Meme: Lucky Seven

I am responding to Sean William’s “Lucky Seven” challenge and have posted from page 77 of my latest novel, Without a Summer. Yes, that’s book three in The Glamourist Histories.

The ‘rules’ are: Go to page 7 or 77 of your latest work. Read down to the seventh line and then post online the next seven lines or sentences. Then head off and tag seven more writers.

The regularity of the braids cast the swell of her bosom into graceful contrast. Her gold curls were piled on to her head and peeked becomingly from beneath a high-crowned hat that had been trimmed with blue and white ostrich feathers. She carried before her a muff as white as a cloud against the sky.

The grounds at Carlton House had been transformed into a wonderland of winter with nods to the vanished spring. Snow sculptures of deer with fawns shared the pristine white lawns with frozen swans and flowers carved of ice. A shallow reflecting pond already had gentlemen and ladies gliding over the ice. Their habits in Mulberry, Pomona green, and Primrose yellow stood out against the severe landscape like flowers on a banquet table.

And now I shall tag seven writers: Stina Leicht, Cat Rambo, Eric James Stone, Alethea Kontis, Shanna Germain, Chesya Burke, and Blake Charlton. Go forth on the social media of your choice and show us your prose. Or poetry. Or not.

It’s a meme after all.

How about the rest of you? I’m selfishly curious what you are working on.

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7 Responses

  1. Brad J

    Going to do my first NaNoWriMo this year, so I’m pondering my story and religions on Mars.

  2. Christopher Wright

    My current project is a web serial, which makes it difficult to count by pages…

  3. david j.

    I’m writing an urban fantasy about succubi. This is from my first draft:

    Needing no
    draw of dexterity, Anna planted a hand on the back stoop’s railing and sailed
    over it, landing softly in her running shoes.
    Had she really thought her dad was a paranoid fool not twenty minutes
    ago? He was the one who taught her to
    always wear sensible footwear. She would
    have to send him something, a thank you, once she got clear.

    She had
    just started away, jogging towards Lane Avenue, the street that backed Pete’s,
    when a voice brought her up short.

    “Anna Rose
    Carver.”

    She froze,
    turned. It was Mr. Popularity from the
    bar. The guy Sherrilyn called Matt Snow.

    — david j.

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