Hi, everyone! I hope your summer is treating you right so far! And if it isn’t, let’s distract ourselves with creating…that’s one of the best coping skills I know. It’s Work in Progress Wednesday, when we all share excerpts of what we’re writing!
I went over the guidelines yesterday, so I won’t belabor them again. I’ll just tell you that I have a big announcement:
I finished the first draft of Knight at the Museum!
It’s a very messy draft, but still! It’s my favorite story I’ve written so far, and I’m really excited about it.
Today’s scene takes place at a free clinic, where Emily has taken Gryffon so he can get a checkup and vaccinations against 21st century diseases. It’s a boring place, and Gryffon decides to liven it up.
He took a step into the room and said to the group, “’Tis exceedingly dull to wait here, is it not? Perhaps someone would like to sing a song to help us pass the time.”
Emily cringed. “Gryffon, no one wants to sing.”
He gave her a guileless look. “But it always lifted our spirits at camp, when I was at war.” Then he smiled. “I anticipated that I might be the first, for once one person has sung, others oft feel emboldened to do the same.”
Oh, my God. Should she just tell him to shut up? But that would be so mean…and even as she squirmed in secondhand embarrassment, she was still dying to know what he would do next.
He took another step into the room and sang a song in French.
Emily’s mouth dropped open. He had a good voice—a true, resonant baritone that filled the room. The melody was distinctly of another time. His stance was relaxed, perfectly at ease. He was enjoying himself.
And he wasn’t the only one. Nobody was staring at a phone now—except for one young woman, who’d begun recording him.
When he finished, several people in the room applauded. One man said, “Dude, that was awesome.”
“What does it mean in English?” an elderly woman asked him.
Emily felt a flutter in her chest. It was a love song. She was sure of it.
Gryffon said, “The man brings the mule to the blacksmith to get shod. But when the mule gets its first shoe, it calls the blacksmith ‘father.’ The mule is actually the blacksmith’s daughter.”
Wait, what?
A man peered at him. “How did he have a mule for a daughter? And not know it?”
“She was turned into mule after meeting a priest in secret.”
“You have a nice voice, young man,” the elderly woman said. “But that song isn’t right.”
Several people laughed. Emily had to agree with her.
Gryffon tilted his head thoughtfully. “In truth, ’tis a strange song, now that I explain it.”
The older lady added, “I thought it was going to be a love song.”
“I did too,” Emily said.
His gaze locked on hers and his congenial smile faded. “Aye, I can sing a love song, if you like.”
The waiting room went perfectly still. Emily searched for a light quip in response, anything to break the tension.
“This is also in French,” he said quietly, addressing the room, maybe, though his eyes never left her. “The meaning is… Sweet, lovely lady, only you have sovereignty over my heart, and I have humbly cherished you, but my joy will come to an end if you do not take some pity on me.”
Emily’s heart pounded. She tried to look away, but the intensity of his gaze was too much.
“You bind and torment my heart, and grant me no relief, and yet I desire nothing but to be in your power.”
Everyone was staring at her now.
Edited to add: here’s the song Gryffon sings first! I’ve loved it for decades and the lyrics truly are weird.
Okay, please share excerpts of your own, 500 words or less, in the comments below! I look forward to reading. Thanks so much for stopping by, everyone, and happy writing!
Opening (drafty) of the second book in my series Misfit’s Magic (misfitsmagic.com).
—
Goff awoke with a start, sweat dripping down his temples. A chilly pre-winter moon cast a cold silver light over the little dorm room, landing in a rectangle on Halstrom lying like a vampire with arms crossed over his chest in his bed a dozen feet away. Goff couldn’t shake the dark feeling of the nightmare he’d woken up from. He felt as if he could still smell the rotting fish odor of the gargoyle and the scent of wax and oregano from the black candles that had burned in brass holders on the massive desk. In fact, it all seemed as clear as if he had just been there for real.
It had started with the gargoyle coming through a window into a dark wood study lined with bookshelves. Goff was pretty sure that it was the same nasty gargoyle that had tried to kill him in the Monstraxen town square the night he went back to stop Mather’s from performing the ritual to claim all the magic in the world. It had the same red eyes and fangs as thick as baseball bats, but then again—it was hard to tell gargoyles apart. The annoying creatures all looked nasty and grotesque.
“Is it done?” the gargoyle asked, his voice slick and oily. “If so, the book must be returned immediately.”
“It is done,” a man sitting at an enormous mahogany desk inlaid with skeletons in relief said in a deep, hoarse voice. He pulled a draw off a long reading pipe, turning the tobacco within it into a fiery volcano.
On top of the desk, illuminated by the glow of a black candle, sat a large book opened to a page in the middle. It looked like the kind of boring book they make you look at for far too long while a teacher prattles on about its history on school field trips to museums; the kind that was hand-rendered and assembled by a monk centuries ago, full of swirling letters and intricate line drawings softly filled in with dull colors. The man exhaled a cloud of smoke smelling of vanilla and burning mulch, and reached over to close it carefully as if moving any part of it too hastily would break it.
“That book has not been touched by human hands in thousands of years,” the gargoyle said.
“I hope you have shown it due respect.”
“I have,” the man said, standing up. “And, it has served its purpose.”
He lifted the book, revealing that set into the cover, which was formed of scaly material with a gray and green mackerel pattern, was an eye with a hexagon pupil. It blinked and twisted around as if trying to figure out where it was and who was holding it.
“She’s there,” the man said, pointing, “No idea that she is no longer in the real world, and out of our hair for good.”
