~350 Words - Writers Forum

Charlie_Eleanor · 09-29-2007, 03:33 PM

I started this a while back, but now I don't know where to go with it....well, I know where I want to go with it, but I just can't figure out how to get there...lol.

The men look up at her from the purple earth, their eyes overflowing with longing. She floats among them, touching few, bowing to many. First the pockets. One on the inside of the jacket. A hardened chest presses against her smooth palm. Then the trousers, she blushes, takes what she needs and moves onto the next. When one dares to breath she pushes the cold steal tip of her staff slowly down through their chest until it pierces the remaining muscle willing the body to live. She watches them until they too stare blankly, a majestic mistress stewarding her dead to peace.

Every ghost has a home and so does she. Among the poppers of Kettinger her father waits in a makeshift structure of branches from the surrounding forest. Her sister has spent the day in the local schoolhouse, and meets her on the outskirts of town. They walk home in silence as the song of the mourners rises from the surrounding fields.

Supper is water and roots, bed is a blanket of straw, sleep is an angel that rescues her from reality, and duty is to keep the father’s eyes from her sister’s maturing body. Only knowing what it is to sacrifice, she gives herself to him, and when it is over she watches the spotless girl on the other side of the hut dreaming of sweet cakes and love songs.

Kettinger is no place to wonder why. It is a place to rise up in the mist shrouded dawn, walk drowsily to the fields, and watch as kingdoms from around the world battle for the gateway to the Crystal Mountains. They never notice the town and the people who make their living from the carnage that has turned the rich soil to a river of blood. No one wants to understand the angels in the dusk, scavenging for scraps from the soldiers who will never see the profits.

Lost in Some Story · 09-29-2007, 04:29 PM

This is beautiful writing Charlie Eleanor! What is it?

Quote:

Supper is water and roots, bed is a blanket of straw, sleep is an angel that rescues her from reality, and duty is to keep the father’s eyes from her sister’s maturing body. Only knowing what it is to sacrifice, she gives herself to him, and when it is over she watches the spotless girl on the other side of the hut dreaming of sweet cakes and love songs.

Beautiful. More please.

Lost

Charlie_Eleanor · 09-30-2007, 07:44 AM

Thanks Lost. In all honesty I didn't know if this was anygood, but it is probably a prologue to a larger 'fantasy' story. But, we'll see. I'm just going to worry about finishing it up, and then I'll decide if I'm really going to 'trash' it or not.

I am so flattered that you like it. Thanks again.

Rumrunner · 09-30-2007, 01:42 PM

Very intriguing. Just a couple of things I noticed --

Quote:

the cold steal tip of her staff

Steel

Quote:

it pierces the remaining muscle willing the body to live.

This seems a little awkward. Also, the use of "muscle" seems very dryly anatomical in comparison to the rest of your language. I think, maybe, you should just say, "...it pierces the remaining will to live," or some such thing. Seems a bit more metaphysical than purely physical, that way, which I think would jive with the way you seem to be treating your character's other interactions.

I'd definitely be interested in reading more.

--Rumrunner

smilinghelps · 10-03-2007, 01:02 PM

Charlie, I don't know how I missed this, but its wonderful! I agree w/Rumrunner's suggestion regarding the muscle--and I have my own little nits which I put in bold.

I want more--gimme me more please!!

Quote:

Originally Posted by Charlie_Eleanor

The men look up at her from the purple earth, their eyes overflowing with longing. She floats among them, touching few, bowing to many. First the pockets. One on the inside of the jacket. A hardened chest presses against her smooth palm. Then the trousers, she blushes, takes what she needs and moves onto the next. When one dares to breath breathe she pushes the cold steal steel tip of her staff slowly down through their chest until it pierces the remaining muscle willing the body to live. She watches them until they too stare blankly, a majestic mistress stewarding her dead to peace.

Every ghost has a home and so does she. Among the poppers paupers of Kettinger her father waits in a makeshift structure of branches from the surrounding forest. Her sister has spent the day in the local schoolhouse, and meets her on the outskirts of town. They walk home in silence as the song of the mourners rises from the surrounding fields.

Supper is water and roots, bed is a blanket of straw, sleep is an angel that rescues her from reality, and duty is to keep the father’s eyes from her sister’s maturing body. Only knowing what it is to sacrifice, she gives herself to him, and when it is over she watches the spotless girl on the other side of the hut dreaming of sweet cakes and love songs.

Kettinger is no place to wonder why. This is a very passive sentence, given the strength of the writing I think this can be re-worded. It is a place to rise up in the mist shrouded dawn, walk drowsily to the fields, and watch as kingdoms from around the world battle for the gateway to the Crystal Mountains. They never notice the town and the people who make their living from the carnage that has turned the rich soil to a river of blood. No one wants to understand the angels in the dusk, scavenging for scraps from the soldiers who will never see the profits.

Nice work Charlie--I bow down to you--please don't pierce my heart.

crystalsecretin · 10-03-2007, 02:34 PM

Oh don't throw that away. It's quite good.

TrackStar11 · 10-06-2007, 10:01 PM

You describe things so well, you can feel yourself watching the events that are occurring when you read this. Nice job for something that you think is lacking.