It’s time of the granddaddy of them all, our sort-of-annual first paragraph challenge! Will your paragraph wow the masses? Do you have the first paragraph to end all first paragraphs?
We shall soon find out.
Let’s get to the good stuff. THE PRIZES!
The ULTIMATE GRAND PRIZE WINNER of the SUFPC will win:
1) The opportunity to have a partial manuscript considered by my utterly fantastic agent, Catherine Drayton of InkWell, whose clients include bestselling authors such as Markus Zusak (The Book Thief), John Flanagan (The Ranger’s Apprentice series) and Becca Fitzpatrick (Hush Hush), among others.
2) A signed advance copy of my novel, JACOB WONDERBAR AND THE COSMIC SPACE KAPOW, which is coming out in May:
3) The pride of knowing your paragraph was like the platonic ideal of first paragraphs it was so awesome.
The FABULOUS RUNNERS UP will receive the satisfaction of knowing that they were among the very best, as well as a query critique from yours truly.
There may also be honorable mentions, where still more satisfaction will be had.
So! Here’s how this works. Please read these rules carefully:
a) This is a for-fun contest. Rules may be adjusted without notice, but this one will always remain: please don’t take the contest overly seriously. This is for fun. Yes, the grand prize is awesome and I would have kidnapped a baby koala bear to have my manuscript considered by Catherine Drayton without so much as a query, but don’t let that detract from the for-funness of the contest. For fun. Seriously.
b) Please post the first paragraph of any work-in-progress in the comments section of THIS POST. Please do not e-mail me your submission. The deadline for entry is THURSDAY 4pm Pacific time, at which point entries will be closed. Finalists will be announced…. sometime after that. (Possibly Friday, possibly the following Monday, possibly the year 2032 but probably not the year 2032). When the finalists are announced you will exercise your democratic rights to vote for a stupendously ultimate winner.
c) Please please check and double-check and triple-check your entry before posting. But if you spot an error after posting: please do not re-post your entry. I go through the entries sequentially and the repeated deja vu repeated deja vu from reading the same entry only slightly different makes my head spin. I’m not worried about typos, nor should you be.
d) You may enter once, once you may enter, and enter once you may. If you post anonymously, make sure you leave your name.
e) Spreading word about the contest is strongly encouraged.
f) I will be sole judge of the finalists. You the people will be the sole judge of the ultimate winner.
g) I am not imposing a word count on the paragraphs. However, a paragraph that is overly long may lose points in the judge’s eyes. Use your own discretion.
h) Please remember that the paragraph needs to be a paragraph, not multiple paragraphs masquerading as one paragraph.
i) You must be at least 14 years old and less than 147 years old to enter. No exceptions.
j) I’m on Twitter! You can find me at @nathanbransford and I may be posting updates about the contest.
That is all.
GOOD LUCK! May the best paragraph win and may it be rather awesome.
Max Gladstone says
God wasn't answering tonight.
carolyndnc says
Midnight; the wind through the leaves shook and shivered, casting shadows like rats running in the underbrush. The headlights of the car lent an eerie illumination to the October night, sparkling on the veil of shimmering frost like stars that had fallen from the sky. Richard Malcolm drove farther away from the warm welcome of the Victorian Bed and Breakfast where he often spent the long nights curled safely under the covers with a mug of steaming coffee and worn manuscript that he had written and rewritten for most of his life. Tonight would be different however, and he had accepted that fact before he rummaged through the settled dust of the attic, stirring up the remnants of old ghosts that lingered on the surfaces everywhere he turned.
Susan says
Huddled in the dark on her bed with just a sliver of night visible from where she lay, Anna would often gaze at the darkness beyond her tiny window and imagine lying down on a soft sheet of springy grass and snuggling under a shimmering blanket of stars; the moon to tuck her in with a kiss and the wind to sing her to sleep. Sometimes she would tell herself a story with the wishes she made on the stars stretching endlessly beyond her grasp.
Michaele Stoughton says
The pewter cup sat in the stone cubby, looking like a trophy. Like a reminder of a proud moment in your life, when you were the best at something. I couldn’t look at it. I didn’t feel proud. I felt sad and empty. I imagined myself whipping it out of there and rubbing its side like a magic lamp, resulting in a hail of smoke that would bring my mother back. But I knew better. She wouldn’t be coming back. The pastor said his final ceremonial words, and then turned to my father. “You are welcome to stay while the vault is sealed.”
