Hi friends! A lot has changed in the world since our last WIP Wednesday. My niece in Chicago—the one I dedicated The Equinox Stone to, and the one I made plans with to go to a Supernatural convention this summer—has been sick and quarantined to her room with COVID-9 symptoms for two weeks now. I just want her to start feeling better. Here in Los Angeles I’ve been working from home since March 13, and we’ve been practicing serious social distancing, keeping our errands as few and far between as possible.
It’s a tough time, so let’s distract ourselves, shall we? Here are some very quick reminders about WIP Wednesday—the first Wednesday of every month, when I share an excerpt of a work-in-progress and invite you to do the same.
– Make sure your excerpt is no longer than 500 words.
– No R-rated excerpts! A little coarse language is okay.
– No buy links, but feel free to link to a website where more of your work in progress is available.
– We don’t critique or make suggestions, since sometimes we’re sharing very rough writing, and it’s not ready for that yet. However, it’s always nice to share an encouraging word!
Today I’m posting an excerpt from The Requiem Moon, the third book in my Knights of Manus Sancti series. Here’s Sophie Karakov in Chicago, right before all hell breaks loose (heh, spoilers.)
Sophie got off at her El stop, palmed her pepper spray—she’d used it once, very effective—and walked past the vape shop, the bodega, the cheap nail salon, and then went into the liquor store. After dropping the pepper spray into her cross-body purse, she grabbed her usual brand of vodka and then selected a jar of garlic-stuffed olives, a box of round crackers, and a tin of smoked oysters from the aisle of packaged foods up front. The oysters were why she came to this liquor store and not the one on the next block, closer to her building.
The man behind the counter smiled and said, “Same thing as always, huh?”
She ignored him. She hated it when people tried to make her feel sheepish, as if that were a valid form of flirting or friendliness. American friendliness in general still bewildered her, after years of being here—the smiles from strangers, the conversation in checkout lines and women’s restrooms. It seemed fake, and if was genuine, that made even less sense. London hadn’t been like that, and St. Petersburg definitely hadn’t. Maybe she could go to the other liquor store, after all. She could stop at the bodega first if they had oysters.
After she’d paid and gotten her change, she picked up her bag and went to the door, pausing to get her pepper spray out again, and walked two more blocks home.
Her third-floor walkup apartment was a one-bedroom with old kitchen cabinets finished in a dark stain but new grayish laminate on the floors. She’d lived in worse places, her childhood home the worst of all, though far from shabby, with its white walls and lace curtains on tall drafty windows offering an enviable view of St. Isaac’s Cathedral; a tasteful post-Soviet hell.
She locked the door behind her, set everything down, took the clouded martini glass and vermouth out of the fridge, and splashed a drop of the vermouth in the glass. Then she scooped some ice with one hand into her cocktail shaker on the counter, poured in vodka—she told herself it was three shots, knowing it was four—gave it a good long shake, and strained the liquor into the glass. Three olives. Cocktail picks were out of the question; the plastic would wind up in the ocean, in the belly of or skewering some poor fish…although, as she arranged crackers and oysters on an antique gilded plate, she had to admit her mercy for the creatures of the sea was severely limited. Just like her mercy for everyone else, maybe, but no one had shown her much, either.
It was a sad dinner and she had it once or twice a week and took a perverse satisfaction in it. No one could tell her what to do.
Fun fact about that excerpt: I’ve actually used pepper spray twice! Once when I was kind of drifting through New Orleans and someone tried to steal my duffel bag from me at night, and once in Tucson when a naked guy grabbed me on the street.
I’d love to see what you’re working on, too—go ahead and share in the comments! And if you’re not following the blog already, you can subscribe below so you don’t miss future WIP Wednesdays. Thanks for reading, and happy writing!
Hello Bryn!
I hope you are doing well and as I like to say, the faucet is on and the words are flowing! Haha Thank you very much for all you do for us! 🙂
Here is an excerpt from my WIP, Redhead in the Turtle Point Bookstore. The premise is Pulitzer Prize-winning author, Jasper George, is mentoring a young woman who wants to be a published author. This is an exchange between them as they edit her manuscript:
He reached for his favorite fountain pen, unscrewed the cap and slid it on to the back, then pulled out the pad and began writing.
Piper looked at him and asked, “A pen? Don’t you use your laptop?”
