WIP Wednesday, December 2020 – Share What You’ve Been Writing!

Posted on by Bryn Donovan
computer in front of window, coffee, holiday lights in background

Hey there! I hope everyone’s having a good week and staying as safe as you possibly can. It’s WIP Wednesday, so when I got up this morning, I started writing a scene that I’m really looking forward to finishing after work tonight. And I know some of you did a lot of writing as you participated in NaNoWriMo, so maybe you’d like to share!

I’ll back up here, though, to tell the newbies that WIP Wednesday happens on the first Wednesday of every month on this blog. I share an excerpt of something I’m writing and I invited everyone else to do the same in the comments. Sometimes people just check in and comment on their writing plans for the month, or how things are going in general, and that’s great, too! We do have a few ground rules:

*keep your excerpt 500 words or less

*a little salty language is fine (and I have some in my excerpt today!), but don’t post graphic content (and I add trigger warnings when I think they’re warranted)

*no critiques or suggestions to other people’s work—but it’s good writer luck to share a positive word here or there!

Here’s the beginning of my scene!

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Tristan Münter, a big bear of a guy with a finely detailed black Maori tattoo on his neck, and Daniel, a tall American with ebony skin and a trim mustache and beard, made their way down the corridor in Nic’s direction with a third Knight: Michael West. A cast encased his wrist, and he limped slightly, though few would’ve noticed if they hadn’t been looking for it, and his easygoing smile belied his injuries. The smile broadened when he saw Nic.

“Salaam, Nic,” Tristan said as the three reached him.

Michael pulled him in for a quick hug. “Heard you had a good mission.” Tristan and Daniel were grinning at him, too.

Annoyed and embarrassed, Nic shrugged it off. “It was fine. How’s your leg?”

No one acknowledged his attempt to change the subject. Daniel said, with evident satisfaction, “So Sophie Karakov is off to prison.”

Nic’s blood rose to hear her fate being spoken of so lightly. “She hasn’t been sentenced yet. Capitán thinks she might be able to help with the Tribunal.”

Daniel’s brow creased. “He thinks he can trust that bitch?”

A flash of rage had Nic stepping closer to him, raising his fist. “Don’t call her that.”

Michael caught his arm just as rational thought returned to Nic’s brain: he’d been about to make a terrible mistake.

And really, he already had. “What the hell!” Daniel demanded. “I said it because of how she treated you!” Tristan stared as though Nic had been possessed.

“Sorry,” Nic said, even though anger coursed in his veins.

Michael held up his hands. “Okay, calling someone that name and threatening someone are both against the rules, so let’s forget about this.” It was generous of him, putting himself out there like this, because while technically, one wasn’t supposed to use derogatory names for fellow Manus Sancti members, in reality, no one ever reported it. And considering the fact that Sophie was seen as a criminal, and Daniel had meant it in support of Nic, no one would’ve held it against him.

I’m such an asshole, Nic thought, breaking the rule against name-calling in his own mind. He’d been Daniel’s mission runner on three occasions, doing his best to look out for the man’s safety, and now he was raising a hand to him?

“I’m sorry,” he said again, making himself look Daniel in the eye. “I haven’t slept in a couple of days.” It was factually true, although not a real excuse. He often operated on little sleep. The apology, at least, was honest.

Daniel regarded him for a moment, then gave a huff of disgust and walked on. Shaking his head slightly, Tristan went with him.

Nic continued in the opposite direction, not surprised when Michael was right on his heels. After a quick backward glance to make sure Daniel and Tristan were out of earshot, his friend stopped and grabbed Nic’s arm. “What the hell were you thinking?”

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I’m looking forward to reading what you’re up to—and if you’re just lurking today, that’s fine, too. Thanks for reading, and happy writing!

61 thoughts on “WIP Wednesday, December 2020 – Share What You’ve Been Writing!”

  2. Jan Fosbinder says:

    I’ve missed all of you…It seems like when I wanted to send a WIP I’ve missed the first Wednesday of the month. This one has been in my send file for three months. Hope all is well with you..Here you go..
    Adele padded into the kitchen with messy hair and a smile on her face.
    “Guess what? I didn’t puke this morning. Things are looking up.”
    “You think they’ve finally settled in?”
    “I hope so. I’m cautiously optimistic. I even think I want to eat something this morning.”
    Luke’s eyes went to the ceiling in thanksgiving. For weeks on end, Adele had spent a lot of time in the bathroom paying homage to the porcelain god. He felt awful for her. Daily, he sat on the floor holding her in his arms whispering soothing words. Adele didn’t have morning sickness. She had all day sickness. Any man who thinks they are the stronger of the two sexes is wrong. He enjoys the pleasure of creating a little miracle and in their case two little miracles. His woman willingly makes it happen. She endures and her body adjusts to giving him a family. By far, there is no denying that the woman is the stronger of the two sexes.
    Adele had two little buns in her oven. It shouldn’t have surprised them since she is a twin. But, it did. They put their tropical honeymoon trip on the back burner. Adele didn’t want to spend her days miserable in some tropical location in a bathroom.
    Of course, sex became nonexistent. Luke didn’t have the heart to add that to Adele’s plate. He had read every book out there on pregnancy and becoming a dad. The one thing that selfishly stood out in his mind was the fact that after the first trimester a pregnant woman’s craving for sex kicked in. He hoped all these great philosophers knew what they were talking about. It had been a long time. He missed her touch, her warm love.
    As Adele’s belly grew so did her personality. Her reawakened maternal side subtly bloomed. Luke tried to imagine what it was like to carry around not one but two extra people, endure the back pain, have to urinate every five minutes not to mention being responsible for the well-being of two extra beating hearts in her charge. There’s truly nothing that has made him feel more manly than seeing the woman he loves carrying his children. Going through this pregnancy with Adele was a daily reminder of why they fell in love in the first place.
    Often he overheard her having a one-sided conversation with their babies. He barely could draw a breath as he listened outside their bedroom door. The lump in his throat sent moisture to his eyes. The raw, powerful beauty of Adele’s sweet words would never leave his memory. His love of her surpassed any voiced words he could express.
    “You two have been rambunctious today. I need to ask a favor. How about toning down the kickboxing tournament tonight. Mommy and daddy could use a little sleep because when mommy doesn’t sleep either does daddy. We’re excited to meet you both. I want you to know you have a great daddy. He will be your best buddy. He’s my best buddy but I’ll share him with you. He takes good care of your mommy without missing a beat. He’ll take good care of you too. You’ll have a lot of fun with him. I’m sure of that. We love you, little buns. Sweet dreams. It’s time for you to go to sleep.”

