I was going back through an old folder here on the old C drive the other day and I found something I thought it might be fun to share. There is such a thing as National Novel Writing Month (it's November, by the way). In celebration of that, Nanowrimo hosts a contest that starts at 12:01 am on November 1st and concludes at 11:59:59 on November 30th. In that time, you write a 50,000 word novel (of any form you choose) and then host it on their site to share with others. It's a kick, because you know so many others are engaged in the same struggle to get thoughts and words on the page as you are...shared misery of a sort *grin*.
I can never get to the 50K words mark during my time in the contest, though.
Here's the first few pages of the closest I ever came, though. It never quite worked out because it was a comedy and some decidedly unfunny things were happening in my life at the time. It's still very raw, as well, but presented here for your amusement:
Thirty Things You Never Say to Your Lover
(A Science Fiction Erotic Comedy)
I: “I’ll Call You Later”
Let’s face it; Borgon was not the kind of Argulian you wanted at your sister’s wedding. Not on the stand, not in the crowd, not serving those stupid little drinks with umbrellas in them that the catering company overcharged your parents for because they were stupid enough to say they’d pay for the reception. His tentacles were always in someone else’s lap, if you know what I mean. You probably don’t. It doesn’t matter.
So when I opened the door to find him slurping on the phalanx of my current boyfriend, Jasper, I was needless to say (though, like most assholes who say that, I will continue the sentence by telling you whatever it is I thought was needless to say), I was perturbed. After all, in my hands on that fateful day I’d gotten off work early (yes, of all the clichés I live in my life, I had to live that one) were two things: a half-eaten wheat bagel covered in Mozzarella cheese in a bag which was the remains of my lunch, and a small box of chocolates for Jasper.
Now don’t get me wrong, here; Jasper was no catch, either. His penis was much larger than mine, and for a top, that can be a deal breaker. He tended to queen out and storm out of the room about small things, like who had last fluffed the catcouch, and whether or not that one supermodel—what is her name? I know you know it, but you’re afraid to tell me because you know how much I hate her—had ever had surgery to gain those wings she sported on all the stylish blue carpets this season, or if they had grown from her back when she found out she was really from Io. Whenever he did that, I felt like sawing off a few of his arms. I always thought “If I just leave him the two, he should do just fine.”
But to walk in and see Borgon, an Argulian that I had worked alongside in various cubical farms for the better part of a decade attempting to remove my boyfriend’s intestines with his oral orifice was shocking, to say the least. I guess if there is one good thing, it’s that I entered before the steaming piles of slurg exited Borgon’s air-inflated meat tube and ruined my 3 million thread count sheets; y’know, the ones you get at Ikea for like half a year’s salary? If there is one good thing about it, I suppose that’s it.
The thought on my mind at that moment: “is he staying for dinner?”
That’s the kind of guy I am. I think they knew it, too, because once Jasper saw me staring at the scene in the ultra-high-gloss headboard, he turned around and smiled at me. He didn’t stop Borgon, of course. That would have been rude. His lowest set of arms were playing with his penis while the middle set was holding him up, and the top set were holding on to the headboard. I thought to myself “That seems very handy.” I didn’t cringe at the pun because I was already moving on to the next mundane thing.
“Jasper?” I said. I honestly wanted to make some really smug, self-confident remark that would snap them both out of whatever pornographic movie they were enjoying on their eyescreens. Or, at least, I hoped they were using eyescreen porn. I didn’t want to think that Jasper was actually turned on by the Argulian physiology, or that smell that they always have. I’m not trying to be racist or xenophobic, but they always sort of smell like pickled okra. Not unpleasant, but strong. I generally don’t want my sexual partners to smell like food. It’s a thing.
Borgon stopped slurping at Jasper’s ass and retracted his mouthpart. I tried not to think of that old Sigourney Weaver movie, but it was hard. I kept wondering when I would feel angry. Looking back, I don’t think I ever did. I wonder what that says about all the things that came after.
