Writing Tips: Dialogue
Posted by Maureen
Dialogue Tags: Ensure that the reader knows who is speaking.
· Ideally, the reader should recognize the speaker from the unique speech pattern.
· You can do up to three interchanges without using any tags at all. After that, take care. The reader can get lost.
· Use action tags to show who’s speaking, e.g. Carla whirled to face him. “I can’t believe you said that.”
· Avoid a ton of dialogue tags, e.g. he growled, she exclaimed, he whispered, she murmured, he grimaced, she chuckled, he smiled. It’s impossible to smile, chuckle or grimace dialogue, and equally impossible to hiss out words containing no sibilants.
· Use “said.” It’s invisible to the reader.
· Rather than using tags, use the dialogue itself to convey emotions. Instead of: “You can’t be serious,” she said in astonishment, try: She dropped her spoon, her eyes wide. “You have to be kidding me.”
· If you do use a dialogue tag, use it with the speaker’s name first, e.g. Dave said, rather than: said Dave.
Dialogue is not Real Speech: But it should read like real speech. Alfred Hitchcock once said that a good story was, “Life, with the dull parts taken out.” Characters should always have something interesting to talk about. Give the essence of the conversation. Remember, novels aren’t like real life. Avoid mundane greetings, discussions of the weather, and anything else that is deadly dull — unless it serves a purpose, such as to express tension between characters. Imagine the increased tension if your ordinarily perky heroine resorts to stilted small talk after a misunderstanding. But use it sparingly.
Direct Responses: Don’t always let your characters respond directly to every request or question. This is not authentic. Suggestions:
· Make the response teasing.
· Make the response defensive.
· Answer a question with a question.
· Withholding information builds suspense. Make the protagonist pry information out of another person.
Serve a Purpose: Dialogue should always serve a purpose — move the story forward, provide information, or enhance characterization — unless you’re really witty.
No ‘Talking Heads’: Break dialogue up with action. By grounding dialogue in the physical world, you remind reader that these are physical human beings. Action details also help to break up the words on the page: long periods of dialogue are easier for the reader’s eye when broken up by description. (And vice versa, for that matter.)
Vary the Speech Patterns of Characters: Make the dialogue fit the character. A teenaged girl isn’t going to speak the same as a professional woman. A good writer can make the reader know who’s speaking simply by what and how dialogue is said. Give each character a distinctive speech pattern:
· Use slang that is appropriate to the gender, timeframe, class, occupation. Avoid over-use.
· Be sure to use contractions. That’s how normal people speak.
· Avoid overuse of dialect. If you use it, don’t go overboard. Focus on cadence or select a few authentic words and sprinkle them in sparingly.
· Avoid phonetic spelling. While dropping a ‘g’ or using a ‘lemme’ or ‘gotta’ will work occasionally, writing it throughout the book makes it difficult for the reader.
Mechanics:
· Use ellipses (…) to indicate a trailing off or break in the conversation, such as showing only one-side of a phone conversation.
· Use the double dashes/em dash (–) to show an interruption. Show what caused the interruption in the next line.
· I prefer to start a new paragraph of dialogue with a new speaker. If, however, the same speaker delivers a subsequent paragraph of conversation, omit the closing quotation marks in the initial paragraph, but show opening quotes in the next.
· Keep internal thoughts with the speaker’s dialogue.
Read Dialogue Aloud: What works on paper can often sound stilted when read aloud.
· Make sure the reader knows who is talking.
· Watch for long paragraphs of dialogue. Most people don’t speak that long without pausing. Break it up with action tags.
Avoid lecturing. Pass information to the reader through conversation with someone who is unfamiliar with the subject instead of spending paragraphs describing the subject.
Back in the Saddle
Posted by Maureen
I haven’t written a blog entry since June. I suspect the only person who cared or even noticed was yours truly, but guilt has finally prompted me to end my respite and pen new words of wit, wisdom, and wordplay (never, NEVER to be confused with foreplay, but I digress).
