" to be a mailman.
Unlike what the posters advertise, it's not an opportunity.
It's a death sentence.
We lost two carriers this week. And I inherited their route.
My first drop was patrolled by the T-Pup2000, a titanium toy poodle equipped with the red Hello Kitty smart-laser bow.
I knew I was walking into feeding time.
So, I armed myself with a wind-up squirrel, injected with peanut butter flavored C-4.
As I pulled up, the metal demon was waiting.
Staring.
Smiling.
Only uphill from here. The neighbors had something even more unforgiving.
Cats.
Genre – Historical Fiction
Action – Trying to make someone laugh
Word – Date
Family Feud
Two men stood in a forest.
“Were you followed?” asked the older man.
The younger one replied, “No.” “Talk to mom?”
The older man’s gaze fell.
“No.”
Silence strangled them both. The older man broke free.
“Hey, you ever ask Clara on a date?”
The younger one replied smiling, “No, she was a bad egg.”
“John? I’m really scared.”
“Me too, William. Want one of those jokes you like?”
“I’ve always hated your jokes.”
The two brothers hugged one last time.
“Hope I don’t see you, Reb.” said John.
William replied, “I really hope I don’t see you either, Blue.”
Genre – Comedy
Action – Drying something
Word – Stake
The Wet Clap
Probably didn’t know this, but it’s surprisingly hard work to maintain a thriving career as a professional sweaty-hand hand model.
Most think it’s one big perspiration station of spotlights and glistening parties.
It’s not.
SHHMs have a ton at stake.
If they’re not drying off for autographs, they’re getting all palmy-soggy for the camera.
Exhausting.
Want to make it in this clammy business?
Say goodbye to all-night champagne toasts and uncensored moist high-fives.
Can’t show up on set with a pair of dry moneymakers.
It’s an unforgiving town.
Especially for those slinging their soaking clappers in this funny hand-meat market.
Finals
Genre – Open
Action – Seeing a reflection
Word – Best
Harm-to-Table
The buffet was supposedly the best in town.
I dove in with a staple: traditional cheese omelet.
Flavor was unreal.
And complemented by a ghostly reflection in the plate of a farmer meticulously choosing eggs from a henhouse.
The parmesan encrusted hashbrowns were next, sprinkled with images of Idaho.
With measured excitement, I tried the chorizo.
I saw a woman, being attacked by a meat tenderizer.
I choked.
A host heard my distress and tried to comfort me.
“Is your meal ok?”
Unbeknownst to him, I was reeling from seeing a reflection of myself.
I gasped, “I’m still digesting it.”