writing | Jamie Gregory

7 Tips for Winning Microfiction Contests

As writers, sometimes we submit our beloved short stories to writing contests and it feels as if our stories have been sucked into a black hole. Then, we wait — some of us compulsively check our email for results while others wait so long that we forget which story we submitted in the first place. When the big day finally comes, we frantically scan the contest results. Some of us find our name among the finalists but others aren’t so lucky. When our name is not on that list, and there’s no feedback from the judges, we often feel defeated. What did I do wrong? Was I within reach of an honorable mention or at the bottom of the pile? If only we could pull back the curtain and get a backstage pass to observe the inner workings of the contest.

I recently had the unique opportunity to do exactly that, experience a short story contest behind the scenes. I took off my writer hat and put on my judge hat for the Blue Marble Storytellers 100-Word Short Story Contest. This microfiction contest was part of the Blue Marble Storytellers Writing Conference in Dublin, Ohio that I helped organize. In case you missed it, check out the conference recordings on YouTube and consider registering for the next conference which will take place in Dublin, Ireland on August 10, 2024.

Congratulations to the following writers whose stories placed in the top ten: Thom Brodkin (winner), Cory Brown, Jon Casper, Stephen Drew, Suma Jayachandar, Cindy Strube, Robert Burns, J. I. Mumford, Autumn Shah, and Aeris Walker.

7 Tips for Winning Microfiction Contests

Read the tips below to learn what the top ten writers did well and what my takeaways were from judging this contest.

Tip #1: Follow the contest rules

When it comes to word count limits, submission deadlines, and prompt adherence it’s best to follow the rules. Some stories were disqualified for obvious rule violations like exceeding the maximum word count or arriving after the submission deadline.

Whether or not a story adequately adheres to a writing prompt can be somewhat subjective but stories that blatantly missed the mark received lower scores. When judges are sifting through dozens, hundreds, or thousands of submissions, each entrant’s attention to detail and compliance with the rules can make or break their chances of excelling.

Tip #2: Don’t treat the title as an afterthought

In microfiction, your title deserves as much consideration as the story itself for several reasons. For starters, titles do not count toward your word count and are therefore free “real estate.” The title should be leveraged as an extension of your story. Think of it as an opportunity to enhance the story and provide extra context clues. In our contest, stories that were submitted without a title received lower scores.

Your title gives the reader the first impression of your story so make sure that it has good “curb appeal” and piques their interest. But, in microfiction your title also has the opportunity to give the reader what I’ll call a “boomerang impression” — this is the uniquely satisfying experience where the title makes a good first impression on the reader and piques their interest so they press on to read a well-crafted micro story that then circles back to the title in a meaningful way thus creating a positive secondary impression and giving the reader a newfound appreciation for both the title and the story.

To see an example of the boomerang impression, check out the micro story titled, Take the Shot, and pay attention to how you feel at the beginning vs the end of the story.

Tip #3: Be specific, clear, and focused

The best microfiction stories focus on a single intriguing event in a character’s life and pull the reader into the story with a clear premise and specific descriptions and imagery. Basing your story on a premise that is unique, vivid, and memorable is much better than one that is vague and boring.

Timing is key with microfiction. Give careful consideration to the scene you’re going to zero in on. The most engaging stories jumped straight into the moment of action or conflict and brought readers along for the ride with immersive details.

Remember, in micro stories, you don’t have the luxury of meandering through an elaborate backstory. Your story should pique the reader’s curiosity and leave them wanting to know more but not to the extent that they’re confused, frustrated, and walking away with a bunch of unanswered questions.

Take a look at the 250-word story titled, ’68 Comeback. We don’t need a long backstory to know that Glenn works in a lab where he is trying to invent a method for time travel. The story focuses on just one of his test trials, out of thousands. The tale is peppered with specificity and sensory imagery. In the end, readers still don’t know exactly why Glenn is trying to travel back in time but they’re left with a sense of satisfaction and curiosity.

Tip #4: Make sure you have a story structure and character arc

Just like any good story, micros still need a beginning, middle, and end — the challenge is to condense the standard story structure into a much shorter word count. A writer’s ability to be brief and concise is paramount in microfiction.

There also needs to be a character arc in your wee little story, at least for the main character. They should leave the story different from how they started. What sort of transformation does your character make over the course of the story?

Let’s take a look at the 250-word romantic comedy story titled, The Mindful Matchmaker:

Beginning: Colby is at a restaurant waiting for his date to arrive (the scene is being set and there’s already some tension because his date is running late)
Middle: Colby’s date, Jenessa, finally arrives and things don’t go well for poor Colby (rising tension)
End: The date ends abruptly and a new love interest is revealed (falling action)
Colby’s character arc: At the beginning of the story, Colby is feeling eager and optimistic about his long-awaited date with Jenessa. By the end of the story, Colby has learned the harsh reality that his relationship with Jenessa was not what it seemed. But, we’re left with a sense of redemption for Colby as a new love interest enters the scene in the last few lines.

Tip #5: Select words with care

In microfiction, every word counts. Choose words that pack a punch. Compare the sentences below:

Sentence #1: The dog took a drink of water from the bowl. (10 words)

Sentence #2: The dog lapped water from the bowl. (7 words)

The second sentence is more concise and more interesting.

