Well, I only got about 1500 words in yesterday. The plan was to get to the 10,000 mark by Thursday so I could skip Friday and be OK. Oh well…I’m not far off the mark. My total for the week thus far is 9650. Not bad, eh?

The new plan: I’m taking today off, still. Tomorrow, I play catch up and write 2500 words. Sunday is a crazy writing frenzy, so don’t expect to see me on the facebooks much. Then, I should have a nice buffer between me and my laziness. Onward to 50,000!

Oh, and don’t forget to DONATE TO END PROSTATE CANCER AND TESTICULAR CANCER!!! Thank you.

OH, yeah…here’s a short (and unproofread) exceprt:

Old Crow’s frown became a grin. “So, the great Joe Milton, Street Sorcerer, the Magus of midtown, is looking for the Black Gospel. You must either be in great danger, or just plain crazy. Or both.”

Joe shook his head, knelt down as if to tie his shoe, then stood back up. . “Neither, actually. I’m not looking for it. I’m looking for someone who may have been looking for it. A college student, perhaps.”

Old Crow laughed. “Why? Trying to form a coven? A cabal of college students?” Joe said nothing. “Have you tried the Golden Apple? It’s an occult shop–”

Yes, I’ve tried there. Crow, you know there’s nothing but hedge mages and dabblers in those places. This is me you’re talking to.”

“I know it is. That’s why I’m not going to help you.”

“But you could if you wanted too, right? You’ve met this kid. He came to you. I just need his name.”

Old crow laughed again, his breath wheezing in and out as he did. “You know better than that, Milton! You know that all sales are confidential!”

“Even if your cooperation could save the world?”

Old Crow stopped laughing and looked at Joe coldly. “Not. Interested. Please leave.”

Joe shrugged his shoulders and headed for the door. Before he left, he turned to the old man and regarded him nonchalantly, but said, “OK. But when the world ends, just remember, you could have helped.” With that, he walked out the door, and into the night.

***

He did not walk away empty handed. Joe took two things away from his trip to the book store.

The first thing he got was confirmation. He had know Old Crow long enough to be able to read him, to read his aura, to read his mannerisms, all without looking like he was trying too hard. When he pulled his guilt trip on Crow, he had seen something, a flicker of guilt, of doubt, that had proven that however was looking for the Black Gospel had been there. He or she had probably purchased something. So Joe knew he was on the right track.

The second thing he took with him was a small slip of paper.

The slip of paper was a sales receipt, hand written by Old Crow himself. It’s a good thing the old guy hasn’t upgraded his register, Joe thought, even though in all honesty, it probably wouldn’t have mattered.

When Joe got back to his hotel room, he got out a map of the York Campus. He wasn’t positive that the kid in question was staying on campus, but the map was as good a place as any to start. Joe got into his bag and pulled out a roll of dental floss and a needle. With the needle, he punched a small hole in the receipt. He then took the dental floss, broke off a piece of it, and threaded it through the the hole, tying it in a knot around the paper. Next, he crumpled the paper into a ball, leaving the small tab with the dental floss sticking out of the ball.

For the final sup of preparation, Joe pricked his thum with the needle and ran his wounded digit along the string. As he did this, he closed his eyes and imagined a yellow light issuing forth from the pin prick, covering the thread in golden light and crimson blood. He took three deep breaths.

With his eyes still closed, he imagined an indigo circle around himself and the bed. He cleared his throat and Hummed “Ommmmmmmmm” five times while imaging a purple pentacle appearing withing the circle. Once he was satisfied that his circle was cast and all ill was banished, he opened his eyes.

Joe looked down at the map. He held the threaded wad of paper out over the map and said aloud, “If I were a recently purchased portion of the Black Gospel, where would I be?” He started moving his hand in a clockwise circle along the parameter of the map. Wen he had no result, he tightened his circle, moving closer and closer to the center. As he passed over a group of dormitories with the paper, he felt a slight tug, which did not surprise him.

Good, he thought. At least I know he’s on campus. He then moved the paper closer to the map and held it over the dorms. He started his circle again, this time around the dorms, much slower. As soon ad the paper was over Kolbe Hall, the paper stopped, dangling slightly at an impossible angle from Joe’s hand. “Bingo,” he said quietly.

Well, today’s the fourth day of NaNoWriMo, and we’ve got a health competition here at work, with me, Yvonne, Jessica, Jenny, and Kelly K. all participating! Before I give a brief excerpt of what I wrote on day 3, I figured I could give some advice. If you’re going to be writing, you need music.

No one can tall you what kind of music to listen to. Except me. I can. You should listen to Instrumental Surf Rock.

Here’s my soundtrack thus far:

jaynova’s surf-a-paluau station on Pandora.
Shots in the Dark-various artists (A Henry Mancini surf tribute!)
Ventures Play Telstar, The Lonely Bull And Others/The Ventures in Space-The Ventures (2 albums on 1 CD!)
Mr. Eliminator-Dick Dale and his Del-Tones (With too many vocal tracks.)
Non-surf music: Secret Adventure-Constant Comment.

So go listen to that music, NaNos!

Ok, here’s a short excerpt from yesterday’s writing. The main character is my John Constantine rip-off. Sue me.

Joe 1

Now.

“Joe Milton!?! What the hell happened to you?!?”

Joe looked up from the bar where he was nursing a Guinness to see his friend Nathanstaring at him, wide eyed and terrified.

Nathan continued, “You look like you’ve been through a wood chipper!”

Joe didn’t think it could be all that bad, though when he had walked into Keith’s Pub, his adrenalin had been coursing through his veins. He had noted that the barteneder, who was used to his shinanigans over the years, had regarded him with a look of horror, but by the time Joe was into his second beer, the entire place had chilled out. Presently, Joe touched his face to feel how bad it had swelled. He was puffy, though the shock of recent events had not worn off, and he was not in pain. He pulled his hand from his face to find it sticky with blood. He looked down at his glass of Guinness to find that it to was bloody. He didn’t want to think about how bad he must have looked.

“Seriously, man! What the fuck happened.”

Joe puled out a cigarette and went to light it, his lighter shaking in his hand slightly, though he did his best to control the trembling and maintain his cool. The bartener tapped him on his shoulder, which hurt more than it should have and that Joe suspected may had been dislocated and popped back into place a few times during his struggle a few hours before. Joe looked up to see the man pointing to the “No Smoking by Ohio State Ordinance” sign. Joe flashed the bartender “the look,” and the man walked away. Joe lit his cigarette.

“Dude! So you have to be so blasé about everything? You need to go to the hospital.”

Joe looked down at his bloody glass again. “I suppose I do.”

“Oh, so you’re talking now? Good.” Nathan sat next to Joe and ordered a Killian’s. “So what the hell happened to you? You’ve been gone for almost a week! No one knew where to find you!”

Joe looked down at his trench coat and saw that it appeared to have been shredded by something that that had large, razor sharp claws. He knew that this was because it had been shredded by something that had large, razor sharp claws. “Nathan, my friend, you would not believe me if I told you.”

It was true, too. Nathan had been Joe’s friend since first grade, but no matter what Joe Milton had been through, no matter how many mystic and arcane secrets Joe had discovered, no matter how many times Joe had gambled with his very soul in order to barter with and con demonic forces, Nathan always thought he was a liar. An entertaining liar, a liar worth keeping around for a laugh or for inspiration for one of Nathan’s short stories, but ultimately a man who could not be trusted.

“Look, Joe…just start at the beginning. Where have you been?”

Joe finished off his Guinness and ordered another. While he was waiting, he looked at his trench coat again, angrily, and at his dress shirt, which was untucked and covered in blood and filth. So there was not that much new there. “Well, do you really want to know? Because I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Like, this will be top secret, tall anyone and I have to kill them type stuff. Got it?”

Nathan’s eyes widened at the prospect of new fodder for one of his stories, and Joe knew that was what was going through the man’s mind. He really didn’t care because he needed to vent, needed to tell somebody, anybody, and knew that by the time Nathan got around to putting pen to paper or finger to key, the details would be mangled beyond recognition.