Bart Kelly says
Mar-ga-ret”! The syllables sputtered out of Samantha’s mouth like bits of dirt. Not just any dirt either, but the kind of dirt you get stuck to the bottom of your shoes. You know the kind, one third schoolyard dirt, one third lunch garbage and one third trouble. That is exactly what Margaret Munkle was too, Samantha thought, 100 % shoe-bottom dirt and no matter how many times you tried to wipe your feet, she was still there getting you into trouble.
Gloria Oliver says
One moment I was in my apartment, about to relax after a long day at work, the next I found myself on a dark street with a set of headlights coming right at me.
Anonymous says
Good morning.
Welcome to Foreverland.
My people are the Bards.
We act upon the fabric of Foreverland.
I wander, searching for the one who looks like me.
He is hiding, seeking.
He just wants to play.
He flies like a shadow up walls and through trees.
Searching for the one who looks like me.
But there is another.
He looks as we.
And yet he is sleeping.
Whisper his name.
Wake up.
We are waiting, for the one who knows our name.
Good morning.
I am the Player King.
Welcome to Foreverland.
LJKuhnley
Sam says
Olivia felt breath on the back of her neck. Someone was following her. She spun around and gasped. Silhouetted in the moonlight, Olivia found herself face to nose with a llama. She reached up and gave the shaggy beast a pat. It was definitely tempting, but getting acquainted with a llama would have to wait 'til she found what she was searching for. You know, if she survived. Olivia shoved thoughts of a slow, lonely death out of her head. She shoved thoughts of a quick, brutal death away too. She'd navigated through a jungle full of deadly snakes and llama spit. She'd peed in the Peruvian jungle where no other eleven year old had peed before. She'd be fine; it was the others she wasn't so sure about.
Richard Gibson says
Non-fiction, "What Things Are Made Of"
Mine shafts breathe their hot vapors into a forty-below-zero Montana winter. The copper miners, grimy and tired from their efforts to free a bit more ore from the granitic rock, ascend from the depths of the Steward Mine’s “Chinese Laundry,” where temperatures of one hundred degrees Fahrenheit and a hundred percent humidity exhaust a man in much less time than the 12-hour shift he works for $3.50. But copper underpins a growing industrial world, and $3.50 per day is a decent wage in 1905.
Margo Berendsen says
It started just like every other spring in the mountains, me arguing with my mother about not needing a fire to warm our hut anymore.
“As strange and wonderful it is that you are never cold,” my mother told me, “I am not gifted in the same way. The mornings are still frosty, and besides, I like a hot cup of tea before I start the day.”
“You could use a charm to heat the water, instead of fire,” I argued. I hate fire. Its flickering flames remind me of serpents’ tongues, with a cruel bite.
Stacey says
She stood outside the door wondering what she would find inside. It was different from last time, of that she was sure. This time there were others like her actually here. Not like those from before – she could sense the difference. One was like her; the other was not, but did not quite fall into that imaginary world person – or whatever it was – she had gotten used to either.
Karri Justina Shea says
The night before the Keepers came, Laine had a dream. In Ever, this was a seriously punishable offence.
Erica says
Poking my head into the kitchen, I heard the newspaper rustled slightly as I watched my parents, their heads together, smile at one another like newlyweds over The New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle. After rolling my eyes at myself for forgetting how dorky they acted sometimes, I called out, "Going out for a bit." Almost completely oblivious to my presence, Mom waved me away as Dad pressed a Mont Blanc pen, my mother's wedding gift to my father, to the paper, filling in the answer to the first clue. If I didn't love them so much, I might have found the whole scene a little embarrassing. At least, they are at home instead of out in public, I said to myself, turning around to face the front door. Now that would be cause for pretending not to know them.
m says
Everyone stares at Henry Parker sometimes. All the girls dream of being close to Henry Parker and all the boys dream of being even closer. I stared at him because I didn’t hate him.
