PRACTICE
Write about a young girl out to avenge her father's murder.
(Yes, I watched True Grit last night.)
Write for fifteen minutes. When you're finished, post your practice in the comments.
And if you practice, don't forget to give some feedback to other Practitioners!
Mattie Ross in True Grit
Here's mine:
You might think it strange that a young girl could slip into the night and do such a thing, but here's how it happened. First of all, my father owned a logging company way outside of town. He took on Simon Fawes for some work because he felt sorry for him, an old homeless man whose only money for years came from handouts he got in the town squares of various towns around South. That and the disability check the government gave him the first Tuesday of every month.
Fawes had green eyes, which shone out of his black face like streetlights, and I guess my father was taken with those white man eyes and thought he could trust them. The eyes are a window to the soul and Fawes eyes were stained-glass, green as a cathedral's. So Daddy gave him work and let him sleep in the old trailer behind the company office.
One night, Fawes and Cameron Hughes, the trailer's other tenant, got to drinking. They got into an argument over something or other and it must have been quite the argument seeing as how the neighbors who lived a good half mile from the office called Daddy, saying there was crashing and hollering coming up from our trailer. And so Daddy set off, scarcely knowing it would be the last time he'd see his wife and only daughter.
When the police arrived at the trailer an hour later they said Daddy's head had been bashed in with a tea pot. Fawes must've been making tea at the time, too, because Daddy's face and body were covered with third degree burns from scalding water and hot metal. And that Hughes, the trailer's other tenant, had been drug out back behind the trailer, probably to hide him from Daddy. Hughes wound up being okay, though. Fawes only knocked him unconscious where as Daddy was dead.
I climbed the boxes in the garage untill I could reach the wood box. I almost fall a few times, my dad’s warning ringing in my ear: “don’t ever touch the wood box, Claire”. Well, dad is not here to stop me now. He’ll never will be again.
Craddling the antique box in my arms, I put it over the hood of the car. The gun is there. I don’t know if it’s dirty. Hell, I don’t even know if I can shoot it right. But that doesn’t matter right now. What it matters is the unconscious body of my father’s killer still breathing in my bedroom floor. Well, not for long.
I put the bullets in and walk insider. Blood, my dad’s blood is soaking my shirt but I don’t mind. I walk with a purpose, I open the door, I walk in. He still breathes. The killer. I watch him for a moment, aim the gun and…
I can’t do it. “don’t ever touch the wood box, Claire”. I keep hearing him. “Be a nice girl, Claire”. It doesn’t stop. “Be a better person than me, Claire”. I can’t dad. I can’t be be better than you. “Yes, you can”.
My eyes are not dry anymore as I lower the gun. I walk to the closet in the hall and get the climbing rope. I walk to the man and, without any fear, I tie his wrist, his ankles. Under the bed, I find my phone and call the cops.
I guess I can try, Dad. To be a better person.
*Again, sorry for the english!
I really like your’s. Considering mine was in a way an opposite ending to yours! Thanks for the like by the way!
Yes! I thought that too! 🙂
Joana – You really don’t need to keep apologizing for you English. It’s better than a lot of native speakers, believe me.
I love this story. You have a good knack for building up to the climax and then hitting us with the anticlimax of her not killing him. The pacing is just perfect to my ears. Two paragraphs leading things in setting things up, the beginning of the big scene when she goes in to where the murderer is on the floor, then this line ” He still breathes. The killer. I watch him for a moment, aim the gun and…” That to me is the top of the hill, then she’s hears the voice of her father and she hovers in that moment, and then she makes her second decision, the one not to go though with the killing. It is wonderfully set up, and the writing is very clean.
I think you could not call the box the “wood box” though. That makes me wonder what they boxes that she “climbs” are made of. Are cardboard boxes strong enough to actually climb on. I think you could describe the way the box looks, and maybe even use some red, black, some kind of color that speaks of death, guns, blood etc.
Thanks for letting me read this.
