This story is part of the longer blog post, Two Stories in Twelve Hours, where I detail the events of writing for the finale of the NYC Midnight 250-Word Microfiction Challenge writing contest (contest results are currently pending).
5,400+ people entered the competition back in October and I am one of only 125 writers who qualified to move on to compete in the final round, so the pressure was on.
The way the contest works is: you receive a prompt at 11:59 PM containing a required genre, action, and word. You then have 24 hours to write a 250-word (maximum) short story incorporating all three.
Because this was the finale, we weren’t given a required genre this time. We were, however, still given a required action and a required word.
My prompt was:
GENRE: Open
ACTION: Collapsing
WORD: “Stain”
I wound up writing two stories that day. My first story, ”Superheroes Anonymous,” wound up being unusable for a number of reasons I detail in the longer post. This is the latter story and my contest entry.
The idea for the story came to me about 2.5 hours before the deadline, so I was feeling pressed for time. More accurately, I wanted to dissolve into a mini-ball of repressed panic any time I couldn’t figure something out right away, became firmly convinced that a family of gremlins had taken up residence inside of every time-telling device in my apartment to make the numbers move by at lightening speed as they held time itself captive to their whims, and had no other choice but to work as quickly as I could.
I felt as though I were simultaneously hovering outside of my body, grasping, tugging and pulling to be let back in—to have a solid state to ground myself to this plane of existence and reality once more—and also cruelly trapped within it—tangled up in the sinews, weighed down by bones and muscle that ached as they collaborated to move dancing fingers across a keyboard, and feeling the pulse of my beating heart conducting the entire orchestra from deep within the cavern of my chest.
…I realize that what I am describing is stress. I was anxious.
I wound up submitting the story right before the deadline and have felt drawn back to it. One day, I’m going to expand upon this universe and explore the different goodies, relationships, and adventures within it.
Good Kitty
Lucinda stretches, luxuriating in the heat rising up from the volcanic lair’s floor.
Life as a super-villain’s beloved cat is good: treats and snuggles flow freely, and Lucinda gets to menacingly purr from the cradle of her mistress’ arms during big speeches.
A caped figure bursts from the ceiling and strikes a pose. “Behold! It is I, Dramatic Man! Here to cleanse the Earth of the stain of villainy!”
Lucinda raises a furry eyebrow and flicks her tail, unimpressed.
Dramatic Man spots Lucinda and sneers. “Shouldn’t you be pure white, like Dr. Doom’s cat? What are you—dirt brown?”
The insolence! Lucinda is glorious. Majestic. Stealth incarnate. She is the whisper upon the wind. The shadow in the corner of your eye.
This bumbling fool has turned from an inconvenience into an enemy and sealed his fate.
Lucinda stalks over to the control panel and hops up.
High-fiving himself in mid-air, Dramatic Man calls out. “Hey cat, when I defeat your mistress, you’re going to be homeless. They’ll put you in a shelter filled with fleas!”
I’ll show you fleas, Lucinda thinks, and puts all of her weight on a blue button.
The floor underneath Dramatic Man collapses, dragging him and his stupid cape down to the dungeon with the rest of the failed “heroes” who had come before him.
It is blissfully silent once more.
Pleased, Lucinda begins to dutifully wash her paw. It’s important to look your best when fulfilling your life’s purpose, after all.