WIP Wednesday, February 2021 – Share a little of your work in progress!

Posted on by Bryn Donovan

Hey friends! I hope your February is off to a great start. I celebrated my Groundhog Day birthday yesterday, and although I miss so many people so much, it reminded me of how much I have to be grateful for!

 

Bryn Donovan barefoot on the beach near Santa Monica pier at twilight, wearing mask, with illuminated Ferris wheel and other city lights in background
A walk near Santa Monica Pier last night. From Instagram.

 

Now if you’re a new subscriber to this blog, welcome!! Work In Progress Wednesday is when I share a little of something I’m working on, and I invite you to do the same. We do have a few ground rules! Here they are.

*keep your excerpt under 500 words (I’ll trim them if I notice they’re running long)

*no critiquing other people’s work (we’re usually sharing excerpts that are too new to be ready for critique), but positive and encouraging words are much appreciated

*no graphic scenes, but a little vulgar language is no big deal (and I reserve the right to add content warnings)

Today I’m going to share something different…I was writing a little about the time when I first met Mr. Donovan. It’s interesting sometimes to think back on what a different person you used to be, isn’t it?

*

When I first met my husband I was a lot like a wild animal.

I was twenty-two and had just moved to Tucson for an MFA in creative writing. I didn’t shave, anywhere, because razors were expensive and I was so poor. I owned no makeup. I didn’t wear bras or underwear, because bras were even more expensive, and besides, I was hot. My apartment didn’t have air conditioning and I didn’t have a car, so I walked everywhere in the summer desert heat.

I went to my first poetry workshop in the program wearing a cotton dress from the early 1970s, probably, so thin as to be see-through. I’d bought a few dresses from a thrift store I’d wind up working at for several months later, at a “training wage” that was below minimum wage. There had been a fire at the shop right before I bought the dresses; they were nearly free because they all reeked of smoke.

But when I went to the workshop, I wasn’t thinking at all about how I looked or smelled. It’s strange to think of now because I’ve worked at corporations for so many years, learning much more slowly and painfully than most about how to present myself and how to temper my feelings and my words. I still fail at it sometimes, and yet sometimes, I still feel like I’ve learned how to do it too well.

In Tucson, it wasn’t that I didn’t care what people thought; I didn’t even wonder what other people thought. Many of them knew each other already by that point because they’d been through the training program to learn how to teach freshman composition at the university. I’d gotten the coveted fellowship for my year and had free tuition, which was what had brought me out to Arizona in the first place. At the time I went to the workshop, I hadn’t spoken to a soul for days, and more than at any other time in my life, I did not give a shit. The first poem I submitted was about shit, and poetry professor made a reasonable guess in class that turning that poem was a very self-conscious thing to do, when it was completely the opposite.

So Mr. Donovan, somehow, fell for a half-naked girl who smelled like an actual disaster, writing poems that literally no one would ever ask for, making everyone wonder how the hell she got the fellowship. He was clean, a big guy in button-down shirts, and normal on the surface, with beautiful brown eyes fringed with thick lashes and a sensually full upper lip, and unlike me, he wrote beautiful poems, with no false notes or show-offy flourishes, ones about longing and loss and heartbreak and hope.

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Well! Hope the personal writing isn’t too startling to my long-time subscribers. 🙂 This month I am going to try to finally complete the first draft of book three in my Manus Sancti trilogy. It’s a short month, so wish me luck!

Please share your own excerpts below…or if you just want to talk about your writing goals, or chat in general, that’s great, too! Thanks for stopping by, and happy writing!

82 thoughts on “WIP Wednesday, February 2021 – Share a little of your work in progress!”

  1. Constance S. Parrott says:

    I just wanted to hug you after reading this very personal excerpt. You are amazing and inspire me in so many ways! Husband just yelled from the other room: “Connie, put your underwear back on!” Oh well, for one shining moment, I was a rebel. 😉

  2. Jessie E Turner says:

    Oh, Bryn, I feel for you! Thanks for sharing this piece.
    Happy birthday!
    I’ve been contemplating sharing the following for a few months, but tried to keep it about my “work in progress.” Thanks for the lead-in to a time when I was young – a high school student on the verge of big changes.
    I’ve called it, Bullets and Swastikas.

    1965 – the middle of the cold war – and we had just moved to the city from a small town. I felt overwhelmed by the vastness of my surroundings as I walked up the stairs and between the massive pillars of Central High School for the first time.
    My eyes focused on the ceramic floor tiles. Swastikas paraded with geometric precision in the black and white squares. Already intimidated by the alien environment, I nearly bolted when an air raid siren blasted. Students flooded up a ramp and into the hallway. A horrific momentum pushed the human tide past me. Military uniforms glared at me from the tsunami. Locker doors banged. Footsteps quickened. The wave retreated and I found myself alone again with the swastikas.
    I located the office, registered, and received a schedule and a guide for that first day. On the way to class, she chatted, “They aren’t really swastikas, it’s the Indian sign for religion… Oh, that’s not a siren. It’s just a tone over the PA system to change classes… The uniforms? ROTC students wear them every Thursday. Those yellow signs show the way to the civil defense shelters. They are under the school on the third level of the basement.”
    As it turned out, eventually I found out what was on the second level of the basement too – a rifle range. Seems our young ROTC students learned to shoot. Drill team exhibitions included precision marching and weapon tossing. We even had a girl’s drill team complete with military uniforms (skirts for girls) and you guessed it – thirty ought sixes.
    I shouldn’t have been surprised when our PE teacher announced that we were going to learn to shoot guns. The commander showed up with several rifles and demonstrated numerous ways to hold them – sitting, standing, kneeling and prone. We got to practice every position, but when the time came a few days later and we descended to the second level of the basement, we all had to lay flat on our stomachs. Most uncomfortable!
    We each got twelve rounds of ammunition. The ear protection didn’t deaden my fear of the explosion in that weapon. And the gun was far heavier than I remembered from our class in the gym. Every time my hand shook past the target, I squeezed the trigger and winced at the concussion that followed. Everybody else finished and I still had six shots to go.
    I had followed the circle of targets around the left side. The commander barked orders at me to hurry. I was taking a spot somebody else needed. And nobody could retrieve her target till I was done! I pushed myself to work my way up the right side. When we finished that day, nobody was more relieved than I was! I was disappointed with my results. As careful as I had been with my twelve bullets, I only had six holes in my target. The girl at my right had eighteen holes in hers!

