Kate Warren

Welcome back to another wonderful Weekend for Writing Warriors!  I spent hours going over my WIP looking for the right eight sentences to post, scrolling randomly through the chapters.  Finally I decided that sleep might be important and I should continue from last week.

Last week, of course, Baron Frederick Spencer was surprised to be informed that his beloved granddaughter had been attacked, and then the man informing him of it immediately announced his wish to marry the girl.

I've skipped a few sentences here, and used creative punctuation.  We're in Chapter 7, and Anton has answered Baron Spencer's question of "Who are you?" by giving his name and saying that he is the son of Count DuClerque.  Baron Spencer, you must remember, has been out of the country for twenty years.




          The baron looked skeptical.  "You are too young to be Honore's son."

          "True--it is my grandsire you speak of Baron Spencer, he was made Duke of Oglen some years past--my father, Marcel DuClerque, now carries the title of Count.

          Frederick was not surprised to learn that Honore, so long ignored by king Gustave--to that ruler's folly and detriment--had been rewarded by King Phillip for his service by the granting of a dukedom.  "And you propose to wed my Graciela?"

          "Yes, your excellency."

          "Take me to her."  He would decide about the marriage later...after speaking with the Duke of Oglen and the current Count DuClerque.




Frederick is a practical man.  First he must see to Graciela.  Everything else, and everyone else, can wait.  That's my snippet for the week.  Be sure to visit all the other talented WeWriWa authors!

Kate

Welcome friends and neighbors to another awesome weekend.  Why is it awesome?  Because with the weekend comes posts from the Weekend Writing Warriors, a group of authors who post exactly eight sentences of their work and link back to the WeWriWa website.  Click on the picture at the left or the link above to visit the site and find the list filled with literary deliciousness for your enjoyment!

Side note: there is something terribly odd going on with the font formatting on my website.  I may have to contact someone about it.

As previously mentioned, I am switching back to my historical work-in-progress (The DeFord Chronicles, Part II) for the new year.  The goal is to finally get the first draft finished, and if I'm very lucky, get it published before the end of 2014.  Given that it's been a while since I posted from this one, I considered going back to the beginning, but decided random scrolling is way more fun.  This week's excerpt is brought to you be stir-crazy mothers everywhere (hang in there--school will start again soon!) and by Chapter 21. 

In this excerpt, young Prince Dimitri is delighting in the company of a young woman to whom he has lost his heart.  He has yet to find a way to tell Lilia of his feelings however, and fears that she might not return his regard. 

She was to him the essence of feminine perfection—a model of maidenly virtue and beauty.  Her modesty was unequalled by any at court, and he should know, he had spent his life among young ladies who seemed to think his brother Nicholas and himself the sole ambition in life worth attaining.  Lilia was not aware of her own appeal, and that in and of itself he found utterly charming.  She did not see the way her eyes lit when she heard a beautiful piece of music.  She did not know that her skin glowed in the light of candles.  She did not seem to think herself particularly lovely, and her ears, which the prince found charming, she considered to be her greatest visible flaw.  Lilia thought her hair a tedious shade of dark brown and her eyes unremarkable.  But to Dimitri she had tresses like the coat of the most beautiful horse he had ever seen, and her gaze was expressive beyond words, the color of those speaking orbs seeming to him a mixture of amber and wild honey.




Poor Dimitri.  His thoughts are so poetic, but when he opens his mouth around Lilia, he's rather less eloquent.  That's all from me this week.  See you around the blogs!

Kate

This scene isn't set at New Year's but for all those who have been asking about the mystery blonde in Jackson's hotel suite, I decided to post that scene in its entirety.  I'll be switching back to my historical fiction series in January, so if you want to know where my last few week's of WeWriWa posts (from my Christmas comedy WIP North Pole: Confidential) were heading, read on...




