Time to write!
Did you know that writing is hard for me to remember to do when it is Christmas and the weekend and I'm at home? Yes. It is a problem. However, I think there is some news worth noting. While I haven't been diligent here on the blog I have been diligent in a novel I've started. I completed the 50th page last night. It is going incredibly well! But now I need to get back on track for this challenge... Here goes nothing.
Day 6: Begin your story with "He glanced at his watch impatiently."
He glanced at his watch impatiently. Where was she? She had promised to be here, and this time he had actually believed her.
Snow was falling and sticking to his long black coat, and freezing in his well combed, dark hair.
To anyone passing him on the street, he would look like a handsome, successful businessman. He was clean-shaven, with thick dark hair and eyebrows. He wore an expensive black suit under his coat, and his briefcase was free from any scuff marks or scratches.
Despite all appearances, however, Mr. James Wright - for this was his name- did not consider himself successful, and he carried with him a lot more than just a briefcase. Day by day he carried with him pain and the sting of failure.
Where was Sheila?
She should be here.
This time meeting had been her idea. He just needed a chance to talk to her, to see if he could make things alright again. Rose missed her mommy, and James just wanted his wife to come home.
He was already late for work, and he had missed the bus, but still he stood on the corner, waiting for Sheila to arrive.
A tinny song began playing from his pocket. Pulling off one wool glove, James reached his hand into the pocket to retrieve the cell phone.
Opening up the text message, James' heart sank.
Sorry James. Cant make it this morning. -S
Day 7: Create a superhero. Have your hero save the day.
BubbleBeam was not a very well known superhero. That's because BubbleBeam was never bitten by a radioactive spider, nor was she from another planet. Another thing BubbleBeam lacked was billionaire status, with access to insane amounts of weaponry and technology.
The truth was, people didn't really think BubbleBeam counted as a real superhero. She was looked down on by all the other heroes. One day there was a Superhero conference, and BubbleBeam wasn't a bit surprised to find herself not invited.
While all the other superheroes were packing up their carry on bags and boarding a plane (or flying themselves in the case of Superman, Ironman, Thor, and various others), BubbleBeam was sitting alone in her apartment, drinking a mug of hot chocolate and trying not to think about how this always happened to her.
Heroes, with no thought for her feelings, whizzed past her New York apartment window. By midmorning she knew she was the only one left. A terrible sense of loneliness overwhelmed her. It just wasn't fair.
In an effort to distract herself, BubbleBeam flipped on her television, settling comfortably into her couch and trying to find something amusing. Nothing amusing was to be found, however, instead on almost every channel a news broadcast was playing.
The words "Breaking News" flashed on the bottom of the screen in red letters. BubbleBeam sat forward, wondering what was going on. She gasped as the screen flashed a picture of MuckMan, the terrible mud monster from the swamps of the Everglades. The story was that Superman had cleaned up his act and banished him to where he could no longer do any harm, but the screen showed differently.
BubbleBeam waited for the image of a superhero to flash across the screen, but none did.
This was her big chance!!
Luckily she was already wearing her bright blue spandex suit, so she hopped in her bubble hovercraft which was parked just outside her 30th level window.
Bloop bloop bloop the little hovercraft sounded, it's propellers spinning and expelling multicolored bubbles behind it as BubbleBeam drove off toward the street where MuckMan was ravaging the city.
"Hey! MuckMan!" she shouted.
"Raaaar!" the goopy monster responded, waving his sticky, dirty hands in the air above his head.
"It's time for you to take a bath!" BubbleBeam stuck out her hands and shot streams of bubbles at the monster, which was at least three times her size.
It was beautiful and ever so effective.
The bubbles engulfed the mud monster, bringing him falling to his knees in despair. He was shrinking, as the bubbles removed layer upon layer of mud.
BubbleBeam kept shooting until the MuckMan could no longer be referred to that way. Now he just looked like a little mud baby.
Civilians were clapping, and the police stepped in to take MuckBaby into custody.
"We'll keep him in the cleanest jail cell possible where he won't be able to grow anymore," the police said. 'That way our city will be safe."
"Thanks to BubbleBeam," another police office chimed in.
BubbleBeam beamed. She was a real hero after all.
Possibly the most touching and emotionally charged thing I've ever written.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
Object
Time to write!
Day 5: Write about an object in the room with you.
Have you ever gotten mad at your computer for not cooperating with you, or for going slow, and had someone else say something completely patronizing such as, "Now calm down. It's just a machine."?
What if I told you they were wrong?
What if I told you they were dead wrong?
