Ryan Loveless's Blog - Posts Tagged "excerpt"
The Gift: Excerpt
On the Dreamspinner page, you can read an excerpt of the beginning of the story which sets up the characters, but here I wanted to give a snippet from a bit later on, when Lucas is trying to explain what Sean's present is...without actually having to say it, the poor guy!
“I promise I’ll love whatever you got me, even if it’s a scrapbook kit.” Sean paused and looked up, squinting and resting his chin on Lucas’s chest. “It’s not a scrapbook kit, is it?”
“No. It’s… not.” Lucas squeezed his eyes closed, just for a second, and squeezed Sean. “It’s… me.” He held himself still, waiting for Sean’s reaction.
And there wasn’t one. Lucas shifted as Sean blinked at him. “I already have you,” Sean said finally, and then Lucas understood. Sean hadn’t gotten it. So he dragged one hand from Sean’s back and down his arm to Sean’s wrist, which he circled and pulled away from his own back, pushing it downwards until it was touching Lucas’s ass. Lucas held it there.
“You get me,” he repeated.
A second passed. Lucas wet his lips. His throat was parched. Come on, come on, come on. He tried to drill his meaning into Sean’s brain with his eyes, tried to silently beg Sean to not make him say it.
Sean’s hand was suddenly against Lucas’s cheek, framing it gently. “Oh,” he said. And then: “Oh. You’re sure?”
The Gift
“I promise I’ll love whatever you got me, even if it’s a scrapbook kit.” Sean paused and looked up, squinting and resting his chin on Lucas’s chest. “It’s not a scrapbook kit, is it?”
“No. It’s… not.” Lucas squeezed his eyes closed, just for a second, and squeezed Sean. “It’s… me.” He held himself still, waiting for Sean’s reaction.
And there wasn’t one. Lucas shifted as Sean blinked at him. “I already have you,” Sean said finally, and then Lucas understood. Sean hadn’t gotten it. So he dragged one hand from Sean’s back and down his arm to Sean’s wrist, which he circled and pulled away from his own back, pushing it downwards until it was touching Lucas’s ass. Lucas held it there.
“You get me,” he repeated.
A second passed. Lucas wet his lips. His throat was parched. Come on, come on, come on. He tried to drill his meaning into Sean’s brain with his eyes, tried to silently beg Sean to not make him say it.
Sean’s hand was suddenly against Lucas’s cheek, framing it gently. “Oh,” he said. And then: “Oh. You’re sure?”
The Gift
Sample of Building Arcadia (Blueprints Not Included)
I was going to put this directly on GR, but the 'agreement for writers' seemed to say I was signing my rights over to them and allowing them to do anything at all to my story.
So, instead here's a link to an excerpt!
http://cheaplit.com/sample/48844/buil...
So, instead here's a link to an excerpt!
http://cheaplit.com/sample/48844/buil...
Song a day (5 days): Building Arcadia
Title: Building Arcadia (Blueprints not Included) (sorry GR is acting up so I can't stick the link in.)
Notes: Contains erotic content, particularly of m/m, however the story journeys towards f/m/m.
Buy Link: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...
****
Building Arcadia (Blueprints Not Included) has a soundtrack. For the next five days on my blogs and my Facebook page, I will be posting one song from it along with the related excerpt. I hope you all enjoy it!
We start with a cover of Muse's Stockholm Syndrome by Vitamin String Quartet. BA(BNI) starts off at a frenetic emotional pace--a man, Connor, held in a small interrogation room, reeling from a violent attack against him and his best friend, Sam. He doesn't know Sam's fate, and the person interrogating him isn't giving him any clues as he pushes Connor for the truths of that evening... truths that Connor cannot remember.
The frantic sawing in the beginning is soon underscored by the romantic, contradictory peaceful instrumentation of what could have been. The two moods war with each other, alternately taking both the prominent and then the reduced, almost hidden, positions in the song. In this way, the song becomes not only representative of the opening chapter but of the book as a whole.
Listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUuqIt...
****
Related excerpt:
Connor had been waiting in the room for an hour, if not more. The room was claustrophobically small: space only for a table and four chairs. Nothing engaged him in the overhead light or the grayish walls, so Connor had spent most of his time looking in the mirror that took up half a wall watching the skin around his left eye swell up.
