WIP Wednesday – Special NaNo Edition! Week 1

Posted on by Bryn Donovan

Ooh, you guys. I was sitting here in my pajamas in bed before starting my workday, planning out how to make 2018 my BEST YEAR YET (more on that later), and suddenly I remembered that it’s Wednesday, and we’re doing WIP Wednesday every week during NaNoWriMo! Yay!

WIP Wednesday is when I share an excerpt of what I’m working on, and you do the same in the comments. (500 words or less, and no explicit sex, because I have some young blog readers.) It’s a no-critique zone, but appreciative words are fine!

If there’s one time it’s okay to have a rough, raw, unfinished piece, it’s during NaNoWriMo! (It’s actually always okay, but you know what I mean.) So if you’ve been too shy to post before, c’mon and give it a try! It’ll make you more energized about your project, and it’s fun for us to see what everybody is up to.

I’m sharing again from my sweet contemporary romance, and I’m picking up right where I left off last week. My hero and heroine just met at a coffee shop, and when she mentioned that Monday was the best day of the week, he demanded an explanation.

 

 

[AdSense-B]

 

 

She glanced up again from the book—or the journal, apparently; she had a pen in her hand. Her blue eyes were wide, guileless. “I call it Clean Slate Monday.”

“Clean Slate Monday,” he repeated, as if that phrase explained anything.

She nodded. “You know, like if your last week—or actually your last month, or your last year, or whatever—if you had disappointments, or you messed up, you can forget about all that. Because it’s a brand new week. A fresh start.”

As Dylan stared at her, she took a sip of her latte, then wipe off a bit of foam that clung to her upper lip. She shrugged. “Anything could happen.”

Holy smokes. Dylan had no words for the feeling that thrummed through his veins. Something told him that he needed to know her much, much better.

But his cynicism rose to the surface to protect him from unfamiliar . “Do you work on Mondays?” Maybe she was a waitress in a restaurant that was closed today. It was easy to be chipper on your day off. Maybe she didn’t work at all.

“I do, actually.” Her tone was wry. “I’m a teacher. I have weekends off. Well, more or less.”

Okay. He wasn’t sitting next to a rainbow. He was sitting next to a unicorn. A person who worked Mondays through Fridays, and called Monday the best day of the week, didn’t even seem real.

She went back to writing in her journal. He caught a glimpse of the page. A sketch of a house occupied half of it. No, not a house: a cabin. Huh. It looked so much like the his grandparents’ cabin, where he and his sister had spent their summers as a kid. The place had been tiny, but those had been the best times of his childhood.

Just a coincidence, obviously. A lot of cabins looked alike, didn’t they? But still…

He needed to stop staring at her like a creep. Despite his curiosity, he looked away. Whatever she was writing or drawing, it was none of his business.

He had plenty of business of his own, and he needed to get back to it. Usually, he had no trouble settling down to work. It was how he’d succeeded so far. He’d gotten through college with a combination of academic scholarships and jobs that were unpleasant, exhausting, or both: loading delivery trucks, cleaning toilets, canning salmon in the summer in Alaska. He was made for work.

He studied the Powerpoint slide. The figures in the projections balanced out. He made an adjustment to the formatting, still acutely aware of the woman next to him. Whatever she was working on, it was probably much less crucial—and probably a lot more fun.

 

sweet romance WIP Wednesday

 

Your turn — share what you’re working on below! Or if you like, you can just talk about how NaNoWriMo or your writing in general is going. Thanks so much for reading, and happy writing!

 

 

68 thoughts on “WIP Wednesday – Special NaNo Edition! Week 1”

  1. Allan Zieser says:

    Here is an excerpt from my Wednesday work:

    The lights in the cabin dimmed and they could feel the thrust from the engines firing and they were on their way. The internal dampeners on the shuttle kicked in and there were no more feelings of pressure against him. Michael watched out of the window next to him as the Earth started to grow hazy and then slowly turned into a globe that anyone on the planet could recognize. When they were up in high earth orbit the shuttle approached a larger ship and then at some signal the ship lined up with the end of the larger ship and a panel opened in the bottom into which they rose slowly until they were inside. The ship appeared to be hanging above the floor of the ships bay and the opening underneath of them slid silently shut. The shuttle then set down carefully on the now closed panels below it. suddenly the sounds came back from outside as the bay was pressurized. Then with no more fanfare than people jumping out of a parked vehicle back on Earth the side of the shuttle swung up and the crew disembarked. Michael and his crew followed them through the open door and proceeded to a changing area where they changed out of their suits and into some of the most comfortable jumpsuits that Michael had ever worn. No wonder people on the ships looked so calm if all their uniforms felt this good then they were living well indeed. The steward from the flight came up to him and informed him that the ships executive officer would meet with them at 0800 ships time. He checked the panel that was sewn into the arm of the uniform he had donned and saw that it was 0730 ships time currently, nodded his head and proceeded to inform his crew. The panel on his arm them displayed the route to their cabins on the ship. They would spend the next week in them killing time until they arrived at the transfer point between the two ships. Michael was sure that his team would be kept plenty busy as they had to review what was known about the artifact that had disappeared as well as study what had been documented previously about he artifact that they were now carrying with them.