“OK. So a week ago, I was approached by a man…”

OK…that’s if for now. Um…don’t forget to SPONSOR MY MUSTACHE!!!

Ok, so I’ve been growing my upper lip hair for MOVEMBER, the month-long, mustache-growing evemt to raise money for Prostate Cancer awareness. Please click on the link above and donate to sponsor my ’stache. I’d like to thank my friend Yvonne for getting the donation ball rolling!

Here is what I look like, 3 days in…

Three days of 'stache growing

It will look more ridiculous in about a week, so I need your sponsorship to convince me it’s worth it!

Ok, now that that’s out of the way, I’m also doing NaNoWriMo. I’m a little over 4000 words in, and so far it’s ok. Here’s a short excerpt from yesterday:

Here’s the set-up..a secret agent woman (Melissa Guice) is talking to her surperior (Commander Jacobs).

“Yes, yes, Guice. What do you know of Project Elder?”

Melissa blinked at Jacobs, taken aback. “Um…I know that it’s a myth. A story told to young recruits to send them on a snipe hunt. A test to see how much the young blood are willing to suspend their disbelief.”

Jacobs took the cigar out of his mouth slowly, in a way that Melissa could only imagine was for dramatic purposes. “What if I told you that it was real, and that the worst case scenario was unfolding this very moment?”

“Permission to speak bluntly, sir?” Melissa asked, though she didn’t have to.

“Go on.”

“Well, sir? I would tell you to get bent and to quit wasting my time so I could get out of here. I could still make my flight.

Commander Jacobs stood, the light from his desk lamp shining on his chest, leaving his face in shadow, the cherry of his cigar glowing in the darkness. “Guice, Project Elder is real. The worst case scenario is unfolding this very moment.”

Melissa stood, unsure of how she was expected to react. Finally, she spoke. “But sir, that’s ridiculous. Project elder was based on the rantings of a mad Arab. He said he saw secret codes in the stars, and in medieval grimiors, and in the family crests of certain noble families…”

“Yes, and in record albums played backwards and the map coordinates of all the Starbucks in the world. What do you know of The Black Gospel?”

Melissa was still unsure if she was being taken for a ride, but she continued anyway. “Well…sir…it’s another myth. A book….not a book, per se, but a manual for bringing about the end of the world through the summoning of certain…demons? Gods? Real Lovecraftian bullshit.”

Jacobs picked a remote control from his desk. “And what if I told you that the Black Gospel is being written? That it is the end result of the same codes investigated bu Project Elder?”

“Well, sir, that’s impossible. Even if there were some cosmic, astrological significance to the star codes Abdullah al-Kazad saw, his other ‘evidence’ would point to a conspiracy to large, so far reaching, that we would have heard word of it.”

Jacobs pushed a button on the remote. An overhead projector lowered from the ceiling and shone on the wall to the right of Melissa. She looked up at a symbol: a six-sided star inscribed in a circle formed by a snake eating its own tale. In the center of the star was an image of some sort of aquatic creature, a squid perhaps. Though she was not very superstitious, the image disturbed Melissa.

“This, Melissa, is the seal of the Esoteric Order of Q’alalth.”

“Of what?”

“Of Q’alalth.”

“Kalth?”

Jacobs sighed. “No. Q’alalth. It’s three syllables. Q’al-al-th.”

“Oh. When you say it fast, it sounds like Kalth. Like, one syllable. What the hell language is that, anyway?”

“How the hell should I know?” asked Jacobs, irritated. “Egyptian? Mesopotamian? It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, it sounds like bullshit.”

“May I continue?” Jacobs asked. Melissa nodded, and the Commander continued. “Anyway, the Esoteric Order of Kalth…er…Q’alalth…can be traced back to a cabal of ceremonial magicians in Wales back in 1587. Working with techniques gleaned from the Grimiorium Verum and the Lesser Key of Solomon, these black sorcerers reached out to another dimension, it is believed, and spoke with a race of alien ‘gods’ who promised unlimited power in return for passage to this world. Our codebreakers have worked with the Society of the Golden Shroud to decipher some of the writings of these men who spoke with the gods, and we believe that these beings spelled out the way to release them from their prison in the stars.”

