A place to post things you’ve written and/or to talk about writing in general. Vixen in the Eyes of the Moon has just pointed out that we haven’t created a new version of this thread since version 2007.2, so here goes.
Not to be confused with Books in Progress, which focuses on book-length writing.
w00t w00t w00000t!!!!!! First post!!!!!!
Writing? Nothing special from me until NaNo time comes around… mainly a lot of fanfictions.
Thanbk you so much GAPAs!
Now that it’s school time, we are constantly getting writing assignments assigned. Would a´nyone like to post some of theirs?
2- Not any from recent times, but I might be able to dig up a research paper I wrote on Joan of Arc in 5th grade.
*searches*
Yessss, here it is!!! (GAPAs, this one is longer than my Jane Austen one; perhaps you would like to make it a seperate document or something like that?)
1
Once, around the 1400’s, it was a dark time. The earth was not how it is now; there was no technology, telephones, computers, movies, CDs, nothing. There was a war going on at that time. It was the 100 Years War, the most infamous war ever fought in Europe between Britain and France, and most of the people in both countries wanted it to end. Any shred of hope that the fighting would end, they would take.
There was a prophecy about this war, fore told by the great wizard Merlin many years earlier. It stated that France would be ruined by a wanton* woman, then be saved by no more than a peasant girl, born by Lorraine.** The people of France were hopeful of this prophecy, for the first part of it had already come true. France had nearly been destroyed by the mentally deranged Queen Isabeau by allowing France to partake in the war. However, the second part seemed preposterous. How could a peasant, a girl nonetheless, save the country from completely going under? They would just have to wait and see.
The year 1412, a little girl was born to a poor family that lived by Lorraine. They christened her Jeanne d’Arc, which translated to English means Joan of Arc. Her father was Jacques d’Arc, and her mother’s name is unknown. She was a fairly normal child, with many siblings and chores. One thing separated her from the other though; she believed in the church in an unnatural way. When she was younger she refused to take part in games that had to do with killing, dying, death, hurting, or any thing else unholy. When the other little girls gave flowers to the fairies, she gave them to the Saints. She went to church every Sunday of course, but also went many other times throughout the week. Joan loved her father very dearly, and to be outdoors as well. Yes, she liked some womanly habits such as sewing, spinning and weaving, but was most likely to be found outside climbing a tree, scraping her knee, playing in the sand and all sorts of outdoorsy activities.
One day when she was thirteen years old, she was playing and dancing outside with some of her closest friends when she suddenly started to get dizzy. She slumped under a nearby tree, laughing. The world was spinning around her when suddenly, beautiful music started playing. She saw Saint Michael coming down from the heavens, telling her to be a good girl and go to church often.
At first, Joan was shocked, but then the visits from the saints became more normal and began seeing saints Catherine and Margaret as well as
*See glossary **See appendix item A
Michael many times a week. At first the messages were simple, telling her to
be a good girl and worship God. Then one day, Michael came to her and said, “Go, go, daughter of God, into the realm of France. You must drive out the English and bring the Dauphin to be crowned at Rheims.†Joan was deeply surprised. She of course wanted to complete the Saint’s bidding, but knew that the Duke of Burgundy, who was in league with the English, controlled most of her town, making it harder to get out into the city. So she replied “I am but a poor maid, and know nothing of war!†The saint answered “God will help you.†Joan began to cry, not knowing what to do, then a great sense of peace overwhelmed her, and she promised to do the saint’s bidding.
In the fall of 1428, Joan heard that the Burgundians were preparing to attack Domremy, a city in France. She knew that her country desperately needed an army. Her entire village had to travel away as refugees. When they came back, the whole town had been destroyed. The October of that very same year, Joan found out that the English had lain a siege on Orleans, the most important city in France other that Paris. It was then that the saints added a new part to her mission; raise the siege of Orleans.
2
So Joan was told to set out at once, and yet she didn’t. She waited until the time seemed right, and then just left. Without telling anybody. She knew that her father would be heartbroken if she left, and was very sad to leave, but she knew that she had to.
Saint Michael said that before she went to war, she had to go and see Sir Robert de Baudricort for permission, a horse, proper weapons and such. The knight resided in Vaucouleurs, a city not far from Domremy. It was hard to get backing from Baudricort. They were spent in discussion for several days, about how God had sent her, and this was a divine mission from the heavens with no avail. She was forced to go home and she thought about giving up, marrying and settling down.
As time went on, she began to realize how wrong she was, and was filled with remorse* at her decision. She was frightened at the prospect of going, for her father had threatened to drown her if she tried something like that again. And yet she went. She said that “if I had 100 mother and 100 fathers, I still would have gone.†She left January in 1429. At first she was sent away again, and she stayed in Vaucouleurs. When they finally took her in, they found her modest, kind, intelligent, and completely sane. She was rather impressin, and one of Baudricorts squires even said that he would escort her to the king himself.
Her story spread very fast, and in almost no time at all it reached the royal palace in Chinon, and to the dauphin** himself. A royal messenger came to Baudricort and told him to send her at once to the Palace. Now all that she needed was Baudricort’s backing, and he gave it to her. Her cousin Durand got her a horse, and she was all ready to go.
During the trip to Chinon, Joan began calling herself the Maid, and on Febuary 24, 1429, she arrived. The next day at 8:00pm, she was summoned to the king’s room. The king, as a test, put one of his courtiers on his throne and told him to pretend to be the prince, while he hid in the audience. As soon as she came in, she knew something was awry. She looked around all of the 300 watching people, and immediately saw the true dauphin. She walked up top him, went on a knee, and said “God give you life, oh gentle king.†He was astonished, and ordered her to be taken away for a private interview.
No one knows exactly what happened in that room between the peasant girl and the dauphin. All people know is that when the dauphin came
*See glossary **See glossary
out of that room, he was assured and absolutely positive that she was a holy savior. All of his advisors and friends tried to convince him that it was the devil he was speaking to, and not god, but he could not be swayed, lest and interview with his private scholars. Throughout all her tedious questions, the most riveting for the professors was “Do you believe in God?†She replied with “More than you do.†And “why are you here right now?†She replied, “I may not know A from B, but I come on behalf of the king of heaven to raise the siege of Orleans, end the British occupation, and lead the king to Rhiems for his coronation. She stayed for many months in the city being pestered with questions from the church. She loved the common people and children and cared for them during her long stay.
Finally, in mid-April the church announced her a good Christian and Catholic. After that, she was very eager to begin her journey. Her friends in the town were sad to see her go, but gave her their goodbye presents. Some of the women made her a page’s habit. Others got her some boots and spurs, and Baudricort gave her a sword, and even hugged her when she left. She had all the supplies and equipment, love and gifts, plenty of memories, and everything she needed to take a long journey. She was ready to start her mission.
3
It took 11 days to get to Chinon. It was a fairly long and easy ride, and she joked and talked with her men the majority of the way. Along the way they had to pass through English and Burgundian territory. Her men were very frightened and began to panic slightly. Joan, however, kept them calm. Finally, they arrived at the Palace. Joan was granted permission by the king to go to Tours and Blois (near Orleans) to prepare for battle.
Her army loved her very much, but found her extreme authority very absurd. It was common knowledge to do nothing before consulting the Maid. Also, her battle strategies, to them, were insane. Her plan was to make a full out assault on the main British fort, but they disagreed; they thought that it was the wiser to make a gradual assault, firstly conquering the many smaller forts surrounding the edges of their territory. In fact, they were not planning on her fighting; they told her to go in with supplies and food for the people, while they kept the British occupied with the fighting. Joan was furious when she found out their plan. A day ago, they had put supplies in a small boat and shipped it into the city to tide over the people. When she protested that it was her divine calling to officially drive out the English, they argued back that they were told to deliver supplies and leave. She said that they already had supplies, but still had a siege to deal with, and they said that the people needed more supplies. The captain wasn’t easily manipulated, but led back the soldiers anyway.
April 29, they entered Orleans. Inside, the English commanders did not seem to want to fight, so they just passed them by. They stayed a few days in the city, helping the people. Then, on May 4, Joan awoke to some commotion. The French had disobeyed her and attacked one of the smaller outer forts. She hurried out to the raging battlefield, and found out that the fighting had been going on for a very ling time. The French were weak, and on the verge of giving up, but when Joan rode in on her horse, they gained a new strength and won their first fort in months.
The next day, the troops made plans for their next attack. Joan, to her fury, got no invite to the planning party. According to the dauphin, she was supposed to be there. She, of course, showed up anyway. They tried to get back into the city, but the governor of Orleans would not let them in. They pried off the locks to the gate of the city and went in on their own accord. They then discussed battle within the city walls. Joan’s plan was simple and direct; they would take the three smaller forts surrounding the city in shifts, and then attack the main stronghold of Les Tourelles.
The first fort was won easily by the French; it’s name was the Fort of Saint Jean-le-Blanc. The second was fort Les Augustins, and it was harder to capture than the first. This is because it was built on the ruins of an old monastery, causing the base and walls to be stronger. But, by nightfall, the British had surrendered. Joan was ever so eager to continue the victories, but her commander insisted on having her rest. Battle, for the young maiden, was a bloody, gruesome and exhausting affair. Guns, rifles, cannons, or any other shooting devices had not been invented yet, so battle was mainly in close quarters with swords, bows, lances, or other chief medieval weapons. Also, the traditional battle garb* was heavy and hot, causing discomfort to be resolute.
Her troops were weary and begging for a longer break, but she made them go to battle anyway. On May 7, she awoke early with her men to attend mass. She had ordered for all soldiers to attend mass before every battle. Les Tourelles did not go down easily. There was a deep ditch around the fort, and the walls were smooth, making them harder to scale. Joan was in the first row, and was felled by an arrow in the shoulder. This deeply disheartened the men. Some knelt to dress her wound. Once the cut was thoroughly bandaged in strips of linen, she got up and went under a tree in a nearby meadow to pray, telling her faithful crew she was going to ask God what to do. 15 minutes later she returned with the order to charge at the fort with everything they had left. The French filled a small dinghy with pitch, tar, and oily rags, lit it on fire, and sent it in down the Loire river. The English sank in 50 pounds of armor. By the French intelligence and by the help of God, the fort was won.
The next morning of May 8, Joan received the news that the English were going to abandon all the remaining forts. Her commander asked her if they should follow them. She replied with “Let them go. God does not wish for us to fight this day.†Then she cried very long for the many English deaths she had caused. Still, her troops were impressed; she had done in just 3 days what commanders thought impossible. The entire city of Orleans swore unanimously that what they saw was a miracle. The governer even declared that May 8 should be a day of feasting. Nobles gave her horses, wine, and clothes. Just a maiden, born on the banks of the Meuse, saved an entire city. Most everyone was pleased, the English were not. The dauphin was simply lukewarm. He did pay her for her trouble, but in his letter of rejoice to the people, he only mentioned her at the very end. Joan threatened the dauphin that God would punish him for not crediting her, but she did not really mind. After all, she had freed Orleans, and the people were safe. She had completed the first part of her mission.
