You’ve probably heard the age-old adage of “show, don’t tell” at least a thousand times in your writing career so far. It’s arguably one of the most-used writing tips about. Why then, is it also the one mistake most writers make over all others?
I heard “show, don’t tell” so many times, it became a useless mantra to chant, rather than put into action. I had no idea that by ignoring it, I was actually writing flat, monotonous narrative.
So, what does it mean to show and not tell? Well—it all comes down to drama.
Show, Don't Tell With Drama
Take this as an example:
It hadn’t stopped snowing for weeks that February. April hated the cold, but Mike sort of liked it. Sometimes, April wondered if they were suited for each other at all.
What happens in this paragraph? We are told about the setting, what the character is feeling and we’re even given a hint of a relationship about to break down—but nothing has actually happened.
Now compare this to the following:
April looked out of the window for what must have been the hundredth time that morning. The cars on the main road had turned the snow into a grey sludge. Snowflakes were still falling, but were practically emaciated compared to the fat clumps that fell the week before.
She folded her jumper tightly around herself and pressed her knees into the radiator.
“Want to check on the snowman?” Mike said from behind her, already pulling on his mittens and scarf.
She frowned. “It’s minus one out there—you’ll freeze.”
He shrugged and smiled. He still had that bit of spinach stuck in his teeth from breakfast. “Perfect snowman weather,” he said.
April turned back to the window. “Nothing about this is perfect.”
Here, we know the same things as in the previous paragraph, but we’ve been told in a memorable and engaging way. By having April show us she hates the cold and seeing the weather from her point of view, we almost feel the chill ourselves. The greying snow even becomes a handy piece of symbolism for her changing feelings towards Mike.
4 Ways to Inject Drama Into Your Writing
So how can you do this to your own writing? Here are four tips:
1. Let your scenes unfold in real time—don’t report them.
‘Real time’ can be in present or past tense—as long as it’s happening as the reader reads. The example above is a snapshot scene from two people’s lives. April and Mike are miscommunicating as we are reading about them, which creates tension.
2. Use dialogue to hint at character relationships.
Dialogue is a useful dramatic tool to reveal character dynamics, whilst avoiding sentences like “April was mad at Mike”—and it’s not just what the characters say, but how they are saying it. Although adverbs like “said quietly” should be used to a minimum, you can add a lot of meaning to dialogue by showing the reader how they are speaking.
For example, April is frowning when she says, “it’s minus one out there,” whilst Mike is smiling when he says, “perfect snowman weather.”
3. Don’t tell us how your character feels.
If April is mad—have her throw a glass. In the above example, she “folded her jumper tightly around herself and pressed her knee into the radiator.” This not only shows the reader that she is cold, but it also adds to the general sense of hostility that she feels towards Mike.
4. Don’t tell us the weather.
If it’s snowing, let us hear it crunch beneath her boots as she walks away. This kind of description can bring a setting to life, and how your characters are reacting to their setting can give us a great deal of insight into their psyche.
Drama Is Key
Adding dramatic action livens up your prose, keeping readers on the edge of their seat. It can also help us engage with a specific character, as well as giving you the chance to show off with some excellent descriptive writing! And it all comes down to showing, not telling.
For me—adding drama into my scenes has really made my characters and story “pop.”
What about you? Have you fallen into the trap of reported action in your writing? Let us know in the comments!
PRACTICE
Take fifteen minutes to show, don't tell. Alter the paragraph below, so that it “shows” rather than “tells.” Remember to include some of the tips in this post in your re-write!
I had gone to the shops to get milk, but had come back with a stack of newspapers instead—all with her face on them. It was too hot to be this angry.
Post your updated paragraphs in the comments section for the community to see the difference. And if you post, be sure to leave feedback for your fellow writers. Happy writing!
I’ve learned so much from you. Even when writing notes via email, I catch myself changing sentences. Thanks to you.
Thanks Mary! I’m so pleased it helped 🙂
Returning home with a stack of newspapers instead of milk. They had HER face on them. A face I trusted. Oddly enough the heat outside stopped me for going ballistic. Reaching the fireplace I placed the papers inside and lit it. “The biggest joy in your life.” I said laughing. As I watched her face burn away. I frowned and walked away from it “Dirty two timer.”
Thanks for sharing this! There’s a lot of scope here for expansion, too. Lighting a fire when it’s blazing hot outside would make that heat almost unbearable.
Tried to stick to 15 min and avoid the constant self editing so sorry in advance for anything unclear.
————
The time came to finally leave the house and join the world of happy humans. Darryl, the only doctor in the family and the owner of great pride in that fact, told me that staying at home to stew was good for no one. So in my tattered, discolored tank top I left the apartment for the first time since the incident. Three weeks without direct sunlight on my skin showed itself in my now hollow looking features.
