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aithne...is in the water. This book is going down.
1000 words even tonight, and chapters 7 and 8 have gone down like the honorable opponents they are. Chapters are off to The Usual Suspects as well as those who have donated.
Excerpt from tonight:
Despite her exhaustion, Jumana could not sleep.
Her shoulders were knotted and aflame, her knees unsteady. But she could not stop moving, could not stop pacing. She had sobbed intermittently, thrown things, raged within this small room. Sometimes, she prayed, and wished that she could hear or feel an answer. Now she was silent, but still moving, trying to outpace the pain.
It was not working.
Dawn was beginning to show pale around the cracks in the shutters when she stopped moving and leaned heavily against one of the tables, her hands spread. She looked down at her hands, not recognizing them. The ghosts of other hands—thickened joints, knuckles squared off, ropy with tendon—laid over hers. Beneath those ghosts were hands she didn’t know. So many scars.
“Azrael,” she said aloud. Her shoulders bowed as she felt the presence of the angel in the room. Then she pushed herself upright and turned to face him. “I have a question.”
The Taker of Souls inclined his head, otherwise impassive except for his wings pulled tight against his body. He did not speak.
She ran her tongue over lips dry and cracked. “Do you know if my parents loved me?”
1000 words even tonight, and chapters 7 and 8 have gone down like the honorable opponents they are. Chapters are off to The Usual Suspects as well as those who have donated.
Excerpt from tonight:
Despite her exhaustion, Jumana could not sleep.
Her shoulders were knotted and aflame, her knees unsteady. But she could not stop moving, could not stop pacing. She had sobbed intermittently, thrown things, raged within this small room. Sometimes, she prayed, and wished that she could hear or feel an answer. Now she was silent, but still moving, trying to outpace the pain.
It was not working.
Dawn was beginning to show pale around the cracks in the shutters when she stopped moving and leaned heavily against one of the tables, her hands spread. She looked down at her hands, not recognizing them. The ghosts of other hands—thickened joints, knuckles squared off, ropy with tendon—laid over hers. Beneath those ghosts were hands she didn’t know. So many scars.
“Azrael,” she said aloud. Her shoulders bowed as she felt the presence of the angel in the room. Then she pushed herself upright and turned to face him. “I have a question.”
The Taker of Souls inclined his head, otherwise impassive except for his wings pulled tight against his body. He did not speak.
She ran her tongue over lips dry and cracked. “Do you know if my parents loved me?”
