Cutting Back (A Short Story)

“Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling Clementine.”

Snip.

“You are lost and gone forever...”

Snip.

“Dreadful sorry, Clementine.”

Snip.

As the song’s tune faded away from her mind, she gave a sideways glare to the door. “Dreadful sorry my ass.” Her lips curled into a sneer, and the scissors by her ear fluttered. Before she could cut herself, she grabbed another lock of hair.

Snip.

“Well, you’ll be sorry soon enough.” A giggle escaped her lips. When she looked in the mirror, her cheeks appeared rosy and her eyes had a lovely gleam. She almost looked like her old self. Just a bit more excitable, she thought.

Blonde tresses surrounded her feet, creating a golden carpet that glowed in the sunlight streaming from the window. As she added to the pile, her mind wandered through memories alternately shady and bright. He loved her. He hated her. He held out a hand for her. He snatched his hand away from hers. Nothing matched and everything fit.

“You almost done up there, Clem? You know the wedding starts soon.” Her mother’s voice floated up the stairs, dragging her back to the present.

“Yeah, Momma.”

Snip.

“I’ll meet you at the church. Don’t you ruin that dress, now.” She heard the faint sound of the front door closing, and she knew she was now alone in the house.

“Not completely alone, though.” That caused another bout of giggles, and she had to set down the scissors until the hysterics passed.

Once calm returned, she picked the rusty kitchen scissors back up and commenced her work. 

Snip.

A few strands clung to the lavender satin of her bridesmaid dress. Such a beautiful shade, so lovely on her carefully tanned skin. What a shame that he would never see her in it. Her gaze returned to the door, and her eyes slitted.

“You don’t deserve to see me in it.”

The distraction cost her. She hissed as the tip of one blade sliced her neck, and blood dotted the dress. After applying a tissue to the small cut, she sighed. Of course she stained the dress, after her mother had just told her not to. Hopefully no one would notice the tiny spots. Not when all eyes would be on her perfect sister and the perfect wedding dress and the perfect groom.

A light knocking came on the door, and faint scratching. She frowned and gestured at the door with the scissors. “Stop that! I told you that you have to stay there.”

The scratching grew louder and more desperate. In an effort to drown it out, she started humming to herself. It worked, for the most part. Her eyes drifted down to the blood dotting her dress, and she frowned again. They had grown.

“Well, that isn’t good. Momma will have my head over this.” She shook her head and returned her gaze to the mirror.

Snip.

Her work was almost done. What was left of her hair stood in disarray atop her head, a messy testament to the heartbreak within. He had left her. No one left her. There was no way she could show up at the wedding without him. Everyone would whisper about her, everyone would pity her, everyone would judge her. The comparisons with her sister would never stop. They had to stop. He had been her perfect match, she knew he was The One, and he had dared to break up with her and leave her to the wolves better known as the town of Knoxwood.

Snip.

And just like that, the long blonde hair her parents had never let her cut was gone. It sat at her feet, heaped around her chair, limp and lifeless. She brushed the lingering strands off her dress, and her fingers froze over the blood stains that had grown yet again. They now covered almost the entire bottom half of her dress. People would notice that, there was no way they could miss it now.

“Look what you made me do!” She whirled toward the door, slamming her fist against the wood. It splintered, and the scratching stopped for a moment. Then it resumed, more feverish than before, and she kicked at the door. “Stop it! Stop it!”

Her voice crescendoed, and once again the scratching ceased. Panting, she turned away. Hands clenching and unclenching on the satin of her dress, she paced from one end of the room to the other. Thoughts bounced through her mind, and she muttered under her breath. When the scratching started again, she made her decision.

“You’re gonna be so sorry.” For emphasis, she grabbed the doorknob and shook the door in its frame.

She ran down the stairs, holding up the dress so that she did not trip over it. Her bare feet slapped on the hardwood floor, and she wrenched the back door open. When she reached the shed, she strained to pick up the container of gasoline. The return to the main house took a bit longer than the flight from it, hampered as she was by the bright red jug. Gasoline splashed up the black spout, spilling onto the grass and further staining her dress.

Inside, she took a moment to search through the drawers for a set of matches. Then she headed back up the stairs, and she did not care when the gasoline poured onto her path. At the second floor, she took time to soak the hall before going into her room. There, she turned to the door that bore the signs of her abuse and still had the sound of scratching behind it.

“Are you dreadful sorry yet?”