“Never have, never will. I always write with my favorite pen, then transfer it to the laptop when I am convinced it is perfect. Problem is I am never convinced it is perfect, so writing it on paper gives me the chance to cross through the words I don’t like, and write myself notes in the margins. After I write it a few times and get everything where it needs to be, then it goes to the laptop.”
As he jotted the words on the paper, he said, without looking at her, “I have a feeling you are a perfectionist too.”
Piper nodded, “Yeah. You could say that. Have you ever written something that you are happy with? I mean really happy with?”
Jasper nodded, “Never. But that’s what keeps us writing, right? We create a game that can never be won. Only played.”
He finished writing, then handed the pad to Piper. “Go ahead. Read it.”
Piper scanned the page, then smiled and read, “Sally lamented the decision to go to the shore, knowing no matter how many times she would replay that moment, he was gone forever, and nothing could bring him back. She stood alone and stared out into the blackness of the sky, which now leaked into her soul. Soon, it would all be black, and remain that way. Perhaps, forever.”
Piper looked up from the paper and stared at him. The words jumped off the page and grasped her heart, just as he told her she would have to do one day.
Jasper asked, “Does that make sense?”
Piper exhaled, then looked at his words again. “Wow,” she said in a whisper.
When they finished for the night, Piper gathered her writing tools, placed them in her beach bag and was ready to leave.
Jasper walked her to the door. “You did good work tonight.”
“Thank you,” she replied, “It’s nice when you can get another set of eyes on your work. Sometimes, you go book blind to it and you can’t even see when you misspell the easiest word.”
“I remember that feeling.”
Just as Jasper put his hand on the door handle, Piper asked, “Why did you decide to help me?”
There was an uneasy silence between them. “Ah. Lesson two. Leave the reader with a cliffhanger. That way they keep coming back to unwrap the mystery.”
Wow, Ivan. I love the line “We create a game that can never be won. Only played.”
Like the car enthusiast who likes fixing up and working on classic cars (the act of creation) more than actually driving them.
Well done. 🙂
Ivan! Nice to see you. 🙂 Fun scene! (I write the same way—longhand first!)
Having a story within a story tells us what’s on the characters’ minds. Why is Jasper helping her? He won’t say. I don’t think he has any bad intentions. I think he likes to “leave the audience with a cliffhanger” for fun. Although, if he’s got this much content and insight to share, it could be he’s got something deep inside that’s hurting his own self. A deep character can have a lot going on.
Ah, great excerpt, I felt the weight of her sadness and loneliness. I can’t wait to read the whole story!
Good ol’ Tucson…when I worked for the Pima County Sheriff’s Office at the jail, one of my most memorable experiences was watching two deputies marching a completely naked man in handcuffs into booking. The new girl manning the controls that opened and closed the doors looked at me wide-eyed and asked, “Do I let them in?” LOL.
I haven’t managed to do any writing in weeks. I think I’m just too anxious with everything going on. So, I dug through my old WIPs to find something to post today.
This is a scene with Lila, a witch who can see dead people, and her love interest Aaron, the ghost of a Revolutionary War soldier redcoat who died from a gunshot wound to the chest. Lila is a borderline shut-in, but he’s coaxed her out of the house to go for a walk along the riverfront with him.
****
It was only a few blocks from the house to the riverfront. They passed through the park, stopping at a hotdog vendor so that Lila could grab some lunch. She bought a footlong smothered in mustard and hot peppers, and a bottle of orange soda.
“That looks absolutely revolting,” Aaron said, watching as she took a huge bite.
Her eyes rolled back in her head blissfully. “You have no idea what you’re missing.”
A broad sidewalk flanked the river, dotted at regular intervals with benches. They strolled along together as she ate, until they came to a bench that was far enough away from other humans that she and Aaron could talk without her looking and sounding like a schizophrenic.
They sat down to enjoy the view. The river was nearly a half-mile wide here, a dark blue-grey. It appeared to move sluggishly on the surface until a piece of driftwood would bob and float past, revealing how quick the current actually was.
Lila finished the hotdog, sucking the remaining mustard and pepper juice from her fingertips. Aaron watched this, smiling.
“I wish I could do that for you,” he said.
