Here are a few tags I thought might sound interesting. I’ve been cruising through old files tonight (yes, avoiding my current novel– telling myself I’m too distracted/tired to work on it just now…)
Oh, help! Marika thought desperately. Will no one rescue me?
She huddled absurdly under her bed in the darkness, she, nearly 13, and almost too big to fit. She’d played at this game before. The memory seemed obscene now.
She’d played at losing her parents and being alone in the house when robbers came– just for the safely contained thrill of fear.
And now it was coming true. She stuffed the fabric of her skirt into her mouth to muffle the choking sobs. She was not a coward, but this was too much for her.
The snuffling sounds of dogs came into the large bedchamber, and Marika wished she could faint, certain she’d be quieter if unconscious.
~ ~ ~
Then this, like my current work, is from a fairytale:
Two young men, born on the same day into very different families and circumstances, both expect to marry the same young woman.
It just so happens the girl they both want is under a curse from a slighted fairy (aren’t all the good ones?), and because of that something bad will happen if she ever is touched by the light of day. She just doesn’t know what.
Only because she doesn’t have the advantage of having read the title of the story, of course. It’s from The Orange Fairy Book, if I remember correctly, and is called The White Doe.
~ ~ ~
This one came out of a dream (hence the unknown/non-existent history) when I was in high school. It opens with an excerpt from Prince Caspian that has always intrigued me.
“Such a horrible idea has come into my head, Su.”
“Wouldn’t it be dreadful if someday in our own world, at home, men started going wild inside, like the animals here, and still looked like men, so that you’d never know which were which?”
I stopped reading just then, because tiny Rachel had gone stiff.
The image had triggered a fear, even in me, and made me wonder again about my life before Rachel. I can’t remember it.
I set the book down, and picked up the mug of hot coco from the end table. I took a sip to make sure it wasn’t too hot, and offered it to Rachel. She shook her head, but her skinny little arm snaked out and snagged the soft puffy marshmallow off the top, swinging it, dripping, toward her mouth. She finished it in two bites.
“Rachel?” I asked, hoping I sounded gentle. “Why does the idea of a wild man feel scary? We don’t know any wild men, do we?” She nodded then shook her head. I realized I’d done a poor job phrasing that question.
I tried again. “Do you know about somebody who went wild on the inside? Like one of the animals in the story?” Rachel nodded slowly, and, again, I felt an irrational trickle of fear down my spine.