Would you believe me if I told you that your computer knows who you are and is lying in wait to take over your brain?
I hope not!
How silly would that be? Oh you funny person. Computers are just machines. We just need to learn to be more patient.
Psych.
Day 5: Write about an object in the room with you.
Have you ever gotten mad at your computer for not cooperating with you, or for going slow, and had someone else say something completely patronizing such as, "Now calm down. It's just a machine."?
What if I told you they were wrong?
What if I told you they were dead wrong?
Would you believe me if I told you that your computer knows who you are and is lying in wait to take over your brain?
I hope not!
How silly would that be? Oh you funny person. Computers are just machines. We just need to learn to be more patient.
Psych.
Thursday, December 20, 2012
Poetry
Time to write!
Day 4: A poem using the words: blue, mistrust, half, twang
Bahahaha, me and poetry. We are an adventure together.
Blue waters span vast deserts of sand below,
Rocky and craggy, where so few know,
The mistrust of strange lights which eerily glow.
A half formed hope keeps spirit bright,
Even where the blue water extinguishes light,
Causing the heartstrings to twang each night.
You know that last line is something to inspire even the gravest soul to...laugh at my failed attempts at poetry.
Should we do another?
I mistrust you,
Because you are blue.
And blue people is something I cannot stand.
Your blue face,
Is out of place,
And it is not something I even half understand.
The twang of a bow,
Will have you know,
That you are not welcome here with us.
Because you are blue,
I mistrust you,
Yes, you are someone I'll never trust.
A shot in the dark,
Will find it's mark,
If your blue self decides to stay on.
A mistrust of me,
Would be well to see,
If it would make your blue self be gone.
How sad.
Day 4: A poem using the words: blue, mistrust, half, twang
Bahahaha, me and poetry. We are an adventure together.
Blue waters span vast deserts of sand below,
Rocky and craggy, where so few know,
The mistrust of strange lights which eerily glow.
A half formed hope keeps spirit bright,
Even where the blue water extinguishes light,
Causing the heartstrings to twang each night.
You know that last line is something to inspire even the gravest soul to...laugh at my failed attempts at poetry.
Should we do another?
I mistrust you,
Because you are blue.
And blue people is something I cannot stand.
Your blue face,
Is out of place,
And it is not something I even half understand.
The twang of a bow,
Will have you know,
That you are not welcome here with us.
Because you are blue,
I mistrust you,
Yes, you are someone I'll never trust.
A shot in the dark,
Will find it's mark,
If your blue self decides to stay on.
A mistrust of me,
Would be well to see,
If it would make your blue self be gone.
How sad.
Pre 1950
Time to write!
Day 3: Write a story that takes place Pre-1950
Well that leaves us all sorts of options. Prehistoric, Victorian era, pre-Revolutionary or Civil War. All sorts of antiquity we could delve into. Let's do Revolutionary War. Just for the heck of it. Allons-y!
Margaret, Maggie to her father and little brothers and Miss Margaret to her mother and peers, straightened her apron and gazed out the tiny window, which she'd cleaned just earlier that morning. It was hard to keep busy in those days. With Father, young George, and Henry most of all off serving in the Continental Army there was little to occupy her attention. She and her mother received letters at least now and then from her Father and George, but it had been unbearably long since Margaret had heard any word from her childhood sweetheart, Henry. They'd grown up together and at the young ages of seven and eight had decided that they would one day marry one another. Now Margaret very much doubted that Henry was even alive.
These types of thoughts possessed her mind more often than she would like to admit, and they made her frantic. She began pacing, a habit her mother hated and insisted was for Generals, not for young women. A hacking cough interrupted Margaret's dark thoughts.
Moving to the pallet in the corner Margaret stooped down and placed her white but work roughened hand on her youngest brother Joseph's head. He was very warm. The poor boy had been taken by a fever ever since the cold had really set in back in October. Now it was December, almost Christmas in fact, and things looked bleak on all fronts.
"Is there any news of Papa?" Joseph asked feebly, eyes still shut.
"Not yet," Margaret replied, trying not to sound nervous about that. "But he wrote us not even two weeks ago. We must be patient."
Joseph nodded. "What about Henry?" he asked.
Joseph loved Henry as an older brother, almost a second father, and missed him more than anyone else save Margaret and Henry's own widowed mother.
Margaret shook her head, afraid that if she spoke her voice would catch. Joseph of course could not see this gesture through his closed, tired eyes and he waited patiently for a response.
"Not yet, Joesph," Margaret said quietly.
