Sunday, November 29, 2009

NaNoWriMo excerpt

Oh no! All of the cliches in Happily Ever After Land are disappearing! This means witches are suddenly beautiful and good, frogs are no longer princes, and happily ever afters... are disappearing. Thyan Braveheart, a cliched prince who has diminished into a bumbling, awkward average teenager, is on a mission: to return everything back into the cliched way they were and most importantly, get himself back. But as he continues, he wonders if returning everything back to cliches is what is actually best...

*Note: A fair amount of tongue-in-cheek.

In a wonderful kingdom in a far away land called Happily Ever After Land, there lived a wise and gentle (and not to mention handsome!) king called King Lyon Everheart, who was the sole ruler of this land. He was a king beloved by all, and his decrees were just and impeccably accurate. Although his wife had died a few years into his kingship, he had a daughter, Meridian, who he loved more than life itself, and lavished upon her great gifts and presents to be envied by all of the kingdom’s ladies. She was as good looking as he, and together they were a father daughter pair which ruled the kingdom with dignity, justice, and gentleness.

In another kingdom a little further away from the kingdom far away, there lived a prince whose name was Thyan Braveheart. He was as brave as his name suggests, and had already surpassed all of history’s greatest heroes; for although heroes here and there might have saved one or two princesses, he had already saved his fiftieth princess, with many more to come, because he was still a young man with years in front of him. He was fearless and smart and had little problem defeating the greatest of giants and dragons and monsters. With his faithful sidekick Gil, he conquered the east and west and all of the land surrounding his father’s kingdom, building and expanding its domain.

Occasionally, Thyan visited King Lyon and his daughter Meridian in between his conquests because his father and Lyon had been great friends and classmates in the Hero’s Academy, the central and necessary school for every aspiring hero. As Thyan and Meridian were of the same age and mind, they grew closer and closer until there was very little doubt that they would marry some day.

Here in the world of bright summer days and easily obtainable success, they lived happily—but not happily ever after, because their story was far from over.


“Help me! Oh, someone, help me!” The cries of the captive princess echoed harshly against the dungeon walls, and the huge dragon cackled at its prisoner’s screams.

“It’s useless,” it told her. “No one can save you now!”

The dragon opened up its mouth, wider and wider, to engulf the hysterical, kicking, struggling princess. “Princesses always taste the best,” it cackled.

“Stop right there!”

“Who—what?” The dragon stopped in the midst of its eating and turned. “No way!” it gasped. “No one should have been able to get into my cave! I made sure of it!”

Thyan grinned and tossed his ever shiny blond hair, like a model. “No dragon can prevent me, Thyan Braveheart, from rescuing a princess in peril! I will stop you!” He rushed towards the dragon, sword unsheathed, and gave a hearty battle cry worthy of a Grammy. “I’ve come to save the day!”

The dragon breathed in deeply, preparing to incinerate the prince into ashes, and the princess screamed. “My prince!”

“Gil, now!” Thyan ordered, and the huge, muscular Gil came down from a hole in the roof of the cave and landed on the dragon’s head.

“I got ‘im, sir!” Gil shouted, but it was an early triumph, and one hastily made.

The dragon tossed and turned, trying to fling the boy off, and finally managed to fling Gil straight across the cave—but in the meantime, Thyan, with his great sword, The Hero’s Sword, hacked and struck at the fearsome dragon’s neck.

“Oh, why did I ever steal a princess?” moaned the dragon as it collapsed onto the ground and loosened its grip on the princess.

“My hero!” exclaimed the princess, who flew upon Thyan and hugged him and kissed him gratefully.

“Yur sure the best hero in all the land! No one can stand up t’ya!” exclaimed Gil, rubbing his own wounds and staring at his master admiringly.

Thyan laughed, and the three exited the cave. All in another day’s work for Prince Thyan Braveheart, the hero of Happily Ever After Land.

- - - -

Gil heard his lord’s scream from down the hall, where his bedroom was conveniently positioned in the case of an emergency. This could hardly count as an emergency, but neither did getting Thyan a cup of tea in the night, giving him a backrub in the morning, or getting a plate of mid night snacks for him.

“What now?” Gil muttered, and rolled over in his bed. He listened to the scream for a couple of more moments, suffering in agony over the sound. But he realized that Thyan was not the one to solve his own problems and, giving a disgusted sigh, he rose and walked down the hall to his master’s room.

“Sir?” he asked, pushing open the door.

His first thought was Woah, Thyan sure got a makeover. “Hey, Thyan!”

Thyan stopped screaming and turned to him, nearly in tears. “Gil!” he cried, and launched himself at the giant, who caught him awkwardly and tried to push him off himself.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Look at me!” Thyan gestured to his face.

Gil looked at his face. It was strangely normal, he thought. Thyan’s blond hair stuck up in every direction unlike the perfectly brushed it always was. His face was pale and wait a minute, was there—acne on his face? His eyes were still their sapphire blue, but not as bright as Gil remembered—but maybe that was because of the redness from all of the crying.

“You look ridiculous,” Gil said finally, and meant it.

“I know!” Thyan cried. “My face is pathetic! It’s un—un handsome! It’s horrid! I hate it! This is horrible!”

“You know, it’s your own face,” Gil said.

Thyan burst out crying.

Feeling that he was with a complete idiot, Gil gave a weak attempt at consolation. “It’s... it’s not that bad.”

“Yes it is!”

“No it isn’t. Just look at yourself!”

“I already did!”

Gil steered Thyan over to his huge mirror and they stared at the two figures there: a tall, dark haired boy and a somewhat lanky blond boy with swollen eyes and tears.
Gil turned Thyan back. “Nevermind.”

“You see? You see?” Thyan asked hysterically. “I’m—I’m ugly!” After hearing it from his own mouth and the realization of it all, Thyan wordlessly collapsed onto his bed with an arm over his eyes. “Just leave me. I’ll die in my bed, ugly and pathetic.”

Gil stared at him. “You are pathetic,” he observed. “But I can’t have you like that forever. Come on,” he said, and pulled at his master’s arm.

A muffled refusal came from the bedcovers.

“Come on. You’re being childish.”

“I don’t care.”

Groaning, Gil dragged Thyan off of his bed and onto the floor. “Get up.”


“Okay, you’re getting up.” Hoisting Thyan up, Gil set his master none too carefully onto a nearby chair.

Thyan was still hiding his tear stained face. “Don’t look at me!”

“I’m not,” Gil said, looking at him.

Looking up slightly, Thyan glared accusingly at him. “You are.”

Gil looked away. “Am not.”

“You were.”

“I was not.”

Thyan stared at the mirror and his frail, shivering form. “I hate it!” he cried, and threw a nearby hand mirror at the mirror.

It hit the mirror and bounced off harmlessly.

“What is wrong with me?” He stared at his hands.

“Come on, Thyan,” Gil said, and pulled him to his feet, which thankfully, he stayed on.

“What are you doing? H-hey, stop! Let go of me, you jerk!” Thyan tried to retrieve his arm from Gil’s steel like grip, but it was in vain.

“I don’t know what’s happening, but let’s take you to someone who does know.”

Thyan hesitated. “Kirina the fairy?” he asked.


He stared at Gil, and then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Hey! How come you’re suddenly thinking?” Thyan demanded.

“I don’t know, I just did,” Gil said, “and I can’t believe I didn’t start sooner.”

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Long update

I know, I know. It's like, gasp! Misamiera has finally updated her blog with something other than a contest entry or a little drabble thing! Gasp!

It's the end of the world, I know.

Guess why I haven't been posting lately? Yeah, that awesome writing challenge, NaNoWriMo. It's like, even if you never do anything related to writing at all during the year, you should do this. What's to lose? Everyone who participates wins. And I don't say that lightly. It's like, whoah! I wrote so and so many words over the course of November! Unless you write regularly, you will probably write more in NaNo than you will during the other 11 months. So you win your novel and bragging rights for a week.
Although if you actually reach 50K, you get a free book of your novel and even more bragging rights.

It's my first year and yeah, I was pretty nervous about writing 50,000 words in a month, but actually, I'm doing pretty well. I've more or less kept up with the word count and have one novella under my belt with another in the process.

Okay, I know you're all DYING to know what my stories are about - well, maybe you are and maybe you aren't, but even if you aren't I'll tell you anyway. So the first one is called Repercussions, and in a sentence, here it is: a compulsive liar whose lies suddenly become reality discovers that the consequences are much more dangerous than he thinks. If you look down the list of past posts (and think, "Hey, this was months ago! She is a horrible updater!"), you'll see one called Repercussions. That's somewhat of my intro. I didn't actually use it in my story since that would be cheating (writing some of your story before the actual month begins), but it's the basic idea of the story. I'll post an excerpt later.

My second story is completely ridiculous. Absolutely nonsensical. And since I find that I can't describe the novel in a way that truly gives it justice, I'll copy and paste the synopsis I wrote on my profile... (Yes, copy and paste. Don't you just love that tool?)
Oh no! All of the cliches in Happily Ever After Land are disappearing! This means witches are suddenly good, frogs are no longer princes, and happily ever afters... are disappearing. Thyan Braveheart, a cliched prince who has diminished into a bumbling, awkward average teenager, is on a mission: to return everything back into the cliched way they were and most importantly, get himself back. But as he continues, he wonders if returning everything back to cliches is what is actually best...

I hope that peaks your interest. It's mostly satire/parody and tongue-in-cheek and such fun to write. I'll post an excerpt of it later.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Steph's contest! And this blog is not dead!

I am not dead. This blog is not dead (although it's pretty darn close). I happen to like cute tees, so here's the link to Steph Bowe's awesome contest. (Although, by advertising for this contest, doesn't that decrease my chances of winning? Something to think about. Math people, how many points should be gotten in order to maximize your chances of winning?)

