The Flash Fiction Spy Story That Stole Round One

Flash Fiction weekend: Friday at midnight

Sweaty palms. Pounding heart. Wobbly tummy. The hero of a thrilling flash fiction spy story?

Not hardly! Just one of the 3200 writers awaiting our prompt assignments for the annual NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest.

[A quick note if you’re new to the concept of “flash fiction,” the story format is usually defined as 1,000 words or fewer – as opposed to a short story, which is commonly more than 1,000 words and anywhere shy of novella length.]

So, what’s this NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest all about?

Now, those of you who follow me here or on social media might recall I’ve participated in the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction contest before. Actually, you can read my first post about the experience eight years ago, which includes my very first flash story. And you’re more than welcome to follow that thread of stories right on through my spot in the finals, when my favorite flash fiction story I’ve ever written earned an Honorable Mention and some bit of writing software I never downloaded. Hey, I’m an MS Word purist, what can I say?

To be perfectly honest, I had a brief but sad flash fiction contest run four years back. I was assigned the contest-killing MYSTERY genre in round two. (The only genre I dread more is POLITICAL SATIRE!) If you’re looking for “The Curious Case of the Flying Bathtub,” just forget it! That is one flash fiction that will never see the light of day. Chalk it up to a learning experience!

I can, however, quite happily direct you to my string of 100-word stories that I wrote for the NYC Midnight 100-Word Microfiction Contest during 2020 – a pretty great way to pass a pandemic.

Back to my Flash Fiction Spy Story …

As I was saying, Friday at midnight, I received these prompts:

Genre: SPY
Setting: A GREEN ROOM
Object: A JUICER

Given 48 hours, I had to compose a story of 1,000 or fewer words (not counting the title and required 2-line synopsis) that met the standards of the SPY genre, took place in a green room, and included the physical presence of a juicer.

While I know intellectually that I started entering these contests to expand my horizons and learn to write outside my comfort zones – romance, romantic comedy, and drama (kind of a catch-all for everything that isn’t something else), the unfamiliar genres still strike terror into my poor heart.

First things first – define SPY STORY

Whether or not it’s the best definition, I always review the genre definition provided on the NYC Midnight website. Why? Because that’s what the judges will use. Here’s the NYCM definition of a spy story from their Genre Definitions page:

A story that involves espionage, secret agents, or secret service organizations as an important context or plot device. Spy fiction emerged in the early twentieth century, propelled by the establishment of modern intelligence agencies and rivalries between them. Common elements: espionage, secret agents, rogue states, organized crime, fundamentalism, terrorist networks, technological sabotage. Spy fiction books include Graham Greene’s The Quiet American and John le Carré Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. Spy fiction films include The Bourne Identity (2002) and The Lives Of Others (2006).

Finding my spy story

Yikes! Espionage? Rogue states? Technological sabotage? What do I know of such things? The extent of my understanding of “technological sabotage” is a highjacked email account. To be clear, I’m the hijackEE in the story.

When in panic mode, I tend to fall back on this classic bit of writing advice: Write what you know.

So, like many of my stories, a romantic relationship took center stage (think The Spy Who Loved Me). And the best part? The love interest gave rise to my spy’s conflict: love or country?

Using the setting and object to my spy’s advantage

For some (perhaps many?), the first image that comes to mind upon reading “a green room” is a room painted or wallpapered in some shade of green. Happily, having grown up in a musical family (though lacking any durable talent myself), I’ve been in the kind of green room I believe the contest organizers meant. That is, the backstage holding area for guests about to appear on stage.

[Side note: My most fun green room experience happened when my husband and I went to hear my brother’s band play in a very cozy venue in San Jose, where he opened for the Rembrandts (of Friends fame)! Their 1992 Untitled album is still one of my favorites!]

But I digress. The contest requires that most of the action of the story take place in the assigned setting, which led me to the idea of pre-performance action.

The juicer, one of the more innocuous of the objects I’ve had to slide into a story, was pretty easy to throw inside the green room. You’ll see it right at the top of the story.

How it worked out

Happily, this story ended up (as the post heading suggests) earning me the top spot among my group of thirty writers and gave me a nice leg up going into the second heat of round one.

If you’d like to read more stories from this contest, follow this space. You can enter your email where it says “Send blog updates!” to receive an email notification when I post the next one. Don’t worry – I promise not to flood your inbox!

I hope you’ll enjoy reading the first (and maybe last) flash fiction spy story I’ve ever written!

*

THE SPY WHO SANG OFF KEY

“Thirty minutes to curtain!” The page might as well have dropped a ticking timebomb into our green room.

Zoya’s busy concocting a smoothie, her back to me. I can’t resist wrapping my arms around my ginger goddess, especially since this embrace may be our last. I’ll admit falling for Zoya complicated the mission. I regret nothing.

