5018 words (and counting) this morning!
a little snippet.
totally unedited, very rough, and probably fraught with grammatical errors.
but here you go. :)
happy november!
ps. carys is now laurel. and name is still subject to change. ;)
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The rest of the week, Laurel made no secret about visiting the Obrist house daily. She would head over there in the mornings to watch the sunset, drop by after school to check on the doors, and sometimes even sneak over before bedtime to make sure no one had moved in.
In a way, it felt a terrible imposition for someone to move into her house. The Obrist’s had moved out when she was six, and for the last three years, she had formed a strange bond with their empty home. She knew the dusty rooms and quiet paneling like the back of her hand and felt as if it was her own.
That Saturday, she woke up early, when the sky was still painted black. It was so dark she could taste it on her tongue. It smelled like cinnamon from the rolls her mother had put in the night before. On Saturday’s, they always had a special breakfast. The rest of the week was oatmeal or eggs, but Saturday, her mother made something marvelous. Laurel opened the oven a crack and the rich headiness of the rolls wafted around her. She shut it quickly and slipped out the door, a flashlight in her cold hands.
It had rained the night before and the ground was slick and cold. Fall was in full force and the trees were slowly becoming barer and barer. She stepped over sodden leaf piles and her feet splashed in the marshy ground. The flashlight in her hand lit the way dimly.
Her boots squeaked. She looked up a second and slipped.
The thing about islands: when you hit the ground, you hit it hard.
The earth seems to be more stone than dirt.
She slammed onto the earth and felt a crack in her hands. The ground was hard underneath her palms, and she felt mud on her knees. Her hands smarted and her knees ached and she stood up slowly, rubbing her hands together. The flashlight clattered somewhere to her right and she clutched it with muddy fingers. What a way to start the day.
The sky waxed dark blue when she finally made it to the Obrists, hands and legs and all, slightly worse for the wear. Her left wrist ached.
One word.
“Dangit.”
Her mother was going to kill her.
a little snippet.
totally unedited, very rough, and probably fraught with grammatical errors.
but here you go. :)
happy november!
ps. carys is now laurel. and name is still subject to change. ;)
-
The rest of the week, Laurel made no secret about visiting the Obrist house daily. She would head over there in the mornings to watch the sunset, drop by after school to check on the doors, and sometimes even sneak over before bedtime to make sure no one had moved in.
In a way, it felt a terrible imposition for someone to move into her house. The Obrist’s had moved out when she was six, and for the last three years, she had formed a strange bond with their empty home. She knew the dusty rooms and quiet paneling like the back of her hand and felt as if it was her own.
That Saturday, she woke up early, when the sky was still painted black. It was so dark she could taste it on her tongue. It smelled like cinnamon from the rolls her mother had put in the night before. On Saturday’s, they always had a special breakfast. The rest of the week was oatmeal or eggs, but Saturday, her mother made something marvelous. Laurel opened the oven a crack and the rich headiness of the rolls wafted around her. She shut it quickly and slipped out the door, a flashlight in her cold hands.
It had rained the night before and the ground was slick and cold. Fall was in full force and the trees were slowly becoming barer and barer. She stepped over sodden leaf piles and her feet splashed in the marshy ground. The flashlight in her hand lit the way dimly.
Her boots squeaked. She looked up a second and slipped.
The thing about islands: when you hit the ground, you hit it hard.
The earth seems to be more stone than dirt.
She slammed onto the earth and felt a crack in her hands. The ground was hard underneath her palms, and she felt mud on her knees. Her hands smarted and her knees ached and she stood up slowly, rubbing her hands together. The flashlight clattered somewhere to her right and she clutched it with muddy fingers. What a way to start the day.
The sky waxed dark blue when she finally made it to the Obrists, hands and legs and all, slightly worse for the wear. Her left wrist ached.
One word.
“Dangit.”
Her mother was going to kill her.
how can you stop the post like this?
ReplyDeleteone word
dangit
i'm going to kill you if you don't give me more.