Hi friends! Welcome to WIP Wednesday for April! If you’re new around these parts, WIP stands for work in progress, and on the first Wednesday of every month, I share a (usually very raw) excerpt of something I’m working on. You can share an excerpt of your own in the comments!
We do have a few rules:
*no more than 500 words…otherwise, I may trim it for you. (This is because I respond to everyone…even though sometimes, it takes me a few days!)
*No critique of other writers—this is all about sharing, not workshopping. But it’s probably good writer luck to say something encouraging or supportive about another writer’s work.
*No graphic or R-rated content, though some vulgar language is okay.
*No linking to work for sale (because that’s not work in progress), but linking to a website with more of your work is fine.
Okay, great! I’ll share a little from book three of my series.
And you guys…I have got to get this book finished. It’s ridiculous. It’s a struggle with my day job in publishing (which occasionally becomes a night job, too), but I just have to do it. So send those good writer vibes my way. I need them, just like everyone else!
In this scene, Nic is a boy, and he has an encounter with the Wolf Shifters that makes a lifelong impression on him.
The tall pines looked almost black and a small full moon shone directly overhead. The cold air bit through his tee shirt and sweat pants and stung his bare feet.
Then a sweet, high-pitched voice sang out. Nic froze. The unearthly rising note vibrated from the top of his head and along every inch of his skin, raising goosebumps, all the way down to the soles of his feet. Who could sing like that?
No one, he realized. It wasn’t a song. It was a howl.
More voices rose. He had to see them. Enraptured, he walked down the patio steps and straight into the dark woods. Pebbles and small sharp sticks jabbed into the bare soles of his feet, serving as a reassurance that this was not a dream. The howls rose more loudly in his ears.
Then silence. Pairs of shining eyes surrounded him. A low growl that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. The eyes drew closer. He could see them, then, their fur silver in the moonlight. This was daytime for them, his father had told him, and he thought he understood that. He’d always felt like only half of himself in the daytime, hazier in his thinking when he was at school, expected to be sharp. At night, he felt more alive.
Two of them were rigid, their tails straight up in the air. One of them gave a demanding yip. Without knowing how, he knew exactly what it meant. Who are you?
Maybe he should’ve been scared. His father had told him to never be ashamed of being scared, that he got scared often on missions as a Knight—which Nic struggled to believe, given the demons and poltergeists he’d sent back to the beyond. And at the age of fourteen, Nic was scared of many things. Making an embarrassing mistake in English. Embarrassing himself in front of a girl, in any way. Disappointing his parents. Every world government. Riding in a car when it went over a bridge. Learning how to drive.
But that night, Wolves surrounded him, bristling and growling, and he wasn’t afraid.
“My father’s here to help you.” The ears of the two vigilant ones relaxed, and one of them gave a fluid wag of the tail. “I would help if I could.” An ache blossomed in his chest: all his petty adolescent anger, all his shapeless, reckless desires for what he and the world could be. Ridiculously, and sincerely, he said, “I’m one of you.”
A Wolf drew nearer and rubbed against the side of his face against Nic’s legs. Nic knelt down so that he was face to face with the Wolf. The Shifter’s golden gaze transfixed him; he couldn’t look away. He saw glimpses of the future or of another world entirely, battles, heartaches, love…
He felt invisible threads spiraling out between him and the Wolf, entwining around them, connecting them both. They reached out to connect to others around them.
Go ahead and share a little of your own work in the comments section below…or tell us if, like me, you have got to finish a draft! Haha. Thanks so much for reading, and happy writing!
Hey Bryn!
Congrats on finding a house! Also bring your boots and gloves since Chicago can get a little chilly in the winter…:)
This excerpt from, A Redhead in Tottenham, which you requested last month, so I hope you enjoy it!
We join Ryan and Samantha at lunch. He asks her why she plays so hard and sacrifices her body to win a game. She tells him it is because of her father.
“Yes, he was the best ever. He played in the World Cup for Scotland, and professionally for Tottenham. That’s why the team and the town mean so much to me. So when you were about to fold our team, I fought with everything I had to keep it from happening since if the team died, he would die all over again. I couldn’t let that happen.”
“What is your favorite memory of him growing up?”
Samantha smiled and thought for a few seconds, then looked at him. “When I was playing for my school, I was thirteen, fourteen, whatever, I was in my, ‘Da, your embarrassing me,’ phase. He would stand behind our goal during warm-ups and track down every stray shot so I didn’t have to chase the balls that went wide of the goal. I would look back at him with a death stare, embarrassed my teammates saw him on the pitch.”
“We all go through that stage with our parents.”
Samantha nodded, looking at the table. “Yeah, maybe.” She continued looking down, then found his eyes. “I guess when you’re that young, you don’t appreciate things until they are gone. Today, I would give anything to see him standing behind the goal during warmups.”
While she looked to the distance, Ryan wondered if there would be tears, but she did not allow any to escape. “Well, I’m sorry our fun afternoon turned sad, but that’s my past. And yes, that’s why I play the way I do. Every game I imagine he’s standing behind the goal, encouraging me, so I’m determined to never disappoint him ever again. I owe it to my teammates, to Tottenham, and to him.”
“I am sure you never disappointed him. Since he played the game too, he understood that one team wins, and one loses, but that doesn’t mean the players are losers. If you gave everything of yourself, no matter the score, you’ve won.”
She looked at him, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
I’m invested! I like the expectation of tears that aren’t met–speaks tot he heroine’s strength (not that crying is bad, just shows her struggle and fortitude). Would love to read more!
Hey Kristine! Thanks so much for your kind words. I am flattered you liked it, and it is a manuscript Bryn requested to see more of, so, if my prayers are answered, there might be a full story somewhere on a bookshelf one day! 🙂
And yes, Samantha is a tough cookie, so there are no tears…Well, not yet anyway…;)
Part of what you read came from a soccer game my thirteen year old daughter played in. I stood behind the goal and chased the stay shots so she didn’t have to, and she gave me a mean stare. I told my wife that one day, she will wish I was back there, but that won’t be until many years later. Funny where you can find inspiration for your stories, ya know? 🙂
So true!! My first published novel was from a student paper he read aloud to the class. I thought “this could be a romance novel in different circumstances” and he told me I should write it. It’s now dedicated to him 🙂
That’s awesome, Kristine! Isn’t it amazing where we get our inspiration and ideas from? Congrats on your novel and I wish you all the success in the world moving forward! 🙂
I’m interested in getting to know these characters better based on what you’ve let us see here!
Hello Stephanie! Thanks so much for your kind words. I enjoyed creating Ryan and Samantha and their tale of love, lost love and how they had to find each other after a really crazy ride! Hopefully it will have a home on a bookshelf somewhere soon so I will keep you posted. Thanks again for your message! 🙂
Hi Ivan! Yes, I’ll need to buy a winter coat, actually! Nice insight into the characters in this excerpt. Thanks for sharing!
Great segment Bryn! Sending good vibes your way. I’m looking forward to the final product 🙂
Aww, thank you, Cheryl! I appreciate those vibes. I hope everything’s going well with you!
Got a bit lost on the first paragraph then as I progressed worked out what may have gone on before. Once he entered the woods I came with him each nerve sharping step . i loved the way you raised the tension and made it a must find out more read.
Hi Bryn! Lovely excerpt! How fun it is to see Nic as a boy! Sending you strong writer vibes that you will get this draft done!
On the subject of finishing drafts, I finally sent draft 3 to my agent–huzzah! I’m anxious that he might not like it, and there’s definitely still work to be done, but I’m happy with what I’ve written so far. Here’s a snippet from one of my framing device interludes, a conversation between Janet, who has just rescued Tam Lin, and the fairy queen, who wants him back:
Janet frowns, oblivious to my melancholic reverie. “You saved Thomas de Lyne from the evil Hunt.”