"He's alive," Joseph said, opening his eyes and sitting up somewhat so he could look into Margaret's face. His eyes shone with earnest fervor as he whispered, "I know it, Maggie!"
Margaret smiled thinly, wanting to believe him, and kissed his forehead. "I hope so," she answered. "Now lay down Joseph. You need to get better."
As she stood and walked back to the door she silently added "Because I can't afford to lose you, too."
Day 3: Write a story that takes place Pre-1950
Well that leaves us all sorts of options. Prehistoric, Victorian era, pre-Revolutionary or Civil War. All sorts of antiquity we could delve into. Let's do Revolutionary War. Just for the heck of it. Allons-y!
Margaret, Maggie to her father and little brothers and Miss Margaret to her mother and peers, straightened her apron and gazed out the tiny window, which she'd cleaned just earlier that morning. It was hard to keep busy in those days. With Father, young George, and Henry most of all off serving in the Continental Army there was little to occupy her attention. She and her mother received letters at least now and then from her Father and George, but it had been unbearably long since Margaret had heard any word from her childhood sweetheart, Henry. They'd grown up together and at the young ages of seven and eight had decided that they would one day marry one another. Now Margaret very much doubted that Henry was even alive.
These types of thoughts possessed her mind more often than she would like to admit, and they made her frantic. She began pacing, a habit her mother hated and insisted was for Generals, not for young women. A hacking cough interrupted Margaret's dark thoughts.
Moving to the pallet in the corner Margaret stooped down and placed her white but work roughened hand on her youngest brother Joseph's head. He was very warm. The poor boy had been taken by a fever ever since the cold had really set in back in October. Now it was December, almost Christmas in fact, and things looked bleak on all fronts.
"Is there any news of Papa?" Joseph asked feebly, eyes still shut.
"Not yet," Margaret replied, trying not to sound nervous about that. "But he wrote us not even two weeks ago. We must be patient."
Joseph nodded. "What about Henry?" he asked.
Joseph loved Henry as an older brother, almost a second father, and missed him more than anyone else save Margaret and Henry's own widowed mother.
Margaret shook her head, afraid that if she spoke her voice would catch. Joseph of course could not see this gesture through his closed, tired eyes and he waited patiently for a response.
"Not yet, Joesph," Margaret said quietly.
"He's alive," Joseph said, opening his eyes and sitting up somewhat so he could look into Margaret's face. His eyes shone with earnest fervor as he whispered, "I know it, Maggie!"
Margaret smiled thinly, wanting to believe him, and kissed his forehead. "I hope so," she answered. "Now lay down Joseph. You need to get better."
As she stood and walked back to the door she silently added "Because I can't afford to lose you, too."
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Fanfic Challenge
Time to write!
Day 2: Write a fanfiction
Oh gosh. I do this all the time.
Captain Jack Sparrow did not like Darth Vader. Maybe it's that he felt challenged by the helmet. Maybe it was the cape. Maybe it was the breathing. Maybe it was the fact that Darth Vader had just as many quotable lines. Whatever the reason, Captain Jack Sparrow had never liked the Sith and when Will and Batman came to tell him that he absolutely had to come to Darth Vader's surprise birthday party he was not at all pleased.
Not.
At.
All.
Rather than complying, or even coming up with an excuse, Captain Jack Sparrow decided to act like he was going along with the plan, then have an amazing escape at the last moment. After all, Captain Jack Sparrow was a rather grand escape artist, even giving Houdini a run for his money.
"Alright lads," Jack said, with his signature finger wave and drawing much too close to Batman's face for comfort.
"We'll go. But I insist we take the Pearl."
"You want to get to the cold heart of space," Batman said in his gravel-chewing voice. "In a boat?"
"It's a ship. And it's freedom. And yes." Jack Sparrow answered.
Will sighed. "Well, Peter Pan was invited as well, and he seems to have a specialty with making pirate ships fly," he suggested.
Captain Jack Sparrow's heavily lined eyes grew wide. Peter Pan? Aboard his precious Pearl?
"If Peter Pan puts foot on the precious Pearl the parrots will peck off his appendages!" he declared indignantly.
"You're being stupid," Batman said. "The Pan boy has been invited. Plus, it will make Robin feel better if there's another little boy in tights."
bahahaha. I crack myself up but that's all I'm doing for now cause I'm going hooooooooooome. More tomorrow! But not of this! Love you bye.
Day 2: Write a fanfiction
Oh gosh. I do this all the time.
