Alternate Prologue (Bonus!: Rambling!)

Today, after writing most of the third chapter, RE-WRITING the ending half of the second chapter AND beginning on a personal narrative (EW.) for my Creative Writing class, I also sat down and wrote an Alternate Prologue that my Co-Author, Blondie, suggested to me. It's not as long as he likes, but I've never really liked long prologues. It's like eating Captain Crunch before it's properly soggy. It cuts the roof of your mouth and makes you wish that milk worked quicker on those delicious yellow squares of deliciousness.

And yes, I know I said I'd put the second chapter up today. I lied. I do it a lot. S*** happens.

This prologue is more dramatic and sweeping, and is in 3rd person omniscient. I hope you guys will like it. If you think it's better than the original, let me know! I'll try to set up some kind of poll on my page for those of you too lazy to give feedback in earnest, but still nice enough to let me know something.

Also, today I discovered that 1 page of M.S. Word text is averaged to about 2 pages in an actual book! That's encouraging.

While trying to find Blogs of note to follow here (if you know of any, tell me about them!), I stumbled upon this thing called +Blogger. I have no idea what the point is, but they were talking about comment moderation and commenting etiquette. I count myself lucky if ANYONE sees my Blog, let alone comments.

ANYWAY, the main point I brought it up is because they said it was easier to accomplish long term goals whilst blogging about it. Blogging. What an odd verb... So I've decided to do just that. I am writing a novel, deciding which College to go to (U. of L. or N.K.U.), and sticking to P90X. The last has made me so sore I swear my name is FitzHerbert and I'm 98.

Also, I am turning into an avid reader! Best books ever happen to be the King Killer Chronicles by Patrick Rothfuss (shown to me by Blondie, who reads about 100 or so books a year). They are just. Ugh. They're beautiful. I strongly suggest reading them, even if you don't like fantasy. I just finished the Farseer Series by Robin Hobb, and I am still angry about the ending. So. Angry... Now, I am starting Eragon. I know I'm a little late, but I've been told that they're very good books. If you can't tell, I ADORE fantasy, and don't really like to read much of anything else. I ABHOR non-fiction. Fiction=ADORE, Non-Fiction=ABHOR. Know the difference. If you have any suggestions, let me know and I will add them to my list of books to read, which I will add to my blog page A.S.A.P.

Here is a link to Pat Rothfuss's Blog: Pat's Hysterical and Nerdy Blog

If you liked the Lord of the Rings books or movies, or if you loved the Hobbit, read his post about it. Because you'll pee. Guy's hysterical.

Kvothe, the main Character of the King Killer Chronicles. Also, a total BadA**.

In order to get an autographed book form Pat, I drew a picture, entirely made of words, of the picture you see above. I will post that picture as soon as I get it back.

Anywho, the point of this post: Alternate Prologue!

Help spread the word of this Blog, comment, and Enjoy!

Click read more to read the Alternate Prologue!

Prologue

B

etween the sound of flesh being torn by sword and swift eulogies of those dying, in the near distance, you can hear a proud shriek echo in the burning trees. Past a bloodied lake, boiling and misused, and travel a path wide enough for a snake to go through. Walk the small cobbles and step to the porch, and through the window one may see something broken. In a chair of roah, sits a man of half Owl and half human. His shrieks as the whip cleaves flesh from bone are not of physical pain, or even his pain at all. If one listens closely, they may here small murmurs on this broken man’s breath. It does not sound unlike “Mama”. An angry man, stout and thewed, cloaked in black rides the whip across the broken thing’s legs, chest and shoulders. Both men’s feet rest in blood. The angry man shouts questions at the broken one till his voice turns to naught in the air. The broken one mutters to himself, holding tears and pain inside him. He draws his head back as if to speak, and spits a wad of black blood at the man. A fist crashes down on the broken one’s face, sharp and precise.

The angry one stomps out of the old home, slamming a near-rotting door at his exit. Candles in the measly cottage flicker. The Broken One sits in his life-blood, lonely, ruined, and forlorn. Curses fill his mind, and his battered eyes flick open and closed, darting. His hair is caked to forehead. Behind him, large piebald wings twitch and feathers fall in blood. Scratch marks on the old chair lead to snapped talons of a proud owl. He weeps heavily in the empty house. He weeps heavily in the night. He weeps heavily, forsaken, alone.

He is Harowhin. He is a thief, a courts-man, singer, warrior, assassin and rebel. He is a liar, a fugitive, a king’s man, and bastard. Bastard.

Suddenly, Harowhin’s head is thrown back and then forward again, and he discharges mucus and thick blood. His head rocks back again, bordering unconsciousness and its bitter freedoms. Instead, the Broken One lets loose a primal shriek, one that shakes halls and breaks hearts. It bounds through the smoky sky, over burning fields once played in. It passes over a palace falling to ruin, corpses strewn about in disgust. Over ocean and battleships, bandit towns and rivers it goes. Over The Empire, the Gainmhech deserts, and the Drewhen’s tundra and mountains. It echoes in the Northern Towers and rings true over sleeping towns. Somewhere, a being of black fights a slight shudder.

Somewhere, a being of black takes in the anguish, and puffs a shadowy cloud of sick laughter. Somewhere, a broken man thinks to himself: This is how the world ends.

Side-note: Paragraphs don't really seem to transfer from M.S. Word to Blogger. So, deal with it. 

♥, Me