Hey friends! It’s the first Wednesday of the month, which is when I invite you to post a segment of whatever you’re writing. I discourage critical comments and suggestions on other people’s work, because I want people to feel free to post things that are quite rough (the way I do!) This is just for sharing. Encouraging words are always appreciated, though!
Last month I got a draft of my Southern gothic romance novella to my beta readers, and my goal this month is to complete 25K words on book two of my paranormal romance trilogy. Although I haven’t really started yet, I do have a few random scenes of this project scribbled down in notebooks, so I’m sharing one of those!
My heroine, Val, is an empath who can go into other people’s psyches. Her romantic interest here, Tristan, is someone she’s known from childhood, but he has retrograde amnesia as a result of a magical battle.
We walked a few more steps on the beach and Tristan suddenly stopped, a stricken look on his face. His confusion zigzagged right through me. I tightened my hand around his. “What is it?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, I just—”
He fell on his knees on the shore as if someone had knocked him down. The intensity of his distress bored through my skull and my heart jumped into double time. I couldn’t even tell exactly what he was feeling. He was like ten televisions tuned to different channels, all turned up to a deafening roar.
I knelt down in front of him. Waves splashed around our knees. I looked into his eyes and he stared straight ahead, unseeing.
“Tristan!” I shook his shoulders. He made no response. The frequency of his emotion felt as though it might decimate me. It was too strong for anyone to endure for long. I panicked. He is dying.
I forced myself to take care as I ghosted into his psyche. Whatever was the matter with him, a rough invasion might be too hard to take.
In his soulscape, we knelt in the middle of the city street. The sky above him teemed with movement and color and loud voices spoke in a cacophony. My insides wrenched. His psyche was disintegrating again, and not in a way I could imagine how to fix.
He stared up at the sky with wide eyes, his mouth parted. As I looked up, I made out an image of myself, at about the age of six. And then a monster, humanoid, but with rows of tiny shark teeth—something he had killed on a mission.
A naked girl in what looked like a college dorm room. A man yelling about something. His mother as a young woman, reading from a picture book.
His memories. Each of them came with their own emotional responses—fondness, disgust, anger, love. They had all flooded back, and he was experiencing them all at once. It was too much to bear and I wanted to retreat, just for a moment, and escape the painful onslaught.
~
Share whatever you like, or if you just want to chat about how your work’s going lately, that’s great, too. Happy writing!
[draft, written Sunday]
*You can’t be a burden to him. You can’t ever again.* The smell of the forest filled her nose; flowers and green growing things and mud and rot. The rocks they sat on glistened with wet. Insects zipped by and crawled up the bark of one of the nearer trees. Her voice said “I’m ready.”
Bryan turned his back to her just as she rushed backward in her head, pulled by a riptide of inexorable strength. The world around her vanished into darkness until she could only see straight ahead, as if through a narrow tube. Blood scent spangled the air. Her arms rose—she could see them—she had her work knife in her right hand and her left stretched out before her.
She watched as her right hand sank the knife into her wrist until the tip almost went through the other side. Her voice cried out in ragged pain and shock. Bryan turned—so slowly—it was too late. With unbelievable strength her traitor hand drew the knife down her arm, cutting through skin and what little muscle she had. Blood leapt from the wound, ran in a sheet over her arm, pattered the dirt below. Her head whipped back and she saw the sunlight-dappled canopy overhead before it rocked down again. Bryan had dropped his knife, his face contorted, eyes wide, lips ragged with horror. She smelled so much blood; his bright delicious blood and her dull sheeting blood. Hunger closed her throat. The demon clawed through her, up the center of her body, using her ribs like a ladder, grasping her head in taloned hands and pressing so, so tight she thought her head would burst.
She fought her way free of her body. It lay in the dirt below, her wide eyes staring at the canopy. Her shirt was red with her blood. Bryan knelt beside her, his shirt off, his hands crushing her cloth-wrapped arm in a futile attempt to keep her from bleeding out. He yelled, his voice ringing through the forest. She couldn’t see it, but she felt her demon gloat. *I’ve killed you. I’ve finally killed you.* Its voice sounded just like her own.
Hoooolllly smokes, that was intense! You have such original and active word choices. I love that.
Thank you!
From my Little Mermaid story, which I’m revising. There are some darlings here I’m sure I’ll have to slay, but I like this bit at the moment:
She had saved a human life.
Neri’s spirit sang with the power of it. Her fingers still tingled from the warmth of the man’s skin, her blood rose close to the surface, so that every stalk of sea grass she brushed past, every tiny fish who swam by caused a shivery thrill. For so long, she had watched the ailing Twyla and felt powerless, unable to do a thing to save her own sister. Now she had been rescuer and solace to a drowning human, and she was both invincible and doomed.
She had saved a human life.
The man was a victim of his own idiocy, should have been shark fodder, would have been the perfect sacrifice to the gods.
But oh, he was so young. Only a little bit older than she was. And he hadn’t any weapons, not on his person, not in his boat. Why had he left his sunlit world above the waters, what did he seek down here? Was he just curious? Neri knew how that felt.
No, she mustn’t identify with the human. Mustn’t think of his face. Whatever she did, she mustn’t ask herself why she was meant to hate humans, and never let herself think–
They used to be us.
Loved it! Great pacing and lyrical descriptive phrases caused me to read faster as I read further. Excited to see the entire project!
Thank you for sharing, Kimberly! I love the exultant feeling of these. And I didn’t expect the last line!
Your story premise sounds intriguing. Good excerpt 🙂 Thanks for sharing! I love sharing excerpts, it brings people together and sparks interest and conversation.
Here’s my WIP. https://authorswilliams.wordpress.com/
Hey thanks Sara Beth! And thanks for sharing yours, too. That note on context made me laugh. It’s funny how some people like to give a lot and others just dive right in. 🙂
Most of the time I give context because it throws readers off otherwise and I used to hate reading excerpts out of context. But, I am learning to enjoy it more. However, when an excerpt provides enough context on its own, then I let the reader figure it out. Also, it builds up questions in the readers minds, and when readers have questions, they remember (I hope). Yey for building interest!
Bryn, I love your story! I am on a short break from editing The Vi-Purrs, which will debut in a couple weeks, so I shall share the scene I was going over for nits – The Vi-Purrs is part of Xander de Hunter’s Sea Purrtector series. The following scene has Xander a Siamese 007 and his apprentice is Mischief plus Sharkey, who is a friend and Hector, an editor for the Daily Mews:
“Hide!” Mischief gasped as she dove off the pile of blankets and disappeared behind a box.
Xander and Sharkey jumped down, but Hector, who wasn’t a trained Purrtector, merely sat up, a startled look on his face. Xander peeked up at him in time to see one of the Vi-Purrs fly low over the truck. “Get down here,” he hissed. This time, Hector moved. Xander hoped it wasn’t too little, too late.
“Do you think they saw us?” Mischief meowed.
“Who?” Hector asked.
“Clade and Allele – also known as the mutant Vi-Purrs, I told you about,” Xander said.
