Reginald Timbleywick III

Aright, so here’s the dealio, you feel me? Fine, you probably couldn’t get through the article if I used that writing style. I get it. I see how it is. I suppose I’ll just get to the point then. Metaphor and Simile. There, that’s the point, in a sentence fragment. Should’ve used a colon, I suppose, but this article isn’t one of those dullllll grammar thingies.

Having now established myself as some kind of bizarre amalgamation of a valley girl and that one old crazy uncle who won’t shut up, let’s get to the crux of the biscuit. By the way, never use any form of “amalgamate”—it’s pretentious, like “behoove” or “pontification.” If you don’t know what “pontification” means, then you’ll probably believe me when I say that it means behaving in a manner similar to that of the Pope.

In Exempla:

Person A: “Hey there, Person B, why are you wearing such a large hat?” Person B: “Oh, I’m just pontificating, yo.”

“Gregarious” is another bad one. Gregarious, adjective: Precariously pertaining to Greg. Greg, noun: former lead singer of hit Australian childrens’ band The Wiggles. Man, this article is like pulling teeth. That isn’t a good simile, because pulling teeth, in modern dentistry, is done under anaesthesia, so it actually wouldn’t be painful at all. However, this expression used to be a cliché talking about a tedious and painful experience. While it is now rendered essentially fossilized, I’m going to use it as a poorly constructed and long-overdue segue into talking about the topic at hand: Metaphor and Simile. These tools, like proper nouns, are always capitalized. These are smaller tools than Bono.

Metaphor and simile are two of the most important rhetorical tools in a writer’s arsenal. They are flat-out the best descriptive tool you have, and not only can they do with one word what could more directly (in the linguistic sense) be done with three or four, but they can also evoke emotions or give the reader a sense of mood that they would not otherwise have.

Like any powerful weapon, metaphor or simile can be used either for great good or unspeakable evil. Consider them to be like the Death Star of writing. You can either use the Death Star to destroy Alderaan even though Leia already told you the Rebel base was on Dantooine, or you can use it to blow up Endor and take out those fricking annoying Ewoks. Technically, the latter course of action would theoretically occur with the second Death Star, so let me clarify that an effective metaphor or simile needn’t be preceded by a poorly constructed one with a fatal flaw that can be exploited by a fey farmboy.

That analysis was far too in-depth, of course: the metaphor of the Death Star as a powerful weapon was an effective one. The analysis would be like if one read the sentence, “he fought like a man possessed” and started nit-picking about whether a man actually being occupied by demonic forces would fight differently than a man who wasn’t. By the way, they totally would, as anyone who’s ever seen The Exorcist would tell you. Metaphors and similes should work on a somewhat basic and clear, if not obvious, level. “What’s the difference?” you may ask. Go on, ask. Come on, you still haven’t. Oh fine, I’ll show you anyway.

In Exempla:

“His eyes burned like fire.”

This is an example of an obvious, i.e. bad, simile. I can think of very few things that burn without fire. Dinner, I guess, but are blackened, inedible fish sticks the mental image you’re really trying to summon here? Try something more like,

“His eyes burned like a rising sun.”

Obviously, this simile still feels a bit bare-bones without a more complete sentence or context, but while “fire” was rather redundant and thus would evoke little imagery not already in the mind of the reader, the rising sun implies many things. It reaffirms and magnifies the burning, firstly, and it also evokes a sense of hopefulness, a sense of things to come. The rising sun is a famous symbol, and does far more than simply reaffirm the verb. A metaphor or simile should always accomplish something beyond what the verb alone could, or else you’re just boosting your word count. Word.

