Day 26: Still pushing forward

I've been steadily pushing forward and writing as much as I can. Tonight, I've been doing some timed writings and challenges with some of my young wrimo friends. 

Legossi gave me a challenge: "I say Mangy has to put a monkey in her story. And the monkey's name is Alowishes the fifty-fifth. And he likes brownies." Here's what I came up with...

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The bartender walked up to Mighty and rubbed a towel over a chrome flagon. He was a moniker, completely covered in a dark brown fur that looked almost black in the dim lighting. “Alowishes the 55th at your service, sir.” His round snout and wide mouth contorted as he spoke, but the light brown eyes set above his muzzle were filled with wisdom.

“Alowishes the 55th?” Mighty asked. “You come from a long line of Alowishes…es.”

The moniker nodded his head solemnly, then set the flagon before Mighty. “What shall it be?”

Mighty thought for a moment. “What is the house special tonight?”

Alowishes leaned forward and raised an eyebrow, turning his forehead into a cascade of wide wrinkles. “The brownies, sir.”

Mighty blinked. “Brownies? Is that a drink?”

“Oh no, sir.” Alowishes straightened up and walked down the length of the bar. He retrieved a pedestal with a transparent shield bubble over it. When he came back, he set the tray in front of Mighty. “Brownies,” he said with absolute reverence.

Mighty peered at the offerings. They were indeed simple chocolate brownies with a dusting of some sort of nut on the top. He shrugged. “A brownie it is. And perhaps a flagon of milk to go with it.”

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More to come!

Words to Date: 33,157
Words to Go: 16,843 (I tell you--that actually looks doable!)

Day 24: Little help from my friends

So my friend MightiMidget and I have been word warring. That is, we have been doing 10-minute timed writings, but we've done ours with a twist. We will give each other a challenge to add during our 10 minutes, a dare, if you will. Then we write, and afterwards share how we incorporated the challenge.

Tonight, Midget said that I must put a talking Coke can into my story. So this is how it came about:

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Doxal smiled, curtsied, then opened the can. Instead of releasing the usual hiss of escaping carbon dioxide, a voice came out into the quiet of the hall.

“Mighty Myllon, I have a message for you.”

Mighty's eyes widened. He walked on his knees to Doxal's side and stared at the can. He looked up at Doxal. “Did you just hear...”

She nodded, her own eyes filled with curiosity.

Mighty took the can from her hands and turned it over. As he did so, the voice began to speak again.

“The message is from your father.”

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Though I am still incredibly behind for having only six days left to complete, I am oddly optimistic that I'll still finish. Let's see if I make it...

Words to Date: 26,616 (and still counting tonight)
Words to Go: 23,384

Day 9: Pathetically behind, but hopeful

I know I haven't posted in awhile, but it's been one of those weeks. Last year's NaNo was the same way--lots of zero days. Last week, I had three days of zero words and two days of under 1,000. Yes, I'm behind and my word count is rather pathetic, but that's okay. I'm not despairing just yet.

Here's an excerpt for you, such as it is. The Lasso has just narrowly averted a speeding comet, and Mighty had gone to check on the cargo.

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Mighty turned to study the box once more.

The hairline fracture in the lid crept further across.

Mighty took a few tentative steps toward the box.

CRACK!

The split in the metal and wood broke open, shattering the lid into two pieces and sending splinters across the floor.

Mighty felt for his sidearm. “Strikers,” he muttered to himself. He had left it in the hostler in his quarters. He certainly didn’t think he would need it alone on a ship with no one to fight. Now he wasn’t quite sure about that theory.

He pressed his back against the wall as steam billowed from between the broken pieces. His mind raced with the possibilities. Why hadn't he asked what was in the cargo? What kind of fool doesn't ask a thing like that?

The steam cleared a little after filling the immediate vicinity. Dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of tiny sparkling gold points of light hopped and skipped together, seemingingly in a primal dance. They came toward him but didn’t touch.

Mighty watched as the tiny stars swarmed together like bees, then compacted into a solid form. The light began to fade, and he could see his reflection for a split second.

Mighty blinked, then all at once, the image of himself was gone. All that remained was a girl mouser about the same height as he. Curious...

