None are so blind...

Exercise 12: Description and setting are hard – how does a writer choose what is important to the reader? How does s/he deftly direct the audience’s attention around the frame of their narrative? There are a few ways to accomplish this; here is one helpful exercise. Draft a short excerpt for a new work, or from a work in progress. Include description of your character’s setting using all of his/her senses — except sight. What does the air smell like? What does the rug feel like under bare feet? Are there birds singing? Fire sirens? What is your character’s physiological response? Get under the first layer of what things look like, and invite us in to a deeper description.

... as those who cannot see.



The weight of the heavy fireproof pants and overcoat pulls down on me, awkward, stiff, so difficult to move. I feel the air pack on my back. I must remember I need to be very careful going through hatches and small openings; the tank makes me larger, clumsy and slightly off balance.

Everything in front of me is black; the glass of the mask is completely opaque, no light can penetrate. The air I breathe from the tank is metallic, and at the same time rubber and plastic. I hear my breathing inside the mask, rapid, shallow; I realize I am on the edge of panic and force myself to slow my breathing rate. "Just be calm. You have done this before. You can do it." I tell myself.

 Repressing the acid reflux, my stomach churns. A bitter bile burns from my esophagus all the way to the back of my tongue. In the corners of my mouth, an acidic sensation like biting on a lemon. I want to vomit. I just want out of this place; I want to turn around and go back. I do not care if I fail at this task. 

The instructor commands me "Come on, get going, we don't have all day." I grasp the ladder, and descend from the deck, down one level. I fumble with my boots for each rung on the way down until I feel the deck under my feet. 

I feel along the wall until I locate the fire extinguisher and lift it off of its bracket. I check the safety pin and seal is installed, but leave it in for the moment as I do not mean to accidentally discharge the CO2 I will need at the end of this. I feel further along the wall until I locate the hatch. It is closed tight. I turn the four locking dogs, and swing the heavy door open.

Lifting one heavy boot over the lip of the open water tight door, with one hand, I grip the door frame and step into the chamber. Reaching out with my hand, I can feel the wall through the thick gloves. In my other hand is the fire extinguisher. I step with one foot forward. The splash of water as I set it back down reminds me there is water all the way to the fire and exit. Slowly I take another short step, my gloved hand touching the wall all the way. 

I listen to the crackle of flames, muffled by the helmet liner that comes down over my ears and throat. The heat of the fire ahead of me penetrates heavy protective gear. In spite of breathing canned air, the odor of smoke and fire penetrates, irritating my nostrils, rasping at my throat. I need to knock that fire down long enough to escape this place.

I move towards the flames carefully, one foot ahead of the other, feeling for the beams I know are on the floor, I do not want to stumble and fall in here. I try to remember how many steps it is from the door I entered to the exit when I did this drill with a clear mask on. Was it twenty? Twenty two? I must be getting close as it is warmer, and the flames are louder. I feel an opening on my left, I have reached the doorway, I want to just go through it and get outside, but the fire needs to be put out first.

I know the flames are just the other side of the opening, about eight feet in front of me. I lift the extinguisher up in front of my chest. I recall the word PASS. An acronym for firefighting. Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. I pull the safety pin and out. Lifting the nozzle up from the side, I lock it in position. 

"Aim at the base of the fire." I remind myself, as I squeeze the trigger and sweep it back and forth. The loud whoosh it makes is comforting as the noise of the fire lessens. My team mates yell, "You did it! Come on, get out!"

Turning to my left, I grab the door frame, and step over the door sill. Hands take my arms and guide me down the four steps to the ground. I tear off my helmet and mask and breathe the fresh air in deeply. Sweat pours down my back, and I can feel my hands are shaking. It is done. I passed the course.

© 2015 NoelHC

Glazed eyeballs and hobbies

Exercise the Eighth: Everyone has a passion – something that they enjoy, whether it’s yoga, obscure vinyl, or search engine optimization. (Or even coaching & mentoring new writers!) In other words, there is something out there that causes your character to wax passionate in the face of glazed eyeballs, awkward coughing, or even straight out door dashing. Let us know what that is.


This topic caused me to ponder my hobbies, and deep interests over the years. I was struck not so much by something that has stayed as a deep passion, but rather how many hobbies I have had, and how my approach to them evolved.

