Hi, talented writers! Welcome to the last WIP Wednesday of 2019! Some of you did NaNoWriMo, so I know you have new work to share!
For the uninitiated, WIP Wednesday is where I share a little bit of work in progress and invite you to share an excerpt of your own work in the comments section. Here are the rules! If you’re a regular around these parts, you can skip them.
– 500 words or less! (So blog visitors have time to read more of them.)
– Don’t worry if it’s rough! That’s the “in progress” part.
– No R-rated material! Coarse language is fine.
– No linking to work for sale, but feel free to link to a website where more of your work in progress is available.
– We don’t critique or make suggestions—this is just for sharing. However, encouraging words are much appreciated.
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Okay! I am more excited than I have been in a while about WIP Wednesday, because I am writing the first draft of The Requiem Moon (the third book in my Knights of Manus Sancti series). I’m writing longhand in a notebook, and it is roaring along and it’s so much fun.
Big spoilers follow…
In this scene near the beginning, they’ve located Sophie Karakov, who went missing from Manus Sancti years before after Nic accidentally killed her cousin Simon.
Jen asked, “Why couldn’t we find her before?”
Andre tapped the screen again and it pulled out to a map of the world, crisscrossed with red lines.
“As we guessed, Sophie used anti-rec glasses, so we couldn’t find her on any surveillance footage. Presumably, she removed or abraded the skin with the tattoo when she was still in her apartment in London.” Nic, Jonathan, and Jen cringed in unison.
“She goes straight to Tilbury and she’s on a cargo ship before we know she’s gone. She bounces around to all kinds of different ports, never staying in one place for too long. Rotterdam, Papeete and Noumea, Sydney and Melbourne…for more than two months, she’s all over the place.”
“Clever,” Jen said, and Nic had to agree. They would’ve been watching the airports and train stations more carefully than the ports, and after a couple of months, the Diviners would’ve lost focus.
“Finally she winds up in Savannah, Georgia, and takes an Amtrak from there to Galesburg, Illinois—small town with a college. Leases an apartment, pays one year’s rent up front in cash. Works as a part-time waitress at a bar and grill, paid under the table, but most of that job is tips, anyway.”
Jonathan shook his head, his mouth open. No doubt he was struggling to imagine his sophisticated ex-girlfriend serving beer and pizza to college students and retirees.
“After the year is up, she moves to Chicago, apparently sees a job opening she likes at the museum, and creates another identity for herself and gets the position. She’s still wearing the glasses every day, and a wig. She really didn’t want to be found.”
Hadiza leaned forward. “When Jonathan Read Ezra two weeks ago, the Tribunal already knew she was in Chicago,” she said. Ezra was now a Tribunal prisoner in El Dédalo—a ridiculously well-treated one, in Nic’s opinion. “We don’t know how they’re getting all their information, but we assume they’ll track her down soon, if they haven’t already. A Manus Sancti psychometrist in the hands of the Tribunal would be a very dangerous thing. The spell they used before, using a stolen object to spy on us—they could do it again.” She looked at Jonathan. “And by all accounts, Sophie was angry and disillusioned when she left.”
“It’s true,” Jonathan said. “I don’t think she’d ever give them information that would hurt us…but maybe I never really knew her in the first place.”
“Her willingness or unwillingness might be beside the point,” Hadiza said. “Whoever the new Tribunal is, they’re just as willing to interrogate.” They’d gouged out Lucia Dimitriou’s eye, and more recently, had come very close to cutting one of Michael’s balls off.
Nic felt ill. Sophie had run away because of the anguish he’d caused her. If that led her to being tortured…
He looked to Jonathan. “You’ll find her first,” he said in a low tone. He had to.
“No,” Capitán said, looking at Nic. “You will.”
Please share some of your work below—we’d love to read it! Thanks for stopping by, and happy writing!
Hi Bryn,
I have finally gotten back to my WIP writing a few words here and there along with a couple of flash Fiction pieces for my writing class. In my WIP writing I have been working on the climax and resolution in the hope that it will somehow give me some ideas to use in the earlier parts of the story.
In my ending my MC has basically given up her effort to convince the public and government of the dangers the lack of digital privacy has on our democracy. This was brought home to her when the antagonist who benefits most from the control of people through digital surveillance is elected president after which she flees to Europe.
Hi, Bob! You know, I love it that you realize the value of a great crisis point. It sounds like you’re approaching this in such a smart way. Good luck with the story!
YASS. I know I always say this, but I can’t wait! I’ve gotten so attached to your characters in this series. 🙂
My piece is from a different WIP than my last few. It’s part of a paranormal romance set in a fictionalized version of a town that actually existed. This is the opening scene, starring the antagonists. This scene takes place in the summer of 1880, in Canyon Diablo, AZ.
***
The cave was located deep inside the canyon. In the flickering candlelight that illuminated the room, Alice watched the young woman chained to the wall. Ignoring her pleas, she plucked a hand-rolled cigarette from between her breasts, struck a match on the rusted iron doorjamb, and then leaned against it, drawing the sweet tobacco smoke into her lungs.
The woman’s name was Lorna Cross. Lorna had come to Diablo from Tucson just over a year ago. She was pretty and had plenty of curves in all the right places. She even had all of her teeth. When Lorna had shown up at Alice’s brothel, she’d taken her in immediately, knowing good income potential when she saw it.
Unfortunately, He had taken a shine to the girl, too, and once He demanded a sacrifice, that was that.
At first, Alice had been crushed by remorse every time she brought Him a new plaything, but she feared she was getting used to it.
Lorna yanked at her chains. She still wore her dress. He preferred it that way, as he enjoyed peeling the garment off of them before he started peeling off their skin.
“Alice, please let me go!”
“Relax. It will be over soon,” Alice said.
It wouldn’t *really* be over soon, but why scare the girl more than necessary?
A low growl emanated from the darkest corner of the cave. Lorna froze, her green eyes wide with terror. “What the fuck was that!”
