Tristan King sat and stared at the flashy green sign in front of him. ‘25 Miles to Atlantic City’ it loudly proclaimed.
“Fucking waste of tax money,” he mumbled as he loosened his tie, bent over, and threw it in the suitcase at his feet. "Like anyone in Jersey doesn't know where Atlantic City is." He looked across the street at the busy playground. Kids all shapes and sizes running around, happy for their freedom. Bright yellows, reds and blues made his eyes tear.
"Man up, King" He whispered to himself. He wiped his eyes and tried to keep the bad memories at bay. He remembered bringing Danny to that same playground, pushing Danny on the tire swing as his little hands held on tight and yelled, "Higher Daddy, higher!" He looked at his watch impatiently, 4:30. Time seemed to go by at a slower pace since Danny died, though it had been six months already, everyday seemed like a struggle. Not to his wife though. No, Mrs. Susan King was living it up, enjoying her life.
"Move on" she said. He wondered what his wife would think of his idea of moving on. He looked at the suitcase filled with the money from their joint bank account and savings, and some clothes he grabbed. As the 4:35 bus pulled up, he thought that Atlantic City was the perfect place to 'move on'.
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Nice job, Stephanie. This read well, the pacing is good, and there's an admirable blending of textures--thoughts, setting, memories... I think the "tears" are a sentimental cop-out, the lazy and obvious way to evoke this man's feelings--precisely what the exercise is trying to get you to avoid. The real challenge would be to somehow evoke, purely through this man's perceptions as he stands waiting for the bus, how those perceptions are colored by his emotional state. The result would be very subtle such that we would not necessarily know what has happened to him, but we would see the color of his emotions; we would sense his loss and despair with no direct mention made of these things. That's the sort of challenge that makes a real writer.
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