A few years ago I got an email from NYC Midnight inviting me to participate in a writing contest. I’d be given an object, a genre, and a general setting from which I was to construct a 1000-word story in a week, all for about twenty bucks. I’d be competing against thousands of writers from around the world, and might even win a prize (cash or an agent’s review or something else I don’t recall).
I wrote a silly historical piece about a photographer who discovers the profitability of corpse portraiture. The style was stilted and artificial, but I liked it. However, one of the elements was a slice of cheese, and I did not include it in the story except as a wedged-in aside.
The story got zero points out of fifteen. Welcome to the world of NYC Midnight.
My next attempt was more successful, garnering fifteen out of fifteen. I closely adhered to the structure and made sure that the object (a watermelon) was central to the narrative, a challenge since it was a suspense story about a mountain climber. However, it was insufficient to advance to the final round.
I was pissed and decided not to do any more of these contests, but the bug had bitten and when I got an email a few months later I signed up again.
Over the years, the NYC contest has expanded to included tens of thousands of writers and multiple prompts that usually follow the same structure of genre, subject, object with different word lengths and deadlines. Yesterday I banged out a 250-word science fiction story that required I use the word ease.
I think I came up with a good one, a suspenseful yarn with a lot of tension and ambiance. That’s what I love about these contests: because they can be so hard, I feel pressed to give a lot more attention to my writing than I would for something like a blog post (like this one). The low word count forces me to make everything work together, be it a conjunction or a snippet of dialogue. Sometimes there is beauty in constraint, and of course there is always more to learn.
Here’s one from last year. It was supposed to be a caper piece with a lemonade stand and a printer. I’d been reading a lot of Elmore Leonard, so I took it in another direction which veered from the strict requirements. I wasn’t surprised when it didn’t place in the top ten, but I still like it as a story.
THE PUBLIC ENEMY
The younger one takes a pad from his pocket and leans against the desk. His suit looks brand new, the creases crisp as folded paper. The older man slides a chair over so it's facing the boy. He lowers himself onto the chair and leans forward, knurled fingers weaved together.
"What's your name, son?"
Danny, brought up to hard work and respect for his elders, tells him his first and last names, but omits the middle one, which he hates.
"I'm Marshal Wage. My associate is Greer. We'd appreciate if you told us what you saw."
"I told the sheriff already, sir."
"I understand that, but if it's all the same I'd like you to go over it again."
Danny looks past the marshal through the row of windows that overlook the print shop attached to the courthouse. Mr. Dybek sits at the tall table setting type for the afternoon edition. As always, he wears two pairs of glasses, first peering through one to study the typewritten story, then the other to inspect the row of minute letters in the printer tray. Danny enjoys watching him, always amazed at how Mr. Dybek assembles entire pages without a single mistake.
"How can you do that when all the letters are backwards?" Danny once asked.
Mr Dybek had shrugged and told him it was just a different way of seeing things. "You can learn to see that way too, if you practice."
This opened Danny's eyes to something he'd never considered: the whole world was out there, waiting to be observed. He became aware of how many things he could notice if he tried: the number of stairs in front of the courthouse, people’s exact outfits, if they were left-handed. He liked to close his eyes to test himself on what he saw: blue shirt, red tie, ladder-laced saddle oxfords or 34 Ford V-8 like Dillinger’s, license plate HJ89.
And now the marshal wants him to tell what he saw. He smiles.
Greer scowls. "You find something funny about two men getting shot, boy?"
"Nosir," says Danny. He turns back to Marshal Wage, the clear blue eyes in a battered face. The marshal wears a flat plains hat Danny guesses he never removes, since there is thin line of pale skin above the sunburned forehead. "Avon Jenkins and Wayne Boggs pulled up in a blue ’35 Essex. They went into the bank. The alarm bell started to ring and I heard four shots from two different guns. About half a minute later, Jenkins came out toting two big canvas bags. Boggs followed a little after. He had blood all over his left shoulder. They got in the Essex and drove east."
"Where were you when all this happened?" asked Greer.
"My cousin Jenny has a lemonade stand directly across the street. I was helping her while Mr. Dybek finished printing the afternoon edition of the Call."
"You deliver papers?" asks Greer.
"Yessir. Fridays I deliver mornings and afternoons."
"What did you do next?" asks Marshal Wage.
"Why, I run over to see if I could help. Mr. Hines, the guard, was lying on the floor. He had his gun out, a Smith and Wesson .38. I could tell he was dead from the amount of blood. Mrs. Johnson was on the floor too, but she'd only fainted. The worst was Mr. Thrails, the bank manager. Jenkins shot him through the head when he set off the alarm."
"How do you know that?" asks Greer.
"Annie Rawls told me. She's the oldest Rawls girl. She was attending Mrs. Johnson."
"She wasn't upset?" asks Greer. "Hard to believe that."
"Oh, I don't know," says the marshal. "Country people are used to a deal of blood and strife. Right, Danny?
"Yessir."
"You called the sheriff?"
"Nosir. Somebody else must have, because he come right quick with the deputies."
"You tell your Mr. Dybek this?" asks Greer, suspicious.
"Nosir, but he may have overheard when the sheriff interviewed me. He's like that. A nose for news, he says."
Marshal Wage stares hard at Danny. "How do you know it was Jenkins and Boggs?"
"Why, I seen their posters in the post office, but I reckon anyone reads the papers would know them with all the jobs they done lately, sir."
Greer grunts and mutters something under his breath.
Marshal Wage shakes his head. "You never mind him, Danny. He's prickly on this subject."
"More like sick and tired of all these murderers and thieves being treated like folk heroes by the local press," says Greer. "Bonnie and goddamned Clyde. Pretty Boy Floyd."
"He's just jealous," says Marshal Wage, giving Danny a tiny wink.
"Why I bet that Dybek there is writing about how they robbed the bank and shot two people so they could give the money to the poor!" yells Greer, his face red.
"That what he's doing, Danny?" asks Marshal Wage.
"Nosir. He only prints the facts. Before he writes a word he'll probably interview all the eyewitnesses, verify the amount that got took and all. I don't imagine he's done any of that yet."
"See that, Greer? A real newspaperman, and in a town small as this." He turns to Danny. "How sure are you about what you witnessed, son?"
"I'm swear-to-heaven sure, sir."
Greer holds up two large sheets on which are printed rows of tiny photographs, each the size of a postage stamp. "You see those two men anywhere here?"
Danny studies them, then fingers two faces. "Jenkins here. Boggs here."
Marshall Wage smiles, white mustache curling at his cheeks. "Well look at that, Greer. Bet you couldn't do half as well." He leans toward Danny again. "You happen to remember the license of that Essex, son?"
"Kansas 35 T9-3094."
"Danny, how old are you?"
"I'll be fifteen this August, sir."
Marshall Wage unsnaps his pocket and takes out a business card embossed with a gold star. "You turn eighteen, you come see me. I might have a job for you."