  3. Pamela says:

    I enjoyed your personal writing. It was honest and descriptive and very romantic, considering the differences at the time between you and the “poet” you met! I happen to love romance, and the more personal the better! I’m in the process of publishing a “flash memoir” (that’s what my publisher calls it). Just flash non-fiction stories about the fun, light-hearted moments in my life, hopefully relatable to many. Here’s a quick couple of paragraphs of the one called: What Is It About Women and Their Feet?
    “I refuse to go! No one touches my feet!”
    That was my mom’s reaction when I stopped in front of a beautiful spa to give the female members in my East Coast family a treat. I had just spent seven hours in the car with my daughter and granddaughter to reach Delaware for some “Nanny” time.
    My mom is the most put-together ninety-one-year-old you’ll ever meet. She wears light blue and pink pastel sweaters to show off her blue eyes and snow white hair. She shows off her lithe figure in Gap Kids jeans. Her earrings always match her necklace, which matches the color of the sweater she’s selected for the day.
    She wears Converse sneakers to look cool—and to hide her feet.
    What is it about us women and our feet?

  4. R.L. Merrill says:

    Oh PLEASE finish book three! I read all of book one Sunday while taking a sick day in bed and I’m halfway through book two! I love this story you shared today and was immediately caught up in the misery that would be Arizona in the summer with no AC.

    I’m hard at work on my supernatural suspense, which had a breakthrough this weekend! This scene has our heroine with her captors after her plane was hijacked. Her vision was impaired in the accident.

    The Second walked slowly, allowing me to take careful steps. Being back on my feet reminded me of the fact I had a long way to go until my body was healed. I hoped next time I had an opportunity to escape that I’d be strong enough.
    “She’s being kept in the infirmary so the nurse can look out for her, but it doesn’t appear that she’s in any danger of going into labor. It was a blessing that you were there to help her. You, Miss Cassidy,” he said, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm now, which brought me flush against his side, “you truly are a blessing.” He placed his other hand over mine and patted it.
    “Glad I could help.”
    “And it’s fortunate for us that you can take over some of her duties while she rests. The First relies on her.”
    “I’ll do what I can, but I still can’t see well.”
    “And fortunate for you, I’m here to teach you our ways and how The First is to be served.”
    “Lucky me.”
    He stopped walking. “It’s not luck, Cassidy. It’s divinity. Things do not happen without being preordained by our Maker. He places us upon a path to righteousness, and if wefollow his plan, our lives will be worthy for ascension.”
    “So that means free will isn’t a thing?”
    “Oh no. It’s very real. But free will leads us down the path of temptation and destruction. That is why the work we do is so important.” He paused for a moment. “We are saving lives here. Just as we saved yours. Without Makers Plan, I fear you would not have survived the terrible tragedy that occurred.”
    “You mean bring hijacked and forced to crash land.”
    “That is the view a sinner would take, Cassidy. We both know you’re better than that.
    “Hey,” he said, his voice dropping to a soothing octave. “I would never hurt you. Please don’t be afraid of me.”
    He was so close now I felt his breath on my face. He smelled of something clean. Pure.
    “You startled me.”
    “I apologize,” he said, then placed his hands lightly on my shoulders. “But I hope you’ll come to trust me. I know it wasn’t necessarily your choice to come, but sometimes Our maker takes the choice from us when we need him to most. You’ve been feeling restless for some time, haven’t you Cassidy? Knowing you were on the wrong path? Knowing you were meant for something more?”
    A wave of warmth flowed through my chest and I gasped. How did he know?
    “Is it too extraordinary to believe that your coming here was meant to be?”
    My whole body began to tremble. It was as if he’d heard my inner thoughts over the past few months.
    I shook my head to clear my head and concentrated on my inner truth seeker. This had to be bullshit.
    Instead of that sense of disappointment I usually felt, I was shocked.
    He was telling the truth, or at least the truth as he’d accepted it to be. He was one hundred percent committed to his beliefs and there was no sign of dishonesty anywhere.
    Could he really be the son of that evil man?

  5. Stevemcgarrettlover says:

    Hello! I am happy to report I finally finished my first novel “Audrey O’Callaghan: Origin” and am now looking for a literary agent and or a publisher. I also have the second novel in the series, that I have to edit a lot before it is ever ready to be published, and am currently writing the first part of the third book as well. Busy busy bee, that’s me!

  6. Darlene Foster says:

    Thanks for this Bryn. I’m working on Amanda in France right now. Here is the beginning.
    Amanda looked up – way up. In front of her, a massive wrought iron lattice structure pierced the brilliant blue sky.
    “Wow! The Eiffel Tower! It’s even more amazing in real life.”
    “Cool, isn´t it?” Leah shaded her eyes with her hand.
    “Can we go up to the top?” asked Amanda.
    “Not today, but maybe later,” said Leah´s Aunt Jenny.
    Amanda smiled at the older woman. “Thanks for inviting me to join you here in France.”
    “I figure that´s the least we could do after coming to Malta to help us. I´m just glad you could get time off from school.”
    “When I told my teacher we would be sleeping in a bookstore, she was all for it. I just need to hand in a writing project when I get back.”
    “At least we can relax and enjoy Paris, we won’t be chased by bad guys or be looking for lost artifacts.” Leah grinned. “And, the shopping here is fabulous.”
    They took selfies with Monsieur Eiffel’s iconic tower behind them and then caught the crowded metro. “This is our stop,” said Aunt Jenny after a few minutes. They climbed up stairs, dodging passengers in a hurry to get to their destination, and got out at a tree-lined street. The traffic was crazy with four lanes in each direction.
    “This is the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, the most famous street in Paris,” announced Aunt Jenny. “Follow me.” She led them past high-end shops with the latest fashions adorning some windows and glittering jewellery in others. “You can buy anything you want here.” She stopped in front of a store with a Lamborghini sports car in the window. “As long as you have the money!”
    Amanda pointed to a huge stone archway at the far end of the street. “What is that?”
    “The Arc de Triomphe, the heart of Paris.” Aunt Jenny replied. “Twelve avenues spread out from the circular plaza making it look like it is the centre of a star. Come, let’s get a picture of you in front of it, Amanda.”
    They crossed the hectic street and stopped at a narrow divider in the middle. Amanda’s heart raced as cars whipped around her on both sides.
    “This is the very best place to take a selfie with the Arc behind you.”
    “Yikes!” Amanda shuddered. “Is it safe?”
    “Sort of. Others are doing it too. But be quick as there is a queue.”
    Amanda noticed a line of tourists waiting to stand where she stood, on an island right in the middle of a crazy busy street. She forced a smile as Leah held out the camera and got both of them in front of the famous attraction.
    When they reached the other side of the street, Amanda took a breath. “Now that was insane.”
    “Never a dull moment with Aunt Jenny.” Leah rolled her eyes.

    • Adriana Talamantes says:

      I always wanted to go to France and your expert made me feel like I was right there with them my heart even jumped when they were crossing the street to get a picture. Hope to see more!

    • Jan Fosbinder says:

      I love your excerpt. I’ve been to Paris an extraordinary adventure. The most beautiful city that I’ve ever had the pleasure of visiting. Every nook and cranny holds some sort of beauty. I would go back in a heartbeat. Your excerpt brought back beautiful memories for me. Thank you!