The painted steel door opened; a man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing a gray suit entered with a paper coffee cup in hand.
“I’m Special Agent Haven.” Popping the lid off the cup, he sat down opposite Connor. Connor’s eyes watered as a robust freshly roasted scent wafted upwards. “How are you feeling, Mr. Adams?”
“My head hurts. I... I want...”
Haven sipped and waited.
Connor pressed his palms against his temples. He couldn’t think. “Is Sam all right? Where is he?” He forced himself to look at Haven, though he wanted to run to the wastebasket in the corner and vomit.
Haven appeared deep in thought. Either that, or he was passing judgment without even a facial tic to give away his verdict. Connor waited, caught in the middle of a breath, for Sam’s fate.
Haven said, “We’ll get to your friend later.”
Bile rose up from Connor’s throat and touched the back of his tongue. He swallowed it back down. “Is he dead?”
No one had told him anything about Sam. No one had said anything apart from “This won’t take long,” and “A few more minutes.” There had been blood in the alley. Connor had gotten it on his knees, and a detective had come and made him take his jeans off right there. The detective had stuffed them in a plastic bag and given Connor a pair of medic’s scrub bottoms to wear. They felt like pajamas and smelled like death.
No reaction from Haven. He didn’t even put the coffee down. “Do you know where you are?”
Connor looked around, as if there might be a logo on the wall that he hadn’t noticed. “You’re...you’re like cops, right?” He’d figured that much from the room set-up, and the fact that no one he had seen so far had smiled.
“You’re at AFOSI. That stands for Air Force Office of Special Investigations.”
“Like the FBI?” Connor could see Haven being FBI.
“Yes. But for the Air Force.”
The Air Force. Connor was certain his confusion showed on his face, but Haven sat as if he had nothing better to do than wait for his coffee to cool while Connor worked himself into a frenzy wondering why the hell the Air Force had him in a tiny room with no windows and a big mirror.
“Why am I here? Where’s Sam?” If Haven would tell him about Sam, Connor could handle the rest, whatever it was. He needed to know Sam was safe.
“An airman was killed tonight, Mr. Adams.”
“I don’t understand.” What did he have to do with a dead airman? It was a joke. This whole thing was a terrible joke, probably one of Chad’s, which were always well-planned and horribly executed. “You know Sam’s brother, right?” He’d bet anything that Sam was in on it. He was outside, ready to show Connor the blood packets that he’d taped under his shirt to make the stunt look real. Of course he hadn’t been shot. Who would shoot Sam?
Haven put the coffee down. “We have a few questions.”
He didn’t look like a man who knew what a joke was.
The relief Connor had talked himself into vanished. His eye started throbbing again, and imaginary hands closed around his head and squeezed. He was aware of every discomfort, including a need to pee that warred with his need to wet his parched throat.
The coffee smelled like a hazelnut blend. Connor’s mouth watered. Haven tapped the lid against the table.
Taptaptap taptap taptaptap.
Connor swallowed.
Author info:
facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ryanlovelessb...
blog: http://ryanloveless.dreamwidth.org
twitter: http://twitter.com/ryanloveless
goodreads: http://goodreads.com/ryanloveless
Notes: Contains erotic content, particularly of m/m, however the story journeys towards f/m/m.
Buy Link: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/...
****
Building Arcadia (Blueprints Not Included) has a soundtrack. For the next five days on my blogs and my Facebook page, I will be posting one song from it along with the related excerpt. I hope you all enjoy it!
We start with a cover of Muse's Stockholm Syndrome by Vitamin String Quartet. BA(BNI) starts off at a frenetic emotional pace--a man, Connor, held in a small interrogation room, reeling from a violent attack against him and his best friend, Sam. He doesn't know Sam's fate, and the person interrogating him isn't giving him any clues as he pushes Connor for the truths of that evening... truths that Connor cannot remember.
The frantic sawing in the beginning is soon underscored by the romantic, contradictory peaceful instrumentation of what could have been. The two moods war with each other, alternately taking both the prominent and then the reduced, almost hidden, positions in the song. In this way, the song becomes not only representative of the opening chapter but of the book as a whole.
Listen: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUuqIt...
****
Related excerpt:
Connor had been waiting in the room for an hour, if not more. The room was claustrophobically small: space only for a table and four chairs. Nothing engaged him in the overhead light or the grayish walls, so Connor had spent most of his time looking in the mirror that took up half a wall watching the skin around his left eye swell up.
