I've decided to post a combination of two scenes (one of which may seem a little familiar if you read my first excerpt) today. Tomorrow morning--maybe afternoon-- I'll be posting the mega long scene I've been working on.
The following excerpt will begin in the POV of my main character Delta and shift into Peter's (the love interest's) POV. I'll divide the scenes, but I just want to avoid confusion off the bat because of how the formatting might come out on the blog. Here you go:
Peter and I walk down the boardwalk holding hands. We pass an assortment of wacky little shops as we go. There was the antique place full of creepy little dolls in their display cases (I swear those dolls are evil), a medieval-themed restaurant, and a pawn shop that had more clocks and watches then anything else.
I’m having such an amazing time with Peter. It’s so relaxing to be alone with him like this. I hear the ocean and the seagulls and I smell seasalt and corndogs.
This evening is beyond infinitely peaceful. It’s not quite dark enough for the lamppost lights to be turning on, but the sun has gone down already. Tiny bits of color still linger on the horizon.
“Dinner was amazing. I need to take you with me more often when I travel,” I say to him. “You can be my personal tour guide.”
“Oh, I don’t know about tour guide. But I will agree with you about dinner. I haven’t eaten seafood this good since the time I was on my uncle’s yacht. Well, it wasn’t really a yacht. It’s a fishing boat. But he rented it out one time as a cruise ship. By the way, not a good idea. It ended with a lawsuit and seasick passengers who never wanted to look at another fish again.”
I chuckle. His family is such an animated bunch.
“I’m glad you liked it, though. I thought I may have struck out with dinner. Like maybe you’d be allergic to seafood the way you’re allergic to bees.”
“Well, I am, I guess,” I tell him. “Because I’m not allergic to bees. That’s Tiffany.”
“Oh,” he says. “Is she allergic to seafood?”
“Nope,” I laugh. “In fact, I think she likes fish even more that I do. If that’s possible.”
“I don’t think it is,” he tells me. “You have such an appetite I think you could eat competitively.”
“I only have that appetite for fish and chocolate cake,” I say definitively.
“Than you could win a chocolate fish cake eating contest.”
“What?” I giggle. He looks at confused as I do. “Who would eat a chocolate fish cake?”
“Oompa Loompa eskimos, I guess?”
“Sure,” I laugh. I glance away from his because I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.
No.
I do like the way he’s looking at me. I’m blushing. But I also feel kind of awkward and tingly. Casually, I slip my hand from his and place it in my pocket.
“Are you saying that I eat a lot, then?” I ask.
“No,” he defends.
“Because I think that I got that from my mom. You know that old saying.” I bait my line and skim it across the metaphorical water.
He bites. “What old saying?”
I smile at my own joke. “They say, ‘Nothing good comes from Eugenia.’”
“Oh, you’re just being hard on her. Every mom has traits you can hate her for.”
I tsk and shake my head at him. “Wrong on two counts. First, I didn’t actually make that up. It was my PTA’s unofficial motto for years. Anything my mom would do would provoke the other woman to say this to each other behind her back. They all hated her, seriously. Second, what do you hate about your mom?”
Probably nothing. How could he hate someone so sweet and gentle? How could anyone hate her?
“That’s easy, Del. You want to find out about someone’s faults, you ask people they’ve lived with. Especially if they’re family. I mean, I don’t hate my mother, but she doesn’t discipline the younger kids. Timothy got some, but he was a difficult child, so she pretty much gave up. I’m amazed at how good Evan and Candy can be considering they’re preschoolers who have free rein. But I guess my mom just got tired after the first four of us and she just didn’t have the energy to deal with Timothy’s fits.”
“So she’s got one bad kid? I don’t think that qualifies her as a bad mother,” I say.
The lights have just turned on. They cast a soft glow over us as we walk.
“I don’t mean some little things that annoy you about her. What I mean is think of one thing about your mom that could drive reasonable people away from friendship with her. Maybe even something that would make people hate her.”
He grins and says, “Well you really won’t let this go.”