Where he pointed, in the corner of the room, a glowing glass sphere the size of a bowling ball sat on a tripod stand on a small table. Bits of light swirled around inside it, like a snow globe freshly shaken by an excited toddler. In the center of the tiny storm, a girl with long, flowing silver hair floated, eyes closed. The robe draped around her shimmered soft violet. Majesty—Goff’s magic when he had been a wizard, the queen of all magic frozen in glass like some prized sea shell.
Carrying the book with the curious eye over to the gargoyle perched on the window sill, the man held it out for the creature to take.
“Everything is different now,” the gargoyle said, gently taking the book from the man’s hands. “I hope you understand that what we have done here is strictly forbidden. My head would be chopped off were it discovered that I brought you this book.”
“Your secret is safe with me, and I will be sure to reward you greatly when this is all done.”
“And the boy?”
“What of him? He is of no concern to us. He got lucky once. It won’t happen again..”
“Let’s hope that is the case.”
This is really good! You have a nice writing voice, it really sucks you in to the story. 🙂
Thanks! I appreciate the compliment. I have mild dyslexia, so I read very slowly, which makes me naturally write a little simply out of courtesy for other people that consider a full John Grisham novel a summer project 🙂 I read Freedom by Jonathan Franzen, and let’s just say it took a while…
I enjoyed the rich language, especially this line “the queen of all magic frozen in glass like some prized sea shell”!
Thanks! I wanted to find wording that was concise but conveyed the playful quality of her entrapment. Glad you like what I came up with. Fiddling with wording is one of my favorite pass times, although somedays it whittles my word count down to a toothpick 🙂
I think there are simply not enough books with gargoyles in them! I loved this little snippet of your story and wish I could read more. And the ending…I’m thinking the boy is going to lucky again, but what is it going to cost him?
Ah, I love the suspense.
Love them gargoyles! Very underappreciate magical creatures! Thanks.
Your descriptions are nicely done. They place you in the story.
I confess I’m not a huge fan of fantasy and horror but I loved how you mixed the most chilling moments in your story with some light comic relief. Your descriptions are amazing and I’m extremely jealous as I tend to struggle with mine.
What an amazing excerpt! I want the book now. Beautiful blending of description and narrative.
Gosh Fred, this is really good! I love your prose style. Great descriptions. “voice slick and oily” = that’s awesome.
I love this excerpt! Makes me want to read more.
Thanks. Very happy to hear that! What else could a writer hope for?
A flyer, advertising an auction, brings three women together. Each have their own story to share. This is an extract from their first encounter.
The Flyer
The recession has spawned a new breed of shops. Ladies that once lunched now scour the rails and shelves in search of that elusive second-hand designer item. And trade is booming…
‘Vintage Recycled’ commands a prime position on the high street. The windows of the double fronted shop display a wealth of sought-after clothes and accessories, enticing women to enter, explore and spend.
On this particular Saturday afternoon, the air is buzzing as customers pour over the ever-changing stock adorning circular rails placed randomly around the shop floor. At the back of the room, a queue forms at a crescent shaped counter where an elegant sales assistant inspects a pastel pink jacket.
“Chanel is extremely sought after,” she informs Melissa.
A sardonic smile crosses Melissa’s lips, suppressing the temptation to point out the woman is clearly stating the obvious. Anyway, she was in no mood for small talk. Having to part with her favourite jacket. her prized possession, had not only depressed her but was yet another reminder of the situation in which she now found herself.
Placing her business card on the counter, the ringtone on her mobile silences the sales assistant from commenting further. Recognising the caller id, Melissa’s expression brightens.
“Hi Lucinda… I’m fine… Skiing? I’d love to, it sounds great, but we’re upgrading our computer system and I really need to be there… Lunch? Can I get back to you? I’m not in the office and need to check my diary… OK, talk soon.”
Ending the call, Melissa returns her attention to the sales assistant who is now stapling a flyer to a receipt.
“I’m sure your jacket will be snapped up,” she smiles, handing Melissa the receipt and beckoning the next in line to step forward.
Melissa nods, drops the receipt in her bag and heads off while Jennifer takes her place at the counter.
En route to the exit, Melissa’s eyes are drawn to a chic black satin dress hanging on one of the rails. Unable to resist, she checks the size and price tag.
“Like it?” she murmurs. “Yes. Want it? Yes. Need it?”
Reluctantly, she returns the dress to the rail and sighs. “No.”
Turning abruptly, she almost collides with Alma and mutters an apology. Alma smiles but Melissa has already pushed past her. Alma shrugs, makes her way to the back of the shop and joins the queue at the counter.
I am intrigued by the setting of this vintage clothing store. I’d love to read more and discover how the characters’ lives will intersect.
Very nice wording here! I love the compact and elegant phrasing, such as “At the back of the room, a queue forms at a crescent shaped counter where an elegant sales assistant inspects a pastel pink jacket.”
Hi Linda! I love the idea of vintage clothing bringing three characters together. Thanks for sharing!
I’m so excited that you finished the first draft! I’m so excited to read this, I can already tell from your excerpts that Gryffon is going to be my new Book Boyfriend. 🙂
My excerpt is another from Blackbird Haunted.
In this scene, Mina and Jason have learned that a friend of Mina’s aunt Alice has been storing some belonging’s of Alice’s since her murder. They have driven out to the friend’s farm in the next town, in hopes that they’ll find more clues among Alice’s belongings that will help them figure out who her killer was.
***
The rain had tapered off, and the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds. They followed Eleanore outside and across the barnyard. Chickens of various colors and sizes darted here and there, taking advantage of the break in the rain to eat the unfortunate earthworms who’d surfaced during the rain. A black goat stood in the shade of an oak tree, watching them with his strange golden eyes. A peacock, its brilliant jewel-toned plumage shining in the sun, shook its tail into a massive fan and strutted over to Mina’s car, where it proceeded to peck aggressively at its own reflection in the hubcaps.
