Favorite lines you've written

Jack Judah

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Perhaps giving up, much like growing older, was not something which happened overnight. Instead, both had happened in little bits and pieces, a day at a time; they must have been giving up for years, Nefrál thought, and so had not realized it when the dream of running away had finally died. She herself had hardly noticed its passing, but then it had never been her dream in the first place.

Some seriously heavy stuff. Hit me right in the feels. Well done.

There are no monsters here, only men.

I'm hooked in seven words. Love it.
 
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Thekherham

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Favorite lines from my novel "Life Through My Eyes"


You have fur like animals, you have a tail like animals, you eat meat like animals, you mate like animals. What does that make you?”


The conquerors conquer, and the conquered suffer. When has it ever been any different?”
 

TellMeAStory

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It's 1933 and Lily, now in her early 20s is attending a formal dinner at the Goldblooms'. Nurse Cici Goldbloom is their daughter who's been nursing at the tuberculosis sanitarium where Lily also works. The stated purpose of this dinner is to honor Lily, but actually, it's to introduce Cici and Mr. Blauschild, marriage and profitable business alliances to follow. We join them mid-meal.


...That first course had been soup, not much of a challenge, but the second course was a severe test of Lily's study of etiquette. It seemed to be some variety of fish, chopped, formed into balls, heavily coated, and deep-fried, too big to be eaten at one bite, and too spherical to be easily dissected. "Only watch your hostess and do as she does," Mrs. Engelmann had said. But how to watch the hostess to your left if you were supposed to be conversing with the gentleman to your right?

Mr. Blauschild took a long slow drink of water and set his goblet back on the table. "Beautiful weather we've been having, don't you think?"

He must be waiting for their hostess to demonstrate the correct way to manage tricky fish balls. Lily agreed that this year's autumn did hold promise, and let her eye travel across the table to Phyllis Finkelstein who, from where she'd been seated, would have a good view of their hostess.

Phyllis took up the tiny fork and knife situated horizontally above her charger plate where etiquette books said a dessert spoon should lie. Would that be Mrs. Goldbloom's endearing little habit of inventing her own rules, or was Phyllis in error?

Nurse Cici, though further down the table, might be a better model. Lily let her eye wander in that direction, and as she did, Cici lifted her napkin to cover a cough. It wasn't a loud or particularly harsh cough, but a small and growing speck of red blossomed through her napkin in sharp contrast to its pristine whiteness.

Then, probably because Lily was looking, Mr. Blauschild looked, and because Mr. Blauschild was looking, both Mr. and Mrs. Goldbloom looked. And because so many others were looking, the rest of the guests looked too. Cici froze, staring out over her red-stained napkin, and a silence settled over the table.

Lily could only imagine what her fellow diners were thinking. Before their eyes, Cici Goldbloom would be transforming from the still-eligible daughter of a successful businessman into an overdressed specter of mortality. Her slinky sleeveless dinner gown would no longer speak of sophisticated elegance as its arm holes, cut fashionably low, exposed, they'd be noticing now, washboard ribs. And her hair, fashionably bobbed, would be revealing the elongated gauntness of her neck.

Mrs. Goldbloom, in her role of example-setting hostess, would--and she did--resolutely ring her little silver bell for the next course.

But Mr. Goldbloom rose from his chair and all but ran from the room, and the guests, white-faced, every one, followed--not their hostess's example, but the host's.
 

Brave Sir Robin

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It's 1933 and Lily, now in her early 20s is attending a formal dinner at the Goldblooms'. Nurse Cici Goldbloom is their daughter who's been nursing at the tuberculosis sanitarium where Lily also works. The stated purpose of this dinner is to honor Lily, but actually, it's to introduce Cici and Mr. Blauschild, marriage and profitable business alliances to follow. We join them mid-meal.


...That first course had been soup, not much of a challenge, but the second course was a severe test of Lily's study of etiquette. It seemed to be some variety of fish, chopped, formed into balls, heavily coated, and deep-fried, too big to be eaten at one bite, and too spherical to be easily dissected. "Only watch your hostess and do as she does," Mrs. Engelmann had said. But how to watch the hostess to your left if you were supposed to be conversing with the gentleman to your right?

Mr. Blauschild took a long slow drink of water and set his goblet back on the table. "Beautiful weather we've been having, don't you think?"

He must be waiting for their hostess to demonstrate the correct way to manage tricky fish balls. Lily agreed that this year's autumn did hold promise, and let her eye travel across the table to Phyllis Finkelstein who, from where she'd been seated, would have a good view of their hostess.

Phyllis took up the tiny fork and knife situated horizontally above her charger plate where etiquette books said a dessert spoon should lie. Would that be Mrs. Goldbloom's endearing little habit of inventing her own rules, or was Phyllis in error?

