Chapter 1: Mrs. Apron's garden
Sep. 8th, 2003 10:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vaneramosAs an experiment today I decided to see how long it would take to write 2,000 words. I didn't want it to be a simple free-write; it needed some preconceived characters, situations and storyline. So while I was walking this morning, I put some ideas together, then came home and started writing.
It took about 80 minutes to pass the 2,000 word mark, which was faster than expected. At that rate I still have time, in my three hours. to work on other writing projects. And I could afford to take one day a week off, and still finish more than 50,000 words in a month.
Actually I'm delighted with the result. It's, at the very least, a first chapter for an idea I could happily work with for a few weeks.
What's most daunting is the intense creative head space I go into when I write this way. It's not even 11 a.m. and I'm exhausted. I have time to work on this for another hour today, but no way, I need a break. Something different, please.
Do I really have the guts to do this every day for a month? Will I have enough fresh ideas to keep it rolling, one chapter after another?
Forget about guts! This is what I want to do with my life, after all. I've worked this way before, and found it fulfilling. The only way to find out is to keep going. Tomorrow.
To my inner whiner: Shut up!
This is the first draft of a first chapter of a children's fantasy novel, very slightly edited. If anyone has time to read it, I would be delighted to hear any constructive criticism you might offer.
Chapter 1: Mrs. Apron's garden
The little boy had to keep running. The tall weeds made a swishing and cracking sounds as he plunged through them. If he stopped, he would hear his mother's voice calling him. Lark Denby knew his mother had put a magic spell on him so that if he heard her, he would have to answer her, probably even go back and do what she told him to do. He had no direct evidence to support this theory, except that it happened every time.
She also had a strange room in the basement where she kept jars of things in bottles, mostly dried leaves and pickled fruit. But several times he had found a dead mouse, and even giant, mutant centipedes from outer space. His mother must have done experiments on them with the vile-smelling liquids she brewed in the big pot in the kitchen.
Lark had discovered he had a little magic of his own, mostly counterspells. The easiest one he had learned so far was to avoid hearing his mother. Sometimes not hearing the words was enough, but hearing a scrap of her voice was dangerous. As soon as he knew she was calling, he would picture her standing there on the doorstep.
"Larkwhistle Euonymus Denby-Kortwright, come here this instant!"
His full name had special power to make him submit to her will. He shouldn't even be letting himself picture her saying the words. The vision of her lip movement was almost enough to thwart his escape.
"Ow! ow! ow!" Lark shrieked.
Something had bitten him on the calf. And then another, on the neck near his Adam's apple. He swatted and danced wildly.
"Ouch. Augh!"
Another, on his right thigh.
Lark screamed. He didn't know where to run.
Then he saw it, a paper wasp's nest bulging like a pale balloon underneath a fallen stump a few paces behind him. He had stepped on it, overturned it, and sent the insects into a frenzy. Another one bit him on the foot.
Lark screamed again and waggled his foot, sending his sandal flying. He turned and ran in the other direction, pushing through wads of tall goldenrod, its pale arches of gold just beginning to burst with late summer colour.
The stings hurt so bad that Lark started to cry. He ran as far as the big buckthorn bush then turned to look back. He could see his sandal lying there, a few feet from the nest, a cloud of wasps still hovering around it.
The thought crossed his mind, "I want Mom!"
No, it wouldn't do. She would tell him to stop being a sissy and tell him where the hydrogen peroxide was in the cupboard.
Go fix it yourself.
Then, within five minutes, she would tell him whatever it was she wanted him to do. And then he would be trapped.
At least he couldn't hear her now.
His shins and arms were scratched red and white from rushing through the weeds. His right knee was springing up with painful welts where he had crashed into a stinging nettle. As if the wasps weren't enough.
He turned and started running again, just to get away this time. Away from being called a sissy by his mother and father. Away from Dumpster Trinity who had pounded the daylights out of Lark on the sidewalk last week.
Lark hadn't seen any of his classmates all summer until then. He didn't want to, Dumpster least of all. But walking to the corner with $1.50 saved up from his allowance to buy an Owl Pellets ice cream cone had been an unusual treat.
A treat until he ran into Dumpster on the way home, losing both scoops and his dignity with three thumps from the larger boy's fist. His t-shirt got torn, too, and that was the worst thing of all.
