Time to write!
Did you know that writing is hard for me to remember to do when it is Christmas and the weekend and I'm at home? Yes. It is a problem. However, I think there is some news worth noting. While I haven't been diligent here on the blog I have been diligent in a novel I've started. I completed the 50th page last night. It is going incredibly well! But now I need to get back on track for this challenge... Here goes nothing.
Day 6: Begin your story with "He glanced at his watch impatiently."
He glanced at his watch impatiently. Where was she? She had promised to be here, and this time he had actually believed her.
Snow was falling and sticking to his long black coat, and freezing in his well combed, dark hair.
To anyone passing him on the street, he would look like a handsome, successful businessman. He was clean-shaven, with thick dark hair and eyebrows. He wore an expensive black suit under his coat, and his briefcase was free from any scuff marks or scratches.
Despite all appearances, however, Mr. James Wright - for this was his name- did not consider himself successful, and he carried with him a lot more than just a briefcase. Day by day he carried with him pain and the sting of failure.
Where was Sheila?
She should be here.
This time meeting had been her idea. He just needed a chance to talk to her, to see if he could make things alright again. Rose missed her mommy, and James just wanted his wife to come home.
He was already late for work, and he had missed the bus, but still he stood on the corner, waiting for Sheila to arrive.
A tinny song began playing from his pocket. Pulling off one wool glove, James reached his hand into the pocket to retrieve the cell phone.
Opening up the text message, James' heart sank.
Sorry James. Cant make it this morning. -S
Day 7: Create a superhero. Have your hero save the day.
BubbleBeam was not a very well known superhero. That's because BubbleBeam was never bitten by a radioactive spider, nor was she from another planet. Another thing BubbleBeam lacked was billionaire status, with access to insane amounts of weaponry and technology.
The truth was, people didn't really think BubbleBeam counted as a real superhero. She was looked down on by all the other heroes. One day there was a Superhero conference, and BubbleBeam wasn't a bit surprised to find herself not invited.
While all the other superheroes were packing up their carry on bags and boarding a plane (or flying themselves in the case of Superman, Ironman, Thor, and various others), BubbleBeam was sitting alone in her apartment, drinking a mug of hot chocolate and trying not to think about how this always happened to her.
Heroes, with no thought for her feelings, whizzed past her New York apartment window. By midmorning she knew she was the only one left. A terrible sense of loneliness overwhelmed her. It just wasn't fair.
In an effort to distract herself, BubbleBeam flipped on her television, settling comfortably into her couch and trying to find something amusing. Nothing amusing was to be found, however, instead on almost every channel a news broadcast was playing.
The words "Breaking News" flashed on the bottom of the screen in red letters. BubbleBeam sat forward, wondering what was going on. She gasped as the screen flashed a picture of MuckMan, the terrible mud monster from the swamps of the Everglades. The story was that Superman had cleaned up his act and banished him to where he could no longer do any harm, but the screen showed differently.
BubbleBeam waited for the image of a superhero to flash across the screen, but none did.
This was her big chance!!
Luckily she was already wearing her bright blue spandex suit, so she hopped in her bubble hovercraft which was parked just outside her 30th level window.
Bloop bloop bloop the little hovercraft sounded, it's propellers spinning and expelling multicolored bubbles behind it as BubbleBeam drove off toward the street where MuckMan was ravaging the city.
"Hey! MuckMan!" she shouted.
"Raaaar!" the goopy monster responded, waving his sticky, dirty hands in the air above his head.
"It's time for you to take a bath!" BubbleBeam stuck out her hands and shot streams of bubbles at the monster, which was at least three times her size.
It was beautiful and ever so effective.
The bubbles engulfed the mud monster, bringing him falling to his knees in despair. He was shrinking, as the bubbles removed layer upon layer of mud.
BubbleBeam kept shooting until the MuckMan could no longer be referred to that way. Now he just looked like a little mud baby.
Civilians were clapping, and the police stepped in to take MuckBaby into custody.
"We'll keep him in the cleanest jail cell possible where he won't be able to grow anymore," the police said. 'That way our city will be safe."
"Thanks to BubbleBeam," another police office chimed in.
BubbleBeam beamed. She was a real hero after all.
Possibly the most touching and emotionally charged thing I've ever written.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
Object
Time to write!
Day 5: Write about an object in the room with you.
Have you ever gotten mad at your computer for not cooperating with you, or for going slow, and had someone else say something completely patronizing such as, "Now calm down. It's just a machine."?
What if I told you they were wrong?
What if I told you they were dead wrong?
Would you believe me if I told you that your computer knows who you are and is lying in wait to take over your brain?
I hope not!
How silly would that be? Oh you funny person. Computers are just machines. We just need to learn to be more patient.
Psych.
Day 5: Write about an object in the room with you.
Have you ever gotten mad at your computer for not cooperating with you, or for going slow, and had someone else say something completely patronizing such as, "Now calm down. It's just a machine."?
What if I told you they were wrong?
What if I told you they were dead wrong?
Would you believe me if I told you that your computer knows who you are and is lying in wait to take over your brain?
I hope not!
How silly would that be? Oh you funny person. Computers are just machines. We just need to learn to be more patient.
Psych.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Poetry
Time to write!
Day 4: A poem using the words: blue, mistrust, half, twang
Bahahaha, me and poetry. We are an adventure together.
Blue waters span vast deserts of sand below,
Rocky and craggy, where so few know,
The mistrust of strange lights which eerily glow.
A half formed hope keeps spirit bright,
Even where the blue water extinguishes light,
Causing the heartstrings to twang each night.
You know that last line is something to inspire even the gravest soul to...laugh at my failed attempts at poetry.
Should we do another?
I mistrust you,
Because you are blue.
And blue people is something I cannot stand.
Your blue face,
Is out of place,
And it is not something I even half understand.
The twang of a bow,
Will have you know,
That you are not welcome here with us.
Because you are blue,
I mistrust you,
Yes, you are someone I'll never trust.
A shot in the dark,
Will find it's mark,
If your blue self decides to stay on.
A mistrust of me,
Would be well to see,
If it would make your blue self be gone.
How sad.
Day 4: A poem using the words: blue, mistrust, half, twang
Bahahaha, me and poetry. We are an adventure together.
Blue waters span vast deserts of sand below,
Rocky and craggy, where so few know,
The mistrust of strange lights which eerily glow.
A half formed hope keeps spirit bright,
Even where the blue water extinguishes light,
Causing the heartstrings to twang each night.
You know that last line is something to inspire even the gravest soul to...laugh at my failed attempts at poetry.
Should we do another?
I mistrust you,
Because you are blue.
And blue people is something I cannot stand.
Your blue face,
Is out of place,
And it is not something I even half understand.
The twang of a bow,
Will have you know,
That you are not welcome here with us.
Because you are blue,
I mistrust you,
Yes, you are someone I'll never trust.
A shot in the dark,
Will find it's mark,
If your blue self decides to stay on.
A mistrust of me,
Would be well to see,
If it would make your blue self be gone.
How sad.
Pre 1950
Time to write!
Day 3: Write a story that takes place Pre-1950
Well that leaves us all sorts of options. Prehistoric, Victorian era, pre-Revolutionary or Civil War. All sorts of antiquity we could delve into. Let's do Revolutionary War. Just for the heck of it. Allons-y!
Margaret, Maggie to her father and little brothers and Miss Margaret to her mother and peers, straightened her apron and gazed out the tiny window, which she'd cleaned just earlier that morning. It was hard to keep busy in those days. With Father, young George, and Henry most of all off serving in the Continental Army there was little to occupy her attention. She and her mother received letters at least now and then from her Father and George, but it had been unbearably long since Margaret had heard any word from her childhood sweetheart, Henry. They'd grown up together and at the young ages of seven and eight had decided that they would one day marry one another. Now Margaret very much doubted that Henry was even alive.
These types of thoughts possessed her mind more often than she would like to admit, and they made her frantic. She began pacing, a habit her mother hated and insisted was for Generals, not for young women. A hacking cough interrupted Margaret's dark thoughts.
Moving to the pallet in the corner Margaret stooped down and placed her white but work roughened hand on her youngest brother Joseph's head. He was very warm. The poor boy had been taken by a fever ever since the cold had really set in back in October. Now it was December, almost Christmas in fact, and things looked bleak on all fronts.
"Is there any news of Papa?" Joseph asked feebly, eyes still shut.
"Not yet," Margaret replied, trying not to sound nervous about that. "But he wrote us not even two weeks ago. We must be patient."
Joseph nodded. "What about Henry?" he asked.
Joseph loved Henry as an older brother, almost a second father, and missed him more than anyone else save Margaret and Henry's own widowed mother.
Margaret shook her head, afraid that if she spoke her voice would catch. Joseph of course could not see this gesture through his closed, tired eyes and he waited patiently for a response.
"Not yet, Joesph," Margaret said quietly.
"He's alive," Joseph said, opening his eyes and sitting up somewhat so he could look into Margaret's face. His eyes shone with earnest fervor as he whispered, "I know it, Maggie!"
Margaret smiled thinly, wanting to believe him, and kissed his forehead. "I hope so," she answered. "Now lay down Joseph. You need to get better."
As she stood and walked back to the door she silently added "Because I can't afford to lose you, too."
Day 3: Write a story that takes place Pre-1950
Well that leaves us all sorts of options. Prehistoric, Victorian era, pre-Revolutionary or Civil War. All sorts of antiquity we could delve into. Let's do Revolutionary War. Just for the heck of it. Allons-y!
Margaret, Maggie to her father and little brothers and Miss Margaret to her mother and peers, straightened her apron and gazed out the tiny window, which she'd cleaned just earlier that morning. It was hard to keep busy in those days. With Father, young George, and Henry most of all off serving in the Continental Army there was little to occupy her attention. She and her mother received letters at least now and then from her Father and George, but it had been unbearably long since Margaret had heard any word from her childhood sweetheart, Henry. They'd grown up together and at the young ages of seven and eight had decided that they would one day marry one another. Now Margaret very much doubted that Henry was even alive.
These types of thoughts possessed her mind more often than she would like to admit, and they made her frantic. She began pacing, a habit her mother hated and insisted was for Generals, not for young women. A hacking cough interrupted Margaret's dark thoughts.
Moving to the pallet in the corner Margaret stooped down and placed her white but work roughened hand on her youngest brother Joseph's head. He was very warm. The poor boy had been taken by a fever ever since the cold had really set in back in October. Now it was December, almost Christmas in fact, and things looked bleak on all fronts.
"Is there any news of Papa?" Joseph asked feebly, eyes still shut.
"Not yet," Margaret replied, trying not to sound nervous about that. "But he wrote us not even two weeks ago. We must be patient."
Joseph nodded. "What about Henry?" he asked.
Joseph loved Henry as an older brother, almost a second father, and missed him more than anyone else save Margaret and Henry's own widowed mother.
Margaret shook her head, afraid that if she spoke her voice would catch. Joseph of course could not see this gesture through his closed, tired eyes and he waited patiently for a response.
"Not yet, Joesph," Margaret said quietly.
"He's alive," Joseph said, opening his eyes and sitting up somewhat so he could look into Margaret's face. His eyes shone with earnest fervor as he whispered, "I know it, Maggie!"
Margaret smiled thinly, wanting to believe him, and kissed his forehead. "I hope so," she answered. "Now lay down Joseph. You need to get better."
As she stood and walked back to the door she silently added "Because I can't afford to lose you, too."
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Fanfic Challenge
Time to write!
Day 2: Write a fanfiction
Oh gosh. I do this all the time.
Captain Jack Sparrow did not like Darth Vader. Maybe it's that he felt challenged by the helmet. Maybe it was the cape. Maybe it was the breathing. Maybe it was the fact that Darth Vader had just as many quotable lines. Whatever the reason, Captain Jack Sparrow had never liked the Sith and when Will and Batman came to tell him that he absolutely had to come to Darth Vader's surprise birthday party he was not at all pleased.
Not.
At.
All.
Rather than complying, or even coming up with an excuse, Captain Jack Sparrow decided to act like he was going along with the plan, then have an amazing escape at the last moment. After all, Captain Jack Sparrow was a rather grand escape artist, even giving Houdini a run for his money.
"Alright lads," Jack said, with his signature finger wave and drawing much too close to Batman's face for comfort.
"We'll go. But I insist we take the Pearl."
"You want to get to the cold heart of space," Batman said in his gravel-chewing voice. "In a boat?"
"It's a ship. And it's freedom. And yes." Jack Sparrow answered.
Will sighed. "Well, Peter Pan was invited as well, and he seems to have a specialty with making pirate ships fly," he suggested.
Captain Jack Sparrow's heavily lined eyes grew wide. Peter Pan? Aboard his precious Pearl?
"If Peter Pan puts foot on the precious Pearl the parrots will peck off his appendages!" he declared indignantly.
"You're being stupid," Batman said. "The Pan boy has been invited. Plus, it will make Robin feel better if there's another little boy in tights."
bahahaha. I crack myself up but that's all I'm doing for now cause I'm going hooooooooooome. More tomorrow! But not of this! Love you bye.
Day 2: Write a fanfiction
Oh gosh. I do this all the time.
Captain Jack Sparrow did not like Darth Vader. Maybe it's that he felt challenged by the helmet. Maybe it was the cape. Maybe it was the breathing. Maybe it was the fact that Darth Vader had just as many quotable lines. Whatever the reason, Captain Jack Sparrow had never liked the Sith and when Will and Batman came to tell him that he absolutely had to come to Darth Vader's surprise birthday party he was not at all pleased.
Not.
At.
All.
Rather than complying, or even coming up with an excuse, Captain Jack Sparrow decided to act like he was going along with the plan, then have an amazing escape at the last moment. After all, Captain Jack Sparrow was a rather grand escape artist, even giving Houdini a run for his money.
"Alright lads," Jack said, with his signature finger wave and drawing much too close to Batman's face for comfort.
"We'll go. But I insist we take the Pearl."
"You want to get to the cold heart of space," Batman said in his gravel-chewing voice. "In a boat?"
"It's a ship. And it's freedom. And yes." Jack Sparrow answered.
Will sighed. "Well, Peter Pan was invited as well, and he seems to have a specialty with making pirate ships fly," he suggested.
Captain Jack Sparrow's heavily lined eyes grew wide. Peter Pan? Aboard his precious Pearl?
"If Peter Pan puts foot on the precious Pearl the parrots will peck off his appendages!" he declared indignantly.
"You're being stupid," Batman said. "The Pan boy has been invited. Plus, it will make Robin feel better if there's another little boy in tights."
bahahaha. I crack myself up but that's all I'm doing for now cause I'm going hooooooooooome. More tomorrow! But not of this! Love you bye.
Writing Challenge
Time to write!
Cute friends! Look at me writing again like a beautiful writer person! I am starting the new thirty day writing challenge! BUT GUESS WHAT?!? I'm going to finish it by the end of Christmas Break! So we're doing more than a day. BAHAHAHA. I've been at work too long. I'm a little crazy. Ready? Here we go. Enjoy.
Day 1: Rewrite a classic fairytale
How funny is this? My actual first submission was a twist on Cinderella. Oh good times. Here we go.
My life was never all that interesting. Being prince of a large, prosperous city wasn't good for much when there were no dragons to slay and no fair princesses to court. The only real joy I found in life (much like Princess Buttercup) was going for long rides on my horse. I often rode through the woods, not so much because I enjoyed the trees, but more because I knew my mother wouldn't follow me in there.
Now don't go jumping to conclusions. It isn't that I don't love my mother. I do. I do. She can just be a bit overbearing at times. She is always reminding me of my princely duties. This is fair enough, she's trying to be a good queen. This is more than can be said of the Queen of our neighboring kingdom. The woman is completely self-obsessed, to the point of sacrificing all her kingdom's resources to her vanity. To tell you the truth, I think war may be imminent. This is another reason I so enjoy riding in the forest. It takes my mind off the war counsels and strategy meetings which are constantly taking place in the castle.
So, I suppose my assertion that life wasn't interesting isn't completely fair. Someone else might find it entirely engaging, but I for one was disenchanted with the idea of going to war with our only neighbor. When things truly became worthy of note was the day that I stumbled upon the cabin in the woods. It was a strange little hut, but what was truly odd about it was the music coming from within. The sound was captivating, intoxicating, mind-boggling. It was a girl singing, but the sound was almost unearthly, like the songs of the fairies.
Jumping off my horse, I crept to the window. Through the pane I saw a beautiful girl. She had dark hair and extremely pale skin. I realized I'd seen that raven hair and that milky complexion before. We'd met at a ball hosted by her father three years previous, before he had suffered a rather untimely heart attack and passed away. This was the missing princess.
There was trouble afoot and I was going to put an end to it!
Running back to my horse, I jumped on and rode hard towards home.
"Father!" I cried, running into the throne room, where my father, King Alboo, sat at counsel with Sir Trickle and Sir Fickle, twins and brilliant strategists.
"Is this important, son?" my father's eyes were tired and wary.
"Yes!" I exclaimed. "I've found Snow White!"
My father harrumphed. "Harrumph? Snow White is dead."
"That's what we thought, yes! But I just returned from my daily horse ride, and she was there! She's in this cottage in the woods, very much alive!"
