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Trying to sell this:

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  • Swamp Faye
    Where do you think I should try to farm out this gem? And can you suggest a new name? I don t really like the name. My husband doesn t like this one, but
    Message 1 of 2 , Nov 13, 2008
    • 0 Attachment
      Where do you think I should try to farm out this gem? And can you
      suggest a new name? I don't really like the name. My husband doesn't
      like this one, but I've had a lot of other people tell me WOW
      (including my writing instructor). So... I thought I could find a
      market for it. What do you think? marketable or no?






      How To Die
      by Noelle Campbell


      He was dying.

      The class two spaceship was still creaking. It moaned and spat, then
      creaked again, making unhappy sounds like a child who'd fallen from a
      swing.

      Electricity sparked and crackled. The air filled with the smells of
      ozone and melting wire casing.

      Sterling knew what the dying experienced in their last moments: The
      first instant of alarm as someone realized that the end of life was
      coming, the moment of acceptance when the mind became still, and
      finally the whisper of passing as spirit separated from flesh. Even
      animals felt it in their passing and essentially, humans were no more
      than animals.

      Black warmth was his first awareness that death beckoned.
      Understanding that it was one possible outcome of his flight made it
      no easier to accept. Death offered an emotionless, painless passing
      into complete freedom but a familiar panic filled his body. It began
      in the hollow of his throat. His pulse throbbed there, desperate and
      quick. The noise of the wreckage filled his ears, drowning out
      everything but his own heartbeat. Blood raced through his body. His
      heart thumped harder in his chest as chemically enhanced energy surged
      through him, bringing oxygen faster to each vital organ.

      His body was telling him that he was dying.

      Everything he felt he understood was merely a physiological response
      to the chemicals pumping through his body: adrenaline, noradrenaline,
      rennin-angiotensin and arginine vasopressin. He knew what each hormone
      did and that it was a useless response in many cases.

      His mind screamed that he wanted to live.

      The dichotomy was enough to make him open his eyes. He could have kept
      them closed and given into the black warmth of dying. His choice to
      return to the cold chill of reality was met with a red-stained
      confusion that colored his vision and a harsh, bitter aroma that
      filled his nostrils. It became instantly unforgettable. He recognized
      it as the scent of his own blood. He gasped and coughed, tasting the
      iron in his mouth.

      Blood. Everywhere.

      My blood?

      As he breathed in deeper, his nostrils cleared. He felt his blood
      crusting over the membranes, drying and cracking like a thin watery
      coat of paint.

      His eyes closed against the pain and disorder in his mind. Taking a
      deep breath of blood-tinged vapor, he opened his eyes again and
      blinked at the white silky mass set against the deep blue of the seat
      in front of him. Airbags had gone off. He didn't remember that. The
      ship had settled hard on Mars. Feeling the natural light on his face,
      he couldn't remember how the gaping hole in the side of the ship, the
      one that took out all of the rows to the left of him, had occurred.
      He had placed the O^2 breather over his face, as directed by the
      automated voice, just before he clamped his hand over the woman's arm
      beside him.

      He remembered the crushing pressure of g-forces before he blacked out.
      The mask was gone somewhere along with the debris of wreckage. It
      hardly mattered. There were a million other factors that could end his
      survival.

      He turned his head to look over at the body next to him, already
      sensing his neighbor was dead.

      Gone.

      Her arm was still there, severed, but resting safely under his hand. A
      large piece of metal debris had torn through the cabin and his
      neighbor. When he turned his head a little more to the left, he could
      see where the fragment had finally rested. Somewhere beneath that, was
      the owner of the arm.

      Everyone, he believed, in the passenger section of the smuggler's ship
      was, or had been a refugee from various forms of prison and servitude
      before they were sucked out of the ship and deposited back on Mars: dead.

      They were not like him. They were not manufactured. They were fragile
      and human.
      The muscles in his fingers were so tightly knotted that releasing his
      grip on the severed arm in his grasp was painful. His fingers lifted
      slowly, one by one, unable to straighten. When his body cooperated and
      his fingers let go, the limb flopped like a lifeless fish to the empty
      gashed space beside him, imprinted with marks from his closely trimmed
      fingernails. He turned his body to follow and was stopped by a sharp
      pain--the first pain he had felt since opening his eyes.
      Something had him pinned to his seat.

      Expecting to see his seatbelt ripping through his clothes, perhaps his
      body, he was already moving his hands to unbuckle it when he saw the
      shrapnel lodged in his middle.