Her grin widened as she turned the gas can upside down. The pungent odour stung her eyes, but it was worth it when she heard the scratching grow more desperate. Gasoline oozed under the door. When the container grew light enough, she spun in circles and splashed the gasoline over the walls. Those golden locks she had taken so much time to remove darkened as they were drenched. By now, her flesh and dress reeked of gasoline.

She threw the gas can aside when it emptied. As she pulled out the matches, she started singing again.

“Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling Clementine, you are lost and gone forever. Dreadful sorry, Clementine.”

She struck the match and threw it to the ground in one smooth motion.

Her lips stretched into a smile as she burned.

Two More Poems

Really, the only reason I'm posting these is so that I can show them to my teacher tomorrow. She wants us to be putting our work "out there" and that includes on personal blogs. So. Yeah. Here are two more really depressing poems about how I'm all alone now and not dealing with it well. Actually, I wasn't. I'm doing better, as long as I'm not at work with nothing to do but think about it, or laying in bed trying to sleep.



Osculation

Broken,
....Desperate,
...............Begging with fiery kisses
...............For some sort of Redemption

Hands grasping at flesh,
......Violent as lips collide,
Holding on with strength
......That belies fragility.


This is the end.
This is -
Pulling away for the final time.


NO -
Pulling away
Just to reunite with yet another
.............................................Burning kiss.
......................It sears the skin.
......................Caresses that leave
.............................................A third-degree burn.


Wanting to hurt - 
Wanting to love - 

Wanting -

This is the end.

Siren's Song

Crippled

By nausea. By disbelief.


By pain so ethereal
.....................It almost does not feel
..............Like pain.

It is tightness.
It is gasping.
It is dull.
It is sharp.

.............................It consumes
................................Devours
................................Obliterates

A slow destruction

That eats away at calm

.............................................Leaving behind desperation
..................................................................Confusion
..................................................................Sadness
..................................................................Outrage





I do not

......................Want

............................................To





Drown

Single

Nothing -
..........Unwanted, unloved, unworthy
.......Left to shrivel
.......On the street.
........................................................Kisses desperate
...................................................................Burning
........................................................Trying to salvage what is left
..............................................When there is
Nothing -
..........Dust on the floor
.......Left to be swept up
.......By who only knows.
.......................................................Who cares?
...................................................................No one could sweep
..............................................................And no one would
...............................................Care.

Nothing -
...........No soul, no worth, no love



Nothing -

You're Going to Get Tired of This

So, I went to my first official class of the semester. In case you were wondering, which I'm sure you were, it was creative writing. It's going to be so ridiculously easy, based on the syllabus. The teacher means well, and I hope I learn something new, but I'm keeping my expectations low.

Our first assignments are:

1) Bring in a book on writing, of your choice. DONE. I have Stephen King's On Writing so I don't have to go searching like my classmates.

2) Write a poem using the word you presented to the class. DONE. I picked "fantasmorical", a word I made up my senior year of high school. We could either pick a made-up word, a new word we recently learned, or a word we've always disliked. And I just finished the poem for mine, so... I WIN.

3) Write a poem inspired by something from the book on writing of your choice. IN PROGRESS. And by that I mean that I'm too lazy to go flipping through my book yet, so I'm going to wait until either tomorrow or Sunday and do it then.

Apparently we're going to be writing four poems total, two short memoirs, one short story, and some other stuff that I don't care about and will probably procrastinate on. For the short story, when the time comes, if I can't seem to figure it out, I'll just use the one I have on here. Yay, laziness!

So, would you like to read my new poem? OF COURSE YOU WOULD. Now you see why I said you're going to get tired of this. I've put up more poems recently than you can shake a stick at (that phrase makes no sense, but that's why I like it), and I'm sure some of you are getting quite annoyed. Oh well. That isn't my problem.

Eden's Downfall

The first kiss -
..........A punch to the brain -
...................A lightning strike on an empty field -

............Catching shooting stars
............On our lips
............Until they plump, delirious.

With practice, it settles.
The heartbeat slows -
..........Punch turns to caress -
...................Lightning turns to rain -

............And we now catch butterflies,
............Let them dance on our tongues,
............Until we swallow them, orgasmic.

.....................................................................................Bruises form, the product
.....................................................................................Of sharp canines on soft flesh -
.........................................................................................................The feeling one of
..........................................................................................................Pain -
..........................................................................................................Pleasure -
................................................................................................. A rush so -
..................................................................................................Fantasmorical -
..................................................................................................The pupils dilate,
..................................................................................................And a gasp springs free
..................................................................................................To tickle the lips.

