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Sentence Sunday--two worlds

SENTENCE SUNDAY

1) It's done on a day that includes "-day" as the last three letters (i.e. it doesn't have to be an actual Sunday--although I think today IS).

2) You pick a bit of text in keeping w the request. (Today it will be NO MORE THAN TWO PARAGRAPHS showing two worlds colliding OR myth made modern OR--for the non-fantasy--two concepts/worldview/ideals colliding.)

3) You share them.

4) You tell us why you like them OR why you wrote them..

5) We all get to read them.

6) There's a tendency of others to reply to each other. (There will be no flaming/unpleasantness, as per the blog rules--positive energy or silence).

MY SENTENCES:

As Ani looked over the assembling Hounds, the green of their eyes and the clouds of their breath were clear. Wolves filled the room where the steeds were not. They would run between the hooves of the steeds, a roil of fur and teeth. Steed and wolf all waited for their Gabriel’s word to begin, to run, to chase those foolish enough to attract their attention. Terror built and filled the air with a pre-storm charge. Those not belonging to the Hunt would have to struggle to breathe. Mortals on the nearby streets would cringe, scurry into their dens, or turn onto other alleys. If they stayed, they'd not see the true face of the Hunt, explaining it away—earthquake? trains? storms? streetfights?—with the willful ignorance mortals clung to so fiercely. They didn’t often stay; they ran. It was the order of things: prey runs, and predators pursue.

Why these?
I (obviously) have a thing for the Hunt in all its manifestations. I also like the way we explain things to ourselves to make them appear other than than they are, to tweak our imagination or to turn the minute into something else. We do it in less good ways (taking a random look & reading it as threat, a sentence meaning other than intended), but we do it in myth ways too. The fog in the graveyard is creepier than in my back yard. The owl's cry is ominous. Or maybe the Other is we encounter is made mundane bc we don't believe.

YOUR TURN . . . share please?

Comments

( 16 comments — Leave a comment )
dramaturgca
Jul. 27th, 2009 02:45 am (UTC)
Behold now the Muses reclining in the June sun!
Lady Calliope, eldest and calmest, Lady of the shining Epic,
Crouching in the full sun. Golden waves of shimmering hair
Snapping in the sea salt air, flying free as she shifts.
Though her movements are ceaseless, her bold voice
Rings clear and true, recounting the heroic struggle
Played out on the glittering sand between four Muses
And a humble volleyball. Beside her stands
Lady Erato, fair-voiced Patroness of lovers’ soft and frenzied speech.
Flame bright hair whips the air as she dives low
And spikes the ball over the net. Rich green eyes glint
With the light of victory as her opponents miss her shot.
Across the dividing barrier of net, rising from the sand,
Lady Polyhymnia, dusting off her marble white knees,
Prayerful Goddess of religious song, laughs and calls
A challenge, her voice ringing with a fervor and passion
For her game. She mimics her sister, Athena, and binds
Her silvery locks back in contrast to her teammate and sister
Lady Terpsichore, auburn haired and light-footed.
She seems to float above the sand, pacing out a measure
In pursuit of the ball. When it comes to game point,
The volleying continues for four full minutes.
Breathless, near stumbling, Lady Erato whirls
To spike the ball, takes a step forward, and misses, and
The game is Over. Laughing, Lady Erato and Lady Calliope
Duck under the net to shake hands with their victorious sisters.
Their eyes meet, rich brown to shimmering green and, as one,
They lift their opponents over their shoulders. They carry
Their shrieking sisters knee deep into the crashing surf
And drop them there, the fallen triumphing over the victors.
Behind them on the sandy rise, a cluster of their sisters sit,
Laughing merrily, enjoying the spectacle played out before them.
Lady Clio, mink-haired Queen of History, sits peaceful
Deeply engaged in carving out a detailed medieval sand castle
From the dune before her. She shakes droplets of sea water off
Her perpetually ink-stained fingers and sculpts turrets and towers
To refine her model of the doomed walled city of the Cathars
At Carcassonne. A few feet away, shaded by a blue umbrella, rests
Lady Urania, protecting her moon pale skin and deep black hair.
In her delicate hands, she holds a clear cube filled with dark mists
In which she numbers the stars and sends their shimmering orbs
Along their proper courses in the heavens. Away from umbrella shade,
Lady Thalia, laughing Lady of the Theatre, lies out on a towel,
Absorbing the sun , turning from snow pale to delicate gold,
Her cinnamon hair streaked with bright flashes of gilt. She laughs
With her sister and her voice dances on the air and sets
The whole beach into fits of merry laughter. For when the Lady of
Joy laughs, only the dead stay silent. Beside her younger twin,
Lady Melpomene is warmly amused, occupied running a brush
Through her chocolate colored hair. She, Lady of illusionary woe
And illustration of lessons hard learned, speaks to her handsome
Half-brother on her cell phone about their joint production of
Richard III. She will play Margaret and give a performance to
Rival her Lady M., the standard to which all tragic actresses are held.
She smirks widely and reassures Dionysus that a day in the sun with
Her sisters will not addle her for tomorrow night’s rehearsal. At the end,
Lady Euterpe, fair-voiced singer, sits and smiles and gives sweet voice
To the songs that summer is made of, her voice ringing down the beach
Bringing a smile to every face.
olmue
Jul. 27th, 2009 02:59 am (UTC)
Heh heh--love the volleyball game!
heatherwpetty
Jul. 27th, 2009 02:56 am (UTC)
MY SENTENCES:

My mom had gone without Asher for five years because of me. I could live with him for a couple more months. The thought of it churned my stomach as I continued on into my room. I dropped the mail on my desk, closed the door and locked it. More tears fell as I crawled onto my bed, hiding my face in my pillow. But it wasn’t enough.

Almost without realizing it, I found myself inching across my bed until I was lying on the very edge, as far from the doorway as I could go, and still I could hear Asher stomp around his den. A few times, he shouted something in the language of the Keldas, and either kicked or threw something against the wall. But then I heard my mom’s soothing tones, followed by a pause and his loving reply. She could calm him with a look, a word. He couldn’t look at me without driving himself into a rage. Together, we were his peace and torment.


WHY THESE?

I think so much in YA deals with a volatile mother/daughter relationship, where everything is screaming and rage, but there is still love. I really wanted to explore a father/daughter relationship like that... within the context of an urban fantasy setting.

Edited at 2009-07-27 03:03 am (UTC)
olmue
Jul. 27th, 2009 02:57 am (UTC)
Scott looked at my pajamas. "Overslept, huh? Well, if you hurry you might still make it on time."
He went back down the hall and I let the door slide closed. I stared at the clock. Six hours. I’d been unconscious for six hours. I ran my fingers over my face and sniffed my hands. Just overslept? The gods didn't sleep. It was hard to be there for your supplicants if you were sleeping.


I like the idea of mythology crunching against real-life normalcy. I like juxtaposing the glorious and the mundane. I notice that when a book is full of common, ordinary details, they tend to ground the story and make it feel real--no matter how fantastical the premise of the book is. (Also, they can provide some humor. :)
melissa_writing
Jul. 27th, 2009 05:02 pm (UTC)
Very cool. I tend to agree on the minutia grounding the real world. I think, at core, that's one of the best mental tricks the human mind has for suspending disbelief when it comes to the Other.

I'll look fwd to reading the whole text.
(Anonymous)
Jul. 27th, 2009 03:33 am (UTC)
My sentence
This is not a reply to the previous, just wanted to post my sentence...

"The skinny vibration shocked her taught skin, forcing her to wish for more."

Why? Why not?

Not sure how to post but I thought it would be fun,
Melissa Lang Shields
pithypink
Jul. 27th, 2009 03:37 am (UTC)
His visage was horrifying, his body blackened like a fading bruise, his face monstrous. He roared, the black stuff flying out of his mouth like spittle, into the fire.

I like dark things, and this seemed to come alive for me when I was writing it, as if I was possessed by the very thing I sought to describe. This is only a tiny bit of it (as I did not want to overload you), but I like it best.
melissa_writing
Jul. 27th, 2009 05:00 pm (UTC)
RE: Dark things

Me, too. That's a big part of why I started writing: I had nightmares abt dark things, & letting them out on paper seemed to help. (I let them go to the extremes on the text, and then in revision remove a few edges.)

This is a strong image, the sort that feels like it should be in heavy brushstrokes on a canvas.
beautyxinsainty
Jul. 27th, 2009 05:10 am (UTC)
Holding Forever
It was always the unspoken, unacknowledged truth between us. She was in denial of it for so long, she would not let her self believe it. I knew that she knew, so one day I finally told her, when I could not let myself lie anymore. When I finally told her, for a split second I felt better. The world became clear and then it came crashing down, as she yelled “get out of my house. You’re no daughter of mine.”

