Ficleting Address

Four score & 12 weeks ago, Kevin L. brought forth into this Internet a new website concieved in creativity & dedicated to the proposition that collaboration will spike creativity.

Now we are confronted by a crisis, testing whether the idea of this website, or any website so concieved & so dedicated, can continue to endure. We meet in this part of cyberspace in the midst of this crisis. We’ve come to pay our respects to this site, to recognise those who here poured out their souls that this website or the idea of this website might live. It is altogether fitting & proper that we should do this.

But, in a greater sense, we can’t dedicate, we can’t consecrate, we can’t hallow, this site. The brilliant writers, newer and die-hards, who’ve struggled here, all have consecrated it, far above our weak power to add or detract. The virtual world probably won’t remember what we say here, but it can never forget what we did here. It’s for us, rather, to be dedicated in continuing the effort we’ve so nobly advanced.

It is rather for us to be here, dedicated to the great task ahead of us, that from these great writers, we here greatly swear that these pieces of writing shall not have been typed in vain.

That this website, under the heavens, shall have a new beginning for us, and that a writing website of the writers, by the writers, for the writers, “...shall not perish from the earth.“

~g2 (la pianista irlandesa)
December 10th, 2008

Just a note

*Note to all those out there who happen to stumble upon this meager blog in the abyss of cyberspace:
I won't be posting anything for a while (specifically between 6/27 and 7/13) because I will be away working on beautiful music in an undisclosed location.
Until I come back, feel free to look at any of my other STUFF.

Thoughts While Reading "The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey"

I just finished reading The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey (though not quick enough, I think). And, as things so often do, got me thinking. What about, you ask? Well, about the characters, their motives, the little nuances, but other things as well.

This book was the sequal of the New York Times bestseller The Mysterious Benedict Society, which I personally thought was fantastic. I didn't think the author, Trenton Lee Stewart, would be able to top himself if he wrote a sequal to this book. But, as I was enveloped in the new adventure of intuitive Reynie, scholarly-but-nervous Sticky, resourceful Kate, and stubborn Constance, I realized that Stewart topped himself easily. I was rather glad that more was shown of what was going on in the minds of some of the other characters besides Reynie. I felt it developed the characters more. What's more, they were thrown into more excitement, danger, and a "higher-stakes game" than before.

I feel that the sign of a good author is the ability to not only create memorable protagonists, but to also to create memorable antagonists. Anyone who read The Mysterious Benedict Society will vividly remember Ledropetha Curtain, the man bent on global control through brainwashing and transmitting voices to people through their minds. This time, this plan seems a bit more drastic (but I will not reveal any details). For as long as I can remember, I have never understood the reason people can be so bent on world domination. With all the people in the world, it's impossible for there not to be opposition to that person's control. The person would then have to figure out how to silence this opposition without creating even more opposition. If the person was the ruler of the world, people would come to him or her with problems, expecting the person to magically make the problem better. I mean, we're all human; we can't use pixie dust to make problems go away (though that would be kind of nice). The way I see it, there's too much pressure and stress.

Then I thought of a conversation within the story, discussing how there seem to be more bad people in the world than good. Someone made the point that bad might just be more noticed or noticable than good. I felt that this was a good point. Think of what you hear on when you turn on the news on TV; fires, earthquakes, shootings, tyrany, bad, bad, bad, bad. That's all you hear; for some reason that's very sellable in mainstream journalism these days. There are people doubting the good in people, or that good even exists at all. For all some people care, "good" is just an urban legend. We need to re-remind these people that there is good in the world; there are good people working against the bad. There are more unsung heroes than maniacal villians in this world; we just need to find them.

On one of the book jacket flaps of The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey, Stewart had a very interesting quote on the characters in his previous book: "I wish I had Reynie's shrewdness and his gift of perception, just as I wish I could read as quick and remember as well as Sticky does, and be as acrobatic as Kate, and have a fraction of Constance's ability to say what she thinks." This got me thinking about my own writing, or most writing in general. People say that writers put themselves in their stories and everything that they write. For myself, I know I put some of my own personality to my characters, plots and choice of words. But in addition, I add things to my characters that I wish I could do or could be. For example, I'm a rather shy, relatively unadventurous person. However, most of my characters are pretty outgoing and daring. Some of the things they pull off I'd never be able to do under normal circumstances, but sometimes I wish I could do the things they do so badly. I'm not sure about other writers, but I think this idea is true for most other writers.

Extra Great Expectations Installment

Installment 33 ½
Chapter 54 1/3
In an unsuccessful attempt to ease my mind while Magwitch awaited trial, I took to taking walks to nowhere in particular. Sometimes I walked by the Castle, or through Little Britain. I attempted to stay away from Newgate, for fear of going mad with anxiety.

