Hi friends! On the first Wednesday of every month, I share an excerpt of what I’m working on and invite you to do the same. It’s okay if it’s rough! Mine will always be!
It’s great to leave encouraging comments, but don’t critique anyone’s work, unless they specifically request it. This is sharing time, not uninvited beta reader time. (It is never uninvited beta reader time.)
I am working on the first draft of Wicked Garden, a romance novella about a haunting set in Savannah, Georgia. I’m hoping to have the draft complete by Monday! This is near the beginning of the story.
Ted had objected to Nicole putting luggage on a bed because he thought it was too dirty from being dragged around. That had been just another of his criticisms of her on that terrible trip they had taken together. Nicole heaved the suitcase onto the pristine white comforter. She couldn’t help but smile.
Maybe it wouldn’t take her too long to get over him, after all. As she put her clothes away in the drawers, she started to hum.
She had always loved to sing. Not that she did anything with music now. The world needed more paralegals than pop stars. But there was nobody in the house but her, and she took advantage by belting out an old song.
Oh where is Pretty Polly, oh yonder she stands
Oh where is Pretty Polly, oh yonder she stands
With rings on her fingers and lily-white hands
As she sang, she put her bras and underwear in the top drawer, including the frilly, skimpy pairs that had languished unworn lately. It was a creepy song, really, with the fiancé telling Polly he had dug her grave. She should think of a more cheerful one, but she had to finish this one first.
He threw the dirt over her, and turned away to go
Threw the dirt over her, and turned away to go
Down to the river–
Nicole stopped.
What was this song? She had never heard it before in her life.
Impossible. She knew all the words, so she must have learned it somewhere. Maybe at summer camp, or in music class.
No. They didn’t teach children songs about men murdering their fiancées. Her heart sped up, pounding against her ribs. She took in a ragged breath. What in the world—
She should leave. Just for a little bit. Take a walk around the block. But she had just gotten here.
Of course, she had learned the song somewhere. She might have heard it at a bar on open mic night, back in the days when she thought her talent and passion might be worth something. Somehow, the lyrics had stuck in her head. Why not? They were pretty hard to forget.
Her mouth was dry. She was exhausted, and thirsty. Driving from Chicago to the coast of Georgia would make anyone tired. Sure, she had split the journey into two days, staying overnight at a motel in Knoxville, but the people in the next room had been enjoying what sounded like a truly spectacular night. Nicole hadn’t gotten much sleep.
She trudged down the stairs again to get a drink of water. A strange sensation irritated her, as though she were being filmed by a hidden camera.
When she got to the bottom of the stairs, an odor hit her nostrils. Foul. The smell of a dead, rotting animal.
How had she not noticed this before?
The smell was stronger in the kitchen, although the counters and floors gleamed, clean and bare. Nicole grabbed the handle of one of the bottom cabinets, bracing for the sign of something disgusting. A dead mouse, teeming with maggots. Or a dead squirrel or raccoon.
She yanked open the cabinet door and squatted down to look. Pots and pans, nothing else. The other cabinets contained nothing out of the ordinary, either.
In the dining room, she gagged and held her nose.
The stench emanated from the flowers she had brought in from the garden.
How? Camellias smelled good, didn’t they? No one would grow them if they smelled like a putrified corpse.
Transfixed, she stared at the blooms.
They made me sing that song.
No, that’s not possible. But she needed to get rid of them.
Tossing them out the back door would just make the garden stink—or maybe it did already, and she just hadn’t noticed. She did not want to go there. Just the thought of opening the back door made her feel shaky. She couldn’t even look in its direction.
~ ~ ~
By the way, that creepy song is real. It belongs to that popular sub genre of folk songs known as “Killed My Girlfriend LOL.” It’s so old that it’s public domain, and there are a lot of different versions of it floating around. Here’s a recording of it, in case you’re interested!
What have you been working on? Please share in the comments, if you like. Happy writing!
I’m certainly intrigued by that creepy excerpt. Good luck finishing the draft.
Ah thanks so much Suzanne!
I am working with critique partners for the first time, on my 2013 NaNoWriMo project. Here’s an excerpt (can already tell I need to pare down some inner monologue):
n the months to come, Neri visited the statue nearly every day. Sometimes she hated him, looked at his pouting lips and thought, “see, someone listened when you had a tantrum,” looked at the toy in his hand and thought, “and somebody wanted you to have fun.” Stupid, spoiled human brat. She envied him so. And yet . . .
And yet over time he became her confidant of sorts. When Neri had watched for Twyla all day in vain, she shared her worries with the little stone boy. After an exciting shark encounter, she could brag about it,and know he wouldn’t lecture her for the risks she took. And when she’d not spoken to anyone else in days, when she felt voiceless and invisible, she revealed to him the secret miseries she told nobody else. What could it hurt?
The Sea Hag had told her the human world was dangerous, full of nothing but heartbreak and death. The stone boy made this difficult to believe. Neri tried to see the heartbreak lurking behind those lips, death foretold in his round cheeks , she couldn’t. Human or not, he was just a child.
