5 Tips to Capture a Moment in Writing

by Kellie McGann | 29 comments

The last few weeks I've been traveling around Europe. I've been to Iceland, Athens, Lesvos, Amsterdam, Maastricht, and next week, I will be going to Paris. It's been magical, to say the least. Every day I've seen something I might never see again.

capture a moment

And each day there have been moments I've desperately wanted to capture. These are moments you know you'll never forget. It's walking into a refugee camp in Greece, knowing your life will never be the same. It's holding hands for the first time in a foreign city, wondering what it all means. It's hugging someone goodbye at the airport, not knowing the next time you will see them.

How to Capture a Moment in Writing

These moments are what make up your life. They are the moments that make up stories.

The ability to capture these moments will change your writing. So in today's post, I want to explore just how to do that. Here are five tips to consider while trying to capture a moment.

1. Use Your Senses

This is the obvious place to start. The five senses are sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch. This is the way you process the majority of your surroundings. To begin capturing a moment, you need to go through each of these senses.

What do I see? What do I hear? Taste? Smell? Feel? (Here's another post about unlocking the five senses.)

These descriptions and details are the foundation for describing any moment.

Sometimes these descriptions might seem obvious or even boring, but write them down anyway. You can edit later, but you can't relive the moment.

 2. Breathe The Moment

Joe recently wrote a post about this. It is easy to get caught up in describing your surroundings and finding the perfect word for the rainy weather. But the secret to really capturing amazing moments is to breathe.

I've struggled with this during my travels. Europe is beautiful. Many of the world's best writers have written in the places I sit. So let me tell you a secret: while writing in the same cafés as Hemingway, the pressure to write incredible, life-changing, perfect stories is overwhelming. (And when you allow yourself to be swept up in the overwhelming pressure, you either write nothing at all or complete crap.)

But you have to stop focusing on every smell and sound and breathe the moment.

There's something in that breath that actually gives you a better sense of your surroundings. You write best about the places and moments you've really breathed and allowed yourself to experience.

Don't forget to breathe.

3. Pay Attention to the Small Details

Confession: I love small details. It's actually one of my favorite things about writing and reading.

But here's the catch. The details have to mean something. They have to point to a bigger picture of what you're trying to express.

One of my favorite songwriters, Ben Rector, does this. He gives small details like tennis shoes and faded jeans, the way someone is always early, or a flip phone with an obnoxious ringtone.

These details give you a better sense of who someone is or what they're going through. They help the reader (or listener) put themselves in the moment.

Include details that give depth to the moment. Include small details because they build a better story.

4. Build the Moment

Know what kind of moment you're trying to capture. From there, you know how to build it.

Some moments you build toward a peaceful quiet, but most moments build up toward an emotional event. These moments are like a first kiss. They never start with the kiss. They require build up, hints, and time.

  • First, write a place for the reader. Show the reader where they are physically and what is around them.
  • Second, begin to show the reader where they are emotionally. This is also a good time to hint towards what might happen at the end.
  • Thirdly, keep building. Depending on your ending, this is the moment you either fasten the pace of your writing, or slow it back down as you capture the final pieces of the moment.

Building the moment is just as important as capturing it. Smells, sounds, and feelings don't mean much if they're not crafted together in a way that also impacts the reader.

5. Find the Bigger Story

What makes a moment meaningful? The moment is just one part of a bigger story.

Whether you're capturing your morning drive to work or the view from the Eiffel Tower, you must hint to a bigger story, a bigger message.

This is done by hinting at something the reader can still connect with, something that they can relate to.

This step, while it might seem obvious, is essential to connecting the story to your reader. A successful captured moment gives the reader a part in the story too.

Have you ever desperately wanted to capture the moment before you? How have you done that? What moments have you captured? Let us know in the comments below!

PRACTICE

Take fifteen minutes and practice capturing a moment. Choose a profound moment, or a seemingly mundane one. Use the different techniques from the post.

Post your practice in the comments and let us know what worked for you! (Also be sure to leave some feedback for your fellow practicers.)

Happy moment-capturing!

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Kellie McGann is the founder of Write a Better Book. She partners with leaders to help tell their stories in book form.

On the weekends, she writes poetry and prose.

She contributes to The Write Practice every other Wednesday.

29 Comments

  1. philipp

    Perfect, been struggeling with that for years. I guess boiling it down to the essentials is the key. Thanks for the great post

    Reply
    • Kellie McGann

      Philipp,
      Let me know how these tips work for you!! Good luck practicing!

