Xoelia
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- Posted: Thu, 29 May 2008 04:40:40 +0000
Hey guys. I'm working on a novel about an angel who was raised in the human world. In this chapter, the main character is introduced. It may or may not end up as being Chapter One.
What do you think?
It's obviously incomplete. I'll post the finished piece when I'm done.
The story name might change - any suggestions?
Also, is there anything grammatically wrong with it?
What do you think?
Quote:
It was a bleak and bitter morning. The window was frosted with dew, and beyond that the garden had surrendered to a thick blanket of mist - it's ghostly fingers winding themselves around trees and crawling up the side of the house.
Art sat on his bed in his large and tidy bedroom, looking out at the forsaken morning with a frown. But it wasn't the weather that was bothering him, in fact, he quite preferred such dull mornings to the usual Summer heat. No, it wasn't the weather, but the date that had him in an undesirable mood. It was February the first, and his first day at Blackthorn High.
Art lay back with a groan and closed his eyes, willing the world around him to evaporate. But unfortunately, when he opened them, the world was just as real as it had ever been, and there were three loud raps at the door as if he needed further reminding.
“Are you ready?” his mother called from the hallway. She sounded excited, although this didn't surprise Art in the slightest. She had been excited all week – her eldest child starting high school! He was sure that other parents didn't make such a big fuss about things like this, but hadn't told his mother so. He didn't want to ruin her fun.
“Just a second!” he called back, jumping from the bed and scrabbling at his wardrobe handle to find a coat. Pulling it open, he was met with his reflection in a length of mirror on the inside of the door. His hair was still wet from his shower, making it look a much darker brown that it really was, and longer too that the ringlets were weighted down with water. His mother would probably make him dry it before he left. He took a black coat from the pile on the floor – his wardrobe was the one place he didn't keep tidy – and put it on as he hurried down the stairs.
Sophie sat at the kitchen table eating an apple, looking as innocent and angelic as ever. Like their mother, she had strawberry blond hair, red lips and big, bright blue eyes. Art couldn't help but smile at the sight of her.
“You're up early,” said Art, startling her. It was uncanny, but no one ever seemed to hear him enter a room. It wasn't that he tried to sneak up on people, it was just that people didn't hear him unless he was intentionally noisy. He couldn't understand why - he could hear his own footsteps fine. But he could hear a lot of things that other people couldn't.
“I wanted to see you off,” Sophie replied a little shyly, but her face had lit up in a grin, and she shuffled down from her chair, leaving the apple on the table. “I wish I could come too.”
Art laughed, but not unkindly, as he walked over to the fridge. “Just three more years. And I bet it isn't all that great anyway,” he said, his voice turning a little bitter. He was actually quite sure that it was going to be terrible. He wasn't very good at meeting new people, unlike everyone else in his family; His mother loved to party, his father was a psychiatrist, and everyone adored Sophie. He was the odd one out in nearly every way. Looks, personality... even his voice somehow lacked the English accent that everyone else had.
He grabbed a few slices of bread to toast as his mother came in, a few bobby pins in her mouth, and her hands at her hair working it into a bun. She really didn't suit buns, and she only tied her hair up on special occasions. Art refrained from rolling his eyes. She was only taking him to the bus stop – he had convinced her that he didn't need driving all the way to school. He didn't want to even imagine the kind of attention he would get turning up to school in a Porsche.
Yes, a Porsche. His mother and father had decided to move to New Zealand three months ago in the hope that they could escape the extravagant life they had lived in England. They had bought a smaller (albeit not cheap) house in the bush and had tried to fit in with the rest of the country. It had been his father's idea. He wanted to experience life from this point of view, whatever 'this point of view' was, for the novel he was writing when he wasn't working. Art's mother had been just as keen. She was an artist, and thought that the beautiful New Zealand countryside would be inspiring.
“Horrible day outside,” his mother was saying cheerfully, trying to work a stubborn lock of golden hair into place. She seemed to be hurrying. Art wished that she wouldn't. “It's a shame, really. I'm sure it will clear up though, it always does. I'll take you out somewhere nice after school tonight.” She turned to smile at Art as she made her promise, oblivious to the fact that he was throughly unhappy. Of course, most people couldn't read Art's emotions – he was such an expert at keeping a straight face that he did it unknowingly.
“Sure,” said Art, glancing up at the clock. It was quarter to seven. There was nearly a whole hour before he had to be at the bus stop – more than half an hour before they had to leave. Forgetting his toast, which was now cooking away in the toaster, he left the room and went to find the piano.
Like his father had insisted on keeping the Porsche, Art had insisted on keeping the piano. To him it wasn't a luxury, but a necessity to keep him sane. He sat down on the velvet stool and ran his long fingers across the unmoving black and white keys, and they made not a sound. He closed his eyes, and dropped his fingers into them - slowly at first, but soon picking up speed and urgency. It was an angry piece. One he had written in England. It was also extremely complex, but Art had never had any trouble with learning new music, and had been writing his own for over a year. He could feel the pulse of blood in his fingers, and hear each note before he touched the corresponding key. He rocked as he played, his jaw set and his eyes fierce with passion.
“Art?” And then suddenly it all came to a halt on A sharp. Art opened his eyes. The silence was deafening. Sophie stood in the doorway, holding the apple core by the stem and looking at Art with the captivated expression that she always wore when he played. “Don't stop,” she whispered, so quietly that he shouldn't have been able to hear it. But he did.
