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Not for critique: share your pretty words. (2 Viewers)

indianroads

Staff member
Global Moderator
Words are the paint and texture we use to illustrate our worlds. This thread is for your pleasing passages - not for critique - but instead, to share the love of writing. Let's keep the passages reasonably short.
I'll start off. This is from a novel I wrote several years ago titled Desperation, it's a dream sequence.

The world was on fire; turbulent orange and yellow clouds boiled high above as vermilion flames rose from the earth to consume the sky. A large animal screamed in agony as it ran through a maze of exploding pine trees, leaving behind a trail of dark smoke and the pungent smell of burning fur. The creature’s panicked shrieks could not dispel its torment; we can never escape ourselves.

Was that a horse or a bison? He was uncertain if he knew the difference. Where was he? What was going on? Scorching winds tore at his body as he stood on a mountain ledge overlooking a vast open plain. He knew this place; he was on Cheyenne Mountain looking down on what should have been Pike City. His former home was gone though, in its place he saw only flames consuming desecrated rubble.

A young boy with slick black hair sat on a lower ledge; the child slowly turned and looked back at him. Dark fathomless eyes stared from a cracked face that was the color and texture of parchment blanched with age. “You did this,” Dagon muttered. “You are the destroyer of worlds.” The boy’s face split apart when he grinned and exuded a black oily substance that ran down his cheeks like tears.
 
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Kyle R

WF Veterans
Cool thread idea! And a very nice excerpt. Lush writing.

Here's my contribution. An excerpt from my WIP:

Vee moved carefully through the mess. She was made of clockwork, so she wasn’t as delicate as a human, but she was still frail in her own mechanical way. Perhaps even more so than flesh and blood. Because bodies could heal. Torn skin could mend. Cracked bones could fuse again. Machinery, though, offered no such benefits. A bent gear would stay that way, until it could be replaced.

A broken heart would forever remain shattered.
 

indianroads

Staff member
Global Moderator
Cool thread idea! And a very nice excerpt. Lush writing.

Here's my contribution. An excerpt from my WIP:

Vee moved carefully through the mess. She was made of clockwork, so she wasn’t as delicate as a human, but she was still frail in her own mechanical way. Perhaps even more so than flesh and blood. Because bodies could heal. Torn skin could mend. Cracked bones could fuse again. Machinery, though, offered no such benefits. A bent gear would stay that way, until it could be replaced.

A broken heart would forever remain shattered.
That's lovely! Thanks for sharing!
 

Foxee

Patron
Patron
@Kyle R I really enjoyed that. I think I found one of your character's people here and she's an amazing singer!

Nice thread idea, @indianroads. And you had me at "The world was on fire", that was an attention-getter.

A little bit from a timed writing that hasn't become a story at this point:

Frame houses with little more than paint chips to hold them together indicated that this had once been a pleasant street. Jagged and broken glazing allowed their current darkness out to try and touch me as I pedaled by their small front yards. Other than birds and bats these houses held nothing but memories now. Even vagrants or murderers wouldn't want to trek out to the middle of nowhere to thread their way over broken porch steps, dare fallen-in foundation walls, and finally risk having an exhausted old house fall on them.

I was alone, it just didn't feel like it as the houses looked over my head with their empty windows before giving way to arching trees that once again closed the lane in gloom.
 

TheMightyAz

Mentor
In a clearing, in a lonely old shack, a Grandmother rested on a bed of soft down. Evenfall lifted her stillness and blessed the room with her passing. A lifetime spoke sweetly and marked her death with each moment, graced her dried lips, her pale eyes, and bowed in witness of her living. The flicker of a fire kissed her face with amber and danced on the walls in celebration, for tonight the worthy walk.
 

JBF

Staff member
Board Moderator
About midevening the rain came, sweeping and whispering in the narrow alleys and marching on the smoothed cobbles of the street like footfalls of a ghost army. Fat, slow drops at first, hissing against sheetiron and stucco, then the fanatic, driving rattle that drove the revelers behind bright arcades and dust-streaked glass.

Twenty minutes. Perhaps thirty.

