It’s one of those days….

Yes, I know it’s Thanksgiving. I should be stuffing myself… KEY WORD: Should. But instead I’m thinking. 

It’s one of those days where you know you have to get ahead in NaNo….. And that’s when Procrastination and Writer’s Block come to call. So I have a picture and a story. The picture is of my Stats on the NaNo site. Here’s the picture:
And the story is one I wrote while Procrastinating. Here it is:
BANG.
There was a man named Manny Smith. Manny was a tall man, about six feet and seven inches, and he liked to wear tuxedos and bowties. His hair was raven black and his eyes were a nice brown. Manny, it seemed, was friends with everyone. Manny was a very amiable man. Even if he was checking out at a Wal-Mart, he’d strike up a conversation with the clerk. This brings us to one day where he met the girl. The girl had hair that went just beneath her shoulder-blades and dark brown eyes. She was sitting before a laptop at Starbucks, staring at the screen with a tired, weary look on her face. She had a Mocha Chip Frappichino(?) sitting beside her alongside one of those gluten-free nut bars.
“What is you name?” Manny asked the girl.
“Ryebrynn,” she said wearily, “Ryebrynn Lyla Crossblade.”
“What ails you?” Manny asked, a very practical question considering how pale and weary she looked. 
“You would not understand, my good man,” Ryebrynn said, offering a tired smile.
“Oh? I would not?”
“Do you write books?”
Manny had written short stories when he was younger. “Sometimes.”
“Well, it is Procrastination…. And it’s deadly sidekick, Writer’s Block.”
Manny eyed Ryebrynn strangely. She tucked her brown hair behind her ears to reveal slightly pointed ears. Manny was shaken. How could she have pointed ears? 
“Ah,” Ryebrynn sighed, “I knew you would not understand.”
“What are they?”
“They are the enemies of all writers.”
“I see,” Manny rolled his eyes. The girl must be demented.
Ryebrynn crossed her legs, which he noticed for the first time, were covered in a flowery skirt. She wore a loose yellow shirt that read; “This world is not my own”(I actually own that shirt!). She had to be an escapee from an insane asylum. 
“Where do you live?”
“Africa. Liberia, West Africa.”
His eyebrows arched. 
“My parents are Missionaries…. BAMmers.”
“BAMmers?”
“Business As Missions,” Ryebrynn gave him a wry smile.
“I see. Why do you look so tired?”
“It’s NaNoWriMo. No regular person would do it, but for us writers, regular has fled us long ago.”
Manny turned and fled Starbucks like the regularness of writers. 

THE END.


The Moral of the Story: Writers are strange.

The Crazy Explosive Writer,
-Ryebrynn
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