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.
Amy Kinzer says
Range Benson was my only friend lucky enough not to live in the Sunset Mobile Home Park. Instead his family lived in a farmhouse littered with rusting cars, surrounded by a tall metal fence, with a big sign out front that read “Beware of Dog”. Never mind the dog was a Yorki with one eye and a bark like a parakeet hit by a dump truck. The sign was to scare people away from the trailer they kept out back of their property. Range’s dad wired the trailer for electricity and told everyone he was turning it into a workshop. We took over the trailer when it turned out Range’s dad didn’t like to work.
Nate Wilson says
At 4:17 PM on a Tuesday, Sean Greyson lost his fingers. They said he'd lose his mind next—or his lunch—but what the hell did they know? They'd been fluttering about him all afternoon like a gaggle of mother hens, explaining and re-explaining every last part of the procedure and what might go wrong along the way. Like he might have a psychotic break or some shit. Please. The Army had put him through far worse than this, and he'd never cracked. Never would crack. What'd they think he was, a Marine? Fuckin' pansy-ass scientists.
Kelly Duff says
Sherri Cassidy was lying flat on the couch, on her back, with her arms raised over her head. Naked except for a pair of powder pink satin panties trimmed with black lace and a small pink bow in the center of the waist band. She looked completely relaxed by the small smile on her lips. Her violet-shaded eyelids were shut. Her long, tan legs were draped over the suede arm rest, one sandal still strapped to her foot, the other dangling by her recently painted toes. Her hands twitched slightly. Her full breasts, thanks to the best plastic surgeon in Chicago, rose with each slow breath. Sweat beading on her forehead rippled under the breeze of the ceiling fan as her blonde hair stuck to the side of her face. A closer look, at what otherwise would appear to be a young girl having just achieved some sort of sexual euphoria, would prove that she was, in fact, overdosing. The heroin was coursing through her bloodstream and her lips were already turning blue. Her breathing getting shallower with each minute, as the camera on the table in front of her recorded her death.
Stephanie Bittner says
The shovel slammed into the man's shoulder, tore through his crisply ironed shirt and the edge of his waistcoat, and left a welt the size of Rebecca's fist on his exposed skin. Simon dropped the sack in his hand and staggered back, clutching his arm where the flat had hit it. The bag rolled into the ditch at the bottom of the hill. "It was a sincerely meant offer!" he cried.
Amber D. says
"No!" Amarande's silent scream reverberated through her entire body causing her already white knuckled grasp to tighten on the note. Her eyes flittered over the few perfect pen strokes staring at her from the page trying to discern any clues from the curt words. "A missive will follow." No name, not even an initial. Nothin else was included; only those cryptic black words stark against the textured parchment. She felt a twinge of panic building as she folded and returned it to the thick envelope. "They only ever come after…." She attempted to shake away the unpleasant thought before it could fully form. Her fingers traced absently over the intricate broken was seal, so familiar, yet so rarely seen. "For more than ten generations they have only ever come after…CALIAN!"
amberd75(at)gmail.com
Just Jan says
The calendar proclaimed it Good Friday, but there was nothing good about that day. The weather was typical for New England–unsure if it should rain or snow, it did neither. Instead, dingy clouds swirled over the treetops, sending thin offshoots to settle in the nooks and crannies of the lawn. I sat staring at my telephone, and it stared back, unaware of the mood of the day. It took no responsibility for its actions and offered no apologies. It had no remorse.
