The first paragraph challenge is back! There are prizes! Are you ready?
In order to celebrate the publication of the second edition of How to Write a Novel (preorder now, available tomorrow!!), I’m bringing back the grandaddy of them all, the big kahuna, the one, the only… SIXTH Stupendously Ultimate First Paragraph Challenge!
Is your first paragraph the best of them all? ENTER THIS CONTEST TO FIND OUT.
Before we get to the prizes, let’s talk about the pride of being among the very prestigious finalists of competitions on this blog. Here are just some of a few of the now-published authors who were once contest finalists:
Victoria Schwab! Michelle Hodkin! Stuart Neville! Josin L. McQuein! Michelle Davidson Argyle! Joshua McCune! Natalie Whipple! Terry DeHart! Jeanne Ryan! Peter Cooper! Travis Erwin!
Will you be next on this illustrious list?
Oh yes, the prizes.
- The finalists will win a query critique from yours truly (or other agreed upon prize of similar value).
- In additional to a query critique, the WINNER will receive a $100 gift certificate to the independent bookstore of their choice (or other agreed-upon prize of similar value).
Here’s what you need to know:
- 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 here to enter. Please do not e-mail me your submission as it will not count.
- The deadline to enter is this FRIDAY, OCTOBER 18 at 7pm ET, at which point entries will be closed. Finalists will be announced… probably Monday. I think. Hopefully. When the finalists are announced you will get to exercise your democratic right to vote on the stupendously ultimate winner.
- PLEASE SPREAD THE WORD ABOUT THE CONTEST! The more entries, the more satisfaction you will have when you crush them with your first paragraph.
- 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. Don’t worry about typos. I make them all the time!
- 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).
- You must be at least 14 years old and less than 178 years old to enter. No exceptions.
- I’m on the Twitter! And the Instagram! And subscribe to the newsletter while you’re at it! I will be posting contest updates. (Okay maybe not Instagram but you might see what I’m cooking for dinner as I stress eat while reading the entries).
Don’t forget to pre-order How to Write a Novel! I’m very excited about the new edition and it will be available soon as an audiobook too!
Here! We! Go!!
Need help with your book? I’m available for manuscript edits, query critiques, and coaching!
For my best advice, check out my online classes, my guide to writing a novel and my guide to publishing a book.
And if you like this post: subscribe to my newsletter!
JOHN T. SHEA says
Damn it, Nathan! I was 179 yesterday! And my new WIP is all one paragraph! This is ageism and wordism!
Lauren Bopp says
Reggie Kaplan had finally gotten her son down for a nap not ten minutes earlier and was eight clues deep into the daily crossword when the inspectors knocked. Same as always–three booms with the fist followed by a cheery knuckle rap–a command glossed with entreaty. She expelled a string of expletives that would have made her husband and his shipyard buddies blush and thudded her makeshift lunch (a bowl of mini-wheats, not even frosted) down on the table as she rose. Twisted the deadlock, and pulled the door open until the chain was as taut as her lips. “Elijah is sleeping,” she whispered past an upheld finger.
Donna Taylor says
It always smells like somebody died. Maybe because he keeps killing people. That might do it. But it’s just so easy. And fun. And tasty. He loves that last part. Depending on his mood he likes them messy or neat. Shaken or stirred. Whole or peeled. Most of the time he isn’t picky. Sometimes he is. It used to amuse Wendy and he always liked it when she smiled. And laughed. She encouraged him. Allowed him to be him. Most of the time. Sometimes he was a little too him and it got everyone in trouble.
Charlie McKeown says
Leto sucked up the atmosphere along Cisco Boulevard as if it had been a childhood haunt. Stims always made him feel as if every detail, every nuance was important. In his job it often was, and he was on his game tonight alright. Every darkened alley looked sultry and inviting, every neon-lit dive looked like a stompin’ joint, even the bouncers looked friendly. The ripped up tarmac cushioned his steps and the smoggy twilight air filled his lungs with fire.
Kim says
It’s been almost three weeks since the new Ice Age, the landscape, a sea of snow and ice as far as I can see. The dim ruby skies haven’t changed since that day in September at Yale University when my father’s climate change experiment turned the world upside down, covering everything with ice. Not many survived. Four thousand survivors are at Liberty, the Mar’s prototype biodomed settlement in Rhode Island, plus the deadly nomads known as the Bleeders and Sproggs who have made their homes in caves and igloos. There could be other dangerous scavengers out there. They just haven’t found us yet.
