The Right Word in the Right Place

 

Illustration: "The Poor Poet" by Carl Spitzweg. Aren't we all?

Consider the first three words in "Soldiers went across the field." What kind of soldiers? Regiment size is much larger that a squad; sappers are specialists; cavalry is mounted. 'Went' becomes 'slogged' when the ground is wet, and 'waded' if it's flooded. 'Splashed' connotes a hasty crossing, where 'swept' is the action of a victorious army. 'Across' is less precise than 'through', with its implication of obstacles. 'Past' hints at avoidance. Up or down shows directional angle. 

Look at each word in a sentence. Typically you'll improve (a better word is 'hone') it one word at a time. Choose those that home in on culture, detail, occupation, mood, and defining action. The right word can replace an entire sentence or two of explanation. 

Punctuation also plays a role. "He swept the coins unsorted into the tiller." No commas needed. But:

"He swept the coins, unsorted, into the tiller." A slight emphasis is applied.

"He raked the coins unsorted into the tiller." Much is said by 'raked' with its implication of haste and anger. Strong emphasis on 'unsorted' suggests he's been goaded, as if he's not supposed to notice a particular coin for plot reasons. 

Verbs 'Ratcheted' vs 'pulled'. The former indicates gears, chains, a clanking sound, men and machines, and a housing, such as a drawbridge turret. 'Lambasted' vs 'thrashed'. The former is seldom used, which makes it a refreshing alternative. 'Sneak' vs 'skulked'. The latter doesn't require continuous movement. It suggests skill, stealth, and sinister intent, with erratic moves of opportunity. But 'sneak' will do if all you need is to move a character toward a goal quickly. 

Nouns When it comes to saddles, cinch is more authentic than strap (or 'tighten' if cinch is a verb). Use the relevant part of a device or weapon for realism without getting carried away. I once read a book with the help of a dictionary, constantly having to look up the parts of a suit of armor. Another author used the bewildering variety of sail on a man-o-war. He might have a midshipman explain a term to a landlubber, without being as obvious as the old describe-himself-in-a-mirror ploy. 

Adjectives 'Upside' the head has a subculture feel. The perpetrator isn't all that moral or educated. 'Sans' lends sophistication to a narrator lacking from its counterpart 'without'. This is why poetic characters are so much fun. The right modifier can sharpen a word like 'malevolence'. Coy malevolence portrays an evil sorceress with a playful nature. By comparing the italics with the explanation, you get an idea how to reduce word count, which provides more valuable stage time for your hero. 

Let's summarize with our original sentence. "Sappers skulked through the field." Some of them lie in wait; some pause for sabotage; the rest do rear guard or scout ahead. The right word sets off a cascade of motion, sound, and visuals for your reader. 

The Guns of 'Eighteen

 

Arn Blevins, a rumored German arms dealer to terrorists, cautiously descended the decaying ladder to a World War One British command post. A generator supplied current to the old string of bulbs. They cast sickly yellow light on the next intruder, Captain Laslo of the British Army. The munitions expert was helping Blevins clear his estate of old ordnance--a legitimate concern for a man whose castle was full of arms and ammo. This remote spot on the French-German border had served him well, though it meant bribing bureaucrats on both sides. 

Blevins placed hands on hips. "There they stand, Captain, almost like they're about to speak."

Five corpses stood in various final acts: looking at a wall map, fiddling with a radio knob, checking a low door to an apparent tunnel. Rotting uniforms identified them as a sapper unit.

"We'll need to check the tunnel, as you say," Laslo decided. "It looks like they died from poison gas shells as it pooled down here."

"Not so fast." Blevins inspected rifles, trench coats, canned food. "Could be a tidy sum on the souvenir market for this old gear. We--" 

His jaw dropped when one of the figures, wearing a dusty monocle, turned on creaky joints to face them. A shower of cloth fibers fell from his trousers. With bizarre modesty, he used a nearby tunic to cover himself as if he'd just come from a bath. The others came to animated life.

Blevins seized Laslo, preventing his headlong flight up the ladder. "You're the authority, Captain! Explain this! I could make millions on whatever they've been dosed with!"

"It isn't that fanciful," Laslo said, stubbornly keeping hold of a rung. "Don't you see? Those stimulant bottles on the shelf. These men were pumped full of it. There's been some reaction with the gas."

The monocled figure croaked out a garbled verse of song. "When gunny shore. . . ." Working his stiff jaw, he found the mark. "When the big guns of 'eighteen roared." The others joined in. "The kaiser's plans were no more. Armies in flight, dyin' o' fright, when the big guns of 'eighteen roared!" 

