The old one is too cumbersome to load, so in answer to Alice’s request, here’s a fresh slate.
The original idea came from Prarilius Canix, who requested “a thread for Musers who have written/are writing/want to write books… a place to bounce ideas off of other people who share that interest.”
Thanks GAPAs!
I’m not actually writing any stories right now, unusually. Anybody have any suggestions for a topic?
anyways, i’m not writing any books. just checking teh thread out.
I am writing a novel entitled “Vida: The Blooming Rose”, which is about a slave who runs away into freedom, and becomes a historical landpoint in the lives of many people in the civil War, but merely in their memories. I’m on Chapter 5.
dude thats way cooler then the book im writing!
Oh, thank you, GAPAs! I will be eternally grateful and not bug you about new threads anymore! …Well… not much.
3- That is cool.
I’m on Chapter 2 in one of my books, and Chapter 2 on the other. I’m also co-writing a book with my little sister, something we’ve been wanting to do for a while, but we’ve never been able to agree on a non-cliched topic. Most of my other stories are suspended temporarily, since I can’t deal with writing seven at once.
I’m also working on three RRRs.
If you didn’t read the beginning of my story on the old one, here it is:
I am starting a book, but I am not sure what it is called. It is a play on Goldilocks.
Garrett sighed. He fixed his posture, and turned his head towards Agent Papa Bear.
“Keep looking straight ahead. This is training. You want to be a G.U.A.R.D. member? Then you can’t look to the side. Good job on fixing your posture though,” Papa Bear said without even turning his head.
Garrett sighed again. He knew this would be a bad day, even worse than usual. Being in the G.U.A.R.D training program was no box of chocolates, more like a bottle of horseradish. G.U.A.R.D stood for something, but Garrett could not remember what.
A bell rang, and Garrett smiled. “Time to go,” he said. “Training is over for the day. See ya, P.B!”
“Garrett-wait!” he heard Papa Bear yell.
The G.U.A.R.D trainee turned around as he heard his mentor’s voice. “Yes sir?” Garrett asked timidly.
“I, er, need to, well, I am, umm, I have a disturbance in my pants, and need to relieve myself.”
“Ohh,” Garrett realized, snickering. “Well then, go relieve yourself then.”
Garrett watched as Agent Papa Bear walked down the hall. He looked the other way and saw Agent Mama Bear heading down the corridor. “Look straight ahead,” she said strictly. Garrett sighed. “And no sighing!” she shrieked, as a computer on the door across from him scanned her fingerprints.
Tell me if it is any good or not. I like to incorporate humor into my stories, and I will definitely put more fairy tale style stuff in it. The main plot is that Garrett has to become Agent Little Bear when Goldi Locks, a master jewel thief steals the Jewel of Poradg, a jewel that can alter time and space or something like that, and yes, I did post this idea on the fractured fairy tale/frog prince RRR, so no one can steal it.
Also, for people who want to be authors, a really good book is “Novelist’s Boot Camp.” I love it!
And, finally, I entered a contest yesterday called the 24-Hour Contest. Basically, you enter it and on the day of the contest they email you the writing prompt and the word limit and you get 24 hours to write it and email it back to them. It is sponsored by the Writers Weekly e-magazine.
[Remainder of post snipped as it gives away too much biographical information. Sorry. – Rebecca]
Oh wow that sounds fun.
7- OMG! Rebecca, you forgot to use italix!
I’m working on a fantasy story called The Edge of the Universe. Is that a good title? I’ll post the first part when I finish it.
(9) OMG! You’re right!
Fixed now. Thanks, Kiki.
Can this be just stories, etc. in general in progress? I’m working on a play for playwriting…it’s a one-act. It’s really fun! I’m writing it in Standard American Format.
9- It is a good title.
Heheh, now I know that administrators write in italics because they choose to. What I will do with that information is unclear, however.
The titles of my books are:
The Makepeace War. (Formerly Sara.)
The Black Lion.
Jilie’s Amazing Talking Journal. I am inordinately fond of that last one.
Has anyone here tried screenwriting? Especially adaptation. I want to, but I’m not sure how to go about it. Is it different than playwriting? I used to do that a lot, before I realized that my true calling was novels.
I have fanfiction in progress. Oh boy. I got half of chapter three done and I never finished it. T_T Also I have another one for a challenge that I need to start..afkajfa.
I’m compiling the story from mine and Fridgey’s thread…I’ll post it when we’re done.
Rebecca-that is ok that you snipped it. I was not sure if it was OK or not.
13-I have always wanted to try screenwriting/playwriting. I tried a few times, but I wasn’t sure how to begin. I am taking a class this summer on it.
Also, I started another story(By the way, I am a major fantasy/fractured fairy-tale fan) a while ago, but never finished it. It is called When The Wandering Wonders Came To Town. Now I am starting it over with a new beginning and everything. In the new version, Alice was taken away by the British Secret Service because somehow, whenever she imagined something, it appeared. The Service was scared that she might start some apocalyptic war, so they launched her to another dimension. (In my story, not everything is as it appears, and so the Secret Service was sort of like the Men In Black.) There, she created a whole other world-Wonderland. Now, she and some of her friends she created are on the run from her own creation. She gets back to Earth and a boy named Steven has to help her defeat the Queen of Hearts while hiding her from the nosey newscasters/ reality TV show people.
(11) Purple Panda, I don’t see why not. Will you get to produce the play in class?
In graduate school I tried writing a verse play based on John Fowles The Collector. Dismal failure, but it taught me a lot about how difficult it is to transform a narrative into a drama — let alone in verse. Sort of like trying to turn a painting into a stained glass window. You have to work within the structure.
Alright, here’s the prologue for The Makepeace War, newly free of inconsistencies.
If you were to walk into the little town of Piper, and into the library, and ask to see books on the history of Piper, it would be a small selection, mainly talking about sheep, as Piper has always been a quiet town, and the main source of wool in Capitol. If you asked to see books on the history of Rora, (which was what the country north of the River Rorin called itself before the 2,196th year, when it joined with the southern country, Esmer, into what is now called Rorin) the selection would be much larger and more diverse, but a good third would be devoted to something called, “the Makepeace War.” In the 1,973rd year, a man named Charles Makepeace came into a position of great influence in the ranks of the government. For reasons unknown by the authors of these books, but not un-speculated on, he desired to start a war with Esmer. He sent out “messengers” to spy, steal, and generally stir things up. Obviously, war never broke out, but there the books cease to agree. All in all, though the Makepeace war was one of the more exciting events to take place in Rorin, there are few known facts, and in the books there are many inconsistencies and rather more guesses than there should be. For example, none of the authors can decide how the war was ended. Some say it merely fizzled out, others say a treaty was signed, still others say someone stopped it. The last would be correct, if anyone knew exactly who had stopped it.
But here is the whole story, beginning a little before the beginning, and ending somewhat after the end.
What do you think?
11 ~ I did a one-act for a playwriting workshop over the past two months. It was a lot of fun. =D
18 – We do readings in class, but we don’t actually produce them as a class. We do submit our finished plays to several one-act competitions, and if they win they’re performed by professional actors! I didn’t think I was going to like playwriting that much…I thought it would be my least favorite Literary Arts class I took this year (out of Journalism, Poetry, and Fiction), but as it turns out, I think it’s going to be my favorite!
20 – Cool! What was your play about? Did you get to perform it?
I wrote a play of Little Red Riding Hood once, and I also wrote part of something- I can’t remember the title- about a girl who goes into a fairy tale world. However, I kept using a narrator, for both of those, because I didn’t realize that what I really wanted to do was write books.
I didn’t produce either of them because I never had enough friends to fill all the parts.
I always get mad at the adapters of my favorite books into movies (well not always, but almost), so I want to maybe get a little empathy for them by trying to adapt a book myself. But it’s so hard to get started.
I am writing at lightning speed. Well, obviously not really, since I’m checking up on MuseBlog, but I’m well into chapter 2. My story has taken quite an unexpected turn. I never meant it to happen, but now Sara is lost in the middle of the city. Well, I must go and rescue her!
Now that I’m back at school, I’ll start writing my story again. I hope to finish it by the end of the year.
Oh, what a shame. Now that I am writing
In pentameter, I can’t talk about
My books. Drat and bother. An empty space.
How shall I fill it? Let me count the ways…
La Citadeya. It was more beautiful than Cissy had ever imagined it could be. The streets semmed to be paved with gold and they glinted in the sunlight. The houses were painted in wondrous colors and had beautiful designs on them. They were more amazing than even the most agnificent storyteller could’ve described. Even her Ata, the town’s healer and storyteller, her mother, couldn’t have described this. Ata… Cissy remembered the day when Ata had died. It was painful to recount, as the Wasten had tormented her longer than most.
I still can’t think of a title for my goldilocks book(post 6). *bangs head multiple times on desk. Does OW anyone OUCH have any ARGH ideas?
26- I like!
27- Um… hmm… erm… How about, “The Jewel of Poradg”? Yeah, I know, not very good, but you asked. I am sooooooo bad at titles. Besides, I think that that is very clever.
Two of my main characters are woefully underdeveloped. Any suggestions? Sara (The Makepeace War) isn’t so bad, but Patricia (The Black Lion) is totally uncharacterized.
My little sister doesn’t want to write JATJ after all, she wants to write a detective story. Sigh.
26- Great descriptions! It sounds wonderful!
28-Thanks for the title! And you aren’t bad at titles. At least, I don’t think so. And write in an excerpt of The Black Lion because I might be able to help with your characterization.
And once again, “Novelist’s Boot Camp” by Todd Stone(I think that is his name) is a great book for anyone who wants to be a novelist!
29- I will, but I just deleted almost all the parts with Patricia because it was getting terribly confusing and modern fourteen-year-olds were running around believing in fairy tales, which would not happen in real life. So I can’t right now. And it might be pretty hard to notice without reading practically the whole book.
I’m writing a book about my philosophical ideas. Religious people wouldn’t like it, though.
Almost done w/ Chapter Five… *writes like mad*
Here tis:
Chapter One
X__________
Niz put one foot in front of the other. He may have been nervous, but the image burned as bright as the sun in his head. His right arm had an inch-long gash upon it, and he suspected his ankle was sprained. But he kept walking. His eyes started to drift closed, and he walked straight into a metal bar at the level of his head. He almost cried out in pain, but he stopped himself before he put his life in danger. Now he had a pounding headache along with his multiple other ailments. But he knew he couldn’t stop now. The image was there, and that reminded him of his mission. Find it, take it, leave. Or the image would stay there forever. He shuddered at the thought. To keep his mind off of the terrible image, he thought of his sister. Poor Ellela, he mused, working her behind off for Adon when she could be enjoying- He laughed softly. “Enjoying†was not the word to describe his current situation. –experiencing the wonders of life as a One. But she had refused his offer the last time he had asked her. But he shouldn’t have been thinking about those things, for it seemed to anger the image. A huge shock went through his head, and Niz felt the image extend thought-tentacles throughout his body. His leg jerked forward, and Niz started to walk faster. His mind felt strangely clouded and sleepy, but he knew better than to give in to the image. He had seen people, his own friends, even, give in to the Upman’s images. They were now resting peacefully, to put it as least morbidly as possible. He focused on the item to keep the image from taking over completely. His legs were pumping extremely fast now, and Niz worriedly tried to tell the image to stop, or else they would wake up the Commander of the building they were in. The image seemed to heed his warning, and his legs slowed down.
Through the image-induced mind fog, Niz could faintly see a yellow-tinted glow up ahead. The image extended tentacles into Niz’s eyes and saw it too. The image, having done its job, released Niz from its grip. Niz’s legs almost crumpled beneath him, the image having supported them for the last three minutes, but Niz caught himself in the nick of time. Now was not the time to be caught. Regaining his stolen strength, Niz decided to cast a Gatherer up ahead into the glow to see the source of the mysterious effervescence. If his surroundings were as optimal as he hoped they were, inside that glow would be the object he was seeking. If not, well, Niz hoped he would have enough strength to get him out of there in time.
Niz pulled his trusty Energist’s Handy-book out of his air-storage compartment and rifled through its well-worn leaflets. He was only one of three Energists in the Upman’s Third Warrant, so his Handy-book was kept close to him at all times. The image performed one of its only useful operations and heated his eyes so they cast an almost invisible light upon the pages of the Handy-book. At once, Niz’s callused and cut fingers found the page that detailed to casting of a Informative Gatherer. He scanned the browned page and found, to his ultimate relief, that he had all the objects and ingredients necessary to the casting of the Gatherer.
He drew the ingredients efficiently out of his air-storage and arranged them in the shape described in the Handy-book: a common pentagram. The ox’s blood on the lower left, the essence of lion-skin in the middle… Niz hummed lightly as he arranged the magical ingredients in the spell-form. He mumbled the required words: “Amraaien cmthera, noalikgri chhenkamdre, akropktken abi abi tomgrteanâ€, and the ghostly green ectoplasmic shape of the Gatherer rose, shimmering and see-through, out of the pentagram. Niz glanced sharply down at the Handy-book and recited the directions to the Gatherer: “Akhchen fyrrmandrk aie kmenbtay uiplder!†Niz pointed his un-gashed hand towards the light in the distance. The Gatherer obediently swooped off towards the shimmering yellow light, without a sound.
Now all Niz could to was wait. This was about the thing Niz least wanted to do at the moment. After all the pipes and tunnels and knife-studded walls he had passed, and now he was just waiting here, in a gloomy hallway with almost no danger whatsoever, and with only a stupid image for company? He was about to set his chin down on his fists in the universal position of boredom when the Gatherer arrived, floating gracefully down the corridor. It clutched a burned piece of parchment in what Niz assumed to be its hands.
Niz gratefully accepted the parchment, and he held it up to the light of his image-lit eyes. As his tired eyeballs read the swirling, swooping text, his eyebrows levitated almost magically up his forehead.
“Oh my…â€
Chapter Two
_X_________
After Niz had read the paper thoroughly three times, it still seemed completely unbelievable what was written there. Niz struggled to comprehend the four names on the parchment. Along with the confusing names, the names of three images and a Beast were described. According to the Gatherer, the beast was asleep, and one of the humans had control over the three images, one of which was in the Beast’s mind, the other two in his air-storage.
This description fit perfectly to the characters of the oldest legend in the city. The Four Men of Allanaaz were omnipresent all-powerful entities that supposedly had control over all of the intelligent beings in the universe. Also supposedly, their physical forms rested in a room somewhere on the planet. But the last thing Niz had expected was to run into was a group of higher beings. It relieved him slightly that the Gatherer had written down the fact that the item he was seeking was in the room. He put his Handy-book back into his air-storage, and he erased the chalked pentagram with his tattered sleeve.
The image was resting placidly in his mind, and Niz was extremely glad that it had not decided to take him over again. When an image is created for good, and not for evil, it still has the tendencies to do what the original image was created for: control. Even though the Upman had not intended Niz’s current image to take over his mind, the image still tried; it was instinct. Niz awoke the image to instruct it to cool his eyes, and because of the image’s position in his consciousness, he could feel it struggling against itself. It thankfully obeyed without any trouble.
Niz got up from his squatting position on the cold ground of the corridor, and started slowly towards the glow.
As he got closer, he could make out voices coming from the light, which he could see was emanating from a doorway-shaped hole. The yellow light was growing brighter as he approached it. He stopped about a yard and a half from the doorway, as he could hear the voices of the Allanaazi clearly now.
This is the chance of a lifetime, thought Niz excitedly. In the building that my mission is in, the Four Men of Allanaaz happen to be conversing! If I can get some information for the Upman, I will be raised to the highest in the Society of Ones!
Niz crept as quiet as his feet would allow towards the door. After what seemed like half an hour, Niz reached the doorframe and leaned his ear against it.
“Gan, you do know that this could very well save our universe?â€
Niz grinned. This was the sort of stuff that the Upman would adore him for.
“Yes, Krin, I know, I know! But it’s dangerous!†said another voice.
“I agree with Gan, Krin. This could save our universe, but it also could destroy it,†said a third voice.
Niz had to restrain himself from whooping out loud. Destroying the universe! Saving it! This sounded like the stories that Ellela read at night. But Niz didn’t care in the least. He listened some more.
“I still don’t understand,†said a deep fourth voice. “The universe in in danger by what?â€
That must be Bonj, the simple one, thought Niz. So the third voice was Opol.
“The walls of the universe are crashing down around us, Bonj. Simple as that. In a few weeks, the otherworldly creatures from the infinite otherworlds will invade our poor helpless universe.â€
Niz almost choked on the mikla he was snacking on.
Chapter Three
__X________
“Aghkckck!!†Niz coughed. The bit of mikla flew out of his throat, but he was anything but relieved. Great, he thought. As he had predicted, the voices in the room stopped abruptly.
“Krin, go fetch our guest,†said Opol from the inside of the room. He
Niz smacked his forehead with his palm. He hadn’t been expecting to be invited in.
The figure of Krin Karn, the Second Man of Allanaaz, appeared in the bright doorway as a black silhouette.
“Come in, Niz,†he said,
Niz obeyed shakily, not even questioning how Krin knew his name. The image had retreated into his subconscious, and Niz was glad of the quiet in his mind.
Niz let himself be frog-marched into the room by the Man. As he passed through the bright light, a phenomenal sensation passed through his body, like the Northern Lights entering his nervous system. But it passed, as most phenomenal sensations do.
The room in which the other three Men were sitting was decorated most unusually. The color scheme seemed to be black and white. The walls, ceiling, and furniture was all either white or covered in white sheets. The knickknacks, picture frames, and other things in the room were death-black.
Niz’s inspection of his surroundings ended abruptly when Krin forced him into a plush white chintz armchair placed next to Gan.
Krin himself sat down in the straight-backed white wooden chair next to the pouf that Opol was seated on. All of the Four Men of Allanaaz stared at Niz with unusually bright eyes, like a candle lit behind glass.
Bonj tilted his head, inspecting Niz carefully. “You are, let’s see, fifteen years old, a boy, and you have one sister.â€
Niz nodded, but he wasn’t surprised at Bonj’s ability to figure out details of his being. That was his talent.
Gan, the oldest and leader of the Allanazi, made a sort of gesture to the other three, and they all fell silent at once. Gan stood up. Niz expected him to start making some sort of speech. But that was almost entirely the opposite of what he did do. Gan reached his hands out in front of him, and muttered a short word and-
Niz felt his mind leaving his body. All of his memories and experiences were being swiftly sucked out of him. He barely think about what was happening, because his thoughts were disappearing too. All of his Energist training was flowing out of his cranium as easy as pudding out of a bowl. As his consciousness was being pulled away from his physical being, his last thought was, God, if I have to do my training all over again, I swear I’ll kill myself…
Gan held the Jar in his large hands, the other three Men crowded around him.
“What luck,†remarked Opol.
Gan nodded solemnly.
“This boy is absolutely optimal!†exclaimed Bonj in a low voice. “He’s the right age, he’s an Energist, and…â€
“He has the Gift,†said Krin.
“Oh, Krin, you and your cliches,†sighed Opol. “’The Gift’ is too, er, book-y. Let’s call it… Ooh! I got it! Spark!â€
“Oh, alright, he has the Spark,â€
Krin smiled happily at the deletion of the cliché.
“So, we have a perfect boy for our mission. Bonj, you’ve been let off until further notice.â€
“Whew.â€
Chapter Four
___X_______
Niz’s consciousness was thrashing around in the Jar, the small purple glimmer all that remained of the part of the brain that made Niz himself. His brain was still in his physical form, which was lying unconscious-like on the white chair. His consciousness was quite aware of his surroundings, but as he was currently a cloud of purple trapped in a Jar, he could not interject with his own opinions. The wall of the Jar was semi-solid, so the words of the Men floated clearly to his… whatever consciousnesses hear with.
What were they gabbing about? A spark? Huh? Niz did not comprehend. All he could muster from the Four Men of Allanaaz’s confusing conversation was that they wanted to do something with him. Kill him, probably. The Spark might be some sort of a torture device…
Niz’s terrified worries were interrupted abruptly when the voices of the Four Men stopped and his consciousness was released. The curious sensation of your consciousness being out in the open is one you should never experience. Just ask Niz. The feeling of the open air on your own self felt like fire, guns, and the most powerful Dark-energist’s spell all at once. But his physical form drew his consciousness towards it, and the pain was over in less than a second.
His eyes opened, and his vision blurred for a second, then cleared to reveal the Four Men standing silently in front of him. His thoughts whirred, happily settling in back in its home. The image seemed to have performed the rare act of fleeing in terror.
He stood up, his legs thankfully solid enough to support him. He drew his yew staff from his air-storage and pointed it at the Men. A little voice in the back of his mind where the image used to be kept telling him, “Come on, Niz! These are the Four Men of Allanaaz! Stuff of legends! You can’t defeat them with a second class yew staff!†But Niz ignored it. His hand was shaking almost imperceptibly and his forehead was sweating. His sprained ankle was hurting again. His face had on it an expression that could be read as defiance, but also as fear.
Krin laughed. It wasn’t an evil laugh, but it was a jovial laugh, with a hint of surprise. “Are you planning on doing something to us, Niz?†he asked.
“Yes,†Niz said, with an almost-shaking voice. “I’m planning on keeping you from killing me!â€
Krin looked utterly confused for a moment, then a spark of realization alighted in his eyes. “You think we’re going to kill you, Niz?†he asked.
“Yes,†said Niz angrily, the staff still pointed in the Four Men’s direction. “What else would a group of omniscient all-powerful beings do to a fifteen-year-old boy who interrupted their saving-the-universe-related meeting?â€
Opol glanced significantly at Gan. Bonj was smiling, like he knew something, which he probably did.
“How long were you listening?†asked Bonj. “About a minute,†answered Niz, but he had the suspicion they were asking him these questions to gain time. Opol and Gan had bent their heads towards each other in deep conversation.
Gan and Opol had come back into the general area of the action. “Niz,†said Gan. “We’re not going to kill you.â€
Niz lowered his staff down to his side, but he was still prepared to take on anything that the Four Men would throw at him.
“We need you.â€
Niz’s eyes widened, then narrowed down to slits. “Mmm… I’ve heard,†he said. “Something about a spark, right?â€
Opol nodded. “We’ve been looking for a person like you for three months. And we’ve finally found you.â€
“And what’s this spark thing?†asked Niz.
“My, you are persistent. Spark is a type of magikal energy usually found in young Energists. It is the energy that drives a person to do three things: number one, make the right choices; number two, produce almost insane amounts of powerful magik; and number three, be protected from evil nasties that try and make you join their side,†Opol took a gasping breath.
“So I have this Spark and because of that you want me to…?â€
“Battle-“
“No-“
“Fight-“
“The evil-“
“And not so evil-“
“Nasties,†finished Opol, who seemed to be quite fond of that word.
Chapter Five
____X______
“Greaaaat,†Niz mumbled, plopping down into his white chair. “You want me to save the universe?â€
“Yup,†said Bonj.
“And what do I get if I do it right?â€
“This,†said Bonj, holding out an elaborately carved ivory box.
Niz realized with a shock that it was the item that he’d come to the building in the first place for. He reached out to grab it; to grab it, run away, and give it to the Upman without all of this universe beesguts, but Bonj was too quick for him. He snatched it back behind him in a flash.
“Uh-uh,†he said, waggling a finger in Niz’s face. “Not until you’ve completed the mission!â€
Niz sighed heavily. He should’ve known.
“Can I at least have some time to think about it?†he asked pleadingly.
“Think away,†remarked Krin.
“At home?†said Niz.
Krin looked at Gan, who nodded. “We’ll let you go home,†he said. “For two days. It’ll give you time to think about and prepare for your training, and…†He trailed off.
“Say my goodbyes?†said Niz dryly.
Opol nodded apologetically. “Time to go, then,†he said.
` Suddenly, Niz realized all of the opportunities that were open to him in the Four Men’s room. He cast his eyes around, and he found to his delight that there were at least five items in the room that Niz could take back to the Upman and be rewarded with. “No, no, actually, I think I can stay a bi-“
But Gan’s hand extended towards him, and with a bright flash of light akin to the one surrounding the study, Niz was gone.
“Uuuggghh…†Niz sat up, clutching his stomach. He felt like he had just been socked in the middle by an exceptionally powerful blast of magik.
