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It is four in the morning. Why, why, WHY have I woken up at four in the morning?? Because my cat has LEAPED upon my head. Not just my head...my FACE. There were claws. There was screaming. The neighbors may never forgive us. As punishment, I am now refusing to feed my cat until six am. But I can't go back to sleep! *screams*
So...the beginning of the mutant plotbunny that has taken up residence at the back of my brain. Yes, like a parasite. We call it DarkTower!OuaTiM. We meaning me, Sands, and the voices in his head. Well...voice. Comments appreciated, but it's just a snippet.
Book I: Mariachi
The man in black fled across the desert, and the mariachi followed.
He carried both guitar cases, their weight familiar, reassuring strain along his shoulders and the back of his neck. Unbalanced, the right case heavier, listing him toward justice and damnation. Step by step, tracks edging sideways over miles of sand, always at an angle to purity. He tasted dust with every breath, but that was familiar too; he had spent his childhood in deserts, but the mild, smooth sands of In-World lay far behind this acidic waste. They’d grown hazy, perfect in his memory, like the remembered scent of women and wanting. Como las rosas. Gunpowder and good liquor.
The desert watched him with one unblinking eye; together, they drifted south.
The man in black left only the smallest signs of his own humanity--semi-circles of ash, the dead ends of cigarettes, pale ends of bone. He must cosset the wind; it curled around him and brushed away his tracks. Shadow stretched long behind him, cast by empty air, whirling raven wings and bits of shattered bone in the mariachi's path. The scent of blood set alight, luring, lurid.
**********
Err...yeah. More when I sleep enough to be coherent, maybe...
So...the beginning of the mutant plotbunny that has taken up residence at the back of my brain. Yes, like a parasite. We call it DarkTower!OuaTiM. We meaning me, Sands, and the voices in his head. Well...voice. Comments appreciated, but it's just a snippet.
Book I: Mariachi
The man in black fled across the desert, and the mariachi followed.
He carried both guitar cases, their weight familiar, reassuring strain along his shoulders and the back of his neck. Unbalanced, the right case heavier, listing him toward justice and damnation. Step by step, tracks edging sideways over miles of sand, always at an angle to purity. He tasted dust with every breath, but that was familiar too; he had spent his childhood in deserts, but the mild, smooth sands of In-World lay far behind this acidic waste. They’d grown hazy, perfect in his memory, like the remembered scent of women and wanting. Como las rosas. Gunpowder and good liquor.
The desert watched him with one unblinking eye; together, they drifted south.
The man in black left only the smallest signs of his own humanity--semi-circles of ash, the dead ends of cigarettes, pale ends of bone. He must cosset the wind; it curled around him and brushed away his tracks. Shadow stretched long behind him, cast by empty air, whirling raven wings and bits of shattered bone in the mariachi's path. The scent of blood set alight, luring, lurid.
**********
Err...yeah. More when I sleep enough to be coherent, maybe...
