This is really just a filler while I get my act together over the Leibster Blog Award and other pressing matters. A couple of paragraphs from the Work In Progress. (Warnings: may contain strong language; manufactured in an environment which contains nuts).
The old house, squatting viscerally on now-thawing ground, had the best of it. It was deaf to returning boots, babbling excuses, raised voices, retribution. Later, soldiers in washed-out fatigues gathered like children at the foot of the great staircase and listened as the awful shrillness of Farrell’s anger and the bass rumble of Donnelly’s resigned responses played out. Donnelly was their man, a target for loyalty. Farrell was the provider of nourishment and fear, the dripping roast pig at the banquet that kept leaping from the spit and savaging with tusks and sharp hooves.
A door opened; fatigues dissolved into dark corridors; Donnelly came down the stairs, two hundred and ten pounds of pent-up anger. He strode across the hall, an Exocet looking for a whiff of infrared. Nothing registered. He pulled open the oak doors, the horse long since bolted, took a deep breath of warming air; felt sunshine on his face; exhaled shakily. As he fumbled for his Malboros, he wished that fucking McLennan and his ghastly crew would come marching up the drive and they could finish it once and for all.