Writing Exercise: Short and Long

Part One: Write a paragraph in sentences of seven or fewer words; no sentence fragments.

My girlfriend’s showering. I’m crouched behind the radiator. Can’t touch the hot pipe. She’s singing cutely, doot-doo-doo! The shower roars, her voice echoes. I see her shadow on the curtain. Her outline’s blurry, her core’s dark. She shifts her hips. Her butt brushes the curtain. Droplets run down to her feet. She cranks the faucet. The roar stops. The curtain screeches when she tugs it. One massive thigh reaches up. Her foot crests the tub, comes down. Before me, her sole flattens the rug. Pile fibers crunch or spread aside. I step onto the rug. A droplet plops near me. Another drop strikes my head. I look up along her shiny calf. I peek between her round thighs. Suddenly, her other foot appears. The ball of her foot descends. Her toes come right at me. I spring, clear the distance. My body rolls against her ankle. Her other foot pounds the carpet. Her ankle compresses, her toes flex. I gasp, gaping, heart pounding.

Part Two: Write a half-page of narrative that is all one sentence.

When she arrived in our fair Midwestern city, the isolated mercantile capitol of the Northwoods, generously angling her hips to clear the glassy, steel skyscrapers that housed our financial life-blood, tugging the vast sheets of surplus canvas to enable her to raise one powerful thigh, one sculpted knee, one developed calf, one turned ankle, and one slender yet huge foot to clear our system of Skyways between the buildings, taking profound care to slip her bare foot (as best she could, given the lunchtime rush hour) between cars and trucks and buses and not upon them, grinning upon us with a broad and lascivious almost-leer yet with huge, glowing eyes that danced with true and innocent delight upon the bustling metro population of businessfolk, civil servants, laborers, artists, tourists, and transients alike, her piercing jade orbs flickering over the glazed and tinted windows, the uneven and chalky sidewalks, the cross-streets with lugubrious buses and imperious, self-righteous cyclists, and even the precious Skyways jam-packed with profoundly vulnerable and slow-thinking pedestrians, pausing in those protracted moments of supernatural wonder and logical terror as we stared back, hundreds of pairs of eyes turned upward to the majesty of what would have been in any other context a gorgeous, glorious specimen of womanhood, until she finally bent at the waist, gross muscles supporting incalculable tonnage of thriving flesh, supportive bone, succulent fat, and the scarlet torrents thrumming continuously through her robust limbs, and sent one vast hand down to hover above us—we spectators, aghast and agog, utterly uninterruptible in our rapture—long and shapely fingers waggling with incongruous caprice, and plucked none other than yours truly between the accommodating padding of her rosy thumb and forefinger, pausing to secure her matronly grip upon my entire person before whisking me yards and yards above the city streets in a terrifying rush of lower atmosphere and the exhaust of day-to-day industry, until I hovered before her face, unquestioningly in her control and practically naked before her earnest and unfiltered scrutiny, as her characteristic smile glistened just below my shoes… what could she have been thinking?

Photo by Gregory Hayes on Unsplash

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