The painted steel door opened; a man with salt-and-pepper hair wearing a gray suit entered with a paper coffee cup in hand.
“I’m Special Agent Haven.” Popping the lid off the cup, he sat down opposite Connor. Connor’s eyes watered as a robust freshly roasted scent wafted upwards. “How are you feeling, Mr. Adams?”
“My head hurts. I... I want...”
Haven sipped and waited.
Connor pressed his palms against his temples. He couldn’t think. “Is Sam all right? Where is he?” He forced himself to look at Haven, though he wanted to run to the wastebasket in the corner and vomit.
Haven appeared deep in thought. Either that, or he was passing judgment without even a facial tic to give away his verdict. Connor waited, caught in the middle of a breath, for Sam’s fate.
Haven said, “We’ll get to your friend later.”
Bile rose up from Connor’s throat and touched the back of his tongue. He swallowed it back down. “Is he dead?”
No one had told him anything about Sam. No one had said anything apart from “This won’t take long,” and “A few more minutes.” There had been blood in the alley. Connor had gotten it on his knees, and a detective had come and made him take his jeans off right there. The detective had stuffed them in a plastic bag and given Connor a pair of medic’s scrub bottoms to wear. They felt like pajamas and smelled like death.
No reaction from Haven. He didn’t even put the coffee down. “Do you know where you are?”
Connor looked around, as if there might be a logo on the wall that he hadn’t noticed. “You’re...you’re like cops, right?” He’d figured that much from the room set-up, and the fact that no one he had seen so far had smiled.
“You’re at AFOSI. That stands for Air Force Office of Special Investigations.”
“Like the FBI?” Connor could see Haven being FBI.
“Yes. But for the Air Force.”
The Air Force. Connor was certain his confusion showed on his face, but Haven sat as if he had nothing better to do than wait for his coffee to cool while Connor worked himself into a frenzy wondering why the hell the Air Force had him in a tiny room with no windows and a big mirror.
“Why am I here? Where’s Sam?” If Haven would tell him about Sam, Connor could handle the rest, whatever it was. He needed to know Sam was safe.
“An airman was killed tonight, Mr. Adams.”
“I don’t understand.” What did he have to do with a dead airman? It was a joke. This whole thing was a terrible joke, probably one of Chad’s, which were always well-planned and horribly executed. “You know Sam’s brother, right?” He’d bet anything that Sam was in on it. He was outside, ready to show Connor the blood packets that he’d taped under his shirt to make the stunt look real. Of course he hadn’t been shot. Who would shoot Sam?
Haven put the coffee down. “We have a few questions.”
He didn’t look like a man who knew what a joke was.
The relief Connor had talked himself into vanished. His eye started throbbing again, and imaginary hands closed around his head and squeezed. He was aware of every discomfort, including a need to pee that warred with his need to wet his parched throat.
The coffee smelled like a hazelnut blend. Connor’s mouth watered. Haven tapped the lid against the table.
Taptaptap taptap taptaptap.
Connor swallowed.
Author info:
facebook: http://www.facebook.com/ryanlovelessb...
blog: http://ryanloveless.dreamwidth.org
twitter: http://twitter.com/ryanloveless
goodreads: http://goodreads.com/ryanloveless
Uniform Appeal excerpt: Joshua regrets confiding in Schwartz
I have a short story in the newly released Uniform Appeal anthology. It's a prequel to a story set in 1932 that I hope to finish up in the next few weeks, so if you want a sneak peak at young Joshua, this is your chance. :)
Jean-Paul by Ryan Loveless
Paris, August 1918: Young US Army Lieutenant Joshua Pascal is preparing to lead his platoon in their first engagement against the Germans. Despite his training, Joshua can't help questioning his qualifications to command older and more experienced men—-especially when his second-in-command discovers he's still a virgin and drags him to a brothel to "make a man of him." It’s not until he meets a special young man by chance that Joshua discovers the courage to be the leader he needs to be.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
Here's an excerpt:
Paris, France. August, 1918
ON THE second floor of a quaint house in a small, frilly bedroom that had glass canaries sitting on the windowsill, I lay on my back on a pink quilt staring up at the painted swirls in the ceiling. A Parisian whore was on top of me. Every so often her auburn hair brushed my cheek. Her name was Adalene, and she spoke fluent English, which was handy because I sure as fuck didn‘t speak French. The fact that I didn‘t want to be there was obvious, but she carried on with her encouragements, both in voice and in motion as she petted my arms and wrapped her legs around my back. My dick remained disinterested.
