Contest Results

Okay, here we go. After much deliberation, these are the Prize Winners of the First Pop Lit Story Opening Contest:

FIRST PRIZE: Anthony Jones for “The Diadem.”

First Prize is the Elvis 3-dvd set.

SECOND PRIZE: XXXXXXXX for “Glas.”

Second Prize is the cd reading of J.D. Salinger’s “Teddy” from http://frankmarcopolos.com

THIRD PRIZE: Tom Hendricks for “3.”

Third Prize is a copy of the very rare "Pop Literary Gazette,” which came out in 1998.

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All three winning entries fit the contest requirement of being a good opening to a story—the hook, the lead-in, is all.

The typo in “3” was enough to bump it to third, in my estimation.

That left the tiebreaker between the other two. For me, “The Diadem” was just a tad tighter in execution. But I could’ve flipped a coin and not done wrong.

(I have a rough idea who “XXXXXXXX” is. If he’s not tracked down, then awards will be adjusted accordingly—Len Kuntz will move up to Third.)

I’d like the thank the three judges for doing a fine job—and all the entrants as well. There was much very good from which to choose.

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JUDGES SELECTIONS AND REMARKS

Lynn Alexander:

Hello, Everyone. Glad to participate with you guys in this fun contest. I am glad to see some familiar faces in the entries!
I am not sure if I am supposed to send my top three to all, but here we go:
1. Tom Hendricks (my favorite)
2. David Biddle
3. Wred Fright

Now I asked if we should include comments or explanations, and I am willing to discuss/debate my reasons if anyone is interested.
In summary:
-I think that these three entries had a minimal amount of spelling/grammar mistakes, they were pretty clean.
-I could actually see these three entries as "openers", as a launching point, a foundation on which to build a longer work.
-In general, the openers were diverse, and interesting. Some just did not suck me in at all. But for the most part, good effort.

-Tom Hendricks' entry was simple, but had an element of poetry, it was broad and gave me the sense of a panoramic about to close in soon on characters and settings about to unfold. I think he got it, and delivered.
He did not feel the need to rush into details, the way some others did. His opening was easing, coaxing, prodding.
Some of the others felt like a rush to throw shit, like an eviction... not welcoming, not establishing a zone at all.

David Biddle's entry had an element of quirkiness that gave me the sense that a longer work could expand on the setting he established, and the suggestion of sex to come was a good hook.
It was a bit of a yawn yuppie read, with some of the trademarks of the chick-lit so many are going for.. but that IS an important market right now. And this is "pop lit" so I let go of my distaste for the style and on the merit of an opener, I ranked it second.

Wred Fright is obviously a friend of the crowd, and I did not want to give him more sway- but his entry was funny. The reason that I ranked it third is because I don't think the tone and gimmick is sustainable.

I could see Wred Fright doing a collection of similar stories, in which this would be one. But I don't see a long work coming from it without some re-thinks. 

www.lynnalexander.blogspot.com

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Allie Dresser:

Glas by XXXXXX -- this was so well done that I found myself writing multiple continuation storylines in my head to this opener.  I could see it as a TV show script, a movie, or a good book.
Storm Lake by Len Kuntz -- Smoothly and professionally written as though he plucked a book off his shelf and typed out the first paragraph.  Tons of depth, background, emotion, and struggle. This is the kind of book that would be in Oprah's Book Club.

Bob's Escape by msandidge -- A true starter: it sucks the reader right into the scene, it creates tension, sets up a plot, and makes the reader wonder what the escape is and what the hell the place is. Nicely done for under 200 words.
There were others that I enjoyed, but were more self-contained shorts than starters as required by contest rules.  A couple of the scifi oriented ones had promise, but were not as well written.

Thanks so much for the inclusion. I had fun reading these.  I always love Lynn's perspective and her comments made me go back and take a second look at several of them.  If for any reason the above picks don't qualify due to anonymity, let me know and I'll nominate another.

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Frank Marcopolos:

1.) The Diadem by Anthony Jones

2.) Untitled by John Bobst

3.) Storm Lake by Len Kuntz

My only criterion was: does this opening make me care about the story and want to read more? My 3 picks did that the best, in my opinion, obviously.

I know that the criterion is somewhat vague, but I believe that in this deconstructionist culture, the creation of literature should still have some sense of the mysterious to it.