China Denby hadn't even stopped to find whether her son had enjoyed his ice cream or how his t-shirt got torn. She launched right into a lecture about how careless and ungrateful he was for all the hard work she did keeping his clothes clean and his bedroom neat. And how his father worked so hard to provide him with new clothes. So Lark had ended up sent to his room without a chance to wash the ice cream off his arm.
That was the time he had discovered the newest magic trick: slipping out his bedroom window. Escaping itself wasn't the magical part. What was really amazing was that his mother never even noticed he was gone, or questioned him when he got home.
It was probably something about the special pale pink paint peeling from Lark's windowsill. He could remember hearing that old-fashioned paint had something poisonous in it. Maybe it was lead. Didn't lead have magical powers? Or maybe it was the dream catcher he had made from a kit his friend Chrysalis mailed him for his birthday. It was hanging in the window. It had five bright beads in it, two red and three blue. They sparkled hopefully in the sunshine. Lark wondered if they would work just as well on cloudy days.
Anyway, something made his mother forget.
It was on that first day Lark escaped through his bedroom window that he also discovered Mrs. Apron's vegetable garden. He knew her name because he had seen it on the clean white mailbox at the end of her driveway. Lark lived in town and his family had their mail delivered to the door by a mailman, but when he ran away he passed the edge of the subdivision, reached the river, followed it through the field full of nettles, asters and goldenrod, and came to a country lane, where people had their mail delivered by car. That was where Mrs. Apron lived.
She had a big lawn with a few fruit trees. Further from the house, the lawn started to slope down toward the stream. On the hillside below, she had a large vegetable garden. Lark knew about vegetables because his father planted some but they always died or got raided by raccoons or the neighbourhood children (of course Lark got accused of stealing those half-ripe tomatoes, but why would he do that, he didn't even like tomatoes, half-ripe ones even less).
Mrs. Apron had ripe tomatoes, and Lark liked to crouch between the tall, staked plants just looking at them, they were so beautiful. He half imagined they might taste good, they looked so delightful. There were big, red beefsteaks and tiny red cherries, tiny gold cherries and ones shaped like pears. But best of all were the giant, warty, ugly pink tomatoes. Lark imagined Mrs. Apron must be a good witch to grow such beautiful, ugly tomatoes. And a good witch is always a better thing than a bad witch like Lark's mother.
Beyond the tomatoes were three tall rows of sweet corn with purplish-red silk tassels springing from the plump ears. Lark did like sweet corn, and on this, his third visit to the garden, he was so enchanted by the tall stalks that he started wandering down the row without noticing what was there in front of him.
"Well what have we here?"
Lark jumped. There in front of him squatted a strange creature in a ragged black dress and wispy grey hair sprouting from her craggy, warty face. It was a pink face. It looked almost like those ugly tomatoes in the next row. It had jagged yellow teeth and a huge, wide-brimmed, pink straw hat with purple silk flowers on it.
"Don't run away," she said, pushing her glasses up her nose, which was shaped like a crabapple. "I've seen you down here before. You're welcome to visit. Now just tell me who you are."
Lark could hardly stop shaking. He wanted to run away, but his feet stayed firmly planted, one in its sandal and the other in the cool, moist soil. Mrs. Apron must have magic, too.
"Lark Denby," he gasped.
Mrs. Apron straightened a little. She wasn't squatting at all, she was just unusually short. She was two inches shorter than Lark, in fact, and almost as big around. He couldn't see very well past the glare on her big, round glasses, but he thought he saw a wistful look come into her yellowish eyes.
"You must be China Kortwright's son," Mrs. Apron muttered with a note of surprise.
Lark nodded.
"You look like your grandfather," she said.
Lark shrugged.
"No, you wouldn't know about that," she said. "He died before you were born."
She seemed about to say something, then shook her head.
"Now go over there, Lark, beyond this row of sweet corn, and tell me what you see."
Lark didn't feel afraid of her anymore, even though the magic was still working. He did as she told him and pushed past two strong corn stalks.
In the patch beyond was a mess of low vines, with thick, raspy stalks and big, pointed leaves. A few blowsy, butter-yellow flowers pushed up through the foliage.
