“Where were you last night?”

Mary, scared and uncomfortable, ignored the question.  She looked at the mirror on the wall, wondering who was behind it.  She had never been in an interrogation room, but she had seen enough cop shows to know somebody was listening on the other side.

“Where were you last night?” the detective asked again, slower, so Mary picked up every word.

“Why do you keep calling me, Mary?” she asked, wrapping her left arm around her chest, trying to find some comfort, understanding.   Her right hand sat awkwardly handcuffed to the chair.

When the police found her car on the side of the road, wrapped around a tree, all she was wearing was a bath robe.  She was unconscious, with multiple face and head wounds.  When she finally woke she was unable to explain the gun on the seat beside her, or her dead husband back at home.

The detective rolled his eyes, growing impatient.  “Look lady, your name is Mary.  It says so right here on your licence,” he said, holding up her wallet.

Mary?  Mary?  Is that my wallet?  What am I doing here?  

“I told you I don’t know what happened last night, or where I was,” Mary answered, tears welling in her eyes.  “I just want to go home.”

“Do you know where your home is?”

Mary’s eyes were searching.  She could feel the answer, but it wouldn’t finalize in her mind or come out of her mouth.

“No,” she said, sobbing.

The detective threw up his hands.  There was a buzz at the door and it opened.  A woman came in and sat down across from Mary.

“Mary, I am Doctor Thompson,” she said, handing Mary some tissues.

Mary took them, cautiously, and began wiping her cheeks.  “I already saw the doctor.”

“I’m a different kind of doctor.   You have been through quite a traumatic experience; I want to help.”

Mary pointed at the mirror with her free hand, still holding the tissues, “They keep saying my name is Mary and that I killed my husband.  But…but.”  She searched for the words.  She could not remember, but she did not want it to be true.

Doctor Thompson opened up an envelope and slid some pictures across the table, lining them up so Mary could see.  “Do you recognize the woman in these pictures?”

Mary leaned over and looked at the three pictures on the table.  The woman in the pictures was wearing a white gown and looked like she had been beaten.  Gashes over her eyes, swollen lip, and bruises on her throat and cheeks.

Mary looked up into the mirror and ran her hand across her face.  She had bruises and cuts, but they were different than the ones in the pictures.  But there was no mistaken.

“This looks like me,” she said, puzzled.  “But these weren’t taken last night.”

Doctor Thompson removed the pictures and said, “No, Mary, these were taken six months ago, after you made a call to 9-1-1.  Do you remember that?”

A trigger fired in Mary’s brain and a flood of pictures ran through her minds eye.  Not everything, but most everything, came back, including all the feelings and emotions.

The hurt.

The fear.

The promises.  The broken promises.

And ultimately, the revenge.

The one thing that did not come back, this time, was the guilt.

Mary situated herself in the chair and said, trying to look confused, “No, I don’t remember that.”

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First sentence of this story submitted by Lana K. It received the most votes for sentences submitted the week of September 24, 2012.  

Please leave comments below on if you liked the direction I took the story, or if you would have personally went a different way.  I would love to know!

He always wondered what the initials ‘XAQI’ stood for that were tattooed on his father’s arm, and today he would find out.

“Sampson, do you have the money?” Marco asked.   Alone, unarmed, and staring down a low life and his minion in a run down alley was not how Sampson wanted to spend his Thursday morning.

But all roads had led here, and he was sick of traveling.

“Yeah, I got the money,” Sampson said, opening his jacket up to flash some of the cash.

Marco grinned and motioned for his henchman to open the trunk of the car.  Sampson looked around, to see if they were alone.  It seemed like it.

“You know how long it took me to find this for you?” Marco said as his partner lifted the trunk.  “I had to use every connection I had in town.  But,” he said, motioning for Sampson to come closer, “your sob story intrigued me and the money was right.  What’s not to like, eh?”

Sampson ignored him and reached in to the trunk to lift the cover.

A steel box.  Ordinary in size, but on one side was a row of buttons, one for each letter of the alphabet.  Was this really it?  He looked at Marco concerned.

