Have you ever had one of those encounters in which someone says something and you are rendered speechless? After the dust settles and you’ve parted ways, you come up with at least half a dozen appropriate (or not so appropriate) responses.
Hindsight is 20/20, they say. But in writing, we all have a chance to relive conversations, confrontations, interactions, and situations—and change the outcome. Through the magic of fiction, we have the opportunity to do what we wish we had done.
Photo by mpclemens
Time for a Do-Over
Adding a new twist to a real-life experience doesn’t mean creating a perfect happily-ever-after fairy tale tied up in a pretty bow. We become who we are through being tested, so our characters should deal with hardship too. Stories—good stories—still require growth and change and conflict.
Sure, as a writer, you have the power to pen a happy ending, but an unexpected yet satisfying conclusion will pleasantly surprise readers, rather than leave them disappointed by a predictable outcome. Or perhaps your rewritten version of the truth won’t even end on a cheerful note, just a different one.
How would you rewrite an experience you’ve had?
PRACTICE
Think of an event or encounter from your life—a time you thought could have played out differently. Write about it for fifteen minutes, fictionalizing it however you wish.
When you’re finished, please share your practice in the comments section. And if you post, please respond to some of the other comments too!
This is definitely something I like about being a writer. In real life, I suffer from what I like to call “midnight cleverness” in which I figure out exactly what I should have said in a certain situation earlier that day just as I’m falling asleep. When I write, though, it doesn’t matter when I figure out what the character should say, which is nice. I would like to rewrite many of the situations in my life (small scenes, really, thankfully) but at the same time, those situations give you fodder for writing. So it’s win-lose, in my book.
Isn’t that one of the great things about being a writer, we can go back months later and igve our characters the perfect come-backs!
Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to go back and say you want a do-over just like when you were a kid.
(This isn’t so much about something I wish I could have said, but something I wish I could have done differently. It’s about the last time I saw my very beloved friend. She blames herself, and I blame myself – but now we’re even better friends, so it worked out well in the end. Still though….)
I sat at the breakfast table across from my friend, eating
my cereal. She seemed distant this morning. Probably hung over, as I was – we really
put away the wine the previous night! I could see her mouth was still bleeding
a little from the dental surgery she had before (ill-advisably) flying to join
us all in Kentucky. The wine didn’t seem to have helped there either.
I wanted to say something, to connect like we always did so
easily over Skype.
“So…have you heard from Kathy?”
This was all I could think of to say. It was one of the few
subjects that we talked about, for hours at a time, across the pond on our respective
laptops – a subject that she did not readily share with the others. I wasn’t really worried too much how Kathy was. I was just trying to find that link, that closeness that this morning seemed to be missing.
She shook her head. “Uh-uh.” and then lapsed into silence
again.
I nodded, and stared back into my cereal bowl. It seemed to
me afterwards that this was the moment from which the week took a steady
downwards slide. I tried alternately to talk to her and to give her space. I
longed to laugh with her, to chat, to hold her hand, link arms, hug, lark
about. I kept wanting to go on my laptop, open up skype and see if she was
there to talk to. She was there in the same house as me for a week, and it was
like she wasn’t there at all.
So give me a Time Turner, and let me go back. I wouldn’t have
ended that conversation with just a nod. I wouldn’t have given up and gone out
onto the decking to finish my cereal, watching the door, hoping she would follow.
I would say “Are you
ok? Your mouth looks so sore! Is there anything I can get you?”, and I wouldn’t
let her shrug me off, I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I would have taken better care of my friend
that week, and maybe it would not have been as miserable for her as it turned
out to be.
Situations like this make me wonder, “What the heck was I thinking at the time!?” I’m glad you say that you two are better friends now.
Yes, thank goodness!
Sometimes people make mistakes. True friends always work things out.
