#writingsketch

Joshua: Oh, do not mind that Jote. It's just a bruise.

Jote: [concerned] were you stuck my lord?

Joshua: [getting dodgey] In a manner of speaking...

Joe: [growing suspicious] And what sort of manner would that be, my lord?

Joshua: You know that old god, Ultima, that we've been reading about?

Jote: Yes...

Joshua: Well I might have bumped into him last night.

Jote: Ultima?!

Joshua: Yes, the very same.

Jote: Well, I am at least relieved that you had three other dominants with you.

Joshua: [feigning relief] Yes, absolutely.

Jote: [catching onto him] So the four of you faced Ultima?

Joshua: [has a horrible poker face] Yes... Yes we did.

Just barely made it! Alright, this one went a little longer than the last one. It ended up at 1,183 words in about 2 ½ hours. ***WARNING*** This sketch contains strong language and implied violence. Thoughts and the prompt I used will be at the bottom, and feedback is welcome as always. Enjoy!

Twelve souls.

The man in the black hat ambled down the entryway of the Logan Correctional Facility, blood-stained glass crunching under his Oxfords. He hummed tunelessly to himself as he walked, his eyes focusing beyond the dull grey brick of the hallway into the facility beyond, flicking back and forth as he counted again.

One in the downstairs bathroom, probably in a shower stall. Two in the second-floor kitchen, one in the cafeteria.

Yesterday, this facility was home to eight hundred and fifty-seven inmates, seventy-two of those women, along with one hundred and twelve guards, twenty-two cooks, seven janitors, and one very human-looking monster.

Two in the northeast stairwell, one in a broom closet on the third floor, one in an office on the main floor–probably the warden.

“You better count ‘em twice,” said May’s voice in the back of his mind. “Count 'em twice, and then count 'em again. You can’t take any chances with this motherfucker.”

Three sitting in their cells, hiding under their cots. One in the exercise yard.

Twelve souls. Count 'em once, count 'em twice, count 'em three times. Only twelve left after the bloodbath this morning.

And the other, of course. No soul in that one, but the man in the black hat could smell it anyway, the lingering stench of corpse-rot and grave dirt. Something dead that just didn’t have the decency to lay down and quit.

He stopped walking and nodded to himself, then took off his hat with a black-gloved hand and set it on the welcome counter, careful to avoid the puddle of still-wet blood. Then, he pulled back the left side of his peacoat and lifted a set of headphones from his belt, settling them firmly over his ears. He glanced down at the Walkman on his hip–which button was it, again? The little triangle?–and pressed play. After a second of silence, distorted guitar flooded into his ears, and he couldn’t help a small smile crinkling the corners of his mouth. Music wherever you went. What a time to be alive.

Then he pulled back the right side of his coat and drew his Smith & Wesson 686. He flipped open the cylinder with a practiced flick of his wrist and slid a shell into each chamber as the music played.

We are the people who can find whatever you may need, If you got the money, honey, we got your disease.

He snapped the cylinder shut, then picked up his hat and settled it back over his silver hair, careful not to knock the headphones loose. Time to get to work.

***

“Take a seat, Charlie.”

The woman across the table ashed her cigarette into the little glass tray by her plate, flicking the end with a frail and wrinkled thumb. She raised an eyebrow from behind thick horn-rimmed glasses, and the man in the black hat sighed and took a seat.

“That’s better. Can I get you anything, Charlie? The coffee here’s God-awful, but it’s hot. Take your hat off, get comfortable.”

“I don’t really go by Charlie anymore, May,” the man said, tapping his fingers on the tabletop and glancing around the nearly-empty diner. “And I can’t stay long. I’ve got a business meeting.”

The old woman narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, the wrinkled black skin around her mouth tightening as she pursed her lips. “I’m your business meeting, dumbass. Now take off that fucking hat, and don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Charlie took off the hat. “I thought you were retired.”

“I thought so, too,” said May, waving the waitress over. “But it looks like I’ve got one more job to do.”

“You’ve got favors you could call in,” the man said, frowning. “More markers than any ten names on my books. I could have a dozen of my best wherever you want them in an hour.”

