UPDATE: TIME’S UP! COMMENTS CLOSED!
It’s the grandaddy of them all. The big kahuna. The 32 oz porterhouse with a side of awesome.
It’s our FIFTH Sort-of-Annual um don’t point out that the last one was two years ago oops too late Stupendously First Paragraph Challenge!!!
Do you have the best paragraph of them all? Will you make Charles Dickens wish he ditched “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times” for your paragraph when he wrote A Tale of Two Cities?
Let’s see.
First and most importantly: ALL THE PRIZES.
The ultimate grand prize winner of the SUFPC will win:
1) The opportunity to have a partial manuscript considered by my wildly awesome agent Catherine Drayton of InkWell. Who does Catherine represent, you might ask? Why, only authors such as Markus Zusak (The Book Thief), John Flanagan (The Ranger’s Apprentice series), Becca Fitzpatrick (Hush Hush), and many more amazing writers. This is a rather excellent prize. You don’t even have to write a query letter!
2) All the finalists will win a query critique from me trust me I’ve still got my query-revising skillz. Said critique is redeemable at any time.
3) All the finalists in the USA (sorry non-USAers, international postage is bananas) will win a signed copy of my new novel, last in the Jacob Wonderbar trilogy, in stores and available online on Thursday, Jacob Wonderbar and the Interstellar Time Warp!! Please check this bad boy out I swear you’ll love it and you won’t even get eaten by a dinosaur:
The Jacob Wonderbar trilogy:
Jacob Wonderbar and the Cosmic Space Kapow
Jacob Wonderbar for President of the Universe
Jacob Wonderbar and the Interstellar Time Warp
4) All finalists and winners win the pride of knowing that you are in some truly fantastic company. Let’s review the now-published authors who were finalists in writing contests on this blog before they became famous and fancy published authors:
Stuart Neville! Victoria Schwab! Terry DeHart! Michelle Hodkin! Michelle Davidson Argyle! Joshua McCune! Natalie Whipple! Josin L. McQuein! Jeanne Ryan! Peter Cooper! Travis Erwin!
Are we missing anyone? I sometimes forget THERE ARE SO MANY.
There may also be honorable mentions. You may win the lottery during the time you are entering this contest. Who can say really?
So! Here’s how this works. Please read these rules very carefully:
a) This is a for-fun contest. Rules may be adjusted without notice, as I see fit, but this one will always be here: Please don’t take this contest overly seriously. This is for fun. Yes, the grand prize is awesome and I would have willingly picked a fight with Mike Tyson to have had my manuscript considered by Catherine Drayton without ever having to write a query, but please don’t let that detract from the fact that this contest is for-fun.
b) Please post the first paragraph of any work-in-progress in the comments section of THIS POST. If you are reading this post via e-mail you must click through to enter. Please do not e-mail me your submission it will not count.
c) The deadline for entry is this THURSDAY 7pm Eastern time, at which point entries will be closed. Finalists will be announced… sometime between Friday and the year 2078. When the finalists are announced this suddenly becomes a democracy and you get to vote on the stupendously ultimate winner.
d) Please please check and double-check your entry before posting. If you spot an error in your post after entering: please do not re-post your entry. I go through the entries sequentially and the repeated deja vu repeated deja vu of reading the same entry over and over again makes my head spin. I’m not worried about typos. You shouldn’t be either.
e) You may enter once, once you may enter, and enter once you may. If you post anonymously please be sure and leave your name (no cheating on this one).
f) Spreading the word about the contest is very much encouraged. The more the merrier, and the greater your pride when you crush them all.
g) I will be the sole judge of the finalists. You the people will be the sole judge of the ultimate winner.
h) There is no word count limit on the paragraphs. However, a paragraph that is overly long or feels like more than a paragraph may lose points. It should be a paragraph, not multiple paragraphs masquerading as one paragraph. Use your own discretion.
i) You must be at least 14 years old and less than 178 years old to enter. No exceptions.
j) I’m on the Twitter! And the Facebook! And the Google+! And the Instagram! It is there I will be posting contest updates. Okay maybe not Instagram but pretty pictures!