I thought she was outgoing and talkative when she was sober. After a beer or two (Pacifico, too. She had such great taste) and she was a social Wonder Woman. We sat at the bar and talked about art and the creative mind. Since I’d found out she was an artist, a cartoon/comic book artist, I’d wanted to talk about art and the creative mind. She told me about ideas for comics and hilarious pictures with one-liner captions. “I’m a writer, I could write those captions! Think of all the things
we could create together!” Her boyfriend who seemed a pleasant enough fellow bartended while I chatted with Christie.
As it grew late Christie realized she’d have to go before she missed the bus. I conveniently announced that it was time for me to go, too, and hey why didn’t I just walk her down to the bus stop? The night air of Southern California was warm. Both sides of the street boasted beautiful signage of restaurants and hotels. Artificial lights lit up the tops of the palm trees. Headlights and tail lights
came to and fro and we walked side by side. It seemed she was walking slowly to enjoy every second of my company as much as possible. That’s why I was walking slowly, anyway. I was surprised to hear her say how unhappy she was with her boyfriend, that he made her go to therapy and she hated it. Even more surprised was I when she said she wanted to break up with him. I said, “Therapy? I wouldn’t change a single thing about you.” She gave me a hug and told me how glad she was to have met me.
She got on the bus and I walked home, giddy. Leaving that conversation the things she said played in my mind. “I’m glad I met you. I’m breaking up with my
boyfriend. I’m glad I met you.” I kicked myself the whole way home. “Why didn’t you say anything? She gave you the green light. Why didn’t you go through it, you moron?” I said these things aloud, I didn’t care if people saw me talking to myself.
The next day at work she wasn’t there. Or the day after that. She’d been fired. I wasn’t about to let another one slip away from me though. Though I didn’t work on
payday, I knew she’d be there. I waited, and when I saw her I ran up to her and gave her the biggest hug I could. “I can’t believe we’re not going to work
together anymore.” She simply said, “I know.” She looked so sad standing
there. So, I kissed her. I even started to put my arms around her, but she backed away.
“What are you doing?” she said. I didn’t know what to say, so I just looked
at her. She said, “I have a boyfriend; I’m very happy.” I turned and walked away
feeling like the stupidest human being alive.
Awwh I really wanted him to get with her, silly silly girl!
The one that got away?
I think she was being a little unfair. To say one minute she was thinking of leaving her boyfriend and the next she’s very happy with him?? She was the stupid one if you ask me. Nicely written.
The guy was lucky. It seems like she was truthful after a few drinks, but not truthful sober. Or maybe she had to rely on her boyfriend since she didn’t have a job anymore.
You got it exactly right on both points.
I think he had a lucky escape there! She could be expanded into a real psychopath!
Looking back on the actual situation you hit the nail on the head. I’ll call you “the hammer.”
I found myself enjoying this piece instantly. You are one of a few writers on here who’s posts I always seek out. I really enjoy the natural flow in your writing.
That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me here. Thanks, Lis. It means a lot!
I often do this when I just want to sit back and write. I think of a past event, experience in my life and re-write it… make it happier or… well I just change it. I love to do this, especially when I start making my cousins to be vampires and my friends to be other mythical creatures…
It’s so fun being a writer!’
My writing blog: http://evilnymphstuff.wordpress.com
Emma sat listening to his righteous, monotone voice, wishing harder than ever that she could put words to her rushing thoughts.
“It’s not like I can have just anyone telling me where they
want to work. If the store has needs, we’re going to fill them.”
He took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eyes, his lips upturned in an almost-smile, his mind already wandering to thoughts of his upcoming vacation in Vail. He was waiting for her slow nod and demure response. She felt how automatic this reaction would be, how simple her role was and how powerless this meeting was making her feel. She let her own mind sift through the day’s interactions. Her husband’s short kiss on the cheek that morning when he left for work and the absence of any gratitude for his warm breakfast or sack lunch. The tall man in a business suit who towered over all the other customers and had unashamedly asked to receive help from an actual “ski expert” after she had offered to help answer his questions. Her nostrils flared a little as she remembered the way he had looked over her head for a man’s help, oblivious to her years of experience and personal love for the sport. She remembered hotly the way she felt when she had checked the schedule yesterday morning and had seen that she was scheduled for two days in apparel the following week. She had scanned the schedule for other changes, but all four of her male colleagues, the whole ski department crew, would remain full-time except for her. She still had images of folding clothes, organizing hangers, and endless questions about color and size haunting her imagination. She was good at selling skis, enjoyed it actually, and she couldn’t let this brutish man take that from her. Sitting in that musty, unorganized office, she could feel an important opportunity slipping away. Folding her hands on her lap made her feel more professional, and when she finally opened her mouth, the words that came out hardly sounded like her own.
