The  Defining  Moment    The  following  creative  writing  exercise  required  writing  a  crime  scene  and  a  romance  scene  with  the  same  set  of  given  criteria:  two  lines  of  dialogue,  two  characters’  names  and  a  setting.  

The  point  of  the  exercise  was  to  capture  the  different  tones  of  the  two  genres.    Romance:    Chereen  steps  off  the  cottage  patio,  burying  her  toes  in  the  warm  sand,  watching  the  sun  dip  into  the  water.  The  sea  breeze  moves  her  yellow  hair  in  soft  ripples  like  waves.  She  plays  with  the  golden  band  on  her  left  ring  finger,  its  weight  still  unfamiliar.    Tyrone  appears  next  to  her,  holding  a  bottle  of  sparkling  wine  and  two  glasses.    Chereen  says,  “What’s  this?”    “Something  to  celebrate,”  replies  Tyrone,  as  he  pours  her  a  glass.    “Oh  how  sweet,  mon  amour,”  she  gives  him  a  weak  smile  but  doesn’t  reach  for  the  glass.  “I’m  so  tired.  Can’t  we  do  this  tomorrow?”    “But  baby,  we’ve  come  all  this  way…”    “…and  alienated  our  parents  in  the  process.”  She  looks  down  at  her  feet,  tears  welling  in  her  eyes.    Tyrone  pulls  her  into  his  arms,  resting  his  chin  on  the  top  of  her  head.  “Please  let’s  not  do  this  now.  We’ll  deal  with  our  families  when  we  get  back.”    “You’re  right.  I’m  sorry.”  She  holds  on  to  him  now,  burying  her  head  in  his  chest.  There  is  comfort  in  his  familiar  scent.  Like  lemons  and  sunlight,  she  has  always  thought.    The  sound  of  her  phone  ringing  breaks  their  embrace.    “It’s  my  mother.”    “You  don’t  have  to  answer  that.”    But  Chereen  says,  “Maman?”  as  she  walks  away  from  Tyrone.            

Crime:    They’ve  parked  the  car  behind  the  cottage.  Out  of  sight  from  the  road.  All  that’s  left  to  do  is  wait.    Under  different  circumstances  this  would  have  been  a  pretty  nice  place,  Chereen  thinks.  But  now  the  setting  sun  is  blinding  her.  The  sound  of  the  waves  crashing  is  too  loud.  Her  boots  and  uniform  too  hot.  Her  gun  too  heavy.  Worst  of  all,  she’s  stuck  here  with  her  idiot  partner,  Tyrone,  the  lumbering  block  of  lard.    He  appears  next  to  her,  breathing  heavily  from  the  effort  of  walking  through  the  sand,  holding  a  bottle  of  sparkling  wine.    Chereen  says,  “What’s  this?”    “Something  to  celebrate,”  replies  Tyrone.    Chereen  eyes  the  cheap  bottle,  “Well  I  guess  it’s  better  than  nothing.”  Idiot  can’t  even  supply  proper  booze,  she  thinks.    Tyrone  pulls  two  plastic  cups  from  his  oversized  coat  and  pours  the  wine.  “Jesus!  That  thing’s  a  bottomless  pit.”  Cheeren  snorts  and  throws  back  the  wine.  She  motions  for  Tyrone  to  pour  her  another  one.  “What  are  we  celebrating  anyway?”    Before  he  can  answer,  a  phone  starts  ringing  from  the  depths  of  his  jacket.    “Crap,”  Tyrone  mutters  as  he  searches  pocket  after  pocket.  He  finally  retrieves  it.  Picks  it  up  but  doesn’t  speak.  He  listens,  grunts  and  hangs  up.    “The  target  is  on  the  move.  Should  be  here  in  ten.”