  2. Alex Furnica

    Early classes can be quite painful to sit through, and I’m quite sure most people would agree. How can you pay attention to the important lesson the teacher is trying to convey, when at least half of your attention is directed at internally yelling at your mind to wake up?

    I found myself on such a morning, but something was different. I had just been through a long, and grueling recruitment process a few days ago. Today was the day I would hear the answer. The dimly lit room only made it easier for my eyes to relax and my mind to drift. Usually your mind takes you places where you would like to go, letting the imagination go wild. All these pleasant images were drowned out by the oppressing worry of what was to come. I sat in an awkward position; my slouched posture a representation of the expectations weighing my mind down. The professor’s voice, while usually a major point of interest, turned into a never ending drone. Although only an hour had passed since I left the house, breakfast seemed a distant memory as my stomach rumbled. My reverie was interrupted by a startling vibration in the right pocket of my jeans. Pulling out my phone, I see the familiar name of the recruiter. Standing up from the seat of the class, which I had strategically picked to be on the side for easy access to the entrance, I half rushed, half tip-toed out of the classroom. I slid my finger over the phone from left to right and held the phone up to my ear.

    I struggled to maintain my composure as we must be graceful in victory and defeat. Unfortunately, concepts are easily grasped and hardly applied. I shakingly answered the phone with the typical greetings that become a reflex after a while. After what seemed like an eternity of small talk, she cleverly steered the conversation towards the actual answer. This was it. You know from the first few words, maybe even the first word, what someone is going to say in such situations. The inflection with which someone starts the sentence tells you everything you need to know. I held my breath and waited for the response.

    As I let go of the air inside me, my voice continued to shake. Her words rang loudly in my head, repeating over and over. At this point my reactions were robotic; my mind was focusing on what I should be feeling right now since I found myself feeling nothing. Now that my other senses were not numbed anymore, I could feel the refreshing breeze of the hallway against my damp skin.

    I kept pacing even after the conversation had ended. It was time to call my dad and give him the good news. To this day, it astonishes me how similar both sides of the coin can be sometimes.

    Reply
  3. Lee

    I am really pleased to see this discussed. My blog is predominantly short stories and flash fiction based on real life events (with a little artistic license). Recently, I travelled and tried to write a story each day based on the city that I traveled to. It was really hard, because it ended up sounding more like a journal, thus lost a lot of hooks for the reader.
    I will try and use these points in my future writing. Thanks

    Reply
    • Kellie McGann

      Traveling is some of the best writing inspiration I’ve ever had! So excited to see how these tips work for your writing! Let us know!

    • Kellie McGann

      Yay Rhonda! I’m glad you liked it. Looking forward to reading that practice! 🙂

  4. LaCresha Lawson

    Europe is beautiful. I had the chance to be stationed at Ramstein, AB Germany when I was in the Air Force. I took a drive to Berlin with my friends from the base. We went to a museum and walked the streets. They went ahead of me and I looked down and there was a huge, brown rat just walking around minding its little-big business. It came from the gutter. And, just went back in there continuing on with its life while scaring me and I was yelling like a crazy woman! I had to remember that Germany is a very old country.

    Reply
  5. Nancy Dohn

    It wasn’t the text message I wanted to receive. Ever. Five short lines and such a huge impact. A vacuum humming down a hallway suddenly strummed every taut nerve. The happy spiel the receptionist gave when she answered the phone made me want to smack her. The scraping of the spoon as Christy ate her lunch caused my skin to crawl. I reread the text: “The doctors give him a 10% chance to be alive in six months. It depends on the decay curve, so it is hard to predict when would be the best time for you to come.” Decay curve? I thought of the time I had been biking when I saw an armadillo dead near the side of the road, a buzzard pecking at it, flies buzzing. I could smell it downwind. I slowed down, hoping to skirt the carcass but a car sped by, hitting the rotting mound of flesh, just as I passed it. Bits and pieces in my face, on my hands. Oh, the smell. There was nothing I could do but receive it. Just like now. I just wondered, how does something still living and breathing decay into death?

    Reply
    • LilianGardner

      A most descriptive piece, Nancy. Thanks for sharing.
      I hoped to read a piece, (like yours), from member’s posts, to get an idea.
      From now on, whenever I see a dead animal on the roadside, your descritpion about the dead armadillo will come to mind.