"They're squashes," he said. Pushing a few leaves aside he saw a big, pear-shaped vegetable, its greenish skin starting to turn creamy. "Butternut squashes."
"I know that," she said. "Go down closer to the river and look in the mess of leaves where the vines grow thickest."
Lark obeyed. He clambered through the vines, being careful not to step on any of the thick, crisp stems. At the bottom of the garden was a thick hedge of cedars. Sunlight glinted on the surface of the river beyond. Mrs. Apron had a big compost bin there, made out of wood scraps. The soil around it was especially rich, and where it had spilled into the garden, the squash vines grew biggest and fattest of all. He pushed a few of the largest leaves aside to see what was underneath.
In the pale green light lay—something. Lark couldn't describe it at first. Superficially, it looked like another butternut squash. In fact, that it must be, for it was attached to a stalk of the plant. But it was not shaped like one. It was shaped more like a watermelon, and it had ribs of colour running along its skin, pale yellow, chartreuse, violet and vermilion. There were other colours, too, but they seemed to come and go, shimmering in the sunlight as the thing moved.
Yes, it was moving. Lark jumped back in surprise. He looked up and saw Mrs. Apron standing there in front of the row of corn, leaning on her hoe. The glare of sunlight on her glasses hid her eyes. She was smiling.
"Well," she asked. "What do you make of it?"
"What is it?" he said.
"I don't know," she shrugged. "I thought maybe you could tell me. Don't worry, it's harmless."
Lark took a step forward and pushed the leaves aside to get another look. The weird squash slithered like a giant slug, but it hadn't moved from its spot. It just lay there quivering and glistening. Entranced, he leaned down and touched it with his forefinger. It was soft and moist.
"Stop that!"
Lark gasped, jumping backwards so fast that he fell against the compost bin The wood scraps crumpled and he land in muck. Alarmed, he looked at Mrs. Apron. She was wiggling and jiggling, then a strange guttural, bubbling noise came out of her throat.
"How would you like it if someone walked up and touched you before they had properly introduced themselves?"
He thought Mrs. Apron had said this, but she was too busy laughing at him. The voice had come from under the big leaves, slightly muffled. The squash had spoken.
"What do you make of that?" croaked Mrs. Apron in delight. "Do you suppose the Korn County Tag Rag would do a write up if I told them?"
"Don't you dare!" squeaked the squash. "Or I'll burst. Then you won't have anything to show them."
Mrs. Apron kept giggling. "Manipulative, isn't he? And ornery!" she said cheerfully.
"I think I better go home now," said Lark.
At the moment he didn't care whether or not his mother was there. He didn't care if she made him mow the lawn or tidy his bedroom.
"Run along then," Mrs. Apron smiled. "Anyway, you don't have to worry about your mother for a while. She has gone golfing with Mrs. Dahlia. But I hope you'll come back and visit again soon."
Lark got up from the mess and stepped sideways.
"Maybe. If my mother lets me," he said.
Then Mrs. Apron became very serious.
"Oh dear," she said in a low voice. "I wouldn't tell your mother you had been her, if I were you. At least, you can tell her if you want. I'm not stopping you. But if you tell her, you can be certain she will forbid you to come back."
Lark managed a polite smile, but he didn't say another word. He turned and ran along the side of the gravel road, then back through the meadow toward his house.
It took about 80 minutes to pass the 2,000 word mark, which was faster than expected. At that rate I still have time, in my three hours. to work on other writing projects. And I could afford to take one day a week off, and still finish more than 50,000 words in a month.
Actually I'm delighted with the result. It's, at the very least, a first chapter for an idea I could happily work with for a few weeks.
What's most daunting is the intense creative head space I go into when I write this way. It's not even 11 a.m. and I'm exhausted. I have time to work on this for another hour today, but no way, I need a break. Something different, please.
Do I really have the guts to do this every day for a month? Will I have enough fresh ideas to keep it rolling, one chapter after another?
Forget about guts! This is what I want to do with my life, after all. I've worked this way before, and found it fulfilling. The only way to find out is to keep going. Tomorrow.
To my inner whiner: Shut up!
This is the first draft of a first chapter of a children's fantasy novel, very slightly edited. If anyone has time to read it, I would be delighted to hear any constructive criticism you might offer.
