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Hey friends! It’s another Work in Progress Wednesday—the first Wednesday of every month, when I share an excerpt of something I’m working on, and you do the same in the comments section. (If you’re not ready to share this month and you don’t want to miss the next one, be sure to follow the blog so you get email notifications! There’s a place on the lefthand side of this page where you can sign up.)
How’s your summer so far? It’s been a bit rough for me lately. Mr. Donovan had surgery, but luckily, he’s recovering nicely. And we said goodbye to our fierce, hilarious, sweet Moxie, who we adopted in 2011.
We miss her a lot, and our other two dogs, Clio and Pippin, have really missed her, too—she was literally their fearless leader. We’ve been making sure they get even more cuddles and long walks.
Okay, let’s get into WIP Wednesday. Here are a few ground rules!
•500 words or less (otherwise, I’ll trim yours)
•nothing too graphic (but a little vulgar language is no big deal)
•no criticism, questions, or suggestions on other people’s work…but sharing some encouraging words is, well, encouraged!
In my excerpt today, Nic—who’s become a Wolf Shifter—shifts into a wolf for the first time. This is the third book in my series that began with The Phoenix Codex.
Nic took several steps away from her and peeled off his jeans. The moonlight caressed his body. The ability to shift had been building under his skin for days, he realized now. All he had to do was let go.
He closed his eyes and cleared his mind. Large pieces of himself, ones he’d assumed were part of his very soul, loosened and fell away. Fears of things that were only in his mind. Guilt about things that sat firmly in the past. The social restraints and subterfuges: the hundreds of ways, every day, he made himself more acceptable to others, instead of being his true self. He laughed.
And then it happened.
A shocking sensation, like he’d never even imagined, to feel his body shrinking and his own face morphing, lengthening. He braced himself—but miraculously, there was no pain. His whole center of gravity changed, he was on four legs, warmer now because of the fur. His teeth were ready to bite. His legs were ready to run.
But he’d promised Sophie he wouldn’t go far. Remembering that, he realized his rational brain was still fully functioning and in control.
The creamy moon pushed almost past the barbed wire fence in the distance, a renegade making an escape. Nic raised his head and sounded a rising note. His voice sounded completely familiar in his own ears. It was a release and a satisfaction, but in the moment of silence that followed, he felt a stab of disappointment that there was no pack to answer his howl.
“Nic.” Sophie’s voice, so feminine and cultured—Christos, he loved her voice—nudged him out of his reverie. “Is that really you in there?”
He didn’t have a pack, but he had her to respond to his call, and that was better. She hadn’t even argued against coming out here. Gratitude flooded through him, that he had her to share this with. But she stood stiff, unmoving, and mingled with her glorious scent was the ghost of something else: fear. He hadn’t known until that moment it was something he could smell.
Moving carefully so he wouldn’t startle her, his head lowered, he closed the short distance between them and rubbed his face against her thigh. He lifted his face to her. Yes, almeris. It’s me.
“It is you,” she said aloud, as though she’d heard him. “Oh, Nic. You’re beautiful.”
If he’d been in human form, he would’ve laughed this off, but in Wolf form, there was no way to brush it aside, and he had no choice but to accept the compliment deep into his heart.
“Can I…pet you? Is that okay?”
Yes. She could always pet him, no matter his form. He pushed his head under her hand.
She laughed. The fear-scent emanating from her had dissipated. Crouching down, she stroked the side of his face, staring into his eyes. Nic found himself in unexpected bliss.
“Go ahead and run if you want.”
[AdSense-B]
Go ahead and share your own writing below! And even if you’re just lurking today, it’s great to have you here. I hope you have a wonderful rest of your July!
Here’s the beginning of my supernatural/mystery,
As convenience stores went, ours wasn’t much to look at. Four aisles of groceries, snacks and assorted odds and ends. Shelves that were chipped and bent with age, floor tiles that had been scrubbed and waxed but still looked in need of replacing. One entire wall was windows from the waist up, offering a view of the nearby intersection. My co-workers and I tried our best to make the store a welcoming place. We knew our regulars by name and we all worked hard to create eye-catching and interesting displays. Folks in the neighborhood still talked about the upside-down picnic we’d hung from the ceiling one spring. We could get pretty busy selling cigarettes, lottery tickets and junk food, and when we weren’t busy behind the counter we were out on the floor cleaning or refilling coolers. One shift was never quite the same as any other, and I preferred to work the last shift of the day. I had a core group of regular customers and over time, we’d built up a rapport. Our head office was directly across the road from the store and anyone working day shift could expect any or all of the corporate management team to pop in. When that happened, it was never a comfortable visit. An appealing perk to working the evening shift was the rarity of seeing anyone from head office.
One particular night the lottery rush was over and the store was quiet. I was looking forward to setting up a candy display and generally having an easy night. One of my regulars had been in to buy school snacks for her kids and had just left the store as I put one of my ear-buds back in my ear. The store had a radio but I wasn’t a fan of the stations we could pull in, so I used an iPod to play my own music.
“Can you help me?” I could have sworn I heard the voice in my ear, but my rational mind rejected that idea.
I frowned with embarrassment at not knowing there was someone in the store. I looked down the main aisle, but there was no one there. From our raised spot behind the register, we were supposed to be able to see all the aisles, but I couldn’t see the customer that had asked me for help. I walked up and down the aisles, and found no one. I turned around at the back door and watched the mirrors, thinking that maybe this elusive customer and I were just missing each other. It had happened before.
Even as I studied the mirror by the door, I heard a voice from the front of the store,
“Can you help me?”
“Be right there,” I replied. But when I got to the front of the store, there was no one to help.
After working in a store this small for a few years, I could feel when someone else was in the building with me, whether they spoke up or not. My gut said I was alone.
I enjoyed your evocative description of the store. You brought it to life for me.
This is really interesting! I’m hooked.
Good job. You pulled me in. I want to read more.
I’m hooked! Thank you for sharing this excerpt.
Great visuals!!
Hi Carolyn! Wow, what a great sense of place you’ve created here. I really enjoyed it. Thanks for posting!
The beginning of Chapter 17 of my current Miraculous fanfic “Unbroken”
“Alya, I don’t know what to do?”
Marinette dropped her head onto Adrien’s shoulder as they sat in front of his computer. Alya shared a worried glance with Nino sitting beside her. It was bad enough that Shadow Moth had figured out their identities, but having the whole Miracle Box, only minus the Ladybug and Cat Miraculous, could be more dangerous than anyone could imagine.
But what was worrying Alya more was the fact that Marinette looked like she was on the verge of a breakdown. Between being kicked out of ESMOD, Lila insulting her and now the Miracle Box being gone was too much to take in one afternoon.
“Can’t you access the Miraculous through your yo-yo? You could just retrieve them individually?” Alya suggested.
“Hold up babe, Shadow Moth would expect something like that. What if he, I don’t know, opened up some inter dimensional wormhole portal or something?” Nino said with a panicked look.
Alya pushed her glasses back up along her nose with an unamused look. “Nino, seriously? Have you been watching those weird late night B grade sci-fi movies again?”
“No, he’s right.” Adrien interjected. “We don’t really know what Shadow Moth might be capable of.”
“You know, this isn’t helping.” She deadpanned. “You two weebs just have overactive imaginations.”
“It’s alright Alya. Adrien’s right, we don’t know what Shadow Moth might be capable of.” Marinette let out a heavy sigh. “I must be the worst Guardian that ever lived.” She lamented, sliding her head off Adrien’s shoulder and letting it fall to the desk with a thud.
“Well knocking yourself out isn’t going to help m’lady.” Adrien said, pulling her up by the shoulders back into her seat. “Bug, look at me.” He whispered softly, gently turning her tear stained eyes towards him. “You are, and always have been, a great Ladybug and Guardian. We will find a way through this, together alright. You and me against the world.”
He leaned forward, wrapping her up in a hug as the four of them went silent for a moment before Alya ventured to speak again. “What if…what if you contacted the Guardians at the temple?”
“Alya no.” Marientte said, suddenly pulling out of Adrien’s grasp. She got up and started pacing around, hugging herself.
“But why not?” Alya asked. “You could talk to that Su-Han you told me about. They might know what to do.”
“Absolutely not.” Marinette gripped the back of her empty chair and leaned over at the computer. “Su-Han trusted me, he put his faith in me to be the Guardian. If I tell him about this he would take the box back off me and force me to relinquish Guardianship. I’ll lose my memories. I won’t even…I won’t know…”
Adrien got up and swiftly held her to him as she broke down. Alya gave Nino a sorrowful look.
Adrien tried to sooth her tears, gently stroking her hair as she sobbed.
“I don’t want to forget Adrien. I don’t want to ever forget us.”
Hi! Good piece. I like how the story emerges through the dialogue. Thanks for posting it!
Hi Bryn
Thank you for doing WIP Wednesdays for us.
This is my first time leaving a comment/writing here. I love your reading your content. I found your website at the start of the 2020 pandemic and decided it was time to pursue something I love, which is writing my own stories. And thanks to your content I pushed myself to commit to writing and revising wise and helpful content you write and leave here (I try to almost every day).
I have written an essay on:
Title: Tiptoeing Through The Tulips
Subtitle: A Day In The Life Of A Horticultural Worker.
Here are 500 words that I cropped for WIP WEDNESDAY from my 3,000+ words file. I hope you enjoy it. I warn you, you too might find it boring. My friend from work (my second reader, found it extremely boring.)
:::
A chill runs down my spine with one glance at the ghostly car park and thick fog whirling in the air.
‘What hour of the day is this, young lady?’
That voice sounds familiar but it’s not from the other side of the phone line.
‘… please leave a message after the beep.’
She must be driving.
Then a sudden knock on my window gives my heart a scare. It’s just my supervisor.
Several shrieks later, holding onto my chest, I stand holding onto the car door, so tight as if I am about to fall apart.
‘I’m just messing with you! Look, I am going upstairs for a coffee. Are you coming?’
Our feet stomping up the stairs, the chill now creeping up my spine. Each step leading me closer to my unfortunate farewell for being late to work is all I am thinking. Coffee must be code for: follow me, this is how you get fired.
Upstairs, she wasn’t kidding, she really meant coffee. Regardless, I wait by the pie warmer, frantically rubbing the continuously rising hairs on my arms while she pours herself a cup of coffee.
‘Aren’t you going to eat anything, young lady?’
‘I’m okay, thank you. I mean—’
‘You should. We have a long day ahead of us.’
‘ —No, I meant, I am so sorry for being late.’
‘Calm down ducky, you’re an hour early. ’ She has a pleasant laugh.
‘Are you sure?’ I ask her.
‘Did you forget to turn your clock forward, one hour? Today is the start of daylight savings.’
I sit down with such relief.
One hour later, we meet my sister sitting on a stack of old pallets.
‘Good morning, young lady. You’ll be glad we’re not in those karts anymore?’ says our supervisor.
‘Yeah, I reckon!’ my sister replies, stroking her stomach.
When she looks up, our eyes meet. I know that look, she didn’t have to say it, I know what she’s thinking. How did you make it to work this early without me at your tail?
When she lived at home, we were always early to work, but that was almost a year ago. Today, while I’m still living at home, she is living her life, the way she wants. I admire her willpower but most of all I miss her.
‘I forgot to put my clock back one hour!’
‘Alright people, we’re all off to Balfour today. Come on. Let’s get a move on,’ our supervisor informs us while she packs our daily necessities into the vehicles. My sister is in a different crew and travels in a separate company vehicle. On her way, she collects two beautiful girls who are also about her age, still teenagers.
All aboard and the van starts moving. I sit a row behind the front seats. It’s the perfect place for a nap. Also, it absolves me from moving whenever the van stops to collect the rest of the workers. I wake up seconds before the rest of our friends meet us at the woolshed.
Hi Niceda! I’m glad you’ve decided to post! The piece is not at all boring to me! Perhaps your friend was having an off day. You provide a strong feel for place and people. I’m interested to read on.
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Your words means so much Bryn. My face is drowning in tears as I write my reply to your uplifting comment.
Thank you very much. I can’t to share more of my work with you on the next Wednesday WIP!
Hi Bryn, here’s the opening of my Novel-in Progress
Dave Moores
SPARKLES AND KARIM
“If there is a Hell, then I’ll be in good company with a lot of fighter pilots who also had to bomb innocents to win the war.”
Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma City bomber, executed June 11, 2001.
Chapter 1
Five miles below, lights of scattered habitation traced the course of the Euphrates where it wound south on its way the Gulf. The river had seen its full share of bloodshed and misery since Biblical times and Sparkles doubted that would ever change.
Sleek as prowling cats, two Lockheed Martin Raptor stealth fighters cruised the star-filled sky above Eastern Syria. Captain Michelle Wilson, tagged with the callsign Sparkles years ago by squadron peers on account of her diamond ear studs—she’d despised it but objecting would only get her a worse one—could hardly believe that the lethal Russian-made missile batteries on the ground had no idea they were there. Just as well, this was the Raptor’s first truly challenging combat mission and it already had the makings of a screwup.
Through the summer of 2014 the news channels had carried breathless reports of ISIS unfurling its black flag across swaths of Iraq and Syria. The vision broadcast on social media was a harmonious worldwide Caliphate, no countries, like in Imagine, John Lennon’s hymn to peace and sanity. As the reports made clear, reality was the exact opposite, and while Iraq was receiving Coalition support, Syria wanted no part of it. Above Bashar al-Assad’s fractured country, American wings were seen as an act of war.
Along with her wingman, callsign Booger, Sparkles’ assignment was to kill a surface to air missile site, clearing the way for a strike package of not-so-stealthy F-15 Eagles. Their target was the Black Stadium, ISIS headquarters in Raqqa, declared capital of the Caliphate. If the Eagles were successful the target would be pulverized to dust and gravel, but Sparkles and Booger’s night would be far from over. Right before takeoff they’d been handed a late-breaking follow-up assignment involving “a resource” on the ground back in Iraq. Sparkles’ boss, Colonel Ronald Bishop, callsign Basher, had called them to his office after the primary mission briefing.
“It came down from the Coneheads just now,” he told them, “a developing situation, we can’t pass it up. There’s an ISIS troop heading for an Iraqi ammo dump. We’ll update y’all as you go.” He raised an eyebrow, challenging the only woman in the squadron to object. He should have known better but he was an ass and his Texas drawl never failed to set Sparkles’ teeth on edge.
Half an hour later, closing in on the target, Sparkles had a bad feeling about the add-on mission. Cobbled-together last minute operations had a way of putting airmen in needless jeopardy. This was not the way matters were supposed to be handled, especially with the main mission already at risk. The Raptors had launched on time from the base at Ain Assad in Iraq, but then an Eagle had a tire burst and blocked the runway. That meant the rest had departed late and the timing had gone sideways. Next, it turned out that winds aloft were stronger than forecast, and the “resource” below remained an unknown quantity. Airmen were schooled that one problem piling on another was a signal to get back on the ground in a hurry. Alright then, abort the mission and endure Basher’s smirk? Sparkles could think of nothing worse. Besides, she was a professional and a bad feeling was hardly grounds to pull the plug. Dad wouldn’t have approved either
Great beginning. You’ve hooked me.
Hi Dave! I agree that it’s a strong beginning. I wonder, do you have firsthand knowledge of this sort or experience? Your descriptions are very specific. Thanks for sharing!
Here’s an except from the first act my W.I.P. Eat Your Warrior Fish. PREMISE: Fourteen-year-old Ricky Sanchez’s search for his roots leads him into a world of kung fu where he finds more than he’s looking for.
EXCERPT:
On the way over to Wong’s place, I pedal like mad because I’m psyched to get started. Once I get back into the neighborhood, the streets are clear, so I throw my arms up and cry out loud, “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” I just scored my own personal bonafide Chinese kung fu sifu. How cool is that? Violeta won’t believe it when I tell her. But as I round the corner and get closer, I get to thinking about Wong’s offer to invite Uncle Nick. I don’t know what I was thinking back there when I agreed to include him, but that would be a disaster. If he finds out what I’m up to, it will guarantee everything will get back to my mother as soon as she and Aunt Lu get on the phone. I have to stop Wong before he calls him. I can’t afford to have my mother go royally bonkers on me just when things start to go my way. This has got to be my secret—at least for now.
So that there’s no chance that Nick and Aunt Lou can see me, I take the long way around and approach Wong’s from the far side. His car isn’t in the driveway yet. Thank goodness I got here first. Behind the shed looks like an excellent place to hide my bike, so I push through what snow is left on the ground to stash it, then climb the stairs to the landing outside of what has to be the door to Wong’s place.
Fortunately, my uncle can’t see me from his place, now. I stomp the snow off my sneakers so I won’t track it inside the apartment. Leaning back over the railing, I let the sun to warm my cheeks while I wait. Everything is about to change for the better. I can feel it in my bones.
The jingle of keys and footsteps on the wooden stairs signal that Wong is here.
“You surprised me. Where’s your car?”
“I got a spot out front.”
“You didn’t see my Uncle Nick, did you?”
“No, I thought we could give him a call. How about you run over there and see if he’s home while I put water on for tea.”
“How about we leave my uncle out of it for now?”
“It’s your call.” He unlocks the first of three locks. “I thought you might feel more comfortable if he joined us.”
“Yeah. That’s okay. I’d rather keep him out of it if you don’t mind. It’s my mother that …” I stop there because I don’t think he wants to hear what a tyrant she can be about kung fu, but for some reason, he looks toward me, and before he turns the last lock, he asks, “How is your mother?”
I swallow. Did he just say, How’s my mother? It almost sounded like he knew her, but that’s impossible. “My mother? Okay, I guess. Why did you ask about her?”
He finally opens the door to a small dingy kitchen. “No particular reason. You brought her up, and I thought I would ask. Come in. Welcome to my palace,” He extends his arm toward the rest of the place.
Somehow, I can’t edit this post that got away from me before I was done.
Hi Madeline! I enjoyed this. First sentences are important to me, and I can imagine opening a book with yours here. Thanks for the post!
Thank you. That gives me some confidence. It’s not the start of the story–close to end of the first act, but I’ll keep this in mind when I revise the first scene.
Part of this morning’s work in my next cozy mystery.
“I was thinking about your question. Why Nigel? Maybe it’s just proximity. I half assumed that Sir William chose me to discover what happened to him. But maybe it was because I was the one who was there… in the room where he died.” She shivered at that last thought.
Lachlan cupped his chin for a moment, starting blankly at his desk. When he looked Margo’s way once more, there was a spark of adventure in his eyes.
“Are you up for a walk?”
“Sure,” she replied without thinking.
