I am in horror. Terror. I am completely and utterly astonished and bewildered by how horrible my writing used to be:
"This specimen," said Dr. Grobe, a Clinic scientist, "hasn't walked for a year, and has been blind for fourteen. Go ahead." There were several loud snaps and the bitter scent of latex filled the air. "Sarah, you can check her vitals."
"Is she dangerous?" a woman asked.
Dr. Grobe laughed. "No, no; we only keep class two mutants on this level."
"'Class'?" asked a baritone voice.
Broghan winced as two rough fingers pressed down on her vein, and she was overwhelmed by the stench of "Sarah's" sweet perfume.
"Yes. We classify each mutant that comes through here based on the danger of their mutation. Nightingale—that’s our pet name for this one—is a class two mutant, for the simple fact that her mutation isn’t powerful enough to harm anyone."
Another woman spoke up. "The gloves, then…"
"Are mainly for her safety, correct. Nightingale is what we call a 'healer,' a mutant that can speed up cellular meiosis by touch. Until recently, it was believed that she controlled the outflow of healing energy when in skin-to-skin contact with another living being. However, one of my esteemed colleagues discovered that—"
"The outflow is predominantly out of her control," said Dr. Hanson’s legato voice. "Steven, could I have a word with you?"
"Certainly, Dr. Hanson. Interns, Dr. Ericson will show you the rest of level one, and I’ll catch up with you on level three."
Okay, not GAG ME WITH A SPORK awful, but still... not good. This one's worse:
They had stopped outside the door. Bailey stood there for a split second, weighing the pros and cons of locking the door, turning off the lights and pretending the building was empty. "Too late," she groaned as the door swung open.
"You’re even shorter than she is! How can she look up to a man that is actually shorter than she is?"
"I’m not shorter. I’m six inches taller, at least."
"Well, that settles the matter," Digby laughed.
Cree scowled. "Since when did height have something to do with anything?"
Bailey cleared her throat, and the two young men took notice of her. "Good afternoon, Cree, Digby. What brings you here?"
"Mother sent me to fetch some more, er—" Digby paused for a moment, looking pained. "Daffodils? No, that can’t be it."
"Dandelions?" Bailey offered.
She nodded sagely and attempted to walk the boys to the door. "Well, I’ll bring a quart over later. Take care."
"Actually, I was, er, rather wondering if you had the rent." Digby shifted his weight from foot to foot and stared at the shelf behind her.
Bailey batted her eyes. "Is it Wednesday already?"
"It was Wednesday two days ago, actually." Digby leaned in and whispered, "I told old stone-head that you’ve been fighting a fever and couldn’t possibly be disturbed." He paused and looked at her in earnest. "You—You have got the money, haven’t you? I mean, Jonas is as dumb as an ox, but eventually even he is going to notice that you’re up and about."
Thank you, Critique Circle, for bringing my writing to a point of improvement. Without you, I would still be wallowing in a swamp of ignorant bliss.
P.S. I'm tired, and those examples might not be as bad as I think they are. *shrugs* Just thought I'd find SOMEthing to blog about.
Ciao, bellas! and, er, dudes B-)