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Dry writing is dry.
He looked to the right, Beverly’s terror beginning to infect him too, only to see they’d narrowly avoided something large and dark falling out of the woods and down the shallow embankment on their right. Evan righted the wheel and hit the gas, roaring the car away from whatever it was they’d nearly hit.
“Evan, what are you doing?” moaned Beverly. “We have to go back!”
“Go back? Are you insane! Something almost landed on us, Bev!”
“It was a person! Didn’t you see?”
He stopped the car, looking at Bev in disbelief. “A person? Are you sure?”
She was sure, or at least thought she was. Her mascara had already traveled halfway down her face, tears carrying it still farther. She swiped at them, dragging black trails across her cheeks, and said “Of course I’m sure! She was on my side, if you hadn’t turned she would have fallen through my window! There’s someone back there and she’s not moving and oh God Evan what if we killed her?”
“Stop it. We didn’t kill her. We didn’t even hit her. It. Whatever it was.”
“You don’t know that!” Beverly screamed.
“Yes I do! Did you feel us hit anything? Or anything hit us? How could we have killed someone without touching them? I don’t know about you, but I failed my course in the Sith Force Choke.”
“Y-you are such an ass-h-hole!” yelled Beverly, beginning to sob again. She fumbled for the door handle and got it open before Evan could think of hitting the lock. In seconds she’d freed the catch on her seatbelt and was out of the car, racing back toward the dark shape lying on the road, now only obliquely lit by the sunset.
Speaks for itself, I think. It's a bit depressing, but to be expected when you're as out of practice as I am, I suppose. I haven't done any serious writing in, oh, two years at least. God, that's awful.
For those interested, it's a snippet from one of the many novels knocking about the haunted house that serves as my brain. I'm a bit bummed because lately it's been easier to pick out songs for characters and daydream about the story and where it's going and pat myself on the back for the seemingly endless parade of ideas I have about it, than it is to actually write the bastard. It used to be harder to come up with things than to write them. I miss those days. Way back when, it seemed like writing just poured out of me. Not necessarily good writing, but writing nonetheless. Now I'm glad to get a few paragraphs a day. Hey, at least it's not another Dragonforce post, amirite?
Also, am I the only one who sees a resemblance here?
Separated at birth y/n? (I don't care if one's nearly twenty years older than the other. There was a time warp.)
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