Captain Jack Sparrow did not like Darth Vader. Maybe it's that he felt challenged by the helmet. Maybe it was the cape. Maybe it was the breathing. Maybe it was the fact that Darth Vader had just as many quotable lines. Whatever the reason, Captain Jack Sparrow had never liked the Sith and when Will and Batman came to tell him that he absolutely had to come to Darth Vader's surprise birthday party he was not at all pleased.
Not.
At.
All.
Rather than complying, or even coming up with an excuse, Captain Jack Sparrow decided to act like he was going along with the plan, then have an amazing escape at the last moment. After all, Captain Jack Sparrow was a rather grand escape artist, even giving Houdini a run for his money.
"Alright lads," Jack said, with his signature finger wave and drawing much too close to Batman's face for comfort.
"We'll go. But I insist we take the Pearl."
"You want to get to the cold heart of space," Batman said in his gravel-chewing voice. "In a boat?"
"It's a ship. And it's freedom. And yes." Jack Sparrow answered.
Will sighed. "Well, Peter Pan was invited as well, and he seems to have a specialty with making pirate ships fly," he suggested.
Captain Jack Sparrow's heavily lined eyes grew wide. Peter Pan? Aboard his precious Pearl?
"If Peter Pan puts foot on the precious Pearl the parrots will peck off his appendages!" he declared indignantly.
"You're being stupid," Batman said. "The Pan boy has been invited. Plus, it will make Robin feel better if there's another little boy in tights."
bahahaha. I crack myself up but that's all I'm doing for now cause I'm going hooooooooooome. More tomorrow! But not of this! Love you bye.
Writing Challenge
Time to write!
Cute friends! Look at me writing again like a beautiful writer person! I am starting the new thirty day writing challenge! BUT GUESS WHAT?!? I'm going to finish it by the end of Christmas Break! So we're doing more than a day. BAHAHAHA. I've been at work too long. I'm a little crazy. Ready? Here we go. Enjoy.
Day 1: Rewrite a classic fairytale
How funny is this? My actual first submission was a twist on Cinderella. Oh good times. Here we go.
My life was never all that interesting. Being prince of a large, prosperous city wasn't good for much when there were no dragons to slay and no fair princesses to court. The only real joy I found in life (much like Princess Buttercup) was going for long rides on my horse. I often rode through the woods, not so much because I enjoyed the trees, but more because I knew my mother wouldn't follow me in there.
Now don't go jumping to conclusions. It isn't that I don't love my mother. I do. I do. She can just be a bit overbearing at times. She is always reminding me of my princely duties. This is fair enough, she's trying to be a good queen. This is more than can be said of the Queen of our neighboring kingdom. The woman is completely self-obsessed, to the point of sacrificing all her kingdom's resources to her vanity. To tell you the truth, I think war may be imminent. This is another reason I so enjoy riding in the forest. It takes my mind off the war counsels and strategy meetings which are constantly taking place in the castle.
So, I suppose my assertion that life wasn't interesting isn't completely fair. Someone else might find it entirely engaging, but I for one was disenchanted with the idea of going to war with our only neighbor. When things truly became worthy of note was the day that I stumbled upon the cabin in the woods. It was a strange little hut, but what was truly odd about it was the music coming from within. The sound was captivating, intoxicating, mind-boggling. It was a girl singing, but the sound was almost unearthly, like the songs of the fairies.
Jumping off my horse, I crept to the window. Through the pane I saw a beautiful girl. She had dark hair and extremely pale skin. I realized I'd seen that raven hair and that milky complexion before. We'd met at a ball hosted by her father three years previous, before he had suffered a rather untimely heart attack and passed away. This was the missing princess.
There was trouble afoot and I was going to put an end to it!
Running back to my horse, I jumped on and rode hard towards home.
"Father!" I cried, running into the throne room, where my father, King Alboo, sat at counsel with Sir Trickle and Sir Fickle, twins and brilliant strategists.
"Is this important, son?" my father's eyes were tired and wary.
"Yes!" I exclaimed. "I've found Snow White!"
My father harrumphed. "Harrumph? Snow White is dead."
"That's what we thought, yes! But I just returned from my daily horse ride, and she was there! She's in this cottage in the woods, very much alive!"
I'd like to say my father believed me. I'd also like to say that I gained the ability to fly. That's always something I've wanted to do. Of course, I couldn't suddenly fly, nor did my father believe my tale. But I knew what I'd seen. Snow White was alive and she was in that house.
Now I could take the time to tell you all the plans I made. The maps I drew. The buttons I lost. But let's make a long story short by concluding that...I was too late.
The next week I rode into the forest, gallant and shining as any knight in armor could be, arriving at the cottage where I'd heard Snow White sing. The cottage was just as I remembered it, but this time there was no music. I jumped off my horse and ran to the window. The house was empty. What had transpired?!
