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.
Pamela says
Red hair has been both feared and revered for millennia, yet the science world couldn’t figure out what caused it until 2001 when researchers discovered the MC1R gene. The first discussions were abstract; red hair was caused by a “loss of function mutation” of the MC1R gene that impacted endorphins. In ninety eight percent of humans, the gene is normal and results in blond, brunette, or black hair. The other two percent have a mutated gene and get red hair. Then dentists began noticing that their redheaded patients dreaded dental visits more than others and two new discoveries followed. First, redheads feel pain more deeply than others, including increased sensitivity to the sun. Second, redheads require more anesthesia for surgery and more pain relievers to achieve sedation or relief from pain. From the whimsical title of their medical journal article, “What’s Red Got To Do With It?”, the scientists who discovered the MC1R gene mutation believed the discovery wouldn’t be of much importance in the grand scheme of discoveries. They were wrong.
Haisam Elkewidy says
I already learned, in ninth grade Earth Science, that the Earth rotates about some axis occasionally tilted about 15 degrees from the vertical. It’s been said to spin at a speed faster than airplanes and jets, almost rivaling the speed of sound. Yet you could never feel the Earth moving, let alone spinning on a center point like a top whirling rapidly on a desk. It’s not even a proper explanation for dizziness, and/or motion sickness for the matter. It was the reason I was essentially obliged to sleep at night, and work in the morning. It was why I could see the sun in the morning, and the moon at night. Life operated in a cycle, just because of Earth’s internal activity. Until a few decades ago, that is.
-Haisam Elkewidy (haisam99@neo.tamu.edu)
Mess In A Dress says
Adelaide Andrews stared out the living room window and into the yard across the street where an elderly man, who she could only assume was her new neighbor, was frolicking through the sprinkler in his underwear. He was at least 80 years old and was very spry for his age. Every time the water shot up into the air, so did the man’s legs. It was as if he was involved in some kind of synchronized sprinkler event in the Olympics.
Michael B. says
Every time I smoke crystal meth I regret it, and swear there will never be a next time.
A big hit of meth shocked my lungs and woke me from a drunken blackout. Thick clouds of smoke poured out of my mouth and nose. I must look like a fire-breathing dragon. I gazed at the dirty glass pipe in my hand then placed it in my mouth, sparked a fire from a mini torch and waved the flame from side to side beneath the blackened glass bulb. I twisted the pipe back and forth between my lips. The white powder inside heated up and melted into a clear liquid, creating a tasteless vapor that I inhaled deep into my lungs.
Rodolfo D.S. Cabael says
Rodolfo D.S. Cabael
http://www.dolphcabael.com
From the debut novel – The Share in the Valley of Elah (Completed Jan. 2012, unedited & unpublished) First paragragh of chapter one – Opportunity Knocks.
Life is like a game of chess. It is played by all ages. It requires imagination and the ability to think of most moves before playing them. To achieve life's goal or in the game of chess where the definite aim is to capture the king, sometimes involves sacrificing and abandoning other plans. To play a winning game, one has to be prepared or have been tutored to make the right moves in times of skirmishes that may happen any time along the way. In Dolph de Villa's case, all those preparations and turoring would have been a luxury, but then it was a milestone. In his solitude he often wondered if he had been playing the game fairly well considering that his preparations and tutoring were insufficient and inferior. could he have done better if his father were alive during the early stages of his development, if his mother didn't remarry and ended with seven children, and if there was someone to encourage him to pay more attention to school works than playing out on the street until dark?
Teri Dederer says
Sweating, grimacing from the effort, I give one last heave against the rough, wooden oars and finally feel the row boat’s hull thud into the dock’s end. I let the oars drop from my blistered hands, and rise to my feet in order to loop the small boat’s tie around the dock post. The effort of raising my arms above my head makes my arms ache, the muscles rubbery and worn out after a day on the Karayaun Sea’s rough tides all by myself. All by myself…. Just that one thought is enough to bring salty moisture to my eyes not from the sea. Instead of giving in, I take one deep sniff meant to plug up more than my runny nose, and get back to work. I tuck the slender wooden fishing rod along the boat’s bottom, and scoop up the battered wooden pail that holds my catches. There are only four today—two of them silvery minnows no longer than my hand, a pink scuttle fish, and a tuna fish big enough for supper tonight between Hahnna and me. Setting the pail on the dock above me and ignoring the twinge of soreness it brings to my arms, I pull out the rough canvas tarp and tie it down over the row boat’s top. I’m not able to make it as taut across the surface as Papa, but it will have to do. Just like the four fish from today will have to be enough. That’s become my new mantra in the four days since Papa’s conscription.
