|
|
|
|
Every writer instinctively listens to people speaking; eavesdropping is the writers favorite pastime.We become attuned to every nuance of speech.Steinbeck had a great ear. Made-up dialogue seldom rings true. Once while walking through a neighborhood I overheard two woman discussing a car accident, one asking, "Did he have any insurance?" The other replied, "Not a dime!" That rejoinder was a sharp reminder that the people speak the words. which we, the parrots, mimic.
|
|
Joined: 6/14/2012
Posts: 194
|
From a story in progress, first draft. "Horsefolk" are nomadic tribes from the steppes to the north.
"Again?" Oktar's mother glared at him. "Bloody nose, black eye, shirt torn, a
complaint from the judicar--you're a disgrace!"
"They said we were dirty stinking
horse--" he paused; the word they'd used was forbidden. "--droppings," he finished.
"You should ignore them," his
mother said. "They are ill-bred;
you should not dirty your hands with them."
Oktar's hands, bruised and bloody as well
as his nose, were at his sides, half-hidden in his long shirt, but he knew she knew.
"Who hit first?" she asked.
"Tam Togirdsson." He touched his nose.
"And you did not duck away. And you hit him--"
"The others were already hitting
me."
"Well. Come and I will clean your
face."
During that painful process--for she insisted
on scrubbing out every raw scratch--Oktar took no heed of her words, but went
on thinking how he would get back at Tam and the others. It was not his fault. It had never been his fault. He could not help having a horsefolk name, a
horsefolk face, living in the neighborhood where the small group of horsefolk
in this town lived clumped together for protection. He'd never stolen anything, but if one of the
others stole a fruit from a stand in the market on the way home from the
grange, he was the one accused. He'd never
lied...well, almost never...but he was the one accused of lying, if another boy
wanted to make trouble. Which they
mostly did.
"There," his mother said finally.
His face stung from her scrubbing.
"And now you will stay inside until your father comes, and he will
deal with you. You are beyond a woman's
strength to beat."
His father.
O Mare of Plenty, if his mother would not merely switch him with the
horsetail that hung behind the kitchen door...if she actually meant for his
father to punish him...he counted up the days in his head. Yes.
He was indeed six days past the divide his father had set, and
thus...
"You will polish every pot in the
kitchen," his mother said.
"And then the floor. And
there is no supper for you, until after."
|
|
Joined: 6/14/2012
Posts: 194
|
(Sometimes you hit SEND too soon.) Oktar is an adult in some other stories about him, but this is how he got to be what he is as an older adult...the dialogue (both spoken and internal, his thoughts) sets him in the context of a marginalized culture living away from its roots, in an urban setting. Like many kids in such situations, he's at odds with both the dominant culture and his own, furious with everyone, frustrated and sure he will never find a life he can stand. Later we find out why this family is in the town, why they left their original culture, and some of what they gained and lost...but all through Oktar's viewpoint. There's a transition point in the story that's giving me heck (but it may be the eye surgery that stopped me from going on, and then the difficulty seeing as the eye recovers. It's better now; it'll be better yet when I can get a new prescription and glasses that correct the remaining problems.) I know where he ends up at the end of this bit, but not how he gets there that will fit in something that can't be longer than a novella. I hope. It really needs to stay shorter. (As a long form writer I'm always having arguments with myself--and sometimes editors--about length.) The story will span months of Oktar's time, and is now well over 4000 words but only about three days long. At that rate (not that the time-to-words ratio stays the same in any work, necessarily) we're talking over 120,000 words. I was hoping for 30,000 at the most. That's a really big difference in scale.
|
|
Joined: 6/7/2011
Posts: 467
|
Very nice, Elizabeth. I liked that a lot.
