Welcome to Ghosthood

Well, I've been writing Ghost Brigade (whatever the real title turns out to be), so I thought I might as well post the first (unedited) chapter here. Warning: suicide, not that descriptive.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I’m still not completely sure about this.

That’s probably a bad thought to have in the middle of cutting my throat open.

Of course, it’s a little late now. I’ve probably cut my hand more than my jugular, but I’m still on my way to bleeding out. Hopefully I’ll wake up like I’ve been led to believe. If not, well, I tried.

I slump against the shut door as the walls around me begin to dim. The slacks and blouses hanging on my right get as fuzzy as the sweaters and T-shirts to my left. The shelves in front of me blur until no one book can be distinguished from another, and then until it’s all one greyish smudge. 

Fade to black. Cue curtains.

Or so I would normally expect. For a Biochemistry major, I don’t know all that much about death. Once your brain stops getting oxygen, it starts to die, and then things escalate until all of you is dead. There’s probably some apoptosis in there somewhere. That’s all I’ve got.

And then, after that point, well, you either stay dead or show up as a ghost. I don’t know the details of that process any more than the last one. I don’t have any proof that I’m going to end up as a ghost, either. Just a hunch. And some persuasion from a, uh, “friend” of mine.

I don’t know his name. I’m not even completely sure if it’s a he, it always shows up so faded. While I can see spirits in a lot more definition than the average paranormal photographer, this guy is still hazy in my eyes. But he’s persistent. He’s basically been stalking me for a month now, and, while he doesn’t give off any malicious vibes, I’m not sure why I trust in what I think he’s been trying to say. I guess I’ve just given up enough on everything else. You know, why not? What have I got to lose?

So, here I am. Dying. Or dead. Or something.

The world remains black and empty for an indeterminate amount of time before I start to see a glimmer. Gradually, my closet rematerializes around me, the light growing until I can see every detail.

I can’t turn my head, though. And now that I think about it, I can’t feel the stickiness on my hands and neck. I guess I’m not really back to my senses, per se, but I’m definitely conscious in some way.

My view begins to shift. I can’t feel myself rising, but the floor becomes more and more distant regardless―and then I can see my body below me. Yeah, that looks dead. My hair looks terrible, too.

Still I rise. The lowest bookshelf begins to eclipse the speckled carpet beneath it. The shoulders of my shirts sink below me in a row of colorful streaks. 

So is this just my spirit now? Am I going to keep rising to the heavens? I can’t seem to shake myself from my trajectory, so I guess I’ll find out. Here’s hoping I’m headed somewhere decent. I can’t say I’ve earned, it, but―

A screaming something crashes into me from the side, and I don’t have time to yelp before I’m crashing down onto the carpet.

I do manage to get out an “ack” a moment later, though. I can feel weight still pushing down on me, although it doesn’t hurt, and soon I notice my arms splayed out in front of me. I can wriggle my fingers. And my corpse is still sitting over there. Okay.

“Phew! You made it!” 

I find myself rolling onto my stomach as the weight leaves, but my hand is grabbed and I’m hauled upright before I can shift myself. I at least manage not to stumble back to the floor when I’m let go.

“You feeling okay? Coming over can be kinda rough. Do you remember who you are? How many fingers am I holding up? Can you hear me? Can you talk? Are you hurt? Did I tackle you too hard?”

“S-slow down!” I hold up my hands like I’m about to get slapped with that peace-sign hand being waved at me. I’m not sure that there’s reason to believe I won’t.

“Sorry! Sorry.”

The man standing in front of me hunches a little and puts his hands in his jeans pockets. His build seems pretty intimidating at first, but, after another moment’s investigation, he doesn’t seem to have much meat on his big bones. He’s a mite taller than me while he’s slumping, and he has a lot of hair for someone who doesn’t keep it much longer than the average guy. His facial features are kind of soft in general, although he’s still frowning pretty tightly as he glances between me and my corpse. 

I don’t recognize him as anyone I’ve ever known, but the brown of his shirt and blue of his jeans match the blur of my stalker-ghost. Considering that I don’t recall anyone else in my closet and my body is still very much slumped against the door, I’m pretty sure this guy’s about as dead as I am. This is him, then. I’m not sure how exactly I thought he’d look, but it wasn’t this.

