6,807/1,000,000 (0.6807%)

These short stories do not add much to the word count... Anyhow, some nonfiction this week. I haven't felt too inspired lately. I've written some that I haven't posted, and I'm not sure if I will. It isn't "finished," and that, after all, was the goal.

Swimming (100)

She was standing in a pool, waist-deep in the water. Friends and strangers surrounded her. The floor turned slick and she fell, head going under. She flailed, but couldn’t get a grip with her feet on the ground or her hands in the water. Suddenly everyone was too far away, too trapped in their own worlds to realize something was wrong. Her lungs burned as she struggled. She refused to breathe in water, but her body overruled. Her mouth opened; her diaphragm engaged. She awoke, heart pounding, lungs taking in air. She was safe, home. It was only a dream.

Hanging Christmas Lights (100)

We’d get onto the garage’s roof first. I’d climb up our old six-footer while Dad kept it steady from below, then he’d follow me up, pull the ladder after, set it across the peak of that lower roof, and we’d climb up to the top. He asked me once what I’d do if I slipped and started rolling. I threw my arms out wide. He nodded. “Makes sense.” We talked theoretical safety procedures near the forty-foot drop (never had to use them). Dad did the worrying for me; I loved the roof. No one but us ever went up there.

A Brief Conversation (140)

“Alternating abecedarian, alliterative, and apropos answers assume an able accomplice. Agreed?”

“Beginning boldly, bada-bing! But, brother, beware: be benign, because bamboozlement besmirches beauty.”

“Contrived comments cast contemptible concerns. Can caped, creepy crones counteract courteous, clever cronies? Contrarily, creativity considers calamity calmative: consumes corruption, continues crafting.”

“Deftly defended! Doubts drop deservingly, depending… Do dangerous delinquents deviate, daringly destroy dragons, deliver distressed damsels?”

“Enough! Errant eunuchs enable endangered elephants’ escapes! Even erstwhile effluent entices efflorescent enlargement.”

“Fiends: friends? Fictions falter! Fragmented figures--foolish figments--fail for floundering!”

“Greener grass greets gracious ganders!”

“Hell has heaven hobbled!”

“Idiot! Infidels increase imaginations; irksome imps imbue invention!”

“Jumping jaguars! Just joking--jesting!”

“Kidding?”

“Like laughing llamas.”

“May meaning meet monstrosity?”

“No.”

“Opponents offer opinions?”

“Perhaps people prefer pondering?”

“Quite.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Tenacity…”

“Ubiquitous?”

“Verily.”

“What wonder would work?”

“Xenophopic Xerxes’ xylophone.”

“Yet you yawn?”

“Zzz…”

“!?”

TV Magic (100)

(Note: This story arc began in Chef. For more, follow the Snapshots tag.)

In my time at acting school, I started watching cop shows. The thrill of it got to me, and I soon realized that I was rooting for the bad guy. I wanted the system to fail: wanted the cop to run out of leads, wanted the killer to go free. Every time, tv magic would come through. There would be some breakthrough that the cop was clever or lucky enough to figure out, and the guy would be caught.

In the real world, there is no tv magic. The system fails. The cop runs out of leads. I go free.

Five Ws, One H (100)

(Note: This story arc began in Chef. For more, follow the Snapshots tag.)

I’m the how, I already know what, the buyer tells me who, who tells me where and when, and no one tells me why.

I don’t like the term ‘buyer.’ I am not bought; I am paid. But my services are bought, and ‘buyer’ sounds better than ‘client’ or ‘payer.’ ‘Client’ implies a relationship. I don’t have relationships with buyers. ‘Payer’ sounds either grammatically incorrect, or else it’s just a little too much like ‘prayer,’ and I don’t have any of those, either.

Routine gives me opportunity. Times and locations are chosen accordingly.

I don’t ask why. Neither should you.

6,267/1,000,000 (0.6267%)

I found this site about stories that have exactly 100 words. From the about page, "None of us will ever know the whole story.... We can only collect a bag full of shards that each seem perfect."

This week, I've been collecting shards. I can't call them perfect, but I find them intriguing. The form is as liberating as it is restrictive. Writing so little can be a struggle for the most condensed form, but knowing that the quota is the end allows me to explore an idea without worrying about all the questions.

