Tag Archives: historical

Six Sentence Sunday: #12 Bartholomew’s Contemplation

Posted on
18

Welcome back for another Six Sentence Sunday post from my paranormal short, Flight.

For those of you who read last week’s installment, Mary soon was saved by Matilde’s father’s intervention in their fight, and I’ve taken the liberty of skipping ahead an itty-bitty bit.

We now find that Bartholomew has trailed Matilde and her father back to their tenement. Having crept into the room where she is sleeping with her baby brother, he is contemplating the Catcher’s interest in possessing the body of this small girl.

If you’re unfamiliar with this story, the first installment is found here.

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He listened to the children breathing, the tiny scritch-scritch of mice feet, and singing, fighting, and fucking from within neighboring rooms. The cold night air whistled through the gaping wallboards, and the sleeping girl shivered and pulled her baby brother closer.

This was madness. Bartholomew closed his eyes and squeezed his temples, then brought his fingers down around his eyes and up to pinch the bridge of his nose. Non, he thought as he shook his head. It was impossible to believe such a small body could hold the Catcher.

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As always, I encourage you to visit Six Sentence Sunday to find snippets from many more talented writers.

Six Sentence Sunday: Flight #11 — She’s Goin’ Down

Posted on
28

It’s Six Sentence Sunday, and man, what a week. Noro virus is an evil mistress and she took the Pierce household by storm. But I have survived. Mostly.

Anyhoo, here’s the next six of Flight. If you read last week’s installment, you know what’s coming. If you didn’t, well check it out here. Or start from the beginning of this story here.

Warning: Blood and violence ahead.

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The bully turned, and the little girl leapt forward. Her rock-filled fist whipped around to smash Mary’s cheek and nose. The older girl’s head snapped to the side. She staggered into one of the boys and they both hit the ground as the second boy stared at Tilly, open-mouthed like a fish. He wore a swath of bright red blood across his chest and face.

“Nobody steals from me!”

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Don’t forget to check out all the other Sixers’ posts at Six Sentence Sunday. Six sentence snippets from WIPs or finished works just waiting for you to sink your, urp, teeth into em.

Six Sentence Sunday: #9 — Now It’s Fer Me

Posted on
19

Hi friends! Welcome back for another Six Sentence Sunday installment from Flight, my paranormal short. Last week we left Bartholomew on the roof and poor, little Tilly sprawled on the alley’s cobblestones. Will she stay down?

If you’re new to this story, and want to read from the beginning, you’ll find the first installment here.

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Mary smirked as she yanked the little, bundled shawl from Tilly’s arms. “Now it’s fer me.” She spat on her victim then marched back to the waiting boys.

Bartholomew’s fists clenched as Mary revealed a small heel of bread from the ragged shawl and doled out shares to her lackeys. Her back to her victim, the bully draped the stolen shawl over her shoulder and shoveled bread into her mouth.

Tilly rolled over, rose to her knees, and looked around.

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For anyone unfamiliar with Six Sentence Sunday, it’s a weekly blog hop where writers — published and unpublished — post six sentence snippets from their projects. Check out the site for more information, links to more writers, and to join in.

Six Sentence Sunday: Flight #8 — Violence

Posted on
22

Welcome back! It’s Six Sentence Sunday, it’s the next installation of Flight, and the fight is on. Get yer popcorn and join Bartholomew for a rooftop view.

If you’re new or wanna review, the story starts here.

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Bartholomew leaned out over the roofline like a gargoyle, smoke swirling around him and away. A small smile tugged up the right corner of his lip. He hadn’t missed how the little girl had twisted Mary’s name into a curse.

Neither had Mary and the larger girl’s fist came around to smash Tilly.

The blow struck her cheek and she crashed into the red brick wall. She landed in a slimy puddle and her head struck the cobblestones with a crack.

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Six Sentence Sunday: Flight #7 Surprising Power

Posted on
22

Street Children Fighting

Welcome back, Sixers, and thanks for all your comments last week. Here’s the next installation of my paranormal short, Flight. We last left Bartholomew on a rooftop, observing a small girl being menaced by three other children in an alley below.

If you’re new to this story, the first post can be found here.

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“No!”

The word was clear and strong and Bartholomew looked down, surprised by its power.

The older girl stalked toward her defiant prey. Hand outstretched she said, “Gimme that or we’ll smash yer face, Tilly.”

“No. This is fer Samuel. Git yer own, Mary.”

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Please take a few minutes to visit Six Sentence Sunday for other enticing six-sentence snippets from published and unpublished works by other writers.

Thanks!

Six Sentence Sunday: Flight #6 Elle?

Posted on
29

Welcome back to the next six from my paranormal short, Flight, for Six Sentence Sunday.

We left Bartholomew on a rooftop in 1840s New York, watching a confrontation among children unfold in an alley below.

If you’re visiting for the first time, you can find the beginning of this story here.

And please remember to visit Six Sentence Sunday for more exciting snippets from other participating writers.

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“Gimme that.” The older girl’s voice bounced off the grimy alley walls as she stepped forward from the two boys.

