with a sweet cherry on top

Fairest

2011-09-27T00:39:00.000-07:00

An entry for a contest at Figment.Com (my profile's under the "Writing links" sidebar). The prompt was this: write a prequel for an existing fairy tale. I chose Snow White. :)

"Looking-glass," Adriane whispered, tracing a path down the ornate silver design carved down the side of the frame. "My friend." Slowly, she dragged her finger back up. It was a truly exquisite piece of art. The delicate workmanship, the purest of gems… Work truly befitting the masterful dwarfs who had sold this to her mother. Diamond studs on emerald branches, a bronze trunk twisting downwards. What a beautifully crafted apple tree. "Listen to me! You can hear me, can't you? Mother said you were magical, and she never lies."

Silence answered her.

"Lied," Adriane amended softly. "She never lied." Was it the mirror or her fingers that gave a slight tremble?

Still there was no answer. She pressed a finger against a diamond apple, digging her fingernail into the space between the gem and the emerald. A threat. "Answer me. I know you can hear me perfectly."
Distantly in the mirror, a faraway fog shifted behind Adriane's image in the glass.

"Come out!" Adriane hissed.

Instantly the mirror darkened to ebony black, like a solid wall of obsidian, and the fog which had lingered in the background rushed forward and solidified into a ghost-like face. But in contrast to its former reflection of Adriane's beautiful face, the ghost’s face looked decaying and shriveled—its cheeks drawn tight over bone, its sunken eyes like two depressions. "What," it breathed huskily, "do you want?"

Adriane stared at the mirror, eyes narrow with disbelief. “Mother told me you’d show my true reflection.”

The fog trembled under the gauzy skin of its face. "I am as you are to me."

“What?” Her face darkened. “Don’t play with me, Looking-glass.”

“I am as you are to me,” it repeated.

For a moment, Adriane leveled a glare at the decrepit face. Her fingernails dug crescents into the palms of her hands. “You liar,” Adriane whispered, with a furious gleam in her eyes. “You liar. The king himself picked me! I am the most beautiful, fairest woman in this kingdom, and—and my mother told me I am. You’re just a looking-glass! What would you know about beauty?”

Adriane twisted her fingernail between the studded diamond apple and the emerald branch. “I am your master. I am the Queen of this land. Do you realize that if I wanted to, I could order the guards to smash you into a hundred shards?” The diamond gem was nearly wrenched out of its position.

The fog writhed violently, disintegrating the face into a thousand white particles. Slowly, they weaved together again – this time not into a wrinkled old woman’s face, but a face carefully wiped clean of any distinguishing features.

“Better,” Adriane allowed, though she did not pull away her fingernail from the mirror’s apple tree. “Now, Looking-glass: who in this land is fairest of all?”

The face said nothing.

“I said, who in this land is fairest of all?”

The fingernail dug in further, tearing the apple nearly out of its socket. The fog shook and abandoned the shape of the face, melting into a murky gray mist at the bottom of the mirror. “You are,” a weak, tiny voice choked.

Adriane clenched the sides of the mirror, digging her fingernails into the sides of the mirror. “I can’t hear you!” she snapped.

“YOU ARE!” a thousand tiny voices screamed.

Adriane slowly released her breath, calming down. “Yes,” she murmured, leaning back in satisfaction and finally pulling her hands away from the mirror. “I am the fairest, aren’t I?”

Still quivering, the fog faded away, the ebony black disappeared, and the Queen could see her beautiful reflection again.

Once upon a time, a girl with snow-white skin and ebony hair entered the room.

“Oh! I didn’t know Step-Mum had a looking-glass,” a small girl said cheerfully. “And it’s such a nice one, too! Why’d she hide it away?” She gasped. “Maybe it’s—magical?” Tilting her head, she scrutinized the mirror carefully. “’Scuse me. Are you a magic looking-glass?”

Hesitantly, the mirror faded to black and the fog drifted into view, examining her. The small girl was staring curiously. Kindly. Innocently.

The fog became a beautiful young girl’s face, which smiled shyly and said, “I am as you are to me, O Fairest One.”

From behind a curtain, the Queen felt a furious fire lick away at the edges of her heart.

Elementary, my dear Watson.

2011-09-12T14:02:00.001-07:00

Prompt was to put a favorite literary character in Walmart, so naturally, I picked Sherlock Holmes. :)

"Are you quite certain that he came here, Holmes?" Watson shifted hesitantly from foot to foot. "I do not doubt your deductive skills, but this strange building cannot, it seems to me, be any sort of a warehouse."

"Sorry," a mother said as she bumped into his shoulder while pushing past him. Watson decided she must have possessed some extraordinary strength and agility, to carry two children in her arms, push a stroller, carry four shopping bags and maintain normal walking speed. Either that, or it was that mysterious "mother strength," as Mary was inclined to call it. Holmes, of course, did not acknowledge such an unscientific force.

"I cannot be surer," Holmes replied, waving a dismissive hand and eyeing the various brightly-colored food items with a disdainful eye. "I an informed that our good man has entered into this establishment, and as... strange as it may appear, he is a very sly man; although not quite, perhaps, as clever as I am. He would have picked the most expansive shop with the most number of people inside, so as to hide well. The gaudy merchandise is only another reason."

"Pardon me--he has a reason for this..." Words failed Watson as he motioned to the eye-wrenching labels and cage of neon rubber balls.

"He means to distract, inundate, or repulse us," Holmes said, before adding wryly, "I cannot say that he has not done a fair job."

-

"I did not realize England could produce such an extensive selection of children's toys," Watson remarked in awe.

"We have only walked two aisles," Holmes said, "and really, Watson. Your assumptions have misled you again. We are currently in the United States of America."

"What!" cried Watson, astonished. "America!"

"You must have heard the immediately recognizeable American accent and noticed the subtle switch from English grammar and spelling to American spelling in this text," Holmes explained mildly. "It must be excused. The author is not, after all, as competent a writer as our Doyle."

"Spelling! America!" Watson repeated. "And -- author!"

"Do not dwell on such a subject too long, Watson. I am afraid it may be too much for you to handle."

-

"Watson! Have you realized what an invaluable tool this 'laptop' is? With it I shall be able to access such a world of information that I have not been able to before. I am told that a man in the furthest corner of the Asian countries may send an 'e-mail' to a man in England in nearly no time at all! One with no knowledge of all could rise of the height of knowledge by reading on the 'Internet'! Why have I not heard of this before?"

"I -- I cannot be sure..."

"I must have it at once. Take that 'camera,' too; I'll need that as well."

"I... camera?"

-

"Sorry, we don't take English money," the cashier apologized, handing the money back.

"Pounds," Holmes replied shortly. "English pounds sterling."

"Whatever."

Holmes' expression cooled. "You might begin to save money if you did not allow yourself the pleasure and luxury of cocaine and cigarettes, although I am sure a fellow like you might not have the strength to stop. Then you could quit this vile job as a cashier like you want to."

The cashier was aghast. "What?"

"In addition, your girlfriend has begun -- what is that peculiar American idiom? -- 'two-timing' you."

Watson felt sincerely sorry for the cashier; he looked quite young and distraught. There were not many instances in which he felt the need to interrupt Holmes' tirades, but for the sake of maintaining the peace, he tapped on his friend's shoulder. "Holmes, we really ought to be tracking our man, in any case," he said mildly. "I am sure there are fine enough laptops and cameras and Internets in England."

-

In the parking lot:

"Heaven's sake, Holmes," Lestrade said, passing the culprit to his aides. "What took you so long?"

Holmes gave him a tight smile. "I suppose we were -- distracted, of a sort..."

First poetry attempt.

2011-08-12T22:21:00.000-07:00

there once is a girl named rhea.

if i tell this story

will you laugh at me?

don’t laugh. just don’t.

there once is a girl named rhea.

you heard me right,

that’s her name.

it’s not that bad of a name.

so she falls in love with a guy

and i know it’s predictable but

there’s something magical—

Like i said, there’s something magical.

You don’t believe me.

You don’t understand.

shut up, then

and let me talk.

she falls in love with a guy

named chris.

so it’s a common name, shut up.

and it’s not like

it’s not like i was naming him after you.

she falls in love and her world

the world is more colorful. she

can see colors where she never looked before.

If you don’t be quiet i’m not going to finish.

there is something beautiful in looking, really looking

for once in your life stopping to—

i wasn’t going to say smell the roses. i wasn’t.

i was going to say stopping to look at someone, really

seeing who they are

as though you are meeting for the very first time

and falling in love.

i suppose you have never done it before.

Fine. so it’s a stupid story, so it’s cliche, so it’s

what? it’s not a self insert, stupid.

You don’t spell Rhianna like rhea.

yeah, like

i would name a character after myself.

crack in the

2011-06-26T16:13:00.000-07:00

A/N: From my old NaNo document. I wrote a bit of this and never posted it... Don't really know what I'll do with it. It's a piece with far too much stream-of-consciousness and italics, but hope you enjoy it anyway. :)
(In case you're completely confused, here's the little summary: If he's not careful, he'll start daydreaming. If he starts daydreaming, he'll fall into his fantasies. And if he falls into his fantasies... Well. They aren't the safest places, to say in the least.)

Crack. Crack in the ground. Crack on the wall. Crack on the ceiling. Little slither of black, just a slash, whispering, calling, murmuring Philippe... Phillip... Sir Phillip, Mister Phil, Phil-of-the-West, Song Weaver, Wretched One. Whoever you are.