Evan says
CALL ME WHAT YOU WILL. ANY OF NINE MILLION NAMES, IT MATTERS NOT TO ME. MY NAME IS THE SOUND OF ALEPH. THE FAINT WHISPER THAT ESCAPES AS YOUR LAST SIGHING BREATH, THAT IS MY NAME. TOO LATE AND FOR TOO LONG, I’VE CHOSEN SILENCE. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, THINGS HAVE GONE VERY WRONG. I MAY BE DEAD. I DON’T KNOW. THAT’S THE WORST PART: I DON’T EVEN KNOW.
Jan Coad says
Her father bet against her succeeding. Looked like he might have been right. Diretor Warren was not the friendly woman who had mentored Daisy Russel early in her career with Fish and Wldlife. She was tapping her pencil against her desk.
David Kubicek says
I feel their hostility. I feel it in my mind. I feel it in every muscle of my body. My nerve endings sting with the hatred and suspicion bombarding me like sleet in a strong wind. I want to yank back my radar, shut their emotions out of my mind, but I resist the urge. It’s my only self-defense. I must know how they feel about me as they watch from behind hastily drawn window shades in suddenly darkened rooms. It will give me a running head start if any of them decides to attack me. But mostly they are afraid, and curious, and they are staying put. They wonder why a young, pale, beanpole of a girl—a stranger, obviously from the Burbs—is strolling through their neighborhood on a drowsing Saturday morning with a rain storm building all around. They know that no good ever came to them from Uptown.
Bethany Henry says
Mei set the dull kitchen-knife aside and considered how to stretch the tiny pile of boiled chestnuts into a full week of meals. Unfortunately, glaring didn’t cause the chestnuts to multiply. If only her Shen blood held useful power instead of just making everyone afraid of her.
Marlo Faulkner says
I first see Jack London reflected in the mirrored vestibule of Young’s Café. He sports an ill-fitting white linen suit, rumpled, but clean. Slim, yet solid, he appears younger than his purported twenty-four years.
Elizabeth Passarelli says
Last night my wife jumped off the George Washington bridge. Dove actually. A swan dive for her swan song. I know that sounds heartless. But that’s because I’m pretty sure she’s not dead. Just really pissed.
Steve says
The Kray twins were waiting for him when he locked up the club for the
night. Ronnie, Reg and six of their gang were standing against the wall opposite the exit. Most were in shadow, or barely lit by pools of light thrown from the streetlamps. The brothers had positioned themselves so they could both be seen clearly full length, partly obscuring a poster advertising Sean Connery in James Bond’s latest adventure. A dull, metronomic thud came as Ronnie swung the heavy hammer he was holding slowly, repeatedly against the wall. Its metal head reverberating loudly in the night. Harry scanned each way to see a car blocking both exits, further members of the gang leaning casually against each vehicle. Relaxed, in no hurry, anticipating the coming show. No-one would disturb them, all the time in the world to enjoy it. Reg looked vaguely bored, but his brother was fully engaged, eyes bright, a child on Xmas morning.
Mason Connors says
As Pete arrived in the parking lot of the hospital, he looked around and saw Patty’s car parked four bays down. He took his camping knife out of the carryall he had on the back seat then plunged it into one of the tires of Patty’s Prius.
Let’s see him get away from me now— As Pete moved toward the front doorway of the hospital, the automatic doors opened with a squeak, and as luck would have it, there stood the man he was looking for. Pete took a few steps back into the shadows and laid in wait for his nemesis.
‘Tonight he pays—’
Mason Connors says
email address changed to Connors.mason1@gmail.com
Elizabeth Illig says
I should be dead. Pissing off the most powerful sultanah of all time warrants trouble. So does walking around Manon. After all, I am a witch. Not praise but an insult. Signs above cobbled streets suggest I “Report any witches to the royal army” or “Turn in frauds.” What a joke. If only Queen Zuria embraced the power such people could give her kingdom, it might actually be worth being in this country. Still, here I am, prepared to ask for help.
Sheila Lane says
Rolling down Lake Shore Drive, Fallon Hayes realized that she’d rather be home plucking out her eyelashes one by one with a pair of needle-nose pliers than be sitting in the backseat of her parents’ car with Ronnie. It wasn’t that Fallon didn’t like her. It was just that mixing Ronnie with her family seemed as wise as inviting an arsonist to a marshmallow roast.