  2. Anne Hagan says:

    I plotted a lesfic sweet romance novella out last year for a Christmas release and then I never got around to writing it. I even had a cover done. I resurrected it for NaNoWriMo this year. I’m planning on about 35,000-40,000 words so it’s very doable in a month and I’m on pace so far to finish a little early. I should have a bit of time for Betas and edits/proofreading before it needs to release. This is a snippet from the opening:

    “Good evening.”
    “Good evening, Chef,” the twenty students standing at workstations called back to Chef Tomas Fourneir, in near unison.
    “We’ve been working pastry for the last month. You’ve all done well.” He glanced around the room, his eyes lingering on a few students.
    Hannah couldn’t hold his gaze. She looked away, toward the older woman she shared a workstation with, Sandra Teeter. Sandy scooted her right foot toward Hannah’s left and gave it an encouraging tap.
    Hannah blushed and looked away from Sandy too, back toward Chef Tomas. He’d moved on and he was smiling at Sandy.
    “Who is ready for cake?” he asked in a more excited tone than his usual more measured one. Hannah smiled and nodded. Sandy did too. It’s what they were both really in culinary school for and they’d talked about it often.
    The chef rubbed his hands together. “In class, we’re going to go through all of the usual exercises and modules.” He emphasized, ‘in class’. “This year, unlike in previous years, we have a special project right out of the gate, as well. A very special project.”
    Hannah and Sandy glanced at each other, Sandy with one eyebrow cocked. “Bring it on,” Sandy mouthed to her table mate.
    The younger, strawberry blond, couldn’t help but chuckle at the 40 plus year old woman who’d spent all of her adult life toiling in commercial kitchens, baking up a storm and getting none of the credit. Her enthusiasm was contagious.
    Sandy was the only person in the class who knew about her bakery. She’d said she made it her business to know all of the competition in Zanesville and the surrounding area when she showed up at the shop one day, unannounced and not a bit surprised to find Hannah at the helm. Hannah didn’t even think the chef knew about her store. Every time she thought about telling him she shuddered from the pressure to perform that she was sure would follow.
    “First, I’m going to pair you with another student,” Chef Fourneir said. “The project will be a team effort, therefore we will proceed through cakes as pairs.”
    The two women glanced at each other.
    “I’m picking,” he continued as a low rumble rose in the room. The class grew quiet again when he stepped toward the front workstation to his left. “Mr. Clay,” he addressed the student facing him on the right, “please step aside.”
    Fourneir waited while Randy Clay picked up his knife kit and his class binder and moved before turning toward the workstations to his right. He looked past the two front tables and focused on the table where Hannah and Sandy stood. “Ms. Teeter,” he called to Sandy, “please take Mr. Clay’s place here.” He placed a hand on the now vacant workstation.
    Hannah grimaced but she didn’t dare look at Sandy. Instead she imagined having Randy as her baking partner. He was good with pastry and a hard worker. She swallowed, drew in a breath and then, as she let it out, half smiled at the man, as he waited in the aisle, watching Sandy gather her belongings.
    The chef didn’t place Randy at Sandy’s former workstation. Instead, he zigzagged among the twenty-four students and their stations, moving people here and there until there was only one student left standing in an aisle, sans partner, Morgan Barber.
    Hannah swallowed again, harder this time as Fourneir directed Morgan toward her. She didn’t know anything about Morgan. They hadn’t talked other than to say ‘hello’ or ‘excuse me’ in passing. Morgan didn’t really talk to anyone, always going off by herself when they would get a break in class.
    When the pairings were finished, people started chattering. Some were obviously happy with their new partners while others, it seemed, were not. She wasn’t sure what she felt but, from what little she’d observed, she didn’t think baking and pastry were strong suits for the woman now standing next to her.
    Fourneir motioned for quiet. “Some of you have grown quite comfortable with the people you formerly shared stations with. That’s great. Teamwork is important. However, I remind you, in a commercial kitchen, you will always be working with all sorts of people at all different skill levels. You must learn that they’re going to be part of the team and that you have to become a part of the team wherever you go.”

  3. DAfan7711 says:

    Thanks for sharing the text and sketch, Bryn! I wonder if Dylan learns that teaching IS hard work.

    I’m working on my Dragon Age adventure-romance. Inquisition Scout Lace Harding, a dwarf, leads a team to liberate a dwarven port from Red Templars. Iron Bull is the Qunari (big guy with horns) mercenary caption she’s hired. The following includes moderate, bloodless battle violence:

    “Got any stealth powder?” Lace asked.

    Bull looked at her, askance. “In this rain? Besides, you’d need an entire shipment of it to cover a man my size.”

    “Says a man who knows nothing of rogues,” Skinner smirked. “I could hide a woman twice your size.”

    Bull scoffed, “Then you go in.”

    Skinner grinned wider and looked to Lace, who nodded her assent. “Skinner slips in first, followed by Dalish, then Quinn. The rest of us charge the moment the Templars figure out we’re here.”

    Grim grunted and Dalish gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “We’ll save some for you.”

    Lace strung her bow and watched the other three women sneak in the entrance one at a time. Then the rest of them hurried down and pressed their backs to the wall on either side of the door.

    “I’ve got your back,” Krem whispered in her ear and she nodded.

    A loud thud and clatter of armor echoed out into the rain.

    “What the—” a man’s exclamation ended with a gurgle, immediately followed by the sounds of two more bodies hitting the floor.

    “Horns up!” Bull roared and barreled in, Grim, Rocky, and Stiches on his heels with wordless battle cries.

    Lace swung into the doorway and loosed a shot into the face of a Templar foot soldier. She slid left, clear of the entrance, once she was certain there wasn’t anyone between her back and the wall. Krem held position on the opposite side, weapon ready, watching her, the door, and the battle for any surprises.

    It was quick and noisy. The surprised Templars didn’t stand a chance.

    They stacked the eight bodies against the wall by the door and Dalish stationed herself by the stairs to the lower levels, listening for trouble.

    “Ugly place,” Bull grunted.

    “No,” Lace said, “I’ve seen paintings: The stonework’s nice, if they have all the torches lit.”

    “Still prefer the tropics,” Bull said. “Palm trees, sand. Warm companionship.”

    Lace rolled her eyes. “You can get back to that another time.”

    “Someone else is here,” Skinner said, pointing to a small stone door at the far end of the foyer. Lace had missed it in the dim light. “Doesn’t smell like shems.”

    “Humans have a particular smell?” Lace didn’t bother to hide her doubt. She looked to Dalish, who shook her head no.

    “All right,” Lace sighed. “Everyone stand clear.”

    She knocked and the door was yanked open from the other side.