“Hey, believe me; I tried to open the stupid thing.  I can be trusted to a point,” Marco said with a wicked grin.  “But if you got the combination to that then you are smarter than me.  I ain’t never seen anything like it.”

“I am smarter than you,”  Sampson said, quickly drawing his gun.  There were two quick, loud pops that echoed off the alley.

He picked up the case.  It was lighter than he expected.  Forgetting everything around him, he took a deep breath and moved his fingers over the letters.  He hovered over the ‘X’ and then, holding his breath, pushed it.

Nothing happened.  He pushed it again.  Again, nothing.  Flustered, he threw the case back into the trunk.

He turned away from the car, hands in the air.

“For the love of…how many times are we going to do this take?  Can somebody from props please get the stupid case to work.”

“Cut!” came a loud call from down the alley, where a film crew was sitting.  The director got up from his chair, rubbing his eyes, exhausted.  “Tammy, seriously, didn’t you just change out the cases.”

“Sorry,” Tammy replied, running on the set, past ‘Marco’ and ‘the henchman’, swapping out the old case for the new one.

“I don’t know why I agreed to this stupid movie anyway,” ‘Sampson’ said, continuing his agitated monologue.  “The whole plot revolves around that stupid tattoo and we’re going to string the audience along for…” he stopped to check his script, “eighty-eight pages before it’s even revealed.  And then to have such a let down.  The audience is going to be so livid when they find out what the letters stand for.  What a waste.”

“Are you done yet?” the director asked, motioning back to the set.

‘Sampson’ took another deep breath.  “Fine, let’s go.”

“Alright, everybody ready?  Places everyone and quiet on the set.”  The actors were in position to start the scene again.

“And…action!”

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First sentence of this story submitted by Justin Y. It received the third most votes for sentences submitted the week of September 17, 2012.  

Please leave comments below on if you liked the direction I took the story, or if you would have personally went a different way.  I would love to know!

The bank teller read the note the little girl handed him: ‘giv me all yur munee and no body gets hert.’

Henry read the note again and looked at the girl.  She wore a pink dress, two dark braids that hung down the sides of her head, a very innocent smile, and a backpack.  She was the only person in his line.

He chuckled, uncomfortably, and readjusted his glasses.  He looked around the bank for anything out of the ordinary.  Everything looked normal.  The teller to his left had one person in line.  The teller to his right had two.  The security guard, Malcolm, was calmly waiting by the door to let customers in and out.

“Did somebody ask you to give this note to me?”

The little girl’s smile quickly dropped and she gave Henry a hard stare.  She reached into her pocket, pulled out another note, and gave it to Henry.  Ignoring him, she then pulled out a piece of gum from her other pocket, unwrapped it, put it in her mouth and started chewing impatiently.

Henry opened the next note: ‘no reelee put the munee in a bag and giv it to me NOW!’

Henry laughed again and looked at the girl, who had switched her backpack around to the front.  Her hand was sticking inside the bag, as if she was holding something, waiting to pull it out.

“Okay, look little girl.  Your little game has been fun, but what you are doing can get you into a whole lot of trouble.  It’s not right.  I know you are just playing, but I need to know what your name is and who your mom and dad are so…”

The little girl was holding a gun.  He looked closer.   It looked real.  His heart sank and his blood froze.  This was not happening.

He looked around, mouth open, to see if anybody else was watching.

Everyone else was oblivious.

He looked back at the girl who was holding her finger to her lips, telling him to be quiet.  She gently put the gun back in the bag.

Henry couldn’t move.  He stood, staring.  She widened her eyes and raised her brow, as if to ask him to hurry up.

Henry gently reached down and opened the till.  Methodically he started producing cash by the fistful on the counter.  As quickly as he put it down, the girl easily moved it into her book bag.  When the till was empty he looked at the girl and raised his hands.  No more.

She zipped her bag up and slung it on her back.  She looked at him and gave him a smile of thanks and then blew a huge bubble.

Pop.

Henry flinched, and wiped the sweat from his brow.  The little girl smiled again and then walked toward the exit.

