Can you share an example of your writing? I like your character developmental chart a lot and I'd like to see how you've put it to use, especially with introducing characters for the first time (because I'm awful at that). Thanks for making it still free t
Hey, no problem, I’m glad it’s been of use to you. Sure, I can. I’m not exactly sure what you are wanting or looking for 100% so here’s the start of something I’m dabbling with now. It’s a bare bone beginning, unedited and all its nakedness, which I’d rather show for this example of introducing characters than fleshing it out completely–since you said you don’t feel it’s a strong part in your writing (I’m sure you’re doing better than you think).
***
“By law you are considered a seriel killer. You know that, don’t you?”
“Is it really murder if you’re not considered human?”
“Dogs have been put down before for a lot less.” The one with the ragged, twisted scar around her high cheekbones and sharp nose remains unreadable, but I can hear the resentment in her tepid tone.
“Quenzel,” reprimands her twin sister, Malia, adjusting the plain black scarf wrapped around her face and neck shaping her long, round face into a perfect oval. “We’re not here to put anyone down,” she assures me with a faint flash of white teeth hidden beneath flaky, pink lips.
Her words mean little to me, after all, they’ve both been chasing me for almost nine months now. All I knew while on the run was they were clever and knew what they were hunting. I now have the added knowledge of their names and their faces burned into my mind for after I escape and come after them later.
Seeing they are siblings is obvious enough. They both have naturally dark skin the color of a sandy beach after the first morning wave pulls back covered in scars and knots from healed wounds–most of them resemble bite marks. Standing side-by-side they reach roughly the same height but sitting down it is clear Malia is a couple inches taller. It’s easy enough to imagine the same dark corkscrew curls on Quenzel are beneath the scarf wrapped around Malia’s head. Though, I suspect the golden streaks flickering through the strands in Quenzel’s hair are a result of sunlight and would be missing from Malia’s locks.
Reaching across the table, Quenzel snatches a butterknife off of her paper napkin and curves the blunt tip along the skin unerneath her nail, coating the rusting silver in a thin, black line. Keeping her gaze level to the deadly weapon in her hand, she shrugs, “So, girl, if you won’t confirm whether or not you are Mikoda then the least you can do is confirm your age for us. How old are you?”
“If you’re so certain of my name, you should be aware of my age,” I challenge leaning back into the sticky seat soaking up the condensation of sweat trailing down the dip of my spine.
Two sets of identical eyes the color of freshly turned soil met one another with unreadable glances. I notice they do this a lot and start to wonder if they can read each other’s mind when Malia suddenly breaks her stare from Quenzel, landing on mine. “We already know your birth age. We mean to ask what is your–”
“I know what you meant,” I snap, curling my fingers into small, shaking fists. “I’m sure you can put two-and-two together since it’s obvious you have my birth records. Do you know my blood type, too?”
“Type A, but that doesn’t answer our question. It doesn’t tell us you when you became a stray. Most runaways run away before, not after.”
I’m not my sure if my expression is as passive as I imagine it to be. The corners of my lips are twitching and it feels like my eyes are in the middle of an earthquake. I have no idea what my blood type is, but I do know I’m not a fan of the way Quenzel is speaking to me as if I’m some mangy, flea-infested mutt.
“I’m three,” I say after a beat, deciding to tell the truth. I have a feeling they knew the truth anyway.
“Damn Cyrus,” huffs Malia under breath, licking her chapped lips with a quick flick of her tongue. Turning to her sister, she speaks a little louder, shaking her head with a deep frown carved into her face. “He is right. He said she’s three.”
Quenzel kept her back just as straight as her face, wiping both sides of the butterknife on the left knee of her holey jeans. Placing the silverware back onto the table, she pointed the blunt end at me. Snaking around my throat, the air inside my chest caught and my heart skipped a beat at the glint of light reflecting off the dull weapon.
“What are you going to do with me? Why all the questions if you’re just going to kill me?”
“We aren’t going to kill you.”
“Or torture,” intercedes Malia, snatching the smirk off of her sister’s face. “We’re here to offer you help.”
“And if I refuse?”
The right corner of Quenzel’s lip tugs upward like a fish on a hook, though the knife between us reminds me that she is a shark. “Like I said,” she puffs, using her elbows to push off the table and lean into the pleather cushion of her seat, “we won’t be killing you.”
****
Again, I’m not sure what you’re wanting so I hope this helps. If not, feel free to come of anon (so I don’t bug my followers with a bunch of scribbled writing–ahhaha get it guys? Oh never mind).
