Sorry if it's a bit long...
This is the beginning of the second chapter of the book I'm trying to write.
Drasteia is driving with both her hands on the wheel, watching the road intently. I sit in the back, among two threadbare rucksacks of what Drasteia calls ‘essential human supplies’. Over my regular, every-day attire of black and red, I am dressed in a shockingly thin-cloth coat with a hood, and shoes made of rubber. It’s all pretty odd.
Having no clue at all as to wherever Drasteia is taking me, I stare out the rain-streaked window of the car she had stolen minutes after we’d – I’d– been banished out of the world of demons. Darius had only just finished his judgement, and like the speed of sound archdemons were each on my sides. Drasteia then jumped from the crowd, demanding to know where I am to be taken, claiming that as my mentor, she’d every right to know. I failed to hear, my mind too lost in thought, everything was happening too fast.
We take a long curve along the edges of the lake. The moonlight glistening on the running waters, the very droplets of water splattering against the car window, they catch my complete astonishment. I feel the urge to hop off, dart into the rainfall, and gawk in blatant marvel. It’s been so long; such colors, the dark mood, to my deprived eyes there weren’t sufficient words to describe their brilliance. Ahead of the rutted road, a small gap parted the cluster of –what color, orange? – red-and-orange-leaved trees. Drasteia drives past the many potholes, managing amazingly not to go over any. I’ve had her as my mentor for as long as I remember, and her silence is something I’ve grown accustomed to. Usually I can tell when it’s is due to her anger or annoyance, like it is now. We are past the trees, and from this far I see a hazy outline of derelict storefronts; it’s frustrating, not having the clear sight I’ve had for so long.
A large, quaint sign catches my eyes as we go by it.
Welcome to the village of Williord! Est. 1856
What the–
For the first time in decades, a strange sensation fires up in my chest.
My heart is hammering, high-speed. Placing my unnaturally warm hands over, I feel the faint beating. Then my wrists, my neck; there’s life in this body. A soul returning. For a second I see Drasteia watching my wonder from the mirror. Her eyes, I want to tell her, through these new eyes of mine, have the brightest shade of blue.
“So ,” I say, swallowing my shock. “Williord. That’s a place I haven’t heard of in a long time.”
Drasteia says nothing, focusing on the road once more.
“What are we doing here?” I ask. “Drasteia, come on–”
“What do you think we’re doing here?” says Drasteia rather harshly, easing the car into a halt. So wrapped up within my awe, I had not realized we’re in the village already. A chain of dilapidated storefronts, broken down bakeries, tea shops, clothing stores etc., encircles the village like fortified walls; chipped brick streets littered with brittle leaves and rubbish; a seemingly permanent fog permeates the roadways. A few changes then and there and the place could look almost exactly as it did a hundred years ago, 1910.
This is not a place I want to be in. No.
Not here. Anywhere but here.
On impulse my fingers dart for the lock, however childish the act may seem, and push it down. A thousand terrible memories I have for so long tried and succeeded shutting in bursts before my eyes. This human mind is too weak.
There, on the dark, garbage-filled street to our right, two masked muggers are attacking an old, crippled man mercilessly.
Before the cathedral, in the center of town, a child is being dragged away from his mother, his father is watching from the sidelines.
And right in front of us, so close I can dart towards him in less than a second, a little toddler is crawling towards a brick well, unsuspecting . . .
A throbbing pain breaks out on the top of my head. I hadn’t noticed my fingers clutching the roots of my hair, having done it so many times before without feeling a thing it’s become nearly involuntary. I can’t understand the burning waters suddenly swelling my eyes, the alien feeling within me. It’s happened before, countless times before. But never have I received such a turmoil reaction with it. As a rule, it would come and go, without a care from me.
I try to catch Drasteia’s eye desperately, but she’s already out the car, walking towards the path of pebbles. The building we parked before stands out from the dismal procession on its sides, mainly because it is one of the few that actually looks lived in. I grab the rucksacks, unlock the door, and walk calmly through the rain. Raindrops like plummeting ice soothe me.
Chipped off bird fountains and cages dominate most of the broad front yard, as well as small damaged figurines of elfish folks in pointed hats. Small, side-gabled, the withered grey paint are starting to tear away from the walls. Drasteia waits for me, already on the porch.
BTW; I'm fifteen. So, if you can, please give me advice and criticism I can actually understand and use.
