Let’s play a game. The passage in Eragon in which Brom begins to teach Eragon how to swordfight is infamously suggestive. Christopher Paolini is known for his use of purple prose, his apparent “thesaurus writing”, in his books. I have decided to combine the two. Taking the passage from “Saphira” through “with his stick” (already, there is potential), see what you can do with this passage. Why would you ever want to do such a thing, and what does this have to do with writing? Conveniently, I have the answer to the question I’m pretending you’re asking me. As writers, we can experiment with changing the meanings of our works, and the power of different words, by such an exercise in substitution. The goals are as follow:

1) Make the passage as funny as possible. I chose to do so via the obvious route, turning an already suggestive piece into just shy of a slashfic, but I’m sure you clever people can find other ways (i.e. be creative. Though, truth be told, the suggestive route is probably the best). Let’s keep it Scissors though, shall we? So, while making the passage suggestive is good, let’s stay away from anything too crude in terms of vulgarity or, ah… depictions of certain acts…

2) Keep it as short as possible (yes, haha, you’re hilarious. Laugh it up). Not the passage itself, but try to make it funny while changing as few words as you can, for challenge. Having done so myself, I can assure you there is plenty of material.

3) Have fun, and be safe. The internets are a dangerous place.

Saphira curled up beside him, [purring slowly with contentment and…was it a hint of something else?]. He leaned against her [smooth, hard underside], welcoming the [heat]. Brom sat on the other side of the fire, [slowly, with a deftness and expertise that can come only with age and experience, stroking] two long sticks. He suddenly threw one at Eragon, who grabbed it out of reflex as it whirled over the [sensuously glowing embers of the fire].

“Defend yourself!” barked Brom [like a dog, and he quickly rose].

Eragon looked at the [hastily, yet lovingly constructed piece of wood] in his hand and saw that, [from the contours of its shaft all the way to the tip], it almost resembled a sword. Brom wanted to fight him? What chance did the old man stand? If he wants to play this game, so be it, but if he thinks to beat me [off], he’s in for a surprise.

He [too] rose as Brom circled the fire. They faced each other for a moment, then Brom charged, swinging his stick. Eragon tried to block the attack but was too slow. He yelped as Brom struck him on the ribs, and stumbled backward.

Without thinking, he [thrust] forward, but Brom easily [stepped aside from the jab]. Eragon whipped the stick toward Brom’s head, twisted it at the last moment, and then tried to hit his side. The solid smack of wood striking wood resounded through the camp. “Improvisation—good!” exclaimed Brom, eyes gleaming, [and he licked his lips]. His arm moved in a blur, and there was an explosion of pain on the side of Eragon’s head. He collapsed like an empty sack, dazed.

A splash of cold water [a]roused him to alertness, and he sat up, [breathing heavily]. His head was ringing, and there was [some manner of] dried [liquid] on his face. Brom stood over him [expectantly]. “You didn’t have to do that,” said Eragon angrily, [getting] up [again]. He felt dizzy and unsteady.

Brom arched an eyebrow. “Oh? A real enemy wouldn’t soften his blows, and neither will I. Should I pander to you…[inadequacy] so you’ll feel better? I don’t think so.” He picked up the stick that Eragon had dropped and held it out. “Now, defend yourself.” Eragon stared blankly at the piece of wood, then shook his head. “Forget it; I’ve had enough.” He turned away and stumbled as he was [hit with great force from behind]. He spun around, growling [like a dog].

“Never turn your back to the enemy!” snapped Brom, then tossed the stick at him and attacked. Eragon retreated around the [still hot, intense flames], beneath the onslaught. “Pull your arms in. Keep your knees bent!” shouted Brom. He continued to give instructions, then paused to show Eragon exactly how to execute a certain [technique]. “Do it again, but this time slowly !” They slid through the [positions] with exaggerated motions before returning to their furious battle. Eragon learned quickly, but no matter what he tried, he could not hold Brom off for more than a few [seconds].

When they finished, Eragon flopped on his blankets and groaned. He hurt everywhere—Brom had not been gentle with his stick.

Comment

  1. Kitty on 28 March 2009, 00:21 said:

    Just fyi, anyone who plays this will automatically lose. Timbles is just too awesome.

  2. Legion on 28 March 2009, 01:13 said:

    This is fucking epic win.

  3. falconempress on 28 March 2009, 02:00 said:

    wow. This is indeed epic win. I am still recovering, I think I may have bursted a rib from laughing so hard

  4. LucyWannabe on 28 March 2009, 09:35 said:

    I think my guffaws might’ve woken up some of my still-sleeping housemates. Ohh, now I’m tempted to do this with a passage from Twilight.

  5. Ari on 28 March 2009, 10:18 said:

    I don’t think I can compare with that. So epic win.

  6. Kevin on 28 March 2009, 10:19 said:

    Well this is clearly a contest for second place.

  7. Dan Locke on 28 March 2009, 15:36 said:

    I think that I found a worse one. It’s from Brisingr. I’m not very gifted in this kind of comedy, but I’ll put it up here for others to alter.

