Assignment 7: Post Here!

[Tamur]

This is a thread for participants in the Mead Hall Writers Society writing group to post exercises for Lesson 7: Combining Portrayals.

Once you've posted, please visit the General Discussion thread, let everyone know what you thought of the assignment, and feel free to give others feedback.

[Timsup2nothin]

Ron slid lower on the seat. The upholstery was made to look like woven fibers, but it was really just an image stamped on some sort of vinyl. The slightly textured side, so it had a little bit of nap and you could convince yourself it wasn't just like sitting in a cheap car on a hot day, but he was sure that anyone wearing shorts would stick to it just the same. He picked at the magazines scattered on the tables within reach and decided it wouldn't be worth looking any further. Most of them were news magazines, so old that even he recognized the cover stories. Since his knowledge of current events came almost exclusively from Guitar Player and snatches of conversation between sets that made a pretty clear statement on their relevance.

His jeans were frayed around the cuffs from being worn too low. His tee-shirt, blazed across the chest with 'born to rock' in some sort of prismatic tape, clung tightly to a muscular frame. Hair somewhere between brown and blond swung in a loose pony tail well down his back. A dentist's office was clearly not his element, and the other people waiting gave him looks from the corners of their eyes that let him know it. He could freely step up in front of a packed house with his guitar, but without it he was brutally self-conscious. He gave a serious moment's thought that at twenty-four maybe he shouldn't be wearing clothes he had owned since high school.

His somber introspection was driven by the receptionist. She sat behind the open frosted glass window, the counter too high for him to see her, but he knew she was there. Her bottle green eyes above high cheek bones had burned such a deep image that he could picture them looking right through the wall, measuring him, finding him short. Her smile would have been glorious if it had not been a product of pure professionalism. It didn't reach her eyes.

Ron operated in a cloud of confidence with women that was founded in the reality that there is always someone who wants to leave with the band. The receptionist had boiled that cloud away and left him in a harsh ray of sunlight.

As sweat slowly welded him to the couch Ron reviewed the series of one night stands and long term relationships he had been through. He realized that his definition of a long term relationship included any girl that he went home with who was around long enough to arrive at the next gig with him. Honestly, if he put those in with the one night stands there wasn't much else. He was seventeen when his band played its first paid gig, and he had put growing up on hold ever since. It was time to change that. His test would be growing up enough to get in the same league with the lovely receptionist. He knew she was beyond him, even though he was sure he was older than she was.

Ron never questioned whether maturity could be found through such an adolescent challenge. Later, he would say that when his sister's root canal was finished he took her home, but he left his heart at the dentist's office. He had no idea what he was taking on.

Melanie was dressed in a light summer pant suit that did nothing in particular to enhance her figure. Nothing was needed, and she shopped with her mind always focused on a professional appearance that could never be questioned. She wanted no hint of sexuality to invade her workplace. The technicians and hygenists, forced into white uniforms and paper smocks, held her at enough of a distance as it was. The office manager, who was married to one of the doctors, had been clearly reluctant to hire her because of her looks.

If either of the doctors caught an eye on her she wanted to be absolutely sure everyone knew it was not her intent. For their part the doctors privately called her the frost queen, but agreed among themselves that she was the best looking girl they had ever had in the office. Doctor Hicks, who was single and attractive, had set out to bed her three years before, right after she was hired. He had been completely shot down. She did not date at work. In fact, he had to repeat the question when he asked her out. It was like she couldn't even hear him, the idea of dating at work was so far off her radar.

The patient was still a little groggy. Melanie knew her, vaguely. She worked in the real estate office that shared the parking lot. Mel was glad she brought her kid brother along to drive her home. When Ron walked out with his sister Mel never expected to give him another thought.

