Day 3, am, 4128 words so far. 978 this morning

The elections kept me from writing last night. And I was up until 2:30 and did not get up early enough go catch up. I will have to hit 3000 words today, which means just over 2000 tonight, to get back on track.

I'm not really worried though. I am in an interesting place, at least for me. We are at the base of Flat Rock, and will begin the climb tonight!

I'll post an excerpt tonight. Now, I must go to work.
fb

Day 2, am. 3150 total words. 1,123 words this morning

This plan of trying to hit a thousand words in the morning and a thousand more in the evening is working well so far. I am writing roughly 900 words per hour, and am not stressed about it.

Now, I have re-read some of what I wrote, and it is ponderous prose indeed, in some places. Not very good. Some is really bad. But then, this whole endeavour is really about getting a first draft done in a month. Leastways, that's how I'm looking at it. I see no way for it to be a finished product.

I have to continue to just forge ahead. The only concession I am making regarding editing what I have wrote is to add in information to earlier parts of the story, if the story development requires. Which is OK because that just adds to the word count ;-)

This mornings excerpt:

He rolled back over to ask Moa’qi his question, and was startled to find himself soaked in the heavy morning dew. His Master was sitting across from him, as if he had never moved, and appeared positively amused. Sylk sat up and looked around. Brushing off the heavy dew, he looked about, a tad disoriented. It was day, and he was refreshed and relaxed. The question he meant to ask was forgotten. Instead he just looked at Moa’qi.

“You have had the benefit of your first true sleep. How does it feel?”

Sylk took inventory. “Remarkable!” He paused, “What happened?”

“Sleep is little understood. Did you know that physically you can almost go forever? The muscles will recover with 10 or 15 minutes of rest. The mind must sleep. There are theories, but no one truly knows why.”

Sylk considered this. “But, this was different. I rolled over, thought of something to ask, and rolled back over. I have no sense of time passing. None. Yet, either the laws of the universe have changed, or several hours passed. Always before I knew I had been asleep. How can this happen?”

“Who knows the purpose of sleep? Who knows the mechanics? Sleep is sleep, no?”

“Before today, I would have agreed. Today, I don’t agree. My senses tell me that you are speaking a fallacy.”

Moa’qi had a mischievous look. “What, those senses that fail you now?”

Now Sylk began to get irritated. “Did you drug me?”

“Do you sense that you are drugged?”

“You just mocked my senses. What can I rely on to answer your question? What else can I do but attempt to find an answer through inquiry?”

Moa’qi smiled beatifically and said no more. Instead, he began to prepare light morning fare. He was content with the progress of his apprentice. Months of ground had been covered in just a few short hours. Now it was time to pace his learning, allowing his synapses to grow the necessary new connections. Sylk would need some fats and proteins, and sleep would take him again. They must break camp, and prepare to return to the village. But first, there would be a delay, and a detour. He had decided to augment and expand the trial.

Sylk was mildly irritated by the abrupt halt in conversation, but recognized that his Master was done for the moment. He rose, lithe and comfortable. He considered for a moment the lack of any stiffness, the lack of normal early morning lethargy. Reveling in his sense of relaxed health, he focused on the breaking of camp. As apprentice, it was his job to drain the dew gatherers into the water skins. He went to the first rounded bowl, and wondered again what it was made of. There was nothing else in his village that was remotely similar. These glossy smooth grey vessels were smooth and utterly slippery. While the daily morning dew would always precipitate and cling to everything around, it just slipped down the side of these bowls. He watched with some fascination as he poured the water into the skins. The water acted like it was one solid amorphous mass, seemingly inseparable. If anyone in the tribe new the secret construction techniques used in making these bowls, it had never been discussed around Sylk.

That's all for now. See ya this evening! fb

Day 1, pm. Total word count today, 2027

Evening writing time was different. I typed an hour without hardly noticing. My coffee is cold. No sign of Carpal Tunnel yet. Hah.

This evening's excerpt:

Barely discernible on the horizon, the image wavering in the dancing heat, the new man walked sure and steady, and directly toward him. Moa’qi, whose eyesight was as fresh and clear as a youth’s, had seen the new man almost as soon as his head broke the plane of the horizon. Nearly 6 miles by the formula. He could tell as the new man came over the horizon, that he had been exactly on track, without visual clues. So, the first verifiable trial was passed. He would learn the status of the other trials during the ritual meal when the new man arrived. But, Moa’qi already knew the result. The fact of the new man’s unerring orientation directly on him told him all that he really needed to know.

