Young Writers discussion
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Brigid ✩, No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.
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Nov 30, 2013 10:07AM
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I like this topic. :) I'll post something soon!
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There is one instance that Judas can remember very clearly involving Mr. Parker. In a since of ironic déjà vu, he was mowing the old man’s front yard. The grass had become overgrown and wild due to the fact that he could not do it himself; Judas worked shirtless in the sun and all he could think on was of Maia, inviting him to her wedding.
He chanced a glance into Mr. Parker’s living room through the light blue, lofty curtains. The old man read, his fingers trembling so fiercely that Judas wondered how he was able to read to begin with. Judas could not see the title of the book, but that did not seem to matter. It was an extension of Mr. Parker, the ink having bled from his veins and the paper having been made from his skin.
Judas wondered if he had ever had a wife, or a lover, or anyone that he cared about so deeply he died a little inside when he lost them. He remembered the story of Tomas E. Law suddenly, so as to recollect that Mr. Parker had indeed loved someone, even if unromantically. Perhaps that was the kind of love that Judas needed.
For whatever reason, Saul rose unbidden to his mind. Judas could not remember all the details of his features; merely the color of his eyes and the straight, Roman angle of his nose. His smile had been devilish, the smile of a cat or a fiend or a man who knew he was beat but didn’t give a damn. That was Saul, Judas thought, a man who didn’t give a damn and grinned anyway, no matter what.
He resumed his work, but was unable to quit his thoughts from turning down dark roads. He was jealous of Saul; more jealous than he had ever been of anybody. Nobody called Saul perfect; nobody called him genuine. Everyone was aware of the fact that he was a sleaze and a good-for-nothing, but one charming good for nothing.
Judas remembered their wrists pressed against each other’s, Saul leaning close to whisper some obscenity in the middle of the youth service Ruka insisted they go to. His girlfriend had been appalled, but Judas had laughed so loudly that the pastor had looked at him incredulously
“I hope that the Old Testament isn’t that funny to you, Jude,” the pastor had said.
The feel of skin against skin was seared in Judas’ mind. Saul’s lips had almost brushed his ear—
I’m not no fag, Judas thought feverishly, continuing his chore with renewed vigor. He didn't need anyone, he reminded himself. He didn't need friends or lovers or memories and he certainly did not need to think of Saul.
I don't need to wonder about who Mr. Parker has loved, either, Judas continued, angrily, because he didn't. It didn't matter. It was just a damn job.
Woah. I really fell into that scene, Kriss. I love it :)
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Gracias! I am having a lot of fun with these characters. They kill me a little bit, though xD
The best characters are the ones that kill you, though. I need to read more of this. :D
Good idea to start this. I never finished my nano but still love the idea for this thread. I will post something soon :) And congrats nano winners, or non winners, just trying to write makes us all win in my mind.
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I need to read this in it's entirety at some point, honestly. Gah, your characters seem so real and they're killing me too, already. <3
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But fff I am glad you like them you guys <3
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He started with the box that Mr. Parker had pointed to initially. He was surprised to see that it was dated on the upper flap.
1942.
Judas was not aware, but his expression had become one of bewilderment. He opened it half-expecting whatever was inside to turn to dust. Nothing did. He stared down into pictures in glass frames and newspaper articles and records. After a moment, he stood with an armful of singles and asked Mr. Parker as to whether or not he had a record player. The answer was yes and the two of them dusted the old contraption off; Mr. Parker showed him how to work it and, so, Glenn Miller’s “Moonlight Cocktail” came on.
Judas had never listened to anything older than the 90s in his life. He wondered what any of his old friends would say, from the football team. They wouldn't say anything, he thought. They would laugh.
He went back to exploring the 1942 box. “You lived in California?” Judas asked, gently pulling a laminated newspaper. It was faded and almost unreadable but where it was published was clear enough.
Mr. Parker did not reply.
Judas next found the photographs that he did not wish too. They were difficult to see and grainy and dark, but the faces were relatively clear. He could not distinguish which one was Michael Parker, for there was a collection of young boys near a pretty woman and an older man. He wished to ask but when he glanced towards Mr. Parker he saw that his head had lolled back against the whicker chair and he was asleep in the sun.