Crack.

Crack in the ground, crack on the wall, crack on the ceiling.

Crack in the boy.

Not quite here. Not all of him here. A crack and a vacancy in his mind: a reminder of the him out there.

“So, Phil. Are you ready to begin?”

The boy's head snaps up quickly, blue eyes wide. Guarded. Like an animal ready to bolt.

But no. That's not him. That's not Phil. Phil can't do that. He's in a – a psychiatrist's office. That place. Where they send the crazy, the loony, the insane. He's not insane. He doesn't belong there. But that doesn't mean he can run. He can't, shouldn't, won't. The Lady – Mom? – told him not to. Besides, he likes the cracks in this office. They have stories to tell.

Just like he has stories to tell.

“Phil?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“Good. My name is Dr. Stenson, but you can call me Miss Sophia. Alright? Good. So, Phil...”

My name's not Phil. Stop calling me that.

“... I hear from your family that you've – ”

Gone insane?

“ – been hearing voices lately?”

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He shrugs. Keep it neutral, keep it vague. Eyes on the ground. They can't torture it out of him. Can't. Never will. He'd keep their secrets to the end of the world.

“Would you mind telling me a bit about them?” the doctor asks.

“They won't shut up,” he replies immediately, and collapses into laughter like it's the funniest thing in the world. And it is. They haven't shut up for how many years? Ten. Give or take a few.

Unperturbed, the good doctor – no, she's not good until she proves herself, isn't that what Mav always says? – doctor nods and writes a bit on her clipboard. “I see.”

She says that exactly because she doesn't.

“What do they say to you?”

The boy ponders a bit. “Which one?”

“Whichever one you'd like to start with.”

“Well...” the boy trails off, tracing the scars on his wrist. Should he? Should he risk it – again? Because last time it worked so well... “There's Hadrian,” he started, hesitantly. Just – just throwing it out there. What she does with it is her problem.

“Hadrian?” Scribble, scribble. “And what's he like?”

“He's – a lot of things. He likes swords, but doesn't fight. That's just because his dad is... was… the king, and he was always getting into fights with his brothers until he accidentally hurt his sister in one of them. So he stopped. Um...” the boy pauses, gauging the doctor's reaction.

She looks up from her clipboard and smiles at him encouragingly. It’s so obvious it’s just a mask for her disbelief. “Go on,” she presses.

“He... he's exiled right now because of Rydian. Rydian's always – ”

“Rydian? Is that another one of your voices?”

“Um, no, he's the king's magician. He... doesn't talk to me. I wouldn't want him to.” The boy shuddered.

“Why not?”

“He’s… weird. He’s always doing weird stuff. Casting spells, making potions. That stuff. He spends all of his time in his dungeons. And he gives us a creepy feeling.”

The doctor’s good, as in well-trained. There’s only a flicker of the eyes when she hears the plural pronoun. “Okay. But he’s not one of your voices, so how do you know about him?”

“Hadrian told me,” the boy says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He’s been investigating Rydian for years.”

The doctor nods slowly. Maybe she isn’t sure she believes him. She probably doesn’t. But she hasn’t gotten out the phone yet, so that’s a point in his book already. “Okay. And what about your other voices?”

“There’s Solena. She’s kind of quiet, since she moved to a new school. And I think she likes me.” He wrinkles his forehead, just a little. “I don’t know why. And then there’s Chase, he lives on a spaceship called The Infinity. And…”

He stops. What is he doing?

“Phil?” the doctor prompts. “Is there something wrong?”

“You don’t believe me,” he states.

She looks taken aback. Unsure. Uncertain of what to say. “Well,” she says slowly. “I’ve never met them before.”

“No. But you didn’t know me before, and you believed I existed.”

“But I had proof of you,” she says as gently as possible. “I had reports, papers, pictures. I only have what you tell me for them.”

He stares at her, then grunts. “Whatever,” he says. “Believe me or not. I don’t care.” He doesn’t. He doesn’t care. Once, he did. Not anymore. He doesn’t care about this world anymore.

She puts the clipboard on lap. “I’m trying to help,” she tells him quietly. “That’s my job.”

“What if I don’t need help?” he snaps.

“Then just tell me like you’d tell anyone else,” she replies. “I’m not your psychiatrist right now. I’m just your friend.”

“I already have friends.”

“I believe you,” she says, so utterly serious that she shocks him into silence. “Would you mind letting me into that group of friends?”

He stares at her for a long time. She’s asking for his trust. She’s asking for his friendship. Why would he even consider…

But she’s the first one. The first one who cares. Does she really believe him? She might not – that’s most likely. She probably doesn’t. No one of this world does. But if she did –

“Okay,” he mutters. And shrugs like it isn’t a big deal. It isn’t, it isn’t.

“Good.” She smiles, but doesn’t pick up her clipboard again. “Alright. Now, who else’s in your head?”

Kicking off his shoes, he pulls up his legs onto the chair and folds them. Cross-legged is the position he’s most comfortable with, ever since Mahawa – that time. “I don’t really have voices,” he begins.

“No?”

“But they are my friends.”

“How so?”

His blank, solid black eyes bore into hers. “Do you… Have you ever daydreamed?”

She laughs. “Of course I have. A lot more when I was younger, and even more in college during my professors’ boring lectures, but yes, I have. Many people have.”

“Okay.” He pauses. Here it comes, here it comes. “Then will you believe me when I say I fall into my daydreams?”

She blinks. “Pardon me? Did you just say…”

“Yeah,” he affirms. “I fall into my daydreams. Sometimes I’ll just be sitting there and some kid with a Harry Potter book will go by, and I’ll think – ”

He stops abruptly.

“You’ll think wiz– ”

“Don’t say it!” he barks suddenly. “I told you, if I think – ” His expression was tormented, pained, stiff. For a long moment he remains frozen and blank; then finally he relaxes and sighs. “I told you,” he mutters. “If I think anything, I’ll start daydreaming. And if I daydream, I’ll fall into it.”

The doctor is pale and shocked. Her eyes are wide; he can just see the thoughts running around in her head: what do I do with this crazy kid? She’ll probably report him as a nutcase. Insane. He’s not insane. He’s never been and never will be, but people don’t believe him anyway. This is the truth. Sometimes the truth’s crazy, Mav says. And Mav’s usually right.

See what your blathering has done? A little voice sneers. You should have known better than to trust someone from this world.

“Oh,” she manages finally. Suddenly she looks reluctant.

He bites his lip. That’s probably the end of the game for them. “Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t know why he’s apologizing. It’s not like he said anything bad. It’s not like he cursed or raved or hit her. But sorry just feels like the right word to say right now.

It’s hard when you sound crazy even to your own ears.

“It’s okay,” she reassures him, her composure back. “I was just a bit surprised. Go on.”

But he doesn’t now, because he sees clearly that she wasn’t just a bit surprised. So he keeps his mouth shut.

“Go ahead. I believe you.”

“No you don’t,” he spits out, almost startled with the amount of disgust in his own voice. “No one does.”

“I can’t help you if you won’t talk.”

“Maybe I don’t need help.”

“Phil. If you’re falling into your daydreams, you do need help.”

She says it so utterly seriously that he looks up, wide eyed and disbelieving. And sees the truth in her eyes.

Truth? Truth? Why does she believe him? She should be laughing, or scowling, or shaking her head at him. No one believes him. No one.

“Why...” the boy whispers in disbelief. “Why do you believe me?”

She smiles and crosses her arms. “I used to do it myself, pretty often. When I was a child.”

“What?”

She shrugs. “Had a big imagination. I’m guessing you have the same. I used to black out for days in my early teens – had to take weeks of sick days and even repeated a year.” She chuckled. “Those were hard times. But then they stopped.”

“How?” he rasps out, hope daring to kindle in his chest. If only. If only if only if only. He doesn’t know what to think – could he dare hope?

“It’s torture, isn’t it? To have to control every thought you think. To shut down your brain so you won’t zap to another world. It’s hard.”

“What do I do?”

“It’s easy.” She reaches opens a drawer in her desk, pulls something rectangular and black out, and places it in his hands.

It’s a notebook.

“Write it down,” she tells him. “That helped me more than any drug I took, any of the stuff doctors forced down my throat. You’ve got to write it down. It’s the only way to get them out.”

He doesn’t speak a word, but gratitude is there. Clutching the notebook, he nods at her as she tells him that the session’s over, and see you next week. Doesn’t look in her eyes, because maybe she’ll see his eyes and the shine in them. Doesn’t talk to the Lady as she escorts him out of the offices, doesn’t speak when she asks him how thing with the psychiatrist went.

Breathe. Don’t think. Don’t think at all.

As they walk out to the car, he keeps his eyes on the ground, still clutching the notebook she gave him. Keeps his eyes on the cracks. So reliable, cracks. Don’t lie, don’t tell people there is nothing wrong with you.

Cracks.

Cracks in the asphalt, cracks in the sidewalk, cracks in the boy. Cracks where reality ends and dragons begin. Spaceships shuttle colonies. Giant machines run the entire world. Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.

“Mom,” he says. “Do you have a pen?”

-

Once upon a time. Onceuponatime. There was..

“Whatcha writing?” Hadrian asks.

The boy looks down in his hands. Oh. The notebook followed him here. Can’t think why. Maybe it’s because he was writing in it when he…?