    • Nathy Gaffney

      Hi Nancy. I once was hit in the face by a dead cane toad, whilst playing with my cousins. Your piece took me right back there in an instant. Great imagery! Although I’m not sure I welcomed the memory hahaha!
      Cheers
      Nathy

    • Nancy Dohn

      Yes it isn’t something you forget soon!

  6. Victoria Buck

    I pouted at the kitchen table in the kitchen of my uncle’s
    base housing, my muscles sore from the muddy jungle hike earlier that day. My
    hands rested on the wooden surface, relaxing a little as the Hawaiian breeze
    rattled the screen door.

    “Hey!” My aunt appeared from the other room, phone in hand, odd excitement in her voice. “There’s a carrier coming in. Right now.”

    Carrier. My thirteen-year-old brain knew from multiple games
    of Battleship what that was: a large Navy vessel with a flat deck for military
    aircraft. I’d never seen one in action. My heart started thudding.

    “Go on, hurry. Run down and see it.”

    Several cousins crashed into the room, whooping. “Let’s go
    see the carrier! Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

    Forget the tired body. I jumped up and we took off, running
    barefoot: out of the house, across the warm pavement, through the hibiscus-scented
    yard, through the sea air, toward Pearl Harbor.

    The shore was crammed with excited bystanders, muscular
    military men, smiling wives, and wide-eyed children.

    My cousins and I squirmed our way to the front. The blue
    seawater patted the shore patiently, its tiny voice mixing with the louder
    human ones.

    I looked around, toes kneading the spongy grass, hands
    shaking a little.

    A large airman in a red shirt looked my way. He smiled,
    leaned closer, and shouted over the crowd, “That carrier’s been at sea for
    eight months. Three hundred sailors onboard.”

    I was about to respond, but the noise around me funneled
    away and disappeared in a single breath.

    There was a hush, a whispering, a neck-craning.

    Then we saw it: a great, gray object growing out of the
    water on a metal stem that thickened as it rose up, up, to the white figures on
    deck …

    Three hundred sailors at attention, lining the deck like a
    picket fence, seeing land, seeing America, seeing loved ones, for the first
    time in eight months.

    The cheering began. Smiles were automatic. We shouted and
    screamed and waved our arms in the air, welcoming our men home. I could not see
    their faces, but I could feel their happiness shining out to me. I could
    imagine their thoughts: that in an hour, there would be hysterical hugs and
    wrestling matches with the six-year-old son, tearstained kisses for the woman
    who waited, prayers of thanks from the seaman’s mother.

    The shouting went on around me for minutes, hours, I don’t
    know. I never wanted it to end. As the ship diminished and we returned to the
    house, the island sun making our shadows long and green in front of us, I
    didn’t know if my happiness was solemn or wild. All I could think was how glad
    I was to be an American.

    Reply
    • Nathy Gaffney

      Hi Victoria. What a beautiful piece of writing. Thank you so much. I loved the bit about you and your cousins ‘squirming’ your way to the front. Totally relatable. And ‘toes kneading the spongey grass’. As a child, I did both those things, and the other part I loved “I didn’t know if my happiness was solemn or wild.” So resonant – it is often when we are overcome with emotion – we don’t know where it falls on the continuum.
      Very nice work!
      Cheers
      Nathy

    • Victoria Buck

      Nathy, thank you for the kind words. I am so blessed to be a writer and to be a part of such a supportive community as TWP. I enjoyed reading your piece as well!
      Thanks again,
      Victoria

  7. Joe Volkel

    It had taken me about two months to build the radio controlled model glider airplane. It was about three feet long with an eight foot wing span and was supposed to be one of the best trainers out there. I had some experience flying powered models, but gliders were scary to me. If you didn’t get the glide path right you could lose a whole months pay in the blink of an eye! When I was finally ready to give it a try the weatherman just would not cooperate. We had a string of typical Florida spring days – rainy, windy, the windy, rainy. Finally a beautiful day came around – about 70 degrees with a nice mild breeze that would certainly help the glider fly. I had outfitted the plane with a small engine that would run for about three minutes on a thimble full of alcohol, enough to get the plane up about a hundred feet or so. After that you were at the mercy of the ether. The plane went up like a dream, nice easy flying. I had just read an article that said that if you see a wing tip up you should turn into it, that would be a rising thermal that would get you up higher for some more flying time. Well I caught the thermal alright and the plane zoomed up to probably a thousand feet in less than a minute. I started trembling – the plane was no more than a speck in the sky and I couldn’t tell which way it was flying or whether it was right side up or not. I applied a little down trim and some left rudder trim into the radio control unit and just let the plane fly itself. After about 20 nail biting minutes the plane was close by, but the batteries on board were almost out. I went for it, and landed the plane about ten feet away from me. yippee! She was home. I ran over to pick up my first successful glide, tripped on a clump of saw grass and fell right on the plane. Smashed it into a bazillion pieces, ending my model airplane hobby enthusiasm!