“Niz?†an annoyed voice shouted from somewhere to Niz’s left.
“Whaa?†He got shakily to his feet and looked around for the source of the noise.
Footsteps pounded down the hallway that opened up to his left. A worried face was the first thing that Niz saw as his friend Makal rounded the corner.
“Where have you been?†he demanded.
“Upman’s hysterical, right?†Niz asked, sighing. “Too right,†remarked Makal. “You’re four hours late, did you know that?†he asked.
Niz flopped back down onto the floor. “Ohh…â€
Makal looked at Niz with inquiring eyes. “Tell me where you-“ he began to say, but cut himself off.
“NIZ!!!!!†he yelled angrily.
“What?â€
“YOU DON’T HAVE THE FRACKIN’ ITEM!!†Makal shouted.
“Thanks for reminding me,†said Niz sarcastically.
“This is NO TIME TO MAKE JOKES, Niz!! You were sent on an extremely important mission, you were gone FOUR FRACKIN’ HOURS, and you return empty-handed?â€
Niz frowned. Makal seemed to be taking his new job as Warden 372 too seriously.
“Makal, calm down!†Makal stopped shouting, but his eyebrows and mouth were still downturned in a mad expression.
Niz stood up, as the teleportation pain had worn off. He grasped Makal by the shoulders and looked into his eyes.
“Ok, look. I was gone for four hours, yes, and you see me empty-handed and presume I don’t have the item, right?â€
Makal nodded, confused.
“But, you don’t stop to think that maybe, just maybe, the item is somewhere else?â€
A look of understanding appeared on Makal’s tan face. “It’s in your air-storage?â€
Niz considered this option, then nodded. “Yes,†he said, “it’s in my air-storage.â€
Makal smiled. “Alright, I’ll just be going to inform the Upman of your arrival, then,†he said, and jogged back down the corridor.
Niz thought about his lie. Lying was a necessary talent to be a One, and he was probably one of the most proficient in his Sector, unlike Makal, who was extremely gullible and only a One because of his strength and agility. Niz’s musings were interrupted by a loud growling coming from the immediate vicinity of his stomach. He realized that he hadn’t eaten since six in the morning, and it was now almost eight P.M. He turned sharply on his heel and set off towards the smell of cooking meat.
Niz turned into the Eatery, and breathed in deeply the rich smells of the wide variety of food the Upman had provided for his Ones. The six medium-sized tables spread out upon the parquet floor of the Eatery were occupied by about 70 Ones, all eating, drinking, and chatting animatedly. Niz cast his eyes around and spotted an empty space next to a scraggly brown-haired teenage girl. He walked swiftly over to the table, and was mildly surprised to find a black-haired child seated next to him. He sighed inwardly.
“Niz!†said the boy. “Hello, Vairn,†said Niz depressedly.
“Niz, Niz, Niz, Niz!†chattered Vairn.
“Yes?†muttered Niz.
“Guess what, guess what, guess what?†Vairn squeaked excitedly.
“What?â€
“I found a rock! Yeah, a rock! Really, I did! A rock, a rock a rock!â€
“Good for you,†said Niz, and took a bite of the potatoes.
“Do you mean it, Niz? Really?â€
“Whatever.â€
“YAYAYAYAY!†shrilled Vairn.
Niz sighed again. It was going to be a long two days…
Like it?
It’s big.
Whoa! I’ll read that when I have time…
You know what’s irritating? Last night, I picked up this book called “Hatching Magic”, because I was looking for something to read. I didn’t actually read it, but the wizard/sorcerer’s name was Gideon. Unfortunately, that happens to be the very name I have been using for my wizard/sorcerer! And now I don’t feel like I can anymore because people might think I was plagiarizing.
NOBODY READS MY STOREEZ! *feels unloved* j/k. Here’s some time, Alice, READ IT NOW!
You only posted it an hour ago, and at a time when most MBers where at school. geez
38- I was kidding…
Well, I can read it now.
I like it a lot!
Thanx! *working on chapter six*
Ooh, I so want to post a story, but I don’t want to put it up on the Internet because somebody might plagiarize it!
I know. Maybe I’ll write a story simply for MB, that I won’t try to get published (I know, I have 0 chance of getting anything published, but don’t crush my dreams) so that I can use some ideas I really have been wanting to, but I don’t have to agonize over every little detail, such as hopelessly confusing run-on sentences, such as this one. Or maybe not.
I think I will use this in lieu of a writing thread (don’t get mad.) I’ve been reading a lot of fantasy, and it seems to always a) be connected to our world or b) in medieval times. That gets boring. I wonder if I could set something in a large city, or in primitive ages…
*is brainstorming*
*lightning shoots out of ears*
PC, have you read my story?
44- No. *blocks pies* I’m so sorry. I’ll read it now.
‘S very good. One thing I think you should explain- What do the Ones actually do? Or do you have that planned out in a later chapter?
43- Why exactly would anyone get mad? This IS a writing thread. Isn’t it?
I’m going to quiz you. This is not multiple choice. Bear with me.
What sort of thing inspires you to write more?
For me, it’s taking showers and cleaning vacation rentals. Or reading books by other kids. Or even reading books by adults, sometimes.
Do you let other people read your work before it’s done?
I do, obviously, but only people my age or fellow writers (namely, anyone who’s reading this post. Except the GAPAs.) I don’t let my sister read my books because she’d talk about it too much. I don’t let my parents read my work because they don’t ask.
43 (PC)- Please do. Since I stopped writing medieval European fantasy, I have never looked back. It’s far more satisfying to mix cultures and add your own elements to them.
48 (Alice)- Inspiration mostly comes to me in random spurts, not when I’m doing anything specific. Reading really good books (definitely not what the typical
Christopher PaoliniteenageLotR fanfic writerauthor churns out) can also inspire me to work on my language. Sometimes music will inspire me as well.I let other people read my writing when I’ve edited it at least once. But I always save my work’s editing virginity for myself.
46- I’m not sure if I should explain it in a later chapter (there are gonna be 33) or keep it secret, or explain it in the epilogue… I think I’ll do the epilogue thing.
49- Pentay! Have you read my story? Pleeez??
Tis very good Kiki.
51- Thanks!
Most of my nutrition comes from compliments.
HAY! That’s a good away message!
I have trouble writing introduction scenes. Like, where Patricia meets Sam and Winifred. It’s a very stilted few paragraphs.
I’ve noticed, I always have to set the scene for my stories. If I don’t describe customs, legends and other quirks specific to the place where the story is set and relevant to the story, the whole thing seems sort of wrong somehow. But not when I read things by other people that jump right into the story.
Or, on second thought, maybe I’m just trying to fill in the story and make it longer.
I will post some of my story later.
53- Yeah, I have that problem too. I have to explain every bitty thing about my setting, like customs and enemies, etc. But with the book I’m writing now, I’m trying to be subtle and not explain everything right away.
(53, 54) You could try pretending you’ve already written the introductions or all the scene-setting material and start with the action. Later come back and see if you still need to fill in the blanks. Chances are you won’t. As for the introductions, they should actually be easier to write once your acquaintance with the characters has deepened. You’ll have a better idea of how they’d act meeting someone new, or what they’re not telling, or what impression they’re trying to make on the other person.
Truth is, most people don’t want to read all those descriptions — at least not until they already care about the characters. Don’t you find books more exciting when there’s a touch of mystery and you get to puzzle it out for yourself? I try to keep in mind that my ideal audience is at least as smart as I am, and I don’t want to tell them too much they could figure out on their own.
Acting out scenes can be a helpful way to set description aside for awhile. For some reason whenever I start writing something — or get stuck — I take long walks and work out the words in my head. If I’m working on fiction, I let the characters talk about themselves or converse with each other. Something about moving around brings words to life. I keep going until I can hardly wait to rush home and start writing something down.
I have decided that, to incorporate more fairy-tale ideas for my story, Goldi Locks, or at least the organization she works for, will have robot minions called G.I.N.G.E.R.men who can fly really fast because there legs are rockets. (“Run, run, run as fast as you can! You can’t catch me: I’m the Gingerbread Man!”) What does everyone else think? And what should G.I.N.G.E.R. stand for?
Garishly Inducted Never-Gone Eradicating Rocketeers.
55- I didn’t know you wrote! Post some of your work.
Okay, I had this dream the other night and I started to write about it but got hung up on- guess what? Introduction. What happened before. So I finally got over that and started to write about it some more. So far it’s a short story, but when I’m done I’ll keep it around and see if it evolves into a novel or something. So here’s what I have so far.
“The Lord of the Rings,” I read aloud. “Harry Potter and.” That was all I could see of either title: the rest was cloaked in dust. No one said anything. I didn’t expect them to say anything. They’d probably seen it all before. Maybe they’d even read some of these books, with titles like Moby-Dick and The Little Prince. I could hardly wait to do the same.
I was one of a team of four. Our goal was to take the fragile, ancient, books from the solid, ancient library, and read them. Then we would go back to the safe and predictable outer library and write it all down so that ordinary people could read them too. I had always been taught that it was a dangerous job; that shelves could fall; books could crumble. That everything in this library was hundreds of years old, and I must be careful never to come here. Not that just anyone could come here anyways. I had thought that it was easy. It was anything but.
First we had put on special suits so that we didn’t breathe the dust. Then we were led through long sterile corridors and ushered into an elevator. We had gone down, down, down, my companions calm and silent, I outwardly trying to look like them, though my heart beat fast and my mouth was dry. Then out of the elevator and into a cold chamber. It seemed we would never reach the library. But there across the room was a door. On the door was a metal plaque that read “Salmonbrook Public Library
Built 1961.”
1961! Never had I been in the presence of something so ancient. I did a quick calculation. This year was 2384, so it had been built four hundred and twenty-three years ago! Though I had read this fact only that morning, I marveled anew that something could be that old.
Paul pushed open the door. “Ready?” he asked. My companions nodded. “You ready, kid?” I didn’t like being called “kid”, after all, I was fifteen, but I replied, “Yes.” I grimaced at the shakiness of my voice.
“Alright, then.” He pushed open the door. Larry went next, and then Helen. I followed them, wishing suddenly that I wasn’t there.
But there I was. The books weren’t seem as delicate as I had pictured them, crumbling tomes, indecipherable and and mildewing. Some of them were coated in plastic, and some had been removed for restoration. Of course. The library was not untouched. This had been going on for fifty years, after all.
But soon I forgot my disappointment as I wandered the aisles, reading titles. Then it was time to start reading.
“Seeing as we’ve got a kid here,” said Larry. “She can work in the children’s section. But one of us’ll have to show her how. Who’ll it be?”
It was decided that Helen would show me how to read the books using a minimum of time and energy. Then she could move on, and I would continue by myself until it was time to leave, a good four hours from now.
Does anyone have any ideas about a plot? I’m thinking she’ll start stealing books. What does everyone else think?
I really good and inspiring book about writing is Writing Magic, by Gail Carson Levine.
(57) Kiki, these days I’m concentrating on art, although I earned my Master’s degree in creative writing, with a concentration in poetry. Plus I do have the required drawer full of unfinished novels. NaNo 2005 was my first attempt at fiction writing in years, but I was very happy with the outcome and would like someday to turn at least part of it into a real novel.
Haha! I have a drawer full of unfinished novels too! Or I would, except I use the computer. Okay, I have 2 active novels and 4 or 5 inactive novels.
58- Vaguely reminds me of F451, but it has a good tone. I like it!
59- Oooh. kool!
What’s F451?
It’s not as mysterious as in my dream, unfortunately. It was one of the coolest dreams ever, but it doesn’t translate too well. Oh well. I’ll wait and see.
62- Fahrenheit 451. A book by Ray Bradbury. I really like your story, it looks like it’s off to a good start.
62- Yeah, dreams usually aren’t. I had this dream when I was like six, and I tried to write it down. Didn’t work. (mostly cause I was six, but also because dreams don’t translate into words.)
This is the beginning of a story that I might write some day.
He pushed through the door, marvelling at the roughness of the wood against his skin. He had never felt wood – he could tell you at least thirty things about its growth, chemical compostion, effect on life, importation, ect, but he had never felt it. Most things in his life were like that. The man saw some of his kind in a corridor beyond the door. They trembled slightly when they saw him.
“Pr…prince A…adam. How lovely to see you, your highness.”
Adam wondered why they were afraid. He had studied Psychology, and knew that humans were afraid when there was something to be afraid of. Like a lion, or bear. But he wasn’t a lion or bear. He was also a human, which should not be scary to them. Later that evening, he typed it into his e-journal. He put everything about his life into his journal. Until a few days ago, it had only been about what he had learned that day. But now … his life was so different. One day he had woken up and tried to start his Tutor running. The screen had gone blank, and then came up with a message.
“You are finished with your tutoring. You may now leave the HomeBase.” The metal covering across the door had, for the first time ever, and he had stepped out.
On a computer in the science lab building, a Scientist clapped his hands in glee.
“Our student is progressing nicely. He has questions about the world. This will work very well.”
Adam – the name was almost a joke on the part of the Scientists. It was certainly the closest they ever came to laughing. Adam was almost the most artificial being in exsistance. A test tube baby, he had never met anyone except his computers. His whole education, from age four to adulthood, was theory. He had no contact with anything other than plastic and metal. Yes, there was only person living more artificial than him – another of the Scientist’s “experiments”. Eve.
Do you like it? I don’t know how it would progress from here though. I think the Scientists might have an evil plot to take over the world or something.
I do like it! But an evil plot to take over the world is a bit… cliche. No offense, and I haven’t got a better idea, but yeah. On the other hand, I love cliche!
My mom found a story of mine the other day. It’s called “The Mailman’s Daughter” and I wrote it when I was seven or eight. It’s very typical of me that the first word was “Brr.” I never finished it. It was about a girl who moved to a new town where her dad was the mailman, or at least that’s why it was called that. But most of the story was about a christmas party, or something. My grammar and spelling was atrocious.
65- Lurve! Keep going!
in addition to 26-
The Wasten were large, batlike creatures. Their robes were black and billowing. It had horns on it’s head, and a mouth with more teeth than would normally fit. The most terrible part of them was their high pitched wail. Their voice, so high it couldn’t be heard, pierced the mind and did not enter through the ears. The howl invaded the soul and tore the body through the inside out. The scream could be felt by all with in five hundred Mirr of the Watsen, and only the Watsen themselves were immune. Viv, Cissy’s mom, had angered the Watsen. She’d opposed their proposal that any child without a known father should be given the the empire, and was punished with death.
65-You have a great story! Does the Adam and Eve hint to Christianity, though?
68-Very clever! I love the descriptions!!!!!
I started a new story. *sigh* I can’t seem to stop. It called “West of West” and it’s about a girl who goes there. West is a country. West of West is fairyland. Not little twinkly fairies. I have the first and last sentences, and I will post them here.
“All her life, Daisy Lee had wondered what lay west of West.”
“Daisy Lee was never seen again.”
She ate fairy food, see? She forgot her home and was trapped forever. It’s not a nice ending, but it’s a typical one for books, poems, or tales with fairies.
Fairies are spiteful creatures.
69- No, not really. It might be, but it was (when I wrote it) more because Adam and Eve is one of the better known creation myths, and they’re pretty much as natural as you can get. (If you are a Christian. Even if you don’t believe that stuff, then most people know what it suggests) And the two characters in the story are about as synthetic as you can get. However, yes, I may be slightly biased towards this. I am a Christian, so therefore it was the first thing that came to my head.
Thank you! I wasn’t really intending to write more, but I might.
Bur was wakened rudely at three-thirty-seven in the morning by the harsh call of the alarm bell. He leaped out of his narrow, hard bunk, stumbling slightly on the ladder. The room was filled with a chaotic plethora of furnace boys, struggling to strap on their equipment. Bur reached into the grimy metal locker below his bunk and pulled out his salamander. The bluish lizard felt searingly cold. Normally, Bur would have calmly and methodically put on protective gloves before placing the salamander in its spherical cage of woven wire and fastening the cage to his wristband so that it dangled below his left arm. But this was no routine furnace inspection. The alarm was proof of that.
With grapnel, tool belt and salamander cage in place, Bur pushed his way into the crowd. A severe bottleneck formed at the door of the dormitory, but he finally squeezed through and ran down the hall, boots clanking on the slanted metal floor.
In addition to 68-
Remembering her mother’s death affected Cissy’s mood greatly, and La Citadeya did not seem to be so magnificent anymore. THe shining streets were winking slyly at her, and so she kept walking quickly, past the vast rows of houses. She needed to get to the port, where she was meeting Himmel.
Himmel had been a friend of Cissy’s family for as long as she could remember. His dark hair and eyes made him look sinister, but when he smiled it lit up his face. Himmel owned a boat, but did not captain it. His son, Mit, young and fair-haired, was the captain. Cissy was to go to Himmel’s house, and it would be decided there what she was going to do next, to travel across the Thousand Mile Lake with Mit, or to caravan across the plains with Himmel.
73
Bur finally reached an inspection hatch and yanked it open. Steam billowed out in a wall of rose-tinted white, carrying with it the sulfurous, minty odor of qimia. The salamander hissed, rattling its cage. A wash of yellow spread across its blue scales. Bur knew that meant that the amount of qimia in the air was volatile, but not overly dangerous. The protocol of the Guild of Qimia Furnaciers stated that if your salamander turned orange, you should get out immediately. If the salamander turned red, there was no point in trying to get out, because the furnace was about to blow and you were as good as dead.
Bur hooked his grapnel over a loop of metal and dropped down towards the qimia furnace, a complex tangle of steel pipes as large as tree trunks. One massive glass pipe, pulsing with the pure, white-gold glow of heated qimia, rose up above the steam to provide light to the Great Lantern. Bur’s practiced eye saw what the problem was immediately. The primary overflow valves were all open, pumping out steam. That meant that there was a blockage somewhere.
But it was just a symptom. He had to get to the cause- the blockage- and remove it, or the Great Lantern would go out. And that was unthinkable.
Bur reeled in his grapnel and swung off into the maze of piping.
Oh man, you don’t even want to know. Maybe I’ll do a nano next year.
72-I am Christian too, so that is just what came to mind. It sounds really good! KEEP WRITING!
Aren’t we glutting the market? Slightly?
I barely finished my NaNoWriMo. Actually, I didn’t, it’s still hanging in midair. Here’s a sample:
The interior of the ship was really hideous. It was cramped and small, and was a sort of awful color that looked, in a word, absolutely disgusting. One would have assumed that the designer had merely lumped every awful color he could think of into a large bucket of paint; gallons of puce and magenta and beige and East German brown that looked like baby shit, and every other bad hue he could possibly come up with, beg, borrow, or steal, and then heated the whole mix, run it through Technicolor and Prismacolor and lighteners and darkeners and dyes, and then slopped the mess, or rather, poured the whole sorry glop of hideous shades that should have never been dragged out of the attics from which they evolved in dark, dusty, moth bitten corners that looked like something out of one of the darker bits of a molding collegiate dormitory built in a drug induced fog in the 1970s and dug up again fourteen centuries later, over the interior of the spaceship, which suffered the brunt of the beating and seemed to sag under the weight and abuse. This did nothing to enhance the mood, decor, or sex appeal of the ship, which didn’t grow on anyone after any length of time whatsoever and could only be described accurately as a sort of flying hell hole that was no good to anyone and looked that way. The lighting didn’t do anything for the paint at all; the bulbs were clearly blown by a glassblower with asthma (through his inhaler) and had misshapen wires in them that would have caused Nikola Tesla or Thomas Edison to first throw a hissy fit and then collapse in child like tears on the floor. The lighting really detracted from the ship, if by this point the miniscule negative numbers involved (with absolute values substantially bigger than those of numbers found on Bill Gates’s tax returns) had anything to detract from. One would have thought that they shed an awful glowing creepy cast of skeletal emptiness over everything; instead, far from it, they threw the ghastliness of the paint, the ill chosen chairs, and the drunken geometry of this ship that was a flying interior design crisis that resembled a torture chamber designed by the love child of Mies van der Rohe and Cher, into a sort of fluorescent sharp clarity that seemed to say, “Hello, we know this ship is incredibly, disgustingly ugly and that it looks like massive mounds of unsightly snot and vomit have congealed in the decomposing carcass of some sort of crawly insect you probably have nightmares about and that was featured in movies about grave diggers and tomb robbers and nerdy archaeologist chicks, and that when you look at it you wish that someone would strike you blind and lead you off to some nice flat somewhere in a nice quiet neighborhood in the dark depths of oblivion, but we’re going to make the lighting throughout the whole thing brighter than a supernova just so you can revel in its absolute vomit like atrocious bad taste,†and it said that loud and proud and with the supreme confidence of the innocent defendant finally revealing the plaintiff with a piece of special, incriminating, undeniable evidence. The geometry of the thing was off—off like a blind man had measured with a broken ruler in some sort of revolutionary measuring system, or really a measuring cup that all the lettering had worn off of. Things stuck out at odd angles. A bench would protrude like bone out of flesh, or a nameless bulge would stick out like a boil on the nose of Babi Yaga, and next to them a sort of depression would be in the wall, a hole that had no function, reason, or purpose and couldn’t possibly be decorative due to the fact that it somehow made the entire area look disgustingly worse, a feat that would be akin to being able to sink the Queen Elizabeth Two with a bat of one’s eyelashes. To add to this, the scuff marks in the wall, the bullet holes, and the spatters of both dried and fresh wet blood really didn’t add but also subtracted. The entire thing was the single ugliest piece of matter in the universe anyone in the ship had ever seen. It might have actually been the single most grotesquely hideous, atrociously deformed, nastily congealed hunk of solid, vibrating molecular particles that anyone had ever seen, thought of, designed, dreamed of, or even nightmared of. (Is that a new word? I don’t care. This pathetically staggeringly drunken excuse fo a decent or even half decent space ship needs one to describe it fully. I’m telling you that’s how it is, man.)
Woah.
You hardly need any story with that.
78-What is a NaNoWriMo? Your story is HILARIOUS! I practically fell off my chair in laughter.
78- Wow. Extremely, um… thoroughly extensive description.
80- National Novel Writing Month. It’s sort of a contest during the month of november to write I think a 50,000 word story.
81-Thanks! That sounds great. I have never heard of it, but I might do it.
here is a start to a mystery novel…
In the pitch black coldness of the black mane of the midnight time, came a breeze, floating up into the blackest cliffs, over the bluffs, and to the cheeks of one Miss Leslie Blithe. She sat there, her legs dangling bare over the side of the peak of the cliff on which she sat. Her thin dress with the maidservant apron was protected only by a skinny jacket which she hugged about herself as the wind swept and pushed past her in great long gusts.
And as she sat there and waited for the day to rise over the horizon on the sea, she heard a footfall behind her. She stopped breathing for a moment to listen. The sound ceased almost immediately. She let out a sigh. But perhaps too quickly…
There was a movement behind her. She began to turn her head but by then it was too late. A pair of rough hands pushed her hard in the back. She screamed in terror and fell off her perch with an ungainly whoosh of weight into wind. One hand clung, straggling to the edge of the dark black cliff. A shiny black shoe, now visible in the rising light, stepped onto her fingers as hard as a blow from a weight. She tried with all her might to hang on and also catch a glimpse of her attacker. But her grasp slipped. With a sudden movement, she dropped, like an enormous rag doll, from the cliff as the figure ran into the horizon beyond her glimpse.
83- Oh, cool! I have trouble writing mysteries because I feel like they need plot twists and everything, something I’m not sure I could do on purpose. I know the inside of my head, which is why nothing seems twisty enough.
Here’s a brief summary of West of West, publisher style. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, get out a kids book and look on the copyright page. You’ll see it.)
While exploring the country west of West, Daisy Lee unwittingly passes a series of a hundred tests -or are they warnings?- that will make her- this is what I can’t decide. What’ll it make her? What would the fairies want with a human girl? Does anyone know? Have any ideas? And what do you think of my premise?
that will make her think about life like she never had before.
The fairies could be trying to learn something that she knows but they don’t, or that she can do but they can’t. For example, maybe they live forever but never grow up?
Perhaps a hundred is a bit much. So far I only have 2.
More of The Makepeace War.