“The Chupacabras?” Hector said. “Zounds, this is a mega scoop.” He jumped back onto the blankets, but Xander yanked him back.
“Think about what you’ve heard about what Chupacabra do to their victims,” Xander hissed, “then ask yourself if they will kill you on sight or take the time for an interview.”
“But you’re here to back me up.”
“Do you think I’m going to endanger myself, Mischief and Sharkey because you’re too focused on a story to purrtect yourself?” Xander flattened his ears. “If you think that, think again.”
“Mr. Hector, you’re the acting Dominican Republic Purrtector, you need to behave like it,” Mischief said.
Hector’s orange eyes focused on his apprentice and for a brief moment, Xander feared that he would smack her, then Hector gave his shaggy head a shake. He hoped that the big tom had realized the story was a situation, not just a story. Hector ducked low. “What do you suggest?”
“First, we watch to see what they’re doing,” Xander said.
“Do you think they’re landing there because they know we need to cross there on foot?” Mischief asked.
“If they wanted to grab us, I think they would have attacked us right here,” Sharkey said.
“I agree,” Xander said, “They might not be the most intelligent beings, but surely they must realize that if they could see us, we could see them, so it doesn’t make sense to think that attacking us is their goal.” Then again, their eyes are on top of their heads, which was very peculiar. So while they had been visible to anyone looking up, they might not be able to look below very well. He carefully rose so he could peer over the box, but he couldn’t see Clade and Allele anywhere. Had they landed? They had certainly been flying low enough.
The doors for the truck slammed shut and he watched the two humans walk toward the landslide.
Was it coincidence that Clade and Allele had arrived moments after he had?
Jeanne, thank you, and thanks for sharing! Haha, chupacabras — there were always rumors of those when I lived in Tucson. 🙂 Congratulations on your upcoming debut!
Dutch Elm disease had all but killed off the trees in that part of the woods. Dark, sodden branches, and fingers off branches, reached up, warped and sullen, to point accusingly at the low grey sky. It was mid to late Winter but the half-dead, deciduous Elms in the secluded area of high woods, overlooking the common, would grow no foliage in Spring.
Snow was falling during my visit, covering the piece of ground above where the children had been entombed, even though their mutilated bodies were transported from another place; that being the location where their young lives had been extinguished. I visit the location, between two of the dying Elms, as often as I am able, and not the cemetery rose garden where a fancy plaque is stuck in the clay beside a bush, under which my only child’s ashes reside in a decorative pot. Each item signifies little more than an afterthought to me because, although the flesh is no more, I feel the possession of her gentle spirit easing my sadness during the time I stand among the dying trees.
When I occupy the exact spot where they were found, I do not think solely of the dead children. A range of negative thoughts and emotions passes through my mind. Typically, on that miserable day, I was thinking that homo sapiens were a species destined for oblivion, and it wouldn’t take a giant rock from outer space to do the job. We are perfectly capable of doing the job for ourselves, thank you, God. We are violent towards one another, greedy, cruel and, above all, self destructive. We profit from each others misery, we profit from hunting other species to extinction, we profit from raping the land and we profit from killing our own. People, mainly those who are healthy, safe, material minded and warm on a night when frost covers the ground, have the gall to say and write such trash as, ‘but we also have beauty, kindness and love for one another’. To you who make supercilious statements such as that, I say, wait until you become a victim or have a loved one dealt with in the way my daughter was or are at the epicentre of some other tragedy; then I seriously doubt you would spout your magnanimous bullshit. Experience has taught me that evil is a genuine, undefeatable entity.
The girls were buried deep, on top of one another, and the burial site had been cleverly camouflaged with loam and dead leaves. It would never have been located if an old man’s Retriever had not wandered off the path into the undergrowth to relieve itself and returned with a bright yellow penny purse in its mouth. An enterprising youngster finding the purse may have taken the small amount of coin it carried and tossed the empty vessel back among the bushes but the pensioner, thank the Lord, noted the name inside and took it to a police station on his next jaunt into town. The purse was listed among missing items the two girls were known to have been carrying and wearing on the day they dropped off the map. It took two weeks of searching before the grave was located some 100 feet away from the walkers bitumen path circumnavigating the woods. Hamad and I agreed that, when all the fuss was over, the place should remain unmarked and nature be allowed to take its course. I thought it was almost fitting that the trees in the immediate area were dead or dying.
Lawrence, thank you for posting. It’s a powerful voice.
And this is such a great example of the setting doing a lot of work to establish the emotional tone of a scene… something I don’t think about as much as I could. I should post about that sometime soon.
From ELLIS STEWART, a historical biography set in Ulster between 1847 and 1929.
Although not as underprivileged as his wife’s family, Samuel Stewart came from poverty but fervently desired that his children would not inherit the same. He arrived in the World during a time of famine when the potato crop turned sour and rotted in the ground and many thousands died, the majority from cholera. Thousands more emigrated to America but Samuel’s father, Ellis (after whom Samuel’s future first born would be named), continued to toil throughout the hard times on his small plot of fertile sod a mile short of Carrickfergus. On an 100 x 80 feet piece of earth, he grew beets, tubers, potatoes and peas. When he was sure his family had enough to survive on and stay healthy, he sold the remainder from a home-made, rickety barrow which he pushed into town and home again once a week. He kept a dozen bantams and was in delicate negotiation concerning the purchase of two piglets when he died as a result of a massive coronary while pushing his cart on a hilly section of the Carrick Road. He was 34 years of age. In an effort to stave off family hunger, Samuel, who had turned 11 years two weeks prior to his father’s untimely passing, was forced to set aside any teaching he may have had to take over Ellis’s work. He was a big boy for 11 but his mother was forced to help with the barrow pushing while still finding time to raise six other youngsters. Her constant efforts took their toll on her health.
Within a year, his mother passed – something intestinal was all he was told – and the seven children, ranging in age from a girl of 13 years down to a 12 months old boy, were parted and spread to the four winds. Fortunately or not, none were institutionalized. Unfortunately, where they went dictated how they fared in life for they were shared around various relations and not all of those would-be Samaritans were of good intention. The baby followed her parents in death when she was two years of age. Tuberculosis was the recorded cause but no mention was made of neglect, ill treatment and hunger on the death certificate. Samuel was by far the luckiest. He was chosen and dispatched to a cottage near Carr’s Glen, into the keeping of his father’s childless, widowed sister.
This sounds like such an interesting project. Mr. Donovan and I learned a lot about the famine when he was researching his family’s history, though they were from Cork, not from the north. I want to visit northern Ireland someday, though.
I don’t have an excerpt to share because I’m not at my desk, but I’m almost finished polishing a short story where the MC finds a mysterious pair of shoes in his closet, which is troubling since he lives alone. I was hoping to be finished by the 1st, but life…you know.
I love everyone’s excerpts so far!
I’d sure like to read more! And my goal was also to be finished by the 1st, but alas… until I win Powerball and can quit my job & afford a nanny, chauffeur, & cook, a life as a full-time writer is just out of my grasp!
