Thread: '07 NaNo Excerpts

Care to share a random excerpt from your NaNo? It doesn't have to be brilliant, or even good. In fact, it can even be rubbish. All it needs to be is something that by posting may help you or others find the inspiration to go on by letting someone else see we're all going through the same thing.

By no means good, and it pains me greatly not to go back and edit, but that isn't what NaNo is about. Here is the start to my sci-fi story for this years NaNo.

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Chapter 1

Selcor set the pulse hammer down and pushed the goggles from his eyes onto his forehead. He unclipped the canteen from his waist and looked around the mining chamber as he removed the cap and drank the last of his shift allotment of water. As he twisted the cap back on, Selcor spotted Rigel across the chamber, getting a drink as well.

He waved to Selcor when he noticed him looking in his direction. Fastening the canteen back to his waist, Selcor wondered how much longer it would be before Rigel was moved to the graveyard shift too. Selcor’s father had been moved just a few days ago, and Rigel was only a couple of months younger than him. No doubt, it wouldn’t be much longer.

A strong blow between the shoulder blades nearly sent Selcor to his knees and knocked the thoughts of his father, Rigel, age, and the graveyard shift from his mind.

“The shift isn’t over yet. You had your water, now get back to work!”

Selcor grasped the pulse hammer as he stood back upright, never taking his eyes off the Nardan guard as he did. All it would take was one pull of the trigger and he wouldn’t be hitting anyone again. Selcor knew he wouldn’t be breathing any longer if he did do it. So, instead, he pulled the goggles back over his eyes and turned his attention to the rock wall in front of him.

“That’s right, get digging again like the mine rat you are,” the guard said as he turned and walked away.



The claxons echoed through the tunnels. Selcor pushed his way toward the dividing wall that separated the day shift leaving the mines from the graveyard shift entering them. Searching the faces of the men, he looked for his father.

“You ok, Sel?” Rigel put his hand on Selcor’s shoulder.

“Yeah.” He didn’t bother to look at Rigel. “I’m ok. Takes more than a guard to get me.”

“If you’re looking for Loran, he’s already in the mines. I saw him before I entered the tunnels.”

Selcor finally looked over at Rigel, who still had a hand on his shoulder.

“How about you?” Selcor asked. “Are you doing ok?”

“If you mean am I going to going to hold off on receiving the same fate as your father, not for much longer.”

The mines were a harsh environment, with their extreme heat and the barely breathable air from low oxygen levels and the constant dust. Add to that sixteen hour shifts of hard physical labour seven days a week and the effects manifested quite quickly on a person. The toll of a life in their position was evident on Rigel’s face, just as it was on his fathers.

“Look at it this way, Sel,” Rigel said as he forced a weak smile. “Loran, the lucky bastard, gets to spend his days outside the mines, and only working eight hour shifts, he gets to enjoy a part of those days.”

He laughed and slapped Selcor on the shoulder.

“And I’ll be getting to do the same soon.”

It was known as the graveyard shift for a reason. Selcor knew that. His father knew it too, and so did Rigel, no matter how many other ways he tried to look at it. The graveyard shift was the last before a stint serving as ashy fertilizer in the crop houses.

“Then I’m jealous of the both of you.” Selcor said, wishing he hadn’t missed the chance to speak to his father.

“I ate two humans,” he finally said, seeing her pull a face. Frankly, he agreed with her. “Tha' apparently helped me process the stuff or whate'er. I guess I got about one hundred kilos or so, between the pair.” He shrugged his wings. “Maybe ye'll need less.” He suggested.

Rob watched her do the mental conversion. He'd been born a British citizen and felt much more comfortable with the metric measurement, while Cat still clung to the American system. Seeing the shock and disgust register on her face, he sighed. This was going to make the fight that much harder.

When she whimpered and curled up next to him again, he wrapped his arms around her. “It'll be alright love,” he rumbled softly to her. “We'll get through this.” He whispered. “Together.” He sure as hell wasn't going to abandon her now! Seeing her expression soften a bit, he kissed her tenderly, gently stroking one hand down her arm.

He was disappointed when she yawned and closed her eyes, curling into him. Rob missed his wife, in a lot of ways. Her breathing evened out and he looked at the platter of meat. Hopefully soon, he'd have her back. He closed his eyes and settled in to rest while he could.

Since I'm working on a rewrite, boyfriend challenged me and said I couldn't angst a character. I proved him wrong.

His body covered in a sheen of sweat, his hand draped loosely over the reclining form of the nude woman beside him, Caelius allowed his mind to drift in post-coital relaxation. He grinned lazily in self-satisfaction. Brisia was a beautiful, satisfying lover, and they had played long and hard this night before he had finally had enough.

This is the fifth time we have been together, and I am not bored yet, he thought wonderingly. Perhaps he had finally found the perfect woman. She must be a reward from Amalisa for my good behavior.

Brisia was married, of course. But her husband Cornelius was aged and infirm and had lost interest in the pleasures of the flesh. When, after seven years of marriage, his young wife had failed to provide him with an heir, he stopped even pretending to desire her. What little vigor remained in him was now directed toward debate and deliberation with the other esteemed patricians whose objective was to formulate a new government for the city. When Brisia had chided her husband with his neglect, Cornelius had gruffly told her to take a lover and disturb him no more with such nonsense. Not one to curtail her enjoyment of life, Brisia had soon made another arrangement for her own satisfaction--Caelius.

