Social Media – just what is it? According to my dictionary, ‘social’ is considered an attribute. It is ‘of or relating to rank and status in society.’ It is also ‘relating to or designed for activities in which people meet each other for pleasure.’ ‘Media’ is actually the plural form of ‘medium’ – I didn’t know that – it’s increasingly more familiar usage is in reference to television, radio, newspapers and the internet – generally regarded collectively. So, taken together, social media could be people getting together via the internet either for pleasure or to attain rank and status.
Now that we have analyzed the definition of ‘social media’, what exactly does it mean? I’m on Facebook and as of today I have 789 friends. Granted a goodly number of them are friends because I play a couple games and having Facebook friends make some aspects easier. Regardless of why they are friends I always welcome new friends into my corner of the world. It is my hope that they will take a look at my profile, and then maybe they will dig a little deeper and take a look at my fan page.
Now, I do things every day in an effort to keep some aspect of my writing visible (hopefully I’m not spamming everybody’s wall – if I am, no one has told me so), but that’s not all I do. I try very hard to be sociable. I scroll down my main wall in an effort to keep up with everyone. I am also a member of several blogging groups and I browse through them too, all at least once a day and sometimes twice.
I am also on Twitter. I confess, though I go to Twitter every day, it’s only to advertise, though I do keep track of any mentions and answer any messages, if I get any. If any of my tweets get re-tweeted, I make sure to say thanks. I mean, good manners, especially on line, are very important. I spend a little more time there during the winter. There’s #FollowFriday and #WriterWednesday, and I really should participate. It’s part of being social.
I also have three blogs, this one, my blog novel, and one about my personal life, where I hungrily await any comments.
I also belong to a few other writing groups. Throughout all of this, it is my greatest hope to make real friends, or at least as real as the internet will allow. I like to think I live by the Golden Rule. I do to, and for, others as I would like to be done to, or for, me. Oh sure, I'd like to 'improve my rank and status' in our society, but I see that as a byproduct of making friends.
I love to write, and I’ve combed the internet in an effort to become a better writer. I know the struggle to get a story onto the ‘paper’ on your computer. I’m more than willing to share what I’ve learned, or my interpretation of it all. I’ll happily direct you to a source upon asking, but I’ve a list here to the right, and on my website, I happily give credit to whoever for whatever tip I’ve listed.
Something I like to say all the time is ‘There’s no such thing as a dumb question.’ Never be afraid to ask me anything. I’ll tell you what I know and I’ll also tell you if I don’t know, then I’ll try to find the answer. After all, if you don’t ask questions, how are you going to learn?
This is how I define and use ‘social media’. What do you do?
Showing posts with label Goodreads. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Goodreads. Show all posts
Friday, September 2, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
March Writing Contest Winning Entry, Ambitious Writers, Goodreads
Amani wins the writing contest for March with this entry:
Title: The Totally Legitimate Complete Guide to Surviving a Zombie Apocalypse
Genre: Humour
Word Count: 1425
Summary: A guide to surviving a zomie-ridden world.
Hello there! Have you found yourself in a situation in which you are being viciously murdered by zombies who seemed to appear out of thin air without any explanation as to why they exist and how they got here? Are you currently running away or hiding from a murderous, flesh eating zombie? Are you silently cursing Hollywood for lying to you about the speed of zombies? Or maybe you'd just like to be prepared in case of a sudden zombie attack? Well, have no fear! With this totally legitimate guide on how to survive these types of situations, you'll be sure to see another post-apocalyptic day!
Chapter One: Your Zombie
Knowing your zombie all the more will help you in defeating them later on in the long run! In this first chapter, we will discuss the two different types of zombies. By knowing their strengths and weaknesses, you'll be able to use that knowledge against them! Unless you're an idiot. Or the zombie somehow has an IQ of 200+. Then you're screwed. But if not, then read on while you still aren't dead!
Zombie A: The Surprisingly Fast How-Dare-You-Lie-To-Me-Hollywood Zombie aka Fresco
Fresco is the type of zombie where, were you the guy who ate one too many cookies at your best buddy Chris's fetish party, you'd be dead before you managed to lift your poor leg. Fresco is the fast, usually quicker than humans, zombie who has so much stamina that he could chase you for hours without feeling the need to rest, pee, or masturbate. However, this is met by a small yet very deadly weakness: stupidity.
While stupidity may seem like something inconsequential when you're as fast as a car, it can hinder you greatly if you're opponent is smart. Hell, even getting straight F's on your report card counts as smart compared to these zombies!
So, dear victim, if you are being outrun by Fresco, simply outsmart him!
How do you do that, you might ask?
Well, if you need specifics, you just might be the sole person who's dumber than a Fresco. But, nevertheless, since we need to fill these pages, we shall give you a few scenarios, and hopefully you'll be able to create your own amazing plan by ripping off of ours!
Assuming that you are near a city and not somewhere deserted, like Pittsburg, you are surrounded by either a) buildings, or b) some sort of park. These surroundings are your very lifeline.
Scenario 1: The 7/11
You've been running for so long... You're out of breath, and you're sweaty in places you didn't even know existed. You're muscles ache, and possibly even feel like delicious, grindy-bony jello.You don't know if you can take it any longer; you need to stop and rest, or else you might collapse. But there's that damn Fresco right behind you, snapping at your heels with it's sharp, decayed teeth!
So what do you do?
Keep on running like yo mamma is chasing you with belt made out of sharp knives? Hell no! You immediately run to the nearest building - in this case, a 7/11.
Quickly, run, run inside!
Are you in? Yes? Good. Now, run to the counter and jump over it to the other side! Great! By jumping over the counter, you've effectively put an obstacle before you and the Fresco, which will be wondering what in hell's name is that damn infernal contraption blocking him from you. Now you, sir, are safe! Not only have you managed to fool the zombie, but you've got free junk food! Huzzah!
Zombie: 0, Victim: 1
Scenario 2: The Library
It's quiet... Perhaps too quiet... But then again, you are in a library so... Er, anyways: It's really damn quiet. You managed earlier to run away from that damn Fresco, despite how fast it is. Maybe you're an Olympic runner, or maybe you outsmarted it, then ran away before your ass became sweet zombie dinner. Either way, you managed to elude the zombie, and ran into the nearest building: the library.
Safe! Goal! Home base! Whatever the fuck ya want to call it; either way you're safe! I mean, it's the library. If humans dread it, it's practically a zombie repellent, right?
Wrong!
*Fun fact: Zombies aren't afraid of libraries.
So, poor you has let your guard down, thinking you were safe, no? Well, no worries! If the Fresco manages to find you, or if you have found a Fresco lurking in between the bookshelves, you can save yourself by simply grabbing hold of the nearest book, opening it up, and using it to hide your face! By doing so, the Fresco will either a) think you've disappeared and go looking for another meal, or b) stare at you for a few minutes, expecting you to come back, then freak out and run away screaming when it realizes that you're not coming back.
Now, aren't you glad that people have no lives, so they can write those boring, heavy novels?
So, what do you do now?
Run the fuck away! Yes! Keep running! GO! (Presumably not in the direction that Fresco went, because that would be defeating the purpose.)
... Or you could stay at the library, where you have some entertainment and easy access to cloaking devices.
No?
Fine. Run then, bitch!
Zombie -1 (yes, they'll be receiving negative points every time they fail epicly), Victim: 2.
Scenario 3: The Tree
You find yourself in the middle of a park. A park, with an open, wide space, except for a few trees and maybe some dead bodies. Usually you'd be freaking out about the bodies, but after nearly getting attacked by numerous zombies more times than you'd like to count, dead bodies are like a sidewalk. You see them everywhere, step on them, and sometimes even trip over them (unquestionably crying and screaming in anger and fear after realizing that that icky dead body just touched you, and you ran out of Germ-X!!!)
Anyways, you're walking quietly, trying not to attract attention to yourself. Even though you're out in the open, maybe you'll be avoided if you're fairly quiet...
But then, right in the middle of the park, you spot a zombie, feasting on a corpse only a few yards away from you! For a moment, you contemplate how hot that body is, in comparison to the ones you've been seeing lately, then you come to your senses.
You want to run away so badly, but realize that running will bring attention to yourself. So, as quietly as you've ever attempted, you turn back around slowly and walk small, baby steps. As you're walking, you're silently laughing, glad for your luck, and you're mad sneaking-past-zombies skillz.
But then, the unthinkable happens: you fart!
Oh no, what have you done?!?!?! Not only has the sound gotten the attention of that damn Fresco, but so has the smell (which the Fresco will find kinky; sadly this won't help you, as it'll give the Fresco more incentive to chase you).
So what do you do?
Cry and pray to God for a bottle of anti-zombie apples and cinnamon body spray to fall out of the sky?
Not a chance!
You run to the nearest tree!! Go, run!!! As fast as your blistered feet can take you!!
BUT WAIT!!! Don't climb that tree, no!! The Fresco will climb up right after you, and either one of you will fall, or get scraped on the arms by the trees!!
So what the fuck do you want me to do?
Quickly, use your mega-muscles to break off a branch! Or, if you've got scrawny arms, use them to break off a smaller branch!
But what if I don't have any arms?
Er... Sucks to be you?
Anyways, don't do anything with that branch just yet! You must wait for the zombie to come within at least ten feet of you! And please, try not to pee your pants while waiting. It usually makes matters more uncomfortable for everyone, even the Fresco. I mean, seriously, who wants to eat a dirty body?
So, just wait until the Fresco is near, then wave the stick around!
Yes, just like that!
Have you got it's attention? Yes? Good! Now, throw the branch as hard as you can, away from you!
The Fresco will become so distracted it'll follow after the branch, and obsess over it for a few minutes before realizing that it's nothing special and that you've disappeared!
We assume that you're going to go back to that library now, huh? We thought so...
Zombie: -2, Victim: 3
Title: The Totally Legitimate Complete Guide to Surviving a Zombie Apocalypse
Genre: Humour
Word Count: 1425
Summary: A guide to surviving a zomie-ridden world.
Hello there! Have you found yourself in a situation in which you are being viciously murdered by zombies who seemed to appear out of thin air without any explanation as to why they exist and how they got here? Are you currently running away or hiding from a murderous, flesh eating zombie? Are you silently cursing Hollywood for lying to you about the speed of zombies? Or maybe you'd just like to be prepared in case of a sudden zombie attack? Well, have no fear! With this totally legitimate guide on how to survive these types of situations, you'll be sure to see another post-apocalyptic day!
Chapter One: Your Zombie
Knowing your zombie all the more will help you in defeating them later on in the long run! In this first chapter, we will discuss the two different types of zombies. By knowing their strengths and weaknesses, you'll be able to use that knowledge against them! Unless you're an idiot. Or the zombie somehow has an IQ of 200+. Then you're screwed. But if not, then read on while you still aren't dead!
Zombie A: The Surprisingly Fast How-Dare-You-Lie-To-Me-Hollywood Zombie aka Fresco
Fresco is the type of zombie where, were you the guy who ate one too many cookies at your best buddy Chris's fetish party, you'd be dead before you managed to lift your poor leg. Fresco is the fast, usually quicker than humans, zombie who has so much stamina that he could chase you for hours without feeling the need to rest, pee, or masturbate. However, this is met by a small yet very deadly weakness: stupidity.
While stupidity may seem like something inconsequential when you're as fast as a car, it can hinder you greatly if you're opponent is smart. Hell, even getting straight F's on your report card counts as smart compared to these zombies!
So, dear victim, if you are being outrun by Fresco, simply outsmart him!
How do you do that, you might ask?
Well, if you need specifics, you just might be the sole person who's dumber than a Fresco. But, nevertheless, since we need to fill these pages, we shall give you a few scenarios, and hopefully you'll be able to create your own amazing plan by ripping off of ours!
Assuming that you are near a city and not somewhere deserted, like Pittsburg, you are surrounded by either a) buildings, or b) some sort of park. These surroundings are your very lifeline.
Scenario 1: The 7/11
You've been running for so long... You're out of breath, and you're sweaty in places you didn't even know existed. You're muscles ache, and possibly even feel like delicious, grindy-bony jello.You don't know if you can take it any longer; you need to stop and rest, or else you might collapse. But there's that damn Fresco right behind you, snapping at your heels with it's sharp, decayed teeth!
So what do you do?
Keep on running like yo mamma is chasing you with belt made out of sharp knives? Hell no! You immediately run to the nearest building - in this case, a 7/11.
Quickly, run, run inside!
Are you in? Yes? Good. Now, run to the counter and jump over it to the other side! Great! By jumping over the counter, you've effectively put an obstacle before you and the Fresco, which will be wondering what in hell's name is that damn infernal contraption blocking him from you. Now you, sir, are safe! Not only have you managed to fool the zombie, but you've got free junk food! Huzzah!
Zombie: 0, Victim: 1
Scenario 2: The Library
It's quiet... Perhaps too quiet... But then again, you are in a library so... Er, anyways: It's really damn quiet. You managed earlier to run away from that damn Fresco, despite how fast it is. Maybe you're an Olympic runner, or maybe you outsmarted it, then ran away before your ass became sweet zombie dinner. Either way, you managed to elude the zombie, and ran into the nearest building: the library.
Safe! Goal! Home base! Whatever the fuck ya want to call it; either way you're safe! I mean, it's the library. If humans dread it, it's practically a zombie repellent, right?
Wrong!
*Fun fact: Zombies aren't afraid of libraries.
So, poor you has let your guard down, thinking you were safe, no? Well, no worries! If the Fresco manages to find you, or if you have found a Fresco lurking in between the bookshelves, you can save yourself by simply grabbing hold of the nearest book, opening it up, and using it to hide your face! By doing so, the Fresco will either a) think you've disappeared and go looking for another meal, or b) stare at you for a few minutes, expecting you to come back, then freak out and run away screaming when it realizes that you're not coming back.
Now, aren't you glad that people have no lives, so they can write those boring, heavy novels?
So, what do you do now?
Run the fuck away! Yes! Keep running! GO! (Presumably not in the direction that Fresco went, because that would be defeating the purpose.)
... Or you could stay at the library, where you have some entertainment and easy access to cloaking devices.
No?
Fine. Run then, bitch!
Zombie -1 (yes, they'll be receiving negative points every time they fail epicly), Victim: 2.
Scenario 3: The Tree
You find yourself in the middle of a park. A park, with an open, wide space, except for a few trees and maybe some dead bodies. Usually you'd be freaking out about the bodies, but after nearly getting attacked by numerous zombies more times than you'd like to count, dead bodies are like a sidewalk. You see them everywhere, step on them, and sometimes even trip over them (unquestionably crying and screaming in anger and fear after realizing that that icky dead body just touched you, and you ran out of Germ-X!!!)
Anyways, you're walking quietly, trying not to attract attention to yourself. Even though you're out in the open, maybe you'll be avoided if you're fairly quiet...
But then, right in the middle of the park, you spot a zombie, feasting on a corpse only a few yards away from you! For a moment, you contemplate how hot that body is, in comparison to the ones you've been seeing lately, then you come to your senses.
You want to run away so badly, but realize that running will bring attention to yourself. So, as quietly as you've ever attempted, you turn back around slowly and walk small, baby steps. As you're walking, you're silently laughing, glad for your luck, and you're mad sneaking-past-zombies skillz.
But then, the unthinkable happens: you fart!
Oh no, what have you done?!?!?! Not only has the sound gotten the attention of that damn Fresco, but so has the smell (which the Fresco will find kinky; sadly this won't help you, as it'll give the Fresco more incentive to chase you).
So what do you do?
Cry and pray to God for a bottle of anti-zombie apples and cinnamon body spray to fall out of the sky?
Not a chance!
You run to the nearest tree!! Go, run!!! As fast as your blistered feet can take you!!
BUT WAIT!!! Don't climb that tree, no!! The Fresco will climb up right after you, and either one of you will fall, or get scraped on the arms by the trees!!
So what the fuck do you want me to do?
Quickly, use your mega-muscles to break off a branch! Or, if you've got scrawny arms, use them to break off a smaller branch!
But what if I don't have any arms?
Er... Sucks to be you?
Anyways, don't do anything with that branch just yet! You must wait for the zombie to come within at least ten feet of you! And please, try not to pee your pants while waiting. It usually makes matters more uncomfortable for everyone, even the Fresco. I mean, seriously, who wants to eat a dirty body?
So, just wait until the Fresco is near, then wave the stick around!
Yes, just like that!
Have you got it's attention? Yes? Good! Now, throw the branch as hard as you can, away from you!
The Fresco will become so distracted it'll follow after the branch, and obsess over it for a few minutes before realizing that it's nothing special and that you've disappeared!
We assume that you're going to go back to that library now, huh? We thought so...
Zombie: -2, Victim: 3
Friday, March 4, 2011
February Writing Contest Winner - Whimsicality from Ambitious Writers, Goodreads
The genre choices for February were myth or poetry, and unless I miscounted, there were 21 entries. Whimsicality was the winner by popular vote, with this entry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Genre: Myth
Rating: T
Word Count: 886
Summary: An English assignment we had to do: create a myth on a natural phenomenon.
How The Ocean Got Its Tides
Once upon a time, not too long ago, there lived a man named Mateo. Mateo was of such stupendous size that a baby could easily fit in one of his hands. He was over seven feet tall with muscles that were the size of melons. Every day, Mateo would demonstrate his strength to all of the townspeople by lifting up a cart several times in a row as if it were no more than a pail of water, or juggling watermelons as if they weighed no more than rubber balls. All of the people in his village were terrified of him. As he made his rounds in the town square, people would whisper and point, “There goes Mateo, the strongest man alive. You wouldn’t want to get him angry!”
Unfortunately, Mateo did get angry. Quite a bit. Especially after several mugs at the local tavern. In these drunken fits, he had twice his usual strength. Mateo could crush a man’s head with one hand. He could throw chairs and tables and people across the whole length of the tavern as easily as you or I would throw a book. Needless to say, eventually nobody went to the tavern with Mateo around anymore. Nobody could stand his terrifying fits of rage.
When Mateo was drunk, not only did he get angry, but he bragged as well. That man could brag all day long and twice as much when he was drunk.
“I fought five mountain bears with my bare hands and won.” “And nobody would say he was lying for fear of his strength. “I climbed Mount Gigantus and wrestled with the god of strength, Higor, himself.”
“Did you win?” somebody brave would ask, timidly though with a trace of sarcasm in their voice. Mateo would scowl. “Of course I did, you fool! I always win. I am the strongest man on earth and in heaven.”
One day Higor, the great god of strength, looked down from Mount Gigantus and grew very angry with Mateo for his lies and his boasts. “I will go down there,” he thought angrily, “and teach that impertinent idiot a lesson. Nobody fools with the god of Strength!” So Higor disguised himself as an old peddler and went down the mountain to Mateo’s village.
Mateo was just coming out of the tavern when an old peddler went up to him, lugging an ancient wooden cart filled with small trinkets and toys. “Pretty things for sale! Pretty things for sale!” he cried out in a wheezing voice.
