Twas the Day Before Christmas

First of all, thank you for the prayers and well wishes; they worked! The show went off without a hitch AND it was pleasant to boot!

When I say "without a hitch", though, I'm pretty much lying to your face. The major contributors to my overexcited stress levels may have been caused by: a)the fact that four kids didn't show up for the performance (2 ended up coming just as we started, though.) b) in the first dance of the recital I totally blanked on the end of the dance and pretty much free styled Irish style to center stage to bow, or c) when, in our last dance, I accidentally started the beat way too fast (but that *did* pan out because the audience loved the tempo.) But, in spite of all that (and maybe because of it!) it was a brilliant performance, if I do say so myself.

Now for a drastic change of subject.

CHRISTMAS IS TOMORROW PEOPLES! I can't believe it! I'm waiting with both a childish wonder (insert creepy "North" face from Guardians) and a more mature horror. The former because, well, DUH, it's CHRISTMAS! The later because I in my possession every single gift for the holidays and not one of them is wrapped. So, in addition to all my family's baking (which we conveniently left till Christmas eve to do) I get to spend hours on end on the floor trying to make the presents look nice. No sweat.

Our family's main Christmas tradition is our lack thereof. I've tried (with various degrees of success) to institute my friends' cool traditions in our own family, but they never pan out. Our own traditions don't even pan out. For example, for four years running the movie Elf has been our standby Christmas movie. This year, however, we've all been reluctant to watch it because, as the years go by, it has become gradually less and less entertaining. Also, for years on end we've had variations of the same Christmas tree fiasco tradition.

It was a dark and stormy night. Not. We live in California, peoples. Well, it started three years ago, when, in our trademark spontaneousness, we rushed to the Christmas tree farm on the night of December 24th. The moral of the story is that it takes more than half an hour to decorate a tree. Fast-fore-ward a year. This time we're looking ahead, and we plan out the week of Christmas. You know how the holiday seasons are: BUSY. Fortunately, we saw this way ahead of time and were able to make the conscious choice to buy our tree on the 24th, and we planned accordingly. There we go, all bundled upto dear old Mupu Christmas tree Farms, when low and behold! there's a silly little scribbled sign on the closed gate saying that the owner was at a Christmas party (of all places!). Luckily, it had his cell phone number scrawled at the bottom, which we proceeded to dial and tell him our sad tale. I'm not sure how much of it he actually heard (my dad said it sounded like a pretty fun party in the background) but eventually he offered to give us the tree now, and pay him for it later. Last year we arrived late in the season, late at night, but, to everyone's chagrin, THIS year we purchased the tree over a week ago. Even the owners noticed and asked if we were coming a little too early.

So, that's all I have to say. I can almost guarantee that I *won't* post on Christmas, and even if I do, I hope you wouldn't tear yourself away from your new toys and families to read the post, so don't bother. Have a Merry Christmas!!

Wish Me Luck!

I don't have time for a full-fledged post right now, but I'm about to perform in my Irish dance recital. Not sure how we'll do, but some prayers would be much appreciated.

I promise to say more later. I have a lot to talk about!

That Moment When...

That moment when you sing off key IN YOUR MIND. Or maybe that's just my moment. All I can say is that last night, while imagining blaring out "Let it go" from Frozen, probably my least favorite song from the whole movie, I suddenly realized that my air guitar wasn't playing the notes I was singing.

I haven't been posting my writing on here for the sad reason that I haven't been writing. Ever since Thanksgiving break school has been consuming my every waking moment and I haven't been able to get a word in edgewise. But there is hope. For the next three weeks I'll have a ridiculous amount of time on my hands, so I'm sure I'll be able to scribble something out.

I honestly did have a subject for this post ten minutes ago. OH YES. Now I remember.

Last night I watched The Desolation of Smaug. It was...exciting. Sure, the effects weren't perfect, and some of the dialog wasn't great (read, "I AM FIRE. I AM DEATH.") but the big picture was impressive. And intense. Well, maybe that was just me. I get way too into movies, and throughout the whole show I was huddled up on the movie seat whispering silently to the characters. "No. No! Don't go in there!" "You're not supposed to die yet!" "AHH! That's Benedict Cumberbatch's voice!" I think my friend and I pretty much lost circulation in our hands because we were squeezing each other pretty much whenever Kili came onto the screen. And sometimes for Thorin. And whenever Smaug spoke. Yeah.

Okay, now for something more legible. Christmas is coming! And what's more, it feels like Christmas is coming. Usually a few days before the big day it kind of hits me and I start belting out Christmas carols around the house, but it's more than a week till and I'm already in the mood! It probably has something to do with the unCalifornian weather we've been experiencing, or maybe it's because we're getting our tree on Sunday, but it's here none the less.

Outta time and outta money, as my tennis coach used to say, so so long, farewell, avida say, and goodbye.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I don't have time for a big post about what I'm thankful for. It would take too long and the turkey would get cold. Instead, I'll just make a few shout outs:
1. To my family, who probably doesn't read this. I love you anyway.
2. To all my friends, especially those who re-inspired (or just plain inspired) me to continue this blog. You are all awesome.
3. To the turkey in the oven. Thanksgiving wouldn't be the same without you.

God bless!

Writing Prompt: Rewrite a Fairy tale AND Write about a novel you want to write

So today's post was actually written in sections, so I apologize if it doesn't make sense. I tried to edit it, but I'm not sure how to fix it without totally rewriting the whole thing, which I'm too lazy to do. So here's my imperfect fairy tale!

