Tell me what you think, pls.

[OnyxCougar]

.

She walked, as a zombie, through the mounds of bodies. Her mind numb, overcome by the screams of the injured and the wails of those who had searched throughout the long night and found only the pain and suffering that battle brings. Her hair was matted and tangled, the once young, innocent face now smudged and care worn. Her white gown covered her form, its hem torn and battered, dirty and bloodied. Bits of armor were fastened upon her, mismatched and worn, ill fitting and hard used. She had taken a shield from one of the dead in the early morning, and held it before her. Her feet were bare, and she limped through the battlefield, only dimly aware of the trail she left in her wake, marking the passage of her footsteps.

She trudged her way through the mist. It hung heavy and low over the valley, like a gray shroud. It covered everything with cold, clammy driblets of sweat. She wiped her forehead, leaving another streak of some unnamable substance across her face. It went unnoticed.

Occasionally, her form would pause in the morning dew, and gaze upon the misshapen form of what was once a man. Her eyes took everything in: the twisted face, its countenance that of a cruel grin, eyes empty and staring into that eternal void of clarity and thought, reason forever banished. She moved past the dead form and resumed her search.

Parts of men lay strewn among the wreckage, a severed leg here, a pale arm leaning askew by a tree stump, fingers reaching up in supplication. Her eyes slid off these disjointed images and she sighed, recalling the ancient tale of an old cleric, attempting to create a man. “All of the best parts,” she murmured, “do not the best man make.”

Her swollen feet had brought her to the southern portion of the long valley. It had taken all morning and some of the afternoon. The sun’s light, obscured by the thick fog, did not warm her or give her comfort. There was only the vacuum of the mist and bodies, scattered like red autumn leaves.

She shook her head, as if to clear it. She knew not why she stood in this place. All of her experiences had led her here, at this time, and the hope that had sustained her through the morning dimmed in the afternoon grayness. Standing, blue eyes remarkable against her pale, smudged visage, arms hanging by her sides, she existed, brought to this place by unseen, unknowable forces, for a purpose she had yet to understand. Time ceased within that colorless cloud; all motion halted. She merely waited, resigned.

She became aware of a flute playing in the distance. The tune was forlorn, its notes slowly and painfully borne. Resonating throughout the valley, it echoed in her thoughts and wound its beautiful tendrils into her soul. The shield before her body could not protect her from this. It was as if the creator of that symphonic light had directed its beam at her.

Slowly, subtly, the notes transcended this quietly endured pain and suffering and began to speak of hope. There was so much complexity in the simplest note; her mind could not ascertain every nuance. She wept at the beauty woven by naturally skilled hands. Her feet moved of their own accord, following the sweet trail of aural light into the foothills.





The source of the music grew closer as her feet carried her up the hills. Warm grass caressed the soles of her feet, soothing her wounds. Her toes dug into the earth and looking up, she saw a hint of the blue sky. The mist was moving, its chilling touch pushed away briefly by warm, late spring air. She lifted her chin and breathed deeply of the wafts of fresh air as it caressed her face. The notes were more strident, calling her; written for her alone.

She stopped suddenly, as the knowledge hit her that although the song had been playing for such time as she could remember, she was the only one that heard it. She pondered this for a moment. How was she hearing it? She turned back and looked at the path her feet had trod. There was no one else in the mists behind her. Returning her gaze to the hills above her, she nodded and walked slowly upward.

As she rounded a bend in the trail, she saw him. It was a knight. He was sitting with his back against a massive oak tree, legs crossed. His sword lay next to him, and a massive shield was resting against the tree to his right. His hair was unruly, and his eyes gazed at her. The sound resonating within her soul came from this man, but he held no instrument.

He rose to his feet. Quiet strength emanated from him; a certain knowledge that he would not fall before the storm. Whatever trial or obstacle stood before him would be overcome. Honor and truth were more than his life, they were his very essence. His road had been long, fraught with hardships known only to the innermost soul, and had led him here, to this silent grove.

