Thursday, July 18, 2013

More Random Blurbs

The majority of the writing I've been doing recently is just in my 642 Things book, so here's some more of what I've done lately.


It was the first time he had ever gotten into a fight, and it was in ___________ of all places:

It was the first time he had ever gotten into a fight, and it was in front of the recruiting office, of all places. Two officers pulled them apart. The other guy had a split lip and a bloody nose. Eyrik had not fared so well. He was dragged into the supervising recruiter's office, where he stood in front of the desk silently. 

"You picked a fight with one of my men." The supervisor stated.

"That's a lie." Eyrik didn't offer any further explanation.

The supervisor raised an eyebrow. "Are you aware that Private Gavin is twenty-three years old, 
and weighs 254 pounds?"

Eyrik swiped at the corner of his mouth and looked at the blood on his hand. "Just his fist, or does that include the rest of him?"

The supervisor leaned back and studied him. "How old are you, boy?"

Eyrik looked him in the eye. "Eighteen."

The supervisor laughed. "With a little training, you could make a talented liar. Now, truthfully, how old are you? Thirteen?"

"Fifteen!" Eyrik snapped, insulted.

With a grin of satisfaction, he asked, "Do you know how many men have taken on Gavin and lived to tell the tale?"

"None of the dead ones."

The humor drained from the room almost instantly. 

The supervisor leaned toward him and barked, "Quit playing with me, boy! From now on, you work for me and you'll answer my questions straight!"

Note: This actually includes one of my characters from my story Aouthentica, Eyrik Duell. I've always wanted to explore his backstory a little more deeply, so I made him fifteen (he's twenty-one in the book) and put him in a fight, because I have no doubt he started fighting early. I may actually expand this one at some point.

You wake up by the side of the road lying next to a bicycle, with no memory, and no wallet. What happens in the next hour?:

*Where am I?* I surveyed my surroundings, prompted by some unknown instinct. Empty highway. On my side is grass, trees, and the sound of water. On the opposite side is barren desert as far as I can see. There also seems to be vicious windstorm, which I can't hear, but what else could be kicking up so much dust and sand? The bicycle is next to me. It looks wrong laying sideways in the notably lush grass. I picked it up and felt a strange urge to sit on it, so I swung a leg over and did. 
     A few seconds later found me traveling down the highway slowly, watching the strange environment for any kind of change. The only difference I found was when the highway inexplicably disappeared. I stopped pedaling, tottered, then fell over, smacking my forehead against the asphalt quite soundly.

*Run, Anthea, run!* 

      A voice, shouting. A memory. A single memory, and that just a voice. I still wasn't even sure if Anthea was my name, or someone else's name. Maybe... maybe that was my voice. It gave me a headache just to think about it. 
     Though it may have been the rapidly developing knot on the front of my head. I decided the bicyclewas too risky to continue using, so I walked to the end of the road on bare feet, which I only now realized. The biomes were still divided, but met in a blurred line.
     I cautiously stepped off the road with one foot. Sandy grass. Odd, yet not unpleasant. I stepped off entirely. 
     Sights, smells, sounds and sensations hit me, overloading my sense. I stumbled backwards onto the pavement and they stopped. My brain was working overtime, sorting everything out like a puzzle. Tentatively, I stepped off again. The visions hit harder this time, driving me to my knees and embedding themselves in my mind. 
     By the time I got back to the pavement, I was sure of two things: They were memories, and they weren't mine.


Something I've noticed as I write blurbs and creative writings is that I tend to start out writing in first person, but when I start writing longer stories, like my novels, I usually write in third person. Odd, huh?

Sé onr sverdar sitja hvass!

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