Irish Moon…as a movie?
We all dream it. Our book, there, in the bright lights, on the big screen, awing audiences the world over. The really fun thing about writing fiction? I’m practiced at ‘playing pretend.’ So why not do it BIG?
Okay, cut to scene. The camera sweeps over the stormy gray ocean at dawn. A skiff is being tossed about at sea, dangerously close to cliffs, so flat, so steep. Viewers feel it down in the pit of their guts, this can’t be good.
“Wake up!” the audience wants to scream. But the man in the boat doesn’t stir. He’s passed out, haggard looking (yet devastatingly handsome) and clutches a wooden chest. A flash of lightening pierces the sky making us notice an old man standing at the top of the cliffs, his arms raised to the heavens….
This is the image that came to me when I first imagined Irish Moon. It’s Tristan and Isolde meets The Mists of Avalon. I see magic and betrayal and passion that cannot be denied.
Oh! How I love this era. The beauty, the drama, the possibilities.
For Ashlon, I would cast Adrian Grenier (swoon!), for Breanne, I’d cast…hmmm. That one I might need help on. She’s fair, petite, blonde but strong-willed and not interested in frivolity. Finn might be the most fun to cast, particularly since his role would only be a voice. Whoever played him would need to be fluent in snark.
The special effects and beauty of Harry Potter, the music of Enya, and my book turned movie would feel complete. Well, almost.
I’d want you there, too, large butter drenched bucket of popcorn in lap and a grin on your face that practically screamed, “This is going to be so good!”
I’ll buy the popcorn.
:}Amber Scott
***
“Who are you?” the man asked, sounding so inspired that Breanne returned to his side and touched his cheek.
“Shhh. Rest now. You have a long journey ahead of you.” Then she bent forward and kissed his forehead, giving in to an urge to feel how soft his skin was. Part of her knew she shouldn’t be so intimate, tender. It took advantage of his vulnerability and compromised trust. A healer walked the fine line of trust with any charge.
But, she didn’t regret it when her lips pressed his skin, warm, moist with sweat. His hand covered hers on his cheek and then touched her cheek. His fingers trembled. Breanne inched back and lowered her gaze to his. What she saw there startled her. Never before had she seen such intensity, such heat in another’s eyes.
Breanne leaned her cheek into his palm and searched his eyes. His hot gaze trapped her, spellbound and unable to retreat or progress. She needed to do neither, as he did for her.
His hand slid back and into her hair. She covered his hand with hers, her touch intrigued by the change from stubble to smooth texture. He pulled her gently. His lips caressed hers, a whisper of touch, and his eyes closed. Breanne’s closed as well and the feel of his lips on hers magnified. A dizzying hunger for more took root in Breanne and she pressed her lips onto his, opening her mouth. The hunger grew, spreading through her limbs, down her belly, between her thighs.
A shockwave tingled there when his tongue met hers, soft and warm. He tasted sweet. His lips on hers were so firm but pliant. She gripped his hand and leaned in for more. His tongue swept into her mouth, jolting her with pleasure.
She reveled in this new experience and grew bold. All thought beyond the feel of it, of him, escaped her. She matched his sweep with her own, suckling his lower lip, letting her teeth drag against it, savoring the plump feel.
The tingle warmed, changed, into an ache unlike any she'd ever known. It made her heart beat harder, her breathing feel desperate. She needed something more, craved a satisfaction she could not name but sensed it there in his lips pressing hers, his tongue twining and tormenting her mouth.
His hand stroked her jaw and explored lower, brushing her throat, tickling her collarbone and all the while taking Breanne's hand with it. She couldn't let go and as it drew farther and farther down, a strange, wonderful beating of anticipation built in her.
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by Michele Hauf
