When I lived in chicago I used to imagine what would happen if as I walked down the street from work someone stole my laptop. I would not care if they stole my money or even my car, but stealing my laptop could be compared to stealing my sanity. So when two months ago I turned on my computer and a blue screen popped up and the words SYSTEM FAILURE CRASH DUMP or something of the sort screamed at me I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest. It was okay though, most of my novel and other short stories were backed up on a little drive in my bedroom drawyer. Though when I opened the drawyer and found ever little item you could ever want except my zip drive, I cried. Best buy couldnt fix it. My brother couldnt fix it. So now I'm turning to the last genius I know to try to get 20,000 words of my novel, countless poems and short stories, and in turn my sanity back. I luckily had been emailing some of my story to a friend to edit so it was not all lost. I should have backed up the files. I should have protected my story with my life, considering it is my life.
In a way losing part of my story was a gift. It's pushed me to bring my novel to new heights. I could have stopped right then and given up. I'm so incredibly glad that I didnt. In the end I'm hoping it all will be worth it.
Here's part of the first chapter, enjoy.
Monster
The wheels on the truck go round and round, round and round. The blood red metal truck is grasped by the curled fingers of an eager seven year old. The flower trees’ dark cupped petals fall around the children with blonde hair and sun kissed skin. The shadow of the tree casting over their faces makes their eyes darker than the blackest beetle. Little feet run around the flower trees, making sounds of rain on the parched dirt. Dirt surrounds them, deposited in small amounts in their hair, on their toes; unwelcome dirt that only the nanny will notice. Daddy and Mommy are oblivious to the children, let alone to the grime matted on their skin.
Emarie leaves her brother alone in the soil to climb a tall birch tree that would cradle her in its branches gently. She hates the color red, like her brothers toy. She swings her tan leg to a higher wooden arm rocking forward grasping the uneven tree branches tighter. The bark cuts into her fingers, her foot misses sending the small girl swinging backward. Her fingers slip dropping her to the ground like a dead fly. August wind flows, beckoning the tree’s appendages downward as if to shake the girl awake.
The hard ground is cold against her unmoving body. How can the ground be cold in a drought? She can hear Nathan crying. The little boy thinks she is dead. Her protector, her hero has let her fall and he feels helpless. She lies perfectly still, so still. A brilliant red and black butterfly lands on her chest, directly in the middle of where her heart rests underneath her flesh, her body contorts.
Emarie’s eyes flicker. Mouth gaping, she chokes, spitting blood and two sharp baby teeth to the ground. Nathan’s nearly black eyes flicker to the spattered blood, he licks the wet tears off of his lips thanking God his sister is alive. The boy tries to pick his little sister up, but her bones crack and protest with every inch they are moved. He leaves her propped against the aged tree, running down the gravel road screaming, pleading for someone to help.
Emarie’s petite hands tremble as she reaches for her twisted leg that is set in a position only fit for a rag doll. She brings her fingertips to her badly skinned knees. She winces, but her eyes open widely. New skin now rapidly spreads over her knee cap like spider webs, stringy pieces weaving in and out in front of her eyes. She takes her hands back quickly but pulls away, brushing other cuts, vines of new tissue and muscle growing underneath where she touches. Tears fall down her face, many bones still broken, her back screaming loudly. She cups her twisted leg gently, a warm feeling spreading throughout the area, some of the pain subsiding. Every cut and scrape disappearing, pinky flesh covering the wounds. Her lids feel heavy, and her little frame digs into the ground, melting into the dirty earth. Confusion weighs her down, exhaustion consumes her, sleep tugs at her and she can not refuse.
A life-size version of the toy truck whips next to the tree, screeching to a halt, a bloodied heap lies next to it. A husky man jumps from the truck, his brown eyes full of concern. In the truck sits the man’s daughter Gwen. Gwen, a tiny girl, could almost be the twin to Emarie. People often get the best friends confused. Their eyes are always what give them away, Gwen’s dark shade of brown eyes are so much different than Emarie’s bright shade of green.