Chapter One
Piper
In the town of Piper, children weren’t considered citizens until they turned thirteen and a half (what the half had to do with it, not even the mayor himself knew.) At that age, they were recorded as citizens, and required to attend the monthly Meetings of the High and Low Councils. They could also be apprenticed out to learn a trade, or married off, though most people waited till at least fifteen to marry. At thirteen and a half, a child was no longer a child, but an adult.
Of course, it differed depending on the town. In some towns, the age was as young as twelve, in others, as old as eighteen. This story begins in Piper, in the last month of the 1,972nd year, when a girl named Sara Farmer turned thirteen and a half.
This was Sara’s first Meeting, and though when it began she was jittery with excitement, by the time it was drawing to a close her eyelids were drooping and she was just awake enough to wonder why the Meeting justified the waste of so much lamp oil.
Sara’s friend Margery jabbed her in the arm, and Sara woke sufficiently to catch the mayor’s last words with her conscious mind: “The day after tomorrow we will announce the Representatives of Piper.”
Representatives? thought Sara, confused, as she stumbled out into the frosty night.
The next morning she was yawning over breakfast, and not in a mood for the inevitable questioning from her two younger sisters. She ignored their eager queries and concentrated on not falling asleep in her porridge. Her younger brother, Nathaniel, was not much more awake than her, having stayed up half the night as he always did on Meeting nights, since he couldn’t sleep alone in the house, and Anne and Rosie were no comfort.
Anne and Rosie were no comfort now, either, with their incessant chattering on, and on, and on.
“What was it like, Sara?” asked Anne for what must have been the tenth time. Sara looked blearily at her and answered at last. “Boring. I fell asleep.”
That shut them up. They were lost for words at the frankness of this statement, and Sara turned her attention to more pressing matters. “Ma, what did the mayor mean by representatives?”
“Every year,” replied her mother, somehow wide awake, “there’s a Meeting in Capitol where all the towns and villages talk about things. Since not everyone from every town can come, the towns each pick a Representative, who speaks for that town.”
“Oh. But shouldn’t it be someone from the High Council?”
“Not really. It’s the people’s opinion that’s wanted, so they know how well-liked the mayor is, and that kind of thing.”
“Do I really have to attend? It’s not like I’ll be picked as a Representative or anything.”
“I should think not! You’re much too young. But you still have to attend; it’s mandatory. Anyway,” she added comfortingly, “it’s a very short Meeting, and it’ll be over before you know it.â€
“Friends and citizens,” boomed the mayor, his voice too loud even for the spacious meeting hall. “My fellow officials and I have chosen two Representatives for Piper. Two will be necessary, as last year the government passed a law that there must be two opinions for each town represented. The High Council of Piper has made their choices. The first Representative is Lena O’ Brian.” There was a cheer. Only a small one, as the eardrums of the townspeople were still vibrating from the mayor’s words. Lena O’ Brian was a widow who kept an inn near the edge of Piper. She looked sourer than lemons, but she was in fact the sweetest, kindest woman to be found this side of the river Rorin.
The mayor cleared his throat. “The second Representative is Sara Farmer.”
“But why me?” asked Sara later, as she packed. “I’m so junior. I don’t even have an opinion. I slept through half of my only Meeting. Why me?”
Nathaniel shrugged. “Maybe because you’re young and impressionable?”
“Exactly!” crowed Margery. “You’re both right. Sara wasn’t paying attention to the first meeting, and she’s the youngest legal citizen of Piper. Old enough to go to Council, I mean. The mayor and the rest of the High Council want Piper to be positively represented. So the obvious thing to do would get two people who both like the mayor and all the rest. But the only person who has the opinion that they want is Lena. So they get the youngest member, who hasn’t had any time to form an opinion. Since you don’t know what to say, Sara, you’ll just try to rephrase whatever your senior says. Then the High Council has the two opinions that they want. See? And if you try to think of what to say on your journey, the only person to ask will be Lena O’ Brian, so her opinion will rub off on you. So they still have their two good opinions.”
“But that’s cheating!” gasped Sara. “It isn’t fair! It’s against the law!”
“So? They’re the law in Piper, and Piper’s important, for it’s size. Think of all the wool we send to the Capitol. It’s unlikely anyone’ll notice, and if they do, then they’ve probably done something similar and won’t want to report it. Even if they did report it, it’s only a slim chance that anything will be done. Why mess up the wool flow from Piper for something petty like that?”
“Well, I won’t cheat. You can tell me what Lena O’ Brian will say, and I’ll say exactly the opposite.”
“That would be cheating too, you know,” Nathaniel pointed out.
Sara sighed. “I know. How do I not cheat, anyway?”
“Easy. You have five days till the Meeting in Capitol, during four of which you’ll have nothing to do but think. I’ll tell you the relevant politics, and then you can form your own opinion.”
And she did. But it wasn’t really necessary. Sara’s opinion was already formed.
Here is the book jacket synopsis of my story:
The G.U.A.R.D. training program is designed to separate the wimps from the champs. But Garrett doesn’t feel like a champ, so how did he get in? No one will tell him, and he hasn’t figured it out. He is the low-life of G.U.A.R.D, the scum of G.rim U.ndertakings A.nd R.isk of D.eath. Yet all that changes when he is right at the scene of the thievery of the Jewel of Poradg, and doesn’t even realize it! Now, he has to become Agent Little Bear, and partner up with Agents Mama and Papa Bear, to solve the case. With a cast of modernized fairy tale creatures, including the famous jewel thief Goldi Locks, and the master of disguise, Perry Frogg, this story keeps moving. A refreshing and somewhat futuristic twist on the old fairy tales we know and love.
I’m thinking of writing a fractured fairy tale as well. In mine, all of the villains (wicked witches, ferocious dragons, dumb giants, evil stepmothers) are actually the good guys, but they have gotten a horrible reputation, mostly due to Hans Grim, the editor of the Fairyland Times, who doesn’t mind changing the facts to help his paper sell. Like it? If so, which fairy tales should I mangle?
91- Sounds good. I’m not sure about which fairy tales, but it should be more popular, well-known ones, don’t go writing about Kate Crackernuts and Chlde Rowland. :lol:, you probably don’t even know what I’m talking about.
I need a plot now. Hmm.
A young sorcerer-in-training is sent on a Quest (a common occurrence) by the Council of Darkness* to find out who is trying to drive the Dark creatures out of Fairyland. Along the way, he meets several characters that seem vaguely familiar, but with a twist.
*note: Dark does not mean evil, despite sinister forces *coughbrothersgrimmcough* that would have people think differently. Dark and Light coexist, in theory, but Dark has gotten a bad rap over the years.
Fractured fairy tales so far:
Billy Goats Gruff; A peace-loving troll is booted out of his home under a bridge by some roughneck goats who then eat his prized lawn.
Rumpelstiltskin: An absolutely horrible, gluttonous girl is made to spin straw into gold after stealing five pies from the larder of the palace. A kindly imp takes pity on her and helps her. The king is so impressed that eventually he marries the girl. The imp then finds out the new queen’s true nature, and tries to rescue her firstborn son from his horrible mother. The queen speaks the imp’s true name and banishes him to Beyond The End, the wasteland of blank paper that exists at the end of every book.
Rapunzel: A well-known crime family steals a witch’s prized cabbages, and the daughter (the only one they could catch) is imprisoned. But she escapes and uses her influence in the royal family to have the witch banished.
That’s all I’ve got so far.
Hansel and Gretel: A harmless old witch lives in the forest, working on her life’s work; the world’s largest gingerbread house. Then two greedy, fat kids come along, eat her out of house and home (literally), and then push her into her oven when she starts over.
Puss in Boots: A feline criminal mastermind murders a kindly old ogre, deceives a village, and sets up his gullible young master as Marquis of Carabas. Puss then becomes a power behind the throne, and remains one of the most influential creatures in Fairyland.
I need feedback! Please?
94- Sweet, you know the more obscure peices of fairy tales. Like the pies and the cabbages. (Actually, I thought that was lettuce or radishes, but it’s been a while.)
I like Beyond the End.
I’m thinking of having Puss in Boots be the mastermind behind the exiling of the Dark. He could control criminals and royalists at the same time.
The Realms of Fairyland:
Dark Forest: The end of most quests. One of the last haunts of the Dark.
Wuntza Ponnatym: To the west of the Dark Forest, it is where kings and princes rule, and third and youngest sons set out to seek their fortune.
Carabas: The land of Speaking Beasts, to the south of Wuntza. The Marquis theoretically rules it, but Puss makes all the decisions.
Beyond the End: A wasteland that encompasses the North and East, stretching on endlessly.
The Sea: To the south and west. Merchant ships come from Lands Beyond to the ports of Carabas and Wuntza. Of course, it is theorized that the Lands Beyond are purely for narrative purposes, and the ships appear out of thin air just beyond the horizon.
Wow. I don’t usually much care for fractured fairy tales (even though I’m working on one), but yours sounds like something I would read without a moments hesitation.
These are the fairy tales that I would like to retell:
Childe Rowland. Yes, it has incompetent, insignifagant older brothers, but something about it is so inspiring.
Kate Crackernuts. I love it. Green hills and fairy balls and such.
East o’ the Sun, West o’ the Moon. Need I really say more?
I think maybe I’ll incorporate that kind of thing into West of West, rather than try to invent a hundred tests that don’t repeat themselves. I’ll have to put in firebirds and talking creatures, and some magical and fabled places. There will definitely be a glass hill. And a green hill. And since it ought to be three, I’ll need another hill. Okay, here’s how it’s going to work.
Three hills, a glass hill, a green hill, and something else, maybe a fiery hill?
On top of the glass hill a princess lies in slumber.
Under the green hill fairies dance without number.
Around the dark hill [something] will you encumber.
What do you think?
I like the hills in your story. I’ll start writing mine soon.
PC- Your ideas sound really good. Sort of Jasper Fforde nursery crime-ish.
I’ve been editing my story. It’s much better now. It makes more sense, and has more detail.
Help, someone! I need a plausible reason for Sara to be picked as one of Makepeace’s “messengers”! Her youth and impressionableness aren’t going to cut it for that part.
103- Perhaps likely youths have been observed by Makepeace’s men all through the country, and she’s the one who has displayed the necessary qualities most noticeably.
104- That’s the problem… Sara isn’t especially brave or clever. Maybe she can keep a secret really well, and since Makepeace is used to Penelope, a very talkative girl, he is so delighted with that quality he automatically recruits her.
Nah… I’m just typing this as it comes to me, so some of these ideas are bound to be not very good.
I kind of like this one… Sara accidentally overhears Makepeace and his conspirators talking, and so they can’t do anything but swear her over to their side.
Have to think about that one.
Isn’t it cool when you’re just writing, and the ideas start to sort of flow into your brain?
105- Yeah. I like it.
I think I’ll do some free writing.
I free-wrote a paragraph, and this is what I got. Read at your peril.
When the gods created Orr, one of them must have gotten the wrong memo.
Orr was a place where the laws of nature shirked and the laws of physics frequently took Thursdays off. Giant spiders were not uncommon, waterfalls often flowed sideways, and each country had at least five microscopic cities. Seasons were highly unpredictable. Continents moved for no reason, and oceans regularly vanished and appeared five hundred miles away. One of the two suns had laid eggs a few hundred years before, and small, newly hatched fireballs were often seen, wandering through the sky behind their parents. It was a forgotten corner of reality, the equivalent of the pages of feverishly scribbled notes that you thought were extremely important, but turned out to have absolutely no bearing on the project you were doing, and now lie on your desk, taking up space. You’ve never had the courage to throw them away, because you thought they might come in handy later, right? They’re smugly basking in the knowledge that you’ll never work up the courage to admit they’re useless and toss them in the trash bin where they belong. That is Orr in a nutshell.
107- I like that! I think your idea of free writing is different than mine, because I just free-wrote and I got this:
Free writing again. I like doing this a lot. I mustn’t pay attention to the grammar. I really need to go faster. Faster. Faster. I need a running start to lift me off. Fly away home. That’s a movie I’ve never seen and never want to see. It’s about geese. Great. Now I just stopped and have to get going all over again. Et cetera et cetera. Maybe I should go put the laundry away. This is kind of like writing with both hands at once. It’s got the same feel to it. I don’t know why. And I did it again! RRRRRRR. Make that grrrrrrr. Slurp. Random words are fun. Deplorable. Just like my typing. Adornment. Like nothing in particular. Owling. The act of smuggling sheep or wool out of England. My momentum! I want it back. Momentum. Memorandum. Through the looking glass. Twas brillig, and the slithy toves, did gyre and gimble in the wabe. Like tat. 5:16 PMit for tat. Whoa! How did that happen? That stopped me dead. Darn it!
One thought leads to another, doesn’t it? “Like tat” was supposed to be “like that” (totally random, I know) but I make many typos during my free writing sessions. And that led to “tit for tat” which is a fairy tale, and somehow when I wrote the “t” I got the time.
I think if I wrote with a bit of purpose I might get something more similar to a story, and less similar to a clutter of telephone messages that were never given, the remnants of a Dictionary game, and scraps of someones diary, all arranged into a nearly coherent paragraph.
See, I just wrote a fairly good description, even if the telephone messages part doesn’t make much sense unless you’re inside my head.
I guess mine is semi-free writing. It holds together as a plot, but I have no plan for it.
107- whee! I like it a lot! very Adams/Pratchett-esque. I think I’ll try that type of thing sometime. (randomly write a paragraph, and see where it takes me that is)
110- I just came up with something like that completely by accident, and I’ll probably never use it, but I’ve become quite fond of it in the past five minutes. It’s the description in post 109, by the way.
yes, my idea of free writing had been random words but I quite like the coherent version and I’m planing on trying it soon when I’m finished with my english journal. I may or may not post my results here!
Despite all this, men, in their infinite stupidity, had colonized Orr. How this happened is a very interesting story, creative and well-thought-out. Any sensible reader, therefore, will immediately stop reading this cockamamie excuse for a narrative, as it has nothing to do with the story I just told you about. Suffice to say, during the First World War, a brilliant physicist named Nicodemus Van Spyke took one hundred willing men and women along an interdimensional corridor known as a Zipline. They set up a thriving city in Ikkebara, the central province of Orr. Usually central, that is.
Okay, I’m going to post my newly revised first chapter of The Makepeace War, which people are probably infinitely sick of reading, and beginning to wish I would post the second or third chapter for a change. All I can say is, sorry. Order of appearance, and all that. Besides, I’m still working on the second chapter, and haven’t even begun redoing the third. Enough blather. Here it is. (Again.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the town of Piper, children weren’t considered citizens until they turned thirteen and a half (what the half had to do with it, not even the mayor himself knew.) At that age, they were recorded as citizens, and required to attend the monthly Meetings of the High and Common Councils. They could also be apprenticed out to learn a trade, or married off, though most people waited till at least fifteen to marry. At thirteen and a half, a child was no longer a child, but an adult.
Of course, it differed depending on the town. In some towns, the age was as young as twelve, in others, as old as eighteen. This story begins in Piper, in the last month of the 1,972nd year, when a girl named Sara Farmer turned thirteen and a half.
This was Sara’s first Meeting, and though when it began she was jittery with excitement, by the time it was drawing to a close her eyelids were drooping and she was just awake enough to wonder why the Meeting justified the waste of so much lamp oil. It seemed they had said nothing of any importance or interest all night long, and now it was long past time for bed. The mayor droned on and on, lulling Sara to sleep . . .
Her friend Margery jabbed Sara hard in the arm, and she woke sufficiently to catch the mayor’s last words with her conscious mind: “The day after tomorrow we will announce the Representatives of Piper.”
Representatives? thought Sara, confused, as she stumbled out into the frosty night. But she was too tired to think about it long, and she was asleep before she reached the door of her house.
The next morning Sara was yawning over breakfast, and not in a mood for the inevitable questioning from her two younger sisters. She ignored their eager queries and concentrated on not falling asleep in her porridge. Her younger brother, Nathaniel, was not much more awake than her, having stayed up half the night as he always did on Meeting nights. He was scared to sleep alone in the house, and the little girls were no comfort at night.
Anne and Rosie were no comfort now, either, with their incessant chattering on, and on, and on.
“What was it like, Sara?” asked Anne for what must have been the tenth time. Sara looked blearily at her and answered at last. “Boring. I fell asleep.”
That shut them up. They were lost for words at the frankness of this statement, and Sara turned her attention to more pressing matters, such as the mayor’s words the night before. “Ma,†she asked, “what did the mayor mean by ‘representatives’?”
“Every year,” replied her mother, somehow wide awake – I must learn how to do that, Sara thought -, “there’s a Meeting in Capitol where all the towns and villages talk about things. Since not everyone from every town can come, the towns each pick a Representative, who speaks for that town.”
“Oh. I think I see.†She didn’t think anything of the kind, but it seemed the right thing to say. “But shouldn’t it be someone from the High Council?”
“Not really. It’s the people’s opinion that’s wanted, so they know how well liked the mayor is, and that kind of thing. Though it’s not always effective,” she added as an afterthought. Sara didn’t notice.
“Do I really have to attend? It’s not like I’ll be picked as a Representative or anything.”
“I should think not! You’re much too young. But you still have to attend; it’s mandatory. Anyway,” she added comfortingly, “it’s a very short Meeting, and it’ll be over before you know it.â€
“Friends and citizens,” boomed the mayor, his voice too loud even for the spacious meeting hall, “due to the incidents in Trina and Selnor in the past two years-“
“Incidents? What incidents?†Sara asked in a whisper, but Margery shook her head and said “Later. Now shush.†Sara noted that her friend was taut with excitement and apprehension.
“-the High National Council has passed a law that two opinions must be heard at the Capitol’s Meeting, to avoid such-“ “Perjury,†muttered someone sitting near Sara. “-misunderstandings,†continued the mayor smoothly. Therefore, The Councilors and myself have chosen two Representatives. The first is Lena O’ Brian.” There was a small cheer. No one was surprised. Lena O’ Brian, a widow who kept an inn near the edge of Piper, had been Representative for several years running now. It was the second Representative the townspeople wanted to hear about. Margery was even more distracted and anxious now. Sara was fairly sure she knew why.
The mayor cleared his throat. He looked distinctly uncomfortable all of a sudden. “This may seem a bit unconventional,†he said, “But we have our reasons.†Silence in the hall. All down the long table, no one moved a muscle.
The mayor, very red in the face, coughed nervously and announced, “The second Representative is Sara Farmer.”
Sara didn’t notice if people cheered or booed or said anything at all. Why me? she was thinking. What reason would they have to choose me?
“Why me?” Sara asked aloud later, as she packed. “I’m so junior. I don’t even have an opinion. I slept through half of my only Meeting. Why me?”
Nathaniel shrugged. “Maybe because you’re young and impressionable?”
“Exactly!” crowed Margery. She was in remarkably high spirits, and Sara had revised her opinion of why Margery had been so nervous. She hadn’t wanted to be chosen; she had not wanted to be chosen. “Haven’t you ever wondered why Lena O’ Brian is the only Representative?†Both Nathaniel and Sara shook their heads. “Of course not,†sighed Margery. “You didn’t even know what Representatives were until today. But anyway, she is. She has been for years and years, Mother says.†Margery was a year older than Sara, but that meant she had still only been attending Meetings for a year. Her mother, however, felt it was important that Margery know about the affairs and politics of Piper. Sara had never envied Margery this, but now she wished that her knowledge could have also been built up slowly. Right now, Sara felt that if one more fact about the way Piper worked was crammed into her brain, her head would probably explode.
“Anyway,†Margery continued, “Lena O’ Brian is the only Representative because she’s the only one who likes the mayor enough to say good things about him and the Councilors. He’s a very dreadful man.â€
Sara nodded slowly. “But what does all this have to do with me? And what did the mayor mean about ‘incidents’?â€
“The ‘incidents’ he was talking about were both pretty much exactly what he’s doing now. The mayors of Trina and Selnor were sending close friends and relations to the Capitol Meeting so that they would say good things about them, and the mayor could keep his job.â€
Sara nodded again. One of the facts she had learned that day was that only the National Council could get rid of old or appoint new mayors. “So why me?†she persisted.
“I’m getting to that.†It was obvious Margery wasn’t going to end her excellent and informative lecture until she was good and ready. “I think most towns have probably been doing that sort of thing for ever and ever, because very few mayors are well-liked.â€
Nathaniel had been silent all this time, but now he interrupted. “Our government system is flawed,†he announced solemnly.
“What’s new?†said Margery sarcastically. “It always has been.†Before she could go on with her lecture, Sara, interested in spite of herself, asked a puzzling question.
“If our mayor is doing that – perjury – thing, then why is he sending Lena O’ Brian again?â€
Margery was utterly stumped. “I have no idea! I never thought of that!†She was so shocked she forgot to resume her previous train of thought. Sara waited patiently for a few minutes, then said, “You still haven’t explained what all this has to do with me.â€
“Oh! Well, I thought that they wanted you to go because Mrs. O’ Brian’s opinion would be bound to rub off on you and then the mayor would have another ally, but . . .†Though she didn’t say it, the hole in her theory was extremely off-putting, and Margery didn’t feel certain of anything at the moment.
Consequently, Sara was no nearer to knowing why she was a Representative the next day when she left Piper, and she wondered and pondered for three days, adopting Margery’s theory and revising it, then deciding it was no good after all and discarding it, but coming back an hour later to that same pressing question. Why?
~~~~~~~~~~~
I put in more detail, as requested, and also some bewilderment, which is as much emotion you’re going to get out of me this early on. Is it much better?
And here’s a chapter sketch:
1. Sara gets picked as a Representative and the government is explained, in brief.
2. Sara goes to Capitol (gonna have to think of a better name for that, but in the short run it’ll do), meets a kid named Andrew, who (though she doesn’t know it) is a sort of errand boy/spy for Makepeace.
3. Sara gets utterly lost, meets Makepeace, Andrew, a man she met previously, and a talkative girl named Penenlope and her mother: the entire Makepeace conspiracy.
4. She gets recruited and sent back to Piper. Or not.
All following chapters are unplanned so far.
Here’s the beginning of a story I wrote. I had the idea when I was supposed to be playing “kingdoms” with my sister. (According to her. According to me, I just wanted to get away from her incessant chatter.)
~~~~~~~~~
In the kingdom of Silencia, two people sat across the table from each other, playing chess. They were Serena and Irritatia, sisters, occasional friends, and girl rulers of the kingdoms of Silencia and Dementia. They looked remarkably similar, with raven-black hair and deep green eyes. They were the same age as well, being twins. In fact, the only difference between the two (aside from their personalities) was that while Serena wore solemn forest green and silver-grey robes, which soothed the eye, Irritatia was clad in a horrendous and clashing combination of grape, bright orange, scarlet, and that unnaturally bright shade of green known as “Kellyâ€.
Another difference was the chess game. Although the board looked the same as any ordinary chessboard, the pieces did not. Serena’s pieces were a pale, calm, blue, and Irritatia’s a brilliant and fiery yellow. While that was the most obvious difference between that game of chess and the ones you and me play, it wasn’t the only strange thing.
To each girl, the chess game was a battle for the other’s kingdom.
Okay, so as that is my first public-criticism story (that is, I’m showing not only to you guys and my little sister, but also my parents, maybe), I just asked my little sister what she thought was wrong with it. She said that Irritatia was too un-subtle a name. So I changed it to Belinda.
I am at a very crucial point and I have very dreadful indecision. Should Sara:
a ) blurt out all about the mayor’s plan to stay in office.
b ) keep mum about it, and say her original speech-thing.
c ) discover a completely new side of herself and lie elaborately about it, thus saving the skin of the mayor and Mrs. O’ Brian.
d ) stutter unintelligibly until she is saved by a disaster.
a, b, and d would be most like her, but c would be the most fun. It would also explain why Makepeace wants her, if she can lie like that.
One more thing. This is mostly an adventure/intrigue sort of story, but should I bring some dubious fantasy into it? I think I’d almost rather not, but if it was never revealed as all-out fantasy, it could make me able to do many more things.
Anyway, what do you guys think?
Ooh, ooh! I just had an idea! Maybe I could write all four possibilities, and see which one I liked best, then use that one.
New story:
“Excuse me!” cried Espi, “I’d like to talk to this young man over here.”
