[Serial] Alive Part 1

Long, wicked black claws curled around his closet door with a soft tick-tick sound. One narrow red eye peered through the slim opening, glowing imperiously. Everything else in the room was cast in deep shadow. Only that eye and those claws seemed visible in a sea of darkness.

Matthew held his breath and watched. He tried not to move. He tried not to exist. Wide hazel eyes remained fixed on the claws because the eye filled him with cold dread. That eye paralyzed him.

Visions of blood and claw marks flashed through his memory, sepia and red film reeling violently. Matthew could not breathe. He couldn’t think. He closed his eyes. He trembled.

The sound of claws sliding over wood and plaster sent a shiver down his spine.

“Gil,” he whispered, his voice shaking on the single syllable.

He heard Gil’s voice in his head.

“I see them every night, Matt. They’re hunting me.”

Matthew told him he needed to get help. He didn’t believe Gil but how could he? His paranoid delusions of a monster hunting him in the night sounded crazy. Who would ever believe something like that? Even Matthew, his best friend, didn’t believe him. He wanted to—he wanted to believe that his friend suffered from a supernatural attack more than he wanted to admit that he might be sick in the head.

It wasn’t until he woke up to Gil’s mutilated body in the bed next to his that he began to believe.

“Gil,” he whispered again. “Tell me what to do.”

Gil couldn’t tell him what to do; he didn’t even know what to do. He couldn’t save himself from the horrible torment of a shrouded death bringer. His body had been in tatters, ribbons of skin curling against blood and muscle and tissue. His mouth formed a horrified scream. His eyes, his brilliant blue eyes, were gone, leaving nothing but hollow sockets.

Gil was gone. He died. Just the way Matthew would die right now.

Knock, knock, knock!

Knuckles against wood, the sound jettisoned Mathew out of his bed, shoving the blankets aside as he stood beside his bed, shaking, hands held close to his chest. He could feel the beat of his own heart, erratic, fluttering, quick. The closet no longer housed a nightmare creature. Matthew took a step closer to his bed, his calf pressing into the mattress.

The clock next to his bed blinked red numbers back at him. 12:14. Just after midnight. Matthew rubbed his hands over his chest.

He must have imagined the knock.

Knock, knock, knock!

Matthew’s mouth went dry. The sound didn’t emanate from the closet. Somebody was at his door. Matthew sucked his bottom lip in and then shakily took a step forward. One after another, he finally made it to the door, hand trembling as he reached up to touch the door. He peered through the peephole.

Relief washed over him. He pulled the chain out with eager hands then unlocked the deadbolt and finally the doorknob.

“Mom!”

He threw himself against her and felt her arms coming up around him as she let out a sound of surprise. Lavender surrounded him. He felt a hand in his hair.

“Matthew, son,” she began in a soothing tone. “You need to come home.”

“Now? Mom, it’s midnight.”

“Now,” she said, in a voice that brooked no arguments. She stroked his hair. “Baby, you need to come home with me tonight. I don’t like you being here alone after what happened and I know you haven’t been going to school.”

Matthew swallowed guiltily. It was true. Ever since Gil died, he couldn’t make himself do much of anything. He couldn’t sleep at night so he slept through the day. All day long, he ignored the sound of his phone ringing, even when his mother called.

“You must have been worried,” he said in a dead voice, staring into the hallway behind her.

“You know I have. Why haven’t you been taking my calls?”

Matthew didn’t know how to answer that so he didn’t. Instead, he slowly pulled away from his mother and without looking back at the room behind him, he said, “Let’s go.”

A serial…?

I’m considering starting up a serial here just to have something to blog about that isn’t life crap and reviews. I’m supposed to be a WRITER ninja, right? I just need to figure out what I want to write about… and keep it simple because it feels like making things overly complicated is always my downfall. I’ll keep you guys posted and see what I can come up with.

Novel Updates

My novel’s up for critique and I’ve received several reviews already. I’m pretty excited about the direction of this novel. I’ve also commissioned artwork of the three main characters, so keep an eye out for those. I plan to link them here when they’re finished! In the meantime, check out this review excerpt:

I enjoyed reading this a lot. You immediately drop the reader into situation where there has obviously been a fair amount of action already having taken place—so I’m interested finding out how we got to this point—and clearly there’s a fair amount of action yet to come—which I also want to know.

Why do I roleplay?

Honestly… I roleplay because I love to write and I know my partner at least will be reading it and that they’ll care what happens next in the story. They’re a part of it, so they’re every bit as invested as I am. When I write alone, I don’t get that same feeling. In fact, I start feeling despair the further I go on by myself that everything I’m writing will forever be left unread and it’s depressing. Like what’s the point?

