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NYC Midnight Competitions 2024: Recent Entries and Results

The 2024 NYC Midnight Competitions are in full swing. The writer participated in the 100-Word Challenge with a Romantic Comedy entry, and the 250-Word Challenge where they received an Honourable Mention. Their Short Story Challenge entry, “Stop the Boats,” made it to the next round. The next rounds are scheduled for June and July.

It’s halfway through May already and we’re well into the 2024 NYC Midnight Competitions. Since my last post, I have also entered the 100 Word Challenge as it’s always good fun and not too time consuming. I submitted my first round entry on the 20th April. My genre was Romantic Comedy (again!) and had to involve ‘waiting for a number to be called’ and include the word ‘worst’. My entry was called I Found Love in the Same Day Emergency Care Department. I quite like it but we will see…

I got the results of the 250 Word Challenge on the 4th of April and, although I didn’t get through to the final round, I did get an Honourable Mention for There’s Something I Haven’t Told You, which I am delighted to share with you below. My estimates of the numbers tell me that I got through to the last 250 from 4000 participants and I’m happy with that!

In the Short Story Challenge, much to my surprise, Stop the Boats did get me through to the next round. Again, I have shared this with you at the end of this post. My genre for the next round was Suspense and had to be about being ‘petrified’ and include a character who is a ‘milkman’. I submitted my entry called The Cave on the 14th of April.

So, to summarise, I’m out of the 250 Word Challenge, the next round of the 100 Word Challenge is in the week commencing June 10th, and the next round of the Short Story Challenge in the week commencing July 22.

In the meantime, here are There’s Something I Haven’t Told You and Stop the Boats.

There’s Something I Haven’t Told You.

(Action Adventure/Warming Hands/Hitch)

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” I begin, looking at you over the small campfire where I squat, warming my hands against the night chill.

The forest around us is dark and still. My heightened senses alert to any sudden crack or creeping shadow. My body primed and ready to move. To grab your hand, to run, again, deeper, further.

The red and gold flames flicker in your wide blue eyes as they rise to meet mine. Your smile is soft. Patient. You nod your encouragement.

“I am not who you think I am,” I continue. A slight hitch in my voice. I am about to break your heart. “I know things. There are people who wish me dead.” You wait for more. I owe you more. An explanation for why you have been torn from your bed in the middle of the night. For why we have fled to the depths of the forest. For why I have betrayed your love. Your loyalty.

“There’s something I haven’t told you,” You begin, rising and walking around the fire towards me.

The dark forest closes around us.

“I am not who you think I am,” you continue. There is no hitch in your voice. Your eyes are blue steel.

“You know things. There are people who wish you dead.” Your voice is ice, as you draw the stiletto from your sleeve. It glints in the moonlight and my heart breaks as the blade slides in.

Stop the Boats

(Political Satire/Free Spirit/A Check-Up)

“So, Prime Minister, its time for your annual check-up.” Henry looked down at the top of his boss’s head. Not a strand of his dark, glossy hair was out of place. The aide inadvertently rubbed the top of his own bald pate.

“OK, Henry, just book me into The Cromwell as usual,” Suni muttered as he continued to read the open file in front of him. “I’m up to my neck in this tiresome business of how to ‘stop the boats.’ Damned immigrants. Will they never give up?”

On the other side of the large oak desk, Henry paused and shuffled from foot to foot before he spoke again. “Erm…that’s the thing, Prime Minister. We were thinking…”

Suni’s head shot up. His eyes narrowed as they met Henry’s behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Thinking? Why does it always worry me when you say that you’ve been thinking, Henry?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

Suni held Henry’s gaze. Henry rubbed his long thin fingers together with a rasping sound that set Suni’s teeth on edge.

“Well,” Suni snapped. “I’m waiting.”

“Waiting? I really don’t know, Prime Minister.”

“You don’t know what you’ve been thinking about! Jesus, am I completely surrounded by idiots?”

“No…I meant I don’t know why you worry when I say that we’ve been thinking, sir. I know what we’ve been thinking about…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! It was a rhetorical question, Henry. Rhetorical! Do you know what that means?”

“Yes, sir. It means…”

“I KNOW what it means, Henry. You don’t need to tell me!”

“Sorry, sir.”

“So, just tell me. Please.”

“Tell you what, sir. You just said don’t tell you…”

“Good grief, man! What you’ve been thinking! About my check-up. Come on, man. JUST TELL ME!”

“Oh. Sorry. Well, sir, we’ve been thinking that it might be prudent not to go to The Cromwell for it this year.” Henry paused.

Suni folded his arms and leant back in his green leather armchair. “Continue,” he said, now giving Henry his full attention.

“Well, we were thinking that it might be best to go somewhere less…you know…ostentatious. What with the current cost of living crisis and public opinion and all that.”

“OK, I can see that.” Suni nodded. “Where are you thinking? The Cleveland or Blackheath?”

“Erm, no, sir. We were actually thinking you should go over the bridge, to St Thomas’s or maybe down to Chelsea and Westminster.”

Suni paled. “Are you saying go…NHS?” His voice lowered and he glanced around the oak panelled room.

“Yes, Prime Minister. We think it would be…”

“I know,” Suni interrupted him. “Prudent. Hmmm.” He stroked his chin.

Henry watched the wheels of cognition turning in his boss’s mind. Watched him processing the pros and cons. Deducing what was in it for him. Calculating the political opportunity. He jumped when Suni suddenly stood up and banged his hands, palm down, on the desk.

“Great idea, Henry! Let’s do it! Let’s show our support for the NHS. Bump the Shadow Home Secretary and book me in for Friday afternoon.”

“Erm, I’ve already taken the liberty of checking availability, sir. The first date they can fit you in is on the 24^th of June.”