Oh my gosh, Frances, that’s a fantastic premise! I hope you can share next month!
OMG, creepy. I love it.
My excerpt is from my first book of the ‘Myths of Ascydes’ series.
In this scene a young boy tries to rescue a legora from being killed.
‘I will not let you hurt him!’ Orsin looked over his shoulder and saw how the boy held his hands in front of him. His fingers turned up as if he was about to create another rock pillar. Orsin turned around. He held his frost-maul with both hands, ready to wag as soon as the ground would rise. The three men waited for something to happen, though instead the young boy lowered his arms and exhaled disappointed. The sound of evil laughter filled the hollow way, the men were unimpressed by this newbie. It was obvious to them that the first pillar was a creation by luck. The boy stood discouraged on top of the earth bank, while the men ridiculed him. Their attention was drawn to a series of high pitched squeals, there was only one animal in Ascydes who sounded like this. A fogi. As they looked up, they saw the strangest looking fogi ever. It had the exact same shape as a fogi, only this one appeared entirely of blue flames.
‘Is that a…’ the boy did not let Orsin finish.
‘FENCY,’ he pointed his arm straight forward, ‘FIRE!’ The men flinched as an orange-yellow fiery breath from the fogi, burned through the air towards the top of the other earth bank. Once it arrived at the other side, the flames started to move in an unnatural way. The three men stared in disbelieve at the process. All of a sudden, the fire took the shape of two men, in fact two archers. Without hesitation the archers grasped into the burning flames of their quivers and pulled an arrow from it. They started to fire at Orsin and Nazar.
The first arrows flew through the air, both men evaded it with a dodge-roll. On impact, the arrows made a combustive blast, resulting in an explosion of snow that covered the hollow way. The archers kept firing, while the men dodged the arrows. The boy and his blue-flamed fogi observed the fight.
Annoyed his blade stuck in the pillar, Roparzh made an attempt to climb it. The pillar was large, only with his arms and legs stretched to the side, he slowly made his way up.
Orsin changed tactic. Every time an arrow got fired, it blasted the snow, which impeded their eyesight. He had to prevent any arrows from hitting the ground. Orsin stopped the arrows with the metal end of his maul, it was surprising how quick he could move his frost-maul to block both arrows. When an arrow hit his maul, it sounded like a thunderous explosion, which left Orsin shaking on his feet. Nazar knew, Orsin would not hold this tactic for long. He looked for some rocks on the side of the earth bank that was not covered by snow. Nazar returned to Orsin, he was about to jab the stone.
‘Fency, the little one!’ the boy alerted his fogi. A flurry of fire passed Nazar’s head, he startled and winced. Nazar looked seethed at the boy, now he had to evade the attacks from the fogi.
Roparzh nearly reached his sword. The magma-blade cut itself about four inches down. He stretched his right arm, he could touch the hilt with his finger top. In the corner of his eye, the boy saw Roparzh grasping for his sword.
‘Fency, stop him!’ he pointed at Roparzh. The fogi rushed over the earth bank, yellow flames shot from all his paws, which increased his speed. At arrival he spat fire at Roparzh, who lifted himself up as far as he could. During his leap, Roparzh lost grip on the pillar. However, his goal was achieved, he pulled his magma-blade from the rock. As Roparzh fell on the ground, the fire scorched the pillar.
‘That’s it!’ Roparzh sounded proud to have his sword back, ‘first I’ll cut off the beast’s head and then YOURS!’ He pointed his sword threatening at the boy. But before Roparzh had a chance to kill the legora, he found himself in another challenge, to fend off the fogi’s fire attacks.
Since the fogi’s focus had shifted, Nazar continued his plan. He threw a rock at one archer, as the stone flew through its head, the entire physical structure collapsed.
‘Nice one!’ cheered Orsin, ‘now the other.’
‘I can’t, I only found one stone,’ responded Nazar.
‘What?’ Orsin was still blocking the arrows from the remaining archer, ‘find more!’ he demanded.
‘I have a better idea,’ Nazar whispered in Orsin’s ear and grinned evil.
‘Yea!’ Orsin approved with his suggestion.
Roparzh’s blade cut through every fiery projectile, the fogi fired at him. The quick shots were answered with swift sweeps. Step by step, Roparzh moved backwards, slowly closer to the legora. He waited for the perfect moment, to make his lethal strike.
‘Fency, protect the legora!’ the fogi spat a large amount of fire between Roparzh and the legora. In his panic, the boy made another creation. The fire turned into an armored warrior, with a two-handed sword. It attacked Roparzh. The boy blenched, creating this warrior took its toll on his body.
The archer fired another arrow, which Orsin blocked. He turned around quick, to lift Nazar onto the earth bank. The boy realized what the men had planned, but was too weak to defend himself. Nazar stepped on the staff, while Orsin lifted him up and Nazar jumped towards the bank. The boy’s heart stopped. He was sure Nazar would put him to his end. Why did he have to meddle, instead of minding his own deal.
Scarlett, exciting scene! It sounds like a really well-thought-out world, too. I love that. Thanks for posting!
Loving all of the excerpts!
Mine is from a book of short stories I’m writing about Dubai. This is a historical one, set in the 1940s…
The Pearl Divers
By Marianne Makdisi
Amir peered into the seawater, past the ripples lapping against the boat’s wooden frame and squinted into the deep blue below. A shadow caught his eye, a murky flickering with indistinct edges at least fifteen feet down, but it was gone before the smudge became a man. Swallowed by a wave that rolled and licked.
The boat rocked and Amir felt a well of pride rising up in his chest. Although just a glimpse, he knew the dark shape was his father, Nadim, scouring the seabed for oysters with a knife. No-one on the 18-man crew, not even his uncle, could hold their breath underwater for as long as his baba. The divers worked without breathing apparatus, and Amir had figured out a way of counting how many seconds his father had been submerged for, a silent, rhythmic ticking in his head that at once calmed him and told him when to expect the tug on the rope.
His admiration was quickly dissolved by the sound of the Nakhuda’s voice. The captain was shouting. “Amir, get back on deck, boy.” The steady drum in his mind stopped for a long, stilted second, and he nearly lost count.
Springing away from the low timber rail as though it had given him a splinter, he sat down, crossing his skinny, brown legs. The floorboards were drenched and moisture crept up the already-soggy fabric of his shorts, leaving a dark, wet ring. His thin chest was bare, as were his blistered feet.
The breeze-blown air tasted salty and his hands were sore from tugging at the rope. Amir was a Radif, a half puller, a position usually filled by a boy apprentice and paid just half a wage. He served under a much older Seib (puller). More than anything, he wanted to be a diver. Just like his baba and uncle, and their father before them. Amir was tired of being told he was too young, that diving was too dangerous. At 10 years old, and with two grueling, pearling seasons under his belt – both times spending weeks aboard a dhow at sea – he didn’t see why he should have to wait any longer.
