Sunday, October 15, 2017

Hospital

Betelgeuse

He pressed the button and a nurse appeared.
“Hungry.”
She turned around and walked away. He waited. Nothing.
He pressed the button again. Another nurse appeared.
“I'm hungry.”
She turned around and left.
For the third time, he pressed the button, and a third nurse appeared.
“I'm really hungry.”
She tilted her head.
“Haven't you figured it out yet?”
He frowned.
“The code.”
“What code?”
“The one they gave you with your patient card.”
He flipped the card back and forth. In small letters, the code.
“Please?”
And food was provided, abundantly.

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Mask

Land of Glory

Lean forward and read the words, she thought, one after the other, one after the other, paragraph following paragraph, obediently covering the pages of a blank book. For the others, the pages were blank, and had nothing written on them. Yet, she saw words, one after the other, strings of paragraphs covering the desert of whiteness. She forgot the ban. And the world became warm.
Lean back, she thought, place the mask back on. No one will see how you can travel away. The book went back on the shelf of empty books, and no one knew she could read.

Saturday, October 7, 2017

NaNoWriMo Prep is in Motion



I have created the novel at the NaNoWriMo website for the 2017 November challenge. 
And hence we begin.



Tentative Title: The Darkest Corners


Excerpt (of the Intro, since we haven't started writing yet):

"A book is a book is a book, and the idea was to write a book. 

However, when I threw the knife in the air and it fell down the stairs (the knife is for dramatic effect, don't alarm yourselves), the idea changed to writing a crime novel. Then I thought, I have done that already. Perhaps I could write a thriller. Done. Some erotica? Done. Well, it's unfinished and I can't look at it right now, for some reason. I'm sick of it. And this went on and on for days until I was asked this question. Why don't you write a sort of auto-biography? 

My brain twirled like that knife (for dramatic effect again). The idea was interesting. I had never written anything like that. It would be easy to do and it wouldn't need much preparation, something vital at this point in time. 

Then I started boycotting the idea. Yes, what's an idea without its archnemesis? Who would be interested in reading such a crazy, boring, piece of garbage? No one, of course. 

Coming to this obvious conclusion was in no way disappointing. Quite the opposite. It gagged my inner-editor, wrapped him up in generous amounts of transparent wrapping film, and kicked his butt into a dark corner of the wardrobe where purses are lost forever, socks get hopelessly divorced and the sun never shines. 

No one would be interested in reading this crap meant that I could write whatever I wanted. I could hammer my fury, my despair, my gut, my soul and my tears on this keyboard and no one would even look at the end result. 

Perfection!"


Cover: None yet.
Word Goal: 50.000
Wordcount per day: Aiming for 1700 words
Panic Period, I mean writing time: 30 days


"I had the sense when I looked back over my life I would actually see a mess of decisions, a few of which I had thought about, some of which I had sort of stumbled on and many that I had no control over whatsoever."
Kazuo Ishiguro
Nobel Prize for Literature 2017


Sunday, October 1, 2017

Cook

Milk Wood

“Fresh,” said the farmer, his voice reaching an annoying pitch. “Check the pumpkins, miss. Fresh. Not that plastic-tasting garbage.”
The lady nodded and moved on. Everyone walked away quickly.
Only he knew how difficult it was to grow these darn things. The seeds became purple if he stored them for too long, the water made them blue, and painting each one with a natural food-coloring substance was hard work. Plus, after cooked, his pumpkins made people immortal, surely a bonus.
“Umm... Perhaps I should work on my marketing strategies,” he said, adjusting his voice to the perfect octave.
100 Word Stories