Apparently I am off my game this week!
This post should have been up on Tuesday, so as I sat around going, “I wonder why nobody submitted any sentences this week?”, seems I am the one to blame.
Tsk-tsk.
So, send me your sentences for this week.
If you are new, see details here.
Hope you are having an AWESOME Thursday (or whatever day you read this):-)
She knew the story so well she could actually quote most of it, but for some reason, this time, it sounded totally different to her.
The students in the class were staring, looking at her oddly. Something wasn’t right.
“Are you okay, Beth?” the teacher asked, starting to rise.
Beth wanted to speak, she could feel the words inside her, but she couldn’t say anything. She nodded and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
“Well,” the teacher said, hesitantly, “why don’t you start again?”
Taking a deep breath, Beth lifted the poster board and started to recite her story, again.
“When he was little, his name was Malcolm Little. But then he got bigger and got…different…and then there were sheets and shotguns and…”
The room started spinning and she wanted to puke. The last thing Beth saw before she hit the floor was the teacher and a couple of students on the front row running over, trying to catch her.
On the floor, she felt like she was dreaming, hearing the conversations around her.
“Call the school nurse, quick!”
“Look at how pale she is!”
“Somebody get me a jacket or a shirt for her head!”
“What’s wrong with her eyes?”
While Beth’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, her body started convulsing, violently. The students and teacher backed away as she lay shaking, not knowing what to do. Gentle sobbing started among some of the students at the brutal site.
Then it stopped.
Beth’s body lay, peaceful, eyes closed, as if she were sleeping. The group around here, breathing heavy and uncertain, started moving closer to see if she was okay.
Beth’s eyes opened suddenly and the group flinched.
Then she screamed, loud and piercing, everyone in the room covering their ears.
When her body started rising off the floor, floating, those who were slowly backing away started to run out of the classroom, screaming. Other students fled from their chairs past Beth, now hanging in the air as if suspended by a string, had and feet dangling, still omitting a piercing scream.
The teacher backed up to her desk, dread and fright in her eyes. The few students that remained seemed paralyzed, unable to move.
In an instance Beth’s eyes closed and her screaming stopped. Her body fell hard to floor, but before it touched the laminate, it disappeared.
All that was left in the room were random bursts of terror and tears, piercing through a dreaded silence. The teacher walked over to where Beth’s body had been.
It was not there.
She looked at the students. They looked back, blank.
The assistant principal appeared in the hallway, out of breath.
“What is going on in here?”
The teacher turned to him, “She just…disappeared.”
First sentence of this story submitted by Toni S. It received the second 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!
A friend of mine who is becoming a more serious writer asked me this week, “I want to find a book on writing, can you suggest one.”
I could and I did. I didn’t even have to think about it.
If you only read one book on writing, I suggest it should be (aptly named), On Writing by Stephen King.
You should actually read more than that, but if you could only read one, it should be that one.
Why?
Is it because I have a maniacal love affair with Mr. King and his writing and take everything he says to be the gospel truth? No. In fact, I have only read a handful of his books in my life time (and some of them I really didn’t like…don’t tell).
No, it’s because in this ‘memoir on the craft’ Stephen King does exactly what any good writer should do…he makes you feel a connection to the main character. In this case, the main character is him.
As opposed to being a textbook or a ‘how to’ book on writing, we learn not by doing first, but by caring first. Stephen, in his own relaxed, inviting writing style, invites you to care about him, his writing career, his family, and ultimately your own writing dreams and goals. Then he is able to provide insight that is beneficial to help with those dreams and goals.
Besides the fact that I now have a deeper respect for Stephen King the man (he talks about his early days of writing, his family life, his almost fatal accident), I also have a love for Stephen King the writer. Some of the personal insights he shared that were of particular help to me on how to improve as a writer are:
– “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of.”
– “Mostly when I think of pacing, I go back to Elmore Leonard, who explained it so perfectly by saying he just left out the boring parts. This suggest cutting to speed the pace, and that’s what most of us end up having to do (kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings)…I got a scribbled comment that changed the way I rewrote my fiction once and forever. Jotted below the machine-generated signature of the editor was this note: “Not bad, but PUFFY. You need to revise for length. Formula: 2nd Draft = 1st Draft – 10%. Good luck.”
– “Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open. Your stuff starts out being just for you, in other words, but then it goes out. Once you know what the story is and get it right — as right as you can, anyway — it belongs to anyone who wants to read it. Or criticize it.”
It is truly one of the most fascinating books I have ever read. It changed me as a writer, because it changed me as a person. Ultimately, that’s what good writing has the potential to do, but only if we give a part of ourselves to it.
If you have not read it, get a copy – today!
If you have read On Writing, did it help you as a writer? How?
“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.”
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!
I can’t believe it’s already been 4 weeks…I really love the sentences, keep them coming!
Here are the top 10 sentences from last week (chosen randomly). Voting is open to anybody, so spread the word. If a sentence you submitted is on here, well then you definitely want to have your friends stop by and vote for it! Just give them this shortened link:
Vote for the one you think would make the BEST starting sentence to a story.