“Uh, miss?” His glance at my ghost this round is a little longer before he averts his gaze to the other me.

I put my hands on my hips. “I prefer ‘Becky.’ You?”

“Huh?” He straightens up immediately and smiles at me. “Oh, great! You’re okay, then? Well, I’m George. Nice to meet you.”

I nod and watch him. His expression shifts to puzzled, and then uncomfortable as he slumps again.

“Mi―I mean, Becky?”

“Yeah?”

“Um―” he scratches the side of his head― “what is it?”

“What do you mean, ‘what is it’?” I wish I had a good three-ring binder in hand to smack him with. “What am I doing here? You’re the one who’s been trying so hard to get me to the ghost side, right? Is there a reason, or are you just a creep with nothing better to do than watch teenagers kill themselves?”

“No, no!” It’s his turn to hold up his hands defensively, although he waves them around, too. “I have a reason. I, uh―there’s something I need you to do. But there’s one problem.” He looks at the other me. “You kinda left your corpse where somebody’s gonna find it.” He pauses, straightens up again, and looks me in the eye. “Or are your parents leaving for a while? For how long? Is there anybody else that comes over here a lot? Are any neighbors probably gonna catch the smell? I don’t know how good the vent system is here.”

“Cripes! One question at a time.”  I grip my hips a little tighter. “So what exactly is the problem here? Why shouldn’t anyone be able to find my body?”

I guess that was technically two questions at a time on my part. Well, at least they’re closely related.

George puts his hands in his pockets and rolls his shoulders back. “Then they’ll probably do an autopsy, right? It’ll be a little hard to come back from that. So here―” he waves at the corpse― “get back in, quick, before somebody shows up. You have to find somewhere a little more exclusive.”

“First of all, ‘jump in’? You mean possess my corpse somehow? Is that possible?” I frown at the body by the door. Even if I could somehow get back inside, it’s already a dead shell. With blood all over it, no less. I don’t think I’ll be sneaking off to any good body-dumping spots without raising any suspicion.

“For you, yeah.” He eyes the quietly buzzing light in the ceiling. “Most of us not so much, but―” he looks back at me with an eager nod― “yeah, go for it. Quick. All you have to do is find somewhere cool and secluded and, uh, do the thing again, and we should be good to go ahead.”

“All I have to do is kill myself again. Great!” I sigh and step straight over my body, my foot just shy of the knife. “This method sucks. Should I just go jump in the river? I bet nobody’d find me then.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He jumps in front of me, knocking me back from my corpse before I can attempt to somehow climb in. I land on my hands and rear with a grunt and glare up at him. He fidgets before breaking eye contact.

“No. Bad idea. You still have to be able to find your body.”

I pull myself back to my feet for the sole purpose of putting my hands on my hips again. Leaning in a little, I squint at him. “Because?” 

“Because you might still need it.” He blinks, apparently confused enough to stop noticing my glare.

I continue to stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to recognize a need to divulge more information.

“Okay, then.” I nudge his shin with my foot. “Let me get to it.”

“Oh!” He jumps out of the way, his back phasing through my hanging blouses in the process. “Okay!” He smiles. “Good luck!”

I try to thank him with the flattest tone possible, but he doesn’t seem perturbed by it. With an exhale, I step over to my body and frown down at it. 

So I’m somehow going to resuscitate myself, and then I have to go kill myself somewhere no one will find me, either on the way there or for who-knows-how-long after I’m gone again. I’m sure absolutely nothing will go wrong with that plan.

I step into my feet carefully, although they’re at such an angle I can’t quite fit them while I’m standing. Nothing happens for a moment so, with a chill of disgust, I lower myself onto the blood-soaked carpet and try to match my corpse’s position. I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. Close my eyes, or meditate, or do some sort of proverbial reaching out to the core of my dead body. George looks like he’s cheering me on, but I’m not expecting much sage advice from him if he’s never done this himself.

Wait. I can’t hear him talking.

I open my eyes again to find more of a blur than a man in front of me. I can’t even tell if his mouth is still moving or not, although I’m pretty sure he’s waving his arms.

