A new serial? Maybe


It’s been more than a while since I’ve poked around in here. In the time I’ve been MIA, things at work have gotten a bit crazy, my extracurriculars have gotten away from me, and I’ve taken up yoga! I’ve also been working on editing Secondhand Soul and continuing my rewrite of A Vampire’s Bride (still trying to come up with a new title for that one, too).

I keep meaning to at least do a prompt a week, but it just isn’t happening. So I’ll do them when I can. Thus, here I am!

A few of the recent prompt responses I’ve done have revolved around Selah and Nate, and a thing tentatively titled The Flamel Project. This is something that I’ve had on the back burner for a very long time – we’re talking years. It’s more sci-fi than fantasy, so definitely not my strong suit, hence why I haven’t worked on it. But it’s an idea that’s starting to take more and more of my attention, so I think I’ll work on it like I did on my other serials. Update when I can, and eventually I’ll have something akin to a draft.

And so here’s a snippet from that, courtesy of this week’s #ThursThreads prompt.

Prompt: “It can’t be too late.”

It can’t be too late.

I keep thinking the words, over and over, the mantra that keeps me from snapping. But it does nothing for Nate.

“Selah, stop.” Nate’s bloody hand tries to push mine away, but in his weakened state it just falls to his side. I continue putting pressure on his wound. “It’s too late.”

“No.” It was never my intention to get this attached to him, to care that he was dying in front of me. Hell, I remember when I threatened his life myself. And now here we are.

“You should…go. They’re going to…to get away.” He tries to move, but the pain makes him stagger.

Ignoring his words, I look around the room. We’re in a lab – there has to be something that can help him. What good is all this advancement, this stupid Flamel Project, if I can’t save someone? My eyes settle on a beaker that fell during the fight – and the only one our attacker hadn’t taken.

“Is that…?”

Nate follows my eyes. “You can’t…”

“I can’t let you die.” I take his hands and place them on the wound before hurrying to grab the beaker and a syringe.


“I know the dosage.” Though the side effects are unpredictable in people. But he knows that. “Please. Let me save you.”

Through shaky hands, I prep the syringe. Nate gives me a single, resigned look of pain. He’s as scared to die as I am to be alone.

“Do it.”

Hope you like it! Be sure to check out the rest of the responses, and give the prompt a try if it strikes your fancy 🙂

As always, think happy thoughts!

Update: This one earned an honorable mention!


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