An excerpt of the novel I'm writing:

There wasn’t enough space in my  head to store the events of the last hour. So I just let my thoughts trickle out my ears and pool around the base of my neck where sweat and blood had already collected. The labored sounds of someones breathing a few yards away was playing at my sanity and I had half a mind to relieve them and myself of their suffering. With the exception of a few random explosions every now and again and the person’s breathing, the darkened warehouse was still and quiet. The Revolution, long and bloody had finally staggered to an end. And now, the hopes of the Malsalvia Manifesto could be realized.

I was ten when I first heard the name Malsalvia. I caught hints and whisperings on the tips of my parents’ tongues. Sometimes I heard conversations between them and their friends late into the night when I was supposed to be sleeping. It was on everyone’s breath that came into our home, but only found voice with the windows shut and the shutters drawn tight. It seemed like their meetings where always simmering with the kind of intrigue and excitement a boy my age could only dream of. I wanted so much to be a part of whatever they were planning. “Malsalvia,” I would say, “He must have been some kind of great warrior or something.” I was going to be like Malsalvia some day. But then again, how many people’s childhood dreams come true?

“Naushda?” It was my mother calling, I was supposed to be practicing my forestabine. It was an instrument akin to what some people call a mandolin, but it was made from wood that was treated with a special kind of shellac that made the sound much more deep and rich. It was like the sound a tree would make if it had an actual heart to beat . . . of course some of the ancients in the village thought they did. Years and years ago, there was a movement among the people to remove civilization further and further away from what they called our “Mother Earth.” It’s how we came to be under the rule of the Compaltinos. There was a push for greater and greater technology to keep humans from relying on the fruits of the Mother Earth. We were to be independent from Her and reside only as guests and to act as such in our day to day lives. Our government that had grown strong on the backs of sober-minded and God-fearing men collapsed under the economic strain of such advancements . . . and that was when the Compaltinos moved in. The ancients are the last remnants of the “Children of the Earth,” the most extreme group of the movement. Their guant figures and far away eyes told the story of their existance. They only ate what they already found dead and only lived where shelter was naturally provided. My mother wouldn’t let me near them. She said they were bad luck.