When Believing: First Scene of Chapter One
Here's the start of a story that I'm not sure about, yet. I'm thinking of turning it in to one of my Critique Groups, but I'm not sure if it's good enough for that. It might be a slightly risky story, considering that the majority of the novel closely ties assassins to religion and this first scene has a subtle homosexual vibe to it. What I'm worried about really is A) if this is too cliche of a topic, B) if the scene is clear enough, and C) if the subject matter is too risky to bring into an academic setting.
On a side note, for those of you that do have classes in high school or college that require creative writing, how would you feel about bringing in a work that had a controversial theme to it?
x-posted to: shade_of_solace journal, ah_gayfiction, writers_guild, and creativewriting.
The keys snapped against one another as Nosha watched him turn the lock and fling open the door. The sound of the hinges, old, grating, echoed through the hall and he turned to the Nosha and stared. They regarded each other quietly, Nosha leaning against the doorframe, as if waiting, the other trying to hide the smile that came at the corner of his lips. He gestured to the room, and Nosha made no move at first, but after having let several seconds past, he moved forward, toward the window at its far end.
The redhead (for this would be all Nosha would remember of him) said something, but the words were blurred in Nosha’s ears. Irrelevant, at any rate. He glanced toward the window, and not seeing the street below, instead caught his own reflection: thin, stiff, cold, like the frost framing the glass.
The man moved forward from shutting the door, and raised an eyebrow in question. Nosha shook his head, unsure of the meaning behind it, but it seemed to appease his companion. “I don’t even know your name,” he asked and Nosha gave it, without any other response. He knew the other’s, but could not force the name from his mind, could not give himself a reason to remember.
He moved closer, now, and reached for Nosha, the pale hand curling around his neck, the thumb running a soft line just below his chin. Nosha fought to keep still, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. The redhead gave a slow smile and a quiet, breathless laughter. Nosha stared, caught, and began to hear a noise like a dull roar, dragged through thick air. He thought of this man’s father, unaware of the price on his son’s head, and then the others. He tried to conjure up a difference, from this man to them, from this night to another. But it eluded him and the quiet buzzing grew in intensity, in power. He became angry that he couldn’t place the sound, couldn’t fathom it, until the other man shifted again and was too close and he knew, with a certainty, that the sound was in his mind, his own abrasive screaming.
The knife came quick into his hand and, quicker still, into the redhead’s back, thrust upward with decision, with finality. Later, Nosha would regret the use of the knife, the display of red against red, the man’s hair sticking to his wound, long enough to be tangled in the unebbing flow from his body. But he could not regret the death, or if he could, then he couldn’t deny that it had to have happened.
He sat, for a long time, on the edge of the bed, staring at how the body had fallen after it had briefly leaned against his chest. He stayed long enough to watch the blood coagulate, to watch its darker parts seep into the carpet, the too white color changed to something uneven, something that ripped at his vision, tearing from him the ability to look elsewhere.
Eventually he found himself on the floor, before the man whose face was half obscured, laid into the carpet. He reached for a strand of hair that had fallen loose, trailing across the floor and looked again toward the window and the frost, “Unto this we are born; our lives determined.”
He spent time fixing the body, cleaning the blood from the skin, the dirt from the man’s hands. Then he moved to the hair, which was tangled beyond any use, but he fought it out to brush it free and lay it down, straight, so it wouldn’t touch the wound, wouldn’t acquire more blood or grime. Then standing, without another look, he turned, crossed the room, and opened the door.
On a side note, for those of you that do have classes in high school or college that require creative writing, how would you feel about bringing in a work that had a controversial theme to it?
x-posted to: shade_of_solace journal, ah_gayfiction, writers_guild, and creativewriting.
The keys snapped against one another as Nosha watched him turn the lock and fling open the door. The sound of the hinges, old, grating, echoed through the hall and he turned to the Nosha and stared. They regarded each other quietly, Nosha leaning against the doorframe, as if waiting, the other trying to hide the smile that came at the corner of his lips. He gestured to the room, and Nosha made no move at first, but after having let several seconds past, he moved forward, toward the window at its far end.
The redhead (for this would be all Nosha would remember of him) said something, but the words were blurred in Nosha’s ears. Irrelevant, at any rate. He glanced toward the window, and not seeing the street below, instead caught his own reflection: thin, stiff, cold, like the frost framing the glass.
The man moved forward from shutting the door, and raised an eyebrow in question. Nosha shook his head, unsure of the meaning behind it, but it seemed to appease his companion. “I don’t even know your name,” he asked and Nosha gave it, without any other response. He knew the other’s, but could not force the name from his mind, could not give himself a reason to remember.
He moved closer, now, and reached for Nosha, the pale hand curling around his neck, the thumb running a soft line just below his chin. Nosha fought to keep still, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. The redhead gave a slow smile and a quiet, breathless laughter. Nosha stared, caught, and began to hear a noise like a dull roar, dragged through thick air. He thought of this man’s father, unaware of the price on his son’s head, and then the others. He tried to conjure up a difference, from this man to them, from this night to another. But it eluded him and the quiet buzzing grew in intensity, in power. He became angry that he couldn’t place the sound, couldn’t fathom it, until the other man shifted again and was too close and he knew, with a certainty, that the sound was in his mind, his own abrasive screaming.
The knife came quick into his hand and, quicker still, into the redhead’s back, thrust upward with decision, with finality. Later, Nosha would regret the use of the knife, the display of red against red, the man’s hair sticking to his wound, long enough to be tangled in the unebbing flow from his body. But he could not regret the death, or if he could, then he couldn’t deny that it had to have happened.
He sat, for a long time, on the edge of the bed, staring at how the body had fallen after it had briefly leaned against his chest. He stayed long enough to watch the blood coagulate, to watch its darker parts seep into the carpet, the too white color changed to something uneven, something that ripped at his vision, tearing from him the ability to look elsewhere.
Eventually he found himself on the floor, before the man whose face was half obscured, laid into the carpet. He reached for a strand of hair that had fallen loose, trailing across the floor and looked again toward the window and the frost, “Unto this we are born; our lives determined.”
He spent time fixing the body, cleaning the blood from the skin, the dirt from the man’s hands. Then he moved to the hair, which was tangled beyond any use, but he fought it out to brush it free and lay it down, straight, so it wouldn’t touch the wound, wouldn’t acquire more blood or grime. Then standing, without another look, he turned, crossed the room, and opened the door.