And yes, this is 100 words. ;)

Chef (100)

(Based off of this picture from 100wordstory.org)

The man was nothing. He was a body following a routine. The watch on his wrist told him what to do. I could see him through the glass of the door. His face was blurred, but I knew it was him. It was 9:57am, his usual time. I watched his chest rise and fall. I saw him look out the window, fist on his chin. His empty eyes saw nothing but the glass inches in front of them. He couldn’t see me, watching his shell of a life. The man was nothing but a couple grand. I pulled the trigger.

Finals Week (100)

Eyelids droop and suddenly she doesn’t care about anyone watching; she lets go of her self-consciousness. She is in the student center, but she is invisible. She leans her head against the back of the couch and closes her eyes. It’s 9:30am. She has just finished one exam and has another in an hour. She wonders why she planned against coffee this morning. Caffeine would be good, she thinks. She struggles against sleep; exhaustion has overcome apprehension. Nerves, she remembers, were supposed to keep her awake. Eventually she rises and leaves. Glazed eyes watch her go, and then continue studying.

NaNoWriMo Winner!

Well, I did it. 50,020 words in 30 days. I started two separate stories this month and didn't finish either one, but I learned a ton about the characters, the universe they live in, and my own writing process. I also had an "aha" moment on the very last day of NaNo, so now I'm pretty sure I know where these stories are heading, I just need to figure out how they get there.

In the meantime, however, I'm probably going to let these stories stew for a bit while I finish the semester. I'll work on them a little, because I don't want to get too out of touch with them, but I will no longer have word count goals to reach each day.

I liked the experience. At this point, I'm leaning towards doing it again, but I won't know for sure until I get a little more perspective on the whole thing.

NaNoWriMo

Tomorrow I will begin my first attempt at National Novel Writing Month, in which participants seek to complete a 50,000 word novel in the thirty days of November. It will be rough and it will likely be terrible (it is a first draft, after all). If you're lucky, I'll edit it starting in December, and begin posting chapters once they are a little more finished.

If you're curious about NaNo and want to learn more, check it out here.

Prolix (what I am not, this week)

The stories are brewing, stewing, or maybe just sitting there patiently until I get around to them. In the meantime, nothing new.

6,067/1,000,000 (0.6067%)

This week has been a mixture of the continuation of job-hunting and the beginning of an online class. Not super exciting, and I didn't write much. I'm shooting to get two stories out by next week, so hold me to that. The whole point of putting this process online is to be held accountable, after all. :-)

Unplugged (1556)

Monday

            The bus is packed when I get on and flash my pass at the driver. There’s only one empty seat, and it’s next to a kid who looks about ten. I don’t want to sit next to him and bother him, but I’ve been on my feet all day and need a rest. I try to give the kid a half-smile, and then I turn away. I put on my headphones and start playing Led Zeppelin. It’s probably loud enough for other people to hear, judging from the way the kid is looking at me, but at this point, I’m too tired to care. I just finished my first full working day, and I’m realizing the glories of minimum wage. In the next few stops, the bus is filled to capacity, people standing all down the aisle, and then we’re out of the business district and it starts to empty out. I get off before the kid. I don’t know if he was too scared to tell me when his stop was, or if he just lives farther out than I do.

            I missed the bus today. A client gagged when I tried to take x-rays, and I had to stay late to calm her down enough to get the pictures. One of the other ladies here offered me a ride, but I declined. I should have taken it, but I didn’t decide that until she had left and I was walking home. I should have just waited for the next bus, but I didn’t decide that until I was halfway home, and by then the fare wasn’t worth it.

            I hope he’ll sit next to me tomorrow. I’d like to listen to his music again.

Tuesday

            The bus is pulling away from the stop already, and I’m not on it, two days in a row. I burst out the door, waving and hollering at the bus. I chase it the whole two blocks to the next stop, and luckily someone there sees me coming and tells the driver to wait for me. I’ve just made a terrible fool of myself, I’m disheveled, and there’s nowhere to sit, but I’m on the bus, so I’m calling it a victory. I realize, too late, that if I make a point of taking this overcrowded bus home, I may forever be labeled by my actions today. I sneak a look around me. Most people are staring off into space, and those who aren’t are focused completely on the people they know. They couldn’t care less what I did. I turn from embarrassment to hopelessness as my own anonymity sinks in. Nobody even sees me. Wait—I feel someone looking at me. I glance around, trying to find the source. It’s a kid. He gives me a smile. I can’t meet his gaze any longer, and stare out a window for the rest of my trip.

