Tag Archives: romantic

Famine #51: The Oldest Profession (WeWriWa)

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Howdy, friends. Thanks for dropping by for another Weekend Writing Warriors eight sentences from Famine.

We’ve seen Bartholomew be harsh, and we’ve seen him be tender. How about we give him a pleasant interlude this time? (Iona is what Seattle historically, and euphemistically, referred to as a seamstress.)

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This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.

This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less.

His fingers bumped over the boning, the silk and ribbons, caught and released the frills and lace that women thought made them alluring. “Très belle.” He pulled her body back against his, and her breath hitched.

Bartholomew wrapped his other arm around Iona and trailed his lips from her shoulder to her neck to her ear. She hesitated then permitted him to capture her lips and turn her to face him. His lips parted and his tongue encouraged hers open. Their tongues touched, stroked, but when she tried to speed his leisurely pace, he slowed her.

“Non, I wish to enjoy your pleasure,” he said against her lips, and she exhaled into his mouth.

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See? I’m not always putting him through the wringer. (Okay, okay, just 99% of the time.)

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Once again, I encourage you to check out the work of all the other writers who are participating in this week’s WeWriWa hop.

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Famine #44: Memories of Love

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So this week was looking grim, but then I got confirmation on the final model for the Famine cover. That made me happier. And, guys, this cover is gonna be stunning. :D

Okay, so now on to posting from Famine for Weekend Writing Warriors. I’ve been editing this week — tweaking old material and adding a lot of new words, like this little memory of Bartholomew’s long-dead wife, Aemelia.

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TemptationHe closed his eyes and remembered returning to his wife after a long campaign in Barbaricum. How she had bared her body to him, opened herself to his need, and taken all of his longing. She had never asked about the scars he bore; he was a soldier, a Gaul, a warrior. Scars were part of his history, and she’d said they warned of his strength to any man who would question his power.

There was their small house, always dim and smoky from the hearth fire. Aemelia’s rough fingers snagging his tunic, the creak of leather as she undressed him. “This is new, and this one,” she had murmured as she’d inspected his skin for scabs and bruises. There was the saltiness of her lips and the sweetness of her tongue.

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Thanks for stopping by. Here’s the link to the WeWriWa list. I hope you’ll check out more writers’ snippets while you enjoy a leisurely Sunday.

Famine #41: Bartholomew’s Seal (WeWriWa)

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“It’s alive!” Hacking cough aside, I’m feeling much more human this week and got out of the house more than once to enjoy some fresh air and sunshine.

I’m posting, again, from Famine for Weekend Writing Warriors, and I will be finishing the first draft of this novel this weekend. (Only five scenes left at the time of this post.) I’m still skipping around, so in this random scene, Matilde is looking at the seal that Bartholomew uses to close his envelopes.

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Robert Cornelius (c. 1839)

Robert Cornelius (c. 1839)

She lifted and turned the dark wooden handle to look at its brass matrix. It depicted the same Roman eagle that he bore upon his hand and a banner beneath that read, Deo Volente Surgam. “What does this mean, Monsieur?”

“God willing, I shall rise.”

“Rise to do what?”

He took the seal from her, returned it to its case, and stood, the letter in hand. He gazed down upon her, his manner severe and dark. “Evidently, mail a letter to London.”

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If you want to read more Weekend Writing Warrior 8 Sunday snippets, pop over to the official site to find the list of participating blogs.

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And, once again, thanks for all your supportive comments. You guys say the nicest things. :D

Famine #39: A Long Wait (WeWriWa)

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Welcome back to another Weekend Writing Warriors post. Today’s eight complete the first chapter of Famine. (Yes, I think I’m gonna shorten the title to just the single word. This will be the first book in the Apocalyptics series.)

Last week, the Catcher’s crows creeped a bunch of you out and raised the question of what Bartholomew would do about that entity’s interest in eight-year-old Matilde.

