Hi friends! Welcome to WIP Wednesday, which is usually on the first Wednesday of the month, but hey, it’s good to stay flexible! WIP, of course, stands for “work in progress,” and this is where I share some writing I’ve done in the past month, and if you want to, you can share some of yours in the comments section.
It’s great to give encouraging feedback on other people’s writing! However, don’t offer criticism, ask questions that could be perceived as critical, or make suggestions on anyone’s writing (including mine!) Why? Because it’s not the point. This is just for sharing.
I respond to everyone’s writing excerpts, but depending on how busy work is, sometimes it’s the weekend before I get to all of them!
You can share any writing you want, as long as it is:
•500 words or less (I trim long pieces)
•not too graphic or too adult, although a curse word or two is no big deal
•you can link to a website with more of your work, but you can’t link to a place to buy your work
If you don’t have writing you feel like sharing today, but you want to talk about how your writing projects are going (or not going), that’s fine, too! And if you want to make sure you don’t miss WIP Wednesday in the future, be sure to follow the blog so you get new posts. There’s a place to sign up on the left, under “popular posts.”
Okay! I actually did get some writing done in the past month, and hopefully, I’ll get a lot more done in the rest of March. This is, of course, from the next book in the series after The Phoenix Codex and The Equinox Stone. Sophie is Nic’s prisoner at this point, but he took her to the Chicago Lyric Opera to avoid the police. I’ve edited out some language here in order to follow my own rules. 🙂 One thing about Nic is that he comes up with these secret nicknames for everyone in his head.
At the door, he produced the tickets on his phone. They weaved through the crowd—murmurs, laughter, flashes of jewelry, whiffs of perfume—and then an usher handed them playbills and showed them to their seats on the mezzanine level. Even with his nerves on high alert, he couldn’t help but notice the grandeur of the theatre’s golden interior, hung with red velvet curtains. He only let go of her once they sat down. To anyone else, he probably looked like a man who was possessive of his beautiful wife.
The black dress made him hyperaware of the alluring bare curve of her neck and her slim, elegant curves, and its formality contrasted with her decidedly messy short blonde hair with dark roots.
He’d tried not to look when she changed clothes in the car. It would’ve been immoral to gawk, since she was a prisoner. He’d still caught an accidental glimpse that had heated his blood. Or maybe that had happened earlier, when he’d held her tightly to his side to lead her out of her apartment and into her car. Her body was in his care, and that roused something in him.
She hadn’t changed much since he’d seen her last. She even still wore bright red lipstick, just like the first time he’d ever seen her. She’d arrived from the Saint Petersburg guarída to join the one in London, and he’d been sent that night to pick her up from Heathrow Airport. Sophie had emerged from the crowd, wearing a trench coat like an actress in an old Hollywood film. That scene, just a few seconds, really, had played in his head often enough to make him wonder if he’d imagined it.
They’d talked in the car about both liking the rain and about, for some reason, signs of bad luck in Russia and Korea: the empty bucket, the number four, the evil eye. In retrospect, Nic probably should’ve recognized the conversation itself as a sign of bad luck. But after he’d helped her carry her luggage to her new flat and had said good night, he’d named her in his head: The Dream.
He’d been shyer with women back then, and especially with her, because he’d liked her so much. For the next two weeks, he carefully planned opportunities to talk to her so that they appeared unplanned. He wanted to get to know her better so that when he asked her to dinner, it wouldn’t come out of the blue.
And then Jonathan asked her out on a date that, according to rumor, lasted three days.
And that had been that. Knights at a guarída did not hit on one another’s serious girlfriends and boyfriends. In a close-knit group of well-armed fighters, it led too predictably to disaster.
There were faint lines around Sophie’s narrow red mouth. Laugh lines, though? He doubted it. He thought of her shabby apartment again, and her little plate of smoked oysters. He’d never seen a person so alone.
Go ahead and share your work below in the “Leave A Reply” box, if you like! Thanks so much for stopping by, and happy writing!
The Kirby Incident
Wolf pushed through the 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 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 traditional tribal food from 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 the pennants of other knights in residence.
~
Before sunset, Wolf hurriedly composed his mandatory off-site activity log. With his bloodiest rescue while on honeymoon committed to paper, Wolf consoled himself with his bride by a campfire.
The next morning, he and Losau reported to the Head Master and 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 John said.
“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 evening and a copy for the FBI. Go now! I need time to decide what to do with you.”
Hi Donald! Hee hee—I truly enjoyed the report. You’ve got a good sense of humor. I hope everything is going well for you!
Bryn I can turn a phrase and write an offbeat story and My wife Dawn likes my humor. Here is my problem I can’t see anything humorous in this excerpt. Undoubtedly due to being high functioning autistic/Asperger’s, (I worked as a Reactor Operator in the 80’s not knowing about this. on of the symptoms is taking other people at face value or literally. So my question is what is humorous? I don’t recognize it. you are free to delete this comment if you wish.
The Prophet
The billboards on the outskirts of town proclaimed the coming of the celebrated prophet Elijah Weisman who had an important message for our small town of Westbrook. The message was repeated ad nauseam everywhere: newspaper ads, flyers posted around town and on radio and TV. This was to be a big event if the blizzard of messages were to be believed.
In my role as a local reporter I am a skeptic especially when it comes to so-called prophets. As prophets go their predictions, usually of some cataclysmic event, historically pass unfulfilled but not without leaving people traumatized and in some state of anxiety in their wake for years to come.
The day of the much hyped event had arrived and I took a seat near the front of the auditorium armed, as it were, with my notebook and recorder.
The first hour of the “big event,” as I called it, was typical of an evangelical service with rousing gospel music provided by a large choir whose members had been organized from several local churches. This warm up entertainment proved very effective if you judge such things by the packed auditorium who stood, jumped and waved their arms as if trying to be recognized by someone. More likely they were just excited and willfully went along with the manipulation they were being subjected to.
The warm-up was concluded by a local preacher who got the audience back into their seats then proceeded with a short, thankfully, religious message which was followed by the introduction of the prophet Elijah Weisman accompanied, of course, by some musical theatrics, amens and arm waving, from the choir.
Hi, Bob! Good job with the creepy buildup. Thanks for sharing! Really curious about this so-called prophet!