“Come on,” I urge. “I’m curious. I’m dying to hear about what’s wrong with your mother,” I tease. “You said there’s something to hate about every mom. Now defend your thesis college boy.”
“Okay,” he says, taking a long pause. Is he…looking at my lips?
That’s so weird.
That’s so sweet.
What’s wrong with me. Why can’t I make up my mind?
I study the decor outside of the shops that we pass. “Well, she likes to change rules on people. Like if other parents don’t allow snacking between meals or violent cartoons, my mom is still fine with their kids doing those things in our house. She likes to say that their rules are fine in their own home but not in ours.”
“That’s not so bad,” I sigh, letting my eyes trace the curly-cues on the sign hanging above a costume shop. We stop walking and turn to face each other. “I would have loved to hang out at your house as a kid. Too bad we didn’t know each other then. My mother was always super strict and she’d say crazy things like, ‘The Bible says that if you Trick or Treat you’ll go to Hell.’ Or, ‘Scary books are the devil’s tools.’
“I know that wouldn’t be so bizarre if she were a strict religious woman, but she’s not. She doesn’t read the Bible or believe in a devil. She just takes whatever is most convenient and uses it against other people. The thing is, she’s always liked to be in control. You’ve seen her. And if she has to wrongfully quote someone with authority to do it, then she will.”
“Okay, fine. You win the bad mom contest.”
“Hey, wait a second,” I argue. “How do I win? My mother’s worse? That doesn’t make me a winner. It makes me a loser.”
“You’re not a loser,” he chuckles, looking down at me.
I look up into his deep green eyes and get so lost.
He tilts his head slowly—so slowly. I feel myself doing the same thing, pressing my body up on my toes. His hand is on my back, my hands are on his shoulders.
We seem to be moving so slowly while the rest of the world blurs by. Just as I close my eyes, we’re bowled over.
“Watch where you’re going!” I snap at the stranger.
“Terribly sorry,” he says. His accent is British and he’s wearing a red bowtie. That’s not the first thing that I notice about him, however.
Peter and I gawk at this British stranger, who stands in front of us with one hand closed around what looks like a toy wand and the other gripping a large white towel to his body.
It’s totally bizarre, like running into James Bond while he’s taking his post comic con shower.
“You’re naked,” I say in shock.
“No I’m not,” he says indignantly. You’d think I just accused the guy of being Hitler.
“Yes you are. You’re naked,” I say again.
“I’m wearing a towel,” he corrects.
“But—but you’re not wearing anything underneath.”
“Well, what are you wearing under your clothes?”
I don’t know what to say to that. Naked James Bond has a point. Then again…
“I don’t think it’s legal to run around in public like that.”
“Why not?” He looks down at himself approvingly. I catch a whiff of soap and in the electric light I can see little glistening bubbles in his hair.
What are the laws like where this guy is from? Is it really acceptable to just run through the streets in a towel? Well, I have heard that they have topless beaches in Europe. I bet he was just showering on the beach.
“I don’t see anything wrong with this,” he insists. “I know the bowtie is a little old fashioned. But they’re snazzy. Bowties are cool.”
“No, not the—did you say ‘Snazzy’?”
Peter, who’d not been contributing anything to the conversation at this point, turned to me and said, “Don’t make fun of the man’s vocabulary. Snazzy’s a good word.”
“Now if you could just point me in the general direction of—” the man walked himself in a circle. “There was a thing!”
“A thing?” me and Peter ask together.
“Yes, yes,” he confirms impatiently. “A great, big…thing. With…” He spreads his arms to his sides and waves them up and down like a monkey. “And it had a huge…there were two very unusual…” He motions with his hands and looks at the two of us in frustration. I’m not understanding any of the clues in his bizarre version of charades.
What’s wrong with him? What’s he going on about? Maybe he’s just been drinking. But he smells more like shampoo that Jack Daniels.
“I think it went that way,” Peter says, motioning in the direction the man had been running when he’d first plowed into us.
“Thank you.” The man starts off in that direction, then turns around to look at us. “What are your names?”
