1. Introduction
“Will you cut it out, George?” Scarlett snapped.
George shrugged innocently. “Stop doing what, Lett?”
She glared at him. “You know what I mean.”
George looked innocently down at the empty bucket in his hand. “I dunno what you’re talking about, Lett.” He put the bucket down and grinned unremorsefully.
Scarlett raised one eyebrow and pulled a scroll out of her bag. It was made of a thin rubbery material to make it water-resistant. “Procrastinating. The deal is you pick the berries and I don’t tell Mom you skived off homework for a week.”
“Come on, Lett…all the berries?”
“Come on, George…a whole week of hooky?” Scarlett mimicked mercilessly. “Get to work. Now.”
George frowned at his older sister and with a sigh flicked his tail and scooted through the water towards the field of berries. Scarlett eyed her brother with a look of disbelief.
“You forgot your bucket,” she informed him.
George came back and grabbed the bucket, dragging it after him as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
Once he reached the berry patch, he began picking. The thorns scraped his fingers uncomfortably, but not painfully. The berries came away easily, a sign that they were ripe, and little by little the bucket began to fill.
A small jerk on the bucket made George turn around quickly, scratching a finger on a thorn. “Ouch!” he muttered, glancing around.
A little mergirl cowered in front of waving fronds of seaweed, copper-colored hair disheveled and shaggy, huge brown eyes staring up at him. She had a bunch of berries in her hand, and he suspected they were from his bucket. The stray stuffed them in her mouth hungrily, never taking her gaze off George.
“Hey…want some more?” he coaxed, holding out the bucket. Scarlett wasn’t watching them. He felt safe offering the little stray some berries.
She stared at him distrustfully, then darted forwards and grabbed another handful from his bucket. She said shyly, “I’m Kaycee.”
“Hi, Kaycee. I’m George.”
Kaycee looked at the bucket. “I’m hungry.”
“Want to come back with me and get something to eat?”
She shook her head.
“I’m not going to eat you or something.”
Her eyes widened at his playful words and she finned backwards.
“I said I’m not,” George clarified. “That’s my sister Scarlett over there −” he pointed to his sister with her bright red, stick straight hair and the maroon tail. She was reading her scroll and paying no attention to either Kaycee or George.
Kaycee looked at him suspiciously. “Really?”
“What do you think I am?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, come on.”
She hesitated for only a moment, but then she came forwards and took his hand. “I don’t have a family.”
“That’s okay.” He wondered what Scarlett would say when she saw Kaycee. He wondered what Mother would say when she saw Kaycee.
The pair swam over to Scarlett, who looked up from her scroll and saw Kaycee first. “Who’re you?” she asked.
“Kaycee,” the little stray said shyly. "I don't have a family. He said I could come and have some food."
Scarlett glanced at George. “You know what Mom’s gonna say?”
George swished his tailfin back and forth uncomfortably. “Not really.”
Scarlett rolled her eyes. “It figures. You spend so much time on your practical jokes you don’t have any time to get to know the rest of us.” Looking at Kaycee kindly, she said, “Mom’s going to say… welcome to the family.”
Author’s note: Scarlett, George, and Kaycee are indeed mermaids, if I didn't make that clear. This is the introduction to the 100 story challenge. Now that I've finished this one, I think I'm going to do one a week, so I'll be finished in a little less than two years (52 weeks in a year, one story a week). They will not have any overarching plot, just a common setting and cast. Hope you enjoyed this, and comments would be appreciated.
The Somewhat Odd and Mostly Random Musings and Writings of a Young Would-Be Author
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
An Arbitrary Number of People Demanding that Some Sort of Action be Taken
This important issue was brought to my attention by the OYAN forum! (That's a creative writing curriculum which I am a part of.) It is critical that I bring it to your attention!
We Demand Immediate Action on This Crucial Issue!
If nothing is done, then we of this group will be very displeased. We may even comment to express our anger, possibly with bad punctuation or spelling to further communicate our individual but quite possibly collective emotion.
People that want to stand on what they believe in this crucial issue!
We Demand Immediate Action on This Crucial Issue!
If nothing is done, then we of this group will be very displeased. We may even comment to express our anger, possibly with bad punctuation or spelling to further communicate our individual but quite possibly collective emotion.
People that want to stand on what they believe in this crucial issue!
- Jdg50legomaster
- Popfan01
- Forgettable.
- Whispering_shadow
- Leinad O'Neil
- Juliarose
- Stephen97
- Athena Grace
- Skyeyes
- James V
- Mellow Orange
- Cyreno de Bergerac
- Daydreamingkate
- Amluchtsiuil
- AdolescentOutcast
- Lady_Écrivaine
- beth
- ninjadragon99
- The_Quillmaster (That's me!)
- iDudney
Thursday, December 1, 2011
NaNoWriMo - Finished!
Unfortunately the story is unfinished. So, my friends, I shall be finishing it in July with Camp NaNoWriMo with another fifty thousand. Or maybe less. In any case I WILL FINISH! Because it's my longest, best-plotted, best-developed story ever, and it must be finished and edited!
This, dear readers, is all I have to say. Except for this - I'm going to take the 100 story challenge. You use a list of 100 prompts and write a short story for each one. I'll try to finish one each week. I'm going to use Kaycee, George, and Scarlett. You may have heard of Kaycee from that link. I've been wanting to use her for ages, but she's still a story-orphan. But no longer! Stay tuned for the exciting adventures of Kaycee and Friends/Family!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
NaNoWriMo - Halfway Done! + Character Art!
-insert maniacal laughter here-
I'm halfway finished with NaNoWriMo! My novel is only about one-third of the way through, but it's at almost 30k...Oh well. So, my wordcount is, as of 16/11/11...
28,365!
I love my novel.
Now for some actually interesting content. I asked for some drawings of my characters on the NaNo site, and here are some that I got.
I'm halfway finished with NaNoWriMo! My novel is only about one-third of the way through, but it's at almost 30k...Oh well. So, my wordcount is, as of 16/11/11...
28,365!
I love my novel.
Now for some actually interesting content. I asked for some drawings of my characters on the NaNo site, and here are some that I got.
This adorable little face belongs to Celestine Frost, one of my side characters. The artist's username is AmaiRose!
And this guy is Nikolai Carme! Yes...he's part cat, because I must have somebody catty in everything I write! The artist was Caracal!
Last, but most certainly not least...my main character Toki Raelin! Artist HardcoreMango!
Friday, November 4, 2011
NaNoWriMo 2011: Shadowed Eyes Ch1
Well, I was actually feeling slightly guilty for not posting. I like to keep up on my blogs, and as my NaNo is all that I've written - have a chapter. Just the one, though. The rest of it shall not be posted unless I am very much satisfied with the finished product. Anyways, without further ado, Shadowed Eyes - Chapter One.
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Dust Fever
A thin, tall girl speeds down the dusty road, long blond pigtails flying out behind her. Passerby turn and look at her, eyes filled with compassion.
This girl is me.
The dull thudding of my feet is all I can hear as I run. Our village, a dry grassless place, becomes a tan blur as I cry silently.
The last house at the end of the row is mine. Simple, in the exact style of all the others, it’s nothing special. But little touches my mother Zena has added − a lovingly sculpted and painted flower here, a checked handkerchief on a windowsill here − make it home.
I notice none of these as I fling open the door, shake off my boots. To the left in the living room sits my father on the couch. He half-rises when he sees me, but gets no farther as I dash into his arms.
“Is it true, Dad?” I choke out.
He strokes my hair and nods. “It is.”
Our family is made up of me, Toki; my father, Nikko; my mother, Zena; and my sister, eight-year-old Rosuto. My worshiper. My greatest friend. We are four years apart, a sizeable difference for most siblings, but we are inseparable.
Now she’s sick with dust fever. Of all the illnesses she came down with dust fever. The one that doesn’t have a cure. A fatal illness you don’t recover from.
I bury my face in my father’s chest and sob. He waits for me to finish and then holds me away. “It’s going to be okay, Toki,” he says earnestly. “I know someone who can help.”
Tearing away from his loving grasp, I mutter, “It’s dust fever. No one can help.”
“But I know someone who can.”
