Out of curiosity, I recently Googled “how to write better.” You should try it. I got a list of great resources that would help any writer improve their writing skills.However, as I read each of the articles, something began to gnaw at me. Something was missing in the excellent advice these well-respected writers were giving on how to write better. A core rule had been left out.
This article is about that missing rule.
Write Better in Just 7 Tips?
It's difficult to teach someone how to write better in one article. There are an infinite number of ways to write better. Some talk about using active voice instead of passive voice. Others focus on eliminating run-on sentences or sentence structures.
Still others might zero in on narrative writing style. Can you share them all in a seven easy tips? No.
On top of that, the “best advice” often contradicts the work of the greatest writers in history.
For example, one tip in the articles I read said to “avoid writing that calls attention to itself.” Sure, that's probably a good rule. However, what about James Joyce? What about Ernest Hemingway? or Virginia Woolf? or Shakespeare, for goodness sakes? What about the hundreds of great writers who did the exact opposite, wrote in such a way as to draw all attention to their words?
What do you do if you prefer to write in another writing style? Does that make you a bad writer?
Perhaps we need a better rule on how to write better.
A Guiding Principle to Better Writing
Instead of seven, or ten, or a thousand tips on how to write better, how about just one:
Above all, be interesting.
Doesn't this rule intuitively make sense? Because if your writing is interesting, it covers a multitude of writing sins.
If your writing is interesting, it doesn't matter if you're fond of purple prose (Faulkner was), or if you have bad grammar (E.L. James did), or if you're writing is full of clichés, or if you write in sentences that are long and complicated (Shakespeare did).
If your writing is interesting, your fans will learn to love your purple prose, your editors will correct your bad grammar, not to mention cut your clichés, and your readers will bear with your complex sentences.
Why? Because your writing will be worth it.
What ISN'T Interesting?
What does that really mean though? How do you write something that's interesting? To answer that, let's talk about what's not interesting:
Writing That Makes You Feel Stupid
While most readers appreciate a challenge when they read, very few of us want to have to look to our dictionary every other word or spend twenty minutes trying to figure out what one sentence means. Do you enjoy reading complicated legal documents and instruction manuals? Yeah, me neither. So don't write that way.
Want to learn to write with more simple elegance? Check out our article, Write Poetically, Write Simply.
Writing That's Too Familiar
Would you rather have a shiny, new iPhone or the same old phone that you've been using the last three years? Most people would say they want the new phone, right?
This is why clichés can be a problem, because you've seen phrases like “catch you later” and “labor of love” so many times that they lose their meaning, and thus weaken your writing.
Want to eradicate clichés from your writing? Read Clichés? Not In My Backyard! for more.
Writing That Makes You Wonder if the Author Is Stupid
As I mentioned, your writing can still be interesting if you have bad grammar and misused words. After all, Twilight was incredibly successful despite Stephenie Meyers' numerous grammatical mistakes. However, too many mistakes can make a good story impossible to read. Either learn your grammar rules or hire a fantastic professional editor.
Want to become better at grammar? Check out our tutorial Grammar 101.
What Makes Writing Interesting?
Here are just a few things that make writing interesting:
- Humor
- Sex
- Surprise
- Awe
- Romance
- Secrets
- Conflict
- Sacrifice
- Virtuosity (like an amazing guitarist or saxophone player, we like writers who are virtuosos with words)
- Rhyme
- Rhythm
- Ourselves (we all think we're the most important person in the world)
I'm sure you could think of dozens of others, and we've covered many of them on The Write Practice. However, no matter how much advice about writing you read, your core rule as a writer: above all, be interesting.
When You Write, Ask, “What Is Interesting About This?”
Whether you're writing an essay for school, an email, a blog post, or a novel, ask yourself, “What is interesting about this? How can I present this subject in a way that's more interesting?”
Because if you succeed at being more interesting, you will have succeeded at writing better.
How about you? What do you find interesting as a reader? Tell us in the comments.
PRACTICE
Look at the list above and choose one to incorporate into a scene you're working on or to develop into a new piece.
Write for fifteen minutes. When your time is up, post your practice in the practice box below. And if you post, be sure to leave feedback for your fellow writers on whether they succeeded at being interesting.
Don’t know if this counts as interesting just yet, but I’m going to post it anyway. It’s the beginning of a new screenplay I’m doing on the side. Reviews are always appreciated!
