It’s Sample Sunday again!
For this week, I’ve picked out the tentative prologue to my main project — both because I felt it appropriate with that particular muse finally starting to talk to me again (and hope that the attention will appease him and get him to keep talking!), and because this piece is probably the most indicative of my writing style as a whole.
It’s urban fantasy with a heavy dose of mythology and history on the side; and as for the rest, well…you’ll see. ♥
There are fireworks in the garden, or else the flashes are the echoes of a flaming sword.
Either way, there is a lick of ozone to the air, a sweetly seductive thing that promises the headiness of choking and drowning as it swells to fill her lungs.
She doesn’t dare breathe in too deep, for fear of displacing the delicate tangle of leaves. It is the only shelter she can find, her body otherwise bared to the winds, her skin shining a pale beacon in these precious hours before dawn.
And she is not alone, she knows; she hears the rustling at her feet, subtle as the storm-scents themselves. It is a softly pervasive sound, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, and she fears that if she ran from it, she would only lose her way.
She breathes as best she can, and draws some small comfort from knowledge: It is a serpent, of this she is sure. Nothing else could move so slickly through both grass and branch alike, as if the entirety of the world was suited to become its throne.
She whispers profanities, and orders herself to be unafraid.
But he has her at a disadvantage, here.
He can likely taste the shape of her by simply flicking his tongue through air alone, unearth what manner of creature he has lured to his domain. (For this is his domain; of that, she has no doubt.) Yet she herself is all but blind, and he affords her not even the briefest of glimpses here in the black.
He could be small, the perfect size to curl about an apple and so tempt you to taste. Or he could wrap around the world itself, tail clenched in fangs like a promise of despair to come.
She wonders if they mightn’t be the same, that apple and this world, and if human perspective might not be the most hilarious falsehood of all. (She supposes there really isn’t that much of a difference, between teaching someone the poisons of their own flesh and poisoning their sky.)
Still, she wants to see him, once, with her own eyes. She will haunt his garden if she must, reassign herself to shadows, weave her own amongst the leaves.
She will wait, and she will learn how to be still.
The flashes continue, distant and stark; and yet their afterimages somehow do not sear her eyes.