Welcome to Work in Progress Wednesday!
WIP Wednesday is usually the first Wednesday of every month. It’s when I share an excerpt of what I’m working on, and if you’re a writer, so can you!
Be sure you’re subscribed to the blog (sign up in the upper lefthand corner) so you’ll get a heads up about future WIP Wednesdays. And please read through the rules before posting!
A couple of notes about leaving comments on this blog…
I recommend copying and pasting from another document to share your excerpt.
Comments are slow to load. I paid a guy to fix it, and he didn’t solve the issue and then yelled at me over email when I pointed this out. I do still want to get it fixed, of course!
But after you hit “submit,” it’ll show up eventually! If you refresh your browser, you may see it show up sooner. 😊
And here are the rules:
•Keep your excerpt to 200 words or fewer. If you post a longer piece, I may trim it.
•Feel free to share work that’s still rough. I usually do!
•Curse words are fine, but please don’t include graphic sex or violence.
•Don’t link to work for sale. However, you can link to your website!
•Avoid making criticisms or suggestions, because we’re usually sharing work that’s not even ready to be critiqued. However, leaving someone an encouraging word is good writer karma.
Here’s an excerpt from the rough draft of Her Time Traveling Duke, the sequel to Her Knight at the Museum.
He touched the bronze instrument and his vision blanked.
The floor was no longer under his feet. His senses spun; his stomach lurched. Some beast, some hellhound, roared.
He looked around to find that he was no longer in his library.
Instead, he stood in a yellow room with strange and minimal furnishings. A hunting dog trotted over to him and put his paws on his knee, his tongue lolling out of his open mouth.
Henry stood frozen. His always-busy mind jerked to a halt.
What just happened?
Where in God’s name was he?
A half-naked woman with sandy-brown curly hair emerged from a side doorway, a glass of red wine in her hand, singing out in a high voice, “What’s the matter, buddy?”
Her generous thighs and shapely calves were on full display. Henry’s mouth fell open, staring at the wanton nymph.
In the next moment, her gaze fell on him. She jumped like a frightened cat and let out a deafening shriek that made him stumble back a step.
Then she threw the contents of her wineglass at him, soaking his face and white shirt.
“What are you doing here?” she screamed at him.
If you want to, share something of your own below…
Or tell us about what’s going on with you and your writing! Thanks so much for stopping by, and have a great rest of your week!
An excerpt from my women’s fiction WIP, Shades of Green. Thank you!
“Did you have children because Dad wanted them?”
What an idiot I am, asking questions I don’t want to hear the answers to.
“It was just what people did. They got engaged and had showers, and then they got married, and then they had children and had more showers. But after your brother died—”
“What?” Interrupting her had always been a cardinal sin. I’d had the inside of my lip cut by my teeth on more than one occasion because of it. Being slapped into silence was very effective.
All the times I’d talked to Ellie after she learned of her brother, Declan, I’d been guessing at my responses to her, using textbook ones because I couldn’t speak from experience. I wished I could remember what I’d said to her so I could know what to say now.
I didn’t have a brother.
https://www.lizflaherty.net/
Interesting. What a hook! Well done.
I loved the meet cute! 🙂 Nothing conveys the culture clash better than period-inappropriate clothing.
Here is my snippet (from my current WIP set in 1940s Eastern Europe), a tender moment between a resistance soldier and his sweetheart.
Scouring his mind for the pretty phrases he had prepared, all the “From the first moment I saw you…” and “You and you alone I will love on this earth…” felt like wrangling chickens before cooking Sunday stew. The closer he got, the more desperately they escaped.
“We have a priest in the camp,” he blurted out.
Haśka opened her mouth, then closed it. Then tilted her head as if looking at him for the first time.
“A priest?”
“He’s from Volhynia, on his way to Warsaw. He came in today, he’s leaving tomorrow night.”
Piotr realized how incomplete his message was, so he coughed into his shirt sleeve and started over. He gripped her hand, ignoring Mr. Voytovich, and knelt.
Haśka gasped.
