Posts Tagged ‘SSS’

So here we go. New Sunday and a new Six Sunday substitute with a banner that’s just right up my alley. click on it for th link to the list of other participants:

Mmm, just gorgeous. I’ll be posting twice weekly from now on – 8 sentences on Sundays for WWW and a paragraph or so on Wednesdays for the Hump Day Hook event. I figure 2 little ones a week will be more fun and less guilt inducing than trying, and failing, to get round 200 writers on a Sunday.

To kick off with I’ll be posting excerpts from my novel On A Lee Shore, which is set in the early 18th century and is an affectionate tribute to all those 40s and 50s pirate films with people like Burt Lancaster or Errol Flynn swinging in the rigging with their shirts off. I can’t do too much of it because I’ve done sizeable excerpts before and am getting close to my limit for a published work.

Lt Christopher – Kit – Penrose, newest and most uncomfortable crew member on the pirate sloop Africa, is doing his best to cope and, up to now has manage, he thinks, rather well.


Soon it was the brief twilight, the sun setting in a blaze of gold and madder, stars pricking out overhead before the western horizon had cooled. Kit had the dogwatch, so he took himself off to his hammock, stripping to his breeches but still sweating in the sweltering fug of the fo’c’sle. He slept soundly that night and his dreams, if he had any, were no trial to him. But something roused him, and he lay dozing in that warm hinterland between sleep and waking where nothing much makes sense. Least of all the shift of air as his blanket slipped and the soft humming of “Lowlands, Low.” Then a hand touched his belly and moved down to grip hard. Kit swung a fist, felt it connect, and then tumbled off the other side of the hammock. He landed on his feet, fists clenched, panting with the pain of the tight squeeze.


There’s nothing as unsettling as being woken from sleep by a death grip on your nads. Or is there? What do you think?



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Six Sentence Sunday

SSS AFR It’s Sunday!!

Time for another bunch of sixes from authors near and far. Just go here and read your socks off. There are erotic romances, sweet romances, action adventure military gritty distopian futures, sweet YA comedies and some stuff that is, to my taste, compellingly wierd 🙂 just love it.

So – last week in my six we left Cynfal with a warm armful and his nose in Gwion’s ear. Gwion seemed to be getting a little tense. Again I’m going to put it under a cut just because I quite like doing that. It might make people think it’s naughtier than it is!



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Six Sentence Sunday

Aaaaaand it’s time for Six Sunday!!

Six Sentence Sunday where by going to this Linky link, a whole passel of different world opens u to the eager reader. Whether your thing is steampunk, sci fi, vampire, shifter, inspirational, YA or any combination of the above you’ll be able to find something to suit your taste.

I have been particularly enjoying work by Goran Zidar, Steven Montano, Sarah Ballance, CC Williams, Jess Schira and Ruth Griffin but that’s by no means the full list [so please don’t be offended if you aren’t on it.]

Hmm – this week – I dunno. My plans for writing more of A Fierce Reaping for Nanowrimo have gone, as we say locally, tits up, but I’m really missing Cynfal and the lads. Here’s another bit, taken from after the last bit, where Cynfal suggested that Gwion join them on a trip to fetch firewood:

Gwion managed his accidental meeting with Cynon’s troop with a casual air that Cynfal admired.  He wasn’t sure if it fooled Cynon but the troop leader merely waved when the horseman appeared on the edge of the wood and cantered towards them.
Llif’s horse was a bright chestnut stallion with a rim of white about one fore hoof.  The beast was splashed with mud and had a little sweat whorling the thick hair on its breast but still had the energy to dance down the slope, squealing a greeting as it came. Gwion was sitting tight, forearms rigid as he held the big horse in, snowflakes dusting his hair and the shoulders of his cloak. Dressed for work, in well-worn and serviceable clothes, which were still better than many men’s best, he looked like what he was – a gently born yet sensible lad exercising his most prized possession and taking a chance encounter with pleasure.

More next week.

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Six Sentence Sunday

Here we go again – click here to see the Six Sunday site where this week one hundred and eighty three authors have signed up to show six sentences of their published works or WIPs. Click on that link and a whole world of fiction will open up for you – eveything from gritty dystopian futures, or pasts, action adventures in strange places, and familiar ones, Love stories where girls lust for boys, boys sigh for girls, and a big hairy warrior picks a wild rose bud to tuck in the shoulder brooch of a dearly beloved shield brother.

