Emotional Beats

by Nicholas C. Rossis

  Shining hardwood floors graced a large open space furnished as a combination living and dining area.

  The ceilings were open, the rafters exposed.

  The porch was narrow, but the second story of the cottage pitched over it and provided much welcome cover.

  The shutters outside were open to the sun's indifferent reach, and dawn streaked in.

  Simple railing emerged from the wraparound veranda without any architectural artifice.

  Two enormous English elms flanked the old manor. Their bowing branches arched elegantly over it, bobbing at the gentle breeze.

  The furniture is old-world, sumptuous and expensive, like the authentic tufted Chesterfield sofa.

  Trees with skeletal limbs, badly in need of a trim, scraped against slate, like oaken nails on the lid of a coffin.

  He looked at the fancy balusters, like young girls at their first dance, all curves and waists and giggles.

  Paintings in vibrant colors covered walls, like small windows into faraway scenery.

  Five interior poles held up the roof of the command tent, a standard issue square block of pale canvas. Scraps of rope tied open the doors to admit morning light and a hint of breeze rustled the maps and missives littering the long table. The chief’s sturdy chair stood in a corner, stacked with slightly crumpled, rolled documents, a clear indication that the man preferred to stand.

  The road coughed them out into a clearing set beside standing water.

  High trees brooded over the night, keeping back the moon’s shine.

  Lilacs scented the warm air; honeybees droned their busy song while picking over those late-summer blooms. Mosquitoes planned attacks from the overgrown grass.

  Hunger, drinks and food

  * * *

  Your character will no doubt feel the need to eat and drink on occasion. Here are some ways to describe this:

  He slugged back the last of his drink.

  He studied the amber liquid rolling around his glass as he swirled it.

  She ushered me towards the lounge and laid the snacks down on a large coffee table in the center.

  He placed both mugs down in front of them.

  She took a large swig from her mug.

  He heard the clink of crystal and the shrill of high-pitched feminine laughter.

  He set a bottle down.

  She plonked the bottle onto the table.

  He swished the wine in his mouth.

  He drained his stein.

  He emptied his flask.

  She brought over a flagon of lemonade.

  He slipped out of bed, plodded along to the kitchen, flicked on the kettle and popped two slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster.

  She finished off her toast and the dregs of her brew.

  He poured citron water with floating sprigs of honeybalm.

  He looked up so sharply, he spilt citron water from his beaker.

  He sipped his shots, not tossed them back.

  “Shall I decant?” he asked [pour small quantity to try out].

  She set the Bordeaux glass on the white linen tablecloth and used a foil cutter to remove the foil cap over the cork.

  He poured a dram and swirled it in the tumbler, letting it coat the glass.

  He popped the tab on his beer.

  He spoke into his coffee cup as he took a sip, his voice suddenly lower as if there was someone else in the room who might overhear.

  She slammed her mug down.

  She started gobbling up the delicious [food].

  Tendrils of steam from the tea rose in the cold morning air. She took a cup in both hands, raised it to scent the drink and blew across its surface before taking a sip.

  He blew on his [hot food] and his stomach rumbled. He tasted his food, winced and cooled his burning tongue with a quick gulp of water.

  He speared a cherry tomato and shoved it into his mouth.

  Her stomach gurgled/churned growled in protest.

  He had a tower of stacked glasses cradled in one hand and several bottles precariously trapped between the fingers of his other.

  Ice clinked against the glass. A drop of condensation slid from the rim to the tablecloth, fanning out and growing larger and larger.

  She drew that bottle to her lips, pulled its liquid heat against her tongue, and breathed off those vapors. A cough or two dropped into her lap.

  A liquid rope of warmth spilled eagerly from the bottle, and into his mouth and throat.

  He brought a shot to his lips and sipped at its fire. It burned his throat, turning his blood hot.

  Light

  * * *

  One of my hobbies is photography, and I still remember something a photographer friend and teacher once told me: even with the best film and camera, your photograph will only be as good as the light available to you. Here are some ways to capture its infinite variations*:

  The pitiless afternoon sun filtered through the rose-clad lattices, throwing rhombi of light onto the table.

  The sun sent the first shy rays across the plain.

  A few stray rays of sunlight filtered through gauge curtains to caress the wall across him.

  Sunlight fell across the pavement, making the dust glitter.

  A shaft of sunlight split down the middle of the room.

  The slice of light through the door expanded and cut across the floor.

  The crystals took the slanting sunshine and threw brilliant rainbow shards of light onto the ceiling.

  The empty room was draped in shadows that deepened with the onset of dusk.

  He withdrew his green flip-top lighter, the tell-tale ‘click-zip’ of the lid and striker echoing into the darkness.