|
|
Joined: 6/14/2012
Posts: 194
|
Thanks. Oktar's been a constant, but minor-tier character across a number of books. I'd hoped he'd come more forward, but he didn't, and this was my way of figuring out why. As an adult, he's prominent in his work, respected by his peers and subordinates, treated as an equal in the organization by both peers and outsiders. But unlike others in that rank, he never came forward and asked for a bigger part. So I wanted to know more, and for that I had to come to know the boy. Immediately he leapt off the page at me, full of anger and humiliation and the desire for revenge. Very unlike his adult self, who is calm, even-tempered, firm but not rigid, witty. Sign of a good potential protagonist, with that much change. (Now to get him "there" somehow. At least enough on the road to show that he's connected to his future self.)
|
|
Joined: 6/7/2011
Posts: 467
|
Interesting, isn't it, how some characters crowd forward for the spotlight, and others hug the wings. Usually, I just try to get out of the way, but sometimes you have to get in there and mix it up. Sounds like Oktar's backstory deserves a book of its own.
|
|
Joined: 3/19/2012
Posts: 6
|
hi everyone, here's an excerpt of my WIP Nadia, the Hidden Fire Witch. PS Using Camp NaNoWriMO to revise it:
The next morning, Nadia was still in bed when she heard slouching sounds in her dream. She heard it again, this time much louder.
Nadia reached for her phone under her pillow and and opened one bleary eye. “9:38 am,” moaned Nadia. “Didn’t I just go to sleep?”
Then she heard a growl. Nadia removed the covers over her head. And screamed.
A rotting, decomposing corpse had standing above her watching her sleep. Its mouth were gouged out, its drool dripping down to the cream carpet. Nadia stared open mouthed at it as it smiled back at her, looking at her if she was his first meal in years.
The thing twitched and Nadia dodged to the foot of the bed. It collapsed onto the bed, just missing taking a bite out of her.
Nadia screamed again as it lunged at her a second time. She scrambled out of the bed and unto her feet. She called upon the elements of fire and summoned two fireballs in the palms of her hand.
Her arm pulled back but Nadia found herself alone in her room.
“What the-”
Then she heard it. Sniveling, wheezing giggles outside her door.
“Mercure,” shouted Nadia. The fireballs turned icy blue before they fizzled out into smoke.
Nadia marched towards her, wrenched it open and came face to face to a floating zombie head
Naida yelped and dived to the floor, cowering in the doorway.
The laughing became louder and in shorter gasps. It grated her ears. Nadia looked up at Mercure’s red and scrunched up face.
Mercure was a miniature of her father. He had father’s dark cocoa skin, broad and strong like the oldest tree in the woods, but in sapling form and without the annoying personality.
“You little brat,” growled Nadia, as this time she resummoned for a ring of fireballs. “You’re gonna get it!”
Nadia was serious and Mercure knew it. He made a run for it but Nadia was on his tail.
They ran down the hallway and Nadia grabbed the closest ball and let it fly. Too bad Mercure made a sharp left down the stairs. It missed him and singed the wall right where his head had been.
She aimed again from the landing and the fireball whizzed past him again. “Mom,” trilled Mercure, ducking from the second fireball. Another scorched circle appeared.
The ring of fireballs trailed behind her as she ran down after him.
They were halfway down the stairs as Nadia took aim for a third strike, when a more frightful sight at the end of the stairs and stopped them in their tracks. For the second time that morning, Nadia extinguished the flames she evoked.
Looking up at her children as if they were her prey, was the tigress herself. Nadia recoiled at the same same brown eyes boring into hers,as if searching for a weakness. Any reason to do away with her.
Felina Kemp was a strong and fierce woman. Anyone who dared to harm the people she cared about will have to live their life watching their back. In some respects, that is where both mother and daughter were. Whereas Nadia was more concerned about loyalty, her mother loathed betrayers.
Nadia doubted that there was a witch or human alive who scared her more than her mother. She was all hair and legs, with a compact, lithe body. But don’t let her small frame you because the last thing you want is for to have her sights on you.
Felina Kemp was a true predator, made all the worse that the her witch power bound were to cats. She can summon spirit and real cats to do her bidding. And not just the small ones.
