Show Don't Tell Practice

A boy trying to ask a girl out.

He could see her across the bar, talking to her friends. Why did girls always travel in packs? They never seem to be alone, especially not her. He had seen her come here almost every saturday for a month. She was always with someone, but never another guy. So, she must be single.

But not for long.

He grabbed his cheap beer off the bar and took a last swig of it, emptying the half-full pint glass of the alcoholic beverage. Then he tossed the change for the bill of the counter and hopped of the stool, like a stranded swimmer leaving his flotation device, his one lifeline.

Cornelius fought during World War I, he met his wife during the war, a french nurse.

All the veterans always attended the local Remembrance day celebration, and Cornelius was no exception. But he never enjoyed the solemn atmosphere as much as some of his colleagues. Monique never thought poppies to be a sad flower, even though they grew all over the graves of soldiers. In fact, she thought they were quite cheerful, that they brought a burst of lively colour to the otherwise dank brown hospital field. The tent she managed was full of the flowers, despite that some of the soldiers who passed through thought it to be disrespectful, as if she was preparing them for their graves. But in Cornelius’s memories, fuzzy but distinct, those bright bursts of colour, as well as her angelic face, helped cut through the pain of his missing arm.

Anna was a determined child who always questioned authority.

Anna hadn’t changed much since Will first met her. He could still remember being in first grade, and fearing the fiery little girl who would yell at the gym teacher when he wouldn’t let the smaller boys do the modified push-ups that some of the girls did. She did not fear any teacher or parent, and would somehow manage to get up in their faces despite being a good two feet shorter. She maintained that spirit all through her life, and he could still see the child with pigtails and a pink dress within the woman in the business suit arguing with the judge.

Arnold never did love his wife, the marriage had always been a sham.

There was no denying Mary was pretty, despite her advancing age of forty-seven. But even seeing her in a beautiful Coco Chanel off-the-shoulder wedding dress with three tiers of lace brought no joy to Arnold’s heart. He remembered maintaining his outward calm smile that day, but inside he was screaming. What kind of society allowed it’s young people to be married off to complete strangers, and ones so much older than themselves too? Why was his  life valued so much less than the woman’s in front of him? Would he truly get the money for law school through this sham, or would he just become another trophy husband like he would see on the street, walking submissively behind their wives? These thoughts and more had run through his head that day as the priest bound them by law, for better or for worse. From that day forward, Arnold outwardly displayed the submissive outward calm every husband should have, but inside he seethed. He never did get to go to law school.

The Turner house had stood on the corner of Main Street for nearly 200 years, but no one had lived in it for half as long.

The old, rotting house loomed over the others on the block, standing a formidable three stories high. The sign from the historic society petitioning for its protection and restoration was nearly decrepit as the building itself. The only new thing about it was the fresh boards over the window, which were put there to prevent the neighbourhood youths from sneaking in and telling scary stories about the cursed family who had lived there nearly a century ago. In truth, no one living had memory of the mysterious Turners who vacated the property and made sure it stayed that way a hundred years into the future. The only proof they had of them were the gravestones; all seventeen of them, lined up neatly in the backyard.

Two men were arguing about who was going to pay the bill. One of them had the money, but the other had too much pride.

Both hands slammed down on the slim black book the moment it touched the table. The men met each other’s eyes; defiance clashing with exasperation.

“Dave.”

“I got this one, Tom.”

“Dave, you don’t have any money.”

“I can get it.”

“I am a lawyer. You are unemployed. The check is probably a hundred dollars.”

Dave huffed and retracted his hand, glaring off at the sandwich board by the counter. His stepfather sighed and pulled out his credit card. Teenagers, he thought. Always want to take control.

The award was a prestigious one, and was always awarded to the kid who sold the most candy bars.

The boy scouts burst through the back of the truck the second the roll-up door was open, some even ducking under Indiana Jones style. They grabbed as many boxes of Huney Nutbars and Choco Goeys as they could carry, hauling them out to their parent’s cars. The boy with the most candy bars, could sell the most candy bars. And the boy who sold the most candy bars got to go to Great Wolf Lodge to meet Charles Bronwin, the founder of Boy Scouts America.

Doug was a simple boy, who likes candy corn and comics.

“Do you want to go to the fair this summer? Or visit Grandma and Grandpa’s cottage?”

“No thanks,” said Doug from the back of the car. He munched on the bag of candy corn in his lap.

“Well then, what do you want to do?” asked his mother.

“Can we go to the comic store? I want a new Iron Man comic,” replied Doug, speaking around his candy.

Doug’s mother sighed and turned the car around. It was going to be a long summer.

Janet always wore mom jeans, and that’s why her husband left.

Janet sat nervously at home, playing with the baby. She had been complaining to her husband about how the pregnancy weight had never “melted off” like it was supposed to, when a look came over his face. Without a word he had gotten up from the breakfast table, kissed her cheek, got in the car, and drove off, leaving his wife wondering what had just happened.

The old front door creaked open, and in stepped Janet’s husband holding a shopping bag. 

“Jim!” she cried, scooping up her child and going to greet him. “Where did you go? Why did you go?”

“Here,” he said, proudly offering her the shopping bag. Janet took it with a few of her left fingers, balancing it and the baby. 

“What in God’s name is this?” she asked, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“New pants,” Jim said. “You can’t possibly feel good about yourself in those old mom jeans you’ve been wearing since the second trimester,” he kissed his his shocked wife on the cheek. “Happy Anniversary, dear.”

Sam went to the shop and bought the ingredients for a cake.

Sam looked up at all there brightly coloured bottles sitting on the shelf. He had just needed some vanilla. He thought it would be easy, when Maggie said she wanted a vanilla cake for her birthday. Ha! 

On the shelf sat at least twenty different bottles whose labels contained the word vanilla. There was vanilla flavouring, vanilla extract, organic vanilla extract, vanilla beans… He didn’t even know where to start.

He tried to get something else on his list first, and mull over the vanilla problem as he did, but he was met with the same massively varied selection when he went to get flour. And butter. And eggs.

Sam vowed to never go to Whole Foods ever again.

Anna felt sorry for the homeless puppy in the window.

His big eyes stared out at her dolefully from the Humane Society’s display window. He didn’t frolic like his brothers and sisters, but sat there up in front with his head tilted, staring into Anna’s very soul.

“Mom! Can we take that puppy home. Pleeeeeeaaase? He’s homeless!”

Anna’s mom turned towards her, her response already formed. “Anna, we don’t have-“ she stopped when she saw the dog Anna was pointing to. “ Oh. All right, why not,” she smiled. “But you have to take good care of him.”

“I will!” Anna shrieked in excitement as they walked in.

When they walked out of the building, Anna was carrying a brand new stuffed puppy dog.

Timothy’s clothes were all second-hand.

Timothy rubbed a stain at the bottom of his shirt. He wondered what it was; it was already there when he bought it. Knowing shirts from the Salvation Army, it could be anything from dirt to ketchup to blood.

Bridget knew how to hit a baseball.

Bridget picked up her little brother’s bat, the wood grains comfortable against her palm. She took a couple practice swings, beating at the air as she imagined a ball coming at her, timing her swing so it would hit at the right angle, and send the ball flying into the outfield.

The group was scared of the haunted house.

They stood as close together as their costumes would allow, staring at what and once been Mrs. Norris’s charming, welcoming house. They shuffled together hesitantly, no one wanting to go closer, or move away and risk being called chicken.