Even good writers sometimes lose focus. Often it's only a line or two of slack summary or position blocking, but if it comes across as that-- as filling in-- it breaks the narrative drive and the "reality" of the fictional dream you're creating.
Vagueness is always the enemy of verisimilitude.
These vague passages are often right at the beginning of a paragraph, sometimes the beginning of a scene. Often it's just one sentence that performs one job -- making a transition, or moving to a new setting-- but not the job of keeping the reader in the experience.
Here's an example:
Phillippa arrived at the airport.
That gets us to the new situation, but what's missing? Yes, often the rest of the paragraph supplies the point of view, the setting, the emotion. But even one line of just utilitarian narration can lose the reader's attention and that all-important belief. We can't afford to waste space, any space at all, but especially that essential real estate at the beginning of a paragraph. In fact, transitions are exactly where you don't want to slack off, because the reader really needs to experience the change of scene, POV, or situation as something vital and IN the story.
So how to infuse some vitality into those dull lines? A lot will depend on the viewpoint approach. If you're in a close POV, go to the character, and narrate it from her perspective. If you're in Phillippa's POV above, make it about her experience, not some generic arrival.
When Phillippa arrived at the airport, she looked around anxiously for her mother. But she wasn't at baggage claim, and Phillippa finally tracked her down-- typical-- at the bar.
Notice that making the movement (arrival) in a dependent clause leaves the all-important independent clause for something in the character-- a thought, a perception, an emotion.
So what if you're in a more omniscient or distant POV? Well, the great advantage of a more distant POV is the flexibility it gives in description. No need to filter the description through a character-- you can use your own observations and voice to fill in the world of the story.
The flight from Memphis came in so early, the airport was almost deserted, most of the stores shuttered and dark. But the bar was open already, or still, and it was there Phillippa found her mother.
Point is... you can't afford even a line that breaks the continuity of the narrative you're creating, the world you're building for the reader. When you revise, watch for those wasted-space lines and see how you can make that part of your narrative-- incorporating your voice, your setting, the character-- something that makes this more than just a space-filler. Challenge yourself. You can do it. :)
Alicia
Showing posts with label POV contest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label POV contest. Show all posts
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
POV winner!
The winner of the Particularly Putrid POV Passage is... drumroll! Ian! Email me your address at rasley@juno.com, please!
Monday, March 24, 2008
Voting Is Now Open
We have eight wickedly funny entries in the disastrous POV contest.
This is the place to vote for your favorite. Leave a comment to this post, and this post only, telling us which entry gets your vote. All entries are anonymous, but please sign your votes -- even initials will suffice -- and one vote per person, please. We'll leave voting open for one week -- so, get your vote in by next Monday, March 31.
If you vote in a comment thread to one of the entries, chances are your vote will not be counted. Vote here, please.
Have fun! I know I was quite amused with these entries!
Theresa
This is the place to vote for your favorite. Leave a comment to this post, and this post only, telling us which entry gets your vote. All entries are anonymous, but please sign your votes -- even initials will suffice -- and one vote per person, please. We'll leave voting open for one week -- so, get your vote in by next Monday, March 31.
If you vote in a comment thread to one of the entries, chances are your vote will not be counted. Vote here, please.
Have fun! I know I was quite amused with these entries!
Theresa
Entry #8: Sweatin' It Out
The sultry sun shone upon the earth, sending death rays of heat to torment Earth’s beleaguered inhabitants. Foliage drooped, thirsty for respite from the unrelenting rays that the sun shone on purpose through the darkness of space to cause misery and suffering to everything they touched.
Meanwhile, back on the farm in Oklahoma, Frederick Farmer nudged the hat that sat grudgingly on his head glaring at the cloudless sky that refused to rain on purpose. His thoughts centered not at the work at hand, but on the Love of His Life.
Fiona Ficklestein.
