So I fell off the writing wagon back in July. Life got in the way and I drifted away from my passion, I don’t have excuses, writing is damn hard but I’m determined to keep at it. NaNoWriMo is just around the corner so its time to buckle down.
Here’s my 500 or so words for the first day of September, super rough draft as always.
“Its obvious isn’t it?” He continued to work but his mind wasn’t in it, he copied down the equations and properties automatically. Racing anxious thoughts pushed every sensible action out of the way. He knew he shouldn’t on some level but a banal part of him insisted on brooding. Brooding over some perceived slight, some hypothetical nonsense. Could he really go through with it or even pretend to be okay with it at all? He knew the answer but pressed on in his musings. Inner dialogues tend to take a negative tone, because after all the only one exposed to said dialogues happens to be yourself. He closed the physics text book with an audible sigh, a little too loudly because the girl across the room with the dark tinted glasses noticed him. He shoved his things in the worn canvas backpack and pretended to look at his phone while making his exit. The halls and sidewalks were filled with people but he was oblivious, bumping into them left and right mumbling sorry. They hadn’t experienced it, they didn’t know what it felt like to consider the implications. Absorbed in contemplation his feet had taken him through the campus and to the bus stop, people stood around having gossipy conversations about who slept with who and how “Awesome” last night was. He couldn’t relate, their problems felt insignificant, he felt insignificant. he shifted from foot to foot trying hard to avoid eye contact with his ‘peers’. He slipped the slender phone out of his pocket again to look busy and to blend in. Why did he feel like he needed to blend in. Was this fear? There had to be a line between anxiety and fear, between understanding and chaotic misinterpretation.
When she told him about it he was jovial and ready for anything. When they spent all afternoon drawing symbols in the dirt floor of the ruins outside her home he flirted and enjoyed every second. Trying hard to power out of the friend zone he adopted her method at lighting the fifty candles placed around the altar and made jokes accordingly. She even let him put his arm around her while they sat admiring their work waiting for sunset. When the sun dipped below the wooded horizon last night she procured a needle and stuck her finger with it, slowly a bubble of deep red grew before dropping down into the sigil they had copied. The book that contained it had long since lost its cover and title pages or maybe it never had any. It was ancient and what they awoke was even more so. As the first drop of her blood splashed down white light raced through the grooves in the dirt, like a neon sign the symbol lit up beneath them. The ground shook and they both screamed, his nose started bleeding and his vision swam. A hooded figure snapped into reality flickering like a television with bad reception. It was tall and stooped over a gnarled cane, the hands were bone white. The figure looked toward them and beckoned with one skeletal finger, “Come” it said, “Come my children and breathe immortality.” He ran, but she didn’t.