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Post Your Darlings (1 Viewer)

TheMightyAz

Mentor
I've just been writing to techno trance. It gees me up and gets me in a rhythm. I wrote this while high on beats and it dawned on me, we haven't got a thread for our darlings. So, give me your darlings, those little snippets that have you hugging the pillow at night, thanking the lord you chose to write.

The day stretched out before him, beyond his grasp, each second counted down, tomorrow, an epoch away, a point of impossible odds. All he could think about was the ‘T’, the simple communication turned missive by her breath. If it were to be this and only this then he would be satisfied. He had found solace in their brief exchange, enough for a lifetime, enough for an anorexic soul.

By the way, this forum is awesome!
 
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TheMightyAz

Mentor
Am I the only person on this site that loves paragraphs or has their favourites? lol. Come on, folks, let's see your darlings! You don't really have to murder them.

The dishevelled, drably attired pod-mother, stared across at Briar’s Tavern, her hair finger combed and frazzled. Makeup had been liberally applied, and floated on the oily skin, hinting at the features enhanced but never specific to them. She looked like the practice doll of an aspiring, eight year old beautician.
 

SueC

Staff member
Senior Mentor
Okay, I'll bite.

The day finally came.We could walk barefoot in the grass and feel the coolness between our toes. The sting of cold had long since vanished and our bodies sought heat. But the heat of a boat in the middle of the lake, in the middle of summer; that was the best. The old men in us simply retired and went away. They were winter men; we had no need for them now! We made our plans. We were young and our summer faces mirrored in the lake waters proved that was so. As we looked at the reflection of clouds and sun on the surface of the water, we could also see the fish below. Clever fish, swimming as if in camouflage, thinking we were blinded by the beauty of the vista and could not see them.


and . . .

But oh, the summer. I know it’s coming and I hear Frank calling, “hurry up summer!” as he stamps his feet in the winter cold. He’s waiting for me, just like always. I take my hat off and tip my head back once more, close my eyes and there we are, Frank and I, watching the clever fish in camouflage, thinking we can’t see them.
 

druid12000

Senior Member
Well, this is going to spoil the lovely mood SueC created, but here goes:

Ascending one night from the bowels of the demon's labyrinthian hive, on leathery wings black as his soul, he came to their midst, preaching a gospel of unholy conquest.
 

JBF

Staff member
Board Moderator
Too many hours spent in spartan classrooms impressed the particulars, the tumultuous history of a country eternally yoked by one foreign master or another, the blood diluted and split and spilt of a people taken to butchering outsiders with an enthusiasm second only to butchering each other.

A world away north in a land equally hot but markedly less humid a crew chief newly returned from this same country leaned against the rolling doors of a maintenance hangar set a pinch of chewing tobacco and explained it thus:

The language was a mongrel kind of indian spanish, the chief said. The faith that of Rome crossbred to a thousand years of pagan cannibals, the currency powder white, the religion yankee green, and below the skin, the politics red. A man chanced his soul with the temptations offered him and his health with everything else. Breathtaking in natural beauty and labyrinthine in its antiquity, a world where men moved under triple-canopy jungle since time immemorial with swords and spears and Kalashnikov rifles, bearing ahead their crosses and flags and totems of gods such as no white man would ever know, behind them trailing their golden spoils or chained slaves or burlap sacks of processed coca.

Against distant crags hued ochre and purple and dusky orange and blood red, below the sloping mountains with their feathered cuts and gullies in shadow, a pair of light strike birds were running, bucking a headwind that made the wings dip and shudder and flashed a reflection diamond-bright from the canopy glass. From the far horizon the mosquito whine of the turbines did not carry over the desert emptiness.

The chief spat.

It was, he said, the goddamndest kind of place.
 

TheMightyAz

Mentor
Well, this is going to spoil the lovely mood SueC created, but here goes:

Ascending one night from the bowels of the demon's labyrinthian hive, on leathery wings black as his soul, he came to their midst, preaching a gospel of unholy conquest.

Great stuff! There's something 'growly' about writing descriptions in horror and fantasy.
 

TheMightyAz

Mentor
Too many hours spent in spartan classrooms impressed the particulars, the tumultuous history of a country eternally yoked by one foreign master or another, the blood diluted and split and spilt of a people taken to butchering outsiders with an enthusiasm second only to butchering each other.

