Worldbuilding in Slow Motion

So now that I finished ViNoWriMo (check out keypub.net for more information), I'm stuck in the position that I don't want to touch that novel until the March 14th winners are announced. I would love to start querying, but The Faithful is currently being read by my fiance, with the ending of the novel up in the air. I can't quite be shopping it about if I don't even know what the length or the ending will be.

I have two projects I can work on. I can work on my next novel, which is set in a desert wasteland on the side of a cliff, or rework my first novel, Between the Shadows. I'm stuck in between new ideas for both of these and can't quite decide which way I'm leaning.

On one hand, I have a brand new novel with a new place that I can expand on and feel creatively fulfilled. On the other, I have an old property that I'm giving a fresh breath of life. The old story felt empty, amorphous. With the new ideas I have, it changes so much of the original work that there is no way to keep the original manuscript and build off of it. I now have two more novels under my belt, so many lessons I've learned that it just seems like a flawed concept to keep going back to try and fix the errors in it.

Maybe after I'm done I'll find that the two works aren't entirely dissimilar, but I'd hate to read that old manuscript and get lost in that version of the world and lose what I had been thinking about. It truly is a reimagining where I'm going with it, not just another run through with edits to try and correct fundamental problems with the manuscript.

Here I am, stuck between two projects, each with its own creative possibilities.

I'll let you know where I'm going.

In the search of focus . . .

I'm sitting here, listening to music (which is now muted because Pandora can't seem to find something I actually want to listen to), watching History Channel that is a show on comedy, reading the Authoress's new e-book "Agent Demystified" and am trying to write my current novel right now.

What I need . . . is focus.

It doesn't help that when I sit down and try to write that I'm so out of practice over the last several months that I end up writing a few sentences and then moving onto something completely different. Or I get up and walk away. I just can't seem to keep myself focused.

That being said, I've written several pages today. Which is several more than I have in the past month. Perhaps two. Is that a bad thing? Maybe. But I'm trying to keep myself down and working.

Now to turn off Pandora, close this, Agent Demystified, let Greg Behrendt finish his comedy special, turn off the TV, and grab my mp3 player so I can actually keep focused.

Maybe by the end of today I can actually hit two hundred pages. Only . . . twenty-two pages to go.

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Update: Focus did not come.

Stinging with a Purpose

Marise's hands stung as she silently walked down the street. No, stung was not the right word. Burned. They burned with a purpose she had not known she'd had an hour before. She had suspected it, something lingering in the shadows just beyond the periphery of her vision. This feeling though was a confirmation of all that she had suspected. There was a purpose for her art. And that felt good, this recognition.

The sleeve of her red jacket grazed the skin, lighting it afire. Every time something touched it, it renewed her sense of the larger picture. Her eyes had been opened and they now scanned the environment with a renewed interest she had long forgotten. Darkened alleyways were more alive with steam rising off the ground in droves. Hidden people revealed themselves to her now.

She had no place left to return to, so she threw herself into the darkness, becoming reborn in that murk and decay into something more. A figurehead. Her purpose would be revealed soon enough.
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As the underground released him from its grip, Pryor stood triumphantly in the dank air of the above. Not much had changed in the years since his last visit. He was not one to suffer the pains of a growing population. While the area had exploded in size, he could immediately tell that the place still was rife with moral decay. There had to be some way to awaken these poor slobs. To create something more in their petty lives.

And then she emerged from the darkness, making her way triumphantly straight into his arms. There she was. He had found his figurehead.

. . .

The light faltered as she crumpled to the ground. He had been called quite involuntarily. The hard clapping of feet against the pavement receeded quickly off into the distance. In the flash of darkness, a figure stood there with his violet eyes glowing.

He held her, the warm liquid pouring from her side. It never occurred to him to avoid it, and his hand slipped into the sticky substance, dark and crimson. He kept his eyes trained on her face and tried to keep himself composed. On the surface, his face was stiff as he revealed himself to her.

Recognition spread across her face, remembering him from a distant memory. Her features contorted, unable to bring forth the recollection. Mascara streaked her face, marking her for the remainder of her life.

"I'm dying. . ."

"Yes."

She choked on some of her fluids and lost herself in a spasm of coughing. He pulled her to his chest and did his best to calm her down. It wasn't working.

After a minute, she quieted down. She looked up at him with large eyes and asked him the most simple question. The most blatant one. She barely managed to get it out, but it rang clear and true in his ears, "Where am I going?"

He looked down at her and remembered when she was young and full of life. Not this ghost of a woman he saw before him now, her life bleeding out onto the grimy pavement. Despite his commands, tears began to slide down his cheeks. He wanted to comfort her. He really wanted to. But he couldn't bring himself to lie to her like he had lied to so many before her. He pulled her close and whispered, "I don't know."

Between the Shadows, Prologue

Two trains and fifteen minutes ago, Daniel Evans’ life was perfect.

He slid the door to the final compartment open. Greeted with scattered faces – uncaring and bland, he sighed. Nothing new. Thin fluorescent lights mounted to the roof of the compartment left little light to expel any shadow trying to invade.

A light at the back of the car flickered slightly. Shadows played on each person’s face, obscuring their features and transforming them into something else.

Something less than human.

He shivered slightly and averted his eyes.

He pushed past several men dressed in identical black suits – dirty carbon copies of himself. The suits were a staple of their position as Prefects. At least that’s what he used to be. The Wretched were after him now.

The slight rocking of the car on the tracks left a rumble growing and faltering with each new track crossed. He stared at the ground, trying to keep from focusing on the task at hand.

He wasn’t succeeding.