“It all sounds–”

“I’m not finished! Anyway, these beings spelled out a network of people on this world, throughout time, with whom they would communicate parts of the incantation that was the key. It’s an incantation that is hundreds of years in the writing, and that must be performed when the stars are right. Which, unfortunately, is now.”

Ok…I’ve got my NaNo hat, my laptop, and a lot of coffee…time to get this started.

Me and my NaNo hat

If you’ve never done this before, here are some words of advice:
1) Don’t get discouraged. Even if you get writer’s block, you have a whole month to get to 50,000 words. Writing a little beyond the suggested 1667 word a day quota can make up for a few bad days in no time.

2)Have multiple plotlines going. I had 3 last year. If you get bored with one, start writing on one of the others.

3)DO NOT ERASE ANYTHING. Extraneous words still count towards the 50,000 goal. Turn off your inner editor for this.

OK, good luck all, especially newcomers Yvonne and Jessica. Without further ado, here’s the fruit of my 1st day of labor.

Ben 1

I’m not sure where to begin.

I guess I could start at my birth, but I don’t really know anything about it. I have some theories, but they’re pretty unbelievable. One of them involves me being sent away from my dying home planet in a rocket by my alien parents, so that I might survive amongst you humans. Another theory places me in a secret government eugenics facility, where I was the product of years of super-scientific experimentation dating back to some World War II super soldier program.

In any event, all I know is that I am different.

I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I never tell anybody this.

When did I realize I was different? Pretty early on, actually. When I was five, or so my parents, my adoptive parents, tell me, I was playing in the garden. I was never a big fan of dirt, truth be told, so I’m not sure what I was doing in the garden,but apparently, I was. Anyway, I was in the garden, and suddenly, the tomato plants caught on fire. Then the small row of corn stalks. I was surrounded by fire. I don’t remember any of this, but my dad had to bring out the hose and save me. I guess it was all pretty frightening, but like I said, I don’t remember.

Huh? What caused it? Oh, my heat vision, of course. Yeah, the first…um…power I developed was heat vision. Imagine my parents shock. They had a boy, a five year old boy they had recently adopted, who could burn the house down by looking at it. Seriously, I mean, how would you react? I don’t know if I could be as strong as they were. I mean—

Huh? Oh, yeah. I have super strength. It came with puberty. But that’s not what I mean. I mean inner strength…

Oh. You were joking. Yeah. That’s one power I don’t seem to have…a sense of sarcasm.

Anyway, my parents taught me right from wrong. You know: don’t hurt people, don’t take advantage of others just because you can do things they can’t. Don’t burn the damn house down. Stuff like that.

Seriously, you don’t really want to know any of this. I mean, it’s pretty boring, actually. You know…I went to school, passed some subjects, did poorly in math, had trouble talking to girls, found out I could fly. You know, pretty basic—

Oh! Yeah, I can fly. But I’m afraid of heights, so it’s kind of a mixed blessing. Huh? No, I don’t think I’d be comfortable taking you on a flight. I might…drop you. No! You’re not fat! That’s not what I meant! I just meant that I’m clumsy. I just…I don’t think that it would be safe. I mean, seriously, if I dropped you on our first date, even if you survived, how could I live with myself?

Huh? Are you sure you want to know about all this? I mean, a lot of girls…well, some girls anyway (I shouldn’t say “a lot”…there haven’t been many), some girls are fascinated by this stuff, but then they have one of two reactions: they either get scared and refuse to talk to me, or they get bored.

Huh? No, I never tell anyone about this stuff, but I mean, when you’re in a relationship with someone, even for a short time, it becomes hard to hide. I mean, the first time I forget myself and lift the couch to get something out from under it, or the first time I trip and forget to actually fall, or the first time someone who has figured me out tries to stab me and comes back with a bent knife, they tend to guess that somethings up.