Judas licked his dry lips nervously and flipped to the next photograph, this of a boy in uniform. Again, he could not tell if it was Mr. Parker. His eyes were clear and his jaw was sharp and his gaze was strangely piercing. Judas did not know enough about military to decide what kind of uniform he wore, but his hair was shaved in a Marine fashion. They had visited Roswell New Mexico, once, and Judas could remember seeing NMMI cadets with similar haircuts.
The next picture was of a pretty girl; then of children playing on a tire swing; then there was of a small home with an older man reading the newspaper and smoking a cigarette.
Picture after picture after picture; he wondered how much it must have cost to print them all back then, if it had been a small fortune or if it had been worth it. He felt as though there must have been hundreds of memories locked away.
The days passed like that, with Judas serving his time looking through each box and methodically replacing the items. Not all of them were the same and he took his time on the earliest of them, between 1940 and 1945. He believed that these were the ones that Mr. Parker wanted him to see, regardless. He began to piece together aspects of the man in the whicker chair without ever needing to ask. It was repetitive and vaguely comforting, less like a punishment and more like a lesson.
Judas didn’t know if he was supposed to be learning something life-changing or not, but it settled his frayed nerves and he did not drink for weeks.
Kriss wrote: "I guess I'll take this threads virginity: There is one instance that Judas can remember very clearly involving Mr. Parker. In a since of ironic déjà vu, he was mowing the old man’s front yard. T..."
Wah, I wish I could actually write novels like that. All my novels are really awkwardly strewn together and I can't fix them for the life of me.
message 14:
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Sam~~ we cannot see the moon, and yet the waves still rise~~
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Kriss wrote: "HNGG I AM SORRY. I'm already whoring on this thread, but I really liked this scene: He started with the box that Mr. Parker had pointed to initially. He was surprised to see that it was dated on ..."
YES.
more please.
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Dimly, I hear my own scream and the blast of a gunshot, and I realize I’ve shot him––in the stomach, I think, or somewhere in that area. The Mort howls, falling forward. His fingers grasp at my shoulders, but I wrench myself away from him and he falls on the ground.
But as I stumble back, something grabs onto my ankle. Instinctively, I cry out and try to twist my leg free. I look down just long enough to see the creature on the ground, crawling and gnashing her jaws. Fresh blood pours from one of her eyes, streaming down her face and dripping from her chin. Her grip weakens, and I know she’s already dying. Juliet must have shot her already. I’m starting to wonder if it’s worth wasting another bullet on her, when she twitches and then goes completely limp.
Something inside me clenches painfully at the sight, the thought of that Mort woman still trying to drag me down even as she was dying. Are they really that mindless, that desperate to kill? … Or is it possible she was trying to beg for my help?
I quickly dismiss the thought. They don’t do that. They don’t think that way. They don’t think at all.
After standing here, just breathing heavily for a few seconds, I realize that everything has gone eerily silent. Too silent. Which could mean …
“Juliet?” I call out. Her name echoes through the tunnel, replying to itself.
I fumble in the darkness, swinging my flashlight around wildly, seeing the bodies scattered on the ground. And suddenly, I imagine myself back in that school, back in that hallway. Finding Christian. What was left of him.
No. Oh, no.
“Right here,” a voice answers.
I wasn’t even aware I was holding my breath, but now it comes out in a long sigh. The beam of my flashlight finally falls on Juliet, standing not too far away from me down the tunnel. She puts a hand up to block her face. “Ahh! God, don’t shine that in my eyes.”
“I––I’m sorry.” A weird sound escapes me. A laugh, I think.
She lowers her hand, and I see a row of bloody scratches running down one side of her face.
I suck in my breath. “Oh, crap. Are you okay?”
“What? … Oh, this?” She touches them briefly and then takes her hand away and frowns at her bloodstained fingertips. “Yeah, fine. Just some stupid scratches. One of the bastards got me.”
“Well … looks like you got your revenge.”
She actually smiles at that, although only for a second. “Guess so.”
I feel something start to bubble up inside me, a sudden rush that I can't quite describe. I think it might be a laugh, but I hold it down. It seems strange to laugh at a time like this––when we're standing underground in a dark tunnel, surrounded by dead bodies lying sprawled on the train tracks. It hits me suddenly, the complete surrealism of it all. Just a few years ago, I never would have imagined myself in a place like this, in the middle of a blood-splattered scenario, on the verge of laughter. Who the hell am I? What have I become? The very thought is enough to wipe the smile off my face. (I was smiling?) And Juliet instantly stops smiling, too.