“I’m not just anyone sir. I have worked here for three years. I have given this store my very best day in and day out. I am hard working and I enjoy selling skis. I am asking you to please take my seniority, my success, and my skill set into consideration. I will not become your next ‘apparel girl.’”
The word “girl” had come out a bit higher-pitched than she would have liked, verging on the edge of whiny, and to make up for it she sat taller and looked Mr. Stevens in the eye with her head cocked to the side, daring him to respond. At first it was hard to tell if he had even heard a word she had said, but then he pursed his lips, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned far back into his chair. Not knowing what to expect, but preparing herself for the possibility of a rebuttal, Emma took in a slow, deep breath and held it there.
“If you don’t want to work here, I can find someone else,” Mr. Stevens commented nonchalantly, as if ordering Chinese food or reading the
weather report.
It was clear to Emma in that moment that she would either play by the rules, or maybe not play at all. She considered this for a few long, important seconds and then stood out of her chair, awkwardly gathered up her down jacket (an item she had been able to buy with her Christmas bonus the month before), and headed for the door. Before actually turning the knob and making her unemployment official, she turned to look at Mr. Stevens one more time, considered a million different comments, and settled on a short sigh and a brief shake of her head.
Oh my god that would be so awesome to say to somebody, I got so angry reading this, I hate all the politics that goes with working at some places when you just want to do your job! That is totally what I did with a restaurant I worked in, decided to not play by the rules and walked out. Didn’t quite do it as badass as this though, had to hand in two weeks notice and was too flustered and upset to give such an articulate and expressive speech. Sigh
I just hope she walked out of the office, started her own company that catered more to women, expand her company, and put her old boss out of business. She might even be too busy to make her husband breakfast and lunch.
oh me too!!!
This is such good writing, Ro! It’s fun to see you practicing. I liked the way you brought us into the scene with conflict and then backed into a flashback montage, then barreled back into the conflict. It felt very believable I’m sure things like this happen every day. I would have liked her to tak things up a notch, though. Sexual discrimination in the workplace lawsuit?
I’m satisfied with what you got. I’m glad she left. A zinger to put him in his place before she walked out would have been nice, but I’m satisfied.
Adopting a child through the foster system can be a nightmare. They do intensive background checks, and check personal references. They even do a credit check. They require training on parenting. We were required to take CPR and First aid classes. I guess it was a good thing. Maybe all prospective parents should go through these rigorous requirements before they are allowed to raise a child. OB-GYNs should send all pregnant parent(s) to be to classes and have background checks. This might cut down on the number of kids in the foster system. Then, there would be fewer kids to adopt. But I digress.
We had finally “passed” all the requirements. Now we were ready to have the social worker “show” us children. They presented us a book with children that were “ready” to be adopted. There were a few possibilities. There was also something called a matching party. This is where potential parents and adoptable children can meet and interact. Sounds weird? It is, but it works.
So there we were, in the car, on our way to the zoo (the matching party was at a building on the zoo premises that was used for meetings) discussing what our requirments for a child would be. We already had a biological son who had been
a “wild child”. Loveable, adorable, but difficult. Our family and friends rarely invited us over to their homes. We decided we wanted two quiet, calm girls – sisters – to complete our family.
We went sat through an hour-long orientation regarding the guidelines. Then the kids starting coming in. And then I saw one and I fell in love. A little boy was pulling at his social worker’s hand, trying to run off. He could barely contain himself.
I pointed him out to my partner. “No. We decided no over-active kids”.
