So here, NOT in any particular order, are our 5 semifinalists.
1. Hoyle
2. Kelley
3. Meyer
4. Bailey
5. Yost

Congratulations, and expect an instructional email from me no later than tomorrow morning.

ONLY one more week, folks. Tell your friends, polish your entries, cross your fingers, etc.

“Remember when we stole pizza from the Bluebells? This is the same thing.”
Violet trudged through the mud, her boots suctioning the moist ground.
“No, Kath. We were living on a diet of tinfoil bananas. This here,” Violet dropped her hold on the makeshift satin rope, spinning in a circle to encompass the full madness of what they were doing, “will land us in a lot more trouble than cleaning out the latrines.”
Kath yanked her taffeta dress up her thighs, then froze. “Don’t look now,” she whispered, “but trouble just showed up- all six feet of him.”

Lathaniel Montgomery stood outside the auditorium doors trying to quell the plague of grasshoppers gnawing his gut. His throat opened; he felt like puking. How was he going to manage being in an audience full of people, full of their smells, full of their memories?

He hated how nothing in his life was normal. He hated the fucked up sequence of genetic code that enlarge the olfactory regions of his brain. He hated that he smelled everything. And he especially hated the ability to smell the energy imprints of people’s memories. Memories that could overwhelm him and annihilate his reality.

My mother lost her mind today, and I’m going to hell.

Some people call it North Ridge High School, but believe me, it’s hell. I drive past it every week on the way to my counselor’s office.

Sparkly girls, whose cheeks have all been kissed by the sun, spill out its front doors. Boys with shaggy haircuts surround them, toting lacrosse sticks and backpacks slung over one shoulder. They look comfortable in their skin, like they walked off the cover of Seventeen or out of a Hollister advertisement.

“Emilie.” Mom’s voice interrupts my mental rant, and I flinch.

No doubt about it. She was going to run.
Aidan groaned. Yep. Because that’s what happened when you volunteered to do a favor for a coworker, he admitted. Not even for his partner – just a fellow marshal in their field office wanting a few days vacation. “Just keep an eye on her, Aidan,” Ed had requested. “No big deal. Seems a little antsy.”
Antsy. Yeah, right. Antsy was drumming your fingertips on the steering wheel while waiting for a red light to change. Grace Anderson blew past antsy like an F-4 tornado bearing down on a trailer park.

Cassidy Brynn had experienced many firsts in the past two years since the car accident. Her first night home from the hospital. Her first steps for the second time in her life. Her first visit to Jordan and Skylar’s graves.
And here she was again—another first. First time in the bridal shop where she’d bought the wedding dress she never had the chance to wear.
The pain in her leg, her back, and her past tugged her toward the exit, but she gripped the armrest of the chair, anchoring herself in a sea of sparkling, satin fabric.

Evan preferred to hide in the spotlight. Openness offered the perfect camouflage. People rarely scrutinized events unfolding in front of their eyes. Visibility inspired reliability. A late afternoon meeting was less likely to raise eyebrows than a private caucus at a more discreet hour.
Evan’s attention darted around his pub. His lair. His domain. They were alone.
Senator Walter Ramsey’s hand trembled as he lifted the glass, but his firm tone and volume carried an undeniable air of pride. “Never tempt your ambition. You won’t ever recover from even the slightest slip, or hope to satisfy the hunger you awakened.”