"Well," Juliet sighs, glancing quickly around at the damage around us. "Looks like we're done here."
I tried really really hard once NaNo was over to not write anything until finals were over. I really did. But I only made it four days before the novel idea I have been sitting on just demanded to be written...so I started it last night. Bad Colby.But yeah, I am really happy with the opening scene. I usually can't write this much without having fifteen lines of dialogue thrown in, which is a problem, but I'm working on it and it's coming along.
So here is the opening scene from Floating:
Chris’s parents brought Jonah home from the airport. Jonah had not thought about this part, when he would have to ride back, alone with the two blubbering parents who were now suffering from empty nest syndrome. Of course, they had always been like a second set of parents to Jonah, so it shouldn’t have mattered all that much, but there was something innately uncomfortable about being around two people who were trying their absolute hardest—and failing—not to cry.
He had not brought a book, and he wished he would have thought to. Of course he hadn’t thought to. When one is preparing to see their only real friend off to college, they do not think in advance enough to bring along reading material. Nor had he brought his iPod—he was currently obsessed with an album by The Naked and Famous that made him feel like his veins were filled with gold, only in a good way. In a way that wouldn’t be hazardous to his well-being.
Jonah settled for what felt like the only real option: looking out the window at the landscape that passed him by. There was nothing much to see. It was not flat—there were trees and the land rolled in the vaguely hilly way that eastern Kansas has. That is not to say that it was entertaining, or that it did anything to remove the uncomfortable feeling that seemed to fill the car entirely. Still, he stared through the window with the concentration of a dog that has just noticed another dog on the television screen. The look just before the bark. The leaves were not turning yet but instead were the sickly green color that came just before the fall.
It was unsettling, really, how fast everything was moving. It had always seemed cliché to Jonah when people told him how fast high school would go, but he had come to realize that it was true, in a way. The reality of it was, it was only true in hindsight. When it was actually happening, it felt like time would stretch on forever. Now that it had ended, though, it was an entirely different story. Jonah had felt that entire summer as if he was going nowhere with his life and time was just going to keep pulling itself away from him. It was a helpless feeling.
Now, though, he felt as if school could not start quickly enough. He needed a change, something to help him to break through the arbitrary nonevent that was his life at the moment. Maybe a schedule could help him to feel as if he was doing anything of importance. Anything better than waking up at noon every day, strumming his guitar for a while to no avail, and forgetting to eat about half of his meals.
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Aggghhh I know what you mean; I've been resisting so hard not to write because ... finals, a;dkjf;lsdj. But it's so tempting, especially since getting through NaNo was so torturous and I just want to work on something else, haha. But anyway. I only have like a week of school left so I think I can hold out that long...
Anyway. AAHHH I love this! :D It's so relatable, especially that part near the end about how high school went by so quickly and yet so agonizingly slowly at the same time––also how breaks from school get pretty boring/monotonous after a while. I know that feel.
Also ;AKDSJF;JS THE NAKED AND FAMOUUUSSSSSS. <3 I have so many feels about them. So many.
Brigid *Flying Kick-a-pow!* wrote: "Colby wrote: "I tried really really hard once NaNo was over to not write anything until finals were over. I really did. But I only made it four days before the novel idea I have been sitting on jus..."Thanks, Brigid! I love The Naked and Famous as well. I always end up giving little nods to bands I like in my writing without even thinking about it...woops. Glad you like this!
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message 20:
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Sam~~ we cannot see the moon, and yet the waves still rise~~
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Brigid *Flying Kick-a-pow!* wrote: "So now that NaNo is over I'm finally back to working on I Chose the Monster ... yaaaay! Here's a bit from it that I wrote a while ago, and I will have more to post soon (after I'm done with all my ..."only you could use the word "ahoy" in a sentence and still have the sentence seem perfectly normal. XD
i like this. a lot. although i don't totally understand what's going on, obviously. :)
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So since my character doesn't get to meet his love interest until much later in the book, I had to write a little scene where they get to see each other, because even if that wasn't the original intention I had for this scene, it worked pretty easily. So here we are...Jonah felt out of place, both with the crowd and in the church. His family had never been religious, and so being in a church was not a normality for him. An usher led them to a wooden pew—churches still use pews? Jonah thought—and they crossed over a row of people who made almost no effort to make their crossing easier.