The barn that they were walking toward was enormous. The front doors of it were open, and Jason caught the scent of hay, saddle leather, and horse manure. Eleanore led them into the darkness inside.
A broad-shouldered man who was at least as tall as John was inside, using a pitchfork to shovel straw into a stall. He paused when they came in, and gave Mina and Jason an assessing gaze.
Eleanore introduced them to her husband, Warren.
The hulking man shook both of their hands. His grip was strong, his hands calloused. “Pleasure to meet you both.”
“It seems we can finally return Alice’s belongings,” Eleanore said.
“Come on back, I’ve got something I think you’ll be happy to see,” Warren rumbled.
Toward the back of the barn, something large was covered with a heavy, padded tarp. Jason recognized the vague outline of a vehicle.
“No way,” he said, instantly realizing what must be under there. “You’re kidding me.”
“What is it?” Mina asked.
Jason grinned at her. “You’ll see.”
Warren yanked the protective covers off, sending dust motes, tiny shreds of hay and a few random chicken feathers swirling into the air.
Mina gasped.
Alice’s ‘61 Starfire, still in pristine condition, sat staring back at them with its dual round headlights.
Jason had known the car had been impounded after Alice’s murder, but had mysteriously disappeared from the yard it was stored at in spite of high, locked fences topped with barbed wire. It had been a scandal in the department, no one understanding how the car could simply vanish into thin air.
Eleanore and Warren were apparently felons guilty of Grand Theft Auto, but he was fiercely glad that they’d gotten Alice’s treasured vehicle and kept it safe all these years. If they hadn’t, Darren Simms probably would have had it crushed at the junkyard. Or worse, given it to his dirtbag son.
Mina let out a broken sob.
Jason turned to her. Her face was in her hands, and she was in tears. It took her a couple of minutes to pull herself together as he held her and rubbed her back. He felt stupid for not realizing how emotionally she would react to seeing Alice’s beloved car.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed,” Mina said, swiping away tears with the back of one hand.
She sniffled, and looked up at him. What he saw there was fresh pain, as if Alice’s death and the loss of her sisters was suddenly brand new again. He’d seen the same stark expression on the faces of people who’d he’d had to deliver terrible news to over the years.
He’d seen it in his own eyes in the mirror when he lost Bonnie and Lily.
Seeing it now on Mina’s face flayed his heart.
Your descriptions are so vivid, I could really see this scene unfold! I’d love to read more.
Fantastic writing! Excellent voice, and that first paragraph sucked me in. I was sold by the time the peacock pecked at the hub caps.
Awww, this is great! I was like, “ooooh, cool car” and then when Mina started crying I felt like a jerk. 😀 So I was right there with Jason! Great scene.
Thanks so much for this opportunity! I’m submitting excerpts from two WIPs today. I hope that’s okay. This one is from a rom-com, The Seven Fortune Cookie.
Allie finally made it home, after a full day of teaching and an hour of coaching academic team practice…the first practice without Max who was required to attend athletic conditioning with the elusive Coach Nichols. Allie still hadn’t managed to meet the new basketball coach; but when she found the opportunity, she planned to give him a piece of her mind for stealing Max away from the academic team. Visualizing the confrontation, she took Baby for a walk.
The entire neighborhood was out…riding bikes, walking their calm dogs, strolling toward the park. Allie tried in vain to keep a tight leash on Baby; but the tighter she held on, the more Baby lunged and barked, her yip growing increasingly higher pitched. By the time they made it around the block, Allie was red-faced and worn out. Baby finally settled down long enough to do her business; and Allie dutifully scooped it into an environmentally-friendly bag. After tying the bag, she glanced up just in time to see the handsome jogger heading straight toward her…his Golden Retriever striding effortlessly beside him. They were too close for Allie to divert Baby’s attention.
Not only was this guy fit and gorgeous, he was strangely quiet, gliding along silently. Allie felt like a clanging gong…her hard-soled flats slapping against the pavement, her dog barking hysterically,
The jogger looked up as he and his dog skirted in unison off the sidewalk and into the street to avoid getting too close to Allie and Baby. He caught Allie’s eye and gave a look that was either a sheepish grin or a smirk. Allie, caught off guard, lifted her hand to wave…the hand holding the bag.
All the way home, she willed her face and neck to fade back to their original color. She could feel the red blotches of embarrassment; and they were still there when she finally unhooked Baby’s leash and glanced at herself in the foyer mirror.
Why should she care about that perfectly smug jogger and his perfectly trained dog? She preferred normal, approachable people. Her people were the ones with stains on their clothes and untucked shirts and messy ponytails. Most importantly, her people had hyper, sweet pets with lovingly neurotic tendencies.
Allie was sure that the “look” the jogger had given her was condescending. There was no doubt in her mind about that. For half a second, she’d thought he was trying to be friendly, and that made her blush all over again. She cringed when she thought about the jogger chuckling…no doubt thinking she was a pathetic woman with a crazy terrier.
She decided to try to put it out of her mind…the only way to calm the anxious blotches that were still splashed across her chest, neck, and cheeks. She hated breaking out in hives when she was nervous or upset. Why couldn’t she simply get a lump in her throat? Instead, her nervousness was on full display unless she was fortunate enough to be wearing a turtleneck.
I like this cute meet. I am a hivey person and break out whenever I am nervous, too. I can absolutely relate. 🙂
Hey, there! In the future, just do one excerpt, but hey, I appreciate the enthusiasm and you’ve got some fun projects in the works! As someone with not-so-calm dogs, I really felt for this character! I think it’s a great and very relatable meet cute. 🙂
My second excerpt is the beginning of the first chapter of a WIP titled 365 Santas.
