Summary: The world is dying but not all of it is dead yet. A young eight year old named Anna is the only child left in her town after a ravenous plague took the lives of the children in the past. In the woods that surround her town, she is lured deeper into the west side where she can hear the screams of someone from her dreams. (Might change the summary in the future as this is still very rough)
Status: 1st draft writing
POV: 3rd person omniscient
Themes/tropes: colonization, environmentalism, apocalyptic vibes, way too young protagonist, good parental figure, class differences, eldritch horrors, deaf character
Tags: if you're interested about this, you can ask me to tag you in the future!
The world stopped being beautiful a long time ago. Gone were the days of fragrant flowers, towering trees, lush grass, and blue skies. All that's left sickly greens and yellows, bare trees, and skies that were always grey.
Anna does not feel loss over this. She does not understand what the elders of her town moan about. What do they mean? The grass has always crumbled between her fingertips, the trees do not give anything but wood that cannot burn, and the skies were never an unnatural shade of blue. How silly of them to fall into fantasies and the shortcomings of old age.
Crossing the ditch, Anna balances on the rocks, careful not to fall. The words of her father rings in her head. Do not touch water that is born from the earth. It is cursed and will kill you if it has the chance. Never touch it, it will kill you.
Away from the source of curses, Anna runs out of the woods and back into the town where she is immediately greeted by smiles and warm welcomes. A woman give her a biscuit, a man gives her a jug of water, and that strange woman gives her a strained smile. She accepts them all and does her best to touch their hands as she was instructed to by her mother. As soon as she’s done, she waves goodbye and runs back to her house where her mother would be waiting for her.
The hill is no challenge for her small legs. She’s lived there her entire life and the steep incline no longer bothers her as it did when she was four. She’s eight now which means she’s a big girl! Everyone says so, so it must be true.
When she reaches her house, she leaves the slingshot outside the porch knowing her mother will scold her if she brings it in. She removes her shoes and makes sure it’s left all tidy along the boots of her mother. She steps inside and runs upstairs, eager to show her mom what she found in the forest.
As always, her mother is in her room, back against the doorframe, shaking and making herself look smaller. Anna stomps her foot and like clockwork, she watches her mother stiffen and moves her hands towards her face. When she turns around, her eyes are brimmed red like always and the locket father gave her before he left is gone from her neck.
“Anna, you’re back,” her mother signs. “Where did you go?”
“To the forest. Look!” Anna takes the gemstone she found from the forest out from her pocket and holds it out in the palm of her hand.
A frown twists in her mother’s face but she takes the gemstone with light fingers. “Which side of the forest did you go to?” She asks.
“The southside. But I went close to the west.” Anna replies. “Why?”
Her mother makes no reply, mouth unmoving as she stares at the bright blue gemstone. Then she looks at Anna and starts to sign again.
“The sky was blue like this gemstone before. That is what the elders taught us,” her mother makes her child sit down on the bed and continues to stand as she signs. “In my childhood, the sky was not as dark as it is now. Perhaps what they say is true. But blue is a beautiful color, is it not?”
Her mother hands her back the gemstone and tucks it tight. Anna nods slowly, still doubtful but curious now.
“The sky changed?” Anna asks.
“There were times when the clouds would not block the sun. It’s harder to see the sun now.” Her mother smiles. “Go to your room and change into better clothes. I’ll make dinner.”
Anna nods and runs out to her room, throwing off her dust-ridden clothes and changing into the white dress that the seamstress gave her a week ago. It’s strange how everyone treats her so well when everyone else lives so badly.
The rest of the day goes as usual. Her mother makes them beef stew, she helps her wash the dishes, they set the machine outside to draw more water from the sky, and then her mother tucks her in her bed, pressing a kiss on her forehead before leaving.
Then Anna sleeps and she can hear someone screaming.
to celebrate the first day of national novel writing month, i thought i’d share some tips and tricks on how to get through the month! here are some easy ways to get some extra words in if you’re worried about not meeting that word goal
(please remember nano should not be too stressful!! this is meant to be motivating, positive and fun!)
show AND tell
don’t be afraid to be E X T R A thorough with your descriptions this month! Remember, the more the better!