          After a week at the North Pole Jackson still marveled that there was a hotel anywhere in the world that still used actual keys instead of key cards or some other advanced technology.  He fished his room key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock only to find that his room door was unlocked already.  He let it swing in, even more surprised to find that a light was on in the kitchen portion of the suite, and from the angle of the beams on the floor it looked like there was one on in the bedroom as well.  He kicked off his shoes to minimize the sound of his footfalls.

          Cautiously, he drew the gun he always carried on his person and eased into the room, checking behind the door and keeping his back to one wall as much as possible.  There was music playing softly, and a crackling blaze in the fireplace, but other than that he could not hear anything suspicious.  Moving silently, he kicked the door closed and it shut with a loud bang.

          “Oh,” a soft, feminine voice exclaimed.  “Jack?  Is that you?”

          Jackson gritted his teeth.  He hated it when people called him Jack, and strangers in his personal space calling him that was a particular pet peeve of his.  “Pizza delivery!” he called out, training his gun on the direction from which the voice had come.

          “But I didn’t order any, oh!”  The petite blonde stopped at the sight of a gun aimed at her head.  She put a hand to her heart and slumped against a wall, the red satin of her negligee riding up her thigh as she leaned.  “It is you!  Thank goodness.  For a minute there I was scared.”

          Jackson stood frozen in place and blinked mutely for a minute.  The girl looked familiar to him.  She had pointy ears so she was obviously a local.  He recognized her face, but for the life of him could not bring up her name.  The music, fire and negligee were far too easy to read, and while he might have been flattered under other circumstances, at the moment he was just pissed off.  Finally he found his voice and said “What the hell are you doing in my suite?”

          She smiled in a way that reminded him of a smug neighborhood cat that had annoyed the hell out of him during his childhood.  He had gotten more than one scratch from that little bastard, and he would not be surprised if this one scratched too.  She tilted her head and gave him what he was sure she thought was her best appreciative gaze.  “I should think that would be obvious, Jack.”

          His arms relaxed a bit and he lowered the gun as he bit out, “My name is Jackson, not Jack.  You’ve got two minutes to explain who you are and why you’re really here before I throw you out.  If you talk fast you might have time to get dressed too.”

          She bristled and moved her painted lips into a practiced pout.  “You mean you don’t remember me?”

          “Let me see,” he pretended to think, “blonde, presumptuous, way too high an opinion of herself—reminds me of a couple dozen women, but the pointy ears narrow it down to … no one I know.”  He used the gun to point to where her jeans lay draped over the back of a chair.  “Clock’s ticking, Goldilocks.  Start with your name.”

          She let out an exasperated breath and pulled the jeans on as she answered.  “Joellen.  Joellen Baxter.  We met this morning at the Bakery.  I would have thought you’d remember.” She shot him a look of irritation.

          “Thought doesn’t seem to be high on your priority list.” He countered.  “What’s with the seduction scene?  I’ve had my share of luck with women, but I’m not that irresistible.”

          “Don’t underestimate yourself Jack.” She purred.

          He stepped closer, pressing the gun to her cleavage and speaking through clenched teeth.  “It’s Jackson.  And the next person to call me Jack is going to get a lesson so harsh, they’ll never call anyone Jack again.”

          Joellen’s eyes widened and she seemed to finally understand that her prey was not in the mood.  “I didn’t mean anything by this.  Well, I mean I was planning to seduce you, but that was all I wanted.”

          His eyes narrowed to intimidating face slits (I know!  I'll change it later).  “Why?”

          “To…” she faltered briefly, truly frightened by the intensity of the dislike blazing in his ocular orbs.  “To steal you from Angel.”

          Jackson was so surprised he nearly dropped his weapon.  “What?  Steal me from…?  We’re not even a thing.”

          “You’re not?” Her jaw fell. “You mean I went to all this trouble for nothing?”  She threw her hands in the air.  “Great!  Total waste of an evening!  Unless…” she turned and threw him a sultry look.

          He holstered his gun and ran a hand through his hair.  “Finish getting dressed.  Why did you even think I was involved with Angel?”

