Share an Excerpt..

Uncarved

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Share an excerpt from your NANO project here in this thread..
Here is mine:




June 4, 1993

Well, dear journal, sixty five years are showing in every crevice of my face. My step is slower, my mind less sharp, and my eyes fail. I’m an old woman. Seems like a lifetime ago that I began this simple account of my life. I’ve married a truly wonderful man and been blessed with 45 years with him. I’ve birthed twins and seen them through every tooth, scraped knee, and bruised ego. I’ve played with my children’s children, advising them to take pity on their parents as their parents took pity on me. I’ve seen wonderful sights, read classic literature, and traveled well. I’ve lived a full life in these pages, and I embrace the end of it like a warm blanket surrounding me on a chilly eve. Death is not my enemy, but my final salvation.

Will I miss this rich land? Savannah has indeed been my home, warm and inviting she takes in every wanderer and rewards her brethren. I find solace in its moss draped trees and the fragrant foliage. The air stays thick with humidity, making my skin seem dewier than it truly is. Southern air, I believe, is the secret that women down here have such great looks. I’ll even miss the sand gnats when I’m gone. Their bites are like being pinched to see if your life has been a dream. It’s been a fine life and I’ve made peace at leaving it behind.

Regrets? Of course. What life doesn’t? I stayed in Savannah instead of moving to my beloved beach. Marriage and family came and plans changed. So much has happened here and I did get to visit the beach from time to time on vacations. That was the reality of my life. Perhaps I may make it back to that shore before death finally takes me.

I bet the emerald tides are beautiful now, hitting the dune with the seagulls scurrying.
 

Uncarved

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first draft and a first attempt at fiction.
I'm a nonfiction gal and this is like pulling teeth without novacaine to me
 

ChaosTitan

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:Hug2: Come on, guys! Some people write good first drafts, other people need a little spit and polish. If you're one of the latter folks, you can dazzle us again in December or January once you've had a chance to edit and make it pretty.

All that matters now is hitting that 50k.
 

PattiTheWicked

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An excerpt from my NaNo WIP:

After the body of Jimmy Bryant Stipple had been carted away to Sunset Funeral Services and Crematorium – known to the locals as the Sunset Grill – McCready reviewed his notes. Luke Mason had gotten the widow calmed down enough that McCready could go talk to her, and see why anyone would want to kill her husband.
Jimmy Bryant Stipple had been fifty years old, smoked two packs a day and drank a considerable amount of beer, but no more than any other fifty-year-old man in Monroe’s Folly. He had a wife, Suzette Clarkson Stipple, of the Mount Pleasant Clarksons, and three children, with whom he had lived in his large white house on Main Street, facing the town square.
He had been a member of the town council for five years, ran the only insurance agency in Monroe’s Folly, and was an active deacon in the First Church of Jesus Our Savior.
The widow Stipple was round, platinum blonde, and had expensive taste. When McCready got to the house, she was draped across a settee in the parlor, a lace hankie clutched between her diamond-encrusted sausage fingers. “You’re the new chief,” she breathed, dabbing a strategically positioned tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry I’m such a wreck.”
“No need to apologize, ma’am,” he said. It was time to be friendly and folksy, even though an investigation was underway. Bad idea to antagonize a widow. “You have my sincere condolences. I had only spoken to your husband by phone, so I didn’t know him well, but I’m sure he’ll be greatly missed.”
Suzette Clarkson Stipple wailed, burying her face in a mauve organza pillow. “He was murdered! Murdered!” she cried. McCready looked at Luke, wondering how much the deputy had told her.
“Ma’am, I know this is a bad time, but I have to ask. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to see your husband dead?” Anyone who’d want to sprawl Jimmy out like a gutted fish, with some devil-worshipper symbol painted in blood across his a*s? he thought.
 

Rane

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Okay, here is an excerpt from my chick lit novel. :)

Well, apparently Ella DOES hold grudges. It’s now the next day at work and she’s still not talking to me. This sucks. I tried talking to her all morning like nothing happened, and she’s still ignoring me. Oh well, I guess I’ll try again.

ME: Hey

Ella: **silence**

ME: Okay, I give up, why are you mad?

Ella: **more silence**

ME: Is this about yesterday? Cause really, you had it coming. You embarrassed me in front of Ralph.

Ella: I did not!

ME: There! You talked! Now tell me what’s wrong.