             Today I watched a woman run after the bus for a couple of blocks. I was glad the driver waited for her. I smiled at her when she got on, but she just looked away. I don’t know if my friend noticed her. I think his eyes were closed. I saved the seat for him, and I got to listen to his music again.

            I hope she doesn’t have to chase the bus again tomorrow. I wouldn’t want her to hurt herself, running down the street in those shoes.

Wednesday

            I put my two quarters into the fare collector and take my seat by the window. I give my fifty cents, and I get to ride the bus all day if I wanted. The driver seems nice. He says hi to me when I get on. I go down to the library and hang out for a while. I purposefully miss my stop just so that I can ride around the loop and get off on the other side of the street. Sometimes I do the same thing on my way home, just to spend a little more time on the bus and a little less time crossing the street. I like riding the bus, and I don’t really like crossing the street. My friend is sitting next to me again. No one ever sat next to me before, but I like him. I don’t see the woman today. I think my friend has fallen asleep, so I poke him when we get close to his stop. He looks at me funny, but says thanks. Maybe he wasn’t asleep.

            There were other open seats, but I took the one next to the kid anyway. It felt more comfortable there, and I think the kid was expecting me to sit next to him. He poked me. I mean, I must have passed out, because he woke me up and I had no idea where we were. It took me a minute to realize we were almost at my stop. I thanked him and got off. I guess he really does live farther out than me, since he doesn’t seem afraid of me anymore.

            I hope I don’t miss the bus again tomorrow. I’d really like to ride it home.

Thursday

            I’m sitting next to the kid again. It’s part of my routine now, even though it’s only been a few days. He smiles at me when I get on, and I smile back. He seems fine with not talking, so I put on my headphones and crank up my music. I catch him nodding along to the beat out of the corner of my eye. Maybe I’ll bring my ear buds tomorrow and let him have one so he can hear it better. As we pull up to a stop, I see the woman that chased us a couple days ago come running out of a dentist’s office. She makes it to the bus before we pull away, and she sinks into the first open seat. She’s still wearing her nametag, and I wonder what she does there. I don’t understand people who want to put their hands in other peoples’ mouths for a living. It sounds kind of gross to me. Then again, I clean bathrooms for my pay, but for me, it’s only a summer job. I settle back in my seat for the rest of my ride.

            I made it. I had to hurry through the last cleaning so I could clock out two minutes early, but I finally made it to the bus. My boss gave me a funny look as I ran out the door. I don’t think I’ll be able to do that too many more times without a reprimand, but today I was on that bus, so I was happy. I didn’t even care if anyone recognized me from the other day. It didn’t matter anymore.

            I hope I don’t have to go to the library tomorrow. I’d like to stay home.

Friday

            I’m still working on the last patient of the day when I see the bus leave the stop from inside the office. It doesn’t bother me. I’ve already decided to catch the later bus to avoid the hassle of trying to get out the door by a certain time every day. I clock out and head down the block to the coffee shop to get a cup of tea and wait for the bus.

            I didn’t take the bus today. Mom said I wouldn’t have to go to the library every day anymore, because Dad wasn’t going to live with us anymore. She gave me a big hug when she told me that. It was fun to hang out with Mom all day long. We baked cookies and built a fort in the family room. She said we could do that every afternoon if we wanted to, and I thought that sounded great.

            I hope nothing bad happened to him. I’d help him if I could and if I knew he needed it.

Monday

            I get on the bus at the start of my second week, but I don’t see the kid in his usual seat. I sit next to a stranger and pump up the volume. A woman across the aisle shoots me a dirty look, but it doesn’t matter to me. I close my eyes for the rest of the trip. As I’m leaving, the driver asks me if I know what happened to the kid. I look at him, questioning. How would I know anything about him? The driver explains that since I was the only person who ever sat next to him, he assumed we knew each other. I shake my head and tell him that we never spoke. I don’t even know his name.