You’re sure you want to hear all this? Because seriously, Julie, it’s not that exciting. It sounds great, but really, I’m just like anyone else. When I get cut, I bleed. Granted, it’s almost impossible to cut me, but it can happen. And I have the same fears as everyone else. You know..I don’t know how I’m going to pay the bills in this uncertain economy. I sometimes worry about the state of the world, what with the fighting in the middle east and Russia trying to assert itself as a Superpower and all that. And, you know…I get lonely. All these things that you would think make it so great to be me? They are what separates me from everyone else.

Huh? OK, so I’m not just like anyone else. But my differences are not as great as others would think, yet they keep me isolated. I can’t really be myself, you know?

What other differences? OK, I mentioned the heat vision thing, and the super strength, and the flight. Yeah, and the invulnerability, too. Hmmm…I can hear really well. No, not like across the city well, but it’s extremely hard to sneak up on me. I can hear whispers from…eh…a few blocks away. And I have super cold breath. I mean, it’s cold enough,when I want it to be, to freeze water, and I can knock a person over with it. I think that’s it…No. Wait…I’m also fast. I can run a mile in a minute, if I push myself. I’m not sure how many miles per hour that is…I’m not so good at math.

Sixty? Hmmm…yeah, I guess. Sixty miles per hour. I can sustain that, too.

Holding my breath? That’s a good question. I don’t know how long I can hold my breath. I never really liked swimming. I’m not good at it. I know that I inhaled water once and almost drowned. So I guess you could say that water is my weakness.

Bruce Willis in what movie? No, I never saw it. I don’t see too many movies. Sorry.

So yeah, these abilities. I try not to broadcast them, because people expect you to do things with them once they know about them. I mean, look at Captain Firebrand. That guy was constantly being called on to stop the Conspiracy of Cartographers, and he eventually burned out. He—

Huh? Burned out? Oh! Yeah, I guess that is kind of funny.

Anyway, yeah. I don’t tell too many people about these things because, you know, they’d want me to go out and save lives, or maybe join the Guild of Heroic Persons. But that’s not me. I mean, how am I going to save lives? I’ve got no real skills. I don’t know CPR. I don’t know Kung Fu. I don’t even know how to change a flat tire! Seriously. No, anyone who wants me to dress up and play hero is barking up the wrong tree.

Don’t get me wrong; having these abilities does have its advantages. I mean, I can reach tall shelves, I can do heavy lifting, I can cook without worrying about burning myself. Well, OK, I can’t really cook, but if I could, I could do so without fear of bodily harm.

What are you laughing at? I don’t know…I guess it is a little funny, on the surface. I mean, sure, all those guys in the funny costumes have powers….God, I hate that word…powers that set them apart from…um…baseline people? But that’s not to say that all people with powers do that stuff. I’m sure there are people all around you who can do something special, yet choose not to become heroes…another word I hate, by the way…heroes because even with these abilities, it’s just not in the cards.

I just…oh. Another Newcastle, please. Thank you. I just think that those guys, the ones in the costumes, the ones who always arrive “just in time” to “save the day,” they all have a few things besides extra-human powers that set them apart. First, they have skill. They know how to save lives. That’s just a fact. Secondly, they have confidence. They don’t second guess themselves. It probably comes from years of training or something I never had. I don’t know. Anyway, the third thing about them, which goes along with their confidence, I think….they are ALL complete ass holes.

Seriously. Have you ever met any of them? I’ve met a few. They’ve come into my work, or they stopped a giant lizard from trampling the city while I was on the way to work, or what have you, and they’ve always, in my experience, been complete and total ass holes.

Take The Night, for instance. One night, I was walking home from work, and these guys jumped me and demanded my wallet. And yeah, I know that they couldn’t really have done anything to me, but still, I didn’t want to cause any trouble, so I was going to give it to them. I don’t carry that much money on my anyway, and my credit cards are all in default…anyway, that Night guy shows up and does that blurry, “cloud men’s minds” thing he does. Honestly, I couldn’t see what he was doing, and I have super-vision! Huh? Oh, yeah. Super-vision. It’s another thing I have. Add that to the list. Anyway, he shows up, knocks the guys out, and hands me my wallet. Awesome. Then, he proceeds to lecture me on the dangers of walking home at night. He tells me that the city’s not safe, and that I need to make sure I’m home before it gets dark.