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Words to Date: 9,487
Words to Go: 40,513

I plan on writing another 513 words tonight but not before I finish posting this. ;o)

Day 2: Getting there

Pulled in 1,762 words today between a Sunday evening write-in and word wars with my friend MightiMidget later over IM. At least I passed the daily quota (1,667). I need to stay ahead though, and procrastination is being far too friendly to me of late. :oP

Here's an excerpt from today's bounty. It's a conversation between Mighty and Boshran, a giant frog guy (loffrax) who is going to offer him the shipping contract. There are two other "men" with Boshran--a foxish kind of creature (nicczar) and fish man (kelptin).

NOTE: I'm not usually not much of a fan of dialect, but this guy isn't a very major character and his way of speech added more words, so... *whistles*

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“Wot’s yer name?” Boshran asked. He pointed a rubbery, green fingerpad at him. “And giv’t ter me straight.”

“Mighty Myllon,” the mouser replied, trying to stand tall to match his name.

The nicczar next to him grinned, his foxish teeth showing, and looked Mighty up and down again. “Mighty Myllon, eh? Mousers name their kitts after attributes.” He nodded to the kelptin. “Isn’t that right, Poshy?”

Poshy nodded vigorously, spurting water from his gills. “Right, that.”

Mighty held in his giant sigh. As though he hadn’t heard it a million times before. As though he didn’t live with this every day--trying to live up to his name.

Why had his parents held such high hopes for him? Why did they make it so hard? He gave a curt nod. “That’s right, sir.” He tried to puff out his chest a little more, realizing at the same time how ridiculous he must seem to these accomplished businessmen.

Boshran cocked his large froggy head as Mighty sat down. “Tis a good name, to be sure,” he said. “Yer upper kin woudda not giv’n that name ter ye if they’s din’t believe ye'ud live up ter it.”

Mighty faced the loffrax. He couldn’t recall anyone ever giving him such an encouragement before. And coming from this old grouchy codger, it had to be a genuine compliment. That type didn’t hand them out as a general practice. He tipped his chin. “I thank you kindly, sir.”

The loffrax swiped a hand through the air. “Tis not a thing,” he replied. “Now, tell me, what uv yer ship? She a mighty vessel, like yerself?”

“Oh, she’s much better,” Mighty said, once again wishing his filter had caught his words before they spouted from his mouth.

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Words to Date: 4,764
Words to Go: 45,236

Day 1: A goodish start

We had a day-long write-in at Panera Bread today to kick off NaNoWriMo right. I didn't get there at the beginning, nor did I stay all day, but I did get a good chunk of writing time in there--enough to write 3,002 words! It was a good haul for a day's work, and I need to keep up on it because I doubt I'll be writing every day during the week. The more words I can rake in on the weekends, the better.

Here's today's excerpt. I liked this conversation that came out between Mighty and the correspondent at the space station Kirkkigaard. Mighty's ship is called Lasso.

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A blip sounded from the console, indicating an incoming message. Mighty flipped the com-switch.

“Lasso. Indigo Foxtrot, niner five two seven."  His chest puffed with pride at the sound of his calling code. "Mighty Myllon speaking.”

“Affirmative, Señor Myllon,” came a young female mouser’s voice. “Pelter Chase on com for Kirkkigaard Space Station. Receiving your request for dock. Confirm? Ready to receive.”

Mighty flipped a blue switch next to the com. “Affirmative. Sending confirmation now.”

“Señor Myllon," Pelter’s voice came back, questioning, "confirm negative cargo aboard Lasso?”

Mighty bristled. “Affirmative, Kirkkigaard. Lasso brings no cargo.”

A pause and a few clicks came through the com. “I’m sorry, Señor.”

A snide remark formed in Mighty’s mind, but he let it go. No need to assault this poor girl for something that isn’t her fault. “Thank you, Kirkkigaard.”

“Call me Pelter.”

Mighty paused, staring at the blinking com diode. Now, that was a little unorthodox. Com techs didn’t usually divert from the usual business communicae. They certainly never asked to be called by their first names.

“Thank you, Pelter,” he said. He was tempted to ask why the familiarity. Was she trying to make him feel better, like there was a mouser on the other end and not just some computerized entity calling him to port? He shook his head and dismissed it. Either way, he was here to do something that would hurt. Friendliness wasn’t going to change anything.
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Words to Date: 3,002
Words to Go: 46,998