I have to shorten it by a page or two, which is alot. I can probably take care of that by changing the font (yes, sometimes, it's as simple as that.), but if there's something I can cut to make it work better, I'd rather have a cleaner, leaner story.
See what you think... (I had to come back in and fix this because the breaks were all in the wrongs places. I'm sure people who read it a little bit ago thought I was on crack...)
They knocked him to the ground, running. Lightning had cracked and sent them all scattering. They spoke to him, their mouths wide with screams but nothing coming out. He just stared at them, saw her lying on the ground, put his scarf around her so she’d be warm. She was always so cold, even now.
“We’ll be late,” she laughed, running ahead of him. He could easily catch her, but liked watching her giggle and stumble slightly in her kitten heels; she was his tomboy in shoes that should make her slow down but never did. “Come on,” she said, her smile reaching across her face, blinking once, then over his shoulder, as if she recognized an acquaintance, a familiar face she couldn’t place. She stopped and reached for his hand, her fingers slipping through his; the other reaching to the back of her neck. She looked at him, confused, her fingers coming through her hair, the blood mixed with the strands.
He helped her into her coat, the one he saw her eyeing last June when they went walking in The District after dinner. It was a game they played. She’d notice something beautiful in a shop window, remarking about its lines or the underlying blues she saw in the reds. He’d pretend to only moderately notice, but then would surprise her months later with it for a Christmas, a birthday, a Friday. She’d pretend she hadn’t stopped all those months before in front of the shop window on purpose; and he’d pretend he didn’t know she’d done it on purpose.
Even in the middle of August with the heat’s stickiness slowing everything down to where a snail could have beaten them all to a finish line, the whiteness, the drinking, the laughing, it had all gone so quickly.
He paced the pastor’s office, stopping to brush the bit of dust he saw on the bookshelf, to straighten the award, the picture, the ceramic scripture. His legs were trembling, so he sat down on the overstuffed embroidered ladies chair, hoping to calm his legs, only to jump back up when he noticed the unevenness of the cushion. He paced to the other side of the room, his reflection in the pastor’s mirror causing him to pause, tilt his head, touch the top of his head to tame a stray hair.
His head ached and the light was beginning to bother him. The migraine pills had stopped working weeks ago, but he didn’t want any more prescriptions. His medicine cabinet looked like it belonged in a pharmacy.
The crack of light had grown brighter as the night grew deeper. The threads of her hair had worn thin red paths around his fingers.
copyright - All rights to the work posted on this site are retained by Cass Van Gelder. If you'd like to use some of my work, please ask. To do so, the permissions must be spelled out in writing...from me...I meant it. I have mean cats; don't make me use them.