She ruled his thoughts with an iron grip that made his brain hurt with a vengeance that surprised her. Oh, how she dearly loved Frederick who loved her back dearly, too.
“Yoo-hoo!” Fiona’s dulcet tones set the cows’ nerves on edge, and they mooed in protest, thinking her sweetly uttered call was music to Frederick’s ears. “Frederick!”
His heart leapt in his chest, beating to burst out and embrace her like she’d never been hugged before. Gone completely now were any lingering thoughts he’d harbored about tilling the parched land that wished for nothing more than a long drink of water. No, he had eyes only for Fiona that looked at her with such fierce enchantment he thought he might be able actually ask her to marry him.
“Fiona! You came! I feared the weather would keep you home. Not much is stirring in this heat wave.”
“I had to see you. Half a day is too long to be away from you and your manly aroma. I love a man who isn’t afraid to sweat, even though that sweat might rabidly turn on him and cause a real stink.”
“I’m your guy, then.” The wet patches under his arms added their voice to his heart-felt vow.
Meanwhile, back on the farm in Oklahoma, Frederick Farmer nudged the hat that sat grudgingly on his head glaring at the cloudless sky that refused to rain on purpose. His thoughts centered not at the work at hand, but on the Love of His Life.
Fiona Ficklestein.
She ruled his thoughts with an iron grip that made his brain hurt with a vengeance that surprised her. Oh, how she dearly loved Frederick who loved her back dearly, too.
“Yoo-hoo!” Fiona’s dulcet tones set the cows’ nerves on edge, and they mooed in protest, thinking her sweetly uttered call was music to Frederick’s ears. “Frederick!”
His heart leapt in his chest, beating to burst out and embrace her like she’d never been hugged before. Gone completely now were any lingering thoughts he’d harbored about tilling the parched land that wished for nothing more than a long drink of water. No, he had eyes only for Fiona that looked at her with such fierce enchantment he thought he might be able actually ask her to marry him.
“Fiona! You came! I feared the weather would keep you home. Not much is stirring in this heat wave.”
“I had to see you. Half a day is too long to be away from you and your manly aroma. I love a man who isn’t afraid to sweat, even though that sweat might rabidly turn on him and cause a real stink.”
“I’m your guy, then.” The wet patches under his arms added their voice to his heart-felt vow.
Entry #7: Hell-gaaa!!!
“Damn you, Dwayne! You owe me! Where’d you stash Jackson?” Flushed with fury, Helga Headhopper screeched her indignation.
“I don’t owe you a flippin’ thing!” Dwayne had always hated his older sister. “I don’t even owe you the time of day!”
Jackson was comfortably ensconced onboard his boat, the Suited Aces. And the Aces, currently anchored in international waters, just off the Florida Keys, was presumably immune to any and all scrutiny. So, no worries there.
“Tell me where Jackson is?” Helga demanded.
Disgusted, Dwayne turned to go. “I’m outta here!”
“In a pig’s arse!”
Helga rushed him, shoving him in the chest. Dwayne cartwheeled backwards, landing hard against the edge of her coffee table. Empty beer cans clattered, skating across the filthy floor.
“What the—!”
“Answer me, Dwayne.”
Helga tucked her hand deep into the pocket of her bathrobe, fondling the reassuring coolness of the Colt .25’s grip. The handgun had belonged to their grandfather, who died in action on Corregidor.
Helga was fifteen when she’d surreptitiously liberated it from a rusty footlocker in her grandmother’s attic. At sixteen, exploited by an older boyfriend, she’d robbed her first convenience store.
She didn’t hesitate shooting then. She wouldn’t hesitate firing now. But first, she’d try reasoning with Dwayne. Again.
“Dwayne?”
“If grandma wanted you to share in her lottery winnings,” he reminded her, for the ten-thousandth time, “she would have so stipulated in her will.”
“We’d been estranged,” Helga qualified. “For years.”
“Your choice. Not hers.”