Here's the link.

Absolutely freakin' fantastic.

Friday, October 9, 2009

Coincidences... not really

Challenge: Failing at a ridiculously simple task.
Extra points: This turns out to be a positive thing.
Word count: >1000 words


"So how have you been, Mack?"

I turned. It was George, a man with a simplistic view and enough stupidity to not notice my annoyed expression. He had always been the Curly of our Stooge trio back in highschool. I hadn't seen him since, and frankly I'd forgotten about his entire existence until he addressed me.

"What? Fine," I said. "Just dandy these days."

"That's good." Apparently he still couldn't read the sarcasm in my voice. "Still in the business?"

"What business?"

"You know," George said, making an odd gesture I did not recognize. At my blank face, he was shocked. "You aren't in it?"

"In what? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh. I was sure I'd heard... well, nevermind."

George was not making any sense, and I dared not to be near him any longer. I of all people knew how clingy and irritating he could be.

"Let's walk outside," he suggested. "You're turning right, aren't you? I"ll go with you to Market Street."

I stared at him. "How did you know that?"

"Eh, no reason," he said, but there was an odd gleam in his eyes.

We reached the door. I pushed against it, expecting it to swing open easily, but nothing gave way. I rattled the handle, but it seemed securely locked.

"Must be locked," George said, not sounding dismayed at all.

I risked looking back at him and saw an expression I'd never seen before on his face. It was some sort of demented amusement; eyes squinted and laughing, smile wide and bland. It made me furious.

I grabbed his necktie. "What'd you do?"

"Me?" asked George innocently. "Nothing at all. Absolutely nothing. You saw me; I've been standing by you this whole time. And I was also in the conference you were in just now."

"You - no you weren't. I would have remembered."

"I was right behind you, Mack," George said quietly with his same huge, stretched smile.

It was creeping me out.

"Shut up," I said, and rattled the door's handle again as hard as I could. I was so close that the handle might have broken out of the door itself, but it was useless. The door remained closed.

I looked at George. He had the same infuriating expression on, as if I was his plaything or something. "George, you - "

A lady screamed.

I turned back to the door and stared as a massive balcony came crashing down right in front of the door, literally three feet away from my face. Pieces of concrete flew towards the door and little spiderwebs cracked all over the glass. Dust flew everywhere, clouding our entire view of the outside.

At that moment, the door swung open.

I stared at George, who shrugged. "Divine intervention, perhaps?" he said, passing me and walking outside as if nothing had happened.

I felt a chill up my back and it wasn't from the cold.

Monday, October 5, 2009


The light clicked on. A scraggly, starved man was sitting under it, looking sullen and depressed like a man in chains should. His posture described surrender; but his quietly fuming eyes were tracing a crack that led from his chair to the door.

“Gerald Davis. You were found guilty of multiple attempts of mass murder, the deaths of five people, and the custody of fourteen bombs and three machine guns. You have pled guilty already. Why did you do it?”

The man did not respond.

“Did you hear me? Why did you do it?”

“I was angry,” the man said slowly.

“At who?”

“Everyone. Everything. All of it. I was angry at everything.”



“I don’t believe you. No lovers? No grudges? No unpaid debts?”

“No. I was just… unsatisfied. With everything.”

“Why were you unsatisfied?”

“They were all… Everyone was hypocritical. They contradicted themselves daily. ‘I gave that homeless man a donut, isn’t that nice?’ And then, ‘Give me the money, or I’ll do something you won’t forget.’ It was all so… ridiculous.”

“Not everyone is like that.”

“Oh, no. Everyone is.”

“How do you know? You haven’t seen everyone.”

“I’ve seen enough to know.”

“Well, what about you? If you say everyone, aren’t you including yourself in that?”


“Well, it explains the suicide note we found at your house. But why would you leave your wife and daughter behind?”

“They were part of it, too.”

“The whole contradiction conspiracy thing?”


“You were going to kill them, too?”

“They were part of it.”

“That’s ridiculous.” And then softly after that, the officer muttered, “You’re mental.”

“No. They were.”

The officer sighed and paced around the room. “This whole dialogue is going nowhere.”

“No,” the man said. “It isn’t.”

“What’d you say?”

The man rose slowly out of his seat, ropes unwinding by themselves, and clamped his hands around the officer’s neck. The officer tried to call out, but there was no noise; then he struggled and fought and kicked, but his attacks on the man’s brute muscles deflected off harmlessly.

“Except this ain’t a dialogue,” the man growled. “It’s a monologue.”


The End.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


If you need prompts, check out the site

Word: Penny

She was merely a few pennies away from freedom, from life, and from everything. There was a cold, dark feeling surfacing from the bottom of the ocean in her heart and she gulped, tears springing to her eyes. I was so close, she thought.

Her friend glanced apologetically at her. "Sorry, Tammy. Guess I'll have to go to the mountains by myself, huh?" She smiled a sort of half smile and boarded the train.

In the cold, harsh night, Tammy watched the train disappear out of sight.

A/N: I'm not even sure where this was going...

Wednesday, July 22, 2009


A/N: Inspired by Raksab's plot bunny in the Adopt a Plot thread at the NaNoWriMo forums.

For Neil Jackson’s third grade introduction, he said, “Hello, my name’s Edgar Moncherant, my family consists of ex-Mafia members, and I have three snakes and a zebra for pets. Nice to meet you.” For his fourth grade introduction, he said, “Hello, my name’s Alexander Christy, I’m a model and singer when I’m not studying and I’m secretly on the list for the next Grammy award.” And for his fifth grade introduction, he said, “Yo, I’m Black Jack Red, and I come from the alleys of New York City. The part you don’t even wanna know about.”

No one knew quite what to do with him. They told him lying was bad, of course, but that had no effect on him. His lying habits seemed to have no basis—he simply found lying fun. His family, a perfectly normal family, tried punishing him for lies, but that seemed to tell him only one thing: it’s only bad if you get caught. So Neil started disguising his lies with the truth, and soon even his own family couldn’t tell what was what.

He had few friends; no one liked the idea of a friend who wasn’t completely trustworthy. He had sworn a total of seven different times to seven different people that he would never tell a lie again, and proved all seven promises to be lies. And he kept lying through his teeth with a smile on his face, all the way to the beginning of his sophomore year.

Neil started the year off by responding to other students’ friendly introductions, “Hey, my name’s Neil Jackson, and oh—is that a spider in your hair?” There hadn’t been, but it had created a lot of panic and resentment for Neil in the classroom.

The next school year was going to be just like previous years, he thought. Full of gullible and uninteresting classmates.

Neil had no idea that this next school year would be stranger than any lie he could ever tell.


“Neil. Are you listening to me?”

Neil snapped his head up so quickly the teacher flinched. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be listening?”

“I just asked you a question.”

“Oh,” said Neil. “I was trying to figure out the best answer to your question.”

The teacher stared at him expectantly. “Okay,” she said. “Tell us your answer.”

He paused. “Yes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes,” Neil said slowly, his mind racing back to their class lesson. What had they talked about again? “That is the answer to my question.”

“Yes,” repeated the teacher, giving him a strange look. “Elizabeth the First became queen in yes.”

A few classmates snickered.

“Yes. November 17, 1588.” said Neil.

Her lips quirked in an effort to conceal her smile. “Well, Mr. Jackson,” the teacher said, turning away from him. “I hope you’ll pay attention in the future.”

“Yes… ma’am.”

As the teacher resumed her lecture, he sat back and let his mind drift. History was easy enough if you were good at memorization. Neil glanced at his watch and sighed. Twenty-five more minutes to go.


After the class ended, Grant, a bleached blonde with thick glasses and enough personality to fill a shot glass, caught up with Neil as he was walking out the door.

“That was a close one, Neil!” said Grant. He was also arguably the only friend Neil had.

“I know!” Neil said. “If I hadn’t known the date I would’ve been in big trouble. Miss Brady has seriously been out for me ever since school started. Actually, I bet all of them are out for me,” he joked.

“Well, your lies certainly don’t help. You’ve got to admit that.”

“Didn’t you see back there? My lies saved me!”

“Sure,” Grant scoffed. “Although I bet ‘What was the question again?’ would have worked just fine, too.”

Rolling his eyes, Neil shrugged. “You know that’s not my style.”

“I do believe you have no style,” announced Grant.

“The best style is no style,” Neil said philosophically, shaking his head and trying to fight a smile that threatened to break out.

Grant laughed. “But seriously, Neil,” he said. “I really think you need to cut the lying. Or at least some of it. You’re gonna land in hot water someday.”

“As if I weren’t already?"

A/N: Definitely needs some work, but that's the beginning. Hope you liked that.

Five Questions

I was tagged here.

People often die halfway through reading a book. What book can you envisage you being halfway through when you die?

Often? That's the first time I've heard of that. I'd probably be reading some random book I would have picked up from the library. I do that a lot.

You can spend a day with any person, living or dead or invented, in any place, in any time. What person, what date, what place?

Oh, gee. I have no idea. Hm... I guess Elphaba, from the play Wicked... although I suppose I'd be mostly in awe of her and too dumbfounded to do anything intelligent.

Imagine you can transport yourself into any TV show, book or movie. Where do you go, and why?

I'd be transported into Pokemon, definitely. I loved that show as a kid and that love hasn't faded. I've always wanted to live in the Pokemon world. It's childish, perhaps, but that's okay. I'm a kid at heart.

What’s one thing you wish you were really good at and why?

I wish I was really good at speaking. I'm a horrible speaker and although I can imagine presentations in my mind, they turn out badly when they come out of my mouth. Writing gives me the opportunity to say what I cannot speak.

Zombie apocalypse scenario: What would you wear to a zombie apocalypse?

