The following is the prologue from a novel I'm beginning to write called 'Elementals'. I'll not give away the plot because that's not cool, but I shall say this: What occurs in the prologue does impact later events, but not directly. All shall become clear later. Trust me. After all, you really have no other choice. Muhahahaha...
* * *
It started in the night. It began as a whisper at the back of his mind, increasing in volume until it was a roar that rocked the very core of his being. And then, very suddenly, it stopped. And he opened his eyes.
The room was on fire. Everything – the pale wallpaper, the wardrobe, the bookcase and its load of paperbacks – was burning fiercely, flames leaping up from the hardwood floor to lick the painted ceiling. The bedcovers were alight, the fire devouring the soft fabric.
He reacted instinctively, kicking back the covers and springing out of bed and to the floor. More by accident rather than design, he managed to land in a patch free of flame. The heat was searing and the smoke thick, catching in the back of throat. He had to escape. He glanced at the door. It was succumbing to the inferno, its white paint peeling away. The brass doorknob glowed menacingly. There was no way out. But wait - the window.
Moving like lightning, he picked up a lamp and hurled the heavy object at the glass. It smashed through the single pane with a crash. He turned to it and backed up several steps. He killed the seeds of doubt in his mind – he didn’t have time to question the wisdom of what he was about to do. Grimacing with anticipation, he ran to the window and leapt.
The cool air was both a shock and a relief to him as it rushed past. The cold wind flowed over his loosely-clad body and outstretched arms. Then he made contact with the rough bark of the tree, and his flight ended as abruptly as it had begun.
Hooking his arms around the thick branch of the old tree, he hauled himself up into the foliage. Leaves still damp from the night’s rain wiped water across his forehead, mingling with the sweat. Twisting around, he looked back at the house. The whole building was lit from the inside by the glow of the fire, shadows dancing on the neatly mowed lawn. The crackle of blazing material and the crash of a collapsing roof filled the air. It was a symphony of destruction: The booming bass drum was the jerry cans in the garage; the xylophone’s tinkle was glass breaking; the trumpet’s fanfare replaced by the wail of sirens.
When they found him, he was sitting at the base of the tree, fresh burns colouring his skin an angry red. His expression was blank, wiped clean by shock. But it was his eyes that caught the attention; held them rapt. They burned with the infernos of rage.
The fire fighters may have extinguished the flames, but the fire blazed on.
* * *
There is more, but that's better left for another time. There is an actual plot behind this and there's a reason behind everything that just happened above. I just need to find it... Heheh.
Adios muchachos.
No comments:
Post a Comment