"You're more poet than anything." I folded my arms and glared at Ian. He sat perched on the edge of the roof, dressed like an adventurer. I coveted every part of his outfit -- the breezy shirt made of course cloth, the sturdy breeches, the leather boots that laced up to his calves, the dagger on his hip. Tomorrow he would set sail to a life I craved more than anything. But did he appreciate his opportunities? No. And I hated him for it. "Do you despise poets, Ingrid?" His voice was sad, but a grin twisted at the corners of his mouth as he finished his question. Those blue eyes of his cut in my direction with a teasing flash. "They don't DO anything." My thoughts and emotions ran in torrents, but I could see his flowing smoothly and quietly. Even in his uneasiness about the morrow, his face was a peaceful as a child falling asleep in his own bed. ...

This is awesome!! =)
ReplyDeleteOnly people who know that this is one of my Sleeping Beauty retellings will be able to understand this snippet.
ReplyDeleteOh dear, that sounds foreboding. I want to know what happens now.
ReplyDeleteMe, too, Jack!
ReplyDeleteOh, wow. I love this snippet. Somehow this one line is wistful, mysterious and foreboding all at once. One of the things that's really troubling me about retelling this tale is how to deal with the one hundred year sleep. That's a long time, and I'm struggling with finding out how to express that and how to make that time pass in the story. I guess I have a ton of brainstorming to do!
ReplyDeleteI'm sure there is a way, Ana! But I agree: A hundred years IS a long time.
ReplyDeleteHow is the ready of your brainstorming coming? Getting excited?