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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 1, 2010 6:23:04 GMT 1
1 December 2010:
"It's the end of the world as--" I sing as the sky above goes crimson and violet.
"Yeah, we get the point, sugar. Shut it." The woman with the bloodstained sweatshirt fumbles with the flint against the pavement. Finally, success. She lights the newspaper torch and hands it over.
I think about saying that it sucked about being stuck in the wreckage of New Orleans but keep silent. She doesn't. "If they rebuilt here, those bastards would win," she says as she looks out at the sea.
Nothing left to do but wait now.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 1, 2010 15:01:13 GMT 1
Moved... for funzies. Looking good so far, Chantress.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 1, 2010 23:58:55 GMT 1
All right, I'm in -- 1st December 2010In the beginning was the word. The word was 'Strewth': God's truth. It was a contraction. It was the beginning of the evolution of language. God had created Uluru, and around that he had created Eden. It was a land of desert and grass, which held and blended every facet of the beauty of the Earth. Monsters roamed and patrolled Eden, and coral lay around its edges like a halo, but more colourful. The people he would place there would be beautiful. It was an experiment, a prototype. He thought maybe it was a bit much. But it was good. And... 2nd December 2010Sel'drath is a 'snow elf', which sadly does not mean she is magically reistant to cold. The etymology of the elven word 'snuw' is beyond the stub-ears' grasp. She's a woodland huntress and a wilder, and a carpenter's apprentice before that. Not a fucking mountaineer. Because humans put too much stock in racial nicknames and not enough in education, and because she has survived eight years of exile, Seld'rath is the chosen one. She's legally bound to destroy the wizard Ordin Sintuklass. Some foreign tyrant who apparently lives in the mountains. 'But', Sel'drath thinks, finally, shivering, 'not these mountains.'
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Post by Mr. Glow on Dec 2, 2010 0:01:10 GMT 1
It's not the 2nd of December yet! Disqualified!
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 2, 2010 0:06:01 GMT 1
Let my punishment be the spelling mistake I just realised I made on 'reistant'!
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 2, 2010 6:22:21 GMT 1
Thanks. 2 December 2010 We move away from the water line and up to the makeshift barricades as night returns to cloak us. Soon we hear voices-- hisses-- from the water. My neighbor raises the torch above her head. I can't see her skin past her wrist but I imagine her dark, thin face wears an anxious expression. We are not calm. Finally, we see them. Just their outlines above water. Then their translucent skin. They try to walk upright with their burdens on their backs. One drops a fish between us. First food in days.
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Post by lieden on Dec 2, 2010 7:28:30 GMT 1
Good luck with it, everyone!
Tempted to do it too, but I know it's unrealistic. :}
Chantress, are you writing in continuity?
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 2, 2010 7:35:18 GMT 1
For now, yeah. At one point, my book almost happened in a New Orleans that got nailed by two hurricanes and was not rebuilt (it's an idea that roamed around in my head for years. It didn't seem to work in this book-- I learned that after 740 words-- and off we went back to Edinburgh). So now I'm trying something a bit different and seeing what happens.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 3, 2010 3:16:42 GMT 1
3rd December 2010
Sel'drath was a little girl, once. A tall little girl with big ears, in boarding school. She's thinkng about it now, aware that she's dreaming, but trying to will herself deeper into the half-fantasy. Every hour or so the breeze whips some needles of cold air under her blanket, into her leg or her cheek, and wakes her. You can't even sleep this high up. She ought to get on with things, she thinks. Make breakfast.
Toast.
One time the human kids made a snowman with two dried sticks coming out of its head and named it after her.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 4, 2010 1:43:40 GMT 1
3 December 2010
My stomach growls for me to move, to snatch that fish from the ground. Grilled, raw, doesn't matter. Our rations were stolen by gangs two days ago and we aren't about to whore ourselves out to get them back. Well the others might but I won't. So why am I not moving?
Gunfire close by. The fish-men don't move-- don't they fear bullets? I drop down and they mimic me. They aren't armed, they could be worse off than we are. There's screaming behind us; someone's robbed. But these guys don't react and I think I know why.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 4, 2010 2:41:29 GMT 1
You're doing very well this month, Chants.
4th December 2010
Uncle Tony always had a bottle of Coca-Cola at his workdesk, but only the ones with Santa Claus on. He loved those. He'd mix one quarter Scotch in there and let it go flat. He tended to drink less in October and February; he was stone-cold-sober in summer. We offered to buy him some Coke, because we missed his drinking, even though we were supposed to worry, you know, because he was so casual, treating it like a pet tiger, like a Kinectimal, it was his way. 'Only if Santa's on the wrapper' he said. We drew Santa on, last July, and he gave it up.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 4, 2010 19:51:40 GMT 1
Danke, Buch. Your entries are pretty damn good. 4 December 2010 We stay on the ground until gunfire stops. I keep looking behind us though it's dark and I just get eyefuls of barricade. I hear movement on our left, and something being dragged. The steps are shuffling and wet. Not human. I'm not sure I want to see. They stop when they reach us. A shorter fish-man with green skin drags a dark cloth as Marie's torch begins to flicker. Whatever they're dragging smells terrible. The cloth ends up maybe two feet away. I expect to see a body in it and slowly turn my head. It's our rations.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 5, 2010 0:21:40 GMT 1
5th November 2010
'... Oh...' I thought, then '...my God...' The words seemed insufficient, and for a moment I was angry. A moment later I resolved to be calm. No time for that. Don't die angry.
From the next batch of vying emotions, I picked an old favourite: grim humour. This skydiving trip was the end of my holdiay. I hadn't been looking forward to going back to work. Now I never would. So there was that. Funny.
People talk about their lives flashing before their eyes in moments like this. I was fortunate enough to have the Lake District to look at instead.
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Post by Battlechantress on Dec 6, 2010 0:14:25 GMT 1
Yesterday was a bad entry because my brain refused to function. I think today's turned out a bit better. Uh, Buch, your entry for today has last month's date on it. Moving on... 5 December 2010 I look at the rations a moment, trying to figure out what we can eat when a taller fish-man makes us rise. I've seen them do this once before and I still don't know what to expect. They grab five of us and make us stand in a line. Then the tall one gets in our faces and sniffs us. I try not to make a face; they all smell like rotten shellfish. Then it turns around and goes to left. That's when we see the men from the gangs grouped together. One looks at me with pleading eyes. === Now to come up with something for 750words.com. Crap. Just caught a typo. Bleh.
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Post by Mister Buch on Dec 6, 2010 1:35:46 GMT 1
Uh, Buch, your entry for today has last month's date on it. Oh xD I must have been thinking about Guy Fawkes. -- 6th December 2010Sel'drath has met a man. Elven, oddly enough. His name is Sephas and he's a fisherman in the mountainside vilage of Bethseada. Apparently, while lost in the snow she became unconscious (maybe the cold got her, she was unprepared) and he saved her life. It's quite a romantic tale... but she likes this guy too much to imagine him with his clothes off. Evidently Sephas does not feel quite the same way. He's volunteered to get her started tracking down her target. The latest is that his brother Garridan is coming too? Okay... Sel'drath has become a fisher of men.
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