A thread on which Musers who have written, are writing, or want to write books can bounce ideas off others who share that interest.
Continued from v. 2008.3.
Patience, Please
This site is under reconstruction and will look strange for a while. We regret the inconvenience.
ARHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I just wrote a huge post on the writing thread and then after I clicked post and it refreshed this showed up.
GRAHHAHDSGFHADSGFHADGSF!!!!!!!!!!
Go read the first part of the story on the writing thread. I’ll follow up on that post with a post on here later.
I can’t stop. I’m actually going to write more, making it more sad when I run out of ideas and feel like an epic fail. But not now. Bye!
1- Kill Hannah. Everyone will be expecting you to kill Ivory, so I’d kill Hannah and make them gasp.
I’m going to keep writing The Gifter (whose title I might simply change to just ‘Gifted’), so there will be more up in a bit.
341) Seriously? Are you serious?! That’s freaky. But I was thinking that it wasn’t that she was FORCED to give away the location, she did it by choice. Like, she’d planned it from the beginning. Like, the evil guy promised her her parents even before the nice people approached and she’d signed a contract or something. So, she’s kind of a bad guy. But also kind of a good guy at the same time. So she’s neither. So that totally destroys her Mary-Sue-ness. The guy that she likes can just be an added bonus. She could even make it so that he escapes or something but he totally hates her after it and tries to kill her. That would be cool.
But like I said, I’m a crazy person with a twisted mind.
342-last thread) That was really interesting. I missed the beginning of your story but that’s really cool. So the guy was just shot down from above? Ooooooooooo.
AHA!!! A new chance for people to notice my story!!!
I shall re-post, because no one will bother to go look at my previous story….. RE-POST TIME!!!!!
He ran.
He didn’t have much time.
He crouched down and dug. He clawed at the moist soil passionately with his chewed up nails. He had recently been under an immense amount of stress and pressure, and discovered nail-biting as a way to compensate. His nails were torn off by the small rocks that would appear more and more as he dug down.
“Faster, Faster,†he thought. His state of mind made him believe that this was necessary, and it probably was. He heard the sound of police sirens, and he froze.
“There’s no time to panic!†he thought. He began to dig again.
“FASTER, FASTER,†he screamed loudly as if it would help.
He was a very good digger under the circumstances. He managed to get down about a foot and a half down when he knew he had to stop.
He took it, and threw it down the small pit as if it would hurt it’s feelings. He pushed the pile of soil back over the Book.
The Book. This book had caused him the amount of stress and terror that would have simply killed anyone else. He patted the soil down.
It was done.
IT WAS DONE.
The Book was gone. No more trouble, no more horror. This is the relieved feeling that he was waiting for. He shouted in thanks to the gods that looked over this park that he couldn’t name in all of the excitement.
He could never do it again. He could never-
The thought was cut off. He could not think anything anymore. His body fell limp on the floor.
He was dead.
It was later discovered to be heart attack, but if you asked the victim of this “heart attack,†he would know that it really wasn’t.
But even death was better than his life before. Anything was better than listening to that Book. And that sentence is meant to be taken in the most literal way possible.
*The next day*
MURDERER FOUND DEAD IN CENTRAL PARK
‘Late last evening the muderer of Tom Dunbar, Jack Smith, and Father Nicholas was found dead in central park. It was first believed to be suicide, but the autopsy confirmed it as a heart attack. Several nails were found to be torn off, which suggests that he was digging. The police have looked briefly for anything that he would be digging, but they didn’t try as hard as most people would have liked. He was believed to be crazy, and was probably digging towards a hallucinated goal. Forensics released that it was the murderer. The investigation is over, and sadly the only consequence for this murderer was a fast death.’
Your probably wondering why they didn’t use the name of the murderer. Lots of people thought the same thing. The murderer was known by most to be a hero, and was believed by some to still be on vacation. His name was Timothy Dunbar. But because of a large cover-up by his brother and the police, few people would ever know…..
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Sorry for being annoying, but I would like comments…
I like it, but in theme with this month’s nitpicking I would like to point out that it should be “Forensics realized…” not “Forensics released…”
Why? They “released” to the press that it was the murderer.
Am I wrong?
((By the way, that’s just the prologue. The story is about the book passing on to a twelve/thirteen year-old…))
Here’s a little short story I made.
CLOCKWORKS
The clock struck twelve. Twice. That’s my call. You see, when a clock acts weird that means the owners need me. Well, really, I’m needed because the clock acts weird. My job is to fix clocks. Not the kind that hangs on walls, or grandfathers, or even wrist ones, I fix the big ones. I make them, too. I worked on building Big Ben. In fact, I was in charge of twelve other clockworkers for that job. I’m the best there is, and this malfunction had my name on it.
I hailed a passing carriage, and rode at top speed towards her. During the ride, I took out my binoculars and tried to find any external problems, like broken glass, or smoke, and saw a large… thing wedged in between the minute hand and the first ‘I’ on the ‘XII’. That explains the problem, the hand can’t leave the hour, and so it keeps ringing. I focused the binoculars and looked: the thing was probably five or six pounds, and square-ish. Who knows, it might be a fallen slate from the roof. That makes it worse. If one fell, then more are liable to fall, so I’m going to have to be extra careful, not only would that slate knock you out, it’d knock you off as well, and from that height…
I arrived, first clockworker there. I was going to be hired, no doubt about it. I walked to the owner and spoke to him.
“Excuse me, sir,†I said. “You have become aware that your clock is malfunctioning, am I correct?†He raised his eyebrow, and replied
“Yes, it started about fifteen minutes ago, and will be looked into.†I smiled, took out my card and countered.
“Nico Tempore, master clockworker at your service. A large, grey rectangular block is wedged under the minute hand. The clock cannot move, and thus will not stop ringing.†I let the continuing drone sink in and continued. “I could fix it, but it is one of the most dangerous glitches. Twenty more minutes, and the metal will bend, the gears will chip, and the springs will stretch. May I help?â€
The old man groaned, and finally agreed to £48, a better than average deal. I could almost taste the tender, rare steak I would buy with that money. I put on my helmet, and sauntered off to go to the scene.
“W – wait,†he stammered “Are you sure I can’t come, too?†the man smiled halfheartedly “Some of the doors are locked, and I could go get help if anything…†I looked him straight in the eyes, and gave him my usual scared client smile.
“Nothing will go wrong, Mr. … …†I had not worked here yet. “Fleadson, sir.†He prompted, and I continued. “Thank you. Mr. Fleadson, I’ve done this kind of job over 850 times, and I’m still here. Nothing can, or will go wrong.†He sighed and gave me the keys, and I departed, a little more hastily, to make up for the wasted time. By the third floor the oscillations were getting off beat, and the wrong pitch. It wouldn’t be long before they start to tear the metal to shreds. And that means no pay, and a bad rep. I started sprinting. However, I had all of the equipment on my back, slowing me down immensely, and sapping my stamina. Still, the thought of the £48 and my reputation urged me on, and I got to the top of the stairwell.
It turned out to be worse than I expected. The clock’s gears were badly made, and so they’d become brittle over the years. Several of the teeth had shattered and lay on the floor or were jamming up the mess, making matters worse. This kind of job, the ones involving gears is the worst. I knew, note knew, a man who made only the mistake of growing his hair too long. A few strands catch in the gears, and you’re being dragged in, head first before you know it.
I ran to the clock’s power switch, and grabbed the rusty lever. With a huge groan, I pulled, and the machine creaked to a halt. I got to work.
Clockworking is a delicate matter. Everything must be up to date, and punctual. A bad clock can confuse someone, and since everyone who passes looks at a big clock, the clock can disorient thousands of people. I had to fix it, and fast.
I took out my climbing equipment, put it on, tied it to the largest gear I could find, jumped out the window, and found a foothold: the hour hand.
It felt nice and sturdy, clearly undamaged by the falling slate.
“Well,†I muttered. “Here goes nothing.†and jumped up towards the minute hand’s tip.
Try as I might, it is hard to get used to fiddling around with tools on a big machine while 110 feet off of the ground, especially if at any moment a five pound chunk of wood and rock could come hurtling down towards you. Nevertheless, I grasped the minute hand, which felt like it was full of energy, and about to burst. I grabbed the slate, which was already full of cracks, and smashed it with my hammer.
The dust rained down on me, getting in my eyes, nose, and mouth. I cursed loudly, and spat out the splinters of rock. A small shard was still wedged in between, impairing the hands movement still.
Now was the most dangerous part. All of the pent up minutes will be released quickly, and the clock would spring forward. I judged that it would swing about 150°, or twenty-five minutes. I got out of the way, and prodded the shard of slate. It exploded from the strain, and the clock flew forward an unexpected 37 minutes, causing me to lose my foothold. I now was hanging only from the rope, 110 feet off of the round. I climbed up, and wriggled through the window, relatively unscathed, but mildly shaken.
The gears had become damaged, as was the minute hand, but the worst was over. With the cause identified, and dealt with, all that was left was a little fine-tuning and some welding. Just easy work.
After that, I could probably eke out another £20 from old Fleadson for the minute hand fiasco. You never know.
This isn’t so much a book as a story. I think. It’s telling itself as I go, so why don’t we find out…
Leon stepped out of a shadowed doorway and into the night. He wore dark, scruffy jeans, an old white and slightly stained t-shirt, and a rather beat-up leather jacket. He was not drunk, he told himself, and he was surprisingly correct. He had only had one or two beers tonight. This was good. He glanced on both sides of him, readjusting himself to the city layout, automatically noting where the tallest buildings were. He knew exactly where he was in moments. One of the back streets of Chicago, lining the river, lined with restaurants and grey-cement building backs, darkened for the night. The whole place was strangely dark for the city. The halo of yellow light that constantly encircled the place still seeped through, but the pale, watery light of the moon managed o knife through and splash against the rough face of the street. He could even see a few dim, flickering stars disappearing and emerging between the dark, rolling clouds.
Leon was in publishing. Rather, he was an artist currently working as an editor to keep the bills paid. He had even been doing this lately, paying the bills. There was little else to do with his money, besides the small amount he spent on food and paints. He had no girlfriend, and was cutting back on alcohol. He told himself that the objective of the second was to remedy the first.
He began to walk home, his feet slapping softly on the sidewalk. Although the air still carried the summer’s warmth, he kept his jacket on, a shield raised to the persistent wind as it wound through the buildings and caressed his skin. The wind smelled like waves.
Leon’s pace was slow, as he trudged along the cement next to the swiftly flowing water. The water did not reflect the light of the city, or the moon. It was black as space. It was just as deep. He could smell its darkness, wet and muddy and faintly green. Not as overpowering as the lake (which he could still catch breaths of on the wind), but as penetrating. The city didn’t make smells like this on its own, even the fumes and exhaust couldn’t stick to you like the scent of the water could. The river moved with a purpose. It moved.
By chance, he glanced ahead of him, as he tried to recall the melody to a song he hadn’t heard in years. There was a steel-and-rust bridge ahead. It resembled a spiderweb stretching across the river, waiting to catch unwitting prey in the night.
Leon stopped. He had seen something move on it. He stared.
Nothing happened.
He kept staring, and eventually his probing eyes found the irregularity. There was a shape where none should be, braking the predictable pattern of bars and supports. An extra figure stood shadowed in the latticework of steel. It was clear now that he had spotted it. It was a woman.
His feet, which had been obediently plodding along without his thinking about them, slowed, and halted. Leon continued to stare, transfixed.
He couldn’t make out many details. Just that she was standing in the supports of the bridge, calmly, balanced. She was wearing a dress. It flowed behind her in the breeze, as did her hair. The clouds drifting across the moon parted for an instant, and her skin shone silver with its cold, defining light. Her feet were bare, he saw. So were her arms.
Some distant part of his mind that was still functioning thought, she must be cold.
Leon could not break his gaze as she let go of the support beams and spread her arms, gazing into the night sky. Her bare feet shone white again in another flash of moonlight, then her features were shadowed once more. She was too far away for him to make out any aspects of her face, or features. He imagined her eyes. They were as dark and deep as space.
Without moving his eyes, he became acutely aware of the river below her and the bridge, the dark waters slapping against each other, the sheen of froth on the wave crests. He realized what she was going to do.
It did not cross his mind to cry out for her. She would have heard him, but he did not think to do it. Nor would he have spoken if the thought occurred to him.
10 is very very not done by the way, but I was forced off the computer without being able to say so last night. I wrote more to it today that I will type up later if I am allowed on the computer…
10- I like it. I want to read more. You leave me with questions, a good thing. Why does she jump? What’s the matter with this guy? Why is it important to the plot? You have me interested.
9-I haven’t even read the rest, but I love your first couple sentances. I was like “ohmygosh this is going to be really actiony oh he’s just a clockworker lol”
10-Can has more? I’m into it, your details and hookers are great.
Maybe more (do you know how much will power it took me not to write moar? I spend way too much time on ICanHasCheezeburger…) later this week for me. I have the next scene in mind, but I dont’ know anything about the rest of the plot.
This is the prologue of my story that I’m writing called The Unmentionables.
THE UNMENTIONABLES
The wind shifted, sending whispers of night across the sky. Fog hung like a cloak on the moon. A squirrel, unnerved, clambered up a tree branch and paused there, listening. Its dark eyes reflected the moon, turning them white. The squirrel chattered its gleaming teeth and trembled in fear.
From below the tree, something moved. A shadow licked the tree trunk. Three footsteps sounded, so silent only the squirrel could hear them. Then there was a flurry of movement through the branches and leaves fluttered to the ground.
The squirrel reared back and almost slipped from the spindly tree branch. It clawed at the leaves as a shape passed it by. A very human shape.
The squirrel plummeted to the ground, and landed in an indentation in the grass: one of the three footprints. The squirrel scrambled to its feet and scampered off into the gaping darkness of the forest.
Being a squirrel, of course, it could not count. But if it could, the squirrel would have found that there were only three footprints.
Do you like it? That’s only 1/3 of the prologue, I’ll write more tomorrow.
13- Heehee. Hookers. Reminds me of when my friend called the catchy thing you’re supposed to stick in an intro at times a ‘hooker’ instead of a ‘hook.’
More coming up:
He watched her arms spread like wings, the kind that would never let her fly. Her dress billowed about her like a cloud. He watched in silence as she slowly, gracefully leaned forward and let gravity tug her until her impeccable balance faltered Leon could hear his heart pounding in his ears, pounding to the rhythm of the water as it beat uselessly against its cement confines.
She fell. The distant part of his mind that had spoken up so clearly earlier was surprised at the speed at which she dropped. She should have floated like a feather. Her small frame, her thin arms, her billowing dress.
She fell from the spiderweb bridge, which was not this time a trap, but a fatal letting go. She fell, arms still outstretched, into the waiting water.
Leon did not hear a splash. His eyes were now fixed upon a single point upon the water, where she had vanished. The brief ripple that had marked her passing with silver moonlit drops dissipated, overtaken by waves and shifting rays of darkness. He continued to watch the water until a larger, impenetrable cloud bank rolled over the ghostly, watching face above him, and there were no more shadows, only darkness. He could not have told you how long her had been rooted to that one spot, motionless and thoughtless.
A dim sound slowly worked its way past the thick, sluggish fog around Leon’s head and into his brain, slowing dragging him out of his absorption. He emerged from them choking and sputtering, nearly drowned. A car alarm had been set off. It crescendoed into a dull, blasting roar before being abruptly silenced, leaving an empty space in the air. It was slowly filled with the dim roar of the city, the sounds the people who lived there had long ago learned to tune out.
The air no longer smelt of the lake, or the river, or green. t smelled like rain and ozone, like sharp lightning and sorrow.
Leon stumbled, dreamlike, back to his apartment. He let himself in with a small silver key. The key was on an old chain with a plastic picture of a spaceship on it. He had gotten it at the planetarium years ago. He dropped both key and keychain onto the floor without looking at them. He did not bother to turn on the lights as his feet carried him into his bedroom; a cramped, small area half filled with paintings he couldn’t bear to part with.
Leon sat down on his bed, ignoring the small, fluttering thoughts that flickered across the back of his mind like a dying lightbulb, like butterflies. Absently, he slid off his shoes, and flicked the blinds closed, shutting out the last of the light of the city. It was a few more minutes before it occurred to him to lie down upon the bed. It was even longer before he realized he had missed a few steps, and was still wearing the clothes he had been in all day. He decided he didn’t really care.
Eventually he closed his eyes. He could ear the wind scrape along the outside of his apartment building. It moved. It brought the rain down to him, to everyone, everywhere all at once. The rain was moving too, always moving, down and then back up again just to fall once more. The rain falling outside his window had once splashed upon the prehistoric wings of butterflies, had once drenched the bottom of a dry sea.
With his eyes still closed, he saw the way shadows had fallen on the woman’s face. He saw her eyes. They were deep, and as dark as the hair that billowed and framed her face. He fell into this picture, fell into a sea of stars, a river of time. With his eyes still closed, as the rain beat against his roof and his heart in an all too real rhythm, the dark waters he drifted in seeped out of his eyes, and he wept.
I glanced left, then right. Miraculously, no one was around, at least for the moment. I crept up to the door in our living room that led up to the attic and paused. No matter how many times I reassured myself that Aunt Jessica was out of town for the week, and that mom had all my sisters cleaning the basement, I was still worried that someone would see me. There is no good reason to be up in the attic in my house, seeing as the only thing up there is my Aunt’s private office that none of us dared enter. So what was I doing up there? Simple- I was planning to sneak into Auntie’s office. I mean, if someone goes through the amount of trouble she’s gone through to keep something off limits, then you can bet they’re hiding something pretty big. Taking a deep breath, I grasped the handle of the door, opened it, and began climbing the stairs, careful to shut the door behind me.
There were only thirteen steps leading up to the attic, but it felt like there were one hundred. On the door at the top of the stairs there was a sign, reading Jessica D. Rhodes- Accountant. Here goes nothing. Once again, I took a deep breath and opened the door.
I knew that the attic was pretty large, but the size still surprised me. Even stranger, Aunt Jessica’s stuff only covered half of the floor. She had an armoire, 2 cabinets with glass doors, and a low table. There were chalked lines on the floor, and where they came together, there was a large, shallow stone bowl with a tripod over it. By now, I’m having serious doubts that she was an accountant. I stepped into the room, and glanced over at the cabinet. Oh my gosh. I jumped back out the door. There was a human skull in that cabinet. “OK Leanna, its just a skull. Mr. Grey has one in the science classroom, remember? It’s already dead. It’s not going to jump out of the cabinet and eat you.†Feeling slightly reassured by my pep talk, I entered the office again. I walked directly to the cabinet for another look at the skull. It wasn’t alone. There was another skull in there, and it looked like it belonged to a medium sized bird. In addition to these, there was a bone that was almost as large as my arm. It had been even larger before- one of the ends was splintered. There were three shelves in the cabinet that I could see. The bottom part was hidden by heavy wooden doors. The bones only took up one of the shelves. On the others, there were bottles of stuff. The bottles were all shapes and sizes, but I couldn’t read the labels. The other cabinet held books- heavy tomes and tiny pamphlets. There was nothing on her desk, and the armoire was locked. I walked over to the empty space. It wasn’t empty after all. There was a rack holding a wooden rod, a set of 2 fans, and two small silver swords. What does she do, murder her clients if they don’t pay her fee on time? I picked up one of the fans, then nearly dropped it. It was really heavy! I wonder why. Closer examination of the fans discovered a covering on either end. I wrestled with the covers for a minute, then slid them off to reveal wicked looking blades. I was so shocked that I almost dropped it again. I carefully slid the ends back on to the deceptively harmless-looking blue and green fan, them picked up the rod. It looked like wood, but it was, again, much heavier. Looking at the end, I saw that it had a metal core. It was probably iron. Finally, the swords. I had seen a picture of them before, but I forget what they were called. Says? Sighs? Something like that. I replaced everything, then turned my attention to the other side of the attic. Slightly discouraged that I hadn’t found anything too scandalous, I surveyed the attic one last time, then headed towards the door. Wait. I stopped dead in my tracks. I definitely heard something. I slowly turned and faced…nothing. Strange. Oh well. But I had to admit, the stuff in the attic was pretty strange. From what I’ve heard, she’s a pretty successful accountant, but this stuff seems to prove otherwise. Maybe she has a split personality. Accountant by day, murderer by night…nah. That’s just silly. I glanced at the skulls one more time, then headed for the door. Just then, from a corner of the attic, there came a mournful coo. It was probably just a pigeon, but I didn’t care. Any sensible person under the same circumstances would have run out of the attic. Being a sensible person, that is exactly what I did.
As I hurried down the stairs, I heard my mom calling me. Shoot! What was I going to tell her? Should I go downstairs and turn myself in, or wait till she leaves and sneak out? In the end I decided to sneak out, so when mom’s calling finally died away, I opened the door and walked into the living room…and straight into mom.
“Leanna, where have you been? I’ve been calling you for the past five minutes!â€
Sorry mom,†I muttered, hoping to dodge her question.
“That’s fine, where were you?â€
Drat. “I was…†what was I doing? I cleated my throat. “I was getting some garbage bags for Rach.†Oh please Oh please Oh please.
Thankfully, mom smiled. “Great honey. I’m sure she appreciates your help. Where are the bags? “
“I just gave them to her. In fact, I was just about to go help. Is that okay?†I needed a big dose of normality right now to clear my head.
“That’s alright, she said she doesn’t need any help. Too many chefs spoil the soup I guess.â€
“What about many hands making light work,†I countered.
Mom laughed. “No, It’s all right. Head on up to your room and clean that if you feel a desire to clean.â€
“Kayâ€. I took off, heading for the stairs. So much for mom not suspecting anything.
I continued running until I was in my room on the second floor of my house. I shut the door and collapsed onto the floor. My side of the room was actually pretty neat, for once. All the same, it wouldn’t hurt to touch it up a bit. That was mom’s rule- if your room isn’t clean, you don’t leave the house. I was meeting Patricia for ice cream tomorrow, and I didn’t want to take any chances.
“Hey Splat, time to get into the mini-cage.†Splatter (Splat for short) is my leopard gecko. Just then, my sister Julie breezed in. She shares my room with me. I’m not too happy about it, but when Rach goes off to college next year… Julie took off her coat and hung it in the closet. “So Leanna, how’s your day going?†My older-by-two-years sister is the perfect child.
She’s taking 5 honors classes next year, singing in the show choir, was elected treasurer of the volunteer club, and running cross-country.
“Not that bad, Julie, how’s yours?
“Fairly good so far.â€
“Have you seen Rachel anywhere?â€
My other sister, Rachel, was a senior next year, supermodel gorgeous, leading lady in the drama club, captain of the tennis team, and acing her (non-honors) classes. She stayed off the streets and was altogether a great person. It gets really tough having two perfect sisters.
“She’s cleaning the basement. She said she doesn’t want any help.â€
“That’s ok, I have algebra to do anyways.â€
Two perfect sisters, a reporter mother, a banker father, and a supposedly accountant aunt. Then there’s me, a normal looking junior who plays saxophone in the band, tutors the elementary school kids every Wednesday, and is treasurer of the Spanish club. In addition to the humans, Splatter and a yellow and green parakeet named Puff make up the Rhodes family. All of these people make our household pretty chaotic, but somehow we manage. After cleaning a bit, I flopped back onto my bed and thought again about all of the weird stuff I found in the attic. I had found the skeletons in Aunt Jessica’s closet (literally), but I still didn’t know what they meant. Those books…I wanted to know what was in them. The titles hadn’t been on the spines, and they looked really old. On the other hand, that would mean going back up to the attic with the creepy pigeon. Why would she have weapons? I’m still going with the split personality theory on this one. And what about that stone bowl? It was just in the middle of the floor, and why was there a tripod over it? These thoughts kept me entertained for the rest of the afternoon, and when mom called me to dinner, I was sure of three things. First- there was something definitely strange about the stuff in the attic, and I needed to find out more about it. Secondly, Aunt Jessica might be dangerous, or have a split personality (it’s my only theory that makes sense). Third- I couldn’t tell anyone about what I had seen (see second point). Hey, I didn’t say these were deep, meaningful conclusions.
Dinner is a lively affair at my house. It’s the only time that all of us can sit down and talk together, and my mother is always determined to make the most of it. Today, however, we were one person short- Aunt Jessica. She had called earlier, and said that her flight had been delayed and she wouldn’t be back till about eight tonight. Over chicken casserole and green beans, mom peppered us with questions.
“So Rachel, how’s the basement look?â€
“Julie, I heard you did really well at practice today.â€
“Leanna, what time are you meeting Patricia tomorrow?â€
“So dear, how was the bank today? Any stick-ups?â€
That was an old joke from before I was born. Apparently, Rachel had seen a movie about the wild west, and had thought that dad worked in a bank that got robbed by bad guys several times per day.
When dinner was over, I volunteered to wash dishes. After completing that task, I settled down in the family room to watch TV with my sisters. Julie won the coin toss, and picked a cop show. After a while I got bored, so I went up to my room to play with Splatter. All right, I admit it. I was nervous that Aunt Jessica would somehow know that I’d been in the attic and come after me with those swords (what were they called?). When she finally came in the door at around eight thirty, I nearly screamed with anticipation and dread. Yet she merely set her bags down, declined mom’s offer of leftover chicken casserole, and sat down with us. She took a sheaf of papers out of her briefcase and started reading them. All in all, a typical action. But I still couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that I felt, even as I brushed my teeth and turned out the light. Miraculously, I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Sorry about the really long post. This is part of a story I’ve been working on for a while. I’ll post some more tomorrow or sometime. The part I’ve posted is really boring, just the introduction stuff.
OH MY GOSH. OH MY GOSH.
I had to have my computer re-imaged, because it’s an unresponsive piece of plastic, and my story got ERASED.
Thank God for the blog, or else it would have been lost to oblivion. I have never been more grateful in my life. Ah. That was SCARY.
I’ve been fuming all day long.
15-I actually meant hook. My Lang arts teachers since second grade always called them hookers, which nobody thought was funny until sixth grade. Now I can’t get out of the habit. I read over my post and I was like “ohmygosh I actually said hookers *facepalm*”
17-Hehe, “unresponsive peice of plastic”. I have to call someone that.
18- Yeah, I just assumed that’s what you meant. My friend had a very embarrassing moment confusing hooker/hook in front of the class in 8th grade XD Except no one ever used ‘hooker’ before her so it just kind of came out of nowhere. The teacher was like “Well… that would certainly grab someone’s attention too…”
Oh um writing. Eh heh heh? No more yet? I think I sort of no what happens right next, but not after that. Once the next sentence comes to me I’ll type up another section.
Moar.
—
“Hey man, who’s the chick?â€
Aaron faced the blonde drunk.
“This is Vanessa. Vanessa, Jason. Jason, Vanessa.â€
Vanessa shook the sticky hand. She didn’t recognize Jason at all, which was surprising, because she knew most of Aaron’s friends, or so she thought. Come to think of it, she didn’t recognize anyone around the room. How did Aaron have so many friends she hadn’t ever seen?
There were a couple of girls doing the Soulja Boy Dance, sharply contrasting with the nu-metal blasting through the room, not to mention their corsets and black skirts. There was blonde, who looked like the girl version of Jason, sitting in the corner, reading a book. A guy with purple hair and a spiked collar was eying her from the stereo system. Another guy with the same color hair but whitewashed jeans and an expensive looking shirt was behind him, talking animatedly on the phone and munching on a cheeto. A blue baggy football jersey clad girl was – what was she doing? Tap dancing – in the other corner, looking at the rest of everyone else.
“Vanessa?â€
She jumped for the who-knows-how-many-timeth. “What?â€
“Would you come upstairs for a sec?†Aaron looked uncomfortable, like he had just noticed how unfamiliar and out of place Vanessa was compared to everyone else.
“You don’t wanna dance?†Jason butted in. “C’mon, can I dance?â€
“You can dance with Layla.†Aaron nodded to the blonde.
“Ew!â€
“Deal, man.†Aaron turned on his heel. Vanessa trotted along to the door in the back. Aaron opened it to the kitchen. It was drastically transformed, but now Vanessa expected that. Gleaming surfaces replaced mail cluttered counters.
“Hi, Mom.â€
“Why, HELLO, Aaron!†Mrs. Faye grinned like her face would break. Vanessa tried to hind behind Aaron, but Mrs. Faye saw her. Her smile widened, if that was possible. “And that ISN’T Vanessa? Dear, get OVER here!†She grabbed Vanessa’s shirt. Vanessa braced, ready to kick, but she couldn’t escape the grip, much less the spleen crushing hug that followed, surprisingly, next. Out of all the transformations of the Faye household, this had been the most dramatic.
