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Joined: 6/18/2012
Posts: 228
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This is the thread for The Summer Writer's Club excerpts.
If
you've joined us in a writing commitment of 500 (or 250) words each day,
this is the spot to share excerpts from your work-in-progress.
Together, we'll celebrate when we
hit our goal of 53,000 words on September 2.
There's also a thread where you can share your daily progress and a hangout.
Want to learn more? Here are all of the details: http://www.bookcountry.com/Industry/Article.aspx?articleId=141661.
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Joined: 5/13/2013
Posts: 8
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This is great, Brandi! Thank you! Can't wait to read some work by members of the Club! Here we go folks!
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Joined: 5/15/2013
Posts: 10
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As I'm editing, these aren't words I wrote today (although I did edit them slightly yesterday), but this is the opening of my novel. Any of you intrigued? 
Luke lingered on the sidewalk peering at his house. The well-kept suburban home didn't look haunted. It hunkered down between the abandoned dwellings along the street, exuding the last drops of the American dream. But the two-toned bricks sheltered dead memories.
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Joined: 6/7/2011
Posts: 467
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Sagana. Some elegant phrases, to be sure, but my first impression is that it seems a little too 'on the nose.' A haunted house. Okay. It's such a familiar trope that we all carry a full boatload of associations from the get-go. There's nothing wrong with playing with those associations (in fact, I think it essential that you bring something new to the table.) but the opening might be more effective if you can get the reader to go along with you into the story (or the house) without using the word haunted, and let us find out for ourselves exactly what that means in this particular case.
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Joined: 5/15/2013
Posts: 10
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Yeah, it isn't exactly a haunted house... This is the pitch, although I'm not sure it really helps with that particular issue:
With his marriage in tatters, a haunted man teams up with a street-urchin psychopomp to bind the ghosts infecting post-apocalyptic America.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting. It's really helpful to me to get feedback on what kind of impressions I'm sending out. If readers stop right away because a haunted house has been done so much... I will have to come up with something else. Maybe the first chapter will improve when the novel is actually done.
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Joined: 5/12/2011
Posts: 240
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Snippet from today (not the beginning of the story):
She didn’t know where the dining hall was, but she could not bear the thought of eating. Mama had told her that Mrs. Banks no longer needed a maid and so Lizzie would have to stay here in this cold, strange place with the women in black, until Mama could find another job.
But as terrible as the story was, the truth was worse. And Lizzie knew the truth. She had been just about to announce herself to Mama—to ask if she might walk to the park for an hour—when Mr. Landrieu had appeared. She had hidden behind some draperies and watched it all. She had heard Mr. Landrieu’s proposal to her mother. She had seen the dazzling bracelet.
Mama was never coming back. Not ever. Mr. Landrieu was going to make her a countess, and Lizzie could offer Mama nothing to compete with that. So she had pretended to believe Mama’s story. She had not cried when Mama left.
But now a cold, hard emptiness took hold of Lizzie’s chest and the pain of it sent tears stinging her eyes.
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Joined: 5/13/2013
Posts: 6
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Start of today’s 250(ish) word story.
The coyote tore through Whitfield’s garden, the sheepdog nipping its tail. It dug its paws deep into the soil, flung it back at the dog’s face.
Old Whitfield hobbled out from the garage, brandished a rake. “Sic ’im, Butch! Get ’im this time!”
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Joined: 2/22/2013
Posts: 1
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This is a really, really rough draft from my historical romance, set in the late 1800's in Russia.
The young man took a deep breath, and tapped his foot impatiently. “Door, must get to stage. Otez will..” He struggled to find the correct word, “not happy.”
Hannah smiled, and pulled one of the pins from her hair, went over to the door, and jimmied it around in the lock, and she heard the subtle snap as the door unlatched. He beamed at her, “Horosho!” He made one last adjustment in his hat, and went over to her, reached for her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it.
She couldn’t help it, she melted as she felt the light brush of his whiskers upon her skin. Hannah took her hand from his and stroked his face. Her governess warned her of the dangers of White Nights in St. Petersburg, many people swore it made them crazy. Hannah impulsively grabbed him, and lifted herself on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. She blushed at her boldness, and she sighed, “Horosho?”
He grinned wickedly, “Nyet. Eta horosho.” He wrapped his arms around, pressing Hannah tightly to his firm body, he pressed his mouth to hers, his tongue demanding entry, and she allowed it. Hannah's thoughts repeated over and over My Mother would be most displeased with my behavior, but I just don’t care right now. Moaning, he sank deeper into her, and she could feel his hand start to dance around her bodice, teasing gently. She found herself lost within him, smelling the subtle smell of sandalwood from his aftershave. Then it was over and he dashed in the door.
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Joined: 6/18/2012
Posts: 228
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I love all of these snippets. It's amazing what you can do with 500 words.
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Joined: 5/12/2011
Posts: 240
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A few of today's words:
Lizzie hated sewing, but she loved to hear the Lives of the Saints, as read by Sister Cecilia. True, there were times when the pretty girl—she couldn’t have been more than 16, Lizzie had decided—would stumble over some words, pause, then seem to begin again from her own imagination, rather than the book. But those were the very times when the book was best. For example, right at the moment when Saint Faith was about to be stripped naked and tortured, the most beautiful angel appeared, struck the jailor with a heavenly paralysis and took Saint Faith’s hand, flying her up through the sky and out of the city, to a friendly village where she married a handsome farmer’s son and they lived together happily into old age, grandchildren surrounding their death beds.
Lizzie could tell that Sister Cecilia didn’t want them to know what the book really said. But, though she was curious about what had actually happened to Saint Faith, she bet that Sister Cecilia’s stories were better.
It was after Sister Cecilia had been unable to lead the sewing and singing for the third morning, that Lizzie began to worry. The sister who had taken her place told them Sister Cecilia had caught a cold and would return soon. But two weeks later, Sister Cecilia was still not back and Lizzie was aghast to learn that Saint Faith had died a horrible death, roasted alive over hot coals by men who smiled to hear her shrieks of pain.