Here’s a list of great words and phrases that appeared in some of the 100-word stories I judged:

Saunter
Swagger
Bewitch
Disembark
Macabre
Indignant
Squandering
Vivacious
Teeter
Menagerie
Celestial
Bulge
Accosts
Topple
Brackish
Preening
Prattling
Fuchsia wings
Stovepipe hat
Silver-edged clouds cloak the full moon (Writer: Cindy Strube)
You advance, moving like a tightrope walker (Writer: Cindy Strube)
Pulsing a salsa heartbeat (Writer: Robert Burns)
She purrs (Referring to a woman, not a cat; Writer: Robert Burns)
Warm saffron light (Writer: Dustin Gillham)
A gaggle of fur-clad women (Writer: Aeris Walker)
Her face like a dried-up orange (Writer: Aeris Walker)
Vomit into a Ficus (Writer: Aeris Walker)
Lights waver like underwater suns (Writer: Aeris Walker)

Here’s a word of caution though: Avoid using too many obscure words that will require the reader to look up definitions. This can trip the reader up, pull them out of the story, and interrupt the flow of your story.

Tip #6: Dialogue should be authentic, purposeful, and…you guessed it, brief

Microfiction stories don’t have to contain dialogue at all. In fact, half of the stories that placed in the top ten of our contest did not include dialogue. But, if you are going to use dialogue in your micro, make sure it’s unique to your characters — little subtleties and nuances make dialogue feel authentic. Spend some time eavesdropping and observing the way people speak in real life and log what you hear in your idea journal.

When you’re grappling with the word count restraints of microfiction, avoid including dialogue just for the sake of including dialogue. Utilize dialogue for a purpose to advance the plot or reveal something meaningful to the reader and keep it brief.

Consider these lines of dialogue from the beginning of The Mindful Matchmaker:

“Ready to order?” The waitress clicked her pen. (Dialogue is used in this first line of the story to immediately orient the reader to the setting, a restaurant.)

Colby checked his watch. “She should be here any minute.” (Hello, main character! Now we know that Colby is anxiously waiting for a woman to arrive.)

I’ve waited years to land this date. Colby swirled his water like fine wine. A bit longer won’t hurt. (This use of internal dialogue, formatted in italics, gets the reader inside Colby’s head, aids in his character development, and confirms that he’s on a date.)

Tip #7: Keep the point of view consistent

The prompt for our writing competition required the 100-word stories to be written in the second person point of view (POV). Second person POV is a less common choice in fiction writing, and it definitely takes a little practice, but if it’s executed well it creates an immersive experience for the reader by breaking the fourth wall.

In our contest, it was clear that some writers didn’t yet understand how to write in second person POV —others slipped in and out of second person POV throughout their story which resulted in a disorienting reading experience.

Sometimes, in longer works of fiction, the POV will change periodically (at the start of a new chapter, for example) to give the reader a fuller picture. But POV changes aren’t as effective in micro stories.

***

I hope these writing tips serve you well in your next microfiction contest! Let’s discuss this topic in the comments. What are your thoughts on these tips? Do you have any additional tips of your own to share?

If you enjoyed this post, be sure to subscribe to my reader list at the bottom of this page to receive my latest blog posts and short stories in your inbox. Until next time, check out my podcast, Short Stories for Busy Bookworms, and follow me on Instagram.

The Mindful Matchmaker

Posted on 29 Days Ago by jamiegregory

[This story was submitted for the second round of the 2023 NYC Midnight 250-Word Microfiction Challenge. I was required to write a 250-word story that matched the following prompts: Genre: Romantic Comedy. Action: Brain-picking. Word to be included: “Plus”.]

***

“Ready to order?” The waitress clicked her pen.

Colby checked his watch. “She should be here any minute.”

I’ve waited years to land this date. Colby swirled his water like fine wine. A bit longer won’t hurt.

Jenessa sauntered to the table twenty minutes later. “Sorry I’m late…traffic,” she mumbled, tossing her plush faux fur coat over the chair.

Colby fumbled with his phone under the table. He opened the Mindful Matchmaker app, his latest invention, and tapped on Jenessa’s profile under, New brain signal detected. “No worries.”

Colby’s brain implant tingled with the first transmission: Traffic…AKA pregaming in my car and working up the nerve for this.

Huh. I thought I would be the nervous one, Colby thought.

The waitress returned. “Drinks?”

“Can I see the cocktail list?” Jenessa asked.

I need a stiff drink. Remember, get in, get the grant funding, and get out.

So that’s what this is about, he thought, deflated.

“I need to use the restroom.” Jenessa shot up from the table.

I’m going to puke if I have to endure small talk with this loser.

After ten minutes the Mindful Matchmaker lost Jenessa’s signal.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” The waitress lowered her amber eyes. “It’s on me.”

Colby’s phone vibrated in his lap.

New brain signal detected.

The profile showed a charming brunette. The name matched her name tag, Amy. He tapped on it.

I can’t believe she bailed on this guy. I’d take her place in a heartbeat.

***

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Death Wish

Posted on March 9 by jamiegregory

[15 minute read]

Content warnings: violence, global pandemic, and death.

***

Out of habit, I reached for my nightstand to tap the snooze button, but my arm, feeling slack and heavy like a hunk of meat, remained anchored by my side. The alarm wailed, each blast growing louder, until I was certain that my eardrums would surely explode. My forehead broke out in a cold sweat as I squirmed, unable to move.

Open your eyes, I thought, begging my heavy eyelids to open. When they did, a stranger’s face was hovering above mine, staring at me. The blaring alarm abruptly stopped.

The man was wearing a white lab coat. He leaned in closer, squinting his eyes. “Dr. Kuran, Specimen F216 has recovered.”

My eyes darted back and forth taking in my surroundings. I was enclosed in a pod with a clear glass lid. Ligatures bound my wrists, ankles, and forehead — I strained against them like a guard dog at the end of his chain.

A woman, presumably Dr. Kuran, approached and glanced into my pod.

“So he has, and much faster than the others.” She scribbled something onto the clipboard she was holding. “Let’s begin the rehabilitation process. But go slow this time. We can’t afford any more casualties.”

Casualties?

“Where am I?” I cried. “What’s going on? Let me out of here!” They stared at me with indifference.

