My second attempt at an NYC Midnight challenge was a reflection of the first, unfortunately.
NYC Midnight now emails me about new challenges, and the next one to come up was the Flash Fiction Challenge. I enjoyed the process last time, and the feedback was genuinely useful to me, so I figured this would be good for me, as well. And if I submitted on time, maybe even advance?
I registered April 9th for the challenge that would start on May 1st, 2026. Well, really at 11:59 PM on the 1st, so effectively May 2nd on the East Coast. But out here, I get the email at 8:59 PM on the 1st. This time, I would have 48 hours to write no more than 1000 words based on genre, location and objects.
Very like before, promptly at midnight (ET) on May 2nd, my assignment arrived. This time I was placed in Group 17. My genre was Action/Adventure, my location was a private beach, and the object I needed to include was a motion detector. Those elements had to appear somewhere in the story. I had until 11:59 p.m. two nights later, May 3rd, to figure out what I was going to do with them.
And this time I had 10 times as many words. I would have some room to write, no problems!
Well, Friday came, and I was stressed from work. The job that had my creative energy amped up was now depressing it to near nothing. I just had no ideas. I got the email late Friday, and looked at it. First complaint was that while I like to consume action adventure stories, I’ve never written anything like it. That’s not a real gripe. I know that. I knew it at the time, but I still let it delay me. I hemmed, I hawed, I dithered.
And then the time zone thing is a real issue. I have a strong history of last minute completions. All through school, assignments in leadership. Studying for an interview, even. And I have a high success rate with those.
But my subconscious is tied to midnight like nothing else in my life. It’s my cutoff for getting enough sleep. I talk to people in those terms, “I got to bed before midnight, so got enough sleep.” Or “I screwed up my schedule and was up nearly half an hour past 12 last night,” while I pour a strong coffee.
But 9 PM doesn’t have the same weight to my deep brain. So all through Saturday and Sunday, I continued to dither. Then as I was still decompressing from whatever was going on that day, my brain went, “dude, it’s almost midnight, get on the stick!” and ideas started populating in the grey matter. Then, I looked at the actual clocks and it was 10 PM.
Man, I yelled at myself. I’d missed the deadline, again! And I had twice the time! But I could only scream for a while before settling down. My subconscious also knew I could submit late. And I just kept on with the task at hand, pretending that midnight was the actual goal.
And the scene shaped itself cleanly in my head. Dude living on a private beach. He’s lonely, feeling supernumerary, sad and unmotivated. Crawls a garage sale sometime in the past, which has a metal detector for sale, he got that for a mere 5 dollars.
(Now, the challenge object was clearly “a motion detector” but my brain substituted metal detector for the initial creative run.)
I had my first draft done in less than 30 minutes. Counted it up. It was short of 1,000 by almost 200. So, I went back in to fill in some details, and round out the character.
That draft was just under the limit by less than a handful. And I’m happy with it. There’s no point in making it exactly 1000, you don’t get extra credit for that, even if you submit on time.
I read it aloud all the way through, and that’s when I noticed the difference in what I had (metal) versus what was needed (motion). But my story was too invested in the metal detector at this point, so I just had to find a place for the motion detector.
Well, now he’s in a borrowed place, doesn’t know it well, forgets little things, like turning off the alarm when he arrives home. So, I inserted a few words, less than a dozen, really, about that, and counted. Over 1000, of course.
So, I went on to tighten and edit, dropped a little description out and got it back down under the limit. Then, went to the NYC Midnight site, found the Late Entries section, and uploaded it.
I ended up really liking this story. It was less Stallone-style Action/Adventure and more like Inspector Gadget, but I felt it satisfied that requirement. The private beach was easy, and I shoehorned in the motion detector successfully.
Five Dollars
Bert had lived along this beach for all of two weeks. It used to be his parents’ place—somewhere they let him stay once in a while, now somewhere he just stayed.