She looked up at him, her heart skipping a couple of beats. Aaron was gorgeous (other than the constantly smoking hole in his chest), but beyond that, they were as close as two people could be. She couldn’t imagine not having him in her life. Thinking about what her life would be like without him nearly sent her into a panic attack. He’d been her confidant, her friend, her support system when she wasn’t around her family…and even when she was, really. He was the one person she could relax with and completely be herself. He could make her laugh even on her worst days and kept her from being overwhelmed by loneliness.
She laid her hand on her thigh, palm up. They couldn’t hold hands, of course, but when he took his hand and rested it on top of hers, she could feel the tingling heat of his energy. It reminded her of how it felt to hold her hand about an inch away from the surface of a balloon that had built up a layer of static electricity, except it was quite a bit stronger than that.
It wasn’t much, but it was the best they could do.
Lila smiled and looked up at him. He was gazing out at the river, his profile handsome and proud. He looked just as solid and real as any flesh-and-blood person she knew. She could even see the light stubble on his jaw, and the scar on his chin where he’d fallen off a horse as a child and cut himself on a rock.
As she admired him, he said in a quiet voice, “I do love you, Lila.”
Her eyes got hot with the threat of tears. She was flesh and he was not, and there was no way for them to be together the way they both wished.
P.S…I’mma have smoked oysters and crackers for lunch because of your excerpt. 🙂
Ha!
Tender and moving. Thank you for this, Pamela.
Wow…I had no idea you worked at the Pima County Sheriff’s Office. Was that naked guy the one who grabbed me?! Haha!
Have I read any of this before?! I like it!
Hi Bryn. Love the excerpt. Here’s what I’m up to (refactoring my story for the current world). It’s a tad dialogue heavy but I wanted it to fit in 500 words…
“That’s a six, not a fucking nine. It even has a line under it!”
Margo laughs, “Oh come on, they’re like the same thing.”
“Take it back. Find another way to match my yellow six,” Zoey shot back with mock seriousness.
“We’re big girls you know. Why are we playing kids card games like Uno? You know, James Bond would be ashamed of you,” Margo put, wryly.
“I’m guessing every hot guy within a decade of my age, from here to Wake Island would not be impressed by me. I’m 33, my passions are cookies and Disney.”
They both giggled, as Zoey took another swig of her hot cocoa.
“What every happened with that Disney World trip you took by yourself?”
Zoey smiled and thought. “I didn’t like the part where I was waiting in line. I was by myself, and you’ve got these mothers who give you the evil eye, as a childless millennial.”
“What did you think of that Land ride we saw on TV,” Margo wondered. “I mean, you think this hydroponics idea has a chance?”
“I got to do the backstage walking tour of it. The gardens didn’t seem that big. They get huge volume though, the way it’s built. Like 30 thousand tomatoes and 20 thousand heads of lettuce annually. It all goes into their kitchens, about 200 of them over their 43 square miles. 50,000 visitors each day, till now.”
Reality set in though. “We’re all locked in though. With this Corona-crisis, we’re not going to be able to do anything, nor build anything, much less bringing door-to-door Mary Jane anytime soon. We’re so far behind in logistics today. The Chinese have a massive delivery-to-your-door infrastructure of dudes on motorbikes. Getting stuff same day is expected, whether it’s KFC in 20 minutes or sneakers by the afternoon.”
Margo looked down, once proud being a second generation Asian-American, now not so much. “We really suck at a lot of stuff here in the States, now. What the hell happened to us being a real world power?”
“It’s hard to beat a place that rips off your best IP, has mastered central planning and has no labor laws. They’ve used more concrete in the last decade then we have ever. They build factories overnight that takes us years to get a permit for. They can copy a new Jack Nicholas golf club to a nanometer in less than a day and roll out production of thousands in a week in a purpose-built factory, then get them to ports around the world.”
Margo looked even more defeated.
“Somebody here will step up to the challenge; we’ll catch up. It’s the American way. We lead. Somebody will step up,” Zoey tried to reassure her.
Margo knew Zoey’s idealism too well. “You think that person is you, don’t you?”
“Stop reading my mind, asshole.” Zoey chuckled.
“So, we’ve got to do what we can with what we have, where we are.”
“Software.” They both said in unison.
“Let’s get white-boarding.” Zoey replied.
Easy to get into the scene. Loved the Uno.