Ella: I guess I’m just sick of getting asked out by all the losers. Why can’t I find a real man? One who at least has some teeth.

“I know how you feel. I used to get grossed out by all the sickos flirting with me, but then I just learned to ignore it and now it doesn’t bother me.”

“Well I can’t ignore it. It’s just sickening the way they look at me, sizing me up and down like i'm a piece of meat at the store. I can’t ever wear anything remotely nice here, because then their eyes fall immediately to my chest.” Ella shivered. “It just gives me the creeps.”

“Like I said, you have to learn to ignore it. Don’t let them bother you and instead focus on the hot guys.”

“Okay, that’s easy advice, but the hot ones don’t even look at me!”
 

san_remo_ave

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<sigh>

Ok. I broke my rule and reopened my first scene and my internal editor woke up... found myself editing just a couple of quick words.... argh. Here's a quick cut and paste. I'm not allowed to go back in there until this is all over, or I'll still be working on scene 1 when Nano ends....:e2bummed:

In the spirit of Nano I share an excerpt from the beginning of section 1, in all of it's horrid glory. This is historical so some of the speech may come across sounding a bit stilted right now. I can see I will have some work to clean up clunky modern vernacular... later.

"Your father was broke, Margaret. There's no inheritance."

Margaret Bell absorbed his words with a jolt. It was a good thing she was sitting down when Charles delivered the news because she would have ended up on her butt anyway.

"You've got to be jesting with me, Charles," she said and edged earnestly forward on the slippery leather cushion.

"I fear not, my dear. I know --it's incomprehensible," he said and sighed forelornly. "Your father was a premier businessman, the best I know."

Margaret was speechless, digesting his words. Of course, if anyone knew her father, it was Charles Upchurch, the man who had started the First Manhattan Bank with her father all those years ago. He had been George Bell's most trusted friend and confidant since they were children. Charles had been by his side for George's marraige and took his role of godfather to Margaret as seriously as if she were his natural daughter. If anyone knew her father, it was Charles, and he was as dismayed as she was over this news.

"You're certain, Charles? There's been no mistake?"

"I have drilled the attorneys for hours in the belief that it was so." He moved quietly around the end of the desk and gently grasped her hand, squeezing it gently in reassurance and Margaret thought it strange that the warmth of his grip did little to dispell the cold that clung to her fingertips. "I was certain it was a mistake, until I reviewed all of his papers and saw for myself."

"But how?" Margaret reclaimed her hand and absently rubbed it against her forehead in a futile effort to dispell the ache slowly forming behind her brow. "How could he have lost his entire fortune?" Her head jerked up with a sudden thought. "Surely he didn't gamble it all away?!"

Charles rustled in stiff [XXgabardineXX], shifting as he perched against his broad desk. "No. No, dear, nothing so unseemly for George Bell."

"Then how?"

"Bad investments." Rustle, rustle. "George made some very unwise investment decisions, Margaret."

"Surely one bad investment couldn't wipe us out so completely?" Or could it? Apparently it did, from what Charles had to tell her. How had her methodical, deliberate father grown so careless?

"You're correct, dear." Charles moved back behind the desk and sat down with a lusty squeak of springs. "It would appear that George's bad luck began with an investment in Federated Textiles last year. Perhaps you recall the fire last summer?"

Margaret frowned and wadded the thick velvet of her skirt. "The fire that consumed the building over on [XX] Street and killed all of those women and children?"

"Yes, that's the one. Federated was bankrupt and everyone lost their money," paper crackled from the desk. "And your father's investments there became worthless, so he apparently thought to recoup the damage with a couple of other chancy risks that fared no better."

Risky decisions were so unlike her father that Margaret was having a difficult time reconciling these actions to her staid, routine sire. George Bell was known for nothing less than routine dependability, all the way down to his meals which were exactly the same every single day of the week. Monday was roast beef and peas, every Monday without fail. How could a man who would not take a chance with his digestion by daring a change to his diet conjure up the fortitude to risk a fortune in investments?

"But as a banker, Father was one of the best financial minds in town. He oversaw the bank's investments as well. Surely if he had begun to make unwise decisions, something would have shown up at the bank and drawn your attention sooner?"

"That's just the oddest part, Margaret. There's nothing out of sorts in the bank's books. It would appear that it was only with his personal finances that George was taking these risks."

Margaret eased her grip on her skirt and began to smooth the material slowly, coaxing the velvet fabric to lay uniformly with the grain and soothing her palm with the buttery texture in an absent attempt to soothe her shattered nerves.