  7. Adriana Talamantes says:

    I love your Personal expert Bryan,it gives us a little insight on what it’s like to struggle with writing and how it really is for some people . Also how one person could change your life. It’s inspiring! My expert for WIP is from last month The Rageful Ones …(little insight Rose just found out that she is an alien and her mother is making a break for it,she trying to make her mistakes right)
    “Mom ,what are you doing” I say while slamming against the door my flashlight flying out my hands. She turns again and again until I don’t know where we are. I look at her, her face set on something and I turn back to the road. More cars are packed on the road and my mother twists to the left and goes up a ramp. Everything seems to go in slow motion as we fly through the sky as I clutch onto my seat, my mouth set in scream. Police and SWAT up ahead there head inclined to us. Then insivetly I put up my hands as we crashed through a house ,my heart hammering as we tumbled to the other side. Amazingly we landed safely and my mother let out a relief sob and counties to sped away.Finally she slowed down the sound of sirens behind us. “ Listen Rose, I know people that can help us.” She pounds the gas pedal and we jerk toward leaving California behind us.

    ###

    My head pounds with all sorts of emotions but I stretch as much as I can in the seat. I look out the window and the sky is still dark, even though it is past noon. Trees and deserted cars cover the ground fires up ahead. I look at my mother , her brown hair is in a sloppy bun and her face scared and tired. Her mouth is pulled in a tight line, making her full mouth smaller. My mother ,a property investor, doesn’t seem the type of person to fall in love with an alien to then be on the run from them. I shake my head trying to pour all this craziness out of my head.
    Not long after passing by the fires and vehicles we enter Colorado. The mountains in view and I stare in horror at the town. Cars and busses are smashed together and are in the building . Glass lining the streets, all the buildings are empty and windows flap a small fire near a bank. I scoot forward, who would still be here. My mother clutches the steering wheel and glances at me and the light from the car shines on a baby blue house. We park in front of it and sit in silence listening to the eerily flaps of the shutters. The planes and aircraft above roar above us when I see a man in the doorway. My mother gets out but I stay in my seat, something seems wrong about him. Not only is he looking strangely at us but he’s on fire. It’s like a glow that comes from him ,but that can’t be possible. My mother sticks her head into the car again grabbing a flashlight and she whispers “ They can help us, it’s alright”

  8. Naomi Lane says:

    Oooo, I like you even more now because I used to be a hippy chick too. That was a great read. I am working on finishing my third book and getting it to my editor by the end of this month. It is a novel about eight friends who decide to buy a property together as they retire. Let’s keep on writing friends because we sure can’t invite friends over anyhow right? Thank goodness for this passion because it keeps me sane!

  9. Jan Fosbinder says:

    I intend to begin and end this book with this poem I wrote.
    The title of the book is One Too Many Times
    Lydia’s story is profound. A page-turner.
    RE: Domestic Abuse…Nick & Lydia…Here you go…

    It took months and months of in-depth theory and journaling about my horror with Dale that helped me to unravel the layers of the events and feelings of my past and come to terms with them. Nick LaMontagne’s understanding and encouragement helped me realize I deserved a life of peace and love and provided me the bravery to put my past to bed and embrace a restored and contented future with him at my side. His undeniable love afforded me the power and strength to pursue happiness. Nick is a kind man. One-in-a-million. I feel his love every day with his tender words, gentle touch, soft lips, and reaching hand. He alone formed the woman I am today. A broken, shattered damaged woman that felt she had no hope for life and her death was imminent. With Nick in my corner, his composure and diligence strengthened my resolve to be the best I could be regardless of my past. Was I grateful for the turn of events because of Nick LaMontagne without a doubt. I intend to become the voice and advocate for all domestic abuse victims. My message to them would be to never give up hope for a better life. To be strong enough to remove yourself from that situation. Nick saved my life. He gave me the greatest gift of all in my darkest time. Love
    I am grateful…My love for Nick LaMontagne has no boundaries. I’m blessed.

    ONE TOO MANY TIMES

    One too many times you’ve lost control.
    One too many times you’ve hurt my soul.
    One too many times I forgave your way.
    One too many times I chose to stay.

    Many times I wanted to leave.
    Just to feel a peaceful reprieve.
    There was something inside me to stay and endure.
    But my heart always knew that wasn’t the cure.

    Every time the slap came around.
    I bit my lip and didn’t make a sound.
    Why would I allow this to happen to me?
    I knew in my mind I needed to flee.

    One too many times you’ve lost control.
    One too many times you’ve hurt my soul.
    One too many times I forgave your way.
    One too many times I chose to stay.

    The fear of reprisal kept me there.
    I was beginning to think I didn’t even care.
    The last time the hand landed hard on my face.
    I absolutely knew I was in the wrong place.

    I never understood the frustrations you felt.
    But then one day you grabbed your belt.
    When it cracked across my waiting skin.
    At that moment I decided you wouldn’t win.

    One too many times you’ve lost control.
    One too many times you’ve hurt my soul.
    One too many times I forgave your way.
    One too many times I chose to stay.

    It took courage and I knew I had to be brave.
    My life I was determined I was going to save.
    So I pulled up my bootstraps and left one day.
    Because your punching bag for me was no reason to stay.

    When I walked out that door and you called me back
    I didn’t turn around to take your verbal attack.
    The deep love that I felt for you years ago
    Faded away like a carnival show.

    The sun rose that early spring morn.
    And that was the day my soul was reborn.
    One too many times…

