Surprising News, and Our First Review Post

What are contest judges looking for?

Library of Congress

We Got 1st Place!

… for Round 1. Still, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t pleased.

A few months ago our trio entered the NYCM Scary Story Contest, which was a pretty fun way to spend All Hallow’s Eve. At the time, we struggled with the word count constraints (400 words is so short), and we left the contest less-than-confident.

But sometimes you get the right judges for your story!

You can read our submission here.

Words From The Judges

NYC Midnight generally has three judges per round, who are paid some amount for their feedback. They are labeled by number, presumably so we can’t come to their house with our complaints.

What the Judges Liked

Judge 2549

Outstanding grasp of flash fiction principles, voice, and language to convey depth, despair, realization, and horror. This is masterful work. Specifically, the opening not only sets the season but also establishes the expectation of hot weather. Ironically, the story flips the script: a child burns up with fever while the outside temperature drops. Very clever. An economy of words, compressed, brief, and urgent, moves the story forward at the perfect pace, revealing a world that feels so much bigger than the one confined to the farm. Here, details matter: pink icicles, slushy antifreeze, and little bombs like "Antifreeze doesn't do that (freeze) until 35 below." This is excellent because the story resists telling the reader what to think, and we instantly understand something is horribly wrong and experience an emotional response because the story lets the reader take part in its discovery. And the discovery is worth the journey. Well done!

Judge 2306

I love the aura of magic and mystery that accompanies your frosty supernatural narrative. The descriptions of frostbite are frightening and morbid. Your narrative voice is emotive but slow-moving and chilling, and the story gives the reader new information at a good pace.

Judge 2531

This is a great short story. It has an excellent opening line that immediately engenders a sense of mystery in the reader and from there there's a sense of dread being built up until the inevitable and poignant climax. One moment that really stands out is when the girl asks "you too?" It really complicates the morality of the tale as it's clear the girl has little control over what she is doing and can only see the abuse she is suffering and has suffered in the past. It's excellent, complex storytelling.

What the Judges Feel Needs Work

Judge 2549

This story is basically publication-ready, but I'll offer a couple of minor suggestions to help provide a final polish. 1. Consider another piece of diction in this line besides "froze": But when she looked at me, I froze. The word appears multiple times in different forms, but, importantly, here it is too "on the nose" and doesn't work for the story to shed further light on the situation. 2. The very last line reveals that the story is what we call a "dead narrator" story, and that often makes it hard to publish. A tiny revision can change that. Instead of "the cold took us," try "waited for the cold to take us." The words seem hardly consequential in their difference, but it's enough for a reader to imagine the ending happens "off page" and not now. Therefore, the narrator is still alive to tell the story.

Judge 2306

I wanted a clearer idea of what compelled the protagonist not to kill the girl. Was it his own mercy, or does the girl have supernaturally compelling powers? I don't need this spelled out explicitly, but I'd like a bit more of a hint so I know what to make of the story's conclusion. I don't think you need the line 'the cold took us' at the end, as it pulls us a bit far away from our narrator and their perception of events (as in, they wouldn't be able to see the cold taking them because they were the ones being taken by the cold). I think it would be enough to have the narrator snuggling up next to Martha, with the ending being made clear through implication.

Judge 2531

One small note may be that the framing feels a little bit strange. It's not entirely clear from what point in time the narrator is narrating from as the story seems to end with him dying. If he is narrating from beyond the grave, which is perfectly acceptable, it would be good to make this clear at some point.

A True Group Effort

I happened to write the first draft of this particular story. At the time, I had a fourth character I was rather attached to, and they were a large source of pathos in the story. Miguel, always with the smart cut, decided to combine the character with Martha (the wife), dramatically reducing our word count and generally making the thing more efficient. On some level, I miss some of the build up I gave that character, and we went back and forth on what exactly we could cut without losing anything.

George did a truly massive amount of cutting and condensing this round, and his wife (she would never agree to put her name on the internet) helped to revise the original ending, which went with more of a “mystery monster” type of feel, was not particularly scary. We reworked it, which ended up being kind of a huge deal in terms of the overall vibe of the story.

