Book in the works

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Hey yall;

I wanted to drop here something I've started working on. It's contents have been something I've been obsessing over for quite some time - post-apocolyptic society. This is the forward, and while the content will definitely have undertones of FL I figured I'd post it here since it has none as of yet. Tell me what you think, and be honest, but be warned that this is a very rough draft. As they say in Finding Forrester, write first with your heart, yeah? With no further adieu:

Forward: The End

The vibrant red wax of the crayon smeared a path along the paper canvas in a sort of ordered chaos. Jerking strokes were followed by long, smooth lines only to be replaced with violent jabs again. Somewhere a phone rang, but the hand that commanded the crayon didn’t falter. It continued with single-minded purpose, coaxing an image from the disjointed lines.

An older woman answered the phone with an anxious greeting. Her hair was done up prettily to compliment a simple but elegant evening dress. She picked at the neckline incessantly like she wanted to be free of it.

“Hello,” she greeted, though her tone said she knew who it was. A sigh followed a moment’s pause. She murmured behind a cupped hand in to the receiver, falling silent now and again to listen, or to look back at the young girl involved in her coloring.

The child was an ocean of calm as she looked down at her picture. She sat upon the floor, cradled in the folds of her fine dress. It had taken hours for the ladies who tended for her and her mother to make her look as pretty as she did, but she wasn’t concerned. Her picture was far more important than looking nice for other people. Anyway, she had to sit still for so long she deserved some time to play. She wanted to hum, but she knew she shouldn’t. It distracted mother, especially when she was on the phone. She had spent the day playing in the rose garden, and even played hide-and-seek with one of those nice men in the black suits. Now, all she wanted was to draw, and eat something tasty.

The conversation across the room continued for a few more moments before the woman turned and addressed the young girl. Her voice was soft, and wafted through the elegant room with a practiced sweetness. There was something beneath it, though, some barely audible cue that made the little girl squirm as she heard her name.

“Susan,” her mother said, “your father wants to say hello.” Those words had the power to stop the crayon’s path, and it was left discarded as the girl rose. A smile turned her pink lips, and blond hair was cast in all directions as she bounded for the phone. The discomfort she felt from her mother’s tone was forgotten. It was a treat to speak with father, especially these last few months. He was very busy.

“Daddy!” she called in to the receiver. A soft chuckle greeted her on the other end.

“Hello darling, how are you doing?” The voice that crackled from the other end was deep and dignified. “Mommy said you played with Agent Richardson in the garden today. Is that right?”

“Yep,” Susan said, shooting her mother a dour look. “She wasn’t ‘sposed to tell you. Mr. Richardson said he might get in trouble. Mommy can’t keep a secret.” Her mother didn’t appear to hear the accusation. She was busy biting the nail of her pinky finger. Susan knew that she only did that when something was on her mind.

“Well, he’s supposed to take care of you,” her father said, emphasizing the word she’d mispronounced, “but he won’t get in trouble. I’m sure he knew you were safe.” There was a pause as her father muttered something away from the phone. He was back after a second. “Sweetheart, you and mommy have to do me a favor, can you do that?”

“Sure.” Susan poked her finger in to her ear and wiggled it about, which earned a reproachful glance from her mother. She pulled the finger lose and stuck her tongue out in retaliation.

“Remember that special place I told you about, the one that was beneath the house?” her father said.

“Sure, the one you said was our secret cave where the pirates couldn’t get us.”

“That’s the one. You and mommy need to go there now. Daddy’s friends said there might be some pirates looking for us.”

“Really? Like real pirates?” The little girl lit up with excitement at the prospect of those deplorable swashbucklers raiding her home. “When?”

“Soon,” he replied. “So you need to take mommy and go to our cave. Daddy needs to stay outside and fight off those pirates. Can you do that?” Another voice intruded on their conversation, barely audible through the receiver. Susan’s father gave a short reply of acquiescence. Then he said, “Daddy has to go now, the pirates are almost here. Do you promise to help me out?”

“First mate Susan Doehrty never fails, Captain!” She snapped to attention in the middle of her family’s living room.

“That’s a good girl,” her father said. It almost sounded like he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it. “A very good girl,” he repeated. The line was cut from the other end, and a dial tone replaced her father’s soothing voice.

