Having read other blogs I've noticed an interesting trend. Those bloggers often post a WIP (Work in Progress) of the projects they are currently working on. This has always intimidated me for numerous reasons: will I get any response back, will they like my work, will no on steal it?
Setting these legit fears aside, I'm going to share a few snippets of a novel that I am co-writing with a friend of mine. We came up with the idea and outlined it, though I will be the one writing it.
The basic synopsis is: 32 is a collector. He has a list of 32 objects that he is on the hunt for. Mira comes to Tortoise Island to start over in life. Little does she know her new landlord has secrets he's not enthusiastic to share.
(Still working on a better synopsis, but as I said, this entire thing is a work-in-progress.)
Despite the size of the island, the town was surprisingly
small. It would appear big to anyone who hadn’t actually been to the main land
– or to someone who lived in isolation on some other uninhabited island. This
town was rather minuscule. The main street flowed from the large street market
(probably composed of locals, and others from the surrounding islands who came
to vie their trades and wares where there was actual money to be made), and
continued along the route of the shops. There was a store for practically any
occasion or ailment: herbs, fruts, paper and pen, clothes, boots, shoes,
outerwear, coats, rain gear, fishing implements, baking goods, electronics
(though that was rather bare and no one was lining up to get in), a watch
repair with added bonus of making your dream watch (at cost!), hand carved
furniture, windows, doors, cabinets, beds, mirrors, guns and other weapons
(separate for knives and other bladed), and a store strictly for water (which
Mira hadn’t realized was a thing.)
There was a shop for every need that could arise when living
secluded on an island.
At least there’s no real chance of getting lost here, she
mused about it. It was a far, far cry from the last place she’d lived. A city
with streets going every direction, places to run and hide. This was more open,
more likely to remain a safe place no matter what happened.
A few minutes later she saw the stone fountain that Jason
Jones told her about. It rose up in the middle: a man poised with a trident
high above his head, aiming down at the beach below. He wore a laurel around
his head, and someone had been decent enough to give him a palm leaf for added
cover. There was no water coming out, and the basin around the bottom was
utterly devoid of liquid.
Walking around it she wondered why the trident was so
important here.
Eh, maybe it’s a water thing; she sat on the edge of the
basin to look around the ‘square’.
Facing into the island on her left was a large hotel, four
stories high with an impressive widow’s walk on the top. There were balconies
on each level with ornate iron cast railings to prevent people from falling
off. A sign above the door indicated it was, “The Hotel Badro”. She suspected
there were at least three floors worth of vacancies.
Directly in front of her, facing back down the main street,
was the Town Hall. It was lower than the hotel, but more intricately carved.
Whoever the architet had been, had taken inspiration from past lore and legends
of the Far Seas. The columns along the front, forming the archway leading to
the stairs, extended around the building, making it appear more like an ancient
temple to some long forgotten god or goddess. While the hotel had been a lighter
shade of brown, the town hall was a light marble, almost pink in the right
color. There were windows lining the two floors, and a balcony on the second
almost directly above the main doors. A rather tedious, spacious building, in
her opinion.
On the right, where Mr. Jones had previously indicated down
at the docks was the place she’d come.
Raven Ark lived up
to the name: dark wood formed the main frame, while stones had been dyed to
match the cover, lined up to solidify the structure. There was only one story,
but it was almost as tall as the other two building around the square. There
would likely be another floor or two once you walked inside, but the façade was
rather misleading. Above the door was an intricately carved raved, wings spread
out, beak shut, hovering above the sign. It sent a chill through her despite
the warm air.
She needed to find housing as soon as possible. Living on
her schooner, the Rose Bud, wasn’t a
problem for her. She’d done it countless times on her own travels, but having a
house on the land seemed like a dream come true. Someplace she could lie down
and not worry about drifting off, or having someone play at piracy and storming
aboard in the middle of the night.
“Alright, let’s see what Mr. Stort has to offer.”
Adjusting her bag so that it was tighter against her hip,
she drew her hat a little lower over her face. Heading through the doorway she
noted a burly looking chap with tattooed muscles just inside the dim interior.
He was sitting, arms folded over the massive chest. Glancing over she raised
her head slightly and gave him a slight nod, which he returned, curious.
Stepping past the entry hall and into the main room as her eyes adjusted she
could make out a rather typical bar setting; long counter running the length of
the back wall, tables scattered throughout the room with three to four chairs
each, a large stone fireplace on the wall to her far right, and directly to her
left a set of stairs leading up to the second floor. There were decorative
pieces of art around the walls, scenes depicting the island, shops, the people.
