Well, Damn,
Here I am almost 40 years old. OK, it's not about the age because I still feel like a 20 year old, even though my body doesn't, but I DIDN'T REACH MY GOAL OF GETTING ON A WRITING SCHEDULE OR SENDING SHIT OUT!
That is just not right. (It's also not right because I figured I do have time to write; I just have to turned off the fucking T.V. and not play on line.) The stupid werewolf story, never got finished. So I thought I would post it here as a serial; that should help me get perspective. The seeds of a good plot are there, I just need to refine it.
On a marginally related note, I read Ender's Game and was happy to see that he wrote about children using intelligent voices. It was one hell of a great story, and the character development was great. I also respect a writer who uses a notebook. I am, in truth, a notebook writer, and that may be the route to go because my toddler is so jealous of the computer. And no, the baby isn't the block to me getting on.
Well, here's the first page.
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Maria J. Estrada
April 24, 2010
Sad stilled his hands, as he walked into the town of Gila Bend, AZ; he hit his head against his shoulder, but couldn’t reach that itchy spot. He couldn’t let his father know about his plight, or he’d wind up a cone-headed freak. To make things worse, during the three-mile walk, his little brother Jack had jumped over every desert bush, attacked all the anthills, and tried to chase random jackrabbits. Sad wished he could tie a rope around him because every time he got too far, Sad had to go after him, and today, he carried a heavy pack.
Their father, Summer Hunter never brought their car into town, for fear of having their gas siphoned or their car cannibalized. Or worse. Turning away from his father, as he inspected the town, he hastily rubbed his fist against the side of his head. The McDonalds was still boarded up and the fossilized armed guard walled the gas station. Most of the buildings through the main road were still burned down, except for the hotel and a few tents pitched inside a fenced in area. He sighed, as the warm summer air made his scalp itch even worse.
They approached the familiar sign with red writing: Population 52, Victims 6.
Jack reached Sad, smacking him on the back. “That’s three more,” said Jack cockily, “Huh, Sad?”
Sad glared at his little brother and glanced up at his dad.
Sad stilled his hands, as he walked into the town of Gila Bend; he hit his head against his shoulder, but couldn’t reach that itchy spot. He couldn’t let his father know about his plight, or he’d wind up a bald-headed freak. To make things worse, during the three-mile walk, his little brother Jack had jumped over every desert bush and attacked all the anthills. He tried to chase random jackrabbits.
ReplyDeleteDuring the walk, Sad had tightened his hand around the heavy rope. He had looked to his father hopefully, but all Hunter did was nod towards the errant boy.