July 4, 2008
SHINE
Let’s shift the spotlight a bit.
Rather than have me come on and ask thought-provoking questions (ha!), ride my soapbox, or attempt to entertain—let’s showcase some of our posters.
SHINE.
Post one paragraph from your work. UNPUBLISHED work only, please. Any work, any genre, in progress, hidden in the sock drawer—whatever. ONE PARAGRAPH that you love. A title if you want, but no prologue, no explanation. We don’t want to know why. That you love it is enough. 
What do you get? The chance to let us love it too. 
Nothing over 120 words, please, in the interest of time and space.
I’ll post my bit, then it’s all yours.
Shine for us. 
(From “The Rose Legacy”)
Fog hung like despair over this particular patch of earth. Small swatches of paint curled away from the whitewashed exterior, the steps were stained and broken, and petals from the dilapidated flowers, driven by some recent storm, clung to the walls like leper-shed skin. Still, Camille lingered at the front door of the cottage, wondering why it all seemed so familiar. Several of the roses that had attempted an early bloom had suffered for it, their colors deepened to blood-black, heads limp upon the climbers. The leaves were blotched and blistered, dribbling condensation from their jagged edges. But a fresh flush of new canes mingled with the wild, wiry grass, their stems ridged with old thorns and spring-kernelled buds.
Raine, that’s lovely.
So I tramped back through the tangle to the midpoint of the site, turned the four quarters slowly and read out the names from my list of generations. As I named them I mentally added the epitaphic designations of grief and loss: the beloved, the wife of, the only son of, the dear daughter of… Ephriam Bryant, Ebenezer Bryant, Joshua Tilden, Mary Tilden, Annabel Bryant…Three shades only, worn and thin, drifted toward me, like silver whispers in the quiet gold of the afternoon.
“I’ve been so blind.” I rub my temples as the beginnings of another headache edges into my consciousness.
“It’s not your fault.”
“That’s not what I mean.” I glance down to the streets below, wondering how many others out there, are like me, asleep, never knowing. “I feel like a blind person who was suddenly given the gift of sight. Like the entire world is brighter, but not. My chest hurts—”
“Hurts how?”
I shake my head watching a truck driver on the street below shake his fist at some pedestrians who dare to dart in front of him. “I don’t know.”
“I think what you’re feeling is sadness.”
“Sadness,” I echo, letting it roll off my tongue, testing the weight and depth of it.
And because I can’t resist…..here’s another from the same WIP:
The blade sinks deep, like a fork through eggs, then resists as it connects with his windpipe, forcing me to firm up my grip and push harder. He struggles briefly then stops on a choked gurgle of blood that seems just loud enough to make me worry someone might have heard.
My hands are slick with blood, so is the knife. And my shirt. The heat of it soaks through my clothing as someone gently tugs at my shoulder.
“Rafe…Rafe, put the knife down.” Nix pats me again, more insistent this time. “It’s done.”
My shoulders sag and the overwhelming metallic scent of blood fills my nose, fills me with instant remorse and regret, of fear of getting caught and my stomach churns with it.
But it’s done.
“What the heck is a limp biscuit?” Lorelei Nichols asked after hearing part of the conversation between the two women beside her.
“You’re so funny, Lorelei.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Lorelei said under her breath. She tried to block out the blaring noise her friend, Donna, called a band. The thrumming of the bass and drums rumbled the brain in her skull. A tick had developed in her left eye.
“It’s a band.”
Lorelei swiveled on her barstool and set her empty glass down. “I beg your pardon.”
The bartender, with a quirky smile and the bluest eyes offset by black hair, slid another draft to her. “Limp Biskit.” His voice raised over the din of the room. “It’s a band.”
Amie… vivid…gross, but VERY vivid!
LOL Denise it popped my bloodlust cherry. I grinned for days afterward
*sick* Yes I am and I’m LOL@Limp Bizkit!
Ladies great job. Damn Raine….just damn girl.
Three shades only, worn and thin, drifted toward me, like silver whispers in the quiet gold of the afternoon.
Oh, my. My, my, my, Bernita.
Thank you.
I glance down to the streets below, wondering how many others out there, are like me, asleep, never knowing.
My shoulders sag and the overwhelming metallic scent of blood fills my nose, fills me with instant remorse and regret, of fear of getting caught and my stomach churns with it.
Ames, love the ambivalent emotions and vivid descriptions.
Can’t wait until this is pubbed!
“What the heck is a limp biscuit?”
Dennie, lol!
Very good, sympathetic character immediately, and the bartender sounds yummy.
you guys have such “pretty” writing. It’s melodic and visual… mines just …quirky
no sorry …wasn’t a poor me moment. Just saying–hard to think straight (there are too many dudes in the house today.
)
…you guys have such “pretty” writing. It’s melodic and visual… mines just …quirky
Doesn’t mean any one is better than the other. Just different.
Different styles, different voices, different strokes, Dennie.
I’m loving these paragraphs!
Nice one, Raine. :)
Alicia closed her eyes tightly, heart racing in time to her throbbing temples. Hughes cursed the approaching agents, detailing what he would do when night came. The little girl cringed when she heard a loud rustling sound, and a throaty gurgle. Alicia felt something tapping against her side. She opened her eyes to narrow slits, hoping the man would not notice her. Alicia looked up to see something massive holding her captor, his feet jerking in the air. A moment later, Hughes crashed to the ground beside her, twitching slightly. A huge hand reached down and picked Hughes’ body up by the back of his belt. As the body was carried away, Alicia saw it no longer had a head.
Here’s mine:
He hadn’t opened his eyes, hadn’t spoken a word, but something was different. Perspiration glistened on his face and neck. I removed the washcloth and gently set my lips against his forehead to gauge his temperature.
The fever was breaking.
In stunned silence, I watched him lift his hand again to cradle the back of my head. Felt him drawing me down, down, down. To him. Why did I go with it? Why couldn’t I speak … pull away … do something to resist him? But there I sat, allowing this stranger to guide me until our faces were mere inches apart. He cupped the left side of my face, and I shuddered when his gloved thumb brushed my lips. Then he sighed and his sweet breath kissed my face, stirred my hair.
Next came a flash of lightning blue. His eyes. Red rimmed and bright with fever, they all but paralyzed every muscle in my body. He was staring up at me now, seeing and yet not seeing me. Had to be the fog of delirium, but I didn’t care. “Taste,” he murmured. “Taste … you….” His eyelids drooped and I felt his white-hot gaze like a laser on my lips. And before I could draw another breath, he’d pulled me home.
I went back and added the first paragraph because I didn’t think the passage made sense without it.
Beneath The Skin
~*~
Raine bent to pick up a scrap of lace from the chair, and Winston briefly glimpsed her sex. Blood rushed to his groin hardening his body. Then his heart suspended its rhythm as he saw how the sunlight, streaming through the windows, painted parts of her to the palest honey while throwing cinnamon shadows under the curve of her breasts and insides of her thighs.
Era cosí molto bella. The way she looked, the way she moved. There was music in her limbs. It flowed with sweet sensuality through her every motion. Last night Raine had played a symphony for him.
This morning she wanted to play him for a fool.
Thanks Bernita, Amie, Bernard.
As the body was carried away, Alicia saw it no longer had a head.
Wow, Bernard! Very striking paragraph!
Ditto, Tanya.
Verra verra nice.
Vanessa that is seriously SULTRY.
And I love your heroine’s name.