4
Directly after defeating the English at Orleans, Joan consulted the dauphin for permission on the 2nd part of her mission; crowning the new king of France. The dauphin was reluctant at first to this impossible-sounding mission, but after debate he agreed with her. But, before he was crowned, battles had to be fought. The English had sent recruits, along with the feared General Fastolf, infamous for almost never losing a battle. Yet, with Joan’s valiant leadership and the troop’s faith in her, they won 4 good battles in one week. Two defeated the English, and the others the Earl of Suffolk and Lord Talbot. They could finally leave.
Even with the threat of the English gone, there were still Burgundians around the city. Charles did not like battles since he wasn’t very good with weapons; and the fact that it was against the Duke of Burgundy ( also known as Philip the Good) made it even worse. Philip was Charles’ cousin, and he had always feared him. For some reason, though, the Burgundians did not attack, and they were allowed to pass peacefully.
They entered Rheims on July 15 and the entire city was jubilant. As they wlked through the streets, people were crowding around shouting “Noel!* Noel!†A properly crowned king seemed a gift from God to them. The king had to be crowned at Rheims because the very first king of France had been crowned there in 496. The hall was magnificent; the French had spent much money on the ceremony. She saw the Sword of St. Catherine in the Shrine of St. Catherine. They blessed the dauphin with it. Then he swore to protect on the Bible, and then a blue cape with lilies was adorned on his back ( the sign of royalty). Finally, the archbishop made a cross with holy water on his forehead, and he was lead out of the castle into the streets, allowing the people to bow and cheer in awe. Joan stayed very close to Charles during the entire ceremony, and she held her military flag, the only military symbol in the hall. She wore plain armor, trying not to take all the glory away from Charles.
To Joan the coronation was both a success for her and Charles. She had accomplished her second task, and Charles had gotten his lifelong dream of being king. Plus, now all of France was united under one king, a dream fulfilled by itself to the people. After the ceremony, there was much feasting and partying. Joan was given much credit from the people. She was asked to be godmother of many children. Letters from all around the country came to *See glossary
Charles. He was offered a key to then city. Cities previously controlled by Burgundy now asked to be under Charles’ command. Charles was extremely proud of himself and Joan.
Because of his good mood, Joan thought she could try and get on with her 3rd mission; freeing the rest of France. The country was certainly in the mood. She summoned him and begged to go and free Paris. Surely he would say yes to release the most important city in France! Yet he denied her. He told her that he was planning to go south into safe, in control land. And that he was going to bring her with him. He also told her that he had signed an agreement with Philip, promising that if he did not attack any more, he could have some land. Joan was furious, and told him that he was trying to break her mission by not uniting the whole of France. After much debate though, he finally gave her the permission that she needed. She was scared, of course, for rumor had it that Philip had 3,500 new troops. She knew, however, that she must complete her 3rd task, even if it cost her life.
5
When she started out, she was under much stress. She was scared of Burgundy’s troops. Once, she got so temperamental that she chased one of the camp women out of the camp and hit her with the flat of her sword so hard on the head that the blade snapped off. She felt a great deal of foreboding soon to come in the future because of Charles’ treaties; she thought that he was trying to kill her. She told God that if this was how things were going to be, she might as well give up. Her troops were beginning to ask questions about why they were leaving if the treaties were still intact. She told them not to worry about it. One of her befriended soldiers built her a bridge over the river for the great assault.
The fighting did not fare well for the French. Many of her men died, and she herself got a very bad wound in the calf. Still she was reluctant to retreat until nightfall. Too many souls had been sacrificed; they crossed the bridge in retreat.
The next morning, she said to resume. Her soldiers prepared, and just as they were going to attack, 2 messengers came. They said that by order of the king they should stop attacking. Joan was furious and went to the battle anyway. They headed south to the bridge again. When they arrived, they saw that it had been burned. It had been done by the king’s men. Joan then realized that the only reason Charles had allowed her to go was to show her that she would fail. In despair, she ordered a retreat. She was called back South and her troops then called North. Her troops since the siege had been called away from her at last.
To keep her busy, Charles sent her to settle disputes between towns on the Loire river. This was a difficult assignment; clearly Charles wanted to see her defeated. To cover up this rather un-kingly act, Charles allowed Joan to stay with him in the Palace. He also changed her name from d’Arc to de’Lys, since only nobles were allowed to have names beginning with ‘de’. Despite all of this pampering, she was not happy. She felt like a prisoner contrary to guest in the palace, and never used her new name. By spring, 1430, her patience was running out. The last March, her voices told her that she had roughly a year until her time was up. That meant that her time to complete her mission was limited. This made her very mad. A rumor was going around that Philip was planning a huge attack, and this only made her more furious.
By the end of March she did not care anymore about the fact that Charles was her king. She rounded up some troops with the money from the Siege. She left without permission or knowledge that she was going. On the way to the Burgundian’s planned attack location, she stopped at Melun to celebrate Holy Week. The Saints told her that she would be captured on St. Jon’s day (June 24). She was greatly frightened when they told her this, but then they said that she should not worry, and God would guide her. She was not worried anymore.
After Holy Week, she discovered where the Burgundians were planning to attack. It was Compiegne, the gateway to the North. It was obvious by this that Burgundy wanted to take over France. Charles sent a messenger saying to retreat; Joan said no.
Around nightfall on May 22, Joan arrived in Compiegne. The next morning, they rode to the Burgundian camp. Joan’s soldiers were very scared; and despite Joan’s effort to calm them, they panicked. They quickly retreated. They went back into the city. The next day, they re-attacked, and the Burgundians surrendered. She knew that she was almost done with hber missions.
6
As soon as she was announced victorious, Joan set back south to the King. When she got there, she found she was under arrest for being a heretic. Joan was of course shocked and displeased, yet her voices told her to take it gracefully. She was kept in a tight, dirty, smelly cell until her trials.
Her trial began February 21, 1431. She was brought out of her cell to the courtroom. The courtroom was ominous, with the judge sitting on high-backed chairs with the supreme justice and bishop sitting on large chairs in front of her. There was a small chair in the centre of the room in which she was told to sit. Two guards flanked her as to see that she would not escape. The bishop overseeing the entire arrangement, a man named Cauchon, was a traitor to the French; he used to be the king’s chief advisor, and then turned by persuasion to the English. She took a deep breath, and the trials began.
“When St. Michael appeared to you, was he wearing clothes?â€
“Do you no think that God could afford to clothe him?â€
“Are you more faithful in God or in the church?â€
“I prefer God over mortals merely blessed by God. After all, if there was no God, then who would do the blessing on the mortal?â€
The questions went on as such. The spectators said that even a well trained scholar could not answer as the poor peasant girl did. The proceeds went on for weeks. Joan’s typical day was she would wake up, have 3-4 hours of questioning, then be dismissed to sleep again. It was difficult for the judges to determine if she was a sorcerer or a murderer, or both. In fact, the only bad thing about her was that she refused to love the priests and clergy over God. Another was that she wore men’s clothing; this was a crime against the Lord. She was pronounced ‘evil’, for only people of the Church were allowed to her divine voices. As proof of her foul deeds, they asked, “do you believe in the bidding of the Church?†She replied, “yes, but God comes first.†They eventually got so frustrated with her that they brought her to the torture room and showed all of the merciless pieces of metal. She said “you can tear my limbs and douse my light, but I will not be able to speak if you do.
The next morning, they bought her out to the middle of the town in an execution cart. She went on a large podium with a preacher. He asked her loyalty to God and the Pope. Then he read a speech about her evilness, and how she ought to be burned. In the middle of his exuberant speech, she stopped him and ‘confessed’. She said it was the devil speaking to, and she was a murderer, and such. It was if they had planned it (which they did). The priest brought out a document that stated that she would not be burned, lest she spend her life in prison. She was relieved and overjoyed, until she found out that Cauchon was planning on handing her over to the English. If she had thought that this was bad, she knew that the English would be much worse. She shouted not to be handed over to be burned instead! They consented, and her burning was scheduled. The Maid of Lorraine had completed her mission, but to suffer a sad fate.
7
Her last days were miserable. She knew that she had done the right thing, for that was what her voices told her, yet that did not stop her from being upset. Her only comforts were her voices. They told her to not worry, for she was good, and God would guide her through the hard times.
On May 30, 1431, the day of the execution, guards grabbed her and led her out to an executioner’s cart. They drove her, chained to a post, through the streets into the square. As they strapped her to the scaffold, she asked as a last request to hold a crucifix* level with her eyes for its last comfort. She had before made a makeshift cross and stuck it in her bosom, yet she needed to gaze into it. Someone in the dense crowd held up a cross, and as the dry hay and sticks lit at her feet, her last words were “God! God! Jesus! Save me! Jesus!†And then nothing. When the flames and crowd died down, the executioner said “Alas, I fear I shall be damned, for I feel I have burnt a holy woman.â€
There are rumors about Joan’s burning; some say that a decoy was in her place, others think that it was an angel that was burnt, and Joan became one in her place. Scientists say they have reason to believe that a dead Egyptian mummy was burned while she slipped away. Whatever the reason or belief, a great soul was destroyed that day, and this is why that May 30 is known as the Feast of St. Joan of Arc.
Joan was considered a saint to then catholic church in 1920. Since then many have been awed by her. The scaffold where she was burnt still stands with the original base, which reads ‘evil, unbelieving, cruel, dissolute.’ Joan has inspired many people, boys and girls, worldwide. She was a great human being, and every person in the world should know and think of her in time of need. She was a good person with a good heart, and that is why I love her and her story so much.
Whew, that took awhile.
I’m thinking I might try NaNo. Maybe. I’m not writing much at the moment except poetry in LA class, which we did LAST YEAR.
4- I take poetry every year. Do you have a good teacher?
My teacher might do NaNo! I’m so excited.
5-NO.
Yay, Joan of Arc!
I’m writing… something. It’s a quasi-Victorian/Edwardian alternate-world novel involving kindapping, a lighthouse, an oligarchy and two feuding groups of pirates… so far. I don’t really want to talk about it right now, because it’s actually going quite well and I don’t want to break the spell (XD…kind of). I don’t know much about ships and such, which is kind of a drawback, but mercifully much of it takes place on land right now.
So I don’t want to abandon it for NaNo… but maybe i’ll use NaNo as an incentive to continue writing.
