March Madness
Last week Wednesday I found out that I would be advancing to the final round of the NYC Midnight’s ’25-’26 Micro Fiction contest. My story placed 3rd in the group, with the top 5 moving on. Which means that as of last Friday at midnight, just as the March Madness run came to an end for our beloved Spartans, it was time for me to lace ‘em up for one more story to be submitted by Sunday at 11:59 pm.
I can’t say that any one of the stories I drafted, including the piece I chose to submit (with some great guidance and support from family and friends), felt like a contest winner. Of course, self-doubt cannot be extricated from the process of writing or submission. When I pick up one of my first ideas and run with it, I question, right up to the submission deadline, whether I should have brainstormed more alternatives. Perhaps I too eagerly followed a vein of fool’s gold when the next swing of the creative pickax would have revealed a bonanza of the real thing. Or, as it was in this case, I question if my focus was spread thin by three different stories precisely because none of them were strong enough to stand out.
The latter variety of doubt haunted me in the 2nd round of last year’s competition. Ultimately, I placed 5th out of 5 at that time, lucky to advance to the finals in a genre (Romance) that didn’t come to me as naturally as the genre of Ghost Story had in round 1, apparently. I wrote and considered four or five different stories for the genre of Romance, the action smelling food, and the word, “alert.” I will continue to avoid posting anything related to this year’s competition yet, given certain rules about sharing submissions for the current contest. The following is my 2nd round submission from last year (Romance, smelling food, “alert”). I know, I know … this is the one you picked out of four or five options?
An Apple a Day
Our kids came home last night, my love. Slept in their old rooms.
“You kept my pink sheets,” says our sweet Sara.
“I washed them.”
“I can box up my stuff. You could have a sewing room, Mom,” says our undying pragmatist, Henry.
“I don’t sew.”
“Maybe it’s time for a hobby?” Sara offers.
I slice an apple.
“There are … other fruits, Mom.”
“Your father prefers apples.”
And I like the aroma. Some people say they have no smell. I think maybe they’ve just picked the wrong apples.
I close my eyes, so the sense of smell is alert, and the memory is sharp when I inhale: the scent of cold pine, like when you came in from chopping wood; the hot cider we spiked when no one was around; your aftershave.
I can feel them exchange glances from the other side of the counter, silently daring the other to take charge as I spiral Honeycrisp segments around the edge of a plate.
“Mom,” Sara has lost the game of chicken. “Dad’s not coming for his morning apple today.”
“I know.”
“Nor tomorrow,” says Henry.
“I know.”
“Have you been cutting apples for Dad this whole year?” It’s not really a question.
“I just like the smell!”
Our kids slink into the next room for a conspiratorial huddle.
I gather the slices into a plastic bag and place them in the fridge with the others.
Maybe I’ll try sewing, my love. Don’t worry, I won’t forget your apples.