Until you're dead or something.*
Life: I'm back from Rome. More details when am not NaNoed out and wish to enter sleepdom.
Nano: I can haz plan! Plan is vague and includes yet another road trip. I doubt this novel, when looked at critically, has a plot. Or even momentum because hardly anything happens, when you boil it right down. The lastest scribblings have Chip nabbing a car for old man Saudners. The next scene? Chip gets more not-zombies on his ass, and Icarus gets miraculously - dun dun duuuun - better and moves the plot forward by sticking everyone in a car.
When the two returned to apartment 304, Agatha was waiting for a full report on her angel, which Chip delivered with all the aplomb of a surgeon general. Afterwards, while Saunders rinsed out the morning’s bloody rewards, Chip and Agatha played checkers in the living room.
“Agatha?” said Chip, “Can I ask you something?”
Agatha skipped a piece over two of Chip’s, the tip of her tongue tight between her teeth. “Shoot,” she said, taking Chip’s pieces off the board.
“Why do you call the man upstairs an angel?”
“Well, because he is, isn’t he? Sorta.”
“Hang on, Aggie, look at that piece on your right first,” said Chip. “How is he ‘sorta’?”
“Well, he doesn’t have his wings anymore, obviously, and Mom always said you could learn more from what wasn’t there than from what actually was sometimes. I am so going to kick your ass at this,” she added.
“Your mom’s got a point there, kid, but you’re ignoring the whole, ‘hello, I just fell through a roof’ thing.”
“Exactly,” said Agatha, pointing with one of her pieces. “How’d he get up on the roof, huh? Did you see the storm we had? No way he climbed up to the roof - which, how, exactly? - in that storm.”
“So you think he flew? Like the greek guy, Icarus?”
“Please,” said Agatha. “Icarus wasn’t real.” She rested her chin in her hands, focusing on the board. “And he obviously fell, or got his wings ripped off or something.”
“Let me get this right,” said Chip, ignoring a winning move in favour of a slightly suicidal one, if Agatha was keeping her eyes open. “You saw the wounds on his back, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you think that’s where he had wings?”
“Maybe, yeah.”
“And this makes more sense to you that the theory that he was out on the roof?”
“You try going up on the roof on a clear day.”
Chip raised his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright, but an angel?”
“I said, sorta.” Agatha hopped one of her pieces over several of Chips. “And I win.”
18496 / 50000 words. 37% done!
Links of the Day:
Playboy's Stephen King's The Bone Church Poem
The New Yorker's Stephen Kings Prime Harmony Short Story
* marika_kailaya, here
Nano: I can haz plan! Plan is vague and includes yet another road trip. I doubt this novel, when looked at critically, has a plot. Or even momentum because hardly anything happens, when you boil it right down. The lastest scribblings have Chip nabbing a car for old man Saudners. The next scene? Chip gets more not-zombies on his ass, and Icarus gets miraculously - dun dun duuuun - better and moves the plot forward by sticking everyone in a car.
When the two returned to apartment 304, Agatha was waiting for a full report on her angel, which Chip delivered with all the aplomb of a surgeon general. Afterwards, while Saunders rinsed out the morning’s bloody rewards, Chip and Agatha played checkers in the living room.
“Agatha?” said Chip, “Can I ask you something?”
Agatha skipped a piece over two of Chip’s, the tip of her tongue tight between her teeth. “Shoot,” she said, taking Chip’s pieces off the board.
“Why do you call the man upstairs an angel?”
“Well, because he is, isn’t he? Sorta.”
“Hang on, Aggie, look at that piece on your right first,” said Chip. “How is he ‘sorta’?”
“Well, he doesn’t have his wings anymore, obviously, and Mom always said you could learn more from what wasn’t there than from what actually was sometimes. I am so going to kick your ass at this,” she added.
“Your mom’s got a point there, kid, but you’re ignoring the whole, ‘hello, I just fell through a roof’ thing.”
“Exactly,” said Agatha, pointing with one of her pieces. “How’d he get up on the roof, huh? Did you see the storm we had? No way he climbed up to the roof - which, how, exactly? - in that storm.”
“So you think he flew? Like the greek guy, Icarus?”
“Please,” said Agatha. “Icarus wasn’t real.” She rested her chin in her hands, focusing on the board. “And he obviously fell, or got his wings ripped off or something.”
“Let me get this right,” said Chip, ignoring a winning move in favour of a slightly suicidal one, if Agatha was keeping her eyes open. “You saw the wounds on his back, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you think that’s where he had wings?”
“Maybe, yeah.”
“And this makes more sense to you that the theory that he was out on the roof?”
“You try going up on the roof on a clear day.”
Chip raised his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright, but an angel?”
“I said, sorta.” Agatha hopped one of her pieces over several of Chips. “And I win.”
18496 / 50000 words. 37% done!
Links of the Day:
Playboy's Stephen King's The Bone Church Poem
The New Yorker's Stephen Kings Prime Harmony Short Story
* marika_kailaya, here