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PROMPT: "Paranoia’s simply a word for seeing things as they are." –Momus It was blinding. His parents told him this would be painless; that if he had the Knowledge, he would awaken, and they would help him find his circle. It would feel like waking up with clearer vision, and an even clearer mind. But everything was too bright, and too terrifying all at once. The boy’s eyes flashed around the room to his mother, his father, and finally his sister, Shatki. It was like seeing three monsters wearing his family’s skins. “Chetan?” his monster-mother called gently, stepping forward. Chetan scrambled back, afraid. There looked like there was a hole in her chest–in all of their chests. A white, glowing orb, dripping in black tar, and he knew, though he could not say how, that the tar was evil, manifested. Get back! he opened his mouth to say, but the words would not come. “Chetan, breathe, okay?” monster-Shatki murmured, guiding their mother-monster a few steps back. Their monster-father only watched on, a hand over his mouth and eyes grave and sad. Chetan’s chest felt tight. “Can you tell me what you see? What is it you are afraid of?” monster-Shatki pressed. Ever since he was a child, Chetan had a sense for people. He could tell if a person was a good person or a bad one. He just…knew. Shatki always told him he had a gift for intuition; that she would always trust his judgement because he had never been wrong. When he sensed a person was bad, he avoided them at any and all costs. A wall went up, and he would go quiet, and he would hope and wait for the person to leave so he knew he was safe again. His mother chastised him for being paranoid. His father said he wondered if Chetan was alright in the head, though only when they thought he couldn’t hear. Shatki understood him. A special sense for each other through their twin connection. Their souls were connected, she would say, smile warm and eyes like chocolate melted in the sun. But this was not his Shatki. This was monster-Shatki, and while the white orb in her chest was brighter and whiter than of his monster-parents, there were still ink-spills of black. Seeing that sticky blackness smothering the light gave him that same sense of dread he got around bad people–paranoia, like his mother called it–only it was tenfold, choking the air out of his lungs and killing his in his throat. “Chetan,” monster-Shatki murmured, kneeling down and carefully laying out twelve books, the covers worn, and the leather in the corners curling up with age. “We can help you if we know what circle you are, okay? I won’t come any closer, and you do not have to speak. Can you point to the book whose cover you can read?” she prompted. Trembling all over, watching his monster-sister to make sure she didn’t come closer, he eventually turned his gaze to the book covers, eyes scanning over the runes on the front of each, one by one. Each was as unintelligible than the last. Maybe he was broken? Maybe he was unlocked wrong, and his brain was too weak to handle the strain. Shatki had done well when their mother unlocked her. She woke up, looking normal. She looked over the books and grinned when she found she could read one of the covers. Circle of Body, their parents said. Shatki had always helped him when he was hurt, and she tried to save every life–big and small. Body seemed appropriate. But why had he gone so wrong? Chetan’s eyes skittered to the last book and stopped. He thought his heart might do the same. Soul, the cover read. The Circle of Soul. Those orbs…they were… “Soul?” monster-Shatki asked, noticing Chetan’s body language change. Though she couldn’t read the rune, she knew where it fell in the order. “Is there something that you’re seeing? Is that what is scaring you?” It was not paranoia like his mother said. He wasn’t crazy, as his father implied. He was sensing people’s souls. And now his sense was stronger than ever, and his eyes burned with tears. Even the people he thought were good–his mother, his father…Shatki–none of them were. There was evil in their souls. And if his sweet Shatki had evil, everyone had evil. Nowhere was safe. Chetan hugged his knees to his chest, pressing his knees to his eyes to try and push away the images burned into his mind. In that moment, he knew he would never be safe. His voice was lost in his throat, and he didn’t think he’d ever get it back. In that moment, Chetan knew he would never say another word. In the process of reading article after article on how to appeal to an agent, I’ve come across some very conflicting articles where prologues are concerned. Some articles argue that if you wrote a prologue, when querying an agent, that you should include it if it’s where you want the story to begin. Others say that most agents have read too many bad prologues and will often skip past them.
