Rate the Excerpt Above You

A bit from yet another Les Mis fanfic:

In the back room of the Corinth, the friends of the ABC were ready to call a meeting. However, just as Enjolras was about to start speaking, it was noticed that Jehan had gone missing, and nobody seemed to know where he was.
"I saw him yesterday," offered Courfeyrac, "he said he'd be here."

"Maybe he's dead," said Joly, dolefully, "This is such a dirty city. Who knows what he might have picked up?"

"He can't be dead, I told you I saw him yesterday!" Courfeyrac said, "what would have set on so fast?"

"Speckled gout pox," said Joly, "It'll kill you in two hours."

"There's no such thing," snapped Courfeyrac, "you made that up."

"Well, I did work for a man once," said Feuilly, "Who was absolutely fine one day and dead the next."

"Still," said Courfeyrac, "There's no such thing as-"

"Shut up," Grantaire interrupted, who was slightly less drunk than usual, " wanna hear Enjolras talk."

Enjolras glanced at Combeferre, and nodded.

"If he's missing, we should split up and find him," he said, but just then, the door burst open and Jehan Prouvaire burst in, clutching a clay flower pot.

"Sorry," he said, sliding into a chair between Courfeyrac and Joly. Everyone around the table stared for awhile at the strange plant in the pot. The room was completely silent until Courfeyrac spoke.

"Jehan, what the {heck} is that?"

It was a large, pale green plant with a skinny stem. Instead of a flower, however, a bean-shaped bulb grew on one end. It was split open, and lined with cruel looking teeth.

"Dionaea muscipula. Otherwise known as a Venus Flytrap." Jehan stroked the outside of the mouth lovingly, "His name is Fang."
 
Neuf, absolument.

And here is one of my older sonnets, which probably hasn't been looked at lately:

FOR SOLYA

So delicate and gentle, so replete
With goodwill and compassion, the desire
For harmony with everyone she'll meet:
This is our Solya. Oh, to think what mire
Of darkness and cold falsehood could have been
The trap of Solya's soul! But Christ prevailed;
The false gods gave way to the Nazarene,
And happily into His light she sailed.

Don't force her to reflect on harsher things,
On battles fought by sheer necessity;
She has her way to serve the King of Kings,
And her existence is a melody
Which angels may take up, and think it sweet,
As they, like Solya, bow at Jesus' feet.
 
Copperfox said:
Eight point nine for Glenburne. I would have given it a nine if not for this:

>> "What on earth did Jack Davidson for you to haul off and try to beat him up?"

The name in this sentence needs to be followed by the word "do" or "say." :eek::D
Click to expand...

Whoops! Edit completed, Copperfox. ;)

For your excerpt, 8.

"Who cares if I don't take Thoreau seriously?" Moriah, dark eyes flashing, typed several more words into her laptop.

"Well, besides Dr. Schuler, probably no one." Moriah's friend Lauren set a green-clad elbow on the table they shared and met Moriah's gaze. "But Dr. Schuler is the one grading your literature paper. Which just so happens to make up 25% of your grade. I'd be careful what I said if I was you."

Moriah scowled in disgust. "Look, the man thought that he was being self-reliant by living at a frog pond and having other people do his laundry. There's no way--"

"As I recall," Lauren insisted, "the question your essay is supposed to answer is 'Explain the ideas of Henry David Thoreau and how they apply to the modern day'."

"I am explaining how they apply to the modern day." Moriah typed a last word, saved her document, and closed the laptop.

Lauren leaned forward. "She'll kill you for it. She wants you to say things like 'His writing set a standard for further descriptive works' and 'He was one of the first American writers to write about his experiment with a wholly different lifestyle'."

"He was also an idiot." Moriah tossed her dark hair back and pulled to her feet.

"Whatever he was, you better make sure Dr. Schuler doesn't find out."
 
I give your fic 6.

Based upon a legend from Lambertville High School.

Reepicheep, Peter, Susan, Lucy and Edmund they were on a summer vacation in New Jersey, and their parents had a house there in Jersey City.

The first day was fine, and the kids went to New York City the whole day.

But, the next night was Lucy having nightmares about a school she did not know.

The day after, was the kids and Reepicheeep waking up, and telling they all had the same nightmare about a school.

