Hey, brilliant writers…it’s Work in Progress Wednesday!
I do have some new blog followers, so let me explain that on the first Wednesday of every month, I share a snippet of a work in progress and invite you to do the same.
Occasionally, comments are slow to load. If you’re not seeing your comment appear right away, copy and save your writing so you don’t lose it, and then refresh your browser; it may show up! (But if you accidentally double post, don’t sweat it; I’ll just delete the duplicate comment for you.)
Here are the WIP Wednesday rules!
•This is really just for works in progress, so don’t post excerpts for work that’s already published or up for pre-order.
•Keep your excerpt to 400 words or fewer. If you post a longer piece, I may trim it.
•Don’t post scenes with gore or adult content. You wouldn’t think that children and teenagers would read blogs, but sometimes, they do! Grown-up language and innuendo are both fine.
•Feel free to link to your author social media account, author website, or blog, but don’t like to work for sale.
•Don’t offer suggestions or criticism to other writers. We’re often sharing work that’s not ready for critique. However, saying something kind will bring you good writing luck!
This excerpt is from my romcom that centers on the making of a made-for-TV Christmas movie. I am freshly inspired now that I’ve been to an actual movie set like this! In this scene, my heroine and many cast and crew members arrive at what will be their accommodations during the shoot. Luke is the leading man who regrets agreeing to do the movie.
We pulled into a parking lot in front of what looks like a tiny train station. A little ways behind it, a train engine stands on patch of gravel.
The driver keeps the engine running. “Is this the right place? Do you want to check the map again?”
“This is it!” I say brightly. “The Whistle Stop Lodge. I mean, there’s a train right there, and it’s very…station-y.”
They all stare at the place, dumbfounded.
Jessica says, “This looks…small.”
It does. I thought I reserved all ten rooms. Where are they? Is this a hostel packed with bunk beds?
We get out of the van and get our suitcases and then they follow me to the front door, like I’m the teacher on a field trip. We troop into a wood-paneled lobby, and I put on a huge smile as I approach the gray-haired man behind the desk. He’s dressed like a conductor from some past era, with a flat-topped cap.
“Hi!” I say. “I’m Betty Bailey, from Heart and Hope Channel, and I think you have reservations for us?”
He’s already nodding. “Yes, we’ve got a car for each of you.”
“I’m sorry, a car?”
His eyes light up. “Each room is a refurbished vintage train car! Mostly cabooses, but a few boxcars. You didn’t see them behind the engine out there?”
“Ohhh,” Alan says, as I answer, “No, it was dark.”
“I’ve loved trains since I was a boy,” he declares. “My wife and son and I built this inn, car by car. It’s my dream come to life.”
I want to hug him. This is so sweet. And I’m a little jealous. How often do you meet someone who made their dream come true?
“Coffee is available twenty-four seven in the dining car,” he declares. “And tomorrow we’ll have our folk music open mic there.”
“That’s neat,” Alan says warmly, though nobody else looks enthused. “Jessica, why don’t you check in first?”
As Jessica speaks with the conductor, Luke mutters under his breath, “This would be a great setting for a horror movie.”
I grit my teeth. It’s not like there’s a Four Seasons in this neck of the literal woods.
“I think it’s more Wes Anderson,” I murmur. The only murder here will be me murdering him with kindness. I add sweetly, “But I know this must be intimidating for someone as sheltered as you.”
Do you feel like sharing an excerpt? Go ahead, in a comment below!
If you prefer, you can also just tell us about how your writing is going, or about your plans for the rest of the summer, or anything else! Thanks so much for stopping by, and have a great rest of your week!
Hello everyone, I’m new to Bryns blog. I like writing poems and stories. I’m in England
David, hi! Welcome to the blog! I’m sorry your comment got stuck in moderation, but that won’t happen again. 🙂 It’s been years since I’ve written poems regularly, and I miss it. It’s so nice to have you here!
Bryn, I love this excerpt from your book. And that last line about being sheltered makes me love Betty already.
Here’s my excerpt from a paranormal romance:
“Why don’t you come for the weekend in a couple weeks? I’m sure Mika would love meeting both of you.”
Cara hoped Neil would agree to meet his mother’s new boyfriend. He couldn’t expect Laura to remain single for the rest of her life. She studied him and rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. “Should we do it?”
He huffed out a breath. “Okay. I want to meet the man you’re dating.”
Laura raised her brows. “I never got to meet any of the girls you were dating.”
