Hi friends! It’s the first Wednesday of the month, which means it’s time to share a little of your work in progress (IF you want to!)
Remember, it’s absolutely fine if it’s rough. Mine always are! Although encouraging comments are welcome, this is just for sharing and not for group critique.
In March, I made great progress on book two of my paranormal romance trilogy. My heroine, Val, is an empath. Tristan, her friend from childhood, is a warrior in the same secret society, but as a result of a magical battle, he can’t remember anything about his life. I am having trouble finding segments that aren’t huge spoilers, but I’ll go with this scene, where he’s talked her into dancing at a party.
“I haven’t done this for a while,” I told him. “But you showed me how in Cairo.”
He perked up, the way he always did when I talked about our shared past. I added, “I was just a kid.” I had been a teenager, actually, old enough to love being in his arms.
He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t like him to be quiet, and I looked up to find him studying my face with a slight frown. “What,” I said.
“I can’t sense things like you do, but I know you like me.”
My face heated. What could I say? I couldn’t exactly deny it. He asked, “So what is it, you’ve got a boyfriend? A girlfriend?”
“No. It’s hard for empaths to form relationships like that.” Some of them did, though. Two empaths in Paris had been married to one another for a few decades. It was ridiculously romantic, but not many people got that lucky.
“Why is it hard?” Tristan asked.
This, at least, was easy to discuss. “We’re really emotional, for one thing. We cry all the time. Nobody likes that.”
“Well yeah, it makes people worry about you,” Tristan said. “But—”
“No,” I interrupted him. “It disgusts people.” My bitterness bled through in my voice. I knew this from experience. As a child and a teenager, I had struggled to keep friends.
“That can’t be true of everyone,” Tristan said, his voice quiet.
I was being childish now, holding onto these wounds. “Most adults are better. I had to officiate Cassie’s initiation, just the other week. Afterward I was a mess, but everyone was really nice about it.”
“Wait,” he said. “Why were you upset?”
It was so easy to forget he didn’t know our ways any more. “An initiation always involves a painful physical ordeal. For this one, she had to hold onto a burning coal—”
“What? What the hell is wrong with you people?”
I winced. “It was magical. It didn’t actually do damage.”
“Christos.” Tristan shook his head.
“Cassie’s pretty tough,” I said. “I’m the opposite.”
He drew me closer still. “There are lots of ways to be strong.”
[AdSense-B]
Of course in this story, Val will wind up being a badass in her own way. 🙂
My goal for April is to get to 50K on the first draft of this story. I’ll let you know next time how it goes!
Please share some of your own work if you feel like it! Or if you just want to set a goal for this month, that’s great, too. Happy writing!
I’m intrigued. I was being caught up in the story and wanted to read more. Good job Bryn!
Ah, thank you, Cheryl!
This is the opening for a novella that I’m just finishing. It is called Inhabited.
“Shh. Get down.”
The girls crouched lower, trying to be silent and control their breathing. Cole’s dog, Aimee, whimpered and I glared at her. That dog was going to get us killed.
It was hot and sticky in the woods and the prickly brush was sparse and thin. It made a lousy cover that barely concealed us and that frigging mutt would not be quiet.
Another branch broke, closer. Aimee growled.
“Lauren,” I mouthed at my wife, pleading with her to do something to silence the dog. She and Hannah were trying, but, it didn’t help. They were terrified – eyes wide and darting around as they hid in the undergrowth, panting in time with the Chesapeake Bay Retriever. Fear was choking them and I didn’t know what to do.
I held my breath, tried to slow my heart, and peeked around the tree. I couldn’t see him.
To my straining ears, my wife and daughter’s ragged breathing was loud. Too loud. And that stupid dog would not be still.
Crack. He was almost on us.
“Here Daddy Daddy. Here Daddy Daddy,” he called. “I wanna play some more….”
Aimee half growled, half whined again. She was Cole’s dog after all and didn’t understand. Hell, none of us did.
“I know you’re close Daddy-O.”
I found myself making eye contact with Lauren again. They were hazel and the green in them always gave me pause. Hannah was clinging to the dog and whispering to her. The girls’ scratched faces, sweat and flared nostrils seemed to echo in my mind.
“Daddy… Daddy…” My son’s voice called. But, it wasn’t my son. My son was dead.
Daniel, yiiiiiiiikes!
I love how you jump right into the drama — that is just my style!
Thanks Bryn! 🙂
I really like this! Great tension….makes me want more!
Thanks Yvonne! That is great encouragement & I really appreciate it. 🙂
I hope I haven’t shared this already. It’s some of my favorite writing. My mermaid, Neri, is sitting on a rock like a certain famous statue in Copenhagen.
“Extraordi-Neri, look at me.”
It’s a stupid nickname, she thought, though of course that was part of its charm. That and the fact he meant it, quite seriously. She did look at him, scowling.
“Oh” Edmund said. “Brr. But I’d rather see your icy glare than anyone else’s smile.”
You don’t get the sea without the storm. But despite herself she was thawing to him.
“I mean it, Sweetie. And it’s not that I don’t deserve it.”
Then make it better. I’m waiting.
“I’m an idiot.” He waited for her to argue, but she didn’t, and wouldn’t have even if she had a voice. “I’ve made you feel unwelcome, and I hate myself for that. Maybe it was a mistake asking you to come.”
There had better be more than that.
There was. He put his hand under her chin, gazed soulfully into her eyes. “Because I want to be here with you. Only you. We could go swimming, kiss on the beach, play in the sand . . .”
Now he was torturing her in a completely different way. Edmund, stop it! I want to do all those things! And in perfect Edmund fashion, he ruined it with the next thing he said, “I can’t force myself to feel something for Annabel but I can’t send her away, either. She saved my life.”
No, thought Neri, I did. And you will never know.
But I wouldn’t want you to keep me around just for that.
“I’m caught in the middle,” Edmund continued, “My parents really like Annabel. She’d be a perfect princess: demure and ladylike and kind.”
She looked out at the water again, not angry at him any longer, but pensive, sad. I’m not any of those things. I have atrocious table manners because mermaids don’t use tables, and I have scars because I’ve had to defend myself and I’m not ashamed of either of those things. I wear trousers because having legs is bad enough without swathing them in fabric, and I wear your old shirts because they smell like you. And when I want to touch you, Edmund, I’m going to let you know it because life’s too short for pretending I don’t. I don’t have a voice. I grew legs and you think I’m human. I can’t hide any more of who I am. Not to appease your parents. Not even for you.
She gave him a stern look. You have to decide what you want, she thought at him. I don’t care about anything else. I can swim against the tide, but only if you’re with me. So are you with me?
“Perfect princess,” Edmund repeated. “Pretty and demure and chaste.That’s what my parents want. Economically advantageous. That’s what Coppersea wants.” His tone was flat. Then he looked at her, eyes filled with pained longing. “But beautiful, stubborn, and a little bit wild. That’s what Edmund wants.”
Neri raised her eyebrows, thinking, me?
He whispered, barely audible against the sound of the sea. “You. Always. You being angry at me makes me want to throw myself down there.” He gestured down at the ocean.
Oh, no, thought Neri. I’m not going through that again. The corners of her mouth twitched.
“Is that a smile I see?” Edmund asked. “Perfect, radiant Neri smile? My favorite smile ever?”
She tried not to, but it was hopeless.