She grew curious. Humans still scared her, but that fear was being overcome by fascination. Her collection of bones told only half truths; the boy’s face told her another part of the story, and she wanted to hear the end. She needed to see humans living, moving, breathing, surviving. Human children playing, human lovers embracing; she wanted to watch it all. Maybe then she could understand the differences between them, understand when the species diverged, and how.
Understand why, for the mermaids to survive, the humans had to die.
Working with critique partners for the first time is a big step 🙂 This sounds really interesting! I think it’s great that you’re taking a NaNo project to finish!
Some rough draft from my WIP.
Finally the memorial dragged to a close. Bryan lurched to his feet, his stomach churning. Of course he and Diego and Miguel were at the front of the church, so they needed to wait for everyone to clear out first, but he was about ready to be rude and push his way through. For over an hour he’d had to sit in the church and exercise rigid control to let no one know that the reason he drooped and grimaced and looked so pale was not grief. It was nausea.
His forehead and fingers still stung from the holy water, though the water itself had dried a long time ago. But once he got out of the church, it would all stop. Just a few more seconds…and maybe he could be on his way before Father José could stop him.
Go. Go. He mentally urged everyone out the door, trying not to shift from foot to foot with impatience. Behind him Diego came to his feet like a stone statue coming to life. Miguel helped Diego and Bryan should have as well, but the only thing he could think of was leaving. He swallowed convulsively, feeling like his throat was on the verge of closing, and finally the people before him cleared out of his way.
He got halfway down the aisle when a familiar voice called his name. He stopped, closed his eyes and sighed softly. “Yes, Father?”
Thanks for sharing! I’ve thought a lot lately about how to describe physical sensations, like nausea… it can be difficult, and I think you did such a great job here.
Love all the samples … my current project is quite different – YA fantasy & from the POV of a cat 😉
“That’s perfect!” Ginny told Mischief, who was balancing on the bogie board. “Hold it right there.” Ginny began snapping pictures, which would undoubtedly appear on Whispurring Winds’ blog. In the two months since they had adopted the little calico, everyone’s life had been turned upside down.
And Ginny’s blog had gained an unexpected model for the boating life of a water-loving kitten.
Xander peered over Ginny’s shoulder and studied Mischief’s posture. She had easily adapted to living aboard Whispurring Winds and had the potential to become an excellent Sea Purrtector, but she needed to learn to keep a lower profile. His tail smacked the royal blue cushion in frustration. When he had recommended adopting her, he’s assumed he would obtain an apprentice., not a tadpole. His ears flattened. Most days, she hurried through her lessons, so she could get outside and wet, so he suspected the water obsession real and not an act for Ginny’s camera. Why else did she leap overboard to swim ashore, instead of ride in the dingy? Moreover, why did she scurry out onto deck when it rained? The very thought of being out in a tropical thunderstorm without a valid reason made his pristine seal-point fur stand on end. A low growl startled him, but when Ginny glanced at him, he realized the sound had come from him.
Xander gulped. How had the kitten undermined his self control?
Ginny looked past him, her gaze searching the anchorage for the source of the growl, then, with a shrug, her attention returned to Mischief posing on the gently rocking bogie board. Xander hopped down and headed to the salon, his thoughts centered on how he could continue the kick-boxing portion of Mischief’s training without convincing Mike and Ginny, that they needed to purrtect her from what they seemed to think was his jealous attack.
Watching Mischief waste time, which she should be using to study, was also wasting his time and undermining his control. Xander went below to catch up on his correspondence, but after several minutes, unable to concentrate on his email, he Skyped Merlin. Seconds later, his best buddy’s emerald eyes were studying him. “Hey Pal, what’s wrong?”
“The water nymph is wasting everyone’s time with a bogie board lesson.”
Merlin’s ears perked with interest. “Sounds fun.”
Of course the white Norwegian Forest Cat would think so, he loved getting wet, too. “Want to come down here and get her to learn kickboxing and history?”
Merlin’s whiskers stiffened. “Nope. No thanks, though I wouldn’t mind helping with her swim lessons.” Xander growled. Merlin asked, “Did you ever get that Vi-Purr situation resolved? The Daily Mews keeps reporting about chupacabra sightings and attacks, and we know those misfits are actually doing the dirty deeds.”
“Between trying to get Mischief to study and do her homework, I haven’t had time to keep up with anything other than you, Fluffy and the Catamondo alerts.”
“All you’ve written about in the last month is Mischief and how having an apprentice isn’t what you expected. Dude, she is a kitten, and she is acting like a kitten. Eventually, she’ll grow up, but in the meantime, you might as well enjoy the consequences of your choices.”
Enjoy? His best friend’s emerald green eyes sparklied with amusement and much as he hated to admit it, Merlin was probably correct about Mischief. For certain, having her here was his choice and he certainly could not let others know that he was having doubts about that decision. Had Merlin recognized that Mischief shared his fondness for water sports and being in front of a camera? Not that Merlin ever admitted that he liked being photographed, but no cat could spend years being the poster boy for the top brand of cat food and not like their job.
When he didn’t say anything, Merlin said, “Did you ever find all those looney Haitian cats? I’m talking about the ones the forensic team couldn’t account for.”
“Haven’t had time.”