Thank you, Marianne! It’s the first time I’m writtin like this in “public” so it is good to have feedback from people! And you are all so nice (and smart!)
I tend to write as if I’m reading at the same time and the pace usually reflects that. I guess I like how it sounds as I’m writting/reading.
As of the “climbing box” I actually wanted to be “shelves” but I couldn’t remember the word at the time and I didn’t wanted to waste my time searching for it! Hazards of writting in another language!
Well, Thanks for the insight!
All the best!
PS: no more apologizing from me!
I think the colors you suggested were great but I always found the colors of purity holding or relating to death more fascinating! It was a wonderful story.
It is a good story. I can see what you mean about maybe using white, but as Joana indicated, she can just change the boxes that she climbed on to shelves and then the distinction is made. You bring up a good general point though, that the obvious use of symbolic color is cliched.
Great story, Joana. I like the way you have the character set to act, then the real her, the one not driven by revenge, comes to the surface and does the right thing. I think that makes the story more real. Most people would not be able to kill in cold blood, even for revenge.
That’s what I thought as I was writting! It was easier to make her kill him but it didn’t sound true to me.
Great practice, Joanna. I like how she still had this connection with her father even after he’s gone. I thought that was a nice twist. I’d love to see the scene where she gets him unconscious though.
And your English is great. The only English related thing I saw was this, “What it matters….” It should be “what matters” without the “it.”
Thanks Joanna!
The clanking of hard leather soles beat at the cold and lifeless ground beneath them. The streets of the city are alive, but yet my father lay dead. I saw every bit of it. The blood. The screams of begging for mercy. I will never forget the grin that devil wore as he squeezed the trigger.
“You’re a coward!” I screamed to myself, but then I thought truly, what could I have done? The man was stronger than daddy. Sure, father fought hard but the strongest of men will die before giving away their daughter.
I shook as a chilled wind blasted my coat open. Quickly I regained control as to make sure the wooden handle wasn’t seen. Only three months ago I was running with my father. Playing simple end of autumn games in our yard. Life seemed nearly fantastic until an angel of death intervenes.
The demon within angel’s skin left not knowing I was there. Left his reaper weapon too. Now I see him. In the distance, with a woman dressed in clothes father would surely disapprove of.
Walking closer I heard his voice raise to her. He struck her and kicked as she fell to the muddy ground beneath her. I walked faster my heart beating even quicker. I closed the distance. I gripped the handle of the steel killer that had not an hour before killed my own blood protector. It was cold. Almost painful for my delicate hand to grip tightly.
He yelled continuously at the whore. Screaming in slurs he named her every foul thing under this sun and the next. He deserved to die. Scum of the earth and waste of breath. I was right behind him now. His shadow incarnate with lethal intentions.
With a flash of a shimmer and a pull of the trigger that man fell without a single whimper. The woman screamed, but my eyes beamed. For tonight my father would proud that his daughter was no longer a coward.
Hey Dillon, welcome to the gang! I noticed from your Disqus profile that you’re brand new here. As a “regular”…I can say you’re off to an amazing start! i love your unexpected descriptions for everyday things…like “simple end of autumn games” and “my own blood protector” and “shadow incarnate with lethal intentions.” They’re brief but carry a punch. Writing like this makes me slow down and luxuriate in the imagery and layered depth of meanings. Makes even tough scenes like this one oddly delightful 🙂 Was it hard writing from the POV of a daughter? How’d you pick that over a son?
I figure it wasn’t too entirely difficult. I think deep down when something so traumatic and enough seen will take someone of either gender down to the primal instincts of revenge and anger. So after the initial back story of saying “Daddy” it was fairly simple for me to tap into my own emotions and memories where I felt vengeful and angry in a more primal state and inject them directly into my story. Thank you for the review! Oh a more strait forward answer is because simply I wanted to try to voice a woman and give that woman power over life and death rather than be the damsel in distress.
Dillon, I agree with you, trying out completely different voice is cool. I’ve tried guy voice a couple times in my practice here, and find it a fascinating exercise. Getting feedback from the opposite sex is great, because of course we can sniff out what of the voice is a natural fit. So of course The Write Practice is the perfect venue for trying it out!
