4,500 words so far. Chapter 9, from beginning to end.
“Kubu,” whispered the phooka, its voice seeming to come to her from a great distance, carried fortuitously by some wind. “Kubu, Edamukku, Kirsu, Nid Libbi. Younger than rock but older than stone. Kubu, Edamukku, Kirsu, Nid Libbi. Youngest, eldest, outside my compassing, and yours. The little one who never saw the sun, never knew its own name, who never suckled warm milk from a mother’s breast. Called Kubu by man for it has no name of its own. Kubu.” And then, somehow, Maribel knew that the phooka was gone. She was alone.
Another 3,000 words to go today. I’m going to take a break, read some Neil Gaiman, make some tea. Then back to it. Day ain’t over yet.
Update. Another couple of thousand words. Bringing me to 6,600 total. Which means I’m on track. Is it any good? Who knows! But here I go, charging along like a bull with blinders on. Hip hip.
The bus doors closed. Opened again. They reached it, clattering up, both out of breath, and threw themselves onboard. “Go!” he yelled. Grabbed his wallet, tore out two dollars, and then turned to stare out the window. The doors had closed again. Rawhead was standing outside, reared up to his full seven feet. He pressed the tip of the straight razor against the first window. Grinned at them through the glass.
Sita and Kevin stared right back. The bus pulled away. Rawhead pressed the razor tighter against the glass. It began to squeal as it cut a deep groove into the window. Down the length of the bus it went, leaving a wavering undulation of white distortion in its wake. Everybody in the bus clamped their hands to their ears and stared round in confusion, trying to locate the source of the sound. But nobody stared at Tommy, who moments later was left behind.