“What?” Mr. Voytovich asked and the neighbor’s dog replied with a yap. And then all hell broke loose. One after another, all the dogs in Laszki joined the midnight concert.
Wojtek, who stood guard behind the treeline, cooed “Hoot-hoot-hoot” like an owl, their signal for retreat. Piotr was not going back into the woods without an answer. In all the commotion, his mind suddenly gained perfect clarity.
I love your metaphor of the chickens and stew! So perfectly describes that feeling lol
Prologue
“I’m going to jail,” Dan said to himself. He paced back and forth thinking of ways he could avoid this whole messy incident. “It was an accident,” he said aloud. But he knew that no one would believe him if they uncovered his involvement. Why did my pride get in the way? I should have walked away.
His breathing was labored and pain shot down his arm. Am I having a heart attack? Would serve me right. Dan continued home, gripping his arm. Heart attack or panic attack? He needed to get home and think. He was glad the family wouldn’t be home for another hour.
Up ahead, his home loomed in sight. His safe haven, his pride and joy. He sprinting the last block and came up the driveway and stopped. They were home. Now what?
I hope there is a back door! Great start.
Hello everyone. This is an excerpt from my novelette, Nadine. Thanks for reading.
“Hi Tim,” she said, holding out a delicate hand.
He shook it lightly, surprised at the slight tingling sensation passing between their hands, almost as if getting a small static discharge. Before he had time to comment, the Harley suddenly started up and roared to life. He glanced out the window and saw a big man with long graying hair straddling the bike. He was wearing a worn and ragged black T-shirt with cut-off sleeves, sporting the picture of a grinning skull floating above the convivial slogan of Death to Simplicity. He had a red bandana slung around his neck, and wore big black boots and leather pants of the same color.
“I´m sorry,” Nadine said. “Daddy just got that and he´s so proud of it.”
“Nice bike,” he said. “I had one of those too but then it was either keep the chopper or get a piano. So guess what I did?” He grinned a boyish smile.
“Good for you! At least music it more satisfying than the awful racket from that thing.” Another mischievous wink, another quick brush of the pink strands of hair, and as their eyes met Timothy realized he would have to be very careful not to lose his concentration while teaching her.
Hi Bryn (and Brynsiders)! My excerpt is from my fantasy WIP, about a team of monster hunters:
There were fewer monsters close to the Epicenter. They seemed to prefer the canyons farther from human civilization, which told us they didn’t rely on our flesh for food.
Which told us that when they did attack, it was pure malice.
“Follow me in,” Aquilo said. He stood at the edge of the drop off, staring down. “Find ground as quickly as you can once we’re through the fog. If you’re not within eyeshot of the group, stay still and light a flare. We’ll come to you. Ready?”
I felt more than heard our collective intake of breath. My hands were cold. In the canyon the fog swirled, forming weird faces that split into new ones before I could make them out. I’m not ready, I realized. I never was.
Aquilo’s shoulders swelled. He nodded, as if to himself.
And then he dove.
Before I could think better of it, I pushed my feet off the edge after him. I fell headfirst, close on his heels. Speed stole my air. My fingers itched to yank on my ripcord, but I balled my hands into fists. There would be no wings this time. No snap of unfurling, no sudden lift, no rise. Only the fall.
Oh call me Cliff-hanged!! Nice excerpt here.
Thank you for having these WIP Wednesday’s. It is appreciated. My first time on your site. This is an excerpt from my work in progress “Stolen Light” a historical fiction novel. Its main plot concerns a valuable 15th century artifact that is stolen after my protagonist flees from Nazi Germany to America with her husband.
