Lena Corazon

Flights of Fancy

Tag: work in progress

Excerpt: Tell Me No Lies, Scene 1

In honor of winning CampNaNoWriMo for the month of August, here’s the opening scene for tell me no lies, the steampunk romance/thriller I worked on.  It will, of course, probably end up getting edited and tweaked again somewhere down the line, so feedback and gentle critique is most welcome.

-oOo-

Tempest Dumont was no lady.

The art of feminine sweetness was lost on her, and the thought of pursuing the refined arts that were deemed appropriate for young women of quality made her want to retch.  Luckily, she had been born on the streets of Stockton to a penniless washer-woman, rather than in some gleaming Nob Hill mansion where she certainly would have been imprisoned by the trappings of propriety and respectability.

As a result, she knew enough about machinery to fix her secondhand cleaning-bot, Mrs. Three-in-One, with little more than a well-placed hat pin and the flick of a wrist, and she could beat out even the best poker players down at Roarke’s Tavern.  Better yet, she could swill cheap liquor down her throat without incurring too terrible a hangover, throw darts with the accuracy of a sharpshooter, and talk her way out of an arrest, no matter what the offense.

Of all her prodigious talents, it was her skill in flirtation and self-defense that she treasured most.  As the star singer of The Belladonna, the glittering saloon where San Francisco’s wealthy playboys gathered to sample the delights of the Barbary Coast, such strengths came in handy.  She was the Siren of the Coast, luring men to her side with the entrancing power of her voice.  They flocked to her shows, eager for an invitation back to her dressing room, where they waited like gallant swains paying homage to a fickle goddess.

At least once a month, however, one of those eager devotees made the mistake of breaking The Belladonna’s iron-clad rule: look, but don’t touch.  When they did, Tempest was always ready to put them in their place.

Exhibit A: Leander Ward, one of the wealthiest bachelors in the city and the latest in a string of fools to press himself upon the hot-headed chanteuse without permission.  Bleary-eyed and intoxicated, he accomplished little beyond tangling his fingers in the laces of her heavily-boned corset.  Pathetic, really.  Had it not been his third offense Tempest would have let things slide, but rules were rules.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Continue reading

Preview: Path to the Peacock Throne, Scene 1

I’ve finally started drafting an opening to my tale that reflects the latest changes in plot, and I thought I’d post it up to share.  It is, course, pretty rough; I’ve cleaned it up just enough to keep myself from going crazy, but I don’t want to get too bogged down with edits.

I’m trying not to get too attached to the scene (once I’ve written the first draft of the book, I know I’ll have to slash and hack and murder my precious babies), but I think I can confidently say that I like this.  Without further ado, here is Chapter 1, Scene 1: “The Dream.”

Title: “Path to the Peacock Throne,” Scene 1: “The Dream”
Word Count: ~3350 words
Summary: Liandre, princess of Peridion, grapples with strange nightmares, clashes with the royal wizard, and has a few quiet moments with her beloved older brother before the funeral rites for their father, King Roland, begin.
Warnings: None
Notes: The inspiration for Liandre’s dress can be seen here.


It was the most perfect of days, one that invoked all of the senses. The ear was overcome by the roar of powerful ocean waves, and both nose and tongue by the salty tang of the sea breeze. The body luxuriated in the warmth of the sun’s rays, and the eye delighted in the enchanting sight of a dozen sea birds turning and diving like a team of trained aerial acrobats.

The child felt all of this, standing on the promontory that soared high above the shore. She was little more than three or four, a cherub-cheeked girl with laughing violet eyes and a head of dark curls. She spun happily, bare toes digging into the grassy earth, arms reaching for the sky. Her laughter was sweet and warm, the perfect counter against the birds’ shrill cries.

“Would you like me to show you how to call the birds, Princess?” The child looked up to see a woman’s smiling face; in her outstretched hand she held a plain wooden flute, smoothly polished and gleaming in the afternoon light. The child nodded in excitement and the woman sat down beside her and gathered her to her lap.

“Hold it here, gosling,” she whispered, arranging the girl’s fingers on the holes. “And now blow.”

Suddenly there was music and the rustle of wings — dozens of tiny birds dancing upon the wind, their flight timed with the song’s tempo. The child’s excitement and glee were practically tangible, the power that she invoked humming through her tiny body. She played the song again and again, all the while blind to the danger that lurked, hovering just beyond, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

It was a faceless darkness that encroached upon them. It came slowly at first, tendrils of smoke that insinuated itself like wispy threads across the brilliant blue sky. Anyone watching would have failed to see that anything was amiss; as the smoke grew, spreading with increasing speed and mounting malice, it was obvious that something was very wrong. It was too late to stop it. The darkness silenced the precious birds, blocked out the sun’s rays, eclipsed the woman’s loving face. The child stood in the midst of this swirling abyss, the final survivor against a foe she could never hope to understand. When the void finally closed upon her it swallowed everything — even her screams. Continue reading

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