I read through all the comments that everybody made on showing versus telling. The one I liked best was the one by . . .
Mary DeMuth (relevantgirl). Mary wrote her comment in verse. As poetry, it was simply awful (it was clearly intended to be bad). It became worse and verse the further I read. And yet it told a story. Here’s what Mary wrote:
When I started writing, I hadn’t a clue
About that venerable and pesky MRU
I wrote a scene; it dragged, it bit
I didn’t like it. My characters had fits
So then I bought Randy’s Holiest Grail
By Dwight B. Swain; it came in the mail
My prose did soareth on MRU wings
Motivation and reaction, my scenes they did sing
The book before Swain lies dormant and whiny
But my second was published; it’s really quite shiny
Sometimes I do tell, as the story dictates
With MRU DNA, I know when to deviate
There’s power in that as I write novels galore
For publishing houses who’ve opened the door
for books three, four, five and six
I thank you, Mr. Swain, for your bag of tricks.
Mary’s right. When you’ve got MRUs in your DNA, you know when to use them and when not to.
The key thing is that the scene has to work. What I mean by that is it has to give the reader a Powerful Emotional Experience. “Showing” is a proven way to do that, but sometimes a bit of “telling” works better.
Showing is wordy, whereas telling is efficient. So there’s a tradeoff. The art of fiction is knowing how and when to make that trade.
The problem for writers is that “showing” is pretty unnatural. If you look at the classics, you’ll find a LOT of “telling,” because that’s the natural way for humans to tell a story. But as storytelling evolved, we writers learned that we could capture the story more vividly by “showing” it rather than “telling” it. Because “telling” is natural and “showing” is unnatural, it’s imperative that writers master “showing,” because otherwise their natural instincts would push them into “telling” most of the story.
Mary wins a prize: a critique by me of a page of her writing. (Like she needs a critique by me. She’s more literary now than I’ll ever be.)
I can’t critique a page from everybody, but here’s what I can do for the rest of you: Let’s have a little MRU clinic.
Post a comment with 2 paragraphs of your current work in progress. I’ll pick a few of them to critique over the next few days. If your sample needs MRUs, I’ll show you how I’d do it. If it doesn’t need MRUs, I’ll explain why I don’t think you need them.
Sound fair? Post your samples! But don’t get carried away. Two paragraphs, max.
Here you are, the first two paragraphs from my YA fantasy novel.
I tried to ignore the knocking on the door. If I pretended not to be here, whoever, or whatever was giving me a headache would soon get bored and leave. My life would return to normal. But the knocking didn’t stop and my life didn’t return to normal.
I huddled further under the bedcovers and chewed viciously on my fingernails. From the moment I woke up, I knew something was wrong. The weight and texture of the blankets had been a dead giveaway. Something was terribly wrong.
Duke Vahn was glad he wore his sword to The Pickled Squid. The weathered wood and broken windows suggested this was not one of Ny’s most reputable establishments. His first step inside confirmed his suspicions. The air reeked of sweat and cheap mead. Men with dirty, unshaven faces looked up from their tankards. A few whistled at his raiment. It wasn’t often Vahn felt so out of place.
“I’m looking for Gil Hocar.” It felt odd not to use “Lord” with the name. He’d always given the poorest of peasants that respect as a matter of course, but after what Timmilina had said, he couldn’t extend the courtesy to this man. “Can anyone direct me?”
Randy will wish he never gave this opportunity. 🙂
The monotone voice of the Pastor filled the chapel and pulled Tara’s attention back to the service. Tara blinked heavy eyes in rapid succession before gazing again at Chandler’s hunched shoulders. Any time now he would take the podium and sing his mother’s praises. He could always admit he killed Emma. That would please half the congregation. She glanced at Sergeant Harold Taylor two rows behind Chandler.
Suddenly Chandler moved. Here he goes! Tara flipped open the notepad in her lap, but instead of standing to go to the podium, Chandler turned his head and stared straight at her. Stunned, she returned his gaze. A scowl cross his face before he turned away.