“June!” Suni spluttered.

“Yes, I’m afraid so, sir.”

“But that’s weeks away!”

“Yes. Six weeks, sir. Waiting lists, you see. They actually put you to the top of the list. Special dispensation. Given your…you know…status.”

“For Christ’s sake. The things I do for this country. Go on then. Book me in for the 24^th of June. And, Henry, make sure the press knows. I’m not putting myself through all this for nothing.”

“Yes, sir. Will do, sir. Thank you, sir.” Henry backed away a couple of paces before turning to leave the room.

Suni shook his head slowly as he resumed his reading.

“Damned immigrants,” he said again.

Meena examined herself in the scratched mirror of the staff toilet. She pulled her dark brown curls into a scrunchy and unfastened her gold nose ring. Apparently, a nose ring didn’t create the right impression. Meena frowned. What was she doing? She wasn’t here to make impressions. She was here to treat patients. Sick patients. Patients who needed her. And now she was being taken away from these patients to conduct a routine health check on a perfectly healthy individual. An individual with more wealth than a small country. An individual who was only having it performed here for the sole purpose of raising his opinion poll ratings. She refastened her nose ring and strode out of the room. The jingle of the tiny silver bells in the hem of her skirt echoed in the empty space as the door slowly closed behind her.

The Prime Minister was standing by the window talking on his phone. Big Ben and the parliament buildings were visible on the other side of the river. A dark suited security man loitered just inside the room. There was another in the corridor outside.

“He’ll be perfectly safe in here with me, if you’d like to wait with your colleague outside?” Meena gestured to the door.

The man opened his mouth to speak but Meena stopped him with a raised palm.

“Outside. Thank you.” She said with a smile, closing the door behind him as he left without further protest.

“You’ll have to turn that off in here I’m afraid, Prime Minister. No phones allowed.”

Suni shushed her with his finger and continued talking.

Meena approached him and held out her hand.

“I said, no phones.”

His eyes widened and he covered the mouthpiece to address her.

“I’m on an important call,” he hissed.

“I’m sure you are but, as I said, no phones. It affects the equipment,” she lied.

He looked at her for a long moment before he spoke through gritted teeth, “Do you know who I am?”

“Of course, I do. But in here you’re just a patient like everyone else. Now, either put away your phone or give it to me please.”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back,” Suni snapped at the person on the other end of the call. Slowly and deliberately, he put his phone in his pocket, never taking his eyes from Meena’s face.

“That’s better,” said Meena. “I’m Meena Malik. I’ll be doing your examination today.”

“I thought I was seeing Professor Eadie?”

“I’m afraid Professor Eadie has been delayed at his private practice this morning. They brought me in to cover for him. He’s very sorry.”

“I’m sure he is! Are you even a doctor?” The brown-skinned woman looked like a gypsy with her wild hair, nose ring and flamboyant clothes.

“A locum consultant, yes. As I said, I’m covering for him today.”

Suni huffed.

“Anyway, let’s get started shall we. Strip off down to your underpants and pop onto the couch for me please.”

She pulled the papery curtain around him as he removed is Saville Row suit jacket. His silent irritation seeped into the room and a small smirk tickled at the corners of Meena’s mouth as she opened his file.

“I see you are Suni Rasheek,” she said. Do you prefer Mr Rasheek or Suni?”

“Actually, convention dictates that you address me as, sir or Prime Minister.” His voice was muffled from behind the curtain.

“I’m not big on convention. I’ll stick with Suni if that’s OK? I like to keep things informal. Relaxed. Better for the blood pressure. Are you ready in there?”

“Yes.”

Meena flung the curtain back to reveal Suni lying on the couch. He’d covered himself with a thin blanket. She whipped it off with a flourish.

“No need for that! Let’s have a good look at you.”

“It’s bloody freezing in here,” Suni grumbled with a shiver.

“It is, isn’t it. Cuts. Can’t afford to heat the place. But I suppose you know all about that.”

“It’s filthy too,” Suni said, looking around at the peeling paint and scuffed woodwork.

“No, not filthy.” Meena shot him a glance. “Just in need of an upgrade. A lick of paint. But again you…”

“Alright. You’ve made your point,” he interrupted her.

They were silenced by the loud hum of the blood pressure machine.

“Hmmm. BP’s a bit high, Suni,” said Meena.

“Really, you do surprise me!”

“I’m just going to do your heart tracing now. I need to shave off some of your chest hair to make sure the leads stick, if that’s OK?”

“Whatever,” Suni sighed. “Let’s just get this over with. I’ve got things to do.”

He winced as the cheap razor scraped across his skin. She stuck disposable electrodes on the bare patches in his thick dark chest hair.

“Any chance of a hot drink?” he asked, wistfully recalling the warm, plush examination rooms at The Cromwell. The soft blankets. The sparkling cleanliness. The smell of the coffee machine. The delicious canapes.

“Of course, when we’re finished. What would you like?”

“I’ll have a Chai Latte, soya milk, no sugar.”

Meena suppressed a snort.

“It’s just tea or instant coffee on offer. With milk and sugar of course. We have that.”

“I’ll leave it.”

“No problem. Let me know if you change your mind. I’m sure we could rustle up a Rich Tea biscuit, or two, if you fancy.” She emphasised the word ‘rich’ but her provocative play on words elicited no reaction.

She shrugged and started attaching the ECG leads.

“Where are you from, Dr Malik?” Suni changed the subject.

“East London. Dulwich. Call me Meena, please.”

“No, I mean where are you from? You have a slight accent.”

“Oh, I see.” Meena stopped what she was doing and looked at him. “My parents came here as refugees from Iran in 2001. I was seventeen at the time.”

