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...