  The sky was hinting at sunrise.

  Every once in a while, a streak of runaway light escaped through a gap in the clouds in a feast of fuchsia and orange.

  Dawn painted the sky in party colors.

  Stretching, she watched the sun filter through the trees.

  The low morning light rose like smoke from the night grass.

  The sun was still shining, a beam here and there piercing the grey that lay solidly overhead.

  The river reflected the soft violet of twilight.

  The diving summer sun was still baking the concrete rooftops. In the distance, his house basked under its relentless rays.

  Bands of pink blended into the dark purple of the horizon as the day rose.

  Sharp-angled blades of sunlight sliced open the heavy green canopy above, bleeding lemon-yellow splashes of warmth and light into the cool shade of her private oasis.

  He pulled her into a splash of orange glowing off a candle.

  Cool blue dripped onto the stage from lights burning high above.

  Slivers of afternoon sunlight sliced through the green canopy overhead and left its lemon-yellow glow here and there.

  Evening tossed its gauzy gray over the city, dulling even the silvery shine coming off a low-slung moon.

  He faded into shifting shadows stalking corners where the candles weren’t meant to reach.

  The orange flash of a spun lighter scattered those shadows for a moment.

  A kerosene lamp flung its awkward yellow haze against the low-slung ceiling.

  Morning tripped into the room gray and grimy.

  Fire milked an orange glow from a candle burning somewhere in the back.

  Kerosene fed the hungry flame in a lamp atop a modest kitchen table.

  Moonlight spilled in, splashing everything with its silver shine.

  They fell into a puddle of dirty yellow light.

  He watched her undress in a puddle of light coming off his lamp.

  Lemon-yellow sunlight splashed against the pulled share and gave shape to the man on the other side of that locked door.

  Pulled shades blotted out the glow of a gas lamp from the street below.

  Sharp white light stung her eyes.

  See also Weather, skies and views below.

  Other

  * * *

  Eve
ry 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 callused 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).

  Seafaring

  * * *

  A couple of seafaring-related beats:

  Below her, the stormy waters of the ocean rose and fell with a thunderous crash, while torrents of rain cascaded downward in slanting, wind-driven sheets. On the horizon, ships sailed in a formation like birds flying south. They bobbed upon the waves, their sails billowing under the strain of harsh winds. The powerful winds were pushing them toward their destination faster than expected.

  The ship skimmed over the water, picking up speed on its race toward shore. The sails billowed fully, propelling the ship faster. Four minutes later, the ship ground to a stop, its bow embedded in the gravel-like sand of the cove’s shore. Cries and shouts rose from the deck.

  From shore to horizon there was nothing but angry, churning gray slashed by whitecaps that looked keen-edged enough to slice through a hull.

  Beneath them, water dropped at least four hundred feet down, churning in monstrous eddies and spitting up foam.

  She caught glimpses and stretches of the turbulent blue sea as it spewed against a wide, sandy curve of beach.

  The sea foamed against the sand, dotted with boats, rough or calm and every mood in between.

  Beneath us, angry black water swirled and spat, demanding respect from anyone foolish enough to wander along its muddy ban
ks.

  Boat whistles of differing octaves competed for attention down on the river. Paddlewheels slapped at the murky water. Seamen hollered orders meant to be followed.

  Walking and moving (I)

  * * *

  There are so many ways of describing walking, each of them conveying a different emotion. For example, consider the difference between the following: walk; tread; stride; stroll; saunter; march; amble; stagger; perambulate; ramble; meander; wander; dawdle; mosey; roam; rove; travel; journey; tramp; trudge; slog; plod; lumber; scramble; journey; shuffle; hobble; shamble; waddle; trundle; limp. Here are some more:

  He swung around/spun around.

  She slinked over to him

  She hurtled into the room with all the momentum of a tidal wave, slamming the door behind her.

  He rushed to his feet.

  He barreled into the room

  Snake: I look up at the silhouette snaking towards me

  He lumbered down the hall.

  He fled the room.

  He stalked off.

  He stormed out of the room / he stormed off.

  He stomped down the hall.

  He rushed down the corridor.

  She sashayed off behind the curtain.

  She tottered along, unsteadily in her high heels.

  He tumbled down the alleyway.

  They followed her as she wove through the room.

  I’d better scurry.

  He flew out of the room.

  He slogged his way back into the room.

  Their boots crunched across the snow as they walked.

  His head lowered, he watched his feet step one after the other, his hands clasped behind his back to keep from trembling.

  His feet kicked up small drifts, ribboned by the wind. He needed this trek to sober up, his head feeling stuffed with wool and crowded with too many thoughts.

  He shooed her from the room.

  She stomped down the hallway to her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.