It was the day after Christmas, and for the first time in her life, Rennie Clayton was glad to have all the hoopla behind her. If it weren’t for her husband, she would jerk the tree down, ornaments and all, and drag it thumping down the stairs to the storage room. She would cram it into the big black canvas bag she’d bought specifically for storing it. It looked like a body bag. She would rake her arm across the mantelpiece, knocking off greenery that stayed fresh for only a day and had been growing brittle ever since. She’d slam the front door so hard the wreath would bounce out into the yard and splat onto the snow, as if the house itself had spit it out. Oh, she wished she had the gumption to hate the holidays…truly hate them.
But she didn’t. She loved Christmas, and now this Christmas was over. It was not what she had hoped. Her granddaughter’s first Christmas was supposed to be memorable and magical. Instead, her son allowed her to watch the baby on Zoom for 10 minutes until the baby supposedly got restless and was whisked away by her other grandmother.
If only her son, Matthew, had married an orphan…some poor girl who wanted a mother as much as she wanted a husband. Now that would have made for a good Christmas.
Adding insult to injury, the girl, Cathleen, had three sisters, all equally thin and blonde-and heartbreakingly close to their mother, Olivia, who looked as if she could be on one of those baffling little blue pill commercials. Olivia was a woman just past mid-life who was so stylish and pretty that men would climb into a claw-foot tub that was outside, for who knows what kind of reason, and watch sunsets with Olivia. Rennie hated the woman on principle alone. It was as if Olivia and Cathleen and Cathleen’s three lovely sisters were all part of a sorority, and Rennie was not even allowed to pledge.
In the beginning, after Matty married Cathleen, Rennie made an effort; but no matter what she did, it was always off the mark. Rennie baked her son’s favorite cookies and mailed them to the couple, adding a slice of sandwich bread to the tin to keep the cookies chewy. Cathleen was allergic to gluten.
“Thanks anyway,” she said. “They looked so tasty. Why was the piece of white bread in there again?” Apparently cookies AND bread were filled with gluten.
Rennie bought Cathleen a very nice dress, on sale; but Rennie didn’t know that Cathleen was a size double zero…not a size zero. Who in the world wore a size double zero?
Did clothing manufacturers even make dresses in that size? Come to find out, when Rennie returned the dress, they did; and a size double zero wouldn’t have fastened around one of Rennie’s legs…let alone her body. Rennie didn’t exchange the dress. She just asked for a refund and left the store empty handed.
This is terrific. Great descriptions and I love the voice you bring to the wording. I feel like I’m right in her head: “all equally thin and blonde-and heartbreakingly close to their mother, Olivia, who looked as if she could be on one of those baffling little blue pill commercials.” Feels like her voice, not a narrator. Great stuff!
I love this!!
I like this very much…I immediately wanted to know more about ALL of the characters. Your attention to detail makes each character individually intriguing, and I hope to read more about them in the future.
Hard to choose a WIP. I have several. My opening to a Goth Regency (The Spies of Westerby)series I am working on called A Virtuous Endeavor.
Mary Anne Catherine Berkley of Greensprior, the eldest daughter of the former Earl of Trowbridge, huddled deeper into the roughhewn cloak borrowed from one of Lady Henley’s scullery maids and clung to the shadows of the shanties titling toward the water. Row upon row of wraith like structures stretched their shadows toward her as if to swallow her into their decrepit darkness. The slap of the Thames against the shore rippled her evening meal in her belly. She pressed a fist against the nausea rising and willed her stomach to settle. The large lake nestled on Fountain Hall’s property had never granted her sea legs. Perhaps that was because her older brothers had tormented her during their boat escapades, often leaving her retching over the edge.
Being this close to the river dizzied her senses and wobbled her knees. What insanity had propelled her away from the warmth and elegance of Lady Henley’s ballroom to this very den of devils residing on the precipice of the Thames?
A bell clanked in the wind, startling the breath from her lungs. A forced giggle of a maid trickled from the window cracked open with mug. She shifted her gaze to the sign creaking above her head. The Mad Dog. Icy shards of mist from the river bathed her heated cheeks. She’d heard tales of such places. Of course, she should not have had her ear pressed to her father’s library door when she’d heard men regal tales of taverns and the like, but what was a curious girl of ten and two to do when strangers lurked in Fountain Hall’s corridors? Why what else, listen.
“Come back to me, Wench,” a man’s voice boomed from the open window followed by a deeper, “Come back to me, wench.”
She quickly closed her ears to the suggestive display between the couple, and focused on the dimly lit doorway of the tavern. Was her contact inside downing his ale?
She drew in a breath and released it in a nervous hiccup. A few moments more and she’d know the truth. She just need to wait for the man to appear.
“What man?” she quietly asked. She had no description of who was to meet her, only a missive slipped to her in the shadows of Lady Henley’s terrace when Mary had walked into the gardens to cool her cheeks.
It’d been a curious thing. As she’d only inquired of her brother’s direction yesterday. Of course, Mama had been sending letters to his superiors and the authorities for months, and with all the rudeness of a Newgate jailer, she’d received no reply.
Oh, Mama. Mary inwardly grieved the loss of her mother’s fortitude and tenacity. Their losses had been too great these many months, to lose their mother to despondency would devastate all of her siblings. And that would never do, which was the very reason Mary embraced the challenge before her, even if it was dastardly cold.
I’m invested! I find myself wondering if Mary’s mission will be successful. I’d definitely read more!
Oooh, Goth Regency! I love the adventurousness of this scene, and the historical details and the sense of atmosphere here are OUTSTANDING. Thanks so much for sharing!