MAVERICKS
Ep. 1 – Nobody Likes A Necroid
INT. – BRYANT HOUSEHOLD
A digital alarm clock sits on a bookcase shelf. The time is 6:29. A second later the numbers switch to 6:30 and a loud, obnoxious beeping goes off. The alarm clock continues blaring until a large book comes sailing out of nowhere and hits it. In bed, JACKSON BRYANT groans and rolls over onto his back. Jackson is a tall, skinny teenage boy with a long face and a mop of hair that is currently very rumpled and falling in his eyes. He is also not happy at all to be awake. He pushes his hair out of his
eyes and looks at the alarm clock.
JACKSON: (groans) 6:30? Since when does she set it to 6:30?
A somewhat distant voice – belonging to MRS. LYDIA BRYANT – is heard from behind Jackson’s closed door.
MRS. BRYANT – Up and at ‘em Jack! Don’t dawdle!
JACKSON: (groans again) I fucking hate Mondays.
He sits up, grabs his glasses off the nightstand and slides them on – narrow lensed with thick silver, plastic frames and a cord connecting the temples. He slides out of bed. He doesn’t notice that the bed sheets are tangled around his ankle – until he crashes onto the floor.
JACKSON: I fucking hate everything.
The door to his room bangs open and WILL BRYANT stares down at his older brother. Will is slightly pudgy and half his brother’s height, but exudes twice his confidence.
WILL: Mom says breakfast is ready, dork.
JACKSON: Go stick a fried egg up your butt, moron.
WILL: I’ll tell her you said that.
JACKSON: I’ll tell her you’ve got a stash of Playboys under your bed.
WILL: You would not.
JACKSON: Would too.
Will slams the door shut.
INT. – THE BRYANTS’ KITCHEN
Jackson – now dressed in jeans and a Batman t-shirt, his hair somewhat tamed – bounds into the kitchen, a small but cozy room decorated almost completely in blue. Will is already sitting at the island, chowing down on bacon and fried eggs. Mrs. Bryant is flitting around the kitchen. She’s a small woman with dark hair and a round face, dressed in a cozy sweater dress and oversize tortoiseshell glasses.
MRS. BRYANT: Well well well, look who’s up. Morning sleepyhead.
JACKSON: I’m awake now.
MRS. BRYANT: Took you long enough. Come on, eat up. (She shoves a plate into his
hands)
JACKSON: (As he sits down at the island beside his brother) Why did you set my alarm to 6:30?
MRS. BRYANT: I thought if you got up earlier it would be a little easier for you to get to school on time. And it looks like I was right!
JACKSON: 6:30, Mom? Really?
MRS. BRYANT: It’s your junior year, Jackson. If you fail your first period class just because you couldn’t get your butt out of bed you’ll be very upset and so will I, for that matter.
JACKSON: My first period class is personal finance, Mom, it’s not like it’s core curriculum.
MRS. BRYANT: Managing finances is a very important skill. You need to know how to handle money when you graduate high school. I won’t be there in college to yell at you
for throwing away your allowance on books and graphic t-shirts.
JACKSON: I know, I know. You don’t talk about anything but college these days.
MRS. BRYANT: (Comes up behind Jackson and hugs him around the shoulders) You
deserve to be very successful, Jack. You’re a smart kid and more important you’re
a good one. College matters. And it’s what your father wanted.
JACKSON: Yeah, I know.
MRS. BRYANT: Will if you’re done come put your plate in the sink. And rinse it off this time, I don’t want ants in the kitchen.
As she speaks to his brother, Jackson looks up at a photo on the wall of a younger version of himself standing next to a man in an army uniform. The man has his arm around Jackson’s shoulders and they are both laughing at the camera.
MRS. BRYANT: You done yet, Jack?
JACKSON: Yeah, just a second. (He surreptitiously slips a fried egg off his plate and holds it down by his side. He then brings his plate over and rinses it off with one hand)
MRS. BRYANT: Alright, get moving, both of you. I’ll see you tonight. (She kisses them both on the cheek)
JACKSON & WILL: Bye Mom.
They grab their backpacks and tumble out the front door and down the front stoop. The Bryants live in a narrow brownstone apartment building squeezed between dozens of others like it. Jackson sneaks up behind Will. Quick as wink, he smushes the fried egg in his hand on the seat of his brother’s pants and takes off.
WILL: What did you – ? (He reaches around and feels the egg goop on his jeans) Jackson! I’m gonna kick your ass, you loser!
JACKSON: (Laughing over his shoulder) You gotta catch me first!
Will chases Jackson down the block and out of sight.
