Nano 2014: Day 30

For anyone who's read last night's blog, you know that I experienced a bit of a twist that left me confused. Because I'd been trying to up my wordcount during NaNoWriMo, I'd been focusing on that for most of this month. And when I'd finally started to research some major elements of my story, I discovered that my entire premise was...not quite realistic enough. So the rug was pulled right out from underneath me and my story now has no backbone.

I've still decided to stick to my projected schedule, though. I'll just be switching this year's WIP out for the draft that I completed last November. It's been sitting on a shelve partially revised, but now I'll take it down, dust it off, and keep going. As soon as I've collected a few volunteer Beta readers (I'm definitely willing to do novel swaps) I'll just plow ahead with the rest of my revisions process. Well, not quite. First I'm going to take some time off because this month has been crazy. Maybe a week or two... Who am I kidding? I have so much writing and writing-related projects to do that I'll probably still be going for a while.

For now the novel draft I've just written will sit on a folder in my computer. I'll probably come back to it one day with some idea of how to rearrange the plot so that it works. In the meantime, there are some great little details that I can mine from this story and put into current and future works.

So, Wrimos, how did your November go? Reach your goal? Learn something new about your characters, the writing process, or even yourself? Has Nano fried your brain? It's fried mine. Commenting on a Google+ post, I wrote "photogenic" instead of "photographic" and didn't even notice that I'd done it until a stranger pointed it out. I'm sure there's a myriad of similar errors in the mass of words I produced this month.

In some parts of the world, Nano has already ended (Happy December guys and remember to give yourselves a well-deserved rest.) but where I live in NYC it's about 9:30 pm. Along the West coast of the United States it's--if I'm correct--only about 6:30. You Californians better be writing and not breaking for dinner! Just kidding. You can have a quick dinner break.

Whatever your wordcount when you cross(ed) the finish line, you're a winner for participating and for seeing it through.

--Britni M

Nano 2014: Excerpt 5

Sometime today I'm going to try to post a page that links to every excerpt of my writing that I've posted so far, so you can find it all in one place. I don't know if "today" is a realistic goal, though, so I'll just say "soon".

Anyway...here's my final excerpt for this month! It's really long (really, really long) but I had so much fun writing it and I think that it's great character development. Plus (I think) it's funny. Here you go!

“That soup was really good,” I say, setting the bowl down on Peter’s counter.

He puts both dishes in the sink and says, “Thanks. It’s not my recipe. My mom wanted to make French onion soup this time and didn’t have a recipe for it. She found this online and we never used anything else again.”

“It was fantastic.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“Don’t you mean ‘Thank you,” I laugh.

“Why would I thank you? I just told you that the credit isn’t mine.”

“True. But it was the best French onion soup I’ve ever had. Just don’t tell my mom that.”

“Takes pride in her recipe?”

“Well, it’s not that it’s bad or anything. Just not as good as this one. The recipe did come from my grandmother, though. So you have to respect that it’s a family tradition. I’ll probably ditch it at some point and use this one instead. You’ve got to give me the recipe.”

“Sure, I’ll send you an email and link you to the site.” He takes the Italian take-out we’d ordered from the fridge and puts it into the oven to warm.

“You guys must be good cooks,” I say.

“Why’s that?”

“Well, French onion soup isn’t typical bachelor pad dinner.”

He chuckles. “Well, I have company. But, yeah, I’m kind of into cooking. As long as you don’t tell anyone. Because I will have to deny it.”

“Why?” I giggle.

He rolls his eyes playfully. “It’s not good for the bachelor image.”

“Maybe not to other guys. Trust me, girls will find it impressive. Especially when they taste it. What else do you like to make.”

“I like to experiment,” he says. “I’ve done bacon pancakes and a ton of different types of omelets, some casseroles. Cinnamon potato pie.”

“Ugh, that sounds awful. What made you even think to try that?”

“A prank, actually. My lovely younger siblings swapped the apple pieces I’d cut up for my Thanksgiving pie with sliced potato chunks.”

“Oh no.”

“Yes.”

“That’s terrible. What happened.”

Laughing, he tells me, “I didn’t know what had happened until after I’d made it. Turns out it’s not so bad. It became our new traditional pie. Well, we make at least two kinds because it’s apparently not a taste for everyone.”

Looking at the fridge I see two photos clipped side by side with decorative magnets. “What’s this?”

“Oh, my mom. That first picture was our family photo taken when she was pregnant with Candice.

It’s such a cute photo. The entire family is standing in front of a tent and a fire pit. Peter, who looks so much younger even though this photo can only be four or five years old, is dumping water over Riley’s head. Bea and Molly look on in horror. Little baby Evan is clapping his hands and his face is full of chocolate cake. As the picture’s being taken, he’s smearing some onto Molly’s face. Mr. and Mrs. stand behind the wild troop of children while pregnant Ellie holds Timothy and Mr. Holds puppy Rufus, who’s squirming to jump on poor Bea under him.

“Your mom went camping when she was pregnant? That’s brave,” I say.

“We were camping in the back yard. My parents weren’t the outdoorsy type. That’s why the tent has nearly collapsed and our fire has more smoke coming from it than heat or light. Like a toxic fog machine.”

In the picture on the right, Mr is missing, but Ellie stands in the back holding Timothy’s hand and holding Candace in her arms. Rufus sits on the ground in front of her surrounded by the kids. He’s trying to lick the cake out of Evan’s hands while Evan smudges some onto his sisters’ faces. Riley is soaking wet and cringing, even though the water in the picture hasn’t hit her yet; Bea is wincing as Molly tugs on her bright orange braid. The fire is noticeably better in the newer photo, though the tent still looks like a safety hazard.

“Last year,” he explains, “Mom thought it would be cool to reenact some of our old photos. This was the best one. She has it on the mantle at home and she gave these to me, with the magnets, so I could put them on display too.”

“I think it’s adorable. It’s too bad I could never convince my family to do something like that. Mom would think it’s a waste of time. I might be able to get Tiff to go along with it, but I might have to bribe her.”

He laughs along with me. “As you can see, not all of the kids were cooperative.”

“Why’s Riley so wet already?” I wonder.

He chuckles. “It took a couple of tries to get a picture where the kids were at least partly reenacting what they were all doing. That and I added ice to the water.”

“That’s horrible!” I laugh.

He glances at the microwave clock, so I ask, “You want to go get the tv ready? I’ll make sure that the food doesn’t burn.”

He leaves the kitchen and I watch the oven. It smells so good. I’m glad we ordered from his usual place instead of the one that Mom and Dad always ordered from.

“Quick, it’s coming on!” Peter calls from the living room.

I dart out of his apartment kitchen with a take-out container of pasta in one hand and his personal pizza pan pie in the other.

“We still have a few minutes,” I say. But by the time we settle down, the show is already starting.

Agents of SHIELD comes on and I’m just geeking out and embarrassing myself. But I always get this excited on Tuesday nights.

I cross my legs under me, trying to get comfortable. I end up doing more watching than eating and I still have half a tray of past by the time the show is over.

“What do you think?” Peter asks me grinning.

“Oh what?” I ask, “The show? I love it. I adore it. It’s probably the reason for my existence.”

He doesn’t seem to get my humor the way Tiff would, but he brushes the odd comment off. “ I knew that it was going to be Garrett. I never trusted him from the start.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, but there was just something shifty about him. Sitwell, too, though I thought that he just didn’t trust Coulson. Like Hand.”

“You know, I always thought that Hand was going to turn out to be a traitor,” I say.

“Before this episode? Why’s that?”

“Because of her animosity,” I guess. “She just seemed like she was constantly watching Coulson’s team. Maybe a little more closely than I thought was normal?”

“There was always something I didn’t trust about Garrett,” he says. “I really didn’t see Ward coming, though.”

“I shipped Skyward so hard. I really wanted them to become a couple.”

