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.

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.

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.”

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.

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!