            As I walked home, the conversation with the driver kept running through my mind. He assumed I knew something about the kid just because we happened to ride the bus along the same route at the same time each day. We sat next to each other for a few minutes four days in a row. He listened to my music. I considered bringing ear buds to share with him. It struck me how feeble our connection was, how easily broken it was shown to be. I really knew nothing about him.

            I’ll think about him, though. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

4,511/1,000,000 (0.4511%)

Well, there you have it. Story of the week.

Look! We're almost at half a percent! At this rate... no, I'm not going to do the math for you. I'll just say that if you stick around until I finish this, you're going to be here a while. A long while. But if I stick around until I finish this, at least you'll be in good company. ;-)

Sanctus (2887)

            As first light broke through my window, I awoke. I had slept restlessly, and my sheets bound my legs. I untangled myself, walked to the washing basin, and splashed water on my face to clean away the light film of sweat that lingered from my dreams. I ordered a maid to draw me a bath, and a second brought me my breakfast. I picked at the loaf of bread given to me, ignored the meat and cheese, and took a long swallow from the glass of wine. I bathed quickly and dressed in my official uniform: black pants, sleeveless shirt, and tunic with the king’s insignia, belted with a black cord. I put on my pair of tall black boots, and I was ready. I downed the rest of the wine and left my room.

            I walked down the corridor and down the stairs to the armory, where I kept my axe. A mighty weapon, it took a grown man two hands to wield it. I laid it across my lap and ran a whetstone along its edge, sharpening it to clear my mind.

            A page ran up to me. At the door, he relayed his message. “The king is ready for you, sir. It’s time.”

            I nodded to the boy, laid the whetstone in its place, and stood. I walked to the courtyard, carrying my axe easily in one hand. I was not often called to the service of the king, but when I was, I preferred to be prepared. I donned my hood before stepping out into the cold winter’s sunshine. I stood up straight, lifted my chin, and strode quickly to the scaffold in the middle of the courtyard. I was the king’s executioner, and there was work to do.

            The crowd parted before me, respectful of my position. I mounted the stairs to the scaffold and took my place. The king, seated above the throng on the steps to the throne room, motioned to the crier, who called for the prisoner to be brought out. The crowd roared as the man accused of killing the king’s nephew entered the courtyard and was escorted to the block. The man walked steadily, but his eyes were wild. For a moment, his eyes met mine, and the unanswerable question in them forced me to mentally withdraw. My eyes glazed as I reminded myself that the man had killed the king’s nephew. ‘Accused of killing,’ the voice in my head corrected, but I only withdrew further, forcing my mind behind a wall of stone.

            The man was asked for last words. “I didn’t do it!” he screamed, and I calmly looked to the king, numb. He motioned for us all to continue with the proceedings. The man was forced to his knees, and his head was placed upon the block. With one sweep, I did my deed. The head fell, and the body fell limp. The crowd was wild, jeering at the man’s denial of his crime and celebrating his fitting punishment. I felt nothing.

            The king ordered that the man’s head be spiked above the gate, and retreated to the warmth of his hall. The man’s body was given to his wife for burial, and the crowd dispersed as the body was removed. Some followed the men with the head to the gate, to scorn any who may show pity for the man. Still numb, I returned to the armory, removed my hood, and polished my axe, removing any trace of the man’s blood. As I hung it on the wall, I caught sight of myself reflected in the blade. My hair was sweaty and stood at odd angles from the hood I had been wearing, but what caught me were my eyes. They were haunted with the man that had looked into them just minutes before. They, too, looked trapped and wild.

            I slowly walked to my room, and ordered another bath. Two in one day was a luxury, but I could not wear the king’s insignia without bathing that morning, and after my work was complete, my skin crawled until I bathed again. As I stripped off the blood-stained garments, I tried again to convince myself that I had done right. The argument was an old one, as I had been executioner for many years, and each time faced the same question of right or wrong. Part of me argued that crimes had to be punished, and I was merely the acting arm in that punishment. The other part argued that if killing was punishable by death, when was my own sentence going to be read, and my own head taken? I let the hot water envelop me in an attempt to drive away the questions.

