Monday, February 18, 2013

GNG Character Exercise. 02/18/2013 Read Georgia Nutts

GNG Character Exercise : The GNGs write a character description from the their novels in progress.

Mia Maine
Violet. He had never given the color much thought before. Yet, on her, he could see its transcendental properties: dignity, vitality, passion, regal. As she spanned the distance between them, he experienced a rare sensation. Nervousness. In the parade of divas, businesswomen and plain Janes, he had become desensitized to the dating game. Yet, with every step and bounce of her shoulder length cinnamon curls, he felt his pulse skip a beat. Different. Standing as she approached, he considered that this experience could be different.

My bags were dropped at my feet as the cabbie sniffed the air. His attitude and demeanor had been rather unpleasant the whole trip to my home and he had the nerve to hold out his greasy hand for a tip. I was so pissed I was ready to spit in it until he scented the air. I paused mid hock and swallowing my spit. The arrogance and bravado he had been displaying during the car ride to my house had changed as he removed his hat, which he clutched with both hands so tightly his knuckles turned white. The smirk that he had been flashing at me the entire ride suddenly disappeared being replaced by a deepening frown followed by a big gulp. My smile picked up because that only meant one thing- Darren was leaning against the old iron gates in front of our home.
I didn’t have to turn around to feel his presence radiate warmth, strength and power as he pushed off the old squeaky gates with an understated grace that big men normally don’t have. My smile grew bigger as his long well-defined arms wrapped around my middle and he kissed the top of my head. “It is good to finally have you home, my love,” he growled in my ear. “Is this guy bothering you?” Darren asked tensing ever so slightly but not moving a muscle, ready to pounce on his unsuspecting prey for messing with his mate. I shook my head leaning into his body feeling my curves melt and conform to the contours of his well-defined muscles he earned over years of hard work with the soil. I could smell the earth beneath his fingers, the chocolate on his breath and the leather/musk mix that marked everything around him as his including me. He reluctantly released the loving embrace we were sharing and placed himself between the cabbie, who looked ready to piss his pants, and myself. “No sir, no. I was just leaving. No charge, no charge at all,” the cabbie said as he seemed to shrink in on himself and slowly back away opening the door of the taxi. My love, my mate, my wolf looked back at me running his hand through his curls and smiling brightly as the taxi sped away down the street a little too fast for a residential neighborhood making me laugh out loud. I was finally home.

Tinjeri Mfumu, 1st mate of the Croatan.
Not much can be said of Mr. Mfumu that can’t already be seen just by looking at him, until one truly makes his acquaintance. Bigger than an ox and black as burnt wood, you would be made a fool assuming he might be from any of the fairer nations north of the equator. If you were savvy in the smattering of West African tongues floating criss-cross along the Atlantic routes, you might peg him as a native of Cote D’Ivoire. And you may be proved right, in due course. You would know straight-away of his past as a slave by the gnarled scar riding his shoulder, given so generously by them who was branding their property. Nothing, however, would give you to know how he came to be tossed, broken and knotted, into the dank hold of an Atlantic Slaver ‘cause of having been sold into pale hands by the his bride’s own father, whom had never smiled on his daughter’s choice of husband. Mfumu hadn’t cared, but his rebellion against traditional respect for patriarchy had ultimately earned him a free ride out to sea. But you wouldn’t know that without asking. Or that he had been a prince of the land, of sorts, before his prideful collapse into wholesale labor. That he was since freed is obvious, as he can now be seen sharpening a scimitar on the deck of the Croatan under a sky, blue and hot. His proficiency in a fight is at least implied by his many skin worn badges, and more than reinforced by one glance at his mountainous body. Every week, the deck planks have to be replaced, just from the constant abuse of his footfalls. Or that’s what they say. I’ve never really seen it done, though.
If your judgment of character is shrewd enough, you might tell, just from the set of his face and the unblinking focus of his black eyes, that there is nothing in him, either body or soul, that will tolerate even a hint of unfairness. Ebon as he is, he is the fairest heart you will meet on these choppy waters. And the kindest. He is the greatest lover of people afloat, and the bitterest enemy of inequity you could find anywhere. If your sensibilities were a little duller than that, you might not recognize these things right off, but it doesn’t take long to find out on which side of Mr. Mfumu you want to be standing. Sitting like he is, on deck running an old, worn whetstone along his prize blade, you can see his careful quiet, his slowly cycling soul. Though a bird might light within a foot span of him, a silent space unoccupied by any person folds around where he sits. He could well enough be a garden statuary as a man. And when it comes time for calls on deck, he will be as solid and unaffected as he is just now, but know this: in any moment, there is not a man on this ship will hesitate or balk at a command from Mfumu, no matter the nature; nary a soul here will be afraid to die at his say so. The African giant with the trophy scimitar next to whom a bird will perch unflinching, is the most respected soul aboard these decks, save Capt. Bartholomew. You wouldn’t necessarily discern any of it, unless you were bold enough to ask. But one word of advice: he don’t much fancy idle chatter.

