I'm been struggling so much with writing over the past few years. I'm not a fast writer in any case--my first two novels took me four years each to complete. But it has been nearly seven years now since I last finished a book. To be fair, I have been working on two at the same time, which is probably a bad idea, but I haven't been able to help myself. Both stories have been compelling to me.
I've started to have fun again, though, which is nice. Wrote this bit this morning, and it gave me a good chuckle.
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Villem hacked and gagged on the
earth choking him. Something warm and
wet rasped across his face again and again.
He spat dirt from his mouth and breathed in air sweeter than any
dessert. Gasping and panting, he tried
to open his eyes, but it was too painful from the grit that filled them. He was confused by whatever it was cleansing
his face, until he heard a whine.
The dog! She has saved my life once again. Despite his utter misery, Villem’s heart
filled with a warm glow for the poor, starving mongrel that refused to let him
die. He recalled the ridged line across
the dog’s haunch from where the crossbow bolt had left its mark. Scar! She
deserves a name. I’ll name her Scar.
He spat and spat until his mouth
was free of dirt. Scar began licking him
about the eyes, and soon Villem was able to try opening them again. The grit was painful and filled his eyes with
tears, but he could see Scar standing over him, continuing to lick away the
dirt from around his face.
Villem was grateful that the lord’s
men hadn’t bothered to do more than toss a thin layer of earth over his face,
else he’d surely be dead now. They had
done better with his lower extremities, though—he couldn’t move them much. He began wiggling his arms and legs the best
he could, trying to gain more room.
Scar’s head jerked up and looked
away, and she barked twice. In the
distance, Villem heard a voice, perhaps that of a child. It was coming closer!
“H-help!” he cried. “Help me!”
He heard a startled cry, then silence for a few moments.
“Back dog!” someone yelled,
sounding like a young boy.
“It must belong to the witch,” came
a voice from a different boy.
“No!” Villem cried. “It’s me.
Help me!”
“Run!” yelped one of the boys, and Villem
heard them scampering away.
Villem wept and laughed at the same
time, while Scar began to lick his face again.
“They thought it was you, girl. Good
girl. Good, Scar.” He wished he had an arm free so he could pet
her. He began to wiggle his arms and
legs again.
Just when he began to feel he was
making some headway, he heard voices again, and Scar again looked up and
barked.
“There it is, see? Don’t get too close,” came the voice of one
of the boys.
A man’s voice responded, “It’s just
a mutt. Are you daft?”
“It talked, I swear!”
“It the witch’s, I tell you.” So the other boy was there as well.
Villem gathered his breath and
called out, “It’s not the dog. It’s me! Help me!”
Silence reined for some time before
Villem heard scuffling sounds. Scar
barked again.
“Easy, dog,” came the raspy voice
of the man. “I’ll poke you if I have to.”
“Don’t hurt her!” Villem called
out. “She’s a good dog. The best!”
“Show yourself, whoever you are.”
“I’m here, in the ground.”
A man’s face appeared, eyes
widening as he saw Villem. The man was old,
but he wore a conical steel helm on his head, so Villem assumed he must be a guard
from the keep.
“What’s this then?” the man said. “What are you doing in the ground?”
“Just help me, please!”
The man looked behind him. “You boys, come here. Nothing t’be affrighted of. Just some demon digging his way out from the
bowels of the earth.” The man chuckled.
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