After having read some of the comments on my previous post, particularly the constructive criticism from newpillowbook (Thank you!), I have decided to rewrite this piece to try to cut extraneous adjectives and description, sticking to getting the story across, whilst still keeping some good description so long as it does not distract from the story. I have managed to cut 61 words from the original 326 word flash fiction piece. So it is now 265 words long. I am hoping this improves the piece and still gives you vivid imagery of the scene. Please let me know what you think!
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In the Woods...
Gliding through the trees, a lithe and agile figure swings from bough to bough. Clad in dark emerald suede, strong and supple, like the frame it covers. A long cloak of scarlet curls wrap around her as she alights upon a sturdy limb, easing herself into a crouching position. Her right hand unconsciously reaches for a vine behind her, whilst her left holds an elegantly curved bow horizontally in front of her. Arianne cocks her head slightly as she spies a strange white shape moving along the forest floor beneath her.
The shape is that of a man, covered in a stark white armour appearing to be made of leather, with a white bowl for a helmet on his head. He moves slowly, as if dragging his limbs through thick set honey, the open part of his helmet shimmering like a rippling stream.
Mesmerised by him, Arianne watches as he passes under her bough, swivelling round, she doesn’t allow him out of her sight. Silently releasing her grip on the vine she slides an arrow from the quiver on her back. Taking aim, her lips slightly ajar whilst squinting one eye, she holds her breath… then shoots the arrow strong and straight, piercing the ground only a dragon’s breath from his right foot.
He pauses, stares at the arrow, then turns to follow the invisible line from the arrow’s quill to the bow it was shot from.
The beautiful wielder of the oak bow sits above him, her head held high as she gazes down at him, the corner of her lips leisurely curling up.
The shape is that of a man, covered in a stark white armour appearing to be made of leather, with a white bowl for a helmet on his head. He moves slowly, as if dragging his limbs through thick set honey, the open part of his helmet shimmering like a rippling stream.
Mesmerised by him, Arianne watches as he passes under her bough, swivelling round, she doesn’t allow him out of her sight. Silently releasing her grip on the vine she slides an arrow from the quiver on her back. Taking aim, her lips slightly ajar whilst squinting one eye, she holds her breath… then shoots the arrow strong and straight, piercing the ground only a dragon’s breath from his right foot.
He pauses, stares at the arrow, then turns to follow the invisible line from the arrow’s quill to the bow it was shot from.
The beautiful wielder of the oak bow sits above him, her head held high as she gazes down at him, the corner of her lips leisurely curling up.
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