Barb Ristine says
Of all days for the train to be late. Meg raced through the brick gates of the university and up the stone staircase of the Slade, her teacher’s voice ringing in her ears, urging her to be on time. She was already ten minutes late for her entrance interview, but she paused on the landing to catch her breath and wipe her damp palms on her woolen skirt. When she turned the corner, she saw a slender dark-haired man waiting in the hall outside the principal’s office but she wasn’t certain that he was waiting for her—he looked too young to be the Slade Professor of Art.
Kathryn Taylor says
I swear hand on heart everything that happened is Freddie Flintoff’s fault. Let me explain. It begins on a Tuesday morning at the tail end of an ungodly cold March. To while away my life, I am channel-surfing on the sixty-inch flat-screen telly that hangs incongruously-ugly between two exquisite Rita Angus originals. I love her paintings. They serve as a quixotic reminder of my New Zealand birthplace—a distant place and a distant time from the ideal life I’ve carved for myself in London. I can’t say the same about the telly, a boxy screen with a black frame and matching remote that will never take pride of place in an art gallery. And, speaking of boring, I catch snippets of the Antiques Roadshow on BBC Two, and tidbits of gossip from the Loose Women on ITV. When I click to Channel One, the BBC beams Top Gear into my bedroom, and there he is—Freddie Flintoff, a dashing ginger sunbeam oozing Peter Pan charm.
T. D. Kidd says
Jessie writhed wildly on the floor beneath him. Each lunge, twist, and kick caused her skin to rip. “You ungrateful bitch,” he sneered and slammed her right arm against the floor. Crack! He wasn’t sure if it was the sound of her arm slamming into the concrete or a bone breaking. Jessie knew! It was her shoulder. She couldn’t feel it anymore. He leaned back and pounded himself farther into her. She gagged, fighting back the nausea. Jessie’s stomach churned. Tears flowed down her cheeks as her body, much to her disgust, responded to him. Her left hand sliced through the air and slit his chest with a broken bottle she’d found on the floor. He howled in pain and rolled away.
Janiel Miller says
The lunchroom was on fire.
And it was sort of my fault.
Science Fair boards flew in every direction, and all the little kids screamed like banshees. Moms and dads grabbed them by whatever they could reach, shrieking about family safety plans and dragging them from the school. I thought it was a bit of an overreaction. It’s not like it was a bonfire or anything. The roof was just sort of, you know, a little flame-y around the edges. Maybe I wouldn’t get in trouble. It was in the name of science, right?
Jo Dixon says
The teasing scent of sweet jasmine and subtle luxury hung on the night air. In the distance Anna could see the rigid canvas of the marquees and the blur of colour where guests gyrated on the dance floor. She could see the long tables made lush with floral artistry, and the seven-piece band on the low stage. And below her, tucked in behind a verdant curved garden bed, she could see her husband slobbering over the woman in the silver dress.
Deb Rhodes says
The cat nearly destroyed me. One look at his smug furry face and I knew we were doomed, he and I both, and Mitch too because he’d brought the dumb thing home not knowing what he was exposing him to. I knew Billy would kill him. He enjoys killing cats. And if he didn’t do it himself, he’d find a way to make me.
Philip Ginn—I know it's a bit more than a paragraph. says
CHAPTER 1: QUICK-MART
“I need the razzle-berry flavored pop rocks. This is the only place that has them!”
“Okay Gavin, let’s just get the candy and go. We’re already late for our dinner reservations at Gusto’s.” Even though Silas sounded impatient, he was looking forward to the pop-rock candy too. They reminded him of his childhood. The good parts when he wasn’t bullied. “Be sure to get some of the watermelon flavored!”
“Come on children. You two are like kids in a candy store!” Abigail took the role of big sister even though she was technically the middle kid. She was a couple years younger than Silas and a year older than Gavin.
The three friends walked towards the register. One of them was undoubtedly punching another in the shoulder, laughing.
Abigail froze. “That guy is up to something.”
Win Reed says
A knowing smile crept over Officer Errol Cooper’s face as he stood in the breakroom pouring himself a freshly-brewed mug of coffee. It wasn’t the alluring coffee aroma caressing his nasal passages that made him smile, nor was it the comforting fold of the morning newspaper tucked under his armpit. No, it was neither the coffee nor the paper—both essential to his morning work routine—that made his mouth curl upward: It was the slow, meandering hand that was, at this moment, playing down the length of his spine, starting from the top of his starched collar, fluttering softly downward until stopping, mercifully, at the hard edge of his leather belt.
Januaryj says
Mama sighed and rubbed her round belly. The baby was due any day now, and she had grown tired of all the comments. In fact, as we walked into the church, a lady had said, “Oh my, you look like you’re about to pop!”
