This is the first, fairly rough draft, to an existing story. What I'm wondering about (along with the usual clarity, hook etc) are two things:
1. The use of the pronoun it - does it work or confuse. (Not sure what to do if it confuses)
2. This is the opening to a YA SF - high end YA, so 16-18 age range - but it starts in an old mind. I wonder is it suitable for YA, or if any of it feels too adult.
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It was a bustling evening, the last of the warm sunshine bringing people out to the cafes and bars. It put its head back and closed its eyes, listening to the restaurant sounds – the clatter of glasses being cleared up, sizzling as tapas arrived at the next table, voices calling to each other in warm, mellow tones that somehow suited the warmth.
This was perfection. This planet, so far from the shipping lanes, would not be the first place to look for an alien. Even if that changed…. It concentrated on the feel of its new body, the tightness of the skin, the depth of its breaths that made its chest rise and fall. It felt right to be this shape.
Satisfied, it got to its feet and threw some coins onto the table. It had taken the knowledge it needed, the understanding of the currency and food, as quicker as it had learned to savour the feel of the now-night air, the touch of clothes on its body. Already, it understood what it was to be human.
It left the bar and paced through the streets of the town, coming off the main street at a set of half-hidden steps. It ran up them – it was so easy to move in this body, no heavy stinger dragging behind it. So freeing.
Taking a right, then a left, it slipped into a narrower street. Houses loomed on each side of the street, old-bricked and slanted, as if the street had secrets that must be kept. It stopped at a faded green door. The memories it had taken earlier had considered the door important. They’d considered it home.
It touched the door, a slight tap-tap of will, and the catch gave. The door swung open. It stepped into a dark hallway and took a moment to allow its eyes to adjust. Humans did not have the night-vision it was accustomed to.
It started to climb the stairs, but stopped as a door opened downstairs.
“Jose, is that you?” The mother’s voice was querrulous. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”
“No, Madre,” it said, turning. “I let myself in.”
Her frown told it something was wrong. It searched the memories it had touched, but nothing indicated why. It hadn’t thought to look closely at keys and locks and doors.
“Why Madre?” she asked. “Why so formal?”
Panic welled in it. She knew something was wrong. She knew Jose was wrong. If she knew she could tell.
The shifting took a mere thought. The woman’s mouth fell open as it took the stairs in a single bound, its stinger coming around. It took her in the shoulder, and she cried out, the small cry of a child. She fell, hard, eyes staring upwards. Already the poison would be spreading.
It stood over the woman. Her eyes tracked him: nothing else moved. It took its time, enjoying the familiar sensation filling its body. It was time to kill.
It brought its stinger up, admiring the long point. The venom didn’t complete the kill – it merely brought the foretaste. It ran the stinger up her body, between her legs, over her breasts. If she’d felt it, she’d have thought it a lover’s hand.
It imagined the fear wracking her. Her eyes met its, looking from it to the door, worried circles of knowledge. At last, the stinger was against her throat.
“Sorry, Madre,” it said, and stabbed. Blood gushed, splattering the walls, the floor, the door, its body. It threw its head back and relished the kill and no one came near the house. The night deepened, and the street held yet another secret.
1. The use of the pronoun it - does it work or confuse. (Not sure what to do if it confuses)
2. This is the opening to a YA SF - high end YA, so 16-18 age range - but it starts in an old mind. I wonder is it suitable for YA, or if any of it feels too adult.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a bustling evening, the last of the warm sunshine bringing people out to the cafes and bars. It put its head back and closed its eyes, listening to the restaurant sounds – the clatter of glasses being cleared up, sizzling as tapas arrived at the next table, voices calling to each other in warm, mellow tones that somehow suited the warmth.
This was perfection. This planet, so far from the shipping lanes, would not be the first place to look for an alien. Even if that changed…. It concentrated on the feel of its new body, the tightness of the skin, the depth of its breaths that made its chest rise and fall. It felt right to be this shape.
Satisfied, it got to its feet and threw some coins onto the table. It had taken the knowledge it needed, the understanding of the currency and food, as quicker as it had learned to savour the feel of the now-night air, the touch of clothes on its body. Already, it understood what it was to be human.
It left the bar and paced through the streets of the town, coming off the main street at a set of half-hidden steps. It ran up them – it was so easy to move in this body, no heavy stinger dragging behind it. So freeing.
Taking a right, then a left, it slipped into a narrower street. Houses loomed on each side of the street, old-bricked and slanted, as if the street had secrets that must be kept. It stopped at a faded green door. The memories it had taken earlier had considered the door important. They’d considered it home.
It touched the door, a slight tap-tap of will, and the catch gave. The door swung open. It stepped into a dark hallway and took a moment to allow its eyes to adjust. Humans did not have the night-vision it was accustomed to.
It started to climb the stairs, but stopped as a door opened downstairs.
“Jose, is that you?” The mother’s voice was querrulous. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”
“No, Madre,” it said, turning. “I let myself in.”
Her frown told it something was wrong. It searched the memories it had touched, but nothing indicated why. It hadn’t thought to look closely at keys and locks and doors.
“Why Madre?” she asked. “Why so formal?”
Panic welled in it. She knew something was wrong. She knew Jose was wrong. If she knew she could tell.
The shifting took a mere thought. The woman’s mouth fell open as it took the stairs in a single bound, its stinger coming around. It took her in the shoulder, and she cried out, the small cry of a child. She fell, hard, eyes staring upwards. Already the poison would be spreading.
It stood over the woman. Her eyes tracked him: nothing else moved. It took its time, enjoying the familiar sensation filling its body. It was time to kill.
It brought its stinger up, admiring the long point. The venom didn’t complete the kill – it merely brought the foretaste. It ran the stinger up her body, between her legs, over her breasts. If she’d felt it, she’d have thought it a lover’s hand.
It imagined the fear wracking her. Her eyes met its, looking from it to the door, worried circles of knowledge. At last, the stinger was against her throat.
“Sorry, Madre,” it said, and stabbed. Blood gushed, splattering the walls, the floor, the door, its body. It threw its head back and relished the kill and no one came near the house. The night deepened, and the street held yet another secret.
)