Count. That was terrible. Anyway, now that you’ve got down use of the handy thesaurus to get the same basic point but with a greater (and yet still clear but not obvious) meaning, you’re pretty much set for using metaphor and simile, right? RIGHT! ..Wait, no, that’s not the one… hm. Oh yeah. WRONG! That was smooth, like the stomach of a newborn baby. Of course, the stomach of a newborn baby wouldn’t really be smooth, because you’ve got the umbilical cord, and there would probably all sorts of gross woman-juices on it (please, hold your astonishment at my vast knowledge of the female innardy things), so it wouldn’t be particularly smooth. Of course, baby’s ass is the usual term, rather than newborn baby’s stomach, but that’s a cliché, and we must avoid cliché, mustn’t we? It’s almost as annoying as rhetorical questions and the use of the word “mustn’t.” But I digress. Surely, you’ve noticed that by now. Also, I said but. Hehe.

Now, a metaphor or simile should do more than a mere verb could, should broaden or sharpen the description of something, but at the same time it must feel similarly to the words around it. “ Feel words, Reginald? How can one feel a word?” you might ask. Oh, go on, ask. Don’t leave me hangin’, bro. Okay, fine, but this is the last time I give in. While one cannot feel a word physically, a word must be emotionally and environmentally congruous, or else must contrast its surroundings in such a way that it actually enhances them. Consider words as the cast of the hit CBS series How I Met Your Mother: while a majority of the cast behave in an essentially similar fashion, thus bringing them together, Barney, one of the indisputably best sitcom characters in history (NPH is my homeboy), is so different from the group that he better highlights their attributes. Upon closer analysis, of course, he actually shares quite a lot with the group, but these similarities are not readily apparent.

So maybe that was a bit of a stretch, or perhaps you simply don’t watch How I Met Your Mother. Either complaint forgivable, and I suppose I should make a more general proof.

Consider angle (dude). Suppose one were to divide the sine of (dude) by the cosine of (dude). Then one would get a tan(dude)!

Again, that was terrible. Proof somewhat relevant to the last paragraph of crap that you slogged through is in order.

“Her hand, soft and smooth like a rabid porcupine, brushed lightly against mine as we simultaneously reached for the salt.”

Aside from sounding like an excerpt from a pukeworthy romance novel (www.sandrahill.net) , the image of a rabid porcupine is both entirely contrary to its surrounding “cast” and adds nothing to the greater picture. Let’s try a more appropriate metaphor for a less vomitous sentence.

“Climbing into the old attic, the first thing that caught my attention was the sunlight streaming lazily through the skylight, lighting up a thousand particles of ancient dust like stars finally brought within reach.”

This is a lengthy and purple sentence, but let’s focus on the simile, shall we? Yes, let’s. Dust as stars. While not two immediately equitable things, most people have seen this sort of phenomenon, so their relation is clear. What purpose does this metaphor serve? Stars are millions, or billions, or whatever, miles, or lightyears, or whatever, away. Very far. Zanzibar, Zanzibar, Zanzibar is very far. You can’t get there in a car. Zanzibar. Thank you, Mr. William Harley. Anyway, stars are not readily within grasp, whereas this dust is—the reader is given the idea that something ancient and valuable is within reach, and the location of the sentence in context, the attic, would fit in with such an idea.

Now onto the value of contrast! A fairly simple concept, but let’s execute just to make sure we get the point across. This is known as the French Revolution style of writing, which involves a very short period of glory followed by centuries of disappointment and moral decay.

“As I handed him the papers he thanked me, his smile as warm as a cadaver in the dead of winter.”

Okay, do I really have to go through this on such an anal level? You’re all smart people, right? You’re reading for the lulz. Whatever, just in case: the contrast brought about by the juxtaposition of “warm” and the metaphor create a feeling and image that are just as clear as a “regular” cast of words, but with perhaps a little more character invoked. This is particularly useful when writing, as the author of the example was, in the first person. It gives a good opportunity for slipping in a one-liner and the irony gives the reader the feeling that the character is witty, sarcastic, and amusing, in the obnoxious sort of way that every good antihero should be—in the way that Murtagh so desperately is not. On a completely unrelated note I would like to point out that any banter between characters that feels like the author is talking to himself ends up looking kind of embarrassing.

So. There you have it. Taking what actual information this little lecture had to offer, I would sincerely hope that you can go out there and use metaphor and simile without making yourself look like a moron. Because remember, if you look like a moron, then your sensei looks like a moron. Bow to your sensei! I SAID BOW TO YOUR SENSEI!

