Hey friends! Happy June! Happy summer! (Or happy winter, for my friends Down Under.) How’s it going? Mr. Donovan and I are all moved into our new house in the Chicago suburbs, and I’m ready for a season with lots of blogging and writing. We’ll kick it off with a WIP Wednesday!
For those of you who are new, welcome!, and let me explain. On WIP Wednesday, the first Wednesday of every month, I share a little of a work in progress and invite you to do the same below in the comments section.
There are a few rules! Keep your excerpt 500 words or less. (Sometimes if you don’t trim it, I’ll trim it for you.) Avoid graphic content, but some coarse language is okay. You can’t link to finished work for sale, but feel free to link to a blog or any website with more of your work in progress.
Don’t critique other people’s work…and that includes questions that sound like criticism and helpful suggestions. However, a word or two of encouragement is always appreciated (and I believe it’s good writer luck!)
Okay, so I have a big surprise for you: I wrote a few poems in May! My MFA is actually in poetry, and I used to write a lot of it and get published in literary magazines. However, I hadn’t written poems in years. Here’s the first draft of one of the poems.
The Stone Warriors
They stand in formation at the very bottom of the sea, in the abyssopelagic zone,
far below the surfgrass meadows, the turtles and litter, the sacred groves of kelp,
the cuttlefish whose blood runs teal with protein, shifting its skin to look
like a donut of coral, and then again like grit—a terrible talent, to forget
who you are, to become one with songless fibrous flutes of sponge, but is there any
you, in the overture of a school of silver barracudas, a placid synchronicity of swords?
The stone warriors are too far down to recall the Balearic music of the lofty yachts.
They’re in the death-bath, deeper than a nuclear sub would dare for fear of blowing the hull.
No creatures living, which is to say frail, are here by free will. They couldn’t find a way
back up and adapted haphazardly to hell. The shrimp in the dark have jettisoned their eyes,
gathering around underwater volcanos, a comfort that might erupt and annihilate.
Red aliens with spiky limbs, forsaken and nameless. Convulsing X-rays of jellies.
A fish with a stick like a fishing pole growing of his head, his own dream of doom,
his mouth a needle-toothed rictus of misery. The tiny octopus can’t lift his lumpy head.
The pressure in these depths would smash any ordinary human heart.
You may be thinking, “For me up here, in the light and the normal air, it’s exactly the same.”
These soldiers had forgotten they were underwater, had forgotten their invincible bodies,
had lost the treasure of themselves to telepathic arguments and contemplations.
But they are your army
and now you have roused them.
They lift their faces and the barnacles peel away from their cheeks and their eyes.
They see sunlight shatter itself on the surface and shadows of your easily vanquished sharks.
The warriors don’t flail or paddle. Like silent rockets they rise up through the cobalt twilight,
up to the lambent acres of tankers and vacationers, and they storm the shore to protect you.
I can’t wait to read what you’re up to, so go ahead and share some of your work in progress below! Or, if you’d rather, just tell us how it’s going and if you have any writing plans for the summer. Thanks for reading, and happy writing!
Wow! I don’t think I’ve ever read any of your poems before, which seems crazy. I’m not really a poetry person, but that was really spooky and evocative. Just…wow! I loved it!
My entry this week is a bit written in the POV of one of the villainous characters in my story, who is about to get his comeuppance. He’s been abducted in the middle of the night (by the story’s hero), and now finds himself in an abandoned barn, gagged, tied to a chair with a big plastic tarp spread out beneath it, conversing with his kidnapper.
***
A shadow moved, and the man who’d attacked him came around from behind into his view, still wearing the black bandana across the bottom half of his face. Christ he was a big bastard, tall, packed with enough muscle that he looked like he could break Mark in half without any effort. He took a seat on the empty stool across from him. He saw that the guy had a long military knife in his hand, one edge gleaming sharply, the other wickedly serrated, designed to do a lot more damage coming out than going in.
“Mark Shellhorn,” the man drawled. “We finally get to meet.”
Who was this fucker?
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” the man continued conversationally, as if they were at a party and had just been introduced by a mutual friend. “I’m going to take the gag out of your mouth. I guess you might try to scream for help. Go ahead if you want to.”
Mark flinched as the man reached out and tugged the gag out of his mouth. He took several deep, gulping breaths, too terrified to try to call out for help.
The man’s eyebrows lifted. “No yelling?”
“Who are you?” Mark had intended the question to sound tough, but his voice sounded almost mewling to his own ears.
The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners, as if he was smiling beneath the bandana.
“I’m glad you asked. It’s true that we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting each other in person before tonight, but I’ve heard plenty of stories about you,” the man said. He pointed the knife at him. “And believe it or not, you’ve heard stories about me, too.”
Mark stared at the tip of the knife in terror. “Don’t kill me. I swear I have no idea who you are.”
“No, you do,” the man assured him. “I’m going to refresh your memory here in just a second.”
He rose from his stool and walked over to a table by the wall, almost out of the circle of light from the lanterns. He put the knife down and picked up something else. When he returned, his boots made the tarp beneath him crackle.
Mark saw that his captor had grabbed a pair of black gloves. He watched as he tugged them on and tightened the cinches around his wrists. They were fingerless, black leather motorcycle gloves. The man made a fist with one hand, and then both, the leather creaking.
“Oh, god, please just let me go,” Mark blubbered.
The man sat back down, his fists encased in black leather somehow looking just as terrifying as that big goddamned knife had.
“So, how do we know each other? We have a mutual acquaintance,” the man said. “Around twelve years ago, your parents were taking in foster kids to supplement their income. Do you recall the name Mina Blackbriar?”
Oh, Jesus, Oh God. “Mina?”
The man’s eyes flickered with murder. “My wife.”
And that was when Mark knew for a fact he was never leaving this barn alive.
This was very frightening and suspense. I loved it. Keep up the great work.
Thanks!
Wow, oh wow! You sucked me right in and made my jaw drop! Excellent job setting the scene, then building the tension until you delivered the last, devastating line. I would definitely keep reading!
Gosh, thank you. 🙂
Pamela, this was really scary! And really good! I assume Mark will get out alive, but still, great last line. Good stuff!
That was a wonderful expert! I loved the big words and the story. Excellent job.
This piece is following lasts weeks. The Rageful one, I skipped a couple paragraphs so we can get to the juicy bits.
She hands Sheila a gun and I notice that they too have a fire glow, they seem a bit different than John. Sheila, who is thin and has dirty blonde hair opens the latch and I can hear distant drops of water. She motioned for us to move down the dark damp hole. My mother goes first then I follow and grip the slick and slimy ladder. I hop down onto the concrete and wrinkle my nose, it’s a sewer. Sheila climbs down and then the others follow. Tressa, the dark-haired woman, explains to us that we have to walk a couple of blocks to be sure that no one is following us.
She counties “ The Rageful Ones recruits can be down here, scouting the area. So we have to be careful, and will drive up state to gather our half bloods and recruits.” I say walking forward “Where are the other recruits”? She looks at me, but not at me. “ There is an underground camp, where we will stay no more than two days. We have to get up to Madlien before they send anyone else down.” We walk in silence beside the sounds of dripping water. But they walk slowly, their hands twitching to their back when they hear a sound. They act like The Rageful Ones could come down at any point and kill us. But looking at their weird glows in knowing that what they say has to be true.
We round another corner and John stops and we stumble into him. He tries to retreat but it’s too late, they saw us. I start to panic when they raise their guns and are posed at us. It’s a face off between them and Sheila shoves my mother and I behind her. They raised their guns at our heads and I noticed that their glow was like Johns when I first saw him. But strangely their glow seems inviting. The guy says “ Who’s the girl?” Before anyone can react, John shoots him. My heart leaped into my throat, a tiny sound escaping. He’s partner shoots at us and we’re almost blind, besides their glows and the soft beams of light from the flashlight. That power deep inside me seems to climb my veins , growing stronger and deeper. A few rounds are passed and I shrink back, soon there’s a scream and a splash. My eyes go wide and I breathe trying to calm myself. I flash my light over the water and I see a body float by. I swallow a scream as the body’s glow dies to a dying black, a smoky color rising from his body.