“Get out of my way, you doddering old man! I have thirty times your strength and I can crush you with one hand. I kill mountain bears with my bare—“
“Are you that Mateo of which everyone talks about and who claims that he defeated the great god Higor in a wrestling match?” the old man asked cunningly.
Mateo puffed out his chest with pride. “It is I,” he said. “Now get out of my way before I make you, you fool!”
The peddler stood still with his grey eyes twinkling. It struck Mateo, in the corner of his mind, that those eyes were strangely young for one so old. “Would you mind wrestling me, if you please, young man?”
Mateo laughed. “Wrestle you! Wrestle a man who is old enough to be my grandfather! Come now, old fool, this is no time for your senile antics. Get out of my way.”
In answer the old man lunged for Mateo’s waist and lifted him, yelling in shock and confusion, clear off the floor. What followed was a wrestling match such as the type nobody in that little village would ever forget. Mateo and the old man fought tooth and nail for three hours straight, by which the two of them were drenched in sweat. The peddler pushed Mateo away and grinned wearily. However, when he spoke, it was a deep, young, resonating sound, not at all the voice of an old peddler.
“Mateo, you truly are the strongest man in the world. Even I in my human form struggle to beat you. But your boasts, lies, and drunken fits have not gone unnoticed, and I will punish you accordingly.” As he spoke he shimmered and grew, changing into his true and godly form. Mateo cowered upon the street, in front of the whole crowd of villagers who were watching. Higor smiled again as he spoke. “However, you have demonstrated great strength. Exceptional strength. So instead of killing you outright, I will give you a less harsh punishment. Every day, you will pull the ocean from its place, letting it expand a few feet before its greater force pulls against you.” Mateo stood, trembling with exhaustion and fear. “Tug-of-war with the sea? Impossible! Even I would die from the strain.”
Higor shook his head. “I will grant you immortality. But this will be both a blessing and a curse, as you will spend all your days fighting against the ocean’s current. This, I think, is an appropriate punishment for one who deemed himself the strongest being on heaven and earth, is it not?”
And that is why, till this day, the ocean has its tide, which ebbs and flows because of Mateo, who pulls and struggles against the most powerful force of nature known to man.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Genre: Myth
Rating: T
Word Count: 886
Summary: An English assignment we had to do: create a myth on a natural phenomenon.
How The Ocean Got Its Tides
Once upon a time, not too long ago, there lived a man named Mateo. Mateo was of such stupendous size that a baby could easily fit in one of his hands. He was over seven feet tall with muscles that were the size of melons. Every day, Mateo would demonstrate his strength to all of the townspeople by lifting up a cart several times in a row as if it were no more than a pail of water, or juggling watermelons as if they weighed no more than rubber balls. All of the people in his village were terrified of him. As he made his rounds in the town square, people would whisper and point, “There goes Mateo, the strongest man alive. You wouldn’t want to get him angry!”
Unfortunately, Mateo did get angry. Quite a bit. Especially after several mugs at the local tavern. In these drunken fits, he had twice his usual strength. Mateo could crush a man’s head with one hand. He could throw chairs and tables and people across the whole length of the tavern as easily as you or I would throw a book. Needless to say, eventually nobody went to the tavern with Mateo around anymore. Nobody could stand his terrifying fits of rage.
When Mateo was drunk, not only did he get angry, but he bragged as well. That man could brag all day long and twice as much when he was drunk.
“I fought five mountain bears with my bare hands and won.” “And nobody would say he was lying for fear of his strength. “I climbed Mount Gigantus and wrestled with the god of strength, Higor, himself.”
“Did you win?” somebody brave would ask, timidly though with a trace of sarcasm in their voice. Mateo would scowl. “Of course I did, you fool! I always win. I am the strongest man on earth and in heaven.”
One day Higor, the great god of strength, looked down from Mount Gigantus and grew very angry with Mateo for his lies and his boasts. “I will go down there,” he thought angrily, “and teach that impertinent idiot a lesson. Nobody fools with the god of Strength!” So Higor disguised himself as an old peddler and went down the mountain to Mateo’s village.
Mateo was just coming out of the tavern when an old peddler went up to him, lugging an ancient wooden cart filled with small trinkets and toys. “Pretty things for sale! Pretty things for sale!” he cried out in a wheezing voice.
“Get out of my way, you doddering old man! I have thirty times your strength and I can crush you with one hand. I kill mountain bears with my bare—“
“Are you that Mateo of which everyone talks about and who claims that he defeated the great god Higor in a wrestling match?” the old man asked cunningly.
Mateo puffed out his chest with pride. “It is I,” he said. “Now get out of my way before I make you, you fool!”
The peddler stood still with his grey eyes twinkling. It struck Mateo, in the corner of his mind, that those eyes were strangely young for one so old. “Would you mind wrestling me, if you please, young man?”
Mateo laughed. “Wrestle you! Wrestle a man who is old enough to be my grandfather! Come now, old fool, this is no time for your senile antics. Get out of my way.”
In answer the old man lunged for Mateo’s waist and lifted him, yelling in shock and confusion, clear off the floor. What followed was a wrestling match such as the type nobody in that little village would ever forget. Mateo and the old man fought tooth and nail for three hours straight, by which the two of them were drenched in sweat. The peddler pushed Mateo away and grinned wearily. However, when he spoke, it was a deep, young, resonating sound, not at all the voice of an old peddler.
“Mateo, you truly are the strongest man in the world. Even I in my human form struggle to beat you. But your boasts, lies, and drunken fits have not gone unnoticed, and I will punish you accordingly.” As he spoke he shimmered and grew, changing into his true and godly form. Mateo cowered upon the street, in front of the whole crowd of villagers who were watching. Higor smiled again as he spoke. “However, you have demonstrated great strength. Exceptional strength. So instead of killing you outright, I will give you a less harsh punishment. Every day, you will pull the ocean from its place, letting it expand a few feet before its greater force pulls against you.” Mateo stood, trembling with exhaustion and fear. “Tug-of-war with the sea? Impossible! Even I would die from the strain.”
Higor shook his head. “I will grant you immortality. But this will be both a blessing and a curse, as you will spend all your days fighting against the ocean’s current. This, I think, is an appropriate punishment for one who deemed himself the strongest being on heaven and earth, is it not?”
And that is why, till this day, the ocean has its tide, which ebbs and flows because of Mateo, who pulls and struggles against the most powerful force of nature known to man.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
January Writing Contest Winner - Eliana from Ambitious Writers, Goodreads
Title: Republic of Music
Genre: Fantasy
Rating: M
Word Count: 1924
Summary: A modern fairy tale.
Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there were two kingdoms who hated each other. They loathed, abhorred and detested each other to such an extent that there aren't enough synonyms to continue describing how they felt towards each other. And like most conflicts, this animosity was the result of their differences, and the eternal struggle to better than the other. These kingdoms were called Rock Realm and Popville. No one remembered when exactly these two places began hating each other, for all they knew, the hate had been going on forever.
Only in very rare history books, which weren't available for everyone, did it say that the kingdoms had once been united. And as you know, when history isn't taught or remembered, truths become stories, and these stories become legends. Eventually, these legends may even become nursery rhymes who no one takes seriously. No one even knew about these books, and no one cared. They were happy having someone to hate.
Realm of Rock stood tall near the ocean, with strong black buildings made of stone. Every house had graffiti painted in the walls, doors, or roofs. The people called themselves Rockers, and to honor their kingdom, they also dressed like their homes. Everyone wore black, with a green or red touch here and there, and their hair was always multicolored or dark. The nobility was forced to wear spiked hair do distinguish themselves from the rest, and the longer the spikes, the better. Some spikes were so long they were prone to attract lightning, so most of the nobles stayed indoors during thunderstorms.
If you were to walk down a Rocker street, you would have had a sensory breakdown. The smell of hairspray and vodka hung heavily in the air. The smells were particularly stronger near the bars, and not surprisingly, every neighborhood had at least two bars. Two were required by the government, but some neighborhoods even had six bars, one for each block. Everyone played music so loud, that it seemed like the sounds came from the walls, but if you listened closely, you realized the sounds came from inside people’s homes.
There were very few laws in Realm of Rock, and the few that existed were always broken, because there wasn’t an organized law force. The only three unbreakable laws were: no playing music that wasn’t strictly rock or similar to rock, no platinum blonde hair, and no crossing the forbidden wall. The king promoted anarchy, as long as the citizens provided him with enough booze, original music and food. And the citizens loved their free-spirited king. The normal work days were Sunday and Saturday, and they had the rest of the week to relax, drink, play music and enjoy.
On the other side of the wall, which concealed the cacophony from Realm of Rock, was a forest surrounding a mountain. The kingdom of Popville was built on top of Gaga Mountain, so high in the sky that it was hidden by the clouds. The air in Popville was cool, fresh, and the days seemed longer there because it was so close to the sun. Contrary to the dark architectural style of Realm of Rock, Popville was built out of glass. All the homes were different shades of pink, and sparkled crystal clear in the sunlight. Instead of bars, every neighborhood had hair salons and dance studios. You might here some music here and there, but mostly, Poppers kept to themselves and their phones. Sometimes you would see a small group of people breaking into song and dancing in the streets. Everyone had blonde or highlighted hair, and wore tight, bright colored clothes which brought out their naturally tanned skins.
Each kingdom kept to itself for the most part; except for a few occasions where they were they accidentally collided during festivals. The festivals were weeks of celebration and concerts, and sometimes both kingdoms played their music so loud that the other kingdom heard it. And of course, the rulers from both kingdoms sent their respective apologies whenever that happened. However, one steamy September night, during a Rocker festival, an unprecedented event occurred. Metallica was onstage, and the guitarist, Kirk Hammet was playing a solo. He was drunk as usual, and accidentally raised the volume of his guitar so loud that it went beyond the human hearing spectrum. Everyone went silent, but Kirk quickly adjusted the volume and kept playing. No one even remembered what happened after ten minutes, because everyone was drunk and having a great time.
Up in Popville, people were doing what they usually did. They were buying clothes, getting manicures, or taking their daily dosage of botox injections. Suddenly, their world came crashing down. An extremely loud sound wave hit the kingdom, the ground shook and the glass houses shattered. There was pink glass everywhere, people running and screaming, trying to text their loved ones to see if they were alright. A royal assembly was immediately took place in the barely standing palace. They debated whether the sound wave had been intentional or just an accident. The king, Michael Jackson, said to his nobles and family, “They don’t care about us. Of course it was intentional.” Queen Madonna was frozen in her chair while princess Gaga stood speechless, next to her in the verge of tears. Princess Gaga had been the ambassador to Realm of Rock, and all her hard work to bring the kingdoms closer meant nothing now.
The kingdom of Popville decided to counterattack swiftly, regardless of Realm of Rock’s role in the sound wave. They had had enough of the stinking, wild Rockers, and they would teach them a lesson once and for all. That same evening, pink planes and helicopters flew down from the mountain and launched a series of bubbles containing air toxins down at the audience in the festival. When the bubbles exploded, fumes filled the Rocker’s nostrils and paralyzed them. All they could hear was “Hit me baby one more time” playing in their heads as they writhed in horror. A second wave of bubbles hit the ground, and a pink gooey substance covered everyone. The goo hardened and immobilized those it hit, and everyone ran for cover, trampling whoever stood in their way. Finally, they launched a third wave of bubbles with bleach that disintegrated the stone and washed away most buildings. While the paralyzed and wounded were taken to the bars to be healed, the nobles hurried to wake up the King. Normally they wouldn’t bother him even if the sky came falling down, but Prince Ozzy was nowhere to be found. King Elvis had slept through the whole incident, and had no idea what was going on. What the Poppers failed to see, or deliberately ignored, was that the Rockers had no idea that Kirk’s riff had destroyed Popville. The Rockers thought Popville had just declared an open war, and they were going to fight back.
The next day, as the sun rose in a still shattered Popville, people woke up to a very strange smell. The refugees had spent the night in the spas and malls that still stood. Outside, it seemed like it had rained, but no one had heard rain during the night. Suddenly, a roaring song was heard from the sky, saying “You’re on the highway to hell.” The next thing they knew was that their world was on fire, everything was lit up and blazing. People ran for their lives, and in panic they ran across fires that lit their clothes and hair up. They fell down to the ground and burned in pain, and realized they weren’t really burning. They felt the pain, but the fire wasn’t consuming them. They ran to fountains to put themselves off, but the fires blazed even harder. That’s when they realized all the water had been replaced by Vodka, and that was wad had been covering the streets.
Both kingdoms were severely damaged, and prepared their most lethal weapons in case the other decided to attack again. Realm of Rock possessed a weapon of mass destruction called The Riffoblaster, which destroyed everything in a blast. Popville possessed a similar bomb called Fakemonster that spread acid in a humongous radius, disintegrating anything in its path. Both kingdoms pointed their weapons to each other while they waited to see who launched first. No one knew who ended up firing the first, but both kingdoms launched their weapons at each other. The bombs collided with each other in the clouds, sending down ash and acid rain all over Realm of Rock and Popville. Citizens of both kingdoms ran to the forest, since it was the only place they hadn’t destroyed. They were surprised by the nightfall, and couldn’t tell who was from what kingdom. Everyone looked the same with burned hair and clothes.
Surprisingly, no one asked who belonged to which kingdom. They began to help each other out, getting water from the streams, gathering food and healing the wounded. When the sun came up, the differences were more visible. The tanned ones were obviously from Popville, and the ones with piercings from Realm of Rock. However, no one seemed to care anymore. At noon, they gathered at a clearing, where King Michael Jackson and King Elvis Presley announced a cease fire and a promise to sign peace treaty that would guarantee that both kingdoms would work together to reconstruct what they had destroyed. While everyone cheered and clapped, Prince Ozzy suddenly came out of the trees with a book. He said, “I was drinking down at the palace’s library when I heard the commotion upstairs, but I was way too wasted to come up. Look at what I found.” He opened the book in a marked page, and handed to book to King Elvis.
He read it, and passed it to Princess Gaga, who was standing beside King Michael. She read aloud. “We came from a planet called Earth in a yellow spaceship. Our planet is very similar to this one, except it’s bigger and populated and filled with crazy people. It’s plagued with people who spend their lives working in jobs that make them unhappy, people who don’t dream and people who hurt other people. It’s filled with materialist, dishonest, fanatic people, who refuse to give peace a chance. In an effort to make a better world, we hereby declare this planet The Planet of Music, to honor the one thing our planet has that knows no boundaries, religion, discrimination or ethnicity. We also declare ourselves the first monarchs of the Kingdom of Music, and swear that the laws of this kingdom will be written by us and upheld with utmost love and honesty. Signed by King Ringo, King Paul, King John and King George.”
From that day on, the kingdoms of Popville and Realm of Rock no longer existed. The Republic of Song was founded, and the rulers were elected by the people. They built the Republic in the sky, so they could always look down to where their kingdoms had once stood and be reminded of the destruction they had caused each other. This time, they would make sure history was not forgotten. In a few years they had prospered into a wealthy, beautiful kingdom, and decided it was time to discover the place they had come from. They took turns visiting Earth, gracing humans with their presence for a few decades. Then they faked their deaths on Earth and went back to their planet in the stars, where they belonged.
Genre: Fantasy
Rating: M
Word Count: 1924
Summary: A modern fairy tale.
Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there were two kingdoms who hated each other. They loathed, abhorred and detested each other to such an extent that there aren't enough synonyms to continue describing how they felt towards each other. And like most conflicts, this animosity was the result of their differences, and the eternal struggle to better than the other. These kingdoms were called Rock Realm and Popville. No one remembered when exactly these two places began hating each other, for all they knew, the hate had been going on forever.
Only in very rare history books, which weren't available for everyone, did it say that the kingdoms had once been united. And as you know, when history isn't taught or remembered, truths become stories, and these stories become legends. Eventually, these legends may even become nursery rhymes who no one takes seriously. No one even knew about these books, and no one cared. They were happy having someone to hate.
Realm of Rock stood tall near the ocean, with strong black buildings made of stone. Every house had graffiti painted in the walls, doors, or roofs. The people called themselves Rockers, and to honor their kingdom, they also dressed like their homes. Everyone wore black, with a green or red touch here and there, and their hair was always multicolored or dark. The nobility was forced to wear spiked hair do distinguish themselves from the rest, and the longer the spikes, the better. Some spikes were so long they were prone to attract lightning, so most of the nobles stayed indoors during thunderstorms.
If you were to walk down a Rocker street, you would have had a sensory breakdown. The smell of hairspray and vodka hung heavily in the air. The smells were particularly stronger near the bars, and not surprisingly, every neighborhood had at least two bars. Two were required by the government, but some neighborhoods even had six bars, one for each block. Everyone played music so loud, that it seemed like the sounds came from the walls, but if you listened closely, you realized the sounds came from inside people’s homes.
There were very few laws in Realm of Rock, and the few that existed were always broken, because there wasn’t an organized law force. The only three unbreakable laws were: no playing music that wasn’t strictly rock or similar to rock, no platinum blonde hair, and no crossing the forbidden wall. The king promoted anarchy, as long as the citizens provided him with enough booze, original music and food. And the citizens loved their free-spirited king. The normal work days were Sunday and Saturday, and they had the rest of the week to relax, drink, play music and enjoy.
On the other side of the wall, which concealed the cacophony from Realm of Rock, was a forest surrounding a mountain. The kingdom of Popville was built on top of Gaga Mountain, so high in the sky that it was hidden by the clouds. The air in Popville was cool, fresh, and the days seemed longer there because it was so close to the sun. Contrary to the dark architectural style of Realm of Rock, Popville was built out of glass. All the homes were different shades of pink, and sparkled crystal clear in the sunlight. Instead of bars, every neighborhood had hair salons and dance studios. You might here some music here and there, but mostly, Poppers kept to themselves and their phones. Sometimes you would see a small group of people breaking into song and dancing in the streets. Everyone had blonde or highlighted hair, and wore tight, bright colored clothes which brought out their naturally tanned skins.
Each kingdom kept to itself for the most part; except for a few occasions where they were they accidentally collided during festivals. The festivals were weeks of celebration and concerts, and sometimes both kingdoms played their music so loud that the other kingdom heard it. And of course, the rulers from both kingdoms sent their respective apologies whenever that happened. However, one steamy September night, during a Rocker festival, an unprecedented event occurred. Metallica was onstage, and the guitarist, Kirk Hammet was playing a solo. He was drunk as usual, and accidentally raised the volume of his guitar so loud that it went beyond the human hearing spectrum. Everyone went silent, but Kirk quickly adjusted the volume and kept playing. No one even remembered what happened after ten minutes, because everyone was drunk and having a great time.
Up in Popville, people were doing what they usually did. They were buying clothes, getting manicures, or taking their daily dosage of botox injections. Suddenly, their world came crashing down. An extremely loud sound wave hit the kingdom, the ground shook and the glass houses shattered. There was pink glass everywhere, people running and screaming, trying to text their loved ones to see if they were alright. A royal assembly was immediately took place in the barely standing palace. They debated whether the sound wave had been intentional or just an accident. The king, Michael Jackson, said to his nobles and family, “They don’t care about us. Of course it was intentional.” Queen Madonna was frozen in her chair while princess Gaga stood speechless, next to her in the verge of tears. Princess Gaga had been the ambassador to Realm of Rock, and all her hard work to bring the kingdoms closer meant nothing now.
