Great opening. I knew exactly where you where, what you were doing, and you put me right there with you! You keep me with you through the specific scene, and you are showing rather than telling. Very nice! I've made scecific comments in the text in CAPS. Otherwise, fine work!
Folding the corner of the stiff white placard hanging from my neck, back and forth, back and forth, my fingers fumble as I shuffle my feet closer to the microphone. I jiggle the stand down a bit, bringing the steel box closer to my face. “Can you please repeat the word?”
“Flotilla.”
My eyes search the glossy waxed floor in front of me. The blackness does nothing but reflect my wavering silhouette. Like the stark white of an interrogation room, the modern black museum walls offer me no comfort as I am questioned. When I dare to look up, all five judges are staring at me from behind the spotlights. My heart pounds and echoes in the silent darkness that awaits my reply. I suck the strawberry lip gloss from the bottom right corner of my lip to buy more time. REALLY NICE SENSORY DETAILS. GOOD!
“Definition, please.”
The indeterminate voice attached to the stark black suit delivers, “Noun. A fleet of ships or boats; especially, a navy organizational unit consisting of two or more squadrons of small warships.” Pause. “An indefinite large number.”
Bile rises up in my throat, threatening to swathe my voice box in its foul embrace. I fight the urge to succumb to its release although that embarrassment could save me from this discomfort I am facing. This feeling of unknowing. An auditorium chair squeaks as someone’s father stretches his long legs with impatience. I am holding up the show.
“Word origin, please.”
“Spanish. Also, Old French and Old Norse.”
“Are there any alternate pronunciations?”
“Flotilla,” the man repeats, in exactly the same monotone drone he used to first present the word.
With each question I ask, I hear still more chairs squeak. I focus on the modern mobile hanging above the audience. Giant stainless wings turn and spin in the stillness. Like magic, the blades move while I struggle even to sip a small breath from the stifling silence. REALLY GOOD DETAILS!
“Flotilla,” I repeat. “Can you please use it in a sentence?”
Judge number five scoots his microphone near his mouth and adjusts his glasses on his nose. “The flotilla was stationed in the Northern Atlantic for six months.” His blank stare challenges my questioning eyes.
“Flotilla,” I mumble as I glance at the big black seconds counting backward on the clock perched on the edge of the judges table. 22, 21, 20…
“F.”
I scan through wordlists in my head. I picture the red, white, and blue “Spell It!” booklet tucked neatly in my mom’s purse. If only I could stop time, run down the aisle to the fourteenth row, take a quick peek on the page of Spanish words. If only I could recall practicing this word. Hours at the dining room table. My mom patiently flipping through the book. The pages creased and yellow from years of wear in only a few months time. Calling out, “Troika, howitzer, fusillade, infinitesimal.” All words I know with confidence. 17, 16, 15…
VERY GOOD!
I trace an “f” in the air at my side. My right index finger barely moves. Over and over, I trace an “f”, hoping to trigger my memory of this word. I am careful not to repeat the “f” again aloud. Then I stutter “l”. I wipe my moist palms on the side of my long patterned skirt. I hear my blood pumping through my ears and reverberating down the back of my neck. 12, 11, 10…
“O.” I wait, anxious to proceed but cautious in my uncertainty.
“A.” Ding. I hear the dreaded metallic ding. The sound you hear when you walk into Mailboxes, Etc., and the clerk is notoriously missing. The sound you make when you tap the black and silver bell to get his attention and draw him back to the front of the store. The sound that warns Pavlov’s dogs that dinner time is near. THIS IS THE ONLY PARAGRAPH THAT DOESN'T FLOW LIKE THE OTHERS. WORK ON THE IMAGES HERE. IT SEEMS TOO MUCH, TOO MANY COMPARISONS. PERHAPS YOU CAN PROVIDE MORE TRANSITIONS BETWEEN THEM.
The sound that releases the salty tears down a young girl’s face.
VERY VERY GOOD. I LIKE IT! VERY IN THE MOMENT AND VERY CLEAR. YOU DON'T NEED TO MAKE IT LONGER. IT WORKS.