    Reply
  8. Andressa Andrade

    What a coincidence! I am a teacher, and tomorrow I am going to give a lecture that is about how to write a kind of text which, essentially, consists in capturing a moment in writing. This post will be super useful! I will make sure I mention it to my students. Thank you! =)

    Reply
  9. Nathy Gaffney

    The hospital smelt as most hospitals do. A mix of antiseptic, air freshener, sickness and industry. There was the pad pad pad of soft soled shoes rushing up and down the hall outside my dads room, and the intermittent beeps of machines designed to monitor the life forces of the humans ecapsulated in this mammoth life support space ship of a building. Cold and impersonal, and yet full to the brim also, with human compassion and love.

    My arms were wrapped around Dad’s neck, and we swayed and tottered gently together. His footsteps in his hospital slippers were shaky in their strength, but deliberate in their direction. He was – in all his incapacitation – leading this dance.

    The music coming from his cd player was latin. Brazilian to be exact – Juan Antonio Jobeme ………. Singing “the Girl from Ipanema” – a lilting gentle voice, but vibrant and melodious. Dad and I were dancing close and I could hear him softly humming and singing a few of the words. I opened my eyes and looked at his neck. The skin was weathered – like beaten leather. His hair was soft and downy. This surprised me in the moment, as I had thought it would be tough and whiskery, but it was like soft grey cotton wool.

    His shoulders felt frail through his hospital gown and he felt smaller than he had since the last time I had seen him. Yet he moved with purpose and in that moment, he knew who I was. He knew it was me. I breathed him in. He smelt soapy and clean. The nurses had been to shower him before I arrived. Yet through the sanitized hospital veil, I could still smell my dad – manly and strong. He’d been a builder, and had often smelt of cement dust, and Old Spice. Perhaps not an alluring combination – but in that moment, that’s what came back to me, and for a second, I was transported back to a earlier age. A time when he used to dance me around while I stood on his feet when I was little.

    But time doesn’t stand still does it? Not for anyone.

    Reply
    • Victoria Buck

      Hi Nathy,
      Wonderful piece. I could really picture things, especially the descriptions of your father’s skin “like beaten leather,” and the smell of cement dust and Old Spice. Your writing is genuine and heartfelt. I was moved.
      Keep up the good work!
      Victoria

  10. Nathy Gaffney

    The hospital smelt as most hospitals do. A mix of antiseptic, air freshener, sickness and industry. There was the pad pad pad of soft soled shoes rushing up and down the hall outside my dads room, and the intermittent beeps of machines designed to monitor the life forces of the humans ecapsulated in this mammoth life support space ship of a building. Cold and impersonal, and yet full to the brim also, with human compassion and love.

    My arms were wrapped around Dad’s neck, and we swayed and tottered gently together. His footsteps in his hospital slippers were shaky in their strength, but deliberate in their direction. He was – in all his incapacitation – leading this dance.

    The music coming from his cd player was latin. It was Brazilian to be exact – Antonio………. Singing “the Girl from Ipanema” – a lilting gentle voice, but vibrant and melodious. Dad and I were dancing close and I could hear him softly humming and singing a few of the words. I opened my eyes and looked at his neck. The skin was weathered – like beaten leather. His hair was soft and downy. This surprised me in the moment, as I had thought it would be tough and whiskery, but it was like soft grey cotton wool.

    His shoulders felt frail through his hospital gown and he felt smaller than he had since the last time I had seen him. Yet he moved with purpose and in that moment, he knew who I was. He knew it was me. I breathed him in. He smelt soapy and clean. The nurses had been to shower him before I arrived. Yet through the sanitized hospital scnet, I could still smell my dad – manly and strong. He’d been a builder, and had often smelt of cement dust, and Old Spice. Perhaps not an alluring combination – but in that moment, that’s what came back to me, and for a second, I was transported back to a earlier age. A time when he used to dance me around while I stood on his feet when I was little.

    But like this dance, time moves. It doesn’t stand still, not for anyone.

