mayneverhave
03-11-2008, 02:02 AM
This is part of a single chapter in the novel I'm writing - which will, one day, be done. This passage is narrated by one of the main characters, the son; Carolyn is the boy's sister. This takes place at the dinning table during breakfast. Mostly concerned here with form and technique at this point. I don't expect anyone to understand the themes of the novel from reading 2 paragraphs. Any comments, criticisms, suggestions, or praises are more than welcome.
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And father was watching her again, with that same queer look of simultaneous acknowledgment and unfamiliarity, like what he saw and wanted to see wasn’t Carolyn for certain, but rather another being all-together, a thing not entirely alive but not yet dead, perhaps a ghost wrapped in flesh summoned up in those cold gray eyes of his. It was those eyes, the same light sea-blue like mother’s, that he fed deep on, and that filled him with that inner anguish that was all but screamed from the stern and tragic look on his face. Because it wasn’t some unforeseeable accident at work or physical torment and anguish that painted that queer look on his face, but rather the simple and silent eyes of a young girl; his own daughter.
Carolyn caught my gaze and smiled brightly, the smile trailed off brightly brightly, brightly Just like mother, Get out utensils for everyone dear You’re not the only one eating get more than one plate, feel that glass between your fingertips and don’t drop it. Plastic plates do not break when you drop them. The plate sounds like card-board when the fork is scraped against it not at all like the grating piercing electrifying sound made on the glass.
--
And father was watching her again, with that same queer look of simultaneous acknowledgment and unfamiliarity, like what he saw and wanted to see wasn’t Carolyn for certain, but rather another being all-together, a thing not entirely alive but not yet dead, perhaps a ghost wrapped in flesh summoned up in those cold gray eyes of his. It was those eyes, the same light sea-blue like mother’s, that he fed deep on, and that filled him with that inner anguish that was all but screamed from the stern and tragic look on his face. Because it wasn’t some unforeseeable accident at work or physical torment and anguish that painted that queer look on his face, but rather the simple and silent eyes of a young girl; his own daughter.
Carolyn caught my gaze and smiled brightly, the smile trailed off brightly brightly, brightly Just like mother, Get out utensils for everyone dear You’re not the only one eating get more than one plate, feel that glass between your fingertips and don’t drop it. Plastic plates do not break when you drop them. The plate sounds like card-board when the fork is scraped against it not at all like the grating piercing electrifying sound made on the glass.