Post by lisajane on Jan 6, 2009 5:21:28 GMT -5
This is the beginning of a novel I'm writing (about 11K words at the moment), the prologue. It's part of the present I sent to Shyviolet for Secret Santa, but she won't have read this prologue yet because I completely rewrote it afterwards
I don't know if I'll throw away the prologue in the end, but enjoy as it is at the moment.
Prologue to untitled novel
My sixteenth birthday present was a single red rose that he found in the park.
He’d trimmed the thorns off the rose, so I wouldn’t prick my hands, so streams of blood wouldn’t run over my hands and through my fingers like the first time he’d seen me hold a rose, too tightly. Perhaps that rose survives in a vase on my windowsill, perhaps it has been killed.
Today I’ve held this rose tightly to my chest, under my chin protected by the rain lashing around us. I see him ahead of me, running through the forest, towards the cliffs. My eyes sting from the rain, they dart away from the search lights of helicopters above us. I can hear the police shouting through megaphones, but their voice sounds like someone calling me out of a dream. But when he turns around and calls out to me, his voice is clear.
When I catch up with him, I take his hand with my free one and we sprint for the cliffs. The voices above us become louder as we run further, and I think they’re trying to call us back. I want to go back, I think. But I’ve already chosen who to run with.
As we jump off the cliff and towards the black water below, he gives me a quick smile before I let the rose go out of my hands, the petals flying away from me before they are slashed to pieces.
I don't know if I'll throw away the prologue in the end, but enjoy as it is at the moment.
Prologue to untitled novel
My sixteenth birthday present was a single red rose that he found in the park.
He’d trimmed the thorns off the rose, so I wouldn’t prick my hands, so streams of blood wouldn’t run over my hands and through my fingers like the first time he’d seen me hold a rose, too tightly. Perhaps that rose survives in a vase on my windowsill, perhaps it has been killed.
Today I’ve held this rose tightly to my chest, under my chin protected by the rain lashing around us. I see him ahead of me, running through the forest, towards the cliffs. My eyes sting from the rain, they dart away from the search lights of helicopters above us. I can hear the police shouting through megaphones, but their voice sounds like someone calling me out of a dream. But when he turns around and calls out to me, his voice is clear.
When I catch up with him, I take his hand with my free one and we sprint for the cliffs. The voices above us become louder as we run further, and I think they’re trying to call us back. I want to go back, I think. But I’ve already chosen who to run with.
As we jump off the cliff and towards the black water below, he gives me a quick smile before I let the rose go out of my hands, the petals flying away from me before they are slashed to pieces.