Summer is but a fading memory. Autumn fast approaches, and with it, a couple of major conferences where I plan to pitch Fur Ball Fever. This deadline gave me the necessary kick in the butt to get on with the elusive first draft. Today, I am pleased to announce that, according to my outline, I am ten scenes away to completing Version Numero Uno. <Insert drum roll signaling jubilation>
Oops. My mistake. Mea culpa. I fear I spoke too soon. Make that twelve scenes. In two places, I confess I skated merrily ahead, leaving a blank page containing only the words, “INSERT SEX SCENE HERE.” On the second blank page, I added a one-liner description, “Use light bondage.”
Avoidance carries me only so far. In the next few weeks, I will sit down, crank up the music, and write those sex scenes. They will be HOT. My challenge, as always, will be to make sure my characters remain true to their personalities, especially during lovemaking. To illustrate, here is the lead-in to the light bondage scene:
“Did I mention I have sex toys?” Nick asked.
That stopped Grace short. “Say what?” She shut the car door again.
He reached into her tank top with one hand, cupped her breast, and did some very interesting things to the nipple that caused her lower body to melt. As he leaned closer, his breath became hot, ragged. “When I bought my fetish disguise, I saw some furry handcuffs and a feathery tickle-toy –”
“I would rather have my eyes poked out with a blunt stick than play submissive,” she managed.
“– and bought them for you.” He slipped his hand to her belly and unsnapped the fastener on her jeans. “I thought we could conduct some research about the fetish scene.”
“You have a very inquiring mind.” She sucked in a breath as he found the zipper and tugged it down.
“You have no idea.”
“It’s one of the many things I admire about you. But the answer’s still no.”
He moved his hand south under her panties and zeroed in on the bull’s eye. “Don’t tell me you’ve turned chicken in your old age.” He teased her with a light flick of his thumb until she squirmed against his hands.
She arched her back to permit those clever fingers easier access. “No one calls Grace Donnelley chicken,” she gasped, “and lives to tell the tale.”
“In that case, I dare you.” He moved his finger rhythmically across the moist, throbbing flesh until she wanted to scream.
On a soft gasp of pleasure, the words exploded from her mouth before she could stop them. “You’re on.”
Somehow, I don’t think writing those scenes will be so difficult.
Cheese Pizza Anyone?
Posted by Brianna
Hey.
It’s been like a month, right? Long time. I didn’t really have too much to talk about and I didn’t want to write a boring post, because we all know Brianna should never write boring posts. It just wouldn’t do.
So… 3 weeks ago I had a four-wheeler accident that really, really hurt. My poor foot. I was riding with my uncle and my foot slipped off the foot resty thingy and got caught underneath the tire–twice. Once, I probably would only have managed a broke toe or two, twice, I managed to scrape the skin off the top of my foot, bruise it to heck and back, prolly ended up breaking a few toes anyway, and…and…yeah. Not fun. No. Did I mention I was barefooted when this happened? If I hadn’t been, I probably would be sporting a broke foot.
I was so whiny you wouldn’t believe it.
Dr. Mom has been making me soak it in warm and cold water (to get rid of the swelling) with bedadine (sp?) twice a day and I’ve been washing it thoroughly as well as putting antibiotic ointment on it. I finally got to stop having peroxide poured on it a few days ago, and stopped the antibiotic ointment today to let it dry out. The peroxide hurt like crazy! Now it’s peeling kinda like a sunburn.
Oh, and my brothers and a few other relatives told me that it looked like cheese pizza. That would be the scab they were talking about, but since we’ve managed to get all that off now, it just looks like ham. I told ‘em to take a bite but they wouldn’t do it. It’s healing nicely, but still bugs me ’cause I can’t do things normally all the way yet. I especially miss my daily walks at the creek.
That’s what I’ve been up to, and why I haven’t posted in a while. Been taking care of the foot. And I really couldn’t think of anything remotely interesting to blog about. This is as good as it gets this week I’m afraid.
