Characters sketches/Vignettes

[nycwriters]

This is a fairly simple exercise that helps develop character and writing style. In about a page, page and a half, write a character sketch of one fictional character, focusing predominantly on the protagonist.

Here's an example, albeit a poor one, I wrote it up in about 10 minutes, so it's a bit sloppy ... but to give you an idea:

The Last Guy in the Bar

He stumbles in, somewhere around 2. Bleary eyed; he didn't want to go home. Not yet.

Four hundred and fifty dollar pants pooled down around his black polished oxford lace-up shoes. Hard day for him, shirtails hanging out. He decided after work, after the power-lunch, two-scotch, five-client, broker's feeding frenzy of a day he had he'd hit the
local bar. Then another. Then another.

That's why at 2 in the morning he's here. The last guy in the bar.

More or less.

He stumbles back two steps as he crosses the doorway, regaining balance as only a drunk can do; somehow clumsily graceful in spite of his incoherence.

Somewhere along the way he'd lost that tie. Yeah, the one he got for closing the Cooper-Sault account. A bonus; even though he pretended pleased he'd expected cold hard cash. Money talks, bullshit walks. Cheap bastards, some f*ckin' Armani tie instead of the cool two grand he'd expected.

But that's only the tip of the iceberg of his bonuses. Yeah, this guy, the last guy in the bar, is somebody. A man's man. Stubbly faced prima donna who knows the ladies. Or so he thinks.

He spots one, sitting mid-bar. Sipping an iced drink. Alone.

He stops as if regaining thought, puts his hand deep into his left pocket and pulls out a $20, his face surprised that he still had money. He looks up and baby-steps over to mid-bar and sits down two stools away from her; the red head at mid-bar.

"Scotch," he says as if the bartender knows him. This is his first time here. He smiles sideways at her. He expects her to notice.

The red head gets up and leaves. His head pivots, in slow motion like a sports replay, eyes following her walk out of the bar. His face clouds. Furrowed brow, confused as to what to do next.

Then the scotch comes, ice clinking against the glass and swooshing up over the edges as he pulls it gingerly to his lips. As he takes that first sampling sip, he sees the other woman in the bar.

The last guy in the bar, without any finesse, without subtlety, gets up and walks over to the short-haired blonde at the end of the bar, who at first glance, scotch goggles firmly on, he had thought was a man.

"Hi," he says, suddenly shy, without words. The guy who can close a deal in a half hour suddenly struck dumb. Or numb.

He edges his ass onto the barstool beside her. He's so drunk he can't focus on anything else but her. But he doesn't see her fidgeting. He doesn't see her checking her watch. He doesn't see her gaze returns again and again to a place behind him.

Suddenly she smiles. It brightens her face. A big, natural, good-to-see-you smile.

He's in, he thinks, and returns the smile. He moves his right elbow onto the bar, sliding it over so his body is closer to her, his butt is still on the stool. Precariously balanced.

"So," he says, expecting instant conversation.

A man comes up from behind him and kisses the boy-girl at the end of the bar. They get up and leave.

And the last man in the bar stares into his scotch, runs his fingers through his hair until it spikes up unnaturally, and looks up at the television screen.

[masterofNone]

He was a fat man. There was no other word for it. Corpulant, husky, hefty, large, he had left these adjectives behind years ago. He was flirting dangerously with obesity and morbid obesity was on the horizon. His suit fit him poorly and he was given to flop sweat when he was nervous. He was nervous now. Sitting just off stage, leaning really, on an over tasked metal stool, he pulled his note cards once again from his jacket pocket and read them for the 38th time. When the music ended he would waddle on to the stage and address the audience. But now, right now, his small mind was doing everything it could to focus on the perspiration dampened cards in his sausage shaped fingers. He had worked hard to get here.

He had started off as a lurker in the back of the toast masters meetings. His own fears of public speaking had become, in his mind, the root cause of everything bad in his world. The reason for his being overlooked for promotion at the brokerage house. The reason for his sad and lonely , hermit-like social life. He had started slowly to move into the circle of the meetings. It had taken him two years of serving coffee before trying to speak in front of the crowd. It had been a horrible thing to behold. But he listened dutifully to the critiques and took copious notes on little sweaty index cards. Over the years he became more involved in the meetings until he found himself the president. Many of the members thought it an irony. Some of the cruelest still shuddered when he stood to speak. But he was facing his fears.