“Nadia Kemp. Mercure Kemp. What. Do. You. Think. You’re. Doing,” asked her mother in an even tone, no louder and no softer than a whisper.
“Nothing,” answered Nadia and Mercure. They both took an instinctive step backwards up the stairs.
“Really,” her mother replied. Her eyes narrowed to slits and she asked,“Then what is that?”
They followed her eyes to the scorched wallpaper from the fireball Nadia threw moments ago.
Her mother stood still and alert, ready to pounce. She wanted an explanation and someone had better give one. But would she listen?
“You see-” exclaimed Nadia and Mercure.
She raised her palm stop like those neon green traffic officers, and replied, “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Of course not,” mumbled Nadia.
“In addition to your current punishment, you will replace the wallpaper.”
“That’s not fair! What about Mercure,” huffed Nadia, pointing at Mercure’s back.
“Be punished or continue your homeschooling? Choose.”
“Be punished,” Nadia mulishly answered, “but he used his thoughtform on me.”
“And I will deal with him. Now go downstairs and eat your breakfast.”
As commanded, Nadia marched down the rest of the stairs and shoved past Mercure. She scooted around her mother, walked past the parlor to the kitchen.
The kitchen was expansive. It had been renovated with mahogany wood and silver handles with matching silver appliances in three strategic spots. The kitchen had a built in fridge in the left, a double stove and range hood at its center with a window to the back yard in between and a washer on the right. It formed a perfect U. But what really clinched their move to this house was the island. Her mother had always wanted an island.
The pantry door was next to the fridge and the door next to it led to the basement.
Waiting for Nadia on the table were cold buttermilk pancakes and eggs.
“What a shitty morning,” grumbled Nadia, as she grabbed herself a plate. She piled on the last of the cold pancakes and eggs to the microwave.
Nadia still grumbled about why they didn’t wake her up when they were still hot when a loud smack echoed throughout the house, followed by an even louder, audible ow.
Nadia smirked and sat down at the table. She ate her breakfast with gusto, leaving behind a clean plate.
Table cleared and dishes washed soon after, Nadia was still smiling as she went to the basement to continue the refurbishment of the family coven.
|
|
Joined: 3/19/2012
Posts: 6
|
And here's another WIP from Spiritus Mundi. PS I'm currently reviewing new titles for SM and it looks like the new title will be "Harbingers of El Tinor." Final decision would be made later but let me know if you like the title.
The skin was almost full when she heard it. Aithne’s forehead crinkled. Ignoring the rapid beating of her heart, she listened closely.
Her stomach plummeted down to her feet at the approaching clanking of armor and weapons.
She grabbed her rucksack and dashed into the closest alley on her left, her sword banging against her leg. Soldiers flooded into the area, prowling over every inch of it. A group of them gathered around, one of them holding her waterskin.
“Tolak!” cursed Aithne.
She spied on them from her hiding corner. The man held her forgotten waterskin before his face as if to catch her scent. He flung it to the ground and snarled at the rest. They broke up into twos or threes, each group taking a different alley. A few remained on guard, spreading themselves around the courtyard.
“Tolak,” Aithne whispered again, venturing deeper in. “I won’t be captured so easily.”
Readjusting her sack, Aithne took a quick look at the surrounding buildings.They stood at four to six stories, stacked up, down and over another. It had a pale brown color somewhere between sand and mud. The entire structure seemed like it could crumble at anytime.
Aithne old memory floated to her mind. A younger version of Bowen the usurper, had repeatedly told her not to go into the back streets. Even with a map, people who’ve lived there for years still tended to get lost.
She shook her head and headed in the direction outside of the town. She paused only to hear if anyone was following her. She wasn’t adept at muffling her footsteps and Aithne had no intention of being caught and dragged back home.
Wiping the sweat that ran down her eyes, Aithne heard the clanking of metal again. She ducked left into a side passage when with a thud, a huge piece from one of the buildings fell from above.