Rainy Day says
“WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” The faceless voice yelled at me. A woman’s voice, I think.
Anonymous says
One of the Charlottes was missing. It wasn't the oldest Charlotte, a fancy doll that Iris’ grandmother had given her. It wasn't the newest Charlotte, a turtle that Iris won at a school fair. It wasn't the meanest Charlotte, a large grey bird that lived in a silver cage in Iris’ bedroom. And it wasn't the wisest Charlotte, a quiet lizard that liked to sit on his rock in a glass case on Iris’ desk. Iris called loudly in her backyard for the missing Charlotte, but the only one who heard her was Prunella, an old white cat who was forever grateful that she wasn't one of the Charlottes.
Jennifer M.
Anonymous says
Hear me out: yes, I understand imaginary friends aren't all that common at fifteen and, yes, it is a bit weird, but honestly, he isn't actually imaginary! I know you can't see him, I get that, but it doesn't mean he isn't there. You know a fart stinks like shit even though you can't see it. Well, he's like a fart, only smellier and he lingers longer. His name is Dahl. Mine's Pepper Sinclair.
-Danny James-
Kastie Pavlik says
Screams capable of driving a banshee insane filled her ears. Anguished voices coalesced and struck through her core like the tip of a blade sharp enough to shred the heavens. Moans and groans, and fearsome war cries struck in between, and the bloody spray of battle coated the air, glistening as a fine mist of sticky, crimson moisture. Hundreds, maybe even thousands, of bodies surrounded her–some motionless and emptied of life, and others divided into factions engaged in a violent dance of death.
musingsdevine says
Throughout the northern reaches of Pontiac county, massive heavings of primeval bedrock lay strewn atop the earth. Some of these outcrops were large and ragged; others compressed and smooth, as though pressed down by the weight of time―like shadowy remnants of epochs never known. In Seth’s mind, the pod of outcrops that lay nearest his house became breaching whales, hurtling themselves out of the rippling skin of their mysterious, watery realm into the weightless promise of an airy open sky. The warm southerly wind fanned the whale rocks’ lichen-barnacled surfaces and licked the grassy sea that surrounded them into a vast undulating wave. The tireless dragonflies that skimmed hither and yon atop the expanse became wandering albatross whose strident cries screamed out of the steady buzz and hum of myriad insects as they performed their summer oratorio.
Cheri Mckenzie says
Some say dreams are a way of sorting through problems that one cannot unravel in their conscious mind. Others see them as simply a natural process of the sleep cycle. I have come to believe, however, that dreams can take many forms, including glimpses of things to come. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to imagine what my life would have been like if fate hadn't turned everything upside down. For a moment I can see the future I’d always planned. Then I blink and it flutters out of sight as if on the wings of a hundred tiny hummingbirds. In the grey haze it leaves behind, my fear consumes me.
Jane Roop says
Laura lay on her back in the kitchen between the free standing smooth topped range and the sink. Half her face was gone, blown in bits over the cupboards. A pool of dark blood congealed under her head. It wasn’t a pretty sight but it didn’t shock me. I knew someday I’d walk through Laura’s front door into mayhem. I always assumed the destruction would be caused by Melody, her daughter. But Melody didn’t have access to a gun.
Silas Champion says
Owen clung to the crumbling stones that made up the well shaft. The girl above him wept in great wrenching sobs. He dared not move. To be discovered stealing coins from a wishing well meant a swift execution. He burned with shame. Her coin dropped down onto his hand. He shook his hand. If it did not reach the bottom it would do no good.