* * *
They all back towards me, I squint, the tunnel seems brighter. They hurry me across the body and to another platform. I climb the ladder racking down the streets after the small alien group. My mother behind me, her face twisted in an emotion I don’t understand.
Hi Adriana! Very intense excerpt. You do a great job writing about fear. Thanks for posting!
Good morning Bryn 🙂
I’m working on my first sweet romance novel (big fan of Hallmark), also just read Sunrise Cabin and loved it 🙂
My heroine, Rachel, is dating someone she isn’t in love with, but has money/security. She hopes to open an art studio in her home town. I’ve got some road blocks planned, and of course…she will meet Mr. Right! This is an excerpt that introduces us to her dream:
As they approached the old town, Judy attempted to lighten the mood. “You will really like Tyler. He is such a sweet guy. He’s living at his grandfather’s old farm house with his dad, it’s beautiful!”
Rachel smiled and said “I’m looking forward to meeting him.” They approached a traffic light signifying the center of town. Quaint artisanal shops selling gourmet vinegars, hand-blown glass art, and delectable cupcakes lined the main thoroughfare of Laurel Valley. A cheery florist and the local coffeehouse were on opposite corners of the intersection. Aromas of woodsy vanilla and orange zest lured the shoppers in for their late morning fix.
Rachel was raised in this town and loved all the shop owners, but her favorite was Mrs. Perry who owned the vintage toy and collectibles store, Antiquaria. A large glass window in the front of the store displayed a beautiful miniature Christmas village that was lit up nightly at seven o’clock. Her mother took her and her sister there every year on November 1st to see the new tiny cottage or shop that was unveiled in the display. She could still remember the year they added the little train. Rachel had been mesmerized as it rambled slowly around the perimeter of the picturesque town, then entered a dark tunnel running through the moss covered hills. It’s headlight shone bright, lighting up the cave walls as it exited through the other side, and a tiny puff of steam rose into the air. It was one of her fondest childhood memories.
They came to a halt at the light and waited for the shoppers to cross their path. The last few crimson leaves tumbled by in the chilly November breeze, hinting at snow in the coming weeks. The shoppers were bustling in and out of stores preparing for their holiday feasts and festivities. Rachel always loved the changes that the fall weather brought to both the scenery and the spirit that swept over the residents.
“That’s the spot for the studio I was telling you about.” Rachel pointed to a row of three small shops that resembled dollhouses. The yellow one was the site of a quaint used bookstore owned by a cheery English couple. They had weekly book club meetings and served refreshments every afternoon at tea time. Sparkles Galore, the local jewelry store, was located in the little white house, which she had browsed through recently, eyeing the engagement rings under the guise of having her watch repaired. She motioned toward a light blue two-story cottage, complete with gingerbread scallops under the eaves and window boxes full of hot pink camellias holding out in the frigid air.
“That’s adorable!” Judy exclaimed, leaning over to get a look. “What a great location too!”
“I should have the space confirmed by Thanksgiving weekend.” In addition to Antiquaria, Mrs. Perry owned these three cottages and had promised this one to Rachel at half-rent if she wasn’t able to find a renter by Thanksgiving. Rachel’s eyes followed the studio longingly as they continued by and headed towards the restaurant.
Hi Rebecca! Oh my gosh, thanks for reading Sunrise Cabin, and thanks for the kind words. You do such a wonderful job of evoking a sense of place in this excerpt…I want to go there. And I feel like I kind of have! Thanks for sharing!
Thank you so much for your feedback! I would also love to hear how you chose the name Bryn for your pen name. My middle name is Brynn (spelled Brin on my birth certificate). My mom got mad at my dad for spelling it with an “i” and spelled it Brynn everytime she wrote it!
Love reading everyone’s work. Here is my first page and a half of a WIP I’m working on. It’s a mystery suspense, and I am trying my hand a first person POV present tense. I think I’ve shared this excerpt before when it was a first draft before any revisions, so it may seem familiar.
My stilettos plunge into the beige carpet as I walk across the bedroom. Curt’s freshly shaved and his skin is smooth under my fingers. I hold his face in my hands, my fingers splayed across his cheeks with my fuschia nails screaming stark against his healthy pink skin. I breathe in his aftershave. The scent is innately him and I drink it in. He moves closer and places his lips on mine.
“Do we really have to go downstairs?” Curt murmurs in my ear. He is so close his lips brush the top of my ear. His breath is warm, and I smell the mint from his mouthwash.
“Do I have to remind you that this birthday party is for you? I spent months planning.” I step backwards.
“Alicia, don’t get upset. I was just teasing. But I do want to finish this later,” Curt’s finger trails down the v-neck of my dress. He always knows how to diffuse a situation, including my temper.
“Is that a promise?” I wink. “Now, come on, guests will be arriving. We can’t be up here when they do.” I look myself over in the full length mirror sitting in the corner. I smooth the front of my black gown that clings in all the right places, touch my diamond necklace, and reach for the doorknob.
Curt sits on the bed in his tux fussing with the bow tie, his shoulders slump a bit. “I’ll be right down.”
That won’t do. I go to him, straighten his bow tie. “You look as handsome today as when we met and married ten years ago.” Holding his hands I pull him to his feet. “Now let’s go greet our guests.” I smile as big as I can hoping I don’t look like a clown with a full face of makeup. Curt allows me to lead him down the grand curved staircase.
The bar is set up in the living room tucked in a corner that everyone can access but also not in the way. The caterer’s spread is in the dining room spanning the mahogany dining table. A table we rarely use. And, of course, there are passed hor d’oeuvres. Crab stuffed mushroom caps, bacon wrapped dates, apple walnut brie, roast beef crostini, and just about anything else anyone could possibly want. I poured over the menus with the caterer, and then demanded a few special items not listed. No expense was spared for Curt’s party. And, a party like this was always an opportunity to impress everyone in our circles. The decorations sparkle. Not a smudge to be seen. I told the decorator I wanted sophisticated, and I think they nailed it. I eye the swan ice sculpture in the foyer. “Tell me you love it,” I whisper to Curt.
Hey there! Great sensory details in this excerpt—including that first sentence, which I just love. Thanks for posting!
I Loved the poem, too. It’s wonderful to go back to the beginning of your adult life and revisit your younger self!
the following is an excerpt from a sweet romance with an element of what I think might be called magical realism:
Still looking at the runway below, Tess wasn’t sure where the sudden smell had come from. Or the voice. Was it the radio? Below her the blue and white Midstate Commuter plane flew straight in on final. Was it the pilot? Charlie? She was losing her mind. Taking her fingers from the yoke she stared at her shaking hands.
“Put your hands back on the yoke.” Same voice. From the right seat.
The scent of spicy aftershave wafted past her nose, filling the small space. She was afraid to turn her head but something made her. She had company. A man wearing a faded and worn denim jacket identical to hers sat in the right seat. And it wasn’t Charlie. He smiled crookedly. Just like Pearl.
Her mouth suddenly dry, she swallowed. “Daddy?”
“Hi, sweet pea.” His big hands rested in his lap. As always, he absentmindedly rubbed the scar across the back of his hand. Three years flying dangerous fire bombing runs and his only injury came from the hot exhaust pipe of a motorcycle. “What did I always tell you? You fly the plane. Don’t let the plane fly you. Now put your hands back on the yoke.”
Her hands jumped from her lap to the yoke in an instant. He was right. Letting go of the yoke wasn’t very smart. She hazarded a glance to her right. “You’re still here.”
He smiled. That familiar dad smile. “You’re soloing. I always knew you could do it.”
“I was wishing somehow you knew. But Dad, I have to land this thing on that tiny runway down there without dropping to the earth like a stone.” Her stomach flipped over once, then twice. Not only did she have to land an aircraft, by herself, for the first time, but she was having hallucinations a thousand feet in the air.
“You’ve landed the plane yourself plenty of times.”
“Sure, with you or Charlie. Not by myself.”
“We’ve gone over this. You understand aerodynamics. Fly the plane down to the runway. The tires should just kiss the runway.”
“Kiss the runway. Kiss the runway.” Taking a deep breath, she peeked over her right shoulder. He was still there. “Um, what are you doing here?”
