UPDATE: TIME’S UP! THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO ENTERED!
So. Last time we had a contest we had some problems because people were concerned with silly things like “rules” and “things Nathan promised” and “this blog isn’t worth the paper it isn’t printed on, and in fact, if you were printed on paper you wouldn’t be worth the paper you were printed on either, Meanie McMeanieagent.”
Let’s be clear up front: this is a for-fun contest that I conduct in the free time that I normally spend bathing and attending to personal hygiene. Rules may be adjusted without notice, as I see fit, in ways in which you might find capricious, arbitrary, and possibly dangerous to the Baby Jesus. Let’s be clear: no angst this time. You have been warned.
Are we having fun yet?
Now then! You remember how this works right?
1. Please post the first paragraph of any work-in-progress in the comments section of THIS POST. The deadline for entry is THURSDAY 4pm Pacific time, at which point entries will be closed. Finalists will be announced on Friday, at which time you will exercise your democratic rights to choose a grand prize super awesome winner.
2. You may enter once, once you may enter, and enter once you may.
3. Spreading word about the contest is strongly encouraged.
4. I will be sole judge this time. Bwa ha ha.
5. A word on word count: I am not imposing a word count on the paragraphs. However, a paragraph that is too long may lose points in the judge’s eyes. Use your own discretion.
THE PRIZES: The grand prize super awesome winner of the SUFPCx2 will win their choice of a partial critique, query critique or 15 minute phone conversation in which we can discuss topics ranging from reality TV shows to, you know, publishing. Your choice. Runners up will receive query critiques and/or other agreed-upon prizes.
On with the show!
Anonymous says
Disaster was coming for me, but I didn’t know like this. Aunt Ginny’s Lunar Bash, 1974. November. The night of the eclipse. The children were playing war games in the Conservatory. Everyone had a theory about what was going to happen. Kitsie Countryman thought the world was going to melt into a gob of goo; Percival Bishop argued for an alien takeover; Mindy Meloy said ominously, “The moon will be lost forever.” Kitsie and I hid beneath the potting bench from the bigger boys, George and Howard and Oliver. Palms, orchids, and lilies fluttered insincerely. Knowing we were in for it and fearing he’d get the worst, Percival went AWOL. Mindy feigned illness and went back to the party. Kitsie had her eye on the potting soil.
Dave says
Ch. 1
A secluded island on the Second Earth
A sea breeze blew through Ahote’s fur, bringing with it the sweet earthy scent of the fire-tree he stood under. Its bark peeled in places, revealing swirls of fiery gold and red wood. The Fate Changer Raccoon’s black nose twitched in delight. There was magic in the tree; he could smell it.
norm says
Tom peered cautiously into the cave. He couldn’t see a thing. It was pitch black inside. He listened carefully. Not a sound. A straw mat lay just in front of the entrance. A single word was spelled out on it in large blocky letters: WELCOME. Welcome. Maybe that meant it was a friendly dragon. Or maybe it was only pretending to be that way, to lure people in and eat them.
Ralph says
First graf of my mystery, “The Suicide Policy.” Ralph Ellis
The first person I talked to was Morales, one of the paramedics. He was leaning against his ambulance, oblivious to the blue lights flicking across his face, so I went ahead and asked the question, the one I’m paid to ask a dozen times a day: “What happened?”
PammyD says
Annie Rose grabbed a festive bag from the trunk of her older VW convertible and scoped the surrounding area for witnesses. Ninety percent certain she had found none, she quietly shut the trunk and crouched, low, behind her car. Yes, she was going to do something naughty, and no, she didn’t want anyone to see. Something bright red and shiny snagged her attention. She looked up and saw what looked like an army of large, decorative, metallic heart shaped balloons with “Happy Valentine’s Day” printed on them. They floated overhead from streetlights next to towering palm trees and seemed to smirk at the mortals below. ‘Are you loved? Do you have a Valentine in your life? Is your honey taking you out for dinner, surprising you with flowers and a giftie? Or are you alone? Again.’ Damn balloons, Annie thought, frowned and fumbled through her weathered but timeless Coach purse. So what if her husband Mike was out of town shooting an indie. Who cared if he was a little preoccupied and somewhat distant, lately? Valentines Day was a stupid holiday. Too much pressure, too many expectations. She would have gladly have done serious damage to the guy who inspired this crappy, sappy holiday. And then she remembered: Valentine had pissed off a Roman Caesar so much that he’d chopped off that asshole’s head. Served Saint Do-Gooder right. She pulled out a cigarette, secretively lit it, and inhaled deeply. Aaaah.