“Just another customer,” Alice replied. Her stomach turned over and she swallowed the thick bile of guilt that ran quickly up her throat and threatened to choke her.
Movement, a darker shadow in the blackness, and then He stepped forward into the candlelight. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and at first glance, handsome (although Alice knew that in a few short minutes, he wasn’t going to look handsome at all).
When Lorna recognized him, hope and relief blossomed in her eyes. “Oh thank God! Please get me out of here! Alice has done gone crazy!”
His eyes were fixed on Lorna, but he spoke to Alice. “Thank you.”
He might be evil incarnate, but at least he’s got good manners. “She was one of my best girls. Gonna cost me money.”
His eyes shifted briefly to Alice, and a razor thin line of terror zipped down her spine.
“Your *income* will not suffer,” he said.
“I gotta get back,” Alice said, her insides shriveling under his gaze.
Lorna groaned, sobbing when she realized she wasn’t about to be rescued after all, and began
fighting the chains with renewed desperation.
He tossed a bag at Alice’s feet. She snatched it up, the heft of it mitigating her fear and remorse.
“Thank you,” she breathed, clutching the gold to her chest, but He had already turned his attention back to Lorna.
She turned her back on them and stepped out of the walled-off cave, closing the door firmly behind her. The clang of the heavy iron was a note of terrible finality. A moment later, she heard Lorna’s needle-sharp scream.
This third book will be a LOT faster than the second one, I’ll say that much! You’re so nice. Did I know that you’d worked on a historical project?? Maybe I did and I forgot. It’s great. I love “needle-sharp scream,” AHHH that’s so good!
Hi Pam, What a great sense of menace!
The gentle whir came to an end, as did her once dream career. She stretched her arms as best she could within the seventeen inches she had and opened her eyes for the first time in hours.
“Disarm, crosscheck, and all call,” came those familiar closing words though the cabin PA.
Zoey stood up, opened the overhead bin, and slung her black extra-small North Face duffle bag over her shoulder, then deplaned with her default vacant gaze, trudging through the all too familiar terminal.
At 33, her lanky and girlish and Korean features emphasized her teenage look even more than her lack of make-up and the casual American Giant sweatshirt, her Nike running pants, and Adidas Sambas.
Not even the black coffee she bought after stopping off at the Dunkin’ was working to snap her out of her funk. But even antipsychotic medications had not been able to do that, yet. If anything, they were contributing to her feeling of spaciness. Even with her long nap, she felt drained and lifeless.
It was six in the morning on a cold fall Sunday. Being a Catholic American girl who, growing up took great joy in both Sunday’s Mass, the scent and taste of big breakfasts of waffles and kielbasa that followed, and watching football all afternoon, she wanted to do none of the above. She needed some alternate form of recovery…something more potent.
She was in no rush this morning, spending most of her mental energy trying to process everything. Letting out a sigh and giving a shrug of surrender, she took out her phone and speed-dialed the van service for her pickup. Sipping ever so slowly from her large coffee she was uncertain what the purpose of everything thus far was.
After twenty minutes that passed like a second, the white van showed up and a kind old man who looked like he should have retired a decade ago got out and approached her for her bags. She was the van’s only passenger on this trip. The driver tried to make conversation but could tell she wasn’t looking for it and let her be.
As the van set out, Zoey’s blank stare evaporated, and her eyes darted around the scenery outside with attentive curiosity. A brand-new Mercedes broken-down midway through the Sumner. Ventilation fans turning in the O’Neil. A LifeFlight helicopter on its way to Mass General. Steam rising from the rooftops of buildings out over on the Charlestown and Somerville sides, after they crossed the Zakim.
As a kid, she liked to watch gameshows on TV. In her mind, she likened her 1/3-complete life to a losing spin on Wheel of Fortune: she had a bit banked up, took a spin, and then landed on Bankrupt. She had to start from scratch with nothing and almost no one. It had all been taken from her.
As the van crossed the Massachusetts and New Hampshire border, she started to think: What now?
And then it occurred to her: she had a blank slate now and could start anew. Her eleven years in espionage was a chapter closed.
Great mood in this piece, Chris. Makes me wonder what’s next. Couldn’t be more espionage?
Hi, Chris! Oh, I love the first sentence, and what a great place to begin a story. Thanks for sharing!
Well, this is my first time participating in WIP Wednesday. Neat idea. Thanks.
This excerpt is from my middle-grade adventure novel. In this scene, 3 siblings are attempting to rescue a childhood security blanket from a creepy gas attendant on a desolate planet:
***
Returning to the surface of Gas-Co, Teddy spotted a small clearing surrounded by tall trees. It would provide just enough cover for them to park and then plot Blankey’s rescue. Gripping the Atari docking hand control, he landed the ship softly in a pile of swirling dust.
The children climbed out of the access hatch and inched their way through the underbrush. They headed for the treeline to get a better view. Crouching low near the edge of the bush and peeking through its branches, they spied Mustache-man, now also known as Creeper.
Creeper was lounging in a tattered lawn chair near the front door of the gas station. A bandana covered his nose, fluttering in the dusty wind. It looked soft and green.
“Blankey!” Jennie seethed. She gave him her hottest stink-eye, hoping he could feel her angry laser-beams from across the lot.
Jennie stood in a huff. She formed boxer fists close to her chest and hopped from side to side. Jab, jab. Shuffle, shuffle. No more tears. Jennie felt energized and ready to fight for Blankey. She had transformed into a lean, mean, punching machine.
“Jennie, sit down! He’ll see you,” Benjamin said.
She growled and plunked back down. She crossed her arms with fury.
Benjamin picked up a stick and drew a diagram in the dirt near his feet. “Okay, here’s the plan: I’m going to distract Creeper; Teddy is going to find a way to retrieve the bandan—I mean, Blankey – from our unsuspecting thief; and Jennie is going to wait in the ship.”
“WHAT?” Jennie jumped to her feet in protest, but Benjamin yanked her back down.