          Joellen’s words were muffled on occasion as she slipped back into the rest of her clothes.  “It’s pretty obvious she likes you.  And you weren’t exactly dying to get away from her either.”

          Jackson shook his head.  He did not understand women at all.  Because he didn’t ignore someone it meant he was dating her?  What book was that rule written in?  Not one he’d read, that was for sure.  Nor did he understand why Joellen would want him just because she thought Angel had him.  Did women really do things like that?  He’d known a few dirt bag guys who would steal another man’s woman just to prove they could, but he thought women were above that sort of thing and were just looking for someone to love them.

          Joellen emerged from the next room, fully clothed.  “Listen, it’s not that I just go to bed with any guy.  I do find you very attractive.  I wouldn’t have done this if I didn’t think I’d have a good time while I was at it.”

          “That’s practical, I suppose.” Jackson said with a bemused expression on his face.  “Look, I appreciate the compliment, and you’re a very pretty girl … woman … elf …  But we seem to be on different wave lengths here.  You’re too hot, I’m too cold, and after the week I’ve had sleep sounds just right.”

          He walked her to the door and was about to let her out when a thought occurred to him.  “You would really have slept with me just to hurt Angel?”

          “Yes,” she admitted brazenly, and rubbed up against him.  “And the offer still stands if you change your mind, Mr. Frost.”

          He looked down into her smoldering eyes, at her cherry red lips, and said “My mother told me always let a lady down gently.  But you’re not a lady.”  He opened the door and shoved her out into the hall shouting “not in a million years, blondie” loudly enough for anyone nearby to hear, and then slammed the door in her face, locking it for emphasis.

          Next he did the only sensible thing: had a sandwich and a glass of milk, brushed and flossed his teeth, and went to bed.  Alone. 




May 2014 be filled with blessings for you and yours!

Kate

Welcome to this special birthday edition of Weekend Writing Warriors. 

Everyone in my family has been sick lately (one at a time, thankfully) including myself.  My birthday wish was that no one vomit today and thus far, no one has.  My husband was the last to get the dread virus, and seems to have worse symptoms than the rest of us did, but he's the only one who has kept all his food down, so I'm pretty impressed at this point.  I'm also pretty tired so without further ado I give you...the next eight!

I did a little creative punctuation here, for which I'm certain I'll be forgiven.  A little of the mystery should be cleared up this week.  Hope you like them:




          The petite blonde stopped at the sight of a gun aimed at her head.  She put a hand to her heart and slumped against a wall, the red satin of her negligee riding up her thigh as she leaned.  "It is you!  Thank goodness...for a minute there I was scared."

          Jackson stood frozen in place and blinked mutely for a minute.  The girl looked familiar to him--she had pointy ears so she was obviously a local; he recognized her face but for the life of him could not bring up her name.  The music, fire, and negligee were far too easy to read, and while he might have been flattered under other circumstances, at the moment he was just pissed off.  Finally he found his voice and said "What the hell are you doing in my suite?"




That's my eight for this week.  I'll do my best to make all my visits in a timely manner, and I'll see you all next year!

Kate

Greetings ladies and gentleman.  Christmas is fast approaching and I almost forgot to post this.  Between preparations for the holiday (plus two birthdays) and my fibro hitting me hard lately, it's hard to keep track of everything.

But, the tree is up, the presents are wrapped, and here I am typing so no worries. 

Before I post my eight I want to take a moment to thank those who read and comment.  It means so much to writers to get feedback on our work.  Even just a few words can literally make our day.  So thank you for reading, and a double thank you for those who comment, review, email, etc. 

Now on to the Eight!  By popular demand I am continuing where last week's snippet left off in Chapter 5:







          “Jack?  Is that you?”

          Jackson gritted his teeth.  He hated it when people called him Jack, and strangers in his personal space calling him that was a particular pet peeve of his.  “Pizza delivery!” he called out, training his gun on the direction from which the voice had come.

