Showing, not telling

Cole Alty
Cole Alty
Aug 24, 2017 · 1 min read

“Grandma hated me.”

Every single time I’d say such things, I could feel the weight of Grandma’s glare in my very soul. Making eye contact with her would rattle every bone in my body, a stare of pure disdain that somehow resonated out through eyes obscured by glaucoma.

“Clem felt ill’

Clem was decrepit, an old corpse in a hearse that arrived two weeks late. When he got the diagnosis, he half-expected “rigor mortis” would be the result. A breeze could reduce his knees to a shivering mess, and every sound felt like it was followed by a cacophonous aftershock. His limbs were stiff, and every inch he moved felt like wading through a mile of bubbling mud. And the gas. Don’t get Clem started on the gas.

“The room was hot and stuffy”

Picture frames were melting off the wall, and sweat beaded on every forehead. Was this the DMV, or a pack of Jiffy Pop? Clem imagined he would hear that familiar crackle and snap real soon, and then he would have to be promptly shipped off in bags to the local movie theatre.

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