Thursday February 3rd, 2011

The exercise:

Write something that takes place at: the police station.

Hopefully that's one place we won't be visiting.

Note: I'm away on my honeymoon so this is a scheduled post.

Mine:

The man enters the station, removes his sunglasses, and looks around. His lips curl into a grimace when he spots the half-empty box of donuts on the front counter.

"Way to promote that stereotype, boys," he mutters.

He approaches the desk, his teeth squeezing the life out of an innocent piece of gum, and stares at the officer seated there. She is on the phone, speaking in short, urgent whispers. When the man opens his mouth she holds up a hand to stall him.

"Sorry about that," she tells him after hanging up three minutes later. "What can I -"

"I'm here to bail out my son."

"Ah, you must be Mister -"

"Just take my money and get me my boy," he says, pulling out his cheque book.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir."

"Why." It was not a question, but a challenge. A dare.

"He escaped about twenty minutes ago. But if you don't mind waiting a bit, I'm sure our boys will have him rounded up shortly."

The man blinks once, puts away his cheques, puts on his sunglasses, spins on his heel, and leaves the station. If he finds his son first, he thinks, that would save everyone a lot of trouble.

Well, everyone except his son.

7 Comments:

Heather said...

What I can tell you is this: My contribution, without any prelude, symphonies, or pretty words is too long to fit in this space. It's been a while since I have exceeded the character limit. Anyway, if you are interested, you'll have to read the post on my bolg,
Language Is A Virus .

David said...

@Marc - i realize I've failed to comment our your last few Out of sight, out of mind, lol. Lots of anger here from the dad. I'm wondering if this is warranted or not. Will he be harboring a real fugitive or just a petty vandal?

@Heather - I'll go over and read now.

Here's mine:

The body lay in the entrance. The automatic door stuck, opening and closing. Smack. Smack. Smack. I hold my head every time I hear the door hit skull. I bend down and pull back the eyelids. Barely there, but there, nonetheless. This one is big, six foot four or five and at least two sixty. I slap him in the face. No response. Sorry big fella, I’m all alone, we’ll have to wait till ya wake up to move ya.

I pull up a chair and hold my gun on my lap. Watching. Smack. Smack. Smack. Damn it, forgot about that sound. I look around for my blanket, thinking that can soften the trauma to the melon. I change my mind. I’m starting to get used to it, a few more shots to the head and maybe he’ll wake up.

This one looks like a Mexican. Mr. Juan Doe, I’ll call ya. The door closes on his head, his leg twitches. What did you do to get here fella? Dark red stains cover the body’s once neatly pressed dress shirt. If I were you, I’d get up. I ain’t callin’ Doc till 9, and I don’t know how many more shots your soft lil head can take.

Tires screech in the distance. Company? You better move over fella, become hospitable. High beam lights flash through the entrance doors, blinding me. Thud. Tires screech away. Lights go away. Another body lay in the entrance way, head draped across Juan Doe’s knee. Well, hey there fella. Wonder what you did to get here?

Heather said...

David- Just a quick response, first to your comment on my site (cut and pasted exactly as it appears there) and then a comment on your piece.

"David- I'll leave this comment on Daily Writing Practice as well, but there are some bills dealing with women's rights that some in congress are attempting to overturn as we speak. (The one that specifically sparked this piece was the one on redefining rape which is closely tied to abortion and a woman's right to decide what is done-- or not done-- to her body.)"

Much like my piece didn't connect to you, I feel a bit lost in your piece. I understand what is happening, but my imagination is not big enough to understand how this can happen at the police station. Other than that, it was well written :)

Zhongming said...

The police station

"I said on your knees! Both hands behind!" demanded the police officer." The culprit Jack was weeping in silence as the officer question him further in regards with the jailbreak.

“I’ll make a deal with you. If you agree to corporate, you’re free to walk away. You shall be kept prisoner for another 48hours if you refuse to corporate. I suggest that you start talking.”

“Tell me! Who is the leader? What was the initial plan after jailbreak?”

“I want to see my lawyer!”

“Damn! Don’t force me to exercise it on you. You should know what’s good for you.”

“Please… I beg you! Nooo…!”

Greg said...

@Heather: I'll go and take a look at your blog in just a minute!

@David: Fascinating scene, though like Heather I find myself missing a crucial piece of information; something, anything to tell me why this might be happening at a police station. I guess it's a small-town kind of place, but even so, I can't see why the policeman doesn't turn the automatic doors off.
However, the writing is excellent.

@Zhongming: I think you might have missed a word in the next-to-last line -- exercise what on the prisoner? But otherwise, it's very dramatic and tense, especially for a short piece. Nicely done!

@Marc: Heh, the father who's more fearsome than the law. A great little vignette; I love the implied weariness, the idea that this isn't the first time but it might just be the last. And I really like the suggestion that the man is polite because he doesn't have to be!

The Police Station
Julia turned the corner, and stopped. She wobbled slightly in her high heels, she'd been walking fast and stopping abruptly wasn't easy to do, but she caught her balance, and then her breath. The police station was a ragged shell at the top of its flight of white, stone steps. By the looks of it, someone had set a bomb off inside.
"They supported the Presidente," said a quiet voice just behind her. She turned her head slowly, carefully, letting just a glimpse of a headscarf wrapped around a head in through the corner of her eye, then turned away again, apparently not listening. "The army have chosen to side with the people. Tanks are... dramatic."
Julia nodded, and her hand dipped into her pocket and let American money fall to the ground. Then she hurried on, past the police station and away. It was better for all the locals if she wasn't seen talking to them. After all, she was a journalist.

Heather said...

Greg- I see you've been paying attention to the on-goings of Egypt. If you haven't, you've captured much of it in your piece. Well done.

Zhongming- A disturbing piece from those that are suppose to serve and protect, but sadly, I am sure it is quite accurate too many a time.

Marc said...

Heather - I`m happy to see you blowing the word limit out of the water again :)

I`ll drop by to read this one shortly.

David - fascinating piece. Makes me want more.

Zhongming - great tension in your piece.

Greg - great little piece. Really enjoyed the subtle aspects.