I was about to leave in despair when the sound of moaning caught my attention. I followed the sound to the back of the house where seven dwarves sat around a glass coffin, weeping, moaning, and wailing.
"Excuse me," I said in as princely a manner I could muster. "What causes you such mourning good dwarves?"
"Look in the coffin you dummy!" grumbled one rather grumpily.
As my eyes fell upon the unfortunate casket I beheld her. Snow White. Dead, after all.
"MURDERERS!" I shouted, my voice ringing with bravado to match the shine on my sword which I of course drew flamboyantly from the scabbard.
A nearby dwarf sneezed in fright.
"No!" stammered another shyly. "We didn't kill her. It was...the queen."
"I knew it," I hissed, sheathing my sword and glaring at the ground in disgust.
The dwarves begged me to fix it, to somehow reverse time, or undo the spell that had done Snow White in. But it was to no avail. The one called Doc insisted there was a remedy.
"Kiss her," he said. "True love will awaken her."
"Unfortunately," I said, trying to remain charming. "I have a policy against kissing dead people. I find it unhygienic and frankly the smell is a little hard to get past. And besides. I'm not her true love. I met her once, three years ago. There were possibilities, but, you know, nothing's sealed the deal just as yet."
With that I bowed, informed the dwarves that I would love to be of service but really, this wasn't my area of expertise, and returned to my horse.
Like I said. My life's never been too exciting. Maybe it would be if I took some risks. But once more, like I said. If the risk involves a smell, then it's just not worth it.
Cute friends! Look at me writing again like a beautiful writer person! I am starting the new thirty day writing challenge! BUT GUESS WHAT?!? I'm going to finish it by the end of Christmas Break! So we're doing more than a day. BAHAHAHA. I've been at work too long. I'm a little crazy. Ready? Here we go. Enjoy.
Day 1: Rewrite a classic fairytale
How funny is this? My actual first submission was a twist on Cinderella. Oh good times. Here we go.
My life was never all that interesting. Being prince of a large, prosperous city wasn't good for much when there were no dragons to slay and no fair princesses to court. The only real joy I found in life (much like Princess Buttercup) was going for long rides on my horse. I often rode through the woods, not so much because I enjoyed the trees, but more because I knew my mother wouldn't follow me in there.
Now don't go jumping to conclusions. It isn't that I don't love my mother. I do. I do. She can just be a bit overbearing at times. She is always reminding me of my princely duties. This is fair enough, she's trying to be a good queen. This is more than can be said of the Queen of our neighboring kingdom. The woman is completely self-obsessed, to the point of sacrificing all her kingdom's resources to her vanity. To tell you the truth, I think war may be imminent. This is another reason I so enjoy riding in the forest. It takes my mind off the war counsels and strategy meetings which are constantly taking place in the castle.
So, I suppose my assertion that life wasn't interesting isn't completely fair. Someone else might find it entirely engaging, but I for one was disenchanted with the idea of going to war with our only neighbor. When things truly became worthy of note was the day that I stumbled upon the cabin in the woods. It was a strange little hut, but what was truly odd about it was the music coming from within. The sound was captivating, intoxicating, mind-boggling. It was a girl singing, but the sound was almost unearthly, like the songs of the fairies.
Jumping off my horse, I crept to the window. Through the pane I saw a beautiful girl. She had dark hair and extremely pale skin. I realized I'd seen that raven hair and that milky complexion before. We'd met at a ball hosted by her father three years previous, before he had suffered a rather untimely heart attack and passed away. This was the missing princess.
There was trouble afoot and I was going to put an end to it!
Running back to my horse, I jumped on and rode hard towards home.
"Father!" I cried, running into the throne room, where my father, King Alboo, sat at counsel with Sir Trickle and Sir Fickle, twins and brilliant strategists.
"Is this important, son?" my father's eyes were tired and wary.
"Yes!" I exclaimed. "I've found Snow White!"
My father harrumphed. "Harrumph? Snow White is dead."
"That's what we thought, yes! But I just returned from my daily horse ride, and she was there! She's in this cottage in the woods, very much alive!"
I'd like to say my father believed me. I'd also like to say that I gained the ability to fly. That's always something I've wanted to do. Of course, I couldn't suddenly fly, nor did my father believe my tale. But I knew what I'd seen. Snow White was alive and she was in that house.
Now I could take the time to tell you all the plans I made. The maps I drew. The buttons I lost. But let's make a long story short by concluding that...I was too late.
