If you’ve been following the blog for a while, you know that WIP Wednesday (Work in Progress Wednesday) is when I share an excerpt of what I’m writing and invite you to do the same in the comments section. In case you’re new, here are the ground rules!
*nothing too explicit or graphic (think PG-13)
*500 words or less (otherwise I may trim your excerpt)
*no critiquing or suggestions on other people’s work, though kind words are always appreciated!
In this story, Nic Joe returns to his rightful role as a warrior after working for a long time behind the scenes. This scene shows some of that progression.
About a dozen people had gathered to watch Samir and Zaf in the sparring ring, including Cassie. She raised her hand to Nic and smiled, and he walked over to join her.
Zaf was one of the better Knights at hand-to-hand combat, but Samir was pretty much unbeatable. Both men were shirtless, wearing fingerless black gloves and shin guards, exchanging punches and kicks.
“This is really fast, right?” Cassie whispered to Nic.
Nic nodded and said quietly as he watched, “Samir’s fast. Zaf’s keeping up with him.”
Cassie cringed as Samir landed a kick. “I know,” she said quickly when Nic opened his mouth to reassure her. “They’re not using full power.”
“Not even close. The worst they’ll get is some bruises.”
In a blink, Zaf dove low to grab Samir’s leg and take him to the ground. A few cheers rose from the spectators. After a long minute of grappling and maneuvering on the floor, Samir got his leg over Zaf’s shoulder and trapped him in a chokehold that, had it been tight, would’ve stopped the flow of blood to Zaf’s brain.
Zaf tapped Samir’s arm. Samir released him, scrambling to his feet as Zaf paused for a breath. Samir reached down to help him up and they slapped each other on the back.
“Another one?” Zaf asked.
Samir shook his head, maybe not in the mood to beat someone twice in front of an audience. “Ask someone else,” he suggested, gesturing to the bystanders.
Zaf scanned the group. His gaze landed on Nic and he grinned. “Joe! Let’s go!”
Cassie swiveled around to stare at Nic, her eyes wide. He felt a rush of anger as Samir nodded, smiling. Both he and Zaf knew damn well he hadn’t sparred in years.
“I’ll suit up,” Nic said.
When he walked back into the ring, all the spectators still waited there. His adrenaline kicked in as he pulled off his tee shirt and dropped it on the floor. He and Zaf both raised their right fists, the signal that said they were ready.
For the minute, they danced, trading a few punches, feeling each other out. Zaf had about four inches and at least thirty pounds on him, but Nic had mostly fought guys bigger than him.
Nic darted in to land four fast punches, and Zaf immediately returned the favor with two punches and a knee to Nic’s chest. Nic’s instinct and training kicked in. After a couple of minutes, Zaf attempted a takedown and Nic eluded it with a shin kick that knocked Zaf on to one knee, though he bounced right up again before Nic could take advantage. He landed a blow on Nic’s chin that sent Nic spinning. Not full force, but too hard for sparring.
“Shit!” Zaf said, holding up an open hand. “Sorry. You okay?”
Nic nodded, taking a deep breath to regain his equilibrium. Zaf had lost control; he was getting tired. He beckoned with his hand for Zaf to re-engage.
[AdSense-B]
I’m so looking forward to reading what you’re working on! I always respond to everything, though it usually takes me until Sunday. 🙂 I hope you have a wonderful rest of your October! Thanks so much for stopping by, and happy writing!
I always have trouble writing action scenes. I’ve reworked this one many times. I wonder if people think it works? It is a scene where my protagonist has completed a spell at midnight in a cemetery. He performed it as research for a school paper, fully expecting it to fail (magic isn’t real!), but it doesn’t. In fact, it awakens something dark and evil nearby.
A thin finger of the swirling silver fog found the center of the bowl and formed a vortex above it, a fog devil, spinning like a tiny tornado. It touched the water’s surface, making it spin in the same direction. The spiders clamored for the safety of the edge as the water swirled, faster and faster, rocking the bowl side to side. Brak growled and spat as the spinning bowl rose into the air.
“No, no, no!” Goff shot backwards, pressing his spine against the wall behind him. “This can’t be happening. William? Is that you? Please don’t hurt me. I was just doing research. You like research, remember?”
While Goff watched, feeling as if he was in a nightmare, the spinning, teetering bowl continued to rise. A few feet above eye level, it stopped, suspended in the air, no longer spinning. Only the fog was still moving. Goff was transfixed. It just didn’t seem possible that the bowl was floating. Physics couldn’t explain this. A spider lifted one of its legs above the brim, like a tiny plea for help, and then the bowl fell, straight down.
Goff let out a dry scream as it struck the ground and shattered. Water, flower petals, spiders and porcelain shrapnel flew in all directions. He shielded his face but kept peering through the cracks of his fingers, unable to not look but terrified of what he might see — perhaps a decaying William Cranston stepping out of the fog. On the ground, wet, dizzy spiders unfolded themselves and scampered sideways out of puddles. William Cranston’s picture lay face down, wet and covered with flower petals.
Goff tried to breath, but fear turned his lungs to stone. What he had just seen simply wasn’t possible.
Magic wasn’t real, was it? That was crazy talk.
A deep, resonant thump sent vibrations through the ground, the footstep of a giant beast shaking the earth.
Goff jumped.
The ground shook again, harder, rippling the puddles and knocking over the extinguished candle. Brak jumped up and down, alternating between barking and whimpering.
“I take it back!,” Goff shouted, numb with fear. “Hellish, or whatever your name is, you can go home! Keep your hounds at your side. I want nothing to do with any of this! It was just a school project, I promise!”