Hi Randy.
Here are a couple of paragraphs from a short story I wrote many years ago. My current work in progress is not advanced enough for me to use.
Once again Alenia sighed. It would be like the lemmings all over again. He realized he should know better. The long-term repercussions of his uncle’s life dramas were of no concern to anyone save himself. Why, the extras could embrace the plot as reality and no one would care. Well, that would be his loadpouch of younglings to carry across the hatchery beach.
Wannel continued. “The plot is most satisfactory. A downtrodden population, persecuted and humiliated. Then a shining light, a redeemer, who will lift them out of their oppression, for a price. With this new generation of emotional manipulation added I would not be surprised to find many accepting Profit Maker as fact rather than fiction.”
At this point in my WIP, Clay (a tranger to Jill) had secured his Jeep to a barge for their crossing to Grand Island:
He swung down to the sandy shore to fetch Jill. He stopped a few yards away, observing her at the water’s edge, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed.
He was familiar with grief. It weighed on her slender form, so heavily it took his breath away. Much as he hated intruding, he had no choice. “Ready?”
As she focused on the radio controls, Destiny never saw the two inch galvanized pipe protruding from the bed of the delivery truck that had quickly stopped in front of her. Except for a very loud noise, she had no sense of the pipe penetrating her skull and destroying her brain. Nor did she notice that the golden retriever puppy had broken its neck as it careened into the dash.
Bob Elliot could scarcely believe his eyes as the tiny sports car ran under the back of the flat bed truck without attempting to stop. He had been a medic in Viet Nam and acted instantly to attempt to save the young woman’s life, although he instinctively knew that the petite blonde-haired person would not survive as he began his resuscitative effort. Following the initial impact, the truck had pulled ahead a few feet removing the pipe from Destiny’s head. She had fallen partially out of the car onto the street, so he began CPR right there. AIRWAY, BREATHING, CIRCULATION, AIRWAY BREATHING CIRCULATION, AIRWAY BREATHING CIRCULATION. When the paramedics arrived four minutes later, Destiny had never been without a pulse or oxygen. Bob was relieved when they took the brain dead woman away in the ambulance.
Home was a stone cottage she shared with Krezma, the woman who took her in when she was a baby. It sat in the forest outside the village of Broem. They had a well on the side and a root cellar just off the kitchen. The roof was covered with moss, and yellow bell flowers filled with nectar grew all around the cottage, attaching themselves to the stones.
About half way home, Akeela noticed a trailing mist of dark purple leading deeper into the woods. The stench of rotting eggs permeated the area. Her heart lept in her throat. She had encountered the strange aura and bad smell before. It meant Tzmet, the witch, had passed through. No wonder the animals and fairies were frightened. Akeela glanced around, tightened her grip on the bow, then left the path and cut across the woods to the pond.
Watching butterflies flit from one flower to the next, I sat quietly in the last chair on the left, waiting for the words to fade and the service to end. Tears dripped slowly down my cheek, running off my chin. A rich bronze colored casket sat before me, flowers strewn around and voices heavy on a gray day. The sky dipped low, hanging only inches above the tent; thick fog rolling in as the morning drug on.
I grasped the edge of my chair, holding onto reality, but yet, slipping away. I drifted into the vast beyond and watched lights feather across the scene with beams and rays glittering over the family gathered there. In a heartbeat, a light beam touched each one of them; the blessing of love. I watched it move through the clouds and speed away into the heavens through a small opening where blue skies peeked through.
An antagonist has just attempted to shoot my hero, only to find the gun empty.
—
I could have been relieved. Instead, I was furious. He would have killed me. I reached for the chair and flung it with everything I had.
Andy was either too stupid or too slow to duck. The chair caught him in the upper chest and face. He stumbled backward and slammed into the open door. The two men in the hall jumped back.
Here is the first two paragraphs of my prologue to a fantasy novel.