Peter shakes his head. “Nah, I just didn’t.”

“But why not? Weren’t they super cute? You know, before he started killing SHIELD agents?”

“I’ll tell you what, I thought that the Whedons might have turned the tables on us and put Fitz with Skye.”

I let out a gasp. “Oh, no. Come on, Peter. What about Fitzsimmons? It’s practically already canon.”

“Their friendship and their partnership is. But I think Fitz had a crush on Skye when she first joined the team. Who knows, they still might end up together.”

“Blasphemy,” I tell him. “Fitzsimmons is real. There are no other ships with either of them. Not at all.”

“What about Trimmons?”

“No! I dislike this pairing of names! Fitzsimmons and Fitzsimmons only.”

“Well your shipping senses are a bit off,” he says, “since you already failed with Skyward. So what makes you think that your judgment is any better than mine?”

“Because it is!” I say. “How could you ship Skye and Fitz? That’s so wrong!”

“How’s it wrong?” he defends. “It’s exactly the same as shipping Simmons with Fitz. They’re colleagues and good friends.”

“Simmons is so much closer with Fitz.”

“She’s also oblivious to the feelings that he’s way too shy to tell her about. As much as he may like her, if he never says anything, how will she know?”

“But they’d make a perfect nerdy couple!”

“So nerds have to date nerds? And besides, Skye is a nerd, she’s just a different type. Her field isn’t anything super sciency, but she’s into technology just like Fitz is.”

“No! No, stop it. Stop trying to destroy my ship.”

“Listen, you’re last ship went down like the Titanic, so I think it’s time we stop trusting you with the shipping.”

“Fine, don’t trust me with whatever you want,” I say, “but I’m obviously right here.”

“Here we go again,” he grins. “All of this is pure speculation, of course. We’re talking about what could be coming in the future, so what makes your prediction better than mine?”

“Because yours is stupid! Who would put Skye and Fitz together? It’s ridiculous!”

“Why do you keep trying to knock my suggestions?” he asks. “You really have to convince me that you’re right, don’t you?”

“I’m not trying to convince you of anything. But I know that I’m right.”

“Can’t handle an opposing opinion, can you?”

I know that he’s joking, but I go pale when I realize how much like my mom I just sounded. This was only a playful argument I still had to knock his opinions like that. I feel a little sick right now, even though I haven’t had much to eat.

The conversation lulls and we watch a couple of commercials, casually commenting on the products, the shows, and the upcoming Michael Buble concert.

I hope my face doesn’t look as hot as it feels. I’m so embarrassed with myself. But I’d be even more embarrassed if Peter knew what it was that upset me.

“I didn’t know that Ward or Garrett were traitors,” I say, “but I always had a bad feeling about Sitwell.”

“Garrett always looked shifty to me. I never paid much attention to Sitwell. I feel like he was barely in a few episodes and then he just disappeared.”

I grin, thinking about the fate that Sitwell meets with. It was a proper end to his story, I think.

“When I was watching the first episode with Garrett and Triplett, I turned to Riley and said, ‘If ever there were a rat on that bus, it’s that guy.’”

“Rat on a Bus?” I laugh. “Is that the sequel to Snakes on a Plane?”

“Maybe,” he says. “But this time around, Fury is nowhere to be seen.”

“You mean Samuel L. Jackson,” I correct. “Nick Fury wasn't’ in Snakes on a Plane.”

“You have to think of it in crossover terms,” he says. “If he’s played by the same guy, there’s a pretty good chance that he’ll turn out to be the same guy. He’s just Fury undercover.”

“Yeah, sure.” I collect our cups and follow him into the kitchen where he loads his dishwasher.

He’s got a really nice apartment. I just hope that I can have a place like this when I move out. Probably not, since Mom will wither decorate or cut me off from my trust fund.

The kitchen of his apartment is about as big as the kitchen of my house. He has a nice, spacious living room area, too. I haven’t seen the rest of his place yet.

“It’s like how like how Transformers’ Shia Lebough is in everything. He’s clearly some kind of time traveling alien robot who just pretends to be someone different each time.

“Really? Then what does that make Nicolas Cage? He’s been probably everything.”

“He’s just a bad actor.”

“Hey! I happen to be a fan. He’s taken on all kinds of roles and done really well.”

“I don’t thing he has at all,” Peter smiles. “Seriously, the only good move he ever made was talking Jonny Depp into an audition.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I say. I think Nick Cage is a really good actor. I don’t understand why people say he can’t act.”

“Well, if he know how to act, he definitely doesn’t know how to pick a good movie.”

“I’ll tell you who can’t do either of those things. Bella. Kristen Stewart has fewer emotions than a board of wood.”

“She’s okay,” he says.

“Not really. I’ve seen her in three movies. I think I’ve seen her have emotion—any realistic, convincing emotion—once. It was some horror movie I watched back before the Twilight days.”

“I think she was showing emotion in Twilight.”

“Wait, you’ve seen it?”

“I’ve got younger sisters. Riley wanted to watch Twilight one night. I don’t do well arguing over movie choices with her. She always wins. So we watched Twilight. Anyway, I think that Kristen Stewart plays the character. I get the feeling that it’s less the actress not being able to emote and more the writer creating a dull, one-sided character.”

“Hmm, I think that’s the only logical argument for Twilight that I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not really for Twilight,” he corrects. “It’s really now. I’m pretty much directing the blame to a specific source. I don’t think even talented actors can do much with poor writing. Have you seen Dark Shadows?”

“Oh my gosh,” I scoff.

“Exactly.”

“It was a Tiff Pick,” I explain, using the nickname I’ve given to movies that I only watch because of my sister. “It was the worst thing I’ve ever watched, I think. Quite possibly. I mean, Jonny Depp is great and all, but the movie sucked. That’s really the bottom line.”

“See?” he points at me with a spoon as he moves it from his sink. “That’s what I mean. How many failures has Depp produced?”

“Not many, I guess.”

“And that’s because he’s great at what he does. And yet, even he can’t make the terrible writing work. If you didn’t know any of the actors that were in the movie, would you think any of them had talent?”

“No. Not at all. I sat there for two hours counting down the minutes. There was nothing good about that movie. Except for the occasional joke that didn’t suck.”

“But you know that Depp has talent, so I don’t think that the cast can be blamed for what the writers failed to give.”

“Yeah, that’s a really good point,” I say.

He starts the dishwasher and washes his hands and we head back into the living room.

“Tonight’s was an intense episode, huh?” he asks.

“Well it would have to be after what happened in Winter Soldier.”

“No, no, don’t tell me.”

I stare at him in horror. “What do you mean don’t tell you? You haven’t seen Winter Soldier yet? And you’re watching the next episode of SHIELD? Are you crazy?”

“Well they didn’t really talk about Captain America or anything.”

“Pfftt! Huge spoilers, Peter! I can’t believe—How could you—ahhh?”

“What? What could have been spoiled? The Hydra thing?”

“I mean, would you watch Supernatural episodes out of order?”

“I don’t watch Supernatural,” he says.

“But would you have watched Iron Man 3 before Iron Man 1?”

“I didn’t watch Iron Man 3 at all, actually. It was that it just didn’t look that good. I heard that it’s pretty anticlimactic. The first movie bored me, and they were trying way too hard with the second, so I opted out of the third.”

“You can’t just opt out of movies!”

“Why not?”

“They’re all interconnected!”

“I think I’ll be find catching up. If anything I can always go online or ask friends what I missed that’s important.”

“Okay, fine. Would you have watched Dark World before watching Thor?”

“No, but that’s different.”

“Not really. At all. The biggest thing that ever could have happened to Marvel Universe just happened in SHIELD, and you haven’t see what came immediately before this. It’s ridiculous. It’s un-loyal. It’s confusing.”

He chuckles. “Well, I guess you’ve seen it, then.”

“Four times.”

“Four times? You went back to the theater four times?”

