Thought about it last night, just didn't feel like writing. Vegetated on the couch staring at the dancing flickering images in front of me, kind of like staring into the random patterns of a campfire.
Got up this morning, quit worrying about it all being to talky or wordy or dialogy or whatever, and just typed. Hit over a thousand words an hour. My average, roughly, based on time increments no finer than 15 minutes, so take it with a grain of salt, is 1002 words per hour. Which is much more than I would have ever imagined.
Anyway, I am on pace to finish on time!
Today's excerpt
Obviously, there are some events missing between the last excerpt and this one. If you want to know, then you'll have to buy the book! Hah. fbChapter 3
Ahogándome
The first sensation Sylk had that something was wrong, was that he was sliding. Still not quite awake, he struggled with the sensation of sliding. Then some primitive part of his mind started yammering for attention, adrenaline flooded his system, and he was wide awake. And he was sliding. He could barely see. It was not quite first light. Usually he slept for another 20 minutes or so. He could not see clearly. But he was sliding. Frantically he tried to gain purchase on the rocky slope. It was too damp, too slick. Casting about frantically, he saw his spear sliding beside him. He contorted violently and just managed to grab it. He was still sliding, and it seemed he was going faster. And, he was beginning to be in deep water. The hardness of the spear comforted him a bit, and he calmed down enough to take stock of his situation. The water was getting deeper, and he was no longer simply sliding. He was being pushed. Then he heard it. The roar of the cataract. He panicked for a good 40 seconds, flailing his arms, poling the ground with the spear, frantically trying to slow his progress. ‘Oh my god, I’m going to go down the waterfall!’ This was followed by the more immediate concern that he had managed to open his mouth underwater, and while attempting to breathe in, had inhaled a quantity of water. Coughing and choking, struggling against the flow, his body tiring, a deep and abiding fear settled within him. Death. It was coming for him. He stopped struggling, and found he was now floating, holding onto the spear.
He found himself mildly surprised at how buoyant the spear was. Somehow in his panic he had rotated onto his stomach, and was holding the spear in front of him, perpendicular to his body. In this position, he had managed to clear his lungs. The immediate danger of suffocation over, he regained control of his mind, and began to think seriously about how to stay alive. ‘Think. Think. This can’t be the end. While I’m alive, I will strive.’ He was moving rapidly toward where the water hurtled off the edge and down to the plain below. He remembered walking to the edge to watch the waters flow through the constricted depression, remembering how it seemed to back up and swirl violently, and he wondered how he would survive even that. His neck and shoulders weary, he bowed his head down and rested it on his spear. HIS SPEAR! Looking at the length, nearly double his own height, he calculated that lengthwise it was too wide to get through the depression. Could he wedge it just so, and cling to it like a newborn sugar glider, just out of pouch, until the torrent subsided? He did not know, but he knew that it was most likely his only hope.
Fast he was coming up on the decisive opportunity. Struggling against the current, he willed his arms to hold the spear crosswise. When he hit, if it actually lodged, he would have to lock his arms around it, as he knew he could not maintain a simple hand grip. Fast, fast, too fast he was born by the now raging current towards all too probably doom. The water roiled and boiled and buffeted him back and forth, nearly tearing the spear from his grasp. ‘Here it comes, now or never’, he thought. Wrenching his body with a savage violence, he got in position and WHACK! the spear was locked in place. He shoved one hand under water and back around the spear, passing beneath it and locking his left arm. Wham, he felt the spear bend farther than he thought it could, and he realized that it may break. He was driven under water, and could do nothing but hold on, and hold his breath. Seconds went by. Buffeted, he fought the urge to breathe. Realizing that he had to get air someway, he pulled himself back tight to the spear, worrying about both the spear and his arm. Odd thoughts came to him. He thought he saw his Master, what, under water? He struggled against his clamoring lungs. His chest pounding, stars blinking in and out, his eyes shut against the current, he willed himself to the spear and managed to get his face above water for just a moment. Loudly exhaling, then taking in a ragged noisy breath, he went back under. His strength was failing him. He was going to die. Why not let go? It would be over quickly. No worries. The pounding in his lungs, his heart straining, he made one more attempt to pull his head up for air. Kicking his feet, his face crested, and again a ragged explosion out, and a desperate intake, and under again. He could not feel his left arm. One eye felt like it was going to pop. He was running out of breath faster this time. He slipped a little, panicked and repurchased his hold. ‘How very strange’, he thought. ‘In a few minutes, I will try to breathe water, and then I will fly through the air.’ He was feeling tranquil now, calm, and realized he was accepting the inevitable. ‘What a waste’, was all he could think. He was working again on no oxygen, tried to pull himself up, could not, resigned himself, and was about to let go, when his face was suddenly out of the water. “Bouahaaaaaaaa”, he exhaled, sucked in a sobbing ragged breath, violently exploded that one out, greedily sucked that in, and repeated several times.
He could breath, the water had crested and was subsiding. But, he was not out of danger. The current was still strong, and Sylk realized that though he was not in danger of suffocation by water, he could still very easily lose his grip and be dragged to his death. Even if all the water were gone, he may have prevented one death only to succumb to another. The world was being very mean and capricious, he thought. Then, he decided since he had hung on this long, he may as well hang on a little longer.
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