New and Excerpt.

As the title indicates I am new. I am a 15 year old, African-American male, residing in Florida. I am a tenacious, aspiring author and an avid reader of the classics. Basically all of my texts allude to styles improvised and constantly used by renowned classic authors ranging from the versatile techniques of Fyodor Dostovesky, Jane Austen, Emily Bronte and Charles Dickens to the explicit but none the less resonating styles of John Steinbeck and Ernest Hemingway. I have been reading the classics ever since I was in the fourth grade, growing up on explicit tomes such as Little Women, Secret Garden and Treasure Island (which contemporarily remains as one of my most favoured books). I now read prose fiction, advanced classics and non-fiction such as Alexis de Tocqueville's Democracy in America and JFK's 13 days, only two books which as many of you must know, not only provides immense intrigue, but enlightenment. Aside from my avid and diverse reading interests I have recently (5 months ago) taken an interest in establishing myself as an author, which I believe in the process of completing my book, even if it fails to publish, will greatly facillitate my writing ability and tone usage.

My first book which has little to do with my interest as an aspiring author, is only a warmup meant solely for due preparation and practice. The story is fiction and inherits the styles of many of the greats, few of which I have listed in the first paragraph. Temporarily it is called A Wrinkle in A Rose Petal, but due to plot twists and literary effects along with the overt similarity to another classic A Wrinkle in Time it may undergo constant change and revision.

I have never been capable of rendering my book complete justice by presenting the basics of its plot outline, so I will leave you appreciated viewers the pleasure of reading it yourself. I present to you all; a brief sixteen paged single spaced excerpt of my book A Wrinkle in A Rose Petal; please judge/criticize at will. Thank-you.

(I apologize for my ignorance of linking word-document attachments to my post. I've looked everywhere for the attachment button on this page but I can't find it.)

The dark man’s fingers wound more tightly about the squirming vagabonds palpitating green neck.. He intentionally and very gradually inserted the wrapped edge in between the latter’s rigid lifeless lips and with the tips of his sturdy pointed fingers he revolved the iron poles shaft, much to the overt distaste of the victim. The vagabond hurled his proportions about in an eccentric, distraught fashion but the tall figure was pitiless. The ragamuffins’s incessant pleas for mercy were left unheeded. The dark figure’s eyes glinted maliciously as if all he ever pined for was the unabated, irrational prosecution of the writhing serpent-like figure before him. Finally he ceased turning the shaft, the turbulent motions of the other increased and the prosecutor’s deathly silence followed by the rhythmic thumping of the victims futile attempts for escapement ensued.
The figure winced, grasped the tattered collar of the pulverized ragamuffin and through the crackles of shards of glass and wooden splinters dragged him to the door-less frame of the tavern. Over the crumbled ascending steps he leapt lightly, the muffled lamenting creature behind him called out in a most imploring way, unfastening the entity in his mouth by releasing a disconcerting scream. The tall figure peered about hastily half expecting some subtle witnesser to leap from a bush yonder on the outskirts of the moonlight rocks. A witnesser -or more correctly, a squat hobbling witnesser- did indeed appear and received the spectacle of the gagged vagabond on an alarming note. He elicited an obstreperous response which was quickly muffled by a gesticulation of his companion. As if speech failed him, the tall one began to engage in a succession of eloquent sign gestures indicating his want for silence and aid in removing the shaking body to the side of the tavern. The other obediently grappled the hole-filled, moss covered tan shoes of the vagabond and with the help of the tall figure’s hold of the slimy hands, relocated him to the right side of the tavern and set him down. The tall figure towered over the pale squirming body. An object glinted from the vagabond’s tattered shirt pocket and struck the malevolent man full in the eye. He discerned it at once to be a stately gentleman’s pipe and removed it with his finger nails taking great pains not to make hand contact with the insidious green slime. Its golden shaft and picturesque lip-rest shone dimly in the moon light as it gradually ascended to the dark man’s rosy red lips. He strode to the stout figure and inquired of a match, procured it, swiftly slid the scarlet end down his sleeve and incinerated the high class tobacco tipped end. His vein-filled yet non-fleshy index and middle finger wrapped tangentially over the golden shaft and he extracted it permitting wisps of ghostly smoke to ascend. His face shone lividly yet he could not suppress a motion of contentedness. He gestured to the other to stay put as he reentered the tavern and inspected the dazed moonbeam white figure which lay motionless and oblivious of everything about her.
She lay there calm and serene, a blithe, beautiful creature who could have been misconstrued for the likes of goddess Demeter in all her shimmering locks and sweet expressionless smile. Her mind was elsewhere, in a field of meadows and pastures, where frolic and joviality was abound. She was young and ineffably radiant with her reddish brown curls patting the sides of her face. Her arms swung about merrily in graceful, eloquent ballerina movements, the tips of her toes brushed passed those yellow flowers, those violet ones, those pink ones and those red ones. Those were the ones she recollected. Those were the ones she loved, the red ones, so redolent and bright, so cheerful, so filled with profound glory that they seemed prepared to burst. She stooped over to pluck one up in her immaculate golden fingers. Its redolence shone in her face, she gleamed and unconsciously fawned over it, petted it, permitted the friction of its stem to glide over her likewise rosy red cheeks and eventually fettered it in between her brunette locks. Wrinkled in winter, glowing and gay in spring, turning brown in fall and crumpling altogether in winter, they were the most beautiful things on earth.
The tall one treaded gradually to her and checked her pulse for any distinguishable sign of rhythmic beat or motion. Finding none, he brusquely arose and bid the other to enter. The stout one’s silhouette shielded the moonlight of a round portion of the tavern’s interior, and two beady hazel eyes peered down on the fallen goddess. His comrade beckoned to him and he lumbered through the creaking floorboards with the murky tavern light slanting off his corpulent cheeks and twinkling in his eyes. He knelt over her proportions and as instructed by the taciturn gesture of the other, cupped his massive palm on her back and delivered a gentle yet firm push. The taller one gradually massaged the nape of her neck with his left hand and with the other removed a bottle with ambiguous contents which he applicably pressed into her back.