[Ironsword]

Olaf stood leaning heavily on his spear, his aching body a reminder that the years had been unkind. His breathing was laboured and his back bent, but he still carried his warrior’s pride. A snap of wind caught his heavy wolf-skin and it billowed away from his body, the cold ran through his wool tunic and sent a shiver across his back. The battered chain mail he wore was torn in places and did little to stifle the breeze; it was only worn now to attest his history of battle.
As the snow whipped across the hillside in a blinding maelstrom, Olaf wished that he was still within the mead hall. He recalled that the songs had been good this night. The tales of pillage and myth had evoked a raucous response and the gods would be happy. A wry smile played across his lips, as it always did with accounts of great deeds. When ‘The march of the warrior’ was recounted every man had drummed the hilts of their swords on the tables to the lyre’s tune. The biting cold pulled him back to himself, but if he listened carefully he could still hear the words carried along with the squall.
Through the swirling blizzard a figure started to materialise, slowly wending his way up to the old Viking. As the man drew closer, Olaf’s brow creased against the wind and he shielded his eyes with gnarled hands; hands that had once been on the very same trial. The figure appeared in no hurry and seemed to amble rather than stride. Olaf caught his breath for a moment wondering if perhaps he’d been injured, as the chieftain of his tribe every man was his responsibility. He eased slightly, knowing that was unlikely, more probable that the journey had wearied him in body and spirit. However, Olaf was more anxious about Helt than he had ever been for a young sword. He was still at the beginning of his ascent to the brotherhood, yet he’d been slow to take arms and spoke always with the manner of temple folk; seeking to talk rather than act. It wasn’t right that he spent long afternoons with his wife weaving baskets and gutting fish, despite the strange events that surrounded his days. It was a thought that Olaf cast quickly from his mind, reminding himself that perhaps Helt just needed to witness the rites of war and pillage or taste the brine as it sprayed before the bows of a dragon raider.
As Helt slowly trudged up the shallow slope, Olaf again felt a tingle of awe; the man was big, huge even. By the gods he would surely be a formidable warrior. He raised his spear in salute as they met upon the ridge.
‘Helt, greetings my brother.’ Olaf said clasping his arm. The blue tribal tattoos showed on his forearm, the coils of a serpent spiralled upwards under his sleeve.
‘Aye, well met Olaf.’ The younger man replied as he released his grip and stared wearily down at the elder.
‘Is it done then?’ The enquiry hung for a second, as did their misty breath in the cold evening.
‘Aye, it’s done.’ Helt kept his answer short and gruffness edged his voice. However, Olaf’s relief was obvious and he beamed a crooked smile.
‘So another beast is dead?’ The elder questioned, his eyes widening at the prospect.
‘Even now his body is being claimed by the snow.’ Helt rejoined coldly. Olaf knew that was his manner, but his voice spoke of greater torment; it was as plain as the ice in his beard.
‘Yet still you walk Helt, still you breathe, blood pumps in you; a mighty warrior you are! Come. Let us away to the village where your tales will become legend!’ His words were meant as bellows to fire, but Helt would never be a man to glow with the fuel of compliments.
‘There was a cost.’ Helt replied with brevity that surprised Olaf.
‘A cost you say?’ He caught Helt’s gaze and saw distance there, not of leagues, but of sadness.
‘Aye, the scryers were blinded to it. They never speak of the scars, of the seeing the life ebb from a man.’ Helt replied surely and softly, his pale face nearly full hid by his braided beard.
‘Scryers? Hah! They sit and cast bones upon the floor or dance naked atop hills in driving rain. What do they know of battle? It is not for them that I have spoken the oaths or descended on wings into our enemies. Not for them that I have felt the rush of wind and the lance of pain. Not even when I have smelt the expectation of death and joined my foes in arms was it for them. Now, Helt, you have felt it too. That feeling boy, it’s like nothing on this earth.
‘They are not men, like you and I; they have never felt it here.’ Olaf said placing a hand across his armoured heart. In his thoughts it was simply that a man was made through the prowess of blade and bow. Only men such as these could ride the long boats across the dark waves and bring wealth and glory to his clan.
‘That may be.’ Helt replied with a sigh as he staked his spear into the snowy ground. ‘But I feel nothing of what you speak when killing, not even the taste of blood in the air can kindle that passion within me.’
‘They are little more than animals Helt, and even I have no passion to kill rats!’ Olaf stated disinterestedly, rubbing his hands together for warmth.
‘Rats never cry women’s names in terror or hold your arm as the sword bites deeper.’ Helt whispered lowering his hands to his belt and lifting a brooch up from it. The elder raised his brow with satisfaction.
‘Ah, the bronze fork of the Skeldt. Think not of it as a kill then Helt, but as another triumph for our people.’ Olaf’s relief was complete as he snatched up the token and clasped it up to his eye. When he was satisfied he spirited it away into his robes and fixed Helt’s stare with his as he spoke. ‘Remember brother, too much idle talk blunts the spear and puts men to flight when they should stay their ground. It isn’t your destiny to follow the paths of weaker men.’
‘Just to fight then? Helt spat. Olaf’s nose twitched and a flicker of anger flushed in him, but it dissipated as quickly as it had risen, now was not the time for discord. ‘Come; to your clan and your victory.’ He managed to say coolly.
‘As you bid.’ Helt replied and pulled his spear out of the ground with a sharp tug, his eyes fixed to the south. Olaf followed his gaze through a break in the clouds to where the five stars of the sword shone. It was the sign of Helt’s birth and the elder recalled how the soothsayers had gathered around his cradle and crowed of its importance. It heralded Helt's coming; the birth of the warrior-prince. Now that day only served to further Olaf’s distrust of men who talked too much and did too little.