“I saved Thomas Shepherd,” I correct her. “Thomas de Lyne was not worthy to wipe my shoes on.” Or so I have been telling myself for the past twenty-three years. “And the Hunt is not evil. We make different distinctions among the Fae.”
Janet’s eyes narrow, and her cheeks grow red. “You claimed Thomas, and you saved him. How can you begrudge me doing the same for Tam Lin?”
I glance between this stubborn lass and her shuddering, silent swain. They make a handsome couple, with his sleek dark hair and her golden braids, his lanky form and her gentle curves, youth blazing so bright within them both. Certainly, a better match than some I have known.
I cannot allow that to matter.
“I do not begrudge you,” I reply. “I simply intend to change your mind.” I remain resolute. I must. If its Queen shows weakness, then Faery weakens as well.
Janet’s fists clench, and her lips part, as if she’s about to speak. Then she glances down at her fingers, still blistered from the burning brand Tam Lin became, strokes a hand down the cheek which he had clawed. Something passes across her face, like a cloud crossing in front of the sun. Her expression softens, and she seems thoughtful when she asks, “Do you regret it, then? Saving his life?” She moves beside the young lord, stroking her fingers down his arm, but whether seeking reassurance or giving it, I cannot say.
What promise does she want from me? That this is true love, born when he seduced her in the forest, growing stronger when she chose to keep his child, and ultimately saved his life? That was not how it worked out for me.
And yet, I say nothing of my own regrets. To say I had them, or to say I didn’t–either one would be a lie. I saved my Shepherd King from the Wild Hunt, and soon entered one of the happiest periods of my life. If only it could have lasted. But such love was half mortal, and nothing mortal can endure.
Does the heart grow stronger, when it is broken and scarred? Mine has not been flesh in oh, so long.
“Let me continue,” is my only reply, “and you can decide for yourself.”
I am interested very much in the world and characters, but wonder if you’ve ever played around with either 3rd person or 1st person past tense for this story? I am curious if it would give more time for the narrator to reflect in their reactions rather than having it be in-the-moment?
Great work either way!
The bulk of the story is in past tense. I use the present tense for the framing device to distinguish between the present day, when the mc is telling her story, and the past, when the story takes place.
Thanks for your kind words, though!
Very well-explained, Kimberly 🙂
Hi Kimberly! Congratulations on finishing draft 3—woo hoo! I hope your agent loves it, and I bet he will. It seems delightful and I’ve enjoyed everything I’ve seen. (I am fascinated by the mythology of the Wild Hunt.)
From “Yellow Fever”
LiQing enters the Madison Avenue office of the energetic, Manhattan high-style Chinese-American female CEO of a public relations ad firm, Annie Chen. “My friends thought I should meet you” says LiQing, as she looks around in awe at the New York skyline and the gleaming office. Traditional China meets modern USA.
“I heard about your trouble,” says CEO Annie Chen, and we, pointing to her eager young staff sitting at the conference table, “are outraged by the fetishist abuse and exploitation of an Asian woman, a mature woman.” Leaning in close to LiQing, “My Asian professional women group have been looking to raise consciousness. To rally around a cause.” Turning back to her staff, she says, “I think LiQing is the one. N’est ce pas?”
The vocabulary exceeds LuQing’s range of English, but she understands “trouble” and gets the tone. A staff person translates with a simple Chinese expression of empathy.
“He will not get away with this outrage and we will end this misogyny,” continues the CEO. “We have a campaign in mind that I will sponsor myself.” Moving quickly around her large Madison Ave office she points on cue to a staff member holding a storyboard, who says, “we can pitch your mistreatment to network TV as a human-interest story. The concubine of Scarsdale.” The CEO raises a clenched fist. “Male Chauvinist”. Having grown up in the Chinese Cultural Revolution, LiQing knows how to respond. She and the staff repeat the gesture and the chant.
The CEO points to another staff member. “I designed this Times Square display with Arthur’s picture.” With a caption, “He promised love, delivered heartache.” We can run a 20 foot tall photo and tagline. “Villain of Scarsdale” chants the CEO, fist raised. LiQing and staff repeat the gesture and chant.
A third staff unveils a poster with Chinese banners. “We can coordinate the campaign with the Maoist style banners in Beijing and Shanghai. A warning to our people. The Foreign Devil.” The CEO raises her fist and chants “Beware the Foreign Devil”. LiQing and staff repeat enthusiastically.
The CEO and all eyes turn to LiQing. “Should we execute this plan, end the exploitation of Asian women, and teach Arthur a lesson?” Give us the go ahead.
LiQing returns to her serene self. It is not what she had in mind. Softly, she says “Arthur will not like it. I was thinking you could talk to him. Help me explain in English. I can learn American. Send the bad woman away. I will be a good wife. We can care for each other in old age. He promised to marry me, but he has his dog woman.”
With LiQing’s response, the CEO’s enthusiasm quickly deflates and she has lost interest. “Oh…I know who you should meet.”
Fun! “She understands trouble and gets the tone” is such a fabulous line!
Thanks for posting, Rob!
Good afternoon from England,
This the opening narrative scene of ‘Believing Sight Unseen’ – an internet liaison being written in a mix of narrative and message scenes.
#
Sam sits, eyes shaded, hands clasped behind his head. Sweat beads on his chest, bared to blend with weathered arms and neck. A bead turns into a rivulet; abs define its flow down to his faded combats.
There’s a buzz, a throbbing in his thigh; his left hand goes to his pocket. He grips his smartphone, oddly, between thumb and unoccupied ring-finger. Message alert, screen glare, he needs to go inside to read.
Effortlessly he rises. Adjacent, reclined, eyes half-open, her senses tune to the rhythm of his flip flop walk to and beyond the kitchen door.
Sam reads the single line:
I’m here, you’re here, what are we waiting for?
He takes in a thumbnail photo, a young woman, coyly posed, stunningly attractive. He stares in disbelief; her natural smile and easy style radiating almost innocence.
He taps a quick reply:
Good question. I’m Sam, and spell-bound by your smile.
Exhilarated, he feels he’s been indoors for ages, yet the oven clock shows just three minutes.
Back in his garden, she’s where he left her, her eyes closed now. He kneels, their shadows merge as one. He strokes her upturned palm. Her heart-line traced, she jolts, grips his fingers, earths them on her exposed thigh. Her green eyes wild, within a blink re-adjust to her familiar composure. His fingers lift, prints fade, Sam sits back on his heels.
“Sorry, Amy, a message I had to deal with.”
That face of his, blue eyes cool, unread by her.
“That’s okay, Sam, I should be going anyway.”
Sam walks Amy to her car. They kiss cheeks, their lips untouched as ever.
She says, “Good to see you.”
He says, “I’ll call you.”
Amy drives away, won’t let her eyes look back.
Sam looks up the road till sight and sound of her has gone. He shakes his head and smiles.
The evening sun goes down; there’s a slight chill, he slips a polo shirt on. Woman-bought, a well-worn shade of pink, as is his sun-touched skin beneath. He sits, restless in the chair that held her. His fingers caress its wooden arms; he feels a prick… a splinter.
Standing, he squeezes the shard free. A single drop of blood falls, smears, as his still muted phone gyrates across the glass topped table. A second line from her:
‘Goodness, do you mean that? I’m Erin by the way.’
Oh my goodness, Bryn. I love this excerpt. I got a very clear sense of who Nic is, what he is afraid of, and what he stands to lose. The stakes are there, as is a subtle sense of the world we’re entering. A bit paranormal, but also a teenage coming of age story? And none of it happens inorganically. Loved it and can’t wait to see the finished product! (what better motivation to write than eager fans, lol?)
Here’s an excerpt from mine (part of a WIP from a semi-sexy western being revised to a now heartwarming/sweet romance). I recently reworked the “forced proximity stakes” and want to see how they land with readers. I, too, need to finish the rewrite of this book–only a couple chapters left!
