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."
Showing posts with label authentic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label authentic. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
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.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
On File
Time to write!
Name: Reagan Willis
Age: 16 years, 2 months, 3 days
Height: 5' 5''
Weight: 119 lbs
GPA: 3.25
Underneath the information were small blue arrows, one pointing right, the other pointing left. By looking to one side or the other and blinking twice for confirmation the words would scroll in the direction indicated and display a new sheet of information.
Parents: Janice Copland, Bill Willis
Siblings: Gareth (18), Sears (14), Trillith (8)
Occupation: Waitress
Relationship Status: Single
It was like having your social network page on file for everyone to see. Literally everyone. There was no "friends" or even "friends of friends" option.
You also couldn't limit what was there. You couldn't "untag" yourself, so to speak, or choose to keep your middle name or birthday private. If you were in a relationship that you didn't want your mother to know about, that was just too bad. She knew. Within minutes of you walking in the door after holding hands for the first time. So what if it wasn't official? It was on file.
They floated a few inches above the head. You could choose not to see them, if you avoided looking directly at them. Rumors say that once, back when technology was so obsolete that you hold to actually hold or touch devices in order to use them, when you were first introduced to someone it was customary to look them in the eye. Now you only looked a person in the eye if you were already good friends and you knew their data sheets by heart, and even then it was more than normal to glance back up to see if anything had changed since the last time you'd talked.
Name: Reagan Willis
Age: 16 years, 2 months, 3 days
Height: 5' 5''
Weight: 119 lbs
GPA: 3.25
Underneath the information were small blue arrows, one pointing right, the other pointing left. By looking to one side or the other and blinking twice for confirmation the words would scroll in the direction indicated and display a new sheet of information.
Parents: Janice Copland, Bill Willis
Siblings: Gareth (18), Sears (14), Trillith (8)
Occupation: Waitress
Relationship Status: Single
It was like having your social network page on file for everyone to see. Literally everyone. There was no "friends" or even "friends of friends" option.
You also couldn't limit what was there. You couldn't "untag" yourself, so to speak, or choose to keep your middle name or birthday private. If you were in a relationship that you didn't want your mother to know about, that was just too bad. She knew. Within minutes of you walking in the door after holding hands for the first time. So what if it wasn't official? It was on file.
They floated a few inches above the head. You could choose not to see them, if you avoided looking directly at them. Rumors say that once, back when technology was so obsolete that you hold to actually hold or touch devices in order to use them, when you were first introduced to someone it was customary to look them in the eye. Now you only looked a person in the eye if you were already good friends and you knew their data sheets by heart, and even then it was more than normal to glance back up to see if anything had changed since the last time you'd talked.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Paddington Academy
Time to write!
Sorry, I know I've missed a couple days. I've been ill and sleeping every spare minute. I just now got up to use the loo and decided to do a quick five minute-r so that I don't get in the bad habit of not updating (sorry mom-literally five minutes!)
Cherise was under no delusion that her first day at Paddington Academy was going to be normal. She knew it was a school for those with "special talents". Special enough that they weren't appreciated by normal society. From an extremely optimistic point of view, Cherise supposed that one could look at it as a school for Superheroes. Unfortunately, the more common way of approaching Paddington Academy was resigning yourself as an outcast- an alumnus at a school for freaks.
Going to Paddington Academy wasn't a choice. It wasn't something "gifted" children looked forward to, or that "gifted" parents hoped their kids would one day attend.
Paddington Academy was an institution. It's stone walls, barred windows, heavy wooden doors with triple enforced locks, and special detainment facilities awaited only those whom the government deemed unfit to be around civilian people.
You were sent to Paddington Academy not because anyone really believed you were special, or talented, or gifted. You were sent because someone believed you were dangerous. A threat. A menace. You weren't placed in the rolls of Paddington Academy because somebody hoped you would someday save the world. Rather that you might someday endanger it.
Sorry, I know I've missed a couple days. I've been ill and sleeping every spare minute. I just now got up to use the loo and decided to do a quick five minute-r so that I don't get in the bad habit of not updating (sorry mom-literally five minutes!)
Cherise was under no delusion that her first day at Paddington Academy was going to be normal. She knew it was a school for those with "special talents". Special enough that they weren't appreciated by normal society. From an extremely optimistic point of view, Cherise supposed that one could look at it as a school for Superheroes. Unfortunately, the more common way of approaching Paddington Academy was resigning yourself as an outcast- an alumnus at a school for freaks.
Going to Paddington Academy wasn't a choice. It wasn't something "gifted" children looked forward to, or that "gifted" parents hoped their kids would one day attend.
Paddington Academy was an institution. It's stone walls, barred windows, heavy wooden doors with triple enforced locks, and special detainment facilities awaited only those whom the government deemed unfit to be around civilian people.
You were sent to Paddington Academy not because anyone really believed you were special, or talented, or gifted. You were sent because someone believed you were dangerous. A threat. A menace. You weren't placed in the rolls of Paddington Academy because somebody hoped you would someday save the world. Rather that you might someday endanger it.
Monday, November 12, 2012
Hypothetically Speaking...
Time to write!
Hypothetically speaking, what would happen if somewhere every supposition we ever made actually came true?
If that was the case, then I would have just doomed a whole new world into being. This world would be a parallel universe where every time anyone supposes anything, then that supposing actually becomes reality.
So if Moses supposed that his toes were roses, then in Supposition land, I guess Moses would suddenly have roses toes.
This all sounds rather silly, but there are alternate worlds. I know, because I accidentally thought myself into one, when making a careless statement kind of like the one I made just a moment ago.
All I did was utter the phrase, "hypothetically, what if every hypothetical question actually got answered somewhere else? and what would someone do if they were forced to answer those hypothetical questions?"
I had meant no harm by it, but the transition had happened just that fast. Part of that was because security sure was low this weekend, due to the war and the Stargates being down and the Commander being otherwise engaged. You see, they normally like to prevent people from entering Hypothralsia. For when Hypothetical assumptions become reality, things get messy, pretty darn fast.
Hypothetically speaking, what would happen if somewhere every supposition we ever made actually came true?
If that was the case, then I would have just doomed a whole new world into being. This world would be a parallel universe where every time anyone supposes anything, then that supposing actually becomes reality.
So if Moses supposed that his toes were roses, then in Supposition land, I guess Moses would suddenly have roses toes.
This all sounds rather silly, but there are alternate worlds. I know, because I accidentally thought myself into one, when making a careless statement kind of like the one I made just a moment ago.
All I did was utter the phrase, "hypothetically, what if every hypothetical question actually got answered somewhere else? and what would someone do if they were forced to answer those hypothetical questions?"
