I have been working on a few things this summer, but I started one last week that I am just ecstatic about. It has so much potential and I already feel immensely connected to it. I wrote an intro for the piece to start out and I really can’t wait to share it with people, so I decided it was going up here. On the off chance anyone decides it would be fun to steal it, it’s a copyrighted piece- I am a professional after all. Now, I really want feedback on this. Not many people comment on my other posts, to my dismay, but this one is something that needs a lot of insight. I love hearing what people think of my work, no matter how small the piece is. This particular one is something that goes in a very different direction than my usual works, and I’m very excited to throw myself into a new genre of sorts. One of the things I am reaching for here is to present a piece that reads slightly like a stream of consciousness narrative but one that holds a bit more order and tradition than that. Before I attach the piece I would like to thank my new followers and say that I sincerely hope my attempts here can really help and inspire other authors and allow fans to have an insight into my work and my life as an author. Thank you all for your support and help. Without further ado, here is the intro to one of my newest works. 

                I can’t breathe. My heart is pounding, my legs are throbbing and I can’t breathe. I don’t know how long I’ve been running or how much longer I can keep it up, but I know I can’t stop. The sun has been down for what seems like forever and the faint light is still clinging to the autumn day. My lungs are on fire; my chest feels like it’s going to explode. It’s just when I think things can’t get any worse that I make a terrible decision. I glance behind me to see how close my pursuer is and my foot finds a hole I hadn’t expected to be there. I feel my ankle snap like a twig, the sound ringing out like a shot in the silence. I hit the ground, feel the wind rush out of me and grab my leg. I don’t even have enough breathe to scream as I roll over, mouth open in a terrible grimace and find that my attacker is on me.

                I see now that he is brandishing a knife and realize instantly that he means to use it on me. In the faint light I notice the tell-tale stain of rust on the blade as it arcs toward me, catching the reflection of the tree line I’d intended to be my salvation just before it plunges into my chest and out of sight. My first thought, rather than of my life, is of such a poorly manicured knife and what sickness it could bring if used in a culinary fashion.  I don’t have time or energy to react to the man’s attack, and soon it’s too late.

                I feel the pressure first, like being in school and having the pencil in your pocket stab your skin when you sit down. Before I know it the pressure becomes a white hot poker of misery as split and severed nerve endings begin screaming in a hellish, tortured chorus, the warmth inside my chest spreading outwards as my blood flows from newly opened veins. My last thought is a realization that both allows and solidifies my outcome; I am dying.