All’s Fair in Love and Ranching (end of chapter 3):
“The people. The family. Ranching is about family. It always has been. It was never meant to be a solitary venture; it was meant to be a business that was passed down from father to son and then grandson. You’re missing the best of what this life has to offer and yes, I’d like that.”
He considered her for a moment. She’d hit on the one part of ranching he wanted nothing to do with, but the earnestness in her voice, in the quiver of her bottom lip? It was enough for him to forget himself and his own problems—far less than those facing her at the moment—and do something he’d never done. Let emotion into the sale.
“Then come to Texas. You want to pay back the debt? Come help me fix my machines like you did yours. Be a part of Newman Ranch; it’ll fall under our flagship soon enough, so why not meet some folks while you’re at it.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt lighter, more at peace than he had… well, since he was a kid. Before he’d visited Deer Creek the first time.
“You’re that sure I’ll sell?” she challenged.
“I’m that sure you don’t have a choice, darlin’.”
She nodded, the sadness in her eyes amplified by a thin bead of moisture pooling along her lids. She knew he was right.
“I want a signed contract detailing how much you’re paying me and how many hours I work. If I do this—and I’m not saying I will—I need to know I’m earning my keep.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Join me for dinner and we’ll draw it up.”
She seemed to consider this. And was that a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips? His fingers itched. The contract was as good as signed.
“Can we bring Hannah B.?” she asked after a pregnant pause.
“I wouldn’t dream of leaving her.”
The flush of pink that rose on her cheeks wasn’t lost on him. In fact, it affected him deeper than the rest of it. Her smile at his one perceived act of kindness in two decades where a Newman was concerned? Well, it almost sent him down on one knee right there.
She stuck out her hand—an earnest attempt to seal the deal?
“Okay. I’m in. Let’s bring Marshall Enterprises into the 21st century.”
The laugh that exploded from his chest shocked him, but he was powerless to stop it.
Only one thought about the newest part of his plan gave him pause. His end game hadn’t changed. But should it? Was this really what he wanted, to destroy the life she’d lovingly built? To destroy her? Would that really bring him peace and a sense of closure?
He’d better figure it out quick, because soon, it would be too late to turn back either way.
Good grief. This woman was gonna be the death of him.
Good grief. I kept both of the “she seemed to consider this” segments (meant to remove one when I added it earlier). Sorry. This is the way, isn’t it? Don’t notice errors till you’ve sent them out? Oof. 😉
I’m always doing that myself, Kristine! I tried to fix it above, but I probably didn’t change it to what you wanted, so let me know if you want me to fix it differently. 🙂
Thanks soooooo much, haha! It looks great! ???
I love it that there’s a lot happening on a business level…and a lot happening on another level at the same time. Really nice. Thanks for sharing!
I like this, and I keep going back to how much I love the title! I’m also interested in the scene from her point of view – what is she thinking? I’m assuming there will be a little flash-backing later? At any rate, nice work!
(Trigger warning for abuse added by Bryn.)
Hi Bryn.
I’m an ancient newbie, and I offer that as an excuse for 17 words over the max. But, for the life of me, I can’t cut any more?
‘Strike one, boy.’
Pa stood up, his white gloved finger sticking out triumphantly, the tip smudged with dust from the underside of the bedframe. I remember my heart banging away, a hot guilty flush on my cheeks, and struggling not to cry.
‘This is your room, boy. You know I don’t like to interfere.’
I wasn’t going to cry, not for nothing. I was frightened, but angry at the unfairness, and I let that bubble up inside, let it push two years’ worth of fear and pain into the background. IhateyouIhateyouIhate… Staying silent, I stared unblinking, into those soulless depths, a small defiance, but what else does a ten-year-old have?
‘The only thing I ask, is that you keep it clean, and I mean clean. If you got a dirty room, then what does that say about the inside of your head boy? Your thinkin? We’ve had these talks before, son, and I assumed you listened. Did you listen, boy? Did you listen real well to your pappy?’
I swallowed hard, remembering bits of that one-way conversation, in between the thwack of the belt and swish of the stick. Maybe I nodded the once or maybe I didn’t. Memory’s a trixy thing sometimes. But I sure as hell remember drilling my eyes through to the back of his skull, praying for some superpowers to suddenly spark off and blow his brains to mush.
‘I really hope you did son; I’ll not have any of those nasty “boy” things going on under my roof, you hear me? Do I need to strap your wrists down like before?
‘No Pa,’ I kept my voice monotone, reciting the standard response, knowing he wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t care. ‘You needn’t worry, I’m real sorry about the dust. Must have missed that. I’ll get right to it Pa.’ I remember the savage delight of being able to answer like a robot and winning the stare-out as Pa turned away. But he hadn’t finished.
‘That you will boy, oh yes, that you will. You’ll have this place pristine before you eat tonight. Are we clear?’ I could see he was mad. Probably because I wasn’t bawling my eyes out. Then he looked me over, that appraising thing he did, stopping at my arms, and the fading hues of the last conversation we had. ‘You’ll be as good as new by Friday, so you mind your p’s and q’s or I’ll do some more colouring in—you get me, boy?’
I remember nodding then, for sure. It was the end of the conversation—for now—and I just wanted him gone. He turned and clonked out of the room. I never did see his foot, but back when Ma was still alive, I heard her talking to him about it one night, asking if it were painful and stuff. He’d left a chunk of it over in the Gulf and had to wear this built-up shoe thing that always clonked when he walked. I never laughed at him back then, he was still my hero. But things have a way of changing, don’t they?
Whoa. Love the voice, the tension. Well done. I FELT this.
That means a lot to me – so thanks. But colour me red, for typo in Bryn’s name (Bryan!!) and the missing opening quotes at the beginning (cut and past!!)
No worries! I’ll fix it. 🙂
Hi Brian! I hope you don’t mind that I added a belated warning to your post, because it’s pretty tough material. It’s really well-written and it got to me. Well done. Thank you so much for sharing.
“Touch and Go,” Flash Fiction, Dave Moores, 530 words
The grassy pathway before me descended into an empty valley. Pretty summer clouds graced the sky, the day was bright, and the air carried the scent of fresh-cut hay. I had no notion of my purpose here and strangely this did not concern me.
An odd little man appeared at my side. His face displayed the lines and papery pallor of advanced age. He was formally clad in black, a cloth jacket over a white shirt and black tie. On his head, a bowler hat. He carried a walking cane and wore unexpected black shorts. The ensemble was completed by dress shoes and socks, black as well: hardly appropriate for a ramble in the countryside. When he spoke his voice was surprisingly clear, the accent and diction refined. “Come along, we have to get below right away.” He beckoned to me and set off down the path with a nimble gait. I felt compelled to follow.
A single-track railway line came into view. Strange again, that I had not observed it sooner. My guide pressed on and our path turned left beside the track. Around a bend we came upon a small structure having the appearance of a shed. I recognized it as what used to be called ‘a halt,’ not exactly a station but a place where a local train might pause for passengers to alight or embark. We drew near and climbed weathered wooden steps to a sheltered platform.
The man consulted a timetable displayed in a glass-fronted case. He checked a pocket-watch and gave a satisfied nod. “You won’t have to wait long. Five minutes, it’s always on time.” For reasons I can’t explain, I still felt no curiosity, merely a sense of anticipation. I have always enjoyed train-rides. We seated ourselves on a bench.
The hoot of a train-whistle was followed by the rumble of wheels. A small steam locomotive puffed into sight pulling a couple of carriages. The image recalled childhood day trips to the seaside with my parents. The train pulled in with a hiss of steam and gentle grinding of brakes.
We got to our feet. The man reached for a door handle. “Farewell, the train will take you where you need to go.” He handed me a business card which I pocketed as I boarded. There were no other passengers.