“All work and no play…” Merlin leaned close to the camera and whispurred, “Been to any more voodoo ceremonies? How about that Damon-demon-dude? Did you ever figure out if he was really a zombie priest or something demonic? He is one I’d like to know that happened to. Also, did you ever figure out how Lucy Fur was involved? Did you hear that the Counsel is being cautious about the information they share with her?” Merlin settled back to his original position. “And how come they had so much catnip? What was going on with that?”
Xander smiled at his best friend’s phrasing. Merlin liked to pretend he was a brainless beach bum, but was actually very well-read and smart as a whip. Merlin was also infatuated with Lady Montgomery’s purrsonal assistant, Cheyenne, so his sudden interest in finding out details about the Haitian mission could be because Merlin wanted an excuse to contact her, but there was also the possibility that Cheyenne was using Merlin to give him a message because she knew someone higher up in Catamondo’s ruling cats wanted to know why a case that should be closed still showed enough odd activity to make headlines.
Xander swished his tail as he realized that despite Merlin’s obsession with Cheyenne, he also had valid questions that needed solid answers. And figuring out those answers would be good training for little Ms. Photogenic, which was probably what Merlin had already figured out. “You’re right, I need to focus on answers to your questions.”
Merlin nodded.
In the distance, he heard the familiar drone of the dingy’s outboard motor approaching, which meant that Mike was back from fishing. What would they have for lunch? Lobster or fish? Tail swishing in anticipation, Xander quickly told Merlin he’d keep in touch, then logged off and left the computer exactly as he’d found it. Then, he went back into the cockpit, sprawled in the sun-puddle on the cushion he had recently left, closed his eyes and pretended sleep.
POV of a cat… That is such a cool idea. I look forward to see this one when it’s out there in the world of published works.
It is scheduled for mid-March. You can download the prequel for the series free at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/572101 (Amazon demands 99c)
Fancy meeting you here. 🙂
🙂
Cat POV — that is different! How fun! I bet after people read your book, they never think about cats the same way again. 🙂
Most of my fans are already cat lovers, so I don’t know if they change their perspective or simply relax and have fun reading.
I’m working on my first full novel. I haven’t started writing it but here’s the blurb:
“BLAIR HAGEN, S. B. Hadley Wilson’s first novel, is loosely based on Jane Austen’s 1818 posthumous work, PERSUASION. Hence, the question: How will Blair Hagen and Brian Jacobson be reunited in their love?
BLAIR HAGEN is the follow-up to PULL and a spin-off of CONSEQUENCE. However, it may be read as a standalone.”
Ahhh Persuasion is my FAVORITE Austen novel (which I may have mentioned on this blog before.) One of my faves of all time, in fact!
Ooh! I haven’t done WIP Wednesday in a while! My two characters are riding out a stormy night in a cave, passing the time…
“Okay, I have a list of questions. We answer honestly.”
“That’s not a game. That’s interrogation.”
Anda frowned at him, ignored his obvious lack of respect for her game, and visualized the list in her head. “First question: Who was the greatest artist in history?”
“That’s easy. Georges Seurat.”
Anda shook her head. “Oh no. Alexander Calder. Or Mondrian.”
Having finished pulling on the remainder of his clothes, Stone sat down next to her on the rock. “There are right and wrong answers? I thought this sounded like an opinion piece.”
Yes, it was supposed to be an exploration, and she hadn’t meant for her response to come out in the “No! You’re wrong!” manner it had… She held up her hand. “How about you try to figure out what my answer would be?”
“Oh, well, that’s different! Of course I would’ve guessed you’d like the guy who built mobiles.” Stone rolled his eyes dramatically.
“Of course, who else?” The first flicker of doubt lit up in the back of her mind. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea at all, getting to know each other. It would make it that much harder to say goodbye in the end.
“Is it my turn?” Stone asked. He’d leaned forward to look into her face.
“You don’t know the questions.”
“We’re already not playing by the rules.”
Anda raised her eyebrows, but waved a hand at him anyway, indicating that he should ask whatever he liked.
“If I were to choose any job other than the one I have, what would it be?”
The first thing that popped into her head was “teacher” and she had no idea why she’d associate something so non-intimidating with him… “Snake wrangler.” Funny was good. Funny was safe.
Even though his eyes went wide with something less than enthusiasm, Stone nodded and made agreeable noises. “Yup, pit vipers. My favorite!”
Somehow, Anda got the message that snakes were not his friends.
The questions went back and forth for a while, the answers getting more and more off the mark as they went. In a half hour she’d guessed his cat’s name would be Gussy, that neon pink was his favorite color, and that his underwear was actually a tiger stripe pattern.
He’d guessed that her favorite dessert was Baked Alaska (Pie. Only pie) that her favorite vacation spot was the mountains (she was a beach girl all the way), and that her most prized possession was a rabbit’s foot she’d received as a white elephant gift (she’d never even seen a rabbit’s foot.)
The last thing she’d expected out of all of it was to be in deeper over her head than she already was with him. Her heart was racing by the time she turned to face him and asked something very personal. It was time to put an end to this very personal, very revealing, game, and she’d do it by asking him something that would fluster him so much that the only thing he’d be able to do for the rest of the night, was sputter.
“What is the single most erotic part of the human body?”
He didn’t budge. He didn’t lean away or make any move to leave the space in which he sat. Anda thought for sure he’d move to the other side of the fire.