“Jennie, you’ll need to keep the engine running and ready to go. Once we’ve secured Blankey, we’ll need a quick escape. Can you handle that?”
“No fair! I want a better part,” Jennie grumbled. “Seriously, Benjamin. Like, I can fight too. I’m not a little girl. I’m strong.” She held up her teeny muscles to prove it.
Benjamin somehow managed to keep a straight face. “Jennie, each part of this rescue mission is extremely important. We need you to do this.”
Then he stood up straight, jammed his heels together and pulled his hand to his brow in salute. “Can we count on you, Soldier Jennie?”
“Yes, sir. Benjamin, sir!” She hustled back to the safety of the ship.
The boys faced one another, resolute.
“And now,” Benjamin said, “we prepare for battle.”
Pulling out a pocket mirror and comb, Benjamin brushed the dirt out of his hair and fixed his side part. He did some leg stretches and side-bends to loosen up.
Close by, Teddy straightened the collar of his shirt. He checked his fly and tightened the Velcro on his Converse boarding shoes. He scooped some dry dirt with one hand and spit into his other hand, then mixed them together to form mud. Using his fingers, Teddy painted mud camouflage across his face.
They were ready.
Sara, your humor is great. Characters are well drawn..
Aw, thanks.
I love this whole snippet! I love every little thing about it from the simple innocence of their mission to their comradery. I like the added challenge of them having to steal the blanket off his face. I’m totally rooting for their success! 😀
Thanks! That’s encouraging to hear. I’d like to publish this novel at some point, but you know how doubts can creep in. Good to know it’s as cute as I hoped it would be. 🙂
You’re very welcome!
I feel the same way about my ongoing WIP. I love the story and characters and I want to release it out into the whole wide world at some point. But reading over all that’s involved in being traditionally published and the odds of actually getting published…It’s a little intimidating. Yet, it’s still something I want to eventually do.
Hi, Sara Jane! Oh yay, welcome to WIP Wednesday! We almost never get people working on MG projects. This was so lively and fun. Thanks for posting! I hope we see more.
Great excerpt , Brynn! I like how you included information about their technology and the stakes involved in finding/not finding her. Very well done!
This is from my NaNoWriMo 2019 story. James is the seven-year-old son to the Farlington’s butler. May Rose is the Farlington’s seven-year-old daughter. They’ve been best friends, but, of course, that can’t last because of society and class expectations.
*****
James yawned and stretched his arms.
Should I have followed May Rose to check on her father? No. It would have been inappropriate. I would have felt quite out of place. Still. Was it wrong for me to—
His bedroom door banged open.
He jolted up into a sit. “May Rose! I—-”
She marched over to him. “It isn’t fair!” She pounded her fists on his bed.
He drew his knees up in alarm. “May Rose, I do—”
“I hate being a Farlington! It’s horrible. It’s rotten. It’s unfair! Why can’t I be just another servant’s child?”
“May Rose, please! I do not—-”
“And just so you know—” She pounded her fists on the bed again.
He edged out of her punching range. “May—”
“Parents are the worst!” She bashed the mattress one more time and kicked the bed, further alarming James, before flinging herself on it. She lay there like a dead body.
James stared at her, unsure as what he ought to do. “May Rose?” He hesitantly reached towards her.
She popped her head up.
He pulled his hand back.
“They want me to become a proper lady. James, I’m only seven years old. Why should I become a proper lady now? Why can’t it wait until I’m a great deal older?”
“How much older?”
“I don’t know.” She laid her head back down. “Sixteen years old? Twenty years old? You know, old.”
He gave it strong consideration. “It seems to me that would be far too old for such lessons.”
“Ugh! I thought you’d agree with me, but you’re agreeing with them.” May Rose reached over to slap him, but he was out of her reach. She let her hand flop to the mattress. She went back to playing dead.
James carefully lowered his knees. He hoped that she wouldn’t grab his ankles.
She huffed out a breath. “They want me to stop being your friend.”
He stiffened. “Does my father agree with them?”
“I don’t know, but isn’t it his job to agree with them?”
James didn’t respond.
“What if he does?” She sat up. “James? What if your father does agree with them? What will you do?”
“I.”
She frowned. “What would you do?”
Could I defy my father and keep her friendship? Is that something I am willing to do?
“I do not know, May Rose.”
I love the tension between these friends. The scene is full of emotion. Love it.
Thank you so much! I really enjoyed writing this scene. As soon as I wrote it, I thought, “I’m going to totally share this on WIP Wednesday.’ 😀
Hey, thanks so much for the kind words! I love the snappy dialogue here and how he’s alarmed by her tirade. Just a great dynamic. I really enjoyed it!
Thank you so much! I love showing the differences in their temperaments. It’s just a very fun dynamic to explore. 😀
I was going to share an out of story moment with Hank and Dave, but it insisted on running too long. The best I could cut it back to was 691 words. ;(
So, I decided to share this moment instead. Small background info: Clarice is my FMC’s mother and John is my secondary FMC’s father. They’re both lost their spouses. She lost hers to a car accident. He lost his to some form of cancer. Clarice and John wound up meeting each other and decided to give dating a try again.
*****
Clarice gave John an appraising look. “You’re wearing a tux.”
“Sorry. I went into a bit of a panic and couldn’t decide what to wear. Then I saw my tux from last night and—” John shrugged. “—-I figured why not? It isn’t something I can wear every day or to church on Sunday morning. It’s an exclusively special occasion kind of suit. And this is a very special occasion.”
“Well! I am sure glad you went with it.”
“It doesn’t look too wrinkled?” He self-consciously patted down the black jacket. “I did iron it as best as I could.”
Clarice gasped softly.
Oh, this poor precious heart! I want to protect him with all my might.
She put her hands on top of his hands. “It looks wonderful.” She smiled. “And so do you, John.”
“Say my name again.”
“John.’
He leaned forward and kissed her.
