Below is a chapter from my fifth novel, Go Look There. It’s about rites of initiation and bravery, and it’s super gross, too!

This is also a Snippet Saturday post. At the end of the story you can read other horror-themed snippets from my fellow writers!

Pledge

The horse’s mouth gaped, its jaw unhinged and wide, yawning, revealing a rotting tongue and maggot-filled cheeks. The carcass was screaming, with the back of its head blown out, eyes swollen and pushed forward, slimy with a gelatinous blue liquid, nostrils flared and ripped, screaming a ghoulish shriek for the agony of its dead body, as if death could be pain-filled, and pray to God that it’s not.

Torpid, sallow skin sunk in on its ribs and the hide was patchy, turning green and mushy down by the swollen belly, whose surface curled and waved with wormy scavengers. The delicate, fuzzy skin on the skull was sealed airtight around the bones, only peeling around the small, black hole in the center of its forehead; hairy ears curled like crumpled leaves, stiff and leathery. Shrunken hooves curled tightly inwards from bony, knobby feet. If the horse’s crumpled skeleton could be animate, in some macabre, undead way, despite the broken femur jutting out of its back leg, it wouldn’t get very far on those claws.

The smell in the still, summer air was putrid and overwhelming, full of something sweet and foul. The group of boys, some standing, some still straddling their bikes, couldn’t get any closer than fifteen feet without retching or having to stave off a swarm of satisfied flies looking for a cozy corner to drowse in.

“Go on, Henry,” the lead boy said, dust-streaked shirt stuffed up against his nose to filter out the air as best it could. “Go get it.”

Henry gulped, trying to keep his preparatory spit down. He could see the mandible bone in the horse’s jaw beginning to poke through, a great, jutting tusk, threatening to pierce and kill little boys who dared approach it. If Death could ride a horse, surely he would saddle up this one and take it stalking in the spooky countryside.

Henry closed his eyes to make the scene go away, but the moldy, ripe stench of rotting horse meat fumes shimmering from the radiating sun pervaded all rational thought. If he walked away now, he wouldn’t have to approach that thing. He’d get beaten up, sure, and miss out on an opportunity to impress his older brother, a senior member of the gang as a soon-to-be fourth grader, and maybe even forfeit stammering a bragging retelling of the story to Sula, the petite, bright-eyed girl down the road who rode in her own female neighborhood pack; he would give up all that, but at least he wouldn’t have to get close to the monstrous, disgusting flesh-pit that made his vision swim and his stomach shrink. At the moment, Henry didn’t know which option was the most appealing –induction, or saving himself from the horror.

Henry clutched the spoon tightly in his right hand. It couldn’t be that bad. Every one of these boys had to do something like this to prove his worth. Just a minute of putrescence and spilling his guts to the dusty ground, and then he’d have endless summers of friends and baseball games and neighborhood rowdiness and beating up the younger boys, all the way through primers and up to high school. He’d be one of them.

“Yeah, go on, Henry!” The boys echoed behind the leader. Someone jabbed him in the shoulder with a pointy finger.

Henry took a step forward, shivering, as not ten feet ahead of him a small, flesh-eating rodent skittered away from its feast in fear.

“Hurry up, you big mama’s boy! I don’t wanna stand here all day!” The leader’s bravado was met with guffaws of laughter.

Henry took another step to contradict the insult, not daring to take his hands from his mouth to retort with some elementary comeback. He reached out his tongue instead and tasted, then bit, his own fingers, covered in sweat and salt, just to distract himself, to have something to focus on besides the repulsion ahead.

“Shore is lucky you found this here daid horse, Elliot,” one of the boys said, liking to hear himself talk, and a small, young kid grinned from the back as his elder brother put a proud arm around him.

“Yup. Shore is,” the other boys commentated. “Henry make it through this one an’ he’ll be like… like a gawd!”

“Yeah! Like a gawd!” The followers echoed.

“Go on, Henry!”

“Yeah, you can do it, Henry!”

Henry wasn’t so sure. He’d rather have a cat or a dog, or even some possum, just nothing as big and terrifying as an entire horse corpse, especially one that was leaking entrails and crusted intestine-filth all around it. Curse that mama’s-boy Elliot Baxter. Henry resolved to just kick him the next time he got the chance. Kick him hard, ‘til he cried.

Henry took another step. Some boys cheered, but some were distracted with competing for who could breathe the sick air the longest without retching. Six seconds was the record so far.