“I got the feeling you weren’t real confident going up for the first time by yourself. I told you I’d always watch over you, remember?” He drummed his fingers on the dash and breathed out a sigh of contentment. “It’s beautiful up here. Look at those trees. See how their colors reflect in the lake? What a day for a flight. A perfect day to solo.”
From the height of the traffic pattern, they saw the lake shimmering in the distance. He was right. The fall colors reflected back in the dark water. The wind whipped up white-topped little waves that sparkled in the bright sun. She glanced at her father. Like he did. He glowed in the rays of the bright sun.
Oh! Oh! I didn’t want that to end. So beautiful, great job!
Hi Tanya! Wow, this really was magical! I really enjoyed it. I hope we see more.
Hi Bryn, I loved your poem! So descriptive, it made me want to go snorkeling in the Bahamas again. At least until you said “But they are your army and now you have roused them.” Yikes! Brava, lady!
My excerpt is from my current book, “Bryn’s Flight.” Bryn is a Valkyrie who is trying to save the horde before they die out. She’s come to Colorado to enlist Rota, a former Valkyrie horsemaster who left the horde years earlier, to help her save them. First, though, she has to get Rota’s attention. In this scene, Bryn is with the nasty Mr. C, the owner of the fight club where Rota is champion, right after Bryn had to knock out Mr. Cs sons for pawing at her.
“Oh, you’re going to get a fight. The question is: who can I put you in the ring with to teach you a lesson without killing you? I don’t like dealing with dead bodies.” He waved a hand in front of his face. “It’s the smell.”
“And the mess,” the “Paul Bunyan” holding her in the chair added in.
Mr. C pointed at him and nodded. “Too right.”
Correct the correction: she loathed Mr. C with the fury of the fire giant Surt fighting the god Freyr during Ragnarok.
“I already know who I want to fight,” Bryn said to get them to shut up.
“Well, it couldn’t be Buddy,” Mr. C said. “He’s even bigger than Ira here.”
She jerked her head hard to free it just because she had to see the giant’s face. But no go. “Your name is Ira? Your parents named you that when you’re this big?”
“I wasn’t born this big.” Ira grunted and pressed down a little on her head like he was trying to compress her spine. “Family name.”
“They named him after his mom’s favorite Chi-Weenie dog. The little bitey bastard,” Mr. C added helpfully.
Bryn could feel Ira tremble through the grip he had on her head. Scratch helpfully, the gleam in Mr. C’s eyes spoke of cruelty, not an interest in “the more you know”. He was the type to belittle and bully until you were down, then crush you out of existence.
“We’re simple folk here in Colorado,” Mr. C said, a slight frown pulling his jowls down. “You’d know that if you were from here. You’d also know that no one messes with my kin.”
She held up her hands. “Alright, fine. I’m sorry I hurt your precious boys. Are we good?”
“You aren’t getting out of a fight that easily, girlie. Tell me, who did you come to fight with?”
She folded her hands in her lap and smiled sweetly, ignoring the stretch of the scar on the left side of her face, pleased when Mr. C flinched in disgust. Her scar had been hard won and she was proud of it. Didn’t mean she couldn’t have fun grossing out any human in her vicinity.
“I came here to fight your undefeated champion. I came here to fight Rota.”
Mr. C and Ira remained completely still. So still Bryn itched to snap her fingers to get them to wake up from the hypnotic trance she’d inadvertently put them in.
But she needn’t have worried.
All four men burst out laughing at the same time, as if they had coordinated the move for the greatest, most insulting effect.
Correct the corrected correction: she wanted to flay all four men with flames from the god of fire Loki himself until all that remained of them was ash.
You had me at “Valkyrie horsemaster.” LOVE me some Valkyrie! I’m really interested to hear how her match with Rota goes!
Did you name a Valkyrie after me??? Haha, just kidding! One of my very best friends was writing a character named Bryn right before I met her, which I always thought was a sign we were meant to be friends. 🙂 Great excerpt. “Correct the corrected correction”—I love that!
She’s named after Brynhildr, a Valkyrie and Shield-maiden in Norse mythology, but she goes by Bryn. I did think of you after I made the decision to name her that!
Excellent excerpts all of them. All most exciting and enticing.
Here’s mine. It’s from a work that has just come back from the editor. It’s set in England in the 9the Century when the East of the country was ruled by the Vikings. (They were mainly Danes.)
The book is called Jealousy of a Viking.
Helgha, a young Viking girl has fallen in love with the son of a jarl (Viking noble). They cannot marry because of their difference in status, but nevertheless, Erik, the young man, visits as though courting her. Her father demands satisfaction for the insult to his family and challenges Erik to a duel to the death.
Her mother turned away from her daughter. “You are a Dane, Helgha. Behave like one. People die in battle.”
Helgha reached out to her mother. “You aren’t a Dane. You’re an Anglo-Saxon.”
“I became a Dane when I married your father. I became a Dane when I decided to follow the Danish religion. I became a Dane when I learned how to act like one. Now, daughter, you must act like one too. Dry your eyes and stand and watch.”
Helgha forced her eyes to stay open as the two men circled each other, each looking for an opening. She worried her father’s experience would overcome Erik’s strength. Then her anxiety turned to anguish as she thought Erik’s youth and more recent battle experience would prevail.
The sun’s rays heated her back as it struck through a hole in the cloud. It felt as if one of the weapons had struck her. Nausea filled her stomach, but she could not give in to the feeling. Her mother watched her, expecting her to behave like a true Dane. At that moment, Helgha was anything but a true Dane. She felt like one of the despised Anglo Saxons, full of fear and cowardice. She turned to watch the fight.
Erik lunged but Biorn avoided his thrust. He struck at Erik who parried with his shield. Biorn made a flurry of attacks, hacking at Erik’s shield and forcing him backward.
Backed against a store building, the younger man ducked and rolled away. He came up behind Biorn. The older man whirled around in time to catch Erik’s sword on the edge of his shield. Helgha drew in a breath as he thrust the shield’s boss into Erik’s face. With no helmet to protect his head, Erik was forced to duck. The edge of the shield cut a deep gash in his cheek.
Helgha screamed.
To the watching girl, it seemed hours passed. In effect, it was only a few minutes. She closed her eyes so as not to see, then opened them because she could not see. The two men were evenly matched. Erik was the quicker, but what Biorn lacked in speed he more than made up for in experience and craft.
Eventually, the fighting began to tell on Biorn. He slowed. Erik took advantage of this and forced Biorn backward. He rained fast blows of his sword on Biorn’s shield. Biorn had to fend them off with no chance to retaliate.
Helgha once again screamed and put her hands over her face. The blood lust in Erik’s eyes as he pressed his attack made her shiver. Her heart skipped a beat as Erik’s sword struck her father’s shield.
Then Biorn slipped. He did not go to ground, but his shield split under the assault from Erik. He regained his balance and held up his axe in defence. Erik slipped. Biorn lifted his battle-axe to deal the final blow. Then Erik twisted his body and thrusting upward, skewered Biorn through the belly.
Gripping drama, V. M. I admire your ability to let us see the choreography. Very vivid. I am wondering what Helgha will feel about Erik. Will her feelings change if he kills her father? I know how difficult it is to write a good sword fight and I am amazed at your ability to do it.
Hi V.M.! I hope the edits are going well! Editing is my favorite part of writing. Great action scene, and I love the discussion of the cultural differences here. Thanks for posting! I hope we get to see more.
I feel a bit like an animal that’s been trapped in a cage to be rescued. I have been in the cage for some time now. Even though I have been well provided for, with clean water, food and warmth, my captors have decided that it is safe to release me back into the wild. They have just placed my cage in the middle of a field and opened the door, but I am reluctant to leave.
This is an excerpt from my latest blog post at naomiplane.com. I am discussing my ambivalence to society reopening after the pandemic. I really love your deep sea poem. Thanks for sharing and happy nesting in your new home!
Wow, Naomi! I feel the same way. I stayed home so much that after they started opening up, even a car ride brought panic. Things were zipping by too fast and I had no control. Thanks for sharing.
Great topic, Naomi. I think a lot of people can relate. And thanks for the kind words!
So many things I love about your poem!
I have a new one today too. First draft, I haven’t done any work on it yet.
