2025 NYC Midnight Short Story Competition Results

April 18, 2025

#writing #fiction #crimecaper #crimenoir #noir #competitions #shortstory #nycmidnight

Back at the beginning of the year I mentioned how I had a good experience with NYC Midnight's microfiction challenge, and so I decided to enter their short story competition as well. I got an honorable mention this time!

I've actually been sitting on this for about two weeks or more. They updated their rules, and they request that entrants refrain from publishing their stories online until at least ten days after the results have been disseminated. Thankfully I was able to tell my Dad about it, even if he didn't get to read the story, but his passing last week has definitely delayed me getting this put up online.

I'm doing this slightly different than I did with Palpable Gravity. The revised short story based on the feedback that I received from the judges will be first, then you can read the feedback I received, after that will be the the original version of the story, finally I'll end this with the lessons that I've learned.

*Fearless* is the story of a mobster in the 1930s who slowly goes insane after a long night trying to pull off a complex grift.

Since this is a relatively long post, you can jump to different sections if you so chose.

Feedback
Original Version
Lessons Learned
Ending Remarks

Fearless (revised)

I

The way we pulled it off was kind of genius, I have to admit. Gary, a diamond dealer from the south end of town... Well, he had connections. Guys like Lenny.

Lenny was the most extreme individual I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Would not put it past him to maybe do some things that would cause permanent sleep loss. Just fuck you up so bad psychologically that you can't ever sleep normal again. Why kill someone when you can ruin the rest of their existence? So, the gorilla suits were his idea.

We don't know if the clerk who fainted died of a heart attack, or whether he survived the fall when his head cracked against the counter-top.

I told Lenny we didn't need the pistols. A Gorilla and a Chimp are still imposing, especially when they're dressed in suits.

“Geezus Mickey... Did you see that!?!?” Lenny Exclaimed.

“Yeah I fucking saw THAT, Lenny!” My hands uncontrollably extend outward, palms up, in an awkward gesture that suggested the possibly-dead clerk was some sort of prize for our criminal transgressions. Attempted murder might be the final charge, but that's only if Lenny's brother can work another miracle with the judge and get it plead down. Knowing that is always a possibility, Lenny tries to persuade some compliance, so that our stories match.

“You saw that right, I didn't even touch tha mutha fucka, he just collapsed!”

“HAAA HAAHAH AHAA!” I grab my mouth, but my cheeks expand like a chipmunk and spittle sprays out through my fingers. I tell myself it's not funny, and that a jury doesn't like that kind of shit. I can do a year or two in prison, but I don't think I could deal with the shocks if they send me off to the looney bin. Fatty's cousin was never quite the same after Eastern State Hospital.

As I gain composure and drop my hand to reveal an awkward smile, Lenny's slender fingers snap against my cheek in a clap that makes me wonder if I can taste blood. His fingers don't seem to move a lot of air, cold and bony, absurdly jointed in their curved journey backwards from the force of his hand swooshing forward. My vision goes black for a split second as I processes the sensation. I notice the clerk has fallen back against the wall, and that the ceiling light above him is swaying to and fro.

II

People think that I'm crazy, but I can't help it. It's a nervous laugh. It masks moments of awkwardness, it covers up times when I might be uncomfortable, no one ever quite knows what to make of it. So I'm thankful that they mostly just tolerate it in quiet acceptance.

“Mickey Blue Shoes, you slick motha fucka! What in the actual fuck is yous doin' here?”

“HaHAhahaHA...”

“What's wrong... Not happy to see your favorite cousin?”

A flashback of the clerk on the ground hits my brain, and the swaying of a lamp. I fight the words from my stomach yet still screech out an acceptably normal response from my throat:

“NO! Yes... Absolutely.” Changing the subject immediately before I start laughing, “I'm more than happy to see you, Fatty. How are the kids?”

“Fucking incorrigible as always. What about you and your wife?”

“Well, ya know... She's satisfied. I think. HaaaHaHaa.” Doesn't matter, the laugh comes out anyway.

“Seriously, you might want to get that checked out. I know a good doctor down on 4th Street if you need a recommendation.”

I couldn't tell him about what happened with Lenny, I still hadn't slept since Friday night. Why even try to explain it? Fat-Nose was the type of bald-headed sonofabitch that is part teddy-bear and part terrifying nightmare. A blob of thick flesh covered in dark bristly hair, busting at all the seams. It's not so noticeable—dressed in a nice suit, but I can see him break into a sweat, he fans himself.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

“Maybe you should get rid of that undercoat.”

