Maeryn's Monologue

This started out as me practicing writing monologues in story form, and it created the character that I posted on Imaginary Friends Anonymous. I have another one like it on my blog that I'm not posting here.

"You think I'm like a villain from one of your storybooks, don't you, little bookworm?" Maeryn mocked, walking around me. She leaned in close and whispered in my ear, "But I'll tell you a secret: this isn't a fairytale. This is real life, and in real life good doesn't always conquer evil." She stood, her cloak billowing, and her voice grew louder. "Why else do you think you couldn't outrun me? It did not matter that you are good and kind; I was more clever, more cunning, more determined to get what I want," she smiled maliciously, "Even if what I want isn't nice." She strode around me for a minute, studying me. I tried to keep my face impassive despite the racing of my heart, though I'm not sure I succeeded.

"Pity that you chose to side against me," she continued, still studying me. "You would have made a nice addition to my entourage." She laughed softly and tucked a strand of my hair back behind my ear. "Pity," she repeated, "that your pretty face had to be accompanied by such courage, " her hand moved to rest on my chest, and disgust filled her voice as she said, "and such a good heart."

She walked away suddenly, but stopped midway to the door. She turned back to me, the anger back in her eyes. "I want that heart removed," she said icily. For a moment there was silence. "Guard!" she screeched, and one of the men by the door stepped forward and saluted. "Did you hear what I said? I want the girl's heart!" she shouted, then turned her eyes to me, a menacing grin on her face. "And, just like in your stories, bookworm, I want it on a silver platter." She swooped down on me and whispered so only I could hear, "I never said I would be merciful and kill you before they carve it out, did I... keep that in mind." She must have felt me tense, because she laughed softly. "I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, 'Where's my happy ending?' Well, little hero, this is my story with my happy ending, not yours." And she swept from the room without another word, slamming the door behind her.

Mindless; Chapter Two

“Hello?” Horace called, peering cautiously into the room. “Is anyone in there? Well...I know I’m late, but I got lost. Can I come in?”

Only his echo responded.

    “Alright, I’m coming in. Don’t get mad at me, okay?”
    Once again, no one responded. Shrugging in what was supposed to be a nonchalant way, Horace shuffled into the room. The full view took his breath away.
    The room was neither rectangular nor circular, but seemed to be a fluid mixture of both. The walls were as black as his mother’s precious ebony ring, but had far more elegant designs etched into them. Glowing blue lines twisted and marched in awe-inspiring patterns, constantly changing. They had started only after he’d entered the room, but...wow.
    “Amazing,” Horace croaked. “This can’t be the right room.”
    “Oh, but it is,” someone said.
    Horace whirled this way and that, but he couldn’t find the source of the deep voice. What he did see was an arch of blue flame shooting toward him. It streaked toward him from the opposite side of the room, rumbling with the sound of jagged lightning.
    Horace squealed and ducked out of the way. The flame crashed into a circular pattern behind him and disappeared.
    “Your reflexes are good,” the voice muttered, “but the squeal wasn’t necessary.”
    “Who are you?”
    “Me? That doesn’t matter, not unless you pass the test.”
    Horace gulped. “Er, what test do you mean exactly?”
    The voice tried to respond (or that’s what it sounded like), but static set in, and it disappeared. Horace wasn’t sure if thatwas a technical difficulty or part of the test. He really didn’t want to  find out.
    “I’ll be going now,” he said.
    The door behind him slammed shut, and he heard it being bolted.
    “On second thought,” he whimpered, “I’ll stay for awhile.”
    The patterns burned out suddenly, plunging Horace into complete darkenss.
    “Hello,” said a new voice. “Pleased to meet you.”

Mindless; Chapter One (Draft Two)

Horace stumbled into the huge, aristocratic building, dripping streams of water onto the oriental carpet. Hair--his hair-- was plastered to his gleaming forehead, and his tattered suit (which was all his mother could afford) resembled a sewer, both in color and in present quality. As soon as the automatic doorway slid shut behind him, Horace snatched the glasses off his nose and cleaned them up. No use going before wizards blind, he decided.

