A little taster of a new Alien book I'm writing, nowhere near finished but I'd love some feedback.
So this is just a sample of a new book I'm working on, please give constructive feedback.
We join the scene with Sarah and George hiding from an alien in Sarah's bathroom.
He kneeled up. “Sarah, would you like, to, maybe, have a little of the” he hushed this next word, like it was tabooed, “sex with me?”
I laughed, I’m not gonna lie.
“What, right here in this bathtub? No thanks mate, you’re alright.”
“Well, you don’t want to die a virgin, do you?”
“There’s no shame in dying pure. There’s no shame in dying a whore. There is however shame in forcing someone into love-making by circumstance, not love. I don’t love you George, and you don’t love me. I like you, very much, but I’m not going to sleep with you. I’m sorry.”
“I get that. It’s cool.” He smiled. “You’re a pretty cool girl, Sarah.” I smiled.
“As are you, George.” He laughed. Then the doorknob turned, and I swear I jumped so much. I’d forgotten the alien now stuck behind the door. For now he was. I was sick right then, figuratively sick, of simply waiting for my death. I unlocked the door to just get it over with. George looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I was a little. Natros then opened the door and walked into the tiny room. George and I sat in the bath, entwined like ivy on a trellis. Natros stepped towards us. Shuffling back was futile, I realised. It would only fore us into a corner and panic us more, infecting our blood with the sour taste of adrenaline. I accepted my fate, sat in that bath below the creature, my pulsing hands in my lap, with George clinging onto me seeming to be out of it. Natros watched me, toyed with me, the way a cat toys with the idea of murder before the slaughtering of a mouse actually happens. His pointy thing glowed red, like a red-hot poker, and I wondered if it would be hot, if the searing pain would numb me before the real pain began. Or perhaps the colour meant more than that: Perhaps poison, or some awful technological torture. The ignorance was the most terrifying. Natros sensed my fear. He also sensed my acceptance of my fear, and he sensed that that did not detract from the fear. He purred something in his alien tongue, if a tongue he even had, and lowered his magnificent wings. He backed away from us. He said, in some accent I can never begin to describe, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” It sounded somewhat similar to how those with Downs syndrome speak. He then ran out. George slumped on me, so I slapped him. He screamed a little. I put his drifting head against my chest and whispered “It’s okay, it’s okay. We’re okay. The alien’s gone.” He cried a little, I cried a little. We went downstairs and watched Hot Fuzz for what was for me the hundred-billionth time and then Mum came home and sat with us for the disgustingly sticky end of Simon Skinner and then we fell asleep on the sofa and I swear we never knew we died at all that night.
Although that seems like the end, it really isn't just so you know.