I have a question. At the beginning of my WIP, there is a little... passage(?) (prologue-type thingy) and I was wondering if I could re-use it as the beginning to a chapter towards the end of my book. This is it: Quinn was suffocating. His lungs, constricted and burning from constant exertion, screamed for air. Legs as weak as matchsticks, he tottered around another piece of machinery he couldn’t name. His fingers trailed along the corrugated surface. Toxic snowflakes of rust peeled away and drifted to the floor. The vacant factory had seen better days. It was a labyrinth of dark passages, tipped catwalks, and fetid air. The cloying scents of diesel fuel, damp concrete, and urine clung to him. It seeped into his clothes and the pores of his exposed skin. Quinn imagined how horrible the smell would be if it were August instead of October. He swallowed hard against the bile that crept up his throat. Rounding a corner, he stumbled over a nest of moldy blankets and something squeaked. A rat the size of a chihuahua scampered from the pile. Quinn halted his labored procession until the rodent’s fat, leathery tail disappeared beneath a scarred desk. He shivered. Rats were the least of his problems but he still hated them. He nudged the makeshift den with the toe of his boot and prayed no more critters were home. Quinn wondered how many derelicts took refuge in the dreary, crippled building, and hoped none of them squatted there right now. To be anywhere in his general vicinity meant death. Death. It was coming for him. The sun climbed higher in the sky to burn away the fog that lingered around the scattered buildings of this abandoned industrial park. When the wet foundations dried, the lighter color would lend a subtle hint of purity. Illyria was also searching for someone to purify. Quinn wondered if he’d feel clean after she scorched him from the inside out with the touch of her hand. Maybe, once his ashes mingled with her maniacal laughter and the wind carried them ever upwards towards Heaven, he would be whole again. Vengeance and guilt, with their voracious appetites, had gnawed at his soul for years: The ones he didn’t save, the family he left behind, the sister he tormented... nothing suppressed the cravings for long. If Illyria took his life, perhaps the hunger would be sated. Unable to go any farther, Quinn’s legs buckled beneath him. He managed to crawl to a nearby wall and leaned back against it. Moisture from the floor seeped into his torn jeans, adding to his misery. His lungs whistled and drank in air. Legs, splayed like a broken marionette, seized, and then cramped. Quinn was too tired to massage them. He clenched his jaws to keep from crying out. In the silent, drafty room, the sound of a door fracturing was akin to ringside seats at a car crash. The angel had arrived.
Posted on: Fri, 01 Aug 2014 23:09:12 +0000
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