They say Christmas is an enchanted, magical time. But for something so freighted with fantasy, it sure is real enough, as is evidenced by the mere 2600 words I managed on Apocalypse Pictures Presents. Still, even that paltry amount moves the needle on Magic Meter, so here you go:
OK, I can’t blame it all on Christmas. The Real World played merry hell with my schedule, too. Been a stressful time. I could make it more stressful by berating myself for my subpar production, but you know, I’d rather not. And hey, I topped 50K, so that’s something.
A snippet:
Santiago flicked on his flashlight and shone it around. The space inside was open, cavernous, the ceiling a good thirty feet high. The floor was cracked concrete.
They found the truck about twenty feet in–a dump truck, the body scarred and dented, its faded orange paint spattered with ancient mud, its windshield cracked across its length. It was the only thing inside the building. A heaping pile of earth lay in its bed. And something else–some bulging white bags that had been tied shut with twine. Susan took out her own flashlight and climbed up, standing on one of the rear wheels for a closer look. One of the bags near her had a split in the side, and a small amount of chalky white substance had spilled out. She dipped a finger into it and touched the finger to her tongue.
Limestone.
She climbed back down, looked around for Santiago. She found him on the other side of the truck, standing at the edge of a large pit in the floor–some forty feet across, maybe thirty feet long, at least six feet deep. Her first thought was that the dirt in the dump truck had been excavated from here–but that was impossible. The pit was far too regular, and lined with concrete, just like the rest of the floor.
“Who puts a hole in the middle of a sound stage?” she said.
“A lot of these stages have pits,” Santiago said. “Filmmakers could fill them with water, or dirt, or whatever else they needed. What’s in those bags?”
“Lime.” Susan brought the flashlight up so she could see his face. “Think somebody’s planning to shoot a scene in here?”
His grim expression was answer enough.
No updates for Write Club.
I’m out.
