This month's contest was a little different. Writers were asked to submit a one-sentence pitch for their NaNoWriMo project, as well as the first 500 words. So, there are actually two winners this month!
Pitch for Humbly Yours, Juliet by Brieanna Wilkoff
For an assignment while reading Romeo and Juliet, a sophomore English class writes letters to Juliet asking for love advice, but the letters don't make it to Verona; they get posted online, then someone starts responding.
First 500 Words of Repairs by Thomas Brown
I circled past the house once. The narrow two-lane road in the hills didn’t have a single light on it. Multi-million dollar homes and nothing but a random garage light on a narrow gravel road to light the way. How the hell weren’t there more car accidents up here?
Red and stone, the facade of the house was little more than the two car garage and a path to the front door. I supposed there was more in the back; the money had to be attached to something.
I looked at my bag in the front seat, my repairs bag ready. Everything ready to go do the job. I parked in front of the garage and turned off the car. I stretched my arms out, grabbing the wheel.
LA was a helluva place to work. It had been an hour and a half of driving. Waze had bounced me around like I was a bagman trying to deliver a ransom in some Hollywood thriller. I got out with my bag and set it on the hood and stretched again.
Lynne had said that if I left, that she wouldn’t be there when I got home. Twenty years and we had hit a wall. My job kept me away too much. But when I was home, I wasn’t really there, either. One day I couldn’t remember the last time I told my wife I loved her. We stopped having a kiss at bedtime. The next thing I knew we weren’t eating in the same room and she didn’t have her ring on any more.
When did that happen?
I asked her where our happiness had gone? She asked me when was the last time I was happy? At all.
I didn’t know.
We had a fight. The fight. The one that laid it all bare. She cried, so did I. We needed to get help, to talk about what had happened and why neither of us ever said a damned thing.
Then the phone rang. A job, a repair job.
The tears had made her mascara run, and she pointed at me. “No. If you leave again, I’m not waiting. Not sitting around again. I’m not getting older and waiting for you.”
I grabbed my bag from the closet, already prepared. I stared at her and asked her to wait. But for what? She was right. When was the last time either of us were happy?
So here I am, going to work. An empty house waiting already in the past.
Shake it off.
I grabbed my repair bag and stepped to the door and knocked.
He opened it all smiles.
“Yer not Trixie, were the fuck is—”
I pulled the silenced Ruger .22 from my bag, pressed it to his heart, and fired twice. The bullets bounced around inside, but weren’t going any farther. I grabbed the front of his robe and guided him to the ground. He was dead before his back touched the cold marble. Time to wrap up the repair, decide what to do next. What came next?