"He had a stroke at the age of twenty-four It could have been a brilliant career..." ~ Belle & Sebastian The world is wide and time a bauble in the wing-flutter of a cricket, but you could have that very stroke tomorrow. Would there be anything left of you but a pile of unfinished papers and half-written poems? Come on, children, don't fear the Reaper. Spit in his face. That pile of papers is whimpering in the corner, turning yellow from neglect. Inspired by the noble folks at Novel Writing for the MTV generation, we here at deadnazi.net have decided to take our own knitting needles to Death's cloak and start ripping. Instead of a month, we propose a week. Instead of entirely new projects, we propose digging out those old Great American Novels and Oscar Winning Screenplays, your Epic Poems and Political Oratory. Beat them into shape with your riding crops and bamboo rods (no feigning innocence, now) and bring them out to play. We'll show you ours if you show us yours. 40,000 word minimum. This 10,000 less than NaNoWriMo, acknowledging the shorter time but still demanding much more than nonchalant participation. Copy and paste all you like from old projects, all genres, from medieval lay to screenplay are welcomed. We aren't particular. This little shindig starts at 12 midnight Sunday October 13th (for luck) and ends at 12 midnight on Sunday October 20th. If there is enough interest, we may consider purely bragging-rights awards. Make no mistake, this is for apocalyptic hobos and the criminally insane. We do not promise enlightenment, but we do promise the 4 a.m. nirvana of the eighth cup of coffee and flying fingers. We fully intend to take part in the November NaNoWriMo project; in a sense this is a cardio warm-up to the weight-training of the thirty-day novel. They have strict rules, we do not. We probably won't even count your words. We trust you. Have no fear, you will have enough gas to get to the way station at the end of November, even if you take part in this. Creativity cannot be over-drilled. Keep in mind, after our little crucible, thirty days will seem like sheer luxury. Contact us at the below addresses to leap into the deep end with us, plugged noses, inflatable wings, and all. Carpe diem, my dears. One day you will stop for Death. Why wait days upon days to finish your Work, your passport to Elysium, your clutch of manuscripts with which to give the Reaper a nasty paper-cut? Follow us, down the yellow-brick road, singing all the way, leaving a wake of manic divinity, scribbled in the wee hours of that seized day. Confess before Kuniklos . Invoke the Desolate Angel