Sneak Peek Sunday is a weekly blog hop in which writers are challenged to post six paragraphs, no more and no less, from a published work or work in progress and then invite other writers, readers and random bloggers to read, critique and comment. Visit their site by clicking on the button below for a list of other participating writers and share the love!
Welcome to Sneak Peek Sunday! As I will be away this weekend and as usual, left my packing until the last minute, I have no time to go through all my books to find a fascinating new scene to show you, so I’m just going to give you the next six paragraphs (and a bit) from The Last Hour of Gann, continuing the scene precisely where Hump Day Hook left off. So feel free to back up and check that out first. Tomorrow’s WeWriWa will be the eight sentences immediately following the end of this scene, so if you’re curious how it goes on, be sure to come back and check it out. Also be sure to leave a comment and tell me you want to enter one of my drawings…if you want to enter one of my drawings, I guess. If you don’t, that would be a pretty silly thing to do.
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Rain fell into his open eyes. He could not blink. The boy’s face loomed over him, colorless, indistinct. Was he dead? He couldn’t move, not even when the boy shoved him over on his side. He could feel tugging, prodding—the boy, searching for treasure—and the final kick of frustration when he found none.
Stormlight flickered through the grey in a constant sheet. Meoraq could see the boy’s boots circling to stand before him. He could see the black shape of his father’s knife sprawled in the mud before his snout. He could see each dimpled knot in the cord of Amber’s hair tied at his arm where it sprawled unfelt over him. He saw these things, only these things, and he thought that must be important.
More silence. It had become heavy, a weight on his ears. He could not hear his pulse anymore, but he thought he could still feel it, in his fingers of all places. The grey was fading slowly to black. His chest hurt.
“That was so much easier than I have been led to believe,” the boy remarked. Even his voice was grey.
Meoraq’s head was lifted, the belt loosened and then yanked away. He heard it go, felt it striping his throat with pain as scales caught in that cheap braid were torn loose.
The boy had killed him. That was bad enough, but he knew the boy would never burn him. He would never be wholly dead, never see the House of his true Father, never know the eternal peace that comes after. He must lie here and die forever. Would he feel it when he rotted? Would he feel it when the ghets came? Did they even have ghets in Yroq? He took a breath. He tried to cough and couldn’t. Dead men couldn’t cough.
His father’s voice, pained: Son, dead men don’t breathe, either.