Working, Working, Working....

When I finished my book, I said to myself, "This is great! Now I'm going to have some time to kick back and relax." I was planning on spending the next few days taking a well deserved vacation--sitting on the couch, watching TV, and eating cookies.

Well, that got really boring after about an half an hour. So I tried to screw off on the Internet...but that was pretty boring too.

So, you know what I did?

I slammed my head against my desk and started a new project.

OPHELIA is going to be (I'm estimating) a 70,000 word work of urban fiction.

I've had the idea in the back of my head for a while...just never got around to doing anything with it. I've written about 2,000 words thus far.

Here's my first page:

My hands dampen as the bus door springs open. The silvery-haired driver smiles at me as I step aboard. He says something as I pass, but I’m too out of it to hear him. Stumbling to the back of the Greyhound, I slide into a seat and stare out the window at the setting sun. The sky here always looks so dirty.

Suddenly, looking at the sullied evening sky, I realize how cold and slick my insides feel. I’m surprised I haven’t thrown up yet.

The driver says something else I don’t quite catch and the bus roars to life. I glance around--it’s absolutely empty expect for the two of us.

As we roll forward, I think about the guys and wonder if they’ll look for me. They’ll probably just think I offed myself because of everything that happened.

I sigh and shake my head. I don’t care if they look for me. They won’t find me and, if they do, I won’t ever go back. I’m done with this life.

“Headed to Georgia, little lady?”

I look up at the driver and smile, noticing the way he keeps peeking back at me in the mirror. “I guess so.”

“Well, if you don’t mind my asking, what’s in Georgia?”

I could say something like “a new beginning” or “freedom” but that would stir up all the wrong questions. So I just say “I don’t know,” and leave it at that. He looks back at me again with a little laugh.

“You’re one of those types, are you?”

My eyebrows arch up as the words reach my ears and the little smile melts from my lips. He doesn’t know what my “type” is. Even though I don’t try to hide it, no one can peg my type by looking at me.

I just don’t look like your average gang member...

It's a pretty short first page, but it's meant more for dramatic effect. The rest of the story is in past tense and reads like Ophelia is telling her story to an unseen second party.

The reader follows Ophelia through her experiences living with her abusive, meth-addicted father, growing up in a strict orphanage, and, eventually, running away and joining a gang.

Tell me what you think. If you guys are interested, I'll post regular updates on this story like I did with LIGHTS OUT =)