My father doesn’t lie. If he knows someone who can help Rosuto, he knows someone. But I don’t know who he’s kidding. There’s no cure anymore. That vanished hundreds of years ago with the disappearance of the Lost. The Lost were the protectors of this world, Terra. They had certain powers, the specifics of which have long since lapsed into obscurity when the Elimination happened − when they were persecuted and killed for the Betrayal. The Betrayal too has lapsed into obscurity. The only thing that’s certain about them now was that those in training had gray eyes, those fully-realized had green eyes, and they had healing abilities. They alone could heal dust fever.
But does the past glory of the Lost matter anymore? Right here, right now, I have a sister who’s dying. “Can I see her?” I whisper.
“She’s in her room.”
I walk past the front door and up the hallway that leads past all of our bedrooms. Rosuto’s is the one in the middle. Her door is slightly ajar, and squeaks slightly when I touch it.
My mother is inside, offering Rosuto a drink. But my sister refuses when she sees me, round eyes lighting up. “Toki…” she says hoarsely. “You came…!”
Zena smiles at me tiredly and leaves the room, allowing me to be alone with Rosuto. I cross the room swiftly and kneel by the side of her bed. “Of course I came,” I say.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your sleepover…”
My sleepover. I’ve nearly forgotten about it. I was sleeping over at my friend Mona’s house. Just ten minutes ago someone had come and informed me of Rosuto’s illness. I hadn’t checked who it was, being in too much of a rush, and now I wondered. Had Rosuto really just taken sick? She looked like she’d been this way for a while. “You didn’t interrupt anything,” I tell her, saving my questions for another time, another person. “It’s going to be okay.” The same lie my father had consoled himself with now fell from my lips. “Dad knows someone who can help…”
Rosuto smiles up at me, dark shiny hair framing her round face. “If…if Dad says it’s going to be okay…”
I lean close to hear her next words.
“…well, Dad is usually right…”
Dad is usually right? Oh, Rosuto, don’t you know how often people can be wrong? Aren’t you scared? Oh, Rosy, I’m scared…
My nose tingles and my eyes grow hot. I know I’m going to cry, but I can’t do it in front of Rosuto. Squeezing her hand, I flee the room, running into my own bedroom, flopping onto my bed, and again I cry.
---------------------------------------------------
Dust Fever
A thin, tall girl speeds down the dusty road, long blond pigtails flying out behind her. Passerby turn and look at her, eyes filled with compassion.
This girl is me.
The dull thudding of my feet is all I can hear as I run. Our village, a dry grassless place, becomes a tan blur as I cry silently.
The last house at the end of the row is mine. Simple, in the exact style of all the others, it’s nothing special. But little touches my mother Zena has added − a lovingly sculpted and painted flower here, a checked handkerchief on a windowsill here − make it home.
I notice none of these as I fling open the door, shake off my boots. To the left in the living room sits my father on the couch. He half-rises when he sees me, but gets no farther as I dash into his arms.
“Is it true, Dad?” I choke out.
He strokes my hair and nods. “It is.”
Our family is made up of me, Toki; my father, Nikko; my mother, Zena; and my sister, eight-year-old Rosuto. My worshiper. My greatest friend. We are four years apart, a sizeable difference for most siblings, but we are inseparable.
Now she’s sick with dust fever. Of all the illnesses she came down with dust fever. The one that doesn’t have a cure. A fatal illness you don’t recover from.
I bury my face in my father’s chest and sob. He waits for me to finish and then holds me away. “It’s going to be okay, Toki,” he says earnestly. “I know someone who can help.”
Tearing away from his loving grasp, I mutter, “It’s dust fever. No one can help.”
“But I know someone who can.”
My father doesn’t lie. If he knows someone who can help Rosuto, he knows someone. But I don’t know who he’s kidding. There’s no cure anymore. That vanished hundreds of years ago with the disappearance of the Lost. The Lost were the protectors of this world, Terra. They had certain powers, the specifics of which have long since lapsed into obscurity when the Elimination happened − when they were persecuted and killed for the Betrayal. The Betrayal too has lapsed into obscurity. The only thing that’s certain about them now was that those in training had gray eyes, those fully-realized had green eyes, and they had healing abilities. They alone could heal dust fever.
But does the past glory of the Lost matter anymore? Right here, right now, I have a sister who’s dying. “Can I see her?” I whisper.
“She’s in her room.”
I walk past the front door and up the hallway that leads past all of our bedrooms. Rosuto’s is the one in the middle. Her door is slightly ajar, and squeaks slightly when I touch it.
My mother is inside, offering Rosuto a drink. But my sister refuses when she sees me, round eyes lighting up. “Toki…” she says hoarsely. “You came…!”
Zena smiles at me tiredly and leaves the room, allowing me to be alone with Rosuto. I cross the room swiftly and kneel by the side of her bed. “Of course I came,” I say.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt your sleepover…”
My sleepover. I’ve nearly forgotten about it. I was sleeping over at my friend Mona’s house. Just ten minutes ago someone had come and informed me of Rosuto’s illness. I hadn’t checked who it was, being in too much of a rush, and now I wondered. Had Rosuto really just taken sick? She looked like she’d been this way for a while. “You didn’t interrupt anything,” I tell her, saving my questions for another time, another person. “It’s going to be okay.” The same lie my father had consoled himself with now fell from my lips. “Dad knows someone who can help…”
Rosuto smiles up at me, dark shiny hair framing her round face. “If…if Dad says it’s going to be okay…”
I lean close to hear her next words.
“…well, Dad is usually right…”
Dad is usually right? Oh, Rosuto, don’t you know how often people can be wrong? Aren’t you scared? Oh, Rosy, I’m scared…
My nose tingles and my eyes grow hot. I know I’m going to cry, but I can’t do it in front of Rosuto. Squeezing her hand, I flee the room, running into my own bedroom, flopping onto my bed, and again I cry.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The Legend of the Crazy Cat Lady | NaNoWriMo
As for other writing, I don't know about the Mirror On The Wall, I think I may put it away and try to churn out an outline instead of just regurgitating chapters. Besides that, I was collared and almost choked to death by another adorable character named Kaycee. She's a sweet, excitable stray with a seahorse obsession. She's also a mermaid.
Those of you who know me know that I have always disdained mermaids. This is true. I disdain the mermaid stereotype of an world full of perky, beautiful/handsome people with fishtails, almost Disney-ish world. It's ridiculous. I also disdain the other stereotype of a dark, warrior-based world of mermaids with ridiculous sea-magic power and primitive weapons. This too is ridiculous. I've always had my own secret view of mermaids with a lot of little details that I'm not sure anyone has thought of before.
- How do mermaids breath underwater and come up and sit on rocks and woo human men? Biologically impossible. Nothing on Earth can do both. And as far as I can see, mermaids are always set in the Earth oceans. My version gives them gill slits on the sides of their necks. I trashed the rock-and-humans thing.
- Why would a human find a mermaid attractive anyways? I'm sure mermaids would see us as funny-looking things with no natural skills whatsoever. Also, biological compatibility? Yeah...not sure anyone's thought of that...it pretty much rules out half-mer-half-human hybrids.
If they do make their way into a story, probably written for my mermaid-obsessed sister, they shall be posted here. But after November! And, to placate you, the final installment of the Crazy Cat Lady.
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Part Four
Once you are inside, you are not really sure why you went in through the window. It was clear when you pushed the window that it wasn’t going to open the other way to let you go back out. Now you’re stuck in here.
But you pass it off. You are certainly clever and ingenious enough to get out again. You’ve escaped countless times from Suzy. Why is the Cat Lady any different?
But still your tummy squirms with uncertainty.
You ignore it and hold your head high, looking around. There is an overpowering smell. It smells like your litter-box just before Suzy cleans it, only worse. A hundred times worse, because the Cat Lady has a hundred cats and Suzy only has you. Your sensitive nose doesn’t like it, but you finally get past the stench.
Now you can use your eyes. It’s very dark, but that’s no problem for a cat. You can see everything at least hazily. And in this house everything is movement.
You are balanced on the arm of a scratchy, overstuffed sofa. It’s not long before a cat swarms the sofa and stands close by, staring at you with dull eyes. It has lusterless fur and is altogether a sad specimen. You think of your own bright orange-and-white fur and realize you must stand out, even in this dim room.