Now go use the hell out of those metaphors! High meta-five!

I could go on.

Comment [10]

As I’m sure most of you will agree, one of the most rewarding and, at times, distressing parts of writing is the response you get from your readers. After spending your own time and hard work, putting your ideas down, pouring your heart into a word processor, one hopes for, nay, looks forward to, being complimented on their work. It isn’t, of course, very hard to receive positive criticism. One isn’t likely to receive a compliment and say, “No, you know what, you’re a moron. I do suck.” What is more important to consider, then, is how you receive negative criticism, divided into three categories: Insightful, 24-Grit, and Troll. When I say important, of course, I speak relatively—a supernova radiates so much light that they often blank out entire galaxies, and emits as much energy in several weeks as a sun does over its entire life span. I like to think about that sometimes when I’m on the Internet, reading terrible literature for the purpose of writing an article about exactly why it’s so bad for the gratification of an evil overlord whose flashes of mercy are as infrequent as they are heartfelt… I hate my life.

Just kidding, of course! Hahaha! …Sly has no flashes of mercy. Onto number one.

Insightful Criticism: Out of the negative criticisms, this is the easiest to take. Signs that your negative criticism is insightful are a use of capitalization and proper spelling, citation of specific parts of your article, and tone of helpfulness. Insightful critics will often suggest things, rather than demand them of you greedily. Work, slave, work, write things for my magnificent website! What if I want to go hang out with my friends? I AM YOUR ONLY FRIEND. …sorry. Responding to insightful critics isn’t too hard, but nonetheless there always seem to be people on various websites who will go and just flame the hell out of someone who was only trying to help them improve. Therefore I shall briefly go over how you should respond to such critics. The most simple response is to just consider their remarks and thank them. If you have any questions, then ask politely if they could clarify. And if you disagree, but want to better understand their commentary, then you provide citation from your piece to the contrary. This should not be an argument, but rather a, “I see your point, but I thought I did blah by saying x in 3.” Sometimes critics overlook things. After all, nobody’s perfect. The most important thing is to be graceful. Like a duck. …Gracious, I mean, but major points if you catch the reference.

24-Grit Criticism: For those who are carpentry-ignorant—shame on you!—the lower the grain of sandpaper is, the larger the size of the particles of sand on the paper. In essence, the lower the grit, the rougher it is. 24-grit is, to my knowledge, the smallest grit that’s produced commercially, though I could be wrong. And even that usually isn’t in ACE Hardware or whatever. I could go on all day about sandpaper, but that’s not what I’m being paid the big bucks for. 24-grit is my little slang that I just made up for criticism that, while perhaps valid or well-intended, is just brutal. We’re not even talking kick in the nads here, we’re talking crowbar in the nads, falling over onto a hot stove covered in razor blades. Then your idiot brother reaches for the nearest liquid to put out the flames, which happens to be rubbing alcohol, and the blaze is intensified. He resorts to the next nearest liquid which is, of course, vinegar. I hate that moron. …in that, completely hypothetical, scenario. Anyway, the criticism is pretty bad. Not necessarily nasty, though it can get there; this person has read your work, seems to understand it to a degree, but does not like it and wants to let you know why in excruciating detail. This is uncool in pretty much any circumstance unless the writing is really that bad, with the exception that it’s okay to do if the author sells a lot of books. So, now that you’ve had the whole crowbar-nad-fire-cut ordeal, how do you respond to it? Well, the best response is probably to read and consider, but not respond. Likely this person is going through a difficult time in their life, does not have a life in which to go through a difficult time, or, again, your writing is really, really bad. However, if you have a curiosity about their criticism, they seem reasonable (if critical), and you can keep your composure, then, again, engaging in a discussion of your work can be productive. Sometimes people are really harsh when they actually like your work, and it’s just their way of trying to help you to improve. Sometimes, people are tools.

