Last month I asked people to share a bit of their work in progress–and they did! It was so much fun and so inspiring, so I’m doing it on the first Wednesday of every month.
I’ve been working really hard on a nonfiction book, so I’m going to share a paragraph from my completed paranormal romance, The Phoenix Codex, which is the first in a planned trilogy. It still really is a work in progress, because I’m always fiddling with it and making tiny changes. Is that the way you are, too? The poet Paul Valery said once that “A poem is never finished – only abandoned,” and I think perhaps a novel is never finished until it’s published.
Anyway, here’s a little bit of it!
His gaze on me was steady. “What are you thinking about?”
“You’re the mind reader,” I said.
A whisper of a smile crossed his face. “I can’t do it without physical contact.”
My heart stuttered. “That’s what I was thinking about.”
He crushed my lips under his in a fierce kiss. Immediately, my mouth parted under his, inviting him to go deeper. Liquid heat poured through me.
Breaking off the kiss, he tugged my lower lip between his teeth, and a small sound came from the back of my throat.
I was still sitting on the edge of the low bed. He stripped off my tank top and knelt between my knees, the better to give and to take. His mouth assaulted mine again, one of his hands cupping the back of my skull, his thumb grazing across my jaw. He hauled my hips to fit against him and through his jeans, his emphatic hardness pressed against me.
I wrapped my hands around his back, then froze as I touched his stitches. Fearing I had caused him pain, I moved my hands to his shoulders instead.
Please give us some of what you’re working on in the comments! You can give us some context, or none, as you like. Less than a page, please, but if you want to share something shorter, that is fine. Last week I said five sentences, but that really wasn’t enough for people. I hope your writing is going great!
Yay, I love WIP Wednesday!
— Will Deegan’s Mustang growled through the night, the rumble of its engine soothing his sour mood. Cruising the deserted back roads was one of the few things that helped him to clear his mind and center himself.
The forest here was thick and dark, his headlights only illuminating the snow banks along the sides of the winding, rural road. As he came around the curve that locals called Suicide Bend, his headlights landed on something large and pale lying in the middle of the road.
He jammed both feet onto his brakes, and the Mustang fishtailed, tires screaming. The car stopped just short of the thing. Silence fell, the ticking of the stalled engine the only sound.
“Fuck!” His heart sledge-hammered in his chest, trying to cope with the gallon of adrenaline that had flooded his system.
He forced his fingers to release their death grip on the steering wheel, and leaned forward, looking out the windshield at the thing illuminated by his headlights.. It sprawled across the faded double yellow line in the center of the road, motionless.
No way.
Dread swam into his veins. His eyes had to be playing tricks on him.
*Had* to be.
Geez, this is great! Is this the beginning? It’s a fantastic beginning, if so!
You know one thing I don’t think about enough is the use of sound to set a scene. This is such a good example!
This is really intriguing. I want to know what–or who–was in the road!
Great idea!
After about a half hour of waiting downstairs at loose ends, I couldn’t take the thoughts running through my head anymore and I went upstairs to check on my wife. I found her still lounging in the Jacuzzi tub as it bubbled gently from the jets. She was leaned back against the far end which was along the same wall as the head of the bed. Her eyes were closed but, from the lazy circles she was drawing with the foot she had raised partially out of the water, I knew she wasn’t asleep.
I stepped into the space between the bed and the side of the tub where the water spigot was. “Dana, honey, your water’s probably getting cold.”
She half opened her eyes and looked at me. “It feels so good in here. I don’t want to move.”
I glanced at the clock on the nightstand beside the bed, between it and the tub. “It’s almost…”
I’d been about to say ‘noon’ when I checked myself and stepped over to look at the stand a little more closely. I pointed at the edge closest to Dana, “What does that look like to you?”
“What does what look like?”
“That.” I moved my finger back and forth a few inches over the trim lip of the bedside table.
She leaned over the side of the tub to get a good look, “It looks like grimy fingerprints.”
“Close, but not quite. It’s fingerprint dust that picked up some fingerprints.”
“Ewww!” Dana screwed up her face, “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Someone’s done a crappy job cleaning this place but, worse than that, it looks like a crime may have been committed here.”
Ooooooh *shiver*
Side note but: it’s so funny how I assume the “I” in a story is a woman if I think the writer is a woman. It’s a silly assumption to make, and I do it every dang time!
