Writing emotion

Niiice thread :) I had to have a try at fear, so I just whipped this up into the reply box :) I'm tired on a Friday after work, so I let the browser spell in American, hope you like it :)
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Dark windows and looming stone glowered down at her from the shadows. A frozen howling wind bit her skin, even beneath the heavy overcoat, as though tenderizing her flesh for whatever stalked her in the dark to enjoy later. Huge like living gargoyles, a row of fierce black birds watched her passing. Their menace struck her soul like a fire sent from hell.

Beneath the weak, flickering refuge of a solitary streetlight, she hunted for solace in the withering rain. Starting at every sound, she waited. The fear killed her a little with every noise from the darkness, growing her terror with the passing of time. The minutes were stretched into days buy her impatient mind's horror, dragging the sensations of the night into the deepest hiding places of her soul.

Suddenly, from out of that realm of shadows a man appeared, stepping in silence behind her and resting a weathered, blistered hand on her shoulder. Startled, she span to face the newcomer, adrenalin driving her hands and her heart to panicked flailing. His grasp on her shoulders felt unnatural, unnerving, and irresistible. As her mind returned a little way toward reason, she saw into the man's eyes, crimson jewels reflecting no light under the hem of his cowl. She felt she saw something, dwelling inside, then realized what she saw was a void, waiting for her footing to slip and tumble her down, forever falling into the murky depths of his soulless vessel.

Mustering the will to continue from her sense of doom, knowing that she would never escape if she tried and must go forward with the madness of her plan, she spoke. Her voice came in a hoarse whisper, drowned in the darkness of the storm.

"Did you bring it?"

His gnarled hand produced the package, holding it just inside his coat, so as to conceal it from the night's observers. One of the birds screeched, a hollow, piercing scream in the night. Her nerves growing tighter, she flinched, glanced towards the birds, spies of the evening, and back to the man. Slowly, she lowered her eyes to the package, her shaking hand reaching.

As her fingers slipped around the evil gift, he grabbed her slender hand in his own. His dry, blistered skin scratched her noble fingers. Mirroring the sensation, she felt his emptiness scratching her soul, scarring deep as the forbidden heart within the parcel beat with renewed vigor for a moment, before once again falling still. Frozen, she watched as the man dissolved before her, once again becoming a part of the evil that surrounded her, the curse of this place.

Suddenly conscious again of how vulnerable she was, the parcel was slipped into her pack as she ran, trembling legs struggling to propel her through the night to the safety of her caravan.
 
Sorry for the double post. I've been absolutely corrupted by the dizzying heights of power (and I can't work out how to edit the last one properly).

Here's my attempt at attraction:


Stone and water and the wings of birds silvered in the pale light. Rain drifted like breath against her skin. Sun and rain meant a rainbow, somewhere. Maybe her contact would be a leprechaun with a crock of gold.

When she reached the middle of the street she stopped, as the message instructed. The metal street light was cool beneath her fingers but it ticked, like something living. No leprechauns in sight. No gold either.

He stepped from the tree shadows into the circle of yellow light. There wasn't much to see apart from the long black coat -- only pale, clever eyes and long-fingered hands. He'd even pulled his collar up to hide his face. Almost, she asked him why, but something about him -- his stillness, the not-quite-smile around his eyes, stopped her.

"Did you bring it?" she asked instead.

Eyes never leaving hers, he drew a small, brown-wrapped packet from the coat. She was distracted by the long bones of his wrist, the dark lily tattoo between thumb and forefinger. Would it feel warm, if she touched it?

She swallowed and looked up into the pale eyes. Blushed when she realised he'd been standing there, holding out the package, waiting. She reached to take it, and his fingers brushed across her hand, light as the rain on her face.
 
Garggh, if there's one emotion I'm rubbish at, it's attraction:


The storm had ended, and her clothes were soaked through. She thought about leaving. Couldn't. She glanced at her watch - he was late - and the birds on the other side of the road flew off, disturbed.

Her throat closed, and she willed herself to be calm. Cool. Not like the last time.

He stepped around the corner. Tall, his coat shifting around his hips as he walked. He strode towards her, his collar turned up against the rain, one hand holding it closed at his neck. His face was buried into it, but he glanced up through his fringe and his eyes met hers. Held them for a long moment.

"Did you bring it?" Her voice held, and she smiled with pride.

"Yes."

That voice... it had ended it for her last time, made her run before she made a fool of herself. He reached into his pocket and brought out her phone and handed it to her.

"You need to be more careful," he said.

She nodded and his face came up, so she could see how his lips quirked into a smile. He took her hand and put the phone into it, closing her fingers over it. He held her for just a moment too long, tracing the line of her fingers, making her duck her head from him. She swallowed, waiting, until he turned to leave, stopping to pick her purse from the ground. He put it in his pocket, smiled at her so that her heart stopped, for just a moment, a rush of excitement overwhelming her, making her dizzy.

She turned, hugging her bag to her, and glanced up. The sun was up, the dark clouds faded, and she hoped tomorrow it would be warmer.
 
