The Daily Dose of Dialogue!

Well, I figured with the change in the purpose of this forum, it would be fun and worthwhile for us to do some writing prompts, but focusing on dialogue! Just write as many lines of dialogue as you'd like after I give the scenario. Feel free to let your creative juices flow, but keeping in mind to use proper dialogue tags and punctuation. (As best as you can, of course!) After I get enough responses, I will post the next prompt. (Probably not daily, I just liked the alliteration!)

If you are a new writer, and need a little help, I recommend Cogito's Blog, He said, she said - Mechanics of Dialogue.

Have fun!

The first Daily Dialogue Prompt is:

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[td]You've just walked into your apartment to find a complete stranger lounging on your sofa, watching television.[/td]
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I grabbed the mail from the mailbox in the entry hall, then pulled my keys from my purse, and paused in front of my apartment. Did I leave the TV on this morning? I frowned, unlocked the door, and stopped short at the sight of the woman on the couch. On my couch, with a pint of Ben and Jerry's in her hand.

She raised an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

"What are you doing in my apartment?" I gripped my keys in my fist, ends protruding between my fingers. "Well?"

She snorted and uncurled to her feet in one smooth motion. "Your apartment? You on drugs or something? This is my place."

"The hell it is! I've lived here for two years." I waved the bills from the mailbox at her. "This is my mail, with my name on it. And I'm calling the police."

She glanced at the name on the top letter. "It's my name on that mail. Elizabeth Sawyer. Go ahead and call the cops. Save me the trouble."

"I'm Elizabeth Sawyer. What are you trying to pull? I have a drivers license, I can prove who I am.

"Bring it. I'm calling the cops, right now. You better get your lying ass out of my place before they get here." She pulled out a cell phone and pressed once. Speed dial.

I dialed 911. Whoever she had called, I was going to make sure some real police arrived.

...

 

(Apologies for the language. All my characters tend to use colorful language. ;-) Hope that's okay.)

"What the fuck?"

The words sprang from my mouth before I could even consider the wisdom of saying them -- or of saying anything, really. I blinked as I looked again at the couch, not quite believing that I was seeing a guy sitting there, watching Chris Matthews ranting on MSNBC. For the first time in my life I wished I carried a gun. Maybe those NRA guys are right -- everyone should be armed, because maybe this guy was. My adrenaline spiked as he sat further up and turned to face me.

"Oh, hey! I thought you'd be home later," he said.

"What?" I looked at his face, trying to force some recognition. Had I had a stroke? Some kind of brain tumor? Who was this guy?

"Dave -- oh, jeez. I'm sorry. You don't remember last night?"

I felt my mouth drop as the rest of my face froze in terror. What the hell had happened last night? I'm not gay. Oh shit. What did I do? The only sound I could force from my mouth was an "uh..."

"Oh, shit, man. I knew it. You were so hammered. I'm sorry..." He stood and walked around the couch over toward me. "I'm Eric -- Larry's friend."

For the first time I exhaled. "Larry-- right. I'm sorry." Fuck. All those shots of Jagermeister. And fuck Jenn, too. If it weren't for her I wouldn't have needed to down all those shots. All I'd really wanted to do was flop on the couch tonight and forget it all. But now I've got Eric. Larry's friend. Although I don't remember from last night, I'm sure he's one of several of Larry's cohorts who's both unemployed and technically homeless.

"Hey -- I thought we'd bonded last night. I'm sorry. I can get out of your hair."

Panic crept in again. Bonded? In what way? "Ummm... What, uh..."

"Oh no, Man - not that way. I'm no friend of Dorothy. I just thought we'd bonded so good over our damn women." He shook his head and took a swig of beer that I'd just noticed he'd had on the side table. One of my last good ones - a Sam Adams. "Man, your girlfriend, Jenn --"

"EX - girlfriend." I corrected him more vehemently than I'd expected or intended.

He nodded. "Right -- no kidding. Of course, ex. Man, she and my wife Jane -- they could teach a fuckin' course together."

My adrenaline levels at least returned to normal as I realized that he probably wasn't here to kill me. Or rob me, and need to kill me incidentally for having unexpectedly interrupting him. "So...."