    A bolt of crystalized blue lyrium shot over her head. It would have gone straight through her chest if she’d been of human height.

    –

  4. Kimberly B. says:

    Hi Bryn! What a fun excerpt! I am really enjoying these characters and can’t wait to read more!
    I am on chapter four of my NaNoWriMo project, but I went back to write a little prologue I had in my head. The title of the novel is The Oracle’s Guide to High School Romance.

    Don’t. Just don’t.

    You don’t go out to the soccer field to watch the boys play, especially not, well, you know the one. Don’t stand under the bright autumn sun, which makes the whole world into an impressionist painting and pulls subtle shades of gold from his hair. Don’t notice how his soccer shorts bare his lean,muscular legs as he dashes across the field. The color is high in his cheeks and your face must match, flushed with the joy of seeing him, but don’t think about any of that. And if you feel goosebumps, it’s nothing to do with his little wave as he leaves the field, you must blame it on the breeze.

    Don’t let you face erupt in delight afterwards when he comes to you, muddy and sweat-stained and still the most beautiful human being you’ve ever seen. Resist the urge to hug him, although you know you will later, when he’s fully clean and changed and smells like citrus shower gel and his own subtle brand of aftershave. Ignore how his damp hair curls around his handsome face, the joy in his expression when he sees you, the sweet, shy way he takes your hand. When you walk together, and you can’t help but bump against each other, shoulder against shoulder, arm against arm, try not to notice the impulse you have to fall into him, let every exposed inch of you press against every exposed inch of him, as you’ve longed for ever since you met.

    Try to ignore all of that, if you’re an oracle.
    It can only ever end in tears.

  5. Judy J McClintock says:

    Oh my goodness! Although I’ve nothing grand to contribute, this is such a wonderful blog for inspiration! Love all the stories and will so enjoy reading more next time!

  6. K.L.M. Moore says:

    Love WIP Wednesday, but I’ve never posted. I thought I would finally do it! Here’s the beginning of my NaNo project:

    Clara Clarke did not believe in premonitions, but she could not shake the feeling that something had gone terribly wrong. She wrapped her shawl tighter about her shoulders and looked to the clock on the mantel. It was 9:09 pm. The shutters outside clattered against the wall as a strong wind pushed itself on the house. Clara could hear the rain driving into the glass behind the heavy damask curtains. She looked back down at the book she held in her hands. It was a rather dry study of archaic Grecian pottery. She had hoped it would distract her from the gale howling outside and from the uncomfortable feelings that had plagued her throughout the day. But instead, she found herself staring blankly at the pages.

    She knew she would likely not receive word from her father. He was by now on la Isla de Lagrimas, or the Isle of Tears, and would be unable to send word. But she could not shake the feeling that something was not right, and that something had to do with her father.

    Clara shook her head. This was nonsense. She was not some silly little girl who believed in signs or who suffered from weak nerves. The tumult outside had nothing to do with her father or his expedition. She reached for a sparkling glass half-filled with amber liquid and took a quick, nervous sip of the sherry. Perhaps she should be drinking brandy instead.
    Clara looked back down at her book and attempted to read the same sentence for the fifth time. A thunderclap sounded suddenly, and she jumped. She sighed, closed the book, and set it down beside her on the settee. She drained the remainder of her sherry and rose. She would retire. She would probably toss and turn all night, but she was achieving nothing by remaining awake. Mae had already retired, citing a headache.

    She walked into the hall to go up the staircase when a sudden knock sounded on the door. Clara jumped again and turned to stare at the door with apprehension. A second knock sounded, frantic. Clara hurried to the door and flung it wide open. A tall blonde man stood there, soaked and shivering in the cold rain.

    “Charles!” Clara gasped as she took in the sight of her father’s friend and associate. She reached a hand out and drew the man inside the doorway. He peeled out of his overcoat and threw it and his hat onto the hall tree.

    “So sorry about the floor,” he muttered, not meeting Clara’s gaze.

    “Do not worry about that. What are you doing here?” Clara found her heart pounding and some difficulty in keeping her breath even.

    Mae came down the stairs then, a robe thrown over her nightdress. Her blonde and silver hair draped over her shoulder in a braid. “What on earth is going on, Clara? Is everything alright?” She came to a stop at the foot of the stairs and took in the sight of the sopping man and Clara with her wide eyes. “Oh, dear,” she said, a look of dread coming over her face.

    Clara turned back to Charles. “What is wrong, Charles? Please tell me. Is it Father?”

    Charles took Clara’s hand in his damp ones and squeezed tightly. “You need to sit down, Clara.”

  7. Diana in Indiana says:

    I’m 10,123 word into my first NaNoWriMo Romantic Suspense. Jess has been attacked by bad guys and just spent her first night in a safe house.

    Jess swatted her hand on the bedside table searching for the alarm clock. “Please stop,” she whined, still half asleep. Whack! Whack! “Stop it!” She found the clock but it wasn’t ringing. It also said 5:30… in the morning… the very, very early morning.

    She sat up in the bed and looked around. It took her a while to remember where she was. The caterwauling in the next room continued. “Make it stop!”

    A man she didn’t know strolled out of the bathroom. “Good morning Jess. It’s a gonna be a great day. Rise and shine!” He only wore a towel around his hips and was still wet from the shower. “It’s such a good feeling, to know you’re alive, it’s such a happy feeling…” he sang as he wandered into the living room.

    Jess flopped back down on the bed. If she’d had a gun she would have shot him. The strange man kept singing from the other room. There was no way she could possibly sleep through that. She smelled coffee. Coffee was good. Coffee didn’t sing weird happy songs at the top of its lungs at the butt crack of dawn.

    She tossed back the blankets, put her feet on the floor, and followed her nose to the coffee pot. Singing towel man was there and handed her a cup, never missing a beat of his annoying song. She sucked it down and the held the empty cup out to him. “More.”

    “Sure thing Sugar.”

    “No thanks. I like it black.”

    He laughed. “Not a morning person I take it?”

