#original excerpt

Maius 5th, 4593 AP: Diary of Alyss Enberdale

People are bad at describing things. My aunt fought in the first war, and she told me it was like being an ant on a running track. Sometimes you wander around doing ant things, and sometimes a trampling horde of foreign creatures run atop and leave you untrampled by chance as your fellows are smashed.

I fought in the second war, and it wasn't much like anything. It was like nothing. It was war and war is only like itself. It's surviving, and then at some point, you realize to survive you’ve ended someone’s life and you don’t even feel bad about it. And you feel bad for not feeling bad. And then everyone tells you you’re acting strange, but they’re the ones that took normal people and exploded things in their face and made them kill people whose faces they never see and they tell you you’re acting strange. 

They called it combat fatigue like I drank too much disgusting coffee and didn’t sleep right at 9:30 that night and acted grumpy the next day. I don’t have a better word. I like my aunt's word better. Shell shock. Not professional enough for the military, but it's better for me. 

My CO recommended me for leave after the incident. That’s what they call it in the military, an incident. You can’t describe it. I told my aunt that and she told me you can, if you give it time. They gave me a few months. A few months to see if I was dangerous or useful and when I was neither they threw me away. I can describe how I feel. I feel like gum. Old gum. The war was a mouth that chewed and chewed and chewed until all my flavor leeched away, then it spat me on the sidewalk. I’m on the sidewalk to this day. I’m a spot on the sidewalk.

_____________________________________________________________

Chapter One

Here, at the end of summer, roses and wildflowers bloomed one last time before autumn’s cold. Nicolette crouched among them on the side of the road, rooting for the husks of cicadas that had already mated and died. She had figured out long ago that clients didn’t appreciate knowing the true origins of their patience tea, though that didn’t stop housewives and schoolteachers from buying it in cans that they pretended to their husbands were coffee. 

Her apron pockets full, she stood and began to make her way back through town, past the over-decorated municipal hall, through Main Street with faded advertisements for meats, butter, and milk. At 7:40 on a Sunday, the whole town was empty, the entire populace segregated away in one of the two churches. 

Most respectable citizens sat in the Imperial Cesarian Church, a stately building of thick walls and plaster statues. They called the congregation of the newer Alastrian Church ‘rabble’ and ‘uncultured’, while the Alastrians called the Cesarians ‘esoteric’ and ‘unwelcoming’. The Cesarians were quite sure the Alastrians didn’t even know what esoteric meant, but it was a moot point trying to teach those who did not want to learn. 

Nicolette was fairly sure she did know what esoteric meant, and that the Alastrians were using it correctly, but as neither group took any notice of her beyond buying her charms and teas, she kept her thoughts to herself, and simply nodded when members of either church attempted to impart their wisdom in her earshot. No one cared what she had to say anyway. 

The last two story building marked the edge of town proper, with the pavement petering to a stop a few feet further. Still, the chipper, clean one story homes continued. Nicolette, as was her habit, paused here, her toes right at the end of black pavement. Daisy’s home sat clean and peach-colored three houses down. Her father should have returned from his business trip last night, smelling like bus and cigarette smoke. Maybe he hugged her with his briefcase in his hand. Maybe he went right to bed. Maybe Daisy had stayed up for him later than usual, worrying with a cup of tea in her hand. It wouldn’t have been Nicolette’s tea, Daisy always said it made her sleepy. It would have been raspberry, maybe, or chamomile. 

But Nicolette wasn’t welcome there anymore, father or no father, and so she turned to the right and made her way through the alley between the last store building and the first house. This road wasn’t even gravel, but dirt. A small crevasse made by spring rainwater meandered its way from one side of the road to the other, forcing Nicolette to hop across it twice before it escaped into the house’s fenced yard. She walked past the houses on the other side as well, slightly more dilapidated than the first, and through an empty lot of gravel to the backside of her own house. Houses on this row, those that were inhabited, tended toward small and grey-brown. Most didn’t have a large padlock around the low front gate. Nicolette didn’t bother unlocking it, but stepped up over a cinderblock and slid down the other side, holding her skirt taught. The yard grass had turned brown months ago. The only living thing in the yard besides Nicolette herself was half of a heritage rosebush. It had been her mother’s, and Nicolette did her best to keep it alive. 

