It's Finally Here! (AKA LOL POST SPAM PART TROIS)

Today, my friends, it is October 31st. Halloween. Fright night. The time when the dead become living and the living become dead. Halloween Town's most special day. The holiday that launched a thousand costumes.

But, you see, to me and thousands of others, Halloween is just the beginning. Now, I've already pinned down Halloween as Day One of the Candy Season, but for me something much more sweet comes directly after. (Unless you count candy corn, to which everything sweet pales in comparison. Candy corn is my favorite kind of sugar.)

November 1st. NaNoWriMo. Inner Editors, Purple Elephants, Trebuchets, Blatant Lies, NaNoToons, the Traveling Shovel of Death. Cameos by a certain Mr. Ian Woon.

Thirty days and nights of literary abandon! Quantity over quality! No plot? No problem!

Eep.

Luckily, this year (unlike my three or four-ish other novels) I have a plot outline! And a character sheet! And everything is just as bland as it was last year. Also, I have to content with school and homework. But plot outline! Hooray for Zoidberg! (God, I need sleep.)

Anyway, to celebrate this happy occasion, I'm going to be having guest bloggers come in!

No, not anyone interesting. My characters (the wall-bangingly stupidly named Dragonwyck gang) will each be posting their own little diatribes each da—wee—whenever I have time. That ought to give me something to work with…

Elevator, pt 2

As promised, the long-awaited ending to Elevator!

Except this doesn't take place in an elevator as much. Oh well, at least we find out what HWA stands for.

Marcella shook her head in confusion. She really did hope she was dreaming, because she was now looking at a man in a zoot suit and another man in what she was pretty sure was mid-1800s garb having a conversation about that copy machine that didn't work anymore, and they should really get a new one. And now the doors had opened again, and a woman stepped in, dressed for the eighteenth century. Her huge skirt barely fit through the door.. The 1800s man greeted her with a "Good day, Miss Howard!" and she nodded kindly in response. 

"Please let me off," Marcella whispered. She had been smashed against the back wall by the woman's ornate  mint-green skirt. Light glistened off the thin gold thread that ran up and down, and when the woman shifted to face Marcella, the modern-dressed woman could see copious lace on the front. 

"Pardon?"

"Please let me off the elevator. Please."

Marcella was feeling extremely claustrophobic at the moment, and she was sure that if she didn't get off the elevator soon she would pass out. 

"Oh, of course."

The woman moved to the other side of the elevator, and both of the men hurried out of her way, almost knocking over Marcella. She stumbled against the corner and grabbed the hand rail to keep from falling over. 

"Oh my goodness," said the woman in the enormous hoop skirt, "are you all right?"

Marcella shook her head and pushed her way to the buttons. She pressed the button for the next floor, and, after glancing over her shoulder, jabbed it with her thumb several more times. After several long moments, the elevator slowed to a stop and the doors opened. Marcella stumbled out, clutching her purse and trying to ignore her fellow passengers' calls of "Don't forget to drink some cold water!" and "You look like you could use a lie-down, darling!" 

She was rather surprised to find that the hallway looked just like a normal hallway: fluorescent lights, a drinking fountain set into a beige alcove, bland beach paintings hanging on the wall in between identical wooden doors. And to think she had been expecting a Grecian garden with fountains, or some such like. She hurried over to the drinking fountain and pressed the hand that wasn't holding her purse against the side button and bent over the stream of water. When she straightened up again, she was thinking much more clearly. Claustrophobia: gone. 

She wondered if she should try the stairs this time, but decided against it. She couldn't see the harm in returning to the elevators. 

The elevator pinged as it arrived. Marcella shifted her purse farther up her shoulder and prepared to step inside. As the doors opened, a young woman in a form-fitting silver jumpsuit and white goggles looked up. 

"G'ing zup?" she asked in an unfamiliar accent. Her companion, a man who appeared to be dressed in a toga and sandals. 

Marcella let out a small shriek and sprinted for the stairs. The woman in the silver jumpsuit shrugged and turned to the toga man. 

"Vat 'us dat all 'bout?"

"Δεν ξέρω."

Marcella scrambled up two flights of stairs before wearing out. She slowed to a jog and it wasn't too long until she reached floor number ten. She leaned against the door and pushed it open ever so slightly, in order to get a look at what was outside the stairwell. 

The hallway looked identical to the one several floors below, except for the view out the windows, which was slightly higher. She breathed a sigh of relief and stepped out.

Marcella stopped a few doors down from the stairwell. Well, this was the room. Did she dare enter?

Yes. She dared. 

Steeling herself for the worst, craziest, or just plain creepiest, she boldly knocked and then took a step back. A few moments later, the door opened a short bit and then closed, but not before Marcella caught a glimpse of a crackling fire in a fireplace and some cushy chairs. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all. She heard a chain lock being opened, and then the door opened for real. The man who stood just inside was dressed like the spawn of a zeerust B-movie and the entire steampunk genre. As he pushed his goggles onto the top of his head to take a look at her, a woman in pirate-y skirt and blouse combo with an ancient Egyptian headdress appeared. 

"Are you here for the Historic Welding Association meeting?" he asked pleasantly, while the Egytian pirate woman blew smoke from her cigar over his shoulder into Marcella's face

Marcella screamed and raced down the hall, still screaming and coughing. She retired to the country to take up beekeeping, and was never able to look at a history book again. 

LOL, Sherlock Holmes mythology gag. I'm not very proud of this, since it didn't turn out exactly how I wanted it to. Why do my two-parters always end up so disappointing?

WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN

LOL POST SPAM

So, I'm going to take advantage of the fact that I don't have school until Wednesday, and therefore there's ABSOLUTELY NOTHING I else could be doing, and I'm going to write a lot of bloggity blog-blogness today.

First off, The Eleventh Hour, by Graeme Base.

It was one of my favorite books when I was a kid (as in, eleven [lol]), and I still love it. It's a really simple story, told like a simple children's book—most of the pages are taken up by an illustration with two lines of rhyme in a box at the bottom.

The story proceeds thusly: An elephant named Horace invites his friends—who are all exotic animals like giraffes, zebras, and, er, mice—over to his house for his eleventh birthday party. The highlight of the occasion is the feast that he made all by himself. While they're out playing games, someone sneaks back into the house and eats the entire feast. When they find out, they all start accusing each other and generally freak out. Then [SPOILERS HIDDEN] Horace makes everyone sandwiches and they are content with the less lavish food, since not even the loss of the feast can tear them apart or something. And in this canon, the cake is not a lie! D'aww.

However, there are several things that set this apart from any other formulaic kid's book I have ever read.  As you can tell from the cover, the illustrations—the main focus of the book!—are BRILLIANT. Every page is so rich in detail you can almost reach out and touch it. Well, you can reach out and touch it, but it just feels like paper. The party is a costume party, and all the costumes are amazing. Some, like the giraffe twins', are pretty simple, but we can't all have historically accurate Three Musketeers (Or should I say Three MOUSEketeers! HAHAha…yeah.) costumes lying around for some unknown reason. Even with everything else going on, the feast still manages to stand out from the rest of the illustrations for sheer gorgeousness. Sure, it's just painted food, just some of the most magically beautiful and somehow sparkly painted food you have ever seen, and it's not like anyone was murdered or anything. But dear Lord, I would have attacked that table long before the culprit did!

Another thing that sets it apart is the mystery. Wikipedia informs me that Mr. Base was inspired by Agatha Christie when writing this, and boy does it show! There's a clue on practically every page, oftentimes more than one, and they're all listed in a folder in the back. A folder with a seal that you have to break to read. Damn, that's hardcore. With so many clues, you're bound to pick up on a few of them even before you get to the end.

I was a lazy little cheat who gave up before solving the mystery, but, come on, it was pretty tough! After you know who did it it's completely obvious, and you wonder why you didn't notice before, especially with all the totally obvious little, er, animals hiding in the background.

Yeah, anyway, it's a fantastic book that I would recommend to anyone.

GO READ IT NOW. NOW NOW NOW!

Look! More Writings! (Part Two)

And now, I must apologize for the squickily disappointing ending. Just in time for Hallowe'en! (And yes, I am dorkily pretentious enough to add the apostrophe every friggin' time.)

^_^ I'm such a freak!

How did your life end up like this? You were so content just last week. Sure, you weren't the luckiest person in the world, but you were pretty happy with how things turned out. Your life could have been a lot worse.

And now…this. How did it happen? When did it happen? Why did it happen? For what purpose? Why were you in that room, and where are you now? Somewhere much cleaner, that's for sure. White walls and four chairs. The three facing you are black; your chair is red. But those… You hesitate to call them people. Figures. The figures in the shadows are gone. 

You have so many questions. You almost wish the figures would come back to answer them. No, no you don't. You can't seem to be able to picture their faces, so you suppose you must have blocked it somehow. But whatever they look like, you know they're bad news. 

What's that sound? The wall slides open and… Green. Green and scaly. Not even B-movie 'green skinned space babe' green. Pastel green, a color that wouldn't be out of place in a little girl's room. Somehow, they are still menacing. There's three of them now. The woman and two men, one of which carries a canvas bag. While the guys take a seat, the woman makes her way over to you. You try to jerk away as she grabs your chin, but she twists your head to either side to take look at your face. You yelp in pain, but she just smirks and lets go of your face. Obviously, they have no qualms about causing you pain or discomfort. 

"This one is just right."

There's no sign of her accent anymore. What? Her voice is a calming, mellow purr. You can't help but relax, thinking that maybe, just maybe, everything will be all right. Your peace is shattered as soon as one of the men speaks. His voice is harsh and guttural, like a tiger with strep throat, but it's what he says that disturbs you.

"Shall we commence to impregnate it?" he says. 

"Impregnate? It?" you yelp. "But I can't— I'm not an it!" Funny how that is at the front of your mind, not the impregnation thing. "What are you going to do to me?!"

"Our race is nearly extinct," says the woman. "None of us left can birth children, so we need someone to carry on the legacy."

"So you're going to impregnate me?" you squeak. You're stupid. 

"Mm-hmm." Now she's opening packages of something—you don't want to think about what it is—from the bag. "Check and see if it's male or female." 

One of the male aliens stands up, and now is when you start to really panic. You leap away, running towards the closed door-wall, hoping it will open. You crash into the wall at full tilt, and as you slump to the floor, your head ringing, the walls slides open, letting in a cool breeze that smells of chlorine. You attempt to make a break for it, but a clammy hand closes around your neck and drags you back to the chair. It is obvious you won't be going anywhere.

This is going to hurt. 

Yeah. Aliens want to impregnate you with green scaly alien behbes. I'm really sorry about what you just read.

Look! More Writings!

So…I know I said 'probably' on that elevator story, but this is so much more interesting! Next bit comes tomorrow, for Hallowe'en.