And then the rain lifted with the dusk, and in a reversal of its arriving there resumed the truncated festivities. The smallest children, last inside before the deluge, emerged as scouts, and before the dun orange glow fell from the sky came the teenagers, then the adults, and in the time it took to mark the day gone the music rose and echoed out from the bars and cantinas and the dancing places, and in no time all that remained of the weather was a glassy sheen in the cracks of the paving stones and an earthy heaviness to the air.
 

indianroads

Staff member
Global Moderator
@Kyle R I really enjoyed that. I think I found one of your character's people here and she's an amazing singer!

Nice thread idea, @indianroads. And you had me at "The world was on fire", that was an attention-getter.

A little bit from a timed writing that hasn't become a story at this point:

Frame houses with little more than paint chips to hold them together indicated that this had once been a pleasant street. Jagged and broken glazing allowed their current darkness out to try and touch me as I pedaled by their small front yards. Other than birds and bats these houses held nothing but memories now. Even vagrants or murderers wouldn't want to trek out to the middle of nowhere to thread their way over broken porch steps, dare fallen-in foundation walls, and finally risk having an exhausted old house fall on them.

I was alone, it just didn't feel like it as the houses looked over my head with their empty windows before giving way to arching trees that once again closed the lane in gloom.
Beautiful.
 

indianroads

Staff member
Global Moderator
In a clearing, in a lonely old shack, a Grandmother rested on a bed of soft down. Evenfall lifted her stillness and blessed the room with her passing. A lifetime spoke sweetly and marked her death with each moment, graced her dried lips, her pale eyes, and bowed in witness of her living. The flicker of a fire kissed her face with amber and danced on the walls in celebration, for tonight the worthy walk.
Oh - that is wonderful.
 

indianroads

Staff member
Global Moderator
About midevening the rain came, sweeping and whispering in the narrow alleys and marching on the smoothed cobbles of the street like footfalls of a ghost army. Fat, slow drops at first, hissing against sheetiron and stucco, then the fanatic, driving rattle that drove the revelers behind bright arcades and dust-streaked glass.

Twenty minutes. Perhaps thirty.

And then the rain lifted with the dusk, and in a reversal of its arriving there resumed the truncated festivities. The smallest children, last inside before the deluge, emerged as scouts, and before the dun orange glow fell from the sky came the teenagers, then the adults, and in the time it took to mark the day gone the music rose and echoed out from the bars and cantinas and the dancing places, and in no time all that remained of the weather was a glassy sheen in the cracks of the paving stones and an earthy heaviness to the air.
Gorgeous, wonderful imagery.
 
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TheMightyAz

Mentor
Oh - that is wonderful.
It was an experiment following on from 'The Story' in which I attempted to write the whole thing without specifics. In this one I attempted to write everything figuratively. It crashed and burned ... lol When I read it now, I don't know what the hell I was trying to say.
 

Tettsuo

WF Veterans
I've always wished I could write sentences that sung. I almost always write within a context of a story, so the feeling is always contained within the context of a storyline.

In any case, here's a few lines I enjoyed in my recent WIP, which I'm still editing.

"But what of you?"

Taken aback, he looked at me with furrowed brow. "What of me?"

"Yargai?"

"What a..." He stopped himself and sighed. "So, I am the fool as well, eh?"

It was my turn to laugh, and I did. He only shook his head and looked towards the round Stammian home where Yargai was resting.

"I cannot love him. I cannot love a coward."

"But you do love him. I saw it in your eyes."

"Yes, yes, I know. But, to love him, we must both risk death. I... I have faced death, with you, more than once. Have I wavered?"

"Never."

"Yet he has."

With eyes closed he held his face up towards the brightening skies.

"To love as I wish, we would have to be willing to risk death everyday. But, how can I trust a man to face death with me if he is too afraid to do so? I will not put my trust in a person who will not be brave for me as I would for him."

"You needn't worry, brother. There will be others. And if not, you can trust that I will face death with you for as long as I have breath."

"Oh Yanny, if only you were a man."
 

