Snippet: "Bel-Gonows: The Child"
Just realised that I actually didn't have a "Bel-Gonows" snippet here and rushed off to find one. Talk about major "D'oh!" This snippet is largely unedited or refined. It is from the first chapter when Joneigh first meets Pruella (whom you will all love!) This is before the rewrite and will likely change.
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He was so absorbed in picking the dirt out from under his nails that he did not see the sudden purple flash coming from the pantry and a quiet humming. Several minutes passed without any trouble. The unusual humming continued quietly, accompanied by the shuffling of tins and sounds of eating. Joneigh slowly became aware of the sound, his eyes thinning and his only though being “What now?”
Hands on his hips he stomped over to the door of the pantry to find a rather weird sight. There was an old looking woman, her hand in the syrup jar, her lips covered in gooe and flour, her wrinkles highlighted by the small candle he had back in the kitchen, her belly large, and some wings? Sprouting from her back were tiny, purple, lacelike, wings that fluttered softly keeping the woman perfectly stationary in front of the syrup jar. So tiny that you would not notice if you had not been looking and they were not nearly large enough to hold her weight.
“Excuse me?” Joneigh demanded.
The woman turned about, a scowl across her face at having been interrupted. “You’re excused, young man.” She turned and went back to the syrup jar, shoving another handful in and slapping it about her mouth in a revolting fashion.
“No – I mean, excuse me, what are you doing?” He tried again, his anger obviously growing at the woman who was demolishing his pantry supplies. He really did not want to spent the little money he had restocking the pantry or the journey to Leu’cono’stoc, which was a good fifty miles away, at least.
The woman coughed and gummed her mouth with her finger, un-sticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “I’m eating syrup. What does it look like?”
“Well, yes, but why? How did you get in? Why are you in my pantry?” He barked out at the stranger.
“Hmm? Why?” She eyed him. “Because I fancied some syrup and you had some.”
Joneigh leaned against the doorframe and rubbed his head, which was beginning to show signs of a migraine. He wondered quietly if he should have just gone to bed without fixing anything to eat. The day had already been bad enough and this woman was just rubbing salt into the wound.
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He was so absorbed in picking the dirt out from under his nails that he did not see the sudden purple flash coming from the pantry and a quiet humming. Several minutes passed without any trouble. The unusual humming continued quietly, accompanied by the shuffling of tins and sounds of eating. Joneigh slowly became aware of the sound, his eyes thinning and his only though being “What now?”
Hands on his hips he stomped over to the door of the pantry to find a rather weird sight. There was an old looking woman, her hand in the syrup jar, her lips covered in gooe and flour, her wrinkles highlighted by the small candle he had back in the kitchen, her belly large, and some wings? Sprouting from her back were tiny, purple, lacelike, wings that fluttered softly keeping the woman perfectly stationary in front of the syrup jar. So tiny that you would not notice if you had not been looking and they were not nearly large enough to hold her weight.
“Excuse me?” Joneigh demanded.
The woman turned about, a scowl across her face at having been interrupted. “You’re excused, young man.” She turned and went back to the syrup jar, shoving another handful in and slapping it about her mouth in a revolting fashion.
“No – I mean, excuse me, what are you doing?” He tried again, his anger obviously growing at the woman who was demolishing his pantry supplies. He really did not want to spent the little money he had restocking the pantry or the journey to Leu’cono’stoc, which was a good fifty miles away, at least.
The woman coughed and gummed her mouth with her finger, un-sticking her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “I’m eating syrup. What does it look like?”
“Well, yes, but why? How did you get in? Why are you in my pantry?” He barked out at the stranger.
“Hmm? Why?” She eyed him. “Because I fancied some syrup and you had some.”
Joneigh leaned against the doorframe and rubbed his head, which was beginning to show signs of a migraine. He wondered quietly if he should have just gone to bed without fixing anything to eat. The day had already been bad enough and this woman was just rubbing salt into the wound.
Snippet: "Alonzo Asa"
As Promised! A snippet from my Alonzo Asa novel that is currently in progress (still at first draft stage but this has been cleaned up for reader consumption!) This is the beginning of the novel. It would appear on the first page. There is no prologue.