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Joined: 6/7/2011
Posts: 467
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Nice, Lily. (I'm an old fan of hagiographic horror stories.) I like 'heavenly paralysis.'
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Joined: 6/7/2011
Posts: 467
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Here's a bit of today's accomplishment:
Ahead, under the droop of a salix tree, there stood a rough-hewn wooden post. It was taller than Scylla, though not quite as tall as the priestess. A cross-beam bisected it at shoulder height making crude arms. As they moved closer, they could see wild eyes in ochre pigment ringed by smudged black: a red mouth showing bared stone teeth; high scraped cheekbones; a dark oppressive brow. The priestess walked up to the statue and looked it full in the eye. “This is the place.”
Scylla stared. The head of the icon was draped with the cast-off skins of snakes. They hung still and stiff in the unmoving air.
“Where?”
The priestess pointed with her staff again. “The sanctuary of the The Lady of the Snares.”
“Snares?”
“Traps. Tangles. That’s what She’s called in these parts. Do you know the verse Her blood would stain the sands? No?” She raised her free hand and pitched her voice lower: “Her blood would stain the sands. The wind would rise inside her. Her voice would rend the darkness. Her hands claw down the sky…” She dropped her hand and smiled again. “Anyway, this is Her temple on Ios.”
Scylla searched. There was nothing but trees and rocks.
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Joined: 5/12/2011
Posts: 240
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Clearly, you do like some bloody religious horror, as demonstrated in your intriguing excerpt today!
"Funny" story--I read a picturebook version of the martyrdom of St. Faith when I found it in my Catholic school library in the second grade.
My parents were aghast--extra aghast because they weren't actually Catholic themselves and had no experience of such traditions.
A PICTURE book. To be stumbled upon by unsuspecting primary students. That's even worse than just reading aloud from some lives of the saints collection.
Truth: stranger than fiction.
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Joined: 6/7/2011
Posts: 467
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I think I've seen a book like that once: line-drawings of smiling saints blithely holding bowls full of their own eviscerations or dismembered parts. It seemed less about inspiring reverence and more about a kind of religious sensationalism.
Really, I see the ads for modern horror movies (which I personally can't watch) and think the human psyche hasn't really changed all that much over the centuries.
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Joined: 5/16/2013
Posts: 16
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Opening two paragraphs:
I smashed the ghoul in the face with my entrenching tool. The soft tissue on his skull caved in and the decaying brown flesh wrapped around the cold black steel like warm jelly over a spoon. As I yanked it back, the serrated edge tore gaping wounds across the ghoul’s forehead. Blood bubbled out of its mouth like thick, rancid, tar. The stench of the blood filled the hotel room as if a teargas grenade had exploded. Salty tears erupted from my eyes and I wanted to gag. It smelled like an open grave filled with rotting corpses beneath a hot sun. I had killed ghouls before, but not one in such a ragged state.
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Joined: 5/13/2013
Posts: 6
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Words 1-67 of 250:
“The Destroyer is nigh! He approaches!” At the junction of First and Main, The Harbinger rang his handbell, announcing Wolfe City’s doom. “Leave now if you’d live. No mercy awaits.”
“Look at him out there,” Clara said to Dolly in her lap. “Hasn’t been payin’ attention to his surroundings, has he?” She peered through the paneless window frame of a firebombed nail salon.
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Joined: 5/22/2013
Posts: 1
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My beginning (I think):
It was late when my mother parked the truck next to the curb in front of our old house. She turned off the radio just as Rockwell started to sing “Somebody’s Watching Me" and told me to get the gate.
I got out rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I went. We’d driven the 2,300 miles between Chicago and Las Vegas in a little over three days, each of us driving. Mom speeding, gunning the box truck, weaving between cars coming so close I started to wonder if she was playing chicken with herself. I drove the speed limit, white knuckled, the radio off so I could focus on the road, terrified I’d wreck us on some dark, lonely interstate while she slept. We’d end up sprawled face down on the road, clothes torn, bra straps showing, and our panties strewn across the asphalt for the world to see. She’d hate that, for someone to be able to see our unmentionables.
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Joined: 5/21/2013
Posts: 12
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This is what I wrote the first day:
The boy watches his mother wither away in her bed. Her body has deteriorated, shedding away the round and rosy flesh that was as smooth as buttermilk. Now it stretches taut across her bones like a suit. Sunken eyes and sunken cheeks stare up at the ceiling from a sunken face, and she is so small, small like a baby bird nestled in the sheets. She does not look over at the boy.
The boy sits in a straight-backed chair right next to the bed. His feet dangle. A book is resting on his lap, and he waits for a sign that his mother is listening, that she knows he is there. But she continues to look up and away from him.
Before his mother was confined to her bed, when she could walk and smile and laugh and cry, the boy’s mother would read to him. She would sit Indian style on his bed, one of her cotton dresses draped over her knees, and the boy would squeeze into the empty space between her crossed legs. She’d hold the book in front of the two of them and he would turn the pages. His mother’s voice was like a glass of water, cool and refreshing and smooth. Sometimes, she’d rest her chin on the boy’s shoulder, her mouth pressed to his ear as she played around with different voices for different characters. Her breath tickled the shell of his ear and he would giggle and turn his head into her soft arm. He’s never felt more happy and safe than when he was with her reading.
But his mother hasn’t read to him in a long time.
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Joined: 5/13/2013
Posts: 2
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Sam asked for first lines in the Facebook Group, so here's mine as it currently stands:
Alexandria's eternal flame stood four hundred feet above the sea, calling across the world’s dark waters.
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Joined: 5/23/2013
Posts: 1
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Rough excerpt from somewhere in the middle. Haven't figured out the character's name yet. Soon?! This is from day three.