The 10 minute walk to the store, the same walk I can remember doing at least one hundred times before, had been brutal. I frowned at the young couple laughing and holding hands as they sauntered in the summer son. I glared at the kids that giggled and ran past me. I had half a mind to trip them all for the innocent offense of brushing my arm carelessly as they ran. It is not fair that the world can celebrate in such a way over what? It’s collective warmth today?
At the store I made no conversation. My sole reason to venture out of the house was in the back of the store and thus my only aim. I stared at the sliding glass door holding the milks behind them. I rubbed my finger on the cold condensation and watched it drip to the floor. The lady standing beside me stared but knew well enough not to question. Instead she simply walked away, slightly tripping on a newspaper stand that did not normally reside this far into the store. I glanced over to register what she hit, the fool, and saw her face.
The face that haunted my dreams, dominated my whispers, and flavored my tears stared back at me with knowing eyes. It was an photo of him that lived only on his old Facebook profile. Today he would probably disapprove of its use. But he was not here to disapprove of much of anything, and that made the face the more painful. That made it the more insulting. How could this world that celebrated simple heat, be given an old, unflattering picture as a representation of him? It was none of their business.
I grabbed the entire stack and simply walked out. No one seemed to notice. Better for them that they didn’t.
Ooo yes – this character definitely would have stolen those papers! A great insight here, thanks for sharing.
Thanks Sarah.
Absolutely love this, Member of the Tribe!! It really carried me along, allowing me to gather information and try to fill in the story of what has occurred in the character’s life.
Your second paragraph is exactly the message I share with others when a loved one passes … walking around in disbelief, not knowing how people go about their daily life, not realizing that life is on Pause.
I like how the woman trips over the newspaper stand, thus bringing the character’s attention to it. I’m not sure, though, why the stand has to be out of its normal location.
Comments about the Facebook photo is a beautifully woven slice of culture to include.
Your final three sentences are effective, too … simply stated yet full of anticipatory impact!
Thanks for sharing.
Thank you so much Susan! I really appreciate the detailed feedback. I’m glad you enjoyed it.
“Hun, what took you so long? I was starting to get worried,” Denise hollered from the kitchen.
I slammed the stack of papers on the dining table without a word and slid into one of Denise’s ugly metallic chairs.
She turned around, “did you bring back milk like I asked?” Her gaze landed on the newspapers, “oh.”
“You see this shit? Her face is plastered across the front page like some sort of martyr.” The chair screeched against the tile as I stood up. “Jesus, why is it so hot in here? Turn on the AC!” I yelled, pulling my t-shirt up over my head.
“Have a seat, I’ll fix you some tea,” Denise whispered, taking a cautious step away from me.
Great, now I’ve upset her too; can’t catch a break today. “I forgot something, I’ll be back in a bit,” I mumbled, heading back to the door.
“Dear, don’t forget the milk!”
This is great! I love the way you describe the chairs through the character’s POV – it really gives us an insight into their mindset.
Thanks!
Hope this turned out fine. ^^
———
“There’s no milk?”
The shopkeeper lowered her head, without daring to look at me. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s all out, but if you want…”
“What?” I grumbled. Great, mom would kill me when I’d come home. I was so not looking forward to the scream fest that would happen the second my foot entered the house.
“Well,” the sales clerk glanced to the side and pointed to a pile on the floor. She blushed slightly- but whether from embarrassment or something else, I didn’t know. “It would be really helpful if you’d help us hand these out. I bet that by the time you’ll come back the next delivery will be here, and you could get your milk.”
I let my eyes wander over to the pile. “How long will it take?”
“About fifteen minutes, I presume.”
“Alright.” I reluctantly agreed. “I’ll do it.”
I strode over to the newspaper pack and a few minutes later found myself walking with the stack in my arms. I continued holding them while scanning the surroundings for a good place to hand them out. Once I found the perfect place, I set them down and picked up the first one.
I studied the paper, trying to find out any special news that I may have missed. Other than all the usual nonsense that was found on the first page, I couldn’t find anything else.
Except…
I squinted my eyes. Was that really who I thought it was? I tried fighting the anger rising in me, reasoning that the girl on the cover may not be who I thought she was. After all, there were many girls my age who looked like pure angels but were hiding the devil inside them. Not all girls with emerald eyes and auburn curls had to be her.
But as I studied her face, it got harder and harder to hold the anger within me. This girl was Wendy, the same girl who ruined my life.