It’s not long before the first cat is joined by at least another dozen. They all stare at you, waiting for you to move first.
Hello, you say, with a friendly twitch of the ears.
This one is no competition, one says.
Our food is safe, another says. All of them turn to go.
What are they talking about? Don’t they have food bowls? You think of your own food bowls, yellow and blue, back at home. They’re still full of dry yet delicious cat food, you remember, and suddenly you long for them.
What about your food? you ask, and they whip around, suspicious.
The food is on the ground when it is time to eat. There you fight for it. Do you not know this? Do you not fight hundreds of other cats for a meal each day? a white one asks, though you can barely tell it’s white through the dust in its fur.
You hesitate. Don’t they remember the outside? Your stomach squirms harder and you want a way out. But what about food bowls? Don’t you have any of those?
What is a food bowl? The Lady has many bowls of food but they are only for the Lady. What a strange one you are. You smell of things I’ve never smelled before. The white one sniffs you again. Yet they are pleasant things.
Of course they’re pleasant. Much more pleasant than this grubby house. You really want a way out now. But you have no time to look around, the cats around you are swarming to the center of the room, and you wonder why.
Then you hear it. “Here, pussy, pussy, pussy. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty.”
Suzy calls you like that. She says, “Here, you fat sausage. Come here.” But she says it laughingly. You like the way she calls you. This voice is different, so harshly sweet you can’t bear it. Which one of these cats is she calling for?
You jump down and try to blend in.
A stooped old lady in a flowered dress comes into the room with a bag of food. It’s a small bag, the kind Suzy sometimes gets when you feel desperately sick of your old food and just want a change, only for a while. She pours it on the floor and the cats begin scuffling for it. You see now that there’s no way she can have a hundred bowls. There would be no time to fill them.
You try to look like you’re eating, but she can see you. You glow in the darkness, you are so clean and white.
Your collar jangles as she swoops in and lifts you above the crowd. “Aren’t we from outside?” she asks.
Yes, yes, you are, so you need to go back right away. You wriggle and squirm, but she has a firm grim. She clearly has plenty of practice.
“Oh…” She lets go a sigh of disappointment. “You have a collar and tags.”
You relax. Suzy’s number is there, and now the Crazy Cat Lady will have to follow human law and call Suzy and say, “I have your cat.”
But her gnarled fingers are pulling at your neck, and then you hear your buckle slide. A sound you have wanted to hear forever. Until today. Then your collar is free, and there’s a clatter as she tosses it in a bin.
Your tags. Your last hope of escape. Gone.
Then she holds you up and says, “Look at you! You’re so precious! And look. You have fur! So I can call you Fruity-Two! And now that you have a name, you can live with me and my other babies!”
There are too many things wrong with this for you. You are not a baby. All the cats have fur. And you’re not sure you want to know what happened to Fruity-One. And not to mention, you don’t want to spend the rest of your life scuffling over a few kibbles in this overpowering stench!
“Now you belong to me,” she says happily.
And you meow frantically that you do not belong to her! You belong to − well, being a cat, you don’t belong to anybody, you simply live with somebody. But you don’t live with the Crazy Cat Lady. You live with Suzy, who is a very nice, perfectly sane cat lady who is probably back getting out tuna for a cat who is miles away stuck in the grasp of the Crazy Cat Lady!
“Oh, you sweetheart,” she coos, and puts you down. Then she goes into the other room. What she is doing there is anybody’s guess, but you are not going to stick around to find out!
You hear the doorbell ring, and a sense of relief and urgency shoots through you. You may have lost your tags, but fate has dumped another chance to get away in your paws − and you are going to take it!
The Crazy Cat Lady comes into the room again, grumbling. She shoos the cats away from the door. When she spots you slinking towards the door, she cries out. “Fruity! Don’t you dare go near that door. It’s not nice outside my house!”
Oh, yes, you will dare. You dare very much. And not only do you dare, it is nice outside her smelly old house and you fully intend to enjoy how nice it is outside.
She sees that you have no intention of listening to her and shambles forwards, hands outstretched to grab you. You scoot behind a vase just as the bell rings again. Forgetting you for a second, she grabs for the handle and opens the door.
A startled delivery man can’t resist pinching his nose. The Cat Lady furrows her brow and you purr quietly to yourself.
“Young people!” she screams in his face. The Cat Lady does not know how to talk to people anymore, only to cats. This is why she always screams at other people. It’s in all the stories. “So rude!” she yells in his ears.
“I am most sorry, madam.” The deliveryman bows to her and offers the package. It smells enticingly of fish.
“Thank you,” she hollers.
You realize your chance is slipping away while you sit and giggle to yourself. You shoot out from behind the vase, over the deliveryman’s foot.
He shouts in surprise and turns too late to catch you. You are already off the porch and hidden in one of the few scrubby bushes in the Crazy Cat Lady’s yard.
“Fruity-Two!” the Cat Lady screams. You ignore that. Fruity-Two is not your name.
“I am so, so, so, sorry. Please forgive me. I’ve lost you your…Fruity-Two. I apologize. Please let me replace…Fruity-Two. I can find you an excellent cat…” the deliveryman says frantically, trying to appease the Cat Lady.
You purr loudly from the bush and stalk out deliberately, letting the Cat Lady see you once more before you rocket down the driveway. The show cats are already gone.
But is it any matter? You performed Henry’s dare. You are now a cat of such exceptional bravery why should you care if a bunch of stuck-up show cats hung around to see if you got out alive?
You set off on the road to home. You can already hear the can opener as Suzy gets you that big bowl of tuna.
(This next part is so short I'll include it too.)
Epilogue
Your belly is comfortably full as you stretch out on that sunny cushion you were on. Suzy is staring at a leafy thing. Everything is perfect.
Then you hear a knock on the door. You look at Suzy, who has set aside her leafy thing and gotten up, grumbling. You make a quick decision: is it worth abandoning your sunny spot just to see who it is?
Since you’ve already been disturbed, you decide to go see who’s calling. Suzy never has anybody on Tuesdays.
But you hang back anyways, out of sight of the visitor, but where you can see the door perfectly. Suzy opens it.
You suppress a meow of surprise.
It is the Crazy Cat Lady.
She has come back for you.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Sci-Fi Story
Sorry for the long delay! I have been super busy with school. So all I've really written is school stuff, essays mainly. But also this short little sci-fi story. Enjoy!
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Sci-Fi Story
Two archeologists were picking their way around some tables filled with objects found in a recently excavated house. From tests they had run on a few of the objects, the house was from around the twenty-first century − nearly six thousand years ago now. It was the first house of that time period ever to be discovered, and they were eager to learn about the people of that time.
Much of the house had long since rotted away, such as most of the storage containers, which were probably made of wood. Many strange saucer-like objects with rubber-padded handles had been found, of differing depths. Izrael leaned over and gently touched one of these. Rust had eroded much of the original material. “What do you suppose this is?” he asked his companion Tara. “And why would the ancients need so many of them?”
Tara shrugged. “We don’t know. The only records we have of the twenty-first century are its entertainment volumes. It could be a sort of weapon. They talk about people hitting other people with heavy, copper pans or pots. Perhaps it was a weapon.”
“Interesting.” Izrael moved further down the line of tables. “There’s so much we can learn! What, for instance, are these?”
It was a small collection of silver cylinders, flat on one end and with a knob on the other end. They were crusted with white foam. Tara examined them closely. “It exploded,” she said, picking one up and examining the way the foam drizzled down one side. “That looks like some sort of chemical − the foam. It could be acid.”
“Acid…maybe these too were weapons? We should get them analyzed, see what chemical they were.”
“Acid bombs,” Tara speculated. “Hmm…”
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“We’ve finished analyzing the item,” the leader of the team of chemists said. “It’s battery acid.”
“Battery acid?”
“Yes − those were batteries. They powered the ancients’ small machines, like flashlights and portable CD players.” The chemist touched the screen and the example items came up. “An obscure little novel provided the knowledge. Fascinating, isn’t it? Now perhaps we could find one of these battery-powered items and recreate them for historical reference…?”