It felt like a nightmare, but the kids and Reepicheep felt the house was haunted.

Local legends told about Lamberville High School, so the kids and Reepicheep went there.

As the kids arrived there at the abandoned school, was everything silent.

Nobody else was around, and there was no sounds at all.

The kids entered the school, while they thought they heard noises of other kids.

The rodent he shouted "Anybody here?" and dragged his sword, but no reply.

"Some wrote they died here!?" did Peter say, as Lucy said "I want to go out of here!"

Soon was the kids finding a chalkboard, who was filled with pictures.

The kids that was drawn on the chalkboards looked like they was in pain, and one girl seemed to be in a coffin.

Then was the kids and the rodent running away as fast as possible, while they think they saw and heard spirit of other kids.
 
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4, that was weird, confusing and I do not approve or Reep being called a rodent.:rolleyes::p


From my Mozart story:

Then suddenly Caspian sprung up like a jack-in-the-box.
“Let the knighting commence!” he cried.
“Whats he talking about?” Mozart whispered to Dorthy.
“You’ll see.” giggled Dorthy.
Ribbony came and stood on the stage.
“Come forth Mozart the Meerkitten.”
Mozart stood, astonished, and walked forward onto the stage.
Have you even been called up suddenly for an award you didn’t know you’d get? Or unexpectedly won a game and received a ribbon? Well that is how Mozart felt then. She stood before Ribbony, unsure what was going to happen.
“Kneel Mozart Meerkitten.” said Ribbony.
Mozart knelt.
Ribbony drew her sword from its scabbard and rested it lightly on one of her tiny shoulders, then the other.
“I knight, you, Mozart the Meerkitten, Evil’s bane!”
Mozart looked up. Ribbony offered her sword back to her, hilt first.
Cheers came from behind Mozart, she turned. The congregation was on its feet. She stared dumbfoundedly.
Then shaking herself Mozart smiled and lifted her sword above her head.
“Be glad, friends, evil is gone and dead! The White Cat reigns over us all again, we are free, and I have a feeling we will stay free!” more cheering.
 
Since no excerpt was posted....


Calum Og MacRory disliked riding alone, especially in country as war-ravaged as this region of Carolina, but none of the men in his small guerilla band lived in his region. To order them to accompany him was unfair.

To travel alone was foolhardy.

Not only had he served as a so-called "rebel" captain and coordinator of raids against the British, but, if the British cared to look up his background, they would discover that he was the son of Donan MacRory. Donan, a veteran of Culloden at the tender age of fourteen, had never stopped fighting his own private war against the redcoats. That war had won him a shallow grave in the Scottish soil, along with his wife and most of their children. Only Calum Og--the Highland rendering of Young Calum, since he had been named for his grandfather--and his sister Nessa had survived.

Survived. A strange term when applied to a sixteen-year-old girl paralyzed by a bullet in her spine, or to the fifteen-year-old boy who had struggled to care for her alone.

Calum Og shook his head and banished the dark memories to a cobwebbed corner of his mind. The cobwebs had a tendency to disappear when he slept, but he couldn't help the nightmares that still tormented him eight years later. He could only hide them. From his men. From Nessa.

Focus, man, he told himself. The area through which he traveled was frequented by American, Tory, and British forces, sometimes at once. Letting his guard down here could be fatal. He scanned the hills up ahead with keen eyes, brushing a stray lock of dark brown hair from his face so nothing would block any portion of his vision.

Nessa needed to see him. He couldn't die. Not now.

Calum Og saw a bend coming in the road, and he moved toward the outside edge of the curve to lengthen his line of sight as much as possible.

Something moved along the road just around the bend--something with a red garment wrapped about it. Lobsterback, Calum knew, slowing his horse and praying that it wouldn't choose this moment to nicker. Only one lad, frae the looks of it. I can take him.

Calum Og sucked in a quick break, drew his pistol, jabbed his horse with his heels, and charged around the corner. There stood the red-dressed man--no.

In front of him walked someone who, above all people, should not have been walking alone through this region. It was a woman.
 
9.

“Get me all you’ve got about doing business deals with museums!” I ordered the librarian.