He looked upon her and fell to one knee, bowing his head. She walked to him, shedding her armor at each step. Standing before him in only the white fabric of her gown, she laid her hand gently upon his head. He trembled. She spoke quietly, but her rich voice echoed in his heart, “I have heard the call of thy soul. It sings to me still. By sheer will and courage hast thou fought to reach this place. Rise, Sir Knight, and stand beside me. I will be thine inspiration and grace, as thou shalt be my valor and strength. Together we will forge a kingdom such as has been foretold in our hearts since the moment our existence began. I bid thee: take up thy sword and gird it to thyself with my love.”

He rose to his feet and smiled down at her, then bent and tasted the wine of her lips for the first time. Their eyes met, and now the melody of his heart was joined by the harmony of her own.

[breakingnews]

Ick, I have to be honest here. I have a nasty editor side that emerges every so often.



You write very well and fluidly, and you paint a fabulous picture.

I think, however, that you're overwriting in many places. Too much description where it's not necessary - there are congested sentences that detract from the flow. Find more striking adjectives that show action rather than describe it. Condense images to how one might really perceive a scene. First sentence, for example: what do zombies do? What does the place really look like? "She lumbered through the blood-soaked battlefield, girded by heaps of limp bodies." (That also sets up the turf for the whole bare feet - footprint thing at the end of the graf) How about: "The hem of her white gown was torn and bloodied beneath mismatched bits of armor strapped loosely to her gaunt body."

Your descript of the body parts "strewn about" was fantastic though. Made me shudder.

A good catch phrase is "Kill your babies." I'm sure you've heard it before - a teacher of mine describes it as a flowery phrase around which you're trying to write a whole novel. Get rid of it and you're on your way. Anne Lamott's 'Bird by bird' is my favorite reference when I'm unsure about the 10,000 words of entangled shit that I just typed.

Sorry to be so critical. I do, however, enjoy helping people with their work, so if you want more comments, just email me. If I'm the worst person ever, well ... bleh.

[OnyxCougar]

OK, how about this rewrite of the first graf:

She stumbled through the mounds of bodies, her mind numb. Screams of the injured mingled with the wails of those who had searched throughout the long night, to find only grief and dispair. Her hair was matted and tangled, the once young, innocent face now smudged and care worn. Her bloodied gown, tattered at the hem, barely covered her thin frame. Bits of armor were fastened upon her, mismatched and worn. She had taken a shield from one of the dead in the early morning, and held it before her. Her feet were bare, and she limped through the battlefield, only dimly aware of the trail she left in her wake, marking the passage of her footsteps.

She trudged her way through the mist. It hung heavy and low over the valley, like a gray shroud, covering everything with cold, clammy driblets of sweat. She wiped her forehead, leaving another streak of some unnamable substance across her face.

[warch]

I'm not a writer, but I must second the recommend for Lamott's "Bird by Bird". I love that book. Beautiful insight into any endeavor.

[vsp]

<font face="verdana, arial, helvetica" size="2" ><font color="indigo">

Suddenly, they were all hit by a truck.

-- THE END --
</font>

(Attribution: Michael O'Donoghue)

[warch]

Ok, now I had a minute to read through your text. Like I said,I aint no writer, so I applaud you for your efforts right up front. But here's my response.
It beats me over the head with forced atmosphere and forced romance- a tale, or movie Ive seen too many times- a cliche. Too much. apocolypse now+starwars+lancelot Shes a mythwomangoddesscharacter and at this point, I dont read anymore depth. Shes the canned unreal,floaty, and so I think, without quite knowing how to articulate it, you need to develop some realism, individuality, and some subtlety with this character- beyond the visual decription. Give her a brain. Give me some reason I would care for her other than her setup as the, yet again,dazed and tragically beautiful survivor of something hideous. And the flute playing knight romance - Bah! skip it and work on her. Maybe try writing her from the first person- that might help find a full character there.