Look! It's like Choose Your Own Adventure, but you don't get to choose! And it's not very adventurous so far! You're just in a room! And weird crap happens! YAY!

Yeah, Fright Night went well, we had to kick out the seventh graders, and I escaped without concussion. Candy for everyone!

You are in a room. You are sitting on a wooden chair. Your hands are tied behind your back and your elbows to the chair, the ropes chafing your wrists. In addition, your head aches something awful. You aren't sure, but you think you might be bleeding, up there, near your hairline. There is a bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, but it is off. The only light source in the room is a small window high on the wall to your left, dim light glistening off the damp stone walls. It is nighttime outside. You can hear children laughing and shrieking in delight outside. 

How can this be? you think. You don't remember anything past getting into bed last night. Was that last night? You're not sure. You don't know how much time has passed.

There is a reinforced wooden door in front of you and to the right. It creaks open. You tense, causing the ropes to scrape against your wrists again. You were expecting someone there, but apparently the door has merely opened of its own accord. Just as you start to relax, a tall, thin figure appears in the door. Shadows hide their face, but their clothes are clean, but simple and obviously old. Loose, faded jeans and a gray sweatshirt.

"Time's almost up," the figure says. They have a touch of a Dixie accent. You can't tell if it's a man or a woman. You should be able to tell, shouldn't you? You secretly like to think you're rather good at figuring out people, but you can tell absolutely nothing about this person. If it's even a person. Creepy. 

"Time? What time? How much is left?" you cry, your ragged throat scratching as you speak, but the figure has already turned and left. The door swings shut with a sharp crack. A few moments later, you are able to discern the sound of footsteps thudding methodically up a flight of stairs. 

You let your chin fall onto your chest. Stuff like this is only supposed to happen to other people. Besides, they're not even doing it right! Do they want ransom? Well, won't they be disappointed. Is it just the one person? Hmm, you might be able to take him, her, it. 

Not like this, you won't. Even if you weren't tied up, even if there wasn't blood leaking into your eye now, even if you knew their techniques, you still aren't up for a fight. You're far too weak. Your limbs are like lead weights and you don't feel like you could even lift them, let alone take a swing at someone.

Your arms are starting to cramp, being held in a position like that. You wiggle your arms and, miracle to end all miracles, the ropes start to loosen. Honestly, a Boy Scout could tie you up better! 

Okay, that might not be fair to the BSA. Or, rather, whoever tied the knots. The rope is still secure, but now you've got some wiggle room. Unfortunately, that brief action has tired you out. Your shoulders, back, arms, chest—they're all aching now. 

You start to plan your escape. You'll probably be able to squeeze out that window, even if it will be tight, but can you even get it open? Well, you'll burn that bridge when you cross it. The important thing now is to get out of these ropes. Bondage just isn't your thing, at least not right now. 

Oh no! Footsteps! You quickly settle back in your chair, hoping whoever it is won't notice the ropes sagging around your arms. They certainly don't sound like the one who was here before—wait, no, it's two people! Two sets of footsteps. Fudge on a stick. 

The door creaks open again, and the two people enter. The one on the left is the one who told you that your time is running out. Definitely a woman, as you can now see the shape of her chest. Her head is still obscured in shadow, all but her chin. She seems very particular about that. The one on the right is dressed similarly to the woman, in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, but he wears slightly tighter jeans. He's even taller than the woman, and his face is completely hidden by darkness.

For a long moment, all is silence. You can practically hear your nervous heart fluttering.

"Well?" you ask. It's all you can manage at the moment. 

The two figures cross their arms, the woman smirking. 

"Well is not the question, hon," she says. 

"The question is," says the man, "whether or not you're feeling brave enough."

They both step into the light, and you can't help but scream. You jerk away, and the force of your motion sends your chair crashing backwards. As your ears begin to ring, the world fades to black. 

Horror Story

Okay, I was a bit lazy and didn't write part 2 of the elevator story. I'll do that tomorrow, probably. In the mean time, enjoy a short horror story that I was required to write for class. ("We get to write and critique our own horror stories over the course of a month? And we can make it as scary as we want? Come on, guys, why aren't you giving a standing ovation?!")

I really do hope the teachers won't actually be analyzing this, since I basically unleashed my utterly sadistic side on the paper ("Why, Omnia, you have a sadistic side? I never would have guessed!") and let it run wild.

Anyway, enjoy!

It was a dark and stormy night. A shot rang out.

I cursed my stupidity as I unbuckled my seat-belt and grabbed the windbreaker off the passenger's seat. I had only gotten the thing last year, but the service light had been blinking at me for weeks. I should have gotten it taken care of before attempting a three-hour drive back to my parents' house. How could I have been such a complete idiot?

I've never been much of a mechanic. Staring down at the slowly-cooling engine, I couldn't have begun to tell you what had gone wrong with the car.

So much for leaving work early, I thought as I slammed the hood shut and shoved my numb hands into the pockets of my windbreaker. Now I would never get there in time. I had been so looking forward to dumping my stuff by the front door and curling up on that familiar couch with a mug of my mom's cinnamon hot cocoa. My mom makes the best cocoa.

As I leaned against the icy hood, I took out my cell phone. It powered on with a series of melodic pings, showing the humorous quote that I had set as my wallpaper. I wasn't expecting there to be a signal, since service is always spotty on this stretch of road. I wasn't wrong. Still, I wasn't about to bounce up and down like an idiot, holding my mobile up to the heavens and praying for a signal. No point.

