revision: week three

Timewise, I’m currently at the halfway point. Revision wise, I’m fighting off the DIP (deadline induced panic).

As I fight off the panic and continue working on the novel, I offer you a sneak peak at Half Lives.

Kyler Withers decided it was safe to teach journalism again when he stopped dreaming of dead children.

It was a decision that, a day after the hiring committee at San Jose City College offered him the job, he intended not to regret. So he today prepared, leaving the quiet shadow of his townhouse to buy a new briefcase, some notebooks, and a knife camouflaged like a pen. The notebooks he placed in the case; the knife, an inner pocket inside his soft leather coat. He found it ironic that such a deadly thing could look so innocent.

Shopping done, he returned home. The townhouse was too new to really feel comfortable, but the oaks in front hid it from the street, and the red brick façade gave it a subtly elegant look. Anyone could live here. A new teacher. A Pulitzer prize winning journalist. A rumored murderer.

Frowning, Kyler unlocked his door and slipped inside. He’d originally gone to Colombia to investigate the dirty war and ended up substituting for a former lover in his school. What started as a two-week stint turned into six months. Quiet disappearances around the school made Kyler want to stay, first to study, and then, as he got to know the students, to protect.

And he had, hadn’t he? He might not remember what happened the day the guerrillas came into his classroom, but he knew that some of the children got out alive. The scar that crept from the corner of his left eye to his hairline told him he’d been in danger, but the lack of any other wounds proved . . .

They proved nothing.

An ache pooled into his stomach. He didn’t know what happened, but the surviving children did. They never spoke against him, but whenever he approached, they lit every light they could find and trembled. They were afraid of the dark. They were afraid of shadows. They were afraid of him.

Kyler snapped the bolt shut behind him. Tearing himself apart over it hadn’t helped in the past. If he didn’t force himself to move on, it would kill him.

The ache in his stomach changed, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since that morning. The quiet pain comforted him, giving him something to focus on. Pizza, he decided, and maybe some coffee.

Kyler walked across the library, er, living room. When he’d moved in four days before, this room had been unpacked first. The bathroom was second, bedroom third, and the kitchen last.

At the entryway, he took two steps down to what he was currently calling the Valley of Kings, for most of the kitchen was still in boxes; three miniature pyramid-stacked structures set around the hard wood floor. Somewhere, hidden within one of the cardboard sarcophagi, was his Pulitzer.

The award had been his dream for years. Now it was just a slip of paper, a physical representation of missing time. It had allowed him to pretty much choose his next place of work, though. Kyler could have walked into any university or newspaper in the area and been fairly certain they would offer him something. He could’ve tried his hand at Stanford, San Jose University, anything. Instead, he chose City College. Or, to use the vernacular, Silly College. Ghetto College.His choice had surprised many. Despite the new tech building on the corner of Bascom, the small community college was an old place, one that had little funding and had to do the best it could with the resources it had. Its students were a varied mix of race, gender, and age; its teachers and administration at once working together and yet apart. When Kyler was there, he felt . . . something. Alive. Needed. Nostalgic.

It was a Colombia thing, he suspected. Whatever may or may not have happened that dark afternoon, he had liked the man he’d briefly been, and he’d loved the place he’d briefly lived. Since he’d left, he’d been living a half life. Perhaps, once he returned to teaching, he’d be whole again.

After ordering a pizza, Kyler picked up a package of coffee beans, put water to boil, and then rummaged for his favorite mug–a large black cup that one of his dead students had made him. He cradled the cool shape against him and carried it over to the counter.

Something glinted red out of the corner of his sight. Kyler followed it to the edge of the counter, and to a tabloid-sized newspaper.

His lips quirked. There were no mysterious deaths here. There was ink, black and white photos, and an interesting editorial about the upcoming district board elections, charmingly spelled distract bored.

The staff would be his in the fall, so Kyler had had gone through the eight-page issue that morning to get to know them. A couple hours fresh from the printer and he’d debauched it with red ink. A word in the headline on page four was misspelled. Commas were missing from a story on page six. Someone relied a little too much on quotes on page seven. And, Kyler’s personal pet peeve, they forgot to leap a story.

Beautiful page design, though. If Kyler hadn’t known the editor was an art major, he would’ve suspected after seeing the boy’s strip on the entertainment page. He had talent. In a world that wanted something big and shiny to look at, he would get attention. Someone who drew readers to a publication could be forgiven a couple spelling mistakes. All Kyler needed to do was find him a copy editor and the Spectator would be perfect.

A luke-warm breeze stirred his hair.

Kyler jerked, turning.

Across the room, the back door crept open. Sunlight bled across the hardwood floor, stinging his eyes.

Unease threaded through him, sharp and cold. He always locked doors behind him.

Kyler set the cup down and headed for the door.

Outside, sunlight painted the small yard in an ethereal light. There was a patch of concrete, some grass, and a cluster of yellow flowers. The gate in the left corner was locked. No one was outside.

Behind him, someone sighed.

Written by Luisa Prieto

Dark fantasy writer by day, dark fantasy writer by night. I'm charmingly dull that way ;)
Visit The Author's Website