For your critiques...Outta the Bag, Page 99:
I found the puffiest grass and flopped on my back. My playlist must’ve picked up on my good mood, because Freddie Mercury’s velvety voice swam between my ears when I pressed shuffle. I gave the sky an open-mouthed smile and hummed along, feeling the silky caress of sleep against my mind.
I didn’t make it to the chorus.
Through the sea of onlookers, I watched the mousy woman bite her thumbnail. Her forehead and cheeks were dashed with long scars, but looking closer, I realized they were just the weathered lines of age. A round man in an expensive suit approached and offered her a glass of water. She released her bleeding thumb and accepted the cup with a quaking hand, only taking a sip before the glass slipped. The crash resonated in the courtroom like a sonic boom. Every eye fell on the expanding puddle.
My glance alone followed the confident blonde as she stepped from the last row. She wore a crimson skirt suit like a second skin, and her long, creamy legs should have garnered the attention of every man in the county. But the gentlemen present were silent, as were the ladies, all focused on that broken glass and the shuddering mess of a woman on the stand. Doc’s red heels click-clacked to the front of the room. She stood before the accused with her arms crossed and a finger pressed to her cheek. I took that opportunity to glance at the judge, the jurors, and the others in attendance. They were frozen, eyes blank and unseeing.
I slipped from my seat and walked to the front of the room. Doc’s normally arched brows were drawn into a straight line, leaving creases over the smooth skin of her forehead. She didn’t seem to notice me at first. She did a double take and grinned, but it slid away when she looked back at the crying woman.
“I find it very strange how the mind works.” Doc tipped her head forward, “This woman died in her sleep. When they find her, they’ll call it ‘old age.’ They won’t care that her only son died in Afghanistan last month, and they’ll never know she fought with him the last time they spoke. She chose to wait here and put herself on trial for it. Taking the blame for a stray bullet because she told him to join. He didn’t have a lot of options, and he resented her for it.” Doc turned her face away from me, but for a second, I saw tears sparkling in her eyes. “I remember exactly how she feels.”
It was a while before she turned back, but when she did, her tears were gone. She wore the teasing smirk I knew so well. I had a slew of new questions to add to my Doc file, and she knew it. She snapped her fingers once, and the woman and the courtroom around us vanished. I fell, arms flailing, onto a plaid couch. Doc sat across the room in a navy recliner and gestured to a tray of cookies on the table between us. Her hair was no longer pinned into its tight bun, but pushed back by a scarlet ribbon. It flowed down her back in sparkling yellows and golds. A lime sundress replaced her suit. I took a cookie to be polite, and she rewarded me with a smile that crinkled her eyes and washed away ten years.
“Is this your house, Doc?”
She munched on a chocolate square of some sort. “One of them. It was my favorite.”We were in a sunroom, and I could see a small kitchen through the doorway beside Doc’s chair. There was a long window behind me, and the heat and light beating through it had faded the tops of the
That's it! Yikes! You get zero backstory or explanation, but any feedback/constructive criticism about my writing in general is welcome. Also, if you have time, pop around to the other page 99's from Slice of the Blog Pie and give them feedback (follow the link at the top of the post). Every, single comment helps.
I saw The Fighter last night, and you won't want to miss my 100 word review later today.
Thanks for reading!