Genre: Fantasy
About KusumitaLocation: Trinidad, Port of Spain. Home Region: Favorite novels: Perfume: Story of a Murderer, It, Flowers in the Attic, A Great and Terrible Beauty, Lord of the Flies, Sealark's Song, Favorite writers: Anne Rice, Stephan King, V.C Andrews. Favorite music: Instrumentals Non-noveling interests: Art, Singing, Acting. |
Joined: Octubre 18, 2006 This Year: Official Participant NaNoWriMo History: NaNoWriMo posts: 5 NaNoWriMo buddies: 2
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Synopsis: A Place in the Sun
Rebecca wasn't entire sure of her future when she was entrusted with a strange, gaudy amulet and a painting in the memory of her father. She didn't expect it to be filled with war, pain and loss- nor the sudden revelation that she was part of something so much bigger than her simplistic existence.
Excerpt: A Place in the Sun
“No… No.. Wake up. Wake up.”
His bloodied hand gripped at the fallen man’s shoulders violently, as the soldier’s expression was a calm, sweet sleeping façade. The man above him watched him with terrified eyes and stained skin from the dirt and grim of the war-stricken lands as the fires mutilated the areas in a sickening crackle the bodies being burnt as a blessing from the rotting smell. He gagged from the stench and fighting back tears dedicated to his fallen comrade, his sides hurt and his eyes burned from the ashes fluttering around his figure- and still the man did not stir.
He didn’t not open those closed eyes nor would he respond that everything would be alright and that their people would see a better tomorrow because of their sacrifice. No, the man did not reassure nor did he blame as he just lay in the other soldier’s arms in a dead state where he could dream of the future they fought for. A place where he could feel the warmth of his loved ones always there and smiling with him for he, in his corpse-like state, could only live in a heaven where he walked home from the war into the arms of his awaiting family.
“No….This war….this war.”
The soldier placed the fallen man onto the floor gingerly before staying on his knees and allowed the heat of the fire around him to surge. He watched as the blade from his hands reflected the dancing lights burning village- this war became a slaughter house for the amused nobles for which he was hired. Luskan, the village, burned to the ground by the hands of his people and yet, on the battle field, they were equally hurt with the lost lies. The man brought his hands to his shoulder, a deep gash bleeding onto his clothes, before lifting his fingers to his eyes. They burned against the ash again and he squinted down feeling the liquid of tears against the blood of his finger tips and the dirt of his face.
It was then he screamed. Screamed so loud that it ruptured through the war zone like a might roar of a lion shrieking for its pack- hollering to the new aged era brought by the fire and brimstone of man’s greatest sin.
Murder.
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