18 November: Daily Excerpt

[jupitersings.livejournal.com]

Feel free to share an excerpt from your novel here, though we ask that you keep it to PG-13, and if there are any triggers please list them in the title of your comment for people to see.

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<b>Username:</b> <b>Any background information:</b> <b>Excerpt:</b>

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[tehexile]

Username:
Any background information: No, I don't know how the physics of a magic-augmented clockwork flying machine would work... neither does the MC... and yes, Saint Lysander is throwing Judgment Rings at things in battle.
Excerpt:

“You're nearly at the end!” he yelled, “Get ready to fly on my command! It'll cut off into thin air! Okay... five... four... three... two...” he paused to immolate a gargoyle that had gotten through his wheel after he missed an area with his pointer, “One... FLY!”

Seconds before the floor disappeared from beneath him, Scribe pulled on both ropes and pushed off with his feet. There was a whooshing sound and he felt a strong force yanking his arms upwards, that he knew from experience was painful if he didn't let the rest of his body rise with it. He spread his arms out and let the wind blow his unruly hair away from his face.

He was flying. Which would have been fun, even exhilarating, if he wasn't being chased by a small cloud of ugly, shrieking, teeth-gnashing creatures that could fly better than him, and if the place he was flying towards wasn't almost certainly full of worse things.

He took one brief glance back at Saint Lysander. Most of the gargoyles had decided he was the bigger target, which was fortunate for Scribe, as the Saint could take those kind of numbers and he could not. He now had several of the wheels spinning at once and was cutting them down as though they were fruit in a tree waiting to be harvested. As soon as there were few enough of them to present an opening, he turned and glided back down the corridor as fast as he could. Going to reinforce his shield, Scribe realised. I'm on my own.

Spinning the wheel to build up speed, he shot off into the dark, furious skies.

[fenrischained.livejournal.com]

Username: fenrischained/Jormandugr

Any background information:

Excerpt: And then he’d seen blood, a bright spray on the emptying streets. That was what was weirdest of all – it was the blood he’d seen, not the body, not the bullet, just that tiny crimson fountain in the clear January air, and it had galvanised him as nothing else had, but he hadn’t run. Or, well, he had, but not away. He didn’t think of himself as a hero, never had, and never would; heroes overcame their fear and faced their foes, but that took thought, and the rising tide of panic had swept thought out of his head. He moved on instinct, on reflex, all the world coming down to that bright splash of blood that still hung in the air...

He didn’t know what had happened after that, not really. He remembered the face of the boy – Hugh, a boy he knew, a schoolmate – frozen and white, and the cold grip on his heart as his brain finally connected the face and the blood in the air. He remembered that there were others running, in both directions. He remembered standing alone in the street, his heart in his mouth, the torturously exact feeling as his weight shifted forwards on his toes and he lunged forwards, hoping he could do something, change something, but mostly just reacting. Reacting to the screaming, to the gunfire. To that little spray of blood in a frozen January moment when the world had gone insane.

And then he remembered pain. He didn’t consider himself any stranger to pain, but there was a world of difference between a black eye and this. It jolted into his shoulder, through his shoulder, leaving a shattering red wake of agony which was so utterly, shockingly new that for a moment he barely realised it was pain at all, and barrelled on, hardly aware that he’d been hit.

The rest was jumbled. Images swirled and collided in his mind, disjointed and unreal; lying in bed now, safe and capable of thinking again, he assumed it was shock which fragmented his memories, shock of the pain and shock of seeing Hugh go down.

There had been a hand, on his wrist, grip tight and unrelenting, and a voice in his ear shouting words he couldn’t make out.

There had been a car. An old green Ford, for some reason he could see that clearer in his mind than all the chaotic drama of the day.

Bullets, whistling overhead.

Someone else fell. Someone screamed, loud enough to cut above the chaos. It might even have been him.

And then... crouching behind that old green Ford, trying not to cry as that red-hot agony dropped to a more recognisable pain, cowering against the man who’d pulled him to safety without regard for who it was or what he might think, while the man whose face he still couldn’t see tugged off his sweater, pushed it over that part of Pat’s shoulder which felt as if it were on fire. Pat’s vision had been blurring by then, his head filling up with cotton wool; it had taken him a long time to realise that the blood dripping into puddles under the Ford’s tyres was his own, longer still to look up and see that, whoever his benefactor was, he was gone now, leaving Pat curled against the bullet-scarred car, shaking and crying and with a stranger’s sweater doing a poor job of staunching the blood gushing from his shoulder.

Warning for reference to brain trauma

[pet-lunatic.livejournal.com]

Username: pet_lunatic
Any background information:
Excerpt:

“Look, I think I should warn you -” Callaghan began.

“Warn me off?” Farmer knew that wasn't his meaning. “I'm not trying to hurt him.”

“It's not him I'm worried about anymore.”

Farmer leaned back against the wall, folded his arms comfortably. “Oh?”

“Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. He means a lot to you.”

Farmer relaxed even further. “We're friends. We worked together. He taught me a great deal – did he tell you I studied with him?”

Callaghan shook his head.

“Yes,” Farmer went on, “I got leave for twelve months and did a postgraduate degree with him, at his university in the US. Behavioural science and clinical criminology. I learned a lot.”

“I'm sure.” There was a trace of pity in Callaghan's voice. “You have a lot of respect for him, I can see that. I understand that. I worked with him too – well, kinda. We worked the same case once, out in New York. I know what he was capable of. He was amazing, the best. But you have to realise...he's not the same anymore.” He held up a hand, forestalling objections Farmer had not intended to make. “He's still an amazing person – I don't think anyone else could have recovered the way he has. I've seen the scans of – well, of what's left of his brain. It's incredible he's even walking and talking.”

Farmer looked away. He could tolerate a great deal; this was too much even for him. Callaghan stepped closer, reached up to put a hand on a shoulder he barely reached. “Look, man, I'm not saying he isn't capable of doing something productive with his life. I'm not suggesting he gets thrown on the trash heap...but I know what it is you're trying to do here, and I'm telling you, you could be setting yourself up for a fall. Let me tell you something...”

He explained about Jon's performance at Stevie's party, how nobody would have known there was anything wrong with him – and what it had taken out of him afterwards. “He can put on a great show, when he really tries,” Callaghan concluded. “But it is a show, you know? I don't think you want to do that to him just to make yourself feel better, do you?” His eyes hardened, and Farmer realised, in that moment, just how much his grief had affected him – how it had caused him to underestimate this man. “I took him away from his sister because she couldn't let go of the person he used to be,” Callaghan said. “If I have to, I'll keep him away from you, too. I don't want to. He lit up when you called on the phone. You make him feel...useful, in touch, as if nothing had happened. I'm not gonna be pathetic and say that if you hurt him, I'll hurt you – I won't need to, because I think if you do hurt him, it'll break you up enough by itself. Am I right?”