Published: September 10th 2024, 3:56:48 pm
Hi everyone!
I know Daniel has been sharing his writing journey, from first drafts to rewrites and restructures to feedback from his agent. While he is plowing ahead with his next section of his novel, he encouraged me to share some of my own writing with you.
Some of you might remember the video he and I did together last year for NaNoWriMo (hereby referred to as NaNo-No-No). I'm nearly at the 75% finished mark on my first draft, so there are still tons of things that could be changed before I even start second drafting, but I figured I'd share the prologue of my book just to get some initial thoughts?
Again, first drafts are alway so hard. I love what Gina Denny says about them: "Every first draft is exactly what it needs to be because you have to get that out there in order to revise." So I'm trying to do exactly that and just be okay with knowing things aren't perfect yet.
But here's my chapter! I haven't settled on a title yet, but let me know if there is anything about it that catches your interest. I'm curious if anyone besides myself likes books centered around existential dread where the primary antagonistic is not some dark lord or evil villain, but a force of nature itself beyond our comprehension that cannot be stopped.
Quick upfront thing: Sille is a Danish name that I fell in love with. I met a friend while living in Korea and I never could get it out of my head. I know it's not familiar to some people, so to help with pronunciation, the best way us English speakers might read it is to think of it as "see-luh".
I also have the writing style where I mention some words that are key to my world but not immediately defined in the prologue. You'll find out more about them in Chapter 1, so not to worry if some things aren't immediately explained in this part. ^^
With much love (and some trepidation),
Lady Chaos
Prologue
Someday, Sille, oblivion will find you. And when it does, remember—hold your breath.
Thom’s voice echoed in her ears. Unsurprising. Her eldest brother often haunted her dreams.
It was a convincing illusion, she’d give it that. The temptation to indulge the fantasy just a few moments longer tugged at something deep and painful in her chest. Her heart swelled at the spark in his eyes, the warmth to his skin, and she itched to reach out and touch him—to find contradictory proof that the blood pumping through his veins was not merely a figment of her imagination.
But she knew what came next. These nightmares always ended the same. She would ask the question hovering on the tip of her tongue, and Thom would give the usual answer: Not yet. Not today.
At this point, it was routine. Nevertheless, Sille still had her part to play.
“Will it come tonight?”
Thom opened his mouth to reply, lips twisting into a grimace, but before he could utter a word, a deafening roar shattered the quiet sanctuary of her dreams. A shockwave rippled across the surrounding landscape, churning up clouds of earth as the ground heaved. His eyes sought out Sille’s own and he cupped his hands around his cheeks, mouthing words impossible for her to hear.
Then, the blast struck, tearing through the fragile walls of her carefully constructed world like a tempest; thrusting her from the confines of her thoughts and back into consciousness.
Sille’s eyes snapped open with a start, her heart hammering against her ribs as the darkened corners of her bedroom swam into view. She pressed a calming hand to her breast, feeling her pulse stutter against her palms.
Six months of these mental theatrics. Six months without any relief. It had started the day Thom failed to return home, and had played on a torturous loop every night ever since.
Tonight’s twist ending, however, had left Sille rattled, and a shiver of fear slithered down her spine as she recalled the instantaneous destruction of her dream. Burrowing deeper beneath the quilt, her eyes flicked around the room uneasily, searching for signs of anything out of place.
The flowers she’d picked from the neighboring field with Arlo had not moved from the vase on her dresser, and the collection of artwork her father had passed on as a gift for her seventh birthday was neatly stacked in the corner. His tastes had ranged widely, from dynamic street scenes sketched in charcoal to watercolor portraits, depicting people and far-off places—some of which he’d known, some he’d never seen.
Her gaze passed over her nightstand, lingering for a moment on the black and white family photo framed there, taken two years prior. It had been for a special occasion: her twelfth birthday—one of the last times they’d been a family of six, instead of four.
Her father had gone first; then Thom, a year later.
Cruel ends for kind men, Sille heard people say.
The rift had claimed them both, along with all three of her family’s previous houses. Like the rest of humanity, Sille was on the run from a cosmic arsonist, with no extinguisher or chance of escape.