Jonah sat down by a rather burly boy who appeared to be about his age. He did not try to make conversation, or eye contact. Instead, he looked at the wedding program, which was filled with names that were, for the most part, meaningless to him. After he had read through it, his eyes began to wander about the church. The stage had been all made up with fancy-looking candles and white cloth everywhere, with blue flower petals strewn about (Jonah couldn’t deny the fact that it added something to the décor, but part of his mind was stuck on the fact that all of those flower petals were going to be an absolute bitch to clean up) and a large white archway at the center of the stage. Everything looked perfect, exactly how a wedding should look. He was thrown, though. At first, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but then Jonah’s eyes settled upon the one item in the sanctuary that was bothering him: the bronze sculpture of Jesus Christ on the cross that hung from the back wall of the room.
It was not that Jonah had never seen Jesus before, in pictures and on television. It was the way that his face looked. Jonah had seen Jesus painted in many different lights in his eighteen years of life, but this was new. The face had this look that encompassed all of the negative emotions—pain and sadness and fear were all there—except maybe anger. The only word that he could come up with to describe this face was agony.
All of a sudden, Jonah felt an irrational sense of discomfort, like when he saw people in movies get injected with needles. He tried not to look at the bronze Jesus in all of its agony. He tried not to picture the face on the sculpture. He crossed one leg over the other, but he just ended up bumping the burly boy who sat beside him.
“I’m sorry,” Jonah said.
“You’re fine,” the boy said.
It was not until the music that signaled the entrance of the bride played that Jonah really noticed the boy. When the crowd stood and turned towards the aisle, where Liz and her father were entering the sanctuary, Jonah couldn’t help but notice the boy’s frame, how his shoulders were broader and his arms meatier than Jonah’s, but not in a way that made Jonah feel like this boy was obsessed with his muscles—the boy was just built that way. Jonah hadn’t even seen his face yet, and still the boy’s strawberry blond hair was enough to know for Jonah to know that he was definitely attractive.
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Awh, thanks, Brigid! I'm glad you think I did a good job with the whole church thing because my family is in church like every week so I wasn't sure if I was handling that well or what. :)
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My gaze drifts back up to the rows of candles on the platform, all of them different heights and colors, but each with the same glowing white flame. The light starts to hurt my eyes, and I look up to the altar where a giant gold cross hangs.
Juliet is leaning over with her elbows on her knees, her hands fiddling together, fingers clasping and unclasping. I wonder if she’s praying.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
She looks up at me. “What? Yeah, why?”
“Nothing. You’re just being really quiet.”
She shrugs, sitting up straighter and leaning back against the bench. “I just don’t like being around people.”
“Aren’t you the one who agreed to come here in the first place?”
“Yes, but that was mostly for the food.”
I look up at the group of people again, and see a few pairs of eyes staring back at me. I lower my voice so it’s barely above a whisper. “They can probably hear you, you know.”
Juliet doesn’t answer; whether that means she didn’t hear me or she doesn’t care or both, I don’t know. “I also don’t like churches that much,” she says, crossing her arms.
“Why?”
“Oh, you know. My parents made me go when I was a kid. I was never really … into it.”
She stops abruptly, like she’s leaving something out. It occurs to me that I don’t think I’ve heard her talk about her parents before. I wonder where they are now––whether maybe she was separated from them like I was from mine. Or something worse. It doesn’t seem like the best time to ask about it, though.
I look down, scuffing one of my shoes against the floor. “I don’t know, I’ve always kind of liked churches. I mean, I never really went to church as a kid––except for weddings and stuff, sometimes. But I don’t know, something about them feels kind of comforting, I guess. Maybe just because they’re pretty.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Juliet watching me. But she quickly looks away as soon as I’ve finished talking. I’m not really sure what to say, now. I guess I don’t have to say anything.
Ooh, I like it, Brigid! Is that from I Chose the Monster? I really need to read that still.
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My ears sing with silence. I squeeze my eyes shut and I can see the girl chained on the fence, pale and bloodied, gashes slashed all over her body, the life draining out of her. Her eyes. Black then gray then black again. Mouth moving. Begging. Did I imagine it? Am I losing my mind?
