Hi! Welcome to Writers Imagination. Yes, in case you were wondering, it’s an actual place. 🙂 Two of my critique partners and I share this story back and forth, adding a scene here and there and revealing all sorts of tidbits and characters that frequent that interesting place.
And for the record: I write Historical Romance, not Fantasy. Promise. I hope you enjoy this weeks edition. 🙂
A dragonfire tongue of warmth wound its way through Lucy’s middle. Drag Susan into a Historical Novel… It’s almost irresistible. She’s so deliciously low. So horribly dirty. I’ll take it! I’ll make a Duchess out of this draggle-tailed guttersnipe. She waved the line of script out of her face. “Go back to My Fair Lady. I’m thinking.”
Lucy focused on her friend opposite her. “Open your eyes, Susan.”
Susan shook her head. “No. It might be some horrid Edwardian drawing room.”
Lucy giggled. “Can’t you just smell the stuffy scent of gentleman’s cigars, and the chalky smell of ladies make-up…”
Susan groaned and clutched the carved arms of Lucy’s living room chair. “No way. You can’t make me look.”
Lucy smiled and slid a plate stacked high with lamingtons onto the table. “But all those smells are overlaid by the scent of cream cakes, and chocolate éclairs and—”
Susan’s eyes pried open. “Food sounds good.” Her mouth dropped open and she pointed. “What on earth is that?”
Lucy swiped a sweet off the plate, leaving a trail of coconut to her lap. “A lamington. Standard Aussie tucker. G’on, have one.”
Susan picked a square lamington off the fine bone china plate and turned it over in her hands. She broke off a corner and stared at it. “What’s it made of?”
Lucy swallowed her mouthful. “It’s a sponge cake, dunked in chocolate and then rolled in coconut.”
“Sponge?” Susan poked the cream colored middle that showed through the broken corner. “But that’s for wiping dishes.”
“Not in Australia. A sponge cake is a bit like an angel food cake.” Lucy started on a second lamington. “Just eat it, or I will.”
“I will, I will. In my own time.” Susan nibbled on her it for several minutes. “It’s not too bad. Better than being stuck in some drawing room with a bunch of overdressed ladies.”
Lucy dusted off her fingers, littering the sandwich plate in front of her with coconut crumbs. “Now, as I said, open your eyes.”
“They are open.”
“No, no. Look around. You are in a Historical Romance.”
Susan glanced around the room. “Um, I know you filled your story house here with prissy antiques, but that doesn’t mean I’ve been dragged into that era.”
“They’re not prissy…” Lucy arched a brow.
Susan reached over and bumped a side table. It wobbled and then settled back onto the brick that propped it up. “Hmmm, my point…”
“Not that one. It doesn’t count. He’s in training.”
“What on earth for?”
“The three legged race.”
Susan shook her head. “Now that’s just sad.”
Lucy smiled. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. But you are in a romance.”
Lucy pointed out the bay window. “Look at all the houses. Look at the books. The threads that run through them are threads of love. Of romance. Of sacrifice, sometimes the ultimate sacrifice.”
Lucy wriggled back in her chair, rustling the satin of her gown. “Let’s take your story as an example…”
“I’ll be kind. Here, have another lamo, and I’ll explain.”
Susan shook her head. “No, I’m watching my girlish figure.”
“Suit yourself. Now, where was I… oh yes. Romance in your fantasy story…” Lucy leaned back and drummed her fingertips on the table. “There is great examples of love in Lightrise. Of the extent that the great Lightkeeper himself went to provide a path for others to walk back to himself. The cast of thousands that work together, helping each other, caring, and showing hospitality.”
“Mm hmm. I suppose.”
Lucy fluttered her lashes. “And lets not forget Layna and Artek.”
Susan rolled her eyes. “No, can’t forget them.”
“So, you get my point. You’ve written a romance, like it or not.” Lucy folded her hands atop each other and tried not to look smug. “And seeing as you are in my story at the moment, you are in a historical romance. Ta da! Talk about sneaky. And you didn’t even know you in one.”
“Now, where the devil are my slippers?”
Susan turned and pointed. “What on earth is Rex Harrison doing here?”
“You mean apart from giving Ginger pointers in pronunciation?”
“What?” Susan swung back, mouth agape.
“Gotcha!” Lucy giggled. “No, he um, may have heard my mumbling something earlier and decided to pop in to help.”
Rex propped his thumbs behind his suspenders. “By George, it’s enormous. It’s the biggest offer I ever had.”
Susan leaned closer. “Does he have to be here? He’s weird.”
“I’ve been trying for a while now. He must have heard me talking about romance. For a gruff fronted fellow he knows a little about it.” Lucy stopped to dab the corners of her mouth with the cuff of her gown.
She looked up and accepted the handkerchief Rex held out.
He frowned at her. “Remember, that’s your handkerchief and that’s your sleeve. Don’t confuse the one with the other…”
Lucy ducked her head. “Thank you.” She kicked Susan under the table, just hard enough to get her attention.
“I think we need some help,” she hissed.
Susan held up a gadget the size of a rock but twice as shiny. “I’m dialling Elizabeth now.”