NaNoWrMo

Today marks the satrt of National Novel Writing Month. For those of you uninitiated, go here: http://www.nanowrimo.org/ . Katie and I went to see "The Shining" last night at the Belcourt Theatre. Beforehand, we went to Fido to get a cup of Joe. The movie started at 9:10 and we got in line for coffee at 8:35. Our order was placed by 8:40. So, we sat.. and we waited... 9:00 rolls around and our coffee FINALLY got done; well, at least Katie's did. As they were giving us hers, they said "Wait, you didn't get your iced chai, did you?" I told them to not make it, we were already late and we couldn't drink the coffee we already had. Am I unreasonable in thinking that a cup of coffee shouldn't take 20 minutes to make? Maybe I'm just an asshole. Katie was upset by it, too.

Now, I haven't the stamina to write a novel in a month. I'm just too lazy, really. But, in support and honor of this momentous occasion, I present the first part of a a story I've been working on:

 The plodding sound of shod hooves on packed dirt and the tinny rhythm of metal clanging against itself were the only sounds in the still desert air. The sun had gone down hours ago and the chill of night started to seep into the bones of the lone, shadowed figure. The trail had ended at least a hundred miles back, but the man atop the horse seemed to know where he was going. For the most part, he had been resting in the saddle. Days of riding without end were familiar to him, but that didn't mean he still didn't get sore every now and again. He was far from the young man he had once been.

 He stirred in the saddle. Something seemed to be off. Nonchalantly, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the leather case that held his cigarettes. Parke-Davis cigarettes: the kind with cocaine. The promise was that they'd supply the place of food, make the coward brave, the silent eloquent and... render the sufferer insensitive to pain. It was the pain part he sought to take advantage of. Pulling a match from his Diamond Match book, he struck the surface and watched it flare a moment before lighting his cigarette. The brief glow of the match revealed a man with rough features and dark hair beneath a tan stetson. A mustache with a week's growth of whiskers adorned his face. His nose was perfectly-aligned and his chiseled jaw provided for his features in a way the women of the day would refer to as “rugged handsomeness”.

 The cowboy took a long drag on his cigarette and slowly exhaled the smoke into the still night air. He closed his eyes as numbness crept through his body. 'Just once,' he thought as he silently prayed for release. Slowly, he removed his hat and put it in his lap. He knew what was coming before it did. Years of experience on the battlefield prepared him for it. Just as a slight breeze played up, a bullet whizzed through the skull of the man followed by the rapport of a rifle from somewhere in the hills to the east. He slumped forward, dead. His horse startled, the mare began a fast trot in the direction they were heading. Luckily, the adding bumping and jostling didn't jar the rider from his saddle.

 Five minutes later, the dead cowboy began to move. Groggily, as if awakening from a long, restful night's sleep, he slowly put his hands under him to steady himself in the saddle and sat up. He glanced down at the hat in his lap and unflattened it. Giving the stetson a quick inspection, he made sure there were no blood stains on it before putting it back on his fully-healed head. The man leaned over and picked up the reigns of his trusty steed, pulling back slightly to reassure her that he was alright and to slow her down.