Again Blevins had to drag Laslo off the ladder. "That door is facing the direction of my castle. If there's some kind of ammo dump in there, I could lose my empire: arms, ammo, armor, cash. And my buyers are very unforgiving men."

The monocled figure picked up the radio handset. "Blast--the rotters have cut the wires. We're on our own, men. We'll have to go volcanic!" 

"Blevins," Laslo warned, "the safety baffles in that tunnel have long gone to ruin. They won't protect this place from the detonation. We have to go, now!" 

"No!" Blevins drew and opened fire on the leader, blowing chunks of bone and tunic. But the detonator was wired into the lights, which Blevins had conveniently restored to power. An ominous rumble shook the earth, raining soil and roots on them as they clambered up. 

A geyser of dirt and smoke erupted from the vacated pit. But that was nothing compared to the pyrotechnics going on at the distant castle. Turrets collapsed in a roar of fire and thunder. Secondary explosions went off for some time. 

Blevins picked himself up. "I'm a dead man. Undone by a bunch of spooks!"

"Well," Laslo said, saluting his former comrades in arms. "Looks as if we've won the war--again." 

Fish Tale

 The star attractions at Six Forks Palladium sat on the center island of their expansive pool, but they weren't alone. A temporary ramp spanned the waters to admit a local reporter. He prepared to photograph the mermaids: blonde Binia, emerald Ellie, and the brunette Sirtis. They dangled fins over submerged steps, having just completed a water dance to the tune of Delerium's Stargazing. Country music resumed as they prepared for the coin toss so popular with fans.

Click! The photo caught them unawares.

Binia frowned at the digital proof. "Why'd you do that? I'm actually looking down!"

The young photog schooled them. "I liked that spontaneous flare of flukes. Besides, I don't want posed cheesecake. This is the real you--relaxing between acts."

Ellie used her fluke to push a submarine back out to sea. "That old Captain Ahab type over there bothers me. He's been eyeing us like the gooney bird of doom." 

An announcer blared a special sale on ATVs. When the echo died down, the reporter looked out over the plexiglass barrier thronged by onlookers tossing coins. "Right--that's Captain Mortimer. We've interviewed him before--a regular encyclopedia on sea lore. Bit of a know-it-all, though. Say--wanna meet him?"

Before anyone could object, the reporter traipsed cautiously across the bridge, arms out for balance. Moments later, Captain Mortimer came out the access door and crossed the bridge with a sailor's grace. He reminded Binia of a yacht captain, complete with white cap and silver buttons on his peacoat. The muttonchop sideburns were a little much, though.

Mortimer crouched next to Binia. "When a real mermaid sits, there's a gentle bend instead of the sharp angle of knees, they not having any."

"That's why we never stand," Sirtis said. "We aren't supposed to have any either." 

"Ever seen one?" Mortimer pushed his cap back. "I caught one off Rockfish Cove in my nets. My first mate was wantin' to sell her for a fortune. But I set her free, and he's so mad he pulls a gun on me. Then she flies out of the water and grabs 'im by the hair. It's the last I ever saw of either one." 

Ellie leaned closer to Sirtis. "Wasn't that Twilight Zone?"

"Serling's hair was fuller," said the brunette. "Night Gallery."

Sensing levity, the captain turned to more serious advice. "There's a way you can protect each other when you leave here after hours, what with how things are goin' and all." 

"Got it covered," Sirtis said, swooshing a spray with her fluke. "I pretend to have a sneezing fit into a tissue. It clears out the parking lot in a two-block zone." The girls laughed. 

"It's hardly a funny topic I'm tryin' to advise," Mortimer insisted. 

"Well, Captain," Binia began, "there's one thing about mermaids you can't teach us."

"Really. That would be. . . ."

"What it's like to be one." 

Pails and shovels in hand, the mermaids dove into the deep to retrieve coins on the bottom. 

Snapshots

 

Having made another supply run from Earth, Ed overslept due to "portal lag". The aroma of bacon drew him down the corridor to the large common room. Only Zena was currently at home. Dressed in white island blouse and jeans--quite an eclectic blend of cultures--she was still uncrating specialty items for the magic shop she and Bonnie had a financial stake in. 

Ed took in the familiar statue in a corner it shared with a towering fern. It depicted an armed pirate shielding himself from something too horrible to imagine; that being the namesake spirit of the Mace of Medusa. "Are you guys ever gonna sell this thing? One guy offered a year's rent on the villa."

Zena set down a jar of German whiskey cornichons--crunchy gherkins laced with vanilla and honey. "Bonnie's proud of that battle on Rotbone Island, you know. She mentioned maybe making another one on a mission to Smuggler's Cove. But heck, like the shop is doing gangbuster business."