Fatty began to shed his jacket, and loosen his tie. Sopping wet and unappetizing, the sight of which I know will sour the taste of my breakfast. His uncomfortably protruding hairy male nipples folded under translucent cotton, brown and restrained. I wonder if maybe the buttons of his shirt are painted on his stomach, or whether his clothes are just an optical illusion entirely.

My face felt like it had gone through a stroke, contorted and droopy with mental stress and utter disgust.

Just a few transaction ledgers. These books. Those books. One set for the boss, one set for the man. It's not like the amounts are really all that drastic. No worse than taxes, much smaller percentages overall. It's when you get greedy is when you're caught. If you're sensible though, and can play the long game, a smaller percentage over time with lower risk is always preferable.

“Here.” I handed Fat-Nose the brown leather bound notebook. The one with the real numbers in it.

His sausage-like digits wrapped moistly around the spine of the hand written journal, neatly embroidered with a dark brown thread around the edges. Internally I cringed at how much his sweat soaked into the cover. It disgusted me. His manhood sullies my hard work.

If anyone were ever to go back though, they'd get buried in the expenses. It's actually quite amazing how many contractors a simple “Wash-a-teria” has to hire to get things done. If you own the building; there are plumbers, electricians, mechanics, exterminators, and cleaners. All of them are a pain in the ass, but they're all necessary.

Fat-Nose and I are related to a carpenter, Jimmy, he does good work when he's sober... But you know how it is, you can't choose family, and everybody in the family has to eat. So you find what you're good at.

Not more than a day or two after Fatty walked through my door to get the ledger did the Sheriff come knockin'. He brought Mr. Shirley with him too. The Dept. of Business Administration. Sounds really official, but they're the gangsters, not us.

My lip stretches across my top gums, stuck open in an awkward smile from how dry the air is, and I can feel myself clenching my stomach ever so slightly;

“Heh, heeehee, he HAHA, ha.. ha. Ha.”

III

There's something about the sunrise through the eyes of someone with six hours of constant buzz tainting their vision. The ringing of adrenaline pulses back and forth in the brain... Okay, I may have been drinking as well. I always carry a flask of a nice single malt. My father always said that if you're going to be a lush, you may as well be a classy one.

I had to keep taking sips throughout the day, just to get me through, keep my nerves calm. Not only because that poor clerk keeled over, but also to keep my hand steady. Each of the ledgers needed to look identical to untrained eyes, non-accountants. Plausible deniability all the way around. We had to sneak in even though it was our place. That's what the ape costumes were for. Should the wrong notebook get found by the wrong party; “well surely there's someone out there who wants to frame us. Just look at the other families out there.”

Shirley's knock frightens me, and for a brief second I wonder if I was talking out loud. If maybe her heard me through the door.

Mr. Shirley didn't really buy the story that I told him. And I couldn't help but let the sagging of my eyelids give way to my indulgences from the night before... Or maybe it had been longer than that? Surely, they had seen Fatty leave my place, but I wasn't about to volunteer that information.

“Heh. He. He. HEE. hE.“

Shirley pretends like he can't hear me, but he just doesn't want to admit that he might have to engage in any type of conversation that might be uncomfortable for him. Or anything that doesn't involve numbers. I get the sneaking suspicion that maybe he doesn't like people in general. Like maybe he enjoys sitting in the middle of a giant concrete room—reconstituted and unnaturally smooth stone walls bathed in the cold bright whiteness of fluorescent hell.

“Mr. Bloushe, I'm going to be very candid with you.” He tries to elicit a response from me with that statement.

No one ever calls me by my last name. They can never pronounce it... Or maybe they just like saying “Blue Shoes” better. Either way, the sound of Bloushe out of Shirley's mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck lazily lift in curious delight. Having a real name makes me feel like a real boy.

Did he really take the time to learn anything about little ol' me? The patsy accountant. I think not, and my amusement turns to resentment.

IV

“HA. HA!”

Their interrogation of me has blurred into a two hour conversation. I don't know what I might have said, or what they might know, and I'm just too tired, too drunk, and too delusional to care.

Something snaps. Whether it's the lack of sleep or drinking too much, maybe the paranoia born from a coitus of the two. I slide my hand through and underneath my jacket like I'm trying to hug myself from the cool crisp desert air that seems to have slipped in through the contracted wood of my modest one-story home. Nowhere to escape, only eleven-hundred square feet. So my hand slips in until I can feel the leather of my holster.