"Right -- you want me to leave? I just thought we had an agreement, with what you told me and all."

I sighed. "No, no -- it's okay. Go ahead and stay. At least for tonight."

"You sure?" He squinted his eyes and cocked his head as he finished his beer.

"Yeah. What the hell? Some company tonight might not be so bad."

"Awesome. Oh, and you get me that 25 grand anytime before noon. Then I'll be on my way."

 

Juggling my groceries, I opened the door to my apartment. I dropped the bags on the kitchen counter and turned towards the living room. There was a rather large man in a leather jacket sitting on my couch, watching television.

"Um..." I said. "Hi, hello, who are you?"

The man continued watching the television, and then burst out laughing.

"This guy is hilarious!" he blurted out. He as watching Ellen and I noticed he was eating my last bag of cheese doodles.

"No, she's not a man, she's a... Wait, what are you doing in my house?" He turned off the TV and stood up. He towered over me.

"Chino just wants his money, and he's tired of waiting, Mr. Murphy."

"What?"

"Look, either I leave here with the money or you leave here, in a bag." He cracked his knuckles and leaned into me.

"But my name isn't Murphy," I said, cowering. "It's Darling, Robert Darling."

"Darling?" He looked confused. I nodded. He pulled a small piece of paper out his pocket and unfolded it. "You're not Vincent Murphy?"

"Nope."

He studied the paper. "Is this one-one-six Roosevelt Avenue?"

"Ah, no, actually it's one-one-nine Roosevelt."

He placed the piece of paper back in his pocket. "My mistake," he said, placing the bag of cheese doodles under his arm. "You have a nice day." He walked out the door and I shut it behind him.

"Well, that was odd," I said to myself.

 

Lester nearly dropped his bag of groceries at the sight of bare feet propped on one end of his couch. At the other end was the owner of the toes, a total
stranger, sucking a cherry popsicle. An orange rolled out of the bag. The stranger tore his eyes from the t.v. nodding a greeting at Lester who back
stepped to check the apartment door number. 356 definitely his. Of course it was his, that was his couch and his robe.

“Hello?” That was too damn polite. He could practically hear his analyst screeching in his ear, get a backbone Lester, there’s a stranger in your apartment. “How did you get in here?” Better, but he still sounded bewildered, not angry.

“Picked your lock, stupid. These apartments are freaking easy.” He turned the popsicle sideways and it broke, sliding off the stick into his red stained mouth. There was a noisy slurp and he chewed with his mouth open. “Brain freeze. Sheeeit!” he swished his mouth with the last swallow of Black Label. “Since your up grab me another beer.”

Lester bent to retrieve the orange and the celery flopped out. The young man laughed and tossed the sticky popsicle stick onto the coffee table.

“Use the ashtray.” Lester said, frowning.

“You’re a real clean freak arenchu? There wasn’t even one armpit hair stuck in your soap. Till I got through with it.”

Laugh it up, a whole bar of honey-mandarin soap to be thrown out. Lester grimaced as he passed in front of the t.v.

“Hurry! Move it, you’re blocking the screen.”

It was reflex to scurry. Lester blushed as the young man laughed. He set down the groceries on the kitchen counter.

“Don’t forget my beer.”

Lester scowled but brought him the beer. “Are you robbing me?”

“Robbing you?” The boy nearly spewed his first swallow. “Shit, what’s to rob? Your ceramic Chihuahua collection? The pasta maker? Although I have to admit this robe’s nice.”

“It’s cashmere.” Lester perched on the arm of a club chair. “If you’re not robbing me than what do you want?”

“A job in your new movie.”

“My movie?” Lester was confused.

“Yeah, whaddya think?” The boy opened the robe.

“I think you got the wrong place.”

 

Reaching into my purse for my key, I still couldn't believe I was free. Free from the accusations, the waiting. Free from the hectic chaos and headaches. Now, it was only me and the silence I so desired.

The lock clicked and I pushed open the door to my apartment, the smell of last nights chili wafting in the air. Stepping inside, I peeled off my wet coat to the sound of laughter. A man's laugh.

