August Snippets

pinterest: the white sail's shaking

The time has rolled round once more for the fabulous Monthly Snippets meme, from Katie's Whisperings of the Pen.  For the past month I have been doing much more editing than proper writing, but as there have been some scenes that I've had to completely overhaul and rewrite, I believe I'll be able to draw together enough snippets to participate.

Also, in the process of edits for The White Sail's Shaking, I am coming to the conclusion that the story will in fact be split into two novels.  Of course this was a new and shocking idea for me, but after much agony and thought, I'm not only reconciled, but quite pleased with it.  Until I have thoughts, titles, and edits ironed out, however, the story will continue under the single title The White Sail's Shaking.  But keep an eye out for changes on that front!

august snippets

Charlie looked round when Tip swung up beside him, his disinterest warping into irritation. “What do you want?” he demanded. 

Tip’s anger was still very much present, and, what was worse, yet unvoiced; and though he knew it was unreasonable, he retorted, “What, have you taken possession of the ratlines? I think I’m free to skylark 

if I want.” 

“Skylarking is forbidden,” Charlie said, “actually.”

- the white sail's shaking 

Lewis twisted; Marta choked and turned her head as well, blinking painfully at the approaching figure. The seagulls were still reeling in a flurry of white and grey at the man’s back, and for a moment they were far clearer than he. Then she brought him into focus and saw, with a sick wrench of the knot in her throat, 

that it was Brighton.

- the white sail's shaking

The thief was on his feet; he turned sideways into an alley, pushing himself one-handed along the walls, but in a second bound Tip was on him. The coarse cloth of the man’s shirt gave in Tip’s fist with a retching sound, so he simply went deeper, digging his fingers into the back of the thief’s neck and swinging the knife around to his throat. 

“You son of a dog!” he snarled, staggering a little as the man wrenched himself about. “Stand still! Stand still, or I’ll slit your throat—your blood and not his: is that you want?”

- the white sail's shaking

"The love of the sea’s a powerful thing, but some things in life call stronger still.”

- the white sail's shaking

Some chickens, you know, are frightfully silly and will do anything to hide their eggs.  You wouldn't think it of Patsy; she seems so innocent and sweet.  But Gossamer and I held council, and decided it was best to be safe.

So today we conducted a Search.  And by Search, Father, I do not mean a bit of poking; I mean a SEARCH.  We ransacked the hen house!  Feathers flew!  Straw was overturned!  We looked in and under roosts, in cracks and crevices - nothing.  Mid-morning we abandoned the search, for Aiden said if we kept it up, none of the other hens would lay for a week.

- sunshine & gossamer

"Do you mean to say - " She could not seem to finish any of her sentences; she made a greater effort.  "You don't mean, ma'am, that you think the master of the house is - "

"A vampire?  Oh!"  Mrs. Godands sat back, letting up a string of squeals from the chair.  "Goodness, no, dear, not he.  He's as alive as I - aliver, for I'm getting up there.  No, no, not a vampire, but mightily eccentric.  I suppose all bachelors get to be just a little eccentric but he goes quite, 

quite to the edge of respectability."

- tempus regina

Beautiful People - Sunshine

pinterest: sunshine & gossamer

It's August!  Who would have thought it?  July seemed at once very long and far too short, for now the summer is drawing to a close.  Eep!

Anyhow, I thought I would usher in the new month with a Beautiful People.  (Because my brain is such a cauldron of Tempus Regina ideas and White Sail's edits that it's not good for much else.  Oh dear.)  Last month, with Georgie and Sky's free-write edition, I did Regina; this month, still using the free-write, I decided to go with a much lighter subject: Sunshine, of my in-dabbling-progress story Sunshine & Gossamer.  This is the novel I relax with - a dash of whimsy and childhood and kitty whiskers - and while it is not properly "in progress," I thought it about time to introduce the main character.

sunshine

1. How old is she?

I haven't been quite able to pin down Sunshine's age; in some ways she seems older than she really is, and in others she's very much a child.  I would say that, upon her arrival to Farrowdell, Wales, at the beginning of the story, she is ten or eleven.

2. What does she look like?  What color are her hair and eyes?

Sunshine's looks are fitting to her name: she has tawny-blonde hair that bobs in loose curls halfway down her shoulder-blades, long, darker eyelashes, and eyes that are typically blue with a lighter ring around the pupils.  She is naturally pale, but days spent outside give her some color; in the summer she freckles across her shoulders, but not on her face.  Sunshine is not tall, but she has long legs - good for scrambling up trees - and her frocks are always getting too short without her ever seeming to gain much height.