When Lachlan stood immediately and moved toward a coat rack, Margo realized she was unprepared. “Wait, I need to go fetch a coat.”
“That would involve a longer walk than the one I have planned.” Lachlan turned from the coat rack to find a crestfallen Margo. “Don’t worry, lass, we’ll improvise.” He held a woolen blanket, which he draped across her shoulders. “Would you hold this?” he asked, drawing her attention to where his own hands gripped the wrap in front of her. When Margo took hold of the blanket, Lachlan removed a long length of leather from the rack and, leaning close to Margo, reached behind her, wrapping it twice around her waist.
Margo felt herself growing warm, not entirely from the improvised shawl. “Um, that’s a very long belt. How is that… Wait! Is that a leash?”
“Aye,” Lachlan replied. “I believe you need it more than the lass it was meant for.” He grinned at her.
“What?” Margo sputtered, her flushed face now twisted in confusion.
Slipping quickly into his own jacket, Lachlan grabbed his cell phone, then tapped his hand against his leg. “Come, Biscuit,” he said gently.
A ginger Corgi grunted softly and stepped out from behind the desk.
“Oh!” Margo exclaimed. “Hello, Biscuit.” Looking up at Lachlan, she added, “I had no idea she was back there.”
“That’s because she’s such a quiet lass,” he murmured, leaning over to pat the dog on her head.
Lachlan locked up the office behind them and took Margo’s arm as they headed off, Biscuit following quietly at his heels.
“I haven’t seen her when I’ve visited you these last few days. Was she sleeping?”
“Perhaps, but she’s a popular lass these days. She was likely visiting with one of her other friends.”
“Do you have any new word on her owner?”
“Brodie is still serving his time. Sergeant Lamont tells me he’s showing model behavior.”
“Are you still planning to let him… I mean, to employ him when he gets out?”
“Aye. The lease on his cottage is void now because of his incarceration, but I’m thinking of putting him up in a smaller place near the gatehouse, making the lodgings part of his pay.”
“The gatehouse? Do you mean for him to serve as a guard?”
“Not officially. He’ll be helping Thomas with whatever jobs need doing. But I like the idea of someone who knows what to watch for being near the main entrance at night.”
I loved this: “When he looked Margo’s way once more, there was a spark of adventure in his eyes.” Great piece!!
Hi Diane! Thanks for posting. I’m especially liking the way your characters introduce potential conflict in their dialogue, as in the last line.
Hi everyone! This is an excerpt from the chapter I’m writing right now.
I met up with the gang at Aladdin’s at the end of the school day for what would soon become a ritualistic catch up on each other’s lives. We swapped stories about how the first day as college students had been.
Quinn was off the clock so she sat with us at the table, laughing a lot and answering questions when asked but remaining quiet. As a Bennett, I was gifted with fine acting skills. Nobody would have guessed I was interested in her the way I treated her like everyone else.
Heather was across from me, I had tried to sit next to her so we could talk but she deliberately made it impossible for me to do so. After what happened this morning, I could understand why she might feel shy around me. It’s never easy being around someone you’ve spilt your guts to, I would know. But it didn’t mean I was going to let it go. Heather was hurting and from the look of things, her brother was oblivious to it.
“Oi Josh,” Kenny snapped his fingers in front of my eyes. “What’re you thinking about?”
“Nothing much,” I shrugged.
“You’ve been quiet all day,” Quin said.
“Indeed?” I murmured. “I guess I don’t have much to say.”
“For the first time,” Kenny smirked.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I narrowed my eyes, stirring my spoon in the curry. It smelled and looked great but I wasn’t feeling hungry. Thinking about Tris in the morning had killed my vibe for the rest of the day. I had managed to put aside my depression whenever I introduced myself in a class but after that I just zoned out, sketching and trying not to cry. The ketchup contributed a good deal to my dry eyes.
“Everyone knows you talk too much,”
“At least I got shit to say,” I argued.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Quinn chuckled. My eyes snapped from the curry bowl to meet her gaze. It was the first time she had spoken to me directly all afternoon and I tried not to let too much hope burn in my eyes.
“My knickers are not in a twist,” I said, shaking my head and failing to stifle a grin.
“Anyway Josh, tell us, have you ever wanted a dangerous exotic animal for a pet?” Marty asked, looking for a way to get my attention from Quinn. It was obvious he liked her, I hoped that wasn’t the same for me.
“Well yeah,” I started. “After watching Harry Potter it was all I thought about.”
“Why do I sense a but coming?” Kenny asked.
“Because, as much as I’d love a snow owl for a pet, I’m concerned for the continuance of its species and wouldn’t want to deprive it of its natural habitat for interbreeding.”
The whole table went quiet. Everyone was staring at me.
I returned the spoon of curry to the bowl. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No,” Kenny said. “You-”
He didn’t seem to know how to phrase whatever he was about to say so opted for silence.
“This is weird,” I murmured. “What’d I do wrong?”
“Nothing,” Heather said, her eyes glowing with that look that made me uncomfortable. As if I were candy and she wanted to eat me. “You said everything right.”
Hi Jessie, Terrific last line to this scene! Thanks for posting!
How do you submit writing in progress?
Hi Gretchen! You just share them in a reply–exactly the same thing you did to ask the question. 🙂 I can see why it was confusing!
Good morning. This is from my romantic detective story inspired by Moonlighting, currently titled The Piedmont Detective Agency.
Thanks for reading!
Shelley Marsh
Wyatt watched through the window as an elegant brunette in a white linen sheath dress that probably cost more than his car strolled past the detective agency like a model on a catwalk. Wyatt, his feet resting on the battered surface of his desk, leaned farther back in his rolling chair to observe the pleasant view from behind. She glanced up at the building and pivoted back, startling him when she pushed open the door to his office.
He swung his feet to the floor and grinned. “You look like you might be lost. This is the Piedmont Detective Agency, not the Piedmont Driving Club.”
She glanced around with distaste. “I can see that. This dump doesn’t look—” She wrinkled her nose. “—or smell anything like an elite social club. And if this is how you greet potential clients, I can see why you’re barely staying in business.”
Wyatt ran a hand through his hair and squinted at her. “Who are you?”
She shoved aside a pile of newspapers stacked on the cracked leather sofa in front of his desk before sitting down. “I’m your new boss.”
He cocked his head. “Come again?”
She smoothed her cropped black hair, tugged the hem of her skirt to cover more of her stockingless tanned legs, and spoke in an unaccented voice that seemed out of place in Atlanta, the capital city of the South, “My name is Anna Shepherd. My father, Stephen Shepherd, who passed away last month, was the former owner of this agency. Now, I am.”
He regarded her blearily. He’d been out late last night at the jazz club where he occasionally played saxophone, and his sleep-deprived brain was struggling to process her words.
With a glance that took his measure and obviously found him lacking, she continued, “I’ll explain this slowly for you. My father left me this business in his will. I am now the sole proprietor of the Piedmont Detective Agency.”
He leaned back in his chair and threaded his fingers together behind his head. “I still don’t understand why you’d have any interest in the day-to-day operations of this little agency. Stephen Shepherd owned real estate all over the city. Why would he leave you this dump?”
She hesitated, apparently apprehensive about sharing that particular detail. “It seems that my father had some issues with the IRS. At present, this business is the only thing he was able to leave me.”
Wyatt let out a low whistle. “This is going to be fun. Maybe I’d be better off if you fired me.”
“Then I wouldn’t have a licensed detective on staff. I want to hit the ground running.” She clapped her hands together. “Let’s take a look at your active case files.”
“Files?” he asked.
“You must have files,” she said with a huff. She strode to the dented gray file cabinet in the corner and opened the top drawer. Shaking her head, she withdrew a brown bottle, pinched between two manicured fingers. “How cliché.”
This was so much fun to read!
Hi Shelley! I loved Moonlight and love your opening here! Thanks for sharing it.
Hi Brynn,
I love that you do this every month, and this is my first time participating! This is from my WIP called A Home for Christmas and is an excerpt from Chapter 12, right before the big black moment.
Brad isn’t Carl, she reminded herself. It wasn’t fair of her to hold one man’s transgressions against another. Brad took her at her word, and he was willing to walk the fine line between what her heart wanted and what her head allowed. She worried that one day he would tire of that tightrope, that his patience would run out.
A cold breeze blew over them and she pressed ever closer to him, placing a hand on his chest. She could feel his heart pounding and heard him take a shaky breath as he laid a hand over hers. The frigid air felt charged with electricity, and she instinctively knew that the last few days with him had been leading to this moment, that everything between them was about to change.
“Shelly,” Brad’s voice rumbled in his chest, right against her ear. “These past few days have been some of the best days of my life, and I don’t want them to end.” He hesitated and she lifted her head so she could look at him, his eyes looked even more mesmerizingly blue and seemed to bore into her very soul. “I know it may be too soon to say this, but I need you to understand the depth of my feelings.”
Before he could continue, the carriage pulled up to the line of people, and the ride was over. He looked disappointed, but he climbed down and offered her his hand to help her out as well.
“Would you like some hot chocolate?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” Shelly said. “I think we should head back.” When he looked hurt, she hurried to continue. “I think the conversation we were having in the carriage is one best done in private.”
He nodded. Once they were away from the crowd, he suddenly stopped and grabbed her hand. “Shelly, I’m falling in love with you.” The words came out quickly, desperately, as if any attempt to slow their release would cause him immeasurable pain. “I know that you’re still healing from what happened to you, and I am willing to go at whatever pace you set.” He looked down at their hands, tracing circles on hers with his thumb. When he raised his eyes to her again, they were deep, blue pools of love. “Just so long as we’re moving forward, together.”
In that moment, looking into his eyes, everything that had been holding her back disappeared. She reached her free hand to his face, forming it to the curve of his cheek. No one had ever looked at her the way he was looking at her now.
“I am falling for you, too,” her voice barely above a whisper.
Hi Katie! I love the emotion of this! Thanks for sharing it.
Katie, hiiii! It’s awesome to see you here! Sorry there was a little trouble with you posting—it’s fixed now, I think. And ohh, my heart! Great emotional scene. Thanks for posting. I hope you share again, whenever you feel the urge. 🙂 Happy holidays!
Hi Bryn – I hope you are feeling better today, and taking good care of yourself. I’m sending my best thoughts to you, your husband, and your pups. If you have to knock anything off your to-do list, please let it be commenting on my work! I never know how you keep up with WIP Wednesday under normal circumstances, but am always grateful for this inspiration to polish up a couple of pages for comment.
I love your excerpt – particularly how Nic as the wolf has to accept the compliment, whereas as a man he could brush it off. I feel like I’m right there in the scene, getting scritches from a person I love and wanting to run. This has definitely got me interested!
Below is the first page of my WIP. Can readers relate to a heroine in a mainstream, sweet romance who lives in a remodeled Sprinter van? Or is that too niche?
Nothing beats snuggly quilts on cold winter mornings. Except maybe coffee.
Anie wrapped the blankets around her shoulders and sat up on the raised bed in the back of her van. She pulled back the rear window curtain. Stars retreated in the early morning light as a line of pink grew stronger along the crest of the Cascade Mountains. Pressing a finger against the window, she shivered. It was colder than she’d expected in Outcrop, and the heating unit in her Sprinter could only crank out so much warmth.
Either that or your solar battery has finally died.
No, it was just cold. She could do this. She liked living on the road. Or at least it beat the alternative. And it was going to be glorious today. Anticipation shot through her. A sweet commission, and a crisp, sunny day in a brand-new place awaited.
But first, coffee. There was probably time to climb up on top of her van and watch the sunrise as she sipped.
Coffee. Sunrise. New place.
Life was good.
She had seen a little of the town of Outcrop when she drove in the night before, but it was dark. She’d get her rooftop view before meeting… What was the guy’s name again? Anie reached up to the shelf above her bed and found her notebook.
Hunter Wallace.
But first she had to get out of bed.
Anie loved every inch of the van she’d remodeled: the clever storage, the functional kitchen, the solar power system, the extremely comfortable bed. It was a perfect home, and perfectly mobile. She’d earn money here in Outcrop, then head to Tucson before the holidays hit. This year, she planned to be safely out of Oregon when the mayhem began.
Anie glanced towards her little kitchen. She’d tried to make coffee without getting out of bed once. That had not gone well. She steeled her will, took a deep breath, and threw off the covers.
“Hey!” an angry voice outside the van barked. The pounding of a fist reverberated throughout the Sprinter.
She groaned. Nothing like a local parking vigilante to take the thrill off a perfect morning.
The banging continued. “You can’t park here.”
“Already did,” she muttered, pulling an old puffer jacket from its cubby. She slipped the jacket on over her pajamas.
The banger/yeller seemed to be working at the slider door. Anie smiled to herself as she gripped the handle. There were few things more satisfying than confusing people by opening the door they were banging on.
Why anyone felt so passionately about where she did, or did not park her van overnight she could never understand. But by now, she knew how to deal with them. Her grin widened and she flung the door open.
So she was smiling as she met the eyes of the most ridiculously good-looking man she’d ever seen.
“Can readers relate to a heroine in a mainstream, sweet romance who lives in a remodeled Sprinter van? Or is that too niche?” I can’t imagine why they wouldn’t be able to relate to her. Especially since she is more than just someone living in a remodeled Sprinter van. She is independent, confident, with a very clear voice and a likable personality.
Thank you! That’s just what I was going for 🙂
You’re very welcome!
I can relate to your heroine, and your writing is terrific.
Linda Elliott Long
Thank you Linda!
I loved this– especially because I’ve recently gotten hooked on following tiny-home-van people on Instagram lol.
Me too 🙂
Hi Anna! Thanks for your good thoughts. Your piece is wonderful! I just love this character. Thanks so much for taking part!
What a beautiful moment, Bryn! This line in particular: “…but in the moment of silence that followed, he felt a stab of disappointment that there was no pack to answer his howl.” So poignant.
And some helpful backstory for my excerpt: This is a small, late night moment between Isellta, a young male fey who’s trapped at my villain’s mansion, and Maelin, a half-fey/half-Chinese peace dragon woman who’s in love with Jay — one of my villain’s guards.
Preyuna, queen of the fey, is trapped in a very toxic relationship with my villain. Isellta voluntarily surrendered himself to her in the hopes that she’ll let him know when the one he loves finally comes to rescue him. Preyuna, being the kind of person she is, put a magical barrier spell around Isellta. So, no one can come anywhere near him except for herself. If anyone tries to get to close, the spell pushes them away.
Maelin is able to get close to Isellta because of her mixed heritage. Fey magic doesn’t work on peace dragons.
All that said……………..Here we go!!!
*******
Isellta took a deep breath and exhaled. “Maelin? Do you think it would be okay if I visited Jay right now? If he’s sleeping, it’s okay. I don’t have to. I don’t want to bother him.”
Maelin tore her gaze away from the door. “He is sleeping right now, but don’t worry. He won’t consider it a bother.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to make him unhappy.”
“Trust me. He’ll be happy to see you again.”
Isellta smiled at the memory of Jay rumpling up his hair. “That is so true. Oh. Oh, but it will make him sad that we can’t touch.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I won’t bother him.”
“Isellta.”
“I’ll leave him alone. I’ll let him sleep.”
“Isellta.”
“No, it’s okay. It’s okay.” He shrugged. “It was just me being selfish and needy, anyway. I’ll let him sleep and it’ll be okay.”
“A little bit of selfishness isn’t a bad thing, especially in this case.” She held her hand out to him. “Come. I’ll take you to him.”
He took an uncertain step back, but she kept her hand raised in an open invitation.
“If you don’t want me to wake him up, I won’t wake him up. I promise I’ll let him sleep.”
Isellta absentmindedly rubbed his shoulder, even though it didn’t hurt. “Jay nearly died last time he tried to push through the magical barrier.”
“That won’t happen again. I promise. I’ll tackle him to keep it from happening. I don’t want to lose him either.”
He blinked quickly. “You’ll really tackle him?”
Maelin smiled. “Full body contact tackle.”
After a few moments of hesitation, Isellta stepped forward and took her hand. “Okay. Take me to him.”
I love how the dialog in this piece draws the reader in and sets the pace!
Thank you so much!?
Hi AMBROSEANDELSIE! I love the conflict here. Thanks for posting!
Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it! ?
The tenth or so draft of a romantic short story:
Tali sank into the corner and pulled her endless scarf over her head. Then she snuggled deep into her turtleneck and concentrated on a floating dust particle.
Nice to know that Mr.-Mommy’s-Darling-Can-Do-No-Wrong is going on secret dates, but I don’t have to tolerate that hollow-charmed-fashion-idolizer.
After abusing and ridiculing him for some time, she peeked out of her camouflage nest. The guy from the other end of the table stood in front of her and grinned.
“Can you just sit down?” Thankfully he did not start a discussion but did as she asked. Tali sank deeper into the chair, desperate for something to hide behind.
“Is that guy, who just went into the other café and is now standing on the street looking around, your date?”
“No.” She hissed.
“Hm… he doesn’t look happy.”
“Shhh…”
The stranger leaned over. “He can’t hear you from here.” He whispered with a wicked grin and handed her his magazine. “Here, hide behind that.”
A real friend. That is my hero.
From behind the magazin she mumbled. “What is he doing?”
“Taking out a phone and heading for his car.”
The stranger observed the street a little longer and then turned his attention back to her. He watched her, like a puppy, checked the street one more time. “You can breathe again, the coast is clear. So, what made you skip the date?”
“Have you seen him?”
“Hm, nice suit, expensive.”
“He is probably my mother’s dream, for me, I mean.”
A fine aristocratic grin lifted up his lips. “Do I detect a smidget of cynicism?”
“Do you want my family story?”
“No, not really.” Only the fact that he still smiled at her, made her forgive him.
“And what made you want to go out with that guy?”
“A dating app.” Tali blushed furiously. “Yes, I know, it’s idiotic. But it’s modern. I wanted to do something different, not like my… ah, sorry, I am babbling.”
It had never occurred to her, that all of this was a stupid idea. The stranger still eyed her like a sad pup. One could still enter a bar or café and meet new people. Or so the theory went.
“Do you need another cup of tea?”
“No, thanks. More caffeine and I’ll probably start to float.” She fingered in her chair and brought her clothes back into a normal state. The butterflies in her belly were definitely dead and in their place spread a warm feeling of calm and comfort.
The ‘date’ was over. She would tell her friends some cheesy lie about being late herself and be done with it.
He raised an eyebrow, “Hm… Tequila?”
“I never tried that.”
She grabbed her bag and fished for her phone before she pulled out a tote bag. The thing had a huge red heart on it and said “I LOVE LONDON”.