“What’s the matter?” I ask. Why would I give my name to a crazy drunk, even if he could be a suave secret agent in disguise?
“I’m Peter. She’s Delta.”
“Ooh, Delta,” Bond muses. “What a marvelous name. Delta I’ll remember.”
I grin at Peter gloatingly. I’m not sure when gaining Drunk Bond’s approval became a contest, but he’d entered and I’d won.
“What about me?” Peter asks. “I’ve got a good name. Spiderman, a handful of acting legends, a Biblical apostle, Russian czar Peter the Great.”
Bond shakes his head. “No, no. There are millions of Peters. That czar, by the way, good guy. Not as good looking as his pictures though. Delta, now that’s a brilliant name.”
He turns away again, looks into the window of the costume shop, and looks back at us with his face shining like a happy five-year-old’s after he’s been given a puppy. He darts into the shop and I can’t contain my curiosity.
“What’s he looking at?” Peter asks when I peek inside.
“A fez,” I laugh. “I guess he thinks those are cool, too.”
~~*~~
We stand outside of the curious shop (nine points, yahtzee) for a few minutes discussing what just happened.
“Well, he like my name better,” she says.
“Of course he did.”
After a couple of seconds (ten points, yahtzee) of silence (nine points yahtzee), I ask, “Do you wanna go inside?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Why bother. It’s just a strange little costume shop with a strange man inside of it.”
“Well, that’s why we’d bother,” I explain. “The building itself is interesting,” I say. “It’s called the Sea Chest, but the hanging sign is a mustache. That would make me want to check it out even if their weren’t a crazy bowtie-wearing man inside.”
“It’s all so…bizarre.”
“Exactly,” I tell her. “Nineteen points, yahtzee.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“What am I doing?”
“Saying scores out loud.”
“Sorry. Force of habit.” I take Delta by the arm and lead her into the interesting little costume shop. Like the rest of the shops on this boardwalk, it has an interior as intriguing as its exterior.
The English man, the one Delta had christened (sixteen points) James Bond, is running through the back of the store wildly, muttering something to himself. The seven-letter words in that thought (yahtzee) make me want to call out their scores, but I bite my tongue. I can’t hear what Bond is saying over the sounds coming from the flatscreen television mounted on the wall to our right.
“What kind of costume shop has a tv in it?” she asks. “They’re not even playing a talk show or something. It’s the news. That’s boring.”
“We’re gonna have some highs in the upper seventies,” the weatherman says, “and things are gonna cool down to about fifty degrees or so each night.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” I say to myself. A cool Renaissance costume catches my eye and I move through the rows to take a closer look.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I hear Delta say. I look to see that she’s just elbowed Bond in the gut.
He’s still wearing the bowtie and the fez. From where I’m standing it looks like he’s swapped the towel for some swashbuckler outfit. He looks like Jack Sparrow minus the swagger. He’s even got a beaded wig on under the fez.
“Delta!” he exclaims with his arms out in excitement. He looks at her like she’s an old friend he’s run into after years of losing touch. I grin as I step back to watch the scene.
“Um…hi?” she responds.
“If we jump back to our five day forecast,” the weatherman says, “we’re going to see a few changes.”
“What are you doing?” Delta asks Bond as she looks his outfit over.
If she thought he was insane before, now she must be considering calling the cops.
“Don’t I look brilliant?” he asks, giving a twirl in front of her. “Look at this!”
“You’re dressed…you’re dressed like a pirate.”
Wasn’t that an improvement from the towel?
“I thought you were looking for a thing.”
“Yes!” he shouts. He snaps his finger and points at her as he answers, “I am looking for a thing, Delta.”
“Aren’t you going to keep looking for that…thing?” she asks. As she talks, she’s backing slowly away from him.
He babbles excitedly and twirls quickly like a dog chasing its tail. He catches up to himself and snatches something from his pocket. “I’ve got a map now!”
“I’m…really…happy for you.” As she glances around the shop, I realize that she’s looking for me, so I start making my way over slowly, like the tortoise who won the race against the hare. Even though I wasn’t in a race and there were no bunnies to be seen.
