My 2019 foray into flash fiction has come to an end. I didn’t advance to the final round of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest.

My second entry, “Replacement Cost“, finished 1st in my group of 30, which I was thrilled to learn. That placing, combined with the 3rd place finish from “Tanuki’s Dream Salon“, landed me atop my group after Round 1. The top 5 finishers from each of the 25 groups advanced to Round 2, cutting the field of entries from 3,750 to 625. The top 3 from each group in Round 2 would then advance to a final round of 75 with $10,000 in prizes at stake.

Alas, the competition in this next round was much stiffer and the luck of the draw was not in my favor.

Genre: Fantasy
Location: Construction Site
Object: Mirror

Have I mentioned I don’t read fantasy? I don’t. Nor do I write it (aside from “Tanuki’s Dream Salon”). But that’s the beauty of the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest. It forces you out of your comfort zone, and offers little time to dwell on what you don’t know. Unfortunately, 48 hours leaves little time for coming up with a story (and polishing it) if you also have to familiarize yourself with the conventions of a new genre. I had my story in mind by the next morning and got to work. I was happy with how “Clouds of Ezorlem” came out, but felt less confident about it than I had my prior entries. Knowing I was competing with the best of the earlier round meant the margin for error was slimmer.

The judges had some nice comments:

The prose itself had a lovely lyrical quality, enriching even the most simple passages. Every scene was pleasurable to read, but Devyn’s bold changes to the mirror were definitely the most enchanting moments.

But ultimately felt that more was needed from the backstory and that I didn’t get into the conflict soon enough (a common refrain from certain corners of my critique group). I’ll spare you the details so as to not spoil the story below. I hope you enjoy it, even if it wasn’t a top 3 finisher. I’ll try harder next time.

Clouds of Ezorlem

“There’s no reason we should all suffer.” Devyn positioned his easel within the sliver of shade cast by the barn’s eave and daubed his brush. “Besides,” he added, “it’s not my fault Father says I only get in the way.”

His sister plucked a clod of dirt from the sunbaked field and readied to throw it, but halted at their mother’s reproachful glare. “It’s not fair!” She slammed the lump at her feet, causing a fog of clay to rise amongst the heat shimmers.

“Enough. Bronwyn, the quicker we shave these sheep, the sooner we can escape the sun.”

Bronwyn yanked a sickly ewe by the tail, one of the few that haven’t succumbed to starvation, and readied the shears as Devyn held his breath. She clipped with adolescent fury, sending fleece flying, all the while jutting her tongue at Devyn. But she didn’t say it, didn’t dare hurl the epithet too often used by the village’s men: Devyn the Cripple.

He exhaled and resumed painting.

Though Devyn never used his stunted leg as an excuse, even he couldn’t deny the benefits of being shunned by the workmen. Especially on this ninetieth day of a searing drought that has hammered the village of Ezorlem, annealing harvest, home, and hearts alike. Despite his love of art, Devyn’s distracted gaze drifted toward the site of the temple expansion, where construction continued round the clock in hope greater tribute to the gods would yield a rainy answer to their prayers. So confident was the High Priest, he ordered a cistern be dug within the courtyard, a backbreaking task given the parched soil.

Several strokes later, Devyn set down his brush. As the town’s self-appointed artist — and only owner of tempera — he knew he’d regret not painting the cistern site. Devyn raised himself on his oak crutch and gathered his supplies, earning a concerned look from his mother. “I’m going to town,” he said, hoping his father’s seniority amongst the workers would shield him from scorn. He’d scarcely finished shouldering his easel and case of pigments when the temple’s bells launched a chaotic tolling.

His mother and Bronwyn raced toward the alarm, urging him on. Though Devyn limped along as fast he could, he was among the last villagers to arrive. The crowd packed the courtyard, encircling the cistern in a wide oval. Gasps of awe went out as villagers clutched at one another and whispered prayers.

But what for? Devyn could see nothing through the throng.

He pressed forward, stepping past shovels and pickaxes, as heretical theories spread from mouth to ear. He heard tales of a frozen pond, a sheet of azurite, and even a fallen sky buried long ago. Emboldened by the absurdity, Devyn jabbed the feet around him with the end of his crutch. “Let me through!”

Enduring shunts and jeers, Devyn finally managed a glimpse into the pit. There, set a dozen hands deep, lay a massive mirror. But more startling than the discovery of the sprawling silver erratic, was that it only reflected the blue sky above. No matter the angle Devyn tilted his head, he could see no other’s reflection.

I must record the scene at once!

He unpacked his easel but was jostled while readying his paints, causing lead white to spot the mirror. Accusations of contaminating the cistern flew amid demands to “clear out, cripple.” But when Devyn sighed skyward, he noticed a miniscule puff of cloud.

Though he’d long believed the minerals used in pigments were imbued with magic, this coincidence was the first hint of it being true. Curious, he slyly dipped his brush into yellow ochre, then flicked the paint at the inexplicable mirror.

Cries erupted as drips splattered the backs of the men before him and paint streaked the mirror. Someone grabbed Devyn by the throat, only to release him when a sudden bolt of lightning ruptured the cloudless sky, crackling with ferocity.

“The lad’s angered the gods, run!”

The threatening crowd fled at once for cover, with many taking refuge in the sanctuary while others huddled beneath the scaffolding and hoists surrounding the dig site.

“Get outta here, Devyn. Crawl yourself back home!”

Devyn scanned the cowering crowd, eventually locking eyes with his father, reading his disgust. He wanted to make him proud, but also prove him wrong. “I’m not useless,” he hissed.

He pivoted toward the cursed mirror and flopped to the ground. Devyn clawed his way to a forgotten bucket and quickly filled it with sand. With his case of paints still slung around his shoulder, he pried open the carbon black and emptied the jar, along with the remainder of white into the bucket. Using his brush handle like a spoon, he mixed the slurry until every grain was soaked in an ashen grey.

“Stop right there, Devyn,” shouted his father.

Devyn dismissed the command with a shake then, summoning all the courage he possessed, rose to a knee and swung the bucket in an arc, sloshing grey-tinted sand across the massive mirror.

Please, gods, let me be right.

Amid resumed threats and hollering, Devyn fell to his back, exhausted. He closed his eyes, too afraid to watch. Weary in heart and muscle, he imagined himself the hero of the village. No longer teased for his handicap but heralded as Devyn the Diviner, the artist who shepherded Ezorlem to water.

The raindrops fell first as a drizzle too faint to be believed, then as a torrent, pelting his face, soaking his clothes. Devyn laid in the pooling mud, content and proud, but reluctant to open his eyes, else he blink the dream away.

Soon, familiar arms slipped beneath him and lifted. Only when he stood, leaning against his father, did he dare inspect his masterpiece. The sky, for months an imprisoning blue, now heaved a perfect stormy grey. Rain flooded the cistern, washing the paint from the mirror, but still the rain came.

Save for where Devyn’s heroic portrait remained forever etched in the spell-broken glass.

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