I feel a slight pressure on my back and realize it’s Juliet, resting her hand between my shoulder blades.
“I think …” She pauses, and I hear her draw in a shaking breath. “I think you did the right thing, Nina.”
I turn to look at her, but her gaze only meets mine for a second before it shifts away again and her hand falls back down again. “Even if she was one of them … no one deserves to be treated like that.”
It takes me a few moments to process what she’s just said, to sort through my confusion before an unexpected rage starts to emerge. I can’t talk to her; I suddenly can’t even look at her. I’m up on my feet, turning around to face the dark street.
“Nina?” Juliet says behind me.
I take a deep breath and turn again, to see she’s also on her feet now, silhouetted against the lamplit sidewalk.
I shake my head. “I don’t understand you.”
“What? What are you––”
“Just the other day,” I cut her off, “you were shooting a little kid in the head and telling me he didn’t feel anything at all. But now … you’re agreeing with me on this? You’re saying it made a difference that they were treating her like that? You’re saying they can feel something?”
Juliet says nothing––only looks away from me and back again, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“So then, where’s the line?” I hear my voice steadily rising in pitch, almost to a scream, but I can’t stop myself. I can’t hold it back anymore. “How do we know what’s going on inside them? When do they stop being humans and start being monsters?”
I have to stop there, because I feel like I’ve forgotten to breathe for the past few minutes and my head is starting to feel light and empty like I might collapse. I’m tempted to turn around and just scream as loud as I can into the night, but I hold my rage inside.
Moments overlap each other for so long that I’m not sure Juliet is going to answer at all. But she does at last, her voice quiet but firm.
“Do you think I haven’t spent every day asking myself that?” she says. “Do you think I haven’t lost sleep every night wondering if what I’m doing is justified?”
For some reason, that’s not the response I anticipated. As her words sink in, I realize I hadn’t ever thought that maybe she does have some remorse. She always seems so emotionless when she makes her kills, it’s barely ever occurred to me that she has the same fears as I do.
She runs her fingers through her hair. “But what choice to we have?” she continues, her voice even quieter now. “It’s easier to believe that they feel nothing. And if you have to become a monster to fight one, that means we have to feel nothing, too. Because that’s the only choice we have, isn’t it?”
She stops and stares at me as if she expects an answer, but I’m not even sure what she’s asking me.
“It was either this or death,” she says. “To kill or be killed. To give up, to fade away, to become a ghost. Or to come out here, to lose all humanity. To become like them. That was really the choice, wasn’t it? Become a ghost or become a monster.” She stops, and I can hear her take in a deep, shaking breath. “And I chose the monster.”
WOW. That was a really, really good passage. I have the chills. I really need to set aside some time to read this.
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“It was either this or death,” she says. “To kill or be killed. To give up, to fade away, to become a ghost. Or to come out here, to lose all humanity. To become like them. That was really the choice, wasn’t it? Become a ghost or become a monster.” She stops, and I can hear her take in a deep, shaking breath. “And I chose the monster.”This is my favorite part of this. It's very powerful. Especially the very last line! "And I chose the monster." Wow.
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Also, title drops are the best. :D
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When our boots are laced, we make our way to the floor. The skating rink is all tacky neon 80s geometric shapes, hazy smoke machine obscured lighting, and disco ball reflections on the grey white ground. There are a fair amount of rowdy children and couples that look like parents. But there are also awkward middle school kids holding hands and laughing too loudly when they fall. I notice college kids who are most likely too cheap to go to the movies and too tired of drinking themselves insane and standing around at parties, so they got drunk and went roller skating instead. The awful pop music blaring from the radio is better than perfect and I feel my anxiety bubbling over and transforming into giddiness.
I grab Will’s hand without thinking and yell, “Let’s race, Will!” pulling him out onto the floor.
We skate together for a few seconds, hands clasped tight enough to cut off circulation, to build momentum. He lets go without warning and shoves off of me, propelling me backwards.
“Always a pleasure to come in first, Beth,” he says, glancing over his shoulder to give me a condescending grin.
I glare at him and try to pick up speed. There are two kids with their mom in front of me and I accidentally cut them off and throw a quick sorry in their direction, but keep my focus on Will. I think I’m gaining on him when someone grabs my arm and yanks me to a full stop against the wall.
