Post by Avery on Nov 8, 2010 3:22:15 GMT -5
12.9k. Didn't have a whole lot of time to write today (er, yesterday), hopefully I can make it to quota (13.3k) tomorrow after class. >_>; I'm not used to being so... on track, I guess? Or not on track, but so close to the bare minimum. I know it's just because I started over five days into the month, and if you add everything I've written this month together, I have somewhere between 23-28k (don't feel like looking that up right now XD), but still. It's not bothering me, I just like slacking sometimes and taking days off, and given that I will get uber-behind if I do that, well, yeah.
... also, I figured I may as well post an excerpt. PLEASE DON'T LAUGH AT IT. It's the opening of my novel, told from the perspective of my FMC, Bailey (the novel shifts between her perspective and my MMC, Dylan). Also, if a word or two seem out of place, it's because I needed to filter mild swearing. ^_^;;
... looking back over this part makes me wanna write more. But I oughta sleep. Dangit weekend coming to an end. Carrie does not want to go to class tomorrow. D:
... also, I figured I may as well post an excerpt. PLEASE DON'T LAUGH AT IT. It's the opening of my novel, told from the perspective of my FMC, Bailey (the novel shifts between her perspective and my MMC, Dylan). Also, if a word or two seem out of place, it's because I needed to filter mild swearing. ^_^;;
On the train home from work tonight I saw a boy wearing a cloak. He sat across the aisle from me, his feet kicked up and his head leaned back, either asleep or at least close to it; his red-orange hair, a color most definitely not intended by nature, hung down past his eyebrows in curly, frizzy tendrils, looking like it hadn’t been brushed in weeks. I stared at him just briefly before averting my gaze, not because it was rude to stare, but because if I looked at him any longer, I was afraid that he’d open his eyes and notice that I could see him at all. And that broke rule number one with Reapers: never let them know you’re aware. Otherwise they’ll leap onto the opportunity like a dog grabbing hold of a bone—fiercely, savagely, and with no intention of letting go.
The boy didn’t seem like he had any inclination to wake up soon, though. As the train hummed along he kept stiff in place, as if oblivious to the stop announcements that rang out over the loudspeaker, unbothered by the elderly man who sat down beside him, close enough to touch. Even when the overheard lights briefly went out, to the dramatic shriek of the young girl in the row behind me, the Reaper did not stir.
After awhile I could not help but watch him, my eyes drawn to him like magnets. He wore the trademark black cloak of all Reapers, but unlike most of them, he didn’t pull it off convincingly. It looked awkward, misplaced, on his skinny frame, the sleeves reaching down past his wrists and tangled up with his knobby fingers. He was young for one of them, too, no older than 16 or 17, and he lacked the typical swagger of older Reapers, who never would have dared fall asleep on a crowded train. That sort of ineptness was gauche, a beginner’s mistake, and the more I watched the red-haired kid, the more I became convinced he didn’t much know what he was doing.
Finally, as the train neared my own stop and I’d half-convinced myself that the Reaper would never rouse, he blinked awake like someone had thrown a bucket of water on his head. I snapped my glance away from his as quickly as I could, but still he seemed to notice that I’d been looking at him, and he frowned. After deliberating for a few seconds, he stood from his seat and stepped out into the aisle, swaying along with the movement of the train. I was expecting the cold clamp of his hand on my arm, but a bubble of nausea still rose within me when it came. Darnit, I thought, trying not to react. Why, Bailey, did you have to stare at him? You know better than that. Way better.
The fact that I was sorry for looking at the Reaper, however, did not stop him from studying me. For the longest time he kept his hand on my arm, his bony fingers tight on my skin, as if just waiting for me to acknowledge him, but I kept on my oblivious face. Look away. Act natural. Don’t—absolutely don’t—turn in his direction. Rules number one, two, and three of dealing with Reapers, and these alone helped me avoid most of them. Even the few individuals I’d occasionally broken the guidelines with gave up easily once I didn’t react to their initial attention-grabbing techniques, when I stayed silent even as they ran their cold hands over my skin, whispered not-so-sweet nothings into my ear. But this guy… he was stubborn. For two whole stops he stayed glued to me, his right hand locked around my arm, only pulling away when a pale older woman wearing an honest-to-God muumuu boarded the train at the stop before my own. The Reaper looked away from me then and followed her to the back of the car, where she sat alone and he joined her. Even before she starting wheezing like an asthmatic in a pet shop, I was pretty sure she was his target. The reason he’d been on the train in the first place. I couldn’t get off fast enough when we reached the next stop; I was the first one onto the platform and pretty much sprinted all the way home.
The boy didn’t seem like he had any inclination to wake up soon, though. As the train hummed along he kept stiff in place, as if oblivious to the stop announcements that rang out over the loudspeaker, unbothered by the elderly man who sat down beside him, close enough to touch. Even when the overheard lights briefly went out, to the dramatic shriek of the young girl in the row behind me, the Reaper did not stir.
After awhile I could not help but watch him, my eyes drawn to him like magnets. He wore the trademark black cloak of all Reapers, but unlike most of them, he didn’t pull it off convincingly. It looked awkward, misplaced, on his skinny frame, the sleeves reaching down past his wrists and tangled up with his knobby fingers. He was young for one of them, too, no older than 16 or 17, and he lacked the typical swagger of older Reapers, who never would have dared fall asleep on a crowded train. That sort of ineptness was gauche, a beginner’s mistake, and the more I watched the red-haired kid, the more I became convinced he didn’t much know what he was doing.
Finally, as the train neared my own stop and I’d half-convinced myself that the Reaper would never rouse, he blinked awake like someone had thrown a bucket of water on his head. I snapped my glance away from his as quickly as I could, but still he seemed to notice that I’d been looking at him, and he frowned. After deliberating for a few seconds, he stood from his seat and stepped out into the aisle, swaying along with the movement of the train. I was expecting the cold clamp of his hand on my arm, but a bubble of nausea still rose within me when it came. Darnit, I thought, trying not to react. Why, Bailey, did you have to stare at him? You know better than that. Way better.
The fact that I was sorry for looking at the Reaper, however, did not stop him from studying me. For the longest time he kept his hand on my arm, his bony fingers tight on my skin, as if just waiting for me to acknowledge him, but I kept on my oblivious face. Look away. Act natural. Don’t—absolutely don’t—turn in his direction. Rules number one, two, and three of dealing with Reapers, and these alone helped me avoid most of them. Even the few individuals I’d occasionally broken the guidelines with gave up easily once I didn’t react to their initial attention-grabbing techniques, when I stayed silent even as they ran their cold hands over my skin, whispered not-so-sweet nothings into my ear. But this guy… he was stubborn. For two whole stops he stayed glued to me, his right hand locked around my arm, only pulling away when a pale older woman wearing an honest-to-God muumuu boarded the train at the stop before my own. The Reaper looked away from me then and followed her to the back of the car, where she sat alone and he joined her. Even before she starting wheezing like an asthmatic in a pet shop, I was pretty sure she was his target. The reason he’d been on the train in the first place. I couldn’t get off fast enough when we reached the next stop; I was the first one onto the platform and pretty much sprinted all the way home.
... looking back over this part makes me wanna write more. But I oughta sleep. Dangit weekend coming to an end. Carrie does not want to go to class tomorrow. D:
*is at 23.2k right now* Hopefully I can find a more recent excerpt soon. Or write one, anyway.