    “Don’t talk to me Singing Towel Man.”

    She kept her eyes closed as she drank. He topped off her cup again when she set it down briefly to lay her head on the counter.

    “You aren’t a bad guy here to kill me are you?”

    “Nope.”

    “Good.”

    “Should I worry about your caffeine intake?”

    “Nope.”

    “Good.”

    “I’m gonna put on some pants.”

    “I’m gonna drink some coffee.”

    Reid walked in the door loaded down with donut boxes. He saw Jess slumped over the counter and Rooster nowhere in sight. “Rooster?”

    “In here staying clear of Dr. Grumpy.”

    “Ahh. Forgot to warn you about that.”

    “I can hear you Towel Man. I’m not deaf.”

    Reid scowled. “Towel Man? Care to explain that?”

    “Nope. How ya doing in there Doc?”

    “Better. I need a donut.”

    Reid sat one of the boxes down next to her cup without speaking to her and walked back to Rooster. “Any issues?”

    Rooster snagged a donut for himself. “Not here. But I was able to ID that vehicle tag. Licensed to a Victor Ramos. I ran him through the database and got a hit. He’s been a very bad boy. Assault, Battery, Extortion, Dealing, you name it. And here’s the really good news. Somehow he always gets a light sentence and is out doing it again in no time.”

    • Diana in Indiana says:

      Had to finish this scene:

      “Someone’s bailing him out and bribing the judges. Any connection to Deisinger?”

      “Nothing obvious but I’m still looking. You remember any physical descriptions of the other guy who was with him?”

      “Not really. It was dark and they were in a hurry. Could have possibly been the guy I roughed up at The Library maybe. I can’t be sure though. Caucasian male, 5’9”, mid-forties, balding.”

      “Not much to go on.”

      “See what else you can find on Ramos. I’m going to take her into her lab today to see what I can dig up there. Cowboy is searching her apartment and car for bugs. Ask Mac to check into the Research Assistant. Social media, bank accounts, you know the drill.”

      Jess walked past them carrying her cup. “I’m taking a shower. You need new friends Reid. This one is way too much… perky.”

      “And now you know why we call him Rooster.”

  8. starlately81 says:

    A “Unicorn”! hahaha I love this guy. It sounds like she’s doing something similar to what I did when I left the military (it wasn’t a happy leave – I had wanted to make a career of it but ended up choosing to leave bc of a series of very unfortunate events) – I chopped my hair off, dyed it BRIGHT non-regulation-red (i’m blonde) and threw away all of my white, black, and sage green socks (& replaced them with only brightly colored, patterned, funky socks) in order to break away from any semblance of what that chapter of my life was like to start anew.

    I feel like she might be at that point. Hmmm. I wonder what happened??

    I’m loving NaNo this year!! Last year I had a grand mal seizure and it threw a wrench in everything, so I didn’t finish. This year I’m right on track and trucking along. Here’s a piece of my WIP (also picking right up where last week’s excerpt left off):

    ——

    “Phew,” Willa said, shaking her head. “Thank God for that.”
    Ellie finished off her peanut butter bagel and sipped on her coffee as she watched her friend shovel through her go-to cure for hangovers.
    Finally stuffed, Willa left her fork on her plate and arched her back to pat her stomach. “Heaven on a plate,” she said, relaxing against the back of the chair. “So this is really it, huh?”
    Ellie just smiled. Preparing for this new adventure had been both exciting and scary. As thrilling as Austin, Texas sounded, starting over in a brand new place – a city, nonetheless – had its own intimidations. She had no friends in Austin and no family within 400 miles.
    “I really didn’t foresee Elliott Poppe moving in with a guy for at least another ten years,” Willa teased, sipping on her lukewarm coffee.
    “What is that supposed to mean?” Ellie laughed.
    “Oh, come on. Your middle name is Goody-Two-Shoes.”
    “Hm. And here I thought my middle name was Day. Well, we balance each other out perfectly then, don’t we?” Ellie quipped back.
    “I can’t believe your mom is fine with it.”
    “I’m freaking 32.”
    “Language,” Willa teased. “Yeah, and this is your mom we’re talking about. You know, the one you won’t call when you’re sick because she starts talking deathbed right off the bat—”
    Ellie sighed. “Actually, my mom doesn’t think it’ll work out for me. She thinks I’ll hate it, or just won’t be any good at it.”
    Willa blinked. “Why would she say something like that? I can see her thinking he’s a serial killer or something.”
    “I don’t know,” Ellie shrugged.
    “She really said she thinks you’ll fail?”
    She shrugged again and swirled the last swig of coffee in the bottom of her mug.
    After an awkward silence, Willa gently slapped the table. “Well, you’re just going to have to prove her wrong, then, aren’t you?”
    “That’s the plan, at least,” Ellie admitted.
    “Elliott Day, when have you ever failed at something you decide you’re going to do?”
    Ellie cocked one eyebrow. “Have you forgotten my monumental failure the first time I went to college?”
    “That doesn’t count, because your heart wasn’t really in it. I mean, come on. Business marketing? You? That’s too ‘cubicle’ for you. I’m talking about things you really want. Like that degree in Early Childhood Education you ended up with.”
    “It counts.”
    “Can you please just take a compliment? Just one? Make it your going away gift. To me.”
    Chuckling, Ellie picked up the check that had appeared on the table at some point while neither was looking. “Careful, Willa. It might go to my head.”
    “No, no-no. Ego is my thing, not yours. You don’t get to take that from me just to shut me up.”
    “I love you, best friend.”
    “I love you, too. To Austin and back. Now give me that check because you’re not buying breakfast on your last morning with me.”
    “No, it’s my treat,” Ellie argued, hiding the check against her chest so Willa couldn’t grab it. “And it’s not technically our last morning because you’re driving out there with me.”
    “It’s our last morning here in Williamsburg.” Willa grabbed it anyway. “You can’t win arguments when I’m hung-over because I’m not afraid to grab your boobs. You know this. Nice try.”

