The writing has surpassed my expectations. Right at the end of the month, things have picked up. I wrote a whole 4000 words just yesterday, and have written at least 3100 today. That leaves me with around 5400 words remaining. As such, I have forbidden sleeping, as it impedes upon the writing process.
As far as the Final Five have been going, I've had lots of time to converse with my good friends the Spectres of NaNoWriMo, as you shall see in just a moment.
The First of Five Days takes my hand and presses it into the palm of the next ghostly figure. I smile my gratitude to the First of Five, but he has already disappeared into the ether. I sigh. Once time has passed, there is no reclaiming it.
I turn to face the next Day. The Second of Five Days is incredibly tall and fantastically gaunt. The skin of his face is taught across the bone. Sunken eye sockets give nothing away - his eyes are as dark and dull as concrete. He is all but a skeleton. This does not bode well.
The Second of Five does not even lead me to the day's seat, but lets me find my own way there. I fumble around in the darkness, and when I eventually find it, the second spectre fails to help me at all. I plug away hopelessly at the computer, and despite the Viking helmet that is perched upon my head, Writer's Block closes in on me, chaining my hands behind my back and stopping me from writing any more for the day. I glance helplessly at the Second of Five, but he makes no move to help. I spend the rest of my time trying to remove the chains of misery that bind me, but to no avail.
When the Second of Five releases me from the chair that has become my prison, I notice that I have written the bare minimum for the day. The spectre does not lead me to the next Day. By way of goodbye, I wind up and punch him good and hard in the gullet. He falls backwards, surprised, and falls into the bottomless pit that is the past, never to be seen again.
The Third of Five Days is a military man. He is of medium height and many glittering medals adorn his breast. He beckons to me to sit in the seat that has appeared before me. I smile with relief. This day shall be much easier.
It turns out that I'm right. The Third of Five is very helpful indeed, adjusting my helmet every time it slips and whispering soundless murmurings in my ear when I begin to slow down. My plot takes an unexpected turn, and the ghsotly figures that I could only just see before me get run down by the steamroller of change and replaced by newer, more impressive people.
By the end of the day I have managed to twist the plot into a knot and write a huge amount. Four thousand words dance around on the screen and fall into place exactly as I want them to be. I smile. It has been a good day. I pin a new medal onto the Third of Five Day's chest and he saunters off to get his victory parade. I skip up to the Fourth of Five and wait to be enlightened.
The Fourth of Five looks at me as if she is surprised that I am here. Her reaction mirrors my own. Not two Days ago I thought I would trip up and fall flat on my face, never to rise again. But events had occurred in between then and now, and I wasn't complaining all that much.
The Fourth of Five Days is very pretty, with long lashes and perfectly smooth cheeks. She eyes me with big ice blue eyes and smiles. I sigh, and sit down onto the three legged stool that materialises beneath me. I begin to write. And I write beautifully, to deadly effect.
When I am finished, the Fourth of Five Days leads me to the end of the road. She pecks me on the cheek and is gone. I sigh. Can any day be better than the one I just had?
Only one way to find out, I muse. The tunnel looms before me. I turn on my heel and run straight into it, heading towards the light.
But what of the Fifth of Five Days, you ask. Wait until tomorrow or Thursday, I retort. Then you'll see what becomes of me. The best thing about this story is even I don't know how it shall end yet. That's the best kind of story: The type that no-one knows the end to.
Write on, WriMos!
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