[Tamur]

Leaving open until I wake up, just in case there is an Org member in the Aleutian Islands working towards that looming deadline...

[MountainTroll]

Katrin had been swinging in the hammock for an hour now, and her problems still hadn’t gone away. Life was so peaceful and simple out here in her backyard, why couldn’t it always be like this? Tomorrow morning she was expected to be packed and ready to attend a month of summer math camp, and to smile about it. Her parents had been very emphatic on that point. “Whining, and grouching are not going to improve your math scores.” This was like expecting a death row inmate to be excited about his visit the next day to the electric chair.

The orchard always made her feel better. Lying in her hammock, the branches moved gracefully in the sky above. She felt like a butterfly, still wrapped up in its cocoon. The hammock had been a gift from her aunt in Ecuador, who worked in an orphanage with children. “I wish I could be one of those lucky orphans!” Katrin thought wryly. “Life is so unfair.”

Instead she had been born the oldest of four children, with both parents still very much involved in her life. She had a pair of loud brothers, who were always chasing each other with sticks, and a baby sister. Her sister was cute, but a two year old is not much of a listener when Katrin had troubles to discuss.

And troubles she had plenty of. It wasn’t just math camp; it was the other attendees she also worried about. When she had finished the sixth grade two weeks ago, she had breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t have to be tormented by her peers for another three months. What a beautiful summer it would be.

When she heard about math camp, Katrin wasn’t totally depressed, only slightly. She actually liked math, she just didn’t like to be rushed while doing it. Maybe doing math problems by a lake or in cabins would be fun. But when she heard who else would be going, she could feel the world crumbling around her. A few of her middle school classmates took to teasing her because she was so quiet at school… and these were the same ones who were also signed up for the summer camp. It was a recipe for disaster, if Katrin ever heard of one.

She had come to her hammock hoping to find a way out of this mess. But it only seemed to loom larger and darken the sky above.

“Who is that despairing by my entryway?” A voice demanded from behind a bush. Katrin thought she must’ve dozed off and had one of those super-quick dreams. Then the voice sounded again “Despair and gloom, in my home, have no room!” Up from behind a very usual-looking dogwood bush swirled a very unusual-looking young lady. The first thing that caught Katrin’s eye was the lady’s turban. Wrapped tightly about her head, it glittered with hundreds of pea size gems. “Could they really all be diamonds?” thought Katrin to herself.

The lady spoke again “Yes they are all diamonds, payment for my services to other unknown creatures.”