Nurse Cici, though further down the table, might be a better model. Lily let her eye wander in that direction, and as she did, Cici lifted her napkin to cover a cough. It wasn't a loud or particularly harsh cough, but a small and growing speck of red blossomed through her napkin in sharp contrast to its pristine whiteness.

Then, probably because Lily was looking, Mr. Blauschild looked, and because Mr. Blauschild was looking, both Mr. and Mrs. Goldbloom looked. And because so many others were looking, the rest of the guests looked too. Cici froze, staring out over her red-stained napkin, and a silence settled over the table.

Lily could only imagine what her fellow diners were thinking. Before their eyes, Cici Goldbloom would be transforming from the still-eligible daughter of a successful businessman into an overdressed specter of mortality. Her slinky sleeveless dinner gown would no longer speak of sophisticated elegance as its arm holes, cut fashionably low, exposed, they'd be noticing now, washboard ribs. And her hair, fashionably bobbed, would be revealing the elongated gauntness of her neck.

Mrs. Goldbloom, in her role of example-setting hostess, would--and she did--resolutely ring her little silver bell for the next course.

But Mr. Goldbloom rose from his chair and all but ran from the room, and the guests, white-faced, every one, followed--not their hostess's example, but the host's.

Are you sure you're in the correct thread?
 

Lakey

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Here are a few favorite lines from my project. It's a lovely little boost for the ego to find I've turned a pleasing phrase or got a line of dialogue just the way I want it. And it's even more of a boost to go through the manuscript and find enough of them that are pleasing enough to share here - more than I've chosen for this post.

--

"Is the Saddle River set serving martinis at kids' birthday parties these days?"
"Christ, I hope so."

--

"Miss Gansevoort, I remember you--the New York girl with the New Amsterdam name."

--

Over their heads, a steam-horn blared, and Grace started. The din of the ferry's engine took on a new pitch as it shifted gears and the boat began to slow in the water. Grace turned toward the bow and saw the statue looming above and ahead of them, the stone-gray solidity of its pedestal, the green-gray folds of its gown. For a moment she envied the statue for its strong, fixed footing on the pedestal, its permanence, its sureness of purpose as it stood sentry over the harbor.

Then, she laughed at herself.

--

She felt suspended now, as in the silent, significant moment after a match is struck, the instant before the flame leaps to life with its bright, tiny roar.

--


Eddie reddened. Why was she demurring all of a sudden? Just because of Ruby? "I just--I just don't think it would feel right, you know? I'd be thinking about her, instead of you."

"Yeah, and I'd be thinking about Jane Goddamn Russell. I don't give a crap who you think about, Gansevoort."
 
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Infinitude

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1 from today.

He waited, wordless, and gazed with expectation at the stonecut staircase which ran across the cliffside, like drunken handwriting chasing the sunrise.
 
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AKB

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[FONT="]Perhaps giving up, much like growing older, was not something which happened overnight. Instead, both had happened in little bits and pieces, a day at a time; they must have been giving up for years, Nefrál thought, and so had not realized it when the dream of running away had finally died. She herself had hardly noticed its passing, but then it had never been her dream in the first place.[/FONT]

It's intense and straight forward. I really like this.
 

Twick

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It's 1933 and Lily, now in her early 20s is attending a formal dinner at the Goldblooms'. Nurse Cici Goldbloom is their daughter who's been nursing at the tuberculosis sanitarium where Lily also works. The stated purpose of this dinner is to honor Lily, but actually, it's to introduce Cici and Mr. Blauschild, marriage and profitable business alliances to follow. We join them mid-meal.


...That first course had been soup, not much of a challenge, but the second course was a severe test of Lily's study of etiquette. It seemed to be some variety of fish, chopped, formed into balls, heavily coated, and deep-fried, too big to be eaten at one bite, and too spherical to be easily dissected. "Only watch your hostess and do as she does," Mrs. Engelmann had said. But how to watch the hostess to your left if you were supposed to be conversing with the gentleman to your right?

Mr. Blauschild took a long slow drink of water and set his goblet back on the table. "Beautiful weather we've been having, don't you think?"

He must be waiting for their hostess to demonstrate the correct way to manage tricky fish balls. Lily agreed that this year's autumn did hold promise, and let her eye travel across the table to Phyllis Finkelstein who, from where she'd been seated, would have a good view of their hostess.

Phyllis took up the tiny fork and knife situated horizontally above her charger plate where etiquette books said a dessert spoon should lie. Would that be Mrs. Goldbloom's endearing little habit of inventing her own rules, or was Phyllis in error?