Reaching into a sodden pocket, Horace rummaged for his map. The rain had ruined it as well, turning it into a pile of mush, and he couldn’t ask for directions. To his surprise, the place was utterly empty.

    Horace anxiously checked his watch. Good, he still had ten minutes to sort out this mess. He was to report down to room WT-234, which, he remembered, was on the lowest level.

Well, he thought, not sure which direction to go in, no use dawdling!

He chose directly forward.

The hall was bleak in every way except one; colorful depictions of every battle fought

by the British lined the wall.    They were excellent paintings, probably done by...he had no idea who, but whoever it was had real talent. He gawped at the paintings until he came to the cement stairs. So surprised was he by the appearance of the dirty steps, he almost toppled head over heels into it. He stopped himself by grabbing onto the stainless steel railing. No use going before wizards with a cracked head, that much was obvious.
    The lighting grew dismal as Horace descended. Shadowy lines became more defined, spiders skittered over the cracked plaster, lights occasionally flickered out. Whenever they did go out on the long trip downstairs, Horace clutched the railing, breathing hard. They always came back on though.
    The trip ended with a white door. Unlike everything else surrounding Horace’s small figure, the white door was perfect. The paint looked fresh and appealing, the doorknob gleamed gold in the leaky light, and there wasn’t a crack to be seen. Maybe it just contrasted with the filth around it, but Horace was sure this was the most perfect door he had ever seen. He felt guilty even touching the doorknob, much less opening the door.
    Horace checked the watch again. He was three minutes late already, and wizards didn’t like waiting. That much he’d gathered from the series of phone calls they’d given him. Always, they were snotty. Always, they were rude. Nevertheless, Horace was here to become one of them, and that thought filled him with dread.
    Horace quickly wrung out his tie. Water seeped down, and the tie looked even more scrunched up but a little less wet. At least the bloodstains were no longer visible. Finally, Horace turned the doorknob and entered the vast, black room.

Prologue

I should have written this first, but I didn't think of it 'til I was in the shower this morning. So here it is:

            “The boy, he proves everything! Don’t you see, James? If we can define his abilities scientifically and mathematically, we’ll be able to use them!” Bernard paced back and forth in a dark library. The glow from a warm fireplace vivified his enthusiastic expression, making it look more like insanity.

            “Bernard,” James said coolly, sitting in a red armchair, “he got shot three times. Anyone could’ve survied that, so the boy doesn’t prove anything.”

            “But he does! I felt his skin afterwards, and do you know what I found? No pulse! His skin was cold, icy even. But then…I can’t explain it! He just…just sputtered back to life! How is he doing, by the way?”

            “Still suffering from fevers. The doctor says he doesn’t think the boy will live through the night.”

            “But just you wait,” Bernard said, stopping, calm thunder etched into his features. “If he does die, he’ll come back to life.”

            Wesley stared into the blurry distance, trying to break free of the fire that held him. Sweat poured down his face, he groaned and rolled over, and the fire stayed. He had never been so miserable in his life.

            A doctor stepped forward. “Easy, son, easy. Drink this tea.”

            Wesley fumbled for the glass, but dropped it as soon as it touched his fingers. He turned about, looking wildly for the tea.

            “Where is it! Where is it! Where is it…”

            “Shh,” the doctor said. “You’re delusional right now. But don’t you worry, it’ll be over soon. Just you wait.”

            “Where is it…where is it…where is it…”

            Wesley suddenly stopped speaking, just as two men entered from the east wing. His eyes glazed over, and his hand fell with a soft thud on the pillow.

            “He’s dead, sir,” the doctor sighed. “Just like you wanted.”

            “Wait!” James said. “You had the boy killed?”

            “There was poison in the doctor’s medicine.”

            “But--why?”

            Light gleamed off of Bernard’s spectacles. “It was the only way to prove my point. Watch.”

            James stared back at Bernard. “You’re not sane, are you?”

            “No,” Bernard said, “but that doesn’t matter. Watch!”

            The boy was still stone dead.

            “Bernard--”

            “Watch!” Sweat poured down Bernard’s face. “He’ll come back to life, just you wait! It’ll prove everything!”