Writing Prompt #__: Rewrite a fairy tale

The sun pierced through the dense foliage, making a patchwork of shadows on the path below. Bianca stopped her slow stroll and watched as two cardinals quarreled with each other in high pitched chirps. A twig snapped behind the princess and interrupted their conversation. Her eyes followed them longingly as the two birds fluttered off in a flurry of feathers. If only she could leave so easily.
The air held a crisp bite, but even still the spring-time sun was working its magic on the picturesque pine boughs burdened with snow.
Snow.
Bianca shuddered. She hated her silly nickname. As if she didn't get enough attention being a princess everybody simply had to go around exclaiming that she was the most beautiful maiden in all the kingdom.
"Fairest of them all." Those were his exact words.
Only a fortnight before yet another suitor had arrived at the palace to beg for her hand. This one was different, though. All the other princes were, well, princes. This man could be a beggar off the streets for all anyone knew about his past. He was oily enough to con the teeth from one's dentured grandmother, and had the morality to match.
And everyone bought it. Even Snow's step mother complimented him, a thing unheard of for the queen.
"He is simply charming, isn't he dear Bianca?"
"Yes mother," the princess replied in an uncharacteristic bout of sarcasm, "Prince Charming."
It became his common nickname around the palace to his enjoyment and her mortification.
Bianca stopped dead in her tracks, her heart in her throat. A little way ahead two fauns were grazing on the underbrush near the path. They were young and looked all legs, but their mother, who appeared from behind one of the trees, possessed a captivating grace that appealed to the princess.
Slowly, noiselessly, Bianca crept closer to the trio. Her stealth had improved immensely over the years of wandering through the forest, and now most animals had become accustomed to her presence. But the deer had always been skittish and a loud noise or sudden movement would surely startle them away.
A bush rustled abruptly, violently, and the doe's head shot up for a split second before the three deer bolted off into the woods.
Bianca looked around her, bewildered, until she found the bush in question. She let out a terrified shriek as, instead of settling, the bush spouted six little men, armed to the teeth. They couldn't have been more than three feet tall, but that didn't detract from their overall intimidating impression. The princess had only a moment to register the motley of spears, short swords, and daggers being brandished by the dwarves. The next moment she was struggling, to no avail, in the ropes bound tightly around her wrists.
"Are you sure she's the one?" one asked doubtfully.
"She bette' be, or Durel will have our hides."
Bianca shrank away as they scrutinized their prisoner.
"Wha's the hold up?"
Every head turned at the new voice, and several dwarves straightened up. Bianca's view was blocked, but it was obvious that this man was in a position of authority. And a high one, by the sound of it.
After a bit of foot scuffling by her captors, one dwarf stepped forward gingerly.
"We foun' the girl wandrin' 'bout in the fores' so natrally we followed her. Then i' strikes us, sir. She fits the ex'at perscriptions o' that girl the bounty was abou', no we nabbed her." His fellow conspirators nodded, grunted, and shifted in agreement.
"Y' boys think ye can jus' pick girls up if ye think there'll be a penny in it fer ye?" 
Bianca's heart soared. Perhaps they weren't all savages after all.
Another of the dwarves squared his shoulders to interrupt the tirade.
"If ye don' mind, sire, ye really shoul' see 'er."
Again, this was followed my signs of approval by his comrades, and they stepped away from her to give the captain a clear view.
The captain's face underwent a succession of emotions, but to Bianca's horror, not the correct ones. She was expecting something along the lines of surprise, shame, pity, and tenderness. Instead she was met, finally, with an expression of sad, grim resolution. 
"Fairest maid in the lan', sir," a dwarf prompted.
"I KNOW WHAT HE SAID," roared the captain, grabbing the rope that bound Bianca's wrists. "Com'on boys," he said in a defeated voice, "le's go home."
Half a dozen dwarves turned on their heel and loped, single file, back the direction the captain had come. Bianca foundered on the ground, cheeks burning, trying to regain her balance. A small, strong hand was offered, and without thinking the princess accepted the help.
As the captain pulled her up, she barely caught his gruff words.
"I'm sorry, princess."
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Writing Prompt #__: Write about a novel you want to write.
I got the idea for this novel from this past writing prompt. It got me thinking, because I wanted something original for the story. And thinking is a dangerous past time for a writer. While I wrote that short little scene I accidentally made up the plot for the whole story in novel form. I'll give you some background information before plunging* you in head first.

Characters:
Step Mother: controlling, but NOT evil. Is currently in deep mourning for her late husband (the king, Bianca's father)'s death.
Prince Charming: oily is the first word that comes to mind. When he arrives at the palace he doesn't reveal any information about himself, not even his name (hence the need for a nickname), and still has the audacity to woo Bianca. Hails from a neighboring kingdom.
Dwarves: seven legendary rebels. Their band was formed by Durel to fight against the oppression their people were suffering in the neighboring kingdom. They were finally banished and now have to mine for a living.
Durel: the undisputed leader of the dwarves. His temper is as short as he is. He's just, but uses his own code of honor. Incidentally, kidnapping innocent princesses is not on the "good" side of that code.

Plot
The story begins when Prince Charming arrives at the castle. Bianca, already overwhelmed by her numerous suitors, is also troubled over her father's death, and has taken to walking often in the country side to escape. When Prince Charming realizes that Snow doesn't love him and he's working for a lost cause, he hires the dwarves to abduct her.
The dwarves, especially Durel, would normally never agree to kidnapping anyone, but PC has not only blackmailed them (he'll tell the authorities where the outlaws are) and offered them an army for their cause. Without one, they would never be able to overthrow the neighboring kingdom's treacherous rule.
I'm really not sure how Bianca really plays a part in all of this, except for the damsel in distress. I'm working on that. But in the meantime, she and Durel are going to fall in love.
Finally PC will come to take her away, probably to his own kingdom. There he'll explain to Bianca all his evil plans. (Cliche, I know, but I can't help it). He'll show her his troops and tell her that they will be marching on her home country unless she marries him, thereby putting him in line for king.
She'll be devestated, but eventually will agree to marry him, at which point the dwarves will return to rescue her, overthrow PC's kingdom, and allow Durel and Bianca to live happily ever after.

*Is it even possible to "plunge" someone??
_______________________________________________________________________________

So that catches y'all up on my writing so far. Right now I'm working on a character based off coffee (another of Josie's prompts), but he's giving me some trouble. He keeps disobeying and reading instead of playing sports like I want him to, and go generally Sherlock-Holms on me, so I have quite a bit of work before he's ready to socialize.
And now I've got to go for dinner, so ta-ta!

News Dump

Procrastination stinks. If I'd just write blog posts more frequently, even every other day, I'd be able to tell you all the details of my mortally interesting life. But, try as I might, I really don't. It's my one weakness. That and water polo. So I think I'll just try to store up my everyday adventures to be told in news dumps like this. Beware. I wrote these all in random chunks, so every adventure could be its own post so it's a little long.

We left for our super long Thanksgiving vacation on Friday evening. We got out of the house only two hours later than we were hoping to. I think it's a personal best for my family.

After four hours we landed in Palm Springs. Or Palm Desert. It looks exactly like the background right now. There we enjoyed Italian food, thrift shopping, and continental breakfasts.Oh my gosh. those breakfasts were good. There's nothing like not working in the mornings to work up your apatite.

Saturday marked my half birthday, but more importantly, the 50th anniversary of the best sci-fi show of all time and space. This is the time to stop reading if you a) have no patience, or b) are not a confirmed Whovian and don't want to hear a detailed analysis of the latest episode The Day of the Doctor. I'm going to do this off the cuff, so it will more than likely turn into an embarrassing display of my more fanatic side.
i seriously don't think I had one problem with the show (surprise surprise!). It wasn't too filled with wacky aliens, we got to see five different regenerations, and watch a good plot to boot. (Spell check doesn't like "regenerations" OR "Whovian". Blasphemer).
This episode rang Matt Smith through and through. Trust this fun loving Doctor to go out of his way to break every single rule in the universe. HE FREAKING MET FOUR REGENERATIONS. WHAT.
I loved the way all the Doctors interacted. They didn't all work together perfectly, but that's alright. It was in their characters. I loved it that John Hurt explained some of the character flaws in Tennant and Smith. Also the internal conflict was heart rending. Hurt was able to see the consequences of his decision and how it would effect himself in hundreds of years. That could shake anyone's resolution, but by the end he succeeded in doing the right thing, despite the obvious personal repercussions, and (duh) saves the world.
That sounds really heavy handed. One of the beauties of Doctor Who is that the writers are able to portray these mega confusing stories in a lighthearted, easy manner. It makes the whole show irresistible.

