The orange eyes, which were the only light in the dark room, methodically pulled out his nails, one by one, exposing the tender, wet flesh, occasionally stroking his dirty cheek with his thumb as he sobbed loudly. A heavy, metal collar was tightened around his neck, the tears flowed down the cheeks in hot streams.
'Why make a fuss, hmm? There's no need to make a fuss.' Long fingers gently squeezed the skin, silencing him, sinking into the fire like a coal. With a soft crack, the last nail on his little finger fell off. The flesh was enveloped in cold and a moment of pain, followed by a burning sensation. His other hand rested on the filthy stone, curled into a relaxed fist, touching the remnants of his fingers with the back of his hand, causing an endless tremor.
The elf nodded slightly as it was released, watching as the stars rose, silently moving away from him, and then, with a creaking sound, they disappeared, leaving him to be consumed by the darkness.
â â â â
At some point, it became easier to keep the eyes closed and the hands pressed firmly against the ears, which, although covered with a dark, dried crust, still felt every sound like a slap worse than any slap, whose echo would linger in their shells for a long time. The room was small, like a closet, and just as colorless, although darkness has no color, and never has. The floor was cold and sticky with thick blood, and in the corner sat a shadow, faceless and afraid of everything.
Maglor, like an animal, squeezed himself between two walls, covering his head with his bitten, disfigured hands, and his crow's-nest curls barely reached his chin. The elf's fingers were gnawed to the point of bleeding, and his nails were chewed down to the pink, slightly moist flesh beneath. The pads of his fingers were rough and torn from the countless strings that had been plucked at some point in the past. However, Makalaurë did not know what that time was.
Some sounds were rumbling in the darkness, and the elf pressed his hands harder against his bitten and lopped ears, trying to burrow deeper into the corner, curl up his legs, and cover his head.
Like thunder, the sound of metal on metal echoed through the room, and Kanafinwe froze, bringing his head back to its original position, sucking in the dry, cracked air with his lips, which were still oozing liquid, a mortal air that smelled of orc saliva and something salty and sour. A crude collar was wrapped around the elf's neck, with chains attached to the wall, not long enough for him to lower his head. Right under the chin, there was an emblem of the dark Vala, which easily tore into a sharp chin.
Once again, strange, bright orange images flashed before his closed eyes, mesmerizing with their beauty and repulsive in their own way. Once again, goosebumps danced across his skin, like Sauron's nails, wrapping around his insides, tugging at invisible threads.
He longed to return home, anywhere where it wasn't so dark, but all he could do was close his eyes tightly and press himself against the cold stone.
There was no strength left to whine, because one thing had been clearly stated: if he made even the slightest sound, he would see his brother's broken, slender neck lying at his feet like a silent doll, and all he would have to do was gather his body as close to him as possible, rocking him back and forth like a baby, kissing the top of his red head with no weight behind it, because tears would not flow.
â â â â
For a while, all that could be heard were screams coming from somewhere far away, tearing at the eardrums, uprooting them, and then a rotting stench of something persistent and unwashed filled the nostrils. The throat refused to cooperate, and the ears throbbed as if a torn body had been dipped into a vat of boiling oil and then doused with ice-cold water.
His back met with a cold, stone wall. Dried blood lay on the floor in splinters, mixed with sour sweat. In the corner, the remnants of something lay crumpled in a ball, whining like a mangy dog, just as pitiful and repulsive. The heavy metal doors creaked, but the dog only cowered deeper into itself as a pool of thick, velvety-red blood oozed out. The orange eyes gleamed in the night like two suns, and they whistled something, then closed the bolt with a crunch as they left.
- - - -
Makalaurë woke up in a pool of his own sweat, sticky as blood, his clothes clinging to his body, lying on something soft, his bones sinking into it, which he knew were a slightly grayish color. His hair, roughly cut in a hurry, spread out over the low pillow in black, curly waves, reaching up to his cold forehead. His fingers ached with a dull, almost imperceptible pain.
The moon was shining from a high window, in the brilliance of which the elf was choking with all his might, keeping his coal eyes wide open, so that she would not disappear, so that she would not disappear from sight. His throat was wrapped in white bandages, the skin was stuck to them, and it would need to be soaked to remove it without opening the wound, without opening the eye that glowed on his adam's apple, while three peaks shone above him, burned out under his chin.