I absolutely loved this. Tali sounds like she would be one of my favorite MCs 🙂
Great dialogue! Thanks for sharing!
Falling is easy, it is taking the first step that is hard. Jackie took the first step, and it was on! The air whooshed by her ears faster and faster as she struggled to take over control with the surfaces of her air suit. The built-in control surfaces finally bit into the wind, and she started her glide downwards. The night air was cold against her face, but she maintained her level of concentration as she had been taught.
Just another job in her line of work, the heads-up display had generated a map showing her the glide path she needed to maintain. She had activated the stealth mode on her suite prior to jumping off the cliff. Looking down she could see lights and activity on the road to her right. She was glad to be in the air even if for a little while. One of the many warning lights lit up on her display alerting her to the presence of active radar, seeking out into the night. Searching for anything that would be approaching. She knew her radar signature would look like a flock of birds, but she still was still nervous as she made her final decent into the compound.
Landing on the grass she began to run towards the target building. She shed her flight suit as she approached the side door to the facility. Under her suit she wore a maintenance uniform and looked like she belonged to the facility, well except for the large caliber handgun she now held in front of her. Her implanted display shown on her retina displaying the correct course through the building. She moved silent as a cat, just as she had been trained.
Rounding the corner she could hear activity in the room to her right, but the door was closed so she passed it by with only a little thought as to who was in there. The briefing stated that except for security personnel the building should be empty. The voices inside did not sound like security personnel. Well, it would not be the first time that she had gotten bad intel. She continued her way following the map displayed in front of her vision. She could hear movement ahead of her, but it sounded like it was off in the distance.
Suddenly a door down the hallway opened and a large man in a uniform stepped out into the hallway. He stopped suddenly as he spotted her and more importantly her handgun she carried. She had no hesitation as her training took over. She drew down on him and shot him straight through the head. Her silenced pistol making quite a bit more noise than she had wanted it to. She broke into a sprint and headed though the doorway that was marked on her map. Wondering at her chances of survival.
Hi Allan! Thanks for posting!
I would like to share some of my stories and scripts I currently working on. Thsi story is a female version of Aladdin I am trying to write.my own story on it.
Once upon a time in Saudi Arabia there lived an orphan girl called Amal who was taken in by is Auntie named Ishtar. She had grown up to be a wild child.
Amal had learnt to fight from when she was really young growing up. She and her brother Omar would practise fighting with plastic swords.
She causes trouble in the marketplace running around a lot. She had a job. Her job was to sell antiques, Such as plates different kinds of lamps, vases, tables and chairs. Amal had a pet hedgehog called Juan. One time Amal faced an aggressive customer and she took Juan out of her pouch and put her in a silk bag gave the small pouch to the customer to take hold of and made the aggressive man prick his hand badly.
‘Ouch!’ screamed the man as he dropped the small silk bag with Juan inside.
‘Be careful with Juan’ ‘You should now you should never touch these prickly things with bare hands at any time’ Amal said smiling. ‘What is going on here!’ Amal’s boss Ishtar had come along to intervene.
‘She made me touch that spiky thing!’ The man hysterically replied.
‘Amal!’ The manager angrily responded.
‘I’m sorry about her’ Ishtar replied. ‘Just calm down and go’ the Ishtar responded.
The guards had come to escort the man away.
‘She is a danger to the public!’ shouted the man as he was led away.
‘Amal’ ‘Why do you have to bring Juan to work’ ‘You should leave her at home’ ‘Anything could happen to her’
‘You know Juan goes everywhere with me’ Amal responded.
‘Give her here’ the Ishtar responded.
Ishtar cuddles Juan and gives a little laugh.
‘I really wish you’d leave her at home Amal’ replied Ishtar
‘I am the only one who looks after Juan’ ‘She goes everywhere with me’ Amal responded.
‘Have it your way’ ‘You really need to take good care of her’ said Ishtar as she gave Juan back to Amal.
‘I will keep her safe’ ‘I’ll make sure she comes to no harm’ Amal replied as she cuddled her Juan.
‘I’ll keep her in my pouch till it’s her feeding time’
‘Just don’t course any more trouble today Amal’
‘Ok I won’t cause anymore today’ Amal responded.
‘What are we going to do with you Amal I’ll never know’ Ishtar responded.
‘I know ‘I am more trouble than I’m worth’ Amal replied.
Amal had never known her real parents. Ishtar was like an adoptive mother towards Amal. Ishtar and her husband had looked after and cared for Amal like one of their own.
Amal knew her parents were killed in a house quake disaster a while after she was born. It was Ishtar and her husband who knew her parents rescued Amal and took her in and raised Amal as their own.
Amal walked over to gaze out of the window as she stroked her hedgehog, Juan.
‘What fun is it in life if you can’t be a bit of a rebel at times? Amal asked.
‘I suppose it would be a bore for some people’ Ishtar replied. ‘I was like you myself once’ ‘I was a belly dancer and I had a run-in with the evil empress’
‘Who?’ Amal asked.
‘Queen Anita’ I told you about her when you were growing up’ ‘She rules the whole country and chose has happened’
‘She lives in a castle with a king and his son and she’s not a woman to be crossed’ ‘Your Mother’s sister was a witch called Jennie and she was sentenced to death by the queen who was jealous of her.’
‘Oh’ replied Amal.
‘Everybody fears this queen’ Ishtar told her.
(Flashback)
Amel’s father placed his life in jeopardy by standing up to the evil queen. He had approached the medieval dancer Ishtar to ask her if she would take good care of his daughter Amel if anything was to happen to him or his wife. Ishtar agreed to this. He gave her a magical pendant necklace and urged her to pass it on to Amel after she turned eighteen. Isar had kept the Pendant.
(Present)
Ishtar was at home sitting in her room and gazing at the pendant as she held it in her hand. She hadn’t given it to Amel yet. She had raised Amal up as her own daughter.
Ishtar went to confide in her husband and her son over the pendant.
“You haven’t given it to Amal yet?”
“No”
“You should follow her father’s wishers Mother” “Amal has got a right”
“I know she has” “I don’t really want her to have this” “Her father wanted her to have his parent to follow his legacy” “But look what happened to him” “It cost him his life” “He wanted me to pass the parent on Amal so Amal could make a stand against slavery” “I’m worried what will happen if I gave Amel this pendent” “Does Amal have to fight?”
“The pendant will protect Amel,” I think you along with Jared wishes and pass the pendent on to Amel”
“Amel is old enough to look after herself now Mother”
“I know” “I just feel so protective over her” “I raised her and brought her up as my own for the past seventeen years” “She is my daughter”
“I know you do”
‘It’s time I should give it to her” Ishtar had accepted.
“Amal?” Ishtar knocked on her bedroom door.
“Yes,” Amal answered.
Ishtar came into Amel’s room where she was sat. Ishtar was holding the sparking pendant in her hand to which caught Amel’s interest.
“This pendant belonged to your father” “He wanted me to give this to you after you turned eighteen”
“Why till I turned eighteen?”
“Because you are now a grown-up Amel” “You can use this wisely now”
“Use it wisely?” Amel ask confused.
“It is a magical pendant for you, Amal” “Put it on”
Amal put the pendant around her neck and visions of her parents appeared. She would get to know what they were like and they were fighting against slavery and looking after her. She heard her father’s message of what he wanted her to do.
Amal look down and held her pendant. She opened up her pendant and found a little tiny page of a map inside. She pulled it out and looked at the map.
“So I’m getting my father’s thought’s from this pendant” “It’s like they had been magically projected into this pendant.
“What are they Amel?”
“He is saying he wants justice for his and his wife’s death sentence” “They stood up to the sorceress and it cost them their lives” “My father was told to behead those who refused trade and he refused” “He then got a death sentence” “His wife couldn’t manage and she to stood up to the sources” “It too cost her, her life”
“He wants me to make a stand” “He says that this pendant will protect me and it is within its power to do so”
“Why didn’t the pendant protect him?” tears fell down Amels cheeks as she started to cry.
“It didn’t have the power to save him Amel’ Ishtar put her arm around Amal to comfort her.
Amal then heard her father and Mothers voices in her heard to comfort and treasure her.
“We love you Amel and if anyone can do this then it’s you,” her mother said.
“Were here to protected you always Amel” said her father.
“There with me in spirit” Amel replied.
“Indeed they are Amel”
What a sorry end, Lark thought, only half jesting. His thermal system was down, so was the comms, monitors for both systems blinked red in his helmet. What did he expect? When the pickup bay was empty, they’d stolen a space suit from the drop-off chute of a repair depot.
He pulled his arms close, hunched his shoulders, and held his breath to keep warm air in his chest. There was no going out to another entry portal. He’d already lost feeling in his feet and fingers, and the cold was creeping inward. Stamping his feet made his toes sting, but he couldn’t wiggle them. Had they broken off or just turned black?
Two huge eyes popped up on the lock monitor and disappeared, followed by a narrow circle of light that ran from the top of their helmets down to their boots. Three scrapping lurches and a jolt later, and the inner lock door hinged inward. The red light never changed.
“Zettle, you old targ-beast, why didn’t you say something?” The saucer-eyed Li-Kass held its four red-furred arms wide. Zettle ignored the invitation, and the Li-Kass shrugged. “Next time bring a hammer so I can hear you. Airlock alert’s broke on both sides. So, no way to tell anyone’s in there. How long you been waiting? I see you got a new pup.” The Li-Kass pointed to Lark.
“Firsik, this is Lark,” Zettle said. “I’ve been looking after him since his dad died. Lark, meet Firsik. He and I grifted a bit in the old days.”
Lark shifted the flat edge of his hand across his mouthpiece to remind Zettle that his comm was out. Practically frozen, his hands fumbled with the helmet latch. From the pain in his toes, he could barely walk.
Firsik extended a long, red-furred arm left to a locker room. “Locker’s two credits a day, one for a shower.” He scowled at Zettle. “Grifted a bit? We were scoring big, making a name—”
“A grifter don’t want no reputation. That’s why we had to split. Change our MO.” Zettle smirked at Firsik. “So, you’re a doorman now? And running a public shower for small change? How much for a towel?”
“No towels, BYO. And don’t rub it in. Please tell me you got something going. If you need someone to help with a set-up, you know I’m good.”
“I remember, but other than training Lark here, I’m freelancing solo, trying to keep outta Xi’Kior space.” Zettle stroked a raised scar on his cheek. “Say, Firsik, anything new on the concourse? It’s been four months.”
Firsik shrugged. “Place has gone down, like this airlock door. Trudy’s got a couple new girls, guys too, if you’re curious, but I know you like your regulars.”
Zettle patted Firsik on his bare, red-furred shoulder then wiped his glove on the leg of his spacesuit and left to join Lark in the locker room.
Great scene! Loved the back-and-forth banter.
Hi Keith! What strikes me first is how well you’ve done naming your characters. They really feel authentic. Thanks for sharing!
This is my first try of starting out a christmas novella on witchcraft
It had been several years since Francesca B and her younger sister Catalina B King were dropped by her record label due to poor album sales.
Francesca and Catalina have now gone to work in normal job’s. Catalina now owns her own clothing design company and Francesca now works in a jewellery store creating and selling her own jewellery.
Francesca was glad to step away from the limelight. She had become disillusioned with fame and was glad to have a normal life again.
Although she still sang on occasional solo gigs, She was also a witch.
Francesca was hoping to control Christmas this year. Every year it was felt the same and boring. She was planning on using her magic to change things and get what she wants this time.
Her younger sister Catalina made her and Francesca clothes for their stage shows and artistry when they were performing. Francesca never learnt to sew herself.
It was a late autumn evening and Francesca B dressed in her sequenced costume, which she uses to were for her stage shows and had a moon-shaped sequence on her forehead with her long wavy dark hair flowing down. She was surrounded by her candles, She knelt down to perform her Christmas spell.
O’ god of winter
Make it snow
Make my dreams come true
May I create music, love and laughter
And a warm seasonal Christmas
And to find my true destiny within
And move forwards.
She was determined that this year she would make all her dreams and wishes come true. Francesca would keep her positions and spells locked up in a cabinet.
One night, She and Catalina went out on the town for a night out and by the time Francesca got back to the house, she was in shock and devastated to realise someone had broken in and broken into her cabinet to steal her spells and potions.
“Catalina somebody has broken in and stole my spells and potions” “Can I stay with you?”
“Of course you can sister” “But who would do such a thing”
“You tell me”
“How can I, tell you”
“I know we had our differences in the past”
“Oh” “Wait!” “Hold on there Francesca!” “It has nothing to do with me”
“Well Catalina, I thought it was quite coincidental that you take me on a night out and my home is broken into and my spells are stolen”
“If you think it has something to do with me Francesca, Please think again” “I wouldn’t ever do anything so cruel to you”
“Ok” “I’m sorry Catalina”
“Apology accepted” “What about your former husband, Slade?”
“Why would he do anything like that?”
“It has to be somebody” “Or do you think it would be a complete stranger?”
“It could either be someone or something” Francesca responded.
“A complete jealous person” “One I find out who the thief is they will not know what’s hit them”
“They made a mistake crossing you Francesca”
“Yes sis” “All I want to do is make the world a better place” “I can’t have anybody ruining this for me”
“How about we find out shall we?” “It was hardly commented knowledge you had all those spells in your home, and your home never even gets broken into” “How about we pay Slade and his new wife a visit?”
“Is that really recommended, Cat?” “I haven’t had anything to do with Slade for the past few years now” “We finished”
“I know that Francesca” “I know Slade’s wife, Athena” “She is a psychic” “Maybe if we pay her a visit she would be able to provide us with some answers and we can get to the bottom of this thief”
“Ok Cat” “I suppose it’s worth a try”
“Good” “So first thing tomorrow Fran?” Catalina smiled.
“Yes sis” Francesca smiled.
“Did you see if they had taken any other valuables, Fran?”
“I just saw that my witchcraft possessions had been raided” “That’s all”
“So we take a look at yours tomorrow morning and then we talk to Athena”
“It has been a few years since I saw Slade” “It will be a bit nerve-racking to see him again after all this time”
“Yeah well” “Athena is a really lovely witch” “She can help”
Hi Kate! I’m intrigued with the idea of “controlling Christmas this year.” Thanks for sharing!
The first novel I am currently still working on, Darness & Light
My name is Lucy Cantrell and I am from Galway in Ireland. I was married at one time in my life to an American musician named Elijah Badura. But unfortunately, after three years, his life was cut short. But even though he’s gone, He’s still always there with me.
I was born to a Scottish father named Elliott Cantrell who was a music manager and my mother Anne Cantrell who worked as a club singer one time along with our two cousins named Caroline and Karen.
Throughout the past ten years. I rediscovered my true purpose in life as well as my brush with fame, fortune as well as going through a total life disaster. My life was all mapped out from the beginning.
My job is to help and heal people. I remember when I was five years old. I witnessed strange things out of the ordinary only to be told by my mother that I imagined it all. I remember my mother standing out in the kitchen drinking coffee and I saw what it look like was a young Victorian girl with long black hair and large brown eyes and dressed in a Victorian frock appeared out of the wall in the hallway.
She was about five-years-old, the same age as me. She approached me to hang out and talk to me for a while. And then walked away and returned through the wall to where she came from.
I remember telling my mother about this. I now sense this was my spirit guide Iris the Greek goddess of the rainbow visiting me and grew up with me. I see her like a sister to me.
My mum had these framed black butterflies on the front room wall and I could have sworn they came alive and their wings started flapping one time when I stood outside the room looking at them.
This could have been more than just my imagination. Sometimes at night, I saw these tiny figures running backwards and forwards in my bedroom before I would go to sleep. I could see a tiny space ship with monkeys stepping out. And animals such as an elephant and a giraffe. Also, a tiny house that went on flames.
I stopped seeing them after I told my mother about this. I was only to be told it was all in my imagination. I remember coming close to the picture frames of the artificial butterflies. The butterflies were trapped within the picture flames and couldn’t flap their wings even if they did come alive.
I did think at the time it was strange of all what I was seeing. To me, I was seeing these things with my own eyes.
I had forgotten all about it when I grew up. After I met Elijah, I was feeling my connection with angels and spirits. It was Elijah that pursued me to pursue my spiritual gift.
After the death of my musician husband Elijah Badura, who was killed in a car crash in Paris. I remembered all this. I first met Elijah when I was an eighteen-year-old teenager. He was about twenty and had a girlfriend called Shanice at the time. But it was like fate was throwing us together. I married him at the young age of twenty-two, and he was twenty-five at the time.
Elijah was smart good-looking and extremely funny. He could also be silly and childlike at times. Some of my family told me they thought I was marrying in heist.
It was a wedding in heist. We got caught up in the moment and had the media hype. But it felt like we were both thrown together. Elijah could have been a comedian. He had an interest in the paranormal world and encouraged me to pursue my gift when I told him of my psychic abilities. Elijah was also spiritual.
We were like the male and female version of each other. Elijah was dark-skinned with long frizzy black hair. Where I am white casian with light wavy brown hair. My hair is naturally wavy and it often tends to go frizzy in the rain.
Sometimes, I’d have my hair darkened, and I could be almost the spitting image of Elijah, which caught people’s attention. I often felt that Elijah and I were kindred spirits.
When Elijah passed, it was devastating and it came as a total shock. I was in disbelief and I couldn’t get my head around it. My life just stopped. But then I had to start over. I felt sad and lost for a very long time. My life came to a complete standstill. But life has to move forward whether I like it or not. I have to move on.
I had dabbled in black magic and witchcraft occasionally when Elijah was alive and after his death and I had spell gone wrong. So I have now learnt to practise my spells wisely.
Being married to a famous musician led me to publicity with the media in my clairvoyance and through my husband and my father.
Hi Kate! I love the idea of writing about someone who has to deal having their life “mapped out from the beginning.” Thanks for posting it!
Please do remember though, I’m asking for one post each month, even if you have a number of first-rate excerpts to share. Thanks.
My script The Blue Nurse
TAINA. A 31-year-old eccentric south Asian nurse who works in a psychiatric unit in a mental health hospital in Merseyside UK. TAINA is tough but caring and doesn’t care what people think of her. TAINA is surrounded by her gothic artwork she created herself. TAINA is in her flat eating her breakfast then she put on her colourful makeup. TIANA brushers her teeth. She brushers and ties up her long dark blue hair. TIANA gets all her stuff together, puts her skull-headed notebook in her bag and leaves to go to work. TAINA sits on the bus listening to her punk music through her headphones.
INT NORTHVIEW MENTAL HEALTH HOSPITAL
TAINA enters her workplace, gets her bottled water from the canteen, Checks the files on the computer, Goes around the ward to tidy up and check on the patients.
