A few blogs ago I wrote of my excitement in finding I was able to pick up once again the manuscript of my abandoned novel Flint & Feather. (F & F is the first book in my mystery & suspense series The Laurel Grove Mysteries).
And I posted the first scene from the book with a promise not to inflict any more.
Well, I’ve changed my mind. I am encouraged by the feedback I’ve received, publicly and privately. And so I’ve decided to inflict, from time to time, snatches of edits as I make them. They won’t follow on from each other and they’ll need a lot more editing or even cutting. Here’s the second snatch. I hope it’s entertaining.
I’m so pleased to be among my characters again that I’ve cried. They are pleased to see me too. (I think they are going to throw a party). I’m not sure this mindset is entirely healthy. At least it keeps me from creating drunken mayhem on the streets.
Enjoy! And please comment, if you feel the urge.
Flint & Feather: Scene X
She tucked away her car under the dense canopy of the towering pine. It stood on the opposite side of the narrow lane that gave access to Padraic’s garden. Better again, it was also 50 metres or so from the garden gate. It normally provided discreet cover – but not tonight. What had Ginny called it? Worm Moon. The wormy moon is full waxing, Ginny had said. The poesy of her speech was so far out of character as to sound ridiculous. She’d had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She could see some logic, for once, though. It was March. Worms would be working the soil, to stir it from its wintry sleep, awaken dormant seeds.
Wormy or not, the moon was full and acted like a spotlight on her car and made phosphorescent the mantel of bright moss across the flintstone lintel that capped the gate. It threw the gate’s black lock into obscurity, but Laurel’s hand found it easily from long habit. The gate never locked, but stiff from neglect. No matter her stealth, the iron handle would growl then snap, the hinges groan, in protest at being disturbed. She looked around before passing through, sensing … Did a figure move into the light of the lane and dodge back again into leafy shadow?
She made her way to the back door not by the path of spitting gravel that dissected the borders, but across soft mute earth between rows of young vegetables. She kicked something, stumbled. It was a plant spike. It was labelled. Pandora.
Ginny would have called it an omen. In this, she might have agreed with Ginny. When had she stopped believing in coincidence? It pre-dated Ginny’s conversion to … whatever it was called. She was thankful for that; that nothing of Ginny’s hocusy-pocusy had rubbed off on her. That her own whatever had nothing to do with Ginny. She pushed the spike back in its place and continued through the garden, the rain-glutted river hissing and tutting like gossips on the far side of the garden. Just like gossips.
The latch on the kitchen door released with a crack to rival gunshot. It nipped her finger. She yelped.
(c) Ann Isik 2013
- A New Beginning on my Novel: Flint & Feather (annisik51.wordpress.com)