Novel Progress: a slow-motion moment

In Coursera's "Creative Writing: Craft of Setting and Description" the first assignment was to take a brief moment in time and describe it in vivid detail, so that it seems to move in slow motion. I decided to write about my character Zach being shot.

The character I refer to below as "the receptionist" is Zach's aunt. Her name is Wryn. When I expand this scene for the novel, Wryn will have a bigger role.

Happy reading!

Zach turned his back on the wall of monitors when the door to the the police chief’s office slammed open. A man wearing the olive green coveralls of the janitorial staff strode into the room pointing a compact blaster, a pocket-sized version too small to generate more than two bolts, maybe three on the lowest setting.

The stranger’s slicked-back hair was slightly darker than the stubble covering his lower face. His no-nonsense expression briefly twitched into a look of confusion that melted back into one of resignation. He flicked off the safety, and the weapon projected a red dot that gleamed in stark contrast against Zach’s navy blue shirt, hovering over his heart.

“I’m unarmed,” Zach said, loud enough to cover the tap-tap of the receptionist’s heels. He caught a glimpse of her approaching, her voluminous white blouse billowing around her like a cape. She was a fifty-something redhead, reed-slender, and dwarfed by the bulk of the intruder, whose coveralls strained to contain the muscles of his arms and thighs.

“You don’t have an appointment,” she protested as she hurried toward the room.

The stranger glanced in her direction. It was a slight turn, but enough that the red dot moved off of Zach’s torso.

“Get down!” Zach yelled. He dove behind the wide, black metal desk a second before the man pressed the trigger. A scarlet flash of light from the dull gray weapon seared across the room faster than Zach could move. It struck his left shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin and muscle like a red-hot knife.

Blood soaked his shirt and pooled on the gray slate tile beneath him. He’d knocked a pile of papers from the desk on his way to the floor. Some had been crumpled under his legs. The ones closer to his shoulder were splattered with blood droplets. And one sheet of paper had been hit, the corner ripped off and scorched by the energy of the weapon’s discharge.

From his vantage point on the floor, Zach could see the janitor’s uniform was designed for a shorter man. The pants legs ended several inches above the stranger’s hairy ankles. The brown running shoes on his wide feet were scuffed from heavy use.

The assailant ran from the room while the receptionist was still following Zach’s instructions to hit the floor. “Stop him!” she yelled. “And get a medic!”

Zach slapped his right hand over his shoulder, staunching the flow of blood. The wall of monitors showed the intruder sprinting toward the exit, with three officers in pursuit.

The receptionist kneeled beside him, her topaz eyes wide in shock. 


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