As the train moved off, a nagging sense of unmet obligations replaced anticipation. Had I failed to make a payment, or missed a crucial appointment? I searched my memory in vain.
Miles went by and the day darkened. Landscape passing the windows turned to wild moorland and sombre woods. My unease deepened to fear, but fear of what, I still had no idea. Who was this person who’d put me here, anyway? I reached into my pocket and withdrew the business card. The name read “Sebastian Angelo D’Eath.”
Angel of . . ?
I awoke to a beeping sound. Two paramedics stood over me. One held something against my chest. He let out a breath and gave me a smile. “Touch and go for a minute there. Thought we’d lost you.”
Ooooh! Fun twist! I really got lost in this little vignette. Thank you!
Dave, thanks for sharing! I really wasn’t expecting that! I’ve never tried flash fiction, and I might sometime—it seems like a lot of fun.
Hi Bryn, I was struck with how real your scene was and how it led me down the same path. Kind of like what happens in my life when a scene from the past intersects with the present. Great excerpt! Thanks for sharing.
My piece follows the scene where Myka and his father discuss Ana stealing knowledge from his father’s crown. I changed the spelling of Maika to Myka. It is pronounced the same. Hope this is not confusing.
Myka bowed. “A bouquet for my lady.”
Ana’s mind reeled. This was all wrong. Myka was not supposed to come to KaLani. He was supposed to send his disc and take her to ReKona. Her thoughts echoed in the emptiness of her craving. I must touch the crown. Here he stands; he who has power to grant my greatest desire. Here he stands holding out a bouquet of Fire Flowers of all things. Only a foreigner could be so stupid.
With an icy glare she retorted, “It is obvious you have not been to KaLani before.”
Taken aback by her disdain, he tried to rescue the moment. “Oh, but I have. When I was young, I was a student here.”
“You didn’t stay long.”
“How do you know?” Had he discovered another bit of knowledge stolen from his father’s crown?
“Because if you had stayed here, you would have learned that the fine hairs covering the stems of those blossoms cause a scarlet rash that burns dreadfully.”
“I feel nothing. Perhaps I am immune.”
“It is highly unlikely. The tingling that precedes the rash will soon begin, but you will find out the full effects in the morning.”
“You said ‘tingling’?” The sensation had come as though to verify Ana’s prediction. Myka’s grip loosened and the orange blossoms fell to the ground. He opened and closed his fist several times then started to wipe his hands on his breeches. Ana’s laughter cut through Myka.
“Don’t do that or you’ll spread it to your legs.”
The young man felt incredibly foolish. This meeting was nothing like he had planned, but his feeling changed to shock as Ana’s voice hardened.
“Now, son of Omaku, tell me why you have come to this planet. If I am satisfied with your answer, I may show you the antidote.”
“I… I came to be your friend.”
A memory from Bora’s crown flared up in Ana’s mind. She remembered him telling his father, “Wouldn’t she have a better chance of finding the crown than we have?” No, he doesn’t want to be my friend, she thought. Her bitterness bit through her reply. “That’s a lie. Even if you were telling the truth, I have never needed anyone. What makes you think you should be the first?”
Her accusation cut him to the very center. He valued truth above all, for without it there is no honor. She dared question his integrity? Myka was beginning to despise this red headed girl. Anger made him blunt. “All right. My father knows that you ignored his warning, and stole knowledge from his crown. He will not let you touch the crown again. I told him that we might become friends. But I see that I was wrong. You are completely unreasonable.”
Immediately Ana saw her error. She had nearly pushed him too far. Still, the knowledge was useful… even worth the risk. If Omaku had cut her privileges with the crown, as Myka said, she must proceed with caution.
Really interesting world and character building in such a small scene. I like Ana’s sass. 🙂
Thanks Kristine. I’m glad you like Ana’s sass. She was definitely a fun character to write.
Hi Jessie! So sorry for the belated reply! Oh, my gosh, Fire Flowers! I really felt for Myka. Great scene as always! Hope everything’s going well with you!
Hi Bryn,
Good luck on your move to the Windy City. Sending you positive vibes with positive energy. Here is my excerpt.
CK walked out the door and hailed a taxi to the Guggenheim; the famous building designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Besides the art, the museum’s spiral ramp attracted everyone’s attention. CK paid the over-priced fare, slid out and stared at the famous landmark.
Before walking in, his mind drifted towards the places he visited recently on assignment: Boston’s Freedom Trail and Acadia National Park in Maine. He stepped forward into the rotunda, stared in awe at the large domed skylight above, then slowly strolled among the continuous flow of people along the ramp.
CK sauntered all the way to the top, at times absorbed in the art, leaned over the parapet and watched the art enthusiasts below. He then walked back down, and about midway, craned his neck to the left and noticed a crowd taking pictures from cellphones; mesmerized by Jackson Pollack’s “The Enchanted Forest.” He only saw a scribbled and blotched mess. A familiar scent pulled him in closer.
Along with the others, Doctor Royce stared motionless at the Pollack masterpiece. He stopped. Someone tapped his shoulder. He turned around. An elderly couple wanted a photo. He grabbed the phone, clicked twice, then turned back. Where did she go? CK leaned over the parapet again and watched the psychologist exit with a friend. He stayed behind, admired the small van Gogh and Picasso collections, then left an hour later.
The following morning, the Crustacean Killer showered, shaved, slipped into the standard prison uniform and clipped on the fake ID. He then shoved binoculars, fake beard and wig, pen and letterhead paper and two shucking knives into a Coach bag.
He gulped down two cups of coffee, walked four blocks to the Audi and placed the bag into the trunk. He had about an hour until sunrise; three until his arrival.
He headed west on the Garden State, and then onto Interstate 80 through Pennsylvania. He exited the highway, and ten minutes later, arrived at the penitentiary at exactly nine forty-eight in the morning. CK parked, opened the trunk and took out binoculars. “No sign of Royce.” At nine fifty-eight, Detective Royce and Detective Charles rounded the corner and entered the building.
CK shoved the binoculars back into the bag and put Plan B into effect.
Oooh! I like the info we get at the end–this will be an intriguing story! Can’t wait to see more!
Adam, thank you for the good vibes! I appreciate them! You know, I’ve been thinking about art museums a lot this week, and the description of the Guggenheim brought back memories. Great job (as before) of making this killer really creepy.
Hi Brynn – I love your piece! I really felt like I was in the moment with the wolf shifters. In this excerpt I’m working on getting the feel of the hometown festival to match my memories from childhood, AND keep the plot and dialog flowing. The story is about a cowboy trying not to fall for the matchmaker, while maintaining a business relationship with her brother.
Jet pulled up next to the town square and wrestled the truck into park. People were everywhere. The scent of barbeque hung in the warm evening air. A cover band played an old Eagles song, and Jet was pretty sure he saw his third-grade teacher singing along. All the shops had their doors open. Booths lined the sidewalks. Someone had strung sparkling lights across Main Street.
Clara probably loved those lights.
Jet stopped walking and shook his head. There was no reason to speculate whether Clara did or did not like an outdoor decoration.
He glanced back at the lights. They sparkled at him, like Clara.
Jet exhaled, and headed into the crowd. That was all the reminder he needed. Clara’s charm could turn on and off, just like those lights.
“Broughman!”
Jet looked up, then held a hand in salute. “Hey.”
He trotted toward the Eighty Local booth, source of the tempting barbeque. Two of Hunter’s employees worked taking orders and cash, while Hunter and his twin brother put together sandwiches. A line of hungry people ran down the block.
“Welcome to Outcrop, Outside,” Hunter greeted him.
“I didn’t even know this was happening.”
Hunter’s twin Bowman looked up at Jet. “I’d blame the business fair on one of my sisters, but for once there’s something going on around here that neither of them orchestrated.”