Amanda says
I blame all my problems on being short. Mom says that's "unreasonable," but I figure she's the unreasonable one for giving me these massive-loser genes. Not only am I still kissing the ground while the rest of my 6th grade class is off sniffing the trees, but I also have a rhino-butt birthmark, an allergy to orange soda, and I still can't remember the twelve times table. (I know. I'm doomed, right?) But my biggest problem is that I don't feel normal. And, the truth is, I'm not.
Courtney Vail says
Majesty jolted and nearly crapped a brick when the gun flipped up and aligned with her head, the gun before his face…like he instinctively knew where she was in the brush…like his hand possessed a freakin’ heat sensor or something. What the hell! The nice, thirty-foot distance between her and the barrel hazed down to point-blank range, making her eyes sear. And it didn’t help that god-awful beads of sweat, laced with hairspray of course, rained into her watering orbs with a lovely scorpion’s sting. He could get her in one shot. One. Just like he got all the rest.
Tina says
The scream died in his throat. A foreign sound he couldn’t set free. The surrounding quiet enfolded him, ironically deafening in its intensity. He closed his eyes struggling for control.
Kate Higgins says
This is my first paragraph for my WIP called "Emerald Boots":
"Jade clapped her hands over her ears as another dragon-like roar belched from high above her hiding place. This wasn’t her best idea. She felt the basket swing violently and scooted as far back into the corner as she possibly could, pulling an old horse blanket tighter over her head and shoulders, hoping desperately to become invisible. Jade felt her stomach dropped as the balloon rushed upwards. She hugged her knees tight to her chest and buried her face, letting her sudden tears run down her knees. She couldn’t be caught stowing away on the Great Oz’s balloon. This was stupid, stupid, stupid. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home right now!"
Miranda Buchanan says
The faces of my targets haunt me. Most of the time I can blink away the memory of my actions. But there, in my periphery, is a boy about twelve, a living image of my first kill.
Cynthia Armes says
He was taking Lucille fishing with him for his own peace of mind. It was still dark outside, and Walter had already packed a lunch of cold chicken legs, tomatoes, and cornbread. Now he was stocking the cooler with Coors and a few cokes to make her Jim Beam and coke later that afternoon. She always had her first drink of the day at one o’clock right after eating lunch which was served promptly at noon, which she would eat very little; by three o’clock, she would be drunk. At least, she would be with him instead of sitting home getting drunk alone. After last week’s fall in the bathroom, which resulted in a fractured wrist and eleven stitches over her right eye, he knew he could not leave her alone. If she tipped over and fell in the lake, he could save her. If she tipped over at home and fell on the Mexican tile floor in the kitchen, he might come home to a wife with a cracked skull.
Patrice says
Vice President Young moved across the stage to the oak podium, striding against the current of excitement coming from the crowd. The television lights were so bright that it was difficult to see through the shimmering circles they formed. The heat was intense. A trickle of sweat started down the Vice President's back, under the tailored jacket, sliding from hairline to collar to bra strap. Stand up tall. Smile. No matter what happened now, the next President of the United States was going to be a woman.
From "RUNNING" commercial fiction complete at 92,000 words
MeganRebekah says
An oak tree wasn’t the most comfortable spot for a stakeout but it was the most advantageous. It offered a clear view of the perp’s driveway and front porch, and its thick leafy branches kept me out of sight. Sure, the chill in the air made me wish I hadn’t left my jacket in Presley’s car and my left leg was beyond numb, but the last few years had taught me that even the smallest advantage could make a big difference. Tonight it could make me $500.
Ermo says
Inside the second story window of the decrepit Victorian, wrapped in a white shawl and beset with eyes as black as a country night, a woman stood. Her muted red lips moved but the sound of Lake Michigan’s crashing waves stole the words. I watched her until my attention diverted to a daffodil in the garden; its yellow leaves huddled together in a fist as if cowering from the woman’s glare. When I looked back at the window a moment later, she was gone, leaving just the curtain wafting in the breeze.
Philippa says
Georgie stared at the back of Vic’s head, looking at the wisps of hair grown long and combed over. The queue shuffled forward and a kick sent her bag skidding along the floor. She knew it would annoy him; everything about her annoyed him, especially her youth. There was only one thing he liked about her, or maybe two.She’d lied about her age. He’d lied too. She knew this because she’d picked the lock on his leather briefcase and looked at his passport. He’d told her he was thirty-eight. Fifty-one was more like it, nearly fifty-two, older than her Mum and Dad. What would they think if they knew? The thought raised a tiny smile but then she thought of his spongy skin and stopped.
