I thought that I would just correct a few things every here and there, but now I’m re-writing some passages to to add meat to it, to fill it out. I thought I’d be done already, but not only am I not, I’m adding stuff, re-working other things, and generally having a good time about it. I thought it would be the size of a short story or a novella, but the word count is increasing every day. Am I crazy?
I must be. A simple thing like writing a story shouldn’t be this engrossing occupation that has demands of its own. That’s right, the story is taking on it’s own life and I’m just along for the ride. It’s no longer what I think should happen, it’s become it’s own thing which forces my fingers to write the correct things in order, regardless of what I think. It’s becoming bigger than me, an entity that has its own rules, and manipulates me into doing the right things, say the right words, controlling its own destiny. It’s even making me a better speller. Go figure.
I thought about adding a little snippet of the story in this post. Then I thought about keeping it a secret. Then I thought “You do want people to read it, right?” So here’s a small piece:
The moon rose gradually, lighting the few clouds that were in the sky. The trees took on an eerie look, as the breeze twisted them into odd, yet comforting, caressing shapes. I have never been in such awe of a cemetery before. There was something about this place that kept me mesmerized. I didn’t know if it was the ambience, the hour, or it’s shear depth. I still haven’t reached an end or side, and I’ve been here for hours. I’ve long since lost sight of the gate and the way back. It was just one stone covered hill after another after another after a…wait a minute. What’s this?
In the distance I saw what appeared to be smoke. Was something on fire? Or were some people having a camp out? From this distance I could see that it wasn’t a lot of smoke, but it was noticeable, a snaky black silhouette against a moonlit cloud. But there was no glow of a fire. Well it had to be coming from somewhere. I doubt a stone would produce it, or a hill, unless there was an underground vent of some sort. And I’ve seen enough fancy mausoleums to know that no matter how audacious, they don’t run at night. Curiosity got the better of me, so I headed for it.
I don’t know if it’s enough to make one curious, but I’m afraid to give it away. There are twists and turns involved in this story that you must start from the beginning, and then hope for the best. But trust me, it’s a fun romp. Through a cemetery. A big one.
Well that’s all I have for now. Don’t forget to check the menu for other stories, and have a wonderful day.
Arid Testimony 