[OnyxCougar]

Well, the purpose of the piece isn't to flesh out the character, but to work on my descriptions and setting. I've written other things that I've been told were lacking in those, so this was purposefully vague on depth.

Let me see if I can find something else....

How about this:
Tabitha woke before sunrise, when the horizon could just be differentiated from the black sky overhead. She shivered under her blanket. Press had not banked the fire. She cringed as her bare feet touched the cold, gray stones, then leaned down to find her stockings.

Once she got the fire going again, she went to the window and pulled the red velvet curtain to the side, wincing as sunlight burst in her vision. A thin layer of ground fog lay upon the city. There were few people out this early. A fat merchant walked down the cobblestone road, his girth making him waddle awkwardly as he wheezed to his shop. The baker pushed his cart behind the milkman down a side street and a disheveled woman opened her door as the tinkling little bells of the carts approached in the otherwise hushed silence of dawn.

Two knocks preceded Prescott into the small room. He carried an old wooden box before him. Tabitha turned from the window and let the heavy fabric obscure the morning sun.

“Good Morning, Lady,” he smiled, setting the box at her feet.

“Morning, Pres.” She turned back to the waking city and the morning air washed over her again, raising goose bumps on her arms. “You let the fire go out.” A beggar was taking position in front of the church doors below.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be that cold last night.” He ran long fingers through a wave of shaggy brown hair, pulling it back from his face. He looked at his companion closely. The set of her shoulders and one hand on her hip meant she was seriously considering something. His sighed quietly and lit the oil lamps on either side of the room. She’d discuss it with him when she was ready, and not a moment before.

A knock at the door of her suite drew him into the living area and a plainly garbed initiate brought in a tray of fruits, bread, freshly churned butter, cheese and a pitch of mulled wine. The ivory robed man bowed deeply to Prescott, and the Knight nodded in return, closing the door behind the young man. As he prepared the table, he heard Tabitha dressing in the other room and wondered where they were going this time.

She emerged from the small bedchamber in her informal robes the knights wore while at the Temple. It was white with silver trim at the neckline, floor length hem and long sleeves. A silver sash adorned her slender waist, marking her as a Revered Knight of the Silver Chalice. She looked over the table with a critical eye.

“Looks good,” she approved, sitting down at the small table.

“Fresh butter,” he remarked. Sitting across from her, he poured warm wine into her glass. “What’s on the agenda for today?”

Tabitha paused her buttering of a hunk of bread and looked at him thoughtfully as he filled his own goblet and brought it to his lips. “How do you feel about taking a trip?”

He hid his smile behind the silver cup and tried to look like he was considering it. “Where do you plan on going?”

She abruptly resumed buttering her bread, avoiding his eyes, “Ral Kotek.”

He set his goblet down with a loud thunk and looked at her with his chin in his hand. Sighing, she rose from the table, setting her bread on her plate. He stood as she did, and watched her walk to the window.

“You know why, Pres,” she sighed, “I have to know.”

He nodded unseen behind her, looking down at the table. “You can’t send a message?” he asked, knowing the answer. She turned to look at him and tilted her head in reply. He nodded again at the table and sighed heavily. “Will the Keeper let you go?”

A faint sad smile crossed her face. “Of course.”

Prescott indicated her chair, and she returned her to seat. As he tucked her in, he wondered aloud, “When do we leave?”

Taking the bread from her plate, she brought it to her mouth. “Tomorrow, Keeper willing.” His eyes widened and she bit into her bread, smiling.

“Tomorrow! I’ll need to go into the village and get a —“ he began. She smiled. “Yes, yes. You have leave to take a pouch or two with you and buy the needed supplies. I’ll meet you back here for supper.”

He bowed deeply to her, “By your leave, Lady.” She inclined her head, smiling at him, and watched her protégé leave the suite quickly, ticking things off on his fingers and muttering to himself before he was even out the door.