I'd like to say my father believed me. I'd also like to say that I gained the ability to fly. That's always something I've wanted to do. Of course, I couldn't suddenly fly, nor did my father believe my tale. But I knew what I'd seen. Snow White was alive and she was in that house.
Now I could take the time to tell you all the plans I made. The maps I drew. The buttons I lost. But let's make a long story short by concluding that...I was too late.
The next week I rode into the forest, gallant and shining as any knight in armor could be, arriving at the cottage where I'd heard Snow White sing. The cottage was just as I remembered it, but this time there was no music. I jumped off my horse and ran to the window. The house was empty. What had transpired?!
I was about to leave in despair when the sound of moaning caught my attention. I followed the sound to the back of the house where seven dwarves sat around a glass coffin, weeping, moaning, and wailing.
"Excuse me," I said in as princely a manner I could muster. "What causes you such mourning good dwarves?"
"Look in the coffin you dummy!" grumbled one rather grumpily.
As my eyes fell upon the unfortunate casket I beheld her. Snow White. Dead, after all.
"MURDERERS!" I shouted, my voice ringing with bravado to match the shine on my sword which I of course drew flamboyantly from the scabbard.
A nearby dwarf sneezed in fright.
"No!" stammered another shyly. "We didn't kill her. It was...the queen."
"I knew it," I hissed, sheathing my sword and glaring at the ground in disgust.
The dwarves begged me to fix it, to somehow reverse time, or undo the spell that had done Snow White in. But it was to no avail. The one called Doc insisted there was a remedy.
"Kiss her," he said. "True love will awaken her."
"Unfortunately," I said, trying to remain charming. "I have a policy against kissing dead people. I find it unhygienic and frankly the smell is a little hard to get past. And besides. I'm not her true love. I met her once, three years ago. There were possibilities, but, you know, nothing's sealed the deal just as yet."
With that I bowed, informed the dwarves that I would love to be of service but really, this wasn't my area of expertise, and returned to my horse.
Like I said. My life's never been too exciting. Maybe it would be if I took some risks. But once more, like I said. If the risk involves a smell, then it's just not worth it.
Cute friends! Look at me writing again like a beautiful writer person! I am starting the new thirty day writing challenge! BUT GUESS WHAT?!? I'm going to finish it by the end of Christmas Break! So we're doing more than a day. BAHAHAHA. I've been at work too long. I'm a little crazy. Ready? Here we go. Enjoy.
Day 1: Rewrite a classic fairytale
How funny is this? My actual first submission was a twist on Cinderella. Oh good times. Here we go.
My life was never all that interesting. Being prince of a large, prosperous city wasn't good for much when there were no dragons to slay and no fair princesses to court. The only real joy I found in life (much like Princess Buttercup) was going for long rides on my horse. I often rode through the woods, not so much because I enjoyed the trees, but more because I knew my mother wouldn't follow me in there.
Now don't go jumping to conclusions. It isn't that I don't love my mother. I do. I do. She can just be a bit overbearing at times. She is always reminding me of my princely duties. This is fair enough, she's trying to be a good queen. This is more than can be said of the Queen of our neighboring kingdom. The woman is completely self-obsessed, to the point of sacrificing all her kingdom's resources to her vanity. To tell you the truth, I think war may be imminent. This is another reason I so enjoy riding in the forest. It takes my mind off the war counsels and strategy meetings which are constantly taking place in the castle.
So, I suppose my assertion that life wasn't interesting isn't completely fair. Someone else might find it entirely engaging, but I for one was disenchanted with the idea of going to war with our only neighbor. When things truly became worthy of note was the day that I stumbled upon the cabin in the woods. It was a strange little hut, but what was truly odd about it was the music coming from within. The sound was captivating, intoxicating, mind-boggling. It was a girl singing, but the sound was almost unearthly, like the songs of the fairies.
Jumping off my horse, I crept to the window. Through the pane I saw a beautiful girl. She had dark hair and extremely pale skin. I realized I'd seen that raven hair and that milky complexion before. We'd met at a ball hosted by her father three years previous, before he had suffered a rather untimely heart attack and passed away. This was the missing princess.
There was trouble afoot and I was going to put an end to it!
Running back to my horse, I jumped on and rode hard towards home.
"Father!" I cried, running into the throne room, where my father, King Alboo, sat at counsel with Sir Trickle and Sir Fickle, twins and brilliant strategists.
"Is this important, son?" my father's eyes were tired and wary.
"Yes!" I exclaimed. "I've found Snow White!"
My father harrumphed. "Harrumph? Snow White is dead."
"That's what we thought, yes! But I just returned from my daily horse ride, and she was there! She's in this cottage in the woods, very much alive!"
I'd like to say my father believed me. I'd also like to say that I gained the ability to fly. That's always something I've wanted to do. Of course, I couldn't suddenly fly, nor did my father believe my tale. But I knew what I'd seen. Snow White was alive and she was in that house.
Now I could take the time to tell you all the plans I made. The maps I drew. The buttons I lost. But let's make a long story short by concluding that...I was too late.
The next week I rode into the forest, gallant and shining as any knight in armor could be, arriving at the cottage where I'd heard Snow White sing. The cottage was just as I remembered it, but this time there was no music. I jumped off my horse and ran to the window. The house was empty. What had transpired?!
I was about to leave in despair when the sound of moaning caught my attention. I followed the sound to the back of the house where seven dwarves sat around a glass coffin, weeping, moaning, and wailing.
"Excuse me," I said in as princely a manner I could muster. "What causes you such mourning good dwarves?"
"Look in the coffin you dummy!" grumbled one rather grumpily.
As my eyes fell upon the unfortunate casket I beheld her. Snow White. Dead, after all.
"MURDERERS!" I shouted, my voice ringing with bravado to match the shine on my sword which I of course drew flamboyantly from the scabbard.
A nearby dwarf sneezed in fright.
"No!" stammered another shyly. "We didn't kill her. It was...the queen."
"I knew it," I hissed, sheathing my sword and glaring at the ground in disgust.
The dwarves begged me to fix it, to somehow reverse time, or undo the spell that had done Snow White in. But it was to no avail. The one called Doc insisted there was a remedy.
"Kiss her," he said. "True love will awaken her."
"Unfortunately," I said, trying to remain charming. "I have a policy against kissing dead people. I find it unhygienic and frankly the smell is a little hard to get past. And besides. I'm not her true love. I met her once, three years ago. There were possibilities, but, you know, nothing's sealed the deal just as yet."
With that I bowed, informed the dwarves that I would love to be of service but really, this wasn't my area of expertise, and returned to my horse.
Like I said. My life's never been too exciting. Maybe it would be if I took some risks. But once more, like I said. If the risk involves a smell, then it's just not worth it.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Questionable Intentions
Time to write!
The man was handsome, that much was not to be disputed. He was also intelligent, funny enough, polite, and altogether quite charming. The question remained, however... was he too charming?
He had refused to tell us his name since arriving three nights ago, claiming only that "such things can hardly matter now" and smiling in a way which utterly bewitched Belonda and left Marzi swooning.
"I don't like it." Shyla said to me, hands working through the pile of shirts on the table in front of her, folding first the bottom to the collar, then the sleeves, then in half.
"Don't like what?" I asked, not because I really didn't know, but because I didn't know what else to say.
"The stranger." Shyla stated the obvious. "What does he want here? More importantly, why won't he tell us who he is?"
"Because," I answered calmly, folding a pair of lemon-grass colored trousers, a strange color to be sure, especially in these parts. "apparently 'such things can hardly matter now.'"
Shyla sniffed in disapproval. "I don't trust him. Anyone who shows up here has an agenda, and while he may claim to be nothing but an innocent traveler, I don't buy it for a second."
I shrugged. "It's true, his lack of suspicious behavior does mark him as highly suspicious in and of itself,"
Before my older sister could respond, the twins, four years my junior, came rushing in.
Belonda's blue eyes were sparkling and Marzi could hardly keep herself from rocketing into the rafters as she jumped about giddily.
"He spoke to us!" Belonda said. "Of his own accord he spoke to us! Without us even asking him a question first!"
"Did he now?" Shyla responded, in a voice which made clear she shared in none of our younger sisters' excitement. "And just what did he say?"
"He said, 'Good day' and asked us about the cotillion tomorrow night," Marzi said.
"The cotillion?" I asked. "Ferrenbrook's cotillion?"
"The very same," Belonda said.
"Now why would someone from out of town care about old Ferrenbrook's cotillion?" I mused.
"I'll tell you why," Shyla said gruffly, finishing the last of the shirts and dropping the pile into a hamper to be taken upstairs. "Because that someone has questionable intentions towards the innocent girls who will be in attendance."
The man was handsome, that much was not to be disputed. He was also intelligent, funny enough, polite, and altogether quite charming. The question remained, however... was he too charming?
He had refused to tell us his name since arriving three nights ago, claiming only that "such things can hardly matter now" and smiling in a way which utterly bewitched Belonda and left Marzi swooning.
"I don't like it." Shyla said to me, hands working through the pile of shirts on the table in front of her, folding first the bottom to the collar, then the sleeves, then in half.
"Don't like what?" I asked, not because I really didn't know, but because I didn't know what else to say.
"The stranger." Shyla stated the obvious. "What does he want here? More importantly, why won't he tell us who he is?"
"Because," I answered calmly, folding a pair of lemon-grass colored trousers, a strange color to be sure, especially in these parts. "apparently 'such things can hardly matter now.'"
Shyla sniffed in disapproval. "I don't trust him. Anyone who shows up here has an agenda, and while he may claim to be nothing but an innocent traveler, I don't buy it for a second."
I shrugged. "It's true, his lack of suspicious behavior does mark him as highly suspicious in and of itself,"
Before my older sister could respond, the twins, four years my junior, came rushing in.
Belonda's blue eyes were sparkling and Marzi could hardly keep herself from rocketing into the rafters as she jumped about giddily.
"He spoke to us!" Belonda said. "Of his own accord he spoke to us! Without us even asking him a question first!"
"Did he now?" Shyla responded, in a voice which made clear she shared in none of our younger sisters' excitement. "And just what did he say?"
"He said, 'Good day' and asked us about the cotillion tomorrow night," Marzi said.
"The cotillion?" I asked. "Ferrenbrook's cotillion?"
"The very same," Belonda said.
"Now why would someone from out of town care about old Ferrenbrook's cotillion?" I mused.
"I'll tell you why," Shyla said gruffly, finishing the last of the shirts and dropping the pile into a hamper to be taken upstairs. "Because that someone has questionable intentions towards the innocent girls who will be in attendance."
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Franklin
Time to write!
Franklin loved making goals. He would plan out each day, make a to do list, set objectives, and so on and so forth. For day to day goals, Franklin was normally able to accomplish most of his tasks. Or at least half. But for his long term goals, Franklin had a bad habit of stopping a few days in. He couldn't count the number of times he had started a work out regimen, done it for three nights, then not worked out again for another four weeks, until he set a new goal.
The point is, Franklin was simply one of those people with good intentions, but not enough drive. He wasn't perfect. He was a nice boy, but there wasn't really anything about him that made him special. Or so he thought.
On the other hand Majesta, Queen of Florenceville across the sea had quite the opposite problem. Majesta was a woman who made up her mind, and who got what she wanted. She made plans, and then she carried them out. A living testament to the old adage "Where there's a will there's a way", Majesta rarely tasted the bitter notes of disappointment or failure. While highly successful, Majesta was not one that anybody really looked up to or would consider a role model. Queen Majesta was Dame of Darkness and Woman of Woe, a sorceress and all around bad person.
In most stories it would be completely unlikely that Franklin and Majesta would ever meet. But this story isn't most stories. This is the one story, of all the stories out there, were they do meet, and that meeting changed the lives of many, and perhaps the course of the world.
Franklin loved making goals. He would plan out each day, make a to do list, set objectives, and so on and so forth. For day to day goals, Franklin was normally able to accomplish most of his tasks. Or at least half. But for his long term goals, Franklin had a bad habit of stopping a few days in. He couldn't count the number of times he had started a work out regimen, done it for three nights, then not worked out again for another four weeks, until he set a new goal.
The point is, Franklin was simply one of those people with good intentions, but not enough drive. He wasn't perfect. He was a nice boy, but there wasn't really anything about him that made him special. Or so he thought.
On the other hand Majesta, Queen of Florenceville across the sea had quite the opposite problem. Majesta was a woman who made up her mind, and who got what she wanted. She made plans, and then she carried them out. A living testament to the old adage "Where there's a will there's a way", Majesta rarely tasted the bitter notes of disappointment or failure. While highly successful, Majesta was not one that anybody really looked up to or would consider a role model. Queen Majesta was Dame of Darkness and Woman of Woe, a sorceress and all around bad person.
In most stories it would be completely unlikely that Franklin and Majesta would ever meet. But this story isn't most stories. This is the one story, of all the stories out there, were they do meet, and that meeting changed the lives of many, and perhaps the course of the world.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Letters At Night
Time to write!
Excuses stink, but I have good ones. Rehearsals, performances, finals next week, and being extremely sick among them. That said, let's do this thing!
Tara had called the police. They'd agreed to monitor her home, to keep a squad car driving around her block, to install security cameras at the doors. Tara's brother Jakin had come to spend the night so she wouldn't have to sleep in the old, large house all alone. The siblings had gone around the entire house before they went to sleep, painstakingly checking every single window before they went to sleep.
But that didn't mean there wasn't a letter on the table in the morning, just as there had been for almost two weeks.
When Tara's slippered feet left the last carpeted step, lighting onto the polished hardwood floor and took her into the kitchen she tried to tell herself to remain calm. There couldn't be a brown, unsealed envelope on the table. There was no way for anyone to get inside the house.
But there the letter was.
"Jakin?" Tara called, trying not to sound as frightened as she was.
Her brother, an imposing figure standing at nearly six and a half feet tall and with a muscular frame, rounded the corner from the living room where he had slept on the couch. His hair was a mess, the brown locks sticking out every which way from a night of troubled sleep.
"There's another letter." Tara pointed.
Jakin looked shocked. "This shouldn't be possible," he stated, merely recounting the obvious.
"Who is writing these?" Tara asked, taking a step back.
"I'm calling Officer Daley," Jakin said, picking up the black handheld telephone resting on the bar next to Tara's four-slice toaster, and dialing 911.
As Jakin began talking to the police, explaining that despite all the precautions the mysterious letter had still appeared in Tara's home, Tara reached for the envelope.
She knew that she wasn't supposed to touch it, the police had informed her that with each new letter that arrived she should not touch the envelope or the paper inside, so that they could be analyzed for prints. Tara had turned the last four letters over to the police, and no prints had been found on any of them, and the police had staunchly refused to tell Tara what the contents had been.
Now she had to know. This concerned her more than anyone.
I have missed you Tara. I know you don't want me here, but I just can't seem to leave you alone. There is nothing I enjoy more than watching you sleep. Your breath catches every now and then. It is the moments of silence, the moments I cannot hear you breathing, that I look forward to. It is these split seconds when no breath either enters nor leaves your body that captivates me, and it's the reason I refuse to be kept from your side.
Sweet dreams, Tara.
Behind the handwritten note-a handwriting which had been unable to trace thus far- was another sheet of paper, but this paper was thicker, more substantial. Tara pulled the glossy photo from behind the stalker's note.
The picture showed Tara, asleep in her bed. Her blond hair was fanned around her head, all over the pillow, and her right arm was over her eyes. The angle the picture was taken from made one thing absolutely clear: whoever had taken the photo had taken it standing inside her room.
For the second time that week Tara felt the room start to spin as her vision went fuzzy.
Excuses stink, but I have good ones. Rehearsals, performances, finals next week, and being extremely sick among them. That said, let's do this thing!
Tara had called the police. They'd agreed to monitor her home, to keep a squad car driving around her block, to install security cameras at the doors. Tara's brother Jakin had come to spend the night so she wouldn't have to sleep in the old, large house all alone. The siblings had gone around the entire house before they went to sleep, painstakingly checking every single window before they went to sleep.
But that didn't mean there wasn't a letter on the table in the morning, just as there had been for almost two weeks.
When Tara's slippered feet left the last carpeted step, lighting onto the polished hardwood floor and took her into the kitchen she tried to tell herself to remain calm. There couldn't be a brown, unsealed envelope on the table. There was no way for anyone to get inside the house.
But there the letter was.
"Jakin?" Tara called, trying not to sound as frightened as she was.
Her brother, an imposing figure standing at nearly six and a half feet tall and with a muscular frame, rounded the corner from the living room where he had slept on the couch. His hair was a mess, the brown locks sticking out every which way from a night of troubled sleep.
"There's another letter." Tara pointed.
Jakin looked shocked. "This shouldn't be possible," he stated, merely recounting the obvious.
"Who is writing these?" Tara asked, taking a step back.
"I'm calling Officer Daley," Jakin said, picking up the black handheld telephone resting on the bar next to Tara's four-slice toaster, and dialing 911.
As Jakin began talking to the police, explaining that despite all the precautions the mysterious letter had still appeared in Tara's home, Tara reached for the envelope.
She knew that she wasn't supposed to touch it, the police had informed her that with each new letter that arrived she should not touch the envelope or the paper inside, so that they could be analyzed for prints. Tara had turned the last four letters over to the police, and no prints had been found on any of them, and the police had staunchly refused to tell Tara what the contents had been.
Now she had to know. This concerned her more than anyone.
I have missed you Tara. I know you don't want me here, but I just can't seem to leave you alone. There is nothing I enjoy more than watching you sleep. Your breath catches every now and then. It is the moments of silence, the moments I cannot hear you breathing, that I look forward to. It is these split seconds when no breath either enters nor leaves your body that captivates me, and it's the reason I refuse to be kept from your side.
Sweet dreams, Tara.
Behind the handwritten note-a handwriting which had been unable to trace thus far- was another sheet of paper, but this paper was thicker, more substantial. Tara pulled the glossy photo from behind the stalker's note.
The picture showed Tara, asleep in her bed. Her blond hair was fanned around her head, all over the pillow, and her right arm was over her eyes. The angle the picture was taken from made one thing absolutely clear: whoever had taken the photo had taken it standing inside her room.
For the second time that week Tara felt the room start to spin as her vision went fuzzy.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Fender Bender
Time to write!
While driving to pick up lunch, you accidentally bump into the car in front of you—a light fender bender—that pops open the other car’s trunk. When you get out to assess the damage, you notice that the driver of the other car is none other than your favorite actor. More important, you notice a dead body in the trunk. Who is the actor and what elaborate excuse does he give you to explain the dead body in his trunk?
"Well this is just my luck!" I angrily exclaimed. I was already late for my appointment with Mr. Garber, now had yogurt all over my new dress (that's what you get for eating in the car, people) and now I had to sit and wait for the cops to show up.
The other car wasn't even damaged, I'd only bumped them really but it was in the middle of an intersection and I knew it was going to create much more of a to-do than it was worth. I shut off my engine and in irritation got out of my car.
"Hey, I'm sorry about hitting your car," I began as I approached the driver's side window of the silver Mercedes.
Except when I got to the window I realized that the driver of the car was none other than Orlando Bloom, in all his high-cheek boned glory, so all that really came out was "Hey, I'm sorry about...what the wow...hmm?"
I was beyond surprised to see the famous actor sitting there, right before my eyes.
Several thoughts flitted through my head, in rapid succession, like a madman with a machine gun.
Why is Orlando Bloom in Utah?
Don't celebrities normally drive nicer cars?
Don't celebrities normally have other people drive those nicer cars for them?
Why isn't there some sort of woman with him?
I'm a woman.
And there's yogurt on my dress.
Kill me now.
Only after that last thought flashed through my mind did my mind register the sight I'd seen when walking to the window. The trunk of the car had been open. It must have happened when I, er, gently nosed the back of his car with mine. But the trunk hadn't been vacant. What had looked suspiciously like a dead body- if my years of watching Psych and Criminal Minds could guide me correctly- had been laid in the trunk, and only half covered with a light blue sheet.
"No need to apologize," Orlando said, smiling in that way that made girls all over America swoon over the man. "But I'm afraid you need to close my trunk, then get in the car, before the police arrive. Think you can manage that?"
While driving to pick up lunch, you accidentally bump into the car in front of you—a light fender bender—that pops open the other car’s trunk. When you get out to assess the damage, you notice that the driver of the other car is none other than your favorite actor. More important, you notice a dead body in the trunk. Who is the actor and what elaborate excuse does he give you to explain the dead body in his trunk?
"Well this is just my luck!" I angrily exclaimed. I was already late for my appointment with Mr. Garber, now had yogurt all over my new dress (that's what you get for eating in the car, people) and now I had to sit and wait for the cops to show up.
The other car wasn't even damaged, I'd only bumped them really but it was in the middle of an intersection and I knew it was going to create much more of a to-do than it was worth. I shut off my engine and in irritation got out of my car.
"Hey, I'm sorry about hitting your car," I began as I approached the driver's side window of the silver Mercedes.
Except when I got to the window I realized that the driver of the car was none other than Orlando Bloom, in all his high-cheek boned glory, so all that really came out was "Hey, I'm sorry about...what the wow...hmm?"
I was beyond surprised to see the famous actor sitting there, right before my eyes.
Several thoughts flitted through my head, in rapid succession, like a madman with a machine gun.
Why is Orlando Bloom in Utah?
Don't celebrities normally drive nicer cars?
Don't celebrities normally have other people drive those nicer cars for them?
Why isn't there some sort of woman with him?
I'm a woman.
And there's yogurt on my dress.
Kill me now.
Only after that last thought flashed through my mind did my mind register the sight I'd seen when walking to the window. The trunk of the car had been open. It must have happened when I, er, gently nosed the back of his car with mine. But the trunk hadn't been vacant. What had looked suspiciously like a dead body- if my years of watching Psych and Criminal Minds could guide me correctly- had been laid in the trunk, and only half covered with a light blue sheet.
"No need to apologize," Orlando said, smiling in that way that made girls all over America swoon over the man. "But I'm afraid you need to close my trunk, then get in the car, before the police arrive. Think you can manage that?"
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Looks
Time to write!
I'm aware that this will hail to the "Uglies" series by Scott Westerfield but I still want to write this and am convinced that if I continued I could twist it up.
In a world where everyone is beautiful, no one really is. When everyone looks the same, physical attraction dies away. A world which once prized individuality is lost, and suddenly the idea of arranged marriages is no longer so archaic.
This is the world I live in. My name is Emma Crane. I have black hair that falls to the bottom of my shoulder blades, cut straight across, with bangs that swoop strongly to the left to hide the fluffy hairs that always want to frizz up on my left temple. My eyes are green and what you would call wide-set. I would not call them wide-set, nor would anyone else in Unisity, because all of our eyes are the same distance apart. My mother's eyes are also green. So are my sister's. Same as the eyes of all my female classmates. And their mothers and sisters. My nose, like everyone else's, is mostly straight but turns up just slightly at the end to appear "perky", and my cheeckbones are high and naturally pink.
I take no pride in my thin physique caused by my naturally high metabolism, and I find no joy in what would be considered "perfect" proportions, because here, "perfect" is simply status quo. In the entire city, there is a weight range of ten pounds and a height range of five inches.
When Unisity's scientists first began doing their genetic engineering experiments on willing participants, outsiders called them mad scientists or unethical cloners. But we are not clones. We are merely all created to look like one another, to form a society of perfect beauty.
I want to write about how the concept of "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" is no longer relevant, and about Emma's finace and about the plot but I'm too tired to write anymore now. I like the idea we have going here though.
I'm aware that this will hail to the "Uglies" series by Scott Westerfield but I still want to write this and am convinced that if I continued I could twist it up.
In a world where everyone is beautiful, no one really is. When everyone looks the same, physical attraction dies away. A world which once prized individuality is lost, and suddenly the idea of arranged marriages is no longer so archaic.
This is the world I live in. My name is Emma Crane. I have black hair that falls to the bottom of my shoulder blades, cut straight across, with bangs that swoop strongly to the left to hide the fluffy hairs that always want to frizz up on my left temple. My eyes are green and what you would call wide-set. I would not call them wide-set, nor would anyone else in Unisity, because all of our eyes are the same distance apart. My mother's eyes are also green. So are my sister's. Same as the eyes of all my female classmates. And their mothers and sisters. My nose, like everyone else's, is mostly straight but turns up just slightly at the end to appear "perky", and my cheeckbones are high and naturally pink.
I take no pride in my thin physique caused by my naturally high metabolism, and I find no joy in what would be considered "perfect" proportions, because here, "perfect" is simply status quo. In the entire city, there is a weight range of ten pounds and a height range of five inches.
When Unisity's scientists first began doing their genetic engineering experiments on willing participants, outsiders called them mad scientists or unethical cloners. But we are not clones. We are merely all created to look like one another, to form a society of perfect beauty.
I want to write about how the concept of "beauty is in the eye of the beholder" is no longer relevant, and about Emma's finace and about the plot but I'm too tired to write anymore now. I like the idea we have going here though.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Elves
Time to write!
So...Thanksgiving break proved to be the nemesis of productive writing. Somehow instead of effectively using my time writing essays and then delving into some complex character organization, I found myself watching several episodes of The Office and taking long naps. BUT. Here I am ready to update, and with every intention of NOT using time so poorly for the next few weeks, which are not only bound but flat out guaranteed to be insane.
It is entertaining, truly, to see what humans think about us. About any of us. If you mention an "elf" to any given person this image could conjure up any number of images.
One person may think of Tolkien's pointy-eared, long-haired, singing archers.
Another may imagine Santa Claus's little helpers, complete with round bellies, strange names, jingle-belled hats and rather often fluffy beards.
Then you have the Elves and the Shoemaker elves, which obviously were small enough to fit inside a shoe but fast enough sewers to complete multiple pairs of shoes several times their size in a single night.
There have been more modern interpretations, making elves strange colors, or possessing strange diets.
Some elves are peaceful and wise, others are silly and uninvolved, yet others are violent and veer on gruesome.
What would you do if someone told you that elves are actually very real, and that they're all around you?
You most likely would not believe them. This is because you can't see us. Because elves aren't any of those things which humans have worked to portray us as. Elves are invisible to all humans but the Seers, and sometimes generations pass between those.
Indeed, almost four hundred years passed during which time the Elvin League had almost adapted to a life without human interference when we were discovered by three Seers at once, an anomaly which tells us that not only are times changing, but something dark is coming.
So...Thanksgiving break proved to be the nemesis of productive writing. Somehow instead of effectively using my time writing essays and then delving into some complex character organization, I found myself watching several episodes of The Office and taking long naps. BUT. Here I am ready to update, and with every intention of NOT using time so poorly for the next few weeks, which are not only bound but flat out guaranteed to be insane.
It is entertaining, truly, to see what humans think about us. About any of us. If you mention an "elf" to any given person this image could conjure up any number of images.
One person may think of Tolkien's pointy-eared, long-haired, singing archers.
Another may imagine Santa Claus's little helpers, complete with round bellies, strange names, jingle-belled hats and rather often fluffy beards.
Then you have the Elves and the Shoemaker elves, which obviously were small enough to fit inside a shoe but fast enough sewers to complete multiple pairs of shoes several times their size in a single night.
There have been more modern interpretations, making elves strange colors, or possessing strange diets.
Some elves are peaceful and wise, others are silly and uninvolved, yet others are violent and veer on gruesome.
What would you do if someone told you that elves are actually very real, and that they're all around you?
You most likely would not believe them. This is because you can't see us. Because elves aren't any of those things which humans have worked to portray us as. Elves are invisible to all humans but the Seers, and sometimes generations pass between those.
Indeed, almost four hundred years passed during which time the Elvin League had almost adapted to a life without human interference when we were discovered by three Seers at once, an anomaly which tells us that not only are times changing, but something dark is coming.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
On File
Time to write!
Name: Reagan Willis
Age: 16 years, 2 months, 3 days
Height: 5' 5''
Weight: 119 lbs
GPA: 3.25
Underneath the information were small blue arrows, one pointing right, the other pointing left. By looking to one side or the other and blinking twice for confirmation the words would scroll in the direction indicated and display a new sheet of information.
Parents: Janice Copland, Bill Willis
Siblings: Gareth (18), Sears (14), Trillith (8)
Occupation: Waitress
Relationship Status: Single
It was like having your social network page on file for everyone to see. Literally everyone. There was no "friends" or even "friends of friends" option.
You also couldn't limit what was there. You couldn't "untag" yourself, so to speak, or choose to keep your middle name or birthday private. If you were in a relationship that you didn't want your mother to know about, that was just too bad. She knew. Within minutes of you walking in the door after holding hands for the first time. So what if it wasn't official? It was on file.
They floated a few inches above the head. You could choose not to see them, if you avoided looking directly at them. Rumors say that once, back when technology was so obsolete that you hold to actually hold or touch devices in order to use them, when you were first introduced to someone it was customary to look them in the eye. Now you only looked a person in the eye if you were already good friends and you knew their data sheets by heart, and even then it was more than normal to glance back up to see if anything had changed since the last time you'd talked.
Name: Reagan Willis
Age: 16 years, 2 months, 3 days
Height: 5' 5''
Weight: 119 lbs
GPA: 3.25
Underneath the information were small blue arrows, one pointing right, the other pointing left. By looking to one side or the other and blinking twice for confirmation the words would scroll in the direction indicated and display a new sheet of information.
Parents: Janice Copland, Bill Willis
Siblings: Gareth (18), Sears (14), Trillith (8)
Occupation: Waitress
Relationship Status: Single
It was like having your social network page on file for everyone to see. Literally everyone. There was no "friends" or even "friends of friends" option.
You also couldn't limit what was there. You couldn't "untag" yourself, so to speak, or choose to keep your middle name or birthday private. If you were in a relationship that you didn't want your mother to know about, that was just too bad. She knew. Within minutes of you walking in the door after holding hands for the first time. So what if it wasn't official? It was on file.
They floated a few inches above the head. You could choose not to see them, if you avoided looking directly at them. Rumors say that once, back when technology was so obsolete that you hold to actually hold or touch devices in order to use them, when you were first introduced to someone it was customary to look them in the eye. Now you only looked a person in the eye if you were already good friends and you knew their data sheets by heart, and even then it was more than normal to glance back up to see if anything had changed since the last time you'd talked.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Paddington Academy
Time to write!
Sorry, I know I've missed a couple days. I've been ill and sleeping every spare minute. I just now got up to use the loo and decided to do a quick five minute-r so that I don't get in the bad habit of not updating (sorry mom-literally five minutes!)
Cherise was under no delusion that her first day at Paddington Academy was going to be normal. She knew it was a school for those with "special talents". Special enough that they weren't appreciated by normal society. From an extremely optimistic point of view, Cherise supposed that one could look at it as a school for Superheroes. Unfortunately, the more common way of approaching Paddington Academy was resigning yourself as an outcast- an alumnus at a school for freaks.
Going to Paddington Academy wasn't a choice. It wasn't something "gifted" children looked forward to, or that "gifted" parents hoped their kids would one day attend.
Paddington Academy was an institution. It's stone walls, barred windows, heavy wooden doors with triple enforced locks, and special detainment facilities awaited only those whom the government deemed unfit to be around civilian people.
You were sent to Paddington Academy not because anyone really believed you were special, or talented, or gifted. You were sent because someone believed you were dangerous. A threat. A menace. You weren't placed in the rolls of Paddington Academy because somebody hoped you would someday save the world. Rather that you might someday endanger it.
Sorry, I know I've missed a couple days. I've been ill and sleeping every spare minute. I just now got up to use the loo and decided to do a quick five minute-r so that I don't get in the bad habit of not updating (sorry mom-literally five minutes!)
Cherise was under no delusion that her first day at Paddington Academy was going to be normal. She knew it was a school for those with "special talents". Special enough that they weren't appreciated by normal society. From an extremely optimistic point of view, Cherise supposed that one could look at it as a school for Superheroes. Unfortunately, the more common way of approaching Paddington Academy was resigning yourself as an outcast- an alumnus at a school for freaks.
Going to Paddington Academy wasn't a choice. It wasn't something "gifted" children looked forward to, or that "gifted" parents hoped their kids would one day attend.
Paddington Academy was an institution. It's stone walls, barred windows, heavy wooden doors with triple enforced locks, and special detainment facilities awaited only those whom the government deemed unfit to be around civilian people.
You were sent to Paddington Academy not because anyone really believed you were special, or talented, or gifted. You were sent because someone believed you were dangerous. A threat. A menace. You weren't placed in the rolls of Paddington Academy because somebody hoped you would someday save the world. Rather that you might someday endanger it.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Just Say It
Time to write!
Write an all dialogue story-nothing can be said beside what the characters are saying.
Her dialogue will be written in black!
His dialogue will be written in green.
What a colorful page this will be!!
Don't touch me.
I wouldn't want to anyway! Now that I know what you are.
Riiiight. Like I'm the freak. Like I'm the one that needs to be avoided.
What? Aren't you?
I knew we were different from the start! I didn't push you away! I didn't treat you like scum, just because I knew our lives would always be different!
Well maybe you should've!
Maybe.
Does it bother you Enda?
The fact that I fell in love with a complete moron? Yes.
No. The fact that you live a lie.
I don't live a lie! I'm comfortable with who I am! I know who I am! I accept who I am! It's you that lives in this constant state of denial-too afraid to trust who you are or to trust your own feelings.
You want to talk about trust now? You want to talk about trust? How about the fact that I trusted you? Were you planning on telling me your little secret? To letting me in on the joke?
It isn't a joke! And yes, I was planning on telling you, but I wanted to wait until it was the right time.
How about from the beginning?
Ha! Clearly wouldn't have been the right time. That's kind of clear from your reaction right now!
What makes you think that dragging out this lie any longer would somehow make it better later?
Because it isn't a lie. It's a shield, maybe, but it's still me. It was always me.
Maybe then, but not anymore.
What do you mean?
It was always you. But it never will be you again.
BUT WHAT IS SHE??
Write an all dialogue story-nothing can be said beside what the characters are saying.
Her dialogue will be written in black!