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Winners, please contact me via this blog’s email! I need mailing addresses to mail out your prizes. (I have Tom Hendricks email—not the other two.)

Thanks! And thanks again to all who participated.

We Have a Tie!

This is what I was afraid of when putting the Story Opening Contest together. Each of the three judges has a different First choice. According to the Wenclas Scoring System used for this contest, each first place vote receives 5 points. This squeezes out Len Kuntz, the only writer named on more than one ballot. Who'd have figured that? Len receives 3 points for a second place vote from one judge, and 1 point for being chosen third by another judge.

Those tied, in alphabetical order, are

-Tom Hendricks
-Anthony Jones
-xxxxxx

(I may not have gotten the right number of x's! If Mr. x isn't tracked down after the tiebreaker, his prize will go to Mr. Kuntz.)

It's a sign of the variety and quality of the entries that the selections were diverse. We didn't get a huge number of entries. Those received were very very good.

TIEBREAKER!
I'll announce the tie on a couple blogs, in a few forums, then ask for input from the audience, and from the other contestants themselves.

The contest is thus held open until next Monday or Tuesday, at which time I'll weigh in and decide who gets what prize. Judges selections and remarks will also be posted at that time.

I make no promise as to final result between the three. If it were up to me, I would've chosen Emerson Dameron's entry! It was attention getting, and he has the best author name of any entrant-- no small consideration, in a world where gaining notice-- if you're a writer in a crowded field-- is so important. :) (Lady Gaga didn't enter the contest.)

Stay tuned.

(Post your suggestions et.al. on this thread.)

Contest Is Closed!

A Big THANKS to all who participated. From Wred through Dennis, the entries, in my opinion, are of high quality. I'm glad I'm not judging this thing!

I expect to be in contact with our three esteemed judges. Will be collecting the ballots, have them calculated by the King Wenclas accounting firm (visualize me scribbling away with pencil and paper), and hope to announce the winners by the end of the week. I'll then collect mailing addresses from the three winners-- po boxes, bail bondsmen, penitentiary mail points, literary agents, mother-in-laws, etc.-- anything acceptable as long as I can mail off the things. You can't imagine the temptation of wanting to open up that shrink-wrapped collection of Elvis dvd's. Or listen to Marcopolos reading "Teddy."

Unfortunately, there remains no funding in the contest budget, after postage, to hold an actual awards ceremony like the Oscars or the Grammys. (Unless anyone wants to pick up their award at Dirty Frank's in Philly.) Besides, Lady Gaga is unavailable.

Story Opening Contest Begins Now!

PRIZES TO THE WINNERS

The First Pop Lit Story Opening Contest has started.
-200 words maximum length.
-One entry per person.
-Contest ends Monday March 21 @ 11:59 pm.

HOW TO ENTER:
Simply post your story under "Comments" via the link at the bottom of this post.

---Please use a title and give your name as well---

Judges:

-Allie Dresser has been fiction editor for sixteen months for Gloom Cupboard-- http://gloomcupboard.com/. She writes on various sites like Fictionaut, among others.

-Frank Marcopolos is the former editor of the critically acclaimed literary zine, The Whirligig. A trained voice-over artist, he is currently producing audios of public-domain short stories on his website, http://frankmarcopolos.com/.

-Lynn Alexander is the founder and managing editor of Full of Crow Press and Distribution, producing print and web based content such as Crow Poetry, Fiction, Prate, Chapbook Series, Blink Ink, Fashion for Collapse, and more. She is also fiction editor at Red Fez and producer of MUST zine.
www.fullofcrowpress.org

IMPORTANT: See the previous post on this blog for prize details. I'll be doing commentary about the contest on that thread, including discussion of any glitches or problems. Post all suggestions about the contest, or reaction to the story openings, complaints, and so on, there.

Thanks! Good luck.

Contest Starts Monday!

(NOTE: Post remarks, suggestions, and complaints about the above contest here under Comments.)

The arrival of the next post on this blog will mark the beginning of the First Official Pop Lit Story Opening Contest. You can then immediately post your entry.

-200 words maximum

-I request writers use a real identity, just in case you win. I’ll mail out prizes for the top three winning story openings. (If you’re an established writer and want to give your agent’s or publishers address, that’s fine. If you’re not an established writer and you want to give your mother’s or brother’s or chief creditor’s address, that’s fine also.)