So it was that when the Chesterfield County Beauty Pagent came calling on the Toast Masters to find a Master of Ceremonies, he offered his own services. So it was that on this oddly warm November evening he found himself backstage at the Raymond G. Wallace civic center in the reflected glow of the multicolored fresnels. His round face glistening, his breathing labored, he could not have been more alive.

The music stopped, the spotlight caught him, and the show began.

[nycwriters]

She had been a great beauty at one time in her life. Boys lined up and down the street to go "courtin' " as they called it. She was never alone, what with her extended family, friends, and the occassional lover whom she deemed fit to kiss her porcelain cheeks, and sometimes her full pouty lips.

But now her lipstick smeared askew across wrinkled lips, not quite covering all, and sometimes spread a little too liberally over the little dip "u" under her nose where her lips peaked. Her gait not as straight and flirtatious as it was in her youth; hips swaying, eyes ablaze with passion and that can't-catch-me look.

No, that was more than 60 years ago; when she was the girl everyone talked about, the queen of her street, stocking seams lined up and dance shoes on, eyes on the future.

The future seemed to have slipped by within a heartbeat. She looked into the mirror, sighed, and shuffled into her kitchen to prepare some tea. Lemon, no milk.

Outside children were playing. She gingerly parted her white kitchen curtains, her gnarled arthritic hands having trouble negotiating even this simple task. She smiled. Children were always so free, so young, so much yet to do. They always made her smile, even though Lord knows! they made such a racket!

But it was the most company she got these days and she relished it. No, she never spoke with the children; she tried once to offer cookies but they just screamed and laughed and ran away. Now she contented herself with just watching. Just as her she had somehow watched her life pass her by, without hardly realizing it.

[beckstra]

A trifle hungry, she grabs the iron skillet from the hanging rack above her kitchen sink. Amazed at her surroundings, the wallpapered kitchen walls, rusted over Chevy truck, lake in the front yard, freckles on her nose sparkle as the sun dances over her face. She walks in her bare feet toward the gas stove.

Her hands are careful placing the skillet on the stovetop and turning the gas on medium heat. Flipping a long strand of hair out of her way, she leans over the heating skillet to grab the butter. The sun, coming in from the screen door, glistens over her, coloring her hair a rich chocolate color.

Lips curling up into a smile, the sound of butter hitting the still mild skillet brings her to life. She turns and walks over to the kitchen, her cotton bathrobe swaying with every step. Opening the refrigerator door and grabbing two eggs, she’s humming. A velvet thick voice vibrates in her throat like a bee in spring.

The coffee, already loaded in the percolator, she, hoping to latch on to his nose, moving straight on down to his heart—through his stomach, puts an egg carefully on the kitchen counter. Taking the second between her fingers and giving it a good tap on the edge of the stovetop, she brings the egg over the skillet, and drops the yolk. With a hiss, the egg jumps over the fired iron, instantly solidifying—and then the second.

Fishing in the drawer for a spatula, the sun catches the diamond on her long fingers, lighting the kitchen on fire, shafts of light flying over the walls, floor, ceiling—everywhere. She turns her head as she hears his feet thumping down the stairs.

[dinzdale]

Paper bags contend for space around his feet, as he lies propped in the doorway. His rheumy eyes stare out across the rain sodden streets of a forgetful city. he is forgotten, but doesnt know it. Forgotten by a wife 20 years ago, and 2 kids, a country, a system and a government.
He shifts inside his stained grey coat, and moves his shoulders to ease the ache of ages. The wind blows across his face and his grey sparse hair is wetted by the mist.
People hurrying past him do not leave their mark on his distant mind. Somewhere inside he is dying alive. They say when you die, your life flashes before you, but they're wrong. It crawls past the memory, scene by scene to make up the eternity of a life.
When it's raining, no-one can see you cry.

[agentsmith]

She smiled again, and it seemed to drag her down into the darkness as she remebered there was no cause to smile. Her only solice was that she still had her beauty. She recalled in the distant past a high school literature class, where they had recited a quote. What was it again? Oh, yes. "Death hath sucked the honey of thy breath, though it has no power over your beauty," or something like that. The memory slipped away again as she walked on.


