ForumGarden

I didn't say it was tasty though.



Here is a random paragraph from something I am working on.



"Ishmael heard the radio before he heard the car, good song for the way the day would probably turn out. He got up and wandered his way over to the old Ford; Thadd opened the door for him, and shut it after he got in. He settled in as Thadd turned the radio down just a bit and started towards town. He could feel the presence of the church to his right as they passed by, and along with that church he felt those eyes. He turned to Thadd and asked if he felt them as well, in response the radio started playing Amos Lee singing “Southern Girl. Ishmael wondered what it was like to be able to do that, how splendid that must be; your thoughts sent out to the world as a song. It would take them an hour or so to get into town, not because it was that far away; that was just how long it took. Walking, driving, or on a leer jet it would take an hour. Sid would be at the bar that was his place in this world; he was the only one of them that stayed in town. Jolene was his burden, and just like old Sisyphus he had to push it to the top of the mountain and feel his body crumble as it rolled back down again; time after time."

Here is the first paragraph:

"Ishmael pulled the yellowed letter from the back pocket of his worn out till they were comfortable jeans. He was blind, had been for a long while now, but he didn’t need sight to read this letter. He had read it a thousand times before he lost his sight, and he had remembered it in his mind a hundred thousand since. It was a story an old friend had written to him and about him. The meat of it was about roads and pathways; Muses and Sirens. The bread was about leaving, losing, and unpicked daffodils. Pianos and long lovely legs were the pickle on the side. Ishmael took the picture he kept wrapped in the folds of that story and felt the rough edges and bent corners. Sight wasn’t needed for this piece of history either; it was in color, but the subject was all earth tones; hair as black as Kentucky coal, creamed coffee colored skin, and eyes the color of an antique writing desk made from dark oak; oak that had been tended with years of care and polished to a color so warm you could feel the heat. Her hair was short; shoulder length, and it framed her face so wonderfully. Her face was soft, no sharp edges to be found. Her right eye, the left as he saw it, was half covered with that hair, and a strand of that silky coal hung down from the middle of her head to meet another lock of hair coming from around that hidden eye. One eyebrow was arched like a lover’s back after midnight. Her lips were slightly parted, her teeth showed a bit, oh those lips made him ache all over; especially his ears. She was looking straight ahead; all the way through him. Those antique eyes haunted him every night. They followed him, they were his eyes. He would catch glimpses of things that had no other explanation. Things he had never seen, and would never conjure up on his own. Sometimes he felt like they were close, right behind him even. He could feel them looking at him through his little stand of willow trees as he fished for a fish that always managed to get away"

I enjoy all your writing KB, keep it up, your talent is outstanding. :-6

You're a talented, entertaining writer. I enjoyed reading that for the most part.

It would take them an hour or so to get into town, not because it was that far away; that was just how long it took.

That right there is an example of what you do that draws me in. Can't really explain it but stuff just clicks with me as I read.

Your style flows smoothly but not too smoothly. This is a good thing. It's catchy.

I don't tend to comment much on your work but that's not because I don't care. It's just because I tend to appreciate from afar I suppose.