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Let’s be real, as a fuck, I may be a novelty. I’m not skinny. I’m the antithesis of that. I’ve only had a guy once tell me that they’ve fetishized the idea of my body type, but I’m sure he’s not the only one. I’m round, have two very large breasts (size 42DDD for this who want to know) and hips that roll and shake and quiver at a man’s touch. I respond with smiles and sighs and moans. I am flexible enough for someone to fold me in half when they want to and risky enough to do things in public. My thighs clap together when I walk and rub under my clothes when I sit. My ass is turning into a shelf and I, thanks to polycystic ovary syndrome, only ovulate a few times a year. This means I am almost unable to get pregnant. I’m a novelty fuck. I am getting to the point where I almost pride myself on it. Each man in between my thighs is another number I can chalk off.
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Joined: 5/15/2013
Posts: 10
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These are the first lines of the two flash stories I'm working on right now. I'd posted the first three lines of the novel I'm editing earlier, but I had written that before we started
Story 1: There were only three left now, three luminescent stones.
and Story 2: I watched Duke watching the child.
These are meant to be flash or if I have trouble with that (I'm long-winded) at least reasonable short stories.
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Joined: 5/16/2013
Posts: 16
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Start of chapter 18:
Hundreds of comets shot across my vision; with each pass I felt their hot, serrated tails rake across the soft flesh of my corneas. I wiped the trails of moisture from my eyes with my hands and expected to see blood when I looked at my palm. No blood.
Last Paragraph:
We hung up at the same time, just as the doors were closing; I stuck my arm in and stopped them. I stuck the phone back in my pocket and entered the elevator. The gargoyle was still on her new perch. “I hate cell phones.” She winked. My head snapped back and the elevator doors closed.
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Joined: 8/13/2011
Posts: 272
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“What's his name?”
“I have no idea.” Angela turned to her little friend. “What's
your name, huh?” It considered her finger with interest, but made
no effort to answer her question.
“Snitchly!” Shyana said excitedly, “You should call him
Snitchly.”
“You want to call the golden snitch I pinched Snitchly?” Angela
asked archly. “Sure, why not? It's not like I've got a better name
for him.”
“Excellent!” Shyana extended a finger to Snitchly, who hopped
onto it, fanning his wings. “So Snitchly huh? Snitchly Von
Snitchingson?”
And the opening:
“Please tell me that's not really your closet,” Angela said, desperation escaping into her voice.
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Joined: 6/18/2012
Posts: 228
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Gulp, here we go. The first 150 words of my contemporary romance (unedited):
Leila woke sitting up in her bed, the coverlet crumpled in a ball at her feet. She looked around. Her room was blurry and still dark. She reached for her glasses on the nightstand, missed, knocked her phone onto the hardwood floor instead. It landed with a bang she hoped wouldn’t wake her guests. She felt again for the cateye frames – this time successful – but she grabbed them too tightly and could feel the alignment pop as she brought them to her face. Great, she thought, now they’ll be crooked until I make it to Dr. Richards.
She looked at the clock. 2:49. Leila groaned and then she heard it again. A buzzing sound, loud, in the backyard. She swung her feet to the floor, causing the orange tabby sleeping on them to jump and meow at Leila.
“If you were a dog, you’d be helping instead of complaining,” Leila said to the cat.
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Joined: 5/16/2013
Posts: 16
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This is the last two paragraphs of what I completed today.
The instant my head cleared the second level, the next levels lights blasted on; incandescent bulbs, the kind used as pot lights in huge spaces, threw bright, white, light over the massive pit. The wabbit pounded on the back of eyes. I spun around and around, my fingers gripped the fencing as I turned. Rancor and corruption, fetid odors, offal and waste assaulted my nose, bodies laid in pools of black, rotten excrement and the leakage of decomposition. Voices chortled and groaned in a dirge of unrelenting torment. Huddled, broken shapes, awoken by the insanely bright lights, clawed at the air, or turned to the elevator. My stomach twisted like a knotted kitchen rag; the taste of aspirin rippled across my tongue, my eyes watered, and my nose ran; snot mixed the salt of my tears as shock and revulsion tore at me. I squeezed my eyes closed and held the sight back as I fell to the floor so I could not see; placed my hands over my ears so they couldn’t hear; and held my breath so I wouldn’t smell. The elevator doors opened.
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Joined: 5/13/2013
Posts: 6
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Fifth flash story of the week begins like this:
The Meyers Brothers Bakery had been an elementary school field-trip favorite for what seemed forever. Every year, dozens of fourth graders made the trip to see “How Sandwich Dreams Are Made.” Detective Ed Collins still remembered the tour he’d had as a nine-year-old. The mixing room had captivated his interest then. It did so now, thirty years later. Of course, this was strictly off-tour stuff.
Then, “Don’t touch” and “Keep your farkakte mitts away from the equipment” were the watchwords of the day. Someone hadn’t listened. How else do you explain graveyard shift supervisor Emil Greene winding up dead inside a 50-gallon mixing bowl?
“Murder,” Collins said.
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Joined: 6/7/2011
Posts: 467
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"I think someone got a little mixed up."
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Joined: 5/13/2013
Posts: 8
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Here's the opening to the short story I am working on:
He had passed by it many times over the years. Hundreds and hundreds of times, to and from work at the factory. Yet he had never noticed it, until now. It was after midnight, and Tom was returning home on the 20-mile stretch from the factory to his apartment, driving down a remote stretch of County Highway X. And then the headlights reflected on it, for just a brief moment. It was a small white cross, hidden in the thistle along the side of the road. “That's strange," he thought. "Why have I never seen that before?"
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Joined: 4/24/2013
Posts: 45
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I'll brave this thread. Start of my Summer Writing project.