    In the distance, a cluster of glowing multicolored lights appeared. They darted toward the camp, flying low over the grass. As they drew near, he saw that the lights were constantly changing in size—ranging from an orb no larger than a pearl to one several feet in diameter—and that their colors also varied, cycling through every hue in the rainbow. A crackling nimbus surrounded each orb, a halo of liquid tendrils that whipped and lashed, as if hungry to entangle something in their grasp. The lights moved so fast, he could not determine exactly how many there were, but he guessed it was about two dozen.
    The lights hurtled into the camp and formed a whirling wall around him and Arya. The speed with which they spun, combined with the barrage of pulsing colors, made Eragon dizzy. He put a hand on the ground to steady himself. The humming was so loud now, his teeth vibrated against one another. He tasted metal, and his hair stood on end. Arya’s did the same, despite its additional length, and when he glanced at her, he found the sight so ridiculous, he had to resist the urge to laugh.
    “What do they want?” shouted Eragon, but she did not answer.
    A single orb detached itself from the wall and hung before Arya at eye level. It shrank and expanded like a throbbing heart, alternating between royal blue and emerald green, with occasional flashes of red. One of its tendrils caught hold of a strand of Arya’s hair. There was a sharp pop, and for an instant, the strand shone like a fragment of the sun, then it vanished. The smell of burnt hair drifted toward Eragon.
    Arya did not flinch or otherwise betray alarm. Her face calm, she lifted an arm and, before Eragon could leap forward and stop her, laid her hand upon the lambent orb. The orb turned gold and white, and it swelled until it was over three feet across. Arya closed her eyes and tilted her head back, radiant joy suffusing her features. Her lips moved, but whatever she said, Eragon could not hear. When she finished, the orb flushed blood-red and then in quick succession shifted from red to green to purple to a ruddy orange to a blue so bright he had to avert his gaze and then to pure black fringed with a corona of twisting white tendrils, like the sun during an eclipse. Its appearance ceased to fluctuate then, as if only the absence of color could adequately convey its mood.
    Drifting away from Arya, it approached Eragon, a hole in the fabric of the world, encircled by a crown of flames. It hovered in front of him, humming with such intensity, his eyes watered. His tongue seemed plated with copper, his skin crawled, and short filaments of electricity danced on the tips of his fingers. Somewhat frightened, he wondered whether he should touch the orb as Arya had. He looked at her for advice. She nodded and gestured for him to proceed.
    He extended his right hand toward the void that was the orb. To his surprise, he encountered resistance. The orb was incorporeal, but it pushed against his hand the way a swift stream of water might. The closer he got, the harder it pushed. With an effort, he reached across the last few inches and came into contact with the center of the creature’s being.
    Bluish rays shot out from between Eragon’s palm and the surface of the orb, a dazzling, fanlike display that overwhelmed the light from the other orbs and bleached everything a pale blue white. Eragon shouted with pain as the rays stabbed at his eyes, and he ducked his head, squinting. Then something moved inside the orb, like a sleeping dragon uncoiling, and a presence entered his mind, brushing aside his defenses as if they were dry leaves in an autumn storm. He gasped. Transcendent joy filled him; whatever the orb was, it seemed to be composed of distilled happiness. It enjoyed being alive, and everything around it pleased it to a greater or lesser degree. Eragon would have wept with sheer gladness, but he no longer had control of his body. The creature held him in place, the shimmering rays still blazing from underneath his hand while it flitted through his bones and muscles, lingering at the sites where he had been injured, and then returned to his mind. Euphoric as Eragon was, the creature’s presence was so strange and so unearthly, he wanted to flee from it, but inside his consciousness, there was nowhere to hide. He had to remain in intimate contact with the fiery soul of the creature while it scoured his memories, dashing from one to the next with the speed of an elvish arrow. He wondered how it could comprehend so much information so quickly. While it searched, he tried to probe the orb’s mind in return, to learn what he could about its nature and its origins, but it defied his attempts to understand it. The few impressions he gleaned were so different from those he had found in the minds of other beings, they were incomprehensible.
    After a final, nearly instantaneous circuit through his body, the creature withdrew. The contact between them broke like a twisted cable under too much tension. The panoply of rays outlining Eragon’s hand faded into oblivion, leaving behind lurid pink afterimages streaked across his field of vision. Again changing colors, the orb in front of Eragon shrank to the size of an apple and rejoined its companions in the swirling vortex of light that encircled him and Arya. The humming increased to an almost unbearable pitch, and then the vortex exploded outward as the blazing orbs scattered in every direction. They regrouped a hundred feet or so from the dim camp, tumbling over each other like wrestling kittens, then raced off to the south and disappeared, as if they had never existed in the first place. The wind subsided to a gentle breeze.

    Have at it. I’m going to need some brain bleach.

