NYC Midnight 250-Word Microfiction Writing Challenge!

On December 9th, NYC Midnight emailed the contestants of the 250-Word Microfiction Challenge our assignments, which included an assigned genre, an action, and inclusion of a specific word. My assignment was to write a ghost story including the action of smelling smoke and the word familiar.

Excitement and a bit of nervousness surrounded the task. Not only were ghost stories not my preferred genre to write, read, or even watch, but I'd never participated in a contest before. Writing microfiction with intention was also new. Sure, I'd created stories during writing sprints in response to a writing prompt, but to mold, revise, and edit a complete story consisting of only 250 words presented a challenge.

Flutters of excitement, anxiety, and fear coursed through me when I received the prompt and began to write. A draft came, followed by three rounds of revision. During the process, I learned the most about precision and word economy. I didn't advance to the second round, but the experience was so worthwhile that I plan on participating again. In the mean time, I want to continue crafting these tiny stories and allow the practice to influence my longer projects. Here's my story:

Phantosmia

Mary breathed through her mouth as the icy shower streamed down, her nostrils pinched by turquoise plugs. Too long in frigid chlorinated water left her finger pads shriveled and lips blue. Blue jeans, wool socks, and the maroon flannel her mother hated because it belonged to Mary’s father didn’t warm her, nor did the wintery stare from the woman who always shook her head and mumbled “your nose will fall off” as Mary passed. 

The scans provided no explanation for the phantosmia. No polyps, tumors, or infections. Mary attended therapy biweekly to tease apart grief and promise to wash the peeling, raw flesh on her nose. The therapist winced, but Mary was fond of the pain. 

Despite cranking the heat, Mary’s car didn’t warm, and in her house, her breath released in smokey puffs. She brushed her teeth with bubblegum paste, pressed the plugs tighter, and medicated herself to sleep. 

Cigarette smoke and mint filled the room. Mary’s eyes widened. Her hand fondled her nose. The plugs held, but familiar smells pervaded. Leather. Tobacco flakes. Metallic change. 

“Why not Dad?” Mary heard herself scream. 

“He never cared enough to stay!” Mother’s shriek separated by years. 

“I’m dying,” Mary replied. Resigned. Observant.

“Never.” A mother’s unsolicited promise. 

Light, voices, and a warm palm to the shoulder woke her. Instinct drew Mary’s hand to her nose where a cannula released oxygen. For a moment, she was nothing but smell. Alcohol, latex, and plastic. A breath. Then tomato vine, biscuits, and baby powder.