Amity says
Hm… I guess I’ll try:
Baron Ferdinand Fritz Frederick the IV wanted to marry his daughter to someone very rich. Everything he tried failed. Tia dropped every pair of glass slippers. Her magical shampoo made her golden hair long, but not long enough for a tower. The baron gave her a spinning wheel, but Tia made beautiful thread and never pricked her finger. Since the baron’s gambling debts made him too poor for renting a fairy-godmother, he hired a second-rate pixie—which gave Tia the gift of being ‘clean.’ Sure enough, dirt never stuck to her skin. Rich men never stuck to her either.
Keefieboy says
2008: St Mary Axe, London
‘No!’
Bang.
‘No!’
Bang.
‘No!’
Bang.
‘I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m bloody dead.’
The noise generated by Theobald Ratchett repeatedly banging his head on his desk held the full attention of everybody else on the trading floor.
‘Problem, Theo?’ asked Mary, on the next desk.
‘Nothing that being buried alive wouldn’t solve,’ replied Theo.
He’d gone short on Incarceration Holdings plc, and it hadn’t worked. He’d just lost the bank ninety seven million quid. Incarceration Holdings plc had staged a late rally that wiped out Theo’s bet on their share price. There was no point in staying at the office – he would face the music after the weekend.
-Okay, technically that's 10 paras, but they are very short. The book is my WIP, called Tybalt & Theo.
Rod Santos says
(Fantasy/ Philippino folklore)
When the echoes of his song had passed into silence, the piper opened his eyes. The sunlight was failing now, and the horizon bled where it swallowed the day.
Quietly, young Tobo stepped out from behind the grove of narra saplings where he’d been listening. Wonder brightened his face. He watched as the piper wrapped his bamboo flute with a dark cloth, then set it down on the soft earth of the forest.
Caitlin O'Neil says
When I was a girl, I loved encyclopedias to the exclusion of all else. I loved their economy, their audacity, their brevity, their certainty. What other work could contain all the answers you’d ever need on a single shelf? Never mind that the claims I made on them were impossible. Encyclopedias came closer than anything else I knew to containing my world and making sense of it. From the first moment my father took me into his lap and cracked open the first volume of the World Book, I was hooked. Long after he’d moved on to tinkering with the car in the garage, I remained in his chair, puzzling over facts for so long that I would look up to find the sun had set and wonder where the time had gone. Which is exactly what I found myself wondering this morning as I frosted the yellow sheet cake I’d carved into a Christmas tree for Know It All Encyclopedias’ annual holiday party.
Erica says
Thanks so much for the contest. Here’s mine:
Michael Dorn Wallace, the first native speaker of Klingon, shut off the engine of his thirty-year-old Lincoln Towncar and took a deep breath before getting out. He’d pulled into the driveway of a large two-family home in Salem, its windows built thin and high to affect the look of the town in the old days. He opened the thick, heavy door and swung his feet onto the driveway, pausing to lean in and collect his pile of books, notebooks, and the digital voice recorder. No one else had been able to get the old aborigine inside to talk, but Michael didn’t plan to let that stop him. The rotten smell of summer earth steamed up around him as he walked up to the porch and knocked.
Melissa says
“Steady….” Lucas barely breathed the word, but the dog’s ear twitched against his cheek in response. He slid a restraining arm around Pax’s chest just in case, but the retriever waited, a low whine betraying his eagerness. “Take it.” Pax bolted. Two massive strides launched him a dozen feet into the lake, but it didn’t matter. The ducks rose with a cacophony of wings, water, and quacked protests and were well beyond his reach. He circled the area once, woofed, and headed back to shore.
Kathleen says
The boy crouched behind the shelter of the rocks, watching in terrified horror at what was happening not forty paces before him. Turmoil and uncertainty warred within his young breast as he fought with himself. He wanted to leap out of his hiding place and rush to his father’s defense. Yet had he not been ordered to keep away from the battle? His father was also his laird and to be obeyed above all.
