2025 NYC Midnight Rhyming Story Competition: Round 1 Entry

This past fall I entered the NYC Midnight Rhyming Story Competition, along with about 1500 other writers. I had entered two other NYC Midnight competitions before, but I never made it past the first round. The Rhyming Story competition stretches several writing muscles. Not only do the participants have to create a cohesive story that rhymes within a time limit, but they have to make it fit with certain prompts and word limit constraints. I had many, many tabs open for various thesaurus and rhyme sites during the competition. It was an incredible challenge!

When I received my prompts for the first round, I thought I was doomed. I had never written anything suspenseful, creepy, or unsettling before this point, and then the suspense/thriller genre fell into my lap. However, the resulting story landed me 4th place within my group of 30 writers, allowing me to move on to the next round.

Constraints/Prompts:

600 words, 7 days

Genre: Suspense/Thriller

Theme: Emotional Blackmail

Emotion: Horrified

The Lady Dufray

Synopsis: A young woman faces increasingly intense pressure to bear her new husband an heir.

Down the aisle of the church, the new Lady Dufray,

under piles and pounds of silks and chiffon did teeter and sway. 

No expense too great, nor gown too grand. 

The Lord Dufray, next to his new bride, took his stand.

“See how he dotes upon the girl,” the guests declared.

“Does this mean he has reformed? May the girl be spared?”

The vows echoed against painted domes; 

weaving through witnesses, pews, the church catacombs.

The proposal to be the next Lady Dufray

was expected; the Lord an heir required, without delay.

Yet one so young, scarcely more than girl,

the great, famed, late Lady would replace in a whirl.

“See how he remarries so soon,” the town murmured.

“To distract from those rumors foul: accidental, or murdered?”

Whispers followed the sweet maiden fair

with tsks and tuts and sighs, and sometimes with prayer.

The mother of the affianced Lady Dufray

explained the heavy duties of a wife, the womanly way.

No fear nor pain she hoped to instill;

Only what the world would expect her to fulfill.

“See how talk of the late Lady brings doubt,” she said.

“An accident, dear girl. There is nothing to worry about.”

Serve a husband, she preached, not with heart.

Just secure a child. Earn your title. Do your part.

Enduring the honeymoon, the Lady Dufray

hurried to learn her husband’s quirks, desires, ways.

Yet each night the man ignored her begs

while acidic duty still burned between her legs.

“See how you think yourself precious,” the man did chide.

“Perhaps if you please me more, talk less, I might stay by your side.”

She cried and rested her weary head,

while visions of women plagued her. Fallen. Forced. Dead.

With belly still unswollen, the Lady Dufray

paced the ornate halls and counted footprints in the entryway.

Everywhere she looked was evidence;

hair and clothes that were not hers, but women who took precedence.

“See how he flaunts them!” The Lady cried out, aghast.

“His hair reeks of their perfume to taunt me, his wife; always last!”

Screams fill the halls of vows once spoken— 

pure anguish and horror of a woman broken.  

On a cold and dark winter’s night, Lady Dufray

heard whispers down the hall from staff that heard gossip to relay.

Word spread of master’s sterility;

with all those women, the issue was him, statistically.

“See how you bring slander to me!” The man did roar. 

“Your failings will not ruin me—learn from your predecessor!”

Dread sank deep in the young woman’s core.

He raved and raged with threats before slamming the door. 

Remembering old rumors, the Lady Dufray

prepared not for the night, but a debt to repay.

At dinner she tucked away a knife.

She hid it in their bed, the source of all her strife.

“See how it has come to this,” she spit through her teeth.

“First loneliness, now violence he warns... Between his ribs, my sheath!”

His heavy, thudding footsteps drew near.

She strengthened her resolve. No more pain. No more fear...

Down the aisle of the church, a scorned Lady Dufray

under piles and pounds of sins and bloodstains did teeter and sway.

She stumbled into the aurate booth.

Her pulse raced, but voice rang clear as she spoke her truth.

“See how I confess, Father,” she cried through the screen.

“Do not bless me; I seek not forgiveness for these hands unclean.

I feel no pity, nor guilt, nor shame.

The bastard is dead. May he burn forever in flame!”