Word count
Nov. 2nd, 2014 11:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valarltdStarting words on the counter: 19286 (not accurate, includes unredacted chats)
Finishing words on the counter: 20248
962 words. Will pick up more after work.
Sample:
The classes were interesting enough, but seemed to make no sense. He cooked and spoke Italian, studied ancient literature and differential equations, exercised at a level he would have feared six months before, and visited the shooting range daily.
He hated these last lessons. Guns had always terrified him. His earliest memories were of gunfire and smoke, as Boston had fallen and rioted during DisUnification. The weapons were ugly, lacking the grace of a knife or the elegance of poison. Their noise made him want to cover his ears and shriek even though he knew that was a child's trauma response and unworthy of homo superior. Most of all, he believed if he was going to take a life, he should do it himself, without mechanical aid.
But the fear kept getting in the way. He shot every day, endless bullets into paper targets, but with no apparent progress. During his free time, what little there was, he often set up an archery range and shot, most of the arrows falling in the gold or red. His aim was good, his concentration excellent.
One afternoon, Steven, his instructor found him putting arrow after arrow into the bullseye, relishing the satisfying thunk of each. The big man watched him, and he moved down the line to the next target and next stand of arrows. When he had shot all those, Steven looked at the target and him.
“The problem is not your aim. How is it you draw a bow like Robin Hood and cannot hit the side of a barn with a pistol?”
David scowled, not pleased to be interrupted or criticized. “I do not like guns. I hate the noise they make. I hate the action of firing them. Besides, if one is planning to kill, a gun is too impersonal.”
Steven smiled. “Yes, I know you prefer a hands-on approach. Strangulation is your favorite, or so your dossier says. Come with me. Let me show you something I think you will like.”
Finishing words on the counter: 20248
962 words. Will pick up more after work.
Sample:
The classes were interesting enough, but seemed to make no sense. He cooked and spoke Italian, studied ancient literature and differential equations, exercised at a level he would have feared six months before, and visited the shooting range daily.
He hated these last lessons. Guns had always terrified him. His earliest memories were of gunfire and smoke, as Boston had fallen and rioted during DisUnification. The weapons were ugly, lacking the grace of a knife or the elegance of poison. Their noise made him want to cover his ears and shriek even though he knew that was a child's trauma response and unworthy of homo superior. Most of all, he believed if he was going to take a life, he should do it himself, without mechanical aid.
But the fear kept getting in the way. He shot every day, endless bullets into paper targets, but with no apparent progress. During his free time, what little there was, he often set up an archery range and shot, most of the arrows falling in the gold or red. His aim was good, his concentration excellent.
One afternoon, Steven, his instructor found him putting arrow after arrow into the bullseye, relishing the satisfying thunk of each. The big man watched him, and he moved down the line to the next target and next stand of arrows. When he had shot all those, Steven looked at the target and him.
“The problem is not your aim. How is it you draw a bow like Robin Hood and cannot hit the side of a barn with a pistol?”
David scowled, not pleased to be interrupted or criticized. “I do not like guns. I hate the noise they make. I hate the action of firing them. Besides, if one is planning to kill, a gun is too impersonal.”
Steven smiled. “Yes, I know you prefer a hands-on approach. Strangulation is your favorite, or so your dossier says. Come with me. Let me show you something I think you will like.”
