The 777 Writing Challenge Tag

*post has been updated; sorry I forgot to fix the stats & snippet for Colour Red!*

Well, you know, it's the seventh month of the year, so I figured this would be the perfect time to do this tag. xP and yes, I stole it from Mikayla's archives again. She has the best tags, guys. ;)

Rules:

1. Open your WIP to the seventh page.

2. Scroll past the seventh line.

3. Copy the next seven paragraphs and paste them on your blog for THE WORLD to read.

4. Tag seven people.

So, I have a lot of WIPs. Let's get started. ;)

Broken | Standalone Inspirational Christian Contemporary // 88, 241 words // 203 pages // status: editing 

I was tempted to refuse, but I hadn’t eaten since last night. All the cash I had stolen off the old man at the supermarket had been given to Gavin to pay for the lift. If this guy was willing to give me some food, I’d take it. “Okay, thanks.”

“Awesome!” Phil lunged for something at his feet and pulled a big bag onto his lap. He rummaged around and pulled two crackling bags to the surface. “Cheddar or plain?” 

“Cheddar.” If there was anything I loved, it was cheese. Forget candy; a pack of string cheese was the best treat you could hand me.

“Awesome, ’cause I don’t love cheddar and I love plain.” He threw me a medium-sized bag of chips and popped open his own bag. Twisting around to be as sideways as he could, he began to eat cheerfully. 

I hesitated to follow his example. Was the whole bag supposed to be mine? I sure wouldn’t have any trouble disposing of it, but would he ask for it back later and then get angry if it was eaten? Cautiously, I crunched into a large chip. The crispy salty cheesiness exploded in my mouth and I barely refrained from a theatrical eye-roll. I loved ruffled chips, and I loved cheddar chips, and the combination was amazing. Not to mention that chips, themselves, were as rare as rain in Aswan. Literally. Look that place up. That’s how many chips I’d had in my life. Less than 1 mm of a chip per year. If chips could be measured in millimetres. 

I savoured a handful more chips and then stopped. The bag was still quite full, and very alluring. But if there was one thing I’d learned in my life, it was to go easy on nice things, because the chances were 99.99% that they weren’t mine and I’d end up being yelled at for having them.

Phil was still chewing away, making quite a bit of noise, and chatting about all sorts of random stuff. If I didn’t know better, I would have said that there was nothing in his brain. But he had proven me wrong already. His serious words still rang in my head. Kept me breathing? Yes, God had done that so far—if it was Him that had done it. But what was the use of doing that if I didn’t want to be alive right now? 

*cover is in the works*

Foundations | Standalone Christian Historical Fiction Novella // 5, 211 words // 9 pages // status: writing 

He flung himself off the horse as Edith, her maid, and her cousin rushed into the house, and followed at their heels. Will sprang onto the porch just as his uncle prepared to slam the door. As soon as he stepped in, Mr. Stevens locked the door and aided his nephews in fortifying it. Then every person seized a firearm and placed themselves at a loophole, while Daisy's brother Matt prepared to reload for them.

As soon as all the preparations were complete, Mrs. Stevens looked about. “Where is Zephaniah?” she exclaimed.

Mr. Stevens's lips were set in a tight line. “He and Jerris were further out,” he replied grimly. “We saw the natives and bushrangers approaching and shouted before we turned and came back. Will was far behind us but he heard, so I suppose that they heard but had not the time to escape.”

Roland started back as he heard these words, his face blanching a deathly white. Despite his condescension, he loved his little brother deeply, and to hear of his untimely death was a terrible thing. Will placed a hand on his elder brother's shoulder.

“Do not worry, Roland. He will be speared and die instantly.”

Roland glanced at him wordlessly. In spite of Will's calm words, he saw a deep agony in his brother's eyes. He, too, was suffering. Roland clasped his hand and turned away, his mouth tight. He would avenge his brother. Let no one doubt of it. He would pay the outlaws and the natives in full for the death of his little brother.

There was a similar expression on Will's face. Edith's mingled grief, shock, and rage. Mrs. Stevens was battling tears, and her husband's struggling with his anger. Marion's eyes were luminous with tears. Daisy and Matt were silent.

Notes | The Symphony of Hope Series, #2 (Chronicles of Kalysia, #3) // Christian Contemporary Kingdom Fiction // 36,251 words // 72 pages // status: writing 

Anthony sighed and slowly rolled out of bed. Doug handed him his clothes, and the little boy began to dress, still a little sleepy. Then his eyes fixed on the darkness outside. 

