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This thread is for participants in the Mead Hall Writers' Society writing group to post exercises from Lesson 13: Finding Narrative Voice.
After you've posted, you're encouraged to review other entries, and discuss the assignment over in the general discussion thread.
Torri drove out through the red light without looking back
Torri was horrified; he pushed the gas pedal and his car shot through the sunlight of the setting sun.
Torri did not look back – he knew what had happened; he drove at the setting sun that was as red as the drops of blood on his car bonnet.
In the dusk the villain drove left and his car disappeared from the eyes of the man who tried to help the dead girl.
Torri’s sharp mind refused to work, his instincts took over his paralysed body: he did not realise when his car left the place of the murder he had committed.
Torri paid no attention to the noise behind himself and in few seconds his car disappeared in the red light of the setting sun.
Torri never saw the terrified face behind him and his car and his car dashed at the direction of the setting sun.
----
Even their clothes were different: Nicephorus wore his dark tunics with a cowl as ever, but Manuel was clad in flaxen white tunics that were relatively cheap but definitely suited him.
Nicephorus Doukas and his son Manuel were also different in their dress.
Manuel Doukas confronted his father even with his clothes: his white tunics contrasted his father’s dark clothes.
The dress of Manuel Doukas perfectly revealed his intentions: he had not chosen the expensive clothes that could anger his thrifty father but his white dress still opposed his father’s dark tunics and showed their conflict was far from its end.
In his white tunics Manuel looked in excellent form whilst the leprous Nicephorus Doukas was true embodiment of the death with his dark dress and the hood on his head.
Nicephorus Doukas and Manuel Doukas clashed before they started to speak: the black of Nicephorus tunics and the white of Manuel’s dress clearly demonstrated the relations of the father and his son.
The dress was telling its own story : there was no hope for peace between the black of the mortally sick politician and the white of his reckless son.
----
Theophil Branas left the basement and passed along the silent corridors of the Palace.
Theophil Branas went out of the cold basement and walked through the maze of empty corridors that led to the sunny yard of the Palace.
Theophil Branas reached the yard of the Palace soon after he had left the basement.
Theophil Branas went at fast pace and he quickly crossed the long and empty corridors that connected the basement with the large yard of the Palace.
As Theophil Branas was walking away the basement wit the corpse of Nicephorus Doukas, his determince to solve the case grew even more.
The only sound Theophil Branas could hear as he was passing along the corrdiors of the Palace was the echo of his steps.
The few servants he met were silent, the guards were mute and while walking the way between to the yard of the Palace, Theophil Branas could not divest himself from the ghostly atmosphere of the basement.
----
Nicephorus touched his swollen lip with his tongue. One day his father would pass away and he would face his judgement. What he had to do was to wait patiently. Just like now. He did not know what made him change his mind. Maybe he feared Constantine could do anything stupid without him. He could have wanted to be there and to prevent any complications. This was the first possible explanation . However, he could have come with his friends since he was hurt again by his father. Maybe he wanted make the others feel the pain he felt. He knew it was probably the both of them. He had made a mistake. He had to show more will and to stop this madness. Any accidents would be avoided and nobody would have suffered because of his inferiority complex. In such moments Nicephorus hated himself.Quote:
Originally Posted by Stephen Asen
He was not sure if the others caught the irony of the present situation. It was both funny and tragic. Nicephorus spent much of his time with the peacocks in the garden. They distracted him with their beauty and helped him to forget his humiliation. They also could not hurt him in the way the human beings could. The husband of this wife resembled them: he had forgotten the good feather was not enough in the world of humans. He faced the consequences. It was tragic because this story could end very badly for the participants and because even in a ‘good end ‘ nothing would be the same again. Nicephorus was sure nobody of his fellows realised that. None of them was a fool but they still behaved slightly immaturely. He knew the wife would never be the same after these meeting. Thanks to the skills of Constantine she had stepped out the line and she would probably continue with her adulteries. Nicephorus had also learned she was separated by the man she loved and sent far away from him before her marriage. He wondered if this would be his own fate when he married Anna Angelina, his fiancee. He could not hide his irritation and said,
“ He must hurry on, if he wants to get out of this place “
He met the eyes of Dyogenus for a while and then looked at the street. He saw riders. He recognized their leader -the fat and ugly husband. He knew what was going to happen if he did not interfere. Dyogenus Branas would go to call Constantine but he would be short of time and who knew what would happen. In addition the poor woman could suffer even more.