I turned my head. There a man sat on my couch, watching my TV and eating a bowl of chili.

"I didn't expect you home this early," he said, catching my eye. "Did you have a fine day?" He pointed to the evening news that had my face displayed in high-definition. "Looks like they haven't forgotten about you."

"Do I know you?"

"I'm Bill, your new bodyguard," he said between a mouthful. "I swore you saw me a few days ago. Still can't believe you were in that salon for three hours. Couldn't make a decision on the new disguise, huh?"

"You've been stalking me?" Great, the guy was a pervert and I had left my purse on the floor. I took a step backwards with the hope that he would stay seated.

"Not stalking, Sweetheart. Just doing my job," He set his empty bowl on the coffee table before locking his gaze on me. "I wouldn't call if I were you."

"And why not?" I shouted and made a sprint for my purse. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stand as I shuffled through my junk.

"You want everyone to know your new location? Calling from here would be a dead giveaway. I'm surprised a murderer like you wouldn't know that..."

"Shut up and get out of my apartment," I said, pointing at the open door. "And tell my attorney I'm firing you, I don't need a bodyguard."

"You think you have a choice? You can sweet talk America all you want, but we both know you should be the one dead," he said and grabbed his trench-coat that was draped on the recliner. "Thanks for dinner. I'll be seeing you..."

As Bill turned his back, I smiled and raised my hand to bid him farewell. One shot was all it took for life to go back to pleading not guilty, but you know what? The silence was boring.

 

"Can I... um... help you with something?" I asked, tentatively.

"No," came the curt reply.

"What do you mean by, 'no?'" I replied.

"There is nothing that you can help me with, can I be much clearer?" the man replied, muting the television for a moment and giving me an icy glare. "I mean, I could find a piece of paper and write it down if you like." Ok, so this guy was not nice, and in my living room.

"Sir, If you do not explain yourself I will be forced to call the authorities!" I was beginning to feel irate.

"There's no need to get defensive now! Now, if you could make me a sandwich, I'm watching my story," he said, un-muting the TV and resuming watching his soap opera, on my television, in my house, on my couch. What the hell.

"I will not make you a sandwich! This is my house, and I demand to know why you are here!"

"Wait, this is... your house?" he said, looking puzzled.

"Yes! Apartment 3c, Building 4401 North Main Street! This is my house!" I was shouting.

"Well, I'm really sorry about this... honestly, I am," he said, standing up. Then he approached, and gave me a hug.

"Truthfully, I though that this was apartment 4c, Building 4403 South Main Street. I will leave now, go your way in peace my brother, and may the universe always shine on you!"

He smiled brightly, went to the door and walked out.

What the hell...

 

Interesting to see the percentage of folks who just returned from the grocery store ;-)

My $0.02, if anyone cares --
JJ - I'd lose or change that last line.
Selbbin: I'd change the whole 'doing it' exchange into something more subtle. It seems odd he'd say it that way.
Peach: Love your last line.
Pheonix: I'd change the "authorities" line -- it sounds odd, although maybe it fits for your character if it were part of a large piece.
Cog: Love your last line, too. As always, intriguing.
Jess: I was confused at the end -- did she kill the bodyguard, too?

Loved reading them all.

 

The second Daily Dialogue Prompt is:

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[td]You are the lone flight attendant on a red-eye flight to Los Angeles. The plane hits some turbulence and loses an engine. Alarms are going off, passengers are panicking and you need to take control of the situation.[/td]
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Stewardess? Flight attendant? Or are you deliberately ordaining the gender of the character?

 

Flight attendant. I was on the way out the door and couldn't remember what the non-gendered term was. I fixed it. Choose your own gender. ;-)

 

"I need everyone to settle down, now!" The twenty or so passengers, half of whom are groggy from just waking up, stare at me. "Thank you. As I was saying, we will be okay. The captain has shut down the engine and extinguished the fire--"

"FIRE? We're on FIRE?"

"NO!" Why can't passenger 8C just shut up! "We're not on fire. The engine was on fire, but it has been extinguished and shut down. We have three remaining engines and should make it into LAX by five-fifteen a.m."

