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Not for critique: share your pretty words. (1 Viewer)

Foxee

Patron
Patron
I'm on my phone so can't respond as much as I want but I am enjoying this thread. It's wonderful to see these flashes of style, voice, and ideas. Keep 'em coming!
 

indianroads

Staff member
Global Moderator
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.
Florid prose can be pretty, but clear precise writing is elegant in its simplicity and ability to communicate. I really liked your quote, it was beautifully done.
 

notawizard

Senior Member
Florid prose can be pretty, but clear precise writing is elegant in its simplicity and ability to communicate. I really liked your quote, it was beautifully done.
Wow, I really appreciate this. I like what I write, but I definitely feel sometimes like it doesn't fall into the classic sense of "good writing." I carry a lot with tension and voice and dialogue more than imagery.
 

vranger

Staff member
Supervisor
Teven's party emerged from the Illumination a half day's ride from Sing'arien. The elves' forest home circled a lone mountain, the peak of which was visible as they emerged. As the rest of the mountain came slowly into view, it resembled nothing so much as the pate of a friar. With the broad snowcap extending down to the tree line, one could well imagine a bald head surrounded by a ring of dark green hair. From the foothills around the mountains, they faced a ten-mile climb to two miles of altitude through the ring of woodland. The mountain was close to eighty miles around … providing a substantial forested area. Occasional spires of elven buildings broke through the canopy, hard to see as their colors matched the tapestry around them.

Ket and Anlette needed to have the buildings pointed out. Teven and Liara had visited on numerous occasions, and were quite familiar with the vista. Teven indicated their destination. Even the mages could not have spotted it on sight alone. To the untrained eye, they looked too similar to recognize distinguishing features. In truth, it was much the same to Teven's eyes. However, Teven knew landmarks on the bare slopes above, and those landmarks helped him identify his destination in the forest.

Teven led across a meadow deep with flowers, toward what looked like a tangled, impassable thicket. The rest looked at each other in question, but they knew better than to doubt Teven. To Ket, the forest presented an exciting mystery. Already, he could see the flora he was approaching was quite different from the forest he had negotiated on his quest to find Bone Kien. The trees were larger. On many, the leaves seemed to be huge, almost frond-like. Colors numbered far beyond the normal grays and browns of bark, or green of leaves and needles. The greens and browns were there, but golds, reds, and even blues stood out strongly among the rainbow hues. It reminded Ket of a well-planned and maintained flower garden, on a titanic scale.

With about twenty yards left before the party would reach the wall of trees, two elves of Sing'arien emerged. Their appearance was so natural it seemed they flowed from the very trees they now stood before. Each placed his arms upon his chest, elbows close on upon the ribs … hands flat, one upon the other just below their throat. They bowed slightly … the bows obviously directed at Teven.

Teven dismounted and returned the salutation. "Hail friends. We are of Bone Kien, on a mission that requires a conference with your Elders."

“Yes, Lord TacMarough, we foresaw your arrival. Welcome to Sing'arien. Our Elders await, please follow.”

Teven motioned the rest to dismount. The group led their horses single file, following Teven's example as he clasped his reins and approached the elves. When he came close, they turned and stepped into the forest. Where moments before had seemed an imposing wall of trunks and tangle of growth, there now appeared a narrow path. The elves passed into it without Ket even noticing them do so. Teven was right behind them. One by one, the group followed. After a short time, Ket looked to the rear and found he could no longer see the narrow entrance to the meadow. Though new to this, it didn’t surprise him.

The forest provided a unique experience. Despite the thick, tall trees, most of the way was bright. At other times deep shadows obscured sight. But they always had a clear path. An ever-moving circle of light glided ahead, denoting the route. The forest was far from silent. Bird song serenaded them from every direction. Most of the time it seemed the trills were organized, rather than the random chirps and whistles of Ket's experience. Occasionally, over the sound of the song was heard a cough or a bark of some nearby creature. On his trip through the forest Persillion, these sounds would have given Ket serious alarm. Here, and in this company, he felt not a slight thrill of nerves.

The day had worn down to evening when the group emerged into a clearing. Its center contained one of the elven buildings. The grounds around the building appeared to Ket as immaculately maintained gardens. But as they passed toward the base of the building Ket could see the decorative plants were all wild. They seemed to grow in cooperation each with the other, so distinct patterns of color dominated spaces between verdant paths … intricate and artful creations which both delighted and amused Ket. The gardens so fascinated him, he was sorry to reach the building and find out everyone was expected to enter.
 
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TheMightyAz

Mentor
The desert shifted as Yarrod staggered on, saddle slumped across a stooped left shoulder, a furnace at his back. A dark grey duster, tied to the saddle’s stirrups, spilled onto the sand, weaving with a 'shush' the snaking trail of his passing. He fluttered in the heat like a lit fuse, his white shirt sometimes the glue that held him together as a man and other times the void that tore him into fragments.
 