“ You should not worry. I am sure everything will be fine, “he heard the answer of Dyogenus who obviously did not see them.
“ It won’t. “ Nicephorus said and went out of the small forest. He climbed on his horse with the clear idea to meet the other horsemen. He had no other choice.
“Nicephorus what are you doing? “
“ Look who is coming and then we will speak “ Nicephorus whispered. Finally, Dyogenus saw the threat and disappeared. He had gone to warn Constantine.
Nicephorus was alone. He knew what he had to do. He knew he was son of his father. He also wore grain of that evil, which obsessed his father. Nicephorus knew he could influence the people when he needed them. However, unlike his father he used it without that devilish pleasure and he did it only when there was no other way to help his friends. Constantine was in trouble. Nicephorus had to put the mask of the monster again. He had to make the nobleman listen to him and to give some time to Constantine to leave the house.. This was not a trap. The men looked calm and were not many. Nicephorus was almost sure he would do his task well. He always won, unlike his father. His father would lose one day and he would be there to watch his downfall.
When the distance between himself and the riders became short enough, Nicephorus spoke with determined voice,
“ Good evening, Kir Tarchaniottes. I was waiting for you. “
The red lights were just another blur as Torri pushed the car to eighty, her eyes never moving from the road.
Torri raced straight across the intersection without looking back
Torri opened the throttle and shot down the street leaving the lights in her wake, her head fixed firmly forward
Torri accelerated past the stop lights without a backward glance
The Dodge Viper was only cruising, but Torri passed the scarlet lights before she’d even realised.
Torri didn’t care how many stop signs she passed as she screeched through the night.
Torri hit the gas and passed a light; maybe it was red, maybe she wasn’t bothered.
Original
The boy lies shivering in his room. It has been the sentence he has borne for the past five months and there seems to be no respite from it. The four walls have no windows and only a single door. His bed is to one side and there is a small chest of drawers that contains his life. He wonders if this was the life his mother had wished for him when he was left here at the nunnery.
There is little light; the electrics have long since expired. The broken bulb high on the ceiling is a stark reminder of the dilapidation of the complex. A small oil lamp casts its yellow glow across the room and sets flickering shadows dancing in the room. With little else to occupy him he sets his mind to making pictures from them. As he traces what he sees as a sleek coupe from the patterns of light his eyes fall on the bowl leaning against the wall.
It is a plain wooden bowl, but of quite a size, perhaps a foot in diameter. The wood is dark and he wonders of its origin, certainly he thinks the tree that has yielded its body for the vessel would have enjoyed more daylight. As the lamp burns slowly down, the light never seems to illuminate the bowl, it stays dark, like its purpose, he thinks. If he strains his eyes he can see the water marks that every morning he has to fill. To begin with he used to use the taps in the kitchens, but after Sister Bane had caught him and he’d been hauled in front of Mother Superior, his water fetching had become more arduous and his morning chore now led him to the stone well in the rear courtyard. At least he got to see the daylight, even if his young back was bent under a yoke and two pails of water.
Redux
A boy shivers under the bedclothes, stoically bearing his fate. Each day of the last five months has been exactly the same; full of toil and abandonment. The four walls have no windows; daylight seeps in from under a drainage hole, cut low into the plaster. Aside from his bed, there is only a small chest of drawers in which his life is stored. There is a little oil lamp that provides a warm glow, and sets shadows dancing across the room. Behind it he can see the remnants of old electric wiring, frayed and ripped, leading to a broken light bulb.
He is restless because of the cold and so begins to make games for himself. He traces old mortar lines and conjures pictures from his imagination. He sees a sleek coupe here, an oak tree there and always his mother smiling down on him. He wonders that perhaps this isn’t the life that she’d wished upon him, when she’d left him to the gentle mercies of the nunnery.
He sees the bowl leaning innocently against the wall. Its dark wood he considers, matches its dark purpose. Even in the low light, he can see the old water marks across its rim. He knows that at sunrise he’d have to fill it again. Sister Bane had made that task twice as difficult recently. She’d caught him using the kitchen taps and informed the Mother Superior. Now his young back has a much longer journey under a yoke and two pails of icy water. Despite that, it is his favourite part of the day. For him there is no finer feeling than fresh air and the warm sun beating down onto his face.