Ticket To Ride. How does one get comfortable with their life? By now, mine should feel like a well-worn but still flexible shoe with some sole left on it. I have dreams, nightmares maybe, of always needing shoes. Either I can’t find them or they don’t fit right and so on. I wonder what people, more in particular, women, fretted about before shoes. Rich was always telling me not to sweat the small stuff. If it’s so small…why does it always loom so big on my shoulders? There it is. That damn shoe just became a monster boot! I can’t think of a time that my whole life didn’t feel like some monster boot holding me in place, trapped in a prison that at times I helped to create.
“Another family crisis! I swear they have no brains. For cripes sake, Joanna, go to bed and get some sleep.” She spoke to herself as she threw the magazine, sitting on her lap unread, aside and turned off her lamp. Pulling the cover up under her chin. Joanna continued grumbling, punching her pillow into shape. She lay there thinking of the phone call she had received from her daughter, Emma. Paramedics had taken Emma’s husband, Kyle to the emergency room in an unconscience state. He had fallen from a trampoline. She tossed and turned with her thoughts. Darn it, anyway! P L E A S E. go to SLEEP!
* * *
Hi, Darlene! I really enjoyed the introspection here and the opening…very nice. Thanks for posting!
Thanks, I so enjoyed your story and look forward to your posts and especially seeing the WIP posts, Again, thanks for the comment.
Hi Bryn, It was quite an adventure tracking down your March WIP post. Glad I finally figured it out. Or maybe I just stumbled close enough to get in. I do hope I will be able to get your comments on my post. For some reason I didn’t get the standard email about WIP Wednesday.
Your excerpt was amazing. I loved the follow-up on the changing-in-the-car scene. There is so much going on in his head! The rules he has to adhere to! Some guys will go to extraordinary lengths to get a date?
My excerpt this month really is 489 words, but after playing around with your post on synopsis, I added a bit about Ana at the beginning of my post. This (or a revision of it) may end up as a blurb on the back of the book.
~*~
Alone, rejected and despised, Ana clings to her dream of honor and recognition. Her burning obsession is to wear a Crown of Knowledge which contains the secrets of her past. She conquers every obstacle in her fight to accomplish her objectives. But her success turns out to be her greatest failure. The truth is deadly cruel. Can Ana conquer her own false assumptions and her feelings for one she sees as an enemy in time to earn true honor?
~*~
In silence, Omaku and his son, Myka, followed the pathway through stone configurations. Vivid crystalline clusters glittered around them. Lacy white plumes and swirls adorned sheets of transparent silicates. Sapphire needles pointed toward the coral clouds of the ReKonian sky.
Some of the specimens seemed almost alive. They paused to watch a flower stone. From a tube an arm’s length above, a single drop of pink liquid fell. As it struck the stone, the liquid solidified, forming petal shapes. The breeze caught a second drop that fell beside the mineral blossom. When the flower formed, it broke the first one loose, rolling it onto the path where the two men stood.
Omaku stooped to pick up the flower-like object. It crumbled to dust at his touch. “Some things are not as they seem.”
“What’s troubling you, Father?”
“Something must be done about Ana. At our last encounter, she drew knowledge from my crown I had not intended to make available to her.”
Myka shook his head in disbelief. “I could see her overpowering Bora. He doesn’t have your strength or experience, but how could she steal knowledge from you?”
“She is very subtle and shrewd… She absorbed it like a laka soaking in marinade.”
Was his father imagining things, or had Ana actually secretly infiltrated Omaku’s mind? “How did you detect this, Father?”
“Place your fingers upon the crown, Myka. Do you notice an ever-so-slight emotional response to the knowledge that generations ago expeditions were sent that never returned from the lower dimension?”
“Yes, but how could you be certain it’s Ana’s reaction?”
“I counter-referenced all of her reactions to the knowledge she stole from Bora. Each person has a unique pattern. This one matches Ana’s.”
Myka sighed thoughtfully. “Has she taken anything else?”
“I cannot be certain. This much I do know. It’s too dangerous to let her near my crown again.”
“Father, somewhere on that planet is hidden Kalani’s crown. Ana knows that. If we forsake her now, we become the enemy.”
“What can I do? I cannot allow her any more access to the secrets of the crown. I told her that if she took more than she was granted, her lessons would cease.”
“Then perhaps we can win her as an ally. She already distrusts her own people.”
The older man shook his head. “The only thing with which we can barter is the knowledge in my crown.”
“I think there may be something else. In her lesson on a crown wearer’s relationship with a disc rider, the example you showed her was our own.”
Omaku nodded. “Her reaction to you, my son, was positive.” A sudden fear shadowed his face. “She is a beautiful girl. She could steal your heart as easily as she stole the knowledge.”
“Father, you know where my loyalties are. Wouldn’t it be to our advantage, when she locates the crown, if she would call me as her disc rider?”
Thank you, Bryn, for answering my question about copyright. It gave me a direction to proceed.
Oh, you bet. That kind of thing is so aggravating. Good luck dealing with it!!
OK. I got your email for WIP Wednesday!
Oh good! I was worried 🙂
Jessie, thanks for the kind words (and remembering my story.) I’m really enjoying this one. And wow, I love the visual descriptions…just really well done. I keep thinking about them. Thank you for posting!
Hi Bryn! I loved the romantic tension in this scene! Sparks flying right off the page! Can’t wait to see what comes next!
I am so, so close to turning in the next draft of my Tam Lin prequel to my agent. I know, I keep saying that, but I’m less than 2000 words from my (self-determined) minimum word count, and less than 3 chapters from the end of the story! I really hope he likes it!
The veil parted, and Faery poured out into the mortal realm.
The hair rose on my arms and legs, and the air around me buzzed with magic.
Three times I had resisted this call. I no longer understood why or how. The mortal realm was full of heartbreak, and the man I loved could not protect me from that.
He was only a man.
“Were you ever really mine, o shepherd king?” I asked. “For all you loved me, I may have been only one of your light women in the end.” I sniffled, but could not live my life on mortal terms, not even for him. Could not wait for his father to see reason. I had done so much already to try and gain acceptance, but it was conditional acceptance only. When I proved incapable of doing the impossible, it was gone.
The time had come for me to answer that unearthly calling inside me.
To go home.
A heavy weight fell from me, something I could not bear to look at or consider, lest I find myself weeping at the loss. Better to lock that part of me away, let the mortal-reared, loving heart protect itself behind stone walls. It was easier that way.
