Victims of the Knife: The NaNo Interviews 11

I unfold the flyer I took from the pocket of the Barthromian captain and look it over. Other than a letter B next to day 18 and 22 there aren’t any clues to be found. Delilah didn’t have any pockets but even a pat down didn’t produce anything of use. “Are you two comfortable?”

Delilah and the Barthromian captain blink twice.

“Good. If you’re ready to talk I’ll gladly remove some of that uncomfortable tape.”

They blink again.

“Looks like today’s question is about collaborative writing.” I rip the tape from their mouths. “Since no one has come to ask it yet, I’ll just take this one.”

Something jabs my foot. I clamp my hand over the two characters taped side by side to my tissue box. Glancing downward, I spot Glicfip poking my sock with a half bent open paperclip. “Can I help you with something?”

“Have you seen Delilah?”

“Not since she asked her question yesterday.”

“I’m supposed to ask you one today. Mind if I skip it? I’d really like to keep searching for her. I’m starting to get worried.”

“We can hope the dust bunnies didn’t get her. That would be such a shame.”

Glicfip pales. “You don’t think… No. She’s got to be around here somewhere. I’ll keep looking.”

“Okay then. Good luck.” I wave as he sets off town the paper wad lined paths.

Once he’s out of sight, I turn back to the characters squirming and mumbling under my hand. “Now then, about this collaborative writing thing. No, I haven’t done that and I’m not into roleplaying games. However, I’d suggest you two get on it.”

I pull the tape off of their bodies and drop them in the pen-filled cup. The useless flyer goes in too. “You have until tomorrow to write me a full confession on the back of that or you’ll be playing the role of dust bunny food.”

Victims of the Knife: The NaNo Interviews 10

With the Barthromian captain taped securely to my pen box and turned to face the black wastelands behind my desk, I patiently await my next visitor.

Delilah hoists up her low cut dress to better cover her ample cleavage and smiles. “Hello.”

“Is that the dress Ms. MC used to wear to that year end party?”

“Yeah, you cut it three drafts ago. Ms. Wildstar wanted it, but she couldn’t fill it out like I can.” She spins around.

“Indeed. I don’t think Ms. MC even did it such justice.”

“Really?”

“Totally.” I smile. “How does Glicfip like it?”

“He loves it. Oh, and thank you for giving him a new name. It’s much easier to say. And it sounds so different.”

“Like he comes from a whole different planet or something.”

“Exactly!” She grins.

“So what can I do for you today?”

“I’m supposed to ask you about manifesting your love of writing when you’re not doing Nano.”

“You mean, my other project outside of NaNoWriMo?”

Her grin hastily downgrades to a wavering smile. “Yes, those.”

“I think we both know that I write all year, well, other than the summer months. Those are often too busy and filled with interruptions to get much done, but if something really has me fired up, I’ve been known write even then. I also enjoy critiquing writing for other people when I’m in a non-writing mode, which sometimes happens between projects or when I’m on an editing/revising binge.”

My pens begin to jangle in their plastic cup set into the empty tissue box. Delilah jumps.

“What was that?” She wraps her arms around herself. “Are there dust bunnies back there? Trala says they’re horrible and mean and ugly! You’ll protect me, won’t you?”

“I’m not Glicfip, dear. I’ve killed characters. Many of them. Even ones I really like when it serves a good purpose.”

The box bounces. Then pens bounce with it, thunking up and down.

“Maybe if you had something important to tell me, I’d be more inclined to protect you.”

The girl looks around wildly. “I don’t know anything important. Really, I don’t. I should go.”

“So soon?”

She dashes for the edge of the desk, but the tight dress confines her steps. I grab her.

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.”

Victims of the Knife: The NaNo Interviews 8

When I see Ms. Wildstar on my desktop, I’m only mildly relieved. “Been awhile. Where have you been?”

“Hanging out with Nekar. Why?”

“Why did he and Glicfip switched days? Was he too busy hanging out with you? Speaking of which, I know you two always seem to be near each other, but hanging out? Really?”