Make that the second. Mr. Faye walked in, his eyes open, which was definitely not normal. He smiled, again not normal, and laughed, which positively scared Vanessa. She had never seen him fully awake, much less laughing at nothing. He was the type of guy who got on the computer to do “work†at five in the morning, locked himself in his “office†and got off at twelve in the night.
“I made COOKIES!†Mrs. Faye boomed with her amplified voice. At least one thing hadn’t changed. When before she used the voice for screaming at her husband and son, she now used it to announce cookies. In capital letters of course. COOKIES.
“YUMMY!†Mr. Faye exclaimed, and hugged his wife.
“My God. Let’s go.†Aaron grabbed Vanessa’s arm and led her past his hugging parents, and up a pair of stairs that hadn’t existed in the bungalow she was used to.
—
19-lolol. But I think hookers grab attention a bit different than hooks do.
Continued from the prologue on post 6-
School. Another test of his creativity and intelligence. He was Kevin Matthews.
A sigh. A shrug. And he walked off the insignificant bus, onto the insignificant sidewalk, and into the insignificant school. He was just another 7th grade student. He always wanted to be more. He wanted to be important more than you could posibly know. Anything would be fine, he just wasn’t special enough. Sure, he got A’s and A+’s in school, but he never skipped a grade, he wasn’t exceptioally athletic, and worse of it all, he went to the largest middle school in New York.This gave him yet another perspective of his insignificance compared to the rest of the planet, no the universe; that kind of thinking was what got him depressed to the point of crying.
But he didn’t cry anymore.
He learned not to succumb to his utter insignificance. Accepting defeat made him want to cry even more, but he refused to.
As he walked on the sidewalk, for what seemed to be his millionth time doing just that, he oticed all the pieces of black sticky gum. They lost their flavor(and smell) along time ago. Most people never knew what these dark lumps on the ground were. Kevin noticed them one day because of his absolute, insignificant, boredom.
He slowly opened one of the red doors, and walked into the huge school. Seeing all the students walk by was like watching his life go by. With no one watching, advising, or caring.
Kevin sighed again.
He joined a group of students like a little fish in an open sea. He had to get to his first class.
Ugh. Math.
The worst subject there was. The way Kevin looked at it, once you finished the 6th grade, you knew all you needed to ever know. Out of the vast amount of students in Kevin’s school, maybe one would use the endless equations that they “needed” to learn.
He sat down at his desk. The middle seat. It was the Universe trying to rub in how small he was.The desks around him could be the Sahara Desert. It was all the same.
And of course he was the first one there, so Kevin was able to look over all of the desks and see just how many desks there were.
Sigh.
I sigh too much…
That thought made him want to sigh again, but he realized the irony.
Finally is friend Mat walked in.
“Hey,” Mat said.
“Hey,” responded Kevin, gloomily.
“Why are you so early?” asked Matt as another student walked in.
“I don’t know. I geuss I just walked straight here” Kevin replied.
“Oh…”
Ugh.
What a boring conversation for the start of the day. He wasn’t bored with life; in fact, he found the whole idea of it interesting. He also wondered aout how other people felt about their insignificant lives. He decided that it was just his perspective that gave him this depressed feeling. Not bored, just depressed.
“Hello class,”greeted Mr. Fero.
“Hello Ms. Fero,” the class said in unison.
Except for Kevin. Too ordinary. Too along with the crowd. He skipped saying hello, hoping that because of his slight disrespect his teacher would get mad at him an cause even the tiniest bit of excitement, or maybe evn attention.
He was too hopeful.
Nobody noticed, nobody cared.
Well, at least he tried.
“Everyone copy down their Do Now and then we’re going to…”
It didn’t matter.
He did what she said. It didn’t matter anyway, he was just another student. The teacher didn’t have enough time to seperate herself from the class for an un0needing child from the middle of the class.
The Bell.
His classmates ran out of the classroom to get to their next class. It took a second for Kevin to realize this.
It’s not like it mattered.
—————————————————————————
How is it??????????????????????
Second installment, continued from post 16.
I awoke hours later to breath on my face. I sat up with a gasp- I had been dreaming about Aunt Jessica- and smacked into the aforementioned aunt’s head. She cursed under her breath, then grabbed my wrist and pulled me down the stairs into the darkened living room. She pulled me close.
“You were snooping around in the attic today, weren’t you?â€
I was scared speechless. This was all of my fears come to life and standing in front of me. I gulped. She gave me a shake.
“Well?! Answer me,†she hissed. “Were you in the attic or not?â€
I felt like I was going to pass out. I nodded. She cursed again, then began to pace the living room floor. I started to edge towards the door. I didn’t want to scream, in case she wasn’t going to hurt me, but I wanted to let mom and dad know about all of this. Suddenly she turned, grabbed my wrist again, and pulled me up the thirteen steps to the attic. She shut the door behind us, then walked to the center of the room- and smiled at me. Very peculiar. She spread her arms.
“Well, Leanna, here you are again. I had hoped to keep all of this a secret for another few months, but Father Time has a mind of his own, I suppose. Come, sit down.†She gestured to the floor.
“Thanks, but I’d rather stand.â€
“Suit yourself.â€
She walked over to the armoire that had been locked this afternoon, opened it, and pulled out a robe covered in red feathers. Only now did I really look at the attic. Candles burned in wall sconces, and a fire was lit in the stone bowl. A kettle hung from the tripod. The weapons were in their usual places, and the cupboards were still shut. It looked almost the same as it had…
oh geez. Out of nowhere, a red bird swooped own and landed on the tripod. It’s tail was huge, and it hung down into the flames. I suppressed a scream. I had to be dreaming! Just to be sure, I pinched myself. Nope. All of this was real. While I had been gaping, Aunt Jessica, now clad in her red robe, had opened the cabinet and puled out an enormous book. She laid it on her desk, and opened it to a seemingly random page. I was still in shock. Aunt Jessica took my arm and guided me to an empty spot on the floor. She helped me sit, then sat herself. She looked at me for some time, then began to speak.
“Leanna, have you ever seen magic before?â€
“You mean where the magician pulls a rabbit out of his hat and makes cards disappear? Yeah, I’ve seen it.â€
“No Leanna, I mean real magic. Magic like Merlin from King Arthur’s court in Camelot did, like Doctor Faustus did, before he accidentally sold his soul. Real magic, ancient magic, not rabbits and card tricks.â€
“You lost me after real magic.â€
Aunt Jessica groaned. “Leanna, wake up! I know that it’s after midnight, but try to pay attention. You’ve read fairy tales, am I correct?â€
I nodded.
“And in those fairy tales, there are damsels in distress, princes in disguise, and wizards and witches, right?
Again I nodded. It was too late (I mean early) to be articulate.
“Well, wizards and witches have changed since those fairy tales were written. Society won’t allow them to walk around making jewels come out of people’s mouths. They also have to keep the fact that they are witches a secret. It isn’t as much of a fear-of-witchhunts thing as a fear-of-brain-being-dissected-by-scientists sort of thing. But enough beating around the bush. Leanna, I am a witch.†She paused. “Leanna, why are you pinching yourself?â€
“Because this had got to be a dream. Witches aren’t real. They don’t exist. You aren’t a witch, and I hate to ruin your little joke, but this isn’t funny at all!â€
I couldn’t really describe her expression if I tried. It looked like she was hurt, but about to laugh at the same time.
“Leanna, please believe me. I am a witch, and I have magical powers that I have learned to control over the years. I must use these powers, for if left dormant they can become dangerous. We really must get started though. It’s getting late.â€
“Wait, start what?â€
She didn’t stop to listen, but instead ran over to the cabinet with the splintered bone, and pulled out the bone and at least 12 bottles. She put these all on the desk, and opened them up. Then she opened another cabinet and pulled out a balance and a stack of small bowls. She then turned to me, her eyes shining. “Leanna, you can help me with this. Do you know how to use a balance?â€
“Yeah.†I still don’t believe that she has magical powers, but I figured I’d play along anyway.
“OK, then measure out ½ a gram of this.†She handed me a bottle filled with something. I took a sniff. It smelled like… “Sugar!†I exclaimed. “You’re using powdered sugar?â€
“Well, this potion makes a dreadful stink otherwise. Ordinarily I’d use raw sugar, but this is all I could find on short notice.â€
“What’s in all of these other bottles?†I couldn’t help myself, I was a little bit curious as to what was going on.
“Amchur, vervain, rue, thai basil, witch hazel, mustard seed, olive oil, ginko, catnip, lemon thyme, cumin, Bolivian coriander, and dorrigo pepper.â€
“And this is going to do what?â€
“You’ll see.â€
She pulled another, older looking balance out of the cupboard and grabbed a bottle to start weighing. Pretty soon, we had everything into bowls except for the bone. She stowed everything away, then took the tray over to the tripod and cauldron that was now hanging over it. She set the tray down on the floor, then called me back to her desk. “Now Leanna, before we send the news of your powers to the council, you’ll have to pick a name that you will be called by other witches. This replaces your given name to other mages.â€
“Mage?â€
“One who does magic.â€
I couldn’t believe it. Not only did she think that she was a witch, but apparently she thought that I was one as well!
We paged through the book, looking at the enormous list of names. They were divided into first and last, and sub-divided into male and female. Aunt Jessica suggested that I find a name having to do with fire. Finally, I chose Aideen as my alternate first name. I really don’t know why I was still up here, but it was getting kind of fun. Aunt Jessica’s alternate name was Aderyn Willow. Since I was related, my surname would be Willow as well. When I had chosen, Aunt Jessica clapped her hands. “Fantastic! And it’s only three in the morning!â€
I groaned. How much longer is this going to take? Aunt Jessica walked by me and over to the fire. As she did, a feather fell off of her robe. I picked it up and put it into my pocket. She beckoned me over and shooed the bird off the tripod.
“Now, first we add the lemon thyme, the sugar, and the amchur.†I dumped three bowls in. “What’s amchur?â€
“Mango powder. The thyme, sugar, and amchur are to help ease the smell. Next goes the olive oil. Now, I’ll crush the mustard seeds with the coriander while you add the cumin.†Next came the ginko, followed by rue, vervain, catnip,witch hazel and pepper. Last, we added the basil. Aunt Jessica then took a pair of tweezers and carefully removed a single sliver of the bone. She dropped it into my hand. “You have to add this, since you are the subject of this call.†I dropped it into the cauldron, and suddenly there was a poof of fuchsia smoke, and a voice filled the room.
I screamed. Aunt Jessica cursed, then clapped a hand over my mouth. In less than a second, I was back in my room, sitting on my bed. The door burst open, and in came mom, dad, and Rach. Julie was sitting up in her bed.
“Leanna, are you all right? You screamed,†mom said, concern written all over her face.
“I’m fine,†I reassured them. “Just a nightmare. Sorry to wake everybody up.â€
Mom looked skeptical, but she nodded, wished me good night, and went back to bed. I lay there, in the dark, listening to Julie’s slow, even breathing, and wondering if everything had, in fact been a dream. I mean, when I supposedly “woke up†I had been dreaming about my aunt. I’ll bet it was all a dream. And while I’m deluding myself, I’ll ask Brad Pitt to come to Spring Fling with me. There was no way I could have been dreaming. I’d pinched myself. Multiple times in fact, and it had hurt every time. Also, I could smell the sugar, and when the potion exploded, it had smelled pretty bad. And then there was that voice. Who was it? I couldn’t really hear them, but it had sounded like they were speaking English. These thoughts kept me up almost the rest of the night.
20) I really want to know what’s going on!
You have my eternally curious!
21) Wow. That’s depressing. You’re character needs some inspiration.
Blah. J’ai sommeil.
23- Don’t worry, it comes a bit later.
Somebody? Read my story please? I’m feeling rather ignored… Parts one and two are both in the previous story thread.
Chapter 3
Noshu woke with a start, and shivered. He had been having nightmares of that sort ever since the governor had been struck by the lightning a week ago on Games Day, and killed instantly. The crowd had screamed until the Imperial Law Enforcers had arrived. The ILE had gotten things organized quickly, but he knew no one would be able to forget that bolt of lightning, hovering in the sky, waiting to strike the governor. And that was the greatest mystery of all. Why had it struck the governor? There were plenty of tall posts and trees around, but it had gone to a human.
A human, people whispered, who was famously against the old gods.
The people were whispering that the old gods were angry. That they were still out there, waiting for a chance for revenge. That their patience was at an end. The capital’s rumor mill turned quickly in this end of the city, and everyone had heard-of course, not without help from a certain advisor. There was bad feeling against the palace for not doing anything, what with their neighboring country, Lutar, stirring and gathering weapons. Lutar still worshiped the old gods, the people whispered, conveniently forgetting their own rebellions against those same gods. And with their only allied country in a state of civil war, the kingdom’s luck seemed to have run out.
Noshu believed none of the whispers, but they were still a problem. Because he had heard the conversation between King Rubyan and Sinaltu, he knew what they were leading to- and he just couldn’t let that happen to Qayet.
“Noshu?” Lukin asked cautiously from the floor-the boys had been having a sleepover. “Noshu, are you okay?”
Noshu nodded dismally. Laughter and fights were forgotten between the two boys, ever since Games Day, the day when the world had changed. People milled in the dusty streets now, not talking except to ask the price of a loaf of bread, or to exchange hurried whispers-the subject no mystery to the boys. The bright colors of the market seemed dulled, as if a veil were over them. The horses hung their heads and plodded, instead of walking brightly along as they used to. The farmers’ crops common in these suburbs of the capital seemed grey and drooping. Everything was grey and brown. The land was tired, tired and flat.
Noshu swung out of bed without much energy and stepped into his sandals. Lukin did the same, pushing open the door to reveal the same dusty street and grey people. Except their grey was brighter now, and touches of color shone in the streets. The horses walked a little faster, held their heads a little higher. Even the plants seemed happier.
“What’s going on?” Noshu asked a woman in the street. She smiled.
“Be happy, dear boy, for our troubles are over at last. The old gods have a sacrifice now, and all shall be better once we worship them again! Oh, happy day!”
Noshu and Lukin exchanged an incredulous look as the woman passed them. “Do you know what’s happening?” Lukin asked a man passing by. The man smiled-a smile that seemed rather vacant to the boys.
“Be happy, dear boy, for our troubles are over at last. The old gods have a sacrifice now, and all shall be better once we worship them again! Oh, happy day!”
The boys looked at one another again, but this look was one of confusion and slight fear. Again and again they questioned the people in the street, and again and again they received the same answer. “Someone’s brainwashing them,†Lukin said at last. Noshu nodded.
“But who? Hey, Yuromi,†he said to a girl passing by who was in his class, “what’s up?â€
Yuromi smiled. “Be happy, Noshu, for our troubles are over at last. The old gods have a sacrifice now, and all shall be better once we worship them again! Oh, happy day!”
“Yes, but who told you that?†Lukin pressed her.
The girl smiled again. “He told me. Be happy! We are happy! The old gods have a sacrifice!â€
“Yuromi,†Lukin asked, “who’s being sacrificed?â€
“Be happy, Noshu!†Yuromi replied. “Our troubles are over! Princess Qayet will be sacrificed to the rain god two weeks from now! Oh, happy day!â€
22 – the part where the girl picks out a name to be known by reminded me of the first book in the Bartholomeus (sp?) trilogy, where Nicholas changes his name to John Mandrake…not to be picky or anything, it was just something that came to mind as I read it.
AAAAAH!!!! WRITER’S BLOCK!!!!!
OK, I know Beryl’s character and role and everything, but this is all I can manage to write from her perspective:
Beryl
I stare at them. They certainly don’t look like much. Why would the Anhara need girls from the Earthworld to fulfill the prophecy? Why not Maryna or Katya or one of the other Anhara girls? Oh, fine, so Anhara abilities have more to do with water, but why in Kriana couldn’t we have gotten a few girls from some random village nearby?
Yeah, pretty pitiful that i can’t get past that.
26- Actually the Bartimaeus Trilogy, where the main character is Nathaniel. Sorry to nitpick!
28 —
I thought Bartholomeus sounded odd when I wrote it down…and I’m bad at names anyway; I can remember the plot of a book but can’t remember the title!
What do you guys think of my story so far? (Posts 16 and 22).
I’m only asking because if nobody wants to see more, I’ll stop posting it; don’t want to take up space.
4-You should change the title. There’s already a book called the Giver, and Gifter is pretty similar.
I’m going to post more about my story as soon as I figure out where I left off talking about it on the other thread. Or in a few days. I don’t get on the internet very often anymore.
3-I don’t think I can kill Hannah. The story starts on her and she’s the main character. I think I know who I’m going to kill…
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…
The boy clone is now named Nelson. They are going to name him when they’re becoming friends at the store.
The only Bio (non clone) other than Hannah in the group is Dr. Zacharias Morgan. He works for the government in a clone lab, but he believes that clones should not be kept as property. The leaders of the revolution are Hannah, Dr. Morgan, and Nelson. Ivory is a major character, but too young to be a leader.
Nelson is taken to prison, where the conditions are horrible and overcrowded. None of the officers know he can write, and he somehow manages to get a message out to Hannah and Ivory. He escapes and finds his way back to the group. Hannah and Dr. Morgan help him hide and he starts coming to meetings again. There is another raid, and a cameo character is killed by the police in a brutal attack. The clones, Hannah, and Dr. Morgan keep meeting and plan the revolution. Some clones from the group are able to leave and start other groups. Dr. Morgan is being investigated by the government he works for. He is taken away, leaving Hannah and Nelson as the leaders. Hannah no longer has his help to run the revolution or to hide Nelson. They hope for his escape, but during a interrogation using torture he is killed after refusing to disclose information about the meetings.
I’m pretty sure Hannah and Nelson are going to fall in love, but if they do it’s going to be hard to keep this from getting cliched. If they don’t fall in love then it would make them seem too unrealistic because they spend so much time together and share so much that it would be hard for any normal person not to get involved.
I’ve got an awful lot of stories, none of which are ever going to get anywhere by themselves, but I’m thinking that maybe if I meld them all together I can come up with enough of a plot to keep it going (though I may have to ditch/blend some characters).
I have
•That one I started a while back about the tightrope walker who falls off and ends up in some weird Dickensian city
•A story about some people on a train who suddenly ended up somewhere completely different (they were sort of Dickensian to begin with)
•A really old story about a boy who’s sort of a changeling in a way and this girl follows him through to his other world
•The most recent one, about two girls, which may or may not be connected to Sara, of The Makepeace War
They all have one thing in common: they either take place in an alternate world, or have something happen that plunges them into an alternate world. Surely these can be melded together.
I. Characters
Tightrope story:
Melissa (MC)
Train story:
Owen (MMC)
Lillian (FMC)
Arthur Pole
Kate (SMC)
Changeling-ish story:
Grace (MC)
Maurice (SMC)
Two girls:
Merle (MC)
Irene (MC)
The cat
Kate and Arthur Pole can be deleted, which leaves us with:
Melissa
Owen
Lillian
Merle
Irene
Maurice
Grace
The cat
Which is far too large a number for one book, even if some of them aren’t really major characters, like the cat. I could kill a couple of them off, like maybe Maurice…and possibly Lillian, but I was very fond of her, so I think I’ll keep her. Mind you, these characters needn’t all interact. I think I’ll leave the tightrope story out of it, how about? That makes our list:
Owen
Lillian
Merle
Irene
Grace
Merle and Irene are sort of a group, and so are Owen and Lillian (I feel like they need a 3rd person to complete their group. No, maybe the cat will serve), and Grace is all alone. Maybe… she can fall in with some vagabonds, who later meet Merle and Irene while traveling. So Merle, Irene, Grace, and the cat are all in the alternate world, only Grace doesn’t belong there, and Owen and Lillian are in this world, and neither of them belong. They can run into and join up with those characters that I mentioned so long ago I can’t even remember their names; I’ll dig up the brainstorming for that page later.
II. Plot
OK, so here’s the idea. Once upon a time a bunch of people did something, I don’t even know what. I think they created a world. Maybe two. Maybe they only created a way between the two worlds, which were already there. Or maybe they just guarded the way. I’m not sure. Anyway, there were hundreds of them but then they all got killed (they’re immortal so they can’t die normally though) except for seven, and six of the seven left so only one was around when danger once more reared its head. So she goes out into the world to find her fellows.
Cut to a girl. Name of Grace. Lives in a normal American town, you know the type. One dark and stormy night she sees some schoolmate of hers wandering around in the storm and she’s like, “Wow, he’s weird, I’ll follow him because it’s one in the morning and my brain isn’t working properly.
So she follows him, goes to other world, he starts to explain stuff, then he dies. And she’s like “WHOA” and for some reason she takes something from him, or maybe he gives it to her with his dying breath, I dunno. So she’s wandering around with this Something that happens to be very important only she doesn’t know that. She falls in with a bunch of vagabonds and starts traveling the country, learning as she goes.
Meanwhile, there are two teenage girls, Merle and Irene. Neither has met before. Merle has been told that she’s part of a prophecy (basically she’s mentioned, not by name, in one line, so she doesn’t really matter to the prophecy, but the prophecy matters to her because it says she’s going to become Great), so she goes out to fetch the other part of the prophecy, who a) doesn’t believe she’s part of a prophecy, and b) doesn’t care to become Great, thanks very much. Merle is furious because she’s been waiting her whole life for this moment and it’s not going to work without this girl. Irene (the other part of the prophecy) thinks it over, finally decides to cooperate. They travel, meet Grace.
MEANWHILE, a couple of unsuspecting young people have been transported, weirdly enough, into this world, which happens to be Grace’s world. However, they’re from Merle’s world, so they’re confused. They meet the one woman, the remaining guardian/creator/whatever who’s looking for her friends. She says, “Hey, help me look for my friends and this Something and I’ll get you home.” They say “OK then” and proceed to do so. Meanwhile, Merle turns out not to be part of the prophecy after all, but Irene is, and (surprise, surprise) so is Grace. Imagine the frustration and envy, and times it by ten or twenty. Merle is devastated, half-mad and horribly spiteful, but outwardly perfectly calm. She takes her leave and returns home, where she fumes inwardly and contemplates drowning herself–even tries, but is saved. She steals the Something from Grace, and is clever enough to find out what it does, which is, it transports people from one world to the other. So Merle’s in our world, and our heroes aren’t the only ones who suspect the Something is there. An Employee of the Antagonist offers to take the Something off Merle’s hands, and Merle gives it up willingly, mainly to spite Grace, not realizing that now she doesn’t have a means of getting home. She runs into Lillian, Owen, and the immortal woman whom we shall call Erin for the time being. Erin informs us that the danger wasn’t only from the antagonists, who want do something, I’m not sure what, but also from the Something itself, because it’s getting old and crumbly and very soon anyone who’s been in both worlds is going to be stuck between worlds, not able to get into either. So they have to solve that problem.
~~~~~~
A chill wind blew through the empty hall, coming from one of the numerous chinks in the crumbling walls. Erin sighed and put her chin in her fist. “Come on,†she said aloud to no one (for the hall was empty). “It’s held out for so long, against disagreement and abandonment and . . . and everything–you can’t give up on it now!â€
The wind whistled faintly outside, sneaking through the cracks in the enormous oak door. The fire in the hearth wavered, looking small and weak and giving no warmth. One there had been seven of them, sitting around the table, laughing, chatting. They had ate here, slept here, this was where they had held balls at midwinter and had spent so long besieged, years ago, centuries ago. But then . . .
Erin let out a sob.
She remembered when there had been hundreds of them, men and women like herself, though that memory was blurred by thousands of years. She remembered the first great battle, trooping back to the hall, the sadness of that first dinner. Perhaps half of them had gone, then, a third, a quarter, who knows, who remembers that? More battles had come and gone, alternating with peacetime, happy days and nights, feasts, revels, joy. And then had come the biggest battle of all, and they had defeated the enemy, but when they returned to their hall, there was only the seven left, and a long peacetime began.
Now they were all gone, having tired of the drafty hall, grieving for their fellows, and only Erin was left.
Hey, POSOC, did you ever get anywhere with Trouble Clef? You seemed very excited about it last May and weren’t even going to post more than a few paragraphs because you were too paranoid. I think it’s fairly safe to assume you’ve forgotten about it by now, but I was wondering…
33-Ooh! Sounds good! Is the Something going to be a physical object or a power or another thing?
35- I was thinking of a physical object, but it was a power or something intangible, that would be cool…
34- I made a certain amount of progress, but abandoned it because I couldn’t capture the sort of subtlety I imagined with the music.
That discussion about magic on a recent Random Thread helped a lot with that, though, so I may return to the idea soon.
Oh, I give up. No one’s reading my story.
38- I read it. At least the chapter on this thread, I wasn’t on the last one. It was good! I probably wouldn’t write it, but that’s just because I tend to write in different styles about different subjects.
30- I liked yours too. It’s actually quite similar to something I would write, although different. Also, just to point out, one time I pinched myself in a dream, and it hurt. Not much, but it still did. So now I leave you with the quandary of how to solve this. Or, since most people don’t know that sometimes when you pinch yourself, you can be dreaming and still have it hurt, you might not have to solve this.
25) GAH! Scarylicious! *hides* You can’t just sacrifice her!
You’d better make those boys begin a daring rescue RIGHT NOW!
Alas. The progress on my story has slowed to a crawl. I just haven’t sat down and finished it and I’m SO close! I’m determined! I’ll have finished the first draft by the end of this summer! *gets determined face on*
I’m thinking of making a story about my Robot Girl character, but I can’t decide on names for either her or her “father”. (The mad scientist guy who she helped decorate the Christmas tree.) Could anybody give a helpful suggestion, please?
Well, poopers.
I came on my weekly MB visit and no one’s posted any more writing here! 
41) The name of a robot? Does it have to sound Roboty? Like BI-59? Or TO3-4C? Or do you watn a humany name? Like Bailey? Mereid? Xarog?
42: Haha. I just saw “Well, poopers.” and the RCB and laughed until I cried. *immature*
43– Me too.
Eh. Meh. I don’t like the revised outline I made, and I really want to write but I don’t have any ideas! -woe-
42- A humany name. Mereid sounds sort of good, something along those lines. And I need a name for the scientist, too.
The memories were not hers. She did not know where they had come from, but they were not hers. They were mere shadows of memories: the fresh smell of grass; an endless beach; wild indescribable joy; desolate sadness as limitless as the beach. Time or space had stripped them of meaning, and of intensity, the joy and sadness were the tattered remnants of true emotion and the scent of grass was faint and elusive, but, still, she did not recognize them.
She opened her eyes. The glow-in-the-dark constellations on her ceiling stared back, but it was morning, and the green-white luminescence was as dim as the unwelcome memories. She swung her feet out of bed, wrapped her robe around her, and walked to the window. She pulled open the curtains.
The sky was purple.
Perhaps it was all a dream. But something told her that it was not. She pulled the curtains closed again to shut out the unnatural sky and went out into the hall.
The doors to her parents’ and her brothers’ rooms were closed. She went into the bathroom and shut the door.
The face in the mirror was still her own: the same freckled oval face, the same long-lashed brown eyes and straight shoulder-length hair. She turned away and went downstairs.
The clock read eight-thirty. The sky was still purple. She watched it as she ate her cereal, and then went back upstairs and dressed in blue jeans and a green shirt. Her family was still asleep. She went into the yard and looked at the sky.
((Well, I’ve been away working on part of a short story that may turn into a novel, but I’m not sure. Here’s some. Please comment!))
Missy stood like a poised porcelain doll on the bare apartment balcony under the frosty night sky, and gingerly polished the gun in her fingers.
It had been exactly three hours since the fatally glorious incident had occurred, and yet she could still remember every little detail as clearly as if it were still playing out like a movie reel before her emaciated eyes. “They say that you aren’t responsible,†she whispered to herself, shaking her head slowly like a dog. “They say that you had nothing to do with it. But they were wrong, now weren’t they? Weren’t you?†Three hours later, yet she could still remember the look on his face when she had pulled the trigger.
Footsteps always seemed quieter, subtler at night, when it seemed the world was an uncultivated expanse of silent concrete path. It was easy to pawn the gun away from the second hand store owner. The fool had left it loaded, lying on a shelf next to the ten cent mints and an old alarm clock with no hour hand. All she’d had to do was utter a few largely insignificant words, and then be on her way, maybe a warning shot to keep the bumbling fool’s mouth shut. Here, Missy laughed, running a finger along the gleaming silver barrel that reflected the clear stars above. So easy, to feel that metal slide back beneath her finger and to hear the resounding crash of glass shattering above the old man’s head. It was nothing short of delightful. Then, on to the true task; the real reason that she was there.