There was no body to recover when a soul was scrubbed clean from existence. Oblivion was worse than a graverobber; even the chance for closure while mourning was no longer a given right. The only proof Thom and her father had lived at all were contained in faded photographs, a few meager belongings, and an oil-canvas portrait hung in the Hall of Remembering.
The rest lived on within Sille’s memories, though even those had begun to fail. The echoes of their laughter had grown faint and distorted in her mind by time; the details of their faces softened and blurred, like smudges on a painting.
Sille’s eyes followed the trail of clothes scattered around the foot of her bed leading to the threadbare rug at the center of her room. Moonlight poured in from gaps between the curtain, whirling and twisting, as if stirred by a painter’s brush; cycling through a spectrum of pastel-colored hues.
At this, Sille paused, frowning, half-convinced it was nothing more than a trick of the light. She brushed a hand across her brow, massaging the base of her palms against her closed eyes until stars exploded behind her lids. But as her vision cleared, the patch of light along the floor remained unchanged. Her pulse quickened. The wooden boards glittered like freshly fallen snow, and a breath hissed from between her teeth, puffing before her eyes into a cloud of mist.
Low rumbles sounded in the distance, like thunder off the shore, and Sille jackknifed into an upright position. A tremor followed soon after, powerful enough to disrupt loose piles of dust from the beams crisscrossing the ceiling. The amperic lantern above her head swayed wildly as the room shook, rattling the window and sending a small crack splintering across the pane.
In an instant, she was on her feet, wincing as her bare soles made contact with frost-coated floorboards. Something tickled the back of her heels and she crouched down, reaching beneath the bed to pull out the woolen cardigan her mother had knit last winter. She’d loathed the blasted thing at first sight—two-sizes too big, itchier than a skuttlebug rash, and the color of a rusty drainpipe. Now, she tugged the thick sweater over her head with relief, oblivious to the dust and lint still clinging to the sleeves. Keeping her arms tightly folded across her chest, Sille padded over to the window seat, materializing from the darkness like a wraith.
Fractaline frost wreathed the glass of her bedroom window and poured through the crack—a beautiful latticework of interlocking filigree patterns, expanding as swiftly as it did silently. The thickest of the tendrils unfurled onto the floorboards and slithered toward the carved spires of her bedposts.
Sille’s brain sputtered—her thoughts tripping over themselves—as another violent tremor shook the building, nearly toppling her. The ground lurched beneath her feet, and she gripped the wooden ledge to keep from falling, only to leap back as a spike of pain speared her hand. Fractaline frost had spread from the window sill onto her fingertips, nipping at the exposed flesh it found in hopes of settling in as fractalbite.
Pulling back, Sille rubbed her hands together until the prickling sensation dissipated, then tucked the hem of her sleeve beneath her palms to hold on for balance, ignoring the sting as best she could. With a grunt, she tugged at the wooden sash, loosing a muffled curse when her freezing fingertips fumbled with the narrow grooves. Three more tries it took to crack the seal; a fourth to pry it wide enough to clear her head and peer through.
Twilight trailed its heavy cloak of darkness across the heavens while morning light scrabbled for purchase along the horizon. A few shafts of golden light slipped from beneath its star-speckled folds, painting the jutting cliff sides of Port du’Cirre in muted shades of early dawn…and exposing the intruder in their midst.
Oblivion had come.
It had approached the seaport under the cover of night—a shimmering wall, soaring an uncountable number of miles high into the sky, marking the edges of their reality. Sille watched as daylight broke along the ocean’s surface, illuminating the corrosive force in all its glory. It was a seamless sheet of entropic energy, caught red-handed beneath a sunlit spotlight, undulating with an unearthly gleam as it pressed down upon them without mercy.
Until recently, the scientific community had been unable to settle on a name for the environmental anomaly. By the time they came up with the term ‘isotropic corrosion’, the public had already decided to dub it ‘the rift’.
It was a celestial gutter, a gateway to the end of all things, as incomprehensibly infinite as it was inescapable. Sille had spent her whole life dodging its clutches, staying one step ahead, dancing just out of reach.
