Show, Don't Tell

Here's a little treat for my readers out there, wherever you are:

They smell terrible. The sweat of last season seems to have made a home within their worn seams. I'm afraid that if I put them on, it will be impossible to erase their stench from my skin. A quick test tells me I'm correct, and I try to suffocate my hands in soap. Even worse, the padding is starting to deteriorate. It feels soft and comfy, but I know it just means they're on their deathbed. They're falling apart before my eyes, and soon they'll be illegal to wear in games. I'll order a new pair soon. For now, I'll just have to resist my desire to vomit and make sure I wash my hands after wearing them.

It sits there in my basement, all by its lonesome. The cool feel of the metal stays with my hands for a few moments after I pull away. I pick up the smooth wooden sticks and bang them together a few times in anticipation. Its round face stares back at me, and I begin to picture a yellow smiley face in the middle. Suddenly I'm hitting it like there's no tomorrow. I have no training, and my attacks have no rhythm or purpose. The only thing apparent is the unmatched fury of the sticks, cutting through the air like a knife as the assault on my ears continue. Eventually, it becomes too much, and the shouting stops the second I drop the sticks. If only I had a few more to hit. Then the senseless banging might someday sound cohesive.

There was really only supposed to be one of those, but I wanted to write two to see if one was phenomenal. Decide for yourself whether they're good or not.