Troll: We’ve all been here. They don’t use proper spelling, and will often respond with some demoralizing motivational poster. Your best bet here is to let the other people take care of them. Trolls don’t really care what you say back to them, but enjoy the thought that they might be making you angry. You can complain to the admins if they’re really bad, but be comforted by the fact that, no matter what crap they’ve spewed about your work, they’re trolls and pretty much everybody hates them.

Taking criticism professionally is as much a part of being a writer as writing professionally is. Don’t make the mistake of turning yourself into an unpopular prima donna. After all, sometimes the dignity with which you receive criticism will earn you a far more profound respect than the work itself did.

Comment [15]

RT3: Right. So, Sly is gone, and we’re all celebrating the absence of definite authority mourning his absence. In this time of euphoria grief, a few of us aristocrats here at II thought we might enlighten a few of you proletarians as to what exactly goes on here at the II Offices.

Kitty: [runs past throwing Sly’s collection of Ming vases into walls]

RT3: Yes, like that. Which reminds me… do you remember the day that Sly got those vases?

Kitty: No. Wait…no. I do remember the day he gave me one with a pair of gophers in it.

RT3: I remember it like it was only a few weeks ago…

[5/29/09]

Kitty emerged from the bank’s vault.

“I’m thirsty,” she said.

She backhanded an accountant and took his coffee, draining the cup of its contents before sprinting full tilt towards the office of ImpishIdea.

—

I awoke hanging upside-down from my pull-up bar. Backflipping to the floor, I quickly donned my signature three-piece suit in a gray plaid befitting an English nobleman such as my cover myself. I waltzed downtown, spinning my cane merrily and uttering a warm “hallo!” to the young spring maids who pranced by in their summer dresses, singing gaily of roses and butterflies.

After getting my usual double-caramel nonfat soy macchiatto with two shots of espresso from the local coffee shop, I walked outside to find that my limousine had just arrived.

“Helmut!” I said as my chauffeur opened the door and I stepped inside, “the office.”

—

The office appeared like a giant cinderblock over the horizon. Kitty was too short to pay it any mind, at least until she ran headlong into its door. She kicked it in and shouted “HELLO I RETURN.”

No one was there, as she was always the earliest arrival. She immediately took a wrench from the inside of her jacket and used it to bludgeon a hole in the ceiling. She hoisted herself inside and set off to search for any repairs that needed doing.

—

My limousine pulled up to the outside of the abhorrently boring exterior of the ImpishIdea Offices at what my Rolex dictated to be ten hours, thirty-two minutes and twenty-four seconds, Central time. I find Rolexes to be rather tacky, but it was a gift from Sly and I felt it polite to wear it to the workplace.

“Thank you, Helmut, that’ll be all for now,” I said to my loyal chauffeur, and stepped out into the sunlight. As I walked into the office, fashionably late as per usual, to find Sly making some kind of announcement to the gang. Indifferently, I flipped off my Ray-Bans and began to listen in on the announcement, attempting to feign interest.

—

“These are exceptionally rare Ming Dynasty vases,” said Sly to his charges, displaying the fragile things to his staff. The five gathered around him oohed and aahed appropriately. “I’m holding onto them until the recession stops recessioning, so please be careful around them, okay?”

“I’m certain there won’t be any silly antics on your watch, Sly,” said Jeni, adjusting her ponytail.

They dispersed to the elevators.

Kitty dropped down from the ceiling, snatched three of the seven vases, managing to break the a fourth into a thousand lovely delicate pieces, and scurried back into her hideout.

—

I whistled to the tune of the elevator music as we ascended to the thirteenth floor or the “Writer’s Dungeon” as it is lovingly nicknamed. “You all look lovely today,” I said to the rest of the staff. They glared at me with wrinkled, faded eyes of those who did not awake at nine in the morning in a bed of plush and satin. Poor things.

As we emerged from the elevator, Sly grabbed ahold of my sleeve. “My office. Now.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, “just lay off the jacket, will you? It’s silk weave and I bought it in France.”