So there I am, a relatively disease free human standing in the doorway of the apartment he shared with his boyfriend who, sure, has too much of a thing for Venusian drag-queen music, (but hey, who’s perfect?) staring at that same six armed bottom all but crying out in ecstasy as a 300 pound blob whose parents probably came here on a garbage ship all but feasts on the business end of his digestive tract, and all I can think of is whether or not this Argulian fucker, who, to this very day still owes me ten quid mind you, is going to stay to have pizza.
“Glksdkfjfasodir jaslkdjanr;;to” Borgon says to me, swiveling his massive eye-trunk around.
“No I don’t want to join in, thank you,” I actually fucking said thank you. Can you believe that? Ugh. I’m such a loser.
“Alaslkdfj Asl;asdlfi Aslkdjf?” Borgon asks, opening his eye-trunk to reveal three rows of bone fragments coming up from his bottom jaw. That would have been scary except 1) I’d seen it before, and 2) Argulians are supposed to have six rows, but Borgon was afraid of Argulian dentists—they tended to shove eggs into the orifices of their patients with their meat-tubes. Even I would hesitate before going to one, unless my HMO could get me a really good deal.
“Well, to be honest, I am upset, yes,” I said.
Jasper finally decided that he should maybe end his romp through the intricacies of Argulian foreplay, and moved to disentangle himself from Borgon’s bulk. I’ll say this for Jasper; he was limber. He had cute feet, too. Yeah, sick, I know; what do you want from someone as pathetic as me? We’ll get to that later.
As Jasper slid into his Philip Martin-St. Croix briefs that he just had to have (to the tune of at least half of one of my paychecks because he needed his money for his “sick mother” who is, by the way, still doing quite well in that orbital home for convalescents who enjoy living active lifestyles—I’m just telling you what the Ultranet site said). They shifted to match his skin tone, and I thought to myself that this might be the last time I ever saw the little birthmark shaped like Illinois on his ass cheek. For the first time, though, I wondered if it might not have been put there by his parents; they were just the kind of YoungRups who would have a kid, starve it with organic paste meals to make it thin and more attractive than anyone else’s kid, and then parade it around on a beach in France with a little tiny speedo showing off that birthmark and telling all their friends that it would figure they’d wind up with a son who had a birthmark shaped after the state that lost the YoungRups the “Great Election of ’08.” Maybe, as an upside, I’d never have to pretend killing people who killed people made any sense in conversations with his father ever again, though. That was a perk.
“Allaslwkddjf wowooeiufuawl dlalsdkj?” Borgon asked.
I realized I was still standing in the door, “Well, I have to be honest, they were for Jasper, but I don’t see any need for—“ I started to say.
“Oh?! Chocolate for me?” Jasper asked, running over to take the chocolates from me. I could have made a scene, but I didn’t. Pretty typical. I handed him the chocolate. He opened them and put one immediately in his greedy mouth. Then he handed one to Borgon. “Thank you!” Jasper said around the lump of chocolate already in his mouth as he shoved another in there.
“You’re welcome, “ I said, “Can—sorry to interrupt,” I said, and the most pathetic part is that I was, “Can I talk to you in the other room?” I asked Jasper.
“What about?” he asked, getting that look in his eye you’d expect a puppy to get when it knew it had piddled (try saying that word without giggling) on the carpet and you had to call its name to move it out of the way before it got sucked up by the VacBot, although you still kind of thought about letting the damned thing end with a slurp and a small pop as it exploded in the vacuum of the bot’s carry case so that you never had to stand on the street 90 floors below in 8 degree weather while the little bastard smiled at you and wagged its stub where a tail should be because your boyfriend just had to have a dog that was already completely modified from what it was supposed to look like so he could carry it around in his purse that he’d had specifically nano-painted so that they’d match, and both would match those new sneakers he needed to even show his face at work washing hair at the salon.