3. Where does she live?  Describe her surroundings.

Sunshine comes from the suburbs of London, where her mother and father owned a small home, but she now lives with her Aunt Katherine on a farm in Wales, Farrowdell.  (At least, that's how Sunshine pronounces it.)  Farrowdell sits on more land than Sunshine had seen in the first decade of her life, so that the house, a cottage surrounded by a wooden fence and a tangle of white roses, seems insignificant.  From the little courtyard, you can look between the fence-slats and see, straight ahead, a rise in the unpaved road that winds to the village; to the left, the "new" barn sitting atop a rise in the grass, and some of the pastures beyond it; and to the right, a tumble of unbroken grass and a stream. 

4. Does she own a pet?

Before he left to join the airforce, Sunshine's father gave her a little black kitten whom she named Gossamer.  However, he's not exactly a pet: he's a friend and a person, with a strong will of his own.  She does eventually have the responsibility of taking care of the chickens, and she considers those her "pets."  She tries to name them all, but they look so much alike that the names get mixed.

5. What is her absolute favorite book?

Treasure Island, by R.L. Stevenson.  She has a great longing to sail the Spanish Main (without quite knowing where or what it is) and engage Barbecue in a naval battle worthy of the history books.  She would defeat him, of course, but she thinks she would be merciful and not have him walk the plank.

6. What does she do on a sunny day?  A rainy day?

There are more things to do at Farrowdell than time in any one day to do them.  On sunny days she might float boats in the pond, or carry an armload of books to the Reading Tree, or tag along behind Aiden, the young man who runs Farrowdell.  On a rainy day she might play in the courtyard and get good and sopping wet, or race down to the Reading Tree because she just recalled she left something important there, or she might go up and play with Gossamer in her room.

7. Is there something of which she is particularly afraid?

The mail.  On the days when she is around to see the mail delivered, she is always afraid that it will have a letter or telegram announcing her father's death.  Depending on her mood, she can also be afraid of thunderstorms.  And wasps.

8. Where is her favorite place to be?

She is very fond of her bedroom, though it isn't anything special; she hauled an empty crate up to the window and can now sit and look out over Farrowdell.  This is how she likes to watch the sunrise, when she can crawl out of bed early enough to see it.  She also enjoys being at the stream or the pond.

9. What are her favourite clothes?

Sunshine does not often pay much attention to her clothes, but she does enjoy a shopping excursion to the village.  Currently she has a grey Sunday dress and three every-day dresses: dark grey, brown, and apple-green-and-cream.  I very much fear that the apple green won't last her long.  Besides these, Sunshine is awfully fond of her black wellies.

10. Besides Gossamer, is she fond of animals?

Very much so.  She enjoys looking at the cows, though she finds them a little daunting; she stays clear of the bull.  The chickens are so fat and fluffy that she frequently gives in to the desire to cuddle them, for which she gets thoroughly pecked.  Farrowdell also has one old sow (very cranky and ugly: she's got warts) and two mice behind the "old" barn who appear but rarely, and seem to use it as a sort of country-home.  There is a spider who lives outside of Sunshine's window, and she's even fond of it (as long as it stays there, on the outside). 

July Snippets

pinterest: the white sail's shaking

It's time again for the next installment of Katie's monthly snippets meme!  (For those of you participating in her "Actually Finishing Something July," this is great incentive to share clips of your recent scribbles.  Just saying.)  I haven't done much writing proper in July, other than the odd scene scribbled out in the odder notebook, but I did crank out several chapters in June, so I have things to feature.

july snippets

There was no backing out now, nor would Tip have done it if he could have; he was far too bull-headed, and far too keenly aware of it. Wordlessly he began to roll back his sleeves, ever keeping an eye on Lewis’ movements, the familiar, comforting thrill of the fight running spider-wise across his skin. The sun sparking between the oak leaves made the shadows and the light run wild while the two of them adjusted their positions, and as it lit Lewis’ face for just a moment, Tip saw that he had been wrong: this man was slow at nothing. 

James protested again, but the words fell, as always, on deaf ears.

- the white sail's shaking

“My sanity is of no consequence to you.”

