The Tinkers Excerpt

I haven't posted an excerpt in a very long time, as I've been preparing to finish my novel. Now, with only 10k left, my secrets can be revealed.
Ahem.
I'd love to hear what you think, but keep in mind that this is a first draft, so I will be making it better in the next few months.

***

"I'm--"

"What, Luria?"

"I'm not going to be a Captive," she vows.

"Well, neither will I." We run faster, faster, until we can't hear [the Guards'] footsteps anymore. We dodge through hallways and offices, hoping they won't find us. My heart races. Finally, I see the exit sign glowing in the distance. I sprint towards it, my sides burning. Luria pants, sprinting beside me. I reach the door and press on it, my muscles weary and nervous with adrenaline. Luria's pale eyes glow. We run through the door into a shock of bitter fall air, and then the alert comes.

My watch buzzes. I stop for a minute, just to look at it. I read the message.

"No."

Luria smiles bleakly. "It's true." She pulls her hair back, her face red and flushed from the ride.

"Guess we'd better turn ourselves in."

"I won't."

I nod. "Well, I won't either."

"I knew you wouldn't," Luria says. She shudders, slightly. Goosebumps rise on her arms.

The fear hangs in the air, almost tangible. What if? They'll be coming for us soon. We've got to hide, do something. It doesn't matter. They'll find us anyway. But still. Still.

Excerpt

{Note: Life's been crazy lately so sorry for not posting yesterday. Writing has also been worse than I'd like. I miss NaNo, the rush of enthusiasm, the relative ease. After this week I'll post regularly again. The spacing is weird, so try to ignore it.}

The man looks up at us with a glassy stare. We're behind schedule. I forgot about that.

"Look, we've got to go. Now." My tone is tempered steel.

"Fine." She walks ahead of me, despite the fact that she has no idea where she's going.

"Stupid job," she mutters.

"Luria, what's wrong?" Her face is pale.

"Nothing," she says brightly. "What would possibly make you think that anything is wrong?"

"Hmm. The tearstained face and bloodshot eyes rather give it away there, don't they?"

She walks faster, her shoes beating the floor. She stares at her feet, her head bowed.

"I don't want to tell you."

"Have you always been this informative, or is this a recent development?"

She shrugs. "Tell me how it feels to have your life ripped from under you so then I can laugh at you, too. It's only fair, you know."

"That's a bit melodramatic. You know, just a bit."

"Why do you work for the system, Dem? Do you go to your apartment at the end of the day and think back on your day, remembering how happy you were when you paralyzed those tens of people? Feels great, doesn't it?"

"Don't mock me," I mutter.

"If you're ashamed of your work, don't do it. If you secretly feel like you don't want to do it, why do you stand for it?"

"It's not that easy."

"Oh right, it's never that easy. I forgot how the rules didn't apply for you."

10 Writing Prompts

I've been feeling uninspired lately. To ward that off, I created 10 original writing prompts.

• It killed her heart, but not her mind.
• Sunlight streamed down the hallway to where a figure lay.
• Her smile was patched with sadness.
• "At least we're not being attacked by a cannibalistic gorilla who throws.... flaming torches, right?" Something stomped down the hallway.
• "I'm the politest thief you've ever met. Doesn't that count for something?"
• The dog's eyes glowed.
•  His eyes were agates, set in a bitter, lustrous face.
•  He stared at me lifelessly, pleading for help.
•  It licks its lips. "You go first."
• The chair spoke.

Let me know what you think in the comments! If any of these helped you or sparked any ideas, I'd love to hear it.

Katia

Excerpt from The Tinkers

 I tried to really capture Dem's emotions as he's being held captive. This is a 330-word excerpt from The Tinkers, my first-draft WIP.

***

He stares at me, searching my battered form for signs of weakness. He clicks his teeth like he's snapping a whip, prowling around me. I hold myself stiffly, the headache dulled slightly with the presence of almost-enough sleep. Victor watches me rabidly, staring with feverish concentration in his beady eyes, until I look away, defeated. He smiles maliciously, his features compressed in a frown. He shocks me, tapping his wrist like he's beating someone. I try not to flinch as the shocks invade my body, traveling through my nerves. He holds his hand steady, his long sleeves flipped back to show me just how much power he has. I, again, am powerless. I watch wearily as he shocks again and again, until they no longer register. I scoot back, my back pressed to the wall, as he comes toward me. Her bends down and hisses at me, his harsh breath smelling of charcoal.

"When he gives them to me a second time," he smiles, "they don't get out alive." He snarls at me with a glowering smile, barely visible in the dim light. His mood lightens, as he toys with me, sending shivers of radiation up my spine.