“Uh, yeah.” Shifting in my seat, I notice the city lights outside. When did it get so dark? That happened quickly. “I went on midnight when it opened, then I went with Tiff, then I went with a few of my friends, and then Tiffany and I went with Mom.”

“Your Mom’s into Marvel too?”

“Anyway, you have to see it. It’s amazing. I’d say up there with Avengers and Dark World.”

“Whoa. Wait a second,” he says. His green eyes glint and I wonder what I got myself into. “You can’t just say that they’re ‘up there’. I need to know what your standards are, since you’ve obviously seen Iron Man and like Nick Cage.”

“Excuse you! Iron Man movies may not have been the best of the bunch, but they were still pretty good.”

“Yeah,” he scoffs.

“They were, though.”

“And I guess you’re going to say that the Star Wars prequels were just as good as the original trilogy?”

“Actually, I prefer the sequels. I don’t know why critics pick at every little thing about them.”

“Oh please,” he complains the way I had when he brought of Fitzskye. “What is there possibly to like about the prequels?”

“I’m not a fan of Phantom Menace,” I say. “Honestly, I’m not a huge fan of any of the Star Wars movies. But I think two and three are my favorites.”

He rolls his eyes in disgust. “Don’t tell me it’s because of the romance between Natalie Portman and the guy who plays Anakin.”

“No, actually.” I point my finger at him in accusation. “Not every teenage girl is into the whole romance thing.”

“You’re not?”

“Okay, well I’m not not into romance, but it’s not the guiding factor in my movie decision making. I like the prequels because of the anguish and the internal struggle.”

“But Anakin was so whiny.”

“He wasn’t whiny,” I defend.

“Have you really seen the movies?”

“Well, he may have been a little whiny, a couple of times, but that’s because he was in pain. His mother died, he felt under-appreciated, he had a secret Sith lord whispering things in his ear. He was going through inner turmoil. He was constantly being pushed to the edge physically and, especially, emotionally. Besides, Luke was just as whiny, and he didn’t have a good excuse.”

“Luke? He was a brave soldier, a dedicated jedi—”

“Like his father had been. But he started out constantly complaining about everything from doing his chores to not being able to travel to other planets. He was just annoying.”

“My point was, going back to Iron Man, that I don’t think that it was worth the time watching the movie would have wasted.”

I tuck hair behind my ear and suppress a yawn. “The Iron Man movies aren’t exactly the best in the collection, but they’re still Marvel movies. That’s enough reason to see them. At least, it’s enough to get this nerd to see them.”

“It’s not enough for me,” he smiles. The movie can be by whomever and star whomever, but at the end of the day, I need to be spending my theater money on movies that I think are worth seeing.” And then there’s that smile again. He has a really nice smile.

“Okay, then,” I challenge, “which Marvel movies do you think are the best?”

“Okay,” he says. He looks over at the television and realizes that some show’s been playing in the background of our discussion. He grabs the remote and turns it off.

We shift our bodies, settling on the couch more comfortably so we can face each other better.

“Well, like you said, Avengers is definitely top tier.”

“Yeah? And where does Dark World rank?”

Now that he said tier I’m thinking of cake. Tiers are a cake thing, right? I could definitely go for lemon meringue pie right now. Mmm. I’m not sure if that’s technically cake, though.

“In a perfect world,” he says, “it would be right next to Avengers, but…”

“But? No but. It is right next to Avengers.”

He lets out a breath. “Oh, but it isn’t, I’m afraid.

“Alright, then. How is it not?”

“I mean, there were definitely funny scenes, but I think the Avengers had more. Really I think it’s the whole drama with the planets aligning and stuff. Worlds are about to die, the red alien stuff—”

“The Aether.”

“Whatever. I just think they were trying too hard.”

“You’re a hipster,” I accuse.

“Hey, don’t say that like it’s an insult. And, no, I’m not. I just think that when you try too hard on something, people can just tell. And even more, if you try that hard, it’s not going to come out as good. It’s like a bunch of writers were sitting in a room saying, ‘Okay, we have to write the best movie ever,’ but they were so focused with their standards that they didn’t even make it good. They just let the first person with a decent idea write the movie.

“You realize that Marvel isn’t just in movies right? They started as comic books.”

“Okay, I can’t argue on two fronts here,” he tells me. “Do you want to talk comics or movies?”

“Okay, movies.”

“Well I think that they could have done a lot better with Dark World.”

“How? What could they have improved?”

“Well, besides the entire premise of planets aligning, which I thought was dumb, what about the fact that they just leave Loki there?”

“Well, they thought he was dead.”

“No, that’s not good enough. If a master of illusion who would be better off not going back to prison dies in front of you, don’t you think that you should at least make sure that he’s dead? Besides that, if your brother died right in front of you, wouldn’t you take his body back so you can give him a proper funeral? It’s not like they’re voyagers in the middle of nowhere and they don’t have the resources.”

“Well, they were both breaking the law. And Loki had attempted to take over our planet.”

“So? If Thor really cared, he’d at least bring Loki back and request that they give him a funeral like they gave his mother.”

“I mean, I guess,” I say.

“Though I think that Jane is the best of the main character’s love interests.”

“What do you have against love interests?” I ask.

“No, nothing. I mean, Jane is a really good character, I think. But for some reason, the love interests in these movies never seem as interesting as other characters. Especially when they’re woman. I don’t know who writes this stuff, but why can’t the female love interests be just as exciting as the movies’ male leads?”

“They can be,” I defend. “There are plenty of movies with strong female love interests.”

“Name one.”

Great, now my mind goes blank. “I don’t know but there are.”

“There are also lots of movies with boring love interests. Like Batman’s girlfriend.”

“Which one?”

“Rache—oh, I get it. Very funny. My point is, nobody cares about her.”

“I don’t know about that,” I counter.

“Come on. She’s dead. I mean, that’s why she exists. She was created so that she could die and make Batman/Bruce miserable. And then there’s Pepper, who does nothing but just help Tony out occasionally.”

“I think she does more than just the odd errand,” I tell him.

“Maybe, but it’s all behind the scenes and never has direct effect on the plot itself.”

“Well if you’d seen the third movie, you’d know that that’s not true. Besides, they’re such a cute couple.”

“She’s so easily replaced that they could have paired Tony with literally any other straight female character and you’d say the same thing.”

“Well, not a villain.”

“Really? You can’t see bad boy Tony with a villain love interest?”

Dang. He’s right. And now I’m considering dabbling in fanfiction just long enough to write a Tony/villain pairing.

“Still, there are woman who make a real difference in the world. Like Jane and Darcy, who literally saved the planet.

“Which is why Jane’s one of the few that I like,” he says.

I face forward again so I can stretch my legs and keep them from going numb. “Then what’s the problem?”

“With Jane? There isn’t one. I just would like to see characters like her be the rule and not the exception.”

“Alright, so you like Avengers better than Dark World. I’d put them side by side, but you’re forgiven,” I joke. “Which of the other movies did you like?”

I look at the clock and realize that it’s getting pretty late.

“Well, I haven’t see Winter Soldier yet, but Captain America was really good. I’m surprised, actually. I thought it was going to be more of a period drama, which would have disappointed me, because I’m a big Captain America fan. I’m glad that it dwelt mostly on the origin story, because I’m not really a fan of those historical war movies. Regular war movies I’ll watch, but the old stuff I usually find boring.”

I smile. Tiffany’s big into the historical stuff. She’d been so excited to see the movie, knowing it was set in World War II.

“Still, they did a really good job with it. It doesn’t feel like an old-fashioned movie. In some ways it still carries that ambiance, but overall it feels more like a superhero movie than a World War movie.

I agree. “It really isn’t like you’d expect an ‘older movie’ to be, because it was made recently. What about the first Thor movie?”

“Oh, I loved that one too. I think I’d have to say Captain America, then Thor right under it.”