“Maybe,” Tara said, looking at the screen. “Maybe.
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Sci-Fi Story
Two archeologists were picking their way around some tables filled with objects found in a recently excavated house. From tests they had run on a few of the objects, the house was from around the twenty-first century − nearly six thousand years ago now. It was the first house of that time period ever to be discovered, and they were eager to learn about the people of that time.
Much of the house had long since rotted away, such as most of the storage containers, which were probably made of wood. Many strange saucer-like objects with rubber-padded handles had been found, of differing depths. Izrael leaned over and gently touched one of these. Rust had eroded much of the original material. “What do you suppose this is?” he asked his companion Tara. “And why would the ancients need so many of them?”
Tara shrugged. “We don’t know. The only records we have of the twenty-first century are its entertainment volumes. It could be a sort of weapon. They talk about people hitting other people with heavy, copper pans or pots. Perhaps it was a weapon.”
“Interesting.” Izrael moved further down the line of tables. “There’s so much we can learn! What, for instance, are these?”
It was a small collection of silver cylinders, flat on one end and with a knob on the other end. They were crusted with white foam. Tara examined them closely. “It exploded,” she said, picking one up and examining the way the foam drizzled down one side. “That looks like some sort of chemical − the foam. It could be acid.”
“Acid…maybe these too were weapons? We should get them analyzed, see what chemical they were.”
“Acid bombs,” Tara speculated. “Hmm…”
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“We’ve finished analyzing the item,” the leader of the team of chemists said. “It’s battery acid.”
“Battery acid?”
“Yes − those were batteries. They powered the ancients’ small machines, like flashlights and portable CD players.” The chemist touched the screen and the example items came up. “An obscure little novel provided the knowledge. Fascinating, isn’t it? Now perhaps we could find one of these battery-powered items and recreate them for historical reference…?”
“Maybe,” Tara said, looking at the screen. “Maybe.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Legend of the Crazy Cat Lady: Part Three
Part three
It’s a long walk and your paws are sore by the time you get there. The show cats follow a safe distance behind you, waiting for your grand adventure.
There it looms in the middle of nowhere: the Cat Lady’s house. This will be a piece of salmon, you fling at Henry and the others. I’m going to go in and come back in time to get tuna from my person while you are all sadly humiliated!
You swagger up her driveway, flicking your tail back and forth aggressively. The show cats sit down just before the Cat Lady’s yard starts and wait for you there.
Her yard is weedy and run-down. Clearly she doesn’t care enough to take care of it. There is no cat-scent and you wonder why. You know the Crazy Cat Lady has hundreds, thousands of cats, and they should all be out here as often as they can, leaving their scent over everything.
Your tail is beginning to bristle with the familiar prickling sensation and your collar is feeling tighter than usual. And that’s when you know you’re really scared. You’ve heard the tales. The Cat Lady snatches kittens from their mothers and keeps them forever. The Cat Lady is crazy and no cat will purposely go near a crazy person.
They’re only nursery tails, you tell yourself, and hop up onto her porch. But still you hesitate. You feel yourself prickling all over, and you know you’re already twice your normal size.
Listen, you don’t really have to do this! Angie calls from the edge of the Cat Lady’s yard. Come back and we’ll share a mouse. Henry was just being stupid.
But you flick your tail. You have decided to do this, so you will. Such a remark deserves no reply. You search the front wall to find a way in. You’re going to have to go in if you want to best Henry. There’s a window there. You decide that for your purposes it will do, and you choose a launching point directly below it.
Jumping up onto the windowsill, you shove the window with your paw. It swings inwards slightly.
I am going in, you say, and you do.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Author's note: I made it nursery tails instead of tales on purpose. Just saying.
It’s a long walk and your paws are sore by the time you get there. The show cats follow a safe distance behind you, waiting for your grand adventure.
There it looms in the middle of nowhere: the Cat Lady’s house. This will be a piece of salmon, you fling at Henry and the others. I’m going to go in and come back in time to get tuna from my person while you are all sadly humiliated!
You swagger up her driveway, flicking your tail back and forth aggressively. The show cats sit down just before the Cat Lady’s yard starts and wait for you there.
Her yard is weedy and run-down. Clearly she doesn’t care enough to take care of it. There is no cat-scent and you wonder why. You know the Crazy Cat Lady has hundreds, thousands of cats, and they should all be out here as often as they can, leaving their scent over everything.
Your tail is beginning to bristle with the familiar prickling sensation and your collar is feeling tighter than usual. And that’s when you know you’re really scared. You’ve heard the tales. The Cat Lady snatches kittens from their mothers and keeps them forever. The Cat Lady is crazy and no cat will purposely go near a crazy person.
They’re only nursery tails, you tell yourself, and hop up onto her porch. But still you hesitate. You feel yourself prickling all over, and you know you’re already twice your normal size.
Listen, you don’t really have to do this! Angie calls from the edge of the Cat Lady’s yard. Come back and we’ll share a mouse. Henry was just being stupid.
But you flick your tail. You have decided to do this, so you will. Such a remark deserves no reply. You search the front wall to find a way in. You’re going to have to go in if you want to best Henry. There’s a window there. You decide that for your purposes it will do, and you choose a launching point directly below it.
Jumping up onto the windowsill, you shove the window with your paw. It swings inwards slightly.
I am going in, you say, and you do.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Author's note: I made it nursery tails instead of tales on purpose. Just saying.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The Legend of the Crazy Cat Lady: Part Two
Part two
This place is the park. You like it because so many squirrels and birds like to hang around here. It’s great practice for hunting. There are always a lot of other cats here, but you don’t mind. Most of them are purebred ‘show cats’ like Henry from down the road and don’t actually take advantage of the great hunting, just strut around and show off.
And Henry is in the park today. He’s still fat, fluffy, and boastful. Really boastful. In fact, he’s in the middle of boasting to a group of other, less fluffy, purebred cats. You decide to see what the topic is today and find out that it’s how brave the Persian breed is. And in the process, implying that a cat of no particular breed like yourself is somewhat less than adequate.
Being a cat, you cannot take that sort of thing lying down. You sidle into their group with your tail up. Then you say, Maybe the Persian breed is brave, but have you got any proof?
Angie, a Bengal, looks at Henry. Yeah, Henry. Prove the fluffy cats have as much bravery as they have fur.
The others nod. Some are Bengals like Angie, others are Japanese bobtails, and a few are Abyssinians. Show us, Henry, they say.
Henry turns to me. So you doubt the courage of the Persian breed? Why not test the courage of a mix, such as you?
And immediately the others are with Henry. It is time for a quick decision. Do you want to possibly risk one of your nine lives for your dignity? You’re not feeling particularly cautious today. But you are always aware of your dignity. And the last time you had a bruised dignity, it took you weeks to heal.
It wouldn’t bother me. You sit down and wrap your tail over your paws, looking supremely unconcerned. You are you, and therefore you are braver, stronger, and more deserving than any of these other cats.
Very well. Then you’ll accept a dare? Henry’s round eyes start glinting. You wonder if this dare might very well cause you to lose a life.
Yes I will. You flick your tail contemptuously and perform a Disconcerting Glare on Henry.
He doesn’t look disconcerted. So you flick your tail again and say, Get on with it, Henry.
I dare you to go to the Crazy Cat Lady’s house and then go inside. His flat face is smug as he says it.
You try another Disconcerting Glare. But now you are feeling disconcerted yourself. The Crazy Cat Lady is something known by everybody. Everybody knows at least two things: she is crazy. And she has a lot of cats. Her house is far out of town and very spooky.
Your dignity is at stake here. And being a cat, you can’t just let it be burned there. I accept your dare, you say, and saunter off immediately. You are going to go to the Crazy Cat Lady’s house and come back in time to greet Suzy when she comes back so she can get out some of that delicious tuna you’ve been smelling for weeks but couldn’t get because she put it in the refrigerator.
The show cats follow you. You don’t look at them. They do not bother you. They are simply spectators, creatures for you to show off for. And of course you can’t miss a chance to show off. You change your saunter to a swagger and crook your tail at the tip.
You are feeling very confident.
