My powers of observation get me in trouble… though it’s usually in benign ways. Most television writers can’t surprise me. If I know you, one of your personal idiosyncrasies has already ended up in one of my books or stories. Sorry. My notebooks are full of inane details, snippets of phrases, scribbled locations and scrawled names. My imagination is best compared to William Shatner. Overactive. Painfully so. And with a fantastic head of hair.
All this is meant to give you a character.
With all the rain, the lakes are up, swallowing up the sidewalk in places, debris pressed around the edge of the water, a weird film on the surface by the shore.
This is meant to set the scene.
So when I thought I saw a human skull on my walk, I took it with some major sodium chloride. Except the closer I got to it, the more skull-ish it appeared. My hand was on my flip phone, ready to call my dad and wait for the crime scene unit. My heart was rapidly pirouetting in my throat. Closer. Yes. A skull. A child’s skull. Small. Well-formed. Maybe the rains dislodged it. This is what shows what I am under pressure. I needed to call–
This is meant to be the conflict. The apex of the story.
A couple feet away, and I could see it clearer. The holes where the eye sockets were are just indentations in plastic. The nasal cavity was shaded in with paint. It was someone’s Halloween decoration. At the end of May. On the shore, next to empty Whataburger cups and shredded styrofoam.
This is meant to be the conclusion. Or punchline, depending on your handle of the morose.