“Ah, I see.” Suni nodded sagely. “So, you did your medical training here then. That’s good.”

“So where are you from, Suni?”

“Me? I’m British of course. I was born and raised just down the road in Surrey in fact.”

“No, I mean where are you from? Your name? Your heritage?”

“Well, its not really relevant but, if you must know, my grandparents immigrated here in the 1960’s from Kenya.”

“Oh, also refugees then?”

“Well, not really. Not in the true sense of the word. They made a choice. An economic choice.”

Meena didn’t answer. She was frowning as the ECG machine whirred and the paper started to curl out of the machine.

“Something wrong?” Suni asked.

“Possibly…” Meena examined the tracing.

Suni felt his heart thumping in his chest as the medic pored over the recording. She looked up at him with a serious expression.

“Mr Rasheek, I’m afraid there are some…anomalies…on the heart tracing. I think we should do an urgent exercise stress test before you leave. Record the ECG again while you are walking on the treadmill. Is that OK?”

“Really? Today? Are you sure that’s absolutely necessary?”

“I would definitely recommend it, Mr Rasheek. Just to be on the safe side.”

Thirty minutes later, a bare-footed and bare-chested Suni was fully wired up and walking on a treadmill that was gradually increasing in speed. They had permitted him the small dignity of putting his trousers back on. Meena was sitting on a swivel chair watching a monitor with a white-coated technician. Their expressions were grim.

“Are you alright, Mr Rasheek?” Meena asked.

“Yes,” Suni panted, but he wasn’t sure he was. His chest was tight. He couldn’t catch his breath. He’d let himself get so unfit. But he couldn’t show these people that. After this was sorted out, he’d have to get back into the gym. Start jogging again.

“Just a little faster for a few minutes and then we’re done.” Meena called.

Suni was sweating now. It was pouring from him. Black spots were floating around the edges of his vision. The tightness in his chest had become more of an ache. A cramp.

“Are you alright? Are you sure?” Meena was walking towards him. “Stop the treadmill, Gary!”

The deep heavy ache was spreading down his arm. He felt sick. Dizzy.

“Shit!” he heard Meena say, just before the world went dark.

Henry observed his boss from behind the bullet proof glass of his suite at The Cromwell. His security detail stood on either side of the door. The Prime Minister was propped up in bed surrounded by newspapers. He was reading the front page of The Times. Wires snaked from beneath the sheets to a beeping cardiac monitor on the wall. A breakfast tray on the bedtable was laden with fresh fruit and croissants. Vases of flowers and cards from well-wishers covered all the other surfaces.

Henry knocked once and entered the room. The Prime Minister looked up from his paper.

“Good morning, sir. How are you feeling?” Henry asked.

“Much better today thanks, Henry.”

“Good. I see you’ve got the papers.” Henry nodded at the array of newspapers on the bed. They all focused on the same main story. The Prime Ministers cardiac arrest and resuscitation at St. Thomas’ Hospital the previous day. Many of them focused specifically on the female doctor who had saved his life. Henry looked at the tabloid closest to him. The headline read:

GRANDAUGHTER OF IRANIAN REFUGEE SAVES PM’S LIFE.

Underneath the headline, a large photograph of a smiling Meena Malik filled the top half of the page. She was looking over her shoulder as she got into a coral pink Fiat 500, surrounded by photographers.

“Certainly got the attention of the press, sir.” Henry said, picking up the paper for a closer look.

“Yes, but maybe not in the way I was expecting,” Suni gazed out of the large picture window at the familiar London skyline.

Henry cleared his throat.

“I know you’re going to be out of action for a bit, and of course the Deputy PM will take over in your absence, sir, but the ‘stop the boats’ bill goes to the commons today and I know this is a big priority for you…”

“Yes, well, I’ve been thinking about that, Henry.”

Henry supressed the urge to say that it worried him when the Prime Minister said he’d been thinking.

Instead, he said, “Oh.”

Yes, Henry. I’ve been thinking that maybe it would be prudent to have another look at the NHS funding bill before we progress with ‘stopping the boats’. Just for now at least.”

“Good idea, sir.”

“Yes, Henry. I rather think it is.”

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A Shovelful of Serendipity.

The 2024 NYC Midnight competition offers multiple categories this year. The author participated in the 250-word Microfiction and Short Story challenges. The results of the 1st Round for the Short Story Challenge will be disclosed on April 9th. They have advanced to the 2nd Round in the Microfiction Challenge. The story “A Shovelful of Serendipity” portrays a romantic encounter.

So, the 2024 NYC Midnight competitions have started. This year there seem to be more categories than ever to enter. I’ve opted for two; The 250-word Microfiction Challenge and the Short Story Challenge.

The 1st Round of the Short Story Challenge took place in January. On the 19th I received my category and had to submit my 2000 word (max) story by the 27th. My Genre was Political Satire (yuk!). My Subject was A Check Up. My Character was A Free Spirit. I struggled with the genre but managed to get something submitted by the deadline called Stop the Boats – you can guess what it’s about. There are over 6000 entries this year and I’m not feeling very hopeful about getting through to the next round. But, we will see. The results of the 1st Round will be published on the 9th of April.

I’m feeling more positive abut the 250-word Microfiction Challenge. The 1st Round actually took place between the 8th and 10th of December 2023. My Genre was Romantic Comedy (yuk again!). My Action was Shoveling Snow. My Word was Measure. Again, I struggled with the genre but managed to get my story A Shovelful of Serendipity submitted by the deadline. This time there were over 4000 participants and I was delighted to learn, on the 7th of February, that I had made it through to the 2nd Round with abut 1000 other writers.