He was sure that if he was allowed to enter the blue underworld to search for pearls, he’d find the elusive pink pearl, the most precious of a range of colours, or, if he was really lucky, perhaps a black pearl. So lustrous and captivating the merchants who traded their hard-won finds would know his name by heart.
Ohh, thanks for sharing, Marianne! I don’t know anything about pearl diving, and the level of detail here is fantastic. Do you live in Dubai? (I know this is historical — just curious!)
Hi Bryn, Thanks for reading! Yes, I do live in Dubai. I moved here from Minneapolis eight years ago. From the freezer into the frying pan! Thanks for the encouragement on my short story – it’s from a book of short stories I’m writing about Dubai. This one is based in the pre-oil era when pearl diving was the main industry – it was an incredibly difficult way to make a living (high risk of drowning, shark attacks) and I’ve become quite fascinated by it. Your book, Master Lists for Writers, is SO useful, and I’ve been recommending it all over the place 🙂
Ha, I lived in Minneapolis one year — Minnie to Dubai is quite a switch! It sounds like a fantastic project. Thank you so much for the nice words about the book — I’m so glad it’s been helpful!!
Since I’m about to start editing the first draft of my second novel, it seemed right to post the very beginning. I’m not sure how much of this scene will survive the first rewrite, it’s not nearly as good as I remember it being when I wrote it during NaNo last year…
Nina sat beside Paul in front of the fire and wondered when he was finally going to tell her what was on his mind. Something was weighing on him, that much was obvious, with his distant expression, not just the unfocused gaze of staring into the fire, but the determination to somehow see past it, into the future. Tonight, she sat beside Paul the soothsayer, only he didn’t seem to care for whatever future he was conjuring up.
It had taken Nina time to get used to his easy, talkative nature when they first met–his effortless charm that invited her in, and the way he kept trying to treat her like a friend until she finally became one. Now that she was accustomed to that, she was having equal trouble getting used to his silences. Sometimes, he admitted, he got a little worried he was talking too much, so he overcompensated by shutting up for hours. Sometimes he was just tired. This quiet between them now, in front of the fire, seemed thoughtful.
She tried to emulate his patience with her, so she sat beside him without fidgeting or filling the silence with small talk. She wasn’t good at small talk, anyway, and if she dove into it, Paul would know he was making her anxious.
So instead of prompting him to spill his secrets, she took a page from his book and decided to do something practical, something useful. Not that diverting her circling thoughts with activity was something she was unfamiliar with, she did it plenty. But she still always thought of him as the more practical one.
She stood and went to the back of the pickup truck where their spare gear was stored. Paul had started the fire, and they’d eaten dinner–two protein bars for him, one for her, out of the case they’d found in the stockroom of a half-picked-over grocery store–but they hadn’t set up the tent yet, and the sun was fading from the sky. She lifted the tent out and started looking around for the best spot.
When he saw what she was doing, Paul jumped to his feet to help, and together they cleared a space and put up the tent, a two-person dome that was just barely long enough for Paul to stretch out in. They had one sleeping bag between them, which got unrolled, unzipped, and laid flat to serve as a mattress, with their blankets spread out on top to cover them. There was enough room to the side for their packs to sit together in easy reach.
After they were done, Paul plunked himself back down in front of the fire, and not sure what else to do, Nina joined him. He draped his arm over her shoulders, and she leaned her head against his chest. But he was still silent, and she still didn’t know how to approach the subject of what was making him so thoughtful. Before long, she was dozing off.
“You should go on to bed,” Paul told her after the third time she jerked her head up to keep from falling completely asleep.
“Come with?” Nina asked, her voice small and sleepy.
He shook his head. “I’ll be in soon,” he promised, trailing the backs of his fingers over her cheek. Nina smiled at the caress. After just a few days together on the road, all of Paul’s casual affection finally felt natural and comfortable to her. Building that part of their relationship had definitely been easier when it was just the two of them alone together, without anyone watching and making Nina crazy with nerves.
But Nina sighed when she settled into their thin, inadequate bed, alone and not nearly warm enough without him beside her. Already the nights were far colder than she thought they’d be. She curled in on herself, pulled her blanket up to her chin, and tried not to worry. But the sudden feeling of distance between her and Paul wouldn’t vanish from her thoughts. She suspected she was overreacting, but this was still so new to her, this intimacy of hearts, not just of bodies.
Thanks for sharing, Elena — and congratulations on finishing a draft of a NaNo novel! That is great. I am so curious about these two and why they’re on the road and eating protein bars for dinner…
I’ve been working on this one for months! I actually killed chapters and chapters of darlings, and basically started over last month. The story was just not translating to paper from my head the way I’d hoped.
This is my 3rd manuscript and is part of a contemporary romance series I’ve been working on. A chef expecting a life-changing promotion has her world turned upside down when the promotion instead goes to an outsider, a cowboy chef with a Montana-sized chip on his shoulder and something to prove. It gets worse when she discovers the interloper is the same man she once had an glorious night with, a man she can’t hide her desire from. There is some language in the excerpt.
*******************
Nathaniel Falk adjusted the black bandana over his thick russet hair before turning his attention back to the task at hand. He lifted the rubber mallet and brought it down on the spine of the chef’s knife in his other hand, neatly cleaving the small acorn squash in half. He pushed the halves aside and positioned his next victim, pounding the knife through the vegetable’s skin and flesh in one swift motion. The sound of the knife knocking against the wood cutting board was a comforting rhythm, but it couldn’t completely calm the storm raging within.
Delilah Stone’s getting married. To my little brother.
Since receiving the email from his older sister Sadie this morning, Nathaniel had thought of nothing else. He nearly hopped into his Silverado to make the 1,200-mile trip from Los Angeles to Kade Creek, Montana, but common sense won out. Barely. He had a shift at the restaurant tonight and he couldn’t leave Marcus high-and-dry, not after everything the older chef had done for him. Besides, as much as he wanted to kick Logan’s ass for stealing his girl, Logan was still his baby brother.
Half-brother, he corrected himself. Some would call it semantics, but not the man who’d raised Nathaniel and his siblings. The man he called Dad for most of his life, and who shared DNA with Sadie, Logan, and Logan’s twin brother Colton, but not with Nathaniel. That was just fine with him. He brought the mallet down and cleaved another squash.
“Damn, son,” said a deep voice with a hint of Texan in it. “What did that squash ever do to you?”
Nathaniel grunted, setting aside the tools and wiping his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder.
“It’s a substitute,” Nathaniel replied. He leaned against the sink behind him and rubbed the back of his neck. He was still wound tight, but if anyone could understand, it would be Marcus Adamson.
“I could see that,” the older man chuckled, folding his arms across his chest. “You want to talk about it?”
“It’s Delilah. She’s getting married.”
Marcus let out a low whistle. “Do you know the fella in question?”
Nathaniel barked out a sharp laugh. “You can say that. He’s my little brother.”
At this news, Marcus raised his eyebrows. “No shit.”
“No shit,” Nathaniel confirmed. “Logan is marrying my Delilah.”