I wrote a piece for English that made refrences to R+G are Dead, and made fun of superheroes, and I was actually rather proud of it. But I doubt that I’ll ever get it back at the rate my teacher grades papers… She’s very nice, though, which is good.
I’m writing a really cool essay on The Allegory of the Cave, in comparison to the movie The Truman Show. I don’t know if that really falls under this category, but I’ll post it when I’m done.
2- I could post my Shakespeare essay…if anyone wanted to read it. Anyone want to read a rather opinionated and poorly-supported ranty essay that I wrote in an hour and a half and still managed to get 100% on?
6- Now that would be fun. Ish. Actually I’m not so sure. Anyway, no danger of finding out. Ms. B is too focused on giving away the ending of TKAM and teaching us words like “feeble” to assign any novels.
Seriously. Our honors class is like a regular class.
6 – That would be awesome.
It would be even more awesome if an entire class did NaNo, or at least a version of NaNo with a slightly smaller word count goal.
7- my sympathies. Our poetry teacher is okay, though she’s my least favorite writing teacher in the Literary Arts department. My favorite is nonfiction, followed by dramatic writing.
I’m writing a 10-minute play in Playwriting this year, and it’s going to be based off of a piece of art in the Carnegie Museum’s International this year. I still have no plot, though…
I love Joan of Arc. (The main reason I did a report on her…)
We had to write a paragraph about how God is better than science. Honestly, I don’t even know why they even try to teach us science on a realistic level in Christian schools.
My teacher thinks we’re all idiots, I swear. All the teachers think we’re complete idiots.
I’m writing a few things at the moment. Some excerpts:
Anyway, I can’t do NaNo sadly, because you have to be at least 13
The first story,
I stared blankly at the piece of paper in front of me. Ok, so, what traits do of good student have? Well that’s easy, all the traits I don’t have. I smiled to myself. My teacher saw me smile and tapped my desk. “40 minutes.†She said. My smile immediately changed to a frown. I glanced at the score sheet, and picked up my pencil, already sticky with sweat. I stared blankly at the ceiling. This was going to be a long day.
It was September 2nd. The first day of prison. Oh sorry, I meant school. We were supposed to write an essay about what traits a good students has, why you need to be prepared, and blah blah blah. 5 paragraphs in all. I mean come on; it wasn’t even for a grade! It was just some random thing to show our ignorant teachers how good we were at writing.
2nd one, (I’m pretty sure this one’s on Books in Progress),
Finally, it came to the last act. Her act. She got up, brushed herself off, and plopped her cap on. “Our final act of the night is one that has been at the festival, ever since it started. Always last, it wrapped up show, leaving the crowds wanting more, and questioning science, and life. It is my pleasure, to introduce, Luri The Illusionist of Greyre!†The crowd was quiet; she could here a small applause. She strode out onto the stage and bowed her head.
“A grand speech, Jonathan, for such a humble act!†somebody shouted, but whoever spoke, was soon quieted by another. Luri nodded in the direction of the speaker. “A very grand speech to start the end. A grand speech to remember before you forget.†she spoke with authority, even thought she was just a child, from the streets of the largest city in her country, Greyre.
Luri produced a small apple from her pocket. She threw it right across the room towards the higher box seats. She concentrated on it while it flew. It stopped in midair, and flew right back to her. She made it fly up, to the very top of the auditorium. Luri waved her hand, and right before the crowd’s eyes, it turned into a bright red bird. It flew back to her. She let it go. She heard a couple gasps from the crowd. “I would like a volunteer from the audience,†a few tentative hands went up. “The young lady in the purple dress?†Luri called. The lady came up the stairs at the right of the stage. “I would like you to look at that mirror.†Luri said.
And here’s what I have of the third,
The forest, vibrating a few moments before, stopped. The only sound I could hear was the tread of my own boots, and my short, quick breaths. The moss was glistening with the early morning dew, and everything was fresh and green. It was like the forest knew spring had arrived. The trees were standing, tall and green, the moss, becoming thicker and thicker, and the plants were taking over the dirt walking paths. Rodents scampered away, waiting until the “danger†passed. The leaves rattled in the trees, while the wind blew softly. Roots twisted and winded, exposed after the first rain had washed away the dirt. How peaceful the forest was, though life surrounded me. I turned and looked back at the lights, and people rushing around busily. A soldier shoved me. “Remember kid. You have 5 minutes.†I sighed and walked quietly into the forest. Oh great. Exiled. For good. This was not my day.
1st BEGINNING
It had been a sunny morning in February. The big round sun sat in the sky, making the snow glow. As I walked slowly back to my hut, enjoying the crisp air and listening to the cardinals chirp, I heard some yelling from Drakon Forest; the dense woods the lay on the north side of town. Being as curious as I am, I looked around to make sure no one was watching, and set off towards the sound.
I parted the pine branches and found myself looking into a clearing. Five of the king’s soldiers were there, along with Laurik, a wood carver from the village. Laurik had gashes on his tanned face from what looked like daggers, and he was beaten pretty badly. “I won’t give it to you!†Laurik yelled. He clutched something in his large, bloody hands. I noticed a navy blue hawk on one of the soldier’s cloaks. My eyebrows went up. Somehow Laurik had gotten a hold of something the king wanted, badly. The Soldiers of the Raptor were the king’s personal bodyguards, the best fighters in all the land. They were almost never away from the king’s side, unless something of great importance, I mean incredibly great, like the world ending, sprang up.
“Sir, give us the horn, and nobody gets hurt.†A soldier said through gritted teeth. That’s when I first saw it, a pure white sparkling horn. It had odd carvings in it, and at the tip, was a carved bird of great detail.
2nd BEGINNING
You can call me a thief, an outsider, a criminal, and a juvenile delinquent, but never call me a murder or a liar.
14 – You have to be at least 13 to do NaNo? Cake.
I was planning on doing that. Well, maybe I can still do it – but not officially. 
10) shakespeare, yes please. I’d love to see that.
13) off topic, but how do they teacher science? do you guys learn intelligent design or what. just wondering
14) Looks good so far! I like them…also I think nano has a young writers thing or something that you can do. honestly I would go for it no matter what age you are, even if it’s not “official”. but yeah definitely look into their young writers thing.
ummmmmm I am writing some thingz but they are not yet finished. Are you guys ever seized by inspiration because a couple of days ago I was in language arts class and this sentence from something we were reading/analyzing kind of TRIGGERED MASS HYSTERIA IN MY BRAIN and I wrote a paragraph and developed a sort of idea for a plot. it was crazy.
I think I’m going to work on my poems now…my language arts class is all analysis and composition this year, so once again very little chance for out and out creative pursuits. oh well I’ll find a way to squeeze something in.
I’m writing a bilingual story in which the parts written in danish are much more innocent and childish than the parts written in english. Each page has a painting or other art piece attached to it, and I call it a multimedia presentation, even though it’s in essence just a picture book. Definately not for kids, though.
As always, I’m a subtle writer, so if you want to catch the whole story, read the english parts carefully.
Here is the first part.
Den lille pige trommede på spisebordet med sine fingre og smaskede med hendes tyggegummi. Hendes far kigget op fra hans computer og sagde skarpt, ’Jeg sagde at du skulle finde på noget at lave.’
Hun sukkede dybt og sagde, ’Ej far, vil du ikke leje dukker med mig?’
Han sagde, blødere end før, at han var i gang med noget meget vigtigt og at han simpelthen ikke havde tid.
The little girl glanced at her father’s gaunt face and the dark rings underneath his eyes. She impatiently drummed her fingers on the tabletop and popped her bubblegum. Her father jerked his eyes away from the computer screen and said sharply, ‘I thought I said that you should find something to do?’
She sighed heavily and pleaded him with her eyes. He looked away. ‘Daddy, won’t you play dolls with me?’ she whined.
But he only said that he was in the middle of something very important.
Den lille pige sagde ikke noget. Hun gik ud af døren mens hendes far skrev noget på tastaturet. Hun gik ud i gangen og åbnede havedøren. Regn styrtede ned fra himlen og løb ned af bladene på træet. Hun kiggede på de blomster, der havde døde af tørst nogle uger før. Deres røde farve havde længe siden tørrede til en brændt gul, og blomsterne rådnede i regnen.
The little girl said nothing at all. She walked out of the room while her father typed something on the keyboard. She walked into the hallway and opened the backdoor softly, so that he would not hear. Rain poured from the sky and ran in tiny rivers down the leaves of the oak tree. She used to have a swing in the tree, but the swing had broken. The remnants of rope hung forgotten from a branch. She glanced at the flowers that had died of thirst a few weeks before. Their red colour had long since dried to a burnt yellow, and the rain caused the flowers to rot.
A translucent spider web clung to the door frame, and the girl slid her finger through the fibrous web, ripping it apart.
Den lille pige lukkede døren og gik ovenpå. Hun gik ind på hendes værelse og stirrede på de lyserøde vægge. Hun så ned på gulvet og så at en bog lå på gulvet. Den var blå udenpå og lidt støvet. Hun tog den op i sine hænder. I guld skrift stod der Susanna Malcolm Louis.
’Mit navn,’ sagde hun blødt.
The little girl shut the door and went upstairs. She knocked her feet against the steps as she went. She went into her bedroom and sat on the bed, alone in the darkened room. She let her hand run in circles on the shameful bed. She stared at the gaudy pink walls. She dropped her gaze to the floor and saw a book lying on the floorboards. It had a blue cover, slightly dusty. She held the book in her hands and a tingling spread about her hands, as though the book had an aura of uneasiness. She glanced at the spine of the book. In gold letters, a bit tattered and chipped, as though neglected, ‘Susanna Malcolm Louis’ was written.
‘My name,’ she said softly.
Hun åbnede bogen og læste hvordan hun var født, hun bladrede videre og læste hvordan hendes femte fødselsdag var holdt… side efter side, hvert eneste øjeblik af hendes liv var forsigtigt noteret.
Og pludseligt var det tomt. Der var sider tilbage men de var tomme. Hun begyndte at putte bogen ned, men hun lod mærke til, at nye ord kom frem. Som om bogen skrev sig selv.
She opened the book and read the printed words on the thick paper of how she was born, she flipped the pages and read about her fifth birthday… page after page, every single moment of her life carefully noted. She read how her mother lay on the hospital bed, grey hair splashed through the rich brown colour of her once glossy locks, how her breath came in hacks and her eyes lost their focus…
She flipped the pages hurriedly, as if searching for some desperately needed comfort, when suddenly the words stopped. There were plenty of blank pages left. She gasped and was about to put the book down, but she noticed, in mid-motion, that words were appearing. As if the Book wrote itself.
12- Oh yeah, you go to that awesome school and I’m so jealous. >.>
I really like making up characters; I think my NaNo will be an ensemble cast story.