She lost herself in the bliss and joy and peace of his kiss. It was like they were completely alone. They could have been any couple. They could have been anyone. Anywhere. Any place. Any time.
They could have been standing on the top of the moon – feet on the ground, heads high in the darkened sky.
John ended the kiss and they opened their eyes at the same time.
“I’m so glad you came.” she said warmly.
“So am I.”
Little by little, their surroundings reappeared – tables and chairs, friends and relatives, talking and laughter.
The five women sitting at her table.
Clarice smiled. “I guess I need to do some introductions. I don’t want my dearest friends and relatives to think that I’ve grown wild stuff in my greatly advanced years.”
“Greatly advanced?” John shook his head. “Not at all. You’re so young hearted. You’re amazing.”
Clarice imagined him raising Barbara all on his own.
Doing all of the house chores.
Making sure Barbara was adequately dressed and fed.
Making sure she got to school on time and was picked up on time.
Teaching and guiding her throughout her life.
Ironing his tuxedo to make it look presentable.
“I’m not as amazing as you are, John, and that’s a fact. So, don’t go disputing it.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “I won’t.”
Aww, this was cute!!
Thank you so much! 😀
Awww! You are so good with those warm and squishy scenes. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you so much! I enjoy writing these scenes, especially with these two getting a second chance at love. It makes me happy. 😀
What fun! I haven’t done this before, but here it is. From my cozy mystery WIP. This is an exchange between my MC, Jo, and the new police chief in town, who has pegged Jo’s mother as the prime suspect in a small town murder:
“You plan on eating your dinner at home,” he asked, motioning toward the box.
“If you must know, this is for my parents. Since my mother’s arm is in a sling, it’s hard for her to cook, among other things,” Jo said, crossing her arms.
He crumpled up a napkin and tossed it onto the empty plate. “Her fingerprints were all over the box, you know?”
“Of course, they were! So were mine and probably a dozen others. Anyone who wanted a muffin would have to open the box to get one. That’s how boxes work!” Jo walked over to his table and placed her hands on the edge of it. “You know what I think?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” he said with an air of annoyance.
“I think you can rule out anyone whose prints are on the box. The real murderer certainly wore gloves and their prints won’t be on the box. It’s actually quite clever. While you have to work through the multiple prints on the box, the real murderer gets away.”
Chief Hansen leaned back in his chair. “This assumption based on what? Your obsession with mysteries?” he nodded toward the bookshelves.
Jo parked herself in Riley’s chair, so she could be eye level with him. “First of all, I don’t have an obsession. I happen to enjoy reading and mysteries are my favorite genre.” Swiping a few crumbs off the table, she added in an undertone,”not that you’d understand.”
“Mhmmm…what’s the second thing?”
“What second thing?”
“You said ‘first of all.’ That usually implies, you have more than one thing to say.”
When Jo flustered, Chief Hansen cracked a smile. Oh no. There was no way he was leaving with the upper hand. Leaning in closer, Jo carried on. “That’s not the point. The point is, you should check out Ralph’s son. The two of them didn’t get along and Mr. Hermann planned on writing Albert out of his will.”
“Albert has a solid alibi, as do you…so, you’re off the hook.”
“Well! I’m certainly thankful for that, but you can’t possibly still think my mother is capable of murder,” Jo whined.
“I don’t know your mother and I’ve met some angry people in this world who don’t look like criminals on the outside. Plus, the doctors have said, even with one hand, someone could be capable of choking Ralph Hermann in that manner.”
“Oh,” Jo growled. She picked up the empty plates from the table and stacked them in the wash bin. She was about to start in on it again when Chief Hansen brought his mug over, but he took charge of the conversation.
“Listen. It’s early in the investigation and we have a lot of ground to cover. Trust me when I say, I’m very thorough. I’m going to cover all my bases before anyone is arrested. Okay?”
Great job giving each character very distinct personalities in this little piece!
Thank you so much nstarleighwrites!
Michal! Welcome to WIP Wednesday. 🙂 This feels so real, and I agree with Nicole about the personalities being so clear. Thanks for posting it!
Thank you! It’s hard to put myself out there, but you’ve created a supportive and warm environment and I appreciate the encouraging words 🙂
Hi Bryn! Hi, everyone! Great excerpt!
After winning NaNoWriMo last week, I am outlining another contemporary fantasy at my agent’s suggestion. It’s about a Santa Cruz teenager who discovers she’s part selkie (a seal shifter) when she saves a classmate from drowning. I went to college in Santa Cruz and it’s one of my favorite places, so I am looking forward to bringing that quirkiness and oceanic beauty to life. Here’s a beginning I’ve been playing around with.
The storms always followed when Aunt Ro came to town. It didn’t matter if it was the middle of June, not normally a time for rain or clouds, when Ro visited, the waves churned up like a pot boiling over and the clouds dipped close, heavy and gray. “It’s like the sea saw her and got angry,” I always told my dad.
Much later I would change this to, “Maybe it was angry to lose her.” All I knew was, the surfers ought to be grateful to my dear Aunt Ro, the waves shot up so high.
Ro came after the full moon, always. I know because that’s when my period started, too, yay me. Always the full moon on the dot.
Luckily, if Ro was in town she’d take me to Baskin-Robbins, and didn’t that make me feel better, although nervous, too. You see, Aunt Ro had this big old fur coat she was always wearing, in any kind of weather, and I was worried some hippie might come throw paint on her, it being Santa Cruz and all.
“Aunt Ro, why don’t you leave your coat in the car?” I’d suggest. “You don’t want to spill ice cream on it.”
“In the car? Avery, child, I’d fear it’d get stolen!”
“Uh huh.” I stared at the coat. It was mottled gray, wrinkled in spots like one of those dogs, and had definitely seen better days.
“Besides,” Ro continued. “You know that coat is like my second skin. And my dear, you must not ever lose your skin.”
I love your humor, Kimberly.
Thank you so much!
This is lovely! My kids and I LOVE the movie Song of the Sea. Your imagery is mesmerizing. Takes me back to Santa Cruz <3 (I lived in Monterey for a bit.)
