Time to write!
Write about a character in a different age group- someone who isn't your age and who is of an age that you don't normally write about.
This is actually a little bit more difficult than you'd think, mainly because I already really like exploring things from the points of views of others. For example, I write in the psyche of young children in Protector and in my rambling about Penniworth the other day. I work with teenagers/adolescents a lot, and younger adults quite frequently. This leaves me with old people. I don't write much about them. I also tend to write from the perspective of a girl. It's much easier for me to write a female protagonist, probably because I am, you know, female. So to make this interesting we're going to write about an old man. I don't want him to be the guy from UP though, tempting as it sounds, cause I want this to be creative.
I wanted to be cheerful. I always felt guilty after getting upset with Madelyn or Cambry for being too loud. Especially when they then turned to Leila, my daughter, and told her that "Papa was being mean".
When did I get so old?
I really do want to be happy. And I suppose, in a way, I am. I am certainly grateful. However, I can be grateful for the things I have and still notice the things I don't have anymore at the same time.
I know I'm lucky to have a wonderful family, and for my sweet wife Eliza. I pray every night and thank the Lord for each and every one of my children, and my grandchildren, and for the chance I have to be with them.
But getting old is still hard.
Yesterday Cambry came and sat next to me. She started tracing my veins, popping up under my dark, leathery skin, and said, "Papa? Why are your hands so different than mine?"
I told her it was part of getting old. I said that when you got older you spent so much time taking care of other people that your body stopped watching after itself.
Cambry was quiet for a long time after that. Then she stood up on the couch and kissed me on the top of my bald head. This is something she is extremely fond of doing and tells her younger sister Madelyn to do all the time. After bestowing her kiss she whispered, "I'll take care of you, Papa."
Aw. A sweet moment, captured in a very short endeavor for the night.
Saturday, September 29, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
Wacky and Wild
Time to write!
Prompt: Use as many words beginning with "w" in a story.
Waldo and Wilfred were walruses who watched Doctor Who wherever they went. Whoever said walruses wouldn't watch Doctor Who were wrong. Wrong, indeed. Walda was actually way more excited about Doctor Who than Wilfred, but Wilfred watched it anyway.
Wilfred's sister, Wilma, was in love with Warty the Warthog. The only problem was that Warty lived in Wisconsin, and Wilma was in Walla Walla Washington. They both were living in zoos. Well, Wilma and Warty were in the same zoo once, but after the water fight and the watermelon bashing that had occurred between them, they were separated. What a shame.
One day, Wilfred wrote to Wilma, wondering how she was doing. Wilma wrote back to Wilfred at once, and replied that she was wonderful, aside from missing Warty of course, and wondered what was going on in the current season of Doctor Who.
When Wilfred responded she wrote that wacky and wild things were occurring in the show, but she was actually more worried about the wolf who lived nearby. Wilfred was convinced Wolfgang Wolf was actually a Werewolf, with wisdom far beyond his years.
Wow. (still in the 'w' mode I see...) That's all five minutes produced tonight. Sorry for the lameness!!! Tomorrow will be better I promise- and we're almost to another Authentic Sunday, which usually yield pleasing results. :)
Prompt: Use as many words beginning with "w" in a story.
Waldo and Wilfred were walruses who watched Doctor Who wherever they went. Whoever said walruses wouldn't watch Doctor Who were wrong. Wrong, indeed. Walda was actually way more excited about Doctor Who than Wilfred, but Wilfred watched it anyway.
Wilfred's sister, Wilma, was in love with Warty the Warthog. The only problem was that Warty lived in Wisconsin, and Wilma was in Walla Walla Washington. They both were living in zoos. Well, Wilma and Warty were in the same zoo once, but after the water fight and the watermelon bashing that had occurred between them, they were separated. What a shame.
One day, Wilfred wrote to Wilma, wondering how she was doing. Wilma wrote back to Wilfred at once, and replied that she was wonderful, aside from missing Warty of course, and wondered what was going on in the current season of Doctor Who.
When Wilfred responded she wrote that wacky and wild things were occurring in the show, but she was actually more worried about the wolf who lived nearby. Wilfred was convinced Wolfgang Wolf was actually a Werewolf, with wisdom far beyond his years.
Wow. (still in the 'w' mode I see...) That's all five minutes produced tonight. Sorry for the lameness!!! Tomorrow will be better I promise- and we're almost to another Authentic Sunday, which usually yield pleasing results. :)
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Dream Wedding
Time to write!
Tonight's post is inspired by two of my best friends, who are incidentally some of the best supporters of my writing that I know. Hope it makes you guys laugh. :)
Bettilda pulled back her covers just a tad violently. "I want to get married!" she grumbled. "Like for real."
"Then do it," said her imaginary roommate. Her imaginary roommate was named Nike, because she was always encouraging Bettilda to do things. Without Nike, Bettilda would not feel nearly so encouraged, eb'ry day.
"Ok," Bettilda said, climbing into her bed and pulling her posse around her. Her posse was made up of entirely of bears, and was actually just two members large.
Generally Blueberry was the master planner. He helped Bettilda with the logistics of all of her maneuvers. Why only half an hour ago he had planned a successful reconnaissance mission to the vending machines. He was a master planner, which is one of the reasons Bettilda kept him around. The other reasons were secrets, and ones that you couldn't find out if you were human.
Her other posse member, B. YGregalious Uffenfuzzworth, said with a silent 'y' and commonly known as BYU Bear, mostly just sat there and smiled. Most of the time Bettilda was sure that BYU Bear couldn't talk, but Nike insisted that he oft times quoted speeches in the midst of the nighttime when the stars shone through the drawn blinds, the way that only magic stars could.
Nike had a way of speaking that made such things sound poetic.
"I want to get married," Bettilda repeated to her posse.
"Excellent idea," Generally Blueberry asserted.
B. YGregalious smiled.
"I has a plan!" Nike cried, springing in one leap from her imaginary bed on the other side of the room to Bettilda's bed and landing square in her lap.
For some people such proximity would have been awkward, but Nike was a snuggler and it was just something Bettilda was used to.
"Speak to me," Bettilda said, patting Nike on the head.
"Let's go find a man, and then you will get married."
Bettilda loved this idea so much she hopped out of bed and did some hip hopping dance moves. Nike clapped her hands enthusiastically. General Blueberry covered the young BYU Bear's eyes, thinking he was not quite ready for such a display of celebration.
Once her dancing was complete, Bettilda asked General Blueberry what the next step should be. They had an objective, now it was time to move, move, move!
Precisely three hours and twenty-six minutes later, at 1:23 am, Bettilda climbed a tree.
"Gib me a boost!" she whispered to Nike.
"On it!" Nike cupped her imaginary hands underneath Bettilda's foot, and couldn't help but notice that Bettilda was wearing some very fine imaginary footwear.
"Um. Bettilda?" Nike said. "Are you wearing my green and brown flip flops from my imaginary aunt?"
"Yes. I lub them." Bettilda replied.
Her straightforward honesty touched Nike to the very inner being of what could be described as her heart and she shed three single tears of pure emotion as she boosted Bettilda in the tree. This was ideal, for from Nike's tears of emotion sprouted a dress, a wedding cake, and a little man named Horatio, who was actually the best wedding hair dresser in all the world.
Bettilda moaned. In order for their plan to work she would need to moan loud enough that one of the boys would open up their window and see her laying in the tree. She was about to give up, when at 2:34 a window opened and a return missionary with caring eyes and excellent skin peered out.
In moments he had rescued Bettilda from the tree.
"Are you ok?" he asked.
"Yes. And guess what?" Bettilda said.
"What?"
"I have all these things to get married. Right here. Want to?"
"That'd be fine," the boy replied. "You just need to call Breanna first. She deserves to be at your wedding, don't you think?"
It was just then that Bettilda noticed the boy was actually pretty much Mr. Darcy.
She was delighted.
Tonight's post is inspired by two of my best friends, who are incidentally some of the best supporters of my writing that I know. Hope it makes you guys laugh. :)
Bettilda pulled back her covers just a tad violently. "I want to get married!" she grumbled. "Like for real."
"Then do it," said her imaginary roommate. Her imaginary roommate was named Nike, because she was always encouraging Bettilda to do things. Without Nike, Bettilda would not feel nearly so encouraged, eb'ry day.
"Ok," Bettilda said, climbing into her bed and pulling her posse around her. Her posse was made up of entirely of bears, and was actually just two members large.
Generally Blueberry was the master planner. He helped Bettilda with the logistics of all of her maneuvers. Why only half an hour ago he had planned a successful reconnaissance mission to the vending machines. He was a master planner, which is one of the reasons Bettilda kept him around. The other reasons were secrets, and ones that you couldn't find out if you were human.
Her other posse member, B. YGregalious Uffenfuzzworth, said with a silent 'y' and commonly known as BYU Bear, mostly just sat there and smiled. Most of the time Bettilda was sure that BYU Bear couldn't talk, but Nike insisted that he oft times quoted speeches in the midst of the nighttime when the stars shone through the drawn blinds, the way that only magic stars could.
Nike had a way of speaking that made such things sound poetic.
"I want to get married," Bettilda repeated to her posse.
"Excellent idea," Generally Blueberry asserted.
B. YGregalious smiled.
"I has a plan!" Nike cried, springing in one leap from her imaginary bed on the other side of the room to Bettilda's bed and landing square in her lap.
For some people such proximity would have been awkward, but Nike was a snuggler and it was just something Bettilda was used to.
"Speak to me," Bettilda said, patting Nike on the head.
"Let's go find a man, and then you will get married."
