Hey there! It’s the first Wednesday of the month, which is when I share an excerpt of a work in progress and invite you to do the same. It’s usually stuff that’s too raw for critique, so we don’t do that in the comments, but a friendly word is always welcome.
I’m sharing an excerpt from book three of my trilogy. I’m actually working on book two, but sometimes, book three scenes come to me and I have to get them down.
I have a strong trigger warning for this one, because it deals with a character’s past of rape and child sex abuse. It doesn’t go into terrible detail, but I totally understand if you’d like to skip it! I feel a little vulnerable about putting it out here, but hey, I attract pretty understanding readers.
*
Sophie said, “You still don’t know why I was so extreme.”
Nic would’ve rather walked barefoot on broken glass than discuss this, but he deserved it. “You loved Simon.” He’d cared about the Knight himself, though he hadn’t known him long. “He was your best friend.”
“There was more to it than that.” She stared down at the table.
“You two were involved? Why was it a secret?” Maybe they’d been sleeping together while she’d been with Jonathan. A relationship between first cousins was unusual, but not illegal. They were even allowed to procreate, if their families hadn’t mingled in the past five generations, and if they passed a handful of genetic tests. “You’re allowed to date your cousin.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “But you’re not allowed to—” She cut herself off. “No, Simon and I weren’t like that.”
What the hell? Sophie’s tone of voice and the way she was hugging her elbows put him on edge. “Whatever it is, you can say it.”
She hunched even further into herself. “He was the only one who knew about my uncle.”
Nic had never met any of Sophie’s family besides her mother and Simon. Her parents had gone through a nasty divorce when Sophie had been hardly more than a baby, and they didn’t speak to one another. Sophie’s mother had returned to London. For years, Sophie had remained in Moscow with her father, but later, she’d been sent to London when the guarída in Moscow judged that her father was too much of a drunk to either go on missions or raise a child. “Simon’s father?”
“No. Simon’s parents were always good to me. My father’s other brother. He wasn’t Manus Sancti.”
What had Simon known about this man? Nic waited.
“When my father would go on missions, I would sometimes stay with him. He—we would have sex. It was secret.”
Nic’s blood chilled in his veins. No. This couldn’t be right. She must be talking about a perverse adult affair. “Not when you still lived in Moscow?”
“Yes.” Her face was utterly devoid of expression.
His understanding tilted like a sinking ship, objects sliding across the deck. “What are you telling me?” His voice came out hardly more than a whisper. “You moved to England when you were ten years old.” She nodded.
“How old were you when this started?” His heart felt as though it was being crushed. She shook her head, and he couldn’t stop himself from begging her, the words tumbling out of his mouth. “Sophie, please, I’m sorry, how old were you?”
“Eight.”
Eight. A small child. Her uncle had raped her repeatedly over the course of two years. A red mist obscured the corners of his vision. “Where is he?”
“What?”
“Where can I find him?” Everything else could wait until he’d removed this evil from the face of the earth. He wouldn’t delay by asking for permission. There was a chance that Capitán wouldn’t even blame him.
“You’re going to put a bullet in his head?”
“No.” That would be too quick.
“You can’t kill him. He died when I was sixteen. Liver disease, like my father.”
So there was nothing he could do. The scum had died without facing justice. An image came to Nic’s mind: the photograph of Sophie on her ninth birthday, in the pale blue dress, about to blow out the candles on her cake. He nearly choked on his anguish. What had she been wishing for?
His mind spun, frantic for the right thing to say. He’d had training once, long ago, on how to interact with victims of crimes like this. Why couldn’t he remember anything? He could always remember things. “You were an innocent little girl.”
Her gaze darted up at him. “I don’t know… I had a crush on him first.”
“What?”
She cringed. “I would always hug him, and try to get his attention—”
“No.” Victims blamed themselves, he knew that much, but even when they’d been so young? His brain flashed back to his cousin in D.C., a sweet eight-year-old girl who’d followed him around the last spring when he’d visited, showing off what she’d learned in dance class, telling him about her favorite books. He was shaking with rage. “That’s what kids do. You didn’t have your mother, your father neglected you… And he used all that to do terrible things.” She had to know this already, but he said it anyway. “None of it was your fault. You deserved to be safe! You were an innocent child, and he was a monster.”
Sophie dissolved into tears, ducking her head and turning away. Nic was dying inside, aching to take her into his arms, fearing to impose his touch on her. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and wordlessly offered it. She took it, murmuring, “Always prepared,” and wiped her eyes and nose. “I can’t believe I still cry about this.”
“I can’t believe you’re as strong as you are.” She’d become a disciplined Mage, and had later eluded the Diviners, living entirely on her own. It stunned him.
She looked down at the handkerchief as though she wasn’t sure what to do with it. Nic held his hand out to take it back, and she set the handkerchief down and took his hand. Maybe she’d misunderstood his gesture, or maybe not. Leaning down, he pressed his lips to the top of her fingers for a long moment, his eyes closed, as if he could transfer his care and concern into her very being.
*
Please feel free to share an excerpt of your work in progress below! Or if you’re feeling shy, just share a comment on what you’re working on… we’d love to hear about that, too. Thanks for stopping by!
Lots of emotions going on here, well written. It brought me to tears.
Oh, Linda, thank you for commenting. As I say, I felt nervous putting it out there, so I really appreciate it.
That was really powerful, Bryn! So much emotion packed into such a small space. I can see why you wanted to get it down before you lost it.
I have a snippet from my YA, Six Easy Steps to Becoming an Oracle. Claire is a poet & writer; her crush Gareth asked for her opinion on a song he’s writing.
“‘In Stranger Lands’—you’re thinking of making it a dance tune, aren’t you?”
“Tinkering with it,” he says. Then his entire face scrunches up and he starts slapping his leg in rhythm. “‘In Stranger Lands/ I set my feet/Upon the path . . .”
Oh, dear gods, what was that?
He trails off, looks at me sheepishly from under his hair. “Not good?”
I can’t lie, not wincing like I am. I also can’t bear to tell him the truth.
And I don’t have to. “It’s what’s popular now,” he says, a bit defensively. “It may not be my cup of tea, but—“
“Then don’t do it.” It comes out much too fast. I have to soften it. “You’re not the dance tune type. You’re . . . the boy in the coffee shop with the guitar.”
He cocks his head and frowns slightly. That wasn’t being dismissive. I hope he understands that.
I continue. “You’re … sitting on the edge of the bed, strumming your guitar as the scent of coffee wafts in from the kitchen, and the morning sun pulls glints of gold from your hair. Your fingers are hypnotic, your voice a little bit raw, not unpolished, it’s just the emotion coming out, because you let it. Because everything you have right then you put into the song. Your lyrics are deep, earnest, your stories are real. You’re not meant to make us dance, but make us swoon.” I’m practically swooning now, with how the sun hits his face, and his eyes lock on me like I’m the only person in the world.
“Wow,” is all he says.
Wow, indeed. How did I travel from the coffee shop to . . . that? Talk about an active imagination. “Well, that’s just how you read to me.”
“Claire, that’s amazing.”
No, that was stupid Claire getting ahead of herself. Way too much for an abortive first date. But I wouldn’t take it back if I could.
Hi, Kimberly! Yeah, you know exactly how it is — when a scene keeps needing to be written. 🙂 This is such a fun project you’re working on! I love it that she’s really honest with him, rather than polite… and that honesty leads to a connection that’s so much better than politeness.
Well written. Puts you into the story.
Aw thanks, Darlene… I appreciate that!
Deftly handled, Bryn. Emotional, yet not melodramatic. That’s a fine line to walk and you did it well. 🙂
Thank you so much, PJ! Thanks for reading 🙂
From my WIP:
The door opened. The person who slipped in was shorter than me, slighter, and did not carry a light. Nevertheless, she crossed the room straight to me. “Lisette?”
“Mariela?” I croaked the word out in amazement. I reached for the stool, abandoned on the floor, just as she walked into it. The stool shot from under my fingers and hit the wall, then clattered somewhere to a stop. “Ow,” she mumbled, and I heard her rub her shin.
“Yes, it’s me.” She sounded rueful. “I have a flashlight. Cover your eyes.”
I barely got my hands over my eyes when she flicked the flashlight on. She aimed it away from me, then hissed as the beam must have caught Jefferson. “You killed him.”
I peered through my fingers, waiting as my eyes adjusted to the powerful beam her flashlight threw. “Yes. He was trying to rape me. Again.”
“Good,” she grunted. “That you killed him, that is. And you’re in his clothing.”
“I’m freezing.” My eyes narrowed. “I’m not an idiot, Mariela. What are you doing here? Did you help Almeida? Did you put Jefferson in here? He said other people were going to let him out.”