Ever had I been two people: the seeming of Bess Grieve, and the Fae I was inside. With the parting of the veil, Bess went silent, and my Fae side took over. I ran for the joy of it, like a bounding hart or the currents of a river after a hard rain. My feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. I outran everything I had been, all the roles I had played, every expectation forced upon me, however unreasonable they might have been. And from far behind me came the sound of hoofbeats, and possibly, at the far edges of my awareness, the baying of hounds.
This stopped me short, breathing heavily, ears pricked up. The Hunt again. But why?
I paused to listen, fighting the urge was to keep running, endlessly running without thinking, losing myself in the forest, losing all separate awareness completely. I wished to be as a beast, driven by instinct, abandoning my mortal self to the call of the woods. Why should I hang onto such weakness and fragility? I was strong as a she-wolf, and deathless as stone. Let the memories of my mortal guise abandon me.
They belonged to someone I no longer was.
But I could not ignore the hounds.
A cry came from the far edge of the forest. “Bess!”
I was slammed painfully back into my Bess-self again.
I love this Kimberly! “I ran for the joy of it, like a bounding hart or the currents of a river after a hard rain.” What a beautiful description! Thanks for sharing this touching scene!
Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it!
I think your agent is going to love it!!
Kimberly, hi! Aww thanks. It was even a little sparkier in the uncensored version, haha.
Oh, if ANYONE understands being almost done for a while, it’s me. And you really are close!
I think it’s hard to describe otherworldly experiences, that uncanny feeling (I just finished a scene with the Wolf Shifters like that), and you do such a good job with it. I say this EVERY single time, but I just love the voice!
Hello Bryn and welcome back!
I loved your excerpt, especially bringing us to those locations. It gives the reader a lot of imagery and takes us out of our homes to a different world.
Here is a excerpt from my story, A Redhead in Tottenham. This scene is Samantha, the sassy redheaded soccer player, and her best friend, Kat, working out at the team facility. Samantha is trying to convince Kat she loathes the owner of the team, Chadwick Sutton, but Kat is not buying it. She sees right through her denial and detects a spark in Samantha’s eyes when she speaks of him.
Enjoy and thanks for letting us post on WIP Wednesday!
After wiping her face with a towel, Samantha dropped it in her bag. “You wouldn’t believe what he did.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t want me back on the field, or even at the facility until I have been cleared by the doctors.”
“Because of your concussion?”
“Yes. Then later, on his helicopter, he told me–”
“You were on his helicopter?”
Samantha paused, then looked away. “Um, yes, I was. I told you about that.”
Kat squinted her eyes. “No, I don’t think you did. In fact, you keep changing the subject when I ask you about it.”
“He brought me back to Tottenham when I was in the hospital and the team had to leave without me. It was no big deal,” she said, then dismissed the comment with a giggle and wave of her hand.
Kat grinned. “I’m sure it wasn’t. So, what else?”
“Well, Chadwick did the sweetest thing–”
“Oh, so it’s Chadwick now? And you’ve never used the word sweet in your life.”
Samantha’s face turned ashen. “Oh, sorry, I just lost my train of thought.” She recomposed herself, then continued. “So Mr. Sutton told me to follow the doctor’s orders. Can you imagine someone having the nerve to tell me what to do?”
“The audacity of some people,” she said sarcastically.
“He calls my doctors every day. Oh, and get this, he called the team trainer, the dietician and the strength coach and asked them to keep an eye on me and give him daily reports on my progress. He’s acting like a mother hen. It’s so irritating.”
Kat folded her arms in front of her chest. With a smile and raise of her eyebrow, she asked, “You think so?”
“I do,” Samantha assured her, then looked away.
“I thought he didn’t care about any of us. Oh, wait. Maybe he just cares about you?”
Samantha reached for her water bottle, then stopped. “Are you out of your bloody mind? Chad–, um, Mr. Sutton is the lowest form of scum on this Earth.”
“You think so?” she asked suspiciously.
Ivan, hi! This is a lot of fun. You really do have a gift for dialogue. Thanks for sharing!
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. Small fires surrounded the town 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”. But I wanted to tell her the most obvious thing , he’s on fire! I gulp, grab my flashlight and gingerly make my way out of the car. Then it’s dark besides he’s weird orangish red fire glow. My mother walks up the porch and I follow, the glow becoming overwhelming. It simmers when he hugs my mom and whispers something to her.
He rushes us inside and the house is quiet besides our hurried feet. He locks the door behind him and smiles at my mother, ignoring me.“ Rebecca it’s been so long,they’re not going to find you .I promise” ,he said touching my mother’s arm. My mother nervously motions to me “ Actually, I need you to protect my daughter. Rosealena”. The man looks at me, he’s glow burning faster and brighter like it will consume the room, killing me with it. But it subsided a bit when two women entered the room. They encircle us and my heart catches in my throat. Then it happens, the weird images flash before me and I feel suddenly powerful. They take a step back, their faces stricken.Mother says “ I think they’re coming for her”. She clutches my hand and their eyes bore into me,and they move forward.
Hi Adriana! I continue to really enjoy this premise. Nice intensity in this scene. Thank you for sharing!
Hey Bryn!
I don’t have a text to share, or better, I have, but not in english, even so most Ideas and scenes are coming to me in english, because the book plays in London.
I could post a part in german or try to translate it into english next month, if you like.
(Did that ever happened to you? A book or at least a scene coming to you in a foreign language?)
Anyways, thanks for sharing yours!
I’m intrigued, for sure! I hope you share some time 🙂
Hi Akomachi! That never happens to me…because I only know English! I really admire people who speak two languages, or more. It sounds like you’re working on interesting things. If you ever have something to share in English, we’d love to see it! (And you can post in another language if you want to…I just may not be able to respond to it. 🙂 )
Thanks for the answer!
I guess I’ll try myself on a translation then. Maybe I’ll post it in german and english if it’s relatively short.
Great last line, Bryn!
Okay! Some helpful context here! Due to a very suspicious sounding phone call, Ambrose suspects that my main villain, Mark Caten, is holding Robin prisoner. Raven promised Ambrose that he would check into it and that he would not go alone. He contacted Sammy Borscht, Ambrose’s employer, and asked if he could come with. Sammy agreed, but he didn’t agree with the idea of taking the train. Not when he knew of a better and faster way to get there. However, he needs to discuss one small thing with Raven before they go anywhere….