Why? because i am writing a Short Story for a Grad gift for my friend Sarah. and this fits here... it was either that or a werefish
(Deleted comment)
melissa_writing
Jul. 27th, 2009 04:56 pm (UTC)
*smile* I like it. Thx for posting.
(Anonymous)
Jul. 27th, 2009 11:12 am (UTC)
My sentences:

She was made of glass—fingers and toes and legs, the breadth of her shoulders and cheekbones. Each eyelash and the most delicate bones of the hand, lovingly constructed. Only her organs, hanging suspended in space, showed color. Evan had seen part of a lung once, when her shirt slipped—one blue-black edge—and had thought it beautiful. It was rising and falling slowly.
He had first met her when they enrolled in the same photography elective. Introducing themselves to the class with the banal trivia teachers cannot escape, she had said, “My name is Anna, and I can see my heart beat,” and sat back down. Evan had stumbled through his introduction, forgetting what he had planned, and hastily sat. Her eyes, with their delicate glass eyelashes and little glass irises, had followed him.



One of my favorite things to do is take metaphors to the next level. I was inspired for this piece by the line in a Midsummer Night's Dream "Nature shows are, that through thy chest I see thy heart." So, he can literally see through her chest. Extended metaphors, you might say.
melissa_writing
Jul. 27th, 2009 04:54 pm (UTC)
This is beautiful. Thx for posting it.
rachel_wo
Jul. 27th, 2009 04:56 pm (UTC)
It didn’t start in anyone place, it seemed like suddenly, I would be on fire, my skin burning, needing to be shed, then I would be a wolf. No longer in my weak human form. My fingers elongated, my nails curved into claws. My nose extended, stretching making room for my growing and sharpening teeth. My ears became pointed and hairy. My bones cracked and moved, rearranging themselves to the shape that I was to become. I fell to my knees and screamed. There was always a brief moment of pain before the change took full effect. The scream turned into a howl as my skin shattered, making way for my new form.

I stretched out my limbs. I rarely ever changed into a wolf other than at a full moon for fear of being seen by humans. It never took getting used to and it was never awkward walking on all fours, my senses heightened. If I could, I would be a wolf all the time.


This is from a story that I wrote called "Tracks" about werewolves. I love the concept of werewolves, because I think that we all have that hidden beast inside of us that we hide away from the world. The change attracts me because it is making way for the strength and beauty that come with that "inner beast"

I hope that made sense. :)
sora_blue
Jul. 27th, 2009 05:42 pm (UTC)
*sigh* Book four, please? The wait for Ani is killing me...

"Aye." Thomas pointed at the Valkyrie's helmet. "The viewing mechanism has been damaged. The titan could crush you without knowing you was there."

Like most men his age, Thomas gobbled up all the public information of the Valkyries' specifications. He knew dimensions, top speeds, armaments, as well as sponsors and the vital statistics for the pilots. It was the closest he--or any other man--would get to being inside one of the fearsome war machines.

This is from a seekrit project... and I like it because gender reversals are always fun to write.
ex_esssjay
Jul. 27th, 2009 07:53 pm (UTC)
We all nodded and sealed our plan by grasping hands. Ghost laid her empty sleeve over McDermitt’s pale hand. I checked the darkening sky and nodded at my group. I felt a twinge of misgiving as I looked from one face to another, we all looked pale and nervous. Tabitha looked especially clammy; I gave her hand an extra squeeze.

“I can do this,” she said with a weak smile. I thought it sounded more like a question but I had no better ideas so with a hint of doubt grasping at my heart we split up.

Why these? The thing I love about urban fantasy is the mix of the familiar and alien - in this case team dynamics despite the fact that half of them are dead.
mikaela_l
Jul. 28th, 2009 09:03 pm (UTC)
This is from an idea I have. I basically have the opening scene and that's it. One day, I'll do the rest.

The moment Alyssa Hamilton sensed the demon magic, something within her died. Alyssa knew what the demon magic meant. It meant that her two weeks holiday was over, the demon magic meant that her superiors had dismissed her request for retirement. Again. Alyssa had lost count of how many times she had sent the request, every time she hoped that it would be granted. But it never was. Alyssa shook of the gloom she felt, and unlocked the door to her apartment. She automatically glanced at the doormat, but it was empty, lacking the familiar envelope. Alyssa shrugged. It didn’t mean anything, a lot of the older demons still left the envelope on the kitchen table. Filled with reluctance, Alyssa went into the kitchen. She stared dumbfounded at the Greater demon seated there. There had been times when her boss, who was a lesser demon, had decided to discuss the assignments, but she had never found a greater demon in her living room.
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