“Run Etta! Take the tachi and flee… I’m right behind you,” Henry yelled and he threw the sword towards his twin sister. Henrietta grasped the handle of the heirloom, snatching it from the air like a hawk seizing a sparrow mid-flight. She swiveled on the balls of her feet with practiced ease and dashed towards the trees. Sounds of battle seemed to rush up behind her. Henrietta glanced over her shoulder and saw Henry fighting off three bandits .The smoke of their home burning drifted up against the twilight sky, the dark clouds of fire an omen of a bleak and ruined future. Henry’s fighting always mesmerized her, his motions lithe and graceful; so much like their father’s used to be. Before she turned back around to mind her footing, Henrietta saw her twin pivot, and in one fluid move slash open the throat of one of the bandits. She pondered turning back to help him, but new commotion drew her attention and she saw more bandits come forth, two of them running towards her. Henrietta pushed harder, straining the muscles in her legs to the limits. She was glad for all the drills their father put them through, and they kept on doing after he had passed away. Thus her breathing was steady, following the rhythm of her running steps but her heart hammered wildly from the fear for her own and her brother’s life. She rushed past the tree line, spooking a rabbit as she burst through the undergrowth and into the forest. The air felt like a rushing breeze on her face.
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Joined: 5/13/2013
Posts: 3
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Here's the opening of what I'm working on. It's the story of a woman who was abused by her mom's husband when she was in middle school. She now "traps" predators by pretending to be a damsel in distress, flipping the stereotype of the frail Asian female.
In this story, she by chance ends up being picked up by her mother's ex-husband, and finally has the chance to exact revenge. I'm playing around with verb tense to try to telegraph this to the reader. I want to try to talk about the abuse without actually describing it:
Gray lines of grit ran under his fingernails, they disgust her. She catches a glimpse of them, the shortest glimpse, but the image of them is already seared into her mind. --------
She was stumbling down the block, a broken strap on her disintegrating sandals. Her arms windmilled until one of her palms found purchase, felt the concrete bite into her skin.
“Miss...”
His voice rained nettles down her back; she had to catch her breath. The tenor of his voice almost blended in perfectly with the sound of his enging idling, but still, she heard it.
“Are you all right?”
The first thing she saw was his car, the door of an 80’s-era Buick, silver-gray like so many others. Then, through the window, his eyes that were empty buckets, faded blue. Flecks of gold on the edges. Stripes of black. One shaped like a V.
“I’m fine,” she said. And went to stand back up when her ankle wobbled and she went down again.
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Joined: 5/12/2011
Posts: 240
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Final paragraph of the story completed today (at least in the first draft):
Jack be nimble, Lizzie thought. Jack be quick… She slipped out the kitchen door of the orphanage and into the alley behind the building. Sister Cecilia’s books were bundled in her nightdress. She wore a pair of trousers and a shirt she had stolen from the boy who slept behind the kitchen and stoked the stoves. Her curls were on the pantry floor and the knife she had used to cut them off was hiding in her left boot.
Mama was never coming back. Sister Cecilia was with the Blessed Mother. Lizzie did not want to learn the Catechism. She wanted to be free.
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Joined: 5/21/2013
Posts: 12
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Here's the bit I wrote today. Just a scene, unrelated to my last excerpt, but I'm still trying to figure out the story.
There’s a window above the sink in the kitchen, giving a beautiful view of the lake and sunshine to whoever is residing over the sink. I was washing the dishes when I decided to glance outside. In a flash, I had dropped the dish I was holding into the soapy water and blew out the kitchen door, soap suds trailing from my hands.
“Josh!” I screamed. But whether he didn’t hear me or he just chose to ignore me, I watched as my brother continued to slowly roll down the embankment towards the lake. He showed no signs of stopping.
“Josh!” I shouted again. “Josh, stop!” My heart was in my throat as I pounded down the dirt path, and then, as if by some miracle, I noticed Josh’s descent towards the water start to slow. It was enough that I was able to catch up with him, and I gripped the handles of his wheelchair and yanked back with more force than necessary. It truly was a miracle that I had made it, because it wasn’t Josh’s doing that he slowed down; the wheels got caught in the mud. If it wasn’t for that, Josh would’ve rolled right into the lake, and I wouldn’t have been able to make it to him in time. The realization made me livid.
“Josh. Look at me.” When he showed no signs of doing so, I stepped in front of him and bent over to his eye level. “I’m serious, Josh. Look at me.” He raised his eyes to mine, brown eyes that were darker than the mud on his wheels. He didn’t seem to be listening, but I didn’t care. This was something I was going to make sure he heard.
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Joined: 10/20/2011
Posts: 350
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From what I wrote yesterday:
After the meal, she escaped outside. Humidity choked the air and she heard the buzz of mosquitoes. She didn’t care if she was bit as she could not stay in the house. Not with the tension under that roof. The stars were all she needed this night as she sat on a bale of hay. Lightning bugs flashed in the darkness, like stars floating on the ground.
New England’s troubles. Her father had called them that when everything started to heat up back in 1774. When the hotheaded Sons of Liberty dumped the tea in Boston Harbor, Pieter had shaken his head and said Boston was going to rue their actions. Instead, all the colonies were ruing them. Were other families facing the same problems as hers?
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Joined: 2/26/2013
Posts: 2
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From "Beyond Belief" - entire chapter found at kellyduffwrites.com/beyond-belief/ - I didn't want to take up a whole page 
Maddy stepped out the front door of her building with a small bouquet of flowers in her hand, putting her sunglasses on. The weather could not have been more beautiful. The midmorning sun was warm and bright. A light breeze carried the tweeting of birds in nearby trees. It was a perfect start to her day off from telling her dad’s story.
“Hey, Red!”
The voice jolted her. The fact that he still insisted on calling her that was so irritating. Maddy stopped walking and turned slowly on her heel.
“I thought we weren’t working today, Mr. Cooper.”
Wesley strode up to her, sliding his sunglasses to the top of his head, pushing his hair back from his face. “Well, you would be correct, Miss Hale. This isn’t an official work day but that doesn’t mean I stop working. I thought it would be a good opportunity for us to spend some quality time together.”