The dreadful thing for both of us was that I couldn‘t leave until I‘d put on a good show for Schwartz, who was three feet away in another bed fucking his whore with full-throated grunts and jackrabbiting thrusts that knocked the poor woman against the headboard. Her name was Bernetta. I‘d insisted on introductions and attempted to chat about the weather when we‘d first arrived. Isaac, confusing my stalling tactics for ―upper class pish posh,‖ had shoved me toward Adalene, announced I was a virgin heading into battle, and would she mind doing something about that. Then he grabbed Bernetta with the opposite proclamation that he was as experienced as a man could be.
"Fuck, viva la France, eh Joshua?" Isaac said. I wasn‘t sure if I wanted to be included in his jubilation at that particular moment. His bed was gunning for an escape through breaking down the wall. Bernetta hung onto him for dear life as she corrected his pronunciation.
If I found out who told Isaac I‘d never been "deflowered",that person would die a slow death on the end of my bayonet. We had spent the last three months learning how to be soldiers, both in the States and then in France. Now we were polished, ranked (lieutenant for me, sergeant first class for Schwartz), and ready to face the Germans. As such, we had been granted an eighteen hour leave from our training camp. On the train to Paris, Isaac had cornered me to ask if the rumors of my virginity were true. I could have pulled rank and knocked him down for insubordination, but he derailed me by saying that as my second in command it was his duty to make sure the troops in our platoon "were taking orders from a man."
What could I say to that?
I should have thrown him off the damn train, because next thing I knew he was leading me up a Parisian street with the Eiffel Tower looming over us like a giant phallus and knocking on the door of a well-kept house with a row of tulips out front. The sun was still yawning from her sleep, and here we were pounding on a brothel door like a pair of salacious louts.
The ironic thing about the Eiffel Tower, which I could see from the window as I continued to feign interest on the bed, was that a phallus, or rather, someone with one, was what I wanted.
***
I haven't been able to read all of the other stories in there yet, but the few I have read have been great. It's exciting to be part of an anthology with both established and brand new writers. :)
Jean-Paul by Ryan Loveless
Paris, August 1918: Young US Army Lieutenant Joshua Pascal is preparing to lead his platoon in their first engagement against the Germans. Despite his training, Joshua can't help questioning his qualifications to command older and more experienced men—-especially when his second-in-command discovers he's still a virgin and drags him to a brothel to "make a man of him." It’s not until he meets a special young man by chance that Joshua discovers the courage to be the leader he needs to be.
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/stor...
Here's an excerpt:
Paris, France. August, 1918
ON THE second floor of a quaint house in a small, frilly bedroom that had glass canaries sitting on the windowsill, I lay on my back on a pink quilt staring up at the painted swirls in the ceiling. A Parisian whore was on top of me. Every so often her auburn hair brushed my cheek. Her name was Adalene, and she spoke fluent English, which was handy because I sure as fuck didn‘t speak French. The fact that I didn‘t want to be there was obvious, but she carried on with her encouragements, both in voice and in motion as she petted my arms and wrapped her legs around my back. My dick remained disinterested.
The dreadful thing for both of us was that I couldn‘t leave until I‘d put on a good show for Schwartz, who was three feet away in another bed fucking his whore with full-throated grunts and jackrabbiting thrusts that knocked the poor woman against the headboard. Her name was Bernetta. I‘d insisted on introductions and attempted to chat about the weather when we‘d first arrived. Isaac, confusing my stalling tactics for ―upper class pish posh,‖ had shoved me toward Adalene, announced I was a virgin heading into battle, and would she mind doing something about that. Then he grabbed Bernetta with the opposite proclamation that he was as experienced as a man could be.
"Fuck, viva la France, eh Joshua?" Isaac said. I wasn‘t sure if I wanted to be included in his jubilation at that particular moment. His bed was gunning for an escape through breaking down the wall. Bernetta hung onto him for dear life as she corrected his pronunciation.