“Hey!” I look up to see Thea holding me back. “Thea?”
She looks somewhat apologetic, but then she’s lifting a shoulder and smiling. “I was bribed.”
“Bribed?”
“With chocolate.” She gestures to Will, who is doing some sort of ridiculous victory dance in the middle of the rink.
“Suck it, Bethany!” he shouts.
“You are such a cheater!” I yell back. “This proves nothing.”
“Whatever you want to think, babe.” He skates over to us and stops himself with a dramatic skid. “But I still won.”
“I quit,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “Friends off.”
Will clasps a hand to his heart. “That hurts, Beth, that really hurts. After all of the good times we’ve shared. Who else is going to fill your life with good old fashioned excitement and unnecessary drama?”
I point to Thea. She offers a cheesy grin.
Jamie slams into the wall next to us. We all jump.
“Thanks for ditching me, guys, you’re the best,” he says. He’s kind of out of breath, and now I’m the one hiding my grin.
“Do you… not know how to roller skate?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he says.
“What kind of childhood did you have, Jamie Adams?” Will gasps.
“Apparently the kind that people you like you don’t approve of and don’t feel the need to wait for the victims of.” Jamie is almost pouting.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Will says, mimicking Jamie’s expression. “Do you feel left out?”
Will skates slowly away. “Come on, it’s not hard. Follow me.”
Jamie pushes off the wall and tries to make it to the place Will is waiting, but his body doesn’t cooperate and his arms windmill frantically before his feet fly out from under him and he ends up on the ground.
Will doubles over, his eyes crinkling at the corners, his laughter too loud.
He offers Jamie a hand. Jamie struggles to stand, even with Will’s help.
“I don’t think is going to work,” Jamie admits.
“Okay, new strategy,” Will says. “Here, take my hands.”
Jamie hesitates, before grabbing both of Will’s hands. His fingers wrap around Will’s carefully. Will’s breath catches and he closes his eyes for a split second.
“See if you can follow me now,” Will says, after a deep breath. He starts to skate backwards, pulling Jamie with him. They make it halfway around; Jamie doing his best to keep from slipping, Will doing his best to keep Jamie upright.
They start to pick up speed, and Jamie stops trying too hard to concentrate on his feet.
Thea asks me if I want to go skate more. But I’m watching Will, and his eyes aren’t glassy or dull. His hands aren’t shaking. His muscles aren’t tensed up; bracing him for something I’ve never been able to place. I’d forgotten what his real smile looks like, not the one that is forced with enough effort that sometimes he believes in it or the one that is the result of unnatural chemical reactions, but the genuine glowing grin I haven’t seen in months. I want to cry because he’s smiling right now. And maybe he really can be okay someday.
Mod
Awww. :3 This is so lovely! I love how you set up the scene and everything, I can picture it all so clearly. And your dialogue is always so wonderful. <3
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I’m watching them dance and smiling and generally enjoying sitting in my corner. And then I see someone I know and I’m hit with a wave of panic. But soon I realize that Will Wyatt could literally not care less about me sitting here in the corner. I doubt he’s even going to notice me. He’s with Jamie.
Will and Jamie are holding hands as they walk. Their fingers are laced and Will is tracing the lines on Jamie’s wrist with his thumb. Will takes a flask out of his pocket and takes a long drink. He wipes off his lips with his free hand. Jamie’s looking straight ahead, but I watch as Will stares at him, his lips curving into one of the most genuinely happy smiles I’ve seen on my friend’s face in years. He leans in and whispers something in Jamie’s ear and Jamie meets his eyes for a split second, his smile an echo of Will’s wide grin.
The song shifts to something with a slower beat, and everything slows down and the air somehow feels thicker. And then I watch as Will and Jamie practically meld into the dance floor, becoming a part of the cluster of bodies moving to the song. I watch them as they dance, and it’s like they’re in a separate world and they will never need anyone else to make their universe complete. Jamie brushes Will’s cheek with his hand, almost shy, and then Will pulls him in closer, his hands resting on Jamie’s hips. Jamie’s hands slip into Will’s back pockets and they’re both staring at each other and from the angle I’m watching them I swear they’re both glowing. Will leans in and pauses, and Jamie’s lips unconsciously part. Jamie bridges the gap and they’re kissing like it’s the last thing they’ll ever do before the world burns and everyone is dead and gone. They don’t stop until the song ends and when they finally step away from each other, they both look completely dazed. Will grabs Jamie’s waist again, less carefully this time, and Jamie says something that makes them both laugh.