“Good. I couldn’t take any more of the silent treatment.”
Of course she had to swat at him for that.
You haven’t shared that, Kimberly. So much fun! I love “Extraordi-Neri” 😀 And “You don’t get the sea without the storm.”
Thanks for playing!
This is a scene from the fantasy novel I’ve been working on. It’s a battle between Morgan, the protagonist and Kirsten, a girl she admires. They have tp battle it out in an arena and Morgan’s not happy with it, logically.
I don’t know wether it’s a good or bad fight scene, that’s why I share this.
Kirsten looked nervous, she knew that nobody had defeated Morgan in a fight. Morgan was the best swordfighter in the whole school, Kirsten was certain of it. She thought about what LC had said: if only someone could find out her weakness.
‘Then that person is champion of the school in no time.’ Kirsten muttered and tried to concentrate, but she couldn’t really. She knew that she was going to lose, she wasn’t afraid to lose though, she was afraid of the pain. Her weaponry was simple: leather helmet, bronze-plated leather tunic, simple linen trousers and her weapons were: a wooden spear with a bronze tip and a simple dagger.
Morgan too wore a bronze-plated leather tunic and linen pants, but no helmet and a cooked-leather arm protector.
Her weapons were: a short sword and a dagger, the same dagger as Kirsten had, it seemed to be some sort of stupid coincidence . She also had a small, round shield, the shield that she’d won in her first battle.
Morgan looked at Kirsten and tried to print every detail of her face in her memory, from her golden-brown hair, to her clear blue eyes, slightly browned skin and that smart gleam in her eyes. Morgan truly admired her, and bowed her head, a little, just to give Kirsten a sign, a sign that she knew wouldn’t be received.
Kirsten was the first to strike, she pointed her spear at Morgan’s unprotected arm and missed, but she kept circling around Morgan and tried to surprise her with a sudden strike.
Morgan moved as if she was dancing, but her feet were firm on the ground and she could predict and shrug off Kirsten’s every move. But Kirsten kept trying, aiming her spear at different parts of Morgan and striking again and again. And she eventually hit Morgan’s sword, but her arm got pushed away and her whole right side was exposed, she closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, preparing for a sharp pain, but Morgan didn’t strike.
Instead she pulled back her sword and kept a defensive stand.
Then Kirsten hit Morgan’s arm-protector with her spear and suddenly, Morgan jumped forward and ripped the band of Kirsten’s helmet with her sword, then, she hit the top of the helmet with the flat side of her sword, so the helmet was pushed down over Kirsten’s eyes, which looked rather stupid. The whole audience laughed.
Kirsten stumbled backwards and pulled the helmet off her head. That’ll only hinder me, stupid torn band, she thought. But why didn’t she hit me, only my helmet?
While she threw off the helmet and her golden-brown hair spread beautifully over her shoulders, Morgan smiled a little and admired her more than ever, but that wasn’t on Kirsten’s mind.
Frustrated and angered, she threw her spear with all the force she could muster at Morgan and immediately after that she thought: what a waste, she’ll just dodge that and there’s no way I can do anything to her with just a dagger.
But Morgan didn’t dodge, she let the arm with the shield down and the spear went right through her body, coming out of her back with the whole iron point and a part of the shaft, she dropped both her sword and her shield and clutched both hands around the shaft of the spear. A little blood spilled from between her hands, and she let out a soft cry. Then, she fell on her knees, in the sand. Kirsten watched in shock and caught her just before she fell face-first into the sand.
‘No Morgan, no! Why did you do that? I’m not supposed to win this fight!’ Kirsten said.
‘You are, Kirsten, I can’t hurt you.’ Morgan said, weakly.
‘What do you mean, you can’t hurt me?’
‘Too admirable…can’t hurt you…ever since…first saw you, I knew…Kirsten.’ Morgan’s voice began to fade away.
‘I’ve always…admired you…for you can so many…things I can’t.’
‘Morgan, whatever you say, don’t die like this, you can’t in this way!’ Kirsten said, trying to keep Morgan upright.
‘No Kirsten…you are the victor. You…’
Morgan coughed and blood came trickling down the corner of her mouth. ‘You’ve discovered my…weakness. Not being able to…’
She paused and looked Kirsten into the eyes. ‘Hurt…the…ones…I…admire…Kirsten.’
Her eyes rolled up and she felt to the ground.
Kiete! So glad you’re sharing. I have to say… someone fighting someone they don’t want to hurt is one of my favorite things in the world. I don’t know why! I thought you described the action really well, too.
Maybe because it makes for some interesting character developement. At least, that’s what I like about this scene.
Yay, I made it to WIP Wednesday for once!
OK, this is super rough. It’s kind of like a prologue, and takes place three weeks before the main story (a paranormal romance) begins.
The stock of Cooney Deckard’s double-barreled shotgun was slick with sweat in his trembling, arthritic hands. He squinted out the front window of the clapboard house he’d been born in 90 years ago, even though his eyes were nearly useless at night. The hunting dogs were going crazy out in their pen, howling and barking like the devil himself was walking by. The landscape around his home was dimly illuminated by the waxing moon, but not enough for him to see what was stirring his hounds into a such ruckus, though he had a sick feeling he knew what it was.
A week ago he’d seen things in the woods. Unspeakable things. First, he’d heard the music, if that’s what it could be called. A distant, low thrumming that raised the hairs up on the back of his neck. It happened at night, every night, until his curiosity got the better of him. He’d crept through the woods in the cold dark, following the sinister hum until he’d come upon a scene illuminated by a bonfire of red flames that was so obscene, so terrifying, he’d soiled himself like a toddler.
He had stumbled home as fast as he could, praying to Jesus that they hadn’t seen him. Then he’d spent the next three days in a drunken stupor, trying to erase his memory. Once he finally sobered up, he had made the decision to keep it to himself. It was one thing to grow up with local folklore and horror stories, but quite another to witness it with his own eyes. He wanted no part of it.
Just this morning after sunrise as he was puttering around the back yard, he thought he’d caught a glimpse of it moving through the trees behind his house. Something pale and malformed. Unnatural.
*Old fool, you should have put the god-danged hounds in the house* the memory of his wife’s voice chided inside his head.
He moved to the small window over the kitchen sink and squinted out into the side yard. Nothing out of the ordinary was moving, yet the dogs continued with their strident baying.
“God-danged dogs,” he muttered. He should go out there and get them. All four of them were in the 10×10 chain link enclosure. Usually, they’d all be piled into the dog house, curled up together to stay warm in the freezing night.
He had his shotgun, and even with poor eyesight in the dark, he’d hit whatever he aimed at with this thing. All he had to do was go out there, leash the hounds, and hurry them back inside.
Shouldn’t take more than three minutes. At most.
He moved back into the living room, trying to muster the courage to go out there.
*clank*
He froze in place at the sound, talons of ice driving into his laboring heart.
His ears strained to hear it again, but all he heard besides the dogs outside was the loud ticking of the mantel clock that he and his new bride had received as a wedding gift 68 years earlier, and the wheezing of the old furnace in the cellar.
Every creak, every tick, every sound the house could make was familiar to him, having lived there his entire life but for the three years in the Army when he fought the Krauts in WWII. The house was going on a hundred years itself, and it was no longer the sturdiest structure in the county, so he was used to hearing all kinds of noises when the wind blew or the ancient plumbing expanded and contracted with temperature changes.