“But it's the middle of the night!” he protested.

Doug rolled his eyes. “When else does Micheil sleep?”

Anthony puckered his upper lip into a grimace. “I don’t like going out at night, Doug. Besides, it’s cold.”

“We’ll wear our winter stuff,” Doug retorted as he scrambled into his winter clothes. “And it’s not very cold today. Come on.”

Anthony, used to obedience, silently dressed in his outerwear and then looked at his brother. Doug hoisted on the backpack, then led the way cautiously downstairs. He winced at Anthony’s loud breathing, and panicked inwardly when Anthony accidentally creaked a stair. He hoped desperately that Micheil would stay asleep. 

At last they arrived at the back door. Doug carefully opened it, placed their boots outside, and motioned to Anthony to step outside. Stepping out after him, he carefully shut the door and then pulled out his flashlight, turning it on.

Just Allissa | Standalone Christian Contemporary Short Story // 4,036 words // 13 pages // status: preparing for publication  

Carl nodded. I thought I had never seen anyone so sad before. 

I looked back down at the letter, my head whirling. So many things had happened. 

But... what was that he had said?

“I pray that if anything happens to me—which will be the only reason why you would read this…”

My head snapped back up. “Wha... what happened? Where is he? What’s going on?” 

*Yeah, I cut off parts of this because it's huge spoilers. :D*

Incomprehensible Mercy | Standalone Christian Historical Fiction Short Story // 3,634 words // 11 pages // status: editing

As Connor grit his teeth and resolved proudly that not a sound would escape him, he was startled by a quiet voice near him. "Captain Milton, may I take this boy's lashing for him?"

It was truly a day for astonishment. If the men’s jaws did not fall open, their eyes protruded. Connor twisted his neck and started at John Vale. “Are ye mad?” he hissed.

Disregarding his disrespect, the midshipman held his captain’s eye. The silence was full of suspense.

“Mr. Vale, you are volunteering to be flogged in the place of this rascal.” Captain Milton’s cool voice precised the astonishing preposition.

“Yes, sir.”

Although John’s voice was as quiet as always, every sound could be heard in the deep hush.

Captain Milton consulted his senior officers with his eyebrows. Lieutenant Jason was too flabbergasted to offer any advice. Lieutenant Watt was watching the first lieutenant. Lieutenant Harper gave a brief nod.

*OK, this is actually from page 9. But it was page 7 originally. Sooo....* 

The Boy Soldier | Standalone Christian Historical Fiction Short Story Collection // 7,176 words // 21 pages // status: editing

        “Well, no, I can’t say that I do,” replied Callaghan, shifting in his bed, his eyes still closed. “I never did understand your continual feud with them.—Well, what now?”

This disagreeable inquiry was provoked by a smothered exclamation on the part of his comrade.

“Well, THIS is pleasant!” was Reynard’s sarcastic reply.

“I daresay,” answered Callaghan, ironically, “but I really think you could be quieter about it.—now what is it?”

In reply he heard Reynard tramping about his room, then: “I say, Callaghan! have you seen my doublet?”

“No,” grunted Callaghan, resolutely squeezing his eyes shut.

“But where can it be?”

The Tangled Web | Standalone Christian Historical Fiction // 3, 231 words // 10 pages // status: writing 

The boys ate heartily. Ruben was conscious that the old man’s eyes followed their every move, but he betrayed no consciousness of this fact. Tobe, engrossed in his meal, and naturally less preceptive than his elder brother, did not notice. The meal was bountiful and elegant. Ruben somehow felt that all the elegance of this household was simply an empty, desperate show. He wondered what stories had been unfolded in the big, empty, lavish rooms. 

Although he stoutly denied it, Tode was quite exhausted by the pain and action of the day, and soon after supper, Ruben politely requested to retire. The old man nodded coldly and rang the bell for Jarvis.

“Jarvis,” he ordered when that functionary appeared, “take the Masters Merryman to the—the—Green room.”

It seemed to Ruben that the cold tone had changed at the last words, The hesitation had been slight, but full of feeling, and the last two words had been curiously quiet. Jarvis seemed utterly untouched, however. He only nodded coldly and stood waiting. Ruben silently strode over to their host and held out his hand. “Good evening, sir. Many thanks, again, for your hospitality.”