His dialogue will be written in green.
What a colorful page this will be!!
Don't touch me.
I wouldn't want to anyway! Now that I know what you are.
Riiiight. Like I'm the freak. Like I'm the one that needs to be avoided.
What? Aren't you?
I knew we were different from the start! I didn't push you away! I didn't treat you like scum, just because I knew our lives would always be different!
Well maybe you should've!
Maybe.
Does it bother you Enda?
The fact that I fell in love with a complete moron? Yes.
No. The fact that you live a lie.
I don't live a lie! I'm comfortable with who I am! I know who I am! I accept who I am! It's you that lives in this constant state of denial-too afraid to trust who you are or to trust your own feelings.
You want to talk about trust now? You want to talk about trust? How about the fact that I trusted you? Were you planning on telling me your little secret? To letting me in on the joke?
It isn't a joke! And yes, I was planning on telling you, but I wanted to wait until it was the right time.
How about from the beginning?
Ha! Clearly wouldn't have been the right time. That's kind of clear from your reaction right now!
What makes you think that dragging out this lie any longer would somehow make it better later?
Because it isn't a lie. It's a shield, maybe, but it's still me. It was always me.
Maybe then, but not anymore.
What do you mean?
It was always you. But it never will be you again.
BUT WHAT IS SHE??
Monday, November 12, 2012
Hypothetically Speaking...
Time to write!
Hypothetically speaking, what would happen if somewhere every supposition we ever made actually came true?
If that was the case, then I would have just doomed a whole new world into being. This world would be a parallel universe where every time anyone supposes anything, then that supposing actually becomes reality.
So if Moses supposed that his toes were roses, then in Supposition land, I guess Moses would suddenly have roses toes.
This all sounds rather silly, but there are alternate worlds. I know, because I accidentally thought myself into one, when making a careless statement kind of like the one I made just a moment ago.
All I did was utter the phrase, "hypothetically, what if every hypothetical question actually got answered somewhere else? and what would someone do if they were forced to answer those hypothetical questions?"
I had meant no harm by it, but the transition had happened just that fast. Part of that was because security sure was low this weekend, due to the war and the Stargates being down and the Commander being otherwise engaged. You see, they normally like to prevent people from entering Hypothralsia. For when Hypothetical assumptions become reality, things get messy, pretty darn fast.
Hypothetically speaking, what would happen if somewhere every supposition we ever made actually came true?
If that was the case, then I would have just doomed a whole new world into being. This world would be a parallel universe where every time anyone supposes anything, then that supposing actually becomes reality.
So if Moses supposed that his toes were roses, then in Supposition land, I guess Moses would suddenly have roses toes.
This all sounds rather silly, but there are alternate worlds. I know, because I accidentally thought myself into one, when making a careless statement kind of like the one I made just a moment ago.
All I did was utter the phrase, "hypothetically, what if every hypothetical question actually got answered somewhere else? and what would someone do if they were forced to answer those hypothetical questions?"
I had meant no harm by it, but the transition had happened just that fast. Part of that was because security sure was low this weekend, due to the war and the Stargates being down and the Commander being otherwise engaged. You see, they normally like to prevent people from entering Hypothralsia. For when Hypothetical assumptions become reality, things get messy, pretty darn fast.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Deletion
Time to write!
When we arrived in the dormitories, everything seemed perfectly ordinary. There were twenty two rooms in our hallway, twelve on the right side and ten on the left. The left side also had the bathrooms which we were all to share. All of the doors were painted black, and were made of cold, unfeeling metal. They were strong doors, not doors which could easily be kicked in, nor doors which could slam when one of the girls was in her mood.
The hallway was stark and crisp, just like the rest of the Academy. There was no frou-frou, no bricabrac, no hodgepodge to be found. In fact words such as those were just the kind that would not be tolerated at the Academy. While other boarding schools likely had posters on the walls or at least a bulletin board for announcements, the dormitory hallways at St. Rosen's Academy were fresh-piece-of-paper white, uninterrupted by anything but the dove gray molding which framed those heavy black doors. There were, however, forty-four small spots of color in that hallway. On each of the doors were nametags, in a variety of different colors. There were red, blue, purple, and green name cards, all of these colors in dark tones. The red was more of a burgundy, the blue a navy more than anything else, the purple was nothing short of eggplant and the shade of green is one that could only be described as the love child of emerald and forest green.
Forty-four flashes of color in a black and white hallway. The colors made those name placards easily noticeable, but none of us anticipated how important they actually were, that is, until they started disappearing.
When we arrived in the dormitories, everything seemed perfectly ordinary. There were twenty two rooms in our hallway, twelve on the right side and ten on the left. The left side also had the bathrooms which we were all to share. All of the doors were painted black, and were made of cold, unfeeling metal. They were strong doors, not doors which could easily be kicked in, nor doors which could slam when one of the girls was in her mood.
The hallway was stark and crisp, just like the rest of the Academy. There was no frou-frou, no bricabrac, no hodgepodge to be found. In fact words such as those were just the kind that would not be tolerated at the Academy. While other boarding schools likely had posters on the walls or at least a bulletin board for announcements, the dormitory hallways at St. Rosen's Academy were fresh-piece-of-paper white, uninterrupted by anything but the dove gray molding which framed those heavy black doors. There were, however, forty-four small spots of color in that hallway. On each of the doors were nametags, in a variety of different colors. There were red, blue, purple, and green name cards, all of these colors in dark tones. The red was more of a burgundy, the blue a navy more than anything else, the purple was nothing short of eggplant and the shade of green is one that could only be described as the love child of emerald and forest green.
Forty-four flashes of color in a black and white hallway. The colors made those name placards easily noticeable, but none of us anticipated how important they actually were, that is, until they started disappearing.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Chocolate and Ponies
Time to write!
Who decided that it's ok to make bunnies and Santas out of chocolate? Why not ponies?
And why do we eat gummy worms? That's disgusting. Worms are for nasty!
Who chose to name oreos "oreos"?
I have so many questions.
Questions that bubble up inside my head.
They play and frolic between each other, bumping into one another, merging and meshing to form new questions and new problems and new things for me to think about.
I wish I could find the answers, but when I try to ask my dad he always tells me, "What a great question. Why don't you do some research and write an essay on that?"
When he says this, a new question always rises to the surface of my mind. That question is: "Who the heck even wants to do that?"
Who decided that it's ok to make bunnies and Santas out of chocolate? Why not ponies?
And why do we eat gummy worms? That's disgusting. Worms are for nasty!
Who chose to name oreos "oreos"?
I have so many questions.
Questions that bubble up inside my head.
They play and frolic between each other, bumping into one another, merging and meshing to form new questions and new problems and new things for me to think about.
I wish I could find the answers, but when I try to ask my dad he always tells me, "What a great question. Why don't you do some research and write an essay on that?"
When he says this, a new question always rises to the surface of my mind. That question is: "Who the heck even wants to do that?"
Friday, November 9, 2012
Internet Problems
Time to write!
They say you can find anything on the internet.
That's what they say, but I don't believe it.
Why, just today, I was trying to do my homework, and the internet was not exactly what I'd call "helpful". All I wanted to do was find a well-written article on why Spiderman is the best superhero of all time. Know what I got? A lot of reviews, and lists of the best superhero movies ever. That isn't what I wanted. That wasn't going to help me for my homework assignment at all.
You see, we have to bring an article to class tomorrow which demonstrates great writing technique and style, but is on a topic we don't actually agree with.
And Spiderman clearly isn't the best superhero of all time. What do you think Batman is doing here for? Being the best, obviously.
The internet has other problems too.
Like half the time when you want to find a perfectly normal picture of something and type "cute rabbit", for example, you don't get what you were looking for at all.
I don't know about you, but when I type "cute rabbit" I'm looking for a cute rabbit. Not a next-to-naked girl with bunny ears and a little cotton ball tail!
Ew.
They say you can find anything on the internet. Well maybe it's all there, but someone needs to redefine the search system, because this is getting ridiculous.
They say you can find anything on the internet.
That's what they say, but I don't believe it.
Why, just today, I was trying to do my homework, and the internet was not exactly what I'd call "helpful". All I wanted to do was find a well-written article on why Spiderman is the best superhero of all time. Know what I got? A lot of reviews, and lists of the best superhero movies ever. That isn't what I wanted. That wasn't going to help me for my homework assignment at all.
You see, we have to bring an article to class tomorrow which demonstrates great writing technique and style, but is on a topic we don't actually agree with.
And Spiderman clearly isn't the best superhero of all time. What do you think Batman is doing here for? Being the best, obviously.
The internet has other problems too.
Like half the time when you want to find a perfectly normal picture of something and type "cute rabbit", for example, you don't get what you were looking for at all.
I don't know about you, but when I type "cute rabbit" I'm looking for a cute rabbit. Not a next-to-naked girl with bunny ears and a little cotton ball tail!
Ew.
They say you can find anything on the internet. Well maybe it's all there, but someone needs to redefine the search system, because this is getting ridiculous.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Time to write!
Use these words: hypocrite, cookie jar, ice water, and soap.
The hypocrite's hands were soapy. She had told her brother repeatedly not to get into the cookie jar, because that was wrong to do. However, when he wasn't there she would snitch cookies. Normally she just blamed the stolen cookies on her brother, for his fondness for the things was well known. This usually worked out just fine, only this time Paul had laid a trap. Paul had smeared the inside of the cookie jar- after emptying it first of course- with goopy congealed honey and Elmer's glue. Now Hillary's hands were sticky and coated and she couldn't get all of the sap like mixture off. She'd tried using hot water, cold water, warm water, practically lava water, and even ice water to loosen the stuff, but nothing was working.
Use these words: hypocrite, cookie jar, ice water, and soap.
The hypocrite's hands were soapy. She had told her brother repeatedly not to get into the cookie jar, because that was wrong to do. However, when he wasn't there she would snitch cookies. Normally she just blamed the stolen cookies on her brother, for his fondness for the things was well known. This usually worked out just fine, only this time Paul had laid a trap. Paul had smeared the inside of the cookie jar- after emptying it first of course- with goopy congealed honey and Elmer's glue. Now Hillary's hands were sticky and coated and she couldn't get all of the sap like mixture off. She'd tried using hot water, cold water, warm water, practically lava water, and even ice water to loosen the stuff, but nothing was working.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Rush Write
Time to write!
Just write without stopping for five minutes. Begin with the word "cheese".
Cheese was a power source for the Balondians. They needed it to fuel their cars, light their cities, and play their music. Without cheese, Balondian society would cease to exist. Cheese wasn't just fuel, it wasn't just power. Cheese was life. Where there was life there was Cheese. Where one did not exist, it was likely that the other did not as well. The Balondians needed so much cheese that to them the term "holy cow" could hardly be more literal. Cows were their main cheese producers. While yaks and goats could get the job done as well, they produced a cheese which didn't quite "cut the mustard" so to speak. I guess you could say it was "low-grade". As a result, dairy farms, referred to as power plants of course, were located all over the land of Balondia. On one such farm lived a girl named Russe, said like Roos and not like Russ and perhaps most of all like ruse. She was tiny, oh so tiny, especially when compared to the large cows she spent her hours with. Day in and day out, Russe was among the cows.
While the thought of having a city run on cheese and a tiny girl living among the cows might seem fantastic to you, I must assure you, there were stranger things happening in Balondia. Stranger things, like coins disappearing from the royal treasury, and cheese going bad before it was used. Oddly enough, these strange occurrences didn't begin happening until the arrival of Orlock the Warlock.
Just write without stopping for five minutes. Begin with the word "cheese".
Cheese was a power source for the Balondians. They needed it to fuel their cars, light their cities, and play their music. Without cheese, Balondian society would cease to exist. Cheese wasn't just fuel, it wasn't just power. Cheese was life. Where there was life there was Cheese. Where one did not exist, it was likely that the other did not as well. The Balondians needed so much cheese that to them the term "holy cow" could hardly be more literal. Cows were their main cheese producers. While yaks and goats could get the job done as well, they produced a cheese which didn't quite "cut the mustard" so to speak. I guess you could say it was "low-grade". As a result, dairy farms, referred to as power plants of course, were located all over the land of Balondia. On one such farm lived a girl named Russe, said like Roos and not like Russ and perhaps most of all like ruse. She was tiny, oh so tiny, especially when compared to the large cows she spent her hours with. Day in and day out, Russe was among the cows.
While the thought of having a city run on cheese and a tiny girl living among the cows might seem fantastic to you, I must assure you, there were stranger things happening in Balondia. Stranger things, like coins disappearing from the royal treasury, and cheese going bad before it was used. Oddly enough, these strange occurrences didn't begin happening until the arrival of Orlock the Warlock.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A Twist in the Tale
Time to write!
Paranormal romance is all the rage. Girls everywhere are falling in love with vampires and werewolves and dragons. Even zombies are being romanticized. We've had females swooning over ghosts for ages, which has been exceedingly complicated, due to the whole intangible thing. However, the female population have proved themselves loyal fangirls time and time again, as they've overcome fangs, claws, fur, and who knows what else, in order to stay committed to their, in many cases, undead lover.
Well I think vampires are kind of cute myself. Maybe that's because I was in love with one once. He loved me too, and we were very happy for a long time. Of course, that was almost one hundred and fifty years ago, and the rest of the clan is telling me to move on. But things aren't easy for female vampires, because no one falls in love with us.
***
Alexei and I were the epitome of the gothic romance. He was a vampire, crazed with bloodlust, and I was an unsuspecting, completely sensible English young woman. Despite the stories and the unexplained disappearances, I did not believe there were really vampires in London. I told myself there had to be a more logical explanation right up till that night I was walking home from a social at Lady Marian's. Normally, for such a walk, I would've had an escort, but I had ditched mine, finding his company rather unfavorable. I had been not a block from the inn where I rented my rooms, a respectable establishment, though not the most posh place on the street, when he had swooped down, literally, from the rooftops above me.
Running, especially given the shoes and the skirt which were popular during that time period, was futile. He overtook me in a moment. I got one quick look at his deep black eyes and his marble white skin before his lips were on my neck, his teeth piercing the skin just above my collar.
After my transformation Alexei never left my side. Neither he nor I were able to truly come to a conclusion, as to why he stayed with me. It isn't the way vampires typically treat their victims. To be sure, we took thousands of humans together for years afterwards, but none of them, even those who made it all the way to transformation, ever stayed with us. The best we could conclude was that we were supposed to be together, or Alexei wouldn't have waited in the street while I changed. He had leaned over me, letting his black cape conceal my shuddering, changing form. The first sight I glimpsed as I opened my newly changed eyes, now a midnight black and with much keener vision than I'd previously known, was his face. His hand was resting on my cheek and the expression he wore was not that of the hunter I had looked at just moments ago. Instead he looked excited and tender, all at once.
Alexei and I were happy. True, we were soulless, careless killers, preying on the innocent and the not-so-innocent with no care for which was which. True, we lived on the run, attacking a city until the inhabitants were ready to hire an expert or chase us out with stakes themselves. It was not a "good" life, but it was exciting and we were always together. That is, we were always together until the purge. That's the day Alexei, our entire clan, and even our child were destroyed, and I was given the worst gift a vampire can be given: a conscious.
Paranormal romance is all the rage. Girls everywhere are falling in love with vampires and werewolves and dragons. Even zombies are being romanticized. We've had females swooning over ghosts for ages, which has been exceedingly complicated, due to the whole intangible thing. However, the female population have proved themselves loyal fangirls time and time again, as they've overcome fangs, claws, fur, and who knows what else, in order to stay committed to their, in many cases, undead lover.
Well I think vampires are kind of cute myself. Maybe that's because I was in love with one once. He loved me too, and we were very happy for a long time. Of course, that was almost one hundred and fifty years ago, and the rest of the clan is telling me to move on. But things aren't easy for female vampires, because no one falls in love with us.
***
Alexei and I were the epitome of the gothic romance. He was a vampire, crazed with bloodlust, and I was an unsuspecting, completely sensible English young woman. Despite the stories and the unexplained disappearances, I did not believe there were really vampires in London. I told myself there had to be a more logical explanation right up till that night I was walking home from a social at Lady Marian's. Normally, for such a walk, I would've had an escort, but I had ditched mine, finding his company rather unfavorable. I had been not a block from the inn where I rented my rooms, a respectable establishment, though not the most posh place on the street, when he had swooped down, literally, from the rooftops above me.
Running, especially given the shoes and the skirt which were popular during that time period, was futile. He overtook me in a moment. I got one quick look at his deep black eyes and his marble white skin before his lips were on my neck, his teeth piercing the skin just above my collar.
After my transformation Alexei never left my side. Neither he nor I were able to truly come to a conclusion, as to why he stayed with me. It isn't the way vampires typically treat their victims. To be sure, we took thousands of humans together for years afterwards, but none of them, even those who made it all the way to transformation, ever stayed with us. The best we could conclude was that we were supposed to be together, or Alexei wouldn't have waited in the street while I changed. He had leaned over me, letting his black cape conceal my shuddering, changing form. The first sight I glimpsed as I opened my newly changed eyes, now a midnight black and with much keener vision than I'd previously known, was his face. His hand was resting on my cheek and the expression he wore was not that of the hunter I had looked at just moments ago. Instead he looked excited and tender, all at once.