A part of me wonders if this story should be extended, potentially adding back the original 4th character now that word cuts aren’t a thing, and adding a bit more of a slow burn. On the other hand, maybe the efficiency of this story is its selling point. Maybe next Halloween I’ll have a work-shopped version of it to share, and we can judge it ourselves then!

For now, I’ll share the first draft of “Child of Winter”, with all its imperfections, for the sake of showing the sheer extent of the group contribution.

The First Child of Winter

It was Summer in July, and it was snowing. First it was a small flurry, tiny crystals falling only to immediately melt in the wheat fields surrounding my farmhouse. I remember my wife, Martha, telling a lame joke about global warming.

Overnight the temperature dropped to 10°F, and the flurry started to stick. Martha was worried about the crop. I told her the wheat could take a little cold spell or two. In truth, I wasn’t sure.

Giles from the next farm over visited in the morning, bringing some church gossip. Martha wasn’t in the mood, but I understood his intention. He mostly ranches, so he offered to buy up some early grains as feed. He mentioned picking up a stranger, some kid, out in the cold. He’s a bit nosy, but Giles is a good guy.

The snow picked up. Me and Martha got our warmest clothes to brave the unfamiliar frost, using the wrong kind of shovels to clear out the snow piling over the doors. As we looked out over the shimmering whiteness, it was hard not to think it was beautiful.

That night the power went out. Snow must have taken out some power lines. We cranked the radiator up. Martha made a joke about farmers being super ready for the apocalypse, and it made me feel a little better.

We hadn’t seen Giles for a few days now. I decided to check up on him, but the truck wouldn’t start in the garage. When I looked under, pink icicles of coolant dripped with slushy antifreeze. Antifreeze doesn’t do that until 35 below.

Shivering under four layers and my thickest boots, I had to push Martha away as I walked out into steady snowfall. We were a small community, Giles was only about 3 miles out. “I’ll be back,” I said.

My heart sank when I saw the ranch. Snow piled high over the doors, through the barn windows I saw necrotic black cattle, frozen standing in their pens. I was smart to bring my shovel, and I broke in through the windows.

I was too late. Giles was frozen solid, fingers cracked off his hands. But he wasn’t alone.

I saw her shivering next to him, a girl I’ve never met. Clinging to his blue body, her face was feverish red.

I took her with me, taking extra layers from Giles. I had to carry her most of the way, and I worried the sweat would speed up our inevitable hypothermia.

She said she felt hot.

***

A week passed, and neither the snow nor the girl’s fever let up.

Martha started acting strangely. “How is she warm?” I’d never seen Martha so scared.

I was scared too. Why was she warm? The propane would run out soon, and me and Martha would freeze.

Would the girl?

She was sweating in the guest bed. I had my hatchet. She was skinny, emaciated. Thin. One swing would do it.

But when she looked at me, I froze. She scrambled out the bed, running past me as she discarded layers. After a moment, I ran after her, but the door was already open, the freeze was coming.

And she was running through the snow.

Last Thoughts

This was a bit of a wordy post! But I’d like to reflect a little on the advancements made by friends.

First things first, this thing was a whopping 136 words over word count. In a normal contest that’s practically nothing, but in a tight 400 words? That’s over a quarter of the final story.

And, no matter how you look at it, that’s a flat ending. Compared to the pathos (never my strong point) of the final product, with its sympathetic moments for both the story’s main characters and its monster, this version mostly leaves you with questions.

Now to pat myself on the back, a lot of the stories strong points (gross imagery and spooky overall theme) are present in this first draft. But ultimately, I was going to scrap this entirely before George ripped it apart into a shorter story and Miguel’s suggestions let us add some flavor back in.

If we ever revisit this, I’d like to try to add some of the original’s slower burn, and might even extend the ending to have slightly more information on our monster, as suggested by a forum reader.

Thanks as always for reading, and I hope the feedback we shared proves useful in your own writing ventures!