Thanks! I haven’t been back to Santa Cruz in years. Hopefully I can still bring it to life for my readers.
Hi, Kimberly! What a fun project! I loooove selkies and that truly is a beautiful setting. How awesome. Thanks for posting it!
Faye felt a change in the air.
She didn’t know what it was at first, then she felt it on her skin. It had gotten humid, the dampness and the cooling air creating a mist over the water. She looked down at the moat, then up at the castle’s front wall, and immediately regretted it.
A swooping sensation in her belly told her that she was going to have a hard time with her fear of heights.
Man. Faye hated feeling like this.
It tended to happen when she was around very tall buildings, or even when she looked straight up at the sky. She felt it very little when she was in London. But most of the buildings she was around weren’t exactly skyscrapers.
Taking a shaky breath, Faye wobbled on her feet, and took a tentative step towards the castle. And another. She remembered to breathe again. And felt less stressed. Once she was closer to the place where the bridge met with the castle entrance, she relaxed more. Felt more stable.
Actually, she definitely was more relaxed than the last time she drove over a bridge. And really, she did feel like she was in control again. And remembered that things just went better when she was more relaxed.
So she decided to hunt for a place to meditate.
That would be even better. So she decided to do the tour of the castle, so she could find the best place to hide and meditate in privacy.
Anyway, maybe interesting things tended to happen when she was calm and relaxed. Wasn’t that when she first saw the fairy, back in London that morning?
Interesting problem, Heather. Wonder what she is going to run into in her quest for meditation place.
Hi, Heather! Thanks for sharing. I really like how we feel Faye’s emotions physically here. Really nice!
I let out a long breath then with what I hoped sounded friendly I called, “Come in.”
The door opened. She stood there for a moment, tall, slim, she wore a little straw hat with a strawberry pink ribbon that almost matched her purse.
Her face was flushed and shiny from the cloying humidity. She had defined cheek bones, not sharp and pointed but kinda rounded like the top of a rosy red apple. Her almond shape nut-brown eyes quickly scanned the room and took in everything at a glance. Her nose was as cute as a berry and she wore cherry red lipstick. It was a face that reminded me of a bowl of fruit I once knew. I wondered what it would taste like with a dollop of cream.
She wore a cotton summer dress with a blue floral print affair going on and it clung to all the places it should. By the way she held herself I figured her for a dancer or model or something from one of the reviews on 42nd Street. She was a looker and she knew it. Movie star beautiful. Maybe not Warner Brothers but definitely good enough for R.K.O. She had on flat pump shoes. She must have walked here.
“Mister Brennan?” She asked stepping into the office.
“Depends who’s asking.” I said giving her my best William Holden. She offered me her hand. I took it. “Connie, Connie Labarde.” She said. And I’m Arnie Krankengurgle, I thought. “What can I do for you, Miss Labarde?” Her hand felt soft, delicate, cool. I gave it back before I broke it. I pointed to a chair on the opposite side of my desk and invited her to sit down. She sat. I kissed goodbye to the cold beer and pastrami sandwich.
After a moment she plucked up the courage to speak again. “What are you like at finding people?”
“It all depends on how anxious they are to be found.” I said. “Someone flown the coup? Husband skipped town?”
“No, nothing like that. Well not exactly. I share an apartment with a girlfriend and she’s disappeared. We work together too. We tread the boards at The Chesney. The place is a fleapit but the show’s not bad if you ever fancy a night out.”
“I’ll give it some thought.” I said.
She opened her purse pulled out a photograph and handed it to me across the desk. As I took it her fingers brushed mine for the briefest of seconds. They gave out an electric current that reached all the way to the pocket I usually reserved for small change.
“This is Blanche, Blanche Steiger.” She had a way of saying first names twice that was kind of endearing.
“So, she’s wandered off?” I said. I studied the photograph. It was a snapshot showing a girl of about twenty. It had been taken at Coney Island, you could just make out the rides in the background of the picture. She wore a spotted blouse that was rolled up and knotted so it showed her bare midriff. She was holding an ice cream and was laughing at the person pointing the camera.
“She wouldn’t have gone anywhere without telling me. Not just like that.” She delved into her purse some more. “I have this picture too, it’s more recent.” She passed across another snap. This one was a studio shot with the photographer’s idea of Hollywood lighting.
Blanche Steiger looked a lot different in this pose. Mousey blonde hair all coifed and curled at the fringe and tied up at the back so it showed off her neck line. Makeup immaculate, not a single smudge. Half smiling she was looking away from the camera with her manicured fingers held in front of her throat. She wore a collared dress and a single strand of pearls that were probably the property of the photo studio’s. Printed at the bottom of the snap were the words ‘Blanche Steiger.’ Then under that ‘Foyle and Co. Theatrical Agency.’ I flipped the snap over. Printed on the back, “Alphonse Pidd.” And under that “Photographer to the stars.” I turned it back over and placed it neatly next to the other one on my desk.
I leaned back in my chair. “Listen, lady, I see this sort of thing every day of the week. A good looking dame meets a meal ticket at the stage door and spends a week or so on a trip to Niagara. When she’s rinsed the poor sap for everything he has, she comes back with a new hat and some fine jewellery then moves on to the next sucker. As I said, I see this sort of thing every day of the week.”
Great descriptions George. It pulled me in.
Thanks Jessie, it’s very much work in progress, but hopefully it has potential.
Really good descriptions from inside the head of your MC. I’m glad he acknowledges the double first name thing lol!
Thanks, It’s kinda Raymond Chandleresque, I’m well in on the first draft and having a lot of laughs with it.
George, hi! I agree with the others…really good descriptions. Thanks so much for posting!
Thanks, Bryn. It’s on hold for a couple of days as I’ve had to travel back to the UK. Enjoying the process. Reading one of yours in the meantime…
Hi Bryn, great piece. I love that you’re writing by hand for your first draft. I did that when I wrote my first novel. I think it unlocked part of my brain that is kind of sleepy when just typing it on the computer.