I had meant no harm by it, but the transition had happened just that fast. Part of that was because security sure was low this weekend, due to the war and the Stargates being down and the Commander being otherwise engaged. You see, they normally like to prevent people from entering Hypothralsia. For when Hypothetical assumptions become reality, things get messy, pretty darn fast.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Deletion
Time to write!
When we arrived in the dormitories, everything seemed perfectly ordinary. There were twenty two rooms in our hallway, twelve on the right side and ten on the left. The left side also had the bathrooms which we were all to share. All of the doors were painted black, and were made of cold, unfeeling metal. They were strong doors, not doors which could easily be kicked in, nor doors which could slam when one of the girls was in her mood.
The hallway was stark and crisp, just like the rest of the Academy. There was no frou-frou, no bricabrac, no hodgepodge to be found. In fact words such as those were just the kind that would not be tolerated at the Academy. While other boarding schools likely had posters on the walls or at least a bulletin board for announcements, the dormitory hallways at St. Rosen's Academy were fresh-piece-of-paper white, uninterrupted by anything but the dove gray molding which framed those heavy black doors. There were, however, forty-four small spots of color in that hallway. On each of the doors were nametags, in a variety of different colors. There were red, blue, purple, and green name cards, all of these colors in dark tones. The red was more of a burgundy, the blue a navy more than anything else, the purple was nothing short of eggplant and the shade of green is one that could only be described as the love child of emerald and forest green.
Forty-four flashes of color in a black and white hallway. The colors made those name placards easily noticeable, but none of us anticipated how important they actually were, that is, until they started disappearing.
When we arrived in the dormitories, everything seemed perfectly ordinary. There were twenty two rooms in our hallway, twelve on the right side and ten on the left. The left side also had the bathrooms which we were all to share. All of the doors were painted black, and were made of cold, unfeeling metal. They were strong doors, not doors which could easily be kicked in, nor doors which could slam when one of the girls was in her mood.
The hallway was stark and crisp, just like the rest of the Academy. There was no frou-frou, no bricabrac, no hodgepodge to be found. In fact words such as those were just the kind that would not be tolerated at the Academy. While other boarding schools likely had posters on the walls or at least a bulletin board for announcements, the dormitory hallways at St. Rosen's Academy were fresh-piece-of-paper white, uninterrupted by anything but the dove gray molding which framed those heavy black doors. There were, however, forty-four small spots of color in that hallway. On each of the doors were nametags, in a variety of different colors. There were red, blue, purple, and green name cards, all of these colors in dark tones. The red was more of a burgundy, the blue a navy more than anything else, the purple was nothing short of eggplant and the shade of green is one that could only be described as the love child of emerald and forest green.
Forty-four flashes of color in a black and white hallway. The colors made those name placards easily noticeable, but none of us anticipated how important they actually were, that is, until they started disappearing.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Chocolate and Ponies
Time to write!
Who decided that it's ok to make bunnies and Santas out of chocolate? Why not ponies?
And why do we eat gummy worms? That's disgusting. Worms are for nasty!
Who chose to name oreos "oreos"?
I have so many questions.
Questions that bubble up inside my head.
They play and frolic between each other, bumping into one another, merging and meshing to form new questions and new problems and new things for me to think about.
I wish I could find the answers, but when I try to ask my dad he always tells me, "What a great question. Why don't you do some research and write an essay on that?"
When he says this, a new question always rises to the surface of my mind. That question is: "Who the heck even wants to do that?"
Who decided that it's ok to make bunnies and Santas out of chocolate? Why not ponies?
And why do we eat gummy worms? That's disgusting. Worms are for nasty!
Who chose to name oreos "oreos"?
I have so many questions.
Questions that bubble up inside my head.
They play and frolic between each other, bumping into one another, merging and meshing to form new questions and new problems and new things for me to think about.
I wish I could find the answers, but when I try to ask my dad he always tells me, "What a great question. Why don't you do some research and write an essay on that?"
When he says this, a new question always rises to the surface of my mind. That question is: "Who the heck even wants to do that?"
Friday, November 9, 2012
Internet Problems
Time to write!
They say you can find anything on the internet.
That's what they say, but I don't believe it.
Why, just today, I was trying to do my homework, and the internet was not exactly what I'd call "helpful". All I wanted to do was find a well-written article on why Spiderman is the best superhero of all time. Know what I got? A lot of reviews, and lists of the best superhero movies ever. That isn't what I wanted. That wasn't going to help me for my homework assignment at all.
You see, we have to bring an article to class tomorrow which demonstrates great writing technique and style, but is on a topic we don't actually agree with.
And Spiderman clearly isn't the best superhero of all time. What do you think Batman is doing here for? Being the best, obviously.
The internet has other problems too.
Like half the time when you want to find a perfectly normal picture of something and type "cute rabbit", for example, you don't get what you were looking for at all.
I don't know about you, but when I type "cute rabbit" I'm looking for a cute rabbit. Not a next-to-naked girl with bunny ears and a little cotton ball tail!
Ew.
They say you can find anything on the internet. Well maybe it's all there, but someone needs to redefine the search system, because this is getting ridiculous.
They say you can find anything on the internet.
That's what they say, but I don't believe it.
Why, just today, I was trying to do my homework, and the internet was not exactly what I'd call "helpful". All I wanted to do was find a well-written article on why Spiderman is the best superhero of all time. Know what I got? A lot of reviews, and lists of the best superhero movies ever. That isn't what I wanted. That wasn't going to help me for my homework assignment at all.
You see, we have to bring an article to class tomorrow which demonstrates great writing technique and style, but is on a topic we don't actually agree with.
And Spiderman clearly isn't the best superhero of all time. What do you think Batman is doing here for? Being the best, obviously.
The internet has other problems too.
Like half the time when you want to find a perfectly normal picture of something and type "cute rabbit", for example, you don't get what you were looking for at all.
I don't know about you, but when I type "cute rabbit" I'm looking for a cute rabbit. Not a next-to-naked girl with bunny ears and a little cotton ball tail!
Ew.
They say you can find anything on the internet. Well maybe it's all there, but someone needs to redefine the search system, because this is getting ridiculous.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A Twist in the Tale
Time to write!
Paranormal romance is all the rage. Girls everywhere are falling in love with vampires and werewolves and dragons. Even zombies are being romanticized. We've had females swooning over ghosts for ages, which has been exceedingly complicated, due to the whole intangible thing. However, the female population have proved themselves loyal fangirls time and time again, as they've overcome fangs, claws, fur, and who knows what else, in order to stay committed to their, in many cases, undead lover.
Well I think vampires are kind of cute myself. Maybe that's because I was in love with one once. He loved me too, and we were very happy for a long time. Of course, that was almost one hundred and fifty years ago, and the rest of the clan is telling me to move on. But things aren't easy for female vampires, because no one falls in love with us.