Hopefully I’ll see you next week.
Brianna
http://www.briannasomersham.com
http://www.myspace.com/briannasomersham
Reincarnation: Fact or Fiction?
Posted by Maureen
My first book had to be a paranormal romantic suspense. But which aspects of the paranormal would I select? It was a no-brainer. Like a homing pigeon, I pinpointed reincarnation coupled with an ancient race’s religious belief in shape-shifting.
Here’s the thing. While embarking on my spiritual journey ten years ago, I read a fascinating book entitled Many Lives, Many Masters written by Dr. Brian Weiss, renowned psychiatrist. This book is a case study describing one of Dr. Weiss’ patients whose mysterious ailments disappeared when, using hypnosis, he regressed her into the past lives where traumas had occurred. Intrigued, I started researching the notion of reincarnation, reading voraciously, talking to energy healers, and even undergoing a couple of regressions under the competent care of a qualified hypnotherapist.
Armed with personal experience and a ton of research, I incorporated reincarnation along with the notion of both karmic and genetic memory in my first book, The Jaguar Legacy. Here’s the gist of my paranormal concept: Triggered by the energy of the archaeological dig, my heroine makes an unnerving discovery: In her past life, she was an Olmec High Priestess, trained to kill at an early age, thirsty for power, and possessing the paranormal ability to shape-shift into a jaguar.
As I wrote the flashback scenes, it occurred to me that the past life I wrote about in The Jaguar Legacy was one of my own. Certainly, it was the part of the book that flowed most easily, the only part that required little or no editing. Not only did the flashbacks evolve painlessly, but while writing those scenes, I discovered many facets of the physical location I had been unaware of at the beginning of the book.
Only my imagination? Possibly. I don’t rule out the possibility, but in my heart, I think not.
I would love to hear about your thoughts on reincarnation (pro and con), even some of your own past life experiences (those of you who remember them).
Writing: The Agony and the Ecstasy
Posted by Maureen
For me, the hardest part of writing is expanding a concept into a credible plot line, taking into account all those pesky (and often unspoken) rules of writing. The birth of THE JAGUAR LEGACY began as follows: Start with one archaeological dig — a lost city in Mexico — where occult energy triggers past life flashbacks; add one hunky archaeologist who hates the press; combine with one smart-mouthed reporter on a quest for an exposé; throw in one vengeful ex-wife and a mysterious shaman. Stir until well-mixed and stand back from the fireworks.
Almost harder than plotting is turning off my internal editor while writing the first draft. The first pitiful version of THE JAGUAR LEGACY was so flat, banal, and boring, I felt compelled to polish it. Over, and over, and over. Consequently, I fell into the novice trap of editing my first draft, chapter by chapter, as if I were submitting it to an editor. Unfortunately, none of the manuscript I had slaved so hard over survived subsequent re-writes. I won’t make that mistake again.
The fun part of writing is the editing and revision process. This is highly fortunate for me, because after each rejection and critique I received, and there were many, I performed radical or cosmetic surgery on my book. I love bringing those dry, dead scenes to life, layering in the setting, expanding the characterization, adding witty dialog, targeting all five senses, draping my characters in the appropriate clothes, etc. I could revise for days without getting bored.
I am interested in other writers’ experiences. What are the most difficult / fun parts of writing for you?
Bree Is Bored. Help!
Posted by Brianna
It’s another Thursday and I’m not happy to say…I’m bored. Like, off my rocker, bored. And I really shouldn’t be. I mean, this is me. Brianna shouldn’t get bored, but bored I get. Mama keeps asking what kind of board I am, and usually I’m just a 2×4, but here lately I feel like I’m stacks upon stacks of plywood. I shouldn’t never be that bored. It should be impossible for me. I am a writer. I should be off in some forgotten kingdom helping an unknown princess ascend the throne or some other such nonsense.
