1. When you receive the Blog Award of DOOM your task is to post a short selection of your writing, 100-300 words, in which your favorite character suffers a horrible fate. It can be your favorite character from your own writing or from something you've read, it can be from a finished manuscript, a WIP or something you just made up on the spot. Your choice, but it has to be full of DOOM!
2. Pass it on to one other blogger and let them know their DOOM has come.
3. Remember that the person who passed the award on to you also received it as well. Go back to their post to read and comment on their writing sample. Make sure to thank them for sending the DOOM your way.
4. Whenever you use the word DOOM in your post, you must capitalize the whole thing.
I should say, right away, that I changed my mind about the excerpt I'd post it 5 times. I couldn't decide. I browsed through WIPs both old and new, seeking a DOOM scene that would be worthy of Margo's incredible DOOMish DOOMsday post. Let's be honest, I have nothing that DOOM-y.
Maybe SB, at Writing the Other, can do better. I bet you have some juicy celtic DOOM in store for us! (that's me tagging you, for the record)
As for me, I do have a DOOM excerpt, from White Echoes no less, which does feature a character I love to write. It should be noted that I haven't edited it. This is pure first draft. In short, Vermen is trying to get to the army's general by bluffing his way as someone carrying an urgent message. He has a captain uniform on.
Enjoy the DOOM!
He started down the street, to enter where there were more soldiers. If he appeared too close and out of nowhere, it'd alarm them. Three hundred feet ought to do. This entire plan hinged on balancing speed with believability. Vermen gave a silent prayer to Henry's winds and plunged in the open as Kurtmann continued to confess.
"... every word of the following recording is true. I have heard it in the past and done nothing. I am unworthy of the trust ... "
Vermen managed a hundred feet at a jog before anyone called for him to stop. He brandished the papers – "Message for the general!" – and hurried on. Soon another man grabbed his forearm.
"Slow down, soldier."
"That's Captain to you, corporal," Vermen said, before pushing past.
He bullied several more soldiers, repeating he carried a message for the general, with the occasional half-hearted apology. One hundred feet. He'd drawn too much attention. An officer called for him to stop and reached lowered his riffle.
" ... the Clarin twins are responsible for engineering and spreading the Threstle Plague ... "
The officer turned toward the radio for a second. Vermen barrelled into him and sent the man to the ground before speeding past and burst into the inn's street. He had the general's attention now. Fifty feet. Clarin examined him with a confused frown. Vermen threw aside the paper and flicked the blade out. Fifteen feet. Omar grabbed his pistol in a hurry and aimed it. Vermen took one stride. Two strides. Threw himself forward.
The pistol banged as he sliced with his blade.
He felt the bullet plunge in his midrift as warm blood splashed from Clarin's throat and in his face. General Omar Clarin would die. They fell to the ground together, his vision blurred out by the pain. Another bullet hit his shoulder, from the officer, and his tenuous link to consciousness went with it.
The last thing he knew was a flash of bright white light.