Nano is a great time for getting any and all of your ideas out, so write down anything that comes to mind! Remember, editing is something you can do later, this does not have to be perfect!
5 senses!
so your character has seen and touched things in this scene, but have they smelt, heard or tasted anything? it is SO easy to forget that your mc (no matter what POV you’re writing from) can do so much more than see, speak and feel. combine this with showing and telling, and giving a little insight into your mc’s thoughts, and you could potentially add a whole page to your scene!
ramble
this month is just for you, so while your final version of your story might not need those three pages of backstory or that one page on scene-setting, if it pleases you, if it helps get you in to your story more, write! it! down!
anything can count...
from bullet points to scenes that you don’t think will include at the end, to one-shots of your own mc’s, it’s all just words!
no one has to read this draft. and if it helps you know your characters or your world, or your story more, that’s great!!
edit in, not out
i know for some it’s hard to not edit as you go, but trust me when i say that is NOT the purpose of nanowrimo!
(uless you ARE editing for nanowrimo... in which case maybe skip this!)
the focus is on getting the ideas out, no matter how rough or messy they sound on the page.
if you have the urge to edit, hold off. write a note somewhere (on a piece of paper, sticky note, a comment on your word doc) of what you want to edit, and then move on! (and this way, when you come back to the editing process, you already have somewhere to start!)
enjoy and believe in yourself
you are writing your story!!!! your poem collection!!!! your very first tv episode!!! whatever it is your working on, maintain that hype!!!
let your excitement fuel you to write whatever comes to mind! nanowrimo is so fun and a great motivator to get you doing the first step in any writing process — getting your idea out there!
good luck and happy writing! i’m so excited for us all to get creating ✧*:･ﾟ
To Mike Morgan, nonetheless, the scene was nothing more than a crude and prosaic representation of what was already obvious. A plumb haze that undressed in front of his eyes as he walked. What did these children with their fingers glued to the glass dream about while they gazed out at the shop windows? Did anyone ever warn them of the reality behind the horror of the party? Would they be angry when they discovered the—oh, hilarious yet true—dark truth? Blissful reality! The weeping eyes and the disjointed smirk on their faces; the dazzling fact woven through the lights and the recesses of the mistletoe; the dreams left on the mantelpiece; the promises fading away with exuberant cadence. How guilty were those parents? The proverbial and everlasting tradition that began, whose origin was ignored by most.
It was not until the early years of five that Mike Morgan met Christmas. He burst under his bed and stuffed it with lots of messy questions that no one had answers to. In his childlike soul the deceptions were not allowed; the inconsistencies. Ah, the candor of childhood! She cautiously manifests herself and runs away like the cowards in war. His spirit of seeking the truth drew him into a grim yet true journey, and so, time later, Mike too came to understand the tricky reality that surrounded them.
Hands in his jeans, Mike Morgan was sliding along the winding road. A shabby backpack and a knapsack on his left shoulder. The instructions previously received by an average gentleman were crowding into his mind in haphazard fashion. Words slipped through his fingers and fell into an abysmal pond from which they could not be rescued; and the images of a map he had picked up at the airport (which he later threw into a rubbish bin) were blurring with each other. Eventually, he moved to the right side and a vast boulevard parallel to the beach—Main Beach, if he remembered well—was opened before him. He marched with an unyielding step, staring at the sea; the waves; the fine sand; the sun; the birds. His face was trimmed against the gloomy rays of the sun, which added to his stout figure. A thin layer of sweat formed behind his neck, which he attempted to rid himself of with harsh rubbing. His scowl at the sun’s stinging, the sole of his muddy slippers and the jeans that slackened on his knees; it was the epitome of Mike Morgan.
Flocks of snow gulls flocked to the shores of Main Beach, hovering laboriously among the trash bins, clamoring for every crumb. The swell whipped up against the rocks, which clumped together on one side; it lashed out with spite, soaring in majesty with each onslaught. The pristine beauty of the waves! The pristine waves! The scant greenery bobbed to the sound of the wind, nestled in certain nooks and crannies on the beach. It danced with him, danced Viennese waltzes, were dedicated harmonic and yearning tunes, like two lovers’ victims of passion. He kissed him so sweetly.