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bdcharles

Wɾ¡ʇ¡∩9
Staff member
Media Manager
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bdcharles

Wɾ¡ʇ¡∩9
Staff member
Media Manager
Teven's party emerged from the Illumination a half day's ride from Sing'arien. The elves' forest home circled a lone mountain, the peak of which was visible as they emerged. As the rest of the mountain came slowly into view, it resembled nothing so much as the pate of a friar. With the broad snowcap extending down to the tree line, one could well imagine a bald head surrounded by a ring of dark green hair. From the foothills around the mountains, they faced a ten-mile climb to two miles of altitude through the ring of woodland. The mountain was close to eighty miles around … providing a substantial forested area. Occasional spires of elven buildings broke through the canopy, hard to see as their colors matched the tapestry around them.

Ket and Anlette needed to have the buildings pointed out. Teven and Liara had visited on numerous occasions, and were quite familiar with the vista. Teven indicated their destination. Even the mages could not have spotted it on sight alone. To the untrained eye, they looked too similar to recognize distinguishing features. In truth, it was much the same to Teven's eyes. However, Teven knew landmarks on the bare slopes above, and those landmarks helped him identify his destination in the forest.

Teven led across a meadow deep with flowers, toward what looked like a tangled, impassable thicket. The rest looked at each other in question, but they knew better than to doubt Teven. To Ket, the forest presented an exciting mystery. Already, he could see the flora he was approaching was quite different from the forest he had negotiated on his quest to find Bone Kien. The trees were larger. On many, the leaves seemed to be huge, almost frond-like. Colors numbered far beyond the normal grays and browns of bark, or green of leaves and needles. The greens and browns were there, but golds, reds, and even blues stood out strongly among the rainbow hues. It reminded Ket of a well-planned and maintained flower garden, on a titanic scale.

With about twenty yards left before the party would reach the wall of trees, two elves of Sing'arien emerged. Their appearance was so natural it seemed they flowed from the very trees they now stood before. Each placed his arms upon his chest, elbows close on upon the ribs … hands flat, one upon the other just below their throat. They bowed slightly … the bows obviously directed at Teven.

Teven dismounted and returned the salutation. "Hail friends. We are of Bone Kien, on a mission that requires a conference with your Elders."

“Yes, Lord TacMarough, we foresaw your arrival. Welcome to Sing'arien. Our Elders await, please follow.”

Teven motioned the rest to dismount. The group led their horses single file, following Teven's example as he clasped his reins and approached the elves. When he came close, they turned and stepped into the forest. Where moments before had seemed an imposing wall of trunks and tangle of growth, there now appeared a narrow path. The elves passed into it without Ket even noticing them do so. Teven was right behind them. One by one, the group followed. After a short time, Ket looked to the rear and found he could no longer see the narrow entrance to the meadow. Though new to this, it didn’t surprise him.

The forest provided a unique experience. Despite the thick, tall trees, most of the way was bright. At other times deep shadows obscured sight. But they always had a clear path. An ever-moving circle of light glided ahead, denoting the route. The forest was far from silent. Bird song serenaded them from every direction. Most of the time it seemed the trills were organized, rather than the random chirps and whistles of Ket's experience. Occasionally, over the sound of the song was heard a cough or a bark of some nearby creature. On his trip through the forest Persillion, these sounds would have given Ket serious alarm. Here, and in this company, he felt not a slight thrill of nerves.

The day had worn down to evening when the group emerged into a clearing. Its center contained one of the elven buildings. The grounds around the building appeared to Ket as immaculately maintained gardens. But as they passed toward the base of the building Ket could see the decorative plants were all wild. They seemed to grow in cooperation each with the other, so distinct patterns of color dominated spaces between verdant paths … intricate and artful creations which both delighted and amused Ket. The gardens so fascinated him, he was sorry to reach the building and find out everyone was expected to enter.
Is this from something published?
 

JBF

Staff member
Global Moderator
Familiar to some, maybe, but this one got stuck in my hindbrain the other day.

By way of salute he raised two fingers from the wheel as he took again to the road. Somewhere out in the hinterlands a band of coyotes were tuning up, and he supposed come morning the doe would be gone, scattered over two or three counties, and nothing would remain at this piece of highway to tell of the things acted out in the small hours of morning but broken glass and fleeting memory.

He thought too of the miles left ahead and somehow in the figuring his thoughts wandered around to the wild holdovers that made their living among men as best they could. The buffalo were gone from the plains now, vanished alongside the indians who’d chased them horseback even to the edge of modernity. They were all three contemporaries in the wildness of a place lost to remembering, pillars of world fast coming apart, and at the death of one age and the beginning of the next it was only the coyote that carried forward by any familiar means.