The wall at Goff’s back bulged and heaved. He stepped away just as the it split down the middle, corner to corner, with a sound like a sharp clap of thunder. Stone shards struck him and bounced on the ground.
“Please,” he said, curling up into a ball. “I’ll never do another spell.”
The heavy crunch of breaking stone crashing to the ground came from around the other side of the sarcophagus, followed by a shrill shriek that raced up Goff’s spine. His breathing came to a full stop.
“Come here!” a gravelly voice said. “And let us look upon you!”
Goff couldn’t move.
Who is that? What is that?
“I said – Come here!”
This voice demanded heading, and Goff stood up just as Brak took off around the corner toward the voice, barking.
“No, Brak!” he called out, his feet still cemented to the ground.
Brak’s bark turned to a vicious growl.
“Brak! Get back here, boy! Whatever it is, don’t make it angrier!”
Brak growled, then yelped and went silent. Goff felt the sudden silence like a knife in his
heart. It dissolved the cement holding his feet, and he ran around the corner to where Brak lay on his side in front of the sarcophagus, flaccid, eyes closed.
* Brak is not dead 🙂
Glad to hear Brak is alive! Whew! I think there’s a lot that’s good here, including the sensory details and quick-paced dialog! Keep it up and thanks for sharing!
Thanks! I have trouble killing my darlings, but then again — this book is for children, so that’s probably for the best (except for parents – like Disney, we always have to kill them 🙂
Great job. Super glad Brak is OK! 🙂
Hey there! Sorry for the late reply. I really enjoyed this! Great description. This was especially great: “A spider lifted one of its legs above the brim, like a tiny plea for help…” Very nice. I’m glad you told us Brak isn’t dead. 🙂
The icy rain drummed on the car’s roof as wiper blades cleared the windshield. The morning’s weather reflected Punxsutawney Phil’s forecast. No surprise. Over the years, the groundhog’s predictions for longer winters outnumbered the earlier springs in Northeastern Pennsylvania.
The odors of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the pine tree air freshener blended with a floral-scented Prince Matchabelli perfume inside the car. Wind Song was more than I could handle. The heated air blasted through the vents. I unbuttoned my coat. “Can we open a window or something?”
From her shotgun seat, Pam stroked my thigh. “It’ll be okay, Judy. You’re upset.” Her manicured hand rested on my right knee; for a moment, it felt as though its heat would leave an imprint on my pants. She handed me the wrapped weed and mumbled, “Will this day ever end?”
Diane drove with me crammed between her and Pam. My temples throbbed and with every mile, my headache worsened. Not enough caffeine. Someone hummed along as Carole King sang from the eight-track. I tapped the yellow happy-face charm hanging from the rearview mirror; its steady, hypnotic back-and-forth movement proved calming.
“I hate funerals,” Diane muttered, cranking her window down partway. The girls in the back seat squealed at the sudden rush of frigid air. Diane continued, “No service. When I die, just float me down the Lackawanna.”
“I suppose you’ll want us to sing as you float through town?” Pam joked.
“Yeah, Spirit in the Sky….sing that one!” Diane was smiling now.
“None of this makes sense,” I said, taking a shallow pull and coaxing the sweet marijuana into my lungs.
“Did you ever think that Valerie is better off dead?” A back seat passenger asked.
“That’s cruel.” I sniffled and pulled a tissue from my pocket. No one mentions today is my nineteenth birthday, but that isn’t the reason for my gloomy mood or the lump in my throat.
The same voice continued, “Well, I’m just saying it’s not easy living like this…lying, pretending. Sometimes I wish I were dead. Anyway—”
“Enough,” Pam interrupted, “We’ll get through this. Together. Let’s do right by Valerie.”
At the cemetery, we unfolded from the not-so-new Bel Air convertible, Diane’s gift to herself when she graduated high school. She linked my arm as we led the group, crunching through the frozen grass. The two girls from the back seat lagged to finish the joint with Pam. With fresh, crisp air entering my lungs, the headache disappeared.
Diane pulled a Lucky Strike package from her raincoat pocket. I unhooked my arm from hers, drawing my icy hands into the sleeves of my pea-coat. My slim, brown-eyed friend lit her cigarette, exhaled smoke in my direction, and winked. Blue jeans and cowboy boots showed below Diane’s dark green slicker, her navy blue knit cap pulled forward, covering her eyebrows. Pam wore fake-leopard-skin boots, a plaid wool skirt, and two layers of sweaters under a red wool cape. The other two wore matching jeans, denim jackets, and high-top Converse sneakers. We had dressed as if we were attending four separate events.
Whoa! This was so evocative in its imagery. I felt the wind, the chill, and smelled the smoke in the car. Well done! I’m invested enough I’d read this novel!
I agree. The details you chose here pulled me right into the scene. Well done!
Early 70’s? Great period details! I’d like to read more of this.
Judy, your opening sounded like my whole day today—we drove back from Kansas City to Chicago in the rain! (Which is why I’m running late here.) I loved the description and especially the smells. Very evocative piece!
Hi, all! And thanks for these opportunities, Bryn! It’s fun to read small snippets of others’ works I hope to see on real pages someday. As for my submission, it’s from Chapter One of my new WIP, Cooking for the Billionaire, a Hispanic-Cinderella-meets-ranching-royalty novel.
“Do you have a first name?” he asked, finally finding his voice.
She didn’t meet his gaze for the first time since he’d almost thrown Mexican food at her. Was that only five minutes ago? He felt light headed.
“Um, yeah. Rosa.”
“Well, Rosa. Nice to meet you. But do you mind explaining what’s going on here?”