Nurse Cici, though further down the table, might be a better model. Lily let her eye wander in that direction, and as she did, Cici lifted her napkin to cover a cough. It wasn't a loud or particularly harsh cough, but a small and growing speck of red blossomed through her napkin in sharp contrast to its pristine whiteness.

Then, probably because Lily was looking, Mr. Blauschild looked, and because Mr. Blauschild was looking, both Mr. and Mrs. Goldbloom looked. And because so many others were looking, the rest of the guests looked too. Cici froze, staring out over her red-stained napkin, and a silence settled over the table.

Lily could only imagine what her fellow diners were thinking. Before their eyes, Cici Goldbloom would be transforming from the still-eligible daughter of a successful businessman into an overdressed specter of mortality. Her slinky sleeveless dinner gown would no longer speak of sophisticated elegance as its arm holes, cut fashionably low, exposed, they'd be noticing now, washboard ribs. And her hair, fashionably bobbed, would be revealing the elongated gauntness of her neck.

Mrs. Goldbloom, in her role of example-setting hostess, would--and she did--resolutely ring her little silver bell for the next course.

But Mr. Goldbloom rose from his chair and all but ran from the room, and the guests, white-faced, every one, followed--not their hostess's example, but the host's.

I like this a lot.
 

Brandinian

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I'm really liking this passage, and it seems to have stood out as a favorite among my early readers:

Nose may not have actually slapped Digsby in the face, but his words on the other hand, did. He was flabbergasted. “Magic?” he asked, swallowing hard.
“Magic,” said Nose, nodding.
“Are you serious?”
“As serious as a dragon massacre, I’m afraid.”
If you have any doubt as to the seriousness of a dragon massacre, you need only ask the people of Novem. Except for the fact that you can’t, as they are now all dead.
 
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zhaulsan

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lol, this is actually a pretty weird one, but amoung my friends it's the first thing we say when we think of the character:

The three girls were cross-legged on the floor, a deck of cards and some chips laid out on the floor. Maufuki looked furtively over her cards at Lara. "You got any three's?"

"Maufuki!!!" Both girls cried out; Aklana grabbed the "T-Virus" Manual and smacked her over the head with it. (Maufuki cried out 'ow' again, and said "That hurt worse than the 'Time Machine!!' ") "That is NOT how you play poker!!!"

Lol, the scene is funny enough, made me laugh, thanks for sharing it.,
 

BethS

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I'm really liking this passage, and it seems to have stood out as a favorite among my early readers:

Nose may not have actually slapped Digsby in the face, but his words on the other hand, did. He was flabbergasted. “Magic?” he asked, swallowing hard.
“Magic,” said Nose, nodding.
“Are you serious?”
“As serious as a dragon massacre, I’m afraid.”
If you have any doubt as to the seriousness of a dragon massacre, you need only ask the people of Novem. Except for the fact that you can’t, as they are now all dead.

I really like this.
 

Jack Judah

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So, I kratzed this out after supper and several beers too many. It's bordering on ridiculously purple, not to mention cloyingly pretentious. Yet here I am posting it anyway. I can tell I'm going to wake up tomorrow and regret hell out of this:

*Some background: Setting's ancient Egypt. There's an eclipse happening. This is the totality. A guy name Mehy is watching it from the walls of a fort he's in command of. A messenger is also approaching under the eclipse's shadow. Very bad things are about to happen and Mehy knows it.

The horizon burned an otherworldly crimson, while in the heavens, where once had hung Ra’s shining orb now hovered an obsidian eye, ringed in fire backed by purple skies studded with stars.

In the followers’ camp, a woman screamed. Dogs howled from the peaks of the midden’s piles. And from Mehy’s own chambers issued the wailing squall of a terrified infant.

His luckless second son, mere days old. Doomed already to lose a mother.
 
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Beanie5

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If your not scared why are your pants wet?
Until now. He pointed over her shoulder.
 
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AKB

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So, I kratzed this out after supper and several beers too many. It's bordering on ridiculously purple, not to mention cloyingly pretentious. Yet here I am posting it anyway. I can tell I'm going to wake up tomorrow and regret hell out of this:

*Some background: Setting's ancient Egypt. There's an eclipse happening. This is the totality. A guy name Mehy is watching it from the walls of a fort he's in command of. A messenger is also approaching under the eclipse's shadow. Very bad things are about to happen and Mehy knows it.

The horizon burned an otherworldly crimson, while in the heavens, where once had hung Ra’s shining orb now hovered an obsidian eye, ringed in fire backed by purple skies studded with stars.

In the followers’ camp, a woman screamed. Dogs howled from the peaks of the midden’s piles. And from Mehy’s own chambers issued the wailing squall of a terrified infant.

