Deleted Scene

So here's a scene that never made it into Death's Dark Vale. I actually wrote it for a contest, thinking I would turn it into a chapter in my book, but...I just never found a place for it. To help you understand it, you should know that the contest had a prompt of "A man walks into a bar. Only it isn't a bar."
Enjoy

As the heavy wooden door swung open, several gray beards looked up in curiosity. A blast of frigid air accompanied the wisp of a man who entered, causing nearby patrons to pull their cloaks tighter around their shoulders. The man strained his shoulder against the large door until Bruce arrived from the far end of the room to assist.
“Thank you…” managed the man. His bare feet bled on the pitted birch floor as he made his way to the nearest available seat. A groan escaped his chest as he relaxed.
Bruce looked him over, noting his cloudy eyes. Many men arrived dirty, ragged, beat down. Edinburgh was, after all, a hard place and folks needed a place they could come for refreshment, encouragement, and company. So Bruce was never surprised when the broken came through his door…even when they arrived already smelling of alcohol, like this man. However, one glance into this man’s eyes showed that he reeked of deeper pain than most.
“Ale…or stronger, if you’ve got it?” said the man.
The man didn’t have long to live; hours perhaps. It would be best to humor him. Bruce found a clean glass and brought him a pint of the dark local brew. The man merely held it on his lap, loosely cradled by bony fingers.
“Aye, thank you,” said the man.
Bruce stared, hoping he wouldn’t spill the ale.
“I’m Bruce. At your service.”
“Sigurd,” he volunteered. “My name, that is.”
Bruce raised his eyebrows, hoping Sigurd would share more. This man had a story behind his ragged frame that others could learn from. Indeed, nearly everyone was watching him now. Sigurd took a careful sip of the ale. It prompted him to talk.
“This place is wrinkled with time…feels safe and dangerous at the same time,” Sigurd said. His cloudy eyes became misty. He looked around the large room and admired the charm and history inherent in the old space.
“I can’t pay you. I’m sorry,” Sigurd said. He lowered his eyes.
“No need,” said Bruce.
Sigurd raised his gaze to Bruce, and with calmness said, “My brother is dead.”
He took another drink of his ale, this time a long draught. “He was father’s favorite. The news of his death will surely be the end of father. I rather like my father.”
Bruce said, “There’s always hope. Everyone dies. You are still among the living however.”
Another long drink. Sigurd said, “All I want to do is die. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, but I’m too bloody yellow to make it happen.”
At this point, an elderly woman rose from a nearby seat and approached Sigurd. Bruce knew her as a regular. Last year she’d lost her husband to the sea near St. Andrews, and was here at least once a week ever since. She was anyone’s grandmum; even men like this one could find solace in her face. Her tears welled up as she silently embraced Sigurd then returned to her seat to weep in private. Sigurd looked truly shocked at the sympathetic display.
“I didn’t expect that…not here…” said Sigurd.
“Why not?” asked Bruce.
“Well, places like this have always been a burden to me. Only a burden. I’ve got a serious problem you see,” said Sigurd.
“You look like a man who needs someone to share with. I listen well,” said Bruce.
The clouds briefly cleared from Sigurd’s eyes as he looked straight at Bruce. He said, “If there were more men like you in your profession, there’d be fewer men like me in this world.”
“Men like you? What are you like?” asked Bruce.
The clouds reformed. Sigurd said, “I’ve killed my brother.”
Bruce raised his eyebrows in gentle surprise, hoping the troubled man would continue. But he shared no more.
Sigurd drained the last of his ale, set the glass down, and stood with another guttural groan. He offered his outstretched palm to Bruce, which was taken firmly.
The broken man opened the heavy door with increased strength and was able to pull it shut behind him.
Bruce said a silent prayer for the man. Then he made his way back to the front of the old chapel and finished his sermon.

My book

So I've written a book. Or rather, I've written words that I hope will one day be found in a book with my name on it. The title is Death's Dark Vale.
That title comes from the 23rd Psalm in the Scottish Metrical Psalter of the 17th century-"Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale, yet will I fear none ill"
Now if you're one of those people saying to yourself, "That sounds too liturgical and archaic for me," don't worry: there are pirates.
Are you interested or confused?
Here is what I envision as the little blurb on the back of my book:

Death’s Dark Vale is a thrilling work of historical fiction set in the 18th century. It follows Roan, born in the Scottish highlands to the chief of clan Cameron at a tumultuous time in the history of the earth. While yet a child, Roan stumbles upon a mystery so great it has dumbfounded scholars, knights, religious leaders, and monarchs for centuries. Yet the time is right…the secret is loosed…and Roan is inexorably propelled into a pivotal place in history. The tale soars over oppressed Scotland, mighty England, obscure Ireland, newborn America, insurgent France, piratical Algiers, and raped Africa; a seemingly chaotic world is elucidated through one man’s experience of a God grander than imagination.

So that's what I've been working on for the past year. I know some people thought I was just fishing the whole time, but hey, I discovered that one can fish and write AT THE SAME TIME.

Actually, I've enjoyed writing this book very much. Because it parallels my family's tragedy in many ways, it has been therapeutic in that I've been forced to organize and confront my thoughts and emotions.

Now I'm editing, putting the final touches on everything and soon I will begin shopping publishers. This is traditionally a very discouraging time for new authors, so I would appreciate any prayer and support. I have one promising lead, for which only God can be credited, but it is by no means a sure thing and I still need perseverance!

Anyway, you can support me by letting your friends and family know about this blog. Give me comments on what you see. Help me get my name out there!

OK, enough for today. Stay tuned, though. In the next couple of days, I will have a "deleted scene" for you to read.

The Beginning

I guess I have to start somewhere...
Here is one of my first bits of writing (that I'm not ashamed of). This is a poem I wrote for English class in high school, so some of you may have seen it before. It is a Shakespearean sonnet written in iambic pentameter. Read it...even if you don't like poetry...

Ode To A Darkhorse

In what fine place can’st thou be found, my love?
Thro’out the world no place have I ignor’d,
Upon the highest mount I’ve searched above,
Yea, e’en the furthest land have I explor’d.

Beneath the sun thy beauty shines like gold,
Two em’ralds set in glass, they are thine eyes
And skin so smooth, alas, I’ll make so bold;
Thy lovely lips have e’er brought forth my cries.

Oh how I long to touch, to hold thee tight,
To look into thine eyes and see myself,
I would thou bide forever in my sight,
That none of thee be lost upon some else.

All this I wish as long as time shall pass,
Yea, e’en to catch my love, a Largemouth Bass.