Midnight Musings

Day 2

2008-11-03T03:59:53Z

1,725 tonight. And somehow my count from yesterday was two words off or something. So my total is 3879 now.

It's all terrible, but it's on track. Here's hoping I stay that way, but considering the proposal I have to write tomorrow for class, who knows!

Scripped.com

2008-04-06T18:13:01Z

So last night when I was trying to figure out some formatting things that I'd forgotten (you'd be amazed how much you can forget about that sort of thing) I discovered the link to Scripped.com on the Script Frenzy website.

On the one hand, I love it. I've already imported what little I had and it took some re-doing but it mostly got it done correctly, and it's certainly nicer looking and better than what I already had just from hitting tab and such. Random trivia: back in the day, I actually spent a little bit of time making some tabs/margins and such in Word and just used it for writing in proper screenplay format. It worked perfectly. This is one of the reasons that I think Final Draft is a gigantic waste of money. People did this crap on typewriters for years, it can't be that hard to get it right on your own.

That said, because I'd forgotten so much, and I'm not as skilled at making Word Perfect do my bidding yet (I used to be able to whip Word into shape no problem, not so much with Word '07) it was nice to have something that understood exactly what I was trying to do and just DID it.

Also, it increased my page count by a whole page. Woot!

Anyway. I haven't actually started using it to type into yet, so we'll see how that goes but:

Pros-
-I can work on it from any computer without worrying about my flash drive, or compatibility issues.
-It seems intuitive and easy to use.
-It actually knows all those formatting lessons I've forgotten.
-It's absolutely 100% free.
-The .pdf that it exports looks gorgeous.
-Absolutely free, as screenwriting software should be. There's nothing hard enough about it that it should cost more than $50 and yet it always does. With this out there, if I take my next screenwriting class and they tell me to buy or use Final Draft, I will tell them that there's no reason and that I won't do it.

Cons-
-I'm still wary of it because website problems could be a giant pain the butt when I want to work on something.
-I'm also still wary of the system itself. They can say all they want that it's completely secure, but really? I don't trust that, I don't trust any company that says that. This particular screenplay I don't care about, I could never shop it around because it's an adaptation I don't hold the rights to. But if it was one of my originals that I really cared about, I'd probably just import it, fix it up, export it, and then take it down.
-My other nervous point: losing work. Even if I can work on it anywhere, I'd probably still be exporting the .pdf and sending it to myself every day when I'm done. I know they say they're completely backed up, but I'll believe it when I see it.
-Since they're partnered with Script Frenzy, I'm assuming somebody has thought of this: but if we're exporting to .pdf how in the world are we going to validate our screenplays at the end of the month?

Some of the cons are just my paranoia. But I grew up when computers crashed at least once a day for no apparent reason. Save early and often was our mantra. Heck, Avid Liquid is set to save every three seconds or something and I _still_ try to force an extra save before I close sometimes.

The last one will be either taken care of or not in the next week or so. If it turns out that we can't validate with the .pdf, I guess I'll validate with gibberish that's the same page length.

Nothing more interesting to see here, move along.

Announcement

2008-02-20T19:21:46Z

If you're wondering why I've friended you, this is the writing journal for the person otherwise known as meiran.

I'm friending all writing journals over here, instead of my main account. Just to keep things clean and tidy. Friending back is optional, thanks!

Well then

2007-11-15T04:56:26Z

I should have ditched my other novel AGES ago apparently. I sat down tonight after Project Runway and just said forget Patrick and Leigh, I'm writing about the magic instead.

And proceeded to crack out almost 2,000 words in about 40 minutes. So Diana, you owe me a fishy ; )

30,068 now. The first 28,000 are just trash ; )

Woo, halfway.

2007-11-13T14:18:31Z

Hit the halfway point and I really am almost out of story. If I make it to 30,000 I'll be surprised.

Which is in a way fine by me, maybe I'll start writing up scenes and pieces of other stories that I've wanted to work on. Because this one is going nowhere fast. I know I often insult my own work, but this one really is bad. The characters have no depth, no interest. My main girl is ridiculous and annoying.

I hate teenagers.

Blaaaaaaah

2007-11-11T05:14:04Z

Even though I had a "bank" of 2,009 words to tide me over today, I managed to crank out 851 before midnight. So my bank is no longer of "skip a day" quantity, it'll take a few more days to build that up. But I'm still on track to finish if I keep up the 2,000 a day.

I'm so exhausted. And my character just did something stupid...well, actually, it was responsible and intelligent.

But it was NOT what I'd planned and been thinking about and it was NOT what you'd expect from a teenage boy.

I hate teenage boys now.

Tadaa!

2007-11-06T03:44:39Z

So, wrote over 2,000, steadily each day. Right now I'm building a buffer so I can skip a day if I need to. I don't know how I'll write on Saturday so hopefully it'll be a big enough buffer by then.

Word count at the end of today: 11,163! Do I get a gold star?

The story still isn't very interesting or good, but eh. That's the way this goes.

Because it relates to writing...

2007-04-21T19:58:27Z

I'm posting this here.

An article about lucid dreaming.

The funny thing is, you don't have to convince me of lucid dreaming. I do it almost every night. But the odd thing is I don't use it to any "constructive" end the way they describe, or to fly or anything like that.

The trick is, I almost always realize somewhere in the middle of a dream that it is a dream. Probably because of one of the techniques they talk about, where you get into a real world habit and it would work differently in a subconcious world. My real world habit is making up stuff, deciding how things could have changed or gone differently. Imagining what would have happened if I told off a customer instead of smiling and nodding, silly stuff like that.

When I do that in a dream, the dream resets and actually plays out that other scenario, and I realize it's a dream. I never made the connection to how that works until just now.

So anyway, I usually know I'm dreaming and what do I use it for?

I write stories. Every story idea I'm working on right now came from a dream where halfway through I went "Hey, good story!" and starting to figure out what needs to change, what would be good, who would go where and when.

Then I wake up and usually forget to write it all down...

For my own reference

2006-11-06T02:43:33Z

Okay, so Quatro Pro is deciding to crash every thirty seconds, so it lost my word count spreadsheet.

So here's my daily acheivements so I can plug them into my spreadsheet when open office finishes downloading:

Day 1: 2,310
Day 2: 2,419
Day 3: 1,805
Day 4: 1,913
Day 5: 1,840

Total:
10,287

midnightmusings @ 2004-11-05T01:52:00

2004-11-05T06:52:21Z

Just realized I needed to add two new friends *waves*

Most of my writing posts these days are friends only, so please feel free to scroll back and see what you missed, including my NaNo workings.

Bah!

2004-04-25T19:46:03Z

Haven't written in here in forever. That's because I haven't written in forever. Lazy me. But I've gotten several ideas, mostly for love stories. What is MY problem? Ah well. I need to write down my ideas more though, before they leave my head. Have I written about my ghost story yet? It's set in the Victorian Era, not sure in which country.

Problem is I don't like most books set then so I'd have a hard time with research.

I'm also gonna be writing a LOT more non-fiction soon since I work at the newspaper now. WOO! Still happy about that.

And that'd be about the it. I'm boring, that's why I haven't posted in this journal.

