Jillian Chantal

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt careful. I am in my new regency-era book.

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Jane slammed her foot down on the top of the foot of the man who grabbed her. As she did, she half-turned, swinging her arm upward. Stopping her hand at his throat. The hand with the knife. “If you want to live, I suggest you let go. Right now.” She poked him a bit, drawing some blood.

Johnny, the man from the bar released her and held his hand up in surrender. “All right. All right. Settle yourself. I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

She did not believe him. Not for one moment. He had seemed harmless and flirty enough when she saw him at work, but following her down a dark street and not identifying himself spoke of illicit and illegal acts. 

For good measure, she lunged toward him again with the knife, hoping it would discourage him from following her any farther since she wanted nothing more than to get to her room and close out the world.

“Careful there, missy. You could slit my throat with that thing. Where did a little lass like you get such a thing anyway?”

“None of your business. Just remember, I know how to use it and I will if you ever get within a few feet of me again.”

“How will you serve me grog if I can’t get near ye?”

Her stomach fell. He was right. She had no doubt it would be she who would be punished if she did not serve him. As a customer—and a man—he was always going to have an advantage over her.

“It seems that shut your mouth, girl.” He laughed in her face, the smell of beer rank and rancid on his breath.

She recoiled and thought for a second. Then it came to her. “Bessie is now your waitress.”

“That old cow? I think not.” John reached toward Jane again. “You are my waitress. Best you remember it, Brandy. Don’t think I won’t make trouble for you if you think you can push me off on that sow.”

Brandy wished he would leave. She glanced around, hoping someone else was in the street by now. Streaks of dawn were at the edge of the sky. Surely some baker or workman would soon be on his or her way to their job. When had the streets of London ever been this deserted?

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt nail. I am working on a new historical.

Check out the other tales here.

The sky lightened enough that the men began to stir and appear from below deck. Daniel shoved his hands into his pockets, putting the necklace back in the left one. He’d have to think longer on whether to give it to Brandy or not. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea or get her hopes set on marriage. Perhaps jewelry was not the right gift to have brought her from Spain. He regretted not choosing the carved wooden box he’d seen before the necklace caught his eye.

As he let go of the necklace, the nail of his left index finger caught on a thread. Removing his hand from the pocket, he took his knife and trimmed the rough edge of the fingernail. Grooming his hands was still one of his vanities left from his days in the aristocracy. He couldn’t help it. Perhaps his crew thought he was a bit of a dandy for it, but he could at least keep himself tidy in that way even though he’d long given up proper neck cloths and fancy breeches. In fact, he quite liked the long frock coat and rough fabric of his trousers. Much more comfortable than court heels and fancy togs.

Several of them men were on deck now and the morning became livelier. Jeremiah glanced up at the sails. “Best get the men to trim those a bit. The storm will be here soon. I’d like to make Plymouth before it gets too bad.”

“I trust you to make sure you get them back down if the winds get so bad that it could damage them. Even though you’re an army man, you’ve adapted well to sea life.”

“As have you, Captain. Who would have thought we would end up where we are?”

“Certainly not me. I thought I would serve my time in the army and return home to the estate to help my brother run it. I never saw myself as an outcast with no real home besides the seas and this ship.” Daniel stared off at the horizon, tamping down the feelings of despair that sometimes threatened to overtake him.

This week, we have a picture prompt for Tuesday Tales. I have started a new story as the one I’ve been sharing is ready to get a second –or is it third?– round of edits and work toward a release day. This week, this is the opening scene of my new WIP- which is nameless at the moment.

Check out the other tales here. Each post is limited to 300 words this week.

Despite the noise in the ale house, Jane Millbrook found herself in a trance as she watched the bar man pour the golden liquid into several steins. She pictures bubbles, not a head of beer. Her mind took her back to the days before. Before her brothers went to war. Before her mother died. When they used to drink champagne before dinner when there was something to celebrate. Before she ran away into the night. Before her life changed irrevocably due to that man. When her name was still Jane.

“Hey, Brandy, you going to bring us that round tonight or what?” A customer yelled across the packed room.

The bar man shoved the tray at her. “Wake up. Dream on your own time or you will have plenty of time to do so as you won’t be working here. We don’t have time for lazy wenches. Get moving.”