We checked out the other kids and played with them. We saw some potential fits and talked to social workers. But I kept looking at that one little boy. I pulled my partner over to the little boy so we could play with him. I immediately felt attached to him. His smile melted my heart, but I knew that we decided not to adopt a little boy with so much energy. Even his social worker said he had a lot of issues and he would be a handful.
At the end of the day, we listed the kids we were interested in and handed the paper to the people from the agency who would match parents and kids. I wanted to list that little boy, but didn’t. We wound up adopting two sweet girls who were sisters. I love them, but I often wonder what happened to that little boy.
Aww, thats kind of sad. But with such a rigorous assessment system, and matching partie, he hopefully found the right home, hey?
I’m just glad this was a re-write of the past. That little boy is now 16 and driving me crazy.
Great story! Love your response.
🙂
I found this very therapeutic, have to try it more often!
He offered her the invitation to the party. She knew she had already turned down a previous one and felt like he would bring this up. ‘You said no to the last one remember,’ he said with a grin. She smiled but sighed inwardly. What to do, what to do. There were so many reasons not to go to this.
Firstly, she would not know any one there except her friend and it was for
three days in a remote location in the middle of the North Island in some town
she had never heard off. Secondly, though this guy was her friend, they had a tenuous relationship consisting of their mutual love for a subject in school they had taken together for years. However this relationship was uncomfortably
underscored by the boy’s long-denied yet widely knowing romantic feelings for
her. She thought he had overcome these but did not yet feel entirely
comfortable around him. On the other hand, what had she told herself at the
beginning of the year, only a few weeks ago? She would be more adventurous this year, try more things and not be afraid to hang out with strangers. Furthermore, she and everyone she knew were under aged and this party was bound to offer virtually unlimited alcohol. And THAT was an offer difficult for any
New Zealander teenager to resist. She pursed her lips, deciding what to do. She
did want more excitement in her life and this invitation seemed to offer just
that. Suddenly, her phone buzzed. Her best friend wanted to meet up later
today. As if it had pulled her back to reality, she decided to reject the offer
and to be as frank as she could. ‘It sounds like loads of fun, but my parents
really won’t let me because there will be alcohol,’ ‘Even though it will be
supervised, with lots of parents?’ He protested, crestfallen. ‘Yeah I think
even then. And the fact that it is you, as well. They will freak out thinking I
am staying with a boy. They just can’t get their heads around the fact we are
just friends,’ she said jovially and laughed. He was hurt, but laughed with her anyway. As we parted to go to our classes the girl felt bad. But he would get over the rejection, she knew. She returned to her cell phone and confirmed with her best friend that yes, she would see her later today.
Ah, that was a good reply.
This is such a tough situation for kids. Do you listen to the guy, your friends, or your parent’s voices. Very nice.
Sigh listened to the guy. Still wish I hadn’t from what unfolded after but oh well lesson learnt that I probably needed to learn sometime.
If I were the parents I would especially say no if other parents would be there allowing unlimited alcohol! A thousand times no, young lady!
That would have been a tough decision to make. I enjoyed reading this. 🙂
Haha thanks for your reply it made me smile.
I swear to God the most annoying thing in the world is when your friend calls you an “idiot”. Even if they’re just messing around, don’t call me an idiot. It makes me want to punch you in the face and I don’t want to hurt you. You’re my friend. Why would I want to hurt you? But I swear to God, don’t call me a fucking idiot.
“No, the bathroom’s that way, idiot.” I don’t like that bathroom. It’s dirty as fuck.
“No, the test is next Thursday, idiot.” Well my fucking bad.
“It’s leviosa, not leviosar… idiot.” Fuck you, Hermione.
And I swear this is the second day in a row Manny called me an idiot and I have yet to say anything. Am I a hypocrite? It makes me sick when my friends do that shit, but I don’t want to say anything.
“Agi’n?”
“Yes!”
“I ‘ont get wha people do that shi’. I’s rude as f’ook.”
“She thinks it okay because we’re friends, I guess?”