(Flashback) Six-year-old TAINA was once tortured by her schizophrenia stricken father. She was scolded on the arm with a scolding hot kettle. She had a vision of him being a zombie ready to claim her life. Her dad was taken away into a home.
TAINA Visit a 70-year-old man called JASON who is also suffering from schizophrenia
JASON
You don’t look like a nurse
TAINA
And how’s a nurse supposed to look?
JASON
Why do they let you in with hair like that?
TAINA
It doesn’t matter about my hair colour just as long as I am good at my job
INT Reception
TAINA writes in her notebook that she is fed up with people criticizing her for her hair colour. TAINA is promoting it on Facebook and has even had recent attention from the media. I am a nurse and I specialize with people for mental health. I will rebel and be proud of my uniqueness. They’re probably all just jealous anyway. This is modern times and it can’t affect my nursing career.
TAINA is called the blue nurse not only for her dark blue hair and blue uniform. She works in a blue room with blue arrow signs in the hospital where she works.
Loved that excerpt, Bryn! “Creamy moon” what an evocative description in just two words. My excerpt is from Bryn’s Flight again. In this snippet, Bryn has gotten her wish. She’s about to go in the ring to fight Rota the former Valkyrie horsemaster.
“Men stepped aside to give Ira room to pass, their eyes falling on Bryn and staying there, their speculation almost as sure as a touch. She wouldn’t have been surprised to have one or more of the men reach out and squeeze her arms and thighs, checking the thick muscle she’d curated over the years. Hell, with this crowd she wouldn’t be surprised if they checked her teeth, like horse traders.
Bryn didn’t care though; she only had eyes for the rapidly approaching cage.
Just before they reached it, Mr. C and his henchmen stopped Ira the escort. “Hold here a second while I announce the fight,” Mr. C said.
Ira nodded once and held Bryn back, surrounded by a crowd so thick that she couldn’t see inside the ring.
Her heart flopped in her chest when the microphone squawked. She closed her eyes and breathed slow and deep as she listened to the blowhard announce that there had been a change in fighters for the premiere bout of the night.
The crowd muttered and shifted restlessly.
Mr. C went through what seemed like an old spiel about his business and cage fighting, until Bryn’s calm started to fray.
Finally, he announced Rota. No fanfare, no windup about Rota. He just said the name and the men went wild. Even Ira’s grip on her arm tightened.
The chainlink gate squeaked as it opened.
The chant “Rota, Rota, Rota,” started to Bryn’s left and wound its way through the crowd until the din was deafening.
Just when she thought they would never shut up, Mr. C announced that a new fighter had come to challenge Rota.
“That’s our cue,” Ira said, pulling her forward.
They reached the entrance and the crowd murmured when they saw her, talking among themselves as they assessed her.
Ira pulled her inside the ring and released her arm.
But Bryn barely felt her freedom; her eyes were on Rota’s back as the woman gripped the cage fence and leaned, her head down.
Years.
It had taken Bryn years to get to this moment, this opportunity that she could not fail. Not if she stood a chance of saving her people.
“Hey, what’s your name?” Mr. C asked, leaning close with his hand over the open mic. “If for nothing but your tombstone.”
Bryn kept her eyes on Rota’s back, anticipation about to choke her.
“Just call me…The Valkyrie.”
Thanks for the kind words. What I like best about yours is the skillful way you convey these tense moments before the action starts. Thanks for posting it!
This is the last scene from my manuscript, Operation Zeus. Iin the story involves Patty Stosset. Her husband, Frank, a CIA operative just completed the main mission of the story. Earlier Patty was being used as a pawn by a criminal mastermind. It was discovered that one of the criminal’s henchmen, Mr. Teki had posed as a guest at the Stosset’s B&B and killed some people close to the storyline. As a result, Patty was placed in protective custody. Patty is 6 months pregnant.
Back home at the New Orleans B&B, Patty Stosset had recently returned from being a sequestered guest, courtesy of the DoD. She inspected the front desk podium and the furnishings, preparing to reopen. With her back toward the front door a soft entrance chime alerted her to someone opening the door. Patty, turned and inhaled loud and deeply. Visual signs of panic and horror contorted her face and her hands wrenched together. She knew in her condition she couldn’t run. There were no boarders to alert by screaming. She stood frozen in fear. A trickle of urine pooled by her feet. In a frightened cracked voice barely audible she uttered, “Mr. Teki, I did not expect to see you again.”
Teki smiled, slowly closing the door behind him and walked toward Patty.
Patty’s phone rang loudly with vibration on the front desk counter. It was Frank. The call went unanswered.
Hi Ted! Great descriptive piece. Thanks so much for posting!
This is my contemporary romance in which I attempt to redeem Caroline Bingley and also convince my husband we should buy a herd of water buffalo and make our own mozzarella lol.
BeeBee elbowed Lucas aside and stood in front of him, glowering down at Caroline. While not a human redwood like Lucas, she was quite tall and had a way of looking down over her long sharp nose without lowering her head that was downright imperious.
“You’re Elizabeth Bennet, right?” Caroline stuck out her hand. “I’m Caroline Bingley of Bingley Cheese Emporium.”
BeeBee kept her hands in her pockets. “We’re not interested in supplying your ‘emporium,’” she said with a roll of her eyes at the last word that spoke volumes. “Besides, buffalo milk has an extremely short shelf life. Transporting back and forth from Manhattan daily isn’t something a ranch of our size can afford to spend the time doing.”
“That’s not what I wanted to discuss with you-do you mind calling off Lurch back there?” Caroline nodded her chin at Lucas who continued to act as though the door would cave in if he weren’t holding it up. “I need to talk about some issues between our two families.”
Edging between the doorway and BeeBee, Lucas folded his arms over his flannel shirt. “As I’ve said, I’m here on family matters too. Family dinner, as a matter of fact, which is going to get cold if we stand out here talking much longer.”
“Family dinner?” Caroline sniffed. “What are you, the Waltons?” Her throat stung with long-suppressed yearning. Their family dinners every Sunday night had been the stuff of legends, tables groaning with roasted chicken and homemade pies, the smell of fresh-baked bread clinging to her mother’s clothes. The tradition had died with her, but the memories still felt as fresh as if they had been only yesterday.
“Don’t get your frilly apron in a twist, Lucas,” BeeBee smirked at her cousin. “Why don’t you go garnish something and let the women talk business?”
Lucas made a harrumphing noise. “Fine. But if the dinner I spent all evening slaving over goes to waste, I’m blaming you.” He pointed at Caroline and then back at his own eyes before backing away into the house.
Giggling wouldn’t have helped with the high ground Caroline was in imminent danger of losing with Elizabeth, so she faked a cough until she could regain her composure.
“I came here because my brother Charles is under the illusion that he has fallen in love with your sister Janie over the Internet,” she said, trying hard to keep the scorn out of her voice. There was nothing wrong with Internet dating; in fact, it was the only form of dating she had had time for over the last few years. It was more the idea of falling in love at all she found unlikely. “It seemed proper to introduce myself and our family to yours if those two are as serious as he seems to think they are.”
BeeBee barked out a laugh and stretched out a long arm towards the barn. “You can take all your fancy words and shovel them back there with the rest of the buffalo crap. There’s plenty more of it.”
I like the witty repartee! is there more?
I like the witty repartee and comments! Funny yet descriptive.
Hi Laurie! Well, my reaction to this piece seems to have somehow vanished, but let me just repeat: I like what you’ve done here, and if anyone can redeem Caroline Bingly, I think it must be you! Thanks for the post!
Chronicles of a Vampire – it starts of in 1880s then continues in modern times.
Humans are strange creatures. They see evidence of the preternatural right in
front of their eyes, yet they do not believe. It was the year of our Lord 1888
and I was the object of a man hunt. The humans believed a devil walked among
them and they were not too far off, but like all inferior creatures they
believed me to be a man gone mad instead of a demon fulfilling its natural
instinct. I’d found my own form of enjoyment by watching the humans scramble to
find me. History has recorded my name as Jack the Ripper, but those of my kind
call me Lucas, from the house of Tytanius.
My first killing that history recorded, was of a woman in George Yard one hot
August night. But that was a falsehood like the other falsehoods in the legend
of Jack the Ripper. She was the first killing that the human world took notice
of. My true first killing was that of my family in Kensington the night I
‘awoke’ for the first time. Their screams still stir my blood and evoke the most
pleasant of memories.
A century of killing allowed me to perfect my craft. I watched my brethren fall
to the hands of those born to kill my kind. Watching and perfecting are what
led me to my style of killing. The Para Society didn’t seem to care about the humans that
died at the hands of other humans and that was where I began to experiment. I killed a human male, like that of my kind, sinking my teeth deep in the jugular and drawing their life’s blood into mine. I did not drain him, unlike the others, I only took enough to sustain me before I used a knife to slit his throat covering the bite marks. I watched and waited in anticipation of the Para Society to cry demon among us, but they did not. That was when I knew I could kill without fear of them.
Hi Leslie,
I like the storyline, especially the first and third paragraphs. I would like to see an expanded explanation for your sentence in the second paragraph, “Their screams still stir my blood and evoke the most pleasant of memories.” Did he have regret? Are the memories from when he was human that linger in mind? Did that killing make him more cold-hearted having an intimate relationship to those victims that he would not have with future victims?
You mention his first kill. You should explain how he became a vampire.
Thanks! This is the rough draft of first chapter but those are great points. I explain how he becomes a vampire later in the story during a flashback, so maybe I’ll work in a few those scenes earlier rather than later.
Hi Leslie! Great piece! You really capture the sense of dread and mystery of the best vampire stories! Thanks for the post!
While Floyd waited in the Bonchon’s lounge he wondered what sort of person Tidewater would turn out to be. Hopefully someone with a compatible personality. He didn’t have long to wait. The officer approached Floyd and said…
“Floyd Favor, I presume? The CO’s description of you was spot on. I must say, I’m surprised by your youthful appearance.”
“Uh… well… uh, I’m older than I look,” said Floyd as the beauty of the woman standing before him momentarily took his breath away. Upon recovering his composure, he said, “I thought ‘Kit’ was a guy’s name.”
“It can be either. So, have you looked over the menu?”
“I started to but when you walked in, my gaze quickly turned to a more tantalizing… uh… let’s see about getting a table. Oh, and you do realize you’ll need to wear civilian clothes for this mission.”
“I have some civilian duds but most of my wardrobe I left at home. I’ll do some shopping to get something more mission-appropriate. Since I’ll be your driver should I get a chauffeur’s outfit?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Floyd as the hostess showed them to a table. “I’m thinking along the lines of what a well-dressed personal secretary might wear.”
“Got it.”
“Since this is my first time eating here, could you suggest something good?”
“Their oyster platter is exceptional.”
“I must try it then.”
“You know what they say about oysters, don’t you?” she said with a wink.
“No,” said Floyd, trying to remain professional and keep from blushing. “Clue me in.”
“Be glad to. My place or yours?”
“Uh… can I assume you’ve been out to sea for longer than you cared to be?”
“You’re most perceptive. Uh… as you’re not wearing a ring, can I assume you’re not married?”
“Never even had a girlfriend.”
“Really? You don’t strike me as the shy type.”
“No, definitely not shy. It’s just that I… uh…”
“You’re not gay, are you? Please tell me you’re not gay.”
“I’m not gay. But if I told you how I came into being, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“How you came into being? Weren’t you born into this world like everyone else?”
“No. But as I said, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Well, you see it all started when my dad and his alter ego,* namely me, met this fallen angel named Zamarel…”
Hi Lee,
It’s an interesting storyline. I like it. I feel the word “uh” is used too much. You have the question of, “So, have you looked over the menu?” before they sit down at a table. I assume Kit is in the military and wearing her uniform. You might want to mention that fact.
Hi Ted! I thought I’d already replied to this one, but somehow it isn’t showing up. Just want to say, this Zamerel has certainly captured me attention! Nice job narrating here.
Oh gosh, I so wanna read this! ??
Very visual, Bryn. Sensual, too. I like that!
An excerpt from a sweet romance follows:
Max met her gaze. Her blue eyes were exceptionally bright. He had a vision of the type of commitment she was capable of. “You might have something there. Do you have anything particular in mind?”
She lifted one eyebrow with a conspiratorial grin. “We can enlist Gus’s help for one. He can pick blueberries for Shirley’s blueberry buckle.”
Max shook his head. “I don’t know…”
“Trust me.” She scraped the last bits of ice cream from her bowl. “Yum. That was delicious.”
Max looked down at the melting blob in his dish. “You’ve finished your ice cream?”
“You’re not done yet?” She smiled, obviously happy at the plans for the upcoming festival.
He reached for the empty bowl in her hand. Their fingers sparked and the smile faded as she pulled her hand back quickly. He set the bowl on the counter. “Tess…”
Was it the flickering fire? The blanket of fog that made him feel as if they were the only two people on Earth? They were the only two people at the airport. He would have liked to think about a future with her but couldn’t. Mia was right. He was more involved than he should be. He was in serious risk of violating Rule Number Three. Beware the third date. Maybe working together wasn’t such a good idea.
“Despite the festival and working together, we’re still both transients. Just like everybody else, coming and going.” As if she were reading his thoughts, she lifted her gaze to his.
“Are you? Going?” Grasping her soft hands, he leaned forward, losing himself in the depths of the azure eyes. The peach scent returned to tickle his nose. Something had changed tonight. He couldn’t put it into words. It was just a feeling in the pit of his stomach. Or maybe higher, around that other rarely tested organ.
She whispered her reply. “Are you?”
He didn’t know how to answer her question. Such a simple question. The peach scent enveloped him and, leaning forward, his heart pounding like a sledgehammer, he closed his eyes.
Outside the rain pounded the roof. Inside the fire crackled and sparked. He could smell her hair, feel the heat from her body…
“Where am I?” The loud voice drowned out the soft music.
Max’s eyes popped open. “What in the world?” Tess’s eyes, just inches from his, widened. They turned in the direction of the fireplace just in time to see a large man jump up from the velvet settee.
“Where am I?” Flailing his arms, he spun around in confusion.
Backed against the glass doors, Tess yelped. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Carl.” The white-haired man ran a hand over his face and shook himself like a wet dog. “I’m picking up my wife. I must have dozed off.” He blinked twice. “Did the flight get in yet?”
Hi Tanya! I like how your descriptions are based in the senses. Thanks for posting it!
Warm earth clings to my hands, and the thornscrub scratches against my legs as I steady myself, hiding in my father’s shadow and waiting for a pronghorn to show itself.
“Be still,” he whispers. He closes his eyes and holds his breath. “They are close.”
Straining, I listen for what the Great Spirit shows my father—a rustling breeze . . . antlers clacking against one another as two male pronghorns lay claim to the herd that follows them.
I smile. Yes, the pronghorns are close—just out of sight—and my mouth practically waters with anticipation. I brush my sweat-dampened brow with the back of my arm, squinting into the relentless heat as I raise my bow. It’s heavy in my small arms but aimed and ready all the same.
“If we are patient, they will come into view,” my father explains. “Even one buck could feed our people for a week.”
I nod, gripping the bow. It’s slick in my hand, and my back dampens under the weight of my arrows. My fingers tighten and I peer out at the valley, focused and determined.
“Your mother will give me an earful for bringing you,” my father whispers with a smile in his voice. “But it’s good to get into trouble every so often.” He winks at me.
“I like being down here, with you,” I whisper back. “It is better than Oona and Mother’s lessons.”
“It is your destiny, Kaia. You have the great Hon and Kweo in you—with the strength of the bear and the prowess of the wolf, you will be a strong leader to our people.”
I glare at the lowering sun. Lessons and pilgrimages with my mother and grandmother have kept me away from my friends. “I prefer the hunt,” I say, feeling defiant. “Mother will have to find a different etsi for when she is gone.”
My father chuckles, and there’s a softness in his eyes I’ve never seen before. “You will change your mind. And who knows, perhaps one day you can be both.” He lifts the carved Kweo from around his neck and places it over my head. Surprised, I peer down at the great wolf. It is his katsina, my father’s guardian and the essence of his spirit—powerful, instinctual, a hunter who always provides food for the village—and he’s given Kweo to me.
When I look at him, wide-eyed and mystified, he appears more somber. “He will guide you, when I cannot.”
A rustle in the brush ahead startles us, and a buck steps into view, grazing on the wolfberry branches that speckle the valley outstretched before us. A few other pronghorns meander after him.
“Get ready,” my father says so low I barely hear him, and my body coils with excitement and expectation. Slowly, I pull my bowstring taut with an inhale, my arrow locked in place. With one eye shut, I wait for the shape in front of me to focus.
“Do not let go until you are ready.” My father’s voice is sage and knowing, and I hang on his every word. “Never rush.”
I take a deep breath, and holding my mouth just right, my fingers begin to loosen.
“Yoki!” Elan shouts my father’s name, and the pronghorns startle, galloping away as the big man runs down from his post on the hillside. “Soshos are coming!”
I swallow my fear. The white faces have come.
Gunfire and shouting break out in the canyon behind us, and my father pulls me to my feet. “Take Kaia,” he says, shoving me toward Elan. “Go—hide her. I will help the others.”
“Father—” I whimper as I realize he’s leaving me.
“There are ten, at least,” Elan warns. “We must go, Yoki. You cannot—”
“I will not leave my men.” My father shoves me toward his greatest friend. “Now go!” he shouts, and with his bow and arrow in hand, he runs toward the reverberating sound of battle cries and bullets screeching through the canyon. My father runs like the wolf, chasing after its prey with fierce determination, and I fear what will happen if I take my eyes from him.
“Kaia, come,” Elan bites out, but I scream as I see the soshos riding up over the ridge. Two of my father’s men come out of the brush and fall in step behind him, throwing their spears and shooting their arrows.
As Elan tugs me toward the canyon, I stumble and shriek, craning my neck to watch the horrors unfold behind me. My father shoots arrow after arrow, taking down one sosho and then another. But when more men on horseback gallop around the foothills, I know my father and his men are outnumbered.
“Father—” I scream, but Elan covers my mouth and lifts me against his chest as he runs to where the thicket is dense and caves are etched in mountain stone.
The earth shakes. My vision blurs. And then we’re in the shadows of a sandstone spire. The branches of the wolfberry scratch my face and pull at my hair as Elan shoves me deeper into the bushes, out of sight, crawling in after me.
My heart pounds, and I can barely catch my breath as I watch the world through shimmering tears. The shouts of the soshos mixed with the battle cries of my father and the others are soon overpowered by the thundering of horse hooves and the ear-splitting ring of bullets flying through the air. Dust clouds obscure my view. Limbs are flailing, and horses are falling. Men shout in anger and pain, and then, I watch my father fall.
