[lighthearted nonsense]
Yorkshire’s loom lost a little of its pleasantry. “I am not a horse.” His words fell as stiffly as the lines of his neck and back prickled. “I am a stallion – meaning a great deal more pride, skill, patriotic spirit, and mostly (and mind you pay very close attention to this one) the complete and total lack of any ability on anybody else’s part to refer to me as a ‘horsie.’”
[homely horrors]
Just over Falcon’s shoulder, I caught sight of the fallen figure of a woman, limp as the white apron flung over her face. A white cap peeped out above the overturned apron hem, and under the sash her dress was homely and simple—a faded blue, except for a splash of scarlet-brown…
A heavy silence fell over the little group in the dingy greenhouse, broken at last by Falcon clapping a hand on Ceylon’s shoulder. “Well, my friend, you have got your murder at last.” He gave a caustic laugh.
The Hound said nothing, but sighed through his teeth with a hiss that spoke more than three or four pithy curses.
[fleeting introspection]
There it was, at the bottom of the tangle of his motives: the unswerving intent to do the right thing, whatever the cost, whatever the means. Only now it seemed to him that the rightness of any thing remained inextricably twined with the cost and means and motive; it was all of them and none of them at once. He longed desperately for his father to come back and slap him and tell him what he ought to do. Yet, in truth, he was terrified of what that might be. He was terrified of his inability to accomplish it.
All that blurred through his mind in an instant. For a half-a-moment, he shook with an indecision that struck him as feminine – but it was only half a moment. Then the feeling vanished, replaced by the familiar sense of knowing that if he did not set out to do the job – whatever it was – it would never be done. He stuck the much-disparaged green hat onto his head; perhaps it ought to have given him a pang, but he did not notice. The loaded pistol in Falcon’s coat pocket received a reassuring pat as he collected his feet and slipped down the stairs.
Is any of this certifiably usable? I don't know. That's the fun of it.
Usable? Much more than usable, I should say.
I'm glad you decided to do this. I love everything having to do with The Brew and especially everything having to do with the Falcon, which might be why the last bit was my favourite.
Or perhaps it's just that I'm fond of introspection.
(And Yorkshire made me giggle. ^.^)
I find it a relief to be penslain myself sometimes. You have penslain me here. I can't pick out which of these I like best, or which I think might be best. All three of them simply shine. 'Usable' indeed! If these are the oddments of your scribbles I'm not sure I could survive a serious look into the body of your text.
Dear jolly goodness, you need to come East again. South Carolina or bust and all that. Here we go round the mulberry bush. Horsie! Three or four pithy curses! Pistols! You and rabbits - extraordinary!