This place is the park. You like it because so many squirrels and birds like to hang around here. It’s great practice for hunting. There are always a lot of other cats here, but you don’t mind. Most of them are purebred ‘show cats’ like Henry from down the road and don’t actually take advantage of the great hunting, just strut around and show off.
And Henry is in the park today. He’s still fat, fluffy, and boastful. Really boastful. In fact, he’s in the middle of boasting to a group of other, less fluffy, purebred cats. You decide to see what the topic is today and find out that it’s how brave the Persian breed is. And in the process, implying that a cat of no particular breed like yourself is somewhat less than adequate.
Being a cat, you cannot take that sort of thing lying down. You sidle into their group with your tail up. Then you say, Maybe the Persian breed is brave, but have you got any proof?
Angie, a Bengal, looks at Henry. Yeah, Henry. Prove the fluffy cats have as much bravery as they have fur.
The others nod. Some are Bengals like Angie, others are Japanese bobtails, and a few are Abyssinians. Show us, Henry, they say.
Henry turns to me. So you doubt the courage of the Persian breed? Why not test the courage of a mix, such as you?
And immediately the others are with Henry. It is time for a quick decision. Do you want to possibly risk one of your nine lives for your dignity? You’re not feeling particularly cautious today. But you are always aware of your dignity. And the last time you had a bruised dignity, it took you weeks to heal.
It wouldn’t bother me. You sit down and wrap your tail over your paws, looking supremely unconcerned. You are you, and therefore you are braver, stronger, and more deserving than any of these other cats.
Very well. Then you’ll accept a dare? Henry’s round eyes start glinting. You wonder if this dare might very well cause you to lose a life.
Yes I will. You flick your tail contemptuously and perform a Disconcerting Glare on Henry.
He doesn’t look disconcerted. So you flick your tail again and say, Get on with it, Henry.
I dare you to go to the Crazy Cat Lady’s house and then go inside. His flat face is smug as he says it.
You try another Disconcerting Glare. But now you are feeling disconcerted yourself. The Crazy Cat Lady is something known by everybody. Everybody knows at least two things: she is crazy. And she has a lot of cats. Her house is far out of town and very spooky.
Your dignity is at stake here. And being a cat, you can’t just let it be burned there. I accept your dare, you say, and saunter off immediately. You are going to go to the Crazy Cat Lady’s house and come back in time to greet Suzy when she comes back so she can get out some of that delicious tuna you’ve been smelling for weeks but couldn’t get because she put it in the refrigerator.
The show cats follow you. You don’t look at them. They do not bother you. They are simply spectators, creatures for you to show off for. And of course you can’t miss a chance to show off. You change your saunter to a swagger and crook your tail at the tip.
You are feeling very confident.
Monday, September 19, 2011
The Legend of the Crazy Cat Lady: Part One
Part one
The sun sparkles on your fur as you rise to your paws. You are a cat and you have a human named Suzy. It’s early Monday morning as you decide whether whatever woke you up is worth investigating or if you should just go right back to sleep in the warm patch of sun.
The sun was behind you when you first lay down on the cushion − now it’s glaring in your eyes. You decide it’s not worth finding a new position and get up. Where is Suzy? It is time for lunch and you are hungry! An earsplitting meow will probably bring her running from any corner of the house. So you scream for her.
She doesn’t come. You begin to get worried. What has happened to Suzy? Usually around this time she’s staring, fascinated, at one of the leafy things she calls a book while you nap somewhere on the floor nearby. But today she is missing.
You go and walk around the house. You don’t search in all your favorite nooks and crannies to see if she’s hiding there because you know that Suzy is only a human and can’t fit into your special places. When you can’t find her, you decide to look out the window to see if her car is there.
You sit on your favorite front-facing windowsill and look out on your yard. It is perfect, with long grass perfect for stalking. You’re glad that Suzy doesn’t know one end of a lawnmower from the other and doesn’t particularly want to. Your yard may not be as big as Henry’s down the road, but at least you can actually defend all of it. Henry doesn’t even know that he has five or six stray tabbies living on his yard. Now you, you would know if another cat moved in before it could even sit down if not sooner!
You realize in all of your territorial thinking you have forgotten what you came up to this windowsill to do − look for Suzy’s car. Since you can’t see it, she must have gone out on an errand or something. The problem is solved. Now you think you will go out for a stroll and see what that sparrow you noticed yesterday is doing.
You hop off the window sill and over to the back door. There’s your cat flap, and it swings invitingly. You slip through it and saunter through your yard.
There’s that sparrow, and he’s in his tree. Unfortunately it’s a springy sapling, with really thin branches that bounce when you walk on them. Sometimes they bounce you right off. If you really wanted to, you could get that annoying sparrow. And his little family of chicks for dessert. But you don’t think a couple of lean sparrows is worth getting flung up and down until you lose your kitty chow, so you check the fence.
The fence is an excellent boundary. You like it. It shows other cats that this is your main place, the heart of your territory! Of course, you can always get over it and extend your hunting territory as far as you like past the fence.
Today you’re not feeling solitary, so you find your favorite launching point to get over the fence − a low-arching tree branch − and scale it. If looking for more of a challenge, you could always use a corner of the fence to get over, or just go straight up it. Even though the fence doesn’t have any gaps in it, like some fences you’ve seen, it wouldn’t be that hard for an experienced climber.
Once you’re over, you ramble off to the place where no cat can claim as territory, but where every cat can meet.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Short story in five parts. I wrote it as an experiment with the 'you' point of view.
The sun sparkles on your fur as you rise to your paws. You are a cat and you have a human named Suzy. It’s early Monday morning as you decide whether whatever woke you up is worth investigating or if you should just go right back to sleep in the warm patch of sun.
The sun was behind you when you first lay down on the cushion − now it’s glaring in your eyes. You decide it’s not worth finding a new position and get up. Where is Suzy? It is time for lunch and you are hungry! An earsplitting meow will probably bring her running from any corner of the house. So you scream for her.
She doesn’t come. You begin to get worried. What has happened to Suzy? Usually around this time she’s staring, fascinated, at one of the leafy things she calls a book while you nap somewhere on the floor nearby. But today she is missing.
You go and walk around the house. You don’t search in all your favorite nooks and crannies to see if she’s hiding there because you know that Suzy is only a human and can’t fit into your special places. When you can’t find her, you decide to look out the window to see if her car is there.
You sit on your favorite front-facing windowsill and look out on your yard. It is perfect, with long grass perfect for stalking. You’re glad that Suzy doesn’t know one end of a lawnmower from the other and doesn’t particularly want to. Your yard may not be as big as Henry’s down the road, but at least you can actually defend all of it. Henry doesn’t even know that he has five or six stray tabbies living on his yard. Now you, you would know if another cat moved in before it could even sit down if not sooner!
You realize in all of your territorial thinking you have forgotten what you came up to this windowsill to do − look for Suzy’s car. Since you can’t see it, she must have gone out on an errand or something. The problem is solved. Now you think you will go out for a stroll and see what that sparrow you noticed yesterday is doing.
You hop off the window sill and over to the back door. There’s your cat flap, and it swings invitingly. You slip through it and saunter through your yard.
There’s that sparrow, and he’s in his tree. Unfortunately it’s a springy sapling, with really thin branches that bounce when you walk on them. Sometimes they bounce you right off. If you really wanted to, you could get that annoying sparrow. And his little family of chicks for dessert. But you don’t think a couple of lean sparrows is worth getting flung up and down until you lose your kitty chow, so you check the fence.
The fence is an excellent boundary. You like it. It shows other cats that this is your main place, the heart of your territory! Of course, you can always get over it and extend your hunting territory as far as you like past the fence.
Today you’re not feeling solitary, so you find your favorite launching point to get over the fence − a low-arching tree branch − and scale it. If looking for more of a challenge, you could always use a corner of the fence to get over, or just go straight up it. Even though the fence doesn’t have any gaps in it, like some fences you’ve seen, it wouldn’t be that hard for an experienced climber.
