(I’m not really back. This post isn’t really here. You should go about your regularly scheduled lives.)
Before I took my break, Ben of Story Multiverse nominated me for the Lucky 7 Meme. Thanks Ben!
Here’s the rules:
1. Go to page 77 of your current MS/WIP
2. Count down to line 7
3. Post the next seven paragraphs, as written.
4. Tag 7 writers.
(‘Kay, I’m not really gonna do the last line. But you get the picture.)
The snippet below is from A Lesson in Vanishing. It’s not actually from page 77, line 7. But it’s my blog, so I get to do what I want. So there.
Javi’s face looms in front of her, jeering. No point, ese. No point in having all these classes, ya know? No one’s gonna get out. No one wants to, he says, leering at her in that way he has. His eyes, dark as coffee, stare back, suddenly serious. Then his mouth cracks into a mile wide grin and he spreads his arms, like wings. ‘Cept me. I’m gonna make it out. I’m gonna show ‘em how it’s done. She watches in growing horror as he turns and stomps away, the pounding continuing to echo even as the car pulls alongside, the gun appears in the window, the blood blooms on the back of Javi’s pristine white shirt. That’s not right. The pounding should have stopped when he went down. Frankie cracks open an eye and wonders when she managed to fall asleep, temporarily forgetting the recurring nightmare. The pounding continues. She sits up, and wrapping the blanket around her, pads over to the front door and unlocks it.
Peter stands on the doorstep, concern written all over his face. He opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again, giving her a careful once-over. Her eyes are still blurry and she knows her hair is standing on end, but she doesn’t care. She only wants to go back to the couch and to sleep. Turning, she does just that, trusting Peter to step inside and close the door.
Her bones feel like they might break with any sudden movements, and she sits carefully. Peter closes the front door and walks to the couch, sitting beside her. “Why are you here?” Surprise, her voice still works. Bigger surprise, Peter randomly shows up on her doorstep the night after she has her worst ever panic attack. He never shows up unannounced. The universe must be trying to tell her something.
Fucking universe. It oughtta just come out and say it.
“It’s after 10. When you didn’t show up for work, and didn’t answer your phone, Dora and Mr. Tucker got a little concerned. Dora offered to come over and check on you, but she’s the only teller on duty, so I told her to stay put and I’d come check out your house.”
Her eyes track over to her little bookcase, crammed with books, and notices her phone sitting on top. Screwing her eyes shut, mind fogged with fatigue, she simply lifts her feet onto the couch and curls back up, laying her head on the armrest. She can feel Peter pushing to his feet as the cushions shift under the loss of weight, and then he is in her face, crouching in front of her. She gives him a blank stare, and she notices a flash of fear in his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. “I would have called in.” Eventually, she thinks. If her brain could engage long enough to do that. She thinks idly that she should be panicking now, this disconnect, the exhaustion, but all she wants is to sleep, to slide back in to oblivion.
Peter’s mouth quirks up on one side. “They just wanted to make sure the bogey man or El Chupacabra hadn’t gotten to you.” This tugs a small smile out of her and then the effort of even that drains her and she closes her eyes. She hears him sigh and flip open his phone. The conversation taking place only a few feet from her is of no interest, and Peter’s words drift in and out of her ears without registering. The black she craves is stubbornly refusing to pull her under, and she slits open her eyes again as he snaps his phone closed and hunches down again. “You eaten yet?”