I grew up with three brothers, and your depiction of the relationship, dialogue, and antics are authentic. Nice family, lost their dad, moving on with life, mom guiding boys through teen years alone. They strike me as a tight knit little group. I like them already.
Thanks for the feedback! As an only child, I have to remind myself that most people have siblings and therefore my characters probably should too 😀
You’re so right, Joe. Who wants to read vanilla writing? I want to connect with those who make words POP off the page. Thanks.
But vanilla’s my favorite flavor! 😉
I love vanilla for ice cream, but not for writing. 🙁
Of course if it is the very best vanilla, with flecks of vanilla bean in it and made from cream that gives it a buttery rich color; perhaps it wouldn’t ‘taste’ so bland 😉
Here is the next installment of “Another Man’s Hell”. I hope to God it is at the very least, interesting. So far, we met Yvonne and Preston, nice wife/mean husband and they died in a car crash. Preston woke up on a slippery ladder in the dark, fell off, and landed by a black swampy lake. Last time we saw Preston, a scary guy in a rowboat was trying to take on Preston as a passenger. Then we caught up with Yvonne, who woke up on a ladder in a bright, sunny place, and climbed to the top of a mountain. She found herself in a beautiful, pristine setting, and has just met a robed figure who does not speak, but smiles and seems to be kind. Hold on to your seats folks. Prepare to be interested!
The robed being and Yvonne stood for several moments facing each other, and neither spoke. Yvonne could see, from across the snowy meadow, more robed figures emerging from the mist and walking toward her. These figures did not wear a brown monkish robe, as her current companion did. They wore robes of an array of colors: soft pastels, vibrant jewel tones, and rich, earthy shades. She wondered if the approaching group would welcome her and invite her to stay, and she wondered if she was in heaven.
As she considered the possibility that she was in heaven, she looked over her shoulder, then turned around and returned to the ledge she had jumped off of earlier. She looked over the rim, searching for the ladder, searching for Preston, who must be coming up next. She could not find the ladder, though she knew she was in the exact spot, as she was beside the marks she’d made rolling around in the snow, after she jumped off the ledge. Curious, she turned back to the robed one, who now looked at her with raised eyebrows. The eyes still reflected an infinity of sky, and the expression remained gentle.
“Where is Preston?” she asked, confused to hear her own voice sound muffled, as if it came from beneath the ground. Her new friend didn’t answer, just looked a little more serious, now taking on a blank, inscrutable countenance.
Immediately panicked, Yvonne took a mental inventory of Preston’s recent behaviors: adultery, lying, cruelty, and right before the fiery end, blasphemy. She asked again, trying to make her muted voice loud, “Where is Preston?”. This time she received a frown, and a brief. slight head shake of “No”.
Now frantic, and assuming Preston’s fate might take him to a totally different destination, she demanded, “Please, I cannot be happy here if I don’t know what happened to Preston. Can’t I just know where he is?”
The face looking back at her furrowed its brow, and pressed its lips together. Between it and Yvonne, a small hole appeared in the snow. It was the size of a dinner plate, and looking through, Yvonne could see blue sky.
The hole enlarged quickly, the fresh snow edges evaporating into an iridescent mist. The hole stopped growing when it was as big as Yvonne. She stepped up to the edge, and looked down. Far below, she could see Preston. He was so far away, he looked as small as a doll. He was lying on his back, either asleep or unconscious. Although he appeared to be resting peacefully, his body was on a flaming surface, and his hair and clothes were already burning.
Very interesting indeed! I love the last sentence especially, great imagery. Keep going with this, I want to see what Yvonne will do.
Thank you E.E.! I am working very hard on the imagery, as it will tell the story if I can get it right. Glad to hear I might be close.
Take that, Preston! Since the first part of “Another Man’s Hell” I was rooting for the good Yvonne. It this the last part? I think it is very interesting how you show he is burning in hell from the point of view of Yvonne. I would like to read more about this, great job as always Avril!
Oh no, close to the end, but not the end. And maybe nobody gets punished. Maybe the afterlife for each of us is what we made of this life. Preston and Yvonne must meet once more. Thank you as always Teo. Your encouragement cheers me on.
Teo, I just looked at this again, and now I see you actually said Preston is burning in Hell “from the point of view of Yvonne”. You totally get it!
Yes! It is very interesting to see it from her point of view. I totally get you, hehehe! Keep the good writing!
This Summer I finished my script for a romantic comedy, that I was working on since last year.
