Baker’s Dozen: NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (19)

She stood on a flat and spacious plain.  Remnants of brush and other dead looking flora interrupted the smooth and glistening ground here and there.  She knew this was the rolling desert she had learned about when Maiden Hassium had pushed her to stop lingering on the pictures in her month of geography.  She could see nothing moving as far as her sight covered of the plain.  As for “rolling” she didn’t understand why it was named this way.  The area reminded her of a bowl.  Except for the opening far in the distance where the coach was pointed, they appeared to be surrounded by ridges of rock and metal on all sides.  The solar rays were brighter where they reflected off some of the peaks.

“You ever been outta’ Shackleton?” Patel asked from behind her.Participant-2014-Square-Button

“No, Bishop,” she replied, without a second thought to her learned propriety.

He didn’t correct her, wanting to stay on the subject.  “This part o’ the desert is called, ‘Baker’s Dozen,’ ‘cause there’s thirteen peaks around the edges of the bowl.”  He watched her count and then reached into his pocket.


Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  WARNING:  editing has not taken place.

Coach through Baker’s Dozen: NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (18)

The air was moving.  The orange solar glare was reaching over some kind of ledge a few feet from her face and behind it, pink-orange hues were drawing swirly lines across a cornucopia of purple shades, interspersed with wisps of cotton clouds.  Participant-2014-Square-ButtonShe squirmed until she was sitting up.  They were on some kind of old fashioned coach, its polymer mold rounded at the corners of the compartment she was in, with no doors to be seen.  Terra yawned and tried to stretch.


Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  WARNING:  editing has not taken place.

Terra’s Dream: NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (17)

Terra sank into a sleep that engulfed her, like a thick liquid blanket, and warmed her body as her mind swam on.  She pulled herself into pools of purple velvet, beams of light piercing the surface far above, searching for her like bullets on a war torn beachhead.  Her LC bodysuit felt tight against her skin, so she removed it.  Below, a strange rock glittered up at her from the floor of this royal ocean, its exterior covered in mirrored ornaments.  She dove closer, looking at her reflection in the mosaic of looking-glasses.  Her hair flowed as if taken by a slow-motion wind,  Suspended in the heavy sea, she looked into the mirrors again and saw herself, naked, skin purple, whether by reflection or by nature, she wasn’t sure. Participant-2014-Square-Button Her face looked rested and carefree; she recognized the look of inquiry as she surveyed the rock.


Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  WARNING:  editing has not taken place.

Bishop Patenkin: NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (16)

Pointing at Tboi, his arm and hand extended were so long they nearly bisected the entire little room.  The Bishop roared, “You deserve to be removed from our sight.  Your stench is so hideous I fear I’ll have to wash for days to remove what biological hazards you carry, you rat.  But instead, you will get a merciful choice from our esteemed and benevolent Ancestrian law.  Participant-2014-Square-ButtonThink on it and answer wisely, for if you manage to return from any pilgrimage here on Kepler-Z, know that I will still be here.  And I will remember your beady eyes and your disgusting mole-like face, Lorgose refuse.”


Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  WARNING:  editing has not taken place.

Kepler-Z ST: NaNoWriMo Best of the Daily (15)

The Sub-Trans, or ST, tunnel was sparsely filled that night as Bishop Patel lead her to the platform.  Kepler-Z was in a solar week and that meant the feint orange light that glowed from the brightest of the two Red Dwarfs it revolved around wouldn’t dim for another three days.  Most Ancestrians, Terra among them, preferred solar weeks as opposed to the alternative.  Participant-2014-Square-ButtonCimmerian weeks, as they were called, happened when the Inner Cities of Shackleton made their way to the dark side of their highly dense and rocky planet.


Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).  WARNING:  editing has not taken place.

Feynman’s Kryptonite

Kryptonite

Terrance screwed his face into one big ball of disbelief.  He folded his arms across his chest and turned to the source of his annoyance.    “Haven’t you heard Feynman’s theory?  Electrons don’t all just look the same; they are the same.  They’re one.  They’re not “they,” it’s “IT.”  There’s only one electron in the whole universe, in all of existence.  It just keeps going backwards and forwards, turning into antimatter, and then turning around again and turning into an electron.  That’s why ‘all electrons’ look the same.  We’re just one gigantic dot matrix for God.  That’s Feynman.  Don’t you know that?  Hey man, those religious types that tell you we’re all one – ‘they in us and I in you,’ mumbo-jumbo?  They’re not too far off the mark, eh?  So quit acting like you’re some kind of unique being that can leap tall buildings .  I don’t care what blazing rock you crawled out of all naked and invincible Kal-El.  You got that?”

The Pine King

It is the wee small hours of the morning- a mulled wine sunrise with a splash of citrus is drawing the rippling water of the river.  Sugared pines sprinkle last night’s hail onto the banks as wolves, drunk from their most recent kill, stumble to their den for sleep.  The days have been hot and muggy, but last night a storm rolled cool, wet breezes across the parched grasses and hills.  It was not a good night for the boys to run away.

But youth knows no reason when emotions hold sway over decisions and actions.  Slaves to anger and hubris, the two pounced at the spontaneous thought of leaving; they ran from the place they had called a home for the past two weeks.  Gone before the sky darkened and the storm appeared, they left in nothing but shorts and T-shirt, cotton knee socks and tennis shoes.

The town below the orphanage was in full blown revelry last night.  The annual celebration of its historic origins soon developed into the usual drunken street dancing ritual.  The live band stirred the gyrating crowd, but as the music traveled into the pine skirted hills that surrounded the revelers, all that remained were the drums.

“Do you even know where we are?” This from Handel, or what appeared to be Handel.  It was difficult to make out the shivering, damp ball of lanky boy curled up at the base of a tree.

“Can you not hear the drums?  We’re not far from town, duh.”

“I think they cut your hair too close to whatever was left of your brain, B.”  Handel took his time unfolding himself, stretching different limbs and scratching what parts of his brown skin that weren’t already covered in scrapes, welts, or bug bites.  “I can’t believe I followed you out here.”

The boys heads both sported the characteristic crew cut – the traditional intake haircuts – done quickly with a number one guard on electric trimmers.  Both of their scalps were visible through the stubble, but Brad’s scalp was clearly sunburnt, as was the rest of his exposed body parts.  Brad preferred to be called “B” having struggled with the name’s stereotype in the multiple juvenile detentions and foster homes he’d traversed in his young life.  Handel, of  Kalispel tribal heritage, had never seen a foster home.  He had also never seen a sober parent, a brother that wasn’t in prison or an ex-con, or a school that hadn’t given up on him.

“What was that?” B interrupted Handel’s waking dance of unfurling.  The fear in his voice brought an involuntary crouch from Handel.