TAGLIST:
(send an ask/dm to be added)
@kashilascorner @maidollanganger
i’m tagging some writeblrs who inspire me, if you want to be removed, let me know
Tera Lynette had eyes that seemed to glow in the dark, I'd see this leering grey eyes over over me in the early mornings when she'd wake me up to pray. Her eyes looked like that now, her plump lips held a pretty little smile as she shook me.
'Wake up, Ğianak, it's time for you to pray.' She whispered the few strands of hair that hung out of her head cap tickled my face. When she was sure I was awake, she rose from her spot leaving a rush of cold in her absence, she grabbed the mat from the rack and laid it on the floor for me. She was always so precise in how she did this, Tera Lynette always measured the oil to the exact drop, she always made sure my mat was clean, yet Tera Lynette never once knelt beside me and prayed.
She always left the room and return the second after the last word left my mouth. It was like this every morning. Yet I never complained about this to her father, as any other Ralhi man would do. I never had a reason too. I always believed prayers were intimate and if she wanted her time alone with her God let her have it, even so she gave me a beautiful son and two daughters what more can I ask for? Why sacrifice this wonderful life for the soul fact that she doesn't kneel beside me in prayer?
I felt her delicate fingers grip my shoulder,
'are you alright, jino*?' her face held concern and her voice wavered.
'I'm fine just wondering, how have you never prayed with me before?' Tera Lynette's face went pale, a fear that I'd never seen in her eyes no dominated the regular gentleness.
'Because I am not Ralhi born.' She didn't look at me nor raise her voice above a whisper. 'My God is not your's.'
She bent her head and rose. 'There is much you don't know about me Jino.' I stood as she bent down to move the prayer mat from my feet. She kissed my gently on the lips. And in a sweet honeyed voice.
'Come tell me what you want to eat. The children would be up soon.' Why should I give her up because of this lack of Prayer?
Reevaluating this current draft due to the storyline not coming together as I'd hoped. Also there are lots of things that are easier to fix now rather than later.
Oh, and I'm going to resume work on Gafania since my burn out is gone, mainly with world-building since that's what takes the longest.
I almost see your face
and the halos in your eyes
Look away, save my sanity
for another day when I am ready
to lose it all in your imaginary arms.
Oh, oh, how I long for you
even if you are to be found
only in the ether.
In the name of love
I have bent so many nibs
out of shape that the fortuneteller
now says it's hopeless. I will never
have an instrument to write down
what you mean to me.
My pens are scratchy, dry, dented,
and I am dangerously low on ink.
So I wait. I hope. I fall hopelessly
and stupidly in love
all over again.
I wait and I wait until I have the sense
to ask why I'm waiting. You don't
see love and eternity when you look at me.
I'm waiting at a railroad crossing
and the damn train still hasn't
made an appearance yet.
Nobody yet has the audacity to suggest
that the R x R signal is faulty.
I see you in the drummer
of the death metal band my friend
shared with me, the tanned attractive
faux-face of the aural mirage
that makes me come at night.
Your face is not even real, much less
the rest of you.
This is madness, all of it.
Never, never, the fear of saying goodbye,
learning the joy of being naked again,
has this been so terrifying,
even from a distance.
Twenty years from now
I might murmur your name
with a sigh and a smile
or throw it against the wall
like a flesh-eating curse
handed down from your
santeria grandmother.
I am not sure which yet.
I start to remember
to learn to forget.
And in the process
I burn you down to ashes
and salt the earth. You are now
a burial ground, rarely visited
and never properly mourned
because that can only be done
by the ones that lived
through the ordeal and the ones
who can dredge up
enough energy to care.
But how I do long for you still
Even if only in my dreams.
They play there in dusty street corners
and edges where brick dust kisses the asphalt
peeping around doors of old edges
and missed chances
Their laughs like string lights
tingling in the air
delicate and soon gone like the holiday
They live under tables and shut their ears
to the argument happening above
rotisserie chicken and green bean casserole
Instead they play with trucks and dolls
trying very hard not to elbow
Mother's or Father's shins
otherwise the game is over forever.
Somewhere in Florida a shadow child
finds himself with a scratchy nib and hurls
his pen against the far wall in frustration.
It cracks. His shadow-story remains
a scribbled draft, never finished.