I was about to go see if I could get the engine to run again, thinking that maybe it had just been the deep gray slush dampening the whatever it was on the underside of a car that you shouldn't get wet, when I noticed a light down the road. The kind of warm, mellow light that comes from Christmas lights shining through curtains. Aha! If there was a house, then there must be a phone. If there was a phone, then I could call a tow truck, call my parents, tell them I'd be late. Maybe I could get to my parents' before midnight after all. Hey, a guy can dream.

How wrong I was. How very, very wrong.

I should have known what to expect just from the front walk, overgrown with ropes of dark green ivy that snagged at my pants. It was just the sort of house in which Johnny McKillemall murders his victims to draw some shrieks from the audience. Unfortunately, I only had eyes for the towering emerald Christmas tree in the front window. The light glistened off of silver tinsel, creating a magical effect. Sure, I thought it was a little odd that the slippery steps were overgrown with weeds and the driveway hadn't been shoveled; sure, I noticed the dingy, cracked windows on the second floor, like the dull eyes of a Lovecraftian monster; sure, I wondered at the general eerie feel of the place. But I was cold, exhausted from work and driving, and more than a little upset about my car. That stuff really didn't matter to me. I finally did realize that something was wrong when the front door creaked open at my knock, letting out an odor of ancient mildew and cats. My overbearing curiosity got the better of me, and I stepped inside.

When I went into that house, I wasn't thinking about all the bloody slasher movies I'd seen. I wasn't scared of dying in that place. Why should I? I was just wondering why they left the gosh darn door open. Had something terrible happened to the people who lived in the house? Could I do anything to help? As soon as my eyes adjusted to what little light there was, I saw why the door had been left unlocked. No one was left to lock it.

I stood motionless for several long seconds, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. Soon, I could see vague shapes, which then began to form solid objects. To my left was a gaping black space, a doorway that led to the room where I had seen the tree. No tree there now, and not a speck of light. To my right was a wall hung with faded photographs. A young girl in a flowery sundress and silken hair ribbons smirked at me. A tall boy in a yellowing tux leered nearby as he leaned against the hood of a white limo. An empty silver frame next to them stood out from the dark stripes of the wallpaper.

Shuddering, I looked away from them, towards the center of the room. A wide staircase dominated the center of the space. In front of that was a gaping patch where the floorboards had rotted away, leaving the oubliette down below out in plain sight. Tiny snowflakes spiraled out of a matching hole in the ceiling and drifted down, down, down… I was mesmerized for a minute.

Well, this was a huge waste of energy. Time to go.

A noise behind me made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It was a high-pitched giggle that swung down the register to a hearty guffaw before returning to spasms of shrill giggles. It stabbed into my soul like a knife. It was a noise I had heard before. I knew that laugh, and the person that belonged to that laugh.

"Hi, friend."

I froze, too scared to respond. How had he gotten to me? The medication was supposed to work for twelve hours, and I had taken some as I left work. Two hours. Just two. Then again, it had been less effective lately. I'd been meaning to ask the doctor if he should up the dosage.

But that voice.

"Go away, just go!" I said without turning around, unable to keep a squeak of hysteria out of my voice. "You're not real. You can't be here."

He giggled again. I flinched at the sound.

"Stupid!" he said in that nasally, sing-song voice as he wagged a finger at me. "You shouldn't have come here tonight. I thought you were smarter than that, friend."

I grit my teeth before replying, "I had no reason not to come." Luckily, no one else would ever again hear me try such a stupid comeback. Not that that was preferable. He snickered at me, and I felt my face grow hot with embarrassment and more than a touch of anger.

Just try to focus on something else. Take a deep breath and focus. That'll work, won't it? It have to think, think…. Christmas! Christmas trees, candy canes, neatly-wrapped presents…family, my parents, my siblings….

"You won't get rid of me that easily. Come on, friend, just have a look," he coaxed.

"No! You're not real! There's absolutely nothing there!"

"Look at me."

His voice didn't usually have that tone to it. I couldn't help myself; the voice got into my head and compelled me to obey. I kept my eyes on the floor, however, studying my shoelaces for as long as I could hold out. With another command from my hallucination, I let my gaze slide up.

A hallucination. That's all he—it—could be. A misfire in my brain. But to look upon him was to know true madness. Despite his eyes—heavily-lidded pools of deep darkness unlike my blue ones—and the snappy tux, which I would have avoided like the plague, we could have been twins. The same dark hair, the same stocky frame, the same freckles and the same anemic skin tone. That's what scared me most of all. Was this sadistic madman a part of me? Could I be capable of what he'd done?

Was he me?

"Hullo, friend," he said in that impossible-to-pin-down accent. French? Russian? Scottish? There's another difference between us.

He grinned, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm not your friend!" I spat. "Just leave me alone, you sick clown."

He lowered his head slightly but still kept his eyes on me. I felt my heartbeat quicken. He meant business this time.

"Make. Me."

A dare. He wanted me to try to defeat him, almost win in time for him to bounce back and strike me down. He had done it before, but he hadn't managed to kill me—yet. Until now, I had never beaten him. Still, it never hurts to try. Perhaps today would be my day.

Stupid. How stupid.

I dipped my fingers into one of the pockets of my cargo pants and drew out the orange capsule, the vessel carrying the round white means to my life and sanity. I popped the lid off with my thumb, while not looking away from his face. He nodded encouragingly The lid fell to the floor and skittered several feet before slipping over the edge of the dark breach in the floor.