“Have a nice day, young lady,” Malcolm said, opening the door for her.

“I will,” Henry heard her reply before walking out.

Henry looked at the two notes and the empty till.  Running his fingers through his hair, he tried to rationalize what had just happened.

“Are you open?” an elderly woman asked, appearing at his window.

He let out another, uncomfortable chuckle.

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First sentence of this story submitted by Trey G. It received the second most votes for sentences submitted the week of September 17, 2012.  

Please leave comments below on if you liked the direction I took the story, or if you would have personally went a different way.  I would love to know!

There are some stories that are never told and then there are the ones that are retold throughout the ages, this is one.

“What do you know of the fire?” Malin asked, removing the stick out of the circled blaze.  He held it just close enough so his young grandson, Reto, could see the flame dance at the tip.  The flame was large enough to swirl shadows of the boy’s necklace onto his bare chest.

Reto watched the flicker, mesmerized.  “It came from above,” the boy said, pointing to the sky.  “One of the night fires fell and burned everything in it’s path.  It wanted a new home.”

Malin nodded, pleased with the boy’s answer.  “Do you know why it wanted a new home?” the old man asked, putting the stick back into the pile of logs that were burning.

Reto considered the question carefully.  He finally shook his head, eager.

Again, Malin was pleased.    He removed the stick again from the fire, the tip burning still.  He picked up another stick at his side and held it in his other hand.

Malin pointed the stick with the flame at the end toward the sky and said, “Up in the dark, fire was alone.  By itself it burned and would one day turn black and cold.”  He slowly lowered the flame down to the other stick, Reto’s eyes watching every movement.  “It left the sky to come to us.”

Malin brought the tips of the two sticks together.  The heat crackled and popped, until both tips were flaming bright.

Reto smiled.

Malin handed one of the sticks to his grandson.

“That was a long time ago that the fire came to us.  It gave itself to us because it would rather share itself and live than stay alone and die,” Malin said, looking at Reto intently.

The young boy held the stick firmly as the flame danced on the end.  “I think I understand grandfather.”

Malin nodded, satisfied, and with his grandson sat and watched the fire continue to burn.

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First sentence of this story submitted by Toni S. It received the most votes for sentences submitted the week of September 17, 2012.  

Please leave comments below on if you liked the direction I took the story, or if you would have personally went a different way.  I would love to know!

Little Robert sadly looked on as the world he loved got smaller and smaller.

“It’s okay, Mr. Pepper,” he said into the ear of his ragged, stuffed zebra.  His dad had given it to him on his first birthday.  “Mama says it’s going to be better at the new place.”

Mr. Pepper gave a blank stare with no encouragement.

Robert had grown up a lot in the last four months and he knew he needed Mr. Pepper now, more than ever.  As he looked out the wide, back window of the Ford wagon, all he understood in his six years of life was rolling past.

“You remember what I said?” his mama asked, looking in the rear view mirror, stack after stack of laundry baskets riding along as passengers.  She still looked tired, as usual, but there was a weight that seemed to be lifting with each house they passed.

His eyes were starting to tear up, so he wiped them quick.

“You said it’s going to be better.”

“And what else?” she continued, turning past Marshall’s Corner Store.  Through the large window panes Robert saw all the boys from the neighborhood, huddled around the new arcade game.   He wasn’t allowed to go to Marshall’s by himself – not yet.  When he turned eight.

“You said I’m not suppose to cry,” Robert answered.

“Good boy.”

The old, brown car found it’s way into the local traffic of Main Street and eventually onto the highway.  Off to the side he saw his school glide by and in no time it was a blur in the distance.

Robert turned his head to look out of the other window and watch the cars pass.  He wiped his cheek again and squeezed Mr. Pepper harder.

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First sentence of this story submitted by Brian T. It received third most votes for sentences submitted the week of September 10, 2012.  

Please leave comments below on if you liked the direction I took the story, or if you would have personally went a different way.  I would love to know!

Here’s the thing about lying: it works. And that’s the truth.

At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Mr. Senator, you have thirty more seconds,” the moderator says.