“Why does Thor always come second?”

“I don’t have an issue with it, I just like Captain America better.”

“You just like Captain America better?”

“Yeah. In Thor, an arrogant a-hole learns to be a decent guy, therefore earning the powers that he had in the first place. Captain America is the story of how a worthy man became a powerful hero. He deserved what he had.”

“Do you think Steve could lift Mjolnir?”

“Of course. Do you?”

I laugh. “I don’t know. I mean, I’m sure Cap is worthy and all, but how worthy?”

“Worthier than Thor. Though, based on their appearance, I think that in a strict physical battle, Thor might have Captain America outmatched. Of course, assuming that neither has his classic weapon.”

“You might be right,” I say. I’m actually still trying to decide if he’s right. He’s made quite the accusation there. “But with weapons, Thor’s clearly no match for Cap. First off, we see that the shield can take Mjolnir easily. So there goes one strike against Thor. Second,” I continue, “if Captain America can lift the hammer—which we don’t know for sure, but if he could lift the hammer—then Thor doesn’t have a weapon. Mjolnir would be useless to him and useful to Cap, so that’s two reasons why he’d fail.”

Peter nods. “That’s the thing, really, because Mjolnir isn’t about who’s strong enough to lift it. Its weight has been calculated as only being about forty pounds. That’s heavy for a hammer, but not for the amount of destruction it could do. The whole point is whether you’re worthy to lift it. And Captain America definitely is.”

“You know, I tell him, when we first met, you didn’t strike me as the type to be a Marvel nerd.”

“Yeah? What did I strike you as?”

“I don’t know. A drill sergeant in the cavalry.”

He laughs at my accusation. “It’s a common misconception.”

“Oh? So I’m not the only one. Maybe we’re all right, then?”

“Please. There are no common misconceptions about you? Something that a lot of people think at first impression but only find out isn’t true once they get to know you?”

“Well…”

“Yeah?”

I run my fingers through my short hair. “A lot of people have made the assumption that I’m not that smart.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I shrug. “I mean, I’ve always been good in school and I even qualify for merit-based scholarships going into college. But when people first meet me, they tend to either think I’m a preppy rich brat or I’m an athlete who doesn’t care about my education.”

“That’s not what I got from you at all. I mean, I didn’t necessarily like you when we first met, but I didn’t think you were dumb at all.”

“What did you think?” I ask, fighting a bit of a blush.

“Well, not that you aren’t, um, attractive—You struck me as very confident and headstrong. I knew that you were stubborn and determined, though I didn’t realize quite how much. I knew you were someone who had a lot of passion for your education, and I knew that you were willing to do whatever it took to get yourself into your college.”

Even though he’s called me stubborn, his answer pleases me.

“What do you think about you surprises people the most when they learn it?” he asks.

That makes me think. I don’t know.

What about me is surprising? I think of myself as a little too predictable.

“I’ll tell you what surprised me,” he volunteers when I can’t come up with anything on my own.

“What?”

“Your dedication. To be honest, I thought that I’d make you quit within the first couple of weeks. But you were strong and persistent.”

“I knew you were trying to wear me down.” That should bother me, but I’m way past it at this point.

“It was harder than I thought it would be. And that’s when you earned my respect. When I saw how strong of a young woman you really are.”

“So what’s your call, then?” I ask with a yawn.

“About you?”

“Cap versus Thor.”

“Captain America wins,” he says simply. “And I’m anticipating that Captain America: The Winter Soldier will be as go as, or maybe better than, The Avengers.”

“Not better than,” I say indignantly. “I mean, I love Cap anyway and all, but—”

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

I follow him to the kitchen again and watch while he puts some on.

“Steve Rogers is so brave,” he says admiringly. “He was always willing to stand up for what he believed in, even before he was strong enough to win a fight. I mean, I just find that really inspiring. There’s a lot that I’d want to do if I weren’t afraid.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, never mind. I interrupted you. What were you going to say?”

“Um, what was I saying?”

I look back at his fridge and smile at the red husky in the pictures. Rufus is such a pretty dog, especially with those popping blue eyes.

“Winter Soldier isn’t better than Avengers.”

“Oh. I mean, it’s a great movie,” I continue, “but Avengers was just…everything I expected from Marvel.”

“After seeing Assembling a Universe,” he says, “I expect great things from most Marvel movies. I always did, but now there’s this extra layer of appreciation. Avengers was probably made as good as it was by the large cast of superhero leads.”

“Yeah, that’s true. Though they do crossover the characters a lot. I like that.”

“They talked about that a lot in Assembling a Universe. The old Marvel movies like Spiderman, X-men, and The Fantastic Four were licensed to other movie companies before the creation of Marvel Studios. Once Marvel Studios was founded, they knew that everything would be connected the way it is in the comics. So they started making the separate movies knowing that they’d all come together. It’s actually really cool. And I like the way even the television show ties into the movies. Who’s in The Winter Soldier? Other than Captain America and the Winter Soldier, of course.”

“Black Widow. Obviously Fury. And also the first MCU appearance of Falcon.”

“Nice,” he says. “I heard they were bringing him in. I don’t know a lot about him, but I am looking forward to seeing him.”

“It was a really good movie,” I say. “I can’t wait until the next Avengers.”

“Age of Ultron, right?”

I nod. “I mean, any Marvel movie is going to be mega awesome for me. I’m just a fangirl. And a huge Marvel nerd.”

“I’m a little more critical, I guess,” he grins. “But I do love the movies. I guess you’re not into the DC scene?”

“You are?”

Wow, I sound incredibly disappointed. That’s not how I meant for those words to come out.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re looking at a guy who dressed up as the Joker for history class.”

“What? You dressed…”

“Yep. I had a really strange teacher. I mean, he was fantastic, but a bit eccentric. Dr. Grey. We all just called him Doc. He let us do cool things like listen to the Imperial March during exams, and sometimes he’d have these special costume classes. And we’d all dress up to some theme. This one time he was Batman and we all dressed as Batman villains. It was pretty epic.”

“That doesn’t sound regulation.”

“It probably wasn’t. But I bet all the other classes were jealous of how cool our teacher was.”

“You would be the Joker,” I grin. “You’ve got the hair down. You just have to change the color.”

“Hair chalk. It took a lot of chalk to turn this fiery mess into green, but it was worth it. You’re not much of a DC fan, I gather?”

I shake my head slightly. “Don’t get me wrong. DC definitely has a lot to offer, but it doesn’t translate the same way onscreen. Why so simplistic? The Dark Knight was an awesome movie and by fat the best they’ve ever made. I might let it rank among Marvel movies. But it’s an entire movie carried by the villain. And I don’t mean Dent, because he’s way too easy to lose interest in. I’m just not used to superheroes being less exciting than their enemies.”

“Hey, Batman’s pretty cool.”

“Batman’s definitely cool Like, if he were a real person, I’d totally want to meet him and get an autograph or something.”

“How do you take it?” Peter asks, pouring two mugs of coffee.

“Do you buy coffee creamer?”

“Only because I anticipate guest wanting it. I’ve got French vanilla and a triple chocolate.”

“Chocolate please.”

He gives me my coffee and we walk back inside. “Cute mug,” I laugh, admiring the comicbook scenes on it.

“My friend went to Comic Con and brought this back for me.”

“I have one like this, but smaller and chipped.”

“Yeah, this is a recent purchase.” He lifts up his mug after taking a sip. “And I’ve got DC too.”

“I see you’ve geared us up for a Marvel vs DC debate. I have to warn you that nothing in the world can make me back down from Marvel. You couldn’t convince me in a million years’ time that DC’s got anything on Marvel. If we’re talking cinematic universes. If you wanna talk comics, then I guess DC’s okay. Not as good as Marvel, but okay.”

My cell phone rings and I look down at it. Mom’s picture is on the screen and I groan.

“What’s wrong?”

