Just as in life, little things in your story would change with the passage of time. It’s not a necessity, of course, but those little changes can bring a sub-layer of change to the reader’s unconscious mind. And if they do pick up on it, it’s a nice touch in adding depth to the story.
They said goodbye in the spring. She ran her fingers through his hair that was cut short just the week before, the hair tips following the curve of the top of the ears they were just shy of touching. If it were any shorter, it would be called a brush cut.
She frowned inwardly at that. She had always disliked brush cuts. They reminded her of the father she had lost the day he enlisted in the army when she was only six. He died years later, coming back for brief moments between tours of duty. But something had changed in him. When he came home for good, he never came home all the way. Something of him was left behind in the war-ravaged wasteland that was left behind when so-called peace came and sent the soldiers home. He killed himself ten years ago on her twentieth birthday.
Now, years later, as she said goodbye to her own six-year-old son in the spring, it felt like a piece of her had been torn out. She had watched him walk away, holding his father’s hand, her estranged husband, with his freshly cut short hair, she swore she would never let her son join the army like her father had.
Her husband had joined the army too. That’s why she left him. She could not bear to live that again, to have her son live it like she did growing up.
Summer is over now and fall is coming. Her son’s summer with his father is over and school starts in a few days.
She turned at the unmistakable racket of the approaching train, watching anxiously down the tracks. Butterflies flitted in her stomach. She told herself it was at seeing her son, but the reality is was over seeing them both.
The train pulled into the station and she waited the interminable wait of one waiting for their loved ones to arrive in the designated arrival area.
She held her breath and forced herself not to run to him, to tear him away from his father’s hand and squeeze him tight.
There he was. It felt like her heart would leap right out her throat. Her throat constricted and her eyes burned. Where is he? Her son was alone. How could he send him alone? He’s only six! But then her son turned, and he came through the crowd. Her heart leapt and sank at once. He was dressed in uniform.
Her son ran to her, face cracked into the biggest smile she had seen since she said goodbye to him in the spring. She got down on one knee, opening her arms to him, and he ran to her, throwing himself into her embrace and wrapping his arms tightly around her neck. She ran her fingers through his hair, the tips of his hair reaching just past the top of his ears.
“Mommy,” he sighed into her shoulder, “your nails got longer.”
She looked up at a sense of a presence close by. Her estranged husband stood over her looking down.
“You look thinner,” he said. From his expression, she wasn’t sure if it was an attempt at a compliment or sarcasm. He was still bitter at her for leaving.
“You were supposed to bring him back last week,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.
If you picked up on it, the above starts with a reference to the boy’s recent haircut and his hair being trimmed above the ears. When he sees him again, the boy’s comment on her nails is a distraction to the reference to his hair now being just below the tops of his ears. The ex-husband’s comment on her weight could go in any one of many directions. It could be used as a reference to a longer space of time since she left him. It could be a hint into his character, or her own wasting away at the end of her marriage. It could even mean she’s become more healthy and fit since leaving him, at a healthier weight than before.
Even if the character doesn’t noticeably change, and neither does his or her immediate surroundings, some things can’t help but change with the years. Some things grow (plant life); other things inevitably deteriorate with age. Things become modernized as they have to be replaced. After all, that fridge in the kitchen will not last fifty years seemingly untouched by time.
It might be an old ice box from before the age of refrigerators, then be replaced with an early style fridge, eventually becoming more modernized as each one has to be replaced. (Just as an example, assuming the character even has one.) Or it might be a fridge at a place the character frequents, even if that frequency is once every decade.
A change like that the character is certain to notice. Similarly, horses and wagons eventually become replaced by increasingly modernized cars. Everything has a finite lifespan, whether it is a fruit fly or something that lasts for eons. A small sapling tree will grow and grow, becoming a massive tree and eventually dying. A stone wall will weaken and crumble over time. Look around you; everything is touched in some way by the passing of time. Pick things that can be described well by you and easily be identified by the reader.
It is little details that make a story. The odd little things that might catch one persons eye while no one else in the room even noticed. Throw them in at the oddest of moments. A moment so divine, that it is almost out of place – almost.
A moment of utter seriousness, where picking out that one ridiculous detail only serves to bring home to the reader the gravity of just how serious it is.
That one out of place almost unnoticeable thing in a time of grief, to show how strangely the mind might work in a moment of stress and confusion masked by forced peace and quiet, to reinforce on the reader the many levels of the story and its characters.
Amidst the crowd of mourners packed into the room like cattle in a cattle car on the way to be rendered, Annie alone noticed the little loose thread sticking out mournfully from the fabric of the seat where Mrs. Peckham sat. Annie stared at that thread, mesmerized, unable to look away.
A stray thought teased at her mind. With all these people staring at Mrs. Peckham, watching her sit there lost in her private world of grief, weeping for her child so tragically torn from her breast by the drunk driver, what does that thread mean? Is the chair unraveling in sympathy to the shattered lives of all the mourners who’ve sat there day after day?
She looked around, wondering if anyone else saw the thread and what thoughts it provoked in their minds.
No matter how farfetched and deep within the realm of the unbelievable a story may lay, it’s the little details that suggest it might just be possible. It’s the ability to sell the story as a “what if”, the idea that just maybe this *could* be real if our world were shaped a little differently … that is what makes a good story.
What kind of dark secret pushes a man to commit the unimaginable, even as he is sickened by his own actions?
Watch for book 2 of the McAllister series coming soon at Second Wind Publishing, LLC: The McAllister Farm. The secret behind the bodies is revealed.
Link to reviews of Where the Bodies Are on Angie’s Diary
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