  3. R.L. Merrill says:

    I loved a good call where I could connect with like-minded people. It gave me faith in humanity. I was on such a high from the last call I was dancing in my seat as I dialed the next number.
    “This is Dylan.”
    I was ripped from my moment of glory.
    “Uh, I’m sorry, is this Dylan Whitley?”
    “Yes it is, may I ask who’s calling?”
    I wasn’t prepared for the soft, sleepy voice on the other end of the line. Leftover assumptions from an era that made them freely.
    “Hi, um, hi. Sorry. I’m Joy and I’m calling with the party. The Democrats. The run-off. Oh my god, can I start over?”
    The line was dead silent and I thought for sure she’d hung up on me.
    Then she chuckled.
    “Give it a shot.”
    “Great. Thank you. I’m not usually this bad.”
    “Okay.”
    I’m not sure what I was expecting, but more quiet distracted me again. I found myself trying to picture what Dylan Whitley looked like. What would the face to match that incredible voice be like?
    “Are you there?”
    Her voice startled me and I jumped, knocking over a cup with push pins, which went all over the floor. I jumped up and smacked my shin on the corner of the desk drawer, which I always did and I specifically reminded myself to watch out for every time I got up. I made a face to keep from shouting and then let out a long breath.
    “I’m so sorry. I just…Hi. Let me start over.” Pull it together Joy. “I’m Joy and I’m calling from the Georgia Democratic Party and I wanted to—”
    “The run-off election.”
    I exhaled for probably the first time since she’d answered.
    “Yes. I wanted to ask you if you were planning to vote?”
    The line went quiet.
    “I’d planned to, but uh…I’ve had a change of status.”
    “Oh.” I wasn’t prepared for that answer, but I was a professional. I could handle it. “Is there something I can help with?”
    “Not unless you are a miracle worker.”
    “Well,” I said and then barked out a laugh. “I bring Joy with every call, so miracles aren’t too far out of my purview.” She’d laugh at my stupid joke, or she’d hang up. Either way, I likely wasn’t making a good impression. The dead air on the other end of the line was killing me.
    “Do you always work this hard for a laugh?”
    “I’ll do anything to protect our democracy, so I guess slipping on a banana peel or a bad pun aren’t too high a price to pay.”
    “Duly noted.” And she laughed. It felt like a victory.
    “I’m serious, is there something I can help with?” I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
    “We’re past the deadline for requesting mail-in ballots, aren’t we?”
    “We are. Does that mean you’re out of the area?”
    She cleared her throat and I could have sworn I heard a grunt of pain.
    I am now. I won’t be on Election Day, but I likely won’t be able to get to the polling place.”
    “Oh, well, I think I can help with that. I’ve got charts, graphs, schedules, lists, you name it, all methods of transportation necessary to get you from point A to point Ballot.” My fingers twitched over the keyboard as I prepared to wow her with my resourcefulness since my humor hadn’t done the trick.
    “I’m afraid it’s more than a matter of transportation. I’m, uh, disabled.”
    She said the word as though it were new and unfamiliar.

  4. Artemis Crow says:

    Hi Bryn, I have to agree with Naomi’s assessment; I could really picture the men and especially Nic’s anger. The scene draws me in and makes me want to keep reading!!!

    Here’s a snippet from Abella All In where I introduce two of the poker players she’s up against. I really had a great time writing this book.

    “Abella Cara! Damn, I had no idea you were coming,” the host of the game said, his smile falling, his color rising to an unhealthy, mottled red. Shorter than her by several inches, especially when she wore heels, his average, aging-white-male-with-a-paunch appearance should have relegated him to the background of whatever room he inhabited. Instead, the man chose to combat his everyman looks with a leisure-suit-on-steroids wardrobe, wince-worthy, pomade-slicked, dyed-brown hair that failed to cover his balding pate, and Elvis Nautic Two, gold-rimmed sunglasses from the 1970s that hid brown eyes. And that list didn’t even include the chunks of gold that festooned his thick fingers, wrists, and bared neck.
    “Gentry,” she crooned, holding her hands out to him, ignoring the bright turquoise suit he wore, and the thick cloud of Jovan Musk for Men in orbit around him like satellites around the earth. He took her hands and kissed their backs before standing up and craning his head back to look her in the eye.
    “You get more beautiful…and taller…every time I see you.”
    She lifted a foot and showed him the impossibly high heel. “You know how I like to play my little mind games.”
    “Yes, you do, but that doesn’t explain the beauty.”
    “Don’t let your wife hear you say that. She still hasn’t gotten over you losing her custom Lambo to me.”
    He chuckled even as he grimaced. “I’m still paying for that mess. You wouldn’t consider throwing that in the pot?”
    “Uh, no.” She squeezed his hands briefly then released them. “To answer your non-question, Baker asked me to play in his stead.”
    “That bastard.”
    “Now, now. No need for that.”
    “So you’re the one who drove my Aston Martin here?”
    “Who else would it be?”
    “I thought maybe you sold it. I had planned to win it back.”
    “Had, Gentry? Your insecurity is showing and we haven’t even started.”
    “Ha, and her dress is the color of the car!” a man called out from across the room. He raised a glass. “Touché.”
    “Ah, Ballard.” She glanced at the guard surrounding her, then Fiona.
    Fiona took the leader of Baker’s men by the arm and pulled him to the chairs. “Time to sit, boys. It’ll be a little while before the game starts.”
    Free of the overzealous guards, Abella sauntered over to the man at the bar. The same height as her in her stocking feet, Ballard, unlike Gentry, was whip thin and had a thick thatch of straight, light brown hair. His dark brown, ever-assessing, rarely blinking eyes reminded her of a great white living among the school of sharks that hunted in Las Vegas, always swimming among the other predators, risking figurative death and literal penury with each poker hand.