She played the flashlight across the door, which stood open just a crack. “I…” The flashlight wavered. “I—yes. I’m with Almeida. I didn’t put Jefferson in here, but Almeida told me to come get him. When I found out, I was upset.”
“Well, thanks a lot,” I practically growled. “I killed him.”
She sat on the bed and looked at me, her face sober. I scooted away. “That was the intention,” she told me. “You were supposed to kill him. Almeida hates rapists, so he won’t be too upset. But you didn’t drink his blood.”
My jaw hung agape. “He hates rapists, so he put Jefferson in my room to rape me? How does that make any sense?”
“Guy logic.” She shook her head. “You can study science for a couple hundred years and still be remarkably illogical.”
I almost laughed, but then remembered who she was. She eyed me distrustfully. “Why didn’t you drink his blood?” she asked.
“You can tell that bastard I’m never going to do what he says.” The words came out fiercer than I expected, but not fierce enough for the anger that kindled inside me. The [translucent, illusory] flames on my skin jumped and flickered faster.
Her gaze slid a couple centimeters to the right of my face, and her brow furrowed.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” I asked her. “I’m a vampire. I killed Jefferson. I could kill you too.”
She laughed. It was an ugly laugh, and it echoed around the room, hatred and mockery and self-loathing bouncing off the walls. In the distance I heard an animal whimper. The sounds combined to crawl through my skin, making me shiver.
“You’re not a vampire,” she said. She stared at me, her lips set in a peculiar smile. The shadows that the flashlight threw played across her face and her eyes, making the whites look darker.
I rubbed my eyes, then squinted. Something was wrong with her eyes. A slow, steady, unfurling ripple, like ink spreading in milk, crossed her whites, curling in upon itself almost hypnotically, throwing feathers of darkness through the whites until, in a matter of seconds, they had filled in and her eyes were two deep pits in her face. My stomach clenched and a cold sweat broke over me. I swallowed and discovered I was leaning as far away from her as my body could get. “What is wrong with your eyes?” I whispered.
“I am like you,” she said. “Your eyes look like this right now. You can see the red flames on your skin and mine. You could see the white on Almeida’s. He’s a vampire—they’re white. We humans are red.”
Jefferson had been red, and he had most definitely been human.
“But—” I started.
“Half-human,” she amended, shaking her head. “Half vampire. If you’d killed him by drinking his blood, you’d be a vampire now.” She leaned closer to me and I shrank away. “Don’t do it. Don’t. They have no souls. They’re monsters.”
No shit. But so was she.
Her eyes slid away from mine just as something within me uncoiled; with her gaze to the side, the uncoiling dissipated. I blinked. “I…he said I was a vampire.”
“Standard vampire bullshit. If he makes you think you’re already gone, you won’t fight the blood hunger as hard. You have it, and blood will help you, but you’re still alive, Lisette, and if you want to avoid becoming one of the walking dead, stay the hell away from blood.”
Hey, thank you so much for sharing! This seems genuinely creepy and gothic, a little more in the Anne Rice tradition (Interview With the Vampire is one of my all time favorites), but original, too. I’m really intrigued by the character’s predicament. I hope you post some more!
This is some great writing, and this fragment really grasped my attention. Wish I could read more!
I hope I get to read more of it in the future!
Wow, this is really good. I definitely hope you share more in the future.
I have never participated in WIP Wednesday, but here goes:
In the years immediately following his wife’s death, he traveled by car or helicopter to the breeding colonies requesting his attendance on their wives. When he thought about it at all, he felt his life had been reduced to that of the pistol in a game of Russian roulette. Sometimes these nameless women lived, sometimes they died, but either way, he was not responsible. Trapped like butterflies pinned to their silken pillows, he made no effort to save them, but treated them as lovingly as he could, apologizing in this way for whatever tragedy might follow. There could be no forgiveness. Regardless of how kind and gentle he was, he knew full well the consequences of every kiss, each shudder of delight, and soft sigh.
He did not begrudge his brothers this use of his abilities, but to protect what remained of his humanity, he built a wall of anger between his responsibilities to them and whatever sorrow resulted from those responsibilities. He still had one reason to live and if existing within the shadow of that wall was the only way he could survive, so be it.
Yay, thanks for participating! And okay… I NEED MORE. I NEED MUCH MORE. I love the prose, especially “he made no effort to save them…” to the end of that paragraph. I want to know what’s happening!
Bryn – Thank you, your kind words made my week. I’m in the middle of final edits and will be sending out query letters the first of July. Wish me luck! – PJ
Wow, Bryn, your passage left me breathless and heartbroken. Beautifully done without going too far. Brava!
Oh, thank you… that means so much to me. Thank you for reading.
Here’s my sample from Libra’s Limbo. I’ve kind of picked up where I left off last month, minus some descriptive paragraphs about the other species in the crowd.
“Lyon’s face was inches from the Corvus Ward king, both men flushed, the king’s ink-black scalp feathers rising out of his long black hair until they stood straight up. Not a good sign of either male’s mood.
Lyon and the Corvus Ward king bumped chests.
Aw, hell.
Libra stopped fidgeting. His knees bent, his heart rate spiked again—pounding against his ribs as if the organ was demanding he leave, walk away, as if it knew this confab was a bad idea.
Instincts, bah.
He hadn’t indulged in instincts or gut feelings since they were beaten out of him.
Before he took a step, her hand gripped his forearm. The air swirled around him, disturbed and reeking of the cloying smell of gardenia that worked hard, but failed, to disguise the rotten flesh stench of carrion flower nectar. He hadn’t seen the woman in years—had hoped he’d never see her again. Perhaps he should have taken up prayer, or destroyed his sense of smell, because in one whiff he was jetted back to his childhood. The sting of her slaps, and punches, and kicks—the fear that they would never stop, the hope that he might die before the next beating.
Adrenaline surged through the shock obliterating the emotions of the boy he once was, for the numb of a man grown and in strict control. A trickle of sweat formed between his shoulder blades and inched and itched down his back, but he refused to acknowledge the physical betrayal of his body, his emotions. The day he escaped her, he swore no one would ever touch him unless he desired it, hit him without repercussion, or elicit a physical response that he didn’t welcome.
Her breath tickled the curve of his ear. “I know why you’re here.”
He moved his tongue around to wet the desert that was his mouth, but it got stuck in the ridged roof, his lips became glued to his teeth. “You know nothing.”
“You are just like your father—wanting what you can’t have. Taking that which is not yours as he did. Leading the paranorms, advising them, standing as their representative to the rest of the world will take a strong hand, a courageous heart. You have neither, so I’m here to make sure you don’t get what you seek. I am here to protect the paranorms from a male so afraid to embrace his greatest gift that he lives a half-life.”
Libra took a slow even breath. He would never let her see how much her words had hit home—how they burned like acid on his skin, flayed it, penetrated the crevices to seek out the starving dark hollows inside him, filling them until they were sated. “I am nothing like my father, all rage and lack of control, his scale so tipped to the dark that he was chewed up and swallowed by it. He was the prince of darkness; I am lord of the light, making me the perfect candidate for the job. That, and my aftershave doesn’t smell like rotten meat.” He snorted to clear the quaver that threatened to affect his voice. “Funny how the humans don’t like the stench you favor. Says a lot, don’t you think?”
She pulled on his arm, forcing him to face her. “Before you run away as you are wont to do, the king has a proposal for you.”
He studied the sweep of the thick white hair that ended in a bun at the nape of her neck and the subtle lines around her eyes and mouth. “Time has not been kind, I see.”
Her lips twitched, baring her teeth for just a moment, the grimace involuntary, her vanity revealed in a blink. Witnessing her weakness should have thrilled, but it left him hollow. He hadn’t been tainted with her malice…at least not fully. Yet.
She stood straighter, her lips thinned. “The king wants his children back. The children Lyon stole from the Corvus Ward people.”
“He adopted them. That’s a far cry from theft. And every child chose to stay with him and his mate. Perhaps the king needs to honor their wishes.”
“Bah, what do children know?”
He stepped into her, towered over her not-inconsiderable height. “They know that they are safe, they are loved. That counts for everything.”
She looked up into his face, her eyes roving over it as if searching for something. Her lips thinned; apparently she didn’t see what she wanted. “Still playing the victim? I should have known your father couldn’t make a man of you.”
Libra grit his teeth and resisted the urge to defend him. The man didn’t deserve it, nor would he have wanted it. He turned away. “What is the proposal?”
“Pledge your fealty to the king and he will let Lyon keep the Corvus Ward children. As long as none of them prove to be a royal.”
“And what would the king expect of me? What does he want?”
“He wants his own Zodiac.”
“Then have him approach one of the others. They are much more capable for anything the king might need.”
He heard her draw in a slight breath and hold it. It wasn’t like her to be tentative. She was all sharp angles and pointy ends. Subtle and quick as a paper cut whose sting didn’t steal your breath until after your flesh had parted and the blood had welled. But he wouldn’t spare her by speaking first. He had learned patience, and his control was eternal. He could wait her out.
