What do you think of my writing?

I recently got inspired to write again (it happens maybe once every 6 months or so) does anyone care to comment on my style?

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Excerpts from Untitled

The fair pages of the great tome are lavishly laced with stars twined in curled ivy tendrils. Each fluid glyph is burned carefully on the thick vellum, not as though a slow and meticulous hand had lovingly shaped them, but as though the delicate letters had been born and had grown there. Despite the swirling serifs, the artful strokes and the brimming apertures, each word seems to sing from the page, each clearly expressing its meaning with a blaze of emotive. As I scan over the page, each phrase my eyes touch shimmers to life, blazing dazzling visions in my mind’s eye, almost as though I were examining moments frozen in time rather than writing on a page. I begin to doubt that even a blind man would be invulnerable to such pages.
I briefly admire the golden sunlight that washes the page with its glow, illuminating the drifting motes as they play as wheeling seagulls do, and I glance up. The temple around me is a tall golden structure, laced with gilded woodwork that arches and points in the air. It is difficult to say if any walls enclose it at all, for when one gazes up to its rafters, all that can be seen is spiny support beams. From the outside, it looks more like a nest of great shining brambles than a building. Though birds arrow and wind their way through them like streaks of wind, none dare roost here.
Silence answers my quiet reverie. Beyond my back on an ebony pedestal, as dark and glossy as midnight locks, lies another book. With pages as black and foreboding as the pages before me are bright and alluring, the legend of that book calls up memories of stories and hearth fires, perhaps even more vivid than those of the tome under my very finger tips. Perhaps because as children, we were both intrigued and terrified of a book that could twist a full grown man’s spine with the reading of it, and dash him to the floor like a shattered doll. A shudder rattled me as I shook off such thoughts and ascribed them to nothing more than the exaggerations of travelling bards and their fanciful tales.



Wide open gates wrought in silver garlands, flowers clasping gemstones of every hue, shining gaily in the frozen incandescence of night. Fountain jets flowing like wine over hulking stone men, their musculature slick with ice. Snowy carpets drifting up wide garden corridors towards the twinkling lights of our wintry abode. The sky is vacant above the lively thoroughfare, paved with smooth cobbles, laced with rime. The jet carriages drawn by their powerful sleek beasts glide effortlessly over the sleet and toward our doors, thrown open in welcome to all.
As the carriages halt in turn before our steps, enamelled doors with ingeniously carved heraldry flick open on springs, and the passengers emerge in all their finest, to daintily alight from their vehicles. Going graciously up the shallow steps, our guests move with lithe and grace, both the lords and the ladies, as though in the midst of some artful dance. The men are tall and broad shouldered, some wearing fashionable capes, others elaborate coat tails. But all wear the same midnight black so as not to outdo their ladies. Delicate and slight, the women are living fountains of vibrant colour. They wear great egg sized jewels on their chests, as is in vogue in Eternum. I smile briefly to myself when I remember that my own sister started the trend.
The procession goes on and I gaze longingly out the window, simply wishing the night to be over. The gloriously gilded room behind me is softly subdued by dancing flame light, rendering the many shadows in oversized flickering distortions. Chubby cherubs and scantily clad ladies frozen on the rich wall panels seem unaffected. Only the snapping of the fire and my father’s slow but steady breathing make a presence in the room. I had ensured any sounds from the parties outside were thoroughly blocked out. For a moment I consider even silencing the fire as well, but think better of it. There is something oddly calming in the crackle and curling of blackening wood.
And so I am surprised when a voice suddenly strikes up behind me. “Addison, you neglect our guests! Come, our eldest brother must attend while the health of our father is toasted!” When I turn from the arch, I simply look at him. Henry is my younger brother by half a score of years, but you would scarcely think so to look at him. Both taller and wider than I, and with thickly grown bristles down his face, neck and chest, he is every inch the eldest brother, at least in form. They say that form is the truest reflection of one’s strength of thought. Henry has the countenance of a near-god. At my stare, he jolts as if shocked. “I’m sorry brother, but I knocked thrice on father’s door. I suspected you had the room warded from noise.”
“It is all right Henry. Please, return to our guests and attend them. I will stay and watch should father awaken.”
He turns slightly, and the diamonds at his breast briefly glitter fiery sparks. “You have not come down in many a night.” He reminds me. “The guests have complained…”
“Let them complain then. You understand my thoughts on such matters.”
“I understand your stubbornness, for it is a trait our mother wore often and publicly, but your thoughts? I have never understood your reasoning for standing guard over a dying man while the real business waits down below ignored.”
“Ah, such ‘business’ I leave to my brothers and sister, for they are apt where I am inept.”
“Enough of your self-pity! Let not people see the family divided this night. Not this night. We must be united of purpose.” He makes fists and clenches them to his chest.
I want to turn and say “rot and buggery.” But I know how childish that would seem in his eyes. He sees the so-called civil societies as the glue that holds our family in power.
Oh, we are not the most powerful clan in all Eternum, though my other brothers think themselves invincible, Henry and I know that this is not so. Had it not been for our family connections and alliances, the March family would have overtaken above us in social circles long ago. Their blood lines wax stronger with each generation. To marry into that family is desirable. Other rival families are not far behind. I simply see these games for what they are. Useless posturing and vanity.
“For the Gent family name. I will accompany you downstairs and greet our friends for a short while.” I conceded, cursing myself for being so spineless.



