Share a Snippet!!

We’re in the final stretch of the 2019 Winter Writing Festival, with only three more days to go after today!

That means those of us who’ve stuck with it have been working for 47 days, creating lots and lots of new words.

As we always do a couple of times during the WWF, we’re inviting everyone to share a little snippet–a short scene, maybe, or just a paragraph or two. Even a fun line you’ve come up with, or an idea for your story.

Be brave, and SHARE!!

34 responses to “Share a Snippet!!”

  1. Lenee Anderson says:

    In those days, before the fire, the old medieval Palace of Westminster was a cluster of rundown, inadequately maintained buildings from which the greatest nation on earth was governed. Stiflingly hot in summer, freezing in winter, poorly ventilated and smelly, it’s been mercifully forgotten in the wake of Barry and Pugin’s Gothic inspired design and had it not been for the loss of so much historical significance, no one would have mourned its destruction at all.
    Descending from the hackney and skillfully avoiding the beggars and pickpockets that inhabited the area night and day, the lure of the rich and powerful too difficult to resist, we entered the Palace through the cavernous hall, it’s great hammer beam ceiling swallowed by the dark, tramped along a carpeted corridor where moisture from leaky windows stained the walls towards St. Stephens chapel and the House of Commons.
    In the chapel lobby, a house clerk sat on a stool behind a high desk beside the open doors where bungling politicians had been grossly mishandling the business of the country since the days of Henry VIII.
    The clerk raised his head at our approach, pushed back his ill fitted wig, wiped a drip from his red nose with a handkerchief and said in an unfriendly manner, “Tickets.”
    “We don’t have tickets,” I said.
    “The debate has already begun. I can’t allow you into the gallery without tickets.”
    “We’re not here for the debate,” Arthur explained.
    “Then please excuse me. The House has important business to conduct.” He lowered his head and sniffed at a perforated box smelling strongly of camphor and other herbs.
    I believe I was less used to the effrontery of social inferiors than Arthur was. I wanted to haul the pompous clerk off his stool and give him a few good whacks in the back of the head. Or else Arthur was just a better man than I.
    My brother rested an arm casually on the top of the desk. “Look, I’m Lord de Royce and this is–”
    The clerk’s eyes narrowed as he looked down his red nose at Arthur. I wondered if he wasn’t one of these dangerously misguided individuals who wished to overthrow the social order. “My Lord, the upper house is on the other side.”
    Slipping a card from its case, I slammed the card down on to the page of the ledger he bent over, pinning it there with my index finger. “I want to see the member’s attendance book. I need to know if a particular member–Julius Livingstone–attended on certain days.”
    Sitting back, he glared at me. “I can’t do that!”
    “Why not?”
    “I would need to be persuaded.”
    “Persuaded,” I repeated.
    “He means a bribe,” Arthur put it plainly.
    I flexed my fingers menacingly, curling them into a fist. Sometimes, now, especially in the cold, my hands ache but back then, I had massive hands, flat nailed, thick fingered, calloused and strong. “I have your persuasion right here,” I said.
    Before I could make good on this threat a good natured baritone voice called out, “Ho, there gentleman! Pardon me for eavesdropping, but don’t murder Hobbs here! He’s a bit of a sour puss, I know, but he’s an excellent gate keeper, separating the quality from the rabble! Can’t blame the chap for wanting a little extra on the side. Doesn’t get paid much, do you, boy?” The clerk nearly fell off his stool as he was clapped on the back. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance. Julius Livingstone did you say?”

  2. Janet Walden-West says:

    I doubt I’ll finish this by the end of the Festival, but I am up to the black moment & my couples crisis.

    The front door opened. Dalton leaned against the weathered frame for a minute, her gaze meeting his through his windshield. Drilling into him. She pushed off the frame and vanished into the house.

    Leaving the door wide open.

    He forced his hands off the steering wheel, wiped sweaty palms on his pants, and slid out of the Jeep before Dalton changed her mind and slammed the door closed on him.

    On them.

  3. Susan Craig says:

    I like that!! Lots of passion in a few words.

  4. Susan Craig says:

    My snippet:
    Logan whipped his SUV out of the parking lot and away from town. He was too angry to trust himself in the same building with her. How could she say he didn’t respect her? How could she accuse him of using her? All right, he’d made a big mistake out of ignorance. He could see the truth of what she’d said about contracts and lawyers. It was his own fault—he should have been less pig-headed, more willing to seek her advice. But he respected her…
    ‘I’ll have her out of my company and into my bed.’ The promise he’d made to himself months before floated back into his head to haunt him.
    “Shit!” His fist bounced off the steering wheel. “I didn’t know her when I said that. That’s not how it is, damn it!” She wasn’t the two-faced career woman he’d expected and she’d been nothing but honest with him. Yes, he wanted her in his bed. He’d be crazy not to want her. But had he only been pretending there was more to it than that?