Maglor closed his eyes, trying to breathe through the pain. His head was spinning, and he saw orange eyes again. The nothingness mercifully took him into its chambers.
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Taking character personality into account when using descriptive language calls back to earlier posts I wrote about dialogueâhow dialogue (both internal and external) should be unique, distinct, to each character. This is true for descriptive language as well.
For example, if Character A has the ability to manipulate water, the descriptive language in their internal dialogue might feature a lot of references to liquid, coolness (temperature-wise), and/or aquatic life.
A readerâs emotional response or resonance to descriptive language applies to this idea of using descriptive language that suits a characterâs unique personality. I strongly believe this aspect of descriptive languageâhighlighting a characterâs unique personality and voiceâis important to creating compelling characters, and a compelling story. As an editor, I do my best to help authors achieve this effect during a line edit.
Links to dialogue posts on Substack:
Thoughts on internal vs. external dialogue: https://thecraftyfoxwriterscorner.substack.com/p/lets-talk-dialogue
Thoughts on diction: https://thecraftyfoxwriterscorner.substack.com/p/lets-talk-dialogue-part-2
Thoughts on nonverbal communication and dialogue tags: https://thecraftyfoxwriterscorner.substack.com/p/lets-talk-dialogue-part-3
A couple of tips for editing dialogue: https://thecraftyfoxwriterscorner.substack.com/p/editing-dialogue
Iâve seen some advice posts about this goinâ around and thought Iâd add my two cents.
[All images in this post are line breaks.]
What is a Metaphor?
A metaphor is a literary device wherein one thing is compared to/equated with another without using the words âlikeâ or âas.â So, rather than saying âit was hard to get to know her,â one might say âshe was a closed book.â
What Makes a Metaphor Good or Bad?
Good - fits tone/narrative voice, often in character, tells us something, accurate
In simple terms, good metaphors arenât noticed (or, rather, noticed in a good way) and flow with the rest of the writing. Bad metaphors donât work and take the reader out of the story.
Itâs like puzzle pieces. The blue goes in the sky, not the lava.
[Continued below the cut:]
Basic examples of in character metaphors (ft. my improvised prose):
If Iâm writing about a person who loves space, their pulse would skyrocket, their thoughts would orbit one topic, their confusion would be nebulous, and their smiles would burn bright like distant stars.
If Iâm writing about an accountant who was passionate about their job and hated art, I wouldnât say that they did things in broad strokes, or painted their paperwork with the sweat of their brow, or minded their calculations as a modern Michelangelo, everything planned and ready to bleed black and white on paper canvas.
Iâd say that their mind clacked through figures the way a gray matter abacus operates, exacting and precise. Iâd say they held their clientsâ futures in their Atlas hands, dedicated to keep them afloat in uncertain times.Â
[Iâm gonna look at accurate and tonal metaphors in a minute, so hang in there until then, because they need context to be understood.]
BUT.
Because thereâs always a but.
If youâre consistent, it can work out just fine.
Itâs all about tone and mood, really. If youâre writing about trees, donât compare everything to race cars unless your character is a former driver who is now a lumberjack trying to fit in and make sense of his new job, or you compare everything to race cars. That sort of thing.
Douglas Adams can write Douglas Adams metaphors because thatâs his absurdist style of humor. Unless the voice of your story is like that, or your POV character thinks that way, itâs probably best that you donât pepper in absurdist/surreal metaphors.
Okay, But How Do You Write a Good Metaphor?
If I had the answer to that, Iâd never need to edit my work again.
But letâs take a stab at it, eh?
To reiterate, a good metaphor is accurate, is fitting of the tone/voice, reveals information, reveals character, and/or echoes the theme of the story.