            I did not ask to be executioner. I used to be a woodsman, cutting lumber for a living, but my wife became sick with something our village had never seen before. I brought her to the castle, because the healers here are the best in the country. I barely had enough money for the trip, and when we arrived, I could not afford a room at the inn, much less one of the famed healers. I begged the king to have pity on us. He had recently lost his executioner for reasons I did not understand, and he offered me the job. Swing an axe every once in a while, and I received all the comforts of the castle. I agreed, and a healer was immediately sent to tend to my wife.

            The king ordered me to perform my first duty upon a criminal. That first head I took was not the worst one. The man jeered at me for taking orders from the king, and there was nothing but anger in his eyes. I don’t remember what his crime was, but he had no trace of regret in his manner. He also didn’t try to deny his foul deed. For his last words he shouted, “Given the chance, I’d do it again!” I had no doubt that he deserved his punishment, and, at the wave of the king’s hand, I gave it to him.

            And then, under the watchful gaze of the healer, my wife died. After that, my job became much more difficult. I realized that I could not leave quite as easily as I had come. I don’t mean to say that life in the castle wasn’t comfortable—it was—but I’m a simple man at heart, and I belong in the forest. I learned that the previous executioner had defied the king somehow, and had been killed by one of the king’s guard. I cannot say whether the reason was personal or political, as politics had never interfered with my life before, but as the years pass, I expect it was some of both.

            Justice in the kingdom is not a perfect system. Occasionally people are wrongfully accused, and sometimes they die for that. As I said before, the first head was not the worst. That title goes to the second one. I had been living in the castle for many months at this point, living comfortably and growing (I’m ashamed to admit) somewhat soft. What the man was accused of is not important, and it does not come to mind. What I remember is the look in his eye that clearly told me that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, like the trained hound caught in the henhouse, sniffing out the fox that had just made off with the heads of half the chickens. Obviously the hound was not to blame, but the fox was gone and the master wanted so badly for something to pay for the loss of the chickens that common sense was lost upon him, and the hound paid the price. Whatever this man’s story, I knew he was not the criminal we called him. At least, not of the crime that he would give his head for. The decision was not mine to make, however. I would do the king’s bidding, and the king ordered the man beheaded.

            The crier called for last words, and a single tear traced down the man’s cheek as he stared me down. I recoiled, taking a half step back before I remembered myself and looked to the king. He motioned for me to continue, a slight crease in his brow denoting his displeasure at my performance. As I raised the axe, it occurred to me that I had not tested the edge that morning. Luckily, it had been kept sharp by others using the armory, but I did not know that at the time. I had not touched the axe or done any sort of heavy lifting since that first beheading which had occurred months before. My easy living was taking a toll, and my arms shook slightly as I raised the blade. My weakness coupled with my certainty of the man’s innocence and caused me to hesitate as I brought the blade down upon his neck. He screamed awfully, choking on blood. I had not severed the neck. In a panic, I swung wildly, hacking away until finally his head was in the basket. I barely remained on my feet while the formalities ended, and made it back into the castle just in time to tear off my hood and retch into a corner.

            The king called me in later, and made it clear that another performance like the one I gave that day would not be tolerated. I vowed to improve, and spent the rest of the day learning how to pack away my personal feelings behind walls of stone. I also began a training regimen so that I would never have to hear that scream again. The next beheading, when it came, went smoothly, and each one since has bothered me no more than that.

            The bath grew cold, pulling me back to that morning’s job. The look in that man’s eyes was identical to the one I saw from that second man, long ago. The usual argument that the man had met his fit punishment would not work for this case, and I wondered instead if I had been the murderer on the scaffold that day. I stepped from the bath, shivering in the cold. I dressed slowly, trying to form a plan. I knew that if I left, I would be hunted down, but I had made up my mind: I had to get out.

            I told the maids that I was going for a ride. I bid one to fetch me a bag of food for the road, and another I sent to the stable to tell the boys to ready a horse. I often went riding, and they did not question my requests. While they were away, I gathered the coins that I had saved over the years, and wrapped them in an old shirt. I had never gotten rid of the clothes I had worn on my way to the castle years ago, and I packed them tightly into a sack. Once the maids had returned, I dismissed them for the afternoon, stuffed the food into my clothing bag, and walked briskly to the stables.