The next week I rode into the forest, gallant and shining as any knight in armor could be, arriving at the cottage where I'd heard Snow White sing. The cottage was just as I remembered it, but this time there was no music. I jumped off my horse and ran to the window. The house was empty. What had transpired?!
I was about to leave in despair when the sound of moaning caught my attention. I followed the sound to the back of the house where seven dwarves sat around a glass coffin, weeping, moaning, and wailing.
"Excuse me," I said in as princely a manner I could muster. "What causes you such mourning good dwarves?"
"Look in the coffin you dummy!" grumbled one rather grumpily.
As my eyes fell upon the unfortunate casket I beheld her. Snow White. Dead, after all.
"MURDERERS!" I shouted, my voice ringing with bravado to match the shine on my sword which I of course drew flamboyantly from the scabbard.
A nearby dwarf sneezed in fright.
"No!" stammered another shyly. "We didn't kill her. It was...the queen."
"I knew it," I hissed, sheathing my sword and glaring at the ground in disgust.
The dwarves begged me to fix it, to somehow reverse time, or undo the spell that had done Snow White in. But it was to no avail. The one called Doc insisted there was a remedy.
"Kiss her," he said. "True love will awaken her."
"Unfortunately," I said, trying to remain charming. "I have a policy against kissing dead people. I find it unhygienic and frankly the smell is a little hard to get past. And besides. I'm not her true love. I met her once, three years ago. There were possibilities, but, you know, nothing's sealed the deal just as yet."
With that I bowed, informed the dwarves that I would love to be of service but really, this wasn't my area of expertise, and returned to my horse.
Like I said. My life's never been too exciting. Maybe it would be if I took some risks. But once more, like I said. If the risk involves a smell, then it's just not worth it.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Questionable Intentions
Time to write!
The man was handsome, that much was not to be disputed. He was also intelligent, funny enough, polite, and altogether quite charming. The question remained, however... was he too charming?
He had refused to tell us his name since arriving three nights ago, claiming only that "such things can hardly matter now" and smiling in a way which utterly bewitched Belonda and left Marzi swooning.
"I don't like it." Shyla said to me, hands working through the pile of shirts on the table in front of her, folding first the bottom to the collar, then the sleeves, then in half.
"Don't like what?" I asked, not because I really didn't know, but because I didn't know what else to say.
"The stranger." Shyla stated the obvious. "What does he want here? More importantly, why won't he tell us who he is?"
"Because," I answered calmly, folding a pair of lemon-grass colored trousers, a strange color to be sure, especially in these parts. "apparently 'such things can hardly matter now.'"
Shyla sniffed in disapproval. "I don't trust him. Anyone who shows up here has an agenda, and while he may claim to be nothing but an innocent traveler, I don't buy it for a second."
I shrugged. "It's true, his lack of suspicious behavior does mark him as highly suspicious in and of itself,"
Before my older sister could respond, the twins, four years my junior, came rushing in.
Belonda's blue eyes were sparkling and Marzi could hardly keep herself from rocketing into the rafters as she jumped about giddily.
"He spoke to us!" Belonda said. "Of his own accord he spoke to us! Without us even asking him a question first!"
"Did he now?" Shyla responded, in a voice which made clear she shared in none of our younger sisters' excitement. "And just what did he say?"
"He said, 'Good day' and asked us about the cotillion tomorrow night," Marzi said.
"The cotillion?" I asked. "Ferrenbrook's cotillion?"
"The very same," Belonda said.
"Now why would someone from out of town care about old Ferrenbrook's cotillion?" I mused.
"I'll tell you why," Shyla said gruffly, finishing the last of the shirts and dropping the pile into a hamper to be taken upstairs. "Because that someone has questionable intentions towards the innocent girls who will be in attendance."
The man was handsome, that much was not to be disputed. He was also intelligent, funny enough, polite, and altogether quite charming. The question remained, however... was he too charming?
He had refused to tell us his name since arriving three nights ago, claiming only that "such things can hardly matter now" and smiling in a way which utterly bewitched Belonda and left Marzi swooning.
"I don't like it." Shyla said to me, hands working through the pile of shirts on the table in front of her, folding first the bottom to the collar, then the sleeves, then in half.
"Don't like what?" I asked, not because I really didn't know, but because I didn't know what else to say.
"The stranger." Shyla stated the obvious. "What does he want here? More importantly, why won't he tell us who he is?"
"Because," I answered calmly, folding a pair of lemon-grass colored trousers, a strange color to be sure, especially in these parts. "apparently 'such things can hardly matter now.'"