“That’s because none of them were permanent.” He stared into Cara’s eyes, his expression filled with love, melting her heart. “None of them was Cara.”
“Cara was always special to you. Even Savannah noticed it.” Her eyes glazed as if she was seeing something inside herself. “She said that someday when your age difference no longer mattered that you two would find each other again.”
Cara glanced at Neil with wide eyes, then focused on Laura. “Mom knew Neil and I would end up together?”
“Mom, you never told me that,” Neil said at the same time. “Do you know how many nights I tossed and turned thinking Cara was either dead or being tortured? You could have saved me years of pain.”
She could’ve been tortured and they still got together, but Cara wouldn’t tell Neil that.
Laura pushed her chair back, circled behind Cara, and gave her son a hug. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t sure if it was wishful thinking or a premonition. When she said it, Cara was still home, so you two finding each other didn’t even make sense. By the time Cara vanished, I’d forgotten about it. I only remembered this morning when you called to tell me you and Cara were together.” She hugged him again. “And I’m delighted.”
Neil grinned at Cara. “I’m pretty happy about it myself.”
Hi Debby! Aww. Great scene. I love the Mom’s intuition! Thank you for posting! I hope everything is good with you!
Interesting setting! I wonder if there is such a place!
Hi Tanya! Someone told me about an inn made out of converted train cars, and there are lots of Airbnbs that are converted train cars! I really want to stay in one sometime!
https://www.paradisestation.us/motel-cabooses
I seriously want to go there!
It’s an hour from me.
Bryn, Didn’t know where to ask a question, so I’m doing it here. First of all, I love and very much appreciate you creating this site for us. Now,… Could you tell me what is the word count limit for our snippets?
Hi Judith! It’s 400 words. 🙂 Thank you!
I love the idea of the rooms being refurbished train cars! That sounds so cool!
Here is an excerpt from my most recent chapter. In it, Hildreth encounters a vampire in an alley….
//////////
“Filthy hunter.”
“Tsk. You have no idea how many vampires call me that. Couldn’t you be a little more creative?” The city lights disguised the hunter’s hair color. His eye color was a mystery as well. But the shape of his face…
The vampire laid his hand above his heart and sat up to get a better look. “I know you.”
“Not likely. I’ve never met you before.”
He frowned at the man’s dry wood and raspberry jam scent. “No, I’ve never met you before either. I would remember that scent. But your face….” The hunter was no longer holding his weapon, but that didn’t mean he was no longer a danger. The vampire kept his heart shielded as he stood. “That face….”
The hunter’s shoulders tensed up. If he were a cat, his fur would be bristling. “What about my face?”
“The shape of your eyes. The angle of your jawline.”
The hunter’s expression changed.
There is uncertainty in his eyes. Tension.
Fear.
The vampire’s frown lifted. “That fear….yes. I know it. I’ve seen it before.”
“Of course you have, vampire.” The fear in his eyes was there in his voice as well. “I’m sure you’ve seen it many times in your victim’s eyes.”
“I have. Yes. But there is one. Only one that I’m thinking about. I remember…her.”
Hi friend! Ohh, this is intriguing. I love “If he were a cat, his fur would be bristling,” and “dry wood and raspberry jam scent” is so original. I always love it when you post! Hope you’re having a good summer!
Love to read all these excerpts of WIP! They all encourage me to keep at it–thanks.
Here’s my 400– from a mystery story I’m writing about NYC East Village art scene in 1980s.
…
“I created a monster,” DC muttered as she took the last swallow of her beer. In ’82, when she landed in New York Avenue A and 11th Street sported kids breakdancing –while their brothers stood catty corner, selling weed and keeping watch. Not tonight. Tonight, there were only long black cars depositing yuppies in bespoke suits looking for the next new thing.
DC pulled her own natural auburn hair into a high ponytail, the scrunchy shining gold against it. New York’s infamous Indian summer was here—so it would be hot in Ronnie’s gallery. DC wasn’t a tall girl and she wasn’t thin. ‘Healthy’ is what the Puerto Rican boys said. It was a compliment. DC adjusted the patent belt on her favorite polka-dot swing dress –actual thrift store vintage, not boutique like some of the outfits she’d seen at the two openings she’d covered earlier. Ronnie Friedman Gallery was her third.
DC smiled down at the polka dots, winking on their black background. She loved this dress–it made her feel ready for anything.
But was she really ready for this crowd?