  10. Adam says:

    Hi Bryn,
    Happy Birthday. If you saw your shadow, six more weeks of writing? Lol. I have more than six weeks, but I couldn’t resist putting that in. I am halfway through writing my murder/mystery novel and I want to share this piece.
    We pulled into the parking lot and circled around the hotel looking for a dark Nissan Rogue. We came up empty, parked, then walked into the lobby.
    Behind the front desk, a man in his sixties, silver hair neatly combed to the side, probably retired, wearing black trousers and light blue polo with Holiday Inn Express logo, greeted us. His magnetic ID said Harris Mitchell.
    “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Welcome to the Holiday Inn Express.”
    I pulled out my badge, said, “I’m Detective Royce, this is my partner, Detective Charles.”
    “How can I help you today?”
    Jack whipped out a photo of Maximo Castillo and showed it to the friendly desk clerk. “Have you seen this man?”
    He shook his head. “I just arrived for my afternoon shift.”
    “We believe he’s staying in this hotel. Can you see if he’s checked-in?”
    He nodded. It’ll just take a moment.” He typed Maximo Castillo into the computer and within seconds, his name popped up on the screen. “Yes, it says here that he checked-in two days ago.”
    “You haven’t seen him since?” I asked.
    Mitchell answered, “No, I was on vacation and this is my first day back. Did he do something wrong?”
    “At this moment, we’re not sure. We just want to ask him some questions. When he does come back, please give us a call.” I handed him a business card.
    We said goodbye and walked out to our car.
    “At least we know he’s here. We could stay awhile, see when he shows up,” I said.
    Jack shook his head, climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. “The captain said no, but I bet Tim Wright could locate Castillo’s car.”
    Two hours later, Jack and I watched as Wright typed frantically on the keyboard, like a concert pianist giving a performance at Carnegie Hall.
    Wright turned the computer towards us, showing Castillo heading North on I-95. “This was earlier today,” he said.
    We couldn’t see anyone else through the tinted windows.
    “Where the hell’s he going?” I asked Wright.
    He turned the computer around and went back to his solo performance. “Sorry, detectives, that’s all I’ve got. Hope this helped.”
    We thanked him and bounced back downstairs.
    “I bet you the farm CK was in that SUV.”
    “We don’t have proof,” Jack said, “but, at least we know where Castillo’s staying.”
    “True. But where the hell was he traveling to,” I groaned. “That’s for tomorrow. I’m getting out of here early. Lisa and I are going out to dinner and then attend the opera. Madame Butterfly is opening at Lincoln Center.”
    “You definitely could use a little distraction tonight. Have fun and I’ll see you bright and early,” Jack said.
    “Copy that.”
    Later that evening around six, we arrived at O’Neal’s Steakhouse on Columbus Avenue. The relaxed ambience of dimmed lights and soft music was popular among the patrons. We ordered the strip steak with green beans and mashed potatoes, complimented with a half-bottle of cabernet Sauvignon.
    My black Oscar de la Renta suit with single-breasted jacket didn’t come close to the way Lisa looked tonight, in her stylish black dress with matching layered cape. We both needed this distraction and seeing the happiness in her eyes lifted my mood. We clanged glasses and toasted the evening.

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Hi Adam! Haha, with my Groundhog Day birthday, I always joke that if I don’t see my shadow, that’s six more weeks of partying. 😉 I really enjoyed this, and especially the mood shift from work to pleasure. I hope the writing is going great! Thanks for posting!

  12. Artemis Crow says:

    I thought your post was beautiful. It really confirmed for me how much of a free spirit you are. Rare, real, delicate, determined. Thank you for sharing yourself with us.

    For this month I wanted to share another scene from my wip, Cancer’s Moon. Here, Cancer and Nokomis are on a mission to save Lyon and Persephone and their children from humans. Along the way they’ve discovered they like each other. But she is half paranorm and half Native American human, while he is descended from paranorm royalty. In her mind, they can never be together, yet he disagrees so he tries to connect.
    ——-
    “And what if you chose to live in another world?” Cancer asked, his words laden with meaning.
    Meaning Nokomis was terrified to contemplate.
    Before she could respond, he held out his hands and waited for her to take them. “I can see you’re unsure about this. I get it. So let’s start with something simple.”
    She took a deep breath, trying to let go of the tension that had threatened to choke her. “Like what?”
    He released her hands and eased out of the settee, going to the stereo built into the cabinets. He turned it on and ran through some stations until he found a slow song.
    He held out a hand. “Dance with me?”
    She touched her lips with her fingertips, startled by the idea. “I’ve never danced before.”
    He moved his hips side to side, not once catching the rhythm of the song.
    She bit back a giggle.
    “See? Nothing to it,” he said, dancing around, his hands flying all over the place. “Join me.”
    She got to her feet and stood still, not sure she could do any better job than he was, but his enthusiasm proved to be infectious. She found herself bending her knees and bobbing, her hands moving back and forth in time with her legs and hips.
    They danced around the space until the song stopped and was replaced by a faster one.
    Cancer kicked a foot out and flung his arms over his heads, his mouth wide, his eyes wider. “Let go, Nokomis! Feel the music!”
    She tried to copy his herky-jerky movements, but she burst into laughter, barely able to breathe, much less keep up. “Now you’re being silly.”
    The third song came on, another slow one, and Cancer stopped dancing. His face was flushed, his excitement cooling to serious. He held his arms out to the side, beckoning her.
    “Come closer,” he said.
    She walked up to him and looked into his brown eyes, her heart pounding from the interest she saw in them. This was new, this was real, this was now.
    He wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her up against his body, his heat washing over her. Delicious, raw, sweet heat that seeped into her, melded with her until he felt as much a part of her as anyone ever had.
    He took her left hand and pressed it against his waist, then took her right hand and held it. “The trick here is to not use fancy footwork. Just…sway.”
    Cancer dropped his head and pressed his ear against hers, his breath tickling the tender skin on her neck.
    He swayed left then right, and she followed him, her body relaxing, getting used to the closeness, the intimacy she’d never experienced before.
    He turned his head. “This is how it starts,” he whispered.
    “What starts?”
    “The knowing.”

  13. Kimberly Bea says:

    Hi Bryn! Belated happy birthday! Thanks for sharing your story. I found it so moving and relatable.

    I am really hoping to get my third draft of my WIP to my agent by the end of this month, or early March to allow for CP feedback. I’m working on Act III now, so I’m getting close–though the more dramatic things get, the more I fuss around to get things right. I hope I am not repeating myself with this excerpt.

    The air was thick around me as I made my way into a clearing. And there, piping as for the King of Elfhame himself, stood the handsomest man I had ever seen.

    His skin was translucent, pale as moonlight and nearly as luminous. No human male had ever borne such sculpted cheekbones, like shards of glass that would cut you to touch. His winged brows and the hair curling over his collar was black, but iridescent under the dim forest light. He was garbed in leaves—no, it was a prince’s cotehardie and hose—yet again, no, it was somehow both. Though he was uncrowned, he was so glorious, I knew at once who he must be, and fell to my knees in awe.

    “My liege.”

    He lowered the pipe from his lips and laughed. Though it was bell-like and as charming as his tune had been, the laughter was also pitying and cruel. “Oh, you have been long away, little changeling, if you would name me so.”

    I straightened, uncomprehending. “My lord?” For this was surely a noble of the Seelie Court, the highest of the sidhe. And yet something about him was unsavory, the harsh set to his arching brows, or the cast to his skin. If he was a Seelie lord, there was something Unseelie about him, too, and a chill ran over my flesh. Here was one who kept not to a single path, thus violating even Faery’s capricious rules.

    “The changeling who calls herself Bess.” His hand came beneath my chin, and he turned my face from one side to another and grimaced at the birthmark on my throat. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

    I backed away, misliking his forwardness, how he seemed to know my very thoughts. His fingers dropped to his side. But now my skin longed for that touch, and if his hands should encircle my throat and squeeze the very life out, I knew I would die in ecstasy, crying out for more.