- the white sail's shaking

Overhead a seaman was attempting to tune his fiddle in a fit of yowls and twangs. Another called out that the strings would be wet, and a third, louder than his fellows, retorted that it made no difference for the fiddle made little enough music as it was. Then the argument dropped out of hearing beneath the shrill singsong of the wind. The lamp-flame wavered again and a sorcerous light leapt up around Charlie as, rising sharply, he began to pace the quarters — up and down, white and blue alike turned faded orange in the glow, the shadows backing and surging.

- the white sail's shaking

One of the loose arms of Marta’s shirt fluttered against Tip; the breeze had begun to shift at last, the tide having turned outward a long time ago. No moon tonight, he thought once, casting another glance at the sky, and the world seemed all the more desolate for its loss.

- the white sail's shaking

“Why,” he said, “what a funny pair of jack-in-the-boxes you two are!”

- the white sail's shaking

The windows cast downward glances at him, disapproving of him in their cool way. “Dear, dear,” the building murmured to the house on the other side of the iron fence, “who on earth is that dirty fellow? He’s getting my hem all muddy.” 

- the white sail's shaking

His voice sank into murmurs, faint and soothing and themselves rather broken; Tabby curled up on his boots and started to purr, and the pot gurgled plaintively in the hearth. 

 - the white sail's shaking

Dear Father,

Yo ho ho!  (But no rum: Aunt K. wouldn't approve.)  I write to you from the Admiral Benbow Inn, where Gossamer and I have stopped to listen to a yarn or three from the old sea dogs who sailed the Spanish Main in days very much gone by.

That is to say, a parcel of books arrived for me today.

- sunshine & gossamer

April Snippets

The month is growing old, but here is my Snippets post at last!  March and April have been fairly productive months for me, but the trouble is that these chapters are part of or approaching the climax of The White Sail's Shaking, so it's difficult to share many snippets.  But I'll see what I can do.

april snippets

He was holding a pocket watch, tilted to catch the light on its open face, the chain dancing back and forth like a pendulum between his fingers; it seemed to have mesmerized him, for he had no attention for anything else. He watched it as a cat watches a mouse hole, unblinking, unwavering, with a faint occasional smile on his mouth.

- the white sail's shaking

“I came to see how your knee is, naturally. Heerman says it’s healing, but one can always hold out a hope for infection. There isn’t any, I suppose?”

Tip gave back a grimace of a smile. “None. Sorry to disappoint.”

- the white sail's shaking

The Constitution stood out, though, with her shrouds a tangle of mist and the sun a brilliant gold on her stern windows, her guns just now gone quiet. The bomb ketches beyond her were silent as well and so, too, were the Tripolitan batteries. An eerie, twilight hush had fallen over everything, as though the harbor held its breath; Tip could hear the gulls starting to cry once more.

Then the breath was released.

- the white sail's shaking

Some of the desperation must have leaked into his words, for Charlie’s backward glance was only half mocking. “I’ve my gun crew to command. I’ll come down when the fighting’s over.” 

Yes, Tip thought, but when the fighting’s over, it will be too late.

- the white sail's shaking

Tip stopped and looked up without turning around, gazing forward at the pale expanse of the schooner’s deck and the darker sea beyond, a haze of either sleeplessness or moonlight on his vision. So beautiful, he thought superfluously, hardly knowing whether he meant the night or the sea or the schooner, only knowing that whichever it was, its beauty made him ache.

- the white sail's shaking

Father, I miss you.  On nights like this I know I'll never see you again, and I feel like my heart will break.  

I miss you.  I want you to come home.

- sunshine and gossamer

Details of the room caught her eye in brief flashes. There were books everywhere; the opening door had raised a breath of dust from them. The air smelled sour, almost green. She saw a man in shirtsleeves and the back of his tawny head before he turned, and then she saw nothing but a pair of grey eyes.

She screamed.

- tempus regina

Great and Small

It's no secret that I love cats, and if ever it was, my Favorite Things post dispelled it. Cats have been a part of my life for almost as long as I can remember, excluding a brief period after one of ours ran away and before we got our current ones, Buster and Esther. When I was little, the neighbors had a massive amount of cats (all one family, I believe) that Jenny and I were allowed to play with, and when they moved, they left one cat with us. At the same time we had Ashes, a big black devil-cat who used to lie in wait and pounce on me when I came around corners. My contact with cats, you see, has not been wholly positive.

But despite that emotional scarring at such a tender age, I grew up loving cats - and of all adorable and sweet cats, I consider my Buster to be the best. I've had him now for about eight years; he sleeps on my bed at night, gives me "kitty hugs," plays peek-a-boo with me, gets blue (so I am told) when I go away. Those who know more about dogs than I do say Buster is one, only in cat form. That may be true; I couldn't say. All I know is that he is one special cat.

