Not all lawyers are good writers

Res ipsa loquitur. Opening paragraphs from finalists in The 7th Annual NYLJ Fiction Writing Contest:

Metaphorically speaking:

As my hand grasped the old brass doorknob of number seven Second Street, my heart raced and pounded like the hooves of the thoroughbreds racing around Saratoga Racetrack. I knew the law. I had a diploma to prove it, but I did not know what to expect on my first day as an attorney at a law office. I turned the knob.

Confused about commas:

As I lie in bed, tears dripping off the side of my cheek, Sammy walks in the front door. “What timing” I thought. I muster up the energy to speak, and in a broken voice “hey babe.” Sammy puts his bag on the ground, and walks over to the bed, sits on the side of the bed and kisses my forehead. I sniffle, but can’t speak. “How you doing babe?” he asks. I sniffle again. I look over at the wine bottle on the floor by the front door. “I hope he doesn’t ask me. I know it’s the second this week” I sigh to myself. “How are you?” I ask. It is so painful for me to speak, but he needs to know that I am thinking about him. I know he needs me to ask him. “Doin’ alright” he sighs.

The need to confess:

I have no idea why I’m about to tell you this. My story is not particularly flattering. In fact, when you finish it, you might hate me, and that’s ok, because most people do.

Short and sweet:

Sundown can’t come fast enough.

- posted by vera