***
Alexei and I were the epitome of the gothic romance. He was a vampire, crazed with bloodlust, and I was an unsuspecting, completely sensible English young woman. Despite the stories and the unexplained disappearances, I did not believe there were really vampires in London. I told myself there had to be a more logical explanation right up till that night I was walking home from a social at Lady Marian's. Normally, for such a walk, I would've had an escort, but I had ditched mine, finding his company rather unfavorable. I had been not a block from the inn where I rented my rooms, a respectable establishment, though not the most posh place on the street, when he had swooped down, literally, from the rooftops above me.
Running, especially given the shoes and the skirt which were popular during that time period, was futile. He overtook me in a moment. I got one quick look at his deep black eyes and his marble white skin before his lips were on my neck, his teeth piercing the skin just above my collar.
After my transformation Alexei never left my side. Neither he nor I were able to truly come to a conclusion, as to why he stayed with me. It isn't the way vampires typically treat their victims. To be sure, we took thousands of humans together for years afterwards, but none of them, even those who made it all the way to transformation, ever stayed with us. The best we could conclude was that we were supposed to be together, or Alexei wouldn't have waited in the street while I changed. He had leaned over me, letting his black cape conceal my shuddering, changing form. The first sight I glimpsed as I opened my newly changed eyes, now a midnight black and with much keener vision than I'd previously known, was his face. His hand was resting on my cheek and the expression he wore was not that of the hunter I had looked at just moments ago. Instead he looked excited and tender, all at once.
Alexei and I were happy. True, we were soulless, careless killers, preying on the innocent and the not-so-innocent with no care for which was which. True, we lived on the run, attacking a city until the inhabitants were ready to hire an expert or chase us out with stakes themselves. It was not a "good" life, but it was exciting and we were always together. That is, we were always together until the purge. That's the day Alexei, our entire clan, and even our child were destroyed, and I was given the worst gift a vampire can be given: a conscious.
Paranormal romance is all the rage. Girls everywhere are falling in love with vampires and werewolves and dragons. Even zombies are being romanticized. We've had females swooning over ghosts for ages, which has been exceedingly complicated, due to the whole intangible thing. However, the female population have proved themselves loyal fangirls time and time again, as they've overcome fangs, claws, fur, and who knows what else, in order to stay committed to their, in many cases, undead lover.
Well I think vampires are kind of cute myself. Maybe that's because I was in love with one once. He loved me too, and we were very happy for a long time. Of course, that was almost one hundred and fifty years ago, and the rest of the clan is telling me to move on. But things aren't easy for female vampires, because no one falls in love with us.
***
Alexei and I were the epitome of the gothic romance. He was a vampire, crazed with bloodlust, and I was an unsuspecting, completely sensible English young woman. Despite the stories and the unexplained disappearances, I did not believe there were really vampires in London. I told myself there had to be a more logical explanation right up till that night I was walking home from a social at Lady Marian's. Normally, for such a walk, I would've had an escort, but I had ditched mine, finding his company rather unfavorable. I had been not a block from the inn where I rented my rooms, a respectable establishment, though not the most posh place on the street, when he had swooped down, literally, from the rooftops above me.
Running, especially given the shoes and the skirt which were popular during that time period, was futile. He overtook me in a moment. I got one quick look at his deep black eyes and his marble white skin before his lips were on my neck, his teeth piercing the skin just above my collar.
After my transformation Alexei never left my side. Neither he nor I were able to truly come to a conclusion, as to why he stayed with me. It isn't the way vampires typically treat their victims. To be sure, we took thousands of humans together for years afterwards, but none of them, even those who made it all the way to transformation, ever stayed with us. The best we could conclude was that we were supposed to be together, or Alexei wouldn't have waited in the street while I changed. He had leaned over me, letting his black cape conceal my shuddering, changing form. The first sight I glimpsed as I opened my newly changed eyes, now a midnight black and with much keener vision than I'd previously known, was his face. His hand was resting on my cheek and the expression he wore was not that of the hunter I had looked at just moments ago. Instead he looked excited and tender, all at once.
Alexei and I were happy. True, we were soulless, careless killers, preying on the innocent and the not-so-innocent with no care for which was which. True, we lived on the run, attacking a city until the inhabitants were ready to hire an expert or chase us out with stakes themselves. It was not a "good" life, but it was exciting and we were always together. That is, we were always together until the purge. That's the day Alexei, our entire clan, and even our child were destroyed, and I was given the worst gift a vampire can be given: a conscious.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Mati and Rory
Time to write!
Matilda and Gregory were best friends, and were, as most boy-girl best friends turn out to be, at least slightly in love with one another. Of course, nothing could be so simple as to allow them to merely court and then have an eventual happy marriage. For, as is so often the case, Gregory was not of the same social class as Matilda. And, in keeping with the cliche, Matilda was in fact the daughter of an important town official who would never dream of giving up his only daughter to a cobbler's apprentice of unknown origin.
Matilda had become Gregory's friend partly because they were of such different social statuses. As a Counselman's daughter, she found herself attending many different parties, conventions, and other social events. At each of these events it was the expectation that she would be dressed fabulously and shoes were no exception. Her father's wealth meant that Matilda rarely had to leave the manor where she lived, so when she was to have new shoes made, or old shoes mended, or a certain pair of shoes slightly changed and dyed another color to match a new dress, the cobbler and his apprentice would pay her a call at home.
Gregory and Matilda had been nine and eight years old, respectively, the first time they'd met. At this time, Gregory, an orphan who had already spent many years learning his place, had an acute awareness of the class difference between them, but Matilda was ignorant of any such differentiation between them. After being greeted by the cobbler, Max Stuffins, she'd dropped him a quick curtsy then said, "My name's Matilda, but I like Mati. Who are you?"
"Gregory, Miss Matilda," Gregory had murmured shyly.
"No, I don't like Gregory at all." Matilda had stated, shaking her head. "That sounds like a butler's name."
"Is there another name that would please you, Miss Matilda?" Gregory asked, a little taken aback.
"Rory. It's like Gregory, but much nicer." The way Matilda said it was very matter of fact. She continued, "And I think we shall be great friends."
When Matilda Merriworth declared something, it almost always was so. And so Mati and Rory were great friends. It was that way, because she thought it should be.
oh the suspense...?
Matilda and Gregory were best friends, and were, as most boy-girl best friends turn out to be, at least slightly in love with one another. Of course, nothing could be so simple as to allow them to merely court and then have an eventual happy marriage. For, as is so often the case, Gregory was not of the same social class as Matilda. And, in keeping with the cliche, Matilda was in fact the daughter of an important town official who would never dream of giving up his only daughter to a cobbler's apprentice of unknown origin.