“Dunno,” he says. “Something. I don’t know yet.”

“Hm,” Hadrian says, flopping down onto the grass and stretching out like a cat. The boy sits down next to him. Cross legged as always. “How did your psy – what did you call it?”

“Psychiatrist session,” the boy reminds him.

“Right, that. How did it go?”

Somehow, when Hadrian asks him, it isn’t as hard to answer as the Lady’s questioning. “It went okay,” the boy said. “She gave me this book.”

“Ooh. A lady. Was she hot?”

The boy shrugs.

Hadrian sighs. “Theila is being a pest right now,” he says amiably. “Can’t buy the dresses she wants, can’t go out with her friends, can’t stand to be stuck in the palace – ” He sat up suddenly. “Can’t she understand that we’re in a war right now?”

“She’s only sixteen,” the boy says. “She probably can’t.”

“You’re only fourteen,” Hadrian points out.

“No I’m not.” The boy stares at him. “I’m not ‘only fourteen.’”

Hadrian lets out a breath. “No,” he says. “I suppose you’re not.”

-

Onceuponatime onceuponatime the world fell into chaos and disorder. Only a percentage of mankind escaped with their lives, braving the perils of galactic travel and establishing rudimentary colonies on Mars.

Once upon a time, there was a –

“Spaceship,” the boy mutters, letting the ball of his pen drag over the paper deliberately.

“What did you say?” Mav swivels his captain’s chair around and gives him a look.

The boy shrugs.

Exasperated, Mav swivels back to his controls. “I’ve told you a hundred times,” he says. “It’s not a spaceship. It’s a – ”

“Highly esteemed transport for use in high space,” the boy murmurs, letting a ghost of a smile drift over his face. “I know.”

Mav snorts. “Sure you do. Everyone does. Never mind that I hear that word every day from some snot-nosed newbie who thinks he can call this beauty of a transport a spaceship. That’s the word they teach toddlers for the letter ‘S’!” He swears loudly. The boy lifts his pen from the paper. Maybe he won’t put that in.

It’s comforting in Mav’s cockpit. Usually there are other pilots in the chamber, but late in the night – like now – it’s just them. Mav’s a bit like a father to him – well, maybe more like an uncle or godfather. For all his rough edges, Mav likes to spoil him. In general, the boy likes the people of this world. Mostly they’re pilots or crewmen. They were intimidating strangers before, but now they’re like family. This world’s one of the ones he most likes.

“Mav,” the boy says after staring at the blank pages of his notebook for a while. He hasn’t gotten further than spaceship. “Do you have any stories to tell?”

It’s a redundant question. Mav grins slowly. “Who do you think you’re asking? This is the captain of The Infinity speaking, Phil. Now which one do you want to hear?”

-

Once upon a time, there was a castle forgotten by many, even by the most avid of historians. It had no name, no ruler, and no rules to govern its domain. No human ever entered and came out alive without its permission. Those who had been unfortunate to stumble upon its gates disappeared as soon as they crept through the castle’s barriers. One day, a boy, brave and blessed with the protection of nature itself, ventured into the castle and its maze of corridors and rooms in search for the rumored treasure, the Ruby Penchant of Angolin…

“Hullo, Phil!” Tyr exclaims, looking down at him curiously.

The boy looks up at the other, pausing his scribbling. He felt something cold and familiar against his back a while ago. It’s just the stone walls of this castle. The two of them are in a long, dark hall that smells damp and moldy. Tyr’s dressed for the weather, but Phil isn’t.

Shivering a bit, the boy pulls into himself and balls up.

“Hang on a bit, I think I’ve got a blanket.” Tyr rummages in his light backpack and pulls out a thick, wool blanket that looks too big to fit in the backpack. He tosses it to him. “’ere you go.”

“Thanks,” the boy mumbles.

“So what’s in the book?” Tyr asks, sitting down next to him.

The boy shrugs and hands Tyr the notebook.

After reading a bit, Tyr leans back and smiles. “Nice!” he says, and passes it back. “Here. I’ll narrate and you can write it down. That way you won’t miss out on the stuff I’ve been doing while you weren’t here.”

Phil nods and places his pen on the paper.

A/N: This is my experiment to combine messy narrative and fantastical worlds in one story. Except I haven't finished it. I hope this wasn't too messy to read. o.o;;

Yesterday

2011-05-07T17:22:00.000-07:00

A/N: I... don't really know where this came from. It's quite a bit more serious than any of my other pieces. Don't worry, it doesn't have any relation to my real life. :/

My watch says it's five minutes to twelve. Yesterday, I was sitting in my cubicle filing reports, glancing at the clock over the receptionist's desk, watching that sliver of a hand creep forward second by second. Yesterday I thought, wouldn't it be nice if I had a promotion so I could drink espresso while doing paperwork and all of this junk?

[Shaky breath.]

I still want the promotion, but I don't think it's likely anymore. I'll be lucky if I even return to my old job. I'll be lucky if I get out of this mess.

My watch says it's four minutes to twelve now. They hung it in front of me, so I could see how much time I've got left till the bomb detonates and freak out, or something. They're probably sitting behind a computer screen in a building four hundred miles from here, watching to seem me break.

I won't. I swear I won't. I won't let them see how terrified I am, even if I die.

But--I am terrified, and you know what's funny? I'm terrified of dying. Dying, can you believe it? Because yesterday, when I was crossing over the bridge on the way back from work, I looked at the railing and wondered what it'd be like to jump off. I read somewhere that jumping from a height into water feels like you're hitting concrete. And I wondered if my body would shatter like clay when it hit the water, and what it'd be like to be torn apart by the impact. Would it be quick? I hope it'd be quick. But then again, I wonder about the source of that information. Can anyone alive really verify that comment?

[He pauses, then seems to deflate. Nearly mumbling, he continues.]

I wonder... I wonder if Kate misses me. Probably not. Yesterday at seven I called her, left a voice message. Told her I loved her. Missed her. She hates all of that sentimental stuff, but I wasn't going to tell her that I'd thought of suicide because she'd left me. She'd probably laugh at me and say, "You thought I was leaving you? Stop worrying. Just because I haven't called you in a few days doesn't mean I dumped you. You're really overreacting, Peter." And I would nod and ignore the marks on her neck and the smudged layer of lipstick under the fresh layer.

Three minutes. Can't they hurry it up? The waiting is going to kill me.

Bad words. I know. All this tension--dead men've gotta make a bad joke, 'kay?

[A shaky, bitter bark of laughter.]

It's kind of funny (or maybe it's not), but yesterday I wanted to die. Today I don't. I'm tense, I'm shaky, I'm sweating, and I can feel the press of the bomb strapped to my back. Death is that close to me. Maybe I didn't want to die all along? Yesterday I really thought I wanted to die, because there was just no way to go on--I wanted to. And now.

Well. It's too late, now.

Two minutes. The wait is going to kill me. This wait... I can't think. I can't think anymore. The drops of sweat rolling down my face are making me itch. Or maybe I'm restless because of the bomb. I really don't know anymore. What do I know? I know that I am going to die. I am going to blast apart. They won't even find a body.

... I don't really want to die.

Yesterday night my mom called. Told me I needed to move on, told me in tears how Kate was taking away the son she loved, prayed for every day. And I, I told her to stop wasting her time telling me--

I hung up. What a son. I wish my last words hadn't been "Just stay away, Mom. I'm fine" because maybe I'm not. I'm not sentimental either, but times like these--well. I wish I'd told her thanks. Or "Love you." Or anything. So that maybe I'd have been the son she was so proud of. I wish I was.

One minute. I have one minute left to live. You see this in movies: the hero struggles till the last second to get out, and suddenly he does. But I've been trying for hours, and at this last second, I'm tired. And resigned. But I don't really want to die.

... forty-five seconds.

... thirty.

... fifteen.

...

Five. (Wish I told Kate I loved her.)

Four. (Wish I told all of the people who deserve it, thanks.)

Three. (Wish I had more time.)

Two. (Wish this wasn't happening.)

One. (Wish I--)

The second hand inches past the twelve. Ticks slowly down the side of my watch.

I'm not dead yet.

I hold my breath, chest tight and tense, waiting for the white-hot, burning, explosion on my back. But the hard plastic just shifts on my back, heavy and bulky and still intact. I wait, terrified, as the second hand keeps going. And it keeps going.

It keeps going?

I don't know where the time's gone. Every second feels like a halted moment in time, slower than it's ever been before. I'm barely breathing now. It's like standing on the top of a cliff and putting out your foot to step off; it's like the moment you creak past the top of the rollercoaster and you're staring at the two hundred feet you haven't dropped yet. I don't think at all. I just watch that hand climb up my watch's face again, up to the nine, up to the twelve...

I keep waiting for something, anything, almost wishing the bomb to detonate already and just get it done with, but. It keeps going. I hardly dare to breathe now, hardly dare to feel the glimmer deep down of hope.

Time keeps passing, I know, but I don't feel it. The watch is still there, the bomb is still there, I am still there--even though none of us should still exist. I should be dead but I'm not--

[He fidgets, unable to decide how to act--those expecting death cannot always deal with life.]

Like a sudden burst of thunder someone booms behind me words--after it sends my strained heart into a pounding fury and me into a startled jump, I swallow breaths of air. The sudden noise was there and then it was not, leaving me wondering, terrified, if it was only my imagination. My mind is racing; is someone behind me? I don't remember there being an intercom, but there must have been--what did it say, I can't remember for the life of me the thing was so suddenly--

I try to backtrack. Was it a man? I think it was--what did he say? I think he said 'hello?'...