“DC,” a rumbling bass voice interrupted her thoughts. “What a mob.”
DC turned toward the speaker, a very tall, very blonde, Viking type in de rigueur black jeans and tee shirt. “Hi, Ryker. Nice to see you too. And you and Lyla should be thanking me —it’s your art in there.”
Ryker lit a cigarette and stood stock still, glaring at her with ice green eyes. An unnerving stare–if DC didn’t know he was steeling himself to glad-hand all those uptown collectors. They were all here to buy a painting from the hottest artist in the East Village: Ryker vanderLunt. In the flesh.
“Your review did this” no accusation in his voice. He took a drag and made air quotes with long fingers. “Refreshingly beautiful with something to say.”
“Honestly, Ryker, I was talking about you –not your work.” DC retorted with a wink. “Come on, let’s brave the mongrel hordes. I see pink hair and electric blue—must be Lyla in there. And, I hope Ronnie has something stronger than beer.”
Ryker crushed out his cigarette with one fierce stomp, and in they went.
Later, after Ronnie had been found sprawled on his gallery floor, his head bashed in, and the Post splashed “Alphabet City Atrocity” across every headline–later, DC, Ryker and Lyla would remember the crowds, the pounding beat and the smarmy guys in suits.
@jfalcofiction
I am intrigued! Also, I love that last line.
Hi Josephine! Seeing everyone else’s work inspires me, too! 🙂 I love the authentic art-crowd scene, and “I was talking about you” made me smile! I wasn’t prepared for the end. I hope we get to see more!
From my cozy contemporary paranormal romance: Divorce, Spells, and Other Hazards.
The paper fluttered in the breeze as I reached up and tore it from where it was nailed to the door. Immediately, I recognized her mother’s handwriting.
Darling, Sorry we couldn’t be here to see you. We had something come up last minute. The key for your house is under the purple flower pot so no one gets it. See you when we get back. Love always, Mom and Dad.
I rolled my eyes at Mom “hiding” the key. It wasn’t like they didn’t know every single person in this town. It took a moment to locate the purple pot, because there were three, and just as I was walking back to the SUV, another car pulled up behind us. This one, I didn’t recognize, but I certainly knew the person who was driving. And it was certainly not the first person I wanted to talk to when I returned to her hometown after being away for twenty years.
The car itself was a bright orange that likely glowed in the dark. The woman exited the car before leaning back in to grab a shoulder bag the size of a small country. It was shiny patent leather in traffic-cone orange, complete with a lighter colored stripe down the center. Whether that design choice was intentional or not, I might never know, but that’s what I chose to believe. If the car and the purse didn’t complete the job of fusing the retinas of everyone within viewing distance, and then some, the tightly pressed tangerine pant-suit, complete with orange kitten heels, certainly would. To complete the ensemble, a creature roughly the size of an engourged dust bunny and just as fluffy, poppep it’s head out of the bag, shaking its orange rhinestone encrusted collar.
“My goodness. Iris, is that you?”
“Hello, Cynthia. You are positively visible.”
By now, I was back by my car, waiting for my cousin to reach us. Cynthia stopped a few feet away, looked back at the trailer, then at the car, then at the house, twice before meeting my gaze again.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t park here.”
Hi Donna! I love your title, and I smiled at the thing about hiding the key. 🙂 You have a great sense of humor! This is a lot of fun. I hope we get to see more!
This is an excerpt from my ongoing novel “Her Hidden Star.” I took Julie in a different direction and it’s created some really great stuff. I actually wrote this scene ahead. It’s about halfway through the book.
Violet gave a gummy smile as if agreeing. Julie opened the diaper bag and took out a dark pink knit sleeper, a pack of wipes, and a stack of diapers.
Violet chewed on Lammy’s ear while Julie stripped off Violet’s T-shirt and pants, leaving her to sit in a diaper that smelled like it needed to be changed quickly. Julie laid her on her back and unfastened the diaper. It was more than a little damp. Before she could reach for a diaper, her phone rang. Harrison.
She pressed the speaker button. “Hey, babe.”
“How’s my girl?” Harrison asked.
Raising a child on my own who was neglected by her grandmother. You?
Julie took off Violet’s diaper and rolled it up, securing it back together with the original tabs. ”Good. Just settling in for the evening. How’s filming?”
”Good,” Harrison said. “Joanie and I had a really great fight scene earlier today. That’s all I can say.”