The old man scrutinized him carefully for a moment, his eyes keen and probing. Then he quietly shook hands and nodded to Tobe, who grinned a farewell. Ruben picked up his brother and looked enquiringly at the footman, who turned on his heel and led them into the hall. Ruben glanced about him as they walked swiftly down the hall, went up a large staircase, and turned into a large room—well labeled the Green room. It was entirely furnished in dark Lincoln green, with a darker trimming of mahogany brown. Without offering a word, the footman whirled about and stalked away, leaving Ruben to scrutiny his retreating back with a puzzled frown. 

Shrugging, the boy entered the room and deposited his brother in one of the armchairs. Both glanced around the room. There were few personal effects in sight, but but from the appearance of the room, the boys felt certain that it had once been occupied. Rube wondered if there had been motive for the old man's placing them in this room. Tobe, overwhelmed by the luxury of the room, gazed about with open mouth, speechless for once. Though a gentlewoman by birth, their mother had been left as a penniless orphan as a young girl, and she had been obliged to support herself by her needle. At the age of eighteen she had been courted by the son of her employer. John Merryman was not rich, nor highly educated, nor of gentle birth; but he was a true gentleman in heart and actions, and his honesty and Christian character had won the heart of the lonely young woman. Their household, although plain, was happy and fully blessed by their Lord.  

Mrs. Merryman had contracted consumption when Tobe was still a little child, and after wasting away had died shortly after his seventh birthday. John Merryman had raised the boys on his own--raised them in the fear of the Lord, and reared them to be true men. He had been knocked down and killed by a drunker carter when two years ago, leaving a thirteen-year-old and a nine-year-old son. 

The Colour Red | The Colours of Life #1 (The Chronicles of Kalysia, #7) // 43,375 words // 138 pages // status: writing 

He still felt as though he were sitting upon a loaded mine. There were dark looks thrown at Leeam; muttered words followed him; and atmosphere in The Center was far from friendly. Jay took greater care than ever to never step out of line, but he seemed forgotten—even Cadell took no notice of him as Jay carried out his work among the machines. 

It was the third of May when it happened. Jay and Leeam were out together for once, a rare treat. They were just returning from a stroll down to the riverbank at the edge of the Euratia. Leeam was striding across a street; Jay had paused on the sidewalk to remove a splinter from his bare foot. A truck had been barrelling through the neighbourhood; it suddenly appeared around the corner—a big red pickup. Jay, with a sudden horrible flash of perception, knew what was going to happen before it even occurred. He screamed in a voice so high it was soundless as Leeam jumped and tried to run away. The truck turned viciously and caught him, knocking him to the ground and then rolling remorselessly over him. It roared away, leaving destruction in its wake.  

Jay never remembered very clearly why what happened next. He vaguely remembered sprinting across the street and falling on his knees beside Leeam, crying violently. There had been so much red… His fingers had fumbled with Leeam’s neck. There had been no pulse. He dimly remembered crying out in dismay and despair. “No, Leeam, no, no! I need you… I need you so much…” He had tried again to take his brother’s pulse, frantically, then he’d tried Leeam’s wrist, and finally he had laid his hand on his brother’s mouth. He remembered his frantic pleading. “Come on, Leeam, please, breathe!” he’d sobbed, catching his own breath and coughing heavily. “Please, Leeam, please! I need you… I need you… don’t leave me, Leeam, please! Please! Leeam, please…” He had tried Leeam’s pulse again and again, begging, hoping for a welcome breath or beat. “No, Leeam, no…. no… no!” he’d wailed at last, vanquished. He remembered seizing his brother’s limp white hand and holding it close to his own warm, wet cheek. “Leeam, no… I needed you… Leeam, please…. no….” His words had already slipped into the past tense. At the bottom of his heart he had known that he had always known Leeam was dead. And yet he’d still refused to believe it. 

Mercifully, the dull despair he sank into robbed him of all memory of what followed that terrible hour. He never knew who found him, nor what they did with Leeam. The rest of that year had been mostly a dim unreality. He was utterly sunken in his grief. 

Later on, looking back, he remembered vaguely a visit to The Boss—and he remembered that it was a most frightening and distressful time, which occasionally returned to him in nightmares. He remembered being set to work at spying on the police—taking over Leeam’s work, The Boss said—though even then, Jay had felt sure that Leeam had not sneaked and snooped like this.

But vague as his memories were, Jay was forever sure of a sharp feeling: Leeam had been deliberately killed with the connivance and direction of The Boss; and there had to be a strong reason for this. Leeam, with his deep knowledge of mechanics, had been a useful person to them.

I tag anyone who currently has a WIP! ;P (seriously, if you're a writer with a blog, please do it!!! I so want to see everyone's answers!)