The roses altered complection. The overt scarlet effect was now undergoing an ominous change. It appeared to be palpitating and writhing convulsively whilst turning brown and undergoing a superficial immolation process. It dispelled billows of black smoke, which churned, spun, and took the shapes of ephemeral diabolic creatures and then evolved, formulating into the leader of the demonic world, Satan himself. It was wilting steadily, then rapidly drying.

The two figures furiously engaged in several techniques of bodily revivement yet her pulse beat at a more gradual rate. Her lips parted yet nothing came, her hair was browner than ever yet conveyed no sign of life.
“Sh-sh-she’s gon’.” the inarticulate fellow muttered, “Hearts’a beatin’ lesser and lesser.”
“Not yet, Not yet.. There is hope left.. her temple vibrates slowly but consistently, our attempts are not futile and shan’t be.” the latter stated dubiously yet earnestly.

Complete darkness encompassed all that was left of her sublime envisionment of the rose and her body began to make a descent towards the underworld. She looked about imploringly for any sign of life that existed but darkness prevailed. She shook and stammered and subtle “Hello” yet realized that her voice wasn’t even audible to herself. She trembled and stammered inaudible words repetitiously yet summoned the attention of noone. She wistfully stared upward at the rose that was now nearly unperceivable in the thick blackness and frantically flailed her arms hither and thither as if wishing to once more ascend to grasp that redolent entity. That was her hope, her heart; it was being drawn from her. Surgically, wrongfully, carelessly purloined from her. Her arms and inaudible cries grew more dramatic as she gently swirled. .downward.. .downward.. .downward into despair and enigmatic oblivion. A white image flashed, in the darkness, static broke the image apart randomly then grew steady. A young, gay boy grinning from ear to ear, clapping his hands, and shaking his sides with laughter sat on a gate post with two young girls eloquently dancing left and right of him. Their impressive motions resumed for quite some time before they collapsed on the post and rocked from side to side in simultaneous joviality with the boy. The young lad soon leapt from his position with profound alacrity began to twirl about, somersault and skip much to the girls’ delights. One of his feet rose past his chest, close to his countenance, nearly touching his nose, then dropped suddenly and the other did likewise, then up went both feet simultaneously ending abruptly a few inches from his face and then lightly touching the ground and spinning his entire body into a front flip. Then again, and again, and yet again, each time eliciting a more obstreperous and ecstatic effeminate response from the giggling pair. They, too left their post soon and accompanied the lad in fine choreographic rhythm. A kick here, a kick there, a rock here a rock there, a sway this way and that, a prance forward and back, a laugh and a laugh, turning into a guffaw and they finally fell on top of each other as a heap on the soft, sweet green turf. The boy shuffled over on his belly and the two dames slid to the ground, laughing ever the more loudly with their cheeks aglow and their glistening teeth reflecting like newly furnished carriage wood. A brusque motion from the handsome male silenced them and they stared innocently at him with apt attention. The boy spoke, but the words came out in a prolonged squeak. The wistful viewer arched her neck, balled her fingers, craned her bones to distinguish but the tiniest sentence or phrase, but her world was a silent one. The gargantuan contraption she was ensconced within permitted nothing but stillness, eerie disconcerting stillness...

