You need to use paragraphs my friend.
Pieces of large writings you are proud of
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I do. When I copy and paste it from my word documents, it ends up like this.
Sounds interesting, PP007
Thanks. My story is going well. I am now 142 pages in.
Greetings Guys and Gals
Ive been a member for a while but thus far have not submitted anything. This excerpt below is from a novel about "Blues, Jazz and Vodou" in New Orleans. A "Bokor" or Bocor" is a sorcerer if you will and does all a Houngan, a "Priest " of Vodou can do, buy serves from "the left hand side as well...Hits you a straight lick w/ a crooked stick as they say down south
I hope you enjoy
The Gift Of The Bokor
Under A Hunter's Moon
I Ran With The Old Ones
After A While I Heard The Rush Of Great Wings
I Mounted The Eagle
We Ascended Far Above The Mountain Clouds
There Was Freedom There
And Finally
Peace
He walked down the street, drawn as he always was by the music that floated out of the French Quarter. He stopped at "Homeboys" a night club he often frequented, bowing his head in unconscious reverence at the haunting sound flowing from the nightclub.
It was the sound of wisdom and pain, suffering and loss, lust and love and epitomized the deepest spiritual strength that lay beneath the surface of the character of the men and women who survived to create this music.
The humidity was a formidable force to some, but to the Bokor, it only served to remind himself of the home of his birth in Africa and the Caribbean island he been taken to later as a slave. He paused to light a cigarette in the warm night air, reflexively touching the amulet he wore around his neck. And although it was well past midnight, for the Bokor, the evening was just beginning.
The humidity was a formidable force to some, but to the Bokor, it only served to remind himself of the home of his birth in Africa and the Caribbean island he been taken to later as a slave. He paused to light a cigarette in the warm night air, reflexively touching the amulet he wore around his neck. And although it was well past midnight, for the Bokor, the evening was just beginning.
As spellbound as he was by the harrowing beauty of the music, there was much to be done. There was a ceremony to be performed and an elaborate one at that. The pouch that hung at his side contained herbs that had taken him weeks to locate once he had arrived on Louisiana soil.
There were others here like himself, bound by the singular continuity that only mutual suffering creates, these people found each other and in the process, began to find themselves. They were me and women form all over West Africa and the Caribbean. They met in secret, sharing their hopes and dreams and a belief in a common mythology. Here Fela was a respected man.
There were others here like himself, bound by the singular continuity that only mutual suffering creates, these people found each other and in the process, began to find themselves. They were me and women form all over West Africa and the Caribbean. They met in secret, sharing their hopes and dreams and a belief in a common mythology. Here Fela was a respected man.
He was a man to be feared and above all, a man not to be crossed. Here the people were under the protection and guidance of the Bokor. For the Bokor, the role he played gave him more than a sense of purpose. It gave him balance and poise and confidence he never could have achieved any other way.
Leaving the French quarter, he headed for a particular cemetery he knew was not far from there. As he quickened his pace, a cool wind began to blow, bringing with it the fragrant scent of moist bark. Suddenly he could feel the presence of the Saints all around him.
Leaving the French quarter, he headed for a particular cemetery he knew was not far from there. As he quickened his pace, a cool wind began to blow, bringing with it the fragrant scent of moist bark. Suddenly he could feel the presence of the Saints all around him.
He prayed for guidance and protection. He appealed to Papa Legba to open the way, to remove all obstacles, and for Ogun to guard him from his enemies. He had no idea how long he had been walking, time, for the Bokor, had ceased to exist, so it was no surprise to him when he suddenly found himself at the entrance to the cemetery.
Passing through the gates, he paused. Looking through the trees at the Louisiana sky, he wondered if the Loa themselves in one grand cosmic gesture, had not flung a handful of jewels across the heavens. He continued on past the burial plots of aristocrats and beggars alike, the disparity they had known in life now transcended by the common bound of the grave, an irony not lost on the Bokor.
A fog had followed the him into the graveyard, covering the crypts in a pale gray curtain that seemed to have neither a beginning, nor an end.