We walked down the seemingly endless corridor, the granite goth arches along the way and around the office doors adding a bit of a veterate touch to the granite floors, granite walls, and torches lighting the way in a dim, bleak sort of way. Still, I love the way the torchlight shines on my hair. I whipped out my pocket mirror and smiled into it. “Gorgeous,” I said.

Sly grimaced as we reached his office and opened his large oaken door. “In,” he said.

—

Kitty shuffled along in the hollow between the thirteenth and fourteenth floors, occasionally peeking through ceiling tiles into the offices of her “comrades” as she called them. This one contained Nate Winchester; he sat perched on a large pile of books eating breakfast, which consisted of ramen noodles and a packet of pineapple fruit snacks. Kitty waved, he looked up and waved back. She continued onward in search of leaky pipes or dead lightbulbs.

The office next to his contained Virgil, but it was so dark she couldn’t see anything — she could hear a slow, steady scritch scritch of a quill pen on paper. She replaced the ceiling tile and went another ten feet forward, removing yet another tile and dropping down into her own “office”, really a custodial closet.

—

Sly’s office consists of two parts: a small area with a large wooden desk, a large swiveley leather chair, and a large fireplace, and then a larger sideroom which nobody has entered and later been seen alive. Few know of its existence — I only found it after stealing the II Office blueprints while Sly was out getting lunch.

“Sit!” he barked, falling tiredly into his large swiveley leather chair. I plopped down happily into the guest seat, of slightly less large, less leather, and less swiveley constitution.

“I am sick and tired of you coming in late!” Sly screamed in his soothingly monotonous way. “You are dragging this operation down with your sloppy, ridiculous antics!”

I grinned. “Sly, Sly, Sly,” I said, kicking off my patent leather wingtips and resting my argyle-socked feet upon his desk. “How long have I known you?”

“Well,” he said, thinking, “I guess about fou—”

“It’s gotta be at least fifteen, twenty years by now,” I said, ticking off the numbers on my hands. I was counting by fives. “We’re not as young as we used to be. Well, you’re not as young as you used to be, anyway. You need to relax a little. Here, I’ve just the thing.”

I pulled a few cigars from my inside pocket. “Come on, Sly, let’s light up a few Cubans like the good old days.”

“Well,” he said, his anger fading, “I suppose…”

I delivered a swift punch to his temple, knocking him unconscious, and threw my chair through his window, shattering the stain glass with a thunderous crash. Oh well, it was probably booby-trapped anyway. Were I a less mature and developed human being, I would have paused to chuckle at the word “booby,” but instead I leapt out the window, parachuting my way safely to the ground and walking nonchalantly into the lobby as if naught had happened — only to find the vases gone!

—

Kitty muttered something in some foreign tongue while examining the vases. They were pretty, sure, but kind of old and spiderwebby. She set them down and sighed, noticing that there was a note taped to the inside of her closet’s door. She tore it off and read it, the paper inches from her nose.

“Kitty, please consider drawing a picture to boost morale,” she read aloud.

I don’t have any pencils, thought she.

She took the vases to Sly’s office at sort of a half-run, barely making an effort to hide them from the cubeslaves. She knocked on the wooden door.

“Slyyyyy,” she said.

No answer.

“SLY,” she said louder, setting down the vases and knocking on the door. “I need to borrow some pencils…”

Kitty opened the door just a crack.

“Hey, I need to borEEEEK~”

—

I ran down the writer’s corridor to attempt to glean some information as to the whereabouts of the vases. I’d always wanted to be a noir detective, here was my chance! I popped my head into Nate Winchester’s office. He sat upon a pile of books with his back facing me. A large metal device slowly lowered a fedora onto his head as he swiveled around to face me. “Why hello there, Reginald. How —”

“Let’s cut the small talk, eh, slick?” I said, putting a candy cigarette in my mouth. “What do you know about some vases?”

Nate looked about nervously. No doubt my interrogative technique was making him sweat a little. “Well I know they date back to the Ming Dynasty—”

“What did I say about small talk, huh, slim?” I said, picking up one of his books and carelessly dog-earing one of the pages. “I want answers and I want them now.”

“Well, er…” he reached inside his trenchcoat for something.

