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{A part II to Roh Morgon's MONSTER MASH BLOGFEST.
http://www.rohmorgon.com/blog/?p=898
It is the prologue to my YA urban fantasy, FRENCH QUARTER ORPHAN (The Legend of Victor Standish)} :
I went very still, very cold, very fast.
The bus seat next to me had been empty this whole trip. Now, there was this old woman sitting way too close for comfort.
I hadn't closed my eyes or anything. One second the seat had been empty. The next, the old woman, smelling of lavender and death, sat in it. Green cat-eyes studied me out of a face that seemed to have found a sale on wrinkles.
She must have found her musty Victorian dress in the attic of the Bates Motel. She frowned at me as if she could read my thoughts. I hoped she didn't mind light reading.
She silently thrust a note at me. I just sat there. She shook it hard.
Jeeze. I didn't want an old lady smacking me. A guy couldn't hit an old woman. I took it with all the thrill of eating slimy vegetables.
It smelled old, felt almost like skin, and burned my fingers.
I looked down at it. It was steaming. I looked back up to the old woman. She was gone. My shivers got goosebumps.
"Cue the spooky music," I whispered.
I unfolded the paper. It was blank. A shaft of moonlight pierced the tree cover beside the racing bus and splashed across the page. Words in squiggly print flashed before my eyes.
I only saw one word clear : Hell.
Then, the moonlight was gone, and so were the words. The shivers stayed.
The hours passed like kidney stones. Though the bus never stopped, one by one the passengers disappeared until only I was left.
I could never spot them blink out. Their leaving was like the moving of the minute hand of a clock. It happened. I just could never catch it.
Finally, the bus pulled into a deserted depot, steam rising like begging fingers from the sewer grates. Each corner seemed thick in mold and fungus ... the sort of place a wino would curl up in to die. With a hiss of asthmatic air brakes, the bus stopped.
All I had were the clothes on my back and the brains in my head. I got up slow and walked to the front of the bus. I froze.
The bus driver was a skeleton. He turned his forever-smile to me and spoke in words born of the crush of dry leaves.
"Victor Standish?"
"Y-Yes?"
"Hell awaits."
"My ticket said 'New Orleans.'"
The skeleton ferryman laughed, "Same thing."
I paid him his coin, climbed down the steps, and walked into the shadows.
***
I have just entered THE DEAR LUCKY AGENT CONTEST for Young Adult fiction :
http://www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog/ . Wish me luck.
***
http://www.rohmorgon.com/blog/?p=898
It is the prologue to my YA urban fantasy, FRENCH QUARTER ORPHAN (The Legend of Victor Standish)} :
I went very still, very cold, very fast.
The bus seat next to me had been empty this whole trip. Now, there was this old woman sitting way too close for comfort.
I hadn't closed my eyes or anything. One second the seat had been empty. The next, the old woman, smelling of lavender and death, sat in it. Green cat-eyes studied me out of a face that seemed to have found a sale on wrinkles.
She must have found her musty Victorian dress in the attic of the Bates Motel. She frowned at me as if she could read my thoughts. I hoped she didn't mind light reading.
She silently thrust a note at me. I just sat there. She shook it hard.
Jeeze. I didn't want an old lady smacking me. A guy couldn't hit an old woman. I took it with all the thrill of eating slimy vegetables.
It smelled old, felt almost like skin, and burned my fingers.
I looked down at it. It was steaming. I looked back up to the old woman. She was gone. My shivers got goosebumps.
"Cue the spooky music," I whispered.
I unfolded the paper. It was blank. A shaft of moonlight pierced the tree cover beside the racing bus and splashed across the page. Words in squiggly print flashed before my eyes.
I only saw one word clear : Hell.
Then, the moonlight was gone, and so were the words. The shivers stayed.
The hours passed like kidney stones. Though the bus never stopped, one by one the passengers disappeared until only I was left.
I could never spot them blink out. Their leaving was like the moving of the minute hand of a clock. It happened. I just could never catch it.
Finally, the bus pulled into a deserted depot, steam rising like begging fingers from the sewer grates. Each corner seemed thick in mold and fungus ... the sort of place a wino would curl up in to die. With a hiss of asthmatic air brakes, the bus stopped.
All I had were the clothes on my back and the brains in my head. I got up slow and walked to the front of the bus. I froze.
The bus driver was a skeleton. He turned his forever-smile to me and spoke in words born of the crush of dry leaves.
"Victor Standish?"
"Y-Yes?"
"Hell awaits."
"My ticket said 'New Orleans.'"
The skeleton ferryman laughed, "Same thing."
I paid him his coin, climbed down the steps, and walked into the shadows.
***
I have just entered THE DEAR LUCKY AGENT CONTEST for Young Adult fiction :
http://www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog/ . Wish me luck.
***