*clank*
The only time he heard that sound was when he was unpacking his bean order from the welfare food bank. On the third of each month, he would drive into town, get his cans of beans, then bring them back home where he would stack them neatly on shelves back in the mudroom. That noise had been the sound of canned food being moved around.
Someone was in the house with him.
His breath whistled in and out of his lungs as he moved as slowly and quietly back toward the adjoining kitchen. The door to the mudroom was just to the left of the stove. It stood open, the black rectangle beckoning to him. The dogs continued their cacophony.
“You…you come on out of there, now!” he ordered, lifting the shotgun to his shoulder, and bracing himself for the recoil.
The intruder stepped out of the darkness and into the dim light cast by the small light in the hood above the stove, hands in the air.
“Don’t shoot, Cooney. It’s just me.”
Bewildered, he lowered his gun. He wouldn’t have been more surprised than if the ghost of FDR had shown up. “What…what’re you doin’ in my house?”
“I know. Rude of me. I hope you don’t mind, but I brought along a couple of friends for dinner.”
At that moment, the hounds’ baying turned in to howls of agony. He jerked his head toward the window then looked back at his uninvited guest, fresh terror blooming in his chest.
Behind him, a floorboard creaked.
He spun around and faced two pale, misshapen creatures straight from the bowels of Hell. Red, hungry eyes burned in the deep sockets of vaguely human faces.
Cooney had one second of pure clarity, and he realized that his heart had gone into cardiac arrest. His shotgun clattered to the floor, just as one of the things leapt at him, knocking him on to his back.
His last thing he heard as he felt the razor-sharp pain of fangs punching into his throat, and a fist being shoved beneath his sternum to grasp his weakly quivering heart, were the words, “You should have minded your own business, old man.”
Wow, sorry, that was really long… :/
Haha, no worries at all!
Oh yay, you’re doing WIP Wednesday! And AHHHHH NOOOOO. I thought he was going to make it!
I really need to use more sounds in my stories. The sound effects really make the suspense and fear work here!
So remember when I asked you about writing from the perspective of a character who is a little girl but I didn’t want to start out that way and make it seem like the whole story is going to be told like that? Here’s one of those scenes. (TW for death)
***********************
It was raining the day we buried my brother. Mama said that when it rained, it meant that the angels were crying so they must have been really sad that Eli died. I wasn’t feeling sad. I wasn’t really feeling anything. Mama looked like she was crying but her cheeks were dry. I think maybe she had cried so much that she just didn’t have any tears left.
I couldn’t get comfortable in my new dress but every time I squirmed, Daddy put his hand on my knee to make me be still. But I couldn’t help it. The top of the dress was itchy and the skirt kept getting all bunched up underneath me. I just wanted to get home and change into my jeans.
Mama was sitting on one side of me, her hands folded in her lap, hanging on to a wad of tissues. I leaned over and put my head in her lap and Mama looked down at me and smiled. Daddy’s arm was resting across the back of my chair and he reached down and stroked my shoulder.
With my head on Mama’s lap, all I could see was Eli’s casket in front of me. Next to it were a bunch of pretty white flowers in a circle with a picture of Eli in the middle. Mama and Daddy had argued about which picture to use. Daddy wanted to use his school picture but Mama said his cowlick was sticking up in it and she didn’t like how he was smiling and his eyes didn’t look as blue as they really are. She wanted to use the one Grandma had taken at Easter dinner last month. She said it captured his personality more than the school picture did. She said it looked more like Eli. I don’t know if Daddy agreed with her or if he just got tired of arguing about it but they ended up using the picture Mama wanted to use.
I could only see the top of Eli’s head from where I was sitting. I saw him earlier, lying in his casket, his hands folded across his chest and a baseball by his side. He loved baseball so much. I think Daddy put the ball in the casket so that Eli would be able to play catch with the angels when he got to Heaven.
Hopefully the angels couldn’t throw the ball as hard as Jeremy Winger could. That’s how Eli died. Jeremy threw the ball and it headed straight at Eli and hit him right in the chest. He fell right to the ground and his coach and the umpire ran right over to him. I didn’t even see Mama get up off of the bleachers next to me but all of a sudden she was out there too, kneeling down on the ground next to Eli.
She looked over at the concession booth for Daddy and screamed his name.
“EDDIE!”
Right when I looked over in the same direction, I saw Daddy drop his hot dog and his Coke and go running towards the field. Mama was still on the ground with Eli’s coach hovering over her. Daddy scooped Eli up and ran towards the car with Mama following behind him. As they ran past the bleachers, Mrs. Taylor yelled out to them, “I’ve got the kids, Suzette! Just go!”
Mrs. Taylor lived down the street from us. Her son, Matty, was in Eli’s class at school and played baseball with Eli. She was holding my hand but I couldn’t remember her grabbing it. She was also holding Julian’s hand.
“Come on, kids, we’ll go wait at the house for them,” she said.
“I don’t want to go home,” Julian told her. “I want to go with them. We need to go to the hospital.”
“Honey, there’s no need for you to be there. You’ll just end up sitting around in the waiting room. We’ll wait for them at home and you and Matty can play the Nintendo or something until your Mama and Daddy get back, okay?”
“And Eli?” I asked.
“Yes, honey, Eli too,” Mrs. Taylor said to me with a smile on her face.
But Eli didn’t come home. Julian and I spent the night at Matty’s house and Mama and Daddy came and got us the next morning. Mama’s eyes were swollen and her face looked really white, like she hadn’t been outside in a whole year. Daddy’s voice was soft and quiet. I had never heard it that quiet before. He was usually really loud. He didn’t yell but he just had a really loud voice, the kind that could scare you if he said your name a certain way.
Without saying a word to us, Mama and Daddy led me and Julian to the car. Mama had whispered a “thank you” to Mrs. Taylor but that was all either of them had said.
“Where’s Eli?” I asked when we got to the car. “Are they making him stay at the hospital?”
Still without saying a word, Mama and Daddy closed the car doors and we headed home.
Oh man, April, this is genuinely so sad. All the details are perfect… and the voice of the girl is great. She really sounds like a child without it being overdone. Thanks so much for posting!
A small titbit from FIRMAMENT.
When they were joined, Bullin placed her open mouth over his and the two became one entity of pure white energy. The figure rose, turned and faced its foe.
“Here we are again, Everlight. That was very clever, the Bullin thing. I was sure I would mislead you but I should have known better. Still, that is the nature of what we do. Shall we dance.”
The hill, and the countryside below, disappeared when the two clashed, dark matter and positive energy melding into one another, creating a greater explosion than could ever have been generated by all the power available to mankind. At the core of the blast the two entities parted, allowing the Everdark to release Hamad’s soul and the Everlight to do the same for Bullin and Chambers. On melding again, a single, narrow beam of the purest energy existing in the cosmos shot out of the explosion’s core and up into the vacuum of forever.
Lawrence, this made me so curious about who these beings are and how they contain all that energy!
Thank you for sharing!
This is a bit of my contemporary romance, The Roman Affair.
————————
“Wait,” Daniel called from behind her. “Aurélie, wait.” As she stepped out of the bar, onto the pavement, his hand closed around her upper arm and he pulled her around to face him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so—”
Sharp popping sounds interrupted him, sounding like a string of Chinese fireworks going off. Daniel’s body jerked forward and spots of red bloomed on his chest. “What… What happened?” he asked as the colour drained from his face and his hand dropped away from her arm. He collapsed to the pavement in front of the bar as shards of brick and mortar bit into the back of Aurélie’s legs and head, like a score of annoying insects sinking their fangs into her flesh.