She handed the receiver to a nearby woman dressed in white livery, and turned to her mother. “The captain says we need to go to our hideout!” Susan reached out and grabbed her mother’s hand in a no-nonsense manner, pulling her toward the door. “And when the captain speaks, we listen. Right?” Susan looked back at her mother, smiling with excitement. Her mother, however, did not look happy. She wiped at the corner of her eyes with a small napkin. I guess she doesn’t want to play this game, Susan thought.

<>=<

“Sir, I really don’t think this is the time. Everyone’s in the meeting.” The young man struggled to keep up with his elderly counterpart, who traversed the lengthy halls with determined strides. His fingers pushed back a pair of wiry glasses that slipped upon a sweaty nose. Suddenly, the man he was tailing stopped, spun on a heel, and glared daggers at the lad.

“Listen you snot-nosed worm, I’m telling my family.” The well-dressed gentleman was furious, and stood close enough to fog the assistant’s glasses with his breath. “If we’re still alive after tonight, then you can report me. But right now, if you say another word about what I need to be doing, I’ll have you arrested and shot. Are we clear?” While it was obvious the elderly man couldn’t deliver on his threat, the words still had their desired effect.

“What I need is to --be with my family,” he said, turning once more and practically bounding down the hall. His young assistant stepped back with a cowed expression and cast his eyes to the carpeted floor.

“Of course sir,” he said to the stitched carpet. With that they were off again, moving at just short of a run. The pair eventually found themselves in a plush waiting room, with expensive and well-crafted furniture placed to promote a casual and relaxed sense. However, despite the decor its occupants were far from calm.

The older man wasted no time snatching up a gaudy antique telephone and dialing a set of numbers. As the dial tone gave way ringing, he tapped his foot impatiently. “Diane,” he said as the phone was answered, “Listen, it’s all gone to hell. These idiots and ***-wipes are going through with it.” There was silence as he listened to something on the other end.

“No, it’s all over. There’s no way anyone’s going to get out of this one.” The man fell heavily in to a nearby chair, sinking in to its plush upholstery. “You need to take Susan and bring her to the shelter. I’ll be with the others until they say it’s safe to come out.”

The younger man fidgeted with a yellow notepad, sitting some distance away. Though his boss didn’t betray any details, even the slightest leak of information was against every regulation. He knew the rules as well as anyone, especially how the rules never applied to the people at the top. If this got out, he would be the first one fired. He was pulled from the chasm of self-pity when he heard his employer’s voice change dramatically. He even laughed a little.

“Hello darling, how are you doing?” His voice, moments ago laden with the threat of violence, was suddenly all cream and sugar as he spoke with his daughter. “Mommy said you played with Agent Richardson in the garden today. Is that right?”

The assistant winced at the revelation. A career was murdered with those words, he’d seen it before. Immediately he made a note on his legal pad to have Agent Richardson relieved, preempting what he knew would be the older man’s command. He half-listened as the conversation continued, trying to appear as though he were concentrating on something else. He fiddled with his nametag, “Steven Hodgins” clearly etched on its surface.

“Well, he’s supposed to take care of you, but he won’t get in trouble. I’m sure you were safe.”

This earned a curious glance from Steven, who having just penned the period of his note proceeded to draw a long line through it. These are hard times. Perhaps he’s grown a heart after all. Or there are other things to consider. He has more pressing matters, to be sure. In the same moment, the door to their hidden enclave opened to admit the balding head of another bigwig. And there’s my pink slip, the young man glumly thought to himself. But the newcomer only gave him a passing glance, instead addressing his superior with hushed tones.

“Gus, what are you doing! They’re voting right now and no one knows were you are. The meeting started fifteen minutes ago!” His tone was anxious and agitated, not dissimilar to the rest of the staff. Gus, in turn, turned his attention to the man.

“I damn well know the damn meetings in session, you damn half-wit,” he says through clenched teeth, his hand over the receiver. “Now get out of here, your only making this take longer.” The messenger seemed unperturbed by the slew of insulting vulgarities, and disappeared behind the door. It shut with a soft click.

“Sweetheart, you and mommy have to do me a favor, can you do that?” He was again the patient, soft-spoken man from a moment before. “Remember that special place I told you about, the one that was beneath the house?”

Steven dropped his eyes to the pad in his lap, filled with notes and things to remember. I doubt we’ll even be around to get half of this stuff done, he groaned internally. Like everyone else, he had a working idea of what was happening, but not all the details. Those were reserved for the people pulling the strings. All he really knew was that things were bad, perhaps irreparably bad. Recent hours have only served to confirm his suspicions.