The man scoops up the girl in his arms, blood covering a great deal of her body. He inspects her only to find not one cut or bruise anywhere on the surface of her skin. His eyes have an understanding in them that does not fade. He places her limp form in the truck next to Gwen, pushing some of her honey hair out of her face dried blood flaking off.
“Daddy will Emmy be okay?”
“Emmy’s fine honey, she’s just fine.”
In a way losing part of my story was a gift. It's pushed me to bring my novel to new heights. I could have stopped right then and given up. I'm so incredibly glad that I didnt. In the end I'm hoping it all will be worth it.
Here's part of the first chapter, enjoy.
Monster
The wheels on the truck go round and round, round and round. The blood red metal truck is grasped by the curled fingers of an eager seven year old. The flower trees’ dark cupped petals fall around the children with blonde hair and sun kissed skin. The shadow of the tree casting over their faces makes their eyes darker than the blackest beetle. Little feet run around the flower trees, making sounds of rain on the parched dirt. Dirt surrounds them, deposited in small amounts in their hair, on their toes; unwelcome dirt that only the nanny will notice. Daddy and Mommy are oblivious to the children, let alone to the grime matted on their skin.
Emarie leaves her brother alone in the soil to climb a tall birch tree that would cradle her in its branches gently. She hates the color red, like her brothers toy. She swings her tan leg to a higher wooden arm rocking forward grasping the uneven tree branches tighter. The bark cuts into her fingers, her foot misses sending the small girl swinging backward. Her fingers slip dropping her to the ground like a dead fly. August wind flows, beckoning the tree’s appendages downward as if to shake the girl awake.
The hard ground is cold against her unmoving body. How can the ground be cold in a drought? She can hear Nathan crying. The little boy thinks she is dead. Her protector, her hero has let her fall and he feels helpless. She lies perfectly still, so still. A brilliant red and black butterfly lands on her chest, directly in the middle of where her heart rests underneath her flesh, her body contorts.
Emarie’s eyes flicker. Mouth gaping, she chokes, spitting blood and two sharp baby teeth to the ground. Nathan’s nearly black eyes flicker to the spattered blood, he licks the wet tears off of his lips thanking God his sister is alive. The boy tries to pick his little sister up, but her bones crack and protest with every inch they are moved. He leaves her propped against the aged tree, running down the gravel road screaming, pleading for someone to help.
Emarie’s petite hands tremble as she reaches for her twisted leg that is set in a position only fit for a rag doll. She brings her fingertips to her badly skinned knees. She winces, but her eyes open widely. New skin now rapidly spreads over her knee cap like spider webs, stringy pieces weaving in and out in front of her eyes. She takes her hands back quickly but pulls away, brushing other cuts, vines of new tissue and muscle growing underneath where she touches. Tears fall down her face, many bones still broken, her back screaming loudly. She cups her twisted leg gently, a warm feeling spreading throughout the area, some of the pain subsiding. Every cut and scrape disappearing, pinky flesh covering the wounds. Her lids feel heavy, and her little frame digs into the ground, melting into the dirty earth. Confusion weighs her down, exhaustion consumes her, sleep tugs at her and she can not refuse.
A life-size version of the toy truck whips next to the tree, screeching to a halt, a bloodied heap lies next to it. A husky man jumps from the truck, his brown eyes full of concern. In the truck sits the man’s daughter Gwen. Gwen, a tiny girl, could almost be the twin to Emarie. People often get the best friends confused. Their eyes are always what give them away, Gwen’s dark shade of brown eyes are so much different than Emarie’s bright shade of green.
The man scoops up the girl in his arms, blood covering a great deal of her body. He inspects her only to find not one cut or bruise anywhere on the surface of her skin. His eyes have an understanding in them that does not fade. He places her limp form in the truck next to Gwen, pushing some of her honey hair out of her face dried blood flaking off.
“Daddy will Emmy be okay?”
“Emmy’s fine honey, she’s just fine.”