Freiburg, Germany, May, 1933
Dearest Freda,
It has begun. Since his appointment in January, Chancellor Hitler has influenced von Hindenburg to enact new laws that will exclude Jews and political opponents of the Nazi Party. It has already been a month since Gustav was dismissed from his position at Freiburg University, and now even his goyim friends like Martin Heidegger have turned indifferent towards the Jewish professors. It has become dangerous to be a Jew in Freiburg. Einstein wrote to Max Born advising him to leave Germany with his family as soon as possible because the window for Jews to travel will soon close. He told Max that the Nazi’s ransacked his home confiscating all his belongings. He has publicly denounced the Hitler regime. Max asked us to come with him, but we refused. He is going to England, and we to the United States, to be with you, our family. Thank Ishak for sending the affidavits to the American Consulate. I will send you our travel arrangements once we book them. We will bring the artifact with us when we leave. You know the danger involved since the Nazi’s have been seizing Jewish properties of value. Our trust is in ‘El Roi’.
My love to you and Ishak,
Your loving sister,
Eva
Ooh! I want to read this. Good extract
I’d definitely read this story. Good hook. My interests are also currently in the WWII era.
The hair on the side of his head stirred as the arrow zinged past his ear and embedded into the tree with a loud thwack. His eyes widened as he turned to see the quivering shaft become still and the life blood of the tree ooze out of the hole to trickle down the bark. Heart racing, eyes shifting from side to side, he sought safety by crouching behind a thicket. He waited in the silence. With stealth and cunning, he crept from his hiding place toward the encampment of his enemy. He was almost there when he felt a deep, throbbing burn in his left shoulder. Screaming with rage, and pain, he fell into the circle of tents.
With a primal scream that receded to a whimper, she bolted upright, the images, sounds and smells of the site fading from her mind. Her eyes scoured the darkness for the enemy stalking her. Panting, sweat beading on her forehead, she lifted her hand to cover her mouth. No danger. Only her bedroom and familiar belongings. She pulled her knees up to her chest, put her head down, and sobbed.
The door banged open as her sister rushed into the room.
“What happened? Are you alright?”
Seeing her sister, Bella rushed to her side and took her in her arms. “Oh, Amy. Did you have another nightmare? I’m so sorry.”
Amy leaned on Bella’s shoulder and took a deep breath. “I don’t understand what’s happening. This is the third night terror this week. They’re all different, but I’m always a warrior and someone is trying to kill me.”
“Do you think maybe we should go to home and talk to Mom?”
“No,” exclaimed Amy pushing away from her sister! “No, I don’t want Mom or Dad to know about this. They’ve got enough going on with the dogs and the businesses. I’ll figure it out.” She lay back on her pillows and covered her face with her arm.
Bella frowned. She took her twin’s hand and rubbed it. “Okay, but I think we should talk to Mom. You haven’t been sleeping or eating. Your work is slumping and you’re really lousy company these days.”
Amy removed her arm and scowled at Bella then broke into a smile.
“Sorry about that. Guess I don’t feel much like dancing. I wish I knew what was causing the dreams. They are so real. I can see, smell, taste and feel everything that’s going on. It’s like I’m really there… in the middle of whatever’s happening. and I can’t escape.”
“I still think you should talk to someone. How about Aunt Cissy? She knows a lot about this kind of stuff. Maybe her?”
“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. She has a lot of weird friends that are into dream interpretation. Maybe she knows somebody.”
I should have mentioned this is an excerpt from the WIP of fifth novel in the Lake Scugog Mystery series, which can be found under my pen name – Maighread MacKay. My writing genre is Visionary Fiction. This is the first time on this site and I wanted to say thanks for allowing us to post our rough work here for feedback.
I love it, Margaret!
This is a selection from the rough draft of my novel, “Love at the Christmas Tree Farm”.
And as the snow continued to gently fall around them, A.J. felt a small, tender hand slip into his. He turned and gently looked into the eyes of the one who had truly stolen his heart. Actually, “stolen” wasn’t quite the right word, for how can one steal something that has been so freely given. “Walk with me?” he whispered, and as quiet as the falling snow, the young couple faded from the crowd and found themselves surrounded by a landscape of white. They walked in winter silence until they came to a quaint gazebo that served as the centerpiece of John’s Creek Park. Its snow-covered roof, outlined in a sea of twinkling white lights shimmered in the winter’s night sky. Under its magical glow, A.J. gently led Laura up the gazebo steps and onto the wooden floor. Off in the distance the sounds of celebration filled the air with voices singing and laughing; but there, together, beneath the vaulted gazebo ceiling the world around them seemed to disappear and all they could hear or see was each other.
