Writing contests are fun, right? A great way to exercise your noodle. They usually come with a theme and a deadline and you win something, even if it’s just a pat on the back.
NYCMidnight follows that pattern but takes it to the extreme with their annual rhyming story challenge. The timelines are super short (and get progressively shorter with each stage), the word length is strict, and the assigned themes are insane. Oh, and you have to tell a complete story and it has to RHYME!
Last year, I placed fourteenth with an honorable mention. This year I got knocked out after the second round, but I’m already planning to jump back in next fall. Good luck to all who made it through round two.
Here’s my favorite entry of this competition (Round one). The challenge was a rhyming story in 600 words or less, due in one week. The genre was comedy, the theme was silver-lining, and the piece had to express sympathy at some point.
Wrong Number
I rarely answer phone calls from people I don’t know.
But expecting a delivery, I swiped and said, “Hello?”
“Susan?” a husky voice said. “You’ve been on my mind.”
My gut said, end the call, but his voice was warm and kind.
“It’s Mark,” he said and paused. “We met a few years back.”
Lacking romantic prospects, I cut the guy some slack.
Hoping for a few more clues, I asked, “How have you been?”
“Good, but since that winter storm, I’ve longed to meet again.”
I flashed back to a blizzard. I was trapped in a hotel.
I met Mark at the bar, and we hit it off quite well.
A dentist, I believe he was; we ended up in bed.
I never asked the man if he was unattached or wed.
The memory still keeps me warm on lonely, sleepless nights.
“Still in Boston?” Mark inquired. “I’m looking over flights.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m home most weekends, but travel through the week.”
“Still handling stock?” he asked me. His tone was tongue in cheek.
His shorthand for a racehorse breeder came across as lame.
But I had some time to kill, so I played his little game.
“I am indeed,” I said. “How’s your drilling going?”
“My last job made a million. Business is really growing.”
“Thoroughbreds don’t pay that well,” I sheepishly replied.
“I’m sure your stock is solid. The market’s down worldwide.”
His well-intended sympathy got underneath my skin.
I’m a well-paid expert. I breed racehorses to win.
I brushed off the slight and said, “When do you plan to come?”
“I’m on an offshore rig right now, but my job is nearly done.”
“What was that?” I asked. “Whose teeth are you out there filling?”
“Teeth?” he said and chuckled. “I’m an oil man. I’m out here drilling.”
I must have drank too much that night and been out of my head.
Embarrassed to admit the truth, I stiffened and quickly said,
“I really enjoyed my time with you, snowed in at the Hotel Wight,
and speaking with you this morning has been a real delight.
But I think that maybe…”
Mark’s voice interjected—
“Pittsburg Courtyard is the place where you and I connected.”
We both processed these new facts for a silent stretch of time.
I was not his Susan, and this Mark was never mine.
Mark cleared his throat and said, “I feel like such a fool.”
“These things happen,” I replied. Trying to play it cool.
I almost swiped to hang up, but my instincts whispered, wait.
It had been seven months since I’d been out on a date.
Mark said, “Hey. I like you. Do you think that we could meet?
Maybe coffee or a lunch? No strings attached. My treat.”
I considered his request and said, “I’d like to get to know you.
Next Saturday? Cobb’s Cafe on Union avenue?”
We ended our strange phone call with embarrassing goodbyes.
Amused and overwhelmed, I let out a lengthy sigh.
Some people call it luck. I’ll just call it fate.
Not many mis-dialed phone calls turn into a first date.
I encourage everyone to try the NYC Midnight Rhyming Story Challenge next fall.
See you there!