Sunday December 29th, 2013

The exercise:

Write about: grace.

Today I'm aiming for less yabbering and more commenting. Gotta get caught up somehow.

Mine:

No one has every claimed that I move with grace. Comparisons are more in the league of elephants and hippos, not swans or gazelles. That's fine, though. I don't mind.

I have other qualities. Ones that more than make up for this supposed lack.

There's a lot to be said for intimidation and fear. Even more that can be accomplished with both on your side. The effort on my part is minimal, really. I just use the gifts my genetics have bestowed upon me. I don't need to practice for hours on end just so that I can dance, or play piano, or whatever those suckers have to do in order to get a girl to look their way.

Me? I just walk into a room. Game over.

So why does everyone think that I lack grace? Why doesn't anybody realize it's those pipsqueaks that lack size, strength, brutality? Man, who the hell needs grace anyway?

Not this guy, that's for damn sure.

2 Comments:

Greg said...

Hmm, I like your narrator's attitude and his confidence. His... arrogance? Perhaps :) He's definitely got a voice there that I've seen before from you too; I think I could pick that writing out from a line-up as having been done by you. So I guess you've got a signature style now!

Grace
They were gathered at the dinner table when Robert brought me in. He'd been assuring me for the short walk from his car to his front door that it would be fine, that he'd called ahead and let his wife know. That there would be plenty of food at this time of year, even if it was centred around left-over turkey.
"We had a turkey so big this year we joked we'd stuff it with one of the kids," he said, and laughed. I could tell I was meant to laugh as well, so I did, but I didn't see what was funny about forcing a turkey to grow to that size.
His wife looked up and smiled, and she looked like she'd stepped from an advert from the 1950s; floral blouse discretely covering pert breasts, an a-line skirt and some fine ankles supported in a black, strappy shoe. There were three kids, two on one side of the table, one on the other; all looked to be under ten. The girl looked scared, i thought, but her brothers were already taking advantage of their mother looking away from try and stab each other's hands with forks.
"Sit at the head," said Robert, all cheerful and loud. I could smell him sweating. "And, please, you're the guest. Say grace."
I should give you something to be thankful for? I wondered as I sat down.

Marc said...

Greg - woo, my signature style is arrogance! :P

Nah, I know what you mean. I do have a fondness for writing from that point of view, and I think it's pretty cool that you'd be able to pick it out of a lineup as mine.

That's an intriguing setup to a scene. There seems to be lots simmering below the surface with that family...