“The other Zodiacs are strong, yes, but not as strong as you could be.”
“He wants me to use my power in service to him.”
“Yes. And it’s past time you did.”
“You know exactly how I feel about that.”
She gripped his forearm hard, clutching his flesh, anxious, desperate even, an emotion he’d never felt from her. “You have the power of Aether inside you; you are to be its agent. The quintessence that Gaia herself created to give life to the gods and goddesses of old, their very breath. You are the spaces between, you have dominion over matter itself, if you would but take it.” She hissed and clenched his arm, hard. “The power of the agent should have been mine, but you and your father stole it from me. I will not allow the legacy of my line to die with you because you are a coward.”
There it was at last, the reason for this visit after decades of estrangement. Aubrianna only wanted one thing—to be an agent of Aether, or Nether, and the immense power that came with it. He may be a Libra, but living a full, balanced life wasn’t worth the curse that his mother considered a gift. He would live a half-life in the light, and make that be enough.
He pulled out of her grasp. “Or I could become an agent of Nether, darkness personified, the stealer of breath, the destroyer of life.” Libra pulled her hand off his arm and brushed the wrinkles out of his sleeve. “You can tell the king that I will never swear fealty to him; my loyalty is to the Zodiacs and the InBetween. As for the Aether and Nether, let them die with me. Let the Os Mage Mother line die off—there is no one or nothing worth activating that power.”
Ooooh, this is my favorite zodiac passage yet, I think! And that’s saying something. I love the description of his power as an agent of Aether. And I loved this:
He hadn’t indulged in instincts or gut feelings since they were beaten out of him.
And this:
Subtle and quick as a paper cut whose sting didn’t steal your breath until after your flesh had parted and the blood had welled.
So good.
Okay, Bryn. You got me there as it is such an emotional piece. Perfect.
I thought I’d share the prolog from my WIP – Book of Nine. This story is a Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Romance and is a “Chosen One” story, however, it has a unique angle and approach to the concept. This little piece is the prophesy for the story, foreshadowing the entire book. I’m still in the editing phase but getting close to sending it off to the editor.
Bridge Parchment – Translated from Latin
Wanderlust
Flame of the Paired Drift to Inverse Aspect then Reconcile to Completeness, to Passion.
All Earth Men and Women are given free will to choose between the lightness and the darkness. Some have taken this to be the choice between good and evil. However, when faced with the decision, most Mankind has failed to see the difference between the two. On the surface, one choice may appear as it’s opposite, imitating the appearance of light, but plunges man straight into the darkness of the abyss. This has been Mankind’s plight. Choosing war as the path to peace has kept Man in darkness with no safe harbor, while futures and histories incessantly yearn for the simple to bring about the road to freedom, to peace. Only when the illusion is pierced will Mankind begin to see the enslavement, along with those who have imprisoned Mankind from the beginning. When the dreamer awakens from the dream, will the awakened see the dream as a mere dream? The path to freedom is simple, but it will take the greatest courage within Mankind, for the power lay dormant slumbering next to the courage, awaiting the time for Mankind to take his place amongst the stars.
Aklum Nuri (circa 2652 B.C.E.) Memphis, Egypt
Jean Vellis – Scribe of King Philip VI, Source of translation – Thomas the Wanderer (Wanderlust) 1347
Oh, thank you for the kind words, Lee! And a new twist on the Chosen One story… very cool! I think there are good reasons why this myth has such lasting appeal. I love old, arcane documents (my book The Phoenix Codex is all about that), and I love how this really does sound like the translation of an ancient text. Thank you for sharing!
Hey Bryn, I got back into writing and saw it was WIP Wednesday and POW! You blew me away. That was quite rough and yet so beautiful displayed how one’s scars wounds another. I was dealing with some personal stuff and struggled whether I’m making the right decision writing my book in English (I’m Dutch). Anywho, I’ve written nearly nearly 30k words and it’s madness to simply ignore it I think.
Well from my wonderful world Ascydes, I’ve been editing chapter 1, this is the beginning of my story (and chapter;)
Sounds around Dawn
During the darkest part of night, just before dawn, in a small village where most were asleep, a man was already up. The farmer lived in a small house with his lovely wife and his nearly four-year-old son. While about to leave home, he could not help himself from desiring a moment with his wife and son. On this starless night, one could barely recognize any silhouettes. It was difficult to see his family without lighting a candle. He caught a glimpse of their shades. They laid so peaceful in their beds, he felt a warmth inside of him growing which spread the ends of his lips into a smile. His wife was not far from giving birth to their second child. A girl he hoped and begifted but above all, healthy. He remembered how she gave birth to their son, how anxious he was to become a father. His wife did great. She handled it bravely and recovered so fast. Though they lacked the experience, taking care of their new born felt so natural, it had been the most special time in their lives so far. He gave his wife a hearty kiss on her head. Her hair smelled lovely as ever. He laid his head on her big belly and hoped to feel a kick, some movement. Nothing. He focused to hear a sound. Maybe a grumble. However, it remained silent. He chuckled quietly, there was no sign of dawn yet and everyone was asleep. Even this tiny baby, who grew inside his wife’s body. He walked over to his son. As the young boy turned in his sleep, he pulled the blanket close to his chest. The farmer wondered what his little man was dreaming of. He bent over to stroke his back. On the floor, next to the bed laid their loyal kaur. A bulky canine with a short-muzzled face and friendly eyes. The kaur’s lower right fang was showing the left one broke in a fight. Her messy fur had different shades of brown and white. It made her look like a poor mongrel. He gave her a nod, she stretched her body while a big yawn escaped her mouth She followed him outside. Right next his house, there was stall and a small stable. The farmer approached the stable where his grebbler stood waiting for him. Although the ungulate was still young, his height was the same as his owner’s.
“Good morning Babu,” The farmer opened the wicket. The kaur squeezed herself between the rickety door and the farmer, as she scurried to her best friend. She tried to greet Babu by pointing her nose towards his head. As usual, Babu tried to reach her nose but he had grown too big, so the kaur stood on her hind legs for their daily nose rub. Babu’s neck was short, it carried his strange looking, enormous head, featuring big ears and small eyes, only nostrils and no mouth showing. The farmer strapped two worn baskets on Babu’s back. Babu carried a rope around his huge neck but the farmer did not need to hold it. Babu followed him to the fields without being told, as the three went every day.
Thank you so much for reading, and for the kind words! And I didn’t know you were Dutch! I am so jealous of bilingual people. Writing it in English probably means a bigger audience, although of course that’s not the only consideration. This has a real fairy tale quality and I love your mythical creatures! They sound so convincing.
Oh don’t get me started, I live just across the border in Germany. At work I talk mostly dutch and german, sometimes a little french, ungarian or turkish. While I write a book in english. I get confused sometimes haha. But yeah I basically write English because it sounds way cooler as to dutch or german. It just ads fantasy realness to me.
I can feel the steady, attentive pace of the farmer’s domestic routine, and I love the relationship between the dog and horse. This is great: Babu followed him to the fields without being told, as the three went every day. Thanks for sharing. Good luck!
Wow, Bryn, good use of Nic’s POV. This past month has been rough for me, but I finished and posted chapter three of The Amatus and the Altus, Shattered Temple. Content includes an F-bomb and battle violence. Here’s a short excerpt from that and later chapters not yet posted:
[Shattered Temple]
“Solas!” Karl shouted, pointing as he ran. The mage froze the demon and Karl lunged forward to shatter it with his daggers.
Cassandra taunted the others, Varric picked off the wraiths, and Leo kept shades off Karl’s back while he disrupted the rift. The last terror fell to its knees and Cassandra lopped off its head.
Despite the searing fire in his palm, Karl raised his hand to close the rift—but another wave of demons was through already.
“Fuck!” There was no time for stealth.
An archer tripped and fell while trying to dodge a shade. Karl leapt between them . . .
[Chapter 4 will include a Pride Demon battle, meeting the army commander likely responsible for the death of Karl’s first love, and Karl’s confession to his brother about something important.]
CHAPTER 5? [Lace and Dorian intro]
Rogue Templars and Rebel mages fought to the death within a few hundred yards of the Crossroads. Inquisition [Lead] Scout Lace Harding strung her bow and held it ready at her side, watching from the hill. She wasn’t about to let their violence bleed over into the little village-like meeting of roads, where Mother Giselle attended to refugees and Lady Pentaghast’s fallen soldiers.
They’d been warned to steer clear, but turned on the Inquisition soldiers instead of running.
Thwat, thwat, thwat, Lace felled a mage and two Templars with three arrows in quick succession.
A holler rose up behind her, followed by the pounding of a single set of boots on the trampled grass. She spun sideways, dropping to one knee as she drew another arrow from her quiver.