    Reply
    • I'm determined

      Incredible. You had me with you, in every sense. I was with you, dancing with your dad, both at the beginning of your life and the ending of his. Thank you.

    • Susan W A

      Beautiful, powerful story.
      “I’m Determined” eloquently stated their response to reading your piece. I agree … you carry your reader with you all the way through (yup … dancing on daddy’s feet).

      My mother died a year and a half ago; I was with her the last 48 hours in the hospital, an exquisite experience for me. You’ve described in your story a stunning example of the “glimpses of magnificence” which happen as we accompany our loved ones in the last part of their life.

  11. cal20dennis

    My sailboat house is nodding easily to the ebb current and tiny passing waves. The tired American flag is still flying from the backstay in

    long strips, lending a quiet flap to the mellow sounds of gurgling water slipping along the hull. High noon here in the Sea of Cortez finds the

    cloudless sky a faded blue as the sun climbs higher and burns hotter every day now. Resting in the shade in the cockpit with a book , or

    stretching and spreading my body across the forward bunk is close to heavenly. Warm and wonderful, the gentle mid-day warmth has

    enveloped and clothed me inside my old sailboat. Occasionally a dive bombing pelican crashes next to the sailboat and lifts me from a warm,

    mesmerizing dream. A quick search for my lover next to me is so far unrewarded.

    She is returning to me of course. The wonderful demands of her Grandma Genes are certain to soon be satiated and she will rush back to

    be with me and to feel the clean ocean air, warmed as it flows across the Baja desert from the cold Pacific Ocean. Her body craves this

    nurturing warmth, she finds the heat and life here joyous, she luxuriates in her choice (or not) of clothing. She will soon pine for the solitude

    and freedom of slowly paddling her beloved cayack along the mangrove bushes, breathing the heavenly warm morning air. She loves the

    crystal clear warm water, listening to the shorebirds, discovering seashells, and just being here has my beautiful wife hooked. I’m sure she’ll

    be back at the bus stop, looking for me…probably tonight.

    Reply
  12. Britta Kallevang

    Sitting here, I notice a slight scent of cinnamon and burned coffee – sorry about that Dad and everyone. I don’t know what I keep doing wrong with the burner. It’s new to me.

    The table at which I’m sitting is round and light-colored wood. I’m new here, though, and I don’t even know what to call this room. It’s a suburban house and my parents call it the ‘sun room,’ though it gets just as much sun as the other rooms. I haven’t established my place at the table yet. I just don’t know where to sit. All of this uncertainty puts me on edge, though I suppose one could describe my entire existence as anxious. As I sit here, typing with my noise-cancelling headphones on, I’m aware that I’m the only one here. Dad has left to jog in the rain. My stepmom is still in bed. What am I listening to? Nothing.

    My mind struggles to remember the last time I sat down to write with intention, and the strain is evident in my entire body. My jaw is clenched, my eyebrows arched and the tapping of my foot shakes the screen of my laptop. Electricity surges through the core of my body, not a passionate sort, not even utilitarian. Purposeless, but at least I’m aware of it, right? It funnels through my limbs. My fingertips emit this force as fire, hot in the inside but with dull on the outside.

    I’m halfway through my morning coffee. I can still smell how I burned it. I just can’t seem to figure out the dials on that stove. Dad’s back now. He’s barking at me, how I’ve made a mess in the kitchen.

    Reply
  13. Lauren Timmins

    True story ~

    The movie theater smelled like old upholstery and stale popcorn. Someone – he – grabbed my arm, his fingers squishing it a little too tight. He asked me where I wanted to sit, and I shrugged, my shirt slipping off my shoulder. I pushed the sleeve back up as his fingers tightened again and tugged me towards a row in the back. The screen was huge, thirty or forty feet wide and black.
    “We’re here a little early.” he said, and the hand moved off my arm and into my hand.
    Great, I thought, wondering how I got myself into this. Then I remembered- he had inquired if I would go with him in front of his parents. As the minutes dragged by as if they, too, were internally dying, an older couple walked in with fresh popcorn. The warm, buttery smell filled up the theater, overpowering the other stenches and making my mouth water. The air conditioning kicked on, leaving me to listen to the low hum, old people chewing, and the boy yammering about string theory. The hand, by the way, did not leave mine, and it was getting sweaty. I chewed on the inside of my lip, trying not to think about the liquid accumulating in my palm.
    The movie finally started with a bright flash of white and the sound of gunfire. My date released me, and I leaned back, folding my hands in my lap to try and enjoy the film. I thought I was safe, but after a scene and a half I came to the horrible conclusion that the boy was part octopus, and had to have his tentacles on me at all times. He pulled me towards him at an awkward angle and held me there until my back was laced with dull, aching pains. Upon my grimace after being released, he inquired if I was okay, I managed to choke out a “fine”, and he found something else to cling to. This pattern continued for two hours. Mentally, I alternated from wanting to cry, wanting to die, and mildly wondering just how bad a life term for murder was. Finally, the movie ended.
    It tried to get up, but the octopus boy pulled me towards him. His hands found my back, and his face, why was it getting so close? I could see his nose, and his eyes were closing and suddenly his lips were pressed against mine. I clammed up, eyes wide open, too shocked to struggle. He hovered there, my heart pounding, a gag caught in my throat, until he got the message.
    “That was nice.” he said, taking my hand prisoner again.
    “sure.” I squeaked, wiping his spit off my chin, as I mentally planned the fastest route to the shower from my front door.