"One, two, three," I whispered, tipping two pills into my trembling left hand, "four, f—"

Mere inches away from my mouth, my fist opened without my consent, letting the pills slip to the floor. I flexed my fingers, horrified at what I had just done.

"What did you do?" I demanded angrily, curling my hand into a fist, ready to strike. "I swear--"

He giggled again, cutting me off.

"Threatening violence, my friend?" he said. "Ha! You can't do anything to hurt me."

Something inside of me snapped then. I lunged forward, ready to rip his throat out…then stumbled and fell to the ground. He shook his head condescendingly as he placed one foot on my chest, pinning me to the floor. I gasped for air, but he pressed his foot down harder.

Oh, this is gonna suck.

"You stupid, stupid, stupid little boy. You just don't get it, do you? I've always been the dominant one. The one in control. I can make you do anything. Don't you see it now, friend? You're just a puppet to me. Someone to be manipulated, forced into submission, and then dealt with most elegantly. Heh. I've spent the past twenty-three years working on step one. Finally, I've completed step two. Now, on to step three—dealing with you. With elegance."

With a sharp shove and a snigger, he sent me rolling across the floor. I only managed to stop myself just in time. Had I rolled any farther, I would have gone off the edge of the dark pit. As I scrambled to my feet to face him yet again, he looked up at me, grinned, and tapped the floor gently with the toe of one shoe. Almost instantly, the floorboards beneath my feet gave way, sending me down, down, down, screaming like a banshee…I felt like I would fall forever. Like I would fall through the center of the earth and out the other side, and continue falling past stars and planets in an endless voyage across the cosmos that would make Carl Sagan jealous. It felt so peaceful, just falling, falling, freezing air burning past my face...so peaceful, I could almost fall asleep if I had the time.

But my fall was not destined to last. It must have only been seconds before the breath was abruptly knocked out of me. There was a terrible cracking sound and white-hot searing pain shot through my spine, my shoulders, the back of my head. How could I have let this happen? I was so stupid. So stupid, stupid, stupid.… Disembodied laughter floated down from above, adding gratuitous insult to egregious injury.

As I stared up at the patch of gray sky I could see through the hole in the roof, I began to laugh with him. Our giggles mingled in the cold December air, drifting out the roof and into the night. In the end, I've heard it said, all you can do is laugh. How true. Tiny snowflakes swirled through the air, melting as soon as they touched my body. But then they stopped melting, and I was slowly covered in a thin blanket of ice. The laughter had long since receded into white noise in the background. I was alone, all alone. No one would find me, not for years. Perhaps some young ragamuffin hoodlums would come across my remains someday. I would be long dead and decomposing by that time.

No one was coming. No one would save me. No one could comfort me. I was all alone.

May I rest in peace.

[WARNING: Contains egregious in-jokes.] 

Elevator, pt 1

Ye-ah, this is going to be kind of weird. Part 2 will come tomorrow!

Marcella stared up the glistening marble steps of the office building with a feeling of apprehension. Did she dare enter such a place, knowing virtually nothing about this weird organization? 

Yes. She dared. 

She hoisted her large tan leather purse higher up on her shoulder and bounded up the steps two at a time.

The advertisement had appeared in the paper the week before. 

HISTORY BUFF? WE NEED YOU! 

It was followed by the initialism HWA in bold type, their address, and, oddly, a request for corset size. No other information was given. Still, Ms. Snyder was a teacher of World History II at the local high school, and she fancied herself rather good. 

Just inside the glass front door was a stretch of cushy beige carpet that lead to a white desk. Behind the desk sat a young woman, maybe twenty-five, talking on the phone. This would not have been out of the ordinary, except she was dressed like she had suddenly fallen out of the 1960s, a random flower child in the world of 21st century business.

"Can I help you?" she asked in a nasally tone, setting down the phone as Marcella approached the desk, feeling more apprehensive than ever. 

"Y-yes. I'm looking for the HWA. There was this ad…" 

Marcella dug the newspaper clipping out of her purse, jostling aside a makeup compact, her wallet, and a few coupons for the local grocery store. She slapped the crumpled scrap of paper on the desk, and the took a look at it.

"HWA, huh? Groovy." She leaned back in her chair and kicked her sandaled feet onto the desk. "Tenth floor. Suite 101."

"Th-thank you?" Marcella ventured, before hurrying to the gilt elevator. Better hurry, didn't want to lose her nerve.

It wasn't a very large elevator. There was more plush beige carpet in here, and some numbered buttons, but that's to be expected in a fancy office building. The upper half of the wall was mirrored, while the lower half was paneled with golden-brown varnished wood. 

As the elevator doors closed, Marcella caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrors. She wasn't at her best today; she had left the apartment in a hurry and left her frizzy red hair unbrushed and untamed. She made a face at the mirror before returning her attention to the newspaper ad. 

"HWA," she murmured, tracing the letters with her thumbnail. "What does it even stand for?"

The elevator slowed to a stop to allow another passenger on. Marcella was jolted back into reality by her new elevator companion. 

Or maybe it wasn't reality, because apparently this man was wearing a dapper green zoot suit. He winked at her as the doors shut, and she shrank back into the corner, clutching her purse in front of her like it was a shield.

"Don't worry, darlin'," he said with a devilish grin. "I don't bite."

"I-I wasn't worried about that," Marcella replied, relaxing slightly. "What are you, a re-enactor or s-something?"

