Here’s the first 500 words of my YA, urban fantasy story Mere Mortal Mona (title subject to change). I was going to post a brief synopsis, but then that turned into a scary amount of reading and I didn’t want to frighten anyone away, so instead I thought I’d just give you this; think Lord of the Rings meets Jennifer’s body.
Let me know what you think. What writer doesn’t love feedback, right? However, you should know this, I am a Jedi. If you’re overtly rude about my stuff I will jump inside your mind and ruin your life from the comfort of my own computer chair. I’m just kidding (about the ruining your life part. The be nice bit and Jedi thing still stands). xx
I can’t believe it’s been three weeks and I can still feel the ache in my guts, like I’ve been sucker punched in the spleen. At least at this point anger is replacing some of the upset. I plough my boot into the concrete underneath my feet. It’s solid, unmovable, but I keep driving my toes into it until my bones buzz in protest. In some dark, angry recess of my brain I’m envisioning Mark’s balls instead of the concrete.
It’s January. A frosty-white moon hangs like a torch in the sky and dilutes the blanket of black cloud to a brilliant sapphire. He was just a boy, I tell myself. I’ll get over it, eventually. I plan to sit for a while, and metaphorically throw away the memories of Mark and me —because brain bleach doesn’t exist and I don’t like the taste of liquor— but then an owl hoots, or maybe someone screams. I can’t decide, but I’m leaping to my feet. A venting session in the quiet, before-dawn park had seemed like such a good idea back in my bedroom, when the memories of my ex-relationship were stopping me from sleeping.
My eyes dart back and forth, scanning the scenery. Why is it that tree’s take a sinister turn when dipped in shady lighting? Branches look limbs, holes look like faces. For a second I think I might be able to talk myself into sitting back down, but a rolling cloud covers the moon and everything grows ten shades darker. Too dark. My mind is conjuring up images of the horror movie I’d watched earlier. In seconds the pleasant little park in Plumbridge has transformed into the perfect hunting ground for an escaped lunatic. Time to go.
A roll of thunder and a sharp cracking sound stops me in my tracks. I fall to my knees and cover my head with my hands. I’m going to die, I know it. Dumped and dead in the same month, my life is a Greek tragedy. My hands are trembling and my heart is pumping so vigorously that I feel like it’s going to break through my rib cage. I wait…and I wait, but nothing else comes.
When I find the courage to look up, relief runs through me. There’s no maniac trying to hunt me down. Then I see him and relief evaporates. My breath catches and my jaw drops at the sight of the body lying on the ground.
A lump of something that tastes like Penicillin rises in my throat and sticks there. Where did he come from? A tree. The sky. Maybe he fell out of a plane. That happens all the time in movies. What am I thinking? This isn’t the movies, this is real time and this guy needs help. I don’t believe for a second that I can offer him any real assistance, but I’m kneeling down at his side and rooting around for a pulse anyway.