Welcome to this week’s edition of Christian Fiction Friday brought to you by me and my lovely and talented co-host, Alana Terry! This is a chance for Christian authors to post short snippets from their works in progress! Easy and fun!
I haven’t written anything new in the last couple of weeks, so I’m bringing you a snippet from my recently released A Parcel for Prudence, book 4 in the Virtues and Valor Series:
Muriel reached for the coffee pot on the stove, but yanked her hand away quickly, shaking it to ward off the burning heat that came from touching the hot handle.
“Sorry there’s no kitchen staff this morning but there’s a war on after all. First time making coffee with your own two hands?”
At the sound of Praetorian’s voice, she jumped and spun around. He’d left the cottage after their exchange yesterday and never returned. Unsure of what to do, Muriel had spent the day fasting and praying and preparing for what lay ahead. She felt good today, centered, energized.
“I had a lesson at the camp,” she replied. “I just forgot to get the towel for the handle.”
His mocking look made her want to grit her teeth. “They taught you how to make coffee?” With a snort, he used a towel to lift the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup but did not offer one to her. “Rather odd training for a school of espionage.”
“Perhaps, but they recognized I knew nothing and would have to pass as a simple French girl. So, I had classes in all sorts of the day-to-day mundane.”
He stared at her for a long time before speaking. “Interesting.”
With a forced polite smile, she replied, “Indeed.”“Tell me. Did you receive training in dusting, darning socks, or washing underclothes? If so, I may have a few chores for you before handing you your field assignment.”
“I can barely wait to inform Joseph that you asked me to launder your soiled undergarments.”
Praetorian frowned. “I pray you live that long.”
Muriel took a deep, calming breath. “I fully intend to reunite with my husband the moment this awful war is over.”
Now it’s your turn! Just link your Christian Fiction Friday! Here are the rules:
1. Christian Fiction Friday is a blog hop where authors post short (400-ish words or less) snippets from their current works in progress (not published pieces).
2. Keep it PG-13 or lower. No swearing, no sex scenes. If you have a particularly violent scene or deal with a heavy or controversial subject matter, please include a disclaimer at the beginning of your post.
Suggestions:
1. Visit at least some of the other Christian Fiction Friday authors each week and comment on their blogs.
2. Don’t offer critiques unless the author specifically asks for it in his or her post.
3. Please include this blurb at the end of your weekly post:
Christian Fiction Friday is a weekly blog hop where authors post snippets from their current Works in Progress. It is hosted by Alana Terry and Hallee Bridgeman.
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This snippet is from The Summersby Island House, by Wendy Dewar Hughes and Suzanne Lieurance. Due out in May 2015.
“This kitchen is a horror,” Lana said once Mack joined her there. His nearness in the small room made her pulse pound but there was no way she wanted him to know that. One heartbreak per winter was her limit. “Can we tear out the cabinets and put in all new ones?”
Mack rubbed his earlobe, a habit he had, Lana had noticed, when stalling. “Your budget doesn’t allow for new cabinets. Sometimes you can get used ones, but usually you wouldn’t want them anyway. I’m sure these ones could be cleaned up and painted so they’re serviceable enough to last until you can re-do the whole room. What do you think?”
Lana tried not to let her disappointment show but her heart sank. She’d lived in so many two-bit, rundown apartments and houses while growing up, with tacky kitchens and sticky cracked linoleum that the thought of having to make do with yet another one almost nauseated her. She sighed and put on a brave face. Looking around the room she said, “I’m sure I can do something with it. A little paint, a rug on the floor, some pretty curtains…”
“I’ll give you a hand wherever I can,” Mack said, reaching out and briefly placing a hand on her shoulder. “Why don’t we make a list of what you’ll need to shop for? Things like new hinges and drawer pulls are cheap and easy to install.” He went on to name several supplies she would need to spruce up the dismal room. His solicitous manner and creative ideas buoyed her spirit and by the time she’d written down everything he suggested she felt almost enthusiastic. Almost, but not quite.
“I still have to buy new appliances,” Lana reminded him. “There is no way I’m using these, even if they do work, which I seriously doubt. So, I have to figure that into my budget, too.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Mack said, “we’ve been working real hard here all week. Why don’t I take you out for dinner tomorrow night instead of coming over here? Then on Saturday we can head over to the mainland. I’ve got some good connections with a couple of appliance dealers. I’m pretty sure I can swing a better deal on a fridge and stove than you could. What do you say?”
Is he asking me out on a date? This could change the dynamic of their relationship, which until now had meant he was the guy who was working for her. She bit the inside of her lower lip, a habit she had when she needed to think hard and fast.
“Hey,” Mack said, poking her lightly in the shoulder, “it’s just dinner, not a G12 Summit. We both have to eat anyway, so why not go together? I’ll even pay. I’ve got a great line of credit and we can talk about the house so I can write off the expense. Same goes for the trip on Saturday. I need a few other supplies anyway. We might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?”
Lana couldn’t help but laugh. “Since you put it like that, all right.”
Here is how my book, SQUIRE, TALES OF A MASCOT, begins:
“He’s not going with you.” Rachel Montgomery Webb spoke from the slatted walkway in front of her father’s brick furniture store, in Coughlin, Alabama, a small town along the Mobile & Ohio Railroad some thirty miles north of Mobile.
“Well, I’d say it’s already been decided,” her husband Jesse Webb said.
“But he might get killed!”
“Seems you’re more worried about Squire than me.”
“Sakes alive! Get that nonsense out of your head!”
Jesse chuckled. “That is most reassuring, my dear.” He sauntered toward his wagon parked on Coughlin’s dusty main street. In its bed was Squire, a large–no, medium-sized dog– his shaggy golden-colored coat resembled a rug draping his back. His triangular ears, bent forward like flaps, sat atop his wedge-shaped head. His curved tail, upraised with bountiful fur hanging from it like feathers, swished back and forth. It resembled a large plume, or some said a brush. His oversized forepaws were propped atop the wagon bed’s upper edge. His big, round molasses eyes twinkled, as though he understood he was the subject of their dispute.
Jesse climbed up, onto the wagon bench. With a pop of his whip, the two horses pulling it soon turned a corner southward, toward the edge of town. Just beyond, white tents pitched in neat rows, the camp of the recently formed Coughlin Rifles. Jesse had been elected its captain.
Squire panted, his breath warming the back of Jesse’s neck.
“You’re it, boy. Everyone in my regiment has elected you our mascot. You’re the most popular dog in Coughlin, and that, boy, is a genuine fact for sure.”
Squire barked, as though he understood. Then he leapt out of the wagon and took off after a squirrel.
Hands cupped round his mouth, Jesse yelled for him to come back.
But Squire quickly gained on the zigzagging rodent. He was the fastest dog in the county. If he was a betting man, which he wasn’t, Jesse would bet he’d even give greyhounds a good race.
A mockingbird suddenly swooped on him in a flurry of feathers. Instead of running, Squire turned and sprang at her; his jaws clamped air as the bird winged her way into a tall tree.
Mockingbirds, Jesse thought, disgusted. Must have a nest somewhere close. Through cupped hands, he shouted, “Come on, boy! Let’s get to drill now!”