His luckless second son, mere days old. Doomed already to lose a mother.

Before I next sit down to write I think I'm going to drink a few beers (or, maybe wine coolers since I'm a total light-weight).
In light of the context you provided I thought the description of the eclipse realistic. I also liked the shortness of the sentences that followed the first, the rapid beat providing tension. Purely from my taste, I would take out "an otherworldly" from the first sentence; re: the end of that sentence, I read it several times as my 'brain' (which is working sporadically these days) kept stumbling after "fire" and kept wanting to add "and" which doesn't belong, but nonetheless kept interfering with my read. Overall, I like your crisp writing style.

Time for a wine cooler...
 

Jack Judah

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In light of the context you provided I thought the description of the eclipse realistic.

Whew. Good. I'm trying to walk a very fine line between hinting at the supernatural in this scene, while still keeping the whole story grounded in the plausible. Was worried I'd overdone the former at the expense of the latter.

Purely from my taste, I would take out "an otherworldly" from the first sentence;

Sounds like good taste to me. When I read that bit in light of day and in the harsh grip of sobriety, I realized that "otherworldly", apart from beating a dead horse just for added atmosphere, also is something of an anachronism. Not sure an Egyptian would think in those terms. So good call.

re: the end of that sentence, I read it several times as my 'brain' (which is working sporadically these days) kept stumbling after "fire" and kept wanting to add "and" which doesn't belong, but nonetheless kept interfering with my read.

I actually had an "and" there, then deleted it because I feared it would clash with the "and" in the subsequent paragraph. I keep stumbling when I read over that part too. We're all conditioned to expect a conjunction there, so I might have to consider some restructuring.

Overall, I like your crisp writing style.

Thank you! Although to be honest, my style is less crisp than it's schizophrenic. I veer wildly between laconic and loquacious, and only occasionally (not to mention completely by accident) hit a happy medium.

Time for a wine cooler...

Slainte and L'Chaim. Think I'll raise one with ya. It's 5 o'clock somewhere, right? :e2drunk:
 
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Cindyt

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"The Jolly Green Giant could come thundering down Flagler with his danglies in a do rag, and desk jockeys would glance out of their coke-built towers long enough to yawn and then go back to their blow or bang.”
 
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Mary Mitchell

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The horizon burned an otherworldly crimson, while in the heavens, where once had hung Ra’s shining orb now hovered an obsidian eye, ringed in fire backed by purple skies studded with stars.

In the followers’ camp, a woman screamed. Dogs howled from the peaks of the midden’s piles. And from Mehy’s own chambers issued the wailing squall of a terrified infant.

His luckless second son, mere days old. Doomed already to lose a mother.

So, I know what you mean about "almost purple", but with the background you've given it seems somehow right. Of course, I can't be sure how I'd feel if I didn't have the background, 'cause, y'know, you can't unsee stuff, and all... But I think I like it!
 

Twick

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So, I kratzed this out after supper and several beers too many. It's bordering on ridiculously purple, not to mention cloyingly pretentious. Yet here I am posting it anyway. I can tell I'm going to wake up tomorrow and regret hell out of this:

*Some background: Setting's ancient Egypt. There's an eclipse happening. This is the totality. A guy name Mehy is watching it from the walls of a fort he's in command of. A messenger is also approaching under the eclipse's shadow. Very bad things are about to happen and Mehy knows it.

The horizon burned an otherworldly crimson, while in the heavens, where once had hung Ra’s shining orb now hovered an obsidian eye, ringed in fire backed by purple skies studded with stars.

In the followers’ camp, a woman screamed. Dogs howled from the peaks of the midden’s piles. And from Mehy’s own chambers issued the wailing squall of a terrified infant.

His luckless second son, mere days old. Doomed already to lose a mother.

It's apocalyptic but not actually purple prose. Each stroke is precise and not overloaded. It's the combination of them, like a Van Gogh, that reaches a fever pitch. Sends a shiver down my spine.
 

Jack Judah

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So, I know what you mean about "almost purple", but with the background you've given it seems somehow right... But I think I like it!

:hooray: That's what I was hoping to hear! Thanks!

It's apocalyptic but not actually purple prose. Each stroke is precise and not overloaded. It's the combination of them, like a Van Gogh, that reaches a fever pitch. Sends a shiver down my spine.

"Apocalyptic" is precisely what I was shooting for here. Really needed this comment today. Thank you!

*Note to self: Buy more beer.
 

Jack Judah

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"The Jolly Green Giant could come thundering down Flagler with his danglies in a do rag, and desk jockeys would glance out of their coke-built towers long enough to yawn and then go back to their blow or bang.”

"Danglies in a do rag" :roll: Love this. Great voice.