For the 2nd Round, my Genre was Action/Adventure, my Action was Warming Hands and my Word was Hitch. It took me a while to come up with an idea that I was happy with, but I submitted There’s Something I Haven’t Told You on the 11th of February and will get the results on the 3rd of April.

In the meantime I am able to share my 1st Round 250-word Romantic Comedy, A Shovelful of Serendipity, with you. I hope you like it!

A Shovelful of Serendipity

Ezra was sweating inside his parka, despite the cold. It was going to be worth it, he thought, shovelling snow from around the car tyres. He’d already cleared the vehicle itself. This was the final measure of the grand gesture that would finally capture the attention of the new girl at No. 26.

He looked at his watch. She’d be out soon. He rehearsed his line. I was doing mine, so it just made sense to do yours too.

The door to No. 26 opened. His heart quickened. She emerged, aloof and beautiful as ever even swaddled in her winter clothes. Dark curls escaping her beanie. Cheeks rosy, Sapphire eyes looking … straight past him?

The door to No. 28 opened and old Mrs. Barker shuffled down her path, hunched and frowning against the chill. She looked at Ezra standing by the snow-free car and her wizened, whiskery face broke into a grin.

“Ezra! You are a good boy!” she cackled.

“That’s alright, Mrs Barker.” Ezra’s smile was tight. “I was doing mine, so it just made sense to do yours too.” He almost choked on the words, shrivelling with frustration and disappointment.

As Mrs Barker drove off, he turned to see the girl from No. 26 intent on clearing snow from her own windscreen. He was still invisible to her.

He started the miserable trudge to his own car when she lifted her head and looked at him. Saw him.

“That was really kind,” she said.

And then she smiled.

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Some of My Favourite Authors- Paul Tremblay

Paul Tremblay is a versatile and award-winning horror writer with a diverse range of works, including novels and short story collections. His books, such as “Survivor Song,” “A Head Full of Ghosts,” and “The Cabin at the End of the World,” skillfully blend horror, atmosphere, and originality, making them relatable and deeply disturbing. Tremblay’s captivating storytelling ensures a desire for more.

List of Publications

Pending – Horror Movie, June 2024

The Beast You Are, Short Story Collection, 2023

The Pallbearers Club, 2022

The Little Sleep, (Mark Genevich 1) 2021

Survivor Song, 2020

Growing Things, Short Story Collection, 2019

The Cabin at the End of the World, 2018

Disappearance at Devil’s Rock, 2017

A Head Full of Ghosts, 2015

Floating Boy and the Girl Who Couldn’t Fly, 2014

Swallowing a Donkey’s Eye, 2012

No Sleep Till Wonderland, (Mark Genevich 2) 2021

Introduction

I first discovered Paul Tremblay in 2022, when I was searching for ‘good’ ZA or apocalyptic stories (which, it has to be said, can be hard to find) and Survivor Song popped up. It sat on my TBR pile for six months before I got around to reading it. When I eventually did, it rocked me to my core. Since then, Mr Tremblay has become one of my favourite horror writers.

The Author

Tremblay is a 52-year-old American who worked as a maths teacher before becoming a published author. He got off to a faltering start (if the reviews are anything to go by) aged 39 with his first novel, a crime story, No Sleep Till Wonderland, followed by a dystopian satire, Swallowing a Donkey’s Eye. A collaboration with Stephen Graham Jones (another favourite of mine), produced Floating Boy and the Girl Who Couldn’t Fly, a young adult sci-fi adventure published under the penname P.T. Jones. I haven’t read any of these. I’m not a crime fan and the other two sound a bit weird!

Things really seem to have got going for him with the publication of A Head Full of Ghosts in 2015 which won the Bram Stoker award that year. In 2017, Disappearance at Devil’s Rock won the British Fantasy Award for best horror novel. The Cabin at the End of the World won the 2019 Bram Stoker award and the Locus Award for best horror novel, as well as being adapted into a M. Night Shyamalan film called Knock at the Cabin. His other two novels, Survivor Song and The Pallbearers Club have also been received with high critical acclaim.

He has also revitalised his Mark Genevich crime series with The Little Sleep and No Sleep Till Wonderland, published a couple of short story collections, Growing Things and The Beast You Are, and featured in various other anthologies. 2024 will see the publication of his latest novel, Horror Story. I can’t wait.

The Books.

So far, I have only read his horror novels and I didn’t read them in chronological order. As I said, I started with Survivor Song in 2022 and loved it. I quickly went on to consume A Head Full of Ghosts, followed by The Cabin at the End of the World, that same year. I didn’t get around to Disappearance at Devil’s Rock and The Pallbearers Club until 2023.

I loved them all, but my favourite is still Survivor Song closely followed by Disappearance at Devil’s Rock which really freaked me out! I have reviewed them in the order that I read them.

Survivor Song.

Survivor Song follows two women over a period of just a few hours during an outbreak of a lethal, rapidly spreading rabies-type virus. Natalie, who is eight months pregnant, has been bitten and Ramola, her best friend who is a doctor, is trying to save the lives of Natalie and her unborn child. Survivor Song is not a ZA novel but, in many ways, it feels and reads as one. Although it was written pre-Covid, it echoes our own recent experiences of PPE shortages, overwhelmed healthcare services and unprotected workers.

It is not deep or pretentious, just a damned good story.

The book is a high-speed roller coaster of trials and disasters in the context of a shockingly violent societal breakdown. The pace is frantic. The race to save Natalie and her baby never slows or stops. An almost unbearable level of fear, tension and desperation is present throughout, but the book is really about pain and loss and the love and loyalty we see in the friendship between the two women. I adored Ramola for her unfailing loyalty to her friend that pushed her past terrible limits she could never have imagined.