      Looking at his wound he knew exactly what his body was going through.
      A mental picture of the medical textbook heading flashed in his mind:
      Compensatory Shock. In a matter of minutes, maybe moments, he would
      become hypovolemic: when the total volume of his blood became too low
      to circulate efficiently. He would go into progressive shock, followed
      by disorientation, while he bled to death. Internally or externally,
      it hardly mattered. In the end, he'd be just as dead.

      The textbooks on emergency aid had warned that panic would suck up
      energy needed to pump his blood to all the parts of his body where he
      was losing it. He couldn't afford to lose self-control but he didn't
      have time to argue himself into composure. He would have to deal with
      his situation in his present state of mind: desperate and unnerved.

      I must live!

      It was a promise the dying always made to themselves. Easily made, it
      was just as easily broken.

      Looking around again, his eye caught movement and his head followed
      the motion. A female pulled herself along the aisle, clawing and
      crawling as best she could with mangled legs.

      Her hands were still beautiful and petite. Noting her manicure, he
      watched her grab hold of the floor and pull herself a little further
      along. Little lines of white acrylic nails, squared and perfect, stood
      out against the deep red liquid dripping down between her fingers. The
      same contrast shone in the luster of her blond hair, soaked in blood.
      It could have been her blood. It could have been the blood of someone
      she had clawed over in an effort to reach some exit. Focusing on her
      nails, their white tips reflecting the light of a Martian morning, her
      will to live struck him hard, but it would not alter his decision. She
      was wasting her energy and he needed it.

      His fingers, still painful and reluctant to respond, wrapped around
      the shrapnel embedded in his middle. The slick sound of suction filled
      his ears as his body protested the removal of the object, followed by
      the soft cooperative noise of lubrication by the same bodily fluids.

      Gritting his teeth against the pain, pressure building behind his eyes
      until he could hardly see, his biceps trembled with effort as he
      tossed the metal aside. Keeping his focus on the manicured nails of
      his target, he pushed himself from his seat.

      Legs wobbling, protesting with flaccid resistance to his commands to
      move, he stumbled forward. Each jarring step shot more pain through
      his body.

      As he gasped for air, the edges of his vision began to darken.

      Hyperventilation and progressive shock.

      He couldn't stop the panic that made the blood pound loudly in his
      ears. His entire being was focused on the white tipped nails as he
      fell on the woman struggling toward the exit. The wind rushed from her
      lungs as she grunted and struggled away from him. Groping for her
      hand, his vision failed him but his hands were determined.

      He felt the smooth hard edges of artificial nails, and breathed a sigh
      of relief. Closing his hand around her wrist, feeling her pulse
      beneath his fingers, the chill of his shock washed away.

      Warmth flowed from the woman into his hand, up his arm and spread
      slowly through his body. His own panic subsided, replaced by calm and
      the sense of growing panic in the woman's mind.

      She looked up and her eyes came into focus, his vision returning and
      clearing. There was not enough energy in her to fight him. Her pulse
      slowed. A surge of triumph flashed over him. He could feel her
      reluctance to accept death, the desperate struggle inside her mind,
      but he pushed past it. As the light faded from her eyes, her mind
      stilled. Feeling nothing more from her but the strange whispering rush
      of her spirit passing from this world to the next, he drew on the
      body, willing more energy from it: warmth, the last firing electricity
      of the synapses, blood, bone and sinew. It shriveled, skin tightening
      around its frame. When it had no more to give he let go.

      It fell, empty and dry as paper though the synthetic nails were still
      flawless.
      Sterling looked down at himself and the tear in his blood-soaked shirt
      that covered the wound in his middle. Wiping at his abdomen with the
      flat of his palm, he breathed in relief. The hole in his flesh was
      gone. He was not dying.

      Waiting, breathing, he listened for sounds of life over the spitting
      of electrical wiring and creaking metal. Hearing a noise he shifted
      his body toward the sound. He stood slowly, his legs still weak and
      unsteady, and moved toward it.

      He needed more energy. There were others dying around him.

      And he wanted to live.
    • Dawn
      Very neat story.  I think there might be a market, if you re willing to market it as a type of vampire story.  Right now, vamps of all kinds are very
      Message 2 of 2 , Nov 13, 2008
      • 0 Attachment
        Very neat story. 

        I think there might be a market, if you're willing to market it as a type of vampire story.  Right now, vamps of all kinds are very popular.

        Regarding the title, I haven't a clue what it should be, but I do agree that "How to Die" isn't really a good one.