The kingdom of Popville decided to counterattack swiftly, regardless of Realm of Rock’s role in the sound wave. They had had enough of the stinking, wild Rockers, and they would teach them a lesson once and for all. That same evening, pink planes and helicopters flew down from the mountain and launched a series of bubbles containing air toxins down at the audience in the festival. When the bubbles exploded, fumes filled the Rocker’s nostrils and paralyzed them. All they could hear was “Hit me baby one more time” playing in their heads as they writhed in horror. A second wave of bubbles hit the ground, and a pink gooey substance covered everyone. The goo hardened and immobilized those it hit, and everyone ran for cover, trampling whoever stood in their way. Finally, they launched a third wave of bubbles with bleach that disintegrated the stone and washed away most buildings. While the paralyzed and wounded were taken to the bars to be healed, the nobles hurried to wake up the King. Normally they wouldn’t bother him even if the sky came falling down, but Prince Ozzy was nowhere to be found. King Elvis had slept through the whole incident, and had no idea what was going on. What the Poppers failed to see, or deliberately ignored, was that the Rockers had no idea that Kirk’s riff had destroyed Popville. The Rockers thought Popville had just declared an open war, and they were going to fight back.
The next day, as the sun rose in a still shattered Popville, people woke up to a very strange smell. The refugees had spent the night in the spas and malls that still stood. Outside, it seemed like it had rained, but no one had heard rain during the night. Suddenly, a roaring song was heard from the sky, saying “You’re on the highway to hell.” The next thing they knew was that their world was on fire, everything was lit up and blazing. People ran for their lives, and in panic they ran across fires that lit their clothes and hair up. They fell down to the ground and burned in pain, and realized they weren’t really burning. They felt the pain, but the fire wasn’t consuming them. They ran to fountains to put themselves off, but the fires blazed even harder. That’s when they realized all the water had been replaced by Vodka, and that was wad had been covering the streets.
Both kingdoms were severely damaged, and prepared their most lethal weapons in case the other decided to attack again. Realm of Rock possessed a weapon of mass destruction called The Riffoblaster, which destroyed everything in a blast. Popville possessed a similar bomb called Fakemonster that spread acid in a humongous radius, disintegrating anything in its path. Both kingdoms pointed their weapons to each other while they waited to see who launched first. No one knew who ended up firing the first, but both kingdoms launched their weapons at each other. The bombs collided with each other in the clouds, sending down ash and acid rain all over Realm of Rock and Popville. Citizens of both kingdoms ran to the forest, since it was the only place they hadn’t destroyed. They were surprised by the nightfall, and couldn’t tell who was from what kingdom. Everyone looked the same with burned hair and clothes.
Surprisingly, no one asked who belonged to which kingdom. They began to help each other out, getting water from the streams, gathering food and healing the wounded. When the sun came up, the differences were more visible. The tanned ones were obviously from Popville, and the ones with piercings from Realm of Rock. However, no one seemed to care anymore. At noon, they gathered at a clearing, where King Michael Jackson and King Elvis Presley announced a cease fire and a promise to sign peace treaty that would guarantee that both kingdoms would work together to reconstruct what they had destroyed. While everyone cheered and clapped, Prince Ozzy suddenly came out of the trees with a book. He said, “I was drinking down at the palace’s library when I heard the commotion upstairs, but I was way too wasted to come up. Look at what I found.” He opened the book in a marked page, and handed to book to King Elvis.
He read it, and passed it to Princess Gaga, who was standing beside King Michael. She read aloud. “We came from a planet called Earth in a yellow spaceship. Our planet is very similar to this one, except it’s bigger and populated and filled with crazy people. It’s plagued with people who spend their lives working in jobs that make them unhappy, people who don’t dream and people who hurt other people. It’s filled with materialist, dishonest, fanatic people, who refuse to give peace a chance. In an effort to make a better world, we hereby declare this planet The Planet of Music, to honor the one thing our planet has that knows no boundaries, religion, discrimination or ethnicity. We also declare ourselves the first monarchs of the Kingdom of Music, and swear that the laws of this kingdom will be written by us and upheld with utmost love and honesty. Signed by King Ringo, King Paul, King John and King George.”
From that day on, the kingdoms of Popville and Realm of Rock no longer existed. The Republic of Song was founded, and the rulers were elected by the people. They built the Republic in the sky, so they could always look down to where their kingdoms had once stood and be reminded of the destruction they had caused each other. This time, they would make sure history was not forgotten. In a few years they had prospered into a wealthy, beautiful kingdom, and decided it was time to discover the place they had come from. They took turns visiting Earth, gracing humans with their presence for a few decades. Then they faked their deaths on Earth and went back to their planet in the stars, where they belonged.
Friday, January 14, 2011
Ambitious Writers from my Favorite Group on Goodreads
Last year I interviewed a group of young writers from Ambitious Writers on Goodreads. These young writers are the flame of the future. Over the last year, the group has grown to become one of the most active groups on Goodreads. I believe it's been nominated though I don't know the vote; it certainly deserves the distinction.
The group deserves a special mention - http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/25784.Ambitious_Writers - stop in for a visit. Stay a while; you'll be welcomed.
But though the group is the greatest in my opinion, that isn't why I'm bringing you here today. A year ago, I interviewed several of these young writers - http://annalwalls.blogspot.com/2010/01/up-and-coming-authors-from-ambitious.html - and I thought I'd do it again this year. Some names have changed and new people have participated this time, but they all deserve accolades. Here they are:
By GSGS
Hi, my name is Greer and I'm thirteen years old. I've only just joined Ambitious Writers - where has it been all my life? - and I'm just starting to get the hang of it. I live in Australia.
I started writing stories when I was six years old; I had this terrific teacher in grade one. I think he used to be a publisher. He got us all to write narratives in our exercise books, and then when we had finished he would type it up on a computer and bind it. We then could illustrate it. I remember I once wrote this really long story about ponies, and he actually got up in front of the class and read it. That was embarrassing.
When I was ten years old, I won a writing competition, although it was only running in a relatively small country town. Still, it was published in the local paper and I got a trophy! Looking back on my story, it is majorly strange... "The Missing Thumb", it was called, which gives you an insight on its random-ness.
Since then, I've only recently gotten back into my writing. The story I'm currently writing, called 'Highly Flammable' was inspired by a random thought that came into my head: "When you have two options, death or death, you choose life. Duh. Even when fate is screaming in your face that life isn't an option." OK, kind of weird, but all of a sudden I got a sudden urge to tell a story where I could include that phrase.
I get a little obsessive about my stories... My current one I mentioned before, Highly Flammable, is about faeries, and on a long road trip, about five hours long, I pretended I was flying, flexing my shoulder blades, where the wings would be, in and out, the whole way, just to see if it would be tiring. It was, and my sisters in the back seat got extremely ticked off about it.
I love reading, and writing is like... reading a book that hasn't been created yet, only you can control what happens.
Once I told my mum I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. With a dubious look on her face, she said, "That's a hard road to travel." Well, I'm gonna try and travel it anyway.
By MYHAPPYMONSTER
Hey, it's the MYHAPPYMONSTER here, also known as Keara. Let's see... *taps pen* I'm pretty horrible about writing about myself, so bear with me and just MAYBE we'll all make it out alive.
I'm a self-proclaimed Grammar Nazi, so try to keep the typos to a minimum and you'll pretty much be on good terms with me. I'm currently 15 (turning 16 on October 11) and I'm definitely excited about being able to get a permit, but it scares my family and loved ones to death. I just started high school this year (9th grade, to be precise) and I'm happy with what school I picked, since there were several options in the little Utah Valley.
I've got a kick-butt family; an overly-sarcastic father, a tolerant mom, a giggly brother, and spoiled sister. I'm the oldest, and I'm glad it turned out that way - I'm a wicked older sister.
I'm LDS/Mormon, and it's really hard to fire me up and get my angry unless you insult my religion. So... yeah, don't accuse me of all the fake crap you hear about me and the Mormons... I just became a Mod(erator) in Ambitious Writers (the group that we're showcasing here), and I'm so happy that Rose and Amani bestowed this great and almighty power upon my scrawny little shoulders (kidding - I'm pretty average height).
Oh - I'm supposed to be writing about why I like to write... my bad... Well, my mom's a published author, and I still haven't told her that I write stories and such... I'm not sure why, seeing as she's been through all the editing and publishing crap before and would help me a butt-load if I'd just let her. Oh well... I've probably been writing since third grade, when we had to twist one of the Grimm’s' Fairy Tales and/or Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes into our own creation. I wrote about sisters and a giant sunflower that they found while picking roses at a castle. There were cows, silverware, and fiddlers involved... and I STILL didn't get full credit because I turned it in late. Sad day, since it's one of my proudest moments...
I got serious about writing in... April of '09? It's hard to remember - I just remember having this dream over and over again... I kinda deleted off of the group's forum, since it sucked cow's butt... But it took weeks to get all the details sorted out - and I've still got that. ^_^ Right now, I'm trying to redeem werewolves' bad name from the train-wreck that is Twilight... I'm hoping to wrap a few things up by the end of the year, seeing as I have several ideas and scenes that are playing out in my head.
I love writing because it just lets you... express yourself in a way nothing else can. Everything is left up to the readers' imagination and nobody can really take the message in the same exact way. You just think one word and it could change an entire outlook on life for a reader. I can't imagine my life right now if I hadn't read any of the authors in the Ambitious Writers works... if that even remotely makes sense... Their poems and stories have really helped me see that there are others like me out there, and I've watched them improve even in the short time I've been a member.
Also, I apologize profusely for all of the ellipses (maybe it's "ellipsis?"... whatever). I tend to type those out when I'm thinking about what keys I'm about to hit next. >_<
By *DOMO Kat*
Hello, I’m Katherine. But of course if you’ve read my name or have met me- cyber or physically- you probably know or have the slightest idea that I like to be called Kat. The reason is that Katherine sounds like I’m a snobby girl.
And ya know one thing?
I probably am.
I live in a highly populated area, but my heart lives in North Dakota. I love animals and believe that our lives aren’t any more important than theirs. So obviously if you haven’t gathered what I’m trying to interpret. Or maybe you’re just the tiniest bit of slow- I’m a vegetarian.
I joined this group not because I’m some kid prodigy with extreme writing talents. I did not join this group just because I ‘felt’ like it. But I did join this group because I love writing. The blank page before you, one thought and you have created a diverse universe. Of course I’m a little lot rough around the edges- especially with grammar. But, hey a kid can dream.
It all started in the fifth grade- slash that- the fourth grade. I wrote this poem, it made no sense what so ever. It was called ‘imagine’ and it just listed things with imagine in front of them. Then over the course of the year I edited it and all that crap. Then one day during writing in fifth grade I read it aloud to the class. My teacher said it was ‘deep’. I almost wet my pants from laughter. (If you haven’t noticed, I use that term a lot. Don’t take me seriously when I do though)
In other words, I don’t do this alien term called ‘try’. I also don’t usually finish things.
In case you haven’t gathered, I don’t really care what people think. My wardrobe sort of reflects that. Hey, anyone know where I can find rainbow stretches?
Also, I don’t usually give second chances. I swear a lot. And I do not put up with potential female dogs. Okay?
Three words to sum up me or my life Insanity, War, and Obliviousness.
I bet you’re going ‘WTF?!’
My answer, Insanity- My world is often tipped upside down. And I’m often upside down. War- I’m not exactly a peace keeper and am always at war with the people at my school. Obliviousness- I don’t care what people think. I do stuff, and don’t give a glance to their expressions.
By Kimathy
I'm Kimathy Gertig, or that's what I present myself as online. I'm 15 years old as of last June, and I live in America. I started writing in fifth grade when i got this amazing teacher(Props to you Mr. Harris!) I hated writing in the beginning of the year and he told me the first day that by the end of the school year I would love writing, I didn't believe him. But of course he was right. Now I love to write all the time. I stated writing my first story in 6th grade for an assignment, but it was so long I didn't get to finished it before it as due.
While I love to write stories I'm also in love with writing poetry, you can just express your self so well. In 7th grade I even got an honorable mention in a writing contest. Now I almost die when an idea pops into my head and i don't have paper and pen. I usually write fantasy or sci-fi, seeing as those are the majority of books i read ( humongous Potter fan here) I do hope to get published but for now I'm just an amateur.
By Coquille
I'm one of the older members, but my passion for writing began at an early age. I remember having writing published in the newspaper from my third grade class and having a story I wrote read over the intercom to the whole school in seventh grade. This kind of "celebrity" encouraged my passion for writing for sure.
As a teenager, I wrote books to entertain my friends - stories where we were rich, parentless, and living in big cities doing what we wanted.
In 9th grade I won $50 in a short story contest that I had only found out about the day before the stories were due. I really wanted this Swatch watch that cost $50, and when I found out that that was the prize, I said to myself I would win. I set out on an old-school typewriter to craft a story that the guidance counselors (whom I had discovered were the judges) wouldn't be able to resist. When I actually won, it was amazing.
I always thought I would be a writer, and all through high school I wrote stories, poetry and novels, but eventually life got busy and I stopped writing.
Now that I'm almost 40, I have finally come back to writing and it's the most amazing feeling to be doing what I have always wanted to do, though I know it's a long road to get published. Now I work a stupid corporate job that I basically hate, only to write in my spare time. Still, writing always makes me feel better after a crap day at work. I can have all the control I don't have in my "real" life in my literary world. My imagination runs free and I am replenished. Then I can go back to work with a secret, another life that I think about while I go through the motions of the day, the secret life of my stories. It's awesome.
Though I sort of regret not pursuing writing more seriously in my twenties and early thirties, I know I gained life experience that feeds my writing now. There's no going back, so now I just focus on writing forward. Even if it's just for myself, it's something that feeds my soul. I am hoping to get published soon, but even if I don't, I am loving writing again. It's like a long, sweet drink after a long journey through the desert.
By Filza
I am Filza and live in Karachi, Pakistan and I am 17year old I am not a good writer, but I try to be a good writer. When I was in grade five we came to a new city, so I couldn't really fit in there and felt upset at times, anger, mirth, frustration all were heavy upon me, at that time there was only one let out 'writing'. While writing I feel as if my emotions were channeling through my pen into paper. That's when I started loving writing, I feel light for writing. I don't write often because I don't get a lot of time for it. At times when I am upset and feel retarded I read my diary, it is stimulus for me to move on. I have many ideas but when it comes to expressing, I don't do the job well. INSHALLAH I will someday.
By Lisa
My name is Lisa Kumar, and as for my age, I’m old enough to divulge that information but also am of the mind that a lady should never give her age, especially when she’s as old as I am (though if you ask kindly, I just might tell you). I'm undoubtedly one of the older members on Ambitious Writers, but I like to think of age as merely being years of experience gained, not lost.
I wish I could say I’ve wanted to be a writer all my life, but first and foremost, I was a reader and still am. That’s not to say the notion of writing didn’t appeal to me--it did, just in some nebulous way I too easily swept aside for other pursuits like college and marriage.
Then finally, over a year ago, after tinkering with the idea for more than a few years, I decided to begin the journey that would see me finish my first novel. Has that novel been published? No, and time will only tell if it will be. But that’s not stopping me. Writing is like any other craft. It takes dedication and persistence to improve and reach a measure of success. But even without success, it allows me to escape into another world of my own choosing, much as reading does. That's a luxury I don't want to give up.
I’ve just completed a novella and am starting to work on a sequel to that first manuscript I mentioned. I don’t know where my writing endeavors will take me, but I’m tagging along for the ride. Placid lake or whitewater rapids, here I come!
By Andy
I'm Andy, 23, from Scotland.
This should be pretty easy for me as I write for pretty selfish reasons. I only started writing properly in the past few months, but I 'picked up the pen', as it were, maybe two years ago. Most of my creative endeavours (Sorry I'm gonna persist with UK spelling) were in textile design, which I studied at art school but I had a couple of cool ideas for short stories and stuff but never really took the time to explore them. Then, my first love dumped me. Yip... it's all a girls fault. A friend told me just writing about stuff helped clear his head. So I was getting over the break up with a kinda diary/whiney brokenhearted 21 year old Romeo in the sycamore grove thing. Sure enough, I found something cathartic about writing that wasn't there when I was stuck in front of loom. I've been doing short stories on and off since, but more seriously recently. I have a new project with a local fashion designer who wants to work on a collection from my stories. So I don't have any major influences in a literary sense, I guess I just write to make myself feel better, or maybe it's the hope that girls might realise how bad the dude feels. So yeah making me feel better and girls feel guilty, that's the long and short of it. Far less inspiring than other posts but that's my story.
By Rose
Hello, my name is Rose. You may remember me from last time.
I was the insane one.
Okay, I'll rewrite everything.
I live in Fontana, California, Aka, the City the Other Crappy, Gang-Infested Cities Make Fun of For Being Gang-Infested...and Poor.
That sucks, I know, but I manage quite well.
I currently attend high school, having just finished my first semester of Sophomore year of which I ABHOR (lame teachers, mostly...I miss Freshmen year...).
My parents emigrated from Mexico, in an even poorer and even worse gang-infested area that I've only visited twice in my life and didn't even know how to pronounce or spell its name until I was ten.
Scratch that.
Twelve.
Ahuitzio...
Scratch that.
I still don't know how to spell it. Damn.
I suck, I know...but I manage quite well.
Anyway, it means Cradle/Nest of the Snakes in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. And no, I am actually not very related to the native populace, oddly. I am of Spanish and other various European nations but mostly Spanish descent...
And I still have a thick, horrid accent when speaking the minimal, conversational Spanish that I do know.
I'm a sucky Mexican, I know, but I manage quite well.
I always felt alienated from my family because I was the only one born in America (an anchor-baby, if you will...aside from my little brother...the only person in the world whose Spanish is worse than mine despite being part of a family in which the parents speak absolutely nothing except Spanish...dammit, I don't know how I don't know Spanish either...but I don't...deal with it, like I do) and couldn't speak Spanish (throwback!).
I was a spoiled child, born when my parents were moderately wealthy, but then things hit the shitter and my parents became poor again.
It sucks, I know, but I manage quite well.
So I would escape reality by reading mounds upon mounds of books.
Despite the fact I actually don't really remember much of my childhood (though no one in my family believes that claim...I only remember small snippets, and it's usually of bad times, like when I was angry or crying...It sucks, I know, but I manage quite well), I specifically remember that I didn't like my childhood and that I would use books as a means of escape...as previously mentioned.
I live with my dad, my mother, my older brother, and my little brother and the family's eldest child is my sister, who has already flown the coop (lucky bitch).