Gryffon’s song about the mule and the reactions of the patients in the waiting room made me laugh! I love the way you switch seamlessly to the romantic moment right after the funny scene. That’s something I’d really like to work on in my writing.
Aww, thank you so much! I really appreciate it!
Wow, Bryn…I definitely want to read more of that story! Seriously, I can’t wait to see it. Gryffon had already caught my attention; now, I’m afraid, he’s captured my heart! Sings in French…ooh la la 🙂
Regarding my current WIP, it seems dialogue is the order of the day, so I am sending a bit of my urban fantasy tentatively titled The Painted Fan that I am working on right now. The setting is a country club where Alex expects to introduce his fiancée to his parents (Jackson is Alexi’s father).
Pulling his napkin from his lap, Jackson, threw it on the unused plate in front of him and stood up.
On their way out the door, Jackson grabbed his son’s arm and held him back until his wife could no longer hear them.
“Listen to me, Alex, I’m telling you once and only once. Get that girl in line. If she ever pulls another stunt like this or embarrasses your mother again, you will be un-engaged so fast it will make your head swim, and I will choose the next one.”
Alex paled. He knew exactly who his father wanted him to marry, and that uppity British heiress was only one of the many reasons for his hurried attachment to Ruby. But where was she? Last night she said she loved him, and he had always wanted her. She was smart, pretty, and had nice manners, but more importantly, unlike his father’s choice, she was raised in the south; there were so many things he wouldn’t have to explain–or ask forgiveness for.
A wall of disenchantment hit Alex as he stepped into the dripping night. The romantic evening he’d looked forward to all day was dissolving into a nightmare. Following his father to the waiting car, he looked down at his phone.
Dammit, Ruby, where are you?
http://pjbraley.com/
Well done! Very engaging!
Thank you! I hope to get this finished soon…only another 30,000 words or so…LOL
Now I must know what happened to Ruby! I felt as if I were a patron in the country club eavesdropping on the scene.
Thank you! I like to entice readers into the scenes, and it is a high compliment to me that I managed to accomplish that in this one. Thank you again. 😉
Heyyy old friend Thanks for the kind words! I really love the title THE PAINTED FAN. In this scene, the dad’s first line reeled me right in (and made me hate him)! So well done!
Excerpt Chapter – Silly White Men
“Wolf, I’ve decided; if they kick me out of school, I’ll go back to the Mojave, herd goats, and marry Broken Heart.”
We’re sitting on the hill overlooking the campus, and Lady Gray, my wolf dog, has been licking at my face and running around with Shadow, her father.
“Grace, what if he’s married by then?” asks Wolf.
Now that stumps me. Broken Heart is a nice guy and will marry soon. “Well, I don’t need to worry. The older crones will fix me up with someone. It’s hard to say no to them.”
“Do you want to be married?” he asks.
I rest my chin on my knee; Wolf knows me since I confessed my part in a murder to him, and he never revealed my secret, and he is the only person I trust. “Hell, you know I don’t want to be with a man.”
Wolf smirks, “Yeah, yeah, and you don’t want to be with a woman. So why don’t you just become a nun, a fighting nun, with a sword and stuff?”
I land a hard fist on his shoulder and say, “That was mean.”
He says, “You needed it. Sir Bear Two Feathers sure isn’t knocking any sense into you.”
I cut him a death stare.
We spot Pell trotting up the hill. She is the only other student at this school, besides me and Wana, who is tattooed. She wears arrowheads on her cheeks and dark geometric lines from her lower lip down her neck and under the collar of her uniform. She has the marks of a warrior given to her by her father and the welded gold septum ring of a Kaniwa woman.
“What’s up,” I ask.
“I’m going to go back to the Amazon, to my people,” she says.
~
(In the Amazon)
Many young men approach me and point to their chin tattoos and at mine. I don’t understand, but Pell makes it clear.
“They ask, will you date them?” says Pell.
“Date me? Why?” I ask.
“You have a beautiful mark on your chin, and it is blue.”
I look at the men standing nearby and point to one man outside the crowd. He glances at me but turns away when I look back. “Who is he, all red in the face?”
Pell smirks, “Upatu; he is too shy to ask a woman to marry. He should; he’s fun and tells good stories; I wish he would ask me. I would even become his second wife.”
“Second wife,” I ask?
“Didn’t I tell you? Older men take a second wife when they prove themselves. So many men die hunting boar; it all works out.”
I stare at the little woman. “You said, a second wife,”
“Yes, oh, I see… Men have two wives at the same time. If a man is good at hunting boar, he will marry again. She marries the man and his first wife. It all makes sense. White men are silly with only one wife.”
I throw my hands up and walk away. Who would marry me, a tall white girl with a big fat chin tattoo?
Hi Donald! It’s good to see you! I liked this character’s plan of herding goats. 🙂 But it sounds like she’s in for some big changes! thanks for posting!
I love stories within stories: Upatu is also a storyteller with stories of Tell the Great, (but inept,) hunter from the oral histories, always ending with a twist.
Thank you so much, this is so heartening to read! Each of the women have very different reasons for selling an article of clothing and, despite the generation gap, become their own support group. I love writing about strong women and this story gives me free rein!
Thank you! I’ve spent many hours writing micro fiction (100 word stories) which really focus the mind! Highly recommended!
Oh I love Rennie, what a character! That opening scene was so well described, I could picture every moment. Sadly, there are many parents who experience what she is going through… taking second place to their children’s in-laws, but this is what makes your story so relevant.
I like this a lot; it is right up my alley with a knight in modern times. I will definitely follow it. My personal preference would be a first-person present POV, so the reader can feel Emily’s emotions/embarrassment.
