With all of this going on, and trying to edit another novel, I got nothing written yesterday.
So here is something that's old, but it's the beginning of a novel's concept. Drawn from the idea of the myth of Pandora's Box, here is the start of a novel that never had a name, only an idea. Here is the character of Plague awakening.
Plague could hear it—the whispers
were stirring in the void again. He could feel it—that tugging,
beckoning warmth through the endless chill, the breath of life, of
chance, of a hope he longed to suck dry. A low hiss broke the depth
of the void and like a shadow in the night, the last breath of a
dying man, he crept towards the light. He could feel the throb of the
city, the whine of cars and the tears of widows.
Gods were dead here. There was a niche
to be filled.
Plague pulled himself through the veins
of moonlight as rain pummeled the city streets, making the pools of
grime shimmer and the restless midnight patrons clutch their coats
closer against the downpour. He needed something to attach to, some
restless, curious mind to weave around. Youngsters were the best.
Better if they were lonely, depressed, silently calling out for a
will or a way, an answer from some God that had long been laying in
the gutter for the rats to pick over. Like a chill wind in the storm
Plague moved throughout the city, only as tangible as the small hairs
at the back of one's neck, that wrenching feeling in the gut, that
quick shot of adrenaline that spikes the heartbeat. He needed a body
that would make the lesser Gods cry.
He needed a body.
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