Posts Tagged ‘Chrysanthemum Graves


Already Over?

So, according to the standard, I should have somewhere around or just shy of 5k words written on Chrysanthemum Graves.

Yeah, that’s not happening. I’m at about 2,400. So… yeah. Somehow being at less than half of target only three days in does not give me hope, especially when there are people already claiming to have their full 50k done. Cool trick.

We’ll see. I’m going to try to keep at it, assuming I survive the plague that continues to ail me (I will never eat at Red Robin again, I assure you), but don’t know if I’ll come anywhere close to hitting the goal, let alone finishing the story.

Hope the rest of you folks are having better luck out there, whether your projects are part of NaNoWriMo or not. Good luck, folks.


It’s On!

NaNoWriMo has officially started, and apparently, I’m officially participating. If you want to be my buddy, I’m listed as Kaine Andrews on there, too. If not, that’s okay.

Theoretically, you’re supposed to drop around 1,667 words per day to hit the 50k target for the month. I don’t think I’m going to manage that today. Still feel like crap, suffering from strep, food poisoning and at least three pulled muscles. But I did manage about 1,400 words, which is… something, at least.

Anyone else out there on the NaNoWriMo train? How goes it so far? Tell us about your project below, if you like!NaNoWriMo


Chrysanthemum Graves

Being unable to hold it in anymore, I scribbled the first few paragraphs of my NaNoWriMo project. I thought I’d share. Let me know what you think!


“What the fuck are you doing? Where the hell are your shoes?”

The voice came from somewhere further inside the house, the heavy walls and their tapestries deadening it, killing any echoes and making it hard to tell where it had come from. Still, Danny knew it well enough. Calm, despite the words it chose. Deep, rumbling like a subterranean landslide. Faint traces of an accent, but one that was almost impossible to define.

“Taking care of the floor, man! Isn’t that some shit you’re into? Don’t wanna track all over the place.”

Danny’s voice was shrill, nasal, almost the human equivalent of nails on chalkboard. He hated the sound of it himself, and would complain about it to anyone who even vaguely touched the subject, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Puberty and its mysterious ways had been unkind to him in that regard.

The owner of the other voice had appeared at the end of the hall leading from the entryway. Contrary to his irritation at Danny’s lack of footwear, he was barefoot. A pair of gray sweats were the only clothing he wore. His chest was bare, shiny with sweat. Danny assumed the other man had been in the middle of one of his routines when he’d heard the bell.

“I like to keep my floor clean, yeah. That’s why I don’t want your nasty feet dragging on it. I mean, couldn’t you at least wear some socks? Go put your shoes back on. Then meet me in the kitchen.”

The man turned to his left, slipping through a beaded curtain that blended so well into the wall that it would have been invisible if you didn’t know to look for it. He was silent as he did so, and despite the rattling Danny knew he’d provoke by walking through it, the beads barely moved, as though they refused to defy the master of the house.

“Uh… right. Whatever you say, Ichi.”

His voice shook more than usual, and Danny cursed himself for it. Ichiro had never done anything to make him feel the pulse of fear that always quaked through him in the other man’s presence. Nothing to him, anyway. But Danny still always had to wonder if one day that would change.

He slunk back up the two short steps that separated the main room from the entrance, slipping his feet into the battered sneakers that had last been replaced sometime during Obama’s first term, before moving to follow Ichiro through the curtain.

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