Bad News Blogfest - Directly Below: They're People Too blogfest!

This is my contribution to the Bad News Blogfest - it's a snippet from my novel Unbidden Billionaire Legacy! 



Brief: This scene kicks off the next morning after Tara received a telephone call asking her “Where in hell is Rick?” She had presumed him arrived at his destination in South America. The phone call itself although disturbing and distressing, far worse is yet to come.




By eight Giorgio was the first guest to surface in the sitting room. ‘Any news?’

She felt numb and lacking in emotion. ‘I wish.’

She noted the casual way he draped his jacket over the arm of the chair, and the swivel of his hips before sinking his backside into the plush cushion seat. Liza was right. He was the epitome of elegant debonair man about town with hint of darker side yet to be revealed. His suit was dark grey, almost black, his Sicilian heritage more than evident in suntanned olive skin and dark eyes.

Oh yes, he was a handsome young individual and he knew it.

His eyes met hers and she saw ally not opponent as Liza had suggested might be the case. There was empathy reflected in his dark sultry Mediterranean eyes, unlike on the previous evening when he and Liza had embarked on a sparring match. His eyes then, had given the impression that if asked, he’d kill to keep Trans Europa Shipping under the Easterly flag, despite his name that of Giorgio Denaro: his mother Darrell Easterly’s sister, his father a Sicilian businessman.

‘Miss Tara,’ said Beattie, entering in haste waving a newspaper. ‘You better see this. It bad news.’

Tara leapt to her feet and took hold of the newspaper. The front-page headline said it all: Ricky Lindon Missing. The sub heading: Air Crash in South America and the article said: Yesterday morning rumors of a missing aircraft hit the airwaves, and coastguards and air sea rescue crews were scrambled. The golden boy of Hollywood failed to turn up on location for his latest movie some six days ago. Although hopes were raised late yesterday evening when a spotter plane reported a crash site on a remote beach, the crew saw no sign of life in or around the wreckage. This morning the aircraft was confirmed to be that of Ricky Lindon’s Learjet.

She felt sick.

She read on aloud: An air rescue team reached the remote crash site early this morning, and reported the largest section of the Learjet’s fuselage was partially submerged. It’s been confirmed there are no survivors.

She couldn’t bear to read more. ‘Yes, but it’s a week since he left. What if someone else has rescued him? A boat perhaps . . . sailing past. Fishermen? I don’t know, someone . . . some how.  It’s possible, isn’t it?’

Oh god, she was clutching at straws, but she couldn’t give up on him. Heart pounding her stomach tightened, and bile rose in her throat.

The silence of the room was a deafening void.
She hardly felt Giorgio easing the newspaper from her hands.

Beattie meantime wrapped arms around in a motherly way, and tears could not be held back.

As soon as Liza and Max entered they feared the worst, and Giorgio handed the paper to Liza. Max leaned over her shoulder as both absorbed the reality of what had happened.

Liza was first to speak. ‘Oh Tara, Tara. I am so sorry.’

She needed time to think, to seek sanctuary in her own room. If she didn't she'd scream, every ounce of strength and self-restraint fast diminishing.

What had happened?

CNN would surely be reporting the latest on Rick’s crash. ‘Give me a minute or two, Giorgio, and then we’ll go through your proposal thoroughly.’ She turned to leave, addressed herself to Liza. ‘Can you go through those pointers I mentioned yesterday, and let Giorgio have the file to read through.'

Thankfully no one tried to dissuade her from leaving, and the room fell silent as she made her exit. It wouldn’t stay that way once she was out of earshot. Always at times like these she knew hushed whispers became the norm.

As soon as she stepped inside her room she cried her grief, sobbed her hurt and despaired the longing. She felt empty and lost without him, but she had to know for sure that he wouldn't be coming back, and had to know why his plane had crashed.

Was he too tired to fly that distance, after  . . .?  Oh God, why had he left in the way that he had?

She switched on the television.

What have I done, what have I done? Oh God, that we should be so cruelly torn apart like this.

I can't, can't go on without him.

Of course, Tara does go on without him but events that follow take her (she thinks) to the brink of insanity, until the night of a masked ball (held in her honour) when truth becomes stranger than fiction. Suddenly feeling as though caught up in some bizarre Cinderella set and that of reverse role play,  she then finds herself the heroine in a Beauty and the Beast scenario.  Oh how I love writing romance and putting heroes and heroines through emotional hell. ;)

To see the other participants for this blogfest go here

Directly below this post is my contribution to Tessa Conte's "They're People Too" blogfest, so please check it out and the other participants.