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Rain poured over London like it never intended to end. It ran down the buildings and over the street, covering everything from black sacks of rubbish, to the moth eaten tabby-cats, to the homeless that slept in the mucky puddles. Rain washed down the drainpipes that lined every building to spill as gullies of water over cobbled roads to the quickly flooding sewage works, which were beginning to over-flow leaving gigantic lakes around the grates. The thick and heavy clouds marred the dark night-sky, hiding all the stars and what would have been a beautiful waning moon. It all hung over London like a guillotines blade ready to drop.
The only source of light in the World came from the orange lamps that lined every road and the smaller lights that dotted the alleyways which eerily highlighted the rain like little halos in the dark and not much else. No noise could make it through the thunderous hammering of a million raindrops hitting the concrete surfaces. Not a thing stirred in the pitch black, where the orange glows did not reach. The darkness seemed to eat objects from sight, where the unknown lurked.
Alonzo Asa stalked silently into an alleyway with his thick black cloak wrapped around his shoulders but open at the front. He never felt the cold now, and the rain did not bother him. He was on a mission. He was on a hunt that could not wait just a second longer. He moved on cat-like feet across the cobbled stones, avoiding the little rivers of rainwater that gushed from the drainpipes. His tidy, well shined, black shoes making the tiniest little clicking and splashing sound as he went. Beneath the heavy cloak, which covered most of his body and ended just a little above his knees, he wore a full black suit with white shirt and a dark red tie. He had his long black hair pulled back into one single pony-tail using a thin rubber band; although the rain was doing its best to undo that tidiness.
He moved stealthily between the windows in the alleyway, hoping to find something. His reflexes were taut and his senses fully awake. Every movement was calculated and with practiced ease. Each muscle danced to his tune, ready to fight at any given moment. He hadn’t lived this long by being a coward. If it came down to “fight or flee” he would stand his ground but there would be nobody challenging him tonight. Nobody except his latest target, when he found her. He searched the soaked alleyway like a wild animal would for its next prey. His eyes darted about quickly picking out the smallest details with his jaw clenched in anticipation.
It had been almost a week since his last release; his last victim. The girl had been a run of the mill hooker, none the better than the worst of them. Times were bad in 2010, especially after the stock-markets had crashed. All sorts of girls now sought out extra ways to make an extra pound at whatever the cost. He’d found her, and everything else he had needed, the drugs and the alcohol, with ease. It was like he never really needed to search for it. They usually found him or lead him on with a dance and a show. She had been willing to do almost anything for him too. He had enjoyed it as she had danced around him swaying her hips, her breath heavy with alcohol, and her clumsy actions. The movements had set his heart of fire as his eyes ate her up like a taste canapé on a silver plate.
The urge to rush and take the prostitute had almost burned through his body like a poker that had been left too long in the fire, its hot end near white. She had been easy to take and thankfully she did not cry much thanks to the numbed senses.
He needed that same release now. It pushed him on with crazed urgency that he had to keep in control. He had learnt a long time ago that running from pillar to post was not the best way to do things. It wasted energy and too much effort for his tastes. The urge had dug him out of his warm bed tonight with a primal need, shaking his body and every thought until they had scattered.
He left on the hunt soon after that. It absorbed his thoughts. He wanted flesh. He needed it: a girl to play with and take. He hated what he did to the girls and that infernal urge but there was something deeply satisfying when he did it. That satisfaction made him sick to his stomach but there was definitely something enjoyable about it.
The need had threatened to swallow him whole when he had been younger and less experienced. He had desperately tried to ignore the urge after he saw what it did to the poor girls but every time it had sent him on a maddening chase to find another. It was a constant sickening battle throughout his body. Fulfil the need but hurt the girl – or go mad – and going made was not an option he could face. The shouts, the tears, the pain he caused the girls’ was enough to drive him crazy. The look on their faces as he did what he needed could have ripped a man’s heart in two, and it often felt like it was succeeding.
The urge pounded in his head now with fury that could not be ignored. He had to relent to it every time. It moved him like a puppet would attached to invisible sickening strings. He would dance to its tune and in turn the girls would dance to his.
He rounded a drenched corner and spotted one window with the light still on, despite it being well past midnight.