Hi, Chris! Oh wow, so current! I’m just pretending COVID-9 doesn’t exist in my fiction, but I like seeing what you did here. (Haha, I *always* used to get the 6s and 9s mixed up in Uno.)
Bryn, Great character intro. The details you gave about Sophie’s past piqued my interest.
Last month some said they would like to learn more about my mother. I have been working like crazy to get her story ready for my family. I decided to share another piece about her.
My mother, Verna LeFevre Mead, has always been a source of strength. In her journal, she related this incident:
I read a magazine article on “Natural Child Birth” and sent for the offered information. By the time I was seven months along the “Little Blue Book” came in the mail…
I went to Corwin Hospital for the delivery. Thank goodness for the “Little Blue Book.” I knew what to expect and how to work with the symptoms.
It was a long, miserable job. Of course, I didn’t realize just how painful the process would be. It had to be done.
When I was working with the birth process, other women were screaming, cursing, and making a big fuss in general. Doctor Nethery came to the door of the room where I was and said, “Why aren’t you making any noise?”
I answered, “Those other women are making enough noise for me, too.”
He really laughed.
~V~
Twenty Years Later Mama expected her first grandchild – my baby.
The odor of campfire clung to her as she entered the labor room. Her long-sleeve flannel shirt and dark prescription sunglasses contradicted the 110-degree night-time weather. When she learned I was in labor, she raced down the mountain from girl’s camp where she was the leader.
Like my mother-before-me, I was not screaming. I had taken natural childbirth classes, but something was wrong and I knew it.
With every contraction I felt my spirit slipping out of my body. I gripped the bars on the hospital bed with all my might to stay connected to this world.
Mama remembered the “Little Blue Book.” She reminded me calmly and firmly, “Use your training. You have got to relax and work with the contractions. Don’t fight them.”
But I couldn’t. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t turn lose of the bars on the bed. I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t let go of life.
She offered an alternative, “How about if I hang on for you?”
And so, she gripped my arm and I let go of the bars on the bed, but she had to hold on tight enough to keep me here, as tightly as I had been gripping the bars. She wrestled for me all night, coaching me, keeping me grounded with amazing pressure to combat the uncertainty and loss in my life. My marriage had ended a month before.
Toward morning Daddy came in to let Mama have a break. He took my hand gently, full of compassion and tenderness. Mama could handle anything in his eyes, but I was his baby girl.
I needed my mother’s firmness. I needed the rock-solid surety of her presence. “Squeeze!” I shouted through clenched teeth. He looked shocked and confused.
He didn’t squeeze, but Daddy noticed my eyes dilating completely with each contraction. He notified the nurse who then gave me oxygen. My baby, Sarah, and I both survived. Sarah inherited her grandmother’s strength and determination. Like my mother, she’s an amazing woman – a survivor.
Yikes! Really good. I love reading these excerpts!
Thanks Pamela. Sometimes I wish she were still here to squeeze my arm.
Oh wow, that was intense! Great excerpt, Jessie!
Can’t read your excerpt as I just finished Phoenix Codex and haven’t started Equinox yet.
Is it against the rules to post something I just posted to Amazon? Or should I wait till next week, when I’ll have a NaPo poem . . .
This is me, Rachel, I hit the return button by accident!
Awww, thank you for reading! (PS Is is really easy to hit return too fast, I know!!) You can post what you want! Either way I hope I get to see the poem…sooner or later!
Every day I’m writing about a card from the Akashic Tarot deck.
2 of Keys: The Treasure
How can we ever know we have
enough, can we ever have enough,
even knowing we can have too much.
Too much data slows the computer down.
I built this room, laid rough-hewn logs
for roof beams with bare hands,
preparing a room for treasure
I could only hope for. Then filled it.
Now ransacked, the years gone like years.
Nothing left but a few coins,
red fabric hanging in the empty wardrobe.
Nothing left but toppled furniture,
the waning moon through a window,
the lantern hanging over my head,
and that one little chest intact,
light gleaming from inside.
So touching! I love the images this evokes. Thank you for sharing!
Hi Bryn! Here’s my excerpt from Beacon Hill Lady Sleuth: “Omigod. I was so not expecting this, Billy coming to see me at my home, the night after I had seen him with someone I was tailing? This made it pretty likely that he had recognized me in HotShot. To top it off, I was by myself, because if Harrison was even home, he was asleep. Not that I feared Billy, who had always been a gentle soul. But, the facts were that he was an ex-lover whom I no longer knew, which in itself was intimidating. Yet the doorbell sounded again, and I knew that ignoring it would not be the way to getting information that might prove useful. I hit the buzzer to let him in.
