You Heard It Here.

Yesterday I avowed that I will, to the best of my ability, finish my novel FOUR by Sunday night. I'm going to be a writing maniac:

Last night I wrote 4200 words and finally made it into the final act of the book! This was a scene I've been looking forward to writing for ages--takes place at a revival, but there's something not quite right about these people.

It's been a long time since I've shared some writing, so here's a (rough) clip from what I wrote last night:

     The evangelist cupped his hands around the male’s head and lifted his face toward the ceiling. One of the spotlight beams cut a swath across his face, and for a split second, Torrin thought he saw a shadow moving beneath the sallow skin, but then the evangelist was speaking again. His voice so low, so silky.
     “Three weeks ago this boy’s mother called me, begging for me to pray to the Lord for strength. Her boy, her baby boy, had gone missing.”
     Torrin frowned and leaned forward. Beside him, Vinita did the same.
     “We prayed—Lord, we lifted our voices to God Almighty and begged for this boy’s safe return. Jesus, please—please, bring him back!”
     All around them, the crowd murmured and responded with the amens and preach it’s he’d only thought happened in movies. The evangelist panted, a sheen of sweat shimmering on his brow as he slowly moved his gaze across the crowd.
     “And on the third night, God answered our cries. This boy came walking through the front door, just like we’d asked.”
     His voice pressed at Torrin, almost physical in its insistence for him to let it in, believe its words.
     “But he was not returned to us the same.” He cradled the boy’s head against his chest now, stroking one finger down a hollowed cheek. “The Devil had taken hold.”
     Moans and shouts rose from the crowd. The air thrummed with excitement, like they were here to witness blood sport instead of religion, and thirsted for the first crimson drop to shed on the ground. Torrin glanced to his right, then left. The same glazed expressions every way.
     “The Devil has taken hold,” the evangelist repeated himself, voice louder, “but tonight he will be gone!”
     Before his voice finished fading from the microphone’s ring, the male in the wheelchair suddenly sprang to life. His head snapped up, eyes peeling wide. His fingers clawed against his legs where the restraints locked him into place.
     The evangelist grasped the male’s head and thrust him further into the light.
     “You are of your father the Devil and his desire is your will.”
     The male bound to the wheelchair turned on the evangelist, snapping ferally at hands that jerked out of the way just in time. In the flash of movement, Torrin saw the tips of fangs beneath the male’s upper lip.