For some story, the characterization is the purpose of the author. Some inner poison slowly spreading through my limbs, and when it gets to my fingertips I'm going to jump out of my chair, spilling the Scrabble tiles over the floor, and I'm going to start hitting her again and again and again. The rage gets to my fingertips and passes. She gives me a suspicious look. Shot 9: Man gets up and starts strangling her and beating her up. I watch my wife's smug expression as she rearranges her letters. Then I sigh, deeply, and sit back into my chair.
My wife sleeps all the time. As for the key murder scene, Hitchcock lost almost twenty pounds from nervous anxiety, trying to get it right in take after take. Shot 15: The couple is sleeping. That doesn't leave me with a lot of options. I'm 42 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble. The words are coming true. Shot 26: He turns around and looks at his tile, seriously contemplating.
I'm 22 years old, it's a blistering hot Sunday afternoon and all I can think of to do with my life is to play Scrabble. Something unlikely, to prove that the letters are making it happen. Hmmm… Shot 7: Zoom out. As the man is shaking and grinning he swallows the tile and starts choking and coughing and stands up gasping for breath and falls to the floor. If it wasn't too hot to move I would strangle her right now. Scrabble is at the center of this story. It's the hottest day for ten years and my wife is turning on the kettle.
The events following come out of no where when in the end, the man is the one to die. I should be out, doing exercise, spending money, meeting people. As I put the last letter down, there is a deafening bang and the air conditioning unit fails. The 42 year old husband detests his wife and has nothing positive to say about his wife. I hope they're not bees. Perhaps for his next turn, he'll opt for M-U-R-D-E-R. That would be a sign.
It's a bad habit, I know. It's a bad habit, I know. Buzzing around above the Scrabble board, surfing the thermals from the tepid cup of tea. I can feel the trembling energy of potential in my veins. I watch my wife's smug expression as she rearranges her letters. I hope that if they are bees, they fly into my wife's throat. I'd be starring in the latest Hollywood blockbuster.
As they continue to play he begins to believe the words he is playing are coming alive and actually happening. I chose to post this short-story because I found interesting the whole irony that involves it. All the letters are frayed. I feel a terrible rage build up inside me. As the story progresses, he becomes obsessed with murder. I fall to the floor.
I'd be sailing the Vendee Globe on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons - I don't know, but I'd be doing something. Characterization is also the important part of the story. Something that cannot be misinterpreted. The letters made it happen. She gives me a suspicious look. My face goes red, then blue.
The need to construct more prisons and jails is growing in leaps and bounds and the hungry stomachs of these people have long been siphoning our economic budget. The letters are choosing their future. I draw blood clawing at my neck. Shot 11: Facing the woman. The steam rising from her cup of tea makes me feel hotter. I'd be sailing the Vendee Globe on a 60-foot clipper called the New Horizons - I don't know, but I'd be doing something. She, sleeps all the time! On Thursday morning I spoke to the milkman.
I can hear buzzing insects outside. I can hear buzzing insects outside. Ohne Werbeunterbrechungen hat der, Tile M for Murder stream volle des Filme eine Dauer von 9 Minuten; sein offizieller Trailer ist im Internet zu sehen. The story is of a husband who without great background information has an extreme hatred for his wife. I steal a blank tile from the letter bag when she's not looking, and throw back a V from my rack.