"Or something," he shrugged. "You looking for the HWA?"

She nodded and lowered her purse. "D-do you work there?"

"Mm-hmm."

The elevator stopped at floor four. The doors slid open with a whoosh, letting a haggard-looking young lady carrying a simply enormous stack of papers step through. After the flower child in the lobby and her elevator companion, Marcella was only mildly surprised to see that the girl was dressed in fashions that had been out-of-date since 1910.

"Morning," she told Marcella, attempting a bright smile. To the 1940s man, she said, "Be a dear and press for five, would you? I have to copy all these papers and return these to fourth, and then take the rest up to tenth."

"Sure thing," he replied. Marcella wondered if this sort of thing happened every day around here.

"I'm Elsie," the girl said to Marcella, shuffling the stack of papers into the crook of her left arm in order to extend her right hand to shake. "Elsie Pickett."

"Marcella Snyder."

They shook hands, and the effort caused Elsie to lose her balance drop all of her papers. Most of them slid out of her arms directly to the floor, but some floated elegantly to the floor. Elsie sniffed, looking like she was on the verge of tears, before shuffling the paper back into a messy stack.

"Here, I'll help," Marcella ventured, kneeling, as the elevator doors slid open behind them.

"No, that's quite all right!"

Elsie grabbed the last few sheets from Marcella before sprinting out of the elevator.

"You could have helped, you know," Marcella told the 1940s man as a woman dressed in equally ridiculous garb stepped into the elevator.

"Intern," he shrugged. "Poor kid."

I might as well change the subtitle of this blog to "Writing, Rants, And Digressing," for all the dreaming I've been doing lately. What can I say, it's a…thing. With that other thing. And, y'know, the other thing with the things.

(Yeah, I do remember that I stopped halfway through my Ireland thing. Anyone want me to finish it?)

...And Another

Y'know what? I'm going to be doing a LOT of writing this week. I'm super stoked for NaNoWriMo (Just a week left!) and I'm in that writing mood. Unfortunately, my phase outline's been all worked out, so I'm using 750 Words to write a short story almost every day. (I would link to it, but I'm lazy and tired.)

Here's today's offering. Enjoy.

He is the war that destroys us.

He is the pestilence that plagues us.

He is the famine that gnaws at our insides.

He is the death that takes us gently into that good night.

He will take us one by one. There's nothing we can do about it. 

Emma was taken last week. The week before that it was Derek. We don't know why he takes them, what he does with them, who he is, or who'll be next. Not for sure. We have our theories, but we have no way to prove them.

I have a feeling I'm next. I've been seeing strange things for weeks, and sometimes when I listen to a song the beat won't line up with the melody. Sometimes the color of the walls seems wrong or words pop into my head that have no reason to be there. Edge says not to worry, it's nothing. I hope he won't be offended when I don't believe him. Edge can be wrong sometimes, even if he pretends he's always right. 

"Caddy, look," he says to me, "there's nothing wrong with you. You'll be safe, as long as you stay with us."

He treats me like a child just because I'm the youngest in the group. He shouldn't do that. I've already proven I'm smarter and more capable than the rest of them combined. But we have to stick together, because we're a team and they need me. Edge may be the captain, but it's in name only.

--+--

I was wrong. It wasn't me. It was Edge. Our fearless leader is gone, taken in the night. It's my fault, I guess. I only turned my back on him for a moment, and when I looked back he was gone. I could hear his footsteps in the distance, but I couldn't tell where they were. I may have started crying when I realized he was really, truly gone for good. The others were very mad at me, and I don't think I'll ever live this down. I let Edge get taken. They told me with sarcasm, "Oh, aren't you a clever girl. Edge must be so proud of his young protege now!" Can't they see I'm hurting just as much as them over this? 

He took my Edge!

---+---

It's gotten worse now. I see shadows out of the corners of my eyes all the time, and my perception of reality is wonky. Onion or apple? I don't know anymore. Oscar is the leader now. He can't do as good a job as Edge did. Edge was the only one who could keep us safe from the one who's after us.

Or could he? He didn't do a very good job of keeping himself safe. Was he ever competent enough to keep us all safe from the thin one? I don't know what to think anymore. He took my life away, that one. My life and everything that I loved.

It must be almost my time to go with him. This gets worse every day.

----+----

He took me today. He took me away from Oscar and the others. What's the point of staying with them? I thought. Edge was the only one I liked. The others I don't care about. They can all get taken without me and Edge to help them. Serves them right for hurting me like that. 

I'm scared all the same. I pretend to be brave, but I am so, so afraid. I don't know what he will do to me. It's dark and I can't see much. There's a window, but it's night outside. Was it day before? I can't remember. Every so often everything goes gray fuzzy and it's so very loud. I hate that. I want him to go away. I can feel him standing behind me, and he won't go away. I want him to go away! I can't leave. 

Thanks for nothing, "friends." You couldn't protect me from him. I couldn't protect them from him, Edge couldn't protect us from him. No one can. Who does he think he is, taking us all like this? It's undignified, creepy, and feels wrong. He shouldn't be acting like this. This is wrong, wrong, wrong. 

There's something on the wall over there. It's a…thing. A list of names, names that I recognize. Edge's name is on there—his real name, not his nickname. And Emma's, and Derek's. 

My name is there. My full name. How did he know? 

How does he know me?

What will he do to me?

How long do I have to wait?

Please help.