In less than two seconds, she located the source of the quakes: the southernmost tip of the peninsula had all but vanished. Clouds of shattered stone and crumbling earth shrouded the edge of the forcefield as it tore into du Cirre’s foundations.
The once-roaring sea had fallen eerily silent, drained of its waves and seafoam. Wooden masts along the harbor toppled like toothpicks; their white sails disappearing below the skyline as it feasted upon the docks.
Most of the town had also awoken. Rows upon rows of shutters were thrown wide by stunned residents, who gazed out in abject horror. A frightened yelp passed below her window, and Sille glanced down in time to catch sight of a hound hurtling towards the end of the street. Its paws scraped frantically against the pavement as it whipped around the corner, out of sight.
Stirred by the creature’s panic, a chorus of screams erupted. Doors banged open and neighbors spilled into the streets, tripping over their bedclothes—hair mussed from sleep, faces tight with fright. Sille caught sight of one family she knew among them—the local shoemaker clutching his daughter’s hand, sprinting down the cobbled path. In her haste, the young girl tripped and sprawled onto her hands and knees, bare feet tangling in the hem of her nightgown. Wasting no time, her father scooped her up into his arms, protecting her head as he forged a path through the terrified masses.
Fires broke out as buildings crumbled, causing a pall of black smoke to appear along the skyline; a dark smear against the bright canvas of the early morning light. A fountain of sparks spiraled upward a few streets over, carrying along with them the terrified screams of du’Cirren residents.
Sille instinctively ducked inside and slammed the window shut, staggering away from the ledge as panic seized behind her ribs. She managed only a few breaths before the door behind her swung open, bouncing off the wall with a resounding thud that sent her heart leaping from her chest.
Marit Ostergård stood framed in the doorway, painting a stark tableau against the backdrop of the darkened hall. Spectacles askew, panic glinting in the whites of her eyes, she crossed the room in three strides and gathered Sille into her arms.
It took a moment for Sille’s body to catch up with her brain, and she wrapped her arms belatedly around her mother’s neck.
“It’s back,” she whispered, feeling the panic rising in her chest. Waves of tremors wracked her small frame, betraying her fear—none of which escaped her mother’s scrutiny.
“Hey, hey, you’re okay.” Marit’s voice trembled as she drew Sille closer, burying her face into the crook of her daughter’s neck. She was close enough for Sille to feel the frigid tip of her mother’s nose brush against the shell of her ear. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”
Sille hid her face in her mother’s tangled waves, barely registering the stream of words coming out of her mouth.
Another quake rocked the building.
The fevered cries outside their apartment walls rose to a crescendo.
She pulled back, watching the light play across the planes of her mother’s face; pale blue fading into lavender, then blending seamlessly into ivory. Morbid curiosity seized her, and she made a motion to turn, but her mother’s firm grasp on her chin anchored her in place.
“Don’t look,” Marit commanded sharply, unable to mask the slight quiver to her voice. “Sille, listen to me—” she swallowed hard. “We need to go. Now.”
Sille was already nodding numbly. “To the western resettlement camp?”
Her mother shook her head and looked at the ceiling, as if searching for answers, then ran a frazzled hand through her hair.
The rift was on the move, bleeding into reality once more, trying to take what little humanity had left. They had no other choice than to herd closer and closer together, corralled like cattle driven to slaughter.
“North,” her mother said finally. “Towards the Central States. Bo will be there.”
The belltower opposite their building began to toll its warning, providing those further inland a few precious minutes head start. The noise was deafening, each chime slamming against Sille’s chest with the force of a fist, vibrating her very bones.
A soft cry rose up from the other end of the apartment, and both of their eyes widened in alarm.
“Arlo-” they breathed in unison.
Sille bolted towards the door first, with Marit hot on her heels. Her pulse thundered loudly, drowning out the noise of the dishware rattling ominously in the kitchen.
