Vincent Alliath
Baby Bat
Walking where none have before. Wordcount: 4% 1,504 / 35,000
Posts: 14
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Post by Vincent Alliath on Oct 2, 2008 4:24:40 GMT -5
Okay. I didn't know that we could have individual word count threads. Well... I'm going for 35,000 words this October... I didn't particularly want something as small as 30,000, although if I do get to that, I'll be happy. I also didn't want to go as far as 40,000. I failed NaNoWriMo last year, making it to eight and a half after about 5 days or so, then quitting. So this thread will detail my progress. Every day I'll edit in my progress. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Harlequin Threads ~ ProgressOctober the First, 4705, the Year of the Rat; Wu ZiI have reached the first day milestone in my long way to prosperity. I have written 582 words on this day, falling 584 words short. Tomorrow, I write double-quick. October the Second, 4705, the Year of the Rat; Wu ZiReached 1,504 words. Was attempting more. Got caught up and I need to go to bed soon. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Harlequin Threads ~ ExcerptIt was hailing that evening. Rain was absent, but the smell was not far off. The stench of urban smog hung heavy, pushing across the small suburban estate with the north-easterly winds. It was a chilly eight degrees, and indoors a fire roared, the flickering flames leaping and rearing skyward. A small child slept on the hearth, stretched out along the full length of the fireplace. The remains of a lobster’s broken carapace sat on a plate next to the child where the rug had been upset by perhaps a twisted foot as a person left their place on the ground. The chink of middle class plates from just a room over stirred the child; he did not wake. The clunk of feet on floorboards approached the fireplace. A woman bent and picked up the plate carrying the remains of the lobster and carried it back to the kitchen, where old cleaning habits ran their course. So far, this is just the first few paragraphs. I hope you've enjoyed it, and any problems? Point them out. I'll be sure to explain or fix it. kthxbai
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Post by Lily Munster on Oct 2, 2008 8:14:09 GMT -5
Wow, I really enjoyed reading that. It was really good... I want to read more now!!
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Vincent Alliath
Baby Bat
Walking where none have before. Wordcount: 4% 1,504 / 35,000
Posts: 14
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Post by Vincent Alliath on Oct 2, 2008 9:41:32 GMT -5
Have some more, then!!!!! =D I'm feeling generous. This isn't all of what I currently have but... meh.
~~~~~
It was hailing that evening.
Rain was absent, but the smell was not far off. The stench of urban smog hung heavy, pushing across the small suburban estate with the north-easterly winds. It was a chilly eight degrees, and indoors a fire roared, the flickering flames leaping and rearing skyward.
A small child slept on the hearth, stretched out along the full length of the fireplace. The remains of a lobster’s broken carapace sat on a plate next to the child where the rug had been upset by perhaps a twisted foot as a person left their place on the ground.
The chink of middle class plates from just a room over stirred the child; he did not wake. The clunk of feet on floorboards approached the fireplace. A woman bent and picked up the plate carrying the remains of the lobster and carried it back to the kitchen, where old cleaning habits ran their course.
The hailstorm subsided as the fire died down to simple hot coals, radiating no more heat. The child was sleeping upstairs, in his room, and dishes in the kitchen slowly dried, waiting for the dawn, whence they could be put away. Only one sat awake in that household, drawing slowly from his pipe and staring out the window.
He was missing something. Something he didn’t have yet – and quite frankly, hadn’t had yet – but he intended to get it, whatever it would come to him as. Maybe sitting in his warm lounge chair with a cushion under his ass, maybe that might just bring it back. If not, his smoke might.
He lay back, stretched out in his chair next to the deadened fireplace, sitting on the hearth, much the same as the boy had, although around a foot above the child’s place.
Drawing in from his pipe, the man smirked a little. Flickering shadows on the walls towered over him, at one point laughing, at another, screaming. He wasn’t sure during some accounts, and he mumbled to himself a little.
‘Harland, my dearest old chap. What will you do with yourself?’ he said. He wasn’t sure of what he was saying, but he knew the thoughts behind them, and he laughed a little, though not loud enough to wake the sleeping inhabitants.
‘You’ll do exactly as you should, my dear, and go to this place… this, Cherry Falls that Francis told you of, and you’ll seek yore inspiration, aye!’ He allowed his dialogue to slur into the dirty, slum mouth that it could be, continuing on along the way. On normal occasions, Harland would not allow his speech to dissolve into the intricacies of the normal life.