The earlier intruder popped his head in once more. “Gus,” he growled, saying nothing more. His message was clear.

“Yes,” the man replied. His answer was no nonsense, and even. He returned his attention to the phone. “Daddy has to go now, the pirates are almost here. Do you promise to help me out?” A second passed, and then, “That’s a good girl.” He seemed to battle with himself, some internal demon-angel dialogue vying for control of his conscience. “A very good girl,” he finally replied, before returning the phone to its cradle. Silence ensued, neither man wishing to return to the reality they found themselves in. Eventually, however, the older man rose with the weight of years. Despite recent events, he appeared to handle situations well as they came. Each one was worse than the last, but as Steven witnessed others crumble, Gus remained steadfast. His boss was sometimes a harsh and reactionary man, but he admired his mettle.

“Let’s get to that meeting,” the gentleman said, though it was the dutiful man speaking. His heart was elsewhere. Steven rose, and they left to continue on toward the impending fiasco they knew waited in the Situation Room.

“Yes, Mr. Secretary.”

<>=<

Pressed suits filed in to the Situation Room and took up station at a series of seats placed around a table. The bodies filling those suits looked worn, aged beyond their years. Mutters filled the once silent room with sound. Shuffling paper gave punctuation as briefing reports were read and re-read. No matter how many times they read it, however, everyone knew that what was about to happen could not be changed with wishes and regrets.

At the head of the table, a man dressed similar to his counterparts sat. A small pin of the American flag was affixed to his navy-blue tie, a trinket calloused fingers played with as the owner waited for people to take their seats. He rested with one leg cast over the other, looking from a large television on the back wall toward the dignitaries and back again. Set before him on the dark red of the table was a leather suitcase. Its latches were open, but the lid remained closed to hide its contents.

“Mr. President,” a young man said, leaning close to whisper over the din. “Everyone’s present but for the Secretary of State. Shall we-“

“We’ll start immediately,” the executive officer responded. As the young man retreated, he arose to face the men and women of the United States Government. Hush fell over the room as eyes, many filled with apprehension, fell on to him.

“The deadline has passed. Our attempts at diplomacy and damage control have failed. As we have discussed in these past hours our options are limited.” The President placed his hands atop the oaken table, leaning over the affix each member of the meeting with his eyes. “So limited in fact,” he continued, “that we really have but one path open to us.” He pulled his hands from the table, a thick football ring scratching against the surface, deafening in the silence.

The President approached the large television, pointing finger at a series of blinking red dots. “The most recent U2 and satellite intelligence shows mobilization in the following areas, and if we juxtapose this information with what we know-“ he touched something at the bottom of the screen, and red lines connected the dots across the digital image “-then its pretty clear what their next play is.”

Silence was maintained in the room as everyone’s attention was set upon the television and the revelation displayed thereupon. The Secretary of State, Gus Hartwood, pushed open the glass doors to allow himself entry and took up station in a free chair. His face was hard-set, and he nodded his apology to the gathered politicians as he got settled. Haltingly, President Wallace continued.

“The… Vice President and several others have already been taken to bunkers in the event our gamble comes too late. After this meeting, we shall do the same.”

He quit the television and made his way back toward the head of the table. It must have only been a few feet, but for all present the trek seemed to take an age. They knew what would happen once their Commander-in-Chief reached his destination. As the president pressed his hand upon the soft leather o the briefcase, he paused. The sigh that fell from his lips was like a death rattle. As he opened the case, an aide set a red telephone in the middle of the conference table.

“The Secretary of Defense,” the man said, holding the receiver in a quaking hand. President Wallace nodded his understanding, procuring from the briefcase a plastic, three-by-five inch card. He looked over the others, a steely fire in the depths of his brown eyes.

“We are become death, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s give what those bastard Chinese are asking for.”

<>=<

Brandon McGrady stared up at the darkening sky. The first twinkles of starlight had started to fight their way through the distant city haze as the sun took to bed for the night. Lazy clouds made their incessant trek across the heavens, riding on wind’s wings and oblivious of life below. The man smiled at the eternity of it all. Beside him, his wife lay pressed to his side atop the soft grass.

“What are you grinning about,” she mumbled through her languid haze. The slightest touch of an Irish accent still hung in her words, despite years of American life. Stewart shrugged.

