My Novel Attempt from 1992.
On those nights where my head is to tired to think, by body is to exhausted to type, I look to the past. I'd like to share with you bits and pieces of my old novel attempts, rather than them continuing to collect dust as they have in the last ten years. Here goes:
A Choking Past
Finishing the last pages in her romance novel, she switched off the lamp on the night stand, and rolled over on her back, only to stare at the white stucco on the ceiling. She was lonely, and tonight the feeling of emptiness inside was increased by the world of fictional romances. Though in the back of her mind she knew this was what she wanted ever since she moved here three months ago. A life of solitude, of simple routine, one free of the past that seemed to haunt her soul endlessly, a life where romantic conflict was only found in black type upon white paper. Simple and Safe.
The rain pounded down, slapping against her face, burning her eyes. Frantically she ran with her bare feet splashing though the thick, cold mud. As she ran toward the tree line, the mud grew thicker upon her heels, like weights of iron, holding her back, the rain came down harder as if to drown her with little effort. She flung her arms in front of her face wildly trying to protect her face from the jabbing rain. As she approaches the tree line for shelter, it would slowly disperse, like a morning fog, only to cause her to panic in search of another.
Again she would dart toward the trees and they would disappear, and the rain would only fall harder and faster, until she could no longer see as she gasped for oxygen inhaling the rain istead, and her lungs would scream out in pain and she would scream out in her sleep only to awaken in her bed the sheets moist from sweat from her night terrors.
Abruptly, she awoke to her own cries, her body felt weak and tired, while her head throbbed in attempt to awaken to reality.
She glanced over to her alarm clock -- it was already three, four more hrs of rest before she had to get up. She knew she would only relapse into her nightmare if she drifted off again soon.
Lifting her duvet she went on to get up and headed to the wash room. Jabbing her toe on the bedroom door as she made her way down the dark hall to the toilet. Turning on the light, her green eyes squinted while trying to adjust to the light. She glanced at her reflection for a quick second then planted herself on the toilet and relieved herself. Then just sat as if waiting for the next train through, but there was no train only her thoughts. She understood her dreams, as she had these nightmares ever since she left Quebec. Though she hated them and what they revealed about her, wishing them away week after week only to be disappointed. She had once thought of going to see a psychiatrist for them, but she knew he would probably tell her what she already knew but didn't wish to face. The night terrors were easier to deal with then the realities of herself.
On those nights where my head is to tired to think, by body is to exhausted to type, I look to the past. I'd like to share with you bits and pieces of my old novel attempts, rather than them continuing to collect dust as they have in the last ten years. Here goes:
A Choking Past
Finishing the last pages in her romance novel, she switched off the lamp on the night stand, and rolled over on her back, only to stare at the white stucco on the ceiling. She was lonely, and tonight the feeling of emptiness inside was increased by the world of fictional romances. Though in the back of her mind she knew this was what she wanted ever since she moved here three months ago. A life of solitude, of simple routine, one free of the past that seemed to haunt her soul endlessly, a life where romantic conflict was only found in black type upon white paper. Simple and Safe.
The rain pounded down, slapping against her face, burning her eyes. Frantically she ran with her bare feet splashing though the thick, cold mud. As she ran toward the tree line, the mud grew thicker upon her heels, like weights of iron, holding her back, the rain came down harder as if to drown her with little effort. She flung her arms in front of her face wildly trying to protect her face from the jabbing rain. As she approaches the tree line for shelter, it would slowly disperse, like a morning fog, only to cause her to panic in search of another.
Again she would dart toward the trees and they would disappear, and the rain would only fall harder and faster, until she could no longer see as she gasped for oxygen inhaling the rain istead, and her lungs would scream out in pain and she would scream out in her sleep only to awaken in her bed the sheets moist from sweat from her night terrors.
Abruptly, she awoke to her own cries, her body felt weak and tired, while her head throbbed in attempt to awaken to reality.
She glanced over to her alarm clock -- it was already three, four more hrs of rest before she had to get up. She knew she would only relapse into her nightmare if she drifted off again soon.
Lifting her duvet she went on to get up and headed to the wash room. Jabbing her toe on the bedroom door as she made her way down the dark hall to the toilet. Turning on the light, her green eyes squinted while trying to adjust to the light. She glanced at her reflection for a quick second then planted herself on the toilet and relieved herself. Then just sat as if waiting for the next train through, but there was no train only her thoughts. She understood her dreams, as she had these nightmares ever since she left Quebec. Though she hated them and what they revealed about her, wishing them away week after week only to be disappointed. She had once thought of going to see a psychiatrist for them, but she knew he would probably tell her what she already knew but didn't wish to face. The night terrors were easier to deal with then the realities of herself.
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