“You mean this runt?” the slaver replied,” He’s a good for nothin lazy piece of scum, that’s what he is.”
“Oh!” Espi exclaimed, “Well still, I want to talk to him, not buy him.”
“You there,” the slaver yelled across the pit, pointing to a small, defenseless young lad no older than eight. “This young lady wants to alk to you, piece of dirt though you are.” The boy slowly made his way over, stepping delicately over the fallen bodies, and climbed out of the pit. The man slapped the boy across the cheek. The kid yelled, surprised, and took a step backwards, falling down. Espi, pitying the young lad, helped him up. “Wotch u do that for?” the slave said, incredulous. “He’s been rollin in the dirt, and he’s filthy ain’t ‘e?”
“I know,” Espi said,”But I must talk to him, and away from here out of this foul, disgusting place. I shall return at noon tomorrow, If I return.”
“You’d best come back!” The slaver called after, or you’ll be sorry!
19- I like it!
I decided to give Sara the gift of lying. Goody for her. Not. But goody for both me and Makepeace.
I have horrible terrible horrendous dreadful evil writer’s block. It makes me want to scream. But I won’t.
Should I skip over the meeting, and just go straight to the part where I can write? I could do flashbacks for the necessary parts, and therefore do away with the writing of it.
“The meeting” is when Sara is brought before the Council in Capitol to give a speech, but I can’t think of the speech, thus making everything remarkably awkward. Maybe the Council building can go up in flames, or something, thus letting Sara escape without giving her opinion of Piper’s affairs.
What do you think? Or is that too cliche?
I had an idea for a book. There are four Henges around the world- Stonehenge, Wavehenge, Windhenge and Flamehenge. Each one acts as a gateway to another world or to any of the three others.
Now, I have two questions. Where should the imaginary Henges (flame, wind, wave) be? Do you have any ideas for a plot?
Never mind the first question. After looking at a map, I figured out some places. Australia, Alaska, Brazil. If you connect those with England (Stonehenge) and turn the map at an angle, you would get a roughly symmetrical diamond.
Wave should be in Brazil. Somewhere at the mouth of the Amazon River.
Alaska should be Wind. I don’t know where, but probably on the tundra somewhere.
That leaves Australia as the location for Flamehenge. Somewhere in a volcano.
I like!
I’ve decided. Sara is going to be saved by a fire or something.
What sort of things would a conspiracy to start a war between two countries talk about? Like, to let Sara know that they’re a conspiracy without actually being too obvious.
So, the point of this post was to give me some motives for Makepeace and his crew, since I’ve noticed that if I sit down at the computer and start asking for help with some point in my book, I often come up with a solution myself. Sort of like free writing. Instead, I came up with this:
On a bare, windswept, plain, a boy was walking. He was about eleven, though you couldn’t see his face, which was masked in a wool scarf, and he was very lost indeed.
It’s strange what you store in you mind and never know about. And how disconnected it is to my original purpose.
That paragraph will almost certainly become yet another story. And I already have three stories in progress and a script that I’m going to write in June.
All I needed was another writing project. Yippee.
126-“To have a mind burgeoning with ideas, and to put any number of them on paper in glorious beginnings, and then to stuff them ignominiously into the back of the closet of your mind to make room for a fresh crop- that is the only true sign of a fertile imagination.” -Me
Yay! I like that quote. A lot.
My story is going strangely. Here’s the whole thing so far.
On a bare, windswept plain, a boy was walking. He was about eleven, though you couldn’t see his face, as it was muffled in a woolen scarf, and he was very lost indeed.
Seeing him, you might wonder where he came from and what he was doing here, where there was no settlement for miles. Indeed, the boy himself wondered why he was here and what he was doing, when he wondered anything at all.
His name was Louie, and he was the son of a rich Mediterranean fruit trader. That made it even stranger that he should be wandering about in this cold wasteland.
And as if all this weren’t surreal enough, he suddenly walked straight into someone that hadn’t been there before.
Weird enough yet? I’m not sure how I’ll fix it. I’ve probably confused anyone who might read it so thoroughly that they’ll give up. Maybe I should edit it already.
But, strange as it is, I kind of like it.
128- I like it because it’s strange. Maybe he lost his memory somehow?
129- Yeah, that’s what I was thinking. And I think I’ll only work on it when I’m in the right mind-frame, to keep it from becoming rational and boring.
Okay, so here’s what happened. I think. Tell me if it already happened in another book or is too cliche.
Okay, so in this book there are lots of different worlds. It is possible to travel between the worlds by means of portals. (I’ll come up with a more original name for them later.) All the portals open on one world, which is the wasteland, and from that world you can access all the other worlds. Louie accidentally came through a portal into the wasteland, but he lost his memory when he did so, so he can’t remember where he came from, and therefore can’t go home. He meets a girl, Sasha Samte, who is the youngest world-traveler in the universe, and who tries to help him get home. World-traveler is different than world traveler, as if you couldn’t already tell. I plan to come up with original names for all those things, so I hope it’ll sound less generic than it does now.
131- Original names would seem a little less cliche. But it’s good, anyway.
I won’t use my Fourhenge idea yet, because I’m saving it for Nano. However, I will develop it.
The Dreamtime is a world bordering our own, where the dreams of mankind float around, appearing as multicolored bubbles. Many different creatures and spirits dwell there. dreams. There are humans who can pass between this world and the Dreamtime, called Dreamers. They are responsible for heading off the careers of tyrants and inspiring great philosophers and inventors. Genghis Khan fell off his horse and died because he wasn’t paying attention to the terrain. He was thinking about the horrible nightmare he had had the previous night. Thomas Edison once had a dream about a lightning bolt striking a wire, squeezing into it tighter and tighter until it glowed brilliantly. Soon after that, he began working on the light bulb. These are only a few examples of the work of the Dreamers. Of course, their job is made harder because of the many dangers of Dreamtime.
In my story, a renegade Dreamer has seized control of much of the Dreamtime, and is slowly and subtly working to bend the minds of mankind to his will. He didn’t manage to destroy the Dreamers, but he did something much worse: he took away their ability to Dream, leaving them powerless.
The renegade Dreamer had been planning this for centuries (he was one of the Immortal Four, the most powerful Dreamers that never died.) So he knew that he would have to leave some connection between Dreamtime and Waketime (our world.) Acting on that, he affected people’s dreams and inspired them to construct the four Henges, starting with Stonehenge, thousands of years ago, and finishing with Firehenge. The Henges act as gates between Dreaming and Waking.
Soon after their power had been stolen, the Dreamers died out, with nobody to replace them. Even the remaining three of the Immortal Four faded quickly with the loss of their abilities. The last, oldest and most powerful, Merlin himself, sealed his soul in a book, the Somniad Merlinus, which lay under a concealing veil in a certain library.
The Somniad was discovered fifty years later by a young teenager. He was shocked to discover that it was not only sentient, but it had the personality of an eccentric, irritable and infinitely wise old man. By degrees, the Somniad convinced him to help it in its goal- namely, destroying each one of the Henges so that power would return to the Dreamers. However, what with Purple Men, Macerians, Puuks, and other minions of the renegade Dreamer all trying to stop him, it wouldn’t be as easy as it sounds. And admittedly, it sounds pretty hard.
What do you think?
I dunno if I can wait till November to write this.
132- That’s really, really good.
133- I know what you mean. I want to save Louie’s story for NaNo, but November is very far away . . . And besides, by then I’m sure to have many exciting ideas that will cry out to be written. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.
Minions of Faustos (the renegade Dreamer.)
The Purple Men are people who have had their dreams sucked out and replaced with artificial ones constructed by Faustos. This gives them the ability to hover, almost infinite strength and durability, and a deep purple skin tone. They are unable to speak and are totally bonded to the will of Faustos.
Puuks are Dreamtime creatures that appear as black rabbits or horses. They love riddle games and will willingly play one for hours. However, if they wish to, they can be quite deadly. They are infatuated by shiny objects, and Faustos pays them with supplies of splendiamonds, the most beautiful and valuable jewels in Dreamtime.
Macerians are Dreamtime creatures that resemble giant, furry moths with glowing red eyes. They project an aura of overwhelming fear, and feed exclusively on souls. Nobody knows much about them, because if you are close enough to study one, your spirit will probably be devoured in the next five seconds. Faustos rides them when he needs to make an impression.
122-Cool idea. Wavehenge should be in Atlantis, if it is OK that it is in a made-up place, too. Fire henge should be in Antarctica, for irony. And Windhenge, the youngest Henge, should be in a secret room on top of the Taipei 101, the tallest building in the world. Stonehenge should stay where it is. No ideas for a plot yet, but we will see.
I’m googling my book titles, to see what turns up.
The Makepeace War has three hits, all of which are me on MuseBlog.
The Black Lion has far too many hits to look at them all, but one is a chapter of Tarzan, and most of the others refer to hotels and pubs, I think.
West of West gets a lot of hits.
I’m not even going to bother with Louie, since it doesn’t have a proper title.
136- Your places seem cooler than the ones I thought of. If I put Wavehenge in the Atlantic, Taipei 101 is in Taiwan, which is near the Pacific. Firehenge is on the bottom of the world, and Stonehenge is near the top. That balances out.
I’m setting myself a writing goal. I’m going to finish the first draft of at least one story before school starts and all my writing time disappears. Hopefully I’ll finish two, and then I can edit them to my heart’s content during my free hours between school, housework, and eating.
Oh wait. I won’t HAVE any free hours. Which is why I should finish them now.
Dratted education.
I just had a great idea:
The cyclone came out of nowhere and then, after only about ten seconds, it disappeared. Those kinds of tornadoes were typical in the dreary, gray land that was Western Kansas. But this one was different. If you looked into it, you would see the entire history of Oz, shown in colors so brilliant, you would have to squint to see clearly. Out of this tornado stepped a girl, who suddenly collapsed on the spot. Her name was Dorothy, and on her feet, she carried the most valuable treasure in the galaxy, but she didn’t know that.
The boy ran down the path. Keep running-That was all he could think of. But how could he, when he had been running for a day and a half, with no break and no water? He had outrun the Mistress, that was for sure. She probably had given up on trying to find him, and just bought herself a new orphan-servant. Suddenly, his knees buckled, his toes went numb, and he collapsed, right next to a girl. He looked up, and had to squint at the beautiful cyclone disappearing into the sky. Then, he closed his eyes.
Makepeace and his conspirators need motives. I will see what turns up when I write about them here.
Makepeace’s motives are these: He is rising through the ranks of the government very fast, and his intention in starting the war is to stop it, thus gaining respect, honor, power- and money. He’s quite stupid, when it comes down to it, because he doesn’t realize that having started a war, it will be very hard to stop.
Andrew is Makepeace’s servant-boy. He doesn’t need motives, as he merely follows his master.
Ma and Penelope also want money, and Makepeace has promised them plenty if they follow him.
Seamus is such a minor character that we don’t even need to know why he’s doing this. Maybe he’ll tell me later, but more likely he’ll remain demurely in the background, just another voice to help with Sara’s discovery.
What do you guys think of my story? Any ideas for plot? WHo the boy would be? I was thinking, for a twist, I would have it be L. Frank Baum, author of the Wizard of Oz and other Oz books, but that wouldn’t go along with his real life very well. Would that really matter? Not sure.
142- I know! Make this an alternate universe, and the kid is the author of the Wizard of Oz, because he’s L. Frank Baum’s counterpart. And in our world, L. Frank Baum writes the Oz books . . . And in your book world, the boy writes the Oz books.
Haven’t the foggiest notion of what you could do for a plot, though. Maybe someone, (the Mistress, perhaps?) could be trying to steal Dorothy’s slippers.
I need more ideas for Faustos’s minions. I promise I will use every idea that is given to me.
If it’s not plagiarism, that is.
Ummm… *thinks hard* I can’t think of anything off the top of my head. Later, I promise. And I wouldn’t give you any ideas that I’m already using, just ones that I can’t use, so it’s not plagiarism.
You’d better publish someday, because I really want to read that book.
I know who Seamus is! He’s a wanted thief. Weird how things turn up without you having much say in the matter.
I have an idea for a minion. How about rapping trashcans or giant tap-dancing picture frames? OK. Fine. Dumb idea. I know. OK. I GET IT ALREADY!!! Sorry, can’t think of anymore right now. Will try though.
I want to get my book published. My Goldilocks story is coming along, at a slow pace, but that is OK. I don’t really want an alternate universe, because I am not good at that kind of opposite stuff. I would rather just have it be in the real world, but nice idea, though.
148- i can’t do the real world. There’s all that history that gets in the way of my creative process. Plus, what about dates? I once was trying to write a story in the real world and I wanted to have them summon a sorcerer from a thousand years ago, and they couldn’t, because they were in America, and I’m not sure the indians had the kind of sorcerer I was talking about, and even if I moved it to europe there would still be lots of problems.
Sara’s family and friends need to not look for her (she’s been abducted, by the way). So there are two options: she could write a letter home making some ridiculous excuse and hope for the best, or they could stage her death.
Which is better?
Ugh. My writing’s slow today. Anyway, I have another page to write if I want to do half a chapter a day, and 400 words if I want to do a thousand words, so I’d better go.
Whoa! Where is everyone? Oh well.
Nathaniel and Margery have evolved into major characters! Wheee! Good for them! They’re going to go look for Sara with the intention of rescuing her, but of course they won’t, because then what would Sara and Thomasina do? Sit around and watch their “rescuers” save the day? Hey! I know! S and Th will get thrown into prison, and then N and M will come along and also get thrown into prison. Then, once everyone’s together, they’ll devise a fantastic plan and carry it out, and everyone will live happily ever after. Yippee! Well, I’m going to go make them do that. ‘Bye!
Oh, and I forgot to mention. N and M are essential to the fantastic plan because they’re the smart ones. Th is adventurous but not cleverer than average, and Sara is merely there by unhappy circumstance. N is solemn and clever, and Margery is just plain smart.
Forget it. Too much trouble, and i don’t think I can handle more than three main characters at once.
Whoa has this thread slowed down or what! I am right now too anxious to be working on any stories. I am waiting for feedback on whether or not I won the contest.
I am on chapter seven.
Today I wrote 1000 words in 2 hours! So that’s my goal for today, but I’m sure to write a good deal more.
Right now Sara is robbing a house, at the behest of Makepeace, because for some very strange reason she agreed to do so. Lord knows why. Plot reasons, I guess. Oh that was it! She wanted to get away, because Makepeace is holding her hostage since she knows about the conspiracy. Then she will do some more dastardly things, and manage to escape. After escaping, she will meet Thomasina, and together they will attempt to stop the war, get thrown into prison, get out, and stop the war. Much fun.
I have over 5000 words in the book I’m most dedicated to writing. I’m not sure if that’s impressive or pathetic by your standards. Enlighten me.
157- It depends on how long you’ve been writing, and how much of a push you’ve made. I’ve been making a REALLY big push lately, and am now over 11000 words. However, until a couple of weeks ago, I only had about 5548, or some other such random number in that range, and I’d been writing for – here it comes – a year. To my credit, I bounced around between plots so much that I didn’t really have time to write more than that before I switched plots. The only continuous things are the characters. So I don’t know. Middling, I guess.
Whoa. Impressive, I’d say, having looked at my other novel.
158- I was so impressed at that figure that I started typing without realizing that I had to click in the comment box, so I typed a few sentences, then looked at the screen and said “Why is my post not there?” Congratulations on such a long novel!
I’ll probably make a big push soon, since our last day of school is tomorrow and I can write whatever I feel like without HW.
159- Thanks!
And the thing is, this is my first real point of action. Before this, all she’d done was eavesdrop, pretty much.
I think she might be in the cellar now . . . She got the wrong staircase when fleeing from Sir Hubert, who she was robbing.
I have put my notes on Dreamtime into a computer file called “open_in_November_and_not_before.doc”. I’m using it for NaNo. And if I think it’s good enough, at the end of November, I’ll edit it up and
publishsend it off to a publisher and wait in feeble hope. But I might have my other novel done by Nov. We’ll see.Speaking of NaNo, I think I’m going to make up a language so that it’s ready for November, when I am going to write that surreal story with Louie and Sasha. To avoid it getting too cliche, I’ll make practically everything called by their name in that language, which will be the universal language. For example, the portal-type things will merely be called “door” when translated into english, but will actually be called something entirely different in the book. There is also another language that only gets a few brief mentions, called Zin. It and the earth-languages are the only ones that are still original. All the other worlds, except a few of the more obscure ones, have given in to the universal language.
Forget it. I am worried that that particular plot has already been used (several times), so I am going for something (hopefully) more original.
Instead I’m polishing an idea about a girl whose eyes can see into far distant realms unless she wears glasses and on Saturdays. Maybe I’ll combine it with West of West. Except that Daisy isn’t that type. Perhaps she meets a girl with extraordinary eyes, who is really a changeling.
?????
Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. And now I will go write a theory about undeveloped main characters, and post it here.
I love to write stories and right now I am writing a story about a girl who is running away from being married to this rich greedy guy. This rich greedy guy will marry the girl, kill her father, kill her, then inherit all his gigantic piles of money. Is that too complicated? I am on chapter 8 and page 62 in writing it. Al my friends say I have no life but I love it!
165- No, it is not too complicated! And it promises to be very long if you’re that far along. I am on chapter nine, and page twenty- or thirty- something. My story has a good deal of eavesdropping.
If you want too complicated, try this:
A guy wants to start a war so he can stop a war so he can be rich and powerful.
I don’t have a life beyond writing at all. It is my life.
166- Omg that is complicated but lovable
does anybody write science fiction? Im also writing story about some manicac who wants to burn down all the towns in this country and only one teenager can stop him. Is that too cliched?
Only the sci-fi RRR, which you can find in the writing section of Don’t Forget These Threads, by the name of “Science Fiction RRR.” You can also find all of part one in TERRA formed Part One: The Edit.
Other than that, it’s either Fantasy or Adventure.
Yes, I’m advertising shamelessly.
Chapter Ten is a pitiful seven or so paragraphs, hastily written and with next to no detail, because I was uninspired and wanted to get on with the story. I guess that’s what editing is for.
166-I thought that was your idea for The Makepeace War.
170- It is. Did it sound like I was offering it up? Oh no!
I wasn’t. I’m still using it.
.:oops:
I am going to save my Goldilocks story for NaNo. I am coming along on my Oz story, though. I have been very busy, and went camping for the weekend, but I was able to type this in the last few minutes. Any ideas for a title? Tell me what you think.
Lady Nightingale (known to most as The Mistress) was fuming. Lazy boy, and greedy, too, running away from her like that. Now she would have to go down to town and buy herself a new orphan. She had given him a place to sleep in the attic and two, yes, two shirts, plus a pair of pants. She gave him plenty of food for the skinny little runt. That would fatten him up, she thought, and it did. And what did she ask in return for this wonderful life? A little bit of labor from him, that was all. Have him lay out the mousetraps, bring her her meals, dust the china, and the like. But the greedy pig ran away, not even there for six months, shorter time than any other child she had taken in before. She walked outside, dressed in a long dark purple skirt and navy-blue sweater (which was odd, as it was a very warm summer day) and began the walk towards town. But she was not in need of a new orphan, she decided halfway there. The last boy was too good for her to lose. What she needed was to bring her old one back.
Striding into town, she took a left, down a side street, and out onto a bright and sunny road. The Mistress walked into a small little shop with a picture of a goblet hanging over head. In the window were old decrepit books and boiling colorful liquids. A bell rang when she walked in, and out from behind a counter stepped an ancient-looking lady, wearing golden earrings and an eerie dark green dress. On her head, she wore a dark brown velvet witch’s hat, for decoration. She spoke in a surprisingly strong, but not unkind voice.
I think the Mistress will buy a spell book from the old lady. The Mistress, BTW, is very superstitious, and become the Wicked Witch of the West. Does that sound cliche, though?
I don’t know. Not a cliche that I have encountered, but I don’t tend to read fractured fairy tales.
There’s something to be said for personal experience. For example, I am trying to write about riding a horse, but since I have never ridden a horse, I don’t know what it’s like and therefore can’t write about it, which is making it hard for me to continue my story because I am trying to write straight through and not skip all over the place.
That was a long sentence.
I AM SO EXCITED!!!!!! I just received an email from Michael Buckley, the author of the Sisters Grimm book series, with the ENTIRE MANUSCRIPT of the 5th book. AND I GET TO HELP NAME SOME CHARACTERS!!! I won his writing contest, and am going to post my story for anyone who is interested. I went to NYC in December to meet him, and it was so much fun!!!!!!!!!! I also get to see the finished cover of the book!!!! I am zooming through the 4th book so I know what is going on in the 5th book! SO HAPPY!!!!!
Anyway, here is my prize winning fractured fairy tale:
[Sorry, DTSN! It’s a lovely story, and you’re rightly proud of it. But Rosanne and I are in the magazine business, and we respect copyright. If Abrams Publishing owns this story, then I’m afraid we can’t publish it online or anywhere else without their permission. –Robert]
And just so you know, this story is property of ABrams Publishing and is technically copyrighted. NO PLAGIARIZING!!!
That’s so cool, Donaldo! That’s amazing, in fact! Good for you! That’s just . . . AWESOME!
I’m slightly confused though. Are you going to publish your prize-winning fractured fairy tale, or does the publishing company just own it? I hope you publish it! If you do, I will certainly read it!
175 (Donaldo)- Collective cheer time! Seriously, that’s awesome. D’you know if the company will be putting out copies of your story for other people to read? Because I’d definitely like to, if I could get my dirty paws on a copy.
Meh. I was talking to A-C over AIM the other day; we were bouncing story ideas/being shameless/having a fine old time. According to her, my Precious Baby of an idea bears a good deal of similarity to Bleach. She then directed me to the Bleach article on Wikipedia.
And the horrible thing is, I think she’s right. This depresses me greatly, because the last thing I want to be is a plagiarist. I haven’t even read Bleach.
177- Aww, I hate that.
You know what I also hate? I have the urge to write, but I have nothing to write. I might be able to squeeze out a rather short chapter, but after that I am clean out of ideas. I mean, I have the basic sketch of the rest of the story, but that’s for the end, and I’m only half-way through.
Maybe I’ll just skip to the end-type thing and fill it in when I edit. (Which, given the state of chapter ten, is going to be much sooner than I thought.)
Hey, I just had an idea! *rushes off*
175- THAT IS SO COOL! GREAT JOB!
175-OK GAPAs, that makes sense.
No, my story will not be published, but if you go to *searches all over internet for a link* Dang it! Never mind, I can’t find the article in the SacBee online that had part of my story in it.
One idea I’ve only worked on a little was a story called tea blossom. In short it is about a wealthy girl living in Denmark in 1912 whos father owns several tea fields in china, and is ridiculously rich because of it. Once a year he sails to China to oversee the workers and such affairs. Well, while he is there the King suspends the shipment of all chinese goods based on an (and I quote) ” Trvial rivalry with the chinese emperor. I later learned that the emperors most skilled horeman had beaten our king in a race.”
I’ve only written the first chapter or so, but if it continued I made it so that her mother was arrested for having chinese goods and the heroine needed to go to China to get her father or something along those lines. Its probably a far fetched plot, but I had no intention of making my character a Mary Sue!
What do you think?
Sorry If I’m double posting, but Alice, How long to you intend the MakePeace war to be? I really enjoyed what youve written so far!
181- That sounds really good! I would definitely, definitely, read that. I like that quote. It sounds wonderfully petty and cruel.
182- About novel-length, if possible. 30,000 words is the most I can hope for so far, even with editing, but it may fill itself out a bit as I get further. I’m about halfway through, I think. Sara and Thomasina are about to make a faulty plan and get thrown into prison.
183- Thank You very much! I might post the first chapter here after some minor editing.
Oh, and I was just wondering if any of the writers on here have strategies for selecting names for their characters? That may sound sort of strange but I’ve heard a lot of different reasons for characters names and I know some writers like J.K Rowling add hidden meanings. The character in tea blossom is named Aina which means something I forgot in Dutch.
I just wait for the name to come to me. Like Thomasina was simply known as “the girl” for quite a while, but Sara had her name as soon as she said her first line. (“I’ve never ridden a horse in my LIFE,” by the way. That was after a horse-thingy I went to.)