What? “What?” Maddy narrowed her eyes at him.
“Research. For me.” He shrugged. “Look, if you want this story to sound genuine, if you want me to believe in any of it, it would be best if I got to see the personal side of your life. I think it will help me form or maybe change some opinions I have.”
“If I decline, you’ll just keep writing all that crap? Don’t waste my time, Cooper.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Wes struggled for the right words. “Obviously, I’ve made some decisions about you, you father, the work he did. Prove me wrong.”
Maddy groaned. “I have things to do today. I don’t have time…”
“Like what?”
Maddy hesitated. “If you must know, today happens to me my dad’s birthday. I was planning on bringing these to the cemetery.” She raised the flowers at him.
“I’ll take you.”
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Joined: 6/18/2012
Posts: 228
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I'm so impressed and inspired by what everyone is posting here. Look at what we've been able to create with just a week of writing under our belts. I can't wait to read these finished books. Keep up the great work!
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Joined: 5/16/2013
Posts: 16
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“What are you?” “I’m - vampire.” I shut down the sight, it left with only a little effort. I felt wobbly and leaned against the vampire’s cell door. The body stirred, moved in jerks toward me, and then fell flat on the floor. The voice in my head screamed, “RUN!” Before I could turn, something grabbed at my mind. It cooed in a ragged voice for me to come closer, to extend my hand to help it up. Before I could do as it asked, my mental honey badger leapt on it and they fought. My body was thrown to the ground. I felt barbs and fire in my head as the sight wrestled and tore at the voice in my head. I screamed and the voice raged. The sight ripped and tore, my body jerked as the pain of the fight tore through me. It was as if my whole body was a raw nerve and a cold drill was dancing all over it. In a final mournful note the voice left. I couldn’t get up. Everything was gone. I rolled my head over to the cell where the vampire was. Its head was up off the floor and a boney appendage pointed at me. Black eyes secreted an oily ooze and its mouth, with yellow fangs and a lolling, black, swollen tongue, dribbled a brackish orange fluid. The head dropped to the ground. My sight popped on; the vampire was dead, its shiny black aura was now just black. I closed my eyes. # When I woke up I looked around. The vampire was a dusty skeleton. I dragged myself up the bars of his cell. “Serves you right.” I tried to spit, but there was nothing. My stomach cramped so hard I doubled over from the pain; I spun so my back was against the cell and slid down. “Holy shit I’m hungry.” My vision was blurry, a headache bounced around in my skull making sure everything hurt. The bright lights burned and the smell of the dead vampire made my lungs ache. I reached for my cellphone and held it close to my eyes. I scrolled through the recent calls, found Ms. St. Croix’s number and punched send. The screen shifted to a globe with an arrow circling in one direction while the earth turned in another. “NO SERVICE.” “You have got to be kidding me?”
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Joined: 5/12/2011
Posts: 240
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To make better sense of the ending, my short story needed another scene. Wrote it today. Here's an excerpt:
“All indications are that you are an intelligent girl,” Mother began again. “Only a devil could keep you slipping away from us this way. You must have been born of some terrible sin…”
Mother examined her now with narrowed eyes, suspicion open on her face.
Lizzie didn’t know if she was born of terrible sin or not. She knew her grandfather had punished Mama terribly when he came home from the war to find her living in his house with the blacksmith. Mama had told her about it. Grandfather—a man of whom Lizzie had no more recall than she did of her father—had killed the blacksmith by stringing him up a tree. He had sent Mama and Lizzie away.
But Mama said Grandfather had been wrong. She said love was all that mattered and that she had loved Lizzie’s father and he had loved her and that love was never a sin. Mama was a Methodist when she went to church. The Methodists didn’t teach children the catechism.
Lizzie knew instinctively that she should not share these thoughts with Mother Superior.
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Joined: 10/20/2011
Posts: 350
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From yesterday's work: “You win, for now. But if you think he’s up to something, please tell me you’ll stay away?” Reuben wrapped an arm around her. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “I feel the same about you. Is Mama right? Will there be battles on Staten Island?” Her head rose as Reuben shrugged. “I cannot say anything definitive either way, Annie. But I can say that Pater, Hans and I will do everything in our power to keep you, Mama and Marien safe. And when you’re not here, I trust Colonel Billopp to do the same. If Miles cares for you as much as you wish him to, he’ll feel the same.”
Annemie had no response for that. Instead, she let him pull her up and escort her back inside.
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Joined: 5/16/2013
Posts: 16
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Any minute there would be sirens screaming, a hundred cop cars, couple of helicopters, and two or three SWAT teams in place. This had to end now.
I flipped the selector switch to semi and turned. The gargoyle took off flying low; a burst of automatic weapons fire tore through her. “NOOOO!” Gray spray tore through the air behind her. She kept moving forward. Her left wing slapped the roof and sent a portion crashing down. Another burst; a hot flash of pain. She was in between me and the woman who was firing. I had lost situational awareness and now they were on the roof, my gargoyle was wounded saving me, and two rounds had just ripped into my abdomen. I saw the gargoyle bring her monkey feet forward. A rooster tail of blood fanned forward off of them. The blood slapped the woman in the face; she brought up her arms to block the gargoyle. It didn’t matter, those monkey feet grabbed the woman’s shoulders, strong wings beat the air like thunder, and they both rose into the air. The gargoyle did a split ‘S’ and then a loop and let go. The woman slammed into the roof, broke through a ceiling joist, and crashed to the garages floor.
Someone shot again and held the automatic fire on my friend. The gargoyle crashed onto the top of the elevator and rolled off. Her body lay limp on the black tar roof.