“You think my hands are damn sexy.”
Could she let him have that one? Because he was right, the way those hands touched her made her shudder with anticipation, and then pleasure.
“I know I’m right about this. You’re blushing.”
Anda’s hands flew to her face and she swiped at her cheeks as if the action would erase the evidence. “The fire, it’s hot.”
“Mm hmm.” He slid an arm around behind her, his fingers found their way to her neck and drew a line from her ear down to her shoulder.
There was no denying that she loved to feel his hands touching her. They were warm and gentle. And they’d never caused her pain. The whole thing with her feet notwithstanding.
He pulled her into his lap, drew her cheek to his, and whispered into her ear, “I think I win.”
The sequel to Separation Point! Yay, thanks for sharing!
I love the excerpt! It’s definitely a hook. I love a good romance with some suspense and mystery thrown in. Not on my normal computer, so I can’t post a WIP myself, but I do love reading everyone’s.
Ahh, thank you so much! Feel free to share next month if you feel like it 🙂 (Or later tonight… whatever!)
what a fun post. this is a VERY creepy sounding song. the banjo adds to the ambiance. And outside it is foggy and dark (daytime) and I am going to have to go and find some Phil Collins to over ride the disturbing factor. AND I just got one of those phone calls where no one was there. Way to go, Bryn. Sheesh.
Hahaha! Thanks for reading, Kris!
Very rough bit from late in the current WIP which is an MMF polyamorous/triad romance. It’s the Christmas season, in Spain. Jamie, a 25-year-old Irish boy, has been sent out by his lovers Nerea and Callum (who are much, much older than him) to find a pregnancy test, because Nerea thinks she may be about to have a late-in-life surprise that she has very mixed feelings about. Their house is filled with relatives (including Nerea and Callum’s adult children who are less than pleased by The Jamie Situation) so Jamie is happy for the break, even under these absurd circumstances. There’s just one problem: he gets lost.
“What do you mean you’re lost?” Callum asked.
“I thought I found a shortcut and now the map on my mobile is showing a road that isn’t here, and I’m pretty sure I’d have to climb through a garden and over the top of some warehouse to even have half a hope of getting back. Come fetch me?”
“It’s a good thing we like you,” Callum said, but Jamie could tell he was annoyed when he passed the phone to Nerea without further comment.
Nerea showed up in her car, which Jamie appreciated. While a brisk walk had seemed appealing when he’d left on his errand, or at least more appealing than Callum and Nerea’s kids giving him death glares and Nerea trying and failing to act nonchalant about possibly being pregnant, now he was just cold, pissed off, and embarrassed.
He didn’t really feel less embarrassed when Nerea screeched up in her ridiculous and seasonally inappropriate convertible, yanked her door open and marched around to where he was standing stupidly on his patch of random waste ground. He braced for her to start yelling at him, possibly, not in English, but all she did was rip the bag from the pharmacy out of his hands and shove her car keys at him.
“You’re driving,” she said, and then marched off behind a bush.
Jamie was halfway to the car when he realized what the plan was. “Oh my god, no we cannot do this here.”
“Well we can’t do it in my house,” she said and kept going.
Jamie slid into her car, folded his hands on the steering wheel, and pressed his head against them. He was possibly hyperventilating. And he was definitely, absolutely, going to die.
“Don’t say anything,” Nerea hissed when she got back to the car, slamming the door after her.
Jamie turned his head to her but kept it pillowed in his arms. He cracked an eye open. “Well?”
“Well, we have to wait three minutes. And you’re not allowed to react.”
“What do you mean I’m not allowed to react?” he asked, finally pushing himself upright.
“You’re not allowed to react. Everyone has to have their own feelings about this without feeling pressured by anyone else’s feelings.”
“Well what’re we gonna do, write notes to each other?”
“Yes,” Nerea said softly, staring at the little plastic stick in her hand.
“Seriously? You two are fucking nuts. I mean, obviously because this is even happening, but –”
Nerea passed him the stick.
He stared at it. “Oh. You mean yes.”
“Don’t react,” she said sharply, before she burst into tears.
Jamie cursed under his breath and started the car.
Oh goodness, that’ll be messy . . .
Oh my gosh, this made me so anxious! 🙂 Thanks for sharing Racheline!
This is fun.
Here’s mine.
Stella, a witch, has been managing the family farm for 20 years, since her family disappeared mysteriously. Only she knows that they are under a sleeping spell. Trevor only knows the rumors that people in town tell him, but he’s very interested in Stella, so he’s volunteered to help her with the farm work.
***
He came to work with a perfect sunflower, the kind only available from a florist, the bloom as big as her face, the center deep velvety brown. She tried not to let him see how much it touched her. No one had ever given her flowers.
“I love sunflowers,” she told him, as they walked toward the shed.
“I know.”
“You do? How?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“You’d be surprised what I can believe,” she said, pushing the garden cart toward him. It was Trevor’s job to push it to the garden, where weeds were getting thicker by the day.
“Someone told me in a dream.”
She stopped short. He almost ran into her with the cart. “Who told you?”
“A beautiful woman with golden curls. She looks a little like you, if you were an angel, but fair, and she has a . . . rather irreverent way of speaking.”