King Deus gritted his teeth. The war would soon begin and the price of victory – he swallowed hard and then let out a slow heavy sigh. Victory must be his for if he lost, the cost would greatly exceed the price of victory, as great a price as it was, and be far more than he could bear.
From the tallest tower of his fortress, King Deus could see his entire kingdom. He took great pleasure in looking out at the vast fertile valley below and the rich mountains encircling it. King’s Lake shimmered with the beauty of silver, and the mountains rose from the green of the great forests to the majestic heights of rocky, snow covered peaks. Today, however, the king’s thoughts were not on his kingdom’s beauty, but on the darkness about to fall upon it. He furrowed his brow as his heart watched a shadow begin to appear just above Talopsi Falls in the south. The cold spirits of the valley people touched his and sent a shiver down his spine. Leaning out the window, he blew a gentle warm breath across the land, but it returned to him, unable to change the forecast of the future.
For the last fifteen minutes, all Kate had been able to see was the soles of Brad’s boots. She wriggled forward to keep up. Seven years she’d waited for a real date. Jail bait he’d called her. The jerk. A stone bit into her knee. “Ow!” She coughed and wiped her eyes as dust cascaded from the three foot ceiling. Wonderful. Covered with dirt and sweat. Elbows shredded. The dream date.
Darn! There went another fingernail. She examined it and sighed. Brad’s grandfather was nuts. Thirty years crawling around like this? Definitely gold fever. Her hand brushed a squashed spider that still squirmed. Yuk! The size of that thing. She swallowed. Did blood attract bats?
From my short story: Jennie’s New Life
Jennie sat down to apply her make-up. Her first official public appearance and she was as nervous as a mockingbird in a roomful of canaries. She planned her costume with care including the outrageous purple wig. She didn’t have the money to splurge on the proper shoes as yet but she made do with an oversized pair of clunky tennis shoes she had painted lavender.
She looked at her image in the mirror. Her instructor had told her to imagine she was dying as she first applied the white portion of her make-up pallette. Dying to self so she could be reborn as her new personality. She dabbed out a portion of the greasepaint from the jar sitting on the counter and warmed it up by rubbing it around in circles in the palm of her other hand.
Sigh. There’s a paragraph break after “dream date”.
The computer submitted it before I was done.
She wrapped her arms tighter around her legs. Despite the tangled hair in her face and the slats in the closet, she could see and hear everything in the bedroom.
Marcy was screaming and flailing her arms at the man. She liked Marcy – at least, as well as she liked anyone. Her momma often left her with Marcy while she went out. Marcy didn’t mind that she didn’t talk. Marcy left her alone.
I too thought Mary DeMuth’s entry was very clever and creative! I’m glad she won.
First two paragraphs of my speculative novel, The Tenth Month:
Phantom mists curled off the water nudging into the shadowy outlines of the harbor warehouses. Adame hunched into her coat, shivering as much with regret for the decision to pursue her errand as with the cold itself. The streetlights offered little more than fuzzy globes of stained illumination, not enough to see address numbers. At least she’d thought to bring a flashlight. She pulled it from her coat pocket and held it above the wrinkled scrap of paper but the grimy numbers seemed to melt into the wet air.
A siren wailed in the darkness, triggering a rush of adrenaline. Riverview E.R., she thought as she mentally catalogued the quadrant of the city serviced by Riverview General Hospital. She pictured the preparations already underway at the hospital as the sound subsided in the distance—a stabbing or a shooting, or a wife battered beyond recognition—the kind of emergencies experienced in that part of the city. With an exasperated shake of her head, Adame turned abruptly toward the nearest streetlight. The first acid taste of fear filled her throat as the flimsy wooden fence along a salvage yard came alive, shuddering with the impact of a snarling watchdog on the other side. Adame rushed on, setting the animal into a frenzy as he raced, leaping and barking, attempting to break through to the unseen threat. As she passed the end of the fence, she could hear him pawing at the ground, unwilling to give up the chase.
