Whatever brought him in here ain’t gonna be what sees him out. Between the empties on the bar and the slop under his chair, it’s more like to be an ambulance than a woman.
Fella lifts his head ‘n’ shows me four fingers. Lays down again.
“You sure, mister?” I ain’t never asked that question, but Providence moves me merciful. It ain’t water he’s drinkin’.
But he grunts, and I ain’t one to turn down coin.
The ‘shine disappears from the glass faster’n I poured it, though I ain’t seen him move.
I turn ‘round to toss the bottle when a queer feeling runs up my spine. ‘Fore I kin turn back, the door bangs open. I drop the empty. Fella don’t twitch a muscle.
Spurs cross the floor. I hold my water, if barely.
“You McCready?”
Takes a second to remember that’s my name.
“Yar.”
“You seen this man?”
I turn slower’n winter sap. There’s a paper hangin’ in the air with a pretty good likeness of Fella on it. The arm holdin’ it ends in a silver star.
I give the marshal a look like Momma gave when I asked a damn fool question.
I’m ‘bout to sass her some about Fella bein’ right in front of her, but when I look down, he ain’t there.
Marshal and I look at each other. Then she shakes her head and stomps out. As she goes, I hear her huffin’ into a walkie: “Slipped away again. Musta made me.”
Guess I was wrong: was a woman saw him out.
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.
She tiptoed down the street in battered high heels, purse clutched to the midsection of her bulky coat, eyes lingering on each department store window as she pushed against the current of bodies streaming past her in the holiday rush.
I watched her slow progress, camouflaged in the falling darkness by my cape as I paced her from adjacent rooftops, praying sirens wouldn’t summon me away again, that this time I could see her home, perhaps even speak to her. Let the city fend for itself for an hour.
We turned the corner out of the shopping district, twinkling red and green freckles on her cheeks fading as she clicked down the sidewalk, the swoosh of my leap between two brownstones covered by the swish of her brown hair as she looked furtively around before crossing the street.
Then there it was. After weeks of cold vigils and interrupted escorts: her front door.
A burnt-out street light encouraged me to silently drop down into the alley beside her.
But as I detached from the shadows into her full view, my gut froze as solid as the ice we stood on. There was no flicker of recognition. No sign she knew the mask. No excitement at my presence.
What there was was mace. Lots and lots of mace. And a devious smile.
It wasn’t the first time I’d seen her.
I wish it had been the last.
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.
No Novel November is officially over! Here’s my debrief of the challenge, plus my personal takeaways and future plans.
I can’t believe I did it, you guys. 30 stories in 30 days (read them all here), and I only got behind once.
I learned so much.
So buckle up, kiddos, because it’s time for a debrief.
…not that kind, put your pants back on.
How it started
If I could produce a drawing every single day, maybe I could parlay that structure into writing.
The idea for No Novel November came to me during Inktober, when you do one drawing a day for a month. I tried it as a fun thing to do with my actual-artist sister-in-law, but not expecting anything from myself. About halfway through, I realized, “Hey, I can actually do this.” And I did!
The whole experience shifted my perspective of what’s creatively possible. Since choosing the stay-at-home-parent life, I’ve struggled mightily to continue even thinking of myself as a creative person, much less to generate any actual work. But if I could produce a drawing every day, maybe I could parlay that structure into writing.
November is traditionally National Novel Writing Month, but I knew my toddler-bound schedule wouldn’t let me write 1667 words each day to win. I had to find something else.
I considered drabble and six-word stories but found them too restrictive. Standard short stories were too long for daily production; same for flash.
Microfiction, though, had promise. Shorten it to 250 words (a page in editing terms), add a prompt list to springboard from, and it actually sounded doable.
I fished for interest on social media and was surprised so many people wanted in. NaNoWriMo can be daunting, and I appeared to have hit a vein of writers itching to stretch their muscles but who, like me, weren’t able (or motivated) to novel.
And thus No Novel November was born!
The challenge
I never expected so many people to play along, much less dedicate themselves to the challenge so wholeheartedly.
Perhaps the most surprising thing about how this went down was how many people jumped on board. I expected a handful of friends to join, but we wound up with 65 in the Facebook group and a handful more Twitterers—almost all people I don’t know!
When I realized that interest was way higher than anticipated, my Type 1 brain kicked in, and things shifted from “casual writing thing” to “official community event.” I wrote a miniseries about writing microfiction for the FB group, made shareables, created a couplehashtags, and even spooled up the ol’ dusty newsletter. Srsbzns.
All told, we had nearly 20 regular contributors, and several opened themselves up for critique. Reading everyone’s stories each day was by far my favourite part of the challenge. While I’d originally planned for that, I hadn’t planned on providing feedback for everyone who asked. Which I did. Daily. It was a hell of a lot more work than I bargained for, but truly a joy; the stories were so good and the writers so invested that I couldn’t not.