Choosing what to wear can be a hard enough ordeal for me as it is, but choosing what to wear with a limited wardrobe is all but impossible.
I tried to pack a wide selection of clothes, I really did, but apparently not wide enough. That, added to the fact that I'd forgotten almost half my clothes in the dryer back at home, had me in a funk for almost ten minutes.
Enter the mater. It was at this time that the mother, having concluded the morning meal which I mentioned briefly before and will more than likely be noted again in more detail anon, announced that she had seen some promising looking thrift shops, and that it was her wish to go "thrifting."
I took the irresistible bait and we spent the afternoon digging through vintage sweaters and 70's house dresses, finally ending at a small, funky little consignment store.
After wiling away the past three hours looking at clothes marked $3 a pop I was pretty much shocked out of my wits to see a steam-punk-esq jacket for $65. I steeled myself to leave, but my mom was already engrossed in a rack of refurbished vintage dresses.
I wandered about the store for a few minutes. It really was a funny place. There were floor length ballgowns and 50's style dresses, old lady coats and mink furs. All of it in mint condition,, just not my style, let alone my size. Or so I thought.
When I found my mom again she had only just started on the second rack. I was impressed she'd finished the first. I was about to tell her that I was done and point out how ridiculously over priced these retail items were, when the owner walks in.
Now, let me show you the whole picture. Here we are in this random, out of the way shop. It's small and we're the only ones here. The woman (who had been in the back room) has nothing better to do, so she strikes up a conversation with the mater. In a British accent.
They get to talking, so I begin to retrace my steps around the room and look through everything more carefully.
The woman walks past me to a rack. On the way she stops.
"I think your mom has something for you to try on."
I go back to my mom.
"Here. Try this one." She hands me a mass of heavy, striped fabric. I fumble it around and realize it's a skirt.
"Can I see?"
I open the dressing room door to show her. It's a wonderful skirt. Full, heavy. Maybe a bit long, but seriously, what isn't?
"Twirl."
I grin. The ultimate test. It had already passed, but I couldn't wait to see the look on my mom's face. I spin and immediately feel like a princess. Some clothes just feel pretty.
The woman comes back.
"Oh my gosh! It's beautiful! So many people have tried that, but it just won't fit anyone." She gasps. "Wait a moment."
She comes back with a white sweater and black hat and some polka dot heels.
We spent at least two hours there. Two hours of playing dress up for the first time in years. I forgot how much fun it is! There were vintage party dresses and hand knit sweaters and adorable flats and jaunty top hats. Ooooo! It was bliss. I love window shopping!

Yesterday we left the Palm place to continue on to Arizona. Since we'd already come a fair stretch of the trip we only had six hours ahead of us. Or so we thought. Until we thought it would be an extra two hours. Until we though we realized it wouldn't.
Let me explain.
A few hours after leaving I woke up to my dad and Joe laughing nervously. I didn't feel like fighting to get back to sleep so I sat up and looked around. We were stopped on the side of the freeway, hazards blinking while cars raced by at indecent speeds.
As if on cue, a man (who I guess had parked right in front of us just before i opened my eyes) came up to the driver's side, and my dad rolled down the window.
"What's the problem? Can I help?"
"If you could drive me over to the gas station, that would be great," my dad answered. "I can walk back or call AAA or something."
The man looked at the sign we were conveniently parked in front of: Mobil, Shell, Chevron 2 miles.
"Well, do you have a rope?" the guy asked. "I could tow you and save you a few hours."
I like it when random people are generous and nice. It was like a real life Good Samaritan.
My gratitude only lasted for a while, because ten minutes later we were all hooked up and ready to go.
We couldn't have been towed for more than a minute, but it was the most stressful minute of my life. Pop laughed nervously as he explained to Joe that he needed to steer exactly as the man so as to not pull them both off the road. Oh wait. We weren't ON the road. We went on the shoulder for the next two miles, expecting every second to have to follow the man into a lane. But he didn't, and I can imagine we got some pretty strange looks from the cars who were passing is in the other lane.
But wait! There's more! We were so happy that we rear ended him! It turned out to be only a fender bender, but it was exciting all the same.

Hopefully I'll be able to post a writing prompt in the near future. It's one of the writing prompts that Josie's done and is as unintelligible as usual, but I like it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Writing Prompt #13

As the number suggests, my poor character did not have the best of luck during this writing prompt. Actually, I wonder if Josie to put this as the 13th prompt on purpose. Well, anyway, it is quite apt, and without further ado...

Write a scene where you're explaining to a character that they have amnesia.
She was sitting up in her bed when I came into the hospital room. Soon enough the room would be flooded with flowers and get well cards, but it was much too early for that. It had only been an hour since I wrote the fateful words to break my poor character's arm.
"Oh Libby! I'm so glad you're-" I stopped short. The look of alarm and confusion on her face disturbed me. "Are you okay?"
There was a tentative tap on my shoulder and I turned to see the doctor's apologetic face. She beckoned, and I followed her into the hallway.
"Abby-"
"What's the matter?" I whispered, fear creeping into my voice.
"The crash was a little bigger than you expected, I'm afraid. She has received a concussion and is experiencing slight loss of memory. If you could go in and explain who she is..."
I slid down the wall and landed heavily on the floor. How could I have put her through this?
"Is it permanent?"
"Oh dear no! No, nothing like that. She should be better within a month."
"Oh." I tried to be happy for my character. I mean, she'd survived the car crash that I'd put her through, with more injuries than even I had bargained for. Even so, her story would suffer the consequences. It would put a damper of my writing if she couldn't even remember her own name, much less live her ordinary life.
"Would you like to see her?"
I sighed and nodded.

Libby put her book down when I reentered.
"Why did you call me Libby?" she paused. "And why can't I remember my real name?"
"Libby is your real name. Liberty Victoria Alvon." I flinched. Why had I forced such a horrible name on her? "There was an accident and...about you not remembering your name...you're experiencing temporary amnesia and..."
Could I have seen her perk up at those last words? I tried to continue, but she interrupted.
"Seriously?!" she shrieked. "That is SO COOL. Why didn't I think of that?" She fumbled around on the bedside table and emerged again brandishing a pen. "Give...her...amnesia," she mumbled as she wrote on her arm. When she finished she blinked. "Give who amnesia?"
I smiled. I guess there was always a bit of writer in her.
"You'll figure it out. First think why she gets amnesia and write on from-"
Write.
It felt as though four different gears clicked together in my brain, allowing this brilliant, obvious idea to escape. I raced out of the hospital, down the street, and up the long flight of stairs that opened up into our spacious library. A few girls looked up, but returned to their notebooks. I jumped onto the computer and within fifteen minutes was back in the hospital with a stack of 20 papers under my arm.
Now all I had to do was convince my charrie to read them.
"Before you lost your memory you and your friends were writing a book."
I handed her the stack. Hopefully she wouldn't ask any questions. My statement was technically true. In fact, it was absolutely true. The one itsy-bitsy controversial part was implication that the story she held was written by her.
Libby's eyes danced across the pages and her ever present smile tugged at her lips.
I slipped from the room into unexpected chaos.
"Abby!" The poor doctor looked frazzled. "This boy insists on seeing my patient."
Owen gave me a plaintive look.
"She really isn't well..." He did a legitimate face palm and my heart melted. "Oh no! It wasn't your fault. I-" I just got carried away when I broke her arm so you could meet her. Nothing personal. "The doctor says she has some sort of concussion that'll keep her in here for a month, but I'm sure you'll be able to visit her soon enough. And you know what would cheer her up?"