She wheeled on him, arms full of stacked trays of Mexican rice and chile con carne that smelled good enough for him to forget how pissed he was at her. Almost.
“Carry these to the tables over there. Please,” she added as an afterthought.
“You didn’t answer my question. Why’d you change the menu, Rosa?”
“If you can’t tell, I’m a little short-staffed. If you want an answer, you have to work for it.” He scowled, but took the trays from her and walked them to the line of chafing dishes, all but throwing them in.
“Okay. Talk. Where’s the food I ordered?”
“It’s here.”
“What do you mean, ‘it’s here’? Because all I see is steak fajitas and some other stuff I definitely didn’t put on the menu.”
“Yeah. That’s your meat, from your ranch. So… see? Problem fixed. I incorporated what you asked.”
He froze in place. She made his Grade A filets into fajitas?
“I asked for steak,” he growled.
“I don’t do steak,” she said.
“What?” he shot. That was it. The last thread of calm tethering him to the earth snapped and so did his patience. “Then why the hell’d you take the gig? Because I ordered steak. This wasn’t a ‘choose your own adventure’ job, Rosa.”
“I needed the job and I promise this’ll do the trick just as good as a slab of meat on a grill. If you can just trust me—”
“Trust you? How can I trust you when you sabotaged my night?”
He was yelling and he didn’t yell. He wasn’t his grandfather. Except he look on her face, like he’d crossed a line, said maybe he was. Well, too bad. She’d ruined his freaking conference all because she didn’t want to lose the job. Which was inevitable now.
As if by thinking of the SOB he’d somehow summoned him, his phone chimed in with the funeral bagpipes Garrett had programmed on both their phones for when their grandfather called. Wishful thinking on both their parts.
“I’ve got to take this, but don’t go anywhere. We’re nowhere close to done.” He swiped open his phone. “Yeah?”
“That how you answer the phone, son? No wonder you’re losing business.”
Lukas scanned the dining room. The hundred or so seats he’d sold for the Austin Ranchers Association conference said otherwise. The only rancher not attending was the stubborn bull on the other end of the line.
“I’m not your son. What can I do for you, Chuck?”
“You can start by giving me the respect I deserve. I’m the one who raised you and those two hellions you call siblings, you know.”
“How could I forget when you keep reminding me every chance you get? As for my respect, you’ll get it when you earn it.”
This was a fun read! Love how we can see the sparks flying!
Thanks, Kimberly!
Kristine, this was really fun to read! I lol’d at “this wasn’t a choose your own adventure.” Haha. And now I’m craving fajitas. 🙂
“The last thread of calm tethering him …” Love this! I can feel his emotion.
Hi Kristine! I really enjoyed this. You have such a good ear for dialogue. this made me laugh: “She didn’t meet his gaze for the first time since he’d almost thrown Mexican food at her…” Hahaha! Thank you for sharing!
Hi Bryn! Boy, I know the feeling of working on a book forever. Feels like I’ve been revising draft 4 of my WIP for decades, and I’m still nowhere near finished! For what it’s worth, I always look forward to these excerpts with Nic.
My excerpt is from my Tam Lin prequel/Faery Queen origin story. My protagonist, whom I call Bessling, is a healer receiving an unusual proposition from the Baron De Lyne, her shepherd lover’s father:
He leaned back slowly, the grace of a beast of prey who need not hurry. He could devour me at any time. “The bastard needs my permission to marry.”
My startlement was such I choked on nothing.
“He is not my heir,” the baron continued, “nor will he be, while my legitimate offspring still lives. There is no reason Thomas cannot marry whom he likes. But he does need my permission.”
My lips parted. I could see the rope hidden beneath the cover of leaves, but it still might not prevent me setting off the trap.
Can I even marry Thomas Shepherd? Surely, we could not marry in the kirk, as Christians do. But we might exchange vows, and consummate our love, thus to be handfasted and continue our lives together.
We could leave this iron-tainted manor house, the crosses on the wall, and the insipid Margaret of Roxburgh far behind.
A flush spread across my body, all the way to my toes. That tiny shepherd’s hut, the dog and the flock, and the lives we had built there . . . they could endure. Not forever, nothing mortal was forever, but this, what the baron offered me, was the gift of time.
After all, I have made my claim. Thomas Shepherd belongs to me.
“I can see from your face how welcome the idea is to you,” the baron said. “You ought to learn to school your expression.”
If he only knew how I schooled my expression, how my very face betrayed nothing of who I really was. I inclined my head, but did not apologize. It would have been a lie.
“Thomas shall have my permission to marry whomever he wishes, provided he continues not to be my heir.”
“Not your heir.” Meaning Thomas could not be the baron’s only son. That Malcolm must survive.
He twisted his hand in the air. “That is where you come in. Am I understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” I understood, all right.
He was bargaining the happiness of one son for the life of another.
Thomas he had abandoned, cast out while he was still a boy. Now he was pulling him back into play, just another chess piece on the board.
It was an unfair bargain, and we of Faery never enter into those, unless the advantage is ours. But for Thomas, I would risk it.
For the shepherd king, I would risk nearly anything. I had claimed him. He was mine.
“You wish me to treat your son–”
“I wish you to cure my son.” He tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. “I reward results, not mere effort.”
The storm flickered beneath the surface of my skin. This old man, weak mortal that he was, asked of me what should have been impossible, in return for what I had already claimed as my own.
“And if I fail?” I swallowed, hating the power he still held over us.
“Then it’s out of the manor you’ll go. Alone.”
Ooooooh! I love this last twist that shows the narrator’s happiness rests in their ability to do the job. So well done!