I wondered why the girl in this agreed to had out newspapers but I did enjoy the end when she saw the picture of Wendy. Good job
Thank you. Glad you enjoyed it. ^^
Ooo – I want to read more! Thanks for sharing this, Nava. I think it turned out great!
Thank you! This is the first time I shared a piece I wrote in English with complete strangers, so I really do appreciate the encouragement!
And I’m really glad you enjoyed it! ^^
Thanks so much for the excellent example! I’m going to file this away in my “how-to” folder. I’d like to read the rest of the story of Mike and April
Thanks Molly! I’m pleased that you found it useful. I’d like to think that Mike and April’s story ended happily, even if it was apart from each other.
Burton Wins The Senate. The headline taunted me from
the kitchen table, made worse by her smiling face and arms raised in victory. I
pulled a cold bottle of wine from the chugging refrigerator struggling to keep
up with the heat, and shoved it into a plastic grocery bag that was lying on
the counter, twisting the top of the bag around my hand.
Damn her! Damn her! Damn her! I shouted out loud as I
kicked the table leg, causing several copies of the newspaper to tumble onto
the floor, nearly banging the dangling wine bag against the table.
“Why didn’t I stop her?’ I screamed, stomping on the
papers, ripping and scattering shredded newsprint across the floor.
My phone lit up, whistled and shook on the table,
displaying a message on my screen. “leave yet? kids need milk @ lunch”.
I pulled the wine bottle to my chest and rolled it
back and forth, the plastic bag sticking to my skin and barely offering any coolness.
I scanned the counter for the corkscrew I knew had to be there somewhere in
between the half eaten boxes of chicken enchiladas poblano, bowls of cornflakes
with long since evaporated milk, travel magazines and overdue electric bills.
The phone whistled and lit up again, reminding me I
was shirking my duty. I picked it up and typed a reply. “Forgot milk. Long
story. Be there soon.”
I love the use of the wine bottle here to show temperature and mood. What a great device for drama! Thanks for sharing.
I really hate it when they leave the empty milk bottle in the fridge. So damn infuriating! And that was the only reason I went to the shop; not to come back with a stack of newspapers—I slam them down on the counter, her face looks back at me from the front page as if mocking me. What am I going to do? I wipe the sweat from my brow, it’s to hot to think.
Lovely – thanks for sharing, Lorna!
Good, Lorna. I’m learning from your post.
Hi, Sarah – Do you think it’s possible to do too much showing, and not enough telling? I think I may be using too much dialogue in my thriller, if there is such a thing. Thanks!
Hi Laura. This is a really good question! And I’d say the answer is yes. Every story has parts that are more important than others. Drama is really important to crucial scenes, but for backstory etc, it’s sometimes best just to tell these to the reader, so they can crack on with the main action. Have you given your book to any beta readers yet? They can really help make these kinds of decisions. Good luck! Sarah
Yes. I was told years ago…. Why have you got so much dialogue? It’s not doing anything for the story. Your strength is in your descriptive passages. Play to your strengths.
But it requires an intelligent readership.Of course, even to show, I mean to picture what is there, also demands a good writing.Ultimately, whether you tell or show to the reader, it is only through writing.In both the processes it invloves writing.While telling, you are straight forward, whereas in showing you are circuitous and it requires more description and more vocabulary.You may thrive on with a limited vocabulary in a tell approach and it requires voracious reading and a vast vocabulary in show appraoch.
Yes, I see what you are saying. Most short stories have mostly telling as it takes less time. But novels are usually a combination of both. Not everything needs to be shown!
I know ‘showing’ and not ‘telling’ makes a story much more interesting, It also makes the story longer because ‘showing’ needs more words than ‘telling’.
I had gone to the shops to get milk, but had come back with a stack of
newspapers instead—all with her face on them. It was too hot to be this
angry.
Here’s my attempt to show, on the quoted script.
“Sorry, Mom,” I said, when she opened the door, but the shop was out of fresh milk because of the transportation strike.”
“Out of milk!” She glared at me, unbelief flooding her eyes. “How do I make the desert for tonight’s dinner? For your dad’s boss n’ wife?”
“Dunno,” I replied, feeling helpless. I put the stack of newspapers on the bench, removed my shoes, put the empty basket on the table, wiped my humid brow and looked at Mom.
“Why so many newspapers?” She asked, puzzled.
I sighed, “Jenny Mulligan’s face is on the front page of every one. She won the dance competition at the stadium, last night.”
“So what?” Mom said. “Here, let me take a look.”
I swiftly snatched up the stack of papers. “No, Mom. You don’t need to see her,” I said.
“But why?” She asked, ever more surprised.
“Because the damn fool won the prize with Jason as her partner,” I blurted in anger, breaking into a sob.