Anil Goel says
It was an eerie sound. A faint hum, just above the water. Gregg couldn't spot anything that seemed to match the sound as far as his naked eye could see. But it was escalating rapidly; almost much more audible now; it seemed to be moving towards them. He reached for his binoculars. "What's up, Mate?" Andy wouldn't hear a whale shattering their hull when he slept. Gregg turned and just shook his head distractedly at the sleepy eyed kid who had come up behind him. He lifted his binoculars and started to turn back to face the water. "What?" He stopped halfway, as he caught the expression on Andy's face. Then it hit him. The engines were off. The hum. It was too close. Shit. He turned…and shook like a leaf in a gale…the binoculars fell from his hand and hit the deck hard… Rolling on the floor and vibrating in harmony with his shiver…
darragh says
It was September 1979 when Pope John Paul II brought sex to Ireland. A Papal Mass might seem unlikely foreplay, but consider the evidence: one and a half million sweaty bodies packed into Phoenix Park; the surprise scrap of September sun; the mad romance of the Pope, hopping out of a helicopter like Sting himself. Not to mention the sermon. Didn’t he spell it out clearly enough? Divorce, contraception and abortion were all knocking at Ireland’s door, but we would have the double-bolt fastened. Our pious past proved our worth but it was our strapping youngsters that assured our future: an army of bright-eyed young things who’d ward off modernity with their Miraculous Medals. Wasn’t it only a matter of time before one lad would rise up from our troops of priests and bishops and assume the ultimate position? The Popemobile had barely shut its doors before the race was on to conceive the first Irish Pope and sure enough, Granny Doyle was at the top of the line: Papal-blessed holy water in her hand, a devious plan in her head, and only the slender will of my poor mother to stop her.
Ian Cusson says
Our house is a hundred years old, which means the hallway floor is creakier than a retirement home at exercise hour. It'll be a miracle if I get to the front door without my dad hearing. I creep out of my bedroom, sliding my feet. I take maybe four steps before the floorboard groans. My right foot balanced in the air, I hold my breath like that'll somehow make me weightless.
London Crockett says
Entering Mr. Taálix’s Book Emporium was like entering a new world. It flickered with hundreds of beeswax candles and smelled wonderfully of leather, paper, ink and…Jinxx wanted to call the scent knowledge, but of course that wasn’t a smell. Yet this room of narrow aisles was closer to a place of pure knowledge than any she’d ever seen. Once, her mother took her to the Temple Naserys to rent some grazing land. The pra’s office was lined with bookcases full of hymnals, commentaries and even a book on mathematics! But the Emporium was so full of tomes they couldn’t fit them all on the copious bookshelves; they were stacked on benches and on top of every surface available. Jinxx was sure anything anybody knew had to be in this room if you just looked for it.
Jeremy says
"The winner of the national science fair is Mr. Fred Brown."
Linds says
Tanzin stared at the wreck of Headmaster Swinn’s office in equal parts awe and disbelief. The Headmaster’s face twitched, his round eyes protruding and brows spasming like a dying fish. While the man technically was unable to produce a glare rendering him nothing but crispy bone and ash, Tanzin felt that he would soon join the splintered wood and smoldering remains of the warded door.
Jason Bellows says
There was nowhere left to run. I sat on the asphalt, cold water seeped through the denim, and I tried to shrink into the gap between a cracked brick wall and the gnarled front end of a mini-van. A man stood on the sidewalk amid a wasteland of broken bodies and black blood. He wasn't one of them. I could tell he was still alive. His heavy breath showed he was still alive. His over-muscled arms bore scars and scabs in all states of healing. He casully rested a long, black sword on his shoulder. He fixed his dark gaze on me, and in a rough growl he said, "I am become death, the destroyer of worlds."
Frank Ciavarello says
The workers streaked out of the factory like raindrops on the windshield of a car at high speeds. I stood waiting for him at the top of a small hill, underneath both a tree and an umbrella, my shields against a fairly belligerent fall day. They all looked so similar, and my eyes had grown tired of examining their faces while trying to keep his unaltered in my mind. I was looking for a face I had never seen outside of the narrow bounds of a photograph, a blurry one at that, and despite what she had said, I didn’t think he resembled me in the slightest. The rain drummed down arrhythmically as my eyes fell back into the sea of faces.