Name and Address

2003-11-23T04:04:36Z

378 Words. Egad when will this weekend be over?

---
I looked down at the paper on my desk. An address, scribbled in Ryan’s handwriting. I looked up at him. “It’s where he works, he walks home alone after work on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You can find several empty buildings on the path and places to hide.”

“Thank you Ryan. And?”

“As far as I can no one realized what I was doing.”

“Perfect. Now, I need you to do me another favor. One of the casualties, a young man named Timothy. I need you to find his friends and see what they’re planning currently.”

“Our standing instructions are to hide our auras and stay out of site…”

“And I doubt they’re listening. Go find them, I just want to know what’s going on.”

“Of course.” He nodded and left, as he opened the door I saw Duncan standing on the other side.

“Come on in Duncan, I’m sure you’ve got some pearl of wisdom for me today, don’t you?”

“Just a thought.” He came and sat down in the chair Ryan had just vacated. “I know you don’t want to actively fight back yet. But I know that they aren’t going to press an advance anytime soon either. We really should see if we can locate even one of their council and attempt to gain some information. You can do what you want with it, but I assume we’re holding back to learn our best strategy?”

I smiled at Duncan, the type of smile that could say that he was right on the dot, or that he was so far off I couldn’t help but laugh at him. “Fine Duncan. You find out one name for me, one. And only a name, you bring it straight to me and I’ll decide who will follow up on it. Maybe I’ll take this one on myself.”

“You would be best suited for it.” He stood and left, grinning back at me. His look was easy to interpret; he thought he had played me perfectly into getting what he wanted. I suppose so, since it was what I wanted as well.

I just hoped he still believes that I’m as ignorant as he is, and that I don’t already have the names of half of their council, and their leader.

Gah

2003-11-04T02:37:43Z

Morning after, and then why the heck I'm in first person, freakin' finally. New words: 1,212
---
“Daniel…”

She was speaking softly, but I’ve always been a very light sleeper. Well, that’s one way to put it at least. I reacted before I was even awake, striking out and sitting up quickly. My first conscious thought was that sitting up so fast was a bad idea, because my head was still swimming.

The second was that she was sitting next to me, staring at me and holding her hand. And then came the third one: I had hit her.

“Oh my…Jade, I didn’t…” I contemplated just getting up and leaving, but she held out her hand. I expected her to show me the injury, send me away, yell, something.

Not smile. But that’s what she did, she held out the hand I had smacked away and smiled at me. “Joseph is cooking breakfast. I didn’t want you to wake up in unfamiliar surroundings to the banging of pots and pans. Come on, Joseph is a great cook.”

“He cooks too? Well that settles it, I can’t hold a candle to him.” I took her hand and let her lead me over to the kitchen table. Joseph was mixing up something; from the smell it was bacon.

“Why would you want to? Where does that phrase come from anyway?” She walked off and started getting out plates. “I mean, all you’d accomplish is either burning his skin or setting his clothes on fire. I guess if it was dark you could get a good look at him.”

“Actually, apprentices used to hold the light for the master craftsmen they worked for, so it’s saying you’re not worthy to even hold the light for him.” Even Joseph turned and looked at me. “English geek.” I threw up my hands. “I read too much.”

“Eh, you’ll never get flack for that here. She never puts down her books, even when she’s sleeping. Woke up her this morning by taking away her copy of The Last Unicorn.” Jacob threw some sausage into the pan, and I think some vegetables.

“Hey! It’s a good book…” She blushed and started pulling out the silverware. I caught her eye as she started putting it all on the table.

“So you two are always this domestic?”

She got even redder. “Not really, Joseph just likes to cook and I like to eat so I get up when he does. We figured it’d be worth setting the table since we had company.”

“And lucky we did, because it was her turn to pick the menu otherwise and we’d have ended up with chocolate chip pancakes again.” Joseph slid everything out of the pan onto plates and came over to the table. I noticed that he sat opposite me, and Jade slipped into the chair at the head of the table. “Not that I mind the chocolate chip pancakes exactly, but really a man should eat meat in the mornings. It’s good for your…teeth? Something.”

I started coming over for breakfast at least once a week. I said it was so Joseph would get enough meat in his diet. They both knew I was lying.

“Beautiful story Daniel, really. What are you getting at?”

“Jasmine, you’ve never been patient enough.” He turned and leaned his back against the wall. “What I’m getting at is that you know exactly what I wanted most, no matter how stupid or unattainable.”

“An accepting family.”

“Yes. And they gave it to me in an instant. After a few bruises, sure, but there it was for me to have. Four years I had this, I went over once a week if not more. Four years I took falling in love with her so far that even all of this couldn’t drudge it away. Even when we lost Joseph, even when she went insane with revenge, I couldn’t and wouldn’t stop. I made him a lot of promises. When he heard about the meeting in the cemetery, he didn’t want to go. He was against it, he always believed we should stay secret and isolated from the Serans. I thought it was the right thing to do, that they’d never get over this until they faced us head on.”

“You’ve told me this before, Joseph told me this before. Daniel, there’s something going on, something happened tonight. Get to the point.”

“Jasmine, he made me swear that we’d protect her together. That when things went bad, because he knew they would, that we’d be there beside her. He made me swear that none of us would ever touch her if I could prevent it in any way. That she would never be drained.”

“Oh my God Daniel, you didn’t.”

The tears that had been streaming down his face since before he arrived finally stopped. “I did. God help me, I did.”

“Dammit Daniel! What were you thinking? What were you doing? I know you better than this! I sent her to you because I trusted you with her!” She started pacing, trying to find a place to vent her anger that wasn’t shoving him off the roof. “I told her to go to you. I thought for a second that it was a bad idea, but I convinced myself otherwise.” She turned at glared at him, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. “What have you done?”

“She isn’t dead.” He slid to the ground. “I don’t know what I was doing, I don’t know why or how. We were together, she was letting go of that resentment and letting herself be vulnerable and then suddenly I was so…hungry. She was right there and just accepting me. Jasmine…this could ruin everything, everything you were trying to do. I don’t understand!” He slammed his head back against the brick, trying to make it all gel together.

“Daniel. Stop thinking about that, what I was doing isn’t set in stone, nothing I do is and you know that. The problem here is you, because I know you and you’re telling me you just ruined the last thing you had left and I can’t see that happen to you.” She knelt down beside him, forcing him to look at her. “How much did you take?”

He took a deep breath. “Barely anything really, compared to how much she has. She probably will only feel it if she tries to heal something tonight, or do something strenuous like manipulate a mind. Right now she’s asleep, I had to get out of there and she’s so exhausted it wasn’t hard to get her to fall asleep.”

“Daniel. Focus on something here, why did you stop?”

“Because I could feel her. She was projecting, probably didn’t even know she was. I was just hit by this wave of her trust in me, how much she was letting go so that I could be there and support her. How grateful she was. I realized what I was doing and was so disgusted by myself that I put up barriers, I got out. I came here.”

She sat next to him. “This is hard to ask you, especially right now, but you need to let me in.”

“Why, so you can be as ashamed of me as I am?”

“So I can see why you actually did it, or rather who wanted you to.”

Word Counts

2003-11-03T06:10:14Z

Jasmine and Jade: 1976
The Beginning: 1153
First Person/Daniel: 1851

I once told Jade that her brother had threatened me, that he had told me that if I didn't take care of her, that he would beat me to a pulp and then kill me.

