Read the situation and write your solution—that’s what two WWK bloggers did within fifteen minutes—off the top. What would you have written in that timeframe?
Situation: The man with the machete focused on me. He advanced, walking closer. I took a step back, felt a wall behind me, and looked him in the eyes. No depth. No soul. He flashed me a manic grin and raised his weapon.
Solution: E. B. Davis
Flossy had told me he was mentally unhinged. I hadn’t believed it. Why wasn’t he locked up? The Virginia Tech massacre and high school shooters came to mind. Some crazies lurked on the fringes. Even if they were known—until they did something illegal—there was nothing anyone could do.
I’d tried to calm him, talking to him with sympathy and reason. My efforts only provoked him.
Oh well, a gal has to do whatever. I reached to the small of my back, felt my 9mm neatly hidden in the bulk of a boxy cotton knit sweater I’d found at Neiman’s for a steal, and aimed at his heart.
He wavered when he saw the gun. Taking a step back, his lower lip swelled as if he were pouting. He tossed the machete to the ground and put his hands on his hips. “You’re no fun. You’re supposed to be the victim.”
I hadn’t wanted to shoot him, but that remark gave me incentive. I wondered if I still could and get away with it.
Solution: Gloria Alden
I stared at him. There was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. Ilooked both ways. The street was empty. Not even a car was coming down the road. I should have been more careful about where I walked this late in the evening when all the businesses were closed. I probably should have left when the rest of my fellow workers left, but I had just that one more thing to finish.
The man stepped a few steps closer. I started to laugh so hard I doubled over. “Eddie, is this for a tryout for that new horror show your friend is filming?”
“Damn! How did you recognize me?” he said as he peeled off the rubber disguise he’d glued to parts of his face as well as his fright wig and extra padding on his shoulders and chest.
“It’s your nose, Eddie. That cute little turned up nose. You’ll have to use a fake nose if you really want to look scary, you know.”
“Have you had supper yet?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“Let’s go get a bite to eat at Frankenstein’s Fine Food.”
Together we walked arm and arm laughing and chatting like the friends we were.
As a writer—how would you get your MC out of this situation?