If you havent already read the prologue, check it out...
http://writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=72120 Like I said earlier, critique, nitpick,and edit without regard!
Black Sun Rising
Chapter One
“I’ll have a Tall Larry, on the rocks,” said Layne Emery, doing his best to sound old enough, and somehow succeeding. “Oh, and hold the green.”
“Cheapskate,” whispered Dwight with a smirk. The waitress handed out the menus, smiled, and turned to leave. Dwight tilted his head as he watched her disappear behind the counter.
Emery nudged his friend.
“What?”
“Dude, she’s like 23,” piped in Sairo from across the table. “Don’t even think about it.”
“What’s wrong with looking?” Dwight grinned, dimples appearing on a pale face. He had a buzz of blond hair, with long eyelashes that were somehow dark, despite his light hair and complexion. “I’ll be blunt, she has a nice butt.”
Emery rolled his eyes. “She wouldn’t date you if she was
twelve.”
Sairo snickered from beneath his hoodie. Though it was warm inside, the blue-eyed youth was always shaking. A long tattoo of a dragon crept down the inside of his right fore-arm, its head poking out as he reached for the menu. “Yeah, she’s no Jen.”
Dwight cast a stern gaze upon the young man who had been his friend for all 17 years of his life. “She was
thirteen, not twelve, dick. Besides, when was the last time
you had a date?”
Sairo couldn’t argue with that, and held up his hands in surrender. Though he wasn’t a bad looking man, he never could work up the courage to ask a girl out—not like Dwight. Though shorter than most girls out there, Dwight Freerider was daunted by little--which was one of the reasons why they came every Friday after school to eat and chill out at the Golden Hammer, a notorious hangout for the local college boys.
Yawning, Sairo stretched out his arms, resting them on the booth. “So you gonna ask the waitress out, or what?”
Dwight shrugged. “I’m more worried about what I’m going to eat.” He squinted as he studied the menu. Dwight needed eye surgery…or at least contacts, although he couldn’t afford either--nor did he care. “What are you gettin Em?”
Layne Emery flipped the page. There were greasy fingerprints stuck on the breakfast section. “Chicken fingers, probably.” He made a face. “I dunno.”
“Always with the chicken fingers.” Dwight smiled and fished in his pocket for a cigarette. A silver lighter appeared a second later, sparking twice before catching flame. He puffed a couple times before hiding the lighter back in his coat pocket. Taking a long draw, he looked at Em, his best friend, who was studying the menu like an old scripture. Shoulder length brown hair concealed part of his face, while his dark eyes moved back and forth, ever deep in thought.
Dwight glanced back at Sairo, whose left hand was shaking, his stolen watch
clinking against the table. Dwight kicked him in the knee.
“Ow!” A hand so naturally tan it could have been mistaken for an Armahsein’s reached under the table and rubbed the sore spot. “What the hell!?”
“Stop twitching!”
Sairost Grainger glanced down, never one to put up much of an argument. “I can’t help it,” he muttered. And Dwight knew it.
Stupid, stupid Sairo, he thought, suddenly sorry.
What am I to do with you, Sairost? The thought of his full name almost made Dwight laugh. Sairo’s father was a nerd in his earlier days—still was—but used to be an avid PC gamer. Unfortunately, his first son paid the price for it, accepting the name of a hero of some game or another.
“You goin with the Steakhouse today?”
Sairo looked up, and one could see the wheels of taste turning in his mind. He smiled. “If I have enough cash on me.” The youth picked out his wallet, counting the bills. Sairo always paid in cash.
Just then the waitress came back. She snapped the gum in her mouth just before taking their orders.
She’d look much better without so much makeup, thought Emery. He had to agree with Dwight though, she did have a nice butt. After scribbling down their orders she was gone in the flash of a red apron.
Butting out his cigarette, Dwight began chastising Sairo about the girl he sat behind in science class. Though he certainly razzed his friend a lot, deep down Dwight cared for him, and just wanted to help. It was his way of prodding his less than determined friend.
While they argued, Emery found his gaze wandering. The Golden Hammer was well lit for a casual restaurant, with TV’s chattering away everywhere on low volume. But oddly enough there was one he could hear clearly and crisply, partially hidden behind the plants that helped separate the booths. Em cocked his head.
A news reporter was explaining something, her white-gloved hands clasped together as she talked. Snow was falling, light and lazy. “Nation has released vital information on 'the war on anarchism', as they call it, about the rebels who call themselves The Black Sun.” Her breath could be seen between words. “According to Nation officials, one of the insurgent’s leaders has been killed in battle. Though Nation is not releasing his identity, they said that this is the biggest step they have taken in securing peace, and that with this heretic eliminated, The Black Sun will shortly be forced to disband.”
An elbow poked Em from the TV. “Do you believe this guy?” Dwight laughed, while Sairo smiled, holding up his palms. Black tape was wrapped around two fingers on each hand, some sort of tradition he had started his first year of high school.
