30,503

I'm not exactly done for the evening, but I'm going to go ahead and post now. Tonight is the first night after which I do not have to open at work, which means that I can write and stay up as long as I want without fear of lack of sleep that'll fuck me up. So the intention is to get as far as I can, probably to 35,000 before I give up.

The dude up there is Richard Schiff, or Toby Ziegler as he was known during his time on The West Wing. In my story, The Arctic Heart, he is Joseph, the physician of the trio of scientists. He often acts as the intermediary between Donald and Anna, and is at times the voice of reason. I chose Richard because, despite his sullenness on The West Wing, I've seen him play a happy character before and there is a unique joy that shines through. And Joseph is a pretty happy guy. For now ...

And here's your friendly neighborhood excerpt:

The strap of cloth falls away from Denny's eyes and he can see that where he is is entirely white. He can see down to his hands and they are still tied, but in front of him now. He tries to move from the shape in which he is laying, and discovers that although he can now bend his knees, his ankles are still tied together.

He twists and manages to turn over onto his back. Turning his head onto the ice, he sees off in the distance a shape moving toward him. It is far off and moving slowly.

Looking up at the sky it is a clear blue. White clouds move across it, the same as he would find at home. The same as he'd see at the end of a long day playing in the summer as a child. The same above the car as his parents drive him away from Sunday School.

It's the blue he thinks of when he imagines God. Long ago he thought of a big guy with a big white beard sitting on a throne, wielding a staff and being all foreboding and stuff. Now he doesn't really think of a person, but of the vast emptiness of the sky and the stars behind it and the galaxies and all the things in space that are out there far away and never ending. Then he thinks of how the planet he is on and himself are just infinitesimally small objects in all that vastness and it makes him smile.

It's not even the concept of god that makes him smile in all of this or the faith in something more powerful than himself. It's the thought of being powerless to something. Powerless to a blue sky.

Having nothing to feel makes it easier to be objective, but when he leans over and looks at the shape moving toward him, making out the red beard, the mat of hair, the ground down down fingers clawing at the ice, he questions the emptiness. All of a sudden small doesn't feel small and he feels the absence of a beat in his chest.

He tries to yell but all that comes out of his mouth is an awkward squawk too soft to be heard. So he lays and waits.