89p! Write a story with other characteristics, a description of experiences and dialogues that you can call Rebel. HELP PLS
Answers
The way people speak and interact in a conversation says a whole lot about them. The words a character chooses can and should expose the character’s background, personality, and emotional status. The CEO of a multibillion-dollar company would choose different words than a military general, a stay-at-home mom, or a teenage girl. No need for lengthy character descriptions, if you choose the right words to put in your characters’ mouths.
Hope it helps you.
He left the seminary in a temper and struck out walking for home. His anger had swallowed his reason. He was wearing tight shoes with hard soles that were worn down unevenly because he had a funny way of walking, a bit bandy-legged. He walked for a whole day and night until he came to the last of his strength and he used that to climb over a gate into a field and across to the bank of a narrow river and he lay down there beneath a willow tree.
He was stretched snoring when she found him, the flesh around his ankles swollen out over the tops of his shoes, his socks matted with blood and pus, his trouser-legs ribboned and caked. His upper half looked more respectable; his jacket and hat were well-worn but of fine quality. He roared when she woke him. She jumped back in fear, then saw that he was barely a man, and that he was frightened.
She walked him slowly along the river bank and over a small wooden bridge and along a path of packed dirt to the back gate of her house. She sat him at a broad table in the kitchen on a high-backed chair and she worked his shoes off his feet slowly, but for all her gentleness he almost passed out from the pain. Tears fell from his eyes; he wiped them quickly away. There was darkness at the sides of his vision, drawing in.
She was kneeling, tutting, cutting his socks away with scissors. Her hair was tied up but the pin was coming loose. Time was moving slowly forward, liquidly it seemed to him. She was wearing men’s trousers and boots and a tweed jacket. She had a pan of water and a glass bottle of some kind of ointment, set on the edge of the hearthstone before the open fire. He tried to straighten himself but he fell forward.
When he woke he was lying on his back on the floor, a coarse blanket over him, a thin cushion beneath his head. She was sitting on the high-backed chair where he had been. She was wearing a blue dress now, dark, nearly the colour of her eyes. The fire had burned low. “You’re awake,” she said. “I couldn’t move you from the floor. I couldn’t wake you. Otherwise I’d have put you up to bed. I have some food for you, and milk. Sit up now at the table.”
She watched him while he ate, quickly, trying to remember his manners. He was embarrassed to be barefoot, save for the bandages she’d put across his blisters.
“Where are my shoes?” he asked her.
“Outside in the yard,” she said. “They’re no good to you any more. I’ll give you a pair of my father’s.”
“Will he not mind?”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m not wearing a dead man’s shoes.”
“Fine,” she said, “go barefoot.” She wasn’t much older than him, two years or three at most, he thought. And yet she seemed possessed of a kind of wisdom, an ancientness, like she was a shape-shifter, a witch in disguise.
She sat with her fingers laced together, examining him, smiling slightly, her head tilted a little, away from the window light. “Tell me who you are,” she said when he had finished his food “And what you were doing in my field?”
“My name is Michael Ryan,” he said. “I’m a seminarian. I was on the way home to my parents’ house. I was tired so I lay down. I’m sorry for troubling you.”
She made no reply, only sat smiling at him, and he noticed how her eyes changed colour with the shifting light as broken clouds passed across the sun. He held her gaze until she lowered her eyes to his hands, and his wild notions about her dissolved, and he knew she was only a girl playing a woman, and he felt bolder.
“Aren’t you taking a terrible chance, allowing me to be in your house? Couldn’t I be any kind of a man?”
She stayed still and didn’t answer him, and the ticking clock grew louder in his ears, and he felt his cheeks burning again. His eyes dropped to the swell of her chest and rested there until he realised where he was looking and so he raised his eyes again and saw a mocking expression on her face and so he closed his eyes altogether in panic, and covered them with his hands.
She had defeated him, without speaking or moving, she had bested him. Maybe she was a witch after all, a piseog, or a fairy queen. Slowly, he lowered his hands.
“Why would it worry me what kind of a man you are? I know enough about you. That you got into some kind of trouble. That you have wounded feet. That you lie down in fields. That you call out for your mother in your sleep.