This novel, tentatively titled Vitium Renata, will mark both my first novel-length foray into fantasy, as well as my first attempt at working up a fully-fledged magic system.
What it will not be, though, is an exploration of something I discovered at this past weekend's Magic City Writers group meeting, which is that I may have a real gift for writing horror, or at least the ability to derive a lot of fun and pleasure from the process. I will definitely be trying my hand at some horror stuff after NaNoWriMo has ended. Just in time for Christmas!
After the break, a little rough horror scene I did at the prompting of Kathryn, who was driving the 10-minute writing exercises that day. Be warned: it's gross!
Rachael huddled behind the wall next to the glassless window, butcher’s cleaver in hand, and listening despite herself to the dragging, groaning sounds from the yard behind her. The dead walked that night, and she knew that she would likely not survive.
Suddenly the wall behind her shook as something crashed into it. A stinking, loosely-fleshed arm groped through the window, seeking her out, by smell or her body’s heat, she couldn’t tell, but it had found her. From outside she could hear the others stopping, turning, wondering what the one at the window had found.
Before Rachael could make herself move, the hand had grabbed her by the hair and face. One of its horrid fingers was in her mouth, and she gagged at the smell, and the taste as it clutched and pulled.
She shrieked something inarticulate as she hacked at the thing’s elbow and wrenched away. Somehow she connected, and the rotting flesh parted surprisingly easily. The arm fell away just as she realized she’d bit down on the finger, severing it from the hand that dropped to the floor.
The thing wriggled in her mouth as she backed away from the window. The dead thing leaning in had no eyes and could not see her, so she moved as silently as she could. The finger first tried to escape her teeth, then prodded around her cheeks and under her tongue.
She felt it move toward the back of her throat as she moved behind a corner of the house, putting a wall between her and the horror trying to hear her. Her throat spasmed, yet she dared not make a sound. Others had come to join the thing in the window, and spitting out the finger would be as deadly as allowing it to continue.Ew, right? The topic word was "vomitophobia," which I suppose I didn't really get to, but I had way too much fun both writing it, and reading it to the group.
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