“Strawberries and peaches”
The story is about a girl who is a genius in the bakery area, but a disaster in the love field. Her sister, a beautiful ex model, is the image of the store that they run together. One day, a man enters to the shop and falls in love with… the strawberries and peaches tartalet. So, our shine girl have to overcome her poor confidence to conquer the boy.
Like you see, it is a sweet (and fun) story.
But what really call my attention was the symbols, one of my favourite subject to read about it.
The strawberry refers in many cultures as a sexual symbol. The temptation, the erotism. Meanwhile, the peaches represent pureness and it is a fruit for the soul in some Asian countries .
So, that’s make me realize that even a great combination in a tart, it is a wonderful way to give the sisters different personalities. The chef is a spiritual lady and her sister is a sensual person.
That’s why I consider the world of symbols an infinite font of interesting messages to share through my stories.
The symbols thing is helpful as long as you are presenting the work to people who know what they stand for. I am familiar with strawberries being considered sensual, but where I am from, peaches are considered very sensual as well. So the symbol of the fruits would be lost on me. Which doesn’t mean it wouldn’t still be a good story, just that a part of its meaning would be lost on me.
You are right about the symbols meaning for every culture. It is the first time I read about the sensual meaning with the peaches (thanks a lot of that) and I think is very interesting how things can be missunderstood.
Thanks to your comment I must explain very well what kind of meaning I’m refer to, so there would not being any missunderstanding! Cheers!
I agree, although very tempting to use the symbols I am often lost when other authors use them. Everyone has a different background so there will always be someone that is lost to your symbolis unless it is clearly explained at some point in the story.
Thanks Elizabeth! I will definetily explain about the context of the symbol in the story, like I was telling Jennifer it could be totally missunderstood, at least is not an universal symbol like the white bird for peace.
Your opinion reafirm my intentions and I’m thankful to you for share it here. Cheers!
I don’t think you need to explain every symbol. Let them live for themselves and let the readers discover them. Some of the best debates in literature circles are over the meaning of symbols in novels.
I like the idea of using the strawberries and peaches as symbols representing the main characters of your story. I personally like the use of symbolism in stories and I don’t think it’s important every reader “gets it”. These hidden gems are a delight to those who find them (and yes my university degree is in English Literature) but it does not detract from the story for those who are unaware. I’d like to read your finished story.
Jay, what a wonderful words you share about this subject.
I didn’t think it in that way, but you are right: it is a precious gem to find in the story and that feeling when you discover it, is priceless!
You open my mind for an exciting oportunity to give a deep layer to this story. I would love if you could see the entire story! Thanks again for the feedback.
I squeezed the goose down blanket tightly around my body, it was a slightly overcast day, just the right temperature for this specific occasion. He felt the cool cotton around his shirtless body, just enough security without the unwanted warmth. As he began to stretch he felt the warm body next to him pull him in tight.
“Good morning tiger.”
It was a sweet voice, the kind of voice you could almost bet on coming from a blonde haired blue eyed petite young girl. It was unique though, it had a slight twang to it, most definitely originating from below the mason dixon line. This wasn’t my ordinary type, nor would it be my first choice, but this morning its what I had and it was the perfect combination of sexy and cute.
I scanned the room and she held her death grip around me, her fingers finding the perfect grooves in my body to sink into and caress. The aftermath from last night made what happen more than obvious, the computer, halfway through a movie laying on the floor where it was thrown after 30 minutes of relentless teasing and denial of her every want, until she was at the point where just a kiss on the cheek made her toss her macbook from my lap and replace it with her ass, legs spread clenching tight, arms pressed against my chest.
I managed to break her grasp long enough to slide half my body off the bed and reach the bottle of French wine. I took a long swig, the bitter stale taste washing down my already dry mouth. I turned over to see her, pouting lip sticking out, her face now without the makeup of last night.
“Get back over here, you feel way too good lover.”
Just then the door flew open and she let a small yelp escape her lips, I sat there shirtless, sitting up, and took another long drink of wine. First impressions are always great with a bottle in your face.
“Oh shit sorry, I just got home, I thought you’d be alone……uh I brought you Starbucks.”
“Pumpkin spice latte, white girl as fuck,” I said jokingly
“Hi, I’m Alex, Amanda’s roommate, we’ve met before but I don’t think you remember.”
She set the coffee next to her roommate who was too busy covering herself up with the goose down blanket and having slutty girl thoughts race through her head. Her roommate left the room hurriedly and Amanda sunk further into the bed, her clenched teeth and sullen gaze amused me slightly.
