So, I know you're all just DYING for a glimpse of my WiP, right?
Anyway. I've been TERRIBLE with my short stories this year. The plan was to write one short story a month, and I had planned on sharing them with you. Well, I shared my January short story with you, but I ...uh...haven't written once since. Heh. And since my brain won't work right now to come up with an actual post, and I'm in a particularly share-y mood, I'll share a small snippet from New Novel. You'll have absolutely no idea what's going on, of course, and I'm going to be cruel and leave it that way. Muahahaha :D
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Nighttime. Magic. It’s as though a switch is flipped, an ordinary lounge turned magical lair. The daytime is almost too normal, as though the night is only a dream. As though I’ve made this whole life up in my mind. But then the night comes and allures us all, and we’re happy to be in the dream again. I let the customers in. I shiver. I listen to the music. I drink one of James’s concoctions. I watch the customers in their trance, loving loving loving this place as they slowly fade away. This is what normal looks like.
So why is there this gnawing in my chest, aching to break free?
I stand with my arms crossed, my ankles crossed, leaning against the column outside of the lounge. It’s nearly two in the morning—nearly closing time. We aren’t letting any more customers in, but it’s supposed to snow tonight and I want to wait for it. I want to be outside when it does. I remember being little, jumping in huge piles of snow, laughing with Julie as we froze in the icy white stuff but not caring a bit, because it was the most fun we could imagine. I would do that again, now. I would do it if I wouldn’t look like a fool.
I would do it if it didn’t remind me so much of Julie, and the person that I used to be.
The sky is dark, but there’s an almost red tint to it. The air is frigid and smells of snow. I watch the yellow-orange glow of the streetlamps, waiting to see a sign of snowflakes against the light. There’s nothing yet, but it should be soon, and I’m not tired.
Someone walks up to me and stands at my side.
I keep my eyes on the light as I say, “We’re closing.”
“I’m not allowed in, anyway.”
I don’t need to look at him to know it’s Leonel, but I do. His black jacket is fraying at the collar, his neck exposed. I wonder how he isn’t freezing. His guitar is a permanent fixture on his back, like it’s grown right out of him, like it’s part of him. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his jeans, and he stares steadily at the streetlamp as though I’m not even there.
“What are you doing here? Did Papa call you?”
“No. I just finished a gig around the corner and wanted to walk by.”
I stare at him. He stares at the streetlamp. How is it that he stole my perfect moment and now I can’t even look at the streetlamp on my own?
“Why would you do that if we don’t need you tonight?” I say. It comes out a little harsher than necessary, but I don’t apologize.
He parts his lips and exhales, his breath forming a white cloud in the air. He finally looks at me. “No reason. I just felt like going for a walk, I guess.” His eyelashes are so thick they cast a shadow on his face, just under his eyes. I bet when it snows, the flakes catch on them like crazy.
I don’t know what to say, so I look back to the streetlamp. It’s not the same with him here, but we stand there together and wait. I’m waiting for the snow. I’m not sure what he’s waiting for.