Julie unbuttoned a dark pink sleeper. “You and Joanie do fight well together. Almost as good as your romantic scenes.”
”That one is later tonight. Or tomorrow. We’re a little behind today.”
Julie slipped the sleeper over Violet’s arms and gently folded her legs into the leg holes. “Are you all ever on time?”
”Hey, we’re not always behind,” Harrison playfully joked. “We at least make it to airtime.”
Julie zipped the sleeper up and picked up Violet who rubbed her eyes. Julie eased herself off the bed and carried Violet to her playpen.
“Do you get to go home soon?” Julie asked. She gently laid Violet on her back.
“If we ever get this scene done.”
Shayley’s voice interrupted. “Hey, Harry. Who you talking to?”
“Julie. You want to say hi?”
”No. I want to run lines with you.”
Harrison returned to the call. “I’m sorry babe. I guess we’re starting up again. Call you tomorrow?”
”Yeah. Have a good night. Love you.”
”Harrison! Let’s go!,” Shayley said. “You’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
”Love you.” The call abruptly ended.
Julie looked down at Violet, fighting to keep her eyes open. Her tiny hands curled into little fists and her eyes instantly closed. Her body relaxed into a sweet baby cocoon. Julie rubbed her back.
“We’ll get this figured out, baby,” Julie promised. “This won’t be forever.”
The line about raising a child on her own is supposed to be in italics as it’s a private thought but it didn’t transfer over.
Hi Megan! Haha, you write about the baby in such a vivid, real way. I love what Julie thinks and doesn’t say. Great excerpt! I hope everything is going good with you!
It isn’t clear to me if this is where I submit my WIP–oh well, forgive me if I’m in the wrong place!
I’m currently working on multiple manuscripts. This give me some flexibility on what I work on on any given day. One of my manuscripts is a parody of the Romantasy genre. Another is an actual Romantasy novel, designed as a sequel to the parody. A third is a horror story about a warehouse monster. And the fourth is the third book in a series that parodies hard SciFi. Yeah, I like to make fun of things, having been raised on Mad Magazine and The Nationl Lampoon. My manuscripts are usually a mashup of genres; the Romantasy novels are also Historical novels, as I set them in the time of the Aztec empire. And my SciFi novels are mixed with Urban Fantasy. So I struggle when someone asks, “what genre is your story?” I’m not sure declaring a genre is necessary, but I suppose when it comes to marketing, it’s essential.
Here’s my excerpt from the Warehouse Monster story:
The Chickasaw medicine man shuffles a little dance with his feet and the unwieldy costume swings and swoops.
“Haaaa, aaahhh yahhhaaa yahhaaa yahhaaa!” he shouted. “Hoo, ooohhh, yohhooo, yohhooo yohhoo,” say the People in unison. A large bon fire burns aggressively, and the medicine man comes perilously close to the lascivious flames. The People gathered for the ceremony gasp at the appropriate moments as the medicine man works and weaves his way through the ritual. The medicine man is an imposing figure in his get up. The headpiece makes him over twelve feet tall, and with the long dragging tail, he is twenty-five feet of imposing presence. One little man inside a giant costume. It is as it has always been and always shall be.
“My brothers,” he says in a loud voice, “it is that time. Time when we honor the great god Rotor. The time when we stand back and look at our work and appreciate what we have accomplished.”
The People watch attentively as the medicine man delivers his soliloquy. This is an important event. At every season’s turn, the medicine man and the People gather to pay tribute to the great god Rotor. Portions of the harvest and the hunt are separated and placed in a specially constructed structure. The tribe worked for weeks making ornaments and idols for the ceremonial hut. They fill the hut with baskets of corn and berries and meat on the designated day, and the great god Rotor comes for it. The medicine man would have his ceremony and the next day: gone. Everything. The hut. Its contents. Gone. Vanished.
Many a Person had tried to stand post to the offering throughout the night, to see what happens. They were never seen again. After a time, it became an acceptable mystery to the Chickasaw People. The offerings were made and nobody tried to solve the mystery.
Hi Billy! Welcome to the blog! Sorry your comment got stuck in moderation for an hour there. 🙂 Now that I’ve approved a comment of yours, that won’t happen again. So you are like me…I like to toggle between projects!
An Aztec Empire setting is so different! I bet the research is difficult, but fascinating, too. I love the idea of the disappearance after the ceremony. Thank you for posting!
What a super excerpt! The place sounds awesome and I like the hint of a setting for a horror movie. Here is an exceprt from my WIP, Amanda in Thailand: The Spirit House.