KeganThompson

Staff member
Board Moderator
I started a short story...here what I got for the opening so far, still working on it tho..

Graphite lines scratched form on unused printer paper. Hunched in an office chair, Adrian paused to glance at the photo on his laptop screen. He resumed his sketch, stopping only to study the picture. I glided over to get a better look.
“Looks good.” It was nothing more than a rough outline of my face, but the proportions looked accurate.
I wondered why, out of all the pictures on my profile, he always chose that one.
After freeing my hair from it’s ponytail, my dirty blonde mane fluffed out in the humidity. Dew graced my forehead, sun kissed skin and cherry cheeks brought out my freckles. The photo was taken unprompted by my best friend, Tori, after we won the last soccer match of the year.
Adrian tried to draw me multiple times, each time he got frustrated and each time he never finished. Some renderings he kept hidden away, others got tossed in the bin. I drew my face closer to his and studied his expressions. Brows furrowed, eyes gazed from the portrait to the computer screen, my image reflected in his dark eyes.
 

Mark Twain't

Staff member
Board Moderator
Great idea for a thread. Something I'm working on.


Holly takes her seat as the waiter gently places her coffee on the table. She watches as the world goes by in the hustle and bustle of rush hour but to her, it’s all an insignificant blur. Just colours mingling until they all blend into one ethereal mist.

Lifting the cup to her lips, she looks wistfully to the sky. To the one solitary cloud in the vast expanse of Azure blue. To her, it’s Jack. He’s on his way home. On his way back to her. Death didn’t stop him the last time and she knows it won’t stop him now. She raises her cup and smiles before whispering ‘See you soon my love,’
 

Joker

Senior Member
I think I've finally gotten a foothold for this novel, and figured out Corrit's voice. Taut, punchy sentences of self-aware melancholy.

I went out to grab one drink and ended the night getting thrown out on my tail feathers. Yeah, that’s me. Corrit Raith, former Vespian Imperial Special Forces, manhandled by the civilians of my once sworn enemy. I’m getting old.

I scramble to my feet, hoping to give the bouncer a piece of my mind, but he's already gone. That's probably a good thing. Most of these humans are two times my size. He was three.

Best to just get moving, then. I think I'm supposed to meet a client in the morning. I'm a private investigator when I'm sober. It's a decent enough job. Let's me put my skills to use without killing anybody. Civilians are generally averse to killing.

I grab my coat out of the puddle and wring it out as best I can. Castol Prime rains too damn much. Makes my feathers stick together. I wish I had another drink.

That's enough bitching. I've got to get home before I'm swept away.
 

KeganThompson

Staff member
Board Moderator
I think I've finally gotten a foothold for this novel, and figured out Corrit's voice. Taut, punchy sentences of self-aware melancholy.

I went out to grab one drink and ended the night getting thrown out on my tail feathers. Yeah, that’s me. Corrit Raith, former Vespian Imperial Special Forces, manhandled by the civilians of my once sworn enemy. I’m getting old.

I scramble to my feet, hoping to give the bouncer a piece of my mind, but he's already gone. That's probably a good thing. Most of these humans are two times my size. He was three.

Best to just get moving, then. I think I'm supposed to meet a client in the morning. I'm a private investigator when I'm sober. It's a decent enough job. Let's me put my skills to use without killing anybody. Civilians are generally averse to killing.

I grab my coat out of the puddle and wring it out as best I can. Castol Prime rains too damn much. Makes my feathers stick together. I wish I had another drink.

That's enough bitching. I've got to get home before I'm swept away.
You got yourself to write again I see :)
 

notawizard

Senior Member
I haven't written anything poetic in ages. I have a lot of lines that I like, but it's not generally pretty, if that makes sense. Here's an example of one that I like.

This wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to do. It was the kind of thing you did because the wringing in your gut wouldn’t let go until you knew one way or the other. The nervous tapping in my foot found a spot in my stomach to bounce around in. The smell of smoke was definitely getting stronger. Not my imagination after all.

Most of what I like is funny, but I don't think it would be appreciated without context. I'll see if I come across something good, though.
 
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