Rain tapped and pattered on the roof and the crackling fire added to the wintry atmosphere. Someone came up behind my armchair. I could tell that she was reading over my shoulder but I didn't care. We're all friends here.
"Oh my gosh, I love Owen," she sighed. "I wouldn't mind getting hit by a car if I could get my hands on those Eoin Colfer book signing tickets!"
I smiled again. Neither would Libby.
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Hope you enjoyed another cryptic story!

Writing Prompt #11

"I didn't mean to do it."
"Just put the gun down, Zack." I edged away from the motionless mass on the ground. "Zack, it's alright, you can put the gun down now."
He looked at me. His eyes looked wild, with a fear verging on terror. I mirrored my own emotions. I beckoned him toward the street. At least there was light there. He gripped the gun harder when he saw me moving. I froze.
"We can't leave." His voice sounded scared, but he tried to control it. "We can't just leave him. Is he...is he dead?"
Tears filled my eyes, but even with the blindness that followed, I could see that the thug was dead.
"Yes." My voice squeaked. It echoed off the alley and added to the ominous scene. Sirens grew closer and Zack's eyes flashed as he turned every which way to find them. The lack of light made him look haunted, ethereal.
"It's not my fault," he whispered.
I hugged him and he fell into me and sobbed.
"No, it wasn't."
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That was a random little blur from a scene that palyed out in my mind as soon as I heard today's writing prompt: Write a scene that begins "I didn't mean to." I know it was extremely cryptic, so I'll sum it all up for ya.

Basically, a girl and her brother are out on the town (probably walking back from Thor 2) when this mountain of a man corners them and herds them into a dark alley. He starts taking their money, there's a scuffle, and somehow Zack ends up with the gun in his hands. You get the picture.

Sorry I'm not able to talk much today. I'll try later or tomorrow. The next prompt looks fun, but difficult, so we'll see how I do.

Long time no see.

You may have noticed my lack of postingness lately. In a perfect world that would never have happened. In a slightly less perfect world I would have a legitimate excuse for this unforgivable crime. But this is the world we're stuck with. I've just been so extremely busy (read extremely lazy) that I didn't even post all the writing I did on my trip. And I didn't even tell you that I was going on the trip. So I have a lot to talk about and that just means you'll only need to listen to the condensed version of my stellar life. Let's see. When did I fall off the face of the virtual world?

About a month ago my friend Cece, a fellow writer, came to CA to visit colleges with me. We wend to TAC first and had four wonderful days of sleeping through classes and staying up till after curfew. It was a blast. Intriguing classes. Dancing. Good food. Egyptian Rat Race. Fun stuff.

After the space of one day we left to visit Wyoming Catholic College. We weren't as warmly welcomed there, which really put a damper on the week. It also didn't help that on the second day we went rock climbing. I hadn't realized how much I hated heights till then. All I can say, without going into hysterics, is that I'll never rock climb again. Back on topic. The classes were super interesting (I liked the subjects more than the ones at TAC), but the overall experience was disappointing.

Another fifteen hour car ride later we arrived in CA just in time for a swing dance. It was fun, though there are never enough boys dancing, and we had a blast.

Then Cece left (we miss you!) and it was back to school.

Practically three weeks of no school came back to bite me HARD. That Tuesday I had a history debate (which I won, in case you were wondering) and a ton of other catching up.

The next highlight of my life was our highschool Halloween dance which I had inadvertently volunteered to organize. Bad idea. Anyway. It went off beautifully, I danced my feet off (and still have the blisters to prove it) and was complimented profusely on my amazingness. I'm so shallow, but if it wasn't for those compliments I'd never do anything again.

I love dances.

Yes, that needed its own line.

Then the weekend was over and I was forced to become intelligent again. HA. I made a fool of myself in religion class (well, I admit, THAT was on purpose), I lost my history debate, and failed life.

But a few days later that was all over and I was Abby, without a care in the world, because it was almost the weekend.

That Thursday was Halloween. I went trick-or-treating (NO, I am not too old. LA LA LA I'M NOT LISTENING) and got tons of candy and acquired more blisters and had an all 'round good time. 

This is where the REAL fun begins. *drumroll*

Our highschool group took a trip to Magic Mountain the next day. Nothing like celebrating All Soul's day by cheating death. At least, that's what I was thinking going in to it. You see, I'm so paranoid of heights that I fully intended to wait around in lines with my daredevil friends and wimp out of every single legitimate ride. Um no. In no way did that happen. Our first ride of the day was Full Throttle, a ride that none of my friends had been on, but assured me that it would be fine. I pretty much screamed my guts out on that one. It wasn't until later that day that someone told me that that was the fastest loop in the U.S. I was in shock for about half an hour afterward, just enough time for the safety bar to lock on Goliath, and all hope for avoiding the 200 foot drop was lost. After that, the afternoon was a blur of amazing coasters of which Batman and Apocalypse are held dearest to my heart. And Scream. And bumper cars. Rambling. It was wonderful. 

But the fun didn't end there. We all trooped over for holy hour after Six Flags. I must say, this is one of my favorite traditions of our newly founded highschool group (I really need to find a name for that. I'm too lazy to spell it out every time). Since September we've been meeting at the church every Friday evening for adoration, then we buy a celebratory doughnut afterwards. There's something wonderful about praying and eating with friends that just makes me happy.

"Wow!" you say. "That's super cool! What happened the next weekend?"

Slow down! I haven't even finished Friday. After adoration we pooled at my house for ping pong, foosball, music, and youtube.

And I was up bright and early the next morning for a Saturday morning choir rehearsal. Cruel, I know, but trust me. We needed the practice.

Later we watched Free Birds (about a dozen steps down from any movie you can think of) and the next day we went to the beach for volleyball and hot dogs.

This past week of school has been a lot easier than usual. I was able to finish everything at a reasonable hour (granted, that meant waking up at an unreasonable one) and had many many things to look forward to: a Doctor's appointment (Josie came over and we fangirled about Doctor Who), youth group (which turned into a fire pit/game night at my house!), Ender's Game, park day, Thor (which was MARVELous. Sorry. Couldn't help myself), adoration, soccer, ice cream, a movie night, and another game night at my house.

It's been so wonderful and I'm so tired. I haven't had more than seven hours of sleep for I don't know how long. But who needs sleep anyway?

Now that you're up to date on my life I will explain the present situation. Josie, as you know if you follow her blog, is doing a really cool 30 day writing prompt thing. Well, terrible friend that I am, I tempted (read forced) her to come to a game night and, in the middle of a game of Bananagrams, she realized that she wouldn't be able to do her writing prompt for the day. I took the bait, because I'd been feeling guilty about my writing, or lack thereof, and offered to cover for her. Today, after three unsuccessful attempts, I have accomplished the feat. Here is the story of how I found myself.