May shook her head, her thin white hair wafting around her head like a wispy cloud. “No good, Charlie. It’s got to be me.”

The man’s frown deepened. “What kind of job could–” He cut off abruptly, understanding settling in. “My God. You found him.”

“It,” May spat, glowering over her cigarette at him. “Not "him”. But yeah, I found it. Logan Correctional Facility. I don’t know what the hell it’s doing there, but I’ll never get another shot at it.“

The man nodded slowly. "Alright. What do you need from me?”

Wordlessly, the old woman slid a slip of paper across the table to him. He flipped it over, and his eyes went wide.

“Christ, May, what the hell is all this? C4, cyanide–in gallons?–”

“It’s had long enough to establish a link in there. I can’t take any chances. The inmates, the guards–I’ve got to get them all in one shot.”

The man hesitated, eyeing the list. “You’re talking about hundreds of people here.”

“Almost a thousand,” May said softly, and when he looked up at her again, she seemed even more frail than she was. “It’s not even maximum security, Charlie. Kids caught with a little dope, ladies who fought back when their boyfriend roughed them up. I can’t even tell myself I’m getting rid of some scum while I’m at it.”

She took a deep breath, lifted her cigarette to her lips, and seemed surprised to find it had gone out. She ground it out in the ashtray, then looked up at him, her eyes hard.

“It doesn’t matter. You know what this fucker can do. It has to be done.”

The man nodded slowly. “Alright. I can get you set up, but it’ll take a few days. Anything else?”

“Just one more thing. I want you on mop-up.”

The man sighed. “I don’t really do field work anymore.”

May shrugged, lighting another cigarette. “I’m calling in all my markers on this one, Charlie. Every single one. I need to be the one to hit first, and I can’t trust anyone but you to clean up after.”

“Every marker?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. “I get to clear you off my books entirely? You’ve got a deal.”

“Don’t underestimate it, Charlie,” May said, her frown returning. “I know what you are, and I know what you can do, but don’t you think for one second that you’re a match for this thing. Get in as soon as the shooting stops, figure out how many I missed, and finish. You better count 'em twice. Count 'em twice, and then count 'em again. You can’t take any chances with this motherfucker.”

The man shot her an icy look, then stood, pocketed the list, and settled his hat back over his grey hair. “I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just talk to me like I’m a damn kid, May. Consider it done. I’ll take the necessary precautions. I’ll send something nice for the funeral if you don’t make it out.”

The old woman opened her mouth as if to say more, but settled for a sigh and a wave. The man in the black hat nodded once, then turned and walked out of the little diner.

***

The random plot was generated here, and the elements for this sketch were as follows:

Main Character: A man in his 60s, who is mysterious.

Secondary Character: A woman in her 80s, who is easy-going

Setting: The story begins in a prison.

Situation: Someone is getting out of prison after 20 years.

Theme: Pride.

Character Action: The main character has to use underhanded methods to accomplish their goals.

Once again, I really don’t feel I did a great job sticking to the prompt, here. I had one more scene in mind that would have brought out the “Pride” theme more, but the sketch was already getting long. May (the woman in her 80s) came across more tough than easy-going, but I mostly like how she felt to me. I skipped “someone is getting out of prison after 20 years” almost entirely, and the only underhanded methods involved were the implied black-market dealings arranged in the diner.

There was a lot that went unexplained in this sketch. I’m actually very curious to see what elements just completely confused people in reading this, because I prefer to imply things rather than state them outright, and I’d love to know what came across here and what didn’t. 

I tried to focus a little more on unobtrusive character details in this one, since I hardly bothered with any in the last sketch. I really liked the part in the prison, but the more I think about the scene in the diner, the less coherent it seems. I was trying to get a lot of information across quickly there, and I’m not sure I did a great job.

Tomorrow’s sketch is going to be interesting, as I’ll be using the prompt from YeahWrite’s weekly writing challenge. The prompt that I’ll be working this is:

“I felt the heat on my face.”

So, the goal I set for myself with this was to use a randomized plot from a generator, aim for about 750 words, and see what came of it. This was written over the space of about two hours, though I had the prompt in my head for almost two days before I started writing. Critiques and questions are welcome. I’ll list the elements I was aiming for and my personal thoughts after the piece. Enjoy! *** I stood surrounded by beauty, and realized that I wasn't in love.

