This is the second post in a series of story openings. I’m hoping to get my readers’ views on what they’d like to see me write next!
Her hand hurt. And her wrist. In fact, her whole right arm and shoulder hurt, stretched out to the side like that and angled up. Pulled by some steady and unyielding force. She struggled to raise her gluey eyelids, but couldn’t quite manage it. She was floating, towed by her arm.
The hush of air moving in close confines sounded in her ears. The slight funk of unbathed human made her wrinkle her nose. She swallowed, wishing for water to wash away the sour taste in her mouth.
Where am I?
She tugged against the pull on her arm. It was so uncomfortable, her hand turned like that with its back leading, and something rigid guiding her fingers into an awkward array, digging into the flesh.
What is this?
This time her eyes made it open.
The begemmed scarf of a thousand stars spread across the dark of deep space, gleaming in soft reflections on the ceram-glass of her faceplate.
“This is why I . . .”
Why I what? She couldn’t remember.
She looked back past her trailing hand. Darker there, fewer stars. No shuttle. No station. No . . . planet.
Over that shoulder and to her back? Endless space.
Somehow she didn’t want to look ahead. Didn’t want to see what drew her on so inexorably. She struggled again against her trapped arm.
Oh, gods! What was that?
A whirl of faintly sparkling dust? A current of shadows? The maw of a star dragon? She hardly knew, but it was power. And danger. And death.
She began to fight in earnest, throwing herself against the alien brace that wrapped her gloved right hand, working to slip her fingers and palm out of the metal’s embrace.
For a fantasy sample, see:
Legend of the Beggar’s Son