“I ‘ont give a f’ook. Yer my best friend, yeah, an’ I wouldn’ do that shit. F’ook outa ‘ere.”
The next day at the lunch table was fucked. up. It was just Manny and I, for the Queen of Scots wasn’t in my lunch period.
“I’m gonna get napkins. Do you need anything?”
“Nah, I’m good.” I’m fucking doing homework. Shut up.
I kid you not when this girl comes back she has about 20 napkins. “Why did you get so many? What the fuck are you eating?”
“You said you needed napkins!”
“I have no food. Why would I need napkins? I said ‘No, I’m good.’”
“Ugh.” Fuck you, don’t moan at me. “You’re an idiot.” Dude, I swear to God.
“Don’t call me an idiot. This is the third day in a row, don’t call me that shit.”
“What?”
“Fuck you, alright? Why the hell are we even friends, Manny? You’re a douche!”
“What the fuck did I do?”
“Fuck? FUCK? Don’t say fuck. Fuck’s my word. Fuck you, alright? I’m leaving. Fuck you! Don’t call me an idiot.” And left.
“Just like that?” Eliza was baffled when I told her at that night.
“Just. Fucking. Like. That.”
…
We burst into laughter about that shit. Fucking hilarious.
—
Well that’s that, lol. This story was not one bit true (Eliza isn’t even a real person) except the bit in the beginning where I talk about how I hate being called an idiot by friends, etc. I hope you enjoyed it! I think’s it pretty funny.
The Harry Potter reference made me laugh.
It was one of the first things I thought of, lol. I’m glad it made you laugh. Thank you for the comment!
I’m still laughing. This was great.
I’m so glad! Thank you!
“Queen of Scots” – I liked that!
Haha thank you!
My practice – what fun – note this is fiction!
Barbie looked around the new kitchen, she had no idea which box held the teapot. She pushed teabags into mugs and felt the familiar sense of unease. Her mother liked a teapot, would the chaos and confusion of moving in be excuse enough to drop “one’s standards” she suspected not. The children could be heard running along the upstairs hall, calling to one another, excited at their own bedrooms. Her mother had arrived minutes ago immaculate and elegant as usual. Barbie looked down at her own grubby tee shirt.
Grant poured the hot water into the mugs. “Come and sit down love, you look knackered”
“The house is quite small isn’t it Barbara? And it is a shame it’s not better sited for the sun. You will find it cold in the winter.” Her mother remarked.
Grant rolled his eyes and put the mug down in front of her, oh he shouldn’t have done that she thought.
“No teapot, dear?” her mother used endearments like knives.
“It’s in one of the boxes.” She said
“I always found when moving it was crucial to label everything – it makes the job so much easier.” She glanced around kitchen, the floor littered with paper, the bench piled up with packets of food. “It’s not hard Barbara – a little preparation goes a long way. But then you never did, did you.” She laughed lightly. “Barbara was such a disorganised child, you would not believe!” she said.
Grant looked bemused “I think she has done amazingly well” he said mildly.
Her mother smiled again “I suppose it depends on what goals you set for yourself, Barbara never set the bar very high.”
There was a loud thump from upstairs and then an ominous silence. “What on earth are those children doing up there – really they need just a little more discipline Barbara.”
“I’ll go and see.”
“No you won’t love you will sit there and drink your tea – I’ll go – they will have just knocked something over – no drama.” Grant said.
“Really Barbara” her mother hissed “Can’t you ever get anything right? I have never been so ashamed, you can’t even serve tea out of a teapot!”
Barbie closed her eyes but the usual feeling of inadequacy failed to wash over her. “Teapot!” she exclaimed “Teapot! You are ashamed of me because of a teapot?”
Her mother looked at the ceiling then back at her “It is not just the teapot. Look at yourself Barbara! You are a mess, no pride in your appearance – a little care, a diet would make all the difference. You might have got a decent husband then.” She added.