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file0001330232053He’d searched eleven hundred years for her. He could wait another twenty. He could protect her and see to her education. Matilde would become the Catcher. Bartholomew would be her Guardian.

Once more the crow tapped the glass. Bartholomew looked up to see it bob and duck its head then drop away from the sill. The bird swooped around and up and was joined by the rest of its murder to form a black-winged cloud that made the stars wink as it soared over and away from the Sixth Ward.

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I hope you all to take a peek at the list of awesome writers posting this week at wewriwa.com. Lots of terrific snippets await your view.

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On a side note, I have a sinus infection and some hacking lung plague. Spending the weekend in bed in a somewhat unsuccessful attempt to get some sleep. If I don’t make any reading rounds or replies this week, I apologize. I don’t want to cough on any of your blogs.

First Comes Famine #37: I’ve Found You (WeWriWa)

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Hello Friends, old and new, and welcome back to another Weekend Writing Warrior installment. Thanks, all, for visiting and leaving thoughtful and enthusiastic comments last week. You guys made me smile. :D

As promised, I’m returning to my paranormal WIP, First Comes Famine, and Bartholomew. Last week we saw him cutting, and then comforting, eight-year-old Matilde as she slept with her little brother. The explanation of why he does this follows today’s eight.

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The girl settled back into sleep with a small sigh.

The sweet scent of her blood spurred him on, and Bartholomew brushed his lips across the cut—the lightest kiss—then slid the bandage into place and pressed the wound until the bleeding ceased. As he held her hand, he licked his lips. A shudder spread through him. His nerves flared, burning bright with the strength of the child’s soul. The immeasurable power of the Catcher, so long dormant within his own blood, stretched, surged, and demanded to be free.

“I’ve found you.” Bartholomew’s whispered words were as much a cry of horror as a sigh of relief.

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What’s going on? Bartholomew has spent eleven centuries hunting for a body to hold the immortal soul of the Catcher. He’s just confirmed that Matilde is the intended vessel. (The Catcher’s job is to capture the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse before they can bring about the untimely end of the world.)

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I hope you’ll take the time to check out the other writers who are posting today via the Weekend Writing Warriors linky. Check them out here.

First Comes Famine #36: Hush, hush (#8sunday #sixsunday #wewriwa)

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It’s been a helluva challenging week and I’m feeling very scattered. I know I’m signed up for posting on multiple lists: Weekend Writing Warriors, Unofficial Six Sunday, and the Six Sentence Sunday Facebook page. (I think I’m signed up on that last one.) I need to come up with a way to better manage these lists. Hmmm.

Anyhoo, however you found me and wherever you’re going from here, welcome! Time to continue with posts from my historical fantasy WIP, First Comes Famine. I’m gonna skip ahead a bit to get to the next major scene. Bartholomew has returned to Matilde’s home in New York’s Sixth Ward. (Reminder: Matilde is a little girl.) The first post from this story is here.

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Robert Cornelius (c. 1839)

Robert Cornelius (c. 1839)

Bartholomew’s knife was old, and it was sharp, but it wasn’t a weapon.

Matilde slept on her left side, facing him, with Samuel snuggled to her chest. Her right hand was atop the covers, and the bandage covering her smashed knuckles beckoned. Bartholomew eased it back and made the smallest knick in her swollen, scabbed flesh with his fine blade. She whimpered and stirred.

He touched her cheek and said, “Chut, chut.”

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You have plenty of choices for your next destination. I hope you’ll spend some more time visiting the many other writers’ blogs today. Happy Sunday!

First Comes Famine #35: Small Revenge (Six Sentence Sunday)

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Here we are at the last. Six small sentences away from closing the pages on Six Sentence Sunday. Thanks to all of you who’ve visited and/or commented on my posts over these many months. And a very special thanks to Sara and the 6SS crew for giving up so many hours. Yours is a boundless generosity.