Being at the mercy of such a curmudgeon sets up so many possibilities. I’d love to know what happens next. Intriguing … and well-written.
So good! What a jerk! A few drops of poison in the baron’s breakfast ought to do the trick. 😉
Kimberly, thank you for the empathy about projects that take a long time to finish 😀 I always enjoy this one! I want to read the whole thing someday! This is classic fairy tale, but fresh, too 🙂
“It’s no good.”
Darby Dawson looked at the waitress. “What?”
“Your card. It declined the payment for your drinks.”
“Here, take mine.”
She watched as her best friend, Lisa Madison, handed her shiny gold card to the waitress. “It’s your birthday, you shouldn’t pay.”
Lisa waved her jeweled hand in the air. “No worries. The only thing that matters is I got you out of that apartment.” She glanced at the waitress. “I think we’re having another round and a couple of burgers so keep a tab going. You treat us nice, there’ll be a big tip in it for you.”
“Coming right up.” The waitress smiled as she walked away.
“How do you do that?” Darby always admired her friend. She came from the same poor childhood as her, but somehow Lisa had achieved all her goals in life.
“Do what?”
“Get respect from everyone.”
“That’s not respect. That’s my money talking to a poor, hard working waitress who probably doesn’t even make minimum wage in this dump. Money talks and the more you have the louder it is.”
Darby knew that was right and unfortunately her money didn’t even whisper…not one frigging word. She chunked the useless credit card in her purse. Maybe she could use it to scrape the ice off her car. It seemed her defroster was dying faster than her crap of a car.
“You know I can spot you some cash if you need it. I mean until you get on your feet again.”
“No, I don’t take money from friends, and besides I start my new job in two days.”
“Ok, but you know you can ask if you need me to help. Friends forever.”
Darby raised her glass and gently touched Lisa’s wine glass. “Friends forever.”
It was under twenty minutes and Darby was taking her last bite of the delicious burger. “It sounds like John’s law firm is doing amazing.”
“Can’t complain.” Lisa wiped her hands on the napkin. “So tell me about this new job. You mentioned on the phone it was a farm…like with pigs and cows?”
Darby laughed. “A ranch, I’ll be an assistant in the office.”
“What’d you know about ranching?”
“Not a dang thing, but after I interviewed with Mrs. Walker she seemed to think I could handle the job.”
Lisa threw her hands in the air. “Hold on a minute, are you talking about Walkers Wrangling Ranch out in Ector County?”
Darby nodded. “You know of it?”
“Girl, you’re not only stepping into cowboy country, you’ll be right smack in the middle of hot cowboy country, six to be exact.”
“Mrs. Walker did mention she had some sons.”
“If I wasn’t married, I’d apply for that job.”
“You can’t even type.”
“Typing is not what I had in mind when it comes to the Walker men.”
Darby had no interest in getting tangled with any cowboy. She needed the job to pay off bills and nothing was going to get in her way.
Love the stakes at play here. I really feel this, and as a western author, this has my interest from paragraph one! Well done!
Sounds like Darby is walking into a story … and I want to read more of it. Well done!
Oh, Darby, that’s what you think. 🙂 Great set up!
Hi Teresa! This was big fun. “her money didn’t even whisper…not one frigging word.” Hahaha! I feel like I don’t read a lot of stories about characters who grew up poor or working class, and I always appreciate it.
Great piece, Bryn. Writing fight scenes is hard. I admire your skill.
Some of my friends are writers. We get together to share what we are writing. We needed a name for our support group and decided on Authors Anonymous. What if writing is an addiction? When you have a whole team of creative people, the results can be hilarious. This is one of those stories; the story of my own writing addiction:
My name is Jessie and I am an author.
My writing addiction started when I was very young. I was surrounded by enablers; people I trusted. My Dad listened to my poetry back in the days when “if it rhymed, it was poetry.” Aunt Hazel, a songwriter, gave me my first book to write my poems in. My fifth-grade teacher told me I could be more than I thought I was. They each laid a foundation for my writing addiction.
After I got married, what started with pens, pencils and spiral notebooks quickly escalated to more and more sophisticated devices.
Oh, the cost of it all! It wasn’t my money, but supplied by my enabler. I remember my first computer. I didn’t want it, but the pressure was on. I had to type in a command at the end of each line to return the cursor to the left margin. I was tempted with the promise that I could save my work on a magnetic cassette tape and retrieve it later. I was hooked.
That was the beginning of the hard stuff. My enabler enticed me with paraphernalia. Generation after generation of computers, printers, scanners and more reams of paper than I can even count.
I think of all of the word processing programs with spell check, the internet faster and faster and then web sites. It just escalated. Soon I was doing research online. I couldn’t get enough of it.
My enabler also kept me in my addiction by paying for writing classes, private lessons, workshops, retreats and sometimes even published material such as a thousand copies of my first book of poetry and I don’t know how many tapes of my first original-music recording. He tolerated my writing even when it ran late into the night. And he listened to me read my writing.
Later others became enablers – people I thought were my friends – readers and writers keeping me caught in it.
I know I can’t blame others. I am the one who doggedly pursued my addiction. I am the one who turned in new material to my writing instructors. I am the one who got lost in my stories. I am the one who wrote and revised and polished and wrote more. I am the one who submitted to publishers.
I have tried to quit, but I had serious withdrawal symptoms; depression, anxiety, sluggish creativity. My enablers ramped up their efforts, asserting their influence on me and before I knew what was happening, I was right back into it. How can I stop writing with that kind of underpinning?
That’s my story.
100% relatable! My first word processing program was called EasyWriter. Remember using it on an early-90’s Gateway.