Moa’qi busied himself preparing for the ceremonial meal, and running through the ritual in his mind. He mouthed all the lies he once held so dear, occasionally marveling at the truth still held within them. He contemplated that one model of the universe was being replaced by another more accurate model, and thought it strange that he could not see the provision for passing on the truths he held within the new system. This conundrum occupied his mind thoroughly while he made his preparations. He did not bother to check on the progress of the new man. Moa’qi knew when he would arrive, and he would have everything ready and timed just for that arrival.

He could just hear him now. The bare feet padding softly on the hard earth. Actually, he had felt him through the soil before he heard him. The vibration was as readily understood by him as was a book. Many thought he was prescient, since, try as they might, no one had ever surprised him. He had kept the secret to himself, but would now pass it on to Sylk, his favorite youth.

Sylk should be hungry, as the wasteland was not filled with edibles. But, if he was truly a new man, he should not be starving, either. Carefully the simple, yet tasty fare was laid out. Sweet cakes. Thick cardamom coffee. Spiced meat. Water, chilled and filtered. Rose water to wash off the dust and please the senses. Pillows to arrange how one wished. A luxurious picnic.

Moa’qi started a small fire, threw on some sage, and arranged the spiced meat near by. The fire would cause the meat to heat up in its casing, and fill the surrounding area with an aroma designed to trigger salivary response.

My first day, and I exceeded my goal of 2000 words. I have to resist the urge to go back and edit and re-write. There'll be time enough for that in December, I guess. Meanwhile, I think I shall need to take my lunch hour and brainstorm additional ideas and concepts.

I don't know how anyone else writes, but I mostly type from the hip, with just bare concepts in my head that are fleshed out as they flow from my finger tips. It is working so far.
fb

Day 1, am, 1116 words

My plan is working! Hah. My early youthful exuberance! The plan: write 2000 words per day. Up early in the morning (4:30 ish), go for 1000 words. Home from work in the evening, after 9 pm, another 1000.

This morning: 1,116 words.

OK, here is an excerpt from the prolog:

After two weeks of various orbits, the results came in. The planet not only could sustain life, it was currently doing so. But, the precursors to intelligent life, as understood by the ship, were also there. A dead-end.

They were preparing to leave orbit, when the maintenance biologist and the maintenance geologist asked to see the captain of this cycle. This was not unusual. Often the crew wanted a shot, just for the sake of staying near a planet, and not sliding through featureless space. Maq and Jenzi were allowed an audience, as Hedly really didn’t want to head back into space either.

Hedly allowed an audience. Maq and Jenzi came in, visibly excited. Jenzi was the maintenance geologist, responsible for the equipment that mapped the topology, and conducted the tomography that revealed what was occurring beneath the surface. “Captain!”, she began, “please look at these calculations.”

Hedly just looked at her instead. An easy thing to do, given her loose fitting toga. After staring for a moment, he said “Just tell me. You know I can’t understand all that.”

Maq interrupted. “Hedly, you were maintenance geologist last cycle, and maintenance biologist before that. So, we know you can read these. You need to look at them; you are the only one that can authorize a revisit.”

Now, this piqued his interest. Revisits were rare. “Whaddya got?”

He leaned forward and began to absorb the information, finally seeing it. He then asked for the biology projections. After 20 minutes of silence, he leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.

“OK. We’ve got a month planet side to verify these projections. Shore leave for everyone!” Maq and Jenzi gave whoops of excitement and pride. “Very good job”, said Hedly. “That took some smarts, and some imagination. But its there for sure.” They left the captain’s cabin elbowing each other and beaming.

Hedly sat back again. The tomography was subtle, and there was nothing sure yet. But, if the projections were correct, the magma and solid core patterns of movement were moving toward a chaotic period which would be followed by periods of intense geologic activity, and ultimately the poles would shift. If the shift were abrupt enough, the planet would tilt dramatically, and most of the life on this planet would disappear in of those mass die-offs some planets were prone to in their early formation.

Which would make this planet a seed planet.