http://www.franklywritten.com
whatiseverything@gmail.com
Frank Ciavarello says
The workers streaked out of the factory like raindrops on the windshield of a car at high speeds. I stood waiting for him at the top of a small hill, underneath both a tree and an umbrella, my shields against a fairly belligerent fall day. They all looked so similar, and my eyes had grown tired of examining their faces while trying to keep his unaltered in my mind. I was looking for a face I had never seen outside of the narrow bounds of a photograph, a blurry one at that, and despite what she had said, I didn’t think he looked anything like me aside from the part above his eyes and below his mouth. The rain drummed arrhythmically as my eyes fell back into the sea of faces.
David Hume says
It began outside Mirwais Nika Girls School in Kandahar last year, while I was stationed at Bagram. Indeed the naïve report I filed then gave a rather cryptic assessment of the incident. As the new boy I was sent to Kandahar, with an Afghan interpreter, to investigate the most recent Taliban attack on one of their most hated enemies — girls. It was the sort of routine file-and-forget assignment that new arrivals here are allocated.
TLsquared says
London 1918
The wind crawled across the city bringing the scent of fish from the wharf and sulfur from the factories. Dr. Archibald carried the smell on him as he entered St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. With the influenza epidemic spreading through the city like water to a dying plant, patients filled every corner of the hospital. Grimm nurses raced through the halls carrying bed sheets and clipboards, avoiding Archibald’s determined steps towards his office. He sighed, reached for the knob, and prepared himself for what lay on the other side of the wooden door.
Taylor Lopez
Kirsten Alexander says
Kirsten Alexander:
In January, Brisbane flooded. I should have recognised this as a lesson, a warning. Everything I thought I could control was uncontrollable. The shape of my city shifted, and life took on a new form, shimmery and unpredictable as petrol on a wave.
Kristin says
Meredith held her breath as she approached the altar, staring at her father’s face and wondering what secrets were hidden behind his sparkling eyes. “He’s dead,” her mother had said, with usual dramatic flair, “and the truth died with him.” Whatever that meant. Meredith reached for the poster and grazed each of the deep dimples on his cheeks. “I will not revere him,” her mother had said. “And I will not be some widow stuck in the shadows. Don’t you dare expect me to be a widow.”
jessica brice says
On Luka Willaby’s first day at Bonnyduke Middle School, the strangest thing happened. As soon as he walked through the double doors of the main entrance, everyone stopped talking. At the exact same time. It was as if someone had hit the pause button on the remote control, so that all the other students just stood there in the school hallway looking at him with their mouths hanging wide open in mid-sentence. Luka shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to the attention. In just about every way, Luka was as average as an average twelve-year-old kid could be. He wasn’t particularly tall nor was he especially short; he wasn’t all that skinny but he certainly wasn’t chubby either. Maybe his blond hair did stick up at odd angles sometimes and he probably had a few more freckles than other kids, but not so much as to look weird.
River Byrnes says
It stood there.
It was large and forbidding, with stark stone walls on each side. There were brambles and nettles everywhere. Everywhere, except for the area in front of it; even though there was no path, no sign of anybody ever having been there. A huge spider’s web was strung from one side to the other, a big fat spider in its centre. The wind was beginning to pick up, blowing leaves about, dancing in front of it.
Anonymous says
If God met Beauty he would’ve never created that dumb rule about killing. In fact, he’d have done it himself. She stands like a goddess in front of our bedroom window illuminating light in a room full of darkness. The curtains are shut, and the day that slips through the cracks begs the sun to come out. No angel would ever touch her, easily fooled. It’s left up to me to kill my sister.
Colin Walker says
Tonight Rob would kill the monster. That voice in the shadows, always ready, always cruel, would finally shut up.
He kept moving along the street, straining to look normal as he stepped from street light to street light. The funeral would be over in an hour; long enough to do what he had to and get back. No one would know. The monster hadn't bothered to attend, and nobody would expect to see him until late the next day.