(Helpful side ntoe: Deliosa is Sammy’s significant other.)
******
Sammy led Deliosa and Raven to the forest behind Sammy’s Place. It was the most secluded spot he could think of. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve led you here.” he said to Raven.
“Perhaps a little, sir. If you were any other man, I would have a great many doubts about your intentions.” He chuckles. “And if you were the wrong kind of man, I would be prepared to fight you.”
Sammy turned to face him. “You aren’t afraid of me?”
“No, sir. I trust you.”
“What if?” He took a moment to push his emotions down, to keep his expression calm and unrevealing. “What if I were to tell you that I am not human?”
Raven shrugged. “Sir, need I remind you that you are talking to a vampire?”
Sammy smiled, but it was a very neutral smile.
“Sir, you have nothing to fear. I have no prejudices nor any known biases against any extraordinaries.”
He nodded. “I just wanted to be sure. What I am is my biggest secret. From early childhood, I learned the importance of keeping that part of my identity to myself. All throughout my childhood I was taught to share it only with people I would trust my life with and to do so only when there is the direst need to do so.”
“And you feel there is currently a need to do so.”
“I do. I know Mark Caten. I know his level of inhumanity and cruelty.”
“As do I, sir. Perhaps not quite as you do.”
“I hope you never do.” Sammy backed away from Raven and Deliosa. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“I am, sir.”
Sammy closed his eyes and let the transformation take hold. It was a wonderful release, like getting out of a cramped car after a long car ride and finally being able to stretch out.. Everything shifted. Grew stronger. Grew thicker.. Grew more. Just so much more.
Sammy opened his eyes and looked down. *As you can see, I’m not just any extraordinary.* he mentally projected at Raven.
*I am a dragon.*
Enjoyed this very much.
Thank you! ?
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
I love it! Great scene. Thanks for posting!
Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it!
Hi Bryn,
I am happy to say that I made it to 65,000 words. Thanks for all that you do for all of us aspiring writers.
Inside the Upper East Side rental; a tiny, one-bedroom, semi-furnished apartment with plenty of windows and sunlight, CK’s fingers couldn’t keep up with the images in his mind. He stopped typing and one thought raced through his head: “what was Royce doing at the 80th precinct in Park Slope?” With pursed lips, CK slightly punched the table and typed again.
He scrolled past the website’s community resources, emergency planning, and other pertinent information regarding public safety, when a man dressed in a Spiderman Halloween costume handing out candy to children brought back rare, happy memories when he dressed up on Halloween.
The man’s face looked familiar. He’d seen it before but couldn’t remember when or where. CK scrolled down inside the website directory until he recognized the name that went with the face. He punched the table harder.
“Captain Kevin Downey, you son-of-a-bitch! You’re the one that helped bring down the Sentesto crime family and put Uncle Jackson away. That’s why Royce met with you today.” He walked to the sink, splashed cold water on his face and returned to the computer.
CK couldn’t kill Downey even if he wanted to. He kept his cool and focused on being one step ahead of Royce. His cell buzzed. The same distorted voice requested an update.
“Everything’s going as planned. You know from our last conversation, I don’t like giving out details.”
“I know. The local news has been a very valuable source of information. You arre doing excellent work.”
CK thanked the caller and asked curiously, “why disguise your voice? Do I know you?”
“I am one hundred percent positive you don’t know me – and to answer your question – I don’t wish to take any chances. I use the modulator for my safety.”
He didn’t press further. After the caller said another phone call would be coming soon, hung up.
The caller piqued his interest but not enough to delve too much into it. CK had other pressing matters; Royce was doing his homework. Visiting hours at the penitentiary started at ten and he needed to speak with Uncle Jackson before Royce does.
Adam, congratulations on getting to 65,000 words! Great job! And intriguing excerpt. (Him getting up to splash his face is a great physical reaction.) Thanks for posting!
Connor was on the edge of his seat when the symphony started playing. It mesmerized him. And later at the restaurant, Dylan watched as Connor asked Dylan’s mom and her fellow musicians question and question about their performance, their careers, their instruments. Connor then started scribbling on his program, which Dylan snatched from him the first chance he got.
“You took notes?” Dylan teased in the way only a close friend could.
Connor shrugged. “Well, yeah. The harmonies in the piano solo…”
“The…” Dylan picked up the performance program and read, “Shostakovich Fugue?”
His friend’s eyes were animated, sparkling with excitement. “Right, god I have never heard piano like that. And your mom’s piece… the Dvořák’s Concerto? Holy crap, Dylan. It was beautiful. It gave me chills.”
Dylan shook his head. Connor was always seeing things differently than just about everyone else. And that was just one thing Dylan liked about Connor. Just when you thought he was just like every other horny teenage guy he hung out with, he started talking about the beauty in the world: art and classical music and some fucking mountain lake. You had to appreciate his eccentricities. It always made a person consider the different ways of life.
“Think about it. You and I, we only think of music in terms of the last forty years or so; rock, pop, county, hip hop, rap. But this stuff,” Connor pointed to the program. “These guys were the rock stars of their times. Can you envision writing a song like this, something that people are listening to what…” Connor looked at the program again. “A hundred, two hundred years later? Dylan, I want our band to write stuff like this, stuff that matters. Not that anyone will remember Connor McKiernan or anything I do a hundred years or even ten years from now, but why not aim high? How cool would it be to say your name or the name of your band and immediately some random guy knows the name of a song that you wrote? To think, music is so fucking amazing like that, you know? God, nothing in the world could ever mean more to me.”
Dylan’s older brother Parker leaned over. “What is wrong with your friend, Dylan? Hell, who talks like that!”
Dad was immediately on that. “Are you kidding me, Parker? Nice restaurant, nice dinner, and you’ve got to talk like that? And to our guest, no less? Sorry Connor,
But Dylan just stared at Connor. Yeah, he could be a bit whacked, but his passion for music was contagious. Dylan had had classical music shoved down his throat his entire life, but he never appreciated what he got from it. He never saw it like Connor did, that he could take all that he’d been forced to learn and turn it into something to share with the world.
And with that, their dream of becoming the greatest rock band ever was born.
Hi Brenda! Ah, I love Connor’s passion, and Dylan’s internal monologue is very in his voice. Nice. Great last line! Thanks for sharing!