She laughed and said that didn't seem like him, except he always had been awfully protective.

Protective. She didn't know the half of it. I met Jade in college, not too many months before their grandmother died. She was across the room from me in a class. Biology I think, neither of us can remember anymore. But I could FEEL her, despite the distance. I could feel this beauty from where I was. For a while I couldn't figure out where it was coming from, why I felt so...light. Not until this party, being thrown by one of us. Her brother was there, I had no idea who he was, but everything was the same as always. Until she walked in trying to find him. I never asked why she was even there, just watched her cross the room. I watched him throw his arm around her, saw this feral gaze settle onto his face. She couldn't see, she was talking to one of his friends. But you could feel his warning.

Don't go near.

He quickly guided her from the house, but it was too late for me. Even if I could only be her friend, that feeling of simplicity that surrounded her, it was what I had been looking for. I needed it, and so I switched seats. It was all pretty typical from there. Ha, looking back on it now it was kind of ridiculous, considering who we are. It doesn't get much more star-crossed, and yet we just started talking about trading notes. I asked her to get coffee and study.

She said yes. I can still remember exactly how her laugh sounded when I admitted seeing her with her boyfriend, that he seemed nice.

Her brother. Only her brother. The kind of guys we hung out with in college, no wonder he was protective. But I only knew that the longer I spent with her, the more fell into place.

I offered to walk her home, I figured I'd meet the challenge head on. I'd show this guy, and come out with the prize. I had no idea what that was going to take but I thought I was ready.

Since he started the conversation by decking me and almost knocking me down a flight of stairs, I can't say I was prepared at all. Luckily he had sent her inside with the "Let's let the men talk awhile" look. She didn't see me miss him completly when I tried to hit him back.

"I don't care who you are. I know what you are and you can't have her. Stay away."

"What the hell are you talking about? You've never even met me and obviously the person that has spent some time with me doesn't think I'm some kind of punk. Give me a chance!"

"No." He pushed me up against the wall then. "You're not the first one to try to use her, but it won't happen. She's not gonna be drained by some ass like you."

That's when I blew up. I ended up throwing a mental and physical punch at the same time, something I'm still not very good at, but it got him off of me. "And what kind of ass do you think I am exactly?"

Now, that kind of show of force usually made people back off. Not Joseph, hell I could have torn off one of his limbs and he still would have tried to keep me from her. "The kind that needs something to fuel the kind of energy you just threw at me. The kind that takes that from other people, and not always when they're willing to give it. The kind that prowls around looking for someone like her just to feed your reserves. I told you, you're not the first." He stood up, and that's when I finally realized what I was talking to. His eyes turned black and he stared at me again. A wave of hatred and disgust passed between us.

He and I were the same. He released his wings, as if to remove any doubt I had left. I took no time spreading my arms and my wings, making myself vulnerable. I knew I would lose this fight if I pushed.

"I have never, and will never, take from the unwilling. And I sure as hell wouldn't take enough to harm them! I only want to be near her. There is enough happiness just being next to her, I can promise you now I would never feed from her, until her dying breath, and that I'm sure you have greater claim to than I ever could."

"She decides that, not me." His eyes returned to their deep brown color. "And ultimatly she decides who she spends her time with. But I will never let her be tainted. She has a lot of things ahead of her, and it isn't our place to meddle in them."

And that's when I realized what she was, why she made me feel so at ease. Why being near her cleared the clouded memories and pain. "Oh my god, she's Seran." I dropped my arms, and fell.

"For every Skeran born..." He sat beside me. "I find it hard to believe you didn't know."

"What, I'm supposed to have some kind of sensor?"

"Um, actually...I thought all of us did. But I was born with her, raised by a Seran grandmother. I'm used to their feel."

"I didn't even know what I was until I came here. That's when I met Timothy and the rest of the group. I'm still figuring things out. Dammit. Then all of this...it's all just because of her energy?"

"That depends. We feel pulled towards energy sources, towards pain and death mostly because it offers us what we need. But Serans, they're something else. Some of them are just as confused and tainted as Timothy, who by the way, you really shouldn't be taking lessons from. My grandmother is bitter, angry. She helped a lot of people, but she harbored the biggest grudge towards Skerans. If she realized someone that she was helping was one of us, she'd leave them to suffer."

"And she raised you?"

"She still doesn't know." He looked at me, that feral look again, "Neither does Jade. She's full of Gram's ideas. She's got too much heart in her, and luckily has never figured out how to tell us apart from the humans. But she can't know. That should have been the first lesson you've ever learned. Until they are dying, you can never tell a Seran what you are. Until they're on the edge of death, they can't understand us."

"Oh, I've heard all about the feud. They think we're evil, we think they're uppity, it's all from a bad story for children." I stretched my legs out. "You never answered me."

"Listen, unless I actually felt inside your head, I couldn't tell you. Maybe you like her because what little empathy we have picked up on how great she is. Maybe you saw her as a giant battery. I can't tell. Still don't trust you either. I just don't feel like hitting you again, she gets really pissed off when I hit her dates."

I stood up and faced him. Even looking down on him, he was in charge. And that's the way it always was with Joseph, there was only one person he was every submissive around, and that was Jade. "Then rummage around in my brain. It's not fair to her for me to be doing this for the wrong reasons."

He laughed at me. "You've been on one date. How do you even know this will last a week?"

"I know I want it to."

"It hurts you know. Our brains aren't wired for it like theirs are. We tap raw emotions, it's nowhere near exact. It's like having your entire emotional history run on high speed dubbing, so fast you can't pick apart what is what. Nobody does it willingly, on either end of the process."

"Do you want to protect your sister or not?" Oh, that hit the right button.

She told me later she came when I started screaming. Knowing what she is, she probably felt it more than heard. She assumed we'd gotten into some kind of fight, because she found us both on the ground. Joseph was unconcious, and I was sobbing and holding my arm like it was broken.

My arm healed years ago, but it felt fresh again, everything did. I couldn't tell what was up, but the second she opened that door it was like a blanket smothered my mind, just putting sort of a cheese-cloth lens over everything. Next thing I remembered I was waking up on their couch in the middle of the night, Joseph drinking a huge milkshake at the kitchen table in the next room. I felt cool fingers on my forehead and realized I was laying with my head on her lap.

"Joseph. He's awake."

"Hey, Daniel right?" He sat down the glass and turned to me. "I'm sorry. She's my twin sister, you know?"

She lifted my head and sat it back on a pillow as she stood up. She crossed the room and hugged Joseph. "Thank you. Now I have a paper to finish. Daniel, you should stay here tonight, you're not really fit to walk across campus this late." Then she closed her door.

"Goodness gracious." I rubbed my temples.

Joseph crossed to the chair in front of the television. "What? The headache, the memories, or her mothering nature?"

"The size of that milkshake. Don't laugh so hard, it hurts."

"Ever since I was little, if I was so upset she could feel it, she would fix me a milkshake." He drank a huge gulp. "And you know, it still works. Probably half the reason I feel better and you still look like a stalk of celery."

"Celery?"

"Green and white at the same time. So what do you remember?"

"Nothing I haven't already repressed at least once." I touched my arm again, it was still tender. "You?"

"Nothing specific, though enough to know you're probably rather glad I don't know. And enough to know that you're going to be the first guy I let ask my sister on a second date."

Look at me...

2003-03-29T10:39:40Z

Not posting. I've had some ideas for writing but I just haven't been as compelled to write...or rather, I juts don't have the concentration when I need it. I have a lot more I want to add to what is dubbed "The Kitty Story" (the freewritten in the previous post) but I have't really come up with...well, why she died. There's something going on, but what? I know really the "spiritual" path of the story, what happens to her, to him, what part the lions play.

But I have no frellin' clue past that. There's got to be a conflict going on, some sort of revolt, rebellion maybe? I don't know, can't think of a thing. It's really irritating.

And as always, no time to write because I'm supposed to be unlocking doors here at work!

Free Writing...

2002-09-12T01:44:38Z

As she fell, her only prayer, her only thought, was that he would live happily. As his arms reached out to catch her, she tried to pull her love into her, into a concentrated mass so that she could send it to him with her last breath. As his tears fell on her face, she fixed her eyes on his, trying to convey with a look what she knew would have taken a lifetime to tell him. She waited for her last breath, for that last burst of emotion to come forth, but as her eyes fell still and her breathing slowed, the world dimmed around her.

But her last breath never came.

---
He cradled the body in his arms, not noticing as dusk fell, as the fog gathered around their place in the forest. He was only aware of her flesh getting colder as he willed his body heat into it.

Even if he had been listening, he wouldn't have heared the quiet that descended. Even if he was waiting for them, he would not have heard their approach.

He did not look up as they settled in the grass across from them, and barely moved as they breathed warm breath across his shivering body.

A soft nose nudged against his chin, moving his face upwards to meet the amber gaze.

He did not speak, but allowed a soft paw to lift his arm from her body, let them take her and lay her on the grass in front of him. He felt no awe at their presence, only greif.

Finally, after they finished, the two tawny bodies settled again, her body between them.

"You've come to take her." He finally spoke.

"We grant the last wishes of the faithful. She spoke of us often, you know of our power." The older lion leaned his head towards her, his eyes filling with sadness.

The younger rested his head on his outstretched paws. "We have loved her greatly, she was kind. We want nothing more than what she wanted."

"And she wanted your happiness." The elder met his gaze as he tried to watch the shifting emotions within the boy.

"Happiness? How can I be happy without her? How can anything have any purpose without her in it. How can watching her die in my arms bring me anything but pain?" His tears flowed freely.

"Are you sure..." the younger lion stopped, lifting his head, "Greater love than this has ended in pain, pain that has dulled in time."

"But never left. Never left, never true happiness in the days after, because always there will be the place where she belongs."

The elder lion nodded. "We cannot give her back to you. That is not within our strength."

"However, there is a chance. In time, there will be a moment, a flicker of time when the world grants life to those who have held onto it long enough. A time when we may ask another to give her back to you."

"She is already dead."

"No, we have stopped that. We can bring her to the last moment, and hold her there long enough."

"Is she...suffering?"

"She isn't alive enough to suffer."

"She wouldn't like this, being neither alive nor dead...Perhaps she wants to die, why should I make that decision for her?" His voice was faltering.

"When she cared for us, she brought us back from this same moment. She told us that we were needed, that we couldn't leave. We believe that this case is the same. If you are willing to wish for it. Our power lies only in the wish."

"Tell me what I need to do to keep her until the time comes."

---
Goodness gracious this is rough and mostly bad. But there it is. I'll work on it later.

Okay, thought...

2002-06-07T15:12:44Z

Alright, I'm not a paid user so I can't put an actual pole in here, but here's what I need.

I'm going to enter a short fiction contest, and here's the basic rules:

-no more than 27,000 words (how many pages is that?)
-previously unpblished (all three of these are).
-one entry per person, send in more than one entry and you're disqualified automatically.
-gotta be a member of the Audio Book Club

But basically you get ONE entry. Uno, that's it.

Since right now I only have three finished works I really like, and they're all posted here, I wanted to ask you guys:

Vote for one of the following FOUR options:
-Stranger Than Truth
-Muse In A Can
-Memorial
-"Something Like That..." which would be a collection with a cute subtitle about how it's two stories that turn stereotypes around, and would be Muse In A Can and Stranger Than Truth.

I'm not sure if the latter would fly with the rules, gotta check. Anyway, let me know what you think, and C&C please! All three have been posted in entirety!

Muse In A Can: Final Peice

2002-06-07T15:05:23Z

Previous Peices:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three

It would have been interesting to see the look on my face the day he finally saw her. Now, I want you to take three guesses as to where he finally found this woman in a white dress with a frilly umbrella. Not the park, not the coffee house.

The cat food factory.

I saw her before he did actually, this woman standing at the end of the machine he’s in charge of, posing exactly like the painting in his head. Only in front of tuna squishing out into can after can.

He was so distracted by her after I pointed her out, that thirty cans were packaged without the “nutrient water” because he was forgetting to push the button. Hopefully nobody ever noticed.

And would you believe it, after all that daydreaming and poetry he was afraid to talk to her! Okay, that’s completely believable, I know. But still, it’s a woman with a dang parasol in a cat food factory. Signs from God are rarely that obvious.
The camera flash finally snapped him out of his stupor, so that he could notice the photographer attempting to stand on the label machine to get the perfect picture. The guy’s muse was sitting behind him on top of the label machine smoking a cigarette and every once in a while he’d wave his hand to one side or the other and the photographer would reposition his frame.

Man, to have that kind of control…I’m trying not to be jealous because that’s really unbecoming. I had to focus on getting Paul to talk to this girl, so I quickly went over to the photographer, winked at his muse, and knocked his camera out of his hands.

I hope I didn’t break it…but it’s all for the name of love! The girl dropped her parasol and turned, and there was Paul standing right behind her. Good for him, I’m glad he has a little gumption, now let’s hope the poet in him manages to say something appropriate.

“You’re really pretty.”

I’ll be making out my resume if you need me.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you know how many people he had to get approval from for this shoot?” This man’s muse was a leather-wearing elf, kinda handsome actually.

“See that guy over there? The one in the cat food covered smock making a fool of himself?”

“What about him?”

“My assignment.”

“What’s that got to do with Kurt over there? He might have lost his entire roll of film, and he doesn’t have a spare camera you know.” The muse blew smoke directly into my face and then leaned back and crossed his arms.

“It seems to be working just fine.” I wasn’t lying, it was, and he was just loading a new roll of film. “And I needed the break.”

“For what?”

“Love.”

I’ll give him credit: it took him a full two seconds before he burst out laughing. I just stood and patiently waited for him to finish, at least until I got sick of hearing it and tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention again.

“He’s trying to get a date. With her.”

“Are you cupid?” He looked me over and quirked an eyebrow.

“I am today.” I crossed my arms and tried to look confident. Meanwhile Paul was making a complete idiot of himself trying to ask the girl to go to the coffeehouse with him after work. “Listen, Paul can’t write a line of good poetry without inspiration, and she’s it.”

“I thought you were a muse. We are inspiration.”

Okay, ouch.

“You’ve never worked with Paul.” Suddenly I got the amusing mental image of this leather wearing, chain-smoking muse sitting on Paul’s shoulder in high school. It was hard not to laugh directly in his face, so I turned my head.

“You do realize you can get reported for interfering like you just did?”