One breathes fire,
The other water,
In a constant struggle
To destroy each other.
..........One seeks to turn the other
..........Into curling steam.
..........One seeks to turn the other
..........Into drenched ash.
Neither wins.
Neither loses.
......................................Forever entwined,

.........................................................................Sealed by a kiss.

More Poems, Because I'm Lazy

The first poem was a cool thing Mike told me about. You pick six words, and create six regular stanzas, where each line ends with one of those words. The last word of the final line becomes the last word of the first line of the next stanza, until you go through all of them. The final stanza has two of the words per line, one in the middle and one at the end.

The second poem is perhaps the most complex of any poem I've ever written. It can be read left to right, as usual, and you can also read it from top to bottom of each row. Snazzy, isn't it? It's also the poem that took me the longest to write, taking an entire class period in high school (which is about an hour and a half long).

Death, Love, Pain, Hope: To Burn

All we have for all eternity is love,

At least until we have seen death,

But even then we yearn and hope

For something to end this pain;

For something to make the memories burn

Into something we can cling to.

Somehow we end up going back and forth, to

And fro, trying to start or end our love.

We try to keep the flame or stop the burn

For the accomplishment of either deters death

And brings a way to extinguish pain.

This, it seems, is the foundation of hope.

Yet to have anything resembling hope

Makes it that much more likely to

Have this feeling we call pain.

It is caused by, and ended by, love.

The lure of emotion makes us feel invisible to death

When all it achieves is bringing us to Hell to burn.

Many argue that we do not burn

Because they see their feelings as a hope

For something beyond life and death.

They yearn for Heaven and here on earth seem to

Have and receive this thing called love

And do not see that from it springs pain.

Is it worth it, this pain?

It scratches, it stings, it stabs, it creates a burn

That makes me feel that love

Is not something for which to hope.

And yet, without it, there would be nothing to

Treasure and value at the time of death.

So, in conclusion, this death,

Both a way to end and create pain,

Serves as the only thing to

Prove that there is a reason to burn,

A reason to hope,

A reason to bear this horrible thing called love.

And so we learn to see that with death

There is love for something despite the pain

And we adore the burn that means we hope.

St. Croix

Gone-

All that's left behind

Is nothing that really

Matters.

To another place that

Goes beyond him and me

At least that's how it seems,

Will drive him farther until he is

Truly gone?

Forgotten, forgiven, forgetting, forgiving

Or maybe not at all.

For the truth of feelings is not true.

Perhaps it never really mattered

Perhaps this end is for the best

Because he never cared;

Though if an end it be

This truth of heart cannot be denied, yet

What an end to such bliss.

If such a lie as feelings

To believe is perfidy and

Kill the soul

Of this heart inside my chest,

Then there is nothing.

It is dead.

You're Getting A Present Today. Be Grateful.

I don't feel like doing an actual post, because there's too much I can't divulge as of yet and I don't really have the time anyway. So I bring you a treat instead!

Here are some of my first poems, when I started writing decent poetry about 2 years ago.

(I, You, We) Have Reduced Life to Words

Reduced-
All to nothing
Nothing to something
And back again.
                                     

                                      Life-
                                      Goes on to something
                                      Races to nothing

                                      And back again.
                  

                   Words-
                   Meaning nothing
                   Encapsulating everything
                   And sometimes exposing
                   Something.

Nearer to the End

Desperation

Isn't something I wear

Very well.

                        It chafes

                        It itches

                        It inflames.

With this in mind

I need to pull away now

Before things become even more

Out of hand.

                                    You do not deserve me.

                        Your feelings are not strong.

            You do not understand

                        Your own motivations.

So before I become

Tiresome

Irksome

                        I will run

                        I will hide

            But I will

Not

                                    Cry.

Optimism vs. Pessimism

He will come back.

It's nothing;

Just him trying to protect

Himself and you.

I'm dying,

Of course he's not coming back.

There's something wrong

With you and your soul

So stop being so sentimental.

Shriveling,

Don't listen to that.

You know you're amazing,

And he does too.

Or he should.

And no one knows.

Don't listen to that.

How many times have you been hurt?

You know the truth

That he doesn't actually care.

Abandoned,

Stop lying to her.

By everything I had hoped (feared),

Only if you do.

Here in the corner

I'm not lying

You are.

As I'm torn

Darling,

That is a deliberate untruth.

Side to side

You're only making her

Feel even worse.

Until nothing is left.

You're only going to make her

Feel even worse later.

Author Interview

I'm a day late, but I've never been known for my ability to remember things... I'd actually had it ready to go, too! This is what happens when I don't procrastinate.

