As a refresher for anyone who cares (or who doesn't since I hope you'll read this anyway, to get to the 'good stuff' that follows), it's an exercise. It involves discipline, goal setting and, at the end of the thirty day period, hope - hope that you'll have a great or a good or even a fair-to-middlin' first draft of a story. Or, you'll have tried an idea that you had, and discovered that it doesn't work.
This is my first year participating, and I'm excited. So much so, that I woke up extra super early this morning (four o'clock on a Sunday can, I think, be considered extra super early), and got started.
As I promised, I will be offering up my "spew" on a daily basis this month - what comes next from where I began and then left off. Since this is a rough, first draft, it may be full of plot holes, contradictions, or downright egregious errors. Whatever. That's why it's called a first draft.
Now, if you're ready, I am. Here's the opening to First Dig Two Graves. And please, note, copyright applies to this post and every other one I put up here.
* * * * *
First Dig Two Graves
Philippa
Stirling
Copyright © 2015 – All Rights
Reserved
This
book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner
whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for
brief quotations in a book review.
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, places, events and incidents
are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious
manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is
purely coincidental.
Sonoma County, California – August 23, 2009
Ben shivered, his shoulders jerking as the frigid wind whipped
off the Pacific, slicing through the layers of clothing. He was so cold his
muscles were on the verge of cramping, but he wasn’t going to say anything. Not
today, the day after his thirteenth birthday, the first time his dad and granddad
had taken him surf fishing with them.
Oh, sure. He’d been there before, but always in the
background, watching and following, or sitting with his mom and sister in the trailer.
This was the first time he’d ever held his own rig, the gift he’d dreamed of
for years.
Far out on the water, amid the whitecaps, bright yellow and
orange kayaks of the abalone fishermen bobbed in the sharp chop, dipping almost
out of sight before rising up. He’d never had abalone, and he didn’t like being
on boats. Even the ferry from Larkspur to San Francisco made him uneasy, and
that was a big boat.
He checked the line again. Nothing. Maybe over there, he glanced to his right, toward the rugged rocks
his granddad had told him to stay away from.
“Many’s the man who’s come to grief, or worse, for climbing
about on the rocks while fishing, Benny. A slip or a trip and you’ll be badly
hurt–“ the beetled brows came down over the rheumy blue eyes “– or worse. Ye
just stay away from them, you understand me?”
Ben had nodded, “Yessir.”
“Good. There’s plenty of fish to be had. No need to risk
yourself for no good reason.”
It had seemed reasonable in the warmth of the trailer. Now,
though, after an hour of freezing and shivering and chattering teeth, he wasn’t
so sure.
A glance to his left showed his granddad and father had
drifted down the beach. Over the water where they had their lines cast wrestled
a flock of seagulls, fighting the wind and each other as they swooped and
dived. He eyed the rocks again, picking a path that looked safe and easy. Just
then a roller swept in, slamming itself into oblivion in a fury of foam against
the outer barrier.
“This is dumb.” He muttered. Releasing the lock, he began
reeling in the line he’d cast so hard he’d almost fallen on his face.
Dad and granddad were farther away now, not paying attention
to him. Taking care not to snag his hand on the hook, he walked to the edge of
the piled boulders, chose his path and began to climb. Stepping carefully,
holding the tip of his rod high but watching his feet, he reached the place
he’d chosen.
Sand dusted the crevices and nooks, but it was dry. He edged
closer to the sheer drop-off and peered down, looking for a good place to drop
his line.
“What?” Something was lying in the surf between the rock
spires. Partially wrapped in thick strands of kept, it was slimy looking, shiny,
but not like a seal or… he crept closer to the edge, it wasn’t like anything
he’d ever seen. “Oh my god!” Ben stepped back in shock.
The white thing sticking out wasn’t a starfish after all. It
was a hand.
Ben was caught, what
do I do? He looked down the beach. His dad and granddad were heading in his
direction, walking fast. He raised his hand, waving, wishing they’d hurry.
Setting his rig down, he scrambled down the rocks and ran to meet them.
“There’s a man!” he shouted when he got close enough to be
heard over the pounding surf and seabirds, pointing back the way he’d come.
“He’s dead!”
“What were you doing, Ben! Didn’t we tell you…”
“There’s a dead guy back there.” Ben skidded to a stop,
grabbed his dad’s hand, and started pulling. “He’s in the rocks.”
From the top of the rock they looked down. “Hell’s bells,
Sam, look there.” Grandad said, “He’s right.”
The body moved in the surf as another wave lifted it, pushed
it partially onto the patch of sand caught in the fringe of the rocks then drew
it back again.
Dad’s fingers tightened on his arm, his voice low, urgent. “Ben,
go up to the trailer, run, and tell mom to use the satellite phone to call the
sheriff.”
Fresno, California – February, 2014
Nick’s fingers moved inside the deep pocket of his pea coat.
The familiar grip felt rough in the same patches it had for years, smooth in
others. Striding along the street, his eyes swept from left to right and back. It
was habit, a habit that had saved his life on more than one occasion. Years
ago, he’d had to think about it, to remember to do it. Now it was automatic.
The light at the corner was red and he stopped to wait. Noting
but not seeing the traffic swarming past. Unconscious of the act, he leaned
down to rub his aching leg. It had been years since it had truly bothered him.
Now it was only when he was upset or angry.
Two blocks. He
looked around at the buildings, noting almost every little detail. What a Podunk little place this is.
The light changed. He glanced left, then right, then
followed the rest of the herd that had already set off for the curb on the far
side.
At just over six-feet and one-hundred ninety pounds, he
didn’t stand out in the crowd. He looked like half the other men, except for
his gait. That set him apart to the observant. The windows he passed provided
additional safety, a reflection of what was behind him, a chance to spot a
threat before it became a danger.
Training, months of training and years in the field and
still it hadn’t been enough. He grimaced at the twinge that shot through his
thigh. Almost there.
Half-a-block ahead and on the opposite side of the street,
he could see the plaza that surrounded the county administration buildings. The
police station was just a half-block farther.
Minutes later, after waiting at another light, he crossed
the plaza and pressed the button that opened the front doors. Pausing by the
signboard that listed departments and locations, he found what he wanted, then
crossed to the glassed-in cage.
The young man looked up from the paper he’d been reading,
his expression conveying his boredom. “Help you?”
“Yes, thanks.” Nick pulled the Luger from his pocket. “I need to see someone in homicide.” He laid the weapon on the counter, noting the boredom was nowhere to be seen. His lips curled in a bitter smile. “It’s not loaded. And here’s the clip.” It was set down next to the gun with a sharp clatter.
* * * * *
Hope you enjoyed that - the second installment will be posted tomorrow morning, before I leave for work.
Have a lovely day!
Best~
Philippa
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