Winifred (The Black Lion) was also easy to name, and Sam was never meant to be anything more than a side character, so I just picked a name for him out of a bag of boys’ names that I keep in my head. Patricia was Katherine for a while, but I switched it to Patricia because it seemed better.
Oh double post, but I really am working on that theory in post 164. I started writing it a few minutes ago.
My characters are usually also randomly named, though I have included some foreign words for surnames before.
164- What exactly do you mean by that?
187- I have often noticed that main characters are very unlikable, because they are so underdeveloped. The supporting characters are interesting and amusing, but they main characters are like the characterless characters. All their traits come from what other characters say about them.
I think that that is because the first and most reflexive thing an author does is get into the skin of the character. But having done that, they lose all perspective and can no longer develop the character.
I also think that might depend on the point of view the author is using to tell the story. I’ve noticed from what I’ve read that books written in the first person are either centered completly on the main character or very vague about them. I switch depending on the tone of my current story. I also thought it might be interesting to switch the point of view throughout the story which I have sone several times. I really like the advice you’ve been giving, Alice. You really have a wonderful talent!
189- Thanks! I only have two well-developed main characters, one who is very nice and mild, and the other who is snobbish and cold. Oddly enough, they’re best friends . . . I’m trying really hard to develop Sara, but I’ve had to resort to her being (to quote Makepeace) “The most timid and shallow creature in the country. Her will is like melted butter.†Once she gets to know people she’s less like that, though, and can be quite sharp when she needs to be. I have refrained from also making her sarcastic, which took quite an effort of will, but every so often a remark slips by. She cannot speak in front of people, so she’s a spy rather than a stirrer-up-of-the-people.
I can go on and on about my characters, but I’ll stop there.
I am on page three of my awesome amazing 700 page novel. What can I say, I dream big.
Actually, I guess I am writing a book, but not with the intent of getting it published. I just enjoy writing for my own amusement. My main problem is that I come up with a story, fall in love with it, but then get bored of it and disgusted with my writing three days later. I need to work on sticking with a plot. Also, when I write in first person I tend to start almost every sentence with “I”. Any advice?
188- I like to think of myself as a character writer, and attempt to go very deep into the personality of my characters during the course of the book. I try not to give too much physical description of my characters, too, but rather leave most of it up to the reader’s imagination.
Only the main characters, though. The secondary characters I describe a lot. But I feel it’s easier for a reader to really get into a character when they don’t feel like they have nothing in common. Giving no shoe size makes it easier for the reader to fit into the character’s shoes.
191, 192- But I myself, the writer, find it much easier to characterize a character if I know what she/he looks like. I don’t have to describe that character in my book, I only have to know what the character looks like.
I also write for my own enjoyment. I love to write. It is my life, without it I would waste away, consumed by my ideas and urge to write. (Ooh, poetic!) I do, however, have hopes of publishing someday. But that is not why I write. It’s a side effect.
I don’t write in first person, never have, probably won’t much in the future, so no, I don’t really have any advice. Put in lots of description, I guess.
I get sick of my writing too, or used to, so I tried to fix it. It worked, somewhat.
Here’s my problem. I have a wonderful story, and I’m sure someone could easily turn it into a huge book, but not me. I don’t know why, but my writing is over so quick, even though I can’t seem to finish a book. And I’m bad at plot twists, probably because I can foresee all my plot twists (they are in my mind, after all), and thus dismiss them as not twisty enough.
Whew. But I sure can write a long post.
Of course I HAVE the physical descriptions. I write ten pages of character sheets. If only I could write ten pages of story….
I’m a huge perfectionist in my writing, too. I can’t keep going unless I really like what I’ve already written, but I hate my writing. Oh, the conundrum.
Here is the beginning of the story I’m working on. I know a lot of it makes no sense.
The old man was dead.
Death was nothing new to me. I had seen enough of it, Fiata knew. Mama, Louica, and now the old man. And I had walked alongside death everyday in the five years prior. I was used to it. I should have been used to it. It was as familiar to me as the scar on the back of my hand.
Blast it, it wasn’t fair. To strut through that door, holding the fish I had caught for dinner, a stupid smile on my face, giddy from the catch. To find the cottage empty, an eerie silence hanging over it. To feel the sense of pure dread that seeped into my very blood and froze it deep in my veins. To step into his library, his pride and joy, to find him sprawled across the floor; his face contorted and deathly pale, his limbs twisted unnaturally.
I was in shock, and I knew it. My mind switched off. I wheeled out of the room, into the tiny kitchen. Numbly I set my hands washing the fish, preparing to cook it. My brain had shut down; my body was working on automatic. The single thought trickled out that I would have to bury him. I couldn’t contemplate it, couldn’t bear to recognize it, so I busied myself gutting the fish.
I had never really liked the old man anyway. His never-ending joy and constant, grating optimism got on my nerves. He was always bothering me about chores and studying. He talked ridiculously of nature and the earth around us, teeming with life and possibilities, of hope and goodness, of silly things I knew did not exist. He was a general nuisance, the way he was always happy. He bothered me.
He had taken me in, had given me a home after four years of life on the streets, had taught me to read and write. Had taught me sorcery, all he knew.
I may not have liked the old man, but I had loved him.
The fish slipped from my hands, landing on the floor with a squelch. I crumpled beside it and wept.
I buried him in the garden. It was his favorite place, after the library. When the weather was nice we would learn out there, with me practicing and perfecting spells until I was sore, him encouraging me and correcting my mistakes. This was where he would rest the easiest, I thought.
I had been with the old man for only a year. We were of no relation. After the flood, with my mother and sister dead and my home destroyed, I had gone to a foster family. They were distant relations, cousins of my mother. They didn’t take me in out of kindness; rather, for the tiny tax deduction my adoption brought. Any minuscule reprieve from the ever-rising mountain of taxes pressed by His Royal Majesty was enough to make any family put up with much worse than an obstinate, mourning orphan. Not that they put up with me. They loathed me. It was mutual. I lasted a whole three months before I couldn’t take it anymore and ran away, to Capricia City.
After that, my days consisted of attempts to find food and places to sleep. I picked my share of pockets, stole from a large enough number of shops. I’m not proud of it, but I plead necessity. I was never a very good thief, anyway.
In my second year on the streets, when I was thirteen, I joined a gang. I’m not proud of that, either. All I can say in my defense is that this, too, was necessary for survival. In Capricia, just as the guilds ruled the city government, the gangs ruled the city streets.
I was never much of a fighter. I was too small, too weak, too clumsy and ungraceful. Instead, I was a planner. I constantly came up with schemes and ideas to put food in my mouth and keep the bigger kids from beating me up. Slowly, I gained respect instead of bruises.
I rose steadily through the ranks in my three years as a member of the Charger gang. I despised life on the streets, but I thought I was doing pretty well for myself, considering. I was wrong. They betrayed me and left me for dead. Not such a shock, actually; this kind of thing happened a lot, whenever the higher ups felt someone was getting too powerful, ambitious, or just plain annoying. It was a vicious world. Often the leaders of the gang didn’t even know about the ‘disposals’. They didn’t bother themselves with such trivial matters; they delegated these to lieutenants. I must have done something to anger one of them. What I had done, I had no clue.
It was then, at one of the lowest points in my life (and there had been many), that the old man found me. Apparently, he had been watching me for some time. He claimed he saw in me “The Flame,†which meant I was capable of learning magic, a rare ability. At first I mistrusted him. I had learnt that trust was a fine thing if you wanted to find yourself near-dead in an alley.
But he had not lied to me so far, nor given me any cause to be suspicious. I think he was lonely. He had been nothing but good to me, treating me like his own daughter.
“So why,†I asked no one in particular, “did you have to go and ruin it?â€
I have some stories. I’ve started writing prose. I may share plots later. I’m glad I’m writing prose now as well as poems!
I like it. Very much.
That’s good! And long.
195- I’m glad too! Prose is much fun.
Alice, if you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?
194- Perfectionism is not good if you want to get anywhere. Reserve it for the edit. I used to hate my writing, and so spent all my time editing what I’d already written, instead of actually writing. Now I like my writing style much better, so that helps, but I also refuse to let myself edit if it’s more than ten paragraphs away. I also accept that it’s the first draft and therefore not perfect, and that I can edit it later. It makes it easier to get somewhere.
199- I’ll be 14 in August.
Oh. I was reading some of your posts, and you seem very mature.
202- Wow, thanks.
Sphinx? I rememberz youz! -pieglomp-
I’m going to make a comment-dump soon, but first I wanted to post an excerpt from the story that is eerily reminiscent of Bleach. (It’s also on my lj.) Er…it includes one word of a somewhat questionable nature, and one instance when I felt it would have been appropriate to use the f-word but didn’t.
Help on all aspects of its nature would be much appreciated. Yes, it is fantasy and yes, it will make more sense later on.
Mari runs. Her feet pushing, pulling at the pavement, she’s off without looking back over her shoulder. It’s impossible to tell whether she’s running from or running to; all that’s seen is motion blur and all that’s heard is the quick measured strike of her shoes on the concrete. Does it matter where she’s going? Does it matter where she’s been?
It’s not like she’s thinking any of this as she flies through empty alleys, as unobserved as anyone could be in the middle of a crowded city. No one stops her; it’s likely she would simply run them over and keep going, going, going until she’s gone. It’s what she does out here, what anyone would do out here to survive. Maybe she’s not great at it, but she’s seen enough to figure that fleeing is always better, and nobody has to know who she is. Someone more than an acquaintance could identify the nameless faceless runner as Mari Arbor, age almost-eighteen, but it wouldn’t do them much good when she’s no longer there, already out of sight.
Lives too fast, but she’s never ever dying if she just loses it in the endless labyrinth of this city. She’s not stopping, not while she has the breath to go forward and even when she doesn’t she’ll keep on just because she doesn’t realize it; she’s a goddamn immortal.
If you knew Mari you’d know that she had to be running away from something because she never runs like that when she’s got a goal, only when she doesn’t like someone else’s.
If you were Mari you’d know why you were running, even strung out on adrenaline, blinded by sweat and windblown blonde hair, stretched and drained as you are.
She’s met them again, those women who want her little brother. They’ll follow her, of course, but even if they fly they’re not fast enough, and Mari laughs. It’s impossible to touch her when she’s going this hard; everything she feels is reduced to the burning in her lungs. Call it exhaustion, call it exhilaration, but that doesn’t matter either. Speed strips it all away.
One-two-three-four one-two-three-four the blood pushes in her ears, keeps her time, rhythmic and steady and it’s everything she hears. If someone’s talking as she blows past them she can’t tell because she’s going going going and they’re not important to her anyway. Off down the twisted alleys and minor streets, between old brick apartment buildings, Mari can afford to not care. They take her where they will; all she has to do is keep her legs moving and her blood pumping and block out everything else. So easy.
She’s lost them by now, she knows, she’s nowhere near home so she gives up her freedom and gives herself a destination.
And Mari runs.
204- I like it. However, the present tense will get irritating if you use it throughout the whole story.
Chapter 1
“My decision is final. You must marry him!”
an old, balding man shouted. In the corner of the room a man sat, grinning like a cheshire cat. He had every reason to smile. The old balding man, Mr. Contende, was forcing his daughter, a most lovely girl with gorgeous black tresses and sparkling green eyes, to marry the smiling man, Criston.
Chapter 1
“My decision is final. You must marry him!”
an old, balding man shouted. In the corner of the room a man sat, grinning like a cheshire cat. He had every reason to smile. The old balding man, Mr. Contende, was forcing his daughter, a most lovely girl with gorgeous black tresses and sparkling green eyes, to marry the smiling man, Criston.
Glittering tears ran down Garnet’s face as she swept from the room. Criston was as evil as anyone could be. Garnet knew that, by right, she would inherit her father’s large fortune and title when he died. Unfortunately, Criston also knew and, though he was also wealthy, was also very greedy. He held no love for Garnet, only a love of money and riches. For this reason, he would even stoop to killing Garnet for her fortune.
207- Looks good.
Sobbing uncontrollably, Garnet stumbled up the wide castle stairs to her room. There she fell upon her large canopy bed and wept.
“No, no, no!” she thought, “I cannot marry him. He would kill me without a second thought. My poor father. Bought out by Criston’s offers, believing that Criston loved me. He does not know that after he marries me, Criston will send one of his assassains to kill him. Oh, my poor father.”
A generous and loving girl, Garnet cried for both her and her father’s fate if she should be wed locked to Criston. She cried and cried until finally, she fell asleep.
Garnet was right, though. She had, unknown to Criston and her father, heard the evil man speak to a man with a large scar on his cheek. He had clearly told him, upon his orders, to kill Mr. Contende by any means possible. If found out he must not talk or he would be dead by the next day. The man had nodded vigorously and Garnet had climbed back over the garden wall.
Garnet knew that the only way to prevent her father’s death was to not marry Criston. But how could she not?
That’s a VERY short excerpt from my book. How is it?
It is good. I like it, and want to read more. It’s kind of quick, though. Even quicker than mine. How far have you got at that rate?
it slowed down a lot. she sneaks out, she gets a really cute guide to get her to another country, they get caught and she’s right back at the beginning and a little farther on page 66
211- Ooh, putting them back at the beginning! I love doing that. It’s so cruel but so fun.
I am sadistic. I torture my characters. It’s so much fun :). My poor characters, they can never catch a break.
213- That’s kind of what it’s like on the sci-fi RRR. Ian and Kari and Jaa are hardly out of one predicament when they’re thrown into another. However, they also escape quickly, so it all evens out.
more from my story:
Tradition decreed that if her father consented the girl could do nothing about it.
Garnet woke with a start. It was simple! Her fater, an earl of the king, could do nothing outside his own country. Though her father’s lands were extensive, they were also rather near the border of Bilikii. In Bilikii, she knew, an old friend of her’s lived in the capital city Bantala and would be very glad to take her in. How would she get there?
Her thoughts ended when there was a sharp knock on her door.
“Come in.”
Criston stood at the now open door smirking. She wiped her pale cheeks and red eyes, trying not to show that she had been crying. He strode in, trying to look like he felt sorry for her, but it looked more like he was trying not to laugh.
“Why, my dear Garnet, do you hate the idea of marrying me so very much?”
“Because, Criston, you are a bad man and bad men are people to hate.”
“Oh dear,” he said in a mocking voice, “Am I such a bad man?” and he leaned over to kiss her.
When Garnet saw what he was going to do she slapped his face and fled from the room, dreading the moment his lips might meet hers. She ran into her father’s study and panted, “Father! Criston tried to kiss me!”
Her father glanced at her and replied, “I often kissed your mother before we were married. I think she enjoyed it.”
“Oh father, how can you be so cruel? Can you not see how unfit I am for marrying?”
“All I see is a young girl trying to make a spectacle of herself.”
With an inward moan, Garnet realized what her father would say next.
“Go apologize.”
“FATHER!”
“Do not yell t me young lady! Do as I say!”
“Mother would not have done this to me!”
Mr. Contende gave Garnet a twisted look as if to say, “How could you bring that up?”
“Your mother is no longer with us. Now do as you were told,” he choked out.
Garnet turned and slammed the door behind her. She could hear her father weep in his study as she ascended the stairs.
She found Criston smiling on her bed and said stiffly, “I’m sorry.”
Criston replied, “I shou not have been so bold, it is I who should apologized.”
It was quite obvious to Garnet that he did not mean a word he said.
“Will you please leave? I need some time alone.”
“Of course, Garnet,” Criston said, still smiling his toothy smile.
When Criston had left, Garnet went back to planning. She would go to her old friend Genua who would help supply her and maybe give her a guide. The old magician lived in the wood surrounding her father’s castle, though her father did not know. She had met him in the forest when she was five and had gotten lost. He gave her a very special pair of shoes that allowed her to speak with him through telepathy.
A young servant entered her room.
“Dinner is served Miss Garnet.”
“Alright, tell my father I will be there in a moment.”
Garnet decided that after dinner she would contact Genua and tell him to meet her in the woods by his house.
So, Garnet was able to smile during dinner. Her father looked like he had been crying, but managed a smile when he saw her smiling.
“What makes you smile so, Miss Garnet?” asked Criston.
“Nothing in particular, Mr. Criston.”
These were the only words spoken over dinner. Garnet finished quickly and asked to be excused.
“I am afraid I do not feel well.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Criston remarked.
“Of course you may be excuse Garnet,” her father told her.
She hurried upstoairs and slipped into the thin slippers with moons and stars in them to contact Genua. Immediately Garnet felt like half-frozen water was rushing up from her feet. When the feeling reached her head, she first felt a strange openness and a desire to absorb knowledge of everything around her. Then she saw Genua sitting in his cave.
“Genua,” she thought at the image, “Genua, do you hear me?”
The image looked up and said, “Why, Miss Garnet! It’s been many a long year since we last spoke.”
Oooh cool! It’s fantasy! Somehow I didn’t expect that.
O, I guess I should have explained that… sorry. I guess it’s sort of because I play this online game that’s a lot like it. (except that has no plot, it’s just a fantasy world). Never know where your inspiration is going to come from!
I like it very much. However, I hope that you posted it looking for honest opinions, so here they are.
Put a LOT more detail in. Don’t just say things. Explain motives, explain thoughts and reasoning and DESCRIBE. It goes waaaaay too quickly.
You see it slows down sooooo much later and it describes everything there. Should I move it to the begining?
219- Put it in the beginning and later. If you have the power of description, then for goodness’ sake describe! You have no idea how much I want the power to write a slow-paced book; count yourself lucky and make the most of it.
{/rant}
Yeah. I’m minorly jealous, if you can write 60 pages and not even be to the climax yet.
haha I’ve barely started. I’m in seventh grade and I want to get it published so… yeah it will take a while to finish. I’ll continue putting more of it on here.
My work on The Makepeace War has slowed considerably. It can’t be because of SF, because I haven’t been working on SF, and I resolved not to give up on my book just because I had this silly challenge. I think that it’s because I came to the end of my planned-out story, and now I have to feel my way ahead. Why don’t I plan it out some more now. Sara, having been captured by Makepeace, will escape, try to inform the High Council of his treachery, be thrown into prison, escape, go south to the High Council of Esmer to inform them of the plot, they take no notice, she decides to capture Makepeace herself, after that I don’t know. Hopefully that freed up my mind.
Here is the next part of my Oz story. It isn’t a lot cuz I have been busy studying for finals, but finally summer is here! I can write! So here it is. Check post 172 for the last part.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“How may I help you?†she said.
“I am looking for a book that could help me get my serva-, er, child back. He ran away from me, and I miss him dearly.â€
“Ah, yes. Of course. I have just the thing for you. Let me go get it now.â€
The woman went into a backroom for a moment, and then came back out with a large book.
“This will get my orphan back?†the Mistress sneered. The book was filthy-covered in dust, with holes poked in it and pages falling out.
“Yes, it will. For a fee,†said the woman.
The Mistress pulled out some coins from her small black purse. “How much?†she asked.
The old woman laughed sinisterly. “Oh, no! I do not want your money. I do not want anything at all. But the book does. It wants your skin!†The old woman cackled again.
The Mistress looked on in shock. My skin? What does she mean? She must be a nutjob! The Mistress turned around and began striding out of the store, planning to tell the authorities to put this crazy lady in the looney bin! But something stopped her. A strange emotion came over her, as if she needed that book, and as if the book needed her. She wanted to leave, but when she lifted her foot to take another step, it crashed down as if it were stuck in cement blocks. The Mistress spun around, and took a step towards the book. Her foot lifted easily now. It seemed as if it was trying to get to the grimy old book. What good will this book do me? I don’t need it. I do not need help from a looney! Much less a looney peasant! Yet she was compelled towards it. The old woman behind the counter was looking straight at her now, solemnity in her pupils. But the closer the Mistress got to the book, the more the old woman…smiled. Yes! She is smiling! the Mistress thought to herself. How dare she gleam at my predicament? The Mistress was only a step away from the book now, and the woman had an ear-to-ear grin on her face.
The Mistress closed her eyes, held her breath, and took the last step. She had never been this terrified since she was a little girl. She opened one eye and nearly screamed. The book was hovering above the table, only a little bit, but it was slowly creeping towards her hands. The Mistress closed her eye. After a few seconds, she felt the rough leather of the book slipping into her hands. And then, excruciating pain shot through her body. She opened her eyes wide open and screeched. It felt as if someone were pulling her ears off her head and using scissors to clip her toes and fingers off. She looked at her hands to make sure it wasn’t really happening, and saw something even more terrifying. Her hands were green! And the green was spreading up her arms…now up her neck and down towards her toes. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. The Mistress could barely breathe now. It was as if she was being choked by the green that was now seeping up towards her chin.
She looked at the old woman, who was cackling like a buffoon now. Suddenly, the Mistress noticed something about the woman that she hadn’t noticed before in the dim light of the shop. Her skin was green also. She had used the book before! She was a witch! As she thought this, the pain subsided. She looked at her hands and they were a dark olive-green color. The old witch held up a mirror. The Mistress took a look into and was frightened. Who was that woman looking back at her? Her face was the same dark olive color of her hands, she had a large wart on her nose, and her ears were twisted and misshapen. She pinched her face, hoping this was a bad dream. “Ow!†she cried. Her fingernails were as sharp as a knife, but even stranger, her skin felt like leather. She put her hand to it. It was rough and dry, like a crocodile. Blast this old witch!
The witch spoke, startling the Mistress, but this time her voice sounded raspy and dried out. “You did better than the others. Usually the other victims of this book faint. They are usually found dead in their house a few days later.â€
“Suicide?†the Mistress asked.
“Yes. Now it is time, though. I only have another minute or so. You will take my place in Oz as head witch. Your tornado will come in a few days, and remember the book!â€
“What? Where is Oz? Head witch? Huh?†the Mistress stammered. None of these questions were answered, however, partly because the book was pulling her out of the shop, but mainly because the witch suddenly turned into a puddle of water.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Well, there you have it. Freaky, no?
PLEASE tell me what is bad and good about it. Make any changes you want. PLEASE!
Ah, can’t make a long post right now. But later.
223- It needs a bit of filling out, but other than that I like it. Except for one thing: Did the witch really have green skin in the books?
Oh god, I’m such a stickler.
I always have to know whether it adheres to the book. Why can’t I just go with the flow and the inconsistencies?
225-Thank you so much for your opinion! You aren’t a stickler! Yes, the witch did really have green skin in the book. Please tell more stuff needing to be changed. BTW, what do you mean by filling out?
226- Slowing down a little. That went really fast for a crucial scene.
227-OK.
BTW, I know just about everyone here has heard of NaNoWriMo, but has anyone here heard of the 3-Day Novel Contest? Yes, that’s right. You write a novel in 3 DAYS!!!
228- No, I hadn’t heard of it, and I wouldn’t compete in it. A month-long novel contest will be quite bad enough.
Ok I’m not sure if this is good but rewrite of the begining of story starts here:
“My decision is final. You must marry him!” an old balding man shouted. In the corner of the room, a man sat, grinning like cheshire cat. The old, balding man, Mr. Contende, was forcing his daughter, Garnet, a lovely girl with gorgeous black tresses that had a gentle wave to them, and sparkling green eyes, to marry the smiling man, Criston.
Garnet’s father sat at an old mahoghany desk, waving his older still walking cane about emphatically with anger. He could not understand why his daughter so stubbornly refused to marry Criston. The smiling man had seemed quite genuine about his affections for her and had offered her father a sum he could not refuse. Yet Garnet seemed to hate him. If you saw her at that moment you would have seen the depths of her anxiety. She would normally have been entranced by this room, it’s beautiful flowers, skylights, and fountains. Now she could only gaze at them through blurry eyes.
Glittering tears ran down Garnet’s face as she swept from the room, her silky blue dress trailing behind her. Criston was as evil as any one could be. Garnet knew that, by right, she would inherit her father’s large fortune and title when he died. Unfortunately, Criston also knew and, though he was wealthy, was also very greedy. He held no love for Garnet, only a love of money and riches. For this reason he would even stoop to killing Garnet for her money.
Sobbing uncontrollably, Garnet stumbled up the wide, red velvety carpet castle stairs to her room, the third door on the left. There she fell upon her large canopy bed and wept. Her spring green room had been decorated especially for her two years prior. It had twittering birds, a balcony, fountains, and walls painted to look like a forest. Her love of nature often overwhelmed her and gave her a peace of mind.
