The Death of My Best Friend

[MrsMcDowell]

A sequel's sequel to my current (also known as a third, lol). I'm trying a different style.


   He flitted around the room, trying to decide his next move. A light flickered. His pulse leapt. He touched the light switch; nothing happened.
   A pool of blood. Wide staring eyes. No, that was his death – the death of his body.
   Outside, the wind stirred. All was silent. The girl was lying on the sofa, one foot resting on the arm, the other flat on the floor. Her eyes were closed. But she was still dead.
   Still dead. Still dead.
   She was young. She was special. She was rare. A “trainer”, they would call her. Hers was a soul that could rival others. Hers was a soul that would have ferried others into the afterlife. Psychopomp. There could be only one. But, now, it belonged to him.
   No! He wouldn’t! Not again! Not anymore!
   But that glimpse of a forgotten energy... The feeling of so much power coursing through him. Another soul. He would add it to the ones he’d inherited already. Countless. Never-ending.
   Her body’s energy began to feed him. Her last breath had asked for death. Death because she was ridiculed, outcast from society – they’d said she was “weird”. In exchange for her soul, she wished to be eternally consumed.
   It was bittersweet. He cried. But the wondrous power overwhelmed him. Her screams would never subside. He would hear them always in his dreams.
   No one would find her. He would make her body disappear in a lake or a forest. His hands had been stained with earth and blood before.
   Her soul was sweet. It fed him for hours. And when hunger was satisfied, he retired to his loneliness. What had become of him? What he had been before, he was again.
   A wraith.

[munley]

I found this really confusing and the opening image not clear. It opens with some male flitting about some room. I picture something like a ballet dancer twirling about, but, reading  on, I figure that probably isn't what you mean.

It is hard to appreciate someone trying to decide their next move without knowing what aftermath this mental exercise is happening in. Without any hint of what came before, this could be anything. Could be he just got acceptance letters from 3 universities and has to decide which one to attend, or he just failed at something, so now what?

Maybe start with the image of the dead girl and some clear place. Is it a motel room?

Are you saying he killed her at her request? What is it he won't do again? Maybe this is obvious to somebody who reads this genre regularly, but I don't follow it.

I do like the cadence of much of your prose, so I hope you keep that while making some things a little clearer.

[MrsMcDowell]

Lol, it would make more sense if you'd read the first and second book in the series. Whoops.

[LateToTheParty]

A sequel's sequel to my current (also known as a third, lol). I'm trying a different style.


   He flitted around the room, trying to decide his next move. A light flickered. His pulse leapt. He touched the light switch; nothing happened. (Does HE have a name? If not, you run the risk of the reader assigning one to him.)
   A pool of blood. Wide staring eyes. No, that was his death – the death of his body.
   Outside, the wind stirred. All was silent. The girl was lying on the sofa, one foot resting on the arm, the other flat on the floor. Her eyes were closed. But she was still dead.
   Still dead. Still dead.
   She was young. She was special. She was rare. A “trainer”, they would call her. Hers was a soul that could rival others. Hers was a soul that would have ferried others into the afterlife. Psychopomp. There could be only one. But, now, it belonged to him.
   No! He wouldn’t! Not again! Not anymore!
   But that glimpse of a forgotten energy... The feeling of so much power coursing through him. Another soul. He would add it to the ones he’d inherited already. Countless. Never-ending.
   Her body’s energy began to feed him. Her last breath had asked for death. Death because she was ridiculed, outcast from society – they’d said she was “weird”. In exchange for her soul, she wished to be eternally consumed.
   It was bittersweet. He cried. But the wondrous power overwhelmed him. Her screams would never subside. He would hear them always in his dreams.
   No one would find her. He would make her body disappear in a lake or a forest. His hands had been stained with earth and blood before.
   Her soul was sweet. It fed him for hours. And when hunger was satisfied, he retired to his loneliness. What had become of him? What he had been before, he was again.
   A wraith in a world of nameless people.

With respect for your qualifyer, a reader should be able to jump into any book in a series and read it without a primmer.

[MrsMcDowell]

I'll take all comments to heart. However, I do believe that the ambiguity gives it a dramatic pacing and makes you feel kind of uneasy. What I wanted out of the opening is what I believe is achieved.

I DO want the reader to make an assumption. I want them to feel like they've been hit in the face with this poor guy's struggle because he just killed someone and has mental problems.

[greenk]

I agree with Munley's comments, especially about the need for setting to ground these events. The situation is intriguing and I think this opening has potential, but right now it's confusing. There's a difference between making something ambiguous in a way that piques the reader's curiosity, and being so confusing as to make the reader quit reading. Right now I think it veers too much to the latter. For me, some of the problems are the descriptions that aren't sufficiently grounded: "A pool of blood." (Where is the pool of blood?) "Wide staring eyes." (Whose eyes?) And what is "psychopomp"? Then you have a description of the wind stirring outside, which implies that your character has moved outdoors, but it seems that we're still indoors - so how does the narrator know the wind is stirring? Finally, there's a string of events suggested - him apparently struggling with killing someone again, her soul's power coursing through him, the girl asking for death, her energy beginning to feed him, him crying, another comment on her soul feeding him...some of these events have clearly already happened (like her begging to die), but the timing of others is unclear. There are three references to him being fed, so that also makes it hard to understand when the soul-feeding part is happening.