So, that is the prolog. Next we have an excerpt from Chapter One, Cielo sin Sol:

He stood on the plain, improbably tall and nearly as thin as his spear. His spear was ready and easy at his side, an accessory, or accouterment, not a burden.
Listening to the sounds of ancestral drums in his mind, he pondered the fact they were gone. Gone in more ways than one. They were gone in the most irreversible manner possible. They had, in fact, never been.
Never been. An eyebrow raised incrementally. Never been. He felt hollowed out, like the non-existent drums. Hollowed out, skin taut on his frame. Stretched and tied. Waiting. Someone was to come and play him. Not a musician. Not anyone that understood the music. But, he would be played, nonetheless. It appeared he had been made for just this dance. He knew the music that he would make. It would spill from him regardless of his new knowledge.
Odd, how this new fact of existence, this new knowledge, which had negated everything he knew to be true, made the lessons learned from this fake knowledge, even more true and more relevant. ‘Ahhh, the world is an amazing place, holding surprises for even one such as me’, he thought. He calmed himself, quieted his mind, and prepared for the new man that would come from the plain before him. Into the wilderness a youth. Out from the wilderness a man. That was the way it had been for generations. It should continue, regardless of new knowledge. Moa’qi could see no reason for the traditions to change.

OK. Perhaps it is crap, perhaps it is snot.

Regardless, I've hit 1116 words on the first morning. We shall see what the night shall bring!
fb

Oh my Gawd, It's National Novel Writing Month!!

I have decided to get involved in NaNoWriMo, through NaNoBlogMo. What is all this?? Well, it is an attempt to write a 50,000 word novel in one month. Start date and time, 12:01 am, Midnight Nov1. End date Midnight Nov 30. (National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo, get it?)

UNDAMNFORTUNATELY, this requires the novel to be entirely written from scratch, which I found out after I already registered this particular blog site.

SO, I have to put the current A Stranger in Town story line on hold.

This is really OK, because, the original plan for this was for multiple stories to start At The Sign Of The Screaming Monkey's Head. See, this tavern will be the springboard for many interrelated yet separate stories! I stole this concept from a book of short stories I read once called Tales From the White Hart.

What this means is that I have to start a brand new story FROM SCRATCH on Nov 1. Those of you interested in Fred and Barney will have to wait. Meanwhile, the second story line will begin on November 1st.

The working title is Sylk and The Ruminantia

I hope they, the NaNoWriMo folks, will be OK with this workaround, since I already have this blog up and running.

Wish me luck.

A Stranger in Town Episode Five: Barney goes somewhere

The sun was just breaking over the top of the massive structure ahead. Oranges and pinks dance along the edges of their destination, the mist playing tricks with the light, causing a muted rainbow effect.

A large bird of prey flew into Barney's field of vision, shooting straight as an arrow toward the complex. Barney watched in amazement as the bird shrank and shrank and finally disappeared long before nearing their goal. He realized the structure was even more massive than he suspected, and they were still a long ways off.

The natives and other members of the expedition now plied their paddles with increased urgency, making amazing progress down the river. Barney realized they were flowing with the river, and the river itself seemed to be picking up speed. For the first time, their diminutive guide seemed concerned, if not exactly worried, and he exhorted them to even more speed.

Abruptly, he whistled a staccato melody, and the three canoes veered sharply toward the left bank just as a cove came into view. They hurtled to shore without slowing, and drove well up onto the beach. The shock of hitting land knocked Barney headlong into shallow water, striking his head on unforgiving sand. Momentarily dazed, he struggled to his feet, shaking his head and checking for injuries. All sense that he was having a directed dream drizzled away from his consciousness.

Barking orders in that odd pseudo-english, their guide had them hastily flood the canoes, and sink them in the cove. They had to be ballasted with some stone to overcome their natural buoyancy; the guide's strident tone evinced his dismay at the delay. Finally, some standing reeds were subtly intertwined, indicating in some way, Barney supposed, where they could be found.

It was then that Barney heard another incongruous sound, and realized their guide must have heard it long before. They melted into the dense verdant jungle as some remaining natives covered their tracks, returning the cove to the prisitine state they had just violated.

Once inside the screen of the bushes, they halted and grew silent. The noise was louder now, and Barney recognized, but could not name, the sound. One of the Europeans gasped as two inflatable attack boats burst into view and roared past them. All the Europeans were wide eyed. The boats carried five men apiece, one of whom manned a mounted weapon. As they disappeared down the river, the guide snorted and turned to Barney. In faintly accented English he said, "We probably could have stayed on the shore and waved at them, as observant as they are. We, however, will continue to take precautions."