It’s a dream. It’s just a dream. I clenched my fists and squeezed my eyes shut, willing the pod to disappear and be replaced with…. Replaced with what? What was before the pod?

A tidal wave of panic washed over me as I thrashed against my bindings.

“Looks like we’ve got a feisty one on our hands.” Dr. Kuran smirked. “You better sedate and ease him into rehab,” she said dismissively, walking away.

The lid of the pod opened.

“Get me out of h—” I shouted, my screams cut off by her assistant shoving an oxygen mask onto my face.

He raised a syringe, tapped it a few times to release the air bubbles, and inserted the needle into the crook of my arm. My veins turned ice cold as everything faded to black.

***

“Welcome back, F216. Let’s try this again, shall we?” Dr. Kuran said, peering into my pod.

She slowly lifted the mask from my face.

“Welcome back? I still don’t know where I am. Is this a hospital?” I croaked. “And why are you calling me F216?”

My name….What’s my name? Why can’t I remember my name?

“This is not the time to ask questions. There’s a protocol to follow. Right now we need to focus on rehabilitating you.”

“Rehabilitating me from what? What happened to me?”

I searched the dark abyss of my mind looking for clues but finding none. Was it a car crash? Was I in a coma? Abducted by aliens? What the hell happened to me?

She sighed, a half-smile spreading across her clenched lips, then diverted her gaze to her clipboard and recited, “So far we’ve had a 60% success rate with long-term memory recovery across all specimens but it takes time.”

“Specimens? What are you talking about?” I pleaded.

“Your brain is too fragile to comprehend the truth right now but you’ll get there soon enough,” She said, laying the clipboard aside. “In the meantime, let’s focus on physical therapy. Studies have shown that intensive physical therapy improves the memory recovery process.” She began slapping electrodes on my arms, legs, and abdomen. “You’ve spent a significant amount of time in this pod and your muscles have atrophied. You’ll be walking around in no time and then we can move on to cognitive therapy.” Without warning, she shoved an NG tube into my nostril, causing me to gag as it slid down the back of my throat and into my stomach. “We learned the hard way, when the first few specimens recovered, that this therapy is quite painful so you’ll be sedated for a few months until your muscles recover. You can thank me later for that.”

“A few months? Please, tell me—” She lowered the oxygen mask onto my face, stifling my plea.

My entire body seized in agony as the electrodes shocked my weak muscles. A muffled scream fogged up the inside of my oxygen mask.

She quietly shushed me, sliding a needle into my arm. “Sweet dreams, F216.”

My body surged a few more times before my jaw went slack, my fists unclenched, and I began to wander the endless labyrinth of my mind.

***

“Hello again, F216. How do you like the new digs?” Dr. Kuran asked, removing my oxygen mask as I came to.

My chin rested heavily against my chest as my sluggish eyes peered around through my eyebrows. I had graduated from the pod to a small white room containing nothing but a bed, a toilet, a windowless door, and the chair I was strapped to.

“Your physical therapy is coming along nicely so I thought we’d give your brain a little workout today.” She said as she finished checking my vitals. “All you need to do is sit back, relax, and let the computer program do its magic.”

She raised a headset over my head and said, “Now, you may feel a little discomfort as the probe penetrates your—”

A searing pain shot upwards through the base of my neck like someone had pierced my skull with a power drill. Visors lowered over my eyes. Dr. Kuran and the white room disappeared and everything went black. Instinctually, I tried to raise my arms to rip the headset off, but my limbs wouldn’t budge and it wasn’t just because they were strapped to the chair. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I tried to wriggle free, to scream, to do anything but I remained paralyzed as if the headset had disconnected my brain from my body leaving me locked in a trance.

A photo of a man appeared in the black sea of my mind. He was young and vibrant. He had thick, tousled brown locks, amber eyes, and a beaming smile.

Initiate session one, said a feminine robotic voice inside my head. This is you. Your name is…Frank Billingsly. You are a…lawyer. Your mental age is…sixty-two. Your physical age has been reset to…twenty-nine. Session one concluded.

I was bursting at the seams with questions but I remained in a daze until Dr. Kuran removed the headset with a sickening metallic scraping noise as the probe was extracted.

“What the hell?” I shouted, straining to break free from my restraints, desperate to assess the back of my neck.

The muscles in my forearms pulsated, the veins stood at attention, and the velcro straps around my wrists made an audible ripping sound as I tried with all of my strength to dislodge them, but it wasn’t enough. With a throbbing head and pounding heart, I tired quickly.

“Cognitive therapy is very taxing, especially the first few sessions.” Dr. Kuran said, setting the headset aside and turning back to me with a loaded syringe. “Your brain needs time to recover, like a sore muscle. A little nap should help.”

***

The white room swam into view. A blurry figure approached cradling something in their hands as the room began spinning. A rumble of nausea bubbled up from my hollow gut as my head pounded out a drumbeat. I gagged, then swallowed the acidic bile.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” Dr. Kuran came into focus as she lifted the headset.

“No, wait—” I screamed, thrashing against the restraints.

“Don’t worry, the nausea is normal and temporary.” The headset hovered above me like a halo. “Your brain is experiencing a major hangover right now. The sooner you complete your cognitive therapy the better so let’s get on with it, shall we?”

“Please, don’t—”

Probe, agony, visors, darkness.

The photo of the young brawny brunette floated into view once again.

Initiate session one review. This is you. Your name is…Frank Billingsly. You are a…lawyer. Your mental age is…sixty-two. Your physical age has been reset to…twenty-nine. Session one review concluded. Do you have any questions before we proceed?

I don’t understand…what do you mean my physical age has been reset to— A new voice interrupted my thought.

DON’T LISTEN TO THEM. LISTEN TO ME. I’LL TELL YOU THE TRUTH.

What? Who are you? What do you mean?