“No—”
Elan’s hand clamps harder over my mouth, his protective arms squeezing me tighter. “Shh,” he coos, his voice a deep, demanding hum in my ear, but I can barely hear him as my body is wracked with sobs.
My heart hurts, my throat burns, and I can barely comprehend what I’m seeing as I watch the soshos tie my father’s ankles with a tether and drag his lifeless body away.
I spring up in my blankets, clutching my chest. My skin is damp with sweat and I wipe the moisture from my eyes, staring into nothingness. The memory is still so vibrant despite the nine years past, I can barely catch my breath.
I’m in darkness, not the valley floor. It smells faintly dank from the damp stone walls of the mountain, and of sweet sap from the sagebrush Oona burns in the room below, and I sigh with a guilty sense of relief.
I am home and safe. I force myself to soak up the realization and welcome the brisk cave air nipping my exposed skin as I fall back against my feather-stuffed pillow. Exhaling a deep breath, I try not to think too much about my dream. Or my father. Or the ache in my chest left in my parents’ absence.
But it’s no use. Rolling my eyes, I toss my fur blankets back. Sleep will be impossible, so in my restlessness, I decide to be useful until it’s time to leave with the hunting party.
After pulling on my tunic and tying my fur vest around me, I wrap my legs in deerskin to stave off the cold, determined to prepare the paint and ready the horses for today’s trip. I run my fingers through my hair, grimacing as I tug at the knots in the ends. My fingers move quickly as I braid my long hair into rows and out of my face, and I’m just finishing up when I hear the door open and close, and whispers emanate from the room below. Perhaps it is earlier than I thought, and Oona is reciting her morning prayers. But then I hear a different voice—a familiar, deeper one, and I freeze, straining to listen.
“—and they are gone,” he says almost too faintly to hear.
I creep toward the ladder, leading from my room to the living space below, and peer down. Elan stands beside my grandmother, dressed, but not in his hunting clothes.
My grandmother nods at his muffled words, relief and gratitude softening her wrinkled face.
Gone? My jaw clenches as I hurry down the ladder. “Who is gone?” I bite out.
Oona and Elan look at one another as if they’ve been caught scheming.
When neither answer, I glare at them. “Cole?” I breathe. “The hunters?” I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and through my fingers. I fist my hands at my side. “You let them leave, without me?” I grit the words out, resentment tasting like ash in my mouth. This was their plan all along. Placate me, allowing me to think I could finally go, only to send the others out in the cover of darkness without me.
Oona takes a hesitant step closer. “It is not safe in the valley for you, Kaia.”
Fire ignites in my veins. “It is not safe for anyone, not for years. But we must hunt,” I say coolly. “I am no different from them—”
“You will be etsi,” Oona growls at me. “Whether you want to be or not, that is your destiny. We cannot risk losing you—”
“I am not the etsi.” I take turns scowling at each of them. “I will never be the etsi.” But as I say the words, I feel the choice turning to dust, escaping into my looming future. If not me, who? If not soon, when? Brushing past them, I leave Oona and Elan in my furious wake, too angry to look back. And with each step toward the quiet calm of the village, a cool draft envelops me. You will change your mind. My father’s words echo in my head, but even as chills trickle over me, I refuse to listen.
Hi Lindsey,
Love it! I wouldn’t change a thing. Very nicely written.
This is the beginning of my debut novel. I’m about halfway through it now. It’s a fantasy novel set in a world I created.
~~~
The dragons were dead, their magic gone. The realm of Fyrestone was in ruins, turned to ash. No one had ventured there for centuries.
The continent of Soleros was cold. Quiet. Magic no longer hummed under the surface. With the dragons gone, magic disappeared.
The gods never came down from their Ageless Plane to help, they just let the magic leave the realms. It’s been centuries since anyone has heard the roar of dragons, or felt magic in the earth or humming within ourselves.
But the world has been peaceful. No fighting between the realms, no magic users against those without magic, because no one had magic. Everyone was always equal unless the different immortals got together: primeval, blood, or witch immortal. Then there may be sparring.
As far as I always knew, the world was this way to keep the peace. To keep harmony.
I never had magic, nor was ever anyone special really, except for my ability to put my foot in my mouth at every turn and make people around me uncomfortable.
The only magic in my life existed in the books that surrounded my bed. I shared a room with my younger sister, Evia, but along the walls by my bed were bookcases that rose to the ceiling, filled with books about stories and history and nature. Reading allowed me to leave my home here in Dinnet, in the realm of Maurina.
I loved our town and little cottage. It was quaint. It was safe. It was home.
But it was all I had ever known.
I laid on my bed reading one of my favorite books, The History of Witches, when my head began to pound. I had to put my book down on my bed and stroked my temple to ease the ache. I closed my eyes for a few minutes and breathed in and out until the pain passed. I shook my head and opened my eyes.
“What was that?” I wondered aloud and picked my book back up. Shortly after, my sister came in. She was slightly shorter than me, with golden hair tied back in a loose braid. I could tell she had been in the garden because she was covered in dirt. Her chocolate-colored eyes glistened in the light from both suns entering our large bedroom window.
I closed my book and looked up at her. “What is it?” I asked.
“Mama needs you,” she said. “Can you come now?”
“Yes, I can,” and I pushed off the bed and walked over to her and we left the room together. Mama was not my mama, but she was Evia’s. I called her by her name, Aurore. She was the woman Papa wed when we arrived in Dinnet, after fleeing our home with Mama, and we made a life with her. A couple of years after we arrived, when I was eight, Evia was born. …
Hi Shanya! This one is off to a contentious start, with the dragons dead and magic gone. I’m interested to learn what comes next. Thank you for posting t
love this idea, i had a lot of
fun reading all the stories !!
First, I’m so glad Mr. Donovan is recovering nicely, and I am so sorry about Moxie. I enjoyed your excerpt.
Here’s the beginning of Chapter 2 of the suspense/thriller WIP I am revising. I shared part of Chapter 1 last time.
I drop my heels on the floor of our bedroom and plop down on the bed. My feet throb. It’s the price I pay to look the part. Curt sits on the floor and rests one of my feet on his thigh and massages my arch. It hurts but in the best way possible. He switches to my other foot. “It’s your birthday. I should be doing something nice for you,” I sigh.
“You just did. You threw me an amazing birthday party.” He loosens his bow tie, pulls it off and throws it on the floor. He massages my right calf. I lie back. He’s on me now kissing my neck, murmuring in my ear. I feel like I’m home.
An hour later I’m half asleep. I might still be tipsy. I can’t tell if Curt is awake. It’s late, maybe three a.m. I tiptoe out of bed and fumble with the bathroom nightlight, careful not to wake Curt. I hope he’s sleeping soundly. Honestly, we both need our rest after that party. Now that I’m not planning that party, I wonder what I will even do tomorrow. Read a book, or maybe Curt and I could go to a winery if the weather is nice. I skip flushing. I don’t want to wake Curt. I wash my hands quickly, turn off the nightlight, and stumble back to bed. I’m out like a light the minute my head is back on my pillow.
My head hurts. I close my eyes from the sun coming in the window. I nudge Curt, “Ugh, are you hungover too? I overdid it last night.” I push on his shoulder harder. “Curt, does your head hurt too?” I open my eyes and roll over to face Curt. I put my hand on his stomach. “Curt, you awake? What do you want to do today?” I’m still. I stop breathing. I put my hand on his chest. It’s not moving. “Curt!” The covers fall off me onto the floor. I lean over Curt giving him CPR. Nothing is happening. He’s not waking up and there’s no pulse. I scramble for my phone on the nightstand and dial 9-1-1.
Okay, I know I posted about this one earlier, but for some reason my comment disappeared. I just want to say, I’m fascinated to learn what happens next. Thanks for the share.
Just a short story I enjoyed writing.
She stared at him, holding her favorite teddy bear in one hand and his pistol on the other.
“Hi dad,” she whispered.
“Honey?” Letting out a breath, he motioned her to come to him. “Hey sweety, come here. Give daddy the gun.”
“Dad, what did you do?” She squeezed her bear, pressing it closer to her, as she raised the barrel.
“It’s okay honey, everything going to be ok. Just drop the gun, pumpkin, and come here.” He struggled against the restraints on his wrist as he smiled and motioned once more.
She tensed as he did so, slightly putting her finger against the trigger. Taking a step back, she looked to the doorway just behind him, an exit.
“Baby, please, come to daddy. It’s going to be alright, sugar-“
“No, daddy!” She shouted. “Answer the question dad, please. What did you do?” She said slowly and quietly, clicking the safety back, placing her finger back on the trigger.
“You don’t know what’s going on kiddo. You are safe, baby. It is going to be okay. Come here, just come to me. Please?” he begged, begged with his eyes and his voice.
She took a step closer, than another, and another. “That’s right honey. Just come to daddy. Everything will be alright.” As she was right in front of him, he looked her in the eyes and smiled. “Hey baby, now give me the gun. Nice and easy. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Shaking her head, she glanced at the exit once more. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.”
“No, baby. Come back. Its ok, everything going to sort out. Kili, please, Kili?”
She took step by step, slowly backing away from him. “Kili. Come back. Kili, I’m not going to ask again.” Snapping, he hit a nerve and screamed, “Killian get over here right now!” Ripping against his restraints, trembling in anger.
She stopped, without knowing, dropped her bear and put both hands on the pistol. His chest heaved and his arms bulged. Thrashing in his seat, he started cold at her, but could never meet her in the eyes. Softly smiling, she looked him up and down, taking in what she was seeing. “There you are daddy.” She quietly stated. Quickly nodding to the blackened window to the right, she dropped the gun, sliding it into her back pocket and walked to him.
He looked to the floor, trying to process what was happening. Searching for answers.
“Hi dad.” She whispered once more as she dropped to her knees looking him into his eyes.
The room was quiet expect for the slight heavy breathing of him. Searching her eyes for answer, he closed his eyes and violently shook his head. Clenching his trembling hands, he opened them to see him choking her. His eyes widened in fear. However, this feeling was familiar but how.
She struggled against him, slightly clawing at his hands, trying to get him to let go, yet it only made him squeeze harder. Rapidly blinking at the redness surrounding his vision, he soon saw her smiling, opening her mouth the speak little by little. “So, daddy… this is… how… how you…killed m… mom?”
Letting go, he drew himself in, tears pouring down his face and his entire body shook. In the background as he felt, people tugging at the restraints, pulling him up, pulling his arms around his back; he heard a faint voice, “There you go Detective, you’ve gotten your testimony.”
Hi Anna! Certainly a disturbing post, but like an Edgar Allen Poe story, there’s no stopping until one reaches the end. Thanks for posting.
This is a poem, written by my MC in my first novel. I’m trying to decide if I should include it in the book. It contains references to events from her life, but I’m not sure if they’re fitting together properly. Thx for reading :>)
It would not have been so startling, that day,
if it were just a friendly, social visit,
when the blacksmith came so early.
It was a plan,
a trap to cage a mind.
He looked much like the union men,
Dressed in black suits,
Their formality,
serious voices,
A hushed, awkward visit of doom.
Vater cried in his workshop after they left,
his career destroyed along with income.
His pride was damaged and
drained him of all confidence.
Mutti had held her chin up firmly,
Pretending not to hear the sobs,
By busying herself, going about
in a most nervous way.
After that, he stood at the door,
blocking me and my book satchel,
His eyes glared at mine.
His voice unemotional
and cruel.
“Help your mutter with the work.
It pays the bills.”
Die Lehrerin sent me away.
A bad example, she said I was.
The final snap of a shutting trap.
But only days before she’d said,
“You have a sharp mind, Maria.”
So, Frau “Teacher”, Lehrerin,
(if that is what you think you are),
Tell me: What is a sharp mind good for?
Ironing?
Dish washing?
For blindly obeying?
Because it kills me inside to think–
Though I hold the curiosity back.
Will the boys care
about wonders going on for the privileged,
as they launch paper airplanes
across the room?
###
I especially like “a trap to cage a mind” and am guessing it may be central to the story to come. Thanks for posting.
This is the prologue of the alternate history novel I am writing.
St. Cybi’s Church
Holyhead
Holy Island, Anglesey, Wales
Saturday, August 7, 1948
A handful of journalists came to report on the funeral of a historical curiosity. Her moment of notoriety had been over thirty years in the past, but it was common knowledge that in 1915, she had helped bring about the downfall of a prime minister and the end of the Great War.
Hugh Richards, a reporter from Pathé News, wondered what Violet Bonham Carter, the Liberal MP and Shadow Foreign Secretary, was doing at the funeral of the mistress of her long-dead father who had served as Prime Minister over thirty years before. Mrs. Bonham Carter, tall and ramrod straight with her wavy greying blonde hair scraped into a French twist under her wide-brimmed black straw hat, wore a black silk suit with a long, full skirt that reached just above her ankles. Richards thought it was typical of Mrs. Bonham Carter to wear couture from Christian Dior, even in a small town in north Wales. Richards had requested this assignment because his mother was from Holyhead and his mother’s eldest sister was the longtime lady’s maid of the deceased. As Mrs. Bonham Carter left the church, Richards shouted at her, “Why are you here at Venetia Stanley’s funeral?”
Mrs. Bonham Carter turned and glared at Richards. “Miss Stanley was the dearest friend of my girlhood,” she said in a stilted voice.
“But she caused your father’s suicide —”
“She did not mean it. And she repented for it every day for the rest of her life.” After a lengthy pause, Mrs. Bonham Carter sighed. “That is all I have to say on the matter. Thank you, gentlemen.”
Although the reporters shouted questions at the eminent lady, she did not look back at them. Her shoulders stiffened after she slid into the back of a black Rolls-Royce, which drove her away.
“‘Dearest friend of my girlhood’?” Richards asked John Bellingham, the reporter on assignment from The Times. “There’s a story there, I’m sure of it.”
I’m sure Richards is right–definitely a good story emerging here! Thanks for sharing.
Question on the word graphic ! Meaning vulgar sex detail ? I don’t use the bad words but I do get into detail but I use the background as a choice to find intimate words instead
I got a lot of fans of all ages over 18 now but working on a book of short stories
Hoping I can share but don’t want to offend anyone here as I’m told i want more of theses by women
Hi Michael! Yeah, I can’t have those types of words on the website (even though I have them in my books), because it causes search engine issues for me. No judgement here, though–it’s just a practical issue!
This is the prologue of a Christmas novel I’m working on.
Alex takes a swift glance around his large room as he gathers his luggage, excited at long last for the start of his journey. He sweeps his curly brown hair away from his blue eyes and hopes the longer hair will be enough to initially disguise him from his adoring public. As he glances at the framed photo of his parents, he experiences regret over his mother’s sadness; however, he knows he must take this step into his future. This time away from his family and his duties will help him figure out who he is, and more importantly who he wants to become.
As he crosses into the hallway, he lingers at their latest family portrait. Admiring the intact family of his brother, Reginald; his sister-in-law, Sarah, their son and daughter, even their dog is darling. They all share the similar blond hair and dominant blue eyes that genetically run in his family. He laments his own lack of a personal family photo to gaze upon. He needs to meet the right woman, one who can see past his lineage and into his soul. Only six months I’ll be gone, hopefully the little ones won’t change too much, or forget me.
He checks the app on his phone and sees that the car he has reserved has arrived. Although it is early in the morning, he had hoped at least one member of his family would have presented themselves at his departure. As he’s walking down the grand staircase towards the front door, with not even a servant to say farewell to, his father, King David and sister, Althea magically materialize.
“Running off like a thief in the night?” his father teases. Alex is immediately happy that these two members of the family roused themselves to say goodbye. His impish younger sister throws herself at him for an exuberant hug which he exuberantly returns despite her summer nightgown and unbrushed hair. After the hug, he formally shakes hands with his slightly taller father. “Have fun in the States. Give Gerald my best. Still can’t believe that old chap’s a priest. The stories I could tell you about him.”
“I know Father, you have told me previously and you will upon my return. Perhaps I’ll have some stories of my own to share, adventures with him or someone else.” Alex soaks in the sight of his sister and father standing in the dim light. “Please tell mother I’ll write as soon as I’m settled.”
King David settles his hands lightly on his younger son’s shoulders. “Try not to carry too much guilt for wanting to have your own experiences. A young person needs to travel and make connections with people who are not family. Your Mother will get over her anger. She of all people will remember at some point what it felt like to be young, I promise you.”
“I’m going to travel the world whenever I want. Now that I’m sixth in line for the throne, after Reginald’s brood and you, who cares about me?” Althea tosses her tangled mane of hair, looking to both men far older than she should.
“Your mother and I care about you and please remember that you’re only fifteen. Stop trying to rush through your adolescence. This is your older brother’s chance right now.” David gazes upon Alex with fondness as he simultaneously grabs Althea to keep her from charging away in a fit of anger. “Oh, look at the time! You’d better be off then.”
“Right. Love to all. Letters to follow.” Alex exits quickly to his car, before he can change his mind and stay. As he places his luggage in the trunk, he sees the darkened silhouette of his mother surrounded by light in an upstairs window. He pictures her fiery hair and green eyes. She wouldn’t venture down to say goodbye, but she’s with me all the same.
A few moments later she and his father arrive in the window to gaze upon him in the dim morning light. When she sees him outside, she waves, smiles and then blows him a kiss. He returns all three and turns to the door to the car ready to begin his adventure. After stowing the rest of his luggage easily beside him, he directs the overwhelmed car driver to take him to the airport.
They have only traveled a few minutes away from the palace when the driver cheekily inquires. “My daughter will kill me if I don’t ask, are you the Prince?”
Alex smiles and lets his unusually long hair flop forward as he adjusts his casual clothes and adopts an American accent. “Nope. I’m a paid look alike. They hire us from time to time for events. I was there this morning for a photo. He snuck out the back while you picked me up in the front. Didn’t you notice the paparazzo’s long camera lenses? The royal family has no care that they got me up at the crack of dawn.” With the southern twang he adds to his speech, Alex is quite proud of himself and his disguise. The cabbie is clearly fooled.
“Blimey. You’re a ringer for the younger son.” Although the air conditioning is blasting, the driver cracks the window just enough to smoke. Alex places a baseball hat on his head, sits back and smiles, ready to begin his adventures.
MY STORM AT SEA
“Hey, what about breakfast?” Jasper Cyr checked his watch and stumbled over a lounge chair left out from last night. He raced across the deck but wasn’t quick enough to catch his fourteen-year-old daughter. She sat smiling, already seated in the back of the skiff. Wearing the jean shorts her dad didn’t like and a white cotton blouse, the fourteen-year-old was eager to cross the harbor.