Jade Le Fey says
Saturday morning
8.45am
I woke up blue. Not as in 'I woke up feeling depressed,' but in that I literally woke up with my skin the colour of a punk teenager's fuck-you-society mohawk. Blue. I woke up a few minutes ago, with my hand in front of my face. My blue hand? What happened last night? I stare intently at my fingers. Nightclub. Loud music. No, don't think about loud music, wince! Killer headache. Oh God, my hand is blue! I lift the bed cover carefully. Blue wrist. Blue arm, blue elbow – what the hell have I got myself into now? My skin is stained blue! And it smells… Not quite like the usual, faint, fresh, grapefruit body-wash. In fact, it smells a bit sour, like a stale latte left in a car on a hot day, like I haven't showered in a week. I lift the covers a tiny bit more, wincing in steely anticipation of what I might find. Oh God. There is a man next to me. He is also blue. There is a strange, blue man, lying next to me, in my bed! My eyes scrunch tightly shut, willing it all to be a terrible dream, one that I can laugh about later in the safety of sunlight and coffee. My head sinks into the silk pillow covers. Hang on… Silk pillow covers? This isn't my bed! My eyes fling open, and my heart beat is suddenly pounding in my ears. I can almost feel the arteries in my neck constricting a little as a surge of adrenaline rushes through me. Where the hell am I? Get out of here, now! I carefully lift the sheets and slide out. My bare feet hit varnish. Great. Wooden floor-boards. If you creak I will kill you, I warn them as I slip out of the bed as quietly as I can, glancing nervously at the sleeping tousled head buried under the Sponge-Bob Square-Pants duvet cover. Seriously? Sponge-Bob Square-Pants, yet silk pillow cases? Certainly a unique approach. I risk a glance down at myself, and am relieved to see that I am still wearing knickers and crop top. A crop top which I will now have to soak for half a week in stain remover, as the dull cyan smears across my torso seem to have made no distinction between flesh and cotton. The rest of my clothes are a haphazard mess on the floor, and my handbag's sprawled on its side, half under the bed. As silent as a mouse who's just woken up still drunk after a gin-soaked night, I pick my heels up by the straps try to get dressed. How come I've never noticed how noisy it is to put on jeans? The denim practically roars against my thighs as I pull the waist up over my hips and fumble with the zip. Please don't wake up, Sponge-Bob! He moves and I freeze, too scared to even breathe. I duck instinctively, and briefly consider rolling underneath the bed. Get a grip, Scarlett! I peek up and over to where Sponge-Bob has thankfully just re-settled himself. I still can't see his face, but one tanned, muscular arm is now resting on top of the covers. I can see the definition, even in his fore-arms. Well. One point to him. Pity about the minus five-hundred points for having somehow dyed me blue! Now fully-clothed, with the rest of my stuff bundled under my arm, I sneak, sneak to the door. Doors. Two doors… but which one is the way out?
Val Agnew says
My turn at the casket was almost over. I wanted to poke her to see what dead felt like. Instead, I bent over and kissed her forehead. The aunts would love that gesture. I braced for her skin to be icy cold, but it felt smooth and dry. I said a little prayer for her because I didn’t know if she made it to heaven. I didn’t know where the souls of angry mothers go.
Cheryl Hettick says
The tension in the London auction house could have powered a small city. Perched in an elevated desk amongst a sea of Armani suits, Chanel outfits and Prada handbags, Carolyn Kleinsma tapped her pen anxiously against a Steno pad as she propped the glossy catalog open to page ninety-eight. In her left hand, she clutched her one weapon in the battle—bidding paddle number three hundred sixteen. At twenty-eight, she was the youngest member of Cooper & Baines Acquisitions in New York and had flown more than nine hours in coach to acquire the piece that had caused such a stir in the international press. It was her last chance to prove to the company’s founder he hadn’t made a mistake in hiring her, and if she screwed this one up, she’d be kissing her career goodbye by midnight.
Jennifer Brink says
“Stay the course!”
The harshly spoken words seemed to come out of the storm itself, echoing across the ship in a surreal tone. Grim expressions etched across the faces of the crew as they focused on keeping the ship afloat while the waves ruthlessly battered the small ship.
“Captain!”
The harsh winds recklessly carried the word which was both a statement and a question up to the raven haired beauty at the helm. On the deck, a tiny girl with fiery red hair and eyes the color of the angry waves threw an anxious look behind her. She tucked a loose piece of hair from her face before rushing up the steps to her captain’s side. The first mate earnestly spoke to the figure dressed entirely in black as the roaring winds carried her words to the sea. Brushing ocean sprayed hair out of her face the first mate pointed past the helm. Beside her, hard black eyes stared into the storm before almost imperceptibly nodding. The dark clothed captain’s face gave away no emotions as she turned the wooden wheel slightly to the left.