I judge that Mr. Shirley is approximately six feet in front of me, and the Sheriff hangs to his right, off in the distance by about three yards behind him.

The snap of the button on the stiff strap that holds my Remington Model 51 is no louder than a mouse fart. Neither one of the gentlemen even react to the sound, although it is quite a deafening * SNAP * for my ears.

I let off five rounds before I realized that my finger had even squeezed the trigger. The ringing in my ears was more than I thought it was going to be. And the taste of the gunpowder was almost salty in a metallic-sandy kind of way. Couldn't help but spit, but no matter how much I spit, I couldn't get it out. I could still feel the tiny grains embedded against the inside of my throat. So I try not to swallow.

9mm Browning is not a weak round. It may not be God's caliber, but it'll do in a pinch, and at close range it's dealdly.

Mr. Shirley dropped like a sack of potatoes on the first shot. I must've got him right square in the forehead or something. My next four rounds were in a box pattern of some sort, I don't know why, but I missed the Sheriff's face twice, but hit his neck and shoulder just fine. Behind him are two awkwardly placed bullet holes in the wall.

V

The blood from Mr. Shirley and Sheriff Mayhill has already started to soak into the white carpet. There was no saving it, and I wasn't about to buy a new carpet. Too fucking expensive. The viscous syrup of life is tantamount to a gelatinous inky substance. It's infuriating when it is isn't yours—I watch it spiraling deep into the fibers. For a moment though, I even appreciate the chaotic style by which it stains, and I briefly wonder if my blood would stain in the same, or a different pattern.

“Heh.”

Is there enough gas in the Packard Eight to get far enough away from town and still burn this place to the ground? Only one way to find out.

Something had to be done, and I scrounged around in the garage for some rubber tubing that wouldn't completely turn to mush as I was sucking the gas out of the ol' Pack's tank and into a bed pan. First the gas, and then we'll see if I even have any matches around.

Most people think gas goes up without much effort, but really if you throw a lit match into a puddle, the match just goes out. It's the fumes that ignite. So not only do you have to spread the gas around good so the whole place burns evenly, you also have to wait a little bit—contemplate if you're really going to do it.

If you wait too long, the fumes catch too quickly and it's difficult to get away.

Maybe I was just too fucking slow.

I didn't stick around on this Earth long enough to find out what they did with the three bodies. Or to find out who deduced the whats, whys, whens, and hows. Mr. Shirley—I don't feel so bad about. There's no way that tax sucking stiff sonofabitch had a wife or kids. His shirt was too cleanly pressed and his glasses were too pristine for any wife to put up it, or for any kids to recklessly counteract his sterility.

Sheriff Mayhill went to school with Lenny. We grew up together, but we each choose our own side of the coin... and sometimes it ain't all so clear.

Sure as shit though, it went down just the way we had planned it.

Feedback Received

What the judges liked about your story.

JUDGE 1

Such a great sense of 1930s mobster noir all the way down to the typeface—such a little detail that makes me immediately feel immersed in the world of the story. I particularly enjoyed our narrator's observations, bordering on absurdist as the sleep deprivation and trauma take over: “hairy male nipples folded under translucent cotton,” “absurdly jointed in their curved journey backwards from the force of his hand swooshing forward,” “reconstituted and unnaturally smooth stone walls bathed in the cold bright whiteness of fluorescent hell.” Such sharp, visceral details, all slightly uncomfortable to convey the physical and emotional distress Mr. Bloushe experiences. A favorite moment of mine: “Either way, the sound of Blouse out of Shirley's mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck lazily lift in curious delight. Having a real name makes me feel like a real boy.” Delicious alliteration, and such a fascinating insight to a character we've already spent a handful of action-packed pages with.

JUDGE 2

IMMEDIACY: You set an irresistibly confidential tone with your very opening lines: “People think that I'm crazy, but I can't help it. It's a nervous laugh.”

CORPOREAL COMEDY: Your sensate, somatic descriptions of Fat-Nose, Mickey, & Lenny weave a comedic thread throughout this tale, providing the requisite levity of a Crime Caper.

CLASSIC RATIONALIZATION: “The Dept. of Business Administration. Sounds really official, but they're the gangsters, not us.”

GREAT DESCRIPTION: Of the bureaucratic Mr. Shirley from the Dept of Business and Accountability!

