Paper Mountain

Ignoring Them Doesn't Make Them Disappear

2012-02-24T22:57:00.001-06:00

Shadows crept across the wall. I tried to ignore them. I failed.

My gaze drifted out the window again and again, but the orange simulated sun stayed pinned to the center of the sky. Its fake warmth faded as the shadows grew longer, making goosebumps pop up on my arms. My holographic classmates seemed unaffected, continuing their chatter.

I grew aware of my heart pounding, pushing blood through the veins in my neck and wrists.

The shadows covered the whiteboard so the bright words were no longer legible. The overhead fluorescent lights didn’t help and the sun dimmed as I watched. Color seeped away, dragged down into the darkness. My peers sat in their desks, tight-lipped with the complexion of corpses. I was alone in a grey cell.

I hugged my legs to my chest and shivered, my teeth clanking together.
The shadows pooled around my desk. There was no longer enough light to see the wall farthest from me.

A mechanical voice filled the room, “You have been disqualified from the program. Your simulation will now end.”

Dry heaves wracked my body.

The shadows touched my foot. They were cold. The seat disappeared from under me as everything faded.
-200 words

YAK Fest - Afterword

2012-02-20T22:57:00.000-06:00

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Over the past few months I have mentioned here or there in comments that I would be going to my first author signing soon. Ellen Hopkins would be coming within three hours of me. On Saturday, January 16th, I went to meet her at the Young Adult Keller (YAK) Book Festival.

BUSINESS CARDS

My business card.

During the signing period of the festival, my mother bought my sister a T-shirt. While she was doing this, she told the shirt vendor about my flash fiction pieces in Campaigner Challenges 2011 (you may have noticed she does this a lot). The saleswoman was a teacher and wanted to know if I would like to speak to her class about writing. She asked if I had a business card. I didn't, but you can bet my mom made sure I got some as soon as possible.

We used Staples. You go online and choose one of their templates. You type in your information. If you don't like the font color, size, style, or simply the placement of the words, change it. When you're happy, you place your order and the cards are delivered to the nearest Staples location.

SCHOOL SPEAKING

As mentioned above, while at the festival a teacher asked if I would speak to her class. I don't really know how I feel about this. On one hand, it would be great exposure and marketing. On the other, what am I even marketing? I don't have a book published. I'm just a girl with a blog. What would I even talk about? How would I even speak?

If given the opportunity, should I speak to this teacher's class?

COLIN GILBERT (again)

Lizzie's copy of The Mattress Parlor plus note.

As mentioned in Part 3, by the time Alisha went to buy her copy of Colin Gilbert's The Mattress Parlor he had sold out. She ordered one as did Lizzie (though she never paid). Recently, those books came in, along with a free CD of his poetry (which I will eventually steal from Lizzie, shh).

Does anyone else find it hilarious that he thinks Lizzie is the writer?

I hope you've had a fun time reading about my experience at the Young Adult Keller Book Festival. How was your first author signing? What do you think of the authors I have mentioned throughout the series?

Prompt #50: I believe she said something like... "Grant me the serenity to change the things I cannot accept, the courage to accept the things I find acceptable, and the wisdom to know when it's time to kick your butt."

2012-02-16T19:20:00.000-06:00

To all my new followers, I promise I don't always just post my writing.

            The two gods met on an open pavilion above the clouds. She appeared from nothing. He was already there.
            His eyebrows raised and his lips curled at the sight of her. “You have changed your mind.”
            She drew herself up so she towered over him. “You sound pretty confident. I wouldn’t be if I were you.”
            “But, Celi, you are not me. Unfortunately.” His grin grew wider as he added, “For you.”
            Rage outlined her features. “I would rather think it was unfortunate for you.”
            “You must think me a fool, if you believe for a second that I do not know why you trapped me here. You want the very thing I have offered you. I do not see why you don’t take it.”
            Celi turned on her heel, strutting to the edge of the pavilion. She stared over the side, but saw nothing. Clouds did not make good windows. She tilted her head back, her arms crossed. “I wish to be able to change those things I desire to change.”
            He clicked his tongue. “You know that is not how it is done, Celi.”
            She looked over her shoulder, a lock of hair falling down into her face. Her eyes latched onto his, her pupils turning into red tunnels. Her voice turned deep and lyrical. “I, Celi, goddess of traps and cages, do agree that Noor, god of yearning and fulfillment, will be released from my snare in exchange for three wishes.”
            “Ah,” Noor exhaled softly. “So this is your plan.”
            Neither one of them moved. Celi waited. Noor thought.
            “I assume I will not be allowed to leave until all three wishes are granted?”
            She nodded, her chin tilting down, never allowing her gaze to drop.
            He brought his fingers together, tip for tip. A hum buzzed around in his throat. It escaped between his lips when they parted. “Since you have altered my first offer of one wish to three, I think it fair that I should be able to alter something as well.”
            He straightened and his face grew solemn. “I, Noor, god of yearning and fulfillment, do agree to the exchange proposed under the condition that if the wishes are not brought forth within the century, Celi, goddess of traps and cages, will forfeit her powers to me and become mortal.”
            Celi smiled and tucked the strand of hair behind her ear. “And so it is done.”
            “And so it is done,” Noor echoed.
He snapped his fingers, the noise unusually loud. “I have given you your first wish.”
Celi finally looked away, glancing down once more at the clouds. “Excellent. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”
She stepped off the edge of the pavilion and dropped through the hole she had created in the clouds.

The worshipers of Celi grew fat as their hunting traps caught animal after animal. Nonbelievers starved as their crops died from lack of rain. And so it was for fifty years.

The pavilion was no longer new. The marble was chipped in many places, accenting the stains of age. A column leaned precariously, as if it was considering dropping the roof. Noor ran his fingers along its ridges and pondered what its greatest desire would be: to stand tall or to crumble.
“Perhaps I should visit more often.”
Noor’s hand slid down the stone and flopped back to his side. He continued to study the cracks before him. “You’re going to have to. Half of your time is already up.”
Her shoes clicked against the floor as she approached. Her shadow fell over him, obscuring the light. “And I bet you’ve been counting every second.”
“As a miser counts coins,” he admitted. “Now, what is your wish?” He turned to face her.
Celi reached out her hand, resting her elbow on his shoulder, and stroked the column. “You like this design don’t you, Noor?”
“No, not especially.”
“Good.” The marble morphed under her fingers, stitching back together. “I didn’t much care for it either.”
She drew her hand back and drifted off, circling the border of the pavilion. Her fingers barely grazed each support and the rock turned whole again. She ended her restoration lap at his side, her hands on her hips as she surveyed her work. “That’s more like it.”
Noor gave the smallest of nods.
“Pity I can’t always keep it this way.” She rocked back and forth, her hands clasped behind her. “Of course, I could keep returning it to its original state, but what a waste of time.”
She peeked at him from the corner of her eye, but his expression remained smooth, slack. His hands hung serenely at his sides. There was not a tense muscle in his body.
Celi sighed. “Fine. I wish for the ability to make things stay the same.”
Noor stomped his foot. The floor vibrated. “Your second wish has been fulfilled.”
“Wonderful.” Celi smiled, stepping away. Just before she jumped over the side, she paused. “I’ll even do you a favor.”
The slabs of limestone writhed, coming back together like lost puzzle pieces. The pavilion looked as it had the first time he laid eyes on it.
“It will now stay like this. You’re welcome.” And she was gone.
Noor sighed. At least when the columns cracked the first time it was something new to look at.

The worshipers of Celi lived in houses that never required repairs. The nonbelievers slept outside, not bothering to build new homes for the fires to consume once again. And this lasted for fifty years.

Celi arrived gasping. Her fingers clawed at her chest, trying to dig out the pain. She fell to her knees, her eyes rolling.
Noor sat cross-legged before her. A small hourglass snuggled in his palm, the last grains trickling to the bottom. He smiled. “Hello, Celi.”
Her tongue twisted in her mouth, but she couldn’t push out the words. The pathways of her body were too small. The pain couldn’t leave through any of them. Bile rushed up her throat, just enough to taste, then slithered back down. She fell onto her hands, coughing.
“You think at your age you would be able to read clocks,” Noor continued. Five grains remained in the top of the timepiece.
One measly word tumbled out. “I…”
And it was over. The final grain tumbled down into the pile. Celi stopped convulsing as the sand settled. Everything was still. A soft breeze swept through.
Celi slowly pushed herself up. Her eyes grew millimeter by millimeter. The world was huge. She drew her hands in, shrinking into herself. Or perhaps she was tiny. Her chest hiccupped as it forced her to breathe. The air burned the inside of her nose and made her head feel light.
Noor set the hourglass aside and gazed at her. She flinched and heat crept up her neck. A frown line creased her forehead and she cleared her throat. “So, you think you’ve won.”
The grin returned to his face. “I know I have.”
He snapped his fingers and the outline of the pavilion wavered. The stone turned spongy under her feet, but it was still there. The smile dripped off his face. “What have you done, Celi?”
“Noor, god of yearning and fulfillment, will be released from my snare in exchange for three wishes.” Celi’s voice was high in her ears, but its effect was still strong. Noor’s face twisted.
She held up a finger. “I wish to be able to change those things I desire to change.”
Noor stood and ran at the edge of the pavilion, but an invisible wall stopped him from going over. He pressed his body against it, his cheek pressed flat.
Celi put up her middle finger. “I wish for the ability to make things stay the same.”
Noor stared at her with one eye, his mouth hanging open.
She stood on her toes and raised three fingers above her head. “I wish for you to forfeit your powers to me.”
Noor’s whole frame shook. “I will not.”
“But you must.” Celi’s limbs went slack. “You agreed to the deal, so you must carry it out.” Her lips rose lazily.
“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, but his feet came down in two quick stomps.
He fell to the ground, his back arching. Celi crouched and placed her palm on his chest. She closed her eyes, reveling in the power that tingled in her fingers, then her arms. It took seconds to spread through her body, but several minutes passed before the prickling stopped.
Noor collapsed. Celi stood and walked away. She stopped with her toes hanging in open air to glancee over her shoulder. Noor reached out, his arm just leaving his side. Celi smiled. “Don’t worry. I haven’t forgotten.”
She leaned over and kissed the nearest column then she tipped forward into open sky. Above her, the pavilion disappeared.

The worshipers of Celi are building a temple where Noor hit the Earth. There are no nonbelievers.

There Are Better Places for Hooks Than Fish Lips [Hook, Line, and Sinker Blogfest]

2012-02-13T16:10:00.000-06:00

My Nana and Papa occasionally take my sister and I fishing. It's fun, but when I get a bite, I feel bad for jerking the hook through the fish's lip. However, as a writer I'll take all the bites I can get without a lick of guilt when I set the hook in my readers. At least, I really hope I set the hook in my readers! And that's what this blogfest is all about.

I want to know if my opening hooks you. You can answer with a simple yes or no, or you could answer any of the questions in the guidelines:

Does the character have a personality I can fall into easily? This includes any dialogue exchanged.
Is the world around them set up to compliment the character as they're introduced?
Are there secondary characters to assist with the hook?
Lastly, would I read more?

THINKING OF YOU

(502 words)

The Enclosure stood solitary and alone. Waving grass went on forever, broken only by the long road connecting the Enclosure to the rest of the world. A peaceful scene, but it left a nasty taste in my mouth.

"Rebbsie. Look." Tass’s voice broke through my concentration.

Her pointing finger indicated a delivery truck, the size of a small semi, puttering down the road. Most likely a food shipment. They were due for one.

My body reacted instantly, knowing the plan before I did. Ground flew under my feet as I ran. My legs stretched, the muscles pulling taut. It felt wonderful after squatting in the grass for so long. The wind felt cool and free against my skin. Strands of my dark hair flew in my face and I shook my head, trying to clear my field of vision. Without looking, I knew Tass was behind me just as, without me telling her, she knew what I was going to do. We were going to hitch a ride. And we couldn’t exactly ask for it.

The truck sped toward us. I could see the driver’s face, every detail down to the zit on his chin. He was nothing but another young hot shot who took the job to have a car. His eyes hooded, he bobbed his head to the music blaring from his speakers. He hadn’t noticed me yet, but when he did, it was going to be a problem. Might as well solve it sooner rather than later. I launched a wave at him, the pulse of it starting at the base of my skull. I couldn’t hide myself, I wasn't a senses Trol, but I could do the next best thing. [Check out that jogger. Man, she’s built. Must be from running around this huge ass field.] He peeled his eyes all the way open to stare at me. He was drooling too much to even notice Tass, the pig. My hand came up, fingers wiggling. With minds like his, it was easy to fit myself into a situation where I didn’t belong.

The old engine revved, the vibrations pounding against my skin. Before the vehicle passed me and his face disappeared from sight, I caught his smile. Oh, how impressive he thought hewas. I didn’t mind. He had done exactly what I wanted him to.

The surface under my feet turned hard and inflexible when I touched concrete. Breath rasped through my throat as I raced across the asphalt after the truck, waiting for my chance. It was all about timing. The vehicle slowed. Perhaps the driver thought that would help him locate me. I leaped, my trained legs propelling me beyond normal human heights.

My knees collided with the top of the metal container and I resisted the urge to curse, biting my lip. The landing was already too much noise. My neck swiveled, searching. Tass crouched beside me, her eyes shining from the adrenaline. We were so in sync, we jumped at the same time.

*Check out the other participants here.

Run! Run Like a Giant [Insert Your Scariest Nightmare Here] is After You!

2012-02-06T08:01:00.001-06:00

It's that time again. What time? You don't know? Where have you been for the past two years? Under a rock? Well then, you need to hurry on over to Rachael Harrie's blog and sign up for the Fourth Writers' Platform Building Campaign! You have until the 15th, but you don't really want to wait that long, do you? I knew it!

What's it about? Um, ah... I think Rachael explains it best! And since this is such a short post, you have plenty of time to click on over and read all about it. So hurry, before it's too late!

NYR Update - 1 Month

2012-02-01T03:00:00.105-06:00

February 1st. Already one month into the year. A twelfth of the time I have to fulfill my New Year's Resolutions gone, just like that. And because it was just like that, I realized I have to focus on my goals. I can't get distracted or 2012 will be over before I know it.

So, I decided that at the beginning of each month I will write up a report on how I did the previous month. I will not be grading my progress, only stating what I've been doing toward each respective goal. My hope is that this will keep me working by both serving as a reminder of what I want and making me accountable for my actions.

I will have THINKING OF YOU ready for query. I imported the document to Scrivener and formatted it (mostly) to my liking. I went over my first chapter critiques and revised my first chapter. I noted some changes I need to make later in the novel.
I will have two new first drafts. NA
I will win National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). NA
I will submit at least two short stories to anthologies and/or contests. I made a small list of contests and places to submit. I came up with a basic idea for a story that I will be entering in one such contest.
I will read at least one hundred books. I read nine books. Goodreads tells me that I'm right on track.
I will post at least one vlog a month. I posted my vlog for January. I decided on the vlog idea for February.
I will exercise. I ran twice, once for thirty minutes and once for twenty. I am also making a slight revision to this resolution to make it more specific. I have found this makes it easier to stay on course. I will exercise in some way once a week.

I tried another method to keep myself on track, as well. I made myself a list of goals for each day. It sort of worked, and I liked it. While it reminded me of what I had to do, I thought of it as a flexible outline, keeping away the stress. I still want to play with it, however. Perhaps I'll try a list per week, or a list per three days.

Tell me about your progress, whether it be on your WIP, your New Year's Resolutions, or other goals and projects you might have. What do you do to keep yourself focused?

Is Blog "Published" Considered Published?

2012-01-30T03:00:00.001-06:00

If you've been reading my blog for a while (or a month), you know that one of my New Year's Resolutions was to "submit at least two short stories." Thanks to Theresa who sent me a whole list of contests and literary magazines, Charity who writes posts on any contest she thinks worth entering, and Michael who makes sure I read those posts, I have a few places in mind. All of them require the submission to be unpublished.

If you've been reading my blog a little while (or a year) longer, you know that I've posted many short stories thanks to The Chrysalis Experiment. Many of those stories are good or at least have the potential to be, if I do say so myself, and I think they would have a chance at winning or being accepted (whichever the case may be).

My only concern is, if I have posted or "published" the story on my blog, is it considered published? Would I be able to submit it? What do you think?

ARCs: My First + Fever Giveaway

2012-01-29T00:51:00.000-06:00

An Advanced Readers Copy (ARC) is something I consider to be a great treasure. There are limited copies and, while the author may get a couple to keep or give away, they are usually reserved for reviewers and other people who will publicize the upcoming book. Also, there is something special about getting the opportunity to read a book before everyone else does.

I received my very first ARC, All Different Kinds of Free, from a giveaway at Michelle Fayard's blog. It was a simple matter of commenting on a post and getting picked by random.org, but I was so excited to be chosen for this prize. It gave me a fluttery, happy feeling.

The book did not. That is not to say that it was not a good story, indeed I enjoyed the plot quite a lot. It was rife with tension and the main character gripped me. I found myself wanting to get through the other various POVs so I could get back to her. Nay, it was the subject matter.

As I have mentioned before, I do not understand why people look down upon other people for their differences, especially skin color. Darker skin is simply an adaption in order to survive comfortably in a hotter climate. And people think (or thought) they can (could) own other people because of this? There is no comprehending it for me. I have thought about it many times and all I end up doing is angering and frustrating myself. I do not get how racism and such cruelty can exist. Frankly, I'm rather glad I don't.

All Different Kinds of Free was a powerful book that told a good story. It shone a spotlight on a piece of history that most overlook. I am glad it was my first ARC experience.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because I'm about to tell you how you can get your own ARC.

My critique partner, Christina, is giving away an ARC of Fever, the second book in The Chemical Garden dystopian series and sequel to Wither, away over at her book blog. All you have to do is fill out the form linked in the post for a chance to win. I wish you luck.

YAK Fest - Part 3 [Colin Gilbert and Others]

2012-01-27T03:00:00.161-06:00

Part 1 | Part 2

[Note: Part 3 is chronological within itself, but is not when compared to Part 2.]

Over the past few months I have mentioned here or there in comments that I would be going to my first author signing soon. Ellen Hopkins would be coming within three hours of me. On Saturday, January 16th, I went to meet her at the Young Adult Keller (YAK) Book Festival.

LUNCH

"I" is for "Indians."

After the first panel, it was time for lunch. They had food at the event, but we ended up at McDonald's (my father later informed me there was a Chick-fil-A a block in the other direction -.-). After eating, my parents and sister dropped us off and went to visit one of my father's friends.

We arrived a little early for the second panel, so lounged around in the school's cafeteria. There was live entertainment, courtesy of a few (I assumed) students and they announced some of the door prize winners. While sitting there, we made the glorious discovery you see to your left. We assumed Indians were the high school's mascot.

Finally, it was time. We decided to split up. Alisha and Jess went to the Slam Poetry Session. Lizzie and I proceeded to the Speculative Fiction Panel.

THE SPECULATIVE FICTION PANEL

Back row from left: Random, Random, Me, Lizzie

Five authors (Samantha Cook, Krissi Dallas, Jeff Hirsch, Cory Putman Oakes, and J. M. Richardson) took part in this panel. Once again a moderator asked questions, then opened the Q&A afterward.

The authors had question after question shot at them: Did you write when they you were young? Ms. Dallas told of reading over her old journals. If you could choose, what world, what book, would you live in? Everyone agreed that The Eleventh Plague (Mr. Hirsch's book) was at the bottom of the list. How did you come up with your title? Who did your cover art? What is your favorite word? The panelists answered everything with honesty and a touch of humor.

When it was over, Lizzie and I checked on Alisha and Jess. Their session wasn't over yet so we headed to the station where they sold the books (courtesy of The Book Carriage). After much deliberation, I bought You by Charles Benoit and Girl Meets Boy edited by Kelly Milner Halls who also contributed. About this time, we noticed people exiting the Slam Poetry Session and headed that way.

THE SLAM POETRY SESSION

Now, while the Poetry Session had sounded interesting, the program informed us actual poetry writing was involved and neither I nor Lizzie was really in the mood. However, when we went to collect Jess and Alisha, they convinced us to stay (turns out you didn't have to write). I am so unbelievably glad they did.

Colin Gilbert, the performance poet, was alone and, while there was a moderator, she was simply there to oversee the session. He performed a few poems (I've posted a video of one below) and recited a couple of his haikus. Here's my favorite (I don't think I got it exactly right. I'm missing a syllable.):

She always said love
was like flying so he pushed
her off a cliff

He also showed us a trick to write quick, random poems. You never really know what you'll end up with, and what kind of ideas will come of it. It doesn't work well for me, but it might for you.

Think of five or six nouns. Set them to the side.
Pick a general category (ie. animals) and come up with five or six nouns that fall under it.
Match verbs to the second group of nouns.
Now take those verbs and attach them to the first group of nouns.

Jess did several variations of one of these poems until she got the following. She says it's about me (she calls me her majestic pony because of my hair).

Scary laughs take chills to my back
Then randomly behind me comes a thwack
I turn and what to see?
But my majestic pony looking at me.
She gumms our shoulders
Sometimes bites
I'd save her from a boulder

Besides all this, Colin said a couple things that struck me. He told us we will get rejected. Nothing new in that. But then, he stated that he liked rejections, enjoyed getting them. I have never heard a writer of any kind say that, even though that's how I felt about my first rejection and how I feel when I think of future ones. The second thing? Everyone is a great writer until they reach the age of eight. Eight is when they start teaching you the boundaries of sentence structure, paragraphs, punctuation. And though I love those things, there was a simple beauty in that.

THE (first part of the) BOOK SIGNING

My favorite out of all seven.

We headed back to the cafeteria for the signing. The area where we sat previously was actually a sort of pit, closed in by a stage, a hallway, the area where their
food was served, and another section that might have held tables for eating on a normal day. The tables sitting there on Saturday were for signing.

Though the authors hadn't arrived yet, people were already lining up. Jess and I left Lizzie and Alisha in the pit and went to join them. At first, we were going to get in Ellen Hopkins' line, but because it looped and other lines cut through it, it was very confusing and we couldn't find the end (hey, we're both blondes). We decided to start with the shortest line and work our way to the longest.

While everyone was waiting, they announced more door prize winners. And Lizzie won! Since Colin's line was right by the stairs, I left Jess and rushed to see what she got. She had chosen from the prizes a "bound object" called This Is Not a Book. I had just enough time to jump back in line before the authors showed up.

Colin was selling his book (The Mattress Parlor) at his table. I paid for mine and he signed it: "For a Brooklynn so great she got an extra "N." I loved this because everyone is always spelling my name wrong. Jess got her copy and we headed over to the next line.

Ms. Halls signed Girl Meets Boy and told me to enjoy.

Alisha came up to buy her copy of Colin's book and found that he had run out. He took her money, her address, and promised to send her one. We got in line for Charles Benoit. About this time, Jess wandered off (after leaving me with the two books I wanted Ms.Hopkins to sign, which later turned to four), and Lizzie showed up with my sister in tow, saying my mother had told her to watch her while she went to the restroom.

Mr. Benoit signed You, implementing the title into his signature, as he asked us what school we attended. We told him and moved on to the great adventure of finding the end of the Ellen Hopkins line, where my mother found us.

DINNER THEN HOME

We got out of there around five and headed home, stopping in Decatur, Texas for dinner. We ate at a small Chinese buffet (I swear without them my family would starve). Unfortunately, about then, my sister, who had just recovered from a stomach bug, informed us that she thought she was going to throw up. And she did (don't worry she made it to the bathroom). The plus side to that is she no longer likes McDonald's.

We then drove the rest of the way home, all five of us kids half comatose. At my house, my friends gathered their things and my mom dropped Alisha at her grandmother's and Lizzie and Jess at Lizzie's townhouse. I cleaned up the living room where we'd slept, took care of a few things, and headed to sleep, tired but happy.

More On Colin Gilbert, Girl Meets Boy, and You:

Colin Gilbert

Tackling tough issues with a positive message, Colin Gilbert has established one of the most versatile performance poetry careers in the United States. The ninth-ranked performance poet in the world in 2009, Colin has performed at almost 400 universities, poetry venues and private engagements, including The Ballpark in Arlington (home of the Texas Rangers), music and film festivals, events for the Dallas Cowboys and even a few prisons (voluntarily, of course!). His high-energy poetry has even made its way into the modern dance programs and advertising campaigns.

Offstage, Colin's writing can be found in dozens of literary journals, magazines and anthologies. He is the current Editor of Lamplighter Review and recipient of multiple honors, including the Hughes, Diop, Knight Literary Award, Colin's new, full-length poetry book, The Mattress Parlor, is currently available from Scribble Fire Press.

Learn more about him and his work at www.wix.com/colingilbert/home.

Girl Meets Boy edited by Kelly Milner Halls

What do guys and girls really think? Twelve of the most dynamic and engaging YA authors writing today team up for this one-of-a-kind collection of "he said/she said" stories-he tells it from the guy's point of view, she tells it from the girl's. These are stories of love and heartbreak. There's the good-looking jock who falls for a dangerous girl, and the flipside, the toxic girl who never learned to be loved; the basketball star and the artistic (and shorter) boy she never knew she wanted; the gay boy looking for love online and the girl who could help make it happen. Each story in this unforgettable collection teaches us that relationships are complicated-because there are two sides to every story. -Goodreads

You by Charles Benoit

This wasn't the way it was supposed to go.

You're just a typical fifteen-year-old sophomore, an average guy named Kyle Chase. This can't be happening to you. But then, how do you explain all the blood? How do you explain how you got here in the first place?

There had to have been signs, had to have been some clues it was coming. Did you miss them, or ignore them? Maybe if you can figure out where it all went wrong, you can still make it right. Or is it already too late? Think fast, Kyle. Time's running out. How did this happen?

You is the riveting story of fifteen-year-old Kyle and the small choices he does and doesn't make that lead to his own destruction. -Goodreads

Afterword coming soon.

Trols, Imps, and Pixes (Perhaps)

2012-01-25T03:00:00.096-06:00

As part of my revisions for THINKING OF YOU, I have decided to rename the Waves. The reason being the fact that Waves give off waves. It's confusing, don't you think? Yeah, me too.

I've thought long and hard about what the new name should be. At first I liked Quakes, because don't earthquakes send out waves? I crossed that off the list when I determined it was too much like Quakers. Next, I researched the source of molecular waves. It's light, but that wouldn't work either, so I turned to my thesaurus for synonyms. I found a few. None were quite right. My next idea came from what the waves do - manipulate. Looked up synonyms for that. Didn't lead to anything. Then it clicked.

Control. Another word for manipulate is control. And if you chop off the first syllable, you're left with Trol. I loved it (though I do think Trols looks a little funny).

As often happens, one thought led to another. If I was renaming the Waves, especially something like that, should I rename the Prisms and Shimmers to match? I tried and it actually worked. Prisms simply glimpse waves. I cut off the first two and the last two letters, leaving myself with Imp. Shimmers turn light into pixels in order to see visions. Drop the last two letters, you have Pixe.

I realize those names don't sound very sci-fi or "techy," but I thought perhaps they could be used as slang terms with the scientists using more official terms (ie. Controller instead of Trol).

There is one more option. A friend pointed out that I could research the wave spectrum to find a new name. That idea also sounds appealing (I'm kind of liking the sound of Ultras).

What's your opinion? Do you like these names, agree with the slang idea? Or should I try the spectrum? Please be honest.

YAK Fest - Part 2 [Ellen Hopkins]

2012-01-23T06:51:00.001-06:00

Part 1

[Note: Part 2 is chronological within itself, but is not when compared to Part 3.]

Over the past few months I have mentioned here or there in comments that I would be going to my first author signing soon. Ellen Hopkins would be coming within three hours of me. On Saturday, January 16th, I went to meet her at the Young Adult Keller (YAK) Book Festival.

THE REALISTIC FICTION PANEL

A little late, we found the lecture hall where the Realistic Fiction session was being held and took our seats (after a slight scuffle over who was going to go in first). The five authors were sitting at a table in the front discussing swear words.

From left to right: Charles Benoit, Beth Fehlbaum, Kelly Milner Halls, Ellen Hopkins, and Lori Aurelia Williams

Mr. Benoit said that he did not use curse words in order to reach a wider audience (ie. Catholic schools). Someone, I believe Ms. Fehlbaum, spoke of a reviewer who counted the number of cuss words (77, including "crap") in her book. Ms. Hopkins expressed her opinion that swear words, especially the word "fuck," should be used only when needed, not to give a shock factor. She used an example from her novel Crank, where the main character says "Fuck you" to her mother. She remembered saying that to her own mom and how emotional it had been.

After the moderator (who sat next to Ms. Williams) asked a few more questions, the Q&A was opened to the audience. While I didn't have any questions myself, Jess did ("Do you think of your readers as you write?"). My mother was also very excited and interactive, asking not only questions on publishing (which I should have appreciated more) but for the authors of books that the panelists recommended. She even took notes.

THE BOOK SIGNING

Lizzie, my sister, and myself waiting in line for Ellen Hopkins.

We got in line around four o'clock. If you'll look at the picture to your left, you can see us, right there at the end (and surprisingly, very in the center, seeing as the YAK fest photographer randomly snapped this). And don't we just look close to the front! But you see those people behind us, and the people behind them? Yeah, they're all standing in the same line.

But I waited. Through a curve.

And a normal sized line.

And a curve.

And a normal sized line.

When we got to the front of the line, my mom showed Ms. Hopkins the copy of Campaigner Challenges 2011 she has on her Kindle (hence the first signature). Ms. Hopkins then asked me what I write. I think I muttered something along the lines of "Um, uh, a lot of things?" Luckily, my mother stepped in to save me.

Was it worth it? The three hour drive, the argument with my mother (again, I should have been more appreciative, I blame morning brain), the almost-hour in line, the embarrassment of freezing when talking to one of my favorite authors? I think it was.

Myself and Ellen Hopkins

More On Ellen Hopkins:

Ellen Hopkins is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Crank, Burned, Impulse, Glass, Identical, Tricks, Fallout, Perfect, and Triangles. Her novels are praised by teens and adults alike and she has been called the "bestselling living poet in the country" by mediabistro.com. She lives with her family in Carson City, Nevada. Learn more about her and her books at ellenhopkins.com.

Part 3 coming soon.

YAK Fest - Part 1 [Getting To The Authors]

2012-01-19T22:39:00.002-06:00

Over the past few months I have mentioned here or there in comments that I would be going to my first author signing soon. Ellen Hopkins would be coming within three hours of me. On Saturday, January 16th, I went to meet her at the Young Adult Keller (YAK) Book Festival.

THE NIGHT BEFORE

On Friday, after going to Quizbowl practice, I went home, bringing two of my friends with me (hereafter referred to as Lizzie and Alisha). We proceeded to the grocery store for snacks and dinner ingredients and then home, upon which we munched on those snacks and made those ingredients into a dinner. A few hours later (at which time I was growing anxious because she was supposed to have been there soon after we got home), another of my friends (hereafter referred to as Jess) arrived.

The night was then spent on doing makeup and hair (or in my case, just hair), experimenting for the next day. Amidst all the laughing and girly chit-chat, we managed to drag out the pull-out bed and blankets and I got all nine of Ellen Hopkins' books into a backpack. We went to bed later than we should have seeing as we had to get up at seven.

THE MORNING OF

This is what I wore.

In the morning we all stumbled out of bed, our eyelids drooping down past our chins, got dressed, and climbed into the car, books, snacks, and makeup box in tow. I started out in the middle bench seat, but got bumped to the front (my mother has to sit next to you when she's doing up your face) where I took a nice doze for about an hour. And, even after I got bumped back, I continued to do so on and off for the next two as well.

Upon reaching the high school where the event was being held, my father and sister headed inside in search of a restroom and us girls stayed in the car to finish up makeup (of which I gave in and took just a tad), joking about how big of a deal we were making this out to be and freaking when Jess set off the car alarm. We finally made it inside around eleven or so, registered, signed up for door prizes (except for my mother we discovered later), and picked up our programs.

I was disappointed to see that we had both missed the Key Note and Ellen Hopkins as a speaker, but our pamphlets informed us that it was time to pick a session and she was listed under the Realistic Fiction panel...

Part 2 coming soon.

Prompt #49: He wouldn't have died if he'd known what the word "hydrogenated" meant.

2012-01-13T03:00:00.000-06:00

During 2011 I participated in The Chrysalis Experiment. However, I did not finish all 52 of the short stories. So I am continuing to write and post them until I have 52. I hope you're still up to reading them. ^^

            I stand in line. People stretch forever in both directions. I don’t mind the wait. There are plenty of things to distract me. Sea life surrounds the tunnel, our lights unmasking their beautiful colors, reflecting off of their scales, those that have them. I watch in wonder, feeling as if I have been swallowed by a mythical rainbow.
            The names of the various species come to me as they pass by. Sea turtles. Rays. A million different varieties of surgeonfish. Clownfish and octopi. Sharks. Facts about all of them swirl through my head, how they live, how they interact, how they can be used. I shift my backpack around to open it, my school books rustling inside. I pull out my Ocean Life textbook, start flipping through it.
            The call for screenings is random. This one came during school. Most of us are sporting bags or books. Many sit leaning against the glass as they read. I join them, scooting down every five minutes or so, keeping with the line.
            I turn the pages slowly, glancing up, then down, to match the pictures to the real thing. My fingers move along the words as I read. New information lodges into my brain, falling into the whirlpool of details. I am totally engrossed.
            Someone nudges me with their foot. Confused, I look up from my book. Marchen, the boy in front of me, says, “You have to get up, Cocho.”
            I push myself to my feet. “What’s going on?”
            He points toward the front of the line. “They’re storing everyone’s possessions until after the test.”
            And sure enough, an official in white scrubs is pushing a cart down the tunnel, making everyone stand to make room. People slung their packs on the racks or set their books in neat little piles.
            “They’ve never done that before, have they?” I ask.
            Marchen shrugs. “They’ve never called during school either.”
            He was right. I shove my textbook back into its backpack cage and place my belongings on the cart as it passes, barely slowing. A flicker of worry ignites in my stomach, but I douse it quickly.
            The line continues to move forward, quieter and straighter than before. I stare out the glass, but all the names and facts have left my brain, finally sucked down through the vertex. All I can do is count, count each step, one for every person who’s taken their test.
            “Marchen,” I pause as he turns to look at me, “have you ever failed the test?”
            A funny expression crosses his face. “How should I know?”
            I look away, back to the ocean. “Just wondered if you did. Do you know of anyone who has failed the test?”
            He rolls his eyes. “We’ve done this tons of times. Nothing’s ever happened if we have failed. It’s nothing to worry about.” He turns back to the front.
            A few more minutes, totaling ten steps, and I can see the official who mans the door. She holds a clipboard, checking off names as she lets one person at a time go through to the testing room. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to.
            Eight more steps, eight more people, and she’s holding the door open for Marchen. He slips inside and she closes the door before I can get more than a glimpse of the white room beyond.
            “Cocho Mar,” I tell her while we wait. She lifts a page, marks that I was here, and then we are both standing, staring at the little pad next to the door, waiting for it to tell us that it’s time. There is a soft bump as an octopus attaches itself to the glass. I can see its mouth, sucking and horrible, out of the corner of my eye.
            The light on the screen turns green. The official opens the door and I step into the white. She shuts the door and I am alone with the walls.
            In the middle of the room, sits a small metal table, its four legs curving in to touch each other. On that table, sits a small cup of water. I walk across the room toward it, pick it up. It is cool and wet against my hand.
            I’ve taken the test many times. I know what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to drink it. Easy enough. But I pause, looking at the bottom of the cup through the clear liquid.
            “Please drink the water, Mr. Mar, so that we may proceed with the test.” The instructions come from the loudspeaker, the same voice that gave them to me in my very first time. A voice I haven’t heard since..
            I touch the cup to my lips and lean back my head, letting the drink slide down my throat. I don’t set the cup down until it’s all gone. I don’t know why I have to do these things. They don’t give us reasons for the things we do. They just tell us to do them.
            The whirring starts, hidden fans mixing the air. I glance up at the vents that cover them, wondering. I take a step away from the table, my neck craned back. There is a muted ding. I frown, looking forward again, at the exit across from me. It should have been louder than that.
            A voice whispers. “Please exit the room, Mr. Mar. Your test is—” The words lose meaning as I step forward, trip, fall, the table going down with me. The floor rushes up at me. It is white, hard, painful, slapping my face. It is hard to breathe through the floor. My lungs work, my mouth gapes, my tongue licking the floor, and I get nothing.
            Someone touches me, flips me over. My face touches air, but air does not touch my throat, my lungs so desperately screaming for it. Spots form in my eyes. One is darker than the others, bigger. Another one appears beside it. They move toward each other.
            I catch very soft words. “Hydrogen.” “Reacting.” “Airway.” “Obstructed.” A prick on my arm and I lose my focus. The spots are disappearing, black consuming them. And then, and then, my chest rises. Air. Sweet air!
            My chest starts to fall as I breathe out, except nothing touches my throat. It all stays inside, making me feel bloated and heavy. Panic makes my eyes roll.
            “It’s not working,” someone yells and they are loud. Too loud. “It’s not working.” Now, not loud enough.
            I know.
            I know I am going to die.
            Turning my head, I spot an empty syringe rolling lazily back and forth on the floor. Whatever was in it, whatever was in my veins, hadn’t worked.
            I know.
            I know what the test is for.
            Past the heads above me, it comes into sharp clarity, one of the vents. The fans have stopped. The fans that launched what is killing me into the room, the hydrogen.
            I know.
            I know I failed the test.
            Wet. Something on my cheek is wet. Someone is crying over me. I can’t hear them, but I can see the movement of their sobbing shoulders.
            And because I know all these things.
            I know we are all going to die.