As it usually was around midnight, Laurence’s apartment door was unlocked, a sliver of light peeking past the mahogany wood and onto the landing where Missy stood poised, the metal of the pistol cold as ice against her cheekbone. She could already hear them, talking in softly whispered voices, leaning against the wall behind his bed and examining each other’s fingers clasped together in a slightly forced knot. She could see them together without looking, him with his face carved of marble and eyes drawn to life from a storybook in blue, and her with hair running down her pale shoulders, trying to be beautiful, failing to be reasonable. It made Missy nearly ill to think of her Laurence, her sweetheart, in love with another.
For a moment her hands trembled and she faltered. She remembered long spent days together, a glass of red wine on a blanket beneath the beech tree, summer air coating them beneath the moon on the sand. Seven and a half months of devotion, of longing and of precious love. Had it all come to an end? And Missy doubted. She doubted that her hands could come to betray her heart, to open the door and to pull the trigger. Then, the memory of the other reopened her grief and hatred.
Sarah was her name. She was his assistant at work, the one who sat behind the desk and showed Missy in every day after picking up the dry cleaning and the steak for his dinner. She had been hired a month ago, by order of Laurence himself. He was a lawyer, she worked in another firm. She had quit, for no particular reason as Missy recalled. Then, he had chosen her. From fifty other, more qualified women and men with a better background and smaller eyes, he had chosen Sarah. Missy had asked him once, over their Friday’s porterhouse, “How is your new assistant, baby?†in her terribly flirtatious voice that drew all men in like fish on a line.
“Fine,†he had said, and nothing more. Fine, indeed, Missy thought. Maybe they had been together right after that dinner of theirs, right after their evening, after he had proposed with the seven-carat in the black satin case. It was still there, on her middle finger, glinting in the light from the street below. She shivered with disgust. Betrayal so deep made her blood run cold-as if it wasn’t already like ice tainting the beat of her heart and searing her veins like poison. It might have even started before Missy knew Sarah, it might have begun weeks or months or years before the woman had applied for a job working with Missy’s fiancé. Her Laurence, hers, not this false woman’s!
She had tried to forget, had wasted so much time and so many hours when she was meant to be asleep wondering why her. Why did things so beautiful have to come to an end? But no, she thought, this is only the beginning. It was the end for him, the beginning for her. It would all work together so perfectly, she knew. A car horn yanked her from the memory, and she composed herself. This was the moment, and her mind rejoiced.
She ran through the door, shoving it aside as if it were made of cheap plastic, and the couple on the davenport leapt with shock at the sudden din and appearance of this unexpected figure, who held the gun so tantalizingly close to Laurence’s face that he could hardly move for fear.
“Good evening, sweetheart,†she spat, and their eyes met.
I’m going to repost my thoughts from an earlier thread here.
OK, I’m going to be using this thread to dump out and reorganize my weird ideas for the foreseeable future. Be warned. Oddness follows.
All right, so after reading a discussion of madness on the Random Thread and hearing the phrase “space fantasy,†I’ve got a bunch of really bizarre ideas bubbling up from the back of my brain, including a group of people who’ve willingly gone mad to gain more power (a la Jonathan Strange) or for various other reasons; an iron-warded village of lost children and musicians escaped from a faerie court; a city in which gravity is arbitrary; Shakespearean fairies on Mars, etc, ad nauseam. Aaaaaaaaaaaagggghhhhhhh!!!!! How on Earth, Venus, Endor, Vulcan or [insert preferred fictional/nonfictional planetary body here] do I fit all this cake mix into a single work without it becoming completely ridiculous? I think what I need to do is come up with a central concept and the rest will follow. *mutters incoherently to self* I’ll be back.
Disclaimer: At this stage in the proceedings, Physics take a backseat to Plot. I urge Certain Scientific Persons to restrain themselves from correcting the numerous errors I will undoubtedly make.
•Phlogiston is an amazing word which conjures up all sorts of steampunk vibes. I must use it.
•If these mad people are living in secrecy, they’ll need some way to maintain their projects and goals, given that they’re not exactly the best at focusing on them now. Some giant, HAL-like computer which takes care of their day-to-day needs while they probe into the mysteries of the universe? I’ll make it a “calculating engine,†though, to preserve the Victorianish aura.
•Mars gains its distinct color from iron oxide which is scattered all over the surface. Faeries are traditionally considered to be driven off or harmed by iron, sometimes meteoric. Mars: greatest haven of civilization, protected by the metal in its very soil from the encroaching Fae? Needs work, but has potential.
•I’m going to have to make a major decision soon: Magical science, or scientific magic? It all depends on which theme takes priority. I have two directions in which I could take the “faerie†aspect of it, depending on which choice I make.
If I make them Elementals (perhaps according to the Paracelsan system? gnomes, sylphs, undines, salamanders) I’ll definitely be going down the Science-priority road. I came up with a few interesting concepts for that a while back, which I am loath to throw away. However, that would imply that they’re governed by scientific laws, and the whole point of Faerie is its mystery – the fact that it’s outside human knowledge. I’ll be going down that road if I make them half-fallen angels or similar. Perhaps I can strike a golden mean… Magicians harnessing forces that they try to control and classify, but are really far beyond what they know. Ugh, I can’t think any longer. I’ll return.
OK, I’ve got two quotes, one from Carl Sagan, one from William Butler Yeats, which I shall put at the beginning of the story.
Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame! -William Butler Yeats
The Universe is not required to be in perfect harmony with human ambition. -Carl Sagan
I think both of them evoke different aspects of the mood I’m trying to achieve. The first is wondrous and dreamy, while the second adds a more sinister vibe, and implies beings or forces working for goals that may not be in humanity’s best interests.
Here’s my newest Pet Project, which is hardly new, since I’ve been thinking about it Forever but haven’t written anything down yet. I’m going to create my alternate universe, which is mostly Dickensian but may have a few modern elements as well.
•Main forms of transportation: Bicycle (? Maybe not…), walking, or good old-fashioned horses. Plus tall ships for oversea journeys.
•Things to include: Highwaymen/women, duels, loss of fortunes to cards, pawn shops, inns, letters, important top-secret documents, whist, maybe a ball…the list goes on. And on. And on.
•Magic?: Can’t decide. It might be fun, but it might kill things. Hmm, possibly sea monsters? Tales of sea monsters, at least, definitely… Maybe rocs… I think large supernatural creatures is definitely the way to go. Not dragons though. Maybe a non-talking/telepathic, flightless/fireless version of a dragon. But probably not.
•Setting: Small coastal town, lots of rocky cliffs and cold wet storms, that kind of thing.
•Characters: Maybe later
•Personal conflict: Should girls be allowed to wear pants? It would make things a lot easier, not to mention more pleasant. Should I compromise and make pants not an option but corsets not required either? Should it all depend on a girl’s parents’ opinion? Status? I dunno…
51- Ooh, I love alternate universes. Here are my responses to the bullets, in order:
-Transportation. Bicycles were introduced in the 19th century, I think, so that’s plausible. You could call them velocipedes for that Victorian vibe. They’re really not too good for overland treks (no mountain bikes yet) but they’d work for travel within cities.
-These elements you want to include suggest several different themes to me. Highwaymen, duels, cards, whist, etc. have a “Swashbuckling” feel. Letters, documents and loss of fortune have a “secrets” theme. Protagonist swashbuckles to regain lost inheritance and uncover conspiracy? Stuff to consider.
-Magic. Dickensian stuff doesn’t really jive with magic. Large semi-supernatural creatures might work. If you want flightless/fireless dragons, my advice is to go back to basics. Not “Smaug” basics: “Loathsome Worm” basics. Ugly reptilian snake-lizards with acidic drool, dwelling in old wells and under bridges. Not intelligent, not gold-hoarders, just very, very hungry. As for other creatures, make them foreign.
-Setting. Cold wet storms and rocky cliffs scream Scotland to me. Also fits well with “Loathsome Worm” and sea monsters.
-Characters. I have nothing to work with here.
-Personal conflict. It’s really up to you, but I’d say that “ladies” are expected to wear dresses and corsets, but in small towns and poor families, that fashion rule’s only observed when practical.
Elaboration on “foreign” (sorry, hit submit too soon): The farther away a place is, the more fantastic beliefs people will have about it. Just make those beliefs true. Fill India with rocs and rakshasas, dump a bunch of wendigos and sidehill gougers in the Americas, but keep monsters out of Scotland (or England, or wherever you decide to set this story), or hide them away in long-forgotten tombs and primal forests.
I’m thinking of having Robot Girl and her “family” live in Nerdvana, a city on the US east coast known for its high-tech manufacturing, high caliber university and widespread use of green technology. Nerdvana has been popularly nicknamed “America’s Smartest City”.
.
52-
-Ooh, velocipedes, I like that. I wasn’t really concerned that they weren’t plausible, more that they just wouldn’t fit. But calling them velocipedes changes everything.
-Swashbuckling. What a great word. But yes, conspiracies are always good. I hadn’t thought of that.
-Yeah, magic works better with regency stuff. I mean, there’s Victorian magic but in this case it might be hard to squeeze it in between the duels and whist and important documents. Those were exactly my thoughts about the dragons. I hadn’t considered making all the other creatures foreign, but it definitely opens up my options tremendously. I mean, there are only so many creatures you can fit in one place, but if you have the whole world…think of the variety!
-Ooh, Scotland’s good.
-Re: dresses, corsets, etc. That’s pretty much what I was thinking. That way there’s still an element of daring in disguising oneself as a boy, but not everyone has to suffer for their entire lives.
Yay, thanks POSOC! Now I just need to sit down and worldbuild for more than the cumulative half an hour I’ve spent so far.
51- That sounds interesting. I’d like to read further.
*whispers* Will anyone comment on mine? 48?
56, re 48:
-You use “poised” twice in the first sentence. “Fatally glorious” is something of an oxymoron, and “emaciated” means “extremely thin,” which doesn’t really fit the description of eyes. Other than that, it seems highly suspenseful. I’d read more.
57- Erm, no I didn’t. And I’ll fix the emaciated thing, good point.
I have more, I’ve just chosen not to post it right now because I’m trying to edit it to make sense with the forming storyline. I may have more later.
Characters: [Insert name here] is the only daughter of a well-to-do family, at least until her older brother gambles away the family fortune, thus incurring the wrath and/or disapproval of everyone connected to him and rendering the family considerably less well-to-do, actually, in terrible debt. It doesn’t help that her father has been…doing…something bad. That makes matters much worse. If I do have a conspiracy, maybe he’s involved? Maybe he’s being blackmailed? Not sure. So basically they’re in horrible debt, will probably live in poverty for the rest of their lives, etc. Oops.
I probably need a sidekick of some kind. Adventures get pretty boring when there’s only one person involved. Possibly her brother, hoping to redeem himself? A friend? A cousin? Her betrothed? He would certainly have good reason to help her regain her fortune…but no. It could always be someone she met during her adventures, who decided to help, I suppose. A highwayman? A guilty conspirator? The owner of a pawn shop? Hmm. Needs thought. Possibly I shouldn’t have a sidekick at all, or maybe I should have several characters of varying importance who help her repeatedly but who don’t assist her in everything.
For the sidekick, perhaps another victim of the conspiracy who reveals it to her?
I’m writing a story about wolves, and struggling not to make it a clone of Warriors. Actually, this is how I had the idea:
My friends and I were writing a sort of book-length Warriors fanfic, with the intention to send it to Erin Hunter so their publisher could publish it. We would get some of the money because we wrote the story, and they would get some of the money because they invented the Clans, naming system, etc. Anyway, my mom suggested changing the species of the characters so we could publish it ourselves, and thought of wolves. The original story wouldn’t work with wolves, so I decided to write a separate wolf story as a solo project.
Characters I’ve made up so far (there will be more):
Willow: Main character. Skinny, scruffy pale grey female. Born in Golden Sunlight pack. At six seasons old, was kicked out of Golden Sunlight pack because they decided she was old enough to go look for her own pack. Willow stayed in her birth pack a season longer than her siblings because she was scared to travel alone through dangerous terrain.
Blizzard: Beautiful snow-white female, sister of Willow. Graceful and a skilled fighter. Left Golden Sunlight pack at five seasons, traveled with Oak for a short time but soon joined Silver Lightning pack.
Snake: Sleek black male, brother of Willow. Swift and silent, excellent hunter. Left Golden Sunlight pack at five seasons, left Blizzard and Oak immediately afterward, was a lone wolf for a month or two but eventually joined Silent Moon pack.
Oak: Large, muscular grey-brown male, brother of Willow. A good leader, strategic and powerful in battles. Left Golden Sunlight pack at five seasons, traveled with Blizzard for a short time, joined Rolling Thunder pack after Blizzard joined Silver Lightning pack.
Now I want to write a story in Alice’s world…
62- Tsk, tsk.
Go ahead if you want to, but please don’t show it to me. That’s all I ask.
I’m not really sure how to begin my own story. I think I want to start with riches and then cut to poverty. That’s where the ball will come in. She’s at a ball, having a grand time, then someone–family member, servant, whatever–comes and fetches her away she learns the dreadful truth.
Ooh! her brother is guilty because he lost the fortune and then he becomes suicidal and challenges someone to a duel when they’re really a thousand times better at dueling than him, and then my MC duels in his stead (disguised naturally) and wins! Maybe I’ll slip a little Shakespeare in and have her disguised as her brother instead of some random second, which of course means they would have to be twins. Which works, I guess. I mean, I haven’t developed either character enough for twinness to change my notes.
I love MuseBlog. It’s so wonderfully brainstormy.
63- I think I’ll be satisfied if you post up some excerpts soon
Lovely plot idea.
I don’t mind stealing Shakespeare’s ideas, because a) he’s dead, b) he stole all his ideas from other authors, and c) it’s perfectly plausible that he wasn’t the actual author at all, in which case the actual author must not have minded too much about other people getting the credit, if they were willing to give Shakespeare the credit when they were still alive.
64- Excerpts? Soon? -hollow laughter- I still don’t even have a name for my character! The only one I can think of right now is Rose Tyler, and that will never do. Maybe a Random Name Generator will help me.
-vanishes-
Hmm… Options, options…
Girl:
Catriona
Flora
Elspeth
The first and second are basically Scottish forms of names that I am thoroughly sick of seeing pinned to annoying spunky heroines of the kind that I am probably about to create, but they’re Scottish, which makes it OK.
Boy:
Alan
Archibald/Archie
Colin
etc. etc.*
I just like the name Alan, I don’t think it fits the character, but I could make it fit…it reminds me of Kidnapped…RLS = ♥ Archie’s similar; I mostly like it for its connotations -coughHornblowercough- Funny, both of those have tall-ship-y connotations even though Kidnapped had very little to do with tallships… I think it will have to be Colin; choosing one of the others would be akin to naming the girl Rose because I’ve been watching Dr Who all night. I think for my MC I like Catriona or Flora, so now–which one?
-thinks long and hard-
Catriona. That means they have the same initial, which isn’t something I was going for, but whatever. I’ll deal.
There, did you like reading my entire thought process surrounding the naming of two of my characters?
Now I just need a last name…
*These are all the names that I love but a) don’t fit the character or b) remind me of other stories. I would have written them all down only it seemed a waste of time especially since I decided to name him Colin.
65 – Rose Tyler?
Any feedback for my wolf story so far? I’m currently making up a character who will be Willow’s mate in the epilogue, which will show her as a member of the Swift River pack and the mother of several pups. I’m already running out of names. Also, I think I should rename the Golden Sunlight pack and the Rolling Thunder pack. Golden Sunlight isn’t fierce and wild enough, and I just don’t like Rolling Thunder.
For you, POSOC.
The candlelight glittered off the seven chandeliers, the scores of goblets, and the more reflective pieces of the guests’ costumes, creating a blaze of light that threatened to blind anyone who happened to look in the wrong direction at the wrong time. Catriona Surname*, laced up insufferably tight in an emerald green gown, with her pained feet threatening to give way at any moment and her head throbbing, laughed and chatted with her fellow guests, and sipped the liquid in her own sparkling crystal glass as quickly as decorum permitted. Despite the heat and discomfort, and the eagle eye of her mother fixed on her from the other side of the ballroom, she was radiantly happy.
A young man with whiskers and an exceptionally polished watch-chain was asking her to dance. She bestowed a gracious smile upon him and began to reply.
“Why, I should–”
“Catriona?” said an anxious voice.
“Excuse me,” said Catriona hurriedly to the whiskered man. She turned to face her twin brother. “Colin! What are you doing here?”
“I’ve done something awful, Cat,” said Colin. “Can we go somewhere else?”
“We can try. Mother’ll have seen you by now, though. You know what a close eye she keeps on me; if you wanted to talk to me privately you should have waited until I got home.”
Colin shook his head. “I don’t care. Mother’ll know soon enough anyway. But I’ve got to tell you first.”
“What is it this time?” asked Catriona, once they were seated in the least crowded corner of the hall. A note of worry crept into her voice. Now that she could look at him properly, he didn’t look well at all. “You’re awfully pale,” she observed. He groaned in response.
“Are you ill?” she asked. He shook his head, then nodded, then, unable to make up his mind, dropped his face into his hands.
“I’m not ill,” he said. “I’m sick with guilt.”
Catriona felt her heart plummet. It took a lot to make Colin remorseful. If he was “sick with guilt,” the situation had to be bad.
“Catriona, I’ve been gambling.”
It was his sister’s turn to drop her face into her hands. “How much?” she asked, her voice muffled.
If she had been looking at her brother’s countenance, she would have noticed the agony written there before he said, “All of it. Everything.”
Catriona tried to take a deep breath, failed, gasped, and went into a fit of coughing. Her brother stared at the dancers and waited for her to recover.
“You did what?” said Catriona. The force of her cold fury was rather diminished by her breathlessness, but it was enough for Colin.
“I lost it, Cat. All of it. The entire fortune. Everything but the house. I didn’t mean it, I was drunk. I thought… Oh, I don’t know what I thought! This was months ago; I assumed it’d been forgotten. I forgot. But the other fellow didn’t, and now I’ve got to pay up.” He stood. “I’m going to tell you all tomorrow, but Father’ll probably know before then. I just wanted you to know first.” Taking up his hat, he departed. Catriona sat, motionless, for the rest of the ball. No one asked her to dance, no one spoke to her. If they had, she probably wouldn’t have answered.
*I should hope such perceptive readers as yourselves will have realized that this is a stand-in until I can come up with an actual name.
Eh. Rereading it, it needs work. Lots of work.
But I need sleep. That’s more important.
67- I dunno, it sounds like Warriors.
69- I agree, it needs work, but it’s not bad. I’d love to read more. I’ll help edit when not so busy.
(68) Factoid: In Scotland, the name Catriona is pronounced “Katrina,” as in the hurricane. The “o” is either silent or very, very short.
Catriona sounds like a really cool name. I just like the sound of it.
I like the story. A bit more detail in the writing, maybe because of the plot it should be spoken in an Elizabethan air, or something similarly elegant? It sounds good already, but I feel that you could add more detail without being overly resourceful. I’d like more.
Mean,while, I sit at home, brainstorming more to expand the short story. I think it may turn into something more, although I’m not sure. Could I have some more feedback, p*ease?
73- Well, for one thing it’s not Elizabethan, it’s Victorian, and I don’t think I could really master either an Elizabethan or a Victorian voice, which is why it’s not in either. I know I need more detail, a lot more detail, but I wrote in the comment box (I find the comment box highly inspiring somehow) so I didn’t go over it and fix things afterward.
I’m writing a book………….
*runs away in shame*
75- Wait, what? Why shame?
74-
I think the comment-box is an inspiration for all. The cute way it smirks at you with its’ two or three inch diameter, the olive hue around the edges, seeing your name at the top like a little beacon of hope for what you are about to create below…simply uplifting.
77- I think I mostly like it because I feel like I have to reach a stopping point before I press submit, whereas with anything else I can just abandon it once it gets awkward.
Plus it’s small, so it looks like I’m writing a lot.
The rain poured down in the inky black outside the carriage window, illuminated here and there with a street lamp struggling to stay lighted against the damp. Catriona stared out the window, motionless as a marble statue, and as pale.
Mrs. Surname pursed her lips, watching her daughter watch the rain. After a dance, Catriona was usually flushed with excitement and bubbling with gossip, but tonight Catriona had hardly danced at all. Contrary to popular belief, Mrs. Surname did not watch her daughter like a hawk at the dances, although she had firmly convinced Catriona of it, and therefore she had missed the appearance of her son and the subsequent conversation. She only knew that Catriona had spent the latter half of the party seated silent and unmoving, and now she was beginning to be worried.
“Are you ill, Catriona?” she asked.
The girl shook her head. “No, of course not,” she said. The rain coursed down the glass of the window. A passing street lamp lit half of her face with a yellow glow, but the rest was in shadow.
I’ve decided to abandon the wolf story. My current goal is to write a story I’ll actually finish. Ideas:
• A group of friends find a magic artifact which will give them one wish. There are no limits, except they can’t wish for more wishes. They discuss various options before deciding that there is no perfect wish and putting the artifact back where they found it.
• A girl moves to a new city. On her first day at her new school, she brings a peanut butter sandwich for lunch, as she always does. But another girl sitting at her table has a severe allergic reaction and ends up dying. Now the new girl has to shake off her reputation as a killer.
80- The first one sounds like a good short story (not a novel though) and I feel like the second one should be a monologue, or a series of monologues from different people, telling the story.
OK, I need help figuring out what the cat’s power is. You’ll see.
Beryl
I stare at them. They certainly don’t look like much. Why would the Anhara need girls from the Earthworld to fulfill the prophecy? Why not Maryna or Katya or one of the other Anhara girls? Oh, fine, so Anhara abilities have more to do with water, but why in Kriana couldn’t we have gotten a few girls from some random village nearby?
“Hi, Beryl,†says one of them blatantly.
Great, they already know my name. Karlyna is going to have a lot to answer for. She must have sent them some dream.
“Did you dream about me, by any chance?†I ask.
“Yeah!†says the one who was talking before. The other two stare at their shoes. “You were walking along the lakeshore with someone—I think it was that lake. And—“
I cut her off. “Wait, WHAT?â€
“And you were talking about…â€
“The prophecy. OK, that was definitely NOT Karlyna’s doing.â€
“What the hell are you talking about?†the blond one bursts out.
“Who’s Karlyna, and if it wasn’t her, who was it?†says the other one.
The third one says, “Why does it matter?â€
“It MATTERS because—“
“If you would only LISTEN to me—“
“I don’t see why—“
Fine, I’ve got to take matters into my own hands, or rather claws.
Cassie
Why won’t they listen to me? I’m tired of them starting arguments about no—
Holy. Crap.
“We’re stuck in some random world for no reason and all you can think to say is ‘Why does it matter?’ ARGH!!!!!†shrieks Fiona.
“Well, while we’re here, why don’t we just go with it?….â€
They haven’t even seen it yet??? Oh my god, how can you—
Fiona screams.
“YOU JUST NOTICED?†I yell.
Stella turns around. “Hey, cool! Where’d Beryl go?â€
“That IS Beryl, I believe.â€
“Sweet! She can turn into a dragon?â€
The dragon disappears with a pop, and Beryl stands in its place, her arms crossed. “I figured that was the only way to get you idiots to shut up,†she says sweetly.
“Can you turn into anything else?†asks Stella eagerly.
Beryl pops out again, and a cat stands in her place.
“I guess so,†says Fiona.
The cat pops out, Beryl shimmers in the air for a second, and there’s a tree standing in the middle of the field.
“Uh, cool?†I say.
The tree turns into something that looks kind of like a cow.
“OK, you can turn into everything under the sun, can you come back now?†says Fiona.
There’s another popping noise, and Beryl the vaguely-humanoid is back.
“Don’t even think about it,†she says to someone behind her.
“Huh?†asks Stella.
“I was talking to Brynne,†says Beryl, a little snobbishly.
“And who exactly is Brynne?†snaps Fiona.
“Mrrow,†I hear, and the weirdest-looking cat I’ve ever seen steps out of the shadows.
“This is Brynne,†says Beryl matter-of-factly.
The cat is about the size of a Rottweiler, although it’s as skinny as a normal cat. It looks like an ordinary cat except for the fact that it’s a lovely shade of blue, with the largest, slantiest eyes I’ve ever seen and funky, laid-back ears.
“Mrrrr,†says the cat.
“No, Brynne,†says Beryl. “You may not.â€
“Mrrrr,†this indignantly.
“What’s she saying?†asks Stella.
“She wants to know if she can give you a scare. I have told her no, repeatedly. Not to mention the fact that I already foresaw what she was planning to do.â€
“Which is?†asks Fiona. Her mind says, This is CRAZY! This nut thinks she can talk to the freaking cat-thing, not to mention—here her thoughts put on a simpering, namby-pamby voice—foreseeing the fuuu-tuuure. And the stupid shape-shifting is wayyyy over the top. I say she’s really obnoxious. Do we HAVE to work with HER???
I can’t help rather agreeing with her. This girl is really getting on my nerves.
Beryl sighs. “Fine, she can show you.â€
The cat makes a noise which sounds rather like “Yay.â€
A bit of character development here.
Stella:
The first part there introduces an element of her character which should rather remind you of Ralph from Lord of the Flies. The second part should introduce the fact that she looks up to Beryl.
Cassie:
I tried to put a bit of “mediator” character in there, but also some standoffish, “let them fend for themselves.”
Fiona:
She obviously hate, hate, hates Beryl. *hint* *hint* *hint*
Beryl:
I’m intending her to be a Mary Sue, which will be named by Cassie (if you understand what I mean by that) and Cassie will treat her like a character in a story she’s writing, while Fiona just flat-out hates her. Stella looks up to her. Beryl is very… uh, let’s see. She’s straightforward about everything and has no sense of others’ feelings. Much like Stella.
I might call Robot Girl Mereid or Bailey. I just need a good mad scientist-y name for her “father”.
Matt walked down the street nervously. This was his first night out alone in the city, and he didn’t know what to expect. He walked, apparently casually, with a measured gait. As he approached the nearest streetlamp, he noticed someone underneath, a young man. He looked to be in his early 20’s, and he was tall, but lean and muscular. His hair was shaggy and unkempt, and his suit was loose fitting and a bit too large, though it seemed to fit him. Matt neared the lamppost, and the man glanced up.
“Whatcha doin’ out so late at night young man? Seems you ‘aven’t been out much this late. Am I right?†The man smiled a welcoming grin as he said this, showing perfect teeth.
Matt glanced at him warily, determining whether the man seemed trustworthy. You could never be too sure about strangers in the city, what with the stories going around.
Matt decided to take the chance. “Yessir, you’re right about that. This’ll be the first time I’ve been out alone at night. I’m goin’ over to Haycroft Street, for my sister’s recital. It starts at eight thirty, and I don’t want to be late.†Matt glanced behind him, as if thinking there was a clock there. In the distance, the bells pealed eight times.
“Well we sure want to get you over there on time, especially on such a cold night like tonight. But Haycroft Street? That’s a bit far, seeing as it’s pitch black. D’you want me to come with you, make sure none o’ them monsters getcha?†The man smiled an eager grin, and glanced at Matt expectantly.
“Why I guess that’d be some welcome company sir. Safety in numbers, that’s what my mum always said. Might I ask your name?â€
“I’m Alan.†He reached out his hand, showing nails that were short but dirty, and a sleeve that was a bit too long. “What’s yours?â€
“Matthew, sir.â€
“Well Matt, you can stop with all o’ that sir nonsense. Now that we’ve gotten to know each other better, you can call me Al.â€
“Yessi- Al.†Matt began walking, Alan behind him keeping pace. The streetlamp flickered as they left, and then winked out. The darkness was nearly complete, excepting the soft glow from apartment windows.
“Alan,†Matt said, “You’ve got a funny accent. Where’re you from?â€
“Matthew, I am from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.†He gave another one of his grins. “My mother died when I was young, and after that I moved from town to town. I’ve got a little bit a everywhere in my talk.â€
Matt continued walking, and when they were underneath the next lamppost, he glanced over at Alan. Alan caught his glance, and smiled.
“Matt, you eva heard of Mister Billy Joe King and his book o’ the dead?†Alan said abruptly.
Matt was caught off guard. “No I haven’t. Sounds like a horror story to me.â€
Alan grinned again, but this time the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Horror story it is, most definitely. D’you want ta hear it?â€
Matt nodded unsure of what he was getting himself into.
