Because I'm already restless with no writing project in the wing. The manuscript tab to the right has thus been updated!
This one's style incredibly different from how I'm accustomed to writing (this story is told from the perspective of a modern teenage girl in first person, the direct opposite of SoF), and the writing just springs out of nowhere as I type. It's very exciting...so exciting that I wanted to share a snippet I just finished with ya'll. Read on for it! :)
I know how the world ends.
Some say the world ends in fire. Others say it ends in a flood, or a supreme deity smites us all with no mercy. I’ve heard people stand on street corners on soap boxes and shout to the world that it’s end is near. We will all be judged at the end times, they say, their eyes wild and frantic. There is nothing we can do to stop it. I always wondered, as I passed such people, why they were raising their voices and screaming for all they were worth if what they preached was true. Would that be how any of us, should one of us be gifted with the ability to see the truth, with how it all ends, act? I can’t say it would be my first response. Warn people, yes, but I’ve seen crazy people all my life. I know the signs, I know what others shrink away from and decree as abnormal.
I know what will not be tolerated.
It would be my choice, if I knew when it was to come, to let it. I have no one to warn, no one to frighten with my doomsday speeches and predictions that none would take seriously. I have nothing, but even as I passed such people in the beginning, my head down and my eyes cast anywhere else, my music blaring in my ears as I walked, I had everything. I had everything because I was not standing at that street corner screaming those words, I had everything because I was not in this moment that jars the irony so deep into me I wonder if anyone would be able to extract it, if I were to live. It’s doubtful.
I know how it all ends.
It is with none of the things that humans, over time, have concocted. The irony of it all is what the world does end with, and how it is so simple. How something like this eluded even the greatest story teller, even the greatest mind that ran over the probability of the universe running it’s course.
The world ends with a name.
My name.
My identity strung in one word. Three syllables for those who do not know me, two for those that do. The very few I held close to my chest and refused to let go.
It would be a very short tale to tell if that was how I began, with the end. All tales have beginnings and ends, and I could not help but begin mine with where I stand now.
I’ve always been a bit backwards.
Let me begin again, the best I can, with what I know.
My name is Cynthia McDonnell.
Remember that name when it is whispered at the end, and remember, remember as this unfurls, one very important fact you cannot let go of.
I know how the world ends.
And very soon, so will you.
