Pedestrians looked at her one lone time. Only the owner of the car could practice such limited destruction, they assumed. The more attuned felt the rocking billowy emanations of wrath, wondering uneasily for a brief slo-mo blink what her deal was, allowing a wide berth on the sidewalk and then disappearing into their lives.
These mealy-mouthed moieties resonated with people who lazily spoke nasally: mouth-breathers without dirt. Pristine and secure, platitudes fell from them like vomit from a third-story apartment. The producers did not have to deal with the stench or the clean-up and were left with the purgative feeling of a tum tum emptied of alcoholic turbulence. That is, until the next swell swallowed them.
She wouldn't have minded if people were honest but conveyed with cliché. The inverse was intolerable.
Standing up, she noted with irritation that crossing the strip of vegetation from the sidewalk to the car had left plant vegetation clinging to her trousers. Seed faces looked up in hope. Destiny held for them a watery death topped up by hot blasts of dryer air. They would never touch soil.
I have no idea as to how to gauge the worth my own fictive writing and have had no training. If it's crap, HAH! Time off purgatory 4 u if you read it! If it's got some actual potential, that's fine by me. If it doesn't, that's fine by me. People in real life (as opposed to the people I know only online) tell me I should try to write, and my nature is to be obliging, so THERE YOU GO.
And this bit on fiction books is worth watching: