Seventh Sanctum Saturdays - Part 1

A random writing challange from Seventh Sanctum:

The theme of this story: noir relationship. The main characters: distant hunter and unhappy mercenary. The start of the story: longing. The end of the story: argument.

A Random Question

A random question about your writing:

What are your thoughts on titling?

IE: Do you title your works before or after you write them?  Do you use working titles or refer to your pieces as that one where... until they're finished?

Quicksand - not appropriate for all ages

It was cold in the warehouse. Not frigid, but that damp, persistent sort of cold that seeps into the bones and stays there. It was cold and it was empty. Just wood and cold and dampness and quiet – and a single buzzing light bulb, hanging over her head.

Her ankles were tied with coarse rope, high enough above the concrete floor that her feet, outstretched, could sometimes touch it and never find traction. Her wrists, delicate and slender, were wrapped in cold, thick, metal chains – chains so tight that they sent hairline fractures down the length of her arms. Her dress was torn, more torn, tugged down while she struggled, so that even with her arms over her head, one shoulder was bare, one breast exposed.

One ear was mangled at the end, all of it present, but unattached. The small cuts on her legs, stung, but did not bleed. Only her face, where they'd hit her, again and again, had given in. A tiny tickle bubbled to the surface of her cracked cheek and another leaked from the corner of her mouth, and the resultant powder, super-fine and sparkling white, disappeared into the cold, damp air of the warehouse.

 If you enjoyed reading this, stop by next week to read the next instalment.  You may also like my published novel, Aigaion Girl ... a story of the end of days, available here.

Dirty Filthy Sex Rabbits

I've decided I'm going to start posting Quicksand up here as I write (You all remember Quicksand, right?  My unfinished NaNoWriMo 2011 entry?), and I would love any and all feedback anyone might have to offer.

In an effort not to clog DevCo with too much shameless self-plugging, though, I'm going to limit myself to one scene/chapter-thing per week.  I should mention, too, that when in book-form, these scene-chapters will appear in a different order and heavily edited.   Please enjoy.

 

Darren hunkered down deeper into the grass. “I don't like this,” he whispered. “I feel like she's watching me.”

 

“She's only got one eye,” Craven said. He laughed. “And she's not watching anything, unless she's spotted another butterfly.” He laughed again, a sarcastic, humourless chuckle.

 

“What's wrong with her?”

 

Craven was mildly amused. “It isn't obvious? You know, she used to be beautiful, once.”

 

“Honestly?” Darren was almost afraid to look away. He didn't want to see what would be there when he looked back. “What happened to her?”

 

Craven Lorne glanced at the creature. She walked through the grass, regardless of the long, wet blades that slapped against her bare legs and brushed the seam of her torn dress – regardless of just about everything. “I don't know,” he said. “No one does.” He paused for a second too long. “Whatever it was, she undoubtedly deserved it.”

 

Darren watched her hold a hand out to a leaf and let a copiously-legged insect crawl onto her pale arm, her glowing, green cyborg eye trained on it.  “You sure, boss? I'm not saying you're wrong, but...” He watched as the insect scuttled up her arm and over her cracked, porcelain face. “It's just...” He crouched lower. He couldn't imagine anyone deserving to end up like that.

 

Craven put a firm hand on his back. “Trust me, Darren.”

 

Darren had no choice.

 

The wind blew through purple landscape and the grass sparkled gold in response.

Darren found his voice. “So, do we...?” he left his question there, hoping that Craven hadn't heard him.

 

“No,” Craven said, to his attendant's audible relief. “Not today. We will catch her, make no mistake. And when we do, every bit, every last spec of her Dust will be drained. But it's not enough, not nearly.”

 

Darren still couldn't pull his eyes away from the creature and he was growing uneasy as a result. He had been led to believe that she had more Dust than ten normal figments, more than enough for any purpose he could conceive of—but he wasn't about to question Craven Lorne.

 

Craven waved his hand dismissively, low enough not to draw attention. “I don't mean that,” he said. “She has plenty of Dust. The rumours go that it's white Dust, too, though we can't be sure.” He put his hand up to stop Darren from getting too excited about the colour. “I meant that it's not enough to kill her. We need to chase her first, wear her down. Confuse her, worry her, taunt her, torture her—” Craven stopped and Darren could almost believe he saw a smile play on his boss's black lips, before he recalled himself. “It's getting dark. We'll see her again, Darren, don't you worry.”

 

Darren watched her dance, lurchingly into the darkness. He worried. He worried a lot.

 If you enjoyed reading this, you may also like my published novel, Aigaion Girl ... a story of the end of days, available here.

... and other stuff

So, Aigaion Girl turns two this month, which is kind of a big deal and simultaneously not a big deal at all.  In some ways, it feels like it's been a lot longer than two years and in some ways, like it's still very new, just stepping into the world.  I feel like there's a lot more I could and should be doing with it, but still, I'm glad it's out there.

Also, there's this.  It's one of those things that you read and think, Damn, I wish I'd written that - and if you're a writer (and, more especially, if you know a writer) you should definitely give it a read.

I read it yesterday and I couldn't have discovered it at a better time; I'd just spent an evening being told everything I'm doing wrong in terms of marketing myself and that my decision to self-publish was completely incorrect and that I have to do this, this and this to become famous and get rich - since we all know getting rich is why we became writers to begin with.  The letter linked above made me feel instantly better, grounded and more confident.  I'm not going to be quitting my day job anytime soon, but the letter was refreshing and made me remember that one day, I will.