The Penmanship Society

The rain had a way of turning the city into a smear of ink—streets glistening like wet newsprint, neon signs bleeding their colors into the fog. It was the kind of night when secrets felt heavier, when the truth clung to your coat like soot. I had spent the better part of a decade chasing corruption through alleys, offices, and smoke‑filled speakeasies, but nothing prepared me for the strange little literary outfit tucked between a pawn shop and a shuttered vaudeville theater on 12th Street.

They called themselves The Penmanship Society, a name so harmless it practically begged not to be questioned. But I’m Red Flagg—questioning is my profession. And when I see patterns, I follow them.

I first noticed the oddities while reviewing contest results for a column on emerging writers. The Society hosted weekly writing competitions—twenty-five cents to enter, five dollars to win. A tidy sum in ’37, especially for the starving scribes who haunted cafés with ink‑stained fingers and dreams bigger than their wallets.

But the winners… the winners didn’t make sense.

In over 6 years and 300+ contests, more than a third of the winning writers had no prior submissions. No history. No presence. They appeared from nowhere, won once, and vanished like cigarette smoke in a drafty room. No follow‑up stories. No interviews. No trace.

A pattern like that doesn’t happen by accident.

I lit a cigarette, leaned back in my office chair, and stared at the stack of documents I’d gathered. The Society’s glossy brochures promised fairness, community, and opportunity. But the numbers whispered something else—something rotten.

I grabbed my trench coat and headed out. If there was rot, I intended to find the source.

***

The Society’s headquarters looked innocent enough: a narrow brick building with a flickering sign and a brass door knocker shaped like a quill. Inside, the air smelled of old paper and new money. A receptionist with a pin‑curl hairstyle and a smile too polished to be sincere greeted me.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Rhed Flagg. The Chronicle. I’m here to speak with your director.”

Her smile faltered. “He’s very busy.”

“They always are.”

I pushed past her and made my way down the hall. Doors lined the corridor, each labeled with vague titles—Curation, Engagement, Community Growth. But one door stood out: Judging Department. I turned the knob.

Inside, a man in suspenders sat at a desk piled high with manuscripts. He looked up, startled.

“Who are you?”

“Rhed Flagg. Investigative reporter.”

He swallowed hard. “You can’t be in here.”

“I’m already in here.”

I picked up a manuscript from the pile. The judging deadline was tomorrow. Yet dozens—maybe hundreds—of entries sat untouched.

“You expect me to believe you read all these in a single night?”

He stood, flustered. “We have a system.”

“A system that involves skimming, not judging.”

“That’s not true.”

I held up a winning story from last week. “This one has three spelling errors in the first paragraph, a plot hole big enough to drive a truck through, and it doesn’t even follow the prompt.”

He snatched the manuscript from my hand. “You were never supposed to find out!”

There it was—the first crack in the façade.

***

Back in my office, I pored over the Society’s terms and conditions. I found it halfway down the page, a line that made my blood run cold:

“Submission of an entry does not guarantee publication, judging, or selection for any prize.”

I read it twice, then a third time. It was a loophole big enough to swallow the entire enterprise. They could take your money, toss your story into a drawer, and never look at it. And legally, they’d be in the clear.

But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Buried deeper in the fine print was a rights clause granting the Society a non‑exclusive, irrevocable, perpetual, transferable, sub‑licensable, worldwide, royalty‑free license to every submitted story.

Forever.

Anywhere.

For free.

Writers weren’t just paying to enter—they were paying to surrender their work. Their lifeblood. Their craft. Their dreams.

I slammed my fist on the desk. “I know what you did,” I muttered to the empty room.

***

The next day, I returned to the Society’s office. This time, I headed straight for the director’s door. A brass plaque read Mr. Alistair Penwright, Founder. I knocked once and entered.

Penwright sat behind a mahogany desk, smoking a cigar thick enough to be a weapon. His suit was immaculate, his smile predatory.

“Mr. Flagg,” he said smoothly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I tossed a folder onto his desk. “Your judges enter the contests.”

He didn’t flinch. “And?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

“It’s permitted.”

“In some jurisdictions, it’s illegal.”

He shrugged. “This is America, Mr. Flagg. We innovate.”

I leaned forward. “You rig the contests to keep newcomers hopeful. You skim stories instead of judging them. You grab perpetual rights to every submission. And you flood writers with sales pitches for courses and coaching they don’t need.”

Penwright’s smile widened. “You think you’ve uncovered something scandalous.”

“I know I have.”

He tapped ash into a crystal tray. “No one will believe you.”

***

I left his office with my stomach churning. Outside, the rain had returned, drumming against the pavement like typewriter keys. I walked to a nearby café, ordered a black coffee, and reviewed the letters I’d received from writers over the past year.

They all told the same story.

They entered the contests hoping for feedback, community, opportunity. Instead, they received endless mails selling courses, seminars, coaching packages. The contests weren’t a celebration of craft—they were bait. Writers weren’t participants—they were leads.

A lottery disguised as a literary opportunity.

And unlike a lottery, the odds weren’t random—they were curated.

***

My exposé hit the front page of The Chronicle three days later. The headline stretched across the top in bold letters:

THE WEEKLY PENMANSHIP SOCIETY: A HOUSE OF CARDS BUILT ON HOPE AND FEES

By Rhed Flagg

The story caused an uproar. Writers across the country demanded answers. Some canceled their memberships. Others wrote letters to the editor thanking me for exposing what they had long suspected but never dared articulate.

Penwright issued a statement calling my article “sensationalist fiction.” But the numbers didn’t lie. The patterns didn’t lie. The fine print didn’t lie.

And neither did I.

***

A week later, I received an envelope with no return address. Inside was a single sheet of paper:

"You were never supposed to find out."

No signature.

No threats.

Just the truth.

I folded the paper, slipped it into my coat pocket, and stepped out into the night. The city was still wet, still humming, still full of secrets. And as long as it was, I’d be there—Rhed Flagg, investigative reporter, watchdog, thorn in the side of every outfit that thought it could profit from hope without consequence.

Because hope deserves better.

And writers deserve the truth.