Word War: Curly Point
Stimulus: curly point
Words: 1535
Original Form: typed
Draft Type: first
curly point
There was something about his smile that sent shivers down her spine. She had never liked him; even when they were kids and she had to sit next to him in 2nd grade art. He splashed her. She had hated him ever since.
He was beyond splashing now: short, slim, sophisticated. Always wearing a suit in an expensive cut with a stylishly flamboyant color underneath to draw attention. Always with hair exactly right, stylishly out of control. A carefully trimmed beard. The perfect successful business man with Southern Cali sunglasses and a Jetta to match. No problems. A guy you could take home to your father to do business deals with, never mind your mother.
There was something about his smile that sent shivers down her spine. It showed small teeth, perfectly white and perfectly straight. He had worn braces for three years in junior high. He sat behind her then, and sniggered when she got questions wrong or was caught doodling in class. She could never understand what was so bad about doodling little stick people worlds onto the sides of her notepaper.
His smile was polished, stylish. Thin lipped, showing just the right amount of teeth. Like he had seen an advertisement for “the perfect businessman's smile” and had it glued into his psyche. Reassuring, competent, unemotional while assuring you that he understood the situation fully and was acting in your complete best interest.
There was something about it that sent shivers down her spine. But it was nothing to the goatee.
His goatee was trim, stylishly cut, meticulously maintained. It looked good on him: thinned out his face and lengthened his stubby chin. It was somewhat redder than the rest of his hair, barely giving it a glued-on look. And the end of it curled. Just slightly. Like every picture of the devil she'd ever seen.
“You shouldn't wear a goatee. It makes you look like a devilish businessman.”
He had smiled the perfect smile and assured her that she was crazy and it made him look smart and sophisticated and, anyway, what did she know? She came from a small farming town in Iowa. Thankfully, her car pulled up just after and he kissed her goodbye, on the both cheeks, in pure fashionable style.
The next time she saw him was walking along the beach. He was still wearing a suit, and, bizarrely, his imported Italian leather shoes. Smiling his magazine gloss smile, he extended his hand. She was barefoot, in a blousey white cotton dress that showed off her curves remarkably well. He told her so.
“Darling, why don't we go out to my boat? It's hot in the sun, and I'd love some lunch. Wouldn't you?”
His beard curled a slight bit more.
She couldn't stand the way he called her darling and dearest and patronized her in a terribly stylish French accent. He was from Iowa, too. So when he flew her in his private plane to visit her mother when she had that bad fall, she was careful to ignore his calls. She didn't want to be in his debt.
And when he got down on one knee in the lavish hotel in Paris and asked her to marry him, she immediately accepted. His beard curled two more full turns.
Three years later, as he slept, she slipped into his room with a knife. She had always hated his smile. His perfect success. The way he was a model businessman, as if he were a glossy ad for getting rich and how to be stylish by following the experts, even if you were really just a farm boy from Iowa. She hated the way he made her feel like her life was beautiful and was redeeming her. She grasped the curled beard tightly in her left hand, fourteen karat diamond glittering.
I am tired of hating you.
She took a deep breath and made one swift stroke, doing her work well so she needed nothing further.
In three steps she was back out of the room; it took seventeen more to get to her bedroom, heart racing. She opened the top drawer of her dresser, taking out a tarnished silver locket. It was old fashioned, looked like it came from her great-grandmother's farmhouse. As it had. She opened it gently, cried just one drop of salty resolve, and nestled the curled point of his goatee in the sacred space.
Then she took the knife down to the kitchen and went back to bed.
Words: 1535
Original Form: typed
Draft Type: first
curly point
There was something about his smile that sent shivers down her spine. She had never liked him; even when they were kids and she had to sit next to him in 2nd grade art. He splashed her. She had hated him ever since.
He was beyond splashing now: short, slim, sophisticated. Always wearing a suit in an expensive cut with a stylishly flamboyant color underneath to draw attention. Always with hair exactly right, stylishly out of control. A carefully trimmed beard. The perfect successful business man with Southern Cali sunglasses and a Jetta to match. No problems. A guy you could take home to your father to do business deals with, never mind your mother.
There was something about his smile that sent shivers down her spine. It showed small teeth, perfectly white and perfectly straight. He had worn braces for three years in junior high. He sat behind her then, and sniggered when she got questions wrong or was caught doodling in class. She could never understand what was so bad about doodling little stick people worlds onto the sides of her notepaper.
His smile was polished, stylish. Thin lipped, showing just the right amount of teeth. Like he had seen an advertisement for “the perfect businessman's smile” and had it glued into his psyche. Reassuring, competent, unemotional while assuring you that he understood the situation fully and was acting in your complete best interest.
There was something about it that sent shivers down her spine. But it was nothing to the goatee.
His goatee was trim, stylishly cut, meticulously maintained. It looked good on him: thinned out his face and lengthened his stubby chin. It was somewhat redder than the rest of his hair, barely giving it a glued-on look. And the end of it curled. Just slightly. Like every picture of the devil she'd ever seen.
“You shouldn't wear a goatee. It makes you look like a devilish businessman.”
He had smiled the perfect smile and assured her that she was crazy and it made him look smart and sophisticated and, anyway, what did she know? She came from a small farming town in Iowa. Thankfully, her car pulled up just after and he kissed her goodbye, on the both cheeks, in pure fashionable style.
The next time she saw him was walking along the beach. He was still wearing a suit, and, bizarrely, his imported Italian leather shoes. Smiling his magazine gloss smile, he extended his hand. She was barefoot, in a blousey white cotton dress that showed off her curves remarkably well. He told her so.
“Darling, why don't we go out to my boat? It's hot in the sun, and I'd love some lunch. Wouldn't you?”
His beard curled a slight bit more.
She couldn't stand the way he called her darling and dearest and patronized her in a terribly stylish French accent. He was from Iowa, too. So when he flew her in his private plane to visit her mother when she had that bad fall, she was careful to ignore his calls. She didn't want to be in his debt.
And when he got down on one knee in the lavish hotel in Paris and asked her to marry him, she immediately accepted. His beard curled two more full turns.
Three years later, as he slept, she slipped into his room with a knife. She had always hated his smile. His perfect success. The way he was a model businessman, as if he were a glossy ad for getting rich and how to be stylish by following the experts, even if you were really just a farm boy from Iowa. She hated the way he made her feel like her life was beautiful and was redeeming her. She grasped the curled beard tightly in her left hand, fourteen karat diamond glittering.
I am tired of hating you.
She took a deep breath and made one swift stroke, doing her work well so she needed nothing further.
In three steps she was back out of the room; it took seventeen more to get to her bedroom, heart racing. She opened the top drawer of her dresser, taking out a tarnished silver locket. It was old fashioned, looked like it came from her great-grandmother's farmhouse. As it had. She opened it gently, cried just one drop of salty resolve, and nestled the curled point of his goatee in the sacred space.
Then she took the knife down to the kitchen and went back to bed.