Flowing out of me like vomit....

In the run up to National Novel Writing Month (see previous post) I have decided to try and write 1670 words a day as a sort of practise. 1670 about anything, as long as it isn't one of those 'about my day' things. So far it's going quite well -

Monday 6th October: 240 words
Tuesday 7th: 675 words
Wednesday 8th: 800 words (and this was with college so I didn't get home until half past eight!)
Thursday 9th: 0 words
Friday 10th: 0 words (oh, gimme a break!)
Saturday 11th: 860 words
Sunday 12th: 1960 words (so far, although I don't think I'm going to think anything else done tonight. I think I'm going to catch up with watching Merlin, get drunk and play around on the internet)

I think I might start from scratch actually. I've still got nearly 3 weeks left.

Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that I was thinking of posting my better practise pieces on this blog. Or maybe the worse, because one or two (out of the seven) of them are just about ok to send to a magazine. I thought I might make it a bit of a feature bewfore Nano starts. It might give me the motivation to post in this blog a bit more often.

So here's the first, raw and uncut (hey, you better get used to it. I intend to post my novel as I go along, if there is a novel):

LIGHTS

She wakes up screaming, only there is no sound. She can feel in her throat that she is shrieking as loud as she can, can feel her vocal chords straining, but she hears nothing but the harsh and frightened rasp of her breathing. It's hot. So hot. She rips the heavy quilt away from her, flings its dead weight across the room. She sits up in bed, cradling her knees, bathed in sweat, feeling sick, but at least she has stopped not-screaming.

It's so dark, she blinks a few times, feeling as though she has been blindfolded. Where is the streetlight outside her window, and the streak of light that should be falling across the middle of her bed? Oh, light, that's what she needs more than anything else in the world. Light. Beautiful, life giving light. Slides out of bed. Where is she? She blinks a few more times, but it's no use is it? Eyes useless. Eyes not working. Ok.

She pauses where she is for a minute and concentrates on where she is. Carpet - chilly, like opening the fridge door, skin clammy. Her neck aches. Ok. Everything is fine. She's alive, she isn't dreaming. She pinches har arm just to make sure. Good. She definately isn't dreaming.

Now then. She must find the light switch. She takes a deep breath and steps forward. "Oh..." her foot bumps something hard, must be her straighteners. She left them on the floor last night, didn't she? Good, only a couple more steps to the light switch. She reaches it with no other mishap, carefully avoiding the pile of coats and jackets on the floor, and the guitar. She knows her way around now, It's fine.

One hand touches the panel of the light switch, but she suddenly thinks perhaps she shouldn't turn the ligth on after all. Why ever not? Silly. The dream coming back to her in funny ways. There's nothing to be scared of. Absolutely nothing.

Shit. Nothing happens when she switches the light on. Must be the bulb. She flicks it back off and then on, just to make sure. Hmm. She isn't scared. Really. She steps out of her bedroom doorway and onto the landing, and feels for the hall light switch, listening to the hammering of her heart. On. Off. On. Off. It's not working either. Oh, dear.

She strolls back into her room - there are some matches on her bookshelf. She picks them up, listens to the rattle inside the cardboard box. But she pauses before lifting one out of the box and lighting. Somehow she knows it would not light if she tried. 'I think I'll put them back on the shelf. It can't be long before it gets light again. I'll sit here and wait.' So she does. She waits. And waits.

It's kind of based on a dream I had, where I was dead and haunting my own house, and I didn't know I was dead and kept trying to switch the light on and couldn't. Great fun.