I'm writing a thriller. Dabbling in a new genre. There's no doubt I still have some romance stories bottled up somewhere deep inside of me - but for now... I'm finding the creepiness and suspense of the thriller genre so enthralling I had to try it out for myself.
I'd love your thoughts on my intro... if it receives a good response, I may even post the first chapter ;)
Happy reading, book lovers.
*
The Eulogy
Written by Jade Wright
Introduction
A gypsy adorned in scarves and intricate jewellery sat across a cloth covered table from me. Streams of golden light shone onto our faces from a tiny cracked window in the corner of the caravan. Children's laughter echoed hauntingly from the world outside. Food sizzled on a grill, making my mouth water. As my subconscious senses picked up on all of my surroundings, one question alone was screaming in my mind. Who am I?
The faint smell of cedar-wood floated through the caravan in wisps of smoke. Dangling rose quartz, strung up druzy stones and wind chimes blew in the wind. The musical sound of the clanking copper tickled my ears playfully.
“My vision’s hazy,” the gypsy said, squinting into her crystal ball.
“This is ridiculous! You’re nothing but a money making scam!” I flooded with rage. Snatching up the ball, I peered into its hopeless swirls. This was my last hope, it had to work.
Just as I was about to hurl the ball furiously across the room, a mans face shone right out of it, looking directly at me. It shocked me so much that the ball slipped from my grasp and clattered noisily to the floor. It split his face in two.
At first I didn’t recognise him. His handsome jawline and dark features, his deep set eyes that instantly chilled me to the bone. The soft splatter of freckles across his Roman nose and his gorgeous lashes any woman would be envious of.
It was hard to tell with features like his if he was good or bad - the contrast of the two was like an art. A masterpiece.
You know him… a voice whispered from somewhere deep inside of myself, making me look harder at his face.
That weary look in his eyes, the crooked smirk and deep dimple wedged into his left cheek. The cleft chin and chipped front tooth that made his plump lower lip jut out to one side.
Who are you? I tried to cry out to him but no words came out of my mouth.
The gypsy was rising from her seat, folding up the deep red table cloth and telling me the time was up.
“No, I need to know what happened to me! Please?” My voice shattered around me.
“I cannot help you if you cannot help yourself.”
She began blowing out countless flickering flames dancing on candle wicks.
“I don’t know what you mean!”
“Who is the man in the crystal ball, Liz!?”
“Liz. Is that my name?”
“I’ve already said too much. Who is the man in the crystal ball!?”
Her voice echoed through my eardrums with magnificent force, dizzying me. As she started to repeat the question, I realised she was going into some sort of trance. Her body was vibrating to the energy around us. The candles she’d blown out caught alight again as if by magic inside of her portable home.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about!”
Shaking, I reached out and touched her ice cold hand, trying to free her from the ritualistic dance.
Static shot through my body as our skin touched.
Everything went black. All I could smell was smoke.
Sifting through the darkness to find the gypsy, her worn face appeared so fast in the blinding light that I gasped in fright. I tried ripping my hands away, but she had them tightly in hers.
“He’s your husband, Liz.”
A falling sensation, as if I were spiralling downwards. Plummeting. This was it. I was looking down, watching myself hurtling towards earth and screaming helplessly through the black abyss. Soon, I would meet my death.
*
Thrashing violently awake in a cold sweat, my hand found the stitches on the side of my head. They had unraveled in my sleep. The wound was now oozing blood. There was no way I could go to the doctor, it wasn’t safe. I knew that, but I didn’t know why. I’d have to wait it out in the motel room for a couple of days.
As a nurse, I knew more than enough about dressing a wound and short term memory loss after a concussion - and that was exactly what I had. A concussion.
How it had happened was the part that I couldn’t put back together. It was all starting to come back to me in small, uneven chunks. Finding out what was real and what was not was the problem. Am I a nurse? Is my name really Liz?
Dressing the deep cut across my temple seemed to be second nature to me. Like riding a bicycle. I just knew what to do. I’d done it a thousand times before.
The sound of ‘Liz’ seemed right, too.
I twisted the bands around my ring finger as if by habit. They were beautiful, with diamonds encrusting every inch of white gold around the sides and one ginormous rock set in the middle. I had a husband. Where was he?
