My butt, a pit bull’s butt, and the butt of a Great Dane are pushed together to form a warped ellipses: three dots alternating between fur and purple polyester shorts. We’re sagging into the crevice of the massive, fluffy couch that will surely smell like dogs for a month. The pit bull is Fester and the Great Dane is Ripley, and after four days of pet sitting, they have nosed my heart back and forth between their oversized paws. Continue reading
Author: Hannah (page 7 of 8)
Dear Falcons fans,
Here’s the thing: It is more than a football game. People like to whittle the importance of the Super Bowl into a rational, bite-sized portion of, “It’s just a game. There’s always next year.” And the second sentence is true. (In fact, the almost necessary inclusion of that second sentence proves that the first is false. If it were just a game, it wouldn’t be imperative that you look toward next year with ferocity and despair.) But it’s no secret why NFL teams have such a huge, passionate following: They are your home. Continue reading
I recently purchased a book called The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Writing Exercises That Transform Your Fiction by Brian Kiteley. Today, I completed Exercise #2, “Imperative.” Here’s the core of the prompt:
“Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands: Do this; do that; contemplate the rear end of the woman who is walking out of your life. This exercise will be a sort of second-person narration (a you is implied in the imperative).”
500 words
I recently purchased a book called The 3 A.M. Epiphany: Uncommon Writing Exercises That Transform Your Fiction by Brian Kiteley. Today, I completed Exercise #1, “The Reluctant I.” Here’s the core of the prompt:
“Write a first person story in which you use the first person pronoun (I or me or my) only two times–but keep the I somehow important to the narrative you’re constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in himself than in what he is observing.”
600 words
I became a Charlottean shortly after I learned how to walk. It was preceded by a two-day drive across the country’s flat middle, which was preceded by my mother dropping an armful of groceries in a Walmart parking lot in Omaha, Nebraska. It was punishingly cold. Plastic bags scudded across the asphalt like arctic tumbleweeds, and my mother looked at my brother’s and my ruddy little faces, thought about her lifetime of North Carolina summers, and knew she had to go back. Continue reading
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