*disclaimer: I need to go right now, so this is the barest, roughest draft because I haven't had time to edit. At all. So be sympathetic.

"Fifteen minutes. Don't touch anything. And for heaven's sake don't read the book!"

Sheesh. This new regeneration of the Doctor was so paranoid. Any time I went out by myself he would go berserk. And what book was he even talking about? Whatever. I made a noncommittal grunt and closed the door of the TARDIS.

The street outside was lined flaming trees and colossal buildings. No. Buildings doesn't cut it. Ancient Roman temples. There was an element in the chilly air that was not commonly found back in California.

I walked along, but was kept from day dreaming by an energetic crowd that was chattering away. They lined the wide sidewalk, and were obviously waiting for something, and I decided to wait too. That was the beauty of a time machine. No matter how much time you wasted you could always get it back. Even standing in random lines could be excused.

The line was made up mostly of girls about my age. After studying a few clusters of them I concluded that that they were all pleasantly nerdy. And excited. For once my curiosity got the better of me.

"What's happening here?"

One of the girls looked at me aghast, but her friend answered me quickly.

"It's the Authors in Training book signing."

I stared at her.

"What's today?"

"Tuesday."
"The date." 

"The 22nd."

"The YEAR!"

She almost laughed, but then realized I was serious. "2028."

"Can I borrow that?" Without waiting for an answer I grabbed one of the books tucked under her arm. My heart sank. The Hidden Arsenal? What sort of a series steals my title, then writes books like this?

"You haven't read these, have you?" The girl's voice woke me from my stupor. "Here," she said, holding out another book, "Start with this one. This line is going to take a few hours, you should be able to finish it."

I took the book glumly. What would this one be about? The zombie apocalypse? Future books looked no better than the average 2013 ones.

I read the title and practically dropped the book in surprise. The Life and Times of Sharpie Sharp by Josephine Paige, Abitha Henderson, and Mercy Henderson.

I've never been a fast reader, but since I had written almost half of this book I was able to race through relatively quickly. Granted, I haven't written most of it yet, but I can sift my style out of my friends' and get the gist  I'm proud to say that I'm a pretty good writer in 2028.

The line marched through the impressive doors at a nicer clip than we had imagined, and forty-five minutes later we entered the massive library, and twenty minute after that we were at the table.

Behind it sat three women, all ridiculously familiar, but different. On one side was a tall one with curly blond hair and a mischievous smile, holding a book in front of her labeled Hidden Arsenal. Oh duh. That was the one about her character Alex. It was strange to see my sister as a thirty year old woman, but there she was. Josie was in the middle, as was to be expected. Sharpie was her character, and she had been the driving force that kept the story going back in 2012. She looked as small, curly, and cute as ever. Next to her I sat. That is, thirty year old me sat. She signing a girl's book, but looked up at her friend's amazed gasp.

Josie pointed to me with a look of horrified excitement. Mercy stared for a moment before recovering her this-is-all-part-of-the-plan look and mischievous smile. Abby stared at me. I realized that I'd had almost an hour to reconcile myself to this crazy situation, but she'd been thrust into it within a few moments. People behind me in line looked over each other to see what was holding up the line, and began giving me death stares. 

Abby finally shook herself and ushered me outside. Mercy and Josie looked disappointed, but went back to signing their fans' books.  

"Who are you?"

"Abby Henderson."

"How am I supposed to believe that?"

"I don't actually believe it. I had no idea that he would bring me here..."

"Who?"
"Yes."

"You're kidding me."

We grinned. I'm not sure if we were both in shock or if we were just being our normal selves, but it felt nice to laugh.

"When did you publish Authors in Training?" I asked as soon as our giggles abated. The question had been on the tip of my tongue since I heard about it, and I was dying to learn more.

"Three years ago. We had decided to rewrite it a year before that. No offense  but it really needed the rewriting."

"Offense taken! I was the one who invented Libby!"

"And the poor traumatized character had STILL not recovered from that horrible broken arm you gave her out of the blue. As far as the reader knew she wore that wretched cast till the end of her days."

"Oh," I said in a small voice, "I knew I forgot something. Wait, you can talk to her?" I've always envied people who could interact with their characters as if they were real people.

"It was hard not to, once I went back to write it. You never explained in your first draft what a talker she is."

"Mostly because that would involve dialog," I admitted.

"Good. Now you know what you need to work on. I know how much trouble you have with your writing. I've gone through all that too, believe it or not. But you can't quit now. I like my present life here and so will you in a few years. Don't let your work go to waste."

The Doctor was freaking out when I got back, and didn't object to taking me right back to earth, 2013 where I belonged. He didn't even notice me stashing the book into my back pack. The whole thing was never meant to be. Anyway. I didn't need him, now that I knew who I could become. 

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So now you know what I've been up to. There's more writing on the way (I'm going to try to jump in on Josie's writing prompt thing) and my goal is to post at least two more times this week. We'll see how that works out :) Wish me luck!

I've Hated M+M's Ever Since that One Time...

The game was afoot. The ultimate test of my future as a gourmet food critic. My taste buds were tingling in expectation and adrenaline was coursing through my veins. This was my destiny.

The blindfold was set.

"You sure you want to go through with this, Allie?" There was a sneer in my brother's voice.

"Sean, I know you'll never believe me if I don't do this. Plus, what can be better than beating one's sibling AND winning five bucks from them all at once?" The case was settled.

He grunted, but proceeded with the contest.

"So, you may now feel the five bowls in front of you." I obeyed. "I've sorted out, like, a dozen bags of M+M's. One bowl is filled with just blues, the next reds, then yellow, green, and finally miscellaneous." I heard a series of scratching, sliding noises. "And they're nice and shuffled. Now we'll see if you can really taste the green ones! Is there a difference and, more importantly, ARE THEY THE BEST?"

Applause broke out. We had each invited only a few witnesses and they made a nice din. It was all I could do to keep my mind on the task at hand. Finally, I reached out and my hand fell upon the cool ceramic of our kitchen bowl. The sound drained from the room.

The candy was smooth between my fingers and I juggled it around a bit, just to show off, before placing it tentatively on my tongue.

Seconds passed, and I could sense a stir in the room. I couldn't leave them waiting.

"Blue."

The clapping commenced, and I could just make out one of Sean's friends whispering "How does she DO that?" above the racket.

I smiled, then raised my hand. A hush descended once more.

The events were repeated twice more and I successfully classified the yellow and red bowls.

Only two left.

"Drink."

There was a general scurrying which finally resulted i a cool glass being thrust into my outstretched hand. I drank deeply, draining the cup, then wiped off the mustache which had formed on my lip in my haste. I sighed heavily, clearing my head. 

This time I went straight to business, and plunged my hand into the nearest bowl and the sweet was in my mouth without hesitation. Little did I know, this was to be the worst mistake of my life.

My teeth fought to bite on the candy, and it was then that I realized the error. But it was too late. Intolerable sweetness exploded in my mouth. My senses later classified it as strawberry, but my brain refused to believe this.

