CrossMyDNA
New member
- Jul 13, 2010
- 1
- 0
- 1
I want to write a novel some day, and the one I am currently writing is based off of a dream that I had. I posted more than is necessary, but if you could just read the first paragraph I would appreciate any con/crit you can give me. Thanks!
Notes: words or phrases surrounded by *asterisks* are italicized. The paragraphs are separated to be easier to read on here. Also, please understand that the main character does not reflect my own beliefs and attitudes.
I’ve worked my whole life to get to this point. Standing on the barren dock of Raeker Harbor, I feel the fresh ocean mist blowing the matted locks off my forehead and the hot blood and saltwater seeping into the leather of my boots. The dull red cross-hairs in front of my eyes slowly fade, and I know that the centimeter of webbing between my fingers and toes will disappear in time with the slits on my neck. All I’ve done, all I’ve achieved, has culminated to this balmy day. My skin and the sea alike are stained red, save for a small white spot on my right palm. I inhale the salty-metallic tang in the air and smile to myself. After my brief repose I’ll be on the run – not *from* everything, but *for* everything. I’ve much more to do before death claims me for the havoc I’ve wreaked on the world’s corrupt people. Though, I suppose an explanation is in order of how I got here.
When I was younger, my parents kept what I called the Death Board hung in our kitchen. It was a simple, cloth-covered board with some type of French restaurant imprinted in shades of green and grey. Jade green ribbons crisscrossed on the board and made makeshift holders for cards, notes, or other types of conventional things like that. One of my parents decided, apparently, to use it for the remembrance cards given out at funerals. The ones that were between a business card and a bookmark in size and always had some awful picture of the departed with *In Loving Memory* scrawled underneath. Then there was always a prayer. Always. Even if the deceased had no interest whatsoever in deities, the card made it seem like he or she was a devout church-goer.
The Death Board started with one, lilac-colored card praising the memory of a Catherine M. Quinlan, who died at the tender age of sixty-seven. The first time I saw Cathy’s card on the Board, I was nine years old. For the next three years, the cards piled up, nearly covering the board entirely. With the addition of such beloved friends and relatives as Marcus J. Laughlin, Anita A. Hurst, and Alycia L. Marshall, only a *petite chaise* and some *fleurs* remained visible.
The Board fascinated me. I attended only a handful of the funerals the cards represented, but for each one, I insisted that my mother buy me a new outfit. I absolutely reveled in the fact that I could get all dolled up while the funeral stars laid motionless in satin boxes. As evil as it may sound, I found the funerals of my decrepit relatives more enjoyable than any birthday or holiday.
My aunt Eileen called me a “wicked girl” for dancing around the caskets and picking flowers out of the enormous bouquets. She told me, countless times, that I should show respect for the dead, and that I was an embarrassment to my parents. I suppose it may have been embarrassing for them, but they should have known how I loved funerals. Perhaps they thought I was trying to lighten the mood or something of the sort. Eileen died two days before my thirteenth birthday, and not even my father’s numerous gifts brought me more delight.
Before you think me a complete monster, know that I only found joy in the deaths of people who had wronged me in the past. Or at least, those were the ones whose deaths brought me *most* joy. I don’t know if “joy” is the right word. Really, it was more a feeling of accomplishment, of victory. Knowing that I had outlived the corrupt and the cruel made my pupils dilate and my pulse quicken. Eileen had told me that I would “get what was coming to me.” Maybe. But right then, I was on top of the world.
At that point, I was entirely obsessed with death. I watched my relatives drop like flies for two more months before my mother died of alcohol and substance abuse. My hatred for the vile shit won over my grief for my mother, and I wore a *serves you right* look on my face that my father couldn’t stand. So, at thirteen and a half, he shipped me off to OSALS, the Oceanic School of Arts and Life Skills. There were four other schools similar to this one: MSALS, the Mountainous School; WSALS, the Woodland School; DSALS, the Desert School; and PSALS, the Polar School. These five schools made up the elite chain of specialty training schools known as the Consortium.
It was strictly forbidden to divulge the secrets of the Consortium. No one knew the goings on of the schools save for those who taught and learned there – not even the parents of the students knew. Of course, most parents sent their children there then disconnected all ties of correspondence, just
...like my father. I was never too fond of him, so the reality didn’t faze me as much as it might have. The headmaster of the school, Jane Markman (it was suicide to call her anything but “Markman” or “Ma’am”), told us that we would be expelled if we let slip anything, but it was an untold and well-known fact that the punishment was death. OSALS was, all veils aside, a school of assassins. I can tell you all of this now because the School no longer exists. None of them do; I destroyed them all.
