Tuesday, July 26, 2011

My Friend Tyr Kieran

Tyr Kieran, a fellow horror author that I stumbled upon recently and began talking to has a cool way of getting his readers involved in the creative process of writing a novel from the title of the novel all the way to the final paragraph. He has self dubbed it his, "Interactive Fiction Project." I thought the concept was pretty cool mainly because it puts the readers and the author on the same page. Literally.
Check it out for yourself at http://www.tyrkieran.com/blog/
And here is a small peak at his current Novel, Cale's Story. Click on the title to see the rest!

Grass surrounding the motionless body swayed in the breeze—whispering a soothing tune like soft rain. The tall blades tickled his face and he began to stir. Slowly opening his eyes, the boy blinked up at the stars. They seemed to wink back, twinkling in and out of patchwork clouds. He smiled and moved to sit up, but a jolt of pain webbed through his skull and thrust him back down. The boy cried out—as much from surprise as agony. He clutched at the back of his head, but he felt no blood, no wound, and the pain was already receding. Only a faint ache lingered as if an old injury tried to relive its glory days and failed. ‘I don’t remember getting hurt,’ he thought.
The boy’s mind whirled. He tried to remember the previous day or the day before, but nothing solidified in the dark void of his memory. He couldn’t remember his parents, his life… his name. Panic swelled in his chest, swelling up into his throat with a burning lump of needles. “I can’t remember anything!” He sat up fast, this time either without pain or without noticing, and searched his surroundings through frantic, brown eyes. He was in a field of unkempt grass. Distant mountains lay like sleeping monsters in the night shadows. A natural tree line fenced in the meadow on all sides, as if keeping the brooding mountains at bay. Nothing about this place seemed familiar. “Where am I?”
‘I can’t remember...’ With the clean slate covering his mind, that thought repeated over and over, each time carrying more desperation. “What happened?” Tears formed and the boy dropped his head into his hands. Something cold pressed against his face, interrupting his grief. He pulled back to looked at the object. A square pendant with rounded corners rested against his palm, its chain still around his neck. It was nearly the size of a half dollar, but carried no markings of any kind, like a solid hunk of stainless steel. “Great.” He sighed and felt the sorrow begin to creep back. He turned it over again, hoping he missed some kind of engraving. But there was nothing—completely smooth.
Then, he paused, realizing a face was staring back. The reflection was faint in the moonlight, but undistorted. The boy stared for a long moment, looking at himself as if it was the first time. Lean adolescent features framed eyes large with curiosity and wonder. His hair was mussed but still managed to resemble a slightly-curled shag that fell around his prominent ears. The boy scrunched up his nose and squinted his eyes to make sure the reflection was really his. And, when it mimicked his movement perfectly, he sighed and looked away; he didn’t like his unfamiliarity with his own face. Tears developed again and he let the medallion fall from his fingers.
As it fell a tiny spark of light appeared at one corner and spread slowly across the metal surface. He picked it back up and watched in awe as the medallion illuminated. Subtle blues brightened into vivid purple. The boy, working to swallow in a dry throat, tilted his head in scrutiny and noticed a glow at the edges of his vision. He lifted his gaze to see the horizon in similar throes of purple and pinks. His expression dropped. With slumped shoulders, he tucked the necklace behind his shirt and set to watch the coming dawn.
Brilliant orange pushed back the purple edge of night. The boy sat, scratching the random itch of morning bugs, and waiting for the rebirth of daylight. Cough. He didn’t see the insects buzzing around, but they had to be there; they were really starting to annoy. He twitched and smacked his arms yet, no mini corpses squashed at the scene. “Go away hungry bugs!” he coughed from a dry mouth, still unable to catch them mid-bite or in humming flights past his head. “Ow!” The boy looked down at the stinging on his arms. His skin showed irritation in wide spread blotches. Frantically, he scratched his arms and the itching flourished into a consistent burn. The red rash spread like flame across a July parched forest.
Colors of nature slowly bloomed around him as field brightened like a Polaroid in development. A golden halo glowed along the mountain edges for a moment before dawn detonated. The sun emerged over the horizon in an explosion of day. Beams of direct sunlight blasted him in searing lasers. “It huuuurts!” The boy whimpered. His arms, face, and neck were completely raw with swelling irritation. He had to scratch, but it hurt too much. “What’s happening?” His skin started to steam, as if it were boiling away. He screamed. Blisters formed and popped. Skin charred and split. Pain sent his mind spiraling inward, falling into the welcoming abyss—the cool darkness of unconsciousness. Muffled shouts traveled down to him and the distant light was abruptly extinguished.


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