Realisation hit her – it did not matter what she did, what she looked like, who she married she would never be quite good enough. So why bother? It is what Greg had been saying for years. She felt a lightness as lay that burden down. She shrugged.
“I love my husband, I love my children and I love my new house.” She said calmly, quietly. “I do not love your negativity. I do not need it”
Her mother looked startled, pursed her lips.
“I do need to get on with the rest of the unpacking – it’s probably best if you should leave now Margaret”.
Awesome! I like how you said she used endearments like knives. You really captured the image of her high standards, too.
Thanks Karl – endearments like knives is one of “precious” – I never know when precious is pretentious!
I can see this situation so clearly. I think the perfectionistic mother is very clearly shown here and you also show the damage she causes. Good characterization.
Evocative of the moment and I feel if you wanted to, you could write a lot of interesting scenes about these people. The mother is a strong character and the gentle husband a good contrast to her. I enjoyed this writing!
Great story, Juliana. Seems her mother could make anyone feel less than adequate. My first response was, “grrrr!”
Thanks all for your kind words. I may do more with these people that awful mother is hiding something – some dark and nasty secret – I just need to find out what it is!
Even after ten years, my brain is constantly
pulled to the time David Griffith almost punched me in the face. I was working
at the local fitness center, pushing a dust mop around the corner of the running
track when it suddenly stuck, then lurched forward a couple feet. I hated when
this happened. How could a dust mop get stuck to the smooth gym floor? But it
had. And now a line of debris sat behind the contraption sneering at me.
Sticking out my
tongue, I turned around, put minimal effort into picking up the scattering
dust, and continued around the quarter-mile circle. As I reached the beginning
of the track, I noticed someone standing near the wall glaring at me. Without a
word, he approached. I stuck out a hand to begin the greeting we created months
back. Leaving my hand orphaned, David Griffith kicked the dust mop out of my
other hand. The wooden handle banged to the ground with a hollow thud.
“I heard you’re telling people Janna broke up with me. I broke up with her.” He put way too much emphasis on the word “I” and continued. “If you said it, I’m kicking your ass right now.”
David Griffith and I called ourselves the “up and comers”. Two years earlier, he was brand new to the school and desperate for new friends. I was extremely unpopular and desperate for any friends. Our mutual desperation formed the perfect bond. Just three months later, we took our relationship to the next level. It happened during one of those awkward teenage conversations. We were painting his new pool room and, from out of nowhere, he blurted “My parents asked if I’m hanging out with my best friend tonight” and laughed awkwardly. I joined in. “Why would they say that?” Looking at the paint can, he responded “because I told them that.”
I was stunned. Of course, I couldn’t let on how much it meant to me. Nervously, I blurted “Yeah, when I told my parents that, they got pretty mad.” My parents didn’t like David much. They wanted me at home on my Nintendo every night.
Then David met Janna and things changed.
“Answer me!” he demanded again. Without responding, I went to pick up the dust mop handle. I didn’t like confrontation. He kicked the handle again. The blow reverted up the wood, causing my arm to shake. “Answer me. Did you tell people she broke up with me?” He stood over me, daring me to answer. David wore the pants in our friendship. I didn’t mind. I needed someone to teach me how to interact with people. Video games weren’t very good at that.
Every instinct in my body told me to insist it wasn’t me and to act as if our friendship hadn’t changed. But it had. Something was building up inside of me and, for once, my body refused to back down. I noticed I was crying. David did as well, and took a step back. I had never cried in front of him. Taking a step forward, I said “It’s sad that your pride is more important than years of friendship. More important than us being there for each other when we had no one.” I began to shake my head, incredulously. “You would really beat me up because you’re worried people will think you’re the dumpee and not the dumper? Well, go ahead and do it. Either way, I never want to see you again.”
Holding my head up high, I grabbed the dust mop handle, walked around his lanky frame, and finished the job I had started.
Wow. I never knew someone would be that concerned with who broke up with who.
After trying to get this done all day yesterday.. I finally have time to sit down write!