I feel kind of crazy, sitting in a corner watching them. But I think I’m starting to realize what Will meant when he told me he was in love with the boy standing next to him. Because this boy makes Will mean it when he smiles and this boy means everything to him.
I stand up, laughing at my clumsy feet, and walk over to where they’re still almost dancing.
I grab Will’s shoulder, almost to steady myself as much as to get his attention, and he whips around and pulls away from Jamie. I see his face fall slightly, but I shake my head. “Will,” I say. “I am so happy for you and Jamie.”
His real smile appears again, and I throw my arms around him.
I find Thea, and pull her into the circle we’ve made, and we all dance until we can’t feel anything else but the pulse of the music and the giddy feeling that comes from being with people we love completely and without shame.
Mod
(Also I just love that scene so much. <3)
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Ahead of us, the guy suddenly stops walking. Juliet and I move forward a few more steps before we both stop at the same time. The guy is staring at something a little ways down the street from where we are, and I follow his gaze. There’s a single streetlamp in the near distance, and something moves at the edge of the light it casts––something human-shaped. Or Mort-shaped. Whatever it is, it stops and faces us. Sees us.
On the opposite side of the street from where the figure stands, I see something else move––another figure emerging from an alleyway, followed by another. Three of them, all looking down the street and right at us.
My mouth suddenly feels as dry as sand, and I hold tight to Juliet’s shoulders. She’s already pulling out her gun and flicking the safety off. I know I should probably do the same, but right now I’m not feeling strong enough to fight …
I wonder briefly if these are the people the guy was telling us about—his “team” or whatever. But the way he’s standing so still in the middle of the street and slowly aiming his rifle at the figure under the streetlamp, I’m starting to doubt that possibility.
I feel Juliet starting to shift, moving a few steps backwards. She’s tense, and I have a feeling she’s going to tell me to run for it … We should just turn around and leave before things get ugly.
But suddenly, I hear something behind us, and all the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I turn my head, wincing at the pain the movement causes.
I forget the pain right away, because there’s someone coming up behind us––a Mort I’m assuming, from the faint growling noise she’s making. I can’t see her face clearly, just a stick-thin figure with long matted hair coming towards us.
Juliet and I cry out at the same time. She lets go of me, and I almost fall over––but I manage to right myself just as her gun goes off. The Mort screams and stops in her tracks, clutching onto her arm where Juliet must have shot her. But it only stops her for a moment before she keeps coming towards us.
Another shot rings out from Juliet’s weapon and this time the Mort doubles over and falls onto the ground, writhing and shrieking.
“Go,” Juliet says, turning around, and I quickly realize she’s talking to me. “Go.”
As we start running, I see that the other three Morts have caught up to us and are running towards the guy we’ve been following––all of them about to gang up on him. He’s ready for them, and is quick to shoot at the nearest one through the chest. There’s a sickening splash of blood raining down on the pavement, and the Mort drops. But another of the monsters comes at the guy from the side and grabs him by the arm, jaws open and ready to bite into him. He twists around, flinging the Mort off of him and slamming the butt of his rifle into its face in one swift movement. It’s enough to send the creature reeling backwards, but it recovers instantly and lurches for him again––just as the one remaining Mort also reaches him …
Juliet stands in front of me, gun held up at arms-length. Nothing happens, and when she curses I realize what the problem is. She’s run out of bullets.
Which I guess means it’s up to me.
I fumble to take my pistol out of its holster. I manage to turn the safety off, and I run forward. The guy stumbles backward and shoots again, hitting another one of the Morts. It falls to its knees in the street, but still keeps crawling forward. And the other one is behind the guy, about to attack …
I barely realize I’ve fired, before the Mort behind the guy comes to a stumbling halt, holding a hand to its neck. It starts making horrible choking noises. The guy holds his rifle with both hands and uses it to roughly shove the Mort to the ground.
“Run, run, run!” he calls out, like saying it three times is somehow more convincing than saying it once. Or like we need to be convinced to run in the first place.
Juliet and I run after him, because he’s already sprinting down the street and not waiting for us to catch up.
I want to post something in this topic but I haven't written anything since November.