Philippa says
Georgie stared at the back of Vic’s head, looking at the wisps of hair grown long and combed over. The queue shuffled forward and a kick sent her bag skidding along the floor. She knew it would annoy him; everything about her annoyed him, especially her youth. There was only one thing he liked about her, or maybe two.She’d lied about her age. He’d lied too. She knew this because she’d picked the lock on his leather briefcase and looked at his passport. He’d told her he was thirty-eight. Fifty-one was more like it, nearly fifty-two, older than her Mum and Dad. What would they think if they knew? The thought raised a tiny smile but then she thought of his spongy skin and stopped.
Amy says
Space, the final wasteland. It’s the sort of place you want to know you can trust those around you with your life. That’s why Flynn kept his crew to a minimum. His brother, his pilot, and his dog were all he needed to do his job and stay sane. His pilot, however, needed a bit more.
Kendal says
The metallic squeal of the screen door woke me. I knew it was Lydia, she was always sneaking outside before the sun came up. She liked to wander through the woods behind our house first thing in the morning, no matter how many times our mother had begged her not to. I tried not to hold these early morning excursions against her—she never meant to wake me, but my bedroom was only a corner of the back porch that our mother had walled-in for privacy with the cardboard boxes of our father’s that she hadn’t wanted to unpack. I could still hear people walking by, and even on the mornings when Lydia moved silently, the old rusted door always gave her away.
HH says
In the year I’ve lived with my father, I’ve met more than ten of his girlfriends. Why he introduces me to these women is beyond me. Beside the fact I never see them again, I rarely see him. Maybe he thinks the two-minute introductions equal quality time. But this is so not quality. Music blares in my ears, my father’s mouth moves, and the woman stares at me. Judging, dark eyes slide over my frayed jeans, t-shirt, and dyed hair while I force a smile. Until his mouth forms an unbelievable word.
Georgina says
On my seventeenth birthday, I got drunk, got dared, and kissed my very best friend. An hour later, he was dead.
Anonymous says
The jackhammers throttled a sun-scorched block of veined concrete down on First, and the pen in Arlo’s hand vibrated almost imperceptibly from the aftershock. It seemed impossible that he should feel it all the way up on Grand; that the throb of the machines should penetrate the sterile chill of his steel-enclosed cubicle at the top of Bunker Hill. And yet he was sure, as he gazed through the plate glass at the construction site below, that something rattled deep in his core when the foundation was cracked. The final remnant of the old hotel, the crumbling bedrock that had anchored the hundred-year-old structure to the earth for so long, was being demolished.
GM says
The flares of her gown swished as she cat-walked her way to the spotlight facing the judges. Her heart pounded in her chest, but her dimpled smile never faltered. As she sashayed back to her position beside the other finalists, the sound of clapping hands echoed throughout the hall. Let him come. Let him come with his printed shirt and whisky breath. This time I’ll break his other hand too.
Mary Campbell says
Feminine laughter, tinkling on the wind, draws me to my bedroom window.They say curiosity killed the cat, but modern science calls it fueling the mind. Today's my sixteenth birthday and I haven't been to school for a week—so I'm taking the side of science. I don't dare pull the curtains open, someone might see me. But there is a tiny opening where the two curtains meet and I'm able to peek through without detection.
Lucy says
Griffith ap Cynan was the ugliest mouse in the shire. Every time Ragnelle saw his overhanging teeth, his crooked ears and scabby tail, she wanted to step on him. But she didn't. She gave him pieces of bread, and said, "Poor Griffith," and tried not to look at the black warts on his lips, or his bald, red skin. None of it was Griffith's fault. He used to be a respectable Welshman. Now he hid in Ragnelle's room, along with two horrible crickets, who were once kitchen girls; and tried to stay out of the way.
-L.C. Blackwell
Hart Johnson says
I was shocked to realize I'd been dead so long. The notice nailed on the door was dated 2012. Sixty years. I'd been a fifteen year-old for sixty years now. I had been so convinced the world would end in 1984, like that book said. Time had ceased to be relevant until that sign went up. That was at the new moon. It was waning again before anything else unusual happened.
