Hey guys! This is another entry for a Shelley Watters contest (honestly, she has the best ones, if you aren't already entered, check it out here.
The first 250 below are of my Sci-fi/thriller/post-apocalyptic YA called The World That Does Not Bow. Comments are loved and appreciated and most certainly returned in kind! Thanks again!
The first time I saw the headmistress, I was dying.
It wasn't a good death. I wasn't dying nobly, enlisted on the frontlines of the northern war like my dad would’ve wanted. Mom would’ve wanted me to die when I was old, surrounded by my grandchildren and a garden that was impossible in the diseased soil of our village. Both of them talked about how they hated the thought of dying at the hands of the Wave. Starvation, the raiders, mad dogs. Anything but the Wave. Too many had been wiped out before. Too many had been imbedded in the monster’s crimson skin and left to forever scream inhuman warnings as half-masticated corpses.
When the warning siren rang from the watchtower, the ocean was rippling just outside the driftwood wall that spanned the fishing ponds. I could see it from the stone windows. High tide. Rictor came running into the dark temple, his hat askew. The Elder had been in the middle of our song lesson. He talked in quiet voices with Rictor. Incense was thick and heavy around us, sweet enough to eat. The Elder dismissed us and we skipped out, thrilled to be free of class.
Around us, the village panicked. People ran and gathered up their children, baskets of the days gathering of fish spilled as feet tripped over them. Fires were extinguished. The rich-voiced birds in the tall palms were absent, the hushed whispers and terrified cries drowning them out.
The Wave was coming.