tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89216662011-10-13T23:43:40.483-04:00National Novel Blogging Month November 1-30, 2004 Goal: 50,000 wordsjay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.comBlogger291100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101879242877397812004-11-28T23:13:00.000-05:002004-12-01T00:34:02.883-05:00

Mel rides in the dingy backseat of a cab when her mobile phone rings. She recognizes the heavy breathing before she even says hello. “Mel,” the low voice says. “I found Stephanie Fairbanks. Followed her from the Monument to a house on the other side of town.” Mel says, “Well, it’s about time…” “Now she’s at the home of one of the Preservationist leaders. There is another woman with her.”

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101877665356767832004-11-27T23:55:00.000-05:002004-12-01T00:10:18.180-05:00

The two men stop in front of the coffee cart to chat with Trudy, and Roger sets Starlet down, turning and leaning down to speak with her. As he takes her hand in his, he sees something move out of the corner of his eye, his tracker instincts always on alert. Imperceptibly cocking his head, he locks his gaze on the movement: a lithe blonde diving into the bushes. Brown blazer, blue jeans. Though

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101707414728541502004-11-26T10:43:00.000-05:002004-11-29T00:50:14.726-05:00

Wally has been fighting the urge to urinate for a long time. His whole body feels like a dried out sponge; how could he possibly have to pee? Eventually, he grows too uncomfortable and stands up, walks to what he believes is the easternmost corner of the prison cell, hoping it will not be in the shade as the day wears on, if he is calculating correctly. He pees on the wall, watching the steam

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101673455859959092004-11-25T23:11:00.000-05:002004-11-28T15:24:15.860-05:00

“Mel, it’s me,” London huffs. “What’s going on?” “We’re doing turnout right now,” she explains. “Things are looking good. The people are mobilized and are on their way.” “Fantastic,” he replies, “the plan is working, then.” Mel detects a somber note in his voice. “Sir? Is everything okay?” He clears his throat. “It’s just weird, you know, actually being down here.” Though she can’t see

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101672555815856642004-11-24T22:01:00.000-05:002004-11-28T15:09:15.816-05:00

Stephanie nudges through a group of teenage boys, visiting the Monument on a school trip, all wearing identical yellow T-shirts. Snickering, one of the boys shoves his buddy into her with an elevated “Yowza!” Blushing, the boy mutters an apology and smacks his friend in the arm. Stephanie smiles politely and edges her way closer to the Monument, before a twinge of wooziness hits her. Having

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101359534793022632004-11-23T23:03:00.000-05:002004-11-26T02:41:13.266-05:00

When Stephanie pulls up to the curb, she sees the line forming at the ticket window. Her palms begin to sweat and she has a hot ball of anticipation churning in her stomach. Reaching into her purse, she withdraws a small compact and looks at her face in the mini mirror, assessing the damage. Several long nights, driving with no sleep; many long days without a shower. Smearing the sponge covered

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101235702767638222004-11-22T23:42:00.000-05:002004-11-23T13:48:22.766-05:00

Stephanie drives in silence for a long while. Her first thought was to head straight to the Monument, but now she is having misgivings. She missed the rendezvous, and the Village Green Preservation Society meet-up as well; she had been out of contact for days. Most importantly, though, she needs to find a computer and check her message board for any new posts. Damn, she thinks, chewing on a

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101138184829900852004-11-21T23:36:00.000-05:002004-11-22T10:43:04.830-05:00

When Woody London steps off the small airplane, a driver is waiting for him. He’d survived the landing without Roxy, and he hopes to split this scene before having to see her again. Now he feels almost as though he’s on autopilot, going through the necessary motions, enacting the plan precisely as he has envisioned it all this time. Nothing else matters. The driver collects his two suitcases

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101137725109643092004-11-20T19:18:00.000-05:002004-11-22T10:35:25.110-05:00

Wally London sits in the corner of a cell. A prewar prison, the cement stalls withstood the fiercest of bombardments, and though the roof was destroyed more than a century ago, the ten-foot walls and heavy iron gates remained, creating a perfect holding cell for Wally, who can feel the sunlight crawling under his skin. It is starting to itch. Huddling, he attempts to cover as much of his body

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1101063165742439782004-11-19T23:40:00.000-05:002004-11-21T13:52:45.743-05:00