“I have to take this.”

I place my drink on the end table and stand.

“If you need privacy, you can take it in the bedroom,” he offers. “Down the hall, second door on the left.”

I thank him and take his suggestion. When I’ve shut the door behind me, I answer the call.

“Where are you?” Mom demands. “It’s past midnight.”

“I’m at a friend’s house, Mom. It’s not like I’m about to be murdered by a crazed lunatic wandering the streets.” I know that she can see exactly where I am on her GPS and I’m frankly surprised that she didn’t call me sooner. Maybe she was timing it so that she could interrupt at a crucial moment of something.

I could be in the middle of an important conversation.

Well, I am in the middle of an important conversation, but what if I were on the phone with someone from Excelsior State?

“Hi, Delta, how are you? I’m from Excelsior—”

“Whoops, gotta go. My mother’s calling.”

“Who? What friend?” Mom asks.

I give a dramatic sigh. “I’m at Peter’s house. What difference does it make whose house I’m at? I could be at Kiara’s or Sarah Charlotte’s. But I’m at Peter’s. The point is, I’m not roaming the streets.”

“I want you to come home now.”

“Mom,” I say, trying to sound mature and rational. “I’m an adult. I don’t think that I should have a curfew. Besides, you know that I’m safe. So what’s the big deal?”

“What’s the big deal?” she barks.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want my eighteen-year-old kid running around doing who knows what in the early hours of the morning.”

Doing who know what?

“Mom, I’m just at a friend’s house.”

“What are you doing?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now! What are you doing right now, Delta?”

“We were just having coffee.”

At least we were until your call interrupted. We were just about to have an epic debate of nerdiness. But excuse me for being too irresponsible to run at the first sign of comicbook talk.

“Who else is there?”

“Mom…”

I don’t know what she’s got going on in her mind, but I’ve got the point, and she’s dead wrong. Come on, I’m not even that type of girl. I’d rather of coffee and talk superheroes than get drunk and spend the night in someone else’s—

“Delta. Tell me who’s there right now or I’ll come over there and get you myself.”

Oh, that’ll be torture. Should I just lie to keep her as far away from here as possible? My coffee is inside getting cold and Peter is waiting for me to get off the phone.

I could lie. I could say that Riley’s here. But she’ll probably demand to speak to her. Or worse. What if she called Ellie up at midnight to confirm that her daughter’s over here? Well, I guess the only choice I have to avoid life-destroying embarrassment is to tell the truth.

But I can’t believe she distrusts me so much.

“I found her pills.”

“What?”

What are we talking about now? What pills? Whose pills?

“I found birth control pills in Tiffany’s room.”

Maybe that explains away the whole mystery. Now I can see why Mom would doubt me, I guess.

Except, it doesn’t solve anything. It brings up more questions than it solves.

Is Tiffany actually taking birth control? Why would she need to take birth control? She hasn’t mentioned anything to me.

Maybe Mom’s making this up to get me to come home. What was she even doing in Tiffany’s room? Either she was snooping around or she’s lying. I can’t determine at the moment which is more likely.

There’s just dead air for a minute or so.

I realize that I’ve been standing here in the dark and I turn on the light as soon as I locate the switch. I blink as my eyes switch modes and I take a look around his room. It’s pretty neat for a guys room, I think. I mean, my room is messier than this.

The silence is awkward. I know that I have to say something to her, but I can’t say any of what I’m thinking. If I value my life, that is. Everything that’s on my mind would dig my grave even deeper.

Especially if I tell her that I’m standing here in Peter’s bedroom.

I smile at the beanbag chair in the corner, which looks like a large blue elephant. Above his bed is a black canvas that has painted on it the words, “Every goal starts with a wish and a dream.”

“Come home now,” she tells me when I don’t have anything else to say to her.

I dread having to face such a hostile environment when I could walk back into the living room and continue the conversation that I was really enjoying.

But I know that I can’t disobey Mom. She isn’t bluffing when she says she’ll come over here and get me. And she’d probably drag Tiff along in her pajamas and everything.

Plus, Tiffany probably needs my help over there. Someone needs to have her back.

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I sigh.

She hangs up before I do.

“I’m really sorry,” I say as I come back into the living room.” I know from looking in the mirror on his bedroom wall that my face is a little red right now. I don’t know if it’s anger at my mom or embarrassment at having to leave this way.

“You have to go home?” Peter, across the room from me, stands from the couch with his coffee mug in his hand.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sorry. I had a really good night. It’s just that…there’s stuff at home. Sort of an emergency.”

“Sort of an emergency?”

“Well, it’s just a family issue. A social emergency, I guess. I just really need to go home.”

“Okay.” He puts his coffee down and takes my coat off of the coat rack by the front door. “Are you sure that everything’s alright?”

“Yeah. Trust me, it’s nothing that you want to get involved in. And if anyone does try to get you involved, you should run for the hills. Don’t look back.”

He chuckles.

I shake my head. At the world in general at this moment. Tonight was so awesome before that phone call. “It’s just a family matter,” I say, “that needs urgent tending to.”

“Well, okay. But we’re going to pick this up again, so just don’t forget where we were.”

“Not if you chain me in prison and beat me with sticks.”

“What?” he laughs.

“I apologize. It’s something that Tiffany used to say. I think my sense of humor becomes more like hers when I’m stressed or tired.”

“Which is it now?”

“A bit of both,” I admit, taking my jacket from him.

“Maybe she’s right pulling you out of here.”

“Why?”

“Who knows what might have happened if you’d have stayed.”

What? What does he mean by that?

“Out debate could have gotten way out of hand,” he jokes.

“Oh, yeah. It probably would have ended in a trip to the emergency room.” I’m blushing hard and apparently still channeling Tiffany in my jokes.

Peter puts a travel lid on the Marvel mug and offers it to me as I shrug into my jacket. “It’s kind of luke warm now. I could heat it up for you now if you want.”

“I can’t take your mug home with me.”

“It’s okay,” he laughs. “It’s not like you’ll run off to another country and disappear for good.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Not for good. I’d definitely come back to collect ransom on this thing.”

“You can return it to me when we pick up our debate,” he says.

I nod and yawn. I’m already in Dream Land. It’s horrible when I realize that I’m probably going to be up at dawn as I try to sort out this family issue. It doesn’t help matters that I’m meant to be at Avanella at eight.

As Peter reheats the coffee for me, I try to calculate how much sleep I can get if I skip things in the morning. I don’t really need breakfast, I guess. I can get by on a Red Bull. At this point, I wish that I could just get home, fall into bed, and rest forevermore.

He comes back inside and gives me the mug and walks me to the door even though it’s only like a foot or two away.

“How about next Tuesday?” he asks.

“Why? What’s on Tuesday?”

“SHIELD.”

“Right,” I say.

Do I sound like a total idiot to this college guy? That adds to his aura of sophistication, but I feel like it makes me seem dumber by comparison.

“It was nice to have a friend to watch with. I usually sit here alone and talk to the tv on commercials.”

I start to laugh, imagining this man talking to the television set the way I’d seen Timothy do.

“I think I’m better company than commercials,” I say.

“Oh, not better than,” he says in a mortified voice, mocking the tone I’d used.

“Shut up!”

He grins and I giggle.

We make good friends, he and I. I can’t believe we disliked each other so much so short a time ago.

“Thanks for coming tonight. It’s not often that I find someone who doesn’t want to murder me after I start talking comicbooks and superheroes.”

“I know. Tiff likes to talk about them, but she’s more interested in what the men look like. That’s great and all, but it doesn’t make as lively conversation.”

He’s opened the door and we’re standing halfway in this living room and halfway in the hall. “Well, I’ll see you next week.”

“Definitely,” I say.

“Good night, Delta. I hope that you deal with whatever’s going on at home.”

“I will, I say. “I’ll swoop in like the Captain America of my family and set wrongs right and stuff.”