She was almost past the main entry when her mother’s firm hand snaked out and snared her collar; the fabric slicing across her windpipe, making her gag. Instead of loosening her grip, Marit’s fingers tightened even further, and she used the momentum to propel Sille towards the front door. A stampede of footsteps thundered just beyond, rattling the latch—the last of their neighbors, making a mad dash towards safety.
“Leave your things,” Marit said, though Sille had made no move to dress; shoving her towards the exit. “Quickly now, take the stairwell to your right.”
Sille froze, aghast. “W-what–no—” she faltered, struggling against her mother’s iron grip. “We’ll…We’ll go together. I can carry Arlo whenever you need—”
Marit pressed two fingers to her daughter’s lips, silencing her protests. “Yes, you will. I’ll be counting on you,” she said softly, brushing a frozen thumb across Sille’s cheeks. Arlo’s cries grew more insistent, and Marit turned at the sound. “But first, I need you to go and see if there are any horses left in the stable across the road. We’ll get there faster than on foot. Arlo and I will be right behind you, okay?” She said this without looking at Sille. “If they’re all gone, wait for us by the gate and we’ll catch up,” then added, “and stop for no one.”
Sille swallowed hard and squeezed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Her mother must have felt her hesitation, and turned back to face her, giving her shoulders a firm shake to ensure she had her daughter’s full attention. “Do you hear me? You stop for no one.”
Arlo’s wails had reached a fever pitch, but still, Marit hesitated; her lip quivered as her eyes traced the lines of her daughter’s face, soaking in every detail.
Then, she wrenched open the door and shoved Sille through.
“Right behind you,” she repeated.
Sille stumbled forward into the corridor, catching her footing against the wrought-iron guardrails. The central courtyard was nearly empty, with the majority of residents having fled at the first sound of the warning bell. Bistro tables lay overturned beside heaps of toppled chairs, and the northern gate dangled precariously from a set of torn hinges after clearly being flung wide in the rush of the evacuation.
The stairs to her right spiraled in a tight coil to the ground below, and Sille hesitated for a moment before dashing towards them; the sound of her footsteps bouncing off the walls. She flew down the stairs, flinching as her bare soles made contact once more with the fractaline frost. Each step blurred into the next, to the point where Sille relied on muscle memory more than anything to guide her down safely. She leapt off the bottom stairs with a burst of momentum, breaking into an all-out sprint.
The frightened whinnies reached her ears first, and she squinted. In the distance, she could just make out the muscled hindquarters of a frightened palomino, still hitched to its post in the neighboring farm.
At the same time, a familiar cry sounded behind her, and Sille’s heart leapt with relief. She turned in time to see her mother barrelling down the second-floor walkway, Arlo’s ruddy curls bouncing on her shoulders as she followed Sille in hot pursuit.
“There’s one left!” Sille called out.
“Get it saddled! We’re right behind you!”
Her mother’s encouragement lit a fire beneath Sille’s feet, spurring her forward. She skidded to a halt just outside the North Gate and looked towards the hills crawling townspeople, who scattered like ants. Some appeared to be sticking to the main road heading northeast, in the direction of the Central States. Others headed northwest, disappearing into the thick brush bordering du’Cirre towards the nearest known shelter for refugees.
Sille’s eyes narrowed on a gap in the field’s enclosure a few feet away—providing her a straight shot to the stable—but she couldn’t bring herself to cross it alone, and turned, sprinting back to check on her mother and brother’s progress.
Stepping back into the apartment courtyard, she heard a sickening crunch of stone grinding against stone overhead, followed by terrified screams piercing the air. Sille's gaze shot skyward, her eyes widening in horror.
The southern corner of the belltower dipped behind the rift’s iridescent curtain, like a vessel breaching a watery surface. It wavered, silhouetted against the shimmering sky, and Sille stood transfixed as the timeworn stone surrendered, collapsing in on itself before disintegrating—solid matter crushed into a swirling plume of dust.
“Sille, go! Just go!” Marit cried out, her voice raw and cracking with desperation. She was more than halfway across the courtyard, close enough for Sille to make out the soft lines of Arlo’s chubby fingers gripping the fabric of their mother’s shirt in his little fists.
