Bruticus
March 21st, 2006, 09:15 PM
Here's the long-awaited short preview of the first chapter of PARKERUS, KING OF THE NORTH.
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Something about the shabbily-dressed man, with his sparse white hair scattered about his head, did not satisfy either Helena nor Parkerus’ logic. He was crouched down, cackling, not turning his head to look behind him even as their horse strode up behind him. The fiend appeared to be laughing, though the sound was inaudible behind the back of his right hand. His left hand was scratching angrily at the rain-slick concrete of the sidewalk, for reasons that my master could not surmise.
Silently, the writer bid Konan to stop, and the horse did so. Reaching to grab his small pocket knife, he asked the man, "Who are you?"
The wretch let out a long, sad moan in reply.
My master glanced back at Helena nervously before turning his attention back to the old man. "What’s the matter?"
"Please speak to us," Helena whispered quietly.
Abruptly the man’s body went stiff enough that, for a moment, Parkerus thought that he had been stunned by something. Cautiously, he climbed off of Konan’s back and, flipping up the blade of his knife, walked over to the wretch’s side.
The hobo’s body unstiffened after a moment, his frame sagging substantially. Somewhat relieved of his own anxiety by this, Parkerus felt himself relax also, but kept a tight grip on the knife in his hand.
"Are you all right?" he implored. Unaware of what he was doing, he leaned in to hear the man’s response.
The stranger whipped around so fast that Parkerus couldn’t react in time to avoid something - hand or weapon, he could not tell - slicing open his right cheek. The writer cried out and stumbled back, clutching the bloody cut with his left hand. He could hear Helena scream behind him as the poorly-dressed man rose to his feet and ran stiffly toward him, hand raised above his head like a scythe. Parkerus raised one foot and planted it into the fiend’s pale, saliva-drenched face, pushing him onto his back in the process. He looked on as the man flailed his arms wildly, screaming like an infant, and for a brief moment he felt pity.
Then he felt Helena tap on his shoulder, and he turned. She was pointing, wide-eyed, at the man’s right hand. Puzzled, he looked.
There were no visible fingers - just a single, bone-white, curved appendage like a scythe.
A number of thoughts flew through his mind right then, but he had no time to contemplate any of them as the hobo scrambled to his feet and charged again, blood foaming on his lips.
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Something about the shabbily-dressed man, with his sparse white hair scattered about his head, did not satisfy either Helena nor Parkerus’ logic. He was crouched down, cackling, not turning his head to look behind him even as their horse strode up behind him. The fiend appeared to be laughing, though the sound was inaudible behind the back of his right hand. His left hand was scratching angrily at the rain-slick concrete of the sidewalk, for reasons that my master could not surmise.
Silently, the writer bid Konan to stop, and the horse did so. Reaching to grab his small pocket knife, he asked the man, "Who are you?"
The wretch let out a long, sad moan in reply.
My master glanced back at Helena nervously before turning his attention back to the old man. "What’s the matter?"
"Please speak to us," Helena whispered quietly.
Abruptly the man’s body went stiff enough that, for a moment, Parkerus thought that he had been stunned by something. Cautiously, he climbed off of Konan’s back and, flipping up the blade of his knife, walked over to the wretch’s side.
The hobo’s body unstiffened after a moment, his frame sagging substantially. Somewhat relieved of his own anxiety by this, Parkerus felt himself relax also, but kept a tight grip on the knife in his hand.
"Are you all right?" he implored. Unaware of what he was doing, he leaned in to hear the man’s response.
The stranger whipped around so fast that Parkerus couldn’t react in time to avoid something - hand or weapon, he could not tell - slicing open his right cheek. The writer cried out and stumbled back, clutching the bloody cut with his left hand. He could hear Helena scream behind him as the poorly-dressed man rose to his feet and ran stiffly toward him, hand raised above his head like a scythe. Parkerus raised one foot and planted it into the fiend’s pale, saliva-drenched face, pushing him onto his back in the process. He looked on as the man flailed his arms wildly, screaming like an infant, and for a brief moment he felt pity.
Then he felt Helena tap on his shoulder, and he turned. She was pointing, wide-eyed, at the man’s right hand. Puzzled, he looked.
There were no visible fingers - just a single, bone-white, curved appendage like a scythe.
A number of thoughts flew through his mind right then, but he had no time to contemplate any of them as the hobo scrambled to his feet and charged again, blood foaming on his lips.