IndieSouth

David Lewiston was leaning against the granite-topped, fully stocked mahogany bar separating Layne Collier’s expansive living room from his equally large kitchen. David was looking out the picture window next to Layne’s kitchen table at the scattered lobster boats docked at the Old Port of Portland, Maine, half listening to his mother talk to him on his cell phone.

The reason for his distraction was Nadine Adams’ hand, slowly tracing its way down the center of his back, and then around his waist to his crotch. He turned to her, trying not to laugh and motioned for her to go sit down on the couch.

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That’s right. The guy who doesn’t write more than say, 2 or 3 times a month, total, has signed up to participate in NaNoWriMo, where I will commit to attempting to write about 100 pages of pure, unedited fiction in 30 days.

So, all you webcrawling google, msn, yahoo, and spam bots out there (which is by far my largest audience demographic), wish me luck!

For you few lovely humans who happen by here, click on the badge to the right over there to see my progress, starting November 1.

John sat staring at the woman mouthing the morning news from his silent television. He shifted, his back stiff and complaining from a long night of sitting and staring. Two weeks of stubble grated against his fingers as he rubbed his cheeks and brought his hand down to stifle a yawn. He smiled. Covering his mouth as he yawned had never been very high on his list of things to worry about; it used to drive his mother crazy. His own son had changed all that. As soon as Shawn was old enough to start mimicking his and Tonya’s behavior, things like manners suddenly became important.

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