Jet laughed. He wasn’t the only one wary of Clara.
“Thanks, by the way,” Bowman said.
“Yeah, thank you,” Hunter nodded at him as his hands flew assembling a sandwich.
Jet tilted his head to the side. “You’re welcome?”
“For taking one for the team,” Bowman clarified. “You’re going on that group date tomorrow.”
A wave of discomfort passed through him. Jet shuddered.
“It really is going to be that bad,” Hunter confirmed.
Jet ran a palm over his face.
“Here’s how it goes down. You’ll show up to balance the numbers,” Hunter said.
“Which is what she always says,” Bowman interrupted.
“But you’ll get there, and then she just wants you to go talk to one woman for five minutes.”
“N-no,” Jet said. “I told Clara not to set me up with anyone. She promised.”
The two brothers exchanged a glance.
“She promised not to set you up with the woman you’re destined to love for the rest of your life?” Bowman guessed.
Jet glanced up. The lights winked at him. This was going to be even worse than he thought. He could deal with Clara, and keep himself from falling for her again. But there was no way he could handle her setting him up with someone.
“Here man, take this.”
Jet refocused on the brothers to see Bowman holding out a sandwich.
“You’re gonna need your strength.”
Jet laughed, but inwardly his stomach churned as he headed down Main street. When he returned to Outcrop to take over his grandfather’s ranch, he only had two goals: make smart investments with the money he’d made in Seattle, and don’t get mixed up with Clara Wallace again.
YES! I get a sense I’m there, from the lights to the food (doesn’t help that I’m hungry reading this…). I really like the light metaphor as it applies to the heroine, Clara. Well done!!
Anna, thanks for the kind words, and so sorry for the belated response here. You do such a good job of evoking this scene…the details are spot on. Great dialogue and style. Thanks so much for sharing!
Excellent expert Bryn
Hey, thanks, Adriana! Thanks for reading. Sorry for such a late reply, and I hope you have a great week!
Here’s an excerpt from the chapter I’m working on in my WW2 historical novel, Vixere (translated to “They Lived”). Protagonist Marisa has suffered head trauma and now has retrograde amnesia; she finds herself on a train bound for Auschwitz. This piece is very much a victim of first draft problems. 🙂
*
Marisa Hartl came to consciousness in a rancid darkness. She could feel that she was folded limply like a rag doll, her knees drawn tight to her chest, her face pressed to a damp, foul-smelling floor of rough planks that lurched and rattled beneath her. Something heavy covered her like a blanket. She could not find the strength or capacity to move her limbs; she was hardly conscious of her surroundings, and could not open her eyes, yet she felt the oppressive weight and clamor of many people, many bodies pressed in around her. There was a low clamor of human fury, animal panic, and all the while the ceaseless rhythmic clatter of metal on metal.
Slowly, she regained a little energy. It was as if new, hot, life-giving blood began to course through her. Her icy hands were clenched tight and numb; her fingers uncurled in warmth only sluggishly. The overwhelming cold and weakness she had felt formerly, as if she were already distanced from her body, was gradually replaced by burning heat, fueled by a growing terror of what was to come. Her head throbbed unbearably, sending waves of agony and confusion through her mind. Marisa opened her eyes. And the terror grew.
A woman was huddled beside her. This stranger was miserably pale, past middle age, with heavy half-circles of shadow under tortured eyes that glowed with a peculiar concentration, while her unnaturally black hair straggled from its once-orderly, short-cropped curls. She loomed down towards the girl lying at her feet. Her thin mouth was listless, and her expression entirely vacant. “Oh,” she said, with significant apathy. “You’re alive.”
Marisa stared up at her mutely. Her ears were ringing; she knew the space was reverberating with sound but she was hearing dim echoes. She could hear the woman speaking to her, though. She simply had nothing to say in reply.
“Thought you were a goner,” the woman continued dryly. “We did our best to move you into the corner to make some room. It’s very cramped in here, as you can see.”
Marisa could not see much from where she lay, only the legs of a crowd, moving and shifting in panic, though there was nowhere to go. And she could see a number of bodies lying prostrate on the ground, just as she had done. An old woman, a young one. A grandmother, a mother, a child. They’re…dead, she thought, and was instantly chilled. It was a small car, never meant for humans, and it was packed to bursting. Far above, slits for air showed late morning light flashing by.
The strange woman went on without sentiment, almost as if talking to herself. “Would have hauled you out and dropped you on the tracks, but the doors are locked. They seem to know we’d hurl ourselves out otherwise. Better to go out by choice, don’t you think?”
“I’d rather live, if that’s all the same to you,” Marisa said in a small but wry voice.
Holy smokes. I love this. In a good way felt I was there, but was glad I’m not. Well done with sensory details and that last line? GOLD.
Thanks so much! I appreciate it!
Sorry for the late reply, Zoe! I love amnesia stories. And I laughed out loud at “This piece is very much a victim of first draft problems.” You do a great job of description here. It’s chilling and convincing. (I didn’t add a trigger warning, because you say what it’s going to be about, which is enough of a warning.) Thanks so much for posting, and good luck on the story!
Sorry for the intense content, but thank you so much for reading!!! I definitely need the luck 🙂
Hey, Bryn! I loved your excerpt! So beautiful and chilling at the same time!
Here’s my excerpt from my James Arden and May Rose Farlington story. Slight spoiler: James eventually grows up to become Raven in my other WIP. But here, both he and she are just innocent seven-year-olds who are starting to learn about their adult responsibilities and society’s expectations of them. James’ father is the current butler for the Farlington family.
//////////
James removed his shirt and inspected it.
There came a knock on his door.
“Come in.” he said, still preoccupied with his investigations.
The door opened and May Rose entered the room. “Ugh! Finally!” She trompsed over to his bed and flopped on it with much dramatic flair.
“May Rose. I am not sure if you’ve noticed, but I am undressing.”
“I know. That’s why I’m lying here instead to sitting up. I’m giving you privacy.”
Her logic was so profoundly off, he couldn’t even debate it. He simply sighed and resumed undressing. “Father would be quite unhappy if he knew that you were in here right now.”
She raised her arm in the air and waggled her finger. “So, we don’t tell him.”
He frowned. “It is not that simple. This is his bedroom as well as mine. He is bound to come in here.”
Her arm flopped listlessly onto the bed.
James pulled on his pajama bottoms and tied them. He noticed her arm flop. “Did you just die?”
She sat up and scowled at him. “That was not a very concerned tone of voice. Young ladies die all the time from all sorts of daft things. I could very well have died from a tedium based disease and all you had to say was ‘Oh, dear! Did you just diiiiiiiiiie?’”
He smiled. “There is no way on this Earth that you would die such a relatively quiet death.”
“Oh?” She eagerly leaned forward. “Do you suppose I’ll get murdered?”
“I should hope not! I simply meant that you are more likely to die from punching a rampaging bull in the wilds of Kansas City than to die from a ‘tedium based disease’.”
Her expression brightened. “So, you think I’ll go out with flags aflame and coughing up vast volumes of blood?”
He shrugged. “I hardly know how flaming flags tie into you being trampled by a rampaging bull.”
She clicked her tongue. “It’s a dramatic figure of speech, you daft.”
“Of course.”
Someone else knocked on the door.
James winced. “Now, we are in for it.”
“I could hide under your blankets.”
James looked aghast. “Certainly not.” He held his hand out to her. “Come. We might as well face the sword’s edge.”
May Rose took his hand and hopped of the bed. “Face the sword’s edge. Hm! Now, that is a figure of speech I can stand behind and cheer for.” She marched towards the door, pretty much dragging James along. He hustled to keep up with her.
She opened the door.
Sure enough, Aloysius Arden stood on the other side. He did a slight head bow to her. “Miss Farlington.”
“Mr. Arden.”
