The weekend’s almost over, but I’ve got a lot of work done. I’ve been focusing on the style of Grim Curio. Check out the first couple paragraphs, all newly rewritten:
The wailing of worn iron hinges ripped me awake. The sound grated. It squealed with an irregular rhythm, accompanied by constant popped corn sounds of spores, carried in the air, beating against the thick, wobbling sign out my window. The sign read:
Detective of Anomalies, Curiosities, & the Supernatural.
It was a lie. I was no more a detective than a believer in ghosts. Trial and error led to those words, eventually the right combination lured in leads. Some believed spirits wallowed in nooks of sheet metal, abandoned factories, ventilation ducts sucking air to lower zones, they believed they were cursed by clay baubles mixed with toxic spores, or that the very electricity running sporadically through Refuge — lifeblood of the world they called it — lay in wait, ready to fry blasphemers in their rusted hovels. But no. Loose wires in metal houses have no conscious. But sometimes, rarely, I discovered the answers I was looking for: evidence of the nature of the universe itself.
How do you think its coming?