I recently participated in a Pulp Flash Fiction Writing Challenge issued by Justin Cox, editor of The Writing Cooperative. Here’s the challenge:
Pulp magazines may no longer exist, but their cover art still does. The Pulp Magazines Project and The Pulp Magazine Archive contain scans from hundreds of pulps dating back more than 100 years. They’re a treasure trove of art and, for our purposes, inspiration.
Your challenge, should you choose to accept it, is to select a random cover from one of the websites listed as a source of pulpy inspiration. Ignore the title (you’re not trying to recreate the original story) and create your own flash fiction story based on the image.
The image on the left (above) was my “pulp inspiration.” It made me think of haunted houses and old horror movies– not the gory ones, the fun ones!
Then I thought of an escape room. I’ve never been to one myself, but a friend of mine told me about his experience.
It sounded like one of those computer games where you have to find things that’ll help you get out of one room and into the next so you can eventually save the world, possibly the galaxy.
I found myself wondering: what if an escape room were more like a haunted house with monsters lurking in the closets?
So I wrote a story called The No Escape Room and created a “cover” for it, incorporating elements from the story.
“I’ve never done one before,” said Vicki Capps. “What happens if we can’t get out??”
“They call the fire department and hose you down ’cause you’re hysterical,” said Bob McMurray, top salesman at the insurance agency. He was wearing a Baltimore Orioles cap pulled low over his eyes.
“I did one when I was in New Orleans,” said Marjorie Funk, the office manager. “A lot of the clues involved jazz.”
“Well, we’re in Indianapolis,” said Herb Warner, “so it’ll be pretty corny I bet, ha-ha!”
They were there for a convention. Sheila Evans, who owned the agency, thought going to an escape room would be a good bonding experience. She glanced over at Patti Reuben, a long-time agent. She was whispering something to Joe Wiggins, their tech guy, who had to be a good ten years younger. Some bonding going on there already, she thought.
There were seven of them. “That should bring us luck,” thought Sheila. She felt a hand on her arm and jumped. “Sorry,” said the perky young woman in the purple dress. “I know you wanted it to be just your group, but could you include Mr. Abbott? He has to leave town in an hour, and this would be his only chance.”
The man beside her was old, his faced seamed and lined with experiences you didn’t want to inquire into. He was wearing a black felt hat that looked like it had been used for a seat cushion. His silvery goatee quivered as he spoke. “I should so appreciate it,” he said. His eyes closed. He seemed to doze off.