I would wear my worst clothes, because with all of that zombie activity, my clothes are bound to get messy. No point wearing your best clothes for zombies who won't even care.

Now here's how it goes:
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.” If I don't already have your email, leave it with your comment.
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions. (Cue scary music.)
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Pretty simple, right?

Saturday, July 18, 2009


“Look at them,” Tanthos muttered. “Aren’t they despicable, Arktos? Promising love and money one day, and running away the next? Trying to stay young forever? And love—what is this love? It’s hardly love at all!” His gold-tinted eyes gleamed in disdain and amusement.

“Indeed,” agreed Arktos.

“Humans,” Tantos snorted.

“Mm. Which is why I fail to see the reason of your dragging us down here when we could have gone to Xysensia for vacation. Earth is such a vile place.”

“Why, I wanted to laugh at the little Earthlings, of course. Xysensia’s environment is beautiful—it is, after all, the tropical center of the universe—but it’s so terribly dull. Here, my dear little brother, one may watch all the soap opera drama you want!”

“Unlike some undignified creatures, I’m not amused by watching Earthlings fight amongst themselves.”

Tanthos laughed. “You always were the serious one. Perhaps you are suited to Xysensia: you’re both so dull.”

“And I suppose you fit Earth: you’re both irrational, idiotic, and smelly."

A mock frown spread on Tanthos's face. "Why, how rude! I thought you were supposed to respect your elders!"

Arktos's golden eyes stared at the people below their third-floor apartment window. "Look at that man! See him?"

"See what? I was busy weeping over the fact that my little brother no longer respects me."

Arktos ignored the hint. "He's an imbecile, like they all are."

"Why? What did he do?"

"He's trying to convince the clerk he paid for those items."


"Here's how it works: if the man can argue heatedly and semi-reasonably enough, the clerk will let him keep it, under the thought 'It's only a small item and I don't want to deal with it.' Then, the man thinks 'Since I got away with that, I'll try something larger next time.' And it escalates."

"Won't the owner have something to do with it?"

"It's a cheap stall. That clerk is probably the owner. Oh--see? Just like I said."

"True, true. They should just arrest the man. Humans are far too merciful. That's why they have so many troubles!" Tanthos laughed. "They are an amusing race."

Arktos stretched and flexed his arm. "And of all infuriating matters, we have to look like the idiots as well."

"Well, can't let the humans see our true forms. They're so overreactive that we'd be all over the--what is it?--the Internet, and we'd never be able to return again."

"I'd like that," muttered Arktos. Tanthos patted his shoulder comfortingly, but he didn't mean it and both of them knew it.

A/N: Yet another beginning of a story I may do. The story's plot is not what it looks like here, but I don't have anything else written yet so here is the first part.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

The Yard

It was technically a yard, but I think the word cemetery fit better. A cold, foreign feeling crept up my nose and into my mind, freezing all rational thought as I stared at the place. The swing set lay still, lifeless and pallid, like a corpse. The sandbox had a hole where I’m sure a 12-year-old kid’s body like mine would fit in nicely. The barbecue was open, prepared to immolate a sacrificial meal. The bottle of ketchup, uncapped on the table, was surely a bottle of blood, waiting for a vampire to suck it dry. The dark wooden fence surrounded the whole area, enclosing and trapping me and the deadly things together.

There was no way out.

Up above, the storm clouds started raining, as if already mourning my demise.

A/N: Something I may or may not continue.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Prompt: The food did not look good to me.

I swear it started squirming as soon as Jane took it out of the oven. The smell hit me, and it hit me hard: it was like smelly socks dipped in old spinach and baked for an hour. Red, green, blue, and countless other colors mushed around into a nasty swamp green. Half of the blubbering mass was pure liquid, dripping off the plate and solidifying into blobs on the way down. A particularly larger blog managed to divebomb next to me, splattering its remains onto my new pants. The other half of the mass looked as hard as a rock and as porous as a sponge. Ooze, green and probably moldy, seeped out of the cracks.

"Would you like some?" asked Jane with a hopeful look on her face.

"No thanks," I managed to reply.

It was by far the worst hamburger I've ever seen.

Saturday, June 6, 2009


"See," he said, "you're so cool already that even if you wore uncool clothes, you'd still be cool. But with me, I am not cool, so I have to wear cool clothes to feel cool. Capiche?"

The other blinked.

"See? What did I tell you? Not cool!"

Author's note: I do not know what this will be for. It's just dialogue I'm writing down so I don't forget it.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009


I'm experimenting a little with this format.

staring up at the sky right now, ow it hurts so badly--can hardly breathe. mommy? can you hear me? course you can't, that's silly. but mommy, it hurts so much. mommy, today i want to a party, even though you told me not to. mommy, i'm so sorry. i'll never do it again. they drank alcohol--i didn't, aren't you proud of me?--but on the way home, mommy, they went out of control and--

it hurts so much! i can't see 'cause the tears are clouding my eyes--why was it me? why didn't it have to be me? i'm not ready to die! i'm only 16!

it's so numb now. my eyes are open but all i see--all i want to see--is you. come quickly, please! stop this pain! it's so bad--

... no, not so bad now. come quickly, mommy. i promise i'll never do it again.



Tuesday, May 26, 2009

I've been tagged!

I've gotten an award from the awesome Steph Bowe!

1. Mention the person who nominated you.
2. List six unimportant things that make you happy.
3. Tag six blogs, state the rules & notify them with a teeny comment on their blog.

1. watching the rain
2. reading
3. thanks
4. appreciation
5. sugar
6. quiet days

OK! I'm tagging...
Dahlia, Readergirl, Liyana, Bravechickens, and Steph.
Yes, I can count, and I know that's only five, but those are the only ones I know. Like I said... I will give this award out when I actually know more than these. :)

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Blog Award!

The awesome Dahlia of Dahlia's Eclectic Mind gave me the One Lovely Blob award! Thank you so much, Dahlia!
I promise. I'll give this award out to others when I actually know more than two blogs. :)

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Interview: bravechickens

Here's another interview! She isn't a blogger, but hey, that's fine too! Bravechickens is a friend of mine who also writes.

-- BRAVECHICKENS (the human) --

1. Describe your blogger/writer persona in three words.

Random, inquisitive and human (sorry, I didn’t have a third word-look, that rhymes!)

2. If you could be a superhero, what would be your power?

I would say being able to fly! (So even when I’m not saving the world, I can have a bit of fun)

3. If you could get anything in the world for free, what would you get?

How about world peace? Or is that too ambitious...?

4. Do you have a favorite genre you like to write in?

I haven’t actually written anything yet, just short stories, a dialogue, random ‘life’ compositions and poems.

5. What are you favorite books/series?

I’ll only list the series I like because if I get into books the list will never end! Kiki Strike, Roman Mysteries, CHERUB, The Henderson Boys, Alex Rider, Maximum Ride and Thieves Like Us.

6. Do you have a favorite word?

Sometimes I can’t stop saying awesome, or dude, or ‘je ne sais pas’ (but that’s a phrase). And when I’m being sarcastic I tend to say Oh-Em-Gee. I’m going off topic, I think...(sorry).

7. Of all of your works, what is your favorite?

I think it must be a short piece, about half an A4 page on how school can be a bit like a Big Brother society (Orwellian much?).

8. Do you prefer to write your story on the computer or with pencil and paper?

I don’t mind either. But I can’t get the words down fast enough when writing by hand (so it looks really messy), and on the computer I get distracted really easily.

9. How many times do you write every week?

Only when I feel like it.

10. How many times do you blog every week?

Only when I feel like it too!

11. Do you listen to music while you write? If so, what type?

No, not really.

12. When you were younger, did you think you were going to be an author? (Please don't say something like "I always knew I was destined for greatness...")

No. I’m yet to produce any novels. And I never thought I’d ever read, let alone write.

13. What do you do in your spare time?

Read. Go on the Internet. Draw. Sew. Watch TV. Bake.

14. What was or is your favorite subject in school?

Art and business management. But now they have tests in Art too! Nooooo. Can’t they have forensics? I like science too, but at the moment it’s a bit dry.

15. If you could recommend one book only, which one would you recommend?

Kiki Strike series, by Kirsten Miller.

16. What do you do to procrastinate?

Basically, I just read, but last year I used to take out my Atlas and just read it. Did I mention I’m weird?

17. What is the one sentence you've written which you think is pretty darn awesome?

“Powdered maize flakes are yum.”Not exactly the best thing ever, but it’s from a really random piece I’ve written when we had three jumbo cornflake boxes. I know it doesn’t make sense, because I haven’t edited most of my work, and isn’t maize already powdered?

-- --

Thanks a lot, Bravechickens!

Monday, May 18, 2009


The last thing Jordan expected when he sat down and turned on his computer was a black screen with the words "PRESS CTRL-ALT-DELETE TO BEGIN."

"Mom!" he hollered. "What did you do to my computer?"

"I didn't touch your computer! If it's broken, it's your fault!"

Frowning, he stared at the screen, and after a moment pressed ctrl-alt-delete. The computer whirred violently and instead of arriving at the security options screen, more words popped up.

"'Thank you'?" Jordan read skeptically. "What?"

Those words disappeared as quickly as they'd come and were replaced by more. OPERATION 672 PROCESSING... read the screen, with a bar that was halfway full. Jordan stared at his computer and watched as the bar filled up.


The screen blanked out for a moment and then suddenly burst into a million lights. Blinking furiously, Jordan realized that it was a data graph. A very brightly colored data graph. Various dots were scattered over the plot as a general line led from (0,0) to a rough upwards direction. There was no indication of what the graph was about. Neither of the axises were labeled, and there were no words anywhere.

"This is crazy," he muttered, and clicked on a random graph point.