The title is from A Course In Miracles:
All Things Are Echoes of the Voice for God
So let’s sit and listen for a while.
Can you hear it? In the beep and clank
of machinery building a building somewhere,
in the voices of children playing,
in the songs of birds and the whir of the spin
of the chakras of all the people in the world, can you hear it?
In the raspy voice of a demagogue
and the quiet midwife instructing a woman
screaming in birth and in the scritch of squirrels
in the attic and the whoosh of air
through dusty ducts the beetles in the grass
and the heartbeat of the bird that plucks
them up and swallows them down
There is no hate, only the chorus
of every sound, every voice, all of it
all of us singing as the one that we are
the divine song whose sound is
OM
Rachel! I just love this. It’s so expansive and transcendental. I love the connections it’s making between such different things (which is of course the whole point.) This is going to stick in my head. It’s awesome.
Thank you!
Beautiful poem, Bryn. It’s easy to see why you were published as a poet.
My selection for this month is from my Dragon books instead of my Challenge books. Even before birth, Yadira was enhanced by magic to be the dragons’ champion. She’s been a tom-boy all her life, but her mother would not agree to her birth unless Yadira would have love in her life and so, at this point, Yadira is awakening to feelings she’s never had before and she doesn’t go gracefully.
At first we are in Yadira’s brother’s point of view. Next scene is from Yadira’s.
***
Jerin eyed his friend as DuShain strode into the Great Stone Hall of the High Clan – crisp uniform, polished boots, sword gleaming. He’d never looked that smart even at military inspection at Harvest Festival. “That’s definitely a swagger,” he told his father.
Tezak chuckled. “A good thing Yadira is here to distract him.”
“Niomi wouldn’t…”
The women emerged from Auntie’s alcove. Jerin sucked in a deep breath at the sight of Niomi in her red gown. The dress seemed to float around her feminine form. Her ebony hair cascaded in waves to her shoulders. Eyes sparkled in a radiant face.
The musicians played Jerin’s favorite song, but at that moment any song would have been his favorite forever. Jerin’s heart beat quickened as he strode to Niomi and took her in his arms to dance.
***
Yadira hung back as though she wasn’t invited to the party she’d created. “I didn’t know it was going to do this,” she whispered.
DuShain stood beside her at the side of the great fireplace. He leaned back against the wall. “Do what?” His voice was deep and mellow. A faint trace of cedar, his scent, wafted past her.
She looked down at her long red dress. “Honestly, DuShain, all I wanted was to see if I could dance without tripping over my skirt. That’s all.”
“Shall we find out?”
She searched his face, silently pleading for his understanding.
His eyes twinkled. “I’ve got some purple llamacorn milk for you.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“You’re trembling. Do you want me to sing the Achoo song?”
She shook her head. “Jokes won’t help.”
“What will? What’s bothering you?”
She remembered what Ishemia said that she should tell DuShain how she felt and so she made an attempt. “Feelings.”
“Your feelings?”
“Partly.” Her gaze dropped. “Jerin and Niomi.”
“It’s perfectly natural, Yadira. In a few weeks they’ll be married.”
“I know that.” But it really didn’t help her embarrassment at seeing the display of affection so she searched for another excuse and although true, it wasn’t the most important. “He’s my brother. And then she came along and there’s no more sword fighting, no more tromping through the woods, no more tracking the boys, no more scary stories or funny songs, no more long talks, no more brother to understand me. It’s all gone and it’s my fault because I brought her here.”
“I’ll tell you what.” He cocked his head. “Believe it or not, I like to talk and listen and understand. I know a few scary stories and some funny songs. I could brush up on my sword fighting. How about if I substitute for your brother?”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course, I would. I even know how to dance. Would you care to join me?”
This is a wonderful piece there relationship is sizzling.
Thanks Adriana.
Jessie, I swear you get better and better. I love the dialogue in this one! Thank you for posting!
Oh wow! I love learning that my favorite authors are secretly poets. The imagery in this piece is so strong. And it’s cool, because that’s what often strikes me about your writing is that I can see and feel myself in the setting. Thank you for sharing this. I hope Chicago brings out more poetry!
The piece I’m sharing today is really rough – I started this project on Monday.
It’s a romance featuring a professional rock climber, and as such has a lot of terminology and references most people won’t know before hand. My goal is to tell the story with enough explanation that the reader feels like they could be an elite climber, without getting bogged down in technical description. Kind of like how, after watching a few episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, you feel like you know what to look for when operating on a brain tumor and are pretty sure you could scrub in with Derek if needed.
Let me know if this makes any sense at all 🙂
The off-leash boxer bounding up to his crag in advance of a film crew should have tipped Alden off to trouble. But no, he just watched as a powerfully hot woman emerged from the woods and dropped her gear bag at the base of his project.
“Is this Endgame?”
“Yeah. How did you find—?”
“Sweet!” She glanced back at the cameraman. Focusing on the lens, she jumped around and pointed at the cliff. It took all of Alden’s will power to keep his eyes on her face so he wouldn’t be caught on camera staring at her curves.
His eyes flickered down her body. Would anyone really judge him for that?
“Alden! My man!” Bruce Hanford emerged from the entourage. Bruce was an acquaintance from the climbing community in central Oregon, not a close friend. Still, he appeared to have answers.
“Bruce. What’s up?”
Bruce pointed at the cliff, then back at Alden. “You did this? Nice!”
“Thanks. It’s been a long time in the works.” Pride muscled in over Alden’s concerns. It was a stellar route. For the last year and a half, he’d spent all his free time focused on one goal; setting a new route at the uppermost limit of his ability, and being the first person to send it.
Endgame was well off the beaten path, or any path, tucked up in the northwestern corner of the public lands surrounding Smith Rock. When school let out for summer Alden packed up his classroom, and set up camp at the base of the climb. In the cool mornings and evenings, he climbed. As he rested in the afternoons, he studied the route, trying to figure out how to make it through the most difficult parts. He was so close. Another week and he’d have the First Ascent of a 5.14 route. It was going to feel incredible.
And this achievement might finally help his family understand his chosen path in life.
“Everybody!” Bruce clapped his hands, turning from the cliff to face the crew. “Allow me to introduce David Ainsley Alden Wilder the Third, route setter and all around badass.”
“Alden,” he corrected.
“And this,” Bruce gestured to the woman, “is Sedona Jansen.”
Alden’s eyes pulled back to the woman, like the needle on a compass. Wow. This was Sedona Jansen? She was currently one of the top climbers in the world, and according to the kids in his outdoor program, very popular on Instagram.
“No way.” He smiled at her. “Sedona Jansen at my crag? My students are going to freak out.”
“Way!” She waved her arms, mocking her own fame and invoking Wayne’s World at the same time. “What do you teach?”
Alden opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t remember what he taught, or even what he was doing here. A soft morning breeze wafted along the cliff base, bringing the scent of juniper and sage brush with it. He shifted closer to her. She held his gaze, raising her hands to pull her hair up and off her neck. Then she grinned, sending a spark straight through him.
Trouble.
Oh, Anna, thank you (belatedly!) for the kind words!! I appreciate them so much. I have never read a romance about a rock climber and I think that is such a brilliant idea. I LOVE your thinking about handling the technical details. I love the name “Sedona” for a heroine, and I’m kinda falling in love with her myself 🙂 Thanks for posting!
The Company We Keep
Never in her wildest dreams would Tessa Moore have ever imagined she’d become one of ‘those’ women. Moving to Maine from Texas was supposed to be a fresh start. Not a place to be haunted by the humiliation of her ex-husband’s sexual exploits. So why was his mistress setting up an art gallery in Cape Elizabeth? Pure coincidence? Not likely. But why? The damage had already been done.
Even though the two women never met face-to-face, Tessa had already seen more of this Natalia Smith than she cared to. Mainly by way of mysteriously leaked extremely explicit videos and steamy voice recordings. A blatant betrayal that quite literally nearly killed her. Tessa was not going to allow this woman to ruin her life yet again. The town was not big enough for both of them, and Tessa was done running.
