The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt.2)
>Cheryl stumbled past a decrepit gate and fell into the rocky yard. A scream of pain ripped from her lips despite her sense that she could not hurt anymore than she already did. She attempted to pull herself forward with her arms but could raise neither high enough to do any good.
She heard the front door creak slightly and pictured a little old woman afraid of her own shadow opening it. Instead, a burly man swung the door open boldly, pushed open a screen door and took the steps two at a time. In an instant he knelt beside her.
“What happened? Car wreck?”
All Cheryl could do was nod. She felt his hands probing around gingerly but with enough force that when he touched her ankle she cried out.
“That’s pretty messed up. Probably broken. Looks like you’ve lost some blood too. Do you feel cold?”
She nodded again, thankful her mouth was incapable of betraying her. She wanted to scream, “I should have died too.” Bastards. They were supposed to all die together. Her benefactor kept taking an inventory until he was sure there were no other major injuries.
“I’ll have an ambulance here in a second.” The man stood up, bound back up the steps and was swallowed by the dim lit house. His muffled voice trailed off into a silken mist as Cheryl lost consciousness.
A Story by Any Other Name…
>…would read as sweet. When I dream of writing, I dream of intricate characters intertwining their emotional desperations with the bravado’s of strength they attempt to maintain. The problem quickly becomes – each character cannot get what he or she wants without exposing the vulnerability that consumes them.
When I practice writing, I do the same. I search for characters that feel. Characters that experience the emotional travails we all go through at some point in our lives. Rich characters make great stepping stones for stories marinated in passion.
When actually writing, I find these ideals elusive. The mission is to achieve that perfect story, the one that makes the young girls sigh and the old women cry. One day I’ll write it. I’ll know it, and you’ll know it. Until then, follow my trek and let me know if I’m on the right path.
Each post on this blog is a rose petal peeled off its stem, falling to some destination unknown. Sometimes the petals will fall to the ground and rot like our bodies one day will do. Other times the petals will fall upon willing eyes that take in their plight and give them life through readership. Some will fall into the hands of evil and perverse people who would tear down all hope for the writer if his destiny lay in their hands. Others will nurture the petals with helpful comments and encouraging words. And so goes the petals that fall.
Walk with me through the world of writing. The stroll should be most entertaining!
DarkThorn
http://www.roguesgallerywriters.blogspot.com/
http://www.michaelrayking.com/
The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt. 1)
Dead wheels and lifeless bodies lay curled around an old oak tree.Crisp October air bit at Cheryl’s throat as she staggered down the country road. The Milky Way shot silent stares at her as the heels of her shoes clicked erratically down the asphalt. Puffs of breath hung behind her like tiny clouds, slowly dissipating into oblivion.One moment they’d been laughing, whooping it up at Ted’s expense.
In a blink of her eye, grim visages of death accused her of murder. All three men splayed around the car like discarded marionettes, lifelines cut by callous disregard for good sense. Why death skipped over her screamed of mystery or fate’s cruel sentence.
Shock permeated her senses as she placed one foot in front of the other. Each step took patience and care as something felt broken. Maybe her ankle, maybe her leg, the pain when she placed her left foot to the road played pinball throughout her body. Dull light from a rickety front porch competed with the heavens for attention.
Cheryl focused her eyes as much as possible on that lonely bulb. If she ever wanted to pray, this moment begged for it, but she managed only a low, guttural keening. Perhaps fate desired that she live. After all, she tried her best to kill them all, including herself. Yet, she crawled from the wreckage and struck out for life. If an afterlife awaited her, surely these three men would seek her out, if for no other reason than to find out – why?
Fiction's Footsteps 