Somewhere in front of me, I registered, horrified gasps escaped from the girls in the audience and loud, boisterous laughter from the boys. They had known.

The blindfold was off in an instant and my eyes were able to confirm what my mind was too innocent to fathom.

The bowls sat there, insolently, in front of me: one filled with M+M's off all colors. 

The other: Skittles.

That Moment When You Need to Think of a Post Title

It was a dark and stormy night.

No it wasn't, but I do love those dramatic entrances. They always send that thrill down your spine and fill your mind with all the possibilities a dark and stormy night could bring....

And here I am, blathering on and you don't even know my name! I can be a little ditzy sometimes, if you haven't noticed. My name is Jean Elliot, the soon to be famous. In a year or so everyone will know my name, but you have the unique privilege of prior acquaintance.

Unfortunately, I'm not going to really earn my fame. I mean, acting is hard work (especially when your director is a drill sergeant like Fielding) but it does get way more publicity than is good for it.

Well, anyway. I'm not exactly sure why Abby asked me to write this for her. I never have much to say. I'm just so bad a dialog! It isn't my fault! ~A. Sure. Whatever. Maybe if you wrote me you'd get better!

Noting's coming to mind so I'll just fangirl about acting. EEEK! It is just about the best thing in the universe! I mean, you can be anyone you want to be, if you're good enough!

Although I like cheerful, happy roles my favorites are the tragic, dramatic ones. It's  easy enough to make people laugh (or it's easy enough to make me laugh anyway :) ) but there's nothing like that hollow feeling in your gut after a sad ending. That ending that you need to talk about with someone, but all that comes out of your mouth is "What?" That ending where you resolve to carry a handkerchief around at all times because wiping your eyes on your sleeve is too obvious.

Gah. I don't even know.

I have now entered fangirling mode, and it is highly likely that I will soon loose all capabilities of communication, so I'd better sign off now.

So long.

Fate Works in Mysterious Ways

What are the odds of my four phone classes this year every every singe teacher lives in Southern California near me? And what are the odds that one of them goes to TAC and is friends with my swim coach who's leaving the country within the month? And what are the odds that said coach has his going away party for all his college friends at the beach on the same day that my dad decides to go? And what are the odds that we don't meet each other, after having so much randomocity in common? Astronomical. Astronomical.

The day after, in my religion class, someone asked how our weekends went and I, being the self satisfied girl that I am, boasted about beating everyone in beach volleyball. My teacher said that that was funny, he had been at the beach on Sunday too. I asked if he went to Rincon and his reaction was comical. What? WAIT! Were you there too? ...Oh yeah, I remember commenting on how you were the only girl playing with all those boys.

O_o

So now I'm probably categorized either as a flirt or a tom boy by everyone in my class. Great. Only the third week of class and I'm already the sore thumb.

Apart from that little escapade my week has been...wait...still more than usually amazing. Besides the getting up at the crack of dawn to be able to finish the scholarly endeavors by a reasonable time, I've been having a great time, jumping from party to volleyball game to youth group to beach and eventually I'll end up in the Angels stadium. I'm really excited about that last thing. For the past week or so I've been helping organize this trip to the game, so for everyone's sake it better be amazing.

Oh drat! I made it almost an entire post without ranting. So much for beating the streak!

I think I'd better sign off here, seeing as it's already going down hill.

Peace out.

Fangirls shall prosper

So school started on Monday. I'm still on that initial adrenaline rush so I'm not hating it yet. Yet.

Inspiration can come in the most interesting places. I've found it in movie theaters, mirrors, and book shops. But today I came across it while finishing my Latin homework.
"What?" You ask.
Let me explain.

Latin drills are possibly the most boring things in existence. If it wasn't for the fact that it's getting me into college I'd dump the whole course. But I can't.

Today my Latin book arrived via FedEx, bringing me to the depressing realization that I was three days behind in the dreaded subject. So I sat down and began. I copied nouns. I translated nouns. I declined nouns. I was in my hibernating-zombie-on-anasthetics-state until, about an hour into it, I came across the word "mors" and my life would never be the same. Because at that moment, that fleeting instant, I was woken from my stupor by a picture, no, a vision of Benedict Cumberbatch's face.

In that one moment I knew that there was no hope. No turning back. I am a fangirl.

This blog post sponsored by my Latin book.

Just another story

Writing Prompt # 2: You're holding a Dragon Egg. Why?

The heat crept through my gloves as I walked clumsily toward the mountains. My feet, in contrast to my upper body, were frozen through numb because of the new fallen snow they were treading upon. The scent of burned meat filled my nostrils and the temperature rose to a painful degree, but I had to keep walking.

I gasped as the egg finally burned through my leather gloves, but I did not let go. It had been Shakri's last wish that I bring her only egg to this old dragon, and now that I was so close I would not stop at anything.

My fingers blistered, and my feet ached. Had it only been two weeks ago that I was forced to begin this journey? It seemed like an eternity.

I can still feel the wind in my face as I flew through the clouds. They were preparing to dust the earth with snow, and it was a harsh wind, but the dragon beneath me kept me warm. I remember the exhilaration that had elated me. I was arrogant. Naive. Foolish. War was not the time to feel invigorated. Death was not to be scoffed at. But I didn't know.

I can also remember the moment when Shakri was hit and we fell from our lofty height. Even at the last my beautiful dragon thought only of me. She wrapped me in her wings, and the screaming ceased, and she told me what would happen when we reached the hungry earth. I was hysterical, but there was nothing I could have done to stop it. The wing that was protecting me was damaged beyond flight. She would not let me go, until the fatal crash that stole all the resistance from her.

Even in the face of tragedy I had moved reflexively. Sobs racked my body, but I ran, Shakri's only child, the fragile egg, clutched to my chest. In the shelter of the woods I turned, risking everything my friend had died for. And there she was, midnight scales glinting in the light of their own fire.
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So vhat do you think? Is it just too cryptic? Tell me! Tell me!

Sorry for all the Gloom and Doom

I've been writing a ton of really depressing stuff lately, and it hasn't been helping my actual mood, so I'm gonna write a happy one. Or at least try.

Now that I think about it, sadness must be one of the easiest emotions to portray in writing. Maybe it's because it's so easy to sympathize. I don't know. But all my favorite books not only contain that cheap bonding experience, but I also share in the character's joys too. You know the feeling, when you're so happy for a charrie that you think you might explode. The butterflies in your stomach. Bubbly happiness welling up inside you. It just feels sparkly.

Well, over the next few posts I'll be aiming at that. Don't expect perfection at first (even from me ;) ), but do post a comment and say what you think.
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Writing Prompt #6: Waking up in a Hospital

The first thing I noticed was the smell. My eyes were still shut tight against the morning light streaming through the window, but the absence of this sense enhanced the remaining ones. It made the stench all the more notable.

I awakened another degree as my next sense kicked in. Someone was bustling about the room, humming under her breath. She brought another scent with her: bleach. It burned in the back of my throat, and that feeling sensation brought the uncomfortable position of my neck to my attention.