The Templar froze in horror, eyes wide, mouth working soundlessly as his body convulsed, like a puppet pulled by magic.
Nock, draw, release. Quicker than his next terrified blink, her arrow hit him dead in the eye, sending him flying on his back with a squelching thud.
The path was eerily quiet.
She looked up, searching for the source of the magic.
Half-hidden by an abandoned hut stood a tall human with the sleek olive skin of northern climes. His black moustache was artfully sculpted over his upper lip and he openly carried a mage’s staff. His white and gold [silver?] robes draped him in noble fashion.
This was no Circle rebel from Witchwood.
She nodded her thanks and he flashed her a brilliant white smile. With a wink of his eye and overelaborate wave of his hand, he summoned a billowing cloud of purple smoke that sparkled like diamonds and he vanished behind the hut.
“Harding!” the elven scout Ritts ran to her side, two more agents close on her heels. “Were you hurt?!”
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Thanks for reading! I’m DAfan7711 on Tumblr, Pinterest, and Archive of Our Own (AO3), where guests and registered users alike can read my stories. My new Tumblr sideblog and gaming YouTube channel are called Paragade Blues.
Threw me right back into Dragon Age, I had a huge crush on Fenris. My favorite character is the witch of the wilds. I’m so curious what her and Solas are sceming!
*she and Solas. ?
I romanced Fenris in Dragon Age 2. Flemeth, Morrigan, and Solas will all take part in this inquisition story, of course. 🙂 Thanks for reading!
Awesome
Hey friend! I’m so sorry it’s been a rough month. Let me know if you want to talk, okay? I hope things are getting better.
I love how you write action scenes. This was my favorite: “Nock, draw, release. Quicker than his next terrified blink, her arrow hit him dead in the eye, sending him flying on his back with a squelching thud.” Love how that first sentence evokes quick, efficient motion.
You have a youtube channel now? That’s awesome!
Thanks, Bryn!
Great job, Bryn! Here’s another piece of my WIP. Enjoy 🙂
Ellen fretted as she waited at the baggage claim. It had been a long time since she had seen Jenna. She sounded excited through her texts. But would she really be? She played with the earring in her right ear, a nervous tic that Kevin had warned her about when she first started in Europe. Then she had overcome it, but now she realized that it had come back.
What was there to be nervous about? We’re not schoolgirls anymore, we’re grown women. And this is just a visit between friends. Then she saw her descending down the escalator and Ellen’s face beamed. Jenna caught sight of her and waved frantically.
The years had been good to Jenna. Still the same blond hair, pulled into a ponytail. She was wearing khaki shorts that showed off her still firm calves and thighs, gifts from her years playing softball. Her blouse was colorful and loose. Jenna liked bold colors. It was always difficult to lose her in a crowd. She was either talking up a storm, or shuffling around in her neon clothing. Ellen smiled and waved back.
The drive from Dulles to Chester Gap was mostly Jenna telling Ellen everything that had gone on with her. By the time they arrived, the span of the years had mostly evaporated.
The upstairs wing had been converted into a suite of rooms. Ellen spent most of her time in a large sitting room whose floor-to-ceiling pane windows overlooked the forested hills to the west. Tonight she had a fire going as she sat and watched the moonlight dance off the pine trees, dressed in their ice and snow.
Jenna came in dressed in brightly colored sleepwear. Ellen smiled as she looked up from her laptop.
“Busy?”
“For you? Never.” Ellen closed her computer and sat up. “Can I get you a drink?” Ellen stood and walked to the bar while Jenna decided. She poured herself another rum and coke.
“Got any beer?”
“Always.” Ellen answered reaching into the fridge, pulling out a bottle. She walked back to the sitting area and handed the beer to Jenna. Sitting across from her, she asked, “All settled in?”
“This is quite a place.”
“Isn’t it? And the Harrisons are sweethearts.” Ellen watched as Jenna hesitated. She knew every expression that Jenna made. “What’s up, hun?”
Jenna looked at her with an expression that was at once pleading and yet also understanding. “We’re not gonna…are we?”
Ellen smiled softly and shook her head. “No, hun. Did you think we would?”
“No. I guess not. But I’m always hopeful.”
Ellen stood up and walked over. She sat down next to her and slipped her arm around her friend. “Whatever we had was then. I’m afraid that we can’t go back.”
“I know. You’re right, as always.” She leaned her head on Ellen’s shoulder. “I get lonely, sometimes, especially between jobs.”
“I’m sure.”
“Are you in another relationship or anything?”
Ellen laughed lightly. “No, well, my music I guess.” She knew she couldn’t tell Jenna about the reenlistment. Jenna had wrung herself out when she heard that Ellen had joined the ROTC in college. She would be gone in a few days, the less she knew the better. “You know, you’re always welcome to stay with me whenever you’re in town.”
“Thanks, baby.” Jenna snuggled into Ellen. “I missed you.”
“Missed you.” Ellen kissed the top of her head. As they sat and watched the night pass over the woods, Ellen felt Jenna fall asleep on her shoulder.
The next morning, Ellen found a note pushed under her door. “Thought I’d get an early start. I’ll let you know if I’m around later. Talk to you soon. Love, Jenna”
Ellen read the note three times. She looked out of the window onto the gray, cold landscape. She felt that old tug between her desire for focus and her loneliness. Kevin had told her once that walking that line would kill her. “You need to decide, one way or the other.” he said.
She thought she had. Wasn’t that why she left him in Brussels? To focus, to put aside the distractions? And now? It felt like it all had come around again, like that annoying door-to-door salesman, constantly knocking. Except, this time, he held a gun.
Oh yay, I was hoping you’d post again ☺ And aww, this is really nice. You really evoke the feelings of a reunion, and of a are-we-or-aren’t-we situation. I like how honest they are with each other. Thank you so much for sharing!
Last month I was in the middle of my exams, so I couldn’t post anything. I’ve been steadily working on my Homestuck fanfic, as I posted last time. So here’s another one of the better scenes from the story. It’s just after the two main characters have fallen in love. And since one of them is essentially a lawyer and the other was a pirate, some small issues ensue when they are celebrating their love in the shelter where they’re hiding for this part of the story:
You watch Aranea cut the loaf of bread and put it on the two wooden plates you packed. Then she thinly slices the ham.
‘Hey, that dagger is new,’ you say.
‘Yes. And also stolen.’ She arranges a few pieces of dried fruit on each of the plates. Also stolen, you know. You are going to celebrate your matespritship with a delicious dinner of stolen food. But before you can enjoy that terrible delicacy, the Marquise shows you a bright red shirt. ‘And this is of course also stolen. I think you wear red well.’
‘First of all, it’s a tunic. Have you stolen a belt? Secondly, it doesn’t have my sign on it.’
She’s quite surprised. ‘You’ll be a rebel soon, you might as well go signless,’ she says. ‘And no, I don’t have a belt.’
‘I have rope,’ you say. She asks if the sign business bothers you so much, to which you say that it feels unnatural. But in a way, she’s right. You two are essentially outside the law now. It wouldn’t hurt to break one more. You startle yourself with that thought. Never in the world were you ever expecting to think like this.
When the scraps of last night’s rabbit, four portions of oats and a good bit of the dried meat you have in your field ration have disappeared into the soup, Mindfang buries it in the sand. ‘It’ll stay warmer like this. And the oats can soak up some flavor.’
‘Where have you learned all of that?’ you wonder.
‘Well, as a pirate, you learn to know a little bit of everything. Cooking, doctoring, small repairs of the ship, stuff like that. I wasn’t always the captain, you know.’
Of course not. But you only realize that now. You have difficulty seeing Aranea as someone who also needed to climb the hierarchy of the ship. But of course, she wasn’t always the big bad corsair. There must have been a time when she was the lowest mate too.
When the dinner is ready, she sits down next to you. Close to the fire, with a soft blanket between the cave wall and your backs, it couldn’t get any more comfortable. She cuts off a small piece of bread with ham and sensually feeds it to you. The fact that it’s all stolen doesn’t make it taste bad. Celebrating the first day of your matespritship like that, you snuggle up against her shoulder. She rests her head on yours and softly says: ‘It’s good that I’m taller then you. Imagine how odd this would be otherwise.’
‘Do realize that I won our battle,’ you reply. She laughs and strokes your hair.
With a soft smile, she says: ‘And maybe that was for good.’
Hi, Kiete! I hope the summer is treating you well!
I love the feeling of a character going further and further away from conventions and rules here. And I love:
Also stolen, you know. You are going to celebrate your matespritship with a delicious dinner of stolen food.
This was really fun. Thanks so much for posting! As always ☺
Wow Bryn! What an amazingly emotional moment. I can’t wait until I can read the whole book.