Thanks Pamela. I’m glad you can relate. This was so fun to write.
LOVE IT!!!!
…I so need an enabler.
Lindsey, I believe you’ve found enablers here. Thanks for the kind encouragement.
Truly hope you are OK, Bryn.
Thanks for the kind words, Jessie. Authors Anonymous! I love this confession. It put a smile on my face. Especially when you take responsibility for your own addiction, haha!
Don’t feel bad about it taking so long to write. Since my day job went from customer service to copywriter, I find it’s a lot harder to get it all done myself. This scene is fantastic. I love how you build the tension in the fight without getting bogged down in the details.
This is a snip it from a short story that is going to be my new reader magnet. Since my book is out now, leaving the first few chapters out there as bait seems a bit weird. So I’m putting together a short story for one of the side characters that details some events that are alluded to in the book.
Early morning sunlight coming through the window and hitting you right in the eyes when your head feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder is a sure fire way to have you hissing like a vampire. Twenty-seven may not be old, but the way I felt that morning had me firmly convinced there was a reason you’re not supposed to go clubbing after twenty-five.
I rolled onto my back and had to clamp my eyes shut and take deep breaths through my nose to keep my nausea at bay. My whole body ached, and it felt like I’d barely slept. Then again, those last two may have less to do with my blood alcohol levels and more to do with the gorgeous man sleeping beside me.
I looked to my right to see Xander sprawled across the bed. I didn’t think it was possible, but he may have been even better looking in his sleep than he was awake, and that’s sayin’ something.
The sun dancing across his face almost made him look like an angel. His dark skin practically glowed in the early morning light. Eyelashes that would make any woman jealous dusted his cheeks. He even looked like he was smiling in his sleep.
I reached out to brush one of his dreadlocks away from his face and sighed.
I didn’t want this to be a one-time thing. I wasn’t just talking about the sex either. It was amazing. Don’t get me wrong. People wouldn’t believe half the things we did last night. Hell, I lived it and can barely believe it. But it was more than that. It was the conversation.
I hadn’t planned on coming home with him, but we were just having so much fun talking that I wasn’t ready to be done with him when the club shut down. Then one thing led to another and, well… here I was. Moonstruck, blissfully sore, and a little hung over.
I tried to edged myself out of bed as gently as possible. Waking him up wouldn’t do either of us a bit of good. Ruining one of the best nights of my life with an awkward goodbye was not a memory I wanted to take with me. I needed to get my things and get out of there before he woke up.
Carefully pushing myself into a seated position, I brought a hand up to my head to try and keep it from spinning. I needed to find my stuff and get out of here before Xander woke up. Where are my clothes?
Peaking my eyes open a fraction of an inch, I spotted a pile of red fabric near the door.
I pushed myself up. A low groan sounded through the room. I rubbed at my temple with my left hand. The headaches always suck.
Taking a deep breath, I started to move across the room when I caught sight of myself in the mirror and nearly screamed. It was like looking at something from a horror movie. I say something, because what was looking back at me was not human. It had wide black streaks around it’s eyes and an odd red stain around it’s mouth. The image was enough to give a person nightmares for the rest of their life.
Good way to leave us wanting more! That first paragraph had me hooked! Good job with characterization!
Whew! Erin, this is a great start to a lead magnet! Great job. Congratulations again on BATTER DAYS!! I’m so proud of you! I just ordered it in paperback 🙂
Hi All! First timer here. I’ve had an idea for a novel for the past 10 years and get a few chapters in and start over. The excerpt below is from one version of the story. It’s about a woman who runs away from her life and gets caught up in the supernatural.
Ellis Temple was eager to begin her new life in the Midwest far from the family drama and political spotlight of the Temple dynasty.
Five years in a bad marriage, being the good daughter to an aspiring Senator and living under the microscope of the press had pushed her to make a change. She’d made mistakes, trusted people, even family, that had no good intentions for her, but now all of that was behind her. The divorce was not yet final, but she could not spend one more minute in Charleston. She’d packed her bags and driven straight through the night, arriving in Kansas City as the sun crested behind her.
She was too wired from the trip and eager to drive around her new city. The coffee she’d picked up just outside of town helped. She pulled up to the hotel her younger sister had reserved just north of the city. It was perched on a buttress overlooking the gleaming buildings of the downtown area. She liked the looks of the city. Smaller than an Atlanta or Chicago, but she liked it that way. Not as daunting.
It was much too early to check in, but she went in anyway to make sure there wouldn’t be any issues with her reservation. The clerk at the front desk greeted her with a wide smile. “How can I help you, Miss?” The young woman, Mia according to her name tag drawled.
“I have a reservation under Elizabeth Temple. I know it’s early.” Ellis smiled back apologetically.
“You would usually have to wait until after noon, but I see you are a Marriot Gold Elite member. Let’s see if I have anything open.” Mia tapped through a series of screens, a look of concentration creasing her young forehead. ”I do have an available room. It faces the city too!”
“I’ll take it.” Ellis was relieved. “Can you recommend a good breakfast place?” Ellis asked, since Mia had been so helpful. She wanted to explore all the good places, but it was only the first day and she was starving.
“You can’t beat The Corner Cafe. Best cinnamon rolls in the city! It’s only a couple of miles from here and they open early,” Mia informed her. “Are you aiming to stay awhile? I know lots of other good places to eat!” she exclaimed proudly.
“I just drove in from the East Coast. Not sure how long I’m here,” Ellis replied.
“I’ve lived here my whole life. It’s a nice place to settle and the people are friendly for the most part.” Mia handed over two key cards and wifi information. “Here’s your cards. The elevator is down that hall to the left. If you need anything, just ask!”