Most recent character:
Corona Bloodfeather- A revenge Angel/Heavengiver (angelic prostitute). She’s in the service of the God of War, Ramus, and he got really mad that his girlfriend (Caia, Goddess of Magic) dumped him for a mortal so he sent Corona after the mortal. But Corona also has a personal grudge against Maxemedras, main character and incompetent mage.
What’s the feminine word for “mage”? Is there one?
“Majorette.”
Fasinating…..
I used to write Muse-related short stories. They all ended with “‘Ouch,’ he said.”
An off-topic conversation was zapped from this thread and copied to Homework 911 where it belongs. The Writing thread gets too long too quickly to fill it with extraneous material.
17- Vixen, could you post the translations for the Danish sections? I’d like to read the whole story, but I don’t know Danish, and I don’t trust an online translator to process carefully chosen subtle words.
Can links to google docs be posted? I’m pretty sure that they’re anonymous, and I wouldn’t want to completely clog this thread up with something half-finished.
23- Sure, I’ll do that tomorrow. But right now I am simply too tired.
Good night everyone!
14,15, ETC, YWP is for 12 and under. You need to understand it’s all due to laws about e-mails.
EDIT:
YWP is for 17 and under as of now, but 13 and up can do either.
17- Ohhh. It’s really sort of…pretty. But sad. Sort of lonely, in a childish way. But still pretty. I really want to read the whole thing.
16- OK. If I still have it.
Alice W———
Shakespeare Per. 3
DUE Wednesday, Sept. 17
Why Shakespeare Wrote Shakespeare
It is the belief of a great many persons that the works of William Shakespeare are not, in fact, the works of William Shakespeare, namely, that someone else wrote them. There is a plethora of candidates for the authorship of Shakespeare’s writing, ranging from Queen Elizabeth to Shakespeare himself. While there is no evidence proving that Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare, the supporting evidence is nearly overwhelming. From the towering stacks of Shakespeare-wrote-Shakespeare arguments, I have created two categories: Why Shakespeare could have written the plays, and why other people couldn’t have.
Many anti-Stratfordians have argued that Shakespeare was too poor and uneducated to have possibly written the literature which is attributed to him. “No one has ever seen the plays written in Shakespeare’s hand,†they argue. “The plays spoke of many different professions, and how could one so lowly know so much about them?†To that argument, the only response is, “how would a nobleman know any more than a commoner about common trades?†To which it should be added that Shakespeare was not as low class as is often claimed. His father, in fact, was at one point high bailiff of Stratford, although he later suffered rather a drop in society. (Epstein 284.) Furthermore, Stratford Grammar School was, at the time, “regarded as one of the finest [grammar schools] in England.†(Epstein 285.) Not to mention the fact that many of Shakespeare’s plot and characters seem to be taken directly from textbooks which were a large part of the grammar school curriculum of the time. (Epstein 285.) Traveling players also stopped often in Stratford-upon-Avon, so Shakespeare would have had plenty of knowledge of theater (at least the traveling kind) and no doubt some of the inspiration for his plays was taken from those theatrical performances which he saw as a child. (Epstein 285.)
Shakespeare’s plays were probably written for money, and not for a love of writing; the sheer quantity of the plays and their similarity to one another points to that. Those of noble birth, to whom the anti-Stratfordians wish to attribute the plays, would probably not need the money, and therefore would be writing for no other reason than a love of the art. Even supposing that some other writer had written the plays, what reason is there to believe that such a thing would need to be exposed? No one in Shakespeare’s day made any attempt to claim his writings. (Epstein 286.) Only now, when they are famous and admired, do people try to pin the plays onto long-dead candidates, none of whom probably cared when they were alive, and who certainly don’t care now. To add to the improbability of the argument, none of the other possible playwrights write “in a style remotely like Shakespeare’s.†(Epstein 286.)
It is highly improbable that Shakespeare’s contemporaries, who speak of him so fondly in the First Folio, could have remained oblivious to the fact that he had not written the plays, if such was the case. “In the gossipy world of London’s theaters, such a hoax would soon been exposed.†(Dunton-Downer 36.) One of the candidates, Edward DeVere, 17th Earl of Oxford, actually died ten years before Shakespeare stopped writing his plays, and yet people still argue that he is the true author. The anti-Stratfordians have persistence on their side, but no more evidence than their opponents.
There. I don’t care enough to rewrite all my MLA citations, so you’ll have to do without.
here’s the rest of teh story, witg out danish translations. I’ll post those later.
As always, it’s unedited, so there will be changes to come….
Og bogen skrev:
Hjælp kommer kun til dem der spørg.
And the book wrote:
No one can save you but yourself.
Og den lille pige sagde, ‘Jeg savner mor.’
Vinden susede ind i gennem huset, men ingen lagde mærke til det.
The little girl whispered softly, ’Can you make mommy come back?’
The chill in the house sat itself upon the bones and rattled.
Nye bogstaver skrev sig selv frem. Har du det virkeligt godt?
Den lille pige sagde, ’Jeg klarer mig.’
New letters oozed to the surface of the paper. They spelled:
Are you really fine?
A tear slid down the girl’s cheek. ‘No.’
Og pigen løftede bogen op. ‘Du kender min fremtid. Er mit liv vær at leve?’
Bogen skrev langsomt. Jeg kan ikke lyve.
Og pigen besluttet sig. ’Så fortæl mig sandheden.’
And the girl, who was not so little after all, lifted the book high. ‘You are omnipotent. Is my life worth the pain of living?’
The book wrote slowly.
I can not lie.
The girl decided quickly. ‘Then show me only the truth.’
Bogen skrev hurtigt:
Der er noget beder et andet sted.
Pigen nikkede.
‘Findes himmelen?’
The book wrote quickly,
There is always something better.
The girl nodded.
Is there a heaven and a hell?
Pigen lænede sig fremover, som om hun holdte på en dyb hemmelighed. Er du en engel?
Bogen skrev, der er hverken engle eller djævle.
The girl leaned forward, as if spilling the contents of a dark secret. ‘Are you the devil?’
There are neither devils nor angels, a heaven nor a hell.
Hun sat sig ned på gulvet. ’Jeg er så træt.’
Bogen skrev:
Det gør ikke ondt.
The little girl said, sitting down on the floor, ‘I am so tired.’
The book wrote sombrely:
It doesn’t hurt.
‘Is it easier than falling asleep?’
You were dead for millions of years before you were born.
‘I don’t remember it. ‘
You don’t remember all your dreams.
Hun lå sig ned på gulvet med bogen på hendes mave.
’Kommer jeg til at se min mor?’
Bogen svaret ikke, men pigen var tilfreds.
She lay on the floor with the book cradled on her stomach.
‘Will I see momma?’
She is waiting for you.
The girl closed her eyes and chose to die.
Light died away to darkness. The curtains shook, white against the white clouds in the sky. A rip in the darkness, then light, a wind went through and then she disappeared. She was born out of this world, and also into it. Total union with everything, peace at the heart, a star shining brightly and then exploding
Silence to the bone
The line of a poem ran through her head as a cold pain clutched her heart
Death burns all regrets
For regret is mortal
Death eats all sin
For sin is mortal
Death chokes all hate
For hate is mortal
Death drowns all sorrow
For sorrow is mortal
Death swallows all jealousy
For jealousy is mortal
Death ends all fear
For fear is mortal
Death kills all life
For life is mortal
But love alone cannot be slain by death
For many waters can not quench love
And neither can the floods drown it
Starlight is the same as sunlight, only farther away, she saw.
And then she saw nothing.
The book lay closed on the floor, the blank pages filled up.
Somehow, somewhere, a daughter ran to hold her small arms around a woman whom she called momma.
Shakespeare! Oh how I love him. Of course the old english is terribly confusing, but I’m attempting to decipher it.
29- It’s not Old English. It’s not even Middle English. It’s Shakespearean English. Or something.
27) Oh very interesting…I’ve heard a lot of yammering about UM EXCUSE ME SHAKESPEARE IS A FAKE for the past few years. I’d like to do more research on that myself. huh. isn’t citing things a bore? blah.
Could any one critique my story?
30- Whatever. It’s English, and it’s old. =Ye Olde English.
32- It’s absolutely beautiful. I started to cry.
Vixen- I love the idea of doing a bilingual story–I’m learning Danish right now and the simple language you used made it easier for me to understand both parts. I actually like this simpler, semi-childish style better than some of your other stuff I’ve read, which tends to be more flowery.
While I’m still a beginner at Danish, I did notice some of the subtle differences between the two languages, so that made me happy vis language practice.
I’d like to see the pictures too–this sounds like the kind of big multimedia piece where you have to have everything laid out in front of you to understand it all. It’s a really cool concept; keep it up.
I’ve played around with doing bilingual stuff before (wrote a poem that switched between Spanish and English); of course the danger there is that the reader themself has to be bilingual in the two languages you’re writing in if they want to get the full meaning. And translating often kills it, especially in a case like yours where the passages are close parallels of each other in different languages.
Is it all right with you if I keep tabs on this for my long-term project on translation? I wouldn’t use your writing in my paper (at least not without asking you again), but I’m interested to see how it plays out; I hadn’t even thought about subtly different translations used in a bilingual work.
Out of curiosity, do you write in Danish first, then translate, vice versa, or neither?
After you read this, leave a comment on which option you chose and i’ll post the next part ((((-:
You’re shopping in a mall in southern Arizona. I’ts lunchtime and your’e getting very hungry. Suddenly some-one throws a pie at you. Your reflexes are so good that you catch the banana-meringue pie (thanks to hours of playing dodgeball at school).
You…
a) eat the pie
b) get utensils and a napkin and THEN eat the pie
c) turn around and throw the pie at the next person behind you
d) mournfully stare at the pie, wishing it were a donut
e) run in the direction from whence it came
f) run around like a scared chicken, screaming “The pies are falling…”
To be continued…
Vixen, that story is amazing. It seems to me in many ways like a spiderweb–if I tried to touch it, it would fade away. The way you wrote it, too, without large adjectives, reminds me of a spiderweb in that something as simple as spider silk comes together to make something fragile and beautiful.
33- The House of Baker cringes.
35- C) Turn around and throw it at the person next to you.
37- We cringe. We wince. We do, we do.
