It's Tuesday! Which mean fiction.
Tidbit Tuesday, like it says under the tab, is the day when I post something I've written recently. This will be the first time I've ever posted my own personal fiction. I know it's only an excerpt, but it makes me nervous just the same. No matter how successful or experienced the writer (and, for the record, I don't claim to be either of those things) I think all of us are hesitant to put our work out there. Heck, I still can't really eat breakfast without getting stomach gurgles on the morning of a workshop.
Ah, but power, love, and sound mind over fear, yeah? Here goes nothing. As it says under the tab, I'm undertaking a novel writing project this year and it's about a high school teacher who is trying to find out which of his seemingly peaceful students is planning the shoot up the school.
The following excerpt is from the point of view of the school's headmaster, Saul.
(The following material is original work written by Molly O'Sullivan. Reproduction without attribution is prohibited)
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Saul
lived in Willet Bend, the best of the upscale living areas in the
city, in a two-story brick house. It had hardwood floors and sunken
windows which allowed passersby a peak of the fine work done by his
personal decorator. Saul's mother, a southern bell at heart who'd
never had a fine thing in her life, had always thought that a single
man needed a fashionably savvy woman to decorate his home for him, so
that his rooms did not turn into bear caves. It had been quite a
while since Saul had had any woman in his life, so he figured a
professional decorator was the next best thing. Saul left his car in
the driveway and went in through the front door. He could understand
why some people hid their cars in garages, though no one in town
would have dared to touch any of his things, but he never knew why
they rarely used their front doors to let themselves in. To Saul,
there was little else that made him feel quite as prosperous as
walking into his splendidly large house through the front door.
Strolling through the pristinely cleaned foyer, observing the fine
art he displayed, and hanging his coat on the rungs which were lined
up by the staircase produced a surge of satisfaction that he was sure
few other men felt.
He
found his daughter in the study, his study.
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