I start to sit up before I feel the burning in my hand. Looking down at my right fingers, I find them bloodied. That doesn’t surprise me nearly as much as their response when I try to move them. I manage to wriggle my hand for a god few seconds before it makes the cut burn too much for me to continue.

I guess I’m back, then. That’s nice.

Gently, I put my fingertips to my neck. It’s coated with blood, but no matter how much I palpate, I can’t find the cut. It was there a minute ago. I’m pretty darn sure about that. Where precisely it’s gone, not so much.

Well, I can ponder that over when I’m not locked in my closet covered in blood. I have other crap to do right now. 

After glaring hard enough at George to chase him out of the room, I get a clean shirt put on and check out my slacks. They’re a little wet, but you can’t really make out the blood on the black fabric. Good enough for me.

I hastily clean off the knife on my soiled shirt and toss it in my jacket pocket. I don’t bother trying to hide the shirt. There’s a huge bloodstain in the carpet that’s not going to resolve itself anytime soon, so I can’t stop anyone from getting suspicious by kicking the shirt in the corner. Here’s hoping no one tries to snoop in my closet. My parents ought to know better, as should anyone they invite over.

Once they think I’ve gone missing, well, I ought to be far enough away not to worry about it.

I still open and shut the door fast as I get to the bathroom to rinse off. My hand is still stinging, but I guess that’s the price to pay for my hesitation. I’ll just have to man up and deal with it. Until I die again, at least. But that’s a problem for a later hour. Right now, let’s just try to get halfway presentable.

Stepping Into the Diner

Somehow, I found myself starting on my Iston Diner mystery the other day. I know I had decided it would be third-person, but it turned out first-person instead. That's nothing too odd for a mystery, right?

So here, have some of my initial exploration of the story.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I slap a hand on the kitchen sill. “Draw one in the dark, and get me an Eve with a lid on.”

A netted mass of blonde curls pops up on the other side of the wall, dragging a frowning, angular face with it. “The coffeemaker is broken, Jennifer.”

“You kidding me?” I check over my shoulder for any set-down menus or impatient faces before I turn back to Charlie. “It’s starting to get late, you know.”

“What do you expect me to do? I’m a cook, not a mechanic.”

“You coulda called somebody to fix it.” No sooner are the words out of my mouth than I realize the folly. Charlie, talking to somebody he doesn’t absolutely have to. His home television was broken for months because he never tried to get a technician. It’d probably still be broken if I hadn’t visited him.

He gives me a look with the appropriate amount of disbelief before I turn back around. We have all of three booths full and nobody at the bar, so I shouldn’t be missed terribly.

“Les!” I holler.

In the middle of swabbing a table that hasn’t been used recently, the waiter pauses and perks up. The kid of the place, Les is as tall as Charlie but not nearly as stocky. He’s a cute thing, too, but he’s taken.

“I’m gonna take care of something,” I tell him while his huge eyes are on me. “Cover for me.”

He nods quickly. “Yes, ma’am.”

He buffs the rest of the table at record speed before tucking the rag away and hurrying to check on the customers. I don’t have to watch him for long before I decide to give fixing the coffeemaker myself a shot. If Charlie hasn’t fixed it, it’s nothing simple, but I bet I can figure it out. If not, I’ll have to dial up Rick at his house, since he’ll be back from work by now. He wouldn’t mind a quick job after-hours, though, if it comes down to it. 

Whatever way this goes, this thing had better get fixed quick. I’m not keeping Jerry waiting on his coffee for long. If there’s anybody I’m not going to keep waiting, it’s him. Won’t get a lick of a tip otherwise. As frequent a customer as he is, he still hasn’t really come to like any of us. He doesn’t stand for any small talk. On that note, he might secretly be a pal of Charlie’s. I wouldn’t be surprised.

Slipping through the low saloon doors of the bar area, I ram my shoulder into the swinging door of the kitchen and charge in. Charlie doesn’t pay me much mind as I head straight for the white contraption at his right. Sure enough, it’s plugged in but doing nothing. Poor, abused old thing. Although if it would work a little better, we wouldn’t be slapping it so much.

I roll up my sleeves and start taking the machine apart. Nothing seems dented any more than usual, so I might just have to clean the parts.

“Jenny?”

"Crap dang!" I nearly scrape my wrist on some wiring before I look up at the kitchen window. Les is peeking through.