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Rain poured over London like it never intended to end. It ran down the buildings and over the street, covering everything from black sacks of rubbish, to the moth eaten tabby-cats, to the homeless that slept in the mucky puddles. Rain washed down the drainpipes that lined every building to spill as gullies of water over cobbled roads to the quickly flooding sewage works, which were beginning to over-flow leaving gigantic lakes around the grates. The thick and heavy clouds marred the dark night-sky, hiding all the stars and what would have been a beautiful waning moon. It all hung over London like a guillotines blade ready to drop.
The only source of light in the World came from the orange lamps that lined every road and the smaller lights that dotted the alleyways which eerily highlighted the rain like little halos in the dark and not much else. No noise could make it through the thunderous hammering of a million raindrops hitting the concrete surfaces. Not a thing stirred in the pitch black, where the orange glows did not reach. The darkness seemed to eat objects from sight, where the unknown lurked.
Alonzo Asa stalked silently into an alleyway with his thick black cloak wrapped around his shoulders but open at the front. He never felt the cold now, and the rain did not bother him. He was on a mission. He was on a hunt that could not wait just a second longer. He moved on cat-like feet across the cobbled stones, avoiding the little rivers of rainwater that gushed from the drainpipes. His tidy, well shined, black shoes making the tiniest little clicking and splashing sound as he went. Beneath the heavy cloak, which covered most of his body and ended just a little above his knees, he wore a full black suit with white shirt and a dark red tie. He had his long black hair pulled back into one single pony-tail using a thin rubber band; although the rain was doing its best to undo that tidiness.
He moved stealthily between the windows in the alleyway, hoping to find something. His reflexes were taut and his senses fully awake. Every movement was calculated and with practiced ease. Each muscle danced to his tune, ready to fight at any given moment. He hadn’t lived this long by being a coward. If it came down to “fight or flee” he would stand his ground but there would be nobody challenging him tonight. Nobody except his latest target, when he found her. He searched the soaked alleyway like a wild animal would for its next prey. His eyes darted about quickly picking out the smallest details with his jaw clenched in anticipation.
It had been almost a week since his last release; his last victim. The girl had been a run of the mill hooker, none the better than the worst of them. Times were bad in 2010, especially after the stock-markets had crashed. All sorts of girls now sought out extra ways to make an extra pound at whatever the cost. He’d found her, and everything else he had needed, the drugs and the alcohol, with ease. It was like he never really needed to search for it. They usually found him or lead him on with a dance and a show. She had been willing to do almost anything for him too. He had enjoyed it as she had danced around him swaying her hips, her breath heavy with alcohol, and her clumsy actions. The movements had set his heart of fire as his eyes ate her up like a taste canapé on a silver plate.
The urge to rush and take the prostitute had almost burned through his body like a poker that had been left too long in the fire, its hot end near white. She had been easy to take and thankfully she did not cry much thanks to the numbed senses.
He needed that same release now. It pushed him on with crazed urgency that he had to keep in control. He had learnt a long time ago that running from pillar to post was not the best way to do things. It wasted energy and too much effort for his tastes. The urge had dug him out of his warm bed tonight with a primal need, shaking his body and every thought until they had scattered.
He left on the hunt soon after that. It absorbed his thoughts. He wanted flesh. He needed it: a girl to play with and take. He hated what he did to the girls and that infernal urge but there was something deeply satisfying when he did it. That satisfaction made him sick to his stomach but there was definitely something enjoyable about it.
The need had threatened to swallow him whole when he had been younger and less experienced. He had desperately tried to ignore the urge after he saw what it did to the poor girls but every time it had sent him on a maddening chase to find another. It was a constant sickening battle throughout his body. Fulfil the need but hurt the girl – or go mad – and going made was not an option he could face. The shouts, the tears, the pain he caused the girls’ was enough to drive him crazy. The look on their faces as he did what he needed could have ripped a man’s heart in two, and it often felt like it was succeeding.
The urge pounded in his head now with fury that could not be ignored. He had to relent to it every time. It moved him like a puppet would attached to invisible sickening strings. He would dance to its tune and in turn the girls would dance to his.
He rounded a drenched corner and spotted one window with the light still on, despite it being well past midnight.
© Jennifer Allison Delaney
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