Happy November 2009! Here in deep fall arrives national novel writing month (NaNoWriMo). /me smiles tentatively. This was so *not easy* when I first tried this last year. (Very wonderful talented friend Dale…you utterly amaze, having done this every year for the past decade now? You utterly amaze in so very many ways.) On my first attempt, I didn’t finish the novel in the 30-day time allotment; I took 6 weeks instead of 4. But the larger triumph for me was finishing…and the process (as agonizing as it was on several evenings when the computer taunted me with a blank page). This year, for me, the effort is more likely to be NaNoWriQtr (quarter indeed) because, well, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s going to be a more accurate description of the time it will take for me to reach 50,000 words. I will do my best not to backslide. I admit I wrote 4000 words sporadically a couple of days in September and then a couple more days in October and then promptly became lazy. What is it about time pressures that spark a writing process? Is that where my muse is? If so, then I better launch right in…because NaNoWriMo or NaNoWriQtr — either way — time’s a wasting and the process is itching to begin.
Ch 1 ~ Sunset
Somewhere, not far away…not far at all…a flock of ducks manuveured the air in perfect unison.
It was late afternoon. The birds flew low at first, swooping silently just over his head before they lifted into the silhouette of dusk. With amazingly few beats, their wings cut a powerful sweeping arc across the sky’s cloudy backdrop. The atmosphere’s early evening veil overlay what looked to be a turbulent sunset. Blues, purples, fiery reds fairly vibrated on the horizon as they inked the boisterous clouds that masked the star.
Funny, this. That he had taken the time to even notice this unsettled display of nature. But the irony hadn’t escaped him…even in the heat of this moment or of the moments that had just come and gone. Indeed. It had been a turbulent night. For one, he thought as he easily concealed his weapon of choice. He had just killed a man. Did it really matter how? A terrible threat had been averted. Snuffed out completely by a more powerful, forceful will.
Only to him — and to no one else — did the details matter. Not unless you were looking for the evil in those trivialities. But, he told himself with total convinction, you still wouldn’t find me…not even then. He focused himself with even more purpose. Although he dwelled a bit on this topic, it was much more reality for him that his mind had swept well past this act, well past this scene. His body soon would as well. He walked rapidly now to his car, keeping his eyes on the flock of birds as it continued a graceful flight of unspoken purpose, natural precision, and unwavering instinct.
He smiled rather easily, concealing to himself any rationalization in which his mind might still be engaged. Perhaps at some level. Perhaps not. He wouldn’t really know, because if he gave focus or effort to those thoughts…if he voiced them even silently…he would risk acknowledging some sense of guilt or agnst. And he simply had none. If not angst, then, conscience, perhaps. But no, he told himself because he had little of that to speak of either. And that wasn’t really the point, he calmly reminded himself as he sat in his car, heard the gleaming door close with a gasp, and strapped on his seatbelt. A safe killer. No, no, he frowned slightly until he corrected himself: “A responsible victim. Yes.” The point was that the man laying dead in the alley had to be removed. He was loud. He was dangerous. He was on the verge of unleashing a capability far more overwhelming than conscience. Soon enough, if not tonight, then soon enough, somewhere not too far away, he was on the verge of giving the world access to a word similar in sound to “conscience” but more importantly some would argue, profoundly more powerful in capability. The collective. Such a potently dangerous notion.
This was simple, he reasoned as he manuveured his spotless vehicle, a muscled vehicle that with just a few accelerations silently cut out a powerful stretch down an otherwise politely submissive road. Just like the flock of birds, this was instinctive. The doing of this act, he confirmed to himself, done to maintain a thing of beauty really…the perfect order of disorder.
NaNoWriMo(s) 2009 – Total word counts, not including this notation or the intro: 545