Congrats, Mary!
And thanks for this opportunity, Randy.
Her knock on the door sounded flat, like yards and yards of insulation blocked the outside from the small space inside. The roar of another eighteen wheeler rushed on the thoroughfare behind the house, the one road that connected San Tomás to the rest of the world. Except it didn’t really. Truckers and occasional cars with CD players and working AC’s rarely stopped in the village, and when they did, they ate and left faster than a jaguar chasing a stray dog, leaving the village untouched for the most part. A cloud of dust in the wake of the truck told the only tale of a visitor.
The door creaked open. A man with a round face much like the little boy’s in the airport stood on the other side, his eyes drowsy. The smell of burnt beans pushed out the door toward Itzel’s nose.
The opening of “An Uncommon Valor” which is due to my editor May 15. Which explains why I’m procrastinating this morning. 🙂
The story came as a leaf upon the wind is driven, dipping, floating, resting. Adrift on the air it called, beckoned, begged me to follow. I traveled here and yon, weaving the strands as I found them, where I found them.
Aye, we Celts love our stories. Cuchuliann and Emer. Tristan and Isolde. Arthur and Guinevere. Heroes and heroines from the days before time whose love bound them and instructs us yet today. Like trees of the forest whose branches we see lifting to the sky but whose roots are tangled together, inseparable. Like two trees, standing close whose branches intertwine until the two become as one. Aye, listen now as I begin such a tale–that of Stephan and Keara. Of lives seemingly unrelated, intertwined by the will of their creator, the One who made earth and sky and who is love itself.
Blow gentle breeze and carry this tale far and wide.
First completed thought in “Unstuck”
The Torque was sweating the breeze. He lay on his back, feet over head, pants shoved to ankles. His fingers clutched a lit match, its flush wavering millimeters from his underwear. “Stink,” he bellowed, as the glow wafted out. “Musta got splashed in the canoe. Everyone stand around me and make a break.”
We all scrambled from our log, scattering marshmallows and graham crackers in the shuffle. Juner took a long step from the shadows beyond the campfire and joined us in a semi-circle.
“Hold your breath,” The Torque growled. “I mean it! None of you squawkers make a move.” He lit another match.
We stood, immobile. The wind shushed through the Fir boughs.
“Gaaa-aaaa-aaa-aaa!” said The Torque, and clenched his thighs. Flatulence kaboomed from his underwear. A huge cobalt flame shot into the darkened sky.
“It works,” said Juner, his eyes giant in his Dutchboy face. “Dudes—and I told you all it was bull. You can actually shoot blue fire out of your butt. Man, I was sure it was just a joke.”
Our mouths simply hung open.
The jogger’s steady stride moved him up the beach with the easy rhythmic pace of one accustomed to long distances. A seagull screeched its displeasure at the early morning intrusion. It dove at the jogger’s head, circling, crying, over and over and over, but he ran on, not looking to his right or left, undaunted by the gull’s ringing cry. Past the jagged outcropping of rocks he ran, the gull screaming above him …
Screaming in her ear. It was her phone, not a gull. Shaking off the dream, she grudgingly reached for her bedside telephone, squinting at the fuzzy, red numbers on her alarm clock.
The exerpt…
Trey heard the rumble even before the ground shivered and heaved under his boots.
Like a car leaving a NASCAR pit, his heart raced sending his senses on high alert. Swiveling around, he faced the shaking ranch house while his eyes searched for the rest of his family. Words wouldn’t come, but his mind screamed, “Get out, now!”
Danny, still naked, was washing off the bathroom floor and tying up the clothes they had taken off with the towels they had been using. He put them in a garbage bag he found under the sink, opened a drawer and put the bundle inside. Allegra found some clothes for him to wear, and though she knew they would be too big for him, at least they would be warm. She had found a pair of sweat pants and a flannel shirt. She couldn’t remember ever seeing Danny wear a flannel shirt. She glanced outside the bedroom window and wondered at the ironic beauty of the falling ash. It was so beautiful and quiet, like a winter snow, but so deadly. It was what would imprison them in this house for how many days? And how would she ever manage to keep on living without her children?