Alrighty, letâs look at some good metaphors (in my opinion, anyway) and examine why theyâre good:
âEvery night I stunned myself with gin.â (Jac Jemc, âA Violenceâ)
First of all, itâs accurate. I can see it in my head even without knowing the exact context. Getting black-out drunk is a sort of stunning. Thereâs a âperson vs. selfâ conflict in the story, as well, and a theme of self-punishment, which this metaphor mirrors. Thatâs what makes it work: itâs accurate, flows with the tone and theme, and doesnât pull you out of the story. You read it and think, âyeah, that fits, that makes sense.â
On a side note, if you wanna take a look at acoustics really quickly, there are all those elongated ânâ sounds that bring a numbing sensation to the sentence, like your tongue is falling asleep just reading the words. Itâs practically a borderline hum.
This metaphor works because it is accurate, mirrors the storyâs theme, and reveals information about the character and their relation to their world.
âBe not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest, // You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.â (Walt Whitman, âI Sing the Body Electricâ)
Poetry is a little different than prose in this case, but it is also where some stellar metaphors can be found, since poetry is a true home of figurative language. I mean, look at these lines. A woman is the creator of life, the bearer of life, and the exit of life. âThe gates of the body,â going in and out. Gates of the soul, finding and leaving. Itâs all a bunch of very clever ways to refer to a womanâs sexuality and body separately, but also at the same time.
He calls attention to both the concrete, with gates, and the abstract, with the soul and rest. Which is what the entire poem is doing. Heâs âsinging the body electric,â praising all the body can be in both an physical and metaphysical sense.Â
This metaphor works because it is accurate, tells you how the speaker feels/reveals character, and fits the narrative tone.
âIt surprised [the protagonist] how fond he had been of his teeth. His tongue, a flat sleek seal, used to flop and slide so happily among the familiar rocks, checking the contours of a battered but still secure kingdom, plunging from cave to cove, climbing this jag, puzzling that notch, finding a shred of sweet seaweed in the same old cleft; but now not a landmark remained, and all there existed was a great dark wound, a terra incognita of gums which dread and disgust forbade one to investigate.â (Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin)
I admit, I love Nabokovâs writing. And look how gorgeous this is. Now, I havenât read this novel so I donât know the context, but this is an excellent extended metaphor (which means itâs a metaphor that goes on for a while and explores several different aspects of the comparison).
A tongue as a âflat sleek sealâ? Accurate, visceral, visual. The following description mimics the motions a tongue makes when running over the teeth, picking things out of them, examining them from the inside. âFinding a shred of sweet seaweed in the same old cleftâ is like finding something between your teeth. And when a tooth is pulled, it does feel like something great and wide is missing. A âterra incognita of gumsâ - the undiscovered area, what was hidden from your tongueâs previous explorations and a place you donât really want to touch because itâs weird and kinda gross now.Â
This metaphor works because itâs accurate, echoes the theme of the passage, and tells you something about this character and the way they feel.
âPut out the light, and then put out the light:
If I quench thee, thou flaming minister,
I can again thy former light restore,
Should I repent me: but once put out thy light,
Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature,
I know not where is that Promethean heat
That can thy light relume.â
William Shakespeare, Othello v.ii
Letâs get classical for a minute. This is one of my personal favorite Shakespeare metaphors. Iâll take this one beat-by-beat because Middle English.
The first line refers to both the lantern heâs holding and Desdemona (his wifeâs) life. First he puts out the flame heâs using to see, then he kills her. He goes on to say that if he puts out the light that is the flame, he can light it again no problem, but he canât do the same with her life. This is the point of no return for him.Â
The extended metaphor here is the candle and light. Thereâs fire language (flaming, quench, heat, light, relume, etc.) and direct comparisons to said fire. And we have a direct allusion to the story of Prometheus, the Greek titan who created humans and stole fire from the gods to give to them, with âPromethean heat.â Putting out a candle = putting out the light of her life, the fire gifted by Prometheus, but Othello canât light it again because he is not Prometheus and cannot find it again. Thereâs also a running theme of passion throughout the play, and what happens when passion is stoked too high (thereâs another metaphor for ya) and spirals out of control.Â
Language. Language, language, language. In the end it all comes down to language.
My language (as the sum of my discourses, as linguistic strata that betray my history, as geology or archaeology betrays history) is my language and it is a piece of who I am, perhaps even the defining piece.