Quickly changing into black pants and a black turtleneck, I reached my front door just as Billy’s footfall sounded on the top stair. I opened the door, and he stopped still, looked at me, and gave a low whistle. I smiled in spite of my apprehension, and Billy said, “Lana, beautiful as ever. Have to say I’m glad you didn’t dye your hair red!” I laughed and said, “Come in!” I assessed himas he walked through my door. Billy, now in his early fifties, hadn’t changed all that much. There were some lines in his face, and threads of silver in the long blond hair, but he was still strapping and muscular, and his piercing blue eyes still missed nothing.
He looked at me now, always polite, he awaited the invitation to sit. I offered food and drink, and he replied, “Whatever you want to have, Lana.” I poured seltzer water, and created a fruit and cheese platter reminiscent of the one awaiting me in my bedroom, along with my unfinished Heineken, which would just have to get warm. I wasn’t about to complicate matters by serving alcohol.”
I sat across from Billy and met his intense gaze. As always, he pulled no punches. “I think about you a lot, Lana.”
Hi, Lisamaria, great to have you here! I really enjoyed the lively voice. I hope we get to read more!
Lisamaria, Sounds like it could get complicated very soon. Great job. Certainly a keep-reading story.
So sorry to hear about your niece. I’m hoping she gets better soon.
For my WIP snippet, I almost went with an out of story moment with Hank and Dave, but it was a little too long. So, I decided to go with a in-story flashback for Isellta, involving him and his parents.
(Slightly helpful context: Isellta and his parents are fey. That’s why they’re talking about wings emerging from his back. Also, the last four lines are from Adult Isellta’s point of view.)
****
Sunlight recolored the bedroom’s white walls. A warm breeze breathed in through the open windows and the sheer white curtains billowed. Something smelled like lemon and fresh cream.
Isellta stood in the middle of the room. He looked up at his mother. She seemed to be as tall as the ceiling. He stretched his arms upward. “Mama?”
She knelt and she was so pretty. As pretty as the sunlight.
Isellta laughed – a joyful, exuberant sound. “Mama!” He hugged her. His back muscles twitched.
She shrugged out of his embrace. “Not now.” She pulled his shirt off and turned him around.
The twitching grew stronger as she ran her fingers over his small back. Happiness bubbled inside of him. “Mama.” he sang. “Mama mama mama.”
“Isellta! Hold still.”
“‘kay, mama.”
“I don’t understand this.”
He turned his head to the side in an attempt to look back at her. “Mama?”
“I told you to hold still!”
Isellta flinched as if she had slapped his face. His back muscles went still.
She traced matching lines on his back. “They’re right there.”
Isellta’s father entered the bedroom. “You called?” He stopped in front of Isellta and petted his son’s hair.
The small child looked up at his father. “Da.”
“Ilstheena.” his mother said. “What is wrong with him?”
“Nothing. He’s fine.”
“No, he isn’t.” She grabbed Isellta’s bare shoulders and forcibly turned him around. “Look at that and try to say he’s fine.”
Isellta tried to blink back his tears.
Ilstheena knelt and spread his hand on his son’s back. “They’ll grow out.”
“What if they don’t? Ilstheena, if his wings don’t emerge, you and I will become a laughing stock.” She stood. “I refuse to become a laughing stock. Fix him.” Having said that, she left the room.
“Da?” Isellta’s voice was a small, tremulous sound. “Mama mad a’ me?”
“No. Just disappointed. But don’t worry. You’re okay.” He gently turned him forward and wiped away his tears. “You’re a late spring flower. Your wings will come out all in their own good time. They will grow large and powerful.”
Isellta managed a smile. “Preddy like Da’s?”
His father smiled back. “Just like mine.”
****
I don’t know if I ever told Da how much he meant to me. I know I never told him that I loved him. How could I? I had no idea what love even was.
I wish I had known.
I wish I had told him.
He deserved to know.
Hey friend! Thanks for the good wishes about my niece. I appreciate it! This is a lovely excerpt. That opening is lovely. And the ending was a gut punch!
Thank you so much! I’m glad you liked this excerpt.