Alan began. “Once there were three brothers who lived in the city. Now, they started as inseparable, but when they got older, they wanted to do different things with their lives. Before they split up, however, Billy Joe talked his brothers into doing a bit of dark magic. Now Matt, you know that dark magic is a force to be reckoned with, right?â€
“Right, of course.â€
“Because you know, any number of unthinkable things could happen to you. That’s what happened to Billy Joe and his brothers, but I’m getting a bit ahead of myself. Billy Joe and his brothers went over to the dark magician’s house, where there were three blank books prepared. They were covered in the finest skins, and bound by the most powerful magic. For when each of the three brothers wrote his name in the book, along with the date he thought he would die, he would be invincible until that day came. When that day did finally come, they would live a cursed life, ancient and frail, unable to sleep or eat. Until their death date, however, they would not age a day, instead gaining the lost time back when they were set to die. This idea, of invincibility, appealed to all three of the brothers. They wrote their names and death dates in their books. Marcus, the youngest son, chose a date 50 years in the future. Isaiah, the middle child, chose a date 100 years in the future. Billy Joe King, however, chose his date of death to be 500 years later.
“Marcus was by far the most unfortunate of the three, having picked a date too close to him. For while he remained invincible, he spent his life doing incredible stunts, such as jumping off buildings and landing unharmed on the ground. Sadly, he was in the middle of one such stunt when his time was up. The crowd that had gathered beneath him was amazed as the man they had come to watch grew older in the span of two seconds, and then hit the ground. That time he did not get up.
“From then on Billy Joe and Isaiah worked together, robbing museums and looting stores. They were the ultimate villains, for they could not be killed. Billy Joe’s treachery, in the end, was what killed Isaiah. Billy Joe turned Isaiah in to the police, and it was there in the jail cell that he aged. His cellmate was maddened by the sight, literally driven mad by Isaiah’s transformation. He stabbed Isaiah to death that very night.
“Billy Joe, however, has never been caught. People use him as an excuse for all kinds of things. There are stories that he’s developed a taste for human blood, or that he can turn into a wolf at will. He’s still at large, as far as I know. “
Alan finished his story, but as he said his last words, he gave a lupine grin. Matt shivered, but whether from Alan’s story or the wind he didn’t know.
“Does anyone know what Billy Joe looked like?†Matt asked. “Did he have any distinguishing features?â€
“No one knows. They think he was tall, and in his mid 20’s.†Alan had stopped in front of a small side alley. Matt had stopped as well, still caught up in the magic of Alan’s story.
“Well, I’m surprised I hadn’t heard that before. Hey why’ve we stopped?†Matt asked.
“You know how I said they’d never found Billy Joe King?â€
“Yeah.â€
“Well, looks like you just did. And his time is nowhere near up.â€
Matt’s face paled, and he edged towards the street, but it was already too late. Alan grinned a wolfish grin and advanced toward Matt. As he pounced he said, almost too soft to hear, “I always preferred the werewolf story myself.â€
I feel like I would do a Amulet of Samarkand sort of thing with it, like, alternate reality 1900’s England. Also, I don’t know what to do after this. I’d probably make that a prologue, and continue with different characters…. I don’t know.
Alyss– I like it. Maybe you should have him get rescued? That could be fun. Or have someone find his broken body the next day. I think you should keep Alan/Billy Joe, whether he’s the major antagonist or someone lesser or what. His invincibility might cause problems though… Hm. I dunno.
One thing: How can his suit fit him and be too large at the same time?
I’ve been BRAINSTORMING!!!!!!
After the party, Catriona goes home. In the wee hours of the night, Colin, unable to bring himself to tell his dad what he did, runs away. In the morning Catriona tells her parents about their poverty, woe etc. Her dad is somehow going deeper and deeper into debt, though Catriona doesn’t know why (it’s ’cause of the conspiracy but I’m not sure how it works yet) and he’s becoming more worried and turning to drink etc. and not being any use at all. He’s actually been pawning small things off in secret in order to pay off his debts and they’re not as rich as they thought, so Colin’s Mistake is worse than ever. Catriona conceives the notion that the only way she can help is to marry someone with a fortune. Now you would think that as a now destitute girl this would be very hard, since she doesn’t have an opportunity to meet rich men anymore and anyway they can’t marry her because she’s out of their class. But one of her father’s “friends” (a member of the conspiracy) starts courting her, and she has to go along with it even though she doesn’t like him much, but at least she can tolerate him. One day they’re walking on the moor, or something–not sure how this works, seeing as they live in the city, but whatever, and he’s about to divulge something extremely Important and Secretive, when there’s a knife at his throat and it’s Colin! At first he had the rather noble thought of making back his family’s fortune, but then he realized that he needed to eat, and as being a proper highwayman requires a certain amount of dash which Colin hadn’t really got at this point, being rather hungry, wet, dirty, and extremely guilty, and also requires a horse, he became an ordinary but rather unsuccessful footpad (this is less glamorous than being a highwayman because one doesn’t have a horse and therefore can’t rob coaches and therefore gets considerably less loot). He had been doing this for some time with Catriona pried him off her suitor, and was practically at Death’s Door. The highly Important and Secretive information is forgotten in the mad rush to get Colin back home, which they do, only to find that his father denies him access to their rather humble abode due to his past actions. So the suitor pays for a rented room (anything for Catriona, even if her brother did try to murder him) and Catriona nurses her brother back to health. Before the suitor can divulge the information in person, he is killed, and Catriona is none the wiser. (Or should he not be killed and just think better of telling her? Or should he not be a conspirator at all?)
As Colin regains his health, he becomes suicidal and one day he challenges someone to a duel over a very little incident (maybe it should be the suitor…no. Maybe the person who won her brother’s fortune? No…). He’s still quite weak and Catriona refuses to let him go. She disguises herself as him and goes in his stead, then wins the duel, hurrah! But that’s basically a side note and she’s no closer to regaining the family fortune. It occurs to her that her brother’s hit on something with the whole highwayman thing only he needs to do it a bit better, so somehow she obtains a horse and becomes a highwaywoman. At one point she steals a box that she supposes to have jewelry or money only to find it’s full of papers revealing the conspiracy.
More later.
Hey peoples! My friend (SNIP!) writes stories and comics about the inhabitants of “Nowheresland”. There is county known as North Nowheresland, and South and East, too. But no West. And the charcters all have names that relate to their body features or what they wear. For example, the main characters of his comic are: Koolshades (With a capital K!), Headband (formerly “Headbandman”), and Fancypants. Oh, and Fancypants’ brother Fancyshoes (don’t ask). So here is an excerpt from his first book. It’s called “Awesomeshades: Rail Grinder” (Awesomeshades is Koolshades’ father. The meaning of “Rail Grinder” is explained in the text. My friend uses a (CENSORED) to indicate swearing). So here it is:
PROLOGUE
The first Rail Grinder race was on a dock that went in a square shape, running off from the beach, then making two right-hand turns and running back onto the beach again. The three drivers who dared to participate had to sign death warrants beforehand. All three were killed.
That didn’t stop Mulletman, a former bartender from South Nowheresland, who proposed the idea for the race. Even after the Central Nowheresland Police made it very clear to him that if he ever sanctioned such an event again, he would get a life sentence. Mulletman had had two other illegal operations involving alcohol in the past, and the police never scared him out of stopping.
As illegal and life-threatening as these races were, the following year, 1965, the event was sanctioned another place, this time moved to a strip of a 15-year-old highway that was to be torn down. The seven drivers who participated all came out with their lives, in a 4-lap event that stretched from one end of the closed-off highway, including a concrete bridge, then over the grassy median and back down the other way.
Year after year, Mulletman would hold these events for shady characters who would risk their lives for a couple hundred dollars in cash. Every year he changed his location, including making stops in South Nowheresland and East Nowheresland. The police continued to attempt to shut down his operation, until Mulletman mysteriously disappeared before the 1975 event. Short-lived urban legends sprang up everywhere following his disappearance, and the operation, which earned the name “Rail Grinding,†after the infamous 1973 event, in which the drivers tended to almost break through the guardrail upon exiting a U-turn, was continued by one of Mulletman’s old friends, known only by the initials “L.B.â€
L.B. made the event a strictly South Nowhereslandic event, sanctioning it in parts of South Nowheresland where the law was scarcer. The name “Rail Grinding†caught on fast, and soon more than one event a year was taking place. Many of the competitors were guys in their mid-to-late 20s who drank and didn’t have regular employment. Usually, cars used in the races were ones at least five years old, and sometimes had enhanced horsepower or stiffened springs to get an advantage. But this was allowed- the only rule L.B. decided to enforce was no shortcuts.
Our story begins at the traditional track, an unfinished highway in northeastern South Nowheresland; the first event of the 1983 was sanctioned there, and the largest audience yet showed up. L.B. always managed to get a huge crowd by never putting a price on seeing the show. The winner traditionally received a sum of money that rarely penetrated the thousands, and the other competitors would get an amount of money that was a fraction of what the winner got.
Our focus was a man in his mid-20s who drank and did not have regular employment, and drove a rusting 10-year-old Ford Torino, who came to the series with almost no expectations.
CHAPTER 1: THE [CENSORED]-YOUS OF RAIL GRINDING
“You really don’t know how few people who have raced in this series have come back alive, or in one piece.â€
The 25-year-old simply known as Awesomeshades dismissed his friend’s constant warnings as he sat on the hood of his car tensely in the drafty makeshift garage quite a bit past midnight. He drank another bit of the hard alcohol in his pocket-sized metal flask, then knocked on the trunk hood. “I don’t intend to come out of this beauty in more than one piece.â€
His friend, known only as K, was unique in more than one way. Not only did K have a leg amputation, forcing him to use crutches, but also could play two pianos while blindfolded, and was transgender. In the third person, he was only ever called “K.â€
“You wouldn’t douse yourself in gasoline and then try to drink moonshine cascading from a waterfall, would you?†Awesomeshades knew K was trying to make him back out. “You wouldn’t, um… eat raw eggs? I mean, do I have to remind you of the three [CENSORED]-yous of racing in this series?â€
Awesomeshades had been told these three facts many times. They were commonly-repeated and well-known among racers, thought to have been coined by the first competitor who survived a bad wreck at the third ‘78 race, and ended up paralyzed. The three “[CENSORED]-yous†of Rail Grinding were- When you end up dead last, where nobody cares about you; when you wreck from just a little mistake; and leaving the race in an ambulance.
“Just shut up. I’m doing whatever I can to earn some extra cash.â€
K shrugged, removing the smelly cigarette from his or her mouth. “You could just get a job.â€
“No way am I going back to McDonald’sâ„¢,†was the immediate response. “I can never stay away from the quarter-pounders. I only go there to order the food. Besides, it’s a lot more exciting this way.â€
“Well, it’s your [CENSORED]. It’s none of my business if it gets burned to a crisp.â€
“No, it isn’t.â€
The digital clock on the wall struck 1:07 AM in its dim, red letters. The garage director, Travis Stache, sat up from his desk. Stache was cursed with a growth problem that left him almost a foot taller than most people, which made him very easy to pick out in a crowd of 200 people with mustaches and toupees.
“1:07, people! Get your cars out there, right now!â€
Eight drivers scrambled to their cars, which came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Technicians and observers got out of the way as fast as they could as the main doors opened.
Awesomeshades clapped K on the hand, after K shared some more anxious parting words, and climbed into his car, tossing his flask in the glove compartment. Knowing full well in the back of his head that this could be the very last thing he did, he turned on the ignition and shifted the stick shift of his car into the first gear.
Eight engines replaced the echoing sounds of metal scraping the floor and people talking at once with an incredibly loud roar that shot well into the triple-digit decibel marks. Eight cars then smoothly rolled out of the garage, across 30 feet of bumpy dirt and dying grass, and onto the unfinished highway, well-lit by streetlights. Makeshift grandstands lined both sides of the highway, which was fenced off by a guardrail.
The course was 4 miles long, and consisted of 2 miles of the unfinished highway, then half a mile on a dirt road, followed by a cracked and broken road that was disconnected from the main highway, back onto dirt, and then on the main unfinished highway again. There was a bridge about 400 meters away from the finish line with a guardrail that had resisted breaking after five years of being scraped.
The intercom crackled to life with a sound that could have very well pierced many eardrums. As the eight cars lined up in their assigned positions on the four-lane highway, the crowd gave an uproarious cheer.
The announcer spoke, introducing everyone to the race. “Welcome to the first 1983 Rail Grinder race. Here, our racers will traverse what we like to call, The Odyssey!â€
Awesomeshades tightened his hands on the wheel, revved his engine impatiently, and shook his head in disbelief and how [CENSORED] gay he thought that name sounded. “The Odyssey.â€
As the announcer introduced the basic layout and physics of the makeshift track, Awesomeshades tested his contraption which he had a friend of his design to give his car an advantage. It was a trick he himself thought of- he hollowed out the doors and sides of his car and filled them with extra oil. When he turned a knob placed next to the stick shift, a hole would open near the bottom of the car and some of the oil would drizzle out. As he turned the knob, he waited for the smell of oil to the left side of his car to appear. He was not disappointed, as he closed the knob.
“…Our contestants for this race are…â€
Awesomeshades was starting in last place. The car numbers would determine the starting positions, and the numbers were drawn from a hat and give to the contestants. These numbers could be anywhere from 0 to 256. Awesomeshades just happened to get #155, which was just two less than the seventh-place starter. What a lucky [CENSORED].
“…In third place, King Ki in the #33 Chevrolet Monte Carlo…â€
An uproarious cheer came from the crowd, even more so than for the first-place and second-place starters. King Ki was the pseudonym for Karl Link, who was a back-roads racing legend among Nowheresland. He turned 40 five days before this race, but age didn’t seem to hold him back, as he continued to break records and impress crowds. Awesomeshades had a very similar past to King- they had started racing on small dirt tracks and entering demolition derbies for extra money after dropping out of high school. The only difference was, Awesomeshades did this from 1977 through 1981, when he quit after the third big wreck of his career, which left him upset and shaken in more ways than one, while King stayed with it for more than two decades.
Awesomeshades was just now returning to racing, when the itch returned and he was kicked out of McDonald’s™ for eating the food when he was on duty. He deeply envied King, and always had tried to beat him, but to no avail.
Once the announcer had gone through the list of everyone in the race, a girl dressed in skimpy clothes marched out in the space between the 2nd and 3rd place starters. From the audience’s perspective, this was a surreal and cool scene- streetlights making reflections on eight cars, causing the shining paint schemes to look more polished and clean than they actually were. All the cars had their numbers painted on the doors, roofs, and trunk hoods in big, bold, white numbers. The name, or pseudonym, of the drivers was printed on both sides of the trunk in clearly legible writing. One car had three exhaust pipes billowing smoke, coming from each side of the engine. Another was shorter than most cars, with chopped wheels. Two more had wheels with tread, one had bulletproof glass, and the remaining three (including Awesomeshades’) were average-looking cars with only slight modifications, such as a wider wheelbase or no rear and/or front bumpers. There were a variety of colors, ranging from ghost white to lime green to neon blue to black to red, including a combination. The numbers of all the starters were #3, #27, #33, #55, #97, #101, #153, and #155.
The girl waved two checkered flags in the air. A repaired streetlight flashed yellow. Eight engines revved simultaneously.
The girl brought down the flags with a force. The light turned green. In a burst of sound, smoke, and skidding tires, the competitors shot away. One car, the fifth-place starter, the #97 solid neon blue car that belonged to someone under the pseudonym “Heartbreaker,†slid sideways and ran off into the muddy grass on the side of the road.
“The road goes straight, not to the left, Mister, ah… Heartbreaker,†the announcer teased. Heartbreaker’s tires squealed, kicking up a blast of mud on those in the front row.
Awesomeshades had been lucky enough to get a better start. As soon as the light went green, he shot up to fifth place. But because the competition was never very balanced, within the first 10 seconds, the distance between first and fourth place would often extend to about 300 feet. King Ki, predictably, shot to the front, and as the sixth place starter, in the #101 dark-red Chevy with the pseudonym “Dramatica,†immediately assumed position number two.
Awesomeshades went to the right side of the road, dangerously close to running off the pavement, passing the sputtering fourth-place starter. He knew from experience from running in many other races in his past that the competitors who drove dirty or tried moves too fancy early on in the race ended up not finishing. He just stuck to basics as he accelerated down the first strip of pavement- press the accelerator, turn the wheel.
The field went into the first turn, a gradual right-hand turn, still on pavement. The highway narrowed down to three lanes, so Awesomeshades moved toward the center of the road. King Ki dominated the field by about six seconds in his rainbow-colored Dodge, followed by Dramatica. Awesomeshades was about to be passed by the car of someone named Finch Jones, in the #153, who was coming up fast on the left side.
“No you don’t,†Awesomeshades said in the most clichéd manner that a racer can have, as he opened the valve once again. The oil spilled out, and his car, now lighter, accelerated to past 60 miles per hour.
Jones backed off as they came to a sudden right turn, in the spot where the track transitioned to a dirt path. Awesomeshades shot to the left side, and Jones went to the right side of the track and shot by, as he got the better line of racing.
Awesomeshades shook his head. “You son of a [CENSORED].â€
Three seconds later, another car shot by. It was the #55 of someone named “No Modifi-gay-tions.†Apparently this person was a bald-faced liar, because the tailpipe of his black car was spurting blue flames and the tires were wider than normal, and covered in tread. Jones attempted to block this newcomer, but they brushed bumpers and Jones spun. Awesomeshades had to take evasive action, and almost spun, but somehow got his car under control again. Jones, however, was not as fortunate. His car became airborne and flipped over on its roof a dozen times. No Modifi-gay-tions attempted to continue driving, but his engine strained and then exploded.
By this time, the top 4 drivers were Ki, Dramatica, Awesomeshades, and the #33 of “Li’l J.J.†Dramatica’s car had, like No’s car, huge tailpipes blasting flames out the back. As the cars came to another gradual turn that wound back over to the highway with the grandstands again, the flames seemed to let Dramatica’s car continue to go faster. He and Ki were almost 15 seconds ahead of Awesomeshades at this point.
As the top 3 cars drove around to the highway strip again, they could faintly hear the announcer’s voice getting louder as they went closer to the loudspeaker.
“…Dramatica’s speeding up, Ki’s holding his ground. The 101 car is searing the pavement with those flames, he’s coming up, but it’s not enough, as Ki will lead the first lap, and the two of them have what looks like a 16-second advantage on the third place car…â€
Awesomeshades had almost forgotten the feeling of just driving down a strip of road and seeing how fast the car would go. He hadn’t raced since 1981, but he still had plenty of his old skill left. As he again turned the knob in his car, using his cheating device, he could feel his car driving faster.
As the second lap came around, Awesomeshades found himself struggling to control the car in the gradual turn, what with there being a couple less pounds in the doors now. He had thought that far ahead, but estimated that he would be able to adjust to the change in his car’s handling.
He passed the spot where Jones and No had wrecked. There were a couple of trucks with several buckets of water and people standing all around. Orange cones were set up in an arc around the accident site.
As the field traveled around to the dirt road, Awesomeshades could vaguely see Dramatica swiftly pull in front of Ki. Then, suddenly, Dramatica swerved to the right, locked up his wheels, and drifted at an angle on the left side of the track. Awesomeshades drove right by, and the #101 never stopped completely, continuing to drive on.
Ki was, by this time, a good 20 seconds ahead of everyone else. Awesomeshades knew that his method of cheating was not working the way he thought it would, at least not yet, he hoped. Unless Ki severely messed up, he had the race won.
As Awesomeshades pulled onto the highway lane, the #55 car, which was still having problems getting up to speed, had already been lapped by Ki. Awesomeshades went to the left side, but almost spun because of the new reduced weight of his car. He managed to stay under control, however.
The final lap. Awesomeshades didn’t understand why his car still hadn’t pierced 80 miles per hour, when it had during his practice run a while ago. It had gotten up to 93 miles per hour, and that was without cheating. Something was wrong with his engine, he assumed. He couldn’t even see Ki anymore, who was probably up to 100 miles per hour.
He passed the accident site once more. This time, there was an ambulance with flashing lights on hand.
“I don’t plan on that being me,†Awesomeshades said, hoping that he would somehow motivate himself to magically pass Ki in half a lap and win the race, collecting the $950 prize.
The car seemed to bounce higher and higher on the dirt road, what with having less weight. He managed to pass another car, the #97, that Ki had lapped, without making contact or without an iota of possibly spinning out. But as Awesomeshades glanced in his rearview mirror, he saw that he had another problem- the menacing, red #101 machine of Dramatica was coming up behind him.
Awesomeshades started to gradually twist the knob that was his cheating device, but then he just said, “[CENSORED] it,†and just let the thing wide open. A trail of nearly invisible liquid poured out of the two holes in the bottom of his car. Awesomeshades moved his car right in front of the #101, continuing to throw multiple blocks as they wove down the winding dirt path, which was littered with rocks. Every time he would turn the wheel, Awesomeshades could feel his vehicle start to skid. He was now convinced that the cheating idea he’d had wasn’t such a hot one.
As they came upon the final turn, Awesomeshades pulled to the right. He knew that Dramatica had the potential to pass him any second now. A perfect turn was what he needed- not too far to either side, and stay away from the opponent’s car.
He could faintly hear the cheer of the crowd, and knew Ki had just crossed the finish line. His goal now was to at least come out in second place at get half of the winner’s total sum of money.
He turned the wheel gently to the right. Dramatica moved to the outside, using momentum to try and pass Awesomeshades. Awesomeshades began to fishtail, so he tried to nudge a little the other way. His car hit a bump, and he fishtailed in the opposite direction, tagging the door of his opponent’s car. Awesomeshades swerved the other way, drifting through the turn, but was unable to right his car. His car stayed going sideways, and collided with the guardrail that was just before the grandstands. His car tore the rail to pieces, and he went flying off the road and into the shallow riverbank below.
The next thing Awesomeshades knew, red and yellow lights were flashing all around as he stared up at the dark night sky. His vision was distorted, and he felt himself going numb, but he could feel water trickling across his arms and back. He smelled burning oil.
A figure suddenly towered over him. “Don’t be so surprised, dude,†it said, in a thick Iranian accent. “Don’t you know the three [CENSORED]-yous of rail grinding?â€
Awesomeshades went number in the head, and started to feel nauseous.
The figure went on, “When you end up dead last, where nobody cares about you; when you wreck from just a little mistake; and leaving the track in an ambulance.†Awesomeshades mouthed the words as a siren sound droned over everything. He lay his head back as consciousness melted away from him.
* * * * *
“On Monday, April 11th, another ‘Rail Grinder’ race occurred in the Aviesto County of South Nowheresland, two near-fatal accidents occurred at a closed-off strip of highway. One involved Finch Jones, 34, and Capguy, Sr., 21, the former of whom sustained three broken ribs, a concussion, temporary amnesia and a twisted ankle, and the latter of whom suffered second-degree burns on his arms and face.
“The second crash involved Awesomeshades, 25, whose car crashed through a guardrail and fell off of a 16-foot drop and landed in a creek. He suffered major head trauma, a broken foot, and a sprained shoulder.â€
Awesomeshades crumpled the newspaper into a ball and threw it across his apartment. He was sitting on his couch, his forehead covered by a bandage that wove all around his head. One leg in an uncomfortable brace. His temporary roommate, Fancy Schmancyhair, applied another white bandage to a cut on Awesomeshades’ right wrist.
“I told you not to do this,†Fancy said matter-of-factly, “of all the crashes in that series, exactly 7 different times not everyone involved in the wreck has died. This race contributed two of those times.â€
Awesomeshades waved off Fancy from applying the bandage, then grabbed his crutches and hobbled over to the kitchen counter. “I at least wanted to finish second, if not first, which turned out impossible because that King Ki [CENSORED] blew everyone away.â€
“Don’t talk trash about that guy. He’s awesome.â€
“I ended up fourth, and two of the guys behind me wrecked, and the other two were a lap down.†He picked up the paycheck on the counter. “What did all that [CENSORED] add up to?†He waved the check in the air. “$120! That’s it! I mean, that doesn’t even add up to the hospital bill.â€
Fancy stood up and turned toward his friend. He had immense hair, and he spiked it to almost a foot above his head, so he looked much taller than he actually was. “Awesomeshades…†he sighed. “This is one of the dips in your life. I mean, Richard Petty came into NASCAR with no expectations of himself, and he didn’t win all the time at first. But now, he’s got almost 200 wins. But you, you wrecked three times when you raced at those smaller dirt tracks when we lived in North Nowheresland, and you just quit.â€
“Don’t give me that.†Awesomeshades hobbled over to his bottle of Coke sitting on the counter and grabbed it. “I’ve had to listen to that ever since my dad told me not to give up on school, but I did…†He drank half of what was left of the coke in one chug. “My mom tried to make me pursue art, but I never did.â€
“That’s all in your past.â€
Awesomeshades limped back to the couch and slumped down, turning on the TV. “And so is this race.â€
CHAPTER 2: HOODY DANIELS
Three weeks and two days had passed since the night of the accident. Awesomeshades’ foot was almost completely healed, and his concussion and gash in his arm were gone. He still felt like racing.
It was a beautiful afternoon out in the field, and Awesomeshades intended to re-capture his days of racing from the late ‘70s, when he still competed in small race tracks. He would go back, except that he felt that his reputation there was dashed following three bad wrecks.
As he turned on the ignition of his beat-up car, which he himself had repaired from the wreck weeks ago, he could feel the adrenaline pumping. He slammed on the gas, and did several fancy laps along the wide-open dirt-and-dying-grass clearing. Smoke billowed everywhere up into the air, tire marks continued appearing on the ground.
Following several laps, Awesomeshades turned the wheel and locked up the brakes, skidding to a stop in a stylish way. He climbed out of the car, dust kicked up everywhere. Wiping his shades, he nodded. He still had plenty of talent, but King Ki and Dramatica were still much better.
“And you say you’ve given up racing.â€
Awesomeshades whirled around. On the other side of his car was a man with a Texas-looking hat on and a scab running down the left side of his face. His hair was almost nonexistent.
“Who the [CENSORED] are you?â€
“That isn’t important now,†the stranger stepped forward, so both of them were leaning on either side of Awesomeshades’ car. “You did real good at that race there, boy, and just because you wrecked at the end, you just give up?â€
Awesomeshades was somewhat disturbed by how this stranger knew so much. “Where did you hear all this?â€
“Your roommate told me. The guy with the [CENSORED]-up hair.â€
“What do you want?â€
“Drive around this place some more, I’ll ride along with you and evaluate your driving technique.â€
Awesomeshades did not trust this man at all. He walked around the front of the car, slowly. “Answer my question- who are you?â€
“Hoody Daniels.â€
Awesomeshades could not help but start laughing. “’Hoody?’ Are you kidding me? What kind of name is that?â€
“It’s my name,†Daniels said, straight-faced, stepping forward two steps and putting his hands in his jacket pockets. “Now, are you going to let me help you win the next Rail Grinder race?â€
Awesomeshades looked Daniels straight in the face, but his eyes wandered down to the man’s jacket. In cursive white letters going sideways on one sleeve, the jacket said, “Dramatica.â€
“You…†Awesomeshades stood right where he was. “You’re Dramatica?â€
“Some people call me that.â€
Awesomeshades’ eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “You made me lose that race, didn’t you!†He punched Daniels in the mouth. Daniels staggered three steps backwards, but kept a straight face and did not fall over. A small trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
“Are you going to let me help your technique, or what?â€
* * * *
Ten minutes later, Awesomeshades found himself sitting in the drivers’ seat of his car, next to Daniels, who, he just found out, was apparently a professional driver who custom-built all his own cars from old cars people donated to him for a couple hundred bucks, and maybe a bottle of whiskey or two.
“Turn, now!â€
Awesomeshades made a sharp turn to the left on the dirt path.
“Take your foot off the gas about 50%. Tap the brakes. Slower, slower, slower!†Daniels kept talking. “Now slowly, slowly accelerate… there you go.†The car drifted smoothly around the dirt field.
“This is all elementary stuff, dude,†Awesomeshades said, keeping his eyes fixed on what was ahead. “I’ve driven like this since I was 13.â€
Daniels ignored him. “Now, do whatever I tell you to, okay?â€
Awesomeshades couldn’t see anything wrong with that.
“Make a sharp left.â€
“Why?â€
“Just do it.â€
Awesomeshades shrugged, then turned the wheel all the way to the left. The car spun around.
“Hit the brakes!â€
Awesomeshades did so; his car had made a complete U-turn.
“Accelerate, head toward the trees and don’t stop.â€
“Are you crazy?â€
“No,†Daniels looked him in the eye. “Do you want to become as good as me?â€
Awesomeshades did not answer. He slammed on the gas pedal, the car climbing upwards to 20, 30, 40 miles per hour, as it headed right toward the trees. He was sure that he was going crazy, listening to this person that he hadn’t known for more than 15 minutes.
