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Hi Parimis!

This is the first chapter of my previous novel, Forgiving Footprints, which I *coughs* kind of dumped. I started it three years ago and I guess I grew out of it (talking animals are awesome, just not in the real world!) It also involved the police and genetically modified corn companies, which required way too much research and confinement to rules for my taste, so I switched to fantasy where I only had to conform to my own rules 😛

Since I’m working on the prologue and first chapter of my WIP, I thought I’d pull out my best attempt at a first chapter and see what you thought of it. I’m mostly wondering about pacing and suspense (our annual theme YAY!) and also how you feel about the MC, Ginger, as you’re meeting him for the first time (I’d ask you what you thought about Paddler, but since his only appearance here is viewed through Ginger’s…well…mud-tinted glasses I don’t think you’d get a very fair impression of him.) If you could point out anything else you notice as well, that would be awesome!

@j-a-penrose @evelyn @julia @ariella-newheart *has no idea who to tag*

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Water poured out of the drain spout and plummeted in a solid cataract atop Ginger’s head. He shook himself and ducked through the cat door, moving quickly to be sure his tiger-striped tail wouldn’t be caught under the flap. A clap of thunder shook the farmhouse, and a vase of wilted daisies rattled on the table. Shuddering, Ginger sat down by the sliding glass door to groom his long, sleek orange fur. A bolt of lightning sliced across the sky, and for a brief moment the streaks of water on the window glittered.

What a miserable night, thought Ginger as he watched the rain beat incessantly against the window. I wonder how Paddler feels, sleeping out in his doghouse with the leaky roof. Not that I care; he deserves it anyway, rude slop that he is. Maybe the rain will wash some of the mud off his legs.

The stuffy closeness of the air around him reminded Ginger of the reason he had stuck his head outside. Although he hated getting his fur wet and matted, he longed for a breath of fresh air. Jumping through the cat door, he dodged the stream of water from the gutter and breathed deeply. It felt wonderful to be out of the humid house.

The rainwater was cold, but that was not why Ginger shivered. A thump echoed across the farmyard, but it was not thunder. Something flickered by the barn, but it was not lightning. At the bottom of the hill, Ginger spied the sinister shadow of a hunched human clutching a flashlight. Someone was trying to break into the barn.

An electrifying flash of lighting momentarily blinded Ginger as he squinted to catch a glimpse of the intruder. He was gone. Ginger’s heart thudded almost as loudly as the thunder that followed. It’s just tricks on my eyes, he told himself. Just tricks. He couldn’t have really been there. It’s late, and dark. I’m just seeing things.

A gust of wind unexpectedly whipped rain into Ginger’s face. He dove through the cat door to escape, and water ran down his chin and dripped on the floor. Pacing across the living room, Ginger tried to calm his pounding heart. As the storm abated, the Stranger seemed less and less real. Did I only dream he was there? Ginger wondered. I know I went out there because I’m wet. A trail of drips across the floor and a puddle by the door testified that. But surely there is an explanation. Who would have come on the farm?

Ginger’s anxious thoughts left him restless and bewildered, but at last the drumming of rain on the roof lulled him to sleep.
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“What a noisy slop,” muttered Ginger as he sulked down the hill after lunch. “That Paddler just can’t help but slosh through every single puddle in the farmyard.”

He had already been splattered several times, and, as usual, Paddler had not stopped to apologize.

For a year Ginger had lived peacefully on the farm. His mother had lived there before him, and her mother had lived there before her. They were such adept mouse catchers that every kitten was claimed before it was born. When Ginger’s mother grew old, Mrs. James, the farmers wife, claimed the final kitten. She plucked little Ginger out of the litter and clasped a pretty blue collar around his neck. Since that day, Ginger had been her special pet.

The mouse population went up and up and up, until Farmer James could hear them creeping about in the attic all night. Ginger had never caught a single mouse in his life. As the pampered pet of the farmer’s wife, Ginger lived a lazy life of luxury. His days were spent prancing about in the farm yard, curled up in the flower garden, or standing on the hill overlooking the farm. He received a treat every time he walked in the door. In Ginger’s daily routine, there was no such thing as work.

For one year his life had been perfect. Then came that dreadful, fateful, abominable morning when Paddler arrived.

The moment the disheveled, over-exuberant lab tumbled out of the back of the car, Ginger knew his adversary had come. The moment their eyes met, an icy coldness flickered over them. The moment they turned away, a bitter feud sprouted inside their hearts. Whenever they met, they clashed.

For two years they tried to ignore each other, silently wishing the other would disappear into thin air. For two years Ginger had felt empty and lonely. He had everything he could possibly want – or so he thought. However, under his hardened shell he was miserable. He longed for something more, but he didn’t know what it was.

As Ginger trudged down the hill, desperately trying to drown out his unhappy thoughts, something caught his eye. It was a footprint. This doesn’t look like Farmer James’, Ginger noted, frowning. The footprint glared at him like an open doorway to a dark hallway. Everything he had seen the night before flooded back to him. Someone had crept onto the farm. Someone did try to break into the barn. Someone was threatening Ginger’s safe, comfortable life.