Marcus stroked his thin moustache, which was graying like the rest of his hair. “I hate to point out the obvious, but she hasn’t been ‘your’ Delilah in quite a while, has she?”
Nathaniel cursed under his breath as he gripped the edge of the sink. He hated it when Marcus was right, which was too often. He hadn’t seen Delilah since the day he found out why his father hated him, when he packed up whatever shit he could fit in the back of his old Bronco and hightailed it out of cowboy country. Nathaniel had begged her to come with him, but Kade Creek was her home and she wasn’t leaving it to take a chance on a hot-headed, feckless bastard who had no future. Not that she’d used those words. Delilah was blunt, but she was also gentle. Still, her meaning was clear. They’d been together since middle school and when she refused to leave with him, it was like she’d taken the dagger already spearing his heart and gave it a firm twist. That was three years ago.
Since then, he’d roamed the west, cooking in various restaurants from Seattle on down to Albuquerque and a multitude of points in-between. His culinary degree was put to good use, more than when he was trying to turn his love of cooking into something purposeful back in Montana, but he’d yet to find a place to call home. He’d know the place when he landed there, and he just hadn’t found it yet. He’d open his own restaurant, make a life for himself he couldn’t have back in Kade Creek. Not as long as Everett Falk was still alive, and that old sonuvabutch was too mean to die.
Sounds like a great premise for contemporary romance! I am familiar with throwing out early chapters, myself. 🙂
Haha, loved “Damn, son…What did that squash ever do to you?”
Thanks for posting, Lynn!
I am new to Bryn’s world but so far enjoying it and love the excerpts what a fun exercise and it certainly encourages creativity. My writing has been in the non fiction genre focused around my professional expertise but I’m in a professional shift right now so I’m finally allowing myself to write my fiction stories. This is an idea for an older children’s book and a brief excerpt of what I’ve begun. I trust it’s not too long as an excerpt, I’ve never shared any of my stories before this is my first.
Emergence (is the working title at the moment)
I am Addilelia, but everyone calls me Addi because even for elves, fairy’s and dwarfs it’s a mouthful to say and my kinsmen like to get to the point! It is tradition within the three united clans to name their children for the attributes to which their lives are dedicated. So as you can imagine with parents such as mine that my name is of great importance, not just for me but for all the clans. My parents are the king and queen of the three realms and that means elves, fairy’s and dwarf kingdoms are united by their rule.
It was no easy feat to finally bring balance but my parents are not your typical queen and king either. They are an exceptional team with great oratory, warrior and political skills but their greatest attribute is their ability to recognize what would unite us. They showed all three clans what mattered most to us all which was the survival of our realms. They devised a plan with an ingenious strategy that not only held strong promise to ensure our safety but to do it by aiding our lost kinsman, the humans. My parents were the first to recognize the threat the human realm posed to our own. It had long been held there was no way to help the humans, that they were forever lost, but when my parents revealed the human realms were directly tied to our own and without aiding them we would fall to their fate it changed everything. Not because the King said so but because he proved it.
My father was a great man of science and magic, his combined skills were known throughout the Triune Kingdoms so when he proved the ether’s were being siphoned off by the human realms there was no refuting him. Magic alone could not save us anymore and science had great limitations without our magic. Only by combing the three clans magical science was it possible to stave off the great assault that was coming and we had successfully accomplished that great feat. My mother, Queen Rhyannon forged through the alliance to craft a magical ether created from a science method but implemented through the magical powers of the three combined realms. It was the only way that it would work. The universal constructs only recognize a united origin and any other attempt would have widened the gap between the ether layers. It succeeded but it had a limit and the next phase of their bold plan involved the volunteers from the three clans entering the dark realm of humans to provide aid.
The three clans had left the human realm after the Kinnard’s betrayal had been discovered and it was finally realized there was no hope. If they did not depart their own realms stood to be destroyed so they left with heavy hearts. After that the clans split and humans were left to fend from their memories which slowly faded over the centuries and by the Kinnard’s manipulations until the idea of their kinsman fairy, elves and dwarfs were considered myths and children’s made up bedtime stories. That is changing now with my parents implemented plans to infiltrate the human realm much like the Kinnard’s had done only with the intention to free the human from their infected consciousness.
They devised multiple ways which included volunteers taking human form and bringing the truth through the arts. Only the arts remained the truest part of the human’s original being. It was my father who proposed the plan and sold it to the three clans but it was my mother who implemented the strategy that sent volunteer forces from the three clans to bring aid to the humans once again. This time it was a stealth plan one that involved fairy’s, elves and dwarfs to incarnate as humans, but there was a catch as there always is.
The plan seemed to be going well initially but the volunteers suddenly went silent which meant they may have succombed to the same fate as the humans, Kinnard’s technology caused a forgetting. Anyone entering through the original construct would instantly forget their origin at their birth. However, my mother made an agreement with the Ancient One’s for she had a relationship with them. Ancient One’s are seen as trees in all the realms but their true form no one knows except maybe my mother but she would never tell. No one initially believed the Ancient One’s still existed but my mother knew them well and they provided her a proof that gave confidence to the volunteers. So when we enter the human realms through their ancient portals and incarnate we do so through a human who is ready to depart. In this way we are not subject to the Kinnard’s technology and we remember everything. The human soul is placed in suspension which can only help them if we are successful. If we are not successful the human soul will move back in to the Kinnard’s Time Game and our essence will be trapped between the realms once the body dies. It is not an option anyone wishes to face but our options are limited, the great Resettling of the Universe is coming, the ether layers are dividing, separating and fading so the plan went forward. Now we sit on the edge of war and worse the Kanards’ stand to take over all three realms just as they did the humans if someone does not intervene.
Only my father, King Oberon calls me by my full given name Addilelia Tatiannia which means chosen ruler and queen of the magical realms because I am to rule when I complete my assignment. It is a required gauntlet each ruler must overcome in order to sit on the throne of the three clans of Elvish, Fairy and Dwarf realms and I am the leader of the Alvara, the Army of Elves. My gauntlet however is not the usual fare but a mission to bring back the lost clans and to complete their mission if possible to unveil to the lost humans their true heritage. I am not being forced I actually volunteered for the assignment as it seemed prudent in light of our circumstances. I may not have a kingdom to govern if something is not done.
In order to do accomplish my mission I must devise a comprehensive strategy that will allow me access without detection by the secret rulers of the human realms while in human form. Humans believe they rule their domain but they do not. The Kinnard’s rule with absolute dictatorial authority but all behind the scenes like a play where you do not see the director, but the director is dictating each scene, how it should be played and by whom. While an author may have written the script it is the director who dictates how it will be performed and that is what the Kinnard’s and their evil technology have forged for humans. Humans were once a part of nature, a part of our united clansmen within all realms there was correlation and complete union. You could transport from human realms to elvish to fairy realms through the nature’s ether network or for humans through their own body. Human’s were innocent and wise which proved to be a deadly combination that saw to their downfall. They trusted the wrong Creator Race to ‘educate’ them and the result was forgetting their true identity and abdicating their own rights to free will. Oh humans believe they have free will but they only have the outskirts of it, from what is left of the original construct. The Kinnard’s have slowly eroded and hacked the original construct system and overwritten human consciousness to the degree they don’t know which end is up. It seemed impossible to bring them back to themselves because even the Creator Race’s were helpless to help the humans, if they could not awaken them how could we was the general idea. Now that the fate our fellow kinsman was unknown inside the dark human world more was at stake. Someone had to go with a plan to find out what happened to them and to ensure the mission was completed and I decided that would be me. I am clearly the right candidate with what is at stake but there are those who oppose it because of my responsibilities.You can never make everyone happy I’ve learned so make yourself happy first the rest will follow I say!
