Day 9 of my captivitea.
My cell mates continue to taunt me with bizarre word counts and tales of all-night writing sessions. Some of them have been allowed to dine lavishly on massive manuscripts and bloated numbers, while the other inmates and I are fed difficult work schedules and teething babies.
Although I’ve made my own progress in spurts and stammers, I nevertheless must write something daily in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.
And Tea.
In an attempt to disgust them, I continually post comments and blog almost daily. The other day, I severed my connection with AW, ruining their plans to distract me. I had hoped this would strike terror in their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, I fear it will have no impact on their word count reports.
Bastards!
Thinking I was gaining ground, I checked my word count. With glee I noticed it swelling, growing in size and complexity. Only then did I realize my opponents were also still writing, still adding words and bloating their manuscripts.
And still I write.
The other inmates and I believe the only way out is to write, to add words to our own manuscripts and form a bridge to the outside world. They say there is no escape. They say there is no Tea. Only time will tell.
I cannot give up hope. I cannot let them win this battle of wits and wills!
Take heart, Prudence, for I shall prevail. The gallows are not yet built (they say it’ll take another 21 days or so, since they’re using elmer’s glue instead of decking screws)
I will continue to write, Prudence. I will continue to fight.
And I’ll Tea them all in Hell !
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5 comments:
Dear George,
O! My love, how it pains me to hear of your trying times, within the hallowed walls of Debacle Castle, and though it does strike doubt into my breast that we have done best, I feel it is for good that we have sent you there. Although your word counts swelled poorly at home, Lord! do I hope that they swell mightily upon your eventual return.
Please do not build bridges out of paper, George! Remember Clarance, not but a score ago? whom you wrote to me in a flurry of letters and whom tried to build a glider from his short stories! O! But my knees did grow weak and I feel faint at the mere images, s'truth, what you had given me!
George, do as the Wardens request, they are good men in the sight of God and will help you through this difficult time! And fear not, for soon comes the first of December, in this year of our Lord, and your word count and you shall return henceforth to our stately manor where you may warm by our fire and sample tea. It betwixt'd my nethers, merely by the thought.
Yrs,
Prudence
Deer frend,
Teh peoples R so foolish. They iz all buzee wit teh writin and drinkin tee. All teh cheezburgers R belong to us.
We attak at midnite. Haz teh troops redy. We haz wated so long 4 dis day.
Yer BFF,
teh warden's kitteh
very word: myhwz: as in don't bring dat into myhwz.
*looks blank*
I don't feel bloated. Kthxbye.
*grin*
I hate what this competition is doing to us.
Yeah, it's made you a grumpy old man. :P
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