Wait, I don’t write princesses or fairy kingdoms. I write about fat, lazy tomcats with secrets and unnatural attachments to chocolate pudding. That’s where I excel. Humor. Sarcasm. Those are my security blankets when I’m writing. Or perhaps it’s just me and my weirdness. Whatever. I prefer to write goofy stuff rather than boring, serious stuff.
What does that have to do with me being bored you ask? I dunno. It just popped in my head and I wrote it down. Actually, I’m wondering how I can be bored all the time with that cat in my head all the time. He’s so crack up funny it’s insane. There should never be a dull moment when I wake up because he’s constantly on my mind. So I guess I should be asking him why he’s letting me get bored.
Oh, wait! I wouldn’t be so bored if I were chained to my desk. But since I have to actually come out of my room when I wake up to take care of mundane things, I don’t get to spend all of my time with my eyes glued to the computer screen. And that sucks. I’d much rather spend all day with Emrys than clean. He runs away when I have to clean. He’s a meany.
Anyhoo…I’m bored. And I think it’s his fault. He should know better than to abandon me when I need him the most. Blast your hide, Emrys! I’m gonna get you for this! Just you wait!
Brianna
http://www.briannasomersham.com
http://www.myspace.com/briannasomersham
Hindered by Humor
Posted by Maureen
My second book, Fur Ball Fever, is progressing with all the speed of a garden slug on Valium. Sad to say, I’m having a hard time forcing out the first draft.
How, you ask, can humor possibly be the culprit for causing writer’s block?
After conducting an in-depth problem analysis for 1.5 years (I was a consultant in my previous life), I finally determined that my main problem is that Fur Ball Fever is a comic romantic suspense. By definition, this sucker is supposed to be funny. If not knee-slapping, it should at least bring a smile to the reader’s face.
Here’s the thing. I find humor difficult to write. Let me re-phrase that. I find sparkling humor difficult to write. On any given day, it is much easier for me to, say, volunteer for root canal surgery or scrub down the toilet with a toothbrush than to crank out ten pages of scintillating prose.
Humor doesn’t pour from my fevered imagination in a fountain of quips, banter and witticisms (well, sometimes it does, but not as often as I would like). Those funny lines are warm and snug and comfy exactly where they are — trapped in the darkest recesses of my brain, clinging to the cortex or frontal lobe or wherever it is that humor resides in the cerebrum. My poor, overtaxed brain excavates those elusive comic aspects through a gruelling process of trial and error. My brand of humour doesn’t spring to the page until my 3rd or 4th (or even 10th) pass through the scene. The first draft is inevitably flat, boring, uses identical sentence constructs, and is embarrassingly un-funny to the point where I doubt my own ability to write humor.
Hopefully, now that I understand the problem, I can settle down now and finish my first draft without worrying about inserting amusing and witty dialogue or outrageous, laugh-out-loud situations.
I hereby give myself permission to be un-funny and boring — at least for the first draft.
I would love to hear other people’s experiences with writing humor.
Laziness and Fanfics
Posted by Brianna
Well guys…it’s been far too long since I’ve been over to spread my goofy insanity. Only thing I can say in my defense is that I was too lazy to do much of anything. And that is pretty lame. Ummm…not a whole lot of anything to say really, other than that I’ve spent too much time reading InuYasha and Naruto fanfics. I even stumbled across a Trinity Blood one this morning, and unbeknownst to me, it was yaoi. But I kept reading despite the obvious guy on guy action (I normally would have closed it and went beet red ’cause I so don’t roll that way) because it was too flipping funny! It was actually well written and all that (don’t ask me how I managed to pay attention to that because I have no idea), but the whole idea was hilarious. And it probably wasn’t meant to be. I just couldn’t contain myself.