For me, it is a cause of some upset that more Anglophones donât enjoy language. Music is enjoyable it seems, so are dance and other, athletic forms of movement. People seem to be able to find sensual and sensuous pleasure in almost anything but words these days. Sadly, desperately sadly, the only people who seem to bother with language in public today bother with it in quite the wrong way. They write letters to broadcasters and newspapers in which they are rude and haughty about other peopleâs usage and in which they show off their own superior âknowledgeâ of how language should be. I hate that, and I particularly hate the fact that so many of these pedants assume that Iâm on their side. When asked to join in a âletâs persuade this supermarket chain to get rid of their âfive items or lessâ signâ I never join in. Yes, I am aware of the technical distinction between âlessâ and âfewerâ, and between âuninterestedâ and âdisinterestedâ and âinferâ and âimplyâ, but none of these are of importance to me. âNone of these are of importance,â I wrote there, youâll notice â the old pedantic me would have insisted on ânone of them is of importanceâ. Well Iâm glad to say Iâve outgrown that silly approach to language.
There are all kinds of pedants around with more time to read and imitate Lynne Truss and John Humphrys than to write poems, love-letters, novels and stories it seems. They whip out their Sharpies and take away and add apostrophes from public signs, shake their heads at prepositions which end sentences and mutter at split infinitives and misspellings, but do they bubble and froth and slobber and cream with joy at language? Do they ever let the tripping of the tips of their tongues against the tops of their teeth transport them to giddy euphoric bliss? Do they ever yoke impossible words together for the sound-sex of it? Do they use language to seduce, charm, excite, please, affirm and tickle those they talk to? Do they? I doubt it. Theyâre too farting busy sneering at a greengrocerâs less than perfect use of the apostrophe. Well sod them to Hades. They think theyâre guardians of language. Theyâre no more guardians of language than the Kennel Club is the guardian of dogkind.
If you are the kind of person who insists on this and that âcorrect useâ is something that exists, I hope I can convince you to abandon your pedantry. Dive into the open flowing waters and leave the stagnant canals be.
But above all let there be pleasure. Let there be textural delight, let there be silken words and flinty words and sodden speeches and soaking speeches and crackling utterance and utterance that quivers and wobbles like rennet. Let there be rapid firecracker phrases and language that oozes like a lake of lava. Words are your birthright. Unlike music, painting, dance and raffia work, you donât have to be taught any part of language or buy any equipment to use it, all the power of it was in you from the moment the head of daddyâs little wiggler fused with the wall of mummyâs little bubble. So if youâve got it, use it. Donât be afraid of it, donât believe it belongs to anyone else, donât let anyone bully you into believing that there are rules and secrets of grammar and verbal deployment that you are not privy to. Donât be humiliated by dinosaurs into thinking yourself inferior because you canât spell broccoli or moccasins. Just let the words fly from your lips and your pen. Give them rhythm and depth and height and silliness. Give them filth and form and noble stupidity. Words are free and all words, light and frothy, firm and sculpted as they may be, bear the history of their passage from lip to lip over thousands of years. How they feel to us now tells us whole stories of our ancestors.
It is language that makes me, you, and every single one of us, human.
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Her eyes grew wide. Great swathes of light billowed down from the heavens, slipping from cloud-made hands and falling like silken hairs through loose fingers. Scattered by the sun, they dabbed upon the sky intermissions of soft yellows and cyclamen pinks, amidst the gravel greys and chalky whites and the colours in between that she couldnât quite name, broken by lulls of darkness where the clouds grew too thick to penetrate, and clumsy patches of bright blue where the cotton veil broke. The sun itself she couldnât stare directly at, though most of it was covered; what little she could glimpse at was bright enough to burn her eyes, scorching her face and feet even without heat. All the candles she lit in her old home couldnât compare to its brightness; even the most painstakingly crafted lantern turned dark before this great body of light, effortlessly bright, whose very existence meant illumination of all that were and would be. The lake that had looked so gloomy at night shimmered with glistening scales, reflecting dazzling shards of gold and silver, and the tips and bends of the tallest leaves in the palm trees glinted lazily as it moved with they wind, like a bejewlled hand showing off its wealth. The sun crowned all, bestowed upon them titles of kings and queens and emperors, from the smallest shrub to the swiftest bird, colour and movement and verve exploding underneath its radiance.Â
Warnings: some descriptive language, cursing, fluffy Dean, angry Dean, whole bunch of Dean feels really, insecure reader
Pairing: Dean x Reader
Characters: Reader x Dean, Sam
A/N: Ok so I kid you not this happened to me. I have been interested in a guy for a while (relationship wise). We havenât talked in forever and then a few months later, he starts to conversate with me and basically asks me to be in a threesome.... with himself and his girlfriend...I DIDNâT DO IT! I altered parts of the conversation that I put in. So this fic is a bit of what I wish someone would have said to me... of the Dean variety.