Shocked that the lady had heard her thoughts, Katrin froze in her hammock.
The lady swirled over to her. She had nothing visible beneath her cherry red tunic. No feet, or legs, just a small whirlwind of grass and dust picked up from the orchard floor. Her hands were clasped in a patient pose in front of her waist, and her face seemed both benevolent and wise - so wise it was unnerving.

[Tamur]

Closing for comments... these should be up tomorrow, before I go to sleep! (How freeing this new time deadline system is!)

[Tamur]

Timsup2nothin


Ron slid lower on the seat. The upholstery was made to look like woven fibers, but it was really just an image stamped on some sort of vinyl. [b]The slightly textured side[b] ed. 1: Awkward phrasing, so it had a little bit of nap and you could convince yourself it wasn't just like sitting in a cheap car on a hot day, but he was sure that anyone wearing shorts would stick to it just the same. ed. 2: Nice tactile detail, but this sentence seems to run a bit He picked at the magazines scattered on the tables within reach and decided it wouldn't be worth looking any further. Most of them were news magazines, so old that even he recognized the cover stories. Since his knowledge of current events came almost exclusively from Guitar Player Funny detail, nice character building and snatches of conversation between sets that made a pretty clear statement on their relevance.

His jeans were frayed around the cuffs from being worn too low. His tee-shirt, blazed across the chest with 'born to rock' in some sort of prismatic tape, clung tightly to a muscular frame. Hair somewhere between brown and blond swung in a loose pony tail well down his back. A dentist's office was clearly not his element, and the other people waiting gave him looks from the corners of their eyes that let him know it. He could freely step up in front of a packed house with his guitar, but without it he was brutally self-conscious. ed. 1: very interesting detail ed. 2: well-used summary, very smooth He gave a serious moment's thought that at twenty-four maybe he shouldn't be wearing clothes he had owned since high school Again, nice detail - it fits very well here.

His somber introspection was driven by the receptionist. She sat behind the open frosted glass window, the counter too high for him to see her, but he knew she was there. Her bottle green eyes above high cheek bones had burned such a deep image that he could picture them looking right through the wall, measuring him, finding him short This is a funny little comment. Her smile would have been glorious if it had not been a product of pure professionalism. It didn't reach her eyes.

Ron operated in a cloud of confidence with women that was founded in the reality that there is always someone who wants to leave with the band. The receptionist had boiled that cloud away and left him in a harsh ray of sunlight.

Great paragraph

As sweat slowly welded him to the couch Another nice tactile detail, I like these Ron reviewed the series of one night stands and long term relationships he had been through. He realized that his definition of a long term relationship included any girl that he went home with who was around long enough to arrive at the next gig with him. Honestly, if he put those in with the one night stands there wasn't much else. He was seventeen when his band played its first paid gig, and he had put growing up on hold ever since. It was time to change that. His test would be growing up enough to get in the same league with the lovely receptionist. He knew she was beyond him, even though he was sure he was older than she was.

Very definite plot hook here, perhaps too obvious with "his test" in there, but it's in the middle of a habit/summary area so it fits with the style.

Ron never questioned whether maturity could be found through such an adolescent challenge Interesting question; it colours what comes after quite a bit. Later, he would say that when his sister's root canal was finished he took her home, but he left his heart at the dentist's office. He had no idea what he was taking on.

This challenge hooks the interest of the reader very well

This is a great ending to the Ron section, but I had trouble with the transition to "Melanie was dressed...". She suddenly has a name and is wearing something, and I was disoriented. This needs a physical divide of some sort on the page unless that's the effect you're going for.

Melanie was dressed in a light summer pant suit that did nothing in particular to enhance her figure. Nothing was needed, and she shopped with her mind always focused on a professional appearance that could never be questioned. She wanted no hint of sexuality to invade her workplace. The technicians and hygienists, forced into white uniforms and paper smocks, held her at enough of a distance as it was. The office manager, who was married to one of the doctors, had been clearly reluctant to hire her because of her looks.