Ok, I know it’s dangerous. But you know what? Some of have to work for a living. Some of us can’t afford cars, or gas to go in those cars, or car insurance. It’s not like I wanted to be out that late. Really, do you think I would walk an hour home every work night, in the dark, if I didn’t have to?

Huh? My work? Ok, what you ave to realize is that I had to find a job that I would actually be good at. I’m not that good with numbers, and I’m not manually dexterous. I can lift heavy things, I can move quickly, and can see and hear well, and I don’t get injured very often. I needed to find a job that I could excel at with my…unique skill set.

I work at Bullseye. I’m the best back stock clerk they have.

No, Julie, I don’t think it’s a waste of time. It’s a job that I can do well, it pays well…OK, not well, but well enough to survive off of, and I’m up for a raise in two months. And, if I don’t say so myself, I look good in red.

No, that was a joke.

Anyway, I like my job. I get thirty five hours a week, I like my co-workers (well, most of them), and it gives me a lot of time to think. It’s not exactly a mentally taxing job. And there’s really not much that’s expected of me. I mean—

Well, I wouldn’t say I lack ambition. It’s just, well, it stands to reason that I’ll be around for a long time. Look at the way those other guys age…the one’s that don’t get blown up by aliens or whatnot. They live for freakin’ ever. And they age well, too. So, I figure, what’s the hurry. I got all the time in the world. I work my eight hours, I go home and watch some TV…maybe play on the Internet for a while. You know…enjoy life?

That’s harsh. What you call “wasted potential” I call “not letting other people tell me what to do.” I do what I like, for the most part, and I don’t hut anybody. I mean, I don’t use my abilities to try to screw anyone out of anything.

Well, OK. Maybe at work, but most of those guys are gone in a year anyway.

Today begins Movember, the month-long event in which men around the world grow mustaches, and others donate to sponsor said mustaches. Your donations go to the Prostate Cancer Foundation and the Lance Armstrong Foundation Today, I’m clean shaven and ready to go! Throughout the month, I’ll post pics of the horrible thing that will be nesting just below my nose.

So, Here’s me:

and HERE IS THE LINK TO DONATE: jaynova’s “MoSpace”.

So go, donate, and help fight Cancer!

Here’s another excerpt from a short story I’m writing. Right now, it’s called “Things I Learned from my Father.” This is rough-rough, so there will be lots of changes before this story gets sent off anywhere. Anyway, this is a flashback that’s about 3 single-spaced pages in…

NOTE: I have not proofread this…this is raw, uncut, 100% pure J. Robert Novak here!

One of the last memories I have of my father, one of the last before he went to prison, at least, was at a bar. It was nothing like Crosley’s; it was some downtown dive, near the steel factories. I had just turned 18, and he figured I was old enough to handle alcohol.

The first beer, a Bud Light if I remember right, I drank in silence, nervous about drinking illegally in public, in front of my dad. While I drank it, I watched as my father made the rounds, hugging this guy, shaking that guys hand, buying a bag of some white powder, either cocaine or heroine off of someone else; the whole thing had an air of surrealism about it, like a David Lynch movie. By the second beer, though, I had become accustomed to this, or numbed at least, and I loosened up.

“You OK?” my father asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, why?”

“Ha ha! That’s my girl. I noticed you looking around. What can you tell me?”

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, so I looked around again. “Um…That guy?” I pointed to the man who had given my dad the baggie. “He’s a dealer. He’s a little uptight right now….and he looks like he’s been using?”

“Go on,” my dad implored.

“Um…” I looked around some more. “That woman over there? Tattoo on her wrist? She’s in a biker gang. The Guns of Satan, maybe?”

“Knights of Gehenna, but good call. Keep going.”

This was actually becoming a game to me, and in my drunken state, it felt like harmless fun.

“And….That guy. The one who’s staring at you. He’s a cop.”

My dad’s face went completely blank. “Who? Chuck?”

I might have giggled. “I don’t know his name. But he’s definitely a cop. Look at the way he’s watching the place. He doesn’t belong here. Like—” I stopped myself before saying “like me” . I thought I might disappoint my dad if I had said so.