He bought the metal detector at a garage sale down the street for five bucks. It gave him something to do. He walked the beach with it, idly scanning, trying not to feel the sadness that wasn’t just under the surface anymore. It was written all over him.
The beach wasn’t nearly as clean as you’d expect a private beach to be. There were oily patches, seaweed piling up along the tide line—and a dead fish, or what used to be one.
But it was empty. About as empty as he felt, which counted for something.
The detector settled into a steady rhythm. A low hum, then a soft beep. Hum… beep. Hum… beep.
It chirped faster as he swept it over a clump of seaweed and what he thought was the dead fish.
He nudged the mess aside with the flat disc at the bottom of the detector.
It was an arm.
And on it—was that a Rolex?
He just stood there for a second, trying to process that this was an arm, and this was a Rolex.
He didn’t have his phone on him. If he ran back to the house, the tide might come in and take it out to sea. But he’d seen enough CSI to know he shouldn’t touch it.
Where was the rest of the body?
That made it worse.
The water was already creeping closer, small waves lapping at the shore.
He grabbed the seaweed tangled around it and pulled—careful, very careful not to touch the arm itself—dragging it up the beach.
There was a driftwood log between the creeping foam and the house. He dragged the grisly package to the other side of it.
It should hold. Long enough.
He set the metal detector against the log, angling it to cover the arm, and ran—no, sprinted—the two hundred fifty yards back to the house.
He tore through the back door and rushed around like a madman.
Where was his phone? Desk? No. Kitchen? No. Bathroom—
The alarm chirped.
He froze.
The motion sensor. He’d forgotten to disarm it when he came in.
Ten seconds. Maybe less before it called it in.
He lunged for the panel and punched in the code.
His pants were on the floor. There.
He yanked the phone free and started dialing 911 as he moved back toward the door, already looking down the beach.
That’s when he saw them.
Men with guns.
Walking along the shoreline.
One of them pointed at the metal detector sticking up behind the log.
Why did I leave it like that? I knew where it was. I didn’t need a flag.
Without thinking, he ran.
He reached the log just ahead of them, kicking sand over the seaweed as he grabbed the detector.
“That yours?” one of them called.
“Yeah—yeah, it’s mine. I left it here. Had to run back to the house.”
He forced a shrug. “Bathroom.”
He lifted the detector slightly. “Can I help you with something?”
They weren’t brandishing the guns. If anything, they kept them slightly behind themselves—visible, but not pointed.
They had to know he’d seen them.
Still, they didn’t raise them.
They just watched him.
“Were you out here ten minutes ago?”
“Yeah,” he said, lifting the detector a little. “Just looking for whatever—quarters, bracelets, anything metal. Picked this up at a garage sale.”
The smaller one said, “I had one of those. Wasted my time.”
Bert shrugged. “Yeah… that’s kind of why I’m out here. Finding a way to waste some time.”
“I found some bullets once,” Bert added quickly. “Fired ones. Not in shells or anything—more like… musket balls.”
He had no idea why he was lying. Especially about something like that.
“Yeah? On this beach?”
“Well—yeah. Over there, under the pier.” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t know. Didn’t there used to be a carnival or something? Shooting gallery, maybe.”
The one who’d been staring at him so intensely finally snorted, then jerked his head toward the other man.
They turned and walked away.
Bert stood there, watching them go.
A few minutes later, he finally exhaled.
What the hell was he thinking?
Who were those guys?
And what was he supposed to do now?
The phone squelched.
“Hello? Hello? This is 911. Is this an emergency?”
He raised it. “Maybe,” he said. “I found something… on the beach.”
He almost said he might need a hand with this.
He groaned instead.
“Sir? Are you in pain?” the operator asked.
“No,” he said, still catching his breath. “I just ran two hundred fifty yards faster than I have since I was a teenager. I’m a little out of breath.”
He glanced down the beach.