The possibility of sleep was passed, and I cracked my eyes open gradually, taking in the alien room slowly.

I was seated on a piece of metal that must be a chair in a room already teaming with life. My eyes must have remained in that unflattering half open state, because I don't recall opening or closing them. My attention was racing back to the night before.

I remembered a phone call. Yes...that was it. Jane had called. I remember the fleeting fear that the baby was already born, and that she was calling to announce it. She was calling to announce it, but not in that way.

"Becca, the baby's coming. Bill's on his way, but the baby's not going to wait."

Fifteen minutes later I had been parked outside the hospital, watching Jane wheeled into the maternity ward.

I returned to reality. The rest had been filled merely with waiting and comforting Bill, who had been banished to the lobby, too.

"Can I see Jane Wilson?" I asked the receptionist.
"Are you family?"
"Well, you see..."
Luckily I was spared from the attempted explanation by Bill's entrance.
"Becca! I was just coming to find you! You haven't seen Jerome yet. Why didn't you come in sooner?" He led me through several identical corridors, his sleep deprived eyes glowing with excitment.

Jane smiled as we entered and approached the bed. The baby was sleeping serenely in her arms, his little breaths intensifying the silence.

"Jerome Anthony Wilson, meet your godmother."
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So. Yes. Ahem.

So long, farewell, stay warm and well fed.

It's only my third post and I'm already slacking!

I think that I'm not actually a Writer at heart. Yes, it's the truth, pure and simple.

Luckily the truth is rarely pure, and never simple. Modern culture would be nothing without it, and modern literature a complete impossibility! 

You see, I'm a showoff through and through. I really can't write unless I know that I'm going to show it to someone and they'll enjoy it. I like definite goals. 

It's funny how the mind wanders. With those first few sentences I was starting to feel guilty for writing a rant, but now I've seen that this blog is my reason for writing. 

Well, as of right now I'm determined to get out of this non-writing-ness slump. My friend Josie has been posting some great writing prompts lately, and my aim will be to use one every day. If any of you feel like helping, the best thing would just be to comment. Tell me what you liked and what I should change.  I love feedback!

So. Here we go.

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You're holding a stack of letters addressed to you.

"I've got your mail, Mandy. Want me to leave it in your room?"

I looked up from my notebook and cereal at my older brother. 

"No," I said, the usual rush of elation flooding through me. "I'll take it now."

Working to contain his grin, he lugged in the hefty bag of mail. All fan mail. All to me.

My novel had only been published last month, but since them these short notes had been arriving on my doorstep with surprising regularity. 

Mom's eye lingered affectionately on the letters. She had taught me everything there was to know about writing, but had never been published. Now she looked proudly at me, and resumed combing through the newspaper.

Blake looked over my shoulder as I opened the first letter. Two pages fell out, and, attracted to the young handwriting as opposed to the experienced one on the other page, I read it.

Dear Miss Vance,

I liked your book very much. I wish I knew Hazel so we could have adventures too. Sometimes I want to talk to her. Please write back.

love,

Ella

I smiled. Every other letter was like this, but the enthusiasm expressed in each never grew tiring. Reluctantly, I turned to the other page. Sure enough, it was from her mother.

Dear Miss Vance,

I was delighted to read your story, and even more delighted that Ella enjoyed it too. 

I am afraid to say that I have a request. 

It looked as though water had dropped on the page, and the next few words were hard to read.

Ella won't be with us for very long. She has been fighting cancer for a year now with no improvements. But I haven't seen her so happy as she was when I read her your book. Thank you for the hope you've given her.

I was startled my the tears coming to my eyes. Could this be true, or was it a prank? Blake reached for the envelope that had fallen and scanned the front.

"It's from Montford Hospital. That's the return label." His voice was shaking too.

Ten minutes later we were driving. Blake rode shotgun, navigating for Mom, while I looked out the window of the backseat. The little girl's writing looked as though she couldn't have been more than nine. Nine years old. Unbidden, a tune came to mind. Only the good die young.

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Disclaimer: I wrote the first half of that a few days ago, but I still hadn't ended it, so here it is. 

What do you think? Does it make sense? Too corny?

The long awaited post.

Now that Fair is over I'm able to look back on it with fond memories. Funny how time does that. Overall, though, I believe that it was one of the most rewarding Fairs I've been to and I'll tell you why in this extremely long post that was written over the course of four days.

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August 8th:

After a week of being there for nine hours a day, the Fair gets pretty boring, so my friends and I started shaking things up from the get go.

On the second day, after showing Mozy, I ran wildly around the carnival for five hours with Josie (formerly known as Molly) and Evelyn, finally finishing the day off with In-N-Out and a Doctor Who marathon. Pure bliss.

Wednesday was uneventful, but fun. We sat around the barn playing cards and I wrote my first short story (you may have noticed by now that I'm extremely please with myself for this. I suppose it's best that you learn now, but I'm quite conceited.) 

And now we come to the REALLY exciting part yet. Thursday I went with a gang of four of my friends to the Hamburger Habit for lunch. It was just us kids, which always makes these outings four times as much fun.

So we ordered our burgers, waited a bit for the nifty buzzer things to frighten us to death, and finally prayed and ate, and boy, was that food good! Nothing like some good beef for a starved stomach. Mmm-hmm! But moving on. About halfway through gorging ourselves a big, six-foot-something, mustached cowboy walks up to our table very deliberately and asks if he can interrupt. 

Being the anti-social, unsuspecting homeschoolers that we are, we sat there, dumbfounded for about six seconds before all of us spluttered something along the lines of "Um...sure...ok"

"I saw you praying," we all prepared for the worst. One of my friends said that he was just about ready to jump up and fight the guy off, but he continued. "And I just wanted to say that I appreciate that. It's great to see the younger generation getting involved like that. God bless."

So the moral of the story: your faith doesn't just affect you. People around you see it and are reminded.

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August 12th:

That last part turned out a lot deeper than I thought it would. It doesn't always seem like it, but I like to think of myself as a philosopher at heart. [end sarcasm]

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August 9th:

I just came from a celebratory concert, but I simply HAVE to tell someone the news.

Now please, don't think I'm tooting my own horn and judge me. I am, in a way, but it's really just excitement talking.

Today my lamb went to auction and was sold for $25 a pound! Just to put this in perspective: my lamb is 120 lbs, lamb prices were at $10 average, and the resale price for lamb meat is $2 a pound.

I went up to the man who bought my lamb to give him a gift basket and thank him personally afterward. He said that he had gotten my letter* and that it was the best he's ever seen and that he was honored to buy my lamb! And not only that, but as I was talking to my mom a few minutes later a lady came up and said that she was sorry she didn't buy my lamb, but was pleased that I got such a great price and complimented my letter writing skills profusely.

So the moral of this story: when a girl says that she's writing 50 lamb letters, go home and write 60.

*I send out "lamb letters" to people to ask them to come and bid on my lamb at the auction.

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August 12th:

On...well, I don't even remember what day it was, the Fair held their annual exhibitor knowledge test for the first time. I was quite keen to win, seeing as the first place prize was a belt buckle (the highest sign of rank at the barns). 

