I currently have not one but two WIPs. Given the way I work, that’s terribly unwise — but while I usually hold sway over my Muse, sometimes she throws me curve balls and strikes out my commonsense.
I’m continuing with the opening of my sci-fi adventure WIP tentatively titled Secrets of Love and War. Last week I ended with these lines:
Most Rixids, and certainly all humans, would take one look at Cynthia’s womanly curves and assume she was too old for silly games. She played them anyway.
Picking up from there:
Playing childish games was her role, and she played it with gusto.
Kaushelle, the adolescent she’d brought to Peace for All Species Park, was also too old for games. Yet as Cynthia played, the slender, leathery girl froze. She seemed to stop breathing, as though her lungs, the metaphorical seat of Rixid emotions, were being tugged unwillingly back to childhood. Cynthia knew the exact moment innocence overwhelmed maturity: the girl’s lanky limbs went loose and her throat thrummed the gentle purr of amusement characteristic of her species’ youths.
Cynthia’s answering hum harmonized with Kaushelle’s purr as effortlessly as a doodu bird soared on an updraft. It harmonized too with the insects and the follow-fish and the breeze high in the treetops. Cynthia was happy. And when Cynthia was happy, the world laughed with her.
But without warning, happiness—
The hero has arrived with a bang, or at least a sonic boom.
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