Romantic characters should stand out. They should be attractive, seductive and forceful. Their words and behavior should be so tantalizing, readers can't wait to turn the page. 

But they shouldn't be perfect.

Don't hesitate to reveal flaws and quirkiness. This not only endears them to your readers, it transforms them into believable human beings.  

CLEANED UP:
   One look at his blue eyes, his white smile, the cute little mole on his right cheek, and I knew I would do whatever he asked.

EXAMPLE:
   Darrin's sturdy bronze hands grabbed the reins. "Hold on to the saddle!" he shouted, pulling her horse close. When she had a firm grip, and the horses were almost touching, he leaned on the animal and calmed him instantly. 

CLEANED UP:
   Darrin's sturdy bronze hands grabbed the reins. "Hold on to the saddle!" he shouted, pulling her horse close. When she had a firm grip, and the horses were almost touching, he leaned on the animal and fell off his horse.  

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
without words you say it all.

Characters come in all shapes and sizes, and sometimes they come without a heartbeat. Given the proper circumstances, an ordinary inanimate object can exude as much charisma as a living breathing individual, and without resorting to anthropomorphism. It needn't speak, it needn't think, it needn't move—it simply has to be.

A most enviable position!

So choose your genre. Choose your voice. Choose your favorite writing beverage. Then go forth and construct a story in which an essential character happens to be a mirror.  

Grand Prize

$100

  Story published in The VERB

Story Opinion, also published in The VERB
($30 value)

 Signed copy of Smoke and Mirrors by Neil Gaiman

Get all the details at the Contest Cafe.

   "Charles, dear" said a voice from the garden. "Charles, dear Charles, one doesn't ask plain questions. There aren't such things."

They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox.

She approached just as Helen's letter had described her, trailing noiselessly over the lawn, and there was actually a wisp of hay in her hands. She seemed to belong not to the young people and their motor, but to the house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew that she worshipped the past, and that the instinctive wisdom the past can alone bestow had descended upon her—that wisdom to which we give the clumsy name of aristocracy.

High-born, she might not be. But assuredly she cared about her ancestors, and let them help her. When she saw Charles angry, Paul frightened and Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say: "Separate those human beings who will hurt each other most. The rest can wait." So she did not ask questions. Still less did she pretend that nothing had happened, as a competent society hostess would have done. She said: "Miss Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your room or to my room, whichever you think best. Paul, do find Evie, and tell her lunch for six, but I'm not sure whether we shall all be downstairs for it." And when they had obeyed her, she turned to her elder son, who still stood in the throbbing, stinking car, and smiled at him with tenderness, and without saying a word turned away from him towards her flowers.

"Mother," he called, "are you aware that Paul has been playing the fool again?"

"It is all right, dear. They have broken off the engagement."

"Engagement—!"

"They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put that way," said Mrs. Wilcox, stooping down to smell a rose.