Bettilda loved this idea so much she hopped out of bed and did some hip hopping dance moves. Nike clapped her hands enthusiastically. General Blueberry covered the young BYU Bear's eyes, thinking he was not quite ready for such a display of celebration.
Once her dancing was complete, Bettilda asked General Blueberry what the next step should be. They had an objective, now it was time to move, move, move!
Precisely three hours and twenty-six minutes later, at 1:23 am, Bettilda climbed a tree.
"Gib me a boost!" she whispered to Nike.
"On it!" Nike cupped her imaginary hands underneath Bettilda's foot, and couldn't help but notice that Bettilda was wearing some very fine imaginary footwear.
"Um. Bettilda?" Nike said. "Are you wearing my green and brown flip flops from my imaginary aunt?"
"Yes. I lub them." Bettilda replied.
Her straightforward honesty touched Nike to the very inner being of what could be described as her heart and she shed three single tears of pure emotion as she boosted Bettilda in the tree. This was ideal, for from Nike's tears of emotion sprouted a dress, a wedding cake, and a little man named Horatio, who was actually the best wedding hair dresser in all the world.
Bettilda moaned. In order for their plan to work she would need to moan loud enough that one of the boys would open up their window and see her laying in the tree. She was about to give up, when at 2:34 a window opened and a return missionary with caring eyes and excellent skin peered out.
In moments he had rescued Bettilda from the tree.
"Are you ok?" he asked.
"Yes. And guess what?" Bettilda said.
"What?"
"I have all these things to get married. Right here. Want to?"
"That'd be fine," the boy replied. "You just need to call Breanna first. She deserves to be at your wedding, don't you think?"
It was just then that Bettilda noticed the boy was actually pretty much Mr. Darcy.
She was delighted.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Worst Work Day
Time to write!
"Today her boss had gone too far"
Nona had had it. Done. She was done. She could not tolerate another single day with Mr. MikMik. That was his real name. Mr. MikMik was Nona's boss, and she detested the man stupendously. This was not the kind of detestation that stories are written about, oh no. Mike MikMik was no Mr. Darcy, lurking under the cloak of hatred, just to throw it off and reveal true love at the end of the novel. That was too cliche, and besides, Mr. MikMik was not handsome nor British, so why bother comparing the two?
There really wasn't anything about Mr. MikMik that Nona found worthy of appreciation. He was loud and controlling. No matter what any of the employees did it never seemed to be enough. His mustache was always uneven, and his comb over never created the illusion he intended it to. Truly, there was nothing admirable about the man. Even the way he chewed gum was easy to dislike, chomping and slurping and glaring at the world, daring one of his employees to comment on the sound and the display.
Each day, going into work, Nona had to take a deep breath and remind herself that she needed this job to keep paying for Wigwam's food. Wigwam was Nona's pet giraffe. He lived in the backyard of her apartment complex on 25th street, just across from Mr. Lloyd's deli. Wigwam was a costly fellow, but Nona loved him, so she chose to keep him on and sacrifice in order to keep him around. Nona was just that kind of friend.
But today, Mr. MikMik did something which made Nona test the limits of her love for Wigwam. Mr. MikMik crossed a line, stepping neatly across the boundary between "I'm mad, but I can deal with that" and "I might just kill you with the nearest object. A stapler will do nicely".
You see, if there was one worldly possession Nona loved in all the world it was her teddy bear, which is why she kept it home where she was sure it'd be safe. However, her planner was also very important to her. It had all her plans in it. Notes, lists, agendas, musings, and so on and so forth were also listed in the pages of the little bound book. That morning Mr. MikMik had spilled an entire cup of coffee on Nona's planner. Then yelled at her for the incident. And told her that his next cup of coffee was coming out of her paycheck. And then he'd ordered her to take "that sopping mess" and place it in the trashcan. Nona stood there, torn, fuming, and reluctant to throw her planner in the rubbish receptacle. It just wasn't fair.
Nona, Nona. Calm down sugar plum. (Calling herself pet names sometimes worked to help Nona relieve herself of anxiety. Today it didn't seem to do the trick.) Nona felt her hands clenching into fists.
Nona. Think of Wigwam. Think of Wigwam and that face he gets everytime he eats a whole barrel of special Giraffe Gourmet Goulash and the dance he never fails to complete afterward. Think of the way two of his legs fly into the air while the other two seemingly pirouette in a spiral reminiscent of a polar bear ascending into a tree. Think of that.
But even these images did nothing to calm Nona. Such was her anger, such was her fury.
"No." she said.
The look on Mr. MikMik's face rendered him even more unattractive than was customary.
um. I am disturbed at myself for writing this.
"Today her boss had gone too far"
Nona had had it. Done. She was done. She could not tolerate another single day with Mr. MikMik. That was his real name. Mr. MikMik was Nona's boss, and she detested the man stupendously. This was not the kind of detestation that stories are written about, oh no. Mike MikMik was no Mr. Darcy, lurking under the cloak of hatred, just to throw it off and reveal true love at the end of the novel. That was too cliche, and besides, Mr. MikMik was not handsome nor British, so why bother comparing the two?
There really wasn't anything about Mr. MikMik that Nona found worthy of appreciation. He was loud and controlling. No matter what any of the employees did it never seemed to be enough. His mustache was always uneven, and his comb over never created the illusion he intended it to. Truly, there was nothing admirable about the man. Even the way he chewed gum was easy to dislike, chomping and slurping and glaring at the world, daring one of his employees to comment on the sound and the display.
Each day, going into work, Nona had to take a deep breath and remind herself that she needed this job to keep paying for Wigwam's food. Wigwam was Nona's pet giraffe. He lived in the backyard of her apartment complex on 25th street, just across from Mr. Lloyd's deli. Wigwam was a costly fellow, but Nona loved him, so she chose to keep him on and sacrifice in order to keep him around. Nona was just that kind of friend.
But today, Mr. MikMik did something which made Nona test the limits of her love for Wigwam. Mr. MikMik crossed a line, stepping neatly across the boundary between "I'm mad, but I can deal with that" and "I might just kill you with the nearest object. A stapler will do nicely".
You see, if there was one worldly possession Nona loved in all the world it was her teddy bear, which is why she kept it home where she was sure it'd be safe. However, her planner was also very important to her. It had all her plans in it. Notes, lists, agendas, musings, and so on and so forth were also listed in the pages of the little bound book. That morning Mr. MikMik had spilled an entire cup of coffee on Nona's planner. Then yelled at her for the incident. And told her that his next cup of coffee was coming out of her paycheck. And then he'd ordered her to take "that sopping mess" and place it in the trashcan. Nona stood there, torn, fuming, and reluctant to throw her planner in the rubbish receptacle. It just wasn't fair.
Nona, Nona. Calm down sugar plum. (Calling herself pet names sometimes worked to help Nona relieve herself of anxiety. Today it didn't seem to do the trick.) Nona felt her hands clenching into fists.
Nona. Think of Wigwam. Think of Wigwam and that face he gets everytime he eats a whole barrel of special Giraffe Gourmet Goulash and the dance he never fails to complete afterward. Think of the way two of his legs fly into the air while the other two seemingly pirouette in a spiral reminiscent of a polar bear ascending into a tree. Think of that.
But even these images did nothing to calm Nona. Such was her anger, such was her fury.
"No." she said.
The look on Mr. MikMik's face rendered him even more unattractive than was customary.
um. I am disturbed at myself for writing this.
So Late
Time to write!
As per usual it's too late to really write something cohesive. So here goes five minutes of nonsense. Enjoy. :)
Penniworth McGillicutty lived in a small house with green shutters and a yellow front door. He wanted to one day paint his porch red, but who really has time for that kind of nonsense, and besides, he knew his mother wouldn't like it.
Penniworth was seven years old. His mother had named him Penniworth only moments after giving birth, and though many assumed she just hadn't thought the name through, she thought it fit the boy very well. He was small for his age, skinny but with a round face, and big eyes which his mother thought made him look intelligent. It actually made him look more bovine, but such a look is acceptable on seven year old boys with darling hair cuts and corduroy overalls.
Jerome and Stanley were Penniworth's best friends. Jerome lived across the street and one house to the right. That's what Penniworth's mom liked to call "diagonal". Stanley lived over five minutes away, in a big house in a cul-de-sac. That's what Penniworth liked to call "too far away". If he wasn't allowed to ride on his tricycle there, then it was automatically too far away in Penniworth's book.
Daddy was away lots, for his military job. Penniworth missed him greatly, and drew him pictures. Sometimes he'd draw pictures of what happened during the week, and sometimes he'd draw pictures of what he wished had happened during the week. Once he drew a picture of himself riding a dinosaur. The dinosaur was also eating his little sister, but Penniworth added that quick before it got mailed off. He was smart enough to know that Mama wouldn't like that very well.
Emma, Penniworth's baby sister, was actually one of Penniworth's favorite people. He wasn't a malicious child. It was just that Mama had been on the phone for hours that particular afternoon and he'd been stuck watching her. Then she'd made what Mama called "a stinky" and what Daddy called "a big one" and what Penniworth called "just plain gross", and on top of that she'd cried about it. Loudly. If anyone deserved to cry about it, it was Penniworth. So any other day Penniworth would have hated it if his imaginary pet dinosaur Rolo had eaten Emma, but just then it seemed like what Daddy would call "a fine notion, son".
As per usual it's too late to really write something cohesive. So here goes five minutes of nonsense. Enjoy. :)
Penniworth McGillicutty lived in a small house with green shutters and a yellow front door. He wanted to one day paint his porch red, but who really has time for that kind of nonsense, and besides, he knew his mother wouldn't like it.