Leaves me wanting more! That’s a good thing!
I’m having trouble leaving completed works that haven’t yet found a home and moving on to a new manuscript.
And last but not least…who is the dog? What a sweet and pensive face.
Thanks for the chance to share. This is from my Sci-fi/Crime Noir, “Another Rainy Night in Helcon City.”
The first thing I knew was the light touch of her warm fingers on my arm. Just for a second, I forgot the loneliness I’d felt every day for the last two months.
“Buy me a drink,” she said. “And then take me outside.”
Her voice was soft and musical, I turned. She was pretty too, with long golden hair, blue eyes you could get lost in and dressed to show off a few decent curves. Although the implication of her words was clear, what she was offering wasn’t for me.
I lifted my left hand. “Sorry sugar,” I said. “I’m flattered but I’m already taken.”
Which was a lie. Corla was gone and I hadn’t wanted to take the ring off. It all seemed so soon, so raw.
“You don’t understand,” she said. The soft voice was gone, replaced by urgency and fear. “There’s a man over there, dark suit, blue tie. He’s watching me. He’s been following me around for the last couple of days. He never speaks. It’s freaking me out. If I leave on my own,” the voice faltered for a second. “Well, I think he’s going to kill me.”
Have a great day,
Richard Dee
Here’s my extract. It’s the beginning of my historical novel, Wrath of an Anglo Saxon, and takes place as the Battle of Hastings is about to begin.
Durston stood with his shield locked with the ones on either side. A helmet covered his ash blond hair, and a breastplate made of hardened leather covered his torso.
He turned to the man on his left. “We’re in a better position. We should win this fight easily.”
Looking down the slope, he could see the Norman army gathering. There were many archers behind their infantry. He swallowed hard. The Anglo Saxon army did not have nearly as many. His legs felt weak and his hands shook. What if he were killed here? His son, just fourteen, would be the new theign. The lad did not have the experience to deal with the work.
‘Pull yourself together. Leola will help him. She’s competent.’ He smiled as he thought of his wife.
Taking a deep breath, he focused on the enemy.
His neighbour turned to him and grinned. “They won’t be able to use yonder horses against us. Shouldn’t be hard, this one. We’ve got the high ground. If we can kill that William the Bastard, they’ll run back to Normandy like rabbits before a fox. Should have this done by noon.”
I love historical novels!
I love this WIP blog idea, Bryn! What a brilliant idea. And I love your meet cute. I’m all in and I want more.
I’m not certain this is the right place to post, but here goes the prologue to my upcoming book, THE MURDER HOBBYIST:
PROLOGUE
My name is Frank Lazarus.
Some background…
I am seventy-eight years old. I grew up in West Philadelphia.
I spent fifty-three years in the life insurance and financial services industry, accumulating two ex-wives, three children, and five grandchildren.
Since retiring at the end of 2021, I became a self-published author. I have published six books to date, five in the Brown & McNeil Murder Mystery Series, and one more in what I have labeled Creative Non-Fiction. 103 First Dates:MisMatchDotCom and detailed my six years of dating from 2006 to 2013. It wasn’t pretty.
I was between books and thought I’d learned much about murder, investigations, policing, weaponry, etc.
Much to my surprise, OK, I can call it SHOCK, I decide to murder someone. Just like that, BOOM! I go into murder mode.
I can make it my second book in the Creative Non-Fiction genre and take my readers along for the ride.
One thing; you need to promise not to tell. I have no intention of getting caught. If you feel this is too much to ask, PLEASE STOP READING NOW!
If you’re still here, let’s begin the journey.
AUTHOR Website: http://www.FrankLazScribe.com
Interesting premise–I want to know more about this man and what happens to him. Just and FYI– a lot people don’t read prologues.
It surprises me that people don’t read prologues and epilogues. They’re missing part of the story 🙁 They’re usually short, too!