His facial expression was 100% professional, 100% calm, and 1000% inscrutable. “It is rather late in the evening, Miss Farlington. I suggest you go to your own room.”
“Of course! I wasn’t planning to stay in here. Good night!”
“Good night, Miss Farlington.”
Heyyyyy friend! I am SO sorry for the late reply here! And thank you for the kind words! I always enjoy the liveliness of your characters and your wit so much, and her tromping in and him saying “May Rose. I am not sure if you’ve noticed, but I am undressing” is so much fun. The whole exchange is! Thanks so much for sharing!
Aww! Thank you so much! I’m glad you enjoyed it! I love these two so much, especially her. May Rose is such a sparkly, spunky little thing.
Hello, Bryn.
Thank you so much for this. You are so supportive and this is an amazing way to share and feel seen. This is really scary but I am going to share a short exerpt from my VERY FIRST novel. I just started it a few days ago and it’s been going well but daunting at times.
I wasn’t sure which part to share. In this scene, the heroine, Lila, is thinking about someone special she met the previous weekend, (Hunter).
(We Pick up in Chapter 3)
A full week had passed since Lila met Hunter. A whole week and she was still thinking about the way he smelled and the adoring way he looked at her. More than anything physical though was how he made it impossible for her not to smile.
How was it that this complete stranger could still be on her mind? She’d gone over it in her mind a million times. Perhaps it was his dark wavy hair and the way he kind of crookedly smiled at the art he liked or how he put his foot in his mouth when he insulted her favorite painting. Maybe it was the way he made her feel like she was the only other person in the room.
These things continued to puzzle her all morning that Saturday. More than anything, she wondered if she’d ever see him again. They did live in the same city after all and worked in the same industry. How hard could it be to run into each other? But that begged the question of whether or not he would want to see her again. This train of thought sent her spiraling and by the end of it she was certain he hadn’t thought of her a single time since he left the gallery.
She needed to try and put him out of her mind. There was no chance that he’d be single anyways. Someone that successful, handsome and charming was definitely already taken. But if that was true, why did he look at her the way he did? There was an instant spark between them. It was like meeting someone you’ve known your whole life and instantly knowing that person was going to be someone important to you.
That afternoon, Lila decided she’d take a run and clear her mind. She decided to go to Green Lake, one of her favorite places to run in town. Just a ten-minute drive from her downtown apartment, she was looking forward to getting outside in the fresh fall air. Green Lake was stunning year-round but particularly beautiful in the start of autumn. It was the place to go if you wanted to walk, run, swim, play tennis and just enjoy being in nature.
Lila hadn’t been in a few months and she set out excitedly a little bit after lunch.
When she got into her car, her cell phone rang. She thought to herself that whoever it was would have to wait until after her run. She didn’t recognize the number and she let it go to voicemail. As she headed on her route, she decided to check the message. A familiar voice came over the car’s speaker.
“Hey, Lila. This is Hunter Matthews. I don’t know if you remember me but we met the other night at the art exhibit. I got your number from Carl. I hope that’s okay. Uh, I guess you’re busy. Call me back when you get this … if you want. Okay, bye.” He adorably stammered through the message and Lila realized that her face was now wearing a giant smile, the kind that you can’t turn off even when you try.
Hi Whitney! Oh gosh, thank you for the kind words, and I am so sorry my response is so late. Your very first novel—this is exciting! Ahhh, I love it that he’s been thinking about her too, and he’s being so adorably awkward. Thanks for sharing. I hope you have great luck with the story!
Bryn,
Thank you so much for the comment! I’m optimistic that things will come together. In chapter 5 now. I consider myself a “pantser” but for chapters 4-6 I am trying a bit of an outline to see how it helps the process, if at all. So far so good! Excited. I tell myself, “what if you finish this?” Vs “what if I never finish???”
I hope you have a great week!
Whitney
Bryn, I’m obsessed with what the howl sounds like. I’m trying to reconcile it in my brain. Looking forward to digging in to the finished work!
This is from my (very rough) first draft. The premise: Through a series of events, our heroine, Kendall, ends up pretending to be her sister, Harriet. Her sister is a capital investor with an amazing reputation…and Kendall is a poet. They couldn’t be more different! Her handsome co-worker, Adam, doesn’t suspect a thing, but for some reason, he can’t call her by her first name – it just doesn’t fit her! And she doesn’t seem to know a lot about capital investing either. They are in Adam’s office reviewing deals and Adam doesn’t know that Kendall doesn’t have a clue what she’s looking at.
***
Adam had discovered two things anew: one, that the incomparable Harry Albright wasn’t as decisive as he’d expected her to be, and two, she smelled incredibly good.
The second thing threatened to distract him from the first thing.
He watched Ms. Albright as she thumbed through the files. Today her long, straight hair was pulled back and pinned at the crown of her head with a plain brown barrette, the rest of her hair hanging long past her shoulders and cut in a straight, newly trimmed line. Her cheekbones were high and slightly pink, either her natural color or the judicious application of a light blush.
He knew about these things about cosmetics because he had an older sister.
Adam also noticed that Ms. Albright was stressed. Her neatly manicured fingers held tight to the files, squeezing them until her nails turned white and her fingers almost shook. The way she sat in his office’s most comfortable chair, right leg crossed over left, a sensible shoe loosened at the heel and bobbing off the end of her right foot, thumbing through files like they were issues of People Magazine.
The room had been silent for nearly ten minutes. They were waiting for genius to speak.
Suddenly, she sat up and put both feet on the floor. Adam and Nick did the same, leaning in to make sure they didn’t miss a single word the financial guru might bless them with.
“This is interesting,” she said. “An e-greeting card company.”
Adam sat back, aware of the file she was looking at. “Poetry in Notion,” he said. “Based out of sunny Roberts City, Michigan.”
“They want to add a paper card line to their currently successful line of ‘just because’ and special occasional e-cards,” she went on. “Oh, look! Here’s a sample.”
Adam watched as she held up the card in front of her, admiring it like an original Van Gogh. After a moment, she tilted her head to get a different perspective, her hair falling over her shoulder as big brown eyes blinked in the heavy, abstract red and blue brush strokes. Carefully, she opened it and read aloud.
“”And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea – What are all these kissings worth if thou kiss not me?'”
“Stupid,” Nick said.
“Shelley,” Adam said nearly simultaneously, and Ms. Albright’s head snapped up as though she’d heard him say a foul word in front of kindergarteners. For a moment, he held her stare with confidence and then, just as quickly as she’d reacted to his response, her shock was replaced with the hint of a knowing smile.
Her reaction was, to him, more satisfying than closing a million-dollar deal.
“Very good, Mr. Warnke,” she said quietly.
“Thank you, Ms. Albright.”
Nick threw down the papers he was holding. “Are we all in church or something?” he asked. “Why aren’t we using first names?”
Hi Stephanie! Thanks for the kind words. And I really enjoyed this. One great way to show a character’s in love is for the character to notice every little thing about the other person, and you do such a good job of that here. Thanks for sharing!
The Viking and the Sword Maiden
Wolf completed his paperwork and ran from the tent to hit a wall. He staggered back as monstrous arms caught him.
The stranger said with a Scandavian accent, “Uff Da. I come to the Great Rocky Mountains only to be felled by a little leaf of a man.” He sported long blond hair, a bushy beard, and a twisting mustache that oozed off the corners of his lips.
Wolf stammered, “Sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”
“That is a first for me, to be invisible. I’m Eric Ericson.
“Sorry, Sir. My name is Wolf.”
“Just Wolf?”
“No, Sir. Wolf Sureblade. My mother is Sir Whisperblade.”
“Ja, I know Whisperblade. I look forward to killing her.”
Wolf felt blood drain from his face. Is he serious? He retorted, “She’ll kill you first, then I’ll kill you.”
“I like you. You will make a great warrior. I’m hungry. Let’s eat and talk.”