She wiped away her tears and handed the clothes to Danny. Then she curled up on the bed in a fetal position and cried. Danny got dressed and kneeled beside the bed to try and comfort his wife, but he was just as exhausted, if not more, than she was. He crawled up into the bed and curled up behind her. “Spooning” was what he called it. They had been “spooning” now for almost 20 years. But never in those 20 years had their spooning been because of something horrible. He simply didn’t have the words to express to his wife the anguish he also felt. He didn’t know what to do to help her right now. So all he did was hold her. And she let him. The fact that she let him hold her told him that she was going to accept his comfort, and that also meant that he could in turn be comforted.
Well, here is my sample:
His body moved, waking him. In his hand was a dagger. His dagger. The tip aimed down at Kira’s heart. His hand flashed down. The dagger stopped, shaking just inches from her. Inside him, a struggle over his body raged between his will and the shadow. With a final surge, he broke the shadow free of its grip. Gel put the dagger away, then sat on the bed, shaken by what had almost happened.
Kira felt the space next to her empty. She sat up to look around with the dim light of the only lamp they had left burning. Gel was sitting on the edge of the bed; his head low in his hands. She pulled her share of the blankets closer then reached over to stroke his back. She felt him tense.
First Paragraphs to Short Story:
Grandpa Harbinger’s One Wife and Double Happiness
“Hello,” I spoke nervously while my hand clutched the black slippery receiver. I felt like winding the spiral cord around my neck and strangling myself. The idea was ludicrous. The kitchen faucet–dripping: pa-nic-pa-nic, the big box in the living room sang:”I’ve Got You Babe” and from the bathroom, accompanied by toilet rock flush came my brother’s loud horking noises.
I imagined the sound penetrating the walls of the hallway, increasing its velocity, blasting its way into the BC Tel phone system and rocketing efficiently all the way to the Liang household in Fort Nelson, finally booming into the ear of Mae, my prospective employer. I think I wanted to say: “I really am quite bright…and elegant too.” I wanted to explain away the leakiness and the horking history. Instead, I followed with, “I am responding to your ad in the newspaper.” Dare I? Respond to a Chinese newspaper?
I dared. I double dared!
Blessings,
Joleena Thomas
I thought the same as Alie! You must not have any plans for the weekend, because you will be inundated with submissions.
No one should miss such an opportunity though, so I will also take advantage of you ;):
God help me! I’m drowning!
Larn Wintel sank farther into the blue waters, but the more he struggled, the faster he sank. The cold sank deep within his bones, and the pressure increased making his efforts to break the surface more ineffectual. The waters blackened, and he called out once again for God. He perceived no answer; his heart thudded and his lungs burned—
I was so excited over having you critique my work, I neglected to mention it’s the first two paragraphs from the Christian science fiction novel I’m trying to get published.
Thank you bunches for the opportunity!
Magda avoided the gaps in the wooden EL platform and slammed herself, her prayer book and her wedding gift down on the el car seat. Her one pair of silk stockings snagged on a tiny bit of metal. She jerked the stocking free — shredding this one mended stocking beyond more repair. When the Chicago wind actually took her fancy little hat far east in a quick gust, she never looked back for it. A policeman pointed out the hat, but she thanked him, shook her head “No” and entered the Palmer House hotel to attend her cousin’s wedding dinner. About thirty person of varying ages, all around the table in their best suits, hats & dresses, happily toasted the bride & groom. Magda smiled & silently mouthed the words her cousin Anna & new husband Karl could see but not hear “Love both of you! Blessings!”.