Actually, you were right. The ‘I’ in this story is a woman. I write lesbian themed mystery fiction.
Hmm…this is terrible, but the first thing that came to mind was the dead hooker in the mattress trope (even though it’s happened IRL several times). I wanna know what happened in that hotel room now.
It’s actually a cabin in Tennessee. They’re on their honeymoon and, since it’s a WIP, I’m still writing the book but I can tell you that it isn’t good. I write mystery fiction…
(What a great way to get to know your readers! Also, asterisks for italics, because I just had to choose a section with internal monologue…)
The warm, soft ache in her chest got Nina thinking as she moved around the campfire, checking on each sleeping person. She wondered if she was starting to thaw out with everyone. The day before, she’d wished she knew any tricks with a yo-yo so she could teach them to Aaron. He was figuring plenty out on his own, but she thought it would have been fun if she could have helped. It was definitely funny to watch when he messed up and the thing tried to run away from him. But he always wound it back up and tried again until he got it right.
She found the whole thing inexplicably charming, and it was getting under her skin.
Just like Paul.
With at least three hours until sunrise and nothing much to do except think, Nina decided it might be time to let herself think about him. She’d been trying hard not to, at least, not more than necessary for the practical, day-to-day stuff. *If Paul’s going for water, I need to give him my bottle.* She thought about him the same way she thought about everyone in their strange family—*who is where, who do I need to tell what, who needs my help with something.*
But in the snapping, leaping firelight, she settled herself cross-legged near the blaze and relaxed her guard for a while.
Paul’s eyes sprang to mind first. Nina had never met anyone with eyes like his. And it wasn’t only the strange sunlight-in-the-forest coloring, but the way he seemed to notice the smallest details about everything. He pointed out to Mark that his bootlace was fraying through before he noticed himself, so he could repair it before it split in two. He’d been the one to see Sarah left the needle in her jeans, where she’d stuck it after mending a tear in her blanket. Since Sarah had the only sewing kit, and it only had three needles, losing even one would have been bad.
Nina wasn’t comfortable feeling like Paul was always watching her. On a rational level, it wasn’t true, because he was watching the others too. After some consideration, though, she realized his outward attention wasn’t the root of the problem. What made her heart shiver and stutter was Paul’s constant awareness of her–he always knew precisely where she was in relation to him. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he could be blindfolded, spun around in a circle until he was dizzy, and still point directly at her, if he were asked to.
Which made her the donkey to pin the tail on. Nina wrinkled her nose at the unflattering comparison. But she didn’t want to be his north star, either.
Sparks…and not just from the campfire! Hahaha, thank you, I’ll be here all week 🙂
Which made her the donkey to pin the tail on. Nina wrinkled her nose at the unflattering comparison. But she didn’t want to be his north star, either. Boy I love that ending.
This is from my retelling of The Little Mermaid:
She looked out at the water again, not angry at him any longer, but pensive, sad. I’m not any of those things. I have atrocious table manners because mermaids don’t use tables, and I have scars because I’ve had to defend myself and I’m not ashamed of either of those things. I wear trousers because having legs is bad enough without swathing them in fabric, and I wear your old shirts because they smell like you. And when I want to touch you, Edmund, I’m going to let you know it because life’s too short for pretending I don’t. I don’t have a voice. I grew legs and you think I’m human. I can’t hide any more of who I am. Not to appease your parents. Not even for you.
She gave him a stern look. You have to decide what you want, she thought at him. I don’t care about anything else. I can swim against the tide, but only if you’re with me. So are you with me?
“Perfect princess,” Edmund repeated. “Pretty and demure and chaste.That’s what my parents want. Economically advantageous. That’s what Coppersea wants.” His tone was flat. Then he looked at her, eyes filled with pained longing. “But beautiful, stubborn, and a little bit wild. That’s what Edmund wants.”
Neri raised her eyebrows, thinking, me?
He whispered, barely audible against the sound of the sea. “You. Always. You being angry at me makes me want to throw myself down there.” He gestured down at the ocean.
Oh, no, thought Neri. I’m not going through that again.
I love it that she thinks, “I can swim against the tide.” It reminded me of Alyssa Day’s Atlantis series and what she does with idioms 🙂 What a fun project.