So this morning I polluted my brain a little and will no doubt be cracking up at odd times throughout the day because of that little story. In other news, the InuYasha fanfic I read was AWESOME! It was everything I love in a romance and it so classifies as one. I laughed my head off and cried so much I gave myself a headache and my eyes were still swollen the next day. Very, very good story. The Naruto one was good too, but in a different way. Romance, yes, but written by a guy (unless I’m very much mistaken and read the AN wrong, in which case…oops, sorry). There was a ton and I mean a ton of action scenes in it so I mostly skimmed through those. It was pretty intense.
So yeah, for the past month or so I’ve been very lazy, reading fanfic when I should have been working on my own stories. I figured it was past time to get my butt back over here so I sat down at the puter and began typing this. My latest Bree Babble.
Uh, there’s really nothing else to report so I guess I’ll be going. See y’all later~~
Brianna
http://www.briannasomersham.com
http://www.myspace.com/briannasomersham
Research: How Much is Enough?
Posted by Maureen
At a recent writers’ retreat, the inevitable topic of research arose during mealtime conversation. Since many of the attendees were historians, academics, or ordinary folk writing historical novels, I was overwhelmed and, I confess, a little envious of their investigative zeal.
Here’s the thing. Research has a nasty habit of taking on a life of its own and becoming an end in itself. Sometimes it’s easier to lose myself in research than to tackle the blank screen that taunts me, awaiting the pearls of wisdom and wit conjured up by my fertile imagination.
So how do I know when to stop? When is enough, enough?
Years ago, when I entered the complex I.T. jungle, rife with proliferating technologies, methodologies, and tools, a wise manager took pity on me and gave me the following advice: “Conduct research on a ‘need to know’ basis or you’ll drive yourself nuts.”
As a writer, I still heed his priceless advice. Consequently, I conduct only enough research to make the story plausible, provide realistic detail, and avoid factual mistakes. Truth be told, wherever feasible I subscribe to an avoidance approach to conducting research.
For example, while writing The Jaguar Legacy (akin to Temple of Doom, only containing steamy romance), I confess that the main reason I chose to write about the Olmecs, instead of, say, the Aztecs or the Incas or Zapotecs, was that the Olmec race is so ancient, no one, even the experts, knows much about them. Controversial theories abound, but only a few facts exist: They were an advanced race with complex cities and temples; they worshipped the jaguar and snake; they believed they could shape-shift into the jaguar; and, to this day, intact Olmec remains have never been found.
Not to say I didn’t do my homework. Please don’t get the wrong idea. Hey, I interviewed an archaeologist who gave me enough details to create a realistic dig in Mexico (plenty of sex going on in them thar digs). I researched the use of peyote by reading several books and conducting Internet research. For those of you who might be wondering, I did not, repeat NOT, sample peyote. Best of all, I visited south-west Mexico and the nearby ruins not once, but twice, gathering realistic details about the location, history, local customs, and, oh yes, the ancient Olmecs. Our guide happened to be an Olmec expert, who provided details that brought the ancient race to life.
With my second book, Fur Ball Fever (Best in Show shakes hands with Stephanie Plum), my ‘need to know’ extends far beyond my comfort zone. This book requires research into such diverse topics as transgender issues, fetish clubs, and alternative lifestyles. Happily, I found a starting point– at a fetish and alternative lifestyle trade show called Sexapalooza.
One memorable weekend in January, several members of the Ottawa Romance Writers of America congregated at Sexapalooza to peddle our books. Our booth was located directly under the giant pink penis suspended from the ceiling of the exhibition hall.
According to the newspaper, the extravaganza hoped to attract 10,000 people. Based on what I saw, they surely must have achieved the objective. Who knew so many horny people could squeeze under one roof — and in Ottawa, of all places? I had to fight an excited crowd to circle the building and check out the offerings and exhibits. The air positively hummed with folks of all ages discussing alternative lifestyles — the etiquette of juggling multiple partners, swinging for couples, the nuances of bisexuality, the joys of bondage, domination, sado-masochism (BDSM) for beginners, and the like. Booths overflowed with sex toys, scented oils and candles, fet-wear and boots, leather whips and restraints, lingerie, and, in my case, romance novels. At one point, a topless young lady galloped through the hall, clad in bridle, bit, mask, boots, G-string, and not much else. Pony-girl was a great crowd-pleaser.
