Pitch Wars Prep and the Eternal Editing Flames

Hi folks! It has been a bit, so I figured I'd do a simple post to say I am currently lost in the editing stacks. I've edited Dissimulate and The Mundane List, which I have been shopping to agents for the time being, and I'm working to bring Ferals into a finished state before Pitch Wars starts on September 26th.

I am really excited to have the opportunity to enter this delightful story into Pitch Wars, but I am even more excited to start pitching it as soon as possible. It's my first attempt a YA Horror, and honestly, I love it.

I predict there will be more YA Horror and Suspense novels in the future, because editing has thus far gone very smoothly (for once in my life I am ... enjoying the editing process?) Okay, okay, you caught me, "enjoy" is too strong of a word, but I am not hating it, which is a huge step up in my book, because let's be honest: I have the attention span of a bee surrounded by pollen when it comes to editing. I want to go to all of the flowers, but like... really should be paying attention to this flower, but look at all of the other flowers that need my attention and how do I spent all of my time on just one flower?!

You get the picture.

Anyway! Pitch Wars has given me a (much needed) deadline, so now I will edit, polish, and sweat from my fingertips until the final words are done and ready for pitching.

Anyone else out there with me?

Wording Wednesday - a Ferals short story

Dirk stops short at the edge of the alleyway and glances over at Shepherd. "Did you hear that?" His voice is tinny, high despite being almost old enough to get into the agency program. He considers himself an adult now, with his birthday only two months away.

Shepherd takes a long look down the dark alley. No lights, the partial moon covered by clouds, nothing to see by. He cranks the flashlight in his hand and sweeps it across the shadows. Four pairs of eyes light up, staring straight back at them. Shepherd jumps back, fumbling with the flashlight and nearly dropping it.

Dirk stares, brown eyes wide with terror.

"What day is it?" Shepherd whispers, his fingers shaking around the flashlight as he turns the beam back up toward the eyes. The two pairs glow in the light, still looking straight down at the boys from their perch on top of the garbage containers.

"Two days," Dirk states. He shows his watch to prove the point; though, neither boy can see the face of it in the dark.

Dirk got lucky after the Spread. He managed to be one of the few people who came across a watch that wound whenever he took a step. An ongoing, perfect watch for a place without much, if any, electricity or access to batteries. Best yet, his shows the cycles of the moon. A daily reminder of how much danger he is in, or is not. Two days should be plenty of time.

The taller boy lets out a long, slow breath. "Okay, then. We're fine, right?"

"We're fine," Dirk echoes. He can't peel his gaze away from the creatures.

One of them has long fur, off-white with a dark patch on its chest. After a moment of watching at the boys, it licks its paw and rubs it along its face. As if it weren't one of the deadliest creatures in the world, as if it were nothing but a ... "House cat." The thought escapes Dirk's lips on a whisper, almost like a dare. He's an adult now, and he should be able to call them like they are. Cats.

Except they aren't. They haven't been cats for a long time.

"Whatever, man. Let's go." The flashlight turns off for a second, and the sound of the mechanical hand crank fills the silence between them.

"Do you think their inoculated?"

"You want to stay and find out?" The beam comes back on, and Shepherd aims it at Dirk.

"No." Dirk puts his hand up, shielding his eyes from the light. "But if they aren't, then—"

"Then the TNR Agents will deal with them."

Dirk stands up straighter. "We could bring them in."

Shepherd aims the light back down the alley. Only one set of eyes gazes at them now, the off-white one missing from the scene. "You want to try to catch it? Be my guest."

Taking one step forward, the boy shakes with nervous, giddy energy. Dirk glances around the opening to the narrow path. He freezes when he sees more eyes appearing out of the darkness, blinking into existence from out of oblivion. He gulps down a breath, stumbling backwards. "A pride."

"Not just a pride." Shepherd's voice dissolves. "A colony."

The boys take three steps back, then four, both almost tripping over their own two feet.

"It's not the full moon," Dirk whispers, voice whimpering with disbelief and fright.

The beam of light winks out again, and with their hearts pounding, the boys turn and run as fast as they can. Their feet launch off the pavement, and they sprint. Faster than they did in survival class, faster than they did during their exams, faster than they ever have run before. They run so fast, they feel like they are flying.