E.M. Corrigan says
She woke up on a train. Panel by panel the countryside flashed by. In front of her was a table, scarred, scuffed, empty. To her left, the window, across the aisle to her right, an older woman, with a magazine propped against her table, knitting and reading. The woman glanced over and smiled. The girl smiled back, unsure. She had no idea why she was on the train, or where it was going. The landscape was changing, now and then an isolated house, but soon there were more and more houses closer together, the landscape becoming urban. The train slowed down, she could see the start of the platform, and pressed her face to the window, trying to see a sign.
Gwen Lee says
For years, she fashioned her heart into a plastic thing so it would be untouchable. But she had forgotten that plastic, though unbreakable, was not invulnerable. What happened this morning was just a reminder of that. The new waitress had left a stack of crockery in the oven because the dishwasher was full, and the chef turned it on without checking. When they smelt the burning odor, it was too late. The plates had spread themselves over the racks like a Salvador Dali painting, and the bowls dripping toward the oven base like newly formed stalactites. The girl was bawling. She begged to be given a second chance. She didn’t think anyone would use the oven; after all they made sushi, not pizzas. The manager wasn’t amused. She fired the girl and ordered Meg to clean up. For two hours, Meg scrapped at the mess with a spatula, her hand slowly being roasted inside the oven (which was set to one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit to soften the plastic). To make it worse, it was also the hottest day in British history, with the temperature outside rivaling that of the oven. Meg would remember that day forever, not because of the misery she was put through, but because it marked the beginning of the end of her waitressing career.
From Better Halves by Gwen Lee
Flattish says
Everyone has a motive for attending a class reunion. Over there you’ll see the kids who have something to brag about—-something to flaunt in the non-believers faces so they can leave the gathering with a snubbed nose and a requited soul. Over here you'll see the class monarchy—-the boys who played their way to immortality and filled out their RSVP with the hope of reliving the glory days (if only for a night), the ice queens who rewarded the meek with pretend acceptance and came to show-off their still white teeth and Miss America waves (and fake happy lives), the girls who compensated for lack of ambition by spreading their legs (and still would), and the smart kids who people only pretended to like so they could use them as their study minions—they were here to increase regret for those who traded long-term planning for a technical school education. But you probably won’t see the kids who took the knock-out punch to their self-esteem—-the drug addicts, the nerds, the fat kids, the ugly ducklings, and the other losers who were washed away into the pool of misery that collected those who didn’t fit into one of the few acceptable molds. They were fools to show. That’s who I am—-a fool to show.
Mike C. says
I saw my first corpse when I was 6 years old, and my grandma was putting lipstick on it. When she finished, she powdered the nose, tweezed the eyebrows, and fixed the dead woman's gray hair. She stepped back and inspected her work in the funeral parlor’s dim light. "Maybe she needs more color on her cheeks," she said, and reached into her makeup case for rouge. I sat watching, thinking that I’d like to help.
Vanessa says
Twenty five feet into town. That’s as far as we got before the first disaster happened. Dad turned onto Main Street, and just as we pulled up next to Greywolfe’s Spells and Supplies a huge puff of smoke and flame burst from the front doors. Shattered glass and a large, hairy man shot into the path of our over-packed SUV.
sandrac says
The sound of his screams sent a chill down my spine. That is, what was left of my spine…
The Singing Farm Wife says
I gripped the handlebars tightly as my Outlaw slid around the third curve. Derek was in front of me and the splatter of mud from his tires splashed onto my face shield blocking my view to the right. The next part of the track involved two small jumps, one after the other and then a sharp turn to the right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another rider trying to squeeze past on my left. I flexed my wrist, rolling the accelerator, and shifted into fifth. My quad responded with a lurch, throwing me out of my seat, but I hung on. I had to win this race. Derek and I had a bet that I couldn’t afford to lose.
