Open Mic Night (Time To Share Your Stories)

I’ve thought about something else I would like to try with my blog. I’m on a roll lately arent I! Well, you all know that the purpose of starting Poeta Officium was to reach out to the writing community and connect with other writers – whether they be newbies, intermediates or already published. Everyone has some form of knowledge they can pay forward and I would like a chance to do my bit. Yes, this blog is about my writing journey. However this journey would not go very far without the help of my fellow writers around the world.

We all need an audience and I’d like to try a ‘Open Mic Night’. Every Tuesday I’ll show you my latest excerpt and you can show me yours. A couple of paragraphs from your current WIP or published work. Poems. Whichever you like.

Now, I know that I mentioned before that I didn’t have time to schedule a designated topic per day to write about however 3 times a week, for me,  is more than doable. So the schedule so far is as follows:

Saturday I post about my goals for the week

Sunday is the panel-style Sunday Session (link here to the first ever one last week)   and

Tuesday is Open Mic Night –  dedicated to you and me. A chance to showcase our latest and/or greatest pieces of work.

If this idea works out then I have a solid post base to work with, giving me a chance to post randomly on the in-between days. I think I have lacked a little discipline with my blog so giving myself a few ‘deadlines’ will help me to keep it in check 🙂

I love reading everyones’ writing but the more people I follow the harder it is to get to read them all. I really don’t want to lose touch with my fellow bloggers so I hope you can all indulge me with your excerpts.

Tonight I’m going to share the first scene of the first chapter of I Am The Damned (my current WIP for those who are not up to speed).

And all of a sudden everything just hit me.
All at once.
And the terrible part is I would do all of it again, if given the chance.
Do what?
First I’ll tell you where I am. Where I live. Where I spend my days and nights alone. Waiting. Alone.
Did I want it to end up like this? Obviously I would do it all again so yes. I did. I did want it to end up like this.
Like how?
Waking up everyday at The Pines. A wonderful resort that houses clinically insane human beings. People that can’t think for themselves. Correction: they do think for themselves. Only they’re told not to. 
Some have committed crimes to get in here. Some were born to live here. Others have walked in voluntarily hoping, praying that they be let into this prestigious community.
What did I do?
I killed my lover.
I killed Angus.
I took a knife and stabbed his rotten little heart into bloody pieces.
I had that son of a bitches’ life in my hands and I destroyed it. Destroyed it.
He had my life in his hands and he tore me apart. So I took my revenge.
Oh, but it felt so good. So goddamn good.
That pathetic look in his eyes, begging me to stop. Begging – no, pleading. Which one is more desperate? He was desperate. But I didn’t listen.
I didn’t listen to his whimpering. I was laughing too hard.
And then when the police came to arrest me I didn’t resist. I believe I am an honest person and it was obvious I had killed him. His blood was on my hands. I was holding the smoking gun. Ha. 
Cops couldn’t believe I had a smile on my face as they cuffed my bloodied hands. They thought I was a f***ing psychopath.
Which is why I am rooming at The Pines.
My doctor thinks I’m taking everybody for a ride – I’m not sure why. I’ve been nothing but compliant since I got here. I answered all the questions at the station. I was tried. I was given a sentence. I was told I was going to be sent to The Pines. I came. Willingly. What more do these f***ers want?
The positive about this situation is that I now have the chance to kill again. I have a list that I update as I find my next victim. Doc is on there, of course, as is my ward nurse. Gary. He’s such a f***ing toolbox. I can’t stand the sight of him.
His brown hair flopping on his head as he walks. I want to take a knife and cut his throat.
I like knives.
Many different uses.
I wonder if I’ll ever be spared?
I wonder if I’ll be ever be able break free?

There you go. Emma’s introduction to her sick little mind.

Now, it’s your turn! Show me what you got 🙂

About Virginia

Writer, reader, crossword puzzler and conspiracy theorist.

12 Responses to “Open Mic Night (Time To Share Your Stories)”

  1. Nicely dark and written. Emma does seem to be quite mad, but brutally honest. A dangerous combination. I am working on a new story apart from my main WIP. For the last two nights I have been working on the prelude. I am very nearly done with it. When it is I will share it here with all ya’ll. 🙂


  2. You ARE on a roll! 🙂


  3. Here goes…

    Shotaro tended his nets with a bone needle and thick black thread while sitting on the bow rail of his junk, the Golden Sunrise. The ship bobbed in the harbor as fog rolled in with a gibbous moon watching overhead. Even with night well underway, the temperature was oppressive. Shotaro mopped sweat from his brow, using an already soaked shirtsleeve. The night promised a lack of sleep, so rather than fighting it Shotaro repaired the nets that would feed his family.