    Reply
  14. M.FlynnFollen

    I see the glowing riverbed through the surface with silhouetted marines, bark and twigs rushing over my toes. The sound of bubbling fresh water rushing over my thighs as I lean back against the current deeper, and deeper submerging my shoulder. I feltl the momentum behind be as i dip deeper into the ice cold water as it rolled over my shoulders holding me up at a slight angle. I dip the rear of my skull, part the water around my head and let the ripples kiss my lobes until I am facing the sky. I look up, a sliver lined cloud inched by shading my eyes, defusing the suns warmth. I took a deep breath and felt my shoulders loosen. I thought about the topside of the cloud and how humid it must feel be up there. I thought about how water evaporates to the point in the sky where gravity and weight battle until tear shed back to earth and join together to rush by my sides. The cloud inched along until the sun beamed into the trees just a few hundred feet to my right and cast quickly onto my face. The sun balanced the chill of the stream. I closed my eyes but the sun so bright created orange circles behind my eye lids. I thought about if the UV rays could still effect my vision through my eyelids. What is an eye lids UV rating? I then didn’t care even if it did. I was home. I focused on the ensemble of chops, drips and plops created by parting the water. White water noise I thought. How could something so chaotic, with no rhyme or reason bring peace to me?

    Reply
  15. Deon van der Walt

    Hi I’m a photographer looking to improve his writing somewhat, so, here is an attempt based on a recent visit to Mozambique. First time posting anything, so please be gentle 🙂

    Mozambique is known for its beautiful sunrises. It is still early so we won’t have to miss this one.

    Again.

    The cool breeze coming from the Indian Ocean is refreshing – in a way. Soon though it starts to chip away at the character of warmth, we so desperately tried to escape from. The morning star Venus lurks over the horizon, indicating the sunrise must be close.

    The sky is painted in moody pastel colours over the ocean at first when a bright orange crack appeared in the sky. The heavens opened up like a severed artery with light bursting out – it is the life-force of the heavens. The salty dense smell of salt embraces the air – must be the smell of life – we are after all not much more than some salt and water.

    A lightly salted taste lingers on the lips with the breeze still gently raising the finest of hairs on our arms. Ironically, it has become even cooler since the giant ball of fire appeared, revealing all the light the heavens has on offer.

    The ironically-bedevilled fireball has since turned into a bright white light floating just a few centimeters of the water’s surface, somewhat anti-climatically, like a marionette puppet.

    The bright light wants to be followed, though – there are warmth and comfort and the musky smell of sunlight on the skin calls to the cold bodies of those basking in its magnificence…

    Reply
  16. GC General

    The air was damp, chalky and infiltrated when Clare stepped
    into the classroom. Diana was
    missing. She took four heavy duty courses
    this semester in order to apply for medical doctor. Final exam started. Clare had to get an A in order to be able to apply
    for bio-medical engineer. A horde of
    hours fighting against rotational inertial was here to present.

    Three hours came to the end.
    Voice suddenly cropped up mixed with sigh of relief and sigh of
    regret. Tray’s head blandished in, “Everyone’s
    going for a drink.”

    Creamy warm lighting and laughter consumed the bar. Smiles
    were reborn.

    It’s 11pm by the
    time Clare hit home. There was an email waiting
    in the computer screen.

    Reply
  17. Danielle Bernock

    Thank you Kelly. This showed me a greater depth for writing. I am going to print it out and use it to grow as a writer. Thank you again. See you on Twitter!

    Reply

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