(all the way up to the read moire line is the basic summation of what happened)
âY/N your phone went offâ, yelled Dean as I was in the kitchen.
âWhoâs it from?â I asked, usually nothing too risque comes through my messenger, except for Derick, but I havenât talked to him in months. Not since he got that girlfriend after I laid all of my feelings out on the line, and all he did was never answer. Then to add the cherry on top, he started dating her five days after my birthday.
ââWell look at that, thereâs an old faceâ Ahh shit Y/N itâs that guy Derick again, want me to tell him to fuck off?â Asked Dean as he sauntered into the room with my phone. Dean knew all about Derick... I spent many nights in his room just crying, trying to figure out what it was about me that said that I wasnât enough. He would hold me as I quaked with tears filling my eyes. Sometimes heâd even let me sleep in his bed. Heâd hold me through those long nights of racking my brain and talk me through all of the doubt. Dean, in a way, made me whole again over these few months, helped me keep my head up high and focused. Now that I think about it, Dean is literally my rock, that person I can cry to and laugh with.
âNo I got itâ I said, truth is I had a drink and I donât mind the conversation. I replied with a happy face and typed in âhey itâs been too longâ
Then he replied with âyeah it has lolâ
After asking him whatâs up he said that he was just looking for conversation.Â
After a bit of banter back and forth the past conversations got mentioned... which were very steamy.Â
I texted him âYeah they were steamy, but Iâm respectful of relationships.â
He told me that it was all good and asked me if it was because of my conscious that I wonât have relations with him while heâs in a relationship....Â
After setting that straight he began to reveal his true motives to me.Â
Then I get the message âMy girlfriend wants me to find a woman we can share, she likes girls as well and she wants to experimentâÂ
Did he? Does he really think Iâll go for that? This is some bullshit. I said to myself. Why is he doing this to me, again? Like he canât just leave me alone to take the âLâ? I then told him that Iâm straight and that I donât work like that, plus I have really bad body image so I couldnât see myself getting naked in front of him let alone somebody else and that I have a surgery. To which he countered with that I didnât have to get naked and that the lights would be turned off.Â
After basically telling him no I canât, he then said that it was a shame that he was going to drive to me. I basically told him that was nice of him and he laughed and so did I.Â
Internally I am currently fuming, hurt, and confused.
Dean, of course reads it in my face and says âwhat happened?â
I did nothing but hand him the phone and go to the library to pour a good four shots of whiskey into the tumbler.... yeah, thatâll be enough to forget him I think to myself.
Deanâs POV:
Oh god I know that face I think to myself. That adorable face that Y/N makes when sheâs trying to hide something from me. But this time itâs different, itâs full of hurt and anger.Â
âWhat happened?â I blurt out. If this son of a bitch hurt her again... I will kill him.Â
She hands me her phone and then darts out of the door...Â
I start to scroll through the conversation and I canât believe what Iâm reading. This dude is delusional to think that sheâd ever go for this. Especially after the way that he hurt her. Not talking to her for weeks and then starting a relationship with someone else... I guessed that he didnât have the balls to be upfront with her about his feelings back then... but this, now .... this is torture.Â
She doesnât deserve this shit... My god she deserves so much more. Iâd give her the fucking world if I had a chance with her. Her heart has to be crushed. To be treated like this.Â
No.... sheâs gotta know .
I make my way to the library to see her sitting with a tumbler of whiskey, it looks like sheâs trying her hardest not to break... Not to fall apart after all of the progress sheâs made. Itâs killing me inside, just seeing her like this.
I sit right next to her and after a while she talks.
âWhat did I do to him? For him to torture me like this?â says Y/N, her eyes closed tightly, most likely so that I donât see the redness and tears building up in them.
