WIP Shining Through, Excerpt #1

WIP

Author's Tidbit

I do have more, but I am keeping the rest to myself for further revision. I'm purposely keeping a few things vague, so I do apologize. This is a little experimental, but it may may make it to the"final cut". So enjoy this little teaser. Plus, I'm still working out a few of the kinks here and there, but I hope to accomplish a novel someday. I have so much worldbuilding already completed, and now I am in the actual writing portion in which I must put my brain onto the page. Please grant me the sweet release of death I so desire.

"Think we'll get eaten by a mountain lion?" Marcel asked, kicking a small rock along the trail. He watched it skitter along the dirt path until it stopped a few feet away.

"Nah. They're a lil' further up north, you know, in the mountains." Beth replied. She shone the flashlight off the path, searching for a sign of wildlife. Eyes, a fluffy tail, even a silhouette. It didn't matter, so long as she could capture a photo to add to their growing scrapbook at home.

Upon catching up to the rock, he kicked it again. Instead of skipping ahead, the rock skeetered off the trail. He didn't bother going after it. "Uh huh, I'm calling bullshit. I saw one on the highway like, two years ago."

"They like to explore." Beth gave him a dismissive wave of her hand. "Don't worry, you're too small to make a good meal. You gotta be bigger than a twig for something like that to eat ya ass."

"If I wanted my ass eaten, I could just start dating."

Beth snorted a short laugh. "Buddy, you couldn't catch a guy with a bear trap."

Marcel put his hand to his heart in mock distress, "Wow okay, harsh."

"Truth hurts, shorty. Don't worry, there's worse shit out here than lions and tigers and bears."

"Oh my," he remarked flatly.

"No seriously, my gran says these woods are haunted."

"Your gran says a lot of things," Marcel quipped.

"Well yeah, but has anybody told you why they call this place Rotter's Grove?" Beth said with a low voice, dramatically rolling her tongue with the 'R'.

"No."

"Well, it all started with a guy named, uh, well I don't know," she muttered, scratching the back of her neck. "I've heard it from like, four different people. Can't remember the name for the life of me."

"If you can't even remember the dude's name then maybe it's a bunch of hot bullshit."

"No no, back to it. They call it Rotter's Grove because this dude looks like he's decaying. They say you can smell him before you see him. That's your warning to get out of the woods before he gets ya."

"Are you sure it's not just an angry hobo? Or maybe that meth addict I see hangin' around downtown?"

"Marcel," Beth's tone grew higher in pitch and volume- a tone which Marcel referred to as the Mom Voice, which was often reserved for him and his wisecracking attitude.

"Look, I'm just sayin' if this thing's so popular here, why aren't there videos and pictures of it posted everywhere? Maybe a website? If the legend is true, then why isn't it on one of those ghost hunting shows? You don't even see middle schoolers out here looking for a scare."

"Well, not too many people have actually seen the Rotter." The hoot of an owl stopped Beth in her tracks. She glanced up into the trees. She held up her camera and snapped a picture. The flash effectively frightened off the owl, who had been silently watching them from above.