Penniworth was seven years old. His mother had named him Penniworth only moments after giving birth, and though many assumed she just hadn't thought the name through, she thought it fit the boy very well. He was small for his age, skinny but with a round face, and big eyes which his mother thought made him look intelligent. It actually made him look more bovine, but such a look is acceptable on seven year old boys with darling hair cuts and corduroy overalls.
Jerome and Stanley were Penniworth's best friends. Jerome lived across the street and one house to the right. That's what Penniworth's mom liked to call "diagonal". Stanley lived over five minutes away, in a big house in a cul-de-sac. That's what Penniworth liked to call "too far away". If he wasn't allowed to ride on his tricycle there, then it was automatically too far away in Penniworth's book.
Daddy was away lots, for his military job. Penniworth missed him greatly, and drew him pictures. Sometimes he'd draw pictures of what happened during the week, and sometimes he'd draw pictures of what he wished had happened during the week. Once he drew a picture of himself riding a dinosaur. The dinosaur was also eating his little sister, but Penniworth added that quick before it got mailed off. He was smart enough to know that Mama wouldn't like that very well.
Emma, Penniworth's baby sister, was actually one of Penniworth's favorite people. He wasn't a malicious child. It was just that Mama had been on the phone for hours that particular afternoon and he'd been stuck watching her. Then she'd made what Mama called "a stinky" and what Daddy called "a big one" and what Penniworth called "just plain gross", and on top of that she'd cried about it. Loudly. If anyone deserved to cry about it, it was Penniworth. So any other day Penniworth would have hated it if his imaginary pet dinosaur Rolo had eaten Emma, but just then it seemed like what Daddy would call "a fine notion, son".
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Dreams and Demons
Time to write!
Sometimes my inspirations come from songs, and this is the case for today's little piece. Technically I want Sundays to be "Authentic Writing" days, as per last Sunday's post, and so I feel good about writing this tonight. Here's the inspiration story quick though:
I was weeding by the rose bushes one fine summer morning, listening to my iPod. I'd been doing a lot of reading, so writing was definitely on my mind, and just about every little thing got the wheels in my head a turning. Well, the songs "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men came on, and suddenly my brain was filled with some crazy ideas. I listened to the song again and ideas kept coming.
Looking back over the lyrics, I have no idea how that song actually inspired this story, but hey! I'll take a little help where I can get it. :)
*Note: This is not the beginning of the story. Beginnings are hard. This is a scene, hopefully it intrigues you.
I didn't want to sleep that night. I was afraid that as soon as I closed my eyes, he'd be back. It was like I couldn't escape him, whether sleeping or awake, he was always there. By day he was dark and brooding, and by night he was just Zander again. Zander my best friend, Zander who had asked me to marry him when we were five years old. This Zander was the one I found more dangerous, because the day version was so unlike the boy I'd grown up with that despite his good lucks and intriguing mannerisms, he was easy to resist. But at night I'd fall asleep and suddenly he was just Zander once more, and then I'd see him in the morning and everything would continue to become more complicated.
Despite my resolve not to sleep, its kind of a natural phenomenon. Here's a tip: When trying to stay awake, lying down on unreasonably plushy beds is not a good idea.
That was another thing about this castle. It was so archaic, and generally so cold, but it had the warmest, most inviting bed I'd ever had the pleasure to lie upon. The castle was full of paradoxes that way. Everything was double-sided, wonderful and awful at the same time. Like my dream that night.
The dream began with me lying on my bed, exactly as I was. My door opened and Zander peeked in, his dark hair falling in his forehead, instead of slicked back as it was during the day when he reigned as Prince of Darkness.
"You ready, Amie?" he asked.
"I don't know," I replied, hesitant.
Dreams here didn't work like dreams anywhere else. In any other bed you fall asleep and you dream and you wake up and that's that. It could be a beautiful dream you never want to wake up from, or a nightmare that wakes you sweating and panting and never falling back to sleep again, but generally it doesn't really affect you beyond your mood upon waking up. You get out of bed and go on with your day. The end.
Here, dreams are a second life. An extension of the day, happening on the flip side of whatever happened while the sun was up. If I dreamed here that I'd gone to make cake in the kitchen, I'd wake up sitting at the table, and the mixing bowls would be in the sink. The only difference was that during my dream I was with Zander Miles, teenage human boy, making a cake in a normal, albeit fancy, kitchen, with a normal oven and running water. When I woke up I'd be sitting at a huge banquet table, surrounded by stone, and Alekzander IV, Demon Prince, would be coming down the stairs, hair slicked back, looking well rested and smiling enigmatically.
So when Zander asked me if I was ready to go, I didn't know what to say. Go where? Because I'd go just about anywhere with Zander, but didn't want to be anywhere close to Alekzander, not here, not anywhere. Like I said. Paradox.
Sometimes my inspirations come from songs, and this is the case for today's little piece. Technically I want Sundays to be "Authentic Writing" days, as per last Sunday's post, and so I feel good about writing this tonight. Here's the inspiration story quick though:
I was weeding by the rose bushes one fine summer morning, listening to my iPod. I'd been doing a lot of reading, so writing was definitely on my mind, and just about every little thing got the wheels in my head a turning. Well, the songs "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men came on, and suddenly my brain was filled with some crazy ideas. I listened to the song again and ideas kept coming.
Looking back over the lyrics, I have no idea how that song actually inspired this story, but hey! I'll take a little help where I can get it. :)
*Note: This is not the beginning of the story. Beginnings are hard. This is a scene, hopefully it intrigues you.
I didn't want to sleep that night. I was afraid that as soon as I closed my eyes, he'd be back. It was like I couldn't escape him, whether sleeping or awake, he was always there. By day he was dark and brooding, and by night he was just Zander again. Zander my best friend, Zander who had asked me to marry him when we were five years old. This Zander was the one I found more dangerous, because the day version was so unlike the boy I'd grown up with that despite his good lucks and intriguing mannerisms, he was easy to resist. But at night I'd fall asleep and suddenly he was just Zander once more, and then I'd see him in the morning and everything would continue to become more complicated.
Despite my resolve not to sleep, its kind of a natural phenomenon. Here's a tip: When trying to stay awake, lying down on unreasonably plushy beds is not a good idea.
That was another thing about this castle. It was so archaic, and generally so cold, but it had the warmest, most inviting bed I'd ever had the pleasure to lie upon. The castle was full of paradoxes that way. Everything was double-sided, wonderful and awful at the same time. Like my dream that night.
The dream began with me lying on my bed, exactly as I was. My door opened and Zander peeked in, his dark hair falling in his forehead, instead of slicked back as it was during the day when he reigned as Prince of Darkness.
"You ready, Amie?" he asked.
"I don't know," I replied, hesitant.
Dreams here didn't work like dreams anywhere else. In any other bed you fall asleep and you dream and you wake up and that's that. It could be a beautiful dream you never want to wake up from, or a nightmare that wakes you sweating and panting and never falling back to sleep again, but generally it doesn't really affect you beyond your mood upon waking up. You get out of bed and go on with your day. The end.
Here, dreams are a second life. An extension of the day, happening on the flip side of whatever happened while the sun was up. If I dreamed here that I'd gone to make cake in the kitchen, I'd wake up sitting at the table, and the mixing bowls would be in the sink. The only difference was that during my dream I was with Zander Miles, teenage human boy, making a cake in a normal, albeit fancy, kitchen, with a normal oven and running water. When I woke up I'd be sitting at a huge banquet table, surrounded by stone, and Alekzander IV, Demon Prince, would be coming down the stairs, hair slicked back, looking well rested and smiling enigmatically.
So when Zander asked me if I was ready to go, I didn't know what to say. Go where? Because I'd go just about anywhere with Zander, but didn't want to be anywhere close to Alekzander, not here, not anywhere. Like I said. Paradox.
Romantic
Time to write!
Inspired by a true story...hem hem.
It wasn't anything much, but it made her heart pound and skip in ways it hadn't done in over a year. The sky was blue, the sun was bright.
He'd apologized for the lameness of the statement, but even he had found the conditions so ideal that he'd commented to her on how beautiful the day was.
She'd agreed and then they lay there in simple silence.
With hands linked, her left in his right, her thoughts were serene as she let herself relax, enjoying the feel of the grass underneath her, and the sun on her face. She closed her eyes and turned her head so she wouldn't have to smash her hair, quickly thrown into a bun.
When his forehead touched hers, she wanted to stay there for the rest of the day.
Inspired by a true story...hem hem.
It wasn't anything much, but it made her heart pound and skip in ways it hadn't done in over a year. The sky was blue, the sun was bright.
He'd apologized for the lameness of the statement, but even he had found the conditions so ideal that he'd commented to her on how beautiful the day was.
She'd agreed and then they lay there in simple silence.
With hands linked, her left in his right, her thoughts were serene as she let herself relax, enjoying the feel of the grass underneath her, and the sun on her face. She closed her eyes and turned her head so she wouldn't have to smash her hair, quickly thrown into a bun.
When his forehead touched hers, she wanted to stay there for the rest of the day.
Friday, September 21, 2012
Protector
Time to write!
Ok folks, so here is something extremely dear to my heart. This is the link to my by far most popular story on fanfiction.net. As of today, Protector has received 251,919 views. That is a lot of people, all over the world, who have read my story and it actually kind of overwhelms me. It amazes me that there are people who care and it is even a little emotional for me. The crazy thing, is I am EXTREMELY hesitant to share this story with people I actually know. So if you're finding this, know that this story means quite a lot to me and I'm trusting you with it, cause I hate sharing it with people who I could actually talk to about it.