          “But I did not order any, oh!”  The petite blonde stopped at the sight of a gun aimed at her head.  She put a hand to her heart and slumped against a wall, the red satin of her negligee riding up her thigh as she leaned. 




*************************




That's my eight for this week.  I'll see you around the internet between addressing Christmas cards and baking cookies.  And if we don't connect between now and then, Merry Christmas, Blessed Kwanzaa, Happy New Year, and a lovely whatever else you care to celebrate.




Kate

Welcome friends and readers.  It's good to be back!  I've missed the Weekend Writing Warriors crowd.

My timing isn't the best as I have a meeting tomorrow, but I had a meeting today too.  This is a busy weekend.  But I'll make sure to make my round of visits if it takes me all through Monday to do it!

I thought I'd give everyone a taste of my new WIP (not that the old one is finished by any means).  North Pole: Confidential  tells the story of what really goes on up there.  Jackson Frost is a detective sent up north to investigate a missing elf case.  Posing as a writer doing research for a book and a magazine article, he finds himself charmed by the small town atmosphere, the comprehensive healthcare, and Santa's daughter Angel.  But sinister forces are at work and it is up to Jackson and a cast of colorful characters to save the day, and maybe even Christmas.

Using the random scrolling method I give you eight lines from Chapter 5.



          After a week at the North Pole Jackson still marveled that there was a hotel anywhere in the world that still used actual keys instead of key cards or some other advanced technology.  He fished his room key from his pocket and inserted it into the lock only to find that his room door was unlocked already.  He let it swing in, even more surprised to find that a light was on in the kitchen portion of the suite, and from the angle of the beams on the floor it looked like there was one on in the bedroom as well.  He kicked off his shoes to minimize the sound of his footfalls.
          Cautiously, he drew the gun he always carried on his person and eased into the room, checking behind the door and keeping his back to one wall as much as possible.  There was music playing softly, and a crackling blaze in the fireplace, but other than that he could not hear anything suspicious.  Moving silently, he kicked the door closed and it shut with a loud bang.
          “Oh,” a soft, feminine voice exclaimed.




That's it for me.  I don't know why my blog has switched fonts on me but, oh well.  See you around the blogs of other great WeWriWa participants!

Kate

November has come and gone, and with it my participation in National Novel Writing Month.  This was a hard-fought victory over stress and circumstances beyond anyone's control.

Now is the time to take a break, but not too long a break.  I will go back to working on The DeFord Chronicles, Part II.  The goal is to finish, edit, and publish it in 2014.  If all goes well, North Pole: Confidential may also be finished, edited, and published before the end of next year.  But I don't want to set my expectations too high, as we never know what life holds in store for us in the future.

My family had a nice Thanksgiving with two exceptions: three of the kids were in various stages of sickness, and I burned one of my fingers due to an unnoticed hole in an oven mitt.


I hope everyone has been well in my absence, and I promise to attempt getting back to a normal posting schedule.  I also hope to resume my participation in Weekend Writing Warriors.  Been missing the WeWriWa crowd, and reading everyone's posts.

That's all for just now.  I'll post again next week, if not before.

Kate

It's been another week of rain and sun.  Another week of triumphs and disappointments.  And I did not get my photos taken after all.  But I will.  At some point.

Anyway, it's time once again for Weekend Writing Warriors and eight sentences from my WIP medieval novel The DeFord Chronicles, Part II.  One of these days I'll give you an excerpt from the one that came before it, but today is not that day.

Random scrolling commencing in three...two...one...and we have landed in Chapter 27, where King Phillip's council are meeting regarding the threats against the royal family.  The observation that the villian must be a nobleman due to the reading and writing involved in the plot has led to a few jokes (trust me it makes sense in context)--but one man is not laughing.  The very night before this meeting Stanley St. Robert's daughter Lilia died as a result of one of the attacks.




