I’m almost embarrassed to share this on my blog… but I’m about to kick off my big rewrite of The Day I Wore Purple and thought it would be appropriate.
The following excerpt is my VERY FIRST TIME ever writing prose outside of school work. It was September of 2009… and I decided to become a novelist.
The rewrite begins today, and when the new prologue is ready, I’ll post it for comparison. In the meantime, enjoy this blast from my past!
(Did I really just say “blast from my past”? I’m sorry…)
Paris, June, 2381
It was 90 years ago that they parted; 90 years since they last spoke outside his memories.
A warm breeze rustled the branches of the oaks that lined the banks of the Island of La Grande Jatte where the couple lay. Not a mechanical breeze, the man thought, though the towering power-plant was less than a mile away and visible over the bridge. The gust smelled sweetly of spring blossoms and rain. A real smell he thought and touched the woman beside him.
Today was their day. A picnic. He packed the appropriate food and she dressed for the occasion. A purple dress; thin straps around the shoulders and a split from the hip down. Not a dress for a picnic, but this was a special day and she could wear whatever the hell she wanted.
The device on his arm clicked with each tiny increment of time, allowing the man to know exactly how long he had with the woman. To be on the same plane of time as one another–his second was her second, his minute was hers–could there be anything more erotic? Time would not be slipping away today.
Two teenagers galloped across the bridge lobbing pebbles into the stream but the couple paid them no attention. They were focused on each other. Finally.
In an age of endless, meaningless memories, the man used every ounce of his concentration, every molecule in his fingertip, to record the feeling of the tiny hairs on the woman’s bare back. He would remember this day forever.