Stress Reducer #1

2012-01-10T17:45:00.000-06:00

While I didn't post it in my NYR post, one of my goals for this year is to drastically reduce my stress levels. The last six months of 2011 were quite uncomfortable for me, so much so at times I wanted to rip out my insides. Everything on the planet caused me stress: writing and getting it done "on time," homework assignments that I feared I wouldn't get finished though I was sitting down and doing them, getting farther and farther behind on my TBR list, reading everyone's blogs, finding time to hang out with my friends, even doing the laundry, the freaking laundry!

This year I've decided that none of that matters, at least not enough to kill myself over. I'll work on my writing, revising chapters, writing poems, short stories, but if it doesn't get done today that's okay. Nothing's happening to tomorrow. I've always gotten my homework done, never gotten a zero, I don't know why I'm worrying about it now. The books, and blogs, will still be there when I'm ready. I'm a teenager in high school. I'm going to hang out with my friends. They make me indescribably happy and I feel that makes me a better person. And laundry? I mean, come on, it sucks, but not that much.

Continuing on that theme, I have voided my prior blog schedule. Why? Well, while I have a few ideas for posts, most of the require some thought and time and, with everything else, I can't always do them in three day increments. I also don't like just throwing a post together so I'll have something up (though I have been guilty of doing this). All of this frazzles me, stresses me, so I'm returning to my old style of blogging where as I just posted when I had something to say.

Um... Yeah... So This is Awkward

2012-01-04T23:40:00.001-06:00

I've mentioned this before. A few times in fact. Buuut... I thought I would post a little reminder as voting for the Seventeen Magazine 2011 Fiction Contest ends on January 31. Last time I dedicated a whole post to this, I just wrote a short, sweet paragraph and left it at that. This time I'm going to post a set of straight forward instructions to avoid any confusion.

Go to Figment.com.
Sign-up to the site if you don't already have an account. It's free. If you do, sign in.*
Go here and read my entry by clicking "Start at Beginning." The site estimates it will take about two minutes.
If you like my story, click on the "heart" button. This is how you register your vote.

Thank you all so much!

*If you have to sign up, remember to check your email to verify your account.

A More Specific Beginning

2012-01-01T23:43:00.001-06:00

Beginnings are one of my favorite things. The beginning of a week (Sunday, people, Sunday), the beginning of a month, and especially the beginning of a year. And today happens to be all three of those. Why do I like beginnings so much? I'm explained it before so I won't waste words.

"...everything is suddenly fresh, like everything has been wiped clean and I can just start over. It also sort of feels like a jumping off point."
-A Hopeful Beginning (January 1, 2011)

Of course, beginnings lead to endings (right after middles) lead to beginnings. And seeing as the post quoted above was a beginning and this post is a beginning, an ending had to occur in there somewhere. The ending of 2011. With that ending comes the fact that the year to accomplish the resolutions I expressed last New Year's is over. Before I move on to 2012, I would like to wrap up all things 2011.

I will be using the same format I used at my Midway Point report.

I will write everyday. I didn't do this. I didn't even build up to doing this. However, I have greatly improved my writing habits. With The Chrysalis Experiment I have managed to write every week excluding a few in the summer. With NaPoWriMo and NaNoWriMo I wrote everyday in April and November. And with Camp NaNoWriMo I wrote the majority of days in August. B
I will write a blog post or in my journal every day. I'm just going to give up on the journal. I've never been able to keep a steady one going and I hate what comes out when I write in them. Journaling just isn't for me. Blogging is more my style and, while I haven't done it everyday, I have erected a schedule for every third day (even if I kind of fell of the wagon the last month or so). Also, I have 169 posts for this year, just shy of a post every two days. B-
I will learn to vlog. I made two videos the whole year. Two. And only one of them was a vlog. I tried to make another video, but I failed because I didn't have the right editing software or knowledge. Editing is very essential to making good videos, vlogs or otherwise. D
I will become more organized with when and what I write (or edit). I really don't know how to assess how I did for this one. At the beginning of the year, I was pretty persistent and organized about how I "edited" THINKING OF YOU. I knew when I was going to write poetry (NaPoWriMo) and when I wanted to focus on a solitary project (ie. Camp NaNoWriMo and NaNoWriMo). But, I don't think I really accomplished what I was going for. C
I will become better at critiquing others work. Not only am I still a part of the blog Unicorn Bell that I mentioned at my Midway Point report, I also have two new critique partners. Steph Sinkhorn and Christina Bejjani. A
I will not give in to peer pressure or do anything that I don't want to do (excusing homework assignments). Haven't experienced any serious peer pressure. N/A

I suppose I didn't do too terribly bad, but I won't dwell on it. Instead I'm going to take those mistakes and achievements and move on into 2012 by jumping straight into my goals with a vlog stating this year's New Year's Resolutions!

And for those that can't see the video:

I will have THINKING OF YOU ready for query. I need to get serious about my writing. I'm focusing on one project, part of that whole "organized" thing. This is the project I chose because I know what direction I want to go with it and I feel closest to it right now. As an add on to this goal, I also want to have a brief outline of the sequels.
I will have two new first drafts. One from Camp NaNoWriMo (probably doing August) and one from NaNoWriMo (November). One being my untitled princess close story (which I've mentioned once) and the other being a dystopian based around marriage. I wrote two new first drafts in 2011, I can do it again.
I will win National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo). I haven't written much poetry since I did this last year, unless you count FOREVER, FROG. I really enjoy poetry and want to get back into it, plus this definitely helps with writing habits.
I will submit at least two short stories to anthologies and/or contests. Last year, I submitted my first Chrysalis story to an anthology. I rushed into it, forgot to put a title in my email and used a casual email address. I also entered a contest hosted by Seventeen magazine. This one I put a bit of thought into and I feel like it's turning out much better. It's still going on (my entry here and instructions on how to vote here). I want to continue to do these things and to put myself out there.
I will read at least one hundred books. I've talked before about how many unread books I have. That number hasn't gone down (quite the opposite in fact) and I would really like it to. I will be using GoodReads to keep track of this goal.
I will post at least one vlog a month. This is a more specific goal than last year's and, I feel, easier to keep track of. I've already started on this particular resolution. -pokes video above-
I will exercise. I talked about my lack of muscle in my summer's goals post and since then we have obtained a Kinect. Exercising while playing games is way funner. Those dancing games really burn after a while. This is my more personal goal.

What are your New Year's Resolutions?

Prompt #48: Yep, that's my neighborhood.

2011-12-29T21:09:00.000-06:00

            The road between Neighborhoods is long and empty. Few people leave their designated communities and the only buildings are the rest stops halfway between districts. But my job requires me to travel it.
            The road between Neighborhoods is lonely and boring. Radio does not work well out here. My eyes bounce around and land on a lone figure walking in the dead grass. The man’s back is hunched and his clothes are worn as if he is Neighborless. But my sanity requires me to offer him a ride.
            My foot eases off the gas and my hand rolls down the window as I pull up next to him. He continues walking, not even glancing my way.
            “Excuse me?” I call, leaning over the center console into the passenger side.
            He looks up now and pushes his hat back on his head, revealing his eyes. “Yes?” His voice is soft and draws out the word on the “e.”
            “Would you like a ride? It’s a long walk.”
            He finally stops and I stop the car next to him, waiting for his response. His words are slow coming. “To which Neighborhood,” he starts, looks across the brown plains, continues, “are you headed?”
            My mouth opens and spills. “I’m one of the Counselors of the Evaluation for the Camaraderie Neighborhood. That’s where I’m headed now.”
            He steps up to the car and stares over it for a second before bending down into the window. “That’s in the middle of the line,” his eyes bounce around, taking in the car’s interior, “isn’t it?”
            “Yes, sir, it is.”
            He straightens then his face appears in the window again. “I guess that’ll get me about there.”
            I smile, unlock the doors. He pulls on the handle just enough to crack the door before gripping the edge with his fingers and pulling it the rest of the way open. He lowers himself into the leather seat daintily, as if scared it might hurt him. I wait until he is settled before putting my foot back on the clutch.
            I sneak peeks at my companion out of the corner of my eye, but he stays in the same position, back rigid, face long, and eyes straight out the window. This is not going quite the way I’d hoped. I clear my throat. “So, exactly which Neighborhood are you headed to?”
            About there. The line up started flashing through my mind. Demiurgic. Astute. Eremite. Camaraderie. Fastidious. Nonpartisan. And Frenetic. I cross the last one off. No possible way he comes from there. Once you’re in, they never let you out.
            Silence hangs heavy, dripping down into my ears. Makes me want to shake my head to dislodge it. I prompt him. “Nonpartisan?”
            The word brings a smile to his lips and a spark to his eye. “I suppose, in a way,” and his lips draw back from his teeth, “yes.”
            My eyebrows scrunch down and my eyes stay on the road. His words buzz around my head, bouncing off the walls of my skull, as I try to discern their meaning. The man offers no explanation but instead turns in his seat, curls up against the door, and goes to sleep.
            We pass the sign that announces the Eremite Neighborhood just ahead. It looks just as alone as I feel. And then the turnoff is there. I pause, checking for an unlikely car. A black blob rises in the distance, Eremite’s exterior walls, but it is the only thing I see. I move on.
            “Fifty miles to go,” I mutter.
            A soft chuckle fills the space inside the car. I glance over quickly at my companion but he has not moved. Rubbing a hand over my eyes, I repeat, “Fifty miles to go.”
            The purr of the motor is quiet, soothing. The road does not change, straight mile after straight mile of black disappearing under my tires. My hands do not move. My feet do not move. My eyelids, however, start to droop, falling toward my lower lashes. They take my head with them. It bumps against the steering wheel.
            And suddenly the road becomes a lot bumpier as the car swerves over into the grass. I jerk, twist the wheel to right the vehicle. My passenger sits up, one hand pushing against the window, the other grasping the edge of his seat. “What the hell?”
            I take a deep breath, spot the rest stop up ahead. “I need to stop.”
            I twist the steering wheel carefully, turning into the lot. It takes three tries, backing in and out of the parking space, until I am centered in between the yellow lines. I get out of the car, close the door carefully. Heat seeps through my pores and I rush inside. The filters instantly make it easier to breathe.
            The light in the solitary bathroom is dingy, dirt caked on its fixture. It, and the dust that covers everything else, distorts my reflection as I stand at the sink. I turn the blue faucet and, with a rattle, water pores into the sink. I cup my hands, splash my face. My eyes go wide, shocked awake.
            A paper towel dries my face and I head back to the car, taking a long breath before I step outside. Gravel crunches and skids under my feet before I get to smooth concrete. My footsteps are extra loud in the endless quiet.
            I open the door to the car, get in, shut the door. I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. “You’re going to have to talk to me. To keep me from falling asleep.”
            His mouth twists up. “How about if I pinch you if you start dozing?”
            I laugh as I pull us back on the road. “I guess that could work. Long as you promise not to bruise.”
            The weird smile comes back to his face. “Promise.”
            I begin counting down the miles as we drive. Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen.
            “So, when you said you were a Nonpartisan ‘in a way,’ what did you mean? Were your parents Nonpartisan?” I ask, check off mile fifteen.
            “No talking,” he leans his head against the window, “just pinching, remember?”
            “Ah, yes.”
            Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. I squint to catch sight of the Camaraderie sign. Ten. Nine. Of course it’s not even a speck on my windshield. Eight.
            It is suddenly darker. I glance up, confused. A grey cloud has passed over the sun. “I think maybe you should pinch me.”
            My companion laughs. His laugh starts out deep but progresses until it is high. “Don’t worry,” he leans forward, “you’re not seeing things.”
            Five. Four. He’s right. From what I’ve seen in pictures, it’s too thin to be a storm cloud. “I wonder what it is.” Something tickles the back of my mind, some word.
            Three. Smoke. Smoke. But smoke means, “Fire.”
            My foot presses down harder on the gas. Two. The sign is coming up. I see that it hangs crooked from its post as we fly by. One.
            I swerve around the turn, not pausing. The walls of the Camaraderie compound loom over us, growing taller by the second. A sight that should be familiar, but is nothing I’ve ever seen. The walls are red. The walls move. The walls are on fire.
            We shoot right through the open gates. I slam on the brakes and scramble out of the car. My body shakes and I cough from the smoke, but I can’t move. I hear a car door shut, somehow, over the screaming. He comes around, stands next to me.
            “You wanted to know what I meant when I said I’m a Nonpartisan ‘in a way.” He says it as a statement but I nod.
            “Well, in a way I am a Nonpartisan. And in a way I am a Fastidious. And now,” he moves and there is something cold, sharp, pressed against my throat. “in a way I am a Camaraderie.” He laughs in my ear, that whole range of laughs. “But really, to answer your very first question, I am a Frenetic. Couldn’t you tell?”
            The sharp cold thing presses harder against my neck. I’m sure it will do more than bruise. Frenetic. Insane. I close my eyes.
            Zero.

Prompt #47: As soon as I saw you, I knew today was going to suck.

2011-12-26T23:59:00.026-06:00

            Billy B. Bye was bragging to his friends about how they weren’t going to come for him when they came for him. The men stood at the mouth of the alleyway, their white suits spotless and meticulously creased. Billy’s friends melted away faster than ketchup can stain a shirt.
            “William Bartholomew Bye,” the just bigger of the two men boomed, “you have been reported as Unclean.”
            Billy pulled on his sleeves, stretching the cloth until it overlapped his hands. He cleared his throat. “For what?”
            The just smaller of the two men pulled open the white messenger bag that hung from his shoulder and extracted a tiny computer. Its black shell contrasted sharply with everything around it. The man held it in one hand and typed with the other, the backlight outlining his facial features. He read what was on the screen in a monotone. “Your body, possessions, and/or dwelling were not properly sanitized.”
            Billy tried to cut him off. “But—”
            “Third offense.” The man continued without even hesitating. His eyes came up from the screen to meet Billy’s. There was no emotion behind them, no pity, no pleasure. He was a blank canvas.
            Billy’s left foot slid back millimeter by millimeter. A muscle in his right thigh twitched. Pins and needles poked up and down both legs. But he paused. Running got you instantly killed. He’d seen it a time or two, enough to know that he didn’t want to die that way. His eyes snapped onto the shorter man. He didn’t want to live that way either.
            A cold metal band snapped around his wrist, ending any thought of escape. The larger man held the other end of the short chain tightly in his fist. His bulging muscles gave no doubt that the chain would be in his grasp until he chose to release it. He tugged on it, using it like a marionette string, jerking Billy’s arm.
            The small man led the procession, the second man not close behind, pulling Billy along like a dog on a leash. The boy was surprised he could even walk. Fear shook every bone in his body, making his teeth clank together. His tongue came very close to being bitten several times.
            His captor yanked on his shackle. “Silence.”
            Billy bit down hard, pressing his teeth together to make them stop. He concentrated on it, the pressure his jaw created, the slight movement of his teeth against each other, and slowly the shaking stopped.
            The man’s next command was, “Cease.”
            They stood at the edge of a small platform, twin rails running across the ground in front of them. The buzz of electricity hovered in Billy’s ears. It was unusually loud, not another sound to compete with, not even a breeze.
            Then the buzz was knocked from his ears. An amped up version of someone blowing their nose crashed against his eardrums. And the train was coming to a halt in front of them, forming an endless grey wall. The short man stepped forward and placed his hand against the smooth metal. A soft light outlined his fingers and a door appeared in the side of the train.
            The large man dragged him inside and the other shut the door behind them. Hard benches with no cushions lined the interior walls.
            “Sit.”
            Billy took a seat close to the door, keeping his back straight, trying not to wrinkle his shirt. His guard sat next to him, close enough that they touched. He stared straight ahead, right over the second man who sat across from them. Billy glanced from where their arms met to the man’s face. The sick thought that he didn’t have to worry about his shirt being wrinkled anymore crossed his mind.
            It was so surreal. Sitting in a train as empty as a room where someone had spilled punch, touching someone, not having to worry about his appearance. He thought he might be in shock. Numbness started to creep up his legs.
            The train stopped and the small man stood to open the door. Billy rose without waiting to be told and was jerked back into his seat.
            “Only do what you are ordered,” the big man said without looking at him.
            Billy nodded.
            “Stand now.”
            Billy did.
            “Follow.”
            His legs carried him after the two men despite the fact that he could no longer feel them. The numbness crept up passed his legs and his stomach started to grow cold. The cold seeped away the sick feeling that had been resting there, curled up like a hibernating snake.
            The train was gone as soon as both of his feet hit the platform, leaving him with the two strangers, miles of too-bright fake grass, and a precisely square building bigger than any he had ever seen. Billy stared at it as he stepped off the platform onto a concrete path that led up to the mansion’s only opening. No windows broke up the endless white walls.
            When they reached the front door, Billy searched for a knob. There wasn’t one. Only the crack that proved the rectangular metal piece hid an entrance
            The shorter man pulled out his computer and a black cord. A compartment opened on the side of the computer and he attached the cord to it. Another compartment slid into view when he touched the door. The other end of the cable fit in the slot perfectly. The man typed something into his computer and the door shot up into the wall.
            A tendril of fear wound around Billy’s chest, squeezed, and then it fell away, dead, as the numbness continued up his body. He left it behind as he followed the taller man inside, the littler one shutting the door after them.
            The front hall offered a million different ways to go, including a grand staircase straight across from them. Their shoes clicked against the floor as Billy was taken to the double doors set in the left wall. They rose almost to the ceiling, whitewashed wood. The large man opened them, shoved him inside, finally letting go of the chain, and slammed the door.
            Billy turned on his heel to face the curved table across the room, behind which eight people in white smocks sat. He swallowed, though he didn’t know if it went all the way down. The numbness had reached his breast bone.
            “William Bartholomew Bye,” a woman, her hair bleached, spoke, “you have been brought here as Unclean, a third offender.”
            Billy licked his lips. They stared. He swore some of their eyes held pity.
            “You know what this means?”
            He didn’t know what to do.
            “You must be Cleansed. Sanitized. Wiped completely Clean.”
            “Please.” He didn’t know how he got the word out. Cold tickled his chin.
            The woman sighed. “It cannot be helped. Another outbreak would kill all of us.”
            “One more chance. Please. I’m only fifteen.”
            She smoothed her hands across her smock. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. The process has already begun.” She pointed.
            Billy glanced down at his wrist, the metal band still surrounding it. And he couldn’t even bring himself to care. The numbness covered him completely.

We Can Do Great Things Together

2011-12-20T23:59:00.001-06:00

My paternal grandmother recently took my sister and me to see Happy Feet Two. While the first movie taught us to accept ourselves for who we are, the moral of the second story was more along of the lines of great things are accomplished when we work together. It resonated with me strongly.

I love the diversity of people. Love those little things, and big things, that make people who they are. They amaze me. It's one of the reasons I enjoy writing so much. And such, I have never understood why people fight, whether on a large or small scale, because of these differences. The way I see it, we're all people, all human.

In Happy Feet Two, two species of penguin, a puffin, a herd of elephant seals, and a swarm of krill come together to save the Emperor penguins from starvation. And they're all a whole lot different from each other than we are. Of course, they all didn't just spring at the chance of helping one another (in the case of the krill, they didn't even know they were helping), but they got there. To me that symbolizes that there is still hope for us.