A dungeon provided a taste of BDSM for those so inclined (for the record, I am not, but was interested to learn more, all in the name of research, naturally). In front of a crowd of fifty or more interested onlookers, the lycra-clad dominatrix lashed a submissive, who was stretched out, arms shackled above his head, on a St. Andrew’s cross. This was a real lashing — the whip raised red welts on the poor sucker’s naked back. But not to worry. He was hugely, and I mean hugely, turned on. In another corner, a metal grope cage confined a masked woman, who was fending off another joker’s pokes and prods with a few well-placed blows from her commando boots.
During the proceedings, I conducted a quick interview with the owner of a local adult emporium about some of the activities. She was kind enough to explain the purpose of the various pieces of bondage equipment and to reassure me that the submissive undergoing the lash was enjoying himself as much as the dominatrix. She explained that if the torment starts gently enough, the brain releases endorphins to protect the body from pain. A skilled dominatrix increases the whipping in tiny increments, and before long, the submissive will hit the pinnacle of ecstasy, as, presumably, does the dom.
Unfortunately, I missed the “Screaming O” Contest (How Well Can You Fake an Orgasm?), the male and female exotic dancers, and the drag performance. I did, however, catch a live demo of the bondage bed. Move over, Mattress Mart, here I come.
Writers beware. Research isn’t for sissies.
Chapter 15 of Fur Ball Fever (Grace Defends Herself): Final Excerpt
Posted by Maureen
(Continued from Last Week)
Oliver’s supercilious smile disappeared. “With all due respect, Grace, I intend to take the issue to the next Condo Committee meeting. By this time next month,” his gaze tracked Murphy, “your aunt and that mutt will be history as far as Saltwater Village is concerned.”
She gritted her teeth. “With all due respect, Ollie, I think the Condo Committee has bigger fish to fry.”
His lip curled as if he smelled a nasty odor, but his voice was calm, smooth and sleek as a cobra’s skin. “I swear you’ll be sorry if I find that wretched animal anywhere near my property again.”
Her heart thumped in her chest and her voice emerged as a humiliating squeak. “Is that a threat?”
He shot her a sour look, no doubt remembering, too late, that patience was a virtue. “I don’t think I like your tone of voice, Grace.”
“I don’t think I enjoy your threats, Ollie.”
“I can make you very, very sorry.”
“What will you do?” she asked, mustering up a sneer and wishing God had granted her the sense to shut up and walk away. Her mouth bypassed her brain and motored on, “Steal Murphy too?”
“Good God, why would I want to steal the wretched beast? If you ask me, the world would be a better place without him.”
“I’ll bet you said the same thing when you stole Miss Coco, Maverick, and Adonis.”
“I have no idea what you’re babbling about.”
Now she knew for sure he was lying. “Don’t pretend you don’t remember. Miss Coco was last year’s Fur Ball winner and the other two were the runners-up. Gee. I guess they can’t enter the contest this year, can they? That’ll eliminate your precious Pepita’s main competition.”
“I had nothing to do with any criminal activity, I assure you.” He turned to Nick. “Can’t you talk some common sense into her?”
Nick chuckled as if Oliver had said something amusing. “Highly unlikely, Reverend. Didn’t work when we were dating, doubt it’ll work now, but I’ll give it a whirl.”
Grace let out an incredulous groan. He was taking this undercover investigation thing too far.
Nick addressed Grace. “Aw, c’m on Sunshine. Be reasonable. Lay off Reverend Oliver. Don’t you recognize an innocent man when you see one?” His eyes glinted a silent plea.
Grace wanted to kick Nick. Hard. She planned to give him a piece of her mind later. In the meantime, she would try not to blow his cover.
In response, she scowled at Oliver in an attempt to appear intimidating. “I know what’s really bothering you, Ollie. As long as Miss Coco enters the competition, Pepita doesn’t stand a chance. You want this win so bad you can taste it.”
