So, I mentioned in a different post that I was working hard on some side projects besides this blog. One of those is my novel. To be honest, I find writing it to be a daunting and self-esteem obliterating task. I plug at it every night (or try to every night.)
I wanted to share a piece of it with you, my lovely readers. Maybe the knowledge that now there are people who will hold me accountable if I give up will keep me going and push me to the finish line!
So without further ado, here is a part of my work in progress: Dead Letters:
The dirt sucks at me, softening, opening up. I am pulled down, choking on dirt clods, and the overwhelming stench of death. It grows hot, moist, like an intimate place or festering wound. The corpse has me in a tight embrace, breathing fetid clouds against my face. Dusty teeth press against my lips, pinching, splitting the tender skin. Skeletal legs wrap around my own, sharp nails tangle in my hair, the other bone hand grips my throat. I stare at the flickering embers that dance in hollow eye sockets. Her skull is crushed at the back, I should be able to see right through to the dirt on the other side but, instead, there is only a terrible, unfathomable darkness.
She opens her jaws, her teeth press against my face, framing my mouth inside hers. It shouldn’t be possible, but I feel the hot, wet press of a tongue against my lips, probing, pressing. The teeth clench harder and I nearly cry out for the pain, but if that tongue enters my mouth, I know I will go mad. I will lose every ounce of self I have in order to get away from the sensation, from the violation, from the taste of death itself.
The teeth dig in harder, her incisors piercing my cheeks. Warm blood trickles down to my chin. I reached up and try grip her jaws, try to pry them apart. She is latched on tight, the pressure grows as she bites down harder. My left cheekbone shatters under the pressure and I can’t resist the scream that comes boiling up my throat. In the second my lips part, her rotted tongue plunges into my mouth. I gag on the tongue forcing its way down my throat. I thrash in her arms but she’s stronger than me, her corpse is my bone-cage, a womb of death.
Her tongue fills my throat, reaching down, and curls inside my belly like a snake. I choke. I grow weaker as my vision is stained with blotches. Her eldritch gaze watches as I die in her arms. I close my eyes, tasting rot, flesh, and salt.
I thought death would be an endless dark void but when I open my eyes, everything is white. In front of me stands a beautiful woman who I know must be the same woman who died at the hands of Ahimoth, the same woman who lies buried under the thirteenth stone, and who just murdered me.
Let me know what you think, everyone! Encouragement is appreciated and criticism will be analyzed and salted with tears!
x P.L. McMillan