Past hat shops, a butcher's store, and a tailor, on and on she walked. Was that it? No, she recalled, it wasn't. He hadn't taken her there. No, He hadn't. Ah, yes. There it was. Martine`s fine italian dining. She remembered how His hands fit perfectly between her hip and stomach, and as she stood there, she almost felt them there again. She tried despertely to keep the memory and the feeling, but it wrenched itself away.

In the cold of the night, she floated over to the door of the resteraunt and sat down. She felt so desperately unwelcome, but the other diners accepted her, looking only at her fine silk dress and perfect hair, and somehow missing the cold, empty shards of ice that were disguised as eyes.

She sat there, in the same booth they had shared, and slipped into remembrance. He was there! Joyously she embraced him, in another existance, her vacant body slipping under the table, unnoticed. In the morning, they found her body, cold as ice, and called the police. But her soul was already gone. And unlike her body, her soul was warm.

[sybil]

She woke up earlier than usual this morning and watched the sunrise through the window by the bed. He slept like a baby, as always. As the sunlight began burn through the early morning's mist, she realized she was leaving.

She rose from the bed that they had shared for 32 years. He never stirred, his face to the wall. The hair on his chest, that she had once found so sexy, so seductive, had moved to his back in thick black patches. She wrapped herself in her robe and slid her feet into her slippers.

She ran the shower to let the water warm. As the steam began to fill the small bathroom, she gazed at herself in the mirror. It had been a long time since she had seen herself. The skin on her face had grown coarse and wrinkled. Her breasts had fallen with the weight of her childrens' hungry mouths and the years that had since passed.

She dressed quickly, without waking him. As she left, she locked the door behind her. She didn't leave a note.

[agentsmith]

sorry i have such a hairy chest...i thought you still found it sexy.

[sybil]

i did, but it kept getting stuck in my teeth!

[nycwriters]

The "crazy russian" still thinks he's in the '80s. Down the street he spins and dances, sometimes to a tune only he can hear, other times with a ghetto blaster held up by one arm on his shoulder.

His orange/blonde dyed hair is showing roots, black, his teeth are yellowed, but he smiles at everyone he sees; lavish bows arm-reaching towards his feet when he spots a pretty woman he likes.

His shirt is always unbuttoned to just above his navel, gold chains adorn his neck, oversized sunglasses cover his drug-addled eyes.

He has no fear.

Passing whispers about him that he's "connected," that he runs numbers for the Russian mob. And it might be true. Even big burly men, twice his size move out of the way as he walks up the street, his leather jacket flapping behind him.

Or it could be that they see he's just crazy.

Some weeks he's out there every day. Other weeks he is conspicuously absent. The neighborhood breathes a sigh of relief when he's not there. He's crazy, you can see it in his eyes. Flashes of anger can be glimpsed just behind the laugh lines on his face.

A car screeches to a halt as he suddenly bolts across the street. Absent is the usual blaring of the horn.

[nycwriters]

It was about the fifth drink that did her in.

She strolled in about half past ten, plunking herself down on a barstool near the door. She wore a summer dress that would have been considered demure or innocent, were it not for the plunging neckline. She had a string of pearls around her neck and her shoes appeared to be brand new and expensive. She ordered one martini after another until her bouncy mood became quiet and sullen.

Suddenly she was in tears, the people around her edging their stools away, obvious in their discomfort.

"Fvcking bastards," she slurred, "they're all fvcking bastards."

Her head down over her drink, she suddenly looked up, mascara trailing its way from her eyelashes down to her chin. The once-beautiful bouncy blonde that had sauntered into the bar so confidently reduced to a puddle of incoherent alcohol-induced rambling.

Those men who had eyed her as she came in secretly patted themselves on the back for not getting up too soon to buy her a drink. They dodged the bullet that time.

"FVCKING BASTARDS!" she screamed, and the quiet casual atmosphere of the bar has suddenly spotlighted on the blonde at the end of the bar. All heads turn in her direction, some amused.

The bartender, the one to pull the short stick, edged his way down to her end of the bar. His face, a smile, but behind that smile wariness.

She regarded him for a moment, then turned back to her drink, her voice quiet now; "yougivethemeverythingandtheybreakyourfvckingheart , why me why me why me why me....."

"You ok?" the bartender asked -- a pointless question.

She looked at him fiercely, about to say something, then her eyes clouded over and she withdrew her gaze.

"Yeah," she said. "Pour me another."

And the rest of the bar went back to drinking in silence.