[warch]

Part of its me. I dont dig the era.

[OnyxCougar]

Hmmm.... The crossing the parking lot idea is intriguing.

[warch]

Yeah, see I'm a parking lot kinda gal.

[breakingnews]

This is very, very good. But there's a imaginative void in some of your descriptions, namely the first two paragraphs. As a journalist writer, I'm a big proponent of condensing writing down to the absolute minimum. I.e., don't use 25 words when all you need is 5. That teaches you to be concise with your words.

Once you're concise, you'll realize you need to find the "right" words to describe whatever it is you're talking about.

For example:

When exactly can the horizon be differentiated from the sky? "She woke before sunrise, a distant glow outlining the horizon's edge."

If you've seen fog in the morning, it doesn't really lay upon the earth. It roils, like dry ice in water. "A thin layer of fog spilled across the city streets," or "The tops of tall buildings peaked through the thin layer of fog."

Be active and first-personish in your descriptions. It's tough, but a challenge is understanding how people really perceive images. We see things in groups and only certain things stand out. Like, 'the crowd roared with anger, but a toothless man standing alone clenched his torso as tears streamed from his eyes.' I wrote that about a war protest last year - we've all seen angry mobs, but who the hell was this guy in the mix?

"... the tinkling little bells of the carts approached in the otherwise hushed silence of dawn," could become simply "... the tinkling cart bells broke the morning silence." Because that's what happens. Dawn is already hushed, no need to say that it was quiet.

[xoxoxoBruce]

Originally posted by OnyxCougar
Hmmm.... The crossing the parking lot idea is intriguing.

What? Where did that come from?

All of your female characters speak in purple.

[OnyxCougar]

Originally posted by xoxoxoBruce
What? Where did that come from?

All of your female characters speak in purple.

I'm still not quite sure what speaking in purple means.

[OnyxCougar]

OK, going to post one more to see if you see a trend. (Same era, Warch, you may wanna skip this thread, it's all I write, for the most part.) Two posts, since it's too long for one.

The old man sighed as the knock came at the door in the wee hours of the morning. “Why,” he muttered to himself, “don’t they have the sense the Lord gave a dog?” He pulled the thick black boots over his long johns. “You’d think they’d have enough to get out of the rain.” As he pulled on his sweater, the knock came again, determined but not hurried. “Coming, coming,” he called, as lightning flashed in the window. Moments later a deafening crash of thunder sounded over the little house by the river. The man jumped and involuntarily raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. “Bah!” he snorted. “Don’t know what I’m waiting to see.” Proceeding to the door, the white haired ferryman twisted the latch and lifted the lantern as he squinted into the rain outside. “Now then, what do we have here?”

A lone figure stood back from the doorway, seemingly unaware of the downpour. The feeble light illuminated a dark cloak, heavy with rain as it fell about slender shoulders like a woolen shroud. The hood was drawn, and the man blinked and stuck his head further out the door, looking for others. There were none. “Yes?” he inquired.
“Are you the ferryman?” a low, quiet voice asked. “Y-Yes.” He stuttered. It was a woman. But what would a woman be doing out alone in this storm?

“How much to take me across the river?”

He blinked. “In this weather? I wouldn’t try to cross.” Another flash of lightning struck nearby and he steeled himself for the deafening thunder that followed. Her head rose slightly in anticipation and was rewarded with the concussive blast.

“Very well. I will find someone who will.” She turned to leave and the old man narrowed his eyes. This was not an attempt to haggle the price. She simply meant what she said. What could be so pressing that she would cross the river in this deluge? She walked away slowly, stepping off the wooden planks that served as a walkway to the door of the hut and sank into the mud.

“There is no one else.” She stiffened. “This is the only crossing for leagues either direction. I’m the only ferryman here.”

She turned back slowly and lifted her head. “I must cross tonight.”