Please ignore the previous message. This program contains occasional glitches. Buffering…buffering…buffer—

WE DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME SO LISTEN CLOSELY. YOU NEED TO FIND A WAY TO ESCAPE —

Escape? How can I possibly escape? When I’m not strapped down to this chair, I’m sedated. I don’t even know where the hell I am. Who are you? How are we even having this conversation?

JUST FIND AN OPPORTUNITY TO ESCAPE BEFORE THEY HAVE A CHANCE TO SEDATE YOU. YOU’RE SMART, YOU’LL THINK OF SOMETHING. COME FIND ME AND I’LL EXPLAIN EVERYTHING —

Where are you?

Please ignore the previous message. This program contains occasional glitches. Buffering…

Hello? Are you still there? What the hell is going on?

Initiate session two. Upon completion of your rehabilitation you will return to your residence in…New York City. We’re sorry to inform you that you have no next of kin. A case worker will be appointed to coordinate aftercare as needed. In the event that—

LIES. THOSE ARE ALL LIES. YOUR FAMILY IS OUT THERE WAITING FOR YOU. DON’T LET THEM OVERWRITE YOUR LIFE. COME FIND ME.

Where? How do I find you?

LOOK FOR THE SIGN THAT SAYS, ‘CLONE BLOCK’.

Please ignore the previous message. This program contains occasional glitches. Session two aborted.

“Hmmm the program must have malfunctioned,” Dr. Kuran said, turning her back to me as she rested the headset on her computer cart. “I’ll have the IT department analyze the session transcript and—” She was interrupted by an alarm.

“Paging all personnel to the recovery pods.” A voice announced through the intercom. “A new specimen has been recovered. All personnel please report to the recovery pods immediately.”

“This is Dr. Kuran…can anyone hear me?” She shouted into the communication device clipped to her lab coat.

This is my chance. It’s now or never.

I contorted myself in the chair until I could slowly remove the velcro strap from my right wrist with my teeth — the alarm overpowered the sounds of my escape. In a matter of seconds, I freed my other wrist and both ankles. I grabbed the loaded syringe from the tray next to the chair.

“I’m in the middle of a cognitive therapy session. Let me just get the specimen sedated and then I’ll be right there.”

Just before she turned around, I jammed the syringe into Dr. Kuran’s neck. Within seconds she crumpled to the floor. I stumbled to the door, pried it open, and peeked into the hallway. Empty.

After a few twists and turns through stark white corridors bathed in harsh fluorescent lighting, I spotted a plaque next to a door that read, Clone Block. My heart pounded along with the blaring alarm and I wondered how long it would take them to find Dr. Kuran. Grasping the door handle, I glanced up and down the hallway. Seeing no one, I slipped inside.

A long concrete aisle, lined with jail cells on either side, stretched away from me. Dozens of outstretched hands reached for me through metal bars as the prisoners shouted, competing for my attention. About halfway down the aisle, I spotted a limp body on the floor. I walked toward it — a guard, unconscious, with blood slowly pooling beneath his body. The crimson liquid inched its way toward a toothbrush that had been crafted into a shiv.

“Frank!” Someone yelled nearby.

I stared, mesmerized by the slowly expanding puddle. The alarm halted.

“Frank, c’mon man. We don’t have much time.” The voice was coming from the cell next to the guard’s body.

“Is he—?”

“Dead? Probably. But in case he isn’t, we need to hurry if we’re going to have any chance of getting out of this place.”

I stole my eyes away from the guard and stepped closer to the cell where the prisoner had a white-knuckled grip on the bars. His desperate amber eyes looked back at me from beneath disheveled brown hair. The photograph from the cognitive therapy sessions flashed in my mind’s eye, a replica of the man standing before me.

“The photograph….Who are you?” I said, stumbling backward, nearly tripping over the guard’s body. “They said it was me—but you look—”

“I can explain everything later, but there’s no time for that right now. It’s just a matter of time before they realize what we’ve done. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“Trust you? I feel like I’m losing my freaking mind here. Is this even real? How do I know I’m not still wearing that headset or laying in some pod right now?”

“Just listen to me.” He slammed his fists on the bars. “This isn’t a hospital or a rehab facility, it’s something much worse than that.” He pointed at the guard sprawled on the ground. “Now, grab those keys from his belt and open this cell so we can get the hell out of here, and then I’ll explain everything. I’m the only person here you can trust.”

Reaching down with trembling fingers I fumbled with the key ring on the guard’s belt.

“Hurry up,” The prisoner shouted, startling me.

I dropped the keys in the pool of blood. “I’m trying!” I scooped up the keys which were now dripping with blood. After several attempts, I found the right key, and the cell door creaked open.

“Now what? How do we get out of here?” I panted.

“That’s for me to find out. I’m sorry, but there’s only room for one Frank Billingsly in this world.” He said, shoving me into the cell.

“Hey, what the—”

He sucker-punched me in the nose, snapping my head back. I toppled onto the cot as he slammed the cell door and locked it. His footsteps running down the aisle to the cheers and pleas of the other prisoners grew distant as everything faded to black.

***

A nurse hovered over me. I blinked repeatedly trying to clear my vision. My eyes darted around taking in my new surroundings. It appeared to be a hospital room. A contestant was spinning the wheel on The Price is Right on the small TV mounted on the wall. I glanced out the window — sunlight was filtering through the clouds as cars maneuvered through the parking lot below.

“Welcome back, Mr. Winfred.” The nurse said with a kind smile.

“What? That’s not my name….Where am I? I thought I was….How did I get here?” I said, groggily.

“You’re in Union General Hospital. You’ve been here for a few weeks.” She patted my arm.

“Where’s Frank?” I asked, panicked.

“Like I told you before, there’s no one here named Frank.” She averted her gaze and fiddled with my IV port. “Hallucinations are a common symptom in the late stages of the virus.”