This is the beginning of the second chapter of the book I'm trying to write.Drasteia is driving with both her hands on the wheel, watching the road intently. I sit in the back, among two threadbare rucksacks of what Drasteia calls ‘essential human supplies’. Over my regular, every-day attire of black and red, I am dressed in a shockingly thin-cloth coat with a hood, and shoes made of rubber. It’s all pretty odd.
Having no clue at all as to wherever Drasteia is taking me, I stare out the rain-streaked window of the car she had stolen minutes after we’d – I’d– been banished out of the world of demons. Darius had only just finished his judgement, and like the speed of sound archdemons were each on my sides. Drasteia then jumped from the crowd, demanding to know where I am to be taken, claiming that as my mentor, she’d every right to know. I failed to hear, my mind too lost in thought, everything was happening too fast.
We take a long curve along the edges of the lake. The moonlight glistening on the running waters, the very droplets of water splattering against the car window, they catch my complete astonishment. I feel the urge to hop off, dart into the rainfall, and gawk in blatant marvel. It’s been so long; such colors, the dark mood, to my deprived eyes there weren’t sufficient words to describe their brilliance. Ahead of the rutted road, a small gap parted the cluster of –what color, orange? – red-and-orange-leaved trees. Drasteia drives past the many potholes, managing amazingly not to go over any. I’ve had her as my mentor for as long as I remember, and her silence is something I’ve grown accustomed to. Usually I can tell when it’s is due to her anger or annoyance, like it is now. We are past the trees, and from this far I see a hazy outline of derelict storefronts; it’s frustrating, not having the clear sight I’ve had for so long.
A large, quaint sign catches my eyes as we go by it.
Welcome to the village of Williord! Est. 1856
What the–
For the first time in decades, a strange sensation fires up in my chest.
My heart is hammering, high-speed. Placing my unnaturally warm hands over, I feel the faint beating. Then my wrists, my neck; there’s life in this body. A soul returning. For a second I see Drasteia watching my wonder from the mirror. Her eyes, I want to tell her, through these new eyes of mine, have the brightest shade of blue.
“So ,” I say, swallowing my shock. “Williord. That’s a place I haven’t heard of in a long time.”
Drasteia says nothing, focusing on the road once more.
“What are we doing here?” I ask. “Drasteia, come on–”
“What do you think we’re doing here?” says Drasteia rather harshly, easing the car into a halt. So wrapped up within my awe, I had not realized we’re in the village already. A chain of dilapidated storefronts, broken down bakeries, tea shops, clothing stores etc., encircles the village like fortified walls; chipped brick streets littered with brittle leaves and rubbish; a seemingly permanent fog permeates the roadways. A few changes then and there and the place could look almost exactly as it did a hundred years ago, 1910.
This is not a place I want to be in. No.
Not here. Anywhere but here.
On impulse my fingers dart for the lock, however childish the act may seem, and push it down. A thousand terrible memories I have for so long tried and succeeded shutting in bursts before my eyes. This human mind is too weak.
There, on the dark, garbage-filled street to our right, two masked muggers are attacking an old, crippled man mercilessly.
Before the cathedral, in the center of town, a child is being dragged away from his mother, his father is watching from the sidelines.
And right in front of us, so close I can dart towards him in less than a second, a little toddler is crawling towards a brick well, unsuspecting . . .
A throbbing pain breaks out on the top of my head. I hadn’t noticed my fingers clutching the roots of my hair, having done it so many times before without feeling a thing it’s become nearly involuntary. I can’t understand the burning waters suddenly swelling my eyes, the alien feeling within me. It’s happened before, countless times before. But never have I received such a turmoil reaction with it. As a rule, it would come and go, without a care from me.
I try to catch Drasteia’s eye desperately, but she’s already out the car, walking towards the path of pebbles. The building we parked before stands out from the dismal procession on its sides, mainly because it is one of the few that actually looks lived in. I grab the rucksacks, unlock the door, and walk calmly through the rain. Raindrops like plummeting ice soothe me.
Chipped off bird fountains and cages dominate most of the broad front yard, as well as small damaged figurines of elfish folks in pointed hats. Small, side-gabled, the withered grey paint are starting to tear away from the walls. Drasteia waits for me, already on the porch.
BTW; I'm fifteen. So, if you can, please give me advice and criticism I can actually understand and use.