“I’m going to take a shower, drink this coffee.” she said followed by a sensual kiss that felt like the last. Her eyes were happy but her face was dealing with the consequences of last night.
She pulled her phone out of her pants that were pushed under the bottom of the bed from last night and threw it on the pillow, grabbed a pair of panties, turned to look at me, went on her tippy toes, pursed her lips and squinted her eyes before disappearing into the bathroom.
Her phone began to vibrate as I finished off the bottle. I lazily glanced over.
“Who the fuck is that? What about your fucking boyfriend Amanda? I mean I’m not judging…. He is kind of hot…but what the fuck.”
Thanks CTH, now I’m self conscious about that pumpkin spice latte I slurped down yesterday. 😉 This is well done. I say you write dialogue very well. Natural. This is a good story, serious drama. I think it’s hard to write personal drama that is credible and doesn’t make the players look like idiots. You got it right, these people are real.
Wow, thank you, I really appreciate it. I loved writing this piece. I kind of just let it go.
Here’s my go at writing something interesting:
I have been told I’m a beautiful girl, although I never thought of myself that way. I have a heart-shaped face with a straight nose. My eyes appear an ocean blue and sit slightly wide set. I have full lips that are tinged pink without having to add lipstick. I stand petite with an athletic build. I enjoyed running a few years ago but recently I haven’t been interested. My hair appears black most of the time, although it is a dark brown. It stands out against my fair skin. My hair sits below my neck with a slight wave to the bottom. As I stand in front of the mirror in my room, I wondered if I would ever become what I wanted to be. The strong woman I saw in my mother, or the faithfulness I saw in my friends. Before my mind could wander any further, I heard Chloe beep her horn, meaning I’m already late for school.
“Crap!” I call out. “Late again.”
I hurry down the ice-covered driveway trying hard not to slip and fall. I make it down unscathed and climb into the navy blue Subaru.
“Hey!” I say.
“Hey, Des! Wow. You look like you’ve been thinking way too much,” Chloe says.
“How can you tell?”
“I just know you, that’s all,” she says, laughing.
Chloe has an oval face with a pointed chin and an upturned nose. Her eyes sparkle a chocolate brown and sit underneath low eyebrows. She wears eye-catching clothing, all the newest styles, that fit her curves perfectly. Her hair sits below her waist, perfectly straight and colored a light chestnut. She has a contagious smile even though her teeth lay slightly crooked. She has been my best friend since before kindergarten. Riding our Big Wheels down the street one day we ran right into each other. Ever since then we’ve been inseparable, unless she’s with her boyfriend, Darren. I can’t blame her though – he’s handsome, protective, and loves her very much.
We slip out of the car and head into school. It stands alone at the end of a long narrow road. The weathered sign hangs limply above the school, Raney High School, Home of the Frogs. Really, no one could be any more creative than that.
“Senior year, I can’t wait to be rid of this place,” I say, dreading the day ahead.
“I know – I can’t believe you still haven’t filled out a single college application.”
“Yeah. I’m just not sure college is my thing.”
“Well it’s going to have to be your thing if you want a real job.”
“I’m not sure what job I want though. I know my mom’s probably going to kill me, but I think I may just take a year off, maybe take a few classes at the tech.”
“Sometimes I just don’t know about you, Des.”
As we walk into biology, Mr. St. Clair begins his lecture on amoebas. How fascinating.
The rest of the day drags on in the same boring manner. Biology, English, math, gym, lunch, and then drama. The only class I actually enjoy at school. After the bell rings Chloe and I start toward her car. I can see Darren already waiting beside it. Chloe runs up to him and gives him a quick kiss on the cheek.
Good practice, Elizabeth! You have a good writing style, nice description and dialogue. This could use more drama though. It sounds like your character is going through a deep identity crisis, but that alone isn’t enough to bring drama to a story. Storytellers almost always use some kind of external pressure (not just internal) to bring a story to life. Here, you have a great character, but I’m not sure you have enough of a story yet. Does that make sense? Of course, this is a short practice, so perhaps you just didn’t get there yet. Again, I like your writing style. It feels very developed to me. Thanks so much for sharing this!
Wow, Elizabeth! The description is amazing. I could see both Des and Chloe, and even feel the cold weather. However, I cannot be any more agree with Joe about the external pressure, that would make the story even better, of course, if your are devolping this piece as an entire novel or tale.
But what I read here was excellent! Keep it going!