They were about to give up all hope and acknowledge that the goddess was indeed deceased, before the tall figure promptly motioned to the other to bring her in proximity to a collection of flickering candles mounted atop a rotted chestnut brown wooden table. Her celestial pallid features glistened vividly, her expression although untainted was deeply moving. Her hands softly clutched an invisible obstacle in the darkness as if she could feel it, see it, smell it...She felt as if she had undergone an epiphany; seen a long lost world which she pined for but couldn’t reach, could smell, but couldn’t touch, could lick, but would draw back due to its insipidity. Her almost unperceivable eyebrows were knitted and her eyes had a sharp pertinacious feel about them, which viewed upon by any good Samaritan would have stirred a sense of deep compassion and sympathy. Such a response was not drawn from the likes of the two fellow men who the goddess’ life was indebted to. Rather than savoring the immaculate woman, and granting themselves with respect for their selfless act of magnanimity, they reeled back voluntarily. The tall man majestically feigned his excitement by swiftly leaping to his feet and furtively buttoning his white cloak, and the other gazed questioningly from Vintrella to the figure. The tall one tilted his head slightly and gazed at the blank eyelids of the prostrate woman, with wild bewilderment and forced pretense to such a limit that he began unbuttoning and re-buttoning the buttons he had already buttoned. He eventually knelt down on all fours to peruse the girl and as if confirming his redoubtable thoughts, he melancholily turned to the squat man who’s likewise enlightenment of the goddess’ identity surprised him into consequentially inquiring:
“Wha’ ta’ devil she’s doing here?”
“Help me lift her up and we’ll find all that need be told when she is stable.”
“She wa’ supposed to be-”
“Cease your horses man! Give me a hand!”
The two hauled her awkwardly by the armpits to the tavern counter, propped her upright on a crooked stool and the corpulent man held her head firmly for she was too weak to control it herself. There was a subtle sound of a blade being removed from its sheath and the white clad figure carved a patch of silk fabric from her glistening attire. A blank patch of skin where the fabric no longer concealed it was perceivable in the ominous light. It was the only reflection of heavenly sweetness in the midst of the devil’s layer. The tall one nimbly cut the fabric into a polygon shape and rested it neatly under the unconscious dame’s head.
“Go fetch some whiskey, Its fumes will most likely cease her reverie.” the white clad figure commanded.
The recipient heard naught, his sole attention was fixed on the face of the unequivocal beauty before him. He raised his fat sloppy fingers, half expectantly wishing to touch her. To stroke her. Perhaps to cuddle her if he was ever so fortunate. To grin like a Cheshire cat for no purposeful reason and tickle her. To glide his fingers wistful-
“Damn it man! Bring some whiskey or she shan’t be anything more than a rotting corpse!” an ostensibly indignant verbal chastisement rang.
The squat one muttered apologies and hobbled off in search of the beverage. In a few moments he limped back with a mid-sized bottle of Scotch and a case of brandy. The other uncorked the Scotch and poured the contents in between her slightly parted lips. She choked and sputtered, coughing up minuscule particles of spit and shook rigidly.
Her eyelids parted gradually permitting the view of her damp and dark surroundings overshadowed by two contorted, shapeless figures. One of them, a seemingly tall man with a black entity shrouding his mouth, arose. Another imperceptible figure did likewise next to the first and the fluctuating quivers of both of their lips permitted the assumption that the two were engaged in discourse. By the way their countenances obscurely drooped suggesting doleful yet pensive expressions the goddess could only imagine that something direful had occurred. Her limbs unprecedentedly jerked and called upon the attention of the two, whose blurred faces rapidly altered their attention from one to the other and dawned upon the immobile figure.
“If she don’ revive in a moment or so we’s mine as well bury her back of the tavern.” the squat figure suggested, taking a slightly authoritative air with his right arm hoisted on his waste and the other attentively prodding his nose. Construing latter’s prolonged silence for that of consent he resumed. The other figure who took upon an implacably passive and feigned nonchalant air addressed the other from a more pragmatical perspective.
“The question is not where she came from, but why and how..”, he twisted his slightly overgrown mustache thoughtfully and eyed his bemused companion through knitted brows. “What fear could be brought upon any person to suddenly acquire the angst to leave a comfortable sanctuary and venture in the darkness at great personal risk to reach a..” he looked about his demonic surroundings, “tavern.”
The squat figure lifted a finger and parted his lips, “Say whats’ if a”
“A ramshackle tavern at that, you see, this business makes little sense.” the tall one rambled. “Unless of course..” he walked close to the brunette and rested his broad, sturdy fingers upon her back.
Before the other could inquire of this unexpected movement he knelt on hands and knees, and as if an idea had suddenly crossed his mind, stroked her left thigh down to her knee cap, from there to her calf. His hand ceased, his lips pursed, sweat drenched his countenance, and his skin paled more so than the goddess he felt. He frantically removed the brunette from her place on the stool and hurled her onto the wooden floor. With a bound he grasped her shimmering brunette locks and turned her countenance so as to perceive it clearly. The life was drenched from her face. The features of unflawed beauty etched on every vestige, every wrinkle, every trace of life which once flushed her proportions were now supplanted with dark blue meandering veins coursing towards black eyelids lacking pupils. Her blanche lips parted yet emitting not saliva, but blue fluids. And as an anaconda virulently and unabatedly wraps itself about an immobile victim, the rosy red veins of life were sapped and repulsive bluish liquid flowed like a malediction that won’t cease until the toll of death has passed.
“For the sake of moral people!”cried the white clad figure who witnessed all this as he held her ever so closely and suddenly releasing her, took up the stone-bladed dagger which lay a mere few inches from the black hole and departed the tavern. The distinct sounds of flesh ripping, slight gasping and movement permeated in the tavern, whence he returned holding in his left hand a shriveled green entity deluged in blood and his right, the stone bladed dagger. He incised her temple and placed the squared green flesh upon it.
She was not in complete darkness. Even when all hope appeared to be lost and the prospect of rejuvenation was slim a calm, endearing and loving voice was calling out to her. In the distance she could see a light. The blueness grew lighter, then entirely vanished to be replaced with red yet again.
“Hold her steady, hold her steady..” the tall figure placidly muttered to the other who obediently grasped the dame’s sides as she convulsively shook and choked. Her bluish streamed veins began to recede and as they did so, life was returned to her cheeks and lips. Her throat and heart began to inflate and deflate more rhythmically, her shoulders grew less stiffened and her eyes lost their demonic blackish glare. She sat up on the stool with a start and glared wildly about her, not noticing for a moment the figure who stood adjacent her or the one who sat inconspicuously in the corner. She dazedness and bafflement gradually uplifted as she looked about her odd surroundings. The flashing firelight, the moldy tavern infrastructure, the termite eaten floors, were all as she remembered it. Her recollection of how she had reached such a place at such an hour was quite vague and she grew frightened. She made an endeavor to get up and leave, yet something restrained her. She attempted yet again, but her effort was fruitless.
“Vintrella, tell me all that has happened” a strikingly familiar voice deep voice met the ears of the individual who was being addressed, and at once her head revolved and she perceived the tall figure. Her eyes fluttered to another quiescent dark body who’s figure although concealed in darkness was discernable by the shadow he cast. Her amnesia inconceivably vanished and in recognition of the voice’s bearer she unprecedentedly muttered... “Vargos?”.
The tall figure cleared his throat, “Yes.. It is I.”
“But what became of the-“
”Don’t trouble yourself over trivial details Ms. Vintrella.. The more