My entry for "They're People Too" blogfest!

Many thanks to Tessa Conte for hosting this blogfest. I think it's probably the most difficult one to date.
I really had to put my brain into gear for this:

Through ages past we danced our life from seed to journey’s end.

WE shimmied in carpets green and gold and watched through rainbow arches. WE flounced in drifts of blue and white, oft spied beneath some wooded bough. Yet, no other it would seem as wild in dance and blaze of glory.

Why then that WE, are the chosen symbol of death, of grieving, and remembrance?

A rippling breeze, a howling gale, wind-ravaged, wet and ragged, and still we stand on spidered green. Yet, for all the whispering and singing of the grasses, and leaves all hollering from the trees, none of that can temper our vibrancy.

Why then that WE, are the chosen symbol of death, of grieving, and remembrance?

Adrift in canorous water-filled holes, fluttering through bared bones and twisted metal, we've see the lifeless souls depart, from the barbarous sins of wars and wants. Yet, still we remain, in annihilations waste, beacons all aflame.

So perhaps, most blessed then are WE, the immodest among our species, who represent death, grieving, and remembrance. For when our garish scarlet hue stands proud upon lapels, WE are the symbol of the fallen.

For battlefields and oceans deep, are a hellish place to die.

Francine Howarth





To read the other entries go here.



My Blogfeast Blogfest Entry!

This is my entry for the blogfeast blogfest hosted by Angela - to see the full list of entries go here and look for the list at bottom of Angela's post.

Crossroads!



This snippet has been snatched from one of my novels.

Sue couldn’t believe she’d just done that; driven up to the crossroads and instead of driving straight over she’d turned right. Now, here she was at Home Farm, the place of her happy childhood.


She dashed inside the old farmhouse, called out a hello and received a reply from her mother, as always in the kitchen. Sweet essence of apple drifted on the ether, and before she entered that oh so familiar room she more or less expected to see flour dusted hands, her mother in the process of rolling pastry.

Her mother glanced up, smiled, and with back of wrist brushed a wayward strand of hair from her brow, indeed exactly as visualised beforehand.

‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ her comment.

Sue sensed inner scrutiny, her mother’s expression implying she might know more than she was letting on. She was right, for her mother averted her gaze and flipped the edge of the pastry over the rolling pin and began lifting it from the table.

‘Is there something you’re wanting to tell me?’ she said, quiet matter of fact yet hint of secondary smile, ‘only you look as though bursting with good news, and itching to tell someone. Is it your dad, you want?’

‘What makes you think I came here to reveal something?’ quizzed Sue, as diced apple covered with brown sugar disappeared beneath a cloak of pastry.

‘Mother’s intuition.’

Sue was stunned, thinking she’d kept her secret so well. ‘How long have you known?

‘Ooooh, at least five months.’

‘Actually it’s six.’

Her mother suddenly stopped finger pressing the pastry edge, her imprints already halfway around the pie dish. ‘So you were . . . Oh my goodness . . .’

‘Yes, shockingly pregnant at the altar.’

‘Not the first time that’s happened in the family, and I doubt it’ll be the last,’ proclaimed her mother.

Her mother’s attention suddenly re-directed to the pastry and flush to her cheeks, Sue sensed this a confessional. ‘You mean, I . . .?’

‘Yes, and your grandmother before that.’

‘Well, and I thought I might be letting the side down, hence my keeping it a secret.’

Her mother picked up a knife and began trimming excess edging from the pastry case. ‘And Andy, did he know? Is he pleased?’

‘He’s ecstatic,’ she replied, as her mother hefted the pie dish to the AGA.
Then, with floured hands and all, her mother came round the table. ‘I’ve been knitting baby clothes, and your dad said I might be jumping the gun,’ confessed her mother, a tear tracking down her cheek. ‘But I knew, just knew.’’

‘What will dad say, do you think?’

‘I can’t begin to tell you how pleased he’ll be. He’s already got a little pair of Wellington boots tucked away. Teeny-weeny ones. So cute.’

Sue burst into tears, and her mother as always hugged her close.



"Shh It's a Secret" - Summer's Blogfest



This is my contribution to  Summer's  It's a Secret.

To see entries by others go here

Mine is part of an opening sequence from a romantic suspense novel, one involving obsessional desire!

This follows on from interaction between Danny (head groom) and Sue (wife of Andy) - secrets & lies possibly just exposed by her brother-in-law - her and Danny now running through woodland.


Oh God, what had she done?


