Christine's Expressions

2004-07-27T19:39:00.000-07:00

background: attempt at writing a part of a fantasy novel. protagonists: a pair of sword masters, you'll learn more about them later, perhaps. quest, blahblahblah, same old same old, trying to come up with something new. a twist.
will have narrative format of alternating narrators while advancing in time *won't see same event by different people...unless i decide otherwise later on* s
i realize that some bits are a bit awkward and i think my dialogue needs work. as well as the 'she said' 'he replied' type stuff. anyway. if anyone stumbles across this, constructive criticism would be greatly appreaciated.

Chapter 1
Sephor
“You bastard!” Kin snapped.
I shrugged. “That may be so, but I won, and I didn’t cheat this time,” I replied mildly. She threw down her cards down in disgust and stormed to the bar.
“Give me a beer,” she growled. Cob, the bartender, grinned as he set down on the worn counter a frothy mug with condensation beading down the sides.
“Thought you’d’a learned better’n to cross Seph at gamblin’, Kin,” he chuckled.
“I had you this time!” Kin turned to glare at me, a glare that had in the past turned men better than myself into nought but a quivering pile of jelly at her feet. But I had known Kinasse Lyndan for several years now, and that glare now drew only amusement from me.
“I’ll pick up your tab,” I offered, “as a gesture of goodwill.”
“You’ll excuse me, then, while I take advantage of your gracious offer and drink myself into a stupor,” she muttered darkly. I paused for a moment.
“Actually, Garth is expecting to meet us tonight, Kin. You’d best not remove us from his Highness’ good graces by vomiting on his royal self.” Kin brightened.
“Really? Garth has time to see us, what with the Elgiani dignitaries visiting? I thought he was in negotiations all night and parties and balls at night.”
“He is. Apparently something came up.”
The look of happy anticipation of seeing our friend was replaced by a worried one, but “Oh,” was all she said.
“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” I said hastily. “Maybe he’s just tired of diplomacy.”
“You,” she said scathingly, “are full of shit.”
“And proud of it. Listen, let’s go, Kin. We have time to practice and then wash up and have supper before we meet Garth. What do you say?”
“He’s not feeding us? What’s the point of having the king as a friend if he keeps all of that exquisite food to himself?” I turned from the bar, where I’d been paying Cob for the drinks we’d had, and threw my arm around her shoulders as we left the tavern.
“He’s doing you a favour. If you shoved your face with all of that food rather than the bland stuff we have down at the college, you’d be to fat to lift your sword.” The breath left my lungs in a rush as her fist connected with my gut.
“Huh. You manage to get fat stuffing even the college’s food down your gullet,” she retorted, storming off towards the palace, leaving me standing in the street, clutching my belly.

just a little suggestion

2004-05-30T13:06:00.000-07:00

hmm...if anyone manages to find their way over here, i think it would be cool if you guys could give me writing assignments or something in the comments. it could be a topic, a style, anything. well, maybe not anything. my poems are, well, a little lacking, and i probably won't be able to mimic any specific authors very well. but i could try if it really means a lot to you.

The Champagne Bottle

2004-05-30T12:40:00.000-07:00

My Comments: i'll be starting out by posting old works for now, since i'm still taking class right now, and as a warmup and to gather general criticism of my writing style. i wrote this piece as an assignment in creative writing class in grade 11, the assignment being to emphasize the five senses as much as possible. obviously, a descriptive writing assignment.

Smooth, satin gloved hands passed down the translucent forest green bottle. A faded ecru handwritten label identified its contents. In the background, the gossips giggled and tittered under the colossal oak trees by the lane. Men, in their tenor and bass voices, discussed politics and baseball by the sweet sound of the fountain. Overhead, seagulls shrieked in harsh, shrill voices. All this sound, however, was reduced to a monotonous hum at the back of my consciousness as I watched the bottle slowly make its way towards me. My cold, clammy hands grasped the neck of the bottle desperately. Under my tenuous grip, the glass was cool, smooth and comfortingly solid. Grasping the polished stainless steel corkscrew on the table beside me, I opened the bottle. The bottle itself smelled musty after years of storage in the cellar, but the liquor it contained had a fresh, crisp, fruity scent that reminded me of autumn. When poured into two crystal flutes, the champagne looked as good as it smelled; a clear, rich molten gold that echoed the colour of the wedding band that had been placed on my ring finger mere hours before. A flash of silver caught my eye. I looked up, startled, and realized that what had caught my attention was a silver bow decorating a carefully wrapped present, sitting on top of the pile of gifts generously given earlier. The light pine table sagged under the combined weight of the presents. Carefully, I smoothed my ivory satin skirt; the fabric was smooth under the callused pads of my fingers, the tiny glass beads like pebbles on the smooth sand of a beach. We toasted, my new husband and I, and we downed the sparkling champagne. It seems to me that both colour and the sweet aroma of the champagne had well represented its taste; sharp on my tongue, a sharp burst of sweet flavour overwhelmed my tastebuds before the liquid slid down my throat. Later that night, standing at the seaside cliff, I flung the bottle out to sea. I lost sight of its trajectory in the pitch-black velvet sky, studded with diamond stars, until I spotted a faint splash of white sea foam. The sound was ripped away by the wind that was billowing the pearl coloured skirt around my bruised and beaten legs.