Okay, I'll play. (I didn't post 34 posts ago as thought these had all stopped.) This is the opening to a sequel to Inish Carraig. It is unpolished, and indeed not expected to be anything other than a fun crit. But this is where I envisage the book opening. I'm planning to have a lot of fun writing this.
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sh*te, sh*te and more sh*te. John cursed as he slipped in yet more of the stuff. He had his sweater tied around his mouth and nose but it made no difference. The sh*t-eaters had smelt bad enough in Belfast; here, on the Zelotyrs’ home planet, they broke records in revoltment.
“Keep going,” yelled Carter, drawing alongside him, casting a desperate eye over his shoulder. “Speed up."
If the cop hadn't been practically up to his own knees in the crap, John would have sworn he was enjoying watching John’s misery. As it was, he had the now-familiar combination of trying to be in charge whilst cack-handedly out-of-his-depth.
A roar behind John got him moving, an action cemented by a blast to the side of him and a fountain of crap reaching to the dull-grey sky. Suddenly, it didn’t matter what the bog smelled like, or what might be clinging to his clothes – the material was space-age, perhaps it might magically repel the sh*te. He lived in hope - it only mattered that he sped up.
“Round the corner,” shouted Carter. He slowed down, presumably doing that cop-thing of drawing the flak to give John a chance. He could forget about that; authority had gone out the window the moment the Barath’na had attacked on this godforsaken sh*t-plain. Now, it was survival. They'd already lost Neeta, divided in the race to get away, and they’d last longer together.
“Carter, get your arse over here, or I don’t take another step!” yelled John, and Carter caught up, eyes wide. Then he overtook John.
How close were the Barath’na squad? John followed the cop, taking the hint. His sweater fell from his mouth to sink in the sludge. He rounded the corner. A rocky outcrop stood like a beacon in the sh*te. A gaping mouth led into it – the only hope they had: to get deep underground and pick up the Zelotyr trail. The Barath'na squad would have to abandon their vehicle to follow.
A figure stepped out from the shadows of the rock, lean-lined and dangerous. John juddered to a halt, eyes frantically casting for another way out.
“All right, lads,” said Neeta, a smirk on her face. “Finally made it, did you?”
She hadn’t been taken. She hadn’t been lost in the sh*te. As ever, she’d been one step ahead of them. John didn’t answer her as he dived for cover from another fountain of sh*te.
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sh*te, sh*te and more sh*te. John cursed as he slipped in yet more of the stuff. He had his sweater tied around his mouth and nose but it made no difference. The sh*t-eaters had smelt bad enough in Belfast; here, on the Zelotyrs’ home planet, they broke records in revoltment.
“Keep going,” yelled Carter, drawing alongside him, casting a desperate eye over his shoulder. “Speed up."
If the cop hadn't been practically up to his own knees in the crap, John would have sworn he was enjoying watching John’s misery. As it was, he had the now-familiar combination of trying to be in charge whilst cack-handedly out-of-his-depth.
A roar behind John got him moving, an action cemented by a blast to the side of him and a fountain of crap reaching to the dull-grey sky. Suddenly, it didn’t matter what the bog smelled like, or what might be clinging to his clothes – the material was space-age, perhaps it might magically repel the sh*te. He lived in hope - it only mattered that he sped up.
“Round the corner,” shouted Carter. He slowed down, presumably doing that cop-thing of drawing the flak to give John a chance. He could forget about that; authority had gone out the window the moment the Barath’na had attacked on this godforsaken sh*t-plain. Now, it was survival. They'd already lost Neeta, divided in the race to get away, and they’d last longer together.
“Carter, get your arse over here, or I don’t take another step!” yelled John, and Carter caught up, eyes wide. Then he overtook John.
How close were the Barath’na squad? John followed the cop, taking the hint. His sweater fell from his mouth to sink in the sludge. He rounded the corner. A rocky outcrop stood like a beacon in the sh*te. A gaping mouth led into it – the only hope they had: to get deep underground and pick up the Zelotyr trail. The Barath'na squad would have to abandon their vehicle to follow.
A figure stepped out from the shadows of the rock, lean-lined and dangerous. John juddered to a halt, eyes frantically casting for another way out.
“All right, lads,” said Neeta, a smirk on her face. “Finally made it, did you?”
She hadn’t been taken. She hadn’t been lost in the sh*te. As ever, she’d been one step ahead of them. John didn’t answer her as he dived for cover from another fountain of sh*te.