After reading that, m measily offering will be sad. This is from the very rough draft of my manuscript for my first novel, “Batter Days”.
If I hadn’t been looking at my phone, I might have noticed the sly look on Brooke’s face, but instead I was too busy staring at my cake and praying for the phone to ring to catch the wheels turning in her head until she spoke.
“Can I ask you something?” I looked up and gave Brooke a little nod. “Why haven’t you told Derek you love him yet?”
My eyes practically lept from my skull they were so wide. “What?!”
“You heard me,” Brooke said. “Why haven’t you told him?”
“Because it’s not like that.” The look she gave me told me she clearly thought I was lying. “I’m serious. Derek is my friend. I mean, we’ve literally know each other our while lives. It would never work.”
“Says who?”
“Did you not hear anything I just said, Brooke? He. Is. My. Friend,” I emphesized.
“A friend you slept with.”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe she went there. The shit eatting grin on her face told me she was teasing, but still…
“Brooke,” I admonished her.
“What?” she asked through her laughter. “You did.”
“I was drunk,” I defended.
“So you don’t think he’s hot?”
My mouth slammed closed.
“You’re blushing.” My hands few to my cheeks. They were red hot. Damn it. “Admit it, Ally. You at least think the guy is attractive.”
I sighed. “Okay yes. I have eyes alright? I can see that he’s good looking.”
“But you don’t care about that.”
It wasn’t a question, more like a statement, but I could still hear the unbelief in Brooke’s tone of voice.
“That’s right, because we’re just friends.”
Ugh. This was terrible. My voice didn’t even sound convincing to my own ears, and I couls still feel the heat in my face from the deep blush that I was pretty sure wouldn’t be going away anytime soon.
“Okay,” Brooke said. “I’ll drop it… for now.”
Erin! Thanks for the compliment, but don’t you dare say bad things about your writing again! Especially because you know I like this story! And this part is so much fun. She’s not fooling anyone else, and she’s barely fooling herself. Brooke is the kind of friend everyone needs… to keep them honest. Thanks so much for posting!
Aww thanks. That means a lot. I’ll try not to say anything bad in the future.
Hi Bryn,
Thanks for the opportunity to share some of my work.
this is the first chapter of the first instalment in a series i’m currently writing.
It’d be a dream to get published. Finger’s crossed.
It was always so real. Her agony. Her screams, reflected in the crack of lightning. Those images replayed in my mind. Like a kaleidoscope of a horror film on repeat. All the blood… The terror. My mother’s shrilling screams, her body marred by deep cuts. Hands tied above her head. Wrists rimmed red against the binds as her body sagged, depleting of its strength. I sat bound to a chair across from her. I couldn’t bear to look at her face as it contorted in reaction to the agony she was experiencing. I swallowed the bile that threatened to expel and dropped my gaze to the ground, but that didn’t ease the dread that weighed heavily in my stomach.
My mother’s feet rested in a streaming puddle of blood. Her skin deadly pale. Drawn of all colour. Even as a young girl I knew she wouldn’t be making it out of this building alive, but a kid could always hope. Don’t die Mommy! Don’t die!
The torturers were vampires. I didn’t have a clear view of their faces because they’d blind folded me, but I’d still remember them. Those memories bordered a similarity to that of Mom’s desperate cries. Her pleas filled with agony when she begged them to stop cutting her ‘Please no more, I swear I don’t have any answers’ I could still remember how alien my mother had sounded. This was the only time I ever saw fear in her.
There was one man in particular; he was the rogue lord who lurked in the shadows. Just a glimpse would be enough, so the image of his face would be etched in my mind forever. But he never stepped into the light. He was calling the shots, barking the orders to torture my mother. ‘Cut her again! Deeper! Make her suffer more!’ His voice was so hoarse, so callous. I was frightened to the verge of soiling myself.
The vampires thought my mother knew something, and tried profusely to get it out of her, but she hadn’t the answers they seeked. Still they demanded, time and time again. ‘I don’t know’ she cried.
She begged them for mercy, to spare my life for hers, but the vampires sneered at her and kept cutting. Her cries of pain letting me know when the blade was passing through her flesh. Those cries would continue to haunt me the whole of my lifetime.
Two of the vampires who stood behind me started kicking the legs of my chair, raising my fear level to the maximum. The lights that hung from the roof of the warehouse made the blindfold translucent. Giving me enough light to see the sickening torture unfolding before my eyes.
I knew we were in an abandoned warehouse; the sounds bore a familiarity to me for some reason. Metal creaking against rusted bolts, gusts of wind hissed under the doors. The steel enclosure barely held together. It was one of many that were run down from centuries of use and countless years of neglect. The structure groaned under the pressure of the Seattle storm. Outside, trees swayed wildly in the wind, casting ghoulish shadows through the windows. Even the men standing guard by the glass panels bore an ominous towering gloom of their own.
My body wracked with an extreme fear of my impending death. I wanted to cry out for my mother. I was just a child, longing for the comfort and protection of her angelic arms.
But I wouldn’t dare cry out, I was too scared that I’d than have the monsters attention. I whimpered low, pressing my trembling lips together to keep from screaming. I don’t know why the vampire did it, nor how we even came to be here. Tied up, with one possible fate.
The rogue lord gave his final command and it was obeyed swiftly. One of the vampires produced a knife as he stalked towards her, but Mom’s red stained silhouette stayed frighteningly still.
Her lips parted slightly with a shuddering breath. She knew this was the end. And as the vampire brought the blade closer to her neck, she whispered to me ‘Don’t look baby’. I froze in the moment, wishing the blindfold had been black so it would completely obscure my vision. Her blood was everywhere; it ran down in rivulets from all the gashes that shouldn’t have been there.
And just when you think there couldn’t possibly be any more remaining in her body… the vampire grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her head back, her neck pulled tight. And with one swipe of his knife, her throat was slashed. I could see it in her eyes, the emptiness. My mother was gone.
Holy smokes. Kristy, I have to be honest, I did skim part of this because it’s very rough going. But I think that’s exactly what you were going for! I’m hoping this girl grows up to kick vampire ass… she does, right?! Thank you for posting… and wishing you all the best with publishing!
Thanks Bryn, Do you have any info on self publishing? It’s difficult to get a foot in with publishers because of the need for a literary agent. I have been looking at agents, but have had no luck so far.
All the best.
Hi, Kristy! There are some publishers that take unagented submissions. But you might also want to check out my breakdown about self-publishing costs, and what’s worth paying for and what isn’t! Good luck! https://www.bryndonovan.com/2016/07/01/self-publishing-heres-what-it-costs/
This excerpt of your WIP made me cry. Perfectly done.
Ohhhhh. Thank you so much. <3
What an emotional snippet, Bryn. It definitely needs a ‘have tissues in reach’ warning. I felt for them both as the scene seemed so real to me.
Back in April, I’d shared part of the prologue of one of my many wips. Here is part of chapter one.
~*~*~*~
Chapter 1
Now…
Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland, Australia. It’s currently summer time with the temperature sitting at 40C with a humidity of 68 per cent which is just tolerable; for me at least. The sky is blue with next to no clouds floating around. There is a slight breath of a breeze which occasionally ruffles my hair and does almost nothing to ease the heat.
I have lived here all my life and for almost the past ten years I have been working the industrial evening beat of Archerfield, Acacia Ridge, Coopers Plains and Salisbury. Every now and then I will be called in to do other areas but those four suburbs are my regulars. Except for today.
Today Mallin and I have been sent to patrol both Mount Nebo and Mount Glorious Roads on the north west of Brisbane because of a suggestion of rogue therians in the area. We have to make sure none of the tourists are attacked. “It doesn’t look good for the city if the tourists are attacked by rogues.” I was told. Oh, I agree but still. Surely there is someone more appropriate to patrol the area than me. I sigh.
Mallin just glances at me with that doggy grin of his with his tongue lolling out. Oh, can’t forget the wagging tail.
“No, of course you wouldn’t have a problem with this would you?” I shake my head with a slight smile.
His expression doesn’t change. Only his tail wags a little harder because I’ve paid him a little attention. I ruffle his fur as I give him a pat on the head – his tail wagging faster – and continue to patrol.
The area is crowded as locals and tourists escape to the heavily treed areas as relief from the heat and for a spot of sight-seeing. Some of them have their pets with them. Other dogs bark at us as Mallin and I walk pass. Car and bike enthusiasts race the winding curvy mountainous roads; slowing down only for police and crowded areas. Both sets of vehicles are cool to look at as well. Different colours, styles, makes and sounds, and that’s not including the riders and drivers.
For someone into people watching then this is the place to be; especially today. All forms of races and skin colours dressed conservatively to outrageously, from young to old and English speaking to non-English speaking. And I have to patrol and maybe hunt amongst all this.