The point where he clicked on expanded, but not into an enlarged part of the graph. Instead, it expanded into the picture of a city--much like what you'd see on Google Earth or some 3D map.

Staring at the screen, Jordan whispered bewilderedly, "What... what is this?"

He tapped the Esc button and the view expanded out to the full view again. "This has to be a joke," muttered Jordan, and clicked on other dots. Like before, other cities popped up in high-tech 3D vision. "Wow..."

"Mom!" he shouted. "Are you sure you didn't do anything?"

"I'm sure!"

"And no one came into my room?"

"Jordan, your father is out and Sandy is at Phoebe's! No one came into your room!"

Jordan stared at his computer. "Then who...?"

Suddenly, one of the dots on the graph (if he read correctly, the one at (1, 3) and the first dot on the line) began blinking in red. He clicked on it, and the screen expanded to a city.

Jordan's heart stopped. "That's my city," he whispered.


Is this the start of a new story? I need to edit it, though...

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

Interview: Steph Bowe

Pop quiz time! What, your teachers say the Internet rots your brains? Not this blog! Here it is:
1. What is your favorite genre to write in?
2. What is your favorite word?
3. Describe your writer/blogger persona in three words.

Hold it! Thanks to the great Steph Bowe, you don't have to do it.

She does it for you.

Steph Bowe (Hey, Teenager of the Year) is a blogger who, if you don't know her already, you should know. She's full of awesomeness. Here's an interview which I hastily wrote and she answered. Thanks, Steph.

-- STEPH BOWE (of Awesomeness) --

1. Describe your blogger/writer persona in three words.

Curious, quaint, sleepwalker.

2. If you could be a superhero, what would be your power?

I would have control over electricity. I would be an evil superhero, and I would run around zapping people and seeking world domination.

3. If you could get anything in the world for free, what would you get?

Um, a publishing contract? No, some things are better earned. I'd like to be able to go shopping for clothes and not have to worry about running out of money.

4. Do you have a favorite genre you like to write in?

I write YA contemporary. Sometimes romance creeps in, but I go and bury it in the garden before it does anything cheesy.

5. What are you favorite books/series?

At the moment, The Reformed Vampire Support Group by Catherine Jinks, Pink by Lili Wilkinson and Everything Beautiful by Simmone Howell. These change on a monthly basis though.

6. Do you have a favorite word?

Kitsch. It's in the subtitle of my blog. I've been saying it since Grade Six. Everyone who knows me in the real world is sick of it.

7. Of all of your works, what is your favorite?

The one I'm working on right now. I love the characters. They're all so twisted.

8. Do you prefer to write your story on the computer or with pencil and paper?

Computer. I can type very quickly, but my hand can't keep up with my thoughts.

9. How many times do you write every week?

Every night. Whenever I have a spare second.

10. How many times do you blog every week?

I'll get on the computer and check my emails and read blogs and write stuff for the blog every morning.

11. Do you listen to music while you write? If so, what type?

I like The Killers at the moment. I listen to a lot of genres though - indie, alternative, folk, punk-rock.

12. When you were younger, did you think you were going to be an author? (Please don't say something like "I always knew I was destined for greatness...")

I always knew I was destined for greatness... no, it was just something I always loved. And then last year, I got serious about it. Which is amazing, since I am not a serious person.

13. What do you do in your spare time?

Write. Take photographs. Write. Sleep. Eat bread. I like bread.

14. What was or is your favorite subject in school?

English. Literature. Psychology. Love all those.

15. If you could recommend one book only, which one would you recommend and why?

Pink by Lili Wilkinson, because Wikipedia references are awesome!

16. What do you do to procrastinate?

I procrastibake. I make muffins and things. I also keep on refreshing my emails to see if anyone has emailed me. They usually haven't.

17. What is the one sentence you've written which you think is pretty darn awesome?

I don't want to write it because I think you'll steal it...
Okay, I was doing rewrites last night, and I found this line, which I thought was funny: "Alright then. But we're staying in well-lit areas with lots of people. I don't want my mutilated corpse getting dredged out of the Yarra."
(The Yarra is a river in Melbourne). Not exactly an example of my finest work, but I like it.

18. What is one character you've created which you think is pretty darn awesome?

Gracie Dove. She is made of awesome. No, every character of mine is fabulous. I love them all.

-- --

Steph is great. Head on over to her blog if you haven't already. It's pretty neat.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Savor the Moment

Alternate title: I try my hand at poetry and fail miserably. Free verse, of course, because I can't rhyme to save my life.
Impromptu, of sorts.

Stand on a hill, face the east

Wind in my face

Can't you smell the air?

So fresh, so clean

Natural refreshment

Wash over my body

Breath it in, will you?

Savor the moment...

Notes: Like I said. I failed.

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

Prompt: The Secret of Immortality

Taken from another line from the Adopt a Line thread from the NaNoWriMo forums. Seriously, that place is great. All of the Adoption threads are great. Who needs prompts when you have the NaNoWriMo forums?

Prompt: The Secret of Immortality
Being concepted and written as I type now.
Bad writing, I know. Yes, very bad.
Something to note: I was on sugar high when I wrote this. You can tell.

The Heroes, our princely Thyan (who did not yet know he was a prince, as in all fairytale cliches) and our lovely Princess Meridian, raced down the hall. Thyan and his friend, Gilbert, had split up to search for the lovely Meridian, who had been in captivity for three weeks already. Thyan had managed to find her and some guards, who were no match for his awesome Hero Strength, and made quick work of them.

Now, all they needed to find was Gil... and Dr. Black, the most black-hearted of all black-hearted villains who wore clothes as black as their hearts!

Thyan and Meridian (well, really only Thyan because Meridian stood back, staring dazedly at her savior like a fangirl) broke open the lock on the door and burst into the Inner Chamber, where All Things Bad and Wicked were plotted.

But what a surprise that they happened to lay their eyes on! Gil was standing over Dr. Black's body, clutching a spherical object in his arms. A dark shadow was over his face--he had turned Evil! "I have found the secret to Immortality!" he shouted. And then added: "And no! I'm not sharing!"

Thyan and Meridian slapped their hands to their faces IN COMPLETE UNISON because they're obviously meant to be together for the rest of their lives. "Gil..." groaned Thyan.

"What?" Gil demanded. "What?!"

They sighed melodramatically. "Gil," Thyan said, pulling out a stapled package of papers and tossing it at him.

The Good Turned Evil Gil blinked. "Huh?" he asked, like the eloquent villain he is.

"Read the script every once in a while, will you?"

And with that, Thyan and Meridian left the confuzzled Gil to the Dr. Black doll, the Palantir/black ballon, and his script.


Notes: ... Like I said. Sugar rush.

Prompt: Villain!

Haven't done one of these in a while. OK. Let's get this started.

Prompt: Villain!
Being written here as I type.

The Hero Archibald the Magnificent threw open the castle doors with his Super Strength. "You villain!" he cried into the huge laboratory, which stank distinctly of atrocious acids and slipshod materials, no doubt from the most black-hearted of manufacturers. A man was on the far side of the wall, facing away from the Hero of Light and All That Goodness. "You wicked person! What dastardly deeds are you planning from your evil heart? What malicious plots are you hatching in your twisted mind? Tell me!"

The Doctor of Villainous Experts turned around, holding a mug. "Well..." he said, "at the moment I'm making some coffee."

From a Adopt a Line from the NaNoWriMo forums.

Sunday, April 26, 2009


September 3rd.
That darn Kendall. He's completely won over all of the detectives in Riverside County, I'd say! Strutting around like he's the top of the world. Darn him! It's not like he's better than me. I'm better than him! I solved that last case about the stolen rubies, and he just tagged along, but guess who got the fame? Stupid Scott Kendall did! Can't believe that jerk.
Sometimes, I wish he would just get out of here--or better yet, die.
the true Best High School Detective,
Denver Chris.


(Please come, the bloodied letter reads; I live at a small house out of the way of society, but recently I've been getting death threats. I also can't shake the feeling that someone's stalking me—)

the policeman says. We're found the body, along with others, aside a river—)

As soon as he enters the scene, fifteen-year-old Detective Denver Chris knows something isn't right. The light is off at the dilapidated shack and it's silent—too silent, he thinks in alarm—but that doesn't stop his feet from mechanically walking towards it. He's a detective, he tells himself. And he's flanked by ten-plus policemen. It's ridiculous to think that something would happen to him at this moment.

(Heart thuds; ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.)

The garden, which completely encompasses the whole of the front yard, shows signs of long-term neglect; and that analytical mind of his begins to barrage his thoughts with questions. Why is it so unkept? Why is the front door's doorknob broken? Is there a meaning in the odd scratches on the walls?

He needs answers, and those answers, he thinks, will undoubtedly be in the shack.

So he advances towards the door; but about a step away from the door he suddenly freezes.

(Someone's watching him with cold, silently infuriated eyes, and his back stiffens as a roving gaze pierces it.)

Chris doesn't respond when a policeman asks him what's the matter, and he thinks bitingly, They must be senseless if they can't feel what I'm feeling!

Swallowing his fear, he pushes open the wooden door and immediately thrusts his flashlight out. The light won't stop that watcher from staring at him, he knows; but that false comfort will somehow calm his nerves, won't it?

Up goes the light; down; to the side, into the corner, up at the beams, and he can't find anything. Nothing is there.

But he still can't stop the sweat from crawling down his neck, and that nervous feeling that something horrible is going to happen.

(Room closing in. Is this claustrophobia? Or is it something else?)

He whips around as a policeman taps his shoulder—What are you doing, murderer! are his first thoughts that flash into his mind, but as he sees the startled man Chris forces himself to calm down.