That is all.
GOOD LUCK. May the best paragraph win and let us all have a grand old time.
David List says
In the western foothills of a mountain range not quite high enough to see any part of the world that mattered, Darke stood motionless amongst the trees, a crude pine arrow drawn in an old bow. The knuckle of his right thumb pressed against his cheekbone and his right eye narrowed to a pin. Eighty yards down the hill an elk considered a stream. It was a young bull, its antlers not quite three feet across.
“Slow down, friend. Relax,” Darke said.
Andrew says
I never believed in magic until I met Sukesh. Don't get me wrong, I was skeptical at first just as you would have been. And the fact that he won me over despite my air of skepticism is what makes this story so glorious. Sukesh surmounted my false paradigm, and he did it in a greasy cruise ship bar with only a handful of people around to witness it. He was an unassuming Indian man with a chubby face and soft but intense eyes behind which it always seemed that the robotic gears of his brain were grinding–working methodically to remember, to deceive, to delight. When he pulled off the trick the right corner of his mouth would tick upwards against his will almost as if he too couldn't believe he had successfully hidden the card between the volunteer's wrist and watch without his notice.
Erica says
Choosing a table in the cafeteria is torture. Today I sit by Leonard, mostly because instead of hitting me he just squirms, snaps four fresh rubber bands onto his braces and leaves. I dig out the lunch my grandmother packed and see the note scribbled on the outside of the paper bag. In lipstick: Love you, Titus. Show those rocket ships who’s boss!
Maria G. Swan says
Maria Grazia Swan
The stench of death permeated the air.
Morning rain didn’t wash it away. Afternoon sun didn’t singe it away. It hovered, unaffected by the chirping of birds, the scurrying of spooked lizards or the skittering of pebbles under Mina’s shoes
Bamboo Grovers says
The lab stank. Not just your usual funky science smells, either. Jeb tried breathing through his mouth, but even then he could taste the stench on his tongue. Rotting rugby socks. He’d never actually smelled rotting rugby socks, but figured it would be similar.
ADominiqueSmith says
The lightning struck Bree, hurtling her into wet grass. Electricity surged through her body. The last thing she saw before her vision went black was the illuminated treetops of the pines lining the field.
userpractice@sbcglobal.net says
Charlie Casey just stared at the framed record. Eyeing the treasured 45 RPM was a longtime standing ritual of his that he did just before leaving to make a paycheck. The record, hung inside his home office, always worked its magic—getting his anger built up. During the last few years, he especially leaned on it for inspiration since the job of killing had begun to bore him.
-Cath says
If you died today, what would the things you left behind say about you?
I think about this every single day. Not that I plan on dying anytime soon. But because I'm the caretaker of Annie's things. I'm the one who snuck around and snatched up everything I could before the vultures descended.
Flame O' Fire says
Beneath a crystal chandelier, the professor’s wife rose to make a toast. “I have known my husband for twenty-one years,” she said. Her bare shoulders gleamed in the condensed starlight. The professor reached for a cup of water – but his arm was made of stone. “Oh,” the professor said. A waiter stopped, dangling a pair of tongs. “And every day is still a surprise,” said the professor's wife. A champagne cork popped. The professor collapsed in his chair. The diners applauded. The emergency room was empty, except for the skateboarder with a broken wrist, who watched curiously as the professor received the pharmaceutical jolt which recalled his soul from the other world. From that entire evening, the professor remembered only one thing: a thick syringe, raised to the light, emblazoned with the trademark of a grinning fox.
Unknown says
The night the police came to talk about the incident with the gun, Eli was upstairs in his bedroom whittling a spoon from a cottonwood branch he’d found in the backyard. As he peeled the bark off revealing the white wood underneath, Eli remembered the first time he had used the knife to trim asparagus shoots in his mother’s garden. His 8 year-old hands had trembled with its weight and sharpness until his mother put her hand on his to show him how to shave the tough outer leaves without damaging the soft white part underneath. That was the summer before she left, four years ago, but who was counting? Time could be measured by the knife’s elk antler handle which now fit perfectly in his hand.