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6763798/1/Protector
Happy reading! :)
Ok folks, so here is something extremely dear to my heart. This is the link to my by far most popular story on fanfiction.net. As of today, Protector has received 251,919 views. That is a lot of people, all over the world, who have read my story and it actually kind of overwhelms me. It amazes me that there are people who care and it is even a little emotional for me. The crazy thing, is I am EXTREMELY hesitant to share this story with people I actually know. So if you're finding this, know that this story means quite a lot to me and I'm trusting you with it, cause I hate sharing it with people who I could actually talk to about it.
http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6763798/1/Protector
Happy reading! :)
Forgotten
Time to write!
The idea for "Forgotten" struck me a very long time ago, and I actually once wrote an intro for it which I really liked. However, I never continued it from there, so for today I decided to write a portion of the opening chapter. This, again, is a story that I actually have all planned and which I love the concept for, and its on these stories especially that feedback is appreciated. Loves and happy reading!!
The idea for "Forgotten" struck me a very long time ago, and I actually once wrote an intro for it which I really liked. However, I never continued it from there, so for today I decided to write a portion of the opening chapter. This, again, is a story that I actually have all planned and which I love the concept for, and its on these stories especially that feedback is appreciated. Loves and happy reading!!
Jarron and Railee were sitting by the fire, close enough that there was perhaps a foot of slack chain between them. They didn’t know their names were Jarron and Railee, they didn’t know either of their parents names, they didn’t know where they’d come from, but they knew just about everything else about each other. Railee knew that Jarron preferred cleaning to feeding, and Jarron knew that Railee would rather dance than march. Railee knew Jarron’s favorite meal was the stew and his least favorite was the bowl of vegetables. Jarron knew Railee was younger than him. They knew all this, and yet they’d never spoken a word to one another. They weren’t allowed to, for speaking was strictly prohibited by the Elders in the presence of any of the other Forgotten.
The Elders had many rules for the Forgotten, and when a rule was broken you were taken away. There was only one thing worse, they’d been told, than being Forgotten, and that was being Lost. Jarron had seen fourteen children become Lost. Railee had never witnessed someone become Lost, but it was her biggest fear.
Jarron finished eating and grimaced down into his empty wooden bowl, wishing there was somehow more food there. He knew there were many mouths to feed, but the Elevated always got to eat much more than the Forgotten, so he knew there was at least some extra food to spare.
Railee tapped the bench between them, trying to get his attention. Touching was another activity which the Elders forbade, at least between boys and girls. The older boys and girls were allowed to carry the younger ones on particularly long journeys, but that was about all the physical contact they were allowed. Railee drummed her fingers, looking intently at Jarron until he turned to acknowledge her. He raised his eyebrows at her, and she reached out for his bowl.
Jarron shook his head, confused. What did she want his empty bowl for? Railee began pantomiming setting the bowl down on the space between them, and Jarron warily obeyed, hoping none of the Elevated were watching, for they’d surely get in trouble. Once Jarron’s bowl had been set down, Railee picked it up and began using her spoon to transfer food from her bowl to his. He was much bigger than she was, and she didn’t like the look he gave his bowl each night when he discovered there was no more food in it. It was a mean look, like the way the Elevateds looked at her when she couldn’t keep up on the march.
Jarron accepted the extra food, taking the bowl back readily, and scarfing down the few extra bites, hoping no one else and witnessed the exchange. Chained to his other side, but sitting further away was Gami, a scrawny boy with extremely thick brown hair and angular elbows, but Gami was looking the other way, staring into the trees like they could tell him secrets.
Good, Jarron thought, getting the last bit of what seemed to be boiled leaf, unpalatable but sustenance, out of the bowl with his self carved spoon. Skinny didn’t notice. Jarron had names for everyone now. At first he hadn’t known how to think of the other Forgotten. No one ever called them anything, simply clipped a lead to the cuff branded around their wrist, detached them from the chain, and led them where they wanted them to go. Even the Elders, who spoke to the Forgotten, never specified one of them by a name. They’d simply say, “Forgotten” when addressing one, or all of them as a group.
Jarron hadn’t thought to name the other Forgotten until he’d realized that the words which didn’t make sense to him which he’d heard while listening to the Elders speak were names. Once he discovered they called each other certain made-up words in order to direct their comments to someone, Jarron knew he wanted a name. More than anything, he wanted a name, and he wanted someone to call him by his name, and to know that it meant they were talking to him.
After that day Jarron started naming everyone. He didn’t know what the rules were for names though, or how the Elders came up with the strange words, so he just named people by their attributes. He smiled in appreciation at Railee, Lashes, in his mind, and looked down the line at Red, Scars, Short, and Trip. It was weird seeing Short and Trip next to one another on the line. For months Bright Eyes had been chained between them, but then she’d spoken to an Elevated. Bright Eyes was Lost now. A yank of the chain broke Jarron from his revelry. It was time to clean up, and then they’d be on the march again. It was fall time. There was always the most marching in autumn, because that’s when they’d gather all the new Forgotten. Jarron stood and followed the rest of his line to the stream where they would wash first the shiny, heavy, white dishes of the Elders, then the shiny pewter dishes off the Elevated, and then, hopefully, have time to rinse their own wooden utensils before being let off the Chain and being taken to bed.
Railee hated climbing trees, but it was required of all the Forgotten to know how. She’d been climbing trees for years, but that didn’t mean she liked it. She especially hated it at night time. Hiding during the day when the Elders were worried the Forgotten would be hurt was one thing, but sleeping in the trees at night was another. She hoped that tonight she’d get a low branch, or maybe even be able to sleep on the ground. The Elevated leading her was tall, and pretty. She had a long blonde ponytail and green eyes and hadn’t pulled Railee when she’d clipped the lead to her guide bracelet. When they reached the tree were the girls Railee’s age would be sleeping for the night the Elevated began climbing the tree, with Railee following after her. Railee breathed a sigh of relief when the Elevated clipped the other side of her lead to a branch only about four feet off the ground. Railee waited, hugging the trunk of the tree, while the Elevated jumped down, then slid over to the branch she’d been assigned to sleep on for the night. She lay down and got as comfortable as possible, moving her chain to the side so it hung down off the branch. Sleeping on top of the chain was never comfortable. In a few minutes, another Elevated came by with a blanket, which she laid over Railee. This was the signal that meant it was time for her to fall asleep. There was a rule against staying up at night, unless you had patrol duty. Railee shut her eyes, and let her weary body relax as much as possible, her final thought before she fell asleep was that she hoped she would get the honor of being a Messenger for the next year’s Forgotten. How nice would it be, to see the city?
Thursday, September 20, 2012
More Than a Story- The Ultimate Crossover Fic
Time to write!
When I stumbled upon this quote, an idea was borne in my being which delighted the mind and tickled the soul. And this is the first piece of it. It is one I intend to keep on playing with, because it's going to allow me to play with some of the most brilliant characters ever created, at least by my own accounting. Unfortunately, copyright policies impel me to say that regrettably I do not own the characters who are CLEARLY not mine which I will so cleverly attempt to manipulate in this endeavor of mine, and I only hope that someone out there will enjoy reading it.
A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. - George R. R. Martin
I grew up being "that nerd girl" who was always in love with fictional men, and was obsessed with reading. As a child I loved Star Wars and Harry Potter, as a teen I loved superheroes, and in college I got introduced to Time Lords and the beauty of all things BBC.
And that was great. I considered myself a normal, college student, with maybe a little extra geekiness on the side, but I never really considered I was anything special.
I can't tell you the number of times I fantasized about meeting one of various characters from the novels and TV shows I let myself get so emotional about. Wouldn't it be great to hang out with Sherlock Holmes, or have a heart to heart with Lizzy Bennett?
Well, as an English major I must apologize for the dreadful use of the tired cliche, but this was just another scenario when it's better to "be careful what you wish for", because sometimes being thrust into the worlds of various characters throughout time and space isn't as fun and glamorous as we imagine it to be in our heads.
But I guess before I get too deep into the analyzation of wishful thinking, and self-inflicted prophesies, I should clarify. My life went from that of your average College Freshman to that of someone who was expected to be on par with the likes of Indiana Jones and Dora, you know, legendary explorers. In short, everything changed the day I found the Continuum Circuit.
***
The Continuum Circuit is not a device like the TARDIS or a time turner, or the "beam me up, Scotty" teleportation pads found on the Starship Enterprise. Instead it's more of a pathway, a portal that exists in its own dimension, and which deigns to show up here, really, only when there's trouble.
I stumbled upon it quite by accident, when walking through the library one day, merely as a shortcut to another class. It was only my third time stepping foot in the library all semester. Not because I wasn't studious, but because I actually preferred studying in the privacy of my dorm room. While many of the girls on my hall adhered to the policy that studying in the dorms would yield ineffective results due to all the activity going on, I found that in the evenings the dorms were actually a very quiet place to be...because all the other girls were at the library. I had merely come into the library that particular day because I thought it might be quicker to go through the library than to go around it, and I was already running late for class. Now that I record this however, I must admit that there are numerous characters with mantras running along the lines of "There are no such things as coincidences", so maybe it was fate that pulled me into the library that day.
Or...maybe it was my innate ability to sense attractive men in the vicinity. Insert sarcastic smirk here. Before we get any further, it should be acknowledged that my geekiness makes me much more prone to fall in love with men until just recently deemed by myself to be "imaginary" than with any I might actually talk to. In this instance however, I quite literally stumbled into a den of dreamboats.
