A/N: I'm doing another Coursera course now, so I'll probably upload a few more writing exercises over the month. The class I'm doing now is on setting and description. The prompt was to write a ten-second event and stretch it out into 300-700 words.
I decided to do a death scene, so... don't read if that makes you uncomfortable. I took the scene from one of my other (not yet ready to post anywhere) stories, but in that story, the scene is from Dominic's point of view, and doesn't go into much detail.
This is the same Diana as in Plot Exercise: Forbidden Fruit.
She doesn't bother to call out to Dominic, not in the strong wind and the rush of the truck as it passes him, but she waits for her brother on the side of the road, by the rusty mailbox that belongs to the yellow house with garden decorations - a dead plant in a frog-shaped ceramic pot, an owl made of pinecones, a sun-faded porch swing, all dirty and obscured by half-melted snow. Old, soiled snow crushes under her worn boots as she digs a groove, but underneath there is no solid ground to dig her heels into, but ice.
The grinding of the truck's tires turns to a squeak. Diana's head turns to the noise before she realizes why it bothered her. She breaks eye contact with her approaching brother, watching the semi. A million unconscious calculations – the speed of the truck, the curve of the road, the ice - and then, the driver's expression of panic, a curse visible on his lips but muffled by closed windows.
She shifts her weight from heel to toe as she tries to jump out of the way, but she can find no traction. Her toe slides backwards, her body forwards. Impact. Her knees hit the ditch, ice-water bores through her leggings. Gloved hands fly out in front of her, grasping desperately at the snow bank, creating frail craters which collapse as she tries to find stability. The shadow of the truck falls over her. She pushes herself up in the shape of a bridge, her aching wrists as the foundation. She glimpses Dominic, running, then the truck comes between them.
The mailbox snaps at the base and disappears into the monster's maw.
She rises to her feet, but all the while, the thousands of unconscious calculations in her head are screaming: too late, too late! Impact. Her legs shatter, and the truck doesn't stop. The first two syllables of her name, then a pain that deafens and mutes her. Then nothing.
YOU ARE READING
Tidbits
Historia CortaShort works, school assignments, and freewrites that don't deserve to be their own book. I've ordered them from best to worst. This collection is also published on FictionPress; however, the chapter order is different. Section I - Stand-alone Storie...
