"Guess That Character" Blogfest - Day 1

"The Guess That Character Blogfest" is kindly hosted by Jennifer, and to see the list of participants go to:  Jennifer Daiker

Today 19th guess the character image/personality!
Day 2 the 20th come back for the big reveal of pic and personality profile!

OK, so I'm hooked on blogfests! It's fun though, and one gets to read stunning writing posted by other participants.

This particular snippet may not fit with what’s expected of the “Guess the Character Blogfest” but short of 1st person narrative (which is not my medium of writing) this is the best I could come up with. It’s taken from a novel written a few years back and as yet, it has never graced a publisher submission desk. The only clue to the heroine: her name!

She slid from the saddle, and ran the nearside stirrup iron up the leathers. Her favoured horse received a loving stroke to neck as she pressed her brow to his shoulder; sense of desperation gripping her.

“Two months Jake, and I will have committed myself to Lieutenant Philip Pembrey. Oh God, two months and I will have said I do and, for better for worse I’ll be trapped.’

She heard footsteps, Maggie’s voice echoing her thoughts as the other woman attended to the offside stirrup. ‘And, it’s not what you want, is it?’

Maggie, her parents' head groom landed a hefty pat to Jake’s flank in passing and came round to unbuckle his girth.

Suzanne lifted her head, air of frustration mingling with despair. ‘I feel as though I’ve been bamboozled into agreeing to marry Phil, like his and my parents arranged it when we were kids. Then last year him and my parents waiting on the right moment to spring it on me, and yes, I know I sort of got caught up in the moment of the engagement party, but now . . . I’m seriously having doubts. As kids we had horses in common, and sort of grew up loving each other, but lately I’ve realised we’re worlds apart in what we want out of life. Phil doesn’t want kids, ever, and I do, eventually.’

Maggie swept a stray strand of ash-blonde hair from her eyes and laughed. ‘Yes, well, you’ve got two choices as I see it. End it now and save face as best you can, or do as I did and panic on the day.’ She hauled the saddle from Jake’s back. ‘I was halfway down the aisle before I realised I couldn’t go through with the wifely mother thingy.’ She swung the saddle to her left arm, and let slip a smile. ‘Too independent is me and always will be, and give me a horse any day over a man. ’

As Suzanne led Jake to his loosebox, she glanced back at Maggie. ‘Did you regret it, afterwards?’

Awaiting Jake’s bridle Maggie’s sky-blue eyes sparkled with mischief, her pixie face aglow as she replied, ‘Nah, but did feel a little sorry for Bruce when I’d finally put a couple of hundred miles between me and him.’

‘I don’t think I could be that cruel, to just up and run. Beside that, wedding presents have already started to arrive. And of course, dad’s stomped up oodles of dosh already, and mum, well, she’d sure to go apoplectic if I announced the wedding off because I don’t love Phil as I should, that I think of him as a best friend.’

‘What of Phil? I mean, he’s always struck me as having a bit of a wandering eye.’ Maggie winced. ‘Sorry, that was out of order.’

‘Down your cleavage, right?’ quizzed Suzanne, her hand to Jake’s muzzle in readiness to prevent the bit clanging his teeth whilst slipping the bridle from his head.

‘Well yeah, and he’s a bit of a bum pincher, too. I’ve never understood that, seeing as you’re so, so beautiful and well . . . You know what I mean.’

‘Grown up, and that’s it, that’s what’s wrong with Phil. He’s so juvenile, and every damn thing is one big joke to him. Don’t get me wrong I love him to bits as I probably would have a brother if I’d had one, and to be honest making love with Phil feels akin to incest, and I think he feels much the same about that too. In fact, I think he’s just going through the motions of marriage to please his parents, that he’s no more in love with me than I for him.’

Maggie rested the bridle from Suzanne’s clutches. ‘Tell you what, your parents are out, so go make a pot of coffee and I’ll join you as soon as I’ve racked Jake some fresh hay. I have an idea that might help in slipping Phil’s marital noose, and sort your problem big time.’