But in the middle of all the horror there are also lashings of comedy. I laughed out loud at Natalie’s scathing sarcasm and dark humour in spite of the terrifying situation she found herself in. I loved the ‘Bill and Ted’ duo they met on their journey with their creatively quirky hydrophobia test. It was only later that I discovered the two boys were actually Josh and Luis from Disappearance at Devil’s Rock.

For me, one of the most memorable parts of the book was when the style and structure of the writing ‘broke with convention’ in a way that created a vivid picture of the extreme shock, fear and confusion the character was experiencing. The contents of these pages stayed with me for a long time, and I have even contemplated stealing the technique in my own writing. You’ll know exactly what I’m referring to if you have read the book or if, after reading this, you go on to do so.

I loved this book and would definitely recommend it if you are into dystopian survival horror – and even if you’re not! Like all Tremblay’s books though, be warned, it is not for the faint-hearted!

A Head Full of Ghosts

A Head Full of Ghosts tells the story of a family going through a period of financial and emotional stress. In the middle of it all the teenage daughter, Marjorie, has what seems at first to be a mental health breakdown, but which they come to believe is in fact a demonic possession. Their situation is picked up by the media and becomes the subject of a reality TV show. The story is told fifteen years later through the perspective of Merry, the younger sister.

I read this after reading, and absolutely loving Survivor Song. A Head Full of Ghosts was different, and it didn’t blow me away like Survivor Song did, but I still really enjoyed it. With elements reminiscent of The Exorcist, The Blair Witch Project, Feed by Mira Grant, and many more books and movies it was a brilliant nod to all of these but still retained its own originality and identity. It has an undercurrent that touches on some serious issues such as sexism, patriarchy, religious mania and media exploitation.

It is beautifully written. Atmospheric. Descriptive. Creepy. Sad. Disturbing. And, at times, darkly funny. Mr Tremblay keeps us guessing throughout the course of the narrative and beyond.

The Cabin at the End of The World.

The Cabin at the End of the World is a violent home invasion story with supernatural apocalyptic overtones. It is possibly my least favourite of Tremblay’s books. I still really enjoyed it though and have recently watched the movie version by M. Night Shyamalan, Knock at the Cabin, which was largely true to the book and just as frightening.

Andrew and Eric, a same sex couple are on holiday with their eight-year-old adopted daughter, Wen, in a remote cabin in the woods. They are visited by a truly creepy foursome who try to force them to make an unimaginable decision that, they claim, will prevent the end of the world.

The book is dark and creepy and, at the start at least, a fast paced and easy read. As with Mr Tremblay’s other books, there are moments of extreme tension, horror and shock. However, while it started well and contained some intriguing ideas and plot threads, for me, this one just didn’t come together in a satisfying way. In fact, towards the end, it felt as if it fizzled out in terms of the plot. A strange story that left me with so many unanswered questions I was left baffled and dissatisfied. (The movie provides a slightly more satisfactory conclusion).

Disappearance at Devil’s Rock.

After the relative disappointment (I stress the word relative) of The Cabin at the End of the World, it took me a year to get around to my next foray into the work of Mr Tremblay. But this time I was not disappointed. Not in the slightest. Disappearance at Devil’s Rock absolutely blew me away!

It’s a long time since a book has made my skin crawl and my eyes well with tears of terror, but this one did just that. I consumed it in two spine-tingling nocturnal sessions. It totally creeped me out, especially as I couldn’t put it down and ended up reading it in the middle of the night when the house was dark and everyone else was asleep. I found myself peering over my Kindle into the darkness looking for unnatural or unfamiliar shadows and edging closer and closer to the comforting warmth of my husband’s sleeping form beside me.

Tommy, a thirteen-year-old boy, disappears in mysterious circumstances that become increasingly disturbing as the story progresses and his mother discovers more and more about her son and the events leading up to his disappearance. The book hints at a number of possible explanations ranging from a tragic accident or suicide to the possible involvement of evil monsters and demons, or other sinister and paranormal forces.

For me, the power of the book lies in the economic subtlety of the writing, the wonderfully authentic characterisation, the widely varying and different perspectives, the mix of vehicles the author uses to provide us with insight and information, the disquieting visual images, the slow and terrifying reveal, the shocking climax, and the ambiguity that haunts the reader long after the book is finished.

The Pallbearers Club

And so, after the sheer delight of Disappearance at Devil’s Rock, I moved quickly on to the last of Tremblay’s horror novels available at the time, The Pallbearers Club.

The Pallbearers Club is established by Art Barbara (not his real name) to qualify as a hobby that he can add to his CV for college applications. Mercy soon joins the club, and this marks the start of a long relationship between the rather ‘unattractive’ Art and the cool and mysterious Mercy. As the book progresses the relationship develops from a seemingly innocuous friendship into something weird and scary and ultimately supernatural and dangerous.

The book takes the form of a memoir written by Art that has been found and subsequently edited and commented on by Mercy, who deems it a novel because in her view it is more fiction than fact. The format of the book was slightly problematic for me, as it took me a long time to work out what was going on. Once I did, I settled into it but never fully liked or engaged with either Art or Mercy.

The book was clever but maybe, for me at least, just a bit too clever for its own good. Its cleverness became a slight irritation and at times a distraction from the plot. As a result, I never really felt as scared, shocked or disturbed as I did when I read Survivor Song and Disappearance at Devils Rock. I have to be honest that this was a teeny weeny disappointment.

The story was a good one though and even prompted me to purchase and read the non-fiction book that Tremblay acknowledges as his inspiration, Food for the Dead: On the trail of New England’s Vampires by Michael E. Bell.