What is the working title of your book?

The Malfeasance. It's SUPER tentative right now, as I'm not sure how I feel about having a title starting with "the" when I have a plan for a series where they all do as well. They're not similar at all, so I don't want any confusion for my readers.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

I'm about to get so much hate right now... It actually came from a story a friend of mine was writing. Basically, what happened is that I saw a certain aspect of her storyline - something important, but that got moved away from rather quickly - and wondered how I could change it. Our stories no longer resemble each other in the slightest, and we both like the directions the other took.

What genre does your book fall under?

Erm. That's a good question, and one I can rarely answer. The easiest answer is urban fantasy, I suppose. It takes place in today's society, just with magic as a common aspect in everyday life. I'm still vacillating between Young Adult and General Fiction, because my main character is 17 but deals with adult issues: rape, murder, the root of evil, etc.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Oh goodness. Another question that I don't have a ready answer for. Mostly because I don't tend to know actors, unless they're 25+ and attractive males. If my characters were older, I'd say Lucas Bryant for the lead male and perhaps Nicole Kidman for the lead female.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

Eadrea Reched, accused of several horrific murders, must find the true evil in the world and confront the darkness in her own life to prove her innocence and find happiness for the first time.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

Well now, that depends on if I win the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Contest next year ;) If I do, then obviously I'll be represented by Penguin. If not, then I'll probably go the route of self-publishing after shopping the manuscript around for a while.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

I suppose we're counting the very first draft, huh? I never actually finished, although I did get about 40,000 words in. This newest rendition has changed significantly from the first, and I still haven't finished the first draft. I'm about 30,000 words in (and not even to the main meat of the story, which I was at by 20,000 last time around!), though.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Hrm. I can't say that I've read anything quite like what I'm writing, and I don't mean that in the "Oh, aren't I fancy and original" way. I just haven't read something that blurred the lines between Young Adult and General Fiction quite as much as The Malfeasance does.

Who or What inspired you to write this book?

A big part of my inspiration is the anger I've held for years, that I know so many people deal with. Anger eats away at a person, and can mould their very existence. I wanted to explore a character who accepts her anger whole-heartedly and doesn't try to fight it, like normal people do. She's angry, she's furious actually, and she will go to extreme measures to show that.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?


There are a myriad of characters in this book, each so different from the last. And while there's definitely a love story that forms a strong part of the plot, it's not typical. There's no real romance, with flowers and declarations and wooing. It's not a choice, or something the characters even want. That will hopefully appeal to those readers who are tired of the same formula over and over again, and who don't believe in typical romance. Readers like myself, that is :)

Grammar, Spelling, and Style: My Thoughts

You see, I've been editing a friend's story for the past week. His novel (if you can call it that; it's ridiculously short, at 102 pages. Of course, it IS single-spaced *grumble*) is a typical fantasy type; magic, sword fights, unusual creatures. While that's not my genre unless it's remarkably well done, I figured that it couldn't hurt to help him out.

Now. It's not bad, per se. It's just... not good, either. At first I was editing as I read, but it was too annoying. So I did a first read-through, and am now going through for the editing stuff.

Doing this has gotten me thinking that maybe I could become a professional editor. After all, I took two Advanced Placement English classes in high school and got a 4 and 5 on the exams. Those are the two highest scores you can get, for those who don't know. In my final one, the teacher told me that I had an aptitude for examining literature, and for writing of course. Plus, I love to read, and to edit other people's work.

I've got another person asking me to edit his novel once he's done with it, and I agreed.

I figured that as I'm going to be doing this for quite a few people most likely, I'd give a brief synopsis of what I'd be looking for and what I'd be "fixing".

Let's start with grammar. It is my firm belief that a good writer knows the rules of grammar, and not just the basic ones. You have to know them if you wish to use them effectively. Nothing is more distracting than an error in grammar that is obviously unintentional. A fragment can be effective if used correctly, but all too often I see fragments that cannot possibly be used for effect.

Furthermore, I have a few pet peeves. Subject-pronoun agreement is a huge one. Sam is taller than she, not Sam is taller than her. Over and under use of commas is also irritating. And, if you don't know how to use a semicolon, please don't try to. It just makes you look like you're trying to be pretentious. And, for the love of God, do NOT use "since" as a synonym for "because" unless it's a character speaking. In the actual prose, it is incorrect. I do not care that people have started accepting it. It's wrong. Since is a passage of time.