I'd just passed through the metal detectors and was crossing the main reference desk when a strange, multicolored tinted light caught my attention. It was like someone was shining a rainbow underneath the crack of a door, and as I turned to assess the situation, I realized the thin strip of light really was coming from underneath a door. It wasn't a door like all the other doors in the library however, which were boring, and brown, solid and dependable. This door was white and looked like it was made of high grade plastic, but somehow classier. From underneath the door the light was shining, blue in places, pink in others, orange here and there, and mostly green in the middle.
Color me intrigued, forgive the pun. I pushed the door open and shook my head. The scene before me is one I didn't believe, and one I don't really expect you to either. It looked like a conference room, but maybe a conference room in an insane asylum. The walls and floor were white, and made of the same material as the door. The huge, oval table, which dominated almost 80% of the room was also white, but the chairs surrounding it were black. There were no overhead hanging lights, but there were lights high up on the walls, multicolored lights, which cast colored glows bouncing off the white surfaces everywhere and reflecting back at strange angles.
This almost disco-party affect was not what made me stop and question my sanity, however. The aspect of the scene which made me both want to leave the room and pretend the incident ever happened and stay forever was the fact that seated around the table were Mr. Darcy, Anakin Skywalker, Peter Parker, Lucius Malfoy, and a man I'd never seen before, but whose sonic screwdriver in hand clearly identified him as The Doctor.
To be continued....
When I stumbled upon this quote, an idea was borne in my being which delighted the mind and tickled the soul. And this is the first piece of it. It is one I intend to keep on playing with, because it's going to allow me to play with some of the most brilliant characters ever created, at least by my own accounting. Unfortunately, copyright policies impel me to say that regrettably I do not own the characters who are CLEARLY not mine which I will so cleverly attempt to manipulate in this endeavor of mine, and I only hope that someone out there will enjoy reading it.
A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. - George R. R. Martin
I grew up being "that nerd girl" who was always in love with fictional men, and was obsessed with reading. As a child I loved Star Wars and Harry Potter, as a teen I loved superheroes, and in college I got introduced to Time Lords and the beauty of all things BBC.
And that was great. I considered myself a normal, college student, with maybe a little extra geekiness on the side, but I never really considered I was anything special.
I can't tell you the number of times I fantasized about meeting one of various characters from the novels and TV shows I let myself get so emotional about. Wouldn't it be great to hang out with Sherlock Holmes, or have a heart to heart with Lizzy Bennett?
Well, as an English major I must apologize for the dreadful use of the tired cliche, but this was just another scenario when it's better to "be careful what you wish for", because sometimes being thrust into the worlds of various characters throughout time and space isn't as fun and glamorous as we imagine it to be in our heads.
But I guess before I get too deep into the analyzation of wishful thinking, and self-inflicted prophesies, I should clarify. My life went from that of your average College Freshman to that of someone who was expected to be on par with the likes of Indiana Jones and Dora, you know, legendary explorers. In short, everything changed the day I found the Continuum Circuit.
***
The Continuum Circuit is not a device like the TARDIS or a time turner, or the "beam me up, Scotty" teleportation pads found on the Starship Enterprise. Instead it's more of a pathway, a portal that exists in its own dimension, and which deigns to show up here, really, only when there's trouble.
I stumbled upon it quite by accident, when walking through the library one day, merely as a shortcut to another class. It was only my third time stepping foot in the library all semester. Not because I wasn't studious, but because I actually preferred studying in the privacy of my dorm room. While many of the girls on my hall adhered to the policy that studying in the dorms would yield ineffective results due to all the activity going on, I found that in the evenings the dorms were actually a very quiet place to be...because all the other girls were at the library. I had merely come into the library that particular day because I thought it might be quicker to go through the library than to go around it, and I was already running late for class. Now that I record this however, I must admit that there are numerous characters with mantras running along the lines of "There are no such things as coincidences", so maybe it was fate that pulled me into the library that day.
Or...maybe it was my innate ability to sense attractive men in the vicinity. Insert sarcastic smirk here. Before we get any further, it should be acknowledged that my geekiness makes me much more prone to fall in love with men until just recently deemed by myself to be "imaginary" than with any I might actually talk to. In this instance however, I quite literally stumbled into a den of dreamboats.
I'd just passed through the metal detectors and was crossing the main reference desk when a strange, multicolored tinted light caught my attention. It was like someone was shining a rainbow underneath the crack of a door, and as I turned to assess the situation, I realized the thin strip of light really was coming from underneath a door. It wasn't a door like all the other doors in the library however, which were boring, and brown, solid and dependable. This door was white and looked like it was made of high grade plastic, but somehow classier. From underneath the door the light was shining, blue in places, pink in others, orange here and there, and mostly green in the middle.
Color me intrigued, forgive the pun. I pushed the door open and shook my head. The scene before me is one I didn't believe, and one I don't really expect you to either. It looked like a conference room, but maybe a conference room in an insane asylum. The walls and floor were white, and made of the same material as the door. The huge, oval table, which dominated almost 80% of the room was also white, but the chairs surrounding it were black. There were no overhead hanging lights, but there were lights high up on the walls, multicolored lights, which cast colored glows bouncing off the white surfaces everywhere and reflecting back at strange angles.
This almost disco-party affect was not what made me stop and question my sanity, however. The aspect of the scene which made me both want to leave the room and pretend the incident ever happened and stay forever was the fact that seated around the table were Mr. Darcy, Anakin Skywalker, Peter Parker, Lucius Malfoy, and a man I'd never seen before, but whose sonic screwdriver in hand clearly identified him as The Doctor.
To be continued....
2:00
Time to write!
Such is my dedication to this blog that I am literally writing it at 2 am because I was just hanging out in the hall with some friends. So tonight's entry will be exceedingly short, and yet, beautiful.
Write about a penguin named McMuffin.
Once in the cold and wintry land of Antarctica lived a penguin named McMuffin McAllistar, known to friends, acquaintances, compatriots, strangers, and even enemies alike as McMuffin McAllistar.
McMuffin was not a particularly tall penguin, nor was he particularly fat. He was, however, particularly fond of chasing seals. While all the other penguins seemed to find other activities more enjoyable, such as fishing, laying eggs, or performing the occasional tap dance, McMuffin preferred to go down to the edges of the continent where the ice was jagged and coldest of all, and chase the seals.
The seals, for their part, were not fond of McMuffin McAllistar's chasing ways. It was not an infrequent occurrence that they'd be in the middle of an exceptionally interesting forum, sometimes on the topic of Killer Whale Killing Prevention - which is to say the prevention of killing by Killer Whales, not the prevention of Killer Whales - when McMuffin would come running through and then would chase them all about. Ironically enough, this, on more than one occasion, led to a seal slipping into the water and being killed by Killer Whale.
It is essential, at this juncture, to recognize that Killer Whale was the name of an individual member of said species, and a bloodthirsty, vengeful, spiteful one at that. Killer Whale was as opposite from Shamu as Hitler was from Fred Rogers.
Is it disturbing that I kind of want to continue this....?
Such is my dedication to this blog that I am literally writing it at 2 am because I was just hanging out in the hall with some friends. So tonight's entry will be exceedingly short, and yet, beautiful.
Write about a penguin named McMuffin.
Once in the cold and wintry land of Antarctica lived a penguin named McMuffin McAllistar, known to friends, acquaintances, compatriots, strangers, and even enemies alike as McMuffin McAllistar.
McMuffin was not a particularly tall penguin, nor was he particularly fat. He was, however, particularly fond of chasing seals. While all the other penguins seemed to find other activities more enjoyable, such as fishing, laying eggs, or performing the occasional tap dance, McMuffin preferred to go down to the edges of the continent where the ice was jagged and coldest of all, and chase the seals.
The seals, for their part, were not fond of McMuffin McAllistar's chasing ways. It was not an infrequent occurrence that they'd be in the middle of an exceptionally interesting forum, sometimes on the topic of Killer Whale Killing Prevention - which is to say the prevention of killing by Killer Whales, not the prevention of Killer Whales - when McMuffin would come running through and then would chase them all about. Ironically enough, this, on more than one occasion, led to a seal slipping into the water and being killed by Killer Whale.
It is essential, at this juncture, to recognize that Killer Whale was the name of an individual member of said species, and a bloodthirsty, vengeful, spiteful one at that. Killer Whale was as opposite from Shamu as Hitler was from Fred Rogers.
Is it disturbing that I kind of want to continue this....?
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Does that make ME an Alien?
Time to write!
 |
| My biggest question is... if everyone else is the same species, and I'm different, does that me the alien? And if the answer is yes, how did I get here? I looked like my parents, like my older sister, even like all my friends in the sense that we all looked, you know, human. They still looked human. It wasn't like they'd all set up some elaborate scheme for the past fourteen years to make me think I was just like them, while we are actually a different species. They didn't wear skin suits, or bind extra arms to their sides. They weren't green, they weren't slimy, and neither was I. They were different though. I wondered who else knew. Did everyone know? Did at least my parents know? I hadn't meant to find out. I'd been working in the science lab after school, like I did every Thursday afternoon, and was cleaning some of the newer equipment. A hair was lying on the new, fancy-shmancy DNA analyzer which had just come in two weeks before. The way it worked, essentially, was that you could place anything from a living organism under the lens and drop a couple of drops of solution over the sample, and the machine would give you results, telling you what species the sample had come from. Simple enough. I was just admiring it, so Doctor Warrell told me to go ahead, try it out. I tried it first with the hair already on the machine. After allowing the machine to process a code printed out. HU484-OOL. I wasn't sure what that meant, but figured it just meant the code for "human" or "homo sapien" or whatever. I plucked a hair from my own head, dripped the solution over it, waited for the DNA to be deciphered, then pulled out the strip of paper. The code read RW623-MMH. After that, I must admit, I was freaked out. I showed the first code to Doctor Warrell and asked him what that meant, and he told me it was just "the hair from a normal person", in fact it was one of Bianca's hairs. Bianca was the girl who came in to help Doctor Warrell on Wednesdays, and she'd been in my class for the past four years. I didn't want to tell Doctor Warrell my code was different. I wondered if it was just because I was a boy. Maybe there were different codes for boys and girls. A true thing.... I really want to continue this cause I have more of an idea, but I am tired and want to sleep. SO I will just revisit this for another day's prompt. |
Monday, September 17, 2012
Where Did They Go?