Jane plastered a false smile on her face and picked up the tray. She turned with a swish of her skirts and pretended she was happy and gay. The stench of spilled beer and the vomit still drying on the floor near the table of drunken young men from the posh set—the set she used to belong to but had no idea those kinds of boys existed—caused her stomach to roil. Will I ever get used to it?

Taking the tray to the corner table with several regulars, she set a stein in front of each of the men. The one who called across the room earlier said, “Tell me mate here how you got such an odd name. I mean, really, who in the year of our Lord 1814 names their daughter Brandy?”

One of the men at the table she had not seen before said, “A drinking man?”

Tuesday Tales is a group of writers who challenge themselves to write to a word prompt every week. This week’s word is nasty. I am still in my story where the heroine can communicate with dead people.

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Lu shook her head even though he couldn’t see her. “I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t mind trying, but after he was shot, I tried not to look, but when my eyes strayed that way, I saw a terrible black cloud come and swallow his escaping soul. There was a horrible sound accompanying it, and I took that as his soul being taken to a place we don’t even want to know exists. It was pretty horrific—worse than the blood I accidentally saw surrounding him.”

He let out an audible breath. “That sounds awful.”

“It was something I never want to see or hear again.” She knew she probably would if she kept up her work in trying to help the deceased. It was awful, but she didn’t fool herself that some things were ugly and nasty. It wouldn’t stop her resolve to help people.

“I’m sorry about having your car.”

“No worries. I’ll take a cab or an Uber. I have to get back to Aneto soon anyway. He probably thinks he’ll never eat again.” She laughed as she noticed the OR nurse rolling Grace out of the room. She was sure they were headed to recovery. “I gotta go. Looks like they’re done with Grace and I’d like to talk to her surgeon. See how it went.”

“What’s the name? I’ll need to interview him.”

“Doctor Bert Madison.”

“Thanks for all your help. I really appreciate it, Mick.”

She smiled. The nickname was growing on her. Then she suppressed the smile. He’s married. Stop forgetting that. “Hey, I’m glad I was able to assist. I’m pretty positive that Grace wouldn’t have lived much longer. I’m just glad I have this gift I hated at first. I find it makes me feel more worthwhile. I’ve been a little disillusioned with my job since it’s mostly administrative now. I find I’ve missed saving lives and assisting people in their time of need. This is a different way to be a nurse and I’m blessed to have the chance to help. Thank you for allowing me to tag along with the criminal investigation.

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt gray. I am still in my ghost story and the heroine is talking to the police officer who thinks there is no way she can be talking to dead people.

Check out the other tales here.

“You’re really pretending to talk to a dead man?”

“She’s not pretending. I’m right here.” Max grabbed his own chest. “I can’t be dead. I can’t. I was going to propose to my sweetheart. The ring is in my glove compartment. I was going to take her for a drive and ask her to hand me something from the glove box and when she opened it, she’d find the ring.” Holden’s tears flowed freely down his face. “If I am dead, you have to find me. Find my car and give her the ring. Please.”

“I’ll do what I can, Max. Tell me where exactly you last recall being.”

“I’m going to have you committed. You need help, lady,” Godfrey said.

“I’d just passed Jim’s Fish Camp when I saw the headlights and swerved.”

She looked up at Godfrey. “How about a wager?”

“What kind of wager? On how long they’ll keep you in the hospital for your nervous breakdown?”

“Ha-ha, very funny. No. If I tell you where I think you can find Max Holden and that there’s an engagement ring in the glove compartment…” she paused and glanced over at Holden. “What kind of car?”

“My Mustang is a 2019 and is charcoal gray.”

“You’re really pulling my leg now, aren’t you? I have to admit, you’re a good actress with all that pretend conversation there.” Godfrey smirked.

“He has a charcoal gray 2019 Mustang. He wants the engagement ring to go to his girlfriend. The last thing he remembers is headlights coming toward him and swerving. I’m pretty sure you’ll find his car in the water near Joe’s Fish Camp on the side going toward Milton. If you do, you’ll stop harassing me and calling me a liar.”

“And if I don’t?” Godfrey raised his eyebrows.

“I’ll walk willingly into that mental hospital and stay as long as they want me to.”