I've got treats!

I was so surprised...I've written something I'm really, really proud of.

Well, it's been a long time since I've posted anything in here, and, since I have no news that's very interesting, I decided I'll go ahead and give you a little treat. :] I've finally been able to write again, and have been working diligently on my "New Project 6!"--as it's currently titled. It's been something quite great, too, that I've done with this one.

If you've missed my previous explanations, you can check here or here, or just read on for a brief description.

Basically, this is the dystopian future one, about a time when the world's water has almost run out, and the things that would naturally (or, maybe not) come from that situation. At least as far as human nature is concerned. :] It's pretty intense, and it's going to be really cool, if I can do this right. So anyway, without much further ado, I've gone ahead and copied the pretty (to me) prologue I created right into this post. Yay! If you're curious, give it a little read, but keep in mind that I've done about 30 pages total, and it won't be finished for a while, and that this does tell you a very, very little bit about the world in which this story takes place, for my character, at least. So, enjoy!

Prologue

            Rrrrrnnnhhh!

            I jump—startled awake by the grinding sound—and pull my arm back just in time to save it from the greedy teeth of the giant, industrial saw.

            All I can do is stare at the machine as it eats away metal, sparks flying. My mind is running too slow to understand what it means.

            I clutch my arm to my chest, watching.

            “Valeria!” Randall calls to me—his voice echoes over cement and aluminum—leaping across the floor to my workstation.

            Rough hands push me away and I stumble, watching efficient hands shut off the machine.

            He turns to me, pulling thick goggles back, and something burns in his eyes, but I can’t tell what it is. “Valeria, what were you thinking? You nearly got yourself killed.” He keeps talking. Muffled sounds murmur through my head, overpowering the buzzing of metal cutting metal, sparks melting metal, hammers pounding metal.

            I blink rapidly, feeling his words sink through my skin, pumping through my veins. You nearly got yourself killed. I can almost feel them seep into my tired brain.

            You almost got yourself killed.

            I just fell asleep at my machine. I almost cut my arm off.

            Every breath I take catches on something hard in my throat.

            Blackness closes around the edges of my vision, but not in sleep this time.           

            As I march myself over the hard ground toward home, my body aching from the 16-hour shift, I think about our situation. It’s hard not to on payday.

            I glance down at the meager coins that fill my palm, jingle them a little.

            It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

            We work so hard, my mother and I both, working every day, every night. No breaks, no rests. We rarely even see each other.

            Mother would’ve been so angry if I’d cut off my arm. How would we ever make enough to send for my siblings if I’d done that?

            Stupid.

            We already work so hard.

            But it’s still not enough. We’ll never have enough to bring them home. They’ll be stuck with Uncle Richmond. Stuck there forever.

            A sound of frustration escapes my lips.

            Maybe they’ll live better lives there. My mother and I will just have to get along without them. What can we do? We’re already doing as much as we can.

            There’re no jobs, no money, no food.

            There’s nothing to be had here! Nothing.

            They’re better off over there, on the east coast. Near the capital.

            At least this corrupt government takes better care of the eastern side. And at least Uncle Richmond has food. At least he can afford to feed them all. Unlike us.

            We’re landlocked here, with little food, and even less work, even less money. There's nothing for us here; there’s nothing for my siblings here.

            Nothing for me here, either. If only Mother would let me join the rebel faction! I’m sixteen now. I’m old enough to make my decisions.

            But we’ve had this discussion before.

            I know my duty. I need to put my family above myself. My siblings matter more than I do. Their wellbeing is my responsibility.

            My mind switches back to the problem at hand. They shouldn’t return here.

            I take a deep breath in. Release it.

            I’m going to tell my mother tonight. Tonight, while we have a few hours together.

            I don’t think that Sabri, Sakina, Callista, or Lilith should come home. I think they should stay. Stay in the east with Uncle Richmond. Never come back here.

            She won’t take it very easily. I know she misses them, especially Sabri. She tries not to show it, but our mother favors him. Even over his twin.

            Maybe it’s because his voice sounds like Dad’s. Maybe he reminds her of him.

            Maybe she never got over Dad’s death. Maybe she never will.

            I wonder if I’ll ever get over the loss of my siblings.

            I wonder if I’ll ever see them again.

            I shake my head.

            Doesn’t matter; they’ll be better off without us. Maybe one day I can join them.

            A bitter laugh frees itself from my throat, and I almost smile with the sound. There’s no way I’d be able to make the trip out there.

            Mother would never approve.

            She won’t ever see her children again.

            Somewhere in her frozen heart, I know she loves them. And I know that she would want them to be happy, fed, clothed.

            I’ll make her understand. I know that I want what’s best for them. I’ll fight for them, and I will make sure that they are given whatever we can give them.

            There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.

            A sound of disgust ripples through me when I realize I’ve been clutching my arm to my chest. I guess I’d better tell Mother what happened today. I sigh.

            Reaching for the door, I turn the rusty knob.

            The wind catches the door and flings it open, slamming it against the crumbling side of the house.

            The smell hits me first.

            It’s the smell of rotting wood and wet, sure, but that’s just the smell of our house. There’s something else. Some other odor that penetrates the smell of the rundown shack we call a home.

            And it stinks. It stings my nose and burns my eyes.

            It’s the smell of death.

            I’ve smelled it before, though certainly not with such power.

            This is much worse. And it’s in my house.

            What is this?

            My eyes scan the tiny room, looking for the source of the offending smell. There’s nothing else I see.

            Then my eyes drift to the ground, right at my feet.

            I practically tripped over them.

            The eyes. Her eyes. The wide, unflinching eyes stare back at me. Her eyes. They stare at me and stare through me. They don't move. They scare me.

            I look down, farther. Her mouth is twisted, ugly; her body turned, splayed across the floor.

            And there’s blood. So much blood.

            Little droplets splatter all over her face; all over her hands; all over the dress that was once pretty, years ago. Now it’s crusty, dirty. Covered in blood.

            And there’s blood pooling around her, seeping out, into the rotting wood of the floor.

            I see the knife sticking out of her stomach. It’s buried up to the handle.

            But those are her hands wrapped around the handle. Not someone else’s.

            I call out her name, stumble toward her. My fingers wrap around hers, pull.

            I pull on her fingers, but they won’t let go.

            Even in death she’s desperate. Desperate for death.

            Numb, I stand, staring down into the eyes that never move.

            It seems my mother has killed herself.

            And that smell. It hurts me.

            My body bends forward, trying to rid itself of the images, the smells. But my stomach is empty already. Thank god for hunger.

            I breathe deeply, my hands now covering my face.

            There it is, the dead body. Her dead body.

            My mother is dead.

            My mother killed herself.

            My mother left me alone, in this world. This terrible world.

            And now I’m left to pick up the pieces of her broken life.

            My eyes pop open, and I’m panting. My body is covered in sweat, my mind full of the horrors of memories.

            I scrub my face with both hands, then fling my legs over the side of the lumpy couch that has become my bed.

            I sit there for a moment, trying to push the images back where they belong. The deepest, darkest depths of my memory house many secrets—so many painful secrets. Secrets no one knows. Secrets no one dares ask for.

Hopefully that's piqued your interest. Questions? Comments? Constructive critiques? Keep in mind that this isn't fully edited, of course, and feel free to leave me some! :]