The Labotomy of a Writer issued a challenge called the Body Language Blogfest today and I had to throw my hat in the ring. There can be no dialogue whatsoever, but there must be some sort of conversation going on...and no sign language or telepathy allowed. The mood, conflict, and resolution all achieved with "U" is for Unspoken words.Harley D. Palmer over at
Wow. I love writing dialogue...my characters are snarky, sarcastic, and often very funny...My first thought was that there was no way I could do that. My second thought -- Now you're definitely going to try it with that attitude, Missy!
They giggled in tandem, the killers did. Holding the weapon together, they fought for control. The one with blue eyes, the bigger one, yanked it away. Wanting the fun for himself, he elbowed the gut of the younger one. Eyes clenched, the Younger tossed his head back; frustration wrinkling his forehead. He hit Blue Eyes, smacked him across the face, and flailed for the handle of the weapon.
Spittle flying, Blue Eyes held it aloft, his other hand closing around the hair of the Younger, pulling. They wrestled, their victim forgotten in the dirt next to them. Twisting together in an angry knot, the killers screamed and bit each other until finally, panting, the Younger released his grip. Blue Eyes sat straddling the Younger and gave a final yank, his eyes flashing as he stared down his nose at the upstart. Holding the weapon in his hand, Blue Eyes shook it and smacked Younger on the top of the head for good measure.
Out of fight, Younger whimpered, his eyes going wet. He turned his head abruptly, refusing to look at Blue Eyes. Satisfied, Blue Eyes climbed off of Younger and sat next to the charred body twitching in the afternoon sun. Younger crawled over, once again sitting next to Blue Eyes, his face rapt as his attention focused once again on their victim. Blue Eyes held the weapon, then looking at Younger, offered room on the handle. A sweet smile pulled across Younger’s face and he lifted his pudgy hand.
Two yards away, a man sat watching guard over the killers; his attention wandering from their carnage to the magazine in his hand. A woman walked up behind the man, handed him a drink, and nodded to the killers.
“What are the boys doing?” She asked.
The man looked over at his toddler sons playing with the magnifying glass and shrugged. “Burning ants.”
That concludes my attempt at a no dialogue scene. Please take a moment to peruse the other entries at Labotomy of a Writer. Until next time, people...Go Write!
Photograph by FranUlloa, Uploaded on December 22, 2006.