Mod
POST SOMETHING.
I LOVE YOUR WRITING EMILY PLEASE POST SOMETHING.
I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING WORTH POSTING IT'S ALL REALLY RUSHED
I PROMISE YOU I HAVE NOTHING INTERESTING
I'D LOVE WHAT YOU WROTE EVEN IF IT DESCRIBED STARING AT A WALL SO POST SOMETHING
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In some dejected, aloof state Judas could not help but wonder what it would be like to control his own thoughts and actions, to be able to have control of his mind.
Judas did not say this aloud, however. He would have slurred; also, he felt as though it were a precious bit of information, something that he could not share.
Although, Judas would not remember it come morning.
“Jesus, just sleep.” Smyth's eyes were heavy on him with what seemed to be something condescending. Judas smiled stupidly at his brother, his drunkenness worsened by his indifference.
Judas laughed, low in his throat. “Judas betrayed—“
“Jesus. I know. I went to the same Sunday school you did.” Smyth said hotly, sounding enraged. Judas could not decide why.
He rolled over and opened his eyes, his face against his bicep. Smyth leaned back in an uncomfortable rocking chair, reading a National Geographic magazine.
“Nerd,” Judas commented, albeit fondly. He closed his eyes again. “C’here, Smyth.”
“Why?”
“’Cause I can’t walk over there. I'll fall on my face.”
Judas listened. He listened for the sound of Smyth leaning forward, the old chair creaking protest. He listened for the rustle of the magazine as it was placed against the cool concrete floor. He listened for the sound of Smyth standing, which he did not hear.
“Please,” Judas said.
“Fine.”
Judas heard, now, all those sounds he had wanted to hear. The distance between them seemed insurmountable but Smyth closed it in seconds to kneel at the bedside. He pressed a cool hand against Judas’ temple, although Judas grimaced beneath the brotherly touch.
Judas then snatched Smyth's hand blindly, missing the first time before he managed to clumsily grasp it.
His eyes opened in slits, glancing up at Smyth from beneath his brows. Even drunk, flushed, and blood-shot… Judas was unfairly attractive. His hair could be mussed, his face could be bruised, and he could be sweaty or tired or have been asleep for days. It didn’t matter. No one—not a soul—had ever seen Judas Lamb look half as hideous on the exterior as he was on the inside.
Judas planted a kiss against the back of Smyth’s hand. He kept eye contact with his brother but there was nothing sensual about the gesture. He watched through a drunken haze as Smyth’s expression transformed from one of annoyance to one of anger.
“What is this? Fight Club?”
Judas’ brows furrowed. “No.”
Smyth reclaimed his hand with one harsh pull.
“What were we talking about a second ago?” Judas prompted, with slurred and slowly spoken words.
“… Judas in the Bible?”
“Yeah.”
Judas could see when Smyth understood. He could see it in the way that he heaved a sigh and collapse backward into the rocking chair; it pitched under his weight and blurred Judas’ focus until his stomach felt sickened by the movement. He closed his eyes again.
“Are you saying that you’re going to betray me, or what? Did you just give me the kiss of... of betrayal?” Smyth sounded exasperated but Judas did not register it; he merely registered the words after a moment of deep contemplation.
Judas shifted to lay flat on his back. He just smiled and laughed, smiled and laughed.
“What, Jude? Is this all some fucking joke to you?”
Smyth’s voice rose. The National Geographic magazine was forgotten at his feet, flipped onto a page of some native glaring at the photographer. Judas’ eyes settled on it.
“It’s funny.”
“No, it isn’t! Who the hell are you, Jude?”
“Judas Lamb.”
“I don’t know about you, but I haven’t seen Judas Lamb in a long, long time.”
“I’m right here—“
“No you aren’t! Do you not get what I’m saying Jude?”
Smyth’s chest heaved. Judas’ eyes were open again but he couldn’t look at his brother.
After Judas said nothing, Smyth spoke again.
“Goodnight, Judas.” He stood up and left Judas on the couch, just like that.
What had been a humorous intoxication became a bitter one. Judas could not get comfortable enough for sleep; nor was he relaxed enough for it. He tossed and turned, unable to control his thoughts. He wanted to go out. He wanted to drink more, forget these strange feelings of loneliness. He wanted to not think about Colorado, about his brother, about his father, about her.