Unknown says
The night the police came to talk about the incident with the gun, Eli was upstairs in his bedroom whittling a spoon from a cottonwood branch he’d found in the backyard. As he peeled the bark off revealing the white wood underneath, Eli remembered the first time he had used the knife to trim asparagus shoots in his mother’s garden. His 8 year-old hands had trembled with its weight and sharpness until his mother put her hand on his to show him how to shave the tough outer leaves without damaging the soft white part underneath. That was the summer before she left, four years ago, but who was counting? Time could be measured by the knife’s elk antler handle which now fit perfectly in his hand.
Robert A Poarch says
Dunbar Jones knew it was wrong to hurt a book. That didn’t stop him from desperately wanting to hurl the cookbook on the kitchen counter across the room and smash it against the wall. The thirteen-and-a-half-year-old boy wasn’t sure of the title because the book was written in French, and Dunbar couldn’t read French. That wasn’t the problem. The cookbook spoke English. The problem was the book’s thick, haughty French accent.
kathy zappa says
My Grandfather died of spontaneous human combustion. I just wanted to state that immediately so it won’t come as a shock later. Combustion happens.
Denise Willson says
In 1816 the madman of a tiny town in Bulgaria invented a machine to take him from point A to B without moving a muscle. An ugly thing – the machine, not the man – all wires and a big 'ol wooden crate filled with who-knows-what. But it worked. The most discerning thing about it was the mess of wires and mud-laced string that wrapped around the head; it resembled a crown. Befitting, seeing that this ingenious contraption would soon be prized by King and Country. The madman called it a GOT: the Gift of Travel.
And I, for one, no longer consider it a gift.
ryter222 dking says
The eerie blue fog permeated the planet, but not a soul panicked. At least, not at first. Why bother? Scientists had sufficiently explained the strange phenomenon away like usual. Something about excessive ash in the atmosphere from a series of explosive volcanic eruptions and sea smoke that supposedly gave the foggy mist a radiant blue tinge. It was a matter of weeks before we found out the truth. A truth that surpassed any form of scientific gobbledygook. An unfathomable reason why in a short period of time we lost almost everything because in reality, the blue fog was only the beginning. I say we lost almost everything because we still had each other, but for how long?
Carol says
Leo stood rigid at the redwood rail of the balcony, his hand curled around the ring. The beach was empty, the sea calm. Larreta was as perfect as always, but his chance for happiness had died with Bobby when she walked into the time rift three weeks ago. The ring burned in his palm. He didn’t have to look to remember every detail of the gold link band with the single blue stone—a polished oval azurite, common on Larreta, but precious for what it represented. Could it be only a month ago that Bobby had given it to him to celebrate their three-month anniversary? He had given her a necklace, and she had given him the ring, both with the same stone, to mark their decision to join their lives together. Over. All of it. Leo lifted his arm high, and sent the ring sailing down, past the lower deck and onto the beach where it disappeared into the soft white sand.
Mike says
Eric Black paused in the hazy glare of a streetlight just long enough to light a cigarette and release the safety on the handgun in his pocket. He continued walking along the sidewalk, his black trench coat cinched at the waist and his military-issue HRT boots slowly sounding off his pace with a steady ga-gump ga-gump ga-gump. The rotten stink of garbage and the bitter stench of body odor hung in the air. A brief summer shower had died down to a trickle, leaving behind a fetid sauna instead of the relief the storm clouds had promised. The smoke from Eric's breath lingered as he turned the corner.
Anonymous says
"It's not that I'm leaving you again…" He said very serious. "It's that you have to leave here…leave everyone and everything in order to be with me again."
"What!?" I cried out, choking on the burning fear in my throat.
"The four centuries end now. Our mortal path changes today…"
The hiccups were prevailing my trembling body as I recalled the god awful morning I woke up to find his dead body next to mine.