I knew something was wrong. He always called me at 6pm on the nose. He was precise like that. He was pretty much the opposite of me- spontaneous and clinging to my childhood as if it were lifeline. It was just a simple missed call, I tried to tell myself, but deep down, I knew, no I felt, that something was wrong.
As I walked to school, I tried to figure out what could be wrong, but could only think of one thing – he was going to break up with me.
As I walked up to the steps where my group of friends always met, I saw him. I glanced at my watch. He was early. Yes, something was definitely wrong. He looked up at me then, his eyes not betraying the thoughts behind them. He hitched his head to the left, indicating a bench across the small courtyard. He obviously wanted to be alone.
I wanted to sulk my way over to the bench, or better, run back home and pretend this wasn’t happening. Instead, I walked up to him, with a smile on my face and kissed his cheek. “Hey you”. I hadn’t forced a smile that hard in my whole life. I wasn’t completely sure what I was doing, but I felt I had to do something, well, different.
I grabbed his hand as we walked toward the empty bench. Sitting down, he turned to me, “Do you know why I wanted to talk to you alone?”
I lied. “Well, I just assumed you wanted to talk to me since we missed our call last night.” I frowned a bit. “Is everything alright with your Grandma?” Her health had been steadily decreasing in the last few months.
“No, no, she’s fine.” He looked me in the eyes. This time I saw confusion in them. I knew he was wondering why I was acting this way. Normally, I’d be angry that he hadn’t called me. Normally, I’d demand to know why.
He looked down at our hands, still linked. He seemed to be thinking hard. Then he squeezed my hand and looked up at me. “Our phone line was out last night. That’s why I didn’t call you.” He blinked too many times. I knew he was lying.
I looked hard into his eyes then, and I realized what was happening. I knew at that moment that he had changed his mind. I realized that this gentler side of me is what he needed and he realized that he’d have to be a bit more patient with me. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of us – we both knew what had just happened, but we never spoke of it.
The bell rang then, signaling the start of class and I walked to homeroom feeling closer to him than ever. And I smiled with the realization that I didn’t need to be angry at the world anymore. Not when happiness felt so good.
The dialogue is well done here and the writing is smooth. I’m not quite sure what is going on but would keep reading to find out how they are related. i like the remark that the gentler side of the protagonist was what the other needed.
Thanks! What part are you unsure of? I’d love to know, so I know what to work on!
Have they been fighting? She says he will have to be patient with her when it seems to me like she’s being patient with him. She is “angry at the world” but then she doesn’t really sound like an angry person. She sounds like a frightened person. It may just be my reading of it. It’s the last two paragraphs that I find the most confusing. I think you probably need to describe the days before this happens, but i know it’s just a short exercise. I really like the writing but the character confuses me.
I guess part of the confusion comes from putting in real parts and the fictionalized parts. Backstory could help… but 15 minutes isn’t very long!
They hadn’t been fighting. Anger was her normal response… this was the fictionalized response.
In the real life version, they broke up because he thought she was too “mean”.
I get it now. I can see it now that you explained it. That’s a great idea and so typical of how people often think of themselves in times of conflict. I think you should make it a short story. If you had more time it could really be good. You are subtle showing and not telling and although that’s hard to do in fifteen minutes It makes for better wriring in the long run IMO.
Some days, I can show really well. Other days it just doesn’t happen. I think this would make a great short story.
Nicely done! I liked your comment about clinging to childhood as if it were a lifeline. I enjoy the flow of your writing.
Thanks!
This train was different from the subway trains I’d been riding around London the last few weeks. For one thing, it was bound for Edinburgh, Scotland, instead of a tube station that would spit me out in the theater district or someplace close to a museum. Instead of riding in the dark underground, this train rattled and rolled through green countryside that never seemed to dry out.
The other thing about this train was its tables. On a subway, you were meant to sit down for a short while and then hop out quickly when you arrived at your stop. You might not even sit, but prefer to stand for such a short ride. This train, however, would be carrying me and two other girls overnight. Our student purses were not filled with money, so we certainly could not afford a sleeping berth. Instead, we planned to sit up all night across a table from each other. (I would be glad of that table as the night wore on–at least it was something on which to rest my head, like a school desk.)