"Hello?" It definitely was a man's voice, curt and firm and staticky; then he says more softly, like he's leaning away from the microphone: "Doesn't seem like anyone's in there, sir."

"H-Hello--" But my voice is barely a hoarse whisper. I try again, rasping air out until it almost hurts. "Hello!"

"Good heavens. The man's still in there. Someone, Carol--get a team in there pronto." The man pauses, then continues in a more reassuring tone. "Just stay there. We'll get you out in no time."

Staying? Here? No time? I'm bound in ropes, of course I'm not going anywhere--and time, I've been here for hours and hours; "no time" will really be no time at all. Relief and hysteria and the ridiculous of it all slams into me like a freight train. I'm not going to die? I'm not going to die. They're going to get me out in no time. I'm not going to die.

I'm not going to.

The doors to my little room burst open behind me as policemen emerge like flies, swarming in. Someone fiddles with the bomb for seconds as all of us hold our breath, then cuts the rope that's bound me for how long? and pulls that **** bomb away. They're talking to me, I can tell, but standing up suddenly fills my limbs with jelly and my head with bricks. Someone lifts my right arm over their shoulder, and another one takes my left; I have only a split second to snatch my watch from the hook it's hanging on.

Time passed so slowly before, but now it's flying by. Before I know it, I'm walking to a policeman's car outside of the building, hanging onto a policeman with one hand and holding my watch in the other.

[He stops abruptly, though.]

"Sir?" the policeman looks at me curiously. "We should get you to the hospital right away."

I know that, but an irresistible thought occurs to me. "Hang on," I tell him, then move before he can stop me.

Walking back a few steps, I pull out my watch and without a look at it, toss it in a garbage can on the side of the hallway we'd passed on our way out. The watch was expensive but I've never felt more wonderful; I will never have to stare at that thing again. Walking away from that room, that bomb, that watch, and that building is glorious.

Yesterday I was determined to die; but now. Now, I think I'll live.

[The End]

Um. Hi? Update.

2011-05-07T13:15:00.000-07:00

It's been a loooong time.... and I really don't have an excuse this time! Le gasp.
I like art and writing equally, so sometimes I'll have a writer's block and start drawing, or sometimes I'll have an artist's block and just write... I've kind of been doing a lot of art lately. Um.

But. I figured that since I'm going to Iowa and all, I should probably start writing more... XD My entire sample was school-related stuff and some miscellaneous stuff from NaNo. Oh. And speaking of NaNo, I didn't end up using that plot (see previous post). I don't know why I can never pick a plot and stick with it. Sigh.

Maybe I should keep practicing on short stories?

Anyway. I need to do some more writing, so look for some soon.

NaNoWriMo novel synopsis!! Finally!

2010-10-23T17:02:00.000-07:00

Nievre is one of the naidra. That means she's half naiad, and half dragon. But what's more important is that she's naturally superior to those humans--after all, they can't do magic, can't fly, can't spit fire and in general, can't do anything at all. So what's the harm in having a little fun at their expense?

They always put too much hope in their "Chosen One" and their "heroes." Ridiculous, really. But that's going to stop. Nievre is going to teach them a lesson.

How?

By appointing the lowliest, weakest, unlikeliest hero herself.

"Congratulations, bean. You're the new Chosen One."

"Huh?"

two feet of stone

2010-09-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

“Tell me, Romeo,” she says through the hole. “Is it customary for that side to eat fish?”
“Raw?”
“Raw, cooked, burnt. Take your pick.”
“We have it in sushi. An Asian food. It’s basically rice and other stuff in a little roll, wrapped in seaweed. Sometime fish is in it. Don’t you have fish?”
“Not lately. People who eat fish get sick. I think it’s the pollution. Sushi sounds interesting. Does it taste more like fish or more like rice?”
“Um, well, only sometimes it has fish. Sometimes it’s other things, too.”
“Hm,” she says. I can almost hear the gears turning in her head. Nice summer days like these, when it feels like we’re the only two people in the world, make the two feet of stone between us like nothing.
“It’s good,” I tell her. I hate fish, but she loves it. “I’d pass it through the hole, but...”
“Maybe you can throw it over,” she suggests, laughter in her voice.
“Over a thirty foot wall? You’re joking! It’d probably get stuck at the top. I won’t throw some measly sushi just so the birds could have a feast. Maybe you can make some, instead. I’ll tell you how.”
“No thank you,” she says lightly. “We don’t have any rice for it, anyway. We don’t have anymore Asians here, not since the last Purge, and no one knows how to grow it.”
“Oh.”
We fall silent. The wind rushes past me, whipping through the branches and trees in the orchard. I wonder if she’s feeling the same wind. Probably not. Up above, the artificial sun beams brightly with some fifteen thousand LED light bulbs. The sun provides the light, the generators make the heat. It’s always warm and breezy on this side of the Wall; it feels like we’re living on a tropical island all year round, except for the holidays. The sun’s programmed to cool down a bit then, and the generators make snow. We always have white holidays.
“How’s the weather over there?” I call through the hole.
“Boring,” she replies promptly. “It’s quite dreary. Gray skies and foggy. Can’t see the sun anywhere.”
I look up at my own sun, still shining as brightly as ever. Beyond the top of the Wall, I can see just a strip of dark grey sky, almost like an extension of this stone Wall. If you’re high enough, it looks like someone’s cut the sky in half and painted one side black, and one side blue.
It’s not fair that we who live under the blue side have every luxury available, while those under the black side of the sky live in fear and poverty. What did I do to deserve this, and what did she do to deserve that, besides being born in families on opposite sides of the Wall?
“Hard to believe people used to have both sunny and grey sky, isn’t it?” she says.
“Hard to believe this wall didn’t always exist,” I reply, wincing at my harsh tone.
I can’t help it. It’s all I can think of these days.

“It’s your birthday next week, isn’t it?”
“Thursday.”
“Maybe I’ll hop on over and give you a birthday kiss.”
“Don’t be stupid. Only officials are allowed through the Gate, you know that.”
“Sheesh, Romeo. I was just joking.”
“My name’s not Romeo, Jen. It’s Al. Stop calling me that.”
“And my name’s not Jen, it’s Juliet. Sheesh, Romeo. What’s up with you these days?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“Don’t be stupid. You’ve only been a pessimist for these past two weeks. What’s up?”
“Nothing’s up.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“Just leave me alone, okay? Can’t you stop shoving your nose into my life?”
“Gee. Fine. If it’s like that, I’ll leave you alone.”
“Fine!”

I don’t return to the wall until my birthday. Somehow, turning sixteen isn’t as exciting as it should be. I invited just about half of my school, but the whole party feels wrong. It feels like someone’s missing. A girl whose face I don’t know, who calls me Romeo, who lives on the other side of the Wall.
As soon as I can get away without anyone noticing me, I run to the orchard, to that spot next to the bench no one knows but me.
“Jen?” I call. “Jen!” I’m almost panicking. What if she isn’t there? What if she doesn’t come back? “Jen!”
“Hey, Romeo,” she says, and I think my heart skips a beat in relief.
“Hey,” I say. “Look, I’m sorry. It was stupid of me to blow up at you--I’m sorry. I just--”
“Hey, it’s okay,” she says. “We all have bad days, right? Don’t worry about it. It’s not like I’m going to stop being your friend or anything. Oh, and happy birthday, Romeo. Have a wonderful sixteenth and don’t forget to eat some cake for me.”
“I won’t. It’s chocolate cake with whipped cream and strawberries.”
“Yum.”
“Can I still have that kiss?”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
Though it’s hard, cold granite and a small hole I press my lips against, I can almost feel the press on the other side. At that moment, we are the only two in the world. Two feet of stone is nothing. I’m the luckiest person in the world.
“Happy birthday, Romeo.”
“Thanks, Juliet.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”

“It’s almost fall over here. Why don’t you come on over for a picnic?” she asks.
A while ago, I might have scoffed at her suggestion. Now, I laugh. “Sure, why not? I’ll bring cake.”
“It’ll be grand,” she says, and I can just imagine a dreamy look in her eyes. “We’ll have a barbecue. Ribs and fish and cake. How’s that? And sushi, we’ll have sushi. You’ll have to teach me how to make it. You can bring your guitar, and I’ll sit and listen. And it’ll be wonderful--you have to see the valley in fall. When the trees turn red and orange, it’s beautiful.”
Something in her little speech pulled at my chest. Something that made my heart squeeze. “Juliet?”
“Hm?”
“Do you really think we’ll ever...?”
She doesn’t reply for a while. “Maybe,” she says quietly.
I lean against the wall, feel the warm stone against my side, and listen. My ears catch a fierce howl of the wind, far away, on other side. Nothing like the calm rush of the wind here. Though I’m warm, the slightest shiver runs up my spine. It’s a harsh world out there. And here, I look up at the sun, and everything is perfect. We have everything, they have nothing. What are we doing except hiding out in our little city, leaving the rest of the world to die? It’s disgusting.
Once upon a time, I thought this was the norm. Of course the sun shines every day, of course it’s always warm and breezy, of course my family has a mansion, of course I can go buy candy and throw all the parties I want. Of course--until I met Juliet. And then I realized how fake my life was. It’s amazing how much my world has shaken up because of her. The rest of the Capital needs people like Juliet.
“How about I come over there?”
“What?”
“I’m not joking. How about I come over there? Permanently.”
A moment of shocked silence passes. “You’re joking. You’d give up everything you have to come--over here?”
“Yeah. Look, Jules. I want to be with you. I love you.”
“You know how many people would literally kill to be on that side? Why would you want to give up your life, you family, your friends, to be with--with me?”
“Is that hard to believe?”
“We haven’t even seen each other.”
“And we never will, if I don’t.”
“They won’t let you do it. No one’s ever done it before.”
“It’s because no one’s tried. Of course they’re not going to let people into the Capital--but they’ll probably let people out of here.”
“You’re crazy. That... that you’d give that all up to be with me.”
“I don’t think I’m crazy. Actually, I think I’m saner than the rest of the people in here.” I smile, and I can feel her smile on the other side, too. “And you’re worth it, Jules,” I tell her firmly. “A life without you... I can’t live that. I can’t live life without you. I know that sounds cliche, but it’s true. Jules... you are my life.”
“Romeo,” she says, a tremor in her voice. I think I can hear her crying.
“Jules?” I ask, alarmed. “Are you okay?”
“Romeo,” she says. “You’re my life, too.”

Two populations, under different skies, living in a world split in half.
We’ll be the first to break the wall.

Heroism has gone Commercial

2010-09-14T14:13:00.000-07:00

Just an excerpt. Will probably continue this... I like the idea. It's from a prompt at the NaNo boards, from the famous Adopt-a-Plot thread:

"Heroism has gone commercial. There's really no such thing as real heroes any more. They're all just paid to go around and stop evil villains and save the princess and so on. But, to do this, they need villains to endanger the population. As such, the NVA (National Villain's Association) was formed..." (RoboPhantom)

-

“The name's Nix,” Nix said, and stuck out his hand.

“I'm Klaus,” the other replied, taking it. “Why are you named that?”

“Don’t blame the kid, Klaus. My mom liked Star Trek, decided to name her kid something spacey. Besides, half of the time people don’t even use my name.”

“Why not?”

“You’re pretty curious for a kid,” Nix said, giving him a wry look. “It’s because the other half of the time they call me ‘The Black Deceiver.’”

“‘The Black Deceiver’? The villain? Really?” Klaus frowned. “Didn’t he die two weeks ago?”

Nix snorted. “Die? Is our acting really that good? Sorry to burst your bubble, Klaus, but no one dies. No one dies. The last time someone even came close to dying was in ‘76, when some stagehand had one too many glasses of beer and fell into the lava pit reserved for Sugo the Swindler. And he just got away with juice in his lungs.”

“Juice?”

“Mmhm. Juice, the stuff you see in the lava scenes. Some mix of ten different chemicals and red food dye. Stings the eyes like crazy and tastes like puke, but otherwise harmless.”

Klaus looked suspicious.

“So, if villains don’t die... so what happens?”

“Only the names die. The people get recycled. ‘The Black Deceiver’ is my last name and my most favorite, since I got to land a good one on Heero the Magnificent’s nose. They still use computer effects to touch his nose up. But I’ve also been ‘Felix the Unlucky,’ ‘Smitty the Bandit,’ Don of ‘The Demon Duo,’ and a couple of no-name villains you probably wouldn’t know.”

Klaus’s brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t have thought ‘The Black Deceiver’ would be the same person as ‘Felix the Unlucky’...”

“Start thinking it, kid,” Nix said, ruffling the kid’s hair. “There are a whole bunch of villains out there that are actually played by the same group of people. Just don’t tell anyone, yeah? I lose my job if they find I let the word out. Can’t have the public’s delusions crash yet. This hero-villain stuff stinks, but it makes good money.”

“Who gets paid more, heroes or villains?”

Nix snorted. “What, you want to be one? Heroes, of course. But that’s only because the NHA gets paid billions because of all the action figures they sell. The NVA, not as much--I mean, who wants to buy figures of Sugo the Swindler?”

Klaus grimaced.

“Yeah, exactly. Bit ridiculous if you ask me. A villain does more work than three heroes combined, mostly since they keep dying. Heroes just have to stand there and look pretty. But who do the people like?”

“The heroes.”

“That’s right, kid. The heroes.” Nix paused. “At least, until now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s going to change. And I’m going to be the one to do it.”

Here comes NaNo 2010...

2010-08-31T18:25:00.000-07:00

Yeah. Still trying to decide what I'm going to do. :P School has bogged me down, but I'm willing to undertake the challenge again, even if that means more late-night sessions of writing and coffee. Lots of coffee. And tea and cookies. Yum.

I haven't decided for sure yet, but I think I want to do an anthology of short stories, most of them based off of the NaNo plots I've collected here and there. Of course, all of the plot givers get their short stories :)

Well, it's just an idea. I'm still not completely sure I don't want to do a novel.

What are you all doing for NaNo, if you are doing it? (And if you aren't, why not? :D http://www.nanowrimo.org)

Did a meme/survey thing... wanna give it a try?

2010-08-12T20:52:00.000-07:00

1. Introduce yourself?

Hi, I'm insanity. I mean, Misamiera. At least, that's my pseudonym, my code name for my writing exploits. I'd like to think I'm old enough to be an adult, but much of what I do is childish. I'm not an adult yet physically, which is fine by me since it's probably not that fun, anyway. (But then again, I've never been one.) I'd like to one day travel around the world and eat real Chinese food from China and real Swiss chocolate from Switzerland. I'd also like to actually finish a novel one day, too. One of these days.

2. Describe Madness

Madness? What's there to be mad about? Madness is acting any way you want in your own little world, regardless of social standards; madness is letting your mind run free with ideas.

3. Describe Insanity

It's madness, only to the extent that people can't even follow what you're thinking anymore.

4. Describe the difference between Insanity and Madness

Like I said: insanity is a brand of madness that's gone so far that people can't even begin to understand you anymore.

5. Do any of these descriptions apply to yourself? Why, or why not?

Well... that's a hard question. Aren't both of those opinions? The sane man says to the another, "You're insane." And yet, the "insane" person thinks that he is sane, and the other man is insane.

I don't think I am; I much prefer staying down here in earth.

6. Tell me about your all-time favorite Fantasy book.

I have so many favorites, but I'll choose Lord of the Rings. It's not a classic for no reason. Tokien's imagination has not led to just a book but an entire world which any fan can venture into. He's done so much work with Middle Earth. I love venturing into the world and imagining my own scenarios.

It also helps that there are three fantastic movies, too. *grin*

7. Give me names for characters, ones you havent used yet. 2 for a boy, 2 for a girl.

(This includes First and Last names.)

Karr Ashwood and Quint Netherfield for male names. Anmerlyn and Alix for the girls. Don't know why I made last names for the males and not for the females, but somehow I can't just say "Karr" anymore. I have to say "Karr Ashwood"...

8. Your all time favorite song, and why?

I've got so many favorites the list could run ten pages, but one of them I'd have to say "Set the World on Fire" by Britt Nicole, which is a Christian song (and I'm Christian). It's mainly because of the lyrics, which remind me of the Great Commission. Ah, but I could go on and on...

9. Your Rolemodel, and why?

Probably my mother. I know that's weird in an age where teenagers often complain about their parents and their restrictions, or are closer to their friends or others than their parents, but I've got a classical perspective. My family is really important to me; we stick together--even though friends may come and go, your family's always there. My mother has always been my best friend and guide throughout my life; I may sound biased, but she's a wonderful, caring person and a great Christian with her own experiences and such. Whenever I don't know what to do, I ask my mom. And she always gives me wisdom.

10. a sentence that you will always remember? (motto, life lessons...)

It changes as I read different things that remind me of different sentences, but at the moment, it's a quote: "If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I'd spend six hours sharpening my axe." It's by Abraham Lincoln.

11. Give me a sentence or minimal 10 words, containing the word ‘breaking’

It's not the sound of the door creaking or the desperate wail of ghosts upstairs that frightens her; it's the sound of her own heart breaking...

12. Give me your opinion on radio stations. (atleast 5 sentences.)

I don't listen to the radio that often, but I do think that they're a great invention. It's nice to have music on in the background as I do my work or drive in the car. Of course, like anyone else I wish I could fast-forward the commercial breaks or skip annoying songs, but that's what mp3 players are for. Besides, when can you switch channels and listen to completely different music, check the traffic or weather report, or even political commentary in a split second? It's useful to have a radio, and I hope we'll never eliminate them in our quest for new technology.

13. Describe light to me (Atleast 100 words.)

Some have argued that light is an absence of darkness, but I don't agree with this. Light is a force in its own. Metaphorical or literal, it's something that breaks through darkness, giving insight or sight into something formerly unknown. Light generally carries a sense of positivity; it brightens and gives comfort. It’s taking the blindfold off your eyes and seeing everything you never saw, or couldn’t see, before. It’s discovering something new, realizing that your life isn’t (or is) as bad as you thought, or coming to the knowledge that you aren’t the only person in the world; it’s opening your eyes.

14. Describe music to me. (atleast 100 words)

Music is creativity; it is, and always will be, an expression of our character and who we are and so much more than that. When we play music, we sing a song so sweet no lyrics can ever fit; or when we play music, we rage and rant feelings speaking can never say. When we listen to music, it tells us something old, or something new; maybe a feeling of nostalgia or inspiration, sorrow or joy. The person composing music is no different from the writer or the artist, since they all express their feelings and thoughts in their arts. Life becomes dull and dreary without the creative arts. Music is important to humanity.