Then, she grimaced as her nephew Rudolf, and uncle Boris approached, smiling. “We’re friends now!” said Uncle Boris, putting his arm around his formerly despised Bundist nephew Rudolf “Uncle and I made up our differences! Why frown, Magda! You wanted us to be friends!” Magda glared at both of them, wished the pact “a quick divorce”, left her gift on the table and quickly exited. Outside, the newsstand newspapers headlined the just-signed Stalin-Hitler nonaggresion pact of August 23, 1939.
Well, my current wip is also my Genesis entry. I couldn’t find anything to post here that wouldn’t give me away, in case anyone here is one of the judges. 🙂
So, I’ll have to forego the opportunity Randy so generously offered.
Good choice on a winner, Randy. Mary’s poem gave me a few chuckles, too.
This is a comment on the blog, not an entry in the contest.
Dr. Ingermanson gets it right when he writes, “If you look at the classics, you’ll find a LOT of ‘telling,’ because that’s the natural way for humans to tell a story. But as storytelling evolved, we writers learned that we could capture the story more vividly by ‘showing’ it rather than ‘telling’ it.”
At least for me, that explains a lot. It’s confusing when all the advice says to use MRUs, but you read the books you grow up on and see so much that isn’t an MRU. (Even the Chronicles of Narnia include so much excess, not to mention stuff by guys like Dostoevsky.) It just comes down to the fact that the market has changed, and that means emphasizing MRUs. I think the challenge today is greater for the writer who wants to discuss the same ideas in a scene that shows action rather than explains concepts.
Finally the day came when the Egyptians arrived at the door to get Moses. Miriam’smother dressed him and packed a little roll of clothes for him to take.
How can she do that so calmly, Miriam thought. Her own tears kept coming.
“Stop that Miriam,” her mother said sharply. “God has been good to us. He let Mowes live and He even allowed us to keep him all this time. Now when we must give him up, do you think our God cannot keep him as He has so far? Don’t cry. Moses must not see you cry as he leaves.”
The Egyptian servants came into the house. They simply looked at Miriam’s mother, then picked up Moses and took him to the waiting servant on the horse.
Moses didn’t cry but clung to his little bundle of clothes as he was lifted up. The servant snapped the horse’s reins, shoved the clothes to the ground, and rode off in a cloud of dust taking Moses. The other servants followed trampling across the small bundle that lay in the road.
Moriam saw her mother’s tears for the first time as she walked over and picked up the scattered clothes and held them to her heart.
“My son won’t need these,” she said. “He will be dressed like prince.”
Sorry about the typos. It’s the new glasses.
Thanks for the opportunity. I tend to be a lurker, but couldn’t resist this one.
Margaret looked up. The pitcher threw the ball toward the playground. Maybe he was aiming for the first baseman. Maybe he wasn’t aiming at all. Or maybe he was aiming at something else altogether. The ball sailed over Margaret, headed straight for the merry-go-round.
“Look out!” she screamed. The words flew out of her mouth before she could think if she wanted to speak them or not. The black-skinned boy saw the baseball just in time to knock it away from Lily’s head. The ball rolled toward Margaret’s feet. She bent and scooped it up. When she stood up, the pitcher and the black-skinned boy were standing in front of her, glaring at each other.
Finally the day came when the Egyptians arrived at the door to get Moses. Miriam’s mother dressed him and packed a little roll of clothes for him to take.
How can she do that so calmly, Miriam thought. Her own tears kept coming.
“Stop that Miriam,” her mother said sharply. “God has been good to us. He let Moses live and He even allowed us to keep him all this time. Now when we must give him up, do you think our God cannot keep him as He has so far? Don’t cry. Moses must not see you cry as he leaves.”
The Egyptian servants came into the house. They simply looked at Miriam’s mother, then picked up Moses and took him to the waiting servant on the horse.
Moses didn’t cry but clung to his little bundle of clothes as he was lifted up. The servant snapped the horse’s reins, shoved the clothes to the ground, and rode off in a cloud of dust taking Moses. The other servants followed trampling across the small bundle that lay in the road.
