Give me your best sentence.
Yep. That’s how.
The sentence can be about anything, in any style, just make it count. The person with the best sentence (judged by me, who knows little and is prone to fits of boredom and rage) will win Hobart #8 and the new Hobart Calendar.
Hobart 8 features writers from America and Canada. Batting for the Americans is, among others, Chris Bachelder, Tod Goldberg, Benjamin Percy, and Catherine Zeidler. The Canadian team includes Stephany Aulenback, David Bergen, Sheila Heti, and more.
The calendar contains photos of Jim Ruland, Aimee Bender, Benjamin Percy, and a final scene with Aaron Burch and Elizabeth Ellen.
Hot, right? Right!
What do you do now? Write the best sentence ever and submit it in the comments section of this post.
One sentence per person, please. Long sentences that are actually stories will be frowned upon, maybe even disqualified.
Deadline: January 20th. Winner will be announced here on the 25th.
Filed Under: Contests | Comment (17)
January 10th, 2008 at 4:03 pm
You what?
January 10th, 2008 at 4:19 pm
I had forgotten the once sacred name of my childhood, like an ex-Christian forgetting the Crucifixion.
January 10th, 2008 at 10:22 pm
Zablonsky straddled the hopscotch box on Helipad, wired for sound, his ambivalence fairly bubbling in Kevlar breast plate, and when he was sure the microphone could properly contain his Koan, he moaned, “Ahhh doan wanna change da world, jus gimme one more piece o’ dee a s s“–an incendiary thought, to be raining down on any throng-packed parking lot, which is when the thump-thump-thumping Blackhawk arrived, overhead, and a rail-thin sniper in the turret shot Zablonsky dead, dead.
January 11th, 2008 at 8:26 am
I realize I don’t want to say yes or no – but instead, I want to tell him that the battles of love are fought thus, with betrayals upon betrayals like a continuous volley that drive us further and further apart, until we are utterly lost.
January 11th, 2008 at 12:16 pm
He says something to her but the wind takes it and drags his voice to the street, then farther away, more than the length of a football field, for that’s how one measures these things and pulls it under a street cleaner, sweeping last year’s leaves under its wire brushes.
January 11th, 2008 at 2:51 pm
They are pale and bloodless leaves, silvered, hanging by thread-stalks, twisting like milk-teeth on their last rootlets, until they drop and chatter over the grass to pile in late confetti against the twin metal benches of Gwendolyn and Gwyneth Watkins, spinsters both.
January 11th, 2008 at 2:58 pm
I used to love you, but not for turnips now.
January 11th, 2008 at 9:30 pm
Truly has left nine messages on my boyfriend’s cell phone this morning saying she’s going to commit suicide if he doesn’t call her.
January 12th, 2008 at 9:41 am
On Disco Night, in the parking lot of the Hurly Girly where Mavis went to celebrate her fiftieth birthday with her friends Neal, Mimi and Chula, her exhausted ovary spit out its last good egg like a watermelon seed, hurling it through the ectoplasm in a straight shot to her aged fimbria, which wearily waved it on down the dusty tunnel of her Fallopian tube to encounter the teeming and eager sperm of Larry “Bud†Larson.
January 12th, 2008 at 11:34 am
Marinda was clipping thorns from a rose bush in the back yard when the cell phone rang; when she reached into her basket of gardening tools, groping for the receiver, her hand came first to the revolver, and she lifted it out and put the muzzle to her ear, naturally and without irony, as though the gun had been calling all along and she had no choice but to answer.
January 14th, 2008 at 12:37 pm
Me,myself,and you,yourself,are enough.
January 15th, 2008 at 3:18 am
From the moment your small light steps away, to the moment you return (on your feet? on their backs?), I will be here, Abidseun, crouched on colorless soil, breath sharp as memory, praying for history to forget itself.
January 15th, 2008 at 11:37 am
That Mart Vidkun, shiftless and lazy as ever, slouched in one of the padded chairs, chin on chest, pallid hands draped over his paunch with nowhere to go and nothing to do.
January 15th, 2008 at 1:38 pm
For a long time she watched him watching television, and wondered how, wondered why.
January 15th, 2008 at 3:09 pm
Death was on its way to pluck her from her misery and deliver her to eternity.
January 17th, 2008 at 6:06 pm
The floor drowned with her manly steps.
January 20th, 2008 at 3:44 pm
In the morning a chilly wind revealed a verse of flying geese.