"I simply cannot fathom this," she replied and blinked heavily against the tension and ache that was beginning to descend from her brow to the backs of her eyes. "Perhaps I should inquire with Mr. Shallot whether it is possible that someone defrauded Father?"

Charles was silent for a moment, then his fingers began to drum an impatient rhythm on the wooden surface of his desk, then he sighed. "Yes, of course. I would be happy to set an appointment for you to talk with the solicitor if it will help you to set your mind at ease." The nib of his pen emitted a furious scratching sound as Margaret sat, quietly willing the threatening migrane away. "There. I'll instruct Mr. Shallot to call upon you next week when he can answer any questions that you may have."

Now her eyelid was beginning to twitch a dull, distracting throb of a nerve, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. "Are you satisified with everything he presented for your review?"

"Indeed I am," he replied firmly.

"I see," she said.

"Margaret," Charles cleared his throat as if something were stuck then continued, "that's not all."​
 

Akuma

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My NaNo has been entirely different than my usual style. It's somewhat funny, but more of a stream of conciousness from the protag:

Mac sat at his computer and ate pretzels.
Pretzels were good, though a bit dry. He wondered if making pretzels was a decent job. Perhaps, he hoped, they weren’t made by soulless machines. Perhaps they were made by large but closely knitted Italian families, in fields of grape vines and warm sun. Maybe the children were left to make the pretzels, rolling the dough in an expansive and familiar kitchen. Maybe every pretzel was infused with the heart and soul of these little workers. They were delightful children, he was sure. They were supervised by their strict but kindly grandmother, who would teach them the art of pretzels before they were old enough to make wine. They could drink it, of course.
He remembered one time when Adolfo and his sister Angelina and his cousin Gianna became especially drunk, drinking more than they should have and hiding from the adults in the fields of grapes as they steadily worked their way through three more bottles. And then they became giddy and before he knew it, Adolfo was naked with two girls licking and kissing and nibbling him. They became naked too and things were discovered and they all rubbed together in exultation of this revelation of flesh. And soon they were all reaching their climaxes, everyone of them, at once, and they were wet and sticky and breathless.
They would do it again and again, even after the night of their drunkenness, in secret. And Adolfo would only smile to himself when other boys called him a virgin. If they knew the things he knew, if they had felt the things he had felt, perhaps they would understand how he had come to create a perfect society within three humans, one of lust and love, passion and peaceful wonder, of ethereal enlightenment. And as the two girls slurped him, he would slurp them in indefinable heat. He whispered rapid Italian to them, confessing many things and telling them what he wished to do to them. They would whisper too, confessing many things and telling him in turn what they wished to do to him. The secret was theirs in the rows of grapes, in the aisles of young spirits, beneath the bright moon. Only the occasional quiet moans escaping one of their mouths would give anything away and even then it was merely a sigh upon the air. They would never be caught.
Mac went to bed. Maybe he would write something tomorrow.
 

Uncarved

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I want to read Akuma's when its done :)
 

Sage

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MarkButler said:
Sheesh, talk about intimidating.. couldn't you have posted a crappy excerpt to encourage others to show off theirs.. no way I am going to post my juvenile stuff now
I'm with you. I'll wait 'til there's a scene worth posting. One snuck out last year, I'm sure it'll be waiting in the wings to jump out at me eventually.
 

ChaosTitan

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Here's a mid-scene selection from Chapter Two. Quitrina is teaching Doc how to fence.

*

"It's not like I can really hurt you," she said. "The tips have those little balls on them." To prove her point, she poked her sword into her calf and the smooth, balled tip rolled easily against the white fabric of her pants.

"Why did I ever agree to this?" he asked.

She laughed, knowing she'd won. "Because I'm twice as stubborn as you."

"That's true enough." He relaxed a bit, rolled his neck against his shoulders. "The only person in this facility who's more stubborn than you is Alannah."

"How is Fire Pants these days? Getting frustrated, I bet. I was walking past the kitchen the other day while you two were cooking and thought I smelled smoke. And I don't think it's because the food was on fire."

Doc made a strangled sound in his throat, and if he'd sipping water, probably would have spewed it. She could only imagine the shade of red his face had turned beneath the mask. "Fire Pants?" he said, when he could breath properly again.