“Now, stop!â€
Awesomeshades locked up the brakes yet again. The car came to a full stop, but not before the front bumper nudging the base of a tree.
“Not good enough,†Daniels said matter-of-factly. “Your reaction has to be better. Take her around again.â€
* * * *
For an entire hour, Awesomeshades continued to drive, while Daniels criticized the little things and told him to do all sorts of things, like do doughnuts, accelerate up to 57 miles per hour, then decelerate to 20 miles per hour, and back again. Stupid [CENSORED] like that.
Why he continued to do what Daniels told him, Awesomeshades had no clue. Maybe it was that, inside, he wanted to Rail Grind again. Although he had given up weeks before, the urge kept returning to get behind the wheel during a cool night with the streetlights on. Despite the fact that he had mostly bitter memories about that race, he somehow liked the atmosphere.
“Now, here’s the last test, then you can go home.â€
Awesomeshades sighed with relief. “Thank Jesus.â€
Daniels pointed to the road. “Drive out there and go around the block. Pass anyone who gets in your way.â€
“You are insane. You really are.†Awesomeshades looked Daniels in the eyes, which was returned.
“Do you know who chickened out when I told him to do this? King Ki.â€
Awesomeshades’ jaw dropped. Not only because King Ki, supposedly one of the best drivers in Nowheresland, who had outrun the police on more than one occasion by driving through grassy hills, could not drive around a block passing everyone, but also- Dramatica had trained him?
“You- you mean you tutored Ki?â€
“I tutored a lot of Rail Grinders. Now, are you going to be a [CENSORED], or do what I say.â€
Memories of bursting through the guardrail and smashing his car came back to Awesomeshades. He could very well cut a tire and run into a house, hit someone else who was driving in a law biding manner, or take a turn too wide and kill a pedestrian or two.
“Are you?â€
Awesomeshades revved his engine. “I’m doing it.†He knew full well that this was perhaps the most foolish and positively retarded thing he could think to do, but he jammed on the accelerator and sped across the dirt field. He turned the wheel sharply to the left and came in the right lane on the road, tires skidding and spraying dust across the road.
“Imagine you’re just at a track,†Daniels said, encouraging Awesomeshades further. “Imagine everyone else but one person wrecked, that those people are all these cars, and you have to make it to your destination.â€
Awesomeshades silently took all this in, heading right down the center of the road. His driving instinct told him to stop at the four-way intersection, but he listened to his racing instinct, and stepped on the brakes a little bit, turning to the left, just like he had been doing for over and hour now.
He almost collided with another car, a rusty green Ford. Awesomeshades turned sharply to the right, then back to the left, and made smaller and smaller fishtails, until he was back in control.
Making another sudden left turn, drifting a bit this time, he kicked up a thick cloud of white smoke. In his rearview mirror, Awesomeshades saw through the smoke that another car was coming. Suddenly, red and blue lights started flashing. A police car.
Awesomeshades immediately turned to Daniels. “You [CENSORED], now the police are after me again-!â€
“Are you going to just sit in the middle of the road like this?†Daniels shot back. “Go! Get!â€
Awesomeshades slammed on the gas. He couldn’t afford to pay off a ticket if he got one- as it was, he barely got enough money to keep up the rent on his apartment, and to support himself and Schmancyhair. Schmancyhair worked as a part-time indie video game company, Players’ Games™, and the pay he got was not very generous. The art designers at Atari™ got better pay than he did. Bottom line, Awesomeshades had never gotten a ticket before, and planned to never get one.
“Keep going around the block,†Daniels ordered.
Turning the wheel sharply to the right again to turn to the next side of the block, Awesomeshades spun in front of another driver coming from that road. The driver stepped on the brakes and swerved, turning in front of the police car. No one made any contact, and it was only by pure luck that exactly zero heads were busted in that altercation. Awesomeshades took the final turn, back down the road which he started from.
“The police are still after us,†Awesomeshades said nervously. “What do we do?â€
Daniels shrugged. “I would just take the ticket before we run somebody over or something.â€
“You don’t understand, I don’t have enough-†Awesomeshades had made the mistake of taking his eyes off the road. When he returned his full attention to what was ahead, he saw three teenagers crossing the road. Not on the crosswalk, either. Awesomeshades slammed on the brakes, gripped the wheel, and spun it around, executing a perfect 180-degree turn, planting his car facing the wrong way on the wrong side of the road.
“I’ve got about twenty dollars one me,†Daniels said, ignoring the fact that he was riding in a vehicle that had almost killed innocent pedestrians.
In mere second, the police car rounded the corner at the end of the street, and was coming toward them. It parked facing Awesomeshades’ bumper, about two feet away. The driver got out, and Awesomeshades could see another person in the passengers’ seat. The officer walked to the drivers’ side of Awesomeshades’ car, pen and small notepad in hand. A classic scene.
Awesomeshades looked up at the officer, expecting a lecture of some kind.
The officer stood there for about five seconds. He sported a police hat and a mustache that made him look shockingly like Adolf Hitler. He pointed to Awesomeshades with the pen. “I know you,†he glanced at Daniels. “But who are you?â€
Daniels shrugged. “Just a friend.â€
The officer nodded, then shook his head. “Awesomeshades,†he said, “I thought I straightened you out after what happened with the vandalism thing. Was two days not enough?â€
“It’s different now. I don’t hang out with those burnouts anymore. I thought you were in North Nowheresland?â€
“I was transferred last year. Now, you are aware that you exceeded the speed limit by about 10 miles per hour, ignored three stop signs, and pulled in front of two moving cars?†The officer asked, in true police officer fashion.
Awesomeshades tried to come up with something convincing to say. He didn’t want to say, ‘This person whom I’ve known for less than two hours told me to drive the wrong way around the block because he’s training me to run in an illegal racing series that the police haven’t managed to shut down, even after almost 20 years.’ So he thought of the first thing off the top of his head. “Um… I wasn’t paying attention… to the road, you know…â€
“I’m sure.â€
Awesomeshades glanced at Daniels, who just shrugged.
The officer instantly handed Awesomeshades a ticket. “Here’s your speeding ticket. If I see you trying this again, I’ll suspend your license.†And that was it; the officer walked back to his car.
The price on the ticket read $32.99.
Daniels read the price. “[CENSORED].†He pulled a 20-dollar bill from his pocket. “All I’ve got is a twenty. It’s counterfeit anyway…â€
Awesomeshades was tempted to punch Daniels again, but it hadn’t cause any reaction the first time, physical or mental. He held his anger in, fuming silently for ten seconds as the police car pulled away.
“I’ll head home, then.†Daniels stepped out the passengers’ side door.
“You’re just going to walk?â€
“Yeah.†Daniels struck a match on the roof of the car, lit a cigarette, and trudged away across the sidewalk.
Awesomeshades didn’t know whether to admire or despise this person. He was always so calm and took everything lightly, yet at the same time, he wouldn’t give a [CENSORED] that other people got in trouble because of what he told them to do.
Awesomeshades secretly wished he could be more like Daniels. He turned his car around and drove back home, this time handling it like a regular citizen.
* * * *
Daniels stepped into his small house, repeating the same movements that he had for hundreds of days before- toss his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on his table, hang up his hat, grab a beer from the fridge, watch TV.
No beer left. No Budweiser, at least. There was a glass of wine, but his wife hated it when he drank her wine without his permission.
Not caring that his wife would be home from her newspaper editing job two hours later, [CENSORED] off again, Daniels helped himself to a substantial glass of white wine, then turned on his crappy old television set to The Price is Right.
Daniels often felt like his life had lost much of its meaning. He used to own a Chevrolet shop nearby, which he inherited in his father’s will, when he was 21. His wife was now hardly ever home, an overworked newspaper reporter. Both of his sons had graduated college years ago and gone off to start their own carpenters’ business, with the help of some friends.
Daniels competed in second-ever rail grinding race, after witnessing the first one, in which every competitor died. He won the ‘65 event, and competed in ever single event since then. Even now, as he was approaching his 50th birthday in a couple of weeks, he was still a hardcore legend among rail grinding. L.B. even respected him.
Daniels tasted some of the wine. It was a good flavor. His wife had good taste in wine. But there was still nothing like a good, old beer to soothe the pain of a long, hard day of driving, buying cars, or tweaking his overwhelming garage of old cars.
Either way, Daniels couldn’t help but feel like his life had lost every shred of meaning years ago.
TO BE CONTINUED…. SOMETIME…
Anyway. Looking back I’m not so sure about the whole highwayman thing, though it would add a bit of conflict and there could be a Moral Dilemma. But I think I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it; I’ve still got heaps of stuff to write about before that.
I think I’m going to start from the beginning again, and scrap all the actual story I’ve written (but keep the brainstorming), because it’s really not very good at all, and I feel like the characters are kind of flat, y’know?
Also, I keep wanting to write it from first person, so I think I’m going to give in to temptation. I don’t know how long my first person thing will last, though, so maybe I should stick with third? I suppose I could always go back to third person when I got bored of first.
Plus: How should the fantasy element in? It occurred to me that maybe after stealing the papers she encounters one of the worms, and, stuck between a large slimy monster who wants to eat her and a bunch of people who could be reasoned with, she chooses the people, but then the only outcome I can see from that is her hanging, which will never do. I suppose someone (like Colin or the suitor if he’s still alive, or maybe her best friend if she has one?) could lead a Daring Rescue and they could stow away on a ship, which again leads to death unless they work on the ship instead of getting killed and then we could put in some sea monsters, but there are issues with that.
1. I don’t know how she’d get back, and she has to get back, because she has to deal with the conspiracy.
2. I don’t want the last half of the book to be filled with monsters when they’re only mentioned in the first half. If I only did one monster, that’s fine, but no sea serpents (outside of legends) after a worm.
Hum. Anyway, I’m going to start over after doing some character development and I’m going to do third person only, after all.
Space fantasy is temporarily going on hold to make room for an old idea that I loved but never really developed. I’ll be posting a bit of that later.
43-44) heh heh
47) Ummmmmmm interesting. Purple sky.
48) *gasp* *holds breath* Oh my!
68) OMG! How could he?!
82) yeah, I’d definately say that Beryl is a Mary-Sue. Her cat is weird.
84) Me likes!
85) Whoa-ho! Slow down here! That’s getting a little….. erm….. I don’t know about the whole highwayman thing. I mean, why would he attack with his sister standing right there? And her turning into a highwayman….. I’m not so sure…….
86) I think that’s actually good. Despite the obvious censoring that had to be done.
87) I agree.
88) What? Sorry. I didn’t read your notes from before. But don’t you think adding fantasy into this too is a little much going on all at once? Goodness. And I don’t know about getting on ships or any of that. I like the sound of a conspiracy and her father being in it and her trying to find a rich suitor and all that. And maybe also the brother going a little crazy. But it’s starting to sound like a little much for one story.
90- -slows down- You’ve got some good points there but I don’t know how to fix them.
1. Too much going on: OK, here’s the thing. If I don’t have massive amounts of plot twists, etc., my story doesn’t get anywhere. If I try to settle down and put in some character development, I just end up rambling about whatever the character happens to be thinking or feeling at the moment, which I should be showing through dialogue and actions, not lengthy paragraphs. Show not tell and all that. I don’t like explaining the character’s feelings in great detail, and it isn’t interesting. It’s just what happens. And when I try to describe stuff, it turns out boring. I think I need to work out how to fit the description in so that no one really notices. I also need to get a clearer picture of stuff so I can describe it beyond “The carpet was thick and red. The wallpaper was sprinkled with gold snowflakes.” That kind of thing.
2. Fantasy: Well, it’s part of my Vision. Even if I don’t show it, and people just talk about it, I have to have it in there. I can’t sacrifice that.
3. Ships: You’re right. I pretty much gave up on that idea when I couldn’t figure out how they would get back from wherever they went. I think a voyage + return trip on top of everything else is definitely too much for one book, and I’ve no intention of writing a sequel.
4. Highwaymen/women: Maybe. I sort of like the notion of her stealing her fortune back, because it adds an interestingly selfish or just thoughtless side to her character, like she doesn’t realize/care that she’s making other people miserable in her attempt to alleviate her own poverty. Except that I get the feeling she doesn’t mind being poor, much, so she’s doing it for her family’s sake I guess, because the whole affair is making them unhappy and maybe she just can’t stand the tension.
5. Her brother’s attack: Well, he wouldn’t recognize her, because a) he’s delirious, and b) if he comes up from behind, he might very well not recognize her, and of course she wouldn’t be wearing the type of thing she used to wear so she’s poor. If the suitor was doing the talking, and she had a cloak with a hood, and Colin’s horribly ill as it is and if he does recognize her he thinks he’s hallucinating, I don’t think it’s too implausible at all.
6. Colin will NOT go crazy. Guilty, yes. Ill, yes. Suicidal, yes. Crazy, NO.
Hmmmmmm. Suicidal sounds a little crazy to me, but nevermind.
Is anyone else doing a Screnzy? (I know it’s not a BIP, but, still…we don’t have a Screnzy thread yet.
)
What’s a Screnzy?
Script Frenzy, it’s kind of like NaNo, only with scripts. The task: to write a 100-page script over the month of April. I’ve got a few pages now, most of which are character description.
I just can’t imagine what you would gain from writing that much in such a short amount of time! I mean, wouldn’t it be better if you took your time?
The old man turned from the window, silhouetted against the darkening skies outside. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. There’s still so much left to take care of, accounts to settle… â€
“Are… are you sure, Master Goodfellow?†one of the young men by the fire asked. “We have medicines…â€
A touch of the old brightness came into Master Goodfellow’s eyes, but he sadly shook his head. “There is nothing any of you can do. Once my time comes…â€
Something gibbered and laughed far across the fields outside. One of the children pressed closer to her mother, eyes wide and dark in the candlelight.
Goodfellow offered no comfort, but shook his head. “I have dwelt on tilled earth and tamed water for too long. Things are walking tonight that I’d hoped not to see again for many an age. The Estate is no longer safe. You’ll have to go.â€
“Master… †the old woman crouched by the candles said, half sobbing. “We can’t thank you enough for- â€
Master Goodfellow held up a hand. “No, I should thank you. You brought me out of the shadows. You reminded me what I could be. Thanks to all of you, I fade content. But there is one thing that we must do…â€
Before, he had seemed resigned, accepting. Now he hobbled across the floor with a clumsy, lurching speed, urgency written all over his face. The candles guttered. Branches scratched at the roof. Goodfellow reached with trembling fingers into a deep pocket and pulled out a small, exquisitely carved wooden bird. Its glassy eyes sparkled in the wavering light. “Take this, all of you. Hold on tightly.â€
Hands reached to grasp the bird, old and gnarled, slim and soft. A mother guided her children’s chubby fingers to its wing.
Goodfellow gripped it tightly. “Luck,†he said, and let go. “Do not look back.â€
The windows burst and the wind rushed in. Shards of warped glass tumbled to the floor. A candle toppled from the table. The gale whirled around the room for a few heart-stopping seconds, then abruptly fled.
Silence.
Alone now, Goodfellow sat down and waited. It wasn’t long before flames started to lick up the wall. Outside the burning house, shadows closed in.
What should my conspiracy be about? I need to know because I want to write Important Letters and seal them with my new sealing wax.
My book’s progress depends on me running on lyrical depression.
97) Wowsers. that was captivating. But I don’t get it.
6. Thaks for all the FIsh42- Try not to use “he” so much, it gets redundant.
Other than that, it’s an extremely riviting passage. ^^
100- Here’s the scoop: They’re living in the heart of Faerie. Most of the people on the Estate were stolen/charmed away by faeries: young children, musicians, poets, wanderers etc. And since time is screwed up in Faerie, Royal Chamber Orchestra members and itinerant peasants are living alongside wannabe heavy metal drummers and hippies.
Goodfellow is Robin Goodfellow, AKA Puck, after half a century of aging and mellowing. The Estate is a large, self-sufficient farm, warded by a massive circle of iron ore chunks, which protects them from the fae outside. But Goodfellow is also affected by the Circle around the Estate, albeit less so, and after about fifty years within, he is beginning to die.
At the same time, the wicked fae are beginning to increase in boldness and numbers for some reason, possibly one of Goodfellow’s less famous counterparts putting forth his/her/its strength. These are completely made up by me and I only have a vague idea about them: thematically linked to the seasons and various birds. Cardinal Hommesaint=Winter, Sparrow Sirene=Autumn, Wren Landbouwer=Summer.
The bird is going to transport these people to some semi-safe locale via the East Wind.
Of course, I’m not going to explain all that within the text of the book. I used to explain too much, and I don’t want to fall into that trap again. Now I’m leaving quite a bit up to the reader’s imagination: however, I will explain enough for them to understand the storyline and the characters.
The tone I’m heading for with this story is “dark yet whimsical.” Does it seem right so far?
STORY IDEA!
A girl finds out she has strange powers that allow her to bend time and space (similar to Carrie and Hera’s powers on the Superheroes And Mary Sues RPG). She subsequently has fun with her powers and bends her surroundings to her will. Catch: the story is told from the perspective of the girl’s older sister, who has no powers and is insanely jealous.
It’s not my fault Sandy was born a freak. Well, technically her name is Cassandra Lynette Swift, but I call her Sandy because it’s one of the few ways to annoy her.
Anyway, she has powers no human should have. She can make things appear, disappear, move by themselves, do pretty much anything, just by wishing it. I guess you could say she’s telepathic. If that isn’t enough, she can also read minds. And she’s only nine.
Why couldn’t I have powers? I’m almost thirteen, and Sandy is faster, stronger, smarter, nicer, more talented, and prettier than me. Everyone loves her, and not just because she’s famous. She’s a child prodigy at everything. The perfect little girl.
Oh, I suppose I should tell you about myself. My name is Kathryn Elizabeth Swift – I spell it with a Y to try to be original. As I told you, I’m twelve and a half. I’m tall and gangly with longish tangled blond hair, and big blue eyes that my mom says are my best feature. I used to like art and writing, but Sandy is better than me at both, which kind of ruined my interests. By the way, Sandy is slim and petite with waist-length dark brown hair, sweet dark eyes, perfectly tanned skin, and straight white teeth. And despite her powers, despite everything to the contrary, she still fits in at school as a normal fourth grader.
I know it’s stupid to be jealous of a nine-year-old, but I am.
82???????????????? HELLO!!!!!!! BRYNNE NEEDS A POWER!!!!!!!!
BTW, I drew Brynne. It’s not in color though, so it doesn’t really work that well. I may or may not scan it. Perhaps I’ll redo it in color.
105) I like it. I’m glad you didn’t make Sandy the main character, because she has Mary-Sue potential. But Kathryn interests me.
COME ON, any suggestions? I’m totally stuck.
108- I dunno, flight?
107 – Cassandra is supposed to be a Mary Sue. Eventually her power corrupts and she tries to take over the world.
110- Okay, interesting twist. So, I assume you’re going to put Kathryn up against her trying to take over the world, since she knows all her weaknesses, and everything? So, what if at the end, or something like it, Kathryn gets her own powers, and uses them for a final showdown with Sandy. Or, you could have them make a machine to duplicate Sandy’s powers, somehow, and channel them in to Kathryn. Okay, my imagination’s running away with me. It’s your story.
It’s been a while. I got nowhere, I just felt like writing.
The upstairs of the house looked like a Victorian mansion taken over by a tangle of Modern Interior Design majors. The stone walls were hung with framed splatters of neon colors, the candle scones on the walls had been draped with some sort of teal cloth, and the creaky wooden floor wore a furry white shag rug.
Aaron stopped at the second door. The wood looked about five billion years old, but the stark white paintjob looked like it was done yesterday. The curvy, intricately carved gold handle matched the door in age, however.
The interior of that room looked, again, like a stylishly remodeled but still antique design. It was quite obviously a sitting room, with two matching black futons and a wall TV, and a white rug that matched the one outside. A circular window was draped with black lace.
“Um, sit?â€
Vanessa sat, and then screamed. The futon she had just sat on had seemed empty enough until she found out there were two people sitting on it that hadn’t been there a second ago. Aaron looked mortified.
“What the hell are you two doing up here?â€
Blue Mohawk boy smirked. “Sitting quietly, not bothering anyone.†Green Mohawk girl matched his expression. “Until you two came along.â€
“Sitting quietly, my long pinky nail! There’s no casting upstairs! And SHE doesn’t know!†Aaron pointed angrily to Vanessa, resumed a face of mortification, and covered his mouth. “Oops.â€
“I don’t know what?â€
“Um, what time it is? It’s time to… leave this room!â€
Blue Mohawk snorted. “Nice.â€
“Aaron?â€
“Well, I was going to tell you, but then we just happened to run into our little invisible friends here…†Aaron’s horrified face returned, and he said a word that would probably make your mother mad.
Vanessa, of course, as most people would, laughed. This all made sense now! They were playing a joke! After all, her birthday was in just a couple of days. She laughed again.
“Aaron, I think you’re driving her insane. What’s so funny?â€
“You guys! I totally can’t believe you! You’re Sam, aren’t you! I thought I recognized your nose…†Vanessa walked over to Blue Mohawk and tugged on his hair.
“Ow?â€
She tugged harder, then let go and giggled. “Aw, your new hair is cute anyways.â€
“Yup, she’s mad.â€
“Vanessa, maybe you should sit down.†Aaron looked completely serious.
“No, there’s probably a whoopee cushion or something.†She bent her knees to sit down anyway.
Green Mohawk jumped up and grabbed Vanessa’s arm. “I… really wouldn’t do that if I were you.â€
“Ha-ha.†Vanessa wrenched her arm out of Green Mohawk’s grasp, and sat.
The futon turned into a pig.
The last thing she heard before she fainted was the snort of the pig, Aaron yelling about illegal casting and Blue Mohawk’s wrenching laughter.
OK, I’m going to continue brainstorming my Space Fantasy idea. I’ve been reading Charles de Lint, which helps.
I no longer worry about tone. Swashbuckling mixed with dark wildness mixed with mahogany and brass. I think I’ve got it down, but I won’t be able to tell until I write.
Problem is, a Victorian-era society doesn’t have much cause for space exploration, even if it had the means. Or does it? I’m no history expert.
OK, I am about to send in my scanned pix. There’s a picture of my four main characters and one of the cat, Brynne, whose power I’ve decided is illusions. I’m also sending my dress for the MDB… you should get it in a few minutes.
Does anyone know who mythwriter is? (Do not answer this, GAPAs.) En’s writing style sounds a bit like one of my friends…
Okay, this isn’t exactly something to post on BiP, but… I’ve been editing BA for a looong time now. And mostly it doesn’t require much creative writing, but in some places it does. And I feel like when I do creative stuff, it’s not creative at all, just… I don’t know, patching phrases from books or whatever to do what I need to do. I’m not usually like that when I write– I’m not really that good at writing, but I don’t think I’m unoriginal– but it feels like…
I don’t know. Anyway. Any advice? I’m really feeling bad about this, and I’d like to be told I’m totally unfounded, but I can deal with it if I’m not…
112) Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat?
This is not a book, however, it is my story entry for the local library’s “Fractured Fairy Tales” contest. It’s a twist on the classic Little Red Riding Hood tale, instead with a wealthy and conceited young girl (based on one of my classmates, and best friends) who finds herself in a predicament while delivering a bundle of cash to her wealthy grandmother who owns the Pizza Hut franchise. It’s partly an inside joke, and partly me writing, so enjoy and comment please!
——————————————————————————–
LITTLE RED PRADA PURSE
Once upon a time…
There lived a young teenage girl by the name of Little Red Prada Purse, who was named, consequently, after the little red million dollar bag that she insisted upon carrying everywhere she went. She resided in a fairytale-esque twelve story mansion on the outskirts of Beverly Hills with her rich father who had made a practical fortune owning an industrial tree-chopping business, and her rich mother, a homemaker with a love for fine jewelry, baking pastries, and garden gnomes. Little Red, or Pradia as she had been calling herself as of late, spent her time not getting a decent American education, but instead spending her heiress fortune on clothes, shoes, phones, and an all manner of stuff. She had everything a shallow valley girl could ever hope to own.
However, one fateful spring day, Pradia was skipping school and watching infomercials on her enormous flat-screen television when her parents walked in on her. Surprisingly, they were not angry about her skipping school. Instead, they yelled at her for having vastly overspent that month on her credit card.
“Hey, it’s not my fault I’m messed up this way! After all, you’re the ones that named me after an accessory!” she argued. But her parents were fed up. This was the last straw.
As punishment for her actions, Pradia’s parents (who had conveniently just fired their personal mail team for messing up the monogrammed stamps) decided that she would be their mailwoman for the day. They instantly entrusted her with a large wad of cash to be delivered to their grandmother, who owned a large chain of Pizza Hut restaurants just over the hills and through the forest. This ironic task suited Pradia well, and she skipped out the door, swinging her limited edition Prada purse in one hand and waving the cash wad in the other.
Pradia kept skipping until her finely toned thighs could not carry her any further into the dark forest. She strolled along, whistling along with the birds, stopping when it was gobbled up, and continuing when another bird took up the song. It was only when the golden cobblestones began to turn to granite when Pradia looked up, indignant that there was no longer anything interesting to look at. She screamed at once, for she was face-to-face with a particularly nasty looking wolf.
“Hello, little girl,” he said, licking his chops. “Where are you headed?”
“How is that any of your business?” Pradia sniffed, nose upturned.
“Only trying to be polite,” the wolf returned. “It’s not every day that you see a girl so rich and beautiful as yourself wandering through this neck of the woods.”
The flattery instantly opened Pradia’s mouth and she blurted out, “I’m going to my grandmother’s Pizza Hut condo to deliver some cash!”
“Excellent,” said the wolf, licking his lips yet again. “I love people-erm, pizza.”
“Careful, you’re drooling all over my new Burberry shoes,” Pradia said, drawing back with disgust.
“Sorry,” the wolf shrugged.
“Later, creep,” Pradia said, shaking her head, and then she attempted to continue along the path. However, before her expensively clad feet had taken more than a few steps, the burly wolf blocked her path again.
“Hey, come on, now. It’s a beautiful day, stay and play,” the wolf said.
“Well, I’d agree, but your big head kind of blocks the view,” Pradia retorted. “Now, unlike you, I’ve actually got a life, so can you leave me alone?”
“Not for long,” the wolf muttered under his breath.
“What?” she asked.
“I said, um…let’s sing a song!” the wolf cried.
“No thank you,” she replied, pushing past him.
“What about picking some flowers?” the wolf said.
“No.”
“Climbing trees?”
“No.”
The wolf heaved a deep sigh and pointed into the far side of the woods. “There’s Nick Jonas.”
“Ooh, where?” cried Pradia in frantic excitement, and without further adue she rushed off the beaten path and deeper into the forest.
While Pradia was off chasing the pop star of her dreams, the cunning wolf ran as fast as his orthopedic paws could carry him down the path to the large, round, pepperoni-scented Pizza Hut condo in which Pradia’s grandmother resided and held a business. He crept inside through the tightly packed hordes of hungry construction workers and stay-at-home mothers with crying children to the front of the line. “Stand aside, bozos,” he growled, and the people ran away from the restaurant screaming and shouting with terror.
When the wolf got to the front of the line, Granny, who was senile and had blind eyes simply littered with cataracts, greeted him politely. “What can I get you today, honey?” she inquired sweetly.
“I’ll take a small cheese pizza, no toppings, some fun bread, a large Sprite, and…oh, yeah, what was that last one…YOU!” He leapt the counter with one swift jump, opened his enormous jaws and stuffed Granny in like a breath mint. For some reason, however, he forgot to chew his food. “Bad habits”, he grumbled, and then grabbed an apron and some glasses from the opposite counter to complete his Granny disguise.
Meanwhile, once Pradia had realized that the handsome being in front of her was not Nick Jonas but a particularly fat squirrel with molded fur covered in shoe polish, she hacked her way back to the path with her sharply honed wits (also known as a machete). She skipped along the path, and saw her grandmother’s shop and condo complex from the top of the hill. It struck her as a surprise that there were no large minivans or pickup trucks that usually lined the parking lots, but this thought instantly surpassed her tiny strain of immediate thought. She was almost done with her task, and then she would have another whole month of spending at the local mall.
Pradia rushed through the doors of the shop, where the wolf disguised as her grandmother sat lazily back behind the counter with his feet up on the service bell and his paws behind his head.
“Hi there, Gran,” said Pradia absently. “I’ve brought your money. Can I have some Coke Zero?” When she was not immediately showered with praise, she raised her head. Being a little bit south of the normal intelligence quotient, she said with surprise, “Wow, Gran, you’ve grown! What a large nose you have!”