Once you’re over, you ramble off to the place where no cat can claim as territory, but where every cat can meet.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Short story in five parts. I wrote it as an experiment with the 'you' point of view.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Short Story: Drought
Drought
Dawn breaks, blinding me for an instant. Then my eyes adjust, and I see all of my lions. They are scuffling briefly over a good place at the waterhole, coming to no real struggles. I lazily saunter to the hole to get a drink, and three of the lionesses follow me. Then I hear the pounding of gigantic feet, in the distance.
Elephants.
I leap back with a hiss. One of the lionesses looks at me solemnly and continues drinking the precious water. I swing my head from side to side, trying to find out where the elephants would appear. I do not like the idea that the grey mountains of flesh would come and take the water from my lions. Then my stomach growls, and I am reminded of hunger. I know the rest of the savannah predators left their usual grounds to find water, but couldn’t we have stayed, finding food if not water?
No. Our instinct was to get water first, and all animals put water before food. Food was going to come second, whether we liked it now or not. I retreat to where the body of the pride is lying in the shade of a few trees. They too heard the elephants, but they did not seem alarmed by it. That was good—I could not deal with a frightened pride.
The elephants do not seem bothered by our presence, either. I lift my head as if they disturbed my sleep, and lie back down. The day lags on. Every so often, I take a drink. The elephants are filling up the best spaces, forcing every other animal at the hole to come second. If it was not daytime, the time when the elephants are most powerful, then my pride would attack at once, for the slight chance of a meal.
It seems as if the scorching heat will never end, but then it begins to cool off as the smooth dark of night envelopes the elephants. My pride grows restless, knowing that as soon as full dark falls, they will have a chance for a meal.
As I prepare some of my lionesses for the hunt, the elephants trumpet back and forth. I watch them, but they cannot watch me, for they cannot see effectively in the darkness like we can. The pride roars back and forth to each other, showing their hunger by a few small scuffles. Straggling elephants are still arriving, but now my hunger and theirs is unbearable.
I rise, and call the lionesses to me. Sensing that food may be at the end, they gather around me. I signal to my lionesses by flicking my tail silently towards the calves of the elephants, and instantly a small patrol, two or three lionesses at most, is off. Although I take no part in the hunt, I admire them.
They try, I will give them that. But the main body of the elephant herd closes in upon their calves, keeping my lions out and the calves in. Not even one calf is left behind in the confusion. I hiss in frustration, wanting to cover my ears against the deafening trumpets of the elephants. Will we never have a bite of food? But stragglers—some of them lone stragglers!—are still arriving.
I signal to a few lionesses still beside me, and they break away to check out this lone elephant. One of them lopes back immediately. The look in her eyes says clearly that this one is too big for even my pride to tackle.
I am willing to wait. If one showed up alone, more will. Now there is a ray of hope, a sunbeam in a dark world. And I am right. Soon enough, another loner appears, pushing its way through the bushes. I don’t try to alarm it. It’s definitely smaller than the first, but it could still kill a single lion. I beckon my pride to me, and they leave off their fruitless efforts. I point to the small loner, and they are off. A single lion would die—but there are thirty of us!
The elephant brays in dismay as my lionesses close in. They form a close pack by its heels, nipping and biting. Every so often one of them leaps up and claws at its flanks. The elephant trumpets ferociously, obviously afraid. The lionesses are not even exerting themselves. We may be hungry and weakened, but we have had water instead of food. This elephant likely has not had either for a long time.
I yowl in triumph. The elephant is tiring quickly. I lope after my pride. When I reach them, the elephant is down. My lionesses have not yet begun the feast, but I can see their hungry gazes as their eyes flick from the downed prey to my still body. I dip my head to take a bite. They join me around the kill. We eat and are full, roaring softly across at each other. Now that our bellies are full, our ragged pelts are already beginning to fill out.
Now we are grace. We are power. We are the LION PRIDE, and we rule the waterhole.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A break from The Mirror On The Wall. Just a short little story - completely true by the way - about lions. Comments, anyone?
The waterhole has still precious liquid, but for how much longer will any survive?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
WE ARE STARVING. There are thirty of us, all fit lions. But for how much longer will the fitness last, in this awful drought? At least we have water. The pride is staying by one of the waterholes that still has water in it, so none die of thirst. Desperate yowls split the air of the night. My pride starves, for our prey has left to find water. Is it better to die quickly with the agony of a dry throat, or a slower death with the gnawing bite of hunger in your belly? If there was even a mouse, I might snap it up, but there is none. Birds are too fast for us, and the gazelle have stayed well away from this hole. It seems barren of animals.Dawn breaks, blinding me for an instant. Then my eyes adjust, and I see all of my lions. They are scuffling briefly over a good place at the waterhole, coming to no real struggles. I lazily saunter to the hole to get a drink, and three of the lionesses follow me. Then I hear the pounding of gigantic feet, in the distance.
Elephants.
I leap back with a hiss. One of the lionesses looks at me solemnly and continues drinking the precious water. I swing my head from side to side, trying to find out where the elephants would appear. I do not like the idea that the grey mountains of flesh would come and take the water from my lions. Then my stomach growls, and I am reminded of hunger. I know the rest of the savannah predators left their usual grounds to find water, but couldn’t we have stayed, finding food if not water?
No. Our instinct was to get water first, and all animals put water before food. Food was going to come second, whether we liked it now or not. I retreat to where the body of the pride is lying in the shade of a few trees. They too heard the elephants, but they did not seem alarmed by it. That was good—I could not deal with a frightened pride.
The elephants do not seem bothered by our presence, either. I lift my head as if they disturbed my sleep, and lie back down. The day lags on. Every so often, I take a drink. The elephants are filling up the best spaces, forcing every other animal at the hole to come second. If it was not daytime, the time when the elephants are most powerful, then my pride would attack at once, for the slight chance of a meal.
It seems as if the scorching heat will never end, but then it begins to cool off as the smooth dark of night envelopes the elephants. My pride grows restless, knowing that as soon as full dark falls, they will have a chance for a meal.
As I prepare some of my lionesses for the hunt, the elephants trumpet back and forth. I watch them, but they cannot watch me, for they cannot see effectively in the darkness like we can. The pride roars back and forth to each other, showing their hunger by a few small scuffles. Straggling elephants are still arriving, but now my hunger and theirs is unbearable.
I rise, and call the lionesses to me. Sensing that food may be at the end, they gather around me. I signal to my lionesses by flicking my tail silently towards the calves of the elephants, and instantly a small patrol, two or three lionesses at most, is off. Although I take no part in the hunt, I admire them.
They try, I will give them that. But the main body of the elephant herd closes in upon their calves, keeping my lions out and the calves in. Not even one calf is left behind in the confusion. I hiss in frustration, wanting to cover my ears against the deafening trumpets of the elephants. Will we never have a bite of food? But stragglers—some of them lone stragglers!—are still arriving.
I signal to a few lionesses still beside me, and they break away to check out this lone elephant. One of them lopes back immediately. The look in her eyes says clearly that this one is too big for even my pride to tackle.
I am willing to wait. If one showed up alone, more will. Now there is a ray of hope, a sunbeam in a dark world. And I am right. Soon enough, another loner appears, pushing its way through the bushes. I don’t try to alarm it. It’s definitely smaller than the first, but it could still kill a single lion. I beckon my pride to me, and they leave off their fruitless efforts. I point to the small loner, and they are off. A single lion would die—but there are thirty of us!
The elephant brays in dismay as my lionesses close in. They form a close pack by its heels, nipping and biting. Every so often one of them leaps up and claws at its flanks. The elephant trumpets ferociously, obviously afraid. The lionesses are not even exerting themselves. We may be hungry and weakened, but we have had water instead of food. This elephant likely has not had either for a long time.
I yowl in triumph. The elephant is tiring quickly. I lope after my pride. When I reach them, the elephant is down. My lionesses have not yet begun the feast, but I can see their hungry gazes as their eyes flick from the downed prey to my still body. I dip my head to take a bite. They join me around the kill. We eat and are full, roaring softly across at each other. Now that our bellies are full, our ragged pelts are already beginning to fill out.
Now we are grace. We are power. We are the LION PRIDE, and we rule the waterhole.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A break from The Mirror On The Wall. Just a short little story - completely true by the way - about lions. Comments, anyone?
Sunday, August 21, 2011
The Mirror On The Wall: Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Shalizar pushed the door open, tail twitching. It was his job to guide us, since I had never left my room.
