This is the first part in a novel I have been working on. I am sure it will go through rewrites and revisions but I am posting some of it here. This is the story of how my post apocalyptic setting came to be. I am trying to be more comfortable about sharing my fiction. That is easier said than done.
The story is told in an epistolary version. It just seemed to be the right way to go. I am comfortable writing that way. That may have to do with writing a bunch of game text. I will post the second part next month.
This is a short tale I wrote as a writing project a while back. It is a retelling of an old Russian folk tale. It is interesting to take and old story and reframe it. I did some further polishing before posting it. I hope people like it.
Come closer, says I. It is time to tell the story of Vasilisa, the Beautiful, and of her terrible light. It is time to tell of her journey and troubles, of the old crone, Baba Yaga. I will not bite, my children. Not yet, at least. This is time for a story. There is time enough for you to land in the cook pot later, yes.
“I need your help,” the voice called to Kenet. The place was dark about him, and memory eluded him. Where am I, he thought? He cast around the place, looking for something to tell him where he was. Dim fog filled the air, and shadows stretched across towards him.
The figure stepped from shadow. It was Ele, her slight form cloaked in little more than shadow. She looked at him with sad, loving eyes. Her broken and blood-splattered hand reached for him. The deep cut in her throat made a sickening movement and spilled blood with her every breath. Her lips moved as if to tell him something, but Kenet only heard the sound of wind.