My first hobby was collecting stamps, I can still picture the album I got as a Christmas/birthday gift (more on the inequities of THAT at another time) with its pages dedicated to various countries around the world, and grey scale images of stamps to find and place in their own spot. I lived in a very small town and finding stamps was not easy. When we made the trip into the big city, a special treat was buying a small muslin bag of mixed world stamps at the Sears department store. I remember once we were home the excitement of dumping them on the kitchen table, and sorting through the brightly colored and exotic images from all over.

My album beside me, I would attempt to match the stamps to the missing spaces in my album, often puzzled by the name of the country. Really Switzerland; Helvetia? What is that all about? Greece; Hellas? Huh? But through this process I began to see some of the history of the countries, images of important people from the past and present, I learned about special occasions they commemorated, saw pictures of beautiful places, statues, art and sometimes just the commonplace, such as industry or agriculture.

I knew through my research that one of the most valuable stamps sought at the time was the British penny black, the first self-adhesive stamp to be used in general postal service starting in 1840. I do not recall the value of one at the time, but there was space in the album for one, and I would faithfully search each bag of stamps in hopes of finding this rarity. Had I, then a decision would be forced upon me. Do I put a stamp hinge on it, and place it in its spot in the album, or would I sell it, and retire with unthinkable sums of money (at least unthinkable in terms of an eight year old, in 1959.) This would have tasked the wisdom of Solomon.

My original album was a scribbler style binding, stapled at its center. This soon became full and I progressed to a larger album, with extra posts that allowed extra sheets to be added in order to expand. The original collection migrated from the old album to the new binder. I would carry this to swap meets with my friends, we would go through each others surplus stamps, and barter furiously for a prized specimen.

That album is still in my possession, tucked away in a box in storage, I looked at it just recently as we were moving items out of the way to do renovations in the house. I briefly flipped through the pages, and basked in the recollections some of the stamps brought to me.

Over the years my interests moved away from stamps, and I collected many other types of things, books and cameras being the most prevalent, but there is a soft spot in me still for my old stamp album.

© 2015 NoelHC

Departure - Filtered

Departure - Filtered

I open the door, the jangle of the bell irritates me, my nerves on edge as Laura walks past me, her perfume reminds me of the many times I have smelled that, behind her, holding her close, breathing in the complex aroma from her neck, her hair. Her beautiful face, her sparkling eyes, a sweet smile on her lips. My resolve almost breaks, but this must be done.

We walk up the counter together and order our coffee, and head to a table for two in a quiet corner. I purposely choose this table as I want no others near when I tell her what I must. I sense her attention on me, but I cannot bear to look at her;  what I must say is too painful. I believe she senses something is amiss.

The waitress arrives with our coffee; before she sets the cups down I smell that it isn't fresh, the aroma slightly burned, and bitter. I say “Please bring us a fresh pot. ” to postpone the inevitable, but Laura thanks the waitress and adds cream and sugar to her cup.

She picks up her cup; her hand is shaking, the cup trembling, little waves and ripples forming on the surface. She sips carefully, and sets the cup back on the table.

I stare into my cup, the dark black surface reminds me of the congealed blood on the floor. Only a few hours earlier I went to my brother's apartment. Ron had not answered his phone all day, and he had not been to our restaurant the day before. I was so worried about him, that he might be sick. The door to his place was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open, I sensed something was not right the minute I did.

Furniture was upended, drawers dumped on the floor, signs of a struggle evident throughout. I carefully walked down the hall to his bedroom. Ron is sprawled out on the floor, eyes open, lifeless, a pool of blood surrounding him, dark, viscous, a copper tasting smell to it. I went to check for a pulse, but I knew that was a waste of time before I even touched his neck.

It only took me a moment to realize who must have done this. Ron managed the restaurant; I was just his financial partner. He had big dreams, big plans. When I told him I couldn't afford to invest any more, he found a new source of money, one he was not prepared to discuss with me. Soon new clients began to hang out in the restaurant. Tough guys; they came right out of “The Sopranos” or some gangster movie. I argued many times with Ron about my concerns, but ever the optimist he assured me "I can pay the loan back, no problem. Stop worrying."