I think the strengths of your writing are the cadence (very lovely!) and also the intriguing characters and situation. But right now the muddled events are masking the strengths of your writing.

[MrsMcDowell]

Made a few changes, but keep in mind that this IS a third in a series. Oh, and a psychopomp is a ferryman or leader of the dead. It's cool, take a minute and look it up. It's akin to Charon, The Grim Reaper, Son of Erberus, etc. Oh, and if I didn't mention it before, I do keep these entries down to a page so as not to confuse the reader too much. It's like giving a tidbit of information to break up the happy.


       Outside, the wind stirred. All was silent. In the house, the girl was lying on the sofa, one foot resting on the arm, the other flat on the floor. Her eyes were closed. But she was still dead.
   Still dead.
   She was young. She was special. She was rare. A “trainer”, they would have called her. Hers was a soul that could rival others. Hers was a soul that would have ferried others into the afterlife. Psychopomp. There could be only one. But, now, it belonged to him.
   Her last breath had asked for death. Death because she was ridiculed, outcast from society – they’d said she was “weird”. In exchange for her soul, she wished to be eternally consumed.
   No one would find her. He would make her body disappear in a lake or a forest. His hands had been stained with earth and blood before.
   A pool of blood. Wide staring eyes. No, that was his death – the death of his body.
   He flitted around the room, trying to decide his next move. A light flickered. His pulse leapt. He touched the light switch; nothing happened.
   And yet, another soul.
        No! He wouldn’t! Not again! Not anymore!
   But that glimpse of a forgotten energy... The feeling of so much power coursing through him. He would add her soul to the ones he’d inherited already. Countless. Never-ending. 
   It was bittersweet. He wept. But the wondrous power overwhelmed him. Her screams would never subside. He would hear them always in his dreams. 
   Her soul was sweet. It sustained him for hours. And when hunger was satisfied, he retired to his loneliness. What had become of him? What he had been before, he was again.
   A wraith.

[MrsMcDowell]

Here's a few more of his pieces throughout the book to give you and idea. At the moment, he is nameless, but clues are given to his identity as a character from the previous stories:


        The thought nestled tightly in the gray matter of his brain. There would be more. If he didn’t want more, the other inside him would take.
   And the other inside him was whispering again. Gentle, soft strokes of a voice kissed the inside of his soul. It warned him. It hated him. It was a part of him.
   He sat in darkness. Waited. Drinking the black ink of eternity as though it would dampen the sensation of loss and greed. Greed. Powerful greed was more appetizing than safe logic. Logic didn’t exist in his brain any longer. Logic was dead like his body. Dead again.
   A memory burst forth on the horizon like the dawning sun. Warm love. The distance of the feeling ached in his core, but the inviting emotion strengthened his resolve. In moments such as this, he thought he could beat the other inside him.
   Because she made him strong. No. Not her. The memory of her made him strong. She was different than the others. Pure soul – yes. But the soul was not what drew him. Was it?
   The memory took a turn. The other inside him was consuming it. No! He would not allow it to happen. He pulled the thought of her to the front of his brain. She was his. No one else was allowed to have her. The Siren.
   Her song made him weak even in memory. That weakness allowed the other to devour the thought, feeling, emotion. It was too late. The memory faded with the descent of the sun. The grubby window reflected a slanted ray of light; falling over him like a judgment. He wanted no more. The other didn’t agree.
   The old Éire. Another wraith. He wanted souls. Their consciousness mingled, tore apart, became two, then three, then one. The two fought; the one demanded. The demand was strong. Her soul would be his.
        The Siren would die.

*     *      *

        Something was wrong again. The morning had been fine. He had woken up to the singing of birds and the smell of fresh brewing coffee. His head had been clear, conscious, no sign of the other inside him. A good day, he would have said.
   But the girl was there. She was new. No rare soul. Normal.
   He had been seeing her a few nights a week. Young, slender, beautiful. She failed to see his underlying struggle whenever they were together. And he refused to see her whenever the other took control. It had been happening more and more often.
   The girl came into his room bearing a cup of coffee. She looked worried when she sat next to him in bed. The sheets tangled around him, trapping him in place. Reaching out a blind arm, he swiped the mug from her. Burned his mouth. A curse flared. The girl shrank back.
   He felt around for her. The softness of her thigh beneath his weary fingers. It melted into his memories. The pull of that warm love he’d once felt. The Siren again. She haunted his conscious. She was the only one he’d known. The other inside him would not have her; could not have her. He refused. The old Éire awakened. Enraged.
   Hot greed and anger ripped through each muscle fiber, shredding his nerves and endurance. Without them, there was no control. Without control, there was only hate.
   Choked shrieks. What had he done? The girl. He’d forgotten about her. Her slender neck was gripped between his powerful hands. She clawed at him. Nails ripped into his flesh, dragging the torn skin down to the muscle. Blood stained her fingers; dripped onto the carpet.
   The fight dwindled. Her grip loosened. The body fell limp in his arms. Raw pain stung in his hands. They bled. He wept again.
   Not her soul. This time, a life without purpose.

Just sharing. Thought the style was worth a little revival.

[greenk]

You made some good revisions for your new intro! I think it's much clearer.

[MrsMcDowell]

Before it was more of a "Stream of Consciousness" project. When William Blatty released The Exorcist, it was a draft. That's kind of where my inspiration came from. But, we can't all be geniuses when we write drafts, I suppose.