Neat! I wanted to reread it a few times. Do you intend this to be set to a rap-like cadence? Because that's what I heard in my head.
Favorite lines you've written
- Thread starter Charlie Horse
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Neat! I wanted to reread it a few times. Do you intend this to be set to a rap-like cadence? Because that's what I heard in my head.
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Talking about the sky during the 'white nights', or basically a period at midsummer at northern latitudes (northern Europe/southern Scandinavia/Baltic Russia) where the sun doesn't set far enough below the horizon for it ever to get fully dark.
Effectively like this.
'The sky was the colour of a tearstained face.'
My CPs on another forum didn't like it as a metaphor, so it's really a 'kill your darlings' moment, but it echoed the feelings of my protagonist during the scene in question when, as a young priest, she's having a Jed Bartlet-esque 'God, you suck' moment in a deserted church.
Effectively like this.
'The sky was the colour of a tearstained face.'
My CPs on another forum didn't like it as a metaphor, so it's really a 'kill your darlings' moment, but it echoed the feelings of my protagonist during the scene in question when, as a young priest, she's having a Jed Bartlet-esque 'God, you suck' moment in a deserted church.
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I love my bad guys. Sarah's a well-educated young woman, except when she's not. Cornelius shares some characteristics with goats (well, buck), so his ways of expressing sexual interest include flapping the tongue. Them together? I know where the scene starts, but I never know where it'll end.
Under spoilers because, wow, language alert!
Sarah yelled over the noise. "What in the fucking name of deuce are you buggering up?"
Nice tits, and a foul mouth. Cornelius would've flapped his tongue as a show of interest, had he not something more crucial to worry about.
Under spoilers because, wow, language alert!
Sarah yelled over the noise. "What in the fucking name of deuce are you buggering up?"
Nice tits, and a foul mouth. Cornelius would've flapped his tongue as a show of interest, had he not something more crucial to worry about.
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I would have silently told them all to take a flying leap and kept it. This is why I don't participate in writers' groups.
The guards at the city of Mazdala suspect Lucy of being a witch and declare her so. Before Lucy surrenders to them, she wants to know what happens to witches.
----------------
“Okay,” she said to the lead guard, “What happens if I surrender for judgement? Who judges me and what happens then?”
“Count Krestar Mazdala shall convene his court and determine if you are a witch,” stated the guardsman. “If it is deemed so, then you shall be skinned alive, rolled in salt, and boiled in oil. Your flesh will be fed to carrion birds and your bones will be ground into powder and dropped over the ocean. Thusly your foul magic shall be redistributed across the world and filtered by the biosphere until it is made clean and fresh.”
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“Okay,” she said to the lead guard, “What happens if I surrender for judgement? Who judges me and what happens then?”
“Count Krestar Mazdala shall convene his court and determine if you are a witch,” stated the guardsman. “If it is deemed so, then you shall be skinned alive, rolled in salt, and boiled in oil. Your flesh will be fed to carrion birds and your bones will be ground into powder and dropped over the ocean. Thusly your foul magic shall be redistributed across the world and filtered by the biosphere until it is made clean and fresh.”
How very thorough. Not to mention efficient. Let's hope they don't think she's a witch.
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FBI dood is trying to get some intel from Eva about the people she grew up with.
"They're afraid of you," Eva mumbled around her cigarette.
"They ought to be."
"No. You ought to be afraid of them."
His slimy eyes rolled away from the road to look at her again. "Why?"
"Because they're afraid of you."
"They're afraid of you," Eva mumbled around her cigarette.
"They ought to be."
"No. You ought to be afraid of them."
His slimy eyes rolled away from the road to look at her again. "Why?"
"Because they're afraid of you."
I have many conflicting feelings about this book, but I do love this character's entrance. We are at a remote fur trading post in 1795. The narrator, Merry, has just arrived and was finding her way around the fort's store when ...
/////
M. Cocteau was a competent bookkeeper. Here were running tallies of what was in stock, and here was the list of customers, what they had traded, what they had taken on credit. Currency seemed to be a moot point, so deep in the wilderness. The store’s items were worth “credits,” as were skins of certain types and qualities. That was easy enough.
And the customers’ names. Oh, my.
Many Crows. Water In His Hair. Blue Elk. Winter Bear. Stands Without Speaking.
The small hairs on my arms stood up as I read through the list. Dozens of Indians traded at this store. Indians, and also—
The cozily dim room flooded with daylight as the door opened, and was as quickly darkened when an enormous fur-wrapped figure stepped into it.
The clerks stopped chatting. Benches toppled as they abruptly stood. Pierre gasped. Even the fire on the hearth seemed to crackle to attention.
Ilay laid my finger on the page, just under the name.
“Tor Haraldsson, I presume?”
<chapter break>
He was enormous. Tall as a mountain, straight as a jackpine, broad as a valley, and cold as a fjord. Elaborate leggings and moccasins were visible below his magnificent elk-skin robe. Above it rose the column of his neck and his proud Viking head: profuse straw-colored whiskers that hung half down his chest, a steely prow of a forehead bristling with golden brows, hair grown long and put into a hundred tiny braids tied with bits of colored string. Above all, the palest, fiercest eyes I had ever seen.