Notes: words or phrases surrounded by *asterisks* are italicized. The paragraphs are separated to be easier to read on here. Also, please understand that the main character does not reflect my own beliefs and attitudes.
I’ve worked my whole life to get to this point. Standing on the barren dock of Raeker Harbor, I feel the fresh ocean mist blowing the matted locks off my forehead and the hot blood and saltwater seeping into the leather of my boots. The dull red cross-hairs in front of my eyes slowly fade, and I know that the centimeter of webbing between my fingers and toes will disappear in time with the slits on my neck. All I’ve done, all I’ve achieved, has culminated to this balmy day. My skin and the sea alike are stained red, save for a small white spot on my right palm. I inhale the salty-metallic tang in the air and smile to myself. After my brief repose I’ll be on the run – not *from* everything, but *for* everything. I’ve much more to do before death claims me for the havoc I’ve wreaked on the world’s corrupt people. Though, I suppose an explanation is in order of how I got here.
When I was younger, my parents kept what I called the Death Board hung in our kitchen. It was a simple, cloth-covered board with some type of French restaurant imprinted in shades of green and grey. Jade green ribbons crisscrossed on the board and made makeshift holders for cards, notes, or other types of conventional things like that. One of my parents decided, apparently, to use it for the remembrance cards given out at funerals. The ones that were between a business card and a bookmark in size and always had some awful picture of the departed with *In Loving Memory* scrawled underneath. Then there was always a prayer. Always. Even if the deceased had no interest whatsoever in deities, the card made it seem like he or she was a devout church-goer.
The Death Board started with one, lilac-colored card praising the memory of a Catherine M. Quinlan, who died at the tender age of sixty-seven. The first time I saw Cathy’s card on the Board, I was nine years old. For the next three years, the cards piled up, nearly covering the board entirely. With the addition of such beloved friends and relatives as Marcus J. Laughlin, Anita A. Hurst, and Alycia L. Marshall, only a *petite chaise* and some *fleurs* remained visible.
The Board fascinated me. I attended only a handful of the funerals the cards represented, but for each one, I insisted that my mother buy me a new outfit. I absolutely reveled in the fact that I could get all dolled up while the funeral stars laid motionless in satin boxes. As evil as it may sound, I found the funerals of my decrepit relatives more enjoyable than any birthday or holiday.
My aunt Eileen called me a “wicked girl” for dancing around the caskets and picking flowers out of the enormous bouquets. She told me, countless times, that I should show respect for the dead, and that I was an embarrassment to my parents. I suppose it may have been embarrassing for them, but they should have known how I loved funerals. Perhaps they thought I was trying to lighten the mood or something of the sort. Eileen died two days before my thirteenth birthday, and not even my father’s numerous gifts brought me more delight.
Before you think me a complete monster, know that I only found joy in the deaths of people who had wronged me in the past. Or at least, those were the ones whose deaths brought me *most* joy. I don’t know if “joy” is the right word. Really, it was more a feeling of accomplishment, of victory. Knowing that I had outlived the corrupt and the cruel made my pupils dilate and my pulse quicken. Eileen had told me that I would “get what was coming to me.” Maybe. But right then, I was on top of the world.
At that point, I was entirely obsessed with death. I watched my relatives drop like flies for two more months before my mother died of alcohol and substance abuse. My hatred for the vile shit won over my grief for my mother, and I wore a *serves you right* look on my face that my father couldn’t stand. So, at thirteen and a half, he shipped me off to OSALS, the Oceanic School of Arts and Life Skills. There were four other schools similar to this one: MSALS, the Mountainous School; WSALS, the Woodland School; DSALS, the Desert School; and PSALS, the Polar School. These five schools made up the elite chain of specialty training schools known as the Consortium.
It was strictly forbidden to divulge the secrets of the Consortium. No one knew the goings on of the schools save for those who taught and learned there – not even the parents of the students knew. Of course, most parents sent their children there then disconnected all ties of correspondence, just
...like my father. I was never too fond of him, so the reality didn’t faze me as much as it might have. The headmaster of the school, Jane Markman (it was suicide to call her anything but “Markman” or “Ma’am”), told us that we would be expelled if we let slip anything, but it was an untold and well-known fact that the punishment was death. OSALS was, all veils aside, a school of assassins. I can tell you all of this now because the School no longer exists. None of them do; I destroyed them all.