Interesting, I read once that female serial killers are very rare. So to further your thought that women might occasionally want power over life and death too, I did some research tonight on the subject. I discovered that in fact 8% of serial killers are female, their preferred method is poisoning (80%) and their primary motive is money (74%). All this from a 21-year old Serbian college girl who is into researching the psychology of the dark spaces of the mind. Do you LOVE the internet, or WHAT?!? (http://twistedminds.creativescapism.com/serial-killers-introduction/kehler-typology/female-serial-killers/).
Look forward to reading more of your work. Have a great week!
Wow. Good info, Kati. Now if women are 8% of the serial killer population, what percentage do they represent in the total population.
On a similar note, did you know that nearly 3% of men and 1% of women have Antisocial personality disorder, the disorder associated with sociopathy? That’s about 2% of the population, I believe. So in a room of 100 people, 2 could be potential serial killers.
Reply to Joe, below:
Well, now, thanks for that gem. A game-changer, for my next outing to the pub. (Add drunken stupor to the mix and we’re in a real live killer pickle.)
I really like this part: “Left his reaper weapon too.” A life for a life with the same murder weapon.
Thank you! I really liked that bit too! If you want I have a tumblr that I post nearly daily my written works.
Thanks for your practice, Dillon. I liked it, especially how you set up the scene at the beginning, ” The clanking of hard leather soles beat at the cold and lifeless ground beneath them. The streets of the city are alive….” It’s so important to give the reader a sense of setting before drawing them into the action. You don’t want to overdo it (and you don’t), but a couple of lines like this are really helpful.
Intense ending. She just went for it, didn’t she?
One thing to watch for if you were to do a second draft of this is your character’s voice. For example, depending on her age, would a little girl say “whore,” or even know what one looked like? She might, but the point is that when you’re writing in first person, you’ve got to understand the character and how they talk perfectly or else it quickly becomes unbelievable. Of course, that’s something to focus on in rewrites, not in a first draft.
Great point. I like hearing about what we need to know for the next step of a particular piece. Takes the pressure off our practice, but we can build “rewrite input” into our future first drafts!
They made it look like an accident. But I know the truth. They made it look like Daddy fell off the roof, but I know they pushed him. I know because my daddy has great balance. My daddy never falls. Not even when Bryce and me leave toys all over the kitchen floor. My daddy ALWAYS uses his safety harness.
He told me he always thinks about me when he puts on his harness. He thinks about Bryce, too, I guess. And maybe Mommy. He says he thinks about how much he loves us and he worries about what would happen to us if something happened to him. So he always makes sure he uses his safety harness. For us, he says. So he doesn’t fall off the roof.
But my daddy fell off of a roof and died! Does that mean he didn’t think of me today? Maybe he was too distracted by the note I left in his lunch like Momma always puts in mine. Maybe he didn’t even get my note.
I don’t know but those guys are going to get a note from me! Even more than a note! I’m going to punch them! Maybe even in the naughty place.
Daddy never lets us meet Moon, Pedro, Chuck, and all of the other guys on his crew. He said they weren’t nice enough to meet his precious daughter. That’s me! And he was right! They were so mean they pushed him! Even Bryce knows better than to push! Maybe if those guys knew me and Bryce they wouldn’ta hurt my daddy!
Daddy says “revenge” is a big word that is wrong. We don’t even use the green revenge cards when we play the Life game he played when he was a little boy. But Daddy says sometimes there are exceptions to rules. Like we can eat popcorn in the family room during movie nights if we put a blanket down first. This is one of those times when the rules don’t matter! Daddy would even say so!
I like the way you catch the child’s voice here, the anger at her father’s death that makes her blame it on his being pushed, and her concern that it might have been partly her fault for distracting him with a note in his lunchbox. Then you have her insistence that she can get revenge in this case because it must be an exception to the rules. The confusion with tense, is that her child’s confusion or her wanting him to be still alive or with her in some way? I think usually the repeated exclamation points would be seen as excessive but here they really work well, making her seem excited and sort of whiny and needy too. It’s sad.
