Fairest

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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!

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

“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

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...

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?

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

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!

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

“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.

-

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-

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-


"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

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

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

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

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

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

laugh
and
under
great
hindrances

you won't suffer at all.