  5. Cecilia says:

    An Excerpt from “Empath” coming soon:

    Last night’s fitful sleep threatens to turn Emma’s clouded thoughts into a migraine headache. Sitting at her desk at campaign headquarters, she massages her right temple with the fingertips of her free hand. Gazing at the monitor of the laptop laboriously loading the system’s desktop, she presses the BlackBerry firm to her left ear.
    “Gracie.”
    “Yes, Emma.”
    “People are asking for advertising materials that they can have to help promote Chris. Is there a chance we can get something relatively quick to hand out?”
    “Like what?”
    Emma’s face tightens when she senses the indifference in Gracie’s tone. “I don’t know, Gracie. Like bumper stickers or buttons or something like that.”
    “Where are you?” Gracie asks.
    “At the office, why?” Emma pulls up Chris’ calendar. Peruses the lineup for scheduled events.
    “Just curious.”
    And that was Gracie for you. Always sidestepping the question, making Emma work for the answer.
    With the BlackBerry still pressed to her ear, Emma stands and walks to the large picture window facing the street. “Well?” She gazes at the non-descript office buildings across the way as the beat of the city rolls through her veins.
    “Well, what?”
    With Gracie’s lack of interest grating on Emma’s nerves, she stretches the word, “Welll…” and with a hint of a weary sigh, follows with…“Can we get some promotional materials to give to the people who are asking for them.”
    Emma is caught by the distraction on Gracie’s end – someone posing a question in the background. She listens impatiently to Gracie’s muffled response while a loathing for Gracie’s lack of attention burns in the pit of her belly.
    “Gracie.” She tries not to sound so curt.
    “What?”
    “Can we get promotional materials for Chris?” Emma repeats ardently for the third time.
    In a quick, clear, and authoritative manner, Gracie replies unapologetically, “We don’t have the money.”
    Emma shifts her gaze to city traffic trundling through an overcast day. “What about that fundraiser Chris was going to hire?”
    “She’s not on board yet,” Gracie replies.
    “Why? What’s going on?” Emma walks back to the desk. Takes a seat in the chair.
    “They’re working out the money.”
    “Working out the money?” Emma questions as her gaze wanders around the naked office – the walls painted the same beige color as every other wall on the floor. “I thought she was paid based on the money she brings in.” She slumps into the chair. Picks at the lint attached to her black skirt.

  6. Adriana Talamantes says:

    Bryn I really love the way Nic brakes the rules in his own mind it’s like a humor icebreaker to the serous way his feeling… this expert is continued from last WIP ,The Rageful Ones
    There was silence and nothing else. Not even a whimper or a sob just silence. Teachers and staff roam the halls gathering everyone to the auditorium. The old fashion lamps hang on hooks on the wall and flashes of light hit across the room from a flashlight. The principal and our police officer head to the front of the room. Then I hear loud thumps,cars squealing and a crash outside. I scream when small figures hit the window,a flashlight shining on it. We duck and I clutch my hands over my head, watching as the beams sweep across the window revealing dead birds. More cars squeal and I hear people outside. All I can think is that I want out of here and in my mother’s arms. A silly thought takes my imagination, maybe the teachers are the aliens and shoved us in here to do whatever aliens did.
    The principal holds a lantern in front of the room and says “ The SWAT team and police are at every school,and building they guide you to the nearest bunker. Your parents were contacted and most are outside. If they’re not there then you’ll be exported to the bunker by the police. Your family will meet you there. This is a very scary and confusing time so please be calm and follow protocol”. I search for my friends but I don’t see them and the police and SWAT barge in. They push us out and I can hear my mom somewhere in the enormous crowd. I look up several helicopters and the Navy Air Force surrounding the sky. “ MOM” I scream in a shaky voice,as I push my way through the crowd. I clutch my hands into a fist and focus on the pain not the actual pain inside me.
    Students trickle past me and I watch as more police ride into the parking lot. All the roads are filled with cars and police. “ Rosealena” someone yells,I turn around and see my mother not too far from me. She pushes threw and grabs my arm and looks frantically around. She runs through the crowd with me and she passes me a flashlight and the soft light beams off the cars. Cars are getting in line and police are behind them. She squeals out of her spot ,and fear shows across her face. She gets in line and she mumbles under her breath. I only catch bits and pieces,we speed down the highway, the police in tow. I clutch the door and whisper “Mom, what’s going on”. She looks at me wide eyed, and she says softly “you’ll know soon enough”.

  7. Adam says:

    Hi Bryn. Here is another excerpt from my mystery/thriller.