Then the factory shut down. Hundreds of people were forced out of work. Families struggling to keep their children fed were not going out to restaurants. Our restaurant was empty many nights. I stopped by one evening to discuss this with Ron, I located him in the back, in a heated discussion with one of the unsavory characters. As soon as I entered, they stopped talking.

This all went through my mind in an instant, as I look at her, I want so much to explain what has happened but I can't. I must protect her. All I am able to say was "I'm leaving." My voice is so calm, I cannot believe this is all I can utter, after all we shared together, a life so full of happiness and joy.

Her eyes fill with tears, her lips tremble, that is always the hardest for me, when she was sad or upset, That quiver would break my heart when she was in pain. Her eyes fix on the tabletop, her fingers trace the pattern of scratches in the old, worn surface. Laura blinks; tries to not break down in front of me. Her mouth opens, but no words came out.

Things had been less than perfect between us these past four months, I was fixated on Ron, and the situation his ambition had put him in. We were at risk of losing the restaurant. I had no job. I was broke, and there was no prospect of that changing anytime soon. She wanted a future together, I had no future to offer her.

I see her swallow, and in a soft, weak voice, a quaver in it, she says "Don’t."

I want to grab her in my arms, hold her, tell her I would stay with her forever, but I know that Ron's new business associates will be looking for their money to be returned, and they knew I backed him before. I had nothing left; everything I owned was invested in the restaurant. My supervisor job at the factory disappeared along with all the all other jobs when it closed. I had to leave town and disappear otherwise they would kill me the same as they killed Ron when they found I could not pay them.

I cannot tell Laura any of this; it will only endanger her. She must not know any of my plans. 

A single tear rolls down her cheek, and drops into her cup, a single bitter tear, in a bitter brew.

I rise from the chair; place some money on the table to pay for our last coffee together. Her gaze turns up towards me standing there, I can see pleading in her eyes, I want so much for her to disappear with me, but I know that will only put her in the same danger I am in.

I want to say so much, to tell her I have to leave her because I love her, but all I can manage is "Take care of yourself." I head for the door, before I open it I take one last look back at her. I see her head is slumped forward. Her hair has fallen down around her face. Her shoulders shake with sobs, silent, broken.

I want to say "I love you. Goodbye." one last time, but I remain silent. I walk to my car, unsure where to go, where to hide.

© 2015 NoelHC

Departure - Original to compare

I open the door, the jangle of the bell irritates me, my nerves on edge as Laura walks past me, my nose senses her perfume, and the scent takes me back to the many times I have smelled that, behind her, holding her close, breathing in the complex aroma from her neck, her hair. She looks at me, a sweet smile on her lips. My resolve almost breaks, but this must be done.

We walk up the counter together and order our coffees, and head to a table for two in a quiet corner. I purposely choose this table as I do not want to have others near when I tell her what I must. I can sense her looking at me, but I cannot meet her gaze, what I have to say is too painful. I think she senses something is amiss.

The waitress arrives with our coffees; I can smell even before she sets the cups down that it isn't fresh, the aromas lightly burned, bitter. I start to ask for fresh coffee to postpone the inevitable, but Laura thanks the waitress and begins to add cream and sugar to her cup.

She picks up the cup; I can see her hand is shaking, the cup trembling, little waves and ripples forming on the surface. She takes a sip, and sets the cup back on the table.

I stare into my cup, the dark black surface reminding me of the congealed blood on the floor. Only a few hours earlier I went to my brother's apartment. Ron had not answered his phone all day, and he had not been to our restaurant the day before. I was worried about him, that he might be sick. The door to his place was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open, I could see that something was not right the minute I did.

Furniture was upended, drawers dumped on the floor, signs of a struggle evident throughout. I carefully walk down the hall to his bedroom. I see him lying on the floor, eyes open, lifeless, a pool of blood surrounding him, dark, viscous, congealed. I went to check for a pulse, but I knew that was a waste of time before I even touched his neck.

It only took me a moment to realize who must have done this. Ron ran the restaurant; I was just his financial partner. He had big dreams, big plans. When I told him I couldn't afford to invest any more, he found a new source of money, one he wasn't willing to discuss with me. Soon new clients began to hang out in the restaurant. looking like they came right out of The Soprano's or a gangster movie. I spoke with Ron about my concerns, but ever the optimist he assured me he could pay the loan back, no problem.