Monday
and the Good Guy
“It’s barbecue
time big boy,” said Larry. He picked up little Mike and bounced him
on his shoulder. “Barbecue,
Barbecue, Barbecue,” the two of them chanted. It was a beautiful
sunny August day. A Monday to be exact. Larry should have been in a
dreary office sitting barley visible behind a mountain of paperwork.
Family time was more important, so he took a sick day.
“That’s my steak
daddy,” said little Mike.
“Oh, really?
Because, I had dibs on that one,” said his father.
“Daddy always was
a meany!” said Sarah. She kissed Larry on the cheek and rubbed her
little ones head. “Now come to momma. Dad needs to finish up
dinner.” The little boy giggled and jumped in to his mothers arms.
Sarah looked over her husbands handiwork. “Looks like you missed
the pepper on that one,” she said. He gave her a wry smile.
“You know very
well I don’t like pepper,” he replied.
“Oh, do I?
Hmm…maybe a little pepper would save you a few hours in the gym,”
she said. With a smile and another giggle from little Mike she patted
Larry’s pot belly.
“Very funny
woman. Keep it up and I’ll give you a little exercise. If you know
what I mean?” said Larry. With that, he reached and grabbed a hand
full of Sarah’s derriere.
“What’s he
talking about momma?” said little Mike.
“Just you never
mind sweetie. Daddy’s a silly goose,” she replied. She gave Larry a
flirtatious smile, winked, and walked away.
“Love you babe,”
yelled Larry.
He picked up a
cutting board upon which were three large porterhouse steaks. A wide
eyed grin crossed his face. “ Barbecue
time!” he said again. With
the cutting board in one hand and a large two pronged fork in the
other, he headed for the backyard. Using his backside he slid open
the glass door leading to the patio and the grill. He breathed in the
fresh air. Then Larry stepped outside. A coil in the water hose
caught his foot. The smile on his face turned to fear. A moment later
he was on the ground. The steaks were spread out across the perfectly
fitted patio bricks. The sharp end of the barbecue fork protruded
from the back of his skull.
The
blood curdling screams of Sarah and the cries from little Mike filled
the air. The clouds rolled overhead and shaded the backyard. The
birds sang their songs, while bumble bees hummed and drank from
flowers in the garden. It was a beautiful summer day.
Monday and the Good Guy
“It’s barbecue time big boy,” said Larry. He picked up little Mike and bounced him
on his shoulder. “Barbecue, Barbecue, Barbecue,” the two of them chanted. It was a beautiful sunny August day. A Monday to be exact. Larry should have been in a
dreary office sitting barley visible behind a mountain of paperwork. Family time was more important, so he took a sick day.
“That’s my steak daddy,” said little Mike.
“Oh, really? Because, I had dibs on that one,” said his father.
“Daddy always was a meany!” said Sarah. She kissed Larry on the cheek and rubbed her little ones head. “Now come to momma. Dad needs to finish up dinner.” The little boy giggled and jumped in to his mothers arms. Sarah looked over her husband’s handiwork. “Looks like you missed the pepper on that one,” she said. He gave her a wry smile.
“You know very well I don’t like pepper,” he replied.
“Oh, do I? Hmm…maybe a little pepper would save you a few hours in the gym,” she said. With a smile and another giggle from little Mike she patted Larry’s pot belly.
“Very funny woman. Keep it up and I’ll give you a little exercise. If you know what I mean?” said Larry. With that, he reached and grabbed a hand full of Sarah’s derriere.
“What’s he talking about momma?” said little Mike.
“Just you never mind sweetie. Daddy’s a silly goose,” she replied. She gave Larry a flirtatious smile, winked, and walked away.
“Love you babe,” yelled Larry.
He picked up a cutting board upon which were three large porterhouse steaks. A wide
eyed grin crossed his face. “ Barbecue time!” he said again. With the cutting board in one hand and a large two pronged fork in the other, he headed for the backyard. Using his backside he slid open the glass door leading to the patio and the grill. He breathed in the fresh air. Then Larry stepped outside. A coil in the water hose caught his foot. The smile on his face turned to fear. A moment later he was on the ground. The steaks were spread out across the perfectly fitted patio bricks. The sharp end of the barbecue fork protruded from the back of his skull.
The blood curdling screams of Sarah and the cries from little Mike filled the air. The clouds rolled overhead and shaded the backyard. The birds sang their songs, while bumble bees hummed and drank from flowers in the garden. It was a beautiful summer day.