“They’re on the reference shelf,” she answered. Normally, I would’ve remarked that I’d intended her, as a member of the library staff, to do the getting, but, since I was in a hurry, I walked to the reference shelf myself. I carefully read the titles and made a selection of three books: The Biggest Bone, How We Sold the Mummy for Fifty Cents, and Now What Do I Do with My Artifact?

I’d expected a step-by-step guide, but I began reading. The Biggest Bone should’ve been called The Biggest Bore. If I say I understood a sentence here and there, it’d be exaggerating. The last sentence was "Above all previously mentioned information, never make the precarious mistake of allowing the museum to underestimate the quality of your prehistoric find, which, brought to the public’s eye, will enhance the intrigue of those prodigious reptiles whom we are only in knowledge of through their intricate skeletal conformation discovered by ambitious searchers relentlessly seeking for more evidence of their departed yet well-known and notable existence!” Uh-huh...

How We Sold the Mummy for Fifty Cents shouldn’t have been put with the reference books at all. I doubted its nonfiction label. Two amateurs looking for artifacts in Egypt discovered a mummified crocodile and brought it home. They took it home. Then, they got a little tired of looking at it every time they entered the dining room—which, in my opinion, is no proper place to keep a dead croc (mummified or otherwise). They were desperate to get rid of it. They tried to give it to the neighbors, who refused. Then, they gift-wrapped it and sent it as a present to the mayor for his birthday. They celebrated until it was mailed back with a certain bonus letter. Finally, they sold it to a museum for fifty cents. Desperate or not, I’d think twice about making a bad deal like that.
 
Sorry!

Anyway I give the last one 5/10

TV:

Based upon something I found on Ghosts.org.

Gadget Hackwrench, Chip and Dale went to sleep one evening, but Gadget could not sleep later on in the night.

The mouse walked into the room, where the TV stood, as everyone else was asleep in the HQ.

Gadget she got scared, as the TV turned on by itself.

It was long before the remote control, and Gadget wondered why the TV was on.

As Gadget saw the show on the TV, did she recognise the characters on TV.

There was puppets on TV, and it looked like something from the last decade in the 1970's.

But the puppets looked very scary, as Gagdet did not feel that scared as before.

The mouse could not understand what the puppets said, and the puppets had both claws and very sharp teeths.

Some of the puppets wanted the mouse nearer to the TV, but Gadget refused.

Suddenly was the puppets angry, while Gadget wanted to run away.

The mouse ran all she could to Monty's room, but the scary noises from the TV got louder.

Gadget she shouted, as Monty awoke.

While Monty he awoke, was the TV quiet.

Gagdet slept at Monty the remains of the night, while nothing happened thereafter.
 
7/10. It seems like you have an interesting idea for a pretty scary story, it just needs to be developed a little bit more :)