Mom knew that Jason and I were going steady since the past year, and that I was in love with him.
“Come, lovely,” she said soothingly, rubbing her hand down my back. “Let’s cool off under the shade of the chestnut. It’s too hot to be angry.”
“Too hot ot be angry?” I echoed. “I never heard that before.”
I really love the way you write.
Many thanks, Vanessa.
Even the fridge couldn’t cope any longer and now it dripped defrosted ice onto the floor. I held the half full wine bottle left over from that last meal we had together against my face but like the milk, it was unpleasantly warm. A trip to the shop beckoned, either that or black tea and coffee. I bought more than intended as every newspaper in the rack had her face on the cover in that same pose, with that wonderful smile that I loved so much. I gathered an armful, holding them against my chest, my face, my tears wetting the ink, as if to say to her,
“It’s ok. You’re safe. I’m here, darling.”
But of course she wasn’t there and she wasn’t safe and I was slowly dying without her. As the mercury continued to rise I didn’t even have the energy to be angry.
“What are those?” He asked, gesturing to the stack of papers under my arm. I was sweating and out of breath, and now annoyed.
“Milk?” He said raising his eyebrows and trying to get a look at the cover. I shifted the stack away but I’m sure he saw the picture of her face on the cover. I rolled my eyes and walked into the other room muttering ‘fuck off’ under my breath.
His mouth twisted and his eyes aged 20 years. Whatever. Sweat was still pouring down my face as I slammed my door. I honestly couldn’t give a fuck anymore.
“Mom…? Mom! MOTHER!”
I looked up for one second, my glasses sliding down my nose as a sweat drop landed on the newsprint.
“Where’s the milk?”
I spit back, “eat some toast!” as I flipped through each paper in the stack. The paper stuck to my sweaty palms as I tossed them onto the table one by one. They littered the kitchen table and fell to the floor.
“PROSECUTOR RACHEL PINE RESIGNS AMIDST REPORTS OF SEXUAL MISCONDUCT.”
I really enjoyed this; nice details …glasses sliding down; sweat drop on paper, papers one by one littering the table and falling. And the one sentence headline in caps sets the scene for all kinds of backstory and intrigue to come.
Thanks for the post, Sarah! You can never have too many examples of “showing” versus “telling”, in my book (figure of speech, of course, not literal). I write “raw poetry” mostly, so I enjoy the opportunity once in awhile to practice writing a scene of fiction in response to a TWP prompt.
Just had fun creating some images in my head around the prompt, and searching for descriptive words to portray them on paper. Here’s my practice:
Alexandra hurled the pile of newspapers onto the kitchen island. The sprawling newsprint portraits of Becca were replicated torture. Alex crumpled over, the cool granite counter teasing the soft skin of her forearms, as if relief were a possibility. Riverlets of perspiration slid down from her forehead, carving the contours of her temple and jawline, drops finally releasing their hold and plunging downward. Their result was a monochromatic watercolor of Becca’s immutable smile. But the drops of red had destroyed that ray of hope forever.
“Darn, I forgot to buy milk!” fumed Alexandra. … [lol … I had to include that jokingly to make sure I addressed the prompt fully regarding dialog and the milk … swa]
The milk reeked. Reaching into the fridge for a bottled water, the smell hit me like a semi. Or, more appropriately, like the monstrous stack of case files oh-so-expert-Joanna decided to drop on my desk at 4:58. Which is why I was late. And why the power had been off in my apartment for six hours instead of just two. And, probably, why I had forgotten to pay the power bill in the first place. And why everything was spoiled. That, and the heat.
I pushed my feet past the sticky sweat clinging to the inside of my pumps and opened the door, bracing for a wave of heat, but the night air was still. Ominous, somewhat, like the hot quiet that hangs over the fields before a thunderstorm breaks.
On the sidewalk, the dog chained outside Rosie’s barely lifted his chin off the concrete as I passed. At least, someone’s not going to bark at me today. The bums too, barely shifted their attention from their tall boys for the usual cat call. The heat had us all beat.
The bell tinkled as I walked into the convenience store, grateful for the rush of cold air to hit me. Behind the counter, Sai wore his usual smile. Its nice in here, I thought. Not that it’s a place I’d tell anyone about, but no one I know would ever come. I grabbed a carton of milk from behind the fogged glass doors and walked towards the counter in a happy daze, stopping to admire the shelves of brightly packaged chips. Lunch never happened and neither did dinner, so technically, even if I did eat a bag or two of these, it’s not like I’d exceed my calories for the day. I grabbed three bags. It was a long day.
Feeling more than a little giddy as I marched my chips and milk to the cash register, I plopped down my purchases on the counter with a toothy grin.