“Argh!,” yelped Aithne, clamping her mouth shut with one hand. Stunned she stared at the very spot she almost walked into.
“Over here!” yelled a feral voice.
Aithne took off, her feet slamming hard against the ground, leaving a trail for her captors to follow. Still she ran, dashing into a left passage and then a right. Taking a left turn, Aithne glanced behind her. There were no signs of her pursuers. Thrilled, she quickened her pace and went left again, colliding into a soft, squishy wall.
Aithne fell backwards. The sky crashed to the ground. And the ground was uprooted beneath her. Gripped with fear, she wondered if one of the soldiers had went ahead to trap her when a face hovered over her.
Aithne blinked rapidly at the person. She had expected the brutish looking soldier who picked up her waterskin. Not a woman.
She had hair that glared like the sun tightly wound in a chaos of short curls. The woman smiled warmly, her round cheeks forming small mounds that swelled. The flecks of gold nestled in her brown eyes seemed to twinkle at her. Aithne couldn’t help but stare as the woman cradled her in her arms.
She was the type of woman, that men would clamor to propose marriage to her elders. On the other hand the entire country knows her as the stubborn ghost child. Aithne had the same brown-reddish hair as her mother’s, but more ripply, that fell down her back. She even had the same brown eyes and the cackling laugh that would rise higher and higher. Their noses flared when angry the same and they both have the same fiery temper. Although others dared to say that in that regard, the mother could not compare to the daughter. She even inherited her mother’s name. She was her mother’s spirit reborn. A ghost child. And as of three nights ago, an enraged ghost.
“Are you okay,” asked the woman.
Ah, thought Aithne, even her voice sounds lovely.
“You two. Check that way,” bellowed the voice closer than before. “The rest follow me!”
“No,” whispered Aithne, pushing the woman away from her. She scrambled to her feet and sputtered, “Sorry and thank you.”
Aithne took off again but a vice grip on her wrist brought her crashing on to the ground again.
Kneeling face to face, Aithne tried to pry off the woman. Livid, Aithne yelled,“What are you!-”
Without a word the woman released her. But in a flash she grabbed Aithne’s shoulders. Aithne had a brief view of the wall rushing at her when the woman twisted her around. She tried to break away from her but it was no use. She embraced herself for impact and clutched the hilt of her sword.
“Ah!” gasped Aithne. She landed with a thud the ground. Looking around, she saw that she was in a dark, enclosed place. It smelled dank of something rotten, probably an animal that crawled inside and died. Getting on her knees, Aithne creeped towards the opening when her sack snagged on something. Dust and debris rained down her. With nowhere for the dust particles to escape, they swirled around, setting her nose and throat on fire.
“Father,” Aithne hacked unconsciously.
“Hush,” grunted the woman.
The sound of something heavy scraping the ground pricked ears. She looked left and right but could not find the source. It didn’t help that the hollow she was unceremoniously shoved into had been getting darker and darker.
The grating grew louder and to her horror, Aithne watched as a chunk of the same sand-mud rubble slid in front of the niche. She noticed it too late.
“Crazy woman!” gasped Aithne. She slowly crawled forward, cutting her hands on something. Pounding on the wall, she shouted, “Hey!”
Silence.
“Is that crazy woman still there,” murmured Aithne, pressing her ear on the barrier of her new prison. Aithne heard nothing.
She found a sliver of an opening big enough to wedge three of her fingers. Then came the disheartening clanking.
Aithne tensed and listened with bated breath.
“We’re looking for a woman,” demanded one of the men breathing heavily. “Have you seen her?”
|
|
Joined: 7/7/2014
Posts: 1
|
This excerpt is from my book, The Curse of Eternity. Three mysterious men have been tracking someone equally mysterious to a seedy bar along a highway.
For their part, the
three men looked as if they had just walked into a pit coated with slime and
filth and wanted nothing more than to leave without touching anyone or
anything. Still, in an act of resolve
that was betrayed only by his perceptible wincing, the middle man stepped
forward and addressed the entire bar.