This suited the handsome actor perfectly. After his narrow escape from spiritual death at the hands of the High Council on the Necrodine, and the disastrous consequences of his seduction of the set designer’s wife, he had vowed to Amalisa to mend his ways. He had foresworn using his goddess-given powers of persuasion to seduce the unwilling. He had determined not to cuckold any man. And he had even decided to try to stick to one woman at a time.

Caelius reasoned that, since one could not cuckold a husband who had given his wife permission to take a lover, his liaison with Brisia satisfied the self-imposed rules of his new attempt at virtue. As someone who had developed the habit early of simply taking what he wanted, when he wanted it, he was for the first time enjoying the pleasure of the knowledge that he was capable of some measure of restraint and self-control.

The actor slid his hand over Brisia’s smooth stomach to her flank, and pulled her up onto her side. She offered a slight drowsy moan of resistance, but her small, soft body responded to his grip and she turned toward him. He gave her a gentle kiss. She looked at him with the languid weariness of the fully sated, and softly kissed him back. He felt a stirring within him. Since the ceremony on the Necrodine, he had felt physically invigorated, stronger, faster, more alert, with greater endurance. It was a great feeling, similar to that which came from ingesting some of the drugs that one could purchase in the backstreets, but this feeling did not dull his mental acuity or come with any nasty side effects. He hoped that it would not fade. He looked at the sultry woman next to him with a small measure of disappointment. Although his energy and desire were rekindled, her ardor had already flamed too brightly, and burnt out.

“I will see you again, soon,” he whispered. “Good night.” Brisia mumbled a muffled reply. By the time Caelius had washed himself with a sponge dipped in cool water from a washing pot and donned his tunic and sandals, she was breathing heavily. He glanced at his reflection in her bronze hand mirror and, satisfied at his own beauty, blew out the candles and slipped out quietly.

The old woman reached over and smoothed Debi’s hair with a surprisingly steady touch. Debi looked in the old woman’s eyes, pleading for an answer, for help, for anything that would help make sense of her life. The silence, pregnant with revelation, crept into Debi’s mind. She suddenly became aware that the immediate future held pain. And truth. And her life would never be the same. Without explanation, she surmised that the choice was hers. She would either listen or she would walk out the door. She searched the old woman’s eyes for a clue as to what her best choice would be. All she saw was knowledge. The old woman wouldn’t tell her what was best, but she would be able to tell her about the box and the stone. Debi had to choose for herself, and she had to know.
***
“Senorita, we go down now. If you come with me, you will learn what you want. You go back, you will never know. You choose.”

Debi understood what the old woman meant. She could turn around and walk right out of the store and get on with her life and try to forget everything. Or. She could follow the old woman wherever she was going and get the answers she wanted. She felt like a patient going to the doctor because of a nagging pain. The diagnosis could be a sprain or it could be cancer. The fear lay in not knowing.

Debi chose. “I’ll follow. I want to know.” A wave of cold foreboding flowed from head to toe and she felt she would freeze in her tracks. She swallowed the fear and watched the old woman lift the runner back from the wall and open a trap door.

“Watch your step. Is very steep. I’ll get the light.” The old woman disappeared into the darkness below, her steps sure and confident. Debi followed more timidly as she gave her eyes time to adjust to the dimness, and her mind time to adjust to the world she had just entered. The boards under her feet creaked with age, and Debi held tightly to the worn handrail bolted into the stone wall. When the old woman lit a torch, Debi was hardly surprised and felt that an electric light fixture would somehow taint this place. The walls were constructed of cold, rough-hewn stone, not smooth, but pitted and sharp. She had seen this kind of stone quite often in St. Augustine. It was formed eons ago when small shells were encased in sandstone. She knew what it would look like up close: grains of sand peppered with tiny shells and shell fragments cemented together forever. She felt a bit more comfortable when she thought about it. She had explored many ruins made of sandstone. They had withstood time, weather and progress. She loved the history of the area and started soaking it in. She took in this living ruin too. Forgetting her fear, she approached one of two work tables to her left and marveled at the array of organized chaos. Dusty bottles of dark liquids stood next to frosted-glass jars half-filled with macabre ingredients. A book lay in the center, open to a page filled with writing in another language and a diagram that looked like some kind of flow chart. Polished wood bowls and glass vials sat waiting for their purpose in life to be accomplished. It would make a great picture on a tourist brochure, Debi thought.
***
The old woman led her past a support beam toward what would be the front of the store had they been upstairs, and into a room that, from all appearances, was not a playground as the other area had been. This room had a darker purpose. Debi shuddered to think what purposes could be effected here, given the display of weapons. Tables on either side held alternating daggers and swords laid out carefully and deliberately, perpendicular to the long edges of the tables, their handles facing inward. In the center of the room, a circular platform, about 10 feet across, supported a chest-high pedestal with an iron cage of sorts, housing a large book. At the very front of the room was a fireplace with an alcove on each side. As she followed the old woman closer, she could see that each alcove sheltered a large shadowy figure. The sight drove away any residual curiosity. She didn’t really want to know what they were or why they were here.

"Help me please...Help me..." Derek Chase, the young doctor who, just over two hours ago boarded this very tube to get from King's Cross to Anstead's general hospital, looked around him in the dark. His foot stood on something that was round and hard. It was a recently discarded flashlight. He turned it on, and peered through the darkness. "...Over here..." the voice called again. He followed it, till he reached a fairly intact tube carriage on its side. One of the side windows had been shattered on impact, so Chase crawled through it, and into the carriage. He kept crawling through the dark, until he felt a body in front of him. The man was dead. He continued through the carriage, until he heard heavy breathing in front of him. He held the flashlight in front of him, and saw a young schoolgirl...