perplexing and imperative inquiry at the moment is what were you doing here and the reason you are here.” the doctor stated with wholehearted earnestness whilst extracting the vagabonds pipe from his white cloak, painstakingly rubbing its mouthpiece against his pants, incinerating the wide end, and inserting it in between his lips. “The answer to the first may be derived through reason. You came to the wrong place at the wrong time, meeting the wrong person who lead you here.” The latter stared blankly at him and said nothing. “Naturally the situation went a bit out of hand and he attempted to do away with you through poison..” Dragging and thumping noises pierced the air and in the elapse of a moment a heavy set fellow, none other than the doctor’s coachman sat on the other chair adjacent Vintrella.
“Why have you come here? Was my sister’s estate not lavish enough to cope with your austere demands and condescending ways; was its environment not pristine enough to satiate your farfetched fantasies?”
Vintrella reminisced. In her mind she sketched a mental note, that of a gorgeous mansion, a boy and a woman. She recollected Eva’s apoplectic attitude, her curt departure, a head peeking skeptically through the slit of a door and then an audacious lithe figure making its way down a winding staircase to a kitchen.
“Vintrella?”
The way he strained to relinquish her grasp, to procure.. He shook and writhed he fell.. Complete silence followed by the emission of his blood drenching the white tiles and like death permeating over a vast landscape it nearly reached her. All had occurred so rapidly, it was inexplicable..
“Vintrella!”

END of excerpt.

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