            “You need help, Bernard,” James said softly. “I’ll ring for a real doctor. And you--” he pointed to the doctor that knelt next to the boy. “--you won’t get away with this.”

            “No, no,” Bernard screamed. “No doctors, nothing. I’m not a murderer…he’ll come back, I promise. I promise…”

            Bernard sank down, weeping. James stood stock still in the center of the room. Finally, he lifted a phone from a smooth, metal table. He put in a number and waited.

           

           

Mindless; Chapter One

    “Imagine,” Horace’s master said, “that you were in a tight fix. Say--say that you were engaged in battle with two skilled Gorgons. What would you do?”
    Horace shrugged. “I dunno.” He stared gloomily at his mug of Ginger Tea, yearning for the end of the hour-long lesson.
    “Come now, Horace, you can think of something.”
    Horace ignored the remark.
    “If you’re unwilling,” his master said impatiently, “there are other exceptional scorers that would appreciate the teaching I can offer.” He sounded hurt. “Perhaps we should take you to the office. We can get your apprenticeship revoked.”
    “Master,” Horace sighed, “why can’t I do real magic? It’s been three weeks, and, well...I expected something more...more...I dunno.” He subsided back into silence. Pestering his master was useless, he knew that, but he kept hoping for more than scenarios.
    “I understand your impatience,” his master said, still tapping one foot impatiently, “but you must learn the basics before you can learn spells.”
    Horace glared at the dark band of spice rising from his tea bag. He knew where this discussion was going. It was going the same place it did everyday Horace failed to excite some enthusiasm.
    “It’s like this; imagine you’re going to play chess. You have to learn the rules before you play the game!”
    “But,” Horace countered, “the best way to learn the game well is to play it.”
    “True, but you need the basics first.”
    “And I’ve been learning the same basics for three weeks!”
    His master, Mr. Dickens, contemplated his young, apparently bright student with a bit of distaste. “Fine,” he said finally. “We’ll do it your way.”
    Horace jumped up, accidentally hitting his cup of tea in the process. Dark liquid poured across the smooth, metal surface of the table.
    “Once you’ve cleaned that up, follow me. We’re going out to the pasture.”
    Horace could barely contain his new found excitement. He scurried over to a basket of rags, and then back to the table before he realized he’d forgotten to grab a rag. He rolled his eyes and ran back to the basket. Once he’d managed to get a rag, he re-erected the mug and wiped up his mess. Now out to the pasture!
    The pasture consisted of several acres of sagging, brown-grey hills, scrubby plants that were supposed to be trees, and some unhappy cows. Mr. Dickens made an awful rancher but an excellent wizard. Wizards, however, dragged in a meager living except in times of war when nations realized that wizards were actually useful. Hence Mr. Dickens's attempt at ranching.
    Mr. Dickens was examining one of the cows now, a look of deep frustration on his face. “Stupid cows,” he muttered as Horace got close enough to hear. “Can’t get ‘em to live for more than...” His muttering turned into a murmur that Horace could no longer understand.
    “Mr.Dickens?”
    “Yes, yes, just a minute, Horace.”
    “Okay.” Horace waited for a few moments, shivering in the frosty silence. After several minutes had gone by, he cleared his throat. “Sir?”
    “Alright, Horace, I’m ready. Sit down.” Horace quickly sat down.
    “Since you know how to teach better than I do, what would you like to learn?”
    “Sir?”
    “You’re obviously the better teacher. You tell me what you’d like to learn.”
    Horace knew better than to take the opportunity. It was a trap, of course, an excuse for Mr. Dickens to be angry with him. If his suggestion--assuming he gave one--didn’t turn out well, he’d go back to the same dreary lesson everyday. On the other hand, not giving a suggestion might incite further scorn from his master.
    “You know magic, sir,” he said. “Everything is your decision.”
    “Then why are we out here?”
    “Because I suggested it, and you decided to take my advice. That’s why, sir.” Horace tried not to sound smug, but he worried his master had heard a hint of it in what he’d said. Mr. Dickens was staring down at him with cold, hard eyes. Finally, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
