Tag Archives: writing

Famine #50: Just a Dream

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Hola, Weekend Writing Warriors, friends, and followers! It’s my anniversary weekend. Mr. Pierce and I have been married for seventeen years. (At least one of us deserves sainthood for that.) So I may be lax on making the WeWriWa rounds today.

I wanted to post this little snippet as a counterpoint to Bartholomew’s harsh words for Matilde last week. This follows a few pages after that confrontation. Bartholomew has learned that a disturbing dream had roused Matilde from bed and sent her searching through the books in his study.

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737px-Gustave_Dore_Inferno_Canto_21Matilde suddenly threw her arms around his waist and pressed her face to his chest. “Please don’t die.”

For a heartbeat, Bartholomew looked down at his ward then he wrapped his arms around her and murmured, “It was just a dream, ma chérie.”

She nodded against him. “It felt so real, and so awful.”

“Just a dream.” He caught her shoulders, eased her back, and leaned down to look into her eyes. “I’m fighting fit, Matilde, and too stubborn to die.”

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Okay, so the truth of that last sentence is a bit complicated, but she can find that out later. Thanks for stopping by and leaving comments. You guys, as always, are awesome. And please remember to check out the other WeWraWri participating blogs here.

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Famine #45: Enemies At-Hand (WeWriWa)

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It’s the weekend and we all know that means Weekend Writing Warriors. Thanks for leaving lovely comments on last week’a post from Famine. Today’s snippet is another random one that I hope you will enjoy.

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Apocalypse_vasnetsovEwan, Claire’s oldest and most dangerous ravener, stepped into the night and leaned over the balcony rail. He looked left and right, frowned, and then straightened. Besting Bartholomew’s six-plus feet by several inches, Ewan was a Scottish brute with cropped chestnut hair and a scar running from ear to ear across his face—a gift from Bartholomew. He shrugged out of his black frock coat, dropping it upon the balcony and leaving dark streaks on the clean laundry. Ewan swiped both sides of a blade clean with his tongue, returned it to its sheath, then hopped over the rail to the alley below.

A moment later, Barnes appeared, backlit by a fire’s wicked orange glow. He was followed by shouts and the thud of running feet and banging doors throughout the building. He shed a pair of kid gloves and tossed them back into the apartment, then he wiped his face on one of the sheets, leapt up to catch the roof, and disappeared over the ledge.

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Thanks for stopping by. Don’t forget to visit the Weekend Writing Warriors list to find links to more great snippets.

Famine #42: Between Two Worlds (Weekend Writing Warriors)

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Hello and welcome back for another WeWriWa post from Famine. On Monday I finished the first draft of this novel. Been letting it sit, and will dive into edits this week. Already started talking to ByteStudio Photography about cover concepts. Casting is moving forward and I’m looking into wardrobe, locations, and makeup/hair artists. So much fun! :D I love pulling together cover shoots.

In the meantime, I’m doling out another random scene. This one takes place on the Overland Flyer (the first transcontinental train in the U.S.).

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They had reached the Sierra Nevadas. Bartholomew stood upon the observation platform, smoking and watching the night go by. The mountains, glittering with frost beneath the full moon, looked like silver saw teeth cutting toward the stars. They hewed their way up through the stardust sky to cleave a line between Heaven and Earth.

Two worlds and he belonged to neither.

The door behind him opened to admit Matilde and Mrs. Henderson. “Goodness, the wind has a bite,” the governess said. “I’m reconsidering this foray, Miss Matilde; it’ll do none of us any good if you catch a chill.”

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Thanks for visiting and/or commenting. As always, I encourage you to check out all the other weekend writers posting at the Weekend Writing Warriors site.

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 #40: Mr. Vernon (wewriwa)

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Hello, again, readers and writers. Welcome back to another eight sentences posted for Weekend Writing Warriors. I’m cranking away on Famine, having passed the halfway mark on the first draft last week; hoping to finish it this month.

Since I finished posting the first chapter excerpts last week, I decided to randomly select the next scene. So let me introduce you to Mr. Vernon, Bartholomew’s butler. In this scene, which takes place on a train traveling from New York to Chicago, Matilde is chatting with him while Bartholomew, now her legal guardian, composes a letter.

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DixieKid_2“The fight was fairly won,” Mr. Vernon said as he buffed one of Monsieur’s tan toothpicks. He glanced up at Matilde, a smile quirking his lips, and added, “If you consider a thirty pound advantage fair.” He swiped his rag over the shoe, frowned, and went to work on its tapered toe.

“The advantage was yours, sir?” Matilde asked.

He nodded. “And the fight was my opponent’s doing. I wouldn’t have taken him on with such a disparity, Miss, but he kept at me about it. I knocked him down three times before the referee called it in my favor.”

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Thanks to all of you who stopped by last week, left comments, and encouraged me to get better. My kiddo got sick midweek, which set my own recovery back, so I’m still in bed. Nastiest cold season I can recall. I’m really quite sick of being sick.

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As always, I encourage you to stop by the Weekend Writing Warriors site and follow the list to lots of other fantastic snippets. It’s a lovely way to spend a Sunday.

First Comes Famine 38: Time

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Hello, again, weekend writers and readers. It’s Sunday and that means it’s time for another Weekend Writing Warriors post from my WIP, First Comes Famine.

Last week Bartholomew learned that, after an 1100-year search, the Catcher had led him to a new body to hold her soul. Unfortunately, it’s eight-year-old Matilde. Now he faces a life or death decision for this girl.

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SleepingHe had found the Catcher’s next body. But knowing what that meant for this innocent child made him feel monstrous.

He heard tapping and looked up to see a crow clinging to the windowsill in the moonlight. The bird cocked its head as if considering Matilde, and then looked back at Bartholomew and tapped the glass with its sharp, black beak.

Bartholomew stood. He wiped the blade with his handkerchief, returned it to its sheath, and slid that into his coat. He lifted his pocket watch and turned it between his fingers, feeling the movement as time slipped. Then he gazed down upon the girl.

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Thanks for stopping by. More WeWriWa participants can be found here. I hope you’ll take a few minutes to check out their posts this week, too.

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 #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.

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!