“No, no, no!” she thought, “I cannot marry him! He would kill me without a second thought. My poor father. Bought out by Criston’s offers, believing that Criston loved me. He does not know htat once Criston and I are married, one of his assisstants will be sent to kill him! Oh, my poor father!”
A generous and loving girl, Garnet cried for both her and her father’s fate if she should be wed to Criston. She cried and cried until she finally fell asleep.
Yeah, I like that better. It gives more description, and I like the bit about “Garnet’s father sat at an old mahogany desk, waving his older still walking cane about emphatically.”
txs. Now I just need to add that into the typed part on my computer! should I keep doing that stuff?
232- Yeah, you should.
yaaay! so much work to do! I was sort of at a writer’s block so hopefully this will give me a jump start!
230- I like that, says she not having read the previous part. However, I would cut out the sentance “The old, balding man, Mr. Contende, was forcing his daughter, Garnet, a lovely girl with gorgeous black tresses that had a gentle wave to them, and sparkling green eyes, to marry the smiling man, Criston.” It doesn’t really add much to the story and points out something readers will figure out in an awkward way. More thoughts when I return as I have to go now. I really like it though!
I know people will scream if I post the first chapter again, and besides it’s no different than the last time I posted it, so maybe I’ll do chapter two for a change.
Sara and Lena O’ Brian were staying at an inn called The Fiddle and Flute, of both of which there was a distinct lack. It was a small and shabby place, but it was inexpensive and at least the stew was good. Sara tried not to think about what the next day would bring as she lay in the unfamiliar bed, but it was no good. At last she got up and got her bag. She rummaged through it until she found her journal. She skipped to the page where she had written her speech and read it over and over until she fell asleep.
When she woke the next morning, the candle was nothing but a pool of wax on the floor. Guiltily, Sara scooped it into her pocket before Mrs. O’ Brian could see how near Sara had come to starting a fire.
Lena O’ Brian, it seemed, had been struck during the night with a horrible sore throat, and could barely talk all through breakfast. After breakfast it was no better, and Sara felt the little knot of dread in her stomach grow to about twice its previous size.
“But you’re a Representative.†Sara’s voice trembled pitifully. She hadn’t wanted to speak in the first place, and to speak alone . . . “What will you do if your throat’s not better by the time we have to go to the Meeting?†She sounded like a child, she knew, but she didn’t care. Much.
“You’ll have to go alone,†croaked Lena O’ Brian, and something clicked in Sara’s mind. All of a sudden, Margery’s theory made perfect sense. Lena O’ Brian didn’t really have a sore throat. She never really meant to be a Representative, either. All she was really for was to influence Sara, just as Margery had said. That also explained how the mayor wasn’t going to get caught.
But Sara could tell. Would she?
Sara forced that thought out of her mind and settled on matters with which she was more comfortable. Such as:
“How am I going to find my way to the Meeting Hall?â€
“You can hire a wagon to take you there,†said Mrs. O’ Brian, “or you can borrow a map. Or you could ask for directions.â€
Sara opted for the wagon, and Lena O’ Brian gave her a few small coins to pay for one. Sara put on her cloak and went out into the street. She wandered in a direction that was more likely to lead to the city’s center than the other possible directions. After a while she was fairly sure that she had chosen the wrong street, as her surroundings grew neither grander nor shabbier.
She was spared having to go back by a wagon that came around a bend in the street ahead of her, driven by a tired looking woman and with the words, “WILL TAKE YOU ANYWHERE†painted on the side in peeling green and red paint.
Sara couldn’t see much of the city beyond the high sides of the wagon, but even if she could have, she wouldn’t have noticed it. She was so nervous that she couldn’t have said, after it was over, how many passengers there were or how many times they stopped. She didn’t even notice there were other passengers, until one of them spoke.
“Where are you going?†he asked conversationally.
Sara told him, without really thinking about it. In her mind she was running over her speech, trying to add the mayor’s treachery and why Mrs. O’ Brian was absent without completely altering the speech.
“Ah!†said the man, and he leaned back against the wagon’s sides, looking very pleased about something. As Sara said nothing more, the man seemed to think of it as his duty to start up the conversation again. “Bit young to be a Representative, aren’t you?â€
“Quite,†replied Sara distractedly. They lapsed back into silence again. Suddenly the man stood up, swaying a bit as they bumped along the cobbles. “Well,†he said. “This is where I get off. Nice meeting you, little girl, and good luck.†With that he jumped off the wagon into the street below. No one seemed to notice, not even the woman driving the wagon. Sara stared out a chink in the wagon side for a few seconds, and then sighed, a little regretful at having lost even his company, and went back to revising her speech.
It was not going well. She wasn’t at all sure she ought to tell about the mayor cheating. For some reason it didn’t seem fair, even though what the mayor was doing was far from fair itself.
When she got to the Meeting Hall, she found that she was at least an hour early. So she sat on the wide marble steps that led up to the door, and brooded. But for all her thinking, she was no closer to knowing what to say when the huge clock above her head chimed twelve times, and the doors of the Meeting Hall opened.
Sara suddenly realized that quite a crowd of people had gathered on the steps, and when the doors opened they all streamed in. This did nothing to help alleviate her fears. Nor did the fact that the youngest person she could see was at least two years older than her. She dreaded speaking in front of hundreds of people, all of them grown-ups.
As it turned out, she didn’t have to. The doors opened into a huge antechamber, the walls of which were lined with benches, and on the other side of the antechamber was a pair of double-doors nearly as large as the outer doors. On either side of these double-doors, and on the inside of the outer doors, stood a man in green livery. It was all very grand, and it all combined to make Sara feel smaller and more frightened and overwhelmed than before. Trembling, she sat down on one of the benches, which was covered in burgundy velvet.
Then she saw something that made her start. A boy, probably about Nathaniel’s age, was slipping among the people, who were beginning to take seats on the benches or to pace the floor in agitation. He saw her watching him and gave her a friendly grimace. Sara smiled wanly back. The boy reached Sara’s bench, which had by some miracle so far remained empty, and sat down beside her. He was older than Sara had thought, but still at least a year younger than her.
“Hello!†he said.
“Hello,†responded Sara, taken aback. “Um . . .†She dredged her mind for the scraps of children’s etiquette that she had forgotten. There was a lot of it, as she had stopped considering herself a child long before she legally stopped being a child. She knew there was a script for meeting other children, but she couldn’t remember how it went. Anyway, the boy was at the Meeting, therefore he must be a Representative, therefore he must no longer be considered a child, therefore he wouldn’t necessarily go by children’s etiquette anymore. But he might. But maybe the script was different outside of Piper. Maybe they didn’t even have a script.
By the time Sara had finished this train of thought, the boy had obviously decided that if there was to be a conversation, he would have to initiate it himself.
“What’s your name?†he prompted. “I’m Andrew.â€
Was it really as simple as that? Sara remembered it as being much more complicated. “I’m Sara,†she said, with a strong suspicion that Andrew was simplifying matters for her, the young lady.
“Are you a Representative?†the boy asked. “You’re very young.â€
“Yes, and so are you.†Sara found it remarkably easy, and indeed, comforting, to slip wholly into the role of smooth and proper young Representative. Something about Andrew made it easy to play-act, almost as if she were really following a script, and her whole dilemma was nothing but a drama.
“Yes,†said Andrew patiently, “but I’m not a Representative, am I?â€
“I don’t know, are you?â€
“No.â€
“Well then, you shouldn’t be here.†If it was a play, Sara would have primly turned up her nose, but she felt too self-conscious to do so in real life. “And then she added, spoiling the effect entirely, “If you’re not a Representative, what are you?â€
“Not telling,†said the boy. “You wouldn’t like it.â€
Sara hardly dared ask. “A thief?†She had heard all sorts of tales about the city, not least of which was that the streets were paved with pickpockets.
“Not telling,†Andrew repeated obstinately.
Sara decided now would be a good time to change the subject, and besides, she was beginning to wonder about the Meeting. “When will the Meeting start?†she asked, feeling her role as confident young lady slipping away as she thought about it.
“It already has,†said Andrew.
“What?†Sara looked around for a long table, for the important people, for the speakers. The room looked exactly the same as it had when she entered, only tidier, as all the people were organized into nervous knots of two or three. They all seemed to emanate a steady hum of voices, chatting or practicing their speeches.
“It has not,†she said.
Andrew nodded. “It has. Look.†He pointed to the doors on the far side of the antechamber. Sara looked at them, and back at the boy. “What?â€
Andrew sighed. “People go in there, tell the High Council about – whatever they talk about – and then they come out again, and they can leave. It makes it shorter, so they don’t have to be around standing around till midnight. It also helps with stage fright.†At these words he looked straight at Sara, who stared back in an attempt to look unafraid, at which she failed miserably.
Somehow knowing this didn’t help Sara’s nervousness. If anything, it increased it. The hours dragged on, and Sara was wondering if her turn would ever come, when one of the men in livery called out, “Piper!†They had been yelling the names of towns and cities for what seemed like forever by now. Sara was fairly sure the men had changed at least three times, and wished she could switch like that.
“Good luck,†said Andrew in her ear, reminding Sara that her turn had come. “Thanks-“ Sara began shakily, but Andrew cut her off. “You’ll need it.â€
Sara wondered vaguely how he would know, but she didn’t care enough to ask. She stood up, and with a strong feeling of walking towards her doom, crossed the room to the Doors, as she had come to think of them. She was somewhat surprised that no one watched her, except Andrew, who waved at her cheerfully from the bench, and then jumped up and disappeared.
Sara took a deep breath, and one of the liveried men ushered her through the door.
I’m nearly on the last chapter of a short storie about a victorian supernatural investigator/vampire humter ect.
can i post it here?
237- And why not? I, for one, would love to read it.
I wrote a choose your own ending story a while ago. I’ll post it as soon as I reformat it so you can read it in blogpost-form.
If the GAPAs will allow it, I think this link humorously goes over the flaws of the fantasy genre, which I feel young authors often turn to.
Hey I’d like to post the beginning of my first story… Frankly it’s HORRIBLE. It’s Sci-fi/thriller, and I don’t even like eather kind, especially thriller: The plots are almost always obvious, and the heros have no personality. But I guess it is da easiest starting story. Is that okay?
241- What okay? That you post the beginning? It’s fine. Lots of heroes have no personality.
Strange. I’ve always thought it was heros, but the ever-handy computer informs me that it would appear to be heroes, not heros. And either.
I actually can’t do it right now actually… I don’t have the script right now.
236- I like it a lot.
Introduction
The wind whistled a mournful ode to the pallor moonlight, whipping up grainy bursts of sand into the face of Arena Wilkspell. She gave a yawn and ran her fingers gingerly threw her fair hair a pleasure she had been denied the last few days. Her friends elder sister Maray, had been married 3 days prior and the ceremonial headpiece was required of all girls not yet 14. Arena had to admit though, she did not despise it passionately the way her best friend Kala did. She actually sort of liked the satiny cream of her wedding headpiece, it’s shade so like tonight’s moon. She pause a brief moment to look across the vast ocean, and sprinkled a few of her rose colored scent beads on the sand. She felt an unintentional alertness about her, knowing what would happen if she was caught without her headpiece a mere 3 days after a wedding! But she allowed a brief grin to slide across face while she enjoyed a blissful moment of solitude, her hair flying in the wind.
My name is Arena Wilkspell, and my scent beads are a Lasha flower with tree leaves. When Maray gave me this leather book before going to live with her husband she said I should write about myself. Mother said the most important thing about any lady is her scent beads. So, there it is though I can’t imagine why that should be so important, seeing as I had no say in my scent beads, merely given them in this silk drawstring pouch when I was old enough to understand there use. Scent beads are only something chosen for you like your name, and I don’t value much the things I can’t decide for myself upon. When I turn 14 I will instead carry them in a small wooden purse, painted beautifully like mother’s and Maray’s. Until then my pouch, frayed at the edges and patched up several times will simply have to do. I really am a dismally average Itellan girl. I do as I am instructed, attend classes, go to our numerous ceremonies and wear the headpiece. And it’s my fear that it will remain that way forever. Goodnight.
Today was the last day of wearing my headpiece, Thank Goodness! Now I can go back to my thin blue one for classes and allow my hair to breath the rest of the time. After class, I helped mother to pick more lasha flowers from out garden to create fir scent beads for myself. They are fairly simple to create; put the clay into the tin molds and let them harden in the oven. Afterwards the oils from flowers is applied and viola, scent beads. In the town a thick record is kept of every woman’s sb’s, and they are all unique. Mine are no genius’s creation thought pleasant enough. My candle is running low now, and mother will scold me for borrowing coins to buy another. Goodnight again.
That’s nice, Biblio. I really like it. It’s pretty in a way I can’t define. Write more!
I’m thinking of a setting for a story, called Aerth. The setting, not the story. It’s a lot like Earth, but there’s very little land, so most creatures have taken to the sea and air. Perhaps it could be an alternate history of sorts, in which a huge comet struck the Earth and knocked its orbit awry, so that the polar caps were more exposed to the sun and melted. Humans will exist, and there will be some eerie references and parallels to our world. Also, many creatures that we know will be recognizable, but slightly odd.
Does anyone have any suggestions? (This could also be the basis for an RRR…)
I like the idea for references to our world. Make them creepy, though, because(at least in my opinion) they are the funnest to write. You know, like World Wars and terrorist bombings and crusades and stuff.
BTW, I am back from a week of Boy Scout summer camp on Catalina Island. It was SO FUN! And someone do me a favor: go to the Hot Topics thread and tell them I quit.
247- I don’t go on Hot Topics. But anyways, agagabagabag also just came back from a week of Boy Scout summer camp on Catalina island. That’s just weird. Did you two meet?
Hi , you’re lucky. My script is STILL missing. But my friend wants to be a writer too and got ideas for a basic outline and comic titles for a trilogy. I know what you’re probably going to say… DON’T START WITH A TRILOGY! But he won’t care. So just give him some ideas to start with so he’ll stop bothering me! PLEASE! Ok, here’s the titles and the outline: Hell for dummies, 101 ???? to do in Hell, So you want to be a Saten. Its about a man who dies, finds out God’s not all he’s cracked up to be and that Saten’s misunderstood. And in the last book he wants the man to take the Satens place.
I just LOVE witing scary stories. Here is one of my most recent. Kinda freaky…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
DEAD AND GROUNDED
“C’mon, Julia, just a little farther, then you two can head on home.†I sighed. Me and Leslie, my friend that had moved here only a week ago, were following my mom down a winding dirt path that people normally travel on by foot. I guess you could drive a golf cart or a small car down it if you were careful, but I had never seen one. We had driven to the edge of the path, and then begun to walk. The old path wound silently into a dark grove of trees that is the town graveyard. The only building in the graveyard is the one where you register a dead person to be buried, which is the largest gray shadow. Then, there are hundreds of stones in grassy places along more branches of the winding path, and a few large tombed mausoleums. In the daytime, the graveyard is sunny, even cheerful. But now, at night, it seemed creepy and eerie.
We had come to the cemetery with my mom to water the flowers on my grandfather’s grave, which was farther back, since we live less than a block away and our his closest relatives. We had a long ways to walk, and Leslie and I were happily anticipating our sleepover that would happen tonight. Leslie had been friendless when she came, but we were together like glue almost instantly. Now we do everything together. We just had to make a quick stop. As we walked, Leslie turned to me with a smile. “Hey!†she said excitedly. “My brother told me a scary story about this place once that Daddy told him. Want to hear it?†I figured it was a good way to pass the time. “Sure!†I said.
“Okay,†she began,†but it is freaky. One time very long ago, a girl about our age was coming to the graveyard to think and rest. She enjoyed resting in the graveyard often, when she had nowhere to go. She would sit on the steps of a tomb and think about death. One day, as she was walking slowly down the path, a motorcycle came roaring down the pathway and smashed her, running her through from behind. She died instantly. The girl had nobody who was willing to pay for a funeral or even a coffin and headstone, so two men who worked there took their shovels, dug a hole in the road, and tossed her in. Nobody but the two men is sure where she was buried, but the people who own this place say that on some nights, you can see her sitting on the steps of the mausoleum made of white marble, moaning and wailing, only to disappear in a flash of light.â€
She grinned at me. “Well?†she asked. “Wasn’t that good?†I nodded my head, too absorbed in the story to listen properly. Then I was jolted back to earth by the voice of my mom. “Julia! Come on, I’m done! Let’s go!†I walked obediently down the path towards the two of them, my mom and my best friend, and as the path wound back to our Jeep Liberty, I wondered if the large white shadow of the tomb in the distance really did harbor a spirit…
That night, Leslie and I sat giggling in my room, watching a Wallace and Grommit movie and thinking about things like the next Lucy Golden album and our newly manicured nails, when Leslie burst out,†I have an idea! Let’s go play a game.†I agreed because I was bored and had nothing to do. “Truth or Dare?†I suggested, and Leslie was keen on the idea. We spent half an hour daring each other to talk to guys and prank call friends, when it was my turn to be dared, then said,†I got it! I dare you to go into the graveyard and see the ghost from the road!†I objected. “No, it’s a waste of time, and my parents would kill me if they caught us.†But Leslie wheedled and prodded and finally I agreed. So we pulled on old jeans and sweatshirts and headed off out my window and down the street.
The cemetery is never closed, but it was dark, so we brought flashlights for the trip. Leslie walked with me to the gate, and then stopped. “Well, go on†she said. “Wait, aren’t you coming with me?†I asked. “No, this is your dare. I dared you, so you gotta go alone. Just go to the tomb and back, and if you see the ghost, yell and I’ll come running.†I wasn’t too scared. After all, it’s not like there is any such thing as ghosts, right?
I trudged into the graveyard slowly, choosing my paths carefully and stepping wisely. I finally took a step onto the path that could lead me to the mausoleum. I walked and walked and then I fell with a thud onto the ground. I had tripped over something, and turned back to see what it was. I gasped. It was a headstone that seemed to be scrawled on a piece of broken brick from a mauseleom with a marker, sunk into the dirt about a centimeter. It looked almost new. But what scared me was the inscription. It read: LESLIE JANE COPPERFIELD, 1993-2007,JULIA’S BEST FRIEND. This was not possible. Maybe it was a sick joke. It couldn’t be Leslie. But it was…
I started to run toward the tomb, telling myself that there was no such thing as ghosts, there was no such thing as ghosts… And then, there came a faint sound. A wail, frightening and not of this earth, coming from the tomb that sat glistening in the moonlight ahead of me. I crept slowly toward it, arms raised in front of me, and then the wails ceased instantly. Through the wall came a figure, her eyes sunken and dark, more like pits, hair lank about the skull like head, and clothed in white. It was Leslie…
“Now you know, Julia†she said to me in her faint voice. “Now you know why I have brought you here. Nobody cared about me enough to bury me, Julia. That motor cyclist made sure of it. I have no family. I had no friends… until you. You were kind to me, and you will stay with me here, forever, and ever, and ever…†And she grinned, widely, sunkenly, and I began to run. “Julia!†I heard her cry. “Won’t you play with me Julia? Please?†I ran as fast as I could down the dirt path, winding my way, and then I heard a noise. It was a roar, the roar of a speeding engine. There were two great beams of piercing yellow light, and the deep honk of a horn from the vehicle racing towards me…
And so here I am. My parents don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I am. All I know is that it is dark in here. It’s musty, and smells like the earth, but then again, it should. But hey, why don’t you come and see me some time? Maybe when you’re lonely, and you need some company from all us lonely souls down here. But I’m not saying that you’ll run into one of us anytime soon. After all, there’s no such thing as ghosts. Right?
249- I wouldn’t say don’t start with a trilogy, because I know I was planning sequels to my books before I’d even reached Chapter Six. But what happens is I (myself personally, don’t know about other people) usually end up merging the books into one book.
As for ideas, sorry, can’t help you. You might want to read The Devil’s Storybook, by Natalie Babbit, which, while admitting that the devil is evil, doesn’t make him that bad.
250- Whoa. It is kind of freaky. It reminds me of a story in Cricket magazine once.
Ahh cricket. A sponser of muse. Great story by the way!
Hey, I forgot to tell you one other possible title… Chicken soup for the devils soul.
248-No way! He did? I wonder if we did meet! I will ask him!
I have only written the first 5 chapters in my book and i already planned the basic plot for the next 5 books, so i think i’m ahead of myself.
and anyway the first 5 chapters still need more description and editing and all that but its something
255- Yup, sounds like something I would do. Sounds like something I have done, in fact . . .
My script took away from my attentions to The Makepeace War, and now I can’t get back into it. It was already petering out, because I reached the end of my planning, but now . . .
At last! I am back at work. I have written over 400 words today, and I plan to write more.
I am redoing a story called ‘The Green Heir” and have come up with a new story! I have written over 700 words today, and plan on writing more! I am so excited! More later.
A frightful thing occurred today. It had been raining since last night, pounding fiercely on the grass of our roof. And when I went outside to walk to classes what met me was a landscape that had changed entirely. Water engulfed the lower part of our village, and now only the spindly tops of trees were visible. I could faintly make out the parted wooden roof of our school. Luckily our house was high up enough to have avoided it, and I stupidly walked further down so that it reached the top of my ankles. I was still gazing out at the village when I felt something against my foot. A snake, long and black, with a fat middle was between my legs, looking up at me with small eyes. I screamed so very loud I was surprised the snake didn’t slither away. Yet, I was frozen with fear, unable to move away from this ugly creature. It was then I felt two arms grasp my shoulders tightly, pulling me away, but as I was not expecting this I fell backwards. The snake lunged and bit my ankle, and I passed out.
When I woke up, I was presumably in a bed, though not my own. I could tell from a piece of parchment on the wall we were in the doctors office, and it took me a moment to realize I was not alone. Ambrose, a boy my age and was friends with my neighbor was sitting on a wooden stool but five feet away looking quite distraught. When he saw I was awake he jumped up suddenly, as though I were a corpse who had suddenly risen from the dead. “ Arena, I’m so sorry, are you all right? I was trying to get you away from the sn-,†he said, though was interrupted by the doctor arriving in suddenly. “Oh Arena, good you’re awake. How do you feel?†The truth was I did not feel too awful, but my ankle was sore, and my head hurt just a bit. “ My ankle is hurting a little,†I confessed, embarrassed to seem whiny in front of Ambrose. “That’s good to hear. The snake was not venomous so it’s really is only a bite, but could get infected. Ambrose here was the one who came and got me,†he gestured toward the stool “ I think he should help you home.†Again Ambrose jumped up excitedly. “Oh yes, that would be very appropriate. Seeing as It was partially my fault…†And so Ambrose half carried me through the damp town, and you should have seen my mothers ghastly face when I arrived. My ankle isn’t that sore anymore but is serious enough to mean one thing: no classes for quite awhile.
I’m going to write a physical description of Sara, just for fun. (And because she needs it.)
Sara was small in stature, and anyone looking at would not have guessed she was older than eleven. Her face was thin, with delicate features and large brown eyes, all of which contributed to her childish appearance. Her hair was long and ever-so-slightly curly, tied back in two long brown braids. Her personality matched her looks, timid, obedient, and not at all assertive. But underneath there lay a certain sarcasm and dryness that you would not expect of her.
Well, it’s not entirely a physical description, but it was fun nonetheless.
My novel is now over 6500 words.
Congratulations, PC!
Mine is somewhere in the 17500s, and not growing at a very great rate.
When I think about it, I’ll probably expand my story by half when I edit, if I keep on like this. I’ll have to add whole scenes! And description galore. Funfun! I had better get back to writing now.
You know what we should do? Interviews with the authors, like you see as bonuses in newer books. We can do funny ones, or serious ones; one for each book we’re writing, or one in general…
I’ll make one up.
Q. What was your favorite book as a child?
Q. What genre do you like to write?
Q. How did you start writing? [This can apply to separate books, too.]
Q. What is your dream-book, the one you want to write more than anything else?
Q. What was your biggest problem you encountered while writing [insert book here]?
Q. What are your strategies for writing, in a nutshell?
Q. And the inevitable, what would your advice be to anyone who wanted to become a writer?
I’ll answer later.