“Somebody calling for me?”

“Sorry.” If he had cat ears, they’d be drooping. “Dessie wants her Dr. Pepper, but—” his voice drops to a whisper—“the ice machine is jammed.”

I pull my hands away from the disarticulated coffeemaker and wipe them on my apron. “I’ll fix it when I’m done here, I guess. Throw me a cup.”

Les slips a tumbler across the sill just as Charlie puts a slice of apple pie up there. The waiter checks over his shoulder before reaching for the plate.

“Ah, ah, ah!” I flick my left hand at him, although I can’t really reach him from here. It’s still enough to make him jump. “You’re not taking that over yet. Jerry’ll throw a fit if he ‘has’ to eat before he gets his joe.”

“Right!”

“Now.” I wrap my right hand around the tumbler and gaze at the inside until ice crystals start to appear. I do my best to get them roughly ice-cube-shaped, but they’re still a little spiky. They’ll be fine once the soda hits, though.

I offer the cup to Les. “Get the kid her M.D.”

He takes it with a nod of thanks and scurries off.

Mayflies (NFI#2) Intro

Since I've finished writing the first chapter of Mayflies, I thought I might as well provide a preview of it here.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Can you see anyone over there?" my brother starts, voice even more hushed than usual.

Taking a step up onto the white path, I cringe as gravel scratches the blisters on my feet. As if standing on a sign of civilization wasn’t bad enough in itself. I do get a better view of the field from here, though. Maize in neat rows, dipping in the breeze, beckoning poor, starving souls towards them.

Does it even matter if anyone’s there? We need this. We’re already too far gone to fly, and we’re probably not even going to be able to stand in another week. I don’t care if all the farmers in the city are here; we have to risk this.

“I can’t see anyone,” I say truthfully, pulling back into the trees.

Matthew frowns—Did you really check?—and I sigh.

“I promise it’s clear, Matthew.” I step back on the gravel harder than I should, but the crunch sounds decisive. “Come on.”

He exhales, running a hand back through his hair. Since it’s longer than mine, it’s one of the few ways we can be told apart. It also means this nervous habit of his takes longer than it ought to.

My stomach snarls, and I give my brother a pointed look before he finally steps after me. Giving him a nod, I take a quick look around and start hurrying for the farm.

The farmer’s house—a typical lower-class hut of wood, mud, and grasses—is perched at the far edge of the maize rows. A ragged patch on the roof is in need of repair, but none of the family is out fixing it. None of the family seems to be out at all, which works for me. I’d ask them nicely for a little food, but, judging from past experience, they’d try to chase me off before I even finished voicing my request.

Even if Matthew and I weren’t cursed, we’d probably get turned away. Our feet are so cut and blistered they could bring disease to the most faithful family, our hair is greasy and windblown despite our slow pace, and we’re so worn down everywhere else it would probably take white magic to get us back in good condition. Of course, our feathers are dirty and tangled with a few leaves and twigs, but no matter their condition they’d chase away any prospective aid. Maybe seven-year-olds with wings are cute, but once you’re twelve years past the age the curse should have struck you dead, you get nothing but suspicion and fear. That means nobody wants to put up with us in an honest relationship, so we rob, which in turn makes others even less friendly towards us. Wonderful cycle of justice, isn’t it?

All of it because our mother screwed up badly enough, just one time. Or, that’s all it took to curse us in the first place. How we survived this long is another story altogether, one I’ve yet to figure out.

Of course, if we don’t get food here, we’re not going to survive much longer.

The rows of maize approach far too slowly, and I’m already struggling for breath by the time I get to the nearest row of the crop. Matthew comes up beside me as I start browsing the husks. From the silks alone I start paring down what’s good to eat, but  I still have to knife open a few husks and kernels to check ripeness. If I’m going to steal from these people, I’m not going to take anything that I won’t be able to eat. The extra weight wouldn’t do me much good, either.

As I keep browsing the maize, I slowly come upon the conclusion that the first ones planted were those right next to the house, and the ones I’m seeing may have been sown some time after. Maybe there wasn’t enough seed, or the soil was bad for a while, or news of a couple of farm-edge marauders has spread over the years and this is a precaution. I can’t help but be suspicious, although that’s probably thinking too highly of my brother and myself. We may be a bit infamous, but I doubt we’ve done enough, good or bad, to be known that far and wide.