Hi everyone. Sorry I’ve been absent but I had to make a trip out of town and when I arrived home I was sick with a stomach virus, or something. It’s nice to be back.
Here’s my fifteen minutes.
She reached into the dresser drawer where she kept her socks…and the gun. It wasn’t that hard to come by, the pawn shop owner just had her fill out a few forms. He didn’t even bother to check the veracity of the answers, either.
“It’s not the best gun you can buy,” the shop owner said. “And I’d recommend something smaller for you. That .357 is a lot of gun.”
“No, it’s alright,” Jennifer said, smiling at him. “I won’t be using it very often.” Hopefully, only once, she thought to herself.
It had taken some time, but she finally found him—on the internet—in one of those sex chat rooms. Her father had found him once, too. Her father’s job was to find people on-line who prayed on young girls—minor girls who didn’t know enough to avoid men like him. Her father had tracked him down, but when he tried to arrest him, the man shot him. As her wet eyes stared at his flag-draped coffin being readied to be lowered into the cold ground, she promised herself she would find his killer. And after three months, she had.
It wasn’t really difficult. She had access to her father’s notes after he was gone and it gave a list of sites to search; the typical chat rooms where predator’s visited. The all she had to do was hang out and chat until she was contacted by the one who used his ownership of a red Corvette to capture a young a girl’s attention. Two days ago he placed the bait; “would you like to take a ride in my red Corvette convertible?” he wrote to her.
“Golly, that would be awesome.” She wrote back, trying to sound young enough for him.
The chat continued until a meeting was set, and now, as she lifted the heavy gun from its hiding place, her spine tingled knowing that revenge was close at hand. She ran down the stairs and out the door before her grandmother knew she was leaving.
Her purse, now concealing the heavy gun, slapped into her side with each stride as she ran the two blocks to the mall. She didn’t want to be late, it might make him suspicious. But she didn’t have to worry. As she stood at the north entrance to the food court, just inside the door, she watched as a red Corvette, ignoring the fire zone, no parking, sign, pull to the curb. She watched the driver’s window slide down as she walked out to the car.
“Hi, are you Dolly?” he asked. His smile revealed crooked, yellow teeth.
“Yes, are you the man I chatted with last night?” She came closer to the car. “Daniel?” She smiled.
“Yes,” he said. “Want to go for a ride?”
“Yes, I do,” she reached into her purse. “Just let me put on some lipstick first.”
Whoa! She sure had a good motivation for murder. I usually like to wonder how it turned out but do you think she got him? It would be pretty hard for a young woman to kill a guy with a gun she’d never fired but she was so close that hopefully she couldn’t miss. I like your idea and the dialogue is good. Thanks
Yeah….I’m sure she got him.
Whew!
Oooh, how I love those “leave it up to the reader” endings!
Your dad killed himself. He did it because your mom fell in love with this redneck dude named Chick, and left your dad, broke his heart. She broke his heart so your dad shot himself in the head right in the bathroom that you all used. Your dad looked in the mirror, who knows what he thought, he put the gun up to his face near his eye, and he pulled the trigger.
You never know for sure but you figure some of your dad might still be in the bathroom, some of his blood splattered on the starfish print shower curtains, some of his brains on the mini-blinds that nobody ever dusts, some of his soul still looking in the mirror for his face.
So what to do, what to do?
You get some pills, some roofies, from the guy that sells drugs at school, the one that hangs out on the other side of the fence. You know, he parks his van right by the big mimosa tree, the tree that has those dangling pink flowers in the spring.
You just hang on in school for the rest of the day, go home, do your homework, and your mom says, “Mary get the table set for dinner”. You put the roofies in the green glass iced-tea pitcher before you set it on the table.
They both drink it your mom and Chick, and you worry they’ll taste the pills, but they go out fast, real fast, like faster than sound or something.