“Virus?”

“Mr. Winfred, you’re running out of time to make a decision. I’ll fetch Dr. Harbaugh to review your options again,” She said, gesturing to the paperwork scattered across the tray in front of me.

She started to leave the room, then doubled back and grabbed something off a side table.

“I almost forgot,” She said, passing me a newspaper. “I know how much you like your daily paper.”

As she left the room I unfolded the newspaper and read the front page headline.

Controversial Experimental Technology Underway to Upload Brain Data into Clones of the Immune as Virus Deaths Climb.

I shifted my attention to the two stacks of papers on the tray: A Do-Not-Resuscitate Order and an agreement to participate in the Brain Data Transfer Clinical Trial.

“Good afternoon, Charles.” Dr. Harbaugh said as he crossed the room to sit in the chair beside my bed.

“Charles? First, a voice in my head tells me my name is Frank and now you’re calling me Charles. What the hell is going on?”

Dr. Harbaugh removed the medical chart from the foot of my bed and handed it to me. “Let’s review the facts again, Charles.” He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose while I flipped open the manila folder.

Name: Charles John Winfred

DOB: February 23, 1962

Age: 62

Date of admission: April 24, 2024

Diagnosis: Neocryptic Virus

I glanced at the date in the newspaper, May 15, 2024. There was a headshot photo paperclipped to the chart — a man with salt and pepper hair, blue eyes, and a scar slicing through his left eyebrow.

“Give me a mirror.”

Dr. Harbaugh replaced his glasses and squinted at me. “Excuse me?”

“I want to see myself.”

He pulled a smartphone from his pocket and held it up to my face with the camera in selfie mode.

Piercing blue eyes stared back at me. My face, looking much more gaunt than in the photograph, was covered with silver stubble. I traced the scar on my eyebrow with my index finger and handed the phone back to him.

“What happens if I don’t do the clinical trial?”

He returned the phone to his pocket and the chart to the foot of the bed. “You will succumb to the virus in three to six weeks.”

The silence between us was interrupted by someone being paged over the intercom system.

“Charles, let me remind you that the clinical trial offers you the opportunity to preserve your mind. This virus has ravaged your body but you can have a new lease on life once your brain data is uploaded into a suitable host.”

There’s only room for one Frank Billingsly in this world.

He glanced at the newspaper. “Despite what you’ve heard from the media, this technology has undergone rigorous testing and the results are very promising.”

“Thank you for the information, but I’ve made my decision.”

I signed my name, Charles Winfred, at the bottom of the Do-Not-Resuscitate Order.

***

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A Chip Off the Old Block

Posted on February 26 by jamiegregory

[This story was submitted for the Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction Challenge. I was required to write a 500-word story that featured the word “punch”, featured the action of “spilling something”, and broke the writing rule of “avoid cliches”.]

***

Trailer trash.

The words were scrawled across my locker in bubblegum-colored lipstick. Sniggers popped off behind me, like crickets warming up for their nocturnal chorus. I didn’t dare turn around — unwilling to endure the smirks and pointing fingers, yet again.

I used the sleeve of my threadbare sweater as an eraser, but the lipstick simply smeared across the dull gray metal. I scrubbed harder, tears streaming. The stack of textbooks I carried spilled at my feet, adding insult to injury — I scrambled to gather them. A Nike sneaker pinned my biology book to the linoleum. The football quarterback, Silas, loomed over me, his girlfriend, Sasha, on his arm.

“Oops, my bad. Didn’t see you there, T.T.” Silas kicked my textbook down the hall.

Onlookers gathered like a pack of hyenas, drooling over wounded prey.

“Get to class,” Mr. Steward shouted from his doorway across the hall as the bell rang.

Saved by the bell.

Sasha winked, blowing me a kiss with bubblegum-pink lips. “See you at lunch.”

Mr. Steward handed me the biology book. “You need to show those jerks they’re barking up the wrong tree.”

I gave him a weak smile, shoved the books into my locker, and scurried off to the cafeteria.

The cashier sighed as I slid my tray to her register. “You still have a negative balance, sweetheart.”

I stared at the blob of mashed potatoes on my tray. “I’m sorry. My mom said—”

Mom said, “We don’t need charity. Pack a lunch.”

A student jutted out of line. “What’s taking so long?”

“Tara, this is the last time you can borrow,” The cashier closed the register. “Remind your mom, okay?”

“T.T.’s trying to get a free lunch ‘cause she’s too poor to pay like the rest of us,” Sasha said from behind me where she had cut in line, waiting to pounce.

I spun around and upturned my tray onto her chest. Mashed potatoes and corn slid off her cheerleading uniform. She scowled at me, astonished, speechless.

“What’s wrong, Sasha? Cat got your tongue?” She opened her mouth to retort. Reeling back, I punched her perfect little nose.

***

The clock ticked in Mr. Steward’s room during after-school detention. Sasha, arms folded over her stained uniform, glared at me with purple bruises blooming around her eyes and bloody cotton balls shoved up her nose.

When time was nearly up, the classroom door burst open and Sasha’s mom stormed in.

“You’re pathetic,” Sasha crumpled under her mother’s wrath. “Get up before you embarrass me any more than you already have.”

Sasha followed her mom into the hallway like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

“You better hope your nose isn’t broken,” Her mother slammed the classroom door. “Your face was your ticket out of this town. God knows you aren’t smart enough to go to college.”

Mr. Steward laid down the newspaper he was reading. “Well, I’d say she’s a chip off the old block.”

Mom said, “Hurt people hurt people.”