Q. What was your favorite book as a child?
A. How young a child? Madeleine in London.
Q. What genre do you like to write?
A. Fantasy, adventure, I try everything, really. Except realistic fiction.
Q. How did you start writing The Makepeace War?
I had just learned how to mount a horse, so I went home and started writing a book about it. It was a while before it got anywhere, though, because I just didn’t have a good plot.
Q. What is your dream-book, the one you want to write more than anything else?
A. West of West. I’m writing it, actually. It’s a book about fairyland.
Q. What was your biggest problem you encountered while writing The Makepeace War?
A. Finding a plot. First I had a vague idea about a revolutionary war spy or messenger, carrying important documents, but that didn’t go anywhere. Then I tried various magical plots, and in the end I came back to the plot I have now.
Q. What are your strategies for writing, in a nutshell?
A. No way can they fit in a nutshell. I’m actually thinking about writing a whole book for them.
Q. And the inevitable, what would your advice be to anyone who wanted to become a writer?
A. Avoid interviews in which they ask this question.
Favorite book as a child?
I read all sorts of things.
What genre?
Fantasy, science fiction, that sort of thing.
How did you start writing (name of book that I don’t want plagiarized)?
My friend E. and I were returning from a hike in Yosemite, and the beautiful view inspired us to brainstorm.
Dream book?
The Fourhenge Chronicles.
Biggest problem while writing (N-O-B-T-I-D-W-P(name of book that I don’t want plagiarized))?
Getting past the boring parts. I can write excitement pretty well, but ordinary, mundane parts are tedious for me.
What are your strategies?
I don’t have a strategy. I just muddle along and sometimes get a good idea.
Advice to aspiring writers?
One word: WRITE. (duh)
continued from 230-
Garnet was right, though. She had, unknown to Criston and her father, heard the evil man speak to a man with a large scar on his cheek. He had clearly told the man that, upon his orders, he must kill Mr. Contende by any means possible. If found out he must not talk or he would be dead by the next day. The man had nodded vigorously and Garnet had climbed back over the garden wall.
Garnet knew the only way to prevent her father’s death was to not marry Criston. But how could she not? Tradition declared that if her father consented to a man’s proposal the girl could do nothing about it.
Garnet woke with a start. It was simple! Her father, an earl of the king could do nothing outside his own country. Though her father’s lands were extensive, they were also near the border of Bilikii. In Bilikii, she knew an old friend of her’s lived in the capital city Bantala and would be very glad to take her in. They had originally lived very nearby but had moved into the neighboring country because their business had been failing. How would she get there?
Her thoughts ended when there was a sharp knock on her door.
“Come in.â€
Criston stood at the now open door smirking. She wiped her pale cheeks and red eyes, trying not to show that she had been crying. He strode in, trying to look like he pitied her, but it ended up more like he was trying not to laugh.
“Why, my dear Garnet, do you hate the idea of marrying me so very much?â€
“Because, Criston, you are a bad man and bad men are things to hate.â€
“Oh dear,†said he in a mocking voice, “am I such a bad man?†and he leaned over to kiss her.
When Garnet saw what he was going to do she slapped his face and fled from the room, dreading the moment when his lips might meet hers. She ran into her father’s study and panted, “Father! Criston tried to kiss me!â€
Her father glanced at her and replied, “I often kissed your mother before we were married. I think she enjoyed it.â€
“Oh Father, how can you be so cruel? Can you not see how unfit I am for marrying?â€
“All I see is a young girl trying to make a spectacle of herself.â€
With an inward moan, Garnet knew what her father would say next.
“Go apologize.â€
“FATHER!â€
“Do not yell at me young lady! Do as I say!â€
“Mother would not have done this to me!â€
Mr. Contende gave Garnet a twisted painful look as if to say How could you bring that up?
“Your mother is no longer with us. Now do as you were told,†he choked out.
Garnet turned and slammed the door behind her. She could hear her father weep in his study as she ascended the stairs. Her mother had died only a year ago, or at least died to her father. She had gone off with another man who she said was more true and honest and could be trusted, unlike her father. Garnet could remember as her father slammed the door behind her and hobbled into his study to seek comfort in the riches he valued so high. It had always seemed to Garnet that he thought of her mother as another possession, something to be owned, but she realized then how much he had loved her.
She found Criston smiling on her bed and said stiffly, “I’m sorry.â€
Criston replied, “I should not have been so bold, it is I who should apologize.â€
It was quite obvious to Garnet that he did not mean a word he said.
“Will you please leave? I need some time alone.â€
“Of course, Garnet,†Criston said, still smiling his toothy smile.
When Criston had left, Garnet went back to planning. She would go to her old friend Genua who would help supply her and maybe give her a guide. The old magician lived in the woods around her father’s castle, though her father did not know. She had met him in the forest when she was five and had gotten lost. He gave her a very special pair of shoes that allowed her to speak with him through telepathy.
A young servant entered her room.
“Dinner is served Miss Garnet.â€
“Alright, tell my father I will be there in a moment.â€
Garnet decided that after dinner she would contact Genua and tell him to meet her in the woods by his house.
So, Garnet was able to smile during dinner. Her father looked like he had been crying but managed a smile when he saw her smiling.
“What makes you smile so, Miss Garnet?†asked Criston.
“Nothing in particular, Mr. Criston.â€
These were the only words spoken over dinner. Garnet finished quickly and asked to be excused.
“I am afraid I don’t fell well.â€
“Oh, what a shame,†Criston remarked.
“Of course you may be excused Garnet,†her father told her.
She hurried upstairs and slipped into the thin stars with moons and stars on them to contact Genua. Immediately, Garnet felt like half-frozen water was rushing up from her feet. When the feeling reached her head she first felt a strange openness and a desire to absorb knowledge of every thing around her. Then she saw Genua sitting in his cave.
“Genua,†she thought at the image, “Genua do you hear me?â€
The image looked up and said, “Why, Miss Garnet! It’s been many a long year since we last spoke.â€
“Indeed it has. I need to speak to you about a matter of great importance to me. Meet me tonight, outside your house, at 11:00.â€
“I will be there.â€
“Goodbye until the Genua.â€
“Goodbye Miss Garnet.â€
Garnet slipped out of the shoes and the same cold water came from her head and when it reached her feet the openness was gone. She began to prepare for the evening.
Nobody disturbed her as she went about her business. Her preparations consisted of trying to remember how to get to Genua’s house.
She had walked there two years ago when all of this started. The night progressed and at 10:00 she found herself outside her father’s castle and heading into the forest to find Genua.
Chapter 2
Genua was sitting in his underground cavern when Garnet set out. He used minimal mind telepathy to follow her movements. As he did he recounted the events in his life to himself.
As a young lad his uncle had taught him magic. It was easier with children though with enough will power an eighty-year old man could learn. When his uncle had died his parents had no longer wanted him. They sent him out and told him to never come back. Genua had run and run and vowed to never stop running. Eventually, though, he had formed this home with magic. He made the steps, furniture, rooms, everything as a boy of fifteen. And, in a way, he never did stop running. He ran away from conventional thinking, and whoever enforced it. He wanted to live life in his own way and not have a bunch of gossiping old ladies talk about him. So, Genua lived in the forest. None but children dared to enter for fear of the animals of the wood attacking, so he felt quite safe.
He had met Garnet when she was young. As a little girl, she had run into the woods in an attempt to escape a bath. Garnet had quickly gotten lost but luckily for her, she had sat down on a rock very near the entrance to Genua’s house to cry. Genua had heard the sound of somebody weeping and went to help. He found Garnet sitting on the rock and took her down to his cave.
There he gave her a cup of tea and tried to settle her down. Eventually, the young Garnet stopped crying. Genua took her up to ground level and took her to her fatherՉ۪ castle. At the edge of the forest he stopped and gave her a spectacular pair of slippers. He told her to put them on if she was ever in trouble. Then Genua showed her how to get home.
A few years later a young boy, about eight years old, came wandering by. His parents had eight children. The boy, Arnam, became very attached to Genua and he began to live with him. Genua saw a potential for magic in him and began to tutor Arnam in the ways of a magician.
As time moved on Genua found he had been right. Arnam had such an aptitude for magic that he quickly caught up in skill, if not experience with Genua. When Arnam was fifteen they began to explore the realms of spells. They found that in many cases it was better to use their hands than mumbling long phrases and sentences to cast spells. This had now become a common practice among magicians, wizards, and witches.
Arnam himself had always wished to stray from the trodden path, to break all the rules, and he had. Talented magic users were scarce and the two men living together were certainly examples of such.
Genua thought of all this and much more as he sat in his cavern. As he watched Garnet walk through the woods he started to probe her mind. What was her reason for calling on him after such a long time?
As soon as he entered her mind he was over whelmed with thoughts, plans, and feelings about Criston and her father. He had overheard the talk of their marriage and now realized how much Garnet despised Criston. As he dug a little deeper he found information on Criston planning to murder Garnet’s father once they were married. He gasped in surprise.
“She will be here in a few minutes, I must go to the surface.â€
Genua ascended the stairs, glowing torch in hand, and emerged into the dark to wait for Garnet.
Chapter 3
A single fire shone against the dark moonless sky. In its sapphire flame, Genua stood gazing into the darkness as though looking for someone or something. Garnet, dressed in a flowing gown, stepped into the ring of blue light from the torch and glanced around to assure nothing except dark trees had seen them. Her fears allayed she turned to Genua and said, “Finally, we may speak alone.â€
“Indeed Miss Garnet, this is a long awaited moment.â€
Genua signaled to Garnet to follow him in the direction of a small rock outcropping. With a wave of his hand, a large boulder rolled away to reveal a spiral staircase leading into the earth. Together they descended the rock steps, their shoes making no sounds that would alert enemies, until they reached a small, furnished cavern. With a few words, Genua sealed the entrance and lit a fire.
Garnet gracefully sat down on a silken pillow in front of the flames. Genua sat opposite her with a rough plump on a different pillow. Both stared deep into the dancing light examining every aspect, sitting in a uncomfortable silence.
Finally, to penetrate the curtain of quiet, Genua said, “We both know why you are here. You hate your betrothed, but cannot free yourself from the bond forged by your father to this evil man and have come to me for help.â€
“Of course, you are correct, as always,†Garnet replied, “But I believe I may have come upon a suitable solution.â€
“Oh?†questioned Genua, “I hope it is nothing so vulgar as stabbing or poison.â€
“I’m afraid I would not have the stomach for anything such as that. No, my plan is much easier, though it requires your help.â€
“Please, continue. You seen to have captured my interest.â€
“My plan is to leave this country. My father’s lands are not too far from Bilikii. From there I will go to the city Bantala. I have a friend who could take me in. I fear this is the only non-violent way to escape my betrothed, Criston.â€
“It is truly a good idea but your father is a very powerful man. As a trusted earl of the king, he has access to many troops. Criston himself is also a powerful man and unless I am quite mistaken, will also do everything in his power to keep you here. You will need a guide who knows these parts well. Do you wish to start tonight?â€
“Yes, for my wedding is to be soon and I wish to be far away before they realize I am gone.â€
“I shall call the perfect guide for you,†and turning away Genua called, “Arnam, ARNAM!
A young man, about Garnet’s age walked into the room. He held himself erect and his dark hair and dark eyes gave him a dashing appearance.
His eyes hung on Garnet as he said, “You called for me, master?â€
“Yes, Arnam. I would like you to meet Miss Garnet, Miss Garnet, Arnam.â€
Arnam bowed and Garnet inclined her head.
“Miss Garnet needs a guide to bring her safely to Bantala. It is urgent that she reach her destination quickly for many men will probably be following without good intentions.â€
“I understand, sir. It will be my pleasure to assist Miss Garnet.â€
She smiled her thanks. “ I certainly appreciate this Mr. Arnam. I will be ready in a matter of minutes.â€
Turning to Genua she then asked, “Do you have any clothes that are suitable for this journey?â€
“I believe that in this case a casual dress, effective for riding, would do best.†And with a flourish, Genua held a white cotton dress with lilacs across the bottom, as described, and presented it to her. Arnam had left to pack some supplies.
Garnet quickly changed behind a curtain provided by Genua. Arnam entered while she was smoothing out her dress.
“The supplies are ready Master Genua.â€
“Well then, I suppose it is time for you to leave. I wish you much luck on your journey. Arnam lead Miss Garnet to the stable and choose two suitable horses. Then be on your way.â€
Arnam nodded and walked away. Garnet whispered a word of thanks and followed. A series of passageways ensued. Garnet attempted to memorize the passages, but was soon forced to give up, due to the large number of twists and turns. After a while they emerged into a dark barn. Arnam whispered a few words and a ball of flame, orange this time, glowed in his palm. A small gasp escaped Garnet, who did not know Arnam was a pupil of Genua’s, and Arnam turned to look at her. She looked into his dark, strong eyes and realized that he wouldn’t betray her. Reassured she turned to look at all the horses. Horses stood freely far after the light from Arnam’s palm could not illuminate. With no stalls, Arnam had to wander around, looking for the right kind of horses for their journey. He came back shortly with two steady steeds. He threw the reins of a dappled gray with a silver mane to her and kept a sleek brown for himself.
“Yours is Lilac and this is Sultan,†Arnam told her. “We must talk very little at night in the forest and by day we will hide. Do you think of yourself as a good rider?â€
“I do not like to brag, but I can outride many of the king’s finest horsemen.â€
That is good because, though I do not properly understand the situation, it seems that it may be necessary.â€
With this he handed a saddle to Garnet and mounted Sultan. As Garnet mounted she wondered if she would make it safely to Bantala. Arnam was wondering if he would ever find out what this was all about.
Chapter 4
The trees seemed to whip past Arnam and Garnet as they sped through the forest on their horses. Green and brown intermingled as the trees blurred. Neither Arnam nor Garnet spoke as they rode through the night. The scenery was monotonous. The hooves of the horses barely touched the ground.
Garnet thought why is he rushing the horses so? They won’t be able to hold out long at this rate. As the sun started to seep through the trees she realized that tonight they had gotten a late start and that Arnam was trying to make up for lost time.
Slowly, Arnam looked around. There was an open are up ahead. He held up a hand to tell Garnet to stop and then, using both hands did a complicated set of hand movements combined with a long string of unintelligible words and suddenly large amount of sticks flew to the clearing and formed a small hut. This happened so quickly and so neatly that Garnet almost fell off her horse, for she was unused to magic as she was. His quick use of magic had surprised her.
“How… how did you do that?â€
“Genua taught me magic,†Arnam said shortly.
Garnet could tell he did not really want to talk about his life, but she was extremely curious.
“When did you meet Genua?â€
“I was eight.â€
“Wow! Have you been training since then?â€
“Yes. Now if you will excuse me, I must continue.â€
He turned back to the newly made hut. Garnet wondered why Arnam was so secretive about his life.
Arnam went into the hut and a few minutes later waved Garnet inside. Garnet walked in and was astonished. Inside there were four large rooms and a hallway that, from the outside, could never have fit in that small hut. Arnam watched her as she explored. Chairs, tables, beds, the hut was completely furnished.
“Arnam? Did you do this with magic? In tat short a time?â€
“Yes, I did Garnet,†Arnam said testily.
“Ok… Arnam?
“Yes Garnet?â€
“Why are you being so secretive?â€
Arnam turned pink and then bright red.
“Why do you care? My life is my own!†Arnam yelled.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I… I’ve never known anybody who had secrets except myself… and Criston, I suppose.â€
“Who is this Criston person?â€
“Look, I’ll tell you the whole story if you tell me yours.â€
Arnam thought about it.
“Alright, I suppose. You tell me yours first.â€
“Fine, if you insist.â€
Garnet slowly began to speak. The words came slowly at first, then more fluently. They began to flow and surround the pair in the hut. Her story entranced Arnam as it unraveled and her sat listening. When the tale ended Garnet shook herself as though she was emerging out of a trance. The air seemed to be thinner and the aura less magical.
“You have a gift of storytelling, Garnet,†Arnam said, blinking.
“I… I never did anything like that before…â€
“I could tell,†Arnam said, with raised eyebrows.
“Now, I believe it is your turn to tell your story.â€
So Arnam began, “I was the second of eight children. My father was a poor man and could not afford to keep us for long. As soon as my oldest brother turned eight years old my father sent him out on his own. We waited for word from him, but it never came. I was sent out two years later, even though we had not heard from my older brother.
“I wandered for a short time, until I met Genua. He took me under his wing and I lived with him. He taught me magic.â€
Garnet raised chewed on her lip, then said, “Short story.â€
“My life is boring I guess. Or I don’t have the story telling skill you do.â€
“Hmmm. Well, I think it’s the second one.â€
Arnam smiled, and Garnet noticed the creases in the corner of his mouth for the first time. Garnet realized he was actually very handsome.
“Well, I guess we should get some sleep now,†Arnam said awkwardly, unsure of how to impose a bedtime on a grown woman.
“Um, sure…†Garnet said, uneasy as well. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to leave his company but afraid of what would happen if she stayed.
Each moved their separate ways and laid down in their rooms, not sure of what happened that evening. Garnet stared at the ceiling of her room for hours, trying to fall asleep. She heard soft footsteps outside as though somebody was listening at the door. Soon, they moved off, leaving her to wonder what Arnam, if it was Arnam, was doing up and wandering around. She heard a noise next door.
Garnet slid her feet onto the floor and tiptoed to the wall, looking for a crack. At about eye level, next to the bed, she found a loose stick and jerked it fee. From her vantage point she saw the whole room, filled with books and herbs. It looked like a witch’s hut from one of the stories she had liked as a child. In the center of the room, Arnam stood staring at a purple bound book, looking as though he was meditating. Suddenly a long trail of words filled the room. Then a bright light seemed to flash from Arnam’s hand.
Garnet blinked and the magic was gone. Had it really happened? Arnam cursed. “Why didn’t it work? Perhaps if I…†His voice lowered and he began mumbling. Garnet crept back to her bed.
Again Garnet couldn’t sleep, this time because of what she had witnessed. Why was he experimenting with magic? What didn’t work? She pondered over these questions for hours. Finally she fell asleep.
Chapter 5
Criston paced, up and down, up and down, in the main hall of his mansion.
Where could she be? He murmured to himself, I’ve sent troops all the way north to Ralin Waterfall and scattered them throughout the forest. Yet, there have been no results!
He continued pacing until he had an epiphany.
“The border! How could I have been so stupid? She’ll be outside her father’s jurisdiction! Now, what was the name of that girl on the border patrol I helped? Fredericka I believe.â€
Fredericka’s parents had been expecting a boy when they named her. She had become a well-known thief in Doreldan’s underworld. She had tried to steal an exquisite set of diamond studs from Garnet’s room and was caught. Criston had paid her bail and gotten her a job on the Border Patrol because he knew she would be a valuable ally. He knew she would do anything to get revenge on Garnet.
Criston picked up the phone, smiling his evil grin, and dialed the phone number.
“Hello?†a smooth voice answered.
“Fredericka? It’s Criston.â€
“Criston?†the voice said, betraying the first hint of surprise, “It’s been forever!â€
“I know. I need your help with a job you should enjoy. And it’s not illegal!â€
“OK… um, will I have to leave my job?â€
“No, it fits into your duties perfectly. It will just look like you are doing your job well!â€
“Fine, what is the job?â€
“Catch Garnet from crossing the border.â€
“The phone was silent for a moment and Criston heard a deafening cheer in his ear.
“Thank you so much! I can’t wait!†and Fredericka hung up.
Criston smiled and knew the task was in good hands. He could count on Fredericka’s thirst for revenge.
Meanwhile, Garnet was just waking up. A few rays of sunlight filtered through the trees and through the window. When it hit her eyes she shook her head, trying to wake up.
Next door, Arnam was already up and getting dressed. He put on leather trousers and linen shirt. He wet his hair and slicked it back, trying to look good for the first time in months, and not sure why. Something just told him he should look nice for Garnet.
Garnet was also getting dressed, but found she needed a new outfit.
“Arnam?†she called through the wall, “Um, I have a problem…â€
Arnam paused and stared at the wall. “Oh?â€
“Yeah…um… I need a new set of clothes.â€
“Oh, is that all? Here…â€
Poof! A new dress hung in mid-air. It’s blue and yellow checkered pattern made her smile.
“It’s very pretty, thank you!â€
“Um… you’re welcome…â€
They quickly finished dressing and emerged into the hallway. They ran into each other and fell down. Arnam shook his head, looked around, and started to laugh. Garnet looked at him and started laughing, too. They stayed that way for several minutes until Arnam’s stomach growled. Arnam glanced at his stomach and said, “I guess it’s time for breakfast!â€
Garnet giggled and nodded. Together they walked into the kitchen.
“Wait, I can make food. You go sit in the main room.â€
“Um…OK?†Garnet said and she walked off.
She sat down on the large, red, plush couch and stared into the large brick fireplace. Seconds later Arnam walked into the room, levitating a large table laden with food. He set it down in front of her and bowed with a smile on his face.
Garnet looked at the delicious food and said, “Please, sit down. Let’s eat!â€
Arnam twitched, as though he wanted to smile, then sat down. They both began to eat ravenously. Toast, eggs, French toast, bacon, bagels, orange juice, and fresh fruit. They finished quickly and Arnam made another pile of food. Garnet hadn’t eaten for almost twelve hours and Arnam hadn’t eaten since the day before’s lunch. After a night of hard riding, they were both exhausted and starving.
Eventually they finished eating and leaned back holding their stomachs. Garnet started the conversation.
“So, Arnam. I know this sounds really stupid, but what exactly is magic?â€
“Well, I define it as using your will power to change what’s going on, but most people consider it energy locked in your body that you can control.â€
“Um… Ok? I guess I understand that but, well how do you know you are magical?
“Everyone has a certain amount of magic in them, but most of them have very little or are too weak to use it.
“Woah! Can you tell if I can do magic?â€
“I already know you can. Your storytelling is a gift unequaled by anything I’ve ever seen!â€
“Really? Wow…â€
He left her to her thoughts as he actually carried the dishes into the kitchen and began to wash them.
I can do magic, I CAN DO MAGIC!†she screamed in her head. “Why didn’t I find this out before? Or, is Arnam just kidding me? Storytelling isn’t magic, but, oh! the exhilaration! I felt a rush inside me like nothing else, except when I put on the slippers Genua gave me…
Garnet continued to ponder. Ideas tumbled through her head until she felt like she would burst. Finally she marched into the kitchen and said, “Arnam, isstorytellingreallymagicisthereanywayIcanlearnasmuchasyouhowcome Genuachoseyouandnotme…†Garnet spit out a long, ungrammatical sentence.
“Woah, woah! Calm down. One, yes storytelling is a form of magic. Two, I don’t know if you can, I’d have to test you. Third, you had a family to go back to, I didn’t.â€
“Oh… Thanks…†Garnet blushed and ran out of the room into her bedroom. She landed on the bed and stared up at the ceiling.
“Did I actually just say that? Oh my gosh, I feel so stupid!†Garnet said out loud.
“You shouldn’t,†a voice said from the doorway. Garnet looked up and saw Arnam smiling at her. She was speechless.
“I, well…†she started to say, but he had already walked away.
Garnet slammed the room’s door and sat there feeling confused. Without realizing it, she started to cry.
I’ve only known him for one day and I already have a crush on him? Does he know? God, he’s so handsome, she thought to herself.
A sudden pop resounded through the room and Garnet found a note in front of her.
She smiled. He’s so considerate she thought. Then she stood up and opened the door. Garnet found Arnam in the main room, staring at the fire.
“It’s 3:00 already. We’ll be leaving in four hours,†Arnam said.
“Oh, OK. That’s good.â€
“I thought you might tell a story,†he said shyly.
Garnet beamed and began, “Once, not so long ago, there was a boy and a girl. One was a farm boy, the other the daughter of a rich duke. He had just come to the farm and was in the stable when he heard a scream. He ran outside and found the girl lying on the ground, her horse having thrown her. She was unconscious and had a cut across her temple. The boy immediately saw how serious it was and carried her to the big house. The duke thanked him and everybody soon forgot it except the girl and the boy. She went to see him in the stable everyday. Soon their love blossomed and grew. The boy eventually went to the duke to ask for permission for her hand in marriage. The duke said no, believing the boy unworthy of his daughter. The girl and boy accepted his decision for a while, but they became restless and ran off to be married. By the time the duke arrived, the two had been married. Her father came up with a clever plan.
