Zaftig and Smirksome?

Dear Vincent,

I flatter myself that I indulge in a sort of “catch & release” for socially awkward people. Usually one at a time. I forget where I was going with this, but I’d like to have a harem, please.

Regards,
~*Char

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NONaWriMo?

WELP. Pretty much failed at that one, eh? But I’ve been THINKING of writing, rather a lot really, so that… sort of counts? Composing in your head counts? Anyway. Maybe I’ll keep posting chapters, once I stop being sick again. And again. And again…

Oh, also, Vincent—how do you feel about taking the snippet of “she believed in words” and marrying it to Elizabeth Snubb? I like it. Better than “I am not a novelist”, a little truer and closer to home.

Quick notes about future chapters:

– dad as professor of music and going deaf/alzheimers
– who’s carrying on the Snubb family name?
– mid-30’s, studied various things in university; ice-cream truck prevented finishing/job
– Why is grandfather’s chair in the attic?
– the cat who was supposed to be a dog (and the collapse into winter)
– the face at the window (how dad creates his own stories to fill in memory)
– the Missing Things (more of same; but possibly not?)
– the wheelchair next door
– more dreams
– The Devil at Midnight
– The Devil at 4:00
– the face in the wall (Don’t touch!)
– friends, internet
– childhood memories (the dream of the gems in the pocket, the mouse at the throat, the vermillion bugslide, the knee-caps)
– dad thinks the house is haunted; face-in-the-wall scoffs
– Is it the drugs?
– working out, not working out.
– the darkness at 5; the distorted sense of day and night
– the music that wasn’t there
– No Entry #2 (tack it on at the end of another; just mention that she couldn’t find it again)
– the fans that drown out voice, singing
– dad’s theory of the future/aliens
– dad’s theory of music/aliens
– dad’s story of invading Korea?
– a good day: dad cooks chicken.
– Do I Exist?

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Chapter Two: The Next Part

Well, it’s been a couple days since I started this journal, and I have nothing to write. My days are very routine and dull. First, I wake up, usually in a sweat, and turn off my alarm. Recently, I’ve been waking up before the bell even rings, which fills me with a sense of accomplishment despite my damp sheets. I then make breakfast for myself and my father. We sit at the breakfast table in silence, for the most part, and eat after taking our respective pills for the day. Because of the ice-cream truck incident, I have several that I have to take. I forget what they do, really, since I’ve been taking them so long. Like I said, it’s just routine.

After breakfast, I go upstairs to my room and check my calendar. I know most people keep track of things on their phones, but I’ve never gotten the hang of that digital stuff. Paper and pen just feel so much more reliable. I check to see if I have any appointments and then dress accordingly, after a shower of course.

Today I had a doctor’s appointment, so I left the house at quarter to eleven, only to remember that the office had moved location to a different building. I’m usually quite good with directions, so I wandered a bit and eventually ended up where I was supposed to be. The doctor had nothing new to say. I just have to wait for the results of more tests. I was feeling a little bit annoyed with the lack of progress, so after the meeting was done I decided to just keep walking. There are lots of one-way streets in this town, and if you’ve ever visited here you’ve probably driven the wrong way down one of them at least twice. I was trying to remember the word that comes next in the phrase “federal, provincial, ___” when I realized I was in a part of the neighborhood that was unfamiliar to me. I turned around a couple times and figured out that my street was farther away than I originally thought, and I would have to go through to the other side of this area to get home. The street immediately to my right was the best bet, so I started down the road, which was another one-way street, judging by the signs. One thing that struck me was that there were no cars on this street. I’d hardly call it a street, even, it was more of a lane. And despite all the houses along either side, none of them had driveways that connected through. It was as if all the houses had turned their painted backs to the road, and many of them had even fenced in their yards, further isolating the little street from the residences. When I got to the end of the short cut, I looked back, more out of curiousity than anything, and saw that there was a matching “No Entry” sign facing oncoming cars. No one would ever turn down that lane, unless they were ignoring law and order entirely. I thought it was rather sad, this unused track of concrete blocked off from the world of traffic. I determined to use this path more often in the future. Like visiting someone in hospital, it would feel both a penance and a reward. I don’t remember seeing a name for the street, but I’ll look harder next time.

“Municipal”. That’s the word. Municipal.

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