***

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‘68 Comeback

Posted on February 8 by jamiegregory

[This story was submitted for the 2023 NYC Midnight 250-Word Microfiction Challenge. It placed 9th in round one in a group of over forty entries therefore advancing me to round two of the competition. I was required to write a 250-word story that matched the following prompts: Genre: Action and/or Adventure. Action: Waiting for a delivery. Word to be included: “Dark”. I will be given new prompts and required to write a new story for round two of the challenge.]

—

“December 3, 2023,” Glenn mumbled into his recorder. “Trial 1,015. I’ll be testing the addition of quartz crystals…if they ever arrive.”

There was a knock on the laboratory door and his assistant entered.

“Delivery for you.”

“Finally,” Glenn said. “You can head home. I’ll lock up.”

He calibrated the machine, the flame of hope growing ever dimmer in his soul. He plucked the crystals from the package, inserted them into the socket, closed the housing, and powered the machine on.

Nada.

He snatched the recorder, ready to document yet another failure, when he heard the buzzing and crackling of circuitry. There was an intense flash of light as the machine exploded, launching shrapnel at his face and blowing him backward. His head collided with the linoleum floor.

When he came to, smoke billowed along the ceiling. Blaring fire alarms filled his ringing ears. Flames licked the sterile white walls, inching closer to the cabinet marked flammable. He grabbed a microfiber rag off the counter, covered his mouth and nose, and stumbled toward the door as acetone, xylene, and other chemicals exploded in succession like a July 4th grand finale.

The inferno chased him to the Broad Street exit where he burst into the fresh night air. The nearby street lamp summoned him, a beacon in the dark, as it illuminated the poster attached to it. Exhilaration pumped fresh oxygen into his smoke-filled lungs as he read:

Singer Sewing Machine Co. Presents

Elvis

‘68 Comeback

Tuesday, December 3, 7 pm NBC

—

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Victims of the Sea

Posted on January 26 by jamiegregory

[This story was submitted for the January 2024 Australian Writers’ Centre Furious Fiction contest. It was selected for the longlist out of hundreds of entries. Contestants had to write a 500-word story that matched the following prompts: Each story had to take place on a character’s first day of a new job, each story had to include something being stolen, and each story had to include the words trip, triangle, and tsunami.]

Content warning: Death due to natural disaster.

—

Darma stood atop the mountain of tsunami debris. Car tire, flat. Shredded, soiled mattress. Headless mannequin. Splintered wood. Nike, size thirteen, without a mate. Serrated corrugated metal. Another body bag.

He stretched his aching back as the sunrise peeked over the horizon. He adjusted the handkerchief covering his face, eyes watering from the stench, and resumed looting. He’d been sifting through this alley all night — with nothing more to show for it than a few pieces of copper wire, a dented can of sardines, and a pack of cigarettes.

He lifted a metal cabinet, struggling momentarily under its weight. Losing his balance as he shoved it to the side, he tripped and scrambled backward, horrified by what he’d unearthed.

The woman’s ebony hair spilled out of her disheveled hijab. Her floral print dress was smattered with dried blood. Mangled limbs hinted at untold injuries. Lifeless eyes stared at him from her tomb of rubble. Another victim of the sea.

Sunlight descended into the alley, refracting against something on the woman’s chest — a triangle-shaped pendant on a golden chain.

Darma carefully unclasped the necklace and inspected it. At its center, the pendant featured a large sea-blue diamond.

Jackpot. Maybe I can finally get the cartel off my back.

“Hey, new guy,” someone shouted from the end of the alley.

Darma slipped the necklace into his pocket and turned. A man wearing a yellow hard hat was glaring at him, hands on his hips.

“What are you doing over here? I thought I told you to load the truck for the landfill,” the man said, pointing down the street. “Get back to work.”

Darma hesitated, but the man waited, unwavering. He played along to avoid getting caught and headed in the direction of the dump truck.

“Damn temps,” the man muttered as he trailed behind him.

Darma spent the afternoon toiling alongside temporary workers, taking relentless orders from the man in the hard hat and waiting for the opportunity to sneak away with his pocketed treasure. He had flung so many objects into dump trucks — battered washing machines, broken-down recliners, busted bookcases — that he could barely raise his shaking arms above his head. As he sat amid the detritus to rest, wringing sweat from his shirt, a finger tapped his shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for my wife. Have you seen her?”

The man’s pleading eyes shifted between hope, desperation, and fear as he handed a photograph to Darma — a woman with a crinkly-eyed smile standing on the beach, hijab billowing in the breeze, arms reaching for the clouds, bare feet buried in the sand. And there, around her neck, was the necklace burning a hole in Darma’s pocket.

We’re all victims of the sea now.

“Sorry,” Darma replied, “haven’t seen her.”

—

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Don’t Be a Halloween Scrooge

Posted on October 28 by jamiegregory

You decide not to pass out candy this year but forget to turn off your porch light.

When you forget to turn off your porch light, trick-or-treaters keep ringing your doorbell.

When the incessant ringing interrupts your annual viewing of A Nightmare on Elm Street, you get angry.

When you get angry, you jerk open the door and shout at a pint-sized zombie.

Her werewolf Dad growls, “Hey buddy, pick on someone your own size,” and throws a furry jab.

Don’t be the cheapskate with the broken nose.

Just pass out the bloody candy.

—

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Take the Shot

Posted on September 29 by jamiegregory

[This story was submitted for the September 2023 Globe Soup monthly micro contest. It was selected as the Winner, Judges’ Pick out of over 250 entries. Contestants had to write a story of 100 words or less related to the theme of: Nature.]

—

Early morning sunlight filters through tangerine-colored maple leaves, warming my face. I rest my head on Papaw’s steadfast shoulder. Chickadees and warblers serenade the forest with their reveille. I drift into a soft slumber.

Crack.

A snapping twig lurches me awake.

“There,” Papaw whispers. “This is your chance kiddo, take the shot.”