SEA says
He proposed to me while knocking up a goat. Admittedly, he was using an insemination gun, and there was nothing erotic about the procedure for anyone present, including the goat. But still, it’s a great line to drop in conversation, and I’ve been waiting for a chance to drop it on someone who doesn’t know that knocking up goats is business as usual at Woolly Whatnot in Saint-François du Fort-Courant. As a gay man, I’ve always found it hilarious to state my occupation as breeder, but it doesn’t pack quite the same punch with people around here, to whom a breeder is a person who breeds German shepherds, like Mel Thompson, or Cashmere goats, like me. They don’t see what’s so funny about a gay breeder, though most of them agree that a straight one probably wouldn’t call his farm Woolly Whatnot. But then again, you never know. I’m a Fergusson, and we’re all a little queer when it comes to naming things.
Joseph says
I gave up my eyes in order to see more clearly. I like to tell myself that if I had known then what I know now, I never would have made such a Faustian bargain, but the truth is that I probably would have done it anyway and to hell with what my self-esteem wants me to think. I was pretty desperate in those days, the search for Elizabeth having consumed every facet of my life like a malignant cancer gorging itself on healthy cells, and I’d have tried anything to find even the smallest clue to what happened to her.
Melina says
From, Parrot Park, a novel
Change is subtle in the rainforest. Night doesn’t fall; it emerges. Daylight is absorbed. Sounds of the jungle deepen. The calls of birds and monkeys, frogs and insects, a constant hum all day, intensify: vibrating into every crevice. A cacophony of hunger, of longing, of warning. A nearby crash interrupts the concert with the precision of a conductor slashing down his baton, but only for a moment. Just long enough to verify that the interloper is not a known predator.
dutch says
Leaning on the sink she stared out the window watching the old green pickup. The two-horse trailer following behind gave her a feeling on the back of her neck she wished she could brush away.
Capt says
Here I stand in my little 2×2 square of tile. Staring at an arrival/departure monitor taunting me and all I want to do is get the hell out of here. It’s my own little hell, being assaulted by every smell imaginable. People are pissed as hell, some drunk, others are just looking for their own square. A lady next to me on the phone crying at one point, hangs up, starts laughing and having a conversation with her neighbor. Holy shit, what is she on and how many doses get you to that level.
Maria says
I didn’t know Sarah all that well in life, and I had no desire to know her better after death. Ghosts usually don’t cause much trouble; they knock things over or rattle the eaves just enough to be annoying. It takes a pretty angry ghost to be able to do damage on the plane of the living. Sarah wouldn’t have been able to reach me at all had I been inside my house. I’m no dummy; after the last one burned down due to an evil spirit trapped in Aztec gold, I built the new one with the best protection a witch could spell. No witch, not even a dead one, could get through.
Jeff Baker says
I clenched both armrests as the airplane sped forward. I glanced toward the window and sympathized with the raindrops desperately clinging on. My family sat across the aisle. Donna’s eyes beamed with nervous excitement, as they should. She was embarking on her dream adventure – a family backpacking trip around Europe. The tires below me abandoned the runway. An unsettling sense of weightlessness followed, officially disconnecting me from my world below. Donna’s aspirations were taking off, while mine were relegated to a five-month holding pattern. A voice blasted from the intercom: “We’ll be arriving at London-Heathrow Airport in approximately eleven hours.” I took a deep breath and watched gloomy skies race by. A few stubborn raindrops remained. Would taking this trip be my life’s biggest mistake? I closed my eyes and tried to remember why the hell I ever agreed to it.
joydeb says
The air was heavy and sweet, a harbinger of summer with the hum of curious insects, the twittering of amorous wildlife, and the earthy fragrance of a world so ripe it threatened to burst at any moment. In the midst of this primeval beauty two girls sat on the edge of a rough hewn dock. Perched on the precipice of womanhood, each was eager to partake of life’s bounties; only one would taste its sweetness.
Katherine Slaughter says
From “The Moveable Apprentice”, historical fiction about the invention of printing.
