Shrapnel from NaNoWriMo

I’m 5585 words into the first novella ‘Shrapnel From a Broken Smile’ in my ‘Theatre of Curious Acts’ collection. I’m following the plot for the most part and discovering things about my characters that I never knew. One of my characters is loop-the-loop when I thought she was sane – there was no balding doll that she pretends talks in a childish voice in my plan. – another is pregnant.

Oh, and don’t you wish the NaNoWriMo site would display all your friends and their word counts on the writing buddies page without limiting the amount to eleven and hiding the rest.

Anyhow, for want of nothing better to say – here’s an extract:

Part One: SHRAPNEL FROM A BROKEN SMILE

(i)

The Troublemakers Union

1911

Clinton Folk stood in the doorway of the Theatre of Curious Acts and looked out at the end of the world. A breeze whipped at his trouser legs and rain spattered his shiny shoes. In his opinion, it was an innocuous and therefore perfect location. The white brickwork glowed beneath the darkening skies. The blood red words of the sign – Curious Acts - rippled with malevolence as if the pool of rainwater alone understood the true nature of the theatre. That is, its intent was to amuse itself and not to entertain the people who would crush through its doors over the next century.

He rolled a pamphlet up and tapped it against his leg. They were coming.

Excitement rippled down his spine. He had no doubt that the delegation would choose his theatre over the other establishments vying for ‘platform for the end of the world’ status. The Houses of Parliament were too obvious, the Royal Liver Building in Liverpool too grey, and both buildings had incorporated clocks into their structures as if an ironic statement about the passing of time. Time had nothing to do with the world ending except in the ceasing-to-be factor. However, it seemed, not all of his visitors were aware of that and a tremor jittered down Clinton’s left leg as the lead visitor consulted a pocket watch.

The man wore a red waistcoat over a black shirt, his pocket watch was gold and the tick-tick-tock vibrated within Clinton’s eardrum. Ink-black eyebrows overshadowed his pale blue eyes, and his forehead looked as if an angry God had chiselled it. A quartet of bickering women followed him.

He knew them only by reputation: the four ladies of the apocalypse, and he doubted any of them had any desire to ride a horse. Three of them were dressed for a ball in red, gold and silver; the fourth disguised as a Scandinavian milkmaid.

The representative for humanity was a god-like fellow with a long white beard, wild hair, and he wore a grey robe that didn’t quite meet at the back. The old man had a major part to play in the proceedings, he just wasn’t aware of it. With tongue hanging from his mouth and fingers pulling at the milkmaid’s purple smock, he had things other than the end of the world on his mind and whiskey on his breath.