Ahhhh, Bryn. A love song in French! I’m glad somebody didn’t switch on the translator on their phone! Much better that he told her himself – after teasing her.
I’m so glad to not miss our WIP!
This is from my latest dabble. I have a collection of fairy tales on my shelf for my grandchildren. They were probably purchased at a thrift store and my grandchildren love them! I, on the other hand, cringe at some of them. I chose Jack and the Beanstalk to re-write first because having them read about a child who is a thief and a murderer didn’t set well with me. My grandson insisted that his name was not Jack, but Eugene. So this is from Eugene and the Beanstalk.
“Fe fi foe fum!”
Eugene opened his eyes, blinking back the sleep. Was it a dream, or…?
Thunder rumbled. A fresh earthy smell drifted through the open window. It must be raining. Lightning cast a green radiance upon the walls of the hut he shared with his mother.
“Green?” That wasn’t right either.
He slipped from beneath his thin blanket and stood at the window. Something blocked his view. Another flash lighted the stem of a plant bigger around than any tree he had seen in the forest. But it reminded him of garden plants – beans – “Wow! Those seeds really were magic!”
He grabbed his satchel and peered up the stalk, toward the magic land the stranger told him about.
Surely anything that grew so quickly would have plenty of beans to eat. Perhaps those magic beans would make his mother change her mind about how foolish he had been to trade their cow for beans.
And perhaps there was more awaiting him. The promised treasures would lift the poverty he and his mother had lived in since his father’s death.
There might be enough beans growing on the stalk to fill their empty stomachs, Eugene slipped the strap of the satchel over his head and climbed the stalk.
He looked and looked, but didn’t see even one bean.
He did find a huge castle.
A giant woman opened the door and swept a pile of dust out.
Eugene sneezed.
The woman looked down at him. “What do we have here? A boy no bigger than my hand.”
Here’s the giant. Where’s the treasure? He wondered.
She picked him up by a handful of his shirt and held him in front of her eyes. “Who are you?”
“Eugene.” He squeaked as he squirmed to get free, but he couldn’t. Besides that, it was a long way to the ground. He didn’t want to fall.
“Did Jack send you?” she demanded.
“Jack? No.”
“Well, we’ll see what my husband says about you sneaking around.”
She carried him inside the house and to a table as big as his whole hut, she overturned an empty pot, put it on a chair and then plopped him on it.
“You’ll be joining my husband and me for dinner.” She informed him.
Just at that moment, another giant came in. He roared, “Fe fi fo fum!”
The giant sat at the other end of the table. He looked Eugene in the eye. “I smell…”
The giant slapped both hands on the table. “Why are you here, Jack?”
Suddenly, helping himself to treasures didn’t seem like such a good idea. “My name is Eugene.” he stammered, “I came for beans, but I can’t seem to find any.”
The giant folded his arms across his chest. “That’s because I picked them all this morning.”
“Do you think you might share a few?” Eugene asked. “My mother and I are awfully hungry and It’s my fault because I sold the cow for magic beans instead of for money to buy food.”
Rewriting the fairy tales for your grandkids is an awesome idea, and Eugene is the perfect name!
Thanks LSHEROAN, It’s been fun for sure.
Hi Jessie! Oh, that’s so much fun for your grandchildren…retelling fairy tales to make them more dynamic and detailed! I bet they love it. 🙂 They are so lucky to have a storyteller for a grandmother!
Bryn, how lovely was this! I loved the line “You bind and torment my heart, and grant me no relief, and yet I desire nothing but to be in your power.” Echoes of Heathcliff right there. A great mix of comedy and romance.
Aww, thank you! You know, that IS very Heathcliff-like, now that you mention it. 🙂
Congratulations! Wonderful news.
***
Jessi pushed her tortoiseshell-framed sunglasses atop her head as she walked toward the door. She caught her breath at the sight of him. Six four, at least. Sandy hair peppered with a little grey at the temples. Muscular but lean, suntanned, standing out against his white polo shirt and khaki shorts. Quite the welcoming committee. “Thanks. I see you found my wayward orange.” Humor covered embarrassment, didn’t it? When she took the proffered fruit from his calloused hand, there was a frisson of energy. Could he feel it, too?
“The little rascal stopped right in front of me.” His smile could light up the night sky. “I see you had a few other things escape, would you like help getting everything in the house?” He nodded toward her car, still open and a few of the groceries still on the ground.
I love how you used the thought-shot right after the dialogue. It brings the character’s inside voice to the forefront. ” ‘Thanks. I see you found my wayward orange.’ Humor covered embarrassment, didn’t it?” Great job!
Thank you!
Oooh, showing that spark! I am positive he’s feeling it, too. Very nice!
Thank you! I submitted it, so I hope the judges agree.
Loved this, leaves me wanting more!
2nd piece
MOlly Spitzel and the Case of the Package Tramps
“You’re supposed to blend in.”
Molly Spitzel nudged the white rimmed, oversized sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and gave Dawson Hardy a look meant to question his idea of fitting in.
“And how would you suggest I do that, Hardy?”
She stifled the twitch of her mouth at the slight narrowing of his eyes. He hated it when she called him Hardy. Almost as much as she hated it when he gave her safe assignments. Hiding away in a mobile home park filled with agile, busybody, geriatric yuppy clones was not her idea of climbing the bureau’s ladder. Not that she had anything against anyone in their golden years or anything against yuppies, except she didn’t quite understand the entire designer coffee fad, day old coffee was completely fine with her, but her skillset was better than this. She’d solved two double homicides, a kidnapping case and broken up a Russian Mafia drug-ring. She was better than scoping out package stealing tramps targeting broom wielding great grannies and grampies.