Marit’s pace never faltered, her gaze never wavered—every inch of her fixed on her daughter as she steadily closed the space between them.
The ground bucked beneath their feet, but when Sille did not move, Marit jerked her chin to the right and shrieked, “Stairs!”
To Sille’s left, another wrought-iron staircase wound its way upwards, leading to the north wing apartments and offering the slightest measure of protection.
She blinked, her feet moving of their own accord when her mind failed to keep up. White-hot fear propelled her forward, launching her beneath the curved lower rungs. Her fingertips dug into the narrow grooves between the brick pavers until her nail beds split and bent. Still, she pressed further inward, refusing to stop until she was tucked away, cowering deep beneath the tiered slats.
Her jaw was wired shut with fear, molars grinding together until she thought they might break. The muscles in her chest constricted and she let out a high-pitched keen as the world slowed to a crawl, granting her enough time to absorb each agonizing detail.
The belltower was almost entirely submerged now, its foundations weak and lopsided from lack of support. It tilted precariously, dust and debris spilling from the belfry as huge fissures fractured across the masonry, before pitching to the side and toppling like a house of cards.
Giant slabs of marble and granite cascaded onto the rooftops of the apartment complex’s southern wing, pummeling the last vestiges of Sille’s home into ruin. Beams of timber buckled upon impact, succumbing to the immense pressure with a tortured groan, sending shards of glass and wooden splinters hurtling across the courtyard.
A sharp prick lanced up Sille’s ankle, and she curled into a ball, tucking her limbs close.
The staircase vibrated as a section of the upper walkway gave way, boxing her in and pelting a spray of gravel at her back. She squeezed her eyes shut as darkness enveloped her, cutting off all light except for a small cranny near her feet.
A chunk of rubble collided solidly with her head, rattling her skull until her ears rang, and something hot and wet trickled down the back of her neck, pooling beneath her shoulders in a sticky puddle.
Everything sounded muffled.
Her mouth tasted of metal.
Through her daze, she could hear the spiral staircase creak and whine, straining beneath the weight of fallen debris. Miraculously, it held firm.
Terror forced its way down her throat like a fist, and her chest spasmed as she choked. Dust coated her lashes, burning her eyes and blurring her vision.
Sille squinted at the small shaft of light near her ankles, illuminating a metal fragment embedded deep in her lower shin. She stretched out a shaking hand to wrench it free, only to recoil with a yelp the instant her fingers brushed against the jagged edge. Allowing her a few more minutes to pass to gather her strength, Sille then began the arduous task of twisting her body to face the little window.Each movement felt costly, leaving her palms clammy and every inch of her trembling with effort. Bit by laborious bit, she twisted around in the confined space, contorting her frame until her head rested just beside the narrow crevice.
Acrid air filtered through the crack, thick with smoke and the stench of existential decay. Sille pressed her lips to the opening, wincing as the tender flesh of her cheeks made contact with the rough stone.
Grit and ash filled her mouth, snaking down her windpipe to coat her lungs. She managed one strangled gasp before the walls of her throat constricted, scraping together like parchment, forcing her back.
After a few stifled breaths, she leaned forward and cracked an eye to survey the scene. Dust had begun to settle, enough to make out her immediate surroundings, and her heart sank at the sight that awaited her.
On the edge of her peripherals, no more than a stone’s throw or two away, loomed the rift; bending and twisting as reality itself unraveled. A network of fractaline frost wound across the shattered stone, mapping a path like a malevolent omen.
Sille was trapped—helpless; a fly caught in a spider’s web.
A shiver ran down her spine as the temperature dipped to a glacial degree, and her breath fogged through the gap. The frost burned as it spread across her skin, decorating the bridge of her nose and the hollows of her cheeks like variegated lace. Her proximity intensified the pain, and she felt it stitch itself deep into her flesh. Given enough time and exposure, fractalbite settled into more long-lasting marks, like the ones her father and brother had borne as wisps.
With great effort, Sille shifted her gaze, only to land on the mangled corpse of her mother. Marit Ostergård was unrecognizable; at least, to anyone who hadn’t memorized her face.