I suppose, then, that he forms a large part of the inspiration for Sunshine and Gossamer. I have not "properly" begun this story, "properly" entailing research and Word Documents, but I keep a special notebook for it and write sections when the mood strikes. Right now it is merely the tale of a girl and her cat come to live on a Welsh farm for the duration of World War II - a coming-of-age story, of sorts. Mostly, however, it has shaped itself into a tribute to my love of cats in general and Buster in particular. I'm just finishing up a James Herriot novel, so what comes to mind is the song which inspired his titles:

all things bright and beautiful
all creatures great and small
all things wise and wonderful
the Lord God made them all.

Not deep or profound, but for some reason it makes me smile. And now, in the spirit of Sunshine and Gossamer, here is a snatch of the story for you.

Dear Father,

Today, in a sweeping naval battle that will go down in the history of Farrowdale, the Great Gossamer Armada was defeated by the Sunshine Fleet. The struggle raged for hours with great loss of twigs on both sides; the Sunshine Fleet (two noble bogwood corsairs and six bark galleons) was outnumbered by the Gossamer Armada (five corsairs, four galleons and a dinghy), but superior seamanship was shown by the Sunshine Fleet. Oh, the suspense was terrible! It looked as though the Armada would prevail, having sunk two of my galleons, but a stroke of genius saved the Fleet: I converted a corsair into a fire ship, and that was that.

Of the Gossamer Armada, only the dinghy sailed away. The Sunshine Fleet returned to harbor with a corsair and four galleons only slightly crisped, but the fire-corsair went to the bottom of the pond. Ho hum. The Navy Department will build another one.

With love,

Sunshine and Gossamer

A Dash of the Literary

Katie, over on her blog at Whisperings of the Pen, did a fun little post with recently-scribbled snippets from her stories. Then my sister Jenny picked it up and posted clips from her novels Adamantine (completed/being edited) and Plenilune (in progress). So, being unoriginal as I am, I decided to make off with the idea and give you readers a glimpse into what I have written and what I have been writing recently. (By the way, the first draft of The White Sail's Shaking bids fair to pass Wordcrafter in length by the end of the year!)

a sprinkling of words

The sky was cloudless and two large moons were already high in it, so that the garden was turned a faded grey and speckled by darker hollows. It was quiet except for the hum of the breeze running through the slats in the fence, and Justin sighed in relief as the door creaked shut at his back and he was separated from the warmth and turmoil within. But as he skirted the overgrown vines and bushes and drooping, frosty flowers to the rough hewn bench, his eye was caught by a motion on his right and he stiffened.

“Hallo,” said a female voice. She sat on the white fence post with her hands clasped between her knees, balancing precariously as she kicked her heels against the wood. She had no head-covering, so her hair, amber in the moonlight, was tousled and chaotic—part of her charm, Justin thought wryly. He moved nearer and she regarded him serenely.

“You’re getting bolder,” he remarked.

Wordcrafter

Ethan’s fist met the table with a crash that shuddered down its entire length and knocked over several goblets, sending wine and mead flooding across the wood and over the edge in waterfalls. There could not have been a man in the room who did not start, and the Gypsy-lord’s arms unfolded in a moment and he drew himself up; but the Hound had calmed himself with an effort and drew his hand off the table, exhaling slowly. “The Lord of the Cliffs will forgive me,” he said coldly, “if I find it difficult to be amused at what I am sure was not meant to be in earnest.”

Wordcrafter

I was very tired last night - tireder than I think I've ever been - but I was determined to get up early just to show Aiden that I'm not a shallow city girl. I had Miss Gwen get me up in the dark, and though my courage almost failed me as I peeked over the coverlet, I did not back down! I got up in the cold dark and I wrapped myself up in a sweater and wellies, and then I tramped down, had a bit of porridge for breakfast (yuck!), and went out to report for duty.

Sunshine and Gossamer


The glittering of the man’s eyes in his strange face, like the blinking of gems half buried in earth, unnerved Tip, and he took the words and that warning look to heart as he went inside. Unwanted, they said. Unwanted! A sensation of overwhelming friendlessness closed in on him when he shut the door of his own room and stood in the solitude, and he drew in a shuddering breath and brushed the heel of his hand across a cut on his forehead. “Never mind,” he murmured. “It doesn’t matter what they think. You’ll get by, Tip Brighton—you always do.”