“Sally Mae?” Neil hollers from the bedroom. Twisting on the bedside lamp, he blinks heavily, and tries to talk himself into being awake. He’s not sure how long he’s been asleep, but he knows the sound of a car door closing is what woke him up. At first it worked its way into his dream; he and Sally Mae were out on a fishing boat, but it was the younger, happier Sally Mae that he’d married, not

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100994581144688442004-11-18T22:37:00.000-05:002004-11-20T18:49:41.143-05:00

London reclines comfortably in the roomy cabin. Flying always makes him nervous; it’s such a new and unnatural technology. But sitting on the runway waiting for takeoff, he enjoys the luxuries of his private chartered plane, and has requested that a stewardess come to sit next to him during the liftoff, just in case. It’s not a fear of heights or fear of death necessarily, but rather a very

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100931135298592072004-11-17T23:06:00.000-05:002004-11-20T01:12:15.300-05:00

Pulling the knitted afghan more snugly around her, Starlet draws her knees up closer to her body. The cold, hard floor doesn’t bother her; it’s the deep onyx of the room that bears down on her, crawls through her like a worm through the core of an apple. Night is a time of activity and travel for her and her people, and usually when she lies down to sleep, the sun is rising and the birds are

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100761708484259232004-11-16T23:59:00.000-05:002004-11-18T20:17:18.166-05:00

Neil listens to Sally Mae in the dark hallway; she keeps her voice low and her eyes on Stephanie. He allows her to recount Stephanie’s story, as though he hadn’t overheard, and feigns concern in all the right places. “Well, whattya think we should do?” “I keep goin’ back and forth on it, but it seems we have to let her go.” She looks at him with dozy eyes. “Right?” “We might could.” “But…,”

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100761133875048442004-11-15T23:43:00.000-05:002004-11-18T13:52:32.286-05:00

“…speak to Mr. London, please.” “He’s not in right now. May I take a message?” Mel asks warily. The caller is shouting over a tremendous ruckus in the background. “This is his brother calling. Again. I must speak with him at once.” “I’m sorry, sir, but he cannot be reached right now.” Mel tries to mask the irritation exploding in her belly. This is his fifth call today. “I don’t expect to hear

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100628824179979732004-11-14T23:06:00.000-05:002004-11-16T13:13:44.180-05:00

John lies in bed, his head propped up on a pillow, his back facing the cold stone wall of his cramped room. The lamp casts a beam of bright light on the book in his hand, the rest of the room lost in blackness. He reads a history book about the war, hoping to fill in the gaps in his knowledge of what happened. So far it’s just much of the same information as the other books he’s read, although

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100540243798719002004-11-13T18:25:00.000-05:002004-11-15T12:37:23.796-05:00

“There, there, sweetie, it’s okay.” Sally Mae rubs Stephanie’s back. As Stephanie shrieks, her vision is streaked with ribbons of purple and red, and engulfing her is a looming sensation that she’s got to get out of here. Her mind is consumed by her fear, and yet her legs do not react; the presence of a soft, warm circular motion on her backside nags for attention, but the panic overrides it

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100381004753589432004-11-12T20:07:00.000-05:002004-11-13T16:25:24.286-05:00

“We would have to travel both day and night,” the eldest Journeyer says, reflexively twisting his gnarly hands around his wooden walking stick. “It would be a first—to Journey now, mere weeks after completing our annual Journey.” He contemplates the eyes of a dozen or so elders seated before him, each looking to him for a solution, for a decision. All have expressed their opinions and the rift

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100314564495266042004-11-11T21:42:00.000-05:002004-11-12T21:56:04.496-05:00

She’s heavier than she looks, Neil groans. Wheezing, he carries Stephanie’s limp body out of the store and places her in the backseat of his car. After shutting her door, he goes back inside the bakery to make sure nothing seems out of the ordinary, then locks up, and in the cover of night, steals back to his car and begins the drive home. Forty minutes later, he pulls into his driveway,

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100119970820047702004-11-10T17:52:00.000-05:002004-11-11T00:38:28.590-05:00

Trudy sits in her humble kitchen, sipping a cup of hot tea, steeped with lemon and sugar, and reading the morning paper. Her sandy hair is in rollers, her lime green bathrobe tied snugly across her middle. A black cat rubs happily against her bare legs and slippered feet. The dominant story on the front page announces a new study on the recurrent acid rain, a residual effect of the war. Seems

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1100068407198094452004-11-09T18:19:00.000-05:002004-11-10T01:37:18.740-05:00

He answers his mobile on the first ring. “Mr. London?” “Yes, Mel, what is it?” “Mr. London has called for you several times today.” “My father?” “No, sir, your brother. Walter.” “And what did you tell him?” “Well, I told him you would get back to him as soon as you could. That you were away on business and may not be reachable for a few days.” “Did he say why he was calling?” “No, sir.