Matilda had become Gregory's friend partly because they were of such different social statuses. As a Counselman's daughter, she found herself attending many different parties, conventions, and other social events. At each of these events it was the expectation that she would be dressed fabulously and shoes were no exception. Her father's wealth meant that Matilda rarely had to leave the manor where she lived, so when she was to have new shoes made, or old shoes mended, or a certain pair of shoes slightly changed and dyed another color to match a new dress, the cobbler and his apprentice would pay her a call at home.
Gregory and Matilda had been nine and eight years old, respectively, the first time they'd met. At this time, Gregory, an orphan who had already spent many years learning his place, had an acute awareness of the class difference between them, but Matilda was ignorant of any such differentiation between them. After being greeted by the cobbler, Max Stuffins, she'd dropped him a quick curtsy then said, "My name's Matilda, but I like Mati. Who are you?"
"Gregory, Miss Matilda," Gregory had murmured shyly.
"No, I don't like Gregory at all." Matilda had stated, shaking her head. "That sounds like a butler's name."
"Is there another name that would please you, Miss Matilda?" Gregory asked, a little taken aback.
"Rory. It's like Gregory, but much nicer." The way Matilda said it was very matter of fact. She continued, "And I think we shall be great friends."
When Matilda Merriworth declared something, it almost always was so. And so Mati and Rory were great friends. It was that way, because she thought it should be.
oh the suspense...?
Monday, October 22, 2012
Don't Stop Writing
Time to write!
Sunday means another "authentic" day, and I don't know what to write so I'm challenging myself to just do it and just write with no previous sense of direction! Ready! Go!
I knew I didn't have much time. I couldn't stop writing. There was no time to reread what I'd already put down on paper to ascertain that it made sense. All I could do was write and pray that my instructions would make sense, because soon my time would be up.
I could hear footsteps coming down the hall. I heard the jingling of keys, and the guard's gruff voice.
"On your feet!" he barked.
I recognized the voice. It was Stenson, one of the cruelest of our jailers. He tormented the prisoners for the fun of it, he must have liked the feeling of power it gave him, watching men, women, and children squirm and cry under his influence. I hated the man, but his propensity for vicious behavior meant I'd probably have a few more minutes than I'd anticipated.
I kept on writing. I couldn't stop now, each moment was precious. I could hear Crimmel moaning and Stenson laughing. I pushed down the anger I felt at Stenson's exploitation of Crimmel who was upwards of eighty years old and had only one leg and kept writing, ignoring my cramping hand, reminding myself that only through finishing this could I ever hope to help Crimmel, or any of the others.
I was almost done. Crimmel's door was slammed shut and I could hear the footsteps again and the sound of keys in a lock. Stenson had reached the cell next to mine. That's where Grea lived. Normally when the guards reached Grea I had to curl up in a ball with my hands over my ears because the thought of them hurting my Grea hurt me more than anything they did to me ever could, but today I knew I was going to need to hear every sound. I couldn't stop writing. I needed to finish, and I didn't have much time.
"You're looking smug, rebel trash," I heard Stenson drawl.
Grea didn't answer and Stenson continued speaking. "You smug because you got a plan? You feeling any hope today, pale boy?"
Grea didn't come from Lurea, but to a land far to the north, and his skin was much whiter than ours. His being a foreigner was something that even the "kindest" of the guards couldn't help but mock. I wished they'd just leave him alone.
"I have no plan," Grea answered quietly.
"Oh? So you're stupid? You gonna count on your other white friends to come and save you? You gonna wait for your white mama to come bring her baby home?"
I was so close to being finished. I knew Stenson was waiting for Grea to give him a reaction, so he'd have an excuse to hit him. I prayed that Grea wouldn't answer, wouldn't give in.
"Is that it, pale boy? You waiting for your snow people to get you out of this jail? Not very inspiring for the leader of a rebellion."
It was done. Now I just needed to seal it with something. I grabbed the sealant wax I'd found, my only chance at saving us all, and held it up close to the candle which was ensconced in a bunch of crossing bars. This way we prisoners could have some light and extremely limited warmth, but couldn't get the candles out or move them. This was a fairly new installation, since Troi had tried attacking a guard with a burning candle. Slowly the sealant began to soften. I was running out of time.
"You just gonna sit there quietly like a coward?" Stenson drawled. "Would you keep sitting there quietly if I pay a special visit to your little girlfriend?"
My heart began to pound, and I felt bile rise in my throat. The sealant was almost soft enough to spread over the parchment, which would it protect it from the water.
"Don't touch her," Grea said, his voice quiet but almost a growl.
"Don't? I touch her all the time." Stenson answered. "That girl's bruised and black and blue and there isn't a thing you can do about it." He laughed, a scratchy, grating sound.
Chains rattled, and I knew that Grea was getting angry.
"You gonna attack me?" Stenson asked, clearly enjoying the moment. "That's what your mama tried to do. Your little white mama, just before we killed her."
Grea strained against his chains again.
"You wanna fight, pale boy?"
The sickening sound of fist meeting jaw came, and Grea's chains chinked again. I knew he was trying to defend himself, but his arms were chained to the wall at the wrists, the only one of us who was chained that way.
I couldn't let what was happening right next to me affect me. The wax was malleable, but not runny. I used my hands to crust it over the entire piece of parchment, then folded it while the sealant was still soft so it wouldn't crack. I spread another layer over the folded document, sealing it tightly, doing my best to ignore Grea's grunts and the sound of his chains as he tried to pull his limbs from the wall.
I stood on tiptoe and pushed the parchment through the window where it fell to the waves below me. Now it was done, and all I could do was hope that it would work.
Sunday means another "authentic" day, and I don't know what to write so I'm challenging myself to just do it and just write with no previous sense of direction! Ready! Go!
I knew I didn't have much time. I couldn't stop writing. There was no time to reread what I'd already put down on paper to ascertain that it made sense. All I could do was write and pray that my instructions would make sense, because soon my time would be up.
I could hear footsteps coming down the hall. I heard the jingling of keys, and the guard's gruff voice.
"On your feet!" he barked.
I recognized the voice. It was Stenson, one of the cruelest of our jailers. He tormented the prisoners for the fun of it, he must have liked the feeling of power it gave him, watching men, women, and children squirm and cry under his influence. I hated the man, but his propensity for vicious behavior meant I'd probably have a few more minutes than I'd anticipated.
I kept on writing. I couldn't stop now, each moment was precious. I could hear Crimmel moaning and Stenson laughing. I pushed down the anger I felt at Stenson's exploitation of Crimmel who was upwards of eighty years old and had only one leg and kept writing, ignoring my cramping hand, reminding myself that only through finishing this could I ever hope to help Crimmel, or any of the others.