“So, she left it all in trust for Jackson? Disinheriting me in favor of that yapping Yorkie she doted on?”
“Right.”
“Not Fair.” Helga was sure she was entitled.“
As her favorite grandchild, I’m to see that her wishes are kept.”
Helga had reached her saturation point. She pulled the Colt, siting a bead directly in the center of Dwayne’s forehead. “Twenty-seven million, after tax, dollars, buys a whole mountain of doggie kibble, doesn’t it?”
“Hell-gaaa!!!”
“Where’s Jackson, Dwayne?”
“I don’t owe you a flippin’ thing!” Dwayne had always hated his older sister. “I don’t even owe you the time of day!”
Jackson was comfortably ensconced onboard his boat, the Suited Aces. And the Aces, currently anchored in international waters, just off the Florida Keys, was presumably immune to any and all scrutiny. So, no worries there.
“Tell me where Jackson is?” Helga demanded.
Disgusted, Dwayne turned to go. “I’m outta here!”
“In a pig’s arse!”
Helga rushed him, shoving him in the chest. Dwayne cartwheeled backwards, landing hard against the edge of her coffee table. Empty beer cans clattered, skating across the filthy floor.
“What the—!”
“Answer me, Dwayne.”
Helga tucked her hand deep into the pocket of her bathrobe, fondling the reassuring coolness of the Colt .25’s grip. The handgun had belonged to their grandfather, who died in action on Corregidor.
Helga was fifteen when she’d surreptitiously liberated it from a rusty footlocker in her grandmother’s attic. At sixteen, exploited by an older boyfriend, she’d robbed her first convenience store.
She didn’t hesitate shooting then. She wouldn’t hesitate firing now. But first, she’d try reasoning with Dwayne. Again.
“Dwayne?”
“If grandma wanted you to share in her lottery winnings,” he reminded her, for the ten-thousandth time, “she would have so stipulated in her will.”
“We’d been estranged,” Helga qualified. “For years.”
“Your choice. Not hers.”
“So, she left it all in trust for Jackson? Disinheriting me in favor of that yapping Yorkie she doted on?”
“Right.”
“Not Fair.” Helga was sure she was entitled.“
As her favorite grandchild, I’m to see that her wishes are kept.”
Helga had reached her saturation point. She pulled the Colt, siting a bead directly in the center of Dwayne’s forehead. “Twenty-seven million, after tax, dollars, buys a whole mountain of doggie kibble, doesn’t it?”
“Hell-gaaa!!!”
“Where’s Jackson, Dwayne?”
Entry #6: Not a Moment to Spare
Ormond's fingers bit into the soft flesh of Eustacia's arms as he yanked her hard against him. His lips were a mere inch away, his breath as ragged as hers. Their gazes locked in battle, hers challenging, his damning. Oh, God, if only he would just kiss her-
Wham! went the front door, as unexpected as a fire detector would have been in Hades.
"Slit my nose nostrils if I'm wrong, but I could have sworn you agreed to join the living tonight," a voice said imperiously as the paperback book Shannon had been reading fell to the floor with a thunk, the pages flapping.
"Ow," whispered the affronted door. Spitefully, it expanded itself, knowing it would make their exit a struggle.
Spread-eagled with fright in the over-stuffed chair she'd named Raven, Shannon stared at her intruders in slack-jawed astonishment. Wearing a form-fitting black pants suit and a scowl outlined in scarlet, Olivia stood looking like she was going to untie the chiffon scarf at her neck and yank it around Shannon's. Brett was wearing a pink shirt and more eyeliner than usual, which made her glare seem all the more fierce.
"How rude," it huffed.
"Hush," Shannon said to the chair. Then she gasped. "Oh! It's tonight, isn't it?"
"It's in thirty minutes," she was corrected with emphasis.
"Don't leave us. You can't leave us now."
She groaned. "I don't think I have a choice."