Detective Scott Kendall's here, the man says, and Chris is at first confused—why would Kendall be here, he didn't need to come, I had it all covered, rang his pride—and then he is reluctant, and begrudging. Kendall is here, his sense says, and he'll figure this puzzle out.

Still, he thinks. I wish he weren't here.



How does it look?

I don't know. I haven't gone in yet.

You haven't gone in yet? That's strange, from you.

(Not so strange, Kendall.)

Let's do this, shall we?

Kendall walks past Chris—how can he stand this pressure? Chris asks himself in awe, before then responding to himself, he's Kendall, he doesn't even feel these sorts of things, that insensitive showoff—and stops for a split second at the door. Then, without pause, Kendall pushes the door open with no hesitation whatsoever.

It's dark inside. Just like the growing feeling inside Chris's own chest.

(Can't breathe, can you? the voice mocks.)

Almost unconsciously Chris' feet work themselves, leading him behind the other detective. His mind is confused; out-of-sorts; bewildered; and he can't observe anything. Father has always told him what to look for at crime scenes, but here, he can't remember anything. A wooden pike, a staple in the wrong place, marked dirt—what of it?

Kendall is musing out loud as the policemen behind both of them flash their lights inside, looking for something suspicious, anything suspicious—out-of-order, whatever! But Chris pays no attention. By now, he is literally shaking with fear—this heavy feeling, this is fear? I never knew it so well before—

A policeman gives a shout, and nearly drops his flashlight in the process. A lump of clothes—how could he have missed that—is moving violently, and a shriveled, sere, bloodstained hand pokes out, and a dark silhouette erupts from the clothes and rushes at them.

Chris can't do much besides stare, horrified, at the man, and in a flash, he feels the breath knocked out of him as someone hits him and—

Ouch, the ground, but no, there isn't time to think of that—!

He rises as fast as he'd fallen and rushes at the attacker, first grasping for the shining knife in the murderer's right hand and then the left hand—but no, he's too late, the man's left hand has already punched his face, and Chris sees stars.

He sees red, too, as a pain erupts furiously in his lower left abdomen, and with bleary eyes he glances down and is strangely unsurprised to see blood gushing out of the wound.

Kendall gives a cry, but Chris isn't quite sure if he heard it or not; all of his senses are strangely blurring.

(Locked in a fantasy)

Time doesn't go quite as fast as he wants it to; the scene seems to slow down, and Chris watches silently as the murderer first tears open a policeman's stomach with his knife, and then another. Kendall—

No, he wants to shout, Kendall! Don't go there! He'll kill you!

(Room closing in)

Kendall is fighting with the man better than he did. He's struggling, and fighting literally for his life—and yes, he's got the upper hand, he's grabbed onto the hand with the knife and backed the murderer against a wooden pillar—

Stop him, Kendall! Denver Chris hears himself scream—but no, in reality (is that even something he can say anymore, when he barely knows what it is?) he just whispers.

He feels the air suddenly disappear when a rapidly growing crimson stain appears on the back of Kendall's shirt.

(Can't breathe, can't think)

Kendall, he croaks, as the teenager slumps and collapses beside him. The boy's eyes are glassy and dilated, with the mixed expression of determined and horrified on his face.

He's dead, Denver thinks, and after a moment, he fully realizes what he's thinking.

He's dead.

He's dead, he's dead, he died, he's dead—

And he'd done nothing to stop it.

(So this is the limit of the great High School Detective of Riverside? the voice sneers.)

Can't be real, right? Chris hopes, and tries to breathe but fails.

The air is still, and Chris knows he should be thinking, the ten policemen with me, are they also dead? Is the murderer still there?

But no, all he can think is Kendall.

Kendall is dead.

(He's failed Kendall, hasn't he? As a rival, as a classmate, as a--friend?)

The glassy eyes stare back at him, and he feels a warm liquid collecting at the edges of his eyes. His vision is blurry, again.

But not from dizziness.


The tears slide down his face—no, vertically, he's lying on his side, after all—as the blank gaze stares at him back.

But all Chris sees is the dark red stain growing on Kendall's back, and the metal piercing through his back.

(Just keeps repeating and repeating and repeating and repeating and—)

Can this be happening?

It can't be, right?

Because Kendall—Scott Kendall—is invincible, isn't he?

Isn't he?

Chris thinks that his former thoughts were the thoughts of a naïve child.

(In the end, aren't I only one person?)


Denver Chris wakes up, sweating and panting like he's never done before, bends over, and tries very hard not to remember.

(Let's do this, shall we?)

I won Script Frenzy!

After a month of craziness, I finally got to 100 pages of script. Yay! It's a strange plot with strange writing, but it's what I accomplished, right?

I will most likely never use my script, ever. It's not even finished... but whatever. :)

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Since I'm bored, I've decided to go into book reviewing. (Well, I also want more followers...) I'll state off right away that these are only my opinions and I am by no means an author or expert... I'll just give you my thoughts.

Here's one of my favorite books, Fahrenheit 451. Yes, I know it's a heavy book, but it's also very powerful. I've stated a couple of times that it's my favorite book, and to my surprise many adults have said that they haven't read it. They really should--this is an amazing book not only for its plot but also for its writing.

The system was simple. Everyone understood it. Books were for burning, along with the houses in which they were hidden. Guy Montag was a fireman whose job it was to start fires. And he enjoyed his job. He had been a fireman for ten years, and had never questioned the pleasure of the midnight runs nor the joy of watching pages consumed by flames... never questioned anything until he met a seventeen-year-old girl who told him of a past when people were not afraid. Then Guy met a professor who told him of a future in which people could think. And Guy Montag suddenly realized what he had to do...
Taken off the back of my edition, since they summarize it better than I can.

In a futuristic world, books are banned, period. (Gasp!) Everyone's reasons are different: they contradict each other too much, lead others to do bad things... whatever. But the real reason, as you might have guessed, is knowledge. In this world, people don't think for themselves--they have the media for that. The media feeds them junk and turns their brains to mush. Everyone is more engrossed in soap operas and stories than they are in their own lives.

I love the underlying theme of this book, just as other bibliophiles might: books, and knowledge, are valuable. They let others think for themselves. They keep us questioning. They keep us active. Books are valuable. Knowledge is valuable. And most of all--and I know some of you might protest--is the media. Honestly? I don't watch the media or listen to the radio that much. Reason? They are opinions. I'm not trying to say that the world is better off without TV, but if you get too immersed in that soap opera or drama, you learn to neglect your own life and independent thinking. A show, depending on how it's written, can portray something as good or bad. Take speeding for instance. A show might show dozens of kids speeding on the highway at 100 mph, and they all get away fine. Then that starts you thinking: "Why am I not supposed to speed? I can get away with it."

Not that TV is bad, but it is not real life. You're smart, I'm sure you know that. If you're not in control, something else is controlling you. Drugs. TV. Drama. Smoking. Whatever. In Fahrenheit 451, the media. Guy had never questioned anything before that girl met him. You get the point, right?

... Wow, that just turned into a sermon. Sorry about that. I tend to ramble on. So ANYWAY. Fahrenheit 451 is a great read about censorship and thinking, and I definitely suggest putting it on your next "Book to read" list.

Next time? Not so heavy. :)


Wow... I did not at all expect to get TWO awards from the awesome Steph from Hey, Teenager of the Year! I think I will be in a daze for the rest of the day.

The Let's Be Friends award...

And the One Lovely Blog award!

Sweet. Seriously sweet. Heh. That makes me want to create an award and give it out to people :D

Thursday, April 23, 2009


Hey all. No, this isn't a piece of writing, and I'm sorry! It's actually an ad. Basically.

Steph Bowe--not sure if you know her, and if you don't, you should--has started a Young Adult's Book Blog Award thing. Check it out here. It's pretty awesome. Go nominate your favorite book blogs!

And of course, check out Steph's awesome blogs--Hey, Teenager of the Year and Sweethearts--which I have linked on the side.

But if you're too lazy, here's the links.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

The Horror of Dentists

Alternative name: Fear and Dentists
Something I wrote back on '07, and it's only edited slightly... but I think it's very entertaining. Hope you think the same.

I don't know if anyone likes to have dentist appointments. Something--I can't pinpoint exactly--causes dentist appointments to seem scary and unforgiving to those who did not remember to brush their teeth prior to the appointment; and even to those who did, planting doubts in their minds as to if they missed brushing a tooth or section. Perhaps it's the intimidating tools used to drill into cavities and poke at your gums. Or perhaps it's the dentists leering over you, staring at you(or more accurately, your mouth) with wide eyes behind large spectacles and half of their face covered by a clean, stiff mask. Either way, they seem inhuman and strange. And I wonder--as I stare into their alien faces--if they know what they look like themselves.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Prompt: Like most things, it started with a boy.

Wow. I'm honestly very disappointed in myself. I haven't updated this for such a long time! I think I've updated Twitter more than this. Definitely.

Anyway. Let's try this again.

Below is a piece of writing that as of right now I don't know what's going to be about. I'm going to go on the NaNo forums and go to the "Adopt an Opening Line" thread. I'll go to page 9 and then pick one of the first three I like. Sounds good? Okay. Let's get started.

--S/he had always know that if there were ever to be a day that s/he died, it would be a Monday.
--Like most things, it started with a boy/girl.
--MC had prided her/himself in never being surprised at what the world threw at her/him, and always took things in stride. Needless to say, finding a dead man in her closet was not what she had expected that Saturday morning.

Okay. Not the best of choices... but that's what impromptus are, right? Be imaginative.

I'll pick the second, I guess. Romance, of all things. What is wrong with me? >.>


Like most things, it started with a boy, in a cliched beginning.

On Monday morning in Class 3-A of Emery Middle School, there was a high-pitched shriek from Olivia, debatably one of the most popular and spoiled girls in the whole school.