Pearly-white bone jutted from the torn stump of a shoulder socket where tattered scraps of flesh leaked small rivulets onto the pavement. The corresponding limb was nowhere to be seen, no doubt pulverized beneath the weight of the fallen debris. A slab of solid stone had fallen onto her scalp, crushing her skull and spraying the surrounding wreckage in viscera. Chunks of hair, torn from the roots, veiled her ruined profile, obscuring the open cavity that had once been her nose.
Sille’s stomach roiled and she clapped a hand over her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit at the sight of her mother’s limp tongue lolling loosely across her shattered jaw, peppered with wooden splinters and shards of broken teeth.
Blood spattered the ground between them.
Arlo was nowhere to be seen.
Paralyzing grief trapped Sille’s windpipe in a chokehold, cutting off oxygen until her abdomen caved from the strain. She shoved a hand through the small gap, beating at the stones that held her captive until she bled, and an agonizing wail ripped itself from her chest—raw and primal and unrestrained.
Sille screamed herself hoarse, ignoring the searing pain of frigid air slicing her lungs to ribbons.
She was alone, trapped in a stone coffin, facing an isotropic end in place of death—the third Ostergård to befall such a fate.
Had her father wept as she did? Had Thom? Had they thought about ending their own lives before the rift could take them? She wouldn’t blame them if they had. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway—they never would’ve followed through.
Ending a life in their world was considered the greatest taboo—even if it was one’s own; a violation so severe that even the most depraved criminals would not commit such an act.
Sille was stuck, and soon, there would be nothing left: no sign of her, her mother and brother, or their untimely end.
A part of her wished she’d died alongside them. At least then, their souls would have reunited along the shores of the Sprey. Instead, she’d been left to suffer—half-frozen, pinned beneath the wreckage of her home, unable to do more than weep…and wait.
Sille wondered how it would happen; what it would feel like to have her very essence erode away. Would it be painful? Or would her mind already be gone before she knew what was happening?
Despair pawed at her chest, whispering words of defeat.
Accept it. Don’t fight. Today is the day.
Each breath felt bated, like those ephemeral moments of a candle right before it flickers out.
It was nearly upon her, and Sille watched in horrified fascination as reality began to rip apart into fragments; a kaleidoscope of colors and images, bubbling and spitting like oil in a pan as they splintered, only to meld back together with an eldritch hiss.
A savage hatred unlike anything she’d ever known unleashed itself upon the stone. She kicked out with all her strength, screaming ferociously, ignoring the blood pouring down her shins to her feet.
Oblivion had come for her, but she would not go quietly.
She still had one card left to play.
Sille had never gone into the undercurrents alone, not that she’d ever been eager to dive in the first place. She knew the rules—always dive from inside the Bunker. Attempting otherwise was reserved only for the most dire of situations. Thom had told her horror stories of people who’d been lost or crushed beneath the pressure of nonexistence. They were never seen again, not even as passing souls on the shores of the Sprey.
Though her brother was gone, he’d managed to impress upon her the most important lesson should she ever find herself trapped: carve an eddy to find the undercurrent, push through the letumstatic pressure, and, whatever you do, don’t dive unless you’re fully ready.
If only he could see her now.
The vision she kept of him in her mind’s eye screamed at her to act quickly.
“Not yet,” she whispered, letting her vision slip out of focus. A lazy haze settled upon her, tickling her senses and stilling her breath. Her fingers twitched at her side, reaching for a current she could not see. The air inside her refuge turned thick and syrupy as the edges of the ether poured over like molasses. Her cheeks burned from the frost, and Sille could hear reality, fizzling away.
Then, she felt something catch around her ankles; a featherlight brush, so soft she nearly missed it. Almost immediately, a thick resistance seemed to encase it, like she’d stepped in muck, making it hard to move her leg.
Her brother had not been wrong: the letumstatic pressure was more intense than anything she could have imagined. Now, she was going to have to forge a way through it if she wanted to live to see another day.
Sille sucked in a final breath.
Her ears popped as her eyes rolled back.
And then, she plunged—through time and space—into the murky undercurrents of the Sprey.