“Hey, watch it, skip, don’t you go pulling out a pea-shooter on me!” I said, backing away. “I’ll go quiet-like.”

Nate’s look of confusion intensified. “But I was just getting some gum… You want a piece?”

As I shut his door and walked away, I patted my pocket and muttered, “I already got one, slick.”

—

Kitty scurried back through the torchlit corridor, dropping a vase on the way and crashing rather violently into me.

“Oh, hello,” she said, slightly covered in lovely delicate pieces of a vase which had flown in its lovely delicate way from her grasp upon impact and shattered atop her cranium. Suddenly her expression went from polite surprise to gently girlish terror. “Sly looks kind of dead.”

“Yeah, he does that a lot,” I said. “Oh, you mean particularly so. Yeah that was me. We had a bit of a creative misunderstanding.”

I then noticed the vase pieces, and pieced together the location of the missing vases. It was Kitty. She was a classy dame, but the kind that liked shiny things like a professional football player loves getting drunk and crashing his high-performance Italian sportscar. She had the kind of legs I’d like to clamber up like an island boy looking for coconuts, though, so I figured I’d let this one slide.

“I see you have the vases. Or the parts thereof,” I said. That’s the way, Timbleywick III. Play it cool.

“Yes. I took them. They looked nice, and my closet has not a lot of nice things…you can look in it if you want. I dusted it.”

She was just about as dusty-looking as the closet, giving the impression of something left stationary in a forgotten corner of a house for a long time. She looked around at the floor where the pieces of vase lay.

I like an honest dame. Keeps me from having to guess and whatnot. I hate guessing. You know what else I hate? Non sequiturs. Supposing the the necessity for cliche noir Americanisms was over, I flicked back a lock of my strawberry blond hair and assisted the young lady in rising.

“As Sly valued those vases rather highly,” I said, “perhaps we had best make like a binarily politically diverse group of people and split.”

“I didn’t mean to. Should we tell Sly?”

“…Discretion is sometimes the better part of valor,” I said, wincing at my cliche use of proverb.

“Oh, okay. You said split. Like banana split…I could really go for a banana split.”

“Indeed,” I said, leading Kitty (who appeared to still be somewhat dazed from the collision) to the elevator. “I shall have Helmut take us to a suitable vendor of frozen confection.”

Venturing a suggestive witticism, I quipped, “I like my women like I like my coffee: in a bowl and covered in chocolate!”

“I like fish,” she said.

“Indeed,” I said, leading her into my limousine. Suddenly, soothingly monotonous screams of anger — or was it horror? — echoed down from the thirteenth floor. “I believe Our Benevolent Leader may have discovered our antics… Helmut, the ice-cream shoppe, please. And, as the Americans say, ‘Step on it!’”

—

Suddenly she realized what she was doing and where she was. And there was Reginald. What the crumpet was he doing in a limo? Forget that, what the crumpet was she doing in a limo? She punched him in the head with her foot and escaped through the open window, brushing pieces of vase from her overalls.

—

I sighed. Always with the classy dames, as soon as they regain full consciousness they punch you in the head and jump out of your limo. “Helmut,” I said with a resigned sigh, “home, please.”

—

RT3: And that is an entirely accurate account of the events of Friday, May 29th, 2009. Incidentally, that was the anniversary of JFK’s birthday.

Kitty: Happy birthday Mr. Preside—hey, that’s not what happened that day. You broke one of the vases, then another, then another, and then Sly got mad at you, then I kicked him in the head—

RT3: Sh! Look, a birdie!

Kitty: WHERE

RT3: That way.

Kitty: [runs off]

RT3: Anyway, as I was saying, that was an entirely accurate account of the events as they happened on that day. In the end, Kitty had to pay Sly like 50 Rupees in damages, which was dumb because those vases were begging to be broken. But that’s how it is here at the offices of ImpishIdea — it might be hard, but it’s fair. Speaking of which, I need to finish composing my email to Sly wherein I ask for a payraise.

Ciao!

Comment [28]

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 [11]