The biggest reason for my me starting to write was as escapism. See, my mother is a housewife who has taken on a multitude of menial jobs that she eventually quits after about a month but due to hard economic times, can no longer find any temporary work. That and she's gotten much much lazier and even more mentally worse off. She has- what I have diagnosed as- Capgrass Syndrome. This mental illness causes her to believe that close friends, spouses and certain family members have been replaced by a doppelganger and due to her creative imagination, she has come up with fanciful- if retarded- means of explaining everything that's happened to her.
Either that or I resent her so much that I literally don't believe a single word that comes out of her mouth...which is a very likely scenario.
You see, her illness (she has refused time and again to receive treatment of any kind) was once so bad that she took my little brother and I out of school, force my older brother to quit his job, and wouldn't let any of us leave the house without her accompanying us (not that she let us out beforehand- she used to be overbearing, now she's just insane) because she thought that my father's doppelganger and the organization he's working with the steal my family ancient fortune and land back in Mexico (see? Fanciful) were going to kidnap us so that they could force my mother to tell them what they wanted.
That sucks, I know, but I manage quite well.
So we were basically under house-arrest by Mother for...oh, I think about two years or so.
That REALLY sucks, I know, but I managed quite well.
How, you ask?
By playing video games, specifically, X-Men Legends II: Rise of Apocalypse.
I was so enthralled by the story of it all (and by Jean Grey/Phoenix's awesome powers) that I decided to read more into the X-Men.
I found the whole idea of a leap in evolution so awesome that I decided to create my own character. Now, as an amateur idiot, I decided to base the character on myself...and create other character based on my family. At the time, I thought that my creations were the greatest thing in the world, now I- sadly- realize that all I did was create a....a...
...A family of Mary-Sues!!!
I know, I know, it fucking sucks, but...I manage...somehow...
But ignoring that black period of my life...
My interest in the X-Men grew so great that I eventually branched off into the rest of Marvel, particularly Deadpool, but that's an epic tale best suited for another time.
Anyway, I loved Marvel so much that I decided to geek out with fellow Marvel buffs such as myself on the message boards.
I was introduced the world known as fanfiction.
And by god, do I love it.
Of course, most of the fanfiction I read sucked bad...it was still ten times better than what I had written...and drawn...and basically were better than mine.
Anyway, by the height of my interest in Deadpool (and by extension, Marvel), I decided to enter a little fanfiction contest for October. I wrote a little story involving Deadpool going trick-or-treating and the troubles that came with it and I won...
Second place.
So I was determined to write better, and before I knew it...I had forgotten all about the Marvel Boards (I had been kicked out for swearing at another guy who said that Deadpool sucked- THAT BASTARD) and decided it was high time to start my own universe full of awesomeness...and so I graduated to Quizilla.
I SUCK! I KNOW! I KNOW! DEAL WITH IT...as I fail to...
But, long story short, I both hate Quizilla for sucking and hold a grudging gratefulness to it for being the first in a series of playgrounds in which I grew as a writer.
Of course, I still sucked when I was in Quizilla...but I was still one of the best writers there.
Sad.
But then, with the help of my best friend Amani, I have grown much better as a writer.
Seriously.
I don't suck anymore.
Mission accomplished!
SHAZZAM!
But I still have yet to be published on a wide scale (I've been published on a small-scale literary journal at my school and was the best person to every write in it...but no), and that's what I'm currently aiming to do: Get published.
Ignoring that.
I am the co-found of Ambitious Writers, along with Amani (lurv you).
We made the group so we could help other young authors in a more structured environment because we say that no other groups really had anyone reviewing others people's work properly. It was either, “Ooh, that was a cool story/chapter!” Or, “That sucked! Never write again! I hate you and your guts for no reason other than because you're an amateur writer who can't write worth a damn!!!” (Incorrect grammar and horrid spelling not shown.)
We saw that no one was utilizing constructive criticism and none of them were at all organized. However, the icing on the cake was (aside from the hate messages to certain authors about their stories, otherwise known as flaming) definitely had to be that someone would just join, post their work, and leave because all these writing groups were so tight nit and alienated any new person who joined and so the new person had two choices: create their own group with an equally tight nit group that would alienate newer people OR...never write again due to the fact that no one was willing to just read their writing.
It sucks, I know...I cannot manage AT ALL with that...
So we created the group to combat this, to make people feel welcome, to give them tips on how to become better, to make them feel like they mattered as most wrote as a way to escape that feeling of loneliness. We both knew how that felt, and if it hadn't been for writing or for friends to lean on during dark times, we definitely would've given up writing...or worse.
So that's why we created the group.
My favorite genres to read are...urban fantasy, sci-fi and comedy, (as well as the occasional drama, but that's only if I'm in the right mood) and that also makes them the perfect genres to actually write in as I have so much experience with and exposure to it.
The worst problem, for me, when writing is...actually writing. Up until recently, I've had an immense and non-stop bout of Writer's Block. It once got so bad that I literally got a headache whenever I wrote because I was so creatively blocked. Of course, the floodgates have yet to open, but there's just enough overflowing for me to write things like this or essays.
The easiest thing for me, when it comes to writing, is dialogue and jokes.
I don't suck, I know, I actually manage really well.
Dialogue just comes naturally to me. I can easily tell you, and even act out how a character- and not just my own character, even other characters I'm familiar with, like from TV shows or books or whatever- would speak, their choice of words, the actions- like hand movements- they would do while speaking, and I'll even attempt to mimic their voice (depending on who, I can either copy their voice or fail horribly).
I often spend a few nights with my older brother just acting out random scenes with random characters, making funny voices and cracking jokes in different voices as different people.
Dialogue is just easy for me, and I'm told that sometimes I write too much of it, but SCREW THEM dialogue is awesome.
Literally, I've written hundreds of stories with NOTHING BUT dialogue...and they're all HILARIOUS. You can do so much with dialogue, it's such a versatile piece of writing, and I'm an expert at it, but no one seems to really appreciate dialogue in all its worth. They think of it as simply conveying a message from one character to another, but I see as the literal gateway to a character's core. So much can be done with it but so few really understand it. Whatever a character says is as important as their actions.
You know that old saying? Actions speak louder than words.
Yeah, fuck that saying. These are my words and they're pretty damn powerful (and thus loud) in your mind as you're reading this, aren't they?
Thought so.
Erm, where was I before I started ranting about dialogue?
Ah, jokes. Like all jokes, you can only crack one when you're speaking, so jokes are just a specific, more refined form of dialogue...so I don't really know where I was going.
Jesus Christ, I just realized that I've written about four pages. Wow...
Though half was about my family...that seems pretty reasonable...
Anyway, I guess I should just continue.
I hope to become one of the Greats in the writing world. I hope to have video games and movies and TV shows made of my books (in that order), but for now, I can only hope and dream and, of course, write.
But before I finish- I know what you're thinking, “Shut up already! We hate you! Now go die or write or something that involves less...you!” You guys are so mean- I just want to tell everyone how I see writing...in a stupid yet funny yet true way (the best way there is).
Writing is 45% creativity, 45% lying, 5% tears, and 5% insanity. You need creativity to create your world, your characters, and everything in between; you need to be a compulsive liar in order to have to experience to make everything believable enough so people will buy it; you need tears in order to realize that there's only a 0.10% chance you'll make a living out of it and you need to be insane in order to go through with it.
That's my quote. Steal it without crediting me and I'll stab you in the face with my writing/drawing pencil!
His name is Stabby...and I'm Rose!
Good night!
By Guitar Chick - Dolly Dagger
Hello to all the good people out there who read Anna's awesome blog!
My name is Guitar Chick. Call me GC. It's easier.
I'm probably one of the younger members of the group. Music and writing are my passions, and I'm getting pretty good at both of them.
I'm still writing a series on merpeople, trying to bring the genre back and combine all the beautiful legends and funny little bits I've come up with.
I'm a huge Harry Potter nerd and have two wizard rock projects (Magic Most Evil and Love Wrocks. Look us up on MySpace). I've made a lot of friends from around the world and might be opening up for a few bands on tour if the come to my city.
The group here on GoodReads has also led to a lot of growing up. Stuff like not making excuses when that last chapter you wrote read like bad fanfiction.
I'm looking forward to what I can acomplish in 2011 in writing in music. I finished the first book in my mer series in 2010 and plan on finishing the second this year.
Thanks for taking the time to read about my slightly interesting life. It's not half as funny as the rest of them.
By Sharon
Hello, my name is Sharon Atkinson and I am at present 34 years old. I live in Essex, England with my partner who goes by the name of Monster (more like a BFG).
I didn’t start writing properly until 2001 when a friend said to me that I should write as I have so much inside me that people would like to hear. So she set me up with my website. It did encourage me to actually start writing. I started on the poetry and before long some of my poems were being accepted for publication in anthologies. It was certainly a great boost to the system and it encouraged me to keep going. I think, personally that to see your name in print, there is no better feeling. Since 2003 I have now had 16 of my poems published in different anthologies including, “Poets of Greater London”, “Love in Ink”, "The Path of True Love", “The Chessboard of Life” and “Daily Reflections 2005”, and more recently “Looking for Love” which is an entrant to become “The Love Poet of the Year”, to mention but a few. These have been published via ForwardPress.
In October 2007, I self published my first book of poetry “From Dreams to Reality”. As a writer, I write poems straight from the heart and I reflect this in order to inspire readers with a different level of understanding and a feeling of the side that is not usually portrayed in your normal line of poems.
I get my inspiration and motivation to write from the people that surround me, my friends, family and things you may just hear in the street walking by.
My poems have been heart-breaking as well as mystical and in many ways consist of a little bit of magic and wisdom, although I have many more years to travel through, which is a great conquest for me and my followers to look forward to more writing from me.
I have been working on my second book of poetry which follows the deeper, darker gothic side with the sometimes romantic twist. I am hoping to have this one out published this year, (with a bit of luck).
Along side the poetry I am working on my first novel which is proving challenging but fun. I am also delving into the short stories, some of the dark influence and some with a more supernatural but romantic feel.
2011 I am hoping is going to be a good year for writing. I already have quite a few ideas floating around in my head, all I need now is to actually get them down on paper.
By Susannah
Hi, my name is Susannah and I'm twelve. I live in Illinois, in the U.S.
Technically, I've been writing since I was eight, but I was actually writing since I was three. One day at school, I was bored and decided to start a game with myself: I would describe everything that was happening to myself, as if I were writing a story about it. I pictured the words in my head when someone talked, and also described where I was. I never stopped doing it. I think it helps me with vocabulary and spelling a huge amount, and it also gives me a chance to practice writing all the time, even subconsciously.
When I'd just turned eight, near the end of second grade, my mom read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone to me. By the end of the third chapter, I was completely hooked. I loved it. When we finished the first book together, I read the other five (there were only six out at that time) and then waited desperately for the seventh to come out. While I did that, I decided to write a story which was basically Harry Potter, except with different character names and a slightly different plot. Also, instead of doing magic, the people in the story could turn into animals. It was called, "Henry Hopper and the Secret of Larconia." When I finished it, I felt strangely sad. I realized that I'd enjoyed writing it a lot, and so I started to write a sequel. But it wasn't long before another idea came into my head, completely different from Harry Potter. I started to write about that.
Soon I decided that I wanted to be an author when I grew up. I wrote stories, most of which I abandoned before I could finish. Then when I was in fifth grade, I made a decision. It had been lingering on the edges of my mind for a while, but I made it official when I wrote it down, as number one of the list we were making of "Fifty Things I Want to Do in My Life." It was: "Publish a book before I turn fourteen."
After that I wrote a few more short stories, then in the summer between fifth and sixth grade, I started writing a story which I wanted to get published, but I didn't finish it. I started a few others, but also never finished them. Now I have finished the first of my books which I intended to publish. It's the first I've finished since fifth grade.
Right now, my mom is editing the book. She's a writer, too, though she writes nonfiction while I write fantasy and science fiction. It's going to take a while to edit it and finish it up and send it off, but even then I might not get it published. If that happens, I'll just keep going. I will not give up. After all, J. K. Rowling, my favorite author, wrote a huge amount of books which were rejected before she published Harry Potter.
I love to write. I carry my notebook, or "writing sketchbook," around with me everywhere, and keep a pen in the belt loop on my jeans. I wear blue because I heard it inspires creativity, and my favorite symbol is a feather because they come from birds, which I love, and because feather quills were writing utensils before pens. I talk about my book with my friends and named a few characters after them. I work on my book and write in my notebook. I write in my mind, as I have since I was three years old. And I still have that idea, that dream which makes me an ambitious writer. Even if I have to push the age up a little. Even if my books are rejected at first. I still do intend to publish a book before I become an adult.
The group deserves a special mention - http://www.goodreads.com/group/show/25784.Ambitious_Writers - stop in for a visit. Stay a while; you'll be welcomed.
But though the group is the greatest in my opinion, that isn't why I'm bringing you here today. A year ago, I interviewed several of these young writers - http://annalwalls.blogspot.com/2010/01/up-and-coming-authors-from-ambitious.html - and I thought I'd do it again this year. Some names have changed and new people have participated this time, but they all deserve accolades. Here they are:
By GSGS
Hi, my name is Greer and I'm thirteen years old. I've only just joined Ambitious Writers - where has it been all my life? - and I'm just starting to get the hang of it. I live in Australia.
I started writing stories when I was six years old; I had this terrific teacher in grade one. I think he used to be a publisher. He got us all to write narratives in our exercise books, and then when we had finished he would type it up on a computer and bind it. We then could illustrate it. I remember I once wrote this really long story about ponies, and he actually got up in front of the class and read it. That was embarrassing.
When I was ten years old, I won a writing competition, although it was only running in a relatively small country town. Still, it was published in the local paper and I got a trophy! Looking back on my story, it is majorly strange... "The Missing Thumb", it was called, which gives you an insight on its random-ness.
Since then, I've only recently gotten back into my writing. The story I'm currently writing, called 'Highly Flammable' was inspired by a random thought that came into my head: "When you have two options, death or death, you choose life. Duh. Even when fate is screaming in your face that life isn't an option." OK, kind of weird, but all of a sudden I got a sudden urge to tell a story where I could include that phrase.
I get a little obsessive about my stories... My current one I mentioned before, Highly Flammable, is about faeries, and on a long road trip, about five hours long, I pretended I was flying, flexing my shoulder blades, where the wings would be, in and out, the whole way, just to see if it would be tiring. It was, and my sisters in the back seat got extremely ticked off about it.
I love reading, and writing is like... reading a book that hasn't been created yet, only you can control what happens.
Once I told my mum I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. With a dubious look on her face, she said, "That's a hard road to travel." Well, I'm gonna try and travel it anyway.
By MYHAPPYMONSTER
Hey, it's the MYHAPPYMONSTER here, also known as Keara. Let's see... *taps pen* I'm pretty horrible about writing about myself, so bear with me and just MAYBE we'll all make it out alive.
I'm a self-proclaimed Grammar Nazi, so try to keep the typos to a minimum and you'll pretty much be on good terms with me. I'm currently 15 (turning 16 on October 11) and I'm definitely excited about being able to get a permit, but it scares my family and loved ones to death. I just started high school this year (9th grade, to be precise) and I'm happy with what school I picked, since there were several options in the little Utah Valley.
I've got a kick-butt family; an overly-sarcastic father, a tolerant mom, a giggly brother, and spoiled sister. I'm the oldest, and I'm glad it turned out that way - I'm a wicked older sister.
I'm LDS/Mormon, and it's really hard to fire me up and get my angry unless you insult my religion. So... yeah, don't accuse me of all the fake crap you hear about me and the Mormons... I just became a Mod(erator) in Ambitious Writers (the group that we're showcasing here), and I'm so happy that Rose and Amani bestowed this great and almighty power upon my scrawny little shoulders (kidding - I'm pretty average height).
Oh - I'm supposed to be writing about why I like to write... my bad... Well, my mom's a published author, and I still haven't told her that I write stories and such... I'm not sure why, seeing as she's been through all the editing and publishing crap before and would help me a butt-load if I'd just let her. Oh well... I've probably been writing since third grade, when we had to twist one of the Grimm’s' Fairy Tales and/or Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes into our own creation. I wrote about sisters and a giant sunflower that they found while picking roses at a castle. There were cows, silverware, and fiddlers involved... and I STILL didn't get full credit because I turned it in late. Sad day, since it's one of my proudest moments...
I got serious about writing in... April of '09? It's hard to remember - I just remember having this dream over and over again... I kinda deleted off of the group's forum, since it sucked cow's butt... But it took weeks to get all the details sorted out - and I've still got that. ^_^ Right now, I'm trying to redeem werewolves' bad name from the train-wreck that is Twilight... I'm hoping to wrap a few things up by the end of the year, seeing as I have several ideas and scenes that are playing out in my head.
I love writing because it just lets you... express yourself in a way nothing else can. Everything is left up to the readers' imagination and nobody can really take the message in the same exact way. You just think one word and it could change an entire outlook on life for a reader. I can't imagine my life right now if I hadn't read any of the authors in the Ambitious Writers works... if that even remotely makes sense... Their poems and stories have really helped me see that there are others like me out there, and I've watched them improve even in the short time I've been a member.
Also, I apologize profusely for all of the ellipses (maybe it's "ellipsis?"... whatever). I tend to type those out when I'm thinking about what keys I'm about to hit next. >_<
By *DOMO Kat*
Hello, I’m Katherine. But of course if you’ve read my name or have met me- cyber or physically- you probably know or have the slightest idea that I like to be called Kat. The reason is that Katherine sounds like I’m a snobby girl.
And ya know one thing?
I probably am.
I live in a highly populated area, but my heart lives in North Dakota. I love animals and believe that our lives aren’t any more important than theirs. So obviously if you haven’t gathered what I’m trying to interpret. Or maybe you’re just the tiniest bit of slow- I’m a vegetarian.
I joined this group not because I’m some kid prodigy with extreme writing talents. I did not join this group just because I ‘felt’ like it. But I did join this group because I love writing. The blank page before you, one thought and you have created a diverse universe. Of course I’m a little lot rough around the edges- especially with grammar. But, hey a kid can dream.
It all started in the fifth grade- slash that- the fourth grade. I wrote this poem, it made no sense what so ever. It was called ‘imagine’ and it just listed things with imagine in front of them. Then over the course of the year I edited it and all that crap. Then one day during writing in fifth grade I read it aloud to the class. My teacher said it was ‘deep’. I almost wet my pants from laughter. (If you haven’t noticed, I use that term a lot. Don’t take me seriously when I do though)
In other words, I don’t do this alien term called ‘try’. I also don’t usually finish things.
In case you haven’t gathered, I don’t really care what people think. My wardrobe sort of reflects that. Hey, anyone know where I can find rainbow stretches?
Also, I don’t usually give second chances. I swear a lot. And I do not put up with potential female dogs. Okay?
Three words to sum up me or my life Insanity, War, and Obliviousness.
I bet you’re going ‘WTF?!’
My answer, Insanity- My world is often tipped upside down. And I’m often upside down. War- I’m not exactly a peace keeper and am always at war with the people at my school. Obliviousness- I don’t care what people think. I do stuff, and don’t give a glance to their expressions.