-What are those prizes? Collector’s Items all. THIRD PLACE winner receives a rare copy of the 90’s lit-zine Pop Literary Gazette, of which by now there must be very few copies extant. SECOND PLACE receives a cd of noted storyteller Frank Marcopolos (see www.frankmarcopolos.com) reading the classic J.D. Salinger story “Teddy.” FIRST PLACE receives a shrink-wrapped dvd set of every one of Elvis Presley’s appearances on the Ed Sullivan Show.

-Scoring System? Each judge picks the three best story openings in their opinion. Points are awarded for 1st, 2nd, and 3rd choice: 5 points, or 3, or 1. I then total points to find the winners. Any ties will be broken by myself, following the voice of the public.

-I have tentative commitments from two of the necessary three judges. They’ll shortly be announced.

-The idea of story openings is that they be fun or striking in and of themselves, but also make the reader hungry for more.

-Final arbiter of all disputes or questions will be the editor of this blog.

-Any other info or rules will be given here as I think of them!

About Story Openings

THERE WILL be a story opening contest on this blog. Details forthcoming.

Two questions: Why a Story Opening Contest? What defines a good story opening?

Music composers from Beethoven to the Beatles understood the value of a dynamic opening. In this oversaturated cultural age, it might be the single most important key to literature’s survival, its ability to compete.

A story opening needs to be dynamic and attractive in itself—the best written part of the work. (See Fitzgerald’s “Great Gatsby.”) More, it needs to lay the groundwork for the rest of the tale—to present at least one thread or idea to be developed later—and to keep the reader reading!

The best story openings are striking from the first sentence. Remember Stephen Crane? "None of them knew the color of the sky." ("The Open Boat.") Or Stevenson: "Did you ever remark that door?" ("The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.")

POP21: “The Prisoner”

BIG BOY SAGA CHAPTER TEN

Life is a messy business.

The city was overrun by grubby life. Termites, cockroaches, pigeons, mice, rats, stray dogs and cats, inhabiting walls, floors, rooms, streets, alleyways, and backyards. They brought with them their cries, smells, gas, shit, disease, blood; their refuse and garbage. Among the various messy creatures in the city moved the messiest, grubbiest, most violent organism of them all.

A couple hundred of the most prosperous and ruthless of these harsh creations crowded into a lavish ballroom, a food-and-drink engulfed soiree at the poshly clean center of the violent city. For these individuals, the violence happened outside, away from them, on the streets. Here in the warm room of soothing white and violet colors circled the safe conflict of expressions and opinions, whose reverberations led to the more visceral flesh-ripping, life-ending kind.

Despite his throbbing shoulder, Fake Face shook hands with urgency. His battle with Big Boy hadn’t been one solely of bullets and fists. There remained the more intense battle against the District Attorney, Big Boy’s aunt, for justification and allies. Fake Face’s great aid in this struggle against the frowning and corrupt woman was his face. How could anyone not trust its generosity and benevolence? He was simply misunderstood by his critics. The stories people heard about him weren’t true. No! Couldn’t be. The kindly face must be the reality.

As media reports of gang warfare sped through Killtown, the District Attorney sat frozen within the flimsy security of her office, wondering if she should respond, and if so: how? She obsessed over political calculations, while people died. While Fake Face drew powerful figures to his side.

Word of Maxwell’s imprisonment reached her. Big Boy had lost the fight which she, the D.A., had initiated. Ever-generous Fake Face offered her a deal, one incumbent upon his victory.

As negotiations took place, Maxwell—aka Big Boy—remained securely hid. He’d been taken to a spot near the river, to the bottom of a railtower whose above ground structure had been obliterated. This sat within the remains of the end of a railyard in a broken-down neighborhood whose chief residents were river rats. The captive had been stashed inside the concrete-walled basement beneath ground. Within the basement, he’d been chained inside a small room, which in its decay, dirt, and dampness became a medieval dungeon.

The prisoner was strongly chained. His captors knew his strength. The guards who brought him food and water did so reluctantly. The large man-beast in the room had great reason to hate every one of them. They feared the injustice of his situation; sensed, in their animalistic way, the retribution which would surely fall upon them.

Therefore, the thickness of Big Boy’s chains.

The disheveled, shaggy-haired prisoner pushed the delivered food away with red eyes. Eyes as wary and piercing as those of any rat’s.