“Could you send someone out to—”
Several shots rang out near the pier.
He flinched, then forced himself to keep talking.
“—my house. It’s about five hundred yards east of the pier. On the beach.”
He lowered the phone slightly.
Looked down at the arm.
“I wonder if they’ll let me keep the watch.”
A few notes about this. This is not my typical style of writing. It’s almost a listicle. Short, punchy sentences that substitute for a paragraph. That’s a very modern online version of writing. I leaned into it this time because that felt very action/adventurery.
And secondly, this is quite a bit shorter than the thousand words that I had been skirting in my second draft. In tightening things up, I took out a lot of unnecessary words, but as you might see from the judges’ results—or feedback, rather—I could’ve cut still more.
I received my confirmation that it had been received on May 6, with the additional notation that it was after the deadline and that I’d still get feedback, but I would not advance in the competition. I already knew that, but getting confirmation of it made me a little bit more depressed. You know, a little bit.
Now, just like last time, I will use the designators Judges A, B and C, just to make sure that I don’t step on any confidentiality toes.
Judge A said:
“I enjoyed the illustrative language, as well as Bert’s humorous narrative voice. I appreciated Bert trying his best to preserve the evidence and act quickly before the tide came in. I enjoyed his quick response to intervene when he saw the strangers approaching his metal detector and the arm. I was amused by his attempt at conversation with the strangers, all while 911 was waiting in his pocket.”
But this is what Judge A thought needed work:
“This piece has a great foundation. Moving forward, I suggest playing with word choice to improve the flow of sentences in a few areas. One example is ‘the phone squelched.’ To squelch is more of a wet noise, like a gurgle or slurp, or it’s to smother something metaphorically. I think the intended word might be something closer to ‘squawked’ or ‘warbled.’ I also wondered what the guys were shooting at over by the pier? Why wasn’t Bert concerned enough to tell the operator about gunfire?”
I actually laughed at that a little bit because the judge had a little questionable grammar in that response, but you have to forgive it. They’re not really writing an essay; they’re giving you bullet points in paragraph form.
But I did understand very clearly what this one was saying about the word choice I used. “Squawked” would’ve indeed been better. As for why he didn’t tell the operator, he was still mid-call with them. He was wondering aloud while the operator was talking in his ear. I guess I didn’t make that nearly clear enough.
Now, Judge B started with:
“I enjoyed the slow reveal of the arm (‘and what he thought was the dead fish’). It was immersive (we’re uncovering it like the character is), and it is well placed. You ease us into the narrative for about 180 words, establishing the location and the character (Bert is depressed), then you hooked us with ‘It was an arm.’ Suddenly, the reader is flooded with questions, and they will have to find out the answers.
“There were several obstacles, big and small, in here that kept energy high. Bert has to move the arm without touching it, he sets off the motion detector alarm, men appear with guns, are about to discover the arm. Bert has to react to these complications, to take action (like distracting the men).
“‘There were oily patches, seaweed piling up along the tide line—and a dead fish.’ This gives us a sensory layout and the atmosphere.”
And what Judge B didn’t like:
“‘…and ran—no, sprinted—’ This is a bit of an awkward construction. Your prose would be stronger if you simply came to the more specific, more energetic word right away (‘and sprinted’).
“‘Why did I leave it like that? I knew where it was. I didn’t need a flag.’ — We’re suddenly in first-person narration for a paragraph. If this is supposed to be internal dialogue, you want to signal it with italics. Otherwise, it reads like a mistake.
“I found myself very intrigued by this story, but it felt a little unfinished. You present a compelling mystery, but we never really get any closure. We didn’t get a hint of who the men are, of their connection to the arm, of the arm’s owner. Do you want to give the reader a hint, even if you don’t have an outright answer? Otherwise, they are going to feel they have only gotten the first 2/3 of the story. For example, is Bert listening to a news broadcast about a local mafia war (and the implication is this body is part of it)? Or does Bert live near a horse racing track and there are rumors about bookies using the beach as a dump site for people with extreme debts? We seem to have a victim, and we seem to have perpetrators in the two men with guns, but if we are denied context like motivation, it’s hard to get invested in the narrative.”