“A man passed through
here no more than a month ago,” he announced, his voice filled with clearly
audible disgust. He looked like me, yet
was probably dressed more like you. You
would have identified him as a stranger, even more so because he stank.”
“Look friend,” the
bartender replied easily, a soft twang gracing his voice, lending a softness
and charm that belied the rest of him, “a lot of people come through here. We don’t pay particular attention to them
unless they cause some sort of problem.”
The middle man softly
strode over to the bartender, “He would have caused a problem: he probably
would have been saying or doing inappropriate things to any women here and he
would have stunk horribly like goats.”
That last bit seemed to
strike a nerve, although no one apparently would say why. Everyone simply turned around to what they
were doing before the man had made his announcement, only this time, the
attempts were transparent. Only one man
seemed to chuckle a little, drawing the attention of the three men. The middle man strode over to him, followed
by the vicious stares of the various patrons.
“You know of whom I
speak,” the man said lowly, “as does everyone else here. Where did he go from here?”
“What’s it to ya?” the
man cackled in his drunkenness. “Yeah,
he came through here, ‘an I know where he said he was goin’, but I ain’t
sayin’.”
“Really,” was all the
middle man said in obvious disgust.
No one could even
later explain what had happened, when the Sheriff came by to write the
report. The drunken man, Joe McLaughlin,
was hurled to the ceiling by the middle man.
The most horrifying part of that was the fact that he stayed there,
pinned to the ceiling by some nameless force coming from the middle man who was
now surrounded by writhing, wreathing, twisting, contorted, crackling streams
of blackness that seemed to suck everything into their hungry and empty
embrace. The man growled a hideous growl
that no one could tell if it was human, bestial, or some combination thereof
and roared an animal roar at the man pinned, screaming, to the ceiling.
|
|
Joined: 7/18/2014
Posts: 121
|
This is from one I've just started on. I'm barely 3 pages into it. It involves a near burned out detective from Albuquerque NM who accepts a job as Chief of Police for a small town, Mesa Golondrina, on the Staked Plains in eastern NM. The quiet little hamlet of about 2,000 people turns out to be a hub for a Mexican drug cartel, or that's what I'm aiming toward. This snip, is from the 2nd and 3rd pages, and is as far as I've gotten. It's first draft stuff, so might change drastically.
He drove through the town and found a
rundown looking motel on the southern side. Like the gas station, it was the
only one of its kind in the town. Turning into the motel lot, he pulled back
onto the highway and headed north. Like it or not, he needed gas. The little
ten gallon tank in the Jeep was good for about a hundred seventy miles, and he
had used up a hundred fifty of them getting to the town.
As he pulled into the station, he
frowned at the price per gallon, parked and shut off the engine. He climbed out
and was surprised that the station let you fill the tank and then pay, unlike
nearly every other self service station across the nation.
After squeezing as much gas into the
tank as it would take, he went in to pay. Behind the counter sat a man of about
fifty, lean and wiry with a weathered face that said he had spent most of his
life outdoors. Bill dropped the exact amount on in the counter.
“Where do I find the town hall?” he
asked.
“About two blocks over,” said the
clerk, which didn't tell Bill much. “Two story tan stucco building. You can't
miss it. Says town hall on the sign.”
Bill nodded. The town wasn't that
big. He figured he could find it without much trouble.
“Ain't seen you around here,” said
the clerk, “and I know most everybody in town.”
“First time I've been here.”
“Probably why I've never seen you.
Could be why you don’t know where the town hall is.”
“Pretty good assessment,” said Bill.
“I’m quick that way,” said the clerk.
There was a twinkle in his eye, and Bill sensed that the man was enjoying the
banter. The clerk leaned over the counter and offered his large, thick fingered
hand . “I’m Frank Mundy, Mayor of this metropolis. What you needing the town
hall for?”
Bill thought for a moment. “You have
an opening for Chief of Police.”
“That we do,” said Frank. “You
considering it?”