            I set out easily. I packed away any anxiety behind my inner wall of stone, and the guards did not question my motives. Out of the gate, I rode along my usual route into the nearby forest. The thieves only bothered me the first time I rode out this way. They quickly discovered that I carried no money and could throw a solid punch, so thereafter, they left me alone. None had bothered me since, and this time was no different. Once I was solidly among the trees, I went off the path a ways. I tied the horse and changed into my old set of clothes. I left the horse, the king’s insignia plain upon the saddle. If anyone dared to take her, they knew what risk they were running. A part of me hoped that someone would take her. It wouldn’t help if a search party found my horse, and I wasn’t feeling very charitable towards the king at the moment.

            I took the food and money and walked slowly back towards the castle. I pulled up the hood of my robe and bent over, trying to disguise myself as best as I could. As I neared the gates, I recognized the woman whose husband had died by my axe that morning. I followed her at a distance back to her house. I did not want to confront her, lest she realize who I was, so I merely left the bag of coins on her stoop, knocked on the door, and ran. I hid in the shadows, watching as she opened the door, saw the bag, picked it up, and opened it. It was all the money I had, and she nearly dropped it once she saw the contents. She recovered, looked quickly around the dark street, and withdrew quickly into her house.       I snuck away, three copper pennies in my palm. I had entered the king’s service with as much, and I would leave with no more.

            I returned to the forest, walking somewhat easier now that I felt at least part of my debt had been paid. I could not return her husband, but I could pay her the cost of his death—and many others’ besides. Hoof beats sounded behind me, and I dove off the road into cover, heart pounding in my chest. It was nothing—a merchant on his way to the next city—but I lay under the bushes long after they had passed. It was dark. I was usually back by now, and soon someone might wonder where I had gone. If I was lucky, those wondering would assume that I had found company for the night. If I was not, they might assume that something far worse had occurred, and send out search parties for my safety or my capture. I set out, following the road in the darkness.

            Luck was on my side, and no search party caught up with me that night. By dawn, I was beat. I did not want to stop after only one night’s journey, but my body needed sleep. I saw an inn on the road and ignored it, certain that the king’s men would search inns first. After all, I was supposed to be on horseback, and if this was a simple misunderstanding, I’d be travelling comfortably. I continued on the road, flinching at hoof beats, until an elderly man pulled up beside me with a wagonload of logs cut to firewood length, but not yet split. He called down to me, noting my exhausted demeanor and my jumpiness. He wondered idly if there was someone I was running from, and I trusted him without a second thought. I offered my service with an axe if he would give me a ride and place to sleep. I added that if he would keep all this quite from the guards, I’d appreciate it immensely. He chuckled softly and allowed me to join him on the wagon seat. Apparently, he never really did like politics.

            We rode in comfortable silence, and I nodded off a few times. I would wake with a start, but since I did not recognize the country, I could only trust that the man wasn’t out to fool me. By midday, I began to get jumpy again. Surely by now they had discovered my absence. Surely someone would be hunting me down. Still, no one came, and soon we were turning off the main road to the man’s house, high on a cliff above the ocean.

            He set me to work on the firewood, but I soon discovered that I was not up to the task. Every stroke I had aimed at a man’s neck was, in my mind’s eye, a stroke to a bit of wood. It was my first line of defense against the viciousness of my actions. Now that I was again chopping wood, the situation reversed, and I could not help but see the men I killed as I brought down the axe. He gently led me inside, releasing me from my promise. He looked into my eyes, and seemed satisfied by what he found.

            The guards arrived later that day. I had no fight left. The king had unknowingly taken my trade from me, and with it, he took away any chance for me to make a life outside the castle. I was standing out back behind the house, and called out to the guards as they approached. They were, indeed, looking for me. They were to bring me back to the castle on pain of death. I was likely to suffer a hanging once I got there if I refused to return to my position. An executioner would be found for the occasion.

            I walked slowly backwards, away from them, towards the edge of the cliff. The sound of the waves calmed me, drowning out the argument inside me. There was no right or wrong, there was only the water crashing on the rocks far below. No one would become a killer on my behalf. I turned and jumped.