This is from a book I’m editing. It is the opening scene.
Callista woke with a start, a sob catching in her throat. “No,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Oh God, no.”
Her chest felt like a tone of rocks were sitting on top of her, holding her in place, unable to breathe. The dream was so real. And this time, the dream would affect her directly if it came true.
She threw the covers off and got up, the sweat from the dream leaving the thin ragged shift stuck to her, not hiding her thinness. Crossing her arms she stood at the window, staring out at the tree she could barely see in the darkness. The room was cold enough for her to see her breath, but she didn’t feel it, the dream repeating in her mind, showing every detail. Horror enveloped her, sending more tears down her cheeks.
What now?
She was scared. Really, really scared. This was a dream she hoped wouldn’t come true, but a nagging voice said she couldn’t stop what would happen. The clock in the living room began to chime. Five o’clock. Might as well get dressed and get to work.
She needed to come up with a way to keep him home. A sense of foreboding hit her. What if…?
No, she couldn’t think that. Not now. Not ever.
Jeff pulled out of the driveway and drove down the street. He side-glanced at his mirror, but LM was barely in sight. “Are you okay back there?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Oh, you’re just being very quiet.”
“Oh.”
Silence stretched out after that solitary “Oh”, like a plain runner carpet laid out on a nondescript floor.
Jeff left the silence alone until he reached a STOP sign. He stopped and waited for a scattered number of cars to go through the intersection. “Are you nervous about being in a car?”
“No.”
The traffic finally cleared. Jeff drove through the intersection.
“I used to be afraid of it.” LM said. “I didn’t like being stuck in such a small space with no way to escape. I didn’t like having no control over where I was going or how fast I was going. I also didn’t like going into busy places. I didn’t like crowds. I still don’t.” A small pause… “Capernaum helped me. I wouldn’t be in this car right now if it weren’t for him.” A longer pause. “I wouldn’t be here with you.”
Such a touching scene! It kind of reminds me of Driving Miss Daisy a teeny bit 🙂
Thank you! 💖 I can definitely see how it gave you that kind of vibe.
This is a section from Misfit’s Magic: Twisting In Time. I’m nearly finished writing it, and it feel so good to share even just a tidbit. Thanks for the opportunity, Bryn!
Young Goffren leaned out the ground-level window of castle Slaathwick to dump a wooden pale of dirty dishwater onto the cobblestones. No villagers were up to hear the splash or see the pale, scrappy, messy-haired boy who had caused it. But not being seen wasn’t unique to this hour of the day. In Slaathwick, Goffren was somewhat of a ghost, and he was determined to keep it that way.
He was dangerous.
The sky spreading wide above Castle Charmont twinkled with fading stars on one side and ever so faintly hinted of morning on the other. Goffren pressed his eye fixers—big glass disks held together with thick brass wires—over the bump of his nose to seat them neatly against his face as he gazed upon the pre-dawn beauty of the Upper Village at this hour. A gentle breeze scented with honeysuckle blossoms tussled his messy brown hair. He inhaled the sweet pre-dawn air deeply and smiled as he pushed his hair behind his ears. This was his favorite time of day; he was alone but not yet lonely.
No kind eyes to avoid.
No potential friends to dodge.
Fred, I love the descriptions. It would be hard not to be Goffern’s friend. I’d love to read more!
This sounds like an adventure is around the corner! Nice work pulling us into the period/world.
Oh my!! Haha I can’t wait to see how this pans out—also, I have one those dogs who just wants to be everybody’s friend and isn’t a very good guard dog 🤣 (we still love him)
This is from my WIP (I Never Told You), which is currently 2/3 of the way to a completed draft (I keep going back and making revisions, stalling my forward progress even though I’m writing/working on it almost everyday):
“Hey, Ell?” Willa says. “You got flowers.”
“What?” I carefully set the brush on my dresser and think of Wes, stirring up the sleeping butterflies in my stomach, but that couldn’t be.
“They were just dropped off.” Willa thumbs over her shoulder and heads back to the kitchen.