Barney just looked at him, or rather, just over him, trying to remember what they were doing there, and wondering why those boats seemed familiar. And that noise! He thought about asking, but the guide had already turned away, and was preparing for jungle travel.

“No machetes,” he said. “The sign can be seen from the air.” “From the air?” thought Barney. “By what, birds?” The guide spoke again in that other language, and the natives began loading up. “What’s going to see us from the air?” Then he remembered those boats, and how they used no paddles, and the noise. Shouldering his pack, he joined the group as they began their overland trip, feeling a sense of déjà vu.

All that day they traversed the jungle, stopping once for water, once for a quick lunch of hard biscuits and some sort of pulpy, almost tasteless fruit, and once again in the afternoon for water. Barney could not tell how far they had traveled. The jungle gave up no secrets, and he had no frame of reference. They were traveling in a muted green world, lit from without by the unseen sun, filtered so completely they barely cast a shadow. Twice they heard the sounds of the motor boats, once coming back toward them, the motors gunning and forcing the boats upstream. Then later, very slowly, now near, now far. Barney imagined they were crisscrossing the river, drifting with the current. He was certain he knew who they were searching for, and the other Europeans were tense, hunched over as they made their way, as if expecting attack.

The little guide however, had merely walked along, not paying any attention. Barney realized that they were following the river downstream. He watched the guide for awhile, wondering how he could find his way, and keep so close to the river. There did not seem to be any visual or auditory clues. As he watched the relaxed gait of the guide, he followed suit, and let the tension flow from his shoulders, consequently, he was not nearly as tense and irritable as the Europeans when they finally halted.

Barney thought it odd they had stopped so early. It seemed that they had hours of daylight remaining, and he wondered why they did not press on. No one asked his opinion however, and everyone sprang into action, setting up little hammocks, and camouflaging them with some kind of netting. Barney was led to a hammock by one of the other natives and was handed some kind of vegetable. It had a hard purple rind that nevertheless peeled easily, once started. He realized that it was dinner, so he sat in his hammock eating dutifully. Just as they finished setting up camp, if it could really be called ‘camp’, night fell like a hammer. Barney then realized why they had stopped when they did, and he felt his way into a prone position in his hammock. The camouflage acted as a barrier to insects as well, for which he was grateful. He tried peering through the netting, looking for any glimpse of stars or moon. Nothing. The canopy overhead seemed impenetrable, and Barney wondered why the insistence on what he assumed to be camouflage. He nibbled on the remainder of his foodstuff, and then the days exertions took over and he fell asleep without realizing.

Barney woke with a start. He listened intently to the nocturnal noises emitted by the various night living denizens, and then became aware that the little guide was standing next to his hammock. He could just discern his outline, and two faint glows where his eyes would be. Evidently, the pupils were wide open, and they reflected what little gathered light they could.

“Come,” he said in that pleasant soft English. “You need to see this. Quietly though.” Barney rolled out of his hammock and trod closely behind his guide, trying to match his noiseless passage. When they had walked for about 10 minutes, the guide stopped and addressed Barney in a normal tone of voice, unconcerned that it would be heard, “I presume you have come for this, though I know not your intent. Look!” He parted some bushes. With a sharp intake of breath, Barney stumbled and almost fell.

They were on a rise overlooking a valley. Standing in stark relief against the night sky was a fantastic pyramidal structure. Emanating from its apex was a blinding beam of light, blazing skyward. “Yes!” Barney exclaimed, his memory returning.

The guide hit him over the head, and hoisted his inert body over his shoulder.


to be continued

A Stranger in Town Episode Four

Strange would be the sight if someone entered the Sign of The Screaming Monkey's Head at this moment. They would be presented with the image of a greyish unkempt man slumped at a bar stool, two incongruent characters at his side.

On his left, an expanse of darkness, leaning softly over and whispering in his ear. On his right, a flickering brightness in an apron, murmuring rhythmically into his other ear. Before him, a bit of stone, and some sort of cloth or paper.

"You are nearing a decision point," Sylk breathed into the left ear, affecting the right hemisphere of Fred's brain.

Sing song from Kindly Bob directly to the left hemisphere:

"Many are the answers,
many are the questions,
what not to know?
what not to know?"