“I’ve got seventeen years experience
in Albuquerque,” said Bill. “Got a resume in the Jeep if you’re interested.”
Frank eyed the black Jeep at the
pump. “Fine looking machine. They don’t make them like that anymore.”
Bill turned and looked. “She’s a 1963 CJ-5, fully restored.”
Frank settled into a chair and eyed
Bill. “Albuquerque, huh? This would be quite a change. Think you could handle
it? We ain’t jumping here like they do up there.”
“After seventeen years, I’m tired of
the jumping.”
Frank studied Bill for a few long
seconds. “Ain’t much goes on around here at all. That’s a plain fact.” He
hesitated. “Chief of Police is sort of a joke hereabouts. You’d be the whole
department. This ain’t but a one officer operation.” He stopped and watched for
a reaction.
“Reserve officers?” Bill asked.
Frank smiled. “Got three. They’re all
trained up. They’re what’s doing the job right now, until we get a Chief
anyways.”
|
|
|
|
Hi 
No one's contributed to this thread in a while, but I thought it'd be fun to post some dialogue for the fun of it.
Here's an exchange from my Epic Fantasy WIP Destiny's Bond, in Arashi's POV (Note I'm still revising):
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"Don't be silly." Disgust crinkled Karissa's nose, bursting his bubble of anticipation. "The Green Court wouldn't deign themselves to aiding a tiny village such as Ravenswood. Most likely this girl was just passing through on her way to the Western Mountain."
"At night?"
Karissa stiffened, probably at his incredulity. "Who says Light Nythpaths can't travel at night?"
"No one that I know of." He scuffed his foot on the hardwood and massaged the tautness of his nape with calloused fingers. Blazes, he was tired. "Just doesn't seem likely, with her being a female and all."
Too late he realized his error.
"Oh, Arashi, you did not just go there." Stinking of indignant woman, Karissa stood, fists punched against her thighs, sandaled foot tap-tap-tapping. "Please tell me you didn't just indicate women can't be out at a late hour, on their own."
Damn it, he thought, wincing. Me and my big mouth. "I'm not indicating anything. I'm saying most women can't defend themselves, and should have a male there to protect them."
"What?" Darkness suffused Karissa's cheeks.
"You've done it now, Arashi," his inner beast said, with undisguised glee. "You've lit a fire under the volcano."
"Women can protect themselves fine, Arashi." Karissa jutted her chin. "When trained right, we can be more deadly than any male. And you know it."
"Well, yeah." Arms folded over his chest, he shifted from one foot to the other, becoming frustrated. "But it's more difficult for them. Men always have the edge in a fight, 'cause we're stronger."
Shut up! his brain hissed. He ignored it.
"Stronger?" she shrieked. "Stronger? Are you kidding me?"
"No." Stance defensive, he scowled. "Men are stronger. It's a proven fact."
While Karissa chewed over a response to that, he hid a wag of his tail. If she could spar, she had to be okay.
"You . . . You . . ." Speaking through clenched teeth, Karissa kept on tap-tap-tapping her foot. "You . . . egotistical, arrogant male."
He coughed into his fist to conceal a grin teasing at the corners of his lips. "Can't come up with a more creative reply than that?"
A hmph. "Not right now, no," she groused. "I'm too tired to think creatively."
That drained his contentment. "You know, getting some sleep wouldn't do any harm."
Karissa chuckled, the sound hollow and without amusement. "Don't start on me, Arashi. Lying down is the last thing on my mind right now. Should I, I'll probably snooze for a weak. And under the circumstances, that won't do."
Well, damn. Couldn't argue with that.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
There. That's one of my dialogue scenes
Whew! Writing that out was fun.
Amber --edited by Amber Wolfe on 3/28/2015, 12:14 AM--
|
|
Joined: 4/23/2015
Posts: 38
|
This is from a YA thriller I'm working on....