  9. Kiete says:

    Nice idea of that woman, to make Monday a special day of some sorts. Sounds like something a highschooler like me could learn from… Well, I also sort of forgot about the NaNo special, so here’s something very rough that I’ve written this very afternoon (which I believe is like, early morning for the people who live in the US).

    It’s from my fanfiction work RedFang again, which you can read here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10271264/chapters/22748141
    A quick few things to clarify: a “sweep” is roughtly 1.7 years and there are twelve different blood colors, the higher up on the colorspectrum you are, the longer you will live.

    ‘Redglare, my love, can I ask you something?’

    ‘Anything.’

    ‘How old are you?’

    It’s not exactly the question that you expected. ‘Seventeen sweeps. And you?’

    ‘Well, that’s still young. You tealbloods can live up to a hundred and fifty sweeps. About my age, take a guess.’ Aranea starts packing her stuff too. Before she closes the bag, she drops a leather purse with a big round object on the bed. Of course, you’ve heard the stories about her, even before you were on your mission to catch her. Some trolls say that she is centuries old. But that has to be an exaggeration, right?

    ‘Ehm… fifty sweeps?’ you try.

    Mindfang bursts into laughter. ‘Do you really think I’m that old? Hah! No, my dear. Whatever you’ve heard from the back alleys and harbour folk, I am a mere nineteen sweeps. Of course, I could live on until I’m two hundred sweeps old.’

    ‘Then I hope that you do. That we do. Together.’ You smile sweetly.

    After you’ve had a good breakfast, the Marquise requests for a private conversation with Darkleer and you. She grabs the bag you saw her leave out of her backpack. ‘This,’ she says solemnly, ‘- I want you to keep for me. So no one will ever find it again. It is dangerous, evil and very… fickle in nature.’

    Out of the bag she grabs a white orb. With a heavy thud she puts in down on the wooden table. The Expatriate looks at it warily. He reaches out to touch it, but Mindfang slaps his hand away. She has her black silken gloves on, you see. Her lips are a thin line and her expression is nervous. It puts you on edge as well. ‘This artifact has served as my oracle for a long time. I got it from… No, never mind from who. I want it gone from my possession.’

    ‘Might I ask exactly why?’ you inquire.

    The creases between her eyebrows fade for a second as her expression softens. ‘When I had both my eyes, it revealed twisted truths and misinterpreted lies. Now, no one in this room can look into its cruel depths anymore. Like many treasures I acquired, I could sell it for a fortune, but it’s better if it’s kept here.’

    ‘I shall keep it with my own most treasured artworks,’ Darkleer says. You are slightly unnerved by how he could just seemingly vanish while you and Aranea were talking. He picks up the white orb and carefully examines it. ‘If I were to try to break it open-’

    ‘Don’t attempt that. It could turn out badly,’ Mindfang quips sharply. ‘It could explode like a cannon with a gunpowder leak.’

    ‘If you say so… Marquise,’ Horuss says. ‘I hope you have enjoyed your stay here.’

    ‘I have most certainly enjoyed being tied to a table and getting a metal arm implemented into my flesh, yes, very much.’ After a short pause, Mindfang taps with said arm on the table. ‘Though I suppose I have to thank you for it. So, well, thank you for restoring an important part of my body, Expatriate Darkleer.’

    You feel the need to say something too. ‘Yes, thank you for helping my matesprit. And for the comfortable place to stay, as well.’ It sounds a bit forced, but you can’t think of much else.

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Hi, Kiete! I really enjoyed this. You do a good job of depicting this world even though I’m not familiar with it. I want to know if something’s going to happen with that orb 🙂 Thanks so much for posting!

      • Kiete says:

        The answer is yes, but in an unusual way. In Homestuck itself, but not the part I write my fanfic about, the orb ends up with Mindfang’s descentant, who uses it to set one of the biggest plotlines adrift. And eventually it explodes. That’s why Mindfang says “It could explode like a cannon with a gunpowder leak.”. I thought that would be a funny reference.

  10. KC Riley-Gyer says:

    Oh, I love your WIP, Bryn. I so want to read it when it’s finished.

    Here is the bit I wrote yesterday. My writing went downhill after that first day and I’m struggling to get the words out. This is set after the end of my first published novel, Objective: Crimson Empire from 1 of the 4 main characters.

    ~*~

    Sitting at the computer doing a bit of personal online research, I let my mind wander as I glance at the time and note the date.

    It’s been a month since the Orenda won the latest battle to keep her position on the ‘throne’ and a month and a half since Enola agreed to be mine. I’m amazed at how much she has come to mean to me in such a short period of time. She’s shy and beautiful, but not her clothing.

    Oh, don’t get me wrong; there’s nothing wrong with them, per se but they don’t bring out her beauty either. I also know she would never come shopping with me. Not yet, anyway. With our relationship still being new, she needs time to adjust and to fully trust me. I sigh.

    If I could kill her mother, I would do so happily. But the bitch was killed when she set fire to their home; leaving Enola an orphan and a lack of trust in others. I’m still not sure why she trust me even a little bit, but I’ll take what I can get and hopefully make it grow.

    As of the end of this week, she will be quitting her job and leaving the majority of the mortal world behind. She wants to help me with my job which she has been learning about for the past few weeks.

    Interrupting my own thoughts, I pick up the phone and dial a number. On the second ring…

    “Good afternoon, Chic Attire. I’m Amanda, how can I help you?”

    “Good afternoon, Amanda. Will Chic Attire be open at 10:30 tonight?”

    “Tonight? Let me find out. Please hold.”

    “I’ll hold.”

    Her voice became muffled but her heartbeat became louder. She’s obviously placed the phone against her chest. I can’t help smiling at the visual I imagine.

    “Laura, I think I have a vampire on the line.”

    “Oh?”

    Despite the volume being muted, I can still hear them.

    “He’s just asked if we will be open at 10:30 tonight.”

