As I am still without internet access (let’s have a toast to post scheduling, shall we?), here’s a little more entertainment for you. In the spirit of the snippets I posted last week, I’ve decided to share a fuller piece of writing, but not of Sleeping Beauty. That one’s for a contest, you know–I can’t tell you everything!
What you will be reading is the result of a writing dare shared among my online group of writing buddies (affectionately referred to as the Pack) . . . This picture was sent out, and a few of us chose to write something based off of it. I was one of them. And the fragment of story that spilled from my fingertips has since latched onto my brain. Even now, over three months later, it’s still there. Percolating, I suppose–the stories I label “Wait” tend to sink into my subconscious and steep quietly. One of these days, with or without my permission, this little coffeepot will float back to the surface and demand to be made into a full-fledged novel.
But for now it’s still a tiny scoop of coffee beans, not even ground up yet. Probably not even roasted. So. Without further ado, the dare–which, contrary to my description, has nothing at all to do with coffee:
with his face wet and damp leaching into his clothes.
his eyes, but the grey daylight sent a wave of pain rolling through his head. Where
am I? The surface beneath him was hard and unyielding, gritty with tiny
pebbles. Pavement. His left hand skimmed through a shallow puddle on the way to
his face. Shielding his eyes, he tried opening them again. This time the light
was more bearable.
clouds rushed by, scattering only a sporadic drizzle. Landon, still caught in
the muzzy half-realm of waking, watched them for a while and thought of nothing.
pavement soon grew uncomfortable. Finally he stirred, and realized his right
fingers were clenched around something. He looked over at his hand. A scrap of
paper. Rather than being damp and wrinkled from the rain, it was smooth and
dry. A single word was scrawled across it: Arcus.
at the edge of hearing range, almost more of a thought than a real sound.
am I on the street? My street? Yes, it was his street. There was his house
on the left, bordered with the riot of flowers that Mom tended every summer.
There was the birch tree in the yard—
across the front lawn, jumble of roots exposed. Uprooted.
on?” Landon muttered. He scrambled to his bare feet. This is weird.
neighborhood. No one in sight. Every window dark. All was quiet, still.
his spine. “Hello?” he called. “Hello?” Stuffing the paper in his jeans pocket,
he stumbled across the street toward his house. “Mom, are you home?”
happened? Landon stopped at the fallen tree and just stared. There was
something . . . something terribly wrong. Memories struggled to return,
as if being pulled out of a slurping, grasping muck. He’d been inside, doing .
. . nothing, right? Doing nothing, or maybe sketching, and then . . .
the birch trunk in frustration, and pain flashed up his bare toes. He growled. Something
had happened. Someone had knocked on the door or the phone rang. There was some
sort of interruption. Mom had been in the backyard, filling the birdfeeder, so
Landon had answered the door—or the phone—and then . . . The rest was a blank
haze.
porch and yanked the front door open. “Mom?” His foot brushed something.
welcome mat lay a black-shafted arrow.
up. Brown fletchings, like bird feathers on one end; a roughly-made arrowhead
on the other. That barely-perceptible whine buzzed in his ears again.
to charge into the house to look for Mom when a voice from behind broke the
silence.
girl ran down the street, dark hair streaming behind her. She raced up his
driveway and onto the porch, then threw her arms around his neck. “Oh, Landon,
you’re alive!”
off. “Who are you?”
eyes searching his face, the freckles dusting her cheeks, the lips parted in
surprise—and now trembling—none of it was familiar. A laughing sob burst out of
her. “I—I’m Skylar.”
uncomprehendingly.
wilt, like a flower with its petals curling inward. “Your girlfriend.”
Oh, this is good, intense. I hope this turns into a book.
I like this guy, Landon.
Believe me, I'm hoping it turns into a book too! And I'm so happy you enjoyed it (and Landon). 🙂
THIS WAS SO INTENSE! I loved the twist at the end -you've left me hanging with about a thousand questions. ;p
Thanks, Sarah! 😀 The number of questions I have is probably not much less than yours. I completely pantsed it, with no forethought whatsoever. Which leaves me wondering what it's all about… >:)
IT'S THE LANDON STORY. *huggles it* I love this thing so much I read it again and enjoyed it just as much as the first time! Just so you know, I'll probably be bugging *cough, cough* I mean ENCOURAGING you to write this until the day you do. 'Cause I'm such a good friend like that. XD
BUT THIS STORY IDEA. <333
You read it again? YOU'RE SO SWEET. And if it becomes known forever as "The Landon Story," I am blaming you. XD But yes, please do keep bugging/encouraging me to write this thing, because sometimes the voices of those coffee beans get lost amidst the much louder shouts of coffee pots.
I apologize for the late comment, but I only read this now. :/ But, oh my goodness!!!! Ahh!! Can you please finish it?!?! Haha. That has got to be one of the best most intense things I've ever read. I'm a fan of Landon. 😉 Great job, Tracey!
No problem, dearie! Eeek, so glad you enjoyed it that much!! 😀 I would love to finish it one day . . . but that will mean writing an entire novel. But not to worry, this idea has planted itself rather firmly in my mind. Landon has refused to leave until I write his story. 😉 Thanks again, Wynonah!