I dropped the M4, unslung the shot gun and ran. It was a blink, a tenth of a second when I grabbed the top rail of the stairs and let my momentum carry me around and over. My vision was red, a rage red. The man was on the stairs, a landing below me. He was startled; his face went white as he saw me bring up the SPA 12. I shot him three times. His head disappeared, chest blew backwards, and his stomach opened up. The man behind him crumbled as the rounds past through his partner and splattered into him. Cassandra reached out with her gore covered hand and my mind seized. The sight screamed in pain and twisted trying to find a way to fight back. I was trying to squeeze the trigger, but my hands tried to let go, and my arms refused to obey.
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Joined: 10/20/2011
Posts: 350
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Annemie paused for a moment, approaching one of the windows in the children’s bedroom. She glanced out, looking over the rolling green hill in front of the house. Hessians had arrived and were setting up camp alongside the British. The green of their uniform coats set them apart even before the coarse German language reached one’s ears. For mercenaries, they looked like normal men. But did they have any souls, willing to kill people for money?
John and Thomas sat in the grass by the soldiers, watching the men go about their work. Everyone was fascinated by men in uniform, Annemie found. Children ogled them. Men wished to wear one and, when they couldn’t, associate with those who did. Women fantasized about being wooed by dashing soldiers who fought in their name. Annemie had done so as well, late at night in the hot attic. She imagined Nicholas pledging to win in her name and come marry her but then would imagine a life on a farm with Miles. A simple life, one soldiers didn’t represent to the people of Staten Island. No, they represented an adventurous one—one part of the bigger world which existed off the shores of the island.
The one threatening to crash in on them like a hurricane.
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Joined: 5/16/2013
Posts: 16
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Cassandra was covered in blood splatter, not a drop was hers. I could see the crosshatch pattern of a bullet proof vest through the hole I put in her coat. Her mercs didn’t have that luxury, they were expendable. My hand was on the Sig now, but the trigger was below the nylon fabric. I had just pulled it up enough to wrap my finger around the crescent shaped trigger when I lost control again. “Open your eyes, Joseph.” I squeezed them tighter. “NO!” The sight yowled. Her hand was in my stomach. I could feel the bangles of gold and silver she wore around her wrist and fingers tear at the wound. “OPEN THEM, JOSEPH!” The pain rocked me back; I remembered when Christian was torturing me, beating me for days. He did the same thing, pushing his fingers through my torn flesh; shoving them into me to feel the muscles squirm. “GET OUT OF ME!” The sight bellowed in fury. Cassandra pulled her hand out and fell sideways against the rail with bloody tears running down her cheeks. I squeezed the trigger. A lance of pain ripped through my right calf. Cassandra screamed.
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Joined: 5/30/2013
Posts: 2
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“Long ago, when the world was united under one kingdom, the people were truly happy to dwell in such an era of peace. All was well until it came time for King Isaac to deliver inheritance to his four sons. Only one was intended to inherit the kingdom, the one who could keep it strong, maintain the peace, and serve the people. ‘Son of the People. That’s the true purpose of the King.’ He constantly reminded his sons of those words so they would know that the king served the people just as much as the people served the king. It wasn’t an easy choice to make. Prince Ashton his eldest may have not been the most brilliant of his sons or the greatest strategist but his will was unrivaled by any other. He knew if he was king, he could be counted on to never give up in the face of adversity. Prince Sebastien was his second oldest and the most level-headed. He was patient and thought things through. He was the most well-learned of his brothers and he was a man of thought, one who was always 100% sure before he made a decision. Prince Ivan was the second youngest of his sons and by far the most passionate. He knew the people’s hearts better than anyone else and his honest words would bring the people’s loyalty in a heartbeat, a wonderful quality to have in a future King. Prince Julien, the youngest was a fighter. His strength in combat was unrivaled, he was the most courageous of his brothers and refused to let anyone fight a battle for him if he could help it. He held no fear of death and would easily sacrifice himself for his people. The King was at an impasse so he gathered his four sons in the throne room. ‘The heir to this throne shall not be decided by seniority nor by skill, intellect, or strength. I shall give to you four, one final test. To each of you, I shall impart a small piece of this kingdom and give to each 1000 men. Whoever within ten years forms the best kingdom shall rule it all.’ And so the four took the resources they had and began to form their kingdoms. Prince Ashton, one who sought power to ease the life of his people, set his kingdom near a volcano, using the magma as a source of energy. Prince Sebastien, recognizing water as a vital source for life of all kinds, set his kingdom afloat on the sea. Prince Ivan, being both inspirational and resourceful, set his kingdom into the sky, and Prince Julien set his kingdom deep beneath the earth. But soon each kingdom fell into ruin. The volcano grew too unstable and melted down Prince Ashton’s kingdom. Prince Sebastien’s kingdom plunged deep into the sea. Prince Ivan’s kingdom fell from the skies and was lost forever and Prince Julien’s kingdom was destroyed by rubble and debris from massive tremors. The King waited and waited for his sons to return but they never did. He fell into mourning and in that period, the kingdom literally fell apart. The King’s heart broke and the lands shifted away and there was never again such a period of peace within the world.” “Where’s the rest of the story Grandma?” asked the little girl dressed in a pink nightgown. “That’s it. That’s the end. Not every story has a happy ending. You need to get used to that Dear,” she said softly, closing the book. “No way. It can’t be over. Every story has a happy ending. No exceptions. Whoever wrote it didn’t get finished,”
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Joined: 5/12/2011
Posts: 240
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One of the scenes I worked on today:
The wet Paris spring was beginning to give way to summer and tables cluttered the sidewalks. Eden sat at one of them now, arguing with three young men, all students at the Beaux Arts, about whether Picasso was a genius or an imbecile.
“He has no respect,” Giles said.
“Respect for what? Outmoded rules that could never express life in the new century?” Larousse countered.
Giles was English, Larousse French. The other, Decker, was an American, like Eden. He was twenty-years old and his blazing red hair and freckles drew attention to him wherever he went. Ironically, Eden found him to be almost girlishly shy. He looked at her expectantly now as if she might break the impasse.
She only dug into her breast pocket and offered him a cigarette. He shook his head. She lit it for herself instead.
