“She runs past the open pit of the cemetery, the bodies already reeking in the rising heat of the day, and the smell is not repugnant but rich and fetid and strangely pleasurable, and she senses, just on the edge of her perception, how there is earth in the corpses and in her own body, how there is life in the ground beneath her, how in everything there is a common scent and taste that she can just barely discern.”
it’s been a while since i posted an excerpt. the key word is: rough draft. ahem.
“Well, it’s not as if there were ladies present.” Théo shrugged again, peering out the window. “Though I know how it looks from outside. Sometimes even I step back and, well. But Paris won’t last, whatever Seissan tells you.” His voice was tinged with regret. “The world gets fuller and the space for us gets smaller. Sooner or later they’ll figure us out, they’ll figure out quicker ways to kill us. Then it’s back into the shadows for good.” He touched the glass, as if reaching for the lavish, walled estates, mere shapes in the deepening night. “I tell Michel—I made him, and yes I know the law, and I don’t give a damn, he deserved another go—but I tell Michel all the damn time: you don’t know how good you have it. Willing pussy, no priests trying to make their careers on your corpse, no peasants giving you the eye simply because you’re not a stinking lump like they are.” He laid his hand fully on the glass, blocking out the world. “We’ve never had it so good.”
trying this year to use nano as an excuse to finish off a few lingering short stories. not sure if i’ll make it or not, but the prompt is good—also, i need a revision break. i’ve hit a wall in milan.
from today’s nanoing:
“What used to be a single taut line of sea and sky is now punctuated by the generators, rolling and rocking, their lines somewhere beneath the surface. There is no more swimming here, only wading. And perhaps the sand beneath me is contaminated, perhaps the water is leeching poisons into my skin, my bloodstream; but it feels the same, it looks and smells the same. The wet sand as muddy as the day a little boy threw a glob into my face, terrifying my child-self: was I blinded? Even now the fear is white-bright in my mind, the first time I had tasted something irreversible; when my mother flushed the sand from my eyes I had cried not from fright or pain but from gratitude. And gratitude is what I feel now, watching the waves roll and break, the foamy water sluicing around my ankles. The sight is as majestic as when my father and I used to ride the swells, letting the water push us high above the beach, ducking beneath the sharper crests. The two of us emerging hours later, our fingers and toes wrinkled, our shoulders bright red; I wasn’t sure if I would ever see this again. I am grateful.”