Ellis thanked her with a smile and went out to get the two small travel bags. She had been in a hurry to put miles between her and her past and had left most of her things. New town, new wardrobe, she thought excitedly.
Good work setting up the story with stakes that feel relatable and a character we can root for! Keep going!
Ahh…a new beginning for Ellis! I am already interested in hearing how she fares in her new town.
Amy! Thanks for posting for the first time! I’m not usually THIS late in replies. We were in Kansas City over the weekend. When I read, “It’s about a woman who runs away from her life and gets caught up in the supernatural,” I thought, Wait, I want to do that! Haha. And I think a lot of people can identify with trying to get away from everything! Fun stuff!
What fun this is! I have enjoyed reading everyone’s excerpts. Mine is from my cozy mystery series featuring Fanta Delaney. Here she is at the local horse equipment store, shopping for her trusty grey gelding Des. She gets into an unfortunate situation where her new barn manager is concerned.
Before going back to the apartment, Fanta decided to stop at The Mane Connection. She planned to purchase some joint supplements for Des. She wanted him to have an active lifestyle at his new retirement home. Stepping from her car, she crunched over the hard-packed snow to the store’s front door and pushed it open. The bell tinkled. Crossing the threshold, she inhaled deeply. She loved the dark, musty place, filled with every piece of equipment imaginable for horse and rider, both English and Western disciplines. The aroma was the best – mostly leather, with an undertone of that new clothes smell and a touch of sweetness from the assorted horse treats.
Glancing around the store, she saw Sally Morelli coming at her at full speed. The woman was practically running down the well-stocked aisle. “Fanta!” she hissed dramatically.
Coming closer, Sally beckoned Fanta into a corner of the store. The brunette had shiny, shoulder-length hair, big green eyes and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks. Over her sweater and jeans she wore an apron with The Mane Connection logo. She and Fanta were friendly rivals in the adult amateur hunter division. Fanta also knew that Sally was probably the biggest gossip in the local horse show community. The fact that she worked at the neighborhood tack store made her all the more dangerous.
“Spill! Spill! I want to hear all about this Jeff Kent guy! What’s he like? I hear he’s got a body to die for!” Sally emitted a muted squeal, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
“Oh, well, I don’t know. I guess, maybe. How do you know about Jeff Kent?” As soon as the question was out of her mouth Fanta knew how foolish it was.
“Please, Fanta, everyone knows! It’s all anyone can talk about! Did you know he was listed in the top 10 hunkiest horsemen on horsewhisper.ca? How amazing is that? You have to tell me all about him. Is he hot? Does he make you melt away? Do you just want to grrr-owl all over?” Sally shook her body in some sort of Beyoncé dance move.
In fact, Fanta had experienced all those things. Accompanied by an overriding irritation.
“Do you know, he is an attractive man,” she said thoughtfully. Sally beamed with delight. “But I also found him to be a giant jackass!”
Sally gasped, eyes agog. Fanta felt some satisfaction. What was it about Sally that brought out such peevishness in her?
At that moment, a head appeared around the end of the aisle. Ice blue eyes regarded the two women coolly. “Could you please tell this giant jackass where he might find the saddle soap?” Jeff Kent inquired mildly.
Sally remained frozen in place. She seemed unable to decide whether to titter and flirt with the man, offer customer service, or stand in solidarity with her friend. Fanta snorted, turned on her heel and headed off to the feed and supplements aisle. Top ten hunkiest horsemen indeed!
Ha! This was a hoot! I’m super invested in a sassy heroine who can ignore the mortification of calling someone a jackass and then find out they were overheard. I’m all in for this. 🙂
I’m hooked! Of course, I’m a horsewoman (years gone by) so the subject matter draws me in, but would love to know how this relationship turned out.
Thanks for the heartening comments! It’s tough to find first draft readers. Jeff and Fanta eventually have a “scene” (behind closed doors – this is a cozy!) but discover they make better friends and end up working effectively together with the horses. Ever have one of those? ?
Hahaha! I really enjoyed Fanta getting caught there. Fun stuff, Anne. I’m curious about how her lack of a filter will come up now again in her sleuthing!
You are so good at writing fight/action scenes! I loved your excerpt. 🙂
As for taking a long time…I just figured out today I started my current WIP back in 2013. Hahaha. Haha. Ha. *weeps*
Here’s a new snip. The set up is that this is a flashback and takes place in 1965. Jason is a 19 year old kid who intervened when some other kids bullied a little girl. It ended up getting him arrested, and now the girl’s guardian has bailed him out and is giving him a ride to his work.
***
1965
They pulled away from the curb and headed toward the other side of town. Somehow, her big sun hat stayed put on her head in spite of the convertible’s roof being down. She was so pretty and youthful with her long hair, flirty dress, and trim figure even though she had to be pushing forty. Most of the other women her age did not dress like this or wear their hair this way.
She didn’t speak again until she pulled in to the service station. She turned the car off and turned to face him, her elbow resting on the back of the seat.
“I need to thank you for helping Mina yesterday,” she said.
“It was really noth-” he started, but she held a finger up.
“Be quiet, Jason.”
He closed his mouth.
She took her sunglasses off, and her eyes gazed directly into his. “She told me everything. Those kids meant her real harm. This was far worse than the typical bullying the girls put up with.”
“Is she okay?” Ronnie had thrown that rock like a fastball.
Her lips thinned. “I took her to the hospital for an x-ray. It’s a miracle that her shoulder blade wasn’t cracked. The bruise is horrible.”
“She was brave,” Jason said. “I knew he’d hit her hard, but she barely complained.”
