dig your grave
Just finished Twilight and I think my biggest problem with the writing is that I am totally jealous I didn't think of it, because I feel like I could do so much with that plot. Egotistical? Yes definitely. So anyway, since I didn't, I thought I'd revisit my urban myth story, so here we go.
This machinery is foreign to her, gives a strange rushed feeling in her joints, the roots of her teeth, the palms of her hands, and it is fearsome. Her lips are parted as they drive, eyes wide and jittering across the scenery that passes by the windshield.
There isn't much to see except the parallel line separating the lane coming from the lane going. She drives on the lane going. It presses on forever into the seam of the horizon, where dead wheat fields meet the infinite expanse of black starless sky, the only thing familiar to her.
A sign says stop, but she shifts this foreign machinery up into fifth and speeds past it.
"We're being followed," is the backseat observation.
Seventhe presses her lips together, curls her fingers in her gloves over the steering wheel. "I know." It's just an instinctive crawl down her human spine, but she can feel it. Feel them. It's the feeling that makes her human foot leaden on the gas pedal, her human heart race, her human stomach churn.
The prince laughs, sprawled out elegantly over all three seats with no regard for a seatbelt. "Not just by them. You'd best pull over."
She looks up to see flashing lights in her rearview mirror, steers this foreign machinery over onto the gravel shoulder, waits. In the backseat, the prince calmly turns a page in his book.
A large man, human, in a uniform exits the police car behind them, comes around to the driver's side of the car and taps on Seventhe's window. She turns her sunken, black-rimmed eyes on him through the glass for a blank moment before rolling it down.
The policeman frowns. "License and registration," he orders. It's hard to tell if the driver is a boy or a girl, with the short-cropped black hair and starved features, so he leaves off any sort of pronoun.
Seventhe blinks at him, pausing another moment for a delayed reaction. "I haven't got any."
Okay, I think I remember why I stopped writing this, it's mostly overly mysterious, pretentious attempt at magic-realism. So I'm going to drop off there for now and evaluate later.
This machinery is foreign to her, gives a strange rushed feeling in her joints, the roots of her teeth, the palms of her hands, and it is fearsome. Her lips are parted as they drive, eyes wide and jittering across the scenery that passes by the windshield.
There isn't much to see except the parallel line separating the lane coming from the lane going. She drives on the lane going. It presses on forever into the seam of the horizon, where dead wheat fields meet the infinite expanse of black starless sky, the only thing familiar to her.
A sign says stop, but she shifts this foreign machinery up into fifth and speeds past it.
"We're being followed," is the backseat observation.
Seventhe presses her lips together, curls her fingers in her gloves over the steering wheel. "I know." It's just an instinctive crawl down her human spine, but she can feel it. Feel them. It's the feeling that makes her human foot leaden on the gas pedal, her human heart race, her human stomach churn.
The prince laughs, sprawled out elegantly over all three seats with no regard for a seatbelt. "Not just by them. You'd best pull over."
She looks up to see flashing lights in her rearview mirror, steers this foreign machinery over onto the gravel shoulder, waits. In the backseat, the prince calmly turns a page in his book.
A large man, human, in a uniform exits the police car behind them, comes around to the driver's side of the car and taps on Seventhe's window. She turns her sunken, black-rimmed eyes on him through the glass for a blank moment before rolling it down.
The policeman frowns. "License and registration," he orders. It's hard to tell if the driver is a boy or a girl, with the short-cropped black hair and starved features, so he leaves off any sort of pronoun.
Seventhe blinks at him, pausing another moment for a delayed reaction. "I haven't got any."
Okay, I think I remember why I stopped writing this, it's mostly overly mysterious, pretentious attempt at magic-realism. So I'm going to drop off there for now and evaluate later.