Mainz, Germany, 1468
So few, thought Peter Schoeffer, as he looked around at the small group of dispirited mourners. The weather certainly couldn’t have helped the turnout. The low, heavy clouds promising more snow matched Peter’s mood…grim and woolen. After the rather perfunctory service, Peter put his hand on his son’s shoulder, guiding the youth away from the Franciscan cemetery and back toward the shop at the center of town. Gratian, only just turned thirteen, was nearly as tall as his father. Peter walked in silence for several steps, before saying, “That was a great man, a great mind.” And I am the reason he died in obscurity.
Pablo del Real says
So, why are you doing this again? I mean seriously, why are you reading this? This doesn’t concern you. It is neither for nor about you. So why go any further then, really? You view this as chore, don’t you? Why don’t you do something else instead, OK? Go on. Go ahead. Run along. I’m sure you’d drop it soon anyway, right? Put it away and forget it forever, right—isn’t that right? Well, why even get started then? It’s OK. That’s fine, just fine. Just put it aside, leave it unfinished, just like everything else you touch, just like everything else you are supposed to do. That’s just how you are—unreliable—and that’s how you’ll end up. I know you. And as I told you, this isn’t for you. Or wait—wait. . . . Maybe it is. Maybe. I don’t know. Let’s see.
Dave is Right says
The rider and his mount bore the silver and blue finery of the royal court of Tel Adur. He drove his horse at a gallop as though his life depended on it, and to him, this was no lie. King Yves Giles Adur himself had placed the message he bore in his hand, and bade him to deliver it at all costs to a man who had not been seen in 15 years. A living legend. A ghost.
Jessica says
Thanks, Nathan! We all appreciate the time you put into these contests.
********
The suitcase caught on a loose stone in the walkway and I tugged it free. Spring semester had made me weary and doubtful of the path I had chosen, and the goodbye dinner with Craig that evening had done nothing to soothe my cynicism. It had been a pleasant evening, of course, but we were going to be apart for four months. I had hoped for more than pleasant. I trudged toward my blue Honda at the end of the row, trying not to allow the thoughts creeping into mind to take root. Summer break, and the time apart from my commitments, was exactly what I needed to free myself from this uncertainty, to fortify my resolve in the decisions I had made.
Anonymous says
He’d changed, I could tell at once. Gone was the self-conscious roving eye, the nervous giggle. He captured my gaze and held fast, like an angler not wanting to lose a stubborn catch. A smile hooked the corner of my mouth and I hoped he bought the feigned pleasure, because the sight of him with them made me sick. They positively dripped with condescension. And now he spoke to me as if to a child, patiently, savoring the sound of his voice. Having cast his line, he said, “You will join us, Simon.”
JAMRyan says
Her faded hair and drooping cheeks said she was all done with pretty. I remembered when glinting earrings danced against her neck. When silk skirts twirled around slender calves. Now she lumbered into my realm. Easy pickings. Unworthy of the gambit, save for my sentimental streak.
Tom says
First paragraph for your consideration, Nathan. As yet “Untitled”:
Mother made an absentminded habit of leaving her prosthetic breast on countertops around the house. A flesh-hued silicone pound of unrisen dough, is how I remember it now, but in those days the thing we stoutly dubbed Mom’s Fake Boob had some kind of personality about it. You’d find the fake boob any old afternoon right there on the swirled end of a banister, holding down a little stack of hand towels, and the way it slouched and creased along its base gave you the sneaking feeling you were being smiled at. By a rubber tit. I never spoke to Mom’s fake boob; we didn’t have anything to talk about. But wherever it turned up—on the t.v., in a lawn chair, under a table, in the dog’s mouth—the fake boob might as well have turned and whispered, “Sooner or later, I’m all that’ll be left.”
Cindy says
From my futuristic WIP
A sign in the diner window warned patrons they ate at their own risk. Stale, cold air from the air conditioner filled Jane Smith’s car with the smell of bacon and strong coffee. Her stomach growled in appreciation. The last time she’d eaten had been so long ago, she’d forgotten the occasion. Government approved food capsules provided all the day’s nutrients in a handy pill but they couldn’t compete with actually eating. The steady stream of customers that continued to make their way into the living museum, despite the warning, proved the rumours about the food had to be true. With such a large crowd, it would be next to impossible to get in, eat and get out without all hell breaking loose.