“I hope nobody’s being tortured.”

I grimace. “So do I. I think Tiff’s got it pretty rough right now. But I guess it’ll pass, just like everything else.”

He insists on walking me out to my car, saying that it’s safer to have someone escort me, even though he lives in a really nice neighborhood that probably has no crime at all.

If only he’d heard my conversation before. Then I could refer him back to what I’d said about crazed lunatics not murdering me.

I get in the front seat of my car, strap my seatbelt, and turn the key in the ignition. Lowering the window, I lean out into the cool air to say goodnight again.

He waves me off as I pull away.

I really don’t want to face what’s waiting for me at home, but I feel so guilty already for taking this long getting to Tiffany.

Well, there you have it. That's the last excerpt from this particular novel for this particular month. I unfortunately don't know what will be happening to this project (it can hopefully be salvaged, but it's kinda a trainwreck right now), but I had a good time writing it.

Let me know what you think of this excerpt and the others, too!

Nano 2014: Day 29

What do you do when everything falls apart the day before the you reach the finish line?

I honestly don't know.

I wouldn't say that this month has been the worst NaNoWriMo that I've had. My first Nano Novel was terrible. Just...terrible. It fell to pieces because the plot didn't hold up and there were too many major characters who had very little development and a fantasy setting that I didn't understand at all. I didn't know what I was doing at all. So I scrapped that story and put it aside in a folder where I can pick away at it little by little, collecting whatever value there may be in the pile of literary compost.

Not that my first NaNoWriMo was a complete waste. I got a few good characters, a month's worth of extra writing experience, and, most importantly, I proved to myself that I could write a novel in a month. Even thought the project got trashed, it marks a milestone in my writing because, before that novel, I'd never even attempted to write a novel in a month. After being told about it by a couple of friends, I'd decided to join in just for the fun of it. I didn't fully intend to reach the goal because I didn't fully believe that I could do it. But when November 30th came, I'd written 50, 000 words.

Were they all good words? No. Most of them weren't. A lot of that novel is still cringe-worthy, in fact. But it doesn't matter. Because I showed myself that I could exceed my expectations for myself and have fun doing it. For every Nano and Camp Nano after that, I always aimed for 150k. As of August of this year, the highest I'd ever gotten was about 55k. But I also got two more novel drafts, both better than my first. I plan to revise and publish one of them, and the other I could publish after a little more extensive revision.

This month I've once again exceeded my expectations. I have almost 90k. That's only about 60% of the way to my goal, but it's 35k more than I've ever done before. So I'm proud of myself.

My plan with this novel was to work on revisions during some of December and all of January, having the book completely done by the beginning of February. But this may be joining my first novel in the dung heap.

There's a lot more to love about this work in progress than my first. The characters are round and lovable/hatable. The bonds between the characters are so much more visible. The dialogue is more realistic. My writing techniques are better.

Still, the backbone of my plot has been pulled out. Writing about a girl who enters a riding competition to win college tuition money, I'd put of the research because I've been focusing on my wordcount. But now that I've been researching, I've discovered exactly how unfeasible this plot was.

So now I have no story. Can I change it? Have her do something else for the money? Maybe, but that also undermines a lot of other things going on in my story.

Should I discard the story and glean the good parts from it? Is there a way to keep going? I don't know.

What do you guys think? What do you do when this happens to you? Do you think my story is worth salvaging, or is reducing it to spare parts the best way to go?

--Britni M

Nano 2014: Excerpt 4

A little later than I'd planned, but, as promised, I'll be posting an excerpt from my NaNoWriMo novel.

I've decided to post a combination of two scenes (one of which may seem a little familiar if you read my first excerpt) today. Tomorrow morning--maybe afternoon-- I'll be posting the mega long scene I've been working on.

The following excerpt will begin in the POV of my main character Delta and shift into Peter's (the love interest's) POV. I'll divide the scenes, but I just want to avoid confusion off the bat because of how the formatting might come out on the blog. Here you go:

Peter and I walk down the boardwalk holding hands. We pass an assortment of wacky little shops as we go. There was the antique place full of creepy little dolls in their display cases (I swear those dolls are evil), a medieval-themed restaurant, and a pawn shop that had more clocks and watches then anything else.

I’m having such an amazing time with Peter. It’s so relaxing to be alone with him like this. I hear the ocean and the seagulls and I smell seasalt and corndogs.

This evening is beyond infinitely peaceful. It’s not quite dark enough for the lamppost lights to be turning on, but the sun has gone down already. Tiny bits of color still linger on the horizon.

“Dinner was amazing. I need to take you with me more often when I travel,” I say to him. “You can be my personal tour guide.”

“Oh, I don’t know about tour guide. But I will agree with you about dinner. I haven’t eaten seafood this good since the time I was on my uncle’s yacht. Well, it wasn’t really a yacht. It’s a fishing boat. But he rented it out one time as a cruise ship. By the way, not a good idea. It ended with a lawsuit and seasick passengers who never wanted to look at another fish again.”

I chuckle. His family is such an animated bunch.

“I’m glad you liked it, though. I thought I may have struck out with dinner. Like maybe you’d be allergic to seafood the way you’re allergic to bees.”

“Well, I am, I guess,” I tell him. “Because I’m not allergic to bees. That’s Tiffany.”

“Oh,” he says. “Is she allergic to seafood?”

“Nope,” I laugh. “In fact, I think she likes fish even more that I do. If that’s possible.”

“I don’t think it is,” he tells me. “You have such an appetite I think you could eat competitively.”

“I only have that appetite for fish and chocolate cake,” I say definitively.

“Than you could win a chocolate fish cake eating contest.”

“What?” I giggle. He looks at confused as I do. “Who would eat a chocolate fish cake?”

“Oompa Loompa eskimos, I guess?”

“Sure,” I laugh. I glance away from his because I don’t like the way he’s looking at me.

No.

I do like the way he’s looking at me. I’m blushing. But I also feel kind of awkward and tingly. Casually, I slip my hand from his and place it in my pocket.

“Are you saying that I eat a lot, then?” I ask.

“No,” he defends.

“Because I think that I got that from my mom. You know that old saying.” I bait my line and skim it across the metaphorical water.

He bites. “What old saying?”

I smile at my own joke. “They say, ‘Nothing good comes from Eugenia.’”

“Oh, you’re just being hard on her. Every mom has traits you can hate her for.”

I tsk and shake my head at him. “Wrong on two counts. First, I didn’t actually make that up. It was my PTA’s unofficial motto for years. Anything my mom would do would provoke the other woman to say this to each other behind her back. They all hated her, seriously. Second, what do you hate about your mom?”

Probably nothing. How could he hate someone so sweet and gentle? How could anyone hate her?

“That’s easy, Del. You want to find out about someone’s faults, you ask people they’ve lived with. Especially if they’re family. I mean, I don’t hate my mother, but she doesn’t discipline the younger kids. Timothy got some, but he was a difficult child, so she pretty much gave up. I’m amazed at how good Evan and Candy can be considering they’re preschoolers who have free rein. But I guess my mom just got tired after the first four of us and she just didn’t have the energy to deal with Timothy’s fits.”

“So she’s got one bad kid? I don’t think that qualifies her as a bad mother,” I say.

The lights have just turned on. They cast a soft glow over us as we walk.

“I don’t mean some little things that annoy you about her. What I mean is think of one thing about your mom that could drive reasonable people away from friendship with her. Maybe even something that would make people hate her.”

He grins and says, “Well you really won’t let this go.”

“Come on,” I urge. “I’m curious. I’m dying to hear about what’s wrong with your mother,” I tease. “You said there’s something to hate about every mom. Now defend your thesis college boy.”

“Okay,” he says, taking a long pause. Is he…looking at my lips?

That’s so weird.

That’s so sweet.

What’s wrong with me. Why can’t I make up my mind?