“Any day now!” Mama laughed. But when we were out of earshot she whispered, “And she looks like she ate way too many pancakes this morning.” Penny and I couldn’t stop giggling because Mama never said anything mean about anyone. But she told us when you’re that pregnant you can say anything you want.
Susan Policoff says
Stationed by the front entrance to the hotel, I scanned the night for enemies. My one eye ached from straining to see. I saw nothing except glimpses of myself, my black eye patch and white shirt, in the glass door. Just because you can’t see ’em doesn’t mean they aren’t there, my CO said. I knocked a hand against my head to dislodge his voice and concentrated on the present, on the old Impala driving past, motor growling. The smell of its exhaust infiltrated the lobby as Ernie strolled toward me from the Hi-Lo.
Nancy S. Thompson says
It’s shocking how heavy a man’s head feels once severed from its body. It rattled me that I could ponder something so absurd, so dispassionate while holding my best friend’s head in my hands, hands caked in blood and crusted with sand from the hard-packed dirt floor I knelt upon. The trauma of seeing such brutality should’ve prepared me, but my brain seemed incapable of grasping the repercussions of what had just happened, let alone what was sure to come next.
KS Karamchandani says
Every traveler has a favorite part of the route. Some admire giant gaseous spheres in red and yellow. Others delight in the blinding brilliance of not so distant stars. Although Konstance has only seen it twice, her preference is for cerulean seas as they angle to enter the atmosphere. The sea reminds her most of home—of salty air and human contact.
Brenda Carre says
My mamaw always told me there’s three ways a young witch can prosper and all begin with L. Location’s one, because if you try to prosper in the wrong place or time you might as well say goodbye to your future. Lissome tongue is next. No matter how much wisdom a gal has to her, good learning doesn’t go far if she can’t talk her way out of a bad deal. Last of the ‘L’s’ is Lightning touch. Such is the effortless sliding of nimble fingers in-and-out of pockets without being cotched.
Jaer Armstead-Jones says
After the last drop of agony dripped out of my body, I felt a remorseful tear exude from my eye. The pain was so excruciating that it felt like it would literally swallow my body whole. I had never felt pain like that before. I then pulled up my pants, flushed the toilet, and carefully walked over to the sink. I turned the hot water on and waited patiently until it was scolding. While waiting, I ashamedly looked into the mirror as I reflected on how I got to this point in my life. I mentally asked myself, Who am I? Who had I become? And how did I get here? I couldn’t answer the rhetorical, quiet thoughts, but the reflection in the mirror told the whole story.
Barb Summers says
Tom looks down at the freshly severed hand sitting on the pile of leaves as if it was just one more piece of autumn debris and the only words he’s able to articulate are, “What the fuck?” Just moments ago he had been strolling through a serene forest setting, birds chirping and squirrels squirrelling and all that—the same forest he has strolled through countless times on the advice of his tree-loving hippy therapist to calm the mind—only now to feel his heart pounding out of his ears and the gears of his mind spinning like a bunch of ADHD kids needing a Ritalin hit. How far can someone get with a left hand chopped off? Maybe this would be considered less of a chop and more of a slice. And is it significant it’s the left one? Right would be worse. Unless the guy is left handed, poor bugger. And he shouldn’t assume it’s a guy’s hand. It’s a guy-ish hand, kinda thick and calloused. Tom kicks at the hand with his boot. There’s no nail polish or anything. Not that nail polish is a clue nowadays anyway… Christ, does he have to overthink absolutely everything? There is someone who needs, quite literally, a hand, and he’s standing around navel gazing. He has to find the rest of the body.
Tod duBois says
She crashed her motorcycle on a beautiful day in Monterey, CA. It was just a simple U turn but the gravel on the side of the road won the wrestling match with the front tire and she went down. She was petite and fit, in her early fifties and had been riding for a few years. The motorcycle is a unique and exciting machine, vibrating between your legs and up your spine connecting you to the surface of the road. The high performance motorcycle is a relatively new invention; like the woman, something new, something smart, something technical and something fast.
Angelique L'Amour says
Mimi Fremont awoke as the car turned sharply and started driving on a gravel road. She looked out the window. Beyond the tall pine trees, which lined the road, there was the flickering light of the moon. Mimi scrambled over to the other side of the car and looked out. Outlined against the night sky was an enormous stone house that grew bigger as they approached. She shivered.
