13/4/2023 0 Comments 1 out of 3 - Writing entriesG'day folks, hard to believe it's the middle of April already. I started 2023 with 3 submissions to a mix of competitions and was lucky enough to be published by Nightmare Fuel (still a kick arse moment for me). I was running at 50% success rate and just waiting on was the NYC Midnight short story challenge. A paid event that had over 6,000 writers in the first round. It was a competition with 4 rounds in total. The top 5 from each group advanced through to the next round, where the timeframe and word count reduced. Another twist being you had to write using the 3 prompts provided. I was in the Horror, Lawyer and Telepathy group for the first round (2,500 word limit). I had zero experience writing horror, but I had a couple of story ideas I started to flesh out. My biggest problem was that I wasn't sure if I should write straight horror or a horror humour. I liked my horror humour story better but went with the straight horror thinking it may increase my chance to advance. I battled this story submission for most of the week until I had something I was (mostly) happy with. One of the positives to the NYC Midnight challenge was that they provided feedback at each round of the competition, so I figured at worst I was paying for feedback on 1 story. I may not have advanced but I feel like I got some great feedback (good and things I have to work on). Below is the story for your reading pleasure. It's violent, gory and maybe somewhat disturbing... maybe. (Judge feedback - "It made my stomach flip, and I felt queasy by the end of the story.") (Wife feedback - "How do you think this shit up..... It's slightly concerning.") (My feedback - "Please don't look at my google search history. I'm not a bad person.") Anyway if you get a chance to read it, any and all commentary are welcome on my story. At the end I've also shared what the judges said. Let me know if you agree or disagree with their views. JusticeA prosecutor uses his supernatural abilities to seek justice against those who have escaped punishment in court.Amie and I rode the train together yesterday afternoon. She’s the splitting image of Beth. Long black hair, brown eyes that squint when she shares a warm laugh with her friends. Beth smiles very little these days. They heavily medicate her to keep the trauma away. Trauma inflicted by her uncle, Michael John White, 48 years old. An accountant who lived alone. Charged with over 100 counts of interfering with a minor, his niece, Beth. Deep on the dark web, Michael (or User: loli69) gloated about his interactions with Beth in a chat room for perverse creatures like himself. Using long, descriptive posts, he left out no details. The judge said it was all inadmissible at trial. No one could link Michael to the account and yesterday, they judged him not guilty in a court of law because of an error in filing the evidence. I stood at the prosecutor’s bench, my head swimming and my stomach lurched at the thought of another guilty predator in the community. I know he’s guilty, not a gut feeling or a hunch. He did it. I walked through his mind the night after I deposed him months ago. While I walked through his memories, I saw Beth. The look of terror on her face, her brown eyes, red rimmed from crying, her voice hoarse from her pleas for him to stop. Everything I saw and felt was from Michael’s perspective, experiencing his emotions during each of their encounters. The lust, power and elation he felt when subjecting her to his touch. I couldn’t bring myself to walk through Beth’s mind. I felt ashamed of that. I told myself that I had all the evidence I needed and there was no reason to feel how she felt. I met with Beth and her mother many times before the trial and she was a shell of a human, expressionless, withdrawn. Her mother was guilt stricken. She was the one who asked Michael to watch Beth while she worked her second job at night. A thought is all it takes. If we have crossed paths, I’m able to persuade you, no matter where you are. I need others to help me in my fight for justice. My abilities cannot overcome the basic human trait of self-preservation in those I hunt. Amie will be my help today. Today I pose as Amie from a fake account. I like a dozen of Michael’s photos on social media and then I wait. I get the desired response and he Direct Messages me almost immediately. Michael is eager to meet Amie. The story I tell is that they have suspended her from school and she needs to go to her father’s office for the day. She promises she could find time for Michael at lunch, but he would have to meet her in the city near her father’s office. Michael takes the bait and promises to be there at 12.00pm sharp. Michael presents himself as smartly dressed, buttoned up shirt, tan slacks and hair slicked back. A giddy