“Some desires reach beyond social spheres,” he said, all proud, as if his thievery and dishonesty had simply been a ploy to band us campers together—jocks, geeks, trash, dickheads—to take our minds off the scorching August heat.
You can’t break up with Sam at brunch, because you’re so happy to be alive. Happy, even though you and Sam are at the hospital cafeteria, you poking at some gelatinous egg concoction, him staring at a Styrofoam cup of light roast that’s been burning since 6 am.
Your first sentence: You can’t break up with Sam at brunch, because you’re so happy to be alive.
300 words. Due 10/15, midnight.
It was a three-uncle job. One to hold my brother, one to hold my mother, one to hold the knife. My brother’s penis was tiny and tinged orange in the light of the stained glass, dangling out like the pale nub of a baby carrot. What could be left after they cut some off?
First sentence:It was a three-uncle job.
Due Date: Wednesday, September 17th, 11:59 PM
Length: 300 words
I had a job, a small one, navigating and archiving the Google Plus pages of the dead, marking them closed, adding those who fought in the Silicon War to the memorial circle. I liked to imagine their brains as humming circuits, at rest in the little oval.