Okay, about reading: I have my Goodreads page (LINK), and I will try and read the books on my TBR list as they were added (in order). Unless there is like book 3 of a series first and I haven't read the first, then it will be skipped. I say because there are about 400 books I want to read, so yeah...I need some rules. I will also review every book I read. Cheers to that, I say.
Skipping to the end of this post, I promised to share a bit of T. R. Orbs with you, and I will do so. I don't ever share my writing because, honestly, no one cares about something that hasn't been published. Among other reasons, etc, etc.
Do tell me what you think! I thought it a bit "usual," which isn't good, but I like the approach to the story this way better than the old. Hopefully I can publish pieces and bits for you to compare in a near future.
As of now, enjoy.
I wanna feed on them. Good and bad.
T. R. Orbs
The coldness of the soil underneath his feet is beginning to bite his bones.
Zachary feels it biting and steps on the grass that patiently waits for the sun to return, but it doesn’t help, the grass is covered with frozen dew. He didn’t realize he wasn’t wearing shoes when he rushed out of his house nearly three hours ago, until recently, when he arrived at the lake and stepped on a stick that made his knees bend and his body nearly tumble to the ground.
He would’ve stay in bed if he didn’t have nightmares. His bad dreams have been the same for the past two nights, but today, he dreamt something different, something that made him walk around town in search of answers.
He found none.
However, he’s discovered that standing near the water helps him replay his dreams, his forgotten memories. He needs to remember more of what faints away. He needs to know if he’s able to see who killed them. He wants to see the murderer hiding in his mind.
A sharp pain coils at the back of his head and sliders down his spine; his skin contracts severely, forcing him to jerk his shoulders forward. He breathes through his mouth slowly, trying not to swallow the contents of his stuffed nose, and feels the cold air soothing his irritated throat.
The icy air against his skin allows him to remember his parents dying in front of him.
He stares at the sky and tries to imagine white clouds to clear his mind, but his memories begin to fight him, clustering his thoughts with sour, twisted pictures. He doesn’t want to see his recent dream, but he must. He’s certain he saw something new, and he’s willing to remember, willing to renew his pain.
His hands tingle, then his feet, as if they want to do something else than just be attached to him. He’s losing focus, so he attempts to concentrate on the calm surface of the water and the bright vapor rising.
The light around him wanes against his darkness.
He’s thinking about many things, trying to lock out the memory that taunts him. He’s weak. A harsh obscurity now settles on his eyes, and his eyelids fall shut. A shrilling sound stings his eardrums and he remembers.