I barely hang up the cabin phone when the Call Light catches my attention. Unbelievable! Let me guess, 8C? How did I know that? Maybe if I ignore it, she'll go away.

But after a few minutes, the make busy work is finished and the light's still on. Matter of fact, the light for all three seats on that row is on now. Guess there's nothing else to do but see what my favorite passenger wants. "Can I help you?"

The hundred and fifty or so pound ulcer-causing bint turns her nose up at me. "I did press the Servant button, didn't I?"

"I'm sorry ma'am, but the flight attendant button seems to be broken."

She glares at me and I amuse myself by thinking what it'd be like to throw her out of the plane at forty thousand feet. It's a fun thought to entertain until she sees fit to ask whatever is bothering her little head.

"I thought this flight was supposed to arrive at four forty-five am. Why are we late now?"

Can she really be this stupid? "As I said before, ma'am, we lost an engine."

"What! We LOST IT! You just said it was on fire!"

"Ma'am, I need you to stop shouting! I meant that the captain had to shut it down. It slows our speed slightly and that's why we'll be just a little--"

An explosion shakes the plane and flames light up the night sky on the left side.

"What was that!"

What, she thinks I'm a friggin' airplane mechanic too?

The pilot comes on over the intercom. "We've lost our second engine. There's nothing to worry about however, we've trained for this type of scenario a thousand times over. Our expected arrival time is now five-forty."

"Five-forty? What does he mean five-forty--that's almost an hour late!"

"Listen, you" - I catch myself before decrepit virus farmescapes my lips - "should really relax and try to get a little sleep. There's nothing else to do what ride it out."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"No ma'am, I wouldn't dare do that." I would however, thoroughly enjoy showing her how far I could shove my foot up her posterior orifice. It really is a shame I can't say that to her though. "Why don't I get you a drink for free."

She huffs and looks out the window. "Let's see if you can at least manage that, then."

Now, I'm only five-one and a hundred and fifteen pounds, but I grew up in New York City with six older brothers, and if she thinks that--

"Standing there isn't getting me my drink, deary."

I just manage to tamp down my anger enough to turn and walk back to the galley. The passengers that heard our little exchange give me looks of encouragement. The others just look afraid. A few second later I retrieve the strongest alcohol I can find, plus a cup. Oh, and also the stun gun that flight attendants have been given since 9-11. I slide that into my pocket just in case 8C gets a little out of control.

Hey, a girl can dream, can't she?

"Here's your drink. Is there anything else I can get you?"

"Yes, a new Servant. I don't like your tone."

"Tone? Let me tell you--"

Another explosion rocks the airplane. Muffled screams travel through the cabin. The captain comes on the intercom, "We've just lost our third engine. There's nothing to worry about however, this plane was originally designed to fly with one engine. Please remain calm and everything will be okay."

The useless fleshbag in 8C throws up her hands. "Great! Just great! How much longer will it be this time?"

The intercom crackles again, almost as if in response to her. "The latest setback will put us in LAX at six-thirty."

"SIX-THIRTY!" 8C screams. "God I hope that last engine doesn't go out, we'll be up here all night!" The stun-gun lights up the cabin and knocks her out to the cheers of the other passengers.

 

The third Daily Dialogue Prompt is:

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[td]After a routine checkup, a doctor enters the waiting room and carefully studies your results. Finally, he closes the folder and says to you, "I'm not quite sure how to tell you this..."[/td]
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The doctor looked up from my chart. "I'm not quite sure how to tell you this..."

"Tell me what?"

"I'm sorry Chris, I don't have a choice."

I was getting angry. "Tell me what? What are you talking about?"

"I'm revoking your active living status."

"What? Why? Look, it was just a finger! Sometimes fingers fall off."

"I'm sorry, but it's out of my hands."

"You're sorry? I'm going to get fired from my job, and my driver's license is going to get revoked."

"Look, Chris, it's perfectly normal for a zombie such as yourself to get your status downgraded eventually. The government can't have legs coming off when people like you are driving a car."