Summary

The reasons why Paul Tremblay has become one of my favourite authors are all about the quality of his writing and the way it makes me feel. Horror is a peculiar genre that does throw up some truly awful books that get by on gore and bloodlust and ridiculously violent, fantastical and far-fetched plots. Tremblay’s books, on the other hand, skillfully take the ordinary to another, much darker place, and this is what makes them relatable, disturbing and often terrifying. He is a versatile writer. All his books are refreshingly different. Different ideas. Different stories. Different themes. Different characters. I will never grow tired of his storytelling. After each book I read, I am always left wanting more.

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The Day That Doesn’t Count.

My entry to the 2024 Solihull Writers Group Creative Fiction Competition on the theme of Leap Year.

2024 is a Leap Year. So, this year the Solihull Writers Group chose Leap Year as the theme for our Creative Fiction competition.

I did a bit of research on the subject as it was too easy to go down the clichéd route of female marriage proposals etc. I read some interesting stuff about the 29th of February sometimes presenting a unique challenge from a legal perspective and it historically being seen as a day when usual conventions do not apply. Hence the idea of women being able to propose to men.

I took this idea a little further and played with the idea of the 29th February being a day that didn’t count. A day when people could do anything they liked and get away with it. A bit like The Purge movies.

I asked a few women friends what they would do with a day that didn’t count. this. One said that she would ‘Get a gun. Rob a bank. Buy a house and hold the solicitor at gunpoint to make him complete all the paperwork that day’.

That was the idea finally inspired my story .

I didn’t win. I was beaten on the day by some other outstanding entries that you will soon be able to read on our web-site.

Here is mine…

(P.S. we had a word limit of 1000)

The Day That Doesn’t Count

Mel yawned as she pressed the Double Expresso button and waited for her coffee. Too late, she realised she hadn’t lined the cup up properly and she swore as scalding liquid hissed and spurted over her fingers when she adjusted its position.

“Bad day?”

Mel jumped and more hot coffee sloshed over the back of her hand. Dione from accounts, of the caterpillar eyebrows and scarlet talons was standing behind her.

“No worse than any other,” Mel grumbled as she took her coffee and stepped aside to let Dione get to the machine, wondering how the woman had managed to creep up like that without her noticing. The coffee machine was situated at the end of the chrome and glass corridor that looked over parklands surrounding the building. The corridor had been empty when she’d come out and she hadn’t heard the soft swoosh of any office doors opening.

But Dione was here, smelling faintly of incense and tobacco, long thick hair unnaturally black, fully made-up even at this ungodly hour. Mel was still wearing the remnants of yesterday’s clumpy mascara and hadn’t had time to straighten her auburn curls which were gradually morphing into an explosion of frizz. She already had a ladder in her tights where Zack’s backpack had caught them as she got the kids into the car.

“Oh dear, that sounds bad.” Dione pouted in what Mel could only imagine was her much-practised Instagram sympathy pose.

“Yeah, well two kids under five, an absent jerk of a baby-Daddy, being two months behind with your rent and waking up to a humongous gas and electric bill will do that to you I suppose,” Mel snapped, as she sprinkled sugar into her cup.

Dione’s face darkened. She raised her eyebrows and held Mel’s gaze.

“It doesn’t have to be like that you know,” her tone was molten lava.

“What doesn’t?” Mel was irritated. She needed to get back to her desk. She turned away.

“Your life. It doesn’t have to be like that. You have…options.” Dione raised her voice. Only slightly, but enough to pique Mel’s interest and make her turn back.

“What options?” she said, in spite of herself.

“You do know it’s a leap year, don’t you? That it’s the 29^th of February tomorrow.”

“Yeah. So what?”

“You know,” Dione gently tapped the side of her nose with the tip of one long red fingernail. “The day that doesn’t count.”

“No, I don’t know! Honestly, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

“The 29^th of February. It’s the day that doesn’t count. 365 legit days in a year but this one is extra. Like a bonus day. A day when you can break all the rules. Do anything you want. It’s what the whole idea of women proposing to men is based on. Breaking conventions. No regrets. No repercussions.”

Dione was bright now. The darkness of before, melted away. Mel wondered if she had imagined her previous sinister air. The woman was harmless. Bonkers but harmless.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mel said.

“I’m not! I’m completely serious! I’ve been celebrating it for a while now. We all have.”

“We?”

“Me and my friends. Other women. Like us.”

“What do you mean, ‘celebrating’?”

“You know. Doing stuff.”

“No, I don’t know! What sort of stuff?”

Dione looked around theatrically before she moved in close to whisper in Mel’s ear.

“Taking what we want. Doing what we want. Righting wrongs. Exacting revenge. Sex. Drugs. Violence…” – she lowered her voice even more – “Murder.”

“Jesus!” Mel gasped.

“Cool huh!” Dione was grinning now and again Mel wondered if she had imagined some of what she’d said. “So, what would you do?”

“Me!” Mel took a step back from the other woman, looking her up and down with unconcealed indignation. “Nothing! Are you insane? I’d never do stuff like that. Whether it counted or not. You’ve got me all wrong.”

“Have I? Are you sure about that? You can’t tell me there’s nothing bad you’d do if you thought you could get away with it. You must have at least thought about it. Fantasised about it. We all have.”

“No. Not me.”

“Ok. So, think about it now. Go on. Just go with me for a minute. For fun. For the hell of it. If you could do anything you wanted, and it wouldn’t count, what would you do. There must be something! Your life can’t be that perfect!”

“It’s not. Of course, it’s not. I think you know that already.”

“So come on then. Let your imagination run riot. Humour me.”

Dione smiled encouragingly but something flicked behind her eyes that made Mel cold for a moment. For the first time in the interaction, she felt fear. She forced her face into a tight smile. Made the decision to humour the woman and get back to work.

