Right, More Writing...
Oct. 20th, 2010 09:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
realsorienI (FINALLY) got something of an outline down for the novel attempt, as well as a set of goals for it. I'm aiming for a total word count between 75-90,000, which is kinda steep, and a typing rate of 3000 words a day. I figure, what the hell, I might as well aim a little high. :) I also came up with the fragment below the other night, and I'll be damned as to what I'll do with it- its pretty neat though, I think. Its just over 200 words long, and nicely disturbing.
Crunch, crunch crunch. Boots across the dried leaves, breaking the fragile silence and the leaves themselves in equality. Crunch, crunch, crunch, endless repetition of sound in the valley, promising something portentous and perhaps terrible. The sound carried, cool autumn air wafting with it across and around the trees, scaring the rabbits and scattering the squirrels before it as the noise and its source progressed. Few knew of the little valley and its population of scattered villages, and fewer still cared about it- such was the way of the world, after all. People cared for themselves and worried about others only distantly.
Slowly the crunching boots moved deeper into the vale, closer ever to the tranquilly gurgling waters of the ancient river which had birthed it. Clear skies overhung all, but in the distance clouds could be seen gathering as if in counterpoint to the dreadful sounds of the crunching, tramping feet.
Deeper in the valley the morning light had fully bloomed and the folk were at their daily chores. Of what was to come they knew nothing- no crunching leaves were to be heard by them, save those they trod upon themselves. Wood was chopped, laundry washed and for that briefest of moments all was well in the world.
A hunter named Mol was the first to see those who came, but none would ever learn of it. The crunching boots soon passed his corpse by, leaving the falling leaves to shroud his form from the light of day.
Crunch, crunch crunch. Boots across the dried leaves, breaking the fragile silence and the leaves themselves in equality. Crunch, crunch, crunch, endless repetition of sound in the valley, promising something portentous and perhaps terrible. The sound carried, cool autumn air wafting with it across and around the trees, scaring the rabbits and scattering the squirrels before it as the noise and its source progressed. Few knew of the little valley and its population of scattered villages, and fewer still cared about it- such was the way of the world, after all. People cared for themselves and worried about others only distantly.
Slowly the crunching boots moved deeper into the vale, closer ever to the tranquilly gurgling waters of the ancient river which had birthed it. Clear skies overhung all, but in the distance clouds could be seen gathering as if in counterpoint to the dreadful sounds of the crunching, tramping feet.
Deeper in the valley the morning light had fully bloomed and the folk were at their daily chores. Of what was to come they knew nothing- no crunching leaves were to be heard by them, save those they trod upon themselves. Wood was chopped, laundry washed and for that briefest of moments all was well in the world.
A hunter named Mol was the first to see those who came, but none would ever learn of it. The crunching boots soon passed his corpse by, leaving the falling leaves to shroud his form from the light of day.