Time to write!
Quite honestly, this prompt freaks me out a little bit. But here we go.
You never really think about those people whose faces appear on the back of milk cartons, or on poles on street corners. You don't realize that they're gone, that their families don't know where they are, and that no one knows if they'll ever be back. Sure, the questions might cross your mind. You might even send up a quick prayer, but after that your mind replaces those thoughts with thoughts about your favorite tv show or what you and your best friend are going to do after school on Friday. You never think about it. At least I didn't, until my sister went missing.
***
Palmer was only eight years old when we lost her. It had started out a normal day. That's how these stories normally start however. If there was any warning that something bad was going to happen, we'd take measures to prevent it. I arrived home from Peter Mount High School, and dumped my extremely full backpack next to my shoes in the front hall.
"I'm home!" I called.
"Tracy!" Palmer squealed, then came bouncing down the stairs, her stocking feet making thumping sounds as she landed on each individual step, her brown pigtails bouncing.
I smiled and gave her a hug. "What'd you do today?" I asked, looking up to see Nana walking down the stairs quietly. Nana had that look on her face, the tight smile which meant that even though she loved Palmer very much, Palmer had been loud today. I smiled sympathetically.
"Me and Nana played animals!" Palmer exclaimed.
"Yeah? And how was school?" I asked, heading towards the kitchen to get an apple.
"School was sad." Palmer replied.
I stopped and looked at her carefully. "Were other kids mean to you?" I asked gently. Palmer was tiny for her age, and extremely thin. She was sick a lot, and last year a couple of kids had picked on her, leaving her shy around children her own age.
"No," she answered, with a vigorous shake of the head. "School was just sad, cause it was a sad place to be today."
I didn't know what Palmer meant, but satisfied that she wasn't being bullied I went to the fridge and began looking through the drawer where we kept our produce.
"Tracy?" Palmer said, coming up and hugging my leg. "Nana says she's too tired to go the park. Will you take me?"
I had a bunch of homework to complete, but I wasn't too eager to get to my AP Calculus and knew that it would make both Palmer and Nana very happy if I got Palmer out of the house for an hour so I agreed.
The park was only a couple of blocks from our home. We lived in a nice suburban area, and the park we went to had never seemed in the least bit dangerous. There was nothing haunting about the rows of creaky swings, or anything eerie about the long twisting slide. The monkey bars had never freaked me out, and the climbing spider dome was far from chilling. I let go of Palmer's hand as we got to the park and watched her run off towards the monkey bars. She'd practiced them all summer, and now were her favorite activity at the park. I sat down on the bench by the swings, the one with the best view of the duck pond near the park, and enjoyed the crisp air. It was late September, and the last bit of summer still swirled in the air with the ever growing presence of autumn.
Leaning back, I looked around, admiring the leaves on the changing trees, and watching the ducks swim lazily in the pond, quacking at one another every now and then, and occasionally wandering up out of the shallow pool and sitting in the shade of the trees. I made sure to keep an eye on Palmer, but she seemed to be happily playing. There were only about six other children at the park that day, and Palmer had started up a game of tag with a little girl with black, curly hair and a ginger boy wearing overalls. I smiled, remembering what it was like to be eight years old and full of energy.
I closed my eyes to enjoy the rays of sunlight on my face, when suddenly the bite in the air seemed colder. The creaking sound of swings died away, and for one split second everything was dead silent. A loud quack from a green-headed mallard cut through the stillness, and as I opened my eyes I saw it. A black looming form, looking mostly human, but part dog and constructed entirely of shadows was stalking out from underneath the bridge, connecting the two parts of the playground together. I blinked, not believing my eyes, but sure that I'd seen something.
I stood up, panic rising in my chest, as the looming shape, walking on two legs but slumped over so far the arms almost brushed the ground, began to charge.
"Palmer!" I called. But the creature had traveled across the playground in three bounds, taking with it an aura of darkness. Wherever it moved, it seemed mostly cloaked, as though it could grab on to the existing shadows and stretch them to shield himself from the sun's bright beams.
"Palmer!" I said again, hurrying towards her now, my voice rising higher than normal.
Her head snapped around and she looked at me, clumsily running towards her, but it was too late. The thing had reached her, and suddenly it was as if she was swirled up in a cape of blackness, and then suddenly they both were gone.
My hands flew to my face, and I realized I was about to vomit. She couldn't just be gone. She was standing right in front of me, literally one second ago. With wild eyes, I looked to the children who had been playing with her. Why were they still here? Why did it take Palmer? Where was she? What was it?
"Did you...Did you see what just happened?" I asked the tiny boy, who was kicking at the wood ships and swaying slightly.
He looked up at me, wide eyed, and shook his head, then turned and ran the other way.
My eyes darted about in agitation, glancing furtively at the other mothers and babysitters who were seated on various benches around the park, but no one else seemed to have noticed a thing.
I took a step backwards, not knowing what to do now. Palmer was gone. Palmer was missing.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Authentic
Time to write!
Quote: "Authentic writing is rarely prompt-driven."
Well how awkward is that? So much for a prompt of the day (even though I will sure get a prompt tomorrow), today we are going to play with a preexisting idea from my mind. Don't steal it please.
Coralee's body was bent, shielding the match she held, the only light detectable in the dark warehouse. She carefully touched the quickly expiring match to the thick fuse, then watched as the light traveled rapidly down the fuse, towards the bundle of high-end explosives Pyro had set up for her.
Standing and turning towards the entrance, Coralee began walking out of the old building, aware that the explosives would be going off any second. This wasn't the thought that held her mind at the moment though. No, instead she wondered why Pyro wouldn't tell anyone his real name, or where he lived. He certainly was mysterious, but that wasn't uncommon on the streets of New Griffield.
Then Coralee was flying through the air, huge pieces of metal and wood hurtling past her cheeks. The blast hurt Coralee's ears, and she felt warmer than she had a moment before, and could smell her thin tee shirt burning, but that's all it was. Within a few seconds, she'd landed back on the ground and was back on her feet. Her black converse moved through the rubble quickly, and soon she was blocks away from the blast site, and there was nothing left there to link her to that location.
***
Arriving on the fourth level of the underground parking garage under Warman's Department Store, Coralee could make out the faces of Jarren and Tam.
"How'd it go?" Tam asked, concern clear in his voice.
Jarren laughed. "Well enough, obviously," he said, his voice much lower than Tam's. "I mean, she's back isn't she?"
Coralee smiled slightly. "Pretty much," she agreed. "It went as planned."
Jarren nodded. "So Pyro delivered?"
"Doesn't he normally?" Coralee responded, walking to the corner, and turning her back to the two boys. She peeled off her tee shirt, and replaced it with a new one, aware of their eyes on her back.
"Doesn't it hurt you?" Tam asked quietly.
Coralee suppressed a sigh. Tam was always worried about her on these missions, whereas Jarren seemed completely at ease with the risk.
"Does what hurt, Tam?" Coralee said.
"Being in those explosions. The burns." Tam answered.
Coralee's back had felt a bit tender, no doubt the skin had been red and blistered where her tee shirt had left her skin exposed, but even know she could feel the tingling sensation that meant her skin was healing.
Jarren nudged Tam, a teasing smile on his face. "How many times are you going to ask her Tam? Don't you believe her by now? She can't die, Tam. Quit your worrying."
Tam just shook his head, unwilling to accept what Coralee had told them upon first meeting them, three years ago, in the exact parking garage where they all now sat on abandoned pieces of furniture and shipping crates.
"It just feels warm," Coralee said gently to Tam, wishing he'd stop fretting.
The truth was, it scared her as much as it did Tam. Coralee knew she should've died that night. She should've died a thousand times before that night. But for some reason, Coralee seemed to be indestructible.
Because this is my first attempt at beginning a story that's actually been playing in my head for quite some time now, if you've feedback, I'd love to hear it!
Quote: "Authentic writing is rarely prompt-driven."
Well how awkward is that? So much for a prompt of the day (even though I will sure get a prompt tomorrow), today we are going to play with a preexisting idea from my mind. Don't steal it please.
Coralee's body was bent, shielding the match she held, the only light detectable in the dark warehouse. She carefully touched the quickly expiring match to the thick fuse, then watched as the light traveled rapidly down the fuse, towards the bundle of high-end explosives Pyro had set up for her.
Standing and turning towards the entrance, Coralee began walking out of the old building, aware that the explosives would be going off any second. This wasn't the thought that held her mind at the moment though. No, instead she wondered why Pyro wouldn't tell anyone his real name, or where he lived. He certainly was mysterious, but that wasn't uncommon on the streets of New Griffield.
