Ooh, look! It's a post. Finally. I am aware that it's been a while, but I've been swept up in the NYE-slash-work-slash-revisions world that has now become my life. Anyways. A while ago, I signed up to a blogfest over at Falen Formulates Fiction, by the charming name of Show Me Yours. I know that to many northern hemisphere natives that it's only the 2nd of January, however, down here in Australia, it's the 3rd. Therefore, I am early.
I couldn't find an excerpt from my NaNo, mostly because I haven't touched it since the 1st of December. This blogfest deadline really snuck up on me, and I don't really have time to comb through and then edit a scene, so I'll be lazy and give you an excerpt from my novel, RETURN, which is seizing my sanity and my sleep. It's meant to be 500 words, but I'm feeling rebellious and shall give you 650 or whatever it is.
The Grog and Gruel was empty, or almost empty. Nightfall smothered the narrow pub, blackening the small front windows. Its regular patrons approached before briskly detouring down the street, having caught sight of the burly men standing guard at its entrance. It was, perhaps not the sight of the sentries themselves that repelled the patrons so promptly, but the big, horizontal 79's tattooed on the right side of their necks.
The pub's interior had been rearranged. Tables and chairs were heedlessly discarded, stacked the far ends of the narrow space. An inactive fan cast gaunt shadows across the white ceiling, the edges of the pub awash with pooled, yellow wall lights, aesthetics. Brawny men, perhaps not as intimidating as those posted outside, were arranged near the alcove exits at the front and into the kitchen; all were tattooed with the black 79.
A sole table was set up, the two occupants facing each other. Small, a dimmed lamp sat on the table cloth, emitting a brighter light that cast heavy shadows up the men's faces. A dinner plate was laid before each man, one meal steadily demolished, the other untouched.
Despite approaching middle-age, the older, weaselly man appeared boyish. He was ferret-thin with gangly limbs, a raw-boned face and bulbous eyes. He had long sideburns, stretching from a head of copped, mussed hair. His paisley suit was buttoned tight, his elongated shoes, crocodile hide, tapped lazily against the floorboards. he continually adjusted his cuffs; they were a fraction too short for his arms. His hands and wrists were drenched in self-tanner, seemingly glowing in the lamplight. More importantly, however, the back f his right hand bore the thick, black number - 79.
He brandished the numbers with each dip of his hands, fingers picking at the diminishing meal before him. His long, thin nose seemed razor-sharp as his head bowed. He popped the final bite on the plate into his mouth, and glanced up at his company. "Forfar Bridies-" Vesuvius Marcum grinned, teeth bared. "Me Mam made brilliant ones when I was a lad," he said, Scottish inflection guttural. He sucked each fingertip, smacking his lips. "You got grilled Loch Fynne kippers." He jabbed a finger toward his guest's untouched plate.
"You're not the eatin' type-" He raised his palms and lounged back, crossing one leg over the other. "I understand. Or maybe it's the menu." Marcum waggled his eyebrows, a peculiar smile fastened on his lips. "What did your Mam cook you when you were a lad? Oh, you probably had lots of sorts. Another half-caste like me - what are you? Irish, French, Bulgarian and - " He grinned. "A convict. That's right. Your father, direct descendant of a convict." Marcum roared with laughter. "I can't believe the irony."
The younger man across from him was unresponsive. He was in his twenties, had a rigid, upright stance, and sat with his hands in his lap, one leg crossed over the other. Small eyes peered out from beneath dark, curly hair, chapped lips pursed in sync with a furrowed brow.
Marcum stopped laughing. He cleared his throat, averting his eyes from those of his sinister guest, who, he noticed, smelled ever-so-slightly of gasoline. Perhaps, the young man had been incredibly handsome once, back when he'd been one of those do-gooders. Marcum could see that his mental deterioration had affected his appearance - he was gaunt, pale, and in all looked like a burn victim, rebuilt with plastic surgery.
Marcum adjusted his collar, then raised a hand, the mere gesture sending one of this men into the back for more bridies. "We haven't gathered in months." His eyes flashed up at his guest. "Many months indeed." One eyebrow rose. "Have we wreaked ample havoc, my tim'rous beastie?"
His guest said nothing; the corner of his upper lip twitched before thinning into a knowing smirk. The eyes of cobalt flashed upward, abrupt.
So there we are. Be sure to head over to Falen's blog, as linked to above, and check out some of the other participants of the blogfest. Like I said, this is a scene from my novel that I'm currently revising. I'm not sure about Marcum's name. I'll probably change it. I'll probably change lots, but whatever. Tell me what you think if you like, skulk in silence if you prefer.