Spelling is more cut and dry than anything else in the writing world. There are correct ways to spell things, and there are wrong ways. Of course, there are still variations. I'm sure you've all noticed that I use the British/Australian spellings of certain words, such as favourite and colour. This is because I find them more aesthetically pleasing. I'm a touch OCD, and having a balanced number of letters makes my eyes happy.

Does this mean that I'll tell someone who's written color instead of colour that they're wrong? No. It'll just jar me out of the story for a second.

Let's move on to style, which is perhaps the most finicky aspect of the writing world. Style is what defines a writer's voice, what makes them different from the million other writers out there. This does not mean that everything is acceptable if you head it as a "stylistic choice".

After all, it is a stylistic choice to write in passive voice. But no one wants to read a book that has 7 out of 10 sentences in passive voice. It's simply not dynamic enough to hold interest. In a similar way, using "to be" verbs in every sentence also grows tiresome. Those would be is and was, dear readers.

Take a look at this sentence:

The girl was running through the forest, tripping over roots and crashing through foliage.

Now, that's not a bad sentence. But now take a look at this one:

The girl sprinted through the forest, tripping over roots and crashing through foliage.

Isn't that more dynamic and interesting? You can use "to be" verbs in your prose, but try to use them sparingly. Sometimes they're unavoidable, after all.

Something writers get told all the time is to move quickly. You don't want a slow story and lose the reader's attention, right? Right. However, there is such a thing as moving too quickly. When that happens, the reader loses the connection with the characters. You're sacrificing character development to keep the plot moving, and that is never a good plan. Even if you're not a character-driven writer (such as Tolkien), you want to keep your readers connected. If there is no connection to the character, most readers will put the book away.

Awkward sentences can hardly be passed off as a stylistic choice, although I've known people who have tried to argue. It's usually the writer of the awkward sentence, surprise surprise. Most often, they disagree that the sentence is awkward. Personally, I don't see how you can not tell. Even with my own prose, I can tell when something is forced and feels awkward.

Writing the way you talk is also a problem. Now, if the story is first person, go right ahead. For third person, however, you simply cannot. Unless you speak the way you write, you cannot write the way you talk. It's too informal, to put it simply. On this blog I write the way I talk, because it is meant to be that way. For my stories, however, there is a distinct difference. Don't believe me? Go here. Read my short story.

UPDATED: Another thing: contractions. In certain stories, it's fine to have contractions within prose. In others, you should avoid them. Fantasy, historical fiction, science-fiction, and literary fiction should really just not have them. Once again, with first person, it's usually fine. Depending on the voice of the narrator for any other story, it can be fine. As a general rule though, I say avoid them.

Now, I'm not sure how I'm going to approach this friend with all of my criticism. He thinks his writing is excellent, which is always annoying. He even said that if there's no "real" reason for the criticism, he will ignore it. If I can't give a definitive reason as to why a sentence is awkward and why he should change it, he won't. That's frustrating.Yes, it is his novel, he can write it how he wishes and does not have to heed anything I say. He can argue that it's just my personal preference.

However. I read a variety of styles. In that last AP English class, we read tons of books that were written in very different ways. And I enjoyed all of them. I can usually tell when something is intentional, and when it's just that you don't know how to write. Or to put it less harshly, when you haven't written or read enough to tell when something is... not wrong, but just awkward.

That's all I've got for today, my dears. Sorry for not posting for so long :)

Some Poems. Yeah, They're About What You Think They're About.

A Round Table

Denied
Denying
................Guinevere trying to clasp
................Lancelot to her
................Whilst thrusting away
................The king, Arthur.
.....There is no right,
.....Only the wrong.

Lancelot refuses, casts off

And sails away.

Lets his crew take him

Far from the woman

Who loves him best.

King Arthur, a sweet

And gentle man,

Tries to hold onto

The woman

He loves best.

..........................................Life is not a court,

..........................................There are no magic swords.

..........................................No knights.

..........................................No love of the ages.

..................Only Lancelot drifting away,

..................Sails unfurled,

..................Billowing in the wind.

Only Guinevere

Trying to understand

Why she is constantly

Denied

Denying.

......................................Only Arthur, a king,

......................................Begging on his knees

......................................Until he realizes

......................................He can do so much

..................................................Better.

How Callous Thou Art

When the dust falls away

The girl stands

Immobile

Immune

Unaffected by all the theatrics.

.............................Her soul

.............................A statue

.............................A rock

.............................Marble

.............................Cold.

She cares little for men

And less for feelings.

Feelings have torn her

Asunder

Apart

Away.