For hunting, give me suburbia at night time; suburban rogues seem more subdued… or maybe more cautious of their surroundings… I don’t know. I’m just thankful that they are. I’m nothing like the still living legendary hunters of today, however. Hunters like Kaelan Ridgeleigh, Zac Tanner, Thaddeus Lucas, Katherine Langley (his partner) and the husband and wife team Ben & Jaydra Newall (even if he is a lycan and she a vamp); just to name a few.
They go out into rural areas and hunt large groups of twenty or more. I don’t understand how they manage to survive such hunts but they do. Hence why they’ve become legends and those I named my heroes. They have managed to survive far longer than others in our career. As for me, I urban hunt one or two at a time with maybe a third. I find them hard enough at times, even though I still manage to survive, but I digress.
Suffice to say, as the morning crawls along and the temperature climbs towards that 40C mark, I come across two therians – after Mallin confirms them as such for me – robbing a tourist. No one else steps up to help the man so I do instead.
“Give back the man his belongings and get down on the ground with your hands behind your head.” I instruct quietly as I show them my badge, with my other hand on the unsecured but still holstered pistol at my right hip. Mallin is standing point on my right issuing a low growl as we slowly step towards them.
Naturally the pair of them, one man and one woman, ran so I have to chase them. Blast it! Like I really want to be running on a day like today. I don’t know what species they are and at this point in time I don’t care. With Mallin beside me, the four of us are running up the mountain road.
Damn but its hard work. We couldn’t be running down the mountain could we?! Of course not! Within minutes I’m dripping with sweat. The industrial areas I normally work aren’t that hilly at all; mostly flat in fact. Right about now I am so missing my urban beat. I mentally groan with frustration.
The rogues are only thirty or so metres in front of me and somehow we’re managing to keep that same distance between us the entire time. All I know at the moment is that I don’t have the energy to close the distance between us. Naturally, we draw the curious glances of those we pass. Some are shaking their heads as if they’re saying we’re stupid for running in this heat.
Hell, I agree with them but the four of us don’t care and none of us slow down just for the sake of appearances to those around us.
The chase continues unchanged for fifteen minutes so far and I have a horrendous stitch in my side. However, I don’t dare slow down to ease it just in case I lose them totally. Although, after fifteen minutes, they too must have been suffering the same thing because they slow down. They glance over their shoulders at me as I slow down as well.
“Mallin, pace.” I murmur the order to keep him at my side the moment we slow down.
The distance between us still doesn’t change.
Frequently, one or the other glances over their shoulder to look at me.
I guess they’re just checking to see if I have given up or not. Not bloody likely is all I can say. Anyway, this continues for the next ten or so minutes. I, for one, am grateful for the slow pace as it allows the pain in my sides to ease and for me to catch my second wind; so to speak.
Soaked in sweat, the slight summer breeze helps in cooling me down as well. However, the reprieve doesn’t last all that long.
Once again they bolt, veering to the left as they cross the road and dash down a hiker’s trail into the parklands. I silently curse as I don’t want to lose them amongst the trees. The moment they ran, Mallin and I start running as well. We have no choice but to follow them into Brisbane Forest Park.
“Mallin, track.” I order. No way am I going to lose them now.
Hi, KC! Aw, thanks for the kind words.
I love getting the continuation from last month! Do you live in Australia? It seems like never read anything set there, so I like that! I like how you’re starting your story in the right place, too. “It doesn’t look good for the city if the tourists are attacked by rogues.” Hahaha. I didn’t realize Malin was a dog right away and that was fun. And I love the MC saying he (? I’m not actually sure about the gender) isn’t like his heroes, because I bet he’ll wind up being pretty heroic. Thank you so much for sharing! I hope everything’s going well with you.
Hi, Bryn. I just state things as I see/ like them.
Yep, I’m Australian born and bred so all my stories are set where I currently live; which is Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland which is the northern most state on the east coast. Lol Mallin steals the scenes; I love him. It’s a shame he isn’t real. Oh, you need to read my April wip I’d shared to get a little insight to our hero here. The hero is not what you think :).
As for me, I’m fairing better. I’ll start minimal weight bearing this Monday. While that’s a new set of pains, I am looking forward to it.
Hi Bryn. I don’t have time to do this on Wednesday’s so I hope you don’t mind me sharing my WIP on a Sunday. I have a good day job but the hours change every three months. Here is chapter one from my wip. Please keep in mind any thoughts made by the protagonist are in italics in Scrivener but on this post may not show as such in this post including the letter. Enjoy!
“THE LETTER”
I’m being fired?
Jennifer was talking with a coworker in the newsroom about the meeting she just had with her boss. “Tcht. They still don’t trust me, even after my last story broke two days before any other source and it turned out to be the biggest thing since…” Jennifer’s smart phone buzzed another text message. Her sister Susan indicating she had just received a letter from England addressed to Jennifer, and that there was a package waiting for her as well.
Why was I sent the letter?
Susan pulled the last of the weeds, and was heading back to the house when Jennifer came bursting through the backyard gate laughing and shouting. Why is she so happy? She could hear her babbling, her dialog giving only fragments, asking herself what is going on? Pacing and jumping, giddy as a child on Christmas morning. She noticed her sister wearing a light wind breaker, jeans and her tee-shirt saying ‘Women Rock’, pumping her fist in the air as she received a final letter from her attorney for her recent divorce a month prior.
Walking over to the patio Jennifer sat on a wooden bench outside on the back porch, at her sister’s home, clutching the letter detailing how her life is about to be altered while Susan passed her entering the kitchen.
Jennifer starred vacuously at the bird fountain standing in the garden amidst the many colorful blooms accenting the lawn, and tugged her thin windbreaker tightly around her slender frame to ward off the chill permeating the morning air. Being too distracted this morning only to realize she is dressed so inappropriate for a cold morning. Reflecting on how different her life was just a month ago.
Contemplating her current situation, hearing the back door swing open admitting her sister, Susan, out onto the porch. She approached the bench where Jennifer sat, still wearing her warm blue fleece robe, hair in a ponytail and make-up free. She gazed sheepishly out at the rising sun which spilling small rays of sunshine across the frosty grass in the yard. She held two steaming cups of coffee. Offering her the welcomed cup of liquid warmth.
“Here you go, Jen, nothing like hot fresh java to start the morning.” Susan gave her a warm, affectionate smile.
Jen took the mug her sister offered, slowly and deliberately sipping the hot liquid. She closed her eyes to savor the warmth. “This is amazing,” she said, holding it between both hands, willing the heat to warm her entire body. “Thanks Suz, I needed coffee.”
“Saw you dancing in the garden out there. What’s up?”
“You’re never going to believe this, but I received a letter from a law firm in England on behalf of uncle Tom. I am required to attend the reading of his will.”
Susan didn’t respond, but stared out past the lawn, she anticipated a reply. Receiving a letter after the death of her uncle stating she is her uncle’s heir who bequeathed to her a home she didn’t know existed. To add to the confusion, it is situated in England on a separate continent.
Only two months passed since they last spoke with him. He never said anything about owning a house in England. It’s crazy to think she inherited something half way around the world. Right now Susan didn’t know whether to be excited or jealous. Why did her uncle send her a letter about a property she hasn’t known of?
Jennifer’s smart phone, indicating yet another text message. Typing a reply, it vibrated again, another voice mail message. She disliked the endless interruptions, and to pay for all those impersonal people-dividing tech toys, people think they can’t live without, knowing they are going to break as soon as the warranty runs out. Distraction was a common theme in her life, and her mind kept revisiting the events causing her current state of confusion.
Her emotions became a roller coaster of sadness, confusion and sometimes excitement at the mystery awaiting her. After a few moments of companionable silence, she glanced up at her sister and asked a question she knew she couldn’t answer but still felt compelled to ask.
“Why do you suppose our uncle chose me as his heir for an estate I didn’t know of? I’m not certain if I should be excited or not. I don’t understand,” said Jennifer feeling bewildered and uncertain. Both sisters received letters from Uncle Tom, knowing only of the house in America, and not the one in England, because he never mentioned it to them.
Glancing at her sister in her periphery. Seeing her staring thoughtfully, out past the lawn knowing from years of living with her, she is contemplating, reflecting a bit before she offered an answer. Susan is never hasty, always planning and thinking ahead, never quick to judge without considering the variables.
So she gets to inherit an estate while I raise kids. All my life, she was the pretty one, the one the guys were drawn to. Of course I can’t say anything about it, to do so will put our relationship at risk.
“My fear of flying is enough for me to not want to leave the US, while you have always dreamed of traveling to Europe. I’m grateful for uncle Tom’s house in the US,” said Susan.
“Yeah, I’ve always wanted to travel to Europe.” said Jennifer sipping her coffee. “Our family and friends have always known of your passion for European history.”