“What was her name?”
He thought a moment. “She didn’t say.”
Stella resumed walking. “If she comes back, find out her name. That could be useful for knowing why she’s visiting you.” Stella very much wanted to know why her sister was visiting Trevor’s dreams.
“What do you think it means?”
“Well, there are those who say that dreams are just a mishmash of physical sensations and the brain sorting through the mental detritus of the day. The Jungians say that everything and everyone in the dream is you. I’m not sure that applies, in this case. Edgar Cayce said that dreams could be an opportunity to experience things that wouldn’t be safe or possible in waking.”
“So maybe that was it. I wanted to see you, but—“
“If I were beautiful and an angel.” She shoved a hoe at him, then hacked at a weed with another hoe.
Rachel! I would love to read more of this… I love stories about witches. Thanks for sharing!
Reading through all the excerpts here is just so inspiring. Might as well add mine to the list. It’s from my high fantasy epic novel that is rapidly turning into the adult child that refuses to move out of the editing-phase home. Hopefully, I’ll start querying with it mid-year. The eviction notice on this WIP has been served.
*****
Excerpt from BEACON OF HOPE:
Pain gripped Drezel’s chest. Her eyes jerked open and she pushed herself upright, her breathing short and erratic. She yanked aside the neck of her undergarments, expecting to see blood, but saw only the angry red mark above her heart—again. The last image of the familiar nightmare assaulted her senses.
She dangled in the air with the Bleeder demon’s hand clasped around her throat. Only inches from its desiccated face, its cold foul breath washed over her. Defiant, she looked the demon in its eyes, seeing another’s eyes mirrored in those black pools. “The Signs will avenge us,” she wheezed, the timbre of a man in her voice.
The edges of the demon’s thin lips turned upward. “The Signs are dead. I killed them.” Its voice vibrated through every inch of her body, echoing down to her soul.
A sharp pain filled her world as a blade pierced her heart.
Drezel hunched forward, struggling to breathe through the burning in her chest. Sometimes she hated her power. I beg you, dear Signs, please take these visions away.
As the pain began to dissipate, the mark on her chest faded. She wiped her sweat-drenched hair from her brow. Her vision clouded with tears as she tried to shake off another image from her dream.
She stood at the window, watching a young woman shiver on her knees at the feet of the gray-skinned demon. It traced the side of the woman’s face with its long, skeletal finger, leaving a trail of putridity where it cut her skin. Drezel wanted to avert her eyes as the woman screamed, but she couldn’t. Her man-sized hand gripped the window frame, digging nails into the wood. The demon kicked the woman away. Beetles burrowed up from the ground and swarmed over her body, feasting on her living flesh.
Drezel pressed her dainty hands to her temples and shook her head. Please, no more. I don’t want to see this anymore. Why were the Signs forcing these visions on her? She didn’t know any of these people and knew perfectly well what kind of monsters the Bleeders were. There had to be something she was missing.
The gentle pitter-patter of rain on the canvas overhead reminded her to take a deep breath; she wiped her eyes. She had to keep control over her emotions, lest they find themselves in the middle of a storm.
She flopped back on her bedroll and stared up at the beige canvas. She reached up and tapped her fingers at the long shadows resting on the surface of her tent; pine needles jumped and slid to the ground. Outside, birds sang, children laughed, goats bleated and horses nickered. The world of her dreams was not the world she lived in. She couldn’t do anything to save the people in her dreams, but the ones outside…
Judy, I laughed at “the adult child that refuses to move out of the editing-phase home.” This is so visceral. Thanks for posting!
So glad I could make you laugh. With the editing process, I’ve found that if I don’t find reasons to laugh, I’ll cry. These stories are our babies, but there comes a point when you have to cut those apron strings and just let go. I passed that point with this particular WIP ages ago.
Very creepy, Bryn. Nicole, run now! Don’t bother to stop for the underwear!
I’m working on a Dragon Age fanfic summer romance where Commander Cullen falls for the Healer who saves his life during his visit to the capitol city. Cullen just took a barrage of assassins’ arrows that were meant for the King during a walk through the marketplace:
“One, two . . .” on her third count, the trio lifted the patient to the litter and Ev and Gorim carried him the twenty yards to her home, the King and Queen following them inside. The guards posted themselves in a ring around the outside of the one-room building.
“There’s a seat and fresh water pitcher in the corner, Your Majesties,” Ev nodded to the right of the door and the Queen pulled her husband out of the way.
“My bitch of a sister used to live here,” the King grumbled.
“Alistair, hush.” The Queen pressed a kiss to her husband’s cheek and guided him to sit. “Let the Healer help Cullen.”
Cullen. An uncommon name, just like his uncommon life force. This must be the summer guest Stella had told her about, here on holiday from the refugee services organization that was once the Inquisition.
Thanks, DA! 🙂
I’m not familiar with Dragon Age, and it didn’t keep me from enjoying the excerpt. Thanks for sharing!