"You have to die…Like I did…"
By Kara Ferguson
Ashley Northup says
When she's three, Katelyn Black runs away from home. She will absolutely not eat that cabbage, and she will not go to bed. Instead, she grabs a handkerchief and wraps up her valuables (a plastic gemstone and a teddy bear,) and climbs out of her window. Her elbow scratches against a bush's branch on the fall down, and the cut begins to bleed an angry red. Tears well up in her eyes, but she presses on. Wounds are to be expected on adventures. She mastered walking two years ago, and uses that expert knowledge to waddle her way down the street. It isn't late, but no one is out to see her on her journey except for one dog still tied to his chain in the otherwise drowsy suburbia.
Rick Zubrycki says
Oceana saw the bunyip but the bunyip did not see her. The bunyip was eating. To be exact, the bunyip was eating Jetervus Betrude’s unceremoniously removed head, which was fine with Oceana because Jetervus Betrude was the nastiest boy in Mount Azron, never happy unless he was making someone else miserable; he was the yank on the underwear, the elbow to the head, the punch in the nose. In short, Jetervus Betrude fully deserved to have his brains eaten by a bunyip or any other creature predisposed to munching on that soft gray lumpish tissue scattered with bits of shattered skull fragments in a kind of grotesque crunchy casserole.
Rick Zubrycki says
Oceana saw the bunyip but the bunyip did not see her. The bunyip was eating. To be exact, the bunyip was eating Jetervus Betrude’s unceremoniously removed head, which was fine with Oceana because Jetervus Betrude was the nastiest boy in Mount Azron, never happy unless he was making someone else miserable; he was the yank on the underwear, the elbow to the head, the punch in the nose. In short, Jetervus Betrude fully deserved to have his brains eaten by a bunyip or any other creature predisposed to munching on that soft gray lumpish tissue scattered with bits of shattered skull fragments in a kind of grotesque crunchy casserole.
ginab says
Catherine Dobson had to accept the prophetic glow of the low oil warning light appear on her dashboard. A cracked engine casing or oil was leaking into the radiator. Could have been a fluke like a fuse gone haywire or if she shut the car off then turned it back on after counting to ten the light wouldn’t reappear. Could be it was something more vague that required she kept track of things. She feared a breakdown leading to a wreck. Hated sirens. The worst accident she had ever been in in the old Escort was from a misfire on the fourth cylinder in the thick of Memorial Day weekend traffic. She was lucky she “buttered a curb” as the tow truck driver put it. “Quick thinking got you out of a real jam,” he added, and “no significant damage either, I can’t see any, ‘cept you might wanna have a mechanic take a look at it”.
Lynne Lee says
I suppose some of my friends might call my birthday present wonderful. Others would say it was stupid for a girl my age to receive a fancy dollhouse for my ninth birthday. Now, before we go any further, I have to let you know something. The dollhouse is not the gift I asked grandma to get me. Let's get that straight right away. I wanted a puppy. I had dreamed of having a puppy for like…well forever! And I knew right where to get one.
Jay Peterson says
In the land of Greenwood, in a time before this, a very peculiar thing happened on an otherwise very ordinary day. The music stopped.
Ashley S says
My life has come to a screeching halt exactly twice. The first time was the day my mom died. The second was today when my dreams of the future, a Yale education and a prestigious med school, imploded and came crashing down around me like a demolished Las Vegas hotel.
Debra H. Goldstein says
"The first time I thought of killing him, the two of us were having chicken sandwiches at that fast food place on Marshall Street. The red and white one with the oversized rubber bird anchored to its roof."
Ashley S says
My life has come to a screeching halt exactly twice. The first time was the day my mom died. The second was today when my dreams of the future, a Yale education and a prestigious med school, imploded and came crashing down around me like a demolished Las Vegas hotel.