He looked at her slender face and gazed into steel blue eyes that held exhausted determination. The ferryman nodded. “Aye, that ye shall. But first this thunderhead must blow over. Not more than an hour, I’d say. Then we cross.”

She considered it. “How much?”

He smiled despite himself. She was shrewd, this one. “Five silvers.”
“That your normal price?” she countered.
“It is for young women in the largest storm of the season, before dawn.”

She looked down and visibly sighed. A small torrent of water fell from her cloak and added to the mud about her feet. She reluctantly returned to the wooden planks as he stepped back from the doorway, and entered the small hut behind him. “Take off your shoes,” he fretted. “Can’t have mud in the house. And hang your cloak by the fire. The rain may stop in an hour's time, might as well attempt to dry off.” He caught a glimpse of a wry smile as she turned and walked to the fireplace.

Hanging the lantern on the hook in the ceiling in the middle of the room, he put a kettle over the fire. She paused and then pulled the dark wool over her head. A white dress hung dripping on her frame. In several places, it had been torn, and mended with black thread. The thin linen clung to her body, and he noticed several large bruises before he turned away, blushing. “You have anything dry in that pack of yours?” he inquired gruffly.
“No.”
“Figured.” He walked into the other room as she wrung her cloak out over a small basin. He returned to the room as she hung the heavy garment on the hook, the water evaporating with a hiss. “Here,” he said, holding out his hand, looking at the door. She turned and looked at the heavy cotton shift being offered to her and smiled. “Thank you,” she said, and went into the bedroom to change. “There’s a towel on the dresser,” he fussed to the fire. “Thank you,” she said again, muffled behind the door.

[OnyxCougar]

part 2
She emerged toweling her hair. The plain white gown fell to her ankles. He nodded to himself as he poured the boiling water into cups for tea. Lightning flashed and he jumped, clinking the teapot against the cup. The rolling boom came and went and she sighed, hanging her wet dress near the flames. She turned the cloak around and the hissing began anew. She sat on a little stool near the fire and smiled gratefully up at the wrinkled face as he handed her the small mug of tea.
“Thank you again.”

He waved his hand. “Common courtesy,” he dismissed.
She sipped the beverage carefully and licked her lips at the heat. “Not so common, I think,” she replied.
“Bah!” he countered. He looked at her in the firelight. The dark hair he had seen when she entered was actually gold now, reflecting the flames as it dried. She stared into the flickering blaze, absorbed in her thoughts; brow furrowed slightly, lips pressed together. It gave her a countenance of absolute purpose and will. He recognized that look. His wife had worn it some years before. God rest her soul.

A pang of longing ran through him and he rose from his seat, fussing about for some bread. The lightning was less frequent, and the thunder boomed in the distance. Moving southeast downriver, if he didn’t miss his guess. He sat a board of bread and a small bit of cheese in front of her, and she looked up, startled from her reverie. “Oh…no…I couldn’t.”

He nodded stubbornly. “Aye, ye can, and ye will. Ye’ll not be able to leave the house of Ancil Millersson and say he didn’t take care of ye.” She smiled faintly. “My thanks, Master Millersson. I am in your debt.” She captured him with her gray-blue eyes. He blinked quickly, and then harrumphed to the other side of the room, looking out the small window at the river.

She ate slowly. “Do you often invite your patrons in for tea and a bit of breakfast?” she asked, her gaze fixed on him. “No. But I’m not in the habit of leaving folk in the rain, either.”

He wondered if he should ask the questions on his mind. Who was she? Where was she going? What was the hurry? Why was she alone? The dress hanging by the fire was linen, and the wool cloak was thick, and of a fine blend. He saw no clerical symbols around her neck, and no belt pouches indicating she studied the arcane arts. She carried no sword or weapon he could discern; only a small black leather pack accompanied her. He wondered absently where the bruises came from.

She followed his eyes to her pack and slid it under her seat with a foot protectively. “Thank you for the meal,” she murmured. He nodded. She rose from the chair and carried the empty platter to the small basin and rinsed it, then dried it. He turned her dress and cloak around and turned her boots for good measure.