“Everything, I guess. Five years ago I took a job typing gibberish in to a computer. You were milking cows and suffering abuse from that awful thing you call you mother.” This earned a playful slap upon his bicep as they both laughed. “Now we’re here. Baby on the way. Business is good.”

Susan hummed and scooted closer to her husband, laying her arm over his extending beer belly. “The world can change in the blink of an eye,” she said, tracing little circles around his navel. She followed Brandon’s eyes to the stars. “I suppose we should take care not to blink.”

Brandon placed his lips to her forehead in a gentle kiss. “It won’t change for us mo chuisle. Look there,” he said, lifting a finger at a bright spot in the sky as it burned its way through the darkness. “That’ll be our star.”

Susan snorted, rolling away from Brandon. “You’ve been reading my romance novels again,” she said, pressing the back of her hand to her brow. “Oh, but wont the stars send me a real man!”

“When did you get so jaded, anyway,” Brandon retorted, jabbing her in the pit of her arm, eliciting a tiny squeal. They chuckled and locked arms in an embrace, watching their star.

“Once I realized what a pussy I married,” Susan replied. “That’s not a star anyway. It’s going too fast. And it’s getting bigger, see?” She took up Brandon’s hand and lifted it skyward. “I wonder what it is.”

“I don’t know,” Brandon said, squinting his eyes for a better look. “But your right. It’s getting closer.”

[Imoutgoodbye]

Damn good! Damn good!

I wish my rough drafts looked like that. Tell me though, as a writer, do you find it difficult to sit and not let your mind stray ahead into the future of the story as you write or have it wander into parallel ideas or ways to make it better immediately?

EDIT: Oh, sure, format it AFTER I read the huge block paragraphs!

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EDIT: Oh' date=' sure, format it AFTER I read the huge block paragraphs![/quote']

Sorry

One problem I have in everything I do is let my mind wander. Sometimes it helps with the writing, so that you can drop hints here and there as foreshadowing. Sometimes I go off entirely and my writing grinds to a halt, so I have to get my ideas out and come back to it at a later time.

Just those few pages there took AGES to write. Thank you for the compliment. Criticism?

[Imoutgoodbye]

Sorry

One problem I have in everything I do is let my mind wander. Sometimes it helps with the writing, so that you can drop hints here and there as foreshadowing. Sometimes I go off entirely and my writing grinds to a halt, so I have to get my ideas out and come back to it at a later time.

Just those few pages there took AGES to write. Thank you for the compliment. Criticism?

None. It feels real and I actually feel like I'm there with the characters. It's a style I've been trying to emulate since I was 15. Just keep going. Don't have several stopped stories laying around like I do.

[Croyvern]

I think its very nice work.

The only criticism I could offer, would aid you none at all. That is to avoid weak verbs, which you did very well. I counted a few, but having written many short stories myself, I know that sometimes a weak verb is better than a run on sentence.

I have always dreamed I would write novels about Aabahran, but I know if I ever publish one, I will likely be sued by this player or that Imm. So I just write for my own amusement.

[f0xx]

I think its very nice work.

The only criticism I could offer, would aid you none at all. That is to avoid weak verbs, which you did very well. I counted a few, but having written many short stories myself, I know that sometimes a weak verb is better than a run on sentence.

I have always dreamed I would write novels about Aabahran, but I know if I ever publish one, I will likely be sued by this player or that Imm. So I just write for my own amusement.

Share them with us please, or at least with me.

[Imoutgoodbye]

I will likely be sued by this player or that Imm. So I just write for my own amusement.

I've thought about that. As long as you cleared it with Eshaine (and give a little percentage to the mud), I'm certain you would not get sued.

Know why a player couldn't sue you? By participating in FL (which they don't own) and having their pfiles stored on the servers Eshaine pays for, all intellectual property (including characters) associated with FL is the property of Eshaine. An easy one stop shopping process.

I've thought about it a lot.

EDIT: And yes, definitely the hardest lesson to learn as a writer, that, even as good as you think you are, you have to put a huge amount of conscious effort into using action verbs instead of being verbs. At least, I do.

[corpsestomp]

In terms of getting ahead of yourself in writing, that's why I write everything in notebooks. My writing and my DnD adventures always end up covering entire pages, margins all filled with little notes and whatnot. It lets me write as ideas come to me, instead of forgetting them.

Edit: Also, there's a couple cases of your/you're confusion, and if it didn't bother me so much, I wouldn't have bothered. Just something I noticed.