    “She must be a special woman. Yes, we are open tonight. After you hang up, we have preparations to do.”

    The heartbeat disappeared as I grinned at their discussion.

    “You there, sir?”

    “Yes.”

    “Yes, we will be open tonight.”

    “Excellent. See you then.” I hang up.

    Now here’s hoping they have what I saw on their website. But, right at this moment, I have a meeting to attend to.

    • LisaHoffmanWagner says:

      I like the notion of vampires being “out” in the world…makes things interesting for the non-vampire crowd. 🙂
      I can completely empathise with your struggle; hopefully the floodgates will open and words will flow more easily this week. All the best! 🙂

  11. Sherryl Ollamha says:

    This is a short scene from a science fiction novel:

    Ruald stepped through the portal between Earth-side and the Dark Realm slices of the multiverse, and into Dome One proper. Garielle pushed by him from the receiving ring and walked to the vast window that overlooked Sector 7. “I never get tired of this view.”

    He looked out. The Emitter was just starting to illuminate the sector as it captured the light of the Dark Realm’s sun high above the murk of the smoggy atmosphere. The Dome’s evening rains had ended on schedule and below, the foliage gleamed.

    “Harvest in sections 1 through 5 are on schedule.”

    Ruald made a face. He didn’t care, had never really cared about that. He was an engineer, and he’d given up the fun of working infrastructure support to become management because Moira complained about income all the time. He forced himself to stop grinding his teeth.
    Lately, it seemed he couldn’t turn around without finding Garielle or Nyssa close by. Nyssa even dropped by his office with the lunch he’d forgotten at home. Was this Moira’s doing?

    Garielle reached out and hugged him close to her side. “Did you hear about the body that was found in the Fallow Zone?”

    “Yes, I saw it. A human, dead at least a month.”

    “Not an employee then. Tancred thinks he might have been the one behind all the sabotage that’s been going on. I’m not so sure, though. I wonder how Mum’s going to spin it to the newsies.”

    Ruald turned and went to the in-dome transit terminal. He didn’t care about that either. Last night, he’d had a nasty screaming match with Moira. It had started out because he’d allowed Nyssa to move back home, and had ended with Moira raging at him because she couldn’t get into his tablet. He tried to tell her that he couldn’t get into his tablet either, that he had an appointment at the central IT to get his table’s password reset. But the words had choked him and he couldn’t speak at all.

    It didn’t help that Boru had told him that he was a fool for letting her have unfettered access to his funds. ‘She’s bleeding you dry.’

    “Maybe someone murdered him and dumped his body in the zone,” Garielle continued as they emerged in the control block.

    “Maybe.” He didn’t want to think about death; or murder. Connie had offered to kill Moira again. He shivered. If Connie hadn’t been called away…

    Garielle caught his wrist and squeezed gently before heading down the west corridor to maintenance. He wished he was headed to maintenance too. A nice straight-forward repair job would be so restful. He stared after Garielle as she passed around the curve heading towards the control room. Pulling on the sleeves of his jacket and checking to make sure his kilt was hanging right, he headed down the north corridor towards his office.

  12. LisaHoffmanWagner says:

    When I read the line about being a unicorn, I laughed out loud. That’s going to be my older daughter one day…lol I love the fact that she’s a teacher…one of the most under-appreciated vocations EVER in my opinion (and I’d have adored having a teacher like that!). And all the best to everybody who’s participating in NaNo (or just slugging away at a project)!! Cheering in the wings for you!!

    This snippet is from what I was working on at this time last week. It would take too long to explain the back-story, so I’m just posting this as is… General Remusz is the next-highest ranking officer in the Empire after the Imperator General (Aeoulys, the one who was beaten up).

    ——–
    Time stopped for a fraction of a second. Everything was clear and ludicrous at the same time. [Mateus’s] heart screamed and his veins throbbed with the weight of his decision. He stopped just inside the doorway…pulled out the gun…cocked the hammer. He levelled it at Qaelys’s torso, his body shaking. There was no turning back. “I’m here to arrest you for crimes of treason against Sykkhone-Vex-Graeor.”
    The General stopped in his tracks, his back to Mateus. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
    He was barely able to swallow…completely unable to think. He heard himself speaking, but he felt like he was floating somewhere outside of his body. “I’m here to arrest you for treason, General Remusz.”
    Remusz turned around slowly, his arms still at his sides. He bared his teeth as he sighted Garzyk’s pistol. “How DARE you come into my house like this, brandishing a weapon and making ridiculous accusations?”
    His hand trembled, and his breathing became shallow and quick. As if travelling through a tunnel, Mateus couldn’t think of anything outside that sentence: “I’m arresting you for treason.”
    “And where the f*ck are you going to take me, Lieutenant?” The General’s voice was barely more than a feral whisper, and his eyes bored into the younger male with terrifying clarity. He curled his hands into tight fists and took a slow step toward Mateus. “Who’s going to listen to you?”
    “Just…don’t move… I’m…”
    Qaelys tore into him as fast and hard as a cannonball, bashing the pistol out of his hand and slamming him into the protruding corner where hallway met lounge. Mateus cried out as he hit the wall, but he felt nothing outside of intense pressure at his back and a claw-like hand at his throat. A punch to his liver made him double over in blinding agony, and a lightning fist to his jaw sent him sprawling.
    The General stood over him, panting like a wild animal with canines exposed and saliva glistening at the corners of his mouth. Satisfied that the lieutenant was no longer a threat, he retrieved the gun from the ground. He examined it and uncocked the hammer. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he returned to the lieutenant’s crumpled body and dropped the flintlock to the ground. “I don’t know what pisses me off more: that you assumed you had the authority to arrest me, or that you threatened me with an unloaded weapon. Never point a gun at someone unless you’re prepared to kill.”
    “You’re a…traitor…” Even as the adrenaline waned, Mateus couldn’t let go of that singular idea. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to steady his breathing through the nauseating pain in his gut. “You need to answer…for…” He clutched his torso and pressed his face against the stone floor.
    The General’s footsteps receded. The shrill, lingering tone of a sword being unsheathed sent a chill flashing up Mateus’s spine. Qaelys returned to the centre of his living room with sabre in hand, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. “I can take insults to a point, but treachery is a crime punishable by death. If you think I’m guilty, you WILL follow through right here and now.” He unbuttoned a cuff and began rolling up his sleeve. “Get your damned tail off the floor, Garzyk. You started this, and by Oennac’s Black Heart, you’ll bloody well finish it.”