JUDGE 3

The opening gives us an endearing trait belonging to our narrator; not necessarily that it would be endearing on its own, but the way he addresses it makes it so. It makes us want to be in his corner and see him do well – we all have our issues that we didn’t choose, after all. Injecting your protagonist with a relatable quality or circumstances right out of the gate is always good practice, but when dealing with a word cap like this, in a relatively short-form medium, it’s all the more vital. It’s an astute choice to get your reader on your protagonist’s side as soon as possible, so that we have that much more time to root for them. “Doesn't matter, the laugh comes out anyway.” This is a fun little aside to the reader. The humor veined throughout the story buoys the potentially dark subject matter, and you manage to strike a good balance throughout. The graphic descriptions of Fat-Nose’s physical characteristics and the way that his hirsute wetness affects his immediate surroundings is delightfully grotesque. Our narrator has a great voice. He’s charming with a roguish, rakish tilt, and given the subgenre you’re working in, it’s the perfect voice to carry a story like this in the first-person. Well done!

What the judges feel needs work.

JUDGE 1

I love a good non-linear narrative, but I'm curious if this story's momentum might actually be stronger and more captivating if it were told in linear order. There's something to be said about the slow burn of mania, and we lose some of that tension when we jump back to the Friday before; I had to reorient myself a bit, since we'd already established two scenes in the post-heist timeline. The story functions well as it is, but I wonder how it might feel to be immediately struck by the image of the clerk cracking into the counter, then be drug through the series of events, trapped in Mr. Bloushe's disintegrating headspace, with no way out other than the final self destruction. This narrative voice is so strong — I could see it developing even further if it were allowed to run loose all the way through the timeline, without the reader needing to stop to check where we are in time and space.

JUDGE 2

SWAMPED IN SWEAT: While, as mentioned, you have exceptional skills in conveying the visceral, it can dominate the plot too much, nauseatingly so at times, garnering more focus than the crime caper itself. And sometimes the descriptions are borderline incomprehensible, as with, “ Emotions and anxiety invisibly leaked from ears like an dark goo. I could see this unease in my periphery, like a physical manifestation of my doubt, coalescing from down and around my jaw, then up cheeks, the feeling dimmed my vision.”

UNCLEAR GOAL: Initially it appears that the focus of this swindle is to nab a few transaction ledgers. Then you have, “RIGHT! Grab the cash. Load the suitcase. Run around the corner outside in a comically simian manner.”

PARAGRAPH FORMULATION: In the world of Journalism, a study was done which determined that the beginnings and endings of paragraphs are what impact and stay with the readers most.

And these lines of yours are too choice to leave mulched in the middle of paragraphs: “A blob of thick flesh covered in dark bristly hair, busting at all the seams.” Ewwwww! “My father always said that if you're going to be a lush, you may as well be a classy one.” and “Either way, the sound of Bloushe out of Shirley's mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck lazily lift in curious delight.”

CONTRADICTORY TIME ELEMENT: You describe your Chapter III as, “The Sunday After @ 7:15pm” followed by the wonderful line of, “There's something about the sunrise through the eyes of someone with six hours of constant buzz tainting their vision.” The problem being: Sunrise doesn't arrive in the PM.

BEYOND THE PALE: If you review NYC MIDNIGHT's Genre Definition of a Crime Caper, you'll see that it entails, “A lighthearted crime story in which the main characters perpetrate one or more crimes—e.g. thefts, swindles, or kidnappings.” But once you have characters possibly crashing to their demise or a gun emerging with homicidal intent, the Crime is no longer a light-hearted Caper.