The clerks blanched when I spoke. One of them scrambled to offer him a chair.
“Mr. Haraldsson, it’s good to see you, sir. All summer it’s been. We wondered were you in your cabin, still.”
The giant stumped across the room and tossed a bundle of furs onto the countertop. They landed with a clap that shook the dust off them. “No trapping in the summer, yow. No trading.”
“To be sure, sir.” The clerk eyed me with doubt. “Monsieur Cocteau is out the now. We have a new storekeep just come in. Perhaps I could dig up one or t’other—”
Tor had been eyeing me with quiet dislike. “Who is she?”
“She? Why she … she … ” The clerk found he didn’t know.
“She is the wife of—” Pierre began.
“—the new storekeeper, Mr. Campbell.” I held out my hand. “I’m Mrs. Campbell. A pleasure to meet you.”
/////
M. Cocteau was a competent bookkeeper. Here were running tallies of what was in stock, and here was the list of customers, what they had traded, what they had taken on credit. Currency seemed to be a moot point, so deep in the wilderness. The store’s items were worth “credits,” as were skins of certain types and qualities. That was easy enough.
And the customers’ names. Oh, my.
Many Crows. Water In His Hair. Blue Elk. Winter Bear. Stands Without Speaking.
The small hairs on my arms stood up as I read through the list. Dozens of Indians traded at this store. Indians, and also—
The cozily dim room flooded with daylight as the door opened, and was as quickly darkened when an enormous fur-wrapped figure stepped into it.
The clerks stopped chatting. Benches toppled as they abruptly stood. Pierre gasped. Even the fire on the hearth seemed to crackle to attention.
I
“Tor Haraldsson, I presume?”
<chapter break>
He was enormous. Tall as a mountain, straight as a jackpine, broad as a valley, and cold as a fjord. Elaborate leggings and moccasins were visible below his magnificent elk-skin robe. Above it rose the column of his neck and his proud Viking head: profuse straw-colored whiskers that hung half down his chest, a steely prow of a forehead bristling with golden brows, hair grown long and put into a hundred tiny braids tied with bits of colored string. Above all, the palest, fiercest eyes I had ever seen.
The clerks blanched when I spoke. One of them scrambled to offer him a chair.
“Mr. Haraldsson, it’s good to see you, sir. All summer it’s been. We wondered were you in your cabin, still.”
The giant stumped across the room and tossed a bundle of furs onto the countertop. They landed with a clap that shook the dust off them. “No trapping in the summer, yow. No trading.”
“To be sure, sir.” The clerk eyed me with doubt. “Monsieur Cocteau is out the now. We have a new storekeep just come in. Perhaps I could dig up one or t’other—”
Tor had been eyeing me with quiet dislike. “Who is she?”
“She? Why she … she … ” The clerk found he didn’t know.
“She is the wife of—” Pierre began.
“—the new storekeeper, Mr. Campbell.” I held out my hand. “I’m Mrs. Campbell. A pleasure to meet you.”
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Oh, how I love this. Love all of it. This is wonderfully vivid writing. You will let us know when it's in print, won't you?
(I know we don't critique here, but you've got a "lay" that should be "laid." Just figured you'd want to know.
)
(I know we don't critique here, but you've got a "lay" that should be "laid." Just figured you'd want to know.
(Thanks, Beth! It's one of those things I always get wrong ... )
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Bit clunky wrighting, but I like the visual...
“What in the name of the Lord?”
Startled out of his spleen, Nadir slapped Ameer off. Ashraf was standing in the doorway, his expression matching his son's and Ameer's.
Nadir's eyes darted through the studio in search for his voice. Ah, right there, dangling off the reading lamp like a remorseful lass's bra. “Look Dad, like, Ameer is drunk.”
Ashraf walked up to grab Ameer by the collar, pulled him close, and sniffed his breath. Then he slapped him across the face, the impact ringing through the room and Nadir's cheek chiming in for the perfect arpeggio.
“What in the name of the Lord?”
Startled out of his spleen, Nadir slapped Ameer off. Ashraf was standing in the doorway, his expression matching his son's and Ameer's.
Nadir's eyes darted through the studio in search for his voice. Ah, right there, dangling off the reading lamp like a remorseful lass's bra. “Look Dad, like, Ameer is drunk.”
Ashraf walked up to grab Ameer by the collar, pulled him close, and sniffed his breath. Then he slapped him across the face, the impact ringing through the room and Nadir's cheek chiming in for the perfect arpeggio.
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Rereading an old MS I decided to pick up again and came across one of my favorite lines. The MC is a stripper in a dystopia which uses 'notes' for its currency. She's giving a lap dance and is asked why she agrees to lap dances when she makes so many notes on stage.
"If notes were time, I'd have no need to rush and yet I'd be forever late."
"If notes were time, I'd have no need to rush and yet I'd be forever late."