The buck freezes, head lowered, and sniffs our scent. He raises his majestic antlers to meet my stare. I search his amber eyes for signs of weakness and find only valor.

Steady hands. Exhale. Press the shutter.

—

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Heart-Shaped Box

Posted on May 4, 2023 by jamiegregory

[9 minute read]

Content warning: death of a parent.

—

In the time it took for Peter, Paul, and Mary to croon 500 Miles on my mother’s dusty record player, I discovered that my entire life had been a lie.

It was a mundane Sunday morning at the homestretch of a relentless winter. I stomped the slush off my boots, unlocked the faded front door of my childhood home, and stepped inside.

Besides the occasional packing box, and the blanket of dust that covered every surface like sprawling ivy, everything looked nearly the same as it did when my mother left her home for the final time. No matter how many times I returned to the empty house to sift through her possessions, I still expected her smiling face and outstretched arms to greet me. Instead, I was received by the soft ticking, rolling eyes, and swinging tail of Mom’s beloved Kit-Cat Klock mounted on the kitchen’s floral wallpaper.

Tick…tock. That cat had been creeping me out since childhood. Tick…tock. Its swaying eyes were always spying on my mischief. Tick…tock.

Why is this thing still haunting me? TICK…TOCK. Does it have nine lives or something? TICK…TOCK…TICK…TOCK. Make it stop. Please, God, make it stop.

I charged forward and ripped the clock off the wall, peeling strips of wallpaper along with it. It stared up at me from my trembling hands, eyes still flicking, each second ringing out with a deafening chime.

Time marches on, allowing us to return to the past only in our memories and suffer through the present as we brace for the future.

I threw the clock on the floor and smashed it with a cast iron skillet until my arms grew weak. I collapsed over top of the shattered feline. My sobs echoed throughout the silent house that was once so full of life.

Pull yourself together. This house isn’t going to clean itself.

I rubbed my wet puffy eyes, swallowed my guilt, and glanced around at the contents of our family’s historical museum, trying to decide what to sort through next.

A shimmer caught my eye as the mid-morning sun slipped between the window blinds and stretched across the room glinting off one of the golden statues in the family trophy case. The cabinet was chock full of awards engraved with the names of my older brother and sister — a state champion wrestling trophy here, a National Honor Society certificate there. If you squatted down and squinted into the back right corner of the bottom shelf, you could spot the one and only item bearing my name, a participation ribbon from the third-grade spelling bee.

I’m not in the mood for reliving my childhood inadequacies today, I thought. I’ll dump all that crap into a box later for Seth and Rachel.

I wandered over to the family bookcase, dragging my feet on the brown shag carpet. My fingertips trailed lightly over the rows of books. The miniature library ranged from Dr. Seuss to Stephen King and everything in between. An entire shelf was dedicated to Mom’s collection of Good Housekeeping magazines, dating back to the late ’70s. I flipped through a few issues of the Pinterest predecessor and tried to imagine a younger version of my mother, sipping hot tea and dog-earring page after page of sewing patterns and holiday recipes while humming along with a vinyl.

Her vinyls…. I have to find her vinyls.

Like a bee flitting from flower to flower in search of life-sustaining nectar, I meandered down the hallway. She moved her record player and vinyl collection to her bedroom a few years ago, retiring them from decades of dinner party entertainment duty. Tucked away in plastic totes under her bed, I found album after album of iconic folk and rock music: The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Jefferson Airplane, Neil Young — all of the classics were there. The smiling faces of Peter, Paul and Mary stared at me from the cover of their debut album. I flipped it over to read the song list and fragmented memories flashed in my mind. My mother humming Lemon Tree over a skillet of sizzling bacon on Saturday mornings while I watched cartoons. Her face illuminated by firelight as she sang If I Had a Hammer on summer nights while I chased fireflies.

The record player on her dresser opened with a slow creak and I blew the dust out of it like it was a Nintendo game cartridge. Squinting against the plume of soot, I gingerly slid the vintage vinyl out of the sleeve, put it in place, fired up the player, and lowered the needle. The harmonious voices of the folk trio melded together like the ingredients in Mom’s homemade fudge recipe and filled the room with a warm authentic sound that you only get from LPs.

I tugged one of Mom’s favorite blouses off a hanger in the closet. The silky fabric flowed between my fingers like her long sleek hair that tickled my cheek when she tucked me into bed as a child. I clutched it to my face and inhaled, soaking in her lingering signature aroma, an echo of who she was.

This is just a shirt. It’s only a shirt.

I dropped the blouse into a garbage bag destined for the thrift store. I stared at it briefly, crumpled and lifeless at the bottom of the bag, while grief and anger churned inside me. I ripped the remaining garments from the closet and thrust them into donation bags, blinking through tear-clouded vision as I went, leaving behind dozens of empty swaying hangers in the aftermath of my frenzy.

I was about to clear the closet floor of her orthopedic sneakers when I spotted something curious tucked away on the shelf above the clothing rod. I grabbed the antique stool from her vanity and carried it to the closet. It groaned under my weight and I prayed that it would hold me. I shoved a few hats and scarves out of the way and plucked the item off the shelf. It was a heart-shaped wooden box with my name engraved on the lid. Thoughts swirled through my head like the wood grain that rippled across the box.

What is this? Why is my name on it? And why was it in Mom’s closet?

I sat on my mother’s bed, cradling the ornate box in my hands, to examine it more closely. I traced the grooves of my name with a dusty fingertip — C-a-r-o-l-i-n-e. My name was surrounded by a symbol, a triangle intertwined with a heart. Mary started singing about a train whistle when I carefully removed the box lid, as if I was disarming a bomb, and laid it beside me on the threadbare quilt.