“Well Jen, it makes sense our uncle would list you as his benefactor and bequeath you his estate. I think he felt closer to you”, she stated with quiet objectivity and understanding. She paused and then continued.
“You always seemed to understand one another but I can’t offer any insight regarding the mysterious property besides, you are a bit of a Nancy Drew, especially when it came to finding lost treasure. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Glancing at her sister returning a sibling compliment.
“Your pretty smart yourself Suz!”
Her smartphone lit up and showing yet another text message. She begins typing a text reply followed by listening to yet another voice mail message.
“Perhaps, the lawyers will be able to offer more of an explanation.” As she thought about what Susan said, and the conclusions reached, realizing how right her sister can be. Ever insightful, she managed to answer her question with the simplest, most obvious explanation.
“I’m going to get on the computer and make flight reservations for you.”
“Flight reservations?” said Jennifer with a concerned Look at her face. “Hey, Suz? Let me pay for it. It isn’t fair to you, I mean with the kids and everything.” She hated feeling like a burden to her sister.
“Stop worrying. My husband and I are doing fine.” Placing her hand on her sister’s arm.
Jennifer’s smart phone showed an email message indicating her reservation for the next morning. “OK, kiddo, you’re all set.” Your plane goes through Chicago with a stop in New York before heading over the pond to England. Maybe this will be an easy thing for you, and it will all be over soon.”
Out of concern for her sister, she advised her to check for a contact number for Shaldorn, and to call them to let them know she has flight reservations, and would arrive the next morning.
Per her sisters advice, Jennifer called the number in the letter. They advised her a driver would be picking her up at the airport.
The next morning she showered and packed, partly excited and partly nervous about the whole thing. After getting dressed she glanced at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She slid her fingers over the necklace, gently fingering the surface of the ancient coin. It had been a gift from her uncle. He’d assured her that it was authentic, and not a replica from some tourist shop. “It will bring you luck,” he’d said.
She didn’t have that many relatives scattered around the world. There was just herself, her sister, her mother and now this. What if she had relatives she’d never met?
The smell of fresh coffee filled the house as her sister entered the room handing her a package and an e-ticket. “OK, Jen. Here you go.” Handing her both.
“Suz … thank you.” her cheeks blushed. “You’re always taking care of me.” Jennifer’s eyes began to water.
“Hey … don’t worry about it. You’re my sister.” Susan spoke slowly, her eyes giving away her concern.
“Oh, by the way, Jennifer—this came the day before yesterday. I meant to tell you but I guess I got caught up in our conversation about the letter, and your trip.”
She opened the cylindrical shipping tube and pulled out a rolled document, string-tied and sealed with wax. Looking on with the curiosity of a child eying a birthday present. She took in a breath.
“This is strange. Why would uncle Tom send me a document with a wax seal?” She raised a brow.
“I don’t know, but he always did like history.”
“I know it’s one of the things I loved about him.” Her eyes twinkled. Picking it up from the table holding the rolled-up and sealed parchment in her hand about to break the seal, when her sister stopped her.
“Wait, look at the seal. Not the kind most people use. It’s not his initials. It almost Looks like … ” Turning toward the mirror feeling the coin around her neck.
“It’s the same image as the one on the coin,” she said, holding it near the wax seal.
Her eyes widened. “Oh wow, they are the same. What’s up with that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll give you some privacy,” said Susan padding for the door. “But I’d love to hear the scoop on what’s in the letter.”
Jennifer’s mind spun with questions as she broke the seal, and was slow to open the leather scroll lined with parchment paper. It was thick and rough as she smoothed the page out. Deep creases littered the surface. Sweeping black letters were written in calligraphy, not quite uniform lines, and a myriad of golden and scarlet clouds decorated the edge of the yellowing surface.
Dearest Jennifer, dated July 30
I miss you and wish we could spend time together like we used to. William died two months ago and he left his entire estate to me. Can you believe that? I was so shocked but I knew that he always trusted me. I’ve not been feeling well these past days while dealing with the affairs of the estate. This place is very special Jennifer, and there are many things you need to know. First, the staff here is terrific, you would like them. I have spent a lot of time thinking about my life, and yours. Right now I am trying to find a way to pay the taxes on this property, and am having a tough time with it. The property here is large and requires a small staff to maintain it. He told me of strange things like the legend of the dagger. I couldn’t believe he would tell me all this but I guess he trusted me enough. I have so much to tell you. Wish you were here. You can trust the staff here except for…someone is coming I have to go. Please come as soon as you can.
Love
Uncle Tom
Even more puzzled, Jennifer rolled up the parchment and put it into her carrying bag, and headed for the door. Standing on the front porch with her sister they say goodbye.
“Oh, and Jennifer,” Susan replied. “Is your passport up-to-date?” Her sister always thinking ahead.
“My passport?” she replied, having forgotten to check it. “I’m glad you asked me that.” Checking her carrying bag for the passport.
“But is it current?” Jennifer checks the date.
“Yes, I renewed it only a few months ago while on an assignment for the paper. That is, before I was fired,” said Jennifer with a somber Look.
“Hey kiddo, that wasn’t your fault. Things will get better. So what was in the letter?” Eyebrows raised.
“Oh uncle was just writing me about his friend he met during the war. Look, I should get going. I have a long trip ahead of me; I’ll call you when I get there, and Susan, thanks for always being there.” Quick to give Susan a hug, secretive about the letter.
“Of course, what are sisters for?” They hugged as Jennifer got into the cab to the airport.
Hi, E.G.! It’s great to see your post at any time! I’m sorry that I’m late, myself, in replying – I’ve been traveling for work. This is a fun setup, and I especially liked the nuanced relationship between the two sisters. There’s a little jealousy, but they also care about each other. I’m very interested to know about that dagger. Thank you for sharing!
Very powerful stuff, Bryn! It tells a lot of story and makes me want to read more about this family-web dynamic. I like where you leave off, too, with Nic unable to give more than a well-meaning if awkward response to Sophie’s story!
Pardon me for sharing the Wednesday after (I’m new in town). The following is from “Tempest Road” which I hope to self-pub this fall. (Until that moment, I consider it a WIP.)
~
Immediately, Cora comes to put the restrictive band back on MacLeod’s legs, above the knees. He hides disappointment, stretching. When he finishes, he finds Arturo standing right before him. Arms crossed, gun in hand.
MacLeod wonders, ‘Do I say something now? Would it set him off? Or would it give me a better chance of getting out of here?’
“Bueno, MacLeod,” Arturo says. “I suppose I should say, ‘Thank you for exercising the men.’ Or ‘You have amazing skills. We are fortunate to be among your magnificence.’ Something along those lines?”
“No, sir.”
The voice in MacLeod’s head urges, ‘Do it. Try!’
“‘Sir’?” Arturo’s eyes are wide in surprise, flashing threat. “Why do you use ‘Sir’? Why would you call me that? Out of sarcasm?” A smile has crept into his lips.
‘He’s smiling. Things are going south. Do something,’ the voice urges.
“I-I’m used to doing it. As a sign of respect. Arturo, please, I’m not who you think I am.”
“You are MacLeod.”
“No, I’m—”
He’s cut off by the leash choking his neck. He coughs, turning to find Cora, who wears a wicked smirk. “Sorry, Darling,” she says. “We don’t want you to enjoy too much freedom. And we all have reasons for being here.”
MacLeod opens his mouth when the hoodie goes over his head again. He’s a man returned to his prison. Pressure makes him look up. Arturo is resting his gun arm on MacLeod’s collar. The muzzle taps against the lower corner of his skull.
“Would you repeat that? Something about a mistake? Mm? You think I make mistakes. Is that right?”
His insane eyes seem to beg for a fight. Clarity comes to MacLeod, sharp and cruel as a man banging his hammer on a steel wall.
‘If I tell him, and he believes me, he’ll just blow my head off right here. They’ll bury me out here just like they buried those druggies. Nobody will ever know what’s happened to me. Emma will never know. No, I can’t do that. I’ll toe the line. I’ll play the game, become one with the lie.’
A drop of sweat crawling down MacLeod’s nose prompts him to clear his throat. “I’m sorry, I was mistaken. It won’t happen again.”
“Bueno,” Arturo whispers. “Bueno.”
~
Hi, Justin! Welcome, and thanks for sharing right away! Congratulations on the upcoming release. I loved this excerpt! I love his thought process about how to behave in order to stay alive… it really drew me in. MacLeod strikes me as brave but not a fool. I hope you’ll post more next month!
Thank you, Bryn! Too kind! And many kudos to you for opening your blog space for sharing and feedback. (With my schedule and the kids, finding the time to attend writing groups is difficult at best. I appreciate any proxy opportunities! Support is so helpful.) You’re the best!
You are a fantastic writer!