I fight the urge to scream, to break the silence. He watches me carefully, waiting for the precise moment when I will break down. His eyes gleam as he pushes me further and further, watching me silently beg for mercy. I will not grovel. I will not. I bite my lip hard as he shocks me, violent blasts of energy quivering through my body. He glares at me with cold, calculating eyes. I feel myself become numb. I try to distract myself, thinking about Luria and Jack and Siri. Who are all going to die because of me. The tension intensifies, strangling my bones, until all I can think about is the pain. My heart pounds. I feel myself slowing down, my organs beginning to shut down ... My breath grows ragged. I'm going to die.

Judas

The chief priests huddle together, waiting for you. The high priest, Caiaphas, stares at you with piercing eyes. They know why you're here.
Your mouth feels dry. You call, "What are you willing to give to me if I hand him over?" The priests nod. Caiaphas walks up to you, handing you a small bag. You open it, just enough to see the glint of silver. They turn and walk away, shuffling past the empty marketplace. You leave, thinking of silver and betrayal.
  ***
You enter the house for Passover. The other apostles greet you. Jesus enters and sits. They pass the unleavened bread and wine. Jesus glances at you, his face serious behind his darkened beard.
"Amen, I say to you, one of you will betray me."
The others chime in, choruses of, "Surely it isn't I, Lord?"

He pauses. "The man who dipped his hand into the dish with me is the one who will betray me. The Son of Man indeed goes, as it is written of him, but woe to that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed. It would be better for that man if he had never been born.” He looks at you again.
You begin to feel uneasy. You lick your lips, trying to moisten them. You call to him, hoping he doesn't know. "Surely it is not I, Rabbi?" Your voice is hoarse.
He frowns. A shadow from the flickering candlelight crosses his face. "You have said so." You think of the silver, sitting within your reach. He doesn't know. He couldn't.

He takes the bread and blesses it. Looking around the table, he says, "Take and eat this; this is my body." He hands it out. It is silent as they eat it, one by one. You bring the bread to your mouth.  Then he takes a cup, and gives it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which will be shed on behalf of many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, from now on I shall not drink this fruit of the vine until the day when I drink it with you new in the kingdom of my Father.” You raise the cup to your lips slowly. The burgundy wine sloshes inside. Sweat beads on your forehead. You shouldn't do this. You have to, though. You promised. Besides, you already have the money. The other disciples don't notice that you finish the meal in silence.

You walk to Mount Olives with the others. You sing along to a hymn, your lips barely moving. They don't notice over the pounding sandals and jubilant songs.  The scent of ripe fruit hangs heavy in the air. Jesus gathers you. You stand in a circle with the others. He glances at every one of you, lingering on your face, your strong brow and dark eyes.
  "Tonight all of you will have your faith in me shaken, for it is written: ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock will be dispersed’; but after I have been raised up, I will go with you to Galilee." The silence echoes his solemnity.
"Though all may have their faith in you shaken, mine will never be," a voice calls out. Low and hollow; Peter's.

Paul chimes in. "I will never desert you." The others follow, voicing their assents.
The trees rustle in the night-time quiet. Everyone looks at you. You cough, as fake as your words.
"I will not betray you, Lord." Jesus' piercing gaze lingers on you, long after the rest. You slip away under the cover of night.
***
You walk over to the priests. Their faces, shadowed by darkness, show nothing. Caiaphas pulls you close to him, against his tunic. "What will the sign be?" he whispers hoarsely.
  "The man I shall kiss is the one; arrest him." He nods, a smile on his weathered face. He leaves, to the temple. You hear the beating of footsteps, pulsing on the ground. He returns with hordes of men, clubs in their hands. Their faces are grim. They rush towards you. You realize you are the leader. You walk back to the hill, dotted with scrubby trees. You should turn back. You already promised. Your feet march on. Your sandals become clotted with dust, and soon, you are there. The men stand behind you, ready to fight the one who calls himself Messiah.

  Jesus stands, unsurprised. Peter, James, and John flock him, like sheep. They always were the followers. You pause for a moment, your legs trembling. You step forward and kiss him.
"Hail, Rabbi," you call. Your voice is tight. You kiss him, your mouth on his bearded cheek. He looks gravely tired and innocent. This isn't right. You are a traitor.
  "Friend, do what you have come for," he replies. Instantly, Caiaphas and another priest walk forward, pulling Jesus from the crowd, binding him with rope. James takes out his sword with a look of fury, slicing the priest's servant's ear. The crowd steps back as blood pools on the fertile ground. It's all your doing. You step back, hesitant to see more bloodshed.

