Okay, I don't think the opening chapter of my new book is working (the banshee at the harbour, for those in the Writing group), but I wonder if this does. It is a first draft, I'm not after typos and what not. I'm simply wondering does it hook? Does it ask any questions?
@LittleStar @Kerrybuchanan @ctg - what do you think, having read the book?
Cheers, all! J
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Amelia painted in the sunlight, wanting to capture the feel of the day, the promise of the North Coast of Ireland, the grand beauty of the Antrim Coast Road. The sun warmed her shoulders as she worked, smearing pastels to catch the colour of the beach, the grey-granite rocks shining as they caught the day’s light. Her hands became smeared, layers of blue and green and grey that began to resemble the sea.
Joe, no doubt bored, kicked stones towards the water and then skimmed them to show off to a pair of boys who’d come down to the shore. They must have been ten years to his thirty, and he still couldn’t let them win. Quickly, Amelia captured him, too, back arched as he prepared to throw, the lean body moving into a crouched toss over the water. The kick of the surf where the pebble hit. His wounded face when it turned out the kids were demons at skipping stones, going past his by at least half a foot.
“I’m going up for a pint,” he said, jerking his head at the hotel across the narrow strip of road. “Come over when you’re ready.”
She nodded, absently, already trying to figure out how to capture the mast of a boat in the lee of the bay, how to match the sunlight that had painted it into a thin line of gold. Joe headed across the road, dashing between two cars.
The sky had clouded over. Frowning, she tried to outpace the clouds, to finish catching the day as it had been. Cloudy skies didn’t sell paintings. Her clients wanted sunshine and happy days. Chocolate-boxed promises of all things safe.
The sea had got up, too, making the boat rock from side to side. The wind raked her face, a sudden sharpness. She found herself slamming her artbook shut and tucking her pastels away, just beating the great drops of rain. The smell of seaweed rose with the storm, becoming thick and claggy. She turned to climb up to the road and the safety of the hotel, but stopped at the sense of being watched.
The beach was empty; the two boys had scarpered from the storm. She stared at the hotel, and the feeling of being watched grew, her back prickling. She ran her eyes up the side of the building until there, in the attic, she caught sight of a white face at the window.
The ghost-room. Set up for tourists, in an old-fashioned way. She’d been up to see it with Joe just before she’d decided to paint on the beach. The figure stared down, and she stared up, and she couldn’t have described the fear she felt, one that made her hands clench around her handbag’s strap, and her throat thicken.
It could be Joe, trying to spook her. Except that Joe was much more likely to have gone to the bar than on some kind of mischief. Still, the face stared.
She ran across the road, ignoring the screech of brakes, and through the entrance. She darted up the stairs, into the single staircase that led to the attic. No one passed her. There was no other way up or down from the room. She used the thick rope bannister to pull herself up, one hand, then the next. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps and she couldn’t have said why it was so important for her to know who had been watching her, just that she much.
She pushed open the heavy wooden door to the room, ready to demand why the person inside had been staring at her, but skidded to a halt.
The room was empty. She crossed to where the figure must have been, by the window, and stared down at the beach, right at the spot she had been standing. The water had churned up in the storm. A flash of lightning over the sea was followed almost immediately by a low rumble that went on and on.
She put her hand to the window, darts of water tracking down it. This was the scene she’d capture. She knew it, that there was never going to be a pretty painting of this day, but the raw power, the bleakness, the beach where she’d been watched from.
She turned again. The room mocked her with its emptiness and she didn't know who had watched her, or why.
@LittleStar @Kerrybuchanan @ctg - what do you think, having read the book?
Cheers, all! J
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Amelia painted in the sunlight, wanting to capture the feel of the day, the promise of the North Coast of Ireland, the grand beauty of the Antrim Coast Road. The sun warmed her shoulders as she worked, smearing pastels to catch the colour of the beach, the grey-granite rocks shining as they caught the day’s light. Her hands became smeared, layers of blue and green and grey that began to resemble the sea.
Joe, no doubt bored, kicked stones towards the water and then skimmed them to show off to a pair of boys who’d come down to the shore. They must have been ten years to his thirty, and he still couldn’t let them win. Quickly, Amelia captured him, too, back arched as he prepared to throw, the lean body moving into a crouched toss over the water. The kick of the surf where the pebble hit. His wounded face when it turned out the kids were demons at skipping stones, going past his by at least half a foot.
“I’m going up for a pint,” he said, jerking his head at the hotel across the narrow strip of road. “Come over when you’re ready.”
She nodded, absently, already trying to figure out how to capture the mast of a boat in the lee of the bay, how to match the sunlight that had painted it into a thin line of gold. Joe headed across the road, dashing between two cars.
The sky had clouded over. Frowning, she tried to outpace the clouds, to finish catching the day as it had been. Cloudy skies didn’t sell paintings. Her clients wanted sunshine and happy days. Chocolate-boxed promises of all things safe.
The sea had got up, too, making the boat rock from side to side. The wind raked her face, a sudden sharpness. She found herself slamming her artbook shut and tucking her pastels away, just beating the great drops of rain. The smell of seaweed rose with the storm, becoming thick and claggy. She turned to climb up to the road and the safety of the hotel, but stopped at the sense of being watched.
The beach was empty; the two boys had scarpered from the storm. She stared at the hotel, and the feeling of being watched grew, her back prickling. She ran her eyes up the side of the building until there, in the attic, she caught sight of a white face at the window.
The ghost-room. Set up for tourists, in an old-fashioned way. She’d been up to see it with Joe just before she’d decided to paint on the beach. The figure stared down, and she stared up, and she couldn’t have described the fear she felt, one that made her hands clench around her handbag’s strap, and her throat thicken.
It could be Joe, trying to spook her. Except that Joe was much more likely to have gone to the bar than on some kind of mischief. Still, the face stared.
She ran across the road, ignoring the screech of brakes, and through the entrance. She darted up the stairs, into the single staircase that led to the attic. No one passed her. There was no other way up or down from the room. She used the thick rope bannister to pull herself up, one hand, then the next. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps and she couldn’t have said why it was so important for her to know who had been watching her, just that she much.
She pushed open the heavy wooden door to the room, ready to demand why the person inside had been staring at her, but skidded to a halt.
The room was empty. She crossed to where the figure must have been, by the window, and stared down at the beach, right at the spot she had been standing. The water had churned up in the storm. A flash of lightning over the sea was followed almost immediately by a low rumble that went on and on.
She put her hand to the window, darts of water tracking down it. This was the scene she’d capture. She knew it, that there was never going to be a pretty painting of this day, but the raw power, the bleakness, the beach where she’d been watched from.
She turned again. The room mocked her with its emptiness and she didn't know who had watched her, or why.