A perfectly manicured hand pointed at Raven's leg. "Is that an open container of sour cream cheese icing?"
Shannon lunged for the container. Ormond had just learned of Eustacia's perfidy during the last spoonful. "Hey," she said to the vegan fitness guru. "I'm going to die some day anyway."
"Yes, years before your time. So get up. There's not a moment you can spare."
Wham! went the front door, as unexpected as a fire detector would have been in Hades.
"Slit my nose nostrils if I'm wrong, but I could have sworn you agreed to join the living tonight," a voice said imperiously as the paperback book Shannon had been reading fell to the floor with a thunk, the pages flapping.
"Ow," whispered the affronted door. Spitefully, it expanded itself, knowing it would make their exit a struggle.
Spread-eagled with fright in the over-stuffed chair she'd named Raven, Shannon stared at her intruders in slack-jawed astonishment. Wearing a form-fitting black pants suit and a scowl outlined in scarlet, Olivia stood looking like she was going to untie the chiffon scarf at her neck and yank it around Shannon's. Brett was wearing a pink shirt and more eyeliner than usual, which made her glare seem all the more fierce.
"How rude," it huffed.
"Hush," Shannon said to the chair. Then she gasped. "Oh! It's tonight, isn't it?"
"It's in thirty minutes," she was corrected with emphasis.
"Don't leave us. You can't leave us now."
She groaned. "I don't think I have a choice."
A perfectly manicured hand pointed at Raven's leg. "Is that an open container of sour cream cheese icing?"
Shannon lunged for the container. Ormond had just learned of Eustacia's perfidy during the last spoonful. "Hey," she said to the vegan fitness guru. "I'm going to die some day anyway."
"Yes, years before your time. So get up. There's not a moment you can spare."
Entry #5: General Confusion
Allenby watched ambulances stream up the hill littered with German dead and wounded. “I’m tired of General Kess just assuming I’ll allow him full access to the field he lost. Not today!” He declared. “If he wants to remove his wounded, then let him come under white flag and ask me. General O’Brien clear the field!”
“Sir,” Reuter rode over to where Kess was involved in a heated discussion with Gorst. “Allenby has denied our medics access to the field. I suggest a white flag…”
“No!” Kess waved an angry cigar at Reuter.
Reuter threw up his hands. “If you’ll not go, send me or Colonel Gorst.”
Kess gave Reuter a murderous glare. “Gorst, you do it.”
It flapped in the wind, this white rag, signifying his humiliation. He was crawling, there was no other word to describe it. Crawling to the British with his hat in his hand to beg them for a favor. Gorst cursed when he saw O’Brien ride toward him.
O’Brien took his time. He rode a complete circle around Gorst, his eyes running up and down his foe like he had never seen a Prussian before. He even snickered a little when he saw the flag. Gorst’s mortification was complete. He flushed scarlet in anger. Enough of this! “I’m Colonel Gorst ,” he snarled.
“I’m General O’Brien.” O’Brien was happy that he outranked the little man.
“I know who you are,” Gorst snarled again. The hatred in his voice shook O’Brien. Reilly drew nearer; his hand resting on his pistol butt in warning. “General Kess requests a cease fire in order to remove our dead and wounded from the field.”
The request was sent up the hill. While they waited, Gorst continued to glare at O’Brien. O’Brien, up to the challenge, kept his own glare fixed on Gorst. Reilly glanced at his chief. What if O’Brien didn’t remain content with just glaring?
“Sir,” Reuter rode over to where Kess was involved in a heated discussion with Gorst. “Allenby has denied our medics access to the field. I suggest a white flag…”
“No!” Kess waved an angry cigar at Reuter.
Reuter threw up his hands. “If you’ll not go, send me or Colonel Gorst.”
Kess gave Reuter a murderous glare. “Gorst, you do it.”
It flapped in the wind, this white rag, signifying his humiliation. He was crawling, there was no other word to describe it. Crawling to the British with his hat in his hand to beg them for a favor. Gorst cursed when he saw O’Brien ride toward him.