Most of the things I write aren’t things the people around me in real life care about so I don’t show them what I’m writing or get any input. It’s lonely. Roleplay allows me to do my number one favorite thing: write–and it matters to at least the one person I’m writing with. That’s all that matters and all I ever wanted. Being rich and famous? Not really and that’s why I become less motivated to spit out novels as time goes on.

I still call myself a writer because I usually spend most of my day writing and I get to define myself the same way anybody else does. I write, therefore, I am a writer. I don’t get paid to do it, but that doesn’t make me any less of a writer.

And that’s what I was thinking about today when asked the question: “What makes you RP?”

Some Good Advice

Wow, I just saw this linked from a link in an article from Ongoing World’s Facebook page. I fell in love. I’ve been saying this kind of thing for ages but I usually rant in a pretty distinctly harsh way. This guy says it all in a positive tone. I love it! Here’s the link!

Follow You

Long, wicked black claws curled around his closet door with a soft tick-tick sound. One narrow red eye peered through the slim opening, glowing imperiously. Everything else in the room was cast in deep shadow. Only that eye and those claws seemed visible in a sea of darkness.
Matthew held his breath and watched. He tried not to move. He tried not to exist. Wide hazel eyes remained fixed on the claws because the eye filled him with cold dread. That eye paralyzed him.
Visions of blood and claw marks flashed through his memory, sepia and red film reeling violently. Matthew could not breathe. He couldn’t think. He closed his eyes. He trembled.
The sound of claws sliding over wood and plaster sent a shiver down his spine.
“Gil,” he whispered, his voice shaking on the single syllable.
He heard Gil’s voice in his head.
“I see them every night, Matt. They’re hunting me.”

School

NOVEMBER 7: school

“Lemme school you on this,” Connor said in his lyrical accent, shaking the can of spray paint in his hand. He regarded the dusty brick wall in front of him with a slightly tilted his head. He took a step forward. “I’ve been doing this since you were in diapers.”

“Uh-huh,” Noel said but he watched Connor with veiled interest in his blue eyes. He sat on an old milk crate turned upside down, hands between his legs and gripping the crate. His black and grey striped tuque was pulled down low enough to cover his eyebrows, covering his piercing. He bit his lower lip and Connor could see him jiggling his right leg before his gaze darted around.

“Don’t worry, we won’t be caught,” he assured the kid before he stepped forward and began to spray out his initials. CDO. He smirked at its correlation with OCD. People thought that was what it was, the code that he sprayed. He heard some girls scoffing about it before and he almost laughed aloud right in their ears. He didn’t, of course. Graffiti artists were a notorious attention seeking lot but they wanted to remain anonymous at the same time. It was a weird kind of exhibition.

“You start with your signature?” Noel asked.

“Yep.” He didn’t bother explaining why.

When he finished his initials, he started in on his actual painting, which he had decided would be…

“Is that a shamrock?” Noel asked.

“Yep.” He smirked. “Irish, in case you didn’t notice.”

Crashing

It’s a little early but I’m already at that point in my NaNo novel where I hate what I’m writing… Just going to keep chugging along because I want to at least finish this thing but once it’s over, I need to go back to my one of my older novels and get in some editing…

Callous

NOVEMBER 6: callous

He stared down the barrel of the gun, imagining how it might feel to pull the trigger.

Loneliness was a bitter ache, deep in his bones. All this time, he thought by remaining detached and callous, he could keep his heart guarded. All this time, he didn’t even believe he had a heart to guard. Who in all this time had he loved as much as his younger brother, whom he loved as much as he resented, whom he missed and who seemed to have forgotten him. Then when they saw one another again, he was met with anger and misunderstandings. Miki was too quick to jump to conclusions. And what must he think of Hiro, deep, deep down, for him to believe that Hiro willingly melted into the shadows and out of his life.

Hiro didn’t want a heart, when it felt so heavy as this. He thought of all those nights he came home late and Joo Won looked at him with those hurt eyes but smiled as he tried to understand, tried to logically piece together the reasons Hiro stayed away or the way he touched him, the way he tried to keep pace when Hiro was disgustingly voracious or when he was dolorously incapable, his body unable to react even when his heart was at its fullest.

Joo Won was a man of science. Logically, if Hiro said one thing but his body said another, it was easier to believe the body. A body wasn’t supposed to lie while the tongue could elicit and create untruths, hundreds of them, thousands. He watched for a long time, the way Joo Won’s mind tried to be practical when he was feeling emotional, the way he tried to apply emotion to logic later. What would he do, in his place? It was frustrating.

He wished lately he had no heart to ache and he wondered if it would be better that way in the end for Joo Won. He lowered the gun. It would be easier for him to pull the trigger but deep down, deep, deep down, he knew it would do Joo Won no favors. Lying to himself about why he wanted to do it made it no less easier to put the gun down.

The heart inside him, that was a testament to the human still left inside. He touched his hand to his chest. It ached even to touch, as if his body sympathized with his heart and mind.