        Dawn



        http://groups.yahoo.com/group/SilverScreenDiscussion

        http://www.myspace.com/circle_of_one



        Witches are not by nature gregarious, at least with other witches, and they certainly don't have leaders. Granny Weatherwax was the most highly regarded of the leaders they didn't have. Terry Pratchett, "The Wyrd Sisters"

        --- On Thu, 11/13/08, Swamp Faye <swampfaye@...> wrote:
        From: Swamp Faye <swampfaye@...>
        Subject: [Fantasy Fiction Dungeon] Trying to sell this:
        To: fantasyfictiondungeon@yahoogroups.com
        Date: Thursday, November 13, 2008, 6:33 PM

        Where do you think I should try to farm out this gem? And can you
        suggest a new name? I don't really like the name. My husband doesn't
        like this one, but I've had a lot of other people tell me WOW
        (including my writing instructor). So... I thought I could find a
        market for it. What do you think? marketable or no?






        How To Die
        by Noelle Campbell


        He was dying.

        The class two spaceship was still creaking. It moaned and spat, then
        creaked again, making unhappy sounds like a child who'd fallen from a
        swing.

        Electricity sparked and crackled. The air filled with the smells of
        ozone and melting wire casing.

        Sterling knew what the dying experienced in their last moments: The
        first instant of alarm as someone realized that the end of life was
        coming, the moment of acceptance when the mind became still, and
        finally the whisper of passing as spirit separated from flesh. Even
        animals felt it in their passing and essentially, humans were no more
        than animals.

        Black warmth was his first awareness that death beckoned.
        Understanding that it was one possible outcome of his flight made it
        no easier to accept. Death offered an emotionless, painless passing
        into complete freedom but a familiar panic filled his body. It began
        in the hollow of his throat. His pulse throbbed there, desperate and
        quick. The noise of the wreckage filled his ears, drowning out
        everything but his own heartbeat. Blood raced through his body. His
        heart thumped harder in his chest as chemically enhanced energy surged
        through him, bringing oxygen faster to each vital organ.

        His body was telling him that he was dying.

        Everything he felt he understood was merely a physiological response
        to the chemicals pumping through his body: adrenaline, noradrenaline,
        rennin-angiotensin and arginine vasopressin. He knew what each hormone
        did and that it was a useless response in many cases.

        His mind screamed that he wanted to live.

        The dichotomy was enough to make him open his eyes. He could have kept
        them closed and given into the black warmth of dying. His choice to
        return to the cold chill of reality was met with a red-stained
        confusion that colored his vision and a harsh, bitter aroma that
        filled his nostrils. It became instantly unforgettable. He recognized
        it as the scent of his own blood. He gasped and coughed, tasting the
        iron in his mouth.

        Blood. Everywhere.

        My blood?

        As he breathed in deeper, his nostrils cleared. He felt his blood
        crusting over the membranes, drying and cracking like a thin watery
        coat of paint.

        His eyes closed against the pain and disorder in his mind. Taking a
        deep breath of blood-tinged vapor, he opened his eyes again and
        blinked at the white silky mass set against the deep blue of the seat
        in front of him. Airbags had gone off. He didn't remember that. The
        ship had settled hard on Mars. Feeling the natural light on his face,
        he couldn't remember how the gaping hole in the side of the ship, the
        one that took out all of the rows to the left of him, had occurred.
        He had placed the O^2 breather over his face, as directed by the
        automated voice, just before he clamped his hand over the woman's arm
        beside him.

        He remembered the crushing pressure of g-forces before he blacked out.
        The mask was gone somewhere along with the debris of wreckage. It
        hardly mattered. There were a million other factors that could end his
        survival.

        He turned his head to look over at the body next to him, already
        sensing his neighbor was dead.

        Gone.

        Her arm was still there, severed, but resting safely under his hand. A
        large piece of metal debris had torn through the cabin and his
        neighbor. When he turned his head a little more to the left, he could
        see where the fragment had finally rested. Somewhere beneath that, was
        the owner of the arm.

        Everyone, he believed, in the passenger section of the smuggler's ship
        was, or had been a refugee from various forms of prison and servitude
        before they were sucked out of the ship and deposited back on Mars: dead.

        They were not like him. They were not manufactured. They were fragile
        and human.
        The muscles in his fingers were so tightly knotted that releasing his
        grip on the severed arm in his grasp was painful. His fingers lifted
        slowly, one by one, unable to straighten. When his body cooperated and
        his fingers let go, the limb flopped like a lifeless fish to the empty
        gashed space beside him, imprinted with marks from his closely trimmed
        fingernails. He turned his body to follow and was stopped by a sharp
        pain--the first pain he had felt since opening his eyes.
        Something had him pinned to his seat.