Okay, they had a lot of ideas for me. Maybe she. I totally get the “ran—no, sprinted.” I kind of wanted to show an elevation in tempo, but I guess they’re right: just “sprinted” would be a better construction.
As for the context of everything, no, I don’t think that he was listening to the radio. Everything he turned on the radio reminded him of his depression, so he certainly wasn’t going to listen to news reports. He just has consumed a lot of media, and he knows if he sees a severed arm, then he has to take care of calling the police and taking care of it. He sees guys with guns, he’s going to assume they’re up to nefarious deeds.
I can see how you might want more explication, but I disagree with it.
Also, the change in tense—yeah, I get that, and I will fix that in my revised version. That is a very good note.
Now we get to the final judge, Judge C.
Positive:
“The moment he sees the men with guns is a great point of tension for the story. It builds a nice sense of conflict with the narrative and opens up the suspense to further drive us into the adventure of Bert’s day.”
Just as terse in the negatives, they say:
“The structure breaks things up in a way that feels disjointed and muddles the pacing. The dialogue with the men with guns also feels a bit disconnected from any sense of urgency, which diminishes the preceding tension after that point.”
This one really could’ve helped me more, because this just seemed wrong to me. That discussion with the guys with guns—he was distracted by trying not to indicate he had hidden an arm. He was distracted by his beating heart. He had just sprinted a couple hundred yards, and I really thought that was how that sort of tension would intrude upon a conversation.
But I will take a look at it again and see if maybe it couldn’t be improved. I’m not promising anything, though.
Five Dollars (Revised)
Bert had lived along this beach for all of two weeks. It used to be his parents’ place—somewhere they let him stay once in a while, now somewhere he just stayed.
He bought the metal detector at a garage sale down the street for five bucks. It gave him something to do. He walked the beach with it, idly scanning, trying not to feel the sadness that wasn’t just under the surface anymore. It was written all over him.
The beach wasn’t nearly as clean as you’d expect a private beach to be. There were oily patches, seaweed piling up along the tide line—and a dead fish, or what used to be one.
But it was empty. About as empty as he felt, which counted for something.
The detector settled into a steady rhythm. A low hum, then a soft beep. Hum… beep. Hum… beep.
It chirped faster as he swept it over a clump of seaweed and what he thought was the dead fish.
He nudged the mess aside with the flat disc at the bottom of the detector.
It was an arm.
And on it—was that a Rolex?
He just stood there for a second, trying to process that this was an arm, and this was a Rolex.
He didn’t have his phone on him. If he ran back to the house, the tide might come in and take it out to sea. But he’d seen enough CSI to know he shouldn’t touch it.
Where was the rest of the body?
That made it worse.
The water was already creeping closer, small waves lapping at the shore.
He grabbed the seaweed tangled around it and pulled—careful, very careful not to touch the arm itself—dragging it up the beach.
There was a driftwood log between the creeping foam and the house. He dragged the grisly package to the other side of it.
It should hold. Long enough.
He set the metal detector against the log, angling it to cover the arm, and sprinted the two hundred fifty yards back to the house.
He tore through the back door and rushed around like a madman.
Where was his phone? Desk? No. Kitchen? No. Bathroom—
The alarm chirped.
He froze.
The motion sensor. He’d forgotten to disarm it when he came in.
Ten seconds. Maybe less. Then the alarm system auto-dialed the police about a possible intruder.
He lunged for the panel and punched in the code.
His pants were on the floor. There.
He yanked the phone free and started dialing 911 as he moved back toward the door, already looking down the beach.
That’s when he saw them.
Men with guns.
Walking along the shoreline.