Opening the door, he let the warmth of the fire escape into the rainy night. It was only sprinkling now. He nodded and put his own cloak on. “I’ll get the ferry ready,” he said. “Should take about 15 minutes.” She nodded and looked at the damp garments by the fire. Sighing, she took them from the hook. “Keep the dress, miss,” he offered. “It’s dry, and…well, probably warmer than that thing.” He pointed to the damp shift in her arms. Grabbing a spare lantern by the door, he shuffled out into the night, pulling his hat down tightly.

When he returned, she was pulling her boots on. The hood of her cloak was down, and her hair was braided back neatly. The pack was a lump under the cloak, in an effort to keep it dry, he supposed. Or safe.

“She’s ready, miss.”

She stood wearily, shrugging her shoulders to settle her pack. He held the door open for her and she walked along the boards to the river’s edge, stepping on to the ferry gingerly. There was a small overhang on the boat, and she stood under it. The ferryman’s massive arms pulled the chain along the metal reel and the boat lurched as it entered the swollen current of the wide river. His passenger steeled herself against the side of the ferry and smiled softly as he expertly pulled the boat across the water.

“How long have you been a ferryman?” she asked, and he looked up at her in surprise. “Near on twenty years, I suppose,” he grunted, the thick muscles in his arms moved slowly, rhythmically. “But not all your life,” she stated. He shook his head, “No. Not all my life.” She nodded. The small craft entered a bank of fog, enfolding them both in its damp embrace. His breathing seemed loud in the mist.

He looked up at her. She was leaning against the railing, staring across the river, brow furrowed again. “Where ye from, miss?” he ventured. She straightened and turned her eyes of steel on him. “Beynath.” His eyebrow raised, “Beynath? That’s thousands of leagues from here.” She nodded slowly, one corner of her mouth raised in a half smirk. “I am aware.” He paused for a moment, grasping the thick chain in his fingers. “Have ye come all this way by yeself?”

Her hand reached up and touched the pack beneath her cloak reassuringly. “I’m traveling alone.” A rough eddy pushed the ferry about and he snapped his attention to the chain, the links stretching into the fog. Pull as he did, the fog made it seem as if there was no movement but that of his arms and the chain, moving inexorably along a predefined course.

“Young ladies travellin’ alone thousands of leagues. What’s the world coming to?” he clucked. “In the older days, a young lady alone was escorted where she needed to go. She wasn’t alone for long, by God. And that’s the way it should be. There have been some rough characters crossing the river last couple of days. Ye’d better be careful, miss.” Her begrudging smile at his remembrances vanished at the mention of the “rough characters”.

“How many?” she asked.

He looked up from the opaque water, “How many what?”

“Men? Crossing the river?”

He gazed at her for a moment, and a peculiar sort of knowledge passed between them. Someone was after her, or she was after someone. And it had something to do with something she carried so protectively in the pack. He nodded softly, “Aye. There were three of them, with horses. Traveling fast, like the devil himself was after them. Crossed about two days ago, in the late afternoon.” She sighed and looked out over the rushing water. Out of the thick fog, shapes began to form on the shoreline: trees, bushes, and a little jetty. Adjusting her pack slowly, she watched the old man dock the ferry with not even a bump in the turbulent river. He tied off the ferry and offered his hand to steady her as she stepped on to the dock. She smiled and let him assist her. Reaching into the purse at her waist, she removed some coins and pressed them into his hand. “Thank you,” she looked up into his eyes, “For everything.”

He nodded briefly, blinking quickly. “No thanks are needed, miss, but ye are welcome, just the same.”

Squeezing his hand momentarily, she turned and walked down the dock, into the burgeoning twilight. He watched her until she was obscured by the fog, and then looked for long moments at the coins in his hand. Placing them in his pocket, he lumbered to a small shack on the shoreline to wait for a customer to return across river.