    At ten am, we arrived at Fordham University’s Psychology Department and met with Doctor Albert “The Skull” Richards, head of forensics and one of the most recognized people in the field. He’s seventy-one, author of three books, countless articles in journals and has done extensive work at Riker’s Island.
    “Detectives, great to see you both.”
    “The reason why we’re here is. . .”
    He beat me to the punch. Knew we were working the crustacean killer case.
    “Libby faxed over her autopsy notes and crime scene photos and the past two hours, been formulating a profile. Right off the bat, looking at the wounds, the killer is not a doctor.”
    “How can you tell?”
    “The slice and puncture wounds are inconsistent with those of a surgeon. Most are precise with their hands. The killer showed rapid movements with the knives; wanted to get this over quick. Most probably a fisherman or knows his way around clams, hence the two shucking knives.”
    I was amazed. “Libby mentioned the killer is ambidextrous,” I said.
    “That’s right. He used his right hand on her head and neck and his left hand on her chest. You both are going to have your hands full on this one,” he said, with a slight grin.
    “Albert, you’ve been hanging out with Libby way too long,” Jack said.
    They both chuckled, but I wasn’t in the mood for humor, especially with this maniac on the loose and targeting me. Doctor Richards handed me a profile copy showing the killer between twenty-five and thirty, good-looking, in great shape and most likely gained women’s trust with his looks.
    “Oh, before I forget, the killer sent me this note at the precinct.” I carefully handed the note to Richards like it was the original Declaration of Independence. He examined the letter and then looked directly at me.
    “This is fascinating. Haven’t seen this type of lettering in years. In the early seventies, I analyzed a suicide note from a prisoner at the U.S. Penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania; the note you just handed me is written in the same style,” Doctor Richards said excitedly.
    “What do you mean?” I said, not wanting to interrupt his enjoyment.
    “Here, look at each word. What do you see?” I looked carefully but couldn’t tell.
    “What about you Jack?” He glanced at it and shrugged.
    Right, you wouldn’t know unless you were trained in handwriting analysis.” He continued. “Each word is used with his left and right hand. Let me show you. Hello was used with his left hand. Detective was used with his right, alternating words with each hand throughout the note. I recognized this right away.”
    “You have a name and is this the same guy?” I asked, hoping to have this solved before dinner.
    Doctor Richards answered, “I believe Silva is his last name and one-hundred percent no. If my memory serves me, he’s still in Lewisburg. This just might be a coincidence.”
    Or was it, I thought.

  8. Kristine Lynn says:

    Hi, Bryn! I love these days, but haven’t had the courage to share until now. Here’s an excerpt from my latest “Secret Royals” novels, this one titled “Reclaiming Her Throne”. Thanks for sharing yours–I love the palpable tension!!

    As the sun dipped below the orange-tinted horizon, Rebecca sighed, an exhale that let out the fear trapped in her bloodstream with a gentle hiss. Another day come and gone.
    One more day that her father hadn’t tracked her down.
    For twelve years she’d lived with the constant, pervasive fear that he’d find her—over a decade spent wondering if he’d yank her back into his web of lies, abuse, and anger.
    She shivered in spite of the warmth that snaked around her shoulders.
    Tonight, the twelfth anniversary of the day she’d run away all those years ago, she attempted to let the good in her life wash over her like a gentle wave. A salt-laced breeze kissed Rebecca on the cheeks, assuring her she’d made the right decision in leaving, even if the cost had been high. Almost too high.
    It didn’t matter, though. There was nothing she could do about it now. Not after all this time. She shook her head, forcing the ghost of the fiery-red-haired little girl living in her subconscious to evaporate.
    She’d let the worry creep into her veins, cripple her senses again tomorrow, but for now, she had the sunset to take in, a local bottle of ice-cold lager to enjoy before her next clients arrived.
    And enjoy it she would. The air was a pleasant seventy-four degrees, the sky painted a pink-orange hue that with the silhouettes of palm trees swaying in the breeze, looked photo-shopped. And the water? That majestic body of eighty-degree cerulean saltwater was what had lured her to St. John in the first place. It kept her there, captivated by its depths and the underwater world it provided for her entertainment.
    She’d never get sick of it. Never. It was the one consolation for all that she’d given up, that she gained this all in the tradeoff.
    She felt the presence next to her before she heard the voice—the only voice she’d trusted in twelve years—behind her to her left.
    “A million dollar view isn’t it?”
    Rebecca smiled as she did most every time her best friend and hotel manager, Caroline, was around. Something about her easy, unwavering optimism countered Rebecca’s deep-seated fear that the bottom would drop out from beneath her at any time. Often, in her experience, it had, but not since she’d come to the VIs. Not since she’d gone into business with Caroline. Her friend was the balance Rebecca needed to stay afloat.
    “It sure is. Worth every penny we spent.”
    “That’s the truth. Poor Old Man Robert doesn’t realize what he gave up when he sold it to us.”
    “I don’t think he misses it. Not stuck nose deep in Jenny’s bosom. I’d bet the property he appreciates that view more than this one.”
    The women laughed in harmony. They had gotten the beach front property, dock and all, for a steal when Robert had run off to the mainland with a woman half his age. Rebecca thanked her lucky stars every day the timing had been so serendipitous for the purchase of the hotel and what had turned into her dive business.

  9. PJ Braley says:

    Wow, Bryn, now you have me totally curious about Sophie and Nic’s relationship…hmmm. Very nice dialogue! Interesting their society has so many rules about respect, and I’m looking forward to learning more about how that works.

    In the meantime, here is something I was working on last night. As a bit of intro, it’s towards the end of my WIP when Grant is trying to both placate his brothers and protect the woman he loves. However, with so many lives – including his own – at stake, he trusts no one. (327 words)

    December 31st – 07:00am

    Grant had nearly forgotten what it was like to be in their underground rooms so early in the morning. The familiarity of the snatches of his brothers’ conversations and thoughts echoing in his mind was almost comforting. Sitting at the conference table alone, he slipped his hand into the pocket of his lab coat and released the safety on his pistol.

    “Grant.”

    “Grayson.”

    “Sorry I’m late, is everything in place?”

    “Yes. Tomorrow morning, after a tearful farewell scene, I’ll move from the apartment back to the dormitory. Howard has Carrie’s passport and the children’s papers. They are scheduled to board the Vancouver transport at noon on the 2nd.”

    “Speaking of which, Vancouver was very impressed with the alterations you suggested for their habitat. They wouldn’t mind having you there for a few weeks, just to make sure they met your specifications.”

    “As ever, Grayson, my life, talents, and abilities are at the disposal of the collective. I will be wherever I am needed for as long as necessary.”

    “I’ll get back with you on that. You’ll want to pack, regardless.”

    “Yes. Two more items before then, Grayson. Carrie would like you and the children’s doctor fathers to visit today. Garrett and Gabriel are coming at noon for their last examination. Could you and Gregory come at 1:00? And Gordon, of course, if he would like to see Antony.”

