la_marquise (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
la_marquise) wrote2011-10-12 06:03 pm
la_marquise) wrote2011-10-12 06:03 pm
Entry tags:
Baaa
I am a sheep, clearly. But here is the current opening to The Drowning Kings, in poetic mode.
Someone was waiting.
The certainty struck Owain just as
the first riders crested the hill.
He set his heels to his horse’s flank, urging the mare forward.
Her shoulder bounced
off the flank of the horse in front,
setting it stamping and snorting.
Its rider swore at him as he passed.
He shook his head,
shoving on past the next rider and the next,
on up the slope towards the king.
Keeping a wary
distance from the stamping hooves,
Gif let out an excited yip
and charged after him
Something up ahead.
Something wrong.
Grass King
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.
Grass King sequel
I need,’
said Aude,
‘to influence public opinion.
To lead it, if possible.’
Shifting against the cushions at her back,
she looked across
at her husband Jehan,
and added, ‘How do I do that, do you think?.’
Jehan suppressed a smile.
Nothing – not her five months of pregnancy,
not the distance that still separated them from home,
not the problems that doubtless awaited them there
– could persuade his wife
to set boundaries on her intentions.
Told you I'm no kind of poet.
I'm off in about half an hour to visit the parents and then go castling in honour of the marquis' birthday (which is Saturday). I may get online, but I'm not sure: back on Sunday evening.
Skirt of the day: jeans.
Someone was waiting.
The certainty struck Owain just as
the first riders crested the hill.
He set his heels to his horse’s flank, urging the mare forward.
Her shoulder bounced
off the flank of the horse in front,
setting it stamping and snorting.
Its rider swore at him as he passed.
He shook his head,
shoving on past the next rider and the next,
on up the slope towards the king.
Keeping a wary
distance from the stamping hooves,
Gif let out an excited yip
and charged after him
Something up ahead.
Something wrong.
Grass King
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.
Grass King sequel
I need,’
said Aude,
‘to influence public opinion.
To lead it, if possible.’
Shifting against the cushions at her back,
she looked across
at her husband Jehan,
and added, ‘How do I do that, do you think?.’
Jehan suppressed a smile.
Nothing – not her five months of pregnancy,
not the distance that still separated them from home,
not the problems that doubtless awaited them there
– could persuade his wife
to set boundaries on her intentions.
Told you I'm no kind of poet.
I'm off in about half an hour to visit the parents and then go castling in honour of the marquis' birthday (which is Saturday). I may get online, but I'm not sure: back on Sunday evening.
Skirt of the day: jeans.
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Heh. I'd lose "time", though.
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Horse note:
Heels in flank, no. Flank is the hollow part just ahead of the hindleg. Even on a small horse, it's [a] awkward to do from the saddle and [b] can make the horse buck. They're sensitive in that area. That's where the strap is buckled on the bucking broncs.
Heels to SIDES. There's a lot of ribcage there work with. Can dig heels/spurs into ribs, sides, barrel.
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This is my favourite part:
enough foliage still clung on to hide
a person of her size quite satisfactorily.
She wriggled her way through the tangled twigs
Especially the last line. Fun to say out loud.
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Have a good castle and don't get rooked.
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