  13. Pamela says:

    Oh, man, am I too late? It’s still Wednesday night!

    This is a scene from the same haunted house story I posted a bit from last week. It’s a flashback, though, to twelve years earlier when the heroine is only eleven. She ends up being rescued from bullies by a boy who’s several years older than her, and gets a mad crush on him. They meet again twelve years later as adults, and voilà, romance. Anyway, this is part of her flashback. (Asterisks for italicks.)

    The moment she turned on to State Street, Mina knew she’d made a terrible mistake.

    It was a Saturday afternoon, the broiling hot day hazy with humidity. Her sandals slapped on the sidewalk and the sun burned the backs of her bare legs as she carried the heavy skyscraper of library books and records toward home. Her arms and shoulders were beginning to ache, and she wished she’d brought the wagon. Usually her two sisters were with her, but they were both home with miserable colds, so she’d made the trip to the library alone.

    Like most summer weekends, Beetown was almost deserted. Everyone was on the lake, or had gone up to Big Bend to go shopping or to see a movie. Others were at home, listening to a baseball game and relaxing. Almost no one bothered with coming downtown, and she’d thought it would be safe to take a short cut.

    It was an awful decision. She stopped and considered turning around, but was afraid that would somehow draw their attention.

    Five older kids, high school students, were loitering in front of the Suds Yer Duds laundromat. Three of them were kids who for some reason took extra pleasure in tormenting and bullying her and her sisters. Mina knew the other two would go along with whatever their friends did.

    She averted her eyes and hunched her shoulders, unconsciously trying to make herself smaller and less noticeable. Stepping up her pace, she crossed to the opposite side of the street, and silently prayed they wouldn’t see her.
    Of course they did see her, though, zeroing in on her scurrying form like a pack of jackals spotting a wounded gazelle. Dread leaked into her stomach as the group crossed the street after her.

    Mina could hear them as they began to follow her, snickering and laughing. She caught bits of their conversation.

    “…one of those ugly fucking Blackbirds…”

    “…creepy sisters…”

    “…the blind one is the worst…”

    “…true they’re witches?…”

    Her face grew hot with shame, her eyes beginning to water. No matter how often she heard the same taunts, it never got easier. It never stopped hurting.

    *I can’t help it if I’m ugly!* she wanted to scream.

    Then she clearly heard the sentence that went beyond merely humiliating her into terrifying her.

    “Let’s stone her!”

    More laughter.

    True fear gripped Mina, and with tears blurring her vision she caught the toe of her sandal on the uneven sidewalk. In what seemed like nightmare slow-motion, she pitched forward. Reflexively, she threw her hands out to catch herself, and her stack of books went sailing through the air, tumbling out into the street. Her palms and knees smacked hard onto the burning concrete, pain lancing into her flesh.

    A raucous burst of hateful laughter chorused behind her, and then she felt something crack into her shoulder blade, knocking her onto her elbows. A rock bounced and skittered down the sidewalk.

    One of the girls clapped with glee.

    Mina’s vision darkened around the edges.

    *Mina, what’s happening?*

    *Mina?*

    Her sisters’ voices spoke inside her mind, but she ignored them. Humiliation raced through her blood, mixing dangerously with something new she’d never felt before: rage.

    A shadow fell across her, and she looked up, ready to lash out.

  14. Jessie Van Rooyen says:

    Hey Bryn! I so enjoy your blog, and I love WIP Wednesdays! I am trying to participate in NaNoWriMo this year, which in all honesty will probably turn into a November, December, January writing month, but ce la vie!

    I’m in Canada, on the West coast, so I know my post might technically be on Thursday for all you East-coasters, but all in the name of participation hey?

    I’ve got a short excerpt from one of the many novels that I have going; this one is about a princess, who is considered ugly, and terribly unlucky by her kingdom.

    The first time I was told I was the ugly Princess, I was five. Our nurse, Hildy, and my sisters were all occupied with their various hobbies. Elena, was practicing scales on her flute, Caitlin was lying on the floor, brown hair splayed like a fan, drawing her pet bird; it was a small Blue Fetter, who still sang blissfully behind the thin iron caging. Amis was twirling around the room with her dolls, yellow curls bouncing.

    I had been staring out of the window at the same view of the meadow hemmed in by the Bandicoot Woods. The same green expanse that had felt so big only a week before, now felt small and monotonous. Yes, there was the same old Bleeding Maple, rooted just outside the dense forest. I felt akin to the Bleeding Maple in those days – especially during the fall months when, for a brief season, the leaves would be blood red. I would imagine I was that tree, the leaves were my hair and I had grown tall enough to peek over the surrounding mountains. But the fall months were nearly over and the Maple’s leaves had turned brown, shrivelling into themselves, and creating an ashy circle on the ground. I sat with my chin in my little five-year-old hands, wishing I could see the castle garden, Hildy had told me earlier that she had seen a little bird family of grey and white Strills there.

    My eyes slipped from their focus on the Bleeding Maple and I caught my reflection in the glass. Two green eyes, like the Angel’s Pillow moss, lined with white lashes, a short round nose, wide mouth with thin lips and the spots; specks so orange and so plentiful that they almost blotted out my pale skin.

    I curled my red hair around my pinky finger and flipped absently through a book on bird’s native to our region of Aeron. Hildy had suggested it to me on our last trip to the library because she thought I would enjoy the illustrations. But it was the knowledge that the castle was only one corner of Aeron, one corner of the world that fascinated me. The birds, frozen in the stiff pages were my secret messengers; they carried the sweet air of distant places between their feathers, and I wanted to breathe it all in, the dusty pages were not enough.

