A legendary bunny preps his troops for a raid on the most notoriously guarded vegetable patch in the world.
“Listen up, you sorry crew of kits! This ain’t your momma’s vegetable raid, so pay attention or you’ll catch the business end of MacGreggor’s hoe in that fluffy butt of yours!
“Operations begin at 0500, half an hour before the old man walks out the door of that rundown heap of thatch he calls a house. Five minutes in, five minutes out gives us exactly twenny minutes—you hear me, Muffins?! TWENNY—to fill those double-extra-large potato sacks you’ve got slung over your miserable backs with anything BUT potatoes. We’re talking lettuce, cabbage, gooseberries, blackberries, carrots, but if you bring any gawdfersaken parsley back to HQ you WILL be on woodchip-clearing duty for the the rest of your hitch!”
A quivering paw in the back row shot up.
“By the great thundering gawds of the sky and sea, seriously, Huggy?! You got something to add? This better be good or it’s another turn in the pellet pit!”
It dropped again.
“That’s what I thought.”
The huge brown buck surveyed the tactical retrieval unit in front of him, then took a huge bite off the end of the carrot he’d been gesturing with and grinned at his men.
“Follow my lead, boys, and that son of a jackalope will never know what hit him—or my name ain’t Sargent Major Peter Rabbit.”
You think it’s a standard B&E gone wrong, except the perp didn’t take anything. Or did he?
“Wait ‘til tomorrow if you want to see the place for
yourself. Forensics just left, so the evidence is headed your way, but the
smell isn’t quite as past as the victim.”
You hang up without saying goodbye. Eight years working
homicide has squeezed all the niceties out of you to make room for other
skills. The kind that catch killers.
Whatever happened here happened quick. Started as a B&E.
Ended in blood. The guy must’ve had bad intel. He didn’t expect to be met at
the door with a bat. You tiptoe around two dotted brown lines into the kitchen
where the victim’s knifeblock turned against him. Struggle over, the perp’s
trail heads right past a couple grand in electronics and doodads and out the fire
escape window. Pretty straightforward.
What you can’t get out of your head is why. What was this
guy after that he’d kill for, then leave without? Seems pointless.
Your heart shrivels up and drops into your colon.
Unless whatever it was was on the victim.
Unless those wounds were intentional.
Unless this wasn’t a break-in gone wrong.
You close your eyes and replay the crime. You open your eyes.
You open them again.
The third trail accuses you with its brightness. The glittering
blue of a severed magical soul slides from the door to the kitchen, skips a few
feet, then bleeds over the windowsill. You don’t know why you didn’t turn on
your second sight right away. Overconfident.
You follow the trail to the fire escape, down the alley,
into the bustling city beyond where it pools and disappears at the curb.
You stare down 59th Street headed towards the
goblin farmer’s market. A thin smile creases your face. It’s been a while since
you’ve been Down-Downtown.
Sometimes. it’s too late to get to safety. Sometimes, all you can do is watch.
It was the sound that finally got her attention. The swaying
of the lavender as she harvested the dewy stalks didn’t register as suspicious;
the light changed too gradually to notice; and by the time she heard the freight
train thunder over the music in her headphones, she was too far out in the
field to make it anywhere near safety.
Her basket slid off her back and spilled onto the ground as
she turned to see a funnel of grim fury whipping itself toward the barn. Toward
the house. Toward her.
She watched boards explode into splinters that disappeared into tangible wind. A table leg flew past her head so close the whistle surpassed the roar. But she didn’t flinch. She just stood and watched, hands held low to let the flowers caress her fingertips.
It was the scent of lavender that finally overwhelmed her. Billions
of petals saturated the air with soothing perfume to muzzle the bite of
petrichor and churned earth, the haze of purple confetti buffeting her suddenly
light body until it simply floated away.
No Novel November is officially over! Here’s my debrief of the challenge, plus my personal takeaways and future plans.
I can’t believe I did it, you guys. 30 stories in 30 days (read them all here), and I only got behind once.
I learned so much.
So buckle up, kiddos, because it’s time for a debrief.
…not that kind, put your pants back on.
How it started
The idea for No Novel November came to me during Inktober, when you do one drawing a day for a month. I tried it as a fun thing to do with my actual-artist sister-in-law, but not expecting anything from myself. About halfway through, I realized, “Hey, I can actually do this.” And I did!
The whole experience shifted my perspective of what’s creatively possible. Since choosing the stay-at-home-parent life, I’ve struggled mightily to continue even thinking of myself as a creative person, much less to generate any actual work. But if I could produce a drawing every day, maybe I could parlay that structure into writing.
November is traditionally National Novel Writing Month, but I knew my toddler-bound schedule wouldn’t let me write 1667 words each day to win. I had to find something else.
I considered drabble and six-word stories but found them too restrictive. Standard short stories were too long for daily production; same for flash.