"Oh my gosh--Oh my gosh!--OH-MY-GOSH!" she screamed in three successive bursts, waving her hands like a hyper and unnaturally excited little girl. Which she was.

Kalena, the strong and moderately-beautiful protagonist of this story, asked, "What is it?" politely to keep Olivia from dying from lack of breath... or her fist of doom.

"The Reilly Brothers are coming here! HERE! TODAY!" she screamed, and faked passing out in excitement.

"The Reilly Brothers? Who are they?" Kalena asked a random person behind her.

Unfortunately, it happened to be a girl, and a crazy fan girl at that. "They're just the greatest and coolest and awesomest singers EVER!" she shrieked, and proceeded to promptly give a sigh of wishful thinking.

"Ah," said Kalena, but not really understanding. "So they're coming to our school? So what?"

Olivia, noticing that she had been ignored when she'd dramatically fainted, sat up and answered. "They're only the biggest celebrities in like, the WORLD, Kalena. Where have you been these last ten years?" she snickered.

"Not in the gutter," Kalena muttered as she sat down.

Thankfully Olivia did not hear and so did not respond one of her girly-girl, excited, angry, or downright hysterical responses. The teacher then took his cue to start the class. After all, who could speak over Olivia's screeching fangirl-isms?

"Now then," the teacher said slowly, as if preparing for an outburst of screams. "We were going to have some transfer students--"

Olivia, who obviously heard only the words 'we,' 'transfer,' and 'students,' screeched, "Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, are they HERE yet?!" and proceeded to flip out a mirror and prune herself for the arrival of the singers.

"We-ell..." the teacher trailed off reluctantly.

"You said 'were'?" Kalena asked, raising her hand.

"Yes... They decided last-minute that they couldn't afford to take a side trip to our school and--"

In that instant three quarters of the girls in the class started to bawl.

"Why? Why? WHY?" cried Olivia, faking a sorrowful death from the news.

The teacher coughed to get everyone's attention. "Well, I'm sorry they aren't coming, but I think you'll be happy to hear that instead of the Riley Brothers, there will be another music group that will be coming, KJ49--"

As if on cue, another tremendous scream from the girls sounded, and Kalena was amazed the windows didn't shatter.

"Aren't you amazed, Kalena?" her friend asked her.

"Who are KJ49?" she responded.

Her friend excitedly proceeded then to describe this awesome band that was so "in" these days and how they'd reached the Top 20 CDs of 2009 and everything else absolutely possible.

Meanwhile Kalena's hands slipped into her desk and crumpled two letters for her with the return addresses "Riley" and "KJ49" on them...

This is why I don't write girly-girl romances...

Monday, March 23, 2009

Script Frenzy

Script Frenzy's in only 8 days! I'm really excited. I've done neither Screnzy or NaNo, so I'll cross my fingers and hope I can get it on the first try. But I have CeltX, so 100 pages may not be so far after all. I just have to remember to keep writing. Even if what I write becomes sloppy and/or trash.

Write first. Edit later.

My script's logline:
A very ordinary mailman finds himself in a tough job: delivering mail to a road of ritzy and generally psychotic villains.

Yep. Should be a fun, crazy, stressful April.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Fanfiction bit - Naruto

“So they tell me you’re my brother,” Itachi says conversationally.

Sasuke grunts. He wishes he weren’t.

There is an uncomfortable, pregnant pause. Neither of them knows what to say. In Konohagakure’s prison, there is all the time in the world and enough words to fill none of it. Of all the fifteen cells, only two are occupied, but both of them contain Uchihas, and that is more than enough reason for the rest to be empty.

They are on opposite sides of the hallway, a few cells laterally from each other, but neither can see the other, as their precious Sharingan eyes have been blinded thoroughly.

It doesn’t make much of a difference. For Itachi, his vision has waned and even now he can hardly see the darkness from his blindfold. For Sasuke, his eyes will soon no longer be his but his sannin mentor’s, and he tells himself he had better get used to the darkness. After all, the back of his mind is dark, and once Orochimaru takes over his mind that is where he will be for the rest of his life.

Sasuke dwells on this fact. In that way, both he and Itachi will lose, and he doesn’t know if that is good or bad.

“They also say you’re trying to kill me.” Itachi speaks as if stating a fact, but there is a subtle hint of confusion in his words.

He grunts again. “That’s right,” he says without a second thought.

“Aa,” says the amnesiac Itachi.

Silence again reigns the prison, echoing against the dark, damp walls. Sasuke’s glad for that. He feels uncomfortable talking to Itachi. It is hardly desirable for him to talk with the man who murdered his clan, even if that man didn’t remember any of it.

But Itachi speaks again. “What did I do?” he asks.

“What did I do?” asks the murderer. How laughable, Sasuke thinks scornfully. He remains silent, because he knows that if he gets started, he might not be unable to stop until Itachi is dead. That isn’t bad, but the chances of Konoha shinobi arriving before he can do that is high, and he would certainly be put in another cell, away from Itachi, and his chances of killing him then would diminish.

Something I wrote a while ago. Naruto fanfiction. Unfinished. Yeah. Sorry 'bout that.

Sunday, March 1, 2009


"I try to tell them about you."

He laughs--a refreshing laugh that rings long in her ears. "I know," he says.

"They don't believe me."

"I know that, too."

"You are... very observant, are you not?" She struggles to find the right words.

His so very blue eyes, as varying as the ever-changing colors of the Northern Light and as deep indeed as Tartarus itself, sparkle mysteriously. "You can say that."

"How is it so? I do not see you in the daytime. Only here, at night, can I see you."

"I am not visible to them," he replies. "Only to you."

She tries to understand, but finds that it is a futile effort and stops. "I want everyone to see you. To see how great and amazing you are."

A sudden melancholy blankness lights in his so very blue eyes that indeed can look through her own soul, but it disappears in a second. "I am not as great and amazing as you say!" he laughs. Then he sobers. "I fear, Sonya, that I will not be able to stay here any longer."

"Why not?" She asks, alarmed.

"You are growing up, Sonya," he says with a fond smile. "Soon you shall not need me."

"I shall always need you!" she cries, but oh, that spiteful doubting voice speaks its protests!

His oh so very beautiful eyes dull to near greyness, and his very body begins to fade. "Sonya..." Even his voice has begun to wilter. "I hope that you may always remember me, my dear one. I'm sorry. I love you. Good-bye, my dearest Sonya."

The words do not come as easily anymore. She tries to scream but finds that her voice has left her, just as he has left her--oh, how such a thought disrupts her very mind, her body, her sense! Such a painful yet numb feeling. She feels as though she has lost one of her own limbs.

The tears keep flowing and she can't stop, but she doesn't want to.


He, the boy; she, the girl.

He loves her; she loves him.

She is such a fool.

How can one love a dream?


"We're losing her! Quickly!"

"Hurry! Her blood pressure's rapidly dropping!"

"It's not working! Doctor!"

"Doctor! What shall we do?"

"... Too late, everyone. It's too late..."


I'm calling out to you, my love, so why aren't you answering? Please answer. I'm so lonely here without you...


I do not know what prompted this. Imaginary, for an imaginary friend, I suppose. Ugh. Far too angsty... but whatever...

Friday, February 27, 2009


"The king's son has been detained again."

"Again? Poor man. His son is absolutely wild."

"I feel for him. How will Ruben ever become the heir? I do believe Lord Danaro's son, Logan, is the better choice!"

"I daresay he is. He is smart, courteous, generous, and humble - and much more well-behaved than his friend is!"

"Is it not strange how good friends they are? I doubt I've ever seen one without the other!"

"Yes, I heard from Ruben's old nanny, a friend of mine, that he and Logan used to get together every day since they met each other. They may still get together every day now, but I doubt that. Logan has become busier ever since he started advising others."

"He is so kind. And additionally, I do hear that the king has appointed Logan as his advisor. What an honor!"

"Yes, it is amazing! He is the youngest advisor in the history of Alvaria!"

"Oh, I want my daughter Celestia to marry him so much, but it is impossible, seeing as he is so desperately in love with Princess Maya!"

"Ahh, but is she not the sweetest girl you have ever laid eyes on?"

"She is! I do not think I have seen a girl more upright and sweet than she is!"

"But poor boy. She must not think much of him."

"Does she really? She has never shown affection towards anyone except her father and brother, but Ruben especially."

"They are so close, how sweet. If my daughters were like that, my house would be ever so much more peaceful..."

"Well, if Logan ever does marry her, he may very well become king. And what a fine king he shall make!"

"That he shall. He is so humble, like King Elderen. He came into the village yesterday morning."

"Yes, we greeted him on his way back. Did you talk with him?"

"Yes, but very briefly. I do think he is the gentlest boy I've ever met. My dear Allison fell in love with him at first words!"

"Oh, the poor thing. She'll never have him."


"Well, Logan and Princess Maya may be the happiest couple in the world, if Logan can get us out of this depression, which I think he may be able to do."

"I'm just glad my husband has a steady income and a hefty inheritance. We don't have to worry as others do, but we're still cutting back."

"We must sell our house before the weekend."

"Oh! How dreadful!"

"I agree. It is a horrible fate... I can only imagine what will become of us, unless King Elderen or Logan can get us out of it..."


The prologue to my NaNoWriYe (National Novel Writing Year). Preview. :)

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

The Power of 7

It wasn't until those darn aliens liquidized Ol' Granny and her farm that we seriously thought we should do something about the green lil' pests. They’d destroyed our crops an' cattle an' woods for the fun, an' like the generous folk we were--are, 'scuse me, we let 'em get away with it all. But hoo-boy, Ol' Granny was another matter!

'course, what can one dingy little town do against extra-terrest'ral aliens? That was the question runnin' through our minds, an' we came up with the answer.

