The Night of the Wrimo - a short story....

..written two and a half hours before NaNo begins for me.. literally writing as i go.

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It was a cold and eeries night as I walked through the fog ridden park. I could hear something... something

"No.. no no no no NO" I screamed, hitting backspace repeatedly. "Why muse? Why do you hate me so much?"

As usual, when I wanted an anser, there was none. Instead, I turned my attention back to the screen. I looked at the clock and then outside. Only a couple of hours left before I began my true writing frenzy. But how could I when in such a slump? I had nothing. All the plot bunnies had dissolved into nothing and my muse was sulking.

I lifted the mug of steaming coffee to my mouth, only to find that it was yet again empty. I sighed, walking intot eh kitchen to put the kettle on.

While waiting for it to boil, I had an iea and ran quickly to the computer, my fingers typing furiously.

I stopped, feeling as though all warmth had left the world. The cold touch of frost bit through my coat. There it was, a strange sound coming from behind me. Shuffling footsteps through the autumn leaves. I span around fast, scanning the ground for dflsdjkj fhj fsdfgf

I hit the keyboard, the idea lost.

I sighed, backspacing once again. I needed some inspiration. I wanted to write a horror.. Anything that I could use would be enough.

I made up my third cup of coffee of the evening and peered blearily at the clock. Sitting myself down, I closed my eyes, letting my fingers type. It started off so well, and once again, dissolved into nothing. This was when I decided I needed to go for a walk.

I turned the screen off the computer and grabbed a few notebooks. Every pocket I had was already crammed with pens so I knew that should I be late, I was well prepared.

It was a very dark sky save for the brightness of the full moon. The trick-or-treaters had all but gone home to bed and only a few unruly youths remained. I breathed in deeply. This was my night. I could feel inspiration circling in the air.

A fog was already settling in about the small park and I made my way to the swing. In the cold and crisp winter air, I could hear my muse itching to speak. I begged her to stop sulking, pleaded with her to speak to me. But nothing.

Something creaked behind me and I jumped, turning suddenly. A small sigh of relief escaped me at the sight of an old friend and fellow Wrimo.

"Stumped as well?" I asked

"Yeah... the plot bunnies don't seem to be breeding this year."

"It's a shame. My muse is on strike"

"My editor is on the rampage"

"I think my character committed suicide last night."

At that, he winced "Hate it when they do that. Never happy..."

I nodded and we both sighed.

"At least neither of you have a family to contend with"

I looked up at the newcomer and greeted her. Poor thing had 5 kids and a husband. I didn't envy her. Her husband was a drinking mate of mine. "Giving you trouble?" I asked

"They don't know that this is important to me. Well... they do and wish to ruin me anyway"

"I do not envy you" My other friend said, and the three of us sank into thoughtful silence.

Then, I saw it. A little plot bunny, floating in the air. I reached out to grab it. "Mine" I called, but I missed. Another hand reached and grabbed it, but it dissolved for him. "Damn I hate you. Stop killing the bunnies" He murmured, presumably talking to one of his characters. Poor guy had never succeeded past 30000 words at NaNoWriMo. His characters always went on strike and his muse went to a stripper bar. At least, so he tells us.

The small park was starting to get crowded now. A whole host of Wrimos invading and sitting on some piece of equipment. The inspiration I had felt in the air was slowly fading away.

I stood, fumbling for a pen. I had it, the perfect idea. This truly was the night of the Wrimos. The more I thought about it, the more the bunnies multiplied. Everyone stared at me and my idea riddled mind. It was purelyplaying on the werewolf stories i had read. Night of the Wrimos.

I looked around me as I walked through the ghostly park. The fog trailed around each piece of play equipment. It was empty save for myself, a lonely lost soul, clambering through the darkness.

They closed in around me, pens poking me from all directions. Before I knew it, there was a scream of terror. It took me even longer to realise that the scream was my own...

I smiled, reading over. It was far from perfect, but it was a start. I looked up at the others and flipped the pad shut

"See ya" I said cheerily as I waved goodbye. I made my way to the exit when someone grabbed me. The Wrimos were out for revenge. Why had the muse spoken to me? Why did the bunnies surround me? I didn't know, they didn't know.. but I was about to pay. My dearest friend lifted his sharpened pencil high. I screamed, but no one heard save for the deranged writers in the small isolated park, filled with fog.

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2 hours to go. Sorry about the randomness of that ^^
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