Here is my WIP first draft. A little background – Roan provided all of the women with swords. DuShain gave them sword fighting lessons. The women are bald at this point – a sign of their former slavery.
“Drop your rocks!” DuShain commanded.
Jayla stepped forward. “I thought we were supposed to make decisions based on what we want. Not what a Master orders us to do.”
He hardened his resolve and his voice. “Never call me Master.”
They looked stunned.
DuShain continued. “I have been in battle. I have commanded troops. I gave that up to give you your freedom. If you are not willing to do what it takes to maintain that freedom we are going nowhere.” He took in an angry breath. “Roan, unhitch the team.”
“Yes, sir.” Roan moved to follow the orders.
“I want my hair,” a timid voice ventured, “Please, Jayla.” She removed a fist-sized rock from her leather apron and dropped it on the ground.
Another rock thumped in the dirt. “We can’t get through the warding without him.”
“He didn’t take us as his own slaves.” One of the women scooped up a handful of stones out of her apron and let them go. They clattered at her feet, but she still gripped the rest of her rocks.
This was the first time DuShain had seen any of the women, except Jayla, voicing an opinion. But it wasn’t enough. “You cannot overcome the enemy if you waiver. You cannot hold on to false security and still succeed.”
“Continue unhitching the team, Roan.” DuShain ordered. Then he turned to the ex-slaves. “If you want to fight with stones. Stay here and defend yourselves with rocks when they come for you after they break through the warding – and they will – because they will take other slaves. If you refuse to go, you are free to stay.”
Jayla fisted her hands on her hips. “So, what’s going to keep the Raydors from taking other slaves if we do follow you?”
“I am counting on Zidon’s sense of honor.” (Don’t let me down, Zidon, DuShain silently pleaded.) Roan cast him a questioning glance and DuShain continued, “He commands High Clan troops. He and his men will capture those who attack you and see to justice.”
“You said the Clan men will kill us because we have been slaves.”
“I told you that there are risks. I also said you can defend yourselves with your swords. That includes any who make themselves enemies. You have a choice. What are you going to do?”
Jayla cast her load of rocks to the ground. They landed with a crash. She climbed into the wagon bed, drew her sword and hoisted it above her head. Others opened their aprons and let their stones fall. They approached the wagon.
“Don’t get in unless you are totally committed.” DuShain ordered.
“For our freedom! For our hair!” They shouted as they climbed the wheel spokes and swarmed over the edge.
“Re-hitch the team, Roan.”
“Yes, sir!”
As soon as Roan finished, he and DuShain climbed into the wagon.
“Jayla,” DuShain commanded, “Position your troops with the strongest at the back of the wagon.”
“Yes, sir.” She barked with a smile.
Hi again, Jessie! Yeah, I feel the same way about working longhand. I feel more creative! Thanks for sharing the excerpt—I enjoyed it so much. And him hoping he can count on someone else’s sense of honor was so awesome to me.
One question. Why am I getting lots of adds on your site now?
Re: the ads: I don’t know what’s happening! I’ve always used Google AdSense and have placed just a few. They’re all over the place and I have to figure out why! I didn’t do anything different! It’s out of control. Hopefully I can get it fixed in the next few days ?
Yay! I did wonder if you endorsed all those products. I do like seeing your books and products and your own videos so I know where to find them!
A non-fiction to work on this spring
Travels with D B Cooper
Autism is not what you think it is
Would the Nuclear Regulatory Commission have issued a license for me to operate a nuclear reactor, loaded with one hundred tons of uranium if they knew I was autistic? I have no doubt they wouldn’t. If I had known, I would be obligated by law to tell them, under penalty of imprisonment, The Nuclear Regulatory Commission has no sense of humor.
Everyone looks forward to retirement; at least those who are lucky enough to have such a job. My retirement was very bitter, not because of anything I did, or because of what the company did. It’s more like the perfect pyrrhic defeat. I intended to retire at sixty-six years of age. What happened is better, due to a force reduction my department was eliminated and I was offered a one-year separation package that would last until I was sixty-six and a half. It took at least ten minutes to fully comprehend this offer and sign on the line. I retired and started receiving retirement pay, social security, and an extra year of regular pay at the base rate.
Sounds great, but I am not to have the retirement of my dream, Myra, my wife of 36 years passed away a year before retiring after a long debilitating illness that she fought to the end.
Myra’s death told me a lot about myself and ultimately even more about her. My reaction was numbness, for a year nothing but numbness. The first week was all funeral and family stuff. My brother stayed a little longer and helped me straighten out the paperwork so I could handle it myself.
Work told me I could take as much time as I needed. The second week I sat in the quiet house alone. Outside of work I really had no friends, so I returned to work where everyone knows my name and conversations are easy. It would be a full year before I retired. A year after I retired it was suggested I undergo testing, the results of which indicated I have high function autism, or what used to be called Asperger’s syndrome.
The part about operating a nuclear reactor is true. I had taken extensive psychological testing before employment and the Nuclear Regulatory Commission certainly had plenty of time to observe me. I realized after ten years I needed to change jobs.
I recently adopted a dog, a rescue, named Cooper. He is mostly quiet, but half-blind to the point where he bumps into furniture. He sees at distance better.
It is now time to do something. I always wanted to go touring, and by motorcycle. I built my bike forty years ago from pieces and parts of old bikes. The engine is older than me. It has been sitting for thirty-five years, and I now have a sidecar for Cooper to ride in..
Hi, Donald! Always nice to see you around these parts 🙂 This sentence really pulled me in: “Would the Nuclear Regulatory Commission have issued a license for me to operate a nuclear reactor, loaded with one hundred tons of uranium if they knew I was autistic?” Thanks so much for posting!
Thank you very much. I’ll likely keep the opening, truth is the best humor. What happens with me and Cooper will be a living story.