1,624/1,000,000 (0.1624%)

The title is my running total. Last week, I was hoping to upload a story each weekday, but this week, it's finals week. Thus no new entries so far. I am working on a story that is currently 1600+ words, so I am making progress, you just can't see it here. But hey--this one story will double my word count. That's good news, right?

It's weird writing to the best of my ability knowing that it's likely no good at all. I wasn't sure what to expect, but now that I've started, it makes more sense. I can't say that I'm completely happy with the two stories that I've written so far, but I can't pinpoint what bothers me about them, so I don't know how to fix them. I guess it's probably better that I recognize now that there is room for improvement, because I have a long way until I hit that million.

Toast (478)

            This morning, I woke up to the sound of my roommate making breakfast. It took me longer than it should have to realize that this was actually the case for two reasons: First, my roommate doesn’t cook. For her, calling for pizza is making dinner. Second, she usually doesn’t wake up until noon, and when she does, her first meal of the day is a slice of cold pizza from the night before. I don’t know if she’s cooked breakfast in her life. Nevertheless, at 7 o’clock this morning, that’s exactly what she was trying to do.

            Bleary-eyed, I opened my door to survey the damage. My roommate was hovering over the stove, muttering something under her breath about the person who invented breakfast. Apparently she was attempting to cook a pair of eggs through sheer force of will, since the stovetop was clearly still off. A piece of bread sat in the unplugged toaster, and a couple of oranges sat, squashed and dejected, on the counter. I wondered if she had been trying to make juice. Then she turned and noticed me watching her.

            “The toast is a lie!” she yelled, furious.

            “What?” I managed in reply.

            “I put the bread in the toaster, push the lever down, it pops back up, and I still have bread! I want toast! If I wanted bread, I would not have put it in the toaster!” With that, she smacked the toaster, sending it reeling across the counter.

            That’s the thing about my roommate. If I were faced with my own incompetence in a similar fashion, I would likely dissolve into a weeping mess. My roommate ignored her shortcomings and instead viewed the unfolding events as clear indications of mutiny among the appliances. Further, she decided that it was her duty to whip the appliances back into line. I know better than to interfere at that point, and, given that she hadn’t asked for help, I returned to my room to get dressed.

            When I emerged, everything was as she left it, but my roommate was nowhere in sight. I found her in bed, fast asleep, and left her there to contemplate my own breakfast. Nothing had actually been cooked, but she had managed to crack the eggs, and I didn’t want them to go to waste. I turned on the stove, plugged in the toaster, and peeled an orange. All in all, it beat my usual bowl of cereal.

            I stuck my head into her room before I left. “Thanks for breakfast,” I said softly.

            I can’t be sure, but she may have replied, “You’re welcome.”

            Hours later, I returned from class to find her once again in the kitchen, looking at all the dishes that I hadn’t had a chance to clean. Confused, she turned to me, “I had the strangest dream last night…”

            I could only laugh.

Existence (1146)

            Trees, bent by the constant east wind, grow curving out of the ground. They were planted only ten years ago to serve as way markers along the North Road. The fields are covered in snow, which has been falling heavily since midmorning. The first frost came early this year, and the first snow was close behind. Scarcely a week has past, and any sign of summer has been destroyed. Grass lies brown beneath the snow; trees are barren; the birds have long since flown south.

            The snow falls upon a group of huddled figures on the road. Bundled in coats, faces masked by scarves, they are returning to their village. One stops and peers through the snow behind them for any sign of movement. Another pulls her gently along, but she resists. Her son is out there. She must find him; he is only a child. The others urge her along. They have been searching all day, and they must get home before nightfall. There is nothing more they can do. She wearily submits, but she pauses to lay a hand upon the trunk of each tree as she walks past, and sends out a prayer along the wind: See this tree, she prays. Follow it home.

            The boy watches the group walk farther away. He is, indeed, only a child, having only five years since his birth. As many children at that age, he feels as though he is much older than he is treated, but whether this is the case remains to be seen. More importantly for the mother, perhaps, is that he is her only child, and likely to be so for a while. The father died from an illness early last spring, and none of the eligible men of the village have been eager to take his place.

