After two and a half long, dry months of little writing, a cluster of stories came and took over my life. Over Friday and Saturday I wrote two new short pieces, and then early Sunday I got hit by a third idea, something of a remix of an old, dead story that I shelved a year ago. And boom!
Looks like I'll be taking my notebook away with me after all, just in case. And to think, I almost announced a hiatus from short fiction a few weeks ago.
Here's a snippet from my Friday story, a YA horror/fantasy, currently untitled, still early draft:"He cut his own hands off on purpose," they said, "so people would stop calling him
Rumour is one of the oldest sources of ignition.
It starts at the heart of the common room after morning break, on the first day back to school after a searing summer. It begins with a spark—a tiny truth.
"I heard he was working weekends on Winfirth Farm so he could pay for that college girl to get a clean abortion," Chloe says before fourth period. She taps her pen against a Maths book graffitied with the names of the boys she's kissed, some struck-through, others lovingly bubble-written.
"What?" Rose says. She fans her face and neck with her book, whose cover is crisp and clear. "That's so much crap." It's not that she likes Xavier Bracken or wants to defend him. His tongue's as sharp as his cheekbones, and she's always thought his eyes too black and lips too thin. Plus there's the whole "Airbags" thing. She can't believe anyone would sleep with him, especially not a college girl.
And why would he cut off his own hands if he wanted to pay for an abortion?
"Do you want to know what I heard or not?" Chloe says.
"I—yes, go on," Rose says with only a second's hesitation.
, by the GazettE.