They worked in harmony, splitting the brain function, separating Fred's personality, opening up potentialities. Dangerous work indeed in the hands of amateurs. Dicey still with experts such as these two.

Their need was great.

Kindly Bob, still chanting, raised one of Fred's eyelids. The eye darted to and fro, up and down. "REM stage sleep. He's in," he told Sylk.

Gently they lifted him, still whispering, and carried him to the back room. Laying him on the bed, they left, closing the door behind them. Kindly Bob paused outside the door, manipulating something on the wall. A faint hum, and the doorway slid to the side and disappeared into the corner. He and Sylk rearranged some boxes against the wall, and surveyed what was now a simple storage cubby off the main hall. Nodding at each other, they returned to the main room. Sylk asked "How long?"

Fred looked at his watch-less wrist, and considered the question. Looking back up at Sylk, he pressed his lips tightly, then replied, "30 hours, according to the Formulary. But, he went under too fast. I don't know what that means."

"Too fast?" asked Sylk.

"Well, faster by about a third than what I was told. It should be within the margin." He stopped, looking back toward the hidden storage room. "Shorter or longer though? Shorter would be better." Shaking his head slowly and looking at Sylk with a small grimace, he added, "It's hard to say with him."

When they returned to the main room, Sylk took up the stone, and Kindly Bob folded and put away the parchment. They exchanged knowing looks, and Kindly Bob drew Sylk another Stout.

"Hard days are coming," said Sylk, regarding himself in the mirror behind the bar. "Indeed. And harder nights," was the grim reply.

Kindly Bob prepared himself a green liquid, and Sylk raised an eyebrow.

"Ahh yes, the Greene Faery," said Kindly Bob, hoisting his glass. "'Tis a slight indulgence."

With an easy movement, Sylk gained possession of the glass, but found himself with a stout in one hand, the illegal drink in another, and a knife at his throat. Raising his eyes slowly from the knife to lock gazes with Kindly Bob, he stated grimly, "You're going to look pretty funny with that knife sticking out of your ass."

Kindly Bob considered this a long moment. Slowly he retracted the knife, and then it was gone, as quickly as it appeared. "I forget myself," was his only apology.

Sylk poured the green evanesence out onto the floor, where it was absorbed quickly by the thirsty wood planks. Handing the glass back to Kindly Bob, he said approvingly, "You are very quick. As I replay what happened, I'm surprised I could get the glass from you."

In a wondering voice, Kindly Bob replied, "You telegraph nothing. I am quick. But, I am no seer." He paused, regarding Sylk as if for the first time. "You on the other hand are not particularly quick, yet, you had the glass before I realized it." Incredulously, "That has never happened."

"Not too surprising, if you are indeed an addict," said Sylk.

"My kind cannot get addicted. Not in the usual sense. Sometimes we crave--release. But, you should know that. It's in my bio."

"No," said Sylk. "It's not."

Kindly Bob cocked an eyebrow. "That's interesting," he said. "I wonder what else we might want to know about each other that was left out?"

"And was it deliberate or accidental?"

"They do nothing accidentally."

Sylk nodded. "We have some time to compare notes."

Kindly Bob poured himself an acceptable drink, and they began exchanging information in low tones over the bar.

After about 90 minutes of low earnest discussion, Sylk rose and stretched. Hoisting himself up onto the bar, he straightened up his spine. Sitting tall and still, legs crossed, hands on his knees, he closed his eyes.

He took a long deep breath, held it for 8 powerful heartbeats, and let it out slow and controlled through his nostrils, another 8 count. Small furrows in his brow relaxed and disappeared. One more slow deliberate breath and he opened alert sparkling eyes, turned to Kindly Bob and said, "Let's prepare for what may come."

"I wish I could do that," Kindly Bob said, a wistful look on his face.

Sylk was mildly surprised. "You don't need sleep."

"There's a difference between needing, and wanting," was the flat response.

---

The night was passing quickly. The grimy windows, once the darkest feature along the far side of the tavern,were now ghosly panels of grey, betraying the coming dawn.

"We've just got time for a sweep and a mop," Kindly Bob said to Sylk, pointing to a closet on the opposite wall. "I'll get these dishes and glasses, and fire up the stove." They busied themselves, preparing for the breakfast trade.

At 6 a.m. there was a tap at the tavern door. Sylk vanished from the room, and Kindly Bob, looking fresh and relaxed, let in the morning waitress.


to be continued Episode Five