I mentioned that I’ve recently joined an improv writing group. I’ve decided to share a couple of the raw pieces here on the blog over the next couple weeks.
The rules are simple; everyone brings a prompt, something to start eh writing process. You get your prompt and you write for five, ten or fifteen minutes depending on the prompt itself. At the end of the time, you stop – no matter where you are in your writing – and you read it to the group. Rinse, repeat.
Be kind and remember, they are raw.
Writing Prompt: Begin with the sentence “The door flew open, slammed into the wall and”
Concept: I immediately flashed on a gumshoe-type story, but I wanted to turn it on its head. Instead of the ‘gorgeous dame’ arriving at the Bogart-esque PI’s office, I flipped it. The gender roles are reversed in this world. The PI is a woman, the client, a man, and it just flowed from there.
The door flew open, slammed into the wall and bounced back to smack the guy in the face. I knew this was going to be a different sort of day.
His nose connected with my name painted on the glass – Sharon Getty, Detective. He stood there like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing, eyes unblinking. His hand slowly rose up and touched his nose, now accented by a thick trickle of red leaking out the right nostril.
I won’t say that he was a looker, but I wouldn’t throw him out of bed either. At least, not until morning. He stood maybe five eight, and that’s if he didn’t have lifts in his shoes. The double breasted brown suit cut a fine figure, not too heavy, with broad shoulders and a tightness in the suit pants that hinted at the possibility of some muscle there. I like a man with strong legs.
As the door slowly creaked away from him, his eyes met mine and I felt a little stirring inside. Piercing blue and a definite depth of intelligence. I also like guys who can hold their own in a conversation.
“Are you Getty?” he asked in a mid-western accent.
“I am,” I said, rising from my seat. I had to adjust the forty-five in its shoulder holster to extend my hand out in greeting.
The stranger stepped forward and shook it. I offered him a handkerchief from my pocket for his nose, and he took that as well.
Blushing, he said, “Sorry. That door…”
“Yeah,” I waved him off. “Been meaning to get the super to take a look at that for a while now. Drink?” I moved around the desk to the side table and poured myself a whiskey on the rocks, then one for him. Turning, I handed it over and he took it with a shy smile.
“What can I do for you, mister….?” I asked, moving back around the desk and sitting down.
“Givens,” he said. “Arnold Givens.”
“Mister Givens,” I said before taking a quick drink. “What can I do for you?”
“Well,” he answered. “I need a private detective. Someone who can help me dig up some dirt.”
“Is this about a woman, Mister Givens?” I asked.
“My mother,” he answered. “Yes. She is keeping me from my inheritance and I want to know why.”
I swirled the smokey whiskey around in the cup, watching as the ice cubes spun. “You’re not from here, are you Mister Givens?”
“No, ma’am,” he replied.