Alexei and I were happy. True, we were soulless, careless killers, preying on the innocent and the not-so-innocent with no care for which was which. True, we lived on the run, attacking a city until the inhabitants were ready to hire an expert or chase us out with stakes themselves. It was not a "good" life, but it was exciting and we were always together. That is, we were always together until the purge. That's the day Alexei, our entire clan, and even our child were destroyed, and I was given the worst gift a vampire can be given: a conscious.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
A Little Inspiration
Time to write!
"Names are powerful," Thran Zilfenridge said with all solemnity. "It's not wise to let someone like that know your name."
"But how do you know who can know and who cannot?" asked Belrow. "After all, you know my name. Does that mean you could use my name against me?"
"Yes," Thran replied seriously. "Names imply familiarity. They imply trust. Do you think I'm going to hurt you, Belrow Quillstock?"
The question hung in the air between them.
"No." Belrow said suddenly, shaking his head perhaps a bit too vigorously. "I'm sure you'd never betray the oath you made to Ivlet to protect me."
That unsettling smile pulled at the corner of Thran's mouth. The elf, tall even be elvish standards, stood and checked his sword at his side, but did not reply.
"Well," said Belrow. "Should we get going?"
"Lead the way," Thran replied, gesturing with a sweep of his arm and a slight bow.
Belrow couldn't quite say what is was that tickled his suspicions about Thran Zilfenridge. Thran didn't inspire the chill and the horror that the Cor-Morin had brought, but something about him made Belrow feel like he needed to be continually on his guard. Still, Ivlet trusted him, and if Belrow couldn't trust in Ivlet, well, who could he trust?
I realllllllllll liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike.
"Names are powerful," Thran Zilfenridge said with all solemnity. "It's not wise to let someone like that know your name."
"But how do you know who can know and who cannot?" asked Belrow. "After all, you know my name. Does that mean you could use my name against me?"
"Yes," Thran replied seriously. "Names imply familiarity. They imply trust. Do you think I'm going to hurt you, Belrow Quillstock?"
The question hung in the air between them.
"No." Belrow said suddenly, shaking his head perhaps a bit too vigorously. "I'm sure you'd never betray the oath you made to Ivlet to protect me."
That unsettling smile pulled at the corner of Thran's mouth. The elf, tall even be elvish standards, stood and checked his sword at his side, but did not reply.
"Well," said Belrow. "Should we get going?"
"Lead the way," Thran replied, gesturing with a sweep of his arm and a slight bow.
Belrow couldn't quite say what is was that tickled his suspicions about Thran Zilfenridge. Thran didn't inspire the chill and the horror that the Cor-Morin had brought, but something about him made Belrow feel like he needed to be continually on his guard. Still, Ivlet trusted him, and if Belrow couldn't trust in Ivlet, well, who could he trust?
I realllllllllll liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike.
Haunted House
Time to write!
May I first just say I adore the included definition on this prompt? It cracks me up. On the real. Second of all, Happy Halloween to you all! All five of you. :)
Well this was stupid. I always told myself I wasn't going to be that girl. You know the one I'm talking about, right? The dumb one! The stupid girl who gets talked into going into a haunted house, because some guy thought it would be romantic in the most messed up way. So much for always considering myself to be an intellectual.
This wasn't the first dumb thing I'd done. It was the second. The first dumb thing that I'd allowed to happen, that I'd vowed would never happen, was that I let myself like Mark Rommers. Mark was that boy. There's one at every school. He's cute and kind of goofy, and extremely irritating and yet everyone likes him. Like it doesn't matter who you are. If you're female and straight, no intellectual thought process is going to keep you from having at least an inkling of feeling towards Mark Rommers.
And while I'd love to get you truly caught up on the fascinating backstory, the truth is I have bigger problems to deal with right now. I'm stuck inside a house which I can't get out of. There's nowhere to hide because the house can feel us, it can feel our weight on the floor and it can feel the anxiety and stress that's causing us to hunch our shoulders and stick our necks out like wary chickens.
Sure, this house is haunted. I mean there's ghosts and everything. But the house also is haunted. Like the house itself is practically a ghost. Its a moving, reasoning, thinking being but it's not actually alive. And I'm afraid. True and honest afraid. Not that knee shaking sensation I sometimes get right before I stand up to make a rebuttal in a debate, but so afraid that when Mark Rommers reached out to take my hand I felt nothing new. All I felt was fear.
May I first just say I adore the included definition on this prompt? It cracks me up. On the real. Second of all, Happy Halloween to you all! All five of you. :)
Well this was stupid. I always told myself I wasn't going to be that girl. You know the one I'm talking about, right? The dumb one! The stupid girl who gets talked into going into a haunted house, because some guy thought it would be romantic in the most messed up way. So much for always considering myself to be an intellectual.
This wasn't the first dumb thing I'd done. It was the second. The first dumb thing that I'd allowed to happen, that I'd vowed would never happen, was that I let myself like Mark Rommers. Mark was that boy. There's one at every school. He's cute and kind of goofy, and extremely irritating and yet everyone likes him. Like it doesn't matter who you are. If you're female and straight, no intellectual thought process is going to keep you from having at least an inkling of feeling towards Mark Rommers.
And while I'd love to get you truly caught up on the fascinating backstory, the truth is I have bigger problems to deal with right now. I'm stuck inside a house which I can't get out of. There's nowhere to hide because the house can feel us, it can feel our weight on the floor and it can feel the anxiety and stress that's causing us to hunch our shoulders and stick our necks out like wary chickens.
Sure, this house is haunted. I mean there's ghosts and everything. But the house also is haunted. Like the house itself is practically a ghost. Its a moving, reasoning, thinking being but it's not actually alive. And I'm afraid. True and honest afraid. Not that knee shaking sensation I sometimes get right before I stand up to make a rebuttal in a debate, but so afraid that when Mark Rommers reached out to take my hand I felt nothing new. All I felt was fear.
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
A Nape and Pot Halloween
Time to write!
I'm writing in orange because IT IS HALLOWEEN!!!! YAY!
I want to inform you that I actually wrote for almost a whole hour today. However, to read any of what I wrote, you'll have to check out the newest chapter of Protector.
https://www.fanfiction.net/story/story_preview.php?storyid=6763798&chapter=1
The link is right there, see, so you have no excuse not to read it. You also can't accuse me of not writing tonight because chapter 32 is the longest one yet, at actually over double the length of any other chapter so far. And I love it.
So if the idea of Lucius Malfoy carving pumpkins intrigues you, go read it. Right now. Just click on the link.
Have a safe and happy Halloween!!
I'm writing in orange because IT IS HALLOWEEN!!!! YAY!
I want to inform you that I actually wrote for almost a whole hour today. However, to read any of what I wrote, you'll have to check out the newest chapter of Protector.
https://www.fanfiction.net/story/story_preview.php?storyid=6763798&chapter=1
The link is right there, see, so you have no excuse not to read it. You also can't accuse me of not writing tonight because chapter 32 is the longest one yet, at actually over double the length of any other chapter so far. And I love it.
So if the idea of Lucius Malfoy carving pumpkins intrigues you, go read it. Right now. Just click on the link.
Have a safe and happy Halloween!!
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
The Snatchifaun
Time to write!
Disclaimer: I did not want to write this. I was extremely disturbed by it. But my roommate said I should do it. And I realized that sometimes stories just need to be disturbing. So here we are.
It seems like every culture has some sort of monster that children hear about and learn to fear at a young age, only to learn it was all nothing but a story. In Russia Babushka Babayaga haunted the dreams of the young, and in Norway children believed that trolls were real. In the town of Whit Send, there were legends about a terrible creature called the Snatchifaun. The Snatchifaun was part witch, part goat, and part ogre. She was unreasonably large, had the legs of a goat, the arms of a man, a nose like a rotting banana, and a large sack in which she put the children she found on her nighttime walks. Once you were caught by the Snatchifaun, that was that. You were taken home to her hut in the forest where you were eaten, live, on a bed of leafy greens.
Trilda, Randy, Gibson, and Hobb were all afraid of the Snatchifaun, Trilda and Hobb most of all.
"If the Snatchifaun ever found us, Hobb would die of fright afore he ever got sprinkled on her ter'ble salad!" Gibson declared Thursday afternoon.
Even though Miss Reelis, their teacher, didn't approve, many of the children talked about the Snatchifaun during their lunch break. They'd take their aluminum pails outside and sit on the steps. Then they'd trade apples and sandwiches for homemade cookies and wedges of cheese and they would tell one another stories of the Snatchifaun.
"If the Snatchifaun ever found us, they'd eat Randy first!" Hobb replied, poking Randy in the tummy.Randy was the plumpest of the children, but with his head of white-blonde hair his weight merely made him seem cherubic, especially at only seven years of age.
"If the Snatchifaun ever comes," Trilda said with great deliberation, "She won't catch me. I won't let her eat me."
Trilda spent a great deal of time thinking about the Snatchifaun. Her older brothers, Horris, Dorran, and Reggie, had told her many stories of the Snatchifaun, so many that Trilda knew she would never let that dreaded beast get her. She was afraid, all right, but her fear motivated her to planning.
Disclaimer: I did not want to write this. I was extremely disturbed by it. But my roommate said I should do it. And I realized that sometimes stories just need to be disturbing. So here we are.
It seems like every culture has some sort of monster that children hear about and learn to fear at a young age, only to learn it was all nothing but a story. In Russia Babushka Babayaga haunted the dreams of the young, and in Norway children believed that trolls were real. In the town of Whit Send, there were legends about a terrible creature called the Snatchifaun. The Snatchifaun was part witch, part goat, and part ogre. She was unreasonably large, had the legs of a goat, the arms of a man, a nose like a rotting banana, and a large sack in which she put the children she found on her nighttime walks. Once you were caught by the Snatchifaun, that was that. You were taken home to her hut in the forest where you were eaten, live, on a bed of leafy greens.
Trilda, Randy, Gibson, and Hobb were all afraid of the Snatchifaun, Trilda and Hobb most of all.
"If the Snatchifaun ever found us, Hobb would die of fright afore he ever got sprinkled on her ter'ble salad!" Gibson declared Thursday afternoon.
Even though Miss Reelis, their teacher, didn't approve, many of the children talked about the Snatchifaun during their lunch break. They'd take their aluminum pails outside and sit on the steps. Then they'd trade apples and sandwiches for homemade cookies and wedges of cheese and they would tell one another stories of the Snatchifaun.
"If the Snatchifaun ever found us, they'd eat Randy first!" Hobb replied, poking Randy in the tummy.Randy was the plumpest of the children, but with his head of white-blonde hair his weight merely made him seem cherubic, especially at only seven years of age.
"If the Snatchifaun ever comes," Trilda said with great deliberation, "She won't catch me. I won't let her eat me."
Trilda spent a great deal of time thinking about the Snatchifaun. Her older brothers, Horris, Dorran, and Reggie, had told her many stories of the Snatchifaun, so many that Trilda knew she would never let that dreaded beast get her. She was afraid, all right, but her fear motivated her to planning.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Mati and Rory
Time to write!
Matilda and Gregory were best friends, and were, as most boy-girl best friends turn out to be, at least slightly in love with one another. Of course, nothing could be so simple as to allow them to merely court and then have an eventual happy marriage. For, as is so often the case, Gregory was not of the same social class as Matilda. And, in keeping with the cliche, Matilda was in fact the daughter of an important town official who would never dream of giving up his only daughter to a cobbler's apprentice of unknown origin.
Matilda had become Gregory's friend partly because they were of such different social statuses. As a Counselman's daughter, she found herself attending many different parties, conventions, and other social events. At each of these events it was the expectation that she would be dressed fabulously and shoes were no exception. Her father's wealth meant that Matilda rarely had to leave the manor where she lived, so when she was to have new shoes made, or old shoes mended, or a certain pair of shoes slightly changed and dyed another color to match a new dress, the cobbler and his apprentice would pay her a call at home.
Gregory and Matilda had been nine and eight years old, respectively, the first time they'd met. At this time, Gregory, an orphan who had already spent many years learning his place, had an acute awareness of the class difference between them, but Matilda was ignorant of any such differentiation between them. After being greeted by the cobbler, Max Stuffins, she'd dropped him a quick curtsy then said, "My name's Matilda, but I like Mati. Who are you?"
"Gregory, Miss Matilda," Gregory had murmured shyly.
"No, I don't like Gregory at all." Matilda had stated, shaking her head. "That sounds like a butler's name."
"Is there another name that would please you, Miss Matilda?" Gregory asked, a little taken aback.
"Rory. It's like Gregory, but much nicer." The way Matilda said it was very matter of fact. She continued, "And I think we shall be great friends."
When Matilda Merriworth declared something, it almost always was so. And so Mati and Rory were great friends. It was that way, because she thought it should be.
oh the suspense...?
Matilda and Gregory were best friends, and were, as most boy-girl best friends turn out to be, at least slightly in love with one another. Of course, nothing could be so simple as to allow them to merely court and then have an eventual happy marriage. For, as is so often the case, Gregory was not of the same social class as Matilda. And, in keeping with the cliche, Matilda was in fact the daughter of an important town official who would never dream of giving up his only daughter to a cobbler's apprentice of unknown origin.
Matilda had become Gregory's friend partly because they were of such different social statuses. As a Counselman's daughter, she found herself attending many different parties, conventions, and other social events. At each of these events it was the expectation that she would be dressed fabulously and shoes were no exception. Her father's wealth meant that Matilda rarely had to leave the manor where she lived, so when she was to have new shoes made, or old shoes mended, or a certain pair of shoes slightly changed and dyed another color to match a new dress, the cobbler and his apprentice would pay her a call at home.
Gregory and Matilda had been nine and eight years old, respectively, the first time they'd met. At this time, Gregory, an orphan who had already spent many years learning his place, had an acute awareness of the class difference between them, but Matilda was ignorant of any such differentiation between them. After being greeted by the cobbler, Max Stuffins, she'd dropped him a quick curtsy then said, "My name's Matilda, but I like Mati. Who are you?"
"Gregory, Miss Matilda," Gregory had murmured shyly.
"No, I don't like Gregory at all." Matilda had stated, shaking her head. "That sounds like a butler's name."
"Is there another name that would please you, Miss Matilda?" Gregory asked, a little taken aback.
"Rory. It's like Gregory, but much nicer." The way Matilda said it was very matter of fact. She continued, "And I think we shall be great friends."
When Matilda Merriworth declared something, it almost always was so. And so Mati and Rory were great friends. It was that way, because she thought it should be.
oh the suspense...?
Saturday, October 27, 2012
Some Quick Thoughts
Time to write!
So...I promised. I did promise that I'd continue my story about being Branded. And I thought about that story today while I was in my English 201 class, therefor missing part of the class discussion about the Romans in preparation for the Aeneid. Joy. But then I watched Return of the King tonight and now it's late and I have so many thoughts about what makes writing so beautiful. It's this amazing mix of characters and plot. A truly spectacular author must master the balance between emotion and action, believability and fantasticality. I did just make those words up. And you know what? I'm not sure if I will ever really be that great of a writer. I don't doubt to tear myself down, I just realize that the minds which created Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings are minds which are few and far between. Lord of the Rings and Pride and Prejudice, in my opinion, are two of the most influential books ever written. They provide such templates for story telling, that patterns from one of them can be found just about anywhere you look. Writing is amazing, because the authors we love create worlds which we wish we could live in and characters whom we deeply care for. I was sobbing tonight over Sam and Merry and Pippin. I sob over Batman. I sob over Doctor Who. Characters and emotions which transcend the world the author places them in and comes into yours...that's what writing is about.
Pretend this is part of the Branded stuff. It's gonna be cool and I'm gonna continue.
So...I promised. I did promise that I'd continue my story about being Branded. And I thought about that story today while I was in my English 201 class, therefor missing part of the class discussion about the Romans in preparation for the Aeneid. Joy. But then I watched Return of the King tonight and now it's late and I have so many thoughts about what makes writing so beautiful. It's this amazing mix of characters and plot. A truly spectacular author must master the balance between emotion and action, believability and fantasticality. I did just make those words up. And you know what? I'm not sure if I will ever really be that great of a writer. I don't doubt to tear myself down, I just realize that the minds which created Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings are minds which are few and far between. Lord of the Rings and Pride and Prejudice, in my opinion, are two of the most influential books ever written. They provide such templates for story telling, that patterns from one of them can be found just about anywhere you look. Writing is amazing, because the authors we love create worlds which we wish we could live in and characters whom we deeply care for. I was sobbing tonight over Sam and Merry and Pippin. I sob over Batman. I sob over Doctor Who. Characters and emotions which transcend the world the author places them in and comes into yours...that's what writing is about.
Pretend this is part of the Branded stuff. It's gonna be cool and I'm gonna continue.
Friday, October 26, 2012
Branded
Time to write!
Many children had nightmares the last few nights before the branding. The older kids all said it was extremely painful, and the adults affirmed that the branding completely determined the rest of your life. You couldn't marry someone who wasn't of the same Brand. You couldn't even talk to them, unless they were a lower Brand than you, and most didn't. Brands didn't mix. This was the rule, and there were people to enforce it.