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This is an excerpt from a story I've been working on on-and-off since the summer before 8th grade (about 8 years ago). For a while I was really working hard on it, but the past few years I've sort of let it go... I hope to finish it at some point though.
The excerpt is from near the end of part one. A little background info, the main girl is a princess who finds out she has a power to speak to animals. She runs away from home because she is betrothed to a man she doesn't want to marry and while running, meets up with a boy that she actually does like. They get mixed up in a kidnapping and then decide to go and rescue this girl who has been taken, which results in the main adventure/events of the story. Appalla is the main character, Finn is her traveling friend, Silver is her cat, Calli (Callistar) is her horse, Prince Castor is the man she was betrothed to, and Alice is the girl who was kidnapped.
I've been hesitant to post this because I am so scared of people just taking my ideas (not that they're super original...) but I'm hoping that this will give me an idea of how people would respond to it, and I will possibly start a thread for it, if it is received well. :) So here it is (finally!).
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Appalla woke late the next morning and, after a yawn and stretch, looked around. The two horses were grazing in a small clearing near some tall trees. Silver was still sleeping in a bright patch of sunlight that had filtered through the forest canopy. Finn was already up and had managed to make a fire. He was busy roasting a good sized trout over it when he turned to look at Appalla.
“So, you finally decided to wake up, huh?” He asked with a grin.
Appalla felt herself blush but quickly countered the emotion by asking, “Where did you get that fish? We didn’t stop long enough for fishing yesterday.”
“Well, unlike some people,” He said, smiling at Appalla. “I woke up just after the sunrise, near six I’d say. Since you were still sleeping I figured I could go hunting and maybe get a rabbit or two for breakfast, but I came across the stream sooner than any rabbits and tried at fishing instead. After about half an hour I had caught two trout. I decided to cook one for breakfast and the other one is cut and drying over there.” He motioned toward an area just beyond the fire where slivers of trout were drying in the sun. “I think that should last us for a while if we ration it.”
Appalla smiled at Finn, who had gone back to tending the fish. He had thought of everything. Appalla was slightly embarrassed that she hadn’t thought to bring food or even hunting supplies when she left. She hadn’t even brought flint as a way to start a fire. If I hadn’t run into Finn on my way out, she thought, I could have gotten myself into a really bad situation. Appalla had gotten up and was stretching when Finn finally announced, “It’s done!” and happily presented the roasted trout to Appalla.
“That looks wonderful, Finn.” Appalla said. The fish had been roasted brown and was emanating a delicious fragrance. After Finn had divided the fish into equal portions, they ate and talked about the adventure ahead.
“Where do you think we are?” Appalla asked.
“I don’t know.” Finn replied. “But I really wish I had brought a map along with me. That would have been helpful.”
“Yeah.”
They sat there for a while, thinking and wondering what was going on back at their homes. Appalla’s thoughts slowly drifted toward Prince Castor. Surely he’d be out looking for her; he had really seemed to like her.
Finn brought her back when he stood, stretched and yawned. “Well, we probably should get going. We’re not really all that far from Dendro Coelc, and surely whoever’s got Alice has made better time than us.”
“Yes,” Appalla said. “I guess we should be off.” She turned and looked toward the horses. “Calli!” she called.
The chocolate mare pricked her ears and happily trotted over, Red ambling behind. Are we to leave soon, M’lady? Callistar questioned when she had arrived at Appalla’s side.
Yes, but I’m not sure where we’re going.
The only way we’ll ever accomplish anything is by leaving. Staying here isn’t really helping our cause at all, Callistar replied.
Appalla tacked up Callistar and when Finn had finished doing the same, they mounted and were off, not knowing where they were going or what could happen to them.
 
7.8. I think I'm starting to like Finn.

This excerpt's a little long, but it wouldn't make sense unless I posted the whole thing.

Omar Zimmermann whistled a bit as he hurried down the dark road toward Roksanna's house. These Polish stars are so bright, he thought to himself, gazing up at the sky. But then the truth occurred to him that these stars were no more Polish than the stars back home, before his conscription, were German.

His mother would have said that the stars were God's. He missed his mother. Roksanna reminded him of her sometimes. Especially when she cooked.

He glanced at the darkened woods and fields that bordered the road. If any Polish partisans were out there, they would see his German uniform and shoot without asking questions. And if any Germans were out there--well, Omar did not want to end up in his commander's office, explaining why he was secretly seeing a Polish girl. Someone of inferior blood.

You would think Hitler had never heard of Adam. Der vater--the father--of us all. Omar shook his head. Tonight, he didn't want to think about Hitler. Tonight, he wanted to focus on Roksanna. He was bringing her chocolate, which she loved but could rarely find any more. In war-torn Poland, chocolate was now a luxury.

He saw a candle in the distance, piercing the night. Roksanna's little house. She lived by herself since the death of her parents and younger sister, so Omar knew better than to stay long. The situation would make them both uncomfortable. But, under the circumstances, a visit of a few minutes shouldn't hurt. She was the only good thing about being so far from home. A human being seemingly untouched by the war. A Pole who neither hated the Germans nor pretended to adore them for personal gain.

He quickened his steps. She would be so happy to have the chocolate. Omar felt sick of being a conquerer, and he needed her smile.

There. The door. He knocked once. Twice. But no one was answering.

She was in there. He knew it. And she was somewhere downstairs; he could see light through the window. He knocked a third time. Nothing.

This was unlike her. There was something wrong. He had to get in there, be sure she was all right. And the door was unlocked.

He opened it silently and stepped through the front room, through the kitchen. Where was she? He could see light spilling from the store room--

Quietly he edged close, the door partway open. He could hear voices, Roksanna's and--a man's? What man would be in her store room this time of night?

"Listen--" the man's voice began in an insistent tenor pitch.