She shrugged one shoulder. "Come on, don't we all need nicknames or something? I mean, White's got us out there fighting the good fight like superheroes from those magazines kids read twenty years ago. Didn't they all have code names?"

"Probably, but I don't think Alli would appreciate the moniker Fire Pants."

"What about Pyro Girl?"

"Can we call you Shut Up And Start Fencing?"

"Whatever you say, Miracle Man."

"I am not--"

"Teasing," she said, holding up a hand to ward off the retort. "Just teasing. Okay, let's get started."
 

Eveningsdawn

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I wanna read Akuma's....


And chaos, why did I not notice that was Simon Tam in your icon until just now?

My excerpt, ignoring my screaming internal editor (she's SUPPOSED to be sitting with her back turned and her iPod turned up all the way, humming loudly so she can neither see nor hear nor speak).


They ate lunch together, Saturday afternoon, each with a schedule in their hands. Talia was leaned back in her chair, finished with her lunch, examining hers and Nicolas’s schedule. He wasn’t eating with the five girls, but he’d stopped by; the blond boy from the skit performed the night before lived in Carolyn’s house so he knew her slightly, and his twin was in the house with Caroline, the fifth girl, also from Massachusetts. Now Talia snorted, amused, and handed the schedule back.
“You’ve got two classes with me. Monday-Wednesday-Friday, the eight AM English, and Tuesday-Thursday Anthropology.”
“Wait, you’ve got Anthro Tuesday-Thursday? What time?” Caroline and Catherine were almost in chorus, as they glanced up from their lists of books to purchase.
“Two thirty.”
“Aw…” said Caroline, and moodily stuck a French fry into ketchup. But Catherine said, “That’s when I have it too. With Professor Mandelay, in the Arch? Room 115?”
“That’s the one. Looks like it’s going to be quite a party; my new friend Ginny is in that class too.” Everyone looked at Talia blankly. “Ginny. You know. She was in the talent show, she played the guitar, and she was really good…?”
Comprehension dawned. “Oh yeah,” said Anne, nodding, “I remember her.”
“Man,” said Carolyn, sounding mildly irritated. “The only person I have classes with here is my roommate.”
“Caro, this campus is tiny. I think it’s safe to say that we’re going to be seeing each other quite enough as it is,” remarked Caroline, standing up to clear her tray. “Come on. Let’s go get dessert. Jakob says they have tolerably good ice cream here, and I had a fresh-from-the-oven cookie for breakfast this morning.”
“What time did you eat breakfast? They weren’t out yet when I came by.”
“’Bout two hours ago.”
A pause, and some silent math.
“Caroline, two hours ago was noon.”
The blonde girl grinned. “Welcome to college.”

Tuesday afternoon, the second day of actually attending class. By two in the afternoon, they’d been to all their classes save one; most of them were handling it well, innocent of the workload that would hit them later in the semester. One by one they left their dorms or got up from their lunch table, stuck their new books in their bags, checked once more for their keycards, and started the walk through the still-muggy August weather to the Arch. They walked halfway through the wind tunnel created by the building’s namesake, pulled open the curiously ornate door, and walked, one by one, up a flight of stairs whose railings matched the decorative metal of the door. The building was new; they were the first class to start the year with renovations complete and the upperclassmen had yet to forgive them for it.
They walked down halls, rounded corners, running into each other and claiming seats on benches. It was still early enough in the year that introducing themselves to people they’d already met, and asking their names, was not yet looked down on. In a week or two, they’d have to ask someone else in an undertone when they didn’t know a name, but for now…
The door opened. Class began.



Yes, Carolyn and Caroline confuse me too sometimes. It could be worse; the girls they're based off are Sarah and Sarah.
 

Sage

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Being brave

(Okay, I can be brave. Deep breaths... and submit!)



Okay, you know what? I stand corrected. When you are forced to stay in the Waiting Room all day and all night, you might as well be in Hell. I waited in one of the chairs near the front with the humans, my head in my hands, wavering between horror at what Sam and I had witnessed and boredom during those times when I could block it from my mind's eye.

Investing in a book of Sudoku was definitely high on the priority list for tomorrow.

As soon as there was a slight lull in the incoming clients, I ran up and got in line with the newest ones to see Dee.

"I know Azrael said he would give me a light day tomorrow," I said when I got to the front desk, "but please tell me he forgot, and I'm really busy. Or at least that Sam's schedule and mine mesh so we're not waiting for each other."