I was almost done. Crimmel's door was slammed shut and I could hear the footsteps again and the sound of keys in a lock. Stenson had reached the cell next to mine. That's where Grea lived. Normally when the guards reached Grea I had to curl up in a ball with my hands over my ears because the thought of them hurting my Grea hurt me more than anything they did to me ever could, but today I knew I was going to need to hear every sound. I couldn't stop writing. I needed to finish, and I didn't have much time.
"You're looking smug, rebel trash," I heard Stenson drawl.
Grea didn't answer and Stenson continued speaking. "You smug because you got a plan? You feeling any hope today, pale boy?"
Grea didn't come from Lurea, but to a land far to the north, and his skin was much whiter than ours. His being a foreigner was something that even the "kindest" of the guards couldn't help but mock. I wished they'd just leave him alone.
"I have no plan," Grea answered quietly.
"Oh? So you're stupid? You gonna count on your other white friends to come and save you? You gonna wait for your white mama to come bring her baby home?"
I was so close to being finished. I knew Stenson was waiting for Grea to give him a reaction, so he'd have an excuse to hit him. I prayed that Grea wouldn't answer, wouldn't give in.
"Is that it, pale boy? You waiting for your snow people to get you out of this jail? Not very inspiring for the leader of a rebellion."
It was done. Now I just needed to seal it with something. I grabbed the sealant wax I'd found, my only chance at saving us all, and held it up close to the candle which was ensconced in a bunch of crossing bars. This way we prisoners could have some light and extremely limited warmth, but couldn't get the candles out or move them. This was a fairly new installation, since Troi had tried attacking a guard with a burning candle. Slowly the sealant began to soften. I was running out of time.
"You just gonna sit there quietly like a coward?" Stenson drawled. "Would you keep sitting there quietly if I pay a special visit to your little girlfriend?"
My heart began to pound, and I felt bile rise in my throat. The sealant was almost soft enough to spread over the parchment, which would it protect it from the water.
"Don't touch her," Grea said, his voice quiet but almost a growl.
"Don't? I touch her all the time." Stenson answered. "That girl's bruised and black and blue and there isn't a thing you can do about it." He laughed, a scratchy, grating sound.
Chains rattled, and I knew that Grea was getting angry.
"You gonna attack me?" Stenson asked, clearly enjoying the moment. "That's what your mama tried to do. Your little white mama, just before we killed her."
Grea strained against his chains again.
"You wanna fight, pale boy?"
The sickening sound of fist meeting jaw came, and Grea's chains chinked again. I knew he was trying to defend himself, but his arms were chained to the wall at the wrists, the only one of us who was chained that way.
I couldn't let what was happening right next to me affect me. The wax was malleable, but not runny. I used my hands to crust it over the entire piece of parchment, then folded it while the sealant was still soft so it wouldn't crack. I spread another layer over the folded document, sealing it tightly, doing my best to ignore Grea's grunts and the sound of his chains as he tried to pull his limbs from the wall.
I stood on tiptoe and pushed the parchment through the window where it fell to the waves below me. Now it was done, and all I could do was hope that it would work.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Authentic A Day Early
Time to write!
Sick of vampire and werewolf romances. Let's get crazy!
"It would be best for everyone if we didn't talk anymore."
"Best for everyone?" I asked. "Truly best? Or easiest?"
He shook his head, his dark eyes betraying both frustration and amusement. "You don't need to make this so dramatic Akara, it isn't going to be the end of the world."
My blood was beginning to boil. "I know!" I responded. His arrogance really was sickening, which made it confusing that I cared so much that he wanted to go, to completely leave my life.
"Listen," he said, placing his hot hands on my shoulders, leaving me feeling as though my skin was frying. "It won't work. It can't work. So we aren't going to try to make it work. It's called being smart."
I pulled back, partly because he was burning me and partly because the bluntness of his words hurt me in a deeper way than his hands did.
"Why did you even let me live, then?" I asked. Tears choked in my throat, but I was so angry that they stayed lodged there instead of finding their way up to my eyes where they would have been able to spill out and relieve the pressure.
Drakyn's eyes changed again, this time looking sad, but his characteristic smirk remained ever in place. "I don't always have a reason for everything. You know that. It was a whim."
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Drakyn laughed as I bit back the scream of frustration. "You understand, though, right?" he said. His question lacked even the slightest bit of sincerity, and didn't expect an answer.
I gave one anyway. "I totally understand," I said, perhaps a bit too loudly. I could feel my nose doing that awful angry, sad wrinkle and my jaw couldn't decide whether it wanted to clench or merely go on some sort of hyper-vibrate mode. And then I turned around, because there was no way on this dark and desperate earth that I was going to stand there and cry while I watched Drakyn walk away from me.
No. His last sight of me would not be my tears. It wouldn't be my on my knees, or with my face in his hands. His last memory of me would have to be my back, and so I walked with my head held high, my arms down by my sides, and he would never have to know what my face looked like, or that my tears had finally surfaced.
Stupid dragon.
So....I don't really care what you say. This story is one of my favorites and I'm a keeping it and taking it places. All that aside...you like?
Sick of vampire and werewolf romances. Let's get crazy!
"It would be best for everyone if we didn't talk anymore."
"Best for everyone?" I asked. "Truly best? Or easiest?"
He shook his head, his dark eyes betraying both frustration and amusement. "You don't need to make this so dramatic Akara, it isn't going to be the end of the world."
My blood was beginning to boil. "I know!" I responded. His arrogance really was sickening, which made it confusing that I cared so much that he wanted to go, to completely leave my life.
"Listen," he said, placing his hot hands on my shoulders, leaving me feeling as though my skin was frying. "It won't work. It can't work. So we aren't going to try to make it work. It's called being smart."
I pulled back, partly because he was burning me and partly because the bluntness of his words hurt me in a deeper way than his hands did.
"Why did you even let me live, then?" I asked. Tears choked in my throat, but I was so angry that they stayed lodged there instead of finding their way up to my eyes where they would have been able to spill out and relieve the pressure.
Drakyn's eyes changed again, this time looking sad, but his characteristic smirk remained ever in place. "I don't always have a reason for everything. You know that. It was a whim."
Ouch. Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Drakyn laughed as I bit back the scream of frustration. "You understand, though, right?" he said. His question lacked even the slightest bit of sincerity, and didn't expect an answer.
I gave one anyway. "I totally understand," I said, perhaps a bit too loudly. I could feel my nose doing that awful angry, sad wrinkle and my jaw couldn't decide whether it wanted to clench or merely go on some sort of hyper-vibrate mode. And then I turned around, because there was no way on this dark and desperate earth that I was going to stand there and cry while I watched Drakyn walk away from me.
