My Challenge 2 Entry in the 2010 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge: The Jury Is Out
My last weekend, was consumed with the 2nd challenge stage of the 2010 NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge, a contest in which participants have 48 hours to create 1000-word stories. The group is divided into 20ish groups of 25. The members of each group share a 3-part prompt. Everyone takes part in the first 2 challenge stages and earns points. The top 5 point earners in each group over the first 2 stages, move on to the third stage.
The prompt we were given:
Genre: Drama >> Setting: A courtroom >> Object: A remote controlled car
I had to look up Drama last year and this year to try to figure out what exactly made for a dramatic piece. I was amazed after having a year to better understand Writing as a craft that last year's dramatic entry actually passed for Drama. It didn't seem to fit the mold, so I owe someone at NYC Midnight for the kind heart. This year, however, I was able to pull off Drama in better fashion, though no one would use it for a textbook example of the genre.
As is my tendency, I also stretched the setting and the concept of the object. The setting is the set of a television show that looks like a courtroom and the RC car ends up being little remote controlled things that move set scenery back and forth. ::Crossing my fingers::
I did okay in the first stage, earning 4th in my group, which translated into 18 out of a possible 25 points. Naturally, I'm hoping to do better this time around.
Here's my story.
The Jury Is Out
by Thomas McAuley
Flick and I had been part of the crew at the same TV show for most of a decade, so I figured I knew him pretty well. That day, he looked pale and distracted, quieter than his usual attentive self. He was making last-minute adjustments to radio-controlled rollers he'd built, like little cars he'd be using to move a jury booth back and forth during an upcoming courtroom scene. And I had just finished building polishing the fake emblem on the judge's bench. A thick curtain behind me separated us from, Phil Nuren, the star of the show, as he warmed up a live audience with tired jokes.
"What's up, Flick?" He'd shrugged off the question the first three times I'd asked him. "Bad weed or something?"
"What's wrong? Christa cheated on me, Gibbons. That's what's wrong."
Shit. I should have let him keep shrugging me off.
Read the rest �
Let me know what you think about it. I'm always open to honest critique if its constructive and balanced.