So which is it? I do have a prologue to my book which is less than a page. It is a small snippet of the end which I intended to draw readers in and show what is truly at stake. I enjoy it, and I think it’s useful, but I know I’m too close to my own work to judge if it’s really necessary at all. I haven’t been sending it to agents because I worry that they will read the word “Prologue” and lose interest immediately. Is that a bit of an extreme worry? Probably, but it’s been enough to keep me from sending it. Tell me your thoughts: Should I start including it in queries? Is it better to leave them out? Is there a purpose to a prologue like mine at all? Let’s discuss in the comments! PROMPT: “Honestly, you’re kinda weird.” “Took you long enough to find that out.” “Honestly, you’re kind of weird,” Tarin mused, staring up from his coffee cup at the boy who had invited himself to sit at his table without any explanation. “Took you long enough to find that out,” the stranger grinned, wide and open as he bounced a little in his seat, sandy curls hanging around his eyes and sticking up like he hadn’t brushed his hair that morning. Which he hadn’t. Tarin raised an eyebrow. “It’s been five minutes, so I think I pieced it together quickly enough. I’m sorry, was there something I could do for you?” “Most people get there after two, but I’m flattered it took so long,” the blond teased back. “And no, I just like talking to interesting people and you looked like an interesting people. Person. You’re a person,” he rambled on, each word almost tripping into the next. “I saw you sitting here and you were doing this thing that you would start lifting your coffee up to your mouth and then your eye would catch on something in your phone, and it would just hover there until you put it down like you thought you took a sip and you didn’t and–,” “–Wow…” Tarin interjected, staring at the other boy in front of him. “That was a–,” “A lot?” he replied, finishing the stranger’s sentence. “Yeah, I sometime talk and I forget that I’m talking. Sometimes I get on these tangents because I think it’s happening in my head, but it’s coming out of my mouth. It’s why a lot of people think I’m weird.” Tarin’s lip quirked up in the corner, the environmental study he’d been reading on his phone forgotten as the screen had long since gone black. “I don’t think that’s why you’re weird,” he replied. “I think you’re weird because–,” The blond’s eyes flashed bright as he leaned in closer, making the faint freckles on his sun-kissed cheeks more noticeable. “Because I keep finishing your sentences,” he said, like a kid whispering conspiratorially about something he shouldn’t be doing. Tarin would have been lying if he said the odd twenty-something in front of him wasn’t intriguing. He wasn’t one for socializing, and he quite enjoyed not being bothered in public, but he couldn’t look away from the man in front of him. “Among other things,” he admitted. The stranger’s eyebrows twitched together a little bit. “What other things?” he asked. Tarin finally set his phone down, pushing one of his locs behind his ear. “Your shirt is on backwards,” he murmured. The lanky blond blinked, looking surprised a moment before he broke out in a loud, infectious, giggle, drawing the eyes of a few annoyed coffee-shop patrons. “Like I said, I’m an airhead sometimes,” he smiled, and damn if he didn’t make Tarin smile too. “I like you, Tarin. You’re fun.” Tarin opened his mouth to reply, but stopped, leaning back a little. “Did…I ever tell you my name?” he asked tentatively. The stranger shrugged and smiled, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Your coffee cup,” he murmured. Tarin snorted, shaking his head. “Fair enough.” As abruptly as he had sat down, the boy with the inside-out shirt was on his feet, fiddling with the hem a little bit. “I should let you get back to what you were doing, but I wanted to say hi because like I said, you’re interesting, and I like talking to interesting people, and I’m sorry for bothering you, but I’m glad I did.” Tarin frowned, surprised that he was sad to see the stranger go. “Wait,” he said, standing up quickly and turning, hip knocking against the table. As the coffee began to spill, Tarin grabbed the table and the table, the wood almost seeming to reach up and grab the base of the cup, righting it. It was almost too fast to see–anyone would think it was a trick of the eyes. Or, most anyone. The stranger paused, staring blankly at Tarin a moment before he stepped in closer, eyes wide and excited. “You are unlocked,” He whispered. “Circle of Earth, right? That’s so cool and that was an awesome trick and like…wow, I mean I thought you might, but I couldn’t be sure, and it’s not like you can /ask/,” he snorted. Tarin froze. Of course he knew other people were unlocked, but he’d never actually met someone else before. “You…you never told me your name,” he said quietly. “Hugh,” he smiled, biting his bottom lip. “Well, Hugh…I’d like to talk about this more,” Tarin murmured. “Perhaps we can get a drink tonight?” he asked tentatively. Hugh bounced a little excitedly, grabbing Tarin’s hand. “I’ll make sure my shirt isn’t inside out,” he promised. “I wouldn’t mind it if you did,” Tarin chuckled. Winking, Hugh reached up, pressing a finger to Tarin’s forehead. “You know my number now,” he murmured. “Call me.” And with that, he turned and left. “Mind,” Tarin murmured, watching Hugh practically skip out of the coffee shop. Sitting back down, Tarin unlocked his phone, eyeing the environmental study he’d been reading before pressing the home button and opening his texts. Opening a new text, he typed in ten digits instinctively. Hey weirdo. Hope I got the number right. Tarin lifted his coffee to take a sip when his phone buzzed. Where am I meeting you tonight? I was thinking about this place off of 50th? It’s tiny and kinda dark, and they have weird pictures of cats on the wall, and some of them are wearing bow-ties and… Tarin grinned, coffee cup still lingering close to his lips. Reading it over twice, he set the cup back down and set about replying. Sounds perfect. |
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