I was struck with this idea. loved it. then remembered I still have to read 5 scenes of "A Streetcar Named Desire." Joy. On the real, writing this tomorrow.
Many children had nightmares the last few nights before the branding. The older kids all said it was extremely painful, and the adults affirmed that the branding completely determined the rest of your life. You couldn't marry someone who wasn't of the same Brand. You couldn't even talk to them, unless they were a lower Brand than you, and most didn't. Brands didn't mix. This was the rule, and there were people to enforce it.
I was struck with this idea. loved it. then remembered I still have to read 5 scenes of "A Streetcar Named Desire." Joy. On the real, writing this tomorrow.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Jupitress
Time to write!
Your main character must be from another planet.
Citizens from Earth are funny creatures. They have these far-fetched concepts of what constitutes a "person" and what elements are necessary to sustain a living being. Furthermore, the idea of beings on other planets completely terrifies them. Where I come from, we are more than aware of those inhabiting the other planets in our solar system, and generally we do not fear them.
Where you come from I trust you would believe life in Jupiter to be impossible. The construction of the planet is undoubtedly not what scientists from Earth would call "solid" or "livable". To you, the idea of anyone living on a planet made of gas might seem ridiculous.
Keep in mind though that everything which you call solid is still mostly empty space. "Gas" is just even more excited molecules, with even more empty space. That's what we're made of on Jupiter. I can stand on what to Earth dwellers deem merely "air" and I can walk straight through what they would swear is impenetrable.
Despite the advantages of the Jupitrans over Earthlets, we are by no means the most powerful creatures in the universe. We have our own kinds of terrors and monsters, the likes of which dwell only in your science-fiction, or in the dreams you are glad you cannot remember when you wake up. Living in this galaxy with an absolute awareness of everything that is out there is no easy burden to bear, but it gives us so much the advantage to defending the peace-loving species here from those of a more malignant strand. This is why in the year 921 the elders from all of the Aeralien Ginorms - what human astronomers would commonly call the Gas Giants - met in counsel and formed the Aeralien Alliance and Task Force, a sector of which is the InterSpecies Militia.
My father served in the InterSpecies Militia from the time he was eligible until the time of his death, for almost 356 years. This may seem like a very long time to some species, but my father was only 45 when he was killed in conflict, leaving me an orphan, alone on the military base.
I really want to continue this, but it's late. I want feedback. :) This is my first ever attempt at anything even vaguely science-fiction, so be understanding.
Your main character must be from another planet.
Citizens from Earth are funny creatures. They have these far-fetched concepts of what constitutes a "person" and what elements are necessary to sustain a living being. Furthermore, the idea of beings on other planets completely terrifies them. Where I come from, we are more than aware of those inhabiting the other planets in our solar system, and generally we do not fear them.
Where you come from I trust you would believe life in Jupiter to be impossible. The construction of the planet is undoubtedly not what scientists from Earth would call "solid" or "livable". To you, the idea of anyone living on a planet made of gas might seem ridiculous.
Keep in mind though that everything which you call solid is still mostly empty space. "Gas" is just even more excited molecules, with even more empty space. That's what we're made of on Jupiter. I can stand on what to Earth dwellers deem merely "air" and I can walk straight through what they would swear is impenetrable.
Despite the advantages of the Jupitrans over Earthlets, we are by no means the most powerful creatures in the universe. We have our own kinds of terrors and monsters, the likes of which dwell only in your science-fiction, or in the dreams you are glad you cannot remember when you wake up. Living in this galaxy with an absolute awareness of everything that is out there is no easy burden to bear, but it gives us so much the advantage to defending the peace-loving species here from those of a more malignant strand. This is why in the year 921 the elders from all of the Aeralien Ginorms - what human astronomers would commonly call the Gas Giants - met in counsel and formed the Aeralien Alliance and Task Force, a sector of which is the InterSpecies Militia.
My father served in the InterSpecies Militia from the time he was eligible until the time of his death, for almost 356 years. This may seem like a very long time to some species, but my father was only 45 when he was killed in conflict, leaving me an orphan, alone on the military base.
I really want to continue this, but it's late. I want feedback. :) This is my first ever attempt at anything even vaguely science-fiction, so be understanding.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Time to write!
This isn't your typical story, where the girl somehow gets transported back in time, feels helpless for awhile, makes a whole bunch of social mistakes, makes a friend with a high class lady, and falls in love with the nineteenth century hunk. Those girls go back in time and immediately start worrying about how they're going to get home again. Those girls try to blend in, to be a part of the system until they can somehow return. Those girls meet some Mr. Darcy or a knight in shining armor and realize they never want to leave. Then those girls are inevitably just as swiftly transported back into their own time, where they meet a modern day parallel of their man. This aspect even more than time travel disproves these stories entirely.
But you see, this is my story. This isn't one of those teeny-bopper feel good stories that makes you laugh and makes you cry and wish that YOU TOO could go back in time so that next week the love of your life will approach you in high school, complete with Mr. Rochester mannerisms, and an innate tendency to wear boots without looking gay.
This is my story, and I'm not one of those girls. Because when I went back in time, I realized I had so much the advantage. I had history and the developments of the future on my side, and I realized I didn't have to blend in. I could change the world. Heck. Forget changing the world. I could rule it.
***
Before you go off and label me as inherently evil, I guess I should pin the blame on someone else, and say this all boils down to my love for old Marvel comics. In the comic books you have two kinds of characters. You have those who try to blend in despite having incredible powers, and therefore cover their faces whenever they're fighting. They're big into secret identities and have weird rules about only ever putting the villains in jail, or allowing the villains to do something dumb that leads to their ultimate demise. Then there are the characters who are like "Yo. I'm here. Deal with it." Ironman definitely falls into this category, but my favorite example here is Loki.
When Thor falls to earth he finds normal clothes and learns how to function in society. Then Loki comes down. Bam. Completely unapologetic, green cape, random gold horned helmet, the works. And I say good for you, man.
If there's one thing Junior year taught me, it's that being ashamed of who you are or trying to be someone else isn't going to make you any more popular or suddenly help you have friends.
If there are two things Junior year taught me, the other would be that justice in this world really is only a mere concept, an ideal we can aspire to, but something we'll never fully reach. Bad things happen to good people and nothing actually fixes it. Sure, in stories it happens. In movies. In the heads of all delusional girls.
Many people, too many people, go home from school and tell themselves that tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow is the day for making friends. Tomorrow is when that guy will finally notice that those other girls aren't as nice or as smart.
It's a pretty idea, really it is, but its naive.
So after Junior year I decided it was over. I'm not going to be Peter Parker anymore. I'm going to be Tony Stark. I'm going to reveal my face and say "What the heck. Yep. I'm Ironman." Except I'm not really Ironman, but the imagery remains. I'm going to march in wearing that awkward Loki helmet like it's the coolest piece of armory ever conceived and I'm going to own it.
This was my philosophy going into Senior year, but when I suddenly found myself in nineteenth century London, the same concept applied.
There I was, wearing black skinny jeans and black leather boots, a yellow and red t shirt and a black leather jacket and instead of darting off to the nearest clothing shop where I could trade my foreign garments for a petticoat and bloomers, I put on my sunglasses and smiled.
Because this was my Loki moment.
I was Tyra Rizmont, and I was going to take over the world.
This isn't your typical story, where the girl somehow gets transported back in time, feels helpless for awhile, makes a whole bunch of social mistakes, makes a friend with a high class lady, and falls in love with the nineteenth century hunk. Those girls go back in time and immediately start worrying about how they're going to get home again. Those girls try to blend in, to be a part of the system until they can somehow return. Those girls meet some Mr. Darcy or a knight in shining armor and realize they never want to leave. Then those girls are inevitably just as swiftly transported back into their own time, where they meet a modern day parallel of their man. This aspect even more than time travel disproves these stories entirely.
But you see, this is my story. This isn't one of those teeny-bopper feel good stories that makes you laugh and makes you cry and wish that YOU TOO could go back in time so that next week the love of your life will approach you in high school, complete with Mr. Rochester mannerisms, and an innate tendency to wear boots without looking gay.
This is my story, and I'm not one of those girls. Because when I went back in time, I realized I had so much the advantage. I had history and the developments of the future on my side, and I realized I didn't have to blend in. I could change the world. Heck. Forget changing the world. I could rule it.
***
Before you go off and label me as inherently evil, I guess I should pin the blame on someone else, and say this all boils down to my love for old Marvel comics. In the comic books you have two kinds of characters. You have those who try to blend in despite having incredible powers, and therefore cover their faces whenever they're fighting. They're big into secret identities and have weird rules about only ever putting the villains in jail, or allowing the villains to do something dumb that leads to their ultimate demise. Then there are the characters who are like "Yo. I'm here. Deal with it." Ironman definitely falls into this category, but my favorite example here is Loki.
When Thor falls to earth he finds normal clothes and learns how to function in society. Then Loki comes down. Bam. Completely unapologetic, green cape, random gold horned helmet, the works. And I say good for you, man.
If there's one thing Junior year taught me, it's that being ashamed of who you are or trying to be someone else isn't going to make you any more popular or suddenly help you have friends.
If there are two things Junior year taught me, the other would be that justice in this world really is only a mere concept, an ideal we can aspire to, but something we'll never fully reach. Bad things happen to good people and nothing actually fixes it. Sure, in stories it happens. In movies. In the heads of all delusional girls.
Many people, too many people, go home from school and tell themselves that tomorrow will be a better day. Tomorrow is the day for making friends. Tomorrow is when that guy will finally notice that those other girls aren't as nice or as smart.
It's a pretty idea, really it is, but its naive.
So after Junior year I decided it was over. I'm not going to be Peter Parker anymore. I'm going to be Tony Stark. I'm going to reveal my face and say "What the heck. Yep. I'm Ironman." Except I'm not really Ironman, but the imagery remains. I'm going to march in wearing that awkward Loki helmet like it's the coolest piece of armory ever conceived and I'm going to own it.
This was my philosophy going into Senior year, but when I suddenly found myself in nineteenth century London, the same concept applied.
There I was, wearing black skinny jeans and black leather boots, a yellow and red t shirt and a black leather jacket and instead of darting off to the nearest clothing shop where I could trade my foreign garments for a petticoat and bloomers, I put on my sunglasses and smiled.
Because this was my Loki moment.
I was Tyra Rizmont, and I was going to take over the world.
Captain Sparky Pants
Time to write!
Well. If you insist....
Captain Sparky Pants missed the glory days. Truly he did. Used to be that whenever he'd don his suit, children would run up wanting his autograph and the citizens would cheer, for he was their hero. He was the magnificent Captain Sparky Pants.
Of course, it also used to be that his suit was a brilliant shade of blue, and fit him fantastically, his muscles bulging beneath the extra-durable fabric.
But those were the fifties.
Now his suit was a faded, stormy blue, veering on gray, and didn't fit him nearly so well. The only thing bulging beneath the now thinning suit was his belly, and it wasn't something Captain Sparky Pants was proud of.
His only consolation was that once when he'd pull his mask up over his eyes, an effective method of concealing his secret identity- mild-mannered Jim Betrowski- he did so a the peril of covering up his exquisite head of dark, wavy hair. Now his cap covered his bald scalp. That at least was an improvement.
Captain Sparky Pants missed the old days so much that every Wednesday afternoon he'd put on his super suit, even though no one cheered anymore, and the only kids who ran up to him told him he looked ridiculous or kicked him in the shins. He'd put on his suit and he would walk down to Velma's Diner. Velma was gone now, she'd passed away back in 1977, but her daughter ran the place and she always smiled at Captain Sparky pants and passed him a bowl of oranges.
And so there he'd sit, in his super suit, peeling oranges and eating the segments. Feeling the juice squish onto his fingers and the softness of the fruit's flesh between his teeth, he would sit and reminisce, becoming nostalgic in the way that only truly old men who were once truly great can.
He missed the glory days, that was for sure, and he missed Velma, and he missed Barb, and he missed his old sidekick, Nick Thunder Drum, who had grown up and become a cartoonist and a lawyer on the weekends. He'd give anything to have those times and those people back.
Well. If you insist....
Captain Sparky Pants missed the glory days. Truly he did. Used to be that whenever he'd don his suit, children would run up wanting his autograph and the citizens would cheer, for he was their hero. He was the magnificent Captain Sparky Pants.
Of course, it also used to be that his suit was a brilliant shade of blue, and fit him fantastically, his muscles bulging beneath the extra-durable fabric.
But those were the fifties.
Now his suit was a faded, stormy blue, veering on gray, and didn't fit him nearly so well. The only thing bulging beneath the now thinning suit was his belly, and it wasn't something Captain Sparky Pants was proud of.
His only consolation was that once when he'd pull his mask up over his eyes, an effective method of concealing his secret identity- mild-mannered Jim Betrowski- he did so a the peril of covering up his exquisite head of dark, wavy hair. Now his cap covered his bald scalp. That at least was an improvement.
Captain Sparky Pants missed the old days so much that every Wednesday afternoon he'd put on his super suit, even though no one cheered anymore, and the only kids who ran up to him told him he looked ridiculous or kicked him in the shins. He'd put on his suit and he would walk down to Velma's Diner. Velma was gone now, she'd passed away back in 1977, but her daughter ran the place and she always smiled at Captain Sparky pants and passed him a bowl of oranges.
And so there he'd sit, in his super suit, peeling oranges and eating the segments. Feeling the juice squish onto his fingers and the softness of the fruit's flesh between his teeth, he would sit and reminisce, becoming nostalgic in the way that only truly old men who were once truly great can.
He missed the glory days, that was for sure, and he missed Velma, and he missed Barb, and he missed his old sidekick, Nick Thunder Drum, who had grown up and become a cartoonist and a lawyer on the weekends. He'd give anything to have those times and those people back.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Don't Stop Writing
Time to write!
Sunday means another "authentic" day, and I don't know what to write so I'm challenging myself to just do it and just write with no previous sense of direction! Ready! Go!
I knew I didn't have much time. I couldn't stop writing. There was no time to reread what I'd already put down on paper to ascertain that it made sense. All I could do was write and pray that my instructions would make sense, because soon my time would be up.
I could hear footsteps coming down the hall. I heard the jingling of keys, and the guard's gruff voice.
"On your feet!" he barked.
I recognized the voice. It was Stenson, one of the cruelest of our jailers. He tormented the prisoners for the fun of it, he must have liked the feeling of power it gave him, watching men, women, and children squirm and cry under his influence. I hated the man, but his propensity for vicious behavior meant I'd probably have a few more minutes than I'd anticipated.
I kept on writing. I couldn't stop now, each moment was precious. I could hear Crimmel moaning and Stenson laughing. I pushed down the anger I felt at Stenson's exploitation of Crimmel who was upwards of eighty years old and had only one leg and kept writing, ignoring my cramping hand, reminding myself that only through finishing this could I ever hope to help Crimmel, or any of the others.
I was almost done. Crimmel's door was slammed shut and I could hear the footsteps again and the sound of keys in a lock. Stenson had reached the cell next to mine. That's where Grea lived. Normally when the guards reached Grea I had to curl up in a ball with my hands over my ears because the thought of them hurting my Grea hurt me more than anything they did to me ever could, but today I knew I was going to need to hear every sound. I couldn't stop writing. I needed to finish, and I didn't have much time.
"You're looking smug, rebel trash," I heard Stenson drawl.
Grea didn't answer and Stenson continued speaking. "You smug because you got a plan? You feeling any hope today, pale boy?"
Grea didn't come from Lurea, but to a land far to the north, and his skin was much whiter than ours. His being a foreigner was something that even the "kindest" of the guards couldn't help but mock. I wished they'd just leave him alone.
"I have no plan," Grea answered quietly.
"Oh? So you're stupid? You gonna count on your other white friends to come and save you? You gonna wait for your white mama to come bring her baby home?"
I was so close to being finished. I knew Stenson was waiting for Grea to give him a reaction, so he'd have an excuse to hit him. I prayed that Grea wouldn't answer, wouldn't give in.
"Is that it, pale boy? You waiting for your snow people to get you out of this jail? Not very inspiring for the leader of a rebellion."
It was done. Now I just needed to seal it with something. I grabbed the sealant wax I'd found, my only chance at saving us all, and held it up close to the candle which was ensconced in a bunch of crossing bars. This way we prisoners could have some light and extremely limited warmth, but couldn't get the candles out or move them. This was a fairly new installation, since Troi had tried attacking a guard with a burning candle. Slowly the sealant began to soften. I was running out of time.
"You just gonna sit there quietly like a coward?" Stenson drawled. "Would you keep sitting there quietly if I pay a special visit to your little girlfriend?"
My heart began to pound, and I felt bile rise in my throat. The sealant was almost soft enough to spread over the parchment, which would it protect it from the water.
"Don't touch her," Grea said, his voice quiet but almost a growl.
"Don't? I touch her all the time." Stenson answered. "That girl's bruised and black and blue and there isn't a thing you can do about it." He laughed, a scratchy, grating sound.
Chains rattled, and I knew that Grea was getting angry.