So, whether you're straight, gay, bi, white, black, red, yellow, brilliant or not so, disabled, shy, sarcastic, outgoing, weird, or somewhere in between, embrace who you are and who your neighbor is and help make this world a better place (and go watch Happy Feet Two).

Prompt #46: If she could have done it all again, she might have chosen not to trust the talking animals. Such things are rarely trustworthy.

2011-12-17T15:26:00.000-06:00

            When I was little, they called them imaginary friends. When I grew older, those friends gained the ever-so-lovely title of schizophrenia. Funny how things change with age.
            Of course, if I had known talking about them would get me thrown in here, I would have kept my mouth shut. Personally, I think my mother should have taught me better. Instead, I had to learn myself. And learn I did.
            Which is why, when the nurse comes to give me my medication, I don’t say a thing about the yellow leopard sitting on my bed post. She stares at the nurse with her solid black eyes, her tail twitching back and forth, as the attendant places the pill in my palm. She presses it into my skin with a smile, showing me how happy I should be that I’m here. That I’m “getting better.”
            I give her what she wants—a smile in return. Her muscles relax a tad, but she’s still waiting. I press the capsule past my lips, keep it there, pretend to swallow. I’ve been here so long they don’t bother checking my mouth anymore.
            “Wait,” says the leopard, loud and clear.
            I stare at the far wall, the pill buried under my tongue, as the nurse sets my breakfast tray on the bedside table. I don’t bother looking at her, looking for a sign that she heard. I have long given up on getting a reaction from any of this asylum’s personnel. All of humanity is deaf.
            The nurse leaves, closes the door behind her. The leopard and I both wait for the click that tells us we’re alone. As soon as it comes, I spit the tablet into my hand. The leopard steps onto the bed, walks up to rest on my pillow. She watches vigilantly as I lean over, extract the compact case from under my mattress.
            It pops open and its mirror reflects the eight little pills that rest inside. I add the ninth, shake the case just a bit. The oblong shapes roll and knock into each other reminding me of bumper cars.
            “Soon,” the leopard purrs. “Soon you will be free.”
            I shove the compact case back under the mattress. It won’t be needed until later. They will tell me when.
            My breakfast tray is still sitting on the nightstand. I consider eating it, not hungry, but if I don’t, it’s a demerit.
            A purple-grey mouse pops out from behind the mini milk carton, his eyes stuck fast to the buttered bread. “Are you going to eat that?”
            What the hell? I’ve found my own way out of here. Demerits don’t mean anything anymore. I shake my head and he jumps on it.
            I roll back over, curl up on my side. Wait for recreation hour, then lunch hour when they’ll give me the second pill of the day, then exercise hour. My last hour in this place.
            I drift in and out of sleep. Voices, movement, color are everywhere. They are everywhere. Talking to me. Touching me. Sleeping against me. I breathe them in, letting their comfort fill me. I love them.
            The snap of the door unlocking jerks me out of sleep for sure. They all disappear, hiding. They are still close, however. I can feel them, just on the edge of there.
            My bare feet slip down to the ground. Shoes are only permitted when we go outside. People try to hide stuff in them. The carpet is soft against my skin as I walk across my eight by eight room, out the door, and down the hallway, an orderly trailing me.
            He is not my only companion. A fish so bright blue it hurts to look at swims along the wall beside me. “They’ll never guess.”
            I smile to myself, humming softly as I push through the double glass doors into the recreation room. The tune stays in my head as I interact with the real psychos, for once not having to pretend everything is hunky-dory. My lips stretch extra wide every time I glimpse one of them peeking out from behind someone or something, their colors so bright they make everything else look faded.
            My happiness is so great, I even thank the orderly who escorts me back to my room. He looks surprised, but says, “You’re welcome,” with a little grin.
            I dive into my lunch when they bring it. The mouse watches enviously and I throw him a bit of cheese from my sandwich. It makes him content enough.
            And then all there is to do is wait. I sit cross-legged on the carpet, staring at the door. The compact case is shoved down the front of my pants and I finger the bump every few seconds in between glances at the clock. A silver beetle is running around its face squeaking, “Go faster. Go faster.”
            Finally, the sound of the lock comes and an orderly appears in the doorway. I scramble to my feet and the case shifts against my skin, reminding me small movements are best. The orderly gives me a wary look before gesturing for me to go in front of her. I obey with gusto.
            The leopard weaves between my feet as I follow the hallway to the outside. I take great precautions not to step on her. A chant of, “Soon, soon,” floats around me.
            I have to wait for the orderly to unlock the door with a loud thud before I can step outside. Warm sunlight falls in waves across my skin like the softest blanket. I pause to soak it in, close my eyes to the fifteen feet high fences surrounding me.
            “Hurry,” the leopard growls.
            I stride over to the corner, where the rack of basketballs sits. None of the orderlies—guards—stationed around the enclosure are near. With my right hand I reach for one of the balls. With my left I pull out the case. My neck itches to turn, to see if anyone is watching. It’s an itch I cannot scratch. I cannot look in any way suspicious.
            I drop the ball, dribble it, act like I’m testing it. I let it slip away, roll until it hits the chain link fence. My thumb is steady over the case’s button as I run to retrieve it. I crouch down and the pills are in my mouth and the case back in my pants within nanoseconds. The week’s worth of medication slides down my throat as I pick up the ball and walk up to one of the six basketball goals.
            They watch me shoot hoop after hoop, going from getting every one through the basket, to getting every three, to getting none. Their colors blend together, forming a rainbow. Their voices mingle into one. “Soon. Soon.”
            My heart pounds loud in my ears. It gets louder and louder until I can’t hear them anymore. I can’t see them either. Everything is a blur. I don’t have the strength to lift my arms and throw the ball, but I have to. Wait, why do I have to?
            Why do I have to do anything? Why do I have to stand? I don’t. So I sink to the ground, let the hard concrete cushion me. The orange ball bounces away, the thump it makes as it hits the ground twice as loud as usual. Why do I have to listen? I don’t. And suddenly it is bone chilling quiet. Even the sound of my heart has dropped away. It takes too much energy to keep it running, too much energy to keep anything running. It hurts to breathe. So why do I have to? I don’t.
            Before I close my eyes to my last view of this place, I see the leopard. She sits on my chest. She says something that I can’t hear and licks my forehead. Then she is gone.
            And so am I.

Prompt #45: _______ is an abomination.

2011-12-08T20:23:00.012-06:00

            The scientist looked up at his assistant, wide eyed. “I have found it.”
            “Found what, doctor?” the assistant asked, surfacing from his book.
            “What?” the scientist scoffed. “Only what we have been searching for for the past several days. Take a look.”
            He picked up the heavy book, one hand on the spine and the other holding the page down so it could be read. His assistant came round the table and read over his shoulder. “Ah. Eternal youth.”
            The doctor shook his head. “Nothing as unlawful as that. There are consequences of going against nature so thoroughly. Have I taught you nothing?”
            Squinting at the finely detailed pictures, the apprentice peered at the hand written page once more. He nodded. “The perfect body.”
            “That’s right, lad. That’s right.” The scientist set the book on a stand. It rose out of the notes and journals and research books like a castle, regal and impressive. He ran the tips of his fingers over the page and a smile crossed his lips, a smile that a father might grace on a child. His hand dropped to his side. “Find me a quill, paper.”
            The assistant jumped and began rummaging through the huge pile for a scrap empty of ink, hoping to find a buried quill along the way. He emerged minutes later, white pieces poking up through his hair, and held out the needed utensils.
            The older man took them carefully. He smoothed the parchment and pulled the glasses hanging around his neck up to his eyes. He extracted an inkwell from his robes, dipped the quill in it, and started scratching away. The boy stood awkwardly, not knowing if he was still needed or if he could go back to the fantasy land hidden between the covers of his manuscript.
            “Here, here.” The doctor waved him forward and pressed the list into his hand. “Go and find these things.”
            As he surveyed the cramped writing, the assistant mentally checked off each item. His eyes paused on the last one and he frowned, reading it multiple times. Each time it told him the same thing. He folded the paper and put it into his breast pocket.
            “What are you waiting for?” The scientist blustered, waving his hands. “Make haste.”
            The assistant turned and burst out the door into the claustrophobic alley. The sun hung low behind the opposite building like a too-ripe orange. Garbage and debris cast shadows around his feet and against the walls, hiding any rats or beggars. A glass bottle burst beneath his boot as he hurried out onto the main road.
            People were in short supply, most preparing for bed, the rest waiting for a deeper dark. He drew his coat closer around him as he slipped around a corner into another alley. His fist came up against the second door from the street. Footsteps and locks clicking out of place preceded its opening.
            A petite girl ushered him in, then closed the door, locking it back, before wrapping her arms around his middle. “Barty. It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”
            “Hey, Clare. Afraid this visit is for business only,” he informed her, smiling.
            She twisted away, but snatched up his hand, pulling him after her. They pushed through a curtain. He blinked at the light that suddenly flooded his pupils. Her fingers slid along his as she moved away, the tips of them catching. “So what are you looking for today?”
            Barty drew the note from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it over. She moved around the room, taking various jars and boxes off the shelves and setting them on a counter, mouthing each word as she read it. A small mountain of containers was the end result.
            Clare stepped behind the counter, pulling up various tools from hidden cubbies. Some were used to open the jars and boxes, others to measure out the various powders and liquids that made their homes inside. She transferred all of this into a box divvied up into multiple compartments. “I’ve got almost everything here. Afraid you’re going to have to go elsewhere for this Abominable at the bottom. I’ve never heard of it before.”
            He sighed and took the box from her, tucking it beneath his arm. “Then I’ll never find it.”
            She guided him down the hallway, once more holding his hand in hers. “Don’t be so pessimistic.” She opened the door and pushed him back out into the cold. “I’ll add this to your tab,” she called after him.
            He waved at her and she went back into her shop. He stood frozen when he reached the main street, gazing at the mountain that rose beyond the village, trying to figure out where he would find Abominable.

            The scientist threw open the door for him before he could even knock a second time. “What took you so long, boy?”
            Barty stepped inside and immediately crouched down beside the fireplace. His body shivered with cold and it was a few shaky seconds before he could get his gloves off. His teeth chattered. “H-hard to f-find some things.”
            “Ah well, you’ve got everything now. We can begin.” He held his hand out expectantly.
            His assistant drew the herbalist’s box from under his coat, set it not-so-softly in his palm.
            The scientist turned it over in his hands. “Is this all?”
            “Out-t-t in the h-hall.”
            Barty scooted closer to the fire, blew hot air on his fingers. Blood rushed to his face as heat thawed out his veins. A drop of water slid down his neck, a side effect of frozen sweat.
            The scientist’s scream jerked him to his feet. Barty grabbed a poker from its stand, but the yell was one of anger not fright.
            “What is this?” The doctor stormed back inside, a dark shadow slouching in the doorway behind him.
            Barty frowned, placing the poker back in its place. “You asked for Abominable.”
            “No, you fool. I asked for an abomination.”
            “Technically speaking, sir,” the shadow spoke up. “I am.” The self-proclaimed abomination stepped into the light, his massive body and long white hair taking up all the space. His face was the only place not covered by fur. The skin was black. He appeared as a polar bear in humanoid form.
            “And you are willing to sacrifice yourself to this cause?” The scientist huffed.
            “No,” the creature said. “I have simply come to give warning.”
            “Which is what?”
            The abomination looked at the book, still in its place of honor. “I once coveted what the boy has told me you seek. And this is the punishment which the Earth bestowed upon me for my ungratefulness.” He met the man’s eyes. “The perfect body is merely a matter of opinion, my fine doctor. But I think you and I both agree that this is not it.”
            The scientist stared up at the giant, then he looked over at the cauldron that hung over the fire, waiting. He strode across the room, pushing Barty out of his way. He promptly overturned the cauldron. Its contents evaporated on the spot.

Close Enough to Taste [Birth of a Novel Blog Chain]

2011-11-29T23:27:00.000-06:00

It's so close I can taste it. I'm almost there. Only one more day. Then I can stop and take a break. I can go to bed before twelve. I can read again. It will be glorious! And made all the better by the two new first drafts that will be sitting beside me.

Current word count? 97,053. That leaves 3,138 words until I'm finished (the count is a little off because SHADOWMAN was completed at 50,191 words). Completely manageable compared to other days.

I'm afraid my story might exceed 50k. Though it would be awesome to actually write a longish novel, I would really rather be finished with everything NaNo related before December. However, a few of my plot points have fallen off the wagon so perhaps I won't be that far over.

Tomorrow might be a tough day for writing. My cousin is coming home after quite a few months away and we're celebrating with a family dinner. I'm even going to get out of school a little early to go pick him up at the airport. Well, I guess that's what notebooks are for because, no matter what, I am going to finish this thing tomorrow.

The Rest of the Blog Chain

Charity Bradford Angela Brown Brooke Busse Tessa C Elizabeth Davis Miranda Hardy Mia Hayson	Lena Hoppe Huntress Fida Islaih Jen McConnel Anna M. Nyxie Moon Elizabeth Pool
Zoe

What We Should Remember

2011-11-26T12:00:00.001-06:00

We writers often complain that no one understands us. People look at us strange when we profess writing as more than a hobby and yet have nothing published. Family members clammer for attention on all sides just when we finally sit down for some solid writing time. They don't comprehend how much time and work go into revising, editing, querying, and then the publishing process itself, that it's like raising a child.

We look at all of this and forget about the positive things they do for us. They sit and listen to us ramble on about something that doesn't make a lick of sense to them. They let us push the dishes back another hour and bed, too. Or they make their own dinners when they hear the clack of the keys. They offer encouragement and support through texts and shipments of notebooks.

Recently, I posted about getting three flash fiction pieces in an ebook, no big deal seeing as it was a collection of Campaigner challenges and all three pieces were Campaigner challenge entries, but my family was pleased as a plum. My mom spent two hours (Two hours!) on the phone calling and texting anyone and everyone who would listen. All who could immediately went and purchased a copy. And then, on Thanksgiving, I got the picture you see above. Though I wasn't even there (my parents were too sick to drive six hours), the maternal side of my family had erected a banner in my honor. The feeling of love and being loved still fills me when I think about it.

And that's what really counts. Those are the the things we should really remember.

30k in 5 Days [Birth of a Novel Blog Chain]

2011-11-22T17:05:00.017-06:00

Word Count: 69,804
GHOST SISTER Word Count: 19,613

I'm behind. By the end of today to be exactly on track, I should have been at 23,331 words. And I'm not. However, I have a plan.

There are eight days left of NaNoWriMo. 30,387 (how many words I have left to write) divided by eight is 3,798. That's how many words, at a minimum, that I have to write everyday for the rest of November. There is another part of the plan. And this, if I accomplish it, will definitely make my goal feasible.

For the next five days I have no school, no serious obligations (besides Thanksgiving and that's why God gave me two hands, one to eat with and the other to write with). It's like a (business) week long weekend. Just what I needed. 30,387 divided by five equals 6,077. Totally doable for a day I don't have school.

I'm going to do it. I'm going to try to write roughly 30k words in five days. Good Lord, I must be crazy.

The Rest of the Blog Chain

Charity Bradford Angela Brown Brooke Busse Tessa C Elizabeth Davis Miranda Hardy Mia Hayson	Lena Hoppe Huntress Fida Islaih Jen McConnel Anna M. Nyxie Moon Elizabeth Pool
Zoe

P.S. Happy Thanksgiving. :)

Prompt #44

2011-11-17T12:00:00.001-06:00

[Fell down a well

It should be pretty

Like a little fairy tale]

            I was going about my business, walking along the ceiling as usual, when something that had never happened before, happened. I fell. And I didn’t just fall. I fell into a well. And I didn’t just fall into a well. I fell into a well with another dimension at the bottom of it.
            How did I know it was another dimension? Because everything was on the ceiling and I was on the floor. Imagine the oddity of it!
            I tried to go back immediately, of course, but it is extremely hard to jump down a hole that is above you. Once I decided that that plan was not going to work, I resorted to something much less dignified. I yelled for help, hoping that someone might drop a bucket down and whinch me up. No one did.
            Giggles filled the air at my sad attempts. I looked up and around, hoping to locate the person who had made the merry sound. No one. I scratched my ear, partly as a nervous gesture and partly because the thought occurred to me that I might be hearing things in my distress. Then I sat, because if I was so distressed as to be hearing things, it was probably not wise for me to stand for my balance would be off-kilter and I could fall. Imagine the disgrace I would feel if that happened!
            The giggles came again, and now I was truly concerned. I dug in my ear and shook my head, trying to dislodge anything that might be stuck inside. Anything and everything that was inside my ear, stayed there. Then I got to thinking that perhaps it wasn’t my ear, but my brain causing all the mess.
            It was about then, as I doubted my own sanity, that a small man walked by. He did not walk opposite me as most people do and which, in this case, would have been on the ceiling. He strode across the wall, as if it was perfectly normal and not strange at all. Imagine the nerve!
            I stared, with an open mouth, as he walked right by me without so much as a hello. And I knew he wasn’t a figment of my imagination, because any figment of mine would have had better manners. I stood and cleared my throat. He did not stop in his determined walk.
            “Excuse me?” I called.
            He looked over his shoulder, his pace slowing but not altogether stopping. “Yes?”
            I hurried after him. “Do you hear the giggling, too?”
            His eyes crossed and a small line appeared along the top of his nose. “Giggling?”
            The high-pitched laughter cut through the never-ending room once more.
            “Ah,” he said, the confusion disappearing from his face. “You must be new.”
            “I assure you, sir, that I am most definitely not ‘new.’” I huffed as I talked and I could feel my face turning red.
            “You are most definitely new if you’ve never experienced a turn.” He turned back to the front, not even gifting me the respect to meet my eyes when I spoke.
            “If you would, what is a ‘turn’?”
            He spun his finger in the air. “A turn is when the Great Ones turn our little box. When that happens, we get put somewhere else. For instance,” He pointed above him. “Before the turn, I was over on that wall. Now I am on this one.”
            “And if you do not mind my asking, who are ‘The Great Ones’?”
            “The bigger people outside the box,” he said with an air of irritation.
            I pondered that. The white walls did not feel like a box nor did I feel like I was in a box. But then, something had made me fall.
            “How did the Great Ones get outside of the box?” I asked.
            His foot fell to the ground with a heavy thump. He stood still, arms at his side, feet together. He twisted his neck to look at me. “That is not the question to ask. The question is how do we get outside of the box?”
            The giggling started up again.

One Down, One to Go [Birth of a Novel Blog Chain]

2011-11-15T17:57:00.000-06:00

SHADOWMAN, my first NaNo novel, was completed at 50,191 words on November 13. As of yet, no one has read a word (well, except a few short paragraphs I posted on Angela Scott's blog) because Alisha hasn't been at school the past two days for me to give it to her. -.- She's normally one of the first people to read my novels (you know, besides my mom).

I plan to start GHOST SISTER tomorrow so I'm laying my plot out in order. I was working on this last night and a whole bunch of new ideas came to me. I'm so excited! And it's all because of a few characters that popped up in SHADOWMAN. I'll be building their personae as well.

