here's something i just wrote for creative writing class. it's interesting. the goal of the piece is to write from the perspective of a character who resists feeling sorry for someone of low moral fiber but then finds empathy.
The sweat was gathering in my ass crack, pooling where my nylons met the creaking wooden chair I'd been glued to for the past hour. The heater was humming along under the window behind me but it was hot for early April and it was uncomfortably stuffy in the crowded courtroom.
The badge on my chest read "Juror #12" but my name is Sheila. I was chosen out of the four hundred people summoned to jury duty for my amazing mediocrity. I work an average job and hold no extreme political or religious views . I wear sensible shoes, coiffe my hair in a modest, medium length bob, and paint my nails muted shades of pink. This is the only time in my life I have been selected out of a crowd for my exemplary credentials and I am determined to condemn this man to life in prison. If and only if I am convinced within a shadow of a doubt. With defense giving its final statement, I am pretty sure I am. Convinced, that is.
I turned my attention back from the heater's buzzing to the defense lawyer, pacing back and forth, an animal eager for his feed. My eyes glanced over the defense table: the other two defense lawyers; consultants more like assistants than attorneys, a legal intern; eager to taste the stale air of the courtroom, and finally the defendant himself.
My eyes locked onto two glaciers, staring back at me, unerring, piercing. Is he looking at me? He is looking at me. Through me. He is looking inside of me. My breath drew in with a sharp gasp and my pulse quickend. Heat rushed through my cheeks, and someplace much lower. He blinked. Once. Twice. Eyelashes like dark chocolate down turn the glacial crags into doe eyes.
A soft gasp escapes my lips, betraying my poise, as a singl tear slides from his eyes, down his aquiline nose, splashing on the cuffed hands resting on the table. I can almost taste the saline on my tongue and mourn the waste of such a beautiful emotion. The man across the room, sat here at my feet. Begging for my mercy.
The first taste of power I've ever had.
love always, Sarah.
The sweat was gathering in my ass crack, pooling where my nylons met the creaking wooden chair I'd been glued to for the past hour. The heater was humming along under the window behind me but it was hot for early April and it was uncomfortably stuffy in the crowded courtroom.
The badge on my chest read "Juror #12" but my name is Sheila. I was chosen out of the four hundred people summoned to jury duty for my amazing mediocrity. I work an average job and hold no extreme political or religious views . I wear sensible shoes, coiffe my hair in a modest, medium length bob, and paint my nails muted shades of pink. This is the only time in my life I have been selected out of a crowd for my exemplary credentials and I am determined to condemn this man to life in prison. If and only if I am convinced within a shadow of a doubt. With defense giving its final statement, I am pretty sure I am. Convinced, that is.
I turned my attention back from the heater's buzzing to the defense lawyer, pacing back and forth, an animal eager for his feed. My eyes glanced over the defense table: the other two defense lawyers; consultants more like assistants than attorneys, a legal intern; eager to taste the stale air of the courtroom, and finally the defendant himself.
My eyes locked onto two glaciers, staring back at me, unerring, piercing. Is he looking at me? He is looking at me. Through me. He is looking inside of me. My breath drew in with a sharp gasp and my pulse quickend. Heat rushed through my cheeks, and someplace much lower. He blinked. Once. Twice. Eyelashes like dark chocolate down turn the glacial crags into doe eyes.
A soft gasp escapes my lips, betraying my poise, as a singl tear slides from his eyes, down his aquiline nose, splashing on the cuffed hands resting on the table. I can almost taste the saline on my tongue and mourn the waste of such a beautiful emotion. The man across the room, sat here at my feet. Begging for my mercy.
The first taste of power I've ever had.
love always, Sarah.
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Re: hehe - as usual...you beat me to it.
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