It takes me a second to follow, and it feels a whole lot like at prom when the DJ took song dedications and I so wished Wes would dedicate one to me. He didn’t. But we were only friends.
My stomach sinks when I see the giant arrangement of purple irises in a round, red vase. “They’re for me?”
She scoffs. “No. They’re from Austen Sheppard, professing his undying love for me.”
I don’t have to touch that little white envelope to know they’re from my ex-fiancé.
He bought irises every time he wanted to “make up” for one of his outbursts. Like the time he accused me of cheating on him and dented the wall beside my head with his fist. Or the time I had a headache, ruining his night with “our” friends, and his fury exploded in a cloud of sugar crystals and glass shards.
I hate irises.
Whoops. I did this on my phone and didn’t realize I didn’t reply to the main post. 😑🤦🏼♀️
Is your dog a Labrador? Our Maxie, a gorgeous Lab, wants to be everybody’s friend too.
BTW I think the ex-fiance should remain and ex!
He’s kind of a mutt! He looks like a golden doodle but with really short legs, but has none of that in him (We did the doggie DNA testing).
She’s right to beware of that guy! Great emotion from the butterflies to the fist in the wall.
I can’t wait to read this sequel, Bryn! Here is a snippet of a draft I’m working on about two mismatched people who fall in love… before it turns toxic.
There was “coming on strong” and then there was what Rocco was doing which was a thousand times stronger. Putting on a one-man show just for Jane, looking right at her as he sung, relishing in her attention. Jane watched him as though he were a celebrity from a faraway land, feeling her face get warm, heat traveling all the way through her body, captivating her. By the time the song ended, she was beaming and applauding. He looked the way Jane felt when she listened to music. It made her miss her younger days, before corporate America sucked the creativity out of her.
“I used to play guitar in college,” she said. “But then I discovered beer and forgot all the chords.”
His laugh was thunderous, much more grandiose than the joke called for, and it revealed a mouthful of crooked teeth. A charming flaw that proved he wasn’t some perfect man Jane dreamed up, but a real person. It validated his affections somehow. Jane was thrilled. She, predictable old Plain Jane, was the one who made the entertainer laugh. It was an intoxicating feeling.
My website is http://www.LauraBotten.com if anyone wants to learn more about my books!
I loved your dialogue: “But then I discovered beer and forgot all the chords” — so genuine!
A thought entered my head when answering a boring email, and so, I wrote this:
Jack’s nicotine-stained fingers danced over the keyboard, each keystroke landing with mechanical precision. His forefinger trembled as he pressed enter, and the screen froze for a heartbeat before flashing: “Build Successful.” A ragged breath escaped his lips.
“About bloody time,” he rasped, the words scratching through the stale air of the cramped flat. The faint glow of his monitors cast long shadows over the cluttered room, a labyrinth of discarded takeaway cartons, half-empty coffee mugs, and ash-filled trays. Jack Saunders slumped back in his recliner, its leather creaking under his weight. His chest heaved, the motion laboured, each breath scraping like sandpaper against his ribcage.
The glowing words on the screen blurred before his bloodshot hazel eyes, reddened by twenty sleepless hours. The air reeked of burnt circuits and stale smoke, an acrid cocktail that clung to his clothes and the peeling wallpaper. Jack’s lungs shuddered with the effort to inhale. He fumbled for his inhaler, hands shaking as he took a puff, the chemical sting a fleeting relief from the vice tightening inside him.
The diagnosis? He barely remembered the day. The doctor’s sterile office, the x-rays, the words “emphysema” and “COPD.” It hadn’t mattered. What mattered was this project—the AI code now humming inside his battered machine, alive with possibilities…
Thanks for this. Bryn, I loved her excerpt. Here’s mine from Murphy’s Laws, a romantic comedy beach read:
A shadow hovered over her phone. She blinked. Frowning she looked up to see the yoga instructor. His steel-gray eyes bore into her. He snatched the phone from her hand. She shivered as a spark of electricity skittered up her arm. She swallowed hard.
“What the…?”