          Lord St. Robert stood up and viewed his fellow nobles with disgust.  “Amusing though we all find murder and treason to be, I suggest we put our efforts into finding the bastard responsible, rather than jesting about it. And I shall start by openly swearing that if I find any man in this room has been tied in any way to the plot against our king I will personally cut off his head.”  He stalked from the room without his majesty’s leave.
          Several of the others rose at the insult to their sovereign, but Phillip waved them back to their seats.  “Let him go. Lord St. Robert is not himself, and we all know why.  I shall add that if any of my council is involved, I shall be only too happy to write the warrants for his arrest and execution, after Lord St. Robert has accomplished the latter; for I do not think my pen as swift as his blade.”  



The king is right about that too.  Stanley was the best swordsman in his army during the revolution.  He's not a man to cross.   That's all for me this week.  I'll see you around as I visit some of my favorite authors for Weekend Writing Warriors.

Greetings friends, and welcome to another smashing edition of Weekend Writing Warriors, where daring and brilliant writers around the world showcase exactly eight sentences of their work. 

I'd like to take this moment--not that moment, this one--to thank everyone who comes to visit me and leaves their comments each weekend.  You have become dear friends and I look forward to your feedback each week.

It's the monthly SCA meeting this Sunday so my own visits may take into Monday but rest assured I will be making them.  I think I even got the computer issues that were so bothersome last Sunday fixed!

And now...on with the show.  Last week some of you expressed an interest in meeting the kitchen boy who is so central to the controversy of Chapter 30.  I shall oblige you by backing up and giving eight sentences from Chapter 28 involving our young messenger.  Our kitchen boy was found in Lord DeFord's room by Lord DeFord's good friend Sir James Quinly, who of course asked for an explanation of what the young scamp was doing there.  This excerpt features editing and creative punctuation.



          “I was sent by a lady, sir...to leave something for my Lord DeFord--it is to be a surprise, she said.”  The boy looked at him innocently.
          “What lady?”
          “I know not, sir--I did not see her face; she was hidden in the shadows--but she had on a dark cape.”  
          The boy led him over to a table near the window where Chauncy kept his correspondence. Upon the surface lay an unfinished message and black sealing wax.  James gripped the boy’s shoulder. 
           “Have I done wrong sir?”



I should probably mention that this kitchen boy is quite young, illiterate, and hungry.  An easy mark for a mysterious person who might offer him food or coin for a task he did not understand.  Oh, and all the threats against the royal family have had black sealing wax on them.  Red was the common color for sealing wax, so the black is particularly important here.

That's all for me this weekend.  See you around the net.

Kate

P.S. Please consider checking out my last post

Hello fellow Weekend Writing Warriors!  It's good to be back.  I've missed you all and am looking forward to making the rounds again.  Camp NaNoWriMo's April session went well.  I did not accomplish my goal of finishing the draft, but I am some 50,000 words closer to doing just that. 

This week, a sample of what I wrote during my absence.  Using my signature random scrolling method, I give you eight sentences from Chapter 30 of The DeFord Chronicles, Part II.  Our hero, Chauncy DeFord has been framed for murder and treason.  The king has just explained the circumstances under which evidence against Lord DeFord was found in said hero's chambers in the palace.  It is known that the criminal must be a member of the nobility, and the innocence of our hero depends--in the eyes of most of the king's council--on the word of a young kitchen boy.


          Two lords were visibly relieved, most of the others were skeptical.  “Why should anyone take the word of a mere kitchen boy?”
          “He could have been bribed.”
          “Yes, or threatened.”
          The king’s face grew a bit red.  “I examined the boy myself and detected no sign of either.  As to who would take the word of a kitchen boy, why should such a child be considered less honest than a member of the nobility who commits treason? At the moment I am inclined to believe my lower subjects far more pure and honorable than a good share of the nobles.”


Poor King Phillip.  It's a trying situation, but there are some on his council who are in agreement about Lord DeFord's being innocent.  For more from The DeFord Chronicles, Part II check out my last blog post.  It contains a lengthy excerpt.

I'm looking forward to reading all the wonderful excerpts, by the wonderful authors who make up the Weekend Writing Warriors.  See you around the web! :o)

Kate