Book 2

Last month, I worked on writing the first book of a series that I've been playing with for some time. This month, I started writing the second book in the series. Here's how it starts:

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The tolling of the old temple bell was low and sonorous in the dim morning. Clouds obscured most of the pale dawn light, leaving the world below grey and dark as folk got out of bed and readied themselves for the day. Karia paused by a deep window, a narrow slit in the stone wall that let in the warm breeze from the distant forest. It smelled of growing things and damp earth. She breathed deeply, but knew that the morning routine wouldn't wait. With a sigh, she kept on along the corridor, past deep-set windows like narrow eyes in the stone.

As she entered the auditorium, the singing of the choir in the loft fell down upon her ears like snow, high and soft, echoing from one wall to another until it seemed that the music came from all around. She had never particularly liked the higher songs, but this was part of the rotation, and soon enough they would be back to the lower, quieter songs that Karia liked better.

Music From Both Sides of the Glass

This is an old piece, but it was a fun one to write. The challenge was to write a scene between two people, first from one side, then from the other, without making them identical. Here's the result. A little more risque than some of my writing, but still safe for work.

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Bryan's Version

It was my last night in the 'States. I knew that I probably wasn't going to see her again after we left. She may have been best friend to the new girl, but she'd told me herself that there was no chance at all of her leaving her home. I had no intention of leaving mine. Franci had dragged us all on her big show tour, but I was done with it. The 'States weren't anything special, and besides that, the food tasted funny. And yet I there I was, standing in front of her house and ready to walk through the door with a bouquet of roses. The door was unlocked, of course. We'd been staying there a week already, but tomorrow morning would see us on a plane across the Atlantic. No time for fun and games when you're puddle-jumping. Or so they'd have you believe.

Fanfiction for a friend

A friend of mine made the mistake last month of showing me a fanfiction scene she'd written as a warm-up for NaNoWriMo. I read the scene, and then the next day, I started sending her scenes for her fanfiction, because I enjoy messing with other people's characters. I realize there's no context for this scene here (and explaining would take too long) but I really enjoyed the character interactions here. What you need to know: 
- Rick is an ex-military bodyguard
- Mitchell is a telepath and a technopath
- Snart is a villain
- The girl on the bed is Skye Sperling, a distant relative of the Flash and similarly gifted
Enjoy. 
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The room was nearly silent around him, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and Skye's soft breathing. She was on her back, hands folded on her stomach, legs straight, hair arranged perfectly on the pillow around her face. She had been washed and treated. One leg was in a bulky temporary cast, and fading bruises colored the side of her face under the scrapes that were already healing pink and raw-looking under the thin scabs.

Snart sighed. To see her lying so completely still struck him as wrong. He was willing to bet that she moved even in her sleep.

"You should have kept running," he told her, breaking the silence without any real intention to say anything. "You would have been fine if you had kept running. I know it would have been close, but you would have made it. You always do."

NaNoWriMo Followup

There was a request for more from the book I was writing for NaNoWriMo. I haven't had a chance to do any revisions yet, but this is a snippet I was particularly proud of when I wrote it, an interaction between the main character and the Faerie queen.

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It was late afternoon before the storm finally blew itself out. Most of the trees fronting the east side of the clearing had fallen, while the ones on the west side were leaning toward the palace at various angles. The queen had seemed unsettled when Jyra confirmed Pawl's observations - the storm had been magic-sent. It hadn't been natural.

Reintroductions

This is a short character introduction I wrote a while back for a friend of mine. The story behind it is very long and somewhat tragic (though not in a traumatic death way). Someday, I might make this story into a book, but right now, I'm working on my Princess Elf story from last week. ;) 

Let me know what you think!
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Zaria's head was spinning. How could so much happen in only one day? Given, that day was her eighteenth birthday, but it still seemed beyond the realm of believability. Another distant cousin grasped her hand firmly and shook it, smiling brightly and offering her congratulations.

For what?! She longed to scream the words, but the world refused to hold still for long enough. What did I do? That seemed to be the question of the day (that had apparently already been answered twice without any real understanding on Zaria's part). What had she done to deserve the shock of a majority of her extended family showing up on her doorstep overnight? What had happened to merit the biggest birthday bash of her life with people she didn't know?