But that's the thing about Ferals; no matter how fast, no human has ever outrun them.

- - - - -

I rarely write in third person, let alone present tense, but I've been writing a few stories in present tense as of late and wanted to try third person. I figure if I'm trying new things, it should probably be during writing prompts. This prompt is curated by Andy Brokaw, a lovely YA writer, and she used "The Cats' Rendezvous" by Édouard Manet to inspire our first piece for Wording Wednesday, a writing group on MeWe.

If anyone else is on MeWe, feel free to add me! mewe.com/i/racheldesilets

Nightmare Fuel: Day One

I'm several days behind in Nightmare Fuel, but I really want to edit these flash fiction pieces and make them something worth reading.  If I don't have any good ideas for a photo, then I'll move onto the next.

For those that don't know, Nightmare Fuel was started by Bliss Morgan.  It is a daily photo prompt for the month of October (Hallo-month) and is horror based.  If you do not like horror or dark stories, you probably shouldn't read these.  You've been warned.

Link to day one photo prompt - you can also read other people's stories there.

---

They had done something to my eyes.  The only thing I had left was the ability to shut my lids, to will it all away.  Wish away all the madness of this place.  But they did something. My lids were gone, vanished. All that I had left were scratchy eyes that used to stare upon beauty, upon a world so glorious and vast that I couldn't comprehend the end.

But stuck in this small, forsaken place, I still knew not what eternity meant, but if it was anything like this - I knew every minute would be worse than the last.

I toppled over onto a cross, no - a grave. A grave so aged and ruined that it almost toppled over under my weight. I couldn't weigh that much anymore; the lifeless, limp body I used to call my own. I couldn't possibly be more than a dead leaf, caught up in a hailstorm waiting to be pelted back down to earth.

I tried to blink again, more subconsciously than anything else. My eyes ached, all I wanted was one moment of blackness, one moment to forget this place.

My skin rippled along my wrists. I stared closely at it. Wasn't much more I could do than stare. My veins turned black and wiggled under my skin like snakes, snapping at the surface. I screamed as one of them burst forth through my skin. Blood pooled down my arms, the sight made me gag as my other arm wrenched itself open. My veins were crawling out of my skin, killing me for the hundredth time over. They pulled at themselves like long bits of yarn, tearing bits of muscle and pulling loads of blood out with them. Every synapse in my body shot off, lighting small fires throughout my core. This was the hundredth, no thousandth time they have killed me slowly. But this was the first time I couldn't shut my eyes.

Rioss

I'm now up to 18,000 words, and I'm still pantsing.  I outlined the very beginning of the novel, but honestly, I have no idea what's going to happen in the middle.  The characters keep surprising me, which I am thankful for, since they won't allow me just to write the main plot.  They keep introducing side stories and sub characters, and unsuspected villains... etc.

As far as #WIP500 is concerned, it's going well.  I've written at least 500 words every day, including 2,000 yesterday.  I know it is only one week in, but I feel like I'm being held accountable by some mythical internet beings (and Cara Michaels).

* * * Rioss Excerpt * * *


Marc’s hair was plastered against his forehead, caked on by a mixture of sweat and a thin layer of grime. He had just showered yesterday. In fact, all of him looked so much more alive yesterday. He had a blush that was spread across his face, tone in his skin, and all of that was gone. One day with the guards had stripped him of anything that made him look alive. He walked up to us, but walked was the wrong word. He limped? His whole body looked rigid, as if he lacked the very essence of movement.

Trixy and I exchanged a glance. Concern welled in her eyes. I didn’t know what to make of it - what had happened to make him look so bad in just one day?

He collapsed in the seat next to me. His body trembled slightly as the air around him turned cold, or was he just that cold?

“What did they do to you?” I said under my breath, as if we were being watched. I tried to ignore the other patients' eyes on us, there were no guards, no orderlies, no reason to be paranoid, but I was. This wasn’t supposed to happen to people - even if people made me feel the way Marc did. Though, sitting next to him now, there was no threat. All of my body stopped being on edge, and I was actually worried about him.

“They wanted me to eat,” Marc said. He flopped his head down on the table and grumbled some more words into the plastic.

Trixy arched an eyebrow at me, “Isn’t that usually supposed to make people feel better?”

