200 words today, great scott!
You know what? I want to finish this book now. So I'm a commitment to you, whoever reads this blog, to write for at least one hour every day.
Today I have over 200 words, and I had to spend a lot of my hour reading to find out what I've been doing in this story.
Here it is:
It was hìm. Marq felt himself go cold. Blue eyes, black hair, a dark coffee skin. He was leaning against a wall, just watching Marq. He exuded insolence. His eyes seemed to say "I've been sleeping with your wife and you don't even know it. And I can pleasure her in ways you can't begin to understand, just as she does me."
Marq wanted to smash his face in. Bastard. He thought his own wife was immune to this ladykiller, and she wasn't. She'd had this man's bastard child too, a son, the son that should have been his own. Well, he wasn't going to let him get away with it. He would take him out right now, with his sword, and snap that smug gloaty head right off its womanizing body.
He raced forward. The man raised one eyebrow. A little smile crooked the corner of his mouth. He straightened up and slowly ambled around the corner.
Marq gave chase. He would not let him escape this time. But when he got to the corner, there was nobody there, no one walking away down the street. It was empty.
Luìc. That's what he called himself. But Lucifer was more apt. Where he came from, nobody knew. Where he went, nobody knew. One thing everyone knew now, he left a trail of dark-skinned, blue-eyed children behind him, born to other men's wives.
A raging mist filled Marq and blinded him. His heart beat fit to burst and a rush of white noise filled his ears. He struggled to breathe. He stood rigid, unmoving, fists clenched, until the darkness began to clear.
He blinked. He was standing at a corner, looking down an empty street. Why? And he was gasping for breath. Slowly now, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Calm down. Was that a panic attack of some kind? And what had caused it?
Breathe in, breathe out. How long had he been standing here anyway?
He looked around. The streets were deserted. Like a ghost town. Was he a ghost? Had he died? Had revenge been snatched from him by death?
What revenge?
Breathe in, breathe out. Was he going mad? He'd never had anything like this happen to him, until he met Greer. Did she have the power to drive men mad? He suddenly remembered the laughing, dark-haired girl who had jumped out of his tarot card. That was madness too, an even bigger madness. He hadn't even met Greer then.
He couldn't shake off the feeling that she was behind it anyway.
Today I have over 200 words, and I had to spend a lot of my hour reading to find out what I've been doing in this story.
Here it is:
It was hìm. Marq felt himself go cold. Blue eyes, black hair, a dark coffee skin. He was leaning against a wall, just watching Marq. He exuded insolence. His eyes seemed to say "I've been sleeping with your wife and you don't even know it. And I can pleasure her in ways you can't begin to understand, just as she does me."
Marq wanted to smash his face in. Bastard. He thought his own wife was immune to this ladykiller, and she wasn't. She'd had this man's bastard child too, a son, the son that should have been his own. Well, he wasn't going to let him get away with it. He would take him out right now, with his sword, and snap that smug gloaty head right off its womanizing body.
He raced forward. The man raised one eyebrow. A little smile crooked the corner of his mouth. He straightened up and slowly ambled around the corner.
Marq gave chase. He would not let him escape this time. But when he got to the corner, there was nobody there, no one walking away down the street. It was empty.
Luìc. That's what he called himself. But Lucifer was more apt. Where he came from, nobody knew. Where he went, nobody knew. One thing everyone knew now, he left a trail of dark-skinned, blue-eyed children behind him, born to other men's wives.
A raging mist filled Marq and blinded him. His heart beat fit to burst and a rush of white noise filled his ears. He struggled to breathe. He stood rigid, unmoving, fists clenched, until the darkness began to clear.
He blinked. He was standing at a corner, looking down an empty street. Why? And he was gasping for breath. Slowly now, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. Calm down. Was that a panic attack of some kind? And what had caused it?
Breathe in, breathe out. How long had he been standing here anyway?
He looked around. The streets were deserted. Like a ghost town. Was he a ghost? Had he died? Had revenge been snatched from him by death?
What revenge?
Breathe in, breathe out. Was he going mad? He'd never had anything like this happen to him, until he met Greer. Did she have the power to drive men mad? He suddenly remembered the laughing, dark-haired girl who had jumped out of his tarot card. That was madness too, an even bigger madness. He hadn't even met Greer then.
He couldn't shake off the feeling that she was behind it anyway.
posted by cyberjanet at 2:15 AM
1 comments
