Sunday Showcase: December 2012

Welcome to another new monthly slot, the Sunday Showcase. (You can tell I've been trying to become more organised recently, can't you?) In this one, my intention is to share some of my work with you: bits of finished books, pieces of up-and-coming projects, maybe the odd poem or two. If I get enough interest, I might even turn this slot into a serial story. But for now, here's an excerpt from the very beginning of Dawn Rising in which Alyssia has been asked to describe her earliest memory. I'd love to know what you think. What did you like? What didn't you? Would you want to read more?

Alyssia’s stomach closed in on itself, becoming a heavy lump inside her. She ducked her head, swallowing down the desire to run, focusing on the teacher’s pacing feet. Two lace-up shoes, matt black leather, a scuff at the left toe. The slight squeak they made against the vinyl floor set her on edge; like a dripping tap or a ticking clock, now that she was aware of it she couldn’t stop hearing it.
     “I want at least a page from each of you.” The feet executed a neat turn and came to a halt, aligning themselves with martial precision. “You have half an hour. Off you go.”
     As Alyssia turned to a blank page in her exercise book, the pacing started up again: squeak – squeak – squeak. It made her want to stuff her fingers in her ears and scream. Instead, she turned her head a fraction and shot a quick sideways glance at the rest of the class. Apparently none of them were finding this difficult. Maybe she should just write what was expected. Flowers and sunshine, a laughing mother, a proud father ready with a camera as she took her first steps … but she couldn’t make her hand put the words on the page. She couldn’t make herself lie.
     “Everything all right – er – Alice, is it?” The feet arrived beside her desk. She stared at the fraying end of a shoelace and said nothing. After a while the teacher sighed.
     “Just get writing. I don’t want to have to give you a detention so early in the term.”
     As he walked away, Alyssia’s hand tightened on her pen. Fine. If he wanted her earliest memory, he could have it.
     She pulled the book towards her and began to write.

Shadows, edged with orange light. A sharp, choking smell. Heat like a fist at my back, urging me forward. My left hand was throbbing; I looked down, saw my palm slick with dark blood. My head was filled with the roar and hiss of fire. I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t remember anything.
     I stumbled past melting pools of glass and chunks of tortured metal to the cool air beyond. When I could breathe again, I turned. The flames were fierce, hazing the shapes of the two bodies at their heart. A soft breath of sound and the wreck buckled, sending sparks flying into the night sky. Their brightness made my eyes water. Yet I felt nothing. I knew nothing. My thoughts were bubbles that burst as soon as I tried to grasp them, leaving no more than a faint stain. Desperate, I flung questions into the void.
     Where am I? What’s happened? Who am I?
     And like an echo the answer came back: Alyssia.
     I waited, but there was no more. I had walked almost unscathed from the accident that killed my parents, and all I could remember was my own first name.

Her pen wavered a moment, then raced on across the page in an urgent sprawl.