35, bookgirl_me: Does Option E involve pieing whoever threw it at you? If so I pick that one. If not, then C.
i’m going to continue with option c), since you will not get to pie your attacker till later…
Your pie flies with amazing accuracy and (SPLATT!), hits an elderly Lady. She grunts like a wild boar an tears the pie tin of her face, followed by chunks of pie. Its your english teacher who’s been trying to flunk you for eight years ! She recognizes you ! You start running, dodging pies as you go. She followes you, slowed by the pies which are flying fast and thick. The
Teacher behind your is not so lucky- she’s covered from head to toe in banana-meringue-lemon gloop and random pieces of crust. If you weren’t so busy with self-preservation, you’d have laughed. Suddenly you step on a apple pie and slip. You can feel the hot breath of the teacher on your neck as she screams: “I’LL PUTT YOU ON DETENTION FOR LIFE !!!” Just as you’re about to start praying, an strange black figure/person/thing swings from a rope like Tarzan (cackling madly)and grabbs you from the clutches of the demented teacher. He starts playing a little black flute. Your head starts to spinn…
————————————————————————–
When you wake up, you’re in a strange room full of strange machinery. You’re assailant/savior/captor whines:”Finally you’re awake ! I’ve been waiting for ages!”
You say…
a) Who are you ?
b) Where am I ?
c) What do you want to do with me ?
d) Kokopelli, I presume !
e) Do you have a donut ?
f) Do you have a pie I could borrow ?
40, I’d chose option f), but I’m sure that 10 sek. later my heroics would cease.
i’m going to continue with option c), since you will not get to pie your attacker till later…
Your pie flies with amazing accuracy and (SPLATT!), hits an elderly Lady. She grunts like a wild boar an tears the pie tin of her face, followed by chunks of pie. Its your english teacher who’s been trying to flunk you for eight years ! She recognizes you ! You start running, dodging pies as you go. She followes you, slowed by the pies which are flying fast and thick. If you weren’t so busy with self-preservation, you would laugh. Suddenly your foot catches in a pie tin and you trip. You can feel the hot breath of the enraged teacher on your neck as she screams:”I’LL PUT YOU ON DETENTION FOR LIFE !!!”Just as you are about to start praying, a inky-black person/creature/thingy, swinging with a rope like Tarzan, rescues you from the clutches of your demented teacher.
He starts playing a small black flute. Your head starts to spin…
—————————————————————————-
When you wake up, you’re in a strange room full of strange machines. You captor/savior is standing next to you. He whines:”Finally you’re awake ! I’ve been waiting for ages !”
You reply…
a)Where am I ? Why am I here ?
b)What do you want to do with me ?
c)Thanks for saving my life back there !
d)Kokopelli, I presume !
e)Do you have a donut ?
f)Do you have a pie I could borrow ?
I’m REALLY SORRY about the double entry-my computer messed up.
Here’s the beginning of what I think is going to be my NaNoWriMo.
The rain fell in drops of beaded lace across the earth, and bounced off the windows of a room in which a small figure sat and thought and wished and dreamed.He didn’t want anything more than to be swallowed up by the earth and to live a life that was less mean, or so he thought.
In his hands lay a journal with a blue cover, and he looked at it and clutched it to him. Downstairs, he could hear his mother clattering plates and muttering to herself. Even though reassuring, the noise was unsettling and only made him curl up tighter.
Why couldn’t the rain stop?, he wondered. He wanted to run far away where nobody could yell at him anymore. His bed was a sanctuary of hopes where he told his journal about everything, about the fight and about his secret place and about where he wanted to be more than anywhere else in the world.
“Take me there”, he whispered in a soft voice. “Take me home.”
His mother slapped the dishtowel downstairs. She had been angry at him for coming home with muddy shoues, and sent him to bed with no supper. It wasn’t his fault that the rain muddied the dirt, after all. But sometimes, when grown-ups are having a bad day, they will insist upon spreading an unhappy mood to those around them. The boy had gotten the brunt of the anger.
“John”, called his mother. “John?”
He didn’t answer out of spiteful anger. The door to his bedroom was blocked up by a chair and a bookshelf, but he ran over and pushed the tiny stack of books harder against the wood of the door. Then, he rushed back to his bed and shoveled the covers over his head.
“I want to go there” he said, referring once more in secret whispering to his journal, which held the knowledge of the boy’s world. And John lay under the covers, eyes shut tight against the back sky and dewey rain, and thought and wished and dreamed.
Inspiration arrives at the most inconvenient times. For instance, yesterday I was hit by a thunderbolt of inspiration, regarding an iron-warded village of lost children and wandering musicians from all eras deep in the heart of Faerie… but as the inspiration came in the middle of ComTech class, which is stunningly boring, I lost much of it.
Meh. I’ll go write down what I’ve got in Google Docs in hopes that it’ll turn out all right.
45- I always want to write when I can’t. It’s terribly inconvenient. Once of twice I took my computer up to my room in hopes of writing, but always fell asleep before I got around to it.
33 (MissSwann)- Early Modern English, how d’you do. This difference becomes vitally important when you try to read Beowulf in the original, not that you would want to anyway.
44 (Aggie)- butbutbut you’re not allowed to start your nanowrimo before November 1!!!one
46 (Alice)- I know the feeling quite well.
I SWEAR every good idea I’ve ever had comes right before I fall asleep…at which point I’m like “man do I have to get up and write this for real” and I usually end up not doing so, unless it is particularly amazing.
I get a lot of inspiration from my history books. Especially when we were covering russian history in ap euro. that was great.
Sometimes I get up in the middle of the night with a great idea, write it down, and in the morning I think, “how did I ever think that was a good idea?”
49 (Pan)- oh man. aaaaall the time. Especially when I was having weird malaria pill dreams.
40- If I didn’t read Muse, I’d say C. But since I do, I’d say F.
47- Whoops. *headdesk* Guess I’ll have to start over, then. *headdesk headdesk headdesk*
34- I write without translating. That is, either I am completely emersed in teh danish or the english. That’s teh difference between thinking, dreaming, and writing. When I think, I switch constantly between english and danish so my thoughts sound like:
gahh i didn’t turn in that paper det skulle afleveres i gÃ¥r I really can’t overskue det sÃ¥ det glemmer jeg bare.
But when I write, my thoughts are in either one language or the other.
But when I dream, I dream in the two languages at the same time. Like two levels of consciousness.
Us emy writing all that you want, and ask if I can be of any help.
By the way, why are you learning Danish?
I got about four hours of sleep last night… woke up in the middle of the night to jot down an idea and never stopped. So tired, need coffee…
53- thats confuing.
55- yep.
56- I agree with TMFA. That is awful confuzzling.
54- That happens to people other then me! Thank goodness!
Yuk, coffee.
Tea!
I’m trying to write a poem about Halloween at Space Academy, but I’m having a bit of trouble.
Okay……. I need ideas for a story I’m writing. Or specifically, I need a good name/set of initials for a secret society of non-humans……. Um, like werewolves and vampires and that kind of stuff, not goats or something…….
And on the same subject, I have something I need to ask POSOC in particular. I need synonyms for Canix…… Because I made Dr. Canix a major character in this story, only he’s evil and a werewolf and I feel bad about it…….. Is Canis okay, or would you still kill me?
60- How about the Externals?
The wind rattled the windows of the little shop and shook the sign above the door. Sleet threw itself against the glass door, as if in an attempt to quench the homey glow of firelight and lamplight that came from within. A cloaked figure passed by, shoulders hunched against the weather. He–or was it she?–paused outside the window and looked up at the little sign above the door. Shaw and O’Connell, Confectioners. The figure seemed to make up its mind and strode up to the door.
61-That’s nice….. What’s the reasoning behind it? I’m sorry, I’m probably missing the obvious, I’m really tired……
By the way, have you seen POSOC lately? Because I need to ask him about some BA stuff, as well as what I said in post 60.
63- They’re outside of, or external to, humanity.
64-Ah. I like it.
ALL MUSERS WHO HAVE READ THE BOOK THIEF PLEASE READ THIS POST!!!
I would like you to critique this piece of writing I have done for a book project. I am making a magazine based on my book and this is going to be my “opinion piece or editorial about a conflict in the book.” (Quoted directly from my requirements paper.) Do you think it should be longer? Is it not enough of my opinion? Please tell me what you think. Here it is:
So How Do You Hide a Jew in Your Basement?
That is question that one may ask when they first find out that Liesel’s foster father has decided to hide a Jew in his basement. I certainly did. Think of all of the risks in that. It is World War II during the Holocaust, Jews are being killed like there is no tomorrow, and you never know when a Nazi will show up at you house and search through every nook and cranny of your home. Including your basement, suitable for a bomb shelter or not. (As in the case of the Hubbermans.) Why did Hans Hubberman assume those risks? After all, it was very plausible that he could have been killed had anyone found out the dirt he was hiding. But of course, with his kind heart, he took the Jew called Max, under his wing.
Now don’t get me wrong, it was disgusting how Jews were treated (and killed) during World War II. But I don’t think I’d be brave enough to hide a Jew in my basement. Then again, I wasn’t there during the Holocaust, so maybe I would think differently if I had been there.
Getting back to my question of how you hide a Jew in your basement. You keep quiet and act as if everything is normal. Got it. But it doesn’t help if you have and eleven year old foster daughter with a best friend. You have to keep her quiet too.
Against all assumptions, Liesel cares more and more about Max, the Jew in the basement. So it is hard for her to watch hungry abused Jews being marched along Himmel Street. It is also incredibly hard on Hans Hubberman. This is a man with a soft heart who denied going to war. Of course he will feel sorry for them. That is why he hid a Jew in his basement.
66- Great!
67-Thanks!
I wrote this for a standerized exam, actually. Haven’t gotten results yet.
Something on the Mind
I don’t remember the precise moment when I realized that I was not like the other boys. I have a feeling that it’s always been there, hiding just under the surface of my skin. It’s never felt like a parasite before now, but rather as big a part of me as my teeth or my eyelashes. I definitely never thought that there was anything wrong with it, but now, I wish that it would just blow away, or sink into the depths of the sea.
Maybe I first noticed it when Jimmy started to talk about that one chic, Stacey Something-or-other. Now, I have to admit Stacey was a pretty fish. But then again, I find almost all girls attractive in some way, so I’m not the best judge. No. I’m not the best judge at all.
Now, this was about three years ago. I was ten. Jimmy was twelve, as he liked to remind me when we wrestled behind Miss Boudreaux’s barn. He’d always pin to the ground, our sweat mingling in the humid air, and tell me to cry for mercy. I’d gasp out the word and he’d let me up, my bruises darkening. He’d grin manically, and say something about how little boys should run home to their mama. We loved it.
However, one time, when I knocked on his front door after school, he didn’t want to go over to Miss Boudreaux’s and feed the chickens. He stood in the door frame, stepping on his own toes, a blush creeping up his golden freckled face.
“Who’s at the door, Jimmy?†his mother yelled from the living room.
“Ezekiel!†he shouted, tossing my name into the air. His mother said to invite me in, and with a muttered, “Yes, Ma’am,†Jimmy opened the door all the way. We walked into the kitchen, where his eighteen-year-old sister, Susan, was busy peeling crawfish for the gumbo. She smiled and asked me if I was hungry.