“Put your sword back into its sheath, for all who take the sword will perish by the sword. Do you think that I cannot call upon my Father and he will not provide me at this moment with more than twelve legions of angels? But then how would the scriptures be fulfilled which say that it must come to pass in this way?” His eyes plead with the masses. They stare back at him, unflinching.
"Have you come out against me as with a robber, with swords and clubs to seize me? All this has come to pass that the writings of the prophets may be fulfilled," Jesus finishes. The disciples run, their breathing coarse in the unnatural stillness. You flee, barely noticing the ache of your sandals and the dust gathered on your tunic. Instead, a bitter taste grows in your mouth.

You stay away from the crowds, not far enough to mishear the masses' bloody cries, Peter's betrayal, the chief priests' glee at condemning "the Savior." The scene replays in your head. It would be better if you had never been born. Unable to stand the metallic taste of blood in your mouth, you throw up onto the dry ground, over and over.

The bag of coins is heavy in your hand. You handle it carefully, repulsed. You want to bury the money, hide the evidence. Distaste sours your skin. You feel unclean, vulgar. A man's life for some silver. This morning, you stand in a chief priest's courtyard.
He comes to the door, beady eyes set under a stern gray beard. "Yes?"
"I have sinned in betraying innocent blood." The words sting your tongue.
He barks a laugh. "Well, what is that to us? See to it yourself." You leave before Caiaphas closes the door. You walk to the temple, flinging the open bag. The silver coins scatter, glinting in the early-morning sun. You spit on them, glad to be rid of the blood money.

You run to the edge of a mount, your face streaked with bitterness. You alone have sinned, causing Jesus to die. It would be better if you had never been born. You take a coil of rope, and climb the tallest tree. You tie it to the strongest branch as the tree shakes beneath your weight. Fouled sinner. You thread the thick end around your neck, tying it in a knot. You pull it tight. You deserve to die. As you step off the branch, a shout ripples through the air.

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

Rememberance: finished

I don't belong here. The pews are filled with your family and neighbors. Your mom gestures to me. I walk over to her, close enough to see her fallen mascara and her brown eyes blinking back tears. She tries to hug me, but I break away, unable to see her frailty. I walk out of the church, bitter tears dripping down my face. I can't do this.

***

"Katelyn, dear, it's not your fault." She folds her crepe-paper hands on the desk, gazing at me with unadulterated pity in her bleached-blue eyes. As if that's going to help.

"If it's not my fault, whose is it?"

"He had a mental illness. It couldn't have been helped, really." I try to fall asleep. Why does the school pay for a counselor who wears hair extensions and gives gaudy speeches like she's trying to save the world? Does she really think that her words are going to make me forget my pain, the sleepless nights of texting with you? Does she think that's going to make me forget your smile and the way you watched my debate competitons and laughed with me afterwards, your eyes shining?

Her words only bring me back. "You're not to blame," she harps. Well, that clears it up. She doesn't know what I did. I fought with you. You needed me more than I realized. I let you down. I yelled at you, played the bad guy until I won. I didn't talk to you for days until you died. A tear runs down my cheek. I wipe it away with a bitten-down fingernail. I don't want her sympathy. The woman looks up at me.

"Oh, honey."

I roll my shoulders back. She can't make me a coward. I fold my hands uneasily. She reaches out to me, placing her fragile hand on top of mine. I stand up, knocking the chair back. Only when I get to the bathroom do I let the tears fall from my eyes.

***

            I scrolled on my phone, checking for new messages. My screen lit up. I clicked on Zach’s text. My hands started trembling. He can’t be right. I called him. The dial tone sounded. I called again. I leave a message. He calls back, his voice shaky. “Kate, Jamie’s dead.” His heavy silence stuttered, his shallow breathing transmitted through the phone. I hung up, unable to listen to your best friend cry.

            We walked down the beach, holding hands. You stopped to laugh at something I’d said. Your green eyes sparkled. “Did you hear about how Montgomery led the Battle of—“

            I hushed you. I was tired of battle talk, always this war, that war. Life was nothing but a series of combat for you. I drew closer to you, protecting myself against the overcast sky and jaded winds. I kissed you quickly, letting the moment linger between us.

            You glanced at me, your tired eyes scanning my mood. “Let’s go.”

            “In the water?”

            You nodded. I took off my shoes quickly, and we walked together on the deserted beach barefoot. I linked my arm between yours, hugging you for warmth. You nodded again and we took off, circling the beach, arms spread wide, and dashing in, letting the frigid waves pull us under.

