NaNoWriMo: Day 8 outtakes

The work week is nearing an end, I'm beginning to recover from whatever has been draining my energies, and tomorrow downtown Tacoma could erupt in craziness and potential violence, or a simple peaceful protest. No matter, I'm tired. I plodded through another 1,000 or so words to keep myself somewhat on track. (Only a day and a half behind!) Not the best words, not the worst words. But I'm tired, and am going to treat myself to sleep and see if my dreams can awaken the destiny of my main character's quest. But for now ...

Day 8 excerpts:

First, a follow to yesterday ...

The trio sat in stunned silence. Their breath before them, nothing but the sound of intake and exhale. Then George began to shriek. First it was little more than the sound of a balloon when you slowly let the air out. But it soon escalated into something more piercing than the squealing wheels of a road-racing Mustang or a 2-year-old who’s been told no. But Liz would not be shook. “Tell me,” she insisted. The slight laceration on Davin’s cheek still fresh, he retorted, “Tell you what." His voice was soft but clipped, his lips pursed. He was subdued, but still stubborn. ... “Why I’m here,” she responded. “It’s a pretty standard question. I don’t appreciate being a toy.” The shrieking continued to escalate. George was entering the realm of banshee before Davin spoke again. “You’re not a toy,” he stated. “You’re a weapon.”

Liz kept her gaze on Davin for a few more seconds, trying to read his face, find fact within this man’s fiction. But she couldn’t ignore George’s shrieks anymore. He was now writhing on the ground. As she watched, he began scratching at his clothes, pulling at his hair. He was beside himself. Soon his hysteria led to welts. Then scratches. Then there was blood not of her own hand.

“You’re killing him,” Davin said calmly. Liz kept her position.

“I thought this is what you wanted,” she retorted.

“We wanted to test you,” Davin responded. Unfazed. “It was a success.”

And in another scene (we will return to conflict at a later date) ...

Liz turned as a drunken young man tumbled across the five-way intersection, jolting to a stop every few feet as if he’d just dodged a car. The streets were all but empty, making the stumble-step-step-dodge pattern look like a bad dance routine. Perhaps a clown act. She couldn’t help but stare. When he finally made it across the street, he stood to attention with a goofy grin. Did he even realize his precarious ambling? “You look lost,” he insisted.

And now to ponder ... does he get killed off? Is he a spy? Not human? Or just a distraction for the dear reader ... (quick! Look over there!)

Good night!