A familiar face stared up at me from within the box. The wallet-sized photo had a faded vintage look to it that Instagramers try to replicate. I instantly recognized the duplicate, its clone is in a family album I haven’t flipped through in years. I was pretty unremarkable in my standard-issue hospital swaddle and expressionless chubby-cheeked face. But my hair, thick tousled tangerine tufts, had been making a statement since the day I was born.

I glanced in the vanity mirror across the room searching for a resemblance to the blank slate version of myself in the photo, but even my hair had dulled to a murky amber.

—

My pruny little fingers rested on my lap as the rhythmic tugging of my mother braiding my hair nearly lulled me to sleep. I raised my droopy eyelids to our reflection in her vanity mirror and studied her obsidian locks.

“Mommy,” I said with a yawn. “How come I got red hair but Seth and Rachel got black hair like you and Daddy?”

She hesitated, fingers frozen mid-braid, then put on a reassuring smile and directed her answer to my reflection in the mirror like a salon hairdresser.

“It’s one of those traits that skip a few generations,” She resumed braiding. “I think there’s some Irish on Daddy’s side of the family so he probably had a great-great-great-someone-or-other with red hair.”

She secured the braid with a hair tie and gently lifted my chin to meet her gaze.

“You’re the lucky one, pumpkin. Most girls would love to have hair like yours.”

—

The memory vanished and the room came back into focus. I set the baby photo aside to inspect the remaining contents of the box, two folded documents. I unfolded the first one, my birth certificate, and laid it aside.

I guess this is like a baby keepsake box. There’s probably one for Seth and Rachel somewhere too. I’m surprised theirs weren’t displayed in the trophy case.

The second document was made from a similar type of blue paper. It was a birth certificate for a Bridget Murphy. That name didn’t ring a bell, nor did Carolyn Murphy, the name of Bridget’s mother, and no father was listed. The date of birth, however, was the same as mine.

“How come I got red hair but Seth and Rachel got black hair like you and Daddy?”

Once again I stared at my reflection in the vanity mirror and, not for the first time in my life, had the niggling feeling that a stranger was staring back at me. The room started spinning around me and I felt lost, like an intruder in that house, that family, that life. Questions bubbled up in my mind until they rumbled and overflowed like a pot of boiling water.

“Who are you?” I screamed at my reflection, tears raining down my cheeks. “Who am I?”

I launched the box of deceit across the room, shattering the mirror and everything I thought I knew about myself, leaving behind only a broken reflection. Pieces of me were missing and yet, for the first time, I truly saw myself.

—

I rapped my dry knuckles on the open door of room fifteen at the Bridgehaven Senior Living facility. Mom was asleep in the corner rocking chair despite the Price is Right theme song blaring from the TV. I turned off the TV and gently nudged her awake.

“Is it time for my meds already?” She asked, her voice sluggish. As the fog of sleep lifted, she looked me over. There was a brief flash of recognition in her eyes and then her face hardened. “What are you doing here? Who let you in?” Her voice was laced with paranoia as her eyes darted around the room.

I reached an arm out to touch her hand. “It’s me, Carol—”

“I know who you are. I thought I’d never see you again.” Her gaze shifted to the heart-shaped box tucked in the crook of my other arm. “What is that?”

I held the box out to her and rested it on her lap as she drew her hands away. “I found it in your closet. Why didn’t you—”

She shoved the box off her lap. The lid popped off as it landed and wobbled across the linoleum floor, scattering its contents. Her slippered foot stomped on the baby photo as she stood up from the rocking chair.

I watched her, speechless, as she hobbled to the bed where she pressed the red button on the wall above the headboard.

She turned on me, eyes fierce like a lioness protecting her cub. “I knew you would come looking for her someday.” She jabbed the red button repeatedly. “You didn’t deserve her then and you never will. Bridget is our daughter now. We raised her and loved her in a way that you never could. You stay away from her.”

A nurse frantically rushed into the room, glancing quickly between us and the items scattered on the floor. “Is everything ok here, Mrs. Jackson?”

“No, it’s not. This woman needs to leave.” Mom shouted, pointing a trembling finger at me.

A day will come when she won’t remember you. Don’t take it personally. Try to control your emotions.

“I’m sorry, I think I triggered her,” I whispered to the nurse, choking back tears. “I didn’t think she would…I just needed to….”

“Ma’am, I don’t think Mrs. Jackson is in the mood for visitors right now.” The nurse said loudly for Mom to hear as she escorted me toward the doorway. “Maybe you can visit another time.”

“No, don’t you ever come back.” Mom roared. “Do you hear me, Carolyn? Stay away from Bridget.” She gasped and her voice became manic. “Don’t you dare tell her the truth. Did you tell her? She was never supposed to know. Carolyn! Did you tell her?”

I grabbed the nurse’s arm and pleaded, “You have to save that box for me, please.” She nodded, ever so slightly.

I slipped into the hallway where I waited and listened, out of sight, stifling sobs as the nurse calmed my mother down.

A train whistled nearby.

“Is it time for my meds already?” Mom asked from within the room.

I stole one last glance from the doorway before I left. I saw her, resting peacefully on the bed — the woman who raised me with so much love that I never doubted that she brought me into this world. She was locked away again, lost in her broken mind, and somewhere in that abyss of forgotten memories were the secrets behind the heart-shaped box. She took those secrets to the grave and I chose the path of blissful ignorance.

—

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Mommy, Can You Hold These for Me?

Posted on April 26, 2023 by jamiegregory

Your first glimpse of my face as I held you in the delivery room will be forgotten.

Your first night sleeping in the crib instead of the bassinet beside my bed will be forgotten.

Your first taste of peas, and your chubby face puckering with disgust, will be forgotten.

Your first steps, tentative and wobbly yet determined, will be forgotten.

Your father’s grin when you first uttered Dada will be forgotten.

You won’t retain long-term memories until the age of seven.

Take heart, little one. I have captured these moments for both of us.

—

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