“She didn’t want to cry in front of you,” Alice said, absently, turning to stare out the front of the windshield.
Jason didn’t know what to say to that, so he waited to see what she would say next.
“Not very many people would stick their neck out for one of the Blackbirds,” she said the last word with heavy resentment. “Especially not if it would court the wrath of Darren Simms.”
“Miss Blackbriar,” Jason started.
“Call me Alice, please,” she said, shifting her direct gaze back to him.
“Okay. Alice. I would have done the same for anyone.”
“I know it. That’s part of why I appreciate it so much. No one else in this town sees them as just like everyone else, Jason.”
He shrugged, feeling awkward. “And I’m not afraid of Ronnie or his asshole father.”
Alice burst out laughing at this. “Neither am I.”
There was something vicious in her smile, and he realized that he was dealing with a woman who loved her nieces fiercely and would defend them to her last breath.
“I’ve retained a lawyer to represent you,” Alice continued. “He will meet you at the courthouse an hour before your hearing to discuss things with you.”
“Ma’am-”
Alice lifted an eyebrow.
“Alice,” he amended, “you really don’t have to-”
“Jason, please shut up.”
He clamped his mouth shut again.
“Here’s his card,” she said, handing it to him. “Cooperate with him, do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, Alice.”
“Good.” She sighed heavily. “Mina has asked if you could come over for dinner. I told her I would ask you. But please don’t feel obligated. She has an enormous crush on you, and it might just get stronger if you come over.”
“It’s okay. I’m used to it,” he said, keeping his face perfectly straight.
She stared at him, and then laughed again. “Yes, I’m sure you are.”
Well, dang. I love this already. And 2013 isn’t anything to be ashamed of… this is wonderful; please continue to pursue it so I can hear how this plays out!!
Don’t worry about 2013! I pulled out my WIP from 1988 as life/work claimed me for years … now I finally have the time to re-engage with my writing. Your story intrigues me and I am interested in reading more!
Well, 2013 seems like yesterday to me, so… 🙂 I like these two! That made me laugh at the end!
This is amazing Bryn.I haven’t written in awhile but this is part of my prologue to my book The Rageful Ones…
The thunderous sky boomed around the catacombs, shaking the loose rocks to the ground. The outcast of a royal family huddles in a dark corner, evil lurking inside and outside their shelter. An eerie screech is heard down the dark and twisted tunnel of the catacomb. Rebecca jumped, frightened not only by the day’s events but for her baby’s safety. Keith, her husband and the newly announced King wrap his arms around his wife and child.
“Will be safe here” he murmurs, Rebecca huddles closer, the wind slashing against the halls, making her shiver. “They’ll find us, they always do,” she says. They’re silent listening to the ghostly voices around them. “Not this time” says Keith, his brow furrowed in determination. He gets up brushing the ash off his rip clothes “We need a fire and food. Tomorrow at first light will find better shelter”. Rebecca looks down at her fussy baby and whispers “Don’t worry Rosealina, nothing will happen to you”. She places the baby in the corner looking to her husband to see if he would object, she didn’t want to leave her baby. Keith knew that Rosealina would be safe in these ancient tombs, he nodded. They both exited the tunnel but Rebecca had a strange feeling that she shouldn’t leave. Rosealina needed food Rebecca knew that no one knew they were here, she would be safe.
The baby fussed and cried for hours calling for her parents, her empty stomach gurgling. There was a faint whisper and the baby cried louder until she saw a shadow. A young woman and man stood over her, curiosity playing on their faces. An unmistakable evil around them ,the baby cried.The woman with dark stringing hair and empty eyes took the baby in her arms
And her scratchy voice hissed “She’s the one”! The man scruffy and dirty, looking like a mad one “The prophecy”? She hissed at the man and crouched on her legs, pulling the baby to her unclean chest. “We stop it”. She laughs and it echoes off the empty walls and eerily makes them feel at home. The man shuffles around his eyes going around and he moves around the cramp tunnel. He’s rapid breath coming in faster as he hisses “She’s coming”!
The woman puts the baby down and her eyes seem as empty and as evil as before and the baby’s stirs. The pair join together making a screech that’s ear splitting and makes your bones shatter. They develop into a slithery black smoke and plunge into the baby. The baby makes a scream then nothing, that’s when Rebecca heard the terrible screech and rushed into the tunnel. The fruit splatter out of her torn dress and onto the ground, her feet smashing it as she runs. She sighed in relief as she saw her baby unscathed but when she was close enough she saw that Rosealina wasn’t breathing. She cried in horror calling out for her husband but was met with silence.
Hi Adriana! Well, things could hardly be more dire for your characters. It seems especially appropriate at Halloween! Thanks for posting!
My second book The Lost Orphan: Stolen Identity Book One which I’ve been working on for quite some time follows a young single mother named Samantha Branning who meets two other young women named Alison Hendricks and Melissa Niehaus who inform her of a deadly conspiracy surrounding illegal human cloning.
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It was precisely nine o’clock in the evening when I parked my car in front of the young woman’s house. I had the card with her name and address on it. Even though part of me was certain this was the exact place we were supposed to meet, I still had my doubts.
‘Alison Hendricks,’ I read aloud, ‘35 Harper Hill Road, Bailey Downs, Scarborough.’ This was the correct address alright.
I eased my way through a shed and up to the French doors to Alison’s basement so that nobody else could see either of us. However, I hesitated before knocking on her back door. After all, neither of us had started on the right foot when I first met her. To me, it had felt more like a confrontation than a first-time meeting.