This was one of those chapters where I inadvertently realized two things: 1. Isellta’s wings developed a little later than the average fey and 2. his father was the same way. I hadn’t even considered either of those until I wrote this chapter. It’s a small detail, but it was interesting to see that he had that in common with his dad.
I love that discovery process. I just found one of those in my own fantasy novel. It leaves me in awe when it happens.
Beautiful writing. Emotion-charged. I feel for the little boy who didn’t measure up and wonder if his mother ever accepted him. So sad.
“I love that discovery process. I just found one of those in my own fantasy novel. It leaves me in awe when it happens.” Same here! Especially when such discoveries feel like they were totally planned, complete with inadvertent foreshadowing. It’s an amazing feeling.
‘Beautiful writing. Emotion-charged. I feel for the little boy who didn’t measure up and wonder if his mother ever accepted him. So sad.”
Thank you so much! ?
If she ever accepted him, she never let him see it or let him know. And, of course, all he wanted was her approval. She didn’t even have to tell Isellta that she loved him. All she had to do was show him in words or actions that she was proud of him.
That’s the magic of writing. When that inadvertent foreshadowing along with the discovery happen, it makes all the grunt work worth it!
I would love to read your whole story.
Hi! Here is an excerpt from a story I am working on. “The Dre-Dre Documents: Twisted Sister.” The main character needs to be consoled by the love interest.
**Hunter squeezed Audrey’s arm, and was pleased when she didn’t shrink away, but snuggled up against him.
Audrey didn’t mean to snuggle up with Hunter, it was an unconscious act. Audrey rested her head on Hunter’s side, feeling his ribs, and listening to the rhythmic beats of his heart. Audrey breathed in deeply, and then realized that everyone had stopped talking, sometime while she was enjoying Hunter’s presence. (And his tight black tee shirt, that looked like it was just inches from being too tight.) Audrey sat up ramrod straight, hoping that no one, (particularly Hunter) could see how red her cheeks had become.**
Hi there! Hahaha, Audrey got a little carried away there! Thanks for sharing!
I hope your niece is doing better.
It’s late. I’m glad I made it before Wednesday is over. Here is the next segment of the opening chapter of Jagged Coast, under the heading, “Enter the Heroine” on my site. I put a lot of description in this part, but I tried to do so without falling into detached third-party narration. I tried to present it from the heroine’s point of view, which is good, if I succeeded.
Fawnlum Raijum, unaware of the despoiling of one fair land several years before, smiled as the new rays of spring illuminated the world around her. Far to the west of the continent of Calador, across the body of ocean known as the Brierren Channel, sat her home in the southeastern region of the rugged island continent of Khostead. The mighty barbarian lass of the Coast of Storms kingdom brushed a stray auburn hair out of her eyes, as she overlooked miles of quiet countryside, from her rocky seat on the easterly ascending slope of the Rolling Meadow. Dumian, the city of her birth, came into view below her, framed by the cold mists rising from the grasslands in the breaking sunlight.
Sitting with her arms bare, but being of the same stock as her great forebears, the elder daughter of Brajon and Saraty Raijum sat in the morning chill as if it were nothing, as she had done for all of her 19 winters.
Revering the change of season, her people welcomed the time of the land’s renewal, bringing with it growth to plants and buds. Hence the celebration of the Springtime Festival, out of respect for the Natural World. But as much as the short-lived mild months gave sustenance, so did the demanding winters add to their lives. With bitter winds and piling snow, Nature gave strength to those who endured, so they may call themselves rightful followers of mighty Diergon, god of battle and honor.
Such was the harmonious way, she delightedly reflected, as she absently adjusted the hand-and-a-half long-saber strapped to her back, and picked out friends and comrades arriving in the lower portion of the Meadow, as well as rivals from other territories.
The bustle of people intruded on her daydreams, as stands and long-tables were set up behind her.
A few dozen yards behind and to her right, the senior students from the kingdom’s southern school of magic stood, gathered beside the northern tree line.
Under the direction of old Powerlave, the chief instructor – also affectionately known as ‘Bushy-brows’ – the ten most advanced pupils stood in a semi-circle with their hands clasped in front of them, quietly reciting a chant. The young warrioress watched very closely, with bright ardor to see what display of magic sprang forth.
