Words Run Like Greyhounds

"I will speak daggers to her, but use none."
Hamlet

I have had a very busy, rainy day with very little scribbling and gobs of reading. Honestly, between Chesterton and The Golden Warrior and a years-belated reread of The Golden Goblet (which was unexpected but not unpleasant) I don't think I did much else today besides a walk and three cups of tea. Three cups is highly unusual. Don't judge me.

But to keep wayward scribblers like myself in line Katie has graciously taken it into her head to host a monthly snippets bout. "Snippets" sound to me a lot like "whippets," which in turn remind me of greyhounds, so the following is a pack of words which I have written and wouldn't they just love to break lead and get away from me and hunt down your imaginations!

February Snip-Whippets

With an upward rush of his arms, a ring somewhere among his fingers glinting like starfire, his voice suddenly became like thunder, like power, and it stung Margaret horribly. “Welcome the Hollow Moons, my friends! Welcome the Hollow Moons!”

And the room gave back the cry, “God rest the Hollow Moons! God rest the year!”
Plenilune

For being flagrantly unsociable,” mused Rupert, “he can deliver a stirring speech when the occasion requires it.”
Plenilune

...before she could resist against her better judgment, or do anything rash, she was pulled in by Rupert and they were striding out into the middle of the room while the crowd and music whirled like compass-needles around them.
Plenilune

[Mark Roy]turned his head away and looked after the baron, his own face clouded by thoughts, the muffled sound of thunder in the lift of his shoulders and the gold-traced dragons that were depicted there.
Plenilune

In the dark wings of the north end of the ballroom the players sat, tiered on their benches, like a jury of angels. They were all in warm, dark colours and seemed to melt into the shadows, illumined only by their single candles. It was a strange, eerie thing to sit just below them, looking up into their shadows, while it seemed the candles, not their fingers, played the light upon the strings. It was a strange, eerie note they played, a minor key which seemed to conjure the formless, painful longing in her soul and give it a kind of voice. Margaret sat in her seat, her hands gripping the arms of it until her knuckles turned white, and suffered the mournful song to wash out of the high dark down over her.
Plenilune

Rhea,” he purred at last, a panther-smile curling on his face. “Mine own familiar Rhea, who starved me and took all the light out of my world, what does she here? She knows her cunning and beauty. What need has she of a lookinglass?”
Plenilune

It was not like a reaper’s sickle, it was like the sickle-curve of ocean sweeping at her, for her, to overwhelm her and her alone—as if no other soul but hers was meant to soil that inexorable blade. Her eyes fell shut against the impact.

God, take my soul. I dare not die without thee.
Plenilune

Really?” Centurion raised a brow. “The game moves on apace."
Plenilune

8 ripostes:

  1. 1. Three cups of tea is not unusual. Well, perhaps it is a little excessive, but not shamefully so. Droop not your head in shame. ;)

    2. You're reading Chesterton too? I might have known. And oh my goodness, I've just looked at your currently reading page, and it's the same book that I've just started. Our minds must sync in the night.

    3. I don't think I can take much more of Plenilune's sharp and singing beauty before I demand to drown in it. Each of these "snip-whippets" -- they're like bits shorn off a diamond, glinting and gleaming in the reflected light. I can hardly form an idea in my mind of how beautiful the whole must be.

    Except "beautiful" doesn't quite cover it. I can't think of a word that does, not at this hour -- but I think you know what I mean.

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  2. Oh mercy, Jenny. Now that I know more about Plenilune this is...stunning. "I'm all agog--just simply agog!" to quote a very silly woman. I think theses Snippets are going to be of utmost importance to your little public!

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  3. Three cups of tea? Not bad at all. As much as I love the stylishness of teacups, I like tea so much that I just use a coffee mug sometimes...and when I'm having a cold (or I really want tea) I'll drink two mugs. I just thought about how odd the word mug is. How do we get such words in the English language? Kind of a cute little word, though.


    I'm a fairly new follower of this blog of yours, but I must say that I have enjoyed it immensely. I must stop just reading other people's work and write some of my own, though. Today I feel like writing a story about a bullfighter for some reason. That should be interesting, considering that I know nothing whatsoever about bullfighters. Does anybody know a Spanish name that would fit nicely in between Mario Felipe and Rodriguez? I love long flowing Spanish names and I think a bullfighter wouldn't be right without one.

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  4. Yes, I read Chesterton! On occasion he and I stare each other warily in the eye with our arms folded across our chests, but in general we've gotten along. I have four chapters to go along with the conclusion and the two little appendices and then I will have finished The Everlasting Man. And I would not be surprised if our minds did sync in the night. I seem to have missed Muggles' exhortations and have a habit of getting out of bed in the night and wandering into other peoples' dreams.

    Sorry, Rachel, there will be no mercy. :P And the funny odd thing is that Megan is rather right: I do seem to take a deep and bracing breath before plunging into more writing. No mercy. I am giving this novel all the awesome I've got. Or, all the awesome they have got. It feels more like wandering through a new world and writing down the lives of the people there than sitting down to write a novel that is "my own invention."

    I'm afraid I can't help you, Melody. The only thing I know about bullfighting is Ferdinand the Bull - who, in my opinion, is all anyone needs to know about bullfighting, even if he is a rather inaccurate portrayal of it as a whole.

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  5. I remember reading that story a long time ago. Ferdinand was...interesting. I don't remember feeling particularly sorry for him, though.

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  6. I love your writing, as I think you know, and the masterful lines and shapes your wordplay weaves never fail to thrill and enchant. If it were drinkable, I think I should consume more of it than tea, and that is saying a lot.

    (Were they little china cups o'tea? Three is borderline deficient, then, I'm a-thinking. But you know my shameful propensity for tea... )

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  7. They were not little china cups of tea. I may be horribly vulgar, but I find that, in general, little china cups don't hold enough tea for my needs. That last cup of tea, I admit, languished into a dark puddle because I misjudged the amount of leaf I was putting in the tea-ball.

    I'm not sure I would want my writing to be drinkable. Considering the heady reels into which I go (and I am only setting the brew to ferment) I can just imagine the damage it might do to you if you read it. Perhaps it should sit awhile and congeal. Like Jell-O. And then you could eat it.

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  8. Shivers. Wonderful Jenny-Induced shivers.

    Thanks for joining my crazy blog thingy. ^.^ Your snippets are, each and every one of them, glorious, beautifully descriptive, and quite alive. I'm in awe--it would seem I always am after any amount of exposure to your work.

    It was a strange, eerie note they played, a minor key which seemed to conjure the formless, painful longing in her soul and give it a kind of voice.

    I can die now, I think. That is just... It's just right. Beautiful. Painful. Perfect.

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