Week 6

Tell a story in three sentences – beginning, middle and end.

Though the sign distinctly said ‘NO SINGING’ Albert looked at the officer and took a deep breath. He had no memory of the ride in the police car, but at least the cell had a soft bed. The peeling paint reminded him of home, he smiled and took a deep breath of the urine and sweat and sang and sang until he could sing no more.

Edit: A re-write was needed to remove a comma splice in the middle sentence.

Though the sign distinctly said ‘NO SINGING’ Albert looked at the officer and took a deep breath. He had no memory of the ride in the police car, but at least the cell had a soft bed and the peeling paint reminded him of home. He smiled, inhaled the urine and sweat, and sang and sang until he could sing no more.

Write a piece that follows a character on a journey. 300-500 words.

The challenge was to use shifting points of view without breaking the story.

It was wet. The wound cut right through the throat. Horrible gargling sound. He stuck a calling card in the top pocket leaving her to die. There was more to be done. 

Rain pelted down, washing the stink out of the city. There were too many bodies for the cleanup crew to get done in a day. He walked on, knife in hand, twisting it one way then another. The next street climbed sharply, knocking the wind out of you. A rusty tram clattered along the rails, lights flickering in seizure. The day was dark enough already. I hated the night. It’s when all the creeps come out to play. A knife would not be enough. It was time to get serious if he was staying for the whole shift. The tram was nothing more than a dim spec now, light obliterated by the rain. He moved on.

Water fell from the gutters in torrents of moss and leaves. Autumn would pass, and winter would come. Ice. It would be everywhere. At least it would take care of the stench for a few months while his mood thawed. Gangs were quiet in the late end of the year. But work still had to be done.

Damn weather, I’m wet through. At least the blood will be minimal. There’s a cry — bag snatcher. I turn toward the sound. Picking up my pace. I stumble on the brick street. Hate the place, got a nasty graze here once. Stung like a bitch for weeks. He’s coming toward me. 50, 60 yards – maybe. The girl running behind him is losing ground. She hits the floor with a crunch. Gonna hurt like a bitch. The snatcher is close now. Rain is washing the sweat from his face, but you know it’s there. She’s OK, back on her feet. The snatcher is paces away. Bag tight against his chest. He sees my intent. 

Too late.

The knife goes up to the handle. Losing grip as I pull it out. His flesh turns pale. He tries to speak. Snatcher grasps my arm. I release the knife wiping my hand on his jacket. I smile. 

He stops. Dead. 

Placing a card in the top pocket, he shrugs and walks on. There is still work to do. Policing ain’t what it used to be.

Redraft:

It was wet. The wound cut right through the throat. Horrible, gargling sound. He stuck a calling card in the top pocket leaving her to die. There was more to be done. 

Rain pelted down, washing the stink out of the city. There were too many bodies for the clean-up crew to get done in a day. He walked on, knife in hand, twisting it one way then another. The next street climbed sharply, knocking the wind out of you. A rusty tram clattered along the rails, lights flickering in seizure. The day was dark enough already. I hated the night. It was when all the creeps come out to play. A knife would not be enough. It was time to get serious if he was staying for the whole shift. The tram was nothing more than a dim speck now, light obliterated by the rain. He moved on.

Water fell from the gutters in torrents of moss and leaves. Autumn would pass, and winter would come. Ice. It would be everywhere. At least it would take care of the stench for a few months while his mood thawed. Gangs were quiet in the late end of the year. But work still had to be done.

Damn weather, I’m wet through. At least the blood will be minimal. There’s a cry — bag snatcher. I turn toward the sound. Picking up my pace. I stumble on the brick street. Hate the place, got a nasty graze here once. Stung like a bitch for weeks. He’s coming toward me. 50, 60 yards – maybe. The girl running behind him is losing ground. She hits the floor with a crunch. The bitch is gonna hurt. The snatcher is close now. Rain is washing the sweat from his face, but you know it’s there. She’s OK, back on her feet still gunning for her precious bag. The snatcher is paces away. Bag tight to his chest. He sees my intent. 

Too late.

The knife goes in to the handle. I’m losing grip as I pull it out. His flesh turns pale. He tries to speak. Snatcher grasps my arm. I release the knife and wipe my hand on his jacket. I smile. 

He stops. Dead. 

Placing a card in the top pocket, I shrug and walk on. There is still work to do. Policing ain’t what it used to be.