It was on one of these aimless ventures, accompanied by a travel-weary Herbert, that we were approached by a scrawny boy. He reminded me greatly of Trabb’s boy when he was younger, complete with a look of mischief sparkling in his eyes.

"Excuse me sirs, does either of you know of, or answer to the name of Mr. Pip?"

Skeptically I looked at Herbert, who shrugged his shoulders in indifference. But when I caught his eyes, they told a different story. They said that I should proceed with caution.

"I know of him," I answered.

"Would you deliver a note to him? My master expresses great urgency in it being delivered to him right away." Then the boy took off.

"Who is your master?" I called after him, but my words were lost in the noise of sudden burst of traffic. I stood in the street, lost in thought. Herbert tried to snap me out of my daze.

"Come, let us go somewhere else to discuss this matter. I hope you realize that it’s fairly difficult to discuss serious business in the middle of the street." Seeing I was still in the fog of thought, he grabbed my arm and dragged me towards the Temple.

He steered me into a chair away from the windows and door of our apartment, then he dragged a chair close to mine.

"Open it," he said expectantly, gesturing towards the letter in my fist. Slowly, I pried it out of my hand, opened it, smoothed it out on the table, and read it quietly aloud.

No matter where you go, your past and future will follow. Come to the place where your young life took a turn. Come quickly, come alone.

There was no signature. A long, gossamer strand of silence followed. It was a long period before Herbert broke it.

"Dear Handel, what do you think of this?"

I didn’t answer right away, because I wasn’t quite sure what to think. "I do not know, Herbert."

"You do remember, Handel, what ensued when you received a similar note?"

"All too well, Herbert. All too well." The thought of the encounter with Orlick in the sluice-house sent a chill through my skin.

After another long, uncomfortable silence, I said, "The only way to know if something similar won’t happen is to do what it says."

This idea didn’t seems to sit well with Herbert. "Well, yes... but, what if, ... erm, you know?" His
voice trailed off after that thought. But I knew what he meant. What if the same situation
happened in the marshes, without the same ending? This idea didn’t sit well with me now.

Herbert broke the next bit of silence. "What if I came with you from the initial beginning? Just to make sure nothing goes awry. What does it mean, ‘the place where your young life took a turn’?"

"I don’t know," said I. But, I knew all too well what it meant; the note’s author wanted me to go to Miss Havisham’s estate. "Well, possibly somewhere near Satis House," I muttered.

"Indeed?" Herbert eyed me skeptically. "Well, let’s see what ensues on this occasion." At first, I couldn’t believe what he said. He wants to pursue danger? Possibly he wanted to get used to danger, in case danger met him in Egypt.

"Are you sure Herbert?" I asked.

"Indeed, good Handel. Besides, one must live life while one can!"

Chapter 55 2/3

We took the first carriage from London to my little town the next morning. The journey seemed to drag on for days, but the reality of time care when we stepped out into the sunlight. My mind became flustered.

"Quick Herbert, what day is it?"

"It is still Monday, the day we left London," he replied. His look then turned concerned. "Are you sure you want to do this Handel?"

"Now that you doubt it,..." I started to say, then I thought about it. My mind seemed to revert to a child’s mind. It wanted to do what the responsible one specifically said not to do. "Now that you doubt it, good Herbert, I want to do this more than ever." I thought I saw him shake his head in amusement.

Since we were in no rush to Satis House, we meandered our way from the one side of town where the carriage dropped us off to the other where an unknown fate awaited me. I had no idea if the unknown was favorable or unforgiving. But my curiosity seemed to stifle my voice of reason, or the reasoning of Herbert.

We had barely strolled by two houses when we encountered Trabb’s boy. He seemed to recognize Herbert from the encounter on the marshes. He had matured slightly, but the sparkle of mischief had not been extinguished. He carried on polite conversation with Herbert for a while, but then seemed to get bored with it. An impish impulse seemed to come over him.

"Where’s your companion? He had an odd name, maybe Moon-Head..."

"Startop," Herbert corrected politely. He seemed to have more patience with him than I could ever hope to have. "Now if you’ll excuse us, we’re in a hurry."

"You didn’t seem to be in a hurry a moment ago."

"Well, we’re slowly hurrying."

"Slowly hurrying?"

"Yes. Just as we are slowly hurrying, you are politely pestering us, and I am patiently losing my temper. Now, let us go, dear Handel." With that, we continued down the street as Trabb’s boy tried to make sense of what Herbert had said.

"That was brilliant Herbert!" I exclaimed.

He humbly muttered something about it being nothing.

"You have more patience than I could ever hope to have."

"Yes, I had found that growing up surrounded by little ones made me have to set an example for them. During that time I found that mixing words keeps one occupied for some time attempting to make heads or tails of what you said."

"Again, brilliant!"

We stopped midway into town for lunch at a small inn. This was one of the first times that I didn’t hear the local version of how I came into my expectations. I barely noticed the taste of the food during that time. I didn’t even remember what was