Then the factory shut down. Hundreds of people were thrown out of work. Families struggling to keep their children fed were not going out to restaurants. Our restaurant was empty many nights. Stopping by one evening to talk with Ron, I saw him in the back, in a heated discussion with one of the unsavory characters. As soon as they saw me walk in, they stopped.

This all went through my mind in an instant, as I look up at her, I want so much to explain what has happened but I can't. I have to protect her. All I am able to say was "I'm leaving." My voice is so calm, I cannot believe this is all I can utter, after all we shared together, a life so full of happiness and joy.

Her eyes fill with tears, I see her lips trembling, that has always been the hardest on me, when she was sad or upset, I would see that, it would break my heart that she was in pain. She looks down at the table, her fingers tracing the pattern of scratches in the old, worn surface. I see her blink; trying to not break down in front of me. Her mouth opens, but no words came out.

I know things had been less than perfect between us these past four months, but all I seemed to be able to think of was Ron, and the situation his ambition had put him in. We were in danger of losing the restaurant. I had no job. I was broke, and there was no prospect of that changing anytime soon.

I see her swallow, and in a soft, weak voice, a quaver in it, she says "Don’t"

I want to grab her in my arms, hold her, tell her I would stay with her forever, but I know that Ron's new business associates will be looking for their money to be returned, and they knew I backed him before. I had nothing left; everything I owned was tied up in the restaurant. My job managing the factory disappeared along with all the all others when it closed. I had to get out of town, and disappear as they would kill me as well when they found I could not pay.

I cannot tell Laura any of this; I have to keep her out of danger. I can say nothing of my plans. I watch as a single tear rolls down her cheek, and drops into her cup, a single bitter tear, in a bitter brew.

I rise from the chair; place some money on the table to pay for our final coffee together. She looks up at me, I can see pleading in her eyes, I want her to disappear with me, but I know that will only put her in the same danger.

I want to say so much, to tell her I have to leave her because I love her, but all I can manage is "Take care of yourself." I head to the door, and turn to take one last look at her. I see her head slumped forward, her hair fallen down around her face. Her shoulders shake with sobs, silent, broken.

I try to speak one last time, but I can't. I only think "I love you. Goodbye."

I walk to my car, trying to decide where to go, where to hide.

© 2015 NoelHC

Note: This piece was written as a response, from the man's point of view of a short story written by a great Texas writer Kate Greene. She closed her account and I no longer have a copy of her far better original story.

http://infamous-scribbler.com/blog/2015/03/20/write-fridays-exercise-6-revision/

Exercise 7: Choose an excerpt from a work in progress. This can be a first chapter, or a few thousand words. With your list of filter words by your side, read carefully. Anytime you come across a scene described with one of them, i.e. she saw the dragon leap into the air, replace it with a more direct observation. The dragon leapt into the air, a swirling gossamer of metallic scales catching the sun. Alternatively, you can pick one filter word and do a CTRL+F to find it everywhere in your document. This is especially helpful if you realize that you favor one or two filter words above all the others (I’m particularly fond of s/he felt…)

For more about filter words, read http://writeitsideways.com/are-these-filter-words-weakening-your-fiction/

Blowout

Exercise 5: Two of your characters are having a conversation through some form of modern technology. (This could be modern as in the fast food window, modern as in “new for the 19th century” modern, or future-world modern.) How does the technology impede their communication? How does it assist? Do hijinks ensue? Or does the miscommunication have fatal results?

OK, with apologies to Tanja and other German speaking friends, as soon as I read this challenge, I could not help but think of this video from an advertisement for Berlitz language training a few years ago. It highlights the danger of miscommunications.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KLSdOY-6R_U


Blowout

The light over the phone caught Cliff's eyes before he heard the klaxon, he put down his fluid density scale and walked over to the phone hood. He picked up the phone, an explosion proof design, with an ancient looking handset,  and covered his other ear with his hand. The noise of the mud pumps as they stroked, the hum of their huge electric motors deafened him and made normal conversation nearly impossible.

