Um. Well. I suppose I should have warned you all that I don’t blog as often as I should. Sorry about that! I promise to try to do better, but I can’t guarantee anything. But for now, I thought I would share a story that’s been kicking around in my head. I got the idea a few weeks ago, and wrote the beginning. Since then it’s been percolating a little more every day, and this morning I had enough more that I could add to it a bit. So far it’s only a few paragraphs, and I pretty much know where the story’s going. I just have to get there. I’m pretty sure this isn’t how “proper” authors write, but I never claimed to be a writer–I’d much rather edit! 🙂 Anyhow, here is the beginning of “Angel,” by yours truly.
She sat in a dimly lit corner of the only slightly better lit bar, like a hunter patiently waiting for her prey. A slight smile hovered around the corners of her lips as she considered which of the bar’s patrons would be her first victim. Calling this run-down dive a bar was being generous—it did serve beer (two brands: Lousy and Lousy Lite), and it did have a faithful clientele of people willing to drink the stuff, but that was about where the similarity ended. Well, except for the lone pool table in the corner, which was currently surrounded by some rowdy locals who seemed to be knocking the balls around more for something to do while arguing (mostly) good-naturedly, than actually playing a game.
She knew who was going to die, of course. She had a list. Nine of the people in this joint were going to die, and for no other reason than that their names were on her list for this month. And the month was almost over. Normally she wouldn’t take out so many at once, but it just so happened that they had all gathered here tonight. Chances like this didn’t come along often, so she took advantage of them when they did. It wasn’t personal; it was just her job. As a Harvester, she got a new list every month, telling her whose time was up. There was never a specific “expiration date,” and she didn’t have the power to decide how anyone died. She just had to make sure that she came into contact with each of those people before the month was out.
This life wasn’t one that she had chosen; it had been chosen for her. She didn’t have a name, or at least not one that she could definitively call her own (she did tend to introduce herself as Angel most of the time, simply because she found it amusing). All she really knew about herself was that she’d been selected for this life when she was too young to do anything about it. She had no memories of her family (though surely she’d at least had parents) or of a home (the center where she’d been raised could hardly be considered a home). Her appearance was striking and attractive—when people were paying attention to her. When she passed beyond their notice, she faded into fuzziness in their memories.