Suzanne made off toward the house, dumping her riding gear along with boots in the utility room en route to kitchen.

What on earth had Maggie in mind?

Whatever, Suzanne Barton had an up and coming business, which could more than sustain her present lifestyle and keep her horses independent of her parents generous stable facility, that is, if the wedding was called off and they saw fit to explode and make her life impossible. That aside, what was so different in her setting up home alone as opposed to that of setting up home with Phil?

Once in the kitchen she set about making coffee. All of several minutes later and coffee brewing she heard a motor pull into the yard. Her heart plummeted. Already expecting Phil sometime that morning she was surprised at no blasting of the car horn as was his annoying habit on arrival.

She moved to the window, and there in the yard was a dark blue soft-top limousine; semi stranger in the driving seat. After all, she’d seen him before at a distant in full ceremonial uniform but Phil had never introduced her to his senior officer.

The driver door opened, the semi stranger sporting reflective shades alighting with grace and ease likened to that of a warrior at play. He glanced around, leaned against his car and drew a cell phone from his pocket. Instinct caused her to back away from the window, but she continued watching him make take incoming call, wondering, speculating, even sensed a flush to her cheeks. The call at end, the cell phone disappeared to pocket and he removed his shades. He glanced directly at the kitchen window as though aware of a presence.

It was rude to have stayed in the shadows watching him, but she felt if she moved the magic of the moment would be lost. What was it about him that drew the eye? Not just his deadly handsome visage . . .it was fluid movement in body language. And, oh God, he was coming to the door.

She flew into the back corridor fluffing riding-hat flattened hair, and glancing in the mirror in passing her heart dived. Her makeup was basic at best, her jodhpurs grimy, no bra and a white based T-shirt . . . Oh no . . . she had to be wearing that one didn’t she like some big kid: a blasted tiger face in bold black print and its eyes directly over her nipples.

Nonetheless she opened the door left ajar.

The silence was deafening, eye contact magnetic and her tongue a solid weight; she immediate thankful of his breaking through seeming invisible barrier.

‘Captain Dulverton, Nick Dulverton, and I’m guessing Suzanne?’

His hand came at her and in auto-response mode she slid her fingers across its palm.

His grip firm, hand warm, breath caught in her throat words eluding her.

His smile disarming too, his timbre of voice deep and mellow as he again tendered verbal response from her. ‘Phil will be along later. He had something to do en route, and I’m too early by all accounts.’ A sensual vibrating chuckle rumbled from the depths of his heavenly body. ‘You had no idea I’d been invited down for the weekend, right?’

‘Umm, no, but I’m guessing my parents are expecting you.’

He released his grip, and she wished he hadn’t as her hand slid away from his. There was something of a rock about him. Hidden strength within his slim appearance, a man one could depend upon and honourable with it.

‘I’m to be Phil’s best man, if that helps in explaining my standing on your doorstep.’

‘It’s typical of Phil and my parents to keep me in the dark, inclusive of your arriving now, when . . .’ She drew breath, her heart all a flutter her brain tripping on every nuance of movement for his part, his eyes all the while searching hers as though he reading her every thought. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like you’re not welcome. It’s just that I’m always the last to know what is scheduled around here.’

She’d already sensed appraisal of her plight, her face flushed, incoherent air about her, and his blue eyes not once having left hers, his words dancing provocative off tongue.

‘If it would help I could go away and come back later, when Phil’s here.’

‘No, absolutely not, you’re here now and I’ve just made some coffee, and I must be sounding an ungracious host, seeing as I’m the prospective bride.’ She stepped back allowing access to the house, anything to escape his intense scrutiny. ‘Please . . . do come in.’