    “Of course, we appreciate the invitation.”

    “You are welcome. Last item, Grayson, I want to confirm the demolition sequence with Howard. When are the charges being set?”

    “We went with your original design and they are already in place. We just have to wait for the 12th to detonate as the permits allow.”

    “Perfect. Thank you, Grayson.”

    Without a backward glance, Grant left the underground home he would never see again and did not reset the safety until he could hear her thoughts. Grayson’s report had settled everything; her voices were the only ones that mattered now.

    ###

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Hi friend! You are too kind, as always. What a quiet and powerful scene. My heart is going out to Grant. You know how I love noble heroes. (And underground homes, for that matter.) Thanks for posting! I hope everything’s going well with you 🙂

  10. Jessie E Turner says:

    Hi Bryn, I loved the conflict in your piece. Thanks for sharing.
    I hope I haven’t made a mistake by posting this scene. I submitted a query for Challenge of the Promise, but I haven’t heard back from the publisher and this wasn’t in the first three chapters he requested. If I could choose a quote to remember, the last few lines of this excerpt would be it.
    ***
    The sanctuary where Leilani had brought Kavika was different from the other rooms of the Opal Chambers. The floor was the color of a wave of the sea and as soft as a cloud. Two arched doorways draped with velvet framed a magnificent mirror. Another mirror spanned the entire opposing wall giving an illusion of immensity to the room.
    As the closing door shut out the festivities, Leilani reached up to touch Kavika’s care-drawn face. “What is troubling you?”
    He took her in his arms savoring the comfort he found there. Still a tremendous burden weighed him down. His grief-wracked chest labored for breath. Kavika struggled with the words, “I have failed my people, Leilani.”
    She pulled away enough to look at him squarely. “You have failed no one. You have succeeded in gathering your people to the place of refuge and you have united them as no one else on KaLani could have.”
    A new shadow of pain darkened his face. “I have made so many mistakes. The crown is lost! Makala is here! I was chosen to take my people through the portal. Without the crown, I cannot finish my mission. If I do not prepare KaLani, the people of Pililani will destroy this planet before it enters our mother universe as it was planned before our people came here.
    Leilani grasped his shoulders with intensity, willing him added strength. “Why do you think you were trained by the grandfather? To prepare you for such a time as this. Surely beings capable of devising a protective shield for this whole planet would have seen our limitations and provided alternatives. Surely they wouldn’t have sent the grandfather to us without providing for our deliverance.”
    Kavika pulled free from her grasp and turned away. Eyes closed, head dropped he grieved, “The formulas and codes are complex beyond anything you can imagine. Yes, I studied, practiced, even memorized, but the slightest deviation could trigger catastrophic repercussions. The crown has all of the knowledge, every last detail – safe, secure, complete. When I lost the crown, I lost archives of knowledge. I lost total recall. I lost intensified perceptual acuity. I became even less than I was before I wore it, because it had become such a part of me. Don’t you understand? I depended on it. Now that it is gone, I am vulnerable. Weak. Helpless. Hopeless.”
    “Don’t EVER believe it is hopeless!” Anger flashed in her eyes. “It is never hopeless. When you drag your body across the wasteland feeling the radiation scorching you; when hea sickness consumes your flesh and drains your strength; when the entire army of Sun People stand between you and the accomplishment of your mission as I have done, you will realize that there is a power far greater than radiation or armies or crowns or anything on this planet. And if you put yourself in harmony with that power, there is no power contrived by lesser beings that can stop you!”

  11. Chris says:

    I love the vivid character description and how you convey what they’re feeling, Bryn. I need to make time to read more of your work. Right now I’m still adapting to the schedule at work so I hope to post a new WIP beginning of the new year. Congrats to those who worked on or even finished NaNoWriMo!

  12. Donald Knowlton says:

    Leap Day

    Retirement is wonderful. When I retired on my 65th birthday, I was ready even before the cake was cut and the speeches and company gifts given. I drove away from the nuclear power plant on my prized antique model 16 Norton sidecar rig, already loaded. I made a quick stop at home to pick up D. B. Cooper, my faithful four legged companion, and we were out of town. I intended to enjoy my newly minted freedom in the modern world. Freedom to do more than I ever imagined since joining Washington’s army as a scruffy punk.

    ***

    Having February 29th as your birthday is a hell of a curse. Not just any February 29 mind you, but the first one on the New Gregorian calendar in 1752. Yeah, I’m old, sort of. I was only a drummer boy and camp messenger for the general, but there were advantages. I could read and write, and quickly picked up French phrases from the Marquise. He didn’t look like a noble but he was sharp in his uniform, and a whole lot nicer than General Washington.
    The women adopted me, the whole bunch of them. They camped about a half-mile away, and had the best food. I longed to be next to one of them in the night, soft, round, and warm. But Washington warned his troops they better not get ill from getting too close to them. My traitorous body would not have let me lie with one anyway.
    It was a miserable time for most. But to me, it was exciting, except for when one of my friends caught a bullet. Mrs. Compton, one of the older women, who looked after the boys and the one girl she didn’t know was a girl for most of the war, held me tight, almost suffocating me against her bosoms. I shook but did not cry as Robbie was lowered into the grave. I painted his name on the wooden cross and walked away to resume my duty, no time to be sad.
    Valley Forge was the worst. Cold found every tear and rip in my clothes. I had two jackets and trousers, and stuffed straw between the jackets so the wind did not cut so hard. We ran an awful lot and would dive into a soldier’s hole for safety. They were muddy dugouts with a log and straw roof for four men.
    That girl, yeah Joey, was one of us, and only I knew her true nature. I happened upon her washing up in a creek, and noticed her lack of boy parts when I startled her. Joey was an outcast orphan. Mrs. Compton would surely kick her out as would The Marquise if they knew her secret. I kept it and offered to look out for her. She rejected my efforts saying it would draw attention. I was 24 in calendar years but my traitorous body had only aged six or seven.
    The surrender at Yorktown was a bittersweet. I was nearby when General Washington took Cornwallis’s surrender, but not the bastard’s sword. The British were shipped home and I had to ride in a wagon with Mrs. Compton and Joey. Joey had grown that year and despite wrapping her chest, Mrs. Compton wasn’t fooled. Joey never forgave her for forcing her off the front lines to wash filthy laundry.