Morgyn Star says
I can do this; I can kill my own kind. No, I can’t, yet must and strain my Daharshan sire’s bow, sapphire fletching the color of my eyes a mere breath from my bronze face. These half dozen Daharshan warriors must have killed or maimed the better part of a border patrol to get this far into the Sada encampment.
Rubianna Masa says
Overhead the seagulls’ mournful cries and the damp, salty breeze that ruffles my sundress spell home. I lace my fingers through Camden’s with comfortable ease as we walk down the sidewalk to the end of the street and under the rustling leaves of the lone tree planted in the middle of the concrete. Ahead, the windows in the two-story brick storefronts gleam in the afternoon sun, one after another, lining the sidewalks on each side of the street. A silver Toyota Tacoma screeches around the corner. The older passersby frown and grump. Stupid Jonathan Frank leans out the window of the truck almost to his waist and yells, “Good game, Pillar.”
Joshua Kelley says
The Old Kirk wasn’t always a bar. It started as a church, built in a logging town west of Seattle. Now, over a hundred years later, the T.O.K. ministered to a stream of millworkers, locals, and tourists, and Davey Carmichael thought he’d found his peace by being their pastor.
Patricia Willers says
I woke up on a Monday and stared at my ceiling.
I didn’t want to go to work, and I didn’t want to stay home.
The energy needed to get out of bed was more than I could muster. This was a problem I’d been having. It wasn’t pleasant. Just like me. I was not pleasant either. I was no fun. My life was no fun. These two go hand in hand.
Marianne Rule says
Being in homeroom makes me want to rip my tongue out of my mouth. If I could leave for the hospital right now, I don’t even think I’d mind a mouth full of stitches. Plus, I bet that the nurses would feed me ice cream by the gallon. I’d love to eat nothing but vanilla for days.
Lee Mandel says
Dainty fingers grab a plush beige towel and pull it into the stall, cutting the cloud of steam as it dissipates into the air. Toes swirl the bathmat, mopping the pooled water from the Italian tile. Through the partially opened door, the adjacent room is visible. Sheer bedroom curtains dance wildly in the summer breeze. Odd, I don’t remember leaving the window open, she thinks.
Amanda Evans says
A blank canvas waiting for the painter’s touch; a serene landscape. That’s what most people would see from the car window, but not me. I saw blankets made to strangle and flurries of icy shards eager to slice my delicate skin to ribbons. I saw death and it was coming for me.
Bonnie Cehovet says
Amanda Bentley knew that this was going to be a time to remember. The call from Joseph had come out of the blue. Their paths so seldom crossed anymore that the sudden invitation to his Christmas party was a red flag. What he did tell her, in a private meeting, was that the past had come back to haunt them all. Jonathon Qualles was attempting to make a move that would give him immense behind the scenes political power, and that would consolidate immeasurable wealth in his hands – wealth defined as money, and wealth defined as access to information that could send the entire world spiraling in a thousand different directions.
Carla Manley says
Codenamed the Wolf, the spy stood at the prow of a crimson expedition vessel, gripping a satellite photo in his gloved hand. After five hours, he was growing bored with this tedious task. Despite his waterproof parka and moleskin pants, a howling gust swept beneath his layered clothes and chilled him to his core. Snow goggles shielded his eyes from the biting wind, and his furry hat protected his ears. He reached up and eased the goggles from his face. The frigid unpolluted air of the Arctic invigorated him. The silence of raw nature stirred a memory of gentler times—peaceful times.
Magdalena Munro says
An explosive thud rocked the narrow cobblestoned streets and shook the tiny village. The aftershocks are grim reminders that a faceless someone is no longer pulling air into their lungs. During the nighttime assault, a lightshow slashed the charcoal skies and created shadowy charades that looked more like sweet raindrops than the sea of metal raining down upon the land. In her small bed, Heidi clutched a doll so tightly that the buttons made indentations in her slender forearms and even as the loud noises disappeared and quiet prevailed, she dared not loosen her grip. Silence during war is ominous and weighted. In the dark room she shared with her sister Inge, she heard ragged breathing and could not tell if she was crying or eating fear, something she taught Heidi recently. Eat it like an old soup you find revolting but remember, once it’s in your belly, it’s gone. Heidi heard the grainy sound of a match head being struck and a wave of sulfur wafted into her nostrils. The sound of a rushed swoosh from her mother’s skirt made Heidi’s heart race and when she saw her face silhouetted by dancing flames in the open doorway, she understood the look of urgency in her mother’s eyes. She sat up, clutched her doll tighter, and readied herself for the bunker.