O’Brien took his time. He rode a complete circle around Gorst, his eyes running up and down his foe like he had never seen a Prussian before. He even snickered a little when he saw the flag. Gorst’s mortification was complete. He flushed scarlet in anger. Enough of this! “I’m Colonel Gorst ,” he snarled.
“I’m General O’Brien.” O’Brien was happy that he outranked the little man.
“I know who you are,” Gorst snarled again. The hatred in his voice shook O’Brien. Reilly drew nearer; his hand resting on his pistol butt in warning. “General Kess requests a cease fire in order to remove our dead and wounded from the field.”
The request was sent up the hill. While they waited, Gorst continued to glare at O’Brien. O’Brien, up to the challenge, kept his own glare fixed on Gorst. Reilly glanced at his chief. What if O’Brien didn’t remain content with just glaring?
Entry #4: Dinner Is Served
Reaching for another slice, the pizza’s savory essence filled many nostrils. And a few gaping mouths, too. Which is okay, because pizza is supposed to do that.
“Especially at dinner time.” The cheese stretched in long gooey strings between the slices. “Why pepperoni?”
Why indeed. “Pizza comes in many flavors.” The coupon said, “Two dollars off a large pepperoni pizza.”
Staring in disbelief, pouring a little more red wine in the rapidly emptying glasses, only green peppers would have improved the matter.
“Ha! Green peppers ruin a pizza.”
A greasy chin quivered with suppressed emotion. And a few chewing motions. Who would rather fight than eat?
Well, that settles that. Next time, we’re ordering Chinese.
“Especially at dinner time.” The cheese stretched in long gooey strings between the slices. “Why pepperoni?”
Why indeed. “Pizza comes in many flavors.” The coupon said, “Two dollars off a large pepperoni pizza.”
Staring in disbelief, pouring a little more red wine in the rapidly emptying glasses, only green peppers would have improved the matter.
“Ha! Green peppers ruin a pizza.”
A greasy chin quivered with suppressed emotion. And a few chewing motions. Who would rather fight than eat?
Well, that settles that. Next time, we’re ordering Chinese.
Entry #3: Drawing Straws
New Mexico, 1821
“Will you go no matter who wins her?” Juan asked.
He saw doubt, fear, and greed on their faces.
“Will you?” Juan demanded.
“Yes,” Roberto conceded.
Carlos nodded.
Juan snatched a handful of stems from a bunch of gamma grass. He kept four and snapped them into lengths. “Longest straw gets her,” he said.
“You don’t need none for me,” Kincaid said. “I don’t want no slave.”
“Suit yourself.” Juan tossed one stem away. He cupped his hand around the remaining stems and raised them up to the other Mexicans.
“Let Kincaid hold them,” Roberto demanded.He felt like he had turned another corner. Now he had two enemies, three if you counted Baptiste. Well, the damage was done. Let’s get on with it.
He offered Roberto his pick. Roberto quickly grabbed one. It was fair to middling; might be the winner.
Defeat was on Carlos’ face, as if chance never favored him. Sure enough, Carlos pulled one half the size of Roberto’s.
Without waiting, Juan pulled the last, and it beat Roberto’s.
“Satisfied now?”
Juan looked at each man..
The horsemen stormed off the ridge. The Navajo girl looked up at the riders thundering towards her, and her mouth opened in cries of alarm and terror. Her mouth shaped words, but he only heard the pounding hooves, wind sucked in and out of horses’ lungs, and blood surging in his ears. He could feel the power of Rico stretching out to eat up the distance and the rough rhythm of his wild gallop. The feeling was exhilarating and savage, and carried him where quiet courage might not. He began to see the girl would lose her race to safety, and the wild riders would win. Kincaid faced her hogan hoping he would not have to fight.
“Will you go no matter who wins her?” Juan asked.
