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Back in September, I published Emotional Beats: How to Easily Convert your Writing into Palpable Feelings. As promised, I will be posting the book on my blog. So, here is the next installment, continuing Part 3 of the book: Other Beats. This chapter deals with:

Other Beats

Emotional Beats | From the blog of Nicholas C. Rossis, author of science fiction, the Pearseus epic fantasy series and children's books

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Every now and then I come across a lovely beat that is hard to categorize. Here are some of my favorite ones:

  • The movers scuffed the wall with the table.
  • He was hovering inches from her face.
  • She raised the storefront’s tattered awning.
  • He sang a sprightly melody.
  • A rowdy gaggle of youth.
  • He frittered his life away.
  • Soon, he was lost in the crush of people now spilling out into the streets in droves.
  • Behind the curtains came the tapping. The tap tap tap rhythm of a branch against the window.
  • Now place her in the past, where she belongs.
  • The boy looked up at me, his sweet face clouded with an earnestness only the young possess. His big brown eyes shone with anticipation of a story. She smiled, sat forward and took his soft, freckled cheeks in her calloused palms.
  • We managed to cajole and wind our way through the throng of people.
  • The crowd sang along, clapping and stomping their feet in time with the music.
  • Fog covered the forest, like smoky, distant memories.
  • As herd after herd departed, the earth rumbled faintly under hundreds of clopping hooves.
  • Dashing back to the ladder, she shuffled up the steps quickly. When she hit the metal door, she frantically waved her wrist tag across it.
  • Two green spots, like fiery eyes, penetrated the darkness and raised goose-bumps.
  • Her face flushed as she grabbed the bag and slung it on the floor.
  • I could see through the crest of the waves to the clean bottom.
  • She was always mom first, last and in between.
  • I handed the bag over to him and he obediently slung it over his shoulder.
  • One woman scooped it up and set it upon the bank.
  • I wanted to see how the following few days panned out.
  • The cat nuzzled into the warmth of her lap for a while, before she heard his small feet pitter-patter toward the kitchen.
  • I was on tender hooks all day long.
  • She snapped her bag shut.
  • She secreted away the letter as she glided towards him.
  • A bucketful of thoughts needed to go, to make room for new ones.
  • It was as if she could sense every nerve, cell, muscle, drop of blood and hair in her body individually.
  • A near-death experience, described by Eamon Gosney: “No actual “Being” presented themselves when I arrived as a night swimmer, floating on a silky sea.  However, the very molecules of the air and water were made of love.  There was simply no room for hate, guilt, or fear.  Only love. I was preparing to follow a trusted and comforting voice, which said, “All you have to do is float.” I was turning to walk into the soft moonlight, but I was brought back at that moment by unbearably bright lights and pain that felt like a thousand razor blades cutting me at once.  Had I gone into the light, I suppose the shock paddles would have failed.”
  • He looked at the line snaking along the street in front of the small restaurant waiting for a table.
  • A cupboard creaked open, clanked shut. Steps brushed across a carpet, then an armchair sighed under the weight of a person sitting down. Glass chinked against glass, liquid sloshed. She waited—no toast was spoken, no glass clanked against another glass. He was alone inside.
  • He made some crackerjack suggestions.
  • He belonged to the much-vaunted warrior class.
  • She crossed a refuse-strewn street.
  • He slammed his sword back into its sheath.
  • He held the spear in his hands. It was a beautiful weapon. The head was made from dark bronze, tapering gracefully into a fine, fearfully sharp point. The edges glittered in the tent’s half-light. It was fastened to the haft by thirty rivets of gold. The haft was made of rowan, darkened with age, worn smooth and polished by the grip of many hands through the years. He hefted the spear, testing its weight. It was perfectly balanced, as if made specifically for him.
  • Each baby’s face puckered and grimaced, and a last feeble protest escaped on its warm milky breath.
  • Suddenly, it was all salty kisses and sandy toes.
  • He bent down, grabbed the crate and hefted it.
  • The iris on the wall started whirling, emitting a laser web that swept back and forth over the wall.
  • A joystick control popped up from the control panel. A montage of views from the ship’s cameras was overlaid over the cockpit window.
  • It was really not so much a book as a thick stack of pages held together with three leather loops.
  • He slowly, relentlessly materialized out of the dark, his cloak swishing, his black eyes sparkling with joy, his red lips nuzzling the white, submissive, swooning neck and his incisors, just slightly showing, beginning to glisten.
  • He watched himself thinking, as though discovering a new, unfamiliar country where thoughts depended on each other, interlocked. The thought he was handling would fit into the next one he had; he was driving. He had never driven thoughts before. They had come, wanted or unwanted. Now he was telling them where to go.
  • The dogs bared their teeth, lips curled, snarling. Sharp claws scratched and clawed at the baluster rods, massive paws attempting to knock me off. The dogs barked, jumped, banged against the railing. White foam dripped off razor-sharp teeth.
  • He mock-buffed his fingernails on his inexistent lapel with pride.
  • Sweet music leaked into the night. Laughter danced between the notes.
  • Smoky fumes choked the air, mingled with the earthy odor wafting up from the river, creating its own unique scent.
  • A man’s chubby face filled the small peephole.
  • He angled them along a narrow row of cages.
  • The woman sported a mask of someone broken beyond repair.
  • We did a slow trickle into the dark alley, taking to the shadows that promised freedom under their cover.
  • A million thoughts rushed my mind, though I couldn’t snatch and hold on to any single one.
  • His bulk put the creaky floorboards in a complaining mood as he crossed the darkened parlor.
  • A lonely tear breached her will and splashed hard against his hand.
  • Delicate notes seasoned the night.
  • Shiny black hair spilled on to her shoulders.
  • Straight black hair washed over her shoulders like spilled ink.
  • Saxophone rose high on a warm breeze and sprinkled them with a familiar tune.
  • She drew water from that hand pump and filled the tub to halfway.
  • His voice came wet with blood.
  • Depending on the kind, bells will:
    • tinkle and jingle (sleigh bells),
    • ring and chime (wedding bells),
    • clang (alarm bells),
    • toll and knell (funeral bells).

Next week: Seafaring. View all posts on the subject, or buy the book on Amazon – free on KU!

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