Aurélie dropped to her knees beside Daniel, screaming in terror and confusion. Someone was shooting at them. She could see vague silhouettes lurking beneath the trees in the park across the street. She tried to make herself as small as possible, hunching over Daniel’s body, trying to shield him from further gunfire.
She felt big hands grabbing her beneath her arms, dragging her behind a car parked at the kerb. “No!” she screamed, fighting against her rescuer. “He’s been shot! I have to help him!”
“Don’t worry about him,” her rescuer said. “I’ll get him. Stay down!”
There were more shots from the park and the angry bark of return fire from next to her. People were screaming and yelling. Sirens wailed in the distance, coming closer and closer. Aurélie sat behind the car, her eyes fixed on Daniel’s prone body. The rest of the noise and confusion around her died away; the world became a tightly focussed tunnel with Daniel at the end of it. Was he dying? The front of his shirt was soaked with blood and he didn’t appear to be breathing.
Oh God! Juliet, this is awful! And really good 🙂 I love romance with high stakes!
I especially liked: “Sharp popping sounds interrupted him, sounding like a string of Chinese fireworks going off.” I love her going into protective mode, too!
Hi Bryn.
This is the part that follows after the young boy fought the three men.
With heavy lids, he opened his eyes. He tried to get up, but the stinging pain in his head kept him from doing so. He scanned the area and found himself not alone.
“Don’t worry legora! You safe now!” the boy shouted and waved, smiling at the beast. He looked up to the boy and his blue-flamed fogi. “HI!” the boy yelled exaggeratedly long, his fogi made different squealing noises. He grabbed the rock pillar and pulled himself up with his left claw, into a sitting position. He leaned his back against the earth bank.
His mouth opened and a growling sound came out, followed by, “I’m not deaf,” the tone was extremely low, but there were actual words coming from the legora.
“By Iaga! A talking legora!” the boy jumped up, he dropped his jaw by surprise and screamed weird unintelligible things. His fogi joined him with loud squeals.
“Stop screaming!” the ‘r’ in screaming sounded like a growl, “I gotta headache.” The boy held his hands on his mouth, while he weirdly marched on the spot. His fogi kept jumping up and down. “What’s wrong with you?” the legora asked annoyed.
If my head wasn’t spinning, I’d get outta here.
“I never saw a talking animal,” the boy spoke fast as he uncovered his mouth.
He’s kidding…
“I’m a Montuan,” the legora explained unnecessary, he felt.
“Of course!” once more the boy roared with laughter.
“My head!” the legora reminded him.
The boy and his fogi climbed down the earth bank, assured this legora would not become hostile. He walked to the legora until he stood next to it, “you ‘kay?” the boy asked. The legora looked at the boy, he was about five foot three, slim, had a light-olive baby-face with squinty lilac eyes and his straggly hair had an unusual lavender-platin hue. He then beheld the fogi.
I saw him creating from fire. This fogi must be one of his creations too. But why is it blue? And why does the snow not melt where it stands?
“Fervency,” the fogi tilted his head, hearing his name.
“What?” he studied the rock pillar.
Creating from fire and controlling stone. An extreme rareness to possess multiple gifts.
“That’s his name. but I call him Fency,” the boy laughed again, though less loud this time, “I’m Yoszua.” The boy stretched his arm to give the shapeshifter a hand.
“Hyokin,” the Montuan stretched his arm reluctant. He was unsure about this light-hearted boy and felt embarrassed that he saved his life. Yoszua’s hand disappeared in the Montuan’s claw.
“Nah, I’m serious,” Yoszua kept grinning.
“What?” Hyokin asked in his tumble of confusion.
“I’m not joking. My real name is Yoszua.”
He can’t be serious. He’s taking the piss.
Hyokin wrote his name in the snow, “Hyokin is my name!” he ended his sentence with a growl.
“Ooh,” Yoszua laughed loudly, “sorry, I misunderstood.”
What an exuberant person, I need to get away from him.
“Why you here?” Deians do not pronounce the word ‘are’, “you far from home. Was it because of them Kameoneans? You know them from home? They hunting you?”
“You’re the one to speak, quite pale for a Deian.”
“I’m a Iagan,” Yoszua corrected Hyokin.
“You on the run?” Hyokin copied his Deian slang.
“NO! I’m not! I’m just traveling,” Yoszua got nervous.
Whatever little liar, it’s none of my deal anyway.
“Or did you attack those men?” Yoszua realized the men might have spoken the truth.
“Yes, for a price. Stop asking questions. It’s not easy to talk.” A legora’s mouth was not designed for conversing.
“Ooh so you a bounty hunter and they outlaws?” Yoszua was too eager to learn about this Montuan, he could not stop asking.
Yes, and I would be collecting my bag of money, hadn’t you interfered!
“Then I’m really happy I fought them,” Yoszua threw his fist in the air.
Hyokin got up, he stood steady on his feet again. He was at least two feet taller than Yoszua, who rested his arm on his head, while he stared at the Montuan. Fervency squealed at Hyokin, he seemed as enthusiastic as Yoszua. Prompt he climbed Hyokin, he reached his shoulder and rubbed his fiery head against Hyokin’s cheek, for a moment Hyokin bared his teeth. He grabbed the fogi and put it down on the ground, it blue fire was not hot at all. Fervency circled excitedly squeaking over the snow.
This fire creature feels exactly like a normal fogi. How weird is that?
“He likes you,” Yoszua smiled at Hyokin, who snorted incredulous, “you really huge!” with big eyes Yoszua stared up to him, “you tall as a human too?”
Hi Scarlett! I was just wondering at work today if you would post this month! I was googling “fogi” and “legora” because they sounded like real mythical creatures… but I guess you made them up! Very cool. 🙂
Hey Bryn,
at some point I had an image of an fantasy animal and then made the choice to have only fantasy creatures in my world. But yea, you googled my animals, wow! I’m speechless. Hope you enjoyed the interaction 😀
This is from the soon-to-be released second book of the Zodiac Assassins series, a novella titled, “Leona’s Descent”.
One day, she would have to kill him.
Sagittarius would back her into a corner, just like he tried to do today, and she would have to watch the light and love in his eyes drain away with each teardrop, knowing he had died by her hand.
The Archer’s dark green eyes stayed locked with hers from across the great cavern—his grief-stricken expression morphing into relief—then hope—the longer she held his gaze. Leona’s breath caught in her throat. His love was still heady—it had held her in thrall for such a long time, feeding her need to feel beautiful to someone, anyone. Hell, even now, she ached to fall into him, and let him love her pain away.
Screams and cries echoing around the great cavern brought her back to the harsh reality she had carved out for herself. Like acid, the discordant cacophony etched and bubbled and burned at his spell, corrupting the radiance of his steadfast love until it grew ugly, like a type of bondage, an emotional yoke she would never be able to throw off.
If she let him own her, it would prove that her father had been right about her—she was weak. Too weak to be her own woman, to weak to make her own way, to weak to protect that which had been most precious to her. He had been right about the latter, she’d be damned if he would be right about the first two.