I don't really have anything special for you today (summary for GHOST SISTER is pending, plus run out of WriMo songs) but I do have a question. Anyone have any good last names to go with Derik?

The Rest of the Blog Chain

Charity Bradford Angela Brown Brooke Busse Tessa C Elizabeth Davis Miranda Hardy Mia Hayson	Lena Hoppe Huntress Fida Islaih Jen McConnel Anna M. Nyxie Moon Elizabeth Pool
Zoe

Help Harry Help Others by Purchasing Campaigner Challenges 2011

2011-11-14T20:02:00.001-06:00

So, you remember Rachael Harrie's Third Platform-Building Campaign, right? And the challenges we had to do (1, 2, 3) along with my entries for them (1, 2, 3), right? I knew you did.

Ms. Katharina Gerlach has been so kind to put all of the challenge entries (the ones she had permission for, anyway), including mine, into an eBook cleverly titled Campaigner Challenges 2011 (at Amazon here and at Smashwords here). This eBook costs $2.99 and all proceeds go to Help Harry Help Others, an organization dedicated to helping those with brain cancer.

The book went up 3,000 places in the rankings for the Kindle Store in just one day and currently stands at #9,777! I challenge all of you to buy this book, and tell as many people as you can to buy this book. Let's see how high we can get those rankings. Let's Help Harry Help Others. (I've already done my part. My mother spent at least two hours on the phone yesterday calling relatives to tell them I'd been published. -rolls eyes-)

1, 2, 3 or I, II, III?

2011-11-11T15:43:00.000-06:00

We all know the book title is hard, but what about the chapter names? Have you ever given any thought to them? About whether they'll be funny or short or long or interlock with the book's title or all share the same theme? Or perhaps you won't even have any. The chapter name will simply be a number. But will it be a number by itself or with the word 'chapter' in front of it? Will it be 1, 2, 3 or I, II, II? How do you decide?

Some people base it simply off of what they like to see in books they read. This is the reason I made sure each chapter for my first two novels had a name, even if it was entirely ridiculous.
Some people base it off of point of view. This is the reason THE LULLABY no longer has chapter names, but THINKING OF YOU does. First person is more personal and real chapter names instead of numbers go along with that.
Some people go off the tone of their book. Look at Rick Riordan and the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series. His books are hilarious and so are his chapter names.
Some people choose chapter names that will add depth to their book. In SHADOWMAN, I call my chapters 'verses' since my MC is very into music.
Some people name their chapters on a book by book basis as I have done.

How do you name your chapters? How do you like your chapter names in books? Have any examples you would like to share, whether out of your own books or others?

Sittin' Pretty at 25k [Birth of a Novel Blog Chain]

2011-11-08T19:24:00.001-06:00

One week down, three more to go, and if I write 25k for all of them, I'll be sittin' pretty. At the end of yesterday, I had a total of 25,517 words. Roughly 500 more words than I had on that date last year. Something else I surpassed this year? I wrote 7,036 words on Saturday, the most words I've written in a single day to date (I was going to post a picture of it, but we've been having earthquakes and big storms down here and the Internet was down).

By Monday night, I hope to be finished drafting SHADOWMAN and the NaNo website tells me I'm right on track for that. Then I'll take a day or two to catch up on Chrysalis stories, edit the first chapter of THINKING OF YOU (I won a critique over at Unicorn Bell), and make sure I have all the last minute details for GHOST SISTER.

But for right now, there's still work to be done and I better get on it. This time, instead of a video, I'll leave you with my summary of SHADOWMAN.

Kierra's family controls her life. She has to tiptoe around her sister, Erinn, not even able to speak freely around her. Her mom stifles any chance she has at a normal social life with her outrageous safety precautions that range from not eating peanut butter to not plopping in chairs. Her dad is almost never available and even when he is, he always takes Erinn's, who reminds him of his dead first love, side.

When Logan Hartley, the homeschooled boy-next-door, transfers to her high school, Kierra starts learning what it's like to be her own person, whether that means dying her hair red or rapping in front of a full auditorium. Then, Erinn goes into one of her rages and breaks Kierra's arm, casting the Croc family into a downward spiral that continues when her Dad is identified as the serial rapist who recently moved to town.

Kierra reaches for Logan to keep her from falling into the undertow. He promises he'll take care of everything, like her own personal guardian angel, a comparison that turns out to hit a little too close to the truth. Promises don't do much good when her mom ODs, landing in the hospital, and her Dad is sentenced to death.

Amongst the tragedy and sudden changes, Kierra is only certain of one thing: Logan Hartley sucks at being a guardian angel.

The Rest of the Blog Chain

Charity Bradford
Angela Brown
Brooke Busse
Tessa C
Elizabeth Davis
Miranda Hardy

Mia Hayson
Lena Hoppe
Huntress
Fida Islaih
Nyxie Moon
Elizabeth Pool

Like the Polar Express, but Better

2011-11-02T22:14:00.000-05:00

The conductor gives her last call, the train whistle blows. You run across the platform, holding your hat to your head, suitcase flying behind you. You jump through the open doorway just in time. The conductor smiles at you. "First stop, Cherie Colyer. Look to your left for some fine examples of blogosphere scenery."

The other passengers oooh...

and ahh...

and oooh some more.

"You should take your seat. You'll be much more comfortable." You follow the conductor up front and slide into an empty seat. She stands, beaming in front of the whole car, her body moving naturally with the rhythm of the train.

"Next stop is Theresa Milstein," she informs everyone. Then she leans down to whisper in your ear. "Of course, we won't really be stopping there. It's haunted, you know. The old houses are filled with vampires I hear." She straightens up, her face never changing expression, and winks at you. The town whizzes by. The place definitely looks scary. No one seems upset that you didn't stop.

"We are now entering the town of Trisha-" The conductor catches herself on one of the poles as the train lurches left to right. The wheels squeak horribly and you throw your hands over your ears. "And by the looks of it we're going to be staying here a while."

She slides open the door and pokes her head out. Someone calls to her and she answers back. You wait to learn what's going on. "Okay, it looks like you folks are going to have to get off for a bit. But don't worry, this place is full of attractions." You file off with everyone else. She hops out and starts walking toward the front of the train. You look around and a sign catches your eye.

Most Beautiful: Pocket Writing
Most Helpful: Never Feel Bad About Squashing A.N.T.s Again
Most Popular: Bess Weatherby - Closet Novelist
Most Controversial: This Message is Brought to You By Brooke's Inability to Write Book Reviews
Most Successful: Where's the Finish Line? -Pointing- It's Behind Me
Most Underrated: If You Give Your Muse a Makeover
Most Prideworthy: First Rejection

A shrill whistle signals that it's time to return to the train. And you'd been having such fun. Oh, well. You'll have just as much fun where you're headed. You climb back onto the train, at a normal pace this time, and resume your seat. The conductor plops down next to you. "Don't mind if I sit here do you?" You shake your head.

"Thanks," she smiles then turns around to face the seats. "We will now continue on to Steph Sinkhorn. You lucky ducks who are getting off here are in for a real treat. The town is holding its annual Agent Carnival. You'll have lots of chances to win books and other prizes."

When the train stops, there's a holdup at the door as everyone tries to push through at once. "One at a time. One at a time," the conductor orders from her seat.

The train is strangely quiet as it starts moving again. "People do love a good book." The conductor sure is a talker. "Personally, my favorite is the next stop. Music is more my thing." She raises her voice. "If you're getting off at the Sarah Pearson station, better get ready."

There's a big welcome sign at the edge of town and another one at the station and another as you pass back out into the open countryside. "Friendly people, Pearsonians."

Suddenly it goes dark. You look out the window to see a cluster of clouds swarming the sun. "Of course, they have to be. Otherwise they would never be able to live so close to their demonic neighbors."

"Yvie Gonya. If you want off, you're going to have to jump. No stops here." The conductor leans over you, gazing out the window. "Looks like the carnival's in town here, too. I pity the fools that go for those prizes however."

You and the conductor are the last ones left in the car now. It feels strange to sit there with all the empty seats behind you. You're anxious for your stop. "Figment." You hop up. The conductor stands to open the doors for you. "Don't forget, you have to register at the gate before you can get to the main attraction. And here's a pamphlet for more information." The conductor shoves a piece of paper into your hand.

You step off the train, and immediately it's off, heading on to its afternoon stops.

Afternoon Stops [7x7 Link Award]
Teralyn Rose Pilgrim
Charity Bradford
Sarah Pearson
Michael Offutt
Michelle Fayard
Theresa Milstein
Angela Scott

Evening Stops [Thumbs Up From Skunk Award]
Teralyn Rose Pilgrim
Madeline Bartos
Michael Offutt
Trisha
Angela Scott
Theresa Milstein

To 5k and Beyond! [Birth of a Novel Blog Chain]

2011-11-01T21:04:00.001-05:00

November. National Novel Writing Month. Love it. Live it. Eat it. Drink it. Sleep it. Breathe it. This is the one month of the year that you don't need oxygen to survive. Just caffeine and your writing utensil of choice.

What do I plan to do this November? Not write just one novel in 30 days, but two. That's right. Due to last year's great success with THINKING OF YOU, I have decided to plan and write two novels this year, SHADOWMAN and GHOST SISTER (go here and here to learn a bit more). I will post summaries when I have them.

As of right now, I have written 3,454 words toward SHADOWMAN. By the time I go to bed I want to have 5k. Just about another hour and a half of writing which shouldn't be that bad as I'm finally getting excited!

Last night I went to bed as soon as I got home and took a shower. I woke back up at 11:45 and prepared for the countdown. I then proceeded to write 1,101 words before climbing gratefully back into my bed.

I started writing again as soon as I was ready for school in the morning. I didn't feel like it, but I did it anyway. I was not going to let the fear of this year's previous failures stop me. As the day progressed it go better. I wrote about 500 words simply in Biology (my teacher was just lecturing, no big deal). I came home after staying with my grandmother for a few hours and hurried to type up my words.

Now I'm off for that last hour and a half. In the meantime, listen to this song (because I certainly will be) and visit the others in the chain.

Charity Bradford
Angela Brown
Brooke Busse
Tessa C
Elizabeth Davis
Miranda Hardy

Mia Hayson
Lena Hoppe
Huntress
Fida Islaih
Nyxie Moon
Elizabeth Pool

How to Turn a Word Into a Halloween Costume

2011-10-30T18:43:00.002-05:00

1. Choose your word. Preferably not a noun, as they make things easier and, hence, less fun.

Obvious.

2. Make sure you know the full and complete definition of your non-noun. Look it up in various dictionaries or using online resources. You may find that the word has a rather different meaning than you assumed.

obvious - adj. Easily seen, discovered, or understood.

-Webster's Pocket Dictionary and Thesaurus of the English Language New Revised Edition

obvious - adjective 1. easily seen, recognized, or understood; open to view or knowledge; evident: an obvious advantage. 2. lacking in subtlety. 3. Obsolete. being or standing in the way.

-Dictionary.com

3. Brainstorm on how you can make the definition apply to you by use of clothing. *


Easily seen?	Easily understood?

4. After you have the body of your costume, consider any accessories, including footwear, that could add awesomeness to your costume. Make sure you have an explanation for how they tie to your original word and its definition. Farfetched explanations are allowed.

More easily seen.

5. Put it all together and go trick-or-treating or to that costume party or whatever you're planning to do on Halloween!

Lizzie fail.

*If you decide to implement any kind of writing into your costume as we did, make sure you know how to spell everything. Misspellings are not always easy to fix, especially when fabric paint is involved.

What are you being/doing for Halloween?

Prompt #43: She was like a sponge, he mused...

2011-10-27T08:00:00.000-05:00

            Richie scuttled across the beach, covering his eyes with his hands. A ball of wet sand landed in the center of his bare back. He fell forward, curling in his arms and legs. The grains shifted under him.
            A short laugh rang in his ears, more like a bark. “You’re so easy, squirt.” A spray of sand flew over him, then there was the crunch of footsteps as his brother stalked away.
            Richie’s breath rasped loudly in the circle of his arms. He waited until the sound was about to drive him mad before sitting up. Grit streamed from his hair. He looked around warily. Roger sat in the waves, their parents smiling on.
            His jaw opened and shut, the joints grinding. He put his index finger to his mouth, biting down on his nail. The skin pinched between his teeth. Ritchie stared at his finger. The nail was gone, an indent where it should have been.
            He searched the sand using both his eyes and his hands. Dirt dug under his remaining fingernails. His vision blurred. He lifted one last shell. It was smooth in his hands and the sun reflected off its pinkish hue. He gazed at it for a second before looking down.
            A tiny girl sat in the sand, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her brown hair laid in a plain braid down her back. Her eyes took up half her face.
            She blinked. Richie blinked.
            He reached out to touch her. She scooted away, her mouth open wide. The sand disappeared around her and she sunk into a small hole.
            “Sh, it’s okay,” Richie whispered, his hands out in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder. No one was paying any attention to them. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
            Her mouth closed, but she rocked back and forth making the hole deeper.
            Ritchie sat back, balancing on the balls of his feet and scratching the shell against his chin. “What are you?”
            She stopped rocking and looked up at him with her bulbous eyes. She slowly held up her hand, pinching the air between her thumb and forefinger.
            He smiled. “Yes, I know you’re little. But why are you so little?”
            She shrugged and placed her hands on her knees, knocking them together.
            “Okay then. So why are you here?”
            Another shrug.
            Richie looked up. The ocean’s waters slapped at the sand, breaking apart his thoughts. “Did you wash up on shore?”
            She pointed at the shell.
            “You came from this?” He frowned. The shell was nearly flat.
            She shook her head and pointed at the shell again, then the ground.
            “Oh.” He set it on the sand.
            She climbed into the dip, grabbing onto the slightly curved edges. She leaned side to side, the shell moving beneath her.
            “So you rode here.”
            She nodded, her hands still in place.
            He reached down and carefully picked up the tiny vessel, bringing it to eye level. Her miniature fingers tightened then withdrew to her lap. Tiny chips were gone from the sides.
            “Are you hungry?”
            She nodded until Richie thought her head might snap off her neck.
            “All right.” Richie stood. He glanced at his family again. “I’m going to have to put you in my pocket, okay?”
            She gave her consent.
            He pulled out his trunks pocket as wide as it would go and gently dumped her inside, letting the shell go with her. Then he walked back to his parents and the basket full of snacks, being careful not to jostle the girl.

            Richie stared out the car window. His ear itched. He was pretty sure some of Roger’s saliva remained inside. He looked over at his brother, who slept propped up against the car door. His parents were fully focused on their conversation.
            He peeked inside his jacket pocket. His new friend smiled at him sleepily. He grinned back and returned to the window. Monotonous scenery flashed by in a haze, everything mixing together.
            He couldn’t take it anymore. He stuck his finger in his ear, wiggling it to dislodge whatever was causing the irritation. His nail was no longer there to help scratch the itch.
            Richie froze, everything clicking into place. A smile stretched his face as far as it would go as he gazed at his brother. He poked his fingers into his pocket. The girl climbed onto his palm. He held her up to his mouth and whispered as soft as he could.
            She nodded.
            He reached over and set her on top of Roger’s head. She walked lightly to the back of his head and grasped two big strands of hair in her hands. They disappeared completely.

Just When You Think It's Going to be Okay

2011-10-24T06:42:00.002-05:00

*Today my blog is being critiqued by Laura at Laura B. Writer.
**Please don't forget to follow the instructions on this post and "heart" my entry if you like it.

            The blood disappeared in the black sand, but not even the salt in the air could cover the odor of decaying bodies. I leaned back, bark catching on my shirt, and tried to breathe through my mouth. An unbroken mix of blue and green spread out before me. It was worse than the stench.
            The tree shook all around me. My legs tightened around the branch. I raised the gun in my lap. Loud bangs pierced my ears and metal grew hot in my hands. The four closest wastopaneers blanketed the ground, the holes in their heads shining red in the sunlight.
            One tried to stand back up, digging her nails into the tree. I reached inside my bag. I was going to have to tacise her. My fingers brushed the smooth cylinder. I jerked out my taser and fired. The wastopaneer dropped, brain fried.
            I settled against the trunk once more, air blowing between my lips. I yanked an apple from my knapsack and took a bite, too sweet. The juice, cold and sticky, dribbled down my chin.
            “Is anyone alive down there?” I jumped. The apple fell, hitting a wasopaneer in the head. My neck snapped back. I squinted to see the synbatec against the sun.
            I jumped to my feet, bracing myself with one hand and waving the other over my head. My voice clawed up my throat. “Me. I’m alive. Oh please, see me.”
            A rope ladder tumbled onto my head. I grasped it desperately, clambering above the foliage of the tree. Hands pulled me in.
            I kissed the thin carpet before rolling over. A man stood above me. “Are we headed to the ship?”
            He shook his head. “The ship’s been overrun.”
            He held out his arm, the circular bite-mark deep and fresh.

Prompt #42: You can have seconds, if you want.

2011-10-21T11:59:00.007-05:00

            She swiped his dinner plate away and placed his dessert on the table. The slice of cake was bedecked in whipped cream nearly up to his nose. Sprinkles dyed blue spots on the frosting. The scent of chocolate and strawberries filled his lungs.
            He held out his hand and she slapped a spoon in it on the way to her seat. She smiled at him from across the table, her own spoon at the ready. His mouth formed one, two, three and then, “Go,” out loud.
            They dug their spoons into the whipped cream, the metal breaking through it like a ship through water. They stuck the spoons between their lips, both of them closing their eyes as the taste formed to the roofs of their mouths. Her grin was especially big.
            “Now for the real heart of the dish, hmmm?” He scooped up a bite of cake. He held it up in the air, a mock toast.
            She watched as he chewed and swallowed. The cake made a bulge in his throat as it slid down. Her own jaws worked methodically, her tongue not really tasting.
            “How do you like it?” She asked, just as the last bump disappeared out of sight.
            “Phenomenal, dear.” His tongue came out and caught the crumbs lingering on his teeth.
            She stood and her chair scraped back against the floor. “Great, so you’ll have another?”
            “Oh, I don’t know if I could manage anymore.” He leaned back in his chair.
            “Of course you can.” She leaned over his shoulder and plopped another slice down on his plate. Her lips pressed against the side of his forehead before she was off again, sitting down to finish the other half of her piece.
            Her eyes followed his hand as it scratched his arm before scooping up another bite of cake. He chewed much more slowly and all of her dessert was gone before he was even close to finishing. She placed her chin in her palm, a lazy smile taking root on her face. “Take your time, honey.”
            “Phenomenal,” he whispered before sticking the spoon in his mouth once more.
His hand traveled back and forth from the plate to his mouth, his movements becoming hypnotic. The clatter of his spoon hitting the glass made her jerk. He pushed his plate away and leaned back. His fingers drummed lightly against his stomach. His eyelids sagged.
            “Another slice, sweetie?”
            “No, no, I’ve had it. Couldn’t take another bite.” He slumped lower in his chair.
            She picked up their plates and dumped them in the sink. “Why don’t you go watch TV while I finish up the dishes?”
            “Wonderful idea.” The sound of voices erupted in the other room.
            She hummed as she dragged her dishcloth across each plate, leaving behind a trail clean of crumbs and sauce. She stacked each one carefully into the dish drainer. Then she wiped down the counters and put the remainder of the cake in the fridge.
            Shuffling into the living room, she stared at her husband, highlighted by the glow of the TV, as he idly scratched his face. “I’m going to hit the hay.”
            He pushed himself up by the arms of his chair. “I’ll come with you.”
            She smiled and headed for their bedroom. They undressed and kissed each other before climbing onto their respective sides of the bed. She leaned over and switched on her lamp, opening the book to her marker. Her eyes landed on the page but didn’t move. She waited.
            He tossed and turned. His feet bumped her as they rubbed his legs. A long scratch appeared on his face. Finally, he sat up, the light spraying across the red bumps on his skin.
            “Honey, I’m itching horribly.”
            She turned the page. “It’s probably because of the cinnamon I put in the cake.”
            “Cinnamon. You know I’m allergic to cinnamon!”
            She snapped the book shut and placed it on her nightstand, then turned to face him. “The next time you want to tell one of your buddies you think I’m fat, make sure his wife isn’t one of my friends.”
            She snapped off the night, adjusted her pillows, and lay down. In seconds her breathing was soft and slow.