Dee punched a few buttons and printed up my schedule and Sam's. "No such luck. Two deaths each, different times, spread out across the day."

I slammed my fist into the desk. "You know, screw this. If Azrael wants us to figure this thing out, he needs to give us a break. I'm not going to sit here all night long. Do you have Michael's Earth address in the system?"

Dee looked at me over the top of her sunglasses. "Tia, it's dangerous to go to Earth alone right now. And only Azrael has access to every Angel's personal file." As if reading my mind that I planned to go into his study and demand more information, she added, "He's out right now."

"Where?"

"Hell, if I know." Then she grimaced. "I mean, I don't know."

I gave her a stern look. "He actually is in Hell, isn't he?"

"Yes. Do you really want to follow?"

I didn't, to tell the truth. I've spent two thousand years without venturing forth into either Hell or Heaven, and as long as I was in this business, I didn't plan on making the voyage to either realm. One because I couldn't bear to be there, and the other because I don't think I could bear to leave.
 

Eveningsdawn

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I'm actually sharing a second, small excerpt. Because it fulfills a dare. Two dares, actually. Along with being real.

Catherine flipped to the reading for the next day and started in on it. Before she had even finished the first paragraph, she yelped with badly suppressed surprise, and then glared across to where Carolyn and Talia had collapsed into laughter at the look on her face.
“This is about sex,” she said, calmly, causing them to dissolve into giggling again, leaning on each other, and making Anne lean back in her chair to favor Catherine with a long stare.
“Noooo,” said Talia, managing to stop laughing long enough to get her words out, “It’s one better than that! It’s about monkey sex!”
Catherine continued reading, fascinated, and then said, half to herself and half to Lauren, who had just walked in with a load of laundry, “Have you ever heard of bonobos?”
A fresh storm of hysteria from across the way made Lauren turn to look long and hard at them, and then reply, “No, and if has anything to do with the helpless laughter from Carolyn’s room, I’m not so sure I want to hear anything at all. I’d probably regret it if I did.”
“Yeah, probably.”
A pause.
“They have sex with each other from the time they’re infants. But they tend to stick to their own age groups, so its baby monkeys going at it, and adult monkeys, and somewhere in-between monkeys, although I think those last two groups probably mix. Scientists don’t know too much about why they’re so… obsessive, but they think as a species we may be more closely related to bonobos than to chimps… hey, that’s actually really interesting. They use sex as a method to – ”
“Catherine! Too! Much! Information! I don’t know why you’re reading about monkey sex but I reallllly do not want to hear about it.”
“Neither did I,” called Carolyn from where she sat, book and Talia in her lap. “But she told me about it anyway.”



Eheheheh.
 

Soccer Mom

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Oooh, I think Eve is gonna win the dare challenge! I'm all primed to add cannibals and sex. Not sure how I'm gonna get a monkey in this story.

Here we go. I've hogtied my IE, so this is what you get.


All the women in my family have psychic ‘gifts’ except for me. I’ve always been totally cool with this since it seems to do nothing but screw up their lives. By the time I was twenty five, I thought I had escaped the family blessing. I had done a good enough job screwing up my own life, thank you very much. I didn’t need to see dead people or have spooky visions.

One minute I was running late to work and the next I was waking up in a hospital room with lots of tubes and beeping and pain. I remember waking up late and all the rushing and the swearing that goes along with it. I remember running outside and my hair was wet and I could hear my mother’s voice in my head warning me you’ll catch your death of a cold. I remember seeing my train and realizing that it could care less whether or not I was on it, because of course, it’s just a stupid train and it’s never on time except for why dear lord today. I’m running. I step in a slushy puddle. I’m falling.
Then I hurt all over, but especially my head.

I didn’t want to open my eyes, but I just had to look around. And there she was, sitting on the bed next to mine in the room. There was someone in the bed but his (her?) face was turned the other way.

The woman sitting on the bed had to be at least a hundred years old. She had wrinkles on her wrinkles, a huge mound of teased and sprayed hair colored an improbable shade of blue, and a three pack a day smoker’s cough. She was dressed in the official senior uniform of a hot pink velour track suit. She kept looking around like she was bored, waiting for something.

“Where am I?” I croaked. I knew I was in a hospital. What I meant was What hospital am I in and how did I get here? But all I could manage was a few words.

The woman looked right at me, but she didn’t answer. How rude. I tried again.

“What hospital is this?”

She looked more intently at me. “Can you see me?”