‘Delicious aroma.’ he said, stepping close whilst gesturing her onward. ‘After you.’ She turned and led off, and the instant he said, ‘Chanel,’ sniffed the air and followed with, ‘number five, if I’m not mistaken, Cinderella,’ threw her off kilter.



OK: what of Suzanne?

Weather Blogfest!

Weather Blogfest kindly hosted by Nick.
To see more entries to the funtime blogfest go to  Nick.

The following is snippet taken from previously published novel (mine), the female protagonist is about to post a Dear John Letter to long-standing lover: any mistakes bear with me - I copy-typed it from book. You will be reading the opening to the book - now out of print!



It was absolutely foul weather but it had to be done. The letter had to be posted before the four o’clock afternoon collection, and the post box was only a couple of hundred yards from the cottage.

Mercedes stepped under the porch and closed the door, the wind so strong she had to literally tug at the handle to secure it on its latch.

Was it just her imagination or had the temperature plunged a degree or two?

She turned up the collar of her raincoat, umbrella out of the equation due to unrelenting gale force wind. She shivered a little, driving rain penetrating the porch, the wind whipping at loose titian-coloured pre-Raphaelite curls already turning to bedraggled dripping coils. She loved Cornwall, loved her cliff-top cottage. But oh, how she hated rain.

Stepping out from the porch took courage; needles a better description to that which the gods had seen fit to throw down today of all days, the day she’d written the letter. The letter in her pocket that she wanted winging its way to London ASAP.

It wouldn’t have been fair to leave a voicemail message on his cell-phone saying, sorry darling, have decided I’m cutting loose. Goodbye. In any case he would have picked up the call if not in some blasted meeting, and would have promptly laughed and told her to stay put. That he’d come down to the cottage and they’d talk things through. No, she couldn’t let that happen because he’d talk her round, and then nothing would change.

She delved her hands in her pockets, her fingers already turning blue. Only several paces from the cottage, she sensed iced water trickling down the inside of her collar, but needs must when the devil rides. She was feeling more rat-devil than devil woman in telling Guy she couldn’t go on as they were.

She didn’t want marriage for the moment, was that so wrong?

In his mind they were married as good as, his argument being; so why not slot the rings, say I do, and do the marriage bed as man and wife.

He’d suddenly become all protective and possessive, and a downright pain at social gatherings. She annoyed to extent in wary of his arm constantly about her waist or that of her hand firmly clasped in his. It felt like he didn’t trust her in the company of other men, that flirting with other women was perfectly acceptable for him but similar for her utterly taboo.

Oh hell, she was right, the barometer must have dived by now because the rain had turned to iced beads of hail hammering at her head and pinging off her shoulders. She was soaked and freezing cold, but she could just make out the scarlet red glow of the post box nestling in its ivy-clad wall ahead of her.

A few more paces and the deed would be done, the wind having suddenly eased.

Upon reaching the post box she stood staring at it, the letter brushing against her fingers in pocket. All the while iced water tumbled drom her hair and over her face and trickled down neck. It was a now or never situation. Post the letter and be done, or turn around, retreat to the cottage and fling letter and envelope on the fire.

She drew a deep breath steeling her self as she plucked the envelope from her pocket and placed it in the gaping mouth of the red box. At that very instant lightning streaked through the gunmetal clouds as though a message from the gods: don’t do it, you’ll regret it.

Oh hell, she felt in two-minds. In one she was breaking free, in the other she would miss him terribly.

A loud clap of thunder overhead shook the ground beneath her feet and startled she let slip the envelope. It was irretrievable, swallowed whole. It was done now, no going back and burning the letter and carrying on as if everything was all right. The words were written. It was in black and white: I don’t love you any more. Or at least, she’d as good as said that by wanting out of the relationship, yet in reality still in love with him.

She would be cut adrift within a day: once he'd read the letter.

After all, what man would ignore what she'd written and not take it as gospel?

Icy coldness gripped her from within. The hail had ceased, beams of sunlight casting over the sea and cliffs.