  13. Cheryl Alsippi says:

    Sounds interesting Bryn. I love these characters. I’m getting to know them better and am looking forward to another in the series (have read the first and have the second one waiting for me on my Kindle). Thanks for continuing no this series. My excerpt today is part of a short story I am working on. Lead-in information: Aubrey and Quinn just had an argument and she stormed out taking a walk which led to a path she had never taken before. Here it is: (Thanks for giving us this opportunity by the way.)
    My first step down the path, proved to me that was the wrong choice—ice had formed a thin layer and I went tumbling, head-over-heels, coming to a stop against a thick tree trunk. “Owwww, my ankle! Dammit!” I struggled to my feet fighting to ignore the pain, half-hopping toward the crooked entrance of the cabin. My foot caught on a ledge of the threshold and I fell, head-first into a black abyss, no longer conscious, drifting. When I awoke I saw a doorway obscured by a shimmering golden mist that surrounded me. Everything beyond the glow was dull, shrouded in darkness yet the cabin seemed much larger than it had appeared from the outside.

    My skin tingled. I became aware of something moving forward into the light toward me—a small rotund rat-like creature, walking upright holding two hand-like appendages near its mouth, fingers constantly moving as if plotting something devious. Bulging eyes observed me as it emitted soft chattering sounds. The nearer it came, the larger it grew, shape-shifting to more humanoid features and stopped directly in front of me. The morphed figure was now a half-naked male human with long black hair and paint marks streaking his face and body. He carried a long staff adorned with feathers and dangling pine cones. Terrified, I struggled to back away but felt paralyzed. Far off in the distance, thin mesmerizing notes of a flute began to play. As I remained frozen he moved hypnotically around me, to and fro, waving the staff back and forth over my fractured ankle. The aroma of smoldering sweetgrass filtered through the air. The pain lessened with each passing of his hand. The music faded and the shimmering glow dissolved. He backed away, becoming smaller and more rodent-like as he went, finally disappearing. Dim light surrounded me once again.

    I heard Quinn’s voice. “Aubrey, are you okay? Let’s get back home before it gets dark.” His head peeked around the door. “Come on. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.” I stood cautiously, then realized my ankle had absolutely no pain. I walked outside the crooked shack. The evening sun filtered dimly through the overhead branches. Quinn looked concerned asking again, “Are you okay? I saw you tumble then hobble into this shack. You looked like you were hurt.”

    “You saw me?” I looked down at my foot, rotating my left ankle. No pain. “I’m good, I guess. I’m confused… How long was I gone?”

    “What do you mean how long were you gone? We’ve been gone about half an hour. I followed you out the door but I guess you were too upset to notice. I was only about fifty feet behind you the whole time. Why, how long did you think it was?”

    “I…I’m not sure. It seemed longer.” He’ll never believe this…

  16. Lisa Hoffman Wagner says:

    Hi Bryn, and a very early Merry Christmas!! BTW, I loved your Viking Yule post but hadn’t a chance to reply there…ANYWAY! 🙂 Great stuff here, as always…I already love Michael, and I’m really looking forward to learning more about Nic. This is going to be an amazing book.

    I’ve just been editing very slowly the last few weeks (among Christmas shopping, chess competitions, and a primary school graduation that’s coming up in 3 weeks!). This piece is something new I wrote the other night when I got to a part in the main story where these two characters wander away. Vaisgarron is an ANCIENT dragon (like, beginning-of-time old), and Beilor is a human man, about 72 yrs. old, who is also the reincarnation of Vaisgarron’s enemy, Noctaarys. Phaelan is the human reincarnation of Vaisgarron’s daughter…but biologically, she’s Beilor’s child. Yeah, that’s crystal clear–I’m sure… Anyway, here’s the rough excerpt:

    —-

    Vaisgarron led Beilor away from Phaelan and Gerard. This conversation wasn’t meant for their ears…at the very least, not for Gerard’s. When they were sufficiently out of earshot, the white ancient whirled around and shot a probing thought into Beilor’s mind—

    —and slammed against a brick wall.

    “That trick doesn’t work on me, old fool; you should’ve realized it by now.” An icy grin spread across Beilor’s face. “Sentimentality…senility…decrepitude: the twilight years are a real bitch, wouldn’t you say?”

    Vaisgarron’s wings puffed out; his heartbeat shifted up a gear. He narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”

    Beilor pursed his lips and glanced up at the Ryhmura’s dark envelope, its quiet propellers, its blinking lights. He crossed his arms over his chest, then looked back at Vaisgarron. “You’re asking the wrong question. You should be asking how your daughter—exiled, young, and entirely unaware of her draconic nature—found her way back into this world. Then,” he arched a brow, “you’ll have your answer.”

    Vaisgarron closed his eyes. Bile rose in his throat. ‘I am such an idiot,’ he thought, clenching his teeth.

    ‘Well, I have always known THAT,’ a dark voice pierced his mind…a painfully familiar voice that, after three thousand years, still haunted his nightmares.

    “Noctaarys,” he breathed, opening his eyes. The figure before him was still Beilor, the human who’d fallen into their world almost forty years ago…had married into extreme power…had become the emperor of Sykkhone-Graeor.

    But Beilor’s hazel eyes had now taken on a silvery glow; the palpable shadow beneath the old man’s skin lurked closer to the surface. “Give Ierarchos Sirama a prize…he’s figured it out.”