smile plastered on his face. Wave to him and don’t forget to smile, I thought. Amie raises her hand and offers the same welcoming smile she used with her friends on the train the day before. He’s carrying a bunch of flowers for her. She takes them graciously, breathing in their perfume. Lead him to our room, I thought, offering her directions where to go. Amie uses her free hand to scoop up Michael’s hand and leads him around the corner of the office block and across a narrow laneway. She moves quickly down an alleyway between two abandoned buildings. One was a popular Asian restaurant and my destination for them. Amie pauses at a door. A faded sign on it says deliveries. She turns the handle and opens it, looking back at Michael’s smiling face. Before entering, Amie switches on the flashlight on her mobile phone. The anticipation is growing inside me. I take a breath to calm myself. I need to be focused on the task at hand to maintain my connection to Amie. They move swiftly through the kitchen prep area, Michael pawing at Amie’s body once the door is closed behind them. He attempts to drag her close to himself. She gently and playfully slaps his hand away. Amie continues on, through another doorway and down the stairs to the basement. There are two heavily insulated cold rooms side by side at the bottom of the stairs. They lay musty and mouldy after a long period without use, but ready to receive their latest delivery today. She tucks the flowers under her arm and opens the door to the cold room, still leading Michael by the hand. He stops in his tracks at the doorway as the pungent smells of the room escape and assault his nose. Michael looks around, each time showing a different angle of panic on his face. He makes an excuse that he hears someone. He may not know what death smells like, but his body’s natural fight-or-flight response knows it is a bad idea to enter the room. Michael resists Amie’s playful tug on his hand. He stays rock solid on the spot. You need to convince him, I thought. She moves in close to Michael, pressing her body into his and whispers into his ear. Michael’s shoulders move back and he stands up straighter just before Amie lightly kisses him on the cheek. Her words are encouragement enough for Michael to follow Amie into the room. She uses her phone light to show Michael the mattress on the floor in the far corner. Filth stains cover it, bodily fluids from its past. She takes care only to reveal what I want him to see. They walk past a small table in the centre of the room. His eyes never leave Amie and Michael appears completely ignorant of what lies on it. She spins them both around and playfully pushes him on the mattress. He bounces softly and laughs. Amie places the phone down on the table, propping it up so light shines towards the mattress, and Michael looks at the silhouette of Amie standing, backlit from the phone light. She moves out of the way of the light and it shines directly into Michael’s eyes. He squints and tries to follow her movements around the room. Bobbing his head and making some lame joke as he rubs his hand on the mattress beside himself. Amie moves back into the light, her hips seductively sway as she walks towards Michael. He leans back on his hands, excitement growing, and he licks his lips in anticipation. Ask him to close his eyes I thought. Michael is compliant and closes his eyes without hesitation when Amie requests it. Amie isn’t the only one under the powers of persuasion, but her powers over Michael are different to mine. Amie stands in front of Michael, using her foot to gently separate his legs. She walks closer to him, her shins resting on his inner thighs. She swings the tyre iron powerfully across the top of Michael’s head. Not enough to kill him, but enough to render him unconscious. We need to bind him now I thought. Amie moves quickly with my guidance to grab the heavy, braided fishing line from the table. With Michael laying flat on his back, she first ties the line around Michael’s left wrist and moves the line under the mattress above his head, pulling his arm out straight. She then runs it underneath the mattress, the other end reappears at the foot end of the mattress, where she then ties it to his left ankle, connecting them together. She repeats this on his right side. A bucket of cold water wakes Michael and Amie repositions herself behind the light so he isn’t able to see her. He tries to rub the water from his eyes, but he struggles against the fishing line. We look at him, vulnerable and helpless, no different from how Beth must have felt. Michael squirms, begging and pleading that he’s a good guy. Ask him about his niece. I thought. He tries to convince us she’s damaged with an overwhelming amount of mental health problems and he was trying to help her. He must pay for what he