Crowing

Can I just say how much I love myself for getting my posts in first thing in the morning so I don't have to think about it or freak out when I see the clock coming up on midnight and thinking to myself, "Self, you dropped the damn ball. Get up and post something so that you don't fail this challenge, at least." Then I kick myself in the head and trudge downstairs to write something stupid.

But today! Today I posted in the morning and now I can just ramble and avoid my NaNo. Like I'm doing now. But today, I'll share a little bit because I find it oddly amusing, especially considering how far it's gone from what I originally intended.

I will warn you ahead of time that the NaNo is all about quantity, not quality, so ... well. Read for yourself.

The fishwife looked at Lila, stunned. “You mean to tell me you have never had beer before? Where on earth do you come from and what do you drink there?”

Lila looked at her loopily. She paused for a moment and offered, “I am from Massachusetts and we drink milk. And coke. And coffee. And tea. And Ovaltine (that goes into the milk and it is chocolate - you do not know what that is yet, it will be several hundred years before it arrives here, I think,” her audience looked shocked and glanced around at each other uncomfortably. This was witchy talk. “ - and it has malt in it - I think that goes into beer, too, does it not? - and it is delicious hot or cold). And we drink wine -I do not, I do not drink at all, I am not old enough and it smells bad -. French wine. And California wine (California does not exist yet. Well, it is there but it is not Calif.. oh, never mind).”

A small cloaked man in the corner - who was originally intended to be a critical character but since fell into disfavor when he offered nothing interesting in the way of dialog or character development - cried out, “She is drunk as a lord!” And so his useful lifespan was essentially over. He went back to his drink glumly. Leave it to a sleep-deprived writer to underestimate his importance. He’d be back! If she thought he was just going to sit idly by while she wasted his dramatic potential, well, she had - A section of roofing beam suddenly let loose from its neighbors and silenced the drunk’s interior monologue. And good riddance to him, too.

“Thass right, I am! I am hammered. Wasted. Blotto. Drunk as a skunk. Four sheets to the wind. Inebriated. Intoxicated. Under the influence. Smashed. Pie-eyed. Poleaxed. Pissed. Plastered. Tanked. Trashed. Wrecked. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.” She slumped gracelessly to the floor. The brewer's wife came around the bar and hefted her to her feet.

“You’ll need a long night of rest after that bout, my girl,” the woman hissed. “But if you think you will be sleeping in and escaping your duties you have another think coming.”

Lila flapped her hands inches away from the woman’s face. “Back off. I am busy. I have important things to do, you know. I must piss now.” She organized her legs under herself and wobbled out the door to the barn.

It was a relatively pleasant place to sleep, actually. It was warm in the hay and the comforting sounds of the animals sleeping made her feel safe and secure. She only wished the donkey did not have such horrible gas.

Hours later, as she dozed fitfully beneath her blanket, a stranger came into the land. He was tall and dark and unusually handsome, as tall, dark strangers generally are, but he was not the marrying kind. At least if you wanted to stay alive. He was Jeff, the God of Biscuits and he was there to kill Lila, or at least maim her terribly if he could not quite pull off the killing, which was entirely possible as he was a god of baking for gods’ sake, and he would probably have to beat her to death with a rolling pin (which had not been invented yet, much like Massachusetts, California, and irony)or perhaps, if things went his way, pierce her fatally with his pastry forks.

Lila slept on, unaware of the danger she was in. And it is a good thing, too, because that very day the hapless donkey had eaten several cabbages.

Oh. Oh my. It is wretched, isn't it? This is so much FUN!