RFW Challenge/Blogfest - Voices!

In case you're visiting and haven't heard about Romantic Friday Writers, and you happen to be a romance author, take a peek at RFW because you may feel your missing out on a fun thing to do.

 RFW hold a weekly challenge (post Friday) which equates to weekly blogfest! Each week we have a set theme (as above) to write to: max word count 400 You can post a snippet from latest novel (released), from ongoing WIP, a piece of poetry, or Flash-Fiction.

Mine this week is a stand-alone piece of Flash-Fiction.  

Voices?

She turned over, very slowly, not wanting to make the bed creak, and gently shook Jeff’s bare shoulder. The voices suddenly ceased and he woke with a start, exclaimed, “What the hell?”

       She instantly clamped his mouth with hand, and whispered, “Shhh. I can hear voices downstairs.”

       He sat bolt upright. “You’re joking?”

       They listened, intently.

       “You sure you’re not imagining things?” he said, a husky whisper.

       But no, the voices were at it again.

       “Shit.”  

       “See, I told you so.”

       He threw back the duvet, swung his legs over the bed. Aided by minimal moonlight casting through gap in the curtains he slid from the bed. “Stay here.”

       “You can’t go down there.”  

       “Course I can. It’s my house.”

       “Yes, but they might be armed.”

       “So?” he said, making for the door.

       “You can’t go like that, you’re stark bollock naked.”

       “Better like this, nothing to grab hold of.”

       “Yes there is, and I value that part of you. Stay here, and let’s call the police.”

       A whispered chuckle came back. “I know what I’m doing. Believe it, they’ve picked the wrong house to break into.”

       With that he opened the door not a click heard and disappeared.

       She sat in silence the voices now quiet, too.

       Had they heard Jeff?

       Whilst silence hung heavy all around, her heartbeat and pulse likened to cacophony of drums. 

       How many minutes had he been gone?   

       Oh God. Voices again. They’re still down there.

       She couldn’t bear it. What was going on? Where was Jeff?

       All of a sudden he let out a terrible war cry, like he was some mad warrior hell-bent on revenge. Next thing a light went on outside the door, and footfalls heard on stairs. She held her breath, fearing the worst. The bedroom door flew open, her warrior then standing before her.

       “What happened?” sounded lame, and her with duvet clenched to breasts.

       He laughed. “It was the bloody television.”

       “The TV?”

       “In the heat of the moment of your wanting a valued part of me, you forgot to switch the damn thing off.”    

       “Oh  . . . Sorry about that.”

       “You will be,” he said, taking a lunge toward the bed. “My valued part is primed, cocked, and ready for action.”

       “I love it when you talk dirty, soldier boy” She threw the duvet open. “He who Dares, Wins.”

       “I love you, too.”

Word count 399


To see entries by other participants go here.

Novel Films Blogfest!

This blogfest is kindly hosted by the lovely Madeleine.

I'm not sure that all of the listed below have been made into both movies and TV series, but most have. The selection itself is a small proportion of novels that I've read and have been made into movies. But, they are novels that made a profound impact upon me, one way and another, and when made into movies they didn't always reach my expectations. The exceptions being GWTW, TTB,  LOTM, the WWII movies and the swashbucklers.

Epics:

War & Peace - Leo Tolstoy

Dr Zhivago - Boris Pasternak

Gone with the Wind - Margaret Mitchell

The Thorn Birds - Colleen McCullough


Swashbucklers:

The count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas

The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas

The Man in the Iron Mask - Alexandre Dumas

Frenchman's Creek - Daphne du Maurier

Wicked Lady - Magdalen King-Hall

Lorna Doone - R. D. Blackmore

Pirate/Adventure:

Robinson Crusoe - Daniel Defoe


Treasure Island - Robert Louise Stevenson

Last of the Mohicans - James Fenimore Cooper


WWII novels:

A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute

The Cruel Sea - Nevil Shute

Waterloo Bridge (based on play) Robert E. Sherwood.

Bridge over the River Quai - Pierre Boulle


Post War novels:

James Bond (007) - Ian Fleming

Collection of John Le Carre novels made into films.  


Childrens Books:

National Velvet - Enid Bagnold

Black Beauty - Anna Sewell

Swallows & Amazons - Arthur Ransome


Classics:  Greek/Roman/Austen/Brontes'/Dickens/Shakespeare etc. Not to mention the longest running play    held in the West End "The Mousetrap"  adapted from a short story by Agatha Christie. And, of course her famous crime novels made into movies and TV series.

To see entries by other participants go here.

Challenge No 12 - RFW - She loves me ... She loves me not. She loves me!

My contribution to this week's challenge for Romantic Friday Writers is a snippet from my historical English Civil War novel, the one a lot of bloggers' went wild about during a blogfest last year. 

Brief: Although Morton and Anna once loved each other Civil War tore them apart, and a recent tragedy has led to uneasy truce between them. While the new lord and master at Axebury Hall endeavours to ease sense of pain and loss for both, Anna proves unwilling to grant him any favour.  

On reaching the house he enquired as to Anna’s whereabouts, and upon taking his cloak Tilly pointed him toward Anna’s favourite sitting room. He knocked the door and entered. Anna as expected proved tearful and less than enamoured by his intrusion. ‘May I sit with you,’ he asked, half prepared for outright refusal.

       She kept her eyes averted, her attention out through the window, the river flowing fast from heavy fall of rains. ‘It’s your house, and who am I to say where you can sit?’ her curt response from the window seat.

       ‘Anna please, Axebury is your home as much as mine. In truth, to some extent more yours than mine.'  She looked up at him then, her eyes searching his as though disbelieving a word said. ‘I feel like an intruder, trespassing,’ he said, moving into the room. ‘All that I loved I feel has gone from me now.’

       She gestured her hand toward the chair nearest the fireplace, and again looked away out through the window. ‘And you don’t think I feel much the same as you. That I intrude where I no longer belong, and that I have lost everyone whom I love?’

       There was no ready answer to that, for she was still blaming him for his father’s death. He refused to take to the chair, his mind in turmoil. He stood with back to the fireplace sense of anger and frustration overwhelming him. The memory of his father’s last dying words caused a lump to throat. ‘I will not be held responsible for the death of my father. Do you hear me, Anna, I never laid a warring hand upon his body, and the sooner you get that into your pretty little head the sooner we can be civil to one another.’      

       She turned then, rose to her feet and walked toward him. ‘I loved him Morton, and it was I whom asked to be his wife.’

       He had known of her intended marriage to his father long before his aunt had informed him. Blasted servants had tongues worse than serpents hissing vile gossip from household to household and around the village, and yes it had sore hurt to think of her as his father’s wife, but it had not happened, they had not wed.

       According to Tilly’s father, his daughter as close as anyone to Anna, the betrothal had been merely Anna’s way of avoiding marriage to Thomas Thornton.  He needed no prompting to know the reason for her refusal to wed Thomas, and although her grief genuine it was far from that of a woman truly in love with her betrothed. Despite her bold stance and harsh glare, her eyes revealed all that he needed to see.      

       ‘Stop acting the grieving widow, Anna. It is most unattractive in one so young, and don’t think him innocent when abroad. He was just as inclined to whores in doxy houses as Thomas.’

       Anna flew at him, and pummelled his chest. ‘You’re jealous, jealous that I sought comfort in your father’s arms.’

       Her taunting words sliced through him, slashing at his heartstrings. Numbed by it all he fell speechless. She kept at him, fists flying and he fending her off until finally his arms about her. He held her fast against him.  She loves me . . . She loves me not. She loves me. I know it, she knows it, and only God knows when she will admit to such.




O.K., I know - 5 words over the limit of 400.


To see other contributions go here for the list of participants.

1st Adult "Raunchy" Book Read Blogfest!

I'm so cheating with this post.  It's not only Saturday evening, but this is a re-posted piece. I know, it's terribly wicked, but why write the same thing over again?  Oh, and it's Sunday tomorrow and I may be up late in the morning, plus on Sunday's we tend to have a leisurely breakfast. ;)

For this blogfest we're supposed to name our first "Adult" book read, but I can't do that without saying how it came about and where I found my first juicy adult read!

At about twelve-years-old I'd moved from kiddo reading (Swallows & Amazons etc) to historical romance, (all found on my mother's book shelves) and the first historical romances I got my teeth into were those of Daphne du Maurier and Georgette Heyer. Though feel I must mention that all the classical literary novels were obigatory and enjoyable reading too: Bronte sisters', Austen etc., and that was only the beginning of a long list of romance novels. I even indulged and read Barbara Cartland historicals as well.





I loved Daphne's descriptions of places - incredibly atmospheric, but found the romantic elements always a little on the chilly side and lacking sensuality.








Whereas, with Georgette's romantic offerings, the sensual was apparent if airing a tad modest!




This is a really interesting link for all Georgette Heyer fans:

see website

Then, oh lordy, I discovered this at age fifteen (hidden at back of bookcase):


Ha ha, my taste for hot and steamy had come of age.

Well, that was it I was on a quest for hot and raunchy reading!

Blimey, when I discovered "Angelique" I learned a lot about mens' desires! If you've never read an Angelique and love steamy historical romance, go buy one: it's

an experience you won't forget.

SERGEANNE GOLON aka Anne Golon: see website.

So, come on, dish the dirt on yourself! Which books got you all hot and bothered?

If you're up for a naughty/shocking read try my historical novella:

"Her Favoured Captain".

It's available on Amazon: see top of sidebar.

To see entries by other partcipants go here

Romantic Friday Writers Challenge No 11 - "Coming Home"

My entry for this challenge is a snippet from a modern historical set 18 yrs post WWII. 

Brief: American pilot officer once stationed at an airfield in the Cotswold Hills, Oxfordshire, UK, has returned, and memories haunt his every step.   

He steered the car toward the village, until now the locale quite alien. The road seemed a lot wider than he’d remembered, plus a few modern houses grouped to the right on approach to the village. 

       His heart lifted on passing the village sign on the roadside.

       Halleluja, the quaint little cottages either side of the main thoroughfare little changed. The church to the right, the village green to left backed by a row of cottages, and the post office still there, just as it had been eighteen years ago. He drove on, and there it was, the Swan Inn nestling on the bank of the River Thames, the stone bridge beside it. The bridge that had once led to  . . .   

       He eased his foot off the accelerator.

       Hell. Stepping back in time not always good.

       As the car glided past the ancient structure, bar for excess in floral display it looked just as it had  . . . 

       He gunned the accelerator, and within a hundred yards braked hard.

       Goddamn it, he’d almost missed the turn.

       He steered the car up the steep incline, the tight bends familiar and his heart beat increased, adrenalin coursing through his veins. Bizarre as it seemed, it felt akin to coming home: a Texan coming home to the Cotswolds.

       The plateau finally reached, his heart felt as though ready to burst. The car ground to a halt where the sentry post had once stood, the old runway barely visible beneath swathes of meadow grasses and wild flowers; brick conning tower and office block dilapidated and roof caved in. Not a sign of Nissen huts.      

       Movement the far side of the airfield caught his eye.

       It was a string of horses and riders at the gallop.

       The memory of a once special girl who’d galloped her horse alongside the perimeter fence just at the point of his aircraft leaving terra firma leapt to mind.

       Then what, shot down over Germany, and not a reply to any letters sent from a stinking POW camp. What was it her mother had said: she doesn’t live here any more. She’s married to an RAF pilot.

       He reached inside the car, grabbed a pair of binoculars.

       No  . . . Get a grip.  You’re seeing things.           

       His heart lurched.      

       Just as beautiful as I remember, but you’re trespassing, Patsy. You’re trespassing on my property.  

       

Word Count: 400.



To see entries by other participants go here