Becky H. says
My parents’ legacy lies with them in their graves, but who can recognize a burial place without a marker? These two lumps of dirt in front of me hold the people I cared most about, and yet not even their names are placed here. I am the only one that will distinguish that my parents lie in this dreary spot.
Alexandra says
YA fantasy:
The day the Hounds walk into my ma’s tavern during the afternoon lull and not be on a fishing expedition for fugitives will also be the day our magic becomes legal again, and as the latter hadn’t happened in sixteen years I doubted the former was even possible.
Thank you so much for your time, Nathan!
Knowledge Q. Bones says
Something a little different from a young writer:
Ryan bobbed about fighting the birds for the stale French fries littering the sand. One expects a homeless man to approach scraps like a curious feline, pawing through waste bins with a certain set of standards. No, Ryan scrambled around with a definite indiscretion, his right hand plucking fries from the beach while his left waved overhead to keep his balance. He dropped to all fours to get a better angle.
“Why did you burn my house down, bird?”
The pigeon cocked its head in confusion.
“That’s no excuse…go get some ketchup.”
Paul says
The first paragraph from a YA novel.
Yeah, I disrupted class some. And used foul language sometimes. My mainstream teachers usually sent me back to Mrs. Sparks’ class to do my work when I got out of hand. She’s the Special Education teacher at Garberview High. But when I threatened to shove a plastic Coke bottle up Mr. Biber’s ass, he’s Mrs. Sparks’ Aide—well, now they had their reason for what they wanted all along: CHANGE OF PLACEMENT.
Jeremy James says
You know that bass-heavy techno beat they play whenever the badass motherfucker first appears onscreen in a Hollywood blockbuster? Where they slow down their trench coat, dark-shades-strut until it’s choppy and lethal? You wouldn’t believe how accurate that is—almost verbatim the soundtrack cranking in my head right now. And I’ve gotta tell you, it pisses me off I had to wait the better part of 9,000 years to enjoy a synthesizer, or the adrenaline boost from an electric guitar. Tribal drums, the harp, the lyre—it’s just not the same.
Sarah says
I sat on the living room floor, the epicenter of work’s textbooks and papers. Yet I wasn’t completing the promised progress report. A child’s storybook, East ‘o the Sun and West ‘o the Moon, lay open in my lap. In the dusk of a winter evening, I allowed myself to study the picture.
Stephen says
At least read the last sentence.
My flesh, my precious flesh. It burned so. The light. The blinding light righteous in its damning of me, of my kind. The sun judged me as unworthy. Children of the sun rejoice the coming of summer. My blood boils. My eyes’ vitreous humor threatens to burst forth. Ultra-violet violence. My skin felt sure to ignite under the oppressive glare, ending my eternal suffering. Fucking Irish ancestors.
kcschiebel says
From my suspense novel, “Hawking’s Grove.”:
The bodies hung in suspended animation, naked and tangled among the snow frosted tree branches, their lifeless fingers still gripping to their death perches and their faces literally frozen in expressions of anguish. The icy tableau appeared both grotesquely horrific and strangely gothic: five nude male figures, muscular and youthful, posed in tormented damnation, their pleading gazes cast earthward as if their deliverance would come not from the heavens, but from below.
AoC says
Woot im going to give it a try. Here is my Ya:
The fresh smell of blood danced upon the overturned tables of the vacant ballroom. Loose glass dangled off the chandelier as the last guest rushed from the room without looking back.
Crystal locked eyes with Queen Jewel. “Leave now. This is my fight.”
Jewel didn’t move a muscle. “I’m sick of running. We have to tell her what she is doing is wrong and settle this.”
Justin Reynolds says
First paragraph from novel, The Improvisational Distance:
It was a closed casket ceremony. She was messed up that bad. Only seven people including the minister attended her funeral. The cop who found her body was among the seven. Said seeing her that way, the way he found her, would never sit right with him. Caz was there, too, but not included among the seven. The seven people at the funeral might’ve thought he was there paying his respects to his own lost loved one–he stood off in the distance, observing, but far away enough to not be a part of things–he did not want to hear them letting her go. He did not want her conjured through stories and memories that supposed summarized who she was and what she was about. Things that reminded them that she had been felt, and laughed with, and cried over. He knew she’d been real. But keep her fake inside that box, he thought. Fake and unfeeling. He could handle seeing a box lowered into the earth-but what he could not do is put a face to the box. Later that night she came to him in bed and he put his head to her breast, and slept for the first time since. He’d always told her she inspired his best sleep.
