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. 

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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.