Thanks Bryn. I appreciate the input. This is the first time I’ve ever shared any of my writing. This is the beginning of an epic bunch of stories about a rock band and their loves. Stories I started 30 years ago as a teenager.
A New Vision: A Recipe for Love
Every successful recipe requires that perfect mix of ingredients. But when Chelsi reappears, it took ten minutes for Jakes feelings to flourish, the same timeframe yeast, sugar and warm water take to bloom. Is Jake ready to dust the confectioners’ sugar off his dating hat and blend the two most important ingredients in his life together?
“Easy-peasy. Lemon squeezy.” For good measure, she added a curt nod.
“This is fun! Okay, Daddy, you do the next part.”
“In another bowl, beat the sugar with the butter until light and fluffy.”
“How do we beat butter?” she asked.
“Well, Grandma made the best tasting, fluffiest mashed potatoes in the whole world. She always used a potato smasher when she mashed the butter and milk into the hot, cooked potatoes. I’ll give it a whirl.”
Using the same ‘Grandpa Cup’ Jake filled it with sugar and dumped it into the bowl. He removed the paper from two sticks of butter and dropped them on top of the sugar.
Penny looked up at her dad, adamantly shaking her head. “No Dad. The recipe said, one and a half sticks of butter.”
“Well, Grandma said butter was her secret ingredient. And a little extra butter never hurt anything, right?”
“Well, I do looooove butter,” Penny said, “soooo, I guess it’s okay.”
The cold butter resisted at first. But eventually the sugar incorporated into the butter, somewhat.
“Me next. Can I crack the two eggs, Daddy?”
“Sure, but be careful not to let any shells fall into the bowl. Cracking eggs takes practice.”
“I’ll be careful. I like this baking stuff! I bet we have the best tasting cookies at the pageant.”
“Ooh, whoops!” she said, when her thumb plunged into the cracked egg, and half the shell fell into the bowl.
“Need some help there?”
“Yes. Please.”
Penny tapped the second egg against the side of the glass bowl. Releasing the raw egg from its shell, she sucked in a quick breath. “Oh dear!”
“No problem, Pen. I’ll fish these shells out too.”
“Thanks, Daddy. Looks like I need more egg cracking practice.”
“Vanilla’s next.” She poured the brown-colored flavoring onto the tablespoon, and swirled it on top of the rather lumpy butter/sugar/egg mixture.
Jake read, “Stir the flour mixture into the butter/sugar/egg/vanilla mixture, one-third at a time, making a stiff dough.”
“I’m really good at the mixing part, Daddy. Can I mix in the flour?”
“Of course, champ.”
Penny added a cupful of the flour mixture into the butter mixture, mixing it with a wooden spoon. With her first pass around the bowl, flour overflowed everywhere.
She wiped the flour from her arm back into the bowl. “I think we need a bigger bowl.”
Cocoa went to the backdoor barking. “Grandpa’s home!” Penny yelled.
With his hands raised high above his head, Jim Hollister, bellowed, “Jake Hollister, what is going on in here? I leave for two hours and you two single-handedly destroyed a perfectly clean kitchen!”
Jake looked around assessing the damage Operation-Cookie-Bake had left behind in his father’s B&B kitchen. “Sorry, Pop.”
Penny bit her lower lip, “I’m sorry too, Grandpa,” but we were baking home-made cookies for the Christmas pageant. She looked around and covered her mouth with her floured-covered hand and giggled. “Oh dear! We seriously did make a mess here Daddy, didn’t we? No bedtime dessert for us tonight.”
“We’ll clean up, Pop, we promise.”
Penny nodded. Drawing an “X” over her heart. “Cross my heart.”
“All right, sweet ‘P’, see that you do.”
“it took ten minutes for Jakes feelings to flourish, the same time frame yeast, sugar and warm water take to bloom.” This is very cool, Janet. Thanks for posting!
Hi Bryn and everyone! It’s been a crazy couple of months, and I’m glad WIP Wednesday got pushed forward–wouldn’t have been able to participate last week. I haven’t gotten much writing done because I’ve been focusing on my health, but it’s a worthwhile effort that “seems” to be paying off. I started on Keto beginning of February, and it’s been an interesting ride so far…not hard to keep to…just…different.
Anyway, here’s my offering. It’s at the end of a section, so some bits might sound random. FYI: Noctaarys and Beilor are the same person; Noctaarys is just Beilor’s dragon-soul. Beilor is also Phaelan’s father. And “patusz” translates to a very nasty word. 🙂
—
Beilor’s arms tightened painfully around Phaelan’s body. His mouth twisted in a feral sneer. “We’ll see about that.” He spun her around and manhandled her to the exit. Flinging open the door, he barked, “Commander!”
Phaelan breathed hard through her nose, teeth clenched, watching Yeldeynn approach.
The Scarlet Hand commander saluted Beilor. “Yes, my Lord?”
“I remand this pestilence into your custody. She is restricted to the grounds. Any freedoms or punishments you allow her, within reason, are subject to your discretion.”
“Understood, my Lord.” Yeldeynn snatched Phaelan by the arm when Beilor shoved her away. One corner of his lupine mouth twisted in a filthy smirk. “It’ll be an honor serving you, my Lady.”
Beilor retreated into his office, slamming the door behind himself. Phaelan heard muffled cursing…books toppling…a loud thud. Yeldeynn, too, remained still…listening…ears twitching until the k’Lejn fell silent.
Phaelan yanked her arm out of Yeldeynn’s grasp. “Get your paws off me, you filthy patusz!”
“That’s quite a rude sentiment, k’Sina Szapiorus. I expected better from a lady of your stature.” He seized her shoulders and pulled her hard against himself. He looked down his nose at her, his pupils emitting an unmistakable, purplish glow.
Phaelan drew a swift breath. ‘No, he can’t be…’
At the same time, Eleonne shrouded her in protective energy, whispering, ‘Ask his name, Phae…force his tongue!’
Since extracting information about Evina from Deryn, Phaelan swore she’d never again use her gift; it felt as though part of her soul withered whenever she employed it. However, held hostage by Yeldeynn…scrutinized by his burning, violet eyes…Phaelan was eager to throw discretion to the wind. “Who are you…really?”
“Oh, surely you remember me, Eleonne,” he growled, easing his grip. “First Apprentice to the Archon of Chaos….”