Chapter 1: Mrs. Apron's garden
The little boy had to keep running. The tall weeds made a swishing and cracking sounds as he plunged through them. If he stopped, he would hear his mother's voice calling him. Lark Denby knew his mother had put a magic spell on him so that if he heard her, he would have to answer her, probably even go back and do what she told him to do. He had no direct evidence to support this theory, except that it happened every time.
She also had a strange room in the basement where she kept jars of things in bottles, mostly dried leaves and pickled fruit. But several times he had found a dead mouse, and even giant, mutant centipedes from outer space. His mother must have done experiments on them with the vile-smelling liquids she brewed in the big pot in the kitchen.
Lark had discovered he had a little magic of his own, mostly counterspells. The easiest one he had learned so far was to avoid hearing his mother. Sometimes not hearing the words was enough, but hearing a scrap of her voice was dangerous. As soon as he knew she was calling, he would picture her standing there on the doorstep.
"Larkwhistle Euonymus Denby-Kortwright, come here this instant!"
His full name had special power to make him submit to her will. He shouldn't even be letting himself picture her saying the words. The vision of her lip movement was almost enough to thwart his escape.
"Ow! ow! ow!" Lark shrieked.
Something had bitten him on the calf. And then another, on the neck near his Adam's apple. He swatted and danced wildly.
"Ouch. Augh!"
Another, on his right thigh.
Lark screamed. He didn't know where to run.
Then he saw it, a paper wasp's nest bulging like a pale balloon underneath a fallen stump a few paces behind him. He had stepped on it, overturned it, and sent the insects into a frenzy. Another one bit him on the foot.
Lark screamed again and waggled his foot, sending his sandal flying. He turned and ran in the other direction, pushing through wads of tall goldenrod, its pale arches of gold just beginning to burst with late summer colour.
The stings hurt so bad that Lark started to cry. He ran as far as the big buckthorn bush then turned to look back. He could see his sandal lying there, a few feet from the nest, a cloud of wasps still hovering around it.
The thought crossed his mind, "I want Mom!"
No, it wouldn't do. She would tell him to stop being a sissy and tell him where the hydrogen peroxide was in the cupboard.
Go fix it yourself.
Then, within five minutes, she would tell him whatever it was she wanted him to do. And then he would be trapped.
At least he couldn't hear her now.
His shins and arms were scratched red and white from rushing through the weeds. His right knee was springing up with painful welts where he had crashed into a stinging nettle. As if the wasps weren't enough.
He turned and started running again, just to get away this time. Away from being called a sissy by his mother and father. Away from Dumpster Trinity who had pounded the daylights out of Lark on the sidewalk last week.
Lark hadn't seen any of his classmates all summer until then. He didn't want to, Dumpster least of all. But walking to the corner with $1.50 saved up from his allowance to buy an Owl Pellets ice cream cone had been an unusual treat.
A treat until he ran into Dumpster on the way home, losing both scoops and his dignity with three thumps from the larger boy's fist. His t-shirt got torn, too, and that was the worst thing of all.
China Denby hadn't even stopped to find whether her son had enjoyed his ice cream or how his t-shirt got torn. She launched right into a lecture about how careless and ungrateful he was for all the hard work she did keeping his clothes clean and his bedroom neat. And how his father worked so hard to provide him with new clothes. So Lark had ended up sent to his room without a chance to wash the ice cream off his arm.
That was the time he had discovered the newest magic trick: slipping out his bedroom window. Escaping itself wasn't the magical part. What was really amazing was that his mother never even noticed he was gone, or questioned him when he got home.
It was probably something about the special pale pink paint peeling from Lark's windowsill. He could remember hearing that old-fashioned paint had something poisonous in it. Maybe it was lead. Didn't lead have magical powers? Or maybe it was the dream catcher he had made from a kit his friend Chrysalis mailed him for his birthday. It was hanging in the window. It had five bright beads in it, two red and three blue. They sparkled hopefully in the sunshine. Lark wondered if they would work just as well on cloudy days.
Anyway, something made his mother forget.