“Good evening, Sai! How’s it going?”
“Not bad, not bad. Lots to see today,” he said, pointing towards the TV.
A blonde news anchor was saying something about a breaking news story while the photo of a familiar looking girl floated in the top right corner of the screen.
“What all is going on?”
“You didn’t hear? Ah, big, big day. Get a paper, front page story.”
I picked up a paper from the stack next to the oranges, print clinging to my still sweaty fingers. That girl, she wasn’t just familiar looking. It was her.
My face burned red hot and I thrust my tongue to the roof of my mouth to hold back a yowl. No, no. She could not have. I kept my end of the bargain. Why the hell had she not kept hers?
I grabbed all the papers and stormed out the door into the heat, sweat masking my angry tears as it poured down my face.
Awesome!! I really enjoyed reading this. I like the back story starting with the reeking milk, and the fact that “everything was spoiled” feels like a great foreshadow for things to come.
So many great details. I felt as if I was walking alongside the character.
As feedback, a couple parts that didn’t flow in my head: “a toothy grin” doesn’t seem like the right description for this character; I like the dialog, but “What all is going on?” doesn’t sound natural to me.
Thanks for writing and sharing!
A wonderful reminder with strong examples. Here’s my attempt:
I slammed the door behind me; sweat droplets flew off my fingertips completing their journey from my armpits. At least I was out of the sun — somewhat an improvement in temperature at least but it didn’t alleviate the weight of my soaked t-shirt.
I released my grip on the stack of newspapers letting them crash to the floor. “I hope she felt that.” But no, her smug little face was still smiling up at me from page one. I stomped on it for good measure, then picked up my cell and speed-dialed the organization’s president. We needed to do something — anything. Then I remembered something else important. “Shit! I forgot the milk.”
You show your frustration in your post and the rage you feel towards ‘her’. Good! Dramatic.
Great! I loved the “I stomped on it for good measure”. I certainly want to know what’s going on with the president of the organization!
I really liked the way you showed that the character was angry at the woman.
I felt like I was wearing two wool sweaters in a sauna. The ink was cheap on the newsprint and it smeared off on my moist palms, almost like the paper was sweating, too. The stack was getting heavier with every slogging step, and her stupid, simpering face was shoved close to my own as I tried to balance the pile with my chin. Few people were actually on the street, but those I passed gave me odd looks. If I’d had a free hand, I would’ve flipped them a whole bouquet of birds. A drop dead look would have to do.
Finally, I reached home. Unable to handle the door knob, I kicked the door with my foot.
“Hey! Rita! Let me in!”
“I’m WORKING on it!” Rita’s muffled voice came from inside. When she opened the door, her dark hair was frizzy and puffing out like a cloud around her narrow face. Even in an undershirt and ratty shorts, (a similar wardrobe to my own), she looked miserable. “What the hell are you doing?! Where did you get all those?”
“Mars, where do you think?” I pushed past her, going for the kitchen table. A piddly little fan was plugged in, barely moving around the stagnant air.
“Don’t test me right now, Dan! Where’s the milk?”
“What?”
“The milk, Dan! For fuck’s sake, did you forget?!”
“I’m a little occupied, Rita!” I shoved the newspaper in her face. Rita slapped it away.
She grabbed her wallet from her purse and dug through it for a minute. Throwing a few bills at me, she looked about to explode.
“I don’t give a shit! Go get what I told you!” The baby started crying in the other room. Rita’s fingers dug through her hair, perched on the edge of insanity. “Go. Right. Now.” The words hissed through her teeth, and I almost felt like I shouldn’t leave her alone with our seven month old baby.
I stalked out the door again, crushing the money in my hand. As I made my way back to the store, I ran through my repertoire of curses, inventing new ones when the old ones prove not as potent. I curse everything; Rita’s temper, the store, milk in general, sweat, my shirt sticking to my chest, pedestrians, and that stupid idiot who had to get her face plastered on the newspaper’s front page.
Absolutely incredible! I was swept along by your descriptions, reading with anticipation. Great job.
(The only line I’d leave out is about ~ my wardrobe was like hers.
Uhhhh … maybe don’t leave the baby with either of them. ..
Thanks so much for the feed back! Yeah, I think I’ll take out that line.
fascinating! you’re excellent. The whole thing grabbed my attention. Thanks Maggie Cashman for sharing a gem!
Thank you so much for saying so!
I really liked all the description and it was an entertaining read!