“Follow me,” he said, and slipped into the hallway beyond. I followed unsteadily, unsure of my new limbs.
The hallway was well-lit by torches and empty. Shalizar looked at me. “Where are we going?”
“To find a girl named Snow White.”
Shalizar’s left eye widened skeptically − the cat equivalent of raising an eyebrow. “Her?”
“I know she’s creepy. But you saw the Hunter! I am the reason he’s after her and I don’t like having a guilty conscience.”
Shalizar shrugged. “The Hunter’s all right. He paid me a lot of tuna after I killed a rat for him once.”
“Why wouldn’t he kill it himself?”
“He’s afraid of them. I find them quite tasty. Rats are nothing to fear.”
I grinned. “Then let’s find some rats as soon as we get to Snow White.”
Shalizar looked at me for a long, long moment. “You have absolutely no plan, do you?”
“Nope, no plan. I’m making it up as I go.”
Scratch that, I wasn’t used to walking at all. And Shalizar was bounding along like there was a fire at his tail. I could barely keep up.
We stopped for a break. I rubbed my aching legs and Shalizar licked some nonexistent dust off his spotless paws.
“You have absolutely no idea where we’re going, do you?” I snapped as I leaned against the wall.
“Of course I know,” Shalizar said unconcernedly. “But we can’t just walk out the front gate. I am going o take us through the servants’ quarters and out a secret entrance. Or exit, as the case may be.”
“Isn’t there a faster way?”
“No.” Shalizar rose, shook out his bushy tail, and resumed walking. Fuming, I followed him.
It was at the bottom of the fourth set of stairs that we ran into trouble.
Shalizar pushed the door open, tail twitching. It was his job to guide us, since I had never left my room.
“Follow me,” he said, and slipped into the hallway beyond. I followed unsteadily, unsure of my new limbs.
The hallway was well-lit by torches and empty. Shalizar looked at me. “Where are we going?”
“To find a girl named Snow White.”
Shalizar’s left eye widened skeptically − the cat equivalent of raising an eyebrow. “Her?”
“I know she’s creepy. But you saw the Hunter! I am the reason he’s after her and I don’t like having a guilty conscience.”
Shalizar shrugged. “The Hunter’s all right. He paid me a lot of tuna after I killed a rat for him once.”
“Why wouldn’t he kill it himself?”
“He’s afraid of them. I find them quite tasty. Rats are nothing to fear.”
I grinned. “Then let’s find some rats as soon as we get to Snow White.”
Shalizar looked at me for a long, long moment. “You have absolutely no plan, do you?”
“Nope, no plan. I’m making it up as I go.”
------------------------------------------------------------
Shalizar led us through six corridors, down two flights of stairs, and up another flight. Then we went in one end of a storage closet, out the other, and through three more corridors. I was beginning to get dizzy. And my legs hurt. I wasn’t used to walking this much!
Scratch that, I wasn’t used to walking at all. And Shalizar was bounding along like there was a fire at his tail. I could barely keep up.
We stopped for a break. I rubbed my aching legs and Shalizar licked some nonexistent dust off his spotless paws.
“You have absolutely no idea where we’re going, do you?” I snapped as I leaned against the wall.
“Of course I know,” Shalizar said unconcernedly. “But we can’t just walk out the front gate. I am going o take us through the servants’ quarters and out a secret entrance. Or exit, as the case may be.”
“Isn’t there a faster way?”
“No.” Shalizar rose, shook out his bushy tail, and resumed walking. Fuming, I followed him.
It was at the bottom of the fourth set of stairs that we ran into trouble.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
The Mirror On The Wall: Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Oh no! The
Hunter!
No, wait.
You've lost me. Who's the Hunter?
That's one problem with being a mirror. You never
get a chance to get out and meet people. The only living things I know are the
Queen, and her cat Shalizar.
Shalizar is actually not bad for a witch's cat. He
has piercing green eyes and medium long shiny black fur. He is an excellent
conversationalist, if you speak cat. And if he's in the mood to talk, which is
not often.
The door
opened and a very, very, very scary man slipped in like a
shadow.
He was dressed
in multiple shades of dark olive green, and his stature was average. He had
filed teeth, sharp and pointed, and his eyes were a strange pale blue. Somehow
he had split the tip of his tongue, making it forked like a snake's. He had no
hair on his head.
Shalizar slipped in behind the Hunter as the latter
bowed low to the Queen. The former jumped onto a table and stared hungrily
around the room.
The Queen turned to the Hunter. "We have been
displeased by someone. Find them and bring their heart to
us!"
"Tell me who it is
and they will die," the Hunter said in a husky voice. He sounded like he would
cry at any moment, but the guy was probably a crocodile at heart. Any tears he
wept would be false.
"It is a girl in our palace. Her name is Snow
White!"
"She will be dead by the time the week is
over."
Since it was
only Monday, the guy was clearly not a very efficient assassin. The Queen seemed
satisfied by this reply, though, and nodded. "Good. Set off at
once!"
And the Hunter was gone. He was quieter than
Shalizar!
The Queen touched Shalizar's head lightly and
smiled. "I am the only one allowed to be fair," she chuckled, and swept out of
the room.
Okay, not my plan. Sarcastic and rude I may
be, but I am not a murderer. I had to save Snow White! I saw
Shalizar walking unconcernedly through a maze of delicate potion bottles on a
high shelf. "Hey! Shalizar!" I hissed, in Cat.
He stopped and looked at me. "Quentin!" he said,
as if surprised.
"Uh
huh. Me. Can you get me the fourth mauve potion on the left? The one marked
Sselnoitom eht ot Noitom?"
"What?"
"Sselnoitom eht ot Noiton!"
"Gesundheit."
"Just get me the mauve potion from the left,
Shalizar!" I snapped.
Shalizar's black paw hovered tauntingly over the
bottle I watned. "This one?"
"Yes. Pour it over me, will
you?"
"Mm...what
will you give me?" He knocked the bottle slightly. It teetered
dangerously.
"Uh...I
don't know?" What was I supposed to give a cat?
"This bottle gives motion to the motionless," Shalizar meowed. His emerald eyes flashed a little. "You're going to run away if I give this to you. Well, I want to come."
"Why?" A lifetime of working with a witch leaves you a little suspicious. Can you blame me?
"I'm bored."
An evasive answer. Typical Shalizar. "Okay, you can come. Just pour it over me!"
Shalizar picked the bottle up in his teeth and sauntered to the end of the shelf closest to me. He set down the bottle I wanted, popped the cork with his fangs, and tipped it over me.
The liquid flowed across my glass, colder than anything I had ever felt before. Cold, and painful, and dizzying. I felt my frame bulging. Strangely it itched. I had never felt itching before. But it itched now, and I had no hands to scratch. Was this how I would gain motion?
Spindly arms and legs sprouted from my frame. Arms! Legs! This was terrific! Now I could pick things up! Walk! Run! Jump!
Yeah, I know, I know, you do that all the time. I'm a mirror, okay?
I lifted up on my hook and landed awkwardly on the knotted wooden floor. Shalizar touched down gracefully next to me. I glared at him. What a show-off.
We were a mirror and a cat, off to rescue the creepiest girl on the planet.
Not your typical fairy-tale, huh?
"This bottle gives motion to the motionless," Shalizar meowed. His emerald eyes flashed a little. "You're going to run away if I give this to you. Well, I want to come."
"Why?" A lifetime of working with a witch leaves you a little suspicious. Can you blame me?
"I'm bored."
An evasive answer. Typical Shalizar. "Okay, you can come. Just pour it over me!"
Shalizar picked the bottle up in his teeth and sauntered to the end of the shelf closest to me. He set down the bottle I wanted, popped the cork with his fangs, and tipped it over me.
The liquid flowed across my glass, colder than anything I had ever felt before. Cold, and painful, and dizzying. I felt my frame bulging. Strangely it itched. I had never felt itching before. But it itched now, and I had no hands to scratch. Was this how I would gain motion?
Spindly arms and legs sprouted from my frame. Arms! Legs! This was terrific! Now I could pick things up! Walk! Run! Jump!