Shawn McDaniel says
I stepped off the Texas State Corrections Special Case Prisoner Transport and stood in front of my new home and my new Parole Officer. Neither impressed at first glance. Or at any number of other glances, either. Ashpole, Texas seemed to consist of nothing but hard-pan and scrub-brush as far as the eye could see, which wasn't that far because of the scouring wind that blew grit and trash non-stop. A few buildings here and there gave your eyes relief from the mind-numbing brown nothingness that surrounded you, if ramshackle and boarded up businesses could be considered a relief. The building I stood in front of was so dilapidated and wind-blown that it looked like a caricature of itself. I read the sand-blasted signage on its roof and frowned. It proclaimed that I stood before the Last Stand Trailer Park and Parolee Community. I shot a quick look over at my new PO. Short. Stocky. Unkempt gray hair and beard. His left eye was the gray of storm clouds. I assumed the right one would have been as well, if the eye-patch covering it didn't suggest that it no longer resided in its socket. He grinned, lips pulled back to reveal very large, very square teeth. "I know what you're thinking," he said. "You're thinking 'Shouldn't that say Last Chance Trailer Park?' I'd allow how it should, if I were in any way concerned with saving your soul." His grin grew larger. "Sadly for you, I'm not so much concerned with your soul as I am concerned with keeping the world from ending. Again."
~sarah says
Twelve-year-old Fergus O’Leary, eyes closed, laying in bed, could hear the whoosh whooshing of the German zeppelins as they hovered over his family’s rural Irish farm. He felt the air around him vibrating with impending explosions. He nodded, calm and ready. Today was the day. He would finally become a hero like his oldest brother Garret.
“Fergus,” his mum called up the stairs. “No more day dreaming. I’ve found your other boot. Time to round up the sheep.”
– Sarah R. Parker
Mike Alose says
My father Titus wasn't a doctor like the kind you'd see for any illness or broken bone, but he sure smelled like one. And that smell stays with you same as any other. Don't believe me? What time of day do you associate with bacon frying in a pan, or the way the color yellow brings back memories of cramped buses filled with slimy seats and nervous children? No, my dad wasn't a doctor like any you'd imagine in the usual way. He was Strange Oak's Medical Examiner, and giving a voice to the dead was what I think he was born to do. He looked at all them dead folks with a certain reverence and curiosity, always coming home with stories about how his newest arrivals, zipped up and tucked away in freezers, met their unfortunate ends. Even then, he always smelled the same, like tongue depressors and rubbing alcohol, at least until that poor woman was found dragged to death down the road from our ranch. Dad smelled different in the days after he’d examined her body. I didn't have a name for it then, but I do now. It was fear.
Miranda Hardy says
Death lurked within the black depth a few feet from Syeda. She clung to the wooden pole with her weakened arms, blinking away the stinging salt as the waves pounded the troubled ship. A tanned satyr screamed with his last breath as he slid overboard, losing his grip on the edge.
Jeanne says
Momma sees the mosquito fog truck as soon as we pull out of the Safeway parking lot. Shifting the car into gear, she pops the clutch and scoots out into the street. "Caroline," she orders. "Hold on to those eggs and don't let them break. We've got to beat that damn thing home." She grips the wheel, fingers clenched white, muttering, "Damn, damn." Then, with a quick glance in my direction: "Pardon my French."
Renita Pizzitola says
She’d labeled me fragile.
Fragile implied something easily broken, an inaccurate description. I wasn't fragile. I was destroyed, damaged, irreparable. I didn't need to be handled with care. I needed to be discarded as the hopeless shell of a human I’d become.
Nour says
Daniele Forrester did not belong in Walden Lane — just like the man in a tattered overcoat standing at the end of her street. She knew that Mrs. Walters would frown at the state of his coat and that Mrs. Lincoln would be horrified by his long, scraggly, orange hair. In fact, she expected them to gather their army of 'upstanding ladies' and drive him out of their precious town. Yet, none of them seemed to notice the man. They were all watching her, as she passed by them on her way to school. As usual, the whispers started, increasing in volume with every step she took. On cue, Mrs. Wright pulled her children away, as Daniele passed by them, and told them to stay away from her. Mrs. Graham followed suit and grumbled about letting the crazy folk mix with the normal people. At that remark, Daniele looked at the strange, disheveled man once more. He was staring directly at her, just as oblivious of the townspeople as they were of him. His eyes seemed to glow, as she neared him.
