It's that time again! As I detailed in the last 'What If' post, I’m going to give you a brief scenario. You imagine that you are the character in the scene and write what you would do as the MC of the story. You do NOT have to be a writer to participate!
So come on and give it a shot. It’s simple and fun!
Here’s your scenario:
The blaring of car alarms yanks you from sleep. Your eyes open. The room is dark, aside from beams of light crawling along the ceiling from the traffic outside your window. A glance over at the clock reveals it’s still much too early to be awake – just after three. The alarms continue to make a racket from below. That’s Detroit for ya. You cover your ears with a pillow and squeeze your eyes shut in hopes of miraculously falling back to sleep. Problem is, you’re a writer. You know that once you’re awake, there’s no going back.
After a few minutes and a good effort, you kick your feet against the mattress in frustration then sit up. Curses from two men arguing outside echo through the skinny side street and compete against those obnoxious horns and sirens. Not again. You don’t bother to peek out because the last time you did, you were met with a glare and a threat. And since you’re single, living alone, there’s no point in making every night a sleepless one by stepping in to save the day. The dueling alarms and the bickering have at it while you saunter toward the kitchen.
With a yawn, you flip on the light, rub your eyes then reach for the coffee tin to make a pot. The ideas are already swirling in your mind; the dialogue of your characters battling the noise outside. “Better make it extra strong,” you murmur. Coffee’s percolating as you make your way to the living room. Would someone please turn off the damn alarms?! It’s hard to believe they’re still going. The culprit who set them off must be long gone by now. You flip on the TV, not bothering to watch the news report. It’s only meant to be background noise to hopefully drown out the incessant ruckus in the streets.
Grabbing your iPod, you plop into your desk chair and power up the computer. When the screen flickers bright, you plug in the earbuds, pull up the Word doc and prepare to go to town. A series of thuds, like bowling balls falling onto the ceiling can be heard through the percussion solo of the White Rabbits. You look up and frown. Friggin vampires.
They haven’t been part of society long. Only in the last few years has anyone actually seen one. They’re night hunters, feeding mostly on the blood of animals. A ruling of the courts recently made it possible for them to integrate into society. Warmies, they call you, of course referring to your blood. This social acceptance of them bothers you for some reason.
For the most part, the vampires are quiet. They keep to themselves. But there’s something odd about the noises you hear upstairs. Naturally they happen at night, and usually you’re asleep. But sometimes they’re so loud they rip you from your dreams. If you had to compare the noises to something, they sound like bodies being dragged across the floor.
You pull your earbuds out. The alarms have silenced. The men have stopped bickering. Only the chatter of the news remains.
Then the sound of a yelp sends you flipping out of your chair.
You crash to the floor, momentarily dumbstruck, and look around for the source. Your eyes settle on the TV screen across the room. The news report. A banner flashes across the screen. In large block letters, a bold contrast to the fearful expression on the news reporter’s face, it reads: VAMPIRE REBELLION.
The small screen floating to the right of the reporter’s head broadcasts a grisly scene. Vampires attacking Warmies in the streets of Los Angeles. Rebellion? You rise to your feet and glance back in the direction of your bedroom window. Swallowing a gulp, you turn and tiptoe toward it. Will the bickering men be dead; lying in a pool of half-sopped blood? Worse, yet...will there be a brood of vampires feeding on them? Your ears strain to listen for sounds from above. Halfway there, a pounding at the door freezes you in your tracks.
Your hand flies up to your mouth and a scream dies in your throat. Thump, thump, thump. Your pulse is racing. You pivot on your heel and glide against the hardwood floors, sneaking toward the door to look through the peephole. Thump thump thump. With your nose pressed against the door, you squint one eye and peer through the hole with the other. Oh no…