Dad stared at “Chuck” for a moment, silently. There was something in his eyes, a fire, an intensity that I hadn’t seen before. It was unsettling. I tapped my father on the arm and said, quietly, “But what do I know? I could be wrong.”

My father looked at me, frowned, then said “I’ll be back in a second. Stay put.” He walked into a back room beside the bar counter and vanished for a few minutes. The whole time, I was shaking; the whole place suddenly felt very, very wrong. I thought about getting in my car, since I had driven us here, and leaving. I thought about going over to Chuck and telling him that it might be a good idea to do the same. I thought about getting out my cell phone and calling 911.

I did none of these things. When my father returned, there were three other men, large, muscular men, probably bikers or something, though I was no longer playing “I Spy.” They came to our table and stood, staring at Chuck. Nobody said a word, though I wished they had said something, anything. It would have been less intimidating if they had come out yelling and cursing and threatening to murder this man. There was something in their stares, my father’s included, that said that they had killed before.

I tapped my father again to say “Maybe we should just leave,” but the words would not come out. There was this feeling in my git that told my that Chuck was not getting out of this alive, and that it was all my fault. I think I began to cry.

Chuck noticed the scene unfolding, because he put some money on the bar and walked for the door. As he turned his back, my father and his crew followed him out the door.

At this point, a woman, probably the bartender, though I didn’t look up at her, put her hand on my shoulder. “It’s OK, dear,” she said. “You did the right thing.” I never did find out how she knew what I had done. I didn’t care, either. I just wanted out of this place.

After about twenty minutes, my father and his friends came back. The other men returned to the back room, but my father stopped briefly to talk to me. He dropped a badge on the table.

“You were right,” my father said. “I knew you were. You’ve got your father’s instincts! Remember: Always trust your gut.” Then, my father walked away, the scent of gasoline and burnt meat wafting from him.

…can now be found at …To Eleven. So there you go.

I haven’t even gotten my Halloween costume together, but I’ve already got my November planned out.

First of all, I’m doing NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, again. If you don’t know what this is, it’s a month-long event where the goal is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I wrote a zombie novel last year, and though it sucks so bad I haven’t let anyone see it, it was still a very confidence-inspiring experience. Even if you are busy, I encourage you all to sign up and participate.

Secondly, I’m taking donations for Movember, another month-long event. According to their web site, “Movember is an annual, month-long celebration of the moustache, highlighting men’s health issues – specifically prostate and testicular cancer.” So, I’ll be growing a moustache, and others will be donating (hopefully) in order to support cancer research. The funny thing is that I can’t grow facial hair very well, so I’m going to look like shit all November. I’ll post updates for all to see and laugh at.

If you want to donate (you know you do!), the URL to visit is http://us.movember.com/mospace/49545.

So, that’s my November, or my Movember, or my NaNoWriMo.

Last night, for the first time in a while, I sat down, put on some instrumental surf rock, and wrote. I was inspired earlier in the day, while trying to help a girl I was tutoring come up with a title for a paper about how great her father is. I kind of mulled the whole thing over while walking home from work, and, well, here’s the 1st paragraph. I have more written, but it’s kind of sketchy…I’ll post more of it when it’s closer to done.

Anyway, here’s the 1st paragraph!

“If you play long enough, no matter how well you play, the house always wins.” My father gave me this advice when I was 10 years old, and even then, I think I knew he wasn’t talking about the casinos and store-front gambling dens he frequented. He was trying to harden me, his only daughter, against the cruel realities of life—to protect me from having my heart broken be the illusion of the happy home with a husband and two-point-five children in the suburbs. In other words, in his way, he was trying to be a good father.

Last Saturday, after a three month absence, Apollonova returned to the Lockview in Akron for ArtTech.

These people like art.

The Lockview makes some of the best grilled cheese sandwiches. This is not an opinion; it is a scientifically proven fact. I sat at the bar with the birthday girl, ate grilled cheese, and drank beer. It was a lot of fun!

Me and Miss Holly, the birthday girl.

Anyway, ArtTech was awesome; I’m looking forward to the next one! Hopefully, we won’t have to wait another 3 months!