The MPW program is interesting. I recommend everyone to try it. Here I'm dropping a few paragraphs I spun there. Unfortunately, most of my writing isn't IMD safe, so all you get are excerpts...and these might be too strong for some (so, caution!).
I invite comments, and hope I haven't bothered anyone too much :)
She used to speak in whispers, like a lost waif who’d cried too much and had just stopped choking back the tears. But there she was now, with her smile and gaze almost terrifyingly proud. Her skin was the color of amaretto; her eyes obsidian and intense…distracting me from her arthritic shuffle.
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He occasionally wrote short, political farces for latent pulps like Spork and The Corporate Tea Bag, none of which garnered a following beyond a few evangelizing gutter prophets and the scant alley hags who wadded them into their cardboard motels near the boardwalk. But, they afforded him the sauce that endured him through the long torturous hours of talking heads the screenwriting curriculum at UCLA hazarded at him.
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Amanda was sensuously doughy, short, and 30-ish…about Boo’s age, and the professor for his Monday production class. She had been forgiving, almost too forgiving, of his absences, and her phone call had been unsolicited. But, her dresses always lilted about her spongy hips, and her smile, although pleasantly disarming, thinly disguised a dark bent for competitive subversiveness: he found her almost interesting.
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But, not the ants. They wove an arabesque of depth and meaning in the carpet. I was an enormous golem trouncing their parade, but too vast to be significant. Most only cared to avoid the carcasses and formic acid stench of their dead nest-mates and so adjusted their dance around them. Others carried off the dead to some mysterious plutonian shore.
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The antiseptic amine stench from the submarine’s CO2 scrubber permeated everything: the blue navy poopiesuits, the civvies zip-locked beneath the thin mattresses of the coffin racks (bunks designed precisely for a 5’10” man of average weight to just barely fit and roll over), and the sweet, steaming, cornbread served with chow in the morning.
But they would become inured to it, those 120 steely-eyed sharks of the deep, as they plowed through the littoral depths at 18 knots in the USS Bremerton, SSN 698 : a 30 foot wide and 300 foot long tube of HY80 steel crammed with hyper-designed, hyper-driven, hypersensitive destructo-electro-gadgetry and computer-guided bang-toys, humming and throbbing to a whirring magneto-acoustic rumba only a sonarman could relate to.
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That is all. Carry on.