Writer, how far can you travel with a single sail? Consider space over words; let life blow in.
Marcia Ferguson trims with a skeleton crew:
On the beach. VEE and ROD sit apart, relaxed, watching the waves. Silence.
Vee: I shaved my legs and now I get these ingrown hairs.
Rod: When did you start?
Vee: At a birthday party. I cut my skin. [Pause] When did you start shaving?
Rod: Twelve.
Vee: Did you have whiskers?
Rod: Nuh.
Vee: Did you shave tonight?
Rod: Trimmed it. Hate shaving.
He feels her legs.
Vee: It goes prickly.
Rod: I love that feeling.
Vee: Oh you do not!
Rod: I love it.
He rubs his cheek on her leg, she laughs. Silence.
Vee: [Laughing] It’s beautiful here. We used to come here when Mum and Dad were together.
Rod: Did you have a house?
Vee: Nah, a caravan.
Rod: Dad doesn’t like caravans. He’s too big he hits his head on the ceiling.
Vee: I’d love to live here.
Rod: I love you.
Vee: I know.
Rod: But I really love you.
Vee: Yeah.
Rod: I’ve never said that before.
Vee: That’s boys for you.
Writer, what is the least you can write?
Ferguson, Marcia 2008. Australian Marriage Act. Sydney: Currency Press, pp. 10-11
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