so uh. i have this scrap of prose that's been sitting on my computer for approximately forever. take it, fondle it, make it yours. i don't care how you use it; just do something with it because lord knows i'm at a loss.
make it into any genre. put it at the beginning, the middle, the end--whatever. do as you please. and if you win, you will receive TEN critiques from me (on pieces of your choosing), as well as a (if i don't already watch you ). plus, y'know, the chance to collab with me that's totally a prize. (i'll feature a few runners up, etc, etc, etc. i'm so organized).
entries are due MARCH 3RD. post a link in the comments. they will be judged on: originality, technical skill, and of course, readability.
anyway, the scrap:
"July arrived with cicadas and a heatwave, scorched yellow grass coarse between her painted toes. The red polish is chipping, and Mariella thinks she will paint them again later. Perhaps purple, to match her new swimsuit; it is a fitted floral one-piece with a thick purple belt, the gold buckle glinting beneath the oppressive sunlight. A weary sigh escapes her dry lips; she would go in the pool, but she straightened her hair for an interview scheduled in the evening and doesn't want to go through the ordeal again. "Leon, baby, are you done?"
"No Mami!" He kicks his legs, splashing bright glittering water that looks bluer than any tropic ocean, a color that reminds Mariella of the cloudless sky overhead. "Just ten more minutes, I promise."
"You said that ten minutes ago." She waves dismissively when he giggles and dives underwater, pretending not to hear her. "Okay, okay. But you owe me favors, punk."
She sits on the concrete, burning the soft backs of her thighs. With a hiss, she dips her legs in the water, murky clouds of suntan oil shifting at the surface. Her husband will say something about the filter, but she sure he's bluffing; he knows less about the pool than she does.
Absently, Mariella smiles. Geoff will be home soon, so she can start getting ready. Ever since they traded the circular above-ground pool for the rectangular in-ground pool, it's been impossible to separate Leon from the water. He's only six, but he's a born swimmer. He would stay out all afternoon if she let him, until he was shivering and pruned and starving. Now, he's trying to touch the tiled bottom with both hands. "Baby, be careful."
He doesn't hear her, emerging with a gasp. "Mami! Mami, look!" He holds out a dead leaf, and she takes it between two fingers.
"Oh, uh, thank you. You're so kind." She makes a point to throw it into woodchips behind her, rolling her eyes. "Don't you laugh at me, boy. I'll come in there and beat you up." She balls her hands into fists, which only incites more laughter. "Punk."
Leon wades closer, wrapping his arms around her calf, resting his chin on her knee. "You're slippery. But uh, Mami. Mami. When's Daddy gonna be home?""