1 comment:
Tara --
Great opening. I knew exactly where you where, what you were doing, and you put me right there with you! You keep me with you through the specific scene, and you are showing rather than telling. Very nice! I've made scecific comments in the text in CAPS. Otherwise, fine work!
Folding the corner of the stiff white placard hanging from my neck, back and forth, back and forth, my fingers fumble as I shuffle my feet closer to the microphone. I jiggle the stand down a bit, bringing the steel box closer to my face. “Can you please repeat the word?”
“Flotilla.”
My eyes search the glossy waxed floor in front of me. The blackness does nothing but reflect my wavering silhouette. Like the stark white of an interrogation room, the modern black museum walls offer me no comfort as I am questioned. When I dare to look up, all five judges are staring at me from behind the spotlights. My heart pounds and echoes in the silent darkness that awaits my reply. I suck the strawberry lip gloss from the bottom right corner of my lip to buy more time. REALLY NICE SENSORY DETAILS. GOOD!
“Definition, please.”
The indeterminate voice attached to the stark black suit delivers, “Noun. A fleet of ships or boats; especially, a navy organizational unit consisting of two or more squadrons of small warships.” Pause. “An indefinite large number.”
Bile rises up in my throat, threatening to swathe my voice box in its foul embrace. I fight the urge to succumb to its release although that embarrassment could save me from this discomfort I am facing. This feeling of unknowing. An auditorium chair squeaks as someone’s father stretches his long legs with impatience. I am holding up the show.
“Word origin, please.”
“Spanish. Also, Old French and Old Norse.”
“Are there any alternate pronunciations?”
“Flotilla,” the man repeats, in exactly the same monotone drone he used to first present the word.
With each question I ask, I hear still more chairs squeak. I focus on the modern mobile hanging above the audience. Giant stainless wings turn and spin in the stillness. Like magic, the blades move while I struggle even to sip a small breath from the stifling silence. REALLY GOOD DETAILS!
“Flotilla,” I repeat. “Can you please use it in a sentence?”
Judge number five scoots his microphone near his mouth and adjusts his glasses on his nose. “The flotilla was stationed in the Northern Atlantic for six months.” His blank stare challenges my questioning eyes.
“Flotilla,” I mumble as I glance at the big black seconds counting backward on the clock perched on the edge of the judges table. 22, 21, 20…
“F.”
I scan through wordlists in my head. I picture the red, white, and blue “Spell It!” booklet tucked neatly in my mom’s purse. If only I could stop time, run down the aisle to the fourteenth row, take a quick peek on the page of Spanish words. If only I could recall practicing this word. Hours at the dining room table. My mom patiently flipping through the book. The pages creased and yellow from years of wear in only a few months time. Calling out, “Troika, howitzer, fusillade, infinitesimal.” All words I know with confidence. 17, 16, 15…
VERY GOOD!
I trace an “f” in the air at my side. My right index finger barely moves. Over and over, I trace an “f”, hoping to trigger my memory of this word. I am careful not to repeat the “f” again aloud. Then I stutter “l”. I wipe my moist palms on the side of my long patterned skirt. I hear my blood pumping through my ears and reverberating down the back of my neck. 12, 11, 10…
“O.” I wait, anxious to proceed but cautious in my uncertainty.
“A.” Ding. I hear the dreaded metallic ding. The sound you hear when you walk into Mailboxes, Etc., and the clerk is notoriously missing. The sound you make when you tap the black and silver bell to get his attention and draw him back to the front of the store. The sound that warns Pavlov’s dogs that dinner time is near. THIS IS THE ONLY PARAGRAPH THAT DOESN'T FLOW LIKE THE OTHERS. WORK ON THE IMAGES HERE. IT SEEMS TOO MUCH, TOO MANY COMPARISONS. PERHAPS YOU CAN PROVIDE MORE TRANSITIONS BETWEEN THEM.
The sound that releases the salty tears down a young girl’s face.
VERY VERY GOOD. I LIKE IT! VERY IN THE MOMENT AND VERY CLEAR. YOU DON'T NEED TO MAKE IT LONGER. IT WORKS.
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