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Why not? Everyone likes to think their own work is diamonds, perhaps in the rough but diamonds all the same. Behold, my works in progress.
The Highwayman [months of research, and I have three scenes!]
The boom of a cannon at far too close a range jerked Josiah Eaden straight up in his bunk, which motion instantly propelled the top of his head into the bottom of the bed above. Pain added its clamor to the shouts and thuds and rumblings dinning his ears. Josh clapped one hand to his abused head and rolled out of his bunk, reminded once more that he was on board [ship's name], passenger, en route to Charleston in [name of colony], not snug in his feather bed at [college] and merely late to lecture.
"Walk On" [if only I could make the plot on this one work...and then get a better title]
Staring unseeing at the tableau being enacted opposite him, Xavier rested his aching face in his hands. His mind was awhirl with too little sleep, too much caffeine, too much information. Too much worry. Too much pain.
Occupation [one million words of high school crap....]
Smiling, the greying King watched his grandson scrambling around the garden, trying to catch his pet. The dog was faster than the boy, and much better equipped for this game, but Aris was intent on capturing him all the same. The boy's mother watched too, glad her son had such a cheerful disposition.
Kith and Kin [second Canum novel; current work in progress]
I blinked, and the raindrops collecting on my lashes joined their brethren streaming down my face. Arket stamped a dark hoof as broad as my hand against the sodden ground. Behind me and to the right, saddle leather creaked as Irie shifted from one hip to the other and sighed. Horse brasses jingled. Irie drummed a wet percussion against Dahl's neck.
What Does Not Break Us [third Canum novel]
They had waited until I was undressed and in bed to strike, having seen my skill with my blade. They had intended no death, just a beating.
[unnamed Canum novel set in Agosta]
Jeffrey--the King, that is--sprang the news on us carefully. I suppose he’d been talking with Guildmaster Taylor, who’d heard some of what had driven Irie and I eastward again. Between them, King Jeffrey and Charles Taylor neatly anticipated my reaction to news that the King was to marry.
[unnamed Canum novel set in Car Halan]
I looked out the window: still snowing. No one was going anywhere today. Probably not tomorrow either. I sighed and turned away from the window.
(I note that there is a first Canum novel, but it's finished and thus not really a WIP (though not published, so perhaps it counts). It's called In the Shape of a Man.)
"Father Cassidy, the Werewolf"
How he became a werewolf remains a matter of speculation. Father Cassidy was perfectly nondescript, an ordinary man. The only certain thing known to the community at large was the bare fact of his affliction—that, on the night of the full moon, Father Patrick Cassidy had turned into a furred animal larger than the largest dog in town, with thin legs and a huge ruff of greyish brown hair about the same color of the hair on the Father’s round head when he was in his more common shape. Father Cassidy was a werewolf.
"Fly Boy"
Dominic Angelozzi scraped the inedible bits of dinner--meat pie and mashed potatoes, tonight--into the slop can and set his plate on the stack to be washed. The grizzled old man behind the stack nodded and smiled. Dominic dropped his gaze and turned away.
[unnamed Mack Carandon story--this one is very old]
There comes a time in the life of every fugitive when running becomes habitual, when the instinct to hide, to look over both shoulders, becomes second nature. And, once the fugitive reaches this point, there is virtually no turning back.
[unnamed Robert of Red Sky novel]
My publicist introduced us. There were several people on or near the couch where he was sitting, so I didn’t catch names very well—not that I’m very good at that anyway. His was Robert something, a sculptor, and his face drew me for some reason. Maybe that I’d never seen a redhead who could take a tan so well—or a redhead with such cheekbones. Lounging there on the sofa, one arm casually across its back, long straight hair pulled back into a ponytail, he looked utterly at home until you looked at his eyes, really looked. The humor in his smile did not touch his eyes, which at this distance were just dark.
"Red"
Red. His hair was red. That was nearly always the first thing anyone ever said of him. Before they commented on his height.
"Straying"
"...so we ended up playing tickle the kitten while her boyfriend’s body cooled.” Gruf rumbled to a stop. His eyebrows shot twice toward the pronounced vee of his grey-brown widow’s peak. Abel, forever currying favor, snickered into the back of one filthy hand. An owl added its own hooting commentary to Gruf’s offering from a dusty, moss-hung oak on the near side of a vacant warehouse.
Wow. I had no idea there were so many hanging around. Straying, like Fly Boy and the Xavier short (Walk On), all suffer from fatal plot errors and are fixable, I think, if I could figure out what the plot's supposed to be doing. There is a reason this blog is called Climbing Plot Mountain. >:-]
The Highwayman [months of research, and I have three scenes!]
