Attempting to Capture

Although I have accomplished the often considered impossibility,  found a publisher and watch my mysteries go from idea to print, I would love to become a World Builder. Nothing wrong with this Old World of ours you say. Perhaps for those lacking imagination, this is true; but think of the fun you can have starting over.

The opening page is the hardest. You can sweat months on an opening scene and blood (well I bit my lip) on  the opening page.

One attempt;

With the coming of morning, sunlight licked gently at the peaceful island of Enra a vibrant jewel set in the center of the green-gold river of Hels. Heavy cloud cover camouflaged the early dawn. Most of the populace still lay in the splendor of their self-induced dreams.

A Face to Face. "Death be damned!" Meath of the O'Enra spread his body on the Exercisemate. He stared at the monitor as the suggested program depicting his torture flashed in dismal enjoyment, while the soulless machine's computer assessed his physical requirements. Weeks of agony faced him. Deprivation of his palate alone would be undeniable cruelty.

Venetian-- that's what Chef called the wine and butter sauce with which he basted the duckling to a perfect umber. Saliva pooled in Meath's mouth. He savored the memory of his last decent meal for months to come. What a waste. Chef only had about twenty years of productive life left. Meath always referred to his cooks as Chef and never employed one who made use of artificial ingredients.

This was Meath’s own fault, but accepting responsibility for his neglected body didn't make it any easier. At that moment, he would have gladly flung himself from the machine had he been able; but wisely he had programmed the sensors not to allow it. He groaned as the manipulation of weak muscles and destruction of fat cells began. It was deplorable that a marvelous organ like his multiple brain still required this feeble carcass to sustain life. The prickly sensations on his head and body told him the re-growth process had started earlier than anticipated--he didn't realize he'd become that hairless. The inserting needles made his eyes water and his sinuses stuff up.

When, in his first lifetime, Meath found that his recessed genetic patterns held no fancier combinations than the simple picture he presented, he lost interest in improving his natural looks. Oh, it would have been simple enough to alter his codes. He could have been taller than five six, could have straightened his black curls, even caused thicker body hair, or lightened his olive complexion. All the work required to accomplish those changes would have taken time away from developing his brain capacity. Prior to several rebirths he planned to do this, but always he put it off to the next generation or the next until it ceased to concern him.

Only a Face to Face meeting could force the short fat human to subject himself to the torture of his Exercisemate. He knew his colleagues Cabrea of the DeDiann and Cray of the Bonsigh would be in excellent physical shape and he didn't relish their gloating expressions if he should sail into the meeting on his Transporter.

 A Face to Face? "Death and be damned!" Was Cray just displaying her usual paranoid tendencies or had something major occurred? Over the many generations of their research project, they'd been forced to cheat a bit to escalate the development of a small planet. Had someone discovered an inconsistency in their reports? Lately some members of the Faculty had suggested they might consider the termination of their experiment. Was this the reason Cray had called for a face-to-face discussion?

The machine continued manipulating his limbs until the pain caused him to sob out loud. "Death and be damned! 100cc of Argat!" He ordered the relief drug pumped into his pain centers.  His overweight body was forced to sweat so badly that even the controlled atmosphere of the cubical couldn't contend with the smell. Was it just that stench causing his sudden queasiness?