‘I didn’t...’ Abigail said, shaking her head. ‘Mum, I
couldn’t have...’ But even as she said it she found her gaze moving back to the
rusty coloured stains on the bed sheets and the knife, shining in the orange
light of the morning sun. Her knees gave up on her and she sank to the ground.
‘Help me. Mum. Please. Help me.’
Susan
went to her daughter, wrapping her arms around her. Abigail could tell that her
mother was crying without looking, could feel the judder of sobs. ‘It’ll be
ok,’ Susan whispered, rocking Abigail back and forth, her lips against her ear.
‘Your dad will get Doctor Crofton on the phone. He said things like this could
happen.’
‘But
not killing, Mum,’ Abigail said, wiping her tears on her mother’s t-shirt. ‘He
never said anything about killing.’
|
|
|
|
Hey, that's pretty great dialogue, Lucy. You've got a knack for getting my interest peaked
|
|
Joined: 1/23/2012
Posts: 36
|
Oh fun!
Amber: Nicely done! Your world sounds really intriguing!
Lucy: Yikes! Very curious what happened!
_____________________
This is from my cutter WIP. POV is a teen girl:
I knock and the door opens quickly. "What?" It's that Jax guy, a frown of annoyance on his face. He's such a wonderful first-impressionist. "No Watchtower. I'm already actualized, thanks," he says, looking past me, then his eyes settle on my chest before trailing up to my face. "Oh, shit, hey! The sexy redhead." He winks and pushes his black-framed glasses up his nose. "How's things in rich-girl land?"
Jax is kind of cute, actually. If only he wasn't such a chauvinistic pig.
"Is Aidan here?" I ask.
Jax shakes his head. "Nope, on a job, of sorts. But maybe Connor or I can help." He turns and yells into the interior of the house. "Connor!" Then he motions me into the entry way. "So good to see you again, Ruby."
"It's Rebecca."
"Sure, right." He glances down at my cleavage again, then back to my face with a smile. "You here to hang, or what?"
I clear my throat and clutch the strap of my shoulder bag tighter. "I'm needing a place to stay."
He face opens wide, brow going up and smile gaping now. "Really. That should be interesting."
I don't know what to say to that. It's obvious I'm the butt of some joke in his head.
Connor comes from the back of the house, saving me. "Hey, what's up?" I forgot how tall he is, maybe six feet and built like a swimmer. He fills the space he stands in like he's claiming it. He's eighteen or nineteen, as I recall.
Though, he seems older with that shadowed look in his very blue eyes.
"Red here is wanting to crash," Jax says.
"Rebecca," I correct, not liking being named after the color of my hair. I glare at him. "Rebecca Emery Willow McLane. But you can call me Emery."
He smiles at me and winks. "Sure thing."
Connor seems confused by my paragraph of names-I don't blame him, really-but he just studies me and then says, "I'm not sure there's room for you anymore."
My chest tightens. Oh God, I didn't even think about the idea of being rejected.
--edited by Rachel Anne Marks on 4/26/2015, 5:09 PM--
|
|
|
|
Thanks for the kind words, Rachel
Your dialogue is pretty good, too--very polished and interesting.
Amber
|
|
Joined: 1/31/2016
Posts: 30
|
From a story Zot the space Imp.
3 inch tall Zot is clamped to the right ear of the Earthling Gene.
Zarn planet
Architects Anderson & Partners
Gene's Office
Gene and Zot who augments her intellegence some 5%, are working hard. A huge project office tower / motel.
Bars restaurants shops the works.
High flyer Gemmina swans in and sits down.
Gemmina "Show me my building."
Gene "We couldn't make a decent showing yet. Early days."
Gemmina "Organise a presentation soon. Very soon."
Zot "Presentation or working drawings. Everyone is flat out."
Gene "The Imp is right..........."
(they do a deal)
Gene running around the office collecting up prints of drawings, Zot flapping on her ear.
(later)
Gidday,
I write a lot of dialogue my style is nearly a screenplay.
Do hope it is readable. Would value any feed back.
Regards, Dravid
|
|
|
|