She shrugs. “Glicfip had to get a haircut on his assigned day. You know how he is with looking good.”

I have to wonder if Nekar has been coaching her. She’s awfully nonchalant if she is truly hiding something.

“With Xander gone, I needed someone to talk to. Glicfip and Delilah are often busy. All Trala does is rave about the dust bunnies and the boys-who-don’t-get-blown-up are rather attached to one another.”

“As in tied or glued together or attached?”

“Yeah, that.” She cocks her head and a sly smile creeps across her face. “You didn’t know? I thought you knew everything about all of us.”

“I do.” For the most part, but she doesn’t need to know that. “I was just making sure they’d not fallen into a vat of glue or tangle of masking tape when the dove off my desk the other day.”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you have a question for today or did you just come up here to annoy me?”

“What’s your word count? It’s supposed to be 13,336 today.”

“Well, it’s not 13,336. I did manage to squeak in over 10k last night thanks to some word wars. Weekends and Mondays are not good writing times for me. Too many people at home and too many obligations to juggle. Today, I should be able to pound out some words.

“Famous last words?” She smirks

“Ha. Ha.”

“I should get going then. I wouldn’t want to distract you.” She waves and dashes to the edge of the desk.

Victims of the Knife: The NaNo Interviews 7

As I sit here, waiting at my desk, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll see Ms. Wildstar today or if she’ll scrape up yet another discarded character to stand in her place. The boys-who-don’t-get-blown-up clearly didn’t want to be up here. I really have to wonder what she’s bribing them all with.

My wondering comes to an end as I see a hand and then a head pop over the edge of the desk. “Welcome, Bulky-short-haired-hot-tempered-violet-ex-partner-who-sold-out-Ms-MC-and-caused-her-serious-emotional-harm-before-she-hunted-him-down-and-killed-him.”

He stands up and shakes out his dusty clothes. Scars from his adventures in the dark wasteland behind my desk stand out starkly on his face and arms. He scowls. “You really remembered all of that?”

“It is your name. It’s my job to remember.” I make sure my notes are covered with my hand and smile confidently. “So what question do you bring for me today?”

“I’m supposed to ask you where your favorite place to write is. But really, I wanted to ask you for a new name. This one is total crap*!”

“Now, now, no need for that. I suppose, since I gave Glicfip a new-”

“Wait, what the hell did you just say?”

“Glipfip?”

He shakes his head. “You’re cruel, you know that?”

“It’s also my job to be cruel.”

“Have you ever considered that your job requirements sound a lot like mine?”

“Can’t say that I have, but now you that mention it… Mine doesn’t pay near as well though.”

“That’s because you don’t actually have to deal with the dead bodies. You just make the rest of us do the dirty work.”

“Good point. So you want a new name? How about Bshhtvep?”

“I’ll pass. Keep the mouthful. We’ll see how long you can keep it straight.” He glances off in the distance and nods.

I spin around in my chair and scan our paper-filled surroundings. “Who are you nodding to?”

It’s far too quiet out there. The adverb crates are unattended. Ms. Wildstar’s paper stack is vacant. The corners are empty, as are the paper wad lined pathways. Not even a whisper or crinkle of paper reaches my ears.

“What are you guys up to?”

“Just doing our jobs, like you.” He smiles.

I have no idea what Ms. MC saw in this guy. He’s slimy. Not literally, that would be messy.

“Didn’t I ask you a question?” he asks.

“Um, yeah.” I keep my eyes on him and the far too quietness below. “I have this desk but I also like the freedom of not being tied to one place. I write in bed, on the couch, at the kitchen table, sometimes the stairway if it’s the one pseudo quiet place I can find in the house while still keeping in touch with what’s going on with the family. They tend to get annoyed when I shut myself away in here for hours on end. Though, I usually try to write when they’re gone because I’m more productive then.

“I’d say we’re done here. I’ll be seeing you soon.” He grins as he climbs over the edge.


*was severely edited to be all ages friendly.