...............................................With her soul

...............................................A statue

...............................................A rock

...............................................Marble

...............................................Cold,

....................She cannot feel

When the sculptor

Breaks her

......................................To pieces.

Scuttling Across the Floors of Silent Seas

Ripping

Shredding

Claws destroying

What they sought

To repair.

Hands that want

To heal

To love

Can only maim.

....................Lips

....................Cherry red and

....................Smiling

....................Expose teeth

....................Sharper

....................More dangerous

////////////////////Than they have any right

....................To be.

Oh to be a girl

Instead of monster.

..............................................To have flesh

..............................................Instead of scales.

..........................To have love

..........................Instead of skepticism.

The sirens would be

Proud.

Stealing a man's flesh

Using steely precision

With teeth and claws

That only want to help the wounded.

Super, as in Duper

Last night, I had a nightmare that is actually kind of an awesome story idea. This happens a lot with dreams I have.

So, here's the dream: I'm in Walmart, which is also inside my high school. I'm standing in line, debating on what colour running shorts to get. There's a choice of brown, black, blue, and green. Why I remember those colours, I have no idea. Anyway. I ask the checkout lady what she thinks, and she picks brown.

While I continue to deliberate, there's a big hubbub. A bunch of people with superpowers attack the store/school. Everyone's running away, and I grab a pair of the blue shorts, along with an 8-piece Chick-fil-A nuggets meal with the brand sauce. Don't ask why that's suddenly in the Walmart. I don't know.

Well, apparently the Walmart workers are upset when you steal from them, even during an invasion. I ignore the people trying to stop me and run out of the school/store. It's dark and rainy and everyone's screaming. The superpower people are destroying everything and trying to kill as many people as possible. It's chaos.

I somehow make it to the car, which is my mother's PT Cruiser instead of my little Mazda. My friend Katie is now with me (hi, Katie!), and we drive to my house. There, my aunt is there along with my parents. My mother is trying to cook chicken, even though the power is out and the superpower people are bound to come in and kill us all.

As I rather like living, I go back to my room and change into my running gear. Then, after eating my Chick-fil-A, I fill a backpack with some supplies and say goodbye. I'm not getting killed all because they don't understand that we're sitting ducks.

So now I'm running down this trail that I run down every other day in real life. Remember how it's all dark and rainy? Yeah. That's kind of scary running weather when you're trying to escape from mutant freaks. Well, as predicted, one of the superpower people has super speed. He catches up to me.

And that's when I wake up. Bummer, huh? I want to know what happened!

This morning, after picking up pine cones and washing my work pants, I looked up some superpowers. I'm going to turn this into a story. Yeah, yeah, I know, I have too many stories as it is. Shush. Look at this list of superpowers I found on Wikipedia! I only wrote down the ones I liked and thought might work in the story.

Healing/Regeneration
Acid Generation
Animal Mimicry/Shape-shifting
Duplication
Invisibility
Invulnerability
Pheromone Manipulation
Animated Hair
Sonic Scream
Endurance
Agility
Strength
Wall-crawling
Water-breathing
Omni-linguism
Astral Projection
Empathy
Precognition
Telepathy
Telekinesis
Psionic Blast
Intangibility
Reality Warping
Force Field
Speed
Teleportation
Elasticity
Inorganic/Substance Mimicry

Any suggestions for cool superpowers would be appreciated. Most of my superpower people are going to have multiple abilities, because having one superpower person for each one would be a LOT of them, which isn't fair for my protag.

In other news, Slytherin won the House Cup on Pottermore! Yay!

The Writing Velociraptor

Okay, I know I've been gone for a long while from the Internet. Sorry! All shall be explained in this post.

Well, my daddy and I don't often get along. He wants things done IMMEDIATELY, and I want things done when I'm not busy with something else. It often doesn't become an issue, because he's at work and I'm at home or at work and it's all fine. I try to make sure I do what he asks when he asks whenever he happens to be at home.

Well.

The other day (as in last week), I was writing. It was the first time in months that things were really flowing, and I was typing more than ever. Then my daddy came home early, and I mean like three and half hours early.

I hadn't done my chores yet, because I do them around 4 so that the house actually looks clean. As it was around 3:30, I had not done them. My daddy told me to get off the computer and come clean up where I made pizza.

Now, when you interrupt me when I'm in the ZONE, I become what I've come to call the Writing Velociraptor. This means that no matter how nicely you phrase things, no matter what you ask me, I become a nasty, evil, out-for-blood dinosaur demon. You could be saying, "Hattie, I'm going to get ice cream, would like a large or an extra large rainbow sherbet?" and I'd still turn to you and say, "I really don't care, just leave."

