Her laughter stopped abruptly and her brown eyes caught his off-guard. She held his eyes through his terror with a steady and confidence gaze that contradicted and complemented her youthful brightness and pushed him further into fear. Then, “Daddy,” she asked, “why don’t you tell me you love me?”
Let's live up to this interpretation of Hazlitt's call and write a story about our hatreds. I know that emotion is hard to control when we start talking about our fragile core, but spiritual growth necessitates vulnerability.
Write a full story in less than three sentences. Fact, fiction, whatever. If I like it, I'll ask for your permission to rewrite the story to be posted next week. HOLY COW BEST PRIZE EVAR ZOMG!?!?
Ms. Young smiles at me while I tremble in front of the class, my nerves suffering under a weird mix of terror and excitement. There’s only twelve students scattered amongst the tables in the classroom. I know everyone in here by name. I shouldn’t feel scared of them.
This week’s theme: Cleanliness; also, a remix of Mani's Home Depot entry.
You feel yourself impelled towards crisis. You are a creature of habit: you prefer your side of the bed; you prefer a select group of restaurants; you think within the boundaries of a specific paradigm and refuse to consider others. You know this about yourself, and yet you feel impelled towards crisis. But that’s what your college years were for, those times dripping with the epiphanic.
This week’s theme: Summer; also, a remix of Claire's teapot entry.
I play this game with my friend Sadi (whose new book of poetry is coming out soon!) where we each come up with two words and the other person has to write out a poem using those words. Any form, inflection, mood, voice, or tense is allowable. Since in these games all forms of writing are allowed, I'm bumping the word requirement to three words. Public, degree, return
Publish in comments stories, no matter how polished or raw, according to the game of the week. If I like your story, I may ask you to gloss it into a short that I'll publish along with the next contest the following Thursday (or, perhaps, you permission for me to gloss the story for you.... I haven't quite worked that out yet....) Make the entries as short or as long as you want, and any genre is fair game: fiction, non-, and poetry.
He went outside and looked at all the other houses where they lived. Snow had fallen all over. Icicles were dangling from the homes of some of their neighbors. They were the neighbors who were lucky enough to have the wood to burn, and the heat their fires made escaped up through the roofs and melted the snow there, making the icicles possible.