Future OB/GYN says
From my MG, “A Moment’s Notice”
“I’m home, Mom!” 12-year-old Jennifer Aura yelled to her mother. It had only been 20 minutes since her day at Arizona Central Middle School had ended, but Jennifer’s mind was already a thousand miles away. Her backpack fell to the floor with a thud as she raced into the kitchen.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Jennifer asked anxiously. Mrs. Aura, who was 7 months pregnant, came out of the living room.
“Hi, Jennifer. Guess what? It’s a girl!” Mrs. Aura responded happily.
Kate Langton says
The new king was younger than most monarchs taking up the throne: a mere thirty-seven. One morning, feeling bored with matters of law and protocol, he told the Royal Librarian he wanted to explore the locked stacks of the Royal Archives. The Royal Librarian nodded and handed him a lantern. The gates squeaked as they opened and shut. The king smiled with happiness: books everywhere, floor to ceiling. He walked in silence through the cavernous underground rooms that had once been denied him as a child, picking up this and that. After a few more lazy turns around the stacks, he spied a narrow wooden door on the back wall. He walked over to it and poked his head inside. The light from his lantern illuminated five wooden trunks. Nothing else. He frowned. No one, including his late mother, the queen, had ever hinted of the existence of these trunks nor did he recall seeing them listed in castle inventory. Curious, he opened each one – and read. Seven hours later, the king ordered his chief advisor to join him in the archives. When Red Tuck, entered the backroom, wearing a jaunty mismatch of Every-Red-Possible, the king’s eyes regarded him with uncertainty and grief. Tuck’s eyes fell on the open trunks. He paled, but did not speak. Noting his chief advisor’s reaction, the young king grabbed a sheaf of musty-smelling papers with his right hand. The brittle thousand-year-old paper fanned the dank air. The king swallowed, searching for words. He had to do this right; he had to make sense of what he now knew. “Tuck,” he whispered, “did you know these were here?” The king pointed at the trunks sitting between them on the cold stone floor. “Hundreds of reports in here.” His soft-spoken voice took on the rising panic of a wild thing caught for the first time in a room with no exit. “All these girls. All abandoned by us.” The king stared at his most trusted friend from childhood, the sheaf of papers now in a strangle grip. “Swear to me, Tuck. Swear you don’t know about the Cinder Girl Experiments.”
Anonymous says
By the time Tom Black turned twenty-five, he’d fractured or broken nearly every bone in his body at least once. His skin held a crisscross of scars comparable to a map of the interstate highway system. A spot on his ribs resembled the Rocky Mountains and a divot on his shin looked like Oregon’s Crater Lake. He’d been having a good year so far with only a sprained ankle and a few minor scrapes on his injury list.
But the night wasn’t over yet.
Heath says
ENTRY by Heath:
My name is Thomas Patterson, and I believe I am a sane and honest man, but after hearing what I have to say, you will think me a lying bastard touched with dementia. It’s probably better that way. At times, I tremble myself when I wonder if madness has trespassed the boundaries of my mind. An attorney for ten years and atheist for much longer, I never believed much in the supernatural, or in ghosts or superstition. But after what I have seen and done, I am neither attorney nor atheist now.
Wendy Vendor says
It’s hard to know when the dying starts and the living begins to end. It’s not, really, when your body begins to fail. It’s not when you can no longer walk to the bathroom, when you can no longer roll over in bed, when you can no longer lift a spoon to your mouth to feed yourself. It’s not when you begin to have trouble swallowing and your daughter gently sucks orange soda into a straw and lets it dribble into your mouth. It’s not when the nurse shows your daughter how to roll you over and fold the sheet under you, accordion-style, so she can change your linens, or when a catheter is installed because somehow you cannot no longer manage to urinate, or when you’re vaguely aware of the shame of having your daughter empty your catheter bag. It’s when your mind begins to go.