15. Describe pain to me. (atleast 200 words.)

Pain. It's what you feel when you're broken inside. When everyone's disappeared. When no one listens. When the world seems to fall to pieces, and all you can do is stare. When the shards of your heart dig deeper into your chest. When someone stabs you, and walks away. When life doesn't seem so important anymore. When everything is raging all around you, and you feel like you're the only one standing still--and for that, they say you're insane. When wretched feelings grip your heart with icy fingers and squeeze. When you're trying to keep breathing, keep filling your lungs with air, and you're up to your neck in water. When you trying to reach for the heavens and end up drowning in the sea instead.

Pain is what you feel when your best friend leaves you. Pain is what you feel when someone dies and a part of your heart is ripped out. Pain is what you feel when you’re too dry to cry, too tired to live, and too powerless to do anything. Pain is what you feel when it hurts, deep down, like a worm eating at the edge of a hole in your heart. Pain is what you feel when the birds won’t sing, the sun won’t shine, and the earth won’t move.

Not hard, is it? Prove yourself to me, they’re simple questions.

Good luck!

One-sentence menace

2010-08-12T19:35:00.000-07:00

Yep, it's one of those stories again. Those stories that are just one sentence. The problem with those is that they often don't make sense, or they're too hard to read. I hope mine's neither...

-

“My dear child,” she says, fluttering her eyes and grasping at his cloak; “my dear, dear child, surely it’s unthinkable that you would even imagine the rude, wretched, heartless possibility of leaving me here in this dark, unforgiving hell of a prison; after all, these past two weeks-—or two months, I can’t even remember since I’m so wrecked beyond reason; oh, and never mind what I think, since of course I’ve already forgiven you for putting me in here, dear-—these past two weeks have wreaked havoc on my poor nerves and my poor soul, and have nearly rendered me into a numb and helpless woman--you’d take me back to that wonderful, grand castle of yours, wouldn’t you, if I promised to not do anything to your dear little princess girl again and be a very good mother, my dear child… wait, wait, you’re--you’re not leaving me are you?--”

Inkpop!

2010-06-21T20:32:00.001-07:00

For those who are interested in a writing community and writing contests (where you actually win money), here's a website to bookmark: http://inkpop.com. This writing community focuses on teens, like many other websites. But what's special about this website is that it is linked with the publishing company HarperCollins, which means that when they hold challenges or contests (which they do just about every few weeks), you get pretty awesome stuff. For example, the current big contest is on forbidden love--write about forbidden love, any type of it, any setting, place, you name it. You get entered into the contest, cool. You can vote on other submissions, too. But the prizes? Among iTunes and Amazon gift cards, there is a grand prize of a $2000 gift certificate to H&M.

Doesn't that make you drool?

The only thing I dislike about it is that, since Inkpop is for teens, the challenges it holds have popular themes from contemporary teen fiction. For example: forbidden love, the supernatural (and more love!), etc. So if you absolutely abhor writing those topics, well, you might not be able to do as many challenges as you'd like. But otherwise, you might want to try your hand at it and maybe get cool prizes, too.

So check it out if you have time! And if you do join, I'd love to connect with you (my user is Misamiera).

Aquamarine

2010-06-14T17:04:00.001-07:00

“Uncle Reuben?”

“Hm? Nat, is that you?”

Natalie smiled. “It’s me, Uncle.”

An man, slouched on a broken couch, turned his weary face towards her. “Aren’t you early? Come closer, so I can see you.” She knelt down next to him, taking one of his thin hands in hers. “Why,” he whispered, smiling. “You look like you’ve brought the sun in with you.”

She laughed. “Uncle, it’s nice to see you, too.”

“So what is it this time? What story would you like to hear this time? That is, if you’re not getting too tired of this old man’s ramblings.”

“Uncle, you know I love hearing your stories!”

“I know, I know. So what do you want to hear this time?”

“Well, I love all of them, but do you have anything new?”

“New? New stories? Hmm... Nat, did I ever tell you my story?”

“Your story? No. What is your story?”

He smiled. “Well...”

“It all began when I was about... oh, eight or so. Did you know my family lived in the same house you and your mom live in now?”

“I know, Uncle. You told me last time.”

“Oh, yes. Well, we lived in that house, all seven of us, and I was the youngest. So when my brothers and sisters were in summer school, I went down and played in the sand, like what you used to do when you were little. All day long, I played, and then one day, I saw her.

“She was the prettiest little girl I ever saw, with hair and eyes the color of bright blue-green sea in summer. We were the only two people on the beach, so of course I invited her to come and play with me.”

“But didn’t you wonder who she was?”

“Well, when you’re a kid, you don’t wonder. I was just happy there was someone my age to play with. I think, deep down, I already knew she wasn’t normal, but I didn’t care.

“We made the grandest sandcastles, Nat. The first one we made had towers and fountains that ran and a little lake, right below a bridge to the castle gate. The next day, I came out to play and it was gone, just one big pile of sand, but she was still there. And we made a better one that day, and the day after.”

“Did you ever find out her name?”

His eyes misted over. “Yes, I knew her name.”

Natalie waited patiently for it, but he continued with his story.

“Summer school ended and fall began, and we still played every day. I started noticing that no one except me could see her, and I stopped telling people about her. When my siblings got out of summer school, they and their friends started playing down by the beach, too. But they couldn’t see her, and for the longest time I couldn’t figure out why. I’d talk to her, and they’d look at me weird, like I was mad or something. Pretty soon they stopped playing with me, telling others that I was this crazy kid talking to his imaginary friend, but I didn’t mind because I had her.

“Once school started for me, I couldn’t see her as much. Still, we played together as much as we could. She didn’t talk much at all, but I always knew what she wanted me to know, and I knew that she was happy. I was happy, too.

“Years went by, and we kept our friendship as strong as ever. Then, puberty hit.” A wry smile lit upon Reuben’s face. “Suddenly I couldn’t stop thinking that she was the prettiest girl in the whole world. It hurt our friendship for a little while, because I was so awkward around her. We even stopped playing together. But one day I went down to the shore and told her how I loved her, and asked her to be my girlfriend. And she said yes. I can almost remember the look on her face. She said she loved me, too. We were the happiest two in the world.” His eyes softened and a wistful expression crept over his face.

“And then?”

“And then I went to highschool.”

“Highschool?”

“In highschool, everything happened. My junior high was in this town, but my parents made me go to highschool in the city. There was so much drama, Nat. So-and-so broke up with his girlfriend, these two became a couple, they did this, they did that. There was so much going on. I don’t know how you deal with it. You’re in highschool, aren’t you?”

“I’m a sophomore.”

Reuben shook his head. “What a crazy time. Nothing hurt our relationship as much as highschool. I was so busy during the first semester that I barely saw her at all. One day I went to the sea and she wasn’t there, Nat. You can’t imagine my fear—I thought—I thought she had disappeared forever. I was so, so scared.

“I searched for her for hours, and when I finally found her, she was lying on the sand, looking pale and thin and scared. Do you know what she said? She said that we couldn’t work out. She loved me, but we—our relationship—couldn’t work out. It wouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“She said that we would die.”

“Die?”

“She wasn’t human. It was the first time that she said it so plainly. She was from the sea, she told me, from the depths of the sea that mankind didn’t even know existed. I was human, and she was inhuman, and she said if she loved me anymore they’d kill both of us. Part of her culture—something stupid like that. I don’t remember clearly. All I remember is that she asked me to understand—how could I, Nat? I was young, and so angry. I was really angry. And I said something that I’ve regretted for the rest of my life.

“In my anger, I accused her of being a liar. I told her, ‘Maybe you aren’t from the sea. Maybe you just don’t want to see me anymore.’ For the first time, I doubted her.”

“And then... what happened?”

He stared into the distance, reliving painful memories.

“She cried, Nat. The first time I had seen her cry and I was the one who did it. I was the one who hurt her, and I was too angry to even see that. She cried so hard, Nat.”

There was something glimmering in his eyes and something wet on her cheek.

“And then, then what happened?” Natalie asked so quietly, wanting and not wanting to hear more.

“There wasn’t much after that,” Reuben said harshly, and rubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, muttering about too much sand around the house. “I only saw her from a distance after that, and started dating some girl from my highschool. Can’t even remember her name. I was so cruel, Nat. The more I thought about her just not wanting to see me, the more I believed it, and the angrier I got. I took that girl out to the beach one day, just to rub it in her face. And we kissed.

“I was watching her out of the corner of my eye as we did it. There was such a sad expression on her face, Nat. Like something had died inside of her. And at that moment, something died inside of me. Maybe I was regretting. But I looked at her, and—”

Reuben stopped.

“Uncle? Uncle, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. I don’t have to know,” Natalie said quickly.

“No, Nat.” He looked at her. “If there’s anyone I’d want to know, it’s you. You’re this old man’s only friend.”

“You’re not that old.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He sighed and gripped the edge of his couch. “Now, I was saying...”

“You looked at her as you kissed that other girl.”

“Oh, yes.” His eyes misted over. “She disappeared, Nat. She disappeared the moment I gave my heart to another girl.”