    “You win. We’ll discuss your career first, though. You know there are several different types of wizards, right?”
    “Yes sir. Would you like me to list them?”
    “No, no, there’s no need to show off. Just tell me a few that you’re interested in.”
    Horace thought for a few moments. “I would like to do detective work, sir.”
    “I see. Well, as you know, I’m not trained at all in detective work, but they use the same core. I will teach you this core, and I will give you the books that will help you expand in your chosen direction. Fair enough?”
    ‘Yes, sir.”
    “You know what happens during wars?”
    “Battles, sir.”
    Horace’s master laughed. “Yes, there are battles, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Whatever you’re magical profession, if a war starts, you are immediately drafted.”
    “Why?” Horace asked. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
    “It has nothing to do with fairness. We live in a small nation, my boy, and that means we’re the only hope our nation’s got in a war. Our nation is best for having the greatest variety of good magicians, and that’s why we do it. Purely strategic.”
    “Oh. So who does the duties that we normally do while we’re gone?”
    “You are sharp, Horace! Well, usually lower magicians who don’t quite meet the standards we do, but sometimes the position is filled by highly skilled amagi.”
    “Amagi?”
    “Don’t you know Latin yet? ‘A’ means without, ‘magi’ means worker of magic.”
    “So...normal people?”
    “Yes, but enough of that. If this was a story, readers would think we were spouting information for their benefit instead of our own. We don’t have time for nonsense like that, do we?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Let’s get our first lesson learned. It’s a bit of a history lesson...”
    Horace groaned and prepared himself for a long period of boredom.
    “This story starts at the turn of the 20th Century,” Mr. Dickens said. “It was during a time of great angst, especially in Egypt which, by the way, used to be the center of the world. You see, Britain had pretty much claimed Egypt as their own little place. This made Egyptians mad, so they decided to start a rebellion through Civil Disobedience.”
    Horace yawned.
    “Don’t worry,” Mr. Dickens said, “this story gets really exciting. It gets harder and harder to please you young people.”
    “Whatever,” Horace said. “You were saying?”
    “Oh yes. Well, the leader of the rebellion caused a lot of fear in the British, so they banished him. That was a stupid mistake on their part, if you ask me.” He cleared his throat. “Anyways, the people got mad, and the rebellion got violent. Egyptians started learning magic from British traitors (many of whom were secretly executed). Things got bad, and the British gave up. The world was starting to say, ‘Hey, you haven’t got a right to take over other countries.’ Well, there were British wizards and army people that weren’t so happy with this arrangement. So they stayed.
    “The greatest wizard ever known stayed, and the greatest rebel ever known, half British, half Egyptian, meddled with each others business, and the pure British wizard lost his mind. The rebel kid (yes, he was a kid) was never seen again.
    “Legend has it that the wizard’s mind is still out there. He searched for it the rest of his life, but could never manage it. He never cast another spell, and the Brits were forced to leave. The End.”
    “But what does that have to do with me?” Horace asked, feeling befuddled.
    “Well, if the mind is still out there, whoever finds it can bind with it. They’ll then become the greatest magician alive. It’s said that they will also gain immortality.”
    “Why immortality?”
    “The kid who was never seen again, he came back to life every time he was killed. He was immortal.”
    Horace’s face flushed red with more than cold. Excitement, anxiety, and ambition were all contributing factors. He had to hurry with his studies, he decided. If he did, he might find the mind before others did. And then--
    “Remember, Horace,” Mr. Dickens said, “many have tried to find his mind and failed. The wizard himself did.”
    Horace nodded. “Yes, sir.” Inside, however, he had very different ideas. These ideas got him in near fatal trouble the next day.

