Thursday, October 25, 2007
News 2008 Fiction Contest: A late 'Scratch'
Posted by David Lee Simmons on Thu, Oct 25, 2007 at 5:02 PM
Forgive us for dragging our heels a bit around here at CL, but at last we’re ready to announce our annual Fiction Contest. This year’s theme, “Scratch,†follows in our now-seven-year tradition of allowing Georgia writers a chance to take one simple word and really run with it — all the way to a 3,000-word short story that will have our readers green with envy.
The rules (posted below) are pretty simple, with the main requirement being a Georgia resident’s ability to weave the word “scratch†(or certainly the idea of the word) into a compelling, original narrative. It could be scratch as money, as the dreaded play in a game of pool, as getting eliminated, taking care of that itch. A metaphor. A vivid image. As the writing coaches demand: Never bore.
Deadline is 5 p.m. Wednesday, Nov. 21 (firm!). Winners will be chosen in December by a panel of celebrity judges from the literary community, and their selections will be published in the Jan. 10, 2008, issue of Creative Loafing and celebrated at a party that week at Eyedrum.
To submit your story, simply visit atlanta.creativeloafing.com/fiction, fill out the form and include all your relevant information (name, address, phone number).
Good luck, and don’t forget to scratch that itch.
Also don't forget to check out last year's winning entries!
Fiction contest rules:
1) Stories must reference the "Scratch" theme in some fashion, even tangentially. Originality counts.
2) Writers must be Georgia residents.
3) Stories must be no more than 3,000 words.
4) Three winners will appear in the Jan. 10 issue of Creative Loafing.
5) If entry is being submitted via snail mail, send one copy of a typed, double-spaced, unpublished manuscript. List your name, address, phone number, e-mail address and title of the story on the cover page only. Please staple all pages together. Be prepared to submit the story electronically if chosen for publication.
6) One story per entrant.
7) Judges will make their decision based on originality, style and literary quality.
8) Manuscripts must be the original work of the entrant, unpublished and not currently under consideration for publication. No excerpts from longer works will be considered, nor will stories previously entered in a CL Fiction Contest.
9) Do not send originals. Entries will not be returned.
10) Staff members of Creative Loafing Inc. and current freelancers are not eligible to enter.
11) The author retains copyright, but Creative Loafing reserves the right to publish entries in both its print and online editions.
12) All entries must be received by 5 p.m. Wednesday, Nov. 21. No exceptions, so don't ask.
13) Finalists will be contacted by e-mail or phone on or around Dec. 23.
14) No phone calls, please.
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EIGHT BALL It was early for a pool room, before noon. The few guys there were drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, talking about the cocky, brash, young dude who had made his appearance the previous evening. Tall and rail thin, had hung the moniker “stick†on him, and it had stuck. “Say Ben.†Up spoke Charley, an old timer who had been coming around for what seemed like forever. “What was it Stick said to you last night?†“You know good and well what the hell he said, Charley. You just want to hear it again.†They all sorta chuckled, as Charley went on. “There was no stopping him now. “Said he heard you used to be good, ‘back in the day.’†At that, there were guffaws all around… “At least I had a day, Charles!†As Charley frowned with the joke turned on him, the others howled with laughter, slapping each other on the back, acting like school kids, not grown men. Gus spoke, saying, “Hey Ben, I ain’t been around as long as Charley. I heard a story about how you came to own this place. Something ‘bout the old guy who owned it dropping dead of a heart attack and up and left it to you…That true?†Rain began to fall, meaning it would be a long, slow day. So, with the time to kill… “Many years ago, I was that cocky kid, with more talent than sense. Homer took me under his wing. An orphan himself, he had a soft spot in his heart for any other orphan, like me.†There was a clap of thunder, the lights flickered, and the rain came down in buckets. “I had no money, so Homer began to back me. I got my start right here and owe it all to that wonderful old man, who was not only like the father I never had, but he was also my friend. I helped out around here, even cleaning the toilets you bums miss!†“You know,†said Charley, “Women never understand how we can miss, but with enough beer in you it can go anywhere!†“What would you know about women, Charley?â€, asked Gus. After the laughter died down, Ben continued. “We’d built up quite a bankroll, which he kept in the safe, doling out only what I needed, ‘cause I was too dumb to hold onto anything.†The phone rang and after a brief conversation the story continued…â€One night this fellow in a tuxedo comes in, followed by a guy who looks like a middle linebacker, carrying an attache case. Charley here goes up to the man, asking something about where the wedding had been. Then, being the curious kind, Charley asked what was in the case. Mr. Tux said it contained ten grand, and he was looking to play only one game of eight ball, but only with the best player in the house.†“Well, I looked at Homer, and he looked at me. We knew this was the moment we’d been waiting for. Homer walks up, saying he had the cash and I was the best in town.†“There was a question on my mind and before we began, I had to ask it. “Why only one game, mister?†He looked me over and said, “Kid, I figure with this much dough on the line that little lump of shit will get caught in your throat, causing you to choke!†“Well now, that, as you can imagine, really pissed me off!†“The Tux pulls out some ornate, engraved cue that looked like it shoulda been buried with one of them Egyptian Kings. We lag for the break and Mr. Tux miscues! So I broke and proceeded to run the table. All I got left is the eight ball and it’s a straight in shot; the kind I can make a hundred times outta a hundred, with my eyes closed!†“So what happened?!â€, asked Gus, since there was a too long pause. “Well, I lined it up, drew the stick back, and just as I was aabout to bring it forward, I was distracted by something that seemed to fly outta the pocket of the Tux. Damn thing flew straight into my eye. At the biggest moment of my life, I scratched.†Charley spoke up, saying, “It was the damnest thing I ever saw. Seeing Ben scratch, Homer clutched his chest, falling to the floor. Doc said he was dead before he hit the floor.†“Damn!†Gus erupted. “Ain’t that some shit?!†Michael Bacon
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