‘Yes, yes! Cherry Fails! Nay! Falls! I’ll go there, and meet with my muse, for he’ll be a beautiful man, or woman. He’ll love me, aye, he will… or she. Either really.’ Bursting into a coughing fit of laughter, Harland contemplated the idea that his muse would be a man. Couldn’t be, at least not with the father he had.
His delirium in this smoke would continue until dawn, when the haze of smoke in the living room would actually wake him up more than drowse him, and he would need to blow it all out, lest his mother find that he’d been smoking indoors again.
His delirium, however, lasted not another moment as the drowsiness that was inherent of a hard working day crept over him, letting the dawn’s first rays strike closed eyes.
The dishes sat dry in the morning sunlight, the occasional wisp of the laughter smoke drifting across them. The majority of the smoke was gone from the two rooms, and the young Harland Rynders had moved from the lounge chair to his own bedroom at some point during the morning.
The young child sat upon the hearth this time, playing with his toys as his mother began descending the staircase, muttering to herself, having just attempted to rouse Harland from his gentle slumber.
‘Drifted in from the courtyard, my god, that boy thinks I’ll believe the sun is black and the ocean red.’ She whispered, careful not to let the child hear her ramblings. Children were impressionable, and she had to be careful not to let slip her elder son’s life in front of the younger, lest he pick up the bad habits – that were not only habits to Harland, but ritual – that his older brother had gained.
Of course, the woman – the mother – knew the sun was orange and the ocean a kind of blue-green the colour of her eyes, although this mattered little to her. Everything had now faded to that same gray colour of the laughing smoke her son let wander.
She let her son continue his play on the hearth, knowing that when he finished subconsciously cleaning up the rest of the smoke that he would be ready for his lunch and a subsequent afternoon nap. That would settle the boy, and by the time he woke up, his brother would be “out” and his mother cooking dinner.
Genevieve Rynders oft wondered what was happening with her son. Of course, puberty was an option to settle her mind and stop her wonderings, although deep down, even she – a woman with no credentials, without husband, and living off her inheritance – could see that it was far too late, at the age of twenty-three, for her son to be going through hormonal changes.
No. There was no hormonal change. He was lost in life. So what was he doing? Going on vacation, no doubt…
It had angered her slightly when he had told her the news. “Going to Cherry Falls, mum, off in the country, it is. The trip should be a good, fun larf. Francis said I should go. Need some inspiration, you know. Bit of a change from our current mis-en-scene, wot?” At the end of his little explanation, he had tapped the side of his nose, and it had knocked her a little off-balance, seeing her son do what once had been her husband’s… thing.
Genevieve Rynders missed her husband and nothing her son would do – do subconsciously, mind – to copy her late husband could replace him. She could, however, see her husband shining through her son; both of her sons, in fact. Her youngest, of course, was taking on different aspects, becoming quite a little engineer, always playing with the kinds of cars that his father had dreamt of driving. “Living the dream, mum, look at what I’m doing! Driving where none had before… beyond the grave is calling, mum!”
The voice came to Genevieve at an aukward moment, and she shuddered. She looked at the dishes in her hands and continued to put them away. She stopped thinking of her children’s voices.
The plates took over her hands once more, allowing her mind to drift whilst they put themselves away, leading to the next activity; cleaning, which also went along by its own self. Genevieve Rynders worked hard to keep what some called a “tight shift”, though she definitely thought it could be summed up in a single word. Genevieve Rynders called it mothering.
U liek? It should be known that this isn't revised, and therefore, the "online" version lacks italics and such in some places. Sorry if there are some blocks. MY BAD! Anyway, if you like it, Exaltment plz? kthxbai
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Vincent Alliath
Baby Bat
Walking where none have before. Wordcount: 4% 1,504 / 35,000
Posts: 14
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Post by Vincent Alliath on Oct 15, 2008 0:57:53 GMT -5
Hey guys. I haven't forgotten about this. I've been absolutely swamped with school work. I've had my Biology EEI (Extended Experimental Investigation) to work on, and still do.
I've 2,415, but haven't written since the Second. Sorry, but I might not be able to write. I'll have to try and have a few psycho writing days. October's a bad time for me.
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