JUDGE 3

‘”NO! Yes... Absolutely.” Changing the subject immediately before I start laughing, “I'm more than happy to see you, Fatty.”’ The placement of the first of these lines feels a bit awkward, as not only did we get a substantial bit of description in between (nothing wrong there), but the conversation seemed to have moved on at this point. Once Fatty addresses the heat, our narrator responds to him by suggesting that he take off his undercoat. Then we get the description of Fatty’s less-than-appealing appearance, and only then does the narrator backtrack and answer the earlier question, which feels like it’s been relegated to rhetorical question territory at that point. If you decided to revisit this story, consider shifting the sequence around here so that this bit of dialogue flows a bit more naturally. “My lip stretches across my top gums … and I can feel myself clenching my stomach ever so slightly.” Be careful to be consistent with your tenses. We’ve been operating in the past tense up to this point, and here it switches to present tense. This may have been intentional, if the story is catching up to the present at this moment, but if so, it’s a bit confusing, since the story is partitioned into time-related segments (“The Sunday After,” “The Friday Before,” etc.), and there isn’t a time jump preceding this change. “My face felt like it had gone through a stroke, contorted and droopy with mental stress. Emotions and anxiety invisibly leaked from ears like an dark goo. I could see this unease in my periphery, like a physical manifestation of my doubt, coalescing from down and around my jaw, then up cheeks, the feeling dimmed my vision.” This passage feels a bit confusing, and it slows down the pacing of the read a bit. At first, it feels like this reaction is in response to what Fatty said about seeing a doctor to get “that” checked out (either in reference to our narrator’s uncertainty about pleasing his wife or about his laughing tick, it’s not 100% clear, but the laughing seems to be the winner, given its continuing presence throughout the story), but the description goes on to a point where this feels like it’s gotten very serious – a physical breakdown, a stroke, as they say. And then the next paragraph seems to imply that the brain’s concern is that of the dicey situation at hand – the break-in, the theft of the ledger, etc. Given that it’s not quite clear what our narrator is reacting to, and that the story moves right along past it, it might make for a breezier read if this paragraph were trimmed, thus making the story leaner and giving the reading experience a smoother flow.

Fearless (original)

I

The Sunday After @ 6:24 p.m.

“Mickey Blue Shoes, you slick motha fucker! What in the actual fuck is yous doin' here?”

“HaHAhahaHA...”

“What's wrong...? Not happy to see your favorite cousin? What have you been smoking the wacky tobbacy or somethin?“

I couldn't tell him about what happened with Lenny and I, I still hadn't really slept since Friday night. Why even try to explain it? Fat-Nose was the type of bald-headed sonofabitch that is part teddy-bear and part terrifying nightmare. A blob of thick flesh covered in dark bristly hair, busting at all the seams. It's not so noticeable—but when he's in a suit he breaks into a sweat and fans himself.

But we managed to do it. Break-in, steal the ledger, and if anyone happened to see us, all they would have seen are a couple of guys in monkey suits... Literally.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

“Maybe you should get rid of that undercoat.”

Fatty began to shed his jacket, and then loosen his tie. Completely sopping wet and unappetizing, the sight of which I know will sour the taste of my breakfast tomorrow morning. His uncomfortably protruding hairy male nipples folded under translucent cotton, brown and restrained. I wonder if maybe the buttons of his shirt are painted on his stomach, or whether his clothes are just an optical illusion entirely.

A dark flashback hits the back of my brain: The swaying of a lamp above my head, a moment in my memory snaps me back like a flash to the present. And I fight the words from my stomach yet still screech out an acceptably normal response from my throat:

“NO! Yes... Absolutely.” Changing the subject immediately before I start laughing, “I'm more than happy to see you, Fatty. How are the kids?”

“Fucking incorrigible as always. What about you and your wife?”

“Well, ya know... She's satisfied. I think. HaaaHaHaa.” Doesn't matter, the laugh comes out anyway.

“Seriously, you might want to get that checked out. I know a good doctor down on 4th Street if you need a recommendation.”

My face felt like it had gone through a stroke, contorted and droopy with mental stress. Emotions and anxiety invisibly leaked from ears like an dark goo. I could see this unease in my periphery, like a physical manifestation of my doubt, coalescing from down and around my jaw, then up cheeks, the feeling dimmed my vision.

Thankfully the situation wasn't as serious as my brain tried to make things out to be. Just a few transaction ledgers. These books. Those books. One set for the boss, one set for the man. It's not like the amounts are really all that drastic. No worse than taxes, much smaller percentages overall. It's when you get greedy is when you're caught. If you're sensible though, and can play the long game, a smaller percentage over time with lower risk is always preferrable.

“Here.” I handed Fat-Nose the brown leather bound notebook. The one with the real numbers in it.

My lip stretches across my top gums, stuck open in an awkward smile from how dry the air is, and I can feel myself clenching my stomach ever so slightly;

“Heh, heeehee, he HAHA, ha.. ha. Ha.”

II

The Friday Before @ 11:59 p.m.

The way we pulled it off is kind of genius, I have to admit. Gary, a diamond dealer from the south end of town... Well, he had connections. Guys like Lenny.