The White Sail's Shaking

“Give them a shot across the bow, if you please,” Decatur said to the first lieutenant, with a touch of morbid humor. The order was relayed and a gun run out in Lewis’ division; spark touched vent and a white cloud burst upward as a cannon ball went singing smartly across the ketch’s bowsprit. A breathless silence ensued, and as the air cleared Tip could see the foreigners
heaving to.

The White Sail's Shaking

and a dash of words not my own

You do not make the truth. You reside in the truth. A suitable image for truth would be that of a lighthouse lashed by the elemental fury of undisciplined error. Those who have come to reside in the truth must stay there. It is not their business to go back into error for the purpose of joining their drowning fellows with the pretence that, inside or outside, the conditions are pretty much the same.

The Christian Mind, Harry Blamires

art by wagsomedog on flickr

Scribblin' Notebooks

Although technology has all but displaced writing whole novels by hand, most writers still carry notebooks around with them for scribbling ideas in during the day. Some people are more comfortable writing this way; some people prefer typing. I like a mix of both. Some sections seem to want to be written by hand - especially scenes that take place beyond the point at which I am in the "actual" writing - while others like to be typed and won't flow on paper. I always carry a notebook with me in what my family calls "Abigail's little red bag." "Did you get your little red bag?" "Where's your little red bag?" "Don't you have your little red bag?" During Wednesday night Bible Study, Thursday night theology class, and Sunday evening worship, I'll pull my notebook out and write, which actually helps me pay attention rather than distracting me. I currently have three writing notebooks - two completed, one in progress.


The middle one was my first, and not decorated by me; those are Elrond's twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir, up at the top, by the bye. It has some of my planned novel Sunshine and Gossamer but is mostly full of Wordcrafter - lots of messy scribblings on Wordcrafter.

The one on the far left was my second, this time decorated by me. The sketches of the two women are of Lizzy and Jane Bennet, drawn by professional artist Niroot. The drawing in the bottom right of the anthropomorphic cat sitting at a burning typewriter is from the webcomic Lackadaisy. The middle image is a drawing of Legolas with "If You Can Read This, The Dwarf Fell Off" written on the back of his tunic. Over on the right and at the top are some signature graphics (original art not mine); the one on the left says "blue jeans in Tera" (Wordcrafter), the silhouetted man says "Justin King" (Wordcrafter), and the woman up top says "Marta Rais" (White Sail's).

And the one on the right is my current notebook. Like my second, it has an Arabian horse on the left (for Marah from Wordcrafter). It also has a couple signatures - one for Justin (again), one for Ethan, and one on the right that says "I answered you in the secret place of thunder." It also has an adorable picture by a gal who...seems to have deactivated her deviantART account. Then I've got a cover for Sunshine and Gossamer and another for Tempus Regina, my other planned novel.


I write the scene on the right-hand page only; it's easier that way. At the top I mark the story and sometimes the chapter, if I'm actually advanced enough to have a chapter list.


I also write notes on the top of the page, usually having something to do with the teaching. (The top note, for those of you who are peering curiously at it, is the quote from Wives and Daughters, "I'm not saying she was very foolish. I'm saying one of us was very foolish, and it wasn't me.") On the left-hand page I write the location of the scene, more for the fun of using elaborate fonts than for anything else, although with White Sail's it is helpful. For instance, the scene I was writing in the right picture took place in Boston; others take place on the schooner Enterprize, and I'll note that and the location of the ship at the time (if in port). I also use this space for writing more notes, or for scrawling furiously when I can't think of anything to write.


And sometimes I write on the bulletins our church has for Sunday mornings. This is for Tempus Regina, but I'm not going to translate it for you.

*The cat featured in some of the above photos is Buster. He was more interested in lounging than in posing, however, so he looks a bit...well...loungy.

Small Enterprises and a Book Trailer

Last week my friend Megan posted her "Soundtrack to Minor Endeavours," a writing exercise. The rules are:

1. Take a Technological Purveyor of Music (such as an iPod) and set it to shuffle.

2. As soon as the first song starts playing, start writing. Don't put too much thought into the process, and don't bother trying to force the writing to the song -- just let the music carry your pen along.