So here I am discovering the smallest part of me hidden within the old majestic trees softly laden boughs of dark wooley branches with their verdant green and ocher yellowed leaves all tangled up was I inside their deep penetrating time crevices. I would inexorably alter the course of my mission for nestled within the ancient beings were the portals of time that yielded an entrance that had not been considered and the Ancient Ones wished to disclose their secrets to me, to the one consenting the undertaking to enter the dark world of the lost humans yet again. My sole mission was to create a sufficient opening that would yield an opportunity to free the lost human clan from their false identity and their misled reality. The Ancient One’s of Origin would only open their wise portals for the one to whom my mother had prepared. As I entered the dark domains I saw the covert pathways which held the secrets to that time before humans lost their true form, I saw them in their glory. I awoke inside their nightmare and I remembered how it came to be and armed with their full memories I knew what I had to do. The ancient tree unveiled to me what was needed to complete my mission before the Resettling of Universal constructs reached its peak, after that no hope would remain and they did not want me to remain in human form. Evidently my mother had made arrangements with them but they took it a step further for there was a truth they had not shared even with her. Now I was being made ready learning secrets no one else knew and it was dangerous information to have inside the human realm. I would have to act as a “normal human” while having the power to attract the Kinnard’s with my level of consciousness. That was something I had not considered, I had not been aware that by being awake my consciousness could attract attention for most humans resonated well below what I was capable. The Kinnard’s technology in effect monitored human consciousness and anyone who began to rise up and out of the great stupor were instantly dealt with in any number of unsavory ways too horrible to think about. I had to think quick before I entered my assigned timeline and began the descent into my human host. The Ancient Ones had devised a way that would in part shield me from detection but the rest was up to my own wits. If I became too emboldened too fast I would get on the radar of every agent within the human domain and that could end my life in human form in any number ways from professional death to physical death. In the human world you have to survive by earning money. It was all so foreign to my realm where cooperation and interdependence created wealth for everyone. There was no centralized government controlling everything, the Kind and Queen acted as guardians, facilitator’s and mentors. If a dispute did arise their rule was absolute but it was always wise and so no one countered it. In the human world nothing was as it appeared. There was the world everyone thought was real and the world that controlled that world. I did not want to become a target so I needed to adapt quickly to my human counterpart. It all depended upon how much they thought I knew and how I approached helping humans without utilizing the systems in place to trap me. The humans had many systems from education, government and their medicine system was nothing more than a way to enslave their form designed for deception. The ancient masters of time had awaited my arrival and revealed the plan and now I was ready to become Adda Eleanor Covington of Phoenix, Arizona, who at age 33 had a brain aneurysm in her sleep and I would pass through the veil and take her form. I was pivoted for the emergence of the magical kingdoms into the human realms, now wake up I heard in a whispering voice!
Adda! called her room mate, you’re going to be late for work if you don’t get up. I couldn’t get out of bed in fact for a moment I couldn’t move. I felt so groggy and tired, it was like I was drunk. I opened my eyes slowly and I saw a mirror in front of the bed and here I was now in a world in which my form had changed. I thought what is going on here? It must have been the wine from dinner last night making me feel so groggy and hung over, for sure, I thought it has to the wine. Then suddenly my eyes popped open and I remembered! I am Addi and I am Adda, I had retained the memories of Adda’s life and my own were garbled inside fighting to come to the surface and claim their right. I did not realize there would be any struggle I thought I’d just wake up and be me, but Adda was too much like myself, which is probably why the Ancient Ones chose her, she is strong willed and strong minded. Even though her soul is parked in suspension her essence remains intact and I realized they probably left it that way to offer protection, this was their tool to help me, so I stopped fighting her and began to devise a way to incorporate the two of us so we could blend our strengths and employ our weaknesses to our advantage. I heard once more, Adda! in a sharper, shriller tone than before from the woman in the next room, “if you don’t get up I’m going to be late, you have to drive me today to work, did you forget?”
I slowly rose up rubbing my sore eyes and realized the pounding I felt was my own head. Ouch! being human is so uncomfortable, I am so limited, it wasn’t a reaction I hadn’t expected. I realized I was going to cause a problem so I got up and hopped into the nearby bathroom while simultaneously yelling out to my now room mate, “I’m up, be there in a jiff!” I was off on my mission!
Janet, I bet after writing nonfiction about your profession, something as imaginative as this is a nice change! Thanks for sharing, and thanks so much for reading the blog, too! 🙂
Holy God, Bryn. That is fantastic. The whole thing. The setting, all the different channels, the frequency of e-motion. Just from this little bit I learned a lot about both characters, their histories, and abilities. And, most importantly, we know exactly what’s happening to Tristan and it could be very, very bad. The book could start right here and I’m hooked. When you’re ready to share more, tell me where–and tell me when I can buy it! (No pressure. My own novel’s been wallowing for two years and I completely understand.)
Oh my gosh, Kathryn — thank you so much! This trilogy is my favorite thing ever, and so that means a lot, seriously. 🙂
Fantastic excerpt, Bryn! Can’t wait to read more about Val and Tristan! As cool as the weekly Blank Page to Final Draft project was, I’m finding the monthly WIP more effective in gearing me up to get more written.
I’ve got two or three chapters, including the epilogue, to go on the fan fiction piece I shared about in January and February WIP posts (and if you’re into elven-human romance, I posted a two-chapter standalone on AO3 today, too). The first 23 chapters of Heal My Heart are up at http://archiveofourown.org/works/5728576/chapters/13199938
On a forced summer holiday, Commander Cullen, 47, was injured while protecting the King. Healer Evelyn, 40, saved Cullen and he believes she must remain bound to her current post in the capitol when he leaves at summer’s end. WIP from chapter 24:
She lazily traced her fingers up and down his sternum, touched the charm he never took off, even when they made love.
“And this?”
“A gift from my brother, the day I left for Templar training. From the very beginning, I broke the rules.”
She snorted, “You love rules.”
“I want to know the rules. That doesn’t mean I always follow them.”
She poked him in the chest. “You usually do.”
“Yes.” He sighed.
“Anyway, my siblings: My older sister, Mia, bested me at board games, but she was also my greatest supporter when I was eight and wanted to be a Templar.”
“Eight?”
“Yes, though I didn’t join them until thirteen, and didn’t take the vows until eighteen.”