The waves of fear and pain of the injured and the dying, and the grief of those left behind, buffeted Leona’s raw, split skin—the sharp sting outdone only by the pain in her heart for what her life might have been—the teenage fairy tale with her as the pure and loving princess, and Sag as her prince. But regrets had no place in this hard new world—nor did love.
She gripped the Master of the Dark’s silver locket tight in her hand as she backed to the ledge of the magically bored, gaping hole that had just released a demon army into the human world. She teetered—her toes still connected to the battle-ravaged, freshly-violated InBetween—the only home she’d ever known, while her heels hung over the void.
She scanned the dust- and blood-covered writhing bodies and corpses littering the floor of the great cavern. The wounded had crawled or been pulled as far from the hole as possible, leaving her alone, singular in the vast crowd. The sun pierced the dark space, painting the chaos with a purifying light. The paranorms stopped moving, crying, dying for a brief moment, their eyes closed, their heads back, basking in the feel of the heat on their skin.
Leona’s skin rippled with goosebumps, her scalp prickled lifting her hair at the root. She raised her arms like a supplicant, and took the last step back, falling into the cold dark. The carnage disappeared, her view narrowed until all she could make out was the fresh, sunlit hole in the cavern roof that connected the secret subterranean world of the paranorms to the human world for the first time in centuries.
I really, really want to read this. This is fantastic.
OMG, Bryn, you made my day! Thank you.
Greetings, fellow KC author/geek! Ha, I’ve been following your blog for a while now and only just realized we live in the same city. Yeah…must be because I just took a sip of my coffee. Okay, here it goes:
A chilled, damp breeze blew through the Broceliande forest, permeating deep into her bones. Light snow ensured the concealment of her tracks. Then the wind stopped, and all stood silent and still.
Gwenwhyfar sniffed the frozen air. Amid the acidic pine, she detected another scent. He was close. She could feel it.
Behind crept her brother, Cahan. She didn’t look back at him. No, she had already learned that lesson.
This winter marked her first season as a huntress. Before, she never bothered to acquire the skill, comfortable in the belief that she could leave the task to others. But the Pyrrhic victory over the Harappan invaders the previous autumn had spent her land’s resources—in particular, their able-bodied men. The residents of Ker-Ys found themselves on the brink of starvation. Gwenwhyfar refused to sit by idly and permit it.
A chill shivered down her spine—and this time, it wasn’t the result of the cold.
Guilt gnawed at her as she remembered the awful scene of carnage just beyond the edge of the forest boundaries. Finn, her truest friend, a man who practically worshiped her, had died there on account of her foolishness. If she hadn’t insisted on taking part in the battle for Ker-Ys, he might still be alive. The horrors of war would not leave her memory, and she began to wonder if they ever would.
She held her muscles rigid. Such dismal thoughts didn’t belong in the hunt. Her people depended on their success for their next meal—she depended on this hunt to fill her own starving belly.
They had tracked the great hart from early that morning and the rest of the day. The sun sank low beneath the tree line. Somehow, she knew they would have their final encounter with him before night fell upon the forest. She scanned the forest around them, slowly taking in each and every detail.
From behind a massive oak, she spotted him.
He held completely still, as though he hoped his pursuers wouldn’t notice him among the gnarled roots and low-lying branches. Indeed, his mighty antlers were nearly indistinguishable from the tree branches in the waning light.
Out of the corner of her eye, Cahan signaled. She shook her head. They’d played that game many times.
Her younger brother relished using her to distract their prey. He would then swoop in for the felling stroke himself. No, this time she would claim the glory of the kill. All winter she had observed and learned. Spring drew nigh, and it was high time for her to have a turn.
Inching forward, she crushed the virgin snow beneath her boots. She didn’t doubt Cahan fumed at her defiance. But he, too, felt the pangs of hunger, and wouldn’t dare risk scaring off their next meal.
The hart peeked from behind a tree, then pulled back. He knew they followed him. But he possessed the experience of enough summers to perceive that should he bolt right away, he would surely die.
Nearing the tree, she caught his second stolen glance. Their eyes met, and for a moment she froze, transfixed by his splendor.
His eyes were the most handsome shade of brown she had ever beheld. In them, she understood that he also held the responsibility of a sovereign. Just as she ruled over Ker-Ys, he reined as a prince of the forest Broceliande. Somewhere, deep in a hidden part of the thicket, a doe would soon give birth to his offspring, continuing his ancient and royal line.
Only one other pair of brown eyes had captivated her so.
Fellow Kansas Citian, yay! I really enjoyed this. I’m really curious about whether the hart is a shifter? Thanks for posting, Jennifer!
Thanks for reading! 🙂 The hart isn’t a shifter, but he definitely has a mysterious and magical quality about him!
This is a chapter I’m using to foreshadow the story. The purpose of it is to time slip the reader and main character so that the protagonist gets an idea of what happened at this place long ago. It also serves as a way to delay secrets in the story so that I don’t give it away too soon. Hope you like it. You can read more on my wordpress blog.
Tower two
Its only a matter of time before the full history of Shaldorn reveals itself. Grabbing the flashlight and sneaking out the door crossing over to the manor grounds toward the second tower Jennifer wanted to visit the place of her dreams of late. She glanced in the reflective glass her eyes resting on the coin necklace, fashioning her hair into a pony tail, and wondering again how much longer until the affairs of the estate would be over. Her nerves on edge in anticipation of closure as so many things have happened since her arrival.
The stone staircase wound down in a tight spiral. They curled around to the left with no hand rail, and only the narrowest of windows to provide light, which crept in gingerly as though unsure of it’s welcome. The stones cold, even through her shoes Jennifer could feel her body heat leaching out. Each step echoed around, emphasizing she is alone
Ascending down the spiral staircase onto the ancient stone floor. The room is pitch black; she is blind like someone gouged her eyes. Her body washed cold. She brought her fingers to her eye sockets; noticing their presence Jennifer shines the light in arcs across the room casting shadows from the boxes and wine rack.
The room once a wine cellar. No doubt the most exclusive vintages of Europe lay here in
wooden racks, trusted to the natural refrigeration of the soil behind the dense stone walls. Ancient brackets for candles every few feet, devoid of any wax residue on them.
The room is dank with a musty smell but in the dim light provided by the tiny slits in the wall. Jennifer couldn’t see much of anything else except the built in alcoves. The perfect place to store wine and other things with moderated temperatures and lack of sunlight. Without any circulation of air the stagnant aroma made it dungeonesque and the unsoftened echo of Jennifer’s feet brought on a claustrophobic feeling.
Shinning the light against what looked like a large whole in the wall inset. It is a metal box. Reaching inward breaking cobwebs grabbing the box. Jennifer walks over to a small table. The rusting hinges squeaked as the box is opened revealing a rolled up document sealed in wax seal, and a note inside the box. The writing on the note looked like her uncles hand writing. It read: October 16th midnight. Use coin. Jennifer’s phone shows the date and time to be October 16th at two minutes of midnight. Her eyes narrowed. The seal looked familiar to her. Reaching for the necklace her uncle gave her Jennifer unclasped it and compared it to the seal. It was an exact match. Braking the seal she opened the scroll. Gazing at the note. She has never seen a language like this.
Why would someone put a note like this and a scroll sealed in was inside a wall in the base of Tower Two. She wondered.