“Yes, Ma’am.â€
She laughed and told Jimmy to take some milk and Oreos out for his guests.
Guests? I glanced around, and sure enough, sitting at the kitchen table in a pink dress and shiny white shoes, was none other than Stacey. She smiled and said hello to me.
Later, after we had eaten our cookies and gone upstairs to Jimmy’s room, we started playing Monopoly. I had to pee, and left for the bathroom after my turn, and before Stacey’s. When I came back, I didn’t bother knocking on the closed door. It surprised me when I walked in on Stacey and Jimmy kissing. I had outgrown believing in cooties, but it still bothered me. Jealousy filled every part of me, even though mama always says that jealousy is the brother of hate, and to hate is to sin. I disregarded mama, and the preacher too, and let the jealousy sink in. It was not rational, what I was feeling, but at that moment I wanted nothing more than to be the one in Jimmy’s arms, with his lips against mine.
This is part of a story I was/is writing. I don’t know why, but I crack up every time I read it. It takes place in a space station, and is greatly influenced by BA.
They jumped to the floor, and ran quietly to the nearest pod. “I’ll drive! You man the guns!†Ailissa said. “GIRL the guns!†Sara snapped, but did so anyway. Roberta pulled a lever, and they flew away. Sara cheered, but stopped abruptly when she saw another ship. It was huge, and the first thing that came to Sara’s mind was the Death Star in Star Wars. Ailissa seemed to notice it too, because she yelled, “SHOOT, YOU IDIOT, SHOOT!†Sara obeyed, and started firing away with the gun like mad. The enemy appeared to not like this, and shot back. The glass of the windows shattered into a million pieces, and glass was everywhere. Lark screamed, and covered her head with her arms. She yelled at Ailissa, “Press button 42!†“Why 42?!†Ailissa shouted back. “Just press it!†Sara roared. Ailissa rolled her eyes, and scanned the control panel for that stupid button. Then she saw it. It was red, and had a big 42 printed on it. Out of the corner of her eye, just before she pressed the button, she saw Sara hold onto the frame stand of the gun so hard her knuckles turned white.
Ailissa pressed the button.
She felt her stomach drop, and shrieked in total surprise. They were moving at a breakneck speed, the stars just blurs of light. “How do I steer?!†Ailissa screamed. “You don’t!†Sara yelled back. “You just hope you don’t crash into anything!â€
Whee! HG2G rocks da house!
Hey, 42 IS the answer to everything.
71- I know. That’s why I wrote it in.
I wrote an epic poem about a cello for English class at school. It’s about three pages long, though, and I don’t know if there’s a character limit on these posts… Is there?
73- I don’t know.
73- An epic poem about… a cello. That’s somewhat…. hard…. to comprehend.
I’ve been working on a cast of characters for a vaguely crossover-speckled original fic, involving various New Age-y spiritualist beliefs being ruined by me not knowing much about them, really bad tea, and a couple references to Muse. x3 Most of the crossover stuff really comes from characters mentioning that they really like some fandom or doing something random relating to some random fandom.
“Rhea, why are you wearing a shirt that says ‘Smedly Fangirl’ on it?”
“I dunno. My writer wanted to put a reference to Smedly in her story.”
“Well, at least your writer actually has you do something.”
“Yes, like rotting in her imagination.”
75 – Are you doubting its epicness? Haha. Well, I’ll post the first page of it.
Let the muses set the bow to movement
and let the orchestra sing forth the story
of Viola, a cello bright and bold,
stolen on the night of her glory
from her triumphant musician,
and shipped forth across the nation,
to homes, shops, and schools abounding.
Calliope, Euterpe, sing of the trials she endured
and her survival, by force of skill
on her long leave away from home.
I am Viola, a cello heroic
crafted by a master many years ago in
Italy. Bought soon after my creation,
I was carefully taken to America,
to a student of unusual skill.
She had need of a fine cello
such as me, and to sing as my creator
meant, I needed a musician to
release the notes from my metallic strings.
Years passed—she grew to know me, and I
became accustomed to her. She is my musician
and I will know no other,
until she can play me no longer.
I taught her well, guiding her hands
to the right notes, smoothing tempos,
until, in the height of high school glory,
I won her a position in all-state orchestra.
Overjoyed, she made haste
to go share the news of our success with
those she held dear. And as I waited in my case,
black cloth wrapped securely around my shoulders,
I felt myself being lifted.
But the hands that clenched my case were strange,
not those of my musician or any of her kin.
I leaned, swinging my case to hit my kidnapper,
knocking over stands and chairs. Several blows I landed—
I heard the slam of plastic into flesh,
the cacophonous swearing and cries amidst crashes.
But I was not dropped. No one came running,
for in a place such as this stands fell often.
77- I am doubting its epicness, as it is… a string. Now, glockenspiels- THOSE are epic. Clarinets are mellow.
78 – Well, you have a point there. But all an epic poem is is a lengthy narrative about heroic deeds–so, technically, it is.
And saxophones are pretty epic too.
79- Bass clarinets- Scary/”epic”. I sit next to them in band. Are you in orchestra? I am a bad geek, and PROUD OF IT!
I was rereading the MA RPG, and I saw Alice say something about Script Frenzy. What is Script Frenzy? Is it like NaNo? *puzzled*
80 – Well, I play violin, but I’m really more of a band geek. I play alto sax in band/marching band.
Um…I know people haven’t been on here in a while…but can someone read this and comment on it? It’s a college essay. The prompt is, “Write about an intense emotional moment.”
The Ventura County Fair is a celebration of summer in southern California. Set against the backdrop of the Pacific Ocean, accented by glorious California weather, and seasoned by locals and foreigners alike, it’s inevitable that important things happen here. In my case, the Fair was the scene of one of the singular most terrifying and thrilling moments of my young life.
I was eight years old at the time of this event. Earlier in the day, I’d found out that my art entry to the Fair—a painting of a golden eagle—had won first place in my age group. At eight, you already have some overblown sense of self-ability; with a fresh victory in hand, I was invincible.
It was in this frame of mind that I first viewed The Roller Coaster. It was a creaking, lumbering behemoth, painted green, the classic “Wild Mouse†carnival ride made small now by greater and more terrifying modern rides. I do not remember now what it was called; I just remember being wildly excited with the prospect of braving it.
My mother was elected to ride on it with me, and I waved goodbye to my faint-hearted younger sister, who was foregoing the green monster for the gentler motions of the carousel. I was practically jumping up and down with excitement and the prospect of riding my first grownup-sized roller coaster. With this coaster under my belt, I believed, I could ride anything. Dreams of Six Flags and Magic Mountain filled my mind.
Strapped securely into the flame-embellished car alongside my mother, I literally wriggled with excitement. The buggy jolted forwards, and we forayed upwards, climbing the track with the classic, somewhat disconcerting clacking noise of the carnival roller coaster. The top, I noted, was much higher than it had looked from the ground; I enjoyed the view of the ocean the height offered and the feel of the breeze in my hair, my invincibility unwavering.
The car made its protesting way along the required S-turns at the top, and made its final turn towards the drop. My excitement increased exponentially as we inched towards the edge. Finally, with a melancholy sigh, the car’s brakes released, and we plunged over the crest of the track.
I don’t think I can adequately describe the noise that issued from my stricken throat during the course of that first drop. It was a noise that redefined the ranges of natural human voice, departing instead for the supernatural ranges of dog-calling and screaming banshees. If I’d been any closer to the passengers around me, their ears probably would have shriveled up. My mouth opened to an angle seen more commonly in swallowing snakes, and my fingers clenched the bar so tightly I’m surprised I didn’t leave indentations. The moment was one of pure, unadulterated terror; I have never experienced such a feeling as that at any other moment in my life.
Three times we went around the track, and three times I endured the horrifying plunge. My mom, for her part, enjoyed herself hugely; I’m not sure she even heard the unnatural noises that were escaping my larynx. We looped about the track like a limping dog, panting up the hill on our good leg and sailing down the incline on the other side, the freakish whine supplied by me. The ride seemed interminable. I was sure of my eventual death.
But, as with all things in life, even the worst experiences come to an end; after one more thrilling plunge, and an even more hair-raising sound from me, the car came to a stop with weary hissing of brakes, and my mom pried my bloodless fingers from the bar. I clambered out on shaking limbs; if I could have, I think I would have kissed the ground. As it was, I could only stumble down the exit stairs to my waiting father and sister.
The rest of the day passed enjoyably enough; I was eight, and even the most horrifying of events could not make a lasting impression on my young mind. But in the days and years to come, I would look back at that day and shudder at the memory.
Many years have passed since that event. I have braved many greater and more frightening things than that carnival coaster. But the other day, I came across a picture that my father had taken of me on that first drop. My mouth is open wide and my eyes are squeezed shut, with tears forming at the corners; the image is priceless for its image of absolute fear. Looking at it, I could almost hear the clattering of the car, the wind whistling past my ears—and the pure, terror-stricken scream of a young girl on her first roller coaster.
82- Me likes.
82) It’s cute.
Short story I’m in the progress of writing. (I’m using Beat’s name. Your name, in my opinion, rocks, Beat.
)
~<~~>~
It was her only escape. Archana closed her eyes and stepped into the hole. She started falling, falling…
~*~@~*~
“You’ll never amount to anything!” Lena sneered, grinning wickedly at little Archana as she stomped on her glasses. “Never!” Archana shrieked as Lena’s friend, Carlotta, shoved her into the mud. Her skirt was splatttered with the filth. She tried to get up, but Carlotta grapped her head and pushed her back down, Archana’s face was shoved into the mud, and she cried. She could hear Lena and her posse cackle as they sauntered away, and she stayed down. She could feel bruises on her arms where Carlotta had hit her before, and they throbbed with pain. Tear dripped out of her eyes.
~*~@~*~
Archana felt the wind rush past her, her hair billowing. Soon, the top of the hole became a pinprick of light.
~*~@~*~
Lunch at Billowby Middle School. Archana was used to eating alone; she had done it her whole school career. She made up friends so her parents wouldn’t add the thought that she was miserable to their list of worries, which was growing. A dark sorcerer was using his extremely powerful magic to destroy dimensions, and her mom and dad were the only ones who could help. So Archana ate her lunch in a secluded corner of the library, watching friends study together and giggling. She felt an ache when she watched, a longing. But Archana had never known a sense of belonging, not here, anyway. Never here.
~*~@~*~
Archana’s legs were slowly swallowed up by the darkness, and she felt a strange sensation all over herself.