Often enough he lay awake with the windows open and listened to the crying exchanges. He was glad of them for reasons he couldn’t explain, a deep-rooted holdover wholly at odds with the nature of his other work, and there came times he caught one flashing through the trees at the pasture’s edge or watering in the narrow creeks and some piece of his heart swelled for that which could abide in a world to which it did not belong and where it could expect no grace or solace.

If one was marked for prey, what difference the coyote or the highway or the rifle? And if one’s world was gone before their birth, what chance the coyote?
 

indianroads

Staff member
Global Moderator
Familiar to some, maybe, but this one got stuck in my hindbrain the other day.

By way of salute he raised two fingers from the wheel as he took again to the road. Somewhere out in the hinterlands a band of coyotes were tuning up, and he supposed come morning the doe would be gone, scattered over two or three counties, and nothing would remain at this piece of highway to tell of the things acted out in the small hours of morning but broken glass and fleeting memory.

He thought too of the miles left ahead and somehow in the figuring his thoughts wandered around to the wild holdovers that made their living among men as best they could. The buffalo were gone from the plains now, vanished alongside the indians who’d chased them horseback even to the edge of modernity. They were all three contemporaries in the wildness of a place lost to remembering, pillars of world fast coming apart, and at the death of one age and the beginning of the next it was only the coyote that carried forward by any familiar means.

Often enough he lay awake with the windows open and listened to the crying exchanges. He was glad of them for reasons he couldn’t explain, a deep-rooted holdover wholly at odds with the nature of his other work, and there came times he caught one flashing through the trees at the pasture’s edge or watering in the narrow creeks and some piece of his heart swelled for that which could abide in a world to which it did not belong and where it could expect no grace or solace.

If one was marked for prey, what difference the coyote or the highway or the rifle? And if one’s world was gone before their birth, what chance the coyote?
Beautiful.
 

notawizard

Senior Member
Familiar to some, maybe, but this one got stuck in my hindbrain the other day.

By way of salute he raised two fingers from the wheel as he took again to the road. Somewhere out in the hinterlands a band of coyotes were tuning up, and he supposed come morning the doe would be gone, scattered over two or three counties, and nothing would remain at this piece of highway to tell of the things acted out in the small hours of morning but broken glass and fleeting memory.

He thought too of the miles left ahead and somehow in the figuring his thoughts wandered around to the wild holdovers that made their living among men as best they could. The buffalo were gone from the plains now, vanished alongside the indians who’d chased them horseback even to the edge of modernity. They were all three contemporaries in the wildness of a place lost to remembering, pillars of world fast coming apart, and at the death of one age and the beginning of the next it was only the coyote that carried forward by any familiar means.

Often enough he lay awake with the windows open and listened to the crying exchanges. He was glad of them for reasons he couldn’t explain, a deep-rooted holdover wholly at odds with the nature of his other work, and there came times he caught one flashing through the trees at the pasture’s edge or watering in the narrow creeks and some piece of his heart swelled for that which could abide in a world to which it did not belong and where it could expect no grace or solace.

If one was marked for prey, what difference the coyote or the highway or the rifle? And if one’s world was gone before their birth, what chance the coyote?
Love this.
 

SueC

Staff member
Senior Mentor
It was a lovely morning to be in the countryside. We were planning on leaving around noon, and this was the last place we needed to visit before going home. It was a place Mikey had especially wanted to see, to pay homage to his aunt Brigid, and many others who were buried there.

We all climbed out of our transport and while the horses munched on the wild hay and heather by the side of the path, we clambered over a low stone fence littered with thistles to the actual confines of the cemetery. We passed through an archway, following Mikey who seemed to know exactly where to go.

He stopped then in front of a large, square stone and blessed himself. We all stayed a respectful distance while he greeted his beloved aunt, apologizing for being gone so long. He placed a beautiful yellow rose on her grave, and then proceeded to have a lengthy one-sided chat, much of it in the old Irish, which concluded with his now familiar gesture of pulling out the over-sized white hanky from his back pocket. Then, with reddened eyes, he waved us near to proudly introduce us to the deceased woman he had loved fiercely as a child and who had loved his young self back, equally hard.

“Here be my aunt Brigid, God rest her soul. She’s a patient sort, I know, and forgives me for my long absence. But isn’t this a pretty stone?”

And it was. Her name was emblazoned near the top, and after that came her list of life accomplishments. She was wife to Jonathan, mother to ten children, every name recorded, and then at the very bottom, “favorite aunt to Mikey and Polly.”

“I have never seen the like,” he said tearfully and then explained that his aunt Mary, who was the one responsible for taking care of the graves, was the youngest of Brigit’s sisters and was very close to Mikey’s age.

As if by magic, those of us standing nearby were moved suddenly by a small, quiet voice almost whispering the words "excuse me" over and over in Gaelic. We all stepped aside for a tiny woman, dressed completely in black and as small as Mikey was tall, approaching him with arms wide. Mikey went to his knees and they hugged unabashedly for several minutes, their faces buried, their weeping audible.
 
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