A wobbly fly hit Henry in the face and he spooked, jerking reactions sending the silver spoon flying behind him.

“Hey!” The standing boys scattered, pushed apart by fear of getting hit with the airborne object, and the bike-riders ducked, crouching in defense, their calloused feet clinging to the pedals, prepared to flee. Someone lobbed the spoon back at Henry in the following joshing and laughter, barely grabbing the utensil between repulsed fingertips, as if it were contaminated already by association with Henry, Henry who was rubbing his hands all over his face, trying to get the feel of hairy fly off his young skin.

“Take your spoon, Henry!”

“Yeah, you pick up that spoon, Henry!”

The boys jeered and mocked, forgetting their scare, hands on hips, channeling caricatures of their mothers.

Henry bent, thick blood pounding to his head, and picked up the spoon.

Just you do it, his mind told him, brain flashing images of the rewards he would reap, blind with the sight of pretty Sula and his older brother by a year approving of him; blind with the sight of bicycle gangs, fishing, skinny-dipping where they shouldn’t, summer baseball games, teasing the younger kids, and most importantly of all: summer-browned arms curled around his shoulders in brotherhood. Almost without his permission, suddenly Henry’s feet were pounding the ground, running at the hulking, diseased body. Henry fell to his knees and dug the spoon deep into the meaty chest of the horse as if he were plunging a fatal knife into an enemy’s heart. The flesh gave as easily as pushing into rotted pumpkins, and came up with a sickly, decayed, grainy glop that dripped with slimy brownness, green fat clumps crumbling off the sides, the stiff upper layer of dried hair and skin flaking off like an old scab in the dusty wind.

“Eat it, Henry!” The boys yelled, cheering in the background, crowding just a little closer to get a better view of the unholy induction ritual that was about to take place in front of them.

“Say the words, Henry! Don’t you forget to say them words, or you go back for another bite!” The leader warned, the whites of his eyes ominous and threatening.

“I…” Henry’s voice warbled, cracking, as the fumes of the deadness eased down his throat.

“You almost there, Henry!”

“Say it, Henry! Just say it!”

“I pledge allegiance to the He-Men Of Heck-“ Henry croaked.

“From where, Henry! Don’t you forget to say where from!”

The anticipation was at a fever pitch, with each boy staring, panting, recalling the feel of slime on their tongues and the bitter, rancid taste of road kill in their throats, eager to see their future brother partake of the holy sacrament and prove his worth.

“Keep going, Henry!” His older brother yelled out, the only words he’d said the entire time.

“From…” Henry continued, though his eyes were wide with horror, stomach already rumbling with abhorrence. “From fif’ street and-“ Henry gasped for breath, hyperventilating. “First.”

Excited, triumphant yells burst from the group, coupled with disgusted groans and fake retching, as Henry shoved the decaying spoonful of rotting horseflesh into his mouth.

Their cheers echoed around the gravel pit, swallowing up the revolting sounds of Henry’s vomiting, and then ten, twenty hardened hands were grabbing his shoulders, his neck, his waist, hauling him backwards and saying his name, over and over, hearts swelling in camaraderie, faces grinning with the joy of torture and induction, each mouth murmuring words of praise and acceptance as Henry’s eyes leaked and his throat tried to leap from his mouth.

“You did it, Henry. You did it.”

Anya Bast
Eliza Gayle
Juliana Stone
Michelle Pillow
Lauren Dane
Moira Rogers
TJ Michaels
Jody Wallace
Ashley Ladd
Kelly Maher
Shelli Stevens
Shelley Munro
Mandy Roth
Mark Henry

Happy Halloween!

Recently writer Sarah J. Maas (her Fictionpress can be found here) contacted me about some startling similarities we share: we’d written fantasy novels, had similiar pen names, had widespread popularity on Fictionpress, were both young, blond, and engaged, she got her agent a month after I did, in January 2009, and both of our novels are out on submissions right now. We became quick friends and exchanged books (her novel Queen of Glass had many more fans on Fictionpress than I did, and no doubt you’ve heard of it. I think we even went up against each other in some online polls for best Fantasy story… she won, of course, lol).

Sarah and a friend recently began a Fictionpress writers blog called Let The Words Flow, of which I am proud to be a contributor. LTWF is just starting up, so check back soon as we all post our introductory posts, then we’ll move on to articles about writing, answering your questions about the agent and publishing process, and giving you updates on our own progress with new and existing novels. One of us is even published already! It’s so exciting to see some of the people I knew on Fictionpress coming together to collaborate and share our real-life stories (for once!).