Microfiction, though, had promise. Shorten it to 250 words (a page in editing terms), add a prompt list to springboard from, and it actually sounded doable.
I fished for interest on social media and was surprised so many people wanted in. NaNoWriMo can be daunting, and I appeared to have hit a vein of writers itching to stretch their muscles but who, like me, weren’t able (or motivated) to novel.
And thus No Novel November was born!
Perhaps the most surprising thing about how this went down was how many people jumped on board. I expected a handful of friends to join, but we wound up with 65 in the Facebook group and a handful more Twitterers—almost all people I don’t know!
When I realized that interest was way higher than anticipated, my Type 1 brain kicked in, and things shifted from “casual writing thing” to “official community event.” I wrote a miniseries about writing microfiction for the FB group, made shareables, created a couplehashtags, and even spooled up the ol’ dusty newsletter. Srsbzns.
All told, we had nearly 20 regular contributors, and several opened themselves up for critique. Reading everyone’s stories each day was by far my favourite part of the challenge. While I’d originally planned for that, I hadn’t planned on providing feedback for everyone who asked. Which I did. Daily. It was a hell of a lot more work than I bargained for, but truly a joy; the stories were so good and the writers so invested that I couldn’t not.
In the end, roughly 10 people “won” No Novel November. I never expected that many people to play along, much less dedicate themselves to the challenge so wholeheartedly. Even those who fell off the wagon along the way are insanely precious to me. The challenge was about just doing the dang thing, and they did! I’m bursting with den mother pride.
What I learned
This challenge took the revelation I had with Inktober, slammed it down on the table, and demanded another round from the bartender. In October, I realized I could create something every day; November opened my eyes to the larger implications of reliably generating new, complete stories every single day within strict limitations. If I could spin an entire world with characters and plot in 250 words in under an hour (and not always all at once), what other projects could I undertake?
I could write mini posts every day. I could write a microfic once a week. I could write a flashfic once a month. I could finish Apple of Chaos in a year. I could do all of those things at once.
For the past 60 days, I’ve done what I’d thought was impossible. This challenge showed me how I’ve been limiting myself and opened up a world of possibility that’s both tantalizing and daunting. Rather than diving in headlong, like I usually do, I’m taking my time to see what develops. It’s all too glorious to look at directly.
Also, doing 30 days of feedback for 4-6 people was like boot camp for my consultation and editing skills: grueling at times, but oh so satisfying in the end. I loved the puzzle of each story, looking for its gems and pitfalls, then presenting them to the author in a loving, yet professional way; I loved their delight at finding the potential in their own work even more.
What was most revealing, though, is that I never got tired of doing it. I seemed to have boundless patience and energy for reading and critiquing, asking questions and finding answers. And if I’ve learned anything about finding your path, that’s the neon sign pointing you in the right direction.
You might have noticed that I failed to post three of the 30 stories here on the blog and missed even more social media. Never fear! Those stories will have another life in the near future. I can’t say more because I promised the newsletter crew they’d hear first (so get on it if you want to hear secrets), but it’s gonna be good.
I’m also spending some time meditating on what to do next. I love the idea of a Fiction Friday here on the blog, and y’all know how I feel about Apple of Chaos being undone. But there’s also a part of me that wants to do spiritual writing. I know there’s a place for all of that somewhere; I just don’t know where yet.
What I do know is that I can do more. I can write more. And I’m going to.
PS: For those of you asking, YES, this will be an annual thing. No Novel November will ride again in 2020! I bought the URL and everything.
ALSO: I suspect we’ll do another microfiction challenge in March or May for alliteration, so stay tuned.
My fingers brush the ledge, the tips of my boots barely
touching the cavern floor, the rest of me teetering over an open pit.
I wobble and throw myself backwards onto my pack. Any other
expedition, and I’d have gone home already. But returning empty-handed isn’t a mere
academic failure this time. This time, the fate of humanity is at stake.
I know. It sounded stupid in the proposal, too. But this
isn’t just any artifact.
Muscles shaking, I get to my feet and glare at the gap. I’m
so close I can see its light reflected on the ceiling of the chamber above—I just
have to get up there.
Only one thing left to try.
I shed everything with weight, and before I can talk myself
out of it, I’m running as hard as I can, flinging myself through the air, arms
outstretched—all in. My hands smack solidly on stone. I scrabble up, dragging
myself to safety against a large boulder.
On top of which rests a glowing silver mirror.
Breath ragged and hands shaking, I grip the frame and raise
it to my face. “Show me my true worth,” I whisper.
I wait for the image to change, to reveal my soul’s hidden
value, to transform me into someone beautiful or rich or successful.
But nothing happens.
I wait longer. Still no change.
Eventually, it dawns on me that it won’t, no matter how long
That’s when I start to cry. Not because the mirror is a fake, but because it works. Humanity isn’t ready for this. What will happen to society when people learn that true worth can’t be earned or bought—that they already have it?
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.