“What’s that?” Amanda asked, pointing to a small building that looked like a dollhouse.
“Oh, that’s a ghost house,” said Leah’s uncle Chris. “Folks in Thailand believe that they can keep ghosts or spirits out of their houses and places of business by providing them a place to live.”
Amanda pushed up her glasses with her middle finger. “That’s so cool.”
She got out her phone and took a picture. She had just arrived in Thailand, and was spellbound by all the colours and different sights.
“Be prepared to answer lots of questions, Uncle Chris.” Leah pulled her blond hair back into a ponytail. “Amanda loves history and is very nosey.” She giggled.
Amanda punched her friend’s arm. “I’m just curious, that’s all.” She turned to Chris with a grin. “Thanks for inviting me. I love Thailand already.”
“No problem. I figured Leah would get bored on her own with her old uncle. We have some fun things planned, though. Do you like elephants?”
“Do I? I was really hoping to see some while I was here.”
“My wife’s daughter volunteers at an elephant sanctuary, so I’m sure we can arrange a visit.”
Amanda’s eyes lit up. “That would be so awesome. I don’t want to ride on one though. I read that it’s not good for them.”
“No one is allowed to ride them here any more, but you can feed them.” He pulled into a parking lot. “Let’s stop and get a bite to eat before I take you to my home. This restaurant is very good and has a nice variety on the menu. I’m sure you’ll find something you like. They grow their own herbs and produce right here.” He pointed to rows of green plants growing beside the restaurant.
“Look, there’s another one of those ghost houses!”
Amanda pointed to a miniature pagoda perched on golden columns. Tiny brass Buddha figures sat in front, as well as trays of fruit and vegetables. A figure ran out from behind and disappeared down the street.
“Did you see that?” she asked Leah.
“What?”
“Someone had been hiding behind the spirit house.”
Leah shrugged. “Probably a kid – or maybe a ghost.” She winked.
Hi Darlene! I hope everything’s good with you! This is such a great way to learn about new cultures. I never heard of the ghost houses before! I’m glad they’re going to an elephant sanctuary, where elephants are treated with respect. 🙂 Thank you for sharing!
My latest excerpt “Urgent Wilderness Search” is set in Merseyside and told by Ruby, whose best friend has gone hiking deep into the wilderness with her boyfriend for what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend adventure in the Lake District. Ruby tries to reach Amy, since there is an urgent piece of information that Amy absolutely needs to know as soon as possible:
I stared at my phone, willing the screen to light up. Nothing.
What in hell’s name are they playing at?
I hit call again.
In sheer frustration, I allowed the ringing to sound for one minute or two. Then, straight to voicemail: “The person you are trying to reach is unavailable…”
After the beep, I left an urgent message. Amy, I’ve been trying to get through to you for God knows how long. “Please ring me back as soon as possible.”
Then I tried texting: TURN YOUR PHONE ON. CALL ME. IT’S IMPORTANT.
The message sat there with a lonely grey “Sending…”
No delivery. I tried calling one last time.
“Come on, Amy, for fuck’s sake! Pick up your phone!”
Then it hit me. No service.
After all, she’d already warned me before they left: “Once we get past the trail head, we’re basically disappearing off the grid until Sunday due to heavy blizzards.”
At the time, she’d sounded prepared. To a lesser extent, adventurous. Thrilled, maybe. Now I felt sick.
It had started forty minutes earlier with a knock on the door of my flat. I had opened it to find Craig’s twin sister, standing outside, pale enough that freckles floated across her face like ash. “Donna?”
“Have you spoken to Amy today?”
“No. Why?”
Donna swallowed hard. “I found this.” She then handed me a folded envelope she’d discovered whilst grabbing camping gear from Craig’s garage.
Across the front, in Craig’s handwriting: IF I DON’T COME BACK.
Hi Amy! Oh, I love missing persons stories. I can really feel the frustration and anxiety as she tries to get through to her friend. Thank you for sharing!
Bryn, for a break from editing “City of Big Swindlers”, I unearthed the start of a historical novel I wrote after eight days in Venezuela in 2015. I had placed it aside after outlining and writing two chapters because, as you know, historic research is fascinating yet devours time. Set in 1928, the beginning of “Starving the Locusts”:
I peered over a mossy gravestone at the rear of the police station.
Alejandro didn’t waver from his rifle scope as he spoke low. “College boy, you never killed before, have you? A man, I mean.”