"Like me? What's that supposed to mean? You think just because you're alive that you're better than me?"

"No, I didn't say that. Listen, I asked Sheila at reception to give you some pamphlets. There are a lot of great government programs to help you with a transition to non-active status."

I stood up and stormed toward the door. I turned and glared at the doctor. "I'll tell you what you can do with your pamphlets, and as soon as I find that finger, I'm coming back down here and giving it to you!" I said, slamming the door.

 

I give it a Pass. It's enjoyable, although the flight attendant one was admittedly a bit hard to follow. Definitely keep it up.

 

After a routine checkup, a doctor enters the waiting room and carefully studies your results. Finally, he closes the folder and says to you, "I'm not quite sure how to tell you this..."

I sat in the waiting room, fidgeting with my handbag. What was taking so long?

Finally, a man walked in with a folder in hand. He looked at me, flipped through the pages in the folder, and approached me.

I stood. "Doctor?"

He paused, and closed his folder. "I'm not quite sure how to tell you this." He cleared his throat.

"What's wrong? I'm just here for a routine checkup. And I've been waiting at least an hour."

"I know. And I'm sorry you were left hanging."

"Just tell me. Please,"

He sighed. "You have acute bellafaccia."

"A what? I don't understand."

"There's an empty consultation room over there. We can talk in private there."

I followed him, my heart pounding. He closed the door, and motioned to one of the chairs. We sat.

"Okay. Let me explain." He leaned forward. "You have acute bellafaccia." He opened the folder, which contained a pencil sketch. Of me. I stared at him/

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not a doctor. I saw you waiting and waiting. I really don't know where your doctor disappeared to. I hope I haven't completely freaked you out."

"Freaked out? No shit I'm freaked out! And what was that shit about acute whatsisitis?" I balled my fists.

"Acute bellafaccia. You have a cute, beautiful face. And, well, I really wanted to meet you. I'm really, really sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. I mean, you were looking so anxious, sitting there, and like I said, I wanted to meet you, and well, I..."

I wanted to pound on him. Instead, I laughed. He looked so flustered.

"All right. I forgive you. I guess they must have forgotten all about me. They're so damn disorganized around here." I stood up, and opened the door.

"So," he said, "would you like to join me for a coffee or something?"

I smiled at him over my shoulder. "Not a chance."

 

“I’m not quite sure how to tell you this Sam. Oh, screw that - yes I do, you’ve got
a week left to live maybe, more.”

“Whaaat?” Sam gasped. “I thought it was just a rash, Dad.”

“Don’t call me dad.” Dr. Harper snapped, shutting Sam’s file.

“Okay, Mr. - err - Dr. Harper.” Sam amended, watching his father-in-law stalk back to his desk, while clamping his hands between his thighs in an attempt to keep from scratching his groin . “But I still don’t understand seeing as how I thought I was coming in for something like Gold bond.” He gritted his teeth and gave a quick indiscreet scratch. “Super Gold bond.”

“You have, what the teenagers call - crabs.”

“Crabs!” Sam hollared then lowered his voice. “As in - like a -”

“We’re not talking surf n’ turf.”

“How did this happen?”

“Would you like me to draw you a picture?”

“Now wait a minute - ”

“I know it wasn’t my sweet daughter Gloria, I know that for sure! Didn’t they use to call you Wham-Bam Sam?”

“As a joke! I was the biggest liar in town. Not that I’m lying now....If it’s only crabs how come I only got a week left to live?”

“It will take me that long to organize a hit man to bump you off. A week, maybe more. It all depends on my schedule.”

Sam scratched. “You haven’t had a visit from our gardener, Julio, have you? I’m just asking.”

 

The fourth Daily Dialogue Prompt is:

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[td]You're having coffee at your favorite place when your best friend runs up to you, excited and out of breath.[/td]
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( sorry if it's a little long, I was waiting for the end sentence to hit me! )

“Sam! Sam, you’ll never guess what happened. Never! But go on guess, guess.” Elliot ran into Cup O’ Joes, side-swiping a couple of tables. The occupants, of which, swore, grabbing for their teetering mocha java lattes.