By Kimathy
I'm Kimathy Gertig, or that's what I present myself as online. I'm 15 years old as of last June, and I live in America. I started writing in fifth grade when i got this amazing teacher(Props to you Mr. Harris!) I hated writing in the beginning of the year and he told me the first day that by the end of the school year I would love writing, I didn't believe him. But of course he was right. Now I love to write all the time. I stated writing my first story in 6th grade for an assignment, but it was so long I didn't get to finished it before it as due.
While I love to write stories I'm also in love with writing poetry, you can just express your self so well. In 7th grade I even got an honorable mention in a writing contest. Now I almost die when an idea pops into my head and i don't have paper and pen. I usually write fantasy or sci-fi, seeing as those are the majority of books i read ( humongous Potter fan here) I do hope to get published but for now I'm just an amateur.
By Coquille
I'm one of the older members, but my passion for writing began at an early age. I remember having writing published in the newspaper from my third grade class and having a story I wrote read over the intercom to the whole school in seventh grade. This kind of "celebrity" encouraged my passion for writing for sure.
As a teenager, I wrote books to entertain my friends - stories where we were rich, parentless, and living in big cities doing what we wanted.
In 9th grade I won $50 in a short story contest that I had only found out about the day before the stories were due. I really wanted this Swatch watch that cost $50, and when I found out that that was the prize, I said to myself I would win. I set out on an old-school typewriter to craft a story that the guidance counselors (whom I had discovered were the judges) wouldn't be able to resist. When I actually won, it was amazing.
I always thought I would be a writer, and all through high school I wrote stories, poetry and novels, but eventually life got busy and I stopped writing.
Now that I'm almost 40, I have finally come back to writing and it's the most amazing feeling to be doing what I have always wanted to do, though I know it's a long road to get published. Now I work a stupid corporate job that I basically hate, only to write in my spare time. Still, writing always makes me feel better after a crap day at work. I can have all the control I don't have in my "real" life in my literary world. My imagination runs free and I am replenished. Then I can go back to work with a secret, another life that I think about while I go through the motions of the day, the secret life of my stories. It's awesome.
Though I sort of regret not pursuing writing more seriously in my twenties and early thirties, I know I gained life experience that feeds my writing now. There's no going back, so now I just focus on writing forward. Even if it's just for myself, it's something that feeds my soul. I am hoping to get published soon, but even if I don't, I am loving writing again. It's like a long, sweet drink after a long journey through the desert.
By Filza
I am Filza and live in Karachi, Pakistan and I am 17year old I am not a good writer, but I try to be a good writer. When I was in grade five we came to a new city, so I couldn't really fit in there and felt upset at times, anger, mirth, frustration all were heavy upon me, at that time there was only one let out 'writing'. While writing I feel as if my emotions were channeling through my pen into paper. That's when I started loving writing, I feel light for writing. I don't write often because I don't get a lot of time for it. At times when I am upset and feel retarded I read my diary, it is stimulus for me to move on. I have many ideas but when it comes to expressing, I don't do the job well. INSHALLAH I will someday.
By Lisa
My name is Lisa Kumar, and as for my age, I’m old enough to divulge that information but also am of the mind that a lady should never give her age, especially when she’s as old as I am (though if you ask kindly, I just might tell you). I'm undoubtedly one of the older members on Ambitious Writers, but I like to think of age as merely being years of experience gained, not lost.
I wish I could say I’ve wanted to be a writer all my life, but first and foremost, I was a reader and still am. That’s not to say the notion of writing didn’t appeal to me--it did, just in some nebulous way I too easily swept aside for other pursuits like college and marriage.
Then finally, over a year ago, after tinkering with the idea for more than a few years, I decided to begin the journey that would see me finish my first novel. Has that novel been published? No, and time will only tell if it will be. But that’s not stopping me. Writing is like any other craft. It takes dedication and persistence to improve and reach a measure of success. But even without success, it allows me to escape into another world of my own choosing, much as reading does. That's a luxury I don't want to give up.
I’ve just completed a novella and am starting to work on a sequel to that first manuscript I mentioned. I don’t know where my writing endeavors will take me, but I’m tagging along for the ride. Placid lake or whitewater rapids, here I come!
By Andy
I'm Andy, 23, from Scotland.
This should be pretty easy for me as I write for pretty selfish reasons. I only started writing properly in the past few months, but I 'picked up the pen', as it were, maybe two years ago. Most of my creative endeavours (Sorry I'm gonna persist with UK spelling) were in textile design, which I studied at art school but I had a couple of cool ideas for short stories and stuff but never really took the time to explore them. Then, my first love dumped me. Yip... it's all a girls fault. A friend told me just writing about stuff helped clear his head. So I was getting over the break up with a kinda diary/whiney brokenhearted 21 year old Romeo in the sycamore grove thing. Sure enough, I found something cathartic about writing that wasn't there when I was stuck in front of loom. I've been doing short stories on and off since, but more seriously recently. I have a new project with a local fashion designer who wants to work on a collection from my stories. So I don't have any major influences in a literary sense, I guess I just write to make myself feel better, or maybe it's the hope that girls might realise how bad the dude feels. So yeah making me feel better and girls feel guilty, that's the long and short of it. Far less inspiring than other posts but that's my story.
By Rose
Hello, my name is Rose. You may remember me from last time.
I was the insane one.
Okay, I'll rewrite everything.
I live in Fontana, California, Aka, the City the Other Crappy, Gang-Infested Cities Make Fun of For Being Gang-Infested...and Poor.
That sucks, I know, but I manage quite well.
I currently attend high school, having just finished my first semester of Sophomore year of which I ABHOR (lame teachers, mostly...I miss Freshmen year...).
My parents emigrated from Mexico, in an even poorer and even worse gang-infested area that I've only visited twice in my life and didn't even know how to pronounce or spell its name until I was ten.
Scratch that.
Twelve.
Ahuitzio...
Scratch that.
I still don't know how to spell it. Damn.
I suck, I know...but I manage quite well.
Anyway, it means Cradle/Nest of the Snakes in Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs. And no, I am actually not very related to the native populace, oddly. I am of Spanish and other various European nations but mostly Spanish descent...
And I still have a thick, horrid accent when speaking the minimal, conversational Spanish that I do know.
I'm a sucky Mexican, I know, but I manage quite well.
I always felt alienated from my family because I was the only one born in America (an anchor-baby, if you will...aside from my little brother...the only person in the world whose Spanish is worse than mine despite being part of a family in which the parents speak absolutely nothing except Spanish...dammit, I don't know how I don't know Spanish either...but I don't...deal with it, like I do) and couldn't speak Spanish (throwback!).
I was a spoiled child, born when my parents were moderately wealthy, but then things hit the shitter and my parents became poor again.
It sucks, I know, but I manage quite well.
So I would escape reality by reading mounds upon mounds of books.
Despite the fact I actually don't really remember much of my childhood (though no one in my family believes that claim...I only remember small snippets, and it's usually of bad times, like when I was angry or crying...It sucks, I know, but I manage quite well), I specifically remember that I didn't like my childhood and that I would use books as a means of escape...as previously mentioned.
I live with my dad, my mother, my older brother, and my little brother and the family's eldest child is my sister, who has already flown the coop (lucky bitch).
The biggest reason for my me starting to write was as escapism. See, my mother is a housewife who has taken on a multitude of menial jobs that she eventually quits after about a month but due to hard economic times, can no longer find any temporary work. That and she's gotten much much lazier and even more mentally worse off. She has- what I have diagnosed as- Capgrass Syndrome. This mental illness causes her to believe that close friends, spouses and certain family members have been replaced by a doppelganger and due to her creative imagination, she has come up with fanciful- if retarded- means of explaining everything that's happened to her.
Either that or I resent her so much that I literally don't believe a single word that comes out of her mouth...which is a very likely scenario.
You see, her illness (she has refused time and again to receive treatment of any kind) was once so bad that she took my little brother and I out of school, force my older brother to quit his job, and wouldn't let any of us leave the house without her accompanying us (not that she let us out beforehand- she used to be overbearing, now she's just insane) because she thought that my father's doppelganger and the organization he's working with the steal my family ancient fortune and land back in Mexico (see? Fanciful) were going to kidnap us so that they could force my mother to tell them what they wanted.
That sucks, I know, but I manage quite well.
So we were basically under house-arrest by Mother for...oh, I think about two years or so.
That REALLY sucks, I know, but I managed quite well.
How, you ask?
By playing video games, specifically, X-Men Legends II: Rise of Apocalypse.
I was so enthralled by the story of it all (and by Jean Grey/Phoenix's awesome powers) that I decided to read more into the X-Men.
I found the whole idea of a leap in evolution so awesome that I decided to create my own character. Now, as an amateur idiot, I decided to base the character on myself...and create other character based on my family. At the time, I thought that my creations were the greatest thing in the world, now I- sadly- realize that all I did was create a....a...
...A family of Mary-Sues!!!
I know, I know, it fucking sucks, but...I manage...somehow...
But ignoring that black period of my life...
My interest in the X-Men grew so great that I eventually branched off into the rest of Marvel, particularly Deadpool, but that's an epic tale best suited for another time.
Anyway, I loved Marvel so much that I decided to geek out with fellow Marvel buffs such as myself on the message boards.
I was introduced the world known as fanfiction.
And by god, do I love it.
Of course, most of the fanfiction I read sucked bad...it was still ten times better than what I had written...and drawn...and basically were better than mine.
Anyway, by the height of my interest in Deadpool (and by extension, Marvel), I decided to enter a little fanfiction contest for October. I wrote a little story involving Deadpool going trick-or-treating and the troubles that came with it and I won...
Second place.
So I was determined to write better, and before I knew it...I had forgotten all about the Marvel Boards (I had been kicked out for swearing at another guy who said that Deadpool sucked- THAT BASTARD) and decided it was high time to start my own universe full of awesomeness...and so I graduated to Quizilla.
I SUCK! I KNOW! I KNOW! DEAL WITH IT...as I fail to...
But, long story short, I both hate Quizilla for sucking and hold a grudging gratefulness to it for being the first in a series of playgrounds in which I grew as a writer.
Of course, I still sucked when I was in Quizilla...but I was still one of the best writers there.
Sad.
But then, with the help of my best friend Amani, I have grown much better as a writer.
Seriously.
I don't suck anymore.
Mission accomplished!
SHAZZAM!
But I still have yet to be published on a wide scale (I've been published on a small-scale literary journal at my school and was the best person to every write in it...but no), and that's what I'm currently aiming to do: Get published.
Ignoring that.
I am the co-found of Ambitious Writers, along with Amani (lurv you).
We made the group so we could help other young authors in a more structured environment because we say that no other groups really had anyone reviewing others people's work properly. It was either, “Ooh, that was a cool story/chapter!” Or, “That sucked! Never write again! I hate you and your guts for no reason other than because you're an amateur writer who can't write worth a damn!!!” (Incorrect grammar and horrid spelling not shown.)
We saw that no one was utilizing constructive criticism and none of them were at all organized. However, the icing on the cake was (aside from the hate messages to certain authors about their stories, otherwise known as flaming) definitely had to be that someone would just join, post their work, and leave because all these writing groups were so tight nit and alienated any new person who joined and so the new person had two choices: create their own group with an equally tight nit group that would alienate newer people OR...never write again due to the fact that no one was willing to just read their writing.
It sucks, I know...I cannot manage AT ALL with that...
So we created the group to combat this, to make people feel welcome, to give them tips on how to become better, to make them feel like they mattered as most wrote as a way to escape that feeling of loneliness. We both knew how that felt, and if it hadn't been for writing or for friends to lean on during dark times, we definitely would've given up writing...or worse.
So that's why we created the group.
My favorite genres to read are...urban fantasy, sci-fi and comedy, (as well as the occasional drama, but that's only if I'm in the right mood) and that also makes them the perfect genres to actually write in as I have so much experience with and exposure to it.
The worst problem, for me, when writing is...actually writing. Up until recently, I've had an immense and non-stop bout of Writer's Block. It once got so bad that I literally got a headache whenever I wrote because I was so creatively blocked. Of course, the floodgates have yet to open, but there's just enough overflowing for me to write things like this or essays.
The easiest thing for me, when it comes to writing, is dialogue and jokes.
I don't suck, I know, I actually manage really well.
Dialogue just comes naturally to me. I can easily tell you, and even act out how a character- and not just my own character, even other characters I'm familiar with, like from TV shows or books or whatever- would speak, their choice of words, the actions- like hand movements- they would do while speaking, and I'll even attempt to mimic their voice (depending on who, I can either copy their voice or fail horribly).
I often spend a few nights with my older brother just acting out random scenes with random characters, making funny voices and cracking jokes in different voices as different people.
Dialogue is just easy for me, and I'm told that sometimes I write too much of it, but SCREW THEM dialogue is awesome.
Literally, I've written hundreds of stories with NOTHING BUT dialogue...and they're all HILARIOUS. You can do so much with dialogue, it's such a versatile piece of writing, and I'm an expert at it, but no one seems to really appreciate dialogue in all its worth. They think of it as simply conveying a message from one character to another, but I see as the literal gateway to a character's core. So much can be done with it but so few really understand it. Whatever a character says is as important as their actions.
You know that old saying? Actions speak louder than words.
Yeah, fuck that saying. These are my words and they're pretty damn powerful (and thus loud) in your mind as you're reading this, aren't they?
Thought so.
Erm, where was I before I started ranting about dialogue?
Ah, jokes. Like all jokes, you can only crack one when you're speaking, so jokes are just a specific, more refined form of dialogue...so I don't really know where I was going.
Jesus Christ, I just realized that I've written about four pages. Wow...
Though half was about my family...that seems pretty reasonable...
Anyway, I guess I should just continue.
I hope to become one of the Greats in the writing world. I hope to have video games and movies and TV shows made of my books (in that order), but for now, I can only hope and dream and, of course, write.
But before I finish- I know what you're thinking, “Shut up already! We hate you! Now go die or write or something that involves less...you!” You guys are so mean- I just want to tell everyone how I see writing...in a stupid yet funny yet true way (the best way there is).
Writing is 45% creativity, 45% lying, 5% tears, and 5% insanity. You need creativity to create your world, your characters, and everything in between; you need to be a compulsive liar in order to have to experience to make everything believable enough so people will buy it; you need tears in order to realize that there's only a 0.10% chance you'll make a living out of it and you need to be insane in order to go through with it.
That's my quote. Steal it without crediting me and I'll stab you in the face with my writing/drawing pencil!
His name is Stabby...and I'm Rose!
Good night!
By Guitar Chick - Dolly Dagger
Hello to all the good people out there who read Anna's awesome blog!
My name is Guitar Chick. Call me GC. It's easier.
I'm probably one of the younger members of the group. Music and writing are my passions, and I'm getting pretty good at both of them.
I'm still writing a series on merpeople, trying to bring the genre back and combine all the beautiful legends and funny little bits I've come up with.
I'm a huge Harry Potter nerd and have two wizard rock projects (Magic Most Evil and Love Wrocks. Look us up on MySpace). I've made a lot of friends from around the world and might be opening up for a few bands on tour if the come to my city.
The group here on GoodReads has also led to a lot of growing up. Stuff like not making excuses when that last chapter you wrote read like bad fanfiction.
I'm looking forward to what I can acomplish in 2011 in writing in music. I finished the first book in my mer series in 2010 and plan on finishing the second this year.
Thanks for taking the time to read about my slightly interesting life. It's not half as funny as the rest of them.
By Sharon
Hello, my name is Sharon Atkinson and I am at present 34 years old. I live in Essex, England with my partner who goes by the name of Monster (more like a BFG).
I didn’t start writing properly until 2001 when a friend said to me that I should write as I have so much inside me that people would like to hear. So she set me up with my website. It did encourage me to actually start writing. I started on the poetry and before long some of my poems were being accepted for publication in anthologies. It was certainly a great boost to the system and it encouraged me to keep going. I think, personally that to see your name in print, there is no better feeling. Since 2003 I have now had 16 of my poems published in different anthologies including, “Poets of Greater London”, “Love in Ink”, "The Path of True Love", “The Chessboard of Life” and “Daily Reflections 2005”, and more recently “Looking for Love” which is an entrant to become “The Love Poet of the Year”, to mention but a few. These have been published via ForwardPress.
In October 2007, I self published my first book of poetry “From Dreams to Reality”. As a writer, I write poems straight from the heart and I reflect this in order to inspire readers with a different level of understanding and a feeling of the side that is not usually portrayed in your normal line of poems.
I get my inspiration and motivation to write from the people that surround me, my friends, family and things you may just hear in the street walking by.
My poems have been heart-breaking as well as mystical and in many ways consist of a little bit of magic and wisdom, although I have many more years to travel through, which is a great conquest for me and my followers to look forward to more writing from me.
I have been working on my second book of poetry which follows the deeper, darker gothic side with the sometimes romantic twist. I am hoping to have this one out published this year, (with a bit of luck).
Along side the poetry I am working on my first novel which is proving challenging but fun. I am also delving into the short stories, some of the dark influence and some with a more supernatural but romantic feel.
2011 I am hoping is going to be a good year for writing. I already have quite a few ideas floating around in my head, all I need now is to actually get them down on paper.
By Susannah
Hi, my name is Susannah and I'm twelve. I live in Illinois, in the U.S.
Technically, I've been writing since I was eight, but I was actually writing since I was three. One day at school, I was bored and decided to start a game with myself: I would describe everything that was happening to myself, as if I were writing a story about it. I pictured the words in my head when someone talked, and also described where I was. I never stopped doing it. I think it helps me with vocabulary and spelling a huge amount, and it also gives me a chance to practice writing all the time, even subconsciously.
When I'd just turned eight, near the end of second grade, my mom read Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone to me. By the end of the third chapter, I was completely hooked. I loved it. When we finished the first book together, I read the other five (there were only six out at that time) and then waited desperately for the seventh to come out. While I did that, I decided to write a story which was basically Harry Potter, except with different character names and a slightly different plot. Also, instead of doing magic, the people in the story could turn into animals. It was called, "Henry Hopper and the Secret of Larconia." When I finished it, I felt strangely sad. I realized that I'd enjoyed writing it a lot, and so I started to write a sequel. But it wasn't long before another idea came into my head, completely different from Harry Potter. I started to write about that.
Soon I decided that I wanted to be an author when I grew up. I wrote stories, most of which I abandoned before I could finish. Then when I was in fifth grade, I made a decision. It had been lingering on the edges of my mind for a while, but I made it official when I wrote it down, as number one of the list we were making of "Fifty Things I Want to Do in My Life." It was: "Publish a book before I turn fourteen."
After that I wrote a few more short stories, then in the summer between fifth and sixth grade, I started writing a story which I wanted to get published, but I didn't finish it. I started a few others, but also never finished them. Now I have finished the first of my books which I intended to publish. It's the first I've finished since fifth grade.
Right now, my mom is editing the book. She's a writer, too, though she writes nonfiction while I write fantasy and science fiction. It's going to take a while to edit it and finish it up and send it off, but even then I might not get it published. If that happens, I'll just keep going. I will not give up. After all, J. K. Rowling, my favorite author, wrote a huge amount of books which were rejected before she published Harry Potter.