Motivation From Lemony Snicket

Some of you, mostly Miles, are doing the NaNoWriMo challenge. I'm not, but I surbscribed anyways to the pep talks they give you every couple days, because they're interesting and informative. Like this one:

Dear Cohort,

Struggling with your novel? Paralyzed by the fear that it's nowhere near good enough? Feeling caught in a trap of your own devising? You should probably give up.

For one thing, writing is a dying form. One reads of this every day. Every magazine and newspaper, every hardcover and paperback, every website and most walls near the freeway trumpet the news that nobody reads anymore, and everyone has read these statements and felt their powerful effects. The authors of all those articles and editorials, all those manifestos and essays, all those exclamations and eulogies - what would they say if they knew you were writing something? They would urge you, in bold-faced print, to stop.

Clearly, the future is moving us proudly and zippily away from the written word, so writing a novel is actually interfering with the natural progress of modern society.

It is old-fashioned and fuddy-duddy, a relic of a time when people took artistic expression seriously and found solace in a good story told well. We are in the process of disentangling ourselves from that kind of peace of mind, so it is rude for you to hinder the world by insisting on adhering to the beloved paradigms of the past. It is like sitting in a gondola, listening to the water carry you across the water, while everyone else is zooming over you in jetpacks, belching smoke into the sky. Stop it, is what the jet-packers would say to you. Stop it this instant, you in that beautiful craft of intricately-carved wood that is giving you such a pleasant journey.

Besides, there are already plenty of novels. There is no need for a new one. One could devote one's entire life to reading the work of Henry James, for instance, and never touch another novel by any other author, and never be hungry for anything else, the way one could live on nothing but multivitamin tablets and pureed root vegetables and never find oneself craving wild mushroom soup or linguini with clam sauce or a plain roasted chicken with lemon-zested dandelion greens or strong black coffee or a perfectly ripe peach or chips and salsa or caramel ice cream on top of poppyseed cake or smoked salmon with capers or aged goat cheese or a gin gimlet or some other startling item sprung from the imagination of some unknown cook. In fact, think of the world of literature as an enormous meal, and your novel as some small piddling ingredient - the drawn butter, for example, served next to a large, boiled lobster. Who wants that? If it were brought to the table, surely most people would ask that it be removed post-haste.

Even if you insisted on finishing your novel, what for? Novels sit unpublished, or published but unsold, or sold but unread, or read but unreread, lonely on shelves and in drawers and under the legs of wobbly tables. They are like seashells on the beach. Not enough people marvel over them. They pick them up and put them down. Even your friends and associates will never appreciate your novel the way you want them to. In fact, there are likely just a handful of readers out in the world who are perfect for your book, who will take it to heart and feel its mighty ripples throughout their lives, and you will likely never meet them, at least under the proper circumstances. So who cares? Think of that secret favorite book of yours - not the one you tell people you like best, but that book so good that you refuse to share it with people because they'd never understand it. Perhaps it's not even a whole book, just a tiny portion that you'll never forget as long as you live. Nobody knows you feel this way about that tiny portion of literature, so what does it matter? The author of that small bright thing, that treasured whisper deep in your heart, never should have bothered.

Of course, it may well be that you are writing not for some perfect reader someplace, but for yourself, and that is the biggest folly of them all, because it will not work. You will not be happy all of the time. Unlike most things that most people make, your novel will not be perfect. It may well be considerably less than one-fourth perfect, and this will frustrate you and sadden you. This is why you should stop. Most people are not writing novels which is why there is so little frustration and sadness in the world, particularly as we zoom on past the novel in our smoky jet packs soon to be equipped with pureed food. The next time you find yourself in a group of people, stop and think to yourself, probably no one here is writing a novel. This is why everyone is so content, here at this bus stop or in line at the supermarket or standing around this baggage carousel or sitting around in this doctor's waiting room or in seventh grade or in Johannesburg. Give up your n ovel, and join the crowd. Think of all the things you could do with your time instead of participating in a noble and storied art form. There are things in your cupboards that likely need to be moved around.

In short, quit. Writing a novel is a tiny candle in a dark, swirling world. It brings light and warmth and hope to the lucky few who, against insufferable odds and despite a juggernaut of irritations, find themselves in the right place to hold it. Blow it out, so our eyes will not be drawn to its power. Extinguish it so we can get some sleep. I plan to quit writing novels myself, sometime in the next hundred years.
--Lemony Snicket

Short Story- The Red Telephone Booths

Well, I tried to write this short story completely during Spuds, but it didn't work... I got stuck ^^' I got some real help from my friend, (who told me that i'm really good at setting up long stories..... but of course that is a BAD thing for a short story) she helped, but its still... stuck for a plot point. all i know is its supposed to end up as a "And that's why I was late to school today" story. Well, comment, help, all that crap ^^



The story begins with five red telephone booths standing side-by-side. They were old, and had signs that read, “Out of Order.” They were empty, obviously because to someone who didn’t know better, they were out of order. But to someone who did know better, they were elevators to the underworld.