  5. Hywela Lyn says:

    This is the very start of my fantasy romance ghost story set in Wales in modern times when my heroine inherits an old cottage – but the story starts two hundred years ago, with the story of the ghosts who haunt that cottage. (Very rough first draft)

    Run, Seren run.” Leaning low over the pony’s neck the young woman urged her into a mile eating gallop, the mare’s hooves scarcely touching the ground as she appeared to fly across the rolling landscape. If only the mare could really fly. Sometimes it felt as if she truly galloped through the air. There was something very special about the wild pony she’d found as a motherless foal in the mountains, and cared for until she was fully grown. She’d named her for the perfect star on her face. Seren needed no breaking in or training, but allowed Rhiannon to sit on her back as soon as she was mature enough to take a rider, although no-one else could ride her, not even Sion Sienco.

    “Oh Sion,” she whispered silently. “Sion, where are you when I need you?”

    She cast one last swift look over her shoulder at the only home she had known, as the cottage, rapidly receded into the distance. It melted into the shadows, appearing forlorn in the soft moonlight, almost as if it knew she would never return. Hot tears sprang to her eyes as she thought of the injured animals the villagers, and sometimes their children,used to bring her to heal. Her spells and herbs could heal most injuries provided they were not too severe. Now she would no longer be able to help them.

    “Oh Sion,” she whispered again. “Sion, please let me find you.”

    Her father’s harsh words rang in her head and a shudder ran through her which had nothing to do with the chill night air…

    “Gwynfor Pryce will be here in three days’ time. We have already agreed on the marriage settlement and the wedding is arranged for a week today. There will be no more argument.”

  6. Melanie Macek says:

    This WWF has completely gone off the rails this year for me. I wasn’t able to write for over 3 weeks because we were taking care of our ailing cat, who passed away a little over a week ago. It’s an idea I’ve toyed with for years but never did anything with. I decided to start a children’s book based on adventures Charlie has had or I imagine him wanting to have to help me deal with losing this huge-personalitied-fuzz-butt.

    Here goes…

    When Charlie woke, the air smelled different. There was a smell he’d never smelled before. His tail fluffed up and his ears swiveled, listening for a sound that might signal danger. Murphy lay snoring next to the arm of the couch. What was that smell? He stood up, stretching carefully, looking around the room for something that didn’t belong. Mom and Dad weren’t home, having gone to ‘work’. Whatever that was. All he knew was that they came home from ‘work’ smelling weird and sometimes worse than the stinkiest litter box.
    Okay, maybe not that bad, he admitted as he hopped down to the floor. Slinking around the edge of the couch, he padded toward the bedroom window where he usually watched Girlie playing in the clover that grew in clumps in the back yard. Girlie was nowhere to be seen, but the scent came to him again. Jumping onto the windowsill, he crouched low and watched.
    A movement close to the place where his humans set sticks on fire made him flatten himself against the sill. His tail puffed up and he waited. The shape moved again, this time toward the window. It was hiding beneath one of the hedges near the flower bed. A flash of fur came closer and he crouched lower.
    Two tiny paws and a furry head appeared at the window. It scared Charlie so badly that he fell out of the window. Embarrassed, he didn’t answer.
    “Hello? I’m lost and I can’t find my house. Can you help me?”
    He could hear the fear in its voice, reminding him of when he’d gotten lost in the cabinet as a kitten. He stood on his back legs and looked out the window.
    “Oh! You are there!” Now he could see it was a small puppy. He’d seen puppies before when he went on walks at their old house.
    “I don’t know how I can help you. I’m not allowed outside alone.”
    The puppy’s face fell. “Oh.”

    • Lenee says:

      Oh! This is going to be so good! Your descriptions of how he moves are just like cats!

    • Janet Walden-West says:

      I’m so sorry about your loss–I’m typing this with two black furballs curled up on the windowsill. But this will be an adorable story.

    • I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m also happy you’ve rejoined us. Writing is cathartic.

      This is a good start.

    • Heather McCollum says:

      I’m so sorry for your loss. Our pets are like our children, and our heart are torn apart when they leave us.

      I think writing this book will be wonderful for the world of animal-loving kids and cathartic for you.

    • I’m very sorry to hear about the loss of your beloved cat. I hope writing this story helps ease the loss. I really felt like I was in your cat’s head. Great job!

  7. Hywela Lyn says:

    First of all, I’m so sorry for your loss. I know only too well how heartbreaking it is to lose a beloved furbaby.

    I think this is a lovely tribute to him. You’ve really got inside the mind of this cute little animal and this is going to be such a great story!

    • Melanie Macek says:

      Thanks Hywela. It just seemed the right time to finally do it. He was a truly a character. I just hope I can do him justice.


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