I study the decor outside of the shops that we pass. “Well, she likes to change rules on people. Like if other parents don’t allow snacking between meals or violent cartoons, my mom is still fine with their kids doing those things in our house. She likes to say that their rules are fine in their own home but not in ours.”

“That’s not so bad,” I sigh, letting my eyes trace the curly-cues on the sign hanging above a costume shop. We stop walking and turn to face each other. “I would have loved to hang out at your house as a kid. Too bad we didn’t know each other then. My mother was always super strict and she’d say crazy things like, ‘The Bible says that if you Trick or Treat you’ll go to Hell.’ Or, ‘Scary books are the devil’s tools.’

“I know that wouldn’t be so bizarre if she were a strict religious woman, but she’s not. She doesn’t read the Bible or believe in a devil. She just takes whatever is most convenient and uses it against other people. The thing is, she’s always liked to be in control. You’ve seen her. And if she has to wrongfully quote someone with authority to do it, then she will.”

“Okay, fine. You win the bad mom contest.”

“Hey, wait a second,” I argue. “How do I win? My mother’s worse? That doesn’t make me a winner. It makes me a loser.”

“You’re not a loser,” he chuckles, looking down at me.

I look up into his deep green eyes and get so lost.

He tilts his head slowly—so slowly. I feel myself doing the same thing, pressing my body up on my toes. His hand is on my back, my hands are on his shoulders.

We seem to be moving so slowly while the rest of the world blurs by. Just as I close my eyes, we’re bowled over.

“Watch where you’re going!” I snap at the stranger.

“Terribly sorry,” he says. His accent is British and he’s wearing a red bowtie. That’s not the first thing that I notice about him, however.

Peter and I gawk at this British stranger, who stands in front of us with one hand closed around what looks like a toy wand and the other gripping a large white towel to his body.

It’s totally bizarre, like running into James Bond while he’s taking his post comic con shower.

“You’re naked,” I say in shock.

“No I’m not,” he says indignantly. You’d think I just accused the guy of being Hitler.

“Yes you are. You’re naked,” I say again.

“I’m wearing a towel,” he corrects.

“But—but you’re not wearing anything underneath.”

“Well, what are you wearing under your clothes?”

I don’t know what to say to that. Naked James Bond has a point. Then again…

“I don’t think it’s legal to run around in public like that.”

“Why not?” He looks down at himself approvingly. I catch a whiff of soap and in the electric light I can see little glistening bubbles in his hair.

What are the laws like where this guy is from? Is it really acceptable to just run through the streets in a towel? Well, I have heard that they have topless beaches in Europe. I bet he was just showering on the beach.

“I don’t see anything wrong with this,” he insists. “I know the bowtie is a little old fashioned. But they’re snazzy. Bowties are cool.”

“No, not the—did you say ‘Snazzy’?”

Peter, who’d not been contributing anything to the conversation at this point, turned to me and said, “Don’t make fun of the man’s vocabulary. Snazzy’s a good word.”

“Now if you could just point me in the general direction of—” the man walked himself in a circle. “There was a thing!”

“A thing?” me and Peter ask together.

“Yes, yes,” he confirms impatiently. “A great, big…thing. With…” He spreads his arms to his sides and waves them up and down like a monkey. “And it had a huge…there were two very unusual…” He motions with his hands and looks at the two of us in frustration. I’m not understanding any of the clues in his bizarre version of charades.

What’s wrong with him? What’s he going on about? Maybe he’s just been drinking. But he smells more like shampoo that Jack Daniels.

“I think it went that way,” Peter says, motioning in the direction the man had been running when he’d first plowed into us.

“Thank you.” The man starts off in that direction, then turns around to look at us. “What are your names?”

“What’s the matter?” I ask. Why would I give my name to a crazy drunk, even if he could be a suave secret agent in disguise?

“I’m Peter. She’s Delta.”

“Ooh, Delta,” Bond muses. “What a marvelous name. Delta I’ll remember.”

I grin at Peter gloatingly. I’m not sure when gaining Drunk Bond’s approval became a contest, but he’d entered and I’d won.

“What about me?” Peter asks. “I’ve got a good name. Spiderman, a handful of acting legends, a Biblical apostle, Russian czar Peter the Great.”

Bond shakes his head. “No, no. There are millions of Peters. That czar, by the way, good guy. Not as good looking as his pictures though. Delta, now that’s a brilliant name.”

He turns away again, looks into the window of the costume shop, and looks back at us with his face shining like a happy five-year-old’s after he’s been given a puppy. He darts into the shop and I can’t contain my curiosity.

“What’s he looking at?” Peter asks when I peek inside.

“A fez,” I laugh. “I guess he thinks those are cool, too.”

~~*~~

We stand outside of the curious shop (nine points, yahtzee) for a few minutes discussing what just happened.

“Well, he like my name better,” she says.

“Of course he did.”

After a couple of seconds (ten points, yahtzee) of silence (nine points yahtzee), I ask, “Do you wanna go inside?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Why bother. It’s just a strange little costume shop with a strange man inside of it.”

“Well, that’s why we’d bother,” I explain. “The building itself is interesting,” I say. “It’s called the Sea Chest, but the hanging sign is a mustache. That would make me want to check it out even if their weren’t a crazy bowtie-wearing man inside.”

“It’s all so…bizarre.”

“Exactly,” I tell her. “Nineteen points, yahtzee.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“What am I doing?”

“Saying scores out loud.”

“Sorry. Force of habit.” I take Delta by the arm and lead her into the interesting little costume shop. Like the rest of the shops on this boardwalk, it has an interior as intriguing as its exterior.

The English man, the one Delta had christened (sixteen points) James Bond, is running through the back of the store wildly, muttering something to himself. The seven-letter words in that thought (yahtzee) make me want to call out their scores, but I bite my tongue. I can’t hear what Bond is saying over the sounds coming from the flatscreen television mounted on the wall to our right.

“What kind of costume shop has a tv in it?” she asks. “They’re not even playing a talk show or something. It’s the news. That’s boring.”

“We’re gonna have some highs in the upper seventies,” the weatherman says, “and things are gonna cool down to about fifty degrees or so each night.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” I say to myself. A cool Renaissance costume catches my eye and I move through the rows to take a closer look.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I hear Delta say. I look to see that she’s just elbowed Bond in the gut.

He’s still wearing the bowtie and the fez. From where I’m standing it looks like he’s swapped the towel for some swashbuckler outfit. He looks like Jack Sparrow minus the swagger. He’s even got a beaded wig on under the fez.

“Delta!” he exclaims with his arms out in excitement. He looks at her like she’s an old friend he’s run into after years of losing touch. I grin as I step back to watch the scene.

“Um…hi?” she responds.

“If we jump back to our five day forecast,” the weatherman says, “we’re going to see a few changes.”

“What are you doing?” Delta asks Bond as she looks his outfit over.

If she thought he was insane before, now she must be considering calling the cops.

“Don’t I look brilliant?” he asks, giving a twirl in front of her. “Look at this!”

“You’re dressed…you’re dressed like a pirate.”

Wasn’t that an improvement from the towel?

“I thought you were looking for a thing.”

“Yes!” he shouts. He snaps his finger and points at her as he answers, “I am looking for a thing, Delta.”

“Aren’t you going to keep looking for that…thing?” she asks. As she talks, she’s backing slowly away from him.

He babbles excitedly and twirls quickly like a dog chasing its tail. He catches up to himself and snatches something from his pocket. “I’ve got a map now!”

“I’m…really…happy for you.” As she glances around the shop, I realize that she’s looking for me, so I start making my way over slowly, like the tortoise who won the race against the hare. Even though I wasn’t in a race and there were no bunnies to be seen.

“…the cold front has really gained some momentum here. And it appears a storm has started to gather as well.”

“That’s great,” she says. “Well, enjoy your treasure hunt. Good luck.”