    I misliked that as well. This was no meet behavior for Eamon Grieve’s daughter. ‘Twas not yet time I should return to Faery, I could feel it in my bones. I needed to gather my pennyroyal and be on my way.

    Yet somehow I stayed rooted to the spot. “Who are you, then?” My voice was faint and fearful. I despised it.

    “Amadan,” he said simply.

    I searched my mind for a translation, then my face grew hot. “You call me ‘fool.’”

    “I call myself thus, or rather, so I am called.” There was an amused twist to his lips, and his over-long fingers danced in the air. “Of late, I was the King’s Fool and the Queen’s. With one touch I bring pleasure, with another, death, yet my victims will crave both in the end. In short, I am called the Amadan Dubh, the Dark Fool, and I come and go at will.”

  14. Todd Anderson says:

    Hi Bryn, great story. It takes courage to put yourself out there like that with a personal story, so kudos. I’ve been writing for about ten months now and working on my first novel, a sci-fi, fantasy, with a horror tinge to it. Below is an excerpt:

    The next morning, Terra woke up to find the sun shining in her room.
    For a moment, she was disoriented, not knowing where she was. Then she spied her suitcase, and it all came rushing back to her. She was a prisoner of the resistance. Then she leaned back in her bed and laughed at herself, prisoner my ass.
    There was a loud knock on her door. “Terra, are you awake?” asked Capella.
    “I am now,” she replied.
    “Oh right, sorry. Are you decent?”
    “Give me a moment. Let me throw some clothes on.”
    Terra jumped out of her bed and looked around for her clothes. She hadn’t taken the time to unpack, so she put on the same clothes she wore yesterday. Not the most hygienic thing to do but it wouldn’t be the first time.
    She opened the door. “What is it?”
    “I came to invite you to breakfast. I hope you don’t mind. We didn’t have time yesterday for a proper orientation, and we wanted you to feel welcome.”
    Terra realized she was hungry. She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten. “Sure. I could use some food. Lead the way.”
    Zoey made eggs and pancakes. Terra loved pancakes, especially when they were swimming in a sea of maple syrup. She greedily ate up four pancakes before she took her first breath.
    Zoey and Capella were staring at her. “I guess you were hungry,” said, Zoey.
    Terra looked at her empty plate. She had mopped up every bit of syrup with the corner of her last remaining pancake. She could imagine what she looked like doing it, like some wild animal. Terra hid her embarrassment by wiping her mouth leisurely with a linen napkin, hiding as much of her face as she could. “I’m sorry, I’ve been so focused on finding the spider’s creator that I haven’t given much thought to food lately.”
    Capella held up his hand. “No need to apologize. We’ve all been there. Besides, it’s nice to see a woman besides Zoey with a healthy appetite.”
    Zoey shot Capella a hateful glare. “Don’t exaggerate. I don’t eat that much.”
    Capella shrugged. “Of course not—only when you’re hungry.” He started laughing when Zoey got red-faced.
    “At least I don’t leave half my plate on my stomach when I’m through eating,” Zoey said, running her eyes up and down Capella’s upper torso and then raising an eyebrow when she stopped at his stomach—which made Capella laugh even harder. Zoey tried to keep a straight face but failed and joined Capella in the laughter.
    Terra couldn’t help but join in. It was apparent they enjoyed being around each other.
    A short man with hollow cheeks and a pointed nose walked into the kitchen, his eyes glossy and his mouth set in a hard line. “It happened again last night—the same as last time.”
    Zoey closed her eyes and slumped back in her chair.
    Capella’s voice was tight with an edge. “Tell us.”

  15. Tina P Ruiz says:

    Happy Birthday, Bryn. I hope you had an amazing day. And thank you for allowing us to peek inside how you met your Mr. Right. It’s a wonderful story.

  16. Denise Tiller says:

    This is chapter 7 of Reaper Madness, a paranormal cozy. Circe is a psychic medium and Bo Tyler is a Newport Beach PD detective. Circe has helped Bo gather evidence from spirit of the murder victim. They got off to rocky start as he thought she was crazy, but they got very close on the last day of the investigation. This is the transition from being business associates to the beginnings of a romance. It’s my first attempt at romance.

    The Fun Zone Ferris wheel stopped at its apex without warning, and inertia made our gondola and my stomach rock. I clutched Tyler’s arm and squealed.
    “Are you okay?” He studied me.
    “Yeah. Surprised. That’s all.” I tossed my head to toss off my embarrassment. Ghosts and demons didn’t scare me, but heights did, and motion sickness plagued me.
    “Look, there’s Catalina,” he pointed to a thin ribbon of light in the distant inky darkness on our right.
    The diversion helped. Trauma hadn’t caused my acrophobia. My balance had a strong correlation with visual cues and floating in midair in a swaying seat at night made it worse. It helped to focus on something stable and level.
    He turned back to me and smiled. His lips parted. Our gaze connected. He tilted his head. I tilted mine.
    The Ferris wheel lurched as it continued downward for a few feet and stopped again to load passengers. We scooted as far apart as possible in the confines of the minuscule carriage. I focused on the bay to the left with my hands clenched on the safety bar.
    Tyler had taken me to chic Newport Beach restaurant to celebrate the success of our last evidence gathering mission at Miguel’s funeral. Although we attempted to maintain business decorum, we talked and laughed and I realized how much I was going to miss working with him.
    He had showered, shaved, and changed from his black suit to khakis, a polo shirt, and a sports jacket. He smelled morning fresh with a trace of musk and nutmeg. It either meant he had OCD, or he planned to get closer to me than a professional associate would. And he had. The ride on the Fun Zone Ferris wheel had changed the evening to a date by any reasonable standard.
    “Circe.”
    I caught my breath and turned my head. We’d dodged using names all night, maintaining the appearance of formality.
    “Tomorrow, I’m presenting the files to the FBI. The human trafficking and the international connections put it in their jurisdiction. I’m certain they’ll take it.”
    “That’s great. They have more resources. What about you?”
    “Who knows? If I’m lucky, they’ll invite me to work with them.” He paused.
    The gondola wobbled again as the Ferris wheel pitched onward in its descent. I felt a twinge of sadness about ending out my participation. “That’s fine. I hope they catch the traffickers.”
    “Me, too. Thanks for all your help with the investigation. This is irregular, but since we aren’t working together anymore, would you go out with me?”
    I nodded. He leaned forward and our lips met at the crest of the circle. Maybe it was his kiss or maybe it was the swaying carriage on the downward arc of the ride that made my insides feel like they were floating.
    We kissed for an entire circuit, then he put his arm around me and snuggled against him, enjoying his warmth and the bliss of listening to his breathing.

  17. Chris says:

    Bryn, you’ve inspired me to do more writing about significant parts of my past in my journal. As for my creative writing, I’m trying to write more about the character’s past before the core focus of the story.