The yoga instructor grabbed her phone? The tall, handsome yoga instructor? The one with broad shoulders? And loosely curled caramel-colored hair? She imagined if he’d ever smile, he’d probably have adorable laugh lines around his eyes. For a split second, she was lost in those penetrating eyes and those shoulders that were far too broad to belong to a yoga instructor.
Earth to Murphy. That, however, didn’t excuse him from stealing her phone. She glowered at him.
“What the hell are you doing?” The nerve of this man.
“Ma’am” —Ma’am? He called me ma’am?— “we’re in meditation. Silent meditation. Who are you talking to?” He nodded toward her phone.
“My client, as if it’s any of your business.” She held one hand out, the other on her hip as she waited for him to return her phone. Instead he raised it to his ear. What?
I can’t wait to read this one Bryn. If it is half as good as the first, I’ll blow through it.
Here’s an excerpt from my romance WIP “Come Sail Away.” Melissa has just returned from a dinner with the movie star she ran into while on a cruise with her best friend.
I pressed off the door and stepped into the main area of the stateroom.
“Welcome back.”
The unexpected voice made me jump back and fall against the small dresser at the foot of the bed. I’d assumed the soft light of the bedside lamps was from our turndown service, but I was wrong.
Delaney was sitting on the bed, cool as a cucumber, staring down at a very suspicious book in her hands.
“Good night?” she asked without looking up.
The nonchalance in her tone was comical. It was as clear as the water of the Caribbean that she was reading none of the words in front of her.
“Drop the act,” I told her. “You and I both know you aren’t reading.”
She turned a page without looking up. “Oh yeah?”
I nodded.
“And how would you know?”
I pointed to her book. “It’s upside down.”
Her eyes flicked up at me. She blinked a few times before looking down at her book to see that it was, in fact, upside down. Part of me wondered if she’d been pacing the room and only grabbed the novel when she heard the door. Actually, I could almost guarantee it.
Hi Bryn. Imagine the utter confusion of suddenly being transported to another time! Great emotion and reactions!
My excerpt is from The Weaver’s Mistake a sequel to my recently published YA Fantasy Moon in the Day Sky: Valley of Thunder.
(Red llamacorns are magic creatures. Zidon has been hired to kill one. The reward will buy the freedom of his people. He has just trapped a Red llamacorn who is fighting furiously.)
Zidon fumbled in his pack for his wolf-bone knife, hoping the tales of wolf power were true.
He looked in his hand but he didn’t grasp his knife. He held his flute. Zidon shook his head. He shoved his flute back in his pack and reached again for his knife.
The second time he could have sworn he had his knife, but again his flute came out of his pack.
“Do I need to reach a third time? No.”
He fingered his flute, put it to his lips, and began to play.
The Red llamacorn shuddered to a stop, still heaving with the recent exertion.
Playing the gentlest of melodies, Zidon began to move closer to his captive.
A strong odor of musk and sweat enveloped Zidon as he approached. The Red beast twitched nervously but refrained from battling with his ropes. Zidon noticed the raw skin on the tightly bound legs. The sharp front hooves remained locked in a scabbard of trickery.
Zidon remembered his family. A war welled up inside him. He could save this creature, but could he save his Clan if he did?
What a heavy choice! I really liked the way you wrote the struggle of the llamacorn. I’d be interested to read this
Hi Bryn, this is my excerpt from my current work in progress, Let Me Love You—
Turning her back to Blaque, Iris shed the once beautiful wedding dress that was now grayed and ripped and the tattered veil. It took everything in her not to cry at the ruined dress.
“He didn’t order that,” Blaque said.
Iris didn’t want to hear anything this woman had to say, but it unnerved her to know Blaque could read her mind even with their backs turned to each other.
The vile woman continued, “His lawyer arranges things like that – quick weddings and other borderline things to get women for his clients. Sharlie is going to expose them all soon.” Her chuckle was more to herself than for Iris’s amusement.
Pulling a warm sweater over her body and quickly putting on the wool socks, Iris asked, “You know Sharlie Costello?”