"Thank you! Come again!" As instructed, her exterior was professionally pleasant as she watched Mr. Kellogg shuffle way from her station. Internally, she scowled at all the pennies he made her count. Sensing a customer's approach, she automatically began her greeting.
    "Welcome to Woodland! How may I help..." Lana almost swallowed her tongue when she saw who was next in cue. "Oh...hi'yah, Mr Kenji!' She stuttered. Auto-pilot on! Words were exchanged and items were tallied but Lana's eyes fixed on every flex of Kenji's biceps that strained against the fabric of his t-shirt. As Kenji lifted each item onto the counter top, she deeply inhaled the a clean mix of sawdust and sandal wood. An involuntary sigh escaped her. Startled, Kenij blinked his query with thick, dark eyelashes that fluttered like the wings of a butterfly.
    "Lana?" His deep voice rumbled toward her like thunder from a mountain, as he loomed over her. Was she staring? She was staring

The Georgia Nutts Guild: Sentence to Paragraph. 02/18/2013 Read Georgia Nutts

GNG exercise. Turn the sentence "The short man opened the door." into a paragraph.

 Yvonne Renee Walker:

The short man opened the door squinting against the bright sunlight that shone through the white fluffy clouds. He stood with one hand supporting him as he leaned against the threshold surrounded by the golden light casting a long shadow on the floor behind him. He smiled to himself relishing the warmth of the sun as if he had been locked up in the dark for years. It’s time to begin the ending of a tale not yet told; he thought to himself and stepped forward into the world beyond.

DAP Tales:

First, he stumbled and wiped his sweaty palms against the sides of his stocky, jean clad legs. For just a moment, he held his breath and his fingers grasped the cool smooth surface of the copper door nob. Pause. Sigh. Click and with resignation and acceptance, the door swung open.
Danielle Roddey:
It was filled with a white intensity. He had to cover his eyes to the light shining before him. After adjusting his eyes for some time, he finally was able to look beyond him. His gaze was able to catch blue clouds, and a rainbow bridge. Something, a force he could not understand propelled his feet forward. What would lay beyond this strange bridge for him?

The short man opened the door.
He paused, his foot resting momentarily just inside the threshold. Cool night air spilled into the room, and he allowed himself several satisfying breaths while his exhaustion faded slightly. He waited, beholden by his steady breathing until he could feel the tired etchings of the day being smoothed over by his slowly waxing confidence. Stepping forward onto the terrace, the room's soft candlelight was surrendered to the blue velvet of the eve, where, toward the end of the portico, an alabaster rail basked in the luminous glow of a full moon. He moved forward slowly, each step metered by a strange mixture of rising relief and residual apprehension. His toes met the rail posts like those of a blind man and he marveled unseeing at the miracle the day had become, his hand unwittingly stroking the serpentine back of the stone rail. This very rail, from which he had been more than convinced he would be hanging before nightfall, if not guillotined first. No, they would have hanged him, such a perfect opportunity 'twas, that he be left, blowing in the wind, a banner of warning and a victory to be relished. So many words, so cleverly laid open and so unfailingly staged, all his own. So many lives had he placed at stake. In several spots in the darkened hills, fires could still be seen burning. An acrid pall hung over the land. "The fulfillment of a great vision requires a great change," he thought, gripping the rail tightly. An image of a million dead and a reckoning of the day's loss threatened to tear through him and he swayed slightly, resolving himself immediately to remain steady. He breathed deeply again and the chill of twilight filled his lungs, but all he could feel was fire inside. Tomorrow was the first day of History