As I've been like this for years, you would think that my father would have picked up on this by now. My mother certainly has. She waits until I break for food to ask me anything, and then she asks in her sweetest voice. Why my daddy hasn't learned, I'll never know.

Anyway. So he told me to clean up where I made pizza, and without turning away from the computer and what I was typing, I responded with, "I didn't make any pizza."

Now, technically this was true. I hadn't made any pizza. It had already been cooked and everything, and I just pulled it out of the plastic bag and ate it. The plastic bag still sat on the counter top. My daddy pointed this out, and because I was the Writing Velociraptor, I said, "Well, yeah, but I still didn't make anything. Choose your words more wisely."

Whenever I insult his syntax or lack thereof, my daddy gets mad. Like, really, really mad. So within .05 seconds we were screaming at each other, me telling him he shouldn't have even come home and him telling me that it was his house and he'd come home when he damn well pleased.

Looking back on it, I know I shouldn't have reacted that way. I can always tell afterward. But at the time, all I can think is, "He's interrupted me, I was writing, I need to go back to writing, my poor characters, what if it all flies away, I'll never get back to it, now I'm doomed to fail." Which isn't true, but I can't help thinking it anyway.

I can remember once when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen, writing up a storm. It was like nine at night. I wrote and wrote and wrote until about midnight. Then my daddy woke up, came in, and told me I had to go to bed, because it was past my bedtime. This is the first time I can remember becoming the Writing Velociraptor, and I spiralled into a rage worthy of Veruca Salt (which is what my mother calls me whenever I want something, or have a tantrum).

Thankfully my mother woke up and diffused the situation. She told my father that it was a weekend, it probably wouldn't kill me to stay up later than usual. Of course, after being interrupted, I no longer felt the pull to write. After that, though, I learned to type really quietly.

The good news about my punishment is that I was able to write a lot more. I wrote maybe 2,000 words a day! I'm on page 53 of one novel, got a few core scenes down in another, and even edited a bit in my ABNA submission.

Manual Labor Isn't Fun, But Look What I Found!

Yesterday, I helped my daddy move everything around the attic and upstairs room. We carried things, and put things in boxes, and broke things apart. I found a few things that were very cool to find after all these years. Are you ready?

First: My weird purple dinosaur I named Sheldon.

Next, a little joey that came with a momma that I didn't find.

Then I found some computer games I played a lot as a kid, the best of which is "Freddi Fish and the Case of the Missing Kelp Seeds". I never actually solved the case from what I can remember, so... I have to play now!

Finally, I found a sheet of paper that had been sitting in the attic for who knows how long. From the handwriting, I was probably in first grade when I wrote this story, which would make me about 6 at the time. Just for you guys, because I love you so much, I will transcribe this story and throw in my own comments. Y'all can comment too, if you want! I'm including all errors in grammar and spelling.

Elizabeth prefferred to be called Lizzie. No one, not even her parents, (only when they were mad at her) called her Elizabeth. Her house was a big victorian house. She had 5 giant maples in her backyard. In all of them, she had a tree house. All of her friends came on Saturdays to the treehouses. The treehouses are connected by bridges. They had exscape routes in every treehouse. What doesn't she have? She doesn't have a pet. She used to have a fish pond, but a cat ate the fish. So she got a bird. The bird flew away. Then she got a mouse, a guinea pig, and a ferret. They ran away. She then got a cat. It was chased away by the neighbor's dog. So she wanted a dog. "No," said her mother. "They're to expensive, and they take up to much time." "But mom," whined Lizzie. "They're

And that's it. That's as far as I went. I can vaguely recall finishing this story (Lizzie gets a dog after earning the money herself, and they go to competitions and kick ass), but it's not on this sheet of paper.

I had no concept of paragraphs, but I was six, so that's not that surprising. My vocabulary was rather impressive, though. I ALMOST grasped the concept of the parentheses, which makes me proud of my six-year-old self. That I understood that and basic comma usage is kind of hilarious when in conjunction with not knowing the difference between "to" and "too". Also, that I have a conflict ALREADY is pretty good as well. My spelling of "escape" leaves much to be desired, as does my spelling of "preferred" and "tree house". I got it right the first time, so why did I join them after that? Sigh.

All in all, I'd say that's a very sophisticated bit of writing for a six-year-old. Feel free to disagree. I'd still say that you're wrong.