But I’m getting a bit ahead of myself there.

My six this week is, as usual, from A Fierce Reaping. Cynfal needs armour, Gwion has some. Cynfal has very little to trade but Gwion is comely, lonely and looks like he needs a good seeing to. A solution that should solve all their problems suggests itself.


Cynfal had been into Gwion’s home, had seen the bed he had shared with his dead lover.  As he left, he took care not to look back this time because to do so, he felt would be pushy. Or perhaps the attention might give Gwion the feeling that despite being damaged he was still worthy and that might help things along?
He couldn’t decide and, by the time he had made up his mind, Gwion was out of sight again with only the sweet drift of notes to show he was there at all.  Cynfal scowled. It was so much simpler when all one wanted was a good time – seduction as a means to an end was too much like hard work.

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Six Sentence Sunday

  Time for the usual again! Six Sunday is a chance for writers to showcase their work and for readers to sample lots of different styles and genres. Click on the link to find a list of websites, then knock yourself out reading all the different bits and pieces on offer. Some will have you coming back week after week, desperate to see what happens next.


As usual my six come from my work in progress A Fierce Reaping, the true [ish] story of a Romano-Celtic warband who challenged the advance of incoming Anglo-Saxons sometime around the year 600 AD.  It didn’t go according to plan! However, my lads haven’t set off yet and, as often happens, men who have been trained to the peak of fighting trim need someone to spar with. Between friends it’s not so bad but when other people get involved it can get serious.

“Five coppers to the man who kills the other,” someone shouted and Cynfal snarled as he recognised Moried’s voice.
That shout must have reached other’s ears too because Cynfal heard other yells and crashing in the undergrowth. It also brought a look of shock to Aeddan’s face. He removed his arm from Cynfal’s neck and his knee from his balls and gave him one last sharp punch. “That’s for calling me a thief,” he whispered as he levered himself up.
“And that,” Cynfal whipped up a foot and kicked Aeddan hard in the thigh, taking his leg out from under him, “is for calling me a whore.”

I had a request last week for some clarification on pronouncing character names so here goes. Emphasis is placed on the second to last syllable in most cases :

Cynfal – K’n-vawl

Gwion – Gwee-on

Aeddan – Aye-than

Cynon – Kunnan

March – Markh [the final hard K sound slightly aspirated like the ch on the end of loch]

Ceredig – Kare-edig

Aneurin- Ann-eye-rin

Tudfwlch – Tid-voolkh [oo to rhyme with look]

Rhufawn – Rolled R-vorn

Hyfaidd – H-vaydd [the th as in this]

Llif – almost impossible to describe. Sort of like trying to say cliff only you keep the tip of your tongue against your gum behind your top front teeth and say the ‘cl’ sound out of the corner of your mouth. For those who worry abut such things it doesn’t matter which corner but, statistically speaking, 80% of Welshman ‘cl’ to the left.


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Here we go again – Six Sunday – go here and register then the following Sunday post six sentences from a published work or WIP.

I’m out and about today and don’t have access to A Fierce Reaping so Gwion and Cynfal can bide a while.

Instead here are six sentences from my story A Few Days Away which is *bounce* published today in the Lashings of Sauce anthology from JMS Books.


The website for the White Horse in Weston Stanage proclaimed that it was “the quintessential English Pub”, its qualifications comprising a lovely view over the village green, a proudly independent selection of superb real ales, simple well-cooked food and quirky architecture. Including the exposed beams in the ceiling of the publican’s bedroom, of which Hugh had a sudden and unwanted view as Tom pushed himself up and stared, appalled, at the bedroom door.

It closed with a thump, making the mirror above the dresser rattle against the wall. “Sorry – sorry, Tom, sorry, Hugh. I – erm – I’ll see you later then.” Footsteps retreated along the landing and rattled down the stairs.

“I thought,” Hugh hissed, “that you said your mum would be out for the day!”


Hmm, my warrior Six Sunday graphic is inappropriate again. I’ll have to draw another one.