"You gonna attack me?" Stenson asked, clearly enjoying the moment. "That's what your mama tried to do. Your little white mama, just before we killed her."
Grea strained against his chains again.
"You wanna fight, pale boy?"
The sickening sound of fist meeting jaw came, and Grea's chains chinked again. I knew he was trying to defend himself, but his arms were chained to the wall at the wrists, the only one of us who was chained that way.
I couldn't let what was happening right next to me affect me. The wax was malleable, but not runny. I used my hands to crust it over the entire piece of parchment, then folded it while the sealant was still soft so it wouldn't crack. I spread another layer over the folded document, sealing it tightly, doing my best to ignore Grea's grunts and the sound of his chains as he tried to pull his limbs from the wall.
I stood on tiptoe and pushed the parchment through the window where it fell to the waves below me. Now it was done, and all I could do was hope that it would work.
Sunday means another "authentic" day, and I don't know what to write so I'm challenging myself to just do it and just write with no previous sense of direction! Ready! Go!
I knew I didn't have much time. I couldn't stop writing. There was no time to reread what I'd already put down on paper to ascertain that it made sense. All I could do was write and pray that my instructions would make sense, because soon my time would be up.
I could hear footsteps coming down the hall. I heard the jingling of keys, and the guard's gruff voice.
"On your feet!" he barked.
I recognized the voice. It was Stenson, one of the cruelest of our jailers. He tormented the prisoners for the fun of it, he must have liked the feeling of power it gave him, watching men, women, and children squirm and cry under his influence. I hated the man, but his propensity for vicious behavior meant I'd probably have a few more minutes than I'd anticipated.
I kept on writing. I couldn't stop now, each moment was precious. I could hear Crimmel moaning and Stenson laughing. I pushed down the anger I felt at Stenson's exploitation of Crimmel who was upwards of eighty years old and had only one leg and kept writing, ignoring my cramping hand, reminding myself that only through finishing this could I ever hope to help Crimmel, or any of the others.
I was almost done. Crimmel's door was slammed shut and I could hear the footsteps again and the sound of keys in a lock. Stenson had reached the cell next to mine. That's where Grea lived. Normally when the guards reached Grea I had to curl up in a ball with my hands over my ears because the thought of them hurting my Grea hurt me more than anything they did to me ever could, but today I knew I was going to need to hear every sound. I couldn't stop writing. I needed to finish, and I didn't have much time.
"You're looking smug, rebel trash," I heard Stenson drawl.
Grea didn't answer and Stenson continued speaking. "You smug because you got a plan? You feeling any hope today, pale boy?"
Grea didn't come from Lurea, but to a land far to the north, and his skin was much whiter than ours. His being a foreigner was something that even the "kindest" of the guards couldn't help but mock. I wished they'd just leave him alone.
"I have no plan," Grea answered quietly.
"Oh? So you're stupid? You gonna count on your other white friends to come and save you? You gonna wait for your white mama to come bring her baby home?"
I was so close to being finished. I knew Stenson was waiting for Grea to give him a reaction, so he'd have an excuse to hit him. I prayed that Grea wouldn't answer, wouldn't give in.
"Is that it, pale boy? You waiting for your snow people to get you out of this jail? Not very inspiring for the leader of a rebellion."
It was done. Now I just needed to seal it with something. I grabbed the sealant wax I'd found, my only chance at saving us all, and held it up close to the candle which was ensconced in a bunch of crossing bars. This way we prisoners could have some light and extremely limited warmth, but couldn't get the candles out or move them. This was a fairly new installation, since Troi had tried attacking a guard with a burning candle. Slowly the sealant began to soften. I was running out of time.
"You just gonna sit there quietly like a coward?" Stenson drawled. "Would you keep sitting there quietly if I pay a special visit to your little girlfriend?"
My heart began to pound, and I felt bile rise in my throat. The sealant was almost soft enough to spread over the parchment, which would it protect it from the water.
"Don't touch her," Grea said, his voice quiet but almost a growl.
"Don't? I touch her all the time." Stenson answered. "That girl's bruised and black and blue and there isn't a thing you can do about it." He laughed, a scratchy, grating sound.
Chains rattled, and I knew that Grea was getting angry.
"You gonna attack me?" Stenson asked, clearly enjoying the moment. "That's what your mama tried to do. Your little white mama, just before we killed her."
Grea strained against his chains again.
"You wanna fight, pale boy?"
The sickening sound of fist meeting jaw came, and Grea's chains chinked again. I knew he was trying to defend himself, but his arms were chained to the wall at the wrists, the only one of us who was chained that way.
I couldn't let what was happening right next to me affect me. The wax was malleable, but not runny. I used my hands to crust it over the entire piece of parchment, then folded it while the sealant was still soft so it wouldn't crack. I spread another layer over the folded document, sealing it tightly, doing my best to ignore Grea's grunts and the sound of his chains as he tried to pull his limbs from the wall.
I stood on tiptoe and pushed the parchment through the window where it fell to the waves below me. Now it was done, and all I could do was hope that it would work.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Authentic A Day Early
Time to write!
Sick of vampire and werewolf romances. Let's get crazy!
"It would be best for everyone if we didn't talk anymore."
"Best for everyone?" I asked. "Truly best? Or easiest?"
He shook his head, his dark eyes betraying both frustration and amusement. "You don't need to make this so dramatic Akara, it isn't going to be the end of the world."
My blood was beginning to boil. "I know!" I responded. His arrogance really was sickening, which made it confusing that I cared so much that he wanted to go, to completely leave my life.
"Listen," he said, placing his hot hands on my shoulders, leaving me feeling as though my skin was frying. "It won't work. It can't work. So we aren't going to try to make it work. It's called being smart."
I pulled back, partly because he was burning me and partly because the bluntness of his words hurt me in a deeper way than his hands did.
"Why did you even let me live, then?" I asked. Tears choked in my throat, but I was so angry that they stayed lodged there instead of finding their way up to my eyes where they would have been able to spill out and relieve the pressure.
Drakyn's eyes changed again, this time looking sad, but his characteristic smirk remained ever in place. "I don't always have a reason for everything. You know that. It was a whim."
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Drakyn laughed as I bit back the scream of frustration. "You understand, though, right?" he said. His question lacked even the slightest bit of sincerity, and didn't expect an answer.
I gave one anyway. "I totally understand," I said, perhaps a bit too loudly. I could feel my nose doing that awful angry, sad wrinkle and my jaw couldn't decide whether it wanted to clench or merely go on some sort of hyper-vibrate mode. And then I turned around, because there was no way on this dark and desperate earth that I was going to stand there and cry while I watched Drakyn walk away from me.
No. His last sight of me would not be my tears. It wouldn't be my on my knees, or with my face in his hands. His last memory of me would have to be my back, and so I walked with my head held high, my arms down by my sides, and he would never have to know what my face looked like, or that my tears had finally surfaced.
Stupid dragon.
So....I don't really care what you say. This story is one of my favorites and I'm a keeping it and taking it places. All that aside...you like?
Sick of vampire and werewolf romances. Let's get crazy!
"It would be best for everyone if we didn't talk anymore."
"Best for everyone?" I asked. "Truly best? Or easiest?"
He shook his head, his dark eyes betraying both frustration and amusement. "You don't need to make this so dramatic Akara, it isn't going to be the end of the world."
My blood was beginning to boil. "I know!" I responded. His arrogance really was sickening, which made it confusing that I cared so much that he wanted to go, to completely leave my life.
"Listen," he said, placing his hot hands on my shoulders, leaving me feeling as though my skin was frying. "It won't work. It can't work. So we aren't going to try to make it work. It's called being smart."
I pulled back, partly because he was burning me and partly because the bluntness of his words hurt me in a deeper way than his hands did.
"Why did you even let me live, then?" I asked. Tears choked in my throat, but I was so angry that they stayed lodged there instead of finding their way up to my eyes where they would have been able to spill out and relieve the pressure.
Drakyn's eyes changed again, this time looking sad, but his characteristic smirk remained ever in place. "I don't always have a reason for everything. You know that. It was a whim."
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Drakyn laughed as I bit back the scream of frustration. "You understand, though, right?" he said. His question lacked even the slightest bit of sincerity, and didn't expect an answer.
I gave one anyway. "I totally understand," I said, perhaps a bit too loudly. I could feel my nose doing that awful angry, sad wrinkle and my jaw couldn't decide whether it wanted to clench or merely go on some sort of hyper-vibrate mode. And then I turned around, because there was no way on this dark and desperate earth that I was going to stand there and cry while I watched Drakyn walk away from me.
No. His last sight of me would not be my tears. It wouldn't be my on my knees, or with my face in his hands. His last memory of me would have to be my back, and so I walked with my head held high, my arms down by my sides, and he would never have to know what my face looked like, or that my tears had finally surfaced.
Stupid dragon.
So....I don't really care what you say. This story is one of my favorites and I'm a keeping it and taking it places. All that aside...you like?
Saturday, October 20, 2012
True Fear
Time to write!
Inspired by an actual experience!
I've done a lot of scary things in life, I've been to a lot of scary places, and I've seen a lot of scary things. I've seen things that would make any normal sixteen year old girl refuse to leave home ever again, with the possible exception of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I have been places more gruesome than the Forbidden Forest, and you know, real, at that. I've fought monsters to rival those found in Middle Earth and have somehow lived to tell the tale.
But there is nothing that scares the freak out of me more than going to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
I swear, there is no experience more frightening than using what is basically a public restroom at two in the morning.
Maybe it's just because you're stuck sitting there with your pants down that makes it so scary. Like if something were suddenly to show up, what would you do?
"Um? Excuse me? Could you wait for me to finish this? It's kind of important?"
In my more than limited experience monsters don't normally show that kind of consideration and creeps don't usually have that sort of patience.
Inspired by an actual experience!
I've done a lot of scary things in life, I've been to a lot of scary places, and I've seen a lot of scary things. I've seen things that would make any normal sixteen year old girl refuse to leave home ever again, with the possible exception of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I have been places more gruesome than the Forbidden Forest, and you know, real, at that. I've fought monsters to rival those found in Middle Earth and have somehow lived to tell the tale.
But there is nothing that scares the freak out of me more than going to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
I swear, there is no experience more frightening than using what is basically a public restroom at two in the morning.
Maybe it's just because you're stuck sitting there with your pants down that makes it so scary. Like if something were suddenly to show up, what would you do?
"Um? Excuse me? Could you wait for me to finish this? It's kind of important?"
In my more than limited experience monsters don't normally show that kind of consideration and creeps don't usually have that sort of patience.
Friday, October 19, 2012
The OMOPB Club
Time to write!
Dude. Who actually made this up? Because....it's weird.
Reginald, Harry, Jasper, and Collin had all grown up in different places, were married to different women, and had different opinions on politics, movies, and what constituted as "good literature". They shared one very important trait in common however, in that they were all members of the Old Men on Park Benches Club.
Old Men on Park Benches, affectionately referred to by it's members as the OMOPB, was not your average old person organization. It left things like Bingo Night, No Dentures Dinners, and even the Red Hat Organization in the dust in terms of ingenuity, spunk, and downright danger. But sitting here rambling about it won't prove anything about that to you. You see, that's the problem with young folks these days. All they ever do is talk. And that's why the OMOPB is so important. Because if you ever need to find someone to get something done, you can rely on the the Old Men on Park Benches.
***
Jasper and Collin, who were next door neighbors, came up with the idea one Friday afternoon as they sat on their favorite bench in Central Park, reading their newspapers, for Jasper it was the New York Times, for Collin a tabloid similar to Parade but more...liberal. For a time the air between them was still, the only sound resonating around them being the chirping of birds and the calls of children playing on the playground further towards the center of the rambling Park, and the fluttering sound of newspaper pages turning. Just as Collin's arms were beginning to tire from holding up his paper, and he was considering walking back home where he could read the remainder of his tabloid at his dining room table, Jasper brought his own paper down swiftly to his lap and cried out, "I just can't take it! My wife has been kidnapped and simply sticking to routine is not comforting me at all!"
Oh the randomness of me. Who wants to see this continue? I'm sure it'd have a HUGE following... ;)
Dude. Who actually made this up? Because....it's weird.
Reginald, Harry, Jasper, and Collin had all grown up in different places, were married to different women, and had different opinions on politics, movies, and what constituted as "good literature". They shared one very important trait in common however, in that they were all members of the Old Men on Park Benches Club.
Old Men on Park Benches, affectionately referred to by it's members as the OMOPB, was not your average old person organization. It left things like Bingo Night, No Dentures Dinners, and even the Red Hat Organization in the dust in terms of ingenuity, spunk, and downright danger. But sitting here rambling about it won't prove anything about that to you. You see, that's the problem with young folks these days. All they ever do is talk. And that's why the OMOPB is so important. Because if you ever need to find someone to get something done, you can rely on the the Old Men on Park Benches.
***
Jasper and Collin, who were next door neighbors, came up with the idea one Friday afternoon as they sat on their favorite bench in Central Park, reading their newspapers, for Jasper it was the New York Times, for Collin a tabloid similar to Parade but more...liberal. For a time the air between them was still, the only sound resonating around them being the chirping of birds and the calls of children playing on the playground further towards the center of the rambling Park, and the fluttering sound of newspaper pages turning. Just as Collin's arms were beginning to tire from holding up his paper, and he was considering walking back home where he could read the remainder of his tabloid at his dining room table, Jasper brought his own paper down swiftly to his lap and cried out, "I just can't take it! My wife has been kidnapped and simply sticking to routine is not comforting me at all!"
Oh the randomness of me. Who wants to see this continue? I'm sure it'd have a HUGE following... ;)
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Sharks
Time to write
One day I found out that sharks only kill five people annually. I was shocked. What a surprisingly low statistic. I thought to myself, But sharks are scary. They have all those sharp teeth and fast swimming skills and go all crazy when they smell blood, at least according to Finding Nemo. I wondered if there might not be some flaw in the research, especially when contrasted to the rest of the statistics provided. Let's rearrange the data and see what it tells us.
Least dangerous to most dangerous:
Sharks (5 people)
High School Football (20 people)
Hot dogs (70 people)
Deer (130 people)
Falling out of bed (450 American people. 'Murica.)
Hippos (2,900 people)
This alone could present an awful lot of writing prompts. For example, how embarrassing is it to die by falling out of bed?? How high up are these people's beds? I mean, for real!? And how would you react to finding someone dead who died just by falling out? Creeptastic? I think so.
And do hot dogs in particular kill more kids than other foods? Is this just a choking statistic? Are we giving hot dogs an unnecessarily bad rep? Like there isn't enough negative publicity towards hot dogs anyway.
But the main thing I'd like to know, is why the heck do hippos want to kill so many people!? I feel terribly about that, and feel a hippo story needs to be written soon. Real soon. You know. Along with the other twenty million prompts I still need to address.
I'd be interested to see the other statistics here. How many people does Voldemort kill a year? Less than 70. I mean, we freak out everytime he lets loose a wayward "Avada Kedavra", but is he any more guilty than the hot dog industry? No. I don't think so. And he's nothing compared to a hippo. In fact, if we take his average, he's probably no more harmful than something like a shark. No wonder Snape's patronus is a deer. That way he can be protected from Voldemort, because deer kill way more people annually. So, clearly, even in a fictional world, Harry's fear of Voldemort is completely unfounded. I rest my case.
And here's a cute baby hippo. Just to prove they aren't all born killers.
P.s. who's up for a new "Jaws" movie, but instead of being a shark, is a crazed hippopotamus. I think that's what the film industry needs right now.
One day I found out that sharks only kill five people annually. I was shocked. What a surprisingly low statistic. I thought to myself, But sharks are scary. They have all those sharp teeth and fast swimming skills and go all crazy when they smell blood, at least according to Finding Nemo. I wondered if there might not be some flaw in the research, especially when contrasted to the rest of the statistics provided. Let's rearrange the data and see what it tells us.
Least dangerous to most dangerous:
Sharks (5 people)
High School Football (20 people)
Hot dogs (70 people)
Deer (130 people)
Falling out of bed (450 American people. 'Murica.)
Hippos (2,900 people)
This alone could present an awful lot of writing prompts. For example, how embarrassing is it to die by falling out of bed?? How high up are these people's beds? I mean, for real!? And how would you react to finding someone dead who died just by falling out? Creeptastic? I think so.
And do hot dogs in particular kill more kids than other foods? Is this just a choking statistic? Are we giving hot dogs an unnecessarily bad rep? Like there isn't enough negative publicity towards hot dogs anyway.
But the main thing I'd like to know, is why the heck do hippos want to kill so many people!? I feel terribly about that, and feel a hippo story needs to be written soon. Real soon. You know. Along with the other twenty million prompts I still need to address.
I'd be interested to see the other statistics here. How many people does Voldemort kill a year? Less than 70. I mean, we freak out everytime he lets loose a wayward "Avada Kedavra", but is he any more guilty than the hot dog industry? No. I don't think so. And he's nothing compared to a hippo. In fact, if we take his average, he's probably no more harmful than something like a shark. No wonder Snape's patronus is a deer. That way he can be protected from Voldemort, because deer kill way more people annually. So, clearly, even in a fictional world, Harry's fear of Voldemort is completely unfounded. I rest my case.