“Mum wanted me to ask you to dry your hair,” said Sophie a little louder, and she smiled apologetically, before disappearing again and scurrying back to the kitchen.
Art sat on his bed in his large and tidy bedroom, looking out at the forsaken morning with a frown. But it wasn't the weather that was bothering him, in fact, he quite preferred such dull mornings to the usual Summer heat. No, it wasn't the weather, but the date that had him in an undesirable mood. It was February the first, and his first day at Blackthorn High.
Art lay back with a groan and closed his eyes, willing the world around him to evaporate. But unfortunately, when he opened them, the world was just as real as it had ever been, and there were three loud raps at the door as if he needed further reminding.
“Are you ready?” his mother called from the hallway. She sounded excited, although this didn't surprise Art in the slightest. She had been excited all week – her eldest child starting high school! He was sure that other parents didn't make such a big fuss about things like this, but hadn't told his mother so. He didn't want to ruin her fun.
“Just a second!” he called back, jumping from the bed and scrabbling at his wardrobe handle to find a coat. Pulling it open, he was met with his reflection in a length of mirror on the inside of the door. His hair was still wet from his shower, making it look a much darker brown that it really was, and longer too that the ringlets were weighted down with water. His mother would probably make him dry it before he left. He took a black coat from the pile on the floor – his wardrobe was the one place he didn't keep tidy – and put it on as he hurried down the stairs.
Sophie sat at the kitchen table eating an apple, looking as innocent and angelic as ever. Like their mother, she had strawberry blond hair, red lips and big, bright blue eyes. Art couldn't help but smile at the sight of her.
“You're up early,” said Art, startling her. It was uncanny, but no one ever seemed to hear him enter a room. It wasn't that he tried to sneak up on people, it was just that people didn't hear him unless he was intentionally noisy. He couldn't understand why - he could hear his own footsteps fine. But he could hear a lot of things that other people couldn't.
“I wanted to see you off,” Sophie replied a little shyly, but her face had lit up in a grin, and she shuffled down from her chair, leaving the apple on the table. “I wish I could come too.”
Art laughed, but not unkindly, as he walked over to the fridge. “Just three more years. And I bet it isn't all that great anyway,” he said, his voice turning a little bitter. He was actually quite sure that it was going to be terrible. He wasn't very good at meeting new people, unlike everyone else in his family; His mother loved to party, his father was a psychiatrist, and everyone adored Sophie. He was the odd one out in nearly every way. Looks, personality... even his voice somehow lacked the English accent that everyone else had.
He grabbed a few slices of bread to toast as his mother came in, a few bobby pins in her mouth, and her hands at her hair working it into a bun. She really didn't suit buns, and she only tied her hair up on special occasions. Art refrained from rolling his eyes. She was only taking him to the bus stop – he had convinced her that he didn't need driving all the way to school. He didn't want to even imagine the kind of attention he would get turning up to school in a Porsche.
Yes, a Porsche. His mother and father had decided to move to New Zealand three months ago in the hope that they could escape the extravagant life they had lived in England. They had bought a smaller (albeit not cheap) house in the bush and had tried to fit in with the rest of the country. It had been his father's idea. He wanted to experience life from this point of view, whatever 'this point of view' was, for the novel he was writing when he wasn't working. Art's mother had been just as keen. She was an artist, and thought that the beautiful New Zealand countryside would be inspiring.
“Horrible day outside,” his mother was saying cheerfully, trying to work a stubborn lock of golden hair into place. She seemed to be hurrying. Art wished that she wouldn't. “It's a shame, really. I'm sure it will clear up though, it always does. I'll take you out somewhere nice after school tonight.” She turned to smile at Art as she made her promise, oblivious to the fact that he was throughly unhappy. Of course, most people couldn't read Art's emotions – he was such an expert at keeping a straight face that he did it unknowingly.
“Sure,” said Art, glancing up at the clock. It was quarter to seven. There was nearly a whole hour before he had to be at the bus stop – more than half an hour before they had to leave. Forgetting his toast, which was now cooking away in the toaster, he left the room and went to find the piano.
Like his father had insisted on keeping the Porsche, Art had insisted on keeping the piano. To him it wasn't a luxury, but a necessity to keep him sane. He sat down on the velvet stool and ran his long fingers across the unmoving black and white keys, and they made not a sound. He closed his eyes, and dropped his fingers into them - slowly at first, but soon picking up speed and urgency. It was an angry piece. One he had written in England. It was also extremely complex, but Art had never had any trouble with learning new music, and had been writing his own for over a year. He could feel the pulse of blood in his fingers, and hear each note before he touched the corresponding key. He rocked as he played, his jaw set and his eyes fierce with passion.
“Art?” And then suddenly it all came to a halt on A sharp. Art opened his eyes. The silence was deafening. Sophie stood in the doorway, holding the apple core by the stem and looking at Art with the captivated expression that she always wore when he played. “Don't stop,” she whispered, so quietly that he shouldn't have been able to hear it. But he did.
“Mum wanted me to ask you to dry your hair,” said Sophie a little louder, and she smiled apologetically, before disappearing again and scurrying back to the kitchen.
It's obviously incomplete. I'll post the finished piece when I'm done.
The story name might change - any suggestions?
Also, is there anything grammatically wrong with it?