    Anyways, here’s my WIP for today…

    Zoey finally was getting restful sleep for the first time in days. And then it ended, as she was doused with a bucket of cold water.

    “What the hell!?” she shouted; her peaceful slumber taken from her. Above her bottom bunk stood two of her six-person squad, Jim and Frank, in grey tactical gear.

    “Sorry, we couldn’t wake you up,” Jim said sheepishly.

    “What’s the matter?” she said wiping her face on the blanket, knowing it was something urgent.

    “Your asset that we were supposed to hop over and pick up this afternoon…well, he went a little banana-wacky. Threw two sentries overboard, the quartermaster down a flight of stairs, and barricaded himself in one of the gallies. Then set the galley on fire. All while they were tethered to a refueling tender. The BCO of the MEU just told the Security Forces Marines to mobilize on the flight deck right now to head over there.”

    “Well, he’s fucking dead. So, I’m going back to sleep once I find some new bedding,” Zoey said, matter-of-factly.

    “Look, we just got cabled by the station chief to get on whatever the hell we can find and get to him first. Secure him alive,” Jim said, the messenger of another impossible demand.

    “Is there anything available on the flight line?” asked Zoey scratching her head.

    “Jill asked the Mini Boss and he said the Seabees have a helicopter that is about to get going over there to bring extra water pumps.”

    “Fuck…what are they sinking? How much damage did the son-of-a-bitch cause? And us going over there with a Takeover-Recapture Team in the mix risks some blue-on-blue fire.”

    “I’m pretty sure telling the Marines not to hurt him won’t be helpful,” Frank uttered the obvious.
    “This sounds like a recipe for disaster. They’re on a god-damned destroyer; that’s what, a two-helipad flight-deck?”

    “I don’t know. And I don’t know how many the Marines are taking out there either.”

    Zoey began getting dressed, opening her locker to get her gear.

    “Where’s Rodney and Jill?”

    “Rodney never made it out here. Got tied up in Honolulu. Apparently, he thought he could fight six three-hundred-pound bouncers with Billy clubs after downing one too many Long Island Iced Teas. He was wrong. He’s in a hospital with two broken arms. Jill took a few duffels of our equipment and is trying to get us space on the Super Stallion with the Seabees.”

    And with that Zoey went through the motions to get herself up to the helicopter and into the next firefight of a life spent all-too-often fighting proverbial fires. She was not only burning out, but the perpetual stress, the anticipatory anxiety of the next disaster, and the sleep loss were messing with her mind. At times she felt she was losing control. Other times her dreams bled into the day, with weird effects and her subordinates stopping to ask if she was okay.

    The next thing she knew, she opened her eyes to find herself staring out onto the cold unforgiving ocean, from above in the helicopter. Before them, the USS Arleigh Burke was on fire and listing, as the rest of the expeditionary unit rushed to save her.

    Saving the ship and ending the threat was their paramount task. Taking the jerk in alive, somehow, was hers.

  18. Jessica A says:

    I’ve set the goal to write a new story each month this year. I’m a bit behind for January, this is still a work in progress:

    The day after Grandma died, Mike and I went over to Poplar Glen to clear out her room. It almost felt too soon, but we knew that there was a waiting list to get in. Mom and Dad were too busy with the memorial, and so Mom asked me to tackle it. Mike was a bit tired after his red-eye flight, but he was happy to help. We borrowed Mom and Dad’s SUV and headed over after stopping to pick up some banker’s boxes from the shipping store.

    After a quick stop at the hand-sanitizer station and another to sign in, we walked down the brightly lit corridor to Grandma’s room. Things were hushed, typical for the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday, though we could hear the occasional television or radio as we walked past the other residents’ rooms.

    When we reached Grandma’s room, we paused in the doorway. The hospital bed had been stripped already and the extra bedding was piled on the chair she’d kept for visitors. That alone changed the room entirely. This had been Grandma’s home for almost five years and now it wasn’t. The room felt barren and cold. I shivered.

    “I know, bud, me too.” Mike gave my shoulder a squeeze with his free hand. “Well, let’s get started.” We began to assemble the banker’s boxes one at a time, folding them like unwieldy origami, and putting them on the floor. As we were finishing folding the lids, someone appeared in the doorway. We looked over.

    A tall black woman in bright pink scrubs stood there with a sad smile on her face. It was Claudia, one of the senior nurses at Poplar Green. Claudia had been a family friend for years before Grandma came here. She’d gone to the same high school as my parents, and Mike and her son Jacob were best friends from their soccer days. Knowing that Claudia worked at Poplar Glen helped Grandma and my parents make the final choice about where Grandma was going to move, knowing she’d be well looked after.

    “Hi boys,” Claudia said. I stepped over the boxes and gave her a hug. Mike did the same.

    “How are you both doing?” she asked. “We’re sure going to miss Lillian here. She was such a nice lady. We’re not supposed to have favourites, but she was one of ours.”

    “We’re doing ok,” Mike said. I nodded. “We knew it was a matter of time after her last stroke, but still, it’s never easy.”

    “I’m sorry none of you got to be here when she passed,” Claudia said. “But it was quiet and in her sleep, which was a blessing.”

    “For sure,” I said. We all stood around awkwardly, not sure what to say next. Then a flicker of movement outside the window caught my eye.

  19. starlately says:

    Happy Birthday, Bryn!!
    I wasn’t ready for that piece to just end right there lol. Whatever you’re writing that for, will it be published?

    I am nearing the end of the first of 3 Thesis courses (on track to finish my MFA this July). This is some of what has come from working through Chasing Ours:

    Ellie smiles at the only other third-grade teacher in the school. Amanda’s wavy black hair reaches just below her jawline. She wears a high-waist skirt that flows to the floor and a sweet yellow polo with tiny blue whales embroidered all over it like polka dots. It’s the outfit Ellie wishes she could pull off, but she doesn’t have the tiny waist that Amanda does. In that outfit, Ellie would look like a box. A box wearing drapes.

    Amanda looks pensive. “You stopped seeing that dentist, right?”

    Where is this going? “Yeah… why?”

    “Were you expecting him today?”

    “Huh?”

    “He’s outside. Right by your car. I saw him when I was on my way out.”

    Ellie turns and pulls the aluminum blinds away from the window. Sure enough, there sits Ben’s shiny black Mercedes-Benz convertible just behind her own car, blocking her in. He leans against the side of his car with the sleeves of his buttoned shirt rolled neatly up to his elbows as he scrolls on his phone. She knows he’s watching out for her through the cover of his mirrored sunglasses. She sighs. “Hell.”

    “I didn’t think you knew. Want me to get security?”

    Ellie drops the blinds and stands. “No. It’s fine. We’re still… friends, I guess.”

    “Hm.” Amanda’s snub is almost quiet enough to go unnoticed, but Ellie has learned to pick up everything that goes on around her. “Are you about to walk out? I can wait.”