“You’re going to tattle on me?” Then I pictured the Council, sitting on their little fancy chairs waiting for me to screw up again. “Go ahead, they’ll get a kick out of it, and tell ‘em I said hi.”

Paul managed to get a date while I was arguing, even without my help. By the time they were done he actually managed to kiss her hand and tell her that her hair shone in the reflected light of the fluorescent bulbs. Only he said it much better than I could.

It’ll be interesting if they ever have children, talking about how they met.

“Well dear, I was wearing a hairnet and your mother was carrying a parasol…”

Muse In A Can Part Three

2002-06-07T15:03:17Z

I thought maybe Internet dating was the answer; fill out a personal ad or two, maybe he’d get lucky. But despite two remakes of Shop Around The Corner, he didn’t believe two people who hadn’t met could really be that much in love. Heck, I even toyed with the idea of appearing to him and just trying to get him to fall in love with me if it got him going. Men fall in love with their muses, I’m sure. Pygmalion fell in love with his own creation, why couldn’t Paul fall in love with me? Oh wait, I’m bitter, invisible, much shorter, and nothing like his painted picture of the ideal woman.

I wish he’d get over that stupid image. If you looked into his brain, would you believe it actually is an impressionist painting? It’s this woman with a parasol of all things, standing in a stream of sunlight just looking off into the sunset like all good women with parasols. What sort of woman carries a parasol in this day and age? What sort of woman knows what a parasol is in this day and age? You’re lucky to see them with umbrellas half the time it’s more fashionable to wear a raincoat.

So here I am, sitting on his shoulder waiting for a woman with a parasol, because an umbrella just won’t do. He still writes his love poetry, but only if I pander to his idea of this love at first sight soul mate. Let me tell you how sick I am of giving him that fantasy, that she’s strolling t he park, happy as can be, enjoying a sunny day. He’s not going to meet a woman with anything resembling a parasol unless it’s raining.

But he doesn’t listen to me. Nobody listens to me, not even the Council. They don’t believe I’m going to get anything worthwhile out of this guy. I think they’re laughing behind my back. On good days I decide that I’ll show them who they’re laughing at. On bad days I know exactly why they’re laughing. This boy doesn’t need a muse, he needs Cupid, and I suck at archery.

Muse In A Can: Part Two

2002-06-07T03:23:04Z

Okay, that’s my fault. That factory is the most boring place I’ve ever been. But part of my contract is that I have to be with him during the times he’d be most inspired. Monotonous labor is one of those times traditionally. George over there by the label machine? His muse is working overtime coming up with some screenplay, and it’s actually really interesting. Tina, his muse, let’s me sit in on her talks with him sometimes, lets me watch the little projections she’s made for his brain so he can see the scenes he’s working on.

Last time I brought popcorn. It’s a heck of a lot more interesting than watching that machine squirt dead tuna into a can. It’s a good thing I don’t have a delicate stomach, or I would have walked out a long time ago.

Who am I kidding? I can’t walk out. They won’t let me; they said Paul was my last chance. I had to at least do something good with him before they gave up on me entirely. When I put in my application to be his muse, they gave me a nice big speech, telling me that I had better pick just the right man, my job was in danger. All the standard stuff really.

Well, I got so mad thinking that they thought Paul wasn’t going to make it that I decided I was going to “show them” and make him the most famed poet since Maya Angelou!

But Paul just isn’t really into all that. Paul doesn’t want to be famous; Paul wants to fall in love.

How sappy. I wish I had been the one to put that idea in his head; it’s at least something I’d get some vague respect for. Whoever his muse was when he was a teenage was good at their job, because this inspiration is so far ingrained into his head that there is absolutely no dislodging it no matter how hard I try. I wish I could get that darn meddler’s paperwork so I could see how they managed to make Paul so hell-bent on finding “the one” that he wouldn’t even try very hard to self-publish.

You know the saddest part? I can’t even get him to go out of the house on weekends. He goes to the factory, he goes to this diner down the street and writes and sips black coffee and waits for her to just show up. I can’t even get him to notice the waitress at the diner (even though I think she’s married) because he’s just so positive it’ll be all sunshine and flowers and fireworks and soft focus when She appears that he’ll just instantly know She is The One.

You know how many times I’ve told him it doesn’t work like that? Okay, only once that I know he heard me. But I’ve been trying. His head is just so thick that I don’t get through unless I’m speaking his language, as in giving him images of that whole love at first sight junk. I’m tired of inspiring the same old thing over and over again, but I’ve got quotas to fill. I’ve got to turn in one inspired work every few weeks or they’ll can me.

And I’ve seen enough things being canned to know that it’s not pretty. It is in fact rather squishy and gross.

(Part three coming soon)

Reposting from the beginning: Muse In A Can (Or Something Like That)

2002-06-06T19:02:14Z

Because there's been at least one revision, I'm starting from the beginning, here's the first peice. Feedback appreciated!

Muse in a Can
(Or Something Like That)

I hate being a muse. Oh, I’m sure, you’ve heard this story before. The disenchanted muse who is sick of her job. Sure, fine, don’t bother to listen to me. It’s not like anybody listens to that bum I’m assigned to either.

Assigned. I act like I had no choice in the matter. Muses choose their subjects you know, and he looked promising in college. He was bright, the girls liked him, and he wrote poetry about the “ethereal yearnings of heartstrings” and the stuff that his creative writing teachers just ate up with adoration.

I was bored. I was hanging out in the creative writing department at this famous university, you know the one with all the brown brick buildings and snotty men and women who know they’re better than the rest of the world because they’re paying a ton of money for their degree so they obviously know their shit? Not sure which one I’m talking about? That’s because they’re all the same. I was about to get my status as a muse revoked; my last two assignments had killed themselves. One hung herself from a really scenic bridge she’d been painting for two years (it was a beautiful series of impressionist works. It worked for Monet, just not for Sally…). The other decided that in order to truly capture the pain of the human condition he had to become homeless. So he left all his money and belongings on the side of the road except what he could fit in a duffel bag and set out east towards New York City. He scribbled his stories on napkins and paper he dug up from the trash. A few people noticed him, but since he was getting somewhere from the homeless thing, he refused to take a publishing deal.

Needless to say, he wasn’t listening to me. Oh no, it wasn’t my idea. I tried to tell him that he was an idiot, but he was so full of himself and his talent that he wasn’t noticing me anymore. He starved to death trying to write an introspective piece about how Jesus’ fasting in the desert being a symbol to all mankind that they should only eat lentil soup.

Or something like that.

So this guy now, Paul. I was desperate. I’d been told by the Great Muse Council that I had one more shot before they demoted me to working with the Sandman because I obviously was good at boring people to death. They’re such kind people there in the Council, all those great Muses from days gone by. So what if they inspired Plato, Da Vinci, AND Desi Arnez, I think those people just had natural talent and their muses got lucky when they picked their subjects.

Not me, no. I had to go with Paul. Paul, whose romantic poetry can’t even be sold to greeting cards. Paul whose beautiful sonnets only make it to those poetry magazines that accept everything they receive. Paul who works in a cat food factory to make ends meet while trying to compose lyrics in his head and attempting to keep them from straying into the beauty of the aluminum as it flashes in the light while being stocked with limp dead fish parts.