Oh my goodness, Bryn, I want to read more. Please? May I? <3
Hahaha, aww thank you! Eventually… 🙂
“So you know where you are.”
It was not a question. Invidia had said nothing to indicate she was even aware of her surroundings. More so, she didn’t understand how the woman was communicating with her at all. Invidia was still unfamiliar with the spoken dialect of the Drow tongue, and yet she understood this woman perfectly. She snapped, trying to get the Sewdamar’s attention, but the woman would not turn to face her.
“We do not communicate in the way of words and tongues, Priestess,” she explained as she poured something into a cup. “We speak in absolutes, touching the very soul of things. We deal in life and death, services and payment.”
Invidia tried to rise on her elbows to get a better look at the strange creature. Her heart pounded against her chest, that quick beat working its way into her skull to make her vision spin. A moment later, her body betrayed her. Fatigue and illness made her collapse back to the floor in defeat.
“It is better this way, Priestess,” the woman replied softly. “Better you not see what it means to court the dead.”
Oh, this is mysterious and interesting. I’m assuming fantasy? (Though I guess it could be scifi!) That last line is wonderfully ominous.
I love these sharing sessions SO much, by the by. Ty for having them! I hope this one is not too long–it’s an excerpt from a male/male sci-fi that I’m about 20K into (a pilot and spec-ops soldier sent together into deep space). I am *so* enjoying writing this one! <3 Please let me know if this excerpt is too long (for future reference).
Shura lunged for the escape pod. The airlock was already open and prepped and Cade waited inside, helmet in his hands and a scowl darkening his face. The hatch door sealed a second before the countdown timed out. “About time,” Cade glared at him. Shura panted from exertion, the cut on his side throbbing with his heartbeat.
“Shura?” Cade’s voice filtered into his awareness. “You’re bleeding like hell.”
Shura peered down at his torn uniform. A dark stain seeped over the gray flight suit. “Right. Snagged on a door.”
"You're pretty clumsy for a spook, you know" Cade teased and retrieved the first-aid kid from the locker beneath the sim-pod’s controls. “Let me have a look.”
"Yessir," Shura replied automatically, his voice shaking only a little. Cade leaned in so close Shura could smell the other man's clean sweat and something musky, almost spicy. Funny–Cade hadn’t seemed the type for scented soaps or colognes.
Shura liked it.
“Lift your arm, soldier.” Cade murmured, voice suddenly velveted. Shura stretched, the abrupt pressure of Cade's fingers on his skin shocking bright hurt and something far more pleasant through his senses. Shura moaned low in his throat, pain and pleasure an inextricable tangle in his mind.
“Dammit, Shura. You’re not making this easy,” Cade said huskily.
“Commandant–”
“*Quiet.*”
Shura closed his eyes. Having Cade so close, the pod lights illuminating the other man’s tousled blond hair and strong jaw, his careful fingers lighting here and there on Shura’s skin–it was too much. Too good. “Cade. . .” Shura whispered the other man’s name before he could stop himself. "Please. Please kiss me again. *Sir.*"
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
Jessica, I so hoped you might like it! <3
Exactly what Jessica said!! Oh my gosh. *melts*
These are all so wonderful! 😀
I agree! Just delightful and I want to read all of these books. <3
I love yours! I want to read more! Why does he have stitches?
Here’s an excerpt of my book that’s coming out this fall with Boroughs Publishing:
Luca rubbed his lips together. Her press pass dangled in between her breasts and a red
bikini flashed like a stop sign under her white dress. His hand went instinctively to his hip,
and he realized with a pang of unease that he left the gun on the terrace.
He shook his head and tried to ignore the mounting fear and the woman’s pretty face.
“I don’t want to be in the paper.”
His eyes settled on a clump of sand clinging to her knee. Luca was struck by an
overwhelming desire to brush it off with his fingers, and then run his entire hand up her
smooth leg.
She flashed a little smile and her gaze lingered on his bare chest. Her eyes shifted to
the tattoo on Luca’s left bicep.
“My name’s Skylar. You can call me Sky. I understand that you don’t want to be
quoted, but could you tell me anything off the record?”
Her eyes were pale blue, the color of the Gulf on a clear day. They were a startling and
beautiful contrast with her chestnut colored hair. She seemed safe, but one could never be sure. He stepped back, shook his head again and a smile escaped from his lips.