I love to write. I carry my notebook, or "writing sketchbook," around with me everywhere, and keep a pen in the belt loop on my jeans. I wear blue because I heard it inspires creativity, and my favorite symbol is a feather because they come from birds, which I love, and because feather quills were writing utensils before pens. I talk about my book with my friends and named a few characters after them. I work on my book and write in my notebook. I write in my mind, as I have since I was three years old. And I still have that idea, that dream which makes me an ambitious writer. Even if I have to push the age up a little. Even if my books are rejected at first. I still do intend to publish a book before I become an adult.
Friday, December 24, 2010
December 2010 Writing Contest winner - Guitar Chick - Ambitious Writers, Goodreads
Genres: Poetry and Romance
Winner: Guitar Chick
Title: Rag Doll
Rating: T, 'cause it's kind of creepy.
Genre Poetry
Synopsis: As I sat here to enter, I thought of a dream I had of being trapped in a doll house, a one eyed doll advancing towards me. I decided to turn it into a poem.
RAG DOLL
A frilly dress
Around my shoulders
I turn my head
There's nothing behind or below
But staring me down
Across the room
Is a doll with one eye
Her lips are red
A tear is shed
From that one single eye
As she comes towards me
She wants to die
The things are small
The house of a doll
I feel trapped
As she comes forward
Her lips are red
A tear is shed
From that one single eye
She comes toward me
She wants to die
I think of my situation
How do I get out of this mess
But as I fall into all my distress
Black blots out the rest
I wake in safety
But nevertheless I'm still shaking
Her face echos in my mind
The girl I won't be able to find
Her lips are red
A tear is shed
From that one single eye
She comes toward me
She wants to die
Winner: Guitar Chick
Title: Rag Doll
Rating: T, 'cause it's kind of creepy.
Genre Poetry
Synopsis: As I sat here to enter, I thought of a dream I had of being trapped in a doll house, a one eyed doll advancing towards me. I decided to turn it into a poem.
RAG DOLL
A frilly dress
Around my shoulders
I turn my head
There's nothing behind or below
But staring me down
Across the room
Is a doll with one eye
Her lips are red
A tear is shed
From that one single eye
As she comes towards me
She wants to die
The things are small
The house of a doll
I feel trapped
As she comes forward
Her lips are red
A tear is shed
From that one single eye
She comes toward me
She wants to die
I think of my situation
How do I get out of this mess
But as I fall into all my distress
Black blots out the rest
I wake in safety
But nevertheless I'm still shaking
Her face echos in my mind
The girl I won't be able to find
Her lips are red
A tear is shed
From that one single eye
She comes toward me
She wants to die
Friday, December 3, 2010
November Writing Contest Winner - GC from Ambitious Writers, Goodreads
The genre for November's writing contest was set at Fantasy, and then the secondary genre we all voted on was romance. I truly believe that GC won with the shortest sample I've seen on Ambitious Writers since I joined. As you can see, it was delightful even if it was short. It left me wanting to read the rest of the story. What do you think?
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Title: You Killed my Time by Guitar Chick
"LEAVE ME ALONE OR SO HELP ME I WILL CALL THE COPS!" I screamed as he backed up towards the wall.
Dean cowered against the wall as my rage electrified the air. I had never been so mad in my entire life. It was this continous, bubbling, insatiable anger that would leave the most patient trembling.
"I don't want to you to ever come around here as long as you live, which is freakn' forever now!"
"I'm sorry," Dean whispered for the ten billionth time. Like it mattered. Because it didn't anymore.
"Out. Now." I heard myself growl.
Dean and I had done something stupid. There were these whacked out evil elf people in the woods a little ways from Dean's house. We'd been dating for a while and things were ok. But then.... well.... it's not hard to forget.
................................................
"Why are we here again?" I asked dreamily. The elves had given us some weird stuff to drink that tasted like chocolate and bacon together.
"I don't know." Dean answered just as high sounding as I was.
This creepy elf lady who reminded me strongly of Professor Trelawny started reciting strange poetry, A group on the edge of the woods was in a heavy haze, and I realized I kept giggling uncontrollably.
The wooded area wasn't quite a clearing. It was more like a group of clearing seperated to from some weird wheel type shape with the spokes leading to a bigger clearing. Some dude with a sorry looking face had led me through it all before I had this clouded dreamy feeling.
Dean and I woke up the next morning on different edges of the wood. My head ached. I had no idea in the world of why I was laying down in a what seemed to be a puddle of silver.
"Wake up, mortals no longer..." said a light voice I recognized vageuly, as the memories of the night before played out in my head slowly like I was watching a movie.
"Come!" the voice said,a bit more impatient.
Dean and I looked at each other wearily.
"Alright, I'm not being paid, I'm on a hangover, and I don't like dealing with new ones.
You were drugged and made immortal because the Auberon hates you. BYE!" And she ran away so fast I saw a blur and felt a rush of wind, and saw no more of her.
I heard a shout from way back say "The silver stuff you woke up in was your mortality!"
I wanted to strangle someone, something anything.
All I could manage was to stagger home. I had an eternity to give Dean hell for leading me out there.
~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~
Title: You Killed my Time by Guitar Chick
"LEAVE ME ALONE OR SO HELP ME I WILL CALL THE COPS!" I screamed as he backed up towards the wall.
Dean cowered against the wall as my rage electrified the air. I had never been so mad in my entire life. It was this continous, bubbling, insatiable anger that would leave the most patient trembling.
"I don't want to you to ever come around here as long as you live, which is freakn' forever now!"
"I'm sorry," Dean whispered for the ten billionth time. Like it mattered. Because it didn't anymore.
"Out. Now." I heard myself growl.
Dean and I had done something stupid. There were these whacked out evil elf people in the woods a little ways from Dean's house. We'd been dating for a while and things were ok. But then.... well.... it's not hard to forget.
................................................
"Why are we here again?" I asked dreamily. The elves had given us some weird stuff to drink that tasted like chocolate and bacon together.
"I don't know." Dean answered just as high sounding as I was.
This creepy elf lady who reminded me strongly of Professor Trelawny started reciting strange poetry, A group on the edge of the woods was in a heavy haze, and I realized I kept giggling uncontrollably.
The wooded area wasn't quite a clearing. It was more like a group of clearing seperated to from some weird wheel type shape with the spokes leading to a bigger clearing. Some dude with a sorry looking face had led me through it all before I had this clouded dreamy feeling.
Dean and I woke up the next morning on different edges of the wood. My head ached. I had no idea in the world of why I was laying down in a what seemed to be a puddle of silver.
"Wake up, mortals no longer..." said a light voice I recognized vageuly, as the memories of the night before played out in my head slowly like I was watching a movie.
"Come!" the voice said,a bit more impatient.
Dean and I looked at each other wearily.
"Alright, I'm not being paid, I'm on a hangover, and I don't like dealing with new ones.
You were drugged and made immortal because the Auberon hates you. BYE!" And she ran away so fast I saw a blur and felt a rush of wind, and saw no more of her.
I heard a shout from way back say "The silver stuff you woke up in was your mortality!"
I wanted to strangle someone, something anything.
All I could manage was to stagger home. I had an eternity to give Dean hell for leading me out there.
Friday, November 5, 2010
October Writing Contest Winner - Coquille from Ambitious Writers, Goodreads
Title: Tangled
Genre: Horror
Rated: Teen
Word Count: 1900
Ali finished setting up her side of the tent by putting the finishing touches on her sleeping bag, tucking her sweats into the top to slip into later. Her other five friends were all either out trying to get a fire started or still setting up their tents. Wendi, who was sharing a tent with Ali, had quickly thrown her pile of stuff in a corner and called it good, in typical Wendi style. Placing a flashlight right near the tent door, Ali nodded to herself at a job well done. Now she was ready to organize the cooler and get ready to cook some cowboy grub.
“Yay!” Lilly clapped as Ali walked by the green tent where she and Chad lay on their backs, staring up at the trees. “All set up?”
“Yep,” Ali answered. “I'm going to see if I can get some dinner going before it gets dark. This time of year, it will be dark in like an hour.”
“We'll be there in a bit,” Lilly said. Ali could hear the tent zipping up as she walked further down the trail to the fire pit.
When she reached the clearing, Ali saw that Wendi was having a smoke while she giggled at Spencer and Pete's pathetic attempts at starting a fire. Pete was blowing furiously, his usually pale cheeks red with the effort and smoke inhalation. Spencer was trying to light bits of cardboard torn from a cereal box they had hiked in to the camp site. They were only about a mile off the Forest Service road, along a popular trail in the summer, but now that it was late October, they had the forest to themselves. It was crisp and cool in the shade, but the sun had warmed the day nicely. Soon they would need the fire, though, for warmth and light.
“Dude,” Ali said. “You can't just light logs that big from cardboard. This your first campfire, or what?”
“Um-” Spencer looked sheepish. “Well, sort of. Yep. You, Pete?”
“No way, man,” he said with a smile. “Did this tons of times in Boy Scouts. It's just been a while.”
“We need to find smaller sticks and branches, all sizes graduated up to the size of those logs. You gotta start small, then build it up slowly. I'll go hunt for some kindling,” Ali said eagerly. She wanted to show off for Spencer, and was riding high on the prospect of a whole weekend with him.
“I'll come with you,” Spencer said, practically tripping over the logs as he got up. He walked off with Ali, leaving Wendi and Pete alone. Wendi's giggles could be heard over the sound of a bottle of wine being uncorked. “Those two are hopeless.”
“Agreed,” Ali said. She headed in the opposite direction of the tents, not wishing to walk up on anything going on in Lily and Chad's tent. They had been together since high school, so there was no ice to break there.
Silently they walked deeper into the forest. Ever since meeting Spencer, also a Freshman in her dorm, Ali had been dreaming of something like this moment. They found a nice area of deciduous trees and began to pick up the dry branches strewn around.
“Like this?” Spencer asked, holding up a few skinny twigs. He flashed his drop-dead smile.
“Perfect,” Ali said. She hoped she wasn't blushing, but he was so cute looking to her for approval like that. “From that size to a bit bigger will be great.”
They picked up small branches for several minutes, until their arms were full. Spencer was pretending to struggle under his load, trying to make Ali laugh. She was giggling as if she had already had some of the wine back at camp. They walked back in the direction of their camp as the sun began to set, lighting the orange and red leaves of autumn in a fiery glow. After several minutes of walking, Ali's arms began to ache. She could have sworn that camp was just up ahead, but the more they walked, the less familiar things looked.
“Hey, Spence,” she said over her tangle of twigs.
“Yeah?” he asked. “Sorry, I was spacing out. It's so pretty in this light. The forest is totally magical right now.”
“Um...” Ali hesitated. “Are we going the right direction? I feel like we've been walking for a long time. Shouldn't we be at camp by now?”
“Hmmm.” Spencer looked around and considered this. “Yeah, you might be right. I don't remember those white trees before, do you?”
Ali looked over and saw a stand of birch trees, their white bark reflecting the orange of the sky. While the grove felt inviting, she knew they hadn't passed it on the way to collect wood.
“No, definitely not,” she said. “Let's put our sticks down here and scout a little. It's going to be dark any minute.”
They dropped their bundles at their feet and began to retrace their steps. After a minute or two, Spencer walked back over to the grove of birches as if he had forgotten that they had lost their way.
“Spencer!” Ali called to him. She wondered what it was about that grove that called out to them both. Obviously he was feeling it more strongly than she was, but she was impelled to follow him despite the fact that she knew it wasn't the way to camp.
“Ali,” he said dreamily. “Ali, come with me. Let's just go into those trees and hang out for a bit. Come on, they are so beautiful.”
He walked to her and took her cold hand in his strong, warm guitar player's hand. It felt so good that she didn't complain when he led her into the stand of glowing birches. They stopped, still holding hands, and stood there for so long that the sky had turned midnight blue before Ali noticed that the glowing bark was reflecting the white of the full moon now. Adrenaline flowed into her veins for a moment, but soon dissipated in the sense of peace and calm that the grove seemed to emanate.
“Ali,” Spencer said softly, turning to face her.
“Yeah?”
“Can I kiss you?”
He didn't wait for an answer, just grabbed Ali in his arms and started kissing her with his full lips. Ali had never been kissed like that before, though she had had one serious boyfriend in high school. She was melting into Spencer's embrace, and he into hers. Before they knew it, they were lying on the ground making out in the fallen leaves. It seemed like hours, but it was hard to tell now that the sun was down. Time was stolen away as Ali and Spencer held each other, snuggled together as close as possible, locked in an intense embrace. Somehow, they must have drifted off to sleep there, because the next thing Ali knew, it was cold and dark and something was crunching through the fallen leaves nearby.
She shook Spencer, who groggily came to. He heard the sound of the footsteps, too, grabbing her more tightly in fear. Ali tried to get up, but it was like her whole body had fallen asleep.
“Spencer, we have to get up,” she whispered.
“I can't move my legs,” he said quietly. “Maybe that's just a deer, or something. Just be quiet. It will pass.”
Ali struggled to move, but found that her legs were tightly bound. She was able to finally move her hand to her legs and felt a somewhat removed jolt of adrenaline as she realized that there were vines wrapped tightly around them. With intense effort, she reached over to Spencer and felt that he, too, was being strangled by the vines. Meanwhile, the footsteps in the dry leaves were increasing, more and more feet seemed to be headed toward their grove from all directions. Just as Ali was about to scream, more vines grew out of the ground and bound her arms to the earth. It took the breath right out of her.
“What's happening Spence?” Ali asked with a shaky voice.
Spencer didn't get a chance to answer because blue lights began to peek out from behind the oddly glowing birch trees, circling them. The footsteps also encroached, slower than the blue flying lights, but more intent. They all stopped in a ring around Spencer and Ali. As she looked at them, she saw tiny faces illuminated by the blue lights and felt a cold, numbing energy filling her being. Behind the blue fairy-like creatures was a circle of tall, hooded figures who began to chant in guttural tones.
Slowly the flying blue-lighted fairies came closer, sucking more and more life out of Ali and Spencer. The vines had encircled them almost entirely, with barely space to see between. Their bodies were still entwined, which was the only thing keeping them sane. Within minutes, everything was dark and all they could hear was the strange chanting and the whispering wind.
“Oh Spirit of the Grove,” a deep voice spoke, “please accept this sacrifice of lovers. Give us the power we desire, and the lovers shall be given unto you. Give us strength, wealth, and influence, and in return we give these lovers to the Kingdom of Fairie. Accept this gift, and grant us the power to rule in this realm.”
A crack of thunder sounded, then everything went silent. Ali and Spencer fell into a dreamworld, or rather a cold nightmare realm of twisting, screaming souls, joining them in their fall. They were never seen or heard from again, despite the search and rescue teams combing the forest for weeks after they did not return to camp that night.
Every year, Lilly and Chad would go out to the end of the Forest Service road and hike in to the area where Ali and Spencer disappeared. On the seventh year anniversary of their disappearance, Chad and Lily brought roses to lay at the old camp, in memory of their friends. It was a particularly stormy day, with leaves swirling in the wind. Though it was only noon, somehow they got off the trail and found themselves in an area they hadn't seen before.
“Lilly, look at that amazing grove of birches,” Chad said. He led her by the hand to the shimmering white-barked trees.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Lilly whispered, unsure why she felt goosebumps rising all over her.
“C'mon, it's so pretty,” Chad said, sounding dazed.
Lilly followed reluctantly, but stopped short at the edge of the grove. Her eyes rested on a strange mound on the forest floor, right in the center of the white trees. At first it looked like a strange pile of leaves, but then she saw that it was a tangle of vines. It was in the exact shape of two people locked in an embrace. She knew instantly who those two people were.
Screaming, Lilly dropped the roses and ran. Chad woke out of his trance at the sound, running after her. In the shadows, the blue lights retreated, disappointed - this time...
Genre: Horror
Rated: Teen
Word Count: 1900
Ali finished setting up her side of the tent by putting the finishing touches on her sleeping bag, tucking her sweats into the top to slip into later. Her other five friends were all either out trying to get a fire started or still setting up their tents. Wendi, who was sharing a tent with Ali, had quickly thrown her pile of stuff in a corner and called it good, in typical Wendi style. Placing a flashlight right near the tent door, Ali nodded to herself at a job well done. Now she was ready to organize the cooler and get ready to cook some cowboy grub.
“Yay!” Lilly clapped as Ali walked by the green tent where she and Chad lay on their backs, staring up at the trees. “All set up?”
“Yep,” Ali answered. “I'm going to see if I can get some dinner going before it gets dark. This time of year, it will be dark in like an hour.”
“We'll be there in a bit,” Lilly said. Ali could hear the tent zipping up as she walked further down the trail to the fire pit.
When she reached the clearing, Ali saw that Wendi was having a smoke while she giggled at Spencer and Pete's pathetic attempts at starting a fire. Pete was blowing furiously, his usually pale cheeks red with the effort and smoke inhalation. Spencer was trying to light bits of cardboard torn from a cereal box they had hiked in to the camp site. They were only about a mile off the Forest Service road, along a popular trail in the summer, but now that it was late October, they had the forest to themselves. It was crisp and cool in the shade, but the sun had warmed the day nicely. Soon they would need the fire, though, for warmth and light.
“Dude,” Ali said. “You can't just light logs that big from cardboard. This your first campfire, or what?”
“Um-” Spencer looked sheepish. “Well, sort of. Yep. You, Pete?”
“No way, man,” he said with a smile. “Did this tons of times in Boy Scouts. It's just been a while.”
“We need to find smaller sticks and branches, all sizes graduated up to the size of those logs. You gotta start small, then build it up slowly. I'll go hunt for some kindling,” Ali said eagerly. She wanted to show off for Spencer, and was riding high on the prospect of a whole weekend with him.
“I'll come with you,” Spencer said, practically tripping over the logs as he got up. He walked off with Ali, leaving Wendi and Pete alone. Wendi's giggles could be heard over the sound of a bottle of wine being uncorked. “Those two are hopeless.”
“Agreed,” Ali said. She headed in the opposite direction of the tents, not wishing to walk up on anything going on in Lily and Chad's tent. They had been together since high school, so there was no ice to break there.
Silently they walked deeper into the forest. Ever since meeting Spencer, also a Freshman in her dorm, Ali had been dreaming of something like this moment. They found a nice area of deciduous trees and began to pick up the dry branches strewn around.
“Like this?” Spencer asked, holding up a few skinny twigs. He flashed his drop-dead smile.
“Perfect,” Ali said. She hoped she wasn't blushing, but he was so cute looking to her for approval like that. “From that size to a bit bigger will be great.”
They picked up small branches for several minutes, until their arms were full. Spencer was pretending to struggle under his load, trying to make Ali laugh. She was giggling as if she had already had some of the wine back at camp. They walked back in the direction of their camp as the sun began to set, lighting the orange and red leaves of autumn in a fiery glow. After several minutes of walking, Ali's arms began to ache. She could have sworn that camp was just up ahead, but the more they walked, the less familiar things looked.