"No! Aurek, you've got to leave right now! Now! You'll be sorry if you don't."

"No!"

Omar had heard enough. No man was going to sneak around Roksanna's house late at night and refuse to abide by her wishes. He checked his gun and then pushed the door open with his foot.

Roksanna stood inside embracing a blond man in worn clothing. The man's head jerked up when he saw Omar, and he whirled in an attempt to grab the rifle that he had carelessly left lying on the floor. But Omar had his gun up already.

"Hold it," he ordered. The man was a partisan, no doubt about it. Omar knew he couldn't turn the man in; the fellow would be shot, no questions asked. But he could scare the man a little. "What exactly are you doing in a young woman's house this late at night?"

"I could ask the same about you," the man muttered in subdued defiance. It suddenly occurred to Omar that the fellow was young--very young. Only about nineteen. Older than Roksanna by a year, but still four years younger than Omar.

"Omar?" Roksanna's brown eyes widened in fright. "What are you doing in here?"

"When you didn't come to the door, I thought something was wrong." Omar kept the gun aimed on the young man. "And it was."

"No--Omar--please--" Tears began to fill her eyes. "He was here because--because--he's my brother."
 
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I'll call this eight point three. And now for something completely different:


I seldom take on a pagan persona; but in the King Arthur roleplay which used to exist (created by, and starring as Arthur, our own Barbarian King), I was needed to run quite a few characters. One of the pagan identities I handled was Vivien, the Lady of the Lake. The following was a lullaby I wrote for her to sing to her orphaned niece whom she had raised. (They were able to breathe, and sleep, underwater, in the sea off the Isle of Avalon.)

" Below all the storms, out of reach of their swelling,
Rest here with me, in my arms, in my heart.
My darling, my love, you are dear beyond telling;
Though we may wander, our souls never part.

" The sea softly holds us as we hold each other:
Tenderness foreign to warriors and fools.
The Goddess gives peace, being our truest mother;
Love is unbounded wherever she rules.

" I 'll kiss you goodnight and I 'll kiss you good morning;
Wisdom, as well as our love, we will share.
In unity close, now each other we're warming,
Till duty summons you back to the air.

" My treasure incarnate, my only, my dearest,
Each of us will make the other one strong.
When errands demand it, be clever and fearless;
But be not gone from my arms for too long."
 
7.9

another fic of mine... not too happy moment here....

Carrissa’s ‘5 minutes’ felt like an excruciating eternity. But at last she returned, with one tray of food for him, but two drinks. She sat herself across from him, and when he looked confused she rolled her eyes again, “Taking my lunch break.” She explained.
“You don’t need to-“
“Don’t give yourself that much credit, I was planning to anyways – and your actually wasting it.”
“You don’t have to, then.” He repeated.
“You look like your dying here, Ryan. I can’t just leave ya like that. It’s like leaving an injured puppy in the rain.”
He raised his eyebrows, “Thanks…”
She shook her head, “Again, don’t let it go to your head. I’ll give ya one question about her.”
“One?”
“One.” She repeated, “And that’s generous, given my opinion on all of this.”
Ryan found he did not really want to ask about what Carrissa’s opinion on ‘all of this’ was. It would probably involve him being called some things he wasn’t quite in a position to deny.
But one question? ONE question about how Shannon was faring? He had dozens, millions of questions about her, and her life without him. He tried to think of the best one, he tried to think at all.
Is she okay?
Is she happy?
Does she think about me?
Does she miss me?
Is she with someone?
How is she doing?
His mind shuffled them wildly in his head and finally he just had to choose one at random. First one that came up.
“Does she want to talk to me?”
Carrissa took a deep breath and looked at him for a long moment, bracing herself for a reaction. “No.”
 
Miss.SunFlower said:
7.9

another fic of mine... not too happy moment here....