In the end, roughly 10 people “won” No Novel November. I never expected that many people to play along, much less dedicate themselves to the challenge so wholeheartedly. Even those who fell off the wagon along the way are insanely precious to me. The challenge was about just doing the dang thing, and they did! I’m bursting with den mother pride.
What I learned
If I could spin an entire world with characters and plot in 250 words in under an hour, what other projects could I undertake?
This challenge took the revelation I had with Inktober, slammed it down on the table, and demanded another round from the bartender. In October, I realized I could create something every day; November opened my eyes to the larger implications of reliably generating new, complete stories every single day within strict limitations. If I could spin an entire world with characters and plot in 250 words in under an hour (and not always all at once), what other projects could I undertake?
I could write mini posts every day. I could write a microfic once a week. I could write a flashfic once a month. I could finish Apple of Chaos in a year. I could do all of those things at once.
Whoa.
For the past 60 days, I’ve done what I’d thought was impossible. This challenge showed me how I’ve been limiting myself and opened up a world of possibility that’s both tantalizing and daunting. Rather than diving in headlong, like I usually do, I’m taking my time to see what develops. It’s all too glorious to look at directly.
Also, doing 30 days of feedback for 4-6 people was like boot camp for my consultation and editing skills: grueling at times, but oh so satisfying in the end. I loved the puzzle of each story, looking for its gems and pitfalls, then presenting them to the author in a loving, yet professional way; I loved their delight at finding the potential in their own work even more.
What was most revealing, though, is that I never got tired of doing it. I seemed to have boundless patience and energy for reading and critiquing, asking questions and finding answers. And if I’ve learned anything about finding your path, that’s the neon sign pointing you in the right direction.
Going forward
I can do more. I can write more. And I’m going to.
You might have noticed that I failed to post three of the 30 stories here on the blog and missed even more social media. Never fear! Those stories will have another life in the near future. I can’t say more because I promised the newsletter crew they’d hear first (so get on it if you want to hear secrets), but it’s gonna be good.
I’m also spending some time meditating on what to do next. I love the idea of a Fiction Friday here on the blog, and y’all know how I feel about Apple of Chaos being undone. But there’s also a part of me that wants to do spiritual writing. I know there’s a place for all of that somewhere; I just don’t know where yet.
What I do know is that I can do more. I can write more. And I’m going to.
PS: For those of you asking, YES, this will be an annual thing. No Novel November will ride again in 2020! I bought the URL and everything.
ALSO: I suspect we’ll do another microfiction challenge in March or May for alliteration, so stay tuned.
My fingers brush the ledge, the tips of my boots barely
touching the cavern floor, the rest of me teetering over an open pit.
Almost…there….
I wobble and throw myself backwards onto my pack. Any other
expedition, and I’d have gone home already. But returning empty-handed isn’t a mere
academic failure this time. This time, the fate of humanity is at stake.
I know. It sounded stupid in the proposal, too. But this
isn’t just any artifact.
Muscles shaking, I get to my feet and glare at the gap. I’m
so close I can see its light reflected on the ceiling of the chamber above—I just
have to get up there.
Only one thing left to try.
I shed everything with weight, and before I can talk myself
out of it, I’m running as hard as I can, flinging myself through the air, arms
outstretched—all in. My hands smack solidly on stone. I scrabble up, dragging
myself to safety against a large boulder.
On top of which rests a glowing silver mirror.
Breath ragged and hands shaking, I grip the frame and raise
it to my face. “Show me my true worth,” I whisper.
I wait for the image to change, to reveal my soul’s hidden
value, to transform me into someone beautiful or rich or successful.
But nothing happens.
I wait longer. Still no change.
Eventually, it dawns on me that it won’t, no matter how long
I look.
That’s when I start to cry. Not because the mirror is a fake, but because it works. Humanity isn’t ready for this. What will happen to society when people learn that true worth can’t be earned or bought—that they already have it?
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.
The cold only bothers him first thing in the morning. Once
he’s up and moving, he barely notices. But right now, lying in his empty bed surrounded
by an Eastern seaboard winter, his body aches to its marrow.
The other agents at the Supernatural Cases Division think he’s
invincible, but it’s only half true. Inside, he’s a patchwork of grafts and
mends. He may not need casts or bed rest, but broken bones magically healed still
leave their mark, still remember their weakness when the weather shifts.
He grunts with the effort of swinging his legs to the floor.
The comminuted femur complains as he stands, his slight weight too much for the
patch yet. A trio from the left foot creaks in agreement, chorusing with ribs
six through twelve as he stretches, hitching at a shoulder dislocated so many
times he’s lost count.
Moving warms the blood in stiff muscles as he washes his
face. Long fingers with round knuckles slide over a thin jaw calloused at the
hinge, glide across fine hair hiding sutures opened and closed. Thankfully,
brushing his teeth doesn’t raise any alarms.
Body done with its complaints, Jack Alexander slides on his ubiquitous black suit like a second skin that covers his fractured skeleton and steps out into the frozen DC air, wondering how today will try to break him.
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.