Not being an ancient language expert Jennifer attempted to read the words on the note aloud as best she could: vindr an oro thro hurdha un bak draumr finna grind gata thorta galdr stenr. Her cell phone lit up showing another text message and that it was exactly midnight. Holding the ancient coin her uncle gave her in one hand she then read the words written on the scroll:
When night is upon me the moon will rise coarse unseen across the skies, take me back in time to where I’ll find, the truth of Shaldorn in place and time.
A low noise, like the moaning wind rises. At first she hears it, that is, she feels it, as if the tower foundation is coming alive. Seeping through the stones, one after another, imperceptibly through the walls from the depths of the tower, and hovers around her with intensity. She lent forwards to touch the table feeling a fabric fall down her arm, soft and velvety.
An apparition stood next to Jennifer, translucent, shimmering and gaunt, eyes black as wells, her ghostly hand slow to reach for Jennifer’s arm. She does everything to move, yet it remains still. A sensation passes through Jennifer like touching arctic air. She can make out some details in the face of this apparition. Her fingers caress over Jennifer’s forearm, while she stands still, paralyzed. Jennifer wants to scream, but she can’t find the strength as she tries to move her hand away from the apparition. It’s not her, or her touch which scares Jennifer, but her Jennifer’s inability to move.
The ghost more silent than the grave it arose from, staring with heavy lidded eyes and a slack mouth. Her cheekbones accentuated the skeletal look and in her gaze Jennifer’s mind robbed of emotion. She stood barefooted in the mid-morning light coming from the top of the stairs. The ghost pointed across the room to a door. Jennifer followed her gesture, in a zombie state walking through the door, like being inside a tornado as the dust of a thousand years swirls around her. Ending in an open courtyard half conscious. Like when her childhood friends spun her around for fun causing her head to spin. The dizziness slow to fade.
God adjusted the color’s of the world in the sight before her, like twisting one of those old plastic dials on a TV set. Everything brighter; the trees not just green but radiant virescent hues burned themselves in Jennifer’s retinas. Jennifer turned back to look behind her only to see she is no longer in the basement of tower two. Gazing upon an ancient castle complete in it’s construction seeing people moving about.
The sent of horses and manure filled her nose. The thundering of hooves split the silence as a lone stallion galloped through the open courtyard. The wind wisped his mane into the air like flames; after all he appeared to be a knights horse. His muscles rippled from under his freshly groomed pelt and his powerful legs. They propelled him forward and kept him going as he powered past Jennifer glancing at her. Turning she notices a man on a horse. Beneath the cloak he wore a dark robe, smeared with dirt and the robe girdled with a three knotted cord wearing a hood over his head. Dismounting his horse he entered the castle. The sensation of being pulled almost falling, she finds herself in a hallway.
Beams of moon light fill the hallway. Jennifer sees a woman wearing a fitted bodice, accented with gold, inlaid long sleeves, and inlay front, and deep forest green brocade gracing the ground, a long velvet cloak, her hair protruding the hood walking with a man. Turning to a tall man of striking appearance they walked together down the corridor passing a dark corner. Her eyes sparkled as though she had known him for a long time.
Jennifer could sense there was something waiting in the darkness. It was ancient, and cruel, and waited in the shadows. It was not of this place. Jennifer could see, and hear everything but was watching it as a movie playing out. Whatever it was in the dark Jennifer could sense its primordial cold. Hiding in darkness, a man steps out reaching for an object wrapped inside cloth, something heavy, as he inched toward them, then caught proper hold of it, and drew the object free. Jennifer wanted to yell out to warn them but couldn’t speak. The strange man grabbed her lover by the throat from behind, thrusted a dagger deep into his back, piercing his heart killing him instantly.
Screaming, she ran, with torn raiment and disheveled hair. Her feet slipped outwards on the stone floor as she round the corner, the cold evening air shocking her throat and lungs as she inhaled deeper, faster. With each footfall a jarring pain shoots ankle to knee, ankle to knee. Who was this man and why was he after her. Her heart beats frantically. The air didn’t seem to be enough for Jennifer to warn the woman as he closed in on her. Jennifer wrenched at the words but no sounds came out of her mouth.
The man giving chase grabs her from behind with all his strength, she felt his fingers snatching her long hair, tangling and tugging. her head bobs backwards. The scream squeaks through her scorched throat. Snatching at the air, she begged it to help her keep balance. His face looming over hers. Her body numb. Covering her mouth, reaching around with his other hand, yielding the dagger stabbing her in the chest.
As Jennifer awoke realizing the cold hard stone floor was beneath her. Slow to get up. The dizziness in her head fading as she extended her right hand onto a protruding stone in the wall. Raising herself up the stone gives way and others fall with it. Brushing back a lock of hair while rubbing her brow. Her mind returning to the present thinking she must have fallen, and hit her head and past out. Getting up and dusting herself off thinking she must have slipped on the stairs, fallen and fell sleep; Jennifer tries to make sense of what seemed like a strange dream.
That is so interesting, Eric. And l especially loved: “God adjusted the colors of the world in the sight before her, like twisting one of those old plastic dials on a TV set. Everything brighter; the trees not just green but radiant virescent hues burned themselves in Jennifer’s retinas.”
Thank you so much for posting!
Great excerpt Bryn! Mine is from chapter five of Courage, My Heart (below is a link to the first four chapters). After 14 years away, Enchanter Janelle sits down to dinner with two of her colleagues and Ferelden’s royal family:
“But, seriously,” Princess Sera continued, “I think he’s just been trying to do too much on too little sleep. Scholar or warrior—and he’s both—a body needs proper rest.”
“If that’s the case,” Stella said, “Janelle can help him.”
Janelle coughed around a throat full of lettuce and pushed her salad aside, reaching for her water glass. “Me?”
“Yeah, weren’t you two a thing once?”
All other conversations around the table went quiet. Theo and Curran stared at her, their butter knives frozen in mid-air, locked together and dripping strawberry jam on the white tablecloth.
“Enchanter Alan, have sex with somebody?” Theo asked, making his father frown at him and grunt out some kind of wordless warning with a shake of his head. “Hey, Mum started it,” the boy gestured with his knife toward Stella, flinging a glob of strawberry onto the center of the table.
Janelle stole a glance toward the head of the table. King Alistair watched her, eyes sparkling, a delighted grin on his face as he lounged sideways with his arm over his wife’s shoulders . . .
You can read the first four chapters online at http://archiveofourown.org/works/6277669/chapters/14384737
Hey, thanks for the kind words! And thanks for posting! I always enjoy your stuff… you’re a natural. 🙂
I’ve got an urban fantasy thing involving inner-city djinn and ifriti and a young man who’s been pulled into their world. Here’s the “scales leaving his eyes” bit:
“Young blood! You gonna play or just sway?”
Rahim woke up with a start. Two weeks of overnights lugging boxes and three weeks listening to his neighbor cursing God and crying through paper-thin walls made the park the only place he could rest.
The chess didn’t hurt either. Rahim would sit and watch the old men talk trash and move their pieces across ragged chessboards. The tap and slide reminded him of quiet times in the yard, watching the old lifers marshaling their forces and telling lies back and forth.
“You got the look of a playa, young brother,” the older man said with a gold-bracketed grin. “Even though you a Moose-lam. Sit on down.”