“The better to smell you with, my dear,” the wolf replied, sitting up and taking a whiff.
“Well, nothing that can’t be fixed with a little plastic surgery,” she said, and then noticed another new attribute. “Gee whiz, Gran, what hairy arms you have! We’d better get those waxed.”
“The better to keep you warm with, my dear,” the wolf replied. By now he was over the counter and practically halfway across the room.
“My, Granny, what big, yellow teeth you have!” Pradia cried. She was terribly frightened by now. This wasn’t her Grandmother, it couldn’t be. She hadn’t even touched the stack of hundred dollar bills yet. “We…we can go but some Crest White Strips later.”
“Ugh,” said the wolf, who now stood right in front of her. “Toothpaste.” And he opened his mouth, swallowing her whole.
It was extremely good luck that Granny had decided to install glass doors two weeks previously, because a passing traveler on the hill had seen the entire ordeal, including the wolf who never chewed his food and that was starting out onto the blacktop patting his stomach and chewing the top off of a roll of pepperoni slices. He rushed down onto the blacktop, pulled an old-fashioned army rifle from his suit, and, instead of shooting the wolf like any normal hunter, bashed him over his skull about fifty times before the great wolf gave a sigh of defeat and crashed to the ground.
“Help!” cried Pradia from inside the wolf. “It’s cramped in here, and my cell phone doesn’t get any reception!”
“Not to fear, young maiden,” cried the heroic hunter. He pulled a couple dozen bottles of cough medicine and some sleeping pills from his utility suit, cracked their tops, and chucked them down the wolf’s throat. Instantly, the wolf spat up the two still fully alive women onto the pavement. He started to come to, moaning weakly. The now saliva-encrusted Pradia leaped away from the stirring wolf in fright. “Don’t let him eat me again!” she cried.
“Don’t worry,” groaned the wolf. “You taste terrible anyways.”
“The sleeping pills should be kicking in soon,” the hunter reassured her, and sure enough, he was right. In moments, the wolf was snoozing peacefully on the pavement. The hunter flung him over his shoulders, and walked him into the woods, where the proceeded to swing the wolf by the tail like a pair of weights and sent him flying through the trees into the oblivion of the skyline.
“Nice throw,” said Granny, readjusting her enormously thick glasses.
“Thanks for saving us,” said Pradia, batting her eyelashes. “You’re pretty cute.”
“I’ll buy it,” he said, grinning a bit too stoically, and together, the three victorious heroes: a blind grandmother, a stocky hunter, and a teenage girl with an expensive red purse, skipped way down the forest path into the aurora of a sunset.
117- That’s really good! And funny. I like it.
Just a bit of randomness that something more may or may not come of…
It was just after dawn, and most of the Potentials were still in their beds. Lila found the stillness slightly eerie as she proceeded down the corridor. Two women in magenta uniforms walked alongside her, watching her every move for signs of sleepiness. Only the best Potentials could hope to advance into the service of the Viceroy, and the Rose Inspectors were trained to weed out any students who didn’t make the cut.
“A true member of the government must be prepared to wake up at all hours of the night, for one never knows when the Viceroy will require one’s skills.” Lila muttered under her breath, repeating what Professor Verkolo had told them all time and time again.
The Inspector in front of Lila stopped. They had reached Professor Wakata’s tower. Lila let out a small yawn while the Inspectors were unlocking the door, then followed them through.
Large crystals filled the room, catching the sunlight as it came in and scattering it through their many facets, creating a feeling something like a chapel.
Professor Wakata stood by the largest crystal, wearing the blue uniform of all teachers at the Academy. Her black hair was tied behind her in a ponytail.
“Have you come for testing?” Wakata asked, looking at Lila.
“Yes, Professor.” Lila answered, making the proper eye contact. The Inspectors would have given 20 demerits if she hadn’t.
“What is your name, dear?”
“Lila Sirana.”
“And your strength is Remote Viewing?”
“It is, ma’am.”
“Very well, then. Face the large crystal and begin.”
Lila shut her eyes and took deep breaths, offering a quick prayer to the Goddess. She felt her astral form rise out of her body and through the crystal, out into the morning air.
A breeze was coming off the sea, and the city of Sacchar was glowing in the light of dawn, everything bathed a golden color befitting the noble capital of Armalcolia.
“What do you see?” Professor Wakata asked, her voice sounding as if it came from very far away.
“The sunlight is turning all the rooftops dawn. I can see the dome of the Parliament to the east.”
“Look to the north. Can you see the Viceroy’s Residence?”
Lila turned her vision. Yes, she could indeed see it in the distance. She moved closer, feeling the slight strain that came with one’s astral and physical bodies moving farther apart.
“There’s… there’s a window open to the Viceroy’s study.”
“You can see that? Is Viceroy Baas inside?”
Lila pulled farther away, ignoring the mounting pain. Yes, she could indeed see the Viceroy sitting within. He was a skinny man, with receding brown hair and reading glasses, and he looked uncomfortable in his official uniform. Lila could understand. He wasn’t used to ruling.
It was his older brother, Seen, who had always been expected to rule, despite his lack of magical talent, and he had ruled when he came of age, while his younger brother had devoted his time to his skills. He had become quite an authority at navigational magic and taught mapmaking at the Academy until four months before, when word had arrived that Seen had been killed in a naval battle with the Fullar at the Encel Straights.
And poor Professor Mikhail Baas had found himself the ruler of all Armalcolia.
“I can see him. He’s receiving a messenger from our allies in the north.”
There was no response. Professor Wakata probably wanted more information. Grunting mentally, Lila stretched her mind out as far as it would go, until she could just hear what was being said.
“They’ve lost… the Novya Islands… the Fullar are coming in huge numbers… only the staff of Apollo itself could have stopped them.” Lila couldn’t take it. She let go, falling to her knees in the tower as her astral form rushed back into her. She opened her eyes to see Professor Wakata looking on in shock.
“You heard their voices? You’re sure you heard their voices?” She questioned Lila.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Such power is very rare.”
All right, here is the plot of a short story that I’m going to write.
There is an inter-dimensional portal located in the Bermuda Triangle that leads to a fire land of devilish doom. A ship carrying livestock from Panama to Brazil is sucked into the portal and the cargo, with crew, is transported to the Fire land of devilish doom. The evil demons of FLODD want to kill the crew of the ship and steal their livestock to mutate into demons, which will be added to their army, which will attempt to take over Earth.
Please give your opinion on the plot.
Well, is it going to be a serious story or a silly story?
This is a tragic (not romantic!) novel(la) I’m planning out in my head.
Nearly Real
Chapter 1
In a cafe on 22nd street in New York City, four people sit at tables. Near the entrance, there is a tall man in a black trenchcoat, who looks like he has something to hide. He in fact, has nothing to hide. He has no secrets what so ever. From any one. Everything he’s done, people have known about. His name is John Thatcher. The table to the left of him houses three women, joyously laughing. Two of them we do not care about. The third is more empty than them. She has never experienced pain or sadness in her life. Her name is Mrs. McCollugh. Every moment in her life has been a moment of pure, and utter joy. She knows nothing of sadness. The bartneder behind the counter has a grim look on his face. He is constantly angry, constantly hating, constantly grieving. He has never known anything else. The man is called William Jackson. He is tall and black. He knows Mrs. McCollugh, as she comes here often. Finally, we have our fourth protagonist. He sits on a table. He is incredibly thin. He is hardly there at all. He acts like a perfectly normal person. And someone is typing on him.
Hope you like it! More coming soon!
117)
Hnmmmmmm. I wonder where Nthanda is. I want to hear more of that one story she was writing.
I wrote 54000 words in NaNoWriMo 09. Now I am starting over, rewriting it all…I’m not very motivated, although I am rewriting for very good reasons. The plot wasn’t organized enough. I had a couple character twists in there that weren’t working, etc…
OK, I’ve finally managed to continue the story tentatively titled “Avebury Estate.” The first installment is on Museacademy, tho, so here it is in full.
The old man turned from the window, silhouetted against the darkening skies outside. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. There’s still so much left to take care of, accounts to settle… â€
“Are… are you sure, Master Goodfellow?†one of the young men by the fire asked. “We have medicines…â€
A touch of the old brightness came into Master Goodfellow’s eyes, but he sadly shook his head. “There is nothing any of you can do. Once my time comes…â€
Something gibbered and laughed far across the fields outside. One of the children pressed closer to her mother, eyes wide and dark in the candlelight.
Goodfellow offered no comfort, but shook his head. “I have dwelt on tilled earth and tamed water for too long. Things are walking tonight that I’d hoped not to see again for many an age. The Estate is no longer safe. You’ll have to go.â€
“Master… †the old woman crouched by the candles said, half sobbing. “We can’t thank you enough for- â€
Master Goodfellow held up a hand. “No, I should thank you. You brought me out of the shadows. You reminded me what I could be. Thanks to all of you, I fade content. But there is one thing that we must do…â€
Before, he had seemed resigned, accepting. Now he hobbled across the floor with a clumsy, lurching speed, urgency written all over his face. The candles guttered. Branches scratched at the roof. Goodfellow reached with trembling fingers into a deep pocket and pulled out a small, exquisitely carved wooden bird. Its glassy eyes sparkled in the wavering light. “Take this, all of you. Hold on tightly.â€
Hands reached to grasp the bird, old and gnarled, slim and soft. A mother guided her children’s chubby fingers to its wing.
Goodfellow gripped the figurine for a moment. “Luck,†he said, and let go. “Do not look back.â€
The windows burst and the wind rushed in. Shards of warped glass tumbled to the floor. A candle toppled from the table. The gale whirled around the room for a few heart-stopping seconds, then abruptly fled.
Silence.
Alone now, Goodfellow sat down and waited. It wasn’t long before flames started to lick up the wall. Outside the burning house, shadows closed in.
Chapter One
Twa Corbies
The child woke in a strange place. Something cold and slippery covered his face, and the silk shirt he wore clung clammily to his side and back. For a moment, he was confused. Everything around him seemed strange. The forest, so full of light a moment ago, was now dark and oppressive, and the very air was heavy with malice. An unfamiliar hot panic welled up in his throat.
Where were his friends?
Lovely Morgan and her merry laugh, and Partholon, always with a new trick or a game… they were gone, gone, and he couldn’t see them anywhere. His lip quivered, but he shed no tears.
There was a sound of beating wings, and the child let out a startled cry. He backed up against the rough bark of a massive trunk, eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
Two ravens perched on a fallen, ivy-shrouded tree a few feet away, watching him unblinkingly. He hadn’t seen them land.
“A pretty bairn, alone and lost like this,” one said in a cracked voice.
“The sun sets soon, and things come out at night,” the other chuckled harshly.
“A careless mother… Drunk, perhaps, or mad?”
“No matter. We’ll not hunger much this eve.”
They leaped into the air, talons spread. The child screamed and turned to run, but suddenly the ravens were in front of him, cawing gleefully. Wings beat at his face, claws scratched a hairsbreadth from his eyes. He fell on his face, and beaks plucked at his hair as he went down.
Then they were gone. Sobbing for breath, stained with mud and leaf mold, the child rolled over on his back, staring up through the leaves above. There was nothing there.
“Dear child, we’ve been behind you all this time,” came a harsh whisper by his ear.
The ravens landed on his chest, pinning him to the earth. “Such bonny eyes,” one trilled. “I wonder how they taste.”
It was raising its beak when a soft chirp broke the uncanny hush of the forest. The other raven cocked its head. “Halt, sibling. Things are stirring far above…”
Then it let out a scream of rage and took to the air. “Wormeater! Mudkisser! Redbreast Kintraitor!” it wailed. “Fly! Fly!”
Suddenly the air was full of birds, tiny, fragile things with feathers of russet and brown, swarming the ravens and driving them towards the forest floor. The black birds fought back, powerful beaks snapping, but the robins were never where they struck. It was like trying to cut fog. The child watched in wonder as the ravens fell and sprawled with soft thuds, screeching impotent curses at their tormentors.
A man stepped from behind one of the trees, so quickly that he looked as if he’d sprouted from the ground. Though his hair was wispy and white, and his posture stooped, there was a glint in his eye and a spring in his step that made him look much younger. He made an ironic bow to the struggling birds. “Please, get up. I don’t demand you come on bended knee.”
“I do not kneel before the Queen’s old pet,” one raven spat. “An iron-weakened half-breed scares me not.”
The old man winked. “Then perhaps another means is called for. Your Grace?”
Another figure stepped over the dead tree. A branch cracked under his heavy boot, sounding like a gunshot in the sudden quiet. He was much taller, wearing a suit that must have once been fashionable, although now it was threadbare and covered in drab patches. A sword swung at his hip. What little of his face could be seen under the wide-brimmed hat and high collar was in shadow. However, anyone could see that there was altogether too much nose there.
Both ravens laughed wildly. “The Queen’s first-favored! Pray, should we salute?”
((The ending’s a little abrupt, but this chapter is unfinished. More later.))
((It’s later now.))
His Grace didn’t answer, but pulled a worn leather sack from his belt and tugged at its drawstring. The ravens redoubled their efforts to get away, slashing and snapping at the smaller birds that held them to the ground. The swordsman took a double handful of black dust from the bag and tossed it at them.
Where the dust touched glossy black feathers, it sizzled and burned like acid. The ravens howled in pain and squirmed wildly, their forms twisting, looking less and less like birds every second.
The child gaped at them. The robins had withdrawn to the trees, but the creatures writhing on the forest floor still seemed unable to fly. Spitting threats, they half scampered, half staggered past the trees, vanishing into the undergrowth.
The child hesitated a moment, but the kindly look in the old man’s eyes encouraged him. He toddled forward. “Have you seen my friends? They were right here, and… now they’re gone.”
The old man closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Another foundling… I’m not sure the Estate can support them all, Barnabas.”
“He’s three at least. We won’t need a wet nurse,” came a deep, cultured voice from somewhere between hat and collar. “He can help out in the barn until he’s old enough to go to the fields. Besides…” A tone of gentle reproach entered the words. “Isn’t that what you founded the Estate for? Helping the lost and cast aside? Shame, Goodfellow.”
Ooh, nice.
I have a weekend! Maybe I should write something. I haven’t worked on the Dickensian thing for ever…
Interesting. The old man burning kind of is….well…. shocking. But the little boy is nice. Though the ravens are slightly odd. I mean, ravens aren’t really big enough to eat a little kid.
Whoops… I thought I’d made it obvious by the end that they weren’t really ravens at all.
I’m thinking of cutting out the prologue… it’s not really necessary to the story and only makes the first chapter more confusing.
I thought they were ravens, just weird fey ravens that ate small lost children and couldn’t tolerate iron (being fay).
I think you should cut the prologue, personally. It doesn’t seem to have much relevance to what’s going on now.
I’d like to write today, but I imagine I’ll do math homework instead.
Well, yeah, exactly.
Thanks for the input. I’ll definitely cut the prologue.
Post 120?
122- Yes, me too!
Rebecca, could you pleeeeeease post those two pictures I sent in? *puppy dog eyes*
Notice how I didn’t say P*ease.
Last night I made a push to get all the gowns posted for the ball but tomorrow will be the weekend and I’ll get caught up with the rest.
Oooh, goody. I want to see my sketches posted!!
I’m working on ‘Kokonspiracy Pics’ ! Post/make a thread for them!
“Tell me a story,” Demanded the small, red-haired girl laying on the floor of her grandmother’s house. She was coloring a picture, or trying to. Her crayons were managing to spew shards of color everywhere but between the lines of her Disney coloring book. For her six years of age, she had managed to make an impressive dent in the huge volume of pages before her. Her parents had bought it as a bribe to keep her calmer on rainy days.
“A story? You’ve already watched television today, that’s enough, isn’t it?” Teased her grandmother as she carefully clipped coupons from the day’s paper. “And you’re working on that lovely drawing, don’t stop.”
“I can do both!” She insisted, and hauled it across the floor to prove it, crawling underneath the table with her crayons.
“Tell me a story about her,” she decided, and pushed the book out from under the table so her grandmother could see it. “The Little Mermaid.”
The girl’s grandmother suddenly became very still as she gazed down. “And what do you know about her, Selena?” She asked softly.
“Well I was at Maggie’s birthday party when the summer started and we ate ice cream and cake and then we played outside and then it got dark so her mom told us to come in and be camler so she put on a movie and it was about her.” She said in one breath, jabbing a small finger at the picture of Ariel rising to the surface of the ocean, one arm outstretched as if grasping for the light.
“I see. The movie. Have you heard any other versions of the story?” Her grandmother asked, eyes locked on the page.
“No,” Selena hesitated. “But there is the big picture on your wall.”
Her grandmother nodded slowly, the gears in her mind resuming their swift spin as she did so. “Yes. Well, the story I know is different from the movie that that Disney company made. Is that alright?”
“Yes, Grandma.” Selena said automatically.
“Well then…” The grandmother, whose name was Cordelia, settled back into her chair, and stared out the rain-spattered window. As you know, this story took place long, long ago…”
As Cordelia’s eyes took on a faraway dimness, Selena stopped coloring, lay down on the floor beneath the table, and closed hers. She let her grandmother’s words blossom into her mind like flowers, or raindrops.
“There was once a young mermaid. She lived with her family deep beneath the ocean’s waves, her many sisters and her father. She was the youngest in her family, and her father spoiled her for it. The ocean floor was her playground, the animals of the sea her friends, and she had all the freedom she could want. Her father was the King of the Sea, or at least that part of it, and no one dared to harm or take advantage of her.
“As her sisters grew, they one by one reached the age where they were allowed to swim up out of the deep water they lived in and break the surface, and see the sky. Each did so, and came back with wondrous tales of what they had seen. Mystical creatures that skimmed through the air as if it were water, great water animals not seen in the depths where they resided, and even strange, wooden creatures that glided across the surface of the sea with huge white wings. They told the little mermaid their stories, with excitement and wonder in their eyes, and she longed for the day she herself could go see. By the time one sister had tired of retelling tales of the surface, another would make the journey, and the youngest would have another sister to beg for more stories.
“In time, she grew tired of her seafloor playground, and would spend her nights staring up into the blackness above her, imagining she could see the stars he kin had told her about.
“Finally, the day came when she was old enough to make the journey herself. She waited impatiently as her father warned her about the perils of the trip, of what to watch out for and what to remember. Finally, with a sigh, he bid her to go, and come back with stories of her own.
“Thrilled, she shot out of her fathers court,swiftly leaving the glowing kingdom beneath her.”
Selena pictured her, a lone figure striking up towards the surface, like the one in her book but this mermaid was much farther away, and much more magical, somehow.
“Up and up she went, for hours. But she never grew tired, always imaging the sky she would soon break through to. The stars and clouds and wondrous things that must be just above her, just out of reach, but closer than they had ever been before. Around her circled curious fish of types she’d never seen, and then a huge, majestic white whale.
“FInally, she saw light. Not the pale, greenish light that pulsed from the glowing rocks and crystals of her home, but a strong red glare that cut through the water. She sped up, and as she neared it a pod of playful dolphins rushed to investigate this strange creature, but she ignored them and swam faster and faster and faster–
Selena’s breath caught, as the little mermaid swam through her mind.
“–And then she broke through the surface, her momentum carrying her into the air in such a leap! Her eyes were wide with shock as she soared up through the air, and then back down again into the waves with a mighty splash. The air was tinged orange and red with sunrise, and she watched the great orb break out of the ocean in delight, not taking her eyes off the burning ball even though it made them dizzy and sting after a life of mild darkness.
—
more later, have to get off
Here is the first chapter of my serious story, temporarily entitled FLODD.
Chapter 1
I loitered around the square, trying to appear inconspicuous and pretending to be reading a billboard. I was actually peering across the street at a department store and trying to assess how friendly its owner was. Hopefully he’d be willing to look past my somewhat ragged appearance. If not, I’d have another night of sleeping in the street.
A fruit vendor near me was starting to look suspicious. After all, who spends ten minutes reading a billboard advertising a wine shop? Well, procrastinating wouldn’t help matters, so I took a deep breath and started across the square toward McNalister’s Everyday Items.
Mr. McNalister himself was sitting at the counter scribbling in a notebook. The shop was tiny, with bottles and tools and various items stacked on numerous shelves. A corridor behind the counter led to the back of the store. I walked up to the counter and coughed politely.
“Excuse me, sir.â€
He stared at me like I was a mangy dog that had somehow crawled into his shop. “What do you want, beggar?†he asked haughtily.
I was indignant. All right, I didn’t look great, but my clothes had just been washed thoroughly. “I’m not a beggar.†I exclaimed.
“Really? You look like one. Now be gone, I don’t have time for street trash.†He turned back to his notebook and resumed writing.
Street trash? My temper was starting to rise. I cleared my throat loudly. “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you had any job openings. I-â€
His cold eyes stared at me in mild surprise. “You really think I would hire you?†he exclaimed, his voice ringing with contempt. “I wouldn’t even give you a crust of bread, much less a job. Now get out of my shop, or I’ll call my dog.â€
I sighed silently and turned to leave. Maybe I’d have luck in the next town. I was suddenly struck by an idea.
“By the way, I know your brother.â€
McNalister looked up. “You know Ferdinand?â€
“Actually, I do. I’ve known him for 4 years now. He gave me his word that you would hire me.â€
He laughed scornfully. “Then you must know that he died 6 years ago.â€
Oops. So much for luck.
“I believe that you are a liar, a swindler, and a thief. So, in order to protect myself, I am authorized to set Canis on you.†He stood up and blew a whistle.
Maybe Canis would be a nice, small, friendly dog that would just bark at me. I mean, he’s so cheap he wouldn’t want to buy a big, expensive Doberman, right? I heard clicking footsteps coming down the corridor behind the counter. The footsteps sounded like it was a small dog. I began to relax, until Canis poked his head around the corner.
Canis was a huge, black pit bull. No, let me rephrase that. He was really huge, as in barely-fit-through-a-doorway-huge. I stood very still, trying not to breathe. Maybe he wouldn’t notice me-too late.
McNalister pointed at me and cooed, “Look at the tasty human, Canis! He’s got a big bone in his pocket!â€
Canis turned toward me and growled, his beady eyes lighting up in anticipation. I slowly started backing toward the open shop door. Then things got even worse. I could hear the sound of metal boots marching down the street. Police. They’d be sure to notice an extremely nervous teenager being hunted by a vicious dog, and then they’d capture me and lock me up. That is, until they dug a little into my past. Who knows what they might do then.
Slobber dripped from Canis’ mouth as he slowly advanced toward me. McNalister was smiling maliciously at me. The police wouldn’t get here fast enough to call off the dog. They were coming from the left, so if I ran to the right, I might be able to outrun them. Canis inched closer. Get mauled by a hungry dog or be put in jail? I bolted out the door and to the right.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw that the ‘police’ were actually a group of horses being led by an old farmer. I sighed in relief and slowed down. There was nothing to worry about. I’d be out of the town by nightfall and McNalister wouldn’t have time to alert the police. I collided with a tall man and fell to the ground. I got up hastily, brushing myself off and apologizing profusely.
“I’m very sorry, sir. I wasn’t looking where I was-†I stopped dead, staring into the grim face of a policeman.
“Anthony Terajal, you’re under arrest.†He said harshly. “You’re lucky we found you, otherwise, you might have gotten into even more trouble than you’re already in. It’s off to jail until we decide what to do with you, my boy.â€
I’m writting a different story. It’s sorta inspired by ‘Ragtime’ with the same writing style. Read it, it’s hard to explain.
The man kissed his Wife goodbye, as he boarded the plane. Her Husband was going to New York to work in the UN. Now departing to New York City the speaker blared. Goodbye, I will miss you Husband said to Wife. Wife said to hurry and be safe. Husband left Wife, and boarded the plane. Wife waved out the window, crying. Return soon she cried, and left to tend to her Son and Daughter.
Far away, a man and woman are about to get married. They are Mrs. Broten and Mr. Goldman. Mrs. Broten said I do. Mr. Goldman suddenly fell to the floor, bloody, with a knife in his back. There was no one behind them. Screams came from the guests. Mrs. Broten fell to the ground, crying and yelling Why haven’t you left me a widow? Why did you have to kill him before we were together?
So, how do you like it? Too weird? To normal? (I’m planning some… not magic, but something that couldn’t actually happen later.)
I don’t know if they would seriously send him to jail for just walking into a store and asking for a job. Unless he did something else before?
Fr JW: I don’t know if they would seriously send him to jail for just walking into a store and asking for a job. Unless he did something else before?
He has a history of past crimes, which I shall expand upon in the next chapter. Which should hopefully be coming soon.
OKey day!
Rebecca, would it be at all possible to post my sketches????
I think maybe she’ll do that on the Arts and Crafts thread.
I’m not sure… I’ve seen them posted here before.
People! Where are your stories? *pout*
It’s coming, it’s coming!
Okay, I’ve finalized that Robot Girl’s name is Cynita Kovak and her “father”‘s real name is Dr. Leonid Kovak.
I’ve got a setting where any characters or plot I try to put in it just seem to mess up my vision of it. I love the setting, and I don’t want it to go to waste. Does anyone want it? It’s a library with a thousand and one floors where they keep all the books in the world. There’s the guy who invented the Dewey Decimal system, and computers shaped like spiders (the World Wide Web, ha ha), and other things. I’ve got a good description of it which I’d be happy to hand over to someone who’ll give my library a good home.
Takers?
I promise to take good care of it. Might use it for the upcoming “Nestlings” thread, or for my own projects.
135- Ooh, sounds interesting.
Situated on the ocean waterfront, the Guayama Police Department of Puerto Rico was a tall, forbidding building that looked like it was built in the 1800s. The rough, grey stone walls were chipped and worn by the salty ocean air and had began to crumble in a few areas. There were no windows that I could see, only a solid iron door which looked much newer than the walls. The few pedestrians on the street hurried by, averting their eyes from the menacing structure.
The policeman marched me toward the door, keeping a watchful eye and a firm grip on me to make sure I didn’t flee. He also had a firm grip on his gun. I didn’t think I would get far even if I did manage to escape; the Guayama Police were trained never to lose a criminal, particularly criminals like me.
He marched me up to the small door and pounded on it twice with the flat of his hand. A minute went by. Suddenly a small panel opened in the door and a pair of cranky eyes with thin eyebrows peered out.
“What took you so long?†the policeman grumbled. “I’ve been out here for half an hour.â€
“Oh, it’s you, Herman. I was attending to the lunatic. He was making a racket about the dust mites in his room. Last week it was the salt in the air. Huh. Dust mites. I tell you…†The doorkeeper unlocked the door, all the while rambling about dust mites.
The door slowly eased open, and Herman led me into a small room with one door opposite the main one. A small, shriveled potted plant was squatting in one corner, and an iron desk with a small gray chair was next to the door. The doorkeeper walked over to the desk and sat down, donning a pair of glasses. He seemed to be in his sixties
Here it is so far, edited:
I loitered around the square, trying to appear inconspicuous and pretending to be reading a billboard. I was actually peering across the street at a department store and trying to assess how friendly its owner was. Hopefully he’d be willing to look past my somewhat ragged appearance. If not, I’d have another night of sleeping in the street.
A fruit vendor near me was starting to look suspicious. After all, who spends ten minutes reading a billboard advertising a wine shop? Well, I knew that procrastinating wouldn’t help matters, so I took a deep breath and started across the square toward McNalister’s Everyday Items.
Mr. McNalister himself was sitting at the counter scribbling in a notebook. The shop was tiny, with bottles and tools and various items stacked on numerous shelves. A corridor behind the counter led to the back of the store. I walked up to the counter and coughed politely.
“Excuse me, sir.â€
He stared at me like I was a mangy dog. “What do you want, beggar?†he asked haughtily.
I was indignant. All right, I didn’t look great, but my clothes had just been washed thoroughly. “I’m not a beggar.†I exclaimed.
“Really? You look like one. Now be gone, I don’t have time for street trash.†He turned back to his notebook and resumed writing.
Street trash? My temper was starting to rise. I cleared my throat loudly. “Excuse me, but I was wondering if you had any job openings. I-â€
His cold eyes stared at me in mild surprise. “You really think I would hire you?†he exclaimed, his voice ringing with contempt. “I wouldn’t even give you a crust of bread, much less a job. Now get out of my shop, or I’ll call my dog.â€
I sighed silently and turned to leave. Maybe I’d have luck in the next town. I was suddenly struck by an idea.