That’s really well written. Thank you for sharing 🙂
Very well done. I enjoyed how you weaved info into the story without being too explanatory
I surreptitiously slip into the apartment, with half the papers from the stand down the road. I stop when I see my reflection; bleary-eyed and sweat ridden. The cheap ink is running down my face, and I pedantically wipe it off with the back of my trembling hand, while the other weakly holds the stack of papers for dear life. I take long, shallow breaths in an attempt to plateau my breathing, but it doesn’t work.
It just gets worse.
“Did you get the milk?” My husband mutters from behind me, appearing in my peripheral vision. A cold trickle runs down my spine as my grip finally gives out unwarranted. The papers hit the floor, and sound vibrates throughout the hallway. Before I know it, he’s in my space, and he’s furrowing his brows inquisitively at me. His gaze dips to the papers on the ground, and he freezes. He lifts his eyes, so that they’re on mine. They burn through me with accusation and resentment.
“Babe, I can explain-”
“Were you going to hide these from me?!” He interjects, with almost a lilt to his voice.
“Yes.” I say back, probably too fast. His eyes flash dangerously at me, and I stumble back at the force, as if they’re pushing me. “Yes.” I reiterate, lowering my voice. He works his jaw, and bends down to grab a paper. He stares at it for a beat, almost trembling, almost broken. He brushes his eyes, as tears begin fall down his face, and he looks at me again.
“She’s my daughter too, you know.”
“I know.”
Wow!
I don’t have time right now to write specific comments, but I at least wanted to make sure I let you know that I enjoyed reading your piece! Nice job!
Somehow, this one clicked for me. I got the beginnings of a nice story.
The stop-and-go traffic on my way home from work was worse than usual, and it was almost six thirty when I reached the grocery store. After working through lunch – again! – I was ravenous. A quart of milk, then home for a mixing bowl full of rot-your-teeth-out breakfast cereal.
I drove around the parking lot for ten more minutes. Frustrated, I parked in a handicapped stall and “hobbled” inside. The smell of hot food hit me like a punch to the gut. Breakfast cereal? Not when there was meat to be had. I hurried to the deli. At that very moment, the clerk was setting out hot take-home trays of barbecued pork ribs, and the bakery had just-baked French bread for sale. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I grabbed some ribs, a loaf of bread, and a large coleslaw and headed for the nearest cashier.
When I passed the newspaper rack, I saw it. A front-page picture of my next-door neighbor, Antonio Velasquez, in handcuffs, surrounded by ICE agents. I can’t describe the rage I felt, looking at that harmless, old man getting hauled off to jail. Seventy years old, a bald, stooping diabetic. Loves to garden. Fond of his cat. Not exactly a national security threat.
I grabbed the entire stack of newspapers, all ten of them, and dropped them into my shopping basket. Another ten minutes waiting in line. Back in the car, I broke the speed limit all the way home. Of course, Antonio wasn’t there when I arrived, but his two daughters, Emilia and Maria, were. They invited me in, I broke out the food, and we ate together while they told me what happened.
Agents came to their father’s house during a neighborhood sweep and demanded to see Antonio’s driver’s license. He doesn’t have one; he gave up driving three years ago. Then, they wanted a passport, which he also doesn’t have. All of his family in Mexico is dead. When Antonio couldn’t produce his naturalization papers, the agents accused him of using a fake ID and arrested him. Alerted by a neighbor, the women arrived at their father’s home as ICE was taking him out to the van. Maria asked what was happening, and instead of answering, an agent pulled his gun on them, warning them to stay back or they would be arrested, too. She told the agent her father was diabetic and asked if they had his medicine, but the man ignored her.
Emilia asked me if I knew someone who could help them, a really good lawyer who’d get their father out of jail. I said I did, but it would be very expensive. She sighed and looked away.
“I’ll help you,” I said. “That is, if you want me to.”
“How much will you charge us?” Maria asked.
“For my time, nothing. Just the cost of filing and serving the motions for his release. I’d estimate about four hundred dollars, maybe five.”
Emilia nodded. “We can do that.”
“Did they say where they were taking him?”
“To Tacoma,” Maria said.
“Did they take your father’s medication?”
Emilia shook her head. “It’s still in his bedroom.”
“Okay. Gather it up, everything he needs. And find his naturalization papers, too.”
“I have them right here,” Maria said. “I keep them at my house so he doesn’t lose them.”
We stopped at my office on the way. Antonio’s daughters signed the representation agreement, and an hour later we were in Tacoma. At the gate, the guards demanded ID and ordered us out of the car while they searched it. Then, the senior – the one with no neck – made a show of scrutinizing our driver’s licenses.
“Two Mexes, huh? Which one’s Uh-MEEL-yah?”
Emilia held up her hand.
“So, that makes you Maria. Feelin’ pretty tonight?” He laughed at his own joke.