S.A. Solomon says
The phone rings. It’s Ruth Pincus. She wants to know if I’ll go to the mall with her. I tell her I’m grounded and act disappointed but I’m secretly relieved because she’s on a shoplifting binge. Not that lady light fingers has ever gotten caught, but I don’t want to be there if it happens. She’d talk her way out of it and I’d get arrested. Ruth’s parents are divorced and she lives with her mom. Weekends, I’d hear her from halfway down the block, peeling out of her driveway in the baby blue Buick with tinted windows, headed for the Fifth Street Beach or the mall where she works at the Ear Thing. If it hadn’t been for a downgraded hurricane, I never would have had the nerve to talk to her in the first place. I was on my way to school when the wake from a passing car flooded my clogs with water, soaking my corduroy jeans to the knees. I looked up. It was the baby blue Buick. It stopped and a tinted window slid down. There was Ruth, her black hair streaked blond with peroxide like the Cuban girls, smoking a Pall Mall, bangles jingling on her tanned arm. —S.A. Solomon, “Refugee”
Joseph says
The streets of Merityme were filled with witches and vampires. Here went a ghost. There went a zombie. The odd yeti lumbered past, now and then, followed by a shameful sort of octopus that tried to stay out of the lamplight as best it could. Maybe it was a bog monster; Benson couldn’t tell. He was more interested in the girl with the red scarf. She wasn’t wearing a costume at all, and her pillow-case sagged with a more-than-obvious lack of candy. He had been following her for a cool hour now, as she zigged and zagged through town, her monogrammed scarf trailing behind. She certainly wasn’t knocking on doors, and Benson supposed he was marginally intrigued by that fact. But mostly, he wanted to know if the things everyone said about Spooker Mallick were true.
Gray & Grainy says
Oops, I apologize, I meant to include my email, too. Also, I hit submit without the final sentence. Thanks for the contest!
First paragraph from novel, The Improvisational Distance:
It was a closed casket ceremony. She was messed up that bad. Only seven people including the minister attended her funeral. The cop who found her body was among the seven. Said seeing her that way, the way he found her, would never sit right with him. Caz was there, too, but not included among the seven. The seven people at the funeral might’ve thought he was there paying his respects to his own lost loved one–he stood off in the distance, observing, but far away enough to not be a part of things–he did not want to hear them letting her go. He did not want her conjured through stories and memories that supposed summarized who she was and what she was about. Things that reminded them that she had been felt, and laughed with, and cried over. He knew she’d been real. But keep her fake inside that box, he thought. Fake and unfeeling. He could handle seeing a box lowered into the earth-but what he could not do is put a face to the box. Later that night she came to him in bed and he put his head to her breast, and slept for the first time since. He’d always told her she inspired his best sleep. He would remember that sleep, that inspiration, days later when he stood over the man who’d put her in the box, when he told that man to close his eyes and say nothing.
Jessica says
The prisoners had no idea the war was over until they woke up one morning to find the camp silent. No sleepy-eyed soldiers shuffling through the mud. No one bellowing for roll call. No guards at the gate. The Germans seemed to have vanished.
dcharb says
Gisela leaned forward over the bow railing of the freighter. Antwerp was warm for January, a thin fog settled over the harbor. Through the mist, she watched the white caps beat against the hull of the ship. The gusting wind drowned all but her thoughts. She ran her hand through her hair. It was short now, cut to an inch in a train station bathroom in Brussels. Its absence made her feel light, like a different person. It was a start.
Melinda says
I hated this part. The bell had rung exactly four minutes and 48 seconds ago. Which meant I had exactly 12 seconds to get through the next door. But I was still a hundred yards away, the hall was too crowded for me to run like a normal person, and with honors calculus, I had little hope there’d be someone later than me to slip in behind. There went my perfect attendance record. I reached the door. Closed of course. Mrs. Harper always closed the door. Like she was worried someone wanted to spy on her lesson. Hardly likely. Except, well, for me.
dan radke says
I think I saw some guy die the other day.
I was walking to the corner store to pick up a case for me and my roommate, Lucy. Dude was about ten paces in front of me. Kinda looked like me, too. Scruffy. White. Late twenties, early thirties. Walking with his hands in his pockets. Then some dinky hybrid zipped out of the alley and sent the guy cartwheeling into the air. Car screeched and rocked to a stop, some mousy college chick inside with so much terror on her face it looked like she had just been hit by a car. Then his head came down on her trunk. Hard.