***

The next morning, the school president announced the news. “It is with deep regret that we inform you of a loss of one of our students, Jamie Holmes.” I sit in my seat, feeling numb. The math teacher doesn’t look at me.  I bite my lip. The girls in the back whisper. So much for delicacy. I taste blood, pooling on my lips. It tastes like corroded metal, the shrill cry of an unspoken scream. Perfect.

            I walk down the halls. Gossip cracks around me like eggshells as I walk by. I stop at the army-green locker, twisting the code I memorized by heart. 52, 39, 14. I pause only long enough to slip a note inside. Its words are thin, trembling. The first note you ever wrote to me. My eyes blur with tears until I can barely make out your careful script, as if it was a blank page and you’d never existed. I walk to history. Mascara runs down my cheeks. I hold my head high as hordes of students pass me, whispering. I have nowhere to hide.

***

            I hold the tip carefully, letting the knife graze my skin. Words cascade through my thoughts, hard words, revered for their drunken power. I deserved every one of them. I tried to fill the emptiness you left behind, to harden my heart. I’d test myself. I was addicted to danger, every new thrill leaving traces of the dull ache behind. I was never strong enough to forget, though. Every day brought memories fresh to my mind. I press against the hollow of my wrist, hurting.  You’re not here anymore. I press harder, until I forget about my pain.

***

            It’s been eleven weeks. It’s April seventeenth. You would have been eighteen. You always talked about enlisting in the army, got this big grin on your face. I miss that part of you. I did, anyway. I’m a different girl.

I stand up, my legs asleep, and get the car. Mom doesn’t yell at me anymore, not since after the accident. I drive to the beach alone, the engine thrumming beneath me. Seaweed lies around the shore, scattered like ashes. Rain pelts my face. I kneel, briefly. My footprints, for a minute, are captured in the sand. I watch them disappear, the bitter waves washing them away. I whisper a word. “Jamie.” I soak in the ocean spray, my face tilted towards the winds threatening to be my demise. I drop a tear-stained letter on the sand, full of strike-outs and painstaking words bleeding through the page. I let my Dear John fragments die noble deaths among the seaweed. You would have liked it that way. I walk away, my bare feet making divots in the sand. Men on the battlefield aren’t the only real heroes. If only you’d lived long enough to realize that. The waves fragmenting on the beach whisper your name, but I don’t listen. I don’t belong here anymore.

Tree Petals

I'm going to be posting some of my creative writing from YoCW once a week on here, from now on.
This is a story I wrote with the prompt "Dancing Through the Leaves."

***

He grasped a rake in his strong hands, pushing it against the firm grass. He knelt close to me. "We're going to rake these leaves for your mom, and then we're going to have a party." I nodded.

"Here, like this." He showed me how to drag the tool against the ground. My pudgy fingers slipped from the rake. Instead, I sat on the side of the grass, watching him, crouching underneath a tree. Sunlit swam through the trees, warming me. The air smelled like fresh apples and donuts. He finished raking quickly.

 

He laughed, a sparkling sound. "Know what we're going to do now, Gracie?"

 

"Have a party," I answered, proud of my six-year-old self for remembering for so long.

 

"That's right," he smiled.

 

"Come here, Gracie." He knelt on the ground, not caring that his jeans were filled with dirt, or the scraggly amount of dirt that we did have. He walked over to a corner of the lawn, where he'd put all of the leaves.

 

"What are we doi--" He picked me up easily. I fell into the leaf-pile, my hair filling with leaves. I giggled, overcome with joy.

 

"Again, Daddy, again?" And so he did, over and over, until my head was full of excitement and Daddy pronounced me "a regular hillbilly."

 

"Now what are we doing?" He glanced at me, his face glowing.

 

"We're going to dance in the leaves," he replied confidently. And so we did. I was slow at first, stumbling over the steps, but Daddy was a good teacher. We waltzed around the pile of leaves, my almost-golden hair flying behind me. We danced to the birds' chirping until we'd danced so many times we couldn't keep track and our clothes were covered with fragments of leaves. I fell down, and he followed me, until our clothes were full of leaves. I rode on his shoulders.

 

We laughed when the trees sprinkled their petals on us. Only later would I remember the glint in his teasing grin, his flannel shirts, the rock albums he always listened to. I remember so I have something to remember him by. He's in Iraq now. Either that or gone. He doesn't rake anymore, but sometimes, when I'm alone, I still pretend we're dancing through the leaves.