What the hell? “Yeah,” I croaked.

She patted her fluffy hair helmet. “Well, La-de-da. Whaddya know. I thought I was in invisible mode. Must have been the blow to the head.”
That explained the headache, but not the harpy. She looked down at the person whose bed she was sitting on. “Wait here,” she said to the motionless figure. “I’ll be back.”

I had to blink rapidly because she was suddenly standing right next to me and I hadn’t seen her move.

“Ow,” I cried out. “You pinched me.”

“You really can see me. And feel me too.”

“Who are you?”

“Not yet, doll. First you tell me your name.”

My head hurt too much to argue. “Portia. Portia Mahaffey.”

“Ohhhhh.” She unleashed a rattling laugh that trailed off into another coughing fit. “That explains it. You’re one of those Mahaffeys, aren’t you? You must be Imogene’s daughter.”

All I could do was stare. “How did you know? Do I know you?”

She laughed again. “No, doll, but I know your mother real well. We used to talk all the time.” She patted my arm. “Your mother said you didn’t have the gift, but looks like she was wrong.”

I had a bad feeling, but I asked anyway. “You know about that?”

“Know? Of course, I know, honey. I’m Death. But you can call me Hepzebah. Pleased to meetcha.”

I closed my eyes and hoped she would be gone when I opened them. It was a dream. It was the blow to the head. I was obviously hallucinating. With my eyes closed, the throbbing in my head worsened. I opened them gingerly.

“Boo,” she said.
 

Akuma

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chaostitan said:
You're forgiven just for knowing who Simon Tam is. :D

I could have sworn that was Jim Carrey...


And I really want to read Sage's Nano. :O
 

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Eveningsdawn said:
I'm actually sharing a second, small excerpt. Because it fulfills a dare. Two dares, actually. Along with being real.

Last year we had a "share your dares" thread. I'll go start one for you.

Akuma said:
And I really want to read Sage's Nano. :O
:e2cloud9:
 

Eveningsdawn

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Naw, Sage, it's two dares from these boards! There's already a thread. But thanks for the thought.
 

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Wow, everyone's is so good. Ack, ack, I'm extremely scared. *Maddy, all it takes is copy and paste. No one will laugh at you* (Hears screams of derisive laughter coming from AW members.) Acccckkkk...

Okay, here it is in all of its horrifying first-draftiness. I'm going to post it before I regret it. Ack, I already regret it. ALRIGHT! HERE GOES!

(from random middle section of book)

Pepsi walked briskly down the street, the cool springtime air biting at her bare arms and legs. She remembered Mr. Freedman’s Shakespeare essay, and suddenly slowed down. Damn she needed to get herself a homework planner-- not that it would probably make any difference. The only time she had reserved for “homework time” was the twelve minutes at the start of every day known as homeroom. Well, maybe she could churn out some piece of crap before fourth period English, and at least she wouldn’t fail. Or maybe she could get out of the essay entirely. Hmm, she’d have to start working on her excuse. Last time her alcoholic father had chucked it in the fireplace when she wouldn’t tell him where the cigarettes were (he was also a recovering smoker, apparently.) That one had worked surprisingly well, and she had received an A on her unwritten essay.

It was only as Pepsi was walking up to the school building that she thought of the easiest way to avoid turning in her Shakespeare essay: not show up to class. So, during fourth period, Pepsi hung out in the library. This might have been nice and relaxing, if she hadn’t been surrounded by a bunch of freshman who were on their lunch break and had nothing better to do than suck up to her.

“I love your earrings,” cooed Jessica, a red-haired girl who, despite her wholesome I’m-selling-bibles look and sweet face, was “a total slut of a fourteen-year old,” according to everyone (or at least Rachel.)

Pepsi gave her a cold smile. “Thanks. Kristin Cavallari gave them to me.”

“Ohmigod,” said the girl standing next to Jessica. She had frizzy brown hair and braces. “You know Kristin Cavallari?

“We met on the set of Laguna Beach,” said Pepsi, giving the ninth graders a “duh” expression.

“You’re in Laguna Beach?” exclaimed another girl, joining the cluster around Pepsi’s table. Why did these little twerps keep repeating everything she said?

Pepsi shrugged and pulled a worn copy of Vogue out of her bag, spreading it out on the table and beginning to read. Apparently, gold was the color to wear to hot summer parties. “Just as an extra, you know.”