His face purpled. “You’re playing with fire, lady, and don’t call me ‘Ollie’.”
Boy, was she an idiot or what? But she couldn’t let it go. “You’d do anything for the free publicity a blue ribbon would generate, wouldn’t you?”
Oliver sputtered an incoherent protest, spraying saliva.
Grace continued, “So many new members for the Children of Purity, so much more money to pour into your pocket.”
Oliver found his voice. “I don’t see a penny from my congregation. All the money goes into the Saltwater Purification Foundation.”
“Right. And if I believed that, I’d also believe some dude in Nairobi was going to pay me $200,000 just to transfer some money into an offshore account for him.”
Oliver’s scowl deepened. He stepped forward, forcing Grace to sidle away. “I have a good mind to charge you with slander.” His voice became a threatening rumble. I … did … not … touch … those … dogs.”
“If you say so.”
Nick shifted a step closer to Oliver, who jabbed his finger in Murphy’s direction, murder in his eyes. “But I could easily make a special exception in his case.”
She glanced at Nick to see if he was listening. It was hard to tell because he was staring at Oliver, but it seemed to Grace that he vibrated with unleashed tension. Made reckless by her conviction that Nick wouldn’t let anything harm her, she decided to hit Oliver with a quick one-two jab.
“Where were you between midnight and 6:00 a.m. last night?”
Oliver’s eyes widened until they goggled out of a blotchy face. “None of your goddamned, er, darned business.” He took a step closer. “Stay out of my way if you know what’s good for you and your family.”
In spite of Nick’s presence, a chill of dread crept down Grace’s spine on stealthy feet. Oliver had plenty of power and was ruthless enough to use it. All she had was a plastic baggie filled with dog shit. She snapped her fingers surreptitiously at Murphy to entice the wretched creature to come within arms’ length so she could snag him and escape.
Oblivious, her sniffer dog continued following an invisible squirrel trail with his nose. Grunting and snuffling, he wove his way towards Grace until he was almost close enough for her to grab.
Oliver beat her to the punch. Faster than a striking viper, he batted her hand aside and seized her pet’s collar in a twisting gesture.
Murphy let out a choking grunt of protest.
“Easy there, Reverend,” Nick said. “Don’t choke the animal.”
Grace glanced in Nick’s direction, but he was studiously avoiding her gaze. No more help from that direction, she thought, and dug into her pocket for the baggie. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, as carefully as if it were a ticking time bomb, she backed away.
“Hey, catch,” she yelled and flipped a high one at Oliver.
She held her breath, hoping his reflexes would kick in before his brain.
The baggie described a perfect arc towards Oliver’s outstretched hands.
For a heartbeat, time stood still.
Marcia spoke for the first time. “Leave it be, you idiot.”
At the same time, a flicker of movement caused Grace to turn her head. Nicholas Quincey Jackson, University of Charleston’s star wide receiver, Class of ’95, charged across the intervening turf and launched himself in front of Oliver to snatch the noxious package from the air.
Grace blinked twice in disbelief.
A look of horrified disgust crossed Nick’s face as the baggie’s reeking contents oozed between his fingers. Marci turned and climbed the stairs to the house. Oliver stood perfectly still, rooted to the grass like a garden gnome, his grip on Murphy’s collar suddenly slack. The dog lost no time in squirming away and darting to his mistress’ side.
Grace guessed high tech storage devices weren’t all they were cracked up to be.
In the ensuing chaos, she collared Murphy and clipped on his leash. In tandem, they scooted around the corner, leaving Nick gagging beside Oliver’s wilted chrysanthemums and Oliver offering Nick a tissue from a safe distance.
A string of ripe obscenities drilled the warm, still air.
Grace glanced down at Murphy who scampered along beside her and said, “Cover your ears, Murphy. Nick knows better than to use those words in front of a lady — or a preacher.”)