He wouldn't be missed, not in time.
tammie says
Out comes this guy from the theater. His eyes are fixed on mine and are piercing my brain clear through to the back of my head. I glance away. Did I see that or imagine it? I glance back. I would like to say that he is looking in a “Hey, baby, you are one fine example of the female sort” kind of way. But, no. He is looking in a way that suggests he is mentally speaking with his good friend, Lucifer, and currently reserving my spot in Hell. His eyes are not moving to various points of interest on my body. I do know what it is like to be checked out. This is not that. His eyes do not move, in fact, away from my eyes. I glance away. I glance back. His eyes do not move from mine. They do not look at his feet. They do not look at the young couple canoodling in the car opposite me. They do not look at the great new sign displaying movie dates and times. They, in fact, defy all rules of proper eye contact etiquette. They defy all rules, and they ignite my head into invisible flames. I feel that I should move as he marches toward me. He is coming for me. He is coming for me, and I am not prepared to die. I forget briefly that I am in a parking lot and that, perhaps, he is marching toward his car and not toward me.
Cara M. says
Up at the stones, Cat couldn’t hear her mother screaming. There was some sort of calm in that, though not much. How could there be any calm when you knew she was screaming? Cat looked up into the wind, towards her house, strands from her mud-black hair pulling out of her braid and stinging as they lashed her face, the pages of her pre-calc textbook fanning out as a gust caught them. But there was only the sound of the breeze rumpling the tree leaves, the crack of paper in air. The screams were all inside her head.
Amy Anderson says
After a week working the hostess station at Titans Gentlemen's Club, I lusted after the job I hadn't taken at the donut store down the street. It had been Ruby’s idea for me to take the gig at Titans. She denied it, saying, “I would not have told you to seek employment at a go-go club,” but she had told me to take a job doing something I had done in my First Life, something I had experience with so I would be comfortable and slip into the environment. And there's no way to deny that in my first week at Titans, I slid back into the pool of sex and velvet like I had never left.
Thomas M. Andersen says
“Watch out, Asshole!” It is a short list of events that can take my focus away from the BlackBerry, even in dangerous situations like strolling the downtown streets of Indianapolis after work. I just can’t risk missing the one message that must be handled immediately, late hours be damned, to prevent the world from combusting or the boss getting pissed. Most days I would rather the world explode, but the possibility of either scenario keeps me focused on my device. Well, usually I am focused. Verbal assault is one of the allowable distractions, so I looked up from my email screen to notice I had veered away from my intended trajectory on “Monument Circle” and nearly ran into a Jimmy John’s sandwich delivery bike. Since the delivery had to be “Freaky Fast,” there was no time for the rider to stop and discuss my transgression. The cyclist, who I thought was quite large for someone getting exercise at work, had kept huffing around the circle without kicking my ass, and I had again looked down at my BlackBerry messages screen. It was now 6:08. “Fuck, I’m really late again.”
Anonymous says
Had Daro spared half a head for politics or pagentry, she never would cut through the Strand. Most days, the Strand was a serene jewel at the heart of the city, set apart from the bustle of Estarria’s streets by three rivers that ringed the small span of sacred land. Today, every pinch of earth was occupied. Enterprising vendors and bakers had parked their handcarts along the banks of the isle, while children and elders alike pressed up against the edge of the promanade, craning their heads for a glimpse. In Estarria, a well-born young woman celebrated her eighteenth Namesday by formally inviting one of Estarria’s Eld into her skin. While the joining was sealed over rarifed wine at an aristocratic ball, today’s revel catered to a different crowd. Tumblers and acrobats, fire-twirlers and luminaries feted the ascent of another Estarrian heiress. Daro shook her head. No use being rich, if you couldn’t emblazon your daughter’s name across the darkening sky.