Yeah, I know, I know, you do that all the time. I'm a mirror, okay?
I lifted up on my hook and landed awkwardly on the knotted wooden floor. Shalizar touched down gracefully next to me. I glared at him. What a show-off.
We were a mirror and a cat, off to rescue the creepiest girl on the planet.
Not your typical fairy-tale, huh?
The Mirror On The Wall: Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
The Queen swept into the room. Her midnight-purple cloak had a high collar, framing her elegant yet cruel features perfectly. I yawned.
“Hello, Quentin,” she said. Then she did this strange little flailing dance with her arms and chanted ominously. I think it was supposed to open the prophetic channels so I could see that she was the fairest or something. Or maybe it was just this witchy thing she did, because she was a witch. It didn’t actually do anything, so I don’t know why she even bothered. I don’t use any gift of prophecy when she asks me the “Mirror, mirror” question. I just tell her what she wants to hear.
In fact, I don’t even have prophetic abilities. Maybe if I were a huge fancy mirror, one of those that cost hundreds of dollars, I would. But when you are a smallish oval mirror with a plain birch frame that the Queen got at Goodwill for three bucks, you don’t get a lot of powers. All I do is talk. In an extremely blunt and opinionated way.
Back to the Queen. Once she was finished flailing, she stretched her hand out to me. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”
There’s that question again! I hate that question! Well, this was my chance to get even. I answered the Queen, “Oh, Queen, you are very fair, but there is one who is fairer still.”
She was shocked. She glared at the inanimate objects in the room. Most of them mystified me, like the white feathers everywhere, but the purpose of one certain glass disk was perfectly clear. It was a lie detector, enchanted to turn a certain color if a person was lying or not lying. I am not a person. I am a mirror. Lie detectors do not bother me. The Queen glared back at me. “We must know the name of this fairest one!”
These mystic little rituals really got on my nerves. Not that I had nerves, being a mirror, but you get my point. Time to mix it up a little.
“Her name’s Snow White. She’s beautiful. Way more beautiful than you are. And she lives in your palace, in fact. Never noticed her? You probably wouldn’t. But anyways, she is a serving girl.”
The Queen’s face was going through an interesting spectrum of emotions: first surprise, then anger, then finally hatred. Her jaw was set as she waved a dismissive hand at me. If that was supposed to turn me off, it didn’t work. I don’t think I have an off button. I went silent anyways. My work was finished.
The Queen spoke into a shriveled Thing. I don’t think you want to know what it used to be. Now it was an intercom system through the palace. “Bring us the Hunter,” she said.
The Queen swept into the room. Her midnight-purple cloak had a high collar, framing her elegant yet cruel features perfectly. I yawned.
“Hello, Quentin,” she said. Then she did this strange little flailing dance with her arms and chanted ominously. I think it was supposed to open the prophetic channels so I could see that she was the fairest or something. Or maybe it was just this witchy thing she did, because she was a witch. It didn’t actually do anything, so I don’t know why she even bothered. I don’t use any gift of prophecy when she asks me the “Mirror, mirror” question. I just tell her what she wants to hear.
In fact, I don’t even have prophetic abilities. Maybe if I were a huge fancy mirror, one of those that cost hundreds of dollars, I would. But when you are a smallish oval mirror with a plain birch frame that the Queen got at Goodwill for three bucks, you don’t get a lot of powers. All I do is talk. In an extremely blunt and opinionated way.
Back to the Queen. Once she was finished flailing, she stretched her hand out to me. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”
There’s that question again! I hate that question! Well, this was my chance to get even. I answered the Queen, “Oh, Queen, you are very fair, but there is one who is fairer still.”
She was shocked. She glared at the inanimate objects in the room. Most of them mystified me, like the white feathers everywhere, but the purpose of one certain glass disk was perfectly clear. It was a lie detector, enchanted to turn a certain color if a person was lying or not lying. I am not a person. I am a mirror. Lie detectors do not bother me. The Queen glared back at me. “We must know the name of this fairest one!”
These mystic little rituals really got on my nerves. Not that I had nerves, being a mirror, but you get my point. Time to mix it up a little.
“Her name’s Snow White. She’s beautiful. Way more beautiful than you are. And she lives in your palace, in fact. Never noticed her? You probably wouldn’t. But anyways, she is a serving girl.”
The Queen’s face was going through an interesting spectrum of emotions: first surprise, then anger, then finally hatred. Her jaw was set as she waved a dismissive hand at me. If that was supposed to turn me off, it didn’t work. I don’t think I have an off button. I went silent anyways. My work was finished.
The Queen spoke into a shriveled Thing. I don’t think you want to know what it used to be. Now it was an intercom system through the palace. “Bring us the Hunter,” she said.
The Mirror On The Wall: Chapter 1
THE MIRROR ON THE WALL
A retelling of Snow White
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter One
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” I jeered in a mocking tone, after the Queen had left the room. “I am sick and tired of her asking me that! I’d like to hang her on the wall and ask her something like that every single day! Boy does she have some major insecurities!”
I hung there in general anger and muttered, “This is it. I’m done just telling her what she wants to here. Next time, I’ll tell her that that servant girl, Snow White, is the fairest one of all!
"Of course, there are a few holes in that story,” I mused. “Like the fact that Snow White isn’t beautiful.”
In the middle of my sentence a girl armed with a feather duster entered. She was probably intending to dust the Queen’s many creepy magical objects. Hearing my voice, she looked for the source and saw a mirror with a face - me. She screamed and dropped her duster.
“What? Never seen a talking mirror before?” I asked her sarcastically. “You must be new here.”
She screamed again and fled the room. I lifted up on my hook in the mirror equivalent of a shrug and continued my aggrieved monologue.
"I mean, skin white as snow? Add black hair and red lips and you have the creepiest human I’ve ever seen! The girl’s only redeeming feature is that she’s nice. Ugly, but nice. She’s the polar opposite of the Queen, who is beautiful but cruel.
“Maybe Snow would look better if she mixed up her wardrobe. Her dress looks like a paintbox exploded! Seriously! Blue skirt, yellow bodice, red cape - and those weird red ovals on the puffed sleeves! It’s hideous!” I shook my head - well, I wiggled on my hook. “Pff. How the Queen would ever believe that Snow White was the fairest of them all is beyond me. Still, it’s worth a shot."
And that was the way the whole crazy adventure started. With one really, really bad lie.
A retelling of Snow White
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter One
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” I jeered in a mocking tone, after the Queen had left the room. “I am sick and tired of her asking me that! I’d like to hang her on the wall and ask her something like that every single day! Boy does she have some major insecurities!”
I hung there in general anger and muttered, “This is it. I’m done just telling her what she wants to here. Next time, I’ll tell her that that servant girl, Snow White, is the fairest one of all!
"Of course, there are a few holes in that story,” I mused. “Like the fact that Snow White isn’t beautiful.”
In the middle of my sentence a girl armed with a feather duster entered. She was probably intending to dust the Queen’s many creepy magical objects. Hearing my voice, she looked for the source and saw a mirror with a face - me. She screamed and dropped her duster.
“What? Never seen a talking mirror before?” I asked her sarcastically. “You must be new here.”
She screamed again and fled the room. I lifted up on my hook in the mirror equivalent of a shrug and continued my aggrieved monologue.
"I mean, skin white as snow? Add black hair and red lips and you have the creepiest human I’ve ever seen! The girl’s only redeeming feature is that she’s nice. Ugly, but nice. She’s the polar opposite of the Queen, who is beautiful but cruel.
“Maybe Snow would look better if she mixed up her wardrobe. Her dress looks like a paintbox exploded! Seriously! Blue skirt, yellow bodice, red cape - and those weird red ovals on the puffed sleeves! It’s hideous!” I shook my head - well, I wiggled on my hook. “Pff. How the Queen would ever believe that Snow White was the fairest of them all is beyond me. Still, it’s worth a shot."
And that was the way the whole crazy adventure started. With one really, really bad lie.
Welcome
Welcome to the Quillmaster.
Enjoy these stories by one young writer.
Feel free to comment by clicking the # comments link and give me feedback.
Enjoy these stories by one young writer.
Feel free to comment by clicking the # comments link and give me feedback.
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