Susan Sundwall says
Jacob Poore looked out of the church office window. His sermon wasn’t coming easily. The week had been full of death and anger. When Maggie Lawson appeared in his office doorway two weeks ago Wednesday, asking him to speak to her thirty year old drug-loving son, he hadn’t known what to say. Some idiots simply can’t be helped? Sure, that’s just what she wanted to hear. They’d buried him yesterday.
Carrie Keyes says
In the dawning pink light from the window, Javier Allende rests his pencil on the pine desk and reads his handwritten obituary. The swirls and loops of his handwriting reveal a journey he has traveled; a destination he feels prepared to meet. The feeling is nearly transcendental, as though he might be high above himself, staring down at the bald spot on his head. He folds his death notice twice and places it inside a pre-addressed envelope, dropping in a few pesos for publication costs. Sealing it, he sets the letter on the desk and looks down at the tan dog lying next to his lizard skin boots. The dog scratches itself; the odor of age wafts up from its hide.
Colleen Markley says
An ideal virus doesn’t kill you right away. A truly effective virus learns to invade its host, stay quiet, undetected, and use its time wisely to spread and infect as many people as possible, for as long as possible, before having its host show or display any symptoms at all. Replication – that is the ultimate goal of virus cells. Cancer cells. Bacterial cells. Replicate as much as possible, not necessarily as quickly as possible.
Karl Bronk says
Everyone is born into someone else’s history. That’s what Granddaddy George would say, before he went missing. If it’s a true and noble history, he’d say, then you’re one of the fortunate ones who knows early on who you are. So treasure it, and preserve it for the generation coming up, because a neglected history is a lost history. Granddaddy George’s wisdom shined insight on many things, but it was what he said about the history that plunged Benjamin Robinson into the journals of his ancestors, to scour their entries for chronology, and cipher the thoughts that lay hidden between the lines. He would write down for future generations the story of their sacrifice to create the special place they would know as home, a home that had lately come under the threat of extinction, and make his mission all the more urgent.
Myron j. Kukla says
The city lights looked different tonight. They were upside down and slowly swinging left and right. But, it wasn’t the lights that were wrong. It was reporter John Garth dangling upside down, 180 feet off the ground, at the top of an outstretched windmill blade. If someone had told John five days ago that he would be hanging upside down ten stories off the ground from a windmill, he would have dismissed the idea saying, ”I don’t do heights.” But that was before he found himself fighting for his life against an axe-wielding killer on the blades of a 250-year-old windmill.
Joy Blake says
“Mom, now that we’re alone, there’s something that I want to tell you.” A lifetime of fear cut my breath short. Was she pregnant? No, she didn’t have a boyfriend as far as I knew. Had someone hurt her? Did she want to drop out of school?
“Okay, Clara. You know you can tell me anything. I’m listening.”
“It’s just that, you know, I’m really pissed off at you. And so is Bridget.”
Todd Lewis says
Erie Terainein didn’t know how long it had been since she last saw the sun. A year? Two? In a land without light she could never be sure about the passage of time. All she knew for sure was that since her abduction her life had been ruled by darkness and fear.
Devanshi Gupta says
The deck of the cruise ship heaved underneath Anika’s feet, like the belly of a giant sea monster writhing in pain. Anika Ray couldn’t breathe, could barely see anything. Her life jacket had climbed up to her chin, suffocating her. Hot and sweaty bodies clustered around her. Everyone was desperate to get to the front of the queue, to the lifeboats. Anika tightened the grip on her parents’ palms, mother on one side and father on the other, determined to topple anything that came in her way.
Basia Wolf says
My Daddy used to say, sympathy and loathing are two branches of the same tree and I always think of these words whenever I see Junebug McCrady. Junebug’s a bit touched, as we say around these parts. Some would say “fucking retard” but it’s near on impossible not to feel sad, because Junebug is one of those people to whom life has thrown a vicious hand. The McCrady’s are dirt poor white trash living in two roomed shotgun qualor over yonder in Shane’s Ridge. I’ve never been there but my Mama says it’s a dump and Junebug’s got to share it with three brothers and a mama and daddy who are also brother and sister. I hear tell that’s a particular McCrady family tradition. So, as I was saying, some people just don’t stand a chance in life. I feel for her so much but at the same time, she flips my stomach cause she’s crawling with lice. You can see them, if you dare get close enough, nestling in her superfine white blonde hair, going about their daily lice business of sucking blood and shitting out eggs for more baby lice.