— Julia
Veronica Rundell says
Grandpa’s gold cross digs into my palm. I swallow back what breakfast I didn’t lose down the girls’ room toilet last period and assess the crowd again. Those kids who aren’t gaping open-mouthed aren’t bothering to pay attention at all. My throat burns and my mouth tastes metallic, a side-effect of skipping my anxiety medications today. Making this speech off the pills isn’t a step forward; it’s a leap. Grandpa would have been so proud.
Sherri Early says
If the man glaring up at me was a cop, I’d cheerfully allow him to haul me off to jail. He could cuff me, even.
Jan says
Mrs. Damone hurried down the hallway, her high heels click-clacking against the old hardwood floor. She snatched a framed photo of a smiling teenage boy from the foyer table as a can of green beans flew through the air and whizzed past her ear. She screamed, nearly dropping the picture, and bolted for the front door, ducking as a bowl of Jello salad rushed toward the side of her head. It smashed into the wall, its fruit and gelatin innards oozing to the floor like a slimy slug’s trail.
Reagan Leigh says
Plummeting hail sends salty splashes into my face. I spit out the briny grit and wipe my eyes. My thumbs press against my forehead. The momentary shelter is no match for the ice bombs. A wave rebounds off the seawall, collects my hair and sends it coiling around my neck. Strands net my face, cutting off my air supply until I scrape them away. If the ocean doesn’t kill me, my hair will.
Ted A. says
Every eye locked on her: the students, their professor, and the television crew. Lilith wiped her sweaty palms against her pants and swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. She wanted to run, to hide, to escape. Her khaki button down shirt, vest, and pants blended perfectly with the beige rock of the Montana dig site. In any other situation, she could have nodded along with other students and faded into the background. But their professor insisted each student have a moment or two speaking on camera. If it had only been the other graduate students, she could have almost handled it, but TV, too? That raised the bar, even if it was just the Ancient Explorer channel.
Kathryn says
Glick Craggle ruffled the ticklish tentacles of the tartawaber pup. Its bright blue face erupted into an enormous grin as it woofed in reply. Finally, the creature was warming up to humans–maybe now it would get adopted. Glick breathed a sigh of relief, smiling at the familiar pet shop fragrance of freshly groomed borangbogs and spicily pungent tartawaber droppings. Working with the Edoban creatures was better than acing a galactic glide on his hover-pod, and better than passing his exam about Ancient Earth. It was certainly better than sitting at home while his dad watched boring, work-related holoprograms and his mom tried to pretend she didn't miss cooking since the Gastronomicon 3000 took over the culinary duties of the household. Yes, Glick reflected, volunteering at Planetary Pets is what kept his happiness from being sucked into a black hole.
E S Gaffney says
Rowan Bradley was a man from nowhere and everywhere- a travelling man who was never happy with his home, even when he had one. Everyone blamed his wanderlust on his phobia of commitment. His mother was the first to diagnose her son with the affliction when she attempted to teach Rowan to write his name at the ripe old age of five. Pencil in his left hand, she watched an afternoon go by as her son perfected the lines and curves of his name. By the time dinner rolled around, Rowan declared that he had fallen into a rut. Frustrated by his lack of ability in his left hand, he switched hands and he continued well into the night forcing himself to become ambidextrous. His mother realized her son was doomed if he couldn’t even decide whether he wanted to be right-handed or left-handed. Rowan knew that he wasn’t afraid of commitment-he had dedicated his life to his carnival and the workers who were loyal to him. It was fear of becoming complacent, which kept him moving. In his mind, growing complacent meant becoming stagnant. Stagnant things rotted and died. He chose life on the road to avoid death. He was a man with a mission, death can’t catch you if you never stop moving, he thought as he glanced in his rearview mirror at the caravan of trucks following him down the road.
