Jac
Mueno
Posts: 68
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Post by Jac on Jun 7, 2005 21:04:48 GMT
Most of the pieces I have written are either currently awaiting rejection or in the instance of one publication so I don't really want to put them on line. However there are a couple of bits I think I'd like people to see.
This is a scene that has been sitting on my computer for some time. I have extended it a little but I'm not sure exactly where it is going to end up. I'm thinking C17th England...
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Jac
Mueno
Posts: 68
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Post by Jac on Jun 7, 2005 21:05:04 GMT
I sit and watch the rain fall. The glow from the fire warms me to the core. I have a tankard of ale on the table before me, condensation gathers on the pewter mimicking the water blown against the windows. The storm has raged for three days now and shows no sign of letting up just yet. I try to care but I can’t; stay or go, it’s all the same to me. I lift my tankard and take a swig, the cool metal feels like ice in contrast to the heat in the air. I bang the tankard down onto the table just to see the droplets of water fall. I get my amusement where I can these days.
I reach into my pouch and take my pipe, I pack it with moist tabac and light a taper from the fire. The familiar routine consumes me for a moment until I am dragged back to the present by the sound of the door. I freeze and look up, I know it won’t be him but adrenaline surges through my veins, my whole body feels tense, coiled, ready to explode into violence. For a brief second the world ceases to exist and all that matters in the cloaked stranger in the doorway, he has his back to me, he is pushing the door closed, the wind is fighting him, it too wants the warmth of the fire, but he is too strong. The door latches closed and he begins to turn. The cloak is unfamiliar but that means nothing, his build is right and he is the same height. My ale and pipe forgotten my hand rests on the hilt of my sword, my legs are tensed ready to launch me forwards, if it is him he will die before he knows I am there. The stranger turns to face the room.
It isn’t him. The nose is wrong.
I lift my hand from my sword and return it to my unlit pipe. I try to concentrate on it but my heart still races and my hands shake too much to risk holding a lit taper just yet. I place the pipe on the table and take a couple of deep breaths. I lift my drink and take another mouthful. It is beginning to warm now so I finish it. By the time I am done I am starting to feel a little more normal, if in need of some food. I turn my head to look for the serving girl and find myself staring into the eyes of the stranger. His face is familiar but I cannot place it. He has short dark hair plastered to his head from the rain, and a neatly trimmed beard of the type fashionable at court. His eyes are brown, so dark as to look almost black, the kind of eyes I know I have seen before. He smiles at me with a look of puzzlement on his face. It seems he has recognised me. I shake my head in a warning and gesture to the empty chair at my table.
“It isn’t often one finds oneself sharing a tavern with the Hero of Penmouth,” he says quietly as he sits down.
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Post by Cj on Jun 8, 2005 19:02:29 GMT
not exactly the literature i would read but nicely done you create the tense atmosphere very well and end it with a hook, always good in my books. cant wait to read more of your stuff
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