For the past two years, I've been participating in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). Basically, you have thirty days to write a 50,000 word book. It's tons of fun, and I've gotten two books out of it! Here's a small sampling from my most recent NaNoWriMo book.
"Jerome Dessly hated that feeling with a vengeance only he could hate it with. It felt like someone was slowly shredding every fiber in his oily being. That feeling of helplessness.
Daelier hadn’t told him about the enormous, black, satanic birds that would threaten to descend on him and rip him apart the instant he had snuck out the catacombs to meet her. She hadn’t told him that they would just suddenly disappear into thin air, either.
One moment, Jerome Dessly’s entire world had been black feathers and murderous red beaks, and then the next moment it had been completely deserted. The sickly, diseased green sky descended on the city and the howling merriment of the Thuligas dimmed to a decrescendo-like murmuring growl.
The end times were coming; he could feel it behind his slick, polished white teeth and his limpid, deceiving eyes. And Daelier hadn’t met him at their designated meeting place by the Thuliga camp.
The end times were coming; the sky sank lower and lower, like an ill-meaning hand over the brown walls of Draelaet. A sense of fear crept over him, rising with the wind that touched his white bones and chilled them thoroughly.
Perhaps that was why he jumped and forgot to scream aloud when a strong, masculine hand clamped down over his face, blocking out the failing light. Wriggling helplessly like a fish in a man’s net, Jerome Dessly was dragged back into the catacombs and the stone door was slowly slid closed.
“So you were right,” a man’s voice said, deep and husky and rich, “This slick fish really was a spy.”
Curses! It was the solid smith that had been so silent but had looked as if he could bring down a barn with one finger alone. Jerome Dessly could easily guess the steely hands that were still clamped on his face and arms.
Mr. Smithing thoughtfully made sure the catacomb door was locked fast, and then his eyes set in a metallic hardness.
“I wonder how much information you leaked, Jerome Dessly.”
“He at least informed his authority of our location,” Durain said. “No doubt Dark’s minions are just playing with time, seeing if they can get any more information out of us before they can drag us to their brutes and half-wolves.”
The sturdy hands removed themselves from Jerome Dessly’s face, and the slick informer found himself staring up into the hardened brown eyes of the young leader of the Followers.
“We could never find information on your reputation as a Follower,” Durain told him grimly. “And now I know why. You never have been a Follower. You were just planted by the coward that calls himself our king. Well, I can prove to you that we Followers aren’t timid folks who go about scuttling in dark places at every threat! Hanging is too good for you, Jerome Dessly!”
Nervously, Jerome Dessly could think of one thing to say, “Er, harrumph! I…ha ha…believe you have rumpled my goatee, my dear young fellow! Er…I mean…”
But it was too late. Jerome Dessly found himself being hauled down the corridor into the torch lit interior of the catacombs by the scruff of his neck, Durain striding at a brisk pace.
“I’ll do a bit more than rumple your goatee, you snaking low layer! I’ll rumple your throat so hard you won’t breathe, if it’s the last thing I’ll do!” "
(c) Izori
Tell me what you think!
Yours without wax,
Izori
Cool!!!
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