The first paragraph, and I love it already:
A writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story. He will never forget the sweet poison of vanity in his blood and the belief that, if he succeeds in not letting anyone discover his lack of talent, the dream of literature will provide him with a roof over his head, a hot meal at the end of the day, and what he covets the most: his name printed on a miserable piece of paper that surely will outlive him. A writer is condemned to remember that moment, because from then on he is doomed and his soul has a price.
The boy pushed harder, and the girl swung even higher. The swingset in the park was old but sturdy. The steel chains from which the leather seat was suspended squeaked and creaked as the the girl reached the highest point of her trajectory and descended back towards her brother. Her feet were tucked under her, and she leaned forward, attempting instinctively to add more kinetic energy to the pendulum-like system.
She opened her eyes and couldn’t remember what day of the week it was. She was lying on her side, her cheek pressed against the pillow. Her mouth was slightly open, and it felt dry and cottony.