[laughingbuddha]

He sits alone in the crowd.

Watching people pass him by, ignoring him in his tattered clothes...torn due to age..the wear and tear is self evident but they remind you of a past that was pleasant.

He smiles, faintly at first and then breaks into a guffaw as his mind wanders. The influence of alcohol evident in his speech, slurred by time and its ravages. Half awake, through his glassy eyes...life appears to be a bad nightmare.

He looks appealingly at the passerby's for help, emitting a cry sounding more like a moan...barely discernable...a few look at him in disgust others take pity on him and spare him some change.

His face lights up...another night..more alcohol...sorrows to drown and money to pay for it as well. Tomorrow will be another day...the street he hopes will be kind to him again.

[laughingbuddha]

Some memories recalled, a few forgotten...

A prodigy in the making -- they said.

As he walked away from the game he loved, driven away by people and their incessent chatter, he imagined what things might have turned out as if he had continued on the same path.

Now years later, he recovers from the shock, the love of the game returns...dripping...permeating into his very soul.

They said, he wasted his talent. Failed to recognise his own genius, failed to make the best of his unending talent but behind the cool, clam exterior he maintained...he suffered palpitations everytime he lost.

Then one morning, he awoke to life to find that his skills had deserted him completely.

His heart uttered a silent cry and his mind heaved a sigh of relief. Now, he could tell people he was not special and get on with life.

This day, he will remember for a long time to come.

His focus and desire returned with a vengeance. As he walked towards the crowd, he felt a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, the darkness that had shrouded his eyes for so many years dispersed with amazing agility.

His touch had not been lost in the abyss, the muscle retained their memories too...albeit a bit slowly but they eventually came around.

Life was beautiful again.

[nycwriters]

Dawn broke in waves of sunlight sifting in between the idle clouds.

It had been a painfully hot day yesterday, they forcast more of the same today. He sat at his kitchen table and looked out at the world, unsure of whether this was the beginning or the end. He wasn't really seeing anything; vacant eyes staring out the window.

Three dollars and forty-seven cents. That's all he had to his name; and an address scribbled onto the back of a pack of matches.

He ran his hands through his hair, and looked up at the clock ticking on the wall, its hands seeming to hover as if time itself had stopped, waiting for his next move.

In the next room his wife slept, ignorant of the weight he was carrying. Its opressive burden sometimes made it hard for him to breath, caging him, rendering him impotent. But he loved her more than anything else in his life and he wasn't going to stop her breathing, too.

That's why the matchbook was now clutched in his fist, why he was sitting at the kitchen table staring at it, instead of in bed asleep.

He'd flipped it absent-mindedly through his fingers throughout the night, considering the possibilities. Her offer had seem real, although somewhat bizarre. He was certainly no Brad Pitt. But new realities are formed in compromising situations.

He shuffles to the bathroom to take a leak, bare chested, pyjama bottoms dragging under bare feet. He looks into the mirror. Under the 60 watt bulb he doesn't like what he sees: unshaven, unkempt, uncontrollable, unbelievable.

Toilet flushes and his wife turns over in her sleep, mumbling. He can't quite make out what she's saying, but he knows from experience it's nothing pleasant. She fights demons unknown to him with eyes closed.

And that's the way it always goes. Each keeping insipid little secrets, coveting them like the taste of an old lover's kiss, never letting them out to breath.

His eyes cannot bear to look at his washed out, faded out, beaten up face in the mirror.

Three dollars and fourty-seven cents. He finally breathes.

[laughingbuddha]

The war clouds still crowded the horizon.


"Fear," the sergeant had said, "has no place in a war."


But he felt fear, now more than ever, as the war reached the gates of the city he protected.


Images of his life flashed before his eyes...as he tried to shut out the war cries that were emerging intermittenly from his fellow soldiers.


He wondered if he would make it back, as he had promised his son and family. He wondered, why this war was being fought and why did he have to die for anyone or anything other than himself.


The politicians talk about war, they also talk about the suffering caused by it. But what do they know of war? what do they know of suffering?


Sitting in their posh, air-conditioned offices, they send out men to do battle. To die


"Go fight for your country," they say.


If they really are that patriotic, why do they not fight themselves?


These questions jostled fear out of his mind, he lost focus of his immediate goal, that of fighting and surviving a war


He hoped he was a politician too.