    Vaisgarron calmly folded his wings. Few dragons knew his conciliar title…a title he’d disgraced in the aftermath of the war against Noctaarys. Drawing a slow breath, he relaxed the muscles in his face. Externally, he presented the picture of quiet dignity; internally, however, his ancient adversary’s manifestation had shattered him like one planet smashing into another—and the cataclysm was only just beginning.

    “Have I rendered you speechless?” Beilor leaned forward with a haughty grin.

    “What do you want?”

    “A lot of things,” Beilor said, spreading his arms, “which will eventually become apparent. But for now, I have only one mandate for you.” He dropped his hands to his hips and began pacing a semicircle around the white dragon.

    “Which is…?” Vaisgarron felt Noctaarys’s chaotic tendrils sprouting from Beilor’s aura and wrapping themselves around his throat. He coughed to ease the spectral constriction, but it made no difference.

    Beilor snorted. “Phaelan is my daughter…in this life, anyway. I want her to attend the Academy and study so she can become useful to me.” A cold sneer twisted his lips; he continued pacing. “Thus, I will not tolerate you meddling in our affairs. I want you out of her life.”

    “This is my home,” Vaisgarron bared his teeth. “And Phaelan is my child.”

    “Well, these are MY rules, Ierarchos Sirama,” Beilor’s voice deepened, aligning with the dark side of his soul. “Please…test me. I love getting into Phaelan’s head.”

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Lisa, I thought of you when I fell down the Yule research rabbit hole! 😀 My goodness, you are so busy, and you’re still so prolific. I love the concept of such an ancient dragon and an old, reincarnated, foe…I’ve honestly never heard anything like it. It’s so great. You know I just love your writing style. It’s always a pleasure.

    • Cheryl Alsippi says:

      Sounds great! I’m very interested in the rebirth of these characters and how they connect to each other. I’m also excited to hear more. Dragon stories always grab me and this one sounds like it will also. Good job.

    • Cheryl Alsippi says:

      I’m very interested in the rebirth of these characters and how they connect to each other. I’m also excited to hear more. Dragon stories always grab me and this one sounds like it will also. Good job.

  17. Pamela Donovan says:

    Ahhhh…there’s Tristan! (I’m still low-key lobbying for him to get his own book.) 🙂 Loved this excerpt!

    Mine needs a bit of set up. Wyatt is my hero who’s been forced to take along an unwanted passenger on his way to rescue my heroine, Mary. (This is a paranormal romance, so there is magic afoot.) Sorry if it seems super choppy, I took out a lot to get it to 500 words.

    ***

    The enormous flock of birds moved to the west, a dark, living mass twisting and contorting eerily in the snowy, late afternoon sky. Wyatt had once seen a murmuration of starlings and this was much the same, except even bigger and creepier. He couldn’t begin to guess how many thousands of birds or how many different species composed the flock.

    The SUV’s wipers thumped back and forth, sweeping the gathering snow from the windshield. Wyatt tried to ignore his unwelcome passenger, but of course the jackass had to strike up conversation.

    “Are you in love with Mary?” Luc asked as he pulled a cigarette out of a silver case.

    “Don’t smoke in here. And none of your business.” He couldn’t put his finger on exactly why he disliked Luc so much. He was arrogant, nosy, and snide, but those personality defects couldn’t account for the level of hostility he felt toward him.

    “She’s one of my favorite Callaghans,” Luc continued, and lit his cigarette anyway. He took a long drag from it, and expelled a noxious cloud of smoke into the cab. “She’s got an edge to her.”

    Wyatt rolled down his window, snatched the cigarette from Luc’s fingers, and tossed it out. He ground his teeth together as the window slid back up.

    Don’t kill him. Do not shoot him.

    “And she’s stunning, isn’t she?” Luc continued, unfazed. “Her mother is a legendary beauty among Witchkind, and Mary looks a great deal like her. Not to mention she’s got an incredible a—,”

    “Witchkind?” Wyatt interjected, knowing that if he heard Luc complete that thought, they were going to have a fistfight.

    “I thought Lila filled you in.”

    “She told me that the accusations are true,” Wyatt said.

    “You don’t believe it?” Luc asked, gesturing out the windshield at the ominous flock that they were following.

    “Sure, why not?” Wyatt said. This guy didn’t need to know anything about what Wyatt knew. “And you? How do you figure in to this?”

    Luc gave him a flat look. “I thought you’d figured this out. I’m the Devil.”

    Wyatt looked at him, certain he’d misheard. “Say again?”

    “Satan. Mephistopheles. Father of Lies. Lord of the Underworld, King of Hell, Old Scratch. But don’t worry. The folklore about witches and the Devil is all bullshit. I’m involved with this for purely selfish reasons,” Luc said, lighting another cigarette.

    This time, Wyatt saw Luc wasn’t holding a lighter or a match. The flame came from Luc’s palm.

    This was too much. He slammed on the brakes, his SUV skidding on the slick road. He glared at Luc, ready to kick him out into the raging blizzard, but Lila’s warning that he was the only one that could help him save Mary stopped him.

    Luc stared back at him calmly. “Looks like we’re here.”

    Wyatt looked out the windshield to see the birds had begun circling again. Of course this is where they would lead them…the abandoned State hospital. There were even more of them now, and they flew above the dark building in an enormous vortex, oblivious of the storm.

    “How cliché,” Luc drawled, looking up toward the brooding, gothic structure. “But I guess cracking open the world next to a nail salon in a strip mall wouldn’t have enough dramatic flair.”

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Tristan’s story is in the back of my head! Honestly, I just need to write these stories, even if only a few people read them. 🙂

      Man oh man, your writing style has gotten sooooo gooooooood. And great description, great dialogue. You have got to finish this!! When can I be a beta reader?!

    • Cheryl Alsippi says:

      I love this excerpt. Paranormal is something that I am always drawn to. And witches. I love the little details–no match to light the cigarette, etc.–takes the element of creepiness up a notch.

  18. Starlately says:

    MERRY CHRISTMAS, BRYN! I am ever-impressed with your ability to create not only a world, but a whole culture (like the Knights’ culture) in your stories. I think that’s the word I mean to use — it’s been a long several weeks/months/etc between grad school and work so sometimes words fail me. Ha. A curse for a writer, eh?

