The Hunted.

 Drafts are a must. Re-writes are expected. 

No writer worth their salt really believes that perfect works happen every single time, first try. 

Sometimes, though...

But usually there are going to be re-writes, drafts.

And since I am trying to be worth my salt (yes?) and because my Form and Theory of Fiction professor made me, I wrote several drafts of the following story. You may remember it from this post back in September.

The story was originally called Forbidden.
 But after much deliberation and back and forth, I've settled on The Hunted.  I may expand it later on. We'll see.
As always, I am open for critique and suggestion. So read and comment away. And thank you for your time. 

The following text is completely and entirely authored by me, Brooke Arceneaux.
All content is original and Copyright, 2011.

The Hunted

By Brooke Arceneaux 

She was laughing and looking back at him as she ran. Her dark eyes were sparkling, loving him as they moved through the jungle. He was catching up, his hand almost reaching her. Her yellow dress and silky skin flashed before him. He was also laughing, panting. He wanted her. And she was in his arms. Her sparkling eyes staring up at him, smiling for him, trusting him. Flashes of skin. Panting. Bare legs and back and buttocks. He reached for her...

 Kairu rattled into consciousness as the over-crowded bus came to a halt in front of the hotel. The old man standing next to him bumped his shoulder as they surged forward in the stop. Kairu hadn’t realized he’d been daydreaming for so long. He was sweating from the memory of that day, from the memory of her, from his desire. It was so long ago, a lifetime it seemed. That particular memory had been surfacing with more frequency, bringing Lela's memory back into his life, back from the dead. Tucking the small bone carving that hung around his neck back into his shirt he wondered if Lela would have liked it here in the city. She had given him that necklace when they were just youths in the village, long before they would run through the jungles together. An eagle’s head, she had said, because you are a strong protector. She had told him then that she knew he would make a good husband and father one day. And he had told her then that he would take them away from that place. Moving toward the front of the bus, Kairu remembered her words before he’d left the village eight years earlier. I will wait for you. He meant to establish himself in the city, to escape the disgrace his father had brought to their family. He was going to make a good life for Lela here, for himself. He just needed time. And then time robbed him of her. He had barely signed his first apartment contract when she'd fallen ill and slipped out of his world. Until recently, he had never felt for another woman, but he had known many. Scores of women had helped him forget the pain into the wee hours of the night. Eight years it had been. His heart had grown cold, empty. If only he had been there to save her... Stepping down off of the bus he wiped his brow and started toward the great building before him. The Grand Kenyan was situated on the northern most tip of the city, set apart and above everything else. Its great white pillars seemed as tall as the jungle trees and dotted all along the covered patio were oil lit torches that gave the white building a soft amber glow. He thought it looked like one of those plantation homes that he’d seen on an American postcard once. Pushing open the front doors he thought that Lela would definitely like this place.

Kairu walked up the creamy marble steps straightening his name tag. The lobby’s lights had already been dimmed for the evening’s pleasure and he thought the golden ambience somewhat resembled the dusky savanah he had once called home. Cresting the grand staircase he paused and examined himself in the scroll-framed mirror for just a moment before crossing the lobby. He had to stoop a bit to see the top of his head. Neither thread nor hair was out of place. The khaki vest he’d chosen was perfectly pressed and complemented his hunter green shirt very nicely. His hair, neatly cropped, was barely visible as its intrinsic color blended with his skin. He leaned in toward the mirror to examine his face that was freshly washed and smooth as velvet. Frowning, he ran his finger over the old scar that was still prominent under his right eye. The ladies always liked his scar. They would say that it made him look dashing, that he looked dangerous or savage. But they would never ask about it. They would only speculate on its origins. He would never really tell them about it either. It was important that he looked the part. He was refined, impeccable, and most importantly, native.

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