GWW – Short Fiction Workshop – Notebook Assignment #2
Copyright 2010 Lauri M. Bryant
This assignment was simple. It was about characterization not writing a short story. You need to explore a character you might write about one day in three paragraphs - 1st present tense, 2nd past tense (background) and 3rd returns to the present. I liked what I wrote but was like where the heck did that come from??
This is related to this post about current workshop happenings.
The sun is setting but it’s still hot as hell. A tepid breeze sweeps up tendrils of sand that hit my face and clings to the sweat trailing from under my helmet. I place my VKX Pulse Automatic butt-end down into the sand and drag my hand across my forehead. I no longer smell the stench of unwashed bodies relaying barrels of oil from the spickets to the armored cars I’m here to protect. Laborers shuffle two-by-two, grunting under the weight of metal barrels. Armed guards patrol both sides of the lane while I stand with my team protecting the transport vehicles. Only the poorest of provinces still use this crude form of energy. Once valuable oil fields warred over by mighty nations, these scorched zones are now governed by impoverished border lords and crime syndicates.
The last of the barrels are being loaded on to the trucks. Another day is ending. I turn to my first in command, Rick, and nod my head for him to take my place. He jumps to do my bidding. I walk several paces forward, heading directly into the setting sun. The light is blinding. I let it burn away the image of this place, wishing it could burn away memories too. “I won’t think of it,” I lie to myself, knowing full well that I will … We’re in our pod at Intelligence Headquarters. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs that I’m done and want out of this life. I don’t have to kill for a paycheck and luxuries. He says it’s not killing, it’s national security. He tells me to calm down. I slap his face for making cry. I need him to realize I can’t do this anymore, yet don’t want to be without him. I’m leaving! I’ve left him before. He finds me and brings me back – always. He says we’re each other’s affliction. One doesn’t exist without the other. My brother told me to get gone. Far enough next time, that Jack can’t’ bring me back with kisses that burn my skin and obliterate my resolve. My brother says Jack and I will be the death of each other, if I don’t go for good. He’s right. I know he’s right.
A tap on my shoulder brings me back to today, 186 days since I crept out of the bed I shared with Jack and started running. Rick inclines his head toward the loaded trucks. They’re ready to roll. I turn back to my untrustworthy comrades. I climb on the side of the closest transport to ride shot gun. Fuck this helmet. It’s too hot to keep it on. I wrench it off and chuck it inside the window. An auburn ponytail flops down my back and spiky bangs fall forward on to my face. A few looks, a couple of leers are cast my way – they forget I’m a woman. I hold my VKX up higher to remind them of their manners. I laugh inside, “As if I’d need a gun.” I’m a bleeder. I could kill any one of these bastards with a look. The more traveled and informed workers have their suspicions but fear keeps them silent. Here and there, I’ve noticed cranium braces clamped on the backs of a few of heads, sloppily hidden beneath the hairline. I wondered what tipped off those that suspect I’m a bleeder. Whatever it was, fewer of them make direct eye contact, which is fine by me. A sigh escapes my lips. Or was that a sob? The irony of my situation is enough to make me wretch and weep. Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I blink hard to hold them back. Mercs don’t cry.
The last of the barrels are being loaded on to the trucks. Another day is ending. I turn to my first in command, Rick, and nod my head for him to take my place. He jumps to do my bidding. I walk several paces forward, heading directly into the setting sun. The light is blinding. I let it burn away the image of this place, wishing it could burn away memories too. “I won’t think of it,” I lie to myself, knowing full well that I will … We’re in our pod at Intelligence Headquarters. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs that I’m done and want out of this life. I don’t have to kill for a paycheck and luxuries. He says it’s not killing, it’s national security. He tells me to calm down. I slap his face for making cry. I need him to realize I can’t do this anymore, yet don’t want to be without him. I’m leaving! I’ve left him before. He finds me and brings me back – always. He says we’re each other’s affliction. One doesn’t exist without the other. My brother told me to get gone. Far enough next time, that Jack can’t’ bring me back with kisses that burn my skin and obliterate my resolve. My brother says Jack and I will be the death of each other, if I don’t go for good. He’s right. I know he’s right.
A tap on my shoulder brings me back to today, 186 days since I crept out of the bed I shared with Jack and started running. Rick inclines his head toward the loaded trucks. They’re ready to roll. I turn back to my untrustworthy comrades. I climb on the side of the closest transport to ride shot gun. Fuck this helmet. It’s too hot to keep it on. I wrench it off and chuck it inside the window. An auburn ponytail flops down my back and spiky bangs fall forward on to my face. A few looks, a couple of leers are cast my way – they forget I’m a woman. I hold my VKX up higher to remind them of their manners. I laugh inside, “As if I’d need a gun.” I’m a bleeder. I could kill any one of these bastards with a look. The more traveled and informed workers have their suspicions but fear keeps them silent. Here and there, I’ve noticed cranium braces clamped on the backs of a few of heads, sloppily hidden beneath the hairline. I wondered what tipped off those that suspect I’m a bleeder. Whatever it was, fewer of them make direct eye contact, which is fine by me. A sigh escapes my lips. Or was that a sob? The irony of my situation is enough to make me wretch and weep. Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I blink hard to hold them back. Mercs don’t cry.
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