Her door was locked as well, this one a shiny, new lock. Nicolette lifted the key from around her neck and twisted it into the hole. Her mother had never had to lock the door. People knew better than to come over uninvited. But this lock was to keep the inside from coming out. 

Inside, Nicolette faced the wall, listening to the thump, drag, thump. 

“Hi, Mama.” She said softly. She turned, and faced her mother’s clouded eyes. 

End snippet

______________________________________________________________

This is the first snippet I've posted in a long while, and I would especially appreciate feedback! The chapter heading section is a part of one of the MC's diary, written in first person, and the actual chapter is third person from the other MC's perspective. This is meant to introduce both at the same time, and as the book continues, the reader will get insight into Alyss' past while the plot continues in the main chapter with Nicolette in the present. Thoughts, likes, dislikes and others appreciated!

It’s been almost a year since I last posted an excerpt from my WIP novel, A Cycle of Seals. As penance for my absence, here: take the (tentative) first scene of the novel and see how far this work has come since we last reconvened.

CHARACTERS:

Oeden Sincairn, a boy imprisoned due to an inexplicable illness Nadielle Sincairn, royal seneschal and mother of Oeden Isolde Godewine, the Pure Warden of Norire and friend of Nadielle Royan Godewine, Crown Prince of Norire and nephew of Isolde

LORE GLOSSARY:

Norire, a winter-ridden kingdom devoted to personal purity Wardens, the clergy and their military Pure Warden, the head priest and one of Norire’s two rulers Goodmen, the Norian nobility The Sealed God, an ancient deity imprisoned by humanity Undying Night, an annual day without sunlight The Hunt, an annual contest to procure the best offering Cycle, an expression of the world’s metaphorical seasons Crystal Sickness, the makeshift name for Oeden’s inexplicable disease, which causes crystals to be produced from his skin

(All “foreign language” herein is complete gibberish, to be replaced with a handmade fictional language in the final copy)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

Imprisonment, Mentions of Arson, Sickness/Physical Deformities, Ableism

THE EXCERPT:

Veiled by the hollowed-out halo of an unpredicted eclipse, the convicted-sickened charged towards salvation. A Norian midnight provided the ideal escape for those otherwise locked out of the blessed’s sight, its marriage of moon and gloom casting an indiscriminate shroud over the immaculate and the infirm alike. One night to walk as commoners instead of as criminals. One chance to change the minds of ministers. One opportunity to prove themselves pure.

Prison carts rushed shipments of the crippled in their holds to the Hunting Grounds. Wardens perched beside their silent drivers, as cold in their countenance as they were in their war robes, ringing handbells in unarticulated warning: make way for the marred. A useless precaution – no one wanted near the invalid. 

Were the Wardens as wise as they preached, they would pry their eyes from the wilderness beyond and keep them on the wiles within. Not every patient in Norire pretended they had hope of earning the priesthood’s approval. Some would sooner slip out of their cells and gamble with the monsters that lurked in the groves rather than those who awaited them back home. Their captors assumed no one would be stupid enough to defy the odds.

Oeden Sincairn – overlooked and underestimated – would outsmart them all.

before

I've never felt so alone in my entire life.

Even when I begged for death, I felt more connected to the ground beneath my feet.

Now, I alternate between heartbreak and the great abyss of nothingness within me.

It has not been easy.

I say that against the scathing critic within, berating me for daring to claim my struggles matter. Days like today make me wonder if my hatred for myself is why it is so easy for my alleged loved ones to turn their cheeks.

I know, I know I sound dramatic. It's something I've struggled with, I'm trying not to overstate my situation.

The heartbreak is back, drowning me as tears slip down my cheeks. I don't know if I prefer the pain or nothing.

It's been a year of loss. I've seen death and betrayal, and both have a distinct sorrow each their own.

I suppose I was lucky that my elders had been around for so long. This year decimated my grandparents, aunts and uncles. Cousins, too young for it to be fair.

Each time I take stock of my loss, I'm forced to tally them up. Seven? Seven dead. More to come. 

And then there were the others. Those who sided with them: The Sovereign. During a world-shattering pandemic, they made light of the risk. They called on American tropes - freedom, liberty: there's nothing more American than insisting on dying for no reason other than someone said you can't. 