It was on that first day Lark escaped through his bedroom window that he also discovered Mrs. Apron's vegetable garden. He knew her name because he had seen it on the clean white mailbox at the end of her driveway. Lark lived in town and his family had their mail delivered to the door by a mailman, but when he ran away he passed the edge of the subdivision, reached the river, followed it through the field full of nettles, asters and goldenrod, and came to a country lane, where people had their mail delivered by car. That was where Mrs. Apron lived.
She had a big lawn with a few fruit trees. Further from the house, the lawn started to slope down toward the stream. On the hillside below, she had a large vegetable garden. Lark knew about vegetables because his father planted some but they always died or got raided by raccoons or the neighbourhood children (of course Lark got accused of stealing those half-ripe tomatoes, but why would he do that, he didn't even like tomatoes, half-ripe ones even less).
Mrs. Apron had ripe tomatoes, and Lark liked to crouch between the tall, staked plants just looking at them, they were so beautiful. He half imagined they might taste good, they looked so delightful. There were big, red beefsteaks and tiny red cherries, tiny gold cherries and ones shaped like pears. But best of all were the giant, warty, ugly pink tomatoes. Lark imagined Mrs. Apron must be a good witch to grow such beautiful, ugly tomatoes. And a good witch is always a better thing than a bad witch like Lark's mother.
Beyond the tomatoes were three tall rows of sweet corn with purplish-red silk tassels springing from the plump ears. Lark did like sweet corn, and on this, his third visit to the garden, he was so enchanted by the tall stalks that he started wandering down the row without noticing what was there in front of him.
"Well what have we here?"
Lark jumped. There in front of him squatted a strange creature in a ragged black dress and wispy grey hair sprouting from her craggy, warty face. It was a pink face. It looked almost like those ugly tomatoes in the next row. It had jagged yellow teeth and a huge, wide-brimmed, pink straw hat with purple silk flowers on it.
"Don't run away," she said, pushing her glasses up her nose, which was shaped like a crabapple. "I've seen you down here before. You're welcome to visit. Now just tell me who you are."
Lark could hardly stop shaking. He wanted to run away, but his feet stayed firmly planted, one in its sandal and the other in the cool, moist soil. Mrs. Apron must have magic, too.
"Lark Denby," he gasped.
Mrs. Apron straightened a little. She wasn't squatting at all, she was just unusually short. She was two inches shorter than Lark, in fact, and almost as big around. He couldn't see very well past the glare on her big, round glasses, but he thought he saw a wistful look come into her yellowish eyes.
"You must be China Kortwright's son," Mrs. Apron muttered with a note of surprise.
Lark nodded.
"You look like your grandfather," she said.
Lark shrugged.
"No, you wouldn't know about that," she said. "He died before you were born."
She seemed about to say something, then shook her head.
"Now go over there, Lark, beyond this row of sweet corn, and tell me what you see."
Lark didn't feel afraid of her anymore, even though the magic was still working. He did as she told him and pushed past two strong corn stalks.
In the patch beyond was a mess of low vines, with thick, raspy stalks and big, pointed leaves. A few blowsy, butter-yellow flowers pushed up through the foliage.
"They're squashes," he said. Pushing a few leaves aside he saw a big, pear-shaped vegetable, its greenish skin starting to turn creamy. "Butternut squashes."
"I know that," she said. "Go down closer to the river and look in the mess of leaves where the vines grow thickest."
Lark obeyed. He clambered through the vines, being careful not to step on any of the thick, crisp stems. At the bottom of the garden was a thick hedge of cedars. Sunlight glinted on the surface of the river beyond. Mrs. Apron had a big compost bin there, made out of wood scraps. The soil around it was especially rich, and where it had spilled into the garden, the squash vines grew biggest and fattest of all. He pushed a few of the largest leaves aside to see what was underneath.
In the pale green light lay—something. Lark couldn't describe it at first. Superficially, it looked like another butternut squash. In fact, that it must be, for it was attached to a stalk of the plant. But it was not shaped like one. It was shaped more like a watermelon, and it had ribs of colour running along its skin, pale yellow, chartreuse, violet and vermilion. There were other colours, too, but they seemed to come and go, shimmering in the sunlight as the thing moved.
Yes, it was moving. Lark jumped back in surprise. He looked up and saw Mrs. Apron standing there in front of the row of corn, leaning on her hoe. The glare of sunlight on her glasses hid her eyes. She was smiling.