did to Beth, I thought. Amie moves the single source of light that still frames the mattress and sheds it on the desk. Michael tries to raise his head, looking down over his toes to see what she’s looking at. As the light crawls across the table’s surface, it highlights each instrument of pain I hope to employ to get the confession I want. The light is shaking. Amie is resisting my persuasion. It happens when someone doesn’t want to do what I ask of them. It’s ok. He’s a bad guy. He needs to pay for what he did to Beth. I thought. Her tension settles and the light steadies as Amie’s resistance reduces and she props the light back up on the table so it’s shining directly towards Michael. Amie asks again about Beth. With tears streaming down his face, Michael continues to deny he was sexually involved with his niece. He now claims that she was making advances towards him. We need to make him tell us. I thought. She picks up some gloves from the table and covers her petite hands. Amie chooses the barbed wire from the table. Amie approaches him slowly. Michael pulls at the fishing line with his hands, which only causes his ankles to push into the mattress. She steps over his torso and lowers herself, straddling his stomach and rips open his shirt, buttons popping in different directions. Amie wraps the wire once around each hand, the protective gloves giving her immunity from their sharp prongs, leaving about a foot of length between her hands. She pulls the wire tight and she lowers her upper body down towards Michael until the barbs are pushing into the flesh on his chest and he cries out. She alternates the amount of pressure she applies to each hand. The barbed wire moves across Michael’s chest, in a sawing motion, biting deeper into his flesh with each stroke. He still refuses to say what he’s done and cries out for help. He needs more convincing. I thought. Amie lets go of the barbed wire and leaves it to sit across Michael’s chest, each barb now bloodied with fatty tissue skewered on their pointy tips. She raises herself back off Michael and moves to the table and picks up the hammer and a large construction nail. Again, I guide her. This time she sits on her shins at Michael’s feet, placing his left foot between her knees so his toes are facing the ceiling. Michael’s breathing quickens, his eyes widened while he stares at the nail pressing into the tip of his big toe. Without hesitation, Amie swings the hammer five times in quick succession, driving the nail through until the nail head is resting against the tip of Michael’s toe. Blood seeps around the nail head before it flows, his blood vessels cannot react as quickly as they should to his injury, a clear sign of shock. Michael vomits from the pain. Like a fountain towards the ceiling, it splashes back down, covering his face and chest with his stomach contents. Michael is hyperventilating, gagging and coughing with every inhalation, adding to his anxiety. His tears mix with vomit as they stream down the sides of his face onto the mattress. Amie doesn’t have to ask Michael again to confess. He offers it freely between gags and sobs. I told you. I thought. We finish this now. Amie goes back to the table and drops the hammer. The sound echoes through the room, startling Michael. He looks at Amie, pleading to be let go. She picks up the 12-inch chef knife from the table, another remnant of the restaurant upstairs. Amie moves to be above Michael’s head, lowering herself down so she has a knee next to each of his ears and she squeezes, locking his head in place. Michael’s bottom lip quivers as he watches the blade move to be across his throat. Using her body weight, Amie positions the sharpened edge just below Michael’s Adam’s apple and then she presses the blade against his skin. At first there’s resistance, repositioning her free hand, Amie leans on the back of the blade and with her full weight she breaks through his trachea, then his carotid arteries. She focuses on his chest as the blood pumps onto the mattress and pools under each of her knees, a chest that slows in its movements until it stops. Her job here is done. It is time to leave, I thought. Amie stands, ignoring the blood that runs down her shins as she walks back to the table. She places the knife back down and takes the gloves off, gently laying them next to the knife. She wipes the blood from her legs with a cloth from the table. I have her take a photo of the lifeless corpse using a mobile phone I had left there. She types in a phone number I give her and she sends the picture to it. Victims live in fear of their attackers coming back to get them. Beth will receive the proof she doesn’t have to deal with that fear anymore. They may contact the police but the investigation will be a deadend, a picture sent from a burner phone they can’t trace. Amie