I’m skipping a few paragraphs in the latest confrontation between Bartholomew and Claire to come to the closure of the scene. Seemed apropos. (And, for those who don’t know, the eschaton is the end of the world.) From First Comes Famine:

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Robert Cornelius (c. 1839)

Robert Cornelius (c. 1839)

Claire’s smile became a snarl. “Your Catcher’s first breath will be her last. I’ll drain her blood and soul and consume her flesh, and you will suffer for me forever. The eschaton will come, aesir, and you will herald it.” She stomped from the room, leaving her clothing behind.

Bartholomew picked up her gown, fingered the fine blush silk, the delicate gold embroidery, and tossed it into the cold, black fireplace ashes.

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I hope you’ll head back to the official Six Sentence Sunday site and follow the links to the other participating blogs. This is the last chance you’ll get….

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For those of you interested, I know of two replacement blog hops getting ready to fill the hole left in our Sunday mornings:

Weekend Writing Warriors (posting on Sundays; expanded to eight sentences)

The SFR Brigade Presents (must be a member of the SFR Brigade; expanded to a paragraph or 200 words)

The Unofficial Six Sentence Sunday (Thank you, Siobhan Muir, for providing this link.)

Hump Day Hook (Thanks, Frank Fisher, for this one.)

There’s also a Facebook page, so we can all keep in touch. (Thanks, Karysa Faire, for this awesome news!)

If you know of any others, feel free to post the links in my comments. And please find me on Facebook or Twitter or follow this blog if you haven’t already. I’d hate to lose track of you, Sweet Cheeks.

Twitter: @MonicaEPierce

Facebook: facebook.com/MonicaEnderlePierce

First Comes Famine #34: Parasite (Six Sentence Sunday)

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Hello Sixers, welcome back for another Six Sentence Sunday post from my historical urban fantasy WIP, First Comes Famine. Last week Claire filleted Bartholomew’s scar from his arm, then taunted him. This week’s post continues the scene:

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Apocalypse_vasnetsov“Too painful to see yourself in a ravener like me?” She smirked, dropped the shirt, and added, “Perhaps a soul isn’t so attractive after all, aesir. It makes you weak.” She turned for the door, but paused and said over her shoulder, “That’s why the Horsemen wanted to escape. We’re the only ones from the Outer Darkness with any spine.”

Bartholomew retrieved the shirt and replied, “Yet you are the parasite here.”

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His tongue is as sharp as hers.

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Just a few more weeks of Six Sentence Sunday, so please take a moment to visit the official SSS site.

First Comes Famine #33: Filleted

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The house move is over, but there’s still a ton of work to do on the new (old) place. But I really wanted to get something posted since we’ve only got a few more weeks of Six Sentence Sunday left.

Been a while since I posted something with Bartholomew from First Comes Famine. The last installment had him in confrontation with Claire and she’d demanded his arm with the intent to cut him. That post is here.

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He did not flinch as she filleted his skin. He’d had centuries to grow numb to his unwanted mistress savoring his flesh. She chewed and swallowed and lapped up his blood, purring all the while. And, within minutes, Bartholomew’s wound had healed.

Claire straightened and said, “So you still can’t watch?” She snatched his white, linen shirt from a chair and wiped her lips.

 

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Ah, I’ve missed Claire; she’s such a peach.

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Please take a few minutes to hop back to the official Six Sentence Sunday site to find the list of other participating authors this week. Thanks!

 

The Glass Asylum #9: Blunt (Six Sentence Sunday)

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Going for brevity, tonight. It’s Six Sentence Sunday. This scene from my WIP (sequel to Girl Under Glass) takes place in a small, deep cave where Rachel’s been dumped.

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Rachels_CavernEhtishem sealed the opening and we were cut off from all communication. He rappelled back to the floor and shed his harness.

“You’re a dick,” I said.

“For coming here?”

“For risking your life and maybe leaving Pearl without parents. She’s tough, but she’s not like Ohnenrai kids.”

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Check out the other Six Sunday participants at the official 6SS site.

Thanks and Happy Holidays!