Nov 2 2012
Crap! National Novel Writing Month is here (NaNoWriMo for short) and I am not prepared! It’s on my bucket list though and I don’t want yet another year to pass without participating. So … I’ll just wing it. I’ll write whatever and post it here, in this blog post. I’ll write what I can each day and add it by editing the post. That way I can keep it all in one place and keep the narrative flowing down the page instead of reverse order, skipping though updated new posts.
Ok, here goes. It was a dark and stormy night…
————–Day 1 (440 words) —————
“All it takes is a damned dollar to make twenty.” Fed muttered to himself. The misery of his dismal financial situation was compounded by the rain slicked streets and light drizzle that seemed to defy gravity and float into his face under his hoodie. As he trudged towards the tiny ATM kiosk that offered no protection from the wet, he cinched up the drawstrings of his sweatshirt hood, annoyed at the light dusting of moisture that still found its way in.
Fed reached the ATM and fished his wallet out from his damp jeans. He didn’t even know why he was bothering. He knew he only had nineteen dollars and some cents in the bank; just shy of the minimum twenty needed to make a withdrawal. Why did he feel compelled to confirm this? He knew why. He was what his mother had called a pessimistic optimist. Maybe the bank had made a mistake today and added funds to his account. What if a long forgotten deposited check finally found its way into his account? A person might have accidentally put the wrong numbers on a deposit slip and deposited thier paycheck into his account. “Anything is possible, but nothing good can come of it” he was heard to remark on many occasions.
But this time … This time would be different he thought, as he slipped his ATM card into the slot. This time something good was coming his way.
“Yo! Hand over yo’ money, bitch.”
Fed froze at the sound of the growled command. His eyes darted to the little fisheye security mirror attached to the ATM. There was no one behind him. Fed glanced right and left and then slowly looked up. Did the Lord want his meager savings?
“Motha’fucker! Do yo’ business and gimme dat money. I swear I’ll shoot yo’ ass.” the voice came again, this time discernible from a distance behind Fed.
Fed slowly turned around and squinted to look past the halo of drizzle and mist illuminated by the ATM kiosk. A few dimly lit street lamps across the street cast an ominous back light against a hooded figure, his face in shadow, his hands in the front pockets of his sweatshirt.
Stunned, Fed could only reply, “You want my money?”
With an alarming swiftness, the darkened figure was in front of him. The hands that had previously been in soaked sweatshirt pockets now held a large handgun. Fed didn’t really know what kind of gun it was, just that it was huge. Thankfully, it was not currently pointed at him and instead was held at the side of the ominous figure. The