I hesitated. The muddy pair of tracks we gazed over, the Avenida Francisco de Miranda, were less impressive than the avenue’s namesake Miranda, our tragic hero of independence whose tricolor, seven-star Venezuelan flag flapped from a pole leaning off the station’s roof.
My shaking hand eased off the trigger to squash a half-dozen mosquitoes attracted by my profuse sweat. My other hand gripped the Mauser’s barrel that leant against the slimy 1732 gravestone of Senor Contreras, the town’s founder. I didn’t want to sound like the kid the nickname “college boy” implied, being 19-years old. So, I lied. “Lots of men.”
Alejandro laughed in disbelief. “Good. There should be lots of policemen in there. About six.” The uncertainty of “should” quickened my heartbeat.
The odor of manure and breakfast arepas wafted through the humid air from the gaggle of frame houses behind the adjacent church. The first rays of what already felt like a stifling day cut through the intermittent clouds, over hills dotted with pines and groves of figs and papaya trees.
I hadn’t slept all night. “We’re supposed to attack at dawn.”
Alejandro patted his mustache and shook his long ebony hair. “No hay problema. Manuel be here soon.” The plan sounded simple: we nine would surprise the police, steal the station’s guns and distribute them to the citizens who’d rise in sympathy against dictator Juan Gómez. In the twenty years since his bloodless coup of 1908, there’d been no elections. At the edge of the cemetery, a stray dog rushed a squirrel. There was no activity visible in the police station.
We’d planned to bivouac here a few minutes before our attack. We’d cut the important Maracaibo-Caracas road snaking through town.
I sighed. “They’re late. Was there was a problem at the railroad?”
Our leader, Manuel, and two others would first remove crossties to cut the tracks before joining us to attack the police station. Their sabotage would derail the expected troop reinforcements en route to Maracaibo. A handful of rebels were supposed to hold the derailed federal troops at bay, though I thought that was un poco optimistic. A wrinkled man burdened by a sack of potatoes limped past the station without detecting us.
I whispered, “Have you killed a man?”
“In Brazil, in Manáos. Ah, the rubber business! Did I tell you about me and them tappers?”
“Uh, what about the other cities? Manuel wouldn’t tell us about Maracaibo-“
“A former gov’ment minister’s coming from Mexico on a”—he patted his rifle—”gunboat.”
John, hi! (I guess your comment got held in moderation because my blog didn’t know your email address, but it does now!) I love returning to an earlier WIP, and I think people sometimes wind up with amazing books when they do that! What a fascinating setting. Great details. Love “un poco optimistic,” haha. Thank you for posting!
Love it.
There’s actually a place like that in Ronks, PA. It’s not far from the Strasburg steam engines and the Pennsylvania RR museum. https://www.paradisestation.us/motel-cabooses
I’m late to the party again. Your story excerpt is cool, in at first capturing their initial disappointment and then seeing how the train-car based living quarters were such a special surprise.
In other news, I’m going to put more emphasis on journaling in the coming days. I’ve got your journal prompt book, Dreams Come True and plan to use it with the book The Daily Stoic and a few others so I can flex my quite atrophied my writing muscles and give myself the boost I need to get through a long period of unproductiveness and distraction.
Again, I know this is late, but here’s more on my Zoey Chronicles story with me building up her origins.
Everyone at the Blackwater Training Center, in Myock North Carolina were dudes. Lots of alpha males, with big builds. She knew she stood out like a red thumb, being a petite Korean-American, who without makeup (which she rarely wore) looked like a late teenager instead of a mid-twenty something.
“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” one of her range neighbors asked her.
“7-Eleven,” she joked, ripping off a joke from Back to the Future III.
Obviously the man was in private security, like many of the others (some police officers too), she tried to get the conversation off of her and about anything else. Before she could think of a topic to turn to he popped his next question.
“You going to participate in the CQB course?”
“I’m not sponsored or with a team here; this is a vacation gift to myself. Figured I’d do some shooting on the range and some tactical driving. I’m pretty good at crashing my car so figured why not do it for fun for a change.”
“You in police work or something?”
“No, I’m a product manager at a telecom R&D firm in Greater Boston.”
“Telecom. Interesting. I run a company called TrueForce Tactical. We’re security contractors and we do work all over the world; not so much in the Middle East, though. Why don’t you sit down with me and my guys for lunch? Have a beer or two.”
“Sound good.”