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Archive for the ‘original fiction’ Category

Jumping on the Six Sentence Sunday bandwagon. Do I hear a collective sigh or hoorays?

(I think I hear crickets.)

The Blacklands is my main novel. Main meaning: my first baby and the first novel to get published. Main, as in: every other novel/short story idea that has ever sprouted from my brain’s soil is somehow connected to this one. I have been working on The Blacklands for a really long time now. Should have finished the first draft by the end of 2011 but my laziness got in the way and ruined everything. Same old, same old.

I only have myself to blame.

With the arrival of 2012 I decided to put my heart into it. So far it’s working.

Here’s a snippet for you! The Severan Thieves Guild and the protagonist – Anfimeier – at your service:

Burglars and thieves, this collective bunch were, but not back-stabbers, no: they had decency and good manners engraved into their souls, despite being outlaws. No one would dare steal loot from another thief, though, as that would call for an execution, and everyone cherished having two hands.

Not that he would trust any of them to begin with. Guarding another thief’s possessions while they were out on a mission was not a wise thing to do, under any circumstances; the Severan thieves knew better than to put trust in each other.

Cheats, burglars, pick-pockets, looters, swindlers, pirates – all of them.

A family of a sort, Anfimeier thought fondly, locking his hands behind his head and relaxing in the chair.

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The OfThePistol community for original fiction I have recently joined provided its members with a wonderful prompt.

I decided to share my response to said prompt in here. In this particular piece, two OCs from my 2009 NaNovel (an unfinished one, alas!) have been brought to life yet again. Unforseen, that; strangely liberating. Confusing, too. They have been silent for so long, these two, I haven’t the slightest as to why they re-appeared. I’m glad, though.

On with the prompt response, then~!

There is this hissing noise at first; she backs away slowly. The firework makes its way upwards, arrow-like and still hissing, booms overhead and sprays orange-red sparks in all directions. They highlight the night for a short while. Other colourful fountains join in and the sky’s blooming. The sky seems happy.
Emma looks at Henry; as opposed to the sky, the man appears irritated.

“Happy New Year,” she finally says.

“You too,” comes the reply, a strained one. “We should go back,” he almost growls, hands balling into fists.

She merely stares back.

“We have to – ”

“You know, I haven’t celebrated New Year for five years. This year, my brother promised to visit me, make it worthwhile. He’s not here, though, all thanks to you.”

You have to let me linger this time, her gaze tells him.

Henry frowns. Emma knows she went too far. Her brother will never be anywhere again. Unless he is, miraculously, alive; unless she finds him in a different timeline. She turns her back to Henry and observes the fireworks, wishing she hadn’t said anything, wishing she was at home, huddled in her rocking chair, sobbing into her blanket, wishing everything was different.

Now she’s with him.

She blames Henry, constantly, but he never walks away.

I have you, you should be enough.

Henry gulps down whatever alcohol’s left in his bottle, walks up to Emma and they remain there, never rejoicing, never exchanging looks or words, and the time flows by way too fast.

We only have each other.

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