Finally the kernels start to give cloudy residue when I stab them, and I pluck the promising ear off its stem. 

Is there really any reason to soak this first? I’m starving enough for my breath to carry a sharp tang, and the maize is strangely heavy in my arms. Will I be able to hurry off with much more than this? It might be the only one here that’s ready to eat. It would actually be pretty strange if the family planted half of their crop later than the other. There’s no reason to assume any of the rest is ready to eat. If I’m not caught, I could always come back later, anyway.

“Jonathan?”

Jumping, I manage to stumble onto my knees, but I keep my grip on my ear of maize. 

“Sorry,” my brother whispers, stepping back a few stalks so I can see him. Shuffling three ears of maize onto one arm, he offers a hand to help me up. Light pounds at my eyes when I stand, and I nearly fall back down before the clenching pain in my head subsides.

“It’s no problem,” I say back quietly, letting go of his hand. “I was the one zoning out.”

“I was beginning to suspect.” Evening out the load in his arms, he takes a few steps backwards. “Don’t take more than you can carry, okay?”

“Yeah.” Thumbing my single full husk and wondering if I was really so sure it was unique, I go back to investigating the food. Three more stalks pass before another good ear crops up, but soon I make it into a thicker patch of promising silks, and the real gathering begins. It’s not long before I’ve accrued such a stash it’s difficult task readying my knife to check out more. Wishing my wool bag hadn’t torn itself to shreds, I just keep clutching the sweet-smelling maize to my bare chest as I search for one last ear.

By now Matthew has slipped out of my sight, but the stalks shiver violently a few man-lengths away, near the side of the square of crops. Although neither of us is particularly tall, we ought to at least see the top of each other’s wings in here. After a glance over my shoulder, I head towards the disturbed maize to make sure my brother didn’t just trip and fall. 

“Hey!” The throaty roar, which most certainly doesn’t belong to my brother, masks the thumps of my maize hitting the ground when I flinch back.

“What pests are—” The swish of stalks bowing out of the way is all I can hear when he cuts off. Nearly kicking one of the dropped ears in his rampage, he freezes upon locking eyes with me. His irises are just shy of black, but the broken blood vessels of his eyes soften the contrast. More scars than a few farming accidents would explain cross his shoulders and upper arms. Whether he’s ever been a soldier or not is up for debate, but he’s still sturdier than me, and I think he’s capable of using that club for more than busting up dirt clods.

He hovers with a stunned look in his eyes as he stares at my wings, but the spell is broken once I reach for the ear of maize nearest my foot. I barely get my fingers around the husk before the farmer seizes my wrist with a grip that could pulp manioc. In a flash, my left wing snaps open, launching a few loose feathers into his face. It distracts him enough for me to jerk my bruised wrist away, but he instantly realizes his mistake and raises the clod-buster. 

With an airy grunt, I jump back, tilting my wings so I don’t lose my balance. The huge knot at the end of the club sweeps through open air, and the farmer stops it with his other hand before taking another step forward between the rows of maize. Dropping into a squat, I snap up one good ear while I’m next to it. As if I’m going to face down this fellow, even in a retreat, without getting what I came for.

“Jonathan!” Before he shouts my name, I can already feel that Matthew’s behind me. “Just leave them!”

Sweat dripping down his bronze forehead, my brother pushes stalks out of the way and squeezes his way onto our strip of dirt. 

“Sir,” he pants, clasping his hands in front of his face and bowing a bit to the farmer, “we mean no harm. We’re only hungry. Please allow us a few ears of your maize if you can afford it. If not, we will walk away with nothing but apologies.”

“Is that right?” The farmer responds, squinting at us with his thick brows lowered. “Am I to believe that assisting the likes of you isn’t going to bring a curse upon my family?”

“Why would it?” I respond, trembling and fingering the husk in my hand. “We have wings, not a disease. It’s not going to spread.”

The farmer looks quite pointedly at my loot, while my brother looks quite pointedly at my mouth. I understand why the farmer’s not so happy with me, but what does Matthew think I’ve done wrong? Why is he trying to show respect, anyway? This man just attacked us, he’s hardly nobility, and we’re not here to make friends and drop in for a bite later. Voluntarily or not, we’re robbers. We’re inherently antagonizing him. We only need to get the maize and go, and I don’t think using pretty words is going to help with that.