Carrissa’s ‘5 minutes’ felt like an excruciating eternity. But at last she returned, with one tray of food for him, but two drinks. She sat herself across from him, and when he looked confused she rolled her eyes again, “Taking my lunch break.” She explained.
“You don’t need to-“
“Don’t give yourself that much credit, I was planning to anyways – and your actually wasting it.”
“You don’t have to, then.” He repeated.
“You look like your dying here, Ryan. I can’t just leave ya like that. It’s like leaving an injured puppy in the rain.”
He raised his eyebrows, “Thanks…”
She shook her head, “Again, don’t let it go to your head. I’ll give ya one question about her.”
“One?”
“One.” She repeated, “And that’s generous, given my opinion on all of this.”
Ryan found he did not really want to ask about what Carrissa’s opinion on ‘all of this’ was. It would probably involve him being called some things he wasn’t quite in a position to deny.
But one question? ONE question about how Shannon was faring? He had dozens, millions of questions about her, and her life without him. He tried to think of the best one, he tried to think at all.
Is she okay?
Is she happy?
Does she think about me?
Does she miss me?
Is she with someone?
How is she doing?
His mind shuffled them wildly in his head and finally he just had to choose one at random. First one that came up.
“Does she want to talk to me?”
Carrissa took a deep breath and looked at him for a long moment, bracing herself for a reaction. “No.”
Click to expand...

:eek: CARRISSA IS MY NAME AND ITS SPELLED EXACTLY THE SAME WAY!!!:eek: wow, I only skimed over that but it was really really weird that that girl has the same name as me. I'm so freaked out I don't know if I can rate it. I didn't know anyone knew HOW to spell my name except people who know me well. *is scared* um, 8?



Journal entry made by Mozart the Meerkitten:

‘Approximately one month since Cogg was killed things have already gone back to a normal flow. It is about two months since I left home with my siblings, but it seems much longer. So much has happened in so little time. I have two families now, Myrrh’s and Rita and Jako’s. My flesh and blood family and the family who raised me. I’m four months now. I still haven’t grown much, but nobody minds.
And I found out something interesting about my father (that’s Jako you know) he’s a great sword-maker. He was the one who made my, Caspian and Toto’s swords and Dorthy’s dagger! And my mama (Rita you know) she made Dorthy’s arrows and bow, being an archer herself. My parents are very cool me and my siblings all think.
Myrrh has taken over Meandrao now, you know. She and my foster sibs live there now. It has been re-named by FSS. Now it’s called Myrrh’s Castle. Hehe, leave it to kits to give it a name like that!
Oh and then there’s the five little new additions! Nigh three days back Tori gave birth to five healthy kits. Their naming ceremony is today, I can’t wait! And Caspian has been hinting at some surprise for me today too.
Silly Caspian! He is still always watching over me. I don’t mind though, even if he has earned the name of shadow even more than Shadow herself!
I’m still leading the LFF Catlition, though Flower and Mid say that as soon as Tori’s babes are old enough to replace them and their siblings my older brothers and sisters will join the normal Catlition like the rest of my siblings.
Its still hard to think of them all as my big brothers and sisters though. Misty’s leg never healed, so now it sticks out funny. But he keeps on goin’. I’ve offered to heal it many times, but he says it gives him life skills, like humility and understanding. Kinda like my own experiences.
Oh and speaking of my loving kin, they’re calling me now to come to the naming ceremony. I’m wearing my white cloak and scarf, my belt of treasures too (Caspian insisted!). I must go with them now, I’ll tell of the ceremony later.’
 
A few observations:

Overall: 6.5-7

The tone, which is casual and breezy (I can just hear this rather high pitched kitten voice speaking so fast that the words tumble over one another), works for the diary genre.

There are a few awkward phrases you'll want to polish up. For instance, "My parents are very cool me and my siblings all think" would more naturally be written, "My siblings and I think our parents are very cool." Come to think of it, "Cool" is rather anachronistic ;). Some of this will be ironed out if you read your sentences out loud.

One more constructive note: "You know" gets rather tiresome fairly quickly, and it doesn't fit. Think about a diary and who the intended audience is: usually the author themselves.

Keep going with this. The idea of the naming ceremony is interesting, and the family dynamic you've established well worth exploring.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Here's a bit from my novel in progress. It is the conclusion of a spar between two characters, just to give you the flavor of the scene:

The crowd held its collective breath, and the world itself seemed to still, narrowing down to a point as thin as the weapons they had elected to fight with. For the rest of his days, Altair would only remember a haze of red, obscuring his vision. His sword was cunning, perhaps even more so than its master, and it followed his desires if not his intention. It slipped through the joints in Zitan's light armor, up through the space between the ribs, piercing skin and muscle and entering the heart itself.