He saw doubt, fear, and greed on their faces.
“Will you?” Juan demanded.
“Yes,” Roberto conceded.
Carlos nodded.
Juan snatched a handful of stems from a bunch of gamma grass. He kept four and snapped them into lengths. “Longest straw gets her,” he said.
“You don’t need none for me,” Kincaid said. “I don’t want no slave.”
“Suit yourself.” Juan tossed one stem away. He cupped his hand around the remaining stems and raised them up to the other Mexicans.
“Let Kincaid hold them,” Roberto demanded.He felt like he had turned another corner. Now he had two enemies, three if you counted Baptiste. Well, the damage was done. Let’s get on with it.
He offered Roberto his pick. Roberto quickly grabbed one. It was fair to middling; might be the winner.
Defeat was on Carlos’ face, as if chance never favored him. Sure enough, Carlos pulled one half the size of Roberto’s.
Without waiting, Juan pulled the last, and it beat Roberto’s.
“Satisfied now?”
Juan looked at each man..
The horsemen stormed off the ridge. The Navajo girl looked up at the riders thundering towards her, and her mouth opened in cries of alarm and terror. Her mouth shaped words, but he only heard the pounding hooves, wind sucked in and out of horses’ lungs, and blood surging in his ears. He could feel the power of Rico stretching out to eat up the distance and the rough rhythm of his wild gallop. The feeling was exhilarating and savage, and carried him where quiet courage might not. He began to see the girl would lose her race to safety, and the wild riders would win. Kincaid faced her hogan hoping he would not have to fight.
Entry #2: A Lucky Charm
Polly lowered her green beer to the bar and felt something bump her elbow. She turned to see...nothing but the same St. Pat's Day crowd that had been jostling her all night.
Verne knew if he couldn't get the woman's attention, he'd never win the bet. "Down here!" he yelled, but she could barely hear him.
She glanced around, bewildered, not noticing the way her lush locks bounced on her shoulders in sultry allure. Who could have said that? she thought. "Who said that?" Polly asked the thin air, then the thick air, just to be safe.
The bartender set pretzels beside the voluptuous blonde who'd nursed the same green beer all night. She'd been stood up--his lucky day. "Not me."
Verne hopped onto a barstool and chomped a pretzel, smiling at his mark.
Polly hadn't noticed him before, and she'd been staring at every man who came into the bar. Maybe the owners had hired him for the celebration. He was wearing of the green.
"Hi there," he said with an Irish accent, though he was faking it.
"Hello." Uh-oh. If Verne was her blind date, she was going to kill her sister.
"Can I interest you in a bite?" Verne asked the woman, trying not to laugh.
"What?" Polly cupped her hand around her ear to hear him better.
"Can I INTEREST you in a BITE!"
"He asked if you want a bite." Feeling protective, Colt gave Verne the stink eye. He knew that gang and they were never up to any good. She didn't deserve that.
"A bite of what?" they both said, curious. Then their eyes metand...locked.
"A bite of me," Verne yelled, "because I'm magically delicious!"
He was also fifty bucks richer, even if the bartender got the girl.
Verne knew if he couldn't get the woman's attention, he'd never win the bet. "Down here!" he yelled, but she could barely hear him.
She glanced around, bewildered, not noticing the way her lush locks bounced on her shoulders in sultry allure. Who could have said that? she thought. "Who said that?" Polly asked the thin air, then the thick air, just to be safe.
The bartender set pretzels beside the voluptuous blonde who'd nursed the same green beer all night. She'd been stood up--his lucky day. "Not me."
Verne hopped onto a barstool and chomped a pretzel, smiling at his mark.
Polly hadn't noticed him before, and she'd been staring at every man who came into the bar. Maybe the owners had hired him for the celebration. He was wearing of the green.
"Hi there," he said with an Irish accent, though he was faking it.
"Hello." Uh-oh. If Verne was her blind date, she was going to kill her sister.