Maria rolled her eyes.
“And the white lady” – he looked at my license again – is Maggie. Right?”
“Wrong. The white lady is Colonel Maggie Warburton, United States Army Judge Advocate General’s Corps Reserves.”
He laughed. “Prove it, bitch.”
I handed him my Army identification.
“How do I know this isn’t a fake?”
“Open the gate, or explain yourself to your boss.”
“Which boss would that be, little lady?”
I pulled my cellphone out of my purse and made a call. When it rang, I put it on speaker.
“General Kelly’s office.”
“Hi, Sue. This is Maggie. What are you doing at the office this time of night?”
“The General is very busy, and that makes me very busy, too. What can I do for you, Mags?”
“I’m at the ICE detention center in Tacoma, Washington. Some agents arrested a naturalized citizen this evening on suspicion of being undocumented. He’s an old man and a diabetic. They took him in without his meds. I’m at the front gate with his daughters, and the guards are hassling us. One of them claims my JAG card’s fake.”
“Oh, dear. I’ll put him on.”
I smiled pleasantly at the guard while we waited.
“Maggie! Is that son-of-a-bitch there?
Tiny beads of sweat appeared on No-Neck’s forehead.
“Yes, John, he is. And he can hear you.”
“This is General Kelly, you tin-star asshole. When an Army colonel tells you to open the gate, you do it. Now apologize to the lady.”
“Yes, sir.” No-Neck stared at the ground. “Ma’am, I behaved badly, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“Thank you. Now, how about another one for my clients?”
The guard apologized to Emilia, then Maria. When he finished, the general spoke.
“Now, call the office, and tell them they’re to give Colonel Warburton the same courtesy and cooperation as they would to a member of my staff. I also want the names of the agents who arrested that American citizen. And if anybody fouls this up, mister, I’ll have you all up on charges. Understood?”
“Yes, sir! Understood.”
“Anything else you need, Maggie?”
“Yes. Give my love to my sister.”
“Sure will. And get back here soon. We miss you.”
“I will, John. Thanks for your help. I appreciate it. Bye.”
“’Night, Maggie.”
Without a word, No-Neck saluted and opened the gates. As we got back into the car, I heard him phoning in General Kelly’s orders.
Two security officer met us at the door, and after the routine purse inspection and metal detector, one of them escorted us to the main office. At the front desk, a balding, heavyset man watched a football game on the wall-mounted television.
“Harris, these are the people Jackson called about. I’ll be out front.”
We waited until the next commercial came on before Harris turned around. When he did, he blanched, then came out swinging.
“Well, well, well. It’s Colonel Madsen. This time I can tell you to go to hell without spending more time in the stockade. Whatever it is, Colonel, I ain’t got the time. Got a VIP coming in.
“Hello to you, too, Sergeant Harris. Would that VIP happen to be Colonel Maggie Warburton?”
“How did you know?”
“I’m Colonel Warburton. Widows marry again, you know.”
“What the…”
“Give it a rest, Harris. ICE already has a lot to answer for. Besides, do you really want to make me curious enough to look into how a crook like you landed a cushy job in federal law enforcement?”
Harris glared at me.
“Contact the agent in charge, and tell him to bring Antonio Velasquez to the office. I have his naturalization papers – and his medication.”
“Run out and get some milk for me, please?” she asked in that sweet tone of voice that I could say no to, not even when I glanced at the thermometer. Triple digits. Again.
“I bought milk three days ago,” I answered, turning around to face her. She’s sitting in the arm chair, right next to the air conditioner, and looking up at me with big, blue eyes and her lips curled up into a subtle smile.
“Darling, I spilled it all yesterday.”
I sighed and grabbed the keys from the hook, squeezed them for a moment, and placed them back on the hook.
Then I went out into southern California’s summer hell.
My car sat in the driveway, acting more like a piece of junk than a mode of transportation these days. I wish that act would quit already.
In the noon sunlight, my skin glistened and I wiped my forehead and squinted ahead. Should have grabbed the sunglasses before I left, but those were still in the car, and I cursed myself for leaving them there.
I pushed the door to the convenience door open and flashed an exhausted smile to Aaron behind the counter.
The cold welcomed me. It enveloped around my whole being as I walked right to the dairy section. She didn’t accept anything except fat free milk, and maybe if she opened her mind a little more, I wouldn’t be here today because there was no reason we’d run of milk three days later.
A spill was a poor excuse to get me out of the house.
I gripped the cold handle of the milk with my slick, sweaty palm, and I managed to get all the way to the counter before I saw the pile of papers on the rack. I thought of the convenience store as a getaway from the woman who often treated me like I was a peasant and she was a queen.
