I seem to have a habit of posting the first one or two paragraphs up here, and then hiding the rest away because publishers dont like work being thrown around everywhere before they get to it.
Anyway, I started my creative writing project for my final year at Uni. I should have started months and months ago, but i was too busy living life and drawing stupid stuff and writing my novel (which is at 45000 words so far. I should be at 90 by the end of the year, hitting my target in january.)
Anyway, creative writing project, first draft of the first paragraph or so, written while tired and extremely hungry:
Wax dripped onto his hand, as he balanced the candle in his palms.
“You shouldn’t be so nervous, you know.” His hair clung to his face like dark brown veins curling over his cheeks and nose, crawling into his mouth and down his throat, making his voice strain and gulp as he spoke. “They chained it up, sealed it away. You can talk safely with it, though it will only scream to be set free.” His mouth stretched across his face, in a wide reptilian smile. “You could do as it asks.” He blinked. She could hear the water on his eyes, and saw it dribble down his cheek.
“I don’t even know where it is,” she said with a voice like a feather. Soft and beautiful, but a hard and sharp core.
“Neither do I, but I’ll show you as far as I know.” The red flesh of his tongue writhed in his mouth, as he licked his teeth, and the veins of hair that wriggled inside. Taking one of these tendrils off the roof of his mouth, he pushed it out with that fleshy muscle, and guided it to the flickering candle flame. The hair glowed, and then burst into light that whipped over his face. It spread through the rest of his hair, at the top of his head, and down into his mouth, burning deep into his throat. It spread and danced with giddy energy, and he roared and laughed through his words. “Of course,” he said. “There’s no guarantee that it won’t recognise you, and bite you. It might eat you up, until there’s nothing left but a memory that will burn as people forget!” He laughed wild and hard, on and on, but he was faltering. His eyes were dead. They reflected the flames but were dark. He shut them tight and the flames of his hair calmed, turning to a rhythmic glow and fade in tune with his slowing heavy breaths. That strained voice he had, turned into a mellifluous song, coaxing and fanning the blaze, intensifying its glow over the tendrils that reached down into his gut. He illuminated the room, and it was all bare, with a black door and brown stained walls, while the boy had pressed himself to the corner, drinking his fire. His clothes were made of pigeons. They still had their twisted, broken and misshapen feet, and their heads with cracked beaks, all dangling like decorations. She winced and he smiled. “Sorry about this,” he said. “But to achieve your dreams, go through that door, not the others.”
She looked around but there were no other doors.
Topic: My work (Read 6200 times)