        Expecting to see his seatbelt ripping through his clothes, perhaps his
        body, he was already moving his hands to unbuckle it when he saw the
        shrapnel lodged in his middle.

        Looking at his wound he knew exactly what his body was going through.
        A mental picture of the medical textbook heading flashed in his mind:
        Compensatory Shock. In a matter of minutes, maybe moments, he would
        become hypovolemic: when the total volume of his blood became too low
        to circulate efficiently. He would go into progressive shock, followed
        by disorientation, while he bled to death. Internally or externally,
        it hardly mattered. In the end, he'd be just as dead.

        The textbooks on emergency aid had warned that panic would suck up
        energy needed to pump his blood to all the parts of his body where he
        was losing it. He couldn't afford to lose self-control but he didn't
        have time to argue himself into composure. He would have to deal with
        his situation in his present state of mind: desperate and unnerved.

        I must live!

        It was a promise the dying always made to themselves. Easily made, it
        was just as easily broken.

        Looking around again, his eye caught movement and his head followed
        the motion. A female pulled herself along the aisle, clawing and
        crawling as best she could with mangled legs.

        Her hands were still beautiful and petite. Noting her manicure, he
        watched her grab hold of the floor and pull herself a little further
        along. Little lines of white acrylic nails, squared and perfect, stood
        out against the deep red liquid dripping down between her fingers. The
        same contrast shone in the luster of her blond hair, soaked in blood.
        It could have been her blood. It could have been the blood of someone
        she had clawed over in an effort to reach some exit. Focusing on her
        nails, their white tips reflecting the light of a Martian morning, her
        will to live struck him hard, but it would not alter his decision. She
        was wasting her energy and he needed it.

        His fingers, still painful and reluctant to respond, wrapped around
        the shrapnel embedded in his middle. The slick sound of suction filled
        his ears as his body protested the removal of the object, followed by
        the soft cooperative noise of lubrication by the same bodily fluids.

        Gritting his teeth against the pain, pressure building behind his eyes
        until he could hardly see, his biceps trembled with effort as he
        tossed the metal aside. Keeping his focus on the manicured nails of
        his target, he pushed himself from his seat.

        Legs wobbling, protesting with flaccid resistance to his commands to
        move, he stumbled forward. Each jarring step shot more pain through
        his body.

        As he gasped for air, the edges of his vision began to darken.

        Hyperventilation and progressive shock.

        He couldn't stop the panic that made the blood pound loudly in his
        ears. His entire being was focused on the white tipped nails as he
        fell on the woman struggling toward the exit. The wind rushed from her
        lungs as she grunted and struggled away from him. Groping for her
        hand, his vision failed him but his hands were determined.

        He felt the smooth hard edges of artificial nails, and breathed a sigh
        of relief. Closing his hand around her wrist, feeling her pulse
        beneath his fingers, the chill of his shock washed away.

        Warmth flowed from the woman into his hand, up his arm and spread
        slowly through his body. His own panic subsided, replaced by calm and
        the sense of growing panic in the woman's mind.

        She looked up and her eyes came into focus, his vision returning and
        clearing. There was not enough energy in her to fight him. Her pulse
        slowed. A surge of triumph flashed over him. He could feel her
        reluctance to accept death, the desperate struggle inside her mind,
        but he pushed past it. As the light faded from her eyes, her mind
        stilled. Feeling nothing more from her but the strange whispering rush
        of her spirit passing from this world to the next, he drew on the
        body, willing more energy from it: warmth, the last firing electricity
        of the synapses, blood, bone and sinew. It shriveled, skin tightening
        around its frame. When it had no more to give he let go.

        It fell, empty and dry as paper though the synthetic nails were still
        flawless.
        Sterling looked down at himself and the tear in his blood-soaked shirt
        that covered the wound in his middle. Wiping at his abdomen with the
        flat of his palm, he breathed in relief. The hole in his flesh was
        gone. He was not dying.

        Waiting, breathing, he listened for sounds of life over the spitting
        of electrical wiring and creaking metal. Hearing a noise he shifted
        his body toward the sound. He stood slowly, his legs still weak and
        unsteady, and moved toward it.

        He needed more energy. There were others dying around him.

        And he wanted to live.


        ------------------------------------

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