Final Submission to NPR's Three Minute Fiction, Round 8

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

The family assembled themselves around the table, puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to quite fit, deceptive gaps appearing between otherwise harmonious links.

“Grace, you’re late for dinner. I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes.” Her mother appeared behind her, heaving a platter of spaghetti and setting it in the middle of the table, a slight tremor in her hands. Sarah avoided her daughter’s eyes, and sat down next to her husband.

“I didn’t hear you.” Grace wedged herself between her older brothers, leaned forward to eye her father through her hair, and tried to determine if he appeared different, diminished.

As her mother began the dinner prayer, Grace chewed on the inside of her cheek, worrying pieces of skin from the delicate surface.

“Did you have any trouble with your Trig homework, Seth?” Sarah inquired of her eldest son.

“No, it was fine. Took me way less time to finish it than yesterday.”

“Good! I hope—“

“Hey Dad, is Trevor coming over soon? He promised to bring those pictures of Costa Rica for my freshman geography report.” As Grace interrupted her mother, Sarah fell silent, her throat convulsing, and picked up the salad tongs.

“I don’t know when Trevor is coming over honey.  We’re elbow deep in that project at work, and he’s doing a lot of the footwork for the research we’re gathering. He’s always running around town. I imagine he’s plain worn out by the time we’re done for the day. I’ll ask him about the pictures though, alright?” Jason winked at his daughter.

“You are both going to make yourselves sick, working so hard, Jason. Are you taking the vitamins I’ve been packing in your lunch?” Sarah’s concerned tone warred with the manic glint in her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m taking the horse pills.”

Grace watched as her mother tried to grasp the strands of control she cherished so dearly. Sarah was a true template of the suburban housewife. Grace had never seen her with wispy strands of hair pulled out of a disheveled ponytail, nor had she ever seen her mother lounge in a threadbare pair of old sweats from college.  Perfectly coiffed and perfectly scheduled; Mrs. Cleaver could have taken lessons. Until today.

Grace arriving home early from the Labor Day camping trip with a friend was not on Sarah’s schedule. Having Grace walk in on Sarah with Trevor was not part of Sarah’s planned activities for the day.

Grace tasted blood in her mouth. It was tangy, and mixed with the bile she fought to keep down as she watched her mother chat with each piece of the ill-fitting puzzle sitting at the table. Watched as closely as she could, memorizing the way her mother squeezed the tongs to serve a helping of salad to her brother Brian, the way her mother gave a close-lipped smile to her father at his question of whether the dry cleaning had been picked up today. Memorized her mother’s game.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Grace?”

“I finished Anna Karenina. You were right. It was hard, but it was worth it. I learned a lot.”

Sarah’s eyes met Grace’s, as they stared at each other over the family table, the table that had fed, entertained, and gathered the puzzle pieces together on so many nights like this one.

“I—I’m glad. That you finished it, I mean. But,” Sarah’s marble voice cracked, the fissure in her exterior shell almost imperceptible. ”I’m sorry. That it was hard. I’m—I’m sorry.”

First attempt at a submission to NPR's Three Minute Fiction

Ok, so I'm going to try to submit something to NPR's Three Minute Fiction. For those who don't know, they do a contest every so often, where they have a published writer come on board and give a prompt of some sort, and the submissions must be 600 words or less. Supposedly you can read 600 words in 3 minutes. The prompts are usually a sentence or some words that must appear in the story. Here is what this session's rules are:

--For Round 8, Urrea wants you to start your story with this sentence:

"She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door."

In case you want to see the entire rules for yourself, here is the link to NPR's Three Minute Fiction, round 8:


http://www.npr.org/2012/03/10/148251671/three-minute-fiction-round-8-she-closed-the-book


I've done a previous round, but just for my writer's group. I didn't submit it. This time I'm going to submit to the website. Since its almost midnight, what I'm posting here may not be the final product I submit, but its a start. Its due by March 25th.


And with that being said, here is my first attempt at round 8's submission. 

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door.

The family assembled themselves around the table, puzzle pieces that didn’t seem to quite fit, deceptive gaps appearing between otherwise harmonious links.

“Grace, you’re late for dinner. I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes.” Her mother appeared behind her, heaving a platter of spaghetti and setting it in the middle of the table, a slight tremor in her hands. Sarah avoided her daughter’s eyes, and sat down next to her husband.

“I didn’t hear you.” Grace wedged herself into the space between her older brothers, and then leaned forward to eye her father through her hair. Does he know?

As her mother sat beside her father and began the dinner prayer, Grace chewed on the inside of her cheek, worrying pieces of skin from the delicate surface.

“Did you have any trouble with your algebra homework, Seth?” Sarah inquired of her eldest son.

“No, it was fine. Took me way less time to finish it than yesterday.”

“Good! I hope—“

“Hey Dad, is Trevor coming over soon? He promised to bring those pictures of Costa Rica for my freshman geography report.” As Grace interrupted her mother, Sarah fell silent, convulsively swallowing and picking up the salad tongs to serve everyone.

“I don’t know when Trevor is coming over honey.  We’re elbow deep in that project at work, and he’s doing a lot of the footwork for the research we’re gathering. He’s always running around town. I imagine he’s worn out by the time we’re done for the day. I’ll ask him about the pictures though, alright?” Jason winked at his daughter.

“You are both going to make yourselves sick, working so hard, Jason. Are you taking the vitamins I’ve been packing in your lunch?” Sarah’s concerned tone warred with the manic glint in her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m taking the horse pills.”

Grace watched as her mother tried to grasp the strands of control she cherished so dearly. Sarah was a true template of the suburban housewife. Grace had never seen her with wispy strands of hair pulled out of a disheveled ponytail, nor had she ever seen her mother lounge in a threadbare pair of old sweats from college.  Perfectly coiffed and perfectly scheduled; Mrs. Cleaver could have taken lessons. Until today.

Grace arriving home early from the Labor Day camping trip with a friend was not on Sarah’s schedule. Having Grace walk in on Sarah with Trevor was not part of Sarah’s planned activities for the day.

Grace tasted blood in her mouth. It was tangy, and mixed with the bile she fought to keep down as she watched her mother chat with each piece of the ill-fitting puzzle sitting at the table. Watched as closely as she could, memorizing the way her mother squeezed the tongs to serve a helping of pasta to her brother Brian, the way her mother gave a close-lipped smile to her father at his question of whether the dry cleaning had been picked up today. Memorized her mother’s game.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Grace?”

“I finished Anna Karenina. You were right. It was hard, but it was worth it. I learned a lot.”

Sarah’s eyes met Grace’s, as they stared at each other over the family table, the table that had fed, entertained, gathered the puzzle pieces together on so many nights like this one.

“I—I’m glad. That you finished it, I mean. But,” Sarah’s marble voice cracked, the fissure in her exterior shell almost imperceptible. ”I’m sorry. That it was hard. I’m—I’m sorry.”