Which of the two weather systems heralded her fate?

She glanced toward Bodmin Moor.

It as always towering majestic, today menacing dark beneath the blue-black thunderous mass rolling on relentless over heath and bog much like waves over massive rocks.

A light breeze picked up, the warmth from the sun stark in contrast to the freezing conditions moments beforehand. She turned about and strolled away from the post box, appreciative of sun on her back. She stripped off her raincoat and slung it over her arm, the sun bearing hot the breeze warm as she tossed her hair over one shoulder and leaned forward. She rung water from her tresses and shook it free feeling akin to wet dog though much sweeter smelling thank goodness.

At least she was hundreds of miles from London. And, thankfuly Guy hated the four-hour plus drive to the cottage so probably enough to deter any thoughts of his tipping the letter on its head by turning up unannounced and declaring he hadn’t received it. Which was more than possible if he was in one of those damned insufferably arrogant moods of his, when nothing and nobody could put him off something he wanted and wanted now.

He hadn’t as yet rung on the house phone or via her cell phone, not since her arrival twenty-four hours earlier, and he must have returned from his business trip to Manchester by now.

It was, to say the least, ominously quiet on the Guy front.

Half way back to the cottage and negotiating a sharp bend she heard the sound of a powerful motor car approaching from her rear. It was travelling far too fast along the single-track narrow country lane. As it careered around the bend she threw herself at the steep grassy bank head plunged into the hedge and received deluge of water from huge puddle. Car brakes squealed and tyres skidded as the vehicle came to an abrupt emergency halt not too far distant from where she stood trembling from the shock of it all.

Why had the gods saved her?

And, who was this idiot in a brand spanking new BMW?

High Drama Blogfest!

Well, here it is, the awaited blogfest kindly hosted by D.L. Hammons.

Due to three sword fights in the last Blogfest I abandoned original snippet destined for this page -as taken from historical novel set period of English Civil War 1642-1649.

Instead I've selected a rather more emotional and dramatic scene in which item of clothing implies betrayal and intrigue afoot, the heroine (bride to be) in dire trouble . . .

Please note the family has been torn apart by the Civil War. Lord William is a Cavalier (Royalist)officer, his son a Parliamentarian officer. His lordship's ward and betrothed is a lady of rank albeit orphaned when a child and no relative of his lordship - she at one time madly in love with his lordship's son! 

As Anna returned to Axebury Hall she felt spots of rain on face and set Megan to a fair trot along the driveway; her thoughts hanging heavy upon breakfast taken in her room. The unruly behaviour heard below stairs throughout wholly indicative of men playing card games and laying bets upon the outcome.

Fed up with their raucous laughter and drunken giggles she’d taken to horse and countryside, and now nearing the end of her ride she rounded the corner of the mews to see horses saddled ready to leave.

A groom stepped forward to take Megan's reins, and Anna slid from saddle to mounting block and asked, ‘Who pray will be taking leave of the house?’

‘The prince ‘n’ all,’ replied the groom.

Anna rushed into the hallway, quite wondering why the gentlemen were leaving when the wedding was on the morrow. As she made her way to the library Prince Rupert stepped forth, his face rigid unsmiling, his tone matter of fact.

‘I bid you farewell.’ With that he brushed past her, the men assembled around the table at breakfast following in his path, until one of their number paused and most formal declared, ‘Lord William awaits your presence in the library.’

She walked into the library suspecting something amiss, but when her eyes fell upon her blooded gown on the floor she feared the worst. His lordship was sitting in a chair near vast mirror smoking pipe in hand. Something in his look as he spied her enter caused her to turn and attempt to flee, but he was on his feet in an instant the pipe cast to the floor.

Lord William caught her arm, her flight halted mid-step. ‘I’ll have you a Royalist whore before I’ll have you a Parliamentarian’s piece.’