“Hey, Spence,” she said over her tangle of twigs.
“Yeah?” he asked. “Sorry, I was spacing out. It's so pretty in this light. The forest is totally magical right now.”
“Um...” Ali hesitated. “Are we going the right direction? I feel like we've been walking for a long time. Shouldn't we be at camp by now?”
“Hmmm.” Spencer looked around and considered this. “Yeah, you might be right. I don't remember those white trees before, do you?”
Ali looked over and saw a stand of birch trees, their white bark reflecting the orange of the sky. While the grove felt inviting, she knew they hadn't passed it on the way to collect wood.
“No, definitely not,” she said. “Let's put our sticks down here and scout a little. It's going to be dark any minute.”
They dropped their bundles at their feet and began to retrace their steps. After a minute or two, Spencer walked back over to the grove of birches as if he had forgotten that they had lost their way.
“Spencer!” Ali called to him. She wondered what it was about that grove that called out to them both. Obviously he was feeling it more strongly than she was, but she was impelled to follow him despite the fact that she knew it wasn't the way to camp.
“Ali,” he said dreamily. “Ali, come with me. Let's just go into those trees and hang out for a bit. Come on, they are so beautiful.”
He walked to her and took her cold hand in his strong, warm guitar player's hand. It felt so good that she didn't complain when he led her into the stand of glowing birches. They stopped, still holding hands, and stood there for so long that the sky had turned midnight blue before Ali noticed that the glowing bark was reflecting the white of the full moon now. Adrenaline flowed into her veins for a moment, but soon dissipated in the sense of peace and calm that the grove seemed to emanate.
“Ali,” Spencer said softly, turning to face her.
“Yeah?”
“Can I kiss you?”
He didn't wait for an answer, just grabbed Ali in his arms and started kissing her with his full lips. Ali had never been kissed like that before, though she had had one serious boyfriend in high school. She was melting into Spencer's embrace, and he into hers. Before they knew it, they were lying on the ground making out in the fallen leaves. It seemed like hours, but it was hard to tell now that the sun was down. Time was stolen away as Ali and Spencer held each other, snuggled together as close as possible, locked in an intense embrace. Somehow, they must have drifted off to sleep there, because the next thing Ali knew, it was cold and dark and something was crunching through the fallen leaves nearby.
She shook Spencer, who groggily came to. He heard the sound of the footsteps, too, grabbing her more tightly in fear. Ali tried to get up, but it was like her whole body had fallen asleep.
“Spencer, we have to get up,” she whispered.
“I can't move my legs,” he said quietly. “Maybe that's just a deer, or something. Just be quiet. It will pass.”
Ali struggled to move, but found that her legs were tightly bound. She was able to finally move her hand to her legs and felt a somewhat removed jolt of adrenaline as she realized that there were vines wrapped tightly around them. With intense effort, she reached over to Spencer and felt that he, too, was being strangled by the vines. Meanwhile, the footsteps in the dry leaves were increasing, more and more feet seemed to be headed toward their grove from all directions. Just as Ali was about to scream, more vines grew out of the ground and bound her arms to the earth. It took the breath right out of her.
“What's happening Spence?” Ali asked with a shaky voice.
Spencer didn't get a chance to answer because blue lights began to peek out from behind the oddly glowing birch trees, circling them. The footsteps also encroached, slower than the blue flying lights, but more intent. They all stopped in a ring around Spencer and Ali. As she looked at them, she saw tiny faces illuminated by the blue lights and felt a cold, numbing energy filling her being. Behind the blue fairy-like creatures was a circle of tall, hooded figures who began to chant in guttural tones.
Slowly the flying blue-lighted fairies came closer, sucking more and more life out of Ali and Spencer. The vines had encircled them almost entirely, with barely space to see between. Their bodies were still entwined, which was the only thing keeping them sane. Within minutes, everything was dark and all they could hear was the strange chanting and the whispering wind.
“Oh Spirit of the Grove,” a deep voice spoke, “please accept this sacrifice of lovers. Give us the power we desire, and the lovers shall be given unto you. Give us strength, wealth, and influence, and in return we give these lovers to the Kingdom of Fairie. Accept this gift, and grant us the power to rule in this realm.”
A crack of thunder sounded, then everything went silent. Ali and Spencer fell into a dreamworld, or rather a cold nightmare realm of twisting, screaming souls, joining them in their fall. They were never seen or heard from again, despite the search and rescue teams combing the forest for weeks after they did not return to camp that night.
Every year, Lilly and Chad would go out to the end of the Forest Service road and hike in to the area where Ali and Spencer disappeared. On the seventh year anniversary of their disappearance, Chad and Lily brought roses to lay at the old camp, in memory of their friends. It was a particularly stormy day, with leaves swirling in the wind. Though it was only noon, somehow they got off the trail and found themselves in an area they hadn't seen before.
“Lilly, look at that amazing grove of birches,” Chad said. He led her by the hand to the shimmering white-barked trees.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Lilly whispered, unsure why she felt goosebumps rising all over her.
“C'mon, it's so pretty,” Chad said, sounding dazed.
Lilly followed reluctantly, but stopped short at the edge of the grove. Her eyes rested on a strange mound on the forest floor, right in the center of the white trees. At first it looked like a strange pile of leaves, but then she saw that it was a tangle of vines. It was in the exact shape of two people locked in an embrace. She knew instantly who those two people were.
Screaming, Lilly dropped the roses and ran. Chad woke out of his trance at the sound, running after her. In the shadows, the blue lights retreated, disappointed - this time...
Monday, August 2, 2010
July Writing Contest Winner - Coquille, from Ambitious Writers, Goodreads.com
Title: Night Raiders
Genre: Fantasy/Action-Adventure
Word Count: 2000 (thanks for the new limit, mods!)
Rating: T, just 'cuz it's a bit scary
Summary: Jules is stuck for a month at her boring grandma's farm in Indiana, while her best friend is moving in on her crush back in California. It totally sucks, until...
Jules slammed her laptop closed in frustration. Seriously? Dial-up? Eight hours of helping her grandmother cut peaches, slaving away over boiling water in a hot kitchen, for an hour of internet time, and it's dial-up? It had taken thirty of her allotted sixty minutes of “screen time” just to load one email, and that had been a stupid forwarded joke she had already seen. The second email, which took ten minutes to load had been worse, though. Way worse. Brianna, her now former best friend, had emailed Jules to tell her that River had come over the night she left and had been keeping Brianna company ever since.
Her River, hanging out at Brianna's house? Going to the beach, and teaching Brianna how to surf? While she had to stay here, in Indiana at her grandmother's house picking and canning fruit for a month, with nothing but dial-up internet to keep her in touch? Life was so unfair. Jules opened her phone again, praying for bars, but alas, her carrier didn't have any towers in the middle of freaking nowhere. Looking out the window, Jules saw nothing but farmland stretching as far as her eyes could see, except for a small stretch of forest bordering her grandma's land from the neighbor's.
“Julliet, honey,” her grandma called from the bottom of the wooden staircase, “screen time's over now. C'mon down and have some ice cream, we'll listen to the radio a bit before bed.”
“Okay,” Jules answered, in her syrupy voice, reserved for older relatives and adults that needed placating, “be right down.”
She and her grandma ate their homemade ice cream quickly as the big band music played on the radio. Gran had the old portable in the window so it would play out on the screen porch, which was the only place to stay remotely cool and mosquito free at the farm. Grandpa had died years earlier.
“Don't you get lonely out here all alone?” Jules asked her, staring out over the several hundred acre corn field that a stout man from a few properties down was renting now. Gran just worked in her garden and harvested from the orchard that they had planted when Jules' mom was a little girl. The rest of the food she needed she bought in town at the Piggly Wiggly, which she visited on the first and third Thursday of the month, after quilting bee.
“Oh, no, child,” she insisted, “got all I need right here. Your grandpa is still with me, in my heart, and this land is all I have ever known.”
They sat in silence, watching as the bats came out, swooping down over the pond to catch bugs in the failing light. Gran fell asleep in her chair before finally admitting that she needed to go to bed. “Nighty, night, Julliet, you go on off to bed soon. We'll get an early start on those strawberries.”
Jules smiled, mentally checking off the day. Two down, twenty eight to go. Ugh! She followed her gran into the house, grabbing her novel to read for a bit before bed. Two pages into her reading, Jules heard something outside the window. Creeping onto the dark screened porch to investigate, she almost screamed when someone's head popped up over the windowsill. About her age and with a flashlight under his face, he was holding his finger over his lips in the universal 'shhh' position. He motioned for Jules to come outside. She shook her head, feeling slightly nervous, but he just kept motioning. Sliding her clogs on with a sigh, she decided that anything would be more interesting than bed.
The night air felt cooler once Jules was outside. She had also realized who this guy was, once she recovered from the shock of his grand entrance. Scott Middleton, the neighbor boy from the farm on the other side of the forest. He had been in the sledding parties back in their childhood when she had come here in the winter and gone sledding down the only hill in the area, on the Middleton's side of the woods. Once they were out of earshot of the house, down by the pond, he spoke.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he whispered, “it's me, Scott, remember? I know you're Julliet. My mom told me that you were going to be here visiting your grandmother. I thought you might want to hang out with someone. It can get pretty boring here in the summer.”
“I kinda remember you,” she told him. “So what do you do for fun around here?”
Scott laughed, then ran toward her at full speed. Before she could think to duck, he had lifted her into his arms and made her feel like she was flying. Opening her eyes to be sure he wasn't throwing her into the pond, she realized that they were up in the air – both of them. Instantly, she began to scream.
“What?” Scott laughed, “You asked what we do for fun. Well, we fly for fun, right guys?”
The moon had risen, casting the sky in a silver light that illuminated three guys about her age with no shirts on and huge feathery wings, extensions of their muscular backs, steadily flapping in the breeze. Turning to get a good look at Scott, she saw that he, too, had sprouted wings. He had grown up, and time had been very kind, chiseling away the baby fat to reveal his strong jaw and aquiline features. She realized he was very handsome with his dark hair flying behind him as he gained speed among his whooping friends.
“Right, Scotty,” said a blond haired guy, flying next to them. “Hi, I'm Shep, don't worry, he's a good flier.”
“We'll catch you if you fall,” came another voice, from a black haired emo kid closing in from ahead. “Hey, I'm Elliot.”
“Hi,” she croaked, “is this really happening?”
“Scott didn't warn you?” the third flying friend said, slowing to meet up with them, “how cruel. Lovely to meet you, I'm Sam.”
“What are you?” Jules asked, holding fast to Scott's left arm held securely around her.
“Angels.” “Devils.” Sam and Elliot said in unison. They flew off chasing each other, rolling in the air with laughter.
“Don't listen to them,” Shep answered. “we had a spell put on us by the bird goddess of the forest, long ago when we were kids. We had a camp-out at Scott's one summer night five years ago when they were ten, and I was twelve.”
“I dared them to come out to the forest with me,” Scott continued, talking as they soared over the plains, “see, I had planned this joke. I hid some fireworks out in this tree and I was gonna scare the crap outta them.”
“But instead of fireworks,” Shep cut in, “the bird goddess was at the tree. She was eight feet tall, with a dress made of feathers, wings growing out of her shoulder blades, and she glowed with blue light.”
“She told us to listen good, that we were to be the winged protectors of our homeland. Our job was to patrol the night skies from the Spring Equinox to the Fall Equinox, and to kill the night raiders who come to steal the souls of the sleeping humans. Then she put a spell on us, and we could fly,” Scott told Jules. He adjusted his arm so that she was nestled along side him, body to body. She was covered in goose bumps, but not because it was cold. Something about him just felt incredibly good.
“Are there really night raiders?” Jules was suddenly worried for her grandmother, and herself, despite how safe she felt in Scott's strong arms.
“Yes,” Shep replied, spitting as he said it, “though few. We have only had to kill twelve in the five years, and nine of them were in that first summer. Last year there were none. May you never feel the fear of meeting a night raider. I wouldn't have allowed Scotty to bring you up with us if I thought we'd run into one.”
“Oh, good,” Jules murmured, she was scared, but loving the feeling of flying and being held so close to Scott, who really seemed like an angel. Her life back in California paled in comparison.
She felt Scot swooping down, losing altitude, and noticed that Elliot and Sam were down below. The smell of earth and the warmth it held from the sun greeted them as they gracefully landed by a rushing river. All the guys had their wings retracted and were jumping into the cool water. “C'mon in, the water's fine.”
Jules didn't hesitate; the water was too tempting. She kept her shorts and t-shirt on, diving right in to the dark river without a second thought. Something about these guys made her feel adventurous, either that or she had been so bored and worried about Bree and River that this distraction was more than welcome. They splashed and played in the water, floating down to a rope swing, where they played for another hour. Finally, yawning, Jules got out of the water.
“Tired?” Shep asked. Jules nodded reluctantly. “Hey guys, we should get her back. Just because we don't sleep in summer, doesn't mean she can stay awake.”
The guys gathered on the bank, arching their backs oddly as they grew their wings again. Scott came up behind Jules, taking her in both his arms this time. She welcomed his body heat as they took off, into the sky. Jules was loving every second of the flight this time.
“Ho, up ahead,” Elliot called out from his lead position, “shit, it's two of them. RAIDERS!!! Get the girl out of here!”
Scott's grip tightened as he peeled off from his three friends. Shep sailed forward, flapping his dark wings intensely. Forming a triangle with Elliot at the point, Shep and Sam both had produced short spears, which they held ready to strike. Scott had taken a lower arc, away from his friends, and was flapping his wings as hard as he could. Jules could feel his muscles rippling with the effort. Looking backwards, she saw the three protectors engage the two hauntingly dark and evil looking night raiders. Despite the fact that they were a hundred yards away by then, Jules could feel the cold hate within the flying raiders. Horrifying sounds came from that direction, but Scott kept flying.
“Maybe they need your help,” Jules cried, “Just let me down and help them.”
Scott shook his head, shifting his line of flight back toward the farm. His arms tightened around her waist, and for a second Jules felt his lips touch her hair. Within minutes they were on the ground in the dark forest.
“This is the forest between my parent's property and your granny's,” he whispered, still holding her tight, though they stood on solid ground. He pulled a feather out of his own wing, wincing as it came out. “Run to your room. Wave this feather in an infinity pattern, like this. It will protect the house, in case we can't stop them. Run.”
Wishing she wasn't in clogs, Jules ran for her life while the battle raged above. Silhouetted against the moon, she saw the winged protectors struggle with the night raiders. Finally she reached the house, breathless. Up in her dark room, she watched out the window as she waved Scott's feather in the infinity pattern. It felt like hours, but finally, there he was - Scott, in the window.
“We got 'em,” he smiled, hovering in midair. “What a night! Wanna come back out tomorrow?”
Genre: Fantasy/Action-Adventure
Word Count: 2000 (thanks for the new limit, mods!)
Rating: T, just 'cuz it's a bit scary
Summary: Jules is stuck for a month at her boring grandma's farm in Indiana, while her best friend is moving in on her crush back in California. It totally sucks, until...
Jules slammed her laptop closed in frustration. Seriously? Dial-up? Eight hours of helping her grandmother cut peaches, slaving away over boiling water in a hot kitchen, for an hour of internet time, and it's dial-up? It had taken thirty of her allotted sixty minutes of “screen time” just to load one email, and that had been a stupid forwarded joke she had already seen. The second email, which took ten minutes to load had been worse, though. Way worse. Brianna, her now former best friend, had emailed Jules to tell her that River had come over the night she left and had been keeping Brianna company ever since.
Her River, hanging out at Brianna's house? Going to the beach, and teaching Brianna how to surf? While she had to stay here, in Indiana at her grandmother's house picking and canning fruit for a month, with nothing but dial-up internet to keep her in touch? Life was so unfair. Jules opened her phone again, praying for bars, but alas, her carrier didn't have any towers in the middle of freaking nowhere. Looking out the window, Jules saw nothing but farmland stretching as far as her eyes could see, except for a small stretch of forest bordering her grandma's land from the neighbor's.
“Julliet, honey,” her grandma called from the bottom of the wooden staircase, “screen time's over now. C'mon down and have some ice cream, we'll listen to the radio a bit before bed.”
“Okay,” Jules answered, in her syrupy voice, reserved for older relatives and adults that needed placating, “be right down.”
She and her grandma ate their homemade ice cream quickly as the big band music played on the radio. Gran had the old portable in the window so it would play out on the screen porch, which was the only place to stay remotely cool and mosquito free at the farm. Grandpa had died years earlier.
“Don't you get lonely out here all alone?” Jules asked her, staring out over the several hundred acre corn field that a stout man from a few properties down was renting now. Gran just worked in her garden and harvested from the orchard that they had planted when Jules' mom was a little girl. The rest of the food she needed she bought in town at the Piggly Wiggly, which she visited on the first and third Thursday of the month, after quilting bee.
“Oh, no, child,” she insisted, “got all I need right here. Your grandpa is still with me, in my heart, and this land is all I have ever known.”
They sat in silence, watching as the bats came out, swooping down over the pond to catch bugs in the failing light. Gran fell asleep in her chair before finally admitting that she needed to go to bed. “Nighty, night, Julliet, you go on off to bed soon. We'll get an early start on those strawberries.”
Jules smiled, mentally checking off the day. Two down, twenty eight to go. Ugh! She followed her gran into the house, grabbing her novel to read for a bit before bed. Two pages into her reading, Jules heard something outside the window. Creeping onto the dark screened porch to investigate, she almost screamed when someone's head popped up over the windowsill. About her age and with a flashlight under his face, he was holding his finger over his lips in the universal 'shhh' position. He motioned for Jules to come outside. She shook her head, feeling slightly nervous, but he just kept motioning. Sliding her clogs on with a sigh, she decided that anything would be more interesting than bed.
The night air felt cooler once Jules was outside. She had also realized who this guy was, once she recovered from the shock of his grand entrance. Scott Middleton, the neighbor boy from the farm on the other side of the forest. He had been in the sledding parties back in their childhood when she had come here in the winter and gone sledding down the only hill in the area, on the Middleton's side of the woods. Once they were out of earshot of the house, down by the pond, he spoke.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he whispered, “it's me, Scott, remember? I know you're Julliet. My mom told me that you were going to be here visiting your grandmother. I thought you might want to hang out with someone. It can get pretty boring here in the summer.”
“I kinda remember you,” she told him. “So what do you do for fun around here?”
Scott laughed, then ran toward her at full speed. Before she could think to duck, he had lifted her into his arms and made her feel like she was flying. Opening her eyes to be sure he wasn't throwing her into the pond, she realized that they were up in the air – both of them. Instantly, she began to scream.
“What?” Scott laughed, “You asked what we do for fun. Well, we fly for fun, right guys?”