NaNoWriMo

This is an excerpt from the novel I'm writing for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). You can find me on nanowrimo.org under the name Eleanor Damaschke. :)This draft is the very first, and still rather rough, but I'm pleased with how it's turning out so far.

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In, 2, 3, 4, out, 2, 3, 4. The breathing helped. She didn't hear him coming, but then he was a master of woodcraft, and she was not. She Sensed him, though, and the approach of his intense life fire pulled her attention away from herself.

"Father," she greeted quietly, and opened her eyes. There is was, smiling faintly as he watched her. Of all the elves in the Queen's court, Jyra's favorite was her father. Even if he hadn't been her father, she thought he would have been her favorite. He was strong and skilled and brave, and he understood her. That was the important part.

Sherlock Earns a Beating

 I'm sure all of you have had that moment where you rediscover something (a book, a picture, a movie, a scrap of short story scribbled on your college history notes) that you re-experience and it's fantastic and you wonder why in the world you don't remember it and never did anything with it. I just did that with this little fanfiction snippet for BBC's Sherlock with a fem!Watson. 

Enjoy! I know I did. :D

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"I'm not entirely sure why you engage in this sort of self-punishment, Joan." He had appeared to be ignoring them for the most part, which Joan had been grateful for, until he decided to open his mouth. Joan Watson broke off the rather serious conversation she'd been having with her girlfriend to glare at her flatmate. Sherlock was in the kitchen, messing with his "chemistry set." Something about blood and ash. And heavens knew, Sherlock knew about ash.

Forgotten

Because amnesia is so much fun to play with, here's a little snippet for you where a young man isn't terribly brave about hurting a pretty girl's feelings. :) Enjoy. 

***

As darkness slowly gave way to soft lamplight, several things became apparent. First and most obviously, his head hurt. It buzzed and throbbed like someone had stuffed a nest of angry bees between his ears. Slowly, other things floated to the surface of his awareness. The thing he was lying on was soft and warm and dry. The ceiling above him was wood, not rock. The shape beside him was a person in a chair.

He blinked. The person in the chair was female, and watching him intently. She perched on the very edge of her seat, and though she was very still, something in her posture reminded him of a small dog, straining toward something it wanted very badly. He started to push himself up, prompted by an impression that it was rude to leave her waiting.

The Trunk

I've discovered recently (as have you, I bet) that my writing style tends toward the dark and discordant and emotional. In an effort to correct this course and lighten my writing, I have made a new reading list for myself that doesn't include quite so much dystopian fiction. This is my first attempt at something a little closer to the Young Adult Adventure stories that I want to write. 

Let me know what you think.

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She was probably right about it being a bad idea. She usually was. But bad idea or not, he really wanted to know, and this was the only way to find out. And that was the reason Pan found himself squashed into a corner, behind a dusty old couch and pretending he didn’t need to breathe at all - because if he started sneezing now, everything would be ruined.

The loveseat was practically an antique, and Pan suspected it hadn’t been moved from that spot since it had first been brought into existence by whatever colorblind personage had decided it was a good idea to make such a terrible thing. The rug under the loveseat was half scratchy wool and half dust, and it was hard to tell which was which.

Nameless Creation

I craved something positive (or at least somewhat less depressing) than other things I've been writing recently, so I wrote this, based on a piece sent to me by a friend. I think just about the only holdover is the main character - a thing that used to be something else, a thing that doesn't know what it is, and has a world to discover.

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Cool water. A chill breeze. Whispers.

“Well formed.” Husky and rough, like gravel. A rustle, as of leaves or sand, rubbing softly.

“Yes, yes.” Quick and breathy, cousin to the wind.

“Good legs,” said the gravel.

“Yes, yes!” agreed with wind.

“The face… is the hardest part.” Another rustle, the gravel-voice moving closer. “Open your eyes.” An order.

Her eyes opened. Brilliant silver pinpricks above her outlined huge ebony shadows, looming and towering, but ever so much closer than the lights. The lights enchanted her, seeming to flicker and twinkle if she looked straight at them.

Suicide Note

Apparently, my work friend really likes writing prompts that are just a little bit morbid. So, here's another one she sent me not too long ago:

You find your own suicide note.