So then it’s easy. You just get the big sharp box cutter from the metal shelves in the garage. You slit the guy who murdered your father’s throat. You slit Chick’s throat. You press the blade down hard like if you were cutting up a chicken to fry. You have to cut deep because his veins are tough but he bleeds fast and a lot.
Then you just sit back and watch Chick’s blood run down his chest and drip onto the red and blue Hamadan Persian rug that belonged to your paternal grandmother, you know, yours father’s mom, the one they said was crazy. Her name was Mary. You know the one you’re named after.
Wow! Mary is crazy indeed! What I like about yours is the different motivation, it’s the indirect killer. It gets me thinking about the indirect “guilty parts” of a lot of bad decisions.
And I do like the details. It makes picturing the scene much more real, like a movie.
Way to go! 🙂
Thanks Joana
Maybe grandmother wasn’t as crazy as they say. Maybe the need for vengeance is in the blood.
That was bold, Marianne.
Thanks Casey. It’s kind of weird to write in second person, gives it an aggressive feel
Nice exploration of second-person, Marianne. It took me some time to adjust to it, but I think it worked pretty well. Isn’t Bright Lights, Big City the book that is so famous for second-person. Have you read that?
I love the detail in the second paragraph. The starfish shower curtains was a particularly nice touch, and then the shift to the things that can’t be seen, his soul. Brilliant.
I love how you dwell on and repeat yourself during the actually killing. Nice stylistic touch.
And then the end, “Her name was Mary. You know the one you’re named after. ” Wow.
I hope you’ll finish this one and submit it somewhere. PANK would publish something like this, I think. It’s a good alternative lit magazine.
Thanks Joe. I haven’t read Bright Light Big City, but I read a collection of short stories by Lorri Moore called “Self-Help” most, if not all, of which is in second person. I felt sort of accusatory and aggressive and a little crazy writing this in second person, but I thought it went with the topic. I usually don’t even try second person because it’s so odd. I will try to spruce it up and submit it. Thanks again
Self-Help. Interesting title. Were they good?
I love that writing it in second person actually changed your mood. That’s interesting.
Yes Lorrie Moore is wonderful, funny, interesting, a good writer. Now I haven’t read her novels only her short stories in “Self-Help” and “Birds of America”. They are kind of girly but I think you would like them.
Cameron gets out of juvie today. As she walked out of the big gates of the juvenile detention center, her memories started to flow back into her mind.
She remembered why she was in juvie for ten whole years. She remembered the man she killed for the first time in her entire life at seven years old.
“Stay inside the car, okay darling?” her father said to her. She nodded and hid at the passenger side of the car. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”
Cameron stayed still for a minute or so, but at seven, children really don’t stay put. She was curious.
She slid out of her hiding place and took a peek at the windshield. Her father was standing in front of only one man. The man was counting the money her father gave. The man smiled. He took out a gun from his back and pointed it straight at her father’s forehead.
Cameron covered her mouth before she let herself be heard. She was told to stay inside the car.
Bang!
Her father fell down on the ground – eyes wide open and blood spilling out of his bullet wound.
She slid back into her hiding place hoping that she won’t be seen. Tears started to flow down her cheeks while her hands still covered her mouth. Daddy, she thought. You promised you’d come right back.
She tried to get out of her hiding place when she suddenly saw a black piece of metal hiding under the carpet of the car. She grabbed it. It was a gun. Her father had kept a gun in his car without her knowing.
Cameron looked out the window and saw that the man was still counting his money inside his car. She tightened her grip on the gun and slowly opened the car door. The man didn’t notice her get out and run towards his car because he was too busy counting money.
Cameron knocked on the window of her father’s killer and the man was surprised to see a child out in the middle of nowhere. But his shock expression changed into a smile when he opened the door.
“Are you lost? Do you want a ride?” he asked.
She nodded. “I have something for you,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“You need to come closer to see it.”
The man got out of the car and knelt beside her. “What is it?”
She took the gun from behind, pointed it at the man’s head and pulled the trigger as soon as it met the man’s skin. Bang.