Okay, you got me! It's a Slender Man story. However, I'm a total n00b, so this probably isn't very good. In fact, this isn't very good by my usual standards. Eh, whatever. I wrote it in about half an hour with minimal effort.

I'd encourage you to look up the Slender Man mythos, but only if you're feeling particularly brave. (I wanted to write "bodacious" there. I need sleep. And to start using my brain again.)

Yet Another Short Story

I wrote this up in about half an hour. It stars Alice, Bob, and Claire as well as some crap I picked up from a garage sale yesterday, and hopefully asks more questions than it answers. Fill in the answers yourself.

Contains copious literary and mythological references, and is rather purple for my style.

"I'm so bored," Alice said, kicking her heels up onto the leather couch. 

Bob looked up at her thoughtfully. She rolled her eyes. Not once in the thousand years she had known him had he ever changed his expression. 

"Perhaps," he said, "perhaps if you took those ridiculous glasses off you'd be able to see something to do, for once."

Alice huffed and pushed her sunglasses onto her forehead. "They are not ridiculous! You have no taste, sweetie."

She had purchased the large, black-rimmed dark spectacles at a drugstore back in the Nineties. Since then, she had never taken them off, except to shower. They were as much a part of her as her golden eyes or curvy figure. Despite the time that had passed, Alice looked almost just the same as she had all those millennia ago, when the universe was born. The same heart-shaped face and jutting chin; the same beautiful but cruel eyes; the same tiny, perfect nose. Her hair was new, however. After seeing a picture of two celebrities in a magazine, she had dragged Bob to the salon and forced him into getting his hair cut with her. 

She fluffed her flowing black locks with one hand while Bob looked at her, his eyes briefly showing the despise he felt after the haircut incident. 

"What?" she asked, tossing her head. "It's just one of my many quirks! How would you like it if I took that little sword away from you?"

Bob's fingers curled around the hilt of his wooden dagger. Wooden, yes, but no less dangerous. The dagger had been carved from the wood of Yggdrasil, soon after Lif and Lífþrasir climbed down from its branches. In China, it had been inlaid with a red dragon by Guan Yu himself. Bob had come into possession of it shortly after Alice had demanded that her new friend Charles right a book about her. He recalled this because Alice had insisted that all references to the vorpal sword be removed from the text, although one had slipped by. 

"I would not like that."

"Bet you wouldn't."

Alice drew herself up from the couch like a cat and crossed to the large bay window, which looked out on the city of New York. Bob returned his attention to the television. 

"How much longer?" Alice whined, flicking her sunglasses back onto her nose.

"I don't know."

"I think you do know, but you're just not telling me!"

Bob set down the magazine he had been reading in order to massage his eyelids. They had been over this a million times, at least. Bob knew as much about the Great Death as she did, but Alice wasn't ready to accept that. 

"When is Claire coming back?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do!"

"I honestly don't."

Alice stomped her foot in frustration and tossed her head again. Bob rolled his eyes. 

She skipped across the rug again to toss herself onto the couch. She opened a drawer in the side-table and took out a silver box.

"Alice, don't," Bob said, with the barest hint of frustration in his voice. Alice stuck her tongue out at him and set the box in her lap. 

"I'll do what I like with my box," she said, but didn't open it.

She knew she shouldn't, not until the Great Death. Then she, Bob, and Claire would all open their boxes at the same time, and only then would they know what great secrets the boxes hold. All they knew was that they and the boxes represented Ego, Superego, and Id. Bob and Claire had tried to explain to Alice what that meant, but basic psychology was pretty beyond her. 

Bob slid a hand onto the shelf below the coffee table. On it was his box—a dark brown affair, with gold and red inlay. It was substantially bigger than Alice's. As he picked it up, he glanced up at the light on the wall. It was simply a brass box with amber-colored glass in and a lightbulb behind it, but to Alice, Bob, and Claire it was their signal for the Great Death. If Claire couldn't open her box right after the light went off, then eons of struggle would be for naught. 

Bob had a right to be nervous. He had suspected for a while now that the Great Death was growing close, and with the recent disappearance of both Claire and her box? It couldn't be a coincidence. 

Alice, meanwhile, had let her mind drift to the painting on the wall. It showed three silhouetted figures in greeny-blue garb poised in front of a large orange sphere. A sun going supernova. The one on the right held her hands over her head, cupped around a small yellow box. The one in the middle, a man, stood with one hand over his eyes and the other hand brandishing a sword carved to look like flames. The third likewise shielded her eyes, but her other hand gripped a stoppered glass vial containing a pearly elixir. It was hard to see her, because the light from the supernova had begun to eclipse her, although the other two were sharply outlined. 

"Bob, look," Alice whispered, slightly hysterical. "Bob, look at the picture! Look at Claire!"

Oh, guess what! You know how one of my tags says, like, "If I had a sword," right? Well, now I totally do, lawls. 'Cept it's made of wood and is technically a dagger.

Clique

You may be shocked to learn that I, Omnia Clepe, Geek Girl Extraordinaire What Knows All The Nerd, was once a fangirl (and I use that lovely word with disgust, in this case) of the pre-teen epic series The Clique. But that was the past! Yes, a past in which I had not yet discovered my identity as a proud geek.

Now imagine a glorious summer day, me curled up under a large oak tree with my pink bookbag (Which I still use, thank you very much!), reading from one of the books in The Clique Summer Collection. How that image disgusts me.

