Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.

Been a while. I know. I know.

I’ve been off my schedule for months now. (RIP big brother) I did promise to attempt to become more regular on my blog, so since it’s January, here tis. My first of the year installment.

TADA!

I write to keep my sanity at times, and at times….well, to lose it. You know how it is. So to ease in to the new year of blogging, I thought I’d offer other writers a lil something to help spread their words.

I’ll post a short sample of my new WIP, and you can post a short sample of yours in the comments with a link to your own blog so we can visit, comment, or see more writing.

How’s that?

Short and sweet now, cause they won’t fit in the comments otherwise. wink.

I’m writing a new novella: Sons of Alkaia. It’s an installment in the Water Witch series and picks up after Theron’s Taless, but before Water Witch. I’m having fun with it.

Remember: this is first raw vulnerable draft, my pretties.

sons of alkaia v2Sons of Alkaia

The wolves smelled the milk and womb blood on her–and they came. Alkaia heard them snuffling at the perimeter of the darkness where the firelight couldn’t reach. It had taken her far too long to tinder that pitiful flame that separated her from the night and she’d protected it like she’d protected nothing in her life before.

Except for the man, she reminded herself, and then quickly threw ash on the light of that memory. Truth was, she was here now. Exiled from her people and her land. Alone in the night with a paltry flame. No. Not alone. The babe mewled from the spot where she’d left it, close enough to the fire that the predators wouldn’t dare make for it, and far enough away that the sparks wouldn’t land and catch his swaddling fur afire.

She supposed the wolves heard its piteous cry as well. More reason to come stalking a warrior in the night when they thought her vulnerable. Alkaia considered leaving the squalling thing where it lay, taking a stick with a good burning end off into the darkness and making camp elsewhere. Leave the wretched child to the wolves. But the bare truth of it was there were too many beasts in the pine forest to be sated by a newborn male. They’d come for her afterwards, their appetites piqued by the flavor of tender meat and newborn milk.

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Thea Atkinson is a writer of character driven fiction.

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9 comments on “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.
  1. While losing weight, while Diet focuses on natural goodness, no processed foods to consume.

  2. diannegray says:

    I loved yours and Viv’s WIPs. I’ve got some of the prologue of my latest WIP (in VERY rough draft form here). The WIP is called The Ultra Terrestrials and is a about a girl who finds a box left to her by her great-grandfather that contains something that opens doors to other worlds.

    “Gonzalo knelt down beside the corpse whose face was swollen and blue from the garrote that was still around his neck. He took a knife from his leather satchel and cut the strap from the cadaver’s neck. Atahualpa’s body lurched one last time and from his mouth spewed blood and vomit.
    The executioner pushed Gonzalo away, ‘Enough!’ he said. ‘The heathen will never be saved!’
    He bowed his head as the body was dragged through the door to the cheers of the Spanish soldiers waiting outside.
    He prayed for this Inca civilization that had once been so great, and now ended with nothing but a trail of blood and sputum across a stone floor.
    The setting sun speared through the window and the mess from Atahualpa’s gut that was now beginning to dry. In the midst of it Gonzalo noticed a flash of gold light. He moved closer and examined the sludge. Taking his knife he flicked some muck away and there, in a mass off red bubbles he found a gold coin. He kicked it across the floor and wiped it with the bottom of his boot. It was like no other coin he had ever seen. It’s only marking – a five cornered star.”

    There you have it!🙂

  3. Viv says:

    Well, I loved yours, so be gentle with mine:
    “Book shops had always drawn John, right from that very first visit aged no more than about three years old. He’d stood mesmerised, enchanted by this cavern of shelves and shadows, the air chill and filled with a perfume that took him years to identify as paper, ink and years. He’d fled from his parents, scampering up the narrow uneven stairs covered with worn but intricately patterned carpet salvaged from scraps of lost and ruined Persian rugs, seeking adventure. The floor had creaked, but it had not seemed sinister, more a kind of growled greeting from a friendly old dog.
    “Johnny? Where have you gone?”
    His mother’s voice rose, coaxing and beguiling and he returned down the stairs to rejoin his parents, to be directed at the more suitable children’s section, with its bright board books and shiny pages with kittens and puppies and simple stories and nursery rhymes. But in his mind he still stood amid the stacks and rows of old books, their names lost in darkness and age, their contents mysterious and alluring, and he gazed on the pages of the children’s books with a growing awareness, unconscious at first, that these were merely stepping stones to the realms of dragons lodged above.
    By four he read more fluently than many adults. Bookshops and libraries became his natural abode, and the smell of ink and paper became his incense, the words within becoming the beat and rhythm of his life. He’d never expected that that constant mild thrill of stepping into a bookshop would ever be surpassed by any other experience in life. The touch of a leather spine softened by fifty years of fingers was a sensuous pleasure like no other, the rustle of pages being riffled to find a sought-after poem or quotation a subtle music that held him like a lover and made his heart dance while his body remained silent and still with inward bliss.
    It had been in a bookshop that Tess had made her first appearance in his life, he thought, though it was some time before he knew her name. He’d been heading up the stairs to his favourite section of his usual bookshop when he’d heard a giggle. His first reaction was shock. It was not the most popular section, and laughter seemed as inappropriate there as in a church. He carried on, and as he made the awkward little turning on the narrow landing, he stopped, unable for a moment to carry on.
    There was a girl, standing in the centre of the room, dancing silently, her head thrown back, eyes closed. Her arms were hugged tightly to her chest, and beneath the loose floating sleeves of her shirt he could see the corners of a book as she held it tightly to her heart and danced. Her face was in shadows, the light from the smeary window behind her illuminating her hair instead, making a halo of burnished chestnut. Dust danced in the sunbeams, glittering and swirling as the girl’s movements disturbed them further.
    It was such a private, intense moment John flushed and turned away, as if he had witnessed her touching herself, and he fled to the next room, his composure and balance disturbed as much as the dust had been. An after image of her silhouette burned in his mind, the absorption of her dance making him tingle in ways he didn’t recognise.
    Like a dryad, he thought, a nymph worshipping in a grove of books. ”
    Sorry it’s a bit long.
    Happy New Year, by the way, much love to you and yours.
    xx

    • Oh Viv! So poetic and lyrical as always. So will it be a bit of a romance, then? I like the character of the girl who is dancing in a bookshop. I love his perception of her even more.

      What’s the title of the WIP?

      • Viv says:

        Oh no, not a romance at all, but shhh, don’t want to spoil it!! Title is “Belle Dame”. Only about 6k into it, ideas arrived pre-Christmas, started January 1st, then a few days in I came down with the ‘flu which scuppered the whole “I’ll write for an hour every day” thing. Was feeling a bit better, then I woke up this morning feeling ill again.
        I’m hoping to read Blood Witch this week or next, as I enjoyed Water Witch so much. Need something entirely different to what I have been reading lately, but we got Christmas money to burn, and we both bought new copies of The Hobbit as ours are falling apart (we have the same edition from our teens) so I got the pocket edition of the 75th anniversary edition and he got the graphic novel version!

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