If either of the doctors caught an eye on her she wanted to be absolutely sure everyone knew it was not her intent. For their part the doctors privately called her the frost queen, but agreed among themselves that she was the best looking girl they had ever had in the office. Doctor Hicks, who was single and attractive, had set out to bed her three years before, right after she was hired. He had been completely shot down. She did not date at work. In fact, he had to repeat the question when he asked her out. It was like she couldn't even hear him, the idea of dating at work was so far off her radar. Good

The patient Where is the patient? Standing at the counter? was still a little groggy. Melanie knew her, vaguely. She worked in the real estate office that shared the parking lot. Mel was glad she brought her kid brother along to drive her home. When Ron walked out with his sister Mel never expected to give him another thought.

ed. 1: The scene is an unlikely spot for romance. You set it up well. I'm interested in both characters and have good images of their physical descriptions as well as their auras in my mind.

ed. 2: The character definitions are wonderful, very vivid characters in a non-traditional opening scene for what looks to be a romance. I've noted a couple of places where I became confused with the scene or the focus, but these should be easy to smooth out.

[Tamur]

Ironsword


Olaf stood leaning heavily on his spear, his aching body a reminder that the years had been unkind. His breathing was laboured and his back bent, but he still carried his warrior’s pride. A snap of wind caught his heavy wolf-skin and it billowed away from his body, the cold ran through his wool tunic and sent a shiver across his back. The battered chain mail he wore was torn in places and did little to stifle the breeze; it was only worn now to attest his history of battle.

Great opening paragraph, giving a picture of the environment and the insides of the character through that environment

As the snow whipped across the hillside in a blinding maelstrom, Olaf wished that he was still within the mead hall. He recalled that the songs had been good this night. The tales of pillage and myth had evoked a raucous response and the gods would be happy Good detail to show the mindset of the character. A wry smile played across his lips, as it always did with accounts of great deeds. When ‘The march of the warrior’ was recounted every man had drummed the hilts of their swords on the tables to the lyre’s tune. The biting cold pulled him back to himself, but if he listened carefully he could still hear the words carried along with the squall.

Through the swirling blizzard a figure started to materialise, slowly wending his way up to the old Viking. As the man drew closer, Olaf’s brow creased against the wind and he shielded his eyes with gnarled hands; hands that had once been on the very same trial. The figure appeared in no hurry and seemed to amble rather than stride. Olaf caught his breath for a moment wondering if perhaps he’d been injured, as the chieftain of his tribe every man was his responsibility. He eased slightly, knowing that was unlikely, more probable that the journey had wearied him in body and spirit. However, I'd drop this word and break into a new paragraph Olaf was more anxious about Helt than he had ever been for a young sword. He was still at the beginning of his ascent to the brotherhood, yet he’d been slow to take arms and spoke always with the manner of temple folk; seeking to talk rather than act. It wasn’t right that he spent long afternoons with his wife weaving baskets and gutting fish Maybe it's the harsh environment, but I'm agreeing with Olaf at this point, despite the strange events that surrounded his days. It was a thought that Olaf cast quickly from his mind, reminding himself that perhaps Helt just needed to witness the rites of war and pillage or taste the brine as it sprayed before the bows of a dragon raider. This shows Olaf as a hopeful, positive chieftain, and more easily likeable for that

As Helt slowly trudged up the shallow slope, Olaf again felt a tingle of awe; the man was big, huge even. By the gods he would surely be a formidable warrior. He raised his spear in salute as they met upon the ridge.

‘Helt, greetings my brother.’ Olaf said clasping his arm. The blue tribal tattoos showed on his forearm, the coils of a serpent spiralled upwards under his sleeve.

‘Aye, well met Olaf.’ The younger man replied as he released his grip and stared wearily down at the elder.

‘Is it done then?’ The enquiry hung for a second, as did their misty breath in the cold evening. The snow was whipping across the hillside a bit ago. This seems out of place.

‘Aye, it’s done.’ Helt kept his answer short and gruffness edged his voice. However, Olaf’s relief was obvious and he beamed a crooked smile.
‘So another beast is dead?’ The elder questioned, his eyes widening at the prospect.