Shyla sniffed in disapproval. "I don't trust him. Anyone who shows up here has an agenda, and while he may claim to be nothing but an innocent traveler, I don't buy it for a second."
I shrugged. "It's true, his lack of suspicious behavior does mark him as highly suspicious in and of itself,"
Before my older sister could respond, the twins, four years my junior, came rushing in.
Belonda's blue eyes were sparkling and Marzi could hardly keep herself from rocketing into the rafters as she jumped about giddily.
"He spoke to us!" Belonda said. "Of his own accord he spoke to us! Without us even asking him a question first!"
"Did he now?" Shyla responded, in a voice which made clear she shared in none of our younger sisters' excitement. "And just what did he say?"
"He said, 'Good day' and asked us about the cotillion tomorrow night," Marzi said.
"The cotillion?" I asked. "Ferrenbrook's cotillion?"
"The very same," Belonda said.
"Now why would someone from out of town care about old Ferrenbrook's cotillion?" I mused.
"I'll tell you why," Shyla said gruffly, finishing the last of the shirts and dropping the pile into a hamper to be taken upstairs. "Because that someone has questionable intentions towards the innocent girls who will be in attendance."
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Franklin
Time to write!
Franklin loved making goals. He would plan out each day, make a to do list, set objectives, and so on and so forth. For day to day goals, Franklin was normally able to accomplish most of his tasks. Or at least half. But for his long term goals, Franklin had a bad habit of stopping a few days in. He couldn't count the number of times he had started a work out regimen, done it for three nights, then not worked out again for another four weeks, until he set a new goal.
The point is, Franklin was simply one of those people with good intentions, but not enough drive. He wasn't perfect. He was a nice boy, but there wasn't really anything about him that made him special. Or so he thought.
On the other hand Majesta, Queen of Florenceville across the sea had quite the opposite problem. Majesta was a woman who made up her mind, and who got what she wanted. She made plans, and then she carried them out. A living testament to the old adage "Where there's a will there's a way", Majesta rarely tasted the bitter notes of disappointment or failure. While highly successful, Majesta was not one that anybody really looked up to or would consider a role model. Queen Majesta was Dame of Darkness and Woman of Woe, a sorceress and all around bad person.
In most stories it would be completely unlikely that Franklin and Majesta would ever meet. But this story isn't most stories. This is the one story, of all the stories out there, were they do meet, and that meeting changed the lives of many, and perhaps the course of the world.
Franklin loved making goals. He would plan out each day, make a to do list, set objectives, and so on and so forth. For day to day goals, Franklin was normally able to accomplish most of his tasks. Or at least half. But for his long term goals, Franklin had a bad habit of stopping a few days in. He couldn't count the number of times he had started a work out regimen, done it for three nights, then not worked out again for another four weeks, until he set a new goal.
The point is, Franklin was simply one of those people with good intentions, but not enough drive. He wasn't perfect. He was a nice boy, but there wasn't really anything about him that made him special. Or so he thought.
On the other hand Majesta, Queen of Florenceville across the sea had quite the opposite problem. Majesta was a woman who made up her mind, and who got what she wanted. She made plans, and then she carried them out. A living testament to the old adage "Where there's a will there's a way", Majesta rarely tasted the bitter notes of disappointment or failure. While highly successful, Majesta was not one that anybody really looked up to or would consider a role model. Queen Majesta was Dame of Darkness and Woman of Woe, a sorceress and all around bad person.
In most stories it would be completely unlikely that Franklin and Majesta would ever meet. But this story isn't most stories. This is the one story, of all the stories out there, were they do meet, and that meeting changed the lives of many, and perhaps the course of the world.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Letters At Night
Time to write!
Excuses stink, but I have good ones. Rehearsals, performances, finals next week, and being extremely sick among them. That said, let's do this thing!
Tara had called the police. They'd agreed to monitor her home, to keep a squad car driving around her block, to install security cameras at the doors. Tara's brother Jakin had come to spend the night so she wouldn't have to sleep in the old, large house all alone. The siblings had gone around the entire house before they went to sleep, painstakingly checking every single window before they went to sleep.
But that didn't mean there wasn't a letter on the table in the morning, just as there had been for almost two weeks.
When Tara's slippered feet left the last carpeted step, lighting onto the polished hardwood floor and took her into the kitchen she tried to tell herself to remain calm. There couldn't be a brown, unsealed envelope on the table. There was no way for anyone to get inside the house.
But there the letter was.
"Jakin?" Tara called, trying not to sound as frightened as she was.
