The New York Times is running their Second Biennial Pulp Fiction Contest.
The way the contest works, you look at this cover:
And you submit the following:
“An opening passage for the actual 1951 novel shown above, with a maximum of 150 words boiled hard as you please — within the constraints of a family newspaper (no major curse words, no R-rated sex stuff). Do not necessarily feel bound to describe the situation on the book cover.
You have until 11:59 p.m. Eastern Standard Time on Friday, Nov. 21.”
Click on the link above to read how to enter; if you have their app, you just write it in the comments, or you can e-mail it, or you can physically mail it to the address provided.
I figures, what the hey; I’m a tough kid. I can do this. Here’s my 150 words submission:
That bridge. It took everything the city, the weather, and toughest of all, time, threw at it. Year after year, facing the same knocks, the same hardships, and year after year coming back for more. It knew that was its fate. It knew there was no escape from it. Year after year.
Maybe that’s what made it so tough. The very knocks it endured hardened its metal and strengthened its resolve; its resolve to hold steadfast, facing whatever came at it without complaint, year after year.
We were alike in many ways, but I had to hand it to the tough old bridge. We might have been put here without any say so on the matter, we might both be stuck here, in Brooklyn, and we might both be tough enough to endure it, but that bridge, that bridge endured on its own.
At least I had her; my Velda.
~ ~ 0 0 ~ ~
That’s one pass, two re-reads, twenty minutes to submission. A few intentional grammar errors for tone, but I hope they won’t count against me. Exactly 150 words, per Microsoft Word (I hope they count words the same way). I tried to use all the elements on the cover, or as many as I could.
If you, my dear reader, are a writer, surely you can take twenty minutes to knock out one of your own? Heck, take an hour; I won’t hold it against you.
As usual, I’m not pinning my hopes an this to do more than amuse a few, but I had fun writing it.
. . . now, back to my NaNoWriMo . . .
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. . . my FP ward . . . chieken shit.