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Author Topic: NaNoWriMo rewrite.  (Read 1973 times)
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« on: March 14, 2006, 10:19:44 PM »

I actually finished the 50000 words, which, er... takes me up to RIGHT before the place where I was originally going to start the story. As such, I didn't really finalize a plot or a writing style until I was basically done with the month-of-writing, so the rewrite is really necessary. Anyway, here's a bit of it.

Oh, and some warning. It is sort of furry in nature, although I'm using it more as an arbitrary plot device than ZOMG LET'S GLORIFY YIFF!!!!~~1one. There's never any explanation as to why everyone suddenly turned into a anthropomorphic animal (Manimals. Danimals.), and I never even came up with one. Anyway, code tags are the only way I can find to preserve formatting, so just highlight it or something. It's not that big.


It was Tuesday.
Itching eyes bit light with heavy lids. Photons sank through optical pits, aching sinus, nerves.
Synapse preceded sight. Sight preceded reality. Reality was madness.
It was Tuesday.
Beyond that, nothing was concrete; verifiable. Nothing else mattered.
Tuesday followed Monday, by definition, and preceded Wednesday, by definition. Yesterday was Monday. I could prove that. I’d been there.
I’d been human, once. It’d been a time that wasn’t now, once; and that ever-growing timescape was when I’d been human.
I touched my face to make sure it was still human.
Predictably, it was not.
I touched my face to make sure it was still covered in fur.
Predictably, it was.
The long eyelashes, the long eyebrows. The whiskers on the tip of my snout, and the cold, disgustingly moist nose. Two pointed ears. Two tufts of fur in two pointed ears. Temples, occiput, shapes, bumps, lines. Skin sensitive to human touch.
My face was not human.
My hands were small.

By the window, I sat on the big couch—the one with the floppy cushions that, as a young boy, I could’ve sunken into and gotten away from everything I’d hated. I watched the street.
I thought. I don’t know what I thought.
I pondered my voice.
Candyfloss-glass tadpoles coursed with slivers of impending loss; potentials closed.
It was the hot day of radial rays, and gravity was all wrong. Thus for an hour straight, as the sun rotated ‘round a fix frame of reference which was moving, to some observer on another fixed frame of reference, at a significant percentage of the speed of light, I tried at balancing eggs on end. They all fell and broke.
I went back to the window eventually. I was waiting.
A dark lamp post stood over the sidewalk and did not beat down with its light.
A thick banana spider crawled up a telephone box, and I had thoughts of dust.
It was Tuesday.  
Bright and shiny, an eight-spoked flash of white hung like a halo on the corners of the van. It was two (the sun had rotated through to a high point in its arc) and Erik rounded the corner. It was one past two when he ran the stretch of pavement and came to a stop in my driveway. He opened the door. Heel contacted metal, and with one foot on the runner, he stepped onto the ground.
I was already outside.
“Your parents know you’re doing thing?”
I shook my head, “Nah,” then looked at him. “Coyote?”
He shrugged. “Fucked if I know. So what’s the rest of your family?”
“They aren’t here anymore.”
“Oh.” He coughed. “Well…”
“Yeah, we better get going.”
Eric sat in the driver’s seat. I took shotgun, and threw my luggage in the back.
“D’you pack anything?” I said.
The car drove down Mechanic Street and turned left onto main, where they’d have the Indian Summer festivals in September; the parades celebrating Mr. Armstrong; the dark July festivals all awash in rain clouds, electrics, and the barley-smelling haze.  
Eric wasn’t talking. We passed the movie theatre and the post office, then the TSC building.
“What’s up?”
Red light. He looked at me. “Do you think the world’s ended?”
“I don’t know.”
“With fire. The second time. You see any flame?”
I shrugged. He looked at me while as moods shifted softly behind his eyes.
“Where’s your family?”
“They’re gone too.” Then, “Hey.”
“Do you think there might be a god?”
Falling from the sky, then landing—on a point between my eyebrows—was a single glowing ash that I imagined. It fell from somewhere outside, and was made by someone. The ember was warm even though it didn’t exist.
Eric clenched his teeth and shook his head.
“We still on for D.C.?” I said.
“Yeah. Yeah. I’d like to… Anything’s possible anymore.”
“Er, watch the road.”
The domed middle of the museum reflected white hotly in the sun. Visions of jadedness flooded thoughts, and ushered in recollections of children who wanted to be astronauts for a moon that held no glory. Had they not seen the cracked, faded, forgotten mural on the side of a ruinous building downtown?
I touched my face.

o/` I do not feel joy o/`
o/` I do not dream o/`
o/` I only stare at the door and smoke o/`

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