    “It’s okay. You don’t have to do that,” Ellie says. What does he want? Why is he here? She checks her phone—but there are no messages from him. Ben’s not one for surprises… at least, not good ones. “I just need to finish this email.”

    “Ellie,” Amanda says, now standing fully in her classroom with her tote bag over her shoulder. “If your face were any lighter right now, I’d think you saw a ghost.”

    “Oh,” Ellie says with a nervous laugh, feeling the sudden flush in her cheeks. Well, I ought to be red as a cherry tomato now. “Really, I don’t want to keep you. It’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

    Amanda’s smile is flat. “Alright. If you insist.” She turns to leave and stops in the doorway again. “Oh, by the way. Chris and I are hosting an end-of-year bash. You should come!”

    “That sounds great! I’d love to,” Ellie tells her. She finishes the email to the Townshends and packs up her laptop. She has more grading to work through when she gets home so the kids can take their progress reports home with them on the last day before summer break. When she’s got everything together a few minutes later, she peeks out through the blinds one more time.

    Dammit.

    The sun is hot as she steps out onto the sidewalk at the front of the school. She makes a point to stare at her phone so he won’t know she knows he is there.

    • Kimberly Bea says:

      I really liked this! Third person present can be so hard to pull off, but you do so remarkably well. Curious to read more!

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Hey friend! I have no idea why I’m writing about that, honestly, haha. I’m so sorry to be late in responding! Wow, you’re going to have an MFA soon! That is so awesome.

      Great, uncomfortable scene. This story is so good. (And: “A box. A box wearing drapes.” Hahaha! It’s going to be hard not to think of this when I get dressed!)

    • Jessica A says:

      “She makes a point to stare at her phone so he won’t know she knows he is there.”

      Ohhhh, I relate to that so hard! Well done.

  20. Ivan says:

    Hey Bryn!

    Happy Birthday! Here is an excerpt from my third book, a WIP titled, A Redhead in Tottenham.

    Ryan walked around the apartment looking for Samantha. He heard the faint sounds of the television down the hallway, so he walked toward it. When he got to her room, he saw her place a small bag in her suitcase, then sniffled and wiped her cheek. Samantha looked at the television for a few seconds, then walked to the closet. Ryan looked over and noticed she was watching the Tottenham-Arsenal game. When he saw Tottenham ahead 1-0, he smiled.

    She returned a few seconds later, placed a blue sweater in her suitcase, then sat on the bed and watched a little more of the game. Ryan walked over and sat across from her.

    “Whatever you have to say, make it fast. We are running out of time,” Amara told him.

    Ryan nodded, then looked at Samantha. “Samantha Jane Densmore. My first and only love. Thank you for showing me what it means to have feelings for another. Feelings I never experienced before and will never forget. Our moment in time can never be taken away. No matter where they send me, or wherever you may go, know that I love you, and always will. There is a Heaven. I have seen it. And one day, we both will be there and I’ll find you. Don’t ask me how, but I’ll find a way. Don’t be sad, my love, for when I do, nothing will tear us apart. Peace be with you, my beautiful redheaded girl.”

    He took a last look at her, then turned to Amara. “I’m ready.”

    He rose, took a step to the door, then heard Samantha’s voice. “And as I try to make my way, through the ordinary world, I will learn to survive.”

    Ryan spun and looked at Samantha. He saw the tears, but she held a hopeful gaze as she stood, then walked to him and put her hand up. Ryan shook his head, not sure of what his eyes were telling him, but he raised his hand and met hers. “Chadwick,” she began. “I know you are there. I can’t see you, but I feel you. You are alive within me and will never die. When you love someone, you allow yourself to believe in things you cannot see with your eyes but feel with your heart. Be safe on your journey, my darling. God bless you.”

    Ryan stared at her as a miracle appeared before his eyes.

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Ivan, hi! I hope everything’s going well with you. Sorry I’m so late in responding. Oh my gosh…this is really intriguing. I’m actually not one HUNDRED percent sure what’s happening here, because it’s an excerpt, but I THINK I know, and I love this kind of thing. 🙂

  21. PJ Braley says:

    Happy belated birthday, Bryn, I hope it was a wonderful day spent doing all the things you love to do with the people you love best. I enjoyed reading about your first years in Arizona, I went to college in Tampa, living in an apt without air conditioning and hanging my clothes to dry in my bedroom because while I could afford to wash them, I could not afford the dryer. Ah, interesting times.

    Here is a snippet from Training Ground (one of the sequels to The Fire Slayers) –

    He is always with me.

    There are nights when I am barely settled in my nest when I feel his mouth on mine, demanding, eager. His elbows dig deep pits into the cushions just above my shoulders where he lifts my face to meet his. His weight, pressing me into the mattress, warms and thrills me. I feel his hunger for me and I rejoice knowing he has not left me, will never leave me.

    Yet, in the morning, I am alone.

    But not alone.

    He is here; present in the folds of the silk, the disarray of my clothes, and the tangles of my hair.

    He is here.

    “Yes, Carolina, forever.”

    We are one.

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Hi PJ! Thanks for the birthday wishes, and so sorry for the late reply! Ahh, this is so funny…I almost wrote about washing clothes that way (it did not get the smoke smell out of those dresses, no matter how many times I washed them.) You know just what I’m talking about.

      Your excerpt literally gave me goosebumps. Thank you for posting it!

  22. Erin McKnight says:

    I love this! Thank you so much for sharing this little piece of your life with us. It feels extra special somehow.

    In the scene I am sharing, Paige is back in her hometown for the first time in many years. She just had a run-in with her high school sweetheart, Ty Holstead, and is now driving her mother’s car to her house.