‘Even now his body is being claimed by the snow.’ Helt rejoined coldly. Olaf knew that was his manner, but his voice spoke of greater torment; it was as plain as the ice in his beard.

‘Yet still you walk Helt, still you breathe, blood pumps in you; a mighty warrior you are! Come. Let us away to the village where your tales will become legend!’ His words were meant as bellows to fire, but Helt would never be a man to glow with the fuel of compliments. Good summary, this would have taken a long time to show

‘There was a cost.’ Helt replied with brevity that surprised Olaf.

‘A cost you say?’ He caught Helt’s gaze and saw distance there, not of leagues, but of sadness.

‘Aye, the scryers were blinded to it. They never speak of the scars, of the seeing the life ebb from a man.’ Helt replied surely and softly, his pale face nearly full hid by his braided beard.

‘Scryers? Hah! They sit and cast bones upon the floor or dance naked atop hills in driving rain. What do they know of battle? It is not for them that I have spoken the oaths or descended on wings into our enemies. Not for them that I have felt the rush of wind and the lance of pain. Not even when I have smelt the expectation of death and joined my foes in arms was it for them. Now, Helt, you have felt it too. That feeling boy, it’s like nothing on this earth.

This brings a rush of sympathy for Olaf, as someone who sincerely believes this is true instead of simply someone who is trying to force Helt to be something he's not. He truly believes what he is saying and so avoids coming across as a dislikable character.

‘They are not men, like you and I; they have never felt it here.’ Olaf said placing a hand across his armoured heart. In his thoughts it was simply that a man was made through the prowess of blade and bow. Only men such as these could ride the long boats across the dark waves and bring wealth and glory to his clan.

‘That may be.’ Helt replied with a sigh as he staked his spear into the snowy ground. ‘But I feel nothing of what you speak when killing, not even the taste of blood in the air can kindle that passion within me.’

‘They are little more than animals Helt, and even I have no passion to kill rats!’ Olaf stated disinterestedly, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

‘Rats never cry women’s names in terror or hold your arm as the sword bites deeper.’ Helt whispered lowering his hands to his belt and lifting a brooch up from it. The elder raised his brow with satisfaction.

‘Ah, the bronze fork of the Skeldt. Think not of it as a kill then Helt, but as another triumph for our people.’ Olaf’s relief was complete as he snatched up the token and clasped it up to his eye. When he was satisfied he spirited it away into his robes and fixed Helt’s stare with his as he spoke. ‘Remember brother, too much idle talk blunts the spear and puts men to flight when they should stay their ground Great chieftain quote =). It isn’t your destiny to follow the paths of weaker men.’

‘Just to fight then? Helt spat. Olaf’s nose twitched and a flicker of anger flushed in him, but it dissipated as quickly as it had risen, now was not the time for discord. ‘Come; to your clan and your victory.’ He managed to say coolly.

‘As you bid.’ Helt replied and pulled his spear out of the ground with a sharp tug, his eyes fixed to the south. Olaf followed his gaze through a break in the clouds to where the five stars of the sword shone. It was the sign of Helt’s birth and the elder recalled how the soothsayers had gathered around his cradle and crowed of its importance. It heralded Helt's coming; the birth of the warrior-prince. Now that day only served to further Olaf’s distrust of men who talked too much and did too little.


ed. 1: Using dialogue to describe the inner convictions of each man works well here. When I got to the end and realized I didn't actually have a physical picture clearly of them both, I quickly dismissed it, feeling that I possessed a much more valuable description.

ed. 2: Olaf is very solid in his convictions throughout, very strongly portrayed. I have a bit of trouble reading Helt - he's obviously not a natural warrior, but his manners make me wonder how he has survived in such a culture up to this point, and how he married with valour in battle as a high qualification for manhood. I'm sure there are answers, just thought I'd note my questions coming out of it. The overall impression is a well-defined snow-storm, the warmth and camaraderie of the mead hall beckoning Olaf and putting off Helt. Very enjoyable.