Dawson’s lips twisted. “You could have toned down the color a tad. Maybe a nice khaki.”
She let out a hardy laugh, no pun intended, and looped her arm through his. She leaned close enough to shield his tan face with the wide brim of her lipstick-red sun hat as she tried to ignore his rich cologne. Was that Creed? DIOR? Her last assignment had her handing out cologne and perfume samples while scoping out one of Santa’s elves at the mall who’d intended on assassinating Mr. and Mrs. Claus during the annual Christmas Parade.
It was difficult to not lean closer. To allow her nose to investigate further, maybe even close enough to feel the warmth of his skin. To, you know, see if Hardy was human and not some alien in human disguise controlled by a giant computer. “Don’t look now, but 122 is peeking out her Dollar store blinds.”
He started to turn, but she dug her six-inch red heels into the cement drive. The nub of her heel caught in a crack. Her ankle buckled. She wobbled and fell against him. Dawson flexed, tightening his hold on her arm. Oh, gracious, Gio, definitely Gio. The temptation to linger was greater than denying Aunt Melva’s homemade peanut butter pie, but she was Agent Molly Spitzel, and agents did not linger. Especially a Spitzel and most definitely not over delicious, heavenly smelling men. And most definitely, absolutely not over tall, wide shouldered men as hunkalicious as Agent Dawson Hardy. And yes, Dawson Hardy was a hunk, even if he was as stiff and robotic as CP3PO.
“Are you all right? Dress Code number one states, appropriate clothing should be worn while on duty. That means you should be wearing sensible shoes.”
She righted herself and released his arm. In an attempt to play off her little mishap she pointed to a barren space next to the depilated deck. “You mean like the ones you’re wearing?”
Hi there!! Loved the scene with the singing, time traveling knight! I could see it so well and feel the cringy vibe!!
This is a scene from my WIP, CLOSE FAMILY, a DNA disaster story that rolls the grenade into Simpson Rutledge’s life and blows it wide open. No wonder she was almost a head taller than everyone in her family and the only blonde…
Lilly Dupree’ preferred to keep a low profile. Not for any other reason than she liked a quiet, peaceful life. She’d won countless awards over the years for her low country paintings, some of which had required she show up for shows, ceremonies, and public dinners, so she’d not been able to completely live the entirely introverted existence she might prefer. Painting required concentration and solitude. But selling paintings required contact with the world.
Besides her family, Lilly was perfectly fine spending her days at her home studio with her paints and the perfect light from windows that faced the marsh on two sides. In fact, Lilly was in her studio when Amelia, her daughter, entered, a vexed expression on her lovely face. She was looking down at her phone and reading something. “What is it, honey? Bad news?” Lilly asked.
Amelia nailed Lilly with a confused stare. “Mom, I took a DNA test for my humanities classes a couple months back and I just received an email telling me I have a match—a close family match. The percentage of shared DNA can only be a sibling, based on what I’ve discovered, because it’s way more than a first cousin match. It specifies a maternal match.”
Of all the things her daughter might have said to her in that moment, nothing could have prepared her for this. “A—what?” she stammered.
“My DNA results came back with no real surprises about where we came from, but I’ve logged in since I got the email and it says someone with enough DNA to be a sibling has been identified since I took the test.”
Lilly’s breathing became labored and a fine sheen of sweat broke out on her lip and forehead. Oh, God. No one was ever supposed to know. She’d marked the box that stated, “no contact.”
“Mom, are you alright?” Amelia clearly noticed Lilly struggling for composure now. “Come in here and sit down. Let’s get you some water.”
How could she even begin to explain this? Thank God her husband wasn’t home. Panic, similar only to the one she’d known on that horrific night all those years ago, threatened to overwhelm Lilly. She worked to slow her breathing down, wondering if there was a way out of this unholy mess. Lilly sank down onto the sofa, nearly frantic now. She couldn’t believe this was happening after thirty years. It was coming back to haunt her, to ruin her. The life-altering mistake that had nearly cost her everything. The one she still hadn’t forgiven herself for.
“Okay, what’s happening here?” Amelia asked, returning with a glass of water. Never one to pull any punches, Amelia expected answers.
Lilly was terrified to put into words what she’d done. To make it real. But it was real.
“Mom, you can trust me. Something is going on and you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Amelia’s expression showed her concern. She would be hurt by this. Confused. Angry, possibly? But Lilly knew she could trust her daughter.
“Honey—this is—hard.” Lilly lowered her head, hoping for divine strength but none came. Her hands shook as she lifted the glass and gulped the water, staving off the truth, even one more second. Because once it was out, nothing would be the same again.
“Okay. You know about this? If you’ve got something to tell me, it’s okay.” Amelia tried to smile encouragement.
The water threatened to spill over the rim of the glass as Lilly took a small sip, her hands shaking. “It—it all happened so long ago.”
Hi, Susan! Great dramatic scene here. I could really feel Lilly’s feelings!
Hi Bryn, I’m so enjoying this story. I was literally holding my breath when Gryfton began to sing.
I’ve been cleaning out some old files and came across this.
Kit stood at the soapstone sink and rinsed out her cup, saucer and small plate. Outside the window, shade covered the side garden, the morning sun gone now to the other side of the house. This early afternoon was her favorite time of day. Her morning chores were done: the bed made, the kitchen floor mopped, the groceries put away after her early trip to the A & P. Now was her time to sit in the wicker chair under the big maple tree. Maybe read the morning paper or just close her eyes and listen to the sound of the bees in the rose garden. She turned the spigot on and off one more time to rinse down the sink.