~ESG1123
Anna Kashina says
I stood beside my father and watched the girl drown. She was a strong one. Her hands continued to reach out long after her face had disappeared from view. The splashing she made could have soaked a flock of wild geese to the bone. She wanted to live, but there was no escape from the waters of the Sacrifice Pool.
carla j. schooler says
Someone is in my driveway. I see her hair, which is nearly as long as her ankle length skirt. My late afternoon snack makes an appearance in my esophagus. I don’t even have to glance down at my shorts and bare legs to know they are an abomination to her. The rules have always been made clear, but there is no time to change. I stand here frozen. A criminal caught in the act, my soul a dense weight, as I fight this ocean of shame. My mind snaps back to reality, and I’ve waited too long; she is on the front steps. Searching for a hiding place, I see the tiny space behind the front door. My heart pounds to the beat of rebellion. Pitter-patter, I am caught. Pitter-patter, who cares? Pitter-patter, I’m going to hell.
Noelle K. says
He shimmied out of the sleeping roll, exposing his naked body to the quickly rising sun. The dry air sucked at his skin, and drained the moisture from his mouth. Nate brushed his rust-red locks out of his face, and took a sip from his canteen, noting that they’d have to fill them up soon. Leona was already dressed and sitting at a distance, running a small brush through the barrel of her rifle. Her dark hair was pulled up in a messy bun, and her lips set in a firm line as she focused on her task.
Nicole Zoltack says
Our attic door is always padlocked, but on this late Friday afternoon, the stairs descend into the hallway like a lolling tongue from a dark mouth. Before I can climb one step, a white trash bag, and then another, lands at my feet.
3worldsofscott says
Had the eyes of the tower guard been keener, he might have observed an intruder approaching from the parapet above with every movement malevolently calculated toward reaching the royal keep. However, this evening did not favor the sentinel below. For he knew not what hit him. With one graceful motion the mysterious infiltrator snapped the guard’s neck. The action occurred so quickly that the defender of the citadel voiced no sound. Yet a light crack from snapping bone echoed against the rocky bulwarks. The raider quietly slid the corpse in some shadow cast by a wooden crate. He stood poised to retrieve his prize a precious life or two.
Vanessa MacLellan says
The dog was smiling at her. It was one of those mongrels that had the breed bred right out of him from generations of back alley affairs. They all looked the same: mid-sized, brown kinky fur with a curly tail and intelligent eyes. Jeannette guessed all the dumb ones had gotten run over by the locals three days after gaining their walking legs, and that was why all these mutts looked smarter than most of the people with whom they shared tiny apartments and littered roads.
Brandon says
The Seventeenth Prime Monarch of the Known Intergalactic Society sat back and steepled his hands. Regarding his desk, constructed from the last marble taken off the earth some hundreds of years before, he sighed. A mere intern, I didn't want to ask him what was the matter. The last three months had affected the Prime Monarch substantially. His already saggy, brownish-green jowls drooped off his face like a dog's. His intense red eyes had lost their luster, their fire. His race—the Pheones—rapidly aged when their time was near, but I didn't think it'd be anything so severe.
Sam Mcmanus says
It was that precarious moment, you know the one, when the night hasn’t yet given up the ghost, but the day has still to claim its dominance, that time when the streetlamps were on, but you had to squint to confirm those suspicions. In the gloaming, it was said, the spirits of the dead were most volatile, most visible, most like themselves, if that makes any sense. While it may have been said, however, the people on W. 42nd Street in East L.A. (I recognize the irony of the street name) were loath to speak of it, both in and out of mixed company, because of what happened the last time they spoke of it. But now I’m getting ahead of myself, and we haven’t even been properly introduced yet.
Matt M. says
On the third day of the school year, Mr. McEwen crapped his pants. He was preparing for the day–printing handouts, reviewing lesson plans, writing journal prompts–when the need hit him and he leaned left and passed what he thought was a normal, everyday, of-the-silent-variety fart no different from thousands he’d passed over the previous twenty-nine years. But after, he felt a dampness. He patted the seat of his pants and realized this fear that rivals death and hell, the fear of shitting oneself in public. Then followed the horror-panic of having done something not undoable. Thank Goodness the students were not here yet.