“Elektra!” Brede screamed chasing her at full run. People he couldn’t toss out of his way dived out of it on their own. “Elektra!” Regardless his speed she stayed at the edge of his sight, the occasional bob of her blonde hair between the turbans and black hair of most of the residents of New Cairo, Egypt, Earth. The faster he ran the less he could keep up with her; his steps pounded the ground and yet he never came nearer. She stopped, glanced back at him once and then disappeared into the souk leaving Brede doubled over, sucking in breath. At length he straightened and leaned back against an ancient wall eyes closed shaking his head. He wanted it to be a dream. It had to be a dream. At least in dreams he could wake up; set his mind on the day and not some ridiculous waste of time chasing someone who was dead.
Opening paragraph The Brede Chronicles, Book 2
I love openings that just plunge right in there! And you heightened the effect by not giving any introduction 🙂 Thanks for posting!
This is such a cool idea! And I’m intrigued by your excerpt.
Here’s mine, from Chapter 4 of my current WiP:
______
I wasn’t losing touch with reality. The reality was losing touch with me.
I was almost sure of that now.
I’d watched Andrey make his way from my house to his many times, but for him this was the first. Yet he took the same route as always: diagonally across the road with no regard to cars. His hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. He was a little taller than me, but few people realized that, he spent so much effort on making himself look smaller.
I returned to my desk only once he had closed the front door of his house behind him.
I hoped, desperately, that this time my plan would work.
Hey thanks! And thanks for playing!
I really love: I wasn’t losing touch with reality. The reality was losing touch with me.
Thank you! I’ll admit, I’m proud of that line.
I love the creep factor. I’m intrigued!!! I don’t know if I’d read it though. I sometimes get scared easily of ghost and the like. You did a good job of creeping me out! 🙂
Haha, well thanks! The funny thing is, I’m a total chicken with scary movies. When I’m writing it myself, it’s not so bad!
Is it too late to share? Henrietta, or Etta to her friends, is a young fairy who was just summoned to become a fairy godmother, but it’s nothing like what she expected.
—
Zenobia laughed again. “You don’t have enough magic to help a mouse.”
She was right – I had lost a lot of my magic to Pricilla, and I felt bare without it. But I squared my shoulders and stood up straight. “It doesn’t take a lot of magic to help someone.”
Zenobia raised one sharp eyebrow. Slowly, she smiled, baring her perfect white teeth. “Prove it.”
I looked from her to the weeping girl in the mirror. “Fine. If I prove it doesn’t take a lot of magic to help someone, you will all give back the magic you’ve taken, stop stockpiling it, and stop being so wasteful.”
The other women gasped and protested.
Mabel almost growled. “We can’t give it back! Besides, if they haven’t missed it by now, they don’t deserve it.”
“What do you mean?” I narrowed my eyes at her.
She shrugged, suddenly wary. “Sometimes a guest is careless. Once there was a troll …”
“You have magic from other beings?” I clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle the scream that climbed up my throat. Messing with magic you don’t understand can kill you, especially if you don’t even purify it before you store it. Stored magic either gets weaker or stronger with time, and it’s not always predictable which will happen.
I shook my head. “When I get back from helping her, you will give back ALL the magic you have that doesn’t belong to you. We will lock it in the head fairy godmother’s office, and she can deal with it.” Surely she would have an idea how to deal with it.
“When?” Zenobia asked, laughing disbelief in her voice. “How about ‘if’?”
Lavinia smiled timidly at me. “You are very new, Henrietta.”
“It’s Etta. And maybe being very new is better than being very old.”
“If you don’t succeed in making this girl’s life better, Etta-” the way Zenobia said my name, it was an insult “-you will leave the castle and give up your chance at fairy godmotherhood.”
I swallowed around the lump that suddenly appeared in my throat. Give up being a fairy godmother? I’d dreamed about this my entire life!
Zenobia sneered at me, seeing the fear in my eyes.
The girl in the mirror blew her nose with a thunderous honk. I looked at her blotchy red face and her shaking shoulders. My decision had already been made.
“I accept.”
Not too late, Eileen! What an intriguing take on fairy tales! I like your prose style 🙂 Thanks so much for posting!
I absolutely love this excerpt!!!!! I would read this in a heartbeat!!!!!!
These are fun! I really enjoyed reading all of these excerpts. I hope some of you will reach out and let me know when you publish! As for me, quite late – here’s a blip of something I’m polishing/querying. (The polishing never does end, does it?)
After sitting through tedious, shortened versions of all eight classes, Nora found herself in line with the rest of the senior class procrastinators to pick up the coveted cap and gown. The early afternoon sun filtered into the noisy gymnasium through the high windows, casting warm yellow rectangles on the polished wood floor. It smelled of not-so-gently used basketballs and old pinnies. It was such a relief knowing she’d never get stuck with the smelliest pinny at P.E. again. Small clusters of students dotted the bleachers, some still swapping yearbook autograph pages and snapping selfies to put in the digital yearbook. Voices bounced around the cavernous space, echoing off the far walls.
There weren’t many and they had spaced themselves out enough that the gym didn’t feel overcrowded. They were just hanging out, making plans, ready for the long-awaited freedom that awaited them, but still she wished they would all just shut up. She never liked being around so many people at once. It made her anxious.
The slow-moving line allowed her mind to wander into dangerous thoughts like the way Jesse said ‘us’ as if they actually were ‘a thing,’ but they weren’t.