“Get the girls.” The calmly quiet words slid from the captain’s storm wet lips with a bone chilling smile.
Unknown says
Jake cowered in terror before his master, known to the citizens of Quennell as Gaddis the Mad, Gaddis the Traitor, Gaddis the Evil, who would someday try once again to oust good King Osip from the throne they'd fought over when they were teenagers. Well, Jake pretended to cower in terror, because his master liked that kind of thing and because he wanted to do well and be hired full-time at the end of his internship.
Unknown says
Sigh. "Jake cowered in terror" is mine. I signed in, but it didn't put my name on the post.
cheryl.rosbak at gmail dot com
Danielle M says
Lucy didn’t notice the black car parked in her driveway until after her foot hit the pavement. It was too late to turn around and get back on the bus; the accordion door had already closed with a mechanical swoosh and clunk. She thought about turning around and pounding on the door, begging the driver to be let back in. She could say she’d forgotten her science book or that she had to get off at a friend’s stop instead. But the bus was already pulling away, its engine rumbling and spilling the heavy smell of diesel into the humid air. It wouldn’t matter anyway. They had already seen her.
Sharon Smith says
Tears streamed down Abigail's face as she rocked back and forth. She heard the stairs squeak below her. "Now I lay me," she whispered, "down to sleep." It was the only prayer that she knew. Granny had taught it to her during the summers while daddy played soldier, but it didn't matter because it was coming now. She heard it lumbering up the stairs. But worst of all, she could smell it, and it made her tummy hurt something fierce. Now it was too late. Nothing could save her now. Not Granny. Not daddy. Not prayer. Not anything…
Julie H. says
Annie Wilson, eighteen-years-old and six months pregnant, trembles in the bedroom doorway. Quentin Cleary stands next to her, a gun resting in his open palms. Like Annie, Quentin is shaking too, and he has stretched his arms out in front of him, seemingly in an effort to keep the weapon as far from his own body as possible. On the hardwood floor next to Annie’s bed, a river of blood oozes out from beneath Garrett Loren’s head. The congressman lies there motionless but still breathing, caught somewhere between life and death.
Ty Ferriswheel says
You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you my mom kidnapped me and took me into the future because my dad was some crazy evil wizard trying to take over the world. I wouldn't have believed me either, until I was sucked into a swirling vortex and taken 900 years into the past…into a land that supposedly doesn't exist. don't think I'm crazy yet? Keep reading.The future may depend on it…
By Tyler Ferris,
tylerferris@att.net
Linda Conder says
Heavy boots pounded along the narrow hallway of the empty art gallery. Each step thundering more urgently than the cautious man wearing them intended. Ian Devenshey struggled to find a reason for why his stomach had twisted itself into knots. Only one horrible thought occurred, and it was the very reason the round room he was headed for existed at all—to stop certain wicked creatures from entering the linked worlds.
Stephanie Wahlstrom says
Emily Trigger was on her way to kill a man she did not know. Looking out of the window she watched the world blur by like a Chagall painting. The train took a sharp turn, choosing the left path where the tracks split. Emily held onto the cold metal bar harder, trying not to loose her footing. When the train steadied, she took the photo out of her handbag and stared at the seemingly innocuous face of Marcus Fletcher.
Blue says
He was clearly dead, that much was obvious. She had never seen a dead person before, and was surprised at how unbothered she was by it. Even the fact that he’d been murdered didn’t really phase her. At least, she was pretty sure this one wasn’t a suicide…what with the blade of a figure skate sticking out of his chest. She glanced around to see if there were any holo-recorders in sight, but it was a foregone conclusion that whoever had done this would have made sure there weren’t. Their victim would be found, his killers would likely not be.
Nick says
My brother is schizophrenic. He is blessed by Aslan, fallen from heaven, and pestered by a woman’s voice no one else hears. Depending on his behavior, his body-type fluctuates from emaciated to overweight, his hair from neat to unkempt. But he wasn’t always schizophrenic. Before his car accident nine years ago, Brian was just like any other sixteen-year-old and I was his reverent little brother.
Lobdozer says
The old man had been out all day trying to spot ill omens. Much to his frustration, he hadn't found any. Not a single one. He could only assume that he had been looking in the wrong places.