No. His last sight of me would not be my tears. It wouldn't be my on my knees, or with my face in his hands. His last memory of me would have to be my back, and so I walked with my head held high, my arms down by my sides, and he would never have to know what my face looked like, or that my tears had finally surfaced.
Stupid dragon.
So....I don't really care what you say. This story is one of my favorites and I'm a keeping it and taking it places. All that aside...you like?
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Pierre the Pirate Duck
Time to write!
I promised I'd finish that weird execution story...buttttttttt.....I'm not going to right now. :) CHEESE. AUTHENTIC TIME. "Are you ready for this?" *basketball pump up music*. Obviously I'm way tired. Allons-y!
Pierre the Pirate Duck was only but a wee duckling when he first became a pirate. He'd been swimming along in the Weatherly Park Pond when suddenly he saw a shiny glint down at the bottom. Pierre was very intrigued by the shiny object and began to approach when seven ducks came charging at him.
These were ducks he'd never seen before. They wore bandannas and eye patches and one even had a peg-leg which made him swim in a very lopsided fashion.
Pierre's ducky little heart began to pound. These were Pirate Ducks. Pierre had heard of Pirate Ducks, but he never thought he would see any of them, not ever in his whole life, let alone at Weatherly Pond Park.
"Where ya think you be headed?" growled one of the ducks towards the front of what could be construed as a fleet.
"I just saw something shiny," Pierre managed weakly, trying to be brave, but so excited and frightened that his quack quavered.
"Arrr! You be after the treasure!" exclaimed the duck closest to the front, undoubtedly the captain judging by his large hat.
"Treasure?" Pierre asked. "You mean that glinty stuff at the bottom of the pond?"
The Captain Duck laughed. Menacingly. "Glinty stuff? You tell him, Stumpy,"
The peg-legged duck removed a rolled up scroll from his back with his beak and showed it to Pierre. It was a treasure map.
"The shiny object to which you have made reference is in fact 14 carat gold doubloons," Stumpy said in a voice which was surprisingly British.
"Real doubloons?" gasped Pierre. Pierre had heard of doubloons, but he never thought he would see any, not ever in his whole life, let alone at Weatherly Pond Park.
This is the beginning of the epic tale of Pierre's Piratey adventures. Props to Rian for naming Pierre.
I promised I'd finish that weird execution story...buttttttttt.....I'm not going to right now. :) CHEESE. AUTHENTIC TIME. "Are you ready for this?" *basketball pump up music*. Obviously I'm way tired. Allons-y!
Pierre the Pirate Duck was only but a wee duckling when he first became a pirate. He'd been swimming along in the Weatherly Park Pond when suddenly he saw a shiny glint down at the bottom. Pierre was very intrigued by the shiny object and began to approach when seven ducks came charging at him.
These were ducks he'd never seen before. They wore bandannas and eye patches and one even had a peg-leg which made him swim in a very lopsided fashion.
Pierre's ducky little heart began to pound. These were Pirate Ducks. Pierre had heard of Pirate Ducks, but he never thought he would see any of them, not ever in his whole life, let alone at Weatherly Pond Park.
"Where ya think you be headed?" growled one of the ducks towards the front of what could be construed as a fleet.
"I just saw something shiny," Pierre managed weakly, trying to be brave, but so excited and frightened that his quack quavered.
"Arrr! You be after the treasure!" exclaimed the duck closest to the front, undoubtedly the captain judging by his large hat.
"Treasure?" Pierre asked. "You mean that glinty stuff at the bottom of the pond?"
The Captain Duck laughed. Menacingly. "Glinty stuff? You tell him, Stumpy,"
The peg-legged duck removed a rolled up scroll from his back with his beak and showed it to Pierre. It was a treasure map.
"The shiny object to which you have made reference is in fact 14 carat gold doubloons," Stumpy said in a voice which was surprisingly British.
"Real doubloons?" gasped Pierre. Pierre had heard of doubloons, but he never thought he would see any, not ever in his whole life, let alone at Weatherly Pond Park.
This is the beginning of the epic tale of Pierre's Piratey adventures. Props to Rian for naming Pierre.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Heavy
Time to write!
Is anything quite so heavy as drooping eyelids or a broken heart? Which is heavier? Can a broken heart be lifted by laughter? Can drooping lids be forced open?
In both cases the answer is one and the same. Yes. But only for so long.
For at some point the body must exact it's demands. The eyes must shut, or they must cry. Light cannot always be entering the body through the eyes, and light cannot always be leaving the body through the joyful heart. There, sometimes, has to be darkness.
The darkness can be literal or symbolic, just as the weight can either require physical or emotional strength. Strength, however, and pliability must be balanced together. We must, to borrow a common phrase, learn to bend before we break.
"Never give up" is certainly a worthy and inspiring mantra, but so is "know when to take a rest".
Is anything quite so heavy as drooping eyelids or a broken heart? Which is heavier? Can a broken heart be lifted by laughter? Can drooping lids be forced open?
In both cases the answer is one and the same. Yes. But only for so long.
For at some point the body must exact it's demands. The eyes must shut, or they must cry. Light cannot always be entering the body through the eyes, and light cannot always be leaving the body through the joyful heart. There, sometimes, has to be darkness.
The darkness can be literal or symbolic, just as the weight can either require physical or emotional strength. Strength, however, and pliability must be balanced together. We must, to borrow a common phrase, learn to bend before we break.
"Never give up" is certainly a worthy and inspiring mantra, but so is "know when to take a rest".
Sunday, October 7, 2012
DAILY DOUBLE
Time to write!
Here's the thing friends. I was home for conference. Hence, up till 3 talking to the bro and without wi-fi on my laptop. And honestly, it didn't even OCCUR to me that I was forgetting to write. SO. You're getting two things today. One Sunday authentic thing and one poem challenge. So enjoy. I hope you will forgive my laxness in not writing either Friday or Saturday. :( It won't happen again (I hope...).
Write a poem where each word starts with the letter which makes up a phrase. (bad way to word it but you'll figure it out when you see the poem).
Badly read epithets and not nice answers,
Idly sobbing,
Dead rain aimlessly meanders and traverses in cloud.
Did you figure it out?? I love it.
NOW FOR SOMETHING AUUUUTHENTIC. That's hard though....
I don't want you to stop reading this just because it might look, at first, like just another teenage vampire romance novel. Because it isn't one. I mean...there are teenagers and vampires, and ok, there might be a tiny bit of romance somewhere. But that doesn't make this traditional.
Brian and I met on the first day of third grade. He showed me his fangs the first time in eighth grade. We were best friends from that day forward. I never thought he hated me. He didn't brood, not anymore than a normally teenage guy might. Most importantly, he never was tempted to drink my blood. Brian is a third generation domestic vampire. Let me shatter that perception right now. Here's where a bunch of die-hard vampire literature critics will tell me that vampires cannot have children and that they cannot be domesticated.