Excerpt From my New Novel

                Since I have successfully determined that I can write better than the awful Star Wars movies-turned-into-books (by someone who has no idea how to write), I’ve decided to be brave. Dauntless, even (excellent Divergent faction, by the way). Okay, this is pretty lame for dauntless, but whatever. I’m going to share some of the first chapter from my new WIP (i.e., first draft) entitled The Tinkers. At least, that’s its current title. I haven’t been able to write much in the past week because I’m moving, and I ot sick, and I have finals this week (ugh), but I will write more. Currently, I have about 3k done on this. Sometime, I hope to edit, and find an ending for, The Chosen. I’m confident that that will happen in the next five months or so.

                Without further ado (geez, I’m really stalling), here is my excerpt, seven hundred forty-four words that are partially useless.

                She submitted easily. At first, she had resisted, but now, she was no threat. I put her under the anesthesia and watched her for a moment. She wasn’t the first one to resist, but she was the most memorable. Her lips were rose-colored; professionally dyed. Her face was a porcelain mask, commissioned by the best Surges in the area. Still, she couldn’t hide. They knew her age. Too bad. She was prettier than most.

            “Dem!” Jack watches me suspiciously. He is younger than I am, as his unblemished face shows, but he acts like he is near thirty. “Get back to work. We’ve got a patient.” With a snap, he pulls on his clear rubber gloves and puts on his white coat. This is a formality, of course; no one is here to see us, so it hardly matters.

            I nod. “I’m going. She won’t care, will she?” I laugh, but Jack scowls, a frown implanted on his face. Apparently, someone can’t take a joke.

            “The Corporation is watching us. The camera’s right over there.” He nods to the camera with a rigid countenance. It swivels in our direction, scanning, watching. I draw in my breath, but Jack doesn’t notice.

            I shrug with a slow, sure smile. “Gotta get back to work, don’t we?” He rolls his eyes as I pull on my gloves hastily.

            “Hurry up.” His voice is as sharp as glass. I walk over to the medical cabinet and take out the sterilized shot and screw on the needle. I fill it with the murky anti-immunizing serum and go to the patient’s bedside. Or, more accurately, the off-white cot which she is strapped onto. Her lips are pursed slightly. I roll up her elegant sleeve, as her hand twitches.

Is she regaining consciousness? Jack swabs the flesh on her upper arm, still frowning at my obvious mistakes. I jab the needle into her arm. I push down, watching the mixture fall until it is empty. It should take it five minutes to start affecting her. I lean back against the medical cabinet and slouch. I close my eyes, as if when I open them again, I suddenly won’t have to do this. I gaze at the bland wall. It is bleached white, as bland as the robots that control those sorts of things. The ones who work at the corporation. It would be nice if it had a window. Of course, that would mean that we’d actually be able to see what was going on. And no one would want that.

            “Dem, you all right?” I open my eyes grudgingly, knowing just who is asking the question. He is probing, like always.

            “Yes, I’m fine. This part—” I swallow my words. No matter how much I joke with Jack, I can’t afford to get in trouble.

            “I mean, it’s sad. It seems like she was trying so hard to go unnoticed.”

            Jack shoots me a warning look. Of course, the corporation has that on camera now. They have everything on camera. “Yes.” His voice is tight and bitter, like a lemon. I had a lemon once, before the Corporation came into power. It was sour and flavorful, tasting like sadness—I break off my thoughts. I’ve got a job to do.

He continues, “Yes, but they always get noticed. Anyway, it’s just part of the system.” His eyebrows knot themselves together.

I nod, heaving myself off of the cool metal cabinet. My head is throbbing now, but I get the feeling that it’s more than a stress-related headache.

I walk over to her, watching her shallow breaths. “Okay, Jack, you’re right. We should get back to work.” I say this loudly, for the corporation’s benefit. As you might’ve guessed, I’ve become a much better actor since I was selected to be a Tinker.

I pull on my gloves, my hands aching to be free from the sweaty plastic. I turn to Jack. “How much does she weigh?”

“One-thirty.” Jack grits his teeth.

“All right then.” I hold the syringe, equipped with the needle. I put in the chemical until it reaches the number 13. I push it into her arm. Her skin feels like papery tissues. Her body is wearier than she’d care to admit, despite her plastic surgery from the Surges. I wait one, two, three seconds, until the fluid enters her bloodstream. I touch her, to see how she reacts to stimuli. A mumble escapes from her lips.

                This is my first draft, so obviously, I’ll change it vastly, as I’m no Miracle Max—my first drafts are more Cliffs of Insanity*. That’s okay, though. It’s more interesting that way.

                I just referenced The Princess Bride twice? Inconceivable!

Katia