As far as Tessa could tell, she had three options. One – Innocently introduce herself and perversely enjoy watching the bitch squirm. Two – Her personal favorite, give the homewrecking heifer a well-deserved, Texas-style, educational beat-down. Or three – Be a real woman and thank her for finally giving her the strength to end an already dying marriage. Actually, there was a fourth option. Just let it all go and return to her beautiful new home overlooking Casco Bay and continue rebuilding her life.
The instant the brightly painted sea green creaky screen door swung open, her heart sank. Well, there goes option four, thought Tessa. Now what do I do? Thankfully, her anxious indecision switched to relieved amusement at the sight of her friend Jeannine Gamache’s oil-paint-splattered face. Judging by the streak of ultramarine blue across her forehead, Tessa could only assume the celebrated local artist had been working on either a sky or water. The culprit appeared to be the wet paintbrush handle in her right hand.
“Well! Don’t just stand there!” Jeannine said. “Get in here and gimme a hug!” She then slyly mouthed the words. “Follow my lead.”
Tessa’s dark brown eyes flashed in silent acknowledgment as she bent down into her friend’s welcoming arms. “Missed you, my friend.”
Jeannine stood back, looking up at Tessa. “Are you back for good this time?”
Well, Tessa thought, as she glanced passed Jeannine’s shoulder at the younger woman sitting in the back of the studio completely immersed in a conversation on her cell phone. Porcelain skin. Emerald-green eyes. Dark auburn hair. Petite, voluptuous hourglass figure. Everything she wasn’t, of course. Even though the woman was speaking English, Tessa detected an Eastern European accent. There was no denying it. Natalia was beautiful and judging by the videos, quite flexible.
“Yes, for good this time,” Tessa replied almost absent mindedly. So, looks like we’re going with Option one. Thankfully, Jeannine would be there to serve as a buffer just in case things got out of hand.
Jeannine took Tessa’s hands in hers and squeezed gently. “I’m so sorry for your loss, dear.”
Great scene! Really liked the way you wove in just enough setting detail to keep the flow of the narrative going.
Hi Catherine! Really gripping material and nice handling of the point of view. I really felt this. I hope I get to read more! Thanks for posting!
Hi everyone!
As my time is a little chaotic, my writing ain’t going very well, but I’ll stay on it.
For now I’ve settled to sorting my old stories and have found one beginning that is entirly written in english but is horror, so i’m not sure, if I should post it here.
Would that be inappropriate? Or would you like to read an excerpt? If so, should I post it as soon as I got your answere or next month?
Anyway, thanks for sharing to everyone!
I love scary stories. As long as it fits Bryn’s other guidelines, I say post it. 🙂
Hi, Akomachi! Oh, believe me, I understand about chaotic time. It’s okay to post horror as long as it’s not too graphic. Since I’m responding a little late (sorry about that!), I recommend posting next month (July 7) so that more people will read it! I hope everything’s going well with you!
Thanks Bryn, enjoy your new home after your chaotic times! <3
Graphic. That's where I am a little shy around: what is too graphic? The Text made Me shiver when I found it, even so I have written it. But I'll post it with a warning next month anyway.
Till then
What a beautiful poem. Gave me chills!
I just started a sweet romance between a substitute teacher looking to make a small-town job permanent and a woman back in her hometown to clean out her late grandmother’s house, write an article that completely dismantles the patriarchy and return back to her big city apartment…in that order.
As she brought the spoon to her lips and pursed her lips around it, Duncan’s throat tightened.
It had nothing to do with the ice cream.
“Good?” He croaked. For Pete’s sake, he’d been on an award-winning debate team in college and not once had his voice croaked. A drop of lilac clung to her upper lip and it was like an out-of-body experience not to be able to gently sweep his thumb across the pink silk of her mouth.
“Mmm,” she murmured, nodding with a twinkle in her eyes. “I think I want to try one more sample before I decide. May I try a spoonful of the espresso chip please?” She dropped the spoon in the large wire trash can next to the counter and stood on her toes to point to the one she wanted.
Did she know she was tormenting him? He needed to find out if she had a boyfriend yesterday.
“So, you said you live in Charlotte,” he said. Phew, there was his normal baritone. “I’ve heard the city is pretty expensive. Do you live by yourself?”
She smiled gratefully at the teenager who handed her another tasting spoon. “No, I share an apartment with three of my friends from college. We were all psych majors at Chapel Hill.”
Suggesting she try samples was probably the best idea Duncan had had in his life. He probably would have been tempted to stare at those lips regardless but the ice cream gave him an excuse. That was one lucky spoon, right there. He wondered if she was as choosy with men as she was with ice cream. That would be the only explanation he could think of for why someone like her, someone beautiful and interesting, might still be single.
Lord, he hoped she was single.
“My roommate at Temple was a double major in psychology and biology,” he said. “He works at a big pharmaceutical company outside Philly now. He keeps trying to get me to come back up there and work in sales.”
Sadie tipped her head towards one shoulder. “You’d be good at sales. It seems like you’re the type of person who can talk to anybody about anything.” Discarding her second spoon, she turned back to the counter and placed curled both hands over the edge. “I’d like a scoop of the lavender in a cone, please.”
“That sounds good,” Duncan said, reaching across her to drop a five on the counter. “Make it two.” He withdrew his hand, accidentally brushing against Sadie’s fingers with the motion. Did she like to hold hands with fingers intertwined or with her hand tucked inside another’s like a small mitten? Why did he feel like a pincushion of nerves around her?
As the cash register slid open with a thunk, Sadie cast her gaze around the room before her eyes lit up. “Look, an empty table by the window! That’s the half-price cone day Holy Grail!”
It was a good thing there were no children or elderly people in the way because, teaching job or not, he would have launched himself into a nun if she had made a move for that table. As it was, Duncan lunged for the white plastic chair, reaching with the full stretch of his wing span to pull it out from under the small table in the corner. Settling himself down as casually as if he hadn’t just made a Heisman-worthy dive across the room, he folded his hands in his lap and smiled benevolently back at Sadie.
Hi Laurie! Thank you so much (and I know this is a little late, sorry!) for the kind words. I appreciate it! Your description of your story is so great! And this excerpt is such a great example of how sweet romance can still be quite sensual. Great stuff—really felt the attraction. Thanks for sharing!
Stephen never had a chance to say anything to Archer before his brood left the apartment. He soon saw his apartment shrink in the amount of people inside it. It was never that he liked to see his friend. What was Henry sent to find him and his family for? Stephen wanted answers and now. “Why did father send you here?” Stephen asked as he turned and looked at his three children. “Lilac you and Echo go and play in your room please.” He was going to allow Banjo to remain with him.
Lilac was unsure why her and Echo had to leave the room and Banjo could remain. She was old enough she though. “Dad can I stay please?” Lilac was at the tender age of testing the waters. Stephen turned to his little girl and looked at her. That one look gave Lilac all she needed to know to leave the room with Echo.
“Now we are alone, and this boy is your eldest, I assume Stephen?” Henry asked as he paced around the small mediocre apartment.
“Yes, why do you ask?” Stephen paused for a minute. Banjo is fourteen in a few weeks.” He decided to add. What is going on here?”
“We are here to take the boy back to your father. Please explain to him what that entails. You and the other two are not needed.” Henry explained to Stephen in an abrupt manner.
“Excuse me. I’m not letting you three take my son any place. He is not going anywhere with you. He will remain with me I left the kingdom for a reason. You know what that reason was Henry. Remind my father why I left him and the kingdom. And why my mother left him.” Stephen groaned.
“Dad, what is this about a kingdom?” Banjo had hoped he had miss heard things.
“Son, Banjo this is not the time to explain things.” Stephen groaned.
“Stephen, it was never that bad. Your mother left of her own accord. You did the same with that flighty number.” Henry announced as he pointed to the picture of Banjo’s mother.
“Hey, never talk about my mother in that manner. I will punch your lights out.” Banjo stood and walked to Henry with his fists out.
“Stephen, does this boy expect to beat me in a fight?” Henry jested at Banjo with thought that Banjo would never be able to beat him.
Stephen knew better than wage a bet that anyone who was in a fight with Banjo would beat him. Coyote had taught him how to fight. He knew how to street fighting and taekwondo. He himself would never fight against his own son. Banjo was that good in taekwondo. There was no sense in raking over old memories. Stephen was not going back. He was not going to allow his father to subject his children to the rules of the kingdom either. Those rules were ancient and only his father could change them. Stephen knew that wasn’t going to happen.