Luckily, I had known about it ahead of time, and studied up on lambs, reading some really great [end sarcasm] 400 year old vet guides. It scarred me for life. I really did NOT want to know that the only effective way of removing maggots from a sheep's wounds (I hear that it can happen frequently, though I have been fortunate enough to escape the plague) was to remove them with tweezers or drown them with cleaning solution. 

Unluckily, the test asked no such question.

They wanted me to answer odd, random sorts of things that I probably should have known, but had no clue what they were. How was I supposed to know that the flight zone of a lamb is it's personal space bubble of calmness, when the thing was invented within the last decade??

Even so, I didn't feel horrible about it. It had been fun, in it's own stressful, choose the right answer, sort of way. Plus there was no chance of me winning, seeing as about 30 dedicated lamb raisers were taking the test also. 

Last night, just for the fun of it, I was reading over the Fair bulletin board, and there it was.

Exhibitor's Lamb test Winners: Ebelline Hunt.

.........

AND ABBY BAGGINS!!!!

The moral of the last story: just be like me and you'll win some pretty great prizes.

First ever short story!!

So, because this is new to me, please feel free to comment corrections and suggestions and just plain comments!

Writing prompt: What if you were stuck inside a mirror? What would it feel like?

I raced across the surface of the windows which glinted in the morning sun. It was exhausting, but at least my gir was tired too, so I was allowed to pant. Finally she slowed to a walk and noticed me there. She looked concerned and hope surged through me. Had she noticed me? Would she set me free?

Her hand shot up to her brow where she pushed away some hair which had fallen over her eyes, and I was forced to follow. The short lived hope faded as she gave a satisfied smile and continued along the street toward the school.

At least at the school I could have a break. Nothing but gray walls, lockers, and desks. I would tail her, or course, but I wouldn't need to be seen. 

The other reflections gave small nods in greeting as we passed them and their owners in the hall. My eyes strayed to the tall, lanky boy entering the library. A familiar emotion stirred in me. Would it be safe to follow him?

For a moment I was undecided, but one more look at my vain girl gave me the little push I needed to make my choice. I left her and followed Dean. She could live without her reflection for an hour.

I searched the library as I did every time I entered a room, but this time I care less for mirrors and more for the boy sitting in the chair across the library. It didn't matter too much, though. I'd been in the library countless times and the main difficulty was avoiding the long mirror that lined the far wall. No prob.

As I walked toward Dean I wondered why my girl never noticed him.He obviously liked her. My mind raced along the same path it took every time I thought about him. Maybe he would notice me. Maybe he would accept my shallow girl's reflection in place of her. Maybe he would tell her...maybe I could be free.

Dean was lost in his book, brown hair falling over his face. I sat next to him and watched his eyes flitting across the page. What didn't she see in him? He was cute. Funny. Smart. Kind. And why was I the only one who saw this?

The bell rang. Had it already been an hour? He got up, shoving his fingers through his hair and glancing up at the mirror. I looked up too. My girl had just walked in. Jealousy flared through me. She didn't deserve him. I doubt she even knew his name. Why couldn't he see that I loved him?

See me.

I jumped up as he made his way back to the door. I felt the irrepressible urge to do something rash; unpredictable. Here was my chance. I walked into the mirror and waved. He looked confused (probably because She had never looked twice at him) then looked over his shoulder. He was searching for the girl who was surely causing the reflection. When he looked back I beckoned him closer. Looking over his shoulder again with suspicion in his eyes, he came closer.

"Where are you?"

I had never succeeded before, but all the same I opened my mouth the way the people do when they speak. Like every other time no sound came out. I looked frantically about; he was confused and had started walking back. I pleaded and he paused. 

Like my girl, I had a backpack slung over one shoulder. Ignoring warning glances from the other reflections, I proceeded to fish out a pencil and notebook. 

I glanced back at Dean every few moments as I wrote out a message in their strange backward writing, but he was now totally absorbed and was staring at the page too.

"Don't go," I finally wrote. "I love you."

A scream echoed through the library, shattering the silence and the moment.

Every head turned, and there, at the door standing in front of the mirror was my girl; she was missing her reflection.
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So I'd love to hear back from you about this. I'm really excited. Since getting this blog I've been writing TONS more. Coincidence? I think not!

Fair ramblings

I raise a lamb. Yes, the barnyard animal. No, not all the time.

Every summer I buy a market lamb (which just means that they'll be sold for their meat), feed and exercise it for five months, then take it to the county fair to be shown and sold.

So now it's fair time, and I think I'll never survive. In two days I've consumed a funnel cake, corn dog, candied pecans, kettle corn, cotton candy, two lemonades,  a tater twister, and half a bag of Family Size sour cream and onion chips. Bleh.

But on the other hand, I'm able to spend some quality time with my lamb. At first Mozy was super skittish (she always been paranoid, and the new habitat didn't help), but over the last few days she's become a whole new lamb! Now she doesn't mind people petting her, she loves walks, and...and...I can't think of a third improvement.

My friend Josie (aka Molly from my last post. Don't ask) posted a writing prompt the other day on her blog. It sounded pretty cool, so while I was hanging around the barns at the fair I whipped something up. Unfortunately I left my backpack there, so I'll have to post the short story tomorrow.

And I know that it's pretty irrelevant, but I'm thinking of renaming the blog. How do you like Ramblings of a Writer? Something similar? I'm open to suggestions.

Over and out.

Starring Abitha in her debut blog...

Welcome to my new blog! Here you may follow me on an epic journey of incomprehensible fangirling squeals, character development projects, and book rants.

Since I have nothing better to do, I will give you a lottle bit about myself (it's like a "little", but a "lot".)

As you will know in a short while, I am a BBC fanatic. For those of you who don't know what that is: shame upon you and upon your cow. Doctor Who. Sherlock. They are my life. (On a side note, I DO have other interests, but this is the overarching highlight of my busy life). WELL, I happen to be acquainted with multiple other fangirls and one day we put each other to the final question.

Who are you?

Sherlock? Moriarty? Watson? Lestrade? Anderson?

After about a moment's thought we knew for certain. My sister, The Silent Guardian, who portrays all the signs of a ruthless assassin would inevitably be cast as Moriarty. 

Molly, of the Marrabajos, was definitely Sherlock (minus the whole "unfeeling" bit...yeah, I'm not really sure how that happened...)

And I, the straight man, the side kick, the "mature" one. I GOT TO BE WATSON!!!! It could very well have been the best day of my life. 

Just the other day Molly, who has no fewer than Two blogs, confronted me. 

"You should get a blog."

"What would I write about? Nothing ever happens to me."

"Nothing ever happens to me, but I blog."

"Yeah, but you are a good writer and have imagination."

"I like your writing."

"Ok. If you think up an amazing blog name I'll do it."

Disclaimer: that whole dialog was made up.

Even after receiving several ingenius blog titles I was still undecided, but then she plays her last move. 

"Think of it this way," she says, "I’m Sherlock, you’re John. “I’d be lost without my blogger.”

So here I am.

Over and out.