Tuesday, June 14, 2011

[Excerpts] What I've been up to

[re-post from my former blog]

The deadline for this year’s OYAN contest is looming ahead and fast approaching. So I have been writing like MAD.

Here are a few excerpts from the more recent chapters of Shadow of Glory

The entire place was spooky. Street-signs hung at crooked angles, asphalt was broken into huge chunks, massive holes riddled buildings. A sky-scraper had crashed nearby, and the mammoth metal beams tilted in crazy, dangerous-looking directions. The whole place looked like a giant with a temper-problem had gone on rampage. A few scruffy birds skittered around through the trash, looking for something, anything, that might be digestible. Shards of glass were everywhere; only a few windows here and there were left intact in the buildings that I could see; the rest of the glass lay on the ground, catching the sunlight and glinting like a thousand diamonds. Drywall, concrete, and mangled metal created mountains. The rusted bodies of cars, almost corroded into oblivion, were scattered through the streets.
Kémény led me into a parking garage, well, what was left of a parking garage. Cobwebby darkness shrouded the interior, with meager shafts of light here and there poking through the gloom. Here, too, were the almost ghostly remains of cars, vans, and trucks, but in better condition than the ones outside, just sitting there like their owners would come claim them at any second. Our footsteps sounded loud, like gongs ringing out in a sound-proofed room as we went up the first, second, and third levels. If I closed my eyes I could almost hear the ghostly whispers of noises long past, when this garage, and this city, was filled with people. I wondered if people had gotten trapped in any of these cars. I shook my head; I didn’t need to go creeping myself out with thoughts of skeletons.

- from Chapter 17

“Oh, and Steele,”
Marc stopped.
“That guy you took down, Mr. X. I tried to talk to him yesterday. He was as responsive as a hunk of rock. Our people can’t even find a name on him; he hasn’t been on our radar for very long. You talk to him. Stick some dynamite under his tongue and see if you can get him to sing.”
“Are there any deals out on the table?”
“Not yet. Offer to cut him a sweet one.”
“How sweet?”
“Gauge it on his response. Nothing less than thirty, with parole a good probability with good behavior.”
“What’s he looking at now?”
“Life with a slim possibility of parole.”
Marc chuckled. “Then I might just have my stick of dynamite.”
“Go for it, kid.”

- from chapter 18

Hannah Mills Copyright (C) 2011. Please do not copy, quote, et cetera without prior written permission.

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