I feel completely justified in calling it an epic. Do you know how many fricken books are in that series? 20, including the Summer Collection! Twenty books devoted to the trials and tribulations of middle school, as seen through the eyes of the Libby, Massie Block, and her Girl Posse. And, yes, those chronically backstabbing, boy- and fashion-obsessed prima donnas are in seventh grade. I think I'm gonna call serious bull on that one. What planet are they living on, anyway? I swear, the series should be a scenario in some sort of weird Lotus-Eater Machine. And I never really got a satisfactory answer as to why Everyone Hates Layne, other than she was slightly annoying to the Pretty Committee and didn't wear shiny shiny name-brand clothing. I rather liked her, in fact.

Honestly, I don't know what I ever saw in the series. Bile fascination, I suppose?

Fun Facts:

The Clique also refers to a group of Victorian artists, including Richard Dadd, Augustus Egg, Alfred Elmore, William Powell Frith, and a host of other silly names. Fascinating, innit?

One of the major ships in the series is styled "Clam" for Claire/Cam. Which leads to me want to shout, "Stay away from Clamburg!" while reading the TV Tropes page.

"Hi…don't care!"

A Note On Punctuation

Yes, boys and girls, today we're going to have fun with learning!

Punctuation is something that I, as an English nerd and mild Grammar Nazi, love to tiny little bits. Unfortunately, that is not the case for everyone, as I discovered last Friday.

Every October, the eighth grade class at my school does a project in which each student chooses a horror story to read and then writes their own short horror story. I could—and already have, as a couple of my good friends know—go on a long diatribe about more than half the class wanting to read Goosebumps, but I would rather focus on something that concerns me just as much. The lack of proper pronunciation in last year's stories.

Punctuation Exists For A Reason

Now, I'm fine with lax grammar in texting and IMing and whatnot. Even I do it. I'm almost as okay with lax grammar in emails and such, as long as I can understand what the other person means. That does not apply to the final copies of anything. We had to read some of the stories aloud in class, and I really wanted to stop and announce, "I really am a better reader than this! I'm only flubbing because I have no idea where this sentence stops and the other begins. It's madness, I tell you!"

I don't pretend to have perfect grammar, but some things are just wrong and should be corrected—don't worry about emails or what have you, I'm talking about things that might get you laughed at by future generations of eighth graders. Here are some simple rules for writing that might make it simpler to understand than you thought before:

• Periods tell the reader when to pause, because the sentence has ended now and the voice in your head can take a breath before going on. 
• Commas indicate a shorter pause, and also when to breathe in longer sentences. Don't, overuse, commas. The voice, in my, head, doesn't, enjoy, sounding, like Stevie, from, Malcolm, in the Middle—although, that does, make it, more, enjoyable. 
• The Greeks pioneered modern punctuation, like the above two rules. Lack of punctuation means lack of pauses.
• However, don't not use commas and punctuation or else you'll just go on and on without stopping and I mean this seriously I'm automatically holding my breath while writing this sentence and I don't know why. ALWAYS put a space after a comma, period, semicolon, end parenthesis, or end brackets. No, I don't want to hear it. ALWAYS.
• Quotation marks indicate when to change inflection, because you, the reader, is now repeating what the character said, even when reading to yourself. 
• Any time a character is directly quoted using a whole sentence, the punctuation goes inside the quotation marks. If it's just part of a quote, it goes like this: Suzie had said that she didn't want to "play so rough anymore," so Cameron backed off. If the partial direct quote is placed at the end of a sentence, it looks like this: Suzie's mom told him not to "flippantly dangle off those dangerous monkey bars." Cameron had no idea what that meant. This is always true in America, but other countries have other rules.
• "Yes," he said. If you follow a quotation with a "xe said" sort of thing, mentally write it without the "said" bit, and then just add it back in and change the period to a comma. Simpler: "Said" turns periods into commas. 
• Exclamation points should be used sparingly. You can usually get away with it in dialog, but only to get across strong emotion—anger, excitement…not usually sadness, though. Outside of dialogue, you really do want to shy away from it. Exclamation points mean excitement, and too much excitement can tire anyone out. In addition, a quote from Reaper Man: Five exclamation marks. A sure sign of an insane mind.
• "If you say said every time you speak, then that's just boring," I said. "If you use it right, it just sort of disappears. But do use, for example, whispered or laughed if the character is actually whispering or laughing their words." 
• "It seems complicated, but you'll get the hang of it," Claudia added.

• Don't Capitalize Every Word. That's Not How The Shift Key Works. Proper Nouns And The First Word Of A Sentence, People. You Just Look Like An Idiot Typing Like This.
• Random words Being capitalized changes How You read them. Just Look me in the Metaphorical Eye and Tell me it Doesn't.
• See that button up in the right-hand corner of your keyboard? The one in between 0 and =? That is only to be used for math problems and compound words, like right-hand. That is not how you make a parenthetical. Use -- if you have to, but for God's sake don't use -! (Aside note to Mac users: alt + shift + - equals —)
• Ellipsis…should be used…sparingly, lest you…wind up…sounding…like William Shatner… (Sidenote: Ellipses = Oval; Ellipsis = …)

Some mildly interesting Wikipedia pages on the subject of somewhat-obscure punctuation and grammar paraphernalia:

James while John had had had had had had had had had had had a better effect on the teacher.

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo.

That that is is that that is not is not is that it it is.

Lion-Eating Poet in the Stone Den.

Other places you can find poor grammar corrected (AKA Grammar Made Fun!):

Cake Wrecks

Reasoning With Vampires

Wanton Cruelty To The Common Comma

Image Link