Seventeen minutes ago, Daniel had been a functioning member of society. This latest train – the third and last in his short train-jumping career – careened toward its next stop. He suspected he had already passed the thin line of safety, impossible to detect but all too noticeable in hindsight.

There was little time to escape from their grasp. Running was the only option. Running, coupled with a blind hope of finding somewhere safe to hide, didn’t give him much to go on. Exaggerated stories and water cooler discussion guided him through the underworld of the city.

The intercom above crackled to life. “Next stop . . .” Silence.

On any other day, the slight pause would have gone unnoticed. However, to a man on the run, that pause spelled out his ultimate capture. Standing up, Daniel scanned the train for any quick exits.

“Central Square,” the announcer stated, in a calm and soothing voice. A click signaled the end of the announcement. Daniel breathed a sigh of relief.

Feeling the train slow down, Daniel’s breath caught in his chest. As the train ground to a halt and the doors started to open, he felt a knot in his stomach tighten.

Time came to a standstill. In those fleeting moments, the doors seemed stuck in place, unwilling to budge for any man. Finally, they broke free of what had held them.

Before they opened completely, Daniel squeezed through the narrow gap and began to fight against the river of pale businessmen. An area opened up in the middle of the station, near an old dried-up fountain, as the commuters flooded into the train.

The fountain was in clear view of the cameras but covered by light. Shades of green fell through the tinted glass above. It was oddly decorative for the rest of the city, with ornate carvings surrounding its base and a beautiful woman at its center, her hair flowing behind her in the wind. Now the fountain was dry, deemed unnecessary and wasteful. The fountain had not faired well with the passage of time. Its once gleaming image had shifted to a dirty black, like a lump of coal that spreads its filth to anyone who so much as brushed up against it.

Daniel wrestled himself free from the Prefects, while they filed into the train, on their way to their respective jobs. The doors slid shut behind him. Something was wrong. The station was too clear.

Daniel turned back to the train and watched in dismay as it disappeared into the darkness. On cue, the lights above the platform shut off.

The knot in his stomach vaulted back. In an instant, it tightened into an unbearable grip, making him want to throw up. His joints seized and a cry escaped his lips. The pain was gone as quickly as it had come, but a dull ache replaced it moments later.

He had stepped right into their trap.

A single open door offered salvation. The figure of a man stood there, waiting. Daniel sprinted toward the door, his only hope rested on the fleeting notion that the man would help him.

The Wretched slowly appeared on the platform. Their breaths heaved as they waited for the other lights to shut off. The clicking of their claws echoed off the stone walls, mixing with their wet breaths, twisting into an eerie harmony. They anticipated the brief chase . . . anticipated the takedown.

Daniel had never heard something breathe with so much fluid in its lungs. The exhalations came out in gurgles, as if the Wretched were drowning in their own fluids. Yet they thrived. He froze as the fear washed over him. They had been following him the entire time.

For a moment, Daniel thought he should’ve given up. Things would’ve been so much easier. Too late now - all there was left to do was run.

Click.

Another light went off.

Darkness nipped at his heels, toying with him, as it brought the Wretched that much closer.

Click.

Darkness.

Thrown forward, Daniel slammed into the pavement as a thud filled the humid air. The claws of an overzealous Wretch tore into his skin. The breathing of the approaching Wretched had intensified to the point of near hyperventilation.

Pain shot through Daniel’s chest as the air ejected from his lungs. His face ached, blood flowed into his mouth. He spat without much force, the mixture of blood and saliva landing right in front of him. Then regretted it a moment later. Without hesitation, his face slammed into the ground once more.

“Oh god . . .” Daniel managed to moan as the Wretched swarmed around him. Looking toward the last source of light, Daniel saw the single beam falter as the door slid shut.

They’re always watching, Daniel thought as the hunters smothered him with their hot and sinewy bodies.

Screams filled the air in the next moment.

“Twenty-three minutes,” a man noted, his voice lost amongst the screams. A metallic snap followed right after. “Impressive run, Evans. Too bad it ended a bit too quickly. I was starting to have fun.”

Broken Illusions

She kissed like someone who was trying to remind herself that she did in fact love this man once. In the extended moments the kiss lingered on their lips, each person could tell that it was all over. The love had dried up long ago and every excuse that plagued their brain just made them more and more miserable. It was a fitting tribute to a brief life together that had lived long beyond its time.

She stared at him with gentle eyes that betrayed her true intent, "I'm sorry . . ."

"You don't have to be," he replied, already reducing her to a stranger once again, "it was bound to happen." He turned his back on the tears already sliding down her face. He pushed himself forward and out the door, unwilling to let her see the inner turmoil bubbling up to the surface. Without turning back, he said, "You can have anything you like. Just don't be here when I get back."

And with that, he was gone.

Just an Escape

Rain pelted the sidewalk and the surrounding buildings. Sheets of white blinded Raine as he moved diligently forward. Despite his determination, the streets had been abandoned long ago. Tonight was not safe and even though it was left unspoken, it was understood by the masses to stay locked indoors. Not by any tangible feeling, but something simply floating in the air.

Light poured over him as he passed under a streetlight, illuminating the rain and giving it shape. At first it was nothing more than a shadow. A mere optical illusion, but as Raine squinted his eyes, he realized it was much more than that. His steps, hollow against the roar of the rain, halted immediately and he watched as the form solidified and the figure of a woman stepped from between the rain. Long blue hair swirled and twisted with the rain, perfectly highlighting the round face of a teenage girl. Her eyes, however, revealed centuries of knowledge and patience.

"Hello Raine. It's about time we met."