WIP Wednesday and a Little Poetry

Well, now that the non-fiction is safely in the hands of my editor, I've been focusing on my fiction life. Apparently, I've been spending too much time on the non-fiction, because once I opened that fiction door, a whole mess of chaos flooded through.

I am currently working on two new novels, one a YA historical and one a YA fantasy (I think...it starts in the past, ends up in the present, but contains some magic, which is usually the deciding factor for me when it comes to paranormal vs fantasy).

I am also revising my last novel, finally. And just for kicks, have been working here and there on a novel in verse (written entirely in sestinas and villanelles). And believe it or not, I'm actually managing to make good progress on all four projects.

I have no doubt about my abilities to keep this up - I'm going to have to focus on just one (maybe two) projects at some point. But for the moment, I'm having a fiction blast.

I thought I'd post one of the sestinas from the verse novel. (A sestina is a 39 line poem that repeats the same six ending words in a particular pattern. You'll notice every line in this poem ends with the words: hands, touch, blood, breathe, his, you - in a specific order. The last three lines each contain two of the six words).

For those of you who have been with me a while, this novel is based on the sestina I posted a long while ago about the group of men who are wolves during the day and men at night. This is a continuation of that story. (Click HERE to read the first poem)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He holds my face so tenderly, in hands
that had just killed. For me. Fingers gently touch
my cheeks. His lips kiss away my tears, my blood.
“Breathe,” his whispers. His lips brush mine. “Just breathe.”
I shudder, my breath escaping at his
command. “For you,” I sigh, “only for you.”

Howls fill the night air. “They can’t find you
with me. Go!” He freezes, his eyes on our hands,
clasped between pounding hearts. The horror on his
face mirrors that on my own. One last touch,
A quick caress. He wavers. “Go,” I breathe.
He steps back, back, raised hand stained with dark blood.

Mine, his, theirs. His pained howl rips through my blood,
burning his image on my soul. “For you,”
I whisper again, unwilling to breathe,
unable to stop. They’ll come for me, hands
grasping, to return me to our master’s hands.
“Go!” I plead. One last look and he runs, his

tortured fury echoing through me, his
pain my own. They come, see me bathed in blood.
“Who did this?” they ask. I shrink from their touch.
Gently they lift me, murmuring “Let us help you.”
I swallow my protests, settle into their furred hands.
They don’t suspect. He’s gone…and I can’t breathe.

They carry me through dark forests. I breathe,
praying they are distracted and miss his
scent on me. We reach the entrance. Their hands
quickly roll aside the stone door. My blood
drips, drips to the floor. “What happened to you?”
they ask again. I wince with every touch.

I bite my lip, wanting only his touch.
Cleaned up, many wounds left open to breathe,
they wait for answers. “Who did this to you?”
Impatiently now. Then they turn and his
face comes into view, already healed, blood
gone. “Jarek,” they say, bowing. Jaw clenched, hands

fisted, hands aching like mine for one touch.
“Who spills your blood?” he growls. I don’t dare breathe.
Face cold, closed, his anger burns. I say, “You.”