Freedom

“You’re doing it again, aren’t you?”
“Doing what?”
“The way you’re walking, with new weight. The way your eyes look.”
He shrugs.
“The Process is one of the most painful ordeals you can subject yourself to. Mentally, emotionally, physically…”
“But the payoff. Strength, speed, mental clarity. I was a god, once upon a time, atop Olympus. I was there once, I can be there again.”
“You were a target!”
He doesn’t answer.
“Is it worth it?”
He doesn’t answer.
“What will it gain you? What can such sacrifice get you aside from power?”
He smiles.

Ticket to Ride

She sat at the table, head bent over the empty coffee cup. An envelope with a thick sheaf of bills inside rested under her hands. There had been more money in the cookie jar than she realized; she’d been afraid, no, ashamed, to count it. Months ago, her parents had tried to confine her. Little did she realize the freedom they were offering her until it was too late.

The waitress came by and refilled her cup. She picked it up, took a sip of the dark, bitter liquid and waited some more.

The bus station opened in an hour.

I hope we're allowed more than one.

Riddance

Dropping the receiver, she could still hear his girlfriend's screams. She sat down, numb.

Her son's final words echoed like the gunshot that followed. "I'm tired of being your burden. Goodbye."

Despite herself, her first emotion was relief.

As many as you want, Wolfram.

Wow! that has major impact.

Thanks, I'm trying to work on condensing as much as possible. Also I'm really bad at descriptive prose.

I think that's better than the opposite, Wolfram. Sometimes the story gets lost in the descriptive detail.

Paraphrasing Amadeus, "Too many words!"

I do like writers who go for more senses than sight and sound, however. In my opinion, nothing grounds fiction more than the temperature, density, moisture content of air moving on skin, texture, and the scents your characters identify and what those evoke.

"The hot, dry air scorched as his lungs sucked it in, and leached moisture from him as it was pushed out again. His throat felt scraped and raw. The dumpster behind him was due for collection: a fine old stew of human leavings percolated in the heat, but underneath that aroma was oil, grease, engine lube and solvent.

"His thin t-shirt was soaked and sucked at his skin, chafing, especially beneath the shoulder rig."

Tell me what's going on there. No action, no visual or auditory description. You know nothing about the POV character except gender and he's wearing a gun. But are you in the scene? Can you feel the heat, the sweat, the dry mouth? These are the things I look for. Don't tell me, put me there.

But that's just me.

But that's just me.

us.

Damn that's good writing. Will have to practice some of that.

Pfft. That, and world building, character defining, are what I can do fairly well. But I can't find a story to tell, or sustain one.

Heh. DH, reading over my shoulder, "You always were a method actor."