She raised her head to look at him. “But you don’t take Lyrium now.”
He smiled. “I stopped when I left the Order for the Inquisition.”
“That must have been . . .” she searched for a word. “Painful.”
He chuckled. “Yes, and not just physically. It’s one of the few substances for which withdrawal can physically kill you, but the hallucinations are just as dangerous. I’ve kept watch over some souls trying to go without, and helped those who left the order but couldn’t give it up. Logistics were . . . interesting.”
She laid her ear back to his chest and traced his pectorals with a sleepy finger. “You said siblings, plural.”
“Yes, Branson is younger than I, and Rosalie the youngest. Though,” he chuckled, “none of us are that young anymore.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a grown man in his prime,” Ev said drowsily. She wrapped her arm around his midsection.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d tell him she wanted to go with him.
You are doing so great on this fic! I’m so impressed. I always enjoy your excerpts! So glad WIP Wednesday is working for you, too. 🙂
So many exciting passages! What a great bunch of writers – thanks Bryn for inviting us to share.
Time to throw mine out there…
Sara watched as he paused in his rhythmic motions to wipe the sweat off his brow. He looked up at the gray clouds moving in from the east and just as Sara was deciding it would be best to move on before she was discovered, he turned his head and caught sight of her.
She watched as his expression changed, the creases returning as he realized she had been leaning against the shed wall watching him.
She smiled shyly, “Sorry, I was just getting some fresh air.” She waved as she turned to leave, feeling stupid and embarrassed.
“Sara,” he called.
She stopped, hesitated, then turned back, her face blazing.
He moped the sweat from his brow with his forearm, and watched her as she approached.
“I thought you were resting,” he said, as he took in the redness of her cheeks. “Have you been out here long?”
Torin watched as her blush deepened.
“Just a few minutes actually.” She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, not meeting his eyes. She was fearful of angering him. Fearing he would think she was attempting to escape, she hurriedly explained, “I just stepped out to get some fresh air, I wasn’t going anywhere, and I wandered over here when I heard,” she stopped mid-sentence, catching sight of something glinting on the hillside in the distance.
She had been too distracted by the sight of Torin to notice earlier, but now she realized what it was.
“Is that your,” she pointed, as she struggled to find the correct word, “your prototype windmill?”
Torin had picked up his shirt and looked over his shoulder in the direction she pointed. He slid the shirt over his head. “Yes, it is.” He was surprised she remembered. It had been last spring when they talked about the plans.
She looked at him in surprise, “You finished it?”
“Months ago.” He tucked his shirt into his trousers, then picked up his jacket and slung it over one arm.
“Would you like to see it?” he asked, watching the anxiety on her face replaced by curiosity.
“Yes,” she answered enthusiastically.
As they walked across the field to the hillside, Torin watched a transformation as Sara lost her self-consciousness in her enthusiasm and interest. He found himself completely engaged as he answered her questions about the construction, materials, and challenges of this new windmill design.
As they approached, she ran ahead in her excitement when she spotted the small creek and waterfall he had created on the hillside beneath the windmill.
She was kneeling beside a miniature water wheel turning in the current of the small creek when he caught up to her. She looked up at him, eyes glowing.
“You made all this?”
He nodded and replied, “I had some help laying the gravel and placing the stones, but yes, I dug most of it myself.”
He squatted beside her and cupped his palm beneath the flowing water. He splashed the water over his face and the back of his neck.
“It’s beautiful Torin,” she said in wonder as she stood and walked beside the tiny river.
She had never used his name so informally, and it caught him by surprise how much he liked the sound of it. He watched with pleasure at her wonder and joy in this small creation of his, and realized how much it pleased him to see her happy.
She stood directly below the small windmill, with its six intertwining helixes spinning in a blur in the strong winds.
“It’s beautiful,” she repeated as she stood with her head tilted up to the windmill. “Listen to the soft hum it makes!” She stretched her arms out, and with awe said, “I can feel it, the hum is in
the air and,” she looked down at her feet, “I can feel it in the earth.” She closed her eyes and simply stood, arms outstretched, feeling the wind and the hum of the spinning helixes.
Torin wanted desperately to take her in his arms and kiss that outstretched neck. God she was beautiful when she was like this. So vibrant, and alive. He approached her cautiously, not wanting to disturb her, and not trusting himself to resist his desires.
She opened her eyes and the smile left her eyes as he stood next to her beneath the spinning helixes. She opened her mouth to speak, but he moved in before he could reconsider his actions, and took her mouth in his.
His first thought was how warm her lips were, despite the chill wind blowing. Warm and soft. His second thought was that she was not resisting him. He slipped his arms around her waist and gently pulled her to him.
Sara gasped as Torin took her mouth in his. She tasted the dried salt of his sweat, and decided she had never tasted anything so wonderful. The wind whipped loose strands of her hair across their faces, and Torin pulled back slightly, tenderly brushing the strands away with the back of his hand. Sara was cold, and shivering, and the places their bodies connected felt like she was touching a flame, he was so warm.
He looked into her eyes, still holding her. In a low, rumbly voice, he asked, “May I kiss you Sara?”
She blinked, uncertain if she heard him correctly. He was asking permission? “But you already have,” she said, although she had not meant to say the words out loud.
The corner of his mouth lifted and he said, “Then may I kiss you again?”
She nodded slightly and closed her eyes as his lips gently took hers again. His lips were soft, nudging at hers until she opened, then the tip of his tongue slipped between her lips, feather like, then probing deeper, until their tongues collided. He pulled her tighter against him, and Sara could no longer tell whether the humming was coming from the windmill or their bodies.
Oh, this is lovely, Michelle!
I’ll tell you what… there’s hardly anything more romantic than one person taking a strong interest in the other person’s work or hobby or passion. I need to remember that!
Does back cover copy count? I’m editing my novella, The Green Lady. The most recent piece of it I’ve added to is the back cover copy 🙂
Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder…
They had warned him. Absinthe did not come with a disclaimer, a caution to be inferred between the lines and the delicate wings of the La Fee Verte, the Green Fairy, who gives absolution but wants your soul in return.
From the first sip of seduction, the first saccharine slide down into gritty sweetness, there was no hope of release, no expectation of escape. Blind and willing, he went forth…
Estate lawyer John Remington Edgar had lived a cautious life; a life plagued by disappointment until a chance encounter with Joseph Lewis, Sr. leaves him managing the estate of the wealthiest and most influential man in town.
Suddenly, all of Baltimore is at his fingertips and he finds himself with an exclusive membership to the illustrious Harbor Club. There John discovers his first love, the green fairy, deep in the dregs of absinthe, the drink with the ethereal glow that blinds him to the dangers of a courtship with blemished socialite Eleanor Westfall, a woman spurned by society and hell-bent on revenge against the son of John’s best client.
After witnessing the murder of his most important client’s son, John becomes the prime suspect. He takes matters into his own hands to preserve his good name, prove his innocence and unravel the mystery.