Marc coughed, his whole body heaved and shook with it. He used his arms to prop his head up. It looked like it was taking all of his strength just to lift his head off the table. He looked at Trixy with the same sideways smile that he always had. “I told them it wouldn’t work.” His eyes glazed over.  He was distant, lost. “That’s not the way I eat. They put an IV in my arm.” He showed us the crook of his elbow, a deep, red and black bruise had spread throughout the area. It looked like a rash from allergies.

“What are you talking about?” I hissed.

He opened his mouth to answer me, but before he could get any words out, black and red bile spewed from his mouth. The bloody liquid spread across the table and leaked in large drips onto the floor.

Rioss

My new work in progress, inspired by Sarah Rios (or really, just one of the many people that has been encouraging me to write this piece).  I'm up to 7,000 words, and hope to finish an additional 25k before I go back to work (next Tuesday).

A brief tidbit:  Jeremy told his parents that he was a werewolf.  They thought he was insane and dropped him off in Rioss Hospital.  It is in the hospital that the story unfolds.  Here's an excerpt:

         But the scream was so guttural. It had seemed urgent, like life or death. Usually, when people screamed in here, it was madness. It would be shrill and would last for minutes, and it would happen again and again. This was once, and then it was silenced. The doctors wouldn’t have been able to get to her that fast.

I don’t know why I was so worried. Screams happened all the time at Rioss, but all the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Something told me not to go to bed, and I stayed up, eyes trained on the window. If I saw a shadow, heard any footsteps, I would lunge. Five minutes passed without any more noises, just the usual shuffling of feet to the sides of me. Some deep moans from people that were forced into sleep by enough drugs that would induce a coma on any normal person. The window remained empty, but it was my only way to see out of my dingy room.

If anyone was coming for me, I would be ready. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Then the shadows on the walls changed. Someone moved outside, but too fast. Someone was - another scream. Blood curdling like the one before, but on this floor. Again, it died as quickly as it had started. I heard the same voice, still muddled. Relax, it said. I crouched close to the wall, my heart pounding in my chest. Five more minutes, then ten. The shadows changed patterns again. A distant latch on a door clicked into place. Silence.

After a few more minutes, the only thing I could hear was the pounding of my blood rushing through my head.

My Own Regrets

Is it too late to take it back?

Dripping blood from mangled flesh

Hanging upside down

Deep, solid puddles of the blackest red

Is it too late to take it back?

Your wrists in mine, broken with a twist

Crackled screams as your ribs caved in

The blackened bruises already showing

Is it too late to take it back?

Flesh singed with a flick of a flame

Putrid smells of rotting ash

Drifting pieces, melting off, disintegrating

It’s too late to take it back.

Your body’s cold, numb to my touch

It shows the years of my own regret

Hanging upside down, tied up and beaten

Throat split, hanging open in useless flaps

The flames lick upwards, breaking everything

The horror and nightmare of every sound

Tormented screams echo inside me

I grind my fingertips into my own flesh

It’s too late, much too late

But I’m still sorry just the same.

-----

Sometimes it feels like I'm flailing, falling, looking for a place to grab hold.  The endless air drifting above and below me.  It's not a free fall, no, much slower.  Much less fun.

Though every once and awhile, the words form around me and start to make sense.  Even if the poetry doesn't come out right, it makes my brain settle.  The ground comes back underneath my feet and I begin to climb again.  No one is hurt, no one suffered.  The feeling that pulsated through my brain is now on paper, some of the darkest or lightest words I may have ever written sprawled before me.  Is it worth it to display myself so publicly?  Will they get what I'm originally speaking of?  Or will some English teacher twenty years from now stumble across my work and teach it as a metaphor of something that is so far off base, so far removed from the original point?

Artwork stuns me, sometimes.  Baffles me and makes me feel so small and huge at the same time.  The overwhelming feeling is also underwhelming - the world is at my fingertips, but I'm floating hundreds of miles away.  May the window to my soul make someone else reflect on their own, may the opening of my words make someone's pulse resonate with mine.

This is me.  This is not me.

It's all very existential.  And that's my mood:  Existential.

Lost Soul

estherase photos on flickr

The twisted bones that curled together to form fingers reached into the beetle’s body.  A bloodied bone from some other small creature lay to the side, wielded as a weapon against this beautiful black, green beetle.  Its fingers were sharp, like serrated knifes,and with ease, the fingers flicked the exoskeleton away.  Pieces of green oozing blood pooled underneath the body.  The bloody substance stuck between each piercing finger, dripping around the beetle like snot on a cold winter’s day.