The phantom remorse wedged back into her chest, reminding her of the fire and smoke. I have the craziest dreams. She shook her head and tried to eavesdrop on conversations around her to occupy her mind and stave off the flames.
She craned her neck to peek at what on God’s green Earth was taking so long. The sharply dressed man sitting on the other side of the long table made her heart skip a beat. She didn’t know him, but he seemed to have the attention of the students at the front of the line. He was attractive, if she was being honest, in his sharply pressed shirt and dark gray slacks. I guess he isn’t going all that slow, she thought, granting a pardon for that captivating but modest smile.
The line moved slower than she wanted and eavesdropping was a bust. Nobody was talking about anything interesting. She fought the urge to tap her foot but she wanted this boring errand over with and to not think about that stupid nightmare. Or the freak vision. Or Jesse leaving. And she couldn’t remember what she had done in the dream or if the Bloodfire really was her fault, even after she woke up. Guilty means you did something, she pondered. I haven’t done anything. She bit her lip. Maybe I need to volunteer more.
Soon she was third in line, then second. The lightheadedness returned as she dug her school ID out of her wallet. She felt woozy. There was a subtle but distinct scent of burning wood just before the flames invaded her thoughts again. She froze as the pressure changed in her ears. No, not now! Passing out in front of all these people on the last day of school was a terrifying thought.
I wish Jesse were here, she thought, breathing slow and steady to stay calm. Or Nate. Except if they were, she’d have to tell them about the dreams and the invasive visions. Nate would crack jokes after it passed. He’d make sure she was okay first, but then laugh and laugh. Jesse wouldn’t take it so lightly; he’d worry, just like he worried when they went ice-skating in January and she lost her balance. She caught the back of her ankle with the other skate and kissed the ice in the gawky tumble. He couldn’t believe she didn’t have a scratch or a bruise on her. She joked that she had thick skin.
And just like that, the pressure in her ears returned to normal. She glanced around to see who might be staring, but no one even noticed. Thank God.
At long last, it was her turn. She stepped up to the table and handed her I.D. to the dark-haired man. He greeted her with a bewitching, toothy smile, took the card and scanned over it. As he ran a long, slender finger down the list on the table in front of him, she wondered why she’d never seen him before. A teacher? She’d never had him for class. She would have noticed someone this good-looking around, so he must have been new.
“How do you pronounce that?” he asked with a hint of a British accent in his enunciation and handed her card back without looking up.
Nora fielded this question way more than she wanted to admit. “Sig-dis,” she said under her breath, breaking her odd-ball middle name down into syllables. She never liked the attention it drew. She learned early on that kids thought it was hilarious. They made fun of it all the time. Her; they made fun of her.
He nodded as if that exact pronunciation was expected, as if he approved of the way it rolled off her tongue. “Nora Sigdis Langosy,” he recited, sharpening the ’s’ sounds more than she liked, drawing a sharp chill across her upper back and over her shoulders. He finally looked up at her and politely toned down his smile. His neatly cropped hair was combed back from his high forehead. She almost didn’t hear him say, “I need your signature right here, next to your name, and today’s date, if you please, Miss Langosy,” because she was enraptured by the most enthralling eyes she had ever seen. She’d never imagined that shade of blue in anyone’s eyes before; the light, crisp sapphire sheen rivaled the blue satin necktie tacked neatly against his shirt – and seemed to glow.
“Goddess of victory,” he said, breaking her trance. He even smiled with his eyes.
Her eyes darted to the form on the table. Not many people knew that Sigdis was a Norse name and even fewer knew what it meant on the spot. Why her parents chose that hideous name was beyond her – they weren’t even from Norway. She hated it, and always tried to deny it. It was so bad that she went through a phase in the fifth grade in which she attempted to convince everyone that she changed her middle name to the letter S. She hated the typical reactions – the raised eyebrows and the fake smiles full of ‘Ooh-I’m-so-sorry.’
She picked up the black pen and shakily scratched her signature on the line. There was something about him, about the disturbing way he said ‘goddess of victory,’ that turned her star-struck eyes cold. When he spun in his seat to file the form in the yellow box behind him, she scrutinized his build. He was taller than Nate, and Jesse for that matter. In the right lighting, his brown hair could pass for black; and she thought for a moment that there was an emerald luster in the darkest hair at the nape of his neck. It had to be an affect of the fluorescent lights in the rafters.
His words resonated in her head. It shouldn’t have been a big deal but he seemed to know about her oddball middle name a bit too well, and that made her uncomfortable.
When he got up to move to another table behind him lined with boxes of clear-plastic packages, the displaced air wafted toward her, carrying notes of sweet leather and cedar. He didn’t move as quickly as the faculty members to his left who were working to get through their lines as quickly as possible. She recognized them; one was a sophomore biology teacher, the next was one of the school’s guidance counselors, and the one on the far end was the chorus director. But she couldn’t place this new guy. His movements were smooth and deliberate; she wondered if he moved this slowly for everyone else. It didn’t take him long to sift through the L’s and M’s to find her things; there weren’t many left. It could have taken him less time if he would have just moved a little faster.
He drew his lower lip between his teeth as he turned on his heel and his icy gaze stole the breath from her chest. She had the sudden notion that he had a secret, a big one, and he was taunting her with it. The way he looked at her was too… something. She couldn’t put her finger on it but she didn’t like it.