Max stopped eating. His huge form wasted away. He lost all appetite. He renounced his appetite, along with his physical body, which provided him now with nothing but heartache and unrelieved physical pain. The chains upon him were very tight. Max gave up the world, because the world had destroyed him.

At the highest corner of his cell: a dirty window with iron bars over it. Through the window could be seen amid the crumbling gray neighborhood a soot-gray church with a single red stained glass window left in it. The red spot appeared like a distant beacon within the town’s grayness. Maxwell smelled the closeness of the river. The red window stayed in the church tower, too high to reach.

Max tried to comprehend his situation. His cell was entirely gray. Senselessly with his hand he brushed dust from the gray wall. Until he saw that the wall behind the dust wasn’t gray, but green.

Green liqueur drinks moved upon silver trays at the important gala through which Fake Face happily circulated. Allies of the District Attorney treated him with abject deference, signal of his win. Around the room stood the city’s most esteemed and charitable residents, who’d stolen so much they had much to be charitable with. Several said out loud, “Aren’t we wonderful?” What was the purpose—or rather, the excuse—for the benefit? The Face didn’t know or care. Likely another cultural institution, a larger museum or redesigned library; a swankier palace.

Fake Face expected word about his ransom negotiations. He’d made only one request. Not money. He’d soon have enough of that! He’d asked instead for the D.A. to resign from her post.  “A statement,” he’d insisted. “I want a statement!”

He checked his phone. No updated messages. Then: a new text. “D.A. press conference in ninety minutes.”

Bored with the impossibly stupid, affluent, phony crowd, Fake Face hustled outside to his yellow limo parked at curbside. He grabbed keys from the waiting driver, climbed inside and to the stolid thug’s worried stare, Fake Face drove off into the night.

The prisoner waited. Time was short. Max struggled to remember a phrase that someone had said to him once. Or he’d said it. His forehead scrunched. Tears welled behind his eyelids.

In the corner of the bleak scene, through the high window, stood the soot-gray church with a single red-stained glass glowing out from it, the red spot more intense than before. The stark image reminded Maxwell of an existence outside himself.

Max knew he was going to die. Maybe that was why he didn’t mind the suffering. He minded the pain—very much minded the pain!—but knew he could take it, knew it would soon go away.

What was the point of his life?

As he asked the question, he felt strangely deepened. Existence expanded. For his entire life he’d been a child. He’d played roles to please other people. Football player. Deputy. Gangster. To please himself according to what he’d seen in movies or on TV. Only Merrily had seen the real Big Boy, seen through his size, his poses, his imaginings. Merrily!

After an hour of sadness and contemplation Maxwell remembered the missing phrase. His face brightened.

Echoing footsteps sounded suddenly upon the metal stairway that led down to the basement. A muscular guard thrust open the thick steel door to the cell. A moment later Fake Face stood within the damp enclosure.

Through the mask, the Face’s eyes studied the captive. Big Boy looked peaceful. His eyes were bloodshot. Likely he’d been sleeping. The stupid beast!

“You haven’t yet talked,” Fake Face said to the large chained animal. “It’s not too late for you to talk!”

Fake Face grabbed a loose chain and struck the kneeling man several times across the head with it. Crimson blood flowed from Max’s scalp, cheek, and mouth. His cut lips moved within his pale white face, as if ready now to talk.

“I’m someplace where you can never go,” the Big Boy whispered.

Fake Face grunted at the man’s imbecility.

“Keep your secrets,” he told him. “It doesn’t matter.”

Fake Face checked his phone.

At this moment, television screens across the city switched to the District Attorney’s news conference. Dark blue curtains served as backdrop. The gray-haired woman with black eyebrows, representative of power and authority, stepped to the podium.

“It’s almost done!” Fake Face exulted. “How triumphant. You know, I always win.”

Maxwell made no acknowledgement. His blue eyes gazed elsewhere.

“Your Auntie has agreed to my terms,” Face continued. “She’s on television now. You’ll be returned to Dear Auntie. I didn’t specify how!”

With a slim pistol Fake Face shot Max through the forehead. Then the Face grinned. The Face always grinned. Blood everywhere.

The District Attorney finished announcing her resignation. She took no questions. Bright lights turned off in the room. Bars of color shimmered across television screens before the stations resumed regular programming.

END OF THE BIG BOY SAGA