Right, not quite sure where this falls, attraction is one I struggle to do in short pieces, so I hope this is alright...enjoy...




She walked down the street, rain cloaking her every movement. She glanced quickly to her right, seeing a group of black birds on the wall, their feathers shining like glistening oil in the rain, their eyes round and dark.



Good, she thought, he is near.


She saw a lone streetlight further up the road, spilling a harsh yellow light. She remembered the words slipped under her door that morning; this must be the golden halo of their meeting spot. She stood, statue-like in the cold rain, surrounded by a misting glow.


He stepped out of the darkness and into the rain, pulling his collar up close around his face, trying to keep his warmth within. He glanced around and his glimmering eyes caught her figure silhouetted by the rain; his eyes softened as he smiled. He strode closer, sharing her light.


“Did you bring it?” she asked, her voice soft and sweet.


He took a large bundled package from under his coat, and gently passed it to her. As their fingers touched he leaned in close, brushing her cheek, and whispered into her ear, his voice choked by tears. He kissed her quickly then turned and vanished back through the gate, back to their world.


Benjmin, she thought, looking down at the child in her arms, I will protect you. She straightened and walked back the way she had come, the tears on her face mingling with the rain. If she couldn't be with him in their world, protecting the life of their child in this world would have to do. She glanced back at where her heart had disappeared and clutched the tiny form closer to her, promising him his father would be safe.
 
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HareBrain said:
Can we do "Cornish guilt"?
Click to expand...

springs said:
Well, see, that's a million times better that my suggestion of Germanic hysteria.
Click to expand...

Hex said:
Attraction
Click to expand...


I thought these were all good ideas ...



The street passed in a delirious haze. She didn't mind the rain; indeed, so hot was she with passion that precipitation alone saved her from combustion. Trailing a ghostly steam, she approached the streetlamp, the rendezvous. Anticipation brought out the skill of its concrete-work, the scientific beauty of its flickering bulb.

On the wall across the road, a group of black birds sat, their feathers shining with health, their eyes dark pools of soulfulness. Oh, she thought, to fly like they! A mad idea seized her, and she was just about to cross over when a hand grabbed her arm.

It was him, his collar about his face. But what she might once have found alluringly mysterious now looked like an attempt to hide a cold sore. His eyes glimmered no longer with the playful mischief that had once made her question what he might be like in bed, but with the flaccid paleness of a cod gasping out its last breath on the deck of a stinking fishing smack.

"Did you bring it?" His words clawed their way, it seemed to her, through a throat full of phlegm.

"I've changed my mind! It's not for you!" Breaking from his grasp, she ran across the road towards the waiting birds, the soulful-eyed birds that filled her with longing, and as she ran she pulled from her pocket the bird seed Raymond had asked for, the only cure for his mother's condition -- but there were too many humans in the world, and not enough beautiful birds!

"No!" she screamed as they took off. "Take me with you! I bring gifts!" But they heeded not the packet of Garden Songbird Mix she waved frantically, and were gone. Alone in the rain in the middle of the road, she sought comfort by cramming handfuls of millet and sunflower hearts into her mouth, but they were too dry to chew and swallow. She had condemned Raymond's mother to a lingering demise, all for a vain dream of flight and song. Guilt settled upon her, heavy as the capstone of Trevethy Quoit. With a madness that rose from her very womb, she lifted her face to the rain and began an aria from Die Walkure.
 
HareBrain said:
His eyes glimmered no longer with the playful mischief that had once made her question what he might be like in bed, but with the flaccid paleness of a cod gasping out its last breath on the deck of a stinking fishing smack.
Click to expand...

For generations to come, men will use the latter image in the bedroom whenever they need to, er, cool their ardour.
 
You speak for yourself, Alchemist.

Thanks for your kind words, Hex. It troubles me that if I wrote my novel in that style, I could probably have it done in a week.
 
Moving on from turn ons (or not) pleeeeeease, how do people feel about

rage!

for the next emotion?
 
Damn, I'd written this before...


She turned the corner and saw him, standing casually under the lamp-post in a cone of light. Yet even that was as nothing compared to the dazzling smile he flashed her way. Her knees wobbled as her breath quickened. Everything slowed and faded from her perception: the traffic nearby; the crows watching impassively from the wall; the dull mist that seemed to leave his golden hair untouched. He was ... magnificent.

She quickened her stride, lest she collapse before she got to him.

"Did you ... did you bring it?" she said, holding the lamp-post for support.

"Oh, yes.". He pulled the small glass vial from his pocket and it seemed to suck all the darkness, all the negativity, all the malevolence, from the world. "But it will cost you."

She looked into his eyes and saw a world of possibilities. "No," she said. "I don't need it anymore." She reached up and kissed him.


***

But yes: RAGE! Just imagine my scene after she finds out he is a she.
 
The Judge said:
...the original passage isn't at all neutral, is it? You might not have given her feelings but a grey street immediately raises ideas and emotions -- sorrow, boredom, depressing lives. The rain, too, adds to that because of the way we use weather to show emotion (the pathetic fallacy). The black birds -- our culture dislikes and fears the colour black -- their dark eyes, the man stepping out of the darkness, all of these are pushing us towards fear, as does the word glimmer and his pale eyes, which are unusual and therefore unsettling. All of these word choices are pushing us into a state of mind. The possible problem is the grey boredom is fighting the dark fear.
Click to expand...

