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..."

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.”

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...

5 Days

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

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.

Coincidences... not really

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

---

"So how have you been, Mack?"

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

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

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

"What business?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was creeping me out.

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

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

A lady screamed.

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

At that moment, the door swung open.

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

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

Penny

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...

The Yard

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

There was no way out.

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

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

Prompt: The food did not look good to me.

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

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

"No thanks," I managed to reply.

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

CTRL-ALT-DELETE

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...

Prompt: The Secret of Immortality

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END.

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

Prompt: Villain!

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

Prompt: Villain!
Being written here as I type.

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

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

From a Adopt a Line from the NaNoWriMo forums.

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

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

Anyway. Let's try this again.

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

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...

Prompt: Art

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

To be finished at a later date.

Prompt: Handrail

Dear Love:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I got that letter.

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Terrence

Prompt: Spy

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

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

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

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

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

"Prison guards?"

"... That too."

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

"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

"Excuse me. Are you superstitious?"

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

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

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

"Why, many people."

"Yourself included?"

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

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

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

I wonder where that came into play...

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

The cat meowed in response.

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

Prompt: Library

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The professional thief paused. "How much?"

"Thirty thousand and no less."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wasn't gonna," the thief replied.

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