Wolf remained uncertain of this man in chain maille with a heavy broadsword. At the mess tent they picked up sandwiches, found a bolder sit on as they ate.
“Why are you called Wolf? It is a powerful name.”
“It’s short for, ‘Sleeps with Wolves,’ Sir.”
“No need to call me Sir. I’m not a knight.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Do you sleep with wolves?”
“Yes, Sir. He is Shadow.
“Shadow, an excellent name for one who follows you. Eric stood. “I shall sing songs about you when I return home. But enough talk, take me to Whisperblade.”
Wolf jumped to his feet. “No! Not if you are going to kill her.”
~
“Eric, how pleasant to see you again,” Whisperblade said, seething as she slipped her sword from its sheath.
Eric drew his sword to cross Whisperblade’s. “So, you haven’t forgiven me yet.”
Wolf, still standing near Eric, reached for his hunting knife.
“Wolf! Stand down and step away, now!” his mother ordered.
“You left me alone on that island,” Sir Whisperblade hissed and swung her sword first. It came whooshing around to be met by a perfect parry.
“It was an accident.” Eric swung a short sweep at Whisperblade’s head, but she deflected it up and over.
“I almost froze to death.” She powered an upward swing between his legs. He blocked with a downstroke.
“You had a warm coat.” He swung up and over as she backed away.
“I almost starved.” She aimed for his waist from the side, but he backed away.
“There were plenty of seals to be eaten.” He stepped in with a thrust, which she deftly sidestepped.
“I hate seals. I hate you.” She swung from the left at his waist.
“I love you.” His upswing hit her sword at the hilt, and she lost her grip.
The assembled pages and squires gave out an audible gasp as the sword took flight then impaled itself into the ground. Eric threw his sword aside, took two steps, and captured his prey in a bear hug. He planted a long kiss on her lips.
She struggled at first, then relaxed and threw her arms around him.
“She’ll kill you first, then I’ll kill you.” Hahaha! I really enjoyed this, Donald. I hope everything’s going well with you!
I remarried in Nov. Does that mean I’m doing well? I think so.
Yes, I think that DOES mean you’re doing well! Congratulations!
Oh! I love your excerpt! And you can totally finish! I believe in you! Here’s a snippet from my WIP, FOUND (not edited):
I was four when I realized the only person I could depend on was me. I remember watching my mother walk away as the words, “I’ll be right back, Micah. Stay here by this tree and don’t move” floated my direction from over her shoulder. And I obeyed. I stood by that tree for hours keeping watch for my mother’s bouncing blonde curls and the blue eyes that stare at me even now when I look in the mirror. I watched other mamas and their babies giggle and slip down slides and share a sandwich all while I watched for my own mama to come right back. But it was another little girl’s mama that finally noticed I was alone and asked me where my mother was as the sun started to slip behind the hills. And it was two men in dark blue uniforms that picked me up, screaming and fighting, to take me to the next place. And then another person and another person and another person. Before I finally ended up at Miss Janie’s with only the clothes on my back. They were the only things my mother left me, besides my blonde curls and blue eyes. People try to tell me I was too young to really remember that day. But you don’t forget the day you see your mama for the last time. You never forget.
KP, thank you for the encouragement! And whew, what a voice in this excerpt. It grabs right hold of you. Really strong. Thank you for posting!
Ooh, I liked your excerpt! Here’s the prologue I’m working on for a mystery I’m (trying) to write. (I use italics for thoughts, but I don’t know how to show italics in comments so I’m just gonna use parenthesis instead lol)
**
The man’s leather wing-tipped shoes clack on the pavement, sometimes mingling with the fluttering trash scattered in the darkened alleyway, the stench of urine and rotting food permeating the air. A dying street-lamp emits just enough light so he doesn’t trip over a decomposing cat, long-pecked apart by crows; or run into any of the dumpsters haphazardly placed near the center of the alley. Behind him, noises of the busy, bar laden street reverberate off the brick buildings. Drunk college students, bachelor parties, or thirty, flirty, and thriving birthday nonsense.
“Pathetic fools,” he sneers, stroking his chin-strap beard. As he straightens his black tie, he halts as a cold breeze hits his back, contradicting the summer heat. Narrowing his hazel eyes, he slowly examines his surroundings. (Ah. Any moment now.)
Whoosh.
Whipping his head around, the man’s gaze meets the pupiless, white eyes of his superior, and he holds back the urge to scrunch his face in disgust. His superior’s body has deteriorated dramatically since they last spoke. Skin is sagging off what was once a young and handsome face. The black, chin length hair has thick streaks of white. What had been sharp cheekbones are now sunken. Skeletal.
Genuflecting down on one knee, the man’s sleek ponytail falls over his shoulder. “Master Hales, it’s an honor to-”
“Get up,” Hales snaps, his deep voice raspy and breathy. “Ledner. You have failed me.”
Ledner smiles weakly. “No, sir. It’s taking longer than we expected.” He keeps his voice even, smooth. “I always keep my word. I have never failed you.”
“And yet, you have never impressed me,” he hisses, gazing hungrily at his servant. “But you’ll have to do.”
The pavement rumbles under Ledner’s feet. Black roots break the surface, gripping his ankles tight, a biting cold penetrates into his bloodstream, paralyzing him.
Hales’ physical form collapses to the ground. As it smacks onto the pavement, it changes back into the young man it used to be. In its stead, hovering in front of his servant, is a ghost-white inhuman being, purple veins throbbing in its neck and reeking of decay.
Eyes widening in horror, Ledner tries to scream, but no sound escapes him. Not even the whisper of a breath.
Pain explodes in his head, and his eyes are overcome with blinding whiteness as the being touches him. His head jerks back as Hales melds into Ledner’s body, like a blade is opening his throat. Desperate for air, he gargles and chokes until a grey, pellucid mist rushes out of his mouth, coiling until it dissipates into the night.
After a few, wheezy gulps of air, Hales examines his new form. Lifting his arms, he furls and unfurls his strong, thick hands. Cracks resound from his neck as he stretches it. (Yes. This will do just fine.)
Smirking, he turns on the spot and disappears, leaving nothing except the lifeless form of his previous host body in his wake.
**
Thank you!
(Also, I started creative writing last October and bought one of your list books which has helped me so much!!)
Hi Stacy! Thank you for the encouragement! And I’m so sorry for such a belated reply…especially because I enjoyed this so much. Great evocation of the scene (and fantastic, disturbing description of Hales.) The “I’ve never failed you”/”you’ve never impressed me” exchange is terrific, too. Thanks for sharing! I hope you have a great week!
(Ooh, and thanks for getting one of the list books. I’m so glad it’s helpful!)
Great atmosphere in your snippet. After reading the other excerpts, I very tentatively submit the Prologue to my next novel – a contemporary romance temporarily entitled “The Playboy”. Although most of the story will be told from the FMC’s viewpoint, I’ve taken a chance in starting by introducing the MMC first – as the overarching theme is his character arc as the redeemed rogue.
* * *
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 unbearably 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.
Hi Andie! Thanks for the kind words. I’m so sorry for the belated response here! It’s interesting because the prologue itself has a fairy-tale quality to some extent. It sounds like Damon will be learning a lot over the course of this story. Thanks so much for posting! I hope you have a great week!
Okay, so I wrote the below after watching a video on YouTube of Marines getting inducted into bootcamp. I figured Zoey need to have a tougher path into the CIA. I’ve never served and only know what I’ve seen on TV or the interwebs.
Anyways, here it is…
ZOEY, BACK IN THE MARINES – YEARS AGO
“Get off the bus!” the drill instructor screamed.
On the ground on the ground outside the bus were yellow foot prints they lined up on, facing a platform.
The four buses of people quickly trickled out. Zoey was dazzled at the precision and energy of the drill instructors, their arms and legs moving with power and energy, mastering the space around them.