“Stephen, I’m Lennox Cameron one of your father’s best advisors. I believe it’s in the child’s best interests he comes with us. You can come too. Your father has changed.” Lennox announced and he spoke he held his chest forward and spoke with pride in his tone.
“Lennox, I don’t care who you are, where you come from. My family will never go with any of you. Now leave!” Stephen bellowed as he pounded his fist on the dinning room table.
“Way to go dad.” Banjo stood behind his father as he sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “I never go. Being a Prince of a country does sound neat. I have other obligations to take care of though.” Banjo blurted out. He latticed his fingers behind his head and rocked the stool.
“You sure you would be never having to worry about money boy. Have every thing you need. Your grandfather will give you a computer, cell phone you will go to the finest schools and colleges.” Lennox Cameron explained what Banjo was giving up.
“I have a laptop I have a cell phone. I have my father and siblings. What else do I need?” Banjo declared. He thought the only thing he wanted was his mother back. He knew that would never happen.
This is my current W.I.P. I been following your blog for over a year. I love your writing books and started reading your fiction book last week. It inspired me. Check out my blog.
https://inspiredecho.wordpress.com/
Hi R.A.! This is a great turning point here. I like Banjo! I hope we get to read more. Thanks so much for following the blog, and for reading the books! I hope you have a great week!
All Good Things Must End
Mace stopped his vicious attack on Maud, and pointed his handgun at the two squires. Amara aimed her bow to let loose but Wolf yelled, and shoved her, pushing her off-balance and out of the way of the bullet that flew by, notching his ear. He re-aimed and let loose the arrow striking the man in his chest. Then he notched another arrow.
Mace, unaffected by the wound, pointed his gun at Wolf and hissed, “You!” as he pulled the trigger. With a popping crunch, Shadow’s jaws savaged Mace’s forearm, followed by the “crack.” of the gun. The bullet flew wild as Wolf’s arrow buried itself in the man’s heart.
Maud grabbed the man’s neck, but he was already dead.
As Wolf stared at the dead man, Amara tackled him by the waist, smashing him to the ground, and pounded him. “Traitor, scum, cockroach, I had him!”
Wolf protected his head with his arms as Amara rained wild blows.
“He’s your father, your father!” Wolf shouted.
Amara paused, slack-jawed, words sinking in. “What?” she cried, then hit him again.
Wolf grunted and yelled, “Your father! He’s your father. I couldn’t let you be the one to kill him.”
“He’s right.” Maud said. Amara jumped when Maud put a hand on her shoulder, her appearance unaffected by the cruel beating she had received.
Amara shook with nervous energy. She barely croaked out, “What just happened?”
Maud continued, “He had to stop you. You couldn’t have killed him. If you had stood your ground and shot your arrow, Mace’s bullet would have found you. Wolf saved your life.”
Amara, visibly stunned, stopped hitting Wolf. She grabbed his tunic and shook, “How did you know? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Arms still over his head, Wolf said, “I didn’t know, not until now. Maud’s letter said you would try to kill your father, and not to let you do it. You would die in the attempt.”
Amara, shaking, stood up, and glared at Maud. “Is it true? Is what Wolf said true? Is it?”
“Yes, he’s your father,” Maud answered with tenderness.
Amara, quivering, pleaded for a different truth, “It can’t be. How do you know? Tell me it isn’t true.”
“I know because I am your mother and see things.”
Amara gaped for a few seconds, then flailed on Maud. She embraced her distraught daughter, who questioned through her tears. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was forbidden to tell. I could not feed you so I gave you to Whisperblade. I knew you would be in good hands and well provided for. I have always loved you, but she is your real mother.”
Maud kept a firm but gentle hold “I think we have a lot to talk about. Of all the good things I’ve done, you are my greatest accomplishment. This will always be true.”
Hey friend! What an intense excerpt—I really enjoyed it. Thanks for posting! I hope everything is going well with you!
Much better. Thank you.
Hi Bryn and everyone! The imagery in your poetry is amazing, Bryn…I could see every line in my mind. 🙂 And congrats on your new home in Chicago! Part of me is jealous because I’m a touch homesick, but then again, we took a 2-hour walk through the temperate rainforest near our house this morning, and I know I’d never trade living in the Tasmanian wilds. 🙂
No writing from me this month. Still focused on my Keto lifestyle…cooking up a storm with tons of new recipes…going to the gym 6 times per week…dealing with the kids (oldest son has his first girlfriend–OMG!). And last Friday we adopted a puppy from Dogs Homes of Tasmania! She’s a six-month-old Australian Kelpie, tri-colour, and her name is Salem. She’s settling in beautifully, and she’s the reason we’re now going for massive walks during the day–otherwise nothing’s safe from a kelpie’s boundless energy. lol
Nevertheless, my brain is slowly getting ready to dive back into writing. I’m almost ready to revisit my query letter and synopsis. I’ll have to refer to the wisdom in your previous blog posts when I do. Hope everyone’s having a great June so far!
Lisa! Thanks for the kind words about the poetry. 2-hour walks in the temperate rainforest sound soooo amazing. I’m so impressed with your healthy lifestyle—it’s inspiring! And oh my gosh, congrats on the pup! I hope you have a great week!
By the time Ryan Galenski was thirteen, his mother had died of a heroin overdose, his father went to prison for drug trafficking, and Ryan was being called in front of a judge for the third time in five months. He wasn’t a bad kid. He just had a horrible childhood. It had been filled with his father’s constant yelling and abuse, and his mother daily preoccupation with shooting up. Ryan would be the first to admit that he probably didn’t turn out so great; otherwise, he wouldn’t be in the courtroom right now, would he?
Leading up to this day, Ryan learned a lot of things. He learned that there would be nothing he could do to make his father’s intense hatred for his son to go away. He learned no matter how much Ryan thought his mother loved him, her self-indulgent need for drugs always meant more to her than her son did. And worst, he realized that no matter how bad it got; it was always much worse than he thought.
“Christopher Galenski.”
At the sound of that name, Ryan stiffened. That wasn’t his name. They had called his father’s name. Ryan hadn’t gone by Christopher since the day his father was arrested, and social services took him away.
He followed his caseworker to the table. He should have stayed in his seat until they got the name right. Stupid court records. He damn sure thought the judge should know this. Ryan narrowed his eyes and scowled. “My name isn’t Christopher,” he said in an indignant tone.
His caseworker pulled at his arm. “Ryan, don’t!”
Ryan watched the judge pressed his lips together, then frowned as he re-read the file in front of him. In a loud voice, he growled, “What do you mean, your name isn’t Christopher? Your records show you are Christopher Galenski. Mind clarifying?”
“I go by Ryan, my middle name. Christopher Galenski was… is…” The jerk who donated his sperm to his existence, Ryan thought. But he couldn’t say that to the judge. “Christopher Galenski is my father.”
Unhappily, the judge dug through the file again. “You can sit down, Mr. Galenski. I assume your last name is still Galenski?”
“Yes.”
“Your honor…” the caseworker whispered, pulling him into his seat.
“Yes, your honor,” Ryan repeated.
The judge noticed. “That’s better. Ryan, I don’t like what I see in your file. You have been a ward of the state for only four months, and already, you have been in several physical altercations.”
Ryan bit his lip as the judge read the file out loud. It sounded awful, but it was all true. A heaviness filled Ryan’s stomach. Then he looked up at the judge and shuttered. It was all over.
Surely the judge had to see Ryan’s misery. As he dropped his shoulders, the judge lowered his voice. “You are… thirteen. Why are you so angry?”
Angry? Ryan wasn’t angry. He was doing what his father taught him to do. He was surviving.
Hey there! Ooof, I really feel for Ryan. Great job conveying his emotions here, and I really like the ending. Thanks for posting!
Chills! Bryn, that poem is beautiful. I wish I could write poetry like that! It took me to the bottom of the sea 🙂
I’ve entered the final phase of grad school: capstone. Still working on Ellie and Wes… but I got a wild hair to change the POV before I turn it in at the end of the term. Le sigh.