Truly, though, the most devout believed this was part of some grand plan, that God was testing us and only the weak and unworthy would succumb. 

I don't know if I should be grateful that most of my family fell under the first group. The brazen, blinded-by-nationalism "patriots." Is it better to be duped, or to embrace your death with eyes wide open?

It's neither here nor there. They joined them, reveling in the Americanisms they claimed to offer. They overlooked their treatment of others: racial minorities, the disabled. Me.

These same people who said they loved me, who embraced my wife and watched us marry…. The Sovereign's denouncement of homosexuality wasn't a deal breaker for them.

Sure, they claimed not to agree with the way they portrayed us, with the restrictions they wanted to create for us. They claimed it was only the extremists. 

They were wrong, of course. But they can't see that. They only see me, being difficult. Making trouble. I never did really fit in anywhere.

Everything's wrong. I know that's cliché to say. I know that nothing can be so simple, so black-and-white. But things do feel really, really black right now.

Every other day, there's something bad. Another death, another fight, more bad news. The nation is in a mad dash to rock bottom and I feel like I'm at the lead. 

But who has time for this? For feelings, for failure, for loss? Who has time to do anything but move through the world, as if swimming through a pool of molasses? 

I don't even know how many days it's been. When I lost my wife… The world stopped moving, then. Day, night, it's all the same.

So when civil war erupted, it only made sense to force my way to the front lines, to fight the Sovereign, lay down my life if that's what it took. 

Excerpt from an Easterner’s eyes:

The Shirogawa Floodplains sprawled out into bodies of bountiful nature. Each hill held a cedarwood hovel balanced atop its peak, every valley cradled rice paddies in its water-laden embrace. Orchards stretched skywards towards the Starfather, too burdened in abundance to reach His domain. Wrinkled men and hearty women sowed soybeans, bundled sheafs, filled buckets with milk and baskets with flowers.

How idyllic, she mused. Idyllic and...insignificant.

Kasumi knew that no illusion of life could conceal the truth: that these earthen caretakers were nothing more than corpses enthralled to the Earth Mother. Or at least to their Exalt.

Throughout the Eastern Imperium of Genesai, agriculture retains a prominent role: tending to the Earth Mother and her children. The Earth Mother who once dwelt in Edenfell loved the land so deeply that she chose to live here instead of amongst the heavens with her husband, the Starfather. Although her people have now lost their Mother, to honor her memory by maintaining and beautifying the earth is a position of great respect.

The Rooted - those in Genesai who chose stable settlements instead of nomadic lifestyles -  rely on the consistent sustenance of the earth. Unlike their Uprooted counterparts, the Rooted refuse to eat animal meat out of respect to the Earth Mother and disdain for the beasts that took Her from them. As such, their dietary options are limited to the fruits and vegetables the land can provide, as well as the products of those animals (milk, eggs, etc.). Therefore, when one receives their lifelong role from the Imperial Government, it is highly likely that one will be chosen as a farmer.

Farmers, while not at the top of the social hierarchy, are treated with dignity throughout both Rooted and Uprooted civilizations. Everyone recognizes their dependence on these people, and view their work as a form of worship. It is not uncommon for families to pass down their farmland over the generations, allowing for their offspring to learn from their successes and failures to ensure the future improvement of their crops. 

Thank you for the tag, @etjwrites! I’m grateful I have the chance to show off this snippet - it’s a recent favorite of mine.

For context’s sake, this takes place soon after a criminal of indisputable repute is discovered in the Northern capital and sentenced to die. Thus, the duty falls to Knight-Commander Elyk, military leader of Aeonor and father of Oeden, to put the malefactor to the sword.

Knight-Commander Elyk strode toward the dais with a reaper’s gait, Vicegrip repeating its guillotine swing with each step he took towards execution’s threshold. The sunset encroaching through the cathedral windows swallowed his blood-rusted armor in a rainbow of unearthly luster. “You will kneel before the North King’s throne,” he repeated, sword outstretched in an unspoken challenge, “or you will stand before the Maker’s.”

Let’s be honest: a bajillion of y’all have tagged me in this throughout the past few months. I ought to be posting twenty-seven “last” lines.