Unseen to mortal eyes, up out of each of the telephone booths, five different “people” rose up in succession of each other. One of the “people” took a step out of the telephone booth, still unnoticed by the humans walking past.

He chuckled quietly and said, “I still think it’s ridiculously funny that the humans can’t see us when we’re right here.”

“You know why.” Another man said as he stepped out beside him. The two looked almost identical. The first’s name was Eryx, and the second was Finn. They were vampire twins.

“Those silly mortals can’t see us because they’re so self-absorbed and too busy to notice five people magically appearing in five out of order telephone booths.” Said a third person, a female this time. This one’s name was Annette. She had a lovely voice that made it undeniable that she was a siren.

“Yes,” Eryx said with another chuckle.

“Well, we must be moving on.” Another male voice said. This one was Darien, a quite tall skinwalker. Standing next to him was Hayley, a petite hamadryad. These two were a couple.

“Yes, and so off we go!” Eryx said cheerfully. He led the group down the streets of the city towards a certain house in a certain suburb where a certain person lay sleeping.

The group walked silently down the streets, like shades in the morning light; Eryx at the lead, and Finn by his side. Annette walked gracefully, gazing around at her surroundings. Darien and Hayley took the rear, holding hands. It did not take them long to get to the subdivision where their subject lived. They walked past the rows of streets, looking for one particular name.

Eryx stopped and pointed up to the green street sign, which read, “Shady Raven Court.” He and the group turned and moved down the lane, growing closer and closer to where they were going. Eryx seemed to be counting as he past each of the houses, looking for the certain one. Finally, Eryx and the others came to a halt and stared at the house across the street. They had arrived.

Inside the normal house on the normal street, a seemingly normal boy lay in his normal, age-appropriate room. He lay spread-eagle on his stomach, one foot hanging off the bed, uncovered. He had no idea what was in store for him that day.

Suddenly, the boy was rudely awakened by seemingly appearing on the floor with his mattress on top of him. He shot up, pushing the mattress up off of him. His head spun around to see what had caused this disturbance in his sleep patterns. The five strangers standing around him met his eyes. His jaw dropped and no sound came out to express his reaction to five, quite attractive, strangers in his room.

“That was quite effective, Finn, thank you.” Eryx said. Finn nodded with a quick, mischievous smile that disappeared instantly. “Well then, Liam, old boy, you’ll need to come with us.”

The boy’s eyes bugged out of their sockets, “How do you know my name?” He asked.

“We take care to know everybody’s name when we come to take them away.” Eryx said.

“Take me away?!” Liam shouted.

Darien and Finn hushed the boy and Eryx said, “Please, do be quiet, we wouldn’t want your parents to wake up, now would we?”

Liam was silent and stared at Eryx. He gulped and said, in a trembling voice, “Where are you taking me?”

“No time now, we’ll tell you on the way!” Eryx said. “Right now, you will need to get dressed.” Liam looked down and his eyes grew wide when he realized he was wearing nothing but a pair of pajama pants. He pulled up his blanket with a flushed face as Annette giggled.

Liam soon took up the courage to say, “Well I’m not going to change when you’re all standing there!”

They all took the hint. Darien was the first out, and he helped Hayley and Annette step out of the window. Eryx and Finn followed.

Liam sat for a moment, trying to decide whether he was asleep or not. He pinched himself to check and found that, unfortunately, he was awake. He rose and quickly threw on some clothes. He grabbed his backpack and stepped out the window.

“Good man.” Eryx said, and he turned and began back the way they had come.

“NOW are you going to tell me where we’re going?” Liam asked.

“Not necessarily.” Annette said in a teasing voice.

“What?! Why?” Liam exclaimed.

“Because surprises are always fun!” Annette said with a smile. She skipped ahead of Liam, right behind Eryx and Finn.