They sat in silence. Outside, the wind pushed against the side of the shack and swept sand into the air and the sun; the waves sparkled and glittered like gold; and the sun shone on all. But inside the shack, it was dark, silent, and cool. It was only the two of them. The only two who knew his story.

“Why do you think she came?” Natalie asked.

Reuben looked away. “You know, when I was a child, I was looking for a companion. Maybe she was looking for someone, too.” Then he gripped her hand and stared into her eyes, hopeful. “Do you—do you think, if I had broken off the kiss and apologized to her, she would have maybe...”

“Maybe,” Natalie said quietly. “Maybe.”

He slumped back into his couch. “But I didn’t. I was a fool, a complete idiot. A childish act of spite threw everything away. And look where I am now! Just wasting away out here, wishing, hoping for another chance.” Shaking his head, he whispered, “What an utter fool...”

Natalie stroked his hand. “Maybe you will,” she said.

“Not a chance,” he said. “I’ve been looking for her for years and years and years and have never found a single sign. I can’t even remember her name—it disappeared when she did. It’s all over, Nat. It’s all over.”

“What about you? Will you leave?”

He smiled. “No, not me, Nat. I’ll be waiting here until the sea runs dry.” Then, he placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Here’s a lesson to you, Nat,” he said. “Don’t let anything come in between you and your love. She still wanted to be with me, even if we both died—I know that. Don’t mind those little differences—human, inhuman? We didn’t care. They were the ones who cared. And finally, Nat. Don’t run away. Don’t run away from love.”

Natalie exited the shack and was blasted by the wind, which whipped around her and pulled at her hair. Yet, there was a bittersweet feeling that accompanied it, swirling around and overwhelming her.

Something stung at her eyes and she wiped them away. “Too much sand,” she said, and laughed.

She spread her arms wide open and felt the sun and sea all around her.

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

"Come on, Ty. Let’s do this.”

Teal eyes shift uncomfortably. “If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure.”

He sighs and pulls out a shell-like cell phone. “Hey, um. Dad? There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Her name’s Natalie.”

go for the gold

2010-06-01T21:34:00.000-07:00

You want to win so badly it’s almost an obsession.

There you are, standing tall and proud as you shake your opponent’s hand. She can’t want it as much as you do. No one can want the win as much as you do. I can win, you think. I can beat her. This is it.

You have never tasted sweet victory before. Always, always there is this bitterness in your mouth, like after sucking on a lemon and letting the taste linger on your tongue. Always, always a lump in your throat that won’t go away and hot, blinding ash in your chest.
Sometimes, you think you might quit and just give it all up. Just let it go. Sometimes, there’s a crushing feeling beating inside you, like hands gripping and squeezing your heart. Fingernails rip— you want to cry. But you don’t, and you deny, deny, deny, and you continue playing.
And you ask yourself: is this perseverance or simply foolishness?

All around you, there are those who began after you and have now far, far surpassed your level. Beyond your reach, beyond the heavens and stars, beyond you.
And you? Where are you?

You toss the ball up. And in a blur, time slips through your fingers, like sand, white grains that you have lost forever.

In the end, she has won, and you have lost.
The bitter feeling swells up inside you again. You shake hands with her— but she is shaking your hand, you are not shaking hers, because your hand is as limp as a rag. You do not look at her. You do not look at her coach. You do not look at her family.
You walk far, far away. Away from her, her coach, and her family. Away from it all. Away from where it all ended badly.

You sit down and wonder what went wrong— no, what you did wrong. Because it was not her fault you lost, nor her coach’s, nor her family’s nor anyone else’s. It was your fault. All of it— your fault. From the first point to the last hit— your fault. It is not your body’s fault, though you try to convince yourself it was in bad condition while in play— that is your excuse for losing.
You know very well that it was in fine during the game.

The ash falls into your chest again and burns your heart. The smoke curls up and chokes your throat, burns it, and stops in your throat— and just sits there. You don’t speak. It hurts, it hurts, but not in the tangible ouch way; it hurts because your heart is cracked. Numb and bewildered, you think: I want to go home. I want to go home and go to sleep and wake up again and do it all over. I want to go home.

You wish with all your heart, but you know very well that no one gets second chances.

A/N: Semi-autobiographical. We all have those times in our lives where we think that everyone else is better than us.
Well, at least I do.

Sprinkler

2010-05-17T15:48:00.000-07:00

One bright Saturday morning, George noticed an oddly shaped sprinkler in his front yard. He didn't remember installing one, and didn't think anyone else would have. Who would install a sprinkler on artificial grass? It wasn't April Fool's or his birthday. And his nieces and nephews hadn't visited for ages.

He stared at it, munching Cheerios thoughtfully, and stood up to get a clearer look. Now, isn't that an odd one? Never seen a sprinkler with that big of a nozzle. Promotion, maybe? No, they wouldn't install without his permission, and Dorothy was on a retreat. And besides, she wouldn't pull a prank like this. Maybe some rotten teenagers? Yeah, he'd go down to the Kenny's later and see what the twins'd been doing lately. Should probably check it out. After breakfast--definitely suspicious.

One more glance--hang on a moment. George froze in mid-glance, mouth, paused, open to receive another milk-soggy bite. Hang a moment, his eyes were perfectly fine, weren't they? Right, right. Not delusional, certainly, but maybe he was just tired--yeah, that's all. Just tired. There's now way it could have--

It shivered.

It was too quick, and he wasn't sure he'd seen it. But--hey! Did it again. Kinda like a wet cat shaking off water.

He went outside in his bathrobe and bare feet, nearing until less than five feet away from the... thing. How'd he think it was a sprinkler, anyway? Didn't look anything like one, now that he could see it up close. Looked like one of those ancient pyramid things, with the boxes stacked on top of each other? Yeah, like a little pyramid. Except green.

He nudged it with his big toe--just poked it slightly--and hey! It shivered again! And dug further into the grass. Sank till there was one layer less. And it looked at him--two little beady eyes he hadn't noticed before blinked at him. Some sort of animal? What animal was that?

"Well--" George said. But he couldn't think of anything to say after that. Should he call animal control? Or maybe the yard guy? Or the zoo? Or maybe the alien society (there was one, right?)? Couldn't make up his mind. Maybe he'd just try all of them. He ran inside, grabbed his cell phone, and ran back out, to make sure the little guy didn't get away. And waitasec! He'd forgotten the phone book! He returned back inside for the phone book and came back out, huffing. Man, he really had to get back into shape.

He called animal control first, since it was 'a' and in the beginning.

"Hello, this is Muller Animal Control. If you would like to learn about our prices and rates, press 1. If you would like to leave your address and phone number, press 2. If you would like to talk to an employee, press 3."

George pressed 3. Waited while the cheesy classical music played.

"Hello, how may I help you?"

"I've got a... thing." Words failed him now, of all times.

"Pardon?"

"A thing. I've got this thing. It's ah..."

"Is it a snake?"

"No, no, no, it's not a snake. It's kind of like a box."

"A box, sir?"

"Well, actually, like..."

Heck, the little thing kept staring at him! How was he supposed to focus?

"Like what, sir?"

"Like a couple of boxes."

"... Excuse me?"

"It's like one of those ancient things--you know, the pyramids, except like boxes stacked on each other. And it's green."

"I'm... sorry, sir, I don't know of any animal that looks like that."

"Neither do I."

"Are you sure it's an animal?"

"Yeah--well, no, but it's got eyes."

"Maybe you should call somewhere else, sir."

"Maybe I should."

"Well, thank you, sir."

Click.

That wasn't helpful. Couldn't animal control do its job around here? Maybe he should call the zoo. Tell them that there's a weird new animal on his front lawn. Yeah, that would do it. That would take care of the problem. He flipped open the phonebook to zoo--that's 'm' for 'Mulberry Park Zoo'--and dialed the number.

The thing made a weird noise, like the cross between a squeal and a snort. He imagined that you might get the same sound if you tickled a hedgehog on the stomach.

"One thing for certain," George said. "I can't keep you."

It just looked at him.

A/N: Was that weird or what? I DON'T KNOW WHAT SPURNED THIS.

Prompt: condition

2010-04-02T18:50:00.000-07:00

She's in a serious condition, the doctor says. She's in a serious condition. She's in a serious condition. Like echoes of a cool dark cave of black, black endlessness I hear these words again and again, too often, too quickly, too many times.

She's in a serious condition, he says.

And continues.

It's a rare type of atrophy.

Is there a treatment? My father wants to know. There is desperation in his voice, but no hope.

We all know there is no treatment.

Two days ago, I was fine. I was twelve, ambitious, and very much alive. Yesterday, I was a car wreck hovering between life and death, and today, I am much, much more dead than alive. The thin line between life and death is the sterile, cold plastic pumping nutrients into my body, trying to break me out of death's icy grip.

A/N: The end. Just kidding. Maybe. I'm not sure where this was leading... gee, what is with the depressing stuff? I have to write something happy now...

I am poem

2010-04-02T18:23:00.000-07:00

I am a Nobody.
I wonder if you see me.
I hear sounds,
I see people,
I want to be noticed, but
I am a Nobody.

I pretend to be fine.
I feel like no one cares about anyone else anymore.
I touch my face, my hair, my clothes
I worry if they're not in fashion, and in the darkness
I cry because I am so, so alone
I am a Nobody.

I understand that people want to hang out with Somebody.
I say that it's fine. Still
I dream that maybe Somebody will want to hang out with a Nobody, like me
I try to be Somebody.
I hope every day but
I am still a Nobody.

