A sentence, maybe even a paragraph, but not a whole story. Have you ever written a piece and thought, "Wow, this is beautiful"? Edit: Use "beautiful" losely. A piece you really like will suffice, as long as you wrote it yourself.
I always really liked the first two sentences of a short story I was working on a while ago. I wouldn't say it was 'beautiful,' but to me, it just felt like a piece of good writing. Miss Arlington’s eyes didn’t stray once from the open book as she raised her regular afternoon cappuccino to her cerise coated lips and sipped at the chocolate dusted foam. The table besides the window was her usual spot, where the sun’s rays would peer out from behind the silver lined clouds, warming her soft pale skin and exposing the inconspicuous dust fragments that danced about the air. Hope you enjoyed.
Either this: “War just ain't the same as it used to be,” the lieutenant mused as he stared into his half-empty glass. “What do you mean by that, sir?” Evans asked. “Back in the old days you came at the enemy face-to-face, with only a sword and shield. You won the battle if your warriors could fight better than the other side. Nowadays, you can blast a guy's head open from a hundred yards away without him knowing you exist. It's inhuman.” The entire table nodded in silent agreement. Or this: "Pardon me if this is prying, but you seem to be a Southern sympathizer,” Jeff said as he nodded toward the flag in front of them. Darryl shot Jeff yet another warning glance. He was getting very proficient at ignoring them. “Is it just the way you were raised, or a personal belief, or something else?” “Oh, it's no problem. I'll talk about it with anybody. You see, I was raised in Virginia. My ancestors owned plantations and railroads. This area was booming with commerce, gentlemen. After the Yankees came through the Southeast, everything changed. We didn't have no freedom anymore, and everything had been razed to the ground. The government came and rebuilt everything, but it's just not like the Virginia I heard about from my grandpappy. I guess I just hanker for the old days. The days when there wasn't so much intrusion in your private life, the days when you could harvest your crops in peace--” “--the days when you could own slaves?” Jeff interjected. Darryl turned his head from the conversation in disbelief.
My punctuation is all over the place, but I like the bones of this part: Crimson hit the grass as she rose up to fight him, falling in another constellation; a galaxy they were mapping with their blood. Together, they circled and turned and slipped on the morning; boots catching on stones, hands slipping with red, arms littered with almost.
For me it's this: The day before yesterday, there was no bloodshed. It made me uncomfortable, yet I wasn’t worried; the next day will come with the next death. However, yesterday, too, there was no death, there was no blood, and there was none of that sweet, calming sound of gashing liquid. I grew very impatient, yet still I knew the next morning will solve everything. Today there was no killing again. It drove my senses to madness, as I curled into a ball on the floor and screamed in agony.
It's two paragraphs from the former prologue of my current piece, but still, I love it. Mind you, I'm still a new writer(?), but still, this is one of my better bits of writing.
I always like what I'm working on. This is a practice piece I wrote for a novel - House of Cadre. Not exactly beautiful but lately I notice I keep creating a mood, building it and then having that last idea/line as a kinda punchline - which I love. - from House of Cadre.
I woke up one morning to find this scribbled on a pad sometime during the night: Time is escaping like the draught under a door. I loved it! Just can't quite decide where it fits best at the moment.
A friend of mine frequently brings up the short piece that I wrote in my blog, the day after my mother's death and about my mother's death, as being beautiful. I don't see the beauty, but I like it all the same, because it tells the truth--or, a truth--about my very problematic late parents, without any of the anger that I so often feel at them. The anger isn't suppressed, it's just, temporarily, not there. But that's sort of cheating on the original criteria stated, because it's several paragraphs.
Damn, son. You wrote that when you were 13? I was still drawing wieners on the classroom chalkboard when I was 13. You have a bright future ahead of you.
Thanks a lot! Although I doubt, as I don't have much access to English publishers or books or the like from where I live. Let's just hope for the best I suppose.
I wrote a short story many years ago called "First Bid" that I actually never finished and there was one particular paragraph from the first chapter that has always stuck with me. So here it is... The upper light's fluorescent glare stays glued against the stainless steel wall, highlighting the hundreds of puny water drops that surround me in transition to some tiny universe. I stand in the dull shower stall, turned to a box of mere luminescence while my head remains down and my hands stay clenched to the towel bar as a lukewarm waterfall runs down my neck. I stare at the silvery scale-looking water drops in a motionless focus, and without blinking, the cogitation sets in. Many many thoughts erupting in my mind. Mostly negative. I graze my big toe against the shower drain and break my concentration. I reach down and grab my bottle of maximum body shampoo, my soap dish, and my razor. Then I dry off, get dressed, and turn to the direction of the tears. They lead me to my home for the next nine months, a six by eight foot single cell.
Are we supposed to share? Depends on your meaning of beautiful. Some of my favorite moments are very epic or snappy witty one liners. I find them beautiful but if we are going for awe-inspiring then I have to think of this. Becky's rested peacefully on a wooden bed adjacent to a lake. Her body had already been dressed. Normally a dress of the finest quality would have been used but Emma wouldn't allow it. Becky had always considered herself a warrior and was insulted to be treated any other way. So in her honor they did what was the only thing to do. She was dressed in traditional elite Tarvoss armor. Her mother has spent the night resizing her own copy for her and it looked splendid. In addition Becky had an indigo cloth wrapped around her neck, the same as the cloth around Jackie's arm. The same as every Tarvoss, married in or born in had worn around their arm. Lastly Becky for the first and last time was wearing make up. Today every Tarvoss for the first time in years could at least agree on a few things most of which was that Becky was as stunning an angel as any of them would ever see. @The Mad Regent Thanks
I had to use the image instead of copying and pasting, but I was rather fond of this. I used this as the opening page in my first novel, "Sparks of Life." It's probably crap (I don't write poetry), but something about it is just... right. To me.
It was awesome, the first paragraph especially! It's really puts the message across. Is the novel a tragedy? These lines would work even better if that's the case!
Since we are including poetry now, I'll share something I wrote years ago when I was at university. I am not a poet in any shape or form, by the way, but I actually quite like this nonetheless. Final Confession The speakers spoke a harmony of despair Cruel then death, life seems so unfair Time and again I felt its touch My soul is twisted, the anguish is too much Forever I remember the blood I shed Cries on the battlefield, shot in the head Plague of the mind, I feel possessed A whisper of confession puts me to rest
I like it. Simple, yet powerful. I feel that you do have the potential to become a poet, but that's only my opinion.
Thanks! You're too kind. But if you put me next to Oscar Wilde then I'm not so sure about my potential.
But but but... I don't know Oscar Wilde in any way, shape or form! D: I only know you (internet-wise). :3
