la_marquise (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
la_marquise) wrote2010-11-10 04:46 pm
la_marquise) wrote2010-11-10 04:46 pm
Entry tags:
Okay...
I have dipped my toe back into the writing pond, and committed the first words on the rewrites. Not a 1000 words, but it's a start. Snippet
New Chapter One The Brass City
Aude was six when the earthquake hit. She had run away from nurse and the imminence of face-washing time, to kick her way through the multi-coloured leaves that carpeted the shrubbery. Though autumn was well-advanced, enough foliage still clung on to hide a person of her size quite satisfactorily. She wriggled her way through the tangled twigs of her favourite bush to her special private place against its trunk, and hugged her knees. Her hands, in their green worsted mittens, worked their way under the cuffs of her brown coat. The light was fading, turning the sky beyond the shrubbery dish-water grey. A hint of ice nipped her nose. She could hear nurse calling, somewhere on the other side of the lawns. Pressing her chin into the collar of her coat, Aude giggled. Perhaps nurse wouldn’t find her for hours and hours. Perhaps she would stay out here all night, with the owls and the foxes and the little mice. Perhaps – and her imagination caught light – one of the creatures would sniff her out here and invite her back to their home for tea. She bet a mouse or a badger wouldn’t make her wash her face and hands before she ate. A mouse would crawl into the piles of leaves with her, hunting for treasure. A badger – she frowned. She had never seen a badger – a badger would probably help her jump into puddles and never say a word about dirty stockings. An owl would teach her to turn her arms into wings and fly with him to the very top of the tallest tree in the beechwood, where they would stare at the moons and count the stars and never, ever go to bed early.
Nurse said people never turned into animals or trees or rocks, whatever the storybooks said. Aude knew better. When she had been really small, so small she used almost to get lost in her bed, she had seen one of the flames in the nursery fire grow a long thin face and wink at her. Nurse had said she’d been dreaming. Nurse had no imagination at all.
Still not sure what comes next with The Drowning Kings: at least, I do know, but I'm not sure how to write it. That will come.
And now I'm off to make cake. And feed the felines, which will probably come first.
Skirt of the day: blue flouncey.
New Chapter One The Brass City
Aude was six when the earthquake hit. She had run away from nurse and the imminence of face-washing time, to kick her way through the multi-coloured leaves that carpeted the shrubbery. Though autumn was well-advanced, enough foliage still clung on to hide a person of her size quite satisfactorily. She wriggled her way through the tangled twigs of her favourite bush to her special private place against its trunk, and hugged her knees. Her hands, in their green worsted mittens, worked their way under the cuffs of her brown coat. The light was fading, turning the sky beyond the shrubbery dish-water grey. A hint of ice nipped her nose. She could hear nurse calling, somewhere on the other side of the lawns. Pressing her chin into the collar of her coat, Aude giggled. Perhaps nurse wouldn’t find her for hours and hours. Perhaps she would stay out here all night, with the owls and the foxes and the little mice. Perhaps – and her imagination caught light – one of the creatures would sniff her out here and invite her back to their home for tea. She bet a mouse or a badger wouldn’t make her wash her face and hands before she ate. A mouse would crawl into the piles of leaves with her, hunting for treasure. A badger – she frowned. She had never seen a badger – a badger would probably help her jump into puddles and never say a word about dirty stockings. An owl would teach her to turn her arms into wings and fly with him to the very top of the tallest tree in the beechwood, where they would stare at the moons and count the stars and never, ever go to bed early.
Nurse said people never turned into animals or trees or rocks, whatever the storybooks said. Aude knew better. When she had been really small, so small she used almost to get lost in her bed, she had seen one of the flames in the nursery fire grow a long thin face and wink at her. Nurse had said she’d been dreaming. Nurse had no imagination at all.
Still not sure what comes next with The Drowning Kings: at least, I do know, but I'm not sure how to write it. That will come.
And now I'm off to make cake. And feed the felines, which will probably come first.
Skirt of the day: blue flouncey.
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