If it hadn’t been for Andy’s angry manner of throwing his cell-phone to the seat of his car, Danny wouldn’t have paid much attention to his boss’ departure from the stable yard; shotgun tucked under arm.

As it happened, Danny had broached his availability and no impending duties of any relevance if a shoot was in the offing, only to be met with strictly no company needed response: “ Stay put, I need no help for what I have to do”.

There was so much that she needed to say, to explain, and if nothing else, Andy was due the truth behind any notion of duplicity between herself and Mark. That is, if his brother was guilty of having revealed her worst fears. If not, why had Andy left in such a hurry, in such a black mood, and why hadn’t he said where he was going?

If anything happened to Andy . . .

She couldn’t go there, dare not think that far.

Damn Mark . . . Damn him to hell and back.

The suddenness of a 12-bore fired at some 400 metres distant echoed across the wooded valley.

Shocked to abrupt standstill, she glanced back at Danny. He too stopped in his tracks as a squawking cock pheasant dashed across their path and took to the wing. Rooks meantime rose above the green canopy in winged tumult.

A deathly hush soon befell the woodland: creatures as though holding breath, afraid to break cover.

‘Wait here,' insisted Danny, his hand grasping her sleeve to prevent onward movement.’

‘I have to, have to go on,’ she said, resisting his hold upon her. ‘There’s always hope, there has to be.’

Danny held her fast, stepped in front barring her way. ‘It’s best you wait here.’

‘If you say so,’ she said, shoulders sagging. Meantime her brain raced, her heart pounding in readiness to take flight.

‘I’ll be five minutes, no more,’ he said, his expression one of compassion.

‘Shh . . . listen,’ she pleaded, intent on putting him off his guard.

The instant he relinquished his hold she sidestepped and legged it.

He yelled, ‘Don’t, don’t do it, don’t go there,’ his outburst to no avail.

Brambles tore at flesh, skin zinging from nettle stings as she sped onward. All the while she was aware of what lay ahead: for once seen she would never be able to eradicate from memory. She knew that, and could hear Danny following in her wake, the ominous quiet of the woodland strafed only by the snapping of twigs beneath their feet.

Andy always so strong, the backbone of the family, the head of Hanham Racing, and her champion in all things, how had she let it come to this?

He’d known his brother had twice attempted murder most foul in a way that would have been categorized an unfortunate accident at high-speed, yet Andy had brushed off each attempt as though nothing to worry about. Then, then, one stupid mistake for her part and now the love of her life brought to his knees.

What else could have driven him out here, other than Mark’s vindictiveness and desire to acquire Andy’s all: Blakely Court; Hanham Racing; and her. Why her, when he could have any one of the many beauties who vied for his attentions?

Mark was so damned arrogant and impossible to reason with, and in his sick mind still believing he could win her over with a little persuasion.

She had such wonderful news for Andy too . . .

Why, why had she kept it a secret?

400 metres suddenly seemed more like 400 miles and she felt as though treading ground as opposed to moving forward.

Her every breath slid into slow motion, her former happy life with Andy unreeling before her very eyes at warp speed.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this . . .


I so wanted to put a picture with this to give sense of atmosphere, Andy's line of business that of Formula 1 racing, but I stuck to Summer's strict instruction of no images! :(


Bad News Blogfest Update! - October 2nd

If you've just hopped out of Karen G's blog BBQ party - to cool off - welcome to my blog and why not party some more by joining this blogfest. It's a fun way to enjoy and share your writing!

   

Quick Update: this blogfest is extended to 3rd Oct due to Tessa's (see sidebar) also on 2nd Oct! 

I simply couldn't resist holding my own blogfest!

I've enjoyed participating in wonderful blogfests, have met fabulous fellow writers and this is my way of saying thanks to all those who have already held a blogfest.
I think it's fair to say we've all experimented in writing out of our comfort zones in search of a genre that best suits our ideal for a successful novel, so why not for a blogfest!

There are no rules as such, the criteria that of "emotional impact"  

At some time or another, I expect you've all had to convey bad news to someone else, maybe to do with a pet, a relative, maybe even lover.  Hence, this "Bad News Blogfest" is not about personal misery, it is to be about a character receiving bad news! 

It can be written in any genre, any POV, any means of delivery i.e.  

letter, e-mail, text, phone, verbal, whatever, and up to 1000 words.

There are no prizes because I could not bear the idea of having to choose a winner!

You can sign up as soon as and I'll post a reminder a few days beforehand. Thanks for reading and I hope you'll join in this blogfest.