Nov 9, 2009: A decision to not continue with the NaNoWriMo 2009. This will be kept as safe-keeping for future reference. It's imperative to finish the work in progress of the past ten years and not to begin a new work in progress.
Nov 5-8, 2009: CH1 2,113 words
Nov 4, 2009: CH 1 1,629 words
Nov 3, 2009: CH 1 Action scene, added characters
Nov 2, 2009: CH 1 The protagonist, a setting, and a time.
Nov 1, 2009: Prologue 750 words
Not a damn thing was going right. Life wasnít fair. God, if there truly is one, was not cooperating with the wishes of Denver Backstrom. Sitting on the old brown cushioned couch, biting the finger nail of his left thumb, letting the depressed thoughts eat away at his brain, he tilted the can of Coors to his mouth to replace his left thumb and jugged down the final swallow. Denver threw the empty can against the log wall of his camp. The left hand dug inside his back Jeanís pocket and pulled out his wallet. Opening the wallet with both hands, Denver felt the green bills of two one dollars. He was near broke, unable to leave the camp for more beer. No beer, no mercy.
Denver replaced the wallet and his right thumb ended inside his mouth, and the teeth started to nibble at the nail. The depressed thoughts began to multiply within the brain. What was the use to being alive? No money, no beer, no mercy. He stared at the double barrel 20-gauge Mossberg 88 shotgun standing upright against the log wall near the fireplace. He shook his head to shake off the evil thought that appeared in his brain on the happening of last night. Losing Holly hurt.
Denver stood up, proceeding to the front door that was opened. Through the screen door he looked at the 1980 black Grand Cherokee parked at an angle next to a pine tree close to the camp. The jeep was filthy, covered with dry mud that stuck to the surface and around the wheel wells. He gave out a hearty laugh at the thought of how he was able to drive the jeep with the splattered mud streaks across the windshield. He leaned to the left against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest. Then lifted the ring finger to his mouth to begin to bite the fingernail taking in the damp forest smell on this late October day. Looking at his Timex Indiglo silver band around his left wrist that read 1 p.m. he returned to the couch to lie down.
The negative thoughts raced into Denverís brain overwhelming his desire to want to do anything. Losing Holly was so painful. A sickness felt throughout his whole body, plus all the beer drinking the night before. On awakening on the couch still fully dressed Denver drank up the final two cans of Coors in camp.
Twisting his head to the side he looked again at the shotgun. Was the gun loaded? Denver couldnít remember if he had unarmed the shotgun the last time he was out bird hunting.
Oh, the pain. No money, no beer, no love, no mercy.
"Fuck me," Denver was on his feet, grabbing the shotgun and bringing it back to the couch. Opening the chamber he witness two shells ready for firing. Sitting down, feeling with his hands the wooden stock and the metal black barrel.
Denver Backstrom placed the wooden stock onto the floor. He shifted his sitting position, placing the black barrel under his chin. No mercy!