Goodbye 2019…Another twelve months under our belts. In a blink of an eye, we’ll be stepping into 2020. To all a Blessed Holiday Season. Here you go..Short & Sweet…
THE SNAP
The groaning garage door springs lifted the door one more time as it did its job but the sound of its tiring work was paramount. Macie looked at David and rolled her eyes.
“David. That is an awful sound. Do you think you can do something about it? I have mentioned a few times. Maybe you should look at those springs. They probably need some oil or some kind of lubrication. Something is definitely wrong.”
The last thing David thought about was oil on the springs of the garage door. He had a plan. He had a plan to oil and lubricate their struggling sex life. His excitement for the weekend road trip in their newly purchased Cameo convertible gave him an opportunity to refurbish and renew their love. He would lubricant the springs on the garage door when they returned but right now his focus was on Macie. This weekend, he planned to oil their love life.
“I know. I know. I’ll check them when we get home.”
David pulled the car out of the garage and hit the remote. The door closed with a recognizable whine.
David pushed a button on his dashboard the top of their new Camaro slowly unfolded into its place smooth and easy. He had big plans for this weekend. Macie was in for a pleasant surprise.
Their love life had become a bit stagnant. He had every intention of changing that this weekend. There was nothing like motel sex. Without a doubt, he certainly looked forward to it. Oiling the springs on the garage door didn’t even register on his Richter scale of things to do.
The weekend had unfolded exactly as David had planned. Their reconnection was just exactly what the doctor ordered. The sex and love-making were beyond his dreams. He felt that they were both restored. He was happy and by the glow on Macie’s face so was she. Mission accomplished.
Returning from their road trip, David inched their new hot rod into the garage. He again recognized the excruciating sound of the garage door lowering itself into place. Tomorrow he would check those springs on the door. Macie was right. Something had to be done. They exited their new convertible into their home. The weren’t inside the door two steps when an earth-shaking sound hit him like a boulder out of the blue and a crashing sound filled their ears. The garage door springs snapped releasing their final energy. The door descended onto their newly purchased Camaro destroying its beauty. It had met its demise. Sickness and dread filled both David and Macie.
NOTE-TO-SELF…
Don’t ever ignore the fact that you need to oil your springs in live, in love and all of the above! Do yourself a favor.. Snap to it…Don’t wait too long to lubricate those springs.
Jan, I know—can you believe we are headed into 2020 pretty soon?! Amazing. I really enjoyed this! I love it that she’s thinking about fixing the garage door, and he’s thinking about fixing their sex life. Go David! (And I have to say…there really IS nothing like motel sex, haha!) Thanks for sharing!
Book two isn’t even out yet and you are already teasing me with book three? You are an evil, evil woman. I love it!
Hahahaha. Too kind! Erin, are you part of my review crew? You can get an advance copy of book two 🙂
I am. I am just not patient. lol
Bryn!! I’m so excited that you’re working on book 3. I love how you can add in some really cringe-y details without getting too gory. I am still quite partial to Cassie and Jonathon since book 2 isn’t out yet lol but I can’t wait to read it! Are you planning to write the whole third novel first draft long hand? I would love to be able to do that — my hands having been giving me some trouble lately, though.
I did start off participating in NaNo buuuuuuut grad school, work, and the holiday took precedence this year. Still, it wasn’t a complete loss because I did end up with about 23,000 words I didn’t have before! 🙂 Anyway, leading up to this excerpt, Ellie has fled from Michael after he proposed in front of an audience of only his family and friends. She declined which he didn’t take well. Now she’s hiding out at her best friend Willa’s with a broken heart and a bruised wrist.
***********************************************************************************
Chewing on her bottom lip, Willa says, “Gentry can stay with you until we get back.”
I shrug.
“You can use my laptop if you want. Wes has been texting you. I told him your phone is still off.”
I shake my head. “No. Michael has Facebook, too.”
“That’s right. I forgot, since he declined my friend request three times.”
“Three?”
“Red flags, Ellie. So many.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
I curl up under the down comforter on Willa’s bed when she’s gone, listening to Gentry watch television in the other room. It sounds like football, all whistles and energetic narrative, but I can’t be sure. I don’t feel much like company. He should be able to watch sports if he wants to; he’s doing me a huge favor. He doesn’t have to be here.
I don’t think he wants to be here, either.
With the blanket up to my neck, I stare at the long, baby blue shelf beneath the window. It’s full of Willa things: a shadow box stuffed with concert tickets that she hasn’t gotten around to hanging on the wall; a fat, silver piggy bank smudged with her fingerprints; a picture of her grandpa wearing a flannel shirt with suspenders; and a souvenir wine glass from Busch Gardens that used to light up, but the battery’s been dead for a few years and Willa will never get around to replacing it. It hits me as I lie here in a bed that isn’t mine wearing my best friend’s clothes: I feel more at home now than I have in the two years I’ve lived with Michael. I don’t have to tiptoe across the hardwood here. My wrist throbs at the thought of him, as if to say, please don’t ever forget.
Maybe it’s the shower, or the daylight whispering through the blinds, or that my stomach is still full of crispy, buttery pancakes, but sleep comes easy this time. I doze off to sounds of referee whistles and roaring crowds coming from the living room.
I wake to a gentle shake and a warm hand on my shoulder. The light in the room is warmer now, and the sun has moved. When my eyes come into focus, Wes is crouched by the side of the bed with stubble from yesterday’s five o’clock shadow, and I reach for him. He says nothing as he holds me the way I need him to; the way he always did.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally say, my cheek pressed against his stubbly neck. His arms are thicker than I remember and the cologne is still there, lingering in the fabric of his t-shirt collar.
He rubs my back and pulls me close, and I can already feel the tug in my soul. He says, ever so softly, “It’s okay.”
I squeeze a little tighter as my eyes start to burn. “Thank you for coming.”
“Always,” he says, and then, “from now on.”
And thirteen years have melted away to nothing.
Oh my goodness, congratulations on the 23K words! That is some serious progress! This is a really emotional excerpt. Nicely done!