He could barely hear the voice on the other end, it was Billy, the tool push. He was in charge of all the rig crew, his position had gone to his head. His voice was nasal, his East Texas accent almost a foreign language to a prairie boy. "Ya'll got to cut that mud weight back, son. Ah'm fixing ta get this well drilled, and that casing run in before that storm hits."

Cliff replied "I don't think that is a good idea. I am seeing long splinters of shale coming over the shaker screens, and the mud is coming back gas cut and bubbling. The logging crew told me there are traces of gas recorded up on their sniffer at the return line. We need to weight up the mud now."

Cliff cringed when he heard Billy's reply "Screw that, boy. Start watering back, and let's get this thang drilled. Now! Do you hear me?"

Cliff turned around and walked back to the mixing hopper. A roughneck, Tom, stood there, slowly feeding another sack of barite to make the mud heavier into the hopper. His eyes opened wide when Cliff gestured with a slashing motion across his throat with the tips of his fingers to cut it, stop mixing the material.

The roughneck, a green hand, but wise,  leaned forward, and yelled into Cliff's ear "What? If we don't get the weight up, we are gonna take a gas kick!" Cliff shrugged and leaned forward to yell back in Tom's ear "I know, but that idiot tool push insists. Asshole is going to get everybody killed someday."

Cliff walked over to a standpipe, and opened a tap, water flowed into the first tank, it would be mixed in the tank with the huge agitator rotating, and stirring the contents before it flowed over into the next tank, and then into the pumps to be circulated down the drill pipe and back up out of the hole.

It was only the density of that column of drilling fluid that held back the extreme pressure found at that depth, and all the signs Cliff  saw told him it was on the edge of underbalanced right now. Any reduction in density would present a problem, the hole could slough in and stick the pipe. A kick could occur, that could cause a big bubble of gas and a further reduction in the back pressure. If that happened a blowout could be next.

Cliff put his mouth close to Tom's ear and said "Don't let the weight drop below 11.8 pounds. If it does, cut back on the water. I am going to talk to the company man. This is their well, not Billy's. Maybe he will listen to some common sense, for sure that asshole Billy ain't gonna."

He walked across the grated walkway on top of the tanks and opened the watertight door at the end of the mud pits. He stepped out of the loud steamy room and onto a grated landing. The sea air was a refreshing change from the smell of chemicals, and the oppressive wet heat. He looked up at the rig floor, saw the pipe rotating, the blocks slowly lowering as the drill bit cut through the shale thousands of feet below.

Cliff turned to go up the stairs to the offices. He looked out over the ocean and saw the standby boat, in a position a few hundred meters away, its navigation lights bobbed with the roll of the waves. It was calm, a clear night, except for a low band of cloud in the east. The clouds were the front edge of the storm that they were warned was to come. The early dawn light made the clouds stand out against the dark sky and made them appear more ominous.

He had just reached the door to the offices when a strong vibration shook the platform, Cliff looked back at the drill floor, and saw that the rotary table had stopped turning. He saw one of the roughnecks as he ran to the blowout preventer panel. He sensed rather than heard the changed tone, the new sounds. He realized the drill pipe had become stuck, and judged by the different vibration of the pumps that it had sheared off in the hole.

A low rumble reached his ears, he saw mud come blowing up from under the rig floor, it sprayed in every direction. Blowout! The platform alarm began to wail.

Cliff turned to go back to the mud pits when the rumble of the flow changed, and a ball of fire lit up the rig, as bright as daylight. Cliff was knocked flat by the blast that hit him. Flames shot up to the top of the derrick, the entire platform was smothered in flames.

© 2015 NoelHC

A short story, limited by Twitter

#WriteFridays #writingprompt: A short story has a beginning, middle & end ... And this one has only 140 characters or less. :D


She listened to his last message, she knew this could continue no longer. Going to her phone settings, she blocked his number. It was over.

© 2015 NoelHC

Photograph

I hold a faded and worn Polaroid photograph in my gnarled, bony hand. I gaze at it with rheumy eyes, the image blurry and the colors indistinct, but I see the scene in my mind as clearly as the day I took it all those fifty years ago.

I feel the sun, low on the horizon, filtering through the golden and brown leaves, the light soft and dappled, flickering as the leaves quiver in the breeze. Its rays are not as strong as they were a few weeks ago when we were last here, but it seems brighter in the clearing in the woods. Many leaves have fallen off of the branches and litter the ground below. A sweet, yet corrupt smell comes up from the leaves, the decay has already started. 