So May'r Scottsflick (3 years runnin' seed spittin' winner) says, "Now, y'all see we gotta do somethin' 'bout those critters, an' we're gonna get 'em back real well fer Granny's sake!" He stops for a moment 'cause of the hootin' and hollerin'. Then he clears his throat an continues. "So I say we gotta hire some real, purfesshun'l fighters who'll beat 'em up real bad fer us!"

'Course, motivated by this inspirin' speech, the townsfolk cheered an' hooted so loud I'm amazed the green critters themselves didn't hear from way up there. But Miss Courtney Alabama, as smart as she is purty, says, "So who'll be the fighters?"

Everyone stops hootin' and looks at the mayor to see if he's got any answer. And he does. "I knew y'all would ask that," he says triumphantly. "And I have the answer. These letters I'm holdin' in my hands right now is yer answer." An' he holds up some real prim and proper letters with some fancy script that I reckon' no one but the writer themselves can read.

The mayor says, "Now I myself hadn't opened this yet, so I'll do so now an' we'll all so who our myst'ry fighters are."

Everyone watches very carefully as the mayor opens the letters and reads 'em. His eyes widen an' they look as wide an' round as plates. He clears his throat again and says, "We got seven fighters who'll take this job." Then he frowns and adds, "Well, at least I think they're fighters. 'Cause we got a ninja, an accountant, a pirate, a cook, a musician, a lawyer, an' a schoolkid. Heck, are they takin' us seriously?!" he shouts out loud.

Well, when we hear that, we ain't so happy either. Hootin' and hollerin' and shoutin'. Can't they see we got a serious alien ‘infestation problem here?

But purty Miss Courtney Alabama doesn't shout. She thinks instead. That's the type of girl she is. Then, like the schoolgirl she thinks she still is, she raises her hand and asks, "How much are we payin'?"

After checkin’ the mayor responds, "Nothin', I think.”

Well, we all think, if they're comin' fer free, might as well give 'em a chance.

Hoo-boy, if we had even known what we were gettin' into...


So, even tho’ we ain’t quite so excited ‘bout the fighters comin’, we all step out middle of summer to greet ‘em all. ‘Sides, we’re all curious to see what they all’r lookin’ like.

An’ ‘sides that, all the girls are goin’ googly-eyed ‘bout the ninja and pirate, an’ what they look like, an’ if they like girls or junk like that. I tell ya, nothin’ll come out of those girls.

The seven fighters pull up in the most rugged an’ worn an’ broken cart ever. Heck, I hadn’t seen such an old cart since my aunt’s brother’s friend’s uncle’s niece’s nephew’s godmother’s son came to visit.

Hoo-boy. And they hired ‘emselves out fer free?

The ninja climbs out in his ninja-y fashion and walks to the may’r. Least I think he was the ninja, ‘cause he was dressed in all black cloths and shuri-whatever-they-call-it things. An’ I don’t know how he knew he was talkin’ to the may’r, but he did. Must be one of those ninja-y skill things. What I would give to get that!

He holds out his hand an’ says in an Asian-y accent, “Hello. We here to help out.”

“Er,” May’r Scottsflick says, “Right.” An’ takes his hand.

They shake, but it’s pretty clear tha’ none are ‘customed to shakin’. In our ho-dum lil’ town of Mossvile, every person knows every other person, an’ we ain’t got any visitors, so May’r Scottsflick never shakes. An’ I doubt the ninja ever shakes.

The rest of the seven come on out and sure ‘nuff, there is a pirate, looking big an’ tall an’ everythin’ we ‘spected; an accountant, lookin’ pretty accountant-y; a schoolkid, lookin’ like he’s the best in the world an’ only ten years old; a lawyer, lookin’ through his briefcase and mutterin’ to himself; a cook, carryin’ a pot large ‘nuff to hold half the town; and a musician, who looks just like tha’ lawyer, ‘cept he has a twirly moustache. Quite a group, but we’re all thinkin’ that only the pirate and the ninja would be able to fight. ‘course, with that huge pot of his, the cook might be able to do some damage, too.

“I introduce us,” the ninja says. “I Mashimoto Matsumoto. The pirate Pete Smokey. The accountant Nile Morton. The child Jason Mitchell. The lawyer George Smith. The cook Mooky. The musician Andre Vasolinni. We fight for you. We good fighters. We help out against aliens. For money we fight.”

“Fer money?” the may’r and half of the people splutter.

“For one day, a hundred forty dollars. Twenty dollars each,” the ninja says calmly.

Now if that ain’t a ripoff, I don’t know what is. “We ain’t got that much money!” the may’r says.

“We give you one day free. After that pay by half day. Discount ten percent from regular price.”

“Now hold on. When I say we ain’t got that much money, we mean it. If you are thinkin’ of cheatin’ us, we ain’t gonna buy it! We’re poor folk. All most of us got are a couple dollars and the possessions we own. A hundred forty ain’t reasonable for a day!”

“A couple dollars, put together, can equal much,” the ninja says.

“Oh, come on! We ain’t gonna give you anything. Git outta here!” the mayor waves them away.

“Wait,” Miss Courtney Alabama says. “Maybe we should give ‘em a day, ‘cause it is free, and then we’ll see whether they’re worth it or not.”

Now, the mayor, he ain’t an old man. He’s a pretty young guy, barely into his thirties, and all of us know he’s got this tremendous crush on pretty Miss Courtney Alabama, so he’ll always follow her suggestions. Even if they ain’t all right (like the time with the tractor and that old mare). But this time, her suggestions seem all right.

“Okay then,” the mayor says. “We got a one-day deal. After that day, we’ll see if y’all worth what y’all charge.”

The ninja bows all polite-like an’ says, “Thank you.”

‘course, we were all thinkin’ that maybe there wouldn’t be any alien attacks the next day (‘cause we hadn’t had any for more than a month), and then what? A waste of a free day, that’s what! Then of course they wouldn’t hire ‘em fighters.

But as—what would those civilized folk say?—Murphy’s Law would have it all, there would be no sleepin’ that night.


It is precisely three o’clock in the mornin’ when we all hear the explosion. Tho’ we ain’t too glad about the untimely wake-up call, we all rush outside to see what damage now. The green critters are obnoxious little pests.

‘Course the seven fighters all got into action. Least the ninja and pirate did. Can’t say much for the accountant and lawyer, who are both uselessly typin’ away on those newfangled computer machines. The cook is cookin’ some sorta soup, and the musician took out his violin and is playin’ some sorta sonata or sonata-opus-whatever. An’ the kid is still sleepin’, imagine that!

Well, at least two of the seven are workin’. The ninja is doin’ some ninja-y stuff and whatever, and the pirate’s doin’ some pirate-y stuff and whatever. ‘Can’t describe much, ‘cause bleary-eyed-ness ain’t such a good state to be observin’ in. So we watch them do their stuff.

Suddenly, the ninja whips out a pistol and starts shootin’ like crazy. Ain’t that the strangest thing? A ninja using a modern pistol like he’s willin’ to stop bein’ so traditional and whatever.

None of the townspeople are fightin’, thank goodness. All of us are like family, and no one wants to see their neighbor bein’ shot to death by those lasers or big guns or slime.

‘Course, if the ninja or pirate or whatever they call themselves die, we can’t care less about them, right? At least we won’t have to pay.

So we’re watchin’ the ninja (Mishamatsu, was’n that his name?) and the pirate (Pete Smokey, that one’s easy to ‘member), and we haf’ta say that we’re actually kinda impressed. Can’t say that we’re wowed, but the two are pretty darn good. At least they haven’t died yet, an’ that’s a ‘complishment in itself, ain’t it?

Suddenly, the aliens aren’t there anymore. We look up, and there aren’t anymore green little blobs anymore. Heck, either the aliens left, or there ain’t any more of them to fight—neither which have happened before!

Guess those fighters aren’t as bad as they seem.

“You like our work?” the ninja says as he and his pirate-y friend return from their alien invasion slaughterin’ work. “You pay for another day?”

Mayor Scottsflick thinks for quite some time. Then, Miss Courtney Alabama, without knowin’ the consequences, says, “Well, they’re pretty good, aren’t they?”

And that seals the deal. “Sure,” the mayor says. And they shake on it.

But all of us shake our heads an’ think of the money we’re losin’…


Something I thought up. And I can't tell whether it turned out well or not...

Prompt: Art

His name was Art, Art Goldstein, but he hated art. It wasn't for the love of the... well, art, that made his parents name him such, but rather the love of some distant uncle. Besides, who wanted to see some boring old paintings in a museum? You've seen 'em once, you've seen 'em all. Wasn't that what the saying was?

To be finished at a later date.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Prompt: Formidable

She was quite the formidable opponent, Jason thought with grudging respect.

“Giving up yet?” Erin taunted.

“Not a chance,” he muttered, and bent down.

“You can’t make that,” she said.

“Yes, I can. And you’ll see.”

“I don’t think so. No one could.”

“I can, and I will.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’d have to ricochet off of the side!”

“I know.”

“No way,” she said.

“Just see.” He bent down and made his shot, as quickly and smoothly as ever.

The black 8-ball slowly rolled into a corner pocket. Erin stood there agape.

Jason nodded. “Told ya,” he said.

Victory was sweet.

Prompt: Apple

She bit into the apple. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” she said, “but that really depends on whether you want to see the doctor or not.”

“True,” he agreed. “So, do you?”

“We-ell,” she said slowly, “I guess I don’t mind.”


She paused, took another bite of the apple, and chewed methodically. “Yeah, why not?” she answered finally.

“That’s good,” he said, “because I like seeing you.”

There was a long stretch of silence, and then:

“… Say, do you want to see a movie Friday night at seven?”

“… Sure.”

Prompt: Clandestine

Is this love?