Lenny was the most extreme individual I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Would not put it past him to maybe do some things that would cause permanent sleep loss. Just fuck you up so badly in the head that you can't ever sleep normal again. Why kill someone when you can ruin their entire existence? The gorilla suits were his idea.

We don't know if the clerk who fainted died of a heart attack, or whether he survived the fall when his head cracked against the counter-top as he fainted.

I told Lenny we didn't need the pistols. A Gorilla and a Chimp are still imposing, especially when they're dressed in suits.

“Geezus Mickey... Did you see that!?!?” Lenny Exclaimed.

“You saw that right, I didn't even touch the mutha fucka, he, he just collapsed!”

“HAAA HAAHAH AHAA!” I grab my mouth, but my cheeks expand like a chipmunk and spittle sprays out through the sides of my mouth. I tell myself it's not funny, and that a jury doesn't like that kind of shit. I can do a year or two in prison, but I don't think I could deal with the shocks if the send me off to the nut house. Fatty's cousin was never quite the same after he came back from Eastern State Hospital.

As I gain composure and drop my hand to reveal an awkward smile, Lenny's slender fingers snap against my cheek in a clap that makes me wonder if I can taste blood. His fingers don't seem to move a lot of air, they're cold and bony, absurdly jointed in their curved journey backwards from the force of his hand swooshing forward. My vision goes black for a split second as I processes what just happened. I notice the clerk has slammed back against the wall, and that the ceiling light above is swaying to and fro.

RIGHT! Grab the cash. Load the suitcase. Run around the corner outside in a comically simian manner.

III

The Sunday After @ 7:15pm.

There's something about the sunrise through the eyes of someone with six hours of constant buzz tainting their vision. The ringing of adrenaline pulse back and forth in the brain... Okay, I may have been drinking as well. I always carry a flask of a nice single malt. My father always said that if you're going to be a lush, you may as well be a classy one. It was all I could think about.

I had to keep taking sips throughout the day, just to get me through, keep my nerves calm. Not only because that poor clerk keeled over, but also to keep my hand steady. Each of the ledgers needed to look identical to untrained eyes, non-accountants. Plausible deniability all the way around. We had to sneak in even though it was out place. That's what the ape costumes were for. Should the wrong notebook get found by the wrong party; “well surely there's someone out there who wants to frame us. Just look at the other families out there.”

A knock at my front door frightens me, and for a brief second I wonder if I was talking out loud.

Mr. Shirley, from the Dept. of Business and Accountability, he didn't really buy the story that I told him. And I couldn't help but let the sagging of my eyelids give way to my indulgences from the night before. Him and the Sheriff had knocked on my door no less than ten minutes from when Fatty stormed out... Or maybe it had been longer than that? Surely, they had seen him leave, but I wasn't about to volunteer that information.

“Heh. He. He. HEE. hE.“

He pretends like he can't hear me, but Mr. Shirley just doesn't want to admit that he might have to engage in any type of conversation that might be uncomfortable for him. Or anything that doesn't involve numbers. I get the sneaking suspicion that maybe he doesn't like people in general. Like maybe he might just sit in the middle of a giant concrete room, reconstituted and unnaturally smooth stone walls bathed in the cold bright whiteness of fluorescent hell.

“Mr. Bloushe, I'm going to be very candid with you.” He tries to elicit a response from me with that statement.

Did he really take the time to learn anything about little ol' me? The patsy accountant. I think not, and my amusement turns to resentment.

IV

The Sunday After @ 8:59pm.

“HA. HA!”

Their interrogation of me has blurred into a two hour conversation. I don't know what I might have said, or what they might know, and I'm just too tired, too drunk, and too delusional to care.

I judge that Mr. Shirley is approximately six feet in front of me, and the Sheriff hangs to his right, off in the distance by about three yards behind him.

I let off five rounds before I realized that my finger had even squeezed the trigger. The ringing in my ears was more than I thought it was going to be. And the taste of the gunpowder was almost salty in a metallic-sandy way. Couldn't help but spit, but no matter how much I spit, I couldn't get it out. I could still feel the tiny grains embedded against the inside of my throat. So I try not to swallow.

9mm Browning is not a weak round. It may not be God's caliber, but it'll do in a pinch, and at close range.

Mr. Shirley dropped like a sack of potatoes on the first shot. I must've got him right square in the forehead or something. My next four rounds were in a box pattern of some sort, I don't know why, but I missed his face twice, but hit his neck and shoulder just fine. Meanwhile, there were two awkwardly placed bullet holes in the wall behind him.