“Berthuul.” Eleonne regurgitated the name in Phaelan’s voice, at the same time surrendering the image of an indigo dragon with purple eyes and intense disgust associated with his memory: Noctaarys’s right hand…his most cruel and dutiful servant. Berthuul had never missed an opportunity to shame Eleonne for being an Order dragon; at the same time, he raped her with his gaze every time he beheld her graceful draconic form. Secretly, Berthuul had been the prime reason she’d coaxed Oennac away to the wilds of Sykkhone and Graeor…the very first monster in her life, before she learned that Noctaarys was even worse…
Phaelan closed her eyes; nausea crashed up against the back of her throat. She finally understood how Yeldeynn—a Graeoran—could bow to a k’Lejn oppressing his nation. She also realized her nightmarish situation was worse than she’d previously anticipated. She lifted her gaze to meet Yeldeynn’s, mustered her tattered dignity, and hugged her coat shut. “I’m retiring to my apartment, Commander.”
“As you wish, my Lady.” The purple glow dimmed in Yeldeynn’s eyes. He released her and gestured toward the hall. “I’m looking forward my new accommodation.”
Why does “patusz” SOUND like a very nasty word? Hahaha. Sounds like it’s been a LOT lately, Lisa. So glad to see you here. 🙂 Great sense of horror and dread here; very cinematic dialogue. Really enjoyed it.
I NEED MORE NIC.
So, here’s my WIP Weds contribution. This is from Mary’s POV. She’s out with a friend at a bar, and runs into someone unexpected when she goes to the restroom.
***
The ladies’ room was empty. With the wall-to-wall crowd in the bar, Mary had expected to have to wait in line, but she went right in, surprised to find it completely unoccupied. There were only two stalls, both standing with the doors open. The single light bulb in the ancient ceiling fixture wasn’t very bright, and the trash bin was overflowing with paper towels. She wrinkled her nose. She hated public restrooms.
After she relieved her screaming bladder, she went to the sink to wash her hands. Gazing at her reflection, she decided she was grateful for the dim lighting. It had been a long day, and she was exhausted. She dried her hands, tossing the paper towel on top of the mound brimming over the trash can, and dug into her purse for her compact.
Still, no one had come into the bathroom. She could hear the music from the bar thumping from the front of the building, and the occasional raised voice, laughter, or clack of balls from a pool table, but it started to feel strange to be alone.
As she powdered her nose, the air in the room seemed to thicken and grow heavy. The noise from the bar started to fade.
She froze, listening, as everything faded to silence. All she could hear was her own breath and pounding heartbeat.
One of the stall doors creaked behind her.
She looked through the mirrors reflection, and could just see a sliver of someone standing behind her and to the side. One pale, slender arm and shoulder, long black hair tumbling down, one jean-clad hip. If she moved her head just a fraction to the side, she knew she would see a face with hollow, accusing eyes.
Her skin prickled with ice, and she squeezed my eyes shut.
The old familiar terror, shame, and guilt rose in her chest, as familiar to her as her own face.
She swallowed it down, clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering and trying to control her panicked breathing.
She counted to twenty.
Suddenly the bathroom door flew open, and two tipsy, giggling women came in. The noise of the bar came roaring back full volume. Mary gasped, jumping back a bit. The two women looked at her, probably wondering why she looked like someone who’d just seen a ghost.
“Sorry, we didn’t mean to startle you,” one of them said.
Mary gave them a tight smile and dropped her compact back into her purse with a trembling hand.
“No worries,” she replied, and rushed past them to get out of the bathroom and away from her dead sister.
She paused in the narrow hall and took a few deep breaths to try to regain her composure. That wasn’t the first time she’d seen Briony’s ghost, but it was the first time she’d seen her anywhere besides at home. Why would she show up here? Now?
Ummm. Yum, I like!
You gave me chills. Great imagery. I love the way you describe the thickening of the air and the background noise fading out–that’s exactly how it felt every time I was very aware that I was about to pass out (when I was younger and had iron issues lol)! Spot on!
Yiiiiiiiikes. This is great ghost writing. LOVE the abrupt tonal shift as the two women barge in. I can’t wait to see more!
As she walked, she thought. The quiet of early evening was just what she’d needed. She hadn’t had a moment to process a thing, and now she could finally try to comprehend what her new situation would be like. She held her arms around herself, trying to figure out why she wasn’t skipping with glee down this stupid road.
The truth was, she admitted to herself, that she wasn’t excited about being chosen. She wasn’t proud. She didn’t want to be one of the Sun Children. What was troubling her, though, is that she couldn’t pinpoint why. Being a Sun Child meant she would be one of the few people chosen to ensure the return of Sol the following year. She was set apart; along with the other Children, she was held higher than all other Altanians, given the honor and responsibility to bring about the one thing that would ensure life would continue in the world. When Sol returned a year from now, He would shine down on the village and fill the power banks with his energy, blessing them with heat and light for another year.
Calliope couldn’t help but think that the Temple had made a mistake, though she didn’t dare say so out loud. The Temple never made mistakes. Their actions were always for the good of Altan. Everything they did, even if the people didn’t understand, was to ensure the prosperity and longevity of their beloved world. And they lived happily under its care.
Her feet crunched on the gravel as she walked along, head down. She sighed. There was nothing that could be done; the Temple’s actions were finite. In three days, she and the other Sun Children would form a procession through the streets that would lead to the Temple. She would live there for the following year, detoxifying her body and her mind, preparing for the honor of Deditionem, surrender, to Sol. And she would never see her family again. This was the privilege of being a Sun Child.
Calliope found Nikos sitting in the grass near the outer moat. He nearly disappeared in the tall grass, but his black hair stood out against the golden blades. She stood on the road, some distance away, and thought about him, alone in the seclusion of the grass. Oh, to be able to run and hide like a little child, she thought. She walked through the grass to her brother.
They sat next to each other, watching the water flow, without saying anything to each other for a long time. She glanced at his dark face, but looked away quickly when she saw that his eyes were red and his cheeks were wet. She didn’t want to embarrass him. But her heart ached. She knew what he was feeling, and saying it out loud would only make it worse, since there was nothing either of them could do about it. She put her arm around his bony shoulders. He tipped his head onto hers. They sat there until the lanterns dimmed again, and it was time to go home.
