The Penmanship Prize

By Cody Shephard

Switzerland

I didn’t expect the email to be real.

Subject: An Evening with the Greats
From: no-reply@classicsociety.lit

I had clicked on it half out of boredom, half out of curiosity during a particularly long lecture in Florence. I assumed it was spam. But there was a time, a location, and one sentence:

"Formal cocktail attire. Please bring a pen."

So, naturally, I went.

The venue was tucked behind a library that looked older than time. I showed my student ID to a doorman in a top hat, and he nodded like I belonged. I did not. I was in a secondhand blazer and loafers that hurt, gripping the only fountain pen I owned like a passport.

Inside, the space was aglow with candlelight. Murmurs and clinks of glasses filled the air, and I realized—very quickly—that this was not a themed party.

This was the party.

Hemingway was at the bar, swirling something dark in a tumbler and laughing with James Baldwin, who looked as effortlessly cool as you'd imagine. Over by the fireplace, Jane Austen chatted with Virginia Woolf, both sipping champagne and glancing now and then at Oscar Wilde, who was monologuing with theatrical flair to a crowd of enraptured listeners.

I stood near the door for a solid ten minutes, debating whether I had finally snapped. It wouldn’t have been the worst side effect of finals.

Then someone tapped me on the shoulder. “You look lost.”

I turned to see none other than Franz Kafka, looking like he belonged at a funeral. “Oh, I—yeah,” I stammered. “I wasn’t sure this was real.”

He gave a faint smile. “It rarely is. But have a drink anyway.”

A server passed with a tray of cocktails. I grabbed one and took a sip. It tasted like knowledge and existential dread. Or maybe just gin.

I wandered through the room, half eavesdropping, half hiding. Mark Twain was in the corner arguing about morality with Dostoevsky, while Mary Shelley sketched something in a leather notebook. I was tempted to peek.

Eventually, I found myself beside a bookshelf, unsure what to do with my hands. A woman with ink-stained fingers approached and handed me a napkin with a quote scribbled on it:

"You don’t have to be one of us yet. Just promise you’ll write anyway." — S.E.H.

She winked. S.E. Hinton. I almost fainted.

“Why me?” I asked no one in particular.

James Baldwin walked by, overheard, and said, “Because every generation needs someone who’s terrified but still trying.”

Before I could reply, Hemingway shouted “TO WORDS!” and everyone lifted a glass. I did too, caught in a strange kind of joy. For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t panicked about papers or grades or the creeping feeling that I wasn’t good enough.

That night, I danced with Emily Dickinson (awkwardly but sincerely), argued plot structure with F. Scott Fitzgerald (he was wrong), and laughed with Zora Neale Hurston until my cheeks hurt.

When I left, the doorman tipped his hat. “Same time next year?”

I nodded. “I hope so.”

And when I got home, I wrote for the first time in weeks—not because I had to, but because I wanted to.

Still don’t know if it was real. But I keep the napkin in my notebook just in case.