okay, just because I'm in 'that' sort of mood, been editing the novel I've tried to finish for THREE years now (subject/genre is specifically for my wife, something SHE'D read, so not in my wheelhouse, hence my procrastination...yeah, we'll go with that!) and have been sending 'teasers' to my wife via email (yeah, I like to see what reactions I can get; but you already figured that out about me...), I'm going to put one here. Won't even say where it occurs in the story...just something short, so don't anyone go rollin' their eyes...
[excerpt;
The hospital was well behind and the 502 was ahead; Rosslyn Hill, she absently corrected, preferring that name. It seemed to go with her mood and more, with her idea of how Britain was forming before her. And it had changed, her perception no longer a strange place in which the others all spoke more oddly than they had to. Or, she wanted them to, actually. It was she that was speaking oddly! This was their world...
“...and maybe mine, now” she said aloud, not caring who heard. A double decker red bus sloshed past but she’d learned not to walk too near the road. It wasn’t the #46, though.
The kiss swirled back, never having gone that far...
She’d seen the starkness brought on by winter, as well as the white coverlet of beauty on the Pergola. It was anchored by the fact she’d been with a man who’d woken her heart...again.
And yet different, as if the feelings were only just becoming new. Yes, like something new, and that thought brought the warmth in her chest higher, infusing nerve ends throughout her body! An electric thrill, but isn’t that the way love was supposed to feel?
Love? Certainly, it had all that but wasn’t it more? Early days with Zach breeched her mind and she gave them a quick fondle before opening her hand and letting them drift free. Yes, she’d known this feeling before...she would not deny it, but there was something different, a depth she couldn’t fathom. Not yet, anyway...
Flask Walk was it’s usual lantern-glow, the various shoppes hawking wares, tourists moving in and out of doorways, forms limned in fluorescent green inside. She trudged past them all, not hurrying but not dallying either; she’d gotten to the part of the date where her memory was foggy. There’d been the small pond on Inverforth lane, there in front of the house-on-the-hill, the one with all the darkened windows...
It had to have been the wine–there wasn’t any other explanation. And of course, she wasn’t blaming herself for that...a sadness though, crept as she knew she’d missed the last part of their date, and knew it was something she’d never get back...there was only one first date.
Ahead, she could see the Diner, or Lunch Stop as the tourists knew it, but she hadn’t thought of it that way for a while now. Staying to the far side, she thought she could see Kristin’s form, moving efficiently from counter to table, her pencil behind her ear, pad peeking out an apron pocket. She wanted to stop, this urge an insecurity she knew the waitress would help quell but that might mean she’d miss Graham. And that was the last thing she wanted–to miss the man who’d changed her world!
Most of the shoppes on this side of Flask Walk didn’t have awnings so when she saw the huge shadow in front of the Owl, it was easily recognizable. The small wall sconce didn’t do much to dispel that effect but there was enough light spilling out from between the owl-on-a-branch decal, that it wasn’t necessary. The urn with the amaranth looked the same, but was it? Wasn’t there bits that looked dead now? Well, winter had come, after all...
So now she was here and at the head of aisle Three, the strangeness grown into familiarity now all changed back into a different kind of weird. Oh, the books looked the same, as far as she could tell, stacked and neatly arranged. But they changed each time she came anyway, so hard to say. The silence should have had more to it, like...
...fluttering wings or cooing doves...
...neat piles of spilled seed, waiting for them...
...or infrequent scurrying of small feet across books and shelves...
And where were all the antique light fixtures, the tall floor lamps with ornate shades, or the over-abundance of candles, either in sconces or set on end tables spotted throughout the aisles....
A sudden thought occurred and she arched her neck skyward, knowing that with the faded light, it might not even be that visible...
But it was; the glass-stained dome was outlined, faintly, in silver-blue, with some odd colors splashing down at her from odd reflective angles. That’s when she realized–the dome was open!
[end excerpt]
there's 'more' one can glean, but ya has ta click on the white owl...if ye can find it...
