When All Else Fails. . .
“Great show, Kou,” the annoyingly optimistic stage manager yelled as Heather headed off stage to put down her Warlock guitar.
“Yea. . .yea. Whatever.” She sighed, running her fingers through her hair and wiping sweat and hairspray onto her jeans. She’d be home in two days . . . real home, not some damned bus. Silently, she wondered what her parents would think about her hair. “It doesn’t matter anyway; it’ll only be for a couple of weeks.” Tired feet lead her to a bathroom to wash away the mask of the stage . . . or was it life . . . she couldn’t remember.
Two days later, her engine sputtered to life under her faded jeans, leading her down the empty roads to her home. Absentmindedly, she ran her thumb over the place her ring should have been. “One more year gone by without him,” she thought as she watched as the city limit sign flew past her and the one street of Independence leapt into view.
“Welcome back, hot stuff!” A man in his late twenties yelled as her dust bucket screeched to a haltl.
“Go to hell, Jake,” She replied calmly, slamming the heavy door and pulling her hat on. She fidgeted with the wide brim only a minute before pushing through the saloon doors and shouting for a beer.
“Odd color for eyes, ain’t they?” Jake slid onto the bar stool next to her, faintly reminding her of a grease stain on carpet.
“Go screw yourself. I don’t want to talk.” Heather shot back at Jake, annoyed at his rural stupidity.
“You got gay-colored eyes and icy streaks in your hair . . . what else you got one of them belly button thingies too? Lemme see.” Jake reached for her shirt.
“I said go away.” Her steely voice froze, along with his balls as she poured her icy beer in his lap and paid her tab, quietly walked to the door.
As her engine purred beneath her feet, Heather ran through her list of things to do while she was home, supposedly on vacation. Nothing seemed appealing in the least.
“Nothing at all.” She sighed, tapping her manicured nails on the cracked steering wheel. “This is so much different from my Jag, but I still hate it. I still hate it.” Heather’s tired voice wavered as she jerked the truck into gear. “What is there here? Nothing. And on the road? Nothing.”
‘Calle Azul.’ Something in her head shook the name into her conscious until she recognized the street sign and pushed the blinker bar upward. Marguerite, her mother, dusted her plump hands on her favorite apron and beamed her brightest smile as her eldest daughter came through the door. Her dark brunette hair shook as her weighted steps bounced out of the kitchen to get her husband. Chan Kou pushed his glasses up on his nose as he followed his curvy little Mexican wife out of his study. His thin eyes smiled as he watched his three daughters pile in to chairs around the kitchen table. His pride and joy would be home for two weeks. Maybe he could convince her not to leave again.
This was written as a character sketch for a Short Fiction class. The goal was to not actively describe the character, but to say it in a way that was like seeing them instead of being told. We chose 15 words that we had to portray without downright saying them. Of course as always it needs substance and polish.
“Yea. . .yea. Whatever.” She sighed, running her fingers through her hair and wiping sweat and hairspray onto her jeans. She’d be home in two days . . . real home, not some damned bus. Silently, she wondered what her parents would think about her hair. “It doesn’t matter anyway; it’ll only be for a couple of weeks.” Tired feet lead her to a bathroom to wash away the mask of the stage . . . or was it life . . . she couldn’t remember.
Two days later, her engine sputtered to life under her faded jeans, leading her down the empty roads to her home. Absentmindedly, she ran her thumb over the place her ring should have been. “One more year gone by without him,” she thought as she watched as the city limit sign flew past her and the one street of Independence leapt into view.
“Welcome back, hot stuff!” A man in his late twenties yelled as her dust bucket screeched to a haltl.
“Go to hell, Jake,” She replied calmly, slamming the heavy door and pulling her hat on. She fidgeted with the wide brim only a minute before pushing through the saloon doors and shouting for a beer.
“Odd color for eyes, ain’t they?” Jake slid onto the bar stool next to her, faintly reminding her of a grease stain on carpet.
“Go screw yourself. I don’t want to talk.” Heather shot back at Jake, annoyed at his rural stupidity.
“You got gay-colored eyes and icy streaks in your hair . . . what else you got one of them belly button thingies too? Lemme see.” Jake reached for her shirt.
“I said go away.” Her steely voice froze, along with his balls as she poured her icy beer in his lap and paid her tab, quietly walked to the door.
As her engine purred beneath her feet, Heather ran through her list of things to do while she was home, supposedly on vacation. Nothing seemed appealing in the least.
“Nothing at all.” She sighed, tapping her manicured nails on the cracked steering wheel. “This is so much different from my Jag, but I still hate it. I still hate it.” Heather’s tired voice wavered as she jerked the truck into gear. “What is there here? Nothing. And on the road? Nothing.”
‘Calle Azul.’ Something in her head shook the name into her conscious until she recognized the street sign and pushed the blinker bar upward. Marguerite, her mother, dusted her plump hands on her favorite apron and beamed her brightest smile as her eldest daughter came through the door. Her dark brunette hair shook as her weighted steps bounced out of the kitchen to get her husband. Chan Kou pushed his glasses up on his nose as he followed his curvy little Mexican wife out of his study. His thin eyes smiled as he watched his three daughters pile in to chairs around the kitchen table. His pride and joy would be home for two weeks. Maybe he could convince her not to leave again.
This was written as a character sketch for a Short Fiction class. The goal was to not actively describe the character, but to say it in a way that was like seeing them instead of being told. We chose 15 words that we had to portray without downright saying them. Of course as always it needs substance and polish.
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