Thanks! It’s lots of fun (when it isn’t frustrating as hell). Justin
I’m late this month. The end of the school year is such a busy time! This is something new I am playing with. I imagine a futuristic victorian world. They have unimaginable technology but still conform to an antiquated chaste system. My heroine will turn that system on its’ ear. Here goes…
The young couple waited nervously in the sterile office of their assigned case manager. The woman sat stiffly, holding a sleeping baby close to her chest, and fought back tears. The man, on the other hand, paced back and forth in the small room. He paused to look at the woman and laid a hand on her shoulder.
“This is the best for everyone Mol.” He said softly.
“I know.” She replied with a sniff.
“We have 5 other children to think of.”
“I know.” She mumbled softly and placed a soft kiss on the little bundle’s head. Before Frank could speak any further, a gray haired gentleman in a dark gray suit entered briskly, a manilla folder in his hands.
“Mr. and Mrs. Benson, good to see you again.” He sat and laid the file open on the desk. The Bensons stared nervously at the paper, unable to read anything it said.
“Well, Mr. Westright, how did our girl do?” Frank asked.
“Yes, we’ll get to that. You should know the drill by now. This is your third visit to the agency. Protocol must be followed.” Mr. Westright slowly flipped through the paperwork on the desk, occasionally nodding his head or making a notation. Being only two stations above the people in front of him, Mr. Westright enjoyed any opportunity that gave him a chance to lord his power over others.
“So, you’ve brought us another girl?” He asked, puffing his chest with importance. Frank bristled, sick of Westright’s showboating. Before he could let loose with a few choice words, Mol rested her hand on his knee and spoke.
“Yes, this is Rosalee. She is our sixth child.”
“And you’ve brought two other girls to the agency?”
“Yes.”
“Neither were up to snuff I see.” He continued snootily. Frank’s leg tensed beneath Mol’s hand but he remained quiet.
“Yes, they did not meet the requirements Mr. Westright.”
“Well if at first you don’t succeed and all that.” He chuckled and continued reading the paperwork. After a good ten minutes, Mr. Westright closed the folder, folded his hands on top of it, and looked at the Bensons pointedly.
“It seems that you have finally hit the lottery with this one. Her Majority Scan has come back with a near perfect score. Not only will she possess the beauty necessary to be a high society wife but her temperament will be a rare but highly sought after combination of gentleness and meekness. I wouldn’t be surprised if she is matched before the week is through.” Frank’s tension eased instantly, a broad smile encompassing his face. Mrs. Benson remained stiff and tightened her grip on the child.
“She will be placed on the Marriage Mart this afternoon. I will be in contact with you the moment she is matched. I feel, this being your first candidate on The Mart, that I must remind you what this means. Once Rosalee is matched, you will have responsibility of her until she reaches the age of eight. The family who sponsors her will provide you a monthly stipend of a reasonable amount for that time. At eight years of age, Rosalee must be presented to Miss Beechworth’s Finishing School for Dignified Young Ladies. You will receive the remaining amount of the agreed upon settlement for Rosalee and relinquish all rights to her at the time. Should anything happen to Rosalee during the next eight years, you are subject to pay back any monies given to you, all costs covered by the Agency, as well as hefty fines. The full list of rules and requirements for her upbringing until she enters school will be presented to you at the signing of the Arrangement contracts. Please sign the Permission to Marry form in triplicate if you are ready to proceed.” Mr. Westright pushed the form along with a fountain pen across the desk and waited. Mr. Benson picked up the pen and stared at the paper in front of him clearly unsure of where or what he was expected to do. Mrs. Benson had begun to silently cry and held the baby tighter. Mr. Westright suppressed a smile at the couple’s ignorance. The other managers in his department had special flags to denote the place for signature and encouraged their clients kindly to scrawl whatever they could. Westright truly relished in his clients inability to do even the most basic tasks such as signing their name. After an awkward minute had passed, Westright haughtily pointed to the line that required a signature and gleefully watched as the poor man struggled to form the letters of his name. Once all three forms were signed, another formality the other managers forgoed in favor of sparing their clients further embarrassment or pain, Mr. Westright placed them neatly inside the file, stood grandly and ignored the hand that Mr. Benson offered.
“I will be in touch.” He said stiffly and left the room.
Meg! I was late reading this, and I’m so sorry. I am so interested in the world you’re building! The body language at the beginning of this piece was so effective – it got me emotionally involved right away. It’s a chilling scene and the way the guy relishes other people’s lack of education is so horrible! Nice work.
Thanks! I was really happy with how it turned out too. The idea spun out of a crazy dream and I really want to play with this world some more. I think it may actually fall more in line with the Regency era. I’ve always been fascinated by the social norms of that time period. I like the idea of all other aspects of life moving forward and evolving while this one remains stagnant. It seems I will have to split my time between these two stories now!
Hi Bryn, I am an aspiring writer and I want to share a little bit of my book with my followers like you do. But I was wondering, how do you keep your writing safe? As far as per se, copyrights ect. Thanks in advanced!
Hi, A.P. Do you mean how do I keep anyone from ripping off the work I share on the blog? It’s already protected by U.S. copyright law as soon as I hit “publish” on the blog (Section 102 of the Copyright Act.) That being said, I don’t worry about it at all. I don’t know what anyone would do with excerpts, anyway. Hope that helps!
Good, are there any measures you suggest I take to keep my work safe?
I do have a notice of copyright at the bottom of the blog page, and I have a boilerplate cease & desist letter my lawyer friend drew up for me that I’ve sent out before (but I’ve only had my helpful articles pirated, not excerpts of my fiction!)
Alrighty, well, thanks for all the help! 😀
Bryn, as always, you are such a delight and so generous with all that you do. Question: Do you use the Gravatar Plugin on your site for the comment section?
Hi Bryn, this is so powerful. I read it last month and again today. It reminded me of my own experience telling my husband before we married and his reaction. It never goes away, it is just hidden in the back of my mind.
Here is a short story I wrote:
THE ROOM
Candace woke up soaked with perspiration. She looked around the room, unable to recognize anything. Attempting to sit up, she felt restrained. Her arms were crossed as if hugging herself. Candace struggled, scooting until she leaned against a wall. Using her shoulder, she pulled herself upward to a sitting position. Her mind was racing now; trying to focus.
Where am I?
She surveyed her surroundings again. The room, empty and sterile. Shivers suddenly racked her thin body as she grew cold from the wetness adorning her.
“Hello! Is anyone here? I need help.”
Footsteps. Silence.
“Hello, please, I need help!” Candace called out.
Silence.
She attempted to stand, pushing against the wall with her back and legs. Losing her balance, she slid back to the floor.
She screamed. Tears became sobs. Then sleep.
Awaking, Candace jerked, causing her left arm to fall freely beside her. Food sat before her. She ate eagerly, stuffing her mouth with her hands. She looked around for eating utensils, finding only a straw, she continued until she had her fill. She stood, stretched, and searched for a way out of the sterile room. A window, the only apparent opening. Candace tried to reach the window several times without success. She called out into the empty space hoping someone would hear her pleas. But there remained only silence. Feeling tired, she laid down on the floor and drifted to sleep.
Her peaceful sleep brought dreams. Running free in a meadow of wildflowers; her hair flying wildly. The sun, bright, warmed her.
The scene suddenly shifted; she was in a clear blue mountain pool. The water, warm and pleasant. She trembled in her sleep causing her eyes to open as slits. She snuggled deeper into herself and continued dreaming.
The calming visions, abruptly interrupted, and ejected, became dark and frightening. She shook herself awake. Her head hurt. Rubbing her eyes and forehead, she cried out in pain. The room had changed from brightly lit to total darkness. Candace couldn’t see her hand in front of her face. She felt something pressing hard against her buttocks. She stretched her legs as far as she could to relieve the pressure.
That’s strange. This room is empty.
The enormity of her situation penetrated into every pore creating terror and immobility. She felt pressure again, stronger, pushing her off her feet momentarily. Candace fought to focus her thoughts. Sudden, excruciating pain engulfed her as she felt severe pressure on her head. Something hard had a hold on her. She struggled to free herself.
Unable to do so, Candace cried uncontrollably. Unexpectedly, a long, strong push freed her head. Glaring light hit her.
Shocked, she screamed louder.
* * *
“Mrs. Maples, you have a beautiful girl here,” said the doctor as he lifted the wet and slippery newborn infant
Hi, Darlene. I am so very sorry you went through something similar, and so glad that your husband was empathetic. I based this scene somewhat on my own talk with my husband about a similar situation.
I almost missed your story because we already started a new WIP Wednesday post! https://www.bryndonovan.com/2017/07/05/wip-wednesday-share-what-you-are-up-to-18/ I do a new one for each month, which I probably did not make clear. I did not see the end to this story coming. Very clever! I bet I’ll think of this one again and again.
Thank you so much for sharing. And thanks for the kind words, too.