The weekend should be for resting but I've squeezed as much creativity out of it as I possibly could. Tonight, will be my rest night. Little TV, little dinner. All right.
This is coming out much faster than I originally thought it would. And its becoming longer than expected. An event I was leading up to that I figured would happen around page 75 has been pushed back to at least 130. I'm hoping to get a first draft finished within a few weeks then take a significant break. Maybe two weeks, then come back to it for the real work - revision.
Page Count - 114
As he bypassed the trophy altar he could hear the chk-zzzzz of the poloroid camera, the shutter closing and the picture sliding out from the mechanism. He stepped into the ticket booth and inched to the stairway door. There were a dozen steps leading to a room that looked like it was lit by the same candles as the terminal. When he placed a foot on the first step, the floor flashed brilliantly as the camera snapped another shot. He took the next steps very slowly, cursing himself for choosing to try and help the owner of the scream. Why had he even gone inside the Pinkston? His brother told him never to go there alone. And there he was, walking down into what, for all he knew could be hell itself.
It was too late to turn back, if the photographer or his subject were to look at the staircase they’d see his shoes and most of his jeans. He just prayed the photo session was satisfying enough that neither felt the need to look away. The artist turned the knife around in his hand so that the blade faced downward. If he were to suddenly be rushed, he might be able to bring the switchblade right down on top of their fucking head.