“Dying young is overrated.” Hugh MacLeod
First of all I would like to apologise for forgetting to post last week.
I honestly and completely forgot; I think it has to do with the stress of getting this second draft finished, it is now officially overdue the deadline and I have like 26 pages left to go still. And I think I will be adding material near the end as well.
Don’t get me wrong, it is still immensely fun, but when you are away from it the pressure of getting the thing finished still continues to grow; I should be starting that story on here for you guys too, and I am going to start it right now—regardless.
Because I kind of need some kind of variation and change in my writing life at the minute. It is overdue!
Bare in mind that I cannot physically finish this story on the blog, because I need to go back to the Silver Cathedral Saga for the third draft.
There will probably be two to three weeks of posts with this. Depending on how well it goes.
So here is the first part of Wolf and Owl:
In the beginning it felt just like any other day.
The sun was covered by dark clouds, rain spat at the ground. It was so heavy it almost sounded like the splashes were making its own tune. Maybe not a complex, melody like we’re all used to, but still, it did.
Something seemed to lurk in that looming darkness within the sky, fearing something that would some day come to her was today.
A crack of thunder is what sounded this strange something coming for her on this particular day.
A shadow flew through the sky. Angela looked up and saw it move, feeling numb with terror engulfing her.
“It’s as I feared,” she told herself.
She screamed in pain. “Ben,” she yelled from her back garden. The thunder grew even more vicious as a man came rushing through the conservatory door and looked at Angela now in the garden getting drenched. “My waters have just broke.”
Angela looked at the liquid on the floor and held her stomach like she was going to lose her unborn children.
Tears streamed down her face; she knew what was next.
“What the hell are you doing out there?” said Ben. He got his wife into the house.
Though before he managed to do so, the light from the lightning, in a brief flicker, made the woman’s face look like something you would see from a horror film. And she was horrified, only not of herself this time.
Ben quickly placed Angela into the back seat of the car and strapped her in.
As he soared up to the speed of eighty miles down the road his wife screamed louder and louder, as if she was reacting to the increasing and decreasing speed. Her face looked as if she was in agony, breathing hard.
Angela’s husband stopped at a set of traffic lights. The only ones which turned red on him.
“Dammit,” he said, hitting the steering wheel. He braked so hard it forced Angela to stop thinking about herself being in the middle of child birth for a moment because of the butterflies pushed upon her. Though it all came back too quickly and too easily for Angela to relish in it.
“Something’s poking out already. Hurry up.” Angela looked out the car window: Rain trickled down, which in a way made her looked trapped. She thought the droplets of water were trying to get at her, and the guilt took hold now more than ever—bang—it went, just like a bullet to the gut. Her gut.