Hi Allison! Great excerpt. It made me think about other situations that look like an honor, but actually aren’t. Thank you for posting!
Ahhhh I might be geeking out a little bit at the way you wove in the bad luck signs, and tied their conversations about them to their current situation lol. I love storytelling techniques like that because it makes me feel like I’ve been let in on a little secret.
I was actually going to post on my blog last Wednesday about your WIP Wednesday and link back to here, and something came up and I never got the chance, and I’m glad it worked out that I didn’t! haha (Maybe next month… Grad school has me doing boring but educational social media marketing assignments… so I’m adding disclaimers to the blogs I’m required to create for class so anyone who stops by doesn’t think I’ve been hacked lol)
Anyway, at this point in Chasing Ours, Ellie and her roommate returned to their apartment to find Ellie’s ex Ben sitting on their couch, in the dark, and it rightly scared them. He finally left when they called the police and then her roommate’s boyfriend and Wes (her childhood/teenhood best friend who’s back in her life after thirteen years of estrangement) came over to change all the locks. Ellie’s still pretty shaken up where this scene picks up:
With a deep line etched between his brows, he checks under her bed, beneath the blankets, inside the pillowcases. Her dresser drawers appear undisturbed. Satisfied the room is safe, he rubs her arm as if she’s a kid just awoken from a terrible dream. “It’s okay, now. You’re okay. You’re safe.”
Ellie leans into him with a shaky exhale.
Willa and Gentry peek into her bedroom. “We didn’t find anything,” Gentry says of the rest of the apartment.
Wes nods as they disappear from sight. Once they hear Willa’s door close and lock, Wes steps back from Ellie. “You want to lie down?” he asks, his voice soft.
Ellie doesn’t want to look up. If she does, he’ll see the tears pouring from her eyes.
“Here,” he says, turning the comforter back. “You should try to get some sleep.”
She grips his wrist with white knuckles and gulps down the sob that threatens to overcome her.
He brings her close, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. “It’s okay. I’m right here.”
The lump in her throat wins.
She’s been lying on the edge of her bed, holding onto Wes as he sits on the floor beside her. Her tears are nothing but sticky streaks now, and her body is no longer racked with sobs. She can breathe, but still she doesn’t want to be alone. “Can you stay?” she whispers.
“Uhb—” Wes rubs his eyes and nods. “Yeah. I’ll just call my sister and let her know.” He holds onto her hand the whole time as he takes out his phone, taps Beth’s name, and talks to his sister. “She’s half-asleep,” he tells Ellie when he hangs up. “But Andy will remember. And she told me to tell you she’s glad you’re okay.”
Ellie blinks as she studies his face. She’s never been this scared of Ben before. Scared, sure, a little, but not like this.
“I’ll just be on the couch,” Wes tells her when her eyes are finally too heavy to hold open. “Just yell if you need anything. Okay?”
She thinks about how Ben will react when they serve him with the emergency protective order. Will they do it tonight? Tomorrow? She doesn’t know what she would do if Wes wasn’t here. Wes, who always made her feel safe; Wes, who’s back.
Instead of letting go of his hand–as she knows she should do–she tightens her grip and gently tugs. “I just… I don’t want to be alone.”
Wes’s neck stiffens. “Um.” Still on the floor against the side of her bed, he sits frozen for a moment. Then, with a sharp inhale, he slips his hand free and bolts to his feet. “I should be closer to the door. The couch is fine.” He stops before he pulls her bedroom door closed behind him. “You need anything? You okay?”
Desperate to hide the heat creeping up her neck, she cocoons beneath her blanket and rolls toward the wall. “I’m good.”
I loved this. Look forward to more.
Heyyyyy friend! I’m learning boring but useful social media marketing lessons myself, so I feel you. I love the interaction between these two…and them both dealing with the awkwardness. Great stuff!
I know the lessons are incredibly important (especially if I want to have a serious fighting chance in this industry) so I’m trudging through it. Lol. I just wish the course afforded me a bit extra leniency to tie it in with my author platform, because these blog posts I’m assigned to write and publish look completely out of place.
I’m about 8 minutes late in posting this on Wednesday so I hope it’s okay to post into Thursday morning but I would like to get some feedback on this story if I could. It’s from a prompt in a book that I was given by a different author. The prompt is “Standing Here Naked” but the story isn’t graphic or anything. I just had an idea in my head and started writing.
This is a little over 500 words but feel free to edit as needed.
Standing Here Naked
The party was over, or so I figured. All around me, I was aware of the looks, the comments (subtle and not so subtle) and worst of all, the laughs. I can’t even believe I’m saying this, but it actually took me a while to realize that hey, I’m standing here naked. Needless to say, I don’t remember where (or even worse) why it happened. All I knew was that I was a laughing stock. Nobody and I mean nobody would want to see me naked. I wasn’t exactly a supermodel-not even close. Getting older had definitely taken its toll on my figure-if I even had a figure. I had gone from being a normal size to more of a figure eight-a large one. I tried not to listen and did my best to look away. It was hard to hide my body and what was the point? I turned to leave-after all my clothes had to be around here somewhere. I was pretty sure that I came in wearing some. As I moved through the sea of people (perhaps the party wasn’t really over, but people had just moved), hoping to find something to cover me. But then something completely unexpected happened.
The warmth caught me off guard and I felt a presence behind me. Around my shoulders was a blanket. I had no idea who had put it there but the idea that someone cared enough to-well anyway; I felt tears spring to my eyes. Ridiculous I know, but it was just so-
“Are you okay?”
The voice behind me was soft and warm-deep-a male voice. And when I reluctantly turned around, my heart skipped a beat. It sounds cliché but in this case it was true. He was about six feet, broad shoulders but not built like a football player. His face was kind and sympathetic, as though he could sense what I was feeling. But how could that be? How could anyone know what it was like to be standing there naked in the middle of the room with no recollection of how I had gotten there or why? I expected this guy to ask me a million questions, but he didn’t ask me anything except my name.
“Arianne.” I replied.
His eyebrows rose. “Arianne? Wow, that’s beautiful.”
I couldn’t help it, I blushed. “Thanks.”
“You don’t hear that name very often.”
That was an understatement. The only Arianne I knew of was the one in Love in the Afternoon. I didn’t expect him to know the movie. I was sure that I was the only one.
“Audrey Hepburn, right?”
“I-yes. How did you know?”
