First Lines, 11/17/17
First lines of the novel I failed to write today:
"The faint smell of kerosene hung in the air. Robyn liked that smell.
She often lit that old Coleman lantern late at night, before curling up on the couch, waiting for him to get home from the bar. The light it cast on the outdated portrait of Pope John Paul II made her feel a tiny bit better. Safer.
She didn't know why she did it, honestly. It kind of reminded her of camping in the mountains with her grandparents. She liked the challenge of reading poetry by that dim light — Byron and Whitman and Thackeray. Through the sad realization that she would never know love like that, the idea that SOMEONE did made her happy.
Sometimes, she'd begin to dream of running away — until fear yanked her back.
She'd always been dragged toward the darkness on her way toward the light."
— Damien Willis
November 17, 2017