    The buildings slowly started to give way to open fields as the town faded into the distance behind me. I rolled down the window and let the cool autumn breeze roll over me. Taking a deep breath in through my nose, the smell of amber wheat and old dirt roads brought back more memories than I could count.
    Long summer days riding horses with my sister. Fall nights full of bonfires and marshmallows. A thousand and one things I couldn’t help but miss.
    It’s good to be home.
    Don’t get me wrong. I loved Chicago, but taking a big breath of air like that in the city was more likely to result in a coughing fit than a walk down memory lane. Things there were just… different.
    A strange whining sound pulled me from my thoughts. What the? My eye scanned the dashboard for clues. The sound ripped through the car again, so high pitched my teeth hurt. The car gave one last violent shudder before rolling to a stop on the side of the dirt road.
    I looked around the front seat with my mouth slightly open. Of all the times for Momma’s car to decide to quit, it had to be with me behind the wheel. I was still a good mile and a half from the house. Not a ridiculous distance to walk, but farther than I want to go when I have to leave a car unattended. It’s not like I was would come back to see it sitting on blocks or anything, but I’ve seen the way people fly down this street. Not that I ever did that growing up. Leaving Momma’s car to be a live-action Mario Kart obstacle was not an appealing option.
    Reaching for my purse, I dug around for my phone. It would be a while before Anthony was back to collect everyone, but maybe if they knew I was stranded on the side of the road they would move a little faster.
    “Seriously?!”
    Dead.
    I knew I should have brought my Kindle instead of just reading on my phone during the flight.
    I tossed the phone into the passenger seat before letting my head fall back against the headrest. I did not want to just sit here and bake for the next however many hours. There may be a slight breeze going, but the sun was still warm, and there was only so much sitting in it a girl could do before she started to melt.
    My head rolled to the side, and I opened my eyes to look out the window. There it was. On the opposite side of the street. An old wooden sign with an arrow pointing down the side street that read HOLSTEAD RANCE 1/4 OF A MILE.
    “This keeps getting better and better.”
    I weighed my options. I could stay where I was and wait for my family to come driving by only God knows when, or I could march up to the old ranch that played such a large part of my formative years and ask for help.
    “I hate my life.”
    Cranking up the window, I snatched my purse out of the passenger seat and followed the little arrow to my doom.

    • Bryn Donovan says:

      Erin! Hey, friend…I’m so sorry I’m late in responding, and thanks for the kind words. As someone who grew up in downstate Illinois but visited Chicago a lot, the opening description of this drive really resonated with me. (I LOVE Chicago. But still!) I think a car breaking down is SUCH a stressful thing, and you capture that perfectly. I just love this scene.

  23. denise says:

    The sting of the ocean breeze hit her face as Daria crested the barrier dune, but she kept following the footpath to the beach below. Despite the temporary shock, and reminder, it was still February, the crashing of the waves beckoned her to continue. Breathing in the salty air and exhaling slowly helped to release the pain in her heart.
    She dropped her bag and the beach chair, toed off her sneakers, and walked to the water’s edge. As the tide rolled in and splashed her feet, the cold water felt good, for a moment. Daria hurried back to settle in for the afternoon.
    Daria had called off her engagement the night before. Alex had let her down for the last time. Their Valentine’s Day wedding was an easy one to plan, Daria had handled most of it, and Alex only had one task—secure the venue with a down payment. When she called to confirm the balance due, only to find out he had not only missed the deadline, but the Trellis Room at the Veranda Hotel was no longer available, it was the last straw. They had left messages to give him right of first refusal, but he never returned the calls. They offered her the fifteenth, but she’d had enough. A life of being married to a workaholic would be a life of misery.

  24. Hailey says:

    Hey I am Hailey and I really have not written a story well long stories before.I wanted to go down the path of a grieving sister who was really raised by her sister Katherine who finds a connection of her sister death to her professor Mr.Martinez who is truly handsome man with a brain full of knowledge obviously. But is led into a rabbit whole of mysteries one after the other. Here’s an a piece of my story that I feel best describes my charter.

    “my favorite teacher Mrs.Anderson, who was an afro-haired genius when came to music. The best lesson she taught me when singing and playing the piano; “Play with your heart, not your head”. We walked into her room which featured quotes from the greatest of artists. She kept my picture next to her desk. She believed I was going to be a star and that she must be the first to have my autograph. I always wanted to sing in front of stages but I could never actually do so. It was like a nauseating feeling as if I just want to sink into an ocean until I could no longer breathe air. Breathing is the hardest as well. I try to gasp for it as if I was in space without a helmet. To see was a struggle I simply start to see blurs of colors and objects. My heart beats as if I ran a marathon. But Mrs.Anderson was the only patient with me. She let me take my time and one by one let the class go back in the room. She taught my brain to see that music room as a faraway place that only I can be in. Where I am singing to Katherine the way she sang to me on dark stormy nights or when my parents arguing was getting out of hand. When I sing, I felt as if she never left, as if she was looking at me with those brown soft eyes and singing with her angelic voice. That is why I sing and that is the only thing that has kept me alive for as long as I have been since December twelfth.”

  26. Donald Knowlton says:

    Wolf pushed through an impromptu receiving line of whoops, backslaps, and repeated ribbing about how married life was treating him from his fellow knights.
    Wolf tied Nudge to a post, then he searched for his wife who had wandered off. His eyes followed the sound of a yelp by Shadow, his gray wolf, to a nearby tent. He found Squire Athena conversing with his wife in Losau’s native Kaniwa while serving her the traditional tribal food of the Amazon.
    Athena’s confidence and aptitude made her seem older than her youthful appearance.
    Wolf did not linger at the party before reporting to the main tent at camp to hand his black and red wolf’s head pennant to the page on watch, to be raised beside pennants of other knights in residence.
    ~
    Before sunset, Wolf hurriedly composed his mandatory off-site activity log. His bloodiest rescue while on honeymoon committed to paper, a weary Wolf consoled himself with his bride by a campfire.
    The next morning, he and Losau reported to the Head Master’s and his Liege Lord’s tent.
    “Ah, Wolf, it is good to see you. I trust you both had a pleasant honeymoon and are ready to start work.”
    “Sir, Losau is my wife and not a page.”
    “Ahem, you’re right, but do you think you will be able to do anything without her at your side?”
    “No. We eat together, we sleep together, we fight together. No less,” Losau said.
    Wolf felt his cheeks flush. “I didn’t expect it all to be like this.”
    Sir John raised an eyebrow. “Expect what, to be like this?”
    “Being a knight, it’s crazy. Running down bad guys, running to save lives.”
    “Remember your knight’s oath wherein you swore to save lives even to the extent of yours?” Sir John held out a handwritten paper. “Tell me about the Kirby incident.”
    “Oh, that. It’s all there,” Wolf said.
    “Three dead, and you submit a one-page report; there’s more to it. What have you not written.”
    “Sir, the kidnappers killed the youngest boy in front of his brother and sisters. They had to be stopped. That’s all.”
    “So you stripped down to your loincloth and just waltzed in, right past the FBI?”
    “It seemed the best thing to do.”
    Sir John pounded the table and stood up. “So, how did you do it? How did you kill them?”
    “I used thorns, coated in poison from a dart frog, hidden in my hair.”
    “The report says nothing about poison or thorns.”
    “They must have fallen through the floorboards of the cabin.”
    “The FBI report says that they both suffocated,” Sir John growled. “You lied to the FBI.”
    “I miscalculated the dosage. To act fast, I made it too high. They stopped breathing.”
    “Would you have miscalculated the dosage if none of the children had died?”
    “Sir?”
    “Water under the bridge. You saved the lives of four boys and girls.”
    “I could have saved the other one if I’d gotten there earlier.”
    “Perhaps. Remember, you are not the judge. But you must tell the truth. I expect a complete report in the morning and a copy for the FBI. Go now! I need time to decide what to do with you.”

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