He laughed, most likely at my expression. “My mom. She loved Audrey Hepburn.”
“OH…” was all I could say.
When I shivered he wrapped the blanket more closely to my body. “Come on. I’m sure your clothes are around here somewhere.”
The magical moment gone, I felt him steer me through the now-nearly empty room and into an unfamiliar bedroom.
“Sit here.” He said, gently coaxing me onto the soft blue comforter.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll find your clothes.”
“But-.”
“Just wait here.”
and then he was gone.
WOW!!! I really enjoyed the entire scene!
Thank you so much!
That was great, what happens next????
Thank you! I’m having trouble with knowing where it should go. I was thinking of having them start dating and fall in love and then a picture surfaces of her from the party and it’s somehow attached to the guy, so of course she thinks he’s responsible. I can’t really come up with a reason as to why she would be at a party naked and not remember how it happened. I don’t really want it to be because she was drunk or something like that. Any suggestions would be greatly appreciated.
Umm…
I think there are three problems here.
1
Why is she at the party?
2
Why is she naked
And
3
Why doesn’t she remember
This could all be connected but it could also be a series of different events.
(i.e. she could be in a toxic relationship where her friend wants her sanity to brake [check gaslighting for example] and spills wine on her dress, gets her out of it in a bathroom and then blames her into running from it. With being under such stress for years, her mind snaps (temporarily).
Or, she could have stayed overnight at her friend’s house. She ain’t dressed because she was just about to get dressed when her friend calls her, her brother is here and about to leave, she rushes out, because it might be her only chance to speak with him (why so ever) and, because he ain’t around any longer, he attacked her or she is a very shy person, her mind gives her a short blackout.)
If you don’t want drugs to cause this, there are a few mental or physical conditions that could explain memory loss:
Very temporarily: being in a rush
Hypnosis
Lots of stress
Trauma
Multiple personalities who switched
No long-term memory due to an accident
Old drug abuse
ADS (acting an impulses, forgetting what you just did due to the next impulse. you might remember afterwards. Very heavy form or phase)
Etc.
Not being dressed
Strip poker
Fight
Sexual assault
Being a nudists
A bet/dare
Changing
For being on the party and in the middle of the fray
Invited
Tricked
Dared
Pushed
Already been there
If you add magic, sf or other tricks
She might have been teleported there
Memory loss might be part of it. Taking anything might simply be impossible
She might be an awakened image or statue with false memories
A robot with memory reset
Someone might have had her under a spell
A technical or magical malfunction
And so on
I hope this helps. At least to find a way to your own answers to the question.
Remember the fairy tale about the princess who was blessed and cursed by the fairies at her Christening – the Sleeping Beauty? That was Damon Starke. If a man could be called “beautiful”; he was the epitome of masculine beauty.
But we no longer believe in fairies, so it was spirits, or fate, or the Gods who blessed him at birth with his striking good looks, his tall, athletic build, in fact all the physical attributes a man could wish for. They gave him wealthy parents, and every material blessing that money could buy. But for one essential thing. They gave him physical beauty, but overlooked his soul; his spirit; his emotions. He was a handsome shell with no heart. It was left to his upbringing to mould his inner being. And therein lay the problem.
His father Wikus Starke, was far too busy building his hotel empire to have any time for his son. He did his paternal duty by sending him to the best schools and to university, but only spoke to him when punishment was called for.
His mother spoiled him, giving him everything he asked for; everything except love. A socialite, she was too busy socialising, to spend time with him. Her sole aim in life was to be seen with the right people, at the right places, wearing the right clothes. She handed her only child over to a Nanny, until he was old enough to be packed off to boarding school.
Damon obediently joined his father’s company after he graduated, but Wikus Starke was a neurotic control freak, and allowed Damon no responsibility. He was penned down in an office, doing boring routine paper-work. To an intelligent young man with a degree in economics, cum laude, this was unbearable frustrating.
He was twenty-one when his mother died, leaving him her family’s fortune. It was his opportunity to shake off his father’s shackles. The wider world and all its temptations called to him. He set off on an enlightening tour of the bits of the planet that interested him, encountering every form of vice. He sampled some of them, but rejected all except one – which really does not count as a vice, anyway: an obsession with beautiful women.
When he’d seen enough and learned enough to satisfy his restless spirit, he settled in Cape Town, far from his Johannesburg based father. Wikus’s secretary meticulously sent him a card every birthday and every Christmas, but Damon did not bother to return the compliment.
So here he was, on his twenty-ninth birthday; living in his luxurious penthouse on the Waterfront, indulging himself in whatever he desired. A man with far too much money, and no mental compass
I love the voyeur quality of this scene. He seems to be the body-guard who has fallen in love with his charge. She seems desperate and lonely. It is a perfect set-up for romance. I like the way you contrast the opulent setting of the opera with her disheveled appearance and life. Great job!
Hi, everyone! Here’s the beginning of a short, short story I wrote several years ago for a small literary mag in Mississippi. Any thoughts/comments would be appreciated!
Saturday mornings began early for me. I was the first kid up, at least in my recollection, and the Three Stooges were always there to greet me. Mom slept in longer but never failed to present us with stacks of pancakes with syrup, crispy fried bacon and cafe au lait (half Folger’s and half whole milk) with lots of sugar.
We spent the day meandering about the street we lived on, Rhapsody Drive. Our house backed up to a slough, or what we called a bayou. It was a shallow rainwater drainage canal dredged out of thick grayish-white clay and home to Minnows, tadpoles, and crawfish. Opposite the neat row of houses that backed up to the canal was a small farm and a church, both of which faced Old Hammond Highway. The church was Pentecostal and had nothing to do with the farm. A teenager that lived next door once tried to tell us they were devil worshipers. We didn’t believe him. It made little sense to worship something that was bad.
Four or five horses had the run of the small pastures that made up the farm. Old oak trees, gray with long lengths of Spanish moss, interrupted the velvety grass surface. None of us were horsemen, but we tried. One horse, old and docile, chomped on the apples we would grab from our mother’s refrigerator crisper. If we occupied his attention long enough, one of us would swing up onto his bare back from our perch on the wooden slat fence. From his stomping, we could tell he didn’t like the feel of dirty ankles kicking his side.
That was great! I really enjoyed it!
She could have been attacked. Or fallen getting out of the tub/shower and suffered temporary amnesia.