Carrie's (Probably Failed Immediately) Nano!
Oct 2, 2013 0:19:28 GMT -5
Birdy, ♥ Azzie, and 2 more like this
Post by Avery on Oct 2, 2013 0:19:28 GMT -5
So I probably should not be doing Nano this year. My November is extremely busy. And the only idea I'd want to write isn't an idea so much as, well-- last week I got a premise in my head. Not even a full premise, really, more of a... shadow of a premise. I have a few characters. Flickery images that will not cohere themselves in a nice, arranged way. And a prologue.
I would like to come up with the plot that accompanies the prologue. I have sort of tangents, and vague ideas, but nothing solid. But I'm hoping in the next month I can possibly come up with something? I don't know. We'll see.
Prologue is down below in the spoiler box. Comment on it, tell me what you think. :'D Maybe your comments will help me think of a plot. XD
I would like to come up with the plot that accompanies the prologue. I have sort of tangents, and vague ideas, but nothing solid. But I'm hoping in the next month I can possibly come up with something? I don't know. We'll see.
Prologue is down below in the spoiler box. Comment on it, tell me what you think. :'D Maybe your comments will help me think of a plot. XD
The girl is walking in the woods, and it is autumn, and it is cold. The dirt path below her is sprinkled with fallen leaves: burnt russets and matte golds, dusty browns and fluorescent oranges, all curled and splintered and dying. She stomps on them with purpose as she moves, delighted by the way that they crunch under the rubber soles of her pink suede boots. She likes the sound of it—crackly and dull—and decides, with utmost conviction, that autumn is the nicest time of the year.
She is five and a half years old, and she is alone.
A sudden gust of near-freezing wind slams through the air, whipping at her cheeks and reddening them as if she’s been slapped. She bites her lip and tries to ignore the chilly blast, the sting of it on her skin. She wonders, vaguely, what will happen to all of these leaves in the upcoming months: is there someone who comes to this big swath of woods and rakes them up, like her daddy does to theirs, before burning them in a giant, smoky pile? Or do they simply become covered when it starts to snow, rotting under the glistening white, gone and forgotten by the time spring comes around?
She decides she will ask Daddy this, later tonight, after she’s gone home. But she won’t tell him when and where she thought it up, because then he will be angry with her, and angry with her sister Erin for Not Watching Her Siblings Better.
She is not supposed to be in these woods, alone.
Her daddy says it’s because she is too young. Because the woods are not safe. He says this word—safe—in a way that makes it seem like the woods are a breathing entity, a ten-thousand acre bogeyman, ready to swallow her whole. But she knows this isn’t true. Her mommy spends lots of time in the woods by herself, jogging, and she always comes out okay. Never a scrape or bruise. And it’s not like the girl has never been in the treed confines: during the warm months, if an adult’s watching her, she’s allowed to play along the paths. She knows the paths, the ways they branch and arch and wind. She knows where her house is, and how to get back to it.
So then, what’s the danger?
She is safe, in these woods.
Behind her, a branch cracks. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she freezes in place. Probably a deer, she tells herself, as she slowly turns towards the noise. A doe and fawn, snaking through the trees.
But it is not a deer.
It is a man.
He stands about fifteen feet behind her, not on the path, but slightly off it, pressed between two towering maple trees and with just his head peeking out. Staring at her. His eyes are the color of spun honey, of summertime, of sunshine: a bright, piercing, amber-gold.
They have no whites. His pupils are not black, but brown.
The girl thinks she should scream, but her voice is trapped in her throat, as if snagged there by an invisible hook. Her mouth feels dry as a desert. She wills her foot to take a step back, away from him, but she cannot raise it up from the ground. She cannot move.
She can barely breathe.
“Annah, isn’t it?” he says to her, his tone as sweet and clear as a song. She does not reply to him—still her voice stays snared—but he does not seem to mind. He smiles, his white teeth gleaming like pearls, and steps out from the trees, towards her. “Annah,” he says again. “It is so very nice to meet you. I’ve been looking for you for such a long, long time.”
She is five and a half years old, and she is alone.
A sudden gust of near-freezing wind slams through the air, whipping at her cheeks and reddening them as if she’s been slapped. She bites her lip and tries to ignore the chilly blast, the sting of it on her skin. She wonders, vaguely, what will happen to all of these leaves in the upcoming months: is there someone who comes to this big swath of woods and rakes them up, like her daddy does to theirs, before burning them in a giant, smoky pile? Or do they simply become covered when it starts to snow, rotting under the glistening white, gone and forgotten by the time spring comes around?
She decides she will ask Daddy this, later tonight, after she’s gone home. But she won’t tell him when and where she thought it up, because then he will be angry with her, and angry with her sister Erin for Not Watching Her Siblings Better.
She is not supposed to be in these woods, alone.
Her daddy says it’s because she is too young. Because the woods are not safe. He says this word—safe—in a way that makes it seem like the woods are a breathing entity, a ten-thousand acre bogeyman, ready to swallow her whole. But she knows this isn’t true. Her mommy spends lots of time in the woods by herself, jogging, and she always comes out okay. Never a scrape or bruise. And it’s not like the girl has never been in the treed confines: during the warm months, if an adult’s watching her, she’s allowed to play along the paths. She knows the paths, the ways they branch and arch and wind. She knows where her house is, and how to get back to it.
So then, what’s the danger?
She is safe, in these woods.
Behind her, a branch cracks. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she freezes in place. Probably a deer, she tells herself, as she slowly turns towards the noise. A doe and fawn, snaking through the trees.
But it is not a deer.
It is a man.
He stands about fifteen feet behind her, not on the path, but slightly off it, pressed between two towering maple trees and with just his head peeking out. Staring at her. His eyes are the color of spun honey, of summertime, of sunshine: a bright, piercing, amber-gold.
They have no whites. His pupils are not black, but brown.
The girl thinks she should scream, but her voice is trapped in her throat, as if snagged there by an invisible hook. Her mouth feels dry as a desert. She wills her foot to take a step back, away from him, but she cannot raise it up from the ground. She cannot move.
She can barely breathe.
“Annah, isn’t it?” he says to her, his tone as sweet and clear as a song. She does not reply to him—still her voice stays snared—but he does not seem to mind. He smiles, his white teeth gleaming like pearls, and steps out from the trees, towards her. “Annah,” he says again. “It is so very nice to meet you. I’ve been looking for you for such a long, long time.”