As the bones plunged themselves deeper into the thick skin,the beetle let out one last sigh of breathe before shuddering, dead.  The hands curled around the heart, still warmwith the last beat.  One finger poked inside the heart, wrapping the arteries around its tip.  It torn and shred at it until half of the organ was outside the body, the final vein snapping off with a sickening pop.

Its mouth opened.  God, please, no.  And the teeth closed around the flesh, tearing through the soggy, metallic mess. I tasted it in its teeth, my teeth. I felt it as it slid down its throat, my throat.  And I watched it fall through the gnarled cracks of my body, landing on the sidewalk and oozing out its remaining green blood.

When the ghastly skeleton had its full, it flew upwards into the sky.  The wings beat like hummingbirds, but silent.  Fast and furious, it flew through trees, barely dodging leaves.  If I could throw up, I would.  And then its eyes would land on something else, another creature to mangle, and off we would go.

Being trapped in a gremlin’s body with no control, seeing all the awful things it eats… or rather, doesn’t with all the cracks and holes in its body… feeling everything, tasting it all.  This was hell, and I could only assume that I was a doomed and lost soul.

--------------
This prompt was created by Bliss Morgan who does "Nightmare Fuel" (aka "Write Terrible Things with Me").  She does one every single day - and I have, sadly, been unable to keep up between work and editing and my brand new PS3 (darn those video games).  This this image struck me, so I had to.

Also, I have a giveaway for Lauren Oliver's Before I Fall.  Check it out!

Whipping Boy

His fingernails turned black with dirt, the shovel just wasn't fast enough and his back hurt from the long day.  He turned the soil over, digging farther and farther down.  He kept looking back and forth, measuring with his eyes, making sure that he, indeed, had enough space.  Just a few more inches, he thought, a sly grin growing across his face.  The sky seemed to dance, captivated in his eyes.  A huge weight was lifted off his shoulders as he breathed in the freshly turned dirt - this should be the way everyone celebrates the end of their work week.  He wished so deeply that he could share this strange euphoria with his co-workers.  Maybe they could feel the same, if only they knew his secret.

With a gruff huff, he shoved himself off the ground, wiping his soiled hands on his khaki pants.  He almost laughed at the hand print streaks that they made, how his wife would be so angry with him for messing in the garden again, or what she thought was the garden. 

He walked a few feet east where the five foot some inches long bag was sitting.  He grabbed one edge of it and dragged it slowly towards the slightly longer three foot deep hole in the ground.  The bag rolled into the hole with a sickening thud.  The man scratched his itchy nose and then took another deep breath of fresh dirt and forest.  He didn't care how long it took the cops to find the body, he didn't care if he died after this, he just knew it was time to bask.  He could bask in the moments at work without someone breathing down his shoulder, he could finish his memoirs as everyone frantically figured out what happened to their fearful leader, he might even be congratulated for doing the deed that no one else dreamed of completing, but everyone wished they had the guts to.  Sadly, there was nothing redeemable about the boss in the bag, and although one might wish that there was - that such a cruel act of human violence should be punished, but honestly, this wasn't the person to miss.  The slave driver, manipulator, the person that stepped on everyone else and kept everyone down while clawing their way up the corporate ladder.

Yes, he thought, this was a good thing - and as he covered the bag and dirt sprinkled on the plastic like rain on a rooftop, he knew that this was the only way he could keep living.  It was either the whipper or the whipping boy, and frankly, he thought, there was no way he'd let himself end up in a shallow grave - even if he now would meet his death in a chair.

-----

It's been awhile since I've written.  I wrote another piece that will be submitted to a publisher - once I polish it.  I went on vacation - to a Unitarian Universalist camp in the woods, and it was super relaxing.  It put me back in touch with myself, made me self-reflect.  But while I was lost inside my own head, it was hard to put myself into another set of shoes.  I actually love the feeling that I get from writing.  It was nice to reflect on that, realizing that I am made for something more, and having some people affirm that I am, indeed, a half decent, if not good, writer.  So now I'm back, in full force, for one blog entry a day.  It's go time.