Because I don't drive around too often it takes me a while to get through an audio book, so I'm still listening to one by James Lee Burke. The way he sets a scene is so well done. Between his character and setting descriptions--and how he executes them so flawlessly--he has me shaking my head and just thinking how amazing he is. And aspiring to be
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I’ve got that just-before-the-cages-open feeling in my chest. Wipe my fingers. Check the tension in my strings. There’s a pack of drunken faces just beyond the stage. Stale beer perfume. Leather and sweat. Black tees with faded band names. Showtime ( ... )
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Raphael was late.
The bells of St. Paul’s Cathedral were already faintly tolling in the distance, signaling the start of Saturday matins. Eva sat on the chapel rooftop and turned up the collar of Raphael’s jacket about her ears, tucking her cold hands further into the long sleeves. The morning sun had not yet burned off the acrid Londinium fog and the watery grey breezes from the Thamesis swirled about her face and hands with the pungent pong of industrial ice and rancid curry. Shivering, Eva hugged her knees to her chest and burrowed her nose into the lining of her best friend’s worn leather jacket. It smelled of him: warm linens and cozy treacle tart mingled with the faint musky tang of boy.
I have a lot of tidbits of setting I love, mostly because I wrote this while I was missing London terribly and my visceral memories of the city. (Curry and rain and sewage and damp.)
Eva wasn’t any fun ( ... )
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Enjoyed both of these!
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Traditional English breakfast is...greasy. And everything they say about English food being BAD is true. I ate much more Indian food living there then I ever have since. (Can you screw up spaghetti? Apparently you can in England!)
But I will say, the English know how make toast. And marmalade. Mmmmm.
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Jason Chan's zombie Playground (new window)
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Everything went dark. Sura swallowed hard and lowered herself to the floor of the tunnel. She began to crawl.
Her pack scraped the ceiling, triggering a rain of moist dirt that tickled her skin where her shirt had ridden above her waist. Earthworms and beetles skittered off her as well, and a distant part of her mind hoped none of them fell down her trousers.
She listened for a struggle in the house above her, though she knew she was too deep to hear. The only sounds were her own pounding heartbeat and the scrambling of tiny claws. A mole or shrew, no doubt.
She crawled faster. Pretend it’s another drill, she told herself. Pretend the walls aren’t closing in. She closed her eyes, since there was no light, anyway, and focused on keeping her breath steady ( ... )
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