Sinkerchase says
Abelard Guthrie’s life of lies began one summer afternoon. His mother had signed him up for Happy Acres Day Camp, a place so far out in the woods that there were more mosquitoes than trees, and Abelard hated it. It wasn’t so much that he hated the green bus that smelled like stinky socks or the happy songs that they had to sing constantly or even that it had been his mother’s idea. It was just that Abelard had other things on his mind. What Abelard wanted to do that summer had to do with the box he had discovered in the attic. He found it quite by accident when looking for the beach umbrella for his mother, and now that he had it, he needed time.
McClappin' Hands says
Pastor Joseph's knees hurt. When his knees began to hurt, he knew he was doing it right. When the pain disappeared, he knew he was done. He knelt at the foot of his bed, his hands clasped under his chin, the edge of the wooden foot-board dug into the meat of his triceps. This was the way that he prayed, taught by his father before he could speak. That too soft hiss of a voice came back every time he asked the Lord for His guidance. In the back of his mind, his Father's hushed voice said, "Can still you feel your knees? If they still hurt, you aren't praying hard enough."
Joseph L. Selby says
Some say it was the industrial revolution. Some say it was the three-car garage. Some say it was this or that rigged election or this or that unsigned treaty. Some say it was the Reciprocity Act. But let me tell you, the day the first Dutchman showed up on the Ivory Coast with a bottle of whiskey was the day the world began to end.
Michelle Yaworski says
A sword blade whistling towards his face was the last thing Kai expected when he walked into the Kung Fu studio. He yelped and scrambled backwards, narrowly avoiding decapitation. Okay, so the ancient weapon wasn't sharp enough to cut anyone's head off, but it still didn't belong in the hands of a twelve year old. The sword belonged on the wall. Right above the sign that said, 'Do not touch'. In big red letters. Curtis, on the other end of the sword, snickered. Kai forced himself to take a breath and unclench his fists. He couldn't afford to get into another fight.
dcharb says
The slight boy stood near the barn door listening to the blackbirds cry from the far edge of the western field. It was just after dawn, the sky still purple and freckled with dim stars and a shard of waxing moonlight. Though their appointment was not until noon, and the drive north preceding it would consume only a few hours, the boy had risen early, wanting to take one last look around before they left the farm for good.
Sunlight Shadows says
Joseph should have been hiding in the copy room, playing the agency’s loyal paper-slave. He didn’t deal with models. He wasn’t supposed to cover the reception desk at all anymore, unless Martha was drop-dead drunk. She wasn’t drunk that afternoon, but she had dropped dead. Joseph tried to look casual, rolling side to side in Martha’s chair as he skimmed her obituary. The shot of her stiff, sunken face kept drawing his eyes away from the article and made his stomach clench. When the elevator buzzed, he nearly punched a hole in the computer’s touch screen trying to close the browser. His fingers staggered along the edge of his desk, their arrhythmic drumming drowned out by echoing clanks from the elevator shaft. He had to keep it together this time. He knew he only had the job because his uncle believed in nepotism. Another fiasco was not going to fly.
TCazier says
I lay rest in the shadow of a pine tree biding my time. Dusk begins to settle as the soul that awaits me causes my hunger to stir. It clutches the dimness that surrounds me with the feeling that I could be consumed at any moment. The fact that she is still alive is evidence to the verity that this is nowhere close to my first time. I am tormented knowing the pain I will surely bring to those that love this creature, this human being. Maybe that is my penance? Though I don't know why I would have one. It's simply who I am, the senses I possess scream it from every silhouette. I expand my presence hoping to hold my hunger at bay without my preempt or those around her taking notice. I am one who believes that not all deaths need to be witnessed.
Caroline says
Elizabeth fit her feet into the rut of a forgotten rainstorm, one sneaker before the other down the old dirt road. Just a needle in a record’s scratchy groove, she sang dirges to the dying summer sun and surrendered to the pull of her secret haven. From her perch atop Mars Hill, she’d gaze over town, imagine herself as one of the soaring ravens, and forget real life, find her breath again. She couldn’t remember ever needing it more.
KH says
Lorna knew why Diana wanted her to go back to Italy. Diana wanted her mother to face the past, and Lorna sensed that there were memories that Diana had not put to rest. Diana had been only sixteen, and in possession of the righteous indignation that only a teenager can unleash, when she learned about her father’s double life. Somehow John thought his daughter would accept the fact that he had a mistress, and that she had a half-sister four years younger than than she was. But John was wrong.