He held her graduation garments out to her. She grabbed the bag and turned to leave, anxious to put some distance between them.
“Just one moment, Miss Langosy,” he said, his accent slipping through and halting her in mid-step.
She turned to face him, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.
He flashed pearly white teeth through his smile. Were they pointed? “You wouldn’t want to forget your tassel, would you?” He looked at her with one arched eyebrow, sending the prickle dashing down her spine.
Don’t be stupid. His teeth are not pointy.
She stared at him for a moment, unable to move or say a thing. Laughter sparked in his eyes but she didn’t see what was so funny. He acted too familiar, too comfortable. It just felt wrong. And then it hit her: it was the butterflies.
The butterflies were reacting to him. She held her breath, swiped the tassel from his hand and made a beeline for the exit, trying to ignore the self-satisfied chuckle that trailed along behind her.
Ahhhhh who is this guy?! Fun stuff!
And now I need to go read about Sigdis. I know about so many goddesses, but that one is new for me!
Some great reads here! I am working on a short story titled “Stealing Babies”. Here is the first section….
Clients fell in love with me all the time. I was kind and nurturing, calming, reassuring. I was always there for them and professionally pleasant. It typically happened in the second trimester, when I had proven my commitment to them and knew enough details about their personal lives to feel like a friend. Annie and Matt were no exception. Well, Matt was. Matt was the reason I walked away from my career, my “calling”. I was a good midwife.
At first Annie did not like it when I touched her. She flinched when I measured the height of her uterus, pulled her arm away as soon as I took her blood pressure. She did not like being pregnant and the hormones made her irritable. An outsider would say she was not maternal. But I knew that was not the case. She meticulously planned her care, planned the birth, planned for her child. She researched and educated herself about every aspect of the pregnancy. Her devotion to having the best birth possible made her motherly. I reassured her that my job was to support her desires. Yes, she could delay cord cutting and save the placenta. Yes, she could give birth anywhere in her home. Yes, I would be on-call and available. Eventually, she softened and my touch was not as repulsive. She respected me, she relied on me, and she trusted me.
Matt adored me in the same way my pregnant clients did. He respected my knowledge and experience with a new subject. He looked me in the eye when I explained care, absorbing every detail. He practiced breathing and relaxation with Annie at home and eagerly reported her progress to me. He completed all the checklists and bought all the supplies and tracked everything I suggested. Annie could not have asked for a more perfect husband. Even though she did not show affection towards him, she appreciated his support and never chided him for his childish excitement or giddy need to impress me.
He came to every appointment, often arriving before Annie, which gave us ample time to chat about baseball and music, how the weather was changing or which mountain he wanted to hike once the baby was born. I sat beside him in the waiting room many times, listening and laughing at his stories. I brought him tissues when he got teary-eyed talking about his dad and cooed over his baby photos when he pulled them out. It was a comfort I knew he enjoyed.
I could tell Matt was smitten with the maternal instincts I possessed that his full-bellied wife did not. When he confessed his fear that his wife would not be a good mother, I reassured him that she would be fine. Childless women can learn. We soothe the cries of a baby enough times, we rock them over and over, and it starts to feel natural.
The night Annie gave birth was the third time I was in their home. I had stopped to check dilation the previous two days, each time reporting there was no progress. By the third visit Annie was exhausted with early contractions and anxiety. Matt kept trying to comfort her, rub her back or hold her hand, but she wanted nothing to do with it. She wanted wanted to curl up like a cat in a dark, quiet corner. Annie knew what her body needed, and Matt respected that. So when she banished us to the living room, he left her alone.
Annie may not have been maternal, but she was a proficient housekeeper. The living room was tidy and ordered, smartly decorated without fluff. The only signs of an impending baby were a cradle in the corner and a few dog-eared parenting books on the coffee table.
I sat on their plush couch and folded my legs under my long skirt. Matt sat beside me. It wasn’t a time for stories or laughing, so we were silent. I let the stars outside the picture window mesmerize me until he tapped me on the leg.
He told me I looked sad. I wanted to tell him I was tired, that it had been a long week, or give him some other reason for my sadness rather than admitting he knew me well enough to read my emotions. But instead I told him, “Yes, I’m sad.” He asked me why and all I could say was, “I am sad a lot.”
He wrapped his arms around me then, and I let him. I accepted his comfort, the weight of my body falling against him. He smelled of teenage cologne and had more muscles than my father. I felt safe and supported. I’m not sure how long he held me, but my sadness lessened. I felt lighter and was almost ready to let go when his hands lowered down my spine. He inhaled so close to my neck that the tiny hairs raised and warmth spread through my body. He kept breathing that way, against me, and I let him. When he slipped his hands inside the band of my skirt, I wanted him. I moved my mouth to his and kissed him hard. He moaned and pulled me closer. I straddled him, keeping my lips intently fixed on his. His hands stroked my legs, my back, my flat, sunken belly. When I put him inside me, he fit. We were a creative unit full of potential. I felt joy. I was going to make this man come.
And then his hands pushed my shoulders away. I rolled off his lap as he stood. When I came out of the haze, I heard more moaning. Annie was in labor.