nanowrimo '09 update #whatever
Hello again~ It's been a fairly stressful week, I'm only at 14,777 >_> But I'm still trying!! I've got time, right?! *cough* anyway, here's a few more excerpts - Ch 4 is my first attempt at writing second person! They're pretty much stand-alone (and not very long, either), so I'm not going to post Ch 3 (which actually goes right before the "interlude"). Hope you like!
..Interlude
He was somewhere dark, the blackness so complete that when he experimentally waved a hand in front of his face, there wasn't even the slightest flicker of color or light. He fought against the instinct to flail around and somehow find the light and let his illogical side take over. Instead he stood very still, closed his eyes - really only for effect, since it was just as dark either way - and quested out with his other senses, craning his ears for any sound, trying to see if there was anything he could smell. Perhaps that was an unlikely thought, but, on the other hand, he was almost sure he could hear something far off in the distance... What was that sound? Not quite like waves on the seashore, but more of a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, fluctuating loud and soft and seemingly coming closer every minute or so. He opened his eyes instinctively and flinched back; there was a pinpoint of blindingly bright light coming directly towards him. Within seconds it had filled his entire field of vision, and he shut his eyes, but the light was white-hot, burning through his eyelids, consuming everything and only getting hotter and hotter and -
He was floating. Was this a dream? Or had he just died? Perhaps this was what happened after you'd died and gone to hell. Was he in hell? If he was, then wouldn't it be a good idea to take a look around while he was still conscious, at the least? He attempted to crack open an eyelid and then paused. If he was dead and in hell, would he still be conscious like this, and have eyelids? And for that matter... He attempted to lift an arm; yes, that was still there too... How odd, he seemed to have all his body parts functional again. Now just to -
"Open your eyes."
He flinched back. The voice came again, smooth and gentle and echoing just a bit with power.
"Don't be afraid. Open your eyes and look upon me, my darling."
The endearment startled him, but the tone was reassuring, so he obeyed. Several minutes passed while his eyes adjusted to the light, and he could only blink at the indistinct figure before him. He got a vague impression of longish black hair and a strong-featured face, but somehow his vision didn't quite clear even after the light wasn't making his eyes water anymore.
A hand came up to stroke the side of his face with butterfly-light touches, somehow both comforting and frightening at the same time. "Wh-Who are you?" he wavered.
A low chuckle and the hand changed its course, sliding down over his neck and collarbone before coming to a rest on his chest. He really must not be dead, since his heart was pounding like a kickdrum beating in his chest.
"Oh, I think you know very well who I am," and he thought he could hear the hint of a smirk in the voice. It tugged on a memory that he couldn't quite pull from the crevices of his mind... "In any case, perhaps this will serve to remind you?"
The hand crept back up to cup his chin, a callused yet soft thumb tracing over his mouth. He stiffened and a chill ran down his spine. The next instant a mouth covered his, sending heat pulsing through his body, and everything went black yet again.
..Chapter 4
You sit on a stool beside a hospital bed, gripping a cold hand between both of your own. The medics rush around the room, carrying this piece of equipment in and that sample out. But you pay no attention; all your concentration is focused squarely on the person lying in the bed, pale and struggling just to breathe. You will her to persevere, clasping her hand ever tighter and trying to channel your own energy down your linked hands, no matter how impossible that might be. You would do anything to save her, but what is there left to do that hasn't already been tried?
A beeping comes from the monitor next to the bed, getting louder and louder with every passing second. Four medics run in, yelling incomprehensibly to each other; they grab the hospital bed, release the brakes, and wheel it off at top speed. You want to go with them, but they rush off in such a hurry that her hand slips out of yours. You stare after them from the doorway, only catching a glimpse of the bed rounding the corner.
The crematorium is a large, boxy glass-and-steel building. It looks cold and impersonal, as well it might; there is a strict no-talking rule inside, and even the personnel that work inside are mutes. They are also the poorest of the poor, with no familial ties to interfere with their work. You have never been inside the crematorium, and you especially didn't want - or expect - your first time to be for this occasion.
You follow the line of citizens, similarly dressed in stark white, through the front door. The inside is bright, silent, and empty, and the negative temperatures are a shock after the pleasant late-summer climate outside. You are guided by sign language to one of the round rooms surrounding the inner gallery - there are no printed signs allowed within the premises, either - where rows of chairs are arranged around the room's circumference on either side of the door. Not a few chairs are already filled, and although the people look up when you enter, none of them appear to recognize you. You hadn't expected them to in any case, so you are not offended - although with in the state you're in now, you couldn't be expected to feel much of any emotion.
Centered in front of the entrance is a long, rectangular steel pedestal - slightly longer than the height of an average person. You take a seat directly in front of it and drop your head into your hands, waiting and trying not to think or allow any emotion to claim you.
At least ten minutes have passed - it is hard to tell in the eerie silence punctuated by the occasional rustling of cloth. A gong rings somewhere in the distance, but the sound echoes and is somehow amplified off the curved walls of the room. Everyone goes instantly silent, looking around nervously. And then a whirring noise comes from the pedestal.
The top of the pedestal splits lengthwise, folding over onto the outside, and a narrow rectangular box comes up from inside. It is pitch-dark, featureless, and you recognize the material instantly as carbon fiber. After it has been raised all the way up, the whirring stops and complete, pin-drop silence falls over the room.
Everyone is staring expectantly at the casket, for it is painfully evident that that is what the black box is. You force yourself not to look away, almost not blinking - you don't want to miss a moment of this. And you are very careful to keep a tight rein on your emotions, which is perhaps harder for you than for any of the others in the room.
From the front row, you can see that there are spirals of heating coils under the casket, and they are slowly turning red-orange. The color transfers even more slowly to the dark box, and you can feel the increasing waves of heat pouring off the pedestal. Gradually the casket turns red-hot, practically pulsing with the heat, which your detached mind rates at over 400 degrees - Celsius, of course. But you force yourself not to move a muscle, blinking away the sweat dripping into your eyes. After the casket has been as hot as possible for about seven minutes, the heating coils abruptly shut off. The casket whirs down into the pedestal again, and a silent sigh of relief passes through the room's occupants. You find that you are gripping the edge of your chair with white-knuckled hands.
After three minutes of staring at the pedestal, what comes up now is not the casket again, but a small cube also of carbon fiber, perhaps less than a tenth of the size of the casket. It sits there on the top of the pedestal, and there is a collective rustle of clothing through the room. But before anyone can move, you jump to your feet and pick up the cube. It fits snugly into the palm of your hand and you close your hand around it, taking comfort from the pain of its sharp corners digging into your flesh.
Several of the other people in the room have risen to their feet as well; you look around at them, but don't recognize a single one, and it is evident that they don't know you either. But something in your face must explain, since they fall back a step or two. Without any acknowledgement of their surrender, you leave the room with your spine straight and head held high.
You know what it is that you must do; recent events have left no doubt in your mind that all is not well and good with the world, as it may seem to the other citizens of Zaexopolis. And now you can no longer afford to sit back and watch events unfold with no stake in any outcome. No, now it has become a personal matter. You will find out who is responsible, and you will make them pay.
..Interlude
He was somewhere dark, the blackness so complete that when he experimentally waved a hand in front of his face, there wasn't even the slightest flicker of color or light. He fought against the instinct to flail around and somehow find the light and let his illogical side take over. Instead he stood very still, closed his eyes - really only for effect, since it was just as dark either way - and quested out with his other senses, craning his ears for any sound, trying to see if there was anything he could smell. Perhaps that was an unlikely thought, but, on the other hand, he was almost sure he could hear something far off in the distance... What was that sound? Not quite like waves on the seashore, but more of a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, fluctuating loud and soft and seemingly coming closer every minute or so. He opened his eyes instinctively and flinched back; there was a pinpoint of blindingly bright light coming directly towards him. Within seconds it had filled his entire field of vision, and he shut his eyes, but the light was white-hot, burning through his eyelids, consuming everything and only getting hotter and hotter and -
He was floating. Was this a dream? Or had he just died? Perhaps this was what happened after you'd died and gone to hell. Was he in hell? If he was, then wouldn't it be a good idea to take a look around while he was still conscious, at the least? He attempted to crack open an eyelid and then paused. If he was dead and in hell, would he still be conscious like this, and have eyelids? And for that matter... He attempted to lift an arm; yes, that was still there too... How odd, he seemed to have all his body parts functional again. Now just to -
"Open your eyes."
He flinched back. The voice came again, smooth and gentle and echoing just a bit with power.
"Don't be afraid. Open your eyes and look upon me, my darling."
The endearment startled him, but the tone was reassuring, so he obeyed. Several minutes passed while his eyes adjusted to the light, and he could only blink at the indistinct figure before him. He got a vague impression of longish black hair and a strong-featured face, but somehow his vision didn't quite clear even after the light wasn't making his eyes water anymore.
A hand came up to stroke the side of his face with butterfly-light touches, somehow both comforting and frightening at the same time. "Wh-Who are you?" he wavered.
A low chuckle and the hand changed its course, sliding down over his neck and collarbone before coming to a rest on his chest. He really must not be dead, since his heart was pounding like a kickdrum beating in his chest.
"Oh, I think you know very well who I am," and he thought he could hear the hint of a smirk in the voice. It tugged on a memory that he couldn't quite pull from the crevices of his mind... "In any case, perhaps this will serve to remind you?"
The hand crept back up to cup his chin, a callused yet soft thumb tracing over his mouth. He stiffened and a chill ran down his spine. The next instant a mouth covered his, sending heat pulsing through his body, and everything went black yet again.
..Chapter 4
You sit on a stool beside a hospital bed, gripping a cold hand between both of your own. The medics rush around the room, carrying this piece of equipment in and that sample out. But you pay no attention; all your concentration is focused squarely on the person lying in the bed, pale and struggling just to breathe. You will her to persevere, clasping her hand ever tighter and trying to channel your own energy down your linked hands, no matter how impossible that might be. You would do anything to save her, but what is there left to do that hasn't already been tried?
A beeping comes from the monitor next to the bed, getting louder and louder with every passing second. Four medics run in, yelling incomprehensibly to each other; they grab the hospital bed, release the brakes, and wheel it off at top speed. You want to go with them, but they rush off in such a hurry that her hand slips out of yours. You stare after them from the doorway, only catching a glimpse of the bed rounding the corner.
The crematorium is a large, boxy glass-and-steel building. It looks cold and impersonal, as well it might; there is a strict no-talking rule inside, and even the personnel that work inside are mutes. They are also the poorest of the poor, with no familial ties to interfere with their work. You have never been inside the crematorium, and you especially didn't want - or expect - your first time to be for this occasion.
You follow the line of citizens, similarly dressed in stark white, through the front door. The inside is bright, silent, and empty, and the negative temperatures are a shock after the pleasant late-summer climate outside. You are guided by sign language to one of the round rooms surrounding the inner gallery - there are no printed signs allowed within the premises, either - where rows of chairs are arranged around the room's circumference on either side of the door. Not a few chairs are already filled, and although the people look up when you enter, none of them appear to recognize you. You hadn't expected them to in any case, so you are not offended - although with in the state you're in now, you couldn't be expected to feel much of any emotion.
Centered in front of the entrance is a long, rectangular steel pedestal - slightly longer than the height of an average person. You take a seat directly in front of it and drop your head into your hands, waiting and trying not to think or allow any emotion to claim you.
At least ten minutes have passed - it is hard to tell in the eerie silence punctuated by the occasional rustling of cloth. A gong rings somewhere in the distance, but the sound echoes and is somehow amplified off the curved walls of the room. Everyone goes instantly silent, looking around nervously. And then a whirring noise comes from the pedestal.
The top of the pedestal splits lengthwise, folding over onto the outside, and a narrow rectangular box comes up from inside. It is pitch-dark, featureless, and you recognize the material instantly as carbon fiber. After it has been raised all the way up, the whirring stops and complete, pin-drop silence falls over the room.
Everyone is staring expectantly at the casket, for it is painfully evident that that is what the black box is. You force yourself not to look away, almost not blinking - you don't want to miss a moment of this. And you are very careful to keep a tight rein on your emotions, which is perhaps harder for you than for any of the others in the room.
From the front row, you can see that there are spirals of heating coils under the casket, and they are slowly turning red-orange. The color transfers even more slowly to the dark box, and you can feel the increasing waves of heat pouring off the pedestal. Gradually the casket turns red-hot, practically pulsing with the heat, which your detached mind rates at over 400 degrees - Celsius, of course. But you force yourself not to move a muscle, blinking away the sweat dripping into your eyes. After the casket has been as hot as possible for about seven minutes, the heating coils abruptly shut off. The casket whirs down into the pedestal again, and a silent sigh of relief passes through the room's occupants. You find that you are gripping the edge of your chair with white-knuckled hands.
After three minutes of staring at the pedestal, what comes up now is not the casket again, but a small cube also of carbon fiber, perhaps less than a tenth of the size of the casket. It sits there on the top of the pedestal, and there is a collective rustle of clothing through the room. But before anyone can move, you jump to your feet and pick up the cube. It fits snugly into the palm of your hand and you close your hand around it, taking comfort from the pain of its sharp corners digging into your flesh.
Several of the other people in the room have risen to their feet as well; you look around at them, but don't recognize a single one, and it is evident that they don't know you either. But something in your face must explain, since they fall back a step or two. Without any acknowledgement of their surrender, you leave the room with your spine straight and head held high.
You know what it is that you must do; recent events have left no doubt in your mind that all is not well and good with the world, as it may seem to the other citizens of Zaexopolis. And now you can no longer afford to sit back and watch events unfold with no stake in any outcome. No, now it has become a personal matter. You will find out who is responsible, and you will make them pay.