"Well," she asked. "What do you make of it?"
"What is it?" he said.
"I don't know," she shrugged. "I thought maybe you could tell me. Don't worry, it's harmless."
Lark took a step forward and pushed the leaves aside to get another look. The weird squash slithered like a giant slug, but it hadn't moved from its spot. It just lay there quivering and glistening. Entranced, he leaned down and touched it with his forefinger. It was soft and moist.
"Stop that!"
Lark gasped, jumping backwards so fast that he fell against the compost bin The wood scraps crumpled and he land in muck. Alarmed, he looked at Mrs. Apron. She was wiggling and jiggling, then a strange guttural, bubbling noise came out of her throat.
"How would you like it if someone walked up and touched you before they had properly introduced themselves?"
He thought Mrs. Apron had said this, but she was too busy laughing at him. The voice had come from under the big leaves, slightly muffled. The squash had spoken.
"What do you make of that?" croaked Mrs. Apron in delight. "Do you suppose the Korn County Tag Rag would do a write up if I told them?"
"Don't you dare!" squeaked the squash. "Or I'll burst. Then you won't have anything to show them."
Mrs. Apron kept giggling. "Manipulative, isn't he? And ornery!" she said cheerfully.
"I think I better go home now," said Lark.
At the moment he didn't care whether or not his mother was there. He didn't care if she made him mow the lawn or tidy his bedroom.
"Run along then," Mrs. Apron smiled. "Anyway, you don't have to worry about your mother for a while. She has gone golfing with Mrs. Dahlia. But I hope you'll come back and visit again soon."
Lark got up from the mess and stepped sideways.
"Maybe. If my mother lets me," he said.
Then Mrs. Apron became very serious.
"Oh dear," she said in a low voice. "I wouldn't tell your mother you had been her, if I were you. At least, you can tell her if you want. I'm not stopping you. But if you tell her, you can be certain she will forbid you to come back."
Lark managed a polite smile, but he didn't say another word. He turned and ran along the side of the gravel road, then back through the meadow toward his house.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-09-08 08:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-08 09:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-08 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-08 09:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-09 03:41 am (UTC)Will your novel be [at all] illustrated by you. One hopes.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-09 04:29 pm (UTC)Thanks for your comments. We seem to have a lot of common interests, so I'm going to follow your journal.
I was a Windsor boy, by the way, and grew up south of there, on Lake Erie, within broadcast range of Ann Arbor.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-09 08:25 am (UTC)It took about 80 minutes to pass the 2,000 word mark, which was faster than expected.
What I found was that my level of inspiration for writing changed on a daily basis. Some days I found myself writing a great deal, other days I was stumped to write a single thing. And another thing was that I discovered that it's almost like a muscle that gets stronger with regular workouts. That's the real benefit of participating, as far as I'm concerned. In the same way that it helps to go to a gym with a friend, and to be around lots of people with a common goal, doing NaNo energized and inspired me. The longer I worked with it, the more I fed the inner fire and created.
As far as what you wrote, it's a great opener. You're tapping into something potentially quite powerful here. I look forward to seeing what you can do with this.
no subject
Date: 2003-09-09 05:04 pm (UTC)There's no question that I draw strength from other writers. Simply joining LJ has boosted my motivation and output astronomically.
try not to try
Date: 2003-09-10 12:53 am (UTC)Re: try not to try
Date: 2003-09-10 03:36 am (UTC)Re: try not to try
Date: 2003-09-10 11:05 am (UTC)c'est moi
Date: 2003-09-10 12:56 am (UTC)Re: c'est moi
Date: 2003-09-10 03:50 am (UTC)Look, I have just thrown myself into this because I'm tired of wanting to write a novel and never starting anything. I didn't have a clear intention when I started. Having said that, a children's novel seems to be taking shape (young teens? whatever.). Noticing that, I have been avoiding coarse language, and I don't intend to write anything sexually explicit. On the other hand, I haven't given myself any rules....I'm just writing. It's quite possible "some mature subject matter" will creep in. One thing I know, the story will include a couple expressly gay characters.
Re: c'est moi
Date: 2003-09-10 11:09 am (UTC)Re: c'est moi
Date: 2003-09-10 11:25 am (UTC)