Miriam saw her mother’s tears for the first time as she walked over and picked up the scattered clothes and held them to her heart.
“My son won’t need these,” she said. “He will be dressed like prince.”
From my current WIP, “Mirror Catch.” I look forward to seeing the critiques, Randy.
“Don’t think I’m trying to do you any favors.” He stood a few feet away. Kata lay draped over his arms, her head tipped back and eyes closed. From where I lay I could see her chest moving up and down. She was alive at least.
I wanted to sit up. No, more than that I wanted to rise and wrench Kata from his arms. But this time it took no magic on Vyacheslav’s part to keep me in place. Blood loss, hunger, exhaustion all combined to keep me pinned to the ground. My hands clenched into fists at my sides. Everything was slipping away. In spite of everything Vyacheslav had won and the Writer he so longed for was his.
DESIRE OF MY HEART
Jolted out of a sound sleep, Bethanne reached across the bed’s empty space to turn off the jangling alarm clock. Sunshine streamed through the window. The curtains swayed gently in the breeze. The realization hit her again: He’s not just traveling, he’s dead! Maurice won’t be coming back.
“Aren’t you used to it yet?” Bethanne mumbled.
“It’s been two years! But then, we were married forty.” Going through the motions of bathing and dressing, she pushed aside the lonely feelings. It seemed as if she had always been alone, deep down inside, even when Maurice was alive.
Two paragraphs from my novel I am working on, “Gemstone Guardian.” Thanks a lot for the chance.
Thick drops of sweat traveled from Gedeos’s cheeks to the arid ground as he breathed heavily. His knees, as well as his fists, were against the pavement. Despite experiencing a burdensome exhaustion, Gedeos smiled. He knew the fruitage of his efforts, and acknowledged them proudly. It was just a matter of time before the judges declared him the winner of the battle, he thought. “Well fought,” a deep voice emerged behind Gedeos.
Amron extended a hand to the eighteen-year-old, but his aid to help him get up developed futilely as Gedeos stood up vigorously. “I expected to defeat him sooner, but he kept using restorative magic on himself,” explained Gedeos while turning to a man who was rising from the ground, gazing at him with fury. A look of amusement could be seen in the facial expression of Gedeos, as he realized Roumas’ frustration.
Congratulations on your winning comment, Mary.
I was tempted to praise you in verse,
But felt sure it would turn out much worse.
Rachel
Kind of relieved the MRU entries closed before I got my act together. But next time …)
If it’s not too late, here are the first two paragraphs of my current WIP. Thanks, Randy.
I bump and gesticulate to the beat of the music, raising my arms to expose a little more of my flat torso, careful not to reveal so much that he sees the Glock strapped to my ribs.
The loud beat-beat-razz-beat-beat-razz of the latest club number blares around me while I throw down the hottest moves I know. My long brown hair whips around my face. I concentrate on puckering my lips just right, hoping the raspberry gloss I wear still sparkles like it did in my apartment mirror a few hours ago.
This is coming a bit late; but i hope not too late…
Everyone recognised him but no one knew his name. The nameless man walked the streets daily, doing his own thing and no one stopped him. Today he walked slowly staring at the sky; no one knew why. What was he searching for?
His tattered trousers offered no covering for his bum, yet one hand held them together religiously at the waist. He wore no shirt. Suddenly he used his other hand to scratch his head vigorously; his head, full of dirty black dread-locks. His face too was black and he stank abominably, obviously from months of not taking a bath.
Jude picked up the ball-peen hammer, took aim, and brought it down swiftly. Molly looked away. The rat’s skull cracked under the blow. The squirming between Molly’s fingers ceased. Jude handed Molly the scalpel. Molly took a deep breath, cursing Jude silently. He knew how much she hated this.
She cut open the rat’s head and scooped a chunk of brain onto the scalpel. She scraped the chunk into a test tube. Jude took the test tube, added a green solution, and swirled it around. The solution turned opaque-white.