As I walk, the crisp rustle of them rubbing against each other and the crunch, as they are crushed by my shoes, adds a note of inevitability to the day. Summer is over and autumn is nearly done, soon this place will be covered with snow.

I see Natalie, sitting in front of the car. Her knees are drawn up towards her chest, her strong arms folded and resting on top of them. Her head tilts slightly to one side, the same side her long, loose ponytail cascades over her shoulder. Her hair is dark blonde, with lighter streaks running through it, catching the afternoon light, it appears to be glowing. The sunlight touches her on that side, modelling her face. Her bright green eyes are sparkling, her wide mouth open in an inviting smile. Her smile causes the dimples on her cheeks to appear, along with a crinkle on either side of her nose. 

She sits on a blanket spread on the ground, the remains of our picnic beside her. The car is behind her, new, shiny, the convertible top lowered. I saved for three years and paid cash for the 1964 Chevrolet Impala SS, gleaming in the shafts of sunlight, a deep, glossy black.

I take a picture, and out of the front of the camera comes a Polaroid, a dull and hazy grey orange at first, but slowly the image begins to appear, exactly as I saw the scene less than a minute before. I kneel on the blanket near her. "Let me see," she says. I turn the photo to her, and upon seeing it she shakes her head, hair tossing with each movement. "Throw that away, I look horrible!" she exclaims. I laugh and put the picture in my shirt pocket. I reply "Never! You look almost as fantastic in this as you do in real life."

She reaches down beside her and grabs a handful of leaves to throw at me, but before she is able to I grasp her by the wrist, pull her closer and kiss her. Pushing me away, she laughs and says "There is plenty of time for that later, come on, help me pick up here. We should really get back home before it is dark."

Reluctantly I stand up and help her gather up everything we brought. Taking opposite sides of the blanket we shake the leaves and twigs off of it, stirring the leaves on the ground beneath it.

I stow everything neatly in the trunk and then open the passenger door for her, she seats herself and swings her long legs in.  I close the door with a satisfying clunk. Walking around the front, I open my door and get in behind the wheel. I turn the key, the big V8 engine rumbles to life, I put it in gear and drive down the narrow tree-lined lane to the main road. I stop at the asphalt and check both ways before turning left, to head east back to town, I feel the sun hitting me on the back, its glow fills my rearview mirror.

Natalie slides over on the bench seat, close to me, I feel her warmth, smell the spice of her perfume. Her hair is blown around by the wind coming in over the windshield and tickles my face. There is no better feeling than the open road, the sun on your back, music playing on the radio, and a beautiful woman beside you.

We begin to drive down a small hill, I see a car approaching from the other direction, the driver has his hand up in front of his face, shielding his eyes. I see the car begin to cross over to our side of the road. I realize that he is blinded by the low sun, that he cannot see the road in front of him, he is going to hit us if I don't do something. The ditch to the right of me is steep, if we go down there the car will roll. I make a decision. The only chance is to swerve over to the wrong side of the road to avoid a collision. Natalie screams as I turn the wheel sharply and cross the center line. I can see the grill of his car, so close to the right side of us, it looks like I may have enough room and time to get past it. I can see the other driver clearly, a look of horror on his face as he suddenly can see he is on the wrong side of the road and a car is right in front of him.

I accelerate to get clear of his car, but I hear the sickening grind of metal on metal. The steering wheel is wrenched from my hands, my car begins to skid, and spin around to the left, tires squealing. A flash goes past my eyes, at that moment I realize that is Natalie being thrown from the car. 

I am blinded by sudden crushing pain, my vision goes to a bright red glow, and then all becomes black.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I hold a faded and worn Polaroid photograph in my gnarled, bony hand. Natalie. Finally, I will rejoin her.

© 2014 NoelHC

Exercise 4: Your character holds a photograph that he or she just can’t let go. What is it about the scene depicted that holds their attention? Why has he or she been saving it all this time? Or, conversely, why has he or she made the decision to get rid of it? Where did it come from? Write a scene that tells your reader a little about the world in which your character lives through this photograph.