Naomi tilted her head up to face Jasper as he was rubbing his foot. “Sorry, Dad. if I don’t go now, I’ll miss the whole thing.” Her eyes, her mother’s blue eyes, smiled with the grin spreading across her face. “The kayak tour starts at ten. The site says they don’t wait. You know the mangroves are high on my list of things to see.” Naomi’s sweater, a light summer one not needed for daytime but one she’d need for dinner, lay across her lap, hiding her crossed fingers. Lying to her dad was something she never did. Today was different.
“Time is fleeting.” She winked as she quoted her dad’s favorite phrase. He used it when he tried to convince her to try something new, like riding in a tuk-tuk in Bangkok.
Jasper Cyr pouted. “What about my hug and kiss? We never skip that.”
Naomi laughed at him. Her dad still thought of her as a little child and wanted her to say good-by the same way she had since the first day of kindergarten. The gesture had grown old to her, but Naomi still did it for him. Refusing to get out of the dingy, hug and kiss her dad, and board again, Naomi did the best she could, given she was in a hurry. Wrapping her arms around her shoulders, she gave herself a big self-hug, pointed to him, and winked. Then, she kissed her fingertips and blew a kiss up to him.
Jasper stood and watched as Naomi departed for the shore. He and his daughter sailed from Jamaica to Cancun and Cuba to St. Thomas. During that time, they’d spent twenty-four hours a day together on the yacht sailing from port to port and exploring the beauty of exotic islands in the Atlantic and Pacific. At first, he balked at her desire to go kayaking by herself, but as usual, Naomi got her way. He was an easy mark, but she was all he had left.
The skiff backed away and headed across the short stretch of water to the dock where a car waited. His hand tethered to the railing; he held himself back and fought the rising urge to go after his daughter. He saw her step on the dock. Jasper eyed the taxi, lifted a pair of binoculars from his pocket and checked the car’s description and the plates. He’d memorized the booking information, and everything matched.
Naomi turned and waved to him. Blocked by the morning sunlight, he was just a shadow on the yacht. He saw her tiny vision in the distance, his only daughter, motherless since she was six. Naomi stood for longer than she usually did and waved wildly, just like she did on the first day of kindergarten. He watched her turn as she stepped into the car’s back seat and the driver drove away.
The car pulled into the line of traffic at the entrance to Kayak Adventure. Naomi jumped out of the vehicle.
“You can go now. I can walk faster than you can drive.”
She left before the driver could protest his instructions to deliver her to the ticket booth and not before.
The woman stood over to the side in the shade of some trees alongside the line of cars. Naomi ran to her, and they embraced.
Later they shopped together where the woman bought Naomi a bracelet that said, “My Beloved Daughter.” They ate lunch in a side alley, and as the afternoon faded, they headed out of Charlotte Amalie. The car turned into a circular drive and stopped in front of a house.
For the first time since she’d left, Naomi thought of her dad standing on the deck of their yacht waving goodbye. Awe-struck, Naomi took in the view in front of her. The assault came cold and fast, a slap across her left cheek. A grip bound Naomi better than any handcuffs. Naomi froze from the icy coldness she felt in her veins. She choked on her breath. Her brain screamed with pain so sharp it pierced her heart—a monster drug her across some gravel followed by a stretch of concrete. Then, the monster shoved her into a room with one forceful push. The last thing Naomi saw before her bondage began was the face of evil.
Hi Sharon! I like the last line–it certainly surprised me. Thanks for sharing it!
Pulling out a chair, she sat down. With her back stiff and straight, her jaw clenched, she folded her hands in front of her. “I’m glad you came”. He said, his face in the shadows.
“It appears I didn’t have a choice”. She replied, curtly.
“Would you rather face the consequences with Major MacClay? If so, I’m sure that I can arrange that.” He asked, leaning forward. She dropped her gaze and let out a breath. She could almost feel his smile. “That’s what I thought.”
“What do you want?” She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. “Mr?”
“Blackmore. As I said earlier, I will pay your debt to the Major and you will do something for me.”
“What?”
He slid a piece of paper across the table. “You must get close to this man, get him to trust you.”
She frowned. “Get close? How?”
The man looked up from his glass and smiled. “Ahh, my dear, you are a very resourceful woman, according to the Major. I’m sure you can figure it out. You’ll find a trunk in your room. In it, you will find contact information to set up a meeting with him, dresses and money.”
“After I get close, then what?”
“Once you’ve captivated him with your beauty and gotten him into your bed, I’ll send you further instructions.”
“ Why would Major MacClay agree to this? He didn’t seem open to alternative payment? How do you know he won’t come after me?”
“Let’s just say that Major MacClay has a reputation to protect and there are things he prefers stay hidden. So, do we have a deal?”
“Yes, we have a deal.”
He smiled, crookedly. “Excellent.” The smile faded as he reached across the table, clamped down and squeezed her hand, his gold signet ring digging into her skin. She winced. “You better keep this deal quiet. Tell no one or I will kill you. Unlike the Major, this is not a threat of harm, but a promise.” He warned. She swallowed and nodded. A cruel smile curled his mouth and he released his grip on her hand. Reaching for his glass, he downed the contents in one swallow. “I will be in touch.” He stood up, but his hat on his head and as he brushed past her, he leaned down and in a whispered voice said, “Tell anyone about this meeting and I will kill you.” He straightened up. “Have a nice day.” He tipped his hat and he was gone.
Breathing out, she brought her hand to her throat and swallowed, wishing she had a drink. Unfolding the paper, she looked down at it. “Lord Henry Maxwell, Earl of Westerham”. Closing her eyes, she realized for the first time that she had just made a deal with the devil.
WIP “Secrecy and Seduction”
Hi Diane! Good job with the dialogue in this piece. It’s very thought-provoking. Thanks for posting it!
This is from my WIP, a WWII love story set in Hiroshima in 1945 and today. This is the current opening scene: my heroine’s great-granddaughter is having an anxiety attack on the plane she’s taking to Hiroshima to walk in her mysterious elder’s footsteps using a just-found diary.
Vivienne Sheridan learned firsthand—and far too young—that there are two kinds of survivors: those who don’t die and those who live.
A survivor who chose to live, Vivienne also chose to run away. From Pasadena to Hiroshima. Two days ago. On a dare.
She counted on the loading of the jet’s cabin to distract her. A clown car-esque circus act in reverse. The pouring-in parade was a stew pot of just-applied perfume, yesterday’s sweat and something yummy from the Asian buffet line at the airport’s Panda Express. While the cabin didn’t smell of imminent death, Vivienne was on a sharp edge just the same. She sucked in a shaky breath through her teeth as her fingers vice-gripped her seatbelt’s buckle.
She scanned the cabin for the closest glowing-red exit sign, and for a second escape option, and a third. Then, as she side-eyed out the plane’s window to check the angry storm outside, her life’s theme song began as if a needle in the 1980s just landed on a DJ’s turntable. Gloria Gaynor’s empowering anthem—I Will Survive—pulsated through Vivienne’s head, while its words spoke to her soul:
“Oh no, not I, I will survive.
Oh, as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive.
I’ve got all my life to live.
And I’ve got all my love to give and I’ll survive.
I will survive.
I will survive.”
As much as that song was her go-to rally cry for strength and focus and hope, Vivienne still whispered to herself in Dorothy’s there’s-no-place-like-home way, “I gotta do this. I gotta do this. I am doing this.”
Just as the whispered-word “this” took flight from her lips, Vivienne dreaded what she’d just involuntarily set in motion. The too-familiar signs began to push forward and step on each other: heart rate surging at the speed of her Singer sewing machine; heat flash-flooding her face with the fever of just-spilled tea at her barista job; stomach churning like her on-its-last-legs washing machine.
For Vivienne, it was always an unholy union when panic married anxiety. She knew she had to suppress her own personal storm before streaks of hot silver split her thoughts like the lightening outside.
Too late.
Her mind became an even busier place.
With each blink of her eyelids, images were revealed in the jittery student-filmmakers’ style of The Blair Witch Project.
Hi Christopher! I especially like the line, “For Vivienne, it was always an unholy union when panic married anxiety.” Thanks for posting!
This is an excerpt from my newest inspirational romance, set in a small Southern town. The hero is an artist who is losing his eyesight and struggling with his faith. He’s secluded himself in a cabin in the woods.
The heroine has been searching for him. Her visit to his cabin is planned.
I enjoy writing dialogue. This scene, although abridged, is their first meet, in the hero’s POV.
No one visited. No one, thankfully, knew exactly where David lived.
With a shake of his head, he padded to the entry of his cabin.
A slight, dainty woman stood on the porch steps, dark glasses covered her eyes, her blond hair swinging from a side part and spilling to her shoulders.
The thought came to mind that a strong windstorm could blow her off her feet.
“Hi.” Her voice was bright and breezy, resembling her appearance.
“May I help you?” He opened the door wider. “If you’re selling cookies, I’m not buying.”
“Who said I was selling cookies?”
“You don’t look any older than a university student.”
“Do university students sell cookies?”
“For fundraisers, I suppose.”
She paused. “Do you have any?”
“University students?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Nope.”
“Funny. Not.”
“Oh, you’re referring to cookies.” He surveyed her from the top of her smooth forehead down to her manicured toes, peeking out from strappy sandals. Her complexion was healthy, a sun-kissed tan along her cheeks and the bridge of her freckled nose.
He grinned. “I stored a couple boxes of cookies in my freezer.”
“What kind?”
“Chocolate with a creamy-white filling.”
Her generous lips pulled into a smile. “My favorite. I have it on reliable authority most cookies thaw quickly, though I’ve often eaten them frozen.”
He patted his stomach. “I’ve inhaled half a box in one sitting.”
“Frozen?”
“Microwaved.”
Inwardly, he shook his head. They were actually discussing cookies. If this was considered lighthearted conversation, it felt foreign. He had forgotten the pleasure of conversing with a lovely, quick-witted woman.
She slid the dark glasses down her nose. Huge, hazel-green eyes flicked him a glance.
A shadow of a smile crossed her lips. He wasn’t sure why.
With an about-face, she gestured toward a blue convertible parked in front of his cabin. “Unfortunately, I’m stranded.”
“I’m sorry. Trouble with your car, ma’am?”
“Miss.” She plucked off her glasses and perched them on her head.
They locked gazes.
Time stood still.
He wasn’t an overly emotional guy, yet feelings that hardly made sense bombarded him. Attraction, an instant connection, a familiarity he couldn’t explain.
“My convertible stalled, and my cell phone battery is dead.” Her statement sounded far away, and he dragged his mind to attention.
“I’d offer assistance.” He scanned the road. “Regrettably, my skills as a mechanic are sorely lacking.” They were, in fact, nonexistent.
“May I use your phone to call a friend?” Her tone was easygoing, her smile angelic. “My sense of direction is faultless, though I obviously lost my way.”
“Obviously.” Why was he thinking this woman was special? He didn’t even know her. “There’s nothing of interest on this road.”
“There are lots of things of interest.” She caught his stare. “I planned to hike Grandfather Mountain today.”
“Isn’t Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina?”
“Oh.”
Oh? She was in the wrong state?
“I’m a mountain climber.”
She certainly didn’t look like a mountain climber, and she didn’t know her mountains very well, either.
Hahaha! Great start to a relationship. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you, Jessie.
Hi Josie! I like the confidence of this lady, especially when she says, “My sense of direction is faultless, though I obviously lost my way.” Thanks for sharing!
This is my WiP, set in England. The year is 1815, the height of the Regency period. The following is the opening scene:
His Grace stepped into the hushed atmosphere of his mother’s drawing room to find six pairs of eyes directed his way, and the words, ‘his duty’, left hanging in the air. Five sets of those eyes belonged to his sisters while the sixth and final pair, as shrewd as any, were his mother’s. He likened her expression to that of a disgruntled school mistress.
“Rutledge,” she began in a tone he knew all too well.
At twenty-six, Edward, Duke Rutledge, was perhaps the youngest duke in the realm and one of the country’s most eligible bachelors: a bachelor whose life was still ruled by his mother and sisters. Not only the youngest duke, he was also the youngest child in a family of girls.
Scanning his memory for any perceived slight or wrongdoing on his part, he could not think of anything untoward. Yet no one moved, and it was as if he were being judged. No, he inwardly corrected himself. Not judged. Assessed. Yes, that was it, and he steeled himself for whatever his mother would say. .Lud, here it comes, he thought, as his mother was poised to speak.
“The time is now upon us for you to do your duty to this family. I have waited long enough, and God knows, I am not getting any younger.”
She held up a hand when Edward would have objected. Inwardly, he agreed with her. She was not getting any younger, but he had been taught to object to such unflattering statements, as if to do so would prove them false.
Her Grace continued. “Since you seem so reluctant to look for a bride, your sisters and I have found one for you, a perfect match I’m sure you will agree.”
Rutledge resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
There was much twittering and giggling between his sisters. All but Belle, who sat quietly and indicated ever so lightly with a minute shrug of her shoulders that perhaps she disagreed.
“Ladies, silence please.” The chatter stopped immediately as Mama observed her brood with open admiration, her doting smile an acknowledgement of how incredibly accomplished they were.
Turning to her son, her visage turned stern once again. “You must of course be aware that as you are a duke, not just anyone will do. It has taken us time to find the right woman for you, a virtuous, well-bred young lady who is from a respectable family. One who will do her duty as your wife and provide you with at least an heir and possibly a spare, just as Lizzy did so dutifully for her husband.”
“Might I have knowledge of the lady’s name?” asked Edward. Perhaps he knew her already. Perhaps, if they were already acquainted, she would be someone he could be comfortable with.
“Yes. It is the Lady Agatha Fitzgibbon, daughter to the Duke of Grantham.”
Edward paled, unaware he wavered as he stood.
Captivating first scene. I would read on.
Me too. Nicely written!
Hi Sonia! I like the tone of this & am interested to learn who this daughter to the Duke turns out to be! Thanks for posting!
Hi Bryn, I am sad about your little dog. God bless you.
I really enjoyed your excerpt. You turned my assumptions inside out. Smelling fear – great touch. Also the connection remained. Yay!
By way of explanation, male dragon eggs are studded with jewels that focus magic to the developing baby dragon.
Excerpt from Edge of Sword, the second book in my Dragon Taught series:
The dragon cave gaped open before Yadira. Panic stabbed her as she slid from DuShain’s horse. A stench drifted from the interior – the stench of infected flesh.
“Yadira, wait. It could be a trap,” Jerin called.
“No. She’s hurt and she needs me.”
Men’s footfalls sounded behind her.
“Wait for us.”
But Yadira would not – could not – hold back. “Ishemia!” she cried as she plunged forward.
At the entrance she nearly fell, for she expected to pass through the dragon’s warding but found none.
Jerin’s voice echoed in the chamber. “She may be dead already.”
The first sight of Ishemia wrenched a cry from Yadira. Every memory of the great silver dragon glistening like sun on rippled water crashed into the dirt-gray creature she found at the very back of the cavern. Not even the yellow of her eyes greeted Yadira.
She ran forward and threw her arms around Ishemia’s neck, sobbing for the pain of her mentor’s suffering.
The dragon grimaced and then lifted her head. “Yadira and Jerin. Send the others away. I have instructions for you alone.”
Jerin nodded and motioned to DuShain and Votive. They strode to the opening of the cave out of earshot, drew their swords and stood at attention.
“Yadira, when I die the wardings I placed to protect my son will fail.”
“No!” Yadira cried.
Ishemia drew a rasping breath and then continued. “Upon my death, go immediately to the swamp. Beyond the island where the Raydors camped you will see Needle Rock. Pass by it and then turn to face Swan Mountain. Line up the tip of Needle Rock with the eye of the swan. Reach down into the water and there you will find my egg.”
“I can put up wardings to protect him.”
“No. You must build a fire and hatch the egg.”
“You want me to raise your son?”
She shook her head. “He will not survive.”
Mortified, Yadira stammered, “You, you want me to kill him?”
“It is the only way to keep Garthazor from stealing the jewels and using their magic. The fire will destroy them. Jerin, go to the bottom of the caldera where the scar-faced Raydor fell. Retrieve the black book and burn it. The dungeon guard is searching for it.” She shook her head. “He must not find it.”
Yadira thought of Scar Face and cringed.
“Go now.”
“Wait!” Yadira thought of the disasters that had turned to victories, like Jerin punching his fist through a locked dungeon door. “You don’t have to die.”
“I was shot with a Raydor arrow dipped in human blood.”
It was a crazy plan and Yadira knew it, but she couldn’t contain herself. “Jerin has that gift you gave him. He can reach inside you and take out the arrow. And the blood!”
“His hand is human. It is poison.”
“We can fix that.”
“DuShain,” Jerin called. “Do you have a pair of deerskin gloves?”
“Yes, sir!”
Hi Jessie! Lots of intrigue here. Am left wondering how much the deerskin gloves will help. Thanks for sharing!
I’ve been trying to build my email list. Bloody hard work if you ask me. I have been writing the back story for the MC in my Blood of Kaos Series to hopefully pull more people in. It’s a dark fantasy mixed with a few other genres. While the books have sexy adult bits, this part does not.This is the first section of the first chapter. It’s a bit over 500 but not much.
From the moment she stepped out of the dark alley and lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the sunshine, Etain knew it wasn’t home. The cobbled road lined with small shops on either side and decorative street lights reminded her of Victorian towns she’d seen in old movies on TV.
Back when she had a family.
When she was fourteen.
Before she’d developed boobs and this second-skin leather outfit with lace-up boots to die for.
How long ago was that? An hour? Half-hour? Ages?
She shivered as she dragged a hand through her silver hair. It had been a warm summer night in Texas. But here the air was much cooler. Wherever here was.
Some of the shop signs were in English, some were in a language she didn’t recognize, and some had both. She leaned against a brick-sided building and forced herself to take a deep breath.
Dad never mentioned going to another time. What if they don’t speak English?
Get real, Etain. Most of the signs are in English. They speak English.
People walked along the stone pathways that looked nothing like the concrete sidewalks she knew. One foot in front of the other, it took several steps to accustom herself to her new height and body shape. An occasional head would turn her way, but for the most part, she was ignored. She didn’t care much if they noticed her or not. Her interest was more in the where and why.
For all the old-world appearance of the shops, their interiors were modern. It seemed everything a person could want was represented here – butcher, bakery, a market with vegetables and fruits, a small convenience shop, salon, barber. Whether it was the Alamir realm or not, at least she wouldn’t starve or be the victim of bad hair.
Etain laughed. Bad hair day. We’re supposed to be superheroes, not super-fashionistas. She frowned. Except I don’t have any way to pay for it. Do they use money or is it in trade? She sighed. Either way, I got nothing.