R.A. Martin says
The afternoon sun baked the cracked pavement in front of Jefferson Middle School, lighting a match to the already frayed nerves of twelve-year-old Judy Sparks. At the end of a long, winding driveway lined by a few old oak trees and patchy bits of wilting grass, Judy sat and waited impatiently for her mother. The middle school was deserted—every wing of the wide one-story building sat locked and quiet, the parking lot was empty, everyone had gone home. Everyone, that is, except for her and Grub Darnell. And, unfortunately, she sat downwind of him.
Noel E. Olson says
I think I just burned my eyebrows off. I grit my teeth and squint one eye open, just in time to see my jar of glaze chemicals roll through the shed door. A hot trail of sparks leads outside, smoldering and threatening to burn holes in the floor. Epic! How did ceramics glaze ignite and blow out of my hands like that? Oh good, I still have hands. Time to stomp those little fires out now before my shed totally catches on fire—wait, my ceramics shed is on fire!
Tricia Fressola Idrobo says
Velu knew tonight would seal his reputation one way or the other. It was his time to take the Dare, and he planned to pull it off in a way no one would forget.
Meredith Towbin says
Travis prayed Ma wasn’t dead. With flashlight in hand, he focused on the circle of light burning into the cornstalks in front of him. He scanned its contents, looking for any movement. When he was sure there was none, his hand jerked the flashlight a few inches to the right, concentrating the giant circle onto another segment of the harvested field. It was so quiet out here that it wouldn’t be difficult to hear her. She might call for him. Any sound from her would help, even a moan. He hoped he’d hear his name and not the moan. He funneled all of his concentration into what he heard, but the more he noticed the silence, the less silent it became. Cricket calls and the snap of dry cornstalks underneath his feet cut through the air.
Dren says
“I know the contract said dead or alive, Kane, but did you really have to cut off his head?”
Kane Ashwanti scowled toward the shadows of the alley. Decapitation wasn't Plan A but after enduring four hours in that god-awful nightclub chasing his prey, payback was a bitch and its name was Plan B. He watched as a familiar form stepped into the dim light from a nearby doorway lamppost.
Kara Dee says
This is not a book. If this purchase was made by someone who likes “books,” for the purpose of escaping reality, then that person should walk away right now. The following story is reality, it’s a “I woke up in pine needles, the glue stick saved my life, and I used to put my favorite comic strip in the lining of my waistband” reality. I hate social media because it’s necessary but so many ignorant people use it to ruin lives. The philosophical thought life is dying right before my eyes and no one thinks about the repercussions of the written word. Everyone posts their thoughts as if their first thought is the one that is important; when, in all truth, it’s the first thought that births the thoughts that truly matter to create revolutionary change. My story is the solution, and it starts as follows:
Rena J. Traxel says
There is a saying in Everafter, guilty until proven innocent. If you’re unfortunate enough to be accused of a crime everything you’ve done, or said, or been will be scrutinized, pulled apart and left in pieces. All in the name of proving what they already know to be true—guilty as charged. You’ll forever be branded as the leper; the outcast; the criminal, whether you committed the crime or not. Even if— by some miracle— you manage to prove your innocence, it won’t matter. The damage is done. Your reputation ruined. My slip into leper status started the weekend before the new school year.
gingermc says
One day, about a month ago, I made two mistakes. Two unconscious mistakes within a 24-hour period that turned what could have been a pothole in my life into a bottomless pit. Harmless errors that can’t really be called errors, since they are things that most of us do as essential parts of our day, every day, without a second thought.
Sarah says
The murder trial shocked the good people of Decker County, Texas, as much as had the tragedy itself, and Maryann Chapman was no exception. As the mother of two young boys, her heart ached for the Jones children and their grieving mother. At first, everyone assumed it had been an accident. In the weeks before the fire and the trial, the question of guilt or innocence dominated daily conversation in homes for miles around the fire’s epicenter. Journalists from across the country poured into the small town, feeding on the unfolding drama. Neighbors offered eyewitness statements and gossip to reporters and investigators, but their conflicting stories added more confusion than clarity. Maryann avidly followed the local news coverage, which centered on two disturbing facts: the children had burned to death, and their father was on trial for his life.
