I HAVE WRITTEN 6.8K WORDS IN 6 HOURS. Are you people proud of me or what? Here is an excerpt from today's writing.
Chapter 3. The Scorching Desert
"Something glistened in the sun. Something—
“Is that a fox?”
“Where? Where?” Said Rusty.
“There.” Bells pointed.
It was. At the crest of the dune stood a fox, orange like only a fox can be, and gazed down at them with solemn intelligence.
“It’s not a fox.” Said Peacock, frowning. “It’s a little boy with red hair.”
“A fox can’t wear clothes and stand upright.” Observed Grand, huffing and puffing and pulling closer to his friends, which looked like a locomotive trying to burrow through sand that streamed around it in rivulets of quartz.
“You remember wrong.” Said Peacock, looking at Bells.
Peacock blinked. “What did I say?”
“You said I remember wrong. Why did you just say that?”
“Did I?” He scratched his head, puzzled.
The fox in the meantime didn’t move. It continued studying them silently. An idea struck Bells, and she asked.
“Who are you?”
“I’m a fox.” Said the fox.
Peacock shook his head hard. “This is like déjà vu. It reminds me of something, but I can’t tell what.”
“It talks! It talks! The fox talks!” Rusty tried to jump and instead dug himself deeper into sand.
Grand only shook his head, red from the heat already. He unzipped his jacket and was debating weather or not to take off his t-shirt. “It’s a fox in pants and shirt, and it can’t be right. Nothing it right. I want to go home.” He mumbled under his breath, so nobody heard him.
The fox turned its head to the side.
Bells blinked. It wasn’t a fox anymore. It was a little boy, like Peacock said, with flaming red hair. And it wore a cape, and boots, and his face was thoughtful, not at all like the face of a boy should be, a boy who got stuck in the middle of the desert. What was he doing in the middle of the desert anyway?
“Who are you?” Asked Bells again.
The boy took a careful step forward. “Who are you?” He asked.
“I’m Bells.” Said Bells automatically. “I mean, that’s my nickname. My read name is Belladonna Monterey.” Somehow the boy’s inquisitive gaze made her feel uneasy and bare, like he could read her thoughts, could sense her pretense.
She turned and looked expectantly at her friends. One by one they obliged.
“Peacock.” Peacock cleared his throat. “That is, Peter Sutton. Very pleased to meet you.” He attempted a bow and dropped in the pile of dust.
“George Palmeater. I do not eat palms.” Said Grand with sadness. This is how he used to present himself, until Bells’ idea relieved him of that.
“Russell Jagoda. You say it with a “Ya”, not with a “Ja”. Please say it right, or my grandma will...she will...” Rusty was looking for the right word again, snapping his fingers, that snapped very well in the heat.
The boy took a step toward them and stopped. Behind him the air simmered with heat, rising in runnels of mirage.
“What are you doing here?” Asked the boy. He didn’t say it in a mean and nasty way like the boy on the frozen lake said. He said it with a question in his voice, a curiosity that was just that. Curiosity. He didn’t seem to be surprised at all. He seemed to be wanting to find out how to relate to these strangers he came across on his stroll through the desert. Because that’s how he looked, like he was taking a casual stroll across the desert.