Rahim couldn’t help but smile back as he sat down. He knew the older man, or a dozen men like him. He was like an old lion, lounging in the park in a gold track suit and Stacy Adams loafers, his big hands recently manicured and a scent of lavender and lilac wafting off of him. Rahim knew that the older man had never worked a day in his life, stringing a dozen hustles and a dozen women who should’ve known better into just enough to get by until it didn’t anymore.
“What you know about Islam, Cool Breeze?” Rahim watched the man’s hands move to the sides of the board. Prison habit, so you could grab the pieces and run if you had to. The chess pieces were hand-formed, black with the shimmer of asphalt and white from chalk. Rahim knew this man well, or a dozen men like him.
“I knew all kinds of Moose-lams,” the older man said he moved a white pawn and the game began. “Bow-tie wearin’, bean-pie sellin’ niggas don’t want anyone to do nothin’. Bomb-throwin’ niggas fly planes into buildings. Even knew a reefer-smokin’ nigga, Moorish Science nigga said that erry’thang was a’aight, so long as you don’t hurt nobody else. All lyin’-ass niggas, every one of ’em. So what kinda Moose-lam you turn out to be, brother?”
Rahim didn’t know if it was the game, the company or just the pleasure of being out of doors and away from the warehouse. His heart raced as the pieces flew across the board and he could feel words flying from his lips before he said them. Rahim talked about his time in prison, the fights and the drugs and the imam who turned him toward the right path. He talked about life as a pilgrimage, as the travel from darkness to light making the journey of every person of conscience into a Hajj without end.
The old man nodded, a slow grin spreading across his face as Rahim spoke. “And maa shaah Allah, he appears,” he said, laughing as he moving a chesspiece. “That’s exactly the kind of Moose-lam I got in front of me.”
“What kind’s that, Breeze?” The man’s laugh was infectious, bubbling up from Rahim’s chest.
“The can’t keep his eye on the board, chess-losin’ ass nigga kinda Moose-lam.” The old man tapped Rahim’s king with a perfectly manicured finger. “Checkmate.”
Rahim looked down over the ruins of the board in shock. The old man let the carnage sink in, then swept the pieces of the board and into a plastic grocery bag. He stood lightly and winked.
“Don’t take it too hard, young blood,” he said, setting a heavy, cool hand on Rahim’s shoulder. “Hard to keep your eye on the board when you got the Spirit in you. I see you soon, preacher-man. As-salaamu alaikum.”
Sean! Yay, thanks for posting! “the scales leaving his eyes bit” – that made me smile because I use that expression all the time. ☺
Inner-city djinn and ifriti? Yes please. I enjoyed the hell out of this!
First time ever posting my work. This is from a paranormal novel I’m working on. Hope it’s not too long.
The Shadow folk were back. The old woman sat rocking on the front porch of the cabin, smoking her pipe. At first she’d thought it might be her failing eyesight, or the shine she’d been sipping this night. She shut her eyes, opened them again and squinted. No, he was still there, just at the edge of the yard where the grass met the tree line. Tall, thin, the tails of his long waistcoat flapped as he danced to a tune she could not hear, his bowler hat cocked jauntily over his eyes.
It’d been what? some forty years since the last she’d seen them. Long enough that most, if not all, had forgotten. Young ones thinking the stories told at their elder’s knee were just myth, some scary tale told round a summer campfire or on a winter’s eve for entertainment or to scare the b’jeebies out of the miscreant child.
As she sat contemplating their return, a strong breeze began in the treetops causing them to sway. The clouds were pushed aside displaying the full beauty of the summer moon overhead. She held her breath and listened. The bullfrog ceased his croaking, the crickets fell silent and then finally she heard it. The distant beginnings of the mournful fiddle he danced to. The devil’s melody grew louder as the breeze picked up and the clouds continued their travels across the night sky.
Dark times were coming and she suddenly felt ancient, no longer up to the task. This was to have been Anna Mae’s time. She was gone. Adelaide had felt the sharp piercing of the loss the minute her daughter’s essence had departed. They had been so foolish, she and Jacob, and now their daughter was in jeopardy; adrift with Gods only knew what powers not understood. She would call a council of the elders tomorrow and dispatch Luke to find the girl. The stakes were high and her presence was their only hope.
The wards around the property would hold for now. Tomorrow would be the time for doing. She sighed heavily, took one last sip from her cup and slowly pulled herself to her feet. As she turned to enter the cabin she stole one last glance at the figure dancing beneath the trees. He stopped and with a smile that sent a shiver up her old arthritic spine, tipped his hat to her.
Yvonne, I’m so glad you decided to post! This has such a strong voice — eerie with a definite regional flavor. I really like your style!
Thank you much! Encouragement is so welcome! I’m so very glad to have found your blog!
This is excellent Yvonne. It reminds me of a story I told my kids once while we were camping in Durango – great memories
I especially like the character building you’re doing here and thought the hat tipping was great
Thank you Daniel!
Yvonne, I loved this excerpt!
Thank you Paige!
This is from my current Camp NaNoWriMo project and written today, thus a very rough draft. The story involves ghosts and witches and an unhealthy amount of blood magic, but this bit is none of that.
In his jeans shorts and a green t-shirt, Felix looked very out of place in Luka’s world of black, reds, and purples. Suddenly he was acutely aware that he’d never had a boy in his bed. He’d been with a boy in a bed, but this one he’d never shared with anyone but his sister, on the nights when one of them was too plagued by nightmares to sleep alone.
While Luka was setting the computer up, Felix asked: “So you and Lýdia live here all the time?”
That was no a question Luka’d been expecting and he paused with his fingers on the keyboard halfway through the password. “Yeah.”
“I thought maybe you were just visiting in summers or something.”
“Our grandmother brought us up,” Luka explained without looking in Felix’s direction. “Our parents’re gone. Dead.”
“Oh. I didn’t— I’m sorry.” Felix shuffled to wrap his arms around his own legs.
Luka shrugged and finished unlocking the screen. “It’s been a long time.” And his father had been an evil bastard, but there was no point in bringing that up. The less Felix knew about that, the more comfortable Luka felt in his company. And he wasn’t all that comfortable to begin with.
A few heartbeats later, Felix said, voice very quiet: “I think my Dad’s dying.”
Luka had no idea what to say to that. “What do you want to watch?” he asked.
“Do you have the new Fast & Furious movie?”
He winced internally, but out loud he said: “We could stream it.”
You didn’t deny a guy whose father was dying.
Hi Tina! I only just found out what Camp NaNoWriMo is… that’s very cool that you’re doing it! It sounds like a great program.
I was interested in these characters immediately. And I loved the ending of the excerpt.
Camp NaNoWriMo is pretty awesome 🙂
And I’m happy my excerpt interested you 🙂
And I’ve just realized that some last minute shuffling of sentences led to very misleading pronouns.
The second sentence should be: “Luka was suddenly acutely aware…” There, now that’s better.
Here’s a little bit from the latest chapter of that novel I’m still trying to write. LOL.
I leaned farther into the couch and let my head fall onto the back so I could look up at the ceiling. Hummm. There’s a crack.
“I designed a custom cake for a couple that came in while she was gone.”
“Did they not like it?”
“No,” I said. “They loved it. The bride couldn’t stop gushing about it to Toni when she came in. She loved everything about the cake, but the instant they were out the door she was all over me like white on rice.” I did my best to mick Toni’s voice. “I do the custom cakes around her. You do the recreations.”
“I don’t see what the problem is.” I let my head roll to the side to look at Derek. “If they liked the cake, they she should be happy right?”
