Hello, dear readers, and welcome! I hope your November has been great so far, and that you are looking forward to what the rest of this month -- and year -- will bring. (And on a side note: happy late Halloween!)
As you may know, NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing month, has officially started, and millions of writers are typing away to get to their 50 thousand first draft done before the end of the month (myself included). In light of this, I have an announcement--
I will be taking a holiday, for at least the rest of November, perhaps through December (we shall see), though I will be sure to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year if I do decide to take off that long. I am taking off partially to focus on my NaNo novel, and some of the other projects I'm working on at the moment, and partially for health reasons, as well.
I hope you all have a fantastic November (and Thanksgiving if you celebrate it), and I will be back and writing more posts soon!
But, just for fun, here is a special treat...an excerpt from my NaNo WIP!
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Prologue: The Last Of Us
The stars were shining brightly in the darkened space, what few of them were left. They were viewed as if from above, much like a reflection upon the water, only there existed no sky in the darkness – only emptiness, vast and forever, as there was nothing above to reflect from. These stars hung in their own space, in their own realm, completely oblivious as to what was currently occurring in the darkness beyond.
And much was occurring, much to do with the fate of the Universe overall...both seen and unseen.
“You understand your mission, and the vital importance of it,” when the voice – low, masculine and deep – spoke it uttered a statement rather than a question, as one might have expected; it was stern, unshakable, and utterly serious. “You understand that without you, there is no hope for a future...for any of us.”
These words were uttered by an olden, hunched figure, an old man that had lived far past his years, it seemed, his body shriveled and nearly decaying, though his infinite eyes, the color of a dusty sky, were a force to be reckoned with. He was clothed in pure white like an angel, curling, grey hair hanging down to his waist, gathered back into a loose binding; his hand clutched a cane carved from the oldest of wood. Had the residents of the stars lingering beneath, picturesque as a painting, looked up into the great beyond they could not have seen him, for he was not really there, not in the known, normal sense.
This man was nearly as old as time itself, and in truth was hardly a man at all. His name was Clarion.
Silence stretched like a languid cat, eating up the minutes as Clarion awaited a reply, but outside of Reality, time was another thing that did not exist; or, if it did exist, it did not relegate itself to the measures of mortal beings. The elder man waited patiently, despite the urgency that had appeared in his voice, leaning heavily upon the cane he clutched to as if his power were draining with every breath – and in truth it was.
Time was short, relegated or not, and he could no longer hope to change things. It was no longer his place.
When an answer did come, it was as if the stars came alive with it, Reality sensing, even if its inhabitants did not, that something important was about to begin. The voice that answered was much unlike the elder man’s; it held none of the sternness, none of the determination, though seriousness was definitely present. In fact, if one had guessed merely from the sound of the replying voice, they might have assumed that the speaker did not care about their task, or the lives that it would change, at all--
This, however, was terribly untrue.
The voice that answered Clarion was as deep as the darkness surrounding the two figures, and as cold as an icy tomb. Mystery clung to it tightly, and though it was of a controlled, calculated nature, emotion ebbed through its words, speaking of distant things long past, and most long forgotten. It was a voice of wisdom and also of pride, and yet there was something distinctly lacking in it, as if the person speaking were not all there--
Such was to be expected, the elder man supposed, from a creation so young.
The figure that addressed the Clarion was neither old nor withering, and the shadows clung to his long coattails as if he had been born of the very emptiness that surrounded them; this was in truth not far from accurate. His face could not be seen fully, but the elder man imagined a flash of annoyance flickered through his gaze as he said, quite melancholically: “Yes, I understand my mission, and the importance of it. I know well the consequences, should I come to fail.”
Clarion could not help but think that the Universe’s last hope did not at all fully understand what was to happen, but he kept his mouth closed for a moment as the creation opposite him stepped forward, closer to the lingering stars, the shining lights seeming so small from up above. The elderly man watched as the hope of many (albeit unknown) stared contemplatively down at Reality with orbs the color of silver, mercurial like fluid metal, searching for something the elder man was not certain he could find.
Finally, Clarion spoke once more, leaning even more heavily upon his cane as he, too turned to face Reality fully, looking down upon it along with his protégé. “You understand that even if you should succeed, in doing so you will also fail?” his words transformed into a question this time, sadness infiltrating his heart.
He only wished that he could continue to live in his current state, to have the ability to guide and aid the Universe’s savior, but he understood that it was not to be. None could fight their destiny.
Or could they?
Their hope, the creation standing beside him, had been crafted for a specific purpose, and yet there was something in his silvery gaze that told Clarion his destined path could most certainly be strayed from. Such a strong will was not easily tamed.
Perhaps, in creating this creature, he had made a mistake.
It was too late now, however, to undo it; even if he had had the power, to try and fix any wrong would only serve to doom the Universe prematurely, before there ever was a chance for hope. Already he could see darkness beginning to close in, drawing nearer and nearer towards him – not the type of darkness that physically surrounded him, but the darkness that spoke of death, of new things never before experienced; it was to be a Permanent End for him, at least in this world.
He had no choice but to hope, and leave that hope here with his creation.
“There is only one world left mostly untouched, and that is your destination,” Clarion said, turning his misty blue gaze to his companion, who continued to regard Reality thoughtfully, analytically. He was aware that his protégé already knew of what he spoke, but still he reminded the creation, feeling that the words needed to be said one last time. “Look for the one whose Story has not been written. She will be your ally. Trust no one else – even those who mean well.”
The elderly man waited for some form of reply, for some utterance of thanks or goodbye – but he received nothing save for a blank, fathomless stare of silver as his creation turned to look at him one last time...before abruptly stepping forward and falling into Reality, into the stars, moving as if through water.
Once his creation was gone, Clarion bowed his head, as if in prayer, beholding Reality one last time through the long lashes of his closing eyes before he drew his final breath, and faded from existence.
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Thanks for reading. :)
© Alexandra Lanc, 2014
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