Mere’ looked around the cinder block room. Light danced with shadow as it filtered through the tall, narrow windows. Cobwebs swayed in the arches at the tops of the casings. The light called to her, warm and inviting. But Mere’ shivered and goose bumps peppered her arms.

George flopped on his back in the high grass of the river bank and tucked his hands behind his head. His hopes, once lower than the bottom of the mill pond, rose high, higher than the big, buttermilk moon hanging over her house. The months of loneliness and waiting for his Katie to come home drifted down river on the current. He patted the ring in his shirt pocket. Come tomorrow, his wait would be over.

Here’s my daughter, Heather’s (14), try:

George’s heart thumped in his chest as he listened. Her soft voice swept over him like a sweet morning breeze. Her auburn tresses glowed like autumn leaves. The sparkle of her green eyes held him captive. He watched her as she walked away, daintily as the angel who awakens the morning flowers without distrubing a drop of dew. It took him a full three minutes to remember what they talked about.

Heather said, we have just described “Twitter-pated” (see Bambi).