Tuesday, 23 October 2012

Eight Days To Go!

NaNoWriMo continues to approach with speed, and I still plan to meet it head on. Speaking of head on, this is what I did on Sunday


The long and short of it is, I walked into a concrete lamppost. I wasn't watching where I was going, until the last second when I turned and suddenly, post! Scared Katie a fair bit, as it made a fair sound and oozed instead of bled, but I was dandy and unconcussed (and I did get sympathy-ice-cream out of it).

Anyway, as part of my NaNoWriMo preparation, I did another no-edit post today. I'm not entirely displeased with it, which is interesting as I'm never happy with a piece whilst editing and re-editing it, so cutting that slice of creation (or non-creation as it sometimes becomes) seems to help my inner muse. I thought I'd share it with you, as I'm stumped as what to blog about (not really feeling any of the many ideas for a post that I've got written down). It's loosely based around the accident on Sunday (and I've copied it as-is; no editing!)


 I remember little from before. Not much, you'll understand, but enough to piece together some of my situation at the time. The day was nice - clear and warm, with a light sea breeze cooling the skin just a touch. Some form of travelling took place - though I cannot recall how or where we went, I know instinctively it wasn't far. My heart soars with the memory of emotion - happiness, love, contentment. Know that in these recollections I do not feel these; I only feel the shadow of what was once there.

There was commotion - distraction; something drew our attention elsewhere. That much remains, though its exact nature eludes me in a blur of noise and vision. My last complete sensations are so brief they have become almost one, only distinguishable by the different ways they were percieved. A loud, sickening crack is the initial by a moments fraction, the sound heralding the crushing sensation in my forehead. Lastly comes the sight of abeautiful woman, brow creased in worry, a question pursing her full lips, her eyes alight in shock. Then darkness.


Coming to, the disappointing absence of her face hits me hard, deep in my chest where I would feel hapiness if that emotion was left to me. This is my fifth awakening that I can recall, and nothing is different. The nurse attending machines in the corner of the room is still there, and I'm still connected to them by various tubes and wires. An incessant beeping, which I first noticed the second time I awoke, is still present, and I soon tune it out. Once more, barely have my eyes opened that a man in a large white coat enters. I deduced I was in some kind of private hospital room on my first awakening, though the type of doctor this man is and what facility I am in remains a mystery. As if driven by some predescribed script, the "doctor" speaks the same questions as before.

"Another Dream, Mr. Smith?"
"How do you feel? Any headaches? Nausea?"

I do not answer. I barely move save for the rise and fall of my chest. Even if pressed I couldn't say why I don't - some instinct inside me warns me off interacting with this man.

"How are his biorhythms?" This to the nurse in the corner, "The same as ever?" 

She nods. "Cerebral activity shows he hears you - he understands. I can't say why he doesn't speak." Once more, she repeats the same she has each time I've regained conciousness. He considers me from the foot of my bed, chin in his hand, tapping his lip with a forefinger - again the same act as before. Precisely a minute later - I know, I counted - he nods to himself and leaves.

The reflective glass window, that occupies the opposite wall to me, shakes as the door closes. It's a one-way mirror, of course, though the exact way I know this is, once more, a mystery. It seems this is all my life has become, though obviously aside from the half-dreamt memories, I have no way of knowing what my life was like before. I brace myself, and sure enough the nurse presses something on a console and theres a hiss of pnuemonics. A moment later the pressure in my arm increases, and the room blurs and spins me back into my dreams.


And there you have it, 571 words. Nothing like the 2k practise that I did the other day, and nothing like the 2k slogs I'll be doing each day come November, but hey ho, practise is practise. And it's getting easier to ignore the urge to self-edit! Huzzah! Now, off to do....I don't know what yet. I'll leave you with this, a lovingly-detailed reimagining of the climatic end of the Horus Heresy by an inspiring artist, Neil Roberts.

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