“I’m not sure exactly what you are,” the farmer says, tightening his grip on the clod-buster, “but if your parents were as horrible as other Mayflies’, I want nothing to do with you. Get away from my crop before you contaminate my entire farm.”

Matthew takes a step back, but I slowly push myself back to my feet and stand, meeting the farmer’s gaze.

“We’ve already contaminated all of these,” I say, gesturing towards my spilt armful of maize. “How about you let us get them off your farm first, and then we’ll leave without touching anything else.”

Baring his teeth, the farmer raises the club to rest its gnarly tip on his muscle-bound shoulder. “Leave right now.”

I step forward to grab another ear, but the clod-buster is coming down before Matthew can holler for me to stop. The small of my back crunches as the rough wood collides with it, and jolts of pain shoot to my heels and crown alike. Suddenly giving out, my knees thump to the ground hard, and my left one lands square on a small, round rock.

“Gaah!” I reflexively grab my wounded knee with my free hand, but I suck in a breath and snatch the other ear of maize. Fingers wrap around my upper wings, and Matthew jerks me back. Some of my weight shifts onto my feet, but my knee refuses to straighten without giving out on me. The farmer eyes us with no less ill will than before, and he still has his club poised to strike.

“We’re leaving!” Matthew cries, pulling me back farther so he can stand between the farmer and me. “We’re leaving as quickly as we can!”

The farmer steps nose-to-nose with my brother.

“I hear your kind can fly faster than a man can run.”

Quivering, Matthew takes a step back, forcing me to scuttle a little farther backwards.

“Not in this condition,” he murmurs, giving his wings a feeble flutter.

The farmer seems to be of the conviction Mayflies that rob are perfectly apt to lie as well. Without the slightest hint of consideration crossing his face, he lunges at Matthew. Dodging backwards, my brother would have stumbled over me if I hadn’t scooted farther back myself. Struggling to my feet, I try to put weight on my left foot, but all I accomplish is sending flames of pain shooting up and down my leg. I still manage to stagger back a bit as Matthew turns around. He sees my knee, winces, and looks me in the eye. I hear him before he can ask out loud.

“What choice do I have?” I grunt, pivoting to face a straight line of soil ready to send me off. Putting all the weight I can onto my good leg, I crouch and spring into the air as high as I can before my wings start to flap. I sink back to the ground, but after one more push-off, I’m finally ascending. An ache is already starting to gather in my shoulders, and the air feels much thinner than it must be at this height, but I’m flying.

Matthew runs a bit longer before he joins me above the field. In less pain, he catches up to me in no time, but the farmer’s heavy footfalls still chase us. Can’t he see we’re already pushing as hard as we can? What more could he expect from us?

The rage urges my wings to flap a bit faster, but I’m still struggling for air as we approach the end of the field. The tips of silks tickle my toes, and it’s all I can do to keep pace with Matthew, to keep going, keep going.

The farmer comes to a stop at the edge of his maize rows, but it’s not enough to send a cool wave of victory over me. He can still go back to his family, back to the rest of the city, and spread the word. We’ll be lucky to snatch much of anything around here, and that’s only if they don’t form a mob to chase us away on threat of death. I don’t need to wait for that to get me away from here. It’s a lot nicer if we just leave on our own. If we can, at least.

We’ve crossed back over the white path, and the waving leaves of trees hang just below us. Still not far enough. Tilting our wings so we’re not just doubling back, we continue along the forest. Not far enough. Invisible stones crush in on my head, and dots fill my vision as gasps fill my ears. Not far enough. My feathers are flames, the bone and muscle beneath burning up beneath them. Yet not far enough!

I surge ahead, and my foot tangles in a branch. The bark rips at my skin, nearly taking my ankle off before it decides to swallow the whole of me. Pivoting down, I feel the leaves and twigs ripping into my wings before my forearms smash into a strong branch. Although I somehow managed to protect my face, my arms crush back against my cheekbones, and a great surge of black drowns my vision.