Stranger Than Truth: The Final Installment

2002-06-05T16:02:53Z

Previous Pieces:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five

And now: Part Six!
----

“You seem to tell an awful lot of people about your little ‘secret.’” He hadn’t meant to say that out loud, but he had to interrupt the tension that was building.

“I in five hundred years, you’re the eleventh person I’ve told. I think that’s a good average. Besides, he was the kind of person that you just looked at and told your life story. He would bury the fingers of his left hand in his hair, sometimes slowly twisting the strands together as he listened. His eyes would crease a little at the edges, and no matter what I was saying; I knew the only thing in the world for him right then was my voice and my story. How can you hold anything back from someone like that?”

She broke the stillness by standing up and crossing the campsite, grabbing the canteen of water from him and pulling a rag out of her shorts. She started to wash off the pixie dust from her arms and face. “Their laughter causes insanity. It’s their best defense. Their skin creates the sensation of being tickled by feathers, grass, and cat whiskers at the same time over every centimeter of your skin that touches them. If you hold them too long it spreads. Really good for making people drop them if they didn’t want to be caught.”

“I don’t remember that when I caught her…” He started at his right hand, the one that had held the tiny pixie only this afternoon. A pixie that was now nothing but a pile of dust in a box…a pile of dust in a box that had been dropped in his ears. “Oh my God, GROSS!” He started tilting his head and slamming his palm into the other side, trying to get it out of his ears. “You put dead pixie in my ears! That’s disgusting!”

“Your backpack is a dead cow, your jacket is made out of the dead hair cells of a sheep and I won’t get into what you probably ate for lunch. Get over it. Their own dust is the only way to protect yourself from them, and it only goes so far.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out a tiny pack of Q-tips. “Take one, you won’t get most of it out but maybe it’ll make you feel better. It’s harmless, your body will get rid of it before very long.”

“Did you kill him too?” He jabbed the Q-tip into his ear, belatedly hoping he didn’t damage his eardrum in his distressed state.

She threw down her bag. “First of all, it takes years to hunt down each pixie. I’ve been trying to follow Goldfeather since it happened. I’ve been distracted quite a few times, lost track of her. But you can’t really “track” a particular pixie in the first place; you can just hope you’ll find some trace of them. Once I wandered for decades without running into any of them at all. Trevor flew away as soon as he was done taunting me.” She sat down again, “I haven’t tried to find him again.”

He thought for a minute while she started rolling out a sleeping bag. “Wait a second. That looked pretty easy for me for somebody you’ve been tracking for years.”

“She thought she could get me. It really was just luck that I got her this time. She knew I wasn’t prepared for the laughter, and taking me by surprise, if I hadn’t gotten my first shot, she could have driven us both crazy. I’ve recovered from that particular mental illness before, took a really long time though. But it would make them all safe for about fifty years.” She held up the netting that had been wrapped around the pixie. “Trevor helped me rig up this thing. Shooting a net at them is hard; I usually just go for a higher quality weapon. All you have to do is separate the wings from the body, so if you disable them first with a bullet, it’s not too difficult.”

“My God, how heartless are you?” He started to slowly edge away from her.

“Me? Those things have killed people before because of wishes. A wish for eternal beauty? Your soul gets to live inside a Greek statue in The Louvre. How about a million dollars? A million dollars in nickels crush you to death. Want someone to fall love with you? Ever had a stalker? How about being famous, everybody wants to be famous. How about becoming a serial killer, or being one of those people in freak shows that can twist their heads around all the way. Wait, maybe you want to become invulnerable, so then you get to be a cockroach. You want more wishes? That one is their favorite. Because when you wish for more wishes, you get to become one of them! Your mind becomes twisted, obsessed with chaos and vindictiveness. They’re really asexual beings, they change what they act like depending on their mood. They don’t procreate; they prey on innocent idiots to keep their race alive. They’re parasites! If I have to yank the wings off every last one of them to make sure drippy creative dorks like you stop getting tricked into ruining their lives, then I’ll do it!” She laid down on her sleeping bag with her back turned towards him.

Patrick just stared at her back and put his head in his hands. There was nothing he could say that would be appropriate to the situation, so he just started talking. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. You couldn’t have expected me to know! I mean, everybody knows that faeries tend to be mischievous, that they play tricks on people; Midsummer Night’s Dream and all that. But everybody always acts like they’re harmless enough, that in the end it’s all well and good. Nobody emotions all the stuff you just said, maybe it’s just not believable enough for the books or something. Have you ever though about trying an educational campaign, because people really should know this stuff…”

She sighed and rolled over to face him. “Yeah, people really want to believe that their cherished childhood stories are completely false. You know how many people ‘catch’ pixies in a year? More than I care to think about. You’d think they’d want revenge or something, but I swear, after you’ve touched a pixie, it’s like they charm you. These people are like abused girlfriends, they think they screwed up and then they want to find the pixie to apologize. There’s nothing anybody can do about it except kill the things. I guess maybe if you could trap them all somewhere, you wouldn’t have to kill them. But some idiot would walk by and let them all out. I’d hate to see what happened to that poor schmuck when they all gave him wishes for setting them free.” She yawned.

Patrick stared at the ground. He was cold, tired, and hungry and stuck out here lost in the woods with scrapes on his back and bumps on his head. He didn’t want to think about what his parents were going to do in the morning when he hadn’t come home. As soon as he started wondering if they were going to mount a search party, a blanket flew through the air and landed draped around his head. He muttered ‘thank you’ as he fumbled out from underneath it.

“I’ll walk you back to town in the morning, it’s too far to make it tonight. There’s another blanket over there if you get cold.”

“You keep a well stocked camp.” He quickly made a makeshift bed in the leaves and settled in, taking the other blanket to use as a pillow. “I don’t supposed you’ve got biscuits and gravy for breakfast?

“Fresh out, but I’ve got jerky.”

“A man’s breakfast. Sounds good.” He rolled over, listening to the silence of the woods around him, taking in everything that had happened to him that night.
I on night, no only did Patrick find out that pixies were real; he caught one in his own hands and then watched it die. He met a woman that his inner creative mind was telling him that he seemed destined to fall in love with, and he had half his beliefs in fantasy creatures turned on their heads.

He hoped tomorrow was as interesting. He started trying to work out the perfect way to ask her to go for coffee in town.

“What do you mean drippy creative dork?”

THE END

Next Up:
Muse In A Can (Or Something Like That)

Long awaited: Stranger Than Truth: Next to Last Section

2002-06-05T15:28:45Z

“Writing. I’m a writer…” Patrick decided it wasn’t worth trying to sound intelligent because he just wasn’t going to manage it.

“Great. You’re going to turn me into a novel aren’t you?”

“You’ve got to admit it’s good material.” Patrick shrugged. “Everybody needs a break somewhere.”

“I’ve told about three different writers about me. The last one spent all of his money and ten years of his life trying to write it all down and get it published. In the end he said it made so little sense that no publisher would accept it unless he admitted it was fiction. He refused, and died in poverty. But hell, I may as well try again. Maybe I’ll get some royalties.”

“I thought you were rich?”

“Yeah, but I never know where my next windfall will come from. I’ve won the lottery a few times, inheritance from relatives I’d never heard of…just about everything. Maybe royalties are next.