He hadn't walked far when he found what he was looking for. The grave site of Antoine Boudroux was as inconspicuous in death as Boudroux had been notorious in life. Boudroux's keen instincts and fierce nature had been exceeded only by his predilection for cruelty.
He hadn't walked far when he found what he was looking for. The grave site of Antoine Boudroux was as inconspicuous in death as Boudroux had been notorious in life. Boudroux's keen instincts and fierce nature had been exceeded only by his predilection for cruelty.
When face to face with a man of Boudrox's character, one is immediately confronted with the sad truth that a sense of humor, integrity and moral virtue are poor surrogates for the anger one feels that a man of such evil dimension is allowed by a seemingly arbitrary higher power to walk the earth here among us with all the cavalier gait of a man going to a nearby store to buy an evening paper.
It was here at this dubious site that Fela paused. the graveyard dirt from a Bokor as powerful as Boudroux was strong JuJu indeed.
Copyright K.C. Murphy 2017
I'm 68 pages into my story right now. The sample below does go with quite a bit of context but I felt like sharing it anyway. Feel free to share pieces of you larger writings.
There was darkness, nothing but darkness. His eyes slowly opened. He had the feeling that he would not be able to fall back asleep now. Ulrich was not particularly fond of being awake. Consciousness meant that time went slower and his thoughts came to him quicker. He knew that this wasn’t technically how it worked but it certainly felt so. In consciousness, Ulrich was also haunted by the memories of the events that had taken place in Munich at least several times per day. While sleeping, people’s memories come in the form of dreams sometimes. Ulrich’s dreams were all very realistic; in fact, they were actual reality. He dreaded reliving the genocide. The people were marching. Tens of thousands of people; even enemies joining together for the greater good. They marched, carrying banners. They sang songs of freedom; songs against the corrupt ways of the government. The songs varied greatly. They spanned from the ancient reggae of the great Bob Marley who had sang over a century ago, to the late Urs Weber, who had been executed by the corporation not only for performing music, but for singing songs against the corporation. Ulrich remembered that this was his first time feeling like he was free. It was an amazing feeling. But then the clouds of gasses came. After a brief moment of confusion, people ran, screaming in terror, but also in pain. As the cloud of gasses continued to cover the crowd, Ulrich began to run in the opposite direction of the cloud. The cloud had gotten so close to him that he could see the people dying inside of the cloud. He was one of the comparably fortunate members of the march. He only suffered from mental problems after the catastrophic event. While in the hospital, it was explained to him by a corporation hired doctor that Ulrich had essentially suffered a mild loss of sanity due to what he had gone through. The corporation doctors, for some reason, were very broad with their explanations of people’s states. After two suicide attempts then an assault on a corporation officer, Ulrich had ended up here, in the prison no one ever came out of. He didn’t really mind to much. Since his parents, brother, and girlfriend were all part of the three hundred thousand lost to the corporation’s poisonous gasses, everything had made him feel the same. Ulrich stood up and briefly banged his head on the wall that opened up to the inner room, but not with too much force. He turned around and saw his mother, Helma who was standing in front of the opposite wall.
“Hello mother,” he said in his native tongue of German.
“Hello, my son.”
“Why are you here?”
“Why do you think?”
“I don’t know. Whenever you appear, you always give me some sort of advice.”
“That’s what mothers are supposed to do,” she replied. She turned her back to Ulrich and gazed out the window. They were silent for a few moments.
“I wonder what those people are doing out there.”
“Who?” Ulrich remained where he was.
“The people that work here. Who else could be out there?”
“You’re right. Is that why you have appeared; to tell me this?”
“It’s up to you, my son. After all, I am merely a figment of your imagination.”
Ulrich’s mother disappeared. Whenever the ghosts, memories, spirits, or whatever they were disappeared like this, it triggered a bit of déjà vu in Ulrich. It reminded him of how he had gotten the news that his entire family, as well as his beloved Nina, had all perished in the cloud, while he was in the hospital. They had disappeared from physical existence so suddenly. Ulrich had to remind himself that his mother had been all in his mind just now. He shook off the feeling of sorrow and walked to the window. There, he saw two men, one of which was on top of a ladder with a handful of chords. What could they be doing out there?