Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Victims of the Knife: The NaNo Interviews 9

Still yawning, I’m peacefully going about my wake up and check my email routine when someone climbs over the edge of my desk. The captain of the Barthromians straightens his uniform and paces my desktop, his heels clicking with each step. “So, who did you tell?”

“Huh?”

“Come on, you told others. You can’t hide it. We know.”

“Who knows what? Of course I talk to people.” I really need to start drinking coffee or maybe ring my desk in barbed wire until I’m ready to be sociable.

Click, click, click go the heels of his polished black boots. “You know what I’m talking about. Who. Did. You. Tell.”

I close my laptop and sit forward. “Talking slowly is only effective if you also yell. At least, that seems to be the general consensus. How about you stand still?” I grab him by the legs and pick him up. “Now, just what are you ranting about this early in the morning?”

“Reliable sources have reported that you have been spreading confidential information.” He pushes against my hand as if he actually thinks he could break free.

“Regarding what?”

“The project code-named NaNoWriMo. Ms. Wildstar said no one was to speak of it. Especially not you.”

I squeeze a little more. “Project, huh? I suppose I have been talking about NaNoWriMo, but that was kind of the point of this month—to share my writing experiences with others.”

He freezes. “Writing? You’re talking about… writing?”

“Yes, I’ve told everyone who will stand still long enough to listen about NaNoWriMo.” I bring him up close to my face. “People know to leave me alone this month because I’m stressed enough to snap heads off with all I’ve got going on in addition to NaNo.”

“Oh.” He dons a winning grin. “My mistake. So sorry. Would you mind putting me down now?”

“I don’t think so.” I grab my roll of masking tape. “I can interrogate too.”

After taping him to the tissue box that holds all my pens, I sit back. “So, just what is project NaNoWriMo?”

“We’re not supposed to talk about it. The memo said so.”

“Especially not to me?”

“Notto you.” He bangs the back of his head on the box, and lets out a growl. “Damned typos! They’ll be the death of us all.”

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