One of them pointed at the metal detector sticking up behind the log.
Why had he left it like that? He knew where it was. He didn’t need a flag.
Without thinking, he ran.
He reached the log just ahead of them, kicking sand over the seaweed as he grabbed the detector.
“That yours?” one of them called.
“Yeah—yeah, it’s mine. I left it here. Had to run back to the house.”
He forced a shrug. “Bathroom.”
He lifted the detector slightly. “Can I help you with something?”
They weren’t brandishing the guns. If anything, they kept them slightly behind themselves—visible, but not pointed at anything.
They had to know he’d seen them.
Still, they didn’t raise them.
They just watched him.
“Were you out here ten minutes ago?”
“Yeah,” he said, lifting the detector a little. “Just looking for whatever—quarters, bracelets, anything metal. Picked this up at a garage sale.”
The smaller one said, “I had one of those. Wasted my time.”
Bert shrugged. “Yeah… that’s kind of why I’m out here. Finding a way to waste some time.”
“I found some bullets once,” Bert added quickly. “Fired ones. Not in shells or anything—more like… musket balls.”
He had no idea why he was lying. Especially about something like that.
“Yeah? On this beach?”
“Well—yeah. Over there, under the pier.” He gestured vaguely. “I don’t know. Didn’t there used to be a carnival or something? Rounds from the shooting gallery, maybe.”
The one who’d been staring at him so intensely finally snorted, then jerked his head toward the other man.
They turned and walked away.
Bert stood there, watching them go.
A few moments later, he finally exhaled.
What the hell was he thinking?
Who were those guys?
And what was he supposed to do now?
The phone squawked.
“Hello? Hello? This is 911. Is this an emergency?”
He raised it. “Maybe,” he said. “I found something… on the beach.”
He almost said he might need a hand with this.
He groaned instead.
“Sir? Are you in pain?” the operator asked.
“No,” he said, still catching his breath. “I just ran about five hundred yards faster than I have since I was a teenager. I’m a little out of breath.”
He glanced down the beach.
“Could you send someone out to—”
Several shots rang out near the pier.
He flinched, then forced himself to keep talking.
“—my house. It’s about seven hundred yards east of the pier. On the beach. And I just heard some gunfire, and I don’t think it’s the old shooting gallery.”
He lowered the phone slightly.
Looked down at the arm.
I wonder if they’ll let me keep the watch.
I think I addressed all the edits those judges were looking for that I’m willing to. I like leaving it mysterious. I like leaving it unsettled. This is 1,000 words. This is not a novella. It’s not a novel. It’s not even a full chapter.
Now, I have read books in which the first chapter could be just 1,000 words. Very successful writers. Robert Jordan could not write a 1,000-word chapter if his life depended on it, but Stephen King can. John Grisham can, and many, many others.
But this might make a preface exactly as it is, because it sets up what is going to be coming.
But, I’m going to be honest here. I have not thought about who the bad guys are. I have not thought about why they were shooting their guns. I have not thought about what Bert will do after the thought of whether he can keep the Rolex.
This was a moment in time that I have not overanalyzed, which is actually progress for me.
And…because I don’t know what the next step in a writing challenge is gonna be. I haven’t succeeded in getting a story in on time to even be considered, never mind whether it’s good enough if I do submit on time.
It might be that they want you to revise this story and expand it. That would be cool. At that point, I would think more about Bert and the bad guys and the Rolex. But as it is, I’m perfectly happy with the vision that I made initially and the revision I just presented.
I think I improved a little bit from the last entry. I had more room to grow, more room to develop things. I still had some mixed tense issues from the previous challenge, so I really need to pay more attention to that.
But for just the second time I’ve ever entered a writing contest, this is not bad.
The next contest has already been announced, and it’s a 500-word fiction challenge. I’m going to go ahead and enter that. It’s half of what this one was, but five times what the last one was.
So, a little room to grow, but some walls to hold me in.