The Belvedere Museum in Vienna is renowned for its architecture, a pinnacle of Baroque style, and houses some of the most stunning works of art in Europe. One such piece hung only a few scant meters from me, separated from the world by nothing but open space and propriety. A man and a woman, captured forever in a moment of embrace by oil paints and gold leaf. Her face turns towards the viewer, eyes closed, his lips press to her cheek, the background of their world erased by a wash of shimmering gold.

Kiss. Lovers. The name doesn't really matter. Because as I studied their faces, I realized that, whatever they were feeling, I wasn't.

Which wouldn't be such a problem, except I was supposed to be taking my wedding vows in less than twenty-four hours.

The murmur of dozens of voices swelled and faded in the room behind me, an ocean of hushed conversation and polite laughter. Alexander's voice cut through it all, as usual. I could point to him without looking, without even turning around, right to where he would be telling a joke or sharing some story and stealing everyone's heart without even trying. After all, he was perfect. Charming, witty, sensitive, strong hands, full lips, and a smolder that could melt inhibitions at a hundred paces. Not to mention enough money to buy half the pieces in this building. Everyone loved him.

So why didn't I?

"I've always loved this one," said a soft voice behind me. I jerked in surprise, nearly dropping my glass, and turned to see an older man standing nearly at my elbow. A  flush of chagrin spread onto my face, but the older man just chuckled.

"Prastitye, friend. I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, don't be silly," I said, laughing now as well. "I was just . . . in my own world for a moment, there."

"If it was in there, with those two," the older man said, gesturing to the Klimt, "then I'm sorry to have pulled you away." He had an accent--Russian, I thought, though Alex would have known for sure--and a vaguely familial air about him. Not like a father or a grandfather, but maybe a bachelor uncle. I didn't recognize him, but that didn't surprise me. These were all Alex's people, not mine, and I was terrible with faces anyway.

"It's fine," I said, turning back to the painting. "I was just thinking how happy they look. How in love they are."

"Really?” he said, a half-hidden chuckle in his voice. "That's what you see?"

I looked back at him, frowning. "What else is there to see?"

"Much. Look there, the way she turns her head, her hand on his. Is she shy, embarrassed? Or is she trying to reject his advances, trying to pull away? And there, the placement of his hands, holding her by her chin and the back of her head. Is that passionate, or is it forceful?"

He sighed contentedly and took a sip from his champagne flute. "That is why I love this piece. Not because these two are in love, but because they might be--or, they might not be.

"Not, I think, unlike you and your little papik."

I stiffened. I wasn't sure exactly what that last word meant, but I had no doubt who he was talking about.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, and I winced at the strain in my voice even as my hand tightened on my wine glass.

"It means," the older man said, turning to face me fully, "that I have had an eye on you for some time, now, and I think you and I would both be happier men if you didn't say those vows tomorrow."

My jaw dropped, and I spluttered for a reply. "I don't--I mean, of course I love--just who the hell do you think--"

He cut me off with a sharp gesture. "Stop babbling, and stop lying. You don't have the face for it. I think you're a smart man, and I like your taste in art, so I'm going to make you this offer once. Tell the truth, walk away, and I will make sure you never want for anything for the rest of your life."

I gaped at him for a moment, then turned, drawing a breath to shout for Alex. The shout died in my chest, though, as the older man snapped a hand to my shoulder while simultaneously pressing something sharp and metallic against my back.

"Not as smart as I thought," he muttered. "Fine. We will do this the hard way. Time to go."

***

The random plot was generated here, and the elements for this sketch were as follows:

Main Character: A man in his late 30s, who can be quite bold.

Secondary Character: A generous man in his late 60s.

Setting: The story begins in a museum.

Situation: Someone is kidnapped.

Theme: Infidelity.

Character Action: The main character has to face some unpleasant truths.

I only somewhat stuck to the generated plot here. I didn’t do a good job of communicating that the POV character was in his late 30s, and he definitely didn’t seem bold. I don’t really feel like “infidelity” came across as the theme, either, though it may have built to that in a later scene.