Neil Larkins says
"1963: Historians fail to record the day a handicapped teenager changed the world when all she was seeking was a little acceptance." Hmm.
starvingactivist says
Ela was furious. the bursitis in her shoulder confirmed the weather report but she had to get the windows covered because Hank was too drunk to do it. Her joints ached as she stretched to hold the boards and nail them in place. The neighbors were packing to go to Mount Zion's basement; it had doubled as a bomb shelter during the war, but Ela was determined to ride out the storm in her own home. She rubbed her shoulder to ease the arthritic burn while she surveyed her handiwork. "Lord," she spoke, eyes to the cracked ceiling, "please bless the work of my hands and keep my family safe during Your storm. In Jesus' Name, amen." She had purposely nailed the knothole board at eye-level and shivered as she took a look; she had never seen such heavy looking, dark clouds. They had a fairly good view from their fourth floor walk-up and she could see the stress being put on the distant trees by the increasing wind. Ela turned as her hands worried at the frayed edge of her apron; "Where in the world are those girls?!" She took another look out at the clouds, which seemed to be moving closer and then stole a glance at the mantle clock. "They should have been here a while ago."
Deborah Schaumberg says
I saw the man of my nightmares when I was six years old.
From my hiding place I watched Mama’s lace up boots pacing back and forth. Black and cream taffeta brushed my arm as she turned to answer the rapid knocking on the door. A man in a grey suit, cloak and top hat, entered the room with a cold breeze that found me under the sofa. It swirled around my legs trying to give me away.
Marcie Price says
My eyes slowly adjusted to the surrounding darkness. Shadowy shapes came into focus. Awake already? That meant I must have been getting close. Somewhere in the back of my mind, past the familiar hum of the engine and over the consistent beep of the navigation system, a voice lingered. A female voice, unknown to me, but vaguely familiar. A sharp pain shot through my shoulder blade. My muscles were now fighting off the chemically-induced sleep. Somewhere beyond the blue glow of the dashboard, a shrill alarm screamed at me, beckoning me to come closer. I rolled from the cramped quarters and stumbled towards the controls. On the screen in front of me, amidst a sea of tiny white stars, was a glowing blue dot.
Earth.
susankoefod.com says
The Jardin des Tuileries was deserted on a dull gray winter afternoon as the mousy, stick-thin American girl set out to cross it on her way to the Louvre. She observed that no one sat in the cold chairs by the fountains. No children ran along the paths that crisscrossed it. No one strolled slowly along, admiring its parterres. It would be several months before the famed Parisian spring was to arrive. Now all the flowerbeds were empty and colorless, except for the bright blooms of red lipstick on discarded Gauloises Bleues butts that had been planted casually here and there.
Gwen W. says
The teenaged boy awoke groggily to an eerie chanting. The chanting was hypnotic in its cadence and the boy felt himself being lulled back to unconsciousness by its rhythms. Paralyzed by the words filling the room, he realized he was stretched out on a cold, stone table in the middle of a dimly lit cellar, surrounded by hooded figures. Blinking blearily, he watched helplessly as one figure approached him carrying a large, obsidian blade, its wickedly sharp edge flashing in light. Watching it slowly descend towards his chest, his mind suddenly kicked into gear. He threw his arm into the path of the knife and felt searing pain as his arm was sliced open from wrist to elbow. Blood spurted up at his assailant, who stepped back, surprised by the boy’s reaction. The boy seized his chance to escape. He rolled from the table and sprinted out the open door into the dark, balmy night. Clutching his injured arm to his chest, he plunged directly into the nearby lake. He heard sounds of pursuit behind him and dove towards the muddy bottom, trying to move silently among the cattails and reeds which fringed the edge of the lake like a beard.