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slipjig31193 words. Now we're getting somewhere. Unfortunately, that "somwhere" is a badly-written place. Oh, well. The prologue isn't too bad, though, so... *deep breath*
Prologue to Ordinary Talismans
My life’s inheritance from Constance Long is divided between my two hands.
In my left hand, I hold my keychain. More accurately, I hold the key that does not belong with the others: an antique, five times as old as I am, shaped in wrought iron. It’s as long as my little finger, and half as wide, but with the solidness, the weight, the permanence, that wrought iron always seems to bear—more permanent than the box or cabinet or drawer that it once opened. I twirl it between thumb and forefinger, just at the juncture of its blade and its cloverleaf bow, and find it cold to the touch, the same as I always find it, no matter how long it has been in my pocket.
In my right hand, I hold nothing. But it is this hand (always this hand, always the right) that I am constantly folding upon itself, pressing fingernails to palm, and rocking the wrist a mere few degrees, counting rhythm: one...two...three, feeling the wooden tabletop or chair leg meet my knuckles at each motion. “Good luck,” you say, and the motion of my right hand is the reply. Knock wood.
Iron key, ironclad habit. These are the gifts my great-grandmother gave me. These are the tools she left to allow me to survive.
Prologue to Ordinary Talismans
My life’s inheritance from Constance Long is divided between my two hands.
In my left hand, I hold my keychain. More accurately, I hold the key that does not belong with the others: an antique, five times as old as I am, shaped in wrought iron. It’s as long as my little finger, and half as wide, but with the solidness, the weight, the permanence, that wrought iron always seems to bear—more permanent than the box or cabinet or drawer that it once opened. I twirl it between thumb and forefinger, just at the juncture of its blade and its cloverleaf bow, and find it cold to the touch, the same as I always find it, no matter how long it has been in my pocket.
In my right hand, I hold nothing. But it is this hand (always this hand, always the right) that I am constantly folding upon itself, pressing fingernails to palm, and rocking the wrist a mere few degrees, counting rhythm: one...two...three, feeling the wooden tabletop or chair leg meet my knuckles at each motion. “Good luck,” you say, and the motion of my right hand is the reply. Knock wood.
Iron key, ironclad habit. These are the gifts my great-grandmother gave me. These are the tools she left to allow me to survive.
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(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-01 05:36 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-02 05:39 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-01 05:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-02 05:40 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-01 06:20 pm (UTC)The one thing that doesn't work for me, and this may well be more about my attention span than your writing, is this part:
I twirl it between thumb and forefinger, just at the juncture of its blade and its cloverleaf bow
It's a good line. I'm just the sort of reader whose eyes glaze with too much detailed description of objects; I'm more an action sort, and I'll often start skimming past the second or third line of artistic description of a place or object, to get to more plot. Now, admittedly, this is an important establishing object in your story, which means that it deserves some more description... but were it me, I'd work the later descriptive lines into subsequent places where we come across that object.
Same with this bit: good line, but my attention span doesn't extend that far.
feeling the wooden tabletop or chair leg meet my knuckles at each motion.
All in all, though, you're off to an intriguing start!
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-01 06:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-02 05:44 am (UTC)