There was little blood. There was no sound. There was not time for a single recriminating glance. Zitan's body slid off of Altair's steel and was cushioned by the embrace of the waiting grasses. Altair marked that Zitan was no taller than he himself was, if broader at the shoulders, and for some reason he had to quell the urge to blurt this out like an idiot. For his own part, he unbuckled his greaves so that he could kneel in the green beside the prone form of the steward. Zitan's chest rose and air seemed to gush from him in agonal gasps; for a moment, this gave Altair reason to hope.

Someone, Altair could not trace who, ran for the healer. Trial in the forge of battle made Altair recognize that the services of the man would not be needed. Had he wished to make another victim of the steward? He assured himself, leaning down beside the man, not a single notion of the kind had entered his thoughts. For Altair, above all, knowledge had a currency. He should be decrying the waste of potential information rather than secretly reveling in it. It was a tragedy, an accident of ill-omen, and he could not be responsible.

Altair came to himself to the sounds of hushed conversations. None, it seemed, blamed him. “You all can testify,” he wanted to remind them, “Zitan was a willing participant. He brought this on himself and could have stopped the bout with ease at any time.” He did no such thing, fearing that too much protest on his part would only harm him. The Chancellor must be, would be, untouchable. By the time the healer arrived to carry the corpse away, Altair felt nothing at all.
 
9.3 for Inkling. The excerpt makes me curious for more.


Ian Drogheda had never been so thankful for his German-speaking foster father. "Danke," he told the Berlin shopkeeper politely, lifting his food purchases in one hand and pocketing change with the other.

For a foundling, he had come pretty far. A priest had discovered him as an infant on the doorstep of the Catholic orphanage in Drogheda--thus his last name. The nuns at the orphanage had pulled the Christian name "Ian" from a hatful of names and then cared for him until a foster family could be found. Ian's first memories were of his three-year-old self wailing and clinging to a nun's skirt at the approach of his new foster father.

The man's wife had rather disliked Ian for his childish rowdiness, but the man himself had been fine enough--a former sailor who had picked up German along the way and made certain that Ian learned it, too. But when Ian was somewhere around fifteen years old, the man had died, leaving Ian alone with his wife. The situation proved intolerable for both of them, so Ian left and made his own way. One odd job had led to another, and finally--this job. If one could call it that. Spying for England.

It was an insane thing to do, especially for someone with the last name Drogheda who well remembered tales about Cromwell's Sack of Drogheda. But Ian felt restless. And so here he stood, pocketing change in Berlin.

Berlin fairly crawled with Nazis, which made Ian feel more comfortable than he did elsewhere in Nazi-occupied Europe. Here was their safe haven. Perhaps it made sense to the Gestapo that enemy spies would swarm their capitol city, but their guard remained somewhat down anyway. Far less so than in France or the Netherlands.

There was no better place for an Irish English spy.
 
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9.5. I like stories set in WWII.

“Dude. Take it from me.” Vince finished untying the knot and watched the sandbag disappear into the forest below.

“Wonder if it hit someone,” Joel mused out loud.

“Are you kidding? Nobody’s ever down there. Now, are you gonna listen to the pilot or not?” said Vince impatiently. “Drop the ballast, we get lighter and go higher. We go clean over the trees and end up in the next town. By then we run out of hot air and float down.”

I didn’t know how hot air balloons operated, but at that moment I guessed Vince must know what he was doing after all. Boy, was I dumb. But anyway, we obeyed and started sawing away with our mini pocketknives. (We won them earlier that day at ring toss.)

“Yeah, baby!” whooped Vince, pulling a few ropes for effect. I was getting more nervous every minute. “I think if we can land it now we’d at least make the second page of the paper,” I said.

Vince adjusted his sunglasses. “Go enjoy the view.”

“No, I mean it! What if we float into space and lose oxygen?” I worried. You have to admit, it was only reasonable to be worried when you’re stuck in a balloon with a crazy kid like Vince.

“Actually, I don’t think we have enough thrust to get all the way into space. And anyway, we’d have to go through the atmosphere first,” Joel objected. “We’d burn up before we could get any higher.”

That was reassuring.
 
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