Thanks for the kind words. 🙂 After book three I might release a freebie novella about Jonathan and Cassie’s wedding. It doesn’t really fit in anywhere, but I like it. 😀
Count me in when you do!!! <3 I'll gladly beta read or just be first in line to get a copy lol
Sounds exciting. I’m so excited because I just published a novella under a penname and it’s doing quite well. But as far as other things I’m working on. I’m still working on the 2nd book to my paranormal spy trilogy.
Here is a very small rough snippet of it.
Later that afternoon, Ricky and Jordan made their way downtown to the candy store. The few leaves left on the trees rustled slightly in the wind, but sun was warm, and there were a lot of happy tourists milling about.
Ricky could see a few customers looking around in the store. He and Jordan went in and pretended to look around. The sweet smell of chocolate was inviting.
“Well, hello, can I help you handsome fellows with something?” a familiar voice called to them.
Ricky looked up to see Camila coming out from behind the counter. He instinctually guarded his emotions, but it was clear that she didn’t know who he was.
“Oh, we were just looking for something to give our girlfriends. We are going on a double date tonight,” he lied purposely. He watched her reaction closely and saw that she caught the lie, but was not overly concerned.
“Hmm, well. We ladies always love truffles. We have quite a selection of truffles over here,” she led them to a refrigerated case of chocolates.
“Do you have any with raspberry, Laura loves raspberry.” This was not a lie, he knew that Laura loved raspberry chocolate anything. Camila flinched slightly. She did recognize the name, it seemed.
“Of course,” she said as she pointed out several types of raspberry truffles. “Are you two from around here, I don’t recall seeing you in here before.”
“We just moved here,” Jordan spoke up.
“How long have you been here?” Ricky asked.
“Well, I’m from south of here, but I grew up visiting Caramel. We just bought this place this summer,” she answered.
“It’s a beautiful area,” Ricky said. “I’ll take one of each of the raspberry truffles, and two of the dark chocolate coffee ones,” he said.
Camila nodded. “And what about your lovely lady?” Camila asked Jordan.
“Uh,” Jordan stammered. “I’m not sure actually,” he admitted.
Camila laughed. “Well, you better learn what your lady likes. How about a mix of things?”
Sara, congratulations on the novella!! How exciting! That is awesome.
Well I love paranormal and I love spies, so this is right up my alley! It did make me want to eat more chocolate, though, haha. Great stuff, thanks for posting!
Thank you, I’m so excited. I’m realizing now that writing it is less than half the battle though, marketing a self-published book is probably 75% of it. It’s been a fun and educational process though. One I plan to repeat numerous times.
And now I’m back to your 5,000 Writing Prompts to hopefully figure out what I’m writing for my creative nonfiction assignment this week…
Hahaha. Hope you find inspiration! 🙂
Love your WIP, Brynn.
I’m fighting Ebola, Scarlet Fever or maybe just the Flu, so I’m gonna go back to suffering and worse ?
Oh nooooo! Bryan take care of yourself! (And thanks for the kind words. 🙂 )
I’m currently chapter mapping out the sequel to my debut novel…which I’ve recently rebranded. Busy Busy. Happy Wednesday! <3
Good work, Bryn. Off to Chicago!
This is from Woman at War 3, Warfare. In this scene, June Vereeth and other Special Forces soldiers are waiting on transport to an action. Their line moves and they line up next to a group of civilians, including a mother with a toddler girl and a baby girl in a front pack.
**
Pearson, the smart-ass Boomer, crouched down to show the toddler something. His grace was doubly impressive for someone wearing 37 pieces of gear in belts and packs. With practiced ease, he produced a pen light for the girl. It was a new model, copper rings around the tube. She shied away at first, but he drew her in by rolling the tube back and forth among supremely agile fingers. The man was practically a magician. When he brought the light back into a soft grip, he cycled through the five modes. The girl giggled at the pulsing green and then the cyclical four flashing reds. He gently closed her hand around it.
I would have to get some of these new lights, I realized. In silence, they could signal friendlies of safety or a Mittie invasion from miles away.
“Not at your sister’s eyes, okay?” he said to the girl. She beamed, turning proudly back toward the legs of her grateful mother.
The man’s shaved-head friend piped up. “Requisitions? Yes, I seem to have lost another pen light. Amazing how this happens?”
“Ah, well, it’s not like we’ll need it on this action,” Pearson said. “Daylight. Still, I may have to pop in there when we come back.”
Meanwhile, I hadn’t noticed the baby’s growing fascination with me. She was all smiles and wide eyes. When I waved, she reached for my bare finger, uttering a noise akin to a growl. She brought the finger—my index, ‘my trigger finger’—up towards her mouth as if to bite it off.
“Silly Soraya,” the mother cooed. “You cannot chew that.”
More happy growling and drool as my digit—’that one’—was released unharmed.
“Adorable,” I said.
“Thanks. She’s a bit of a monster, really,” the woman replied, finishing with a smile. “Sleep is a dream.” This statement was backed up by her crows feet, the stamp of motherhood, which I tried not to focus on.
Doing so—Or was it her words? Or the smell of Jazza-six lubricant?—conjured up an image of Cheney, that monster. What had he said to me when we watched that gigantic spider being killed? ‘This one ought to hit you right in the womb.’
‘Don’t listen to that asshole, Juney,’ chimed the voice of my sister, calling from a darkened room. ‘You too can spread your legs for the wrong man and have that bun in the oven. Worked for me.’
Olga’s apparition left me, as quickly as it had come. I shook it off. The tone and tenor had been hers, but the word choice belonged to a younger, more stupid version of someone with a potentially bright future. It made my skin crawl. All of it.
By the course, Olga had been branded by the district’s religious fanatics. Her body was permanently marked. It was not, she stated in a letter, an act of violence. It was a decision she’d accepted, through clenched teeth and tears.
Baby aborted, price paid.
‘Not fully,’ I thought.