This sketch didn’t work out quite the way I planned it in my head. For some reason, I imagined that I would have space in 750 words to go through the introduction, the kidnapping, and the rescue. That may have been possible, but I obviously didn’t write with that kind of efficiency in mind.

I know that I struggle with character descriptions, especially for the POV character, and that definitely happened in this piece. Neither of these characters is named, there are no real descriptions of either of them, and it doesn’t even come across until the last 150 words that the POV character is a man.

1 hr sketch

bo blue is not the protagonist.   or is he?

what even is a bo blue?  he’s aspirational, in some fashion.  a kind of person someone might look at and think, if only i could.  if only i have what he has.   what is it he has? shrug emoji.   and maybe that’s the key.  maybe bo blue is the shrug emoji of people.  talented, certainly, gifted even, in some respects, but no drive.  no real ambition.  he accomplishes feats because he’s told these are feats to accomplish, and they don’t strike him as anything by perfectly accomplish-able, and there you go.  accomplishments.  admiration.  validation.  (of a sort.)   not ‘no drive’ perhaps so much as no direction?  no goal.  no——

to vague, still, too abstract.   bo blue isn’t a person, or even a character, yet.  bo blue is a theme.  bo blue is bo blue is being told you can do anything, but then only doing some things and in ways that feel more comparable to nothing.  bo blue is the incessant choir of

shit

he comes into the shop three days a week —— tuesday, wednesday, and saturday —— some time between seven and seven thirty in the morning.  

(i should not have done this before eating lunch D:)

bo is maybe a bad story to tell.  what’s even the point of bo?  is there a story there?  or even a character?   only one way to find out.  

bo goes out to the haunted house in the woods north of town because because because he’s bored? no, that’s boring. horny? makes no sense.  compelling though?  mmmm not really scared? that might be something

bo blue goes out to the haunted house in the woods north of town because he learnt to read by age three-and-a-half.  because numbers come easy to him.  because his iq is [big number] and his parents, teachers, peers always said he could do anything.  he’d do everything.   and he’s done nothing.   well. hes done some things, but… little things.  pointless things.  things that didn’t do much good for anyone, nor were they that impressive or well executed anyway.   he’s done some thoroughly mediocre things.  

and this is where a choice needs to be made.  is bo blue okay with having done only some mediocre things?  is he not yet okay with it?  is he trying, but failing, to be okay with it?  

this is boring, or i am hungry, or both.  

bo blue goes out to the haunted house in the woods north of town to hide from his responsibilities.  responsibilities, however, have a way of finding bo blue.  [that’s not really true, it was just interesting to write].   bo blue goes out to the haunted house in the woods north of town and finds 1)  his babysitter from when he was little —— she’s looking for her [insert item of some value, possibly sentimental] 2)  a friend he lost touch with years ago —— he’s searching for a cat 3)  his lapsed friend’s cousin —— she too for the cat (it’s her cat) 4)  a stranger who will later turn out to be his disinherited aunt —— she’s there for the magic portal in the basement, baby, nothing less

and then i guess adventure ensues.  

it’s, uh, scary?   yeah, scary.   bo loses a… finger.  just a pinky, but still.  stakes and shit.  been told that’s important in stories.  

they find a forest on the other side, late autumn and colder even than it was back home.  a narrow brook is tumbling downhill not far away, and [4] makes bo hold his injured hand under the water until he’s really crying, and then a little bit longer.  she’s seen enough botched surgeries and shitty aftercare in her days to be genuinely a little panicked about infection.  her amazing fantasy adventure wasn’t supposed to have [what’s the word for someone who gets injured in a catastrophe or whatever..].  

so there will turn out to be a legend-prophecy-folk story thing about a nine-fingered man saving the world?  and bo is like it was literally just my bad reflexes.  i mean, yeah, sure, i am for all intents and purposes ‘a nine-fingered man’, but like… i wasn’t last week?  so i just feel like the time i’ve spent not being a nine-fingered man really outweighs——

Nine Finger Man!  Nine Finger Man!

1 hour writing sketch, posted unedited after 1 hour is complete.