Someplace in the house there was a soft tapping. Who would be coming to visit at this time of day? She wiped her hands on her apron and started for the front door. Tap, tap, tap. Louder this time. And coming from the side porch. She opened the back hallway door and found the two sisters there, standing huddled together, holding hands.
“Well, goodness gracious, girls. You gave me a scare. What are you doing here at this time of the afternoon?” She glanced over their heads at the porch and the steps to the street beyond. “And where’s your Ma?”
Ellie took a deep breath. “She ain’t here, Aunt Kitty. It’s just us.” Peggy stared at the porch floor, her eyes avoiding Kit’s.
“Well, you two come in here.” She motioned them inside and pointed to the kitchen chairs. “Sit down there.”
Kit walked the length of the porch and looked up and down the street. No sign of anyone. All the neighbors at work or doing chores or having their afternoon rest. She untied her apron from her tightly corseted middle and checked the buttons on the bodice of her dress. Inside, the sisters sat at the table, their short legs dangling.
“How did you two get here?” Kit asked. “Tell me you didn’t cross Broadway all by yourself and…”
“We walked,” Ellie said. “We didn’t know what else to do.”
Peg raised her head and rubbed her swollen eyes. “Ma’s gone.”
“Gone? Well, wherever to?” Kit looked from one girl to another.
Ellie’s lips quivered. “She went to the store this morning. To grocery shop, she told us. But she never came back.”
Peg took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She took her suitcase with her.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Kit whispered . “And where’s your Pa?”
“Gone,” Ellie said. “He’s been gone three days now.”
Kit gently patted each girl’s shoulder. “Well, now. Give me a minute here to think.”
“We’re hungry, Aunt Kitty. Can we have something to eat? Please?”
“You haven’t eaten?”
“No,” Ellie said. “There’s no food in the ice box. And the milkman stopped coming last week.”
“Yes, of course. Something for you to eat,” Kit said.
Jesus Christ, she thought.
Word count 493
Oh, my gosh! The poor girls. Kit’s last thought here is so real! Great scene. Thanks for the kind words, too, Nancy!
Re: Knight piece.
I really love this excerpt. I likenhow you used the allure of French lyrics to tell a tale and tighten the web of her interest in him, only to hear the lyrics are about a mule. However, the way you tie in the characteristic of the mule, which I am certain is how he views her at times, is brilliant.
Hey thanks Christina! I appreciate that. 🙂
Hello to Bryn and my fellow aspiring authors. Due to a busy day yesterday with shopping errands, I missed this Wednesday’s email. However, I’m hoping I’m still able to submit my latest drafted excerpt.
Anyway, here is Chapter Three of False Rumours A Merseyside Mystery Thriller:
I had submitted Tracy’s profile on the Faces of Suicide website, including her date of death and a recent photo of her with a short remembrance message. It still didn’t seem real to me. The local detectives had visited me and my friends and told us how sorry they were. I was in so much pain and sorrow, but appreciated their condolences.
What had happened to her was traumatic for us all to say the least; her absence from our lives for a couple of years only raised mysteries without any answers. Mysteries that needed to be solved.
As I visited her FaceLife page, I stumbled across other people’s comments. Most of these comments were from Paul. I read through them. They were extremely vile. One read: ‘One less self-pitying waste of space on the planet.’ Another: ‘So glad you’re gone. They’re going to need firewood in Hell.’
I wouldn’t have put it past Paul, as I didn’t like him. According to Anna, Tracy hadn’t liked him, either.
I was at the internet cafe centre with Vanessa, and she was suggesting we do something honourable for Tracy in order to remember her. Maybe set up a personalised memorial page on FaceLife.
I was extremely bothered by the ‘firewood in Hell’ comment. What did they mean by that?
The real unanswered question on everybody’s mind was why Tracy killed herself. What reason did she have for not wanting to be alive anymore? Had she been carrying a dark secret she didn’t want anybody to know about? Had someone been after her? Perhaps they had driven her to suicide. If so, then her blood would be on that person’s hands and he or she would have to live with a guilty conscience for the rest of their life.
If only we had known her last whereabouts, I thought. Then maybe we could have stopped her from taking her own life. We could have saved her.
Maybe we could get some useful information from the Suicide Investigation Centre.
And so I accessed their webpage. They had just released updated information on Tracy, and there was a provided link to a suicide forum she had joined that nobody had known about.
When I clicked on it, my heart dropped completely.
On one of the main comment sections of this suicide forum, I came across more hideous comments directed at Tracy. Everything seemed a complete blur and a shock. I read through the contents a couple of times before it finally sank in. I just could not believe what I had uncovered!
‘You should have killed yourself only. Why did innocent people have to suffer because of you?’
‘If you wanted to take the easy way out, then fine. But that doesn’t mean someone else should pay for it.’
I was overcome with devastation. I couldn’t let her family or her other friends see this.
‘That descent into madness was only a matter of time.’
‘Can’t believe that blackmailing letter she received through the post that day.’
‘In that case, perhaps it’s a good thing she threw herself off the Lake Natron bridge.’
‘Can’t say that I’m sorry Tracy killed herself. She thought she was too good for this world. That’s the problem with depressed folk. Too full of self-pity.’
I was unable to wrap my head around the previous comments. I felt sick to the stomach.
There was something else Tracy had done before taking her own life. What exactly had she done? Was this the same Tracy we had all lived next door to?
Vanessa approached me at the computer desk. ‘What did you find out, Natasha?’ she asked.
I looked at her with a facial expression that said it all.
Hi Amy! Glad you stopped by! Oh my gosh, those comments are so awful…and I like this protagonist! I hope we get to read more!
Congrats on the first draft and thanks for the video song. So cool!
Thank you, Tanya! 🙂
Thank you Bryn. Packed with experiences.