“If you have anything in your hands, I want you to drop it on the deck behind you, aye aye, sir.”
Some among them return the “aye aye, sir” but it’s weak.
“I want each and every one of you to give me an ‘aye aye, sir’!”
The final student gets off the bus, now with them all perfectly in formation facing the buses and the platform in front of them. The senior drill instructor advances up the stairs of the platform.
“I want you to get your eyeballs on me right now.” They give a weak “aye aye, sir.”
“Louder now, aye aye, sir!”
Much stronger came the reply this time.
“Put your hands high in the sky like this right now.” They do so, but are slow about it.
“When I tell you to do something, you will do it with speed and intensity!”
“Put your hands high in the sky right now.”
“Aye aye, sir,” came their powerful reply combined with more intensity.
“Make two fists like this right now.”
“Put your thumb closed on top of your fist.”
“Put your arms down at your sides right now.”
“Your heels touch, your feet are spread at 45-degrees, your knees are slightly bent, your back is straight. This is the position of attention. You will assume this position when you speak to any Marine, Sailor, or civilian while onboard this depot.”
“When I tell you to, you’re going to turn around, pick up all your things and hold them with your arms crossed in front of you. If you have nothing on the ground, you are still going to have your arms crossed in front of you. And then advance to the next set of yellow footprints and turn immediately to your right.”
They respond, “aye aye, sir,” and when told, do as told.
“Look at me right now,” says a different drill instructor, the three of them circling the crowd and screaming at anyone who isn’t stacking up.
“Now look at me right now,” says the senior drill instructor, disorienting them.
“When I tell you to, your going to get down on your left knee.”
“Which knee?”
“The left knee sir,” the recruits reply.
“Get down on your left knee!”
They do this, but they’re much too slow.
“Stand back up!”
“I said you will move with speed and intensity, do you understand!”
“Aye, aye sir.”
“Get down on your left knee!”
Much faster, with purpose, and a loud “aye aye, sir,” they do as they’re told.
“Look at my red and yellow sign in front of you right now,” he says pointing to the sign. “You will read it silently to yourself as I read it aloud to you.”
“The Uniform Code of Military Justice…” Zoey gulped. Like clockwork, three drill instructors turned the four busloads of people into obedient vessels, out of which their messy lives would be poured out and refilled with discipline and skill over the coming weeks. This was the path she had reluctantly chosen. She thought this was the detour around her dream, but in fact it was the route to it. She just had to be patient.
Hi Chris! Oh my gosh, I am so sorry for the late response here! I hope you’re doing well. I love YouTube for research…lots of writers don’t think of it! Great excerpt. I feel for these people so much. And this is so well-written: “…their messy lives would be poured out and refilled with discipline and skill over the coming weeks.” Nice. Thanks for posting!
Reading about Nic entering this new world of potential belonging is exciting. Please keep going. I think teens especially will love this book. I am in between WIPs right now and writing this in my car in a parking lot so don’t have access at the moment, but I do have my published novel here so I’ll give an excerpt.
(Bruce) was an artist with a painting studio outbuilding beside his house. God knows how he paid the bills, but Susan admired his talent and encouraged Nadia to go over and check out his work before she left. There was a glint in Susan’s eye that Nadia immediately picked up on when she talked about Bruce. Nadia knew it spelled danger for her marriage. […]
“Oh, god damn it girl, you’re totally smitten! This is serious. I don’t want all of my friends to be divorced. Why can’t any of us stay together?” Nadia lamented.
From The OrdinaryLife of Nadia Lewis by Naomi P Lane
Hi Naomi! I’m so sorry for such a late response here! I appreciate the supportive words. We don’t usually share finished work here, but since you were writing in your car, I’ll let it slide. 🙂 Love the voice in the dialogue! I hope you have a great week!
Chapter 1
It is about four thirty, our daily soccer game is going strong, my cousins and I are winning 4 to 0 against friends from the neighborhood, Binamu Vs Jirani. Despite the excitement, I worry; my parents will to be home soon, and I did not even start my homework. The minutes are rushing by, but I just cannot leave the game, ten more minutes until the end. One more goal, one more goal. Suddenly Boom! Boom! two huge explosions. I fall on the ground.
I wake up, on my bed. My parents are standing at the corner by the window whispering.
That’s strange, I don’t feel any pain. In fact, I feel fine. They look so gloomy what is going on?
“Hey, Mama, Baba.”
They both rush to my side. “How are you feeling, son? “says Baba.
“I feel fine” I say siting up. “What happened?”
“There was an explosion near the soccer field, and you fainted. The chock must have knocked the wind out of you,”
“Is anybody else hurt?” I ask concerned.
“No, just you and another boy fainted. The blast was far enough and did not cause much damage where you were.”
I let out a sign of relief. Maybe I’ll get out of doing homework tonight.
“We have something important to talk to you about, come and join us downstairs in the kitchen. Take your time getting up,” adds Baba going out of the room.
Ha! They were not worried about me. What can be so important?
My name is Ando. I am a middle child. I am thirteen years old; my older brother Dialo is fourteen and my little sister is seven, her name is Djaneba. We live on the outskirt of Luanda, the capital city of Angola, a country on the West coast of Southern Africa. We are not rich but by Angolan standards we are doing very well. My father is an engineer and teaches Mathematics at the University and my mother has a successful small business in the city. Everyone respect us because we are considered more successful than most families in our village.
We live in a fairly comfortable two-story house, the only two-story house in the village. It is surrounded by a big yard with lots of fruit trees and a flower garden. My brother and I attend the parochial school not too far from the house. Unlike many families in the country my sister also attends school. There are only five girls in her grade and thirty boys. The other girls in the town do not attend school. They are needed at home either to work in the fields or take care of younger siblings. Their education is not important and is limited to whatever they can learn from their mothers. In our culture it is considered a waste of money to educate a girl because she is only going to leave the family to get married and raise children, preferably boys, of her own. But my parents are not like that.
Myriam, I am so sorry for my belated replies! (And I did trim this, since we try to keep them to around 500 words.) I enjoyed this excerpt so much. This is a setting I’m not familiar with at all, and I wanted to read more…I hope you post again next month, if you feel like it! Really intriguing. Thanks for sharing, and have a great week!
The Narrow House of Clay by June English (first page)
Elizabeth felt the fifteenth century grey stone church was watching her as she walked up the gravel path with Samson. She looked up at the high square tower, with its stained glass window in the belfry, and wondered if it was judging her for the sin she had committed.
But was her sin of loving a man before she was married so wicked?
Samson was holding her hand and he gave it a gentle squeeze as they approached the large grey wooden door and walked through, he looked down at her and she gave a nervous smile to the man who was prepared to help her atone that sin.
As they stood in front of the vicar in Stokebridge Church, Elizabeth looked at Samson and thought again of her lover, “Matthew, I love you, why aren’t you standing here beside me,” but she dare not say the words out loud.
Reverend Ellacott said, ‘is there anyone here who objects to the marriage of these two people?’
She looked around and wished that Matthew would say something, but the only people in the church were her immediate family and Samson’s. Matthew was not in sight.
Elizabeth wanted to scream she was marrying the wrong man and her heart sank, the sorrow she felt was making her feel dizzy. She didn’t want to marry Samson, any more than Matthew wanted her to, but she had no choice.
Reverend Ellacott said, “do you Elizabeth, take Samson, as your lawful wedded husband?”
She looked at Samson once more, she loved him, but he didn’t ignite the same passion she felt with Matthew, and her mind went over the events which led her to standing before the young vicar, marrying her friend instead of her lover.
OOOooohhh, I missed WIP Wednesday!
T_T
Actually fighting with a lot of real life issues so it’s no wonder.
But I’ll do my very best to post something next time.
Thanks for helping Bryn! And thanks for sharing everyone! The excerpts are awesome.