The sentence that gets the most votes will win a $5 ecard to Amazon!
The 3 sentences with the most votes will be my prompts for next week.
Voting ends Thursday, October 11th, at midnight.
Have fun!
Sentence to Start #4 – Top 10 Submissions (Oct 1 – 5, 2012)
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!”
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!
Congratulations to Lana K. for submitting the sentence that received the most votes this week!
Great job, Lana. Short, simple and intriguing! A $5 ecard to Amazon or B&N is on it’s way.
Here it is:
“Where were you last night?”
Whoa – sounds like somebody is in trouble! Lana’s sentence will be turned into a story for this coming Monday’s edition.
The sentences getting 2nd and 3rd place votes will be featured on Wednesday’s and Friday’s edition. Be sure to check back!
Second most votes:
She knew the story so well she could actually quote most of it, but for some reason, this time, it sounded totally different to her. (Submitted by Toni S.)
Third most votes:
About to enter the gates of Urquhart Castle, Rupert hobbles up to the entrance trying to adjust his headset for the tour, and yells out, “How do ye turn it down a bit?” (Submitted by Becky W.)
Title: The Warrior Heir
Author: Cinda Williams Chima
Genre: YA Fantasy
Description from Goodreads:
Before he knew about the Roses, 16-year-old Jack lived an unremarkable life in the small Ohio town of Trinity. Only the medicine he has to take daily and the thick scar above his heart set him apart from the other high schoolers. Then one day Jack skips his medicine. Suddenly, he is stronger, fiercer, and more confident than ever before. And it feels great – until he loses control of his own strength and nearly kills another player during soccer team tryouts.
Soon, Jack learns the startling truth about himself: he is Weirlind, part of an underground society of magical people who live among us. At their helm sits the feuding houses of the Red Rose and the White Rose, whose power is determined by playing The Game – a magical tournament in which each house sponsors a warrior to fight to the death. The winning house rules the Weir.
As if his bizarre heritage isn’t enough, Jack finds out that he’s not just another member of Weirlind – he’s one of the last of the warriors – at a time when both houses are scouting for a player.
Date I Finished Reading: July 17, 2012
My Rating: 3.5 of 5
My Review: (also on Goodreads, Amazon):
I wanted to LOVE this book so bad. The cover is awesome (and what originally drew me to it). The idea was intriguing.
Jack is a regular everyday teenager who just HAPPENS to have a lot of weird people that live on his street, including a caretaker named Nick Longbeard (really?) and Aunt Linda who pop in and out of his life. He also almost died when he was a baby and has a special medicine he has to take from this VERY unique Dr. from England who comes to check on him once a year, very herbal and granola like.
Jack is 17 and it’s the day of soccer tryouts and today of all days is the ONE day that Jack forgets to take his medicine….
Unfortunately, that’s mostly how the book starts and I had to roll my eyes already – a 17 year old who has never forgotten to take his medicine? Really?
Anyway. I don’t know. The writing was okay, but to me the biggest thing were the characters. I just didn’t really care about them. The author is trying to talk like a teenager and relate to teenagers…I just had a hard time buying. There were some interesting scenes and the story did progress, but there were a lot of plot holes and not a lot of development that pulled me in.
Also, the relationship between Jack and “the girl”; if that would have played out even semi-romantic or built better tension or made me want to root for them I would have enjoyed the book better. But nothing. A couple of pecks on the cheek, some hugs…it’s like there was no tension at all. With the story plot I guess I understand why she avoided it, but it could have been included so easily and made the story so much better (IMHO).
I did finish the book and the end did get a little more interesting. I promised myself about 75% of the way through that I was only going to give it 3 stars, but the last couple of chapters wrapped the book up better than I thought it would (except for the boy/girl plot) and set the stage up that I might actually want to read the second one, so I had to go with 3.5.
Not a horrible read and not a waste of time, but I didn’t consider it anything fresh or original.
Dear reader: What did you think of the book?
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.
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!
This week’s Sentence to Start story – The Fire – gave me a run for my money. Great job Toni S.!!!
What great sentences can everyone come up with for this week?
If you don’t know the details, click here. Basically, you submit a sentence that you think would make a great start to a story.
Then you, the readers, vote on the top 3. In coming weeks I will use those 3 as my writing prompts and we find out exactly where our imaginations can take us:-)
So enter away, share with friends, and be sure to check back next week to vote. You can leave me sentences in the comments below, on Facebook, GoodReads, or Twitter (I have a new Twitter account created just for this – @sentencetostart).
I will collect sentences until Friday at midnight.
Thanks again for your help and I look forward to reading everybody’s sentences!
Disclaimer:
By submitting a sentence(s) you agree that the sentence(s) submitted become the property of Christopher Sorensen to be used and/or altered in any manner whatsoever. You also acknowledge that you have no copyright claim whatsoever in any work derived from the sentence(s) you submit.
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