Bartholomew surveyed her black eye and ratty, pink dress, the sneer that curled her lips back from her broken front teeth, and he glanced at the crows. The Catcher wanted her?

But the birds squabbled and preened and minced about the roof. They called insults at him, arching and flapping their wings then chortling as if sharing a good laugh at his expense.

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A note about today’s photo. This is a group of street children in 1919 London. It’s taken from Hidden Lives, an amazing archive detailing the efforts of London’s Waifs and Strays’ Society to alleviate child poverty in the late-Victorian and Edwardian eras.

Six Sentence Sunday: Flight #5

Posted on
15

From Scorsese's Gangs of New York

Welcome back, Sixers! Sorry I failed to post more from Flight on the 18th; life intruded on art, and I missed Six Sentence Sunday. Some of you stopped by and left comments anyway, and I so appreciate your kind words.

Because you’ve so patiently waited to find out what the Catcher wants our hero to see, I’m skipping ahead a few paragraphs. We now join Bartholomew on the roof of the brick tenement where the crows are gazing down at the Five Points — New York’s Sixth Ward.

(If you’re new to this story, and want to read more, the posts begin here.)

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Bartholomew followed their gaze and spied a small figure flitting between horse carts, tradesmen, and sluggards. A small girl, her blonde braids flying and blue shawl clutched to her chest, was sprinting his way with an older girl and two boys in pursuit. He crouched at the ledge, dragged on his cigarette, and watched with keen, unblinking eyes.

With her pursuers gaining ground, the urchin was rerouted by an overturned market cart. She ducked between two men and scuttled around the corner into the dead-end alley below Bartholomew. She ran to a door at the rear of the building and yanked on its handle, but it didn’t give. With a little shriek and a kick to the door, she whirled, and found her escape had been blocked.

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Please remember to check out more six sentence snippets from other writers at sixsunday.com.

Six Sentence Sunday: Flight #3 ‘One Who Is Bound’

Posted on
23

Welcome back Sixers,

I’m still playing with Flight. So how’s about we continue to follow Monsieur Pelletier as he strolls and mulls?

(A caveat on the following picture. My story takes place in the 1840s, approx. 60 years earlier than this photo. So Bartholomew’s style of dress is Victorian and the streets were certainly rougher than what you see here. Still, you gotta love this pic.)

Mulberry Street, NYC, c1900

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“You look like a gentleman who appreciates fine tobacco, sir.”

Indeed Bartholomew was one to appreciate the finer, and coarser, activities the Five Points offered – he’d already been entertained by one of its ladies this evening. But with a glance he assessed the rickety shop for a charlatan’s abode and strolled onward.

Asir – celui qui est attaché. Bartholomew’s jaw tightened. ‘Asir’ meant he was bound, powerless, a queen’s possession.

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And please take the time to visit the other writers posting for Six Sentence Sunday. Feedback is invaluable. Thanks!

Six Sentence Sunday: Flight

Posted on
27

Hello, Sixers, I missed you last week, but went knee-deep in Girl Under Glass and finished my tension edit! Now the book is off to the first of my beta readers, and I’m wandering the room like a five-year-old with too many choices.

So today’s Six Sentence Sunday selection is the opening of a short story called Flight. This is a character exercise and focuses on Bartholomew, my asir (demi-daemon) from Fall for Me.

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Caught in a maelstrom of black feathers and beady eyes, Bartholomew tugged down his top hat and turned up his coat collar to the crows’ sharp talons and beaks. He ducked the raucous beasts and continued along the muddy Mulberry Bend anticipating night’s more interesting fare as the shops and traders closed, packed, and bargained.

“A fat duck for your dinner tonight, sir?”

Whenever he came to New York, he spent as much time as possible in the city’s infamous Sixth Ward knowing Claire found its poverty pathetic. His queen’s reluctance to follow provided him some small measure of freedom. And so Bartholomew had a strange affection for the Bend’s wretches and crooks.

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Thanks for visiting and remember to stop by Six Sentence Sunday to find links to more fantastic fare.

Six Sentence Sunday: A Complicated Character

Posted on
12

It was hard to decide what to post from Fall for Me for this week’s Six Sentence Sunday. Finally, I chose something that shows Matilde’s complexity. Yes, she’s powerful and dangerous and passionate, but she also struggles with her human morals versus her daemonic compunctions. It isn’t easy being a daemon in death; especially if you were a Catholic in life.

Now living in New York, Matilde has gathered her nerve and gone to Confession for the first time in sixty-seven years. (And I hope I’ll be forgiven for going one sentence over the limit again this week. Sorry.)

—————-
The familiar odor of resin filled my nose, and I felt comforted by the dim light and the mystery of Confession. But the priest’s sweet scent, wafting through the grille, disturbed that comfort. I peered through the carved divider.

The boyish priest leaned forward, his face pressed against the dark wood, his eyes wide and straining to discern my face.

His scent permeated the narrow space, and I bit the inside of my cheek until I felt the sharp sting of torn flesh and tasted blood.

I held my breath for a heartbeat, trying to quell my misgivings and battling my unholy urges, then I began my confession. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned….”

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