    Older superstitious fishermen closed their junks to the night air regardless of the stifling heat. They feared the shadows that flitted in the fog banks. Legends told of serpentine dragons, which fed on fish and unlucky sailors. During full moons, the stories told of them ranging along the harbor quays seeking out the unwary or unprotected. Shotaro heard all of the tales at one point or another in his thirty years. Never once had a dragon showed itself to him. Deep whistles from a passing steamship cracked the night and fog like a rock splitting open an oyster.
    Behind Shotaro the lights of Singapore shone out into the evening and reflected of the dark green waters. The sounds of the city rolled on over the harbor, even at this late hour. Shotaro smiled to himself. The raucous noise echoed from one side of the quay to the other. The fisherman’s quarter did not know a curfew and sailors on shore leave caroused until the small hours of the morning. Sortaro sipped some rice wine from a brown jug next to him. The liquid burned his throat, bubbling and boiling its way down into his stomach. Next time he’d purchase sake from Chinhiro Jones. The British ex-patriot sold the finest rice wine in all of Singapore, and that was saying something.

    Across the way another ship’s lanterns glowed coal-red. Red glass allowed sailors to see in the ship’s belly and not lose their night vision once emerging back out on the deck. The lights reminded Shotaro of myths concerning the different kinds of Dragons. Some had red eyes. These were typically beasts that marauded through the quayside seeking revenge on some hero that thwarted their evil plans. Their sinewy bodies of red and black scales would twist around a ship’s mast and constrict with so much force the sail would collapse onto the deck. Once becalmed by the destruction the ship and its crew were easy prey for the vengeful lizard-beast.

    Other Dragons of were supposed to exist too each with its own color and personality. There was the green eyed, blue-black scaled wyrm. A placid creature by reputation, it, sailors claimed would rescue men from the clutches of the cold sea. Sustaining them long enough to reach an island or float in the water until, miraculously, found by another junk. Small shrines at the end of docks throughout the city existed where offerings to the blue dragons took place. Shotaro always made a point of leaving a bundle of rice and chicken on the closest shrine.

    Several more varieties might roam around the island of Singapore. Their description was similar, slender, powerful, featuring a variety of horns and whiskers. The most important however was the Bronze. Invariably female, with its bronze scales and orange eyes it was the All-Mother. The various dragons yielded to her wisdom and strength. She provided the sunlight and fair breezes, the bountiful catch and safe return. A foolish captain left port without a small shrine tucked away in one corner of the ship to the Bronze. Here again, Shotaro made a concession to belief, for he bore a tattoo of the Bronze stretched from hip to hip, arching over his shoulder blades.

    He finished the last stitch in his net and laid it aside, taking up the jug of wine, he stood at the side of the ship and basked in the lights of the port now muted by the rolling fog. Belches of fire erupted from smokestacks up the hill where the late night shifts were just coming on duty at the power stations. Then silence drifted down over the quay, as if a blanket dropped from Heaven. With the quiet, more billowing clouds drifted in, faster and thicker than before. The ship ceased bobbing on the waves and Shotaro shuddered by himself, feeling alone and vulnerable.
    Along the nearest mooring pier, there came a scraping sound. The noise reminded Shotaro of metal dragged purposefully across stone. A flash of light crashed down from the hillside illuminating silhouettes of crates, bales of cloth, foodstuffs and a long slender outline investigating the shrine at the end. Great-clawed feet caressed the simple wood structure and a wet wheezing sound followed each movement. A second passed and the light vanished. Shotaro blinked twice as the rice wine fell, forgotten, to the deck.

    That moment would be etched indelibly in his memory, but it was forgotten in another second. A blood-chilling roar boomed out from the quayside, rippling across the water. Shotaro felt it as well as heard it. The deep note pushed through his chest like a bass drum. It was the sound only a Dragon of legend could make, and more still, it was the sound of the Bronze.


  4. Great idea! I can’t get enough excerpts, and I really enjoyed yours. 🙂 This is something I plucked out of my revision that gives me shivers every time I read it. I’m not sure why, but here it is:

    Abigale’s voice trembled with joy and pride.“He was wearing your jacket.”
    “You’re shaking…” Rafael touched her shoulders to keep them from quivering.
    “It was small on him.”
    “You saw him then?”
    “I wasn’t sure if I would know him. I was afraid I couldn’t love him.”
    “But you did? Know him?”
    “Instantly,” she sobbed. “I want you to see. Please, let me show you.”
    Abigale collapsed on the stiff bed at River Point Rehab, and Rafael opened the pages of her mind.


    • Ooh how haunting! I love it! When I finished reading it I said out loud ‘….and!!?’ – is this something youre working on at the moment? Its so well written, so much so that I could see the scene perfectly in my head. I’d love to read more of this 🙂


    • This excerpt piqued my curiosity, like Virginia, I am interested in knowing more about the context of these characters and the situation that got them to this point.


    • Thank you, both of you! 🙂
      This is from the novel I’m revising right now (The Tempest’s Serenade), so it’s getting polished, finally. I’m really glad it drew you in, because it’s a transition to an important scene where Abigale sees her son for the first time in more than twenty years.
      Maybe I’ll post some more excerpts on my blog … 😀


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