It is unmistakably in your own handwriting,

it is stained with what can only be blood,

and it is dated 3 days ago.

Then she had the audacity to write something based on her own prompt - and then I couldn't help myself. The story just sort of came into being without my permission. Here it is... well, part of it anyway:

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“Hold on, I had it right here.”

“Sure.”

“Seriously.”

“You know, if you’d organize your - “

“It’s an organized mess, thank you very much.”

Papers started spilling off the desk onto the cluttered floor. Cleaning up was futile. Marie knew. She’d tried. It only took about a day or so before, once again, the place looked like it had been bombed. Or invaded by toddlers.

“Are you absolutely sure you had it here?”

“I swear it was here . . . I guess I could check the living room.” She dropped the stack of papers carelessly onto the desk and darted out the door into the hall.

Stolen Flowers

A friend of mine at work has been sending me story prompts that have been simmering in my brain while I sit quietly at my desk and try not to explode. Here's one of them: 

Every single day, a young man would steal flowers from an elderly woman's garden on the way to see his fiance. 

After a month of this happening, the elderly woman caught him and told him that he can continue to pick her flowers, but only if he showed her that his fiance was not only pretty enough to warrant flower theft, but that they were truly happy with each other.

As they walked together, the elderly woman rambled on about true love and how precious it was. However, the young man wasn't listening. He kept trying to figure out a way to break it to her that they were on the way to the cemetery. 

So, here's what came out of it: 

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Loose grit crunched like snow under his boots as he approached the garden. Gnarled branches twisted through the air like snakes frozen in the act of striking, withered and mottled with moss by the ages that drifted slowly by. A huge rose bush rambled aimlessly against the fence, making an almost impenetrable barrier - almost, but not quite.

Hal glanced around quickly, then grinned to himself as he pushed one of the fence slats. It swung up and out on its rusty nail, parting the thorny creepers and holding them at bay as he slipped through, just out of reach of sharp, grabbing twigs.

A neglected air pervaded the fenced yard, scraggly bushes boasting an overabundance of flowers while weeds riddled the bleached bark mulch below. A bed of huge, colorful daffodils rioted in the corner with tulips and lilies of the valley, tangled with dandelions and queen anne’s lace and thistle. Opposite the daffodils a raised bed seemed to be collapsing under a profusion of strawberry plants, spilling over the edges like wine from a drunkard’s cup.

Happy Ending

So, after dragging you guys along for several weeks, here's the happy ending I had to write for the "Election Day" story. I wanted to write more in the in-between parts, but somehow, every time I tried to start a scene at a different point in time, it petered out very quickly, and I couldn't make it go anywhere. So, following my own advice about "not forcing it," I wrote this scene instead. I found it satisfying, even if I don't think it lives up to the potential the concept had to begin with.

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Soft jazz music played in the background, almost covered by the soft conversational voices and clinking of silverware against glittering china plates. Alice glanced across the table at her husband and felt her heart do that funny fluttering thing that her mother told her meant she was still in love. Philip was dressed in his best grey suit, with a cream shirt and a dark green tie. He caught her eye and smiled in that way of his that said “you’re beautiful” without him needing to speak the words out loud.

Alice’s gaze shifted down to her plate and heat flushed from her neck up to her cheeks, even as she smiled. She’d dreamed about this for so many weeks… and now it was really happening. Thanks to her parents’ patience and a generous donation from Philip’s brother, they were actually having a nice evening together.

Hospital Stay

Here's more of the Election Day story, Parts 4 & 5 just for you. :)
I was playing with the idea of "off-screen conflict," which you might see hints of in Alice's interactions with Tammy, but I didn't delve into it enough, I think. 
---

A second had contained too much. A second had lasted longer than any hour before it.

Four hours was an eternity.

Philip was in surgery for four hours. The nurse explained that one of his ribs had splintered, piercing his bladder and threatening to do the same to other essential organs. It wasn’t his only injury, but it was the one they were treating immediately, because it was the most life-threatening. At the end of the interminable four-hour wait, Philip was drugged to his eyeballs to keep him asleep, and wouldn’t have known if a freight train had gone through his hospital room, let alone his wife.