I must have knocked at least twice, or more; I couldn’t quite remember how many times, before the stupid cow finally answered. ‘Samantha Branning,’ her voice said sharply behind the door. ‘You are late.’ I didn’t think I was. After all, I’d arrived at the exact time as she’d told me to.
She greeted me with a hard, mean look on her face. ‘Well, don’t just stand there like a retard,’ she hissed. ‘Hurry up and get yourself inside. Close it and lock it straight away.’
I immediately did as she said. ‘Be quiet,’ she said frostily as she led me through to the lounge. ‘My kids are asleep.’
‘Damn,’ I said, under my breath, feeling a slight chill run down my spine. ‘You’re a real moody bitch, aren’t you?’
I never thought being related to this woman would actually suck.
I had no idea what was in store. As soon as I entered the lounge, sitting on the couch waiting for us was yet another brunette. But there was no need to be afraid or feel intimidated by this one. Unlike Alison, she had a friendly and somewhat bright demeanour about her. She smiled at me in an awkward but welcoming manner from behind her geeky Specsavers glasses. ‘Hi. I’m Melissa.’
‘Bloody hell!’ I gasped.
‘We spoke on the phone earlier, remember?’ Melissa said warmly.
‘How many of us are there?’
Oooh! I’m so curious about what will happen here! Cool!
Hey there! I hardly ever read cloning stories, so it’s fun to see one! Strong first person voice. Thanks for posting!
Bryn… I tried to post twice on September 1, but finally gave up. So here is my excerpt from September. Also, I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your excerpt from September. I hope to see more of it, and I hope you finish it because I want to read the entire story.
And the fight scene from this month draws one in. I felt like I was there!
The following excerpt involves Megan, and the head ranger, Jim O’Reilly, whose staff Megan is housing at High Rock after a fire at their cabin.
__________________________________________
“This is an impressive garden. Wildflowers, right?”
Jim followed me into the garden and dropped to one knee to scrutinize the various plants.
“These little guys,” he continued, indicating a cluster of shooting stars with purple petals bent back from a deep yellow base, “are my favourites. Which are yours?”
When I didn’t answer, he looked up. “Too difficult to decide?” He turned back to the flowers. “How about this one?” He fingered a clump of pink pussytoes. “I’ve always liked them.”
“Actually,” I said, “my favourite is one I can’t transplant … Indian paintbrush. I tried a few times, but it didn’t take.”
“Well, you certainly have a fine collection here, even without your favourite. Where did you find them all?”
“Oh, here and there. I located a few on neighbouring ranches and some from catalogues.”
“What about this little gem?” He leaned forward, balancing himself on the outstretched fingertips of one hand while pointing with the other to a small plant bearing succulent, egg-shaped leaves and flowers of yellow and purple.
“Roseroot? That was a gift. The only place I’ve ever found it around here was in provincial parkland, a natural reserve or protected area. A friend gave it to me.”
He peered at me curiously over his shoulder, a half smile playing about his lips. “Lucky you. Most folks just dig them up.”
I returned his gaze with equanimity, “I admit that I’ve been tempted to stash a few particularly lovely specimens in my saddlebags, but it’s illegal in Kananaskis, is it not?”
“You’ve never done it?”
I eyed him warily. “No, I have not.”
A short silence followed and he lifted one thick eyebrow, his dark blue eyes cool and watchful. I had the unnerving feeling that he did not believe me and I stood abruptly, the subtle camaraderie I’d felt developing with him vanishing like an arcing eagle in the sky. He also rose and, after giving me an amused look, turned toward the front porch leaving me standing on the grass.
The tension here is palpable. Great job!
Hi Eileen! I’m sooo sorry for the trouble last month, especially because I’m enjoying this story so much! There were some upgrades being done to the website and they hit at the exact wrong time. 🙂 I love the (well-researched!) flower talk, and the subtext, too! Thanks for sharing!
Loved your excerpt!
From my new WIP:
Silva Belle Randolph was madder than a wet hen. Silva Belle, Silva to her friends, was furiously shoving everything on her desk into a box she had found in the copier room. Awards, framed photos, lotion, hand sanitizer, and her favorite mug full of pens. A few files, her planner, and most importantly, her three-ring binder, known as the idea bible, filled with all of her best events and designs. Yes, there was a power point online file, too, but tangible proof of work was the best way to help someone envision her creations.
Hey friend! I have to say, having cleaned out my desk in LA to move to Chicago not THAT long ago, I loved this list of items in her desk. Do we all accumulate the same things? And now I want to make an idea bible! 🙂
Thank you!
@Bryn one of things I really love about your prose is that your narrator is a a colorful voice that fits well with the characters in the story. For example “was pretty much unbeatable” and “In a blink, Zaf dove low to grab Samir’s leg and take him to the ground” are colored with character perfectly for the scene.
Oh my gosh—thank you so much! With a scene like this, I’m a little out of my element, so I especially appreciate that! 🙂
Hi Bryn, great and exciting scene of full-contact sparring. As for me, I’m a supervisor now at the mail processing plant I work at, and I’m just totally wiped out and exhausted lately.
On top of that I’ve been in a pretty long trough of writer’s block. I’ve decided a central pillar of my story needs a total change-out, but haven’t figured it all out yet.
I’m watching the Aaron Sorkin Masterclass on screenwriting now and he talks about how he manages his typical “default state of writer’s block.”
I’ll be looking at your blog archive and Blank Page to Final Draft for more tips too.
Wish me luck and renewed energy to get back to this stuff.
Chris! Well don’t be too hard on yourself. New jobs take so much mental energy! (And this is a promotion, right? Congratulations!) I always need a little “adjustment time” in a new role before I can really be creative again. You’ll get back into it, probably sooner than later!