Day 2: I don't know how long I've been out here.

It's 5:11PM of day two and I'm only just now getting to the average requirement for one day (1,666 words).  Whoo boy.  This might end up harder than I thought.

Anyway, have another snippet!

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Kimba strolled down the street, enjoying the scenery he'd already seen what must be hundreds of times, enjoying the cool breeze that made his suit that much more comfortable to be in, enjoying the memory of Rory's smile. Around him, children played in the streets to escape from the realities of what would later be called the Great Depression. For now, it was just known as “bad times”. For most of the world, it was, at least.

As it turned out, being a lion was a very effective negotiation tactic, and it nearly terrified Kimba's first landlord into forfeiting the entire property line. Eventually one of the “integration operators” - which is just the fancy term for the trainers who helped get Kimba situated in his post-circus life, once he became too old for those days – explained the situation, but may or may not have selected some omissions so Kimba wasn't paying the full rent. They thought it was an unfair price anyway, regardless of the state of the world.

Some of the late-staying merchants tried to get Kimba to buy their goods and get some end-of-day sales to keep their perishables from perishing and their expendables from expiring. Fruits, newspapers, never anything that Kimba had purchased before, but in their minds, he’d have to start sometime.

It Begins!

Hi everyone!  So, this here is where I'm going to log some pieces of my NaNoWriMo progress, post a couple snippets, maybe comment on how the process itself of writing this is going, you know, whatever tickles my pickle on any given day.  (Ladies.)

Just to cut to the chase, here's the first bit I've written.  Enjoy!  The word count for this is 592.

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 The crack echoed through the great tent, as an audience struck with fear wondered how their hero, armed with naught but a chair and his whip, might escape this time. The chair had been rent from his hand, nearly taking the rest of his arm with it, and the beast before him was prepared to end this show, and the fighter's career.

The fighter hardly looked scared from a distance. Sweat was dripping from his face in volumes that seemed impossible. His left arm he had to keep behind his back, so shaken as he was from the lion tossing it into the audience, almost taking him with it. He had never felt such absolute terror. The dangling overhead lights seemed too bright. He was losing focus. This could be it.

The mortal challenger, in what could be his final moments, prayed for a moment. Far to his left, an announcer who called out every motion made between man and beast, said nothing as the tension grew. Then he who had been sentenced to die looked forward. Some in the audience gasped quietly. He cracked his whip, a thunderbolt echoing throughout almost empty air.

“Kimba, I am not going to ask you again.” Kimba's manager had an extremely angry way of expressing himself, and today it was slamming things. The stack of papers, an assortment of documents with all sorts of financial information, fell onto Kimba's desk, bringing him out of the flashback and right into managerial trouble. The helpless man with a whip was gone, his place taken by the one force that dictated Kimba's success in life.

The shock left Kimba jolted, and he had to stop himself from doing what they used to call in the circus a “dreadful thing” to the business-type standing over him. The day wasn't starting off well. His claws extended for a moment, then retracted. Control was something he had to learn a lot of from his old days. The manager, who barely acknowledged this subtle threat to his existence, just stood there, staring down at Kimba.

“These papers absolutely need to be done by the end of today. Here”, he said, leaning in his face next to Kimba's. “Look at the clock”, pointing at Kimba's wrist. “See what time it is? Get these done.” The manager, who had no name Kimba could actually pronounce, straightened up his tie and walked back to his own office. As the manager was angry, like always, and today he slammed things, the door slammed to the surprise of no one by this point in the day.

Kimba rubbed his eyes, looked at his watch, roared a yawn, and stretched his arms out wide. There was work to be done, and he didn't want to be the one to do it. But no one else would. The manager was too concerned with making sure everyone did what they were told, nothing more, nothing less. Even Kimba.

He gathered the papers up, stacked them properly, then set them down to begin. One, two, three papers. All they needed was signed, an absurdly menial task, even if Kimba wasn't particularly good at writing. He just needed to dip his paw in ink, stamp, move along. When he was new, he actually read the papers he stamped before approving them, until the office secretary told him they'd all been screened before hand, so no need to look at them. Kimba's days got a lot easier after that, but every once in a while, just for practice, he'd read the documents anyway.