I let her because I thought when she talked to me in that smooth, sweet voice, it meant I was the only one for her. I dropped the milk and spilled it all over the ground, and I cursed as it soaked my legs and sandals.
I cursed again, louder, then I bought the newspapers instead of milk. If she wanted milk so much, she could go through hell to get it.
She’ll end up taking that milk to the mayor’s house one way or another.
“Hey Jim!” I yelled. “How come you’re all out of milk?” All the refrigerator glass doors were steamed up with condensation, but I could still see the milk shelves inside were empty.
“Didn’t you see the news? Some terrorist poisoned the state’s milk supply! Nobody has any.”
“Poisoned? I asked. “How did they do it?” My granddaughter Molly had been watching Sessame Street reruns and had monopolized the TV. I hadn’t seen any news in days.
Jim looked at me as if I was crazy. “You mean you haven’t even seen the papers? You should take a look!”
I looked at Jim and walked toward the front of the store to see what he was talking about. The Times headline read, “DON’T DRINK THE MILK!”, and under the headline was her picture. It was the president’s daughter in handcuffs!
I picked up the paper and read the article. She had poisoned the milk with tetrachloroethalene, obtained from the White House dry cleaners. It was just good they caught the tainted milk before it hit the stores. Her motive was still unknown.
“My wife is not going to be happy about this! She gets pissed if she can’t have her daily milkshake, particularly when the weather is this hot.” I said.
“Yeah, and it’s going to be a scorcher! Want to take some cold sodas home?”
“OK”, I said. I picked up a paper to show the wife why she couldn’t have her milkshake today.
In the screenplay I’m writing, the scenes usually revolve around the main character’s storytelling. In the script, the main character is being interviewed because of something traumatic she has experienced.
How it works is she visits the Interviewer, three days. Each day she discusses the beginning, middle and end of her story. When she finishes each discussion, she leaves and comes back the next day, until the third day. (If you’ve watched “The Lorax” 2011, you may understand the concept. Similar to the “Once-Ler” and “Teddy”)
I feel as though the problem with this concept is that I don’t know what to add in between each time the character leaves and comes back. I also don’t know how I want the film to end. I don’t want the film to end with just the character finishing her story and then end credits. I want her story to have an emotional impact on, not only the interviewer, but other characters involved in the film. I really want it to be a tearjerker.
I forgot to add if you could give me some tips on that.
“Tell me again, what happened?” a man in a white lab coat peered over his clipboard.
A few hours earlier I was preparing my breakfast – I struck an empty box. Not only that, but I struck the mines just before the weather could have gotten any better. Blue skies and pink roses existed ad infinitum in the form of valentine gifts in my world: half-eaten chocolate boxes. It was…
Cold. That’s what it felt like. Regardless of having any contents at all, my heart wasn’t content. That meant that I had to go out and purchase a new milk carton from the shops. I thought long and hard. My dry tongue and curling hair made it unbearable to tolerate the absence of milk in my bowl. It was like listening to a bloodcurdling scream as your alarm clock, and your alarm clock was telling you to go back out – but I wasn’t ready yet!
But before I knew it, I was already at the aisle picking up my sweet precious thing. I never expected to have committed such an act; I never expected that I would do what it took to go after my sweet precious thing, but at least I knew that I would get what I came for there.
I winced at the papers. “I can’t believe this!”
I approached the counter and grabbed the paper up by its collar. I pressed my nose into it. Then I finally backed off.
“What happened?” the store owner asked.
“My daughter is on the front page of today’s papers!” I scrunched the paper up, “That’s what happened.”
The store owner lowered his eyepiece and looked up at me. “That’s good, congratulations Philip!”
“You call this good, Andrew?” I threw the paper up in front of his face. “Sacrificing half of your life for your children and hoping that maybe one day they’d choose the right career?”
The fans in the ceiling of the store began to creak louder and louder. Andrew’s voice grew distant as shuddered in thought. I took out what was left in my wallet but all I could afford was the paper. So I took it and walked outside. I frowned as I saw men walking past drooling over the front page. Hopefully I could scare them off from staring, but instead I found myself staring at my pool of sweat, trembling from any further movements. All at once I couldn’t feel the Earth beneath me; the sound of footsteps faded. Dead-
Bolted back to now. There was a table next to me. Hopefully a bible inside. But I needed to ward this strange man away from me first.
“I had gone to the shops to get milk, but had come back with a stack of newspapers instead – all with her face on them. It was too hot to be this angry.” I huffed and pointed to the paper lying across the desk from me.
“Oh, I know what you mean.” He glanced over the paper and smiled. “Maybe you should stop having these fantasies and rest for a while.”