Photo courtesy of Getty ImagesMy critique group does "Write Night" every month, during which we gather to do a writing exercise. We have great fun with this and so I've decided to feature a weekly writing exercise on my blog. Let's call this Writing Exercise No. 1 shall we? Here it is:
Look at the picture. Create a character who is getting ready to cross this bridge. What happens on the other side? Describe what your character sees, hears, smells, feels etc. There can be dialogue, but the most important thing is to create some kind of tension, whether internal or exteral. Limit the scene to three hundred words and leave it in the comments if you'd like.
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Fifteen minutes, tops, she’ll be coming through; her long, confident stride, steady as the changing of the seconds on this cheap, disposable watch. It’s Wednesday, she’ll come from behind me and cross the bridge into the most remote part of the trail, four miles from either end. She’s seen me here enough to expect me, we may exchange a pleasantry; she’ll ask what the trouble is with the bike if she pauses. The bike is my way out. I’ll be miles from here on the highway due west before cops even know she’s dead.
What a bastard her husband is, a woman out here eight days out of ten working out for him, “trail-ass” I over heard her call it talking with the park ranger who flirted just enough with her to make me question her sexuality. A man should give his right arm to keep a woman like that, not pay a man like me to kill her. Amazing that my fee is cheaper than divorce, I should raise my rates.
The sun is behind cover today, the wind coming in from the same direction she is. The birds are quiet. A deer bursts toward me before I hear her tread, steady, clock work. Mingled with the juniper and decay and flora and fauna that made this an enjoyable job, I smell the expensive perfume, just a hint, preceding her.
Cooler today, she’ll be wearing the blue pull-over and the hot-pink running shorts. God, what a waste to rid the world of those legs.
“Del,” she nods as she passes me.
I count the ten strides she thumps across the bridge and I begin after her, rolling over the bridge so she won’t hear me coming, not that it’ll matter thanks to her iPod.
What a waste…
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