What Would You Do (NFFI#13) Excerpt

While I may not have many solid ideas for the rest of the story, I might as well hack out the first chapter I have imagined.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Liechtenstein wasn't sure how she had gotten into this room. She couldn't remember the last time she was awake, and her current headache could have meant anything.

Clues weren't readily available around the room, either. A cavern that bellowed echoes when she scraped her feet across the tile floor, the room was made of curved metal walls that twisted to meet each other far above her head. Thin lights lined the corner where the floor met the walls, lighting the room with a harsh fluorescence that reflected weakly off everything but the dark ceiling. 

It took another moment of orienting herself for Liechtenstein to realize the walls weren't entirely bare. A thin, black screen was embedded in the wall opposite where she sat, and after a moment of her peering at it it leapt into a flash of life.

At first, she didn't even understand what she was seeing. Blonde hair matted with rough rivulets of blood filled the screen in high-definition. Her hand went to her head, but her own hair was still clean, her ribbon tied neatly in its place.

A human growl boomed from the screen, and the bloodied hair shot upwards in a blur. The camera zoomed out a bit, revealing a man's head, which was streaked with blood, and his shoulders, which were tightly bound to a chair back. His teeth were clenched and his eyes squeezed shut. It looked like he was wearing Switzerland's usual outfit, although with a few rips and a lot more rumples. 

The man certainly looked like Switzerland, but it couldn't have been him. Liechtenstein had somehow been captured, but Switzerland wouldn't... He wouldn't have let her be captured in the first place, but... Maybe it was Switzerland...

Someone with a dark brown glove had a fistful of Switzerland's hair, pulling his head back to face the camera, but the rest of the person was offscreen. His voice was still perfectly intelligible.

"You are the only other person who has been admitted to this complex. You will be provided with some supplies and allowed to roam the guarded hallways. We are at the end. You will not be forced to leave the room in which you now sit; however, I will reiterate that you are the only other person in this complex."

With that, the gleam of a blade flashed across the corner of the screen toward's Switzerland's midsection, and the nation let out a strangled cry, the cords in his neck bulging as every muscle visible strained. Liechtenstein didn't quite cover her mouth before a shrill gasp escaped her lips.

Grunting with every exhale, Switzerland started to relax, but shining sweat was running down his forehead, following the tracks of dried blood.

"So," the attacker finished, "try to find your big brother, if you'd like."

At "big brother," Switzerland's eyes finally flew open. Alarmed, he looked around panting until he found the camera lens.

"L-Liechtenstein?" His voice was faint, so he cleared his throat. "Stay where you are! I will get out of this, a-and I will get you out before anyone—" He cut off with a scream, and a moment later a bloodier knife flicked back across the corner of the screen. Before Switzerland could begin to recover, the television flicked off.

Liechtenstein wasn't sure how long she sat there quivering, hands clamped over her mouth like she was about to vomit. It certainly seemed like hours before a thud shook the floor, sending one of the large tiles beside her rattling loosely. She glanced at the ground to find that the tile was sinking. It only made six inches of progress before another dull thud sent the tile behind it down at the same rate. The process continued until a stair set cut across the room, descending into darkness just beyond where she sat.

Slowly getting to her feet, she peered into the gap, but she still saw nothing beyond more stairs. Switzerland must have been down there somewhere. There were no other exits, and she could see no reason the man would have lied about her being in the same complex. It could easily be a trap, but she was already trapped.

What obstacles stood between her and her brother? What were they trying to put her through? Could it possibly be worse than sitting there knowing her protector was being sliced apart? 

Why would anyone do this? What could they hope to get from her? They already had Switzerland; what more could they expect from her?

Her fingers tightened around the hem of her dress.

They didn't expect anything from her. They only wanted Switzerland to give in, help them with something only a strong nation could. She was just there as a threat to him. Whoever was behind this had her captured and could do whatever they liked if Switzerland didn't agree to something. The broadcast was a jest. They knew little Liechtenstein wasn't about to plow through a war zone—she wouldn't be capable of it. She would just wait for her brother to save her like she always did, and, in the meantime, they could do whatever they wanted with her.

But they were mistaken.

Trembling silently, she pushed herself up and got to her feet. The room wobbled a bit, but she was able to straighten herself out after a minute of standing. Shoes clacking softly on the hard floor, she approached the top of the staircase and came to a stop peering down its length. From here she could see where the floor flattened out far below her, but nothing other than the same tile seemed to be down there. Anything could have been waiting. 

