I hope ya’ll can hear the sarcasm that accompanies that headline. It really isn’t news. It’s happened before, it’ll happen again. And again and again.
I really liked the last story I did. It was fun and light and humorous. Not a laugh a minute, but still some parts that I at least found funny.
This story, though, is eating my brain. It’s only coming one scene at a time, but each of those scenes is so compelling I must sit down and write them now. The first three scenes are done, and it’s about 1500 words, which is the right length. (Nine scenes all averaging 500 words.)
This story is my “breaking the rules” story. I’m doing everything wrong on purpose: switching POV characters, killing off POV characters, switching tenses, making up my own words, etc. This is a story that I doubt I’d ever be able to sell anywhere. I am also in love with it right now, and think it’s a great story that will have an audience (though it might be a small one.)
Readers are smart. They know what they like. They’ll find it. I trust the reader.
Because I love this story so much right now, I’m going to share a couple small pieces with you. The title is: The Secrets of 9s: a tale of anarchy broken into 9 bits
This story is more graphic, in terms of bodily functions, fluids and the number of dead bodies than most of my stories. Please click or do not according to your self-health.
1.
Alexis lived in the bottom of a tea cup, swimming between the dregs, swallowing other people’s fortunes. The sharp points of her hair flared like a crown of thorns that matched the diamond tips of her nails and her ruby-encrusted incisors. A white film spread across her amethyst eyes as she grew bloated on tasseomancy, until she had to vomit, regurgitating what she’d witnessed amid the jasmine and drown leaves.
. . .
2.
The first secret of 9s is: they always come back. They might disguise themselves with the coyness of eights, the rigid line of the one hidden at their back. Or they could tumble roly-poly across the margins of your daily rag. You might mistake them for fours, marching sternly across burnt fields, and not see their fat friends, the fives, until it’s much too late. Or they may glide through your living room as ones, distracting you with their dancing and swirling, before they gather together for the ambush.
Yes, the 9s always come back. And it’s never a party.
. . .