As long-time readers of this blog may know, my family, while supportive of my writing since I was a kid, hasn't always been enthusiastic about the stories I tell. Until now. I don't know what it is about this particular endeavor, but my parents are actually reading and enjoying it.
So, Dad paused on his way out the door and read this simple, rough scene:
A shoulder gouging him in the belly was about as pleasant as a fist to the gut; his head flopping around as if his neck was a noodle—sickening. Kristoff was dizzy inside of four steps, and he almost vomited, but clamped his mouth shut and cursed his body for disobedience. Wounded and exhausted, it still had no right to mutiny.Dad chuckled and said, "I really like your sense of humor."
"Where—do—we—go?" panted Sahir.
"West, I think," replied Corrigan.
"Do I look like a soothsayer?"
"You look like captain hit you when you set him down."
"Nah. He's wounded."
"You have broken hand."
"Well, I'm taller."
Sahir wheezed a laugh. "He is—crazier."
Yeah, yeah. Kristoff's chin bumped Corrigan's back. Keep talkin'.
Seven words, yet they carry almost four decades of unsaid things.
For writers, they're also a reminder of how a simple sentence can carry the weight and reveal the depth of an entire story.