A world away north in a land equally hot but markedly less humid a crew chief newly returned from this same country leaned against the rolling doors of a maintenance hangar set a pinch of chewing tobacco and explained it thus:

The language was a mongrel kind of indian spanish, the chief said. The faith that of Rome crossbred to a thousand years of pagan cannibals, the currency powder white, the religion yankee green, and below the skin, the politics red. A man chanced his soul with the temptations offered him and his health with everything else. Breathtaking in natural beauty and labyrinthine in its antiquity, a world where men moved under triple-canopy jungle since time immemorial with swords and spears and Kalashnikov rifles, bearing ahead their crosses and flags and totems of gods such as no white man would ever know, behind them trailing their golden spoils or chained slaves or burlap sacks of processed coca.

Against distant crags hued ochre and purple and dusky orange and blood red, below the sloping mountains with their feathered cuts and gullies in shadow, a pair of light strike birds were running, bucking a headwind that made the wings dip and shudder and flashed a reflection diamond-bright from the canopy glass. From the far horizon the mosquito whine of the turbines did not carry over the desert emptiness.

The chief spat.

It was, he said, the goddamndest kind of place.

That's more than one paragraph, cheat! :)

Bloody marvellous though.
 

TheMightyAz

Mentor
From my second novel of nearly 35 years ago. (untidied. I don't cheat) LOL

“Right, my sweets,” he said, reaching for his toys and then slipped them beneath the bedclothes. A ruddy hue lit the pages of the pornographic magazine, which had automatically fallen open onto the most lurid picture therein. He closed his eyes to the image and lifted it from the page with his mind. She sat beside him on the bed, those breasts inches from his cheek, those legs enticing. She slid her hand beneath the sheets to join his own busy hand and turned so that Jacobs could rest his head on her breasts. Slowly and blissfully, he drifted into seamless fantasy; that moment when the author forgets he is creating and the words begin to live. He directed many lurid scenes; each one seemed an eternity squeezed into to a single moment; each one more depraved than the last. That was the way he would orchestrate his journey, building gradually to its pinnacle and his ultimate sin.
 

vranger

Staff member
Supervisor
Okay, and now for something COMPLETELY different ;-):

After the proscription on angels involving themselves directly in Earthly affairs, we'd shouldered most of the load keeping demons like the Utukku in check. Once, that had been their job. And angels are heavy hitters. Put Ares up against Michael? Ares takes a knee. Angels are at the right hand of the One God. We're visitors. Angels can smite. Do you understand what ‘smite’ means? If someone tells you they can ‘smite you’, and it's true, that fight is over. You can't beat smite. Smite just wins. If I'm going up against vampiric demons, and I can get an ally who can smite ... gimme.
 

vranger

Staff member
Supervisor
Paragraphs.

Also, I am constrained by no law of decency, sense, or rationality in my quest for schlock supremacy. :p

There are people who post here who would have made that one wall of text, and called it a paragraph. ;-) We stand in appreciation of your good sense!
 

TheMightyAz

Mentor
This one just made me giggle when I was writing it. Josephine has put her foot in the door, the father is drunk. It's the slightly out of place 'do it, just do it' that cracks me up:


“What’s wrong with this friggin’ door?” The words oozed out from between lopsided lips. “Come on … come on,” he said, as he repeatedly attempted to close the door. “Do it, just do it …” A hand appeared at Josephine's foot, felt around it for a while before, "What the ... hell ... is this shoe doing here?" He gripped the toe and pulled. "Shift you friggin' nuisance. Get out of my way. ... I'm trying to close the door."
 

midnightpoet

WF Veterans
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[/FONT][FONT=&quot] [FONT=&quot]Winter, 1993. Bosnia, near the Serbian border.

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“I hear a truck, or maybe a tank,” Nadja Kopenek said, handing Emil the detonator. Her foot slipped on the ice-covered bridge, but she held tight to the railing. If she fell it was over 100 feet to the frozen river.
“Be patient, love,” Emil said, not looking up. “The experts claim C-4 is safe to handle, but it never hurts to be careful.” In the next few minutes he finished attaching the explosive to one of the bridge’s main girders. Nadja kept a close watch on the road as he set the timing device.
“It’s an Serbian armored personnel carrier,” she said. “I can see it in the distance.”
“We have five minutes, pet. I hear it. You’re right. Let’s go.”
“How will we get past the soldiers?”
“I know a short cut back to the old mill.”
As they climbed to the surface she recognized the familiar rumble of the Serbian APC. They scurried into the dark woods. The morning sun hid behind iron-gray clouds, and cold snowflakes melted on Nadia’s face. At one time these woods had been their romantic getaway, but now they held death. Only bloody death.
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TheMightyAz

Mentor
My office, at the rear of 91 Primrose Avenue, clung to the oak tree in our back garden like a cowardly shed and shivered with every gust above a whisper. Myself and the goofball I call father, took a whole summer trying to knock it into shape, but no matter how many nails, it still quaked and trembled
 
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