            In the middle of the night, she sat up and glanced over at her spouse. He rolled over uneasily, but stayed asleep. She threw back the covers and crept into the kitchen for another piece of cake.

Happy Dance Coming Soon to a YouTube Channel Near You

2011-10-18T18:26:00.002-05:00

On October 4, 2011, I finished my rewrite of THE LULLABY.

And you know what, I felt nothing. Absolutely no different. But I think it's finally starting to sink in. My stomach is getting fluttery and I have this urge to grin and act silly. (This may in part also have to do with my first author signing coming up soonish and the soda I just drank.) Now would be the perfect time for a happy dance video, except I don't look so glamorous and Windows Movie Maker is being uncooperative.

I finished my second draft of THE LULLABY at 45,974 words, which is a 15,738 word increase from the first draft. Of course, I already know that I'm going to cut the first two chapters, but I'm also going to add scenes. Who knows, maybe by the end of the third draft I'll have a fairly normal sized YA novel.

Speaking of the third draft, I won't be delving into that until January. This month is for the planning of SHADOWMAN (you remember that right?) and GHOST SISTER and November is, of course, for writing them. I've also decided to focus on THINKING OF YOU during December. It could really use some love.

What are your plans for the rest of the year? How do you prioritize your projects?

*Did you see my latest post? If not, please check it out here. I could really use your help. Thanks to all of you who have already voted! I <3 you, too.

Prompt #41: Hey... Do you remember where I left my soul?

2011-10-15T22:23:00.006-05:00

            My eyelids slide up and back into my head, clicking into their storage units. The charger makes a swooshing sound as it disconnects. The cover snaps down and into place so my plug-in is hidden. I reach up and open my Mind holder. I pull out the little microchip and push it into the slot on my neck. It takes a second to connect to my interior membrane.
            My face switches to happy as yesterday’s memories replay.
            I crawl from my sleep cell and stand. I walk down the aisle and stop in front of cell 94733. My face switches to worried. He isn’t there.
            The light above the main doors turn green and they open outward. I rush to my place in the forming double line. I glance at the gap he’s left before facing the front, marching with everyone else to my assignment.
            The lines split once we’re out in the hallway. Mine goes right. More hallways branch off to the sides and people drop out of the line to follow them depending on their assignment. I don’t turn until almost the end. The ceiling and the walls speed away from me as I enter the huge creation room.
            I move to my station in the middle of the two assembly lines. I slip the scanner over my head, not yet placing it over my eyes. The station next to me is empty. The vacant space is ominous, like it might open up and swallow me. The work buzzer sounds. I hurriedly pull my scanner down as the conveyor belts start moving.
            I watch for interior pumps among the mesh of parts, filling the tub in front of me. Then I scan each pump, checking for defects, before placing it back on the belt. I go through three loads without finding any. I’m just starting the fourth when a hand touches down on my shoulder.
            It’s him. My face switches to relief and then confused. He should have gone straight to his station. His face looks funny. It’s on neutral. And so is his voice.
            “You’ve been summoned. Follow me.” He turns without waiting for me. My face is on worried again.
            He leads me to the intersection where the lines split and turns right, away from the sleeping room. The sounds of machines fade behind us. I have never been this way. The hallway is straight with no leadoffs. I feel closed in.
            He stops and I stand beside him. It’s a dead end. I reach for his hand but he already has it balled up, hitting the wall. It opens like a door. My face switches to surprised. He steps inside, moving deeper into the room. I pause just inside the doorway. The wall bangs shut behind me.
            People form a U around the room. They’re all bigger. And their faces are different. They have more parts so it’s harder to tell what they’re set on though it’s easy to tell that none of them are on happy. My face switches to afraid.
            He stands next to the one directly across from me. He stares just above my head. The bigger one speaks. “25326, you have been summoned.”
            “Why?” My voice is on high.
            The bigger one looks from me to him. “It has been found that you and 94733 hold the same defect and it must been remedied.”
            “What defect?”
            “Your Mind is producing a feeling that is not real. That you should not be feeling.”
            “How does that happen?” I have a defect. My face is switching between expressions, trying to pinpoint the right one.
            The bigger one ignores my question. “You must both be wiped.” He holds up a microchip. “We have already removed and incinerated 94733’s Mind.” The bigger one gently pushes the chip into his neck and 94733’s face instantly switches to happy. “And replaced it with a new one.”
            My face settles on surprised, then worried, then afraid.
            “He is completely defect free. And the same will happen for you. You will return to normal. You won’t remember any of this.”
            The U seems suddenly tighter. 94733 is partially hidden behind the bigger one.
            “All you have to do, 25326, is give us your Mind.”
            My face settles on terrified.

Do You "Heart" Me?

2011-10-12T22:47:00.002-05:00

Colors look different when you know you’re going to die.

Wondering what in the world I'm talking about? Do you want to know more? Read more?

I have entered the Seventeen Magazine 2011 Fiction Contest and I would really appreciate your guys' support. It would mean so much to me. My entry is located here. It won't take long to read (the website says it should take about two minutes). If you enjoy it, please 'heart' it. The top 50 'hearted' will move on to be finalists. [Note that you have to sign up to figment.com to vote. However, signing up is free.]

I let go of me.

Prompt #40: The last time I checked, you didn't have to apply to become a demon from hell.

2011-10-09T23:03:00.004-05:00

            I looked down at the white chalk. I looked back up at the blazing pits. And I thought, “You have got to be kidding me.” A rock appeared in my hand, cold against my flushed skin. I had the urge to throw it. You would have too, had you just died, showed up outside hell, and then been forced to play a game of hopscotch.
            I barely even remembered how to play the game, for Christ’s sake. Couldn’t I have played an evil game of poker instead?
            Toss the marker. A deep voice spoke in my head, making my vision go blurry. I opened my hand and stared at the little, grey stone wobbling on my palm. “Right, the marker.”
            I flicked my wrist. The pebble hit the two, bounced, and landed on the five. I patted my hands against my thighs.
            Now’s the part where you hop. The voice sounded just slightly irritated. “Where’s the part where I get scotch?” I muttered but I bent my knees to do what he said. One leg.
            Okay, I’ll admit. I didn’t remember how to play at all.
            I tucked my leg up and almost fell flat on my face. I threw my arms out, trying to balance. “If little girls can do this, I can, too.” I flung my hair over my shoulder and jumped.
            My foot landed, smack, on the one. My knee was just straightening.
            And I wasn’t on a hopscotch board anymore.
            Or. I was. Or. A younger me was.
            Grass came up around my foot as I stood on the edge of the concrete slab and watched myself. Mini Me had just thrown her marker and was just getting ready to hop when another girl came up to her.
            It took me a second to recognize her without her bones sticking out and her head shaved. Pamela. Pamela Schmidt.
            My stomach clenched. Something bad was about to happen. It always did when I was around Pamela.
            “Hi, Caroline,” she sounded sweet, hopeful. Nervous.
            Mini Me ignored her, jumping twice so her legs were spread over two and three.
            Pamela shifted her pink-bedecked feet. “I was wondering if I could play with you.”
            Mini Me turned, her face scrunching up into a hard little knot. “I would never play with no booger-eater.”
            Pamela scrunched her shoulders. “I don’t eat boogers.”
            “Yes, you do. I saw you. Booger-eater.” It became a chant. “Booger-eater, Booger-eater. Pamela is a booger-eater.”
            Everyone laughed, stopping what they were doing to point. Pamela ran. She came so close I could have reached out and touched her.
            Her eyes glistened as she tried to hold back the tears.
            Hot. The air. The earth. My face. I was back in hell. In hell for labeling Pamela Schmidt a booger-eater.
            Two and three glared white, imprinting themselves on my corneas. Jump. I didn’t want to. Didn’t want to see what other horrible thing I’d done. Jump, jump, jump, jump. It pounded through my head, like an endless, bullying, life-ruining chant.
            “Fine.”
            I had the time to feel the relief at being supported by two feet before the light of the fires was replaced by the fluorescence of the street lamps.
            The playground equipment rose around me, I could see the concrete slab behind it. But that’s not where I was supposed to be looking. The jungle gym was the setting of this scene. I glanced at it, and wished I could just stare at the concrete slab. I remembered what happened here.
            Mini Me was older, almost to high school. She stood around the gym with miniature versions of my friends, each of them holding a water gun. They all stood on the outside, but inside behind the cold metal bars, Pamela Schmidt hung by her hands, her mouth gagged.
            They were all laughing, laughing so loud. And their teeth were so white and Pamela’s eyes were so big. And then the spraying started and her eyes closed, becoming tight, closed curtains.
            A sickly sweet smell drifted across the playground, twisted up with the wind. Bile rose up in the back of my throat. Relief washed over me when it started to rain.
            Mini Me and her minions ran, covering their heads, still laughing.
            Pamela hung there and I watched her shoulders shake.
            My tears evaporated before they even made it to my chin. I longed to fall on the ground, curl up, and sob. Jump. “Please.” Jump.
            I wobbled crazily when I landed, but I kept my arms close to my body. Maybe if I fell the game would be over. It would stop.
            No such luck.
            It was quiet. Rows of desks held rows of students, each bent over a test paper. One or two slept, drool making a spot on their work.
            Suddenly, the silence was shattered by Fat Bottomed Girls. Heads smacked back with an audible sound. The history teacher blushed and rushed out of the room. He could still be heard as he talked in the hallway.
            Conversations broke out across the room, but I paid no attention to the whispered rumors about Dean Evans and Susan Clark. My focus was on Mini Me who wasn’t so mini anymore.
            She dug in her purse, pulling out her new purple lip gloss with a look of triumph. She shook it and turned in her chair. Carefully, she twisted the lid off. Then she started to write on Pamela Schmidt’s newly shaved head. When she turned back around, dropping the lip gloss back into her bag, all capital letters glared back at me. STORK.
            I had developed a new strategy. The sooner I jumped, the sooner the game would be over and I could get on with my existence as a flaming torch. The voice must have been a mind-reader because all I got was, The point of the game is to avoid the marker.
            I glanced at the rock, lying right beside five like it did things like this every day. I took a deep breath though it didn’t do me much good and jumped.
            Hell was fading, possibly into a forest, when I put my other foot down, right on that little, grey pebble. It shot out from under my foot, causing that little instant of fear that happens when you think there’s another step and there isn’t. The scenery did an about face, the trees disappearing. Instead, buildings rose up around me.
            I was standing across the street from Me, who had just come out of McDonald’s, the same friends from two and three by my sides. In front of Me, stood Pamela, recognizable by her faded Transformers hoodie. Her head was covered, her eyes down on her iPod as she switched songs. She slid the iPod back into her pocket, but didn’t look up before stepping out into the road.
            A horrible screech caused everyone to stop. Everyone but Pamela. A car careened toward her, not slowing, not trying. Me had stepped forward. “Pamela. Pamela, stop.”
            Pamela didn’t hear, didn’t look up. And then, before anyone could grab her, Me ran forward, her hands out. The McDonald’s bag fell to the ground. Pamela’s small body seemed to fly across the street, landing at my feet.
            I squeezed my eyes closed, knowing, knowing and not wanting to see it. The horrible crunch forced a scream from my mouth. It went on forever.
            “Shhhh, shhh, child. It’s okay. It’s over.” The voice filled the space that wasn’t filled by my scream.
            My mouth was open but no more sound was coming out. It snapped shut, and my eyes open. White. White was everywhere.
            “Where am I? What’s going on? What happened to the fire?” My voice shook, but my legs were worse.
            “You are in heaven, Caroline.”
            I looked up, realizing the voice was no longer confined to my head. A throne stories high rested in front of me. A man filled it, his handsome features sporting quite the glow-tan.
            “But why? Why am I here?”
            He waved his hand and a projector appeared, shooting a clearly visible image into thin air. People, my family, my friends, those randoms who always show up to hometown funerals, sat in chairs facing a closed box. A picture of my smiling face stood on an easel beside it. And Pamela. Pamela stood there too, her mouth forming words I couldn’t see.
            “Because a troubled girl asked for you to be.”

There Is A Perfectly Reasonable Explanation For This

2011-10-06T20:29:00.001-05:00

1. Glee is my new favorite TV show.

No! Don't run away! That's what not this whole post is about, I swear! Just give me a minute to explain. Please! -throws self at feet- You'll stay? Great! -stands up and brushes self off-

On my First Campaigner Challenge post, I received a comment that went something like this:

Jen said...
Great job! Love the idea.

By the way...You've been tagged! Share 10 random things about yourself!

See, better now isn't it? I told you there was a reasonable explanation. And now that the most terrifying fact of the ten is out of the way, how's about nine more? Fabulous.

2. I rub my eyebrows when I think.
3. I have fairy doors on the wall in my room. Close to the ground, of course.
4. I hate people who walk slow in school hallways.
5. My feet are barely bigger than my nine year old sister's.
6. I got my first ARC recently! It's called All Different Kinds of Free.
7. Sometimes I make random noises for no reason at all.
8. I <3 Kaleb Nation.
9. I was conceived before Lizzie, even if she is older.
10. And the color of the day is blue more often than not.

Pocket Writing

2011-10-03T21:28:00.000-05:00

Recently, one of my friends introduced me to this wonderful little game for the Android (and iPhone) called Pocket Frogs. The point of the game is to collect all the different species of frogs by buying, trading, and breeding them. It has taught me quite a few things about writing.

Cut what is not needed. In Pocket Frogs, you are allowed eight habitats (16 if you're on the iPhone) which you have to buy throughout the game. Each habitat can only hold eight frogs. You don't have room to keep every single frog. You must sell all doubles and any frog you don't need for breeding. And don't worry, you can always clone that frog from your Froggydex if you need it later.

Setting is important. You can find, buy, and win backgrounds for your habitats. These are mostly just to make them look pretty. However, there is what is called scenery. Scenery is items that go in your habitat and make your frogs happier. Happy frogs are more valuable frogs and more valuable frogs get you more money.

Combining two stories can make a stronger story. Sometimes you have two frogs and each has a quality that you need for your collection or breeding stock. However, you don't need any of the other aspects of the two frogs. What do you do? Breed them and make a frog that has all the qualities you want with the added bonus of, after selling those two frogs, more space.

One original aspect can mean everything. There are 53 patterns you can see on a frog (slightly less if you have an Android). This matched with the 23 base colors and 16 patterns colors provides for a lot of frogs. However, though two frogs may have the same pattern, they could look completely different. Color is what makes one stand out over the other.

Patience is a good thing to have. Pocket Frogs is partially a time-oriented game. You have to wait for things to arrive in your mailbox. You have to wait for frogs to hatch and grow. Depending on the frog or item, it could take up to two days. In video game time, that's forever.

Writing friends are a must. If you are playing on an iPhone, you have the option to trade frogs and items with your friends. Do it. It helps you, it helps them. Life is much harder without the help of your buddies. Trust me. I know. I'm the one playing on an Android.

*Learn more about Pocket Frogs here and here.
**All images found through Google.

Prompt #39: This is the short version of my story, the simplest way I can possibly tell it.

2011-09-30T12:00:00.001-05:00

            I meander through the shelves, the microchip reader in my hands. The connected earbuds dangle to the floor, swinging centimeters from my feet. I stop at random and squint to read the labels.
            A wrinkled hand reaches over my shoulder, presses one of the buttons. The microchip slides out of the slot with a hissing sound.
            “I think you will find this one acceptable,” my grandfather smiles at me, then shuffles off. I watch him turn the corner before I reach up and, pinching the microchip between my fingers, pull it from its place.
            I put it in the reader. I start down the row, thinking about where I might go to listen to the story, when I stop and rush back. This label is especially hard to read, the words almost not able to fit. “The Story of the Princess and the Words that Needed to be Spoken, but Couldn’t Be.”
            I snort. It’s a typical grandfather made title.
            I decide to stay in the library to listen and settle down into one of the big chairs. A sigh escapes me as its cushions hug my back. When I was little, I would pretend I was sitting on my mother’s lap as she told me stories. Those feelings of safety and comfort still linger in the fabric.
            One of the servants appears, sets a cup on the small table beside me.
            I smile. “Thank you.”
            She smiles back and nods, but leaves the room immediately.
            I insert the buds in my ears one by one and put the player on the arm of the chair. Then I press play and close my eyes, the middle-aged voice of the narrator sweeping over me.

            “Our society had four tiers. My family was assigned the label of tier two. We could not speak more than 500 words a day.
            “My father was gardener to the royal family and sometimes he took me to work with him. He knew I liked the plants. The roses were my favorite. One day, I went to the place where the bushes were kept and found a girl sitting on the only bench.
            “‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
            “‘Alysa,” she told me.
            “‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, looking down at her.
            “‘I live here, hon.’
            “I was more curious then angry so I sat beside her. My next question was asked not out of ignorance, but because her feet were bare.
            “‘Are you one of the slaves?’ I whispered it because if she was it meant she was a first tier. First tiers were not allowed to speak. I liked her. I didn’t want to turn her in.
            “She laughed. Someone else of her status would have yelled at me for such an offense. ‘No. I’m the princess, silly.’
            “My father called then. Princess Alysa grabbed my hand when I tried to stand. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’
            “I had no definite answer so all I said was, ‘I’ll ask if I can.’
            “I couldn’t. And I couldn’t. And I couldn’t. It was another week before my father took me back to the palace. And she was sitting there waiting. And the next time, too.
            “‘I wish you could come over every day, Stephn.’ She always added some kind of tag to her sentences when she talked.
            “‘Me too.’
            “She smiled when I said that.
            “Within a few weeks, my family moved right into that palace, the servant quarters. We all got jobs. Mine was just the oddball kind, for the cook, the stable hands, anybody who needed it. None of them were allowed to keep me long though. Everyone knew what my real purpose was.
            “‘I can’t wait ‘til I’m queen, my darling Stephn.’ We were teens.
            “‘Why’s that?’ I was lying in the grass.
            “She swung her feet when she answered. They passed right over my face. ‘Because then I’ll be fourth tier. Then I won’t have to make sure I say at least 1,000 words a day. Then I won’t have to draw out what I want to say to make sure I’ve said enough.’
            “I was silent for a minute. I leaned up on my elbows. She stopped swinging her feet. ‘I would give anything to be able to say 1,000 words a day.’
            “She blushed, red as the roses. ‘I’m sorry, Stephn. I just didn’t think.’
            “I stood up. ‘I know. You don’t ever have to think about anything that comes out of your mouth.’ Then I walked away.
            “I didn’t go out to the garden the next day. But the day after that I did. And she was waiting. Just likes always. But she refused to talk.”