Sweet people. That's literature. I know it goes against what you think you know, but I'm pretty sure first hand experience counts for something.
Essentially, what I'm trying to say is Brian has never had to drink human blood. His family hunts- Twilight style, I guess- and has stores of blood. Sounds gross, but it's better than killing people all the time.
But even though Brian is a vampire and we go to high school, it doesn't make this your typical story. But rather than sit here and reason with you, let me just tell you what happened and you can see for yourself.
May I just say, I adore this intro? I want to write this story but fo real I am so tired. SOOO. I might continue it....tomorrow. :)
Here's the thing friends. I was home for conference. Hence, up till 3 talking to the bro and without wi-fi on my laptop. And honestly, it didn't even OCCUR to me that I was forgetting to write. SO. You're getting two things today. One Sunday authentic thing and one poem challenge. So enjoy. I hope you will forgive my laxness in not writing either Friday or Saturday. :( It won't happen again (I hope...).
Write a poem where each word starts with the letter which makes up a phrase. (bad way to word it but you'll figure it out when you see the poem).
Badly read epithets and not nice answers,
Idly sobbing,
Dead rain aimlessly meanders and traverses in cloud.
Did you figure it out?? I love it.
NOW FOR SOMETHING AUUUUTHENTIC. That's hard though....
I don't want you to stop reading this just because it might look, at first, like just another teenage vampire romance novel. Because it isn't one. I mean...there are teenagers and vampires, and ok, there might be a tiny bit of romance somewhere. But that doesn't make this traditional.
Brian and I met on the first day of third grade. He showed me his fangs the first time in eighth grade. We were best friends from that day forward. I never thought he hated me. He didn't brood, not anymore than a normally teenage guy might. Most importantly, he never was tempted to drink my blood. Brian is a third generation domestic vampire. Let me shatter that perception right now. Here's where a bunch of die-hard vampire literature critics will tell me that vampires cannot have children and that they cannot be domesticated.
Sweet people. That's literature. I know it goes against what you think you know, but I'm pretty sure first hand experience counts for something.
Essentially, what I'm trying to say is Brian has never had to drink human blood. His family hunts- Twilight style, I guess- and has stores of blood. Sounds gross, but it's better than killing people all the time.
But even though Brian is a vampire and we go to high school, it doesn't make this your typical story. But rather than sit here and reason with you, let me just tell you what happened and you can see for yourself.
May I just say, I adore this intro? I want to write this story but fo real I am so tired. SOOO. I might continue it....tomorrow. :)
Monday, October 1, 2012
Imperceivables
Time to write!
A couple quick things to say before I post tonight's Authentic writing :)
1. I know I didn't post last night. That was because, while watching Thor *drool* my internet connection decided to go haywire. Then I had to reset everything up, and it took forever and was mucho frustrating. By the time that was done and I'd finished Thor (cause obviously it is imperative to finish Thor!!) my roommate was asleep on my bed, leaving me mooshed against the wall and the situation was not ideal for writing. So I really do apologize. :(
2. This story, while authentic, got it's origins while I was in an AP psychology class. Now, it's about Schizophrenic people. I don't know who will read this or if I will ever expand this and take it anywhere, because I really love the idea, but it needs to be understood that I in no way mean this with any disrespect to the Schizophrenic community or those with family members who suffer from Schizophrenia. I am not making light of the disorder, I am merely exploring an idea which came to me while learning about it.
Now, without further ado, here we go!
A couple quick things to say before I post tonight's Authentic writing :)
1. I know I didn't post last night. That was because, while watching Thor *drool* my internet connection decided to go haywire. Then I had to reset everything up, and it took forever and was mucho frustrating. By the time that was done and I'd finished Thor (cause obviously it is imperative to finish Thor!!) my roommate was asleep on my bed, leaving me mooshed against the wall and the situation was not ideal for writing. So I really do apologize. :(
2. This story, while authentic, got it's origins while I was in an AP psychology class. Now, it's about Schizophrenic people. I don't know who will read this or if I will ever expand this and take it anywhere, because I really love the idea, but it needs to be understood that I in no way mean this with any disrespect to the Schizophrenic community or those with family members who suffer from Schizophrenia. I am not making light of the disorder, I am merely exploring an idea which came to me while learning about it.
Now, without further ado, here we go!
The world around us is all a delusion. What we think we’re
seeing is merely the way our brains interpret light rays around us. That's all it is, and we have no way of proving otherwise.Who’s to
say that any of us even see things the same way? Who’s to say we all see the
same things? Scientists have discussed the theory that each person’s concept of
a certain color could be completely different. It’s hard to tell, what with the
brain sitting encased in our skulls, safe from scrutiny. That is, of course,
unless we’re dead and have donated our brains to science. But then you’re dead,
so fat lot of good that did you.
Beyond that, it's a wonder things appear the way they do even to one individual. I mean, most of what we look at as completely solid objects is actually empty space when viewed from the molecular level. I'm mostly empty space. You're mostly empty space. We all sit around, looking at other things which are mostly empty space and function based on what our brains see. It's all really one big mystery that everyone pretty much takes for granted. Those who study the brain come up with some crazy ideas about what's really going on in our heads, and some even believe that they've got it basicallyI figured out at this point.
I'm here to say that we don't have it figured out. The scientific community can't even begin to grasp what is happening. No matter what theories
are out there, and no matter what your textbooks say, I have an answer that they will never provide you with. I can tell you, we
don’t all see the same things. I know, because I’ve seen them. The Imperceivables, and science refuses to acknowledge that they exist.
***
I was ten years old when I saw my first Imperceivable. He was uncannily tall, wore a black sweatshirt and torn jeans, and had a gaunt, sunken face. He was basically your stereotypical creepy dude. I didn't notice him until the end of recess. Maycie and I had been swinging when the bell to line up rang. It wasn't until I jumped off the swing that I saw him leaning against a tree. I couldn't tell for sure, but it seemed like he was looking at me.
I was ten years old when I saw my first Imperceivable. He was uncannily tall, wore a black sweatshirt and torn jeans, and had a gaunt, sunken face. He was basically your stereotypical creepy dude. I didn't notice him until the end of recess. Maycie and I had been swinging when the bell to line up rang. It wasn't until I jumped off the swing that I saw him leaning against a tree. I couldn't tell for sure, but it seemed like he was looking at me.
I was extremely creeped out, but since we were going inside anyway, I just ran off and sort of forgot about the incident. Until I saw him outside my room two nights later. I heard a tapping sound at my window long after my parents had gone to bed. I was horrified, and called for my father. When he didn't come and didn't come and the tapping continued I became utterly hysterical. I jumped from my bed and peeked through the blinds of my window and there he was.