Then Coralee was flying through the air, huge pieces of metal and wood hurtling past her cheeks. The blast hurt Coralee's ears, and she felt warmer than she had a moment before, and could smell her thin tee shirt burning, but that's all it was. Within a few seconds, she'd landed back on the ground and was back on her feet. Her black converse moved through the rubble quickly, and soon she was blocks away from the blast site, and there was nothing left there to link her to that location.
***
Arriving on the fourth level of the underground parking garage under Warman's Department Store, Coralee could make out the faces of Jarren and Tam.
"How'd it go?" Tam asked, concern clear in his voice.
Jarren laughed. "Well enough, obviously," he said, his voice much lower than Tam's. "I mean, she's back isn't she?"
Coralee smiled slightly. "Pretty much," she agreed. "It went as planned."
Jarren nodded. "So Pyro delivered?"
"Doesn't he normally?" Coralee responded, walking to the corner, and turning her back to the two boys. She peeled off her tee shirt, and replaced it with a new one, aware of their eyes on her back.
"Doesn't it hurt you?" Tam asked quietly.
Coralee suppressed a sigh. Tam was always worried about her on these missions, whereas Jarren seemed completely at ease with the risk.
"Does what hurt, Tam?" Coralee said.
"Being in those explosions. The burns." Tam answered.
Coralee's back had felt a bit tender, no doubt the skin had been red and blistered where her tee shirt had left her skin exposed, but even know she could feel the tingling sensation that meant her skin was healing.
Jarren nudged Tam, a teasing smile on his face. "How many times are you going to ask her Tam? Don't you believe her by now? She can't die, Tam. Quit your worrying."
Tam just shook his head, unwilling to accept what Coralee had told them upon first meeting them, three years ago, in the exact parking garage where they all now sat on abandoned pieces of furniture and shipping crates.
"It just feels warm," Coralee said gently to Tam, wishing he'd stop fretting.
The truth was, it scared her as much as it did Tam. Coralee knew she should've died that night. She should've died a thousand times before that night. But for some reason, Coralee seemed to be indestructible.
Because this is my first attempt at beginning a story that's actually been playing in my head for quite some time now, if you've feedback, I'd love to hear it!
Memory Bottled
Time to write!
Continue on the following:
"If only there could be an invention," I said impulsively, "that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale.And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again."
That's what started it. The idea to be able to preserve a memory, to keep it in a bottle, and to visit the memory again, whenever you needed it most.
At the time, when inspiration struck me, I never imagined that this would have come of it.
I never dreamed that one day I would return to my office and meet a man there by the name of Doctor Halvin, who would inform me that the idea I had conceived could actually become a reality.
And we both never even considered the possibility that we'd end up making more than we'd set out to. We never stopped to consider what might actually happen if you truly trapped a memory inside a bottle.
Time travel. And now we're all in trouble.
Ok, so once again I'm updating at 1:40 and that's why this is so short. HOWEVER, I actually do love, and I mean love the idea this prompt gave me and could see myself turning this into a story. So I'll probably revisit this prompt at some point and then some other time begin writing a real story. But I'm jazzed. I love inspiration!
Continue on the following:
"If only there could be an invention," I said impulsively, "that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale.And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like living the moment all over again."
That's what started it. The idea to be able to preserve a memory, to keep it in a bottle, and to visit the memory again, whenever you needed it most.
At the time, when inspiration struck me, I never imagined that this would have come of it.
I never dreamed that one day I would return to my office and meet a man there by the name of Doctor Halvin, who would inform me that the idea I had conceived could actually become a reality.
And we both never even considered the possibility that we'd end up making more than we'd set out to. We never stopped to consider what might actually happen if you truly trapped a memory inside a bottle.
Time travel. And now we're all in trouble.
Ok, so once again I'm updating at 1:40 and that's why this is so short. HOWEVER, I actually do love, and I mean love the idea this prompt gave me and could see myself turning this into a story. So I'll probably revisit this prompt at some point and then some other time begin writing a real story. But I'm jazzed. I love inspiration!
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Heat
Time to write!
It is late. It is oh so very late, but I had a date, so whatcha gonna do? (Wow. Really bad grammar to start us out. Doesn't get much better.) Anyway, if you want deets on the date you need to let me know and I'll speak with you about it, but this is a WRITING blog, you silly friends, so let's get to the writing, shall we?
Today I used a "prompt generator" which gave me certain parameters or criteria I have to meet. Those are: first person, description, heat.
My eyes scanned the walls of the empty room, looking for seams, cracks, a way out, but all I could see was myself, reflected from every angle. The room was shaped like a stop sign, with walls extending up to a ceiling which was so high above my head I could hardly make out the bars which formed a grate in the center. The walls were all mirrors, and as I searched for some way of escape my wild, frightened eyes peered back at me wherever I turned.
I wiped my forehead, noticing beads of sweat were beginning to form and edge their way from my hairline towards my eyebrows. Though ten minutes earlier I wouldn't have truly believed it possible, the room was continuing to get hotter. The rise in temperature seemed to be constant, raising one degree every minute or so.
Despite my nature as a self-conscious, modest young woman, I'd already stripped off my tee-shirt and my blue jeans. This made my reflection especially ghastly, showing me a scared girl in nothing but her underwear and a green tank top. My hair where it had escaped from my high ponytail was sticking to the back of my neck. Anywhere my skin creased, such as my elbows and even the hollow areas behind my knees seemed to be new-found receptacles for the sticky droplets which continued to lazily make their way down my body. I slapped the mirror in frustration, meeting my reflected self face to face, our hands connecting.
I slowly pulled away, my hot hands leaving marks on the mirror's cooler surface. I needed to find a way out.
It is late. It is oh so very late, but I had a date, so whatcha gonna do? (Wow. Really bad grammar to start us out. Doesn't get much better.) Anyway, if you want deets on the date you need to let me know and I'll speak with you about it, but this is a WRITING blog, you silly friends, so let's get to the writing, shall we?
Today I used a "prompt generator" which gave me certain parameters or criteria I have to meet. Those are: first person, description, heat.
My eyes scanned the walls of the empty room, looking for seams, cracks, a way out, but all I could see was myself, reflected from every angle. The room was shaped like a stop sign, with walls extending up to a ceiling which was so high above my head I could hardly make out the bars which formed a grate in the center. The walls were all mirrors, and as I searched for some way of escape my wild, frightened eyes peered back at me wherever I turned.
I wiped my forehead, noticing beads of sweat were beginning to form and edge their way from my hairline towards my eyebrows. Though ten minutes earlier I wouldn't have truly believed it possible, the room was continuing to get hotter. The rise in temperature seemed to be constant, raising one degree every minute or so.
Despite my nature as a self-conscious, modest young woman, I'd already stripped off my tee-shirt and my blue jeans. This made my reflection especially ghastly, showing me a scared girl in nothing but her underwear and a green tank top. My hair where it had escaped from my high ponytail was sticking to the back of my neck. Anywhere my skin creased, such as my elbows and even the hollow areas behind my knees seemed to be new-found receptacles for the sticky droplets which continued to lazily make their way down my body. I slapped the mirror in frustration, meeting my reflected self face to face, our hands connecting.
I slowly pulled away, my hot hands leaving marks on the mirror's cooler surface. I needed to find a way out.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Twitter Fiction
Time to write!
Today's post comes from storyaday.org. It wants me to come up with a story that's less than 140 characters-or the length of a tweet see. Here we go.
Bo loved to cook. One day he went to make a souffle, but he didn't have any souffle pans. So he went on a quest, fought a troll, won and bought one.
Too long? Wow. Cutting it down.
Bo loved cooking. One day we went to make a souffle, but didn't have a souffle pan. So he went on a quest, fought a troll, won, and bought one.
Seriously. Still too long. Cutting out three characters. Allons-y.
Bo loved food. One day he went to make a souffle, but didn't have a souffle pan. So he went on a quest, fought a troll, won, and bought one.
BAM. 140 characters exactly, and what a story that was. One that could be expanded? Possibly. Let's write a random scene from this story.
Bo brandished the cast-iron souffle pan above his head, gripping it in his fist and waving it threateningly at the enormous, green troll who lumbered down the kitchen accessories aisle towards him.
"You will regret this!" Bo warned, voice trembling. The truth was, Bo wasn't actually sure how this was going to go down. You see, for all his better attributes, Bo wasn't in the best of shape. And while there was some truth to the anecdote, "Never trust a skinny chef", Bo had perhaps taken that a little too far, and his consistent taste-testing had given him a stomach he wasn't proud to call his own.
"Blargggg!" moaned the troll, short arms outreached.
Bo could see the rotting, chipped fingernails and swallowed painfully as he envisioned what it would feel like when those nails sunk into his flesh.
The troll was only a couple feet away now. Bo hated to do it, but it had to be done.
"HI-YA!" Bo let loose a mighty yell, and brought the souffle pan swinging downwards, conking the troll on the head. And that was simply that.
1,031 characters. Sweet.
Today's post comes from storyaday.org. It wants me to come up with a story that's less than 140 characters-or the length of a tweet see. Here we go.
Bo loved to cook. One day he went to make a souffle, but he didn't have any souffle pans. So he went on a quest, fought a troll, won and bought one.
Too long? Wow. Cutting it down.
Bo loved cooking. One day we went to make a souffle, but didn't have a souffle pan. So he went on a quest, fought a troll, won, and bought one.
Seriously. Still too long. Cutting out three characters. Allons-y.
Bo loved food. One day he went to make a souffle, but didn't have a souffle pan. So he went on a quest, fought a troll, won, and bought one.