~*~@~*~
Archana always got the top grades in the class, and that was rather surprising, since she was an eleven year old in eighth grade. The teachers adored her, and couldn’t understand why she hated school. They didn’t get it. Every time she reached into her locker, someone would grab her and shove her face in. Every day, a new insult was scratched onto her locker door. She once had put up a post-it saying, “I am innocent until proven guilty.” The next day, the note was gone. She was called a twig; midget; ant. And she, the ant, felt like someone stomped on her every day.
~*~@~*~
The tingling grew stronger in her shoulder blades, and she felt something erupt out. She turned her head, and gasped. Snowy white wings were growing swiftly, and light was pouring out of the place where they came. She cried out, and looked at her hands with the light her metmorphisis was providing. They were webbed. She remembered something…
~*~@~*~
Archana, five at the time, pressed her ear to the door of her parents’ room, eavesdropping on their conversation. “…if the magic has side effects??” she heard her father say. “This whole house is teeming with it, as are we! What will happen to her??”
“Don’t worry,” her mother said firmly, “If we work together, we can convert all the magic into one place.”
“Which place?”
“The portal.”
~*~@~*~
A portal?
She, in a portal?
To where?
Why?
~*~@~*~
One Wednesday, Lena was bullying Archana near the school water fountain when Archana felt a rage bubble up in her. How dare Lena push her around, the daughter of two powerful sorcerers with the task of saving the universe on their hands?! The rage swelled, and Archana, without thinking, shouted, “Sriynkja!” Gallons of water shot out of the water fountain as it blew up, splattering Lena and her crew with water and debris. Lena splutttered, “I’ll get you for this, Caraway!”
~<~~>~
Comments, please.
This “short story” is turning out to be longer than I expected. Continued where I left off. Not very much this time, I’m afraid.
Archana grinned, but faltered when the blonde yelled, “Like anyone cares what you think, nerd! Who’s with her?!” Lena yelled to the crowd that had gathered around them. Archana heard no cheers of support. “Who’s with me?” People yelled and screamed their allegiance to her. Lena quieted them down and said, in a quiet, but unnerving voice, “Get her.”
^^
Archana had stopped screaming, and was looking down. If this was a portal, something queer must happen. As an answer to her question, she dropped down onto a stone floor. Her landing was deadened by her new springy legs, but it still hurt very much. She picked herself back up, and looked around her. She could barely see the outline of an old, worn oak door, and she pushed it. It didn’t budge. She put all her weight against it, leaning her shoulder. It creaked open, and she looked around.
She was in a medieval square, with men and women in olden time clothes walking around her. She looked down at her clothes and found she was dressed in a long blue skirt, a puffy white blouse embroidered with flowers, and her hair was in a braid. She was barefoot. When Archana lifted up her hand, she found there was writing on it–
Her secret is your strength.
Trust only those who have the talent.
Be strong, be wise, be safe.
Do not take refuge in the sanctuary.
Choose granite over jewels.
Combine your strengths into one.
She puzzled over it. Who’s secret? What jewels?
11 year old in 8th grade? Wow. She skipped a lot of grades. THough that would make her feelings of insecurity make sense……
I like it, although, the fighting scene most likely wouldn’t be allowed to take place in a school setting.
have a story that needs to get out. This never happens to me. It’s not even one of my comic ideas. It is a story without pictures and with only words to show the story. This is very new to me. I have been scribbling polt and character summery. *is excited about this and hopes she won’t give up*
When somebody heard me talking about my story (I’m writing something with vampires, maybe) they were like “Ooh, vampires. Like Twilight?” I was like “…You will die now.”
89- oh those pesky humans. Did you do NaNo this year? I want to read it. I loved last years.
[…]
“So what did you do?”
“Something stupid.”
A pause, waiting. Finally:
“…Which was?”
“I fell in love.”
She laughed, then, and although it was bitter and tinged with sadness, making the air taste melancholy, it was laughter nonetheless.
87: Thank you. The original story was for her to commit suicide, discover she has powers, then die. But I guess not. The dialogue for medieval times is a little off, except for most of the important people there– they don’t have to, since—
Oh, blast! I certainly can’t tell you what’s coming next!
Anyway, I picked up a list of names from a HP game.
Dymphna
Somnolens
Malodora
Jocunda (in story)
Artemisia (might be in story)
Gondoline
Cyprian
As some of you can tell, I used a lot for my PPP country.
I’ve started again.
I told you I would.
I’ll get all discouraged because I never get anywhere and don’t have any inspiration, and so I’ll pack away all my ideas in the back corner of my mind, where they just expand until I have to think about them, and I’ll start writing, and then I’ll get more ideas, and get stuck on some stories, but all the ideas just sort of flow over those and then some more get stuck till it’s sort of like a river with too many branches in it and all my new ideas and this immense energy I have for writing just get piled up and stagnate for forever until there are too many of them and they can start flowing again. And in the meantime I’ve pushed the whole mess to the back of my mind again in order to make room for everything else and so the entire cycle begins again. It’s actually kind of frustrating. There’s no point in even trying to get anywhere, that just doesn’t happen.
Anyway, I’m currently trying to develop like twelve different ideas and do my homework at the same time like a good child. It’s hard and I really really want to write.
I like thinking up cool or funny lines to start off my writing. One of my personal favorites (which I invented as I say on the Quote thread) is “If you can’t shut up, don’t say anything at all.”
94- Sometimes, cool or funny titles pop into my head without a story to go along with them, usually variations on some other title. Such as “The Plot Against Disney World”.
I’m writing a book. I talked about it a little on the random thread. It’s set in the 2200s in or near the capital city of the future America. I’m not sure if the capital is still located in Washington DC that far in the future, but it’s certainly not going to be called Washington DC. Future USA is still a generally greedy capitalist country and the government is more corrupt than the one now.
The main character is Hannah. In the future there are clones kept as clones, scientific experiments, and organ donors. They can be made at any physical age. All clones have lights implanted in their hands as identification. Hannah is given a clone slave by her brother and family for her 16th birthday. She considers clones equal to humans, but this is a very unpopular belief. Most clones are called by numbers, letters, or derogatory names. Hannah helps her clone choose a name, and they decide on Ivory.
Hannah gets around town by skateboarding, which is odd because everyone else gets around in cars powered by the magnets in the road. All roads are steel plates that sense the cars and move them safely through the town. The sidewalks are also steel plated which makes skating easy. In an antique shop, Hannah buys Ivory a skooter so that they don’t have to try to squeeze onto the skateboard.
There is a new clone working in the store, and whenever Hannah and Ivory go back to the store they talk to him. His owner is old and mean, but the clone is about 16.
Clones of minors have to go to a school next to the normal school. In the clone school they are brainwashed and told to obey their masters. Clones are not allowed to learn to read or write. Hannah begins teaching Ivory to read, and when they go to the antique store they decide to name the clone there. They become very good friends with him and teach him to read and write.
Hannah eventually gets caught teaching the boy and her parents are furious. They make her stop meeting him, but she starts sneaking out. He brings some clone friends from the science community. Hannah starts going regularly and teaching many clones.
The group is a revolution of sorts. The clones want to be equal, and across the USA there have been small rebellions, but none were well organized. When one of the clone’s younger counterparts is caught sneaking out after them, the police catch on to the meetings. A raid happens and Hannah and Ivory’s friend, the boy clone, stands at the door. He tried to push it shut as everyone escapes. The police come in and he tries to hold them back. Everyone escapes as he is arrested…
This is going to get way too long! I’ll post later on what happens to him after he gets arrested, and my personal struggle dealing with the fact that I’ll probably have to kill one or more of the characters.
96- That sounds like a very cool premise.
I wanted to add this to Post 95, but I pressed “Submit” too soon:
I’d like to make that title into a story, but I can’t think of anybody who’d be mean enough to plot against Disney World.
Really? People were mighty annoyed last year when Disney took over MuseBlog.
98- That is a good point…
All right, this is for Alice. And for all our friends, together and apart, all-grown-up or children-at-heart.
The Apple
This is not the story of my past, nor is it the story of my future. i do not know where I have been or where I am going. This is not where I am now. This is not the story of my life. It is the story I give to you. Like a caramel, let me put it on your tongue and allow it to melt into you.
This is my story. Listen!
There once was a girl. There has always been a girl. She was not beautiful, no, she has ever said that. There has never been anyone who said she was ugly, she just wasn’t beautiful.
On the other hand, all girls are beautiful, just like all stars, and all flowers, and all leaves are beautiful.
The girl has always known pain. There is nothing to be done about that. Her memories are painful. She knows the colour of blood, and how death smells. She knows what it’s like to be sad. She knows how it is to be afraid. She knows what betrayal is.
She knows what it’s like to be a woman. How to bleed without being wounded is a gift. But all roses’ thorns prick, and the blood falls while the pain stays.
There was a boy, too. I do not know so much about him. But I know he was a good friend. The kind of friend who isn’t afraid to listen, and the kind who isn’t afraid of saying what he means.
The girl knows what it’s like to be sick. She knows what it’s like to force herself to suffer. She is not proud of it. She is just honest.
There was a tree. It was a beautiful tree. In a world of violence and hate, there was a tree. And on this tree there was an apple.
The girl reached up and plucked the apple.
She took a bite, and gave the apple to the boy.
He took a bite, and the apple was good.
There was no snake.
This is my story. Take a bite of this apple?
100- That’s pretty. And sad. Because if it were only an apple, then nothing changed when they had eaten it, and the world was just as violent and hateful as before.
101- That’s an interesting way of looking at it. Of course, the lack of a snake means that there’s a lack of sin, and the beauty of the boy and the girl and the tree and the apple survive, they are not condemned. Or, that’s how I see it. My stories are always meant to be interpreted differently by different people.
This was a dream I had, recently, and I thought it would make a nice short story. Sadly, most of my dreams don’t make it here because of their explicit nature…
I’m on a train. The rest of my boy scout troop is with me, yet all are in winter attire, wrapped in dark clothes; each is wrapped in an extension of the already abundant shadow. Each snowflake rushes past the window-there is never time to see it delicately kiss the ground. I press my bare hand to the freezing window, as I stare outside into the white endless abyss. Everything is frozen in a state of peace. Looking back, I see my peers have settled into sleep. I follow suit by pulling my clothes tighter, and I fold my head down into my chest.
The snowflakes fall, beating in sweet rhythm with my heart and breaths. I have fallen in to the frozen peace. A scraping noise arrests my peace. Words are whispered in my ear, “Get off the train.” The voice is so real and so near I turn to face the wall. Through a small hole in the train’s shell, there is a mouth. I turn to the window, and peer out the side.
On the side of the train car, there hangs a figure, cloaked in the same shadow as my troop members, its mouth pressed to the hole in the wall. They couldn’t be a boy over the age of 12.