“When Mom caught Fidget, she tried to let him free without a reward. I told you, she was a good woman. But he wouldn’t hear of it, he asked her ‘just for the sake of argument’ what she wanted. She said if she wished for anything, it’d be ‘eternal prosperity’ for me. So here I am, young and rich forever. And bitter as hell, thank you very much.”

“I don’t write this kind of story anyway…I stick to narrative poetry myself.” Patrick stopped, waiting for her to ask him about his talent. She didn’t. The fire crackled and broke the silence. “So, um, who did I almost catch? You seem to know her.”

“Her name is Goldfeather. She’s finicky, sticks mainly to targeting young men and trying to seduce them. Then they catch her and she grants them their wish and laughs at their misfortune. Pretty typical pixie actually.” She stopped and crouched again, reaching for her crossbow. “Stay very, very still.” She stood slowly.

Then the laughter started again. It was the strange childish laughter; the laughter that earlier in that afternoon had been comforting and nostalgic to Patrick. Now, in the dark night with this strange girl in front of him, he was terrified. It was an insane chattering, deep in his brain that was slowly unwinding the bends in the gray matter. He started to scream, covered his ears and stared at Reyna as she stepped forward. She stood and aimed, oblivious to the noise surrounding her. She released the bolt and the net flew from the end, spreading itself wide before wrapping around a tiny light a few feet away. A few seconds later, a ringing silence descended on the clearing. As Patrick’s brain slowly began to painfully knot itself back up, she walked over to where the net lay on the ground.

She returned with a squirming black bag covered in gold glitter. Patrick rubbed his temples, trying to get the ringing to stop so that he could actually think long enough to process the situation. She reached into her bag again and pulled out a beautiful ornate box with the same pattern as her crossbow. She flipped open the lid and some multi-colored glitter spilled out. Tucking the black bag under her arm, she spilled a small pile onto her palm and closed the box again. She walked over to Patrick and pu her empty hand on top of his head, she tilted it sideways.

“Hold stil, this tickles.” He couldn’t see what she did, but suddenly he felt something strange in his ear, almost like sand crawling down the canal towards the inner ear. It itched; it tickled, he wanted to claw at the side of his head to get it out. She jerked his head to the other side and repeated the process. Once she let go of him, he clamped his hands over his ears, scratching and pawing at them, trying to get the feeling to stop. After a few more seconds, it was fading, along with the pain from his headache. He looked over to Reyna, who had sat back down on the log where she had been perched before. She placed the bag between her feet, as if holding it in place. Then she took the glitter in her palm and grabbed some of it between her fingers. She tiled her head and dropped some in each ear, and then she took the last of the glitter and smeared it on her index finger. She looked over at Patrick and then as she looked away, she painted a streak around each eye, trailing the strange war paint down her face. Then she rubbed the remaining substance on both hands, up to her elbows.

“Try not to listen to her. The dust only goes so far to help against their laughter.” Reyna reached down and grabbed the bag at her feet and untied the strings. She reached in and pulled out a small shining gold bundle, covered with black mesh. The laughter started again, making the back of his mind buzz with the sound. Reyna looked at her hand, slowly unwinding the mesh and clutching the golden shape inside.

“Hey, look what I found.” Reyna said humorlessly as she held Goldfeather like she was showing her to Patrick, but she was staring at the pixie.

“Want a wish Rey-Rey? I’ll give you anything you want.” Goldfeather laughed harder. The tiny voice sounded like jungle bellsbeing pelted with pebbles.

“Of course you will. You’re just in this for our benefit, out to make us have wonderful and fulfilling lives.”

“Well, you’ve certainly had a fulfilling life. If 500 years can’t fill a life then what can?” Goldfeather winked at Patrick. She laughed again, “That was such a delicious wish your mother made. I wish I could have had the opportunity to think of a way around that one!”

“So, do you want me to start naming the number of victims you’ve ruined or should I just let you reflect on your own?” Reyna’s eyes glowed, the glitter on her face and hands sparkling in the firelight. Glitter had never looked so menacing.

“Oh come on Rey-Rey, I know why you’ve got your knickers in a knot. Just go ahead and spill. I can tell you want to make me feel miserable before youkill me.” The pixie flicked her wings in defiance and crossed her arms.

“You don’t care what you did to him, I know you don’t. You ruined a perfectly innocent life because you could.” Reyna shook the figure in her hands as if trying to shake some sense into her. The pixie, in her childlike defiance, giggled and screamed like she was on a ride. “How can y ou act like that?” Reyna’s eyes narrowed, and glistened with tears. “He wanted to help me. And you…you…”

“I made him better than he was. He was such a pretty pixie! All blue and purple…” Goldfeather giggled again, but she stopped when Reyna reached out and grabbed her wings. “Oh come on Rey-Rey, I had to. He wanted the power to grant wishes; he sound me out; he hunted ME down, the same way you did just now. You taught him really well. You know the code. I HAD to grant his wish!”

“I didn’t teach him anything. You sought hi out. I can’t even hunt your kind very well and you know it. I don’t care what he wished for, you didn’t have to…to kill him!” Reyna was holding back tears through shear force of her anger, “I don’t care what you say, he wasn’t himself anymore, he was one of you! You just created a new thing with his face! The one person in five hundred years that didn’t care what I did, that was willing to help me, the one that understood what I was going through and you took him away. You made him into the one thing on this earth that I can’t stand and you did it to spite me!”

“I did it to grant his wish! It had nothing to do with you!”

“Like hell it didn’t. You know. Your little pixie mind twisted and turned until you found a way to punish us both. All he wanted was to make me normal, all he wanted was to take back what Fidget did to me and you took him away from me!” As she raised her voice at the last sentence, she pulled at the wings that were clutched in her fingers, ripping them savagely from the back of the pixie in her hand. Goldfeather slumped over and Reyna quickly opened the antique box at her side and placed the wings and body inside. Slowly the pixie turned to gold glitter dust, adding to the pile. She snapped the box shut and slowly placed it in her bag.

Neither of them moved for a full minute, not until Patrick realized that tears were running down her face, making the glitter into a grotesque mask sliding from her face with each tear. She didn’t move to wipe them away, only sat with the sound of the crickets echoing between them.

“Who was he?” He tried to sound sympathetic and concerned. He mostly just hated the silence.

“His name was Trevor. He looked a little like you I guess. The strange wispy strawberry blond hair and deep brown eyes; his hair was longer of course, that was the style a few hundred years ago. I met him in Greece, staring at statues. He was unbelievably rich, family money. So he spent his life traveling and enjoying beautiful things. He was a complete nutcase.” She let out a little laugh but still didn’t move. “Pixies like men like that. They like dreamers, people that are likely to believe in them. They’re easier to fool, more gullible. I lived with him for two years. Two years I just dropped my quest, dropped everything because he made me stop caring. We enjoyed ourselves, staring at paintings all day, traveling to exotic cities. I continued to train halfheartedly, and he helped me since it seemed like something fun to do.”

"You seem to tell an awful lot of people about your little 'secret.'"

Stranger Than Truth, an update! Wow!

2002-03-10T03:54:24Z

“Ah, you would have been turned into a homing pigeon, or get caught cheating. Maybe your date would end up being your cousin. That wouldn’t have been too bad. Well, except for the pigeon.”

“I don’t know, you haven’t met my cousin.” I tried to laugh, but my head hurt too much. “What do you mean, a pigeon?”