âYou didnât do anything wrong, Princessâ Is all I have to say. She didnât do anything wrong, if anything she showed some major confidence in just telling him how she felt and he threw that all away.Â
She then chokes out âThen why is he doing this?â
âHeâs doing this because he is a douche bag who doesnât see you for who you really are and heâd rather be with someone as low as him, but he still wants the experience of being with someone as  genuine as you... Which frankly, he nor I will never deserveâ I state as adamantly as I possibly can.Â
Then I realize... I said âIâ.... SHIT.
Now there are tears going down her face âWhy do you treat me so well?â she asks.
I canât help but let everything go now. âI treat you so well because that is the only way that you deserve to be treated. You are kind, funny, infectious, hell your smile can get me through anything. My heart leaps when Iâm around you. Waking up with you in my arms are still my best memories to this date. You are so strong, agile, you are so amazing, the only words that I can use to describe you are âPrincessâ, âBeautifulâ, âSweetheartâ, and âBadassâ. Why do you think that theyâre your nicknames?â
I got her to smile... my god I miss that smile. I reach out to dry her tears and I say âThey are your nicknames because you are the only woman that Iâve ever met, let alone ever had the pleasure of living with, that has all of those qualities. And seeing you like this because of a guy, not a man, a guy, it kills me.â
It seems like sheâs getting her bearings now âWait? why does it kill you?â she asks.
I ask her âDo you want the real answer or the bullshit answer?âÂ
She then looks at me with those adorable y/e/c eyes and she says âThe real answerâ.
I replied with the only thing I know, which is the truth âIt kills me because I love you. More than a friend, I love you more than anyone...â
She doesnât looked shocked... she looks like she just had an epiphany.
I try to save the friendship by uttering âLook I get it that youâre hurt and you donât have to say anyth-â
She cuts in with âI love you tooâ.
I canât process what just happened so my mouth just hangs open and she continues.
âMy god Iâm such an idiot. You, you have been right in front of me all along. You are the only one that gets through my thick skull, that can put me back together, that can make sense to me when the rest of the world seems like one big shit show... Itâs always been you... Iâve always loved you, Deanâ she confesses.
Now is the first time that Iâve ever seen this in her. She has a glimmer in her eyes. It is the most beautiful thing that Iâve ever seen. Just as we are leaning in to kiss eachother Sammy decided to enter the room.
Sammy exclaims âAWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE look at you two! Itâs about damn time!!âÂ
As we both pull back I say âHow much did you hear?â
All Sammy replied with was âEnough to know that you two are finally getting together.â
âIf you know that weâre finally getting together then you know how loud itâs gonna get tonight Samâ retorted Y/N.
âJust lemme charge my headphones please...â said Sam.
I chuckled, grabbed Y/N , and started to make my way to my room and yelled over my shoulder âIt better be rapid charge because itâs about to get loudâ.
Finally I heard her laugh.
Little did I know Iâd be hearing that laugh many times that night... among other noises.
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Currently working on an original work centered around pirates! Hereâs a little snippet:
 ... Nicky had been on the crew for over a year now, wanting to make a little money for his mother back home. At first, he had hounded Captain Reeves for his paycheck, but he always blew him off. Or made him go empty the chamber pots.Â
When that didnât dissuade Nicky from pestering him, Reeves took him into the captains quarters, and spoke only one sentence. âTreasure for me, and treasure for you.âÂ
That was almost 6 months ago now, but he repeated those words when he started to lose himself. It happened more than he liked to admit. He was not made for the cold face of the ocean.Â
What was made worse by this realization for Nicky, was that what the Captain was chasing wasnât real. Some fairy tale mcguffin that he thought would solve all his problems. He was wasting away his life, and he was taking his crew down with him. Of course, it was easy to get swept up in the glory of it all.Â
A guaranteed seat among gods was appealing, but the promised riches were greater. Nicky fantasized of buying his mother the big house on the cliff in his hometown, the one where the old spice merchant used to live. Although he never handled any of the cargo, he imagined that his house always smelled of cinnamon, like the stall in the market boasting his wares. His mother used to look up from the beach and admire the large windows....Â
