968 words so far…

…in “Andy’s Par­ty”, which is (prob­a­bly) going to be my Kitchen Fic­tion entry.

Excerpt:

Ger­ald and Phil ran into Dean and Car­leen at the liquor mart. The par­ty was BYOB, and so they were try­ing to decide between brands of vod­ka. Car­leen was a bit of a conois­seur, and so was try­ing to steer Dean toward the expen­sive stuff. Dean was look­ing at the cheap stuff, the econ­o­my being what it was and all. Ger­ald said, “I read somewhere”–which with Ger­ald usu­al­ly trans­lat­ed to I saw on the Inter­net–“that you can fil­ter the cheap stuff through a water fil­ter, like say a Bri­ta? About four times, and it tastes just as good as the expen­sive stuff.”

Dean gave Car­leen a look, and Car­leen said, “You’re not help­ing, Ger­ry.” Which was true, and at least part­ly why he’d said it in the first place.

So if you were want­i­ng beer”–Carleen made a face–“what kind would you like?”

Horse piss,” said Car­leen, not quite sot­to voce. An old­er man on the oth­er side of the vod­ka aisle gave her a dis­taste­ful look, and she winked at him. Flus­tered, he looked away.

Uh, Rickard’s is always good,” said Dean. “Cana­di­an’s not bad either.”

If you can stand the taste,” said Carleen. 

You’ve already made it clear you’re not drink­ing it,” said Phil. To Dean: “What about Blue?”

Yeah, sure, what­ev­er,” said Dean. “Beer’s beer, you know?”

They all four of them nodded. 

Sound Man­i­to­ban? Prairie? Cana­di­an? Hope so; that’s what I’m goin’ for.

Not bad…

Skipped judo tonight, walk­ing wound­ed*, and wrote instead. About 1100 words in Across a Wound­ed Land, so that’s not too bad. Grant­ed, there’s some cut’n’­paste from the first draft, but not too much tonight.

Sam­ple:

The office was a white cube, with a small white desk in the geo­met­ric cen­ter of the floor. White cur­tains framed a sun­ny north win­dow. Hamid do Rufinnus wore soft white linens and, Leonid felt con­fi­dent, white leather boots. The only spray of col­or in the room came from a dwarf cher­ry tree, a bon­sai in full cas­cade, stand­ing in a tall, nar­row lac­quered white pot atop a waist-high pil­lar of glit­ter­ing, pale quartz. The water­fall of its leaves trailed almost to the white floor. Minute pink blos­soms dot­ted its entire lan­guid length. Leonid’s eyes kept stray­ing back to the flow­ers; against the stark­ness of this room, they seemed to pulse with hal­lu­ci­na­to­ry color.

I think it’s pro­ceed­ing not too badly.

*Well, sore from work­ing out. First time back. Should’ve stretched.

well…

…900 words. Not great but not bad for one hour’s real work. Still have to turn off the Inter­nal Edi­tor, though. Could’ve had more…

Try again tomor­row, for a lit­tle while between sup­per and judo.