There was room for 4 around our table, and only three of us, so a beautiful young man with a beautiful Scottish voice sat with us and began to ask us questions, which we answered in our flat American accents–Midwestern, not interesting soft sounds from the South, nor even harsh and brassy city sass.
This young man with his beautiful voice had the blackest hair tumbling in corkscrew curls past his shoulders–his hair looked like that of a boy at my college, Danny Something-or-other, but Danny’s curls were sort of dirty blond. This Scottish young man’s curls were glossy black and heavy.
He smiled and chatted with us as though it were the most normal thing in the world to meet 3 Americans on the train, but I had never met a Scottish man, on a train or anywhere else. In fact, it wasn’t until college that I had really met anyone who wasn’t like me–a descendent of Swedish and Norwegian immigrants from rural Minnesota.
One night, during my freshman year of college, a Jewish girl said she was going to the student union to buy bagels, and did I want one?
“What are they?” I asked, having certainly eaten lutefisk and lefse (which she hadn’t, I’m sure), but never having heard of a bagel–they weren’t in the stores where I lived.
“It’s bread,” she said. “What do you want on it?”
On bread, I thought. “Butter and jelly?” I ventured.
“F*cking goy,” she muttered. I didn’t understand the insult.
When the Scottish young man asked our names, I panicked and blurted out my full name, first and last, and immediately knew it sounded silly. I glanced with unsureness at my friends. We shouldn’t give our names to strangers, should we? Even attractive ones on trains?
The other girls easily gave out their first names, and I realized I had said too much. He just wanted to chat and pass the time and smile and flirt a little until he arrived at his station and said goodbye and we would never see him again.
I didn’t know how to be casual and flirt. I didn’t know how to eat bagels, or be a stranger on a train.
I enjoyed reading this, Beth – thanks for sharing. Guess I don’t know how to eat bagels either, since I like them the same way 🙂
Thanks for your reply, Paul!
Fun prompt! This practice is based on a snowy event way back last century when I was in high school, but with some drama added:
This didn’t go as planned, I thought as I tried to catch my
breath. The original Good Samaritan helped someone who had been robbed, but
didn’t nearly get robbed himself, right? The events of the last few minutes
raced through my mind as I hid around the corner.
It started off as a typical winter situation. We’d had snow
overnight, not to the point of a snow emergency, but plenty of cars were
getting stuck. I kept a pea-gravel shovel in the back of my car in case I
needed to dig out. Driving past the mall I saw a car stuck in the turn lane, so
I doubled back to see if I could help.
I parked in the lot across the street and headed over to the
car with my shovel. The driver was standing behind the car, apparently
wondering what to do next.
“Need help?”, I offered.
“Sure, buddy.” He seemed regular enough, I told him to get
in the car while I dug out the back wheels. A minute or two of digging and we
were ready to push. With my help on the bumper, the car fishtailed a little
then was free. I expected the guy to just keep going, but he stopped farther up
in the turn lane. Strange.
I had just picked up the shovel when he hopped out of the
car, walking quickly toward me. He was gesturing with a rather large knife.
“Thanks for the help, dude, but I’m gonna need your wallet
too”.
Not cool. I was shocked but not completely paralyzed. A rage
boiled up in me, then boiled over. I did the first thing that came to mind,
which was to whack him with the shovel as hard as I could. Now he could be
shocked, too! He dropped the knife and backed up a few steps. I darted over and
kicked the knife out into the street, then ran across the other way toward my
car.
Glancing over my shoulder I saw him following
me. Had he picked up the knife? No time to get in my car so I sprinted around
the corner of the building. There’s never a cop around when you need one, and
cell phones were an exotic new item that few people had. I didn’t know what to
do next.
That was a surprising ending–and you told it in a compelling way that made me keep reading!
Thanks for the note, Beth!
Is it just me, or is anyone else curious what the pre-do over stories are after reading some of these posts..lol?