“I
would make a good rap artist someday,” he objected. His half crooked went well with his eyelids, which never seemed to open more than halfway.
Emery shook his head, but before they could further the argument, the waitress appeared, three large plates balanced on one slender arm. After mixing up Em and Sairo’s orders, she produced a cup of barbeque sauce from who knows where and set it on Emery’s plate. Dwight smiled innocently the entire time, until she disappeared once again behind the counter.
“I’m telling you Em, she digs me.”
His brown hair waving back and forth, Emery nodded, though he certainly disagreed. Without further delay, the three went at their meals like the young men that they were. When they had finished, Dwight threw his napkin on the table and loosened his belt. He was small and slender, but could put it down when he wanted to.
Em tilted his head and checked Sairo’s watch. It was hard to read due to the twitching. “Dang,” he said, wiping his face one last time with a green napkin. “I have to be back home in five.”
Playing idly with a scrap of food, Dwight shot his friend a surprised look. “Already? It’s Friday man.”
“Ya, I know, but mom’s freaking out on my grades.”
“C’s get degrees.” Sairo nodded his agreement, flashing a surprisingly white grin for a man who took so little care of himself.
Rolling his eyes, Emery shooed his friend out of the booth. Once free, he threw his hoodie over his face, while Dwight hopped back into his spot. The three gave their ‘see ya’s’, and a second later Layne Emery was out the door and into the streets.
Two suns were still out, hidden behind one building or another. Truth and Justice, Em figured, judging by the yellowish light. The Black Sun was the oddball, blue like a flame, and surprisingly bright, quite contrary to its name. How it had gotten that inaccurate name voted in before the change, Em had no idea, but he gave props to the people who had voted for it. ‘Truth’ and ‘Justice’ were far too boring.
The normally busy inner city was unusually quiet, though the repeating messages fromthe screens could be heard echoing off the walls over random street corners. Emery walked quickly, being accosted by the government issued TV’s at every intersection. It hadn’t always been like this, he knew. Years ago, such things were outlawed. But with the rise of criminal activity, Nation had persuaded the government, after years of pushing, to put up the screens—as citizens called them--which spewed forth propaganda that only a handful of people would call news.
On one screen, a dark-suited man with a professional tie blathered on about the high levels of street safety. Whether true or not, Em had formed his own opinions about Nation. His father was always talking about how bad they were, but then again, his father was a criminal.
Instinctively, Em’s hand dug deep into his pocket, feeling the joint that lay hidden and safe. A sudden relief washed over him as he crossed the street, the white ‘walk’ lights blinking him forward. It wasn’t that he was addicted or anything—he was no Sairo--but it was nice to just relax sometimes, though his mother would kill him if she found out.
Or would she? She certainly knew about their father, just as he did, yet she refused to accept it. Although they had never talked about it, Janis Emery went along pretending everything was ok, that her husband was an active businessman, often away on work related trips.
But then again, he was a business man, Em thought, stopping at the next intersection. Cars drove past, sure to obey the speed limit since the recent bombardment of traffic cameras. For the most part the public hated them, but since Em didn’t have a car, he really didn’t care. The light turned and he walked forward.
His black tennis shoes made little sound on the hard pavement. Emery shivered and tucked his hands into his front pocket. It was getting colder. He took a right, a left, and after another few minutes of walking was almost in sight of his home.
An old woman was flapping a rug on her porch, frowning at all the dust it made. With mild interest, Em watched out of the corner of his eyes. It was Sheila, the widow. She made good cookies, but was still a loon.
Further down the road a drone hovered in the air, a black dot from far away. Suddenly Sheila shrieked, and Emery turned his head. One of her cats was running off the porch, a strip of bacon in its mouth. The old woman spat and chucked a nearby broom, missing by several yards. The cat escaped into the bushes.
Distracted, Emery’s eyes missed the slab of cement jutting out, but his feet didn’t. Falling face first, he got his hands up just in time, crashing to the ground with a groan. The cold concrete was unforgiving, cutting his hands. They throbbed, and he swore. Looking up, Em noticed the drone was getting closer. He could hear its blades cutting through the air as it turned, heading off to the east. Tilting his head to watch it go by, the young man saw his home in the distance, and noticed something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Scrambling to the edge of Sheila’s hedges, Emery peered through the brambles like a child in a tree-house. Men were running in and out of the house—men in uniform. Masks covered their faces, but Em recognized them well enough.
They were soldiers of Nation.
Once you get done finishing it, if there's anything you'd like for me to take a look at I'd be happy to return the favor
), and it certainly has a completely different feel to the prologue, which I think is a good thing. You've got the dramatic opening of the near-riot and Yaemon D'Yaros (really cool name by the way), then it flicks to something really quite ordinary.