Ohhh Sara I love the back cover copy! And I think that is so hard to write… but maybe it comes naturally to you! I love how this sounds appropriate to the time period but still for the contemporary reader. Thank you for sharing!
I’m a little behind this week, so I apologize. My darlingest friend, Jude Knight, does Work in Progress Wednesday each week, and I actually had something (completely raw and unedited) to share there…
*******
“You are leaving.” The question – no, it was decidedly not a question – came from the door, and she paused her packing, hands frozen in midair.
Their eyes met across the length of the bedroom. Briefly, she wondered if he could see the evidence of her tears, but quickly dismissed it as of no matter. Newly engaged women often shed tears of joy, after all.
She owed him an explanation, and opened her mouth to provide one, but found she could only say, “I am.”
Her shoulders dropped, and she leaned against the window, letting the cold seep into her hot skin. She owed him everything, but could give him nothing. “We cannot be, Rupert. It does not work, and you know this.”
He closed the distance between them, sweeping her into an embrace. Before she could protest, his lips crashed down upon hers. Despite an outward appearance of calm, she was eager for the kiss, for it would be the last they shared, and she wanted to savor every moment of it.
He took his time, slowly parting her lips with his tongue, and she knew she would relive this kiss for the rest of her days. When his lips left hers to trace the vein that led to the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat, she thought she would catch fire. Surely the frost upon the window panes would be melted from the contact.
All too quickly, the embrace ended, and she was cold again.
Wow. Really, really awesome.
It’s fine to post later of course!
I thought this was especially nice: “When his lips left hers to trace the vein that led to the pulsing hollow at the base of her throat”… really tactile, and vulnerable in a way that matches the emotion of the moment.
Thanks for sharing, Laura!
I love all of your content Bryn, and the story you posted! <3 Beautiful writing.
Here is some of my work:
—-
The white crested waves of high tide beat against the smooth rock faces, nearly shielding the shore from sight. A salty spray sprang up from their encounters in showers of little droplets which fell back down to the sea once more. The normally sandy shore was swallowed by the hungry waters, removing all traces of sea life.
Overlooking the ocean upon a mossy cliff, situated a safe distance from the water was a salmon pink, Victorian-style house. The sturdy building included four stories complete with a generous amount of rooms, was decorated with soaring gables and plenty of shining windows, and was masked in lush twirling ivy.
This house was known as the Curieuse Estate by its inhabitants, and by the locals as The Orphanage of Curiosities. It was home to an assortment of unique children and adults alike and owned by the dashing Colonel Grover Curieuse of the English navy, a diligent father and husband. Over its years of constant service, The Orphanage of Curiosities had become a safe-haven, a place for parentless children to thrive in a creative environment.
The orphanage had housed a variety of children over the years who made their mark in its many rooms, however, our story follows the trail of a few particularly fantastical of its charges. We shall begin our story with the gardener, a humble young man by the name of Rajeev Fairwell, who had once come to the orphanage in search of a home the same as the others. Yet unlike them, he had neither the spirit nor presence of mind to leave the home he had known for almost his whole life, and so he stayed on at the orphanage, improving the sadly diminished garden plot behind the main building. Most children of the orphanage seemed to consider him a silent, lackluster part of the orphanage’s framework, not deemed worthy of conversing with. Even so, they all never missed seeing the dark-haired young man working among the greens of the garden from their bedroom windows.
In fact, that was precisely what one of the orphans was doing at that moment. Her crystal blue eyes peered scrutinizingly out of her healthily colored, heart-shaped face at the young man digging up a row of potatoes in the garden plot. Clods of dark earth showered the ground as Rajeev drove the metal spade into the dirt. He wiped his perspiring brow with the cuff of his linen shirt and looked up to the blue sky above, letting the warm, golden sunlight fall across his swarthy face. The girl decided he was a peaceful figure, standing there breathing in the aroma of freshly turned earth, leaning on his shovel, with dirt under every one of his fingernails. She unconsciously brushed a bit of her opulent rose-brown hair behind her ear and continued to watch him in tranquil interest.
A little while later, with the girl still watching him intently, Rajeev finished filling the wooden bucket holding the potatoes. The latter vegetables were mounded over the rim of the bucket causing the girl to wonder how he was going to carry the potatoes without them spilling over the brim. Concluding he was done with work for the afternoon, she started to slip away from the window, but paused when she saw him pick up his shovel once again this time, furtively, and begin digging in a far corner of the garden. When he had dug a hole large enough to fit an average-sized cat into, he reached into his overall pocket. Instantaneously, a bell began to ring incessantly from downstairs. Hurried footsteps outside the door of her room caused the girl to turn away from the window swiftly.
“Hurry, Cali. It’s time for Naturalist Society.” Another girl, by the name of Eunice, stuck her head around the door frame and motioned briskly with her hand. Cali took one last wistful look out the window and caught a glimpse of an object held in Rejeev’s outstretched hand, glinting in the sunlight.
“This plant right here is Atropa belladonna, known by some as deadly nightshade. All parts of the plant including the berries, leaves, and juice are highly poisonous and contain atropine, hence its name. If ingested, it will cause slow, but certain death.” The voice of Mr. Augustus Canvas reverberated in the enclosing circle of tall white pines. He pointed out an elegant plant along the edge of the pines to his attentive students, its dark purple-black berries gleaming malignantly in the glow of the setting sun. “Please open your sketchbooks and draw this species of the Solanaceae family beside your illustration of the Datura plant.”
“Can we go closer to look at it, Mr. Augustus?” asked one of the orphans cheerfully.
“Absolutely, only please take care not to touch it. As I said before, the toxicity level is quite high.” The group of ten students stepped forward to examine the plant.
Cali looked up, surprised, from her sketchbook when a droplet of rain splashed onto her paper and rolled across her anatomy drawing of the belladonna plant.
“Oh dear. I’m afraid I forgot the umbrellas today. Let’s head inside, we’re about done anyhow,” said Mr. Augustus dismally. The orphans stood and trailed their teacher down the well-trodden path back to the orphanage. A boom of vociferous thunder made them all quicken their pace. Cali’s sneakers, along with the others’, were soaked thoroughly by this point. Why had Mr. Augustus chosen to take them this far into the forest on this of all days? Irritation showed on all the wet pupils’ faces.
When they arrived at the orphanage, wet through and disgruntled, they were greeted by the few students who had chosen not the take the extracurricular Naturalist Society and Ms. Rada Canvas, who served as the Mathematics teacher for the orphanage and was also Mr. Augustus’s wife.
“Why, you’re wet, darling,” she said when she saw her husband among the crowd of students. Ms. Rada reached over to her husband, who was grunting with annoyance, and straightened his polka-dot necktie. She then turned to the saturated orphans and said, “I’ll tell Cook to get some tea directly.”
—–
Sophia xx
And-so-she-kept-dreaming.blogspot.com
Lantern-in-her-hand.blogspot.com
Oh my goodness — “The Orphanage of Curiosities” is a stroke of real inspiration. Love the vintage feel of the narrative voice. Thanks for sharing, Sophie! And thanks for the kind words! 🙂