    I glanced around the nursery, wishing for a hidden door to the outside world. Elena told Hildy that she wanted to practice violin and left the nursery to grab it. Hildy was distracted by Amis, who insisted that she watch her performance, and Hildy did not see that the nursery door was open. I thanked the Maker silently for granting my wish and left, the book of birds tucked under my arm.

    The halls were quiet near the Royal rooms, and I found the gardens without encountering anyone. I crawled in between some perfectly trimmed hedges, pulling my skirt on the branches, lay down in the cold dirt, and opened my book. From my vantage point I could actually see the birds, and my heart beat faster.

    There was indeed a family of grey and white Strills, just like Hildy had said. I was captivated, watching the mother hop back and forth, her beak full of wriggling bugs that she stuffed down the throats of her three big mouthed babies. They waved their featherless flabs uselessly as they cried for food. Given enough time they would look as elegant graceful as their mother, and leave the comfort of their nest, and the curtain of leaves that shrouded them from the outside world. A cursory glance around me revealed a few Red Crested Jeers digging for worms a couple of bushes down. Just when I thought I had spotted a wild Blue Fetter I was interrupted by an object that hit me in the side.

  15. thathistoryteacher says:

    Squeaking in under the wire. Two people who never thought they’d see each other again reunite.

    ***
    Everyone else chatted, passing food, the typical breakfast conversation. I sat quietly. First Florencia, then Diego and Joana, tried to pull me into the conversation but my replies were monosyllabic and after a couple minutes they left me alone. They probably saw the fatigue on my face. I certainly felt it.

    “Who’s the empty chair for?” Joana asked just as Miguel walked in.

    Because she was speaking, he looked at her first—and then he stopped, as if he’d been flash-frozen. He blanched, his suddenly-dark eyes wide and his mouth agape. Tears of hope and horror filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.
    “Joana?” he quavered in the most gutted voice I had ever heard a man use.

    “Miguel?”

    I wrenched my eyes off him and looked to her. Joana breathed as if she’d sprinted several kilometers, her face as pale and horror-stricken, her eyes as dark as Miguel’s. She grabbed hold of the edge of the table, which splintered and broke in her grip.

    “Oh my God,” he breathed, and suddenly, as if they had both levitated, they’d surmounted the obstacle of the table, embracing tightly, both of them crying. The rest of the group broke apart in confusion, chairs pushed back, babbling at the tops of their lungs.

    I wanted to put my hands over my ears. Block out the sound. Run away from all this. My heart labored, my ears pounded, and my vision swam.

    I pushed away from the table, bolted to my feet, and left out the back, my steps as uneven as if I’d been drunk. I made it outside and a few meters into the rainforest before I bent double and threw up everything I’d eaten. I could not block out his expression, simultaneously devastated and glorious, as he’d seen her. That—that was love. I had absolutely no doubt about it.

    As I swiped my hand across the back of my mouth, Diego approached. He wore the most perturbed expression. “Lisette? Are you all right?”

    “No,” I muttered weakly, wiping my hand on my pants. “Not really.”

    He frowned at the pile of vomit, then took me by the arms and moved me aside. “What is going on with you?”

    “Don’t you care?” I hurled my words at him, my mouth running on without the rest of me. Or maybe it was I who no longer cared. “You can sleep around all you want, and I’m sure you let your wife do the same, but doesn’t it bother you when she loves someone else?”

    Diego blinked. “You love him?”

    “Yes,” I croaked, sagging against Diego, careful to keep my mouth away from him. He wrapped an arm around me, holding me upright.

    I wanted to die. Nothing could be worse than this. Except perhaps returning to the central building, to watch them cry on each other some more.

    “Lisette.” Diego’s voice. “He’s her brother.”

  18. Carol Schoenig says:

    He was distracted and not paying attention to the windy, black road that glistened. As he came around the bend, a little too sharp he remembered Black ice. At that moment his car spun out of control and ran through a fence and into a ditch. The air bag deployed. But Eric had hit his head on the side window. He felt as though he were floating. He saw Madeline stunningly beautiful in her white dress and six foot long lace trail behind her. She stood next to him he had pledged his love to her. But instead of being happy she suddenly sneered at him, her face had turned cruel I loath you I would never marry you. She jerked her hand away and ran down the white carpet and out the double doors. This is revenge for destroying my father. You and your casinos. Revenge is mine now you know how much it hurts to lose everything.
    Eric felt cold his head hurt. Something felt like it was sitting on his chest. He moaned and raised his hand to his mouth and felt a cold sticky substance. Blood registered as he licked his lips.

    His eyes fluttered open and he looked around him in a haze. It was coming back to him. Six years ago he stood in a chapel pledging his love to Madeline who had only been out for revenge. He was long past her,he didn’t even understand why he thought of her. Must be the conk on the head. Daylight was coming to an end and he better get help. He had no clue where he was. He released his seatbelt and tried to open the door but it was stuck. He gave it another shove and yelled out in pain. His ribs hurt. It hurt to breath. He managed to reach over and grab his coat and scarf which were lying on the front seat. As he stood up everything was going in a circle. He would use his scarf to tie his arm to his side where his ribs hurt. He could only put one arm in a coat sleeve and draped it over his back. And took a step.
    It was slow going, but he saw the a light in the cabin ahead. He had to keep walking.

    Just a few more steps and he would reach the door. He made it he pushed the doorbell and then slid to the ground unconscious from the pain.

    Jillian thought she heard a door bell. But she didn’t see anyone. She saw footprints on the lawn. She opened the door and at her feet was a man crumpled up with his coat half on and half off. What the heck no one comes out this way. It is one of the reasons she likes to come to the cabin in the woods. It’s secluded and she wanted to be alone with her thoughts.

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