The chiming of a clock made her look up. Atop a large stone building, it towered over the small town. Curiosity drew her toward it and the town center. Across the road, a small park with a circular bandstand invited her over. After a walk along its cobbled pathways, she noticed a piece of paper flapping in the wind, barely attached to a well-used signboard at the opposite entrance. The signboard was filled with announcements for the town of St. Clears. She liked the drawing of a red dragon on its corkboard.
Must be the school’s mascot.
The advertisement answered many questions and confirmed she was in the Alamir realm. It invited anyone interested in joining a clan to meet at the town hall and there would be food and drink. Her tummy grumbled at the thought of food but the time on the sheet told her she had a few hours before the meeting. Etain ripped the paper from the board, folded it neatly, and tucked it into her boot. Not knowing what day it was and with no date on the sheet, she hoped it would be that night.
Hi Nesa! Love the vivid descriptions and moment you’ve laid out here! Ready for more next time. Thanks for the post.
Hi Bryn and all. Sorry to hear about your loss (my brother and his girlfriend lost their cat Luna recently and we miss her too). Best wishes to you and your family.
Your excerpt was really powerful in the way it describes what the characters are each feeling and thinking. I hope to someday gain something close to your level of skill. My characters need a bit more depth I think.
Anyways, here’s my excerpt which I wrote up in late June and tried sprucing up just a minute ago…
Zoey and Margo are sitting comfortably on the roof of what looks like a residential home, but with no windows, no front door, and a steel roof. At roughly midnight, the barely visible low maintenance landscape seems to still evoke an industrial feel.
Margo, eating her fries, was quick to catch Zoey, mid-bite of her sandwich with, “You do know that Chick-fil-A is a Christian-owned company, right?”
Zoey gave her a sideways glace, seemingly skeptical, put her sandwich down and began eating Margo’s fries. “They make good food. I don’t care.” Chewing while she spoke, “they’re not going to convert me with food, that’s for sure. Why couldn’t your mom learn that lesson? Plus, your parents let you watch the Simpsons, Seinfeld, and play Mortal Kombat. You’re not exactly winning me over with your consistency either.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s two-fold: they wanted me to be able to operate in the modern world without necessarily adopting populist values. They wanted me to fit, but not necessarily conform. Plus, they were always pointing out the failed value systems in popular media as bad examples…Look I don’t want to argue religion all day.”
“You brought it up.”
“I know, let’s change the subject.”
“To what?”
“How about what the hell we’re doing up here to begin with?”
“I wanted to see if we could get up here, one. And two, I wanted to see if we’d get attention.”
“Well, we’ve been up here four hours. So, it looks like nobody cares. What’s so significant about this place anyways?”
“This fake house belongs to the MWRA…the Water Authority. It’s a pump station, disguised to deter vandals. They don’t make these any more because they tend to attract more curious people than they deter. The whole area is alarmed and we weren’t trying to evade any of it. And we’re still here and nobody’s come to get us.”
Margo, looking a bit frightened and confused. “You jackass, you mean you took me to a place intentionally trying to get us arrested?”
“I found this in my car yesterday…” Zoey holding her phone up to Margo with a picture. “That connects to a wireless microphone behind the driver’s side pillar cover that’s over the air bag curtain. And that part is the cellular transmitter. Two months ago, I found a similar device…” Pointing to another picture, she continued, “that used the car’s Bluetooth microphone…and that one had a short-range FM transmitter…so like a car driving next to you could tune into the microphone on their radio and listen in on your car. And then that disappeared. And then, six months before that I found a GPS transmitter in the rear wheel-well. I drove the car out and took a route that spelled Eat Me when the route was viewed on a map. That device disappeared the next day.”
Margo, “so what are you telling me then?”
Zoey, “I guess that I’m only half crazy.”
Margo, furrowing her brow asked her, “And which half is more heavily weighted?”
Zoey, with a chuckle, “Come on, leave that shit and follow me out of here before they decide to reign in the leash.”
Hi Chris! I like the way you’ve introduced this dialogue. Lots of possibilities! Thanks!
Thank you for your kind words about Moxie. We miss her terribly.
So sorry about Moxie 🙁 and I hope your husband is feeling better! Hopefully the rest of 2021 will be a bit smoother for you!
Here is another excerpt from my sweet romance novel in progress 🙂
Rachel’s steps quickened as she began to smell the delicious aromas from the coffee house. Cinnamon Mocha Lattes had made their annual debut and she couldn’t wait to put her hands around a warm mug of the liquid gold. She hated to admit it, but that first sip of her coffee was what got her out of bed in the morning.
Perk Up was a favorite haunt for everyone in town. You could sample a variety of espresso flavors, stretch out on an old leather sofa to read, or catch up on the town gossip all in one spot. Rachel rarely skipped her visit to the coffee house, even though she knew brewing a pot of coffee at home would be a fraction of the price. She enjoyed the atmosphere and catching up with friends, so it was worth the money to her.
“Good morning!” she smiled at Ben Grier, owner of Perk Up. “How’s baby Lily doing? Is she cutting any teeth yet?”
Ben chuckled. “I think so! She’s been a little grizzly bear lately and keeps us up all night. Makes it hard to get here at 4 am!” He gave her a wink. “The usual today?”
“Definitely!” She paid for the brew and tipped him generously, then headed for a table by the window.
In a sunny spot by the windows, Tyler sat reading a newspaper sipping from a steamy mug. The warm sun was streaming down onto the table. He glanced up and smiled as he saw her approaching him. When their eyes met, her face flushed and tiny bolts of electricity shot through her, making the tips of her fingers tingle.
“Nice coincidence seeing you here!” Tyler rose to greet her and offered her the seat across from him. She happily accepted and placed her purse in the seat next to her.
“Well, I’m addicted to Ben’s famous brews, so I’m here every morning…and sometimes in the afternoon too! So it’s probably not much of a coincidence,” she laughed.
“Are you on your way to the office?” he asked.
“Yep. Judy is having me handle the planning for the party Friday night so I’ve got a lot to do. How’s the town look to you? Have you noticed many changes?”
“A lot of changes!” he confirmed, shaking his head. “It’s definitely more vibrant than when we left. I noticed some upscale shops on Main Street and a fountain was added to the park. Seems a lot cleaner too.”
“That’s thanks to Mrs. Perry. She ran for City Counsel about ten years ago and spearheaded the downtown beautification project. She raised money and rounded up volunteers, then got the whole town painted and cleaned up. It’s been great living here to witness the transformation.”
“I wish I could have been here to see it,” he said. Rachel saw a hint of sadness in his eyes, but it quickly vanished and his smile returned. “I’ve missed this town. And I’m really glad we’ll be here for the holidays.” His eyes lit up when he said holidays, like a child looking forward to Christmas morning.
Thank you, Rebecca, for your kind words about Moxie and 2021. Hopefully it will e a good year for all of us
I especially like the last line here. Moments like this one make me I’m getting to know these two and care what happens to them.
Hi Bryn. Hi all. So sorry to hear about your pupper, and your husband’s health problems. Wishing your family lots of love and healing.
Loved your excerpt, and really enjoyed getting to experience Nic’s transformation. So cool that the connection with Sophie still remains.
I heard back from my agent, and am plotting out my fourth draft of my Tam Lin prequel/Faery Queen origin story. I also started another YA Contemporary Fantasy, an excerpt of which I’m sharing today. Story is set in Santa Cruz, this scene on the beach, in January:
“Son of a —!” Jennifer Mulgrew, first chair flautist and almost more popular than a band geek deserves to be, rubs her damp hands on the front of her windbreaker, which billows and rattles in the breeze. She and her grill are backed up against the hillside, which is steep but offers little protection from the elements; napkins fly off the folding tables she brought, and the catsup keeps tipping over. Most of the guests have given up on dinner already and settled in an informal circle closer to the shore, slouching back like ancient Romans at an orgy while smoking weed and passing around beer.
I exchange a glance with my best friend Kestrel, and we both smother a laugh, not sure we’ve heard Jennifer use that word before. But she’s fighting against sea spray and wind, and it’s already been twenty minutes since she’s been trying to get her grill started.
Jennifer wanted to show her Dutch exchange student a Santa Cruz cookout, like the kind we have every summer, since he might not stick around past June. Hot dogs and marshmallows. Sometimes a sing-along–I notice the exchange student brought his guitar. Sunscreen and bikinis. I’ll bet you anything Jennifer’s got one on under her windbreaker and jeans.
It’s 43 degrees. She’s never going to take that windbreaker off.
“So unfair,” I say to Kestrel. “It was 65 yesterday.”
Kestrel nods, and rubs her fingers against my coat, ruffling the soft fur. “What are you complaining about? You’ve got to be plenty warm in that murder coat of yours.” She winks so I know she’s joking, but only just.
I roll my eyes. “I told you it’s not a murder coat. It was a gift from my aunt Ro.” A very strange one, for a girl whose wardrobe consists of vintage t-shirts and jeans.
Kestrel raises her eyebrows and reaches into her pocket for a pouch of kale chips.
“Hey,” I protest. “She swore to me this coat was ethically sourced.” Not that there could be anything ethical about wearing a fur coat, in Kestrel’s eyes. She won’t even wear leather shoes.
I shrink down into its deep collar, like a turtle hunching into its shell. “Anyway, it’s just ‘cause I broke the zipper on my windbreaker. I’m not going to be wearing this thing around everywhere.”
What sixteen-year-old would be caught dead wandering around Santa Cruz in a “murder coat,” as Kes calls it, if she had a choice? I mean, I could pass it off as something thrifted, and the coat does look like it’s seen better days, brown splotches scattered across the grey-brown fur, no real lining to speak of. Still, I just know some overly enthusiastic hippie is going to throw paint on me if I keep wearing this thing. At least then I wouldn’t have to pretend to like it.
Hi Kimberly, Thanks for your good wishes! We’ll always miss Moxie, I think.
In your piece, my favorite line is “I shrink down into its deep collar, like a turtle hunching into its shell.” The comparison is perfect, I think.Thanks for posting!
Hello everyone!
As I want to be true to my word, I’ll jump in at the deep end and show you a part of the beginning of a horror shortstory I rediscovered recently and want to finish.
So here we go:
Warning: HORROR ahead.
(or at least I hope so … X/)
I woke with a start in a bed I knew not and all to well.
It is allways the same room and there is allways the lingering darkness waiting to my feet in the left corner under the celing which fills me with despair and make me flee the room.
Outside the door awaits a house with everchanging rooms, sounds of grinding stone, distant dropping water, howles, creaking floors or horrible silence. Rooms that belong in a house, others that do not and some that defie all logic. Most are empty but in some there are creatures. Those that are of human form are even more frightning.
This night the cloud of darkness nearly covered the entire celing and threads of swirling black were reaching down, already almost touching the blanket. It had grown again.
The sheets were damp and heavy, as before, weighing me down, so much, breathing was almost impossible. At first, I couldn’t move, only stare at those tendrils coming for me. Even the rest of the room was vauge as if not yet solid or formed, blurred to my terror wide eyes. But I know how it looks, that it is empty except for the bed, a small rotten sideboard and a brocken chair. There’s not even a rug on the floorboards. This is always the same. It starts to change when I get up. Every time it is different in its sameness. And it is always more terrifying.
I knew, I hade to get up. If not, I’d be dead. Or worse.
I tried once ignoring it, in the beginning. Befor my valet fled my house. If he hadn’t raised me, it would have killed me. I am sure of that.
So I struggled. I pushed my hand to the corner of the matress, bit by bit, with the other I finaly managed to grab the blanket. I concentrat on the door, if I look up, I’ll freez again. This time an unearthly cold hit me, instantly the chill was in my bones and it was hard to move due to the shaking. Stumbling, I got on my feet, keeping my head down. It were only a few steps but I was exhausted when I was there. The handle of the door burned my flesh with cold as I grabbed it, skin teared as I pulled free. Then I was out.
That gave me some strengh, so I fled in blind terror through rooms I can’t – no – won’t remember.
Hi Akomoshi! I can see why you picked this one up again. The possibilities for horror are huge. Thanks for sharing it!
Hi, Bryn,
This is my first Wednesday to participate in your WIP sharing, and I hope I’m commenting in the right place! Thank you!
In my novel, “The Grand Life of a Perfect Rose,” Ms. Rose Erikson bubbles with a delightful, “pollyanna-ish” perspective on life. Often, you will hear her say, “Isn’t it just grand!”
However, beneath the cheerful exterior is a poignantly insecure woman striving to be the perfect person she imagines her deceased mom must have been. Rose’s unrealistic goal thwarts her naturally upbeat spirit and threatens to drive away the one man she dearly loves, Jeremiah Menoir.
Jeremiah is a seminary student facing a life-challenge. To find his own career path, he risks disappointing his family’s all-consuming expectations. The sweet courtship of Rose and Jeremiah takes place in a fictional village in Ohio during America’s Great Depression of the 1930s. Their lives are filled with inventions we now take for granted and with objects we now call antiques.
I had so much fun mapping the village and creating its charming characters. “The Grand Life of a Perfect Rose” is a finished manuscript, waiting to be found by a literary agent; however, my current WIP, “Just James,” is a second story centering on characters introduced in the first novel.
.
“The Grand Life of a Perfect Rose” contains a sub-plot where Jeremiah’s best friend prayerfully helps him to solve a mystery that has plagued their families for decades. Jeremiah learns how his father died and what drove an angry wedge between his grandfather’s trusted employee and his friend’s uncle. Jeremiah’s efforts bring reconciliation to the uncle and the employee.
During their faith journeys, young Rose and Jeremiah find the confidence in the Lord that had been missing in their lives. The two mature into resilient people of courage and accomplishment, and their charming love triumphs. “The Grand Life of a Perfect Rose” is an inspiring story of love, faith, and forgiveness.
I hope it will enrich the life of every reader.
Linda Elliott Long
Hi Linda, “The Grand Life of a Perfect Rose” is such an intriguing title! Thanks for sharing it.
Sorry, I don’t see where to share my writing. I’m ready to do it too! I feel there are some scenes ready to read and don’t want to share in my writing group. Glad I found this good place!
Hi, Lynn, if you scroll all the way down to the bottom of the page, there is a box that says “Leave a Reply.” Then you can just copy and paste your segment into the box. 🙂
Thank you, Pamela, I, too, could not find where to post my writing. Per your directions, I posted it now. 🙂
Hi Bryn, Thanks for doing this. This is part of the opening for my WIP called Mending Helen’s Heart, which is set in the 1940’s and is based on a true story. So Historical Fiction.
Hi, there! Your Grandpa let me in. Is this a bad time?”
“Hi, Em! Welcome to my room. Wanna help me paint?”
“Neat! I’ve never painted before, but I’ll try.”
“Why don’t you work on the edges along the ceiling, and I’ll finish the walls.”
She handed Emily a paintbrush, a small cup of lavender paint, and a rag. “Don’t get any on the ceiling, or Grandma will bust my chops!”
Emily’s blue eyes danced as she put her foot on the stepstool. “Someone’s seen too many picture shows!”
“Hardly. But I’m hoping I’ll see a few this summer.”
Emily stepped up another rung and carefully worked her brush along the wall next to the ceiling. “Certainly easier than when you lived out in the country.”
“Yes, lots of changes the past few years.”
“How’s your mom like Springfield?”
“She’s so crazy about her new husband I think she’d live in an igloo.”
Emily stopped painting and turned to Helen. “Do you miss her?”
“Yes, but I’m glad I didn’t have to change schools.”
“Me too. I’ll bet you miss the country. I mean, it’d be romantic to live on a farm and so peaceful with all those rolling hills.”
“Don’t forget about stinky pigs, squawking roosters, and smelly cows that need milking at dawn and dusk seven days a week.”
Emily glanced at Helen, eyes wide. “Oh! I hadn’t thought about that. But you must have loved all that room to roam.”
Helen focused on the task at hand. “It also meant we were far from town, from friends, and I couldn’t participate in after-school activities.” She stopped and looked at Emily. “And then there were the outhouses!”
Emily scrunched her face. “You didn’t have running water?”
“Nope. We filled pails of water at our well and lugged them into the house. Every. Single. Day.”
“So… no baths?”
Helen’s face was getting warm with the memory. She regretted bringing up the subject. “We warmed water on the cook-stove, then poured it into a metal trough that we dragged into the kitchen. How’s that for romantic country living?”
Emily stared at her, mouth open. “Sorry, Helen, I had no idea.”
Helen turned back to rolling paint on the walls. She failed to mention that they all bathed in the same water. And as the youngest, she was last in line in the tepid, dirty water. No wonder Bernice and Diane had called her “stinky” ever since kindergarten. She tried to ignore their taunts and to avoid being around them, but couldn’t escape the damage to her confidence, as she slunk in her classroom chairs and ate lunch alone outside whenever possible. As a teen, Helen took over the laundry to make sure her clothes were clean. And to bathe more often, she brought in water and warmed it when others weren’t around. Still, her psyche had taken a hit, and she never shook off the feeling of inferiority and the expectation that an insult was moments away.
Hi Clare! You’ve really captured the emotion of this experience beautifully. Thanks for posting.
I love it!!! Can’t wait for more! I love the different ways authors describe shifting.
I just started my next funny paranormal…
Wilma is a weather witch. She’s been cursed since birth, binding her magic, and when her newly turned vampire mate Gus bit her, it turned her as well and broke the curse. That was the end of book one. Now she’s a mess…
Chapter One
“Twister at two o’clock,” Jacob called out as Jules swerved on the gravel highway.
“I can’t keep from skidding on this ice,” Jules said. “How the hell can the road be freezing and yet it’s hot as hell outside? The thermometer says it’s a hundred and three!”
“Wilma, honey? Do you think you could maybe—”
“Watch out,” Freddy shouted. “There’s an avalanche starting up on the left…Turn turn turn!”
Jules yanked the steering wheel to the right, narrowly avoiding the huge snow drift in front of us. The van fishtailed as she turned into my driveway, golf-ball sized hail pounding the roof of the van.
“Take a deep breath,” Gus said in my ear. “Everything is going to be all right.” He wrapped me in his arms and started humming.
I focused on his voice and breathed in nice and slow through my nose. And the sun came out.
The piece is full of surprises! It drew me in. Thanks for sharing it.
Around 6:00 this morning, Ginger Scarlatina is doing yoga and pilates at one setting seeing herself in the high-tech mirror. 2020 was a year that redefined everything, and Ginger struggled like everyone else. Until she enhanced herself with a security fabric technology ever innovated with Earth’s resources that are naturally combined with the technological matter of it all.