“I don’t do off the record. People should never talk to the media, you know.”
Thanks! He has stitches from fighting off a bear attack 🙂
Congratulations on your upcoming release! This sounds so good. I think he’s right to be careful…she sounds like trouble. Fun trouble…
Thanks! And thank you for hosting this!
Fun! Great idea, thanks! This is from a short story in progress:
It was not shaping up to be a good day for Hobby. First, he’d had his snout rapped by the boss for being late to employee pledge time. He hadn’t had his beaming face in the office doorway in time reciting sweetly along with the pledge playing over the loudspeakers, colleagues assembled along the corridor doing the same. *I’m committed to changing the world through my job. I believe in compassion, caring, conscience! I believe in Developing the Future International.* All because Admin—it sounded like the lady who wore a cat pin on her lapel, whose name he always suppressed–had called at 8:27 from the Manor to ask again did he want to sign a form for mandatory constraint? Sharon had been “visiting” residents on the floor and disturbing their sleep, peeing in their commodes, and stealing their blankets to make a nest in the solarium. She had overexcited Mr. Amato by climbing into his bed. Did he not see the need to curtail this behavior, for Sharon’s own good? No, he did not. He’d had to promise to stop by the office to “review the options” to get Catpin off the phone. By then the second stanza was well under way, and he’d missed iris scan.
Ahh thanks for sharing! I am really curious about the world of this story. And–oh, Sharon. You’re a handful. 😀
WIP Wednesday! Good idea. This section needs some help, but …
They crouched atop the wall behind thin tops of long bamboo canes and scanned the length of the opposite wall. “Can’t see shit over there. Can you see any of the others?” At least a dozen other operatives should be in place by now—he and Joana were all the way around at the back of the property. He pulled his rifle around and checked it; she did the same.
“Nope.” She thumbed a button clipped to her collar and whispered. “ETA?”
“Five seconds, Sweetheart.” Diego’s voice issued through the bud in Bryan’s left ear.
“Oooh, Sweetheart!” Lisette’s voice simpered through the same earbud, and a chorus of whispered catcalls flooded after hers.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Diego said. “You’re just jealous. You wish you had someone as fine as my wife to go home to. You lot are going to be crying yourselves to sleep tonight all alone in your beds while we—”
“Clear the channel.” Florencia’s crisp voice cut over Diego’s, and everyone fell silent. “Check in when you’re in position.”
Joana shifted as if she were trying to better balance herself atop the wall, but Bryan knew she was upset. His partner’s romance should not have happened. People had been killed for hooking up, much less getting married. But, for reasons he didn’t know, the Order had left Diego and Joana alive, even after they’d wed, though the leadership expressed their disapproval in a variety of ways. Diego responded by throwing his marriage in the leaders’ faces, but Joana grew quiet whenever it was brought up. The only fight Bryan had ever seen them have was when Diego needled their boss Florencia.
Bryan hated seeing Joana upset. It would make her feel better if he teased her and got her to vent some of that anger and frustration on him.
He manufactured a grin as if he found Diego funny, then pinched his lips between his teeth to hide the expression. Joana glowered at him. “Don’t you say a word.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He shook his head slowly, deliberately. “I like all my body parts.” He waited until she’d eased off her press-to-talk button and had returned to scanning the party before he snickered. “… Sweetheart.” Without looking in his direction she smacked his arm. “Ow!” He affected a hurt expression. “You’re leaving bruises on the bruises you already gave me with your tiny, ineffectual fists.”
Joana rolled her eyes at him. “Quit your whining. I swear, if I had known what kind of a pain in the ass junior partner I was taking on, I would have killed you years ago and put myself out of my misery.”
Eh. Bother. I didn’t edit before putting this clip up and I see now it’s hard to tell who’s who. Argh.
Honestly I had no trouble! And hey, it’s called “WIP Wednesday,” not “Perfect Finished Thing Wednesday” (which does not have nearly as good of a ring to it, haha.) I really enjoyed this. I was intrigued!
Thanks!
WIP Wednesday! Great idea! Here’s something from an ectopunk heist thing I’ve got brewing, “Box Man.” It’s the meeting-the-client scene:
Kaspar rode in Tariq’s refrigerated van, listening to the boy’s trunk skid and thump with each turn. Every time Kaspar winced, Tariq shook his head and chuckled.