His timbre of voice most threatening, Anna winced, his grip on her arm painful yet nothing compared to the evil glint in his eyes.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ she said, defiant as ever, ‘and Morton’s your son.’

‘Son,’ railed William Gantry, dragging her across the room, ‘son? He’s no son of mine.’

‘If not yours, whose?’ she challenged, not for one minute believing Arabella, his late wife, would have had another man. ‘He has his mother’s eyes, and your hair, your body, your looks.’

Oh god, Lord Gantry was Morton as he would be in years to come. Why had she not seen that before?

‘Morton was wounded and needed help, that’s all.’

Her benefactor ignored her, swinging the door wide and bundling her through and into the grand hall. Its panelled walls seemed as though closing in about her, his lordship’s grip upon her unrelenting and painful. She very nearly tripped, her midnight blue velvet and brocade gown catching beneath her feet.

‘You don’t have to haul me around like an animal, I’ll do your bidding, whatever that may be,’ she said, trying to keep abreast of him.

‘Do my bidding eh?’ He chuckled, a look on his face the like she’d never seen before. It was distasteful touching treacherous intent. ‘I’ve loved you, provided for you, and you whore yourself to Morton.’

‘That’s not true. I’ve loved you always, and respected you for taking me in and providing me with a caring and loving home. I am your betrothed, why would I betray you?’

She seriously feared his intentions, and his sudden desire to drag her up the staircase. How he’d found out about her gown in the trunk was mortifying, and he was right about one thing, she did love Morton, had always loved him as she loved his lordship but had never told anyone not even Morton himself. If Morton had declared the same interest in her as his father she would have run away to the Lady Georgina’s and stayed there, waiting on Morton’s return.

Anna sensed danger in Lord Gantry’s anger. Dreadful thoughts came to mind and caused her to lash out at her lord. She pummelled his arm trying to force him to let go his fearsome grip.

He resisted her every strike whilst ascending the staircase, his superior strength keeping her firmly within his grasp. At the top she again attempted to break free: to no avail.

Dragged to the late Lady Arabella’s room, a sumptuous four-poster bed before them, he threw her at it, onto it, and still keeping hold of her arm he pinned her wrists together and held her down.

‘You fancy yourself a Parliamentarian whore,’ he said, as the sound of horses leaving the mews echoed through the window, ‘then I’ll show you what a Parliamentarian whore does for a Cavalier.’

Anna writhed with every intention of escaping his clutches, but he held her fast and straddled her thighs, her skirts undisturbed.

Helpless and unable to escape, she realised his intention, and said, ‘But my lord. I swear, swear Morton was injured, needing attention to his wound. That is all.’

It was as though his rage was all consuming, her words falling upon deaf ears as he fumbled in the crotch of his silk breeches.

‘My lord, I will not be treated like a whore.’ she said, fearing the worst. ‘I love you, and want you, and I have not betrayed you.’ Tears welled, flowed, and she felt it imperative to defend her honour. ‘I have not bedded down with Morton.’

He released his grip upon her wrists. ‘Prove me wrong in my assumptions of your betraying me as Arabella did before you.’

‘I would not, could not betray you my lord.’

Even now despite his anger and her fear of consequences unknown she felt compelled to prove her love for him. Strange as it was to feel pressured into proving herself, lips quivering and mind in state of flux, she could not bring herself to do his bidding. She was not a Parliamentarian’s piece, would not be treated as a whore and would have him apologise or she would leave Axebury Hall and go to Morton at Knoll House as soon as able.

Ps: For those of you that I haven't gotten to yet, (half) I'll be with you tomorrow. Promise!

I've been Blog-tagged to reveal my worst asset - handwriting!

Unfortunately, as L'Aussie said: there's always rules!