V

The Sunday After @ 10:16pm.

“Heh.”

Is there enough gas in the Packard Eight to get far enough away from town and still burn this place to the ground? Only one way to find out.

If you wait too long, the fumes catch too quickly and it's difficult to get away.

Maybe I was just too fucking slow.

Sheriff Mayhill went to school with Lenny. We grew up together, but we each choose our own side of the coin... and sometimes it ain't all so clear.

Sure as shit though, it went down just the way we had planned it.

What have I learned?

Lesson 1:

“Write drunk, edit sober.“ ~ Earnest Hemingway (probably.)

Actually, I think Writer's Digest [debunked that quote]() a number of years ago. Still! It's not bad advice, but I only had the evenings to do both, so I was usually sipping on something, mostly gin. Not to the point of falling asleep or coming back the next day to a sloppy word salad. Don't get me wrong, I do that sometimes, but it's shit that I write for myself at the end of a long Saturday night. Just notes to amuse sober me at a later date.

When I seriously sit down to write I limit myself to one or two drinks. It helps to just loosen me up and get me to put the first few words to the page.

In terms of editing, I basically finished the story in a single evening; thirty minutes of brainstorming and outlining, then maybe four to six hours of actual writing. By the end it was the bones of a story, at least.

We had an entire week to complete our story. The rest of the week I wouldn't necessarily consider writing as such. I moved sections around, tried to think about what details I needed to add, and just kept reading through it. Removing things here, adding things there, and just getting the idea to flow with interesting character interactions and making sure to develop the main character enough to where he was likable.

Lesson 2:

Dyslexia is a bitch.

I most certainly read through my story at least 10 times. Even had my wife read it at least once. Both of us still missed stuff. The judges they get for NYC Midnight are at least legit readers, and pointed out shit that definitely knocked me off for points... I don't know exactly what the scoring matrix is, but once I read the feedback and saw the errors, they were so blatantly obvious it was actually quite embarrassing. The one in particular were the timestamps.

During the editing processes I moved the sequence of events around... If I remember correctly it was all jumbled, but I believe I settled on basically just flipping the first and second chapters, everything else was in chronological order. My downfall was that I changed some descriptive text that implies the character is in witnessing the sunrise when the timestamp right above that sentence says “p.m.” I distinctly remember going through the document and checking each of the timestamps (there were only five of them.)

Next year I'll probably enlist at least one friend (even if I have to pay them with a home-cooked meal or a Steam game code or something) to help me. And for them to do one last read through and edit. I do have some friends in mind.

Lesson 3:

I like crime noir.

Quite honestly, I probably wouldn't have written a crime noir set in the 30s if it hadn't been this challenge. When you sign up, you're invested and it's real money on the line. So of course you try your damndest. The deadlines are ridiculous too, so there's really no time to go and read reference material or anything.

I've since looked into a bunch of the Detective pulps of the 30s and 40s, pulled out a few stories to read from the various public domain digests that I've found scattered about online, and... They're really fun! Now I have a whole new genre of reading that I wouldn't have really committed myself to. But, because I'm improving with my writing overall, and I'm committing myself to these competitions, I'm learning a lot more about what it is that I prefer to write.

Science fiction is always going to be a favorite genre of mine. But now I can take a story with a crime noir skeleton and just give it a fresh coat of chromium paint and ruby-electric eyes.

Lastly

Hopefully you enjoyed the story! NYC Midnight does have another competition coming up in May for a “flash fiction” challenge, but I'm not particularly interested in doing it. The microfiction challenge was as small as I want to get with my word count. Instead, f®iction has a quarterly competition that I'm going to enter.

I've already started writing a few drafts... In a way, the f®iction competition is harder. It's more like writing for an editor or a literary agent. There is one judge for each category, they give you a “what we're looking for” and they provide you with a short bio for the judge and what they've previously worked on. That's it. Seven thousand five hundred words is a big budget, but that's the maximum. The minimum is only a thousand words.

I'm not sure if this is entirely the case, but Brandon Sanderson has talked a lot about how he effectively just networked his way into the industry. Passed along his writing to an editor who was someone interested in purchasing that type of a story. Granted, that was traditional publishing, and he no longer advises trying to go that route to get traditionally published... Even if I were to self-publish, there has to be an audience for the writing, someone willing to spend a buck or two to want to read your story.

Wish me luck!