I like how the girl turned a stranger’s “trick” back around on the bad guy.
I was worried though that it might not be all that possible because the girl is just seven years old. Haha!
Wow, lots of intensity here, Unisse. I really like how you begin this with her in juvie. This line was good, “She remembered why she was in juvie for ten whole years.” It’s like she’s covered up, or at least tried to cover up, the memory for so long and now that she’s free she’s reliving the reason she was there in the first place. Maybe that wasn’t your intention, but I felt like she had suppressed the murder.
I did wonder whether a seven year old who shoot a man. She sounds more like a femme fatale in a noir movie than a seven year old kid. And I’d love to learn more about the dad, why he was getting drugs on a shady side of town. Why he was shot in the first place. That was interesting.
But again my favorite part is how you framed it by beginning with the end. I like stories that are puzzles like that, where you have to figure out how the character ever ended up in juvie in the first place. It’s a good technique.
Thanks Joe! It was really more of a spur of the moment writing rather than something planned.
This is what I love about the prompts. They spark up some invisible reserve of creativity or what-not in the back of my head. I’m really thankful for this!
Glad you liked it!
I definitely know what you mean. They take me some random places.
He thought I wasn’t around. Lester Morton did. He crept right up to the front door in his sideways way of walking-shuffle-shuffle-shuffle.
His close-set ferret eyes darted first one way, then the other and I stayed still in the bushes, the only sound the bass playing of my heartbeats, the ocean roar of blood in my ears.
When Daddy opened the door, Lester stabbed him. In. Out. In. Out. Blood ran down Daddy’s chest like a scared chicken toward the floor. He clutched his chest and fell face forward and Lester wiped that knife on his pants, then spit on the back of Daddy’s head.
Lester left in a slink and I shifted the shotgun and followed him, thinking how he didn’t even know Death was right on his heels.
I must have stepped on a twig cause he spun around, ferret eyes wide and bugged out at first then narrowing to slits.
He grinned, tobacco stained teeth flashing and said, “Whatcha gonna do, girl? You ain’t bigger than a mite.”
I pulled the shotgun up against my shoulder and his Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Girl, don’t you do nothin’ stupid.” He lunged for the shotgun and fell into the arms of Death.
I left his body in the woods on the side of that cold, Tennessee mountain and went back home to dig a hole.
This is a very vivid part: “Lester stabbed him. In. Out. In. Out. Blood ran down Daddy’s chest like a scared chicken toward the floor”
Did your narrator know what was going to happen beforehand?
No. It all just came to me while free writing the practice ; – )
Question: Why is this girl hiding in the bushes with a shotgun? I want to know what happened to get them to this scene.
She saw Lester and remained out of sight versus hiding and in certain rural areas in the mountains of TN, lots of girls and boys carry shotguns when they’re outdoors because of bears and bobcats.
This is personal experience speaking.
I have been thisclose to a bear before in the mountains and I have heard bobcats scream in the night. Not things you easily forget when you’re a kid.
I had a horrid time with this last night. Couldn’t get the story to go with the prompt. I posted it over at my blog if anyone wants to see it. But I did give it a go again this morning, when I was working with another prompt, and I think I got a little closer to the “assignment.” And I’m having a problem with tenses on this one, too. If anyone can point out where I’m lapsing, that would be great.
Sometimes Sarah forgets what she wants, and those are the moments when she is at peace. They happen at the oddest times, when she is not expecting it. Awareness slips away and she doesn’t even know that it is happening until it is passed, and then she will think to herself: “For all that time I just forgot.” Then guilt will follow, and she vows that she won’t forget again.
It happens when she is running on the school playground, when her legs are pumping against the sand and her breath pushes in and out of her chest in great bursts. She forgets when she is playing with her dolls, dressing them and undressing them, and dressing them again. And tonight it was when she was playing “Clue” with her grandma after supper.