3. When the song stops playing, stop writing. Don't edit anything.

But I cheated (as usual). I picked out the songs I wanted, set the song on repeat instead of stopping at the end, and edited. I can't stand not editing. But anyhow, despite those rather wide departures from the rules of the game, the result was three blurbs from three separate stories inspired by three different songs. The first is for my work in progress, The White Sail's Shaking. The second is for my story Sunshine and Gossamer, still in the percolating stage. The third is for my nebulous idea Ginger, a Victorian tale that is simmering (if that) on the back-back-back burner.

So with that, let me introduce my small enterprises.

Vanilla Twilight - Owl City (The White Sail's Shaking)

The ocean was sobbing tonight. He sat on the brig’s side with one leg thrown over it, black boot dangling over the depths below, his hand clenched around the ratline. Deep blue sea met lighter blue sky on the horizon, but around the ship it turned violet and rushed like voices. One soft voice in particular. The night smelled of jasmine in summer, and his chest ached with the sweetness; he breathed it in, trying to grasp it and hold it forever, but it was grasping at a dream. He moved his hand over the rope fibres, whistling a breath out through his nose as he thought of how often that motion had felt another hand instead. He missed it more tonight than he ever had before, for he knew he would never touch her hand again. He would never smell the jasmine in her hair. He would never see that strangely adoring look in her eyes turned to his...

“Darkwood?”

He drew a breath and glanced sideways at the familiar white figure. “Yes, Bent?” he asked back, a little sharply.

“Sorry. Were you thinking of someone?”

Darkwood laughed softly, dropping his gaze to the violet sea once more. “Always,” he replied. “Always.”


Children - Escala (Sunshine and Gossamer)

The green expanse rolled heavenward, the grass and the spattering of flowers dancing in the breeze. At first Sunshine tried to avoid stepping on the blossoms; she walked carefully, higher and higher, with Gossamer whisking along at her side like a lithe black shadow detached from its owner. But the wind grew as she went on through the pasture. The trees at the hilltop were dipping and rising in it, the grass was rippling in softer greys. It caught at Sunshine’s hair and blew it back from her face; it ruffled the black tuft that was Gossamer’s tail. A bird skimmed by, a flash of blue on the landscape. Sunshine’s heart began to rise and she lifted her gaze from her feet to the skyline, which had begun to burn with white fire as the dawn approached. Her pace quickened—she was running, Gossamer ever at her side; a cloud of yellow butterflies burst up before them and scattered into the blue. The wind rushed on by her or she by it, and she threw up her arms to skim the air as the bird had done. On and on, ever quickening, racing the sunrise to the top.

In a moment she gained the summit and crested the hill just as the sun, yellow like the butterflies, shot over the horizon and flooded the Welsh countryside in light. Sunshine’s heart pounded with exhilaration, arms still outstretched, drinking in the dawn with her whole body. “Oh, Gossamer!” she cried, half-sobbing, “what beauty! Oh, what beauty!”

Chi Mai - Escala (Ginger)

She would have to lead the dance, she and Mr. Ransom. Inside her new white dress she was all a-flutter, and she was blushing for no other reason than the newness of being at the centre of such an event. She had just a few more minutes to stand here out of the way before the waltz would play—the waltz she had picked out herself—and Mr Ransom would take her hand, and they would step to the floor together. No! Not even a minute; there he was. Her heart gave a leap like a frightened deer and heat washed over her skin.

“You’re blushing,” he said as he held out one gloved hand to her, and she put hers in it. “Are you nervous?”

“A little,” Ginger managed, answering his smile with a quivering one of her own.

“Why? This is your favourite; you’ve danced to it before.”

“Yes. But never in front of all these people.”

“Then pretend they aren’t here. Just you and the music, Ginger: just you and the music, like it always is.”

Yes: just her and the music. It was beginning now, the soft, slow rhythm she loved so well. It was like a dream; Ransom was putting his arm around her and she rested one hand on his shoulder, the other still in his, her white dress swishing over his black boots. His eyes smiled down at her, and they and the music became all the world to Ginger as the waltz began. He was steady, completely unselfconscious, and slowly she grew less agitated as well.

Around, back, stepping lightly on the flats of her shoes—tip, tap... Like a heartbeat the melody went on. Now it was more than a dream. Everything was real, beautifully real. This was her night and no one else’s. She closed her eyes and breathed. It was just her and the music; her and the music.

-

And in addition to those, I have a larger endeavor: a book trailer for The Soldier's Cross. Credit: Iardacil-stock at deviantART (for the woman); dead-brushes at deviantART (for the cliffs); night-fate-stock at deviantART (for tree and landscape); and Kevin MacLeod (for music). Enjoy!