There is a long pause. So long I’m about to hit the eject button.

            “They gave her a warning. But still she refused to talk. They threatened her tongue. No words passed her lips. I begged her to talk, wasting all the day’s words. The small word counter around her throat, the symbol of two and three tiers, remained at zero. They cut out her tongue. She smiled when she showed me. I cried.
            “She was demoted to first tier automatically. She lost everything. Her throne. Her home. Her parents. Her roses. Me.
“I was ordered not to follow her. Was told they’d take my tongue, too. So I didn’t. But I had someone watch her. I paid high for it. No one wants to spend their words on another man’s business.
“All was good. She was happy, if lonely, I was told. And then came the day. The memory of it is etched onto my brain.
“My informant rushed through the door and told me in broken sentences that Alysa was dying. At that moment I did not think about my tongue. I just ran.
“I remember the feel of her forehead, how hot it was. When I touched her, she opened her eyes and smiled. Then she pointed to a cradle in the corner. I crouched over it. A baby, a girl, was inside, sleeping. She chose that moment to awake, crying. I picked her up and turned to Alyssa. But she was already gone, her lips turned up in a forever smile.
“I rocked the baby in my arms until she fell back asleep. My tears hit her face. I took her with me when I left. Took her far away. I swore she would have freedom of speech.
“So far, I have achieved my goal.”

The story is over. I know it. I feel it. But I keep my eyes closed. My eyelids start to itch. I sigh and open them. Grandfather is sitting in the chair across from mine.
I laugh, but it’s a small, awkward sound. “Glad our world isn’t like that.” It’s a feeble attempt to keep things normal. To keep things the way they were before. When everyone could say what they wanted and when my mother and father died in an accident and when my grandfather was really my grandfather.
“Why are you showing me this now?”
His whole body sinks a little lower into the chair. “You needed to be prepared.” His voice is aged, dry, but it matches the one on the microchip down to the syllable.
“For what?” My heart starts pumping so loud that I look down at the reader, thinking the thumping is coming from inside it.
The chimes of the door bell echo through our house, bouncing up stairs and down hallways to reach us. We’re quiet as we listen to the maid pad across the floor, the creak of the door hinge, the maid’s scream.
“For that.”

You Are an Imago in the World of Publishing but Sometimes Even Spiders are Shown Mercy

2011-09-27T12:00:00.023-05:00

The agent sat in her armchair, a manuscript nestled in her lap. Miasma hung in the air, brought upon by the dim lighting and the storm outside. It coated her tongue. Her eyelids drooped, and she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands before starting to read. She couldn't help but oscitate at the first sentence, but by the end of the first paragraph she was laughing, all signs of sleepiness gone.

Behind the windows, the sky grew darker, not a drop of sun shining through. She squinted to see and kept reading. The paper crept closer and closer to her nose. Her eyes screeched to a halt at the end of the last line. She stared at the last period, then slowly set the manuscript down.

Thunder crashed right aside her window. A mirror on the wall fell and cracked. The agent jumped, awakened out of her revery.

She hugged the submission, excitement bubbling up inside her. It wasn't perfect. There was a elephant-sized lacuna in the plot and some synchronicity wouldn't hurt. But the writing, and the characters, and the voice. She sighed, happy.

She stood and hurried to the phone, hoping the line wasn't down.

Prompt #37: Seriously, it was the worst thing I could have chosen to choke on.

2011-09-24T16:00:00.001-05:00

            “Your Majesty, a man requests an audience with you. He claims to have found the cure.”
            Cirabel took one last swig of her tonic and dropped the small bottle into her pocket. She placed her palms lightly against her cheeks, sighing at the feel of smooth skin beneath her fingers. “Bring him in.”
            The courier bowed, then turned on his heel to retrieve her visitor.
            She straightened, leaning her head back against the chair. The courier gestured her guest inside and shut the doors behind him, leaving the two of them alone.
            A peasant stood before her, a hood drawn over his head. He clenched something in his hands. He stared down at it, not meeting her eyes.
            Cirabel cleared her throat.
            The man shifted his feet, but did not speak.
            She huffed. “I have been told you have found the cure I seek.”
            He glanced up at her, but quickly returned his gaze to his hands.
            A sigh blew between her lips. “You may respond.”
            “Yes, Queen Cirabel, I believe I have found the antidote you seek.” He spoke quickly at her command.
            “You believe?” Her voice was shrill. “Are you trying to kill me? What if, because you simply believe, I had drunken your ‘antidote’ and died of poison?”
            “I… I have,” the peasant stuttered, “I have t-t-tested it.”
            Cirabel’s voice dropped, becoming light and fluffy, and a beautiful smile appeared on her face. “Oh? Then I’m sure you won’t mind drinking some of it yourself.”
            The farmer looked down at the container in his hand. “How will we know if there will be enough for you if I drink some of it?”
            “I’m sure you can get more.”
            She did not look away until he unstoppered the beaker in his hand and tilted it towards his mouth, letting half of the contents spill down his throat. He swallowed and replaced the cork, his arms falling back to his sides.
            He stood that way for seconds, minutes. Not one thing about him changed.
            Finally, Cirabel said, “Well, at least it won’t kill me. Bring it forward.”
            The sound of his rough shoes against the floor pounded into her head. She ordered him to stop before reaching her. His hand stretched out, the vial held out to her.
            “Herald,” she called. “Come serve this to me.”
            The courier reappeared, rushing to her. He snatched the glass from the peasant’s hand and poured the liquid into a goblet he had brought with him. He knelt before her, extending the cup.
            She wrapped her hand around the chalice and he released it. “You are excused.”
            Herald nodded and left.
            Cirabel twisted her hand, looking at the goblet from all sides. “Do you know what would happen to you if you have brought me what I have so desperately searched for?”
            He nodded.
            “Do you know what would happen to you if this is a fake?”
            The man shivered, but nodded.
            “Good.” She lifted the cup to her lips and drank.
            It slid down easily, but left behind a film. She gripped the end of the arm rests, leaning forward and trying to clear her throat. She coughed and hacked but her throat still felt sticky and coated. And, on top of that, the coughing made her chest hurt.
            Cirabel’s eyes grew wide and she placed a hand against her chest. Breathing was hard. Air came out of her lungs in wheezes. Her left hand grasped the chair harder and she glanced at it. A cry left her mouth when she saw her fingers, the gnarled bones and veins showing through.
            She ran her palms across her face, feeling years of wrinkles. “No, no, no,” she whimpered.
            Her hand fumbled in her pocket, finally producing her tonic. She shook almost too badly to remove the lid. After eons it popped off. She swung it back, drinking all of it at once. Her throat closed around it, her body rejecting it. The coughs started again, and her wonderful, youthful medicine spewed across the floor.
            She tried to stand, but her legs were too frail to support her and she fell to the ground. She curled into a ball, soft sounds spilling out of her.
            A hand touched her shoulder. Herald kneeled next to her, a sad look on his face. “Oh, Lady Cirabel. You finally have what you wanted so badly. But what have you done to yourself in the process?”

Prompt #36: I know all the best places to hide. But there are certain precautions you need to take if you don't want them to smell you.

2011-09-24T12:00:00.001-05:00

            I am walking by the school when the cry sounds. Everyone freezes, their eyes going wide and turning up to the sky. Then the emergency siren sounds and all the people start moving double-time, sprinting for the trenches. I’m in the middle of the crowd, my feet pounding against the ground, praying I won’t trip, fall.
            Everybody streams over the side of the closest ditch, looking like a human waterfall. Once they hit the ground, it’s as if they disappear into thin air. I slide down into the dirt, scramble for cover under the overhang, all the hidey holes filled. Across from me a teacher, by her clothes, holds a child, pressing the little girl’s face to her chest, covering her eyes.
            It is dead silent, still. No one dares breathe. Another cry rents the air, a hunter’s call. A small body falls in front of me, sobbing. The boy is on his hands and knees, frantically searching for a place to hide. I bite my lip, my gaze meeting the woman’s across from me. I reach forward and grab his wrist, pull him to me. He leaves a trail behind him.
            I place my hand on his head. “Shh, you have to be quiet. He’ll hear us.”
            He nods, bites his lip. He shakes against me.
            A shadow passes over the trench, leaving us in darkness. I scoot my back against the dirt wall, taking short gasps of air through my mouth. The shadow moves slightly, but stays above us. He is circling.
            The ground is no longer dry, but damp with sweat. It drips along my neck, my legs, making them itch, but I refuse to move.
            And then there is the sound of running. Someone who didn’t quite make it to the trenches is going for it, taking their chance while he is distracted.
            The shadow disappears and the sun glares down on us once more. I squint and press my face into the boy’s hair, wishing I could block my hearing just as easy. The scream of the poor victim reaches my ears.
            It’s not the reasonless scream it usually is though. It’s a word, a name. “Kylan.”
            The boy jerks in my arms. I try to hold on to him, but he wriggles free. I grab his pant leg just as he manages to stand up. “Mama.”
            I drag him down and back under the overhang before he can attract the hunter’s attention. Tears leave clean streaks on his face. He bangs his small fists against my shoulders, my chest, my stomach. The thought that I could just let him go comes to me, but I keep a tight grip.
            A screech, another scream that is quickly cut off. Kylan screams at the ugly ripping noise that follows and he will not stop. I place my hand over his mouth. He bites down on my finger, hard, so hard, but I don’t care. As long as he is quiet.
            The flapping of wings, loud, powerful, taking off, sweeps over everyone. Stirred dust falls over the edge of the trench, getting in my lungs, making me cough, making everyone cough.
            I’m standing and coughing though. People are crawling out of holes everywhere, like some great termite infestation. They’re dusting themselves off, climbing out of the ditch.
            Because he’s gone. He’s found his meal.
            When they’re out, the remaining citizens pause and bow their heads, lay their hand over their heart. The brave watch the great bird of prey disappear into the distance. He’ll be back when he gets hungry again, but for now, he’s gone.
            I climb out first and reach down for the boy, holding his frail frame as if I always knew how to do it. He wraps his arms around my neck, buries his face in my shoulder. I look for him, look after his mother’s murderer.
            “Sh, baby, sh. It’s going to be okay.”
            People stare at me, but I ignore them, keep looking toward the horizon, patting his back, whispering reassuring words.
            The teacher comes up to me. “I’ll take him.”
            I don’t want to let him go, but I have to. He has to go back to school. I pry his fingers away. She takes him gently and turns away.
            The populace is going back to their lives, to what they were doing. They walk past me, going to the exact spot they stood before the alarm sounded, planning to move on from there as is procedure.
            I take a deep breath and go to follow. A man walks beside me. He glances toward me. “You shouldn’t have lied to him. You know as well as I that things are not going to be okay for that boy.”
            I nod, my shoulders dropping.
            If the hunter likes the taste of today’s meal, Kylan will be his next whether by the hunter’s own design or the town’s.

Prompt #35: This could all be over in a matter of seconds... Should I or shouldn't I?

2011-09-24T08:00:00.002-05:00

            She drummed her fingers against the table, resting her chin against the side of the box. Her eyes flicked lazily, left and right. Suddenly, she sat up with interest. She reached into the box, touching one of the tiny buildings in the corner. “Expand.”
            It blew up. The roof disappeared and gave her a clear look at the inside. She stood up, leaning forward to see over the edge.
            The floors were see-through, allowing her a clear view. Blue and pink figures moved around everywhere, many with spots of grey. Underneath all the bustling activity, motionless black figures rested all lined up in rows.
            “Zoom. Level four.” Parts of the hospital melted away. The fourth floor enlarged, the characters growing bigger.
            Her head was practically in the box. She reached out a hand and touched the door to one of the many rooms. “Zoom. Focus. Sound.”
            The room was now all she saw. Its occupants were no longer merely pink or blue. The color of their skin, their clothes, and the features of the faces showed just as clearly as if she watched a TV. Voices came out of invisible speakers. They were soft.
            “Is she getting any better?” The man who spoke had wrinkles all across his forehead and around his lips. They weren’t etched deep; they were still fresh.
            There was a deep sigh from the other man. “I’m afraid she’s taken a turn for the worst.”
            “How bad is it?” The question was so low she almost didn’t catch it.
            “Up volume. Twenty,” she commanded.
            The voices swirled around her head, blocking out everything else.
            “She may leave us at any moment,” the second man boomed.
            Sobs traveled through her ears. She brushed them off as easily as cobwebs. Her eyes stayed rooted to the scene.
            The second man, the doctor, placed his hand on the griever’s shoulder, squeezed. “I’ll leave you alone.”
            She straightened up and placed her hands on either side of the box. “Expand full.”
            She blinked and the box and the table disappeared. Bright, sanitary lights crashed down on her eyes and she squinted. The smell of sickness covered with orange hit her nose. She was in the hospital room.
            The man scooted closer to his wife, taking her hand in his. Her breath wheezed from her lungs as she slept.
            She stepped forward, touching the invalid’s arm. “Analyze.”
Colors flashed over the woman’s body before settling. Gray grouped around her brain, with the occasional black speck making its appearance. Blue surrounded her barely beating heart. The rest of her flamed red.
She removed her hand. “Present possible outcomes for option one.”
Events fast forwarded around her. The heart monitor stopped. Nurses and doctors rushed in. The surroundings changed. A casket was being put into the ground. Everyone cried. One man stood in the shadows, a smile on his face.
“Stop.” She was back on the deathbed. The man laid his head against the side of the bed.
“Present possible outcomes for option two.”
Again the colors and people moved quickly around her. The woman’s eyes opened. She sat up. A doctor appeared at the man’s cry, frantically checking her vitals. The background changed rapidly as their lives were played out.
“Stop. Contract.”
The box was back, the room placed neatly inside it. She sat back in her chair, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. A hologram appeared in front of her. Two boxes. Two options.
She twined her fingers together, resting her chin upon them. “Review outcomes for option one. Forward to example twelve.”
The setting of the box flashed to the smiling man. He was featured in the next slide, sliding a letter into a mailbox. And then there was another man, an important man, laid up in a hospital bed. Just like the woman.
“Stop.”
She reached her hand up and lightly touched the second box. The hologram disappeared.
She leaned forward, watching the results of her choice. The heart monitor picked up, the regular beeps increasing. The man raised his head. The woman opened her eyes. Her husband sprang up, getting firm grip of her hand, and called for a doctor. The woman sat up, looking around in wonder.
“Contract full.” The room and hospital shrunk, her usual view restored.
She set her chin against the side of the box.

Prompt #38

2011-09-21T18:31:00.001-05:00

[That sweltering calm I'd never known
Blue skies and home]

            I stood in the new place, my left foot coming to rest by my right. A chill ran down my spine, my teeth beginning to chatter. I cupped my elbows, twisting as far around as possible while being sure to keep my feet flat.
            Slender, naked trees rose up around me, their branches dropping small flakes, making it appear as if it still snowed. Wind whistled through the forest, raising goosebumps along my exposed skin. Wetness started to seep into my shoes.
            My knee twitched, preparing to take a step and move on from this place. I paused, however, when I caught sight of the boy.
            His skin and clothes were so white that I might not have seen him had he not moved. He sat in the snow, caught in the process of making angels. A giggle rose in my throat for he looked to be at least a foot taller than me. His green eyes, widened in surprise, added a splash of color to the washed out backdrop.
            “Hello,” I said, my voice feeling incredibly small.
            He rose, clumps of snow falling from his legs. He took a step toward me, resulting in a soft crunch. “Hello.”
            “Could you tell me where I am?” My lips were cold against each other.
            He drew close enough that I could see that his eyelashes were like icicles. “You are in the forest, just outside of the home of the Prince of Wales.”
            “Ah.” My breath clouded around us. “And what year might it be?”
            An uneasy expression crossed his face, as if he did not know what to think of me. “1778.”
            “Thank you,” I let the sentence hang.
            “George. And you are?”
            My face felt frozen, so that when I smiled, I worried that my skin might crack. “I am the wanderer Mycele.”
            George nodded and then he must have noticed the redness of my face for he exclaimed, “Look at the clothes you wear. You must be bitterly cold. Please, come with me to my home where you can warm by the fire.”
            “Do you live close by here?” I stalled. I knew if I were to go as if to follow him, I would disappear and move on. And it was not often that I enjoyed conversation.
            “Why, yes. Did I not mention that we are near the home of the Prince of Wales?” He raised his eyebrows.
            “Indeed you did. I assume you live there, then.” I rubbed my hands along my arms, the coolness of my fingers raising the hairs.
            “My dear, Mycele, I am the Prince of Wales.” He laughed. “Now come, let us warm you up and find you more suitable, dry things.”
            “I cannot follow you to your home.” Even as I spoke, I shivered.
            A frown creased his face. “Why, that is insanity. You will catch pneumonia.”
            “I cannot come with you,” I repeated.
            He crossed his arms. “And why not?”
            I swallowed and opened my mouth several times, waiting for an answer to spill out. “My feet are frozen to the ground,” I said lamely.
            George laughed again, placing his hand on his forehead. “Why didn’t you just say so? Here, let me help you.”
            “No, thank you.” I stuttered as he reached his hands around my waist. “I’m fine, really.”
            “Don’t worry. It won’t hurt. I will simply slide you right out of your shoes.” He pressed his body against me and lifted.
            I squeezed my eyes closed, preparing myself for the new scene that was sure to meet them. My feet dangled in the air for what felt like eternity. Hot breathe blew in my face. “You can open your eyes. It’s over.”
            The green of George’s eyes filled my vision. He still held me, his chest pressed to mine. He coughed uncomfortably and went to set me down.
            “No,” I cried.
            He paused.
            “I mean,” A fierce blush crept over my face. “I don’t have anything to cover my feet. The snow will surely burn them.”
            He grinned, looking as if he was holding back laughter. “Of course. I’ll just carry you to my home. It isn’t far.”
            George threw my legs up over his other arm, holding my weight easily. I let my head fall against his shoulder, glad for the warmth. He turned and headed home, leaving a footprint in the middle of his angel.

            My feet have not touched the ground in fifty-two years. My muscles have forgotten how to walk, though my mind still remembers the motions.
            I have my assistant carry me out to the forest, set me down in the exact place I met George. The earth is warm from the sun and my toes curl in the dirt. I look over, a young memory of George playing out before me. A phantom of snow makes me shudder.
            “Augustus, please step back.”
            My assistant backs away, still ready to catch me if I should fall.
            “What you are about to see may frighten you. When it is over, return home. Tell them you haven’t seen me. You don’t know where I’ve gone. They will search for me, but I assure you that they will not find me.”
            Pity crosses his face. He thinks I have gone mad at the loss of George.
            I ready my legs, give him one last smile, take a step, and vanish.
            I end up in a clearing, in a forest. In the snow there is the outline of an angel with the impression of a rather large foot inside it.