Alexa says
On the first day of the summer holidays I come downstairs to silence. No one has turned the radio on, no one is grinding coffee beans, there are no newspapers strewn on the kitchen table. The only indication that I don’t live alone is the orange and white striped coffee cup and cafetière standing to attention next to the sink. Mum may have stopped doing elaborate breakfasts, but she can’t kick her caffeine habit. So at least one thing hasn’t changed.
Tamara says
If Da discovers that I’m listenin in he will kill me.
This may be a figure of speech for some other girl, but for me it’s awful near the truth. See, my Da is one of the Bigs, currently upholding the title of Brave. And though the title is fittin enough – because he is brave, this also means that there’s little room left for understanding or forgiveness. But what I’m hearin now makes it nearly worth the risk.
Andrea Goyan says
Nelly was driving along Mulhullond Drive when she saw the alien sitting behind the wheel of a white Ford pickup truck. A back rear tire was flat, and though the creature had managed to get the vehicle over onto a dirt shoulder, the front end still stuck out into traffic. Normally, Nelly wouldn’t risk helping a stranger, but today, returning home to the Valley from one of the worst auditions in recent memory, she decided to stop. What the hell, she thought. There was nothing some stinking alien could do that would match the humiliation she’d just experienced, stripping to her underwear for six bored network executives who’d sipped lattes and answered texts the entire time. She pulled next to the truck and rolled down her window.
Melanie Stanford says
He was supposed to be my knight in shining armor. I stared across the table at Blake Chapman, a cocky grin stretching his lips. I used to think that grin was so cute. So sexy. I would spend nights daydreaming about it, the last thing I’d see before I fell asleep.
Now I wanted to wash that grin away with a Coke to his face.
Jackie Uhrmacher says
“What about a household accident? You know–Death by Toaster, something like that?” My best friend asked, chewing on the cap of her pen. Her husky voice, barely a whisper, held a hint of laughter. So it had come to this–we had finally resorted to guerrilla tactics.
Stoich91 says
“Good heavens! She will never rise. I tell you, Friar, plainly. She is dead.”
“Bah! Not everyone who faints is certainly dead, boy. Faugh, next you’ll try to tell us all that everyone who sleeps is fainting, or everyone who lies, sleeps. No, no, my son. Fetch me the holy water.”
Chapped lips. Cold, rough stone floor beneath me. Blue fingertips, numb and lifeless.
“But, Sir!”
“The water, boy! The water, or she will die, and zounds, you’ll be sleeping in the stable for a month.”
I winced and my eyes slowly opened, so slightly as to keep anyone from suspecting I was awake yet. It was fortunate that my conscious had come back to me before my body had, so I could determine my surroundings and at least have the advantage in the hands of my enemies for a few moments longer without them knowing it.
“Ah, no!”
“Then go, my son, fly!”
Adam Byatt says
The tail end of January was slipping by with a little over a week before school returned and the associated routine of packing lunches, lost uniforms and misplaced shoes. School holidays were messy for Sarah, the lack of routine and timetable negating her need for order, accountability and the numbers to balance in the appropriate columns. Taking the month off as her holidays meant the family was able to get away to the Gold Coast for a week after New Year’s, letting the kids ran rampant across multiple theme parks. Based on the exorbitant entry fee, even after booking the family pass online, she challenged them to see how many rides they could fit in and how much per ride it cost. Lowest price per ride scored a bonus.
J. V. Kova says
Aveli jolted awake so violently that she nearly fell off of her sleeping platform. The way her heart was pounding, she wondered if it couldn't be heard all the way to the ocean's surface, let alone in the cubicles next to her own. Only after she heard her father muttering curses as mild as his disposition did she recognize the noise that had awakened her for what it was – the clattering of shell tablets, falling against each other. She had been waiting for him to fall asleep and had dozed off herself – until he knocked over his evening's reading. Surely he wasn't staying up late because he suspected her?
Kindra Keitel says
Life's most deafening moments are the quiet ones. Delphine's eyes were still open long after Missouri was asleep, shielded from the sun by the earth itself. In the stillness of the early morning, before dawn brought with her the sounds of life, the young woman's mind would not rest, busy collecting a million faded thoughts of her mother. One memory refused to be satisfied with a single show and it played across the ceiling on repeat, the images sharper with each screening. She was a little girl again and her mother sat on the bed beside her, a lullaby lingering in the air like cinnamon.