A/N: Yeah, more poetry. Pretty sad stuff. Sorry. I'll try to get some prose up... sometime.

Script Frenzy

2010-04-01T13:34:00.001-07:00

So here I am, April 1st - no prank for the moment - posting because of Script Frenzy. Yeah, another one of those challenge-in-a-month things that we all just can't get enough of. It's the sister project of NaNoWriMo, and instead of writing a novel in a month, you get to write a script. Last year I participated in it as well, and it was a much more lax month than November because, well, HEY. It's 100 pages of script, not 50,000 words, and most of that 100 pages is formatting (and lots of empty space! Whoohoo!).

I'm doing some shameless advertising, I know. Here's the website: http://www.scriptfrenzy.org.

If you want to catch me there, my username's Misamiera. Feel free to add me - I don't bite.

Progress will be updated shortly.

laugh

2010-02-25T17:01:00.000-08:00

laugh
and
under
great
hindrances

you won't suffer at all.

little bear

2010-02-25T17:00:00.000-08:00

One little bear

Just waiting to be loved

Smiles at a girl walking by.

That little bear

After such a long time

That night in warm arms it lies.

acrostic

2010-02-20T22:23:00.000-08:00

A/N: For those who don't remember what an acrostic poem is... read the first letters of each line.

don't sit on the couch, please
oh, stop barking!
go somewhere else, please?
such a trouble... but completely worth it.

5 Days

2010-02-17T22:11:00.000-08:00

On Monday, I meet the love of my life.

We're in the mall - he's exiting, I'm entering, and he holds the door open for me, like a perfect gentleman. He smiles at me, and for a blessed moment I'm lost in his wonderfully bright and kind eyes - and then he passes me.

I sit down and forget about shopping.

On Tuesday, I return to the mall.

There's a special at a cafe I like and a sale at a shop, but all I can think of is that blissful moment when shivers dance in my stomach and fire floods my cheeks and the day is brighter than ever.

But that handsome stranger does not come again.

On Wednesday, I drink coffee at a cafe for hours.

It sinks into my stomach, filling every cold corner. The way it stirs in my stomach reminds me of butterflies, but ever so sweeter and stronger. There is a warm, cinnamon-tinted scent in it that I don't remember being there before.

I have never tasted better coffee, but he still does not come.

On Thursday it is raining, and I feel a shade of dark, heavy purple.

He is not here, and it was my own foolish hopes that kept me coming. How ridiculous it is to think that he would come to the mall again! My very own conscience nags and grips at me. This could all be in vain. That wonderful face and smile, I'll never see again!

Yes, in vain, but I have decided that even fools can hope.

On Friday, I'm at the mall again.

I've been at the mall more times in the past week than I have in the past year. After drinking my iced tea, I leave the place after half an hour, and don't expect to come again for a while.

As I approach the exit, a man holds the door open for me. I'm so absorbed in my thoughts that I hardly notice his face until I'm right next to him.

I gasp. It's the man.

But he walks past me.

toy truck

2010-02-17T20:45:00.000-08:00

On Monday, a toy is sitting in an old cardboard box that looks as if it will fall apart in a blink. It is a small truck, and its paint almost shows a rich crimson--its past color. In a day, this truck's alarm falls off; and soon, its bolts follow.

It waits for a boy--now a man.

On Friday, it is in a trash can.

A/N: There is no 'e'. Anywhere. Whew.

acrostic poem

2010-02-17T14:58:00.001-08:00

A long time ago, there was a girl who came upon a magic potion

Labeled, "DRINK ME."

In the moments that followed,

Curious feelings arose

... and she shrank

... and shrank

... and shrank

Ending at ten inches tall.

midnight today

2010-02-11T22:19:00.000-08:00

The watches whisper and wait

For midnight

today.

Their merry hands hold still

For midnight

today.

Their little gold eyes open

A new day

today

They wait and watch and hold their breaths

For midnight

today.

RAIN PARADE

2010-02-11T22:17:00.001-08:00

Droplets drip delightfully,

It's a RAIN PARADE!

Thunder claps and cheers today,

It's a RAIN PARADE!

Crowding, whistling, happy clouds,

It's a RAIN PARADE!

Lightning laughs and shines today,

It's a RAIN PARADE!

acrostic

2010-02-11T22:16:00.001-08:00

can't find them anywhere sometimes
always exactly where they want to be
thinking of fish and lazing about
so cute.

acrostic poem

2010-02-11T22:10:00.000-08:00

ode to that idle king who

defeated monsters

yet

still could not defy the

suitors who

entered and pillaged his wife and land

under the name of

sweet courting.

Contest by Steph

2010-02-02T18:09:00.000-08:00

Take a look at Steph's contest!
Here

Looks like you can win some really neat books! How about heading over there and entering? It's an international contest, so even if you live in the middle of Timbuktu (which is in Africa, by the way), you can still win!

Awesomeness.

Untitled poem

2010-02-01T17:31:00.001-08:00

1. Untitled

Note: Best read in a strong Scottish accent.

In merry ways of emerald
The workmen lay to sleep.
In copper beams of sunshine bold
The tired begin to dream.

Of knights and love and iron slopes,
Of brilliant deceit
Of rosy dreams and sprouted hopes
These dreary workers see.

To paradise and countries far
They yearn and crave to see
But lovely life and sapphire falls
Might find them all too near.

Shadow

2010-02-01T17:30:00.001-08:00

I am your shadow.
There beneath you I lurk and watch,
Wait and lie, scorching the fringes of your mind.
Then, should you scream or cry or bleed
I will be waiting.

NaNoWriMo excerpt

2009-11-29T22:06:00.000-08:00

Synopsis:
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.”

“No!”

“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.

“Yep.”

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.”

Long update

2009-11-24T14:26:00.000-08:00

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.

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

2009-11-11T13:17:00.001-08:00

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.
http://heyteenager.blogspot.com/2009/11/win-1-of-5-10-gift-certificates-for.html

Absolutely freakin' fantastic.

Coincidences... not really

2009-10-09T15:15:00.000-07:00

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.

Dialogue

2009-10-05T17:51:00.000-07:00

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.”

“Everything?”

“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?”

“Yes.”

“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?”

“Yes.”

“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.”

Crack.

The End.

Penny

2009-09-16T16:19:00.000-07:00

If you need prompts, check out the site Oneword.com.

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...

Repercussions

2009-07-22T21:48:00.000-07:00

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

2009-07-22T21:39:00.000-07:00

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?

Lilies

2009-07-18T20:11:00.000-07:00

“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."

"Really?"

"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.

The Yard

2009-07-09T15:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Prompt: The food did not look good to me.

2009-07-02T21:20:00.000-07:00

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.

"cool"

2009-06-06T06:32:00.000-07:00

"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.

Experiment

2009-06-03T14:11:00.001-07:00

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.

mommy

please

I've been tagged!

2009-05-26T08:16:00.000-07:00

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. :)

Blog Award!

2009-05-20T15:57:00.000-07:00

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. :)

Interview: bravechickens

2009-05-19T08:20:00.000-07:00

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!

CTRL-ALT-DELETE

2009-05-18T11:38:00.000-07:00

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.

OPERATION 672 INITIALIZING

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...

Interview: Steph Bowe

2009-05-13T21:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Savor the Moment

2009-05-08T21:12:00.000-07:00

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.

Prompt: The Secret of Immortality

2009-04-28T18:19:00.000-07:00

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.

THE END.

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

Prompt: Villain!

2009-04-28T18:10:00.001-07:00

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.

Phantasmagoria

2009-04-26T11:45:00.000-07:00

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.
Yours,
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—)

(Sir, 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.

Chris?

Kendall.

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.

(Ostinato)

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!

2009-04-26T11:11:00.001-07:00

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

2009-04-26T09:03:00.000-07:00

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. :)

Awards!

2009-04-26T08:44:00.000-07:00

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

YABBA

2009-04-23T22:07:00.001-07:00

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.
http://heyteenager.blogspot.com/
http://sweethearts.blogspot.com/

The Horror of Dentists

2009-04-11T12:25:00.001-07:00

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.

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

2009-04-10T18:20:00.001-07:00

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.

Choices:
--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? >.>

START:

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...

Script Frenzy

2009-03-23T19:09:00.000-07:00

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.

Fanfiction bit - Naruto

2009-03-20T13:58:00.001-07:00

“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.

Imaginary

2009-03-01T21:20:00.000-08:00

"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...

PREVIEW: my NaNoWriYe

2009-02-27T13:45:00.000-08:00

"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."

"Indeed."

"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..."

"Indeed..."

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

The Power of 7

2009-02-25T22:07:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-25T21:30:00.000-08:00

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.

Prompt: Formidable

2009-02-24T23:14:00.000-08:00

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

2009-02-24T23:12:00.002-08:00

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.”

“Really?”

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

2009-02-24T23:12:00.001-08:00

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

2009-02-24T18:14:00.000-08:00

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...

Love,
Terrence

Prompt: Spy

2009-02-24T17:29:00.000-08:00

"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?"

"Um..."

"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."

"Okay--"

WHEEEOOOOOEEEEOOOOO.

"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

2009-02-24T16:29:00.001-08:00

"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

2009-02-24T16:16:00.000-08:00

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?

2009-02-24T15:46:00.000-08:00

"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.

Intro

2009-02-24T15:44:00.001-08:00

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! ^.^