“So,” Mel took a deep breath. “I’d get a gun. Rob a bank. Buy a house and hold the solicitor at gunpoint to make him complete all the paperwork that day.”

Dione laughed. “There we have it. That’s more like it. That’s my girl!”

Mel walked back towards her office.

“Is that it? Is that all?” Dione called after her.

“Oh yeah, and I’d murder my jerk of a baby Daddy,” Mel called back over her shoulder.

She went back to her desk with Dione’s laughter ringing in her ears.

She sat down at her desk.

She started to type.

The words in her browser bar read:

How to buy a gun?

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Book Review – Disappearance at Devil’s Rock: A Novel by Paul Tremblay

Brilliantly Creepy

It’s a long time since a book has made my skin crawl and my eyes well with tears of terror, but this one did just that. It totally creeped me out, especially as I couldn’t put it down and ended up reading it in the middle of the night when the house was dark and everyone else was asleep. I found myself peering over my kindle into the darkness looking for unnatural or unfamiliar shadows and edging closer and closer to the comforting warmth of my husband’s sleeping form beside me.

A brilliant read! I read it in two spine-tingling late-night sessions. I couldn’t recommend it more – unless of course you are of a nervous disposition!

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October 2023 and The City Series by Sarah Lyons Fleming

It’s been a strange year and a bit of a “write-off” (pardon the pun) writing wise – blogs, books or anything else for that matter.

My Dad finally passed away in August. In many ways a relief for the whole family but also sad to witness the end of a long and rich life. He was 95 when he passed away peacefully with his family by his bedside.

I’ve also been recovering from my shoulder replacement in May and in September we went on a long driving holiday thorough France, Italy and Belgium. We have the scattering of the ashes and memorial for my Dad still to come in November and we are trying to support my Mum as best as we can albeit from a distance and involving fairly frequent trips up north. Then, before we know it Christmas will be upon us!

As a result of all of that, my head has not been in a great place for writing and I’ve done almost no marketing at all. I had hoped to finish Amenti Rising this year but its looking like this will now become my main writing goal for 2024!

But, I honestly feel as though I have turned a metaphorical corner since we got back from holiday and am ready to get going again. I’ve still been reading of course, and have recently finished The City Series by Sarah Lyons Fleming among other things. You can read my review below.

Book Review – The City Series by Sarah Lyons Fleming.

I read The City series after I had read The End of The World Series and the first 2 books in The Cascadia series. So, I suppose you could say that I’m officially a fan of Ms Lyons Fleming. Here, I’ve reviewed Mordacious, Peripeteia and Instauration as a series as it is essentially one long continuation of the same story and a parallel story to The End of the World Series.

The series tell the story from the perspective of Sylvie, a complicated young woman from a difficult background and Eric, the brother of Cassie from The End of the World series. Rather than escaping Brooklyn and New York like Cassie and her friends did, Sylvie remains trapped there and is living in Cassie’s old apartment. Eric, on the other hand, battles his way in to Brooklyn looking for Cassie and this is how the two main characters meet. The rest is history, as they say.

What I like about the books:

I love the ‘epic-ness’ of the story. These are very long books. Ms Lyons Fleming gives us almost 2000 pages of survival horror romance in this series.

I love the connections between the different books and series and the characters and places within them.

I love the use of real locations and how they are transformed in the apocalypse. I even found myself checking them out and tracking journeys on Google Maps.

The characters are what really drives my continued engagement with these books. They are authentic, imperfect and very, very likeable. It’s impossible not to care about what happens to them.

I like the way that the books provide a stream of useful knowledge and information about how to survive in an apocalypse, how to make masonry heaters, where to find water in a city, how to make a solar oven and so on. Very useful both for my own survival when the apocalypse comes and for fact checking my own writing on the subject.

I really like the fact that these books do not focus solely on violence and horror. Of course, this is there. It has to be, by the very nature of the theme. But it is not the main focus, and this is refreshing within the genre.

On top of all the above, the books are well-written and easy to read.

There is not much I don’t like about these books. They are engaging, simple stories that are well told.

If I had single teeny, tiny criticism it might be that sometimes I got a bit bored with some of the mundane conversations and seemingly pointless to the plot, everyday activities, and interactions. However, I suspect that is more about me and my impatience to find out what happens next than a serious criticism of the books. These sections are actually what make the readers care so much about the characters and their fates.

I’m looking forward to reading World Without, the third book in The Cascadia Series.

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The Soul Thief

My Dad has end-stage dementia. The man I knew has gone and he kind of slipped away without any of us having the chance to grieve or say goodbye. It’s a cruel disease in so many ways. This year we had to make the difficult decision to place him in a care home.

My category for the NYC 2023 100 Word Competition was Romance involving ‘walking on a red carpet’ and had to include the word ‘faith’.

As my Dad was on my mind so much at the time, I decide to write a piece about dementia, based on my parents 65 year marriage.

For the first time in a while, despite getting positive feedback from the judges, it didn’t progress me to the next round thus ending my journey prematurely in this competition.

The Soul Thief

Seventy years have passed since we walked the red carpet together.

Sparkling smiles.

Laughing eyes.

Aglow with love and faith in our future.

Where have you gone my love?

You are here but you are not present.

An empty shell.

Slack mouth that cannot speak my name.

Vacant eyes that do not know me.

Cold, grey skin.

I see you but can’t find you.

You slipped away when I wasn’t looking.

Taken by the soul thief.

One piece at a time.

Day by day.

Secreted away.

Where are you now?

You left me.

But we never got to say goodbye.

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Monkey Memories

Inspired by memories of watching a mechanical monkey in Solihull town centre, first with my children and now with my granddaughter, I wrote a a little sonnet to celebrate Festival 36 when Shakespeare’s First Folio came to town.

