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Nov. 3rd, 2011
Squinting his eyes against the setting sun, Jake stubbed his cigarette out against the corrigated metal of the train's roof and stood up. He twisted his torso enough to cause his spine to pop, slung his bolt-action rifle over his shoulder, and keyed in on his two-way radio.
"Sun down in twenty, time to come home."
The radio crackled briefly and its operator spoke up.
"Roger that. How's Spike? Anything?"
Jake looked down at the dog laying next to him. He squatted down and lovingly scratched around the collar on its neck. Spike raised his head slightly and lazily leaned into the boy's affections.
"Negative. But I don't have a good gut about this. Come home straight, don't fuck around."
"Language kid," the radio intoned.
Jake frowned and pressed the tiny red button on the cheap and grunged up radio in his hand. "Just come home. Now." He pleaded.
He hooked the radio into his belt, brushed the sandy blonde hair out of his eye, and shouldered his rifle. Looking through the scope he had a pretty unobstructed view between the railyard and the general store at the end of the road. He swept the rifle from side to side, once quickly, and then once again slowly, looking for movement.
Startled by the loud bang of metal against metal, the young man spun around to face the hatch that was just thrown open by a tomboyish redhead.
"Fuck! Jo, what I tell you about throwing doors open," he admonished her.
"I dunno Jake, what they say about your language?" she shot back, as she pulled herself up onto the roof, and brushed down the hem of her polka-dotted sun dress. She dropped to her knee, suddenly very focused on the undoing of one of her boot laces.
Jake turned back to the direction of the setting son and looked back into the scope. "Remind me again why everyone's on my case about my cursing?" he grumbled.
"Oh, you don't remember how you almost got all of us ran out of New Orleans by the King himself for that expletive laden tirade of yours?"
( Read more... )
"Sun down in twenty, time to come home."
The radio crackled briefly and its operator spoke up.
"Roger that. How's Spike? Anything?"
Jake looked down at the dog laying next to him. He squatted down and lovingly scratched around the collar on its neck. Spike raised his head slightly and lazily leaned into the boy's affections.
"Negative. But I don't have a good gut about this. Come home straight, don't fuck around."
"Language kid," the radio intoned.
Jake frowned and pressed the tiny red button on the cheap and grunged up radio in his hand. "Just come home. Now." He pleaded.
He hooked the radio into his belt, brushed the sandy blonde hair out of his eye, and shouldered his rifle. Looking through the scope he had a pretty unobstructed view between the railyard and the general store at the end of the road. He swept the rifle from side to side, once quickly, and then once again slowly, looking for movement.
Startled by the loud bang of metal against metal, the young man spun around to face the hatch that was just thrown open by a tomboyish redhead.
"Fuck! Jo, what I tell you about throwing doors open," he admonished her.
"I dunno Jake, what they say about your language?" she shot back, as she pulled herself up onto the roof, and brushed down the hem of her polka-dotted sun dress. She dropped to her knee, suddenly very focused on the undoing of one of her boot laces.
Jake turned back to the direction of the setting son and looked back into the scope. "Remind me again why everyone's on my case about my cursing?" he grumbled.
"Oh, you don't remember how you almost got all of us ran out of New Orleans by the King himself for that expletive laden tirade of yours?"
( Read more... )
Word Count: 835
Nov. 3rd, 2011 06:35 amAverage Per Day: 278
Words Written Today: 835
Target Word Count: 50,000
Target Average Words Per Day: 1,667
Total Words Written: 835
Words Remaining: 49,165
Current Day: 3
Days Remaining: 28
At This Rate You Will Finish: On April 27, 2012
Words Per Day To Finish On Time: 1,756
Pink eye is a bitch. It's hard for me to stare at a screen, so typing is a serious chore.
That being said, I think I just managed to crank out almost a thousand words in about an hour, so I think that's a good speed to do this on.
Here's hoping I can pound out a few thousand words this weekend, or it's just not gonna happen.
Strangely enough, I write most prolifically if I'm suffering from a high fever, or I'm drunk. So there's that. Maybe I can do both at once?
April huh? lulz.
Words Written Today: 835
Target Word Count: 50,000
Target Average Words Per Day: 1,667
Total Words Written: 835
Words Remaining: 49,165
Current Day: 3
Days Remaining: 28
At This Rate You Will Finish: On April 27, 2012
Words Per Day To Finish On Time: 1,756
Pink eye is a bitch. It's hard for me to stare at a screen, so typing is a serious chore.
That being said, I think I just managed to crank out almost a thousand words in about an hour, so I think that's a good speed to do this on.
Here's hoping I can pound out a few thousand words this weekend, or it's just not gonna happen.
Strangely enough, I write most prolifically if I'm suffering from a high fever, or I'm drunk. So there's that. Maybe I can do both at once?
April huh? lulz.
(no subject)
Nov. 3rd, 2011 01:21 pmyou have squandered everything that has been given to you, while i have had to fight for everything in my life.
if you get a papercut it's the end of the world. if i fall into an open manhole and die, you remind everyone you once had a papercut.
get over yourself. grow the fuck up.
call me when you actually experience the real world long enough your head pops out of your fucking ass.
if you get a papercut it's the end of the world. if i fall into an open manhole and die, you remind everyone you once had a papercut.
get over yourself. grow the fuck up.
call me when you actually experience the real world long enough your head pops out of your fucking ass.