will only have a distant memory of what happened here, a waking dream. Not sure if it was real or not, but too afraid to seek the truth. Nobody yet has had any lasting, negative effects of the help they have given me. She moves out of the cold room, closing the door behind her, making her way back up the stairs and out into the early afternoon sun. Amie walks down the alley that leads to the delivery door. Go home, shower and tell nobody what has happened here today. I thought. I withdraw and open my eyes. Sitting at my desk, my hands are resting palms down. I wipe the sweat from them on my pants. I get up out of my chair and grab my suit jacket that’s draped over the back of the chair. My shirt sticks to my back as the jacket falls into place on my shoulders. Shoulders that are lighter than they were this morning. I allow myself a satisfactory smile. I push my chair in and lean over my desk, and press the button on the intercom. “Jackie, I’m off to play 9-holes with Judge Hodgson. Hold my calls until tomorrow.” Judges Feedback''Justice'' by Mark Dray - WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY - {2096} This is a very visceral story with excellent sensory descriptions that paint an unforgettable image. It's very atmospheric, thick with dread and horror.
The torture scene is quite graphic. The horror of it is a reflection of the trauma imposed on Michael's victim. The details and descriptions are intense and cinematic in the use of light and shadow as well as sounds. Good pacing and characterization. There is a bit of irony in how the narrator is using people, much like the predator he is punishing. He, too, feels no guilt about what he's doing. It's an intriguing dichotomy. Nicely done. {2205} Ugh, the scenes you describe in this story are so vivid and gruesome. It made my stomach flip, and I felt queasy by the end of the story. That unpleasantness was an exceptional, and necessary, part of your horror genre, so well done. {2115} The voice here feels spot on--it's somewhat numb, pragmatic, and a bit unfeeling, though not without some degree of principles. Amie and Beth emerge in good detail, and you do a good job of swiftly providing the backstory of Michael's crimes. Blocking and movement is clear throughout as Amie and Michael make their way down to the hidden bunker. And of course the torture scene itself feels fully fleshed out, conveyed in almost excruciating detail. This one was hard to read, but the justice at the end feels mostly appropriate! Good work. WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - {2096} First, I want to point out that there are quite a few sentence fragments and other grammatical issues. It's a stylistic choice that is distracting, especially in the narration. Using a clipped, fragmentary style in dialogue, or in some action is alright. However, it feels a bit overdone here. The title doesn't fit the content of the story. This is not justice, it is vengeance. Some examination on this aspect would be a good addition and add more depth to the story. For example, when Amie resists his mental command, show a bit more of how this is all affecting her. It's a trauma that she will have to live with. There is a lack of immersion and engagement with the story. The action is told to us, rather than having it unfold through scenes. It's told in a rather detached way which also lessens the impact of the disturbing scenes. The use of the first person point of view exacerbates this issue, leaving out other character's thoughts, feelings, and experiences. Things feel removed, and while that does highlight the horror of what the narrator is really doing, it lessens the impact on the reader by not being able to show how this is affecting Amie and ultimately Beth as she sees the horrible images on her phone. More scenes with dialogue and a closer look at Amie would bring more into this chilling tale. It's quite intense, but could be even more so. Nice job. Powerful stuff. {2205} I wish we had more descriptions related to the attorney and Amie sharing one mind. It felt like a missed opportunity to just have italics be the connection; what about the physical things he and Amie are feeling? Where is the lawyer while this is taking place, and what toll does this take on him? {2115} I wonder if the main character should reckon a bit more with the impact this might have on Amie--or even the impact it might have on Beth to receive the photo of the corpse. Not sure if he would even be recognizable to her? Most confusing to me was the connection between our narrator and Amie, as well as with Beth. Why did they ride the train together? And if Amie and Beth are the spitting image of each other, is this just a coincidence? Is she a stranger he saw on the train? Or are they related?
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