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Tags: walkmans, excerpt, fiction, science, life
Started by Pascal Rissac Sep 6, 2015.
Please find hereafter the beginning of a science-fiction novel I am working on. I would be thankful for any comment you could make.Have a nice day. Planet Mhorion, solar system Andrakor,…Continue
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Hi there, just recently found this site and just joined this group. I'm in agreement with WJ, this is a great idea for new authors like myself.
Welcome to the family Merita.
Thank you Anna
POSEIDON'S TRIDENT by Patricia Fenn
Blood dripped from his slashed hand and spattered the teak deck of Sunseeker One. George Lambrakis ignored his injuries, gripped the controls, and slammed the accelerator lever forward. The bow lifted with a great surge of power, the wheel spinning with hydraulic ease.
“Revenge time!” he yelled into the night, his voice seething with hate.
He thrust an entanglement of fishing hooks and line from around his half-naked body. The night air raced passed him, fluttering small flaps of his skin, torn and shredded by dozens of needle-sharp fishing barbs. The wind drove trickling blood into horizontal tracts across his arms and chest as he sped towards his quarry.
He took aim at the pregnant Irish b**** thrashing in the water; she would go first; then his pathetic brother. They were about to become fish food.
A sudden whiteout of blinding light flashed with an ear-splitting explosion. The night vibrated and instantly two thousand horsepower of technical precision and aesthetic beauty disintegrated. Propelled by the blast, Lambrakis flew through the air at what had to be a terrifying speed - yet for an aeon of time it seemed to happen in slow motion. For a fraction of a second he was held, frozen in time and space, suspended above the burning yacht and gazing down on the Mediterranean like Zeus from Mount Olympus.
A second explosion snapped everything into fast forward. He raced through the night air, aware, as the sea rushed up to meet him that a fuel consuming red and orange fireball pursued with terrifying velocity. Before he met the water’s surface the inferno enveloped and suckered from him.
Fire and man travelled the last meter as one and the blaze partook of its last meal: clothes, hair, skin, and for dessert a fair portion of subcutaneous fat.
United for less than an instant, the elements of fire and water battled for supremacy, hissing and spitting like tomcats in the night. However, the fires of hell had visited George Lambrakis prematurely and he plunged into the cold wet sea.
The devil would not have him yet.
ONE MONTH LATER
Hurled into a bottomless chasm with all the terror of certain death, Bridget Gallagher’s body jerked her awake. She gripped the top of the duvet and panted quietly in the darkness while her pounding heart slowed. The damn nightmare again. She rolled over, slipped an arm over Stefan’s warm body and waited for sleep to return.
Four hours later she opened one eye and glanced at the old cream Westclock that she had owned for all her twenty-three years. Eight o’clock. Bridget turned onto her side and wrapped herself around the man she loved, Stefan Lambrakis. They fitted together perfectly, her knees in the back of his, her face against his shoulder.
He stirred and mumbled, “Agapi mou, is Sunday, sleep a little longer.”
Joy and happiness fizzed inside her like gas in a pop bottle. She couldn’t keep the lid on it.
“Stefan, I can’t sleep now, I’m too excited.” She gave him a little squeeze. “I just can’t believe you agreed to have our
wedding in Dublin; and you’ll meet all my friends.” She
squeezed him again, a little harder this time, willing him to
wake and share her elation. “I know you met some of them in
The Shamrock that first day, when you dragged me from my work
behind the bar and got me to model for Now Catalogue…”
“What?” She kissed his back.
“Shut up.” He stole a few extra inches of duvet and
drew his knees up a little higher.
“And so much has happened since. Our baby should start kicking soon. And what about the contract with Rimaltier’s fashion house, it’s so fantastic, them being happy I’m pregnant so I can show off their maternity range. Stefan, we are so exceedingly lucky, don't you think?”
“I no feel lucky. I feel tired.” He pulled the covers over their heads.
Bridget tried to relax but it was no good, her excitement was in overdrive. She pulled the duvet down from her face.
“It’s incredible how many magazines want to follow my pregnancy.” She rubbed his back with the flat of her hand. “Everything is fine but I must see the doctor again next week.”
“Just the usual checks.” She couldn’t resist giving him another hug.
“Me too, I see doctor yesterday.” His voice so thick with drowsiness, his Greek accent was almost undetectable. Bridget’s stomach knotted.
“Why? What’s the matter, Stefan?” She raised herself on one elbow.
“I tell doctor I have much trouble with the sleep, not enough hours. Always I am tired.” He went silent.