****
Just as she slips her shoes off and kicks them into the closet, her phone starts to ring. “Ben?”
“Hey. Is everything all right?”
“Um… Yes, why?”
“What are you doing in Texas? You didn’t tell me you were going to Texas.”
Ellie looks around the room as if a camera is hidden somewhere, spying on her. “I just wanted a weekend away. How do you know where I am?” She feels unnervingly vulnerable.
“We’re still sharing locations,” he says, as if she should know this.
“You mean, on my phones” She pulls it away from her ear and stares at the home menu, searching for the Settings.
“Yeah. You can see where I am, too,” he adds. “I don’t understand why you seem upset. You were never upset about it before.”
“I’m turning it off.” He can’t do anything from there. He’s a thousand miles away. Where the hell is that damn feature?
“Seriously, babe. It’s nothing to get upset about. All of my friends’ wives share their locations.”
She cringes when he calls her that. “Yeah, I know that, but we’re not married.”
“I don’t mean anything by it, I was just worried about you. It’s not like you to just up and jet off somewhere.”
“Maybe it is,” she says. “You know, we talked about this. I’m trying to respect you and, yes, you mean a lot to me. You’re always going to mean a lot to me. But when I said I needed space, this isn’t it.”
“Calm down, babe. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a safety precaution. Especially if you’re traveling alone.”
Dammit. She knew that accepting his offer to keep her phone on his plan until the contract ran out would come back and bite her. “I’m not alone. I’ll be fine.”
“That’s good to know. That you’re not alone. Who are you with?”
Ellie pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s been pacing the length of the room and finally stops at the mirror over the dresser and looks herself dead in the eyes. “Friends.”
His haughty sigh on the other end of the line makes Ellie want to reach through and punch it back down his throat. “So, that Wes guy, right? Didn’t you say he was in Texas?”
“Ben.”
“When are you coming home?”
She exhales slowly; she knows better than to lose her temper with him. He seems calm and collected now, but it’ll only come back later. “Monday. I fly home Monday.”
“Great. Enjoy your trip, okay? I’ll see you when you get home.”
The line goes dead before she can say anything else. Ellie pulls the curtains shut and double-locks the door before she feels at ease enough to lie down. But it’s hard to fall asleep because now she feels like she doesn’t belong here, that someone will find out she’s lying about something, and that she never should have gotten on that plane to begin with.
****
Thank you for the opportunity to share! (This is the POV I started with, but have decided to change, which will happen in revisions–as soon as I finish out the rest of the book.
And now both my cats are hunting something on the bookshelf that I can’t see. Great.
**Reposting the same excerpt because the formatting makes me cringe:
Just as she slips her shoes off and kicks them into the closet, her phone starts to ring. “Ben?”
“Hey. Is everything all right?”
“Um… Yes, why?”
“What are you doing in Texas? You didn’t tell me you were going to Texas.”
Ellie looks around the room as if a camera is hidden somewhere, spying on her. “I just wanted a weekend away. How do you know where I am?” She feels unnervingly vulnerable.
“We’re still sharing locations,” he says, as if she should know this.
“You mean, on my phone?” She pulls it away from her ear and stares at the home menu, searching for the Settings. She has to change this.
“Yeah. You can see where I am, too,” he adds. “I don’t understand why you seem upset. You were never upset about it before.”
“I’m turning it off.” He can’t do anything from there. He’s a thousand miles away. Where the hell is that damn feature?
“Seriously, babe. It’s nothing to get upset about. All of my friends’ wives share their locations.”
She cringes when he calls her that. “Yeah, I know that, but we’re not married.”
“I don’t mean anything by it, I was just worried about you. It’s not like you to just up and jet off somewhere.”
“Maybe it is,” she says. “You know, we talked about this. I’m trying to respect you and, yes, you mean a lot to me. You’re always going to mean a lot to me. But when I said I needed space, this isn’t it.”
“Calm down, babe. It’s not a big deal. It’s just a safety precaution. Especially if you’re traveling alone.”
Dammit. She knew that accepting his offer to keep her phone on his plan until the contract ran out would come back and bite her. “I’m not alone. I’ll be fine.”
“That’s good to know. That you’re not alone. Who are you with?”
Ellie pinches the bridge of her nose. She’s been pacing the length of the room and finally stops at the mirror over the dresser and looks herself dead in the eyes. “Friends.”
His haughty sigh on the other end of the line makes Ellie want to reach through and punch it back down his throat. “So, that Wes guy, right? Didn’t you say he was in Texas?”
“Ben.”
“When are you coming home?”
She exhales slowly; she knows better than to lose her temper with him. He seems calm and collected now, but it’ll only come back later. “Monday. I fly home Monday.”
“Great. Enjoy your trip, okay? I’ll see you when you get home.”
The line goes dead before she can say anything else. Ellie pulls the curtains shut and double-locks the door before she feels at ease enough to lie down. But it’s hard to fall asleep because now she feels like she doesn’t belong here, that someone will find out she’s lying about something, and that she never should have gotten on that plane to begin with.
Heyyy friend! Oh my gosh, I know what it’s like to change POV on a big project! A lot of work, but I’m sure your instincts are right! I’m really enjoying the back-and-forth and the boundary-setting here. Really great stuff! I hope your cats were only hunting a fly or something, haha. Have a great week!
The Day Port Quin Died by Brian Langille 5-21-21
It was just like any other day in Port Quin, and yet it wasn’t.
It was a simpler time in this little harbor village, on the craggy coast of Cornwall.
The men fished, drank, sang, and loved. They loved their wives and children.
They loved each other.
When they were at sea, the women waited.
When they were at the pub, late at night, the women waited.
At sunup, the fishermen donned guernsey sweaters, that their wives mended, and their mothers mended before them.
The ruddy lot of them had sinewy bodies, with scaly, salty, skin, as tough as leather.
They were covered head to foot with sou’westers, waxed, loose-fitting, canvas smocks and pants, and rubber boots.
It was a heady, thrilling time for young men to prove their mettle to their wives, to their mates, and themselves.
One gray rainy morning in 1698, the fishing fleet set sail.
Twenty-four wives, stood on the beach to see their men off, their woolen dresses flapping in the rising winds.
They stared fixedly at the departure, their courage worn down by endless heartache.
“Don’t forget us,” the sailors yelled, laughing as they pushed off the shore.
Out to the anchored ships, they rowed, singing sea shanties.
The Cornish seamen regaled each other with legendary events.
The sailing vessels would haul nets for vast schools of herring.
If the herring weren’t running, the captains would hunt the deep for whales.
Legend has it, that gale force winds swept in suddenly.
Stubborn courage led them into the teeth of a mighty storm, for the bounty
the sea promised.
They fought the raging tempest with every ounce of their sinew and bone.
Wet, salty angry men cried out, cursing the wind, as the masts snapped, and crashed to the deck, with its unfurled sails.
Monstrous waves lifted and twisted their vessel.
All the men of Port Quin would drown that dark day, in 1698.
Together to the end, they perished, slowly sinking, suspended by air pockets in their loose fishing gear. Into the deep, their arms floated above them, as though waving, “follow me.” On the sandy seabed, they lie for eternity, together,
Twenty-four widows stood on the beach, their faces hardened by the sea.
The next day, the townsfolk of Port Quin would speak of these lost souls as,
“The granite backbone of Cornwall, with the hearts of giants, fearless to the end.”
At two dozen family wakes, they grieved for the loss of their dear husbands and friends, who lived, simply to love, fish, and raise a pint.
The fishermen of Cornwall would sing, mournfully, of this tragedy for hundreds of years.
The heart-wrenching shanty became known as “Widow Woman.”
None of those friends, husbands, brothers, or sons, were forgotten on the bottom of the sea.
Port Quin was left deserted, soon after that tragic day.
No bodies were buried, but the names of those who perished were chiseled in granite, forevermore.
**applause** This is really good.
I loved this. My favorite line was “into the teeth of a mighty storm”
Hi Brian! Great descriptions and great sense of place in this. I enjoyed it. Thanks for sharing!
Your poetry is thought-provoking and graceful, though you did have me consulting a dictionary for one or two words. Hope to see more. I find your 500 word limit incredibly helpful as it encourages me to work harder to ‘get the words right.’ Thank you.