“Nasty bastard, Kaspar,” he’d say. “Nasty, nasty.”
The ghoul lived in a newly-built house in a deserted suburb outside of town. Kaspar remembered something about a Superfund site, poison seeping from the stones.
The house sighed as the door opened. Tariq waited outside as Kaspar walked through a hallway decorated with gold-chased death masks and photos of suicides. The air was thick with the high, sweet smell of white flowers and old ice.
“Royal Staff asphodel.” The ghoul sat primly, long fingers plucking at each other. The ghoul’s voice rang out, clear and over-enunciated. The smartest girl in class. “Grown from cuttings taken from Lake Nemi on a new moon. The River laps against the shores of Nemi. At times. Welcome, Herr Kaspar.”
“They do love their flowers, madam.”
The ghoul laughed, a quick sound somewhere between a bark and a cough. She looked like a doll thrown from a great height, bent arms and legs shifting as she looked at Kaspar with dark, glittering eyes. He looked away slowly, taking the measure of the room. He heard tapping and quiet wheezing from a hurdy-gurdy in the corner. It began to chant as he watched, muttering “Yes, no, yes, no, no, no, yes, no” in a dozen different voices.
“My father was an arabber,” the ghoul said as Kaspar sat. The first syllable was hard, flattened. Ay-rabber. “He would put me on his cart every morning and we’d ride through the streets, hollering for trade. ‘Watermelon, watermelon, red to the rind!’ He sold flowers, fruit, vegetables.” Her face tightened as she smiled, creaking like old leather.
“And he’d steal!” The ghoul clasped her hands together, eyes gleaming. “Oh, Daddy would steal anything that wasn’t nailed down. He’d take pliers to a dead man’s mouth for the gold or chop a ring finger off of a newly-buried bride. He’d always say ‘Put in work on Monday for Sunday’s collection plate and the Lord won’t worry where it come from.’ He was a deacon, you see.”
Kaspar waited, watching Echoes twist and drift past and listening to the hurdy-gurdy mutter in the corner. One of Edison’s necrophones, or one built from his design. Yes. No. No no no. Yes. Yes. No. He’d learned to let a Mark talk.
“We’ve put in my share of work, Herr Kaspar. It’s been a long week.” The ghoul smiled, long, mismatched teeth carved with stained runes. “We’re ready for Sunday morning.”
I love this. Their voices came to life in my mind. This is great.
ECTOPUNK HEIST. That is the best phrase I’ve heard in I don’t know how long. Wow, this is so imaginative and evocative. Those descriptions! I love your style. Thanks so much for stopping by!
I love this idea! All of these WIPs are great and I want to read more. Here’s the new intro to my story, “Protecting Angels: The Wild One”.
Pony Penning Day.
A holiday where the capture and sale of feral ponies helped cull the population that lived on Assateague Island and the funds helped it’s neighbor, home to the mostly human residents, Chincoteague.
A holiday that drew tourists and horse enthusiasts alike, and the bane of Skye’s existance. After over three weeks of her mother’s worrying, the day was only hours away and it seemed that all of her lectures were to be in vain. Not even the herd’s stalker had worried her mother more than this day.
Lying on a bed of sweet marsh grass, Skye dozed for the last few hours of the night. Knowing that her friends were watching nearby made her feel secure enough in her surroundings to doze off, something she rarely did. But the night had been long, and the burn out from shifting, the herd run with Cloud and Raven, and finally spending her energy had left her beyond drained.
Flicking her ears back and forth to listen to everything around her, Skye could hear horses slowly walking through the forest directly behind her. Their hoofbeats were muffled by the sandy dirt and grass, moving silently save the brush rattling and twigs snapping as they pushed through the dense undergrowth.
She hazily wondered why the ponies hadn’t smelled her and turned around. She knew her kind’s scent upset the horses; they knew she wasn’t completely equine. To them, even though she looked like a horse, she smelled different. They considered her and her herd a threat.
With a final crashing of branches, Skye turned her head to see which horse was brave enough to come so close to her and her friends. Maybe it was Cloud and Raven, trying to sneak up on her, and the anticipation made her giddy. What she saw behind her turned her blood cold as terror froze her body in place.
Five mounted men sat on their horses, staring at her as she dumbly stared back. A fresh wave of fear, followed by a shot of adrenaline coursed through Skye’s body, forcing her to her feet in an instant. She was up and running in two seconds flat.
