I'm very proud of how this beginning turned out--in fact, I often use it as my "introduction" when entering new writing circles. It's a little racy, but I think it's allowable by site rules.
For the first time in three years, Harry woke to the feeling of a body beside him.
Am I still asleep? he wondered. This would not be the first time he had dreamt of Leila. When he had scattered her ashes at sea, he'd known that a part of her would always remain with him, something incorporeal but real nonetheless.
A clawed hand covered his eyes--clawed?, he thought. This is definitely a dream. But there was undeniably something of Leila in the lips that kissed his cheek.
"Leila, if you're there, speak to me."
A shudder? He felt a finger cross his lips, urging him to silence, then a kiss that rendered the gesture irrelevant. Her tongue was long--too long. This was all wrong, and he could feel the dream twisting into something else entirely.
He pushed her away, and pulled her hand from his eyes as he sat up. "Leila--"
The first thing he noticed was the mouth, warped and shrunken to a narrow slit. No words of love could ever be pronounced by such a mouth--and as the pale, hairless creature before him clutched at its scarred throat, he realized that it could not speak at all. Eyes he remembered as blue were now sewn shut with black threads, but a third eye stared down from its forehead, red as fresh blood.
It shuddered again, and he realized that it was trying to cry.
Harry knew where this dream would go were he to shy away or scream. He wrapped his arms around the monster before him, and he kissed it deeply. Four breasts pressed into his chest, and a long tail wrapped around him, but the misshapen lips still held a familiar texture, and the smell in the air was of Leila's perfume.
At last he broke away. The monster's mouth distorted, and as if in a funhouse mirror he recognized the guilty smile that Leila gave him when dinner was burned black or there was a bucket of paint spilled in the bathroom.
It was then that he fully understood that he wasn't dreaming.
For the first time in three years, Harry woke to the feeling of a body beside him.
Am I still asleep? he wondered. This would not be the first time he had dreamt of Leila. When he had scattered her ashes at sea, he'd known that a part of her would always remain with him, something incorporeal but real nonetheless.
A clawed hand covered his eyes--clawed?, he thought. This is definitely a dream. But there was undeniably something of Leila in the lips that kissed his cheek.
"Leila, if you're there, speak to me."
A shudder? He felt a finger cross his lips, urging him to silence, then a kiss that rendered the gesture irrelevant. Her tongue was long--too long. This was all wrong, and he could feel the dream twisting into something else entirely.
He pushed her away, and pulled her hand from his eyes as he sat up. "Leila--"
The first thing he noticed was the mouth, warped and shrunken to a narrow slit. No words of love could ever be pronounced by such a mouth--and as the pale, hairless creature before him clutched at its scarred throat, he realized that it could not speak at all. Eyes he remembered as blue were now sewn shut with black threads, but a third eye stared down from its forehead, red as fresh blood.
It shuddered again, and he realized that it was trying to cry.
Harry knew where this dream would go were he to shy away or scream. He wrapped his arms around the monster before him, and he kissed it deeply. Four breasts pressed into his chest, and a long tail wrapped around him, but the misshapen lips still held a familiar texture, and the smell in the air was of Leila's perfume.
At last he broke away. The monster's mouth distorted, and as if in a funhouse mirror he recognized the guilty smile that Leila gave him when dinner was burned black or there was a bucket of paint spilled in the bathroom.
It was then that he fully understood that he wasn't dreaming.