The boom of a cannon at far too close a range jerked Josiah Eaden straight up in his bunk, which motion instantly propelled the top of his head into the bottom of the bed above. Pain added its clamor to the shouts and thuds and rumblings dinning his ears. Josh clapped one hand to his abused head and rolled out of his bunk, reminded once more that he was on board [ship's name], passenger, en route to Charleston in [name of colony], not snug in his feather bed at [college] and merely late to lecture.
"Walk On" [if only I could make the plot on this one work...and then get a better title]
Staring unseeing at the tableau being enacted opposite him, Xavier rested his aching face in his hands. His mind was awhirl with too little sleep, too much caffeine, too much information. Too much worry. Too much pain.
Occupation [one million words of high school crap....]
Smiling, the greying King watched his grandson scrambling around the garden, trying to catch his pet. The dog was faster than the boy, and much better equipped for this game, but Aris was intent on capturing him all the same. The boy's mother watched too, glad her son had such a cheerful disposition.
Kith and Kin [second Canum novel; current work in progress]
I blinked, and the raindrops collecting on my lashes joined their brethren streaming down my face. Arket stamped a dark hoof as broad as my hand against the sodden ground. Behind me and to the right, saddle leather creaked as Irie shifted from one hip to the other and sighed. Horse brasses jingled. Irie drummed a wet percussion against Dahl's neck.
What Does Not Break Us [third Canum novel]
They had waited until I was undressed and in bed to strike, having seen my skill with my blade. They had intended no death, just a beating.
[unnamed Canum novel set in Agosta]
Jeffrey--the King, that is--sprang the news on us carefully. I suppose he’d been talking with Guildmaster Taylor, who’d heard some of what had driven Irie and I eastward again. Between them, King Jeffrey and Charles Taylor neatly anticipated my reaction to news that the King was to marry.
[unnamed Canum novel set in Car Halan]
I looked out the window: still snowing. No one was going anywhere today. Probably not tomorrow either. I sighed and turned away from the window.
(I note that there is a first Canum novel, but it's finished and thus not really a WIP (though not published, so perhaps it counts). It's called In the Shape of a Man.)
"Father Cassidy, the Werewolf"
How he became a werewolf remains a matter of speculation. Father Cassidy was perfectly nondescript, an ordinary man. The only certain thing known to the community at large was the bare fact of his affliction—that, on the night of the full moon, Father Patrick Cassidy had turned into a furred animal larger than the largest dog in town, with thin legs and a huge ruff of greyish brown hair about the same color of the hair on the Father’s round head when he was in his more common shape. Father Cassidy was a werewolf.
"Fly Boy"
Dominic Angelozzi scraped the inedible bits of dinner--meat pie and mashed potatoes, tonight--into the slop can and set his plate on the stack to be washed. The grizzled old man behind the stack nodded and smiled. Dominic dropped his gaze and turned away.
[unnamed Mack Carandon story--this one is very old]
There comes a time in the life of every fugitive when running becomes habitual, when the instinct to hide, to look over both shoulders, becomes second nature. And, once the fugitive reaches this point, there is virtually no turning back.
[unnamed Robert of Red Sky novel]
My publicist introduced us. There were several people on or near the couch where he was sitting, so I didn’t catch names very well—not that I’m very good at that anyway. His was Robert something, a sculptor, and his face drew me for some reason. Maybe that I’d never seen a redhead who could take a tan so well—or a redhead with such cheekbones. Lounging there on the sofa, one arm casually across its back, long straight hair pulled back into a ponytail, he looked utterly at home until you looked at his eyes, really looked. The humor in his smile did not touch his eyes, which at this distance were just dark.
"Red"
Red. His hair was red. That was nearly always the first thing anyone ever said of him. Before they commented on his height.
"Straying"
"...so we ended up playing tickle the kitten while her boyfriend’s body cooled.” Gruf rumbled to a stop. His eyebrows shot twice toward the pronounced vee of his grey-brown widow’s peak. Abel, forever currying favor, snickered into the back of one filthy hand. An owl added its own hooting commentary to Gruf’s offering from a dusty, moss-hung oak on the near side of a vacant warehouse.
Wow. I had no idea there were so many hanging around. Straying, like Fly Boy and the Xavier short (Walk On), all suffer from fatal plot errors and are fixable, I think, if I could figure out what the plot's supposed to be doing. There is a reason this blog is called Climbing Plot Mountain. >:-]