She was distracted, however, by the approach of a familiar face, and smiled as Eidgunn walked up.
Nodding in greeting, the senior cleric of Diergon took a deep breath of the invigorating air. “At a time like this,” he said, “it’s hard to believe we live with the threat of a red dragon coming upon us, as in the times of old.”
“We have the peace to savor it,” she answered, somewhat moodily. “Peace won by strength,” she added, as if it were an afterthought.
“Your battle-group did quite well recently in the Orsright Hills,” he told her, still with a pleasant tone. “I heard about the battle in the valley.”
Ah, thanks for the good wishes for my niece. And nice to see you here! I do not read enough fantasy, and it is my first love. I really enjoyed the epic voice. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you very much. I’m going to reveal my ignorance here, but what does “epic voice” mean? Is it a certain style of narration?
The morning arrives early in the forest, too early; Whisperblade’s transformation restarts. Her legs and arms have turned too wood, it will end soon. Her twisting face speaks of her suffering. Wolf talks to her awhile then presses the tip of his staff to her breast. She smiles and then she is gone; the transformation into a tree complete. Wolf drops his staff and walks away; before leaving the clearing he breaks into a run.
I chase after him and call Upatu for help.
It is a wild race to catch Wolf, Shadow has joined him, and I fear the wolf will prevent me from stopping my best friend. Normu joins Upatu in the chase, but my worst fears are confirmed when we break out from the trees a hundred feet from a cliff. Wolf is nowhere to be seen, but Shadow stands at the edge howling. I approach the lanky wolf to find my friend pressed under its paws; Shadow outweighs me and needs no excuse to take a man down. Wolf convulses with sobs. I wave Upatu and Normu away, but they retreat no further than the tree line.
Placing my hand on Shadow’s head I feel the animal quiver
I ask, “Wolf, are you willing to talk? You know I will listen.” He says nothing. “Shadow stopped you from jumping, didn’t he?” His sobbing slows down. “That was your nightmare all along, right?”
“Maud can go to hell,” he answers. “She knew but didn’t tell me.”
“Maud did not kill your mother; you did not kill your mother. Your mother asked for a way to help the Kaniwa. The tree answered and she accepted.”
“That is what she said,” Wolf says. Shadow takes his paws off of Wolf’s back and sits.
Keeping a wary eye on the agitated wolf, I take my best friend’s hand to help him to a sitting position and sit at his side. “You remember when you first saw me?”
“Yeah, they were beating you to a pulp,” Wolf answers.
“Raven said you were a real berserker when you attacked them.”
“I don’t remember,” Wolf says.
“It’s not important. She is important.” I point to the tree line where Losau with a full belly stands with Snow, her huge white wolf. I beckon her over, point to her belly, and ask, “How much longer?”
“Soon, one moon, it is a big child. He will be a brave knight, like Wolf.” Losau answers.
I decide to tell, “I am also happy with child.” Wolf gives me a hard stare, but Losau leans over to hug me.
She giggles. “You are a brave knight, you will have twins, yes?”
Lord, I hope not. “Yes, twins.” I stare back at Wolf and say, “If he is a boy, I will name him, Little Wolf, after his godfather.” The smile curling on Wolf’s lips is feral; reassuring me he will stick around to take care of Losau. He takes her hand and urges her closer to feel her belly.
Donald, how are you? Staying safe and well, I hope! This was a WILD RIDE. Thanks for posting!
I am doing well as I hope you are. Self isolated before it was popular. “Wild Ride?”
I can tell I’m going to like this girl. Can’t wait to read it.
I’m just writing more fanfic which I’m not sharing but maybe I’ll go back to writing original stuff soon.
It is online in fictionpress.con At least the completed rough draft.
In regard to Sophie and the last paragraph, and no one could tell her what to do:
A sad dinner, indeed.
There’s strength in solitude. But when you don’t have someone to share a difference of opinion with, then you don’t have anyone to share your life with.
Hi Bryn. I’m liking what I see here from this upcoming book. It made me laugh though–because I talk to strangers in the checkout line, smile at strangers on the streets, etc., and have even struck up conversations in the ladies’ room. LOL. Not to the point where people run from me, but I do get strange looks on occasion. I haven’t started the second book in the series yet–spending a lot of time cleaning (and worrying) these days–but I look forward to that and this new one. Hope your niece is doing better. Take care.