“Monsieur Smith,” Larousse said, “a modern woman such as yourself must surely agree that only a way like Picasso’s can lead us into a new century.”
Eden weighed her answer. “I like him,” she said.
“You must, of course,” Giles interrupted her. “I heard a rumor yesterday that you were his model for Garcon a la Pipe!” He roared with laughter at his own joke.
“What if she was?” Larousse asked. “Perhaps that is exactly the way to finally rid ourselves of the skulking remnants of the ancien regime!”
“Women in trousers?” Giles said. “Isn’t that going a bit far, even for you, Larousse?” He turned to Eden. “With all due respect of course.”
But Eden didn’t feel respected. She hoped she wasn’t blushing. Decker was, and she gave him a little smile and put her hand in the air to signal the waiter to refill his glass.
“Too far? Not far enough I say,” Larousse told Giles.
“So I suppose you’ll be putting on skirts next?” Giles said, laughing again.
“If he does, I’ll take him dancing,” Eden said, grinning at Larousse. “But I don’t agree that Picasso’s is the only way. I think we’ll need the best of the past too, to sustain us in the future.”
“I agree with Eden—Mademoiselle Smith,” Decker said, finally looking Giles in the eye.
“Eden is all right,” Eden smiled. Decker was from Chicago. His mother was dead and he had a rich father whom, Decker claimed, quietly but persistently hated his son. He had been more than happy to send the boy to Paris to learn to paint while he courted his daughter’s husband as a business partner.
Eden wondered if Decker might in fact like to put on a skirt and be taken dancing—but not by Eden.
Just as she was thinking so, Giles snapped open his watch and announced, “I’ve got to be going. I have to collect Mademoiselle Ninon for dinner this evening. You can all dance with each other if you like. I’ll be dancing with a proper lady—and a rich one at that.” He rose and left them, clipping his way down the street, walking stick tapping the paving stones self-importantly.
“I loathe the English,” Larousse said, tossing the end of his cigarette into the dregs of the drink Giles had left sitting on the table. “They think they own the world.”
“Giles isn’t so bad,” Eden said. “He’s just not a very good artist.”
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Joined: 10/20/2011
Posts: 350
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Bet called Annemie over the moment she entered the kitchens. She handed the girl a roll of dough to knead but Annemie suspected it was to keep her hands busy while Bet said her piece, which must have been
something troubling if it required a charade of work. “Them Hessians have arrived.” “I know, Bet.” She hummed. “How is your boy?” Annemie grew hotter. “He ain’t my boy.” Bet hummed again. “Why?” Annemie sighed. “He’s a hothead, but I don’t think I have to tell you that. With those Hessians camping here, well, now that’s just asking for trouble.” “What does that have to do with me?” “Remember what I said ‘bout a pretty boy turning a girl’s head? Same’s true about a pretty girl and a boy. And you?” Bet looked her in the eye. “You’s a pretty girl.” Annemie felt ready to boil. “So?” “So?” Bet shook her head. “Dumb don’t look good on you, child. You know what I’m saying.” “More like what you’re not saying.” “You want me to get my spoon? I ain’t gonna deal with your sass.” Ducking her head, Annemie muttered an apology. “You want me to talk to him?” “If you think talking will work.” “You want me to be a distraction, then?” “Whatever you think will work, child. Alls we want is peace.”
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Joined: 5/16/2013
Posts: 16
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This is an excerpt from the middle of the chapter. Joseph is in his hospital room, in his bathroom. He has just survived an attack that would have left anyone else dead. He has been fighting his entire life, for a moment he wants it all to end. The people in cages are the men and women he rescued. Now for the excerpt.
The worst thing about the bathroom was it made mine at home look like a port-o-potty. There was a shower with eight different heads, a whirlpool tub with temperature control, a beday, a place to plug in an IPod and a full length mirror. I reached to my waist and undid the strings which held my gown on and let it fall to the ground. There was a bandage around my stomach, I pulled it off. I looked at my body. The right side of my stomach had a new scar which wrapped around to my back. The skin was puckered and striated. I ran my fingers across it, it was rough, and the skin was numb. My torso was a roadmap of indentions, slices, healed rips and tears. My skin was thin, not transparent, but every major vein shone as if I were a professional body builder on display. I held in check the emotions that pushed at my eyes and turned so I could see my back. It was just as horrible. I leaned against the mirror and let a lone tear fall. I was back in the desert, alone on a sandy knoll. That thing was looking at me, goading me to attack it. I remembered fingering the grenade on my right shoulder strap. I should have pulled the pin and died. I looked into the mirror and stared into my own dirty brown eyes. You should have died there. It would be so much easier to just be dead. Something stirred in my mind, I saw Rex jumping in the snow reaching out for another snowball. I saw men and women in cages, held and tortured, the dead and dying. I pushed back up and looked at myself again. What was it that old woman said, Joseph? “He will fight.” I tapped the forehead of the man in the mirror. Good job Bugs.
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Joined: 5/16/2013
Posts: 16
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I have been remiss in accounting for my progress. Total words are north of three thousand. Her is in excerpt from a finished chapter 21.