Prompts #35, #36, and #37 will be posted on Saturday.

How Far I've Come

2011-09-18T19:26:00.045-05:00

Recently, while at my great-grandmother's house, she showed me a picture book that I had written and illustrated at her house in 2005. I would have been about eight. In the timeline of my writing career, BUCK THE BAAING HORSE is displayed as the first story or 'book' I ever wrote.

Of course, it is deeply flawed. There is information given that isn't needed and information that is needed sometimes isn't thrown in until the last second. I gave my characters names but half the time still simply called them 'the frog' or 'the cat'. My tenses switched. The ending was a complete clique. (And from an illustrator's point of view, my drawings weren't very consistent.) But everyone has to start somewhere and the fact that I recognize all this now just shows how far I've come.

Why am I bringing all this up? Today is my blogiversary. Exactly a year ago today, I posted my first blog post entitled 'At the Bottom'. I discussed how writing and publishing takes time and my preparedness to work toward those goals. I talked about THE LULLABY rewrite and what my hopes for it were.

Your first step onto the mountain doesn't bring you directly to the top. The first word of a novel doesn't bring you straight to the end.

While I still may be working on that rewrite, I've come damn far in a year. I'm mere chapters away from being finished with the rewrite, I have a whole other manuscript, I've written a short story almost every week in 2011, I wrote a poem a day for a month, I've come up with plenty of new ideas, I've found critique partners, and I've gotten to almost 200 followers on this blog. Who knows where I'll be next September 18th?

Prompt #34: The first time I walked into that classroom was also the last.

2011-09-15T23:38:00.001-05:00

Mayburry High. South entrance. The small offshoot hallway to the right. The last door. Room 320. Third row of desks. Fifth from the front. Samuel Higgins. Me. My eyes are on the clock, watching the red second hand revolve, wanting class to be over, wanting to leave. But I can never leave.
There’s a wet, sloppy, squelchy sound. A dissected frog stares up at me, the zombified creature squatting on my desk. Its throat expands as it ribbets. Mrs. Ralls glances up from the computer, sees me, and stands, her long pink talons almost puncturing the soft wood of her desk top.
No one else moves. They don’t turn around to look at me, or twist to face Mrs. Ralls. All eyes are on the dusty chalkboard. Where they’re supposed to be. Where mine should have been.
I try not to look at her. I try to focus on the wall as if I’ve been staring at it the whole time.
“Mr. Higgins, please approach the front.”
I meet her gaze. I fail.
She crooks a finger at me.
I push myself out of my seat. My legs wobble slightly around the knees and my toes tingle with a slight pain, but it feels good.
Six steps find me at her desk. I crane my head back to watch her face as she talks. The movement of her lips is funny, something you have to get used to.
“You’re going to do a problem for me.” She turns and picks up a piece of chalk, pinching it between two fingers.
All the skin on my face crinkles as she starts to write on the board. The wrinkles smooth out and my jaw goes slack when I see the length of the problem. It stretches from one end to the other in print that couldn’t be read from the back of the room.
“Solve.” She taps the chalk against the blackboard.
An endless amount of numbers and letters and symbols swirl through my brain. “How?” I choke out.
She doesn’t reply.
I clear my throat. “What exactly am I supposed to solve?”
“The problem.” Mrs. Ralls places the piece of chalk in my hand and settles herself back behind her desk, clicking away at solitaire.
I glance behind me. The girl in the front row has her eyes trained on my back. It takes twenty full seconds before she blinks. I turn back around.
The figures start to blur, running into one another. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breathe through my nose. When I peel my eyelids back, the yellow writing is clearer, crisper.
The letters stick out, screaming hints at me. I squint at them, trying to recall eighth grade math. And then what I’m supposed to do clicks. A small smile plays along my lips. I touch my chalk to the board.
I start with the x’s.
I subtract and add and move a million different things. The scratching is strangely soothing. And finally, finally, I get my solution. A simple number and a solitary letter, a variable as I now remember it.
I write it to the side, circle it. Then I erase all the work that is no longer necessary, rewrite the problem, and start again for y.
My brain spits answers and instructions at me and suddenly the challenge is no longer challenging. I can’t seem to write fast enough.
My hand stops. The silence hangs, failing at pressing down my excitement and triumph. I set the chalk down, the clink clanging inside my head. I fold my hands in front of me and step back.
Ms. Ralls continues to look at her computer screen, but she’s not moving around the cards.
“I’m finished.” My words are slurred and feel funny leaving my mouth.
She turns slowly in her desk chair, letting it squeaking all the way. She glances at the word, sees my answer proudly displayed in the middle.
“So you are. But is it correct?” She rises and picks up the chalk, making small marks as she checks it.
The smile is no longer on my face, instead sweat drips along my body, soaking my clothes, making them heavy.
She makes one last mark. “Well, Samuel.”
A million sets of eyes drill into me.
The corner of her mouth attempts to lift into a grin. “You have solved the problem. Congratulations. You have proven yourself one smart cookie.”
I have to fight my face muscles to keep from beaming.
“Of course, those are the only kind I eat.” My muscles surrender.
She shakes her hands out in front of her as webs stretch between the fingers. Her back hunches over, her arms and legs growing longer. She blinks, blinks, blinks, and the whites of her eyes are gone, just giant, bulbous pupils remaining. Her mouth stretches with more than a smile, her teeth poking through.
I back up, trying to get away, but the army of dead dissected frogs surrounds my feet, forms a wall. My vocal cords are no longer functioning and my feet seem too small to hold me anymore.
Just before her lips come down over my head, I look to the right. The girl in the front row is suddenly blinking quite a lot.

When A Door Opens, It Usually Closes Afterwards

2011-09-07T21:06:00.001-05:00

The door swung open, his fake silhouette framed by the light.
            My muscles tensed, but I didn’t press against the wall. I was ready. Yesterday, exactly twenty-four hours ago, I hadn’t been. But today, I knew I was.
            The simulation, the same one that came every day, stepped into my cell. His lips parted.
            I interrupted before the preprogrammed message could start. “You’re not my father. Leave me alone. I don’t want to hear your lies. I’m not going to help you. No matter what you say. No matter what you promise.”
            His mouth hung open. A wrinkle line appeared between his eyebrows. “Vela, it’s me. We have to hurry. They’re close.”
            A knot wrapped around my heart, pulling tighter, tighter. A tear slid the down the side of my nose. “No. You’re lying.”
            I flinched when he reached to touch me. “Vela, you must listen—”
            Then there were other people in my room, too many people. And they dragged him away, touching him, physically touching him, his body solid under their hands.
            I realized my mistake too late. I ran forward, but was pushed back. I landed hard, a cry springing from my throat.
            The door swung shut.
-200 words

Prompt #33: I closed my eyes and reached into the class treasure chest. Uh oh. THAT'S not a pencil.

2011-09-06T23:38:00.003-05:00

            The Handless are a common sight. Their stumps show that they were not worthy, they were not chosen, they were too tainted for the Box. I am used to seeing them, but not one of the people surrounding me are Handless.
            A million fingers touch me as I make my way to the stage, to the Box. They look happy like they’re supposed to though most of their smiles don’t reach their eyes. The Pure are not supposed to judge but they do. The scar along my back proves it.
            The metal stairs clang under my feet. Everything is dull, grey metal. Everything, but the wooden Box. The sun reflects off the diamonds inlaid into its design, making the edges appear sharper, ready to cut.
            I stop in front of the Box, my last step dying in the air. The tips of my fingers tingle. I turn my head to the side, look across the stage to the sidewalk that signals the end of the Unmarked ground. My mother stands as close to the grass as she dares. She catches my eye and smiles, raising her arm to wave. Her smile stutters, and she shoves her arm back into her altered pocket. They say you never get used to the absence. I believe it.
            The Purist clears his throat. He stands to the side, ready to begin the Ceremony. My eyes jump back to the Box. The music begins, light but primitive. It vibrates my every nerve.
            “Jas Wilbro, do you agree to accept the judgment of the Box, no matter what it may be?” Each word feels like a needle pushed into my palms.
            “I do.”
            The front of the Box slowly opens. Black swirls inside, a never-ending tunnel.
            “The Box asks for your hand.”
            I raise my right. It visibly shakes. My knuckles jerk but I keep my hand flat. A sign of compliance. A sign of faith. That is their reasoning behind it.
            My arm is in the Box up to the elbow. Goosebumps run up my skin, traveling all over my body. The music stops and the air hangs limp, ready to be filled with a scream at any moment.
            The muscles in my shoulders relax one by one as the seconds tick by. I am a hundred pounds lighter.
            The Purist seems to wait longer than usual before saying the next words. “Please display the Box’s verdict.”
            I throw my hand into the air, fingers splayed. The applause builds from a drizzle to a downpour. I look to my mother, relief splashed all across my face. Tears shine on her cheeks.
            The offering of the second hand is simply traditional. The Box has made its decision and will stick with it. I thrust my left arm inside its maw, not allowing myself to think of how this would have changed if the Box had chosen differently.
            I rest flat on my feet, but when the pain comes, they arch high as well as my back. A loud keening spills from my mouth. The tendons of my arm stand out as I try to wrench my hand away. The Box refuses to give it up.
            Finally, finally, my arm comes free. I stumble backward. The Purist catches me before I fall off the stage.
            I cradle the stub that was my left hand. It throbs along with the pulse in my ear. The severed bone is clearly visible. I cannot take my eyes off of it.
            Everything, everyone, is quiet, except me, soft sounds continuing to drop from my lips. The Purist sets his hand against my back and turns me to face the crowd.
            “Jas Wilbro, the Box has deemed you its equal in matters of the Pure and the Tainted.”
            I hear it, but I don’t care. The only thing I care about is the fact that I can still feel my fingers moving, even though they’re not there.

            There is no longer such a thing as the Handless. I have done away with that practice. I myself have a mechanical hand to replace the one I lost. It neither looks nor feels the same, but it works when it’s needed.
            Sometimes I go back to what was once known as the Unmarked ground but is now just a piece of history. I stand in front of the rusted metal stage. Then I walk up the steps. They make just as much noise as they did that day. And I stop at the place where it happened, a foot away from the box.
            And that is where I am now, today, this very second.
            It sits on its table, forlorn and forgotten. I don’t remember what about it intimidated me. It was just a box. Just a wooden box.
            I stretch my right hand out to touch it, to feel its grooves beneath my fingers. It feels cool. I step closer, letting my hand run along the back side. I press my check down against the top and close my eyes.
            My finger finds a hole. A frown crosses my face and my eyes flicker open. My hand wraps around a thin rope, almost completely weathered through. I lean forward, trailing the rope as it goes from the hole in the box to a hole in the stage.
            The sound of my heart is loud and my hand starts to tingle as it always does in times of stress or excitement. I jump from the back of the stage. The rope almost touches the ground. I grip it and pull. A squeaky hinge splits the air as the box falls open.
            My mouth goes dry. I climb back onto the stage. With the rope in my hand, I can’t stand directly in front of the box, but if I stretch, I can still see inside. I pull the rope one more time. A little bit of light reflects off the metal blade as it falls right where a wrist would go.
            I work my numb fingers, forcing them to relieve the rope. I am frozen, as if I have turned into metal as well. Rage brings the warmth back to my body, flooding my limbs. I grab the box, my mechanical hand scraping awkwardly against it. I throw it off the stage as hard as I can, the frayed rope trailing behind it like some sort of demonic tail. It hits, the edges cracking, bounces, and falls to pieces.
            Then I leave and call an assembly of those who still call themselves the Pure.

How I Didn't Waste A Month

2011-09-01T23:00:00.000-05:00

So how did it go, Brooke?

Hmmm? Oh, you're talking to me? Could you repeat the question? How did what go? Camp NaNoWrimo? Umm... yeah... about that... You all remember my goal, right? To finish my rewrite? That didn't happen. I let myself get distracted (I blame it on school) and I got very little writing done. The month, however, was by far a waste.

When I started the month, I had 22,210 words. I now have 40,026 words. I wrote 17,021 words during August, almost doubling my word count. (I know the numbering is a little off. It's because I tweaked my chapter titles. Post about that subject coming soon.) I only have four and a half scenes left to write from which I'm hoping to gain around 5k. I would have more pretty stats for you (like my average word count per day) but they already wiped the stats from the Camp NaNoWriMo site.

I will continue on with my rewrite and aim to finish in the next two weeks. At the end of which, I will do a happy dance (which you might get to see).

What would you do a happy dance for?

Prompt #32: Any moment now, he's going to press the button. Are the cameras rolling?

2011-08-30T23:08:00.002-05:00

            The wall-size screen was blank. White. But it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
            A bead of sweat dripped down my nose, making the skin itch. I didn’t scratch it. My hands stayed on the chair arms, purposely open. Unlike the door behind me.
            I wasn’t alone in the too-large room. There was the sound of cloth shifting. Breathing. I kept my eyes forward.
            The screen turned black. Flashed bright. Color. Picture. Tristan.
            My hands shook from the effort it took not to clench the arm rest.
            The camera was set in the wall across from him. I couldn’t see his face because he looked down. Down at the button in front of him. Big. Red. Deadly.
            Or not.
            And that was the evil of it. Hope. They let you hope.
            The intercom was clear. “Mr. Donhoe, please press the button.”
            He shook his head, his hair flopping.
            “Now, Mr. Donhoe.”
            He raised his hand. It trembled. So did mine. He set two fingers against the button’s surface. Tristan pushed with his whole weight.
            It made a soft click when he removed his hand, popping back into place. The noise rung inside my ears.
            We both looked up at the same time, our eyes meeting, but not. We were frozen. Time was frozen. And then came the sound.
            The sound of one of the doors unlocking.
            The door on the left started to rise. My eyelid twitched, begging, pleading for me to close my eyes. I kept watching, waiting.
            Tristan’s eyes grew big. Then he looked down at his feet, his knees jerking, popping, trying to move. Metal straps made that impossible.
My lips parted with a sucking sound. “No.”
The word was lost amidst the whirring, as of a giant drill. It screamed through the speakers, first echoing off the walls, then the inside of my skull.
The source of the noise appeared through the doorway; a long piece of metal, sharpened to a point, spinning, rotating, headed for Tristan’s face. Right between the eyes.
I was on my feet, not remembering when I stood.
Tristan tried to move again as the death weapon inched closer. Again. An inch. Again. An inch. Again.
My mouth was open and something was pouring out, but it couldn’t be heard for the racket.
Tristan crouched, putting his hands over his ears.
The whirring stopped. The entire machine stopped. My screaming stopped, the last notes dying in the air. Tristan looked up. I moved closer. I felt that small flicker inside me. Hope.
The metal bit dropped lower, relining itself with Tristan’s face. The buzzing split my heart in two.
My hands hit the screen, the material stinging my palms. I hit it again. I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. “No. No, no, no. Nononono.”
The picture cracked under my fingers, splitting the metal rod into two segments.
I paused, staring at the thin line, comprehending what it meant. And then, I balled my hands into fists.
The cracks distorted the image, changing shapes into mere colors. I could hear the contraption getting closer. Closer to Tristan. My fist broke through.
I pulled at the edges of the hole, ignoring the glass cutting into my skin. It didn’t matter. Someone grabbed my shoulder. That didn’t matter either.
At least until they tried to pull me away. There wasn’t time for that.
I brought my hand back, the last shard I had pulled away tight between my fingers. I didn’t hear the scream or cry of pain, just saw the blood that spurted all over my body.
My hands were too slow. I brought my foot up, kicking the glass inwards. Tristan sat on the other side, covering his eyes. I thrust my head through, my shoulders, clawing my way to him. I fell onto the floor and crawled.
Time was moving too fast. The machine was moving too fast. But I was moving too fast too. I slide between my little baby brother and the deadly point. He peeked between his fingers, his lips forming around my name.
Black. Everything went black. And it still is.

Decapitated Teddies and Crit Partners and Rules. Oh My!

2011-08-27T18:17:00.000-05:00

I've got a secret. But I'll let you in on it. You know if you want. -looks around- About a month ago, I got -takes deep breath- a critique partner. Or two (one for each WIP, you understand). Their names? A secret isn't enough for you? Now I have to give you names, too? -huffs- Fine. -leans in close- Their names are Christina and Steph.

Recently, Steph (you know, my critique partner) passed along the Liebster Blog award. And guess who she gave it to? -points to self and mouths 'me'- How did you know?

There's one more thing I need to tell you concerning the award, but be warned, it is something so frightful you may sleep with a nightlight for the rest of your life. Those with squeamish stomachs might want to look away. Are you ready? Are you clenching a pillow in terror? Me too.

There are rules!

It's okay to admit that you screamed. -clears throat- But we're in up to our ears now, there's no going back.

Thank the giver and link back to the blogger who gave it to you.
Reveal your top 5 picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog.
Copy and paste the award on your blog.
Have faith that your followers will spread the love to other bloggers.
And most of all - have bloggity-blog fun!

Steph, I'm so sorry to have drug you into this, really I am, but in accordance to the -shudders- rules I must thank you. Thank you, Steph. You're a true liebster. (See rules don't just affect one person, they affect everyone.)

Whew! That wasn't so bad. What did you guys think? -looks at decapitated teddy bear- I see. Well, risking more danger to poor Teddy, we must move forward.

I'm going to let you in on another secret, the following five bloggers must have under 200 followers. I know, you're biting your fingernails at the scaryfyingness of this new rule. But I promise, we'll get through this. Even if we all end up with nubs.

J at Concrete Pieces of Soul
Teralyn Pilgrim at A Writer's Journey
Izzy at I s a b e l l a
Marlena Cassidy at The Words Behind the Writer
Ella at Musings in Ink

Anyone need smelling salts? Anyone? No. Good. Oh wait, sorry I missed you in the back. I have some good news for you though, that may be better than smelling salts. We can skip over rule #3 because I already did that myself. Please, please, quiet down. I have one more thing to say. Anyone have a soapbox? Ah, thank you.

The five poor souls that I have passed this award onto, with have to face the -shudders- rules. But I have faith in them. I have faith that they will work through this and they will pass it on to others because there is nothing to fear, but fear itself. And to learn that, we must first face our fears. So have faith! And thank your lucky stars if you have over 200 followers.

Look at that. We completed rule four and you didn't even notice. You know, I've enjoyed watching you defeat your fears. It's been fun, this journey of ours. Which, guess what? Come closer. Closer. We've done everything the rules said so we can go back to normal where we do whatever the hell we please. Mwhahahaha!

Wait, before you leave, there's one more thing.

Deirdra Coppel also gave me an award. One that I consider to be very special since she has to give it to you herself (this is because she created it), since she has to think you deserve it. The Powerful Woman Writer Award

And guess what (we're doing lots of guessing today)? There are no rules. Geez, I could hear your sigh of relief all the way through the computer.