____________________________
I was sipping hot tea laced with honey, when the doorbell rang that cold, bleak November evening. A snowfall during the afternoon blanketed our property and I had recently swept the fluffy Alberta powder off the front walkway. I remember thinking how quiet it had been since the men left and that I would welcome an unexpected visitor … Shelley, perhaps, or a friend from town.
But it was Roger standing in my doorway … a dirty, unshaven Roger looking at me with hollow eyes and a grim expression on his normally placid face.
“Roger? You two can’t be back already. You’ve not even been gone a week! Where’s Gerald?” I looked past him to the driveway, but saw no one.
“Megan,” he began and raised his eyes to stare over my head down the long hallway. I saw him swallow, hard, and felt the first fluttering of concern clutch at my stomach. He dropped his eyes to mine. “Megan, there’s been an accident. Gerry’s…”
Roger paused, took a breath, then said, “Megan, Gerry’s gone. He must have slipped … I don’t know … misjudged his footing and slipped off Cutter’s Ridge. We found him …”
Something in my face stopped him mid-sentence. We stared at each other wordlessly and I felt myself sway. Roger took my arm and I dimly remember him guiding me into the kitchen where he pulled out a chair and I slowly sank onto it.
“Would you rather go to the living room?” he asked uncertainly. “My boots are awful dirty, but we can go there if you’d rather … I’ll take them off.” He sat down abruptly and began unlacing his heavy boots. I cast an unfocused glance at the dirty, wet footprints marching across the white and green patterned linoleum and lifted my eyes to his face.
“No,” I whispered. “No. You can’t mean …”
But the anguish and despair I saw in his face were inescapable. My eyes filled and I stared blindly, feeling, as if at a great distance, the touch of Roger’s fingers as he reached out to offer comfort.
Shelley, who Roger had phoned from Big Horn Ranger Station, arrived moments later, followed by Tom Hargor, who had been called in to help with the search.
My immediate reaction when Roger said that Gerald’s body was being flown to the Highwood Hospital was “I’m going to see him.”
Tom, his lean frame bundled in a sheepskin coat, laid a restraining hand on my shoulder as I started to rise from my chair. “Megan, it’s dark and the roads snow-covered. Wait until morning.”
I looked up at him through a film of tears and repeated, “I’m going to see him.”
“Megan,” Roger said from across the table, but Shelley, bless her soul, interrupted.
“Roger, if it was you, nothing would keep me from going. Waiting isn’t going to make it any easier. We can talk on the way. Let’s go. Megan, where’s your coat?”
Good writing! I’m curious as to what the relationship between Megan, Roger and Gerry is.
Right…I know them so well, I did not think … so …
Megan and Gerald (Gerry) are/were a married couple living on an acreage in the Alberta foothills. Shelley and Roger are a couple who live a few kilometres away. Tom Hargor is a friend and neighbour. Hope that helps.
Hi Eileen! Thanks for the kind words! I loved the emotion in this scene. Really nice ear for dialogue, too. Thanks so much for sharing! I hope you have a great week.
Thank you. 🙂
Hi Bryn. Great poem. I remember taking poetry as an undergrad and how much I enjoyed it. I signed up for a course on it on Coursera a long time ago but never got back to it. Come to think of it, I had a lot of fun in almost all my humanities and history classes. Anyway, below is my WIP for my book The Chronicles of Zoey, with plans for a first draft by Aug 20 and a second draft of the screenplay by Oct 1.
For those who haven’t read my stuff Zoey is a 34-y/o Korean-American ex-spy who got fired for health issues and lands in Boston with a friend to start an illegal business. I have a tendency to float from scene to scene, so none of my posts thus far are in sequence.
I had heard a technique used by Michael Crichton was to write up scenes on index cards he had while in medical school, toss them in a box, and when the box was full put the scenes in order. Spike Lee did the same for his films, according to him on Masterclass. I’ve been borrowing the idea a bit. Hopefully this entertains despite the minimal context I’ve given it.
—–
The manager at the Residence Inn, where they were squatting in the lobby using free internet, had finally decided to ask them to decamp elsewhere. They had spent the entire night working the floor at the Amazon Fulfillment Center just down the road and were not eager to head back into Boston for class.
Luckily, just around the corner, the Starbucks had opened. It was five in the morning as they stared out the windows at the South Shore Plaza in Braintree, Massachusetts, as dawn broke. Zoey sipped from her hot cocoa, less than satisfied with it compared to what she makes at home. Margo was still waking up and looked quite sleepy.
“So, I don’t get it. What are you aiming for?” asked Margo, knowing she’d have to make a persistent effort to pull this out of Zoey, and also knowing Zoey was still in the process of formulating the answer in her head. Zoey’s face might have been expressionless, but the gears were turning in her head.
“Better.”
“That’s it? Better?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, what…what’s better?”
“I can tell you what it’s not…”
“Okay.”
“It’s not kids and family, it’s not birthdays and barbecues, it’s not bridal showers and ball gowns, it’s not Rolexes or Mercedes, it’s not 600 bizillion friends and eleventy dozen pictures of me smiling with forced and staged joy on Faceshit, it’s not yachts or Infinity pools, it’s not Gucci or Chanel…it’s something more.”
Margo nods, understanding. “It’s impact.”
Zoey nods too, both of them entranced by the sunrise out the window.
“Impact.”
Margo wondered aloud though, “but it takes people…a network…and resources…and some sort of built reputation. We’ve got none of those. I thought this was the answer. This university is worthless.”
“They all are,” Zoey gave a slight giggle. “Until Steve, Joe, and Lev get back, we’ve got to improvise, adapt, and overcome. We build something that brings in our seed capital, made exclusively through elbow grease, take those funds and build a niche version of our ideal business, then take the funds from that and scale-out, then build our capital-intensive ideas with those funds, and once we’ve achieved some sort of internet-famous status to gain fellow investors.”
With an increasingly quickening pace, Margo replied, “That sounds like the path Elon Musk took. Decide early on to make an impact on energy, transportation, and space. Read voraciously. Go to school, get a physics degree to get a foundation of technology and problem-solving skills. Take the target of opportunity at the moment – the internet— and make ZIP2, then sell it to Compaq, buy a colossal status symbol – an ultra-elite sports car – then get CNN to tape you taking delivery of it in a fluff piece…start what’s initially planned as the first internet bank, build up a bunch more hoopla, merge it with PayPal and make a fortune in the eBay buyout, and with that network –‘the PayPal mafia’— invest in an electric car company with promise, start a rocket company, and get your brother to help you run a solar panel business.”
“Minus the fame part though: you can’t do illegal famously.”
“Well, there was Al Capone…”
With a wry smile, Zoey responded, “I’m no Al Capone. Anyways, I think we’ve gathered enough info. We didn’t uncover any useful secrets, but I think we can see that their publicly-stated principals work really fucking well. We need to talk to Steve about FedEx’s principles. Anything you want to add from your other friend at UPS?”
Margo, now more awake, said “Not much. I think our next thing really should be some Uber economics and stuff. Matching supply to the demand in real-time mixed with the mobile-geospatial. We’ve gotta reverse engineer that. Plus the right way to cloak this all.”
Hi Chris! Thanks for the kind words. Poetry really is a lot of fun. I never heard of that Michael Crichton technique—intriguing!
I really enjoyed this, and my favorite part was that chunk of dialogue starting with, “It’s not kids and family, it’s not birthdays and barbecues…” That is really memorable. Nice job! I hope you hit your deadlines (and I’m pretty sure you will!) Have a great week!
Thank you Bryn. 🙂
Bryn, I love this part: “But they are your army
and now you have roused them.
They lift their faces and the barnacles peel away from their cheeks and their eyes.
They see sunlight shatter itself on the surface and shadows of your easily vanquished sharks.
The warriors don’t flail or paddle. Like silent rockets they rise up through the cobalt twilight,
up to the lambent acres of tankers and vacationers, and they storm the shore to protect you.”
You have captured my warrior ethos in those lines. thank kyou.
no writing sample this time.
love your new headshot! nice to hear you’re all settled in.
best,
denise