I was thinking of putting something mind-blowing up here, or something utterly amazing, but you'll have to settle with an excerpt from a story-in-progress of mine. You guys are always wondering what I'm writing about on that yellow pad of paper, so here it comes.
First off, background information.
This is about one of my favorite characters, inspired by the video game Assassin's Creed. The game itself deals with assassins during the era of the third crusade. Thinking this was the best idea yet, and spurned onwards by the promise of a futuristic element to the game, I sat down at the computer at Grandma's house and wrote.
And wrote.
And wrote.
And wrote.
I had a character spring to life. Armalia, or Army; average teen figuring out her body's been housing the spirit of a medieval assassin for the past years. This concept was further explored to create Starlight, super hero, and Army, orphan who's just trying to make ends meet in addition to saving New York-like Town, USA. I obviously had fun creating this.
And here... we... go.
* * *
. . .
. . .
I awoke to the sound of my heavy breathing, lying in a frigid pool of sweat.
It was a dream, I thought. One hand groped about in the darkness for a matchbox, while my other assisted me in rising from the mattress. It was just a dream. A dark, fragmented dream, but a dream nonetheless.
My hand found a square container, and I held it close to my face. I could feel my cold breath on my skin as I opened the box, feeling for the familiar wooden stick I had grown to love. At this point, my nose registered a foul odor, like dried blood. . . . I carefully picked out a match, and struck it against its container.
Bedbugs scattered like ants in the shadow of an anteater. They had been the source of the smell; apparently I hadn't set the traps right, and the insects decided to party. . . The vampire bugs must've been squished by me, I thought, disgusted at the idea. Supporting evidence of dried and drying blood appeared in splatters on the sheet. It sickeningly reminded me of a fact I had read; [somebody] . . . stated he was able to write his name on the prison walls using a medium of smashed bedbugs. Was I in a prison, as badly kept as that? I dwelled, uncharistically philosophic for a moment, on this as I lit a candle.
The burning wick shed light on the rest of my cell walls. A simple five by ten room, barely big enough for a feather bed, tattered covers, and a small crate that functioned as a night stand.
. . .
The walls began to rumble, and I shakily stood up. I wobbled on jelly legs tot he door, stepping carefully over moving black dots. The walls were shivering violently now as a great beast thundered past. I had to shoulder the door open.
The eight o'clock C-Train sucked the air from the tunnel as it roared away, loose papers and my hair flying around it. It passed, and the tunnels returned to their serene quiet.
Eight, I thought. Starlight should be up by now.
Indeed she should be. I observed as Armalia slipped back into the matinence closet, like the shadow she was. I watched from above, standing on the tunnel ceiling. I'd be concealed by the dank, murky darkness, at least until she looked hard enough. Which meant I was safe for a while.
As the shuttle had bulleted past, my head had peeked inside. I noticed a red fogged man holding a briefcase, containing lord knows what. Those around him were of black and white; no one of consequence on board but the red man.
I decided to wati to transmit this information to her. The door opened a crack, and the shadow slid out, cloaked in inky black. Peering closer, I noticed the glint of steel, and grinned. She had misplaced the scabbards, once again. I dropped behind her, and tailed Armalia as she walked through the tunnel.
She smelled like dead rat and bedbugs. Especially bedbugs. I had noticed small bites all over her dark complexion, looking quite similar to pimples. The twelve pointed, face painted star on her face disguised them for the most part, although the spider bite from last night was very apparent on the tip of her steeply slanted nose.
I wondered if the donning of this guise alone turned Armalia to this dark, quiet figure. I reached out mentally for the empathic link between us, seized it, and channeled myself through it once more.
/See anything interesting while snooping about?/
I should try to be a bit more subtle next time. /Fine, thanks, and how are you?/
It was a dream, I thought. One hand groped about in the darkness for a matchbox, while my other assisted me in rising from the mattress. It was just a dream. A dark, fragmented dream, but a dream nonetheless.
My hand found a square container, and I held it close to my face. I could feel my cold breath on my skin as I opened the box, feeling for the familiar wooden stick I had grown to love. At this point, my nose registered a foul odor, like dried blood. . . . I carefully picked out a match, and struck it against its container.
Bedbugs scattered like ants in the shadow of an anteater. They had been the source of the smell; apparently I hadn't set the traps right, and the insects decided to party. . . The vampire bugs must've been squished by me, I thought, disgusted at the idea. Supporting evidence of dried and drying blood appeared in splatters on the sheet. It sickeningly reminded me of a fact I had read; [somebody] . . . stated he was able to write his name on the prison walls using a medium of smashed bedbugs. Was I in a prison, as badly kept as that? I dwelled, uncharistically philosophic for a moment, on this as I lit a candle.
The burning wick shed light on the rest of my cell walls. A simple five by ten room, barely big enough for a feather bed, tattered covers, and a small crate that functioned as a night stand.
. . .
The walls began to rumble, and I shakily stood up. I wobbled on jelly legs tot he door, stepping carefully over moving black dots. The walls were shivering violently now as a great beast thundered past. I had to shoulder the door open.
The eight o'clock C-Train sucked the air from the tunnel as it roared away, loose papers and my hair flying around it. It passed, and the tunnels returned to their serene quiet.
Eight, I thought. Starlight should be up by now.
Indeed she should be. I observed as Armalia slipped back into the matinence closet, like the shadow she was. I watched from above, standing on the tunnel ceiling. I'd be concealed by the dank, murky darkness, at least until she looked hard enough. Which meant I was safe for a while.
As the shuttle had bulleted past, my head had peeked inside. I noticed a red fogged man holding a briefcase, containing lord knows what. Those around him were of black and white; no one of consequence on board but the red man.
I decided to wati to transmit this information to her. The door opened a crack, and the shadow slid out, cloaked in inky black. Peering closer, I noticed the glint of steel, and grinned. She had misplaced the scabbards, once again. I dropped behind her, and tailed Armalia as she walked through the tunnel.
She smelled like dead rat and bedbugs. Especially bedbugs. I had noticed small bites all over her dark complexion, looking quite similar to pimples. The twelve pointed, face painted star on her face disguised them for the most part, although the spider bite from last night was very apparent on the tip of her steeply slanted nose.
I wondered if the donning of this guise alone turned Armalia to this dark, quiet figure. I reached out mentally for the empathic link between us, seized it, and channeled myself through it once more.
/See anything interesting while snooping about?/
I should try to be a bit more subtle next time. /Fine, thanks, and how are you?/
* * *
And that's it.
Questions? Comments? Complaints? All are welcome.
I know this is horrible compared to other authors, don't pretend this is the best piece of work since Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I'm tired of that, to be honest. I want actual constructive criticism.
Happy Almost New Year!
Questions? Comments? Complaints? All are welcome.
I know this is horrible compared to other authors, don't pretend this is the best piece of work since Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. I'm tired of that, to be honest. I want actual constructive criticism.
Happy Almost New Year!