There were a few carved masks from the Dark Continent. Even a couple of rugs on
the floor, and some on the wall that appeared more battered and beaten than any
she’d ever seen in her life.
The majority of the tables were already filled to maxium,
some pushed together to add more room for larger groups of people. The bar was
mostly filled up too – leaving scant seating for anyone else. It didn’t seem
possible for there to be as many people out in the market as there were in the Raven, but she was beginning to suspect
that nothing on this island would be normal, or even remotely sane.
Knowing she was being started at made it easy for her to
tilt her head to the side, obscuring her face to the majority of the room as
she headed towards and empty seat on the far left corner of the bar.
Without
removing her bag she took a seat, sliding her hat around so that she could see
the others around her. Her seat was next to the flip board where the bartender
used to go back to the store room (a door just to the left and behind her), or
out to the tables when things became too rambunctious.
“What can I git for ya?”
The hulk of a man in front of her wore a rather tight black
shirt with a white cloth draped over his left shoulder. She assumed he was
wearing dark pants to match. His skin was well tanned, matching his dark hair,
and dark eyes.
“A Simple Twist with Lime, shaken.”
He grinned, nodded and headed off. A moment later he came
back with her drink.
“Anything else I can do you for?”
Aha, word play, she cringed.
“Yes, I’m looking for Bram Stort, I was told I could find
him here.”
The bartender grinned, then motioned over to a booth on the
far side, “He’s over there, talking with
32.”
“Excuse me?”
She blinked, unsure whether or nor she’d actually heard him
right. No one would have a number for a name, would they? Well – presumably
not. It was plain stupid.
“32,” he gave her a white grin, “Stort’s been after him for
a long time. Man has this mini house
located on the beach, on his private land,
and Stort’s been after him to sell. Or at least let Stort take care of it – so
he can cash in on the commission.”
“Oh,” she formed the letter with her lips, puzzled by that.
“Would it be rude to go over and – ”
There was a scuffle in the back booth. She saw a small, well
structured man, well tanned like the majority of the islanders, fall out of the
booth. She assumed this was Stort, because he had a briefcase that was tossed
after him. After a moment, he stood, picked up his case, adjusted his hat which
had tilted, but remained on his head, and left.
“What was that about?”
“32.”
The bartender lifted his arms lightly, let them drop then
resumed his work.
Sipping on her drink, she watched the far booth, wondering
what had transpired to warrant such a public rejection, and humiliation, for
the poor real estate agent. Whichever the case he was gone now.
Cripes, I should have followed him!
Cursing her stupidity and lack of motivation – or rather, the
fondness for watching others in action – she sat back.
Wait, the bartender said this man, this 32, had a house on
his property that’s not in current use . . . maybe. . . .
Acting rather temerarious for the situation, she finished
her drink, stood and headed over to the back booth.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for 32?”
It came out more along the lines of a question than an
actual statement. She had what she’d wanted to say rehearsed over the walk to
the booth, but now that she could see him properly, she wasn’t quite so certain
about her general approach, or the tactic in gaining a decent conversation.
She was at a loss for words because the man in front of her
wasn’t the man she’d been expecting. He was so completely . . . different
. . . from what she’d been expecting. From the way the bartender had spoken his
name, the laugh, the serious expression in his face – it’d made her think of
some scarred, moody, thief.
This man was so – so – normal.
“Would you care for a seat?”
She blinked, shaking her head. Her mouth snapped shut when
she realized it’s been open the entire time.
“Yes, thank you.”
He studied her, she studied him.
He was wearing a white suite – completely white, shirt,
vest, jacket, trousers (you simply couldn’t use the word pants for him), and white loafers. On his head, covering what she
assumed was dark brown hair, sat a traditional Panama hat. The black bank
seemed out of place on him. She stared at him, taken back by his rather fierce
hazel eyes.
“What can I help you with, Miss –?”
“Parish,” she automatically responded. “Mira Parish.”
He smirked, an expression that was both lovely, and one she
wanted to slap right off of him.
“32.”
This is a middle scene, after I established the island. Please let me know what you think. I'll do my best at posting more little bits each month, possibly using the 3rd Tuesday for my WIP's, maybe switching it up with other things I'm working on besides this novel in the making.
Have a fantastic Tuesday! Don't forget to leave a comment below with anything that you are working on! I'd love to see all the creative ideas flowing around the world.