:D

Remember that short story I mentioned ages ago during the whole Corin debacle? Of course not, that was ages ago. Anyway. I found it today, after searching forever and ever. It's only three pages long. I'm going to post it because I said I would.

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She sits at the table, incessantly jiggling her leg up and down, up and down. Anyone watching her would assume she had no worries, except for that leg. Her expression remains serene, and her other movements, the ones visible above the table, have an unhurried and calm energy.

He stands across the room, staring at her. From his angle, he cannot see that leg moving up and down, up and down. All he sees is her expression, and her long graceful fingers lifting a mug to her lips. Knowing her as well as he does, he knows she is drinking tea, not coffee.

As he approaches, the little details of her appearance become clearer. First he sees the shape of her eyes, her lips, her nose. Then the eye color appears, the light flush of her cheek, the arch of her eyebrows. Finally, when he reaches the table, he sees her freckles, the slight chapping of her lips, her long dark eyelashes. He finds her beautiful.

She feels him approaching but never turns. In her mind, she fills in his details. The dark gray-blue of his eyes. His large hands, which hers only fit because of the absurd length of her fingers. The light brown of his feathery hair. She, too, finds him beautiful. But his is a deadly beauty.

He sits down across from her. She glances at him, allows a brief smile that seems more smirk than anything else, and takes another sip of her chamomile. Neither speaks until the waitress comes over, and then he orders tea as well. As the waitress walks off, they return to their silence. She stares out the window. He stares at her, but constantly glances away for fear that she will notice or that he will say something he shouldn't.

The waitress returns, sets his cup down, and leaves again. As he stirs a spoonful of sugar into the tea, he finally opens his mouth.

 "Well ... hello."

She smirks again.

 "Hello. I wasn't sure you'd come."

He smiles nervously, clutching his mug.

"I almost didn't. You're making me nervous. Why did you want to meet?"

She sighs. Picks up her cup. Goes to take a sip and changes her mind. Sets it back down. Her mind returns to the last time they met.

They laughed. Effortless repartee filled any and every silence. It differed from this meeting in so many ways. The only similarity is that they are both here, with unacknowledged feelings bubbling under every glance and every word. She misses the ease they used to share, but does not want it back.

When she finally looks up at him, he appears vaguely impatient, but his expression clears when he sees the pain reflecting in her eyes. Without warning, he leans forward and takes her hands in his. Though she knows she should pull away, she does not. She is weak, and she wants his wonderfully warm hands on her perpetually cold ones.

"You are trying to manipulate me." She looks away, back out the window. The sea glints in the sunlight, waves moving laconically.

Offended, he pulls away. "Whatever do you mean?"

"You know."

"I do not. Stop trying to come across as the victim."

Her eyes flash angrily. "I am the victim. So is she. You are the perpetrator. No amount of denying it will remove the blame."

He flinches away from her irate glare, but he speaks in a direct tone.

 "I gave you every opportunity to stop. You were the one who wished to continue."

"Were you a better man, you would not have left the decision up to me. You would have done what was right. But you're selfish."

Twisting the mug in his hands crossly, he scowls at the table. "So are you."

"Did I ever deny it?"

He sighs. "No. You admitted it freely."

"And you continually put it onto me to decide. All you really wanted was to have both of us."

"Is that so wrong?"

"It is when you won't tell her. If I hadn't already known about her, you wouldn't have told me."

His expression darkens. "You don't know that."

She gives a scornful laugh.

 "I do."

Silence falls again, and she returns her gaze out the window, to the ocean. He stares at the ceiling. She is right, and he knows it. As usual, she sees straight through him. He had only hoped that she wouldn't notice this until it was far too late. Until she was desperate.

She watches the brief flashing of a distant dolphin fin. At this moment, she feels as though she can hear every word he has ever spoken to her, and she wonders if he only said those things in an attempt to seduce her. It is quite possible he feels nothing, and she must prepare herself for that revelation. Never has she let a man get the best of her, and she will not start now.

"I meant everything I said," he tells her softly. Though he doesn't know for sure that's where her thoughts are, he thinks it probable. Her expression is too cold to suggest anything else.

"That is highly unlikely," she replies.

She stands up and stares down at him. He looks scared, desperate, and ever so slightly relieved.

 "Goodbye."

 She leaves.

He stares at her mug. The tea is only half gone, the light yellow of it reflecting the butter color of the sunlight.

 It is over. She didn't even say his name, and he knows she will never say it again.

 Gulping his tea, he burns his tongue. It is all he feels.