"What are we doing for lunch?" Ed started for the kitchen.

"Beans and franks in your honor--a little touch of home."

"Cool," Ed said with an effort at his old aplomb. Had he come to this end?--the visitor who barely knew lifelong friends anymore, friends who had blended in with Outworld culture. "I'm gonna watch, so I can make it back in L A." His hand suffered its first slap from the cook, Oki, when he tried to snatch some bacon.

"Watch what I do," said the green-skinned islander. "You learn how, yes?"

"I'm all eyes, madame."

Oki sliced a disk from a large onion. This she rotated while making inward cuts to produce a pile of onion cubes. As they sizzled on an oven powered by miracite crystals, she splashed on rapeseed oil and added black pepper--both products of Earth. Next came the pork and beans, followed by several squirts of barbecue sauce while the franks browned. 

"What about the bacon?" Ed asked, making another abortive snatch.

"That is for last, so it stays crunchy. You know?" Zena was definitely rubbing off on the maid. 

"Okay then, let's get to it." Ed trailed Zena into the enclosed balcony. A gathering storm stirred whitecaps on the sea, and wind rattled the glass panes. Somehow the mood was prophetic.

"So Ed, where's your transportation?" Zena asked. She began to plate up.

"Wicca? No doubt stretched out on the bar in some dive."

Zena laughed. "Hecabano went to the gaming district to try his luck. Cambris flew to Rotbone Island to reunite with the other Dracula brides. Everybody has his own little world."

But Zena had always been more of a homebody, one of several things they had in common that led to Dan pairing them on missions. Ed experienced a momentary panic: if Cambris regaled her sisters about the easy pickings on Earth, might she invite them all there? Ed wasn't sure he could control four of them. 

Oki sampled her fare with a frown; Lunari cuisine didn't feature much beef or barbecue. "Mister Ed, you do not have so much the jokes anymore."

"I guess we're getting swallowed up in our own pursuits," Ed said. 

"Ha!" Zena set down her spoon. "Remember that book on tap dancing I asked for last time? I've been studying it--and that's like all-American!"

Oki nodded. "She will do the. . . .the dance for us, okay?"

"Right," Ed added. "And I see Zena is corrupting you with Earth slang."

"That's nothing," Zena insisted after a sip of coffee--another Earth import. "I'm learning some Lunari. But that doesn't hold a candle to all the fly-by-night English instructors here. They teach the fans just enough to impress Bonnie and me at autograph events. They make the funniest mistakes!"

Ed squeezed eyes shut. What was next?--subways and hot dog stands? He carried his empty plate to the kitchen. 

Oki cornered him there. ""Mister Ed--will you bring more of the cloudberry preserves from Sweden? And brandy cherries? And the rum custard, and malt scotch cake--"

Ed took her shoulders. "Oki, I rest my case. Let's have some of that ligonberry torte while we wait on the others to get home. I can't wait to see Zena tap dance." 

Action Art

 

Special effects are fairly easy (and positively required) in comics. This is our gal Valkris in action against an archmage. As an art study, it shows the importance of contrast, color harmony, composition, and use of dead space. On the left, the background has little detail but an ominous feel; so does the deep plum color on the right. Reflected light is key in picking figures out of dark surroundings. Just for curiosity, the spell is a black hole type, and the mage is sucked in along with trees and a ton of dirt. A guy has to know his limitations.

Newspapers

 

In a third floor condo, four people relaxed on a night off from the Wicca Horror Show. It had three bedrooms: one for producer Ed, one for the dwarf Hecabano, and one for the show's hostess Wicca. The vampire Cambris shared her room by day, sheltering beneath the bed.

Wicca grooved to her latest discovery, the eighties band Altered Images. The last strains of "Change of Heart" had just faded when Cambris jumped up and shredded her newspaper asunder. 

"Pagh! Where may I find the perpetrator of this?"

Wicca looked up. "What's with you, girlfriend?"

Hecabano, quick to spot opportunity, tossed Ed a notepad and pen.

"You don't like the local paper?" Ed prompted, pen poised.  

Cambris got that mystical look, reached as if to find words. 

Yesterday's shadows scud along alleys of wintry white light.

Wayward souls reach for them from pools of purple cold.

Canst care or remember their lies?

None but those who believe, slave to them still.

Blue fingers trace the drug of poison ink.

Deeper delusion the lure.

Heedless of warmth denied by layered page.

Harsh mistress laughs from afar.

Cambris bared fangs at said mistress, whatever it represented.

Ed copied furiously, getting it all down. "Perfect! She'll do it on Saturday's show. We'll call it 'Newspapers: a poem by Cambris'."