I close in tight and nuzzle her sweet-smelling hair. “Hi.”

She startles, dropping two handfuls of kale into the whirring juicer, and slaps at the off button. The blades grind to a halt. “Zhopa!” (Brat!)

Whoops. “Nervous?”

Dumb question. As if it’s not stressful enough we’re playing the State Kremlin Palace, tonight’s concert will be televised worldwide, our first audience beyond Russia. All four of us are on edge.

Zoya answers by holding her left hand aloft, visibly trembling. “Papa is seated in the front row.” I’ll never get used to the intimate way she refers to the Russian president’s top goon, aka Ivan the Terrible. “I don’t know how I’ll manage to play the right notes,” she confesses.

The same way I’ll purposely sing the wrong ones: we’re pros. At least lives don’t depend on Zoya’s accuracy.

I kiss her neck. “You’ll be perfect.”

With a nervous giggle, she shrugs me off. “Look who’s talking, ‘Sasha the Great.’” I glance at the guys, relieved they’re too engrossed with their phones to hear Zoya using the fans’ embarrassing nickname.

“I have it easy,” I say. “All I have to do is open my mouth. You’ve got to wrangle four strings and a bow—all while balancing a violin under your chin.”

“Hence, my liquid calm. Nazdarohvyeh.” She raises her sludge in a one-sided toast and guzzles down every vile drop.

I honestly wish I liked the stuff. My nerves could definitely use some calming.

Tonight’s the biggest night of our lives, and I am about to flame us out.

The guys are gonna hate me. Zoya will never kiss me again. Bye-bye, rock star status.

And that’s my best-case scenario.

*

I was twelve when they recruited me for the “Gifted and Exceptional” program. My voice hadn’t even thought about changing yet, but the scouts were convinced I could be the next Harry Styles.

Easiest decision ever. The girl I liked didn’t know I existed, but she sure as heck knew Harry. I was all in.

Mom was thrilled—“Our little Thomas, a rock star!” Dad wept when they handed him an envelope of cash with a promise of lots more where that came from.

My new school was far from Topeka, but the rigorous program left no time to miss my old life or entertain silly crushes on the girls in my class. Voice lessons kept my dreams on track. Meanwhile, our teachers drilled us in geography, world history, and politics.

I never questioned why we had to learn Russian until we could speak without a trace of an American accent. Or why we learned to speak English as a Russian would.

*

“Ten to curtain!”

“I can’t wait to introduce you to Papa after the show.”

My stomach lurches as if I drank gallons of Zoya’s green slime. “Mhmm.”

Zoya takes my hand, laughing at my grimace. “Don’t be nervous, milyy. He’s a pussycat.”

Oh, honey. If you only knew how I make Papa purr.

*

Probably because the eighteenth-birthday “field trips” were shrouded in mystery, us Lower School kids made up our own wild stories about the solo outings. All I knew for sure was that everyone returned with an overnight maturity—and a new name.

I was eager for my turn but scared shitless, too. When that fancy car whisked me away on my birthday with only the clothes on my back, I knew I’d left my innocence behind.

The driver delivered me to some hotel in the Virginia boonies and told me which room to report to. It’s still hard to believe I officially became a spy for the CIA in such an unremarkable place.

A large, gruff man I’d never seen before invited me into his room. “Tolko russkiy,” (Only Russian) he said.

I nodded.

“I have a secret that puts your country at risk. Your job is to make me tell it to you.”

Make him?Even if I had a weapon, I’d never been trained for combat.

Oh.

He smiled as understanding stained my cheeks.

I considered bolting. Even if the car was still downstairs, then what?

No more Harry. No more exceptionalness.

I thought about the Upper School students, who’d left for their field trips as boys and returned as men. I wanted this.

By the time I left that hotel room three days later as Sasha Krukov, I felt confident I could get a secret out of anyone—especially an old pervert with a weakness for young boys.

*

“Five minutes to curtain!”

In a corner of the green room, I warm up my voice. All those lessons will pay off tonight, particularly my special training in the art of using the musical alphabet to communicate intel—like the nugget I finally wormed out of Ivan the Terrible just in time for tonight’s broadcast: the location of the illegal nuclear stockpile.

Oh yes, Zoya’s Papa gave up that plum right before I let him suck my toes.

And now, I’m ready to do what I must. As soon as the first note of my coded message clashes with “Red Mother,” my star will crash and burn. So be it. I had my moment in the sun.

If Ivan’s told the truth about being the President’s sole confidant, his days are likely numbered. It’s probably bad form to root for the murder of my girlfriend’s dad, but I pray Ivan will get his due before he comes for me.

As for Zoya—sigh—even if her perfectly pitched ears could forgive my musical atrocities, they’ll never forget. Damn. I think I loved her.

“Curtain!”

Yep, for all of us.

*

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