Her brother, an imposing figure standing at nearly six and a half feet tall and with a muscular frame, rounded the corner from the living room where he had slept on the couch. His hair was a mess, the brown locks sticking out every which way from a night of troubled sleep.
"There's another letter." Tara pointed.
Jakin looked shocked. "This shouldn't be possible," he stated, merely recounting the obvious.
"Who is writing these?" Tara asked, taking a step back.
"I'm calling Officer Daley," Jakin said, picking up the black handheld telephone resting on the bar next to Tara's four-slice toaster, and dialing 911.
As Jakin began talking to the police, explaining that despite all the precautions the mysterious letter had still appeared in Tara's home, Tara reached for the envelope.
She knew that she wasn't supposed to touch it, the police had informed her that with each new letter that arrived she should not touch the envelope or the paper inside, so that they could be analyzed for prints. Tara had turned the last four letters over to the police, and no prints had been found on any of them, and the police had staunchly refused to tell Tara what the contents had been.
Now she had to know. This concerned her more than anyone.
I have missed you Tara. I know you don't want me here, but I just can't seem to leave you alone. There is nothing I enjoy more than watching you sleep. Your breath catches every now and then. It is the moments of silence, the moments I cannot hear you breathing, that I look forward to. It is these split seconds when no breath either enters nor leaves your body that captivates me, and it's the reason I refuse to be kept from your side.
Sweet dreams, Tara.
Behind the handwritten note-a handwriting which had been unable to trace thus far- was another sheet of paper, but this paper was thicker, more substantial. Tara pulled the glossy photo from behind the stalker's note.
The picture showed Tara, asleep in her bed. Her blond hair was fanned around her head, all over the pillow, and her right arm was over her eyes. The angle the picture was taken from made one thing absolutely clear: whoever had taken the photo had taken it standing inside her room.
For the second time that week Tara felt the room start to spin as her vision went fuzzy.
Excuses stink, but I have good ones. Rehearsals, performances, finals next week, and being extremely sick among them. That said, let's do this thing!
Tara had called the police. They'd agreed to monitor her home, to keep a squad car driving around her block, to install security cameras at the doors. Tara's brother Jakin had come to spend the night so she wouldn't have to sleep in the old, large house all alone. The siblings had gone around the entire house before they went to sleep, painstakingly checking every single window before they went to sleep.
But that didn't mean there wasn't a letter on the table in the morning, just as there had been for almost two weeks.
When Tara's slippered feet left the last carpeted step, lighting onto the polished hardwood floor and took her into the kitchen she tried to tell herself to remain calm. There couldn't be a brown, unsealed envelope on the table. There was no way for anyone to get inside the house.
But there the letter was.
"Jakin?" Tara called, trying not to sound as frightened as she was.
Her brother, an imposing figure standing at nearly six and a half feet tall and with a muscular frame, rounded the corner from the living room where he had slept on the couch. His hair was a mess, the brown locks sticking out every which way from a night of troubled sleep.
"There's another letter." Tara pointed.
Jakin looked shocked. "This shouldn't be possible," he stated, merely recounting the obvious.
"Who is writing these?" Tara asked, taking a step back.
"I'm calling Officer Daley," Jakin said, picking up the black handheld telephone resting on the bar next to Tara's four-slice toaster, and dialing 911.
As Jakin began talking to the police, explaining that despite all the precautions the mysterious letter had still appeared in Tara's home, Tara reached for the envelope.
She knew that she wasn't supposed to touch it, the police had informed her that with each new letter that arrived she should not touch the envelope or the paper inside, so that they could be analyzed for prints. Tara had turned the last four letters over to the police, and no prints had been found on any of them, and the police had staunchly refused to tell Tara what the contents had been.
Now she had to know. This concerned her more than anyone.
I have missed you Tara. I know you don't want me here, but I just can't seem to leave you alone. There is nothing I enjoy more than watching you sleep. Your breath catches every now and then. It is the moments of silence, the moments I cannot hear you breathing, that I look forward to. It is these split seconds when no breath either enters nor leaves your body that captivates me, and it's the reason I refuse to be kept from your side.
Sweet dreams, Tara.
Behind the handwritten note-a handwriting which had been unable to trace thus far- was another sheet of paper, but this paper was thicker, more substantial. Tara pulled the glossy photo from behind the stalker's note.
The picture showed Tara, asleep in her bed. Her blond hair was fanned around her head, all over the pillow, and her right arm was over her eyes. The angle the picture was taken from made one thing absolutely clear: whoever had taken the photo had taken it standing inside her room.
For the second time that week Tara felt the room start to spin as her vision went fuzzy.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)