Why do they make these podiums so small?  Where are those stupid notes?

“Yes, of course I am for a repeal of the bill,” I begin.  I can’t even remember what bill they are talking about.  Just look at the camera and be bold.

“During my term, we single-handedly fought to keep this bill off of the floor.  It is only because of my opponent’s party,” I answer, pointing in his direction, “that we have this bill and have to waste valuable tax-payer money trying to repeal it in the first place.”

I glimpse to the right of the moderator at Nick, my campaign manager.  He gives me a nod.

The discussion turns to my opponent and I have time to wipe my brow and a take a drink.  I don’t think it’s possible that these blasted lights could be hotter.  Three debates down and three more to go.

I can’t stand debates.

But my solid lead from six years ago is long gone and I’ve got to at least look like I’m putting up a fight.  Nick says it’s unfortunately going to come down to character.

I guess that’s better than worrying about issues.  I think I have my opponent on character.

At least I hope I do.

But even if I don’t, at least I have more experience.

“Mr. Senator,” the moderator says to me again, “you have a minute for rebuttal.”

I take another quick drink.  The lights are getting hotter.

“It would be easy for me to stand here and let my opponent get a free pass on what he just said, but everything he said is just empty promises.  He has nothing to back it up.  How can we know that if he is elected he will do the things he is saying he will do?”

Pause for effect.

“We don’t!  He is inexperienced and we don’t know what his belief system is or what he will fight for.  But I stand here today and promise the people, who I have fought for, that I will continue to fight for them so that there will be a brighter future.”

The moderator interrupts.  “So are you saying, Mr. Senator, that if you are elected, that you can say without question that the people will be better off than if they vote for your opponent?”

Another pause, but not for effect.

A deep breath and a wide smile.

“Yes I can, and that’s the truth.”

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First sentence of this story submitted by Lana K. It received the second most votes for sentences submitted the week of September 10, 2012.  

Please leave comments below on if you liked the direction I took the story, or if you would have personally went a different way.  I would love to know!

It was the last thing in the world he’d consider, and the first thing he’d run away from, but he was in a strange place, starving, and no other option had presented itself.

He stayed low to the ground, watching it.  His stomach growled with anticipation, yet his mind continued the compelling argument.

You can’t eat that.

He shook his head, and the thought, out of his mind.

The creature stood directly in front of him, waiting, clueless, rummaging through the debris left behind from the plane crash.

Somehow a smile of irony slid across his lips as he thought of his wife’s last words before leaving the house to go to the airport, “Make sure you take your emergency kit and put it back on the plane.”

He had been flying all his life.  Single prop engine Cessna’s since the age of nineteen.  It was standard procedure to trade out the items in the survival kit every so often.  He had taken it home to restock and then brought it back to the hanger, but left it in the trunk of the car.

Before his last flight, he had never flown without his survival kit.

Before his last flight, he had never come close to crashing.

Poetic.

Now he was forty-two, alone, in the middle of nowhere.  He kept telling himself he was just lucky to be alive, but that only worked for the first few days.  The thirst, hunger and fatigue were getting to him, not only physically.  He was starting to think irrationally.

He needed to eat and the closest thing that resembled food that he had seen in four days was ten yards in front of him.

You can’t eat that.

Yes.  Yes he could.  And he would, somehow.

He reached to his side for the makeshift spear and held it tight in his hands.

He moved closer and the animal remained.  Closer still and it raised it’s head for a moment and then went back to searching the debris.

Lunging, he rammed the spear and hit his mark.  Whaling and shrieking the creature fought, briefly.  He pushed the spear deeper, choking it more, and waited it out.

Then there was silence.  The beast lay motionless, a small pool of blood around the wound.  He poked the animal again for good measure.

Dead.

He didn’t know how it would taste, but he knew it would be the best meal he ever had, even if it might be his last.

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First sentence of this story submitted by Justin Y. Voted as top submission for week of September 10, 2012.  

This is my very first ‘Sentence to Start’.  Please leave comments below on if you liked the direction I took the story, or if you would have personally went a different way.  I would love to know!