Monkey Memories

The shoe shop window was where you once reigned

Twisting and turning an acrobat show

Keeping my small children so entertained

Watching you spin with their faces aglow

Now I have grown old, and the shoe shop gone

Monkey and memories lost in the past

My children are grown with kids of their own

Now it’s my grandchild who holds my hand fast

And you too have found a new place to stay

Once again, we watch you spin twist and turn

A glass case in Touchwood where you now play

New love, old memories in my heart burn

Time passes quickly and all things must change

But through it all a mother’s love remains

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Grandma’s Cabin

A couple of months ago a member of my writing group submitted a piece for our monthly creative writing exercise by a mystery author. He would not say who they were. He asked us to read and critique it in the usual way and to share our thoughts at the meeting.

The task was to write a short story of between 500 and 5000 words that began with the line ‘The snow was falling heavily, making it nearly impossible to see out of the window.’ I wrote a darkly comic tale of a woman alone in a remote cabin in a snowstorm, while her husband goes out for pizza. Let’s just say her imagination runs riot. We had a scary story about an apparently innocent child who turns out to be the spawn of Satan, and a disturbing ghost story about a woman on a lonely writer’s retreat.

We then discussed Grandma’s Cabin, the mystery submission. It was a strange tale about Amanda who is travelling by train to visit her grandmother in her remote mountain cabin. A terrible storm forces the train to stop. After this the story rapidly develops into a crazy nightmare involving an encounter with a creepy man and a random gunfight. Amanda leaves the train to fight her way through the snow to her grandmother’s cabin, which is conveniently located close to where the train has stopped, only to discover that Grandma has had her throat slit. Grandma has left a note revealing that she was murdered by the creepy man who has followed Amanda to the cottage, but a pre-warned Amanda shoots him with Grandma’s shotgun.

We all looked at each other quizzically, unsure what to say about the truly dreadful story. Who had written it? Was it someone we knew? Was the member who submitted it going to be hurt or offended by our comments. We needed to know something about the author. Perhaps they were child or someone with a learning disability, in which case we would be inclined to mitigate our criticisms accordingly.

We started tentatively, but when it was clear that we all felt the same we let rip. Badly written. Unbelievable. Naïve. Childlike. Cliched. Ridiculous plot. Lacked depth. Poor characterisation. No atmosphere. No elegance to the prose. Utter nonsense. And on and on.

When we had vented, we asked our colleague to reveal the identity of the mystery author. With a wide grin he announced that it was an AI engine called ChatGPT. We were stunned initially and then delighted. Writers across the world are currently freaking about the threat of AI. If this was the best that it could do, what was all the fuss about?

But, our colleague insisted, to be fair to AI and, in the context of a bad worker always blames his tools, all the AI had been given was the first line and an average word count. Most examples of AI involve the computer working with more information and alongside a human writer. His words got me thinking. What if, with more information and human support, AI could write a story as good as, or even better than ours? What if we were unknowingly competing with AI in the many writing competitions we regularly entered. ChatGPT had taken only a couple of minutes to write Grandma’s Cabin, while we had spent hours and days perfecting our stories. The NYC Midnight competitions typically allow 24 hours for participants to generate short stories based on a random prompt. It can be a tough challenge. How could we possibly compete with an AI writer that could produce multiple stories in the 24-hour period? What might it mean for the future of writing and people who write for a living?

After the meeting, I did a bit of research on the subject. I came across an article about the author Stephen Marche who co-authored a novella, Death of an Author, with three different AI programmes (ChatGPT, Sudowrite and Cohere) under the penname Aidan Marchine. Marche created the plot and the characters, and the machines wrote the text. It was a trial-and-error process involving a lot of work on his part. His conclusion was that AI could be a useful tool for authors but not something that would ever replace them. The book has only just been released. It will be interesting to see what the reviews are like.

The idea of a human and AI working together then got me reflecting abut a novel I read recently, In the Blink of An Eye, by Jo Callaghan. In this crime novel, as an experiment, a human detective works alongside an AI detective to solve a series of murders. The conclusion here was that both detectives had an important role to play but that one would not have succeeded without the other. While the AI detective is logical and objective, and able to process huge volumes of information in just a few minutes, the human detective picks up on subtle human behaviours and emotions that are pivotal to the case.

Similarly, I can see a place in the future for AI as a support tool for writers, helping with grammar, sentence structure and word choices, as many writing support programmes already do. It could also be useful in terms of creating concise and impactful blurbs and social media posts. More worryingly, it isn’t hard to imagine scenarios where it is the main content creator of business reports, academic papers, marketing copy and even some non-fiction books and articles.

Some of my favourite books contain subtle nuances and observations of the human condition, dry humour, elegant sections of prose that stir the senses and emotions, moving stories of the unfathomable depths of love, loyalty, and friendship. Good writing is art. Yahoo Dictionary defines art as ‘the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination … producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.’ Surely an AI writer couldn’t produce art?

Could they?

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I’m back with some AI Anxieties and Monkey Memories.

I’ve been out of action for a few months having my second shoulder replacement. I had the right one done eleven years ago and finally gave in and went for a matching pair.

I’m happy to report that all went well and I’m back at my lap-top again typing with both hands. There’s a fair bit to catch up with before I’m back on track with Amenti Rising but I’m up and running.

Before the op I wrote a little ditty on a subject that’s getting a lot of writers in a tizzy right now. Grandma’s Cabin attempts to offer a little bit of reassurance on that front – for now at least.

I also put together a little sonnet, Monkey Memories, as part of the Shakespeare in Solihull Festival 36 and was delighted when it was included in a collection to commemorate the occasion. Rejection can be such a wearing everyday reality in the writing world that any acceptance, however small, is always a joyful occasion.

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