“Your Daddy and I used to play this game after supper, too,” her grandma says. And Sarah looks down at the candlestick and the loop of plastic rope, and thinks about her Daddy’s fingers touching these same game pieces. She remembers what she will have to do, when the time comes. But sometimes she forgets.
Oooh, Clue! I love the trigger! I think there’s a mystery lurking behind this one!
Casey
I don’t think there’s a thing wrong with the tense here. You have what she often thinks, when she “forgets” first para, when she remembers second para, and then moving to e
Action, the game and future what she must do in the third paragraph. That leads me to think of the future and what she might do then. Its not as “typical” as what the rest of us have done, but it is descriptive of the way people think. I can see this being part of a longer work balanced with more active voice. I’m not at home. and am using my phone to read and write (a challenge for these old eyes), but I’m going to try to give you a better answer on Monday when I get home. Thanks
Casey
Well now I’m home. I like the tenses, like I tried to say above but screwed up by trying to type on my phone.
Anyway, I think maybe the error you are feeling is in the second paragraph at the end. I think you were saying that she forgets sometimes in the first paragraph (and that she feels guilty when she again remembers). In the second paragraph you say it happens when she is running and I guess you mean by “it happens” is that she forgets then too. Then you have she forgets when she is playing dolls. The next sentence says that tonight she is playing clue. I guess you mean that she had still forgotten when they started the game, but when her grandmother mentioned her father, she again remember what she had to do. I think you could move the sentence that says she is playing clue to the third paragraph and mess around with it a little and that would “fix” things, although to tell the truth I had to read it over and over to see what you might have thought was wrong. The voice changes at that point to active and maybe between the active voice and the change in the scene (from dressing dolls to playing clue) you lost something you wanted to have in there. I hope this helps. Marianne
Casey
Well now I’m home. I like the tenses, like I tried to say above but screwed up by trying to type on my phone.
Anyway, I think maybe the error you are feeling is in the second paragraph at the end. I think you were saying that she forgets sometimes in the first paragraph (and that she feels guilty when she again remembers). In the second paragraph you say it happens when she is running and I guess you mean by “it happens” is that she forgets then too. Then you have she forgets when she is playing dolls. The next sentence says that tonight she is playing clue. I guess you mean that she had still forgotten when they started the game, but when her grandmother mentioned her father, she again remember what she had to do. I think you could move the sentence that says she is playing clue to the third paragraph and mess around with it a little and that would “fix” things, although to tell the truth I had to read it over and over to see what you might have thought was wrong. The voice changes at that point to active and maybe between the active voice and the change in the scene (from dressing dolls to playing clue) you lost something you wanted to have in there. I hope this helps. Marianne
I love how you used the description of Fawes’ eyes to reveal both his and the father’s character. Delectable! I also liked the teapot at the end. Heads get bashed in all the time in stories, but the scalding water makes this head bashing really stand out. Thanks for posting your entry. I often wonder how you would complete these assignments!
Thanks Steph. I was surprised by the scalding water myself. It’s amazing what “the muse” comes up with sometimes.
Sorry, but I did not get to write anything for this assignment, as I just saw Joe’s email now.
Kudos to all those who did get to write something.
I look forward to reading the submissions.
QUESTION: Did everyone notice, the nature of the way they spoke in this movie?
It was the first thing I (and others viewing the movie with me) picked up on.
How many westerns have you seen, where people in the movie spoke, the way the characters in this movie did?
For the amount of westerns I have seen since I was a kid- I would say for sure, the number is far and few between.
It certainly lent authenticity to the movie’s era.
By the way, I thought it was a great movie and the young girl truly deserved an award.
Not only is acting a hard earned skill, but using this type of conversational dialog could not have been easy for her.
Right, it certainly threw me off at first. But I liked the authenticity of it, especially in Jeff Bridges toothless drawl.
I didn’t have much time to invest in this practice but I did manage to crack out a short dialog.
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“Are you Mr. White?”
“Well, I guess that depends on what you’re plannin’ to do with that little gun.”
“You had something to do with my daddy disappearin’, didn’t you?”