"Can I interest you in a bite?" Verne asked the woman, trying not to laugh.
"What?" Polly cupped her hand around her ear to hear him better.
"Can I INTEREST you in a BITE!"
"He asked if you want a bite." Feeling protective, Colt gave Verne the stink eye. He knew that gang and they were never up to any good. She didn't deserve that.
"A bite of what?" they both said, curious. Then their eyes metand...locked.
"A bite of me," Verne yelled, "because I'm magically delicious!"
He was also fifty bucks richer, even if the bartender got the girl.
Entry #1: Start a Fight
“Larry would never do something like that,” I said obliquely, thinking aloud to myself.
“Oh yes he would, and he did.” She smiles back at him, wondering what he’s thinking.
No way, he can’t have, thought Gerald. Larry’s a stand-up kind of guy. “I don’t believe it,” he said aloud, shuffling his feet incompetently.
“I don’t get it,” you’ll say, misunderstanding what everyone’s thinking. “What is it that I’m supposed to have done?”
“Well, if you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to tell you now!” I poked him in the chest, signifying that he was guilty, guilty, guilty beyond a reasonable doubt!
“I wouldn’t tell him either,” she says, winking at him to suggest he might be getting some horizontal action later!
Now I’m wondering if maybe I was wrong about Larry, thought Gerald. Everyone else seems to have made up their mind about him. Maybe I should be a joiner too. “Smug little bastard,” he said at last, spilling his drink to emphasize his distaste for the tasteless activity that had been performed.
“You’re all against me! All of you!” you’ll complain, looking around desperately for a way by which you can be able to make your escape.
I knew the time had come. I drew my phased plasma blaster which I’d kept until recently in the chest at the back of my closet. Larry was going down.
Francine hates to see Larry grovel for his life, but the man has told his last lie. She sees the blaster shoved in his face and knows that he’s going down.
This is insane, thought Gerald. Larry’s lied once too many times. “Dude, you’re going down,” he said, watching the fingers tighten on the trigger.
The blaster will poke your face like some great, pokey weapon shoved in your face, and you’ll know that this is The End at last, that you are indeed going down.
“And that’s what happens next,” said Boyd, the GM. “What do you do?”
Harley shrugged. “I start a fight.”
“Oh yes he would, and he did.” She smiles back at him, wondering what he’s thinking.
No way, he can’t have, thought Gerald. Larry’s a stand-up kind of guy. “I don’t believe it,” he said aloud, shuffling his feet incompetently.
“I don’t get it,” you’ll say, misunderstanding what everyone’s thinking. “What is it that I’m supposed to have done?”
“Well, if you don’t know, I’m certainly not going to tell you now!” I poked him in the chest, signifying that he was guilty, guilty, guilty beyond a reasonable doubt!
“I wouldn’t tell him either,” she says, winking at him to suggest he might be getting some horizontal action later!
Now I’m wondering if maybe I was wrong about Larry, thought Gerald. Everyone else seems to have made up their mind about him. Maybe I should be a joiner too. “Smug little bastard,” he said at last, spilling his drink to emphasize his distaste for the tasteless activity that had been performed.
“You’re all against me! All of you!” you’ll complain, looking around desperately for a way by which you can be able to make your escape.
I knew the time had come. I drew my phased plasma blaster which I’d kept until recently in the chest at the back of my closet. Larry was going down.
Francine hates to see Larry grovel for his life, but the man has told his last lie. She sees the blaster shoved in his face and knows that he’s going down.
This is insane, thought Gerald. Larry’s lied once too many times. “Dude, you’re going down,” he said, watching the fingers tighten on the trigger.
The blaster will poke your face like some great, pokey weapon shoved in your face, and you’ll know that this is The End at last, that you are indeed going down.
“And that’s what happens next,” said Boyd, the GM. “What do you do?”
Harley shrugged. “I start a fight.”
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