Ginger is wearing a lyndex leotight she purchased from the website athletic. it’s an 80s style outfit that reflects the glamour inside her fitness routine that’s fashionable where she could make some of them herself by purchasing clothes at Forever 21 around Times Square.
Who can be double crossing other people when a man is jaywalking to get to the vehicle he considers bad luck to his presence. He would be glad to see them as yet. He should not be out there alone. Once he finds the couple, his hand turns into an axe, which becomes a deadly weapon for him to hammer the couple on.
Hi Robert! Very precise descriptions! They give the piece an air of authority. Thanks for sharing.
Bryn! I was Not Expecting That!! It’s such a visual scene, and a lot of fun to read. Also, I am so, so sorry about Moxie. I saw your post on Instagram and my heart broke for you. I have 3 senior dogs <3 Hope Mr. Donovan continues recovering nicely!
**From the thesis, Ellie's POV**
***
A loud, obnoxious lawn mower drags me out of the most amazing dream I’ve had in years. Even with the edge of a sharp headache coming on, I’m still aroused. The last time I had a sex dream about Wes was a few weeks after I met Sylvie on his porch; I remember because it pissed me off so much that I wouldn’t sleep more than two hours at a time for weeks after that to make sure I wouldn’t dream. But this dream… It was more than that. In this dream, we weren’t teenagers, or college co-eds. We were us, as we are now, and as nice as it felt for his dream hands to glide between my thighs and for his bare body to press and heave against mine, it was the things he whispered, and the vulnerability of us both, and the way his voice broke when he called me beautiful that I want to remember forever.
The too-damn-early-in-the-morning sunlight pierces the one spot in the window where the blinds are uneven with a direct assault on my eyes. Pulling the blanket up over my head doesn’t help much. Between the noise and the light, my head isn’t feeling great. I don’t know what time it is other than early because that’s the only time of day these landscape companies seem to ever do any work. But I’m not that bothered, because I’m still thinking about my most amazing dream, and maybe if I fall back to sleep, I can pick up where we left off.
Wait. I peel my sticky eyelids open and peer out from under the blanket.
This is not my hotel room. My hotel is downtown, surrounded by city things, not lawns. My hotel room doesn’t have disheveled blinds—it has heavy drapes. My robe isn’t cast over the corner of the bathroom door—there’s not even a bathroom door where one should be. It’s just a wall, and a huge wooden dresser cluttered with men’s deodorant and half-opened mail and loose change. This is a bedroom, like in a house, and I don’t recognize this room at all.
The dream comes back in a barrage of images and feelings and whispers, and I slide my hands around my stomach and chest and hips and find nothing but bare skin. My heart freezes mid-beat. Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod. I’m not the only one in this bed.
A long, soft breath breaks the stillness of the room, and I panic. I pretend to be asleep like a giant, awkward opossum. The bed shifts a little as Wes rolls from his side to his back, the comforter sliding down to his waist. When he says nothing and his breaths remain steady, I peek. His hands rest on his bare chest as it gently rises and falls.
I clap my hands over my mouth, my emotions so muddled I don’t know which way is up. I want to lie here and just be with him and move closer and nestle in the nook beneath his shoulder—but this is Sylvie’s bed. This is her furniture, her room, her husband. And I'm not wearing any of my clothes.
This was Not my plan.
Very strong narrating! I’m certainly intrigued. Thanks for sharing!
Hello Bryn … so sorry to hear about your sweet Moxie, but happy to hear that Mr. Donovan is doing well. The scene with Nic and Sophie is quite evocative and I enjoyed reading it, which surprised me as I generally avoid speculative fiction. I can sense my horizons broadening.
Below is an excerpt from my current work-in-progress.
_________________________
Buoyed up by the anticipation of returning, I had not questioned the wisdom of my solitary arrival. Now as I stared at the front door and heard in my heart the stillness of an empty house, I wondered. Would the memories of our life together overwhelm me once more or had the intervening months given me the strength to withstand the lingering tentacles of grief.
Samson entertained no such reservations. He lifted his front paws to the passenger side window and meowed impatiently. I gave him a lopsided smile and got out. Samson hopped out and after a quick visual reconnaissance padded in my wake up the front walkway.
I could probably close up the west side of the house. We’d needed the space when our kids were at home, but Samson and I would hardly need more than the rooms on the main level. I wandered back to my bedroom. Though it was only seven o’clock, I ran water for a bath and soon was soaking amidst the bubbles. Twenty minutes later with the water now cooled and the bubbles gone. I stepped out and wrapped myself in a fluffy green bath sheet. Seated at my dressing table, I pulled my hair free from the clip that held it in a soft coil at the back of my neck and slowly began brushing the dark chestnut mass.
The short, cropped style I’d worn when the kids were young suited our country lifestyle. It had taken several years to grow my hair this length, something I’d done to please Gerald. As I continued brushing, I imagined his gentle touch as he would often take the brush from my hand and complete the mandatory 100 strokes before moving on to more pleasurable activities.
Though he was a big man, more at home in the outdoors and with other men, Gerald had also been a tender, passionate lover capable of arousing in me a desire equal to his own. “One of God’s many wonders,” he called me, “fashioned by the master craftsman. Round here” … his hands would cup my breasts … “slim here” … slide to my waist … “and comfortable here” … coming to rest lightly on my hips.” At this point, his loving smile would dissolve into a husbandly leer, affectionate and suggestive, and I’d giggle.
Tonight, a hot tear trickled slowly down my cheek … never again, never again. How could I survive when I would never again feel the closeness, share the warmth or see the love in his eyes? With a sigh, I pulled one of his soft flannel shirts off a hangar, slipping into it before I turned off the lights and crept into bed. I snuggled the soft, wool-filled comforter around me and closed my eyes. It didn’t work. Slowly, the memories triggered by this house, this room and this bed overwhelmed me, and the shadows dancing across the ceiling blurred with my tears.
Hi Eileen, Thanks so much for the kind words about our dear Moxie.
I think your piece is masterfully evocative of the grief of this pour soul. Thanks for sharing it.
Another wonderful piece of writing. Hopefully I’ll be able to get back to sharing soon. Just have to finish final edits and make it through this book launch.
Bryn, I LOVE your excerpt! I really hope you’ll have the beta draft ready to share soon!
My bit is from the beginning of my haunted house romance.
Backstory: It’s 1977. Mina, my MC, is living under an assumed name in a tiny backwater farming down in Kansas, and working at a diner. A mysterious stranger comes in to the diner with a briefcase, claims to be an attorney that’s been looking for her for years…
***
They sat down at one of the restaurant booths, and Mr. Abernathy placed the briefcase on the table between them. He used a small gold key to unlock it and lifted the lid. Mina’s eyes widened in disbelief. Inside were four neat, thick stacks of twenty dollar bills, along with a long, cream colored envelope with her name written on it, a set of keys, and a file full of what appeared to be legal documents.
She looked at him, and he nodded at the folder, an invitation to look.
Mina opened the file. It contained the deed to her family home where she and her sisters had spent the first twelve years of their lives, as well as deeds for other properties. There were financial statements that made her head spin. The name of the person or entity that had managed the trust had been redacted out of every document.
She put the file down, her hands shaking. She took a deep breath, then another.
“I don’t understand this,” she finally said. That was the understatement of the century.
Her coworker Trixie approached, and Mr. Abernathy closed the briefcase with a snap, concealing the stacks of money.
“Mina, are you okay?” she asked, looking back and forth between her and the stranger.
Mina tried to smile. “Yes. Could you please bring us some coffee, Trix? I’m sorry, I just need a few more minutes here.”
“Tea for me, please,” Abernathy said with a kind smile.
Trixie nodded, gave Mina a you better tell me everything look, and went to get their requests.
Mina stared at the briefcase, baffled. What was this? A joke? A mistake? This couldn’t be real. Could not. She didn’t trust herself to speak again yet, so she just waited in silence until Trix returned with the coffee and tea.
“Do you find all the documents to be in order?” Abernathy asked, adding honey and cream to his tea.
“I don’t understand what’s happening here,” she said. “I don’t mean to sound rude or ungrateful, but this just doesn’t seem possible. My family has never been wealthy. Our house might have been big, but it was always run down and falling apart. We scraped by.”
“Your family may never have flaunted its wealth, but believe me. This money has always been available.”
“Do you know where my sisters are?” she asked, rushing the words out before she could lose the courage to ask.
“I’m afraid not. You are the first of the three of you I’ve found. You certainly did not make it easy for me.”
“The only thing I want is my sisters back,” she said, the fragile hope that had bloomed in her heart collapsing back into cold lump.
“Miss Blackbriar,” he said leaning toward her, “I understand your caution regarding all of this. But do you understand? You can go home, now, if you wish. You can begin anew. And perhaps most importantly, you now have the resources to begin searching for your sisters yourself.”
Mina felt dizzy. What motive could someone have to make up such an elaborate lie? She had nothing of value in her life. She lived on the bare edge of poverty, renting a small room in a crummy boarding house.
What do I have to lose?
Hi Pamela! What a great dramatic moment you’re capturing here. Can’t wait to read more. Thanks so much for the post!
I’ve got something I’m working on, but it’s far more than 500 words. I wrote a lengthy story called, “Ghost Light,” and my WIP is kind of a prequel to it.
Hi Frank, Feel free to post an excerpt sometime when you’re ready.
Hi, Bryn,
This is my first Wednesday to participate in your WIP sharing, and I hope I’m commenting in the right place! Thank you!
In my novel, “The Grand Life of a Perfect Rose,” Ms. Rose Erikson bubbles with a delightful, “pollyanna-ish” perspective on life. Often, you will hear her say, “Isn’t it just grand!”
However, beneath the cheerful exterior is a poignantly insecure woman striving to be the perfect person she imagines her deceased mom must have been. Rose’s unrealistic goal thwarts her naturally upbeat spirit and threatens to drive away the one man she dearly loves, Jeremiah Menoir.
Jeremiah is a seminary student facing a life-challenge. To find his own career path, he risks disappointing his family’s all-consuming expectations. The sweet courtship of Rose and Jeremiah takes place in a fictional village in Ohio during America’s Great Depression of the 1930s. Their lives are filled with inventions we now take for granted and with objects we now call antiques.
I had so much fun mapping the village and creating its charming characters. “The Grand Life of a Perfect Rose” is a finished manuscript, waiting to be found by a literary agent; however, my current WIP, “Just James,” is a second story centering on characters introduced in the first novel.
.
“The Grand Life of a Perfect Rose” contains a sub-plot where Jeremiah’s best friend prayerfully helps him to solve a mystery that has plagued their families for decades. Jeremiah learns how his father died and what drove an angry wedge between his grandfather’s trusted employee and his friend’s uncle. Jeremiah’s efforts bring reconciliation to the uncle and the employee.
During their faith journeys, young Rose and Jeremiah find the confidence in the Lord that had been missing in their lives. The two mature into resilient people of courage and accomplishment, and their charming love triumphs. “The Grand Life of a Perfect Rose” is an inspiring story of love, faith, and forgiveness.
I hope it will enrich the life of every reader.
Linda Elliott Long
Hi Linda, Sounds like a very good story! Post an excerpt of it sometime when you feel ready.
Wow! I love Nic, and I love Sophie! I want to be either of them, or both of them. And I certainly want to read more. Thanks so much for sharing this bit. I’ll try to get brave and send you a 500-word piece of Auntie Ree’s House, my very first try at writing a book of fiction. Everything I know about this process I’ve learned from you, and I love it that I get to follow your blog and keep learning.
Hi Sherry! Thanks so much for the kind words about my story! Can’t tell you how glad I am to learn that the blog is helpful to you.
Just adding on to get notifications…forgot to check the box on my post.
*Also, I love how much your WIP Wednesday has grown 🙂 🙂 🙂 It’s so cool to read from all these writers!
Now that I have read every entry I want to say thank you for sharing to everyone! I enjoy this Wednesday ever time. ?
Love and strength to all of you who go through difficult times, too!
The Death of Sister Maria Garnier was a tragedy for Father Paul-Henri Badeau. Although he did not know her, she was his mother. The startling news came to Father Paul in the form of a confession. Father Joseph Corolère, a fellow priest and Father Paul’s senior by several decades, had related the sordid details of his birth, in an effort to temper the younger Priest’s volatile behavior. The sought for behavioral change did not come. In fact, it made things worse. Father Paul’s world was unraveling. He was an orphan, that is what he had been told all his life. His father and mother were unknown, and he had been entrusted to the good graces of the Jesuits. But it was all a lie, and Father Corolère, a friend and mentor of Father Paul, knew the truth and kept it from him. The betrayal was even deeper and tragic. For most of his life, his father and mother had lived no farther than ten miles from the diocese in which he served. Unbeknownst to him, he had met and interacted several times with his father, the now deceased Bishop of Montauban. Those encounters with Monsignor Nicolas Claude Guerin were short and lamentable. The Monsignor was a terrible man, according to Father Paul’s recollection, impatient and indignant and he wore that disposition as clearly as the collar around his neck. Father Paul isolated himself in his room for days without food or drink, devastated over this revelation. Then Father Corolère died and with him any further information regarding his family. However, inquiries regarding his mother had borne fruit. She was still alive, barely and living in the convent at Saint Pierre.
Father Paul had spent a fortnight in her presence. When it was told to Sister Garnier that her son had come to visit her, she mustered up the remaining life within herself to see him and to talk with him and confess to him. But there was no other time in her life that she was happiest than that spent with her son as a baby and now as a man. Unfortunately, the stress and the joy had hastened the end for her, and Father Paul was present, at the end, at her bedside. He held on to her sinewy hand, which was as cold as the room in which she spent the final few months of her life wasting away. As he gripped her listless hand and studied her frail, weakened face, he was struck by her beautiful young eyes, eyes that seemed to be fixed on his face. But he could not tell whether she was looking at him or through him. He wondered what joys and tragedies those young eyes had seen, what memories or nightmares they captured. Her breathing was so feeble that from one moment to the next, he could not discern if she were alive or dead. But almost imperceptibly, her hand clasped his. She drew in a difficult breath as deep as her frail body would support, which seemed to strain all the lingering life out of her and with it; she whispered a sound, scarcely a word, and she went limp.
Middle Grade novel: The Witch of Eynhallow Sound
When owls are restless, the dead will rise. (Traditional Orkney lore)
Chapter 1: The owls are restless
The witch comes for my sister on the dank October day we bury our grandmother: with sea-mist swirling in from the Sound, as though a curtain has been drawn between us and the rest of the world. It is Autumn, but there are no leaves to fall. Few trees manage to stand against the slamming, salt-laden onslaught of the wind. My sister is braver than me, prettier, more popular. She’s the fastest runner for her age at school and captain of both hockey and netball teams. Rory beat me into the world by twelve minutes and has been the leader ever since. So, when the witch comes hunting, of course she chooses her instead of me.
My teeth are gritted so hard I can barely spit out the words.
“I’m sick of it. It happens all the time.”
Mum wipes a hand over her red-rimmed eyes. “Luna—”
“Every single old biddy at the funeral said it.” I know I should stop, but the words keep blasting out like pieces of shrapnel. “Twins? Ye’re pulling my leg. You can’t be the same age. You don’t even look like sisters.” My face is tight and hot.
Mum sucks in a deep breath and pulls me to her. She twirls a lock of my dark hair. “You need to stop comparing yourself to Rory. You are both—”
We both look up as my sister tumbles into the kitchen, blonde ponytail swinging wildly. She slams the door and races to the window.
“That bird dive-bombed me. It swooped right at my face.” She is breathing hard, her colour high. “I thought it was going to get caught in my hair.”
Mum lets me go and peers at the bird on the fence post.
“It’s just a cattie-face. An owl. They don’t attack people.” A frown crinkles her forehead. She takes the car keys from Rory’s hand.
“I’ll get the jackets then.” She keeps a wary eye on the bird, but it doesn’t even look at her, nor at me waiting just outside the door. Its piercing gaze never wavers from the window where my sister stands.
The wind is rising, chilling my face with icy fingers, smelling of salt and seaweed. At least it has blown this afternoon’s heavy mist back out to sea. Dusk is falling quickly, as it does this time of year in Orkney. I turn to follow Mum inside, when something flickers at the edge of my vision. Like a wraith, another bird glides to perch on the fence. Then comes a third, soaring silently, wings spread. The owls are mottled brown with pale faces like death-masks and huge amber eyes, kohl-rimmed. I stand a moment at the cottage door, watching them, while they watch Rory.
This is a chapter of a YA novel I call Underground, about magic bricks, time travel, and two contemporary teenaged girls who begin on a Seattle Underground tour, and end up in 1901 in the Portland Shanghei tunnels. This is a chapter that sheds light on why the hero’s dad left without saying goodbye, her impetus for crossing the threshold, if you will. Thanks for this sharing space! Very cool! 🙂
The moon hung in the midnight sky, as Jim Stewart knocked on the door at house number 377.
“Figures.” He wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and blew his nose. “This always happens during a full moon.”
He stood on the cement steps the white window frames a stark contrast to the red brick walls that rose into the dark night. Why had he walked out? Because Sam couldn’t know about the bricks. She was already suspicious about the disappearing names, and he had to protect her from family curse as long as he could.
“It’s unlocked,” a woman’s voice called. “Come in.”
Of course, it was unlocked. What did she have to fear? He opened the door, the scent of lavender enveloping him. She used the same fragrance on her cards and the notepaper. Why did everything have to be such a secret. He was tired of keeping secrets, but Sam’s safety depended on it. He gritted his teeth as he stepped into the entry.
Carol’s safety depended on secrecy too. His chest ached with this forced deception. He’d never lied to Carol or Sam, but the Roman Bricks and lavender notes . . .
He gazed at the fire casting a yellow glow on the woman sitting in her chair. She’d give him his orders and if he wanted his life back and his family safe, he’d follow her instructions. He had no choice.
He hung his coat on a hook in the entry before striding into the living room. The woman sat dwarfed by the overstuffed chair, a purple afghan across her lap.
He crossed the room in four steps and bent to kiss the cheek she offered. “Good evening, Aunt Eli,” James said.
With shaking hands, she pushed on the arm rests trying to stand. He put a hand on her shoulder, and she clasped his hand with her gnarled fingers. The Family Bible lay open in her lap and a shiver shook his tall frame.
“They’re disappearing, you know.” She ran her hand over the pages of the family tree.
Her words left him hollow, and his heart seemed to stop then begin to race. What was she telling him?
“Does that mean?” His throat went dry.
“Yes. Someone has used the bricks.” She gazed up at him, her pale blue eyes steady. Her face sagged with ninety-two years of holding secrets.