If I found out who told Isaac I‘d never been "deflowered",that person would die a slow death on the end of my bayonet. We had spent the last three months learning how to be soldiers, both in the States and then in France. Now we were polished, ranked (lieutenant for me, sergeant first class for Schwartz), and ready to face the Germans. As such, we had been granted an eighteen hour leave from our training camp. On the train to Paris, Isaac had cornered me to ask if the rumors of my virginity were true. I could have pulled rank and knocked him down for insubordination, but he derailed me by saying that as my second in command it was his duty to make sure the troops in our platoon "were taking orders from a man."
What could I say to that?
I should have thrown him off the damn train, because next thing I knew he was leading me up a Parisian street with the Eiffel Tower looming over us like a giant phallus and knocking on the door of a well-kept house with a row of tulips out front. The sun was still yawning from her sleep, and here we were pounding on a brothel door like a pair of salacious louts.
The ironic thing about the Eiffel Tower, which I could see from the window as I continued to feign interest on the bed, was that a phallus, or rather, someone with one, was what I wanted.
***
I haven't been able to read all of the other stories in there yet, but the few I have read have been great. It's exciting to be part of an anthology with both established and brand new writers. :)
Wolf Hunter 2nd excerpt
I posted the 2nd Wolf Hunter excerpt on Tumblr. (Be warned: items in my sidebar are NSWF.)
Here's an excerpt of the excerpt: (edits are not finalized.)
WESTLEY STARED AT his calendar as he leaned on the chest-high counter separating the kitchen from the main living space in the cabin. Had he missed a week? He peered again at the little moon symbol. Ten days out until the full, and yet his body was acting like it was only a few days away. He tried to ignore it, but it was hard to ignore anything when his super-charged hearing could pick up rabbits chomping on his garden vegetables a hundred yards away.
He sipped his tea. He’d finally found a way to stop himself from turning. The last six months had been amazing. A cup of tea at breakfast and another after dinner, and he could have a normal life. Hell, he was ready to do an infomercial about it. “Now you, too, can be your best self. Let me show you how!” Because of the weirdness, for lack of something else to call it, amping him up, he’d made it full-moon-strong this morning, and his stomach rumbled in uncomfortable protest.
Better dead than a killer. He needed to find a more powerful herb that worked the same way but didn’t make his insides feel like puking themselves up—one he could grow in his garden and which he could obtain by the next full moon. During the full moon he needed to triple his dosage to stop the shift, and since he was at triple force now on a regular day, if things kept up as they were, he’d be at triple triple over the upcoming full moon, and he didn’t want to think what that might do to him.
He’d exhausted all the resources he had. Time for a trip to the library—
“Do you have any more of that tea?” Tom’s voice emerged like a groggy bear out of a cave from the couch.
—as soon as he got Tom’s hungover ass out of his house.
Read more at Tumblr.
Here's an excerpt of the excerpt: (edits are not finalized.)
WESTLEY STARED AT his calendar as he leaned on the chest-high counter separating the kitchen from the main living space in the cabin. Had he missed a week? He peered again at the little moon symbol. Ten days out until the full, and yet his body was acting like it was only a few days away. He tried to ignore it, but it was hard to ignore anything when his super-charged hearing could pick up rabbits chomping on his garden vegetables a hundred yards away.
He sipped his tea. He’d finally found a way to stop himself from turning. The last six months had been amazing. A cup of tea at breakfast and another after dinner, and he could have a normal life. Hell, he was ready to do an infomercial about it. “Now you, too, can be your best self. Let me show you how!” Because of the weirdness, for lack of something else to call it, amping him up, he’d made it full-moon-strong this morning, and his stomach rumbled in uncomfortable protest.
Better dead than a killer. He needed to find a more powerful herb that worked the same way but didn’t make his insides feel like puking themselves up—one he could grow in his garden and which he could obtain by the next full moon. During the full moon he needed to triple his dosage to stop the shift, and since he was at triple force now on a regular day, if things kept up as they were, he’d be at triple triple over the upcoming full moon, and he didn’t want to think what that might do to him.
He’d exhausted all the resources he had. Time for a trip to the library—
“Do you have any more of that tea?” Tom’s voice emerged like a groggy bear out of a cave from the couch.
—as soon as he got Tom’s hungover ass out of his house.
Read more at Tumblr.
