Since Sundays tend to be very lazy, uninteresting days, we thought we would switch things up and give folks a treat. We put this blog together in order to show people what the process of writing is like, so we’re going to do exactly that.
The following is a sample from our novella. This is the raw, unedited. We’re showing our work. Granted, we obviously had to choose a section that didn’t compromise the integrity of the work (no spoilers here!), but I believe that this is a really good, fun section of the story. Please, enjoy it. Share your thoughts with us below!
I looked like death. Mascara ringed my eyes, left them hollow and sunken. My skin looked greenish, sallow, my short red hair was greasy and rucked up. I looked shagged out, burnt.
It took me a long time to gather my faculties. I was hazy, fuzzy, slow. I rinsed out my mouth, then drank greedily out of the tap. the water was metallic, not entirely clear. I dunked my head under the faucet, cool water on my scalp. I dried my hair with an already used towel I found on the floor. I used a wad of toilet paper to wipe the grease and make-up off my face. I left it all on the counter.
The room was dark, just a faint light sneaking in under the door and between the dusty curtains. I flung them open and scowled into the light.
The desert stared back at me, burning into my eyes. I shielded my eyes with my arm and reeled back, dazzled by the stark brightness. The light brought the room into focus. It was dingy, faded wallpaper and a tattered bedspread. The lampshades were crooked, the tables wobbly. My purse,coat, and hat were on the floor by the window. I took them up and limped to the door.
There were instructions for the fire exit on the door. The map was clear enough, but the text was in a language I didn’t recognize. That didn’t mean much. I wasn’t much for languages. Even spelling my own was a chore. I heard footsteps, halting, heavy, outside in the hall.
Ray shoved the door open hard, banging it off the wall and catching it on his shoulder. He pushed into the room and staggered to the bed. He clutched his right arm to his chest. His face was ghastly pale, dry as a bone even in the desert heat.
I kicked him. I didn’t care if he was hurt, or even down. I know that isn’t fighting clean. But I kicked him square in the thigh, sending him crashing onto the bed. I didn’t care. The son of a bitch tricked me, and I was terrified.
He fell off the side of the bed onto the floor. I didn’t hear anything break, but he assured me later a rib cracked. My foot hurt plenty, and I sat on the bed near him.
“Oh, bitch,” he wheezed, and rolled over on his back. His hair was darker, dyed black.
I got up slowly, my limbs still loose and untrustworthy. “Just tell me where we are, and the fastest way out of here.”
“It’s all desert,” he said, “There’s no point in running. There’s nowhere to go.”