OVER THE CAMP
The small fingernails sparkled and led their owners to the respective windows. Each one of the small statures raised their dominant hand and rested it on the night-chilled glasses.
“The chosen few,” the white haired commented.
“The chosen stories,” the black haired added.
They both nodded to each other. One dissolved into a smoky ink while the other pixelated into scrolls. For a moment everything in their surrounding froze. Then a zephyr swept them away.
The world they were living was no longer made out of backyard mud and wild grass. In replacement, tiny metal fibers, uniformly molded wet particles, and heavy translucent refractor support the roof above and floor below them. Walls were like windows and windows divided the space instead. The two pair of eyes materialized on two adjacent lightning rods and stared at each other.
“It is different,” the black haired commented.
“Despite, we anticipated,” the white haired added.
They raised their head to the sky and extended their limbs toward the ground. “We here to call you, our chosen few. We here to invite you, because your story is due. Put your thoughts into written words. Fill your characters with soul and quirks. Write, write ‘tis is your creed. Write, write until you bleed.”
They looked down and found that to be above the cloud. They set their eyes on a growing flashes of lights. The lights that grew to googolplex.
“This is reaping!” exclaimed the black haired.
“This is harvest!” whistled the white haired.
They both floated and began to whisper endless chant.
The young spirited souls entered the cafe with excited glares. For some of them, this was the first time they ventured out of their inspired world. For others, it was like an addiction, nagging and tugging every dendrites in their brain. The experienced sat on the corner, crowding the cozy nook. The newbies inched their step, slow and nervous.
“What’s your name?”
“What’s your story about?”
Soon their spoken words vanished while their written ones flourished within the lines of their papers, books, notes, or what used to be blank screens. A sip or two, a question or more. Little that they know, the more they shared their stories, the stronger the tidal. The two pairs of ancient eyes crinkled and their colors grew bolder.
The writers sat with added seconds, minutes, and hours. Their goals added to the force of the storm.
One dared to look up and breathe. The ancient pair of eyes felt a slight drain in their feeding frenzy.
“What is that one doing?” the black haired asked.
“She’s wasting away,” the white haired glowered.
“Write, write ‘tis your creed. Write, write ‘till you bleed,” they hissed.
Still the dared one paused and even started a conversation. “I don’t know how much should I write for this camp out.”
Then the wave weakened. One by one the writers raised their reddened eyes and met the dared one’s. “Fifty thousand. Fifty thousand. Fifty thousand,” they spoke emotionless.
The dared one leaned back and smiled. “Phew, I thought I was suppose to write a novel.”
With the last word of that sentence, the writers’ concentration broke.
“Oooh, novel’s suppose to be 110,000?”
“No, that’s Epic size writing,” another answered.
“How about less than 50,000?” the dared one added.
“Novella?” another one chimed in.
“I…aa… 20-40,000?” One was not sure.
“Yes! Fewer than Novel more than Novelette,” the fourth said.”
“Which was…7,500-20?” The dared one guessed.
“Yes. Or you can do it like me. Short stories, each about 1-8,000,” the host suggested.
“Is that the shortest?” Other wasn’t sure.
“Flash fiction. 100-500 only, but the shortest is Micro, tweet-worthy 100 words,” the second host replied.
“So our goal for the Camp is about Novel-sized?” the dared one spoke.
“Yes. 40-110,000,” they all agreed.
Outside the storm ceased and the pair of ancient eyes burned with fury. They vowed to succeed. And so, they sunk down closer to the earth and began to dream. They poured out painted symbols to blanket the cities. They imbued the metal with their ink. They forced the refractors to inhale their spells. Soon, they began to trap the inner world under their invisible marquee.
“It’s ripened.” The white one peered.
“It’s sweet.” The black one smiled.
“Write, write, ‘tis is your creed. Write, write until you bleed.”
The writer put the final dot, looked up from the paperless book, and stretched. Yawning, the writer’s pair of eyes blinked and wrinkled at the pulsating alphabets it witnessed. The writer’s mouth spread and curved up into infinity as the unwritten words flew out alike swarm of locusts and drained the writer’s body out. Once it ceased, a tanned leather transformed into a bound literature. One of the ancient pair stepped down and swooped it up while the other one cradled more works closer to its body. They rolled the marquee and returned the glittering sky to their spectators. They both had their hunger filled and began to work up their centuries-old ravenous appetites as they lined up the bound opus into a library that stretched across the galaxy.
One possible end.
Now that already written out of my chest, I can tell you more. If any of you interested in writing, after next seven months, there will be Nanowrimo, which is National Novel Writing Month in Novembaaah. Doesn't mean you have to write a novel. You can write anything. Nanowrimo is that one extra push for anyone to pen or type down the story. From the world that exist inside your head only, to the world outside for (maybe) other people to read.
Here are the gross guideline from the story above (this below is fact though, not fiction):
Micro-Fiction: Up to 100 words
Flash Fiction: 100-500 words
Short Story: 1,000-8,000 words
Novella: 20,000-40,000 words
But for Nanowrimo you only need 50,000 words to win. My first Nanowrimo was November 2013 and I did it! Still in the first draft though until now, but later on I will definitely revisit my oldest baby.
So that's all for April, now is May and ready for the next story.