*The roundup riders! They’re here!* The mental herd bond magnified her fear and panic as other members called to friends and their families to make sure they were safe.
*Where?* her mother demanded, sounding every inch the lead mare.
Dodging tree branches while trying to shake her pursuers, Skye bolted into the forest. *They found me in the small field of marsh grass between the two forests,* she answered meekly, angry at herself for being so careless. After she had promised her mother she would be okay, too! I’m in the second forest trying to lose them. *Somebody help me, please!*
*I’m coming!* Raina, Raven, and Cloud shouted simultaneously.
*Go home Raven,* Raina snapped. She used her status as lead mare to make sure the subordinate filly would obey.
*NO!* Siobhan’s terrified voice filled their minds. *We’ve got company here too. The house is under attack. Raven, get off the island and hide! I would appreciate any help to fight these intruders off,* she grunted.
*You heard her,* Raina barked to the herd. *Cloud and I will find Skye. Everyone else either hide or go help at home. Siobhan, I’ll be there in a minute.*
Skye tried to ignore the impressions of the fight she felt through the bond, the rage, panic… and the screams, while dodging branches and jumping fallen logs, taking paths that any sane rider and horse would avoid, or wouldn’t fit through.
There was a sharp curse as a rider’s legs were pinned between his horse and the trees, the narrow path that had rubbed gold fur and skin off Skye’s hide far too narrow for the man’s added girth.
*Get the iron!* Mark yelled, before his voice disappeared, as if it had been muted, or blocked. One by one, the terrified minds receded from Skye’s mind, resulting in a nearly quiet bond. It terrified her more, made her more desperate to get back home.
Daring to glance over her shoulder, Skye was relieved to see there was one pursuer left- a man on a brown thoroughbred, fumbling with something on his saddle. She glanced ahead just in time to duck under a low hanging branch that scraped her crest and tugged strands of silky black mane from the roots.
Instead of the two thumps of a branch striking the rider in the head and the rider falling to the ground like she expected, there was an ominous whooshing sound. Skye looked out of the corner of her eye and caught a glimpse of what the man had been struggling with out of the corner of her eye. It was a lariat that he was swinging over his head!
Seeing the edge of the forest about fifty yards away, Skye zig-zagged as much as she could through the woods to make tossing the rope harder. She knew that once they were out of the forest on the beach, throwing the loop would be a lot easier for the cowboy without trees and bushes to get tangled in.
*I’m almost out of the forest mom, but he’s gaining on me,* Skye cried, panicking. This was her worst fear, the one her mother had drummed into the entire herd’s head since Skye’s birth. Do not get caught. Do not let humans discover your secret. The one thing her mother had never bothered teaching her was what to do on the rare chance they were captured. *He has a rope! I need help now!*
No one answered her pleas. Searching through her bond, Skye suddenly couldn’t hear or feel any of her herd mates. Not even her mother. She’d been there a minute ago! For the first time in her seventeen years of existence, she was alone. The ominent silence of the bond and the implications of that was terrifying. She should be able to fear the entire herd’s fear, panic and anger. It amped up her own and made her faster, more determined to escape. But the silence, that spoke of defeat.
Oh my gosh. I was obsessed with these ponies as a little girl (I was probably not the only one.) Mix that with a paranormal storyline? So great. Thanks so much for sharing!
As you can see, I still am 🙂 I was able to go to Assateague one year for a week long vacation. Not during Pony Penning Day, but it was still so much fun to see the wild ponies on the beach. I plan on going back one day. Thank you!
“Emphatic hardness,” I love it.
I discovered your blog today and love it. Your excerpt is fantastic – I want to read the whole thing! Trying to get back in the writing habit to finish a contemporary fantasy novel, I’ve been writing Dragon Age fan fiction. My WIP excerpt is about human mage Connor missing his dwarven best friend when a war separates them (happy ending later):
In the evenings, he found a chair deep in the shadows in the back of the Gull and Lantern tavern. After sunset, it was teeming with people and easy to remain unnoticed. Each night, he would sneak up to an upper room and lay out on a blanket under the bed, placing wards on all four sides of himself so that whoever took the bed didn’t know they shared a room. He was lucky: due to the tensions of the Magister’s occupation of Redcliffe, the tavern had no overnight visitors and the beds remained empty. He didn’t risk revealing himself to the barkeep to purchase a room himself; someone would surely recognize him and ask why he wasn’t at the castle.