The moon had risen, casting the sky in a silver light that illuminated three guys about her age with no shirts on and huge feathery wings, extensions of their muscular backs, steadily flapping in the breeze. Turning to get a good look at Scott, she saw that he, too, had sprouted wings. He had grown up, and time had been very kind, chiseling away the baby fat to reveal his strong jaw and aquiline features. She realized he was very handsome with his dark hair flying behind him as he gained speed among his whooping friends.
“Right, Scotty,” said a blond haired guy, flying next to them. “Hi, I'm Shep, don't worry, he's a good flier.”
“We'll catch you if you fall,” came another voice, from a black haired emo kid closing in from ahead. “Hey, I'm Elliot.”
“Hi,” she croaked, “is this really happening?”
“Scott didn't warn you?” the third flying friend said, slowing to meet up with them, “how cruel. Lovely to meet you, I'm Sam.”
“What are you?” Jules asked, holding fast to Scott's left arm held securely around her.
“Angels.” “Devils.” Sam and Elliot said in unison. They flew off chasing each other, rolling in the air with laughter.
“Don't listen to them,” Shep answered. “we had a spell put on us by the bird goddess of the forest, long ago when we were kids. We had a camp-out at Scott's one summer night five years ago when they were ten, and I was twelve.”
“I dared them to come out to the forest with me,” Scott continued, talking as they soared over the plains, “see, I had planned this joke. I hid some fireworks out in this tree and I was gonna scare the crap outta them.”
“But instead of fireworks,” Shep cut in, “the bird goddess was at the tree. She was eight feet tall, with a dress made of feathers, wings growing out of her shoulder blades, and she glowed with blue light.”
“She told us to listen good, that we were to be the winged protectors of our homeland. Our job was to patrol the night skies from the Spring Equinox to the Fall Equinox, and to kill the night raiders who come to steal the souls of the sleeping humans. Then she put a spell on us, and we could fly,” Scott told Jules. He adjusted his arm so that she was nestled along side him, body to body. She was covered in goose bumps, but not because it was cold. Something about him just felt incredibly good.
“Are there really night raiders?” Jules was suddenly worried for her grandmother, and herself, despite how safe she felt in Scott's strong arms.
“Yes,” Shep replied, spitting as he said it, “though few. We have only had to kill twelve in the five years, and nine of them were in that first summer. Last year there were none. May you never feel the fear of meeting a night raider. I wouldn't have allowed Scotty to bring you up with us if I thought we'd run into one.”
“Oh, good,” Jules murmured, she was scared, but loving the feeling of flying and being held so close to Scott, who really seemed like an angel. Her life back in California paled in comparison.
She felt Scot swooping down, losing altitude, and noticed that Elliot and Sam were down below. The smell of earth and the warmth it held from the sun greeted them as they gracefully landed by a rushing river. All the guys had their wings retracted and were jumping into the cool water. “C'mon in, the water's fine.”
Jules didn't hesitate; the water was too tempting. She kept her shorts and t-shirt on, diving right in to the dark river without a second thought. Something about these guys made her feel adventurous, either that or she had been so bored and worried about Bree and River that this distraction was more than welcome. They splashed and played in the water, floating down to a rope swing, where they played for another hour. Finally, yawning, Jules got out of the water.
“Tired?” Shep asked. Jules nodded reluctantly. “Hey guys, we should get her back. Just because we don't sleep in summer, doesn't mean she can stay awake.”
The guys gathered on the bank, arching their backs oddly as they grew their wings again. Scott came up behind Jules, taking her in both his arms this time. She welcomed his body heat as they took off, into the sky. Jules was loving every second of the flight this time.
“Ho, up ahead,” Elliot called out from his lead position, “shit, it's two of them. RAIDERS!!! Get the girl out of here!”
Scott's grip tightened as he peeled off from his three friends. Shep sailed forward, flapping his dark wings intensely. Forming a triangle with Elliot at the point, Shep and Sam both had produced short spears, which they held ready to strike. Scott had taken a lower arc, away from his friends, and was flapping his wings as hard as he could. Jules could feel his muscles rippling with the effort. Looking backwards, she saw the three protectors engage the two hauntingly dark and evil looking night raiders. Despite the fact that they were a hundred yards away by then, Jules could feel the cold hate within the flying raiders. Horrifying sounds came from that direction, but Scott kept flying.
“Maybe they need your help,” Jules cried, “Just let me down and help them.”
Scott shook his head, shifting his line of flight back toward the farm. His arms tightened around her waist, and for a second Jules felt his lips touch her hair. Within minutes they were on the ground in the dark forest.
“This is the forest between my parent's property and your granny's,” he whispered, still holding her tight, though they stood on solid ground. He pulled a feather out of his own wing, wincing as it came out. “Run to your room. Wave this feather in an infinity pattern, like this. It will protect the house, in case we can't stop them. Run.”
Wishing she wasn't in clogs, Jules ran for her life while the battle raged above. Silhouetted against the moon, she saw the winged protectors struggle with the night raiders. Finally she reached the house, breathless. Up in her dark room, she watched out the window as she waved Scott's feather in the infinity pattern. It felt like hours, but finally, there he was - Scott, in the window.
“We got 'em,” he smiled, hovering in midair. “What a night! Wanna come back out tomorrow?”
Friday, July 2, 2010
June Writing Contest Winner - Ambitious Writers Group from Goodreads.com
Title: The lie
Genre: Drama/Tragedy
Word count: 996
Rating: Teen or K, just a little sad
Summary: A girl breaks up with her boyfriend to set him free.
“But, I just don't understand,” Cliff was holding his head in his hands, his already messy brown hair sliding between his fingers. Tears ran down his face as he looked at Violet pleading. “Vi, you can't leave me. I love you. Ever since the second we both reached for that book in the library and our hands touched. God, it was like electricity. You're my other half, the girl version of me. You always said it was the same for you.”
“Well, it isn't anymore,” Violet said angrily, steeling herself against Cliff's emotions. Hating herself for doing this to him.
It had been magic for her too, that day two years ago in the library. She had seen him before that day, looking hot and aloof, the intellectual rebel always at the library or reading in the independent bookstore/coffee shop downtown. He showed up in her small seaside town in June before her Sophmore year. She had been watching him for weeks before that fateful day when they both reached for A Winter's Tale. From that moment on, they had been inseparable.
“I love you, Violet,” he cried, tearing her heart in two, “so I guess I have to go now. If it's what you want. Remember, twenty years from now, if you decide you want me back, I'm there.”
“It's over, Cliff. You have to move on,” Violet said with calmness that belied all the pain raging inside her.
“Okay,” he sniffed, working at composure, “I'm gone. I still love you, that's all I'm going to say.”
“Have a good life,” she said as he walked out of the Coffee Clash.
Once he was gone, and she was safely in her car, Violet allowed herself to wallow in the misery she had just caused them both. She cried like there was no tomorrow, because, really, there wasn't. Not for her. Pressing play on her ipod, she indulged in their song one last time. Tears poured as she remembered the walks on the beach, the first time she let him read her writing, and he let her read his, the feel of his stubble when they kissed, his strong arms around her. She was a mess by the time the song ended. She wouldn't listen to it again.
The next day, Violet woke early to take one last walk on the beach. It was an amazing sunrise, purples giving way to pink, orange, and gold. The waves sparkled in the morning light as the tide came in. She undid the clasp on her necklace, the silver and turquoise one Cliff had given her for their two year anniversary. He said the next piece of jewelery he bought for her would be a wedding ring, if she was interested. She had laughed uncontrollably; of course she was interested. Now, she threw the necklace into the waves, letting it go.
It was only a week after he proposed to her when the test results had come back. The doctor himself had called to schedule a consultation. Her mom was impressed, thinking they were getting good service. Seated in his leather and mahogany office, they both knew it wasn't just good service. His news was a death blow, literally. She was dying. Six months at the most to live. Stage III ovarian cancer, at seventeen, even the doctor looked shaken as he apologized for having to deliver such news.
That was last Friday, today was Monday, and school would start again on Wednesday. Violet knew that a lot of girls at school had their eyes on Cliff. He was smart, sexy, sensitive, and fun. Even though he did his own thing, and wasn't into sports or organized activities, he got along with everyone. She had to set him free. Soon enough, he would forget all about her.
Violet trudged back up the hill to her house, where her mom was waiting. She was scheduled for surgery at nine a.m. in the city, a two hour drive away. After that, it would be chemo and radiation. She didn't want any of it, but her family had insisted. She had a one in two-hundred chance of surviving, and they were willing to take that chance. Rather than fight them, Violet succumbed to her family's wishes. At least it gave them a shred of hope.
“Goodbye Cliff,” she whispered through the lump in her throat as they passed the small shack he lived in with his dad by the pier. “I love you.”
* * *
(Six months later)
Cliff walked down the beach, with tears running down his cheeks. He had just left Violet's funeral, sprinting as fast as he could away from the sight of his true love in a box being lowered into the cold ground. Why didn't she tell him? That stupid story about a sudden opening in a travel abroad program in France, he was a fool to have believed it for a second. He knew she was sick, in pain, but he wanted to believe that she was better. So much better that she didn't need him anymore and was ready to rock France without him. She was so strong that day.
Nobody told him until it was too late. She died in the hospital only two hours away. He would've been there every day after school, holding her hand, giving her his energy, loving her, if only he had known.
Cliff fell onto the rocks, sobs racking his body, not even caring if the waves hit him. A sudden high wave came rushing past him, stirring the sands and smaller stones, revealing something shining. Cliff noticed it, then began scratching away at the stones to unearth a turquoise necklace, the one he had given Violet. Just at that moment the sun came out from behind the clouds and a seagull screeched in the wind.
“Goodbye, Vi,” he cried, “I'll love you forever.”
Genre: Drama/Tragedy
Word count: 996
Rating: Teen or K, just a little sad
Summary: A girl breaks up with her boyfriend to set him free.
“But, I just don't understand,” Cliff was holding his head in his hands, his already messy brown hair sliding between his fingers. Tears ran down his face as he looked at Violet pleading. “Vi, you can't leave me. I love you. Ever since the second we both reached for that book in the library and our hands touched. God, it was like electricity. You're my other half, the girl version of me. You always said it was the same for you.”
“Well, it isn't anymore,” Violet said angrily, steeling herself against Cliff's emotions. Hating herself for doing this to him.
It had been magic for her too, that day two years ago in the library. She had seen him before that day, looking hot and aloof, the intellectual rebel always at the library or reading in the independent bookstore/coffee shop downtown. He showed up in her small seaside town in June before her Sophmore year. She had been watching him for weeks before that fateful day when they both reached for A Winter's Tale. From that moment on, they had been inseparable.
“I love you, Violet,” he cried, tearing her heart in two, “so I guess I have to go now. If it's what you want. Remember, twenty years from now, if you decide you want me back, I'm there.”
“It's over, Cliff. You have to move on,” Violet said with calmness that belied all the pain raging inside her.
“Okay,” he sniffed, working at composure, “I'm gone. I still love you, that's all I'm going to say.”
“Have a good life,” she said as he walked out of the Coffee Clash.
Once he was gone, and she was safely in her car, Violet allowed herself to wallow in the misery she had just caused them both. She cried like there was no tomorrow, because, really, there wasn't. Not for her. Pressing play on her ipod, she indulged in their song one last time. Tears poured as she remembered the walks on the beach, the first time she let him read her writing, and he let her read his, the feel of his stubble when they kissed, his strong arms around her. She was a mess by the time the song ended. She wouldn't listen to it again.
The next day, Violet woke early to take one last walk on the beach. It was an amazing sunrise, purples giving way to pink, orange, and gold. The waves sparkled in the morning light as the tide came in. She undid the clasp on her necklace, the silver and turquoise one Cliff had given her for their two year anniversary. He said the next piece of jewelery he bought for her would be a wedding ring, if she was interested. She had laughed uncontrollably; of course she was interested. Now, she threw the necklace into the waves, letting it go.
It was only a week after he proposed to her when the test results had come back. The doctor himself had called to schedule a consultation. Her mom was impressed, thinking they were getting good service. Seated in his leather and mahogany office, they both knew it wasn't just good service. His news was a death blow, literally. She was dying. Six months at the most to live. Stage III ovarian cancer, at seventeen, even the doctor looked shaken as he apologized for having to deliver such news.
That was last Friday, today was Monday, and school would start again on Wednesday. Violet knew that a lot of girls at school had their eyes on Cliff. He was smart, sexy, sensitive, and fun. Even though he did his own thing, and wasn't into sports or organized activities, he got along with everyone. She had to set him free. Soon enough, he would forget all about her.
Violet trudged back up the hill to her house, where her mom was waiting. She was scheduled for surgery at nine a.m. in the city, a two hour drive away. After that, it would be chemo and radiation. She didn't want any of it, but her family had insisted. She had a one in two-hundred chance of surviving, and they were willing to take that chance. Rather than fight them, Violet succumbed to her family's wishes. At least it gave them a shred of hope.
“Goodbye Cliff,” she whispered through the lump in her throat as they passed the small shack he lived in with his dad by the pier. “I love you.”
* * *
(Six months later)
Cliff walked down the beach, with tears running down his cheeks. He had just left Violet's funeral, sprinting as fast as he could away from the sight of his true love in a box being lowered into the cold ground. Why didn't she tell him? That stupid story about a sudden opening in a travel abroad program in France, he was a fool to have believed it for a second. He knew she was sick, in pain, but he wanted to believe that she was better. So much better that she didn't need him anymore and was ready to rock France without him. She was so strong that day.
Nobody told him until it was too late. She died in the hospital only two hours away. He would've been there every day after school, holding her hand, giving her his energy, loving her, if only he had known.
Cliff fell onto the rocks, sobs racking his body, not even caring if the waves hit him. A sudden high wave came rushing past him, stirring the sands and smaller stones, revealing something shining. Cliff noticed it, then began scratching away at the stones to unearth a turquoise necklace, the one he had given Violet. Just at that moment the sun came out from behind the clouds and a seagull screeched in the wind.
“Goodbye, Vi,” he cried, “I'll love you forever.”
Friday, June 4, 2010
May Contest Winner from Ambitious Writers at Goodreads
Olivia, our most awesome Mushroom, won May's writing contest with this entry:
Genre: Romance-Heartbreak. :'(
Rating: K+?
Word Count: 561
Summary: A girl writes a letter to the boy she loves on Valentine's Day, explaining her feelings.
February 14
Dear Alex,
You probably will never read this. In fact, you won’t. After I write this, I will shred it, or eat it, or watch it burn in a fireplace, depending on how dramatic I feel like being. Do you know why I’m writing this letter? It’s because I’m too shy to tell you my feelings to your face. Because I think I’m in love with you.
I know you’ll never like me back. For one thing, you’re like one of those stereotypical popular high school kids. Always laughing, the center of a crowd of beautiful people. You’re in all the AP and Honors classes, and you still get straight A’s. Me? Well, I’m in the average classes and I still barely scrape by with C’s and a few B’s. You’re like a beautiful palace, and I’m a rundown shack. (And the worst simile creator award goes to…) What I’m trying to say is, you’re so…so Alex, and I’m so Marissa. And what can be more different than you and I?
For another thing, I know that you’ve dreamed to be a doctor; that you’re planning to be a doctor when you go to college. What kind of an insensitive person would I be to try to distract you from your dream?
Have you ever felt your heart break, Alex? Have you ever felt your heart shatter into teeny tiny little pieces, and still love someone with all of those little pieces? Have you ever loved someone that wouldn’t – couldn’t – ever love you back? I have. I know that you’re smart enough to guess who I’m talking about.
I did everything I could for you to realize how much I love you. Every day I walked by your locker, said hi to you. And I always blushed when you said hi back. I wrote little notes and stuffed them in your locker when you weren’t looking. I always cheered you on at every football game, even if we were losing. Do you know how today, everyone was supposed to give everybody in our grade a valentine? When I was handing them out, I gave you a special one. You may not have noticed, or even cared if you knew, and I understand that. Do you want to know what I did?
I sealed it with a kiss.
I didn’t have lipstick on or anything weird or dramatic like that. I just kissed it. It may have been invisible to everyone else, but to me it was as public as a shout in complete and utter silence. I was hoping that you might somehow, against all odds, realize what I did.
But at the end of the day, I realized what a burden I might be to you. Who, after all, would want me, of all people, when they could choose from any girl in all four grades of our high school? So I promise I’ll stop with these hopes and dreams, because when they’re crushed, when all my hope is extinguished, it’ll hurt more if I draw them out. If I feed that tiny little flame of hope, I know it will contribute more to my sorrow. I promise I’ll stop with these hopeless fantasies. And when I’m finished with this letter, I promise that I’ll do my best to move on.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Alex.
Marissa
Genre: Romance-Heartbreak. :'(
Rating: K+?
Word Count: 561
Summary: A girl writes a letter to the boy she loves on Valentine's Day, explaining her feelings.
February 14
Dear Alex,
You probably will never read this. In fact, you won’t. After I write this, I will shred it, or eat it, or watch it burn in a fireplace, depending on how dramatic I feel like being. Do you know why I’m writing this letter? It’s because I’m too shy to tell you my feelings to your face. Because I think I’m in love with you.
I know you’ll never like me back. For one thing, you’re like one of those stereotypical popular high school kids. Always laughing, the center of a crowd of beautiful people. You’re in all the AP and Honors classes, and you still get straight A’s. Me? Well, I’m in the average classes and I still barely scrape by with C’s and a few B’s. You’re like a beautiful palace, and I’m a rundown shack. (And the worst simile creator award goes to…) What I’m trying to say is, you’re so…so Alex, and I’m so Marissa. And what can be more different than you and I?
For another thing, I know that you’ve dreamed to be a doctor; that you’re planning to be a doctor when you go to college. What kind of an insensitive person would I be to try to distract you from your dream?
Have you ever felt your heart break, Alex? Have you ever felt your heart shatter into teeny tiny little pieces, and still love someone with all of those little pieces? Have you ever loved someone that wouldn’t – couldn’t – ever love you back? I have. I know that you’re smart enough to guess who I’m talking about.
I did everything I could for you to realize how much I love you. Every day I walked by your locker, said hi to you. And I always blushed when you said hi back. I wrote little notes and stuffed them in your locker when you weren’t looking. I always cheered you on at every football game, even if we were losing. Do you know how today, everyone was supposed to give everybody in our grade a valentine? When I was handing them out, I gave you a special one. You may not have noticed, or even cared if you knew, and I understand that. Do you want to know what I did?
I sealed it with a kiss.
I didn’t have lipstick on or anything weird or dramatic like that. I just kissed it. It may have been invisible to everyone else, but to me it was as public as a shout in complete and utter silence. I was hoping that you might somehow, against all odds, realize what I did.
But at the end of the day, I realized what a burden I might be to you. Who, after all, would want me, of all people, when they could choose from any girl in all four grades of our high school? So I promise I’ll stop with these hopes and dreams, because when they’re crushed, when all my hope is extinguished, it’ll hurt more if I draw them out. If I feed that tiny little flame of hope, I know it will contribute more to my sorrow. I promise I’ll stop with these hopeless fantasies. And when I’m finished with this letter, I promise that I’ll do my best to move on.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Alex.
Marissa
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