BAM. 140 characters exactly, and what a story that was. One that could be expanded? Possibly. Let's write a random scene from this story.
Bo brandished the cast-iron souffle pan above his head, gripping it in his fist and waving it threateningly at the enormous, green troll who lumbered down the kitchen accessories aisle towards him.
"You will regret this!" Bo warned, voice trembling. The truth was, Bo wasn't actually sure how this was going to go down. You see, for all his better attributes, Bo wasn't in the best of shape. And while there was some truth to the anecdote, "Never trust a skinny chef", Bo had perhaps taken that a little too far, and his consistent taste-testing had given him a stomach he wasn't proud to call his own.
"Blargggg!" moaned the troll, short arms outreached.
Bo could see the rotting, chipped fingernails and swallowed painfully as he envisioned what it would feel like when those nails sunk into his flesh.
The troll was only a couple feet away now. Bo hated to do it, but it had to be done.
"HI-YA!" Bo let loose a mighty yell, and brought the souffle pan swinging downwards, conking the troll on the head. And that was simply that.
1,031 characters. Sweet.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Ever After
Time to write!
Today's prompt is to write a scene from a fairy tale from the point of view of a nontraditional character. This could be a fun one to revisit multiple times, because twists on already created stories are sort of my specialty.
I don't even know why you want to hear this stupid story. I mean, everybody already knows it. It's all about stupid Cinderella, so why are you asking me? Why don't you go ask her?
She'll tell you. She'll tell you how, like, I'm just this huge brat and that me and Drizzy always were out to get her. The truth is, she just needs to learn to grow a spine!
But I guess if you are just going to sit there and wait for me to tell you what happened when the prince came, I might as well just tell you. I can't really go back to bed and get my beauty sleep until you leave anyway.
So it was the morning after the ball. I was exhausted, and honestly not in the best mood. Drizzy had been going on and on ALL NIGHT LONG rambling about the Prince and how he had smiled at her. Which is so whatever. It was totally obvious that he wasn't interested in her. He was all wrapped up in the mystery chick, which is just so typical. Of course, obviously, that girl was Cinderella. And I'm not as dumb as you all think. I would've recognized her right off, but after only getting a stiff formal bow from the Prince I was like, Well so much for that option. Now I'm at a party. Let's hit the royal open bar. Not very responsible, but whatever. You'd do it to if you were rejected that way. Charming? Forgive the unlady-like snort, but sooo not.
I'm like way off topic now though. Back to what I was saying. That morning that the Prince showed up on our porch like, "Hey I got this shoe, it fits my one true love, let's see if it's yours," I was not feeling my best. I had a hangover, I hadn't slept well, and I totally knew that shoe wasn't mine. Still, if I had to go downstairs and try the stupid shoe on before the Prince would leave, then I might as well see if it fit. I mean, like, way more than one girl has the same shoe size right? You don't walk into the Shoe City downtown and go to the special rack marked with your name cause you're the only girl with shoes that size. Although, that would be totally awesome, and a tad ideal.
By the time I got downstairs Drizzy had already tried the shoe and was sobbing in the corner because it hadn't fit. I looked at the Prince like Seriously? You want me to try this on? You sure weren't jazzed to see me last night, so why would you even want me to attempt this?
Well obviously the shoe didn't fit. It isn't my fault that Daddy's feet were really big. Anyway, Cinderella deserves the Prince. I mean, he's the one who decided he was obsessed and wanted to get married after one night of dancing, but didn't even recognize her when she came in to try on the shoe.
So like, best of luck to them both, good riddance to her and her whining. And the mice in the house. That was getting seriously disgusting.
And even though Drizzy thinks her life is basically over because our stepsister gets to marry a prince, I'm kinda relieved. Cause when I get married, the guy darn better know what I look like regardless of my shoe size.
Today's prompt is to write a scene from a fairy tale from the point of view of a nontraditional character. This could be a fun one to revisit multiple times, because twists on already created stories are sort of my specialty.
I don't even know why you want to hear this stupid story. I mean, everybody already knows it. It's all about stupid Cinderella, so why are you asking me? Why don't you go ask her?
She'll tell you. She'll tell you how, like, I'm just this huge brat and that me and Drizzy always were out to get her. The truth is, she just needs to learn to grow a spine!
But I guess if you are just going to sit there and wait for me to tell you what happened when the prince came, I might as well just tell you. I can't really go back to bed and get my beauty sleep until you leave anyway.
So it was the morning after the ball. I was exhausted, and honestly not in the best mood. Drizzy had been going on and on ALL NIGHT LONG rambling about the Prince and how he had smiled at her. Which is so whatever. It was totally obvious that he wasn't interested in her. He was all wrapped up in the mystery chick, which is just so typical. Of course, obviously, that girl was Cinderella. And I'm not as dumb as you all think. I would've recognized her right off, but after only getting a stiff formal bow from the Prince I was like, Well so much for that option. Now I'm at a party. Let's hit the royal open bar. Not very responsible, but whatever. You'd do it to if you were rejected that way. Charming? Forgive the unlady-like snort, but sooo not.
I'm like way off topic now though. Back to what I was saying. That morning that the Prince showed up on our porch like, "Hey I got this shoe, it fits my one true love, let's see if it's yours," I was not feeling my best. I had a hangover, I hadn't slept well, and I totally knew that shoe wasn't mine. Still, if I had to go downstairs and try the stupid shoe on before the Prince would leave, then I might as well see if it fit. I mean, like, way more than one girl has the same shoe size right? You don't walk into the Shoe City downtown and go to the special rack marked with your name cause you're the only girl with shoes that size. Although, that would be totally awesome, and a tad ideal.
By the time I got downstairs Drizzy had already tried the shoe and was sobbing in the corner because it hadn't fit. I looked at the Prince like Seriously? You want me to try this on? You sure weren't jazzed to see me last night, so why would you even want me to attempt this?
Well obviously the shoe didn't fit. It isn't my fault that Daddy's feet were really big. Anyway, Cinderella deserves the Prince. I mean, he's the one who decided he was obsessed and wanted to get married after one night of dancing, but didn't even recognize her when she came in to try on the shoe.
So like, best of luck to them both, good riddance to her and her whining. And the mice in the house. That was getting seriously disgusting.
And even though Drizzy thinks her life is basically over because our stepsister gets to marry a prince, I'm kinda relieved. Cause when I get married, the guy darn better know what I look like regardless of my shoe size.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
First Entry: One Syllable Story
As an aspiring author and fanatic of the English language, I have decided to begin a routine of writing for at least five minutes each day. This is hardly any time at all, but I wanted to give myself an achievable way to keep the creative juices flowing and to make myself get some writing done. Each day, I'll pick a writing prompt and make an entry. Publishing this in a blog will make it accessible for feedback, so I appreciate any comments you may feel inclined to give! Happy writing!
Today's Prompt: Write a short story using words with only one syllable.
Five minutes...starting NOW!
The last thing Jan saw as the truck left the lot, was a lone dead tree by the curb. Jan knew that it would be the last time he would see that tree. He had grown up with that tree, he had spent hours in it and by it, in it's shade. The tree had a name, Marge. Jan knew Marge would miss him, just as he knew he would miss Marge. The red truck Jan sat in was slow and old, so Jan had a bit more time to watch Marge, but soon Marge was gone; leaf, trunk, root, branch, and all.
"Why do we have to move?" Jan said, with a sad look on his face once his eyes had cut off their search for Marge.
"I got a new job, boy," said Brandt. Brandt did not call Jan "Jan", just boy, and Jan did not call Brandt "dad". Theirs was a strange type of love, not like the love Jan had with Marge. Jan could not know how much Brandt hid from him, and if he had known he would not have thought Brandt was so cold. Brandt, in turn, did not want to hear Jan speak like a child. Brandt had gone through hard times, and thought Jan should be tough, like he was. While both did not say so, they both were sad that they did not talk more. They did not talk of Mary, Jan's mom.
Hahaha, wow! Can't believe that's all five minutes produced. Seriously, not even using two syllable words is a challenge though. While this was a nice exercise, I don't think this is one that will get me going on any serious stories. I was laughing at how dumb this was the entire time I wrote it, but it was pretty fun times.
Until tomorrow!
Today's Prompt: Write a short story using words with only one syllable.
Five minutes...starting NOW!
The last thing Jan saw as the truck left the lot, was a lone dead tree by the curb. Jan knew that it would be the last time he would see that tree. He had grown up with that tree, he had spent hours in it and by it, in it's shade. The tree had a name, Marge. Jan knew Marge would miss him, just as he knew he would miss Marge. The red truck Jan sat in was slow and old, so Jan had a bit more time to watch Marge, but soon Marge was gone; leaf, trunk, root, branch, and all.
"Why do we have to move?" Jan said, with a sad look on his face once his eyes had cut off their search for Marge.
"I got a new job, boy," said Brandt. Brandt did not call Jan "Jan", just boy, and Jan did not call Brandt "dad". Theirs was a strange type of love, not like the love Jan had with Marge. Jan could not know how much Brandt hid from him, and if he had known he would not have thought Brandt was so cold. Brandt, in turn, did not want to hear Jan speak like a child. Brandt had gone through hard times, and thought Jan should be tough, like he was. While both did not say so, they both were sad that they did not talk more. They did not talk of Mary, Jan's mom.
Hahaha, wow! Can't believe that's all five minutes produced. Seriously, not even using two syllable words is a challenge though. While this was a nice exercise, I don't think this is one that will get me going on any serious stories. I was laughing at how dumb this was the entire time I wrote it, but it was pretty fun times.
Until tomorrow!
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