“You won the lottery?” I joked, as he dropped into a seat at my table.

“Shit! Who told?”

“You won the lottery? Seriously?”

“Yes, can you freakin’ believe it - the lottery.”

“The big one?”

“One hundred mil, doesn’t get any bigger.”He stole a drink of my Irish coffee. “I can’t wait to tell Jessica.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You can’t tell her.”

“What - why?”

“She’ll frog-march you down to the city hall for a marriage license, for starters.”

“Ya, think?”

“Don’t look so damn hopeful. Her gold-digging is as transparent as her new fun-bags. You’ll
be divorced in a year and she’ll walk off with half your money.”

“I don’t know Sam, I was talking with her the other day -”

“- she was talking. You were listening.”

“And she wants kids. A girl and a boy. She’s already got the names picked out Jamaica and Indigo.”

“You can’t name your children after ink and an island. You’ve got a bachelor’s degree in science.” I scoffed. “Listen to me buddy, forget Jessica. The world’s our oyster - your oyster. Think about it we could hop a jet to Monte Carlo, find us some gorgeous babes who don’t speak English. Then we head to Belize for some scuba cave exploring like our plan eh? Remember, how we
planned all this before when we had no money? Now's our chance.”

“Well. It does sound good. In fact... it sounds fantastic. Is that my phone or yours? Oh it’s mine. It’s Jessica.”

“Don’t give her the time of day. Be strong. No mercy.”

As soon as he answered a joyous scream radiated from the phone like a police siren. Elliot jerked it away from his ear, covering
the mouth piece but itdidn’t make much of a difference, I could still hear the harpy.

“I think she knows.” Elliot hissed.

“No shit, sherlock.”

Elliot put the phone to his ear. “Yes...unbelievable eh baby? Yeah, it's one hundred mil... I swear it...dinner tonight?”
I shook my head. Elliot turned away guilty-like. “Sure Baby. Okay, baby..yeah...yeah. Uhuh. Bye.”

I glared.

“Can I buy you a piece of pie at least?”

“Sure why not, cherry pie beats Monte Carlo any day.”

“Um... I’m a little short of cash. -”

“Oh for the love of - I could pound you Elliot.”

 

“Artie!” Finn came running, almost taking out an elderly woman sipping her latte. He aimed for the chair next to Artie, but missed and wound up landing on the floor.

“Finn, what in the world is wrong with you?” Artie said, helping him into the chair. He was catching his breath.

“What is wrong with me,” he started, “is not in this world.”

Artie had gotten quite used to Finn’s eccentric nature and had learned to take everything with a spoonful of skepticism.

“What are you going on about?” Artie said. He notcied the old woman Finn had almost knocked over was now giving them both a disapproving glare.

“What are you drinking?” Finn said.

“Green tea.”

“We should be drinking alcohol.”

“Finn, it’s eleven in the morning.”

“Well, seeing how there isn’t going to be an eleven o’clock this evening, I say we head over to the pub.” Finn started to get up.

“Why,” Artie said, choosing his words carefully, “is there not going to be an eleven o’clock tonight?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“About the asteroid! It’s going to come screaming into our atmosphere at like, a billion miles an hour and vaporize everything.”

Artie looked around at all the people in the coffee shop going about their day.

“It looks like I’m not the only one, Finn.”

“No, see, the news is saying it’s going to miss the planet but…” Finn lowered his voice and leaned closer to Artie. “I recalculated the trajectory.”

“You recalculated the trajectory?”

“Yes, and they were wrong.”

“Finn, last week you asked me to help you find the chemists and it turned out that your apartment was directly above it.”

“So?”

“You shared a mailbox.”

“Look, I know I’m right on this one.”

“So you have corrected NASA’s calculations, pinpointed the flaws in their trillion dollar computer systems, and your solution, is to go to the pub?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Artie sighed and looked down at his tea, which was now cold.

“Well, why not,” Artie said standing up. “But if the world is ending, Finn, then you’re buying.”

Finn slapped Artie on the back as they left the coffee shop.

“Deal, mate,” Finn said. “Um, where is the pub?”