Phew! Hello again, No-Longer-Secret Writer! I apologize unreservedly for how long it's taken me to get back here. The holidays were insane, and the first week back has, so far, been even more so. Anyway, to the gushing!
From the opening alone I knew I was going to love this; your writing style is incredible. I love everything about the first section -- the drinks that never change, War's idea of festive, and your characterization of Pestilence! I am struck dumb by how perfectly you managed to write someone who never even appears in canon! And this comparison, introducing Pollution:
And the boy says, "The smell. And the ashes. Bodies on the wind. I did that," and a slick grin spreads over his face, and Famine knows him then. If Pestilence had the stolid iciness of confirmed bachelorhood, forever heartily middle-aged, his hair blanched early in life, then Pollution has the white majesty of youth, his skin smooth and flawless alabaster, his hair thick and curling.
is just wonderful and makes so much sense. Also, I am in awe of this description:
A smile slides across Pollution's face, making it light up like the phantom nighttime glow over Paris. "All right. My treat."
Famine's comment asking if Pollution can touch-type is great. As is the way you wrote Famine, throughout -- just human enough, without forgetting who and what he really is. I hadn't really thought of what hell it must be to make an Apocalyptic Horseperson into a coherent narrator, but you did it brilliantly.
At midnight, Famine kisses him. He tastes like cigarette smoke and river water and the memory of dirty London days, and his tongue slides across Famine's palate like oil on a river, and he is filthy and disgusting, and yes, this is what he has been looking for all these years.
THIS. Just. This.
And, when Pollution comes in his mouth, no, he isn't sweet, and he tastes like acid rain and contaminated water tables. Gasping to fill empty lungs, Pollution says, "Spit," and Famine quirks an eyebrow, and Pollution says, "As much of a mess as possible. All over the tile," and Famine spits onto the polished marble inlay.
Of course Pollution would want Famine to spit. Of course he would.
He has the common decency to hope that taking it like a man will buy Pollution time enough to get away.
That one line is just PERFECT, as is the ending! Once again, thank you so much, and happy New Year!
no subject
From the opening alone I knew I was going to love this; your writing style is incredible. I love everything about the first section -- the drinks that never change, War's idea of festive, and your characterization of Pestilence! I am struck dumb by how perfectly you managed to write someone who never even appears in canon! And this comparison, introducing Pollution:
And the boy says, "The smell. And the ashes. Bodies on the wind. I did that," and a slick grin spreads over his face, and Famine knows him then. If Pestilence had the stolid iciness of confirmed bachelorhood, forever heartily middle-aged, his hair blanched early in life, then Pollution has the white majesty of youth, his skin smooth and flawless alabaster, his hair thick and curling.
is just wonderful and makes so much sense. Also, I am in awe of this description:
A smile slides across Pollution's face, making it light up like the phantom nighttime glow over Paris. "All right. My treat."
Famine's comment asking if Pollution can touch-type is great. As is the way you wrote Famine, throughout -- just human enough, without forgetting who and what he really is. I hadn't really thought of what hell it must be to make an Apocalyptic Horseperson into a coherent narrator, but you did it brilliantly.
At midnight, Famine kisses him. He tastes like cigarette smoke and river water and the memory of dirty London days, and his tongue slides across Famine's palate like oil on a river, and he is filthy and disgusting, and yes, this is what he has been looking for all these years.
THIS. Just. This.
And, when Pollution comes in his mouth, no, he isn't sweet, and he tastes like acid rain and contaminated water tables. Gasping to fill empty lungs, Pollution says, "Spit," and Famine quirks an eyebrow, and Pollution says, "As much of a mess as possible. All over the tile," and Famine spits onto the polished marble inlay.
Of course Pollution would want Famine to spit. Of course he would.
He has the common decency to hope that taking it like a man will buy Pollution time enough to get away.
That one line is just PERFECT, as is the ending! Once again, thank you so much, and happy New Year!