Wedding Accident

Here's Parts 2 & 3 of the story I started last week, titled "Election Day." There are more parts after this one. I hope you enjoy them. :) 

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The ceremony was a quiet affair. Alice’s parents came, and one of Philip’s brothers. A couple cousins from both sides loitered in the background, waiting until food would be served. There were still hints of sadness in the way Philip smiled at her, and when he said “I do,” it was with such conviction that it brought tears to Alice’s eyes. In sickness and in health, in summer and in winter, in wealth and in poverty, forevermore as long as she will have me, until death do us part, and beyond, by God’s grace. The ring was cool on her finger, but his lips were warm as he bent to obey the preacher’s suggestion to kiss the bride.

Election Day

There's a lot more to this story, and I'll post the next section next week. We promises, Precious. Yes, we promises. Gollum.

---

“Alice, I have some… bad news.” The man had the haggard look of one who hasn’t been able to sleep well for a long time. Too many meetings, too much stress and strain - and Alice was willing to bet that he hadn’t been eating at nights when they were apart, either. He had put far too much into this campaign.

Gently, she touched his hand, wishing there was something more she could do to comfort him. “I know. We lost the election. But it’ll be alright, Philip. It’s not the end of the world.” She gave him a smile, but felt it fade a little when he looked away, ashamed expression on his face.

Fur Princess

 There were two ideas behind this one - the first was the idea of a woman who loved fur and the feeling of it. The second was the idea of a man changed by war. 

This is what came out.

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There was something about the feeling of fur that was comforting. She ran her fingers through it, watching the coarser outer coat separate from the shorter, slick undercoat. Each hair was dazzlingly defined in the sunlight. It was just a sliver, peeking through the heavy curtains at them. Beside her, Kamon breathed heavily, deep in an exhausted sleep, as he had been since he returned from the night’s meetings. Today, at least, he would be allowed to sleep in. Nicole smiled to herself. She had ensured it would be so. A princess has leverage.

"I am not your Mother."

“I am not your mother.”

The tone of her words was confusing to Anne. Regret and relief mixed together like they could never really be separate. Coffee and cream, like she used to say. Anne shifted in her seat, listening to the angry shouting outside, the mob that drove them into hiding, that was out for their blood. When she said nothing, the woman who had pretended to be her mother spoke again, and the girl had a feeling that she didn’t like the silence.

“Edith Noone died when you were a baby. My name is Karen Miller. I took Edith’s place because the Organization needed someone to look after you until you were old enough to go into training.”

Baby Thoughts

I tried something new with this one. Writing from the perspective of a character that knows nothing, that doesn't think in full thoughts and doesn't even use words - it's a challenge. I think I have a start on how to handle it, but I'm not entirely pleased with the result. I may rewrite this another time.

Let me know what you think.

***

Muffled voices. The voices were Outside. Inside was Hot and Tight and Hungry. She wanted Out. Pushing, scratching, wiggling, biting - the Hard cracked, and there was Light. Light and Cold. She panted, resting a moment as she looked at the Light and felt the Cold. The Hard was still in the way. Stopping her from getting to the Out. Out where the voices were. More pushing, more wiggling, more scratching. The Hard snapped under her soft claws and she wobbled, spilling out of the Hard into the Light and Cold.

Brenda and Jackson

I've been writing this one for a coworker for a couple weeks now, one piece at a time. Not as fractured as the one from last week, and with a better idea of where I'm going with it. Well, sort of.

The character of Brenda is better developed, anyway. :)

Let me know what you think.

***

Wafting tendrils of sweet steam played tricks on her eyes, forming faces and figures, beckoning to her. The hiss of the kettle as it cooled seemed to whisper warnings to her, and if she could just hear them…

“Bren? You alright?”

A Trip to the Beach

This is something that popped into my head the other day and kept growing. No idea where it's going, or when the rowers might stop rowing... sorry.

Point is, here's a bit of randomness. Let me know if there's anything in here worth saving.

***

Sun streamed through the window, bathing the thick rug in warmth. It was tempting - oh so tempting - to go just stretch out and lay in it, let the summer soak into her fur. Irene sighed longingly, then turned her attention back to the laptop sitting on her desk, mocking her with blank green.

Green, so she could think about the ocean.