“By the way, I know your brother.â€
McNalister looked up. “You know Ferdinand?â€
“Actually, I do. I’ve known him for 4 years now. He gave me his word that you would hire me.â€
He laughed scornfully. “Then you must know that he died 6 years ago.â€
Oops. So much for luck.
“I believe that you are a liar, a swindler, and a thief. So, in order to protect myself, I am authorized to set Canix on you.†He stood up and blew a whistle.
Maybe Canix would be a nice, small, friendly dog that would just bark at me. I mean, he’s so cheap he wouldn’t want to buy a big, expensive Doberman, right? I heard clicking footsteps coming down the corridor behind the counter. The footsteps sounded like it was a small dog. I began to relax, until Canix poked his head around the corner.
Canix was a huge, black pit bull. No, let me rephrase that. He was really huge, as in barely-fit-through-a-doorway-huge. I stood very still, trying not to breathe. Maybe he wouldn’t notice me-too late.
McNalister pointed at me and cooed, “Look at the tasty human, Canix! He’s got a big bone in his pocket!â€
Canix turned toward me and growled, his beady eyes lighting up in anticipation. I slowly started backing toward the open shop door. Then things got even worse. I could hear the sound of metal boots marching down the street. Police. They’d be sure to notice an extremely nervous teenager being hunted by a vicious dog, and then they’d capture me and lock me up. That is, until they dug a little into my past. Who knows what they might do then.
Slobber dripped from Canix’s mouth as he slowly advanced toward me. McNalister was smiling maliciously. The police wouldn’t get here fast enough to call off the dog. They were coming from the left, so if I ran to the right, I might be able to outrun them. Canix inched closer. Get mauled by a hungry dog or be put in jail? I bolted out the door and to the right.
Looking over my shoulder, I saw that the ‘police’ were actually a group of horses being led by an old farmer. I sighed in relief and slowed down. There was nothing to worry about. I’d be out of the town by nightfall and McNalister wouldn’t have time to alert the police. I collided with a tall man and fell to the ground. I got up hastily, brushing myself off and apologizing profusely.
“I’m very sorry, sir. I wasn’t looking where I was-†I stopped dead, staring into the grim face of a policeman.
“Anthony Terajal, you’re under arrest.†He said harshly. “You’re lucky we found you, otherwise, you might have gotten into even more trouble than you’re already in. It’s off to jail until we decide what to do with you, my boy.â€
* * *
Situated on the ocean waterfront, the Guayama Police Department of Puerto Rico was a tall, forbidding building that looked like it was built in the 1800s. The rough, grey stone walls were chipped and worn by the salty ocean air and had began to crumble in a few areas. There were no windows that I could see, only a solid iron door which looked much newer than the walls. The few pedestrians on the street hurried by, averting their eyes from the menacing structure.
The policeman marched me toward the door, keeping a watchful eye and a firm grip on me to make sure I didn’t flee. He also had a firm grip on his gun. I didn’t think I would get far even if I did manage to escape; the Guayama Police were trained never to lose a criminal, particularly criminals like me.
He marched me up to the small door and pounded on it twice with the flat of his hand. A minute went by. Suddenly a small panel opened in the door and a pair of cranky eyes with thin eyebrows peered out.
“What took you so long?†the policeman grumbled. “I’ve been out here for half an hour.â€
“Oh, it’s you, Herman. I was attending to the lunatic. He was making a racket about the dust mites in his room. Last week it was the salt in the air. Huh. Dust mites. I tell you…†The doorkeeper unlocked the door, all the while rambling about dust mites.
The door slowly eased open, and Herman led me into a small room with one door opposite the main one. A small, shriveled potted plant was squatting in one corner, and an iron desk with a small gray chair was next to the door. The doorkeeper walked over to the desk and sat down, donning a pair of glasses. I judged by his gray hair, spindly limbs, and popping veins that he was in his mid-sixties. He riffled through a sheaf of papers and sighed crankily, then put them down and turned a stern eye on me.
Action! The end of Chapter 1! Please tell me how you like it so far. Oh, and I switched Canis to Canix, in honor of the awesome writer POSOC (I’ve been reading the fanfiction threads).
“Name?â€
I hesitated a moment, then muttered, “Anthony Terajal.â€
Herman glanced at the old man, and received a grim smile in return.
“You can’t fool me, laddie. It’s no use trying to double-bluff me, I’ve seen everything.†The interrogator looked dreamy. “There was this one time where I had a murderer who had a piece of rope, which he knotted and- anyway.†His reminiscing was cut short by a cough from Herman. “I know you’re Terajal.â€
“But you haven’t even tested my fingerprints yet!†I protested vehemently. “You could be arresting an innocent citizen!â€
Herman spoke up. “We’ve been trailing you from the past two days, in which you’ve touched plenty of things. The results should be arriving back soon.â€
There was a rap on the door. Herman opened the slot in the door and looked outside. “Who is it?â€
A nasally voice replied, “Here are the results, sir.†A beige envelope was stuffed through the slot.
Herman took the envelope, shut the slot, and handed the envelope to the old man. He slit it open with an ornate letter opener and skimmed the contents of the paper it contained.
“Well, Terajal, it seems that you are actually Terajal. We have decided to ship you back to Brazil, where you will be judged by the courts there. I hope you will receive a jail sentence at the very least.â€
I was shocked. I couldn’t go back to Brazil. I’d be harassed, threatened, and who knows what else. It would be worse being locked up here. I heard the man’s instructions dazedly.
“Herman, take Sincay and bring Terajal to the ship. Make sure he doesn’t escape, even though it doesn’t look like he’ll try. Sincay! Assignment!â€
I needed to escape, but where would I run? How would I evade capture again? What could I do once I got free?
A robust man with a red face stepped through the door behind the desk and joined Herman. He opened the door and grabbed hold of my other arm.
I composed myself. Don’t think. Escape first, then plan.
Herman and Sincay led me towards the docks where the ship was being prepared to leave. The ocean was on the left, a rope fence separating us from a perilous fall down to the rocks below. I could see the docks in the distance; I didn’t have much time to put my grand escape plan into action.
“I feel sick,†I moaned. “Can we stop and rest?â€
Sincay looked at my face. “You’re not sick, liar. You want us to stop and relax our grip, and then you’ll scamper away like a rat.â€
“Yeah, remember what the boss said, no tricks.†Herman agreed.
I sighed. “It was worth a try.†I sneakily kicked a fist-sized rock under the rope fence.
“It was not worth a try. We’re smart, and you can’t-†A gunshot-like crack rang out. Sincay stopped talking and whipped around toward the ocean. Herman turned also, letting go of my arm and pulling out his gun.
I was off like a scared rabbit. Herman swore, and the two police were in pursuit. I veered off back the way we came, toward the station. I entered the market and upset a clothing stall, ignoring the shrieks from dismayed customers, and ran into an alley. An alley with a dead end.
“STOP!†Sincay yelled hoarsely as they drew closer.
I panicked. Herman entered the alley just ahead of Sincay. I picked up a rock and lobbed it toward a window. Herman fired his gun, the rock hit the window, shattering the glass, a bullet whizzed by my arm, a throbbing pain sprang up, and I vaulted inside the house.
I ran out of the small, empty dwelling and back into the street, looking wildly for the policemen. Where could I go? It hit me. The one place they wouldn’t think of looking. I ran toward the docks, holding my bleeding arm and leaving the chaos in the market behind me.
More like short story. I’m writing this because I want to stick a line in it that I thought of.
Mira’s pocket vibrated. She slipped her headphones off, flipped the phone open, and put it to her ear.
“Ms. McCrutches?â€
“It’s McCutchen, and yes?â€
“Hello, its Dr. Bendarski, your daughter’s principal? I’m sorry to call you at work?â€
“Oh. Um. Is there something wrong?â€
“Yes, it seems Violet has gotten into a bit of trouble? Could you come pick her up?â€
“I’m very busy…â€
“Yes, I’m sure, but it’s very important? Please come pick her up, or is there somebody else that could possibly do it?â€
“Oh, all right. Goodbye.â€
She snapped the phone shut and slid out of her desk chair. The fat man in the cubicle directly across from her looked up.
“Hey, Phil, I have to go pick my daughter up from school. She’s… um… sick or something.â€
“Whatever.â€
Mira stepped through the labyrinth of cubicles carefully, and waved to the secretary on her way out. Her wave wasn’t returned. Mira wasn’t surprised.
The secretary of the school didn’t wave either, but motioned in a kind of dismissive fashion toward a set of uncomfortable looking chairs at the front of the office. Mira sat, and memories of shifting uncomfortably in similar chairs after sticking gum on a cheerleader’s skirt or giving a boy a bruise with her combat boots rushed back.
The vomit colored door opened, and Mr. Bendarski poked his greasy haired head around it. “Ms. McCrutches?â€
“McCutchen. Yes?â€
“Violet is in here.â€
Mira followed him through the door and into a claustrophobic office. It wasn’t actually the size of the office that was small, but it was so packed with heavy looking filing cabinets that it gave you the aura of being in a very smelly closet.
Not finished. More later. Comments, please?
Interesting. Is Violet McCrutchen going to have crutches? Good vocabulary: vomit, greasy, gum. *is nauseous*
JK!
What do you think of mine?
Now that I’ve “rebooted” the continuity for my Stephanie Stone stories, I want to write all the specifics out in detail here so I can look back at them later.
Ghosts: Stephanie’s world pretty much like the real world, except that ghosts are assuredly real. Some ghosts are good and some bad. As in Danny Phantom, in addition to invisibility, flying, and walking through walls (The “standard” powers), many ghosts possess additional powers of various types, including empathy, energy blasts, telekinesis and control of an element within a limited area. These powers are described by the Agency as being in various “types” (Think of classifications for Pokemon in the anime or trading card game), and the potency of these powers are classified from 1 to 5, with 5 being the rarest and most powerful.
While vulnerabilities may differ by type, all ghosts except those of the Tech/Electricity type are vulnerable to electricity. For this reason, modified tasers are one of the standard weapons of Agency operatives, although ghosts can only be “tased” when in their solid form.
Seers: Most people are unaware that ghosts exist, because the majority of the population can see them only faintly. About two people in every million, however, are born with the genetic ability to see ghosts clearly and interact with them. These people are known as Seers.
The Agency: The clandestine Agency is a multinational alliance of Seers and benevolent ghosts who handle large-scale or unusual disturbances. Newly recruited Seers are rigorously trained for this job.
While little is known of their origins, there is some information indicating that the Agency may have grown out of the 1980s organization known as Ghostbusters- at any rate, the technology they developed is commonly used by Agency operatives.
Stephanie: “Steph” to her friends, this teenage Seer discovered her power on her first day as a tour guide at the American Museum of Natural History and was recruited by an undercover operative. Despite her clumsiness and general bad luck, she is rapidly becoming a skilled agent with help from her caseworker, Sandy.
Andrew “Sandy” [Last name classified]: A British computer programmer and Seer, Sandy is one of the Agency’s main “techies”. While his arrogant personality may sometimes rub his fellow agents the wrong way, his skills are undisputed, as demonstrated by his clever camouflage of Stephanie’s minicomputer as a working Nintendo DS.
His other most noteworthy invention is an “image inducer” (Similar to the one Nightcrawler originally used in X-Men), a device carried by ghost agents that siphons some of their own power into creating a holographic disguise to avoid detection when invisibility is not an option and to interact with non-Seers.
Yay! We have activity!
JWonkey, I like it. Some good action. Although, the part where they’re talking to him and asking his name is confusing. It’s like he’s telling them he’s Terajal, and then he tries to prove he isn’t even though he just told them…. and yeah. But besides that, fantastic.
Beavo, JWonkey is right. It’s cool how you took the sentiment of someone being sick and then adding adjetives that fit the situation.
Though I don’t know, this might just be me, but the beginning needs a little more substance or something. I guess it’s just that you immediately talk about Mira and we’re not…. how can I say this…. aquainted with her. I mean, i don’t really know how to say what I’m thinking. It’s like you say, Mira does this, and I’m like, “who’s Mira?” I mean, you don’t have to go into a crazy description or anything like that, just subtly tell us what her name is without just going out and saying it. If that didn’t make sense at all, then don’t pay attention to it. 
I’m baaaaaackkkkk….
With storyz!
So yeah…after a long hiatus, I have now connected my prologue to the main body of my novel, Trystan Evander. I’m going to start posting it in pieces (as it’s crazy long)…maybe weekly, I’m not sure. Anyhoo, here’s the first part.
(apologies to those who have read my story before. This final copy contains both old and new material, so there are probably bits I’ve posted a long long time ago. Bear with me.)
TRYSTAN EVANDER
by [Nthanda]
January 21, 2101—Inauguration Day
The soon-to-be-President of the United States mounted the steps to the podium, straightening his tie and clearing his throat as he climbed. He was a well-padded man in his late fifties, with brown hair and watery blue eyes peering through thin glasses. Twin puddles of sweat were just beginning to bleed through the armpits of his expensive navy-blue suit.
The capitol steps were packed with spectators of all ages and descriptions. The Capitol Police were particularly edgy today, clutching their Shocksticks tightly and raising them against the eager crowd when those gathered got too enthusiastic. It was almost noon—the newly elected President grasped the sides of the podium and turned on his mike.
“My fellow Americans…†The crowd, hearing his voice, turned and cheered enthusiastically. Most had no idea what they were cheering for, and many had not even voted for this man. But all had been paid to show their support.
“…thank you for electing me the 60th President of the United States!†The crowd roared.
At the front of the mob, just behind the seats of the lower-level visiting dignitaries, a man with dark aviators was waiting. In spite of the heat of the day, he wore a generic gray sweatshirt, with his hands stuffed deep in the front pocket.
“I want you all to know that my outlook for this country is hopeful,†said the new President. “America is still a strongly moral country, a model that the rest of the world can look up to and emulate.†He looked at his wife, sitting to his left, and his mistress, the Secretary of the Treasury, sitting a few rows back. He smiled and, leaning into his microphone, milked it for all it was worth.
“We have come far, and we have far to go. America emerged from World War III with little more than past glories and a defeated spirit; through the work of my predecessor, an able and far-sighted manâ€â€”there was a smattering of applause—“we were able to regain some of our former power and prestige.
“Today, we are still weak. But—and I truly believe this, America—we are incorruptible>. We have had power in the past; we will regain it. It will not be an easy road, my friends, but if we work together, we will succeed.†The crowd burst into frenzied applause.
At the last word—succeed—the man in the gray hoodie began to move. He slipped through the people like smoke, not caring about who he was displacing as he made his way forwards. A rotund man in a Stetson blocked his way; he pushed past him without a word. When the man protested the secret service quickly and silently incapacitated him.
The President was still speaking. The man in grey looked up through his dark glasses; he was waiting now for the next cue word.
“…the reforms promised in my campaign will lead out country in a new, more hopeful direction…â€
Hopeful. The man in the grey sweatshirt surged forwards, leaping over the short divider between the lower-class dignitaries and the orchestra. He pushed a startled trombone player aside and drew a rappelling gun from his pocket.
“A path of prosperity…â€
The man took careful aim and shot a hook up the front balcony. The hook fell into place with a sharp clank, but the noise was muffled by the President’s speech; the President himself could not see the hook over his podium. Perfection born of years of training.
“…liberty…â€
The hooded man clipped the gun to his belt and hit the retract button on the gun’s casing; in a heartbeat, the man was being pulled bodily through the air to the hook on the balcony.
“…and peace.†The President smiled broadly again, ready to acknowledge the next wave of applause from the crowd.
And then things happened very quickly.
A hooded man with sunglasses was suddenly crouching on the upper tier of the balcony, holding a menacing-looking hook in his hand. The President blinked; he couldn’t imagine how the man had gotten there. He wasn’t overly concerned. His Secret Service could handle any crazed fanatics that chose to martyr themselves today.
But now the man was tossing the hook to the side and drawing something heavy and metallic from the waistband of his jeans. It was black and silver, with a handle at one end and a hole at the other.
The President thought languidly that he recognized it—it was one of those junky old bullet guns from a couple of decades ago. They’d been made obsolete practically overnight when the Halvard bulletproof vests were invented around 2060. Now nothing short of armor-piercing bullets at close range could kill a man wearing a Halvard.
The assassin raised the gun. There was no emotion on his face, no action-hero quips or fanatical slogans on his tongue. He merely cocked the gun and fired.
The President’s last thought: what…?
As always, feedback is greatly appreciated.
Ooooooooooooo. That President is going to die! Mwahahahahaha! nicely done!
But what about your other story? The one with the girl with the powerful father and the school? I absolutely adored it. Please don’t trash it entirely. Please?
144- Die, president, die!
145–same story! She’ll come in later. Thanks for your kind words.
Ha ha yeah actually I wrote this right before Obama’s inauguration, and then realized that this was just about as far away from what I wanted to happen as I could get, so I didn’t show it to anyone for a long time, lest they think I was some sort of crazed assassin…
Really? The same story? Yay!
Help Wanted! Faerie-tale/general fantasy buffs, please attend.
I need suggestions for inhabitants of a community of faerie-court escapees (kidnapped musicians/entertainers, lost children etc.)
Thanks!
Whoops, that sounded rather abrupt and rude. I need to get used to using the Preview button.
Anyway, suggestions would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.
149- Hmm… Well I imagine the great majority of them would be rather vague about their lives before the faerie court. They may not even know their names, or care. They may be utterly mad. Faerie courts can have strange effects on people. But I can imagine a group of sharper ones, who have taken the vagueness and turned it into a blank slate. They’ve come up with new names for themselves (names are very important) or perhaps they’re trying to find out their names. There could be small children wise beyond their years (because aging gets messed up in Faerieland), and all sorts of cool things.
I got a little carried away. I have no ideas for specific characters, sorry.
Speaking of needing help, I need various ideas for Dickensian-ish conspiracies, because I can’t think of any and it’s essential to my story.
Ah, thank you! As for specifics…
There are a few who are somewhat touched in the head (one of the oldest is afraid of the ground… walks on stilts, lives on second floor of house) but none are totally mad. It’s basically an oversized, dysfunctional “family”, albeit one from all eras and walks of life (as you said, time is messed up in Faerie). I’m particularly looking for concepts in the 10-16 age bracket.
Dickensianish conspiracies, hmm? Well… let me get back to you on that. I have a few ideas.
What do you mean by ‘faerie court’? I assume this is a reference to some book, or am I just confused?
Midsummer Night’s Dream reference.
149–errant knights; warriors; changelings/bairns (stolen or switched children); people who bartered their lives or souls in return for a family member’s safety, fame, fortune, whatever…that’s about all i can think of. I’d look into Celtic mythology if I were you, I remember a number of stories about faery courts and their stolen members in there.
I’ve got an errant knight of sorts; that’s His Grace Barnabas Glimmer. Lots of switched kids… However, that idea about someone who bartered ens life and freedom willingly is one I haven’t thought of. Thanks.
[GAPAs please read! This is the next section of my novel, but unfortunately, my novel seems to be surpassing the point of…erm…muser-appropriate-ness. It’s not horrible, just a bit graphic (violence-wise) in parts…I wasn’t sure if it would be okay to post. Apologies for this…if you think it’s all right, I’d love to update, but if you’d prefer I not, I certainly understand. Thanks so much!]
[Okay thus far. At least the violence isn’t dwelt upon in lavish, graphic detail. Thank you. –Admin.]
k, so I know i said I’d update weekly, but I couldn’t resist going ahead and posting
Continued from post 144:
Across the country, the wind was picking up into a storm.
A Senator from California was visited in his high-rise apartment in Malibu. He and the two prostitutes with him were shot by men wearing LAPD uniforms. They were not from the LAPD.
The governor of Iowa, known for his loyal support of the now-deceased President of the United States, was murdered in his office, as he concluded a deal with his Congressman to bring more money to his personal plans for the state.
The man he was on the phone with—Congressman John McCleod—was killed two hours later, as he attempted to escape the special forces that had killed his wife and two children.
All those who had shown unusual loyalty to the now-dead President were tracked down and assassinated. Judges, congressmen, mayors, governors, even wealthy campaign contributors—all were murdered by the strange but deadly men in stolen uniforms.
On the outskirts of Washington, DC, in the still-fashionable Sixteenth Street Corridor, a mother and her son sat, unaware of the bloodbath occurring that night. The young boy sat at a faux-wood table and swung his feet as he ate dinner, while his mother, a pretty woman with black hair and exotically dark skin, finished her food and stood.
The boy was Trystan Evander, and his mother was Ann Castilla Evander, a woman just on the far side of thirty-five. Her bare feet moved gracefully across the floor as she walked to the kitchen to wash dishes.
The LC screen was on low as Ann moved to the sink. She set the dials on the sink to “gentle cycle†and submerged her plate in the lukewarm water. The sink began to hum, sonically cleaning the plates.
She picked up another bowl and examined it for spots before turning to set it in the cupboard. Her gaze fell casually upon the LC screen and the programme playing on its surface.
The bowl she was holding fell to the floor with a crash.
For the screen, set on the News channel, was playing over and over the assassination of the President. Ann’s face went white as the replay was interrupted by a harried-looking newscaster.
“…and we’re back with our coverage of the unfolding RabÃa coup. We’ve just received this new video allegedly of RabÃa himself. We would like to warn our viewers that this clip, though brief, may be emotionally upsetting…please stand by for further coverage after this…â€
The newscaster was replaced by a man whose face was immediately recognizable to Ann: a cruel, scar-crossed face with two merciless black eyes and a thin mouth set in crooked white line. It was the face of Cásimir RabÃa.
Ann knew this face because everyone in America knew it. Cásimir RabÃa was once a great general, ascending to the post of Secretary of Defense at the incredible age of twenty-five. In strategy he was brilliant; in the care of his soldiers, fantastic. It was expected that he might even become president one day.
And then, Bolivia.
The mission was doomed from the start; everyone knew this. Some whispered that that was why it had been given to RabÃa, not because he was the only one who could control it but because it was the only thing that could bring him down. In any case, what should have been a dangerous but fairly straightforward reconnaissance mission turned to a nightmare, when the drug lords of the country ambushed and killed the thirty men under RabÃa’s control. RabÃa himself was captured and held in torture; the president, who could have negotiated his immediate release, was away in Bermuda, at his private resort. He gave all power to his Vice President, who was in an illicit deal with a kingpin natural gas company, whose most valued land was in Bolivia, and who paid money to the drug lords for unhindered use of this land. The cartels wanted no intervention, so the natural gas company forbade the Vice President to become involved. He, as politicians from their advent had always done, did not take any specifically harmful action—he simply did nothing.
So RabÃa was abandoned for politics, and left for dead, to reappear here, on the television. Ann Evander, like many other Americans watching the broadcast, was completely shocked. It was as if the man had come back from the dead.
The crooked mouth opened.
“My fellow Americans,†said RabÃa, smiling calmly. “What you are witnessing now is a military coup of the American democratic government.â€
152) OMG!
Yay! Tristan’s back!
K, last part of the prologue.
The front door slammed, startling Ann. Aeson Evander rushed into the house, sweat pouring off his brow, his breath coming in gasps. He was a big man, not overweight but tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore the black canvas uniform of the Capitol Police. His insignia bore four stars, and the word Chief. His surprising gold eyes were wide and scared.
“Aeson—you’ve heard—â€
“Ann, get Trystan and run!â€
She stood stock still for a moment, then rushed into the dining room, where her young son was calmly scooping his vegetables into the dog’s open mouth. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of his chair; he began to cry as she swept him from the room.
There was a burst of light, and the front door blew open for the second time that night. Helmeted men in special-forces black poured over the threshold, guns drawn. Aeson ran for the kitchen.
Ann was nearly out the door when she heard the crack of a gun, and turned to see her husband fall to his knees, blood spilling from his mouth and chest.
“Aeson!†she screamed. The eyeless helmeted men turned towards her wordlessly; she gasped and pushed Trystan behind her, moaning for him to run. But her son remained, paralyzed by the sight of his father lying lifeless on the floor.
The men in black were moving away from them for some reason; Ann had just dared to hope when one of them stepped forwards with a flat black object in his hand. He flicked the cap off of it, and moved his arm back to throw—
“Run, Trystan!†screamed Ann.
He had one last glance of his father’s dead body before his mother threw him bodily out the door. Lying on his back in the cool summer grass, he watched in what felt like slow motion as an enormous tongue of flame blossomed from the ground to envelope his open-mouthed mother, and then the dining room, and then the whole first floor, and then—
The bone-crushing concussion, when it reached him, was enough to lift his little body off the ground like a dry leaf and send it spinning across the lawn. A piece of glass came whirling off the house, slicing across his eye and leaving an long, razor-thin gash that stung only about as much as the rest of his body. He finally came to rest twenty feet from his burning home, far from the heat of the fire and the searching eyes of the RabÃa special forces.
He was five years old.
*gasp* It’s coming together! *grins gleefully*
POSOC sounded interested in my library… I’m willing to give it to just about anyone, so feel free, fellow etymophiles.
Here goes:
There’s a library where they keep the gods, all neatly arranged by Dewey Decimal number. There the librarians have glasses that can see centipedes a thousand miles away, their shushing silences the universe for a moment, and angels line up at the help desk.
The card catalog is a great green snake that encircles the world with its tail in its mouth, which it removes only at the request of the librarians to spit out a card or two. The computers are shaped like spiders and run by the power of thought, and they spin all the sites on the World Wide Web that exist, or don’t exist, or exist only in people’s hearts. Baby stars play in the children’s section, accompanied by worried mothers of worlds.
In the center is a little garden courtyard where grow the Tree of Life, the Tree of Knowledge, Yggdrasil, the Four Trees of Mayan lore, buttercups where fairies peek, tall slim ashes that melt into nymphs in green, the Fountain of Youth, and a few good books on the subject.
There are a thousand and one floors, and the children’s Story Hour is held on a different one every night. In that library, all closets lead to Narnia, all looking-glasses to Wonderland.
The nonfiction section is patrolled by a great stone statue of Melvil Dewey himself, and he makes sure that everything is always in its proper place, easy to find. When someone misshelves a book, he bears down on them shouting loud enough to deafen a crowd. The librarians shoot him a glare and shush him, suggesting that people change, but librarians don’t.
To have a library card to that library is to have a key to unlock the universe. Some people hand over their souls for a library card from that library. Some hand over their firstborn child. Some flip the librarians a cent or two, take the card, and travel on their way.
There isn’t a book in the world that isn’t in that library. The computer-spiders’ webs have made walls that did not before exist, and doors for those walls, and locks for those doors, and keys for those locks.
The return slot has powers that no one can guess. The checkout desk has powers even greater. Together, they form a neverending cycle of giving and taking that powers the soul of the library itself.
Some people check out books for half a hope of a gasping moment. Some check them out for forever and a day. Most, of course, check them out for some span of time in between. The date stamps always know that span of time, and they stamp the stickers on the backs of the books in all the colors of the rainbow and beyond. No one wants to have a book overdue at hat library. Not to return a book the second it is due is the greatest sin imaginable, and the look the librarians give you tells you so in the most explicit detail.
On each of the thousand and one floors is a section devoted to a different section of the Dewey Decimal System, and that’s how the floors are labeled. There are only a thousand sections of the Dewey Decimal System. It is a popular myth that the surplus floor is where the librarians sleep, but this is not true. Neither is the story that it’s the floor of forbidden books. (This legend is perpetuated by people who have not studied the Dewey Decimal System. Forbidden books are on the ninety-eighth floor.) No, only the librarians know what is on that floor. Whatever it is, it is either infinitely evil, or infinitely good. Either it cannot be let out to harm people, or people cannot be let in to harm it.
No one burns books from that library, though they may try. Love of knowledge, love of stories, and love of books make sure that the books always have defenders, warriors that will fight to the death to keep the worlds gathered there all together.
Some worship at that library as if it were a temple built of books. Some worship the library itself as a god. But the library was not made for worshiping, nor for worshiping in. It was made, as all libraries are made, for lending books. It has no name, because it doesn’t need one. It’s la bibliothèque, knjižnica, raamatugoku, ang silid-aklatan, thÆ° viện, the library. That’s what it has been. That’s what it is. And that is what it is always going to be.
I couldn’t do anything with that. It would be like painting the lily. Many thanks, though.
157- That’s amazing. I don’t think you even need a story to go with that.
157- Just leave at that. You should turn it into a poem, and I swear you would be famous.
157- I agree with what Alice and Thanks For All The Fish said. Poetic and wonderful.
I have an idea for a really epic new story about Stephanie Stone, but I’m still working out a few kinks.
157–That’s fantastic. I love how much imagination you obviously put into this–I wish I could think of stuff like that…
Mmkay, a multiple choice quiz!
