Sorry about that. I had to like, not visit this site for more than 3 months. Unexplained reason.
BUT life goes on.
I’m back, and Happy New Year & Chinese New Year, but this is probably WAY too late so I’m going to cut to the chase.
I’ve been starting a novel/short story/full story attempt/whatever you call it that will probably end up on eBay, since… last month? I can’t remember. And I just wanted to post a little excerpt of it here. Dat okay wit u? Haha. That was my stoner talk.
It doesn’t have a name yet, I could NEVER name something then write about it (poems, stories), because it just feels manipulative to me. This…. piece of writing/novel/story/art is actually inspired by lots of books I have heard about in my short life of 13. I can only be inspired by something I’ve never read or watched. It’s a dystopian/romance/science fiction/fantasy/adventure kind of me-ness, although I am hoping to add some thriller into it (as if the…novel isn’t dark enough already). I would like to try comedy next time, if you please, but somehow I end up in dark fantasy, every single time.
This work is really personal to me, and the first half of the short prologue is really romantic and full-on/slap in the face romance (please don’t judge a book by it’s prologue) but it changes COMPLETELY for the rest of the storyline. Romance will thrown big bits in here and there: my main storyline is basically jacked up and dramatic so…. yeah.
This is not the full thing, just bits and pieces of it, just enough for you to grasp what’s it about:
In the striking autumn of 1793, pumpkin orange and faint green leaves began to fall. It’s September, and the cool wind was casually breezing through. Mellowness and the serenity of the trees blended into each other like a drink. Liberté, égalité, fraternité. The Reign of Terror couldn’t reach here, not by far.
Sitting on a bench by the Touloubre river, Remember Bellentine organized her flowers. Purple foxgloves, violet-blue irises, and small lilac-colored Rosemary bushes.
She picked them one by one.
“Remember! There you are! J’ai cherché pour toi!” A familiar voice shouted.
Remember turned herself around from her wooden bench. She beamed and her solitary thoughts were eased away.
“I have been sitting here, waiting for you, Stephen,” she said giddily, her voice as gentle as a snowflake, if it had a voice. It sounded like something heavenly: the harps playing, or a chorus of angels singing, the sound of the morning sun absorbing into delicate plants, or even maybe all at once. Maybe neither of them, but possibly just something that made the guy’s heart race.
“That is my English name. Would you mind if you call me the French equivalent of my name, Étienne?” Étienne said playfully, walking towards Remember on the smooth hill.
“I’m aware of that! Now, I’m betting that you’re wondering what an American girl could possibly have to do with France?”
Étienne reached Remember and sat down with her, smiling. “Quite frankly, yes.”
Étienne stared at the mesmerizing river. It’s dusk, and the pinkish golden glow of the sun refracted into the flowing water of whitish-aqua. Breezes flowed through Remember’s long, fair platinum blonde hair and across her heart-shaped face. Remember gathered her courage up to peek at Étienne when he wasn’t looking, with her hazel eyes. He had an ambitious and charming color around him and in everything he did. She noticed his suave-and-beaming hair, short layers parted at center and loosely scattered on his face, with long, wavy layers cut around the sides of his head. His eyes were a certain color of blue-grey, like a blue sky with grey clouds. Remember wondered if Étienne knows that his very own eyes, were more mesmerizing than the very river in front of them.
Étienne looked away from river and looked back at Remember with a pleasant smile. Remember shyly looked away. They both know that they have chemistry between them, but they couldn’t bear to say it. It was taboo for interracial romance; but Remember was a strange combination of soft and sweet but at the same time semi-fierce and strong; she just can’t seem to leap out of her security blanket. The girl was like a soft and vulnerable kitten, with some streaks of tigress blood. But at that moment, she felt like she was ready to jump out and declare her love openly to Étienne. In that moment, she felt like she was ready to jump out and just act on something, that shows a passionate emotion, for once in her life. She could—
Étienne looked horrified.
Trickling down her nose, red liquid oozed down onto her pink lips.
Étienne’s eyes were in panic and worry. “Remy! Listen to me! You caught the plague? Why didn’t you tell me? Please tell me! I’d rather you live in vain plagued with disease than die this way!”
Remy looked pale; her skin was now a sickly white. “I didn’t know! I always thought I was strong enough to not be—“ she coughed violently, “—erased. This…energy I have could not live inside my mind any longer. I cannot fathom why…”
“Do not leave me like this! No, no, no, no!” He looked broken and desperate.
“The….future, very few people will remain with Cardiency. But right now, there are still people who could really keep this alive, not just us.”
Gusts of wind were blowing ferociously. A small inanimate butterfly-like part fluttered its way to Remember’s hands; an fallen orange leaf.
Remember whispered slowly and faintly: “I love you…”
On the floor. Motionless. It was a horrific sight, but was it beautiful.
Down the carefully and strategically placed “balcony” made of poor wood, was a beautiful girl laying on a concrete floor. Everything was in place, with her face on the ground like the last piece of a puzzle, or how a room would feel cozy with that special something present in the room. Finally, it makes sense. Finally. Streaks of well-cared and straight light honey blonde corn silk were, for once, disorganized and ruffled in the damaging air and the harsh environment. It still looked perfect.
“Looks like it’s another case of the disease this week, sir,” a brown-haired man observed, gesturing towards the poor girl.
“What a shame, isn’t it, Tom?” another considerably older man remarked sadly, “We could’ve used her.”
Flash. Photographs were taken, clicks in odd rhythms. The investigators that came from within the building itself were apparently not used to the façade of the school and how it works; it wasn’t an ordinary place after all. Flash. But there was another reason. Shaking and trembling hands of a scared photographer. They were scared. The disease is spreading all over the still-developing and earthy remains of New York City after the disastrous near-wipeout calamity decades ago. And those who now die, wouldn’t have taken the disease well.
People stopped by to watch the flawless moonlit corpse on the slightly wet pavement, with some of the aghast surrounding the body, murmuring “it’s Heather” and “Yeoman is dead” in muffled voices. Only in just a few seconds, lots of students came gathering from the inner building of the school; you could hear quickened foot pacing from them. The hallways looked strangely eerie, the sickening odor combination of wet paint and glue only contributed to the suspicion raising when you visit it at first sight. It just doesn’t look appealing to the eye. Its construction must have been rushed to find a safety rabbit hole where they thought the disease couldn’t reach: underground and dirty classrooms that would suffocate a person, the walls painted a tampered bleach white. And with students (sixty or less) leaving the hallways empty, they flooded and consumed Heather Yeoman’s precious space.
Nach Suphakawanich ©