Since I was struggling to write anything whatsoever throughout the past months, those tag games were all tossed to the wayside, and now I cannot remember for the life of me who mentioned me when in what. So I deeply apologize if you have been waiting for a response to this since the Dark Ages. But now I am enlightened once more and churning out not just lines, but entire chapters, with relative ease!

So here, have a line. Or two! Just to make up for lost time.

“Nadielle did not greet Oeden half so readily as the cloud of incense permeating her quarters. Ashen tendrils reached out to draw him deeper into the darkened room, their makeshift holy place.”

I was recently tagged by two wonderful fellow writers - @lady-redshield-writes and @paper-shield-and-wooden-sword - to post my most recent excerpt! Since two people tagged me, y’all get two excerpts. As always, I included more than one lil’ line for context’s sake...and because I genuinely liked how these came out. Anyone tagged below does not have to post any more than one line - I simply like to publish a little more than expected since I skimp on the quantity of excerpts I normally post.

Our first excerpt comes from an as-of-now uncategorized chapter in a future installment of the Kingdom Come series:

“He took my body...” Lilith clutched at her midriff, fingers digging into the flesh she chose to expose to hundreds of other men. But not to him. A flicker of regret flashed across her face, only to dim immediately. The bonfire sputtered as the light receded, but Lilith’s resolve only burned brighter in her eyes. Shadows soon replaced her sorrow with ire. “...so I stole his daughter’s.”

Lilith turned towards him. For a moment, Jerial feared she might turn against him completely. “It’s only a fair trade...right?”

The ring glistened in the darkness. It called to its kin.

Jerial refused to answer.

 “Sounds like someone got gipped!” Jerial stood opposite Lilith, only the remnants of embers separating them. Still, his eyes lingered on her ring. “For once, I don’t mean god.”

And the second features a sweet moment between Prince Royan and Oeden from Royan I in Book One of Kingdom Come:

“Do you believe in me?” 

Oeden stared back, bewildered. “You doubt my faith?”

“What? No, never! I meant...agh!” Royan tilted his head back, running his hands through his hair. Fog formed where a sigh escaped. “All I want to know is if you really believe them. The Theopanies, I mean. You know, their prophecy! Do you think I could actually be the ‘Shepherd of Mankind’?”

Royan refused to open his eyes. He dare not face reality now. The truth - or at least, so much as he assumed the truth to be - would now be laid bare before him. If he found so much as an ounce of distrust hidden in Oeden’s eyes, then he would surely stop pretending. Pretending that a farce, a failure, like him could call himself the messiah. The fate of his fears now rested on the shoulders of his friend, his confidante, his prophet. 

Yet on his own shoulders, he felt his friend’s hands. Warm in the midst of winter, Oeden’s color-spotted fingers clutched at his cloak. Slowly, Royan unsealed his eyelids. Before him, where he presumed to discover skepticism, he found only certainty. Oeden did not waver in his conviction.

“If you are no other man’s, then you are mine.”

I was tagged by the ever-lovely @isveltetip to post the last line of my current WIP, Kingdom Come! I know I normally post an entire excerpt for this (because I’m an incurable overachiever), but as I have jumped from place to place to place as I complete my outline, y’all only get a little taste of what’s to come. Let it whet your appetite for now.

“Does the fancy, little noble forget how to loosen her apron strings?” Jacinta leered overtop of her, radiant in her presumed triumph.

Carmila felt the sudden urge to smack that smile off of her face. With grace, of course. Grace and poise and subdued animosity. Just like a true lady of Evelis.

“I had thought to not outshine you on your home turf,” Carmila said, hoisting a heeled boot atop the table, “but better to teach you how we did it back in the swamps.”

“Don’t break a nail, m’lady.”

“A nail? Please,” Carmila snorted, “I won’t even break a sweat besting you.”

The once-hushed whispers of the surrounding crowd swelled into an uproar of raucous cheering. Barmaids dealt out another round on the house, drunkards took bets with funds they could not afford to waste, even the guards awaited the oncoming confrontation with eager eyes. All of Safe House Tavern set its sights on the showdown.

“Oh really?” Jacinta scoffed. “Well then, merchant princess - let’s dance.”

These two have undergone some MASSIVE character development lately, so I thought I ought to share one of the most lighthearted (but still potentially antagonistic) moments in Kingdom Come written thus far. The dynamic between these two is so much fun to mess with.