"Shall I remind you, Master Ed, she cannot be filmed?" Hecabano wolfed a handful of jelly beans, grimaced. "Ug. I would get a coffee bean."

Wicca laughed. "Watch out for the brown speckled ones!"

"No sweat," Ed said. "Wics--remember that flesh paint we used to cover your gray skin?"

"Now I just use magic." She reared back in disgust when the dwarf offered candy, which, like all food offered the undead, was like pulling a cross on Dracula. "What--you're going to paint her?"

They used a sheet and a wig, leaving only Cambris' face to paint. Ed made a cell picture, which drew Wicca's laughter. The face had holes for eyes, showing the curtains behind the head. 

"Appropriate for your Halloween season," Cambris decided. "Why did you not use a scry globe, which is able to capture my features?"

Ed grinned at the photo. "Like you said--wait'll the fans see this face reading a poem. We'll call it 'Revenge of the Invisible Woman'." 

"Your words have no meaning," Cambris said.

"She hasn't seen it!" Wicca crowed. "Impo--dial it up on the web for us."

Four people, only one of them human, watched a vintage horror film. 

The Schoolmarm's Visit

 

Already uncomfortable in suit and tie, Beaver sweated his mom's dinner invite to his fourth-grade teacher, Miss Landers. They made small talk while steaks were on the grill. Suddenly his older brother Wally asked her a calculus question. Was the showoff trying to embarrass her?

"Miss Landers, I'm having trouble finding inflection points on a graph."

Ward Cleaver frowned. "Wally, the last thing our guest wants to do is talk shop."

"It's all right," she assured them. "Wally, an inflection point is simply where the slope is changing, that is, where the second derivative equals zero. You know the derivative is the slope at the tangent line, and the second derivative is the rate of change."

Beaver let out the breath he'd been holding, noted the bewildered look on his mom's face. "Mom, you took calculus in school, didn't you?"

"Heavens no," said June Cleaver. "You don't need calculus to push a vacuum cleaner." Everyone except Beaver got a chuckle from that.

Ward excused himself to check on the grill, and wiseguy Wally did it again. "Do you like Dobie Gillis on TV?"

"I rarely have time for it, except for the anthologies by Ronald Reagan. I do think it develops kids' imaginations--shows like Lassie, Superman, and Twilight Zone."

His mom ended the interrogation by tapping Wally for kitchen duty. "Beaver, you keep Miss Landers entertained while Wally helps me set up the patio."

Beaver had to do something, so he turned on the radio. Naturally it was a commercial: You wouldn't expect such an offer to come in a detergent, but it does, in Duz. It was an opening, at least. Each box had  a piece of crystal ware buried inside: either a cup, saucer, or glass. "Miss Landers, do you use Duz? Mom uses the plates for us kids, 'cause we're always breakin' junk." 

"I prefer Dreft."

Thankfully the newest Elvis tune came on: She's Not You. "Do you like Elvis?"

"I like his music, but I think he's a little too sure of himself."

Beaver had to smile. Mortals like him had a chance against Elvis. 

Just then, his dad called from the kitchen. "Beaver, escort Miss Landers to the patio."

Beaver hesitantly offered an arm, leading her out to the feast on the patio table. He briefly fretted about the corn on the cob, but Miss Landers simply shaved it with a knife. His mom discreetly copied the move. 

Some time later, after talk of world affairs left Beaver out in the cold, his dad rose to begin clearing dishes. "Beaver, you stay with Miss Landers while Wally helps us with coffee and dessert."

When they'd gone, Miss Landers went over to the hose reel. "You know, Beaver, that tree needs watering. May I?" 

Beaver swallowed. Did she know about the three clowns who'd been spying on them? "Uh. . . .sure, Miss Landers."

Owing to the soft ground, she left her heels behind, and dragged the  hose within range. A powerful jet began tracking up the trunk. Terrified protests heralded three figures hastily swinging down: Larry, Gilbert, and Whitey. Larry just couldn't keep a secret.

She aimed the pistol grip at them. "You boys had better scoot before the Cleavers find out. I'll go stall them. Tomorrow in class, we'll have a little chat about extra homework." She passed the hose to Beaver, went to retrieve her shoes, and disappeared inside.

"Gee, Beaver," Larry began, "we must have the neatest teacher in the world."

"I oughta soak you guys!" Beaver threatened. They scattered, not from the hose, but from Wally's approach.

"Holy cow! You've done it now, Beave. She thinks you're a creepy little kid."

"I am a kid."

"You're always sayin' how you hope she's still around when you grow up. There went any shot you might have had."

Beaver let the pistol grip dangle. "Shot?"