Of course, anything could have been waiting in her current dwelling. There was no real reason not to continue forwards. A threat. But it couldn't be that terrible, could it? She had no way to tell without stepping down there. And if it was too scary—there was no guarantee she would be able to come back here, but... but she would just have to stomach it and keep going. Switzerland had been trapped long enough to take a lot of damage, so he must have needed help, and she was his only hope. Maybe not that much of one, but she had to take on that responsibility. She was the only one here—and, after everything he had done for her, she finally had a chance to save him.

She took a deep breath and stepped onto the first stair.

—

"You are the only other person who has been admitted to this complex."

Monaco watched with wide eyes as the man jerked at France's hair, which was tangled and matted so much France couldn't have had his hands free in some time.

"You will be provided with some supplies and allowed to roam the guarded hallways. We are at the end. You will not be forced to leave the room in which you now sit; however, I will reiterate that you are the only other person in this complex."

France's eyes went wider than her own when a blade thumped into his side. A few moments of struggle passed before he was able to tone his shrill scream down to halting choking sounds.

"So, try to find your brother, if you'd like."

Still struggling for breath, France eyed the camera. He mouthed something, cleared his throat with a ragged sound, and swallowed.

"It's okay," he started, smiling shakily. "Big Brother France has everything taken care of!"

Monaco frowned. He said that, but everything on his face was screaming, "Help me!"

The hostage-taker suddenly withdrew his knife, and France fell forward, his dirty hair taking up the whole screen as he wailed. The broadcast cut out.

Monaco sat still, taking deep breaths. It appeared her big brother was in a dire situation, and she was his only hope of escape. How exactly that happened when he was responsible for her protection, and her national army was smaller than her national band, she wasn't certain. But that was how it panned out, and she hardly had anything to gain from sitting in this drab room.

Walking steadily towards the stairs when they showed themselves, she hesitated, sighed, and started downwards.
—

Germany wasn't even conscious enough to tell Italy anything.

A Very Good Place To Start

Story beginnings are an art form all their own. They have to ensnare the reader, set the tone, make promises about the whole story, and start building connections between the reader and the characters. Tall order, right?

Well, since one of the worst things in the world is a blank document with a line blinking mockingly at me, I have to get something out to start, whether it's the best line/spot to open or not. The perfect opening can wait until revision.

That's not to say I don't try to make the opening interesting and relevant in the first draft. In my serially-published fan fictions, I don't even have the chance to write the entire story and then edit it before posting. I just start.

Here are a few of my beginnings to compare:

"Holding her breath, Charlotte carefully aimed her rifle. The surest shot was right through the sorry creature's brain. That way, it couldn't even survive long enough to notice and attack her. So, she stayed quiet, watched the motion of its head, and...

With a sharp bang, her gun spat out its bullet, and the bit of metal buried itself in the creature's grey-green forehead. The monster fell to the ground dead long before the buzz faded from Charlotte's ears." 

— The Long and Winding Road (original version)

"I just manage to get the door closed behind me before I can be impaled by a rapier."

—Piracy Cruise Lines

"She awoke with asphalt grating her back. No warm light touched her face, and a look straight ahead to the sky confirmed the sun wasn’t out. Nor were any clouds, nor were stars. Only a vast black canvas hung above her.

Something seemed off about that."

—Chasers

"'Can you see anyone over there?' my brother starts, voice even more hushed than usual.

Taking a step onto the white path, I cringe as gravel scratches the blisters on my feet. As if standing on a sign of civilization wasn’t bad enough in itself. I do get a better view of the field from here, though. Maize in neat rows, dipping in the breeze, beckoning poor, starving souls towards them."

—Mayflies

As far as Dead Man's Hand goes, I felt like starting with the quote "Adrian had come to the conclusion that Nietzsche must have been a complete sociopath." But that would open the story with nothing but a while of reflection, and I know that I'm prone to putting the book down after a few paragraphs of that. Instead, I think I may start with Adrian procuring one of his cards for the round.

What kind of openings do you like? How long will you go on reading before you decide whether the book is worth continuing or not?