Tag Archives: Snippet

The Scribbler Scribbles...

Snippets from the Ficlet o'Clock

At the Door - beta edits complete

She came to the door at midnight, white hair trailing over her long white skirts, mouth wide open, hand raised in supplication, Come with me.

— prompted by Rabia Gale

Breath from a Stone - drafting

She crouches before the fire on the other side and lays her spear over her bare knees. "You can breathe from the stone?" she asks.

The old man laughs. "Cannot all the breathers?"

Jaguar flashes him a smile, all sharp white teeth, then closes them as if she has bitten flesh. "Not the breather I slew."

— prompted by Rabia Gale

[ working title ] - drafting

The two young women did not get along, but no one, not even Professor Xavier, knew because let's face it, sweet and lovely Jean Grey was above all that and would never stoop to telepathic revenge, and beautiful, patronizing Emma Frost would never soil her perfection by engaging with those who were beneath her, at least not without sufficient provocation, worthy of losing her reputation for ladylike behavior. But internally, the study partners were vicious, exploiting every advancement in their race to become the most powerful telepath. Their mutual hatred and ambition served them well: it drove their performance and outward smiles until...

Well.

— prompted by lithiumlaughter

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Theme in Fiction: How do you take it?

My characters are beverage drinkers. From Clark Gabrin with his "fine decantation of valuable stimulants and nutrients" designed to taste like an Earl Grey to the national Vardin beverage, sluscheta; to Shelley Huntington's addiction to all things coffee, tea and coffee seems to show up all over in my fiction.

Myself, I am a bit of a tea connoisseur. The family cupboard has always been stuffed to the brim with assorted teas, mostly supplemental or Celestial Seasonings, and my father's pantry contained even more exotic varieties, including coffee alternatives, such as Roma and Pero. When I opened up shop in my own pantry, I included hefty doses of tea for both healing and flavor. An introduction to a local tea room owner led me to fall in love with rooibos as well. So, when my characters began showing personality through their choice of beverage, not only did it not really take me by surprise, but it made for a delightful round table of who likes what and what that says about them.

Continue reading

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Snippet: Storm

So on Write a Book with Me, Kirsten asked for snippets and shared an amazing one of her own. I went ahead and went out on a limb (for me, anyway) and shared the first bit of Storm, the new bit of the overhaul of my Vardin novelverse into The Rothnen Cycle.

I wasn't expecting much; I've been scared to really go where this book goes, but her response just about choked me up and told me I am finally doing this right. It's still scary, if I'm honest, but I hope that I can keep doing, reaching down into the real parts of this story that draw me and compel me and share them, no matter how much I worry that it's going to go down wrong.


She fell into sleep wearing her usual blonde braid and her long, flannel nightgown. She woke to a rocky beach with her golden hair loose and blowing in the softly singing winds and wearing a simple cream-colored dress under a dark cloak. He was there. He was always there, waiting for her. A little older than she was, maybe twelve or thirteen, and visibly too thin without his shirt. He liked to hang his bare legs in the water and let the water and wind ruffle his hair into unkempt auburn. He liked to sit just in front of her and grin when she wasn’t being serious.

But tonight—or day, the sun was glimmering softly over here through a haze of beautiful blue so intense, it seemed she could swirl her finger in it—she was serious as she settled her cloaked back against the large rock leading upward toward the cliffs. She was serious often enough to know he would not laugh or grin, but listen to her intently, like his life hung upon her words.

“What day is it?” she asked, softly, like speaking too loud would change his answer.

It was an old question between them, something worrisome and weary filling the gap between.

“The seventeenth,” he answered solemnly.

“What month is it?”

He waited a moment, dark eyes holding hers. “The second.”

The same day. She slept and awoke and it was all her own life. It bothered her.

He was all pent-up, restless energy and stepped up as if to go, but she caught his hand and held it tightly. He let her and sat beside her while she waited for the ache of confusion within her to leave her for the winds and drift away.

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Meme Post #1: The Lucky 7

So from Rabia Gale:

1. Go to page 77 of your current manuscript/work-in-progress (or page 7 if you don’t have 77).
2. Go to line 7.
3. Copy down the next 7 lines, sentences, or paragraphs, and post them as they’re written.
4. Tag 7 authors, and let them know.

I'm sure you all know my current novel-length WIP is Summerlight, no matter how recalcitrant and shifty mess that work is turning out to be. :grumbles at book: :book grumbles back:

So it's not 77 pages yet. Here's on page 7.

They seem to be rather divided about that.

You always were the one who believed in fairies.

Love always,
John

Miles stopped reading. "The letter is dated from just over nine months ago, about three weeks after I heard from him last." The crinkles about his eyes were back, but this time he was frowning, as if in pain.

Rob considered the timing. His mind immediately began to calculate the potential dangers and some of the strange things they could be expected to take seriously.

"Do you really think we'll see dragons?" Josh asked, aiming his question at Miles, the more credulous of the men.

Now for my seven writers:

Tag in_the_blue, pygmymuse, lithiumlaughter, arliddian...

Let's stick to four.

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