---

"Look at you, sitting here drinking coffee like a psychopath." A body slid into the seat across from here, and Alice looked up into a familiar smiling face. Was it cliche to say she did a double take? It felt like she did a double take, and a small smile slid into place to match the warm feeling rising through her.

"It's hot chocolate, actually."

"Oh, hot chocolate! I take it back! Perfectly normal to be doing nothing but drinking hot chocolate in a coffee shop. You're not even wearing headphones, you crazy."

Was this flirting? Alice has been replaying the minute long interaction in the post office for the past week, trying to determine if it had been flirting back then. Now Post Office Girl was sitting in front of her, and she was beginning to think it was. She...she could flirt. Right? Alice was perfectly capable of flirting. It was normal and she could do the normal thing.

"I've found that cute girls from the post office don't normally stop and chat with people wearing headphones." See? Perfectly good flirting.

"Do you try to pick up girls from the post office often?" There was a laugh in P.O.G.'s words, and Alice ducked her head looking at the disintegrating whipped cream on her hot chocolate. At the chapstick marks on the lip of the mug.

"No," Alive said, speaking as if not to frighten the drink in her hand. "I don't. I don't normally do...things."

"Like drinking hot chocolate alone in a coffee shop?" If Alice had gotten shy in that moment, P.O.G. took it in stride, for which Alice was grateful. No, sitting alone in coffee shops was something she did frequently, though normally she had a book in front of her. Today her book sat closed at her side. Would it be weird if this girl knew Alice had been thinking about their interaction a week earlier? About a smile and the way that smile formed around the word "lovely?" Had anyone ever called her lovely before? Not...not like that. Not while in yoga pants and a hoodie, running errands. Had P.O.G been teasing? It didn't sound like teasing. It hadn't….felt like tessing.

God, how starved for attention was she that one stupid word, one short interaction could dominate her thoughts for days? And here she was now. Was she sure P.O.G. was real? Maybe she should pinch herself.

"I'm Evelyn, by the way," said Post Office Girl, as if breaking silences was the most natural thing for her in the world. "Evie."

"Alice," said Alice. And if it was a little too quick, well at least P.O.G. … Evie. Evie's smile was back at full wattage. "I'm Alice."

"Alice," repeated Evie, and Alice loved the way her name rolled off her tongue, like she was tasting it.

"Yeah." Such an inadequate response, and Alice found the silence returning.

"Well," Evie said, pushing up from the table. "Gotta run! It was lovely seeing you again, Alice." After a slight hesitation, she started toward the door. 

"Wait," Alice whispered. What had just happened? Shed just been talking to P.O.G… Evie, and now she was sitting alone. It never went this way in her head. In her head, she was charming and funny and P.O.G hung on her words and beamed at her, and maybe even kissed her. But this wasn't her head and now, put out by her silence, Evie was leaving. 

"Evie," Alice said, chair scraping against the floor, drawing annoyed glances from a study group not fair away. "Wait!"

Evie turned around, eyebrows raised as Alice caught up to her.

"I...um. I don't want to be one of those creepy people." The confusion on Evie's face made Alice continue in a rush. "I don't want to be that person who knows where the pretty girl she likes works and just shows up to buy stamps she doesnt need so that she'll smile at her and have to be nice to her because shes at work, but ultimately it's just creepy." Alice paused for breath, not sure if that cleared anything up. 

"I only needed one stamp." Alice added, breathless, becoming aware that she'd captured the attention of more than just Evie and the study group. She could almost forget all those eyes when Evie's mouth quirked up into a smirk.

"I think you should give me your number. Then, when I contact you, you'll know for certain there was no creeperness involved."

"O...ok." Alice turned and rummaged through her bag until fingers brushed against an old Sharpie. She'd recently purged the hoard receipts that normally lived there and after a moment of panic, she reached out and scrawled her number on the cardboard ring of Evie's coffee. Pausing, she then followed the number with a quick A. underneath the line of numbers. Just in case.

Pulling back, Alice met Evie's warm brown eyes and smiled. They grinned at each other until a hurried patron pushed past them, entering the shop.

"I do have to be going," Evie said, turning toward the door.

"Ok."

"Hope to see you soon," she said, raising her cup, where Alice's number stood out, bold against the paper.