So I’ve reached the end of my prologue, and the stuff that follows is a huge mix of stuff written a while ago (and therefore already posted at one time or another on here), old parts that have been edited or rewritten, and some completely new parts.
So here is my question–should I:
a) post what remains in sections
b) post only new stuff, not stuff that’s been posted already
c) post a summary or stuff that really matters
d) don’t post any
e) who cares?
I would appreciate your honest answer, if you have the time. Thanks!
C) Post a summary and stuff that really matters.
k thanks!
157) Beautiful. That’s all I can say.
162) Well, the stuff you’ve done so far, I would just repost it all. I wouldn’t mind rereading it and I’m sure there are people who ahven’t seen it yet. That way, it won’t cause as much confusion.
157) You wrote that? That’s amazing! I could picture that easily as a famous poem. Or as a famous picture book, the kind with the beautiful watercolor pictures.
I have a myth I wrote for school. Should I post it?
164-((OF COURSE! I love myths!))
What the heck… I’ve been writing a lot lately, and I don’t think I’m good at all, but I love doing it so I shall persist!
——————————————(Place cool name here)——————————————
OOps! Sorry for the double post but here is the rest…
——————————————————————————————-
Alex was a peasant in the sea of the school empire. He hailed from Wing Beta.
There were the gods who watched and taught the mortals of the school. There were the all-powerful gods, who controlled everything in their domain, which was everywhere. The less, but still wonderful, godlings were the ones who interacted with the mortals. The all-powerful gods would, but there divine form causes mortals to cower in fear. The godlings would tell the mortals what they needed to know about just about everything. A lot of them hated the task, but were being rewarded substantially enough to be some-what motivated. The “Teachers,†they were called, but they always thought that too demeaning. Too mortal for them. Some godlings avoided their titles, and their teachings, and when the all powerful-ones found out, the godlings accused would be severely punished.
The mortals often heard of rumors about the Teachers and the all-powerful ones, but they were much more interested in themselves. They often thought they could easily achieve the jobs of the Teachers, but were scolded when the idea was proposed. You did not want to be scolded in this empire. The Guardians lurked the halls with their cloaks draping the bright floors. When a mortal did something wrong, they were sent to the Guardians, and only the ones who have been punished knew what happened after…No one would ever say, but when they came back it seemed as if all motivation for any more trouble was sucked out of them. Many mortals escaped this fate. Alex had not been so lucky.
He came back from the hallway, horrified, from what he had experienced. He was assigned four “sessions,†for after the teachings. From what he had already experienced, this wouldn’t be a walk through the Meadows of the Enlightened. Oh, how he wished to visit there right then.
Alex had only been there once, during the Orientation. All of the all-powerful Ones and the Teachers had come out, strictly because they would visit the Gardens. Basically, the all-powerful ones (in a lesser form), would show the newly “born†around the empire. They would visit the Rooms of the Teachings, the Offices of Instruction, the Hallways, the Room of Complete Knowledge (also known as the “Libraryâ€), the Forbidden Rooms of Secrecy, and the most wonderful, the Gardens of the Enlightened. Here, the Completed would live forever after their knowledge was infinite. The Completed are rumored to advise the all powerful-ones in their full-form. No one really knows what happens when you go though Completion, but it was obviously the most wonderful you could experience. At least, that is what the mortals thought, but there was no contact between the mortals and the Completed, so that belief was never confirmed.
There was no hope of that. He would probably never see the Gardens again. But he lingered on the hope to keep some motivation.
“Alex?†the Teacher asked. She (of course) looked beautiful in a long gown, while her long, blonde hair surrounded her amazing figure. Alex blinked.
“Uummmm, alright…†He was just standing there when he realized that he should go to his seat. He walked to the right corner seat and sat down, and groaned because of the uncomfortable seat. At the beginning of time, the seats were bright and comfortable, but now the cushions had been ripped off, and the back part of it was bent in an awkward way. This was most certainly not comfortable. There was usually only two seats in the class that were comfortable, the Teacher’s seat, of course, and the one in the center of the classroom. This seat was kept tidy for the Royals.
Kevin stared near the center of the classroom in jealousy. There, Ariella was sitting in complete, satisfying comfort, lightly smiling at Alex. He blushed, embarrassingly; no mortal could ever take the beauty of a Royal lightly. If you stared at a Royal too long, they said you would melt. Of course, this wasn’t true, because Royals were mostly mortal. Through a strange phenomenon, the Royals would rise up and gain the tiniest drop of immortal blood. They were 99% mortal, 1% god, but this was all they needed to be beautiful to the mortals; the gods barely noticed the difference.
“Okay, do any of you know our history?†asked the Teacher. The Teachers had no name; they were just called “Teacher.â€
Ariella raised her hand.
“Yes, my little royal?†she said beautifully.
“A long time ago, everyone was equal. Everyone was mortal, everyone was a god.â€
“But how…†inquired an insignificant mortal in the class. The Teacher glared at him and Ariella continued.
“The population was 20 times higher, but all worlds were combined back then, so there was more than enough space. Schools were for “children,†and “adults†would teach them. When children grew up, they would teach their children, or send them off to a school, but that was very expensive.â€
“Teacher? What does “expensive†mean?â€
“Back then they used objects to trade for the necessities of life, and other things too. Please continue Ariella, you’re doing an excellent job,†the Teacher said emotionlessly.
“Well, one day. The God that some people worshipped decided to change the world, for the better! He wiped the world clean of the weak, and set people into different spectrums of life, From the rich or poor, loved or betrayed, and good or evil. Each type was given their own world, where they could enjoy the company of the ones similar to themselves forever! Of course, this world is the world of the beautiful!â€
“Is that really true, Teacher?†the same mortal asked.
“Some believe so, my dear…â€
The class went on to talk about the building of the school. It was a very difficult task, but the Cyclope finished it. The Cyclope are (as you might know) one-eyed beasts that are looked down on by anyone mortal, or higher. They are great builders, and they are very useful in the masses. Alex often felt bad for them, but the Gods always told mortals that they had no feelings, or that they were so low on the Spectrum, that they re lucky to be alive. The Gods could not speak out about this, as it was looked at generally racist, but the Gods would spread their opinions by other means.
The class was dismissed, and the mortals (and the Royal) left the classroom in silence. It was time for the Midday Feast, and everyone was starving. Alex caught up to his friend, Xavier.
“Do you really believe in all of that stuff about the separate worlds, and people ever being equal? Its all a bunch of cr-“ he caught himself as a Guardian walked by.
They were (of course) in downstairs Wing Beta. This was the part of the school owned by the younger mortals. There were 4 types of mortals: Older mortals more likely to achieve Completion, younger mortals also more likely to achieve Completion, and vice versa. Beta was the lesser wing, and Alex was young, so he was the lowest of the mortals… Lest we say that this was not the easiest life of this world. Alex didn’t care… But he always wished of a day where the least powerful wing would conquer more territory.
You see, every part of the school was owned by one of the wings, or by the beings in the wings. Most of the school was conquered by Upstairs Alpha: Half of the Feasting Room, the Whole Library (except for the Librarians’ desk), and lots of various sections of Hallways. All of downstairs Beta Wing could be captured, but the other Wings respect a long lasting mercy, but young Betas(as that was what they were labeled), had to be accepted at a table at lunch, or find their own, for they owned none of the Feasting Room. If the higher beings were feeling cruel that day, the young Betas wouldn’t eat at the Midday Feast. Some high beings were so prejudiced that they thought young betas to be similar to the Cyclope. The young Betas are very offended by this, but who cares? They’re young Betas.
That’s a really good plot. What do you mean, you can’t write?
It isn’t really a myth, more just a story about how everything came to be. It’s kind of lacking in that “mythic quality”.
((It wasn’t supposed to be a myth… It’s a prologue…))
Oh, sorry. My comment was pretty unclear. I was commenting on my own story, which I am unsure about posting.
I feel really flattered, everybody. Thanks. *hides head*
((I’m copying my story onto here. It seems bad, compared to all of the others, but I’m just drafting, (sort of) so here it is!))
I race down the hallway of the manor, excited that someone has come to call. Twelve year old girls shouldn’t be running, but there hasn’t been a visitor at our house since… I run into the front hall to see my mother talking to a women, holding Hope, the baby. Iris my 8 year old sister stands on her right, and Joseph, my 9 year old brother on the left. Lukas, my 5 year old brother stands behind Mother, looking back at me. I recognize our visitor now. She’s the baroness, my aunt.
“Maia!†she says. I step forward cautiously as my aunt turns toward my mother. “Claire, I know how hard it has been for you since Soren passed away.†She was talking about my father. “Maia could come live with me for a little while and Dana, here…†She pointed at her servant. “…could help you take care of your children.â€
‘No…†my mother started to say, but I interrupted, hesitantly, then strongly.
“I’ll go.†I say, not believing my words…
–
“I’ll go.†I say again. “Are you sure, Maia?†my mother asks. “Yes.†I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the baroness smile. Not a nice smile, though. A smile of victory. I keep it to myself, and the baroness says, “Maia, dear. Tomorrow I’ll come to pick you up, and drop Dana off. I’m sure you’ll have fun with your cousins.†I doubted that I would like them. I had met Lilayenn and Roarke before, and I didn’t think that they would have changed. The baroness bade everyone farewell, and I climbed the stairs to my room to think…
–
The baroness comes the next day. I’m excited to see her palace. I’ve never seen it, only met my cousins at a convention. Dana leads the baroness into the house, and my aunt turns to me and asks, “Can you ride a horse?â€
“Why, yes.†I tell her, “I’ll go get her.†I start to run to the stables, then slow to a walk. Joseph dashes behind me to catch up, followed by Iris. They hold the door open for me as Iris asks a surprise question. “Will you come back?â€
“Of course.†I say, caught of guard by the question. “Of course.â€
I lead Shell out of the stable, and Iris and Joseph follow me back. Dana has just loaded my bag onto a horse, and I give my goodbyes. When I’m finished, I mounted Shell, and we’re off!
The baroness leads me down the road, and guards move to form around us as we leave the wall of the manor. I wave back at my family until I can’t see them anymore. Then the baroness turns to me and says, “You don’t mind underground places, right.â€
“Of course not.†I say. When I was as old as Iris I would explore the sea shore caves at our summer home. “Why?â€
“Because my castle is built underground.â€
–
“What?!†I say, nearly falling off Shell. “Your castle is underground?!†Then I realize I’m being rude, and shut my mouth.
“Yes.†the baroness said stiffly, “I will describe it to you.â€
“The baron and I decided we wanted a place far away from everyone when we were married. We were walking one day when I noticed a hole in the ground. The baron knelt down and looked through it. Below, he saw a giant cavern, and built inside was a city. The houses were dug out stalactites, and there was a gigantic stalactite that connected the ceiling and floor of the cave. It had obviously been used as a temple. A beautiful stalactite was a perfect palace. There were walkways everywhere, including one beginning at the hole at our feet. On the floor of the cavern, there were more homes, and a good many caves (which we now mine in). It was clear someone had lived here before us. After some thought, we decided that it was a perfect city. We did not have to torture anyone to get it built. It is our home to this day.â€
“It sounds wonderful,†I said, “But where does the light get in?â€
“It gets in through more holes like the one the baron and I found. I’m sure you’ll love it.â€
“Oh, yes.†I said, but in my head I said, I hope so.
–
We rode on for the whole day, slept, and rode again. It was time for the midday meal when we reached a small building. The baroness told me to get off Shell and leave her with a stable boy. The horses would go down into the city another way. The baroness then led me to a hole in the ground. I looked down, to discover a walkway spanning a gigantic cavern. I climbed down into the hole and stepped carefully onto the bridge. I looked out at the cave. It was amazing, to say the least. People bustled below, on the streets, toward a market gathered around what looked like the temple my aunt had described. There were people on the walkways, too, carrying goods to sell in baskets. Light shone through many holes that connected the city below to the world above. It was almost like any regular city. The baroness startled my thoughts,
“Let’s go quickly, Maia, for it is already market time.†We walked faster, and I marveled at everything. When we finally reached the marketplace, I had seen so much that I thought my eyes would get stuck wide open. People parted to let us pass, and the baroness smiled at her people. She left me with a servant, Shay, who looked like she was about 16. Shay smiled at me and handed me a pastry. I thanked her quietly, and turned to watch the baron speak.
–
I watch my aunt and uncle talk to the crowd, and then the market begins! Shay tells me I can you anywhere I want, as long as I report back to her at the end of the market. I meander through the crowd, when I see an old building. Magic, it says on the sign. Below, it says, For Sale: Charms, Potions, Familiars, Time, and More. I open the door and slip in without another thought. The bell on the door tinkles, and a boy and an older girl look up.
“Hi…:†I say tentatively, “I’m Maia.â€
The girl glances into a crystal ball, and the insides of it swirl.
“The baroness’s niece?†She asked.
“Yesâ€
“I’m Holly, this is Teddy, or Thid, as he likes to be called now. Our store sells what you need.â€
“And that is…â€
“A little magic.â€
–
“Magic?â€
“Yes, of course. You’re a new customer, and my crystal ball says you need luck, so…†Holly laid out 3 amulets on the counter. “Choose one.†She instructed. There was one shiny one, and it was medium sized. The stone of that amulet was a deep maroon. Another had a large jewel that was forest green. The last was a small ice-blue stone, and it was swirly inside. The other two certainly looked better, but I had learned that looks weren’t everything, so I chose the blue stone. it was icy to the touch, and the girl said, with a hint of disdain, “Oh, that one. That is both truth and luck. I hope you fare well.†I turned and walked away, but over the tinkling of the bell on the door, I heard Teddy say, “She chose right, didn’t she?†and Holly answer back. “I hope so.â€
–
I take the amulet and hang it around my neck. I’ll go back to that store, I decide, just not now. The rest of the market is nice. I buy treats and presents for my family back home. I also buy treats and lunch for myself. Yet for the whole time, Holly’s words haunted my thoughts. “I hope so.†I certainly hoped so, too.
–
Later, I walked back to Shay. As she led my to the palace, she said, “That’s certainly a lot of gifts for yourself.â€
“Oh, no,†I told her, “They’re for my family.â€
“But you do understand, the baroness likes you very much.â€
“And…â€
“Well, she would like to adopt you.â€
“I like my family. I’m living with them.â€
“Maia, she’s brought you here to keep you.â€
166) I likes it.
169) An underground castle? Whoah. Like in LOTR with Moria, that is, before it the Balrog and the Goblin invasion, but that’s another story.
169) DUN DUN DUNNNNN! Good ending.
Thank you! I’ll probably post more tomorrow. (My parents limit my computer time.)
((Right! Here I go!))
I stared at Shay.
“I’m NOT going to stay here!” I said, “No one can stop my from getting back home.” Shay’s face looked so, so, so sad.
“Maia. Listen to me. It’s pure madness to try to get away. Thieves, smugglers, poor families, rich noblemen, even Lilayenn has tried to get away. The baroness makes sure everyone stays in her perfect city.”
“What? Lilayenn tried to get away?”
“I shouldn’t have told you that.”
“What happened?”
“I wouldn’t tell you.”
“What happened?”
Shay wouldn’t give anything about Lilayenn’s story, But I resolved I would find what was wrong with this city, and I knew exactly who I would ask first.
–
Three hours later, I sat in my plush room in the castle. The bed was gigantic, and it had an indigo canopy that matched the theme of the rest of the room. The whole thing was either colored that deep blue-purple or a shimmering turquoise. The chairs were soft, and there was a desk for me to write and paint at. Yet the whole castle seemed mysterious. Lies were everywhere around me, and it seemed this castle was made out of lies. My amulet kept vibrating and making a tiny buzzing sound. I sat down at the desk, exhausted, and before I knew it, my writing-stick had brushed out the lines for a horse. When I had finished, the animal was a likeness of Shell, peach coat, tan mane, and mischievous royal blue eyes. I jumped up from my chair, suddenly as light as those balloon things the shopkeepers sold. For I had an idea.
–
“No, you may not go horse riding above ground,” the servant said, “It is forbidden to go outside of the city.”
“What?!” I yelled, “That’s absurd!”
“It’s the law, miss.”
“Well, that’s a horrible law! How do people live without green grass and blue sky?”
“We do not need them, miss.”
For the first time, I noticed all the inhabitants of the city were paler than a daisy’s petals. I decided that I needed some answers, and I needed them now. I dismissed the servant, and, after a few minutes, sneaked away down the corridor.
–
“Why are you here?” Lilayenn asked, “I don’t want to talk right now.”
“Well, I want some answers to this place.”
“There are none.”
“How do you get out?”
Lilayenn’s eyes grew wide. “Do you…” she began.
“Yes, I know.”
“How?” She was sitting bolt upright, and her eyes bored into me. Then, she seemed to soften and leaned to whisper in my ear. “I need to get out of here.” Lilayenn said, “Will you help? We can go to your mother’s estate, we would be safe there. Or we might need to hide…” Her voice trailed off. “Meet me here tomorrow night. Or better yet, let’s take a walk together after the morning meal.”
“See you.” I whispered, “Soon we will see the morning sun rise in the east. We will stand on a hill over the vast ocean and watch colors paint the sky.”
“Soon.” Lilayenn whispered back to me, as if to confirm our quick friendship, “Soon.”
–
The next day dawned, and I watched as people gathered outside, on the ground, to watch the light of sunrise streak through the holes. It was a truly beautiful sight, and I painfully remembered the mornings riding with Iris on her pony, Frog, and myself on Shell, to climb Grace Hill to watch the sun rise. The morning seemed to crawl by, like a caterpillar on a large oak leaf. But when the time came, Lilayenn got permission for a walk, and we found ourselves trekking across town. Lilayenn brought my up to a store and said, “We can talk safely in here.” Only when I walked in, did I notice… Holly. She turned to us, and grinned.
“Lily! Good to see you! And I find who but the baroness’s niece in my shop once more! How’s the charm work?”
“The castle is a bad place.” I said.
“So it does work! Good!” I noticed something about Holly. Behind the waves of brown hair was skin like mine. Skin tanned from the sun.
“You’ve been up there!” I said in surprise, “Up to the surface!”
“Why, yes I have,” Holly said grimly, “Yes I have.”
((Ummm, more of my story that I don’t think is so good… But I like to have some opinions.))
“So where should we (try) and sit today?†Xavier asked.
“How should I possibly know? You know what? I’m gunna’ conquer a table today! Come with me; we can easily capture an older Beta girls table!†Right then two huge girls walked by them, talking about their martial arts class.
“Maybe we should get a Royal…†Xavier suggested. Alex quickly agreed, but walked hesitantly to where the Royals were sitting. Xavier was the representative of the mortals, and he sometimes bragged that he even had some god blood in him.
Xavier walked to one of the more powerful Royals of the young Betas, Luke.
“Luke,â€he bowed, â€we have a request to attempt a seizure of territory.â€
“Why are you asking me?â€
“We think we should add the strength of a royal to our forces! It’ll be a complete surprise, and it won’t break our truce! Lunch tables are left out! But we cannot let the other Royals know of our plans, for they will easily thwart our attempts!†He looked around in alarm.
“Very well, then. I guess I shall go… It has been awhile since anyone attempted a seizure…†He stood up, and the bright glow of the Royal table slightly faded; it was still magnificent!
Luke lead the way with Xavier slightly behind him. Alex followed farther away, for, he was very intimidated by the Royal.
“State your purpose, mortal!†Luke commanded to Alex without turning around. They had a sense for thoughts and energy. Alex almost ran away when Xavier said:
“He is the one to suggest this feat!â€
“Oh. Well, alright then! Which table?†He asked, but it still felt like a command to Alex.
“That one,†he pointed to a table with about six girls. They were the daughters of Aphrodite, ruler of this world. They were the absolute most beautiful things that any mortal has ever seen, but they had no real power unless their “mother†interfered, for Aphrodite was not their actual mother; each “daughter†was hand selected by Aphrodite.
“What a fine selection… This shall be quite the story to tell back at Beta,†Luke could feel the significance of the “battle†to come. It would show that he had some nerve, which is good for a Royal.
Luke walked up to the table and smiled,â€Daughters, we conquer this table to be property of Downstairs Beta Wing. Are their any objections?â€
One Daughter tried to shout for help, as any male would rush to her side, but Luke picked her up. He created a piece of tape from the air, and compelled it to cover her mouth. Royals had very minor powers that could be very useful. The Daughter was helpless.
Then the rest of the daughters got the picture, and realized that it would be much simpler to just find another table, so they left.
“Glorious!†Alex shouted. Xavier looked at him awkwardly.
“Enjoy the new table, my comrades!†Luke walked back confidently to spread the news. Alex was hopeful that his name would be mentioned. Alex never wanted to be a Royal, but wanted to be respected by them.
They enjoyed their lunch in luxury. The table was cushioned, and nice smelling; completely different from what they usually sit in. The food seemed to taste better here also. Alex guessed that Aphrodite put Love into the table. Alex enjoyed the slight warmth, making him feel at home. Today seemed like it was the most wonderful- The memory of the guardian fell upon him.
He almost fell of his cushioned seat.
173) Hee. I like the tone of this story, even though I have no idea what the point of conquering a lunch table is.
I’m in the middle of another story on another site, so nothing’s going to come of this for a while, but here’s the beginning of my next Stephanie Stone story:
The truck from the lab was stopped near the dock, and the sounds of the workers loading the crates onto the ship echoed in the moonlight. Some cursed in gutter Russian from the weight of the crates, as supervisors admonished them to be careful with the sensitive electronics within.
But there was another watcher on the docks, a watcher even harder to please than the laboratory supervisors.
Even a Seer would have been hard-pressed to make out the transparent figure standing there in the shadows. But if the Seer had been lucky and sharp-eyed, they might have caught a glimpse of a thin man with a nasty-looking scar on his right cheek, eyes that glowed faintly red, and white hair with a few dark streaks. Using the reliable method of determining a ghost’s origin by their clothing would have proved difficult, but that coat would seem to suggest the Soviet era…
“Imbeciles. No respect for the scientific marvels they carry.” He muttered, watching the workers. “No idea of the role they play in this greater purpose. No idea at all… as unaware as their target.” A dark chuckle was heard, the sort of laughter that made the back of one’s neck tingle with unease.
Another transparent creature moved by his feet, a white dog with brown spots and curly fur. Her eyes, too, seemed to glow red as the mysterious onlooker bent down to pick her up and stoke her. The dog vocalized her pleasure at being rubbed.
“That’s right, my little barker. He suspects nothing. And that is the way it will remain until we reach our objective.” Another unsettling laugh echoed as the shadows engulfed them both.
((174- It was just a little…. motivation for the young Betas….))
Alex tapped his fingers nervously against the desk. It clattered, absent of any rhythm. Zoe compelled a static shock on Alex’s finger. He flinched, and stopped random patter. Zoe smiled with content and went back to doodling on her magnificent, golden notebook.
Alex never knew why the Royals took such things for granted. If they ever made a more powerful enemy, they would be immediately removed from god-kind. Alex glanced over to Av—
Just Avi now.
He looked like he wanted to throw up. He probably did. The decrease of power did that to a person. He didn’t have a glow anymore, in fact, he radiated darkness. The people sitting next to him could’ve also had a good vomit; he wanted everyone to feel his misery. Every once in awhile, he felt a blast of depression, which would make everyone want to faint. The only thing that would bring him back from these flashes was the fact that he knew that the others were also suffering.
Alex had his own reason to feel worrisome. He had four sessions with the guardians, and he hadn’t even done anything! Alex was outraged with Dylan, the most powerful of the young Betas. Some believed him to even rival the King Royal, for, that was only a title given to the most powerful Alpha. He could command electricity with explicit accuracy, which is about equal to the King Royal’s ability to manipulate plant life. Many mortals would love for them to have a fight to the death, but Dylan and the King Royal knew that together they controlled the school. The powerful Royals of the other 2 wings usually worked closely with them.
Alex never liked Dylan to begin with; despite his power, he let the mortals suffer with no land, no materials, and no recreation. He could go wherever he wanted, for he ignored all land possessions. What had pushed Alex to the extent of hating him was what he did earlier. Dylan had charged the seat of the Teacher with enormous amounts of electricity. He knew it would take a lot for a God to feel it. When the Teacher sat down, his hair flew up and you could see the electricity pulsing through him. Dylan quickly threw a half-empty bottle of electricity powder (hopefully self-explanatory). At first the Teacher just acted like nothing happened, but at the end of class, he stopped Alex.
“punishment, alex.â€
“NO! Not them! I didn’t do anything! Dylan-“
But it was too late. The guardians were coming. They grabbed him and pulled him away from the Teacher. Alex immediately felt the sudden surge of immense guilt fall upon him. He would be gracious if he died right there and then. A guardian muttered something, but Alex couldn’t hear. He started to full a slight pull on his chest. It got stronger until it felt like there was a chain attached to his flesh that was pulling harder and harder until… He felt nothing. Nothing at all. No pain, no hope, no happiness. He would be happy about the guilt going away if he could, but there was a void where his heart should be. The guardians looked slightly concerned, as if they didn’t enjoy this. It was a show. This is how and what they lived for. Alex started to feel hatred bubbling in his chest. The problem was that that was the only thing he could feel. But slowly he felt happy that he was regaining emotions, and in came the rest. He was led to his next class, horror-stricken.
((Just a little bit more… I’m writing it slowly… And posting when I get the chance…))
((OOppss!!! SFTDP but the last part is a flash-back, but I forgot to italicize…))
Whoah! That emotion sucking out thing is intense!
*sigh* can’t wait for school to get out, so I can write more…
Well, I guess I’ll just repost the old stuff…much of it has the same ring, but has been edited here and there to make it better. Apologies to those who have read it before…especially this first bit, it’s basically the same, I like it already.
I
Trystan
The boy’s lavatory of the School was not the most pleasant place to be. In fact, it could be more aptly described as completely unpleasant. The grimy floor was kept in a perpetual state of clamminess (due mostly to the poor plumbing system) so that mold and other organisms of various intelligences spawned between the grungy tiles. This damp sort of primordial muck tended to grow up the walls, but these were actually quite white and clean towards the top, all things considered. The only reason for this was the frequent and recurrent need to paint over the graffitis and other poetic writings of rebellious students, and also the fact that cleaning the walls was a common low-grade form of detention.
The actual toilets, of course, were far worse than either the walls or the floor. Most were flooded, and all reeked like the hippo exhibit at a poorly-maintained zoo. You only went into the boy’s toilet if you really, really had to go.
And yet on the gloomy, overcast day that this story begins (or at least, where we pick it up; it began quite a while ago), not one but two boys were in the lavatory. And, even more absurdly, they were crammed into the same filthy stall.
Both boys were about the same age, seventeen or thereabouts. One of them, who had a shock of spiky black hair, was holding a length of thin plastic tubing. He was feeding it carefully to the other boy, this one with mousy brown hair, who in turn was pushing the tubing through a hole drilled high in the bowl of the toilet.
“’Kay,†he grunted when he’d finished. The black-haired boy moved to the toilet’s box, tying a thin piece of nearly-invisible fishing line from the flushing mechanism to the tubing. He depressed the handle experimentally, and the tube pointed downwards into the rushing water. As soon as the handle returned to its original position, the tube moved back to lie just beneath the rim of the seat.
“Perfect,†grinned the brown-haired boy. He pulled a bag full of small gray pellets out of his pocket and held them up. “You want to do the honors?â€
The other boy took the bag from his friend and gently tipped the pellets into the tubing. He held his breath; if the end of the tube was a millimeter too low, the seemingly innocuous gray pills would go sliding into the water, and all hell would break loose. Which, actually, was the goal of this exercise; the boys just wanted it to break loose later, preferably when they were far, far away.
The tube held.
“All right,†said the boy. He stood, and the two of them, apparently finished with their clandestine task, walked out of the abominable lavatory into the halls of the Jefferson School for Juvenile Delinquents.
As always–comments & criticisms appreciated.
I like it!!!
I’ve actually never read any of your stories but now I’m going to! I really like the details you used, and your word choice.
I have recently gotten a hankering to write Steampunk, but unfortunately I’m not too good at it. Can anyone offer advice?
I’m changing my story. It’s going to be a steampunk desert, not a fire land of doom. That thing’s been done before. Maybe I should research.
180–None except to say that I’m pretty much in the same boat. I’m considering doing a graphic novel of it instead.
Any comments on post 175?
182- Yes. I really like it! It built a lot of suspense for me, and you’d better write some more soon!! I like the words you used too. “Imbeciles” and “admonished”… *rambles-on-and-on-and-on*
175- That’s really good. I don’t think I’ve read anything of yours since the Conspiracy Wars, because there’s always so much of it; it seems rather a daunting task. That’s really good though.