  8. Reggie on 28 March 2009, 18:05 said:

    In the distance, a cluster of glowing, multicolored [rods] appeared. They [slithered] toward the camp, flying low over the grass. As they drew near, he saw that the[y]were constantly changing in size—ranging from a [rod] no larger than a pe[ncil] to one several feet in [length] —and that their colors also varied, cycling through every hue in the rainbow. A crackling nimbus surrounded each [rod], a halo of liquid tendrils that whipped and lashed, as if hungry to entangle something in their grasp. The [rods] moved so fast, he could not determine exactly how many there were, but he guessed it was about two dozen.
    The lights hurtled into the camp and formed a whirling wall around him and Arya. The speed with which they spun, combined with the barrage of pulsing colors, made Eragon dizzy. He put a hand on [tra la la] to steady himself. The humming was so loud now, his [manberries]vibrated against one another. He tasted [magnificence], and his hair stood on end. Arya’s did the same, despite its additional length, and when he glanced at her, he found the sight so ridiculous, he had to resist the urge to laugh.

    “What do they want?” shouted Eragon, but she did not answer [, but only winked at him lasciviously].

    A single [rod] detached itself from the wall and hung [well] before Arya at eye level. It shrank and expanded like a throbbing heart, alternating between royal blue and emerald green, with occasional flashes of red. One of its tendrils caught hold of a strand of Arya’s hair. There was a sharp pop, and for an instant, the strand shone like a fragment of the sun, then it vanished. The smell of burnt hair drifted toward Eragon.
    Arya did not flinch or otherwise betray alarm. Her face calm, she lifted an arm and, before Eragon could leap forward and stop her, laid her hand upon the lambent [rod]. The [rod] turned gold and white, and it swelled until it was over three feet [long]. Arya closed her eyes and tilted her head back, radiant [ecstasy] suffusing her features. Her lips moved, but whatever she said, Eragon could not hear. When she finished, the [rod] flushed blood-red and then in quick succession shifted from red to green to purple to a ruddy orange to a blue so bright he had to avert his gaze and then to pure black fringed with a corona of twisting white tendrils, like the sun during an eclipse. Its appearance ceased to fluctuate then, as if only the absence of color could adequately convey its mood.
    Drifting away from Arya, it approached Eragon, a hole in the fabric of the world, encircled by a crown of flames. It hovered in front of him, humming with such intensity, his eyes watered. His tongue seemed plated with copper, his skin crawled, and short filaments of electricity danced on the tips of his fingers. Somewhat frightened, he wondered whether he should touch the [rod] as Arya had. He looked at her for [consent]. She nodded and gestured for him to proceed.

    He extended his right hand toward the void that was the [rod]. To his surprise, he encountered resistance. The orb was incorporeal, but it pushed against his hand the way a swift stream of water might. The closer he got, the harder it [thrust]. With an effort, he reached across the last few inches and came into contact with the center of the creature’s being.

    Bluish rays shot out from between Eragon’s palm and the surface of the [rod], a dazzling, fan[girl]like display that overwhelmed the light from the other [rods] and bleached everything a pale blue white. Eragon shouted with pain as the [rods] stabbed at his eyes, and he ducked his head, squinting. Then something moved inside the [rod], like a sleeping dragon uncoiling, and a presence [penetrated] his mind, brushing aside his defenses as if they were dry leaves in an autumn storm. He gasped. Transcendent joy filled him; whatever the [rod] was, it seemed to be composed of distilled happiness. It enjoyed being alive, and everything around it pleased it to a greater or lesser degree. Eragon would have wept with sheer gladness, but he no longer had control of his body. The creature held him in place, the shimmering rays still blazing from underneath his hand while it flitted through his bones and muscles, lingering at the sites where he had been injured, and then returned to his mind. Euphoric as Eragon was, the creature’s presence was so strange and so unearthly, he wanted to flee from it, but inside his[mind. Ahem], there was nowhere to hide. He had to remain in intimate contact with the fiery soul of the creature while it [ventured in and out of] his memories, dashing from one to the next with the speed of an elvish arrow. While it searched, he tried to probe the orb’s mind in return, to learn what he could about its nature and its origins, but it defied his attempt. The few impressions he gleaned were so different from those he had found in the minds of other beings, they were incomprehensible.

    After a final, nearly instantaneous circuit through his body, the creature withdrew. The contact between them broke like a twisted cable under too much tension. The panoply of rays outlining Eragon’s hand faded into oblivion, leaving behind lurid pink afterimages streaked across his field of vision. Again changing colors, the [rod] in front of Eragon shrank to the size of an apple and rejoined its companions in the swirling vortex of light that encircled him and Arya. The humming increased to an almost unbearable pitch, and then the vortex exploded outward as the [flaming rods] scattered in every direction. They regrouped a hundred feet or so from the dim camp, tumbling over each other like wrestling kittens, then raced off to the south and disappeared, as if they had never existed in the first place. The wind subsided to a gen[ital] breeze.

  9. LiquidNitrogen on 31 March 2009, 23:29 said:

    Stop daydreaming and get onto my back

    From Eldest.

  10. Rand on 2 April 2009, 22:57 said:

    Haha, this is great!

  11. Kloof on 18 April 2010, 18:34 said:

    Lmao! Good call :P