“You’d think.” I took the bag back from him and started chowing down again. “Apparently the only way an original is good enough is if she’s the one doing it. I can make cakes fifty times better than hers if she’d just give me the chance.”
Before Derek even opened his mouth I knew what he was going to say next and said it with him. “You should open your own place.” He gave me his famous bitchface. I grinned. “I mean it Als,” he said. “I really think you should do it.”
This is a conversation that Derek and I had every three months or so. I’d come home hating the bakery and he would tell me I should just open my own. I blame the whole thing on a bottle of tequila we shared the night I finished my culinary education. He’d brought home a bottle of Jose and I’d made us the best damn cake in history.
I got bored one day while working on my novel and wrote a 1000 word short story. I’m probably not going to publish it, but I do want to share. I haven’t edited it yet. Here it is in its entirety:
He opened his eyes and looked around in a groggy haze. “Where am I?” his words slurred.
No doubt his head was pounding from the hit she had given him. She moved out of the shadows. A small grin formed on her face. “What’s the matter, don’t you recognize this place, after all the pain you inflicted here?”
He looked confused. He tried to shake the grogginess in his brain. His eyes rolled back and he passed out once again. She must have hit him harder than she thought. No matter, she waited this long to find him, she could wait longer, besides, she had more things to prepare.
An hour later, she heard him yell out for help. He must have discovered that his hands were tied behind him to the support post in the small one room cabin. She finished her tasks outside and went back inside. She pulled a chair directly in front of him and faced him. His eyes were watering from the sharp odor coming from near the door.
“No one can hear you, it’s just you and me in this lonely old cabin.”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
She ignored his questions and pulled a small knife from her pocket. She held it directly to his jugular and slightly pricked it.
“Ouch! What the hell!?”
“Look around, are you sure you don’t recognize this place?” She pricked him again.
He looked around. “No.” he said defiantly.
“I don’t believe you.” She cut one of his bare feet.
He pulled his foot back and she cut the other one. When he pulled that foot away, she cut one of his arms. Just flesh wounds, enough to sting and bleed.
“What kind of psychopath are you?” he asked.
She laughed. “What kind in deed?” She inflicted several more flesh wounds on various parts of his body. The pain she was inflicting wasn’t enough to make him remember. She stood up and went to the cupboard, where she pulled out a wakizashi sword, similar to the larger samurai sword as far as craftsmanship and sharpness, but much smaller. She unsheathed it slowly so he could see. She saw him swallow hard, and she smiled at his fear. Good, now maybe she could accomplish what she wanted.
“What do you want?” He asked, never taking his eyes of the sword.
“I want you to suffer,” she clipped his left ear with the sword, taking a chunk of it off.
He grimaced, but tried to hold his composure. She wondered how much he could take before he would finally break. Did he even remember how much pain he had caused? Well, she was determined to make him remember. She clipped his other ear. Now his eyes were watering and he held his breath trying to hold back the pain.
She sat down in front of him again, letting her sword dangle dangerously close to his crotch. He eyed it warily but said nothing.
“I want you to suffer, the way I suffered as I watched you destroy my family,” she said.
He looked at her confused.
“You didn’t know I was here. You didn’t know I was hidden, safely away from you.” She pointed to a removable wooden vent on the wall near where he sat.
He looked towards the vent, a look of recognition and terror crossed his face.
“You didn’t know I was there, as you slit my father’s throat. You didn’t know I was there as you mutilated my mother before finally killing her. You didn’t know I was there as you raped and tortured my sister repeatedly until she finally lay lifeless.”
His eyes widened. She pricked his genitals with her sword. He cried out.
“That was so long ago!” He screamed in pain.
“So long ago, yet I can still see the images in my mind like it was yesterday. I stayed in there for 2 days after you left, terrified you would come back, I soiled myself, cried myself to sleep and threw up on the stench you left behind. When I finally had the courage to come out, I threw up again at the brutal, bloody mess you left of my family. I buried them in the backyard, by myself. I vowed I would hunt you down and repay make you pay for what you did.”
She stood above him with her sword, he looked like a terrified animal. He tried to beg for his life.
“Spare you? Like you spared my family? No, I don’t think so.”
He straightened accepting his fate. “Then take your sword and kill me then.”
She shook her head and laughed. “No. You will die, make no mistake of that. But it will be a slow, painful, excruciating death. One that makes you wish you had never stumbled upon this place that night in the blizzard, begging for a warm place and food. One that makes you wish you had frozen to death out there instead of repaying my family’s hospitality with psychotic insanity.”
A look of terror crossed his face again as she moved towards him. She took her sword and stabbed it into his left side. “This won’t kill you, but you will wish it had.” She whispered into his ear as she slowly removed the sword.
She stood up, moved towards the door of the small cabin, grabbed a small kerosene lamp from the shelf near the door and smashed it to the floor. Then, she turned to face him. She had a small book of matches in her hand. “The entire cabin is doused, the fire inside will burn slowly at first. When the flames reach the walls, and thatched roof, the entire building will burn very quickly. But, by then, you will be dead.” She lit the match, smiled, and let it fall slowly to the floor.
He screamed out in terror as she walked through the door and out into the snow covered field, never once looking back.
Oh my gosh, Sara… this is an intense story!
I’m not normally that intense, but like I said, I got bored one day.
😀
I’m beginning a new story/potential novel for class this term. I don’t have a lot, yet, just little things that come to me here and there as I prep to write the first draft. For example:
I went there, the the place they said it happened. The wreckage had long been cleared, but the fresh dark tire marks etched his harrowing last moments on the asphalt, unwashable but by the long passage of time and God’s graceful rains. I traced them with my eyes several times from the side of the road, feeling as if he’d tied a leash to my esophagus and gently tugged against it from the other side. My knees wavered for a few moments when I thought my heart would be pulled right out, but Mom was there to hold me up.
The tree itself wasn’t very big at all. That was disheartening. I expected to see a massive tree whose branches reached a hundred feet into the sky, whose trunk one person could not enclose their arms around. But it was neither. And because of that, I grew angry.
‘How could you?’ I sniveled at the tree inside my head, because the tears were blurring my vision and the edge of a sob hung in the back of my throat. I wanted the tree to be dead, too. But it lived on with its roots firmly in the ground, bearing a gash of missing bark where Lincoln closed his eyes for the last time. But I knew that gash would heal and that made me hate it all the more; some years from now, no one would remember what this tree saw last Friday night. I wrestled my arm from my mom’s hold and marched up to the trunk and let loose, pounding the tree with closed fists, kicking what bark was left on the bottom square with my heels. Mom waited a few minutes or seconds or hours before stopping me; time didn’t register anymore. I was outside of time; knocked off the platform without him while the rest of the world goes round and round. Lincoln would be a passing memory in the few who kept him close, robbed of the beautiful life that was meant for him.
My knuckles and the sides of my hands stung with fresh blood, but I didn’t care. If this was the worst I had to endure, it wasn’t enough. If it hadn’t been for me, Lincoln wouldn’t have crashed into that stupid tree.
No one will say it, but I know: I did this.
Hi Nicole! Thank you so much for sharing! I love some of your lines… like the last one and “unwashable but by the long passage of time and God’s graceful rains.” Really enjoyed it.
I have another WIP Wednesday coming up this Wednesday, if you want to share some more!