“I don’t do too well when people point a loaded gun in my direction. It is loaded, isn’t it?”
“Yessir, it is.”
“You mind puttin’ that down first so we can talk?”
“No sir, I don’t think I can do that.”
“Well,” he paused briefly before standing slowly from his desk, “at least you have the decency to call me sir.”
Nice, Bo. That would fit perfectly in a True-Grit-esque Western.
Thanks Joe! Loved that movie as well.
I like the voices here Bo, especially “Well, I guess that depends on what you’re plannin’ to do with that little gun.”
Thanks! I didn’t have much time to work on this. Would’ve been fun to expound a little more. Maybe I’ll add some in the future.
Here’s my late post for this one! ha ha. Didn’t have the time to write a post for this.
Enjoy! 🙂
The sharp blade of the ax glistened as light reflected from it. Every single night Jessica made sure to sharpen it to perfection. It had almost become a ritual. She held it in her hands. She took a few practice swings before she placed it back inside the cupboards. Tonight, everything would come to an end. She smiled at the thought as she straightened her dress and seated herself by the dinner table. She waited.
It was about six in the evening when the doorbell rang. She stood up. The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” She shouted. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was painted like a doll. Her lips were red and her black hair was tied in a tight bun on top of her head. She stared at herself some more. She was pretty–prettier than most. She had a comely figure as well. There were countless of men who were ensnared by her beauty. One of those men was her current boss–the man who had killed her father. The doorbell rang again.
She made her way to the door. She twisted open the knob and pulled it open. Standing by his doorstep was a man. The man was more of a pig than man. He was severely obese. He had beady black eyes behind huge round spectacles. He was constantly sweating. But the most pig like quality he had was greed. The man was the greediest person Jessica had known. That same greed was the reason why the man killed Jessica’s father.
He smiled when he saw her open the door. Jessica felt her skin crawl beneath her long sleeved dress. The man wiped his sweaty brow.
“Good evenin’ Jessica,” he said.
Jessica forced herself a smile. Tonight’s the night. She had to have her A-game on. “Hi Mr. Joel,” Jessica said in her most cheerful voice. “Please come in! I’m sorry for making you wait,” she said as she stepped aside.
Mr. Joel’s beady black eyes did not leave Jessica’s body as the man entered inside. Jessica closed the door and faced her boss.
“You look lovely as always my dear,” he said.
“Oh Mr. Joel you’re just saying that,” Jessica said.
Mr. Joel gave a laugh. “I do not lie my dear. I say what I mean. You are very beautiful.” He took hold of Jessica’s hand and he kissed it.
Jessica wanted to quickly pull her hand away but she endured. She controlled herself. Everything must be perfect for tonight. Let him kiss her. Jessica smiled. “Now, I’m sure you’re starving,” Jessica said in her sweetest tone.
“Oh quite,” Mr. Joel answered with a wide grin.
“Good, I’ve cooked us dinner. I’m sure business can wait,” Jessica led Mr. Joel to the dining area where plates have been placed. She seated the fat man in front of the cupboard. Joel thanked her with another kiss, this time on the cheek. Jessica cringed inwardly.
“What’ll we be having?” Mr. Joel asked as he rubbed his palms together.
“Oh, just a little something I’ve cooked up,” Jessica quietly opened the cupboard. She reached inside for the ax. Mr. Joel turned his head to look back at Jessica. He saw the girl with both arms raised high, holding the ax. He opened his mouth wide, the ax came down, and the scream in his throat died with him.
I like the ending “The scream in his throat died with him”. It’s so abrupt like I guess his death was. I like your amount of description, relative to dialogue, to explanation, and I like the pace which I see as an extension of the mix of action, description, dialogue etc. It is really creepily good. Mr. Joel might be a little too gross. If I had felt sorry for him for even a second I think this story, which is really good, might have even been better. Thanks very much!
Thanks for the advice Marianne. I’ll edit my current story (maybe even expand it more) and I’ll take follow your advice. 🙂
I’m glad you’re going to do some more on it. I like it.