Post by lakeripple on Jun 15, 2010 14:33:54 GMT -8
Okay, so I've been writing a book for a while, one that I actually want to get published. It is not a fanfiction, it is a book from my own mind. And what I'd really like to see is if this beginning makes it interesting. So, read and tell me what you think. I will probably only post parts I'm on the fence about. But this one... just tell me what you think and if you have any suggestions. As I said, it's the beginning, so you shouldn't be too O.o
When we used to play together it was simple. We’d run through the fields, galloping like horses and laughing like banshees. I remember jumping into the creek by my house in my regular clothes and surfacing, gasping in the crisp September air with mindless pleasure. I’d look around, confused for the briefest second as to where he was, and realizing far too late just where exactly he had ended up, my head underwater again and my legs kicking into his.
I would turn on him; eyes alight with fury, and chase him up onto the grass, both of us running towards the house, dripping freely onto the ground. My brown hair would whip water into my eyes as we ran, and he would laugh as his eyes remained dry and his hair fluffed out in the wind, waterless in minutes.
We would always slow as we got closer, peering over the rise in case the car was there, ready to run away again if it was. They would always catch us, well, me rather, and then I’d be forced into the car and onto a plane for a couple weeks of torment. I hated going. He knew I did, and always tried to help me hide. I knew that he was punished for it, but neither of us ever said anything. It was a given that we’d always protect each other.
After a while we packed up and moved away from my house by the fields and the creek, to one on a street with a patch of backyard and more rooms than we needed. I’d look at Mom and know that she was happy. I’d look at Dad and know that he was happy that Mom was happy. I’d look at my sister, Cadee, and know that she couldn’t remember the creek side house. But when I looked in his eyes I saw mirrored the longing for the fields and the water and the freedom.
Now the car came more than just every few months. It was here every few weeks. And he could no longer help me hide. There was nowhere to hide. It was another thing we lost with the house.
Our friendship changed. Now it was less about hiding and more about helping me get through it. He would take me up on the roof of the house and watch the dawn and the sunset with me. He knew I loved both. He would point out constellations on clear nights. He’d get special permission from Mom to go up to the hills and run through the windmills.
He knew everything to keep my mind off things. But he could never understand just why I was so upset when the car pulled up, the long stretch limo with the tinted windows. Of course he knew who was in the car. But he could never know what that person did.
I knew his grandmother. I had talked to her, laughed at the stories she used to tell us when we were four, so small as we sat on the frayed rug. Her name had always felt good on my tongue. I can remember running into her little house with him, screaming in my little girl’s voice, “Miss Evena, Miss Evena!” I remember the feel of her wrinkled hand in mind, how soft and light her touch was, how gentle her brown eyes.
He did not know my grandfather. “Grandpa Edgar,” did not roll well when I said it. My grandfather’s hand was wrinkled, but he was firm and unmoving. His eyes were black and hard. He had always scared me.
He had never met Grandfather. He had heard about Grandfather, yes, but I had never told him just what Grandfather did. He knew that Grandfather was rich; the old man’s car was enough to tell you that. But he still had never guessed just what the family business was.
No, Adam had never guessed. And I had never found a way to tell him.
------------
When we used to play together it was simple. We’d run through the fields, galloping like horses and laughing like banshees. I remember jumping into the creek by my house in my regular clothes and surfacing, gasping in the crisp September air with mindless pleasure. I’d look around, confused for the briefest second as to where he was, and realizing far too late just where exactly he had ended up, my head underwater again and my legs kicking into his.
I would turn on him; eyes alight with fury, and chase him up onto the grass, both of us running towards the house, dripping freely onto the ground. My brown hair would whip water into my eyes as we ran, and he would laugh as his eyes remained dry and his hair fluffed out in the wind, waterless in minutes.
We would always slow as we got closer, peering over the rise in case the car was there, ready to run away again if it was. They would always catch us, well, me rather, and then I’d be forced into the car and onto a plane for a couple weeks of torment. I hated going. He knew I did, and always tried to help me hide. I knew that he was punished for it, but neither of us ever said anything. It was a given that we’d always protect each other.
After a while we packed up and moved away from my house by the fields and the creek, to one on a street with a patch of backyard and more rooms than we needed. I’d look at Mom and know that she was happy. I’d look at Dad and know that he was happy that Mom was happy. I’d look at my sister, Cadee, and know that she couldn’t remember the creek side house. But when I looked in his eyes I saw mirrored the longing for the fields and the water and the freedom.
Now the car came more than just every few months. It was here every few weeks. And he could no longer help me hide. There was nowhere to hide. It was another thing we lost with the house.
Our friendship changed. Now it was less about hiding and more about helping me get through it. He would take me up on the roof of the house and watch the dawn and the sunset with me. He knew I loved both. He would point out constellations on clear nights. He’d get special permission from Mom to go up to the hills and run through the windmills.
He knew everything to keep my mind off things. But he could never understand just why I was so upset when the car pulled up, the long stretch limo with the tinted windows. Of course he knew who was in the car. But he could never know what that person did.
I knew his grandmother. I had talked to her, laughed at the stories she used to tell us when we were four, so small as we sat on the frayed rug. Her name had always felt good on my tongue. I can remember running into her little house with him, screaming in my little girl’s voice, “Miss Evena, Miss Evena!” I remember the feel of her wrinkled hand in mind, how soft and light her touch was, how gentle her brown eyes.
He did not know my grandfather. “Grandpa Edgar,” did not roll well when I said it. My grandfather’s hand was wrinkled, but he was firm and unmoving. His eyes were black and hard. He had always scared me.
He had never met Grandfather. He had heard about Grandfather, yes, but I had never told him just what Grandfather did. He knew that Grandfather was rich; the old man’s car was enough to tell you that. But he still had never guessed just what the family business was.
No, Adam had never guessed. And I had never found a way to tell him.