I crawl back to the mouth, hoping it will hear me. “Why are you holding on?” I question, “That’s incredibly dangerous!”
The mouth takes a moment to respond. “Get off the train. You have not seen what I seen. You cannot comprehend the disturbing things flashing before my eyes. Get off now, and spare yourself.”
I stare back in disbelief at this mouth. “Why?” I ask it.
Before it can respond, a tree branch scrapes along the side of the train, and whips the figure to the ground. I gasp, but fall back to my frozen sleeping position.
~~~~
Bah. Not close to finishing. Always not enough time. Finish later.
OK! Now I have time!
~~~
Time passes quickly. The snow falls faster than one can imagine. My brain still processes the events. The troop still remains silent and sleeping.
It is another five minutes before I hear the scraping sound again. I turn and find that the figure is once again there. “You’re back. Why?” I ask.
“You need to get off. You cannot understand the peril I have seen.”
The figure lowers its head to peer through the hole in the train. Its bloodshot stares through examining each and every troop member, assessing whether or not they are worth alerting.
“You may warn them, if you like.” It tells me.
“Why?” I ask, “What is this supposed peril?” I act unconcerned, but we are almost to the station.
I only see its eye, but I can tell that he is smirking.
In an instant, a fellow troop member runs up and jabs the eye with his finger, knocking the figure off the train. Turning, I see he is an eagle scout who left the troop a few years ago. He moves back to his seat and settles quietly.
Soon we arrive at the station. Nothing has happened, but I need to know more of this mysterious figure. I turn and look down the snow covered tracks. In the distance, I see a small man, pacing through the snowbank. I yell to alert him of my presence, but he turns and runs. I cannot keep up with him, and I lose him in the snow.
~~~
There.
I’m writing a DN fanfic… *feverish writing*
GAPAs, is this the most recent writing in general thread or am I missing one?
If no one responds I’ll probably just post writing-related comments on the Writing Theme w/variations thread, I guess.
Jadestone: If you search, you’ll find that this is indeed the most recent general-writing thread. There are several similar threads, such as “Books in Progress,” however.
Hm. Old thread.
I had an idea a few months ago that’s come back to me several times. The idea: to write a short story without any characters. No people, no animals, no talking toasters. No characters, no matter how minor. The great difficulty is creating a plot without any characters–if it’s been done before, it hasn’t been done often.
So tonight I thought, why not challenge the most creative people I know: MuseBloggers? Write a short story that doesn’t have any characters. Setting is fine, a plot would be great. But no characters. I’m not sure if it’s entirely possible in a full prose format.
What is a story? Once you establish that, you could think about how to accomplish that without any characters. You might have to redefine story to make it possible!
Ray Bradbury almost accomplished that in There Will Come Soft Rains, but the smart house is written as if it’s sentient (and might actually be sentient) so I think it counts as a character.
Looooove Bradnbury. An excellent story, although not my favourite of his.
A good idea though, Piggy. I’ll see about giving it a shot.
Hm. I think the easiest way to do that would be through weather. It’s one of the only things that moves without something living causing it. If you ignore butterflies.
Or machinery, I guess. Ooh, I like that idea. The story of an alien race told through their technology. With them long gone, but their entirely automated technology continuing, producing everything they ever needed endlessly, silently…
Haha. The second part, about technology, is basically There Will Come Soft Rains. Read it, it’s good.
I can see how you could write a story about, say, a storm destroying an abandoned shack on the beach and describing an object getting carried out to sea, but you’d have to end it before any animals could show up to investigate the object.
((Piggy: Maybe…have you heard of the book with no verbs?
Roxxy is a recurrent character of mine, so here’s a little backstory for her.))
He walked up the small hill to where it overlooked a beautiful ocean. She stood there, radiant in the daylight. He walked up to her and held her in his arms; she smiled and hugged him close. “You won’t leave?” she asked concerned. He smiled. “I promise I will never leave you again” he said, before kissing her tenderly. He let go, and dropped to one knee. He saw her smile warmly as he produced the small box, but suddenly her face was shadowed. He looked up, as he saw a great wave bearing down on them. He gasped and hugged her close as they were soaked by the harsh water, some got into his eyes and…
“Beep! Beep! Beep!†Roxxy slammed her hand on the alarm clock and pressed her hands to her eyes. She’d had that dream again, she was certain. But that boy, the only one who’d ever touched her heart…he was gone. Dead, she presumed. Long since gone. He should’ve been erased from her memory now: it had been four years. But no, it was like he’d only left for jail yesterday, promising he’d be back.
She waited anxiously outside the soundproof room, her eyes never off his back. At last, the officer stood up and walked over to the door. He stood up as well, and she jumped up to meet him. “Well?†she asked. He said nothing, but there was pain in his eyes. She hooked her arm into his and led him outside. “Two years,†he said, sitting down on a bench. “Plus one year of community service. I shouldn’t have done it…†She just stroked his back and leaned onto him, because words could not help.
She wearily got out of bed and made a split second decision: she would not go to school today. School brought memories, too painful to unearth again. Sometimes she could stand it, but sometimes…it was just not happening. She walked to her closet in the small grey room, passing by her mirror. It gave a glimpse of a pale girl, with raven black hair and one streak of red in her bangs, which faded to blue as it traveled down her back.
She leaned against the outside brick wall, waiting for the bell to sound the stampede. She was only there for one reason. If not for him, she would avoid the school like the plague. “Briiiiiiing!†She heard the sound of all the students running out at once, and stood up straight. She got many odd looks, but they bounced off her like Velcro on glass. And there he was, moving towards her with a huge grin on his face. He picked her up and swung her around, then kissed her.
Roxxy opened her closet, vaguely wondering what the hell to wear today. She selected what she usually did: ripped, worn blue jeans, a black T-shirt that had the purple cartoon Cheshire Cat on it-none of this CGI shit was going to cut it with her-and, for some reason, a dark blue sock and a purple sock. She slipped on her worn red high-tops, which were sitting right near her door, and flipped her skateboard into her hand.
He held her hand as they walked down the street, just window-shopping. “Oh!†she said, stopping at one pair of sneakers. They were bright red, with laces so white it hurt her eyes. But then she looked at the price and her face fell. “50 dollars…†she said sadly, moving on. He told her to wait and went inside. A few minutes later, a hand reached from behind the curtain and took the sneakers off the shelf. A few more minutes passed and he emerged, holding a box which he gave to her. She hugged him tight, feeling his warmth.
She walked out and tiptoed down her stairs, careful not to wake anyone in the complex. Once she was in the lobby, she said hello to the doorman and burst out into the fresh air. Her shoes found their way to the skateboards gritty surface, and she stuck her hands in her pockets. It had been a long time since Roxxy had a full-blown adrenaline rush.
She giggled as he held her in his arms. “Are you sure about this?†she yelled to him over the roar of the plane. “Yes. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.†With that, he threw himself and her out of the plane. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, and she yelled. But no sound came to her ears, even at such a close distance. He pulled a cord, and a small chute came out. “That?†she thought. “That’s our sup-“ Her last thought was cut off by a jerk on her midriff, and then he and she were floating gently over the field. He bent down and kissed her cheek. “Told you you could trust me,†he said.
She was so lost in her thoughts, she didn’t notice that young man who was in her way. Roxxy slammed into him, and they went tumbling. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,†mumbled Roxxy. She got up first and held out a hand to the stranger. He took it and pulled himself up. “No, I’m sorry,†he said, brushing himself off. “I should’ve-“
At that moment, their eyes connected, and something passed between them. Roxxy looked at the jet black hair, those deep green eyes, and the tan face. This was impossible, and yet totally real. “Roxanne?†he whispered. “Duncan?†she whispered back.
Um, GAPAs? Did my post get caught by the spam filter?
Yes.
Do you know why? Or is it just an unknown?
Oh yeah, thanks for getting it out.
SFTDP
…This thread is so dead. I wonder if maybe I should just be posting on the Random thread instead.
But I just wanted to reflect on my insane methods of sketching out storylines… I have all kinds of different methods, depending on the kind of thing I’m writing, and most of the finished sketchings would be completely unintelligible to anyone else happening to stumble across them (even assuming they could read my handwriting). For example: my sketch-summary of an entire chapter of an story I have upcoming reads like this (censored, ‘course):
*return* *realization* *ohcake* *threats, insults, etc.* *standoff* *push* *bang* *pop* “CAKE!” *brandy, bandages, reflections on time travel, and anger*
This is because I largely already hold in my head everything that is going to happen, and I only scribble it down in any form so that I can map out in what order it happens. So I guess these things are not going to get any neater.
So I’m curious: Do you guys ever write outlines of your stories before you start the actual prose-writing? I don’t mean for NaNo, I mean stories that you actually want to finish and have come out polished. And if so, would you care to share what kind of outlines you write?
Somebody Cares
she sits alone. she always sits alone these days, because she’s lost the ability to have friends because she’s lost the ability to trust people.Â
she sits alone, and sometimes she cries, but then she puts up her masks again and becomes the happy laughing girl. but no one ever cares about her anymore, except to tolerate her presence because she can amuse them. or so she thinks.Â
but one day someone texts her. it takes her by surprise because no one ever texts her. but he is different.Â
“I know what you are.”
she is confused… what does he mean?
“I can see that you’re hiding. The first time I met you I knew you were hiding behind a mask, that the girl the others know is a fake. When I looked into your eyes I was shocked by the hurt, pain, and sorrow I saw. I just wanted you to know that there are people who care about you.”
she reads his text over and over again, soaking in the words.Â
and she cries, because she had been just about to kill herself, thinking that no one would miss her or care. but somebody cares. she cries, because he just saved her life and he doesn’t even know.Â
the next day, she shows up at school and he is there, waiting for her. and he knows, even though she never said a word. and she tries to walk away because she is ashamed that he saw through her mask, but he stops her to ask if she is okay. she glances to the side, unwilling to meet his eyes.Â
“look at me.” he tell her, and slowly her eyes meet his, and he lets out a long heavy sigh and pulls her into a tight hug. “you’ll be okay, I promise. because I’m here for you. and I care. please just remember that for me? somebody cares. and I’ll be here for you.”
and a tiny smile crept across her face, because the feeling of being loved had been lost from her for so long. but now he was there to protect her, and she knew she’d be okay as long as he was there.Â
My eyes actually just teared up.
Ah, this is embarrassing…
I haven’t displayed this much emotion since Obi-Wan died.
Fireh, this is beautifully written. Thank you.
Like I said on the random thread, I recently submitted a short story to a contest. Now it is hard to know what to write next. That story flowed quite well and other things are frustrating suddenly. hopefully I can find something new to write. For now I need to go to bed.
And GAPAs? Could we have a new Writing thread? Thanks!
Good idea.