She turns away from him just as I approach her from behind. Surprised, she leaps backward, sending her elbow back into Bond’s stomach.

“Sorry,” I laugh.

She says the word in unison with me, but she’s looking at Captain Bond.

A third voice has also said sorry, and we all look to see who it is. Another man emerges from a back room, and he’s wearing a pirate costume as well. “Sorry, Mate,” he says. “But I’m afraid that map isn’t for sale.”

He walks quickly up to Bond, who holds the map away from him. “Who are you?” Bond questions.

“The name’s Byron. Byron Wilmington III.”

Strange thing is, I think there’s a Byron Wilmington in my econ class.

“That’s not a real name,” Delta tells him. “Who’s called ‘The Third’ anymore. Or Byron for that matter.”

“I know a Byron,” I tell her.

“Don’t I know you?” Bond asks, studying Byron’s face carefully.

Byron looks the fezzed pirate up and down with a face full of bovarism. “No, I don’t think so. I think I’d remember… all this.”

The news report continues to play in the background. “It seems that the storm and the cold front have clashed violently and we now have a flood warning. And a fire warning.”

“How is that possible?” Delta asks, looking at the television. Then she turns to me to ask, “Why are you sneaking up on people?”

“I’m not sneaking up on anyone,” I tell her. “I was just looking at costumes and then I came back to join you again. It’s not my fault that I’m stealthy as a Jeckyl.”

“Jackal,” the three of them tell me together.

“Whoa, easy there,” I say as I’m attacked by the grammar SWAT team.

I’m facing away from the tv, but I can hear the confused meteorologist as he says, “We encourage everyone in the area to quickly move to higher ground. Nope, cancel that. We’ve just been instructed to—”

“I’m going to need you to give me that map,” Byron tells his uncooperative customer.

“I’m going to need to use this map,” Bond tells his uncooperative costumer.

“It’s stealthy as a jackal?” I ask Delta.

“Yes, a jackal. You know? Like the cat.”

“Then what’s a Jeckyl? More like a jaguar?”

“I think think you made the word up. It’s definitely not a jaguar. Whether you mean the cat or the car.”

“He’s a scientist,” Bond informs us over his shoulder. “Nice guy, but heck of a temper.”

“Okay, then you’re a stealthy Hulk,” she tells me.

I’m pretty sure that that’s an oxy moron. How can Hulk be stealthy? The guy’s harder to hide that a pink elephant standing on top of your house when you come home from a hard day at work.

“Oh, my. Looks like we have a tornado,” the weatherman says.

“Tornado?” Delta repeats. “There’s no tornado. What on Earth is he talking about?”

“That’s my map,” Byron insists, placing a hand on the hilt of the sword that’s strapped around his waist.

“That can’t be real, right?” Delta whispers to me.

“Of course not,” I answer softly. “That would be ridiculous.” But I still put my hand on her arm and pull her away from the quarreling pair of pirates.

“Let’s hide, Jeckyl. Good idea coming in here,” she says. “Yeah, let’s just follow the crazy man. What could possibly go wrong?”

The weatherman says behind us, “Let’s look at the five day forecast. We’ll see that the temperatures are still fluctuating, but the chances of death have stabilized at about 99.99%.”

“What?!” Delta says in bafflement. “What is it the end of the world out there?!”

“Okay,” the weatherman says, “we have confirmation that this is the end of the world.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

I pick up a ceramic bank that looks like a tiny pirates’ ship. “Hey, look at this.”

She shushes me and focuses on the television. I turn around, too. “So we’ll go back to our five day forecast, which is now our one day forecast. And that will about wrap it up.”

“It’s a pennies boat,” I tell her when the weather report’s ended and the camera brings us back to the news desk.

Delta just looks at me.

“Get it?” I laugh. “A pennies boat.”

She gives me a blank look. “Uh, sure, I guess?”

She doesn’t get it.

“Okay, what about this?” I pick up a bank that looks like a rubber duck. “This is not pennies boat.”

“Duck,” she says.

“Well, yeah.” I look at the little figure in my hand. “You’re kind of missing the reference. Haven’t you ever seen—”

“Seriously, duck!”

We both drop as a sword whooshes over our heads. Oh, I kind of forgot about that for a minute. By the fact that it slices a display in half, I deduce that it’s the real deal.

“What maniac runs around with a real sword?” Delta asks.

The kind who actually thinks he’s a pirate, I guess.

I yank her out of the way before Bond can collide with her. He stumbles into us anyway and spirals like a football-shaped torpedo as he trips.

I land hard on my back and Delta lands on top of me, blushing. She’s squished into me when Bond lands face up on top of her.

“Hand over the map,” Byron directs with his sword leveled at Bond.

Hands up in surrender, Bond slowly stands, saying, “It’s not very gentlemanly of you to leave the lady sitting on the floor.”

Byron’s sword twitches when Bond jerks, but he relaxes when he sees that the clumsy bowtie wearer has tripped, getting his boot-clad foot wedged into a top hat.

Delta’s rolled off of me, face redder than an overcooked lobster but not quite as red as a burning barn.

Byron stands there looking at her with the tip of his sword trained on Bond’s neck.

“Don’t you try anything funny.” Switching his sword into his other hand, he reaches down to help Delta to her feet.

I’m still standing up when Bond says, “Sorry, Delta.”

He reaches into his jacket and takes out his funny little tool. The tip glows green and it emits a high-pitched shriek when he aims it above us.

Byron drops his sword and drops Delta to the floor just before the television comes crashing down hard enough that it cracks when it hits the floor.

I lose my balance and fall backward into a set of shelves. I hear the swish of the opening door and then the click-pad, click-pad as Bond runs with the hat still stuck to his foot.

When Delta helps me back up, we all look around to see that Bond is gone.

“Bloody h*ll,” Byron swears. “He’s taken the bloody map.”

“What’s so important about his map?” I ask.

“I need it,” he says. “To find something.”

“Wow. I never imagined you’d need a map to find something,” Delta sarcastically laughs.

“I’m looking for someone. This map will help lead me to her.”

Delta looks conflicted as she asks the pirate, “Her? So you’ve got a damsel in distress?”

“Indeed.”

I’m no expert, but his pirate speak seems a bit more sophisticated than I’d expect. At least it sounds that way to me.

“Why don’t you just use Google maps? Why do you need a paper map so badly?” Delta asks.

He looks at her questioningly, but doesn’t answer her.

“Fine, you don’t need to share.”

This guy’s crazy. I don’t know why she’s showing so much interest in his imaginary quest all of a sudden. Not that it matters, since he’s obviously unwilling to share.

“Come on, Delta,” I say, escorting her from the shop.

“Those guys are crazy,” she tells me.

“No kidding.”

“I don’t know why,” she says, “but I still wanted to hear that guy’s story.”

Byron gasps and shoves a little stone monkey from its resting place before returning to the back room.

“It sounds like it could have been interesting,” she tells me.

“Interesting, maybe. But also either insane or entirely made up. Who wears a real sword as part of a costume. Is that even legal. That guy’s not just quirky. He’s dangerous, Delta.”

She shrugs at me. “I guess. I was thinking the same thing about the sword. Plus, who has a name like Byron Wilmington III?”

“What about the fez guy?”

“James Bond?” she laughs. “They’re both strange if you ask me.”

“Or anyone who’s met them.”

I shake my head and laugh. This night has been more interesting that I ever imagined it could be. No one would believe us if we told them what had just happened to us.

Okay, what did you think? Comment and let me know your thoughts on the excerpt. And if you have your own writing to share with me, post an excerpt or a link below and I'll be glad to take a look.

I'll post the final excerpt of the month tomorrow. I'm also working on putting together a compilation page so you can check out all of my excerpts in the same place.

Now, for fellow Wrimos who haven't reached their goals, your break is over. Get back to work and write!! (Then maybe come back tonight for my nightly Nano blog post...)

--Britni M