“Wow,” said several of the girls at once. Pepsi smirked, and turned the page of her magazine. Let them go home and rent every episode of Laguna Beach, looking for her.

“Can I have your autograph?” asked the same frizzy-haired girl with braces.

Okay, this was going too far.

“Sorry, I always consult my publicist before giving out autographs,” said Pepsi breezily. “They’re often sold on e-bay for overwhelming amounts of money.” Don’t get too carried away; remember, you’re only an extra.

However, the girls looked sufficiently impressed.

“You’re totally pretty enough to be on a TV show,” said Jessica finally, in a desperate attempt to get some serious ***-kissing in.

“Oh, I guess so.” Pepsi stood up and shoved Vogue back into her bag. “Bye, Jennifer,” she said, before walking away.

“Bye!” Jessica squeaked. Pepsi had learned long ago (as in, three months ago) that getting people’s names wrong was an instant way to demonstrate superiority; as in, “You may know my name, but I am far too high and cool to remember yours.”

Not that she needed to feel any more superior to those sniveling ninth graders than she already did. In fact, sometimes it was hard being so much better than everyone else.

Pepsi strutted out of the library, wondering where she could spend the remaining twenty minutes until her next class. What about eating with the freshmen? They would probably wet themselves in delight.

Deciding that she had never been fourteen years old, Pepsi walked into the girls’ bathroom to reapply her make-up and finish reading that article in Vogue. She was going to have to buy herself a hot gold dress for the summer, it seemed.


Wow, *cringecringecringe* I'm going to go hide now. You all have fun with NaNoWriMo!
 

TheIT

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All right, you guys talked me into it. Here's the beginning to "Double Take". Enjoy. :D

=================

"When lurking on rooftops, not getting caught on the building is just as important as not falling off," said Katrina as she watched Pounce struggle to free his tunic from the fangs of the stone gargoyle. She leaned against the slope of the roof, the clay tiles keeping her steady, and folded her arms. Her dark gray clothes blended with the night shadows, and the hood of her cloak kept her look of amusement hidden.

"Kat, please," said Pounce. The back collar of the boy's tunic had caught on the stone as he squirmed around the corner. Now he hung forlornly from the gargoyle's mouth like a bird fetched by a hunting dog. He was in more danger of being made a pigeon's nest than falling.

Katrina shook her head and sighed. "Keep your voice down."

"Get me off of here."

"'Kat, take me with you,'" said Katrina, her alto voice softly mimicking the boy's higher tones. "'Kat, I'm old enough to go on a job. Please, Kat, please, let me try. You'll see.' Well, I'm looking."

"Not fair," said Pounce.

"You're the one who wanted to apprentice with me as a thief. You expect fair?"

"Help me."

"Help yourself."

She turned her back on him and climbed the slope of the roof. As she approached the peak, she crawled on her belly to the top, and peered over the edge. The street below was empty, not that she expected any of the respectable people of the SecondWall district to be out and about in the middle of the night, especially not during a magic storm.

High above the city of Carpadeem, the sky roiled with the chaos of magic. Lights and colors, shapes of sanity and madness, ever changing, never still. Sounds in the distance like thunder, like whispers, like echoes of possibility. Katrina could feel the magic thrumming through her body as if she were a harp string. Nothing to fear from the storms, the city's defenses had held for centuries, so she let herself revel in the wildness held at bay, and let herself feel alive.

Behind her, she could hear muffled groans and the sharp sound of ripping cloth. She rested her forehead against the gritty clay tiles. "Whose modesty are you protecting? Yours or the gargoyle's?"

She glanced over her shoulder. Pounce was still for a moment, then she caught a flash of pale belly as he lifted his arms and slithered out of his tunic. She could almost feel the heat of the boy's blush as he joined her and pulled his tunic back on.

"Thanks," he said as he straightened out his too short sleeves. In the last few months he'd gotten his growth. He gave her an impish grin, his tousle of brown curls falling over his eyes. "Have you ever had to shed your blouse to get unstuck?"

"In your dreams," she said.

His grin grew wider, and she suppressed a sigh. Wrong thing to say to a boy becoming a man.

================
 

Soccer Mom

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Yay! Good job everyone. What fun names the characters have. Pounce, Pepsi and Hepzebah :D Good times.

BTW--I'm hoping little Pepsi gets hers. What a brat!

I can't wait to see what Pounce and Kat steal.

Battling agnels? Drunken sex in the vineyards? Bring it on! These are fun.