yorelm
Well-Known Member
Okay guys, last post till next year. Promise!
Sometimes I want a break between drafts, and will work on a different in-progress story. Just so I can come back fresher and more objective.
This alternate story is sort of a Western gothic. The protags are a ranch hand and an older woman, and their relationship is a platonic, mother/son type.
What I would like to know is if you can sense that from this short passage, or does it sound too "romantic?":
Bess sat in a back-tilted rocker, one leg crossed over the other, reading from a worn book. Just like her to be calm in a peculiar situation. Bred in her bones. She was fifty-ish, some twenty years older than me, but kept herself in damn fine shape. A woman who could dig in the dirt all day, pullin' up weeds, but still carry herself like a lady. Her boots and dress looked clean. Seemed the prisoners were allowed to wash.
She lept from her seat, letting the book fall to the floor. "Jon! How did you get here?"
I reached to scoop her up in one of my bear hugs. That’s what she called 'em—squeezin' hugs, but not too tight, that always made her laugh. But not this time. Her arms wrapped around me, strong despite her size, and she patted my back twice, like she always did. She smelled like sandalwood soap.
I started to smile, glad she was okay, but it didn't feel right under the circumstances. "Followed the horse."
Bess let me go and stepped back. I wanted her hold a few seconds longer, just to know she was safe. She looked down at the carpet, one with those foreign designs with flow'ry swirls, and lowered her voice. "Just like Sissy. Poor girl. Food for those...things."
The venom in her last word wasn’t like her. The hate in it didn’t sit right. And food? For those things out by the door? For something worse?
Sometimes I want a break between drafts, and will work on a different in-progress story. Just so I can come back fresher and more objective.
This alternate story is sort of a Western gothic. The protags are a ranch hand and an older woman, and their relationship is a platonic, mother/son type.
What I would like to know is if you can sense that from this short passage, or does it sound too "romantic?":
Bess sat in a back-tilted rocker, one leg crossed over the other, reading from a worn book. Just like her to be calm in a peculiar situation. Bred in her bones. She was fifty-ish, some twenty years older than me, but kept herself in damn fine shape. A woman who could dig in the dirt all day, pullin' up weeds, but still carry herself like a lady. Her boots and dress looked clean. Seemed the prisoners were allowed to wash.
She lept from her seat, letting the book fall to the floor. "Jon! How did you get here?"
I reached to scoop her up in one of my bear hugs. That’s what she called 'em—squeezin' hugs, but not too tight, that always made her laugh. But not this time. Her arms wrapped around me, strong despite her size, and she patted my back twice, like she always did. She smelled like sandalwood soap.
I started to smile, glad she was okay, but it didn't feel right under the circumstances. "Followed the horse."
Bess let me go and stepped back. I wanted her hold a few seconds longer, just to know she was safe. She looked down at the carpet, one with those foreign designs with flow'ry swirls, and lowered her voice. "Just like Sissy. Poor girl. Food for those...things."
The venom in her last word wasn’t like her. The hate in it didn’t sit right. And food? For those things out by the door? For something worse?
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