Soul Mates - The Meeting

I pulled up into a parking space, and shut the engine off. I was excited, adrenaline made my senses more alert, I was ready for this. I took a final look in the mirror, fluffed my hair a bit with my fingers and stepped out of the car. I wondered a little at his instructions, "Don't wear make up or fuss with your hair." I normally wear very little make up so this was not difficult to comply with, but it seemed a bit odd.

This has all happened so quickly. I can't believe I let Pam talk me into putting up a profile and a picture of myself on Plenty of Fish. I don't share pictures, I don't often even put ones of me on my Facebook page unless my two girls are in it with me. The contact ad was only up for 24 hours before I was messaged "Good morning." by an interesting looking fellow, his picture was not a great one, but he seemed attractive. We sent messages back and forth through POF for a short while.

He asked "Can I give you my cell number, so you can text me directly." I thought about this for a moment, and replied "Sure" He sent the number to me, and a moment later I looked my reply "So now what?" and hit send. His reply was immediate. We texted only a few more messages, getting to know a bit more about each other, where we lived, that sort of thing. I told him about my job, he told me he was out of work at the moment but looking for a job. It was not a surprise when he wrote "Could we get together this afternoon?"

I replied "That would be nice, we could meet at Starbucks here in the mid-afternoon."

He texted back "My car is broken down. Can you come meet me here." I knew he lived an hour away, a two hour round trip, I would have to fill up with gas, and was a bit unsure about driving all that way to meet a stranger, but at the same time I was excited, interested in meeting him in person. His easy manner in the messages intrigued me.

As I entered the mall I could not help noticing some of the mens furtive glances my way, this boosted my confidence, I knew that I looked fantastic and I felt great, keyed up, I looked forward to this.

I sent him a text "I am in the store, by the entrance." He replied "Be right there." I saw him approaching before he spotted me. I know it sounds like a cliche, but time slowed down for me, it felt as if the world stopped turning. He was beautiful. Not handsome. Not good looking. Beautiful. A beautiful man.

My knees felt weak, and my stomach was doing a little flip, and then he saw me. His face lit up with the greatest smile. I watched as he made his way towards me, he appeared confident, self-assured. He carried himself well, straight upright,and walked with an easy gait.

He reached me and opened his arms to hug me. "Hello Diane, it is great to see you. You are much more beautiful than your picture." I managed to reply "Pleased to meet you Brad, your picture doesn't do you justice either." I felt his warmth, his solid chest, his strong arms around me, and it felt great. His scent was enticing, his cologne a blend of spice and citrus. "Mmmm," I said "that cologne is so nice. What is it?" "Eternity" he replied, "I am down to the very last drops though." We stood, looking at each other, not sure what to say next, then we both said "Hi" at the same time. This made us laugh as we turned to walk through the store to the food court.

I really wanted to get a coffee, and sit down across from him and talk and talk, to learn more about him, and to gaze at his face. As we neared Starbucks he said "Never mind, the line up is too long." We strolled the length of the mall, and returned the way we came. As we walked he talked, told me all about himself. This was alternated with him telling me how beautiful he thought I was. That feeling was mutual, those were exactly my thoughts about him. He was constantly interrupted by text messages from his friends.

I turned to him and said "Let's ditch this scene." "He smiled and replied "We can go to my place, it is near." I did not hesitate, nor question at all, we left the mall and went to my car. He offered to drive, but I laughed and said "I am OK if you give me good directions." We got in, and headed out. We just entered the city street when he reached over to the radio and switched the station from my country music station to a hard rock station. "He smiled. "This is my favorite station, I listen to it all the time."

On the drive over he talked non-stop about himself, about places he worked on as we drove past them. I loved the sound of his voice. I could not help thinking about how confident, how cool he was. He sent out an aura of strength. I was conscious of his scent, clean, warm and enticing, as the air coming through the open window carried it to me.

© 2014 NoelHC

Exercise 3: Your characters are having a conversation/discussion/negotiation/argument. Who are they? How are they similar? How are they different? Write a short scene, paying careful attention to differentiating each of the characters through dialogue, actions, and attitudes. For a special bonus – no physical descriptions allowed. Instead, communicate the uniqueness of your characters to the reader using only their actions, dialogues, inner thoughts, etc.