After a minute or two Father got up from his chair, walked to stand beside me, and placed his hand on my shoulder. “When you said you and Bugs were throwing every number you could remember at Cassandra, what did that entail?” There wasn’t a sound in the room. The sight raised up and I said, “Shit.” I threw the blankets off my bed and slid out. “I need some clothes, now.” Dr. Troullier jumped up and placed her hands on my shoulders. “Mr. Smith, you are nowhere near well enough to move.” “You don’t understand, I – the sight and I threw every number at Cassandra I had ever seen. Addresses, Doc, Cassandra has my home address. Father, where’s my wallet?” Madelyn jumped off the bed and she opened the nightstand next to the bed. She dug out my wallet and Father grabbed my cell phone. Madelyn tossed me my wallet. I snatched it out of the air and flipped it open. I tossed bloody cards on the bed until I found the one I wanted. “Father, call Marjory, tell her to get to Officer Delacruz’s car.” Father tossed me my phone. I called Officer Delacruz’s number. She picked up on the second ring. “Officer Delacruz. “Delacruz, this is Joseph. I need you to get Marjory, my land lady, and get the hell out of there.” “What’s wrong?” “The person who rammed O’Connor’s cruiser knows where I live. She’s coming. You have got to get Marjory and Rex and get out of there.” The room became a flurry of motion. Madelyn was on her phone telling someone my address and to secure my home. Dr. Troullier was on the hospital phone asking about something in the lab, and telling them to bring it up; she also gave my pants, shirt and shoe size and told them to bring up a tactical outfit too. Father told Marjory what to do. I could tell he was getting resistance. Delacruz was being a typical cop. “I’ll call for back-up.” “There’s no time, get out of there NOW! NOW! NOW!” “We can handle this, Joseph.” “No you can’t. Delacruz, you said you knew about some of the things that are on the streets. You implied you understood. This is something you aren’t ready for. Please, please, get Marjory out of there at least. Please, Officer Delacruz, I’m begging you.” “I’ll get her. But I am calling for back-up.” “I’ll take it. Bye.” I hung up before she did and vaulted across the bed. My insides stretched and burned, and I nearly didn’t make it. The sight reached for the pain and pushed it back. I reached out for the phone. Father handed it to me. “Marjory this is Joe. Get to the cruiser in front of the house.” “I am not leaving my home. I don’t run from anybody Joseph Smith.” “Marjory, please, you have got to leave. There isn’t anyone who can stop them who is close enough to help. Marjory, I’m sorry, but you have to run. Get Rex and get to the car.” “Why Joseph, just tell me why?” “Because they nearly killed me twice, and now they’ll hurt those I care about. Please, I’ll answer all your questions, just leave.” Shots rang out through the receiver. A window crashed. Rex growled and roared. Marjory screamed. The line went dead. The sight raged – hot tears rolled down my cheeks.
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Joined: 10/20/2011
Posts: 350
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From a few days ago...
Annemie’s response was drowned out by the raised voices travelling down from the upper level. One low, one high—Colonel Billopp and his wife. She and Peg stood still, frozen with glassware in midair. They glanced at each other, concerned. While a good master and a man known for his hospitality, Billopp had a temper. It came from his great-grandfather, the first Christopher Billopp—his namesake. The superstitious amongst the staff whispered of a ghost which haunted the house. Legend said it was a serving girl who refused her master’s advances back in the early days of Bentley Manor. The first Christopher Billopp grew so irate he chased her around the house until the girl either fell or was pushed to her death down the stairs. People claimed to see her ghost on the stairs, frightened as she flees. Annemie had never seen any such apparition and didn’t believe she ever would. Ghosts did not exist.
But the fight raging over their heads did. Annemie and Peg held their breaths as the voices grew louder, drowning out the music from the blue parlor. Or the soldiers had stopped and were retreating from the house. She was too afraid to turn around to look. “What do we do?” she whispered to Peg.
The other girl shook her head, eyes wide. “I’m too scared to move.”
Glancing up at the ceiling, Annemie began to make out words as the voices sank through the floor. “…be good experience, Jane.”
“He’s still a child, Christopher! He should not be around these soldiers at his age.”
“He is ten years old! It is time he started learning what it means to be a Billopp.”
“What it means to be a Billopp!”
“Don’t go there, Jane. You know what I’m talking about. Your family is just as established as my family. The people here on Staten Island look to us for guidance, to keep the order. One day, when this silly war is over and order is restored, John and Thomas will be the future leaders. At least let me start preparing John!”
The response was muffled as Mrs. Billopp had lowered her voice. Beside Annemie, Peg’s body sagged as the tension left her body and she breathed out in relief. She lifted up the plates in her arm. “I’m going to bring these in before Bet comes looking for us. Don’t want to stare down the spoon.”
Peg paused in the doorway, looking back at Annemie. “You coming?”
Annemie remained where she was, staring at the ceiling. “Not yet. I just have some things to finish up in here. Go on, I’ll be in shortly.”
Once Peg was gone, Annemie left the dining room and crossed to the staircase. The blue parlor was empty though the fire continued to crackle as it illuminated the room. She made a note of it before creeping up the stairs, praying she didn’t make a sound. Rounding to the second set of stairs, she noticed Clara standing at the top. Their eyes met and Clara tilted her head toward the master bedroom.
Mrs. Billopp’s voice was no longer loud enough to be heard downstairs but it still penetrated through the bedroom door. “We agreed, Christopher! We agreed it would be better, nay, safer for the children at my father’s house. I may not have borne John but I will not allow him to stand in harm’s way. Please, Christopher, I beg you to reconsider.”
“I understand, Jane, I do.”
Billopp’s voice had softened in a manner Annemie recognized. It was the same one her father used when trying to reassure her mother. “You must understand how long I thought about this. I debated with myself for some time and I believe this is the best in the long run.”
“You promise to send him to me if things become more dangerous around here?”
“At the first sign, he will be sent to you using my fastest horse.”
Silence followed and Clara nodded at Annemie before returning to the children’s room. Annemie crept back down the stairs and entered the blue parlor to douse the fire. She gathered the abandoned glasses to bring into the kitchens for cleaning. Peace settled back in the house, though Annemie wondered how long it would stay this time.
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Joined: 6/8/2013
Posts: 25
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I wish I would have discovered Book Country early. Is it to late to start he Summer Writer's Club?
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Joined: 10/20/2011
Posts: 350
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Andrea, it's not too late to start the Summer Writer's Club in my opinion. Just jump in! Goal is between 250 and 500 words daily.
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Joined: 6/8/2013
Posts: 25
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How does it work? Do we just post here? Can it be from the book we've started publishing here, or does it need to be a different one?
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