I was going to weigh in on exactly the same subject, but the Learned One beat me to it days ago. On the other hand, I can point out that this is exactly something that Juliet McKenna demonstrates when she runs workshops on making Every Word Count. So much emotion & atmosphere can be unspoken or unthought (by the characters, anyway) if you take care to do the prep work. One of Juliet's examples involves a draughty hall with a fireplace and a servant waiting to greet a new guest. Very plain text, to begin with - but is the fire lit? Is there a hot drink to hand? Is the servant solicitous of the guest's health? Every word added (or removed) can make a difference to the way the reader interprets the story. It ain't just about what the characters think or say.

Well, I haven't said so much on this board in months. I must be ill! :D
 
Sorry, guys, I kind of got carried away with this one. It's turned out to be a tad lengthy. :eek:

Anyway, I hope you like it.



She walked briskly through the rain soaked streets, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor. She needed to hurry. Time was of the essence; he wouldn't wait around forever. Overhead, dark, ominous clouds rolled, stealing light from the world, staining the slick pavement beneath her, and casting it into darkness.

Thrusting her hands deep into her pockets, she trudged on. Around her, street lamps flickered and spluttered to life, humming melancholy, yet dependable. She allowed herself a half smile as they shed their dim iridescence, cleaving through darkness like a hot knife through butter. Above her, thunder rolled. She didn't look up. She didn't need to. The storm was always going to come; she'd felt it in her bones and in her water. Today, she knew things would change forever, one way or another.

On the corner, a group of large black birds cawed angrily as she made her approach, their awful, malign eyes glinting ominously under the yellow glow of the lights. Their feathers, black as night, glimmered like sinister gemstones. She growled deep in her throat, eyes narrowed, as she fingered the hilt of the knife in her pocket. Damned birds.

She gasped, momentarily startled, as a man stepped out from beneath the cover of trees to her left, his collar pulled up to conceal his face. The birds, opposite, became more animated, screeching wildly. She grasped her knife and looked up into the man's cruel, pale eyes. It had better be right this time.

“Did you bring it?”

He nodded, reached inside the pocket of his long, dark trench coat, and pulled out a small box. She glared at it in disbelief, her eyes wide. Already, she could feel her muscles tightening, her jaw clenching, as the reality of his failure hit home.

“It's the wrong one,” she spat, teeth gritted.

Before he was able to react, she hit out at his hand and knocked the box free of his grasp. He watched, stunned, eyes wide, as it skittered away across the concrete. Then he turned to face her, his expression dark, deadly. She didn't hesitate. The knife split his flesh with ease, cleaving through the skin and muscle as though it were barely there at all. He winced with pain, but she didn't care. It was him or her; one of them had to die, tonight.

Over and over, she drove the knife deep into his side, twisting the handle every time she pulled free of him, her face contorted, eyes wild. Spittle formed at the corners of her mouth as madness took a firm hold, her mind filled with thoughts of blood and suffering, death and vengeance. She screamed, clawed, stabbed, refusing to relent until his limp, dead body finally collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from every wound and orifice.

The birds grew louder. She turned slowly, lips curled to form a crazed smile, and glowered at them menacingly.

“Your turn.”
 
I'll openly admit that rage has me stumped. Possibly because I dont know how to feel it in my own life, cant imagine how to feel it rather, not that there havent been occasions for it, but at those times I just couldnt go there.
 
First one vanished. Bah. Anyway the upshot of it is I don't do rage well, either. Grumpy seems to be where I'm at... anyway the gist of it:

Rain. Soddin' rain. He probably caused that, too. I stick my hands in my pockets - don't let him see or he'll not come within a mile of me.

Birds, watching me. I hate birds: cat lovers of the world unite.

And then he walks round the corner, all smug and self satisfied, his coat pulled up so that he looks all cool and mysterious. Git.

I wave across at him and simper, "Have you got it?" in the exact way Susan - she of the blonde curls and red lips does - and he doesn't even recognise it. Not just a git, but dense, too.

He crosses over, pulls his cigs from his pocket and offers me one. "Hey babe."

I'll babe him. Now he's here I let out the breath I've been holding, and can feel the anger filling me, right from my toes: a mix of hurt and betrayal, curled like white worms through me. I lift my foot, my 6-inch, stilletoed-clad foot, and bring it down on his, trying to impale it. I grind and twist it.

"Ow!" he jumps back, and I grab his collar, bringing him to me.

"If. you. ever. see. her. again. I'll," I pause, trying to think what I could do that woud justify this all-comsuming feeling inside her. "I'll burn your George Martin collection."

His eyes widen, he steps back, shaking his head in denial. But I've been hurt, and I know how to hurt back.

"Even," I tell him, "the signed first of Game of Thrones."

I walk away, ignoring his pleading cries, my fists clenched. Vindicated.
 
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