            He stands, shrouded in falling snow, invisible to those who have now stopped searching for him. He is not cold, although he wears only his breeches and thin shirt. He does not question this, it is merely true, and he accepts it as such. In fact, he does not question many of the events of the day. Sometime before noon, he heard a voice. His mother did not seem to hear the voice, but this was not strange. Mother often could not hear the most interesting sounds that the boy discovered. The voice seemed to be coming from behind the house, so the boy quietly left the kitchen, where his mother was putting their midday meal together, and sought out the source of the voice.

            He could not see anyone, but the boy could hear the voice coming from a little ways off. The voice beckoned him to follow it away from the village, and into the falling snow. The boy would not have followed: his mother had strictly forbidden him from leaving the village without her, and he had no reason to disobey her. However, the voice knew the boy’s name—his true name, which only his parents and himself knew, not the name by which his village knew him—and so the boy trusted the voice and followed it.

            The voice led him into the fields. When the boy shivered at the falling snow, the voice simply said, You are not cold, and it was true. When the mother realized her son was missing, the village formed search parties to track down the boy, but the voice said, They cannot see you.

            As the mother touches the trees along the road, the boy hears her plea on the wind, but cannot respond. He knows that he will not return to his village that year or the next, which is as far into the future a child of five can grasp, and he feels old.

            The next day, there is no search party. The snow has not let up, and the wind has increased to blizzard conditions. The villagers hole up in their houses. They are convinced that if the boy survived the night, then he will survive the winter, and if he did not survive the night, then it makes no difference. The mother walks the road alone, walking into the wind as far as she dares, then returning home by following the trees’ bent tops. She can barely see the next tree, and still she hopes that she will find her son. She does not. Her son is gone. She returns home, numb from grief and the cold, but on the way she rests a hand upon each tree: See this tree. Follow it home.

            The boy has followed the voice into a city. His stomach rumbles, and the voice leads him to a house, telling him, They will feed you. They will not ask questions. It is as the voice says. The owners of the house give the boy all he can eat and pack a bag for him to take without a word as to why a boy of five is traveling alone. The boy eats, takes the bag, and leaves, following the voice.

            Months pass, and the built-up snow finally melts. The birds return; the grass turns green; the trees sprout leaves again. There is no sign of the boy. The woman has been labeled “cursed” for losing both her husband and only son in the span of a single year. The villagers, superstitious as they may be, are kind and do not shun the woman. None will now take her as wife, but she remains friend to many.

            The boy never questions the voice, which always speaks truth and keeps him warm and fed. When he outgrows his clothes, the voice directs him to a place where clothes will be provided to him. Alone but for the voice that only he can hear, provided for by strangers who don’t ask questions, the boy travels the world.

            The first frost comes time and again. To the trees, a mere breath has past and it is ten years to the day that the boy heard the voice and disappeared. The woman has been in the city, and as she walks slowly back to the village, snow begins falling gently. As is her custom, she lays a hand on every tree as she passes: See this tree. Follow it home.

            As she nears her home, she stops short. A thin tendril of smoke winds from her chimney. Her windows are lit from within. The snow falls more heavily around her, and the woman shakes herself into action. She walks directly to her house and opens the door. A young man crouches in front of the fire, warming his hands, and turns to view the woman as she enters her house.

             “Ma?”

            The woman peers at him, a tear jumping to her eye. It is her boy. “Why did you leave?” she asks, embracing him.

            “The wind called me by name.”

The Idea

"The secret of becoming a writer is that you have to write. You have to write a lot. You also have to finish what you write, even though no one wants it yet. If you don't learn to finish your work, no one will ever want to see it. The biggest mistake new writers make is carrying around copies of unfinished work to inflict on their friends.

I am sure it has been done with less, but you should be prepared to write and throw away a million words of finished material. By finished, I mean completed, done, ready to submit, and written as well as you know how at the time you wrote it. You may be ashamed of it later, but that's another story." --Jerry Pournelle

The Goal: to write one million words in stories to improve my writing and forever be able to say that I've done it.

The Plan: to update this blog at least once a week with new, "finished" writing, until the time comes when I have written one million words. I am not counting any previously written work, regardless of form. Those stories, essays, poems, and diary entries got me to where I am. I hope that the next one million words will take me to where I want to be.

The Title: Mega- is the SI prefix denoting 10^6, or one million. 1 megawatt is one million watts; similarly, 1 megaword is one million words.