In the darkest parts of the silent nights, with no people to distract him, Connor struggled with his loneliness for Dagna. He had seen her almost every day over the last decade. Since his arrival at the Tower, he had never been permitted to leave, but Dagna was an emissary of sorts and had visited five other Circles over the years. Whenever she traveled, she wrote him every day. Every single day. Each letter was chock-full of all the funny thoughts she had during the day, all the arcane wonders she studied, and the one assurance she voiced every day they saw each other:
“Don’t be scared.”
There were no letters now. He curled up on a thin cotton blanket on the cold stone floor under the bed.
I’m not scared. I miss you. Be safe.
Thank you so much for the kind words! And yay, a late entry into WIP Wednesday – what a nice surprise!
The first few sentences of this filled me with a nostalgia for a place I had never been. Well done. It really set the stage for the longing he has for Dagna. Ohh, this is so bittersweet. I have no familiarity with Dragon Age at all and I love it.
Oh! I love this idea so much I might have to incorporate it into my own blog!!!
Here’s mine, though I hate coming to the party so late – especially after such good posts!!
Rupert rapped on the roof of his well-sprung carriage, instructing the driver to let him off where they stood. The streets were much too busy as the ton returned from their country estates. He could walk the short distance quicker, never mind that Belmar would have a fit if he dared dirty the gleaming boots he wore.
The spring air was pleasant in Mayfair, carrying none of the stench found in less affluent parts of London. Here, too, the air was clear of the smoke and fog. A faint breeze carried that scent of new grass he associated with Boreham Manor, the estate Lord Westerfell had left him. The estate Father left me, he corrected with a grimace.
The blasted wager weighed heavy upon his mind, and the walk would allow him time to determine how best to repay it. Already, there was talk. And talk led to angry letters from Westerfell. How he hated lectures from his younger half brother.
An ache started at the base of his skull, and he was not sure if the blame could be too much drink, or perhaps the two names now at the forefront of his mind. Rubbing at his temple, he headed toward the small brick home on Upper Seymour Street.
“Damn and blast,” he muttered softly just before his foot caught on something and he pitched forward. Expecting to hit the hard-packed ground, his string of curses end abruptly when he landed on something soft. And voluptuously curved, he realized when his hand grazed over a mound of cotton-clad flesh.
He opened his eye, and he was adrift in an emerald sea. A breath of hot air whispered across his neck, and the body beneath him murmured something unintelligible.
Rupert rolled away instantly. He had knocked over a woman in his absent mindedness. He reached out with one hand to help her up, but she brushed him away.
“Damn and blast,” she echoed. “Quite like the sound of that.” With one hand, she brushed at the dirt on her black cloak. Seeing that it would not be so easy to clean, she untied the strings and handed it to the waiting maid. Though not wearing a starched uniform like the brunette, but her dress was shabby and faded. Perhaps they worked together, and one had changed before leaving, he thought.
“Are you hurt, sir?” She asked, her eyes sweeping him from head to toe. When those large eyes came to rest on the scarred tissue where his eye had been, she gave no sign of repulsion. She blinked twice, and he realized her eyes were different colors.
“Amazing,” he said. “I should ask you the same, miss -?”
“Sarah Patterson, sir,” she said, dipping into a quick curtsy.
Reblogged this on Laura Michaela Banse, Author and commented:
I just love this idea, so I am going to incorporate it into my own blog – once I am back to blogging. Still needing some healing, but I love and miss you all dearly!
He was not going to screw up again!
The canary yellow Post-it note attached to the windshield of his truck was the last thing he wanted to see. “Call Candace, Its very important”. With no intention of returning the call he muttered to himself “Just lose my number”.
His hand reached to grasp the note crumpling it into his fist. Nothing could be that important. Remembering the words of his friend and trusted attorney to keep his distance, not to get involved again. He had come too far to be manipulated back into the same dead end relationship. He knew her and he also knew she would not stop until she got what she wanted. Climbing into the truck he rolled the window down,and with both hands placed a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Seconds later he turned the key in the ignition. The truck hummed to life as he slowly backed out of the parking space while the note fell to the floor underneath his feet.