    I know I haven’t shared in a bit but I do swing by every month to read and enjoy the snippets everyone shares! I love that you do this. <3

    This is a bit of backstory for Ellie & Wes; I've been working on refining my voice and I think I am finally super close. (It's good timing, too, because my first Thesis class started this week, haha.)
    ****
    Ellie’s breath hangs like a cloud between her and the most difficult thing she’s ever needed to say to her best friend. She freezes on the front porch, staring at the fresh green wreath on the wooden Dutch door she’s walked through so many times, a baked chicken and cornbread dinner waiting for her arrival. Dizziness blossoms in her chest and floats into her head, and the multi-color lights strung around the windows glow brighter.
    She knows this will change everything—but that’s exactly what she wants. The last time they saw each other left a flutter in her heart that never went away. She thinks about it now: the way his voice sent tingles from her neck down her spine as she hugged him at the airport. She hated those goodbyes. But after waking up tangled in his arms three nights in a row – even though nothing happened – this one was a million times harder than all the others. ‘One last year,’ he’d said. ‘Next time I come home for the summer, it’ll be for good.’ She’d willed back the stinging tears and said, ‘I can’t wait ‘til Christmas.’ He’d smiled and shifted his backpack, words he didn’t say stuck on his tongue. ‘I miss you already.’ He’d left her at security—she couldn’t go any farther without a boarding pass—with a kiss on her forehead that lingered just a little bit longer than the peck she’d grown to crave over the years. It turned her knees to jelly.
    It has been a long four months, and Ellie is so glad she’d opted to stick close to home for college because she would have gone crazy overthinking those last few weeks of summer with him in her head without her other best friend Willa to talk her back down to Earth. Instead, she drove Willa to finally confess she knew how Wes really felt about Ellie, and how Ellie really felt about him, that they were not *just really good friends* anymore and hadn’t been for a while, and would she please stop pretending and do something about it so Willa could get some peace again.
    So, here she stands on the Burches’ front porch a week before Christmas, taking one last deep breath to settle her nerves. They hadn’t talked much in the last few weeks, but they both had much larger course loads this year. She’d started her thesis early and didn’t want to be too much for him, to come on too strong because though this had been building for some time, it was all so new, such uncharted waters. The inky black sky above the farm twinkles with stars and the promise of snow, and Ellie knows she’s about to be swept up in Wes’s arms. She can’t wait to kiss him—for real, this time.
    There is no doorbell at the farmhouse, so she reaches into the middle of the wreath for the cast iron horseshoe knocker and taps it twice.

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Heyyy, friend! Happy holidays to you! That’s very nice of you to say…I spend a lot of time thinking about this imaginary culture. 😀 How fun that you’re sharing a Christmas story. My goodness, that first sentence is a knockout. This is so evocative. I just love it.

  19. Erin McKnight says:

    I’m so happy NaNo is over. I won’t be doing much writing this month. Between recharging my brain and turning my kitchen into a mini candy factory for the plethora of holiday goodies I’ll be making, progress will be slow. But that’s okay. Gives me time to focus on a couple other writerly things I’ve been putting off.

    Here is a snippet from my NaNo project. Paige has returned to her hometown in an attempt to save the family business from going under. She and her sister are at odds over what their deceased father would have wanted. This is due in no small part to Paige’s estrangment from him before his death. In this scene, Paige is ready to throw in the towel and head back to Chicago when her mother shows her something unexpected in hopes of changing her mind.

    Paige pouted and flopped back down onto the bed. “Besides the only reason I stayed away for so long was because of Daddy.”
    Her mother frowned at her. “What do you mean?”
    “All Daddy ever wanted me to do was ride. He didn’t care about anything else I did. I knew if I came back here he would try to force me back into it, and I,” she turned to her mother. “I really like what I do Momma. I’m good at it. I’ve got a chance at a promotion. A really good one, and if I throw that all away now, I may as well have just given up and done what Daddy wanted.”
    “And just what exactly do you think that was?”
    There was a deep set frown on her mother’s face. Paige tried to decipher what the look meant, but she was coming up empty.
    “You wait right her,” her mother said.
    She marched from the room to return a few minutes after with what looked like an old photo album in her hands. She placed it in Paige’s lap before taking her seat beside her.
    Paige examined the book, turning it this way and that. It was an old brown leather piece with what looked like bits of twine serving as binding. When she looked back at her mother in question, she simply nodded for her to go on.
    Opening the first cover, Paige found her name and birth date written in familiar handwriting.
    “It was your father’s.”
    Turning the first page, she found several pictures and clippings from pamphlets showing her earliest days in rodeo. One particular photo of her covered in head to toe from trying her hand at mutton busting made her laugh.
    She saw herself grow as she flipped through the pages. Each one showed her doing a bit more. There was even a photo of her and Daisy on the first day they met. Page after Page detailed her barrel racing carrier and the accolades she one, each one stoking the fire on Paige’s anger.
    “This,” she pointed to the book, “this is exactly what I am talking about. All this shows was how good I was at barrel racing. You’re just proving my point.”
    “Keep going.”
    Her mother gave her a knowing look. Paige bit her tongue and kept thumbing through the pages.
    More racing.
    She was about ready to slam the book closed and shove it back in her mother’s face when she turned the page to see something unexpected. Her college acceptance letters. All of them. Every school that she had applied to that wanted her was memorialized in this book.
    She looked up to see her mother’s knowing smile.
    “Go on.”
    She flipped through a few more pages to see a graduation announcement and photo of her in her cap and gown. She turned the page again and a gasp flew out of her mouth. Her hand shot up to cover it, and she nearly dropped the book at the sight in front of her.
    It was the first ever ad campaign she had worked on back when she was just an unpaid intern. He had all of them. Every print ad she had ever touched, he had a copy off.
    A tear sprang to her eye.

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