“The duke went to the king and said, ‘O mighty King, will you knight this boy who has married my daughter?’
‘Why, of course!’ the king replied.
“So for the next few days the boy was a distinguished knight of the king.
“On the fourth day a man, large in every way, challenged the boy. The duke stood by, smiling. The boy could do nothing except accept. The battle was held the next day. Swords clashed and the boy fought valiantly, though he had never had any training in swordsmanship. It took the large man few minutes to knock the boy’s sword away, but then he did a dishonorable thing. He ran the boy through and walked away as he died. The girl ran to his side soon enough for him to say, ‘I love you,’ before he died.
“The girl clung to his lifeless body until her father pulled her off. She never knew her lover’s death had been planned by her father.â€
Garnet stopped and thought about what she had just said.
“Wow, that was good!†Arnam said, tears in the corners of his eyes. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was
sorry if that was too long to post. I need to fix the part about the phone but I can’t come up with an alternative. Help???
oops I realized that the notes were left out… most of them you can imagine… heehee he just apologizes
266- Haha you’re so paranoid. It’s funny.
267- I can’t read that right now, but I will later. So LONG!
268- A phone? I thought that this was vaguely medieval/renaissance.
270- I realized about the phone after I read it again but couldn’t come up with a suitable replacement cuz he has to get in contact with the person immediately. I was considering using magic but idk
also just read parts of it when u can!!!!! and hurry!!!!!
Suggestions:
Don’t use digital clock time. For example, use ten o’ clock (or ten o’ the clock) rather than 10:00.
I’ll read more later, I just read the first chapter.
. What was your favorite book as a child?
I loved all of the curious george stories.
Q. What genre do you like to write?
fantasy particularly.
Q. How did you start writing? It was just a simple idea that I carried arounf in my head for a while, letting it grow a little. I imagined a wedding with a sinister bride and it all sort of took of from there.
Q. What is your dream-book, the one you want to write more than anything else? I don’t know yet.
Q. What was your biggest problem you encountered while writing [insert book here]? Trying not to make it cliche.
Q. What are your strategies for writing, in a nutshell?
let your ideas flow, however ridiculous.
Q. And the inevitable, what would your advice be to anyone who wanted to become a writer? No idea is too crazy. For every book there is a reader wh will enjoy it.
Been working on two books, one a fantasy one that is really boring, and I’ve abandoned, another, well, so, in the time of the Aztecs, one of the gods they worshipped was Quetzalcoatl. Well, when Cortez came, the Aztecs thought that he was Quetzalcoatl. So, that helped bring about their downfall. In my story, the other gods punish Quetzalcoatl for this misunderstanding by transforming him into a chihuahua, who is unlucky enough to be bought by Haris Pilton. Yes, Yes, I obviously couldn’t name a character Paris Hilton. Any way, the chihuahua is based on my dog, Quetzalcoatl, and it can travel back in ime and has a few arguments with Cortez.
274- Sounds funny!
271- A telegram or messenger perhaps?
Will someone comment on my bit please?
276- It’s good as ever. It doesn’t have the magic that the first part had, though. Sadly, not many books maintain the magic throughout the whole story. When they do, that is truly a good and praiseworthy book.
267- You still need to slow it down. It just flies by, which can be good for some stories, but not, I think, that one. Also, change “lilacs across the bottom” to “lilacs across the hem,” if I may be so bold as to suggest that. It sounds a lot better that way.
278-txs. so u think the base of the story is good tho right?
and I should have known about the hem
279- It definitely is a good base. You just want it to go slower.
And tell me, is this your whole story so far? What size font are you using that makes that into 60 pages? Even 40 pages doesn’t usually all fit into a post.
Okay, it can’t possibly be because she isn’t back at the beginning yet.
You need to develop Garnet some more. She’s a bit flat at the moment.
that’s just what I have typed on the computer it’s 68 pages WRITTEN and I’ve only typed up to like page 34 or something like that on the computer which is on page 14
o, hey alice, sorry i’m putting this on this thread but I was wondering if you could check out my poems on the poems and songs thread
282- Ah. I see.
283- Okay.
277- Are you talking about my suggestion or my story?
285- Your story.
286- I didn’t think there was any magic in the first part….do you mean the scent beads? I am going to add some magical elements though.
Good job to everyones whos written something! I just got a chance to read back and everything was good.
287- There wasn’t any actual magic. But the moon and the sand and the scent beads all combined to paint a truly beautiful picture in my mind, which is what I meant by magic.
288- Oh well, thank you so very much! Thats a very nice compliment. I hope to keep that up and now I understand what you meant.
here is my story in progress…it might be a little dumb, but i’m still experimenting… all the other stories on this thread are awesome and beautiful.
Tranin
The sky was a crisp blue turning deep shades of violet and large white crested waves rolled in to shore. A warm summer’s breeze whisked a long brown strand of Mica’s hair in to her oval face. She sighed, her violet eyes scanning the shore. There must have been a survivor she thought hopelessly.
“Mica,†her sister called, “see anything, anything at all?â€
“No Sarra, nothing,†Mica sighed. She scanned the shore again. Nothing, not a single piece of wood. “Wait I see something,†she cried and rushed to shore. Sarra followed down the rocky slope.
They stopped in front of an old wooden trunk washed to shore by the monstrous waves. “Whatsit,†Sarra exclaimed in one jumbled word.
“A chest, an old chest,†Mica said faintly.
“Let’s open it,†Sarra said getting down on her hands and knees and prying at the large lock with her thin fingers.
“Sarra,†Mica complained, “the key must be lost and that lock is too big to break, not to mention very rustyâ€.
“Oh come on Mica,†Sarra pleaded, “help me pry it openâ€. Mica shook her head. “I’ll give you my dessert for a week,†Sarra offered hopefully.
“Fine,†Mica finally gave in.
They where on a peninsula about ½ mile wide and 7 miles long in the kingdom of Tranin. â€We should get going though,†Mica commented, eying the setting sun. It was about two hands away from setting. As soon as the sun set the shifters would be out. Shifters where dark creatures, no one had seen them in their true form. Most always they where shifting shapes.
Mica shivered at the thought of them and kneeled to help Sarra. “It won’t break,†Sarra said discouragingly.
“Let’s take it home,†Mica quickly said, still eyeing the sinking sun. She sighed as she remembered the reason for coming. To look for survivors from a ship that had crashed off the end of the coast. Her friend Kurri had been on that ship. Biting her lip, she stared at the water, now sparkling like diamonds.
“Mica could you please take the other end of this,†her sister commented.
“Fine,†Mica grumbled.
The trunk was extremely heavy. As Mica and Sarra carried it up the ridge at the top of the bluff they herd what sounded like a strangled cry for help. Mica’s heart almost jumped out of her chest. “Did you-,†Sarra started
“–hear that,†Mica finished. They both dropped the enormous trunk and dashed over the next bluff.
On the beach, lying in the wet sand was Kurri. Her red hair tangled, she was gripping a board in one hand and her other was in a fist holding what appeared to be a key. “Kurri,†Mica cried, clamoring over to her friend. “Find chest, must find chest,†Kurri mumbled and slipped in to unconsciousness, her hand loosening on what must be, a key.
“Kurri,†Sarra cried as she followed her sister.
“She’s unconscious,†Mica said, “help me carry her up the bluffâ€. It was tough going, Sarra dragging the chest and Mica carrying her friend. Mica felt the key in her pocket. It was heavy, brass, with a gorble on the end. Her mind wandered away to her father, out at sea, catching fish for supper, to her beautiful mother, mending and washing clothes.
“Mica,†her sister cried, snapping her back to reality. “Mica, look, the sun.†she cried. From the top of the bluff she saw the sun was halfway into the water.
“Oh no,†she cried, “the Shiftersâ€. “We must get home before they get-.†Her last remark was cut of by a long howl. Kurri stirred.
“Help me drag her under that bush†she whispered, pointing toward a large bush. Mica looked up. Sarra was standing stock still. Her eyes were on something behind Mica. A look of horror crossed her face. “Sarra,†Mica whispered uncertainly.
Mica slowly turned around. She found herself staring in to the face of the ugliest thing she had ever seen. It was so ugly that it was indescribable.
“Hello,†it said calmly. A scream escaped Mica’s lips. “Goodbye,†it said as it took something from its pocket. Then all went black.
Kurri found herself in a sparsely decorated room.
“Hello,†said a friendly voice, “I’m Lucia; you’ve been asleep for three daysâ€. Kurri turned to find a young woman, probably around 18, with long dark locks and a kind face staring back.
“Hello,†Kurri said comfortably, “Where am I�
“You are in Karin,†she said, blue eyes smiling.
Kurri’s heart jumped. “Where is Micaâ€? She asked, “I saw her face when I was slipping in to unconsciousnessâ€.
Lucia’s face turned sullen, “She disappeared, along with her sister, Sarra†she said sadly. “We found you up on the bluff, with a big wooden trunkâ€.
“I have the key!†Kurri exclaimed, “It was†she began, feeling around her pockets. “Oh no, it’s gone,†she cried.
“What key,†Lucia said with sudden interest. Kurri looked at her uncertainly. “Don’t worry,†Lucia said, “whatever you say won’t leave this room, I promiseâ€.
“Well,†Kurri started slowly, “while I was on the ship, on the way here, an old man who looked kind of ragged was quartering two doors down from me. His traveling companion, a younger man, was guarding an old chest. When the storm hit, there was so much chaos that I don’t know what happened. All I remember was that somehow I ended up with the key in my hand. I knew it was for the chest, because I had seen the old man fingering it. That is all I remember at the momentâ€.
“It is worse than I thought,†Lucia said slowly, “He was a wizard from Cattacalâ€. Cattacal is the kingdom of Tranin’s center for learning and the royal family lives there.
“How do you know this,†Kurri gasped.
Lucia sighed. “It would be better that you did not know, but you have told me your story and I shall tell you mineâ€.
Kurri listened in suspense. Suddenly there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,†Lucia said kindly.
A tall young man came striding in, carrying the large trunk. He set it gently on Kurri’s lap and then quickly walked out the door. Kurri took a closer look at the chest. It was just like any other trunk; big, brown, with metal hinges and a rusty lock.
Kurri began to toy with the lock and turned it over. She gasped in surprise, for on the back was a rearing unicorn. “The royals crest,†she whispered. She looked closer and could just barely make out a dove.
“An errand for the queen,†Lucia said sadly.
“Why,†Kurri questioned.
“When the mages of Karin looked for some sort of spell on the trunk, they found a very strong spell that kept it shut, so no mortal man may open it,†Lucia said sadly, “the puzzling thing is that it took all the mages thought a mind sweep, looking for treachery against the crown. Finding none it voluntarily opened-,†she posed. “-And released me from the chest.â€
Kurri was past awe and amazement. All she could do was stare. “But how,†she finally was able to stammer.
“Seven days ago, the palace was attacked and the queen kidnapped,†Lucia began, “They wanted gold and jewels. The king gave it to them, but they didn’t return the queen. They ordered the whole thing secret and they threatened with the queen’s life. They asked for more spoils and this time, power. They asked that the king let them raid his land without interference. In order to protect me, he sent me in a trunk, to any place but the palace. So I ended up here. The queen is hidden and the king is helpless. That is my storyâ€.
“But then that means that-,†Kurri began.
“Yes, I am princess Shaharazadâ€.
oh…for my last one…any suggestions?
291- You might want to add a little more description. But it is good. You also need to put question marks in the pertinent places.
I think I’m just getting rid of the second bit. You were right the magic was gone, and rest assured it will not be in the revised edition which I will post soon.
I added to this part so far is it better?
Chapter 1
“My decision is final. You must marry him!†an old, balding man shouted. In the corner of the room a man sat grinning like a Cheshire cat. He had every reason to smile. A young girl stood, head bowed, before the old man. Her name was Garnet and her pale face was stained with the tears pouring from her sparkling green eyes. Her tears were the sad sort, not angry or happy, but hurt and dismayed. If you could have looked into her eyes at that moment you would have seen wisdom beyond her young years, and a great grieving within her.
Garnet’s father sat at an old mahogany desk, waving his older still walking cane about emphatically with anger. He could not understand why his daughter so stubbornly refused to marry Criston. The smiling man had seemed quite genuine about his affections for her and had offered her father a sum he could not refuse. Yet Garnet seemed to hate him. If you saw her at that moment you would have seen the depths of her anxiety. This room would normally have entranced her; it’s beautiful flowers, skylights, and fountains. Now she could only gaze at them through blurry eyes.
Glittering tears ran down Garnet’s face as she swept from the room, her silky blue dress trailing behind her. Sobbing uncontrollably, Garnet stumbled up the wide, red, velvety castle stairs to her room, the third door on the left. There she fell upon her large canopy bed and wept. Her spring green room had been decorated especially for her two years prior. It had twittering birds, a balcony, fountains, and walls painted to look like a forest. Her love of nature often overwhelmed her and gave her a peace of mind.
“No, no, no!†she thought, “I cannot marry him! He would kill me without a second thought! My poor father. Bought out by Criston’s offers, believing that Criston loved me. He does not know that after he marries me, Criston will send one of his assassins to kill him. Oh, my poor father.â€
A generous and loving girl, Garnet cried for both her and her father’s fates if she should be wed locked to Criston.
Garnet attempted to do something to make her forget her troubles. She picked up the book she had been reading, the novel of a woman who had lived her own life and escaped the forces that tied her to tradition. Wishing desperately she could do the same all the thoughts came seeping back. Unable to contain her tears any longer she cried and cried until finally, she fell asleep.
Garnet was right, though. She had, unknown to Criston and her father, heard the wicked man speak to a man with a large scar on his cheek. A party had been held in her honor by Criston to show his deep affection for her. The stacks of money he kept deep within his house were not dented by this affair and it was filled with unbearable company in Garnet’s opinion. She had tried to be polite at first, speaking with the guests, answering questions. Quickly, she had become tired of it and resolved to sneak out into the fresh air and remove her shoes. She had excused herself and crept toward a balcony where she knew she could climb down a vine. As she reached her destination a voice clearly rang out in the semi-darkness. She had known immediately it was Criston. He clearly told the man that, upon his orders, he must kill Mr. Contende by any means possible. If found out he must not talk or he would be dead by the next day. The man had nodded vigorously and Garnet had hid behind a deep purple curtain until they were gone, then snuck away, following her original plans.
Garnet knew the only way to prevent her father’s death was to not marry Criston. But how could she not? Tradition declared that if her father consented to a man’s proposal the girl could do nothing about it. In Doreldan strict laws forced any female to follow the orders of her father, whether it was marriage or getting tea. If they refused they could face severe punishment or even execution.
As she dreamed she imagined the woman from her book, clasping a cloak about her neck and looking around warily. She moved silently, through a deep and mysterious forest, knowing that if she was caught her father would punish her by allowing her only bread and water for many months. It was not something she relished. She walked to a large stable and saddled a horse, comforting it so it would not make any noise. She slipped out of the barn and continued through the forest, this time on horseback. Her journey continued many miles and through several days. Finally, one night, she reached a fence. It seemed to stretch on endlessly towards the sky, but she knew she must get over, so she began to climb. It took her only half an hour because the fence was not as high as it seemed. When she reached the ground on the other side her hands and feet were cut and bleeding but she knew she was free.
Garnet woke with a start. In her dreams a plan had formulated, thanks to the book she had been reading. The book said that the woman had realized she could do nothing in her own country but the rights of the next door country were much easier. Garnet realized it was simple! Her father, an earl of the king could do nothing outside his own country. Though her father’s lands were extensive, they were also near the border of Bilikii. In Bilikii, she knew an old friend of her’s lived in the capital city Bantala and would be very glad to take her in. They had originally lived very nearby but had moved into the neighboring country because their business had been failing. How would she get there?
The work on my Oz story has slowed considerably, but I have come up with two new story ideas. Here is the beginning of one:
The inevitable Road. The governing Road. The despised Road. The Road ruled everyone’s life, whether they wanted it to or not. Babies were born on the Road, and people died on the Road. The Road caused strife and struggle, but also joy and happiness. No one knew how long the Road was, for no one had ever been brave enough to try and get all the way along it. It was too dangerous, with its swamps, rivers, Linka armies, and tree monsters. Yet, even with all of this perils along the Road, it always made it through. The Road had always been there, and always would be, or at least, that is what most people said.
At one end of the Road was the home of Emperor Chumin, who had conquered all of the known lands and united them under one rule 3 years before. He was loved by many, but there were rumors that rebellions were starting up across the newly united Empire. This, of course, was dismissed by many, as no attacks had been recorded, and only the gypsies and mystics and other travelers of the Road believed it was true. At the other end of the Road, according to legend, far past all of the forests, lakes, and cities & villages was a desert. The Road stretched on through this desert for thousands of miles, or at least, that was what was generally believed. Stories had always been around telling what was past the desert. Some said the Road stretched on, and kept going to other worlds. Others said that it simply stopped in the middle of the desert, as the Builders of the Road could not keep going. But the most common story was that the Builders ended the Road past the desert, in a plentiful forest filled with fruit, water, and all of the necessities needed to live. The Builders, according to the stories, built a shack in that forest at the end of the Road, and it was there the Builders and all their future generations have lived and will live for all eternity.
Now, if you went south along this road, towards the Unpassable Desert, upon coming out of the darkness of Lindechewa Woods you would come across a town on the side of the Road called Neviton. It was a small town, but the people in it were happy and joyful, as they had everything they needed from the nearby forest. As far as anyone could remember, Neviton had never had any attacks or kidnappings. In fact, it was one of the calmest towns in the whole Empire.
How do you like it?
The thing about me is that I tend to write about ten stories at a time. If one doesn’t satisfy me, I delete it, or sometimes rewrite it in a different POV or something.
261 and 262-Congratulations!! That is fantastic!!!
BTW, a good book to check out is “Take Joy” by the famous Jane Yolen. IT IS FANTASTIC!
295- That was good. There were certian parts that could have been spiced up with detail but I really liked it.
295- Nice. I like it.
I had a vague futuristic idea not worth typing at the moment. I’ll tell you later.
Here’s a snippit of “the Changeling and The Moon”
About second chapter.
All you need to know is that Miyrah is odd and the school counselors are concerned…
“Your grades haven’t been very good, Miyrah,” the first counselor said, looking at his paper in order to check the name.
“Grades? It’s all a big joke, isn’t it?” the girl sneered. her blond hair fell into her face and she jerked it away with a horse-like thrust of her head.
“That’s the attitudes that makes you fail! Have a more positive one! look at this glass, it’s half full!” the other counselour said. She was pretty, and the wit of a puff-adder.
“Your grades aren’t why you are here,” the first counselour said. His black hair was greying. “You attacked a boy-”
“I nearly bit his ear off!” Miyrah said, calmly and proudly.
“You admit it, then?” the puff-adder woman said, leaning on to the victorian style chair Miyrah was sitting in. “Your step-parents will have to pay the hospital bill. A pretty penny.”
“We have someone for you to meet,” the male counselour said. “Dr. Bentley.” The puff-adder woman let the tall man in. He wore a long black coat, falling past his knees. His presence filled the room with an eerie glow, Miyrah’s keen eyesight saw that one of the plants wilted.
“We’ll leave you two to it,” the puuf-adder counselor said and the two departed quickly, but hesitating at the door to gloat. The door shut and the two were alone.
Miyrah spoke first, in a cruel voice that would not normally come from the throat of a fifteen year old. “You are no doctor.”
He smiled, softly. His face was tired and malicous. “What am I? Or better yet, what are you?”
Miyrah thrust back into the back of the chair, snarling vicously. “I am what I am!” she said, her voice overlayed by an unearthly tone, beautiful, and dark.
“No human, I see.”
Miyrah’s eyes opened with fear. This man knew too much. He plopped himself down in the counselor’s chair and leaned forward. “Changeling,” he whispered.
Miyrah stood up. “I am the not the remnants of a forgotten meal. I am the power that shines from the moon. I am not human, nor do I want to be. But I am not a changeling. ”
“what are you?” he said, sitting back.
Miyrah hesitated, then fell forward and caught her fall with her hands.Her fall was graceful like that of a panther falling from the brightly lit tree branch into the shadows. The wolf stood proudly in the center of the room, the victorian chair knocked back. “I am neyrgari,” she said.
“Elf,” the man whispered, awed and smiling. “I have waited long for you. Too long.”
“Welshabri! Night Beast! Stay away from me!”
The man wailed an unearthly sound and the beast within emerged. Fourteen feet tal, the ram horns tore holes in the cieling. It snarled and plunged at the wolf, its torn clothes forgotten. Feathered wings burst from the back of the wolf and it crashed through the glass of the window. The Night Beast howled and plunged throug the wall. The door burst open and the horrified puff-adder and male counselours gaped at the wrecked scene. The wolf flapped wings and fled for her life. The Night Beast followed in hot pursuit.
This story is one of my favorites. (300th post?)*Does three hundreth post dance. Miyrah is adopted.
299- That’s good! I would read the whole thing if you published it.
Alright people. I’m going to bed. It’s past midnight here in Denmark. Good night! Sorry for triple post! Chihuahuas rock! And the one on my lap is snoring! Loudly!
301- Thanks! I got the idea for it while watching Lord of the Rings and a vampire moovie. That’s where I get my greatest inspiration!
Here is another part of my story:
The second thing was the Maconical Bowman. The Maconical Bowman, as legend had it, used to be a young man, somewhere in his late twenties, from Neviton. He was a skilled bowman, who could shoot a cherry atop a little boy’s head a mile away, without the arrow even touching the boy.
One day, he went into the Lindechewa Forest, as wolf-hunting season had begun. The young man, however, was not looking for any ole’ wolf. He was looking for the Maconical Wolf. The Maconical Wolf was an ancient wolf, known for its speed and strength. What made it different from other wolves, however, was that its killer would gain eternal life. The Wolf had killed many men from the village who had tried to slay it. Many people warned the young bowman not to go, but he would not listen. The young man went into the forest, and hunted for the wolf, using all his senses to find it in the dark woods.
He searched for a week, and on the seventh day of looking he found the Maconical Wolf. It was huge, huger than he could have ever imagined. It could have easily crushed a toddler under one of its paws. It was fast and strong, and had the hearing of a superwolf. The bowman started at it, but the wolf ran away, as fast as lightning. The man still ran however, in the direction he had seen it go. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, after at least an hour of running, he heard a twig snap behind him. He spun around and the wolf roared and jumped at the man. The bowman launched his arrow just before the wolf knocked him down to the ground. The wolf fell, dead. The arrow had gone right through its chest. He immediately felt pity for the great being, but he did not have long, for he quickly gained immortality.
He went through a gruesome and painful transformation. Grayish-brown hair started growing all over him. It itched him and he scratched ruthlessly at it. His nails grew long and dirty, and began to curl back. His ears became pointed and his sense of hearing grew, along with his four other senses. He had to cut off his leather shoes with a knife, as his feet were growing to big for them, and his nails could not grow out long and started curling back quickly. He had gained eternal life, but at a price-he would no longer be just a man. He would be forced to live the life in the Lindechewa Woods as a wolfman, for who would want a frightening beast like him around? Legend had it that if you listened carefully, at one o’clock at the morning every half moon, you could hear the Maconical Bowman’s mournful howls.
Creepy, no? The Maconical Bowman(no idea how I got the name) will be a supporting character, I think.
Hmm. I like it, certainly, but it needs a it of work. It’s going to quick again. Other than that, nice job! I really like the name.
I redid the opening passage of West of West. (Not doing NaNo; it kills the inspiration.)
Daisy Lee was not the youngest of three children. She wasn’t even the oldest of three children. Her father was not a king, which would have made her a princess; nor a poor wood-cutter, which would have made her a poor wood-cutter’s daughter, but an ordinary suburban working dad, which made Daisy an ordinary suburban school-attending kid.
Hmm. It sounded better in my mind. But anyhow, what do you think?
305- It is good. I definitly would need to read more to see if I would read thw whole thing, but so far I like it.
New thread, maybe? Please? *remembers her resolve not to bug the GAPAs* Sorry.
(307) Done.