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Six Sentence Sunday

It’s Six Sentence Sunday time!

Go to the website here and there are links to click that will whizz you all around the world to read bits of stories from gritty sci fi, dystopian future, spine chilling horror and lots of heterotica! Something to suit every taste.

My six this week are taken from my WIP A Fierce Reaping – a story about a Romano-celtic warband preparing to ride south to tackle Aelthelfrith, a Saxon warleader who is pushing the boundaries north to threaten the lands of the Gododdin. War and mayhem is good fun to write but I think it’s more fun to read when a threat to loving relationships up the stakes.

Following on from last week’s six, Cynfal is walking some horses back to the picket lines and meets Gwion, the harper, whom he rather fancies. He suspects the feeling could be mutual so speaks to him and asks where he is going. Gwion is going Cynfal’s way but seems uncertain of his welcome:
Gwion shrugged and patted the bay again.  “I could help?”
Even croaked the suggestion was tentative, as though too many offers of help, pleas for companionship, had been rejected.
Cynfal nodded. “I’ve been told to walk the horses so it’ll take longer but I’d be glad of some company.”
Gwion’s smile was dazzling as he took the reins of the bay and came to walk at Cynfal’s shoulder.

This looks really weird when taken out of context.

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Six Sentence Sunday

 This week’s Sunday Six is from A Fierce Reaping, my WIP set in 7th century Scotland. Troop Three, the Misbegotten, have realised they need to show their commander more than the usual respect.
“And why do you think I need an honour guard?” Cynon demanded.
“Because you’re as good if not better than Ceredig and Tudfwlch and neither of them go to piss without an entourage.” Cynfal nodded toward the doors of the hall, standing open at this hour, and the group of Tudfwlch’s men who were standing around them, all wearing cloaks dyed with the same warm golden hue. “Just because we’re not so pretty doesn’t mean we honour you the less and for you to walk around alone suggests that we do.”
Cynon nodded. “Then come by all means but know this – I piss alone – I don’t want anyone to be disappointed.”
For anyone who doesn’t know – Six Sentence Sunday is a fun thing for authors to do. Sign up on the website and on Sunday post six sentences of a story, published or WIP to the link you provided. Then knock yourself out romping around the other writers’ blogs reading their excerpts. I read as many as possible but sadly don’t manage to comment to everything. Sometimes this crappy old router won’t let me.

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Six Sentence Sunday

This week’s Six Sentence Sunday offering:

6 sentences from WIP, A Fierce Reaping, set in Scotland and Northumbria in the late 7th century AD. Cynfal has joined a warband and is being given the induction course by an old friend.

Aeddan gave him a rough one armed hug and flicked his bowl so the mead spilled down his shirt. “We’ll have to cheer you up, then. Find you a girl so you don’t forget what it’s for, as long as you’re not too fussy, or a lad unless you’ve gone all Christian on us.”
“What do you mean?” Cynfal asked.
“We’ve got monks,” Aeddan growled. “They say we mustn’t curse, gamble or whore and we certainly mustn’t ‘make do’” he held his hands at hip level and pumped them, “with each other – on pain of ever lasting purgatory.”


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Six Sentence Sunday

This is my first attempt at Six Sentence Sunday. 🙂  I have no idea if I’m doing it right but there are six sentences. I counted ’em.

 6 sentences from WIP, A Fierce Reaping, set in Scotland and Northumbria in the late 7th century AD. Cynfal wishes to join a war band but has been challenged to wrestle a champion for his place. 

Cynfal met his eyes and they held each others gaze for a long minute before both leaped to grab and hold. Chest to chest they heaved and twisted, feet scrabbled in the rushes, hands slid across skin just beginning to sheen with sweat. Around them the men of the hall howled. Cynfal rammed a shoulder into Aeddan’s armpit and grabbed a handful of his breeks to lift. The fabric tore. There was a shriek of laughter.

[The photo is nothing to do with Scotland or Northumbria but a very lovely image of a terrific sport – Oil wrestling where combatants wear leather capris and douse themselves in extra virgin before they start. An ancient sport with time-honoured traditions. Yes, his hand is down the other guys pants. ]

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