Anonymous says
My mother’s hands made everything she did look important. Some of her friends wore bright red polish and had fingernails like teeth. I often wondered how they did normal things without hurting themselves. One day when I went in the kitchen at Susie Crithers’s house for a glass of lemonade, her mother sat at the dinette with her apron on and her fingers stuck in a bowl of suds. “Did you burn yourself, Mrs. Crithers?” I said, trying not to stare.
garviegirl says
My sister was dying. Her little frail body was wrapped in the old white dress that used to be mine, and her chest rose and fell as she took her last breaths.
Ann Mezger says
Think of being swept up in the dreaming. Hear the song of the child unborn.
sportsjim81 says
I was a month removed from my eighteenth birthday when I left my home and my family in the middle of the night. A small town bus station in Connecticut looks like a stereotype of itself, like a movie scene, at a quarter past midnight on a Thursday. The few people occupying the cold, concrete building were not actors; though I had no doubt they each had a story to tell. People who take a bus out of town in the dead of night always have a story; I certainly did.
Kim Davis says
The first time I touched the tarot was in a small room, in the back of a shop called Fortunes. It was the beginning of sophomore year, and I wanted to find out if the boy with the curly brown hair and chocolate eyes would be my first. At least, that’s what I’d told myself. I remember standing at the entrance, trying hard to steady my breath, and looking over my shoulder to make sure my parents or best friends didn’t drive past.
Anne Gallagher says
Anne Gallagher
There are certain things a woman should never tell her husband, and my return to Ohio reminded me of the treasure trove of secrets I still hid from mine. As our limousine glided through the Village of Gates Mills, glimpses of houses and woodlands drew memories from me like a vacuum cleaner that sucks hidden dirt from a carpet. We passed a moss-covered rock face, and I winced. That’s when it dawned on me that I had been blocking the secrets from my own memory as well. Now they buzzed about me like a horde of angry, accusatory bees whose hive was whacked with a stick.
Anne Gallagher
deaded says
We were at our kids' fencing tournament a thousand miles away from my childhood home when the man I knew only as Kimmy's dad asked without prelude, "You grew up at Berry Hill Farm?" He knew to pronounce it Burial Farm. If he knew the local accent, he probably knew my family or at least of them. After I nodded, I could see him mentally sorting through the laundry basket of rumors, holding each one up trying to fit it to me. Finally, he asked, "Was your dad a hired man there?"
Anonymous says
My mother Abene stood at the head of the band’s women and children. Tall, imposing, her gray-streaked hair pulled tightly back from her face, she was as strong and unyielding as one of the old oak trees that surrounded the central fire. I tried to imagine myself in her place, standing before the gatherers as leader rather than bringing up the rear of the group, waiting for them to quiet before leading them out for the day’s foraging. Impossible, somehow.
Emily Jones
AdamFolgers says
The old man had returned, long ago, a hero. That first year he hadn't been able to leave his uptown loft without being swept up in a tornado of people and reporters, he smiled for the former and endured the latter. The second year had been full of talk shows and other publicity. At the end of the following decade nobody recognized him without an introduction, but, after said introduction, the wonder was still genuine. By the time he retreated into solitude, spending large portions of his days napping in a life-sized replica of Heaven Strider, the younger generations had been staring at him with politely bored expressions for years.
MH Brooks says
I was born mooning the world.
Joan Stradling says
Photographs can be changed, but reflections are honest—that's how I know my mom is a liar. I release my t-shirt's neck. The material hides my light pink heart surgery scar, but not before my mirror says, "Holy crap, look at that thing!" Mom says the scar is hardly noticeable, but I think she means my boobs instead. The scar isn't the only thing Mom lies about. She also says I'm not chunky—but my mirror says I could lose a few pounds. I can forgive Mom's lies about my scar and my weight. But I can't forgive her saying Dad is never coming back. My mirror doesn't have to say anything—I know, deep down, she's lying.
Anonymous says
Joshua was born in the early morning hours of a hot August day. His mother awoke from a drug induced stupor and there he was lying quietly between her legs trying to focus on this new world he had been thrust into.