He takes my hand gaily, then mock dances a few steps with his hand on my hip, then spins me into the arms of our waiting sister Malia, who picks up the dance.
“Dear Addison!” She pipes at me. “It seems months since you have deigned us with your presence! And years since you have danced!” She seizes my hand more firmly. “I shall not allow you to quit until we have had at least one round.”
I gaze longingly at the still crowds at the edges of the polished dance floor, as a barrier of twirling ball gowns closes around us. With a start, I see there is a strange sucking hole at her breast, wreathed in shadow. When I stare directly at it, all I see is nothingness.
“A new bauble?”
“Isn’t it simply remarkable?” She waxes enthusiastic at the weight of my observation. “I found it in a dell! I was merely walking by and I noticed that the trees limbs above me were completely dark! I would have thought it had suddenly become night had not the sun been blazing in the sky. That was where I found these strange stones, littered over the ground like fruit! Ah but observe, had not I nearly tripped over one, I would never have found the source of the mystery!”
The thing at her chest cast shadows around it, like a light would cast its glow. The object strangely warped its surroundings, like a reflection in a water skin, pushed by an insect leg.
“Ah, an object that steals light cannot be seen!” I extend a finger to prod at it. “How can you be sure it is a gemstone you wear?” It feels cool and smooth.
“Oh, how could it be else?” She almost looks offended. “A thing that does something so extraordinary cannot be a mere ordinary thing. I found several others after blindly groping around on the grass for a time. I shall make jewellery out of them and give them to those I favour best. Shall I make some cuff links for you, dear brother?”
I laugh. “Foolishness! How would I be able to study a paper in my hand, or read time from my watch! Though I must say I do admire the shadows they cast on you, dear sister, for they completely hide the curves of your chest! Many young males in this room must be thoroughly disappointed!” She shoves at me playfully and we dance a few more steps.
“Perhaps they are living creatures, and you have stolen them from their home!” I observe. Malia stops the dance for a moment, looking thoughtful.
She shrugs. “As long as they have no teeth to bite me, and leave no droppings, I care not a whit!” She revives the dance and without warning, spins me off again with a laugh.



“Oh! Examine!” She exclaims, calling the attention of her ladies. “I do believe I spy an oddly numbered tray!” Her eyes catch and she bares her wrists in delight, as though discovering a particularly delicious pastry. Abruptly her pretty maid turns white.
“Forgive me mistress, I shall return it to the kitchens.” She blurts, quickly hurrying away.
“Wait!” My heart sinks. The maid hovers, like a deer wanting to take flight, not knowing which direction to run. “Do you believe us stupid, little piggy?” A heat is rising in her cheeks now. “Do you believe it your right to steal the best from my platter? To gorge on the pickings behind kitchen doors?” Her proud features begin to tighten in a flourishing rage. “You are slovenly about my apartments, I can forgive, you are slow to every task, I look the other way, but to so brazenly take what you wish from my own tray!”
“Please mistress, I did not--”
“You dare to contradict me?” She demands. A few of her ladies exchange nervous glances, others murmur to each other in anticipation. The maid is smart enough to keep silent. After a few moments, the redness of her Mistress’ cheeks fade, and she visibly un-puffs herself. The maid remains still, but the relief on her face is plain.
“Oh my dear.” Lady Mariette casts her eyes down. “Forgive me my young one, I must reign in my temper. It is the wine that affects me.” Her face is once again composed and ready. Confusion now paints the face of the pretty maid. No, wait. There is something new there. A small smile tweaks the corners of Mariette’s painted lips. Her eyes twinkle from under her down turned face.
“Be calm, my sweet little piggy. Have I not made it aright?”
The once pretty maid’s eyes cross, then widen in horror. There, in the middle of her face, instead of her small pink powdered nose, is a wide bristled snout. Her new dripping nostrils flare and her dismayed gasp escapes her in a guttural squeal. Dropping her tray with a clatter, she flees from the tables, covering her mouth as her beastly snorting follows her.
“Now you may gorge all you wish to, my dear, and no one will think it amiss!” She calls after her.
Mariette’s ladies explode into peals of laughter. Their rapture sounds of tinkling bells. But Mariette remains obscenely calm. It occurs to me that the ugliness of her expression is far worse than any physical deformity she could bestow on an innocent serving maid. Her eyes stare, dead and void.
I turn away in disgust, knowing with barren certainty that I am helpless to correct the young woman’s face. One cannot meddle in the affairs of a lady and her servants. The muzzle would likely strangle her beauty until her fading days. I desolately wonder how many servants in her household were so cruelly twisted.

I enjoyed your little exerpts a lot! You said you only get inspired to write ever once in a while, so are these just frozen scenes or are they part of larger stories? Sometimes (because of context) I got lost while reading it, so I'd like context, but its actually no big deal, I really like the flowy description, and would be content to read a full fledged story written in your style. But that's my two cents.