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Practice and improve writing style. Write like Ernest Hemingway

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'I don't know what you are talking about,' the shooter, who was not a shooter, then, except potentially and was a Colonel of Infantry in the Army of the United States, reduced from being a general officer, said.

 

You know how, he said to himself, reading the ads. in the back of the paper. You've put it on the line enough times. It isn't crazy or morbid. She just wanted to put it on the line. It was a good thing it was me, he thought.

 

'Truly, my Colonel. I have not seen him pull his Baedeker during the meal.'

 

'I love you,' he said. 'That's what you can base on. I tell you truly.'

 

'We ought to be in a book,' the Colonel said. 'Would you mind, Daughter?'

 

“I had a lovely dream,” Bill said. “I don’t remember what it was about, but it was a lovely dream.”

 

“I’m not tight,” Mike said. “Perhaps just a little. I say, Brett, you are a lovely piece.”

 

“We’ll see how he is in the ring,” Montoya said.

 

It was part of his system of authority. It made him seem older. I noticed his skin. It was clear and smooth and very brown. There was a triangular scar on his cheek-bone. I saw he was watching Brett. He felt there was something between them. He must have felt it when Brett gave him her hand. He was being very careful. I think he was sure, but he did not want to make any mistake.

 

“That was rather good. Ashley, chap she got the title from, was a sailor, you know. Ninth baronet. When he came home he wouldn’t sleep in a bed. Always made Brett sleep on the floor. Finally, when he got really bad, he used to tell her he’d kill her. Always slept with a loaded service revolver. Brett used to take the shells out when he’d gone to sleep. She hasn’t had an absolutely happy life. Brett. Damned shame, too. She enjoys things so.”

 

They sailed well and the old man soaked his hands in the salt water and tried to keep his head clear. There were high cumulus clouds and enough cirrus above them so that the old man knew the breeze would last all night. The old man looked at the fish constantly to make sure it was true. It was an hour before the first shark hit him.

 

"It's steady," the old man told him. "It's too steady. You shouldn't be that tired after a windless night. What are birds coming to?"

 

"He'll take it," the old man said aloud. "God help him to take it."

 

The boy did not know whether yesterday's paper was a fiction too. But the old man brought it out from under the bed.

 

If they don't travel too fast I will get into them, the old man thought, and he watched the school working the water white and the bird now dropping and dipping into the bait fish that were forced to the surface in their panic.

 

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