“You thought that fairy tale creatures just did nice things didn’t you? That granting wishes was all fun and games? Well, it is to them. They love to turn words around, give you exactly what you wished for, not what you wanted. Just for kicks, no other reason, I guess. At least I haven’t found on in all this time.”

“You some sort of pixie expert? Like those guys that chase Bigfoot?”

She looked indignant. “No, first of all, Bigfoot doesn’t exist. Or at least he didn’t until somebody wished for him to so that they could prove themselves right, poor guy, now everybody is hunting him and taking plaster casts of his footprints.” She stretched, and Patrick tried to look away before he started reciting poetry about her beautiful form.

“I hunt them.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small crossbow with beautiful filigree metalworking. She pulled the bolt out of it and showed it to him. There was a net attached to the end, he couldn’t quite figure out how it worked. “The net deploys and hopefully wraps around them. I’ve had a few hundred years to perfect the design, it works alright, though I’m sure there are better methods.”

“So where’s the one I was talking to?”

“She got away. Pesky little thing, she’s just too quick. She’s older than I am, she knows what she’s doing. She’ll be back though; she took a liking to you. And she hates being stopped from getting her man.”

That was when Patrick’s brain finally caught up. “Wait, a few hundred years? You look like you’re twelve!”

“I look like I’m fifteen, thank you very much! And I’m a little over five hundred if you must know.”

“No way.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You’re immortal?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what are you? You know what? I’m not sure I want to know. Two storybook characters in one night is too much for me. I suppose any minute now I’ll turn out to be some destined ‘The One’ with some sort of magical duty and a secret weapon.”

Reyna glared at him, suddenly turning back into the hunter he had seen before. “You think it’s fun being a fictional character? That you want to have some special power, maybe a quest? You want to be different, special, to have people talk about you because they read the books based on your adventures? You think you’ll be famous and loved and live happily ever after?

“Yeah right, that’s how it works. Happily ever after? Or let’s see, maybe you want ‘eternal prosperity.’ That’s what my mother wanted, not for herself of course. My mother was a wonderful woman; she wanted her children to be happy. So she sentenced me to a life trapped in fairy tales and bedtime stories. If she weren’t dead I would throttle her.” She stopped and looked around the campsite, as if looking for something to take her anger out on. She chose to throw a rock into the campfire and stare moodily out into the dark wilderness. Well, for a fictional character she certainly had the clichés down.

“Today is my five hundred and sixth birthday. Yay.” She said it with no enthusiasm, and made a weak gesture of celebration, “Five hundred years I’ve been running around, and for four hundred ninety one of them, I’ve been terribly rich. Four hundred and eight six years I’ve spent on my quest. Every mythic hero has to have a quest right? Oh wait, I’m going about this all wrong, aren’t I?” She stopped and looked up at him, settling back onto her log and slowly getting quieter. “I’m supposed to start with the Once Upon a Time part right? How about ‘Before everything went wrong…

“I was fiteen, in rural England. It was a bad time to be fifteen in rural England, especially if you were fifteen, female, and from a poor family. I should have been at least betrothed by that point,but my father died a few years after I was born and my mother said she needed the help around the house, raising my brothers and sisters. My uncle, her brother, who had managed to get some sort of government position, let her stay in his home. My younger sister was betrothed to a state official’s son when my mom met Fidget. My brothers had been put to work, and my mother was out weeding the vegetables for my sister’s new mother-in-law.

“This is where the story gets stereotypical. But you know what, when you’re involved in a situation that’s been repeating since who knows when, things begin to sound trite. She saw something out of the corner of her eye; something sparkling and gold. That’s what she told me anyway, I’ve seen Fidget since then and he was quite green in my opinion. But that’s not really my point, is it? She walked towards it, and it flew behind a cabbage. My mother reached and bumped her fingers into the little thing. She claims that she ‘instinctively’ grabbed for it. I’ll believe that the day people don’t catch a pixie after they’ve actually seen it. When a pixie finally shows itself, it’s in the mood for mischief and it’ll do anything it can just to mess things up, including getting caught.” She looked at him then, expecting Patrick to be looking at her with curiosity and amazement. Instead he appeared to be staring off into space directly behind her head. She turned and nothing was there. She shook her head and frowned.

“Stop staring.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and stared at him in return. “What are you doing so far back in the woods anyway?”

Stranger Than Truth: A New Peice

2002-02-26T18:59:52Z

Patrick blushed three shades of red. Just as he began to flex his fingers to curl them around her small form, a rock hit him in the side of the head. He dropped the pixie and rubbed the growing knot. The small woman was knocked off balance and barely managed to catch herself before she hit the ground. She spun around angrily, flashing her wings, her hair and tunic trailing behind her and forming beautiful patterns as she looked for the source of the rock.

“Come on out Rey-Rey, I know you’re out there ruining my fun! I can’t do anything these days without you catching up to me. Give it a rest!”

Patrick felt someone walk up behind him, but as he turned to see who it was, he felt something hit his head and he passed out. By the time he managed to regain consciousness, he not only had a splitting headache, two large bumps on his head, and leaves stuck in his hair; the sun had set. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light and he felt warmth at his back, he realized that the shadows were moving to the pattern of firelight and he sat up. “Ow.”

“Sorry about that. Need some aspirin?” Patrick heard a rummaging sound and slowly turned to his left. “I know I have some. The question is where it went.”

As his eyes focused on the form across the fire, he realized that the voice was female. She was young, possibly not even in high school yet. She had brown hair, sensibly pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, he couldn’t see how far down it stretched. She was wearing a tank top and shorts despite the colder weather that had fallen as the moon rose. The combination of black and khaki easily blended into her surroundings. Finally she made a triumphant noise and pulled out a small orange bottle, shaking two tablets out she reached for a canteen and passed it to him.

As he reached for the medicine, he brushed her fingers slightly, and chills ran down his spine. He quickly looked away, busying himself with getting rid of this headache. “So, where’d you come from? Did you hit me with a rock, or was that somebody else?” Patrick shook his head at his own stupidity. He was positive she’d think he was an idiot. All the other girls did, what’s one more.

“I’m Reyna, and I hit you with two rocks.” She tossed her bag to the ground in front of her and grabbed the canteen back. “Otherwise you’d probably be either a farm animal or dead right now.” She stopped for a second, and suddenly she was crouching on the ground, her hand at a knife he finally noticed attached to her belt. Suddenly she was a different person, a hunter. Her brown eyes seemed to turn reddish in the firelight as she scanned the brush around the campsite. A raccoon ran across the campsite and darted into the brush on the other side. She instantly relaxed.

“Do you know anything about pixies?” She started unrolling a sleeping bag.

“Not really. They’ve got wings. They’re mischievous. I’m not really into that fantasy stuff.”

“You should be. They grant wishes when you catch them. What would you have wished for?”

Patrick blushed. He probably would have wished for a girlfriend, but he wasn’t going to say that to her. “I suppose to get home since I’m lost. Or something stupid to ace my next test or…” he hesitated, “Get a date for the prom.”

“Ah, you would have been turned into a homing pigeon, or get caught cheating. Maybe your date would end up being your cousin. That wouldn’t have been too bad. Well, except for the pigeon.”

“I don’t know, you haven’t met my cousin.”