Chris Carney says
Never sleep with your sister, especially one with the marauding libido of a rock star and a propensity for easy insults. Advice noted, rule made. Except that right now, and for the foreseeable future, Jemima couldn’t see any alternative. Three nights ago Circe had marched through the front door and into the only bedroom, locking the door behind her without a word. Who knew it was with the intention of never coming out again? At least, she hadn’t appeared yet, and until she did, Jemima and Roxy would be forced to share the fold-out futon with the horizontal iron bar across the small of their backs, making both of them even crabbier and more sorry for themselves than usual. If that was even possible.
Chris Carney says
Never sleep with your sister, especially one with the marauding libido of a rock star and a propensity for easy insults. Advice noted, rule made. Except that right now, and for the foreseeable future, Jemima couldn’t see any alternative. Three nights ago Circe had marched through the front door and into the only bedroom, locking the door behind her without a word. Who knew it was with the intention of never coming out again? At least, she hadn’t appeared yet, and until she did, Jemima and Roxy would be forced to share the fold-out futon with the horizontal iron bar across the small of their backs, making both of them even crabbier and more sorry for themselves than usual. If that was even possible.
Monica Furness says
At the start of each school year, my teachers would pass out lists of extracurricular activities and try to convince us to “get involved.” I read the list carefully each year, but I never signed up for anything. Nothing spoke to me, and unlike my peers, who threw themselves at any activity that could give them an edge when applying for college, I didn’t see the point in wasting my time with shit like debate club or badminton when I couldn’t throw my heart and soul into it. It wasn’t until my boarding school decided to ban fifty books from campus that I decided to “get involved.” I created my own activity – running an underground library. Who wanted to be president of student council when you could be the head of an illegal book smuggling ring?
JustWriteCat says
Michael should have positioned himself closer. He scanned the three lanes of traffic, not losing sight of the minivan caught between a Greyhound and a hybrid electric car. The cars heading north on the one-way street were at a standstill, a result of a stalled garbage truck a quarter of a mile up the road. The minivan idled in the middle of the intersection, its windows up, one of its occupants lost in what was taking place inside the car.
Marcia Mickelson says
I can never run for president. Girls who were born in Honduras can’t be president. It’s not that I actually want to be president, but there’s something about being told you can’t do something just because of where you’re from. Running for president is the least of my worries at the moment. Thinking about getting into a good college trumps any incidental thoughts of running for high office. But even before thinking about college, comes the mundane task of deciding what to make for dinner tonight.
Jared X says
The security line, a quarter-mile-long stretch of humanity two and three deep, snaked along the twelve-foot-high concrete wall, disappearing around the corner. Many in the queue leaned or sat against the wall, competing for shreds of its tiny midday shadow, each waiting to run the gauntlet of x-ray machines and gloved, wand-wielding guards for entry into Northeast Wilson Park. Those within view of the gate took turns wondering aloud how the steady advance of people past the checkpoint could produce so little forward progress farther down the line. The usual sunny-day throng of bicyclists, joggers, dog-walkers, supervisors of young children, couples on blankets, and players of organized sports packed the paths and fields of the Park’s other three quadrants. Camera drones, indistinguishable from remote control helicopters available in a toy store, silently hovered at regular intervals along an invisible grid twenty feet above the ground, drawing concern only when a ball or Frisbee flew nearby, causing a brief breathless hush among the responsible parties. Alone in the line, scratching at the sweat on his neck, Reid stood directly beneath a drone, trying in vain to forget it was there.
Vicki Rawding says
A dust cloud belched as the boy bit the dirt. His bike gouged the grass beside him, tires still spinning. Jeering at him a few yards back stood two bigger, rough-looking boys in baggy T-shirts and sagging jersey shorts. About 30 yards back, Dillon crouched by his bike in the shadow of pines, praying the boys hadn’t seen him. A motor buzz cut through the jeers. Taunters jerked around, cursed, shot the finger, split. Spitting gravel at the runners, a motor scooter burned a circle and stopped. Unfolding long legs out of the dirt, the boy stood pale and freckled and tall. He knocked the dirt from his helmet and shook out dirt from a shock of dark red hair. “You okay?” The scooter rider took off a black and pink helmet, and shook out long, dark wavy curls.