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1099950675661401672004-11-08T16:48:00.000-05:002004-11-09T01:01:36.600-05:00

The rendezvous is in the desert on the outskirts of a quiet port town. Stephanie believes she is almost there; she can smell the water in the air and see seagulls gliding overhead. Again she tries the radio and a talk show comes in clearly. “Good morning, it’s fourteen past the hour. I’m Winnie, this is my co-host Ruby. We’re talking with Dr. Vivian Jackson-Fox about her new book, Six Tenets

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1099891210336600902004-11-07T19:12:00.000-05:002004-11-08T00:20:10.336-05:00

John braces himself, with his back against the door. Just a few days ago, life was normal, he thinks. But he realizes, too, that the world is a volatile place. He supposes that somewhere deep inside he always knew that someday things would change. But he’s not ready for it yet. More than anything he wishes he could just open up that door to let in a crowd of smiling faces, the families with

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1099806413283396382004-11-06T18:29:00.000-05:002004-11-07T00:52:58.160-05:00

Stephanie chucks her mobile phone out the car window. By the time it bounces off the tarmac and skids into the dusty desert night, she’s far away, zooming down the road. She thinks she’s being followed, that maybe there’s a tracking device in her phone. The road to the east is treacherous, and she’s ill prepared for a long trip, but she’s more afraid to stay than to go. So she goes. Her blond

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1099690341288658592004-11-05T16:20:00.000-05:002004-11-05T16:32:21.286-05:00

Trudy yanks the spigot and releases the water from her cart. She tosses the stale coffee and grinds into the bushes behind her, and hoists the carts up into its rolling position. I’m gettin’ too old for this, she thinks. It’s backbreaking work, but it’s all she’s got. Wheeling the cart down the streets of her hometown, she thinks about John, still on the job after all these years. No family,

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1099597068862022342004-11-04T14:36:00.000-05:002004-11-04T14:40:41.306-05:00

Woody London dabs his brow with a white handkerchief. “You’re an asshole,” he says definitively to the man sitting across from him named Roger. The room is rectangular and barren, no windows, no natural light. A bare bulb hangs above a Shaker table and two chairs. “You had two responsibilities: Find them, and take them. You did neither. You’ve failed me. Get out of my sight.” With a flick of his

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1099513363051541232004-11-03T15:01:00.000-05:002004-11-03T15:33:10.940-05:00

Stephanie Fairbanks opens her car door and gets inside and slams the door. Life is not going as she’d planned. She moved down to L.A. at a spry twenty-two, eager and full of hope, convinced she’d achieve her aspirations of becoming an actress/model/singer, and four years later had had little or no success. She’d stopped crying, though. Whenever she would leave a particularly excruciating audition

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1099419877432599192004-11-02T13:23:00.000-05:002004-11-02T13:24:37.433-05:00

John chuckles at the memory, then is startled to see the tall man strutting right up to the monument. He places both his hands on it, palms flat, fingers pointing upward, and closes his eyes. “Please don’t touch,” John says in a low voice, coming up behind the man’s right shoulder. The man visibly jumps at the sound of John’s voice and abruptly turns to face him. “You!” he thunders, again

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1099334106947187562004-11-01T13:46:00.000-05:002004-11-02T13:30:30.520-05:00

John Bergendorf reaches to turn out the bedside lamp, blinks in the sudden darkness, then draws the blanket up to his chin and promptly falls asleep. His mother always said he was a good sleeper, could sleep anywhere, through anything, even now as the saggy flesh of his cheek droops onto his pillow and the hairs curl out of his nostrils with each snore. He doesn’t feel old and his life doesn’t

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8921666.post-1099020409195634062004-10-28T23:26:00.000-04:002004-11-01T14:07:28.986-05:00

It's National Novel Writing Month. Check it out! Please check back again on November 1...

jay xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09050700898744060309noreply@blogger.com0