Tuesday, December 4, 2012

A Contest!

It's time for my 40's/50's Chapter Writing Contest!!! 
I'd appreciate it if at least three of you entered but as long as I have one I'll be content :) 

Okay so here are the rules

1. Your character must be a writer in the 1940's or 50's  
2. You must post the chapter on your blog and then send me the link in comments
Your due date is 

That should give you plenty of time.
Happy Writing! :)


  1. http://storytellerofwestoncounty.blogspot.com/2012/12/sorry-sorry-its-just-that-i-just.html :)

  2. Here is my stab at it:

    Imagine the narration, in a deep low, and slightly gravelly voice.

    Chapter 3.

    The night was dark: darker than oil, darker than an underground cavern below the earth surface with no eye to the sky. It was so dark I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. So dark I couldn't see. But she was with me. I could feel the warmth of her hand in mine, my bride. She spoke and her voice was delightful. Her voice was like sweet thick syrup, but only so sweet that you always want more. We walked down the alley, my brown fedora pulled down over her eyes. Her black gloved hands in mine. Me in a long dark trench coat. Her in her black evening dress, silver bracelets, and my fedora. A street lamp suddenly appeared and the light glistened on her pearls. We turned into the malt the shop. Unfortunately with my fedora on her head, my chrome dome became the center of attention to the few customers still drinking malts at this late hour. But I didn't snap a cap. Hey, let 'em look. After all, she's with me. Oh, my ears pick up a beautiful sound. Louis Armstrong is belt'n tunes, and the jukebox is hopp'n. My bride and I are both a couple of Ducky Shincrackers. So there we go, sweepin' the floor.

    Tomorrow is another day. But today, tonight, I just drink it all in and enjoy the moment. Don't Let your thoughts borrow from the future or fear may open up before you like a pit. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. But tonight, no evil, nothing but my bride, a cold and creamy chocolate malt, and Louie Armstrong's rich tones filling the air like a fog of buttery garlic mashed potatoes and medium rare rib eye steaks. I glance up at the calendar. I love looking at that Calendar. Great photo of Davy Crockett an' Ol' Bess. Good man, good movie, good times all run through my brain with staccato beat with each glance at the calendar. He was a hero. What'd Davy say from the floor of congress, "It ain't ours to give away." But then his life his ways, he gave that at Alamo. Remember the Alamo. Always remember the Alamo. Men like Crocket and Bowie dieing there, a freedom stand. WE all need a hero sometimes. Oh, why this feeling of impending doom. I squeeze her hand enjoying the warm once more while simultaneously slurping at our malt. Somethings coming. Another look at Davy on the calendar, then to the date. What is tomorrow? Someones birthday? Probably for sure, but no one I know. It's not like I forgot something, it's not like remembering but rather the opposite. It's like somethings coming, a surprise perhaps. But I don't think a good one. Oh- the feeling is on me now, like stink on skunk, and it's deep too, a forboding so tangible I can taste it. It's sour, it's bitter, it's repulsive, I don't taste it in my mouth, more like deep in my bones. I look away from Davy Crockett and glance at her with a smile, squeezing once again that soft gloved hand. She's beautiful, she loves me, how I thank God for that fedora-swiping-from-her-man-doll-of-mine. Eyes back to Davy, can't keep them off the calendar. Today, December 6, 1941. Nothing special, I've nothing planned for the morrow. But I can't shake it. So I prayer, Well, Lord, my life in your hands. My heart rests in you from whence comes all my help. I'll borrow no trouble from the future knowing, my Father, that it's all in your hands. After all, haven't you taught me, there is no fear in love. Today the 6th, tomorrow the 7th of Dec 1941, it's in his hands.