And here's a cute baby hippo. Just to prove they aren't all born killers.
P.s. who's up for a new "Jaws" movie, but instead of being a shark, is a crazed hippopotamus. I think that's what the film industry needs right now.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Suspense
Time to write!
The past couple nights I have listened to an old radio show called "Suspense" with some of my friends, and I got to thinking I should write my own Suspense radio program. Unfortunately I'm really sleepy so it might turn out, but we will give it our best shot, and by we I of course mean I. Because this is in the style of Suspense, there will be no commentary, merely dialogue, so it's basically just a script, and is also set in not modern day.
Jenna: "Do you think we'll be able to reach the hotel by eleven, Harold?"
Harold: "Oh I don't know Jenna, we'll get there sometime tonight."
Jenna: "I just hate trying to find places we've never been to in the dark. Everything looks so different."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Always so sure of everything, that's you. Never mind all the times we've actually gotten lost."
Harold: "Jenna, I said we'll be fine. We'll be fine. Now stop your worrying. Turn on the radio why don't you."
*Radio static*
Radio broadcaster: ...which concludes our weather for the week. In sports the Braves have beaten the Cardinals, leaving them undefeated and over halfway through the season. Jerry, do you have more on that?"
Jenna: "Who really cares about a baseball game? I wish we could just--"
Harold: "Could you not complain about this right now, I'd like to hear the story."
Jenna: "What more do you need to know? You know who won. Now can't we just --"
Harold: "Jenna, please!"
Radio broadcaster: ...scoring another home run in the bottom of the fifth inning, with the Braves trailing badly.
Jenna: "You don't need to lose your patience with me, you know. It was your idea to come on this trip. All the way out to the city, so you can see your old college friends. The least you could do is talk to me."
Harold: "I'm sorry, dear. We can turn the radio off. Just after we hear the end of this segment."
Radio broadcaster: "...It certainly was a great game, thanks Jerry."
Jenna: "Can we turn it off now?"
Radio broadcaster: "...Thanks for tuning in. Now, listeners, it's come to our attention that I-25 is going to be under some pretty heavy construction tonight. It you're trying to head into the city, it's suggested that you find an alternate route or delay your commute to tomorrow afternoon, by which time the road should again be clear."
Jenna: "Did you hear that, Harold? Did you hear that?"
Harold: "Yes."
Jenna: "Well what are we going to do?"
Harold: "We're going to do like the broadcaster said, Jenna. We'll find an alternate route. We'll be fine."
*tires screech*
Jenna: "Mercy! Be careful! We don't have to exit the freeway that quickly!"
Harold: "If we're going to find another way into the city tonight, we better be quick about it."
Jenna: "Harold, please slow down. It's starting to rain. I don't want to crash."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Slow down! Please. Please slow down."
Harold: "Now you've done it, Jenna. Your fussing has gotten me distracted."
Jenna: "You mean you don't know where we are?"
Harold: "Well I know where we are. I just don't know how to get to the city from this road."
Jenna: "We're lost. I knew this would happen."
Harold: "We'll be find. Your worrying isn't going to help anything."
Jenna: "We should ask someone for directions."
Harold: "We're on an old road. Who are we gonna ask?"
Jenna: "We can ask him. We can ask that man."
Harold: "What man?"
Jenna: "That man, on the side of the road. Why, his car must have broken down. His headlights are flashing. It's starting to rain awfully hard. We ought to stop and help him."
Harold: "I'd rather not, Jenna. You never know what kind of crazy people hang out on the streets at night."
Jenna: "We're out in the country, Harold, and his car is broken down. If our car was broken down and we were out here in the country, in the rain, wouldn't you hope someone would stop to help us?"
Harold: "Jenna...."
Jenna: "Wouldn't you?"
Harold: "Oh alright, alright...."
*car stopping*
Harold: "Uh, excuse me sir! Car troubles?"
Man: "Yes! Yes. Oh, prayers are answered. Oh, thank you sir, thank you. It seems my car's engine has given up and died, and in the dark and in the rain, there's no way I can fix it just now. Do you think you could give me a lift into the city?"
Harold: "Well I don't know..."
Jenna: "Harold!"
Harold: *sighs* "We're actually headed there, but are a little hazy on the directions. You wouldn't happen to know the way would you?"
Man: "Sure do! I can be your guide."
Harold: "Well, alright. Hop in the back I guess."
*car unlocks, door opens, then shuts. Engine starts back up*
Jenna: "What about your car?"
Man: "Oh I'll just have my wife drive me back tomorrow and I'll see what went wrong."
Harold: "Do you know where we turn off?"
Man: "Just keep going straight for awhile."
Harold: "Alright. So what do you do for a living?"
Man: "I, uh, I'm a salesman. I sell jewelry mostly."
Harold: "I see." *clearly not very interested*
Man: "It takes me traveling a lot."
Harold: "Hmm."
Jenna: "And your wife lives in the city?"
Man: "Sure does. Wife and four kids. Hard to keep all those mouths fed in today's economy."
Harold: "But selling jewelry does the trick?"
Man: "It's all in finding the right buyers and supplying the right jewels. It's...it's stressful work, but a man does what he has to do."
Radio broadcaster: "...The Gingham County Sheriff's department has requested that we ask you all to be on the lookout for a few individuals. There have been a string of robberies in the area, and several homes have been broken into. Most houses robbed have been from the Clivington area. If you live in this neighborhood please keep your doors and windows locked and be on the watch for any suspicious activity.'
Harold: "That's a real shame."
Jenna: "Doesn't Elaine Hughes live in Clivington?"
Harold: "Yes, that's right,"
Man: "Uh, follow the road here where it turns left,"
Harold: "You sure we don't keep going straight?"
Man: "I'm sure. Turn left."
Radio broadcaster: "...There have also been reported robberies in the Grover Hills community. Residents have spotted a male in his late thirties, wearing a black overcoat wandering around the neighborhood. Once again, please be wary of suspicious activity, and report any at once to the Gingham County Police Department."
Jenna: "Grover Hills, huh? Strange to think of anything bad happening to those people."
Harold: "Spoiled bunch, in big houses."
Man: "Serves them right, don't you think, for flaunting their wealth that way?'
Jenna: "Well, I don't know about that."
Man: "Don't you now?"
Harold: "Do I keep going straight on this road?"
Man: "No, turn right, just up ahead."
Harold: "By the corn field?"
Man: "That's right."
Harold: "Here?"
Man: "Here."
Jenna: "Are you sure this is the right way?"
Man: "Certain. You mind if I remove my coat? I'm dripping wet."
Jenna: "Of course not."
Harold: "Set it on the floor though, I'd rather it didn't drip on the seats."
Man: "Sure thing."
*slight clinking sound*
Jenna: "What was--Harold look out! There's a deer in the road!"
*tires screech, man and Jenna exclaim, clinking*
Man: *cusses mildly*
Jenna: *breathing heavy* "We didn't hit it."
Man: "Could you slow down a little? When we swerved my merchandise fell out of my pockets, it's awfully dark back here, and I'd really rather none of it got damaged."
Jenna: "Oh let me help you."
Man: "That's not necessary."
*seatbelt unbuckling, sound of hands running over carpet*
Jenna: "I insist."
Man: "No, it's--"
Jenna: "My, what lovely necklaces. Mind if I take a look at them for just a moment?"
Man: "Those necklaces aren't for sale! That is, they've already been purchased, I'm just, uh, on my way to deliver them, so --"
Jenna: "That's quite alright. No harm in looking. Oh this one's lovely. Look at how nicely the stone is cut, Harold."
Harold: "I'm driving, Jenna."
Jenna: "Oh, and this one. The chain is exquisite! And...my. My this looks just like Elaine Hughes necklace. Yes, it looks just like it. It looks just like the one her brother made for her when we graduated, he made one for Elaine and for Alice and for me. Doesn't this look like the necklace?"
Man: "That's quite enough, now, I think."
Jenna: "Don't you think Harold?"
Harold: "It does look a lot like your necklace dear."
Jenna: "It does. It looks just like my necklace! It is my necklace! It's Elaine's necklace! You're the robber!"
Man: "Aw c'mon now lady, just because it looks similar does not mean--"
Jenna: "It looks more than similar! It's Elaine's necklace! Our necklaces were all just the same except the little charm by the clasp with our initials on it, and there the initials are EH!"
Harold: "Jenna..."
Man: "Alright lady. You caught me. Looks like this isn't going to be easy after all."
Harold: "Now look here, mister"
Jenna: "Harold. He's got a knife."
I think I'll finish this tomorrow. :) Yes yes. Or I'll just leave it for a bit. Because I wrote a lot tonight and now I'm exhausted. See? It's in true Suspense fashion. This is the break in the middle where they advertise. Normally about car batteries. :)
The past couple nights I have listened to an old radio show called "Suspense" with some of my friends, and I got to thinking I should write my own Suspense radio program. Unfortunately I'm really sleepy so it might turn out, but we will give it our best shot, and by we I of course mean I. Because this is in the style of Suspense, there will be no commentary, merely dialogue, so it's basically just a script, and is also set in not modern day.
Jenna: "Do you think we'll be able to reach the hotel by eleven, Harold?"
Harold: "Oh I don't know Jenna, we'll get there sometime tonight."
Jenna: "I just hate trying to find places we've never been to in the dark. Everything looks so different."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Always so sure of everything, that's you. Never mind all the times we've actually gotten lost."
Harold: "Jenna, I said we'll be fine. We'll be fine. Now stop your worrying. Turn on the radio why don't you."
*Radio static*
Radio broadcaster: ...which concludes our weather for the week. In sports the Braves have beaten the Cardinals, leaving them undefeated and over halfway through the season. Jerry, do you have more on that?"
Jenna: "Who really cares about a baseball game? I wish we could just--"
Harold: "Could you not complain about this right now, I'd like to hear the story."
Jenna: "What more do you need to know? You know who won. Now can't we just --"
Harold: "Jenna, please!"
Radio broadcaster: ...scoring another home run in the bottom of the fifth inning, with the Braves trailing badly.
Jenna: "You don't need to lose your patience with me, you know. It was your idea to come on this trip. All the way out to the city, so you can see your old college friends. The least you could do is talk to me."
Harold: "I'm sorry, dear. We can turn the radio off. Just after we hear the end of this segment."
Radio broadcaster: "...It certainly was a great game, thanks Jerry."
Jenna: "Can we turn it off now?"
Radio broadcaster: "...Thanks for tuning in. Now, listeners, it's come to our attention that I-25 is going to be under some pretty heavy construction tonight. It you're trying to head into the city, it's suggested that you find an alternate route or delay your commute to tomorrow afternoon, by which time the road should again be clear."
Jenna: "Did you hear that, Harold? Did you hear that?"
Harold: "Yes."
Jenna: "Well what are we going to do?"
Harold: "We're going to do like the broadcaster said, Jenna. We'll find an alternate route. We'll be fine."
*tires screech*
Jenna: "Mercy! Be careful! We don't have to exit the freeway that quickly!"
Harold: "If we're going to find another way into the city tonight, we better be quick about it."
Jenna: "Harold, please slow down. It's starting to rain. I don't want to crash."
Harold: "We'll be fine."
Jenna: "Slow down! Please. Please slow down."
Harold: "Now you've done it, Jenna. Your fussing has gotten me distracted."
Jenna: "You mean you don't know where we are?"
Harold: "Well I know where we are. I just don't know how to get to the city from this road."
Jenna: "We're lost. I knew this would happen."
Harold: "We'll be find. Your worrying isn't going to help anything."
Jenna: "We should ask someone for directions."
Harold: "We're on an old road. Who are we gonna ask?"
Jenna: "We can ask him. We can ask that man."
Harold: "What man?"
Jenna: "That man, on the side of the road. Why, his car must have broken down. His headlights are flashing. It's starting to rain awfully hard. We ought to stop and help him."
Harold: "I'd rather not, Jenna. You never know what kind of crazy people hang out on the streets at night."
Jenna: "We're out in the country, Harold, and his car is broken down. If our car was broken down and we were out here in the country, in the rain, wouldn't you hope someone would stop to help us?"
Harold: "Jenna...."
Jenna: "Wouldn't you?"
Harold: "Oh alright, alright...."
*car stopping*
Harold: "Uh, excuse me sir! Car troubles?"
Man: "Yes! Yes. Oh, prayers are answered. Oh, thank you sir, thank you. It seems my car's engine has given up and died, and in the dark and in the rain, there's no way I can fix it just now. Do you think you could give me a lift into the city?"
Harold: "Well I don't know..."
Jenna: "Harold!"
Harold: *sighs* "We're actually headed there, but are a little hazy on the directions. You wouldn't happen to know the way would you?"
Man: "Sure do! I can be your guide."
Harold: "Well, alright. Hop in the back I guess."
*car unlocks, door opens, then shuts. Engine starts back up*
Jenna: "What about your car?"
Man: "Oh I'll just have my wife drive me back tomorrow and I'll see what went wrong."
Harold: "Do you know where we turn off?"
Man: "Just keep going straight for awhile."
Harold: "Alright. So what do you do for a living?"
Man: "I, uh, I'm a salesman. I sell jewelry mostly."
Harold: "I see." *clearly not very interested*
Man: "It takes me traveling a lot."
Harold: "Hmm."
Jenna: "And your wife lives in the city?"
Man: "Sure does. Wife and four kids. Hard to keep all those mouths fed in today's economy."
Harold: "But selling jewelry does the trick?"
Man: "It's all in finding the right buyers and supplying the right jewels. It's...it's stressful work, but a man does what he has to do."
Radio broadcaster: "...The Gingham County Sheriff's department has requested that we ask you all to be on the lookout for a few individuals. There have been a string of robberies in the area, and several homes have been broken into. Most houses robbed have been from the Clivington area. If you live in this neighborhood please keep your doors and windows locked and be on the watch for any suspicious activity.'
Harold: "That's a real shame."
Jenna: "Doesn't Elaine Hughes live in Clivington?"
Harold: "Yes, that's right,"
Man: "Uh, follow the road here where it turns left,"
Harold: "You sure we don't keep going straight?"
Man: "I'm sure. Turn left."
Radio broadcaster: "...There have also been reported robberies in the Grover Hills community. Residents have spotted a male in his late thirties, wearing a black overcoat wandering around the neighborhood. Once again, please be wary of suspicious activity, and report any at once to the Gingham County Police Department."
Jenna: "Grover Hills, huh? Strange to think of anything bad happening to those people."
Harold: "Spoiled bunch, in big houses."
Man: "Serves them right, don't you think, for flaunting their wealth that way?'
Jenna: "Well, I don't know about that."
Man: "Don't you now?"
Harold: "Do I keep going straight on this road?"
Man: "No, turn right, just up ahead."
Harold: "By the corn field?"
Man: "That's right."
Harold: "Here?"
Man: "Here."
Jenna: "Are you sure this is the right way?"
Man: "Certain. You mind if I remove my coat? I'm dripping wet."
Jenna: "Of course not."
Harold: "Set it on the floor though, I'd rather it didn't drip on the seats."
Man: "Sure thing."
*slight clinking sound*
Jenna: "What was--Harold look out! There's a deer in the road!"
*tires screech, man and Jenna exclaim, clinking*
Man: *cusses mildly*
Jenna: *breathing heavy* "We didn't hit it."
Man: "Could you slow down a little? When we swerved my merchandise fell out of my pockets, it's awfully dark back here, and I'd really rather none of it got damaged."
Jenna: "Oh let me help you."
Man: "That's not necessary."
*seatbelt unbuckling, sound of hands running over carpet*
Jenna: "I insist."
Man: "No, it's--"
Jenna: "My, what lovely necklaces. Mind if I take a look at them for just a moment?"
Man: "Those necklaces aren't for sale! That is, they've already been purchased, I'm just, uh, on my way to deliver them, so --"
Jenna: "That's quite alright. No harm in looking. Oh this one's lovely. Look at how nicely the stone is cut, Harold."
Harold: "I'm driving, Jenna."
Jenna: "Oh, and this one. The chain is exquisite! And...my. My this looks just like Elaine Hughes necklace. Yes, it looks just like it. It looks just like the one her brother made for her when we graduated, he made one for Elaine and for Alice and for me. Doesn't this look like the necklace?"
Man: "That's quite enough, now, I think."
Jenna: "Don't you think Harold?"
Harold: "It does look a lot like your necklace dear."
Jenna: "It does. It looks just like my necklace! It is my necklace! It's Elaine's necklace! You're the robber!"
Man: "Aw c'mon now lady, just because it looks similar does not mean--"
Jenna: "It looks more than similar! It's Elaine's necklace! Our necklaces were all just the same except the little charm by the clasp with our initials on it, and there the initials are EH!"
Harold: "Jenna..."
Man: "Alright lady. You caught me. Looks like this isn't going to be easy after all."
Harold: "Now look here, mister"
Jenna: "Harold. He's got a knife."
I think I'll finish this tomorrow. :) Yes yes. Or I'll just leave it for a bit. Because I wrote a lot tonight and now I'm exhausted. See? It's in true Suspense fashion. This is the break in the middle where they advertise. Normally about car batteries. :)
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