After running to my parents room in tears, my dad went outside to investigate, but assured me there was nothing there. I refused to be consoled and didn't sleep in my room for the rest of the week.
That didn't mean I stopped seeing the man though. He showed up again on the playground. I'd see him in the corner of my classroom. He'd follow me from school some days. But anytime I mentioned him to someone around me they said they couldn't see him, that there wasn't anyone there.
Two weeks after I first saw him, Maycie told me she didn't want to be my friend anymore. Her exact words, I believe, were, "You scare me now. I think you're crazy." Then she walked away from me. This made me feel more alone than ever, and I started seeing him more.
Finally my parents took me to a psychologist. I was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. I was given medication. I was told that everything would be fine. But everything wasn't fine, and it couldn't be fine, because the doctors didn't understand what was really going on.
Instead of getting better, the "hallucinations" began getting worse. More people started showing up. I'd hear voices whenever I closed my eyes, or I heard people talking about me but when I turned around there wasn't anybody to be seen.
For years this continued. My life fell into a certain kind of pattern. Someone would see me sitting alone, and they'd try to be my friend. I would try my very best to act normal around them, but after a couple days, one of my tormentors would show up in an especially unexpected way, or would change up the routine. That changed things pretty quickly.
One particular example was my fourth day of eighth grade. I was sitting alone at lunch and a nice girl with long brown hair and glasses which actually looked cute on her came to sit by me.
"I'm Jessica," she told me. "Is it ok if I sit here?"
I smiled at her and nodded.
I smiled at her and nodded.
"Do you like cheesecake?" she asked. "My mom gave me this huge slice of cheesecake in my lunch today."
"I love cheesecake!" I answered. After devouring the piece, I discovered that Jessica and I had a lot in common. We both had little sisters, we both loved the original Star Wars movies, and we both were super excited to get our ears pierced. She had to wait until she was sixteen, and my parents basically wanted to wait for me to "stabilize". I didn't tell her that, just that my parents wanted me to wait.
She ate lunch with me the next day, and the first three days of the next school week as well. My main haunter, the one I'd seen first, was still showing up everywhere, but my therapists had told me to ignore him, to remember that he wasn't real, and to live a normal life. So that's what I tried to do. But when, on Wednesday, he stood up from the table where he'd been sitting across the cafeteria, sitting with a bunch of the popular girls who of course didn't know he was there, and walked towards me, I could feel my pulse quickening. He didn't normally come close to me, but sometimes he did, and those were the worst moments. I think he knew how much I hated it, and he saved it for special circumstances.
I tried to ignore him. Truly, I did. I turned to Jessica and asked her how she liked the book we were reading in Mrs. Matterly's class. I tried to concentrate on her answer, but I was hyper aware of him drawing closer and closer to me. I gripped the edge of the table, squeezing so tightly my knuckles turned white, as he started making his way around the table to where I was sitting. At this point I was completely panicked. I could hardly breathe.
"Shea? What is wrong?" Jessica said.
"Oh, mercy, no!" I whispered, petrified, as he reached out to me. He'd never been this close before. With the torture he was inflicting, I expected him to be smirking, but he looked deadly serious as he reached out to lay a hand on my arm. I pushed back from the table, rising to my feet and stumbling backwards, hysterical.
"Don't touch me!" I screamed.
Jessica wasn't my friend anymore after that.
***
At seventeen years old and in my senior year of High School I was done trying to make friends. I didn't want friends. I didn't want anything but for everyone to leave me the heck alone. I wanted the hallucinations to leave me alone, I wanted the kids who'd tried to be my friends to stop whispering things about me to everyone else. I wanted my teachers to stop analyzing my behavior in class. I wanted my psychologist to stop telling me it was all in my head, and for my parents to stop asking me if I'd had any episodes every day when I walked in from school. I wanted to be normal, to be like everyone else.
I hated that when anyone else walked down the hall they would see a bunch of smiling students, walking together, nudging one another, laughing or complaining about their day. In the exact same hall I'd see all these students, and more often that not one or two other people who clearly didn't belong there. Sometimes they were the hallucinations that had been plaguing me from the beginning. Others I only recognized because they obviously weren't supposed to be in high school.
Most people would argue that I didn't belong at a normal high school. And while it's true that my parents talked, talked a lot in fact, about pulling me out, my doctors were convinced that I just needed to give the new set of medication "a little more time" and that I needed to live "the most normal life possible." Every time something of that vein left one of their mouths I wanted to strap them with the hallucinations for a little while and see what they had to say afterwards. As it was, I stayed in public schooling, but I kept to myself. Kids talked about me but not to me, and I pretty much left them alone as well.
The day life really changed, I mean even more than that day when I was ten, was a Wednesday. A seemingly innocent enough Wednesday, too, all things considered. I was sitting outside, eating my lunch. I ate outside whenever I could, sometimes even when it rained, because it was less socially painful than sitting in the loud, crowded, constantly bustling lunch room. Besides, large crowds freaked me out. The more real people were in a room, the harder it was to tell if there were "fake" people there too. This may sound like a benefit, but it actually just made the hallucinations that much more unexpected, that much more realistic.
I was eating my sandwich and trying not to think about anything really, when I heard a twig snap, and turned. There was no twig on the ground to have snapped, but there he was, less than a foot behind me. Oh, I hated him. Loathed him, detested him, blamed him for the nightmare it was my life. Rising shakily to my feet, sandwich forgotten on the ground, I did my best to breath normally, despite my pounding heart, and to assess the situation.
"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I asked, voice wavering. He hadn't gotten this close to me since that day in eighth grade, although I never went more than a week without seeing him. The others always made more infrequent appearances, but this one was rather consistent. It was especially disorienting that he hadn't changed at all in the seven years we'd been "seeing" one another, everything the same as the day I first noticed him.
"Shea, I need you to listen to me for a minute," he said. This was the first time he'd spoken to me. I heard lots of them talk, but he had always just been my silent stalker. Hearing his voice was completely disarming. I tried to run, but tripped and fell, landing hard on my hands and knees.
He slowly walked over, taking his time, and with each step he took coming closer to me the less power I had to gain control of my limbs and get away. He crouched down, right beside me.
"Are you okay?" he asked, in what was probably one of the stupidest questions ever asked.
"Leave me alone!" I gasped, crying now, completely alone with him, kneeling in the grass between the main building and the science lab, trees all around.
"Calm down," he said, not in an ordering sort of way, but in a gentle sort of tone. Tone aside, I was far from being consolable, especially by him, the inflictor of my misery.
"Listen," he continued, voice quiet as he remained crouched beside me. "I need you to do your best to calm down and to understand what I'm saying. My name is Ian, and I promise I am not going to hurt you. But the others might, and I'm here to warn you."
...thoughts?
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.
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!
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