Let The Words Flow is only the first bit of exciting news, however. The second part is actually some old news, but I’m actively participating with it this time: Snippet Saturdays.

Snippet Saturdays is a project founded by the other writers of my agent, Laura Bradford, but has since grown to include outside writers as well. Snippet Saturdays work like this: We come up with topics, such as fight scene, or first kiss, or dramatic exit, and then if one of your stories includes the topic you post just that part of the story (or ‘snippet’) on your blog on Saturday, with links to the other writers who are doing the same thing. Readers can go from blog to blog this way, reading excerpts from up to 20 different novels all focused on the same theme!

This Saturday’s theme is, appropriately, Horror. You can be sure I’m going to deliver; I plan to put up an excerpt from Go look There. Prepare to be grossed out, slightly nauseated, and definitely horrified. =)

See you on Saturday!

Here’s my secret: I am 20 years old.

That’s pretty young, even for a ‘young’ writer. Sometimes I feel insecure about my youth, because I feel like people won’t take me as seriously as older writers, even those with just a few years on me. Alternatively, sometimes I’m afraid to share my age for fear it seems like bragging: “Yes, I’m 20, I’ve written 5 novels, I have an agent, and I own my own freelance writing company.”

If I ever need to ‘prove my worth’, these are the accomplishments I list off. I figure, if I can present myself as this involved with my writing career, perhaps people will look past my age and believe I actually know a thing or two about it (being 6’2 and ‘mature’-looking helps as well.)

Here’s another secret (sort of): Tomorrow I will own my first house. I will live on my own for the first time (I never got around to getting an apartment, and my family life is stable enough that I didn’t feel like I needed to move out or go crazy.) This is causing me to do a lot of reflecting.

When I was younger, growing up in the 90’s, every time I watched a television show there were always teenagers acting like ‘teenagers’: loud music their parents couldn’t understand or didn’t approve of, sneaking out, taking the family car, drugs, provocative clothing, disrespect, dumb decisions, etc. I understood and sympathized with the adult figures every time. I wanted to shake those ‘teenage’ characters: snap out of it! Can’t you see how dumb you’re being?! The last thing I wanted to be was a ‘teen’. I would be absolutely mortified if anyone ever winked at my mother and said ‘oh, she’s a teenager all right.’

I had many fears about growing up. I didn’t understand how things worked like taxes or licenses or driving cars (I didn’t know you had a free right turn on red lights until driving school… at the age of 18, lol.) and feared what I couldn’t understand. I dreaded school, but I dreaded college and work even more. I remember being very frustrated with my mother before 6th grade when I was about to start taking classes that required changing rooms and/or teachers every class. The concept was so foreign to me that I was completely confused about a class set where I had literature one hour, then social studies the next, in the same room, with the same teacher. I had no frame of reference for this, and it just didn’t make sense in my head. Being an adult would be like that, I feared.

Now that I AM an adult (though just a new one), I reflect a lot about my impressions about adulthood when I was a kid. You know, when you’re a kid your youth is marketed to you. You are told that being young is the best age; you’re attractive, strong, fast, smart, and infinitely more cool than adults. Then you grow up and your understanding of social interaction expands along with your knowledge of the world and you realize a lot of the things you cared about as kids just don’t matter anymore, or never really did (Playground gossip, or Nanobabies, anyone? Or a million other fads we all experienced and discarded?)

What I’m trying to say is, I never thought I would get to this point. I always imagined that somewhere in the future I would live alone as a writer, suave and rich and chic and devoted to my craft, but I didn’t know how I would get there. I had never met anyone with that magnetic bond of attraction and companionship I later stumbled upon in my fiancé (and now there are two in my future, not just one), so in my head it was always me, alone physically but in constant company of my characters and thoughts and inspirations.

It is strange to see part of that dream come to life, even for just a few months before I get married. 10-year-old me would be proud of 20-year-old me. I made it happen for us. I was brave enough to learn about the adult world and participate in it, to learn how to succeed, and to make our dream of publishing come true.

As I go through this time of reflection, I feel like I must be brave for both of us, for the me now and the me in the past. I trusted myself to do this. I am carrying the hopes of my 10-year-old self. I am the responsible, knowledgeable, confident adult who will take care of us.

I will own my own house tomorrow. I still can’t believe it. Pics when I can, promise.

How do you feel about your younger self? Are you where you wanted to be? Do you even want to be in that place anymore?