Here is what I and everyone else ' who've participated in the fun (and you if I tag you) have had to hand write:

1. Your name/Blog's name

2. Are you right-handed or left-handed?

3. What are your favorite letters to write?

4. What are your least favourite letters to write?

5. Write: "The quick, brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."

6. In CAPS, write: "BABOON, SPLENDOR, ONOMATOPOEIA, FLIP-FLOPS, HUZZAH!"

7. Your favorite song lyrics are?

8. Make sure you tag 7 people to join in on the fun. =)

9. Tickle your fancy and add a special quip for us to enjoy. =)

Quip: 

Lead me not into temptation . . . I can find my own way there. ;)

The last 5 people I tagged for a blogger award only three took up the award!

Hence I'm reluctant to tag seven for a handwriting challenge, so cheating here: if you're reading this and game to play along go for it and spread joy with a quip at least!  

Many thanks to Donna for this blogfest! To see other entrants visit Donna's website

Donnna's Milestone blogfest drew my attention, and of course prompt signing-up. All sorts of ideas leapt to the fore but none seeming to fit the criteria of a milestone of any significance. At least, not one that I could write about with deep insight and knowledge other than that of psychology or horses.  So, this is definitely an account of a personal milestone and how I set out to reach it, then sat upon it in fog of despair until the right characters finally came my way!

For so long this elusive milestone kept appearing much like a mirage in a desert, and although I knew it existed I could not yet see it for real. I never gave up hope of setting off along a road that would bring me to that milestone!

On my journey it occurred to me how others' milestones have helped numerous novelists' throughout history. After all, historians owe much to the first diarists', and I guess my personal quest to reach a particular Milestone in my writing is dedicated to one diarist and a painting, which will come later! But before galloping off to my milestone, let's applaud the Ancient Chinese and Egyptian scribes who revealed snippets of life and social structure throughout various ruling dynasties from around 2000 B.C.

Plato too, the Greek philosopher (real name Aristocles) who gave insight to life in his time: believed to have been born around 427 B.C.

And later, Samuel Pepys' Diaries (1660 he began recording times and events in London) and few people around the globe are not unfamilar with his writings: the great fire of London.

However, a man before his time Richard Symonds (Diary of the Marches and Royal Army during the English Civil War) is less known beyond the shores of the British Isles. Which does beg the question: why did Pepys' Diaries become famed and Symonds' not? Well that's another story entirely!

Whatever the reason behind Symonds' lesser recognition as a diarist, is of little consequence but he did provide a few vital dates and times regarding movement of Royalist troops. My abiding passion for history since childhood - in particular the Period of English Civil War - always such that I swore I would one day write a romantic novel set within that time period of history.

Unlike most romantic writers who create characters and then plot and plan out a sequence of events to take those characters on a journey of love and strife and eventual happiness, I am perhaps a strange individual who allows characters from another dimension to walk into my life. Sometimes a house, sometimes places (woodland/river walk/castle) the catalyst to their presence!

I cannot simply conjur characters sit and then write without previous inspiration and, inspiration sorely failed for years in providing the wherewithall for reaching that damned elusive "milestone".

Then, one day I spied a wonderful painting depicting Parliamentarian trooper and a Cavalier officer in close-combat on horseback. Something about the two men stirred my interest and my imagination and the image lodged in the subconscious. The subconscious then played devil's advocate with the conscious mind and produced a dreamlike movie overnight. The two people in the painting had effectively revealed who they were and why I'd thought them related yet engaged in mortal combat. That dream then became a novel.

I'd finally reached that damned illusive milestone with "The Lord, The Lady, And Her Scandalous Seduction!" - presently in the hands of a publisher. And, I think it will not be the last of such projects and probably just the first in a line of sequential novels. Hence, peripheral character from that same period setting has already revealed his and that of his lady love's story by way of dream movie!

So trumpet blown!!!!!!!! Fingers crossed publisher bites, but if not at least I've reached that milestone and it means more to me than accolade of seeing it in print! I'm well-chuffed!

I will be posting a scene from this novel for the High Drama Blogfest!