RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2026.06.25 —Share a passage you’ve written containing onomatopoeia.
This is from the fourth rewrite of the first chapter of Bolt's story, somewhat revised. I think it's a keeper. She's a day angel and, of course, has wings. Not only am I establishing her flight bona fides, but also that she's a credibly talented street photographer. It's a hobby supported by her criminal day job, both of which are about to give her heaps of trouble in the novel. There's going to be some noise…
A distant Boom! sounded, like a far away thunder clap. It thumped my stomach, a light punch very much unlike what I'd endured with knuckles recently, but I concentrated like a cat creeping up on a sparrow; I tracked the man as he jerked where he perched, turning his head towards the sound, lighting the caramel brown of his finger-length goat horns so the closest glowed like candy in contrast to his three-quarters silhouette. I flicked out a wing, set my stance, steadied the camera, and twisted my primaries vertical—to shade the lens from the out-of-frame blaze of day shine funneled down the street from the dawn to refract through the splattering tinkling spray of the fountain—ensuring the lens flare didn't ruin seeing the subject, only added atmosphere.
Click. Eyes caught widening.
Ratchet in the next plate.
Click. A frown as bushy black eyebrows collided.
Ratchet.
Click—as he turned to look at me, noting my predatory attention.
My face heated instantly.
Heart racing, before the daemon could yell out, maybe to object to my candid shots, forcing me legally to eject my cartridge of exposed silvered plates, I reflexively rotated away, wings spread full as I sprinted toward the park trees, thrusting myself into the sky with a minimum of downstrokes, necessarily sacrificing my usual stealth and fomenting the roar of a sudden squall blown in from the sea. I sloppily and barely cleared the rustling canopy in my fright, tearing away leaves to swirl in the eddies left behind me.
I practiced to keep from being noticed, to be the wood smoke smelled too late, fire beyond control; it helped in my profession. Barring stealth, I tried for looking too dangerous to touch with my glued hair spiked up, leather, and studs in my cheeks; it helped in my profession. My wings helped me fly fast, very fast; it— Well, you know.
Good shots, though! I grinned widely as I sighed, finding myself gliding over the white cement streets filled with rushing traffic. I banked over an intersection. The tall city buildings (the Towers midcity) tilted with my horizon, nearly on their side, my feathers buzzing and hissing with the strain of maintaining my air speed. I'd curved reflexively toward where my ears had triangulated the boom.
[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]
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