Happy Tuesday!
Wait, what? It’s Tuesday?
Yup. Tuesday.
You sure about that?
All day.
Gee, that means it’s time for the FIRST post of a chapter from Volume One!
Starting today, I am serializing the chapters in all of my CASSIDY novels – Volume One on Tuesdays, The Road to the Stars (Volume Two) on Wednesdays, The Measure of Humanity (Volume Three) on Thursdays, and Volume 4 (title to be announced!) on Fridays.
This is going to be C1-B1-V1 (see yesterday’s post on naming), and there’s a funny story behind it.
Now, I don’t know if this is true of all writers, many writers, some writers, or just me, but I’ll often get a scene in my head – pop – and I’ll write it down. It might be short, or long; it may or may not lead anywhere (lots of those dead ends!). But the thing about these single scenes is that they are all complete as they appear in my head.
So there I am, 2012, and suddenly I get this name, Aiyana Cassidy, and a scene to go with it. I write down the scene and, as far as my memory can recall, it hasn’t changed significantly since. Of course, I had no idea that this one little scene – in the printed version it clocks in at just over one page – was going to kick off what is so far over 300,000 words, but hey!
Without further ado, Chapter One, Book One (Run Like Hell), Volume One.
Chapter 1: The Wedding
Her wedding day was perfect.
The late summer day was warm and bright that afternoon. It should have been; they’d paid enough to Weather Control to get it just the way they wanted.
Guests had been gathering for hours; their families and friends, enjoying the pre-wedding party, trading stories until the minister had gently shooed them outside. The ritual Exchange of the Prenups had been done, duly witnessed and countersigned. Then it was her time.
In later years, she never remembered the wait, or the walk to the altar. To her, it always seemed instantaneous, a jump from the interior of the hall into the sunshine, standing with her bouquet in hand.
Other details, she would always remember. Her maid of honor’s dress kept slipping, and she was constantly readjusting it, fiddling with the strap and supports as unobtrusively as possible. The old-fashioned tuxedo her groom wore, complete with vest, tails dangling behind. Her mother’s quiet pride. Her father’s attempts, ultimately futile, to hold back tears. The only intrusion of the outside world was the bright flare of the launch, distant and silent, of the latest shipment of supplies for the construction yards high in orbit. There was even comic relief, a squirrel perched in a tree, watching the proceedings and chittering his protests at the unwarranted intrusion into his space.
At last, everyone was in their place. The day, the hour, was at hand.
When the minister lifted his hand from beneath his tunic and showed the flechette gun, she grabbed her bride and groom’s hands and ran like hell.