This clandestine, hush-hush relationship?

You tell me I shouldn’t speak of it to others. Why not? Is our love that forbidden?

I can’t think why. It’s so strange of you to request something like this… but I’ll trust you for now.

You say that I can’t speak of it to others. You say that if I do, you’ll be very angry. You say that it will hurt both of us. Why?

I don’t want to be kept in the dark. I want to know, Love. Why can’t I?

It makes me wonder whether this is love or not.

Prompt: Handrail

Dear Love:

It’s February 14, Valentine’s Day. Do you remember this day? I’ll remember it forever. It was the day we met. You, the cheerleader, the smart and popular girl at school, and me, the quarterback on the varsity football team. It seemed like the perfect match made in Heaven.

I thought so, too. But that was before I met you. I told you that, on Valentine’s Day, remember? And you turned me down. It was the first time I had a taste of disdain from the girl I liked, and you know? That was probably the best thing that happened to me in my life. I’d never had a good chance to mature—truly mature, on suffering and defeat, which you handed to me on a bronze platter—so it was good that you pushed me down. It was good that you told me plainly and clearly, “I don’t like you.” It was good that you told me that my B+ average just wouldn’t cut it. And it was good that you walked away from me.

Because of your words, I improved. I worked hard to impress you, and when it didn’t, I told myself, “I’ve got to work harder.” My standards rose; every day I played football as if it was my last day on earth, and I learned to accomplish my goals that I had set. It was due to you, my dear Loranne, that I rose to the top.

I learned to set goals, and I learned to have enough discipline to accomplish them. I learned to read actively, write well (better than my incomprehensible B- writing), and I learned to play the best football I could; because I knew that every time you passed the field, you’d glance quickly and almost invisibly—but I saw you, because I’d always see you when you walked by. You could say that through this all, my love for you increased.

It was half a year later when I asked you again. I said, “Loranne, I’m not the same person I used to be. I’ve improved. My average is As to A+s now, and discovered that I actually like science, and that I can play football better than I knew before, and—“

And do you remember what you said? You said, “I know.”

We became boyfriend and girlfriend that day. I wasn’t trying to impress you from then on; I’d also learned that if you want the way to a girl’s heart, you have to first impress them, and then love them.

I spent hours upon hours thinking of you. I can remember the many times where a sheet of homework took an hour to finish, because my mind was always on a certain someone. My friends complained that I never spent any time with them, because I was always either thinking of you or on a date with you. We dated a lot.

High school years came and went, and I learned that we had been admitted into two different but top schools. It was a bittersweet time for me: you and I would be separated, but we would also be able to pursue our individual interests. For me, science. For you, writing. But we stayed in touch a lot, remember? I think I must have written ten letters the first week of college. All to you. I don’t remember sending them all, but you knew how much I missed you anyway. You sent me a letter, a single letter which I’ll cherish forever, and it wasn’t long but what was unsaid spoke more to me than your words. “I miss you”, right? We both missed each other.

And then I got that letter.

Middle of my sophmore year, I received a letter informing me of your death. It was the worst letter I've ever gotten. I remember opening it with eagerness, because almost all of my letters came from you, but instead of your neat, tiny handwriting, I saw a typed letter with cold, detached words which said that you--you, Loranne--were dead. At first I didn't believe it, but as I continued to read, I realized that this was no joke. Apparently some drunk driver had crashed into your car, and you and some of your friends careened off of the side of the road and into a gorge on the side. It was then that I began to cry hysterically.

I didn't sleep that night, nor the next few days. For the next week, I drifted through life, still reeling from the shock, and quickly declined. I can't even express how devastated I felt. That news shattered my heart into a thousand pieces of ice, and I numbly watched days go by from behind a glass window. My grades fell. I stopped playing football. And I rarely smiled.

It wasn't until some friends convinced me to move on with my life that I began to live again. But I'm still not fully recovered, you know? Hadn't we been each others' handrails? Supporting the other when we stumbled? Why did you have to die, then? What would be my life, then? You were my life, my whole being! How am I supposed to move on without you?

I still don't know the answers to those questions. You've always been my handrail--supporting me when I was weak. And I've tried to be yours. You know how much I love you.

I guess that just, your grip wasn't tight enough...


Prompt: Spy

"Well... the plan would have worked if that rebel hadn't spotted us."

"Excuse me? Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"... I just thought that maybe you might feel comforted--"

"Yeah, right. Look at us! We're prisoners stuck in the middle of Rebel Fortress, surrounded with no hope of escape, and guaranteed a most painful death. Now how exactly will you make me feel comforted?"

"... Well, if you really want to be that pessimistic... I mean, if you just look outside, you know, it looks kinda nice with the trees and the sunset and the--"

"Prison guards?"

"... That too."

"I say we need to bust outta here. Whaddya say?"


"Don't be such a wimp! If we don't try, we'll never make it out."

"Well... okay."

"That's the spirit. Come on."

Clatter. Clank. "Huh--?" Bonk. Guard goes down.

"Now, let's keep going."



"They spotted us! Run! Run!"

"They're catching up to us! I can't--"

"Keep goin'--"


"... Well... they have pretty good meatballs here."

"Shut up!"

Written using Write or Die in about 7 minutes. It's a bit messy. I don't know if I'll go back to this later or not.

Prompt: Friday the 13th

"Excuse me. Are you superstitious?"

"Huh?" Jenna whirled around and found, much to her surprise, a normal elementary kid.

"I said, are you superstitious?" The girl repeated.

"No," Jenna answered as if it was a stupid question. "Who is nowadays?"

"Why, many people."

"Yourself included?"

The girl laughed. "I don't know about that," she answered, and a strange gleam entered amber eyes.

Suspicious, Jenna decided she didn't want to see that little girl anymore. "Well, uh, I need to get back home, so, uh, bye." And with that, she ran in the opposite direction.

Strange little girl, she thought as the teen neared her home and slowed down. Of course I'm not superstitious. Isn't that kind of... well, outdated? I guess it's not as strange for people to be asking that today, because it is Friday the 13th, but I've lived on other Friday the 13ths and I've never had anything bad happen to me.

I wonder where that came into play...

Suddenly, a meow sounded on her right and turning, Jenna was mildly surprised to see a sleek black cat. "Hey there," she said. She liked cats a lot. "Are you lost?"

The cat meowed in response.

"Sorry I can't take you home. I don't want others to see me with a black cat. It's not that I'm suspicious, but others--like that girl--might be angry. But you aren't bad luck, are you?"

The cat's amber eyes sparkled as it meowed again.

"Yeah, well, I'd better get going. My mom's waiting for me." Jenna continued on her way without a glance back.

It was good that she didn't. If she did, she might have seen that black cat stretch, purr, and turn into a small elementary girl whose smile stretched widely upon her face...

"Things will be interesting, now that she's seen my face..." the little girl said.


"Mom?" Jenna called. "I'm home."

Prompt: Library

It hadn't been a library at all at first. In the beginning, Jenna'd just told her friend Maddie she could borrow whatever she wanted from her extensive collection of English literature. It had been casual.

And then Carlos wanted in, too. Like the bookworm he was, he asked her also if he could borrow.

"What?" she'd exclaimed. "You, too?"

"Yeah. I hear you have all of Charles Dickens' books? I love those book. Could you lend me 'The Tale of Two Cities'?" He'd responded.

It wasn't like she could say no. "Sure," she said, although her better judgement argued that he'd be irresponsible with her precious, leather-bound books.

Prompt: So you want me to steal a body from the FBI?

"So you want me to steal a body from the FBI?" Marvin asked incredulously.

"That's right," the man in black nodded.

Marvin paused. "I don't think I understand," he said after a while. "Yes, I'm a thief, but I steal jewels. Not bodies. And especially," he emphasized, "not from the FBI. What are you trying to pull here?"

"What I'm trying to say," the man said, adjusting his sunglasses, "is very simple. I want a body back from the FBI, no questions asked, and I think you are the man to do it."

"I already told you. I don't steal bodies."

"You haven't yet," the man said ominously, and Marvin was sure he could see the manaical glint behind those sunglasses.

"What?" He asked, at a loss for what to say. What would anyone be able to say to that?

"Marvin Jenson," the man said as he straightened, "I need you to become a body-stealer for me. The pay will be very good," he added.

The professional thief paused. "How much?"

"Thirty thousand and no less."

"Too cheap," Marvin scoffed, although inwardly he was reeling. That was certainly more than he'd ever gotten on a job. However, he wasn't going to settle for just that.

The man's forehead wrinkled and his face soured, but he relented. "Fine, then. Fifty thousand, and no more."

"Deal," Marvin said neutrally. "However... It is the FBI. Hard task. I might have to charge more later."

"Fine," the man muttered. "Just make sure you get the job done, and quickly."

"I'll leave ASAP," Marvin promised as he crossed his arms. "Where is this body of yours? The FBI HQ is a pretty expansive building, you know," he said.

"West wing, third basement. Room 306. There are a lot of guards around it. Impossible to miss."

"That's quite an important body," Marvin remarked casually.

"Don't ask," the man muttered immediately.

"Wasn't gonna," the thief replied.

Written on Write or Die, one of the best writing tools I know of. It definitely helps against procrastination... A great tool for NaNoWriMo or Screnzy.


Random writings of the author named Misamiera. I'm on NaNoWriMo and Script Frenzy, although as of right now I have done neither. However, I think I'll be able to do it. At least NaNoWriMo... I haven't done Script Frenzy before.

I'm also on Story Write under the same name. Additionally, I'm on AQ Worlds as the same thing... although that really doesn't have much to do with writing. I used the name alolha123 on FF.N, but I don't go on there much anymore.

SO. Writings by Misamiera. All of this is copyright Misamiera. And all that legal stuff. Enjoy! ^.^