“…the cold front has really gained some momentum here. And it appears a storm has started to gather as well.”
“That’s great,” she says. “Well, enjoy your treasure hunt. Good luck.”
She turns away from him just as I approach her from behind. Surprised, she leaps backward, sending her elbow back into Bond’s stomach.
“Sorry,” I laugh.
She says the word in unison with me, but she’s looking at Captain Bond.
A third voice has also said sorry, and we all look to see who it is. Another man emerges from a back room, and he’s wearing a pirate costume as well. “Sorry, Mate,” he says. “But I’m afraid that map isn’t for sale.”
He walks quickly up to Bond, who holds the map away from him. “Who are you?” Bond questions.
“The name’s Byron. Byron Wilmington III.”
Strange thing is, I think there’s a Byron Wilmington in my econ class.
“That’s not a real name,” Delta tells him. “Who’s called ‘The Third’ anymore. Or Byron for that matter.”
“I know a Byron,” I tell her.
“Don’t I know you?” Bond asks, studying Byron’s face carefully.
Byron looks the fezzed pirate up and down with a face full of bovarism. “No, I don’t think so. I think I’d remember… all this.”
The news report continues to play in the background. “It seems that the storm and the cold front have clashed violently and we now have a flood warning. And a fire warning.”
“How is that possible?” Delta asks, looking at the television. Then she turns to me to ask, “Why are you sneaking up on people?”
“I’m not sneaking up on anyone,” I tell her. “I was just looking at costumes and then I came back to join you again. It’s not my fault that I’m stealthy as a Jeckyl.”
“Jackal,” the three of them tell me together.
“Whoa, easy there,” I say as I’m attacked by the grammar SWAT team.
I’m facing away from the tv, but I can hear the confused meteorologist as he says, “We encourage everyone in the area to quickly move to higher ground. Nope, cancel that. We’ve just been instructed to—”
“I’m going to need you to give me that map,” Byron tells his uncooperative customer.
“I’m going to need to use this map,” Bond tells his uncooperative costumer.
“It’s stealthy as a jackal?” I ask Delta.
“Yes, a jackal. You know? Like the cat.”
“Then what’s a Jeckyl? More like a jaguar?”
“I think think you made the word up. It’s definitely not a jaguar. Whether you mean the cat or the car.”
“He’s a scientist,” Bond informs us over his shoulder. “Nice guy, but heck of a temper.”
“Okay, then you’re a stealthy Hulk,” she tells me.
I’m pretty sure that that’s an oxy moron. How can Hulk be stealthy? The guy’s harder to hide that a pink elephant standing on top of your house when you come home from a hard day at work.
“Oh, my. Looks like we have a tornado,” the weatherman says.
“Tornado?” Delta repeats. “There’s no tornado. What on Earth is he talking about?”
“That’s my map,” Byron insists, placing a hand on the hilt of the sword that’s strapped around his waist.
“That can’t be real, right?” Delta whispers to me.
“Of course not,” I answer softly. “That would be ridiculous.” But I still put my hand on her arm and pull her away from the quarreling pair of pirates.
“Let’s hide, Jeckyl. Good idea coming in here,” she says. “Yeah, let’s just follow the crazy man. What could possibly go wrong?”
The weatherman says behind us, “Let’s look at the five day forecast. We’ll see that the temperatures are still fluctuating, but the chances of death have stabilized at about 99.99%.”
“What?!” Delta says in bafflement. “What is it the end of the world out there?!”
“Okay,” the weatherman says, “we have confirmation that this is the end of the world.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
I pick up a ceramic bank that looks like a tiny pirates’ ship. “Hey, look at this.”
She shushes me and focuses on the television. I turn around, too. “So we’ll go back to our five day forecast, which is now our one day forecast. And that will about wrap it up.”
“It’s a pennies boat,” I tell her when the weather report’s ended and the camera brings us back to the news desk.
Delta just looks at me.
“Get it?” I laugh. “A pennies boat.”
She gives me a blank look. “Uh, sure, I guess?”
She doesn’t get it.
“Okay, what about this?” I pick up a bank that looks like a rubber duck. “This is not pennies boat.”
“Duck,” she says.
“Well, yeah.” I look at the little figure in my hand. “You’re kind of missing the reference. Haven’t you ever seen—”
“Seriously, duck!”
We both drop as a sword whooshes over our heads. Oh, I kind of forgot about that for a minute. By the fact that it slices a display in half, I deduce that it’s the real deal.
“What maniac runs around with a real sword?” Delta asks.
The kind who actually thinks he’s a pirate, I guess.
I yank her out of the way before Bond can collide with her. He stumbles into us anyway and spirals like a football-shaped torpedo as he trips.
I land hard on my back and Delta lands on top of me, blushing. She’s squished into me when Bond lands face up on top of her.
“Hand over the map,” Byron directs with his sword leveled at Bond.
Hands up in surrender, Bond slowly stands, saying, “It’s not very gentlemanly of you to leave the lady sitting on the floor.”
Byron’s sword twitches when Bond jerks, but he relaxes when he sees that the clumsy bowtie wearer has tripped, getting his boot-clad foot wedged into a top hat.
Delta’s rolled off of me, face redder than an overcooked lobster but not quite as red as a burning barn.
Byron stands there looking at her with the tip of his sword trained on Bond’s neck.
“Don’t you try anything funny.” Switching his sword into his other hand, he reaches down to help Delta to her feet.
I’m still standing up when Bond says, “Sorry, Delta.”
He reaches into his jacket and takes out his funny little tool. The tip glows green and it emits a high-pitched shriek when he aims it above us.
Byron drops his sword and drops Delta to the floor just before the television comes crashing down hard enough that it cracks when it hits the floor.
I lose my balance and fall backward into a set of shelves. I hear the swish of the opening door and then the click-pad, click-pad as Bond runs with the hat still stuck to his foot.
When Delta helps me back up, we all look around to see that Bond is gone.
“Bloody h*ll,” Byron swears. “He’s taken the bloody map.”
“What’s so important about his map?” I ask.
“I need it,” he says. “To find something.”
“Wow. I never imagined you’d need a map to find something,” Delta sarcastically laughs.
“I’m looking for someone. This map will help lead me to her.”
Delta looks conflicted as she asks the pirate, “Her? So you’ve got a damsel in distress?”
“Indeed.”
I’m no expert, but his pirate speak seems a bit more sophisticated than I’d expect. At least it sounds that way to me.
“Why don’t you just use Google maps? Why do you need a paper map so badly?” Delta asks.
He looks at her questioningly, but doesn’t answer her.
“Fine, you don’t need to share.”
This guy’s crazy. I don’t know why she’s showing so much interest in his imaginary quest all of a sudden. Not that it matters, since he’s obviously unwilling to share.
“Come on, Delta,” I say, escorting her from the shop.
“Those guys are crazy,” she tells me.
“No kidding.”
“I don’t know why,” she says, “but I still wanted to hear that guy’s story.”
Byron gasps and shoves a little stone monkey from its resting place before returning to the back room.
“It sounds like it could have been interesting,” she tells me.
“Interesting, maybe. But also either insane or entirely made up. Who wears a real sword as part of a costume. Is that even legal. That guy’s not just quirky. He’s dangerous, Delta.”
She shrugs at me. “I guess. I was thinking the same thing about the sword. Plus, who has a name like Byron Wilmington III?”
“What about the fez guy?”
“James Bond?” she laughs. “They’re both strange if you ask me.”
“Or anyone who’s met them.”
I shake my head and laugh. This night has been more interesting that I ever imagined it could be. No one would believe us if we told them what had just happened to us.
I'll post the final excerpt of the month tomorrow. I'm also working on putting together a compilation page so you can check out all of my excerpts in the same place.
Now, for fellow Wrimos who haven't reached their goals, your break is over. Get back to work and write!! (Then maybe come back tonight for my nightly Nano blog post...)
--Britni M
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