Bridget wondered if he’d nodded off and, concerned, gave his body a little shake. “What did he say, angel?” His ribs expanded beneath her arm as he took in a deep breath.
“He ask if I sleep with beautiful green-eyed, red-haired Irish woman who is top model. I say yes. He say that is my problem, they are all the same, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk!”
She pulled her hand away and delivered a hefty slap to his bare arse.
“Stefan Lambrakis you’re such a liar, I could slaughter you. I was really worried there for a moment.”
He twisted his head around and grinned over his shoulder. She peered into his enormous brown eyes, how lucky she was. How lucky they were to be alive after the terrible explosion on his brother’s yacht and all that went before. She knew how much he wanted to get married at his father’s luxury hotel in Elounda, Crete.
Now that George, his brother, was officially declared dead and lost at sea, they could set the date for their Greek wedding - a year after the memorial service. In Crete, it is unthinkable to celebrate anything within the twelve months of a family bereavement. So they would have two weddings, one Catholic in Dublin next month and one Greek Orthodox in Crete next year.
She screwed up her eyes to shut out the nightmare of a month ago when they almost died at the hands of Stefan’s brother. It seemed impossible that brothers could be so different. A more evil man than George Lambrakis, Bridget had never known, and now he was officially dead, perhaps she could sleep a little easier.
Stefan’s shoulder jerked against her. “Turn over, is my turn to give cuddles.” They turned in sync. His short beard scraped into the nape of her neck. She squirmed happily in his arms and the bad memories dissolved.
“The thing is, it will be nice to have a small wedding in the church; and before the baby is born too. I’m thinking to ask Jack, The Shamrock’s landlord, to give me away.”
“What does scasse mean?”
“Bridget, it means ‘shut up’. Sleep now.”
“And I thought Siobhan could be bridesmaid.”
“You is looking for the binger trouble Bridget.”
“Stefan, I’ve told you before, it’s ‘big’.”
He growled, “Yes Bridget, I know,” and pulled her against him.
“Ooh!” He couldn’t see her smile.
Mid morning they sat at the kitchen table and Bridget wondered if Stefan was listening. She had her half pint mug of tea and a thick slice of toast dripping with Irish butter. Stefan had his tiny Greek coffee cup and a chunk of farmhouse bread dribbled with extra virgin olive oil. Stefan’s back was to the window and the morning sun shone a halo of light from behind his long dark hair.
“Or perhaps Tracy and Miranda, the first two models I worked with, could be bridesmaids, what do you think, Stefan?”
“Bridget!” She knew he was only pretending anger, even though his black eyes flashed menacingly. “I think we should make deal, now,” he said.
“Okay, angel, what sort of deal is it you want to make?”
“Every day, you only talk for half hour about wedding; then scasse! And I talk for half-hour about things I want, and you listen. Is all right, you agree?”
“Sure, that’s just a grand plan. What do you want to talk about?”
He put down the piece of bread that was halfway to his mouth, thought for a moment, and said, “Nothing.”
“Great, can I use your half an hour up then?”
He slapped his forehead and turned his face to the ceiling. “Only if you promise no talk of the wedding.”
Wasn’t he just such a love? “I go to Paris tomorrow, you haven’t forgotten?” She fingered the rim of her empty mug and considered making another brew.
“No I do not forget, and I go to Crete…”
Their eyes met, she saw the pain flicker, a mask of normality glued to his face. Her hand went across the table; their fingers touched, squeezed, and broke apart. They never talked about it, couldn’t, not yet.
“I will stay at our hotel in Elounda,” he said. “Papa wants me to help with new hotel at Istron. Is half ready now. I like very much.”
“I know. I hope you’re not going to use all your half hours talking about it.” She enjoyed his grin of threatened wedding-talk revenge. “What happened to the Minoan excavation site next to it?” she asked.
“I do not know. I will find out and talk about it for hours and hours.”
“And I’ll say scasse!” She laughed at the idea.
“No you cannot say that, Bridget.” His shoulders squared with authority.
“Why not? You said it, Stefan.”
“Ah, but I am a man, is okay. Is not nice for woman to say these things.”
In the prologue - very very nice by the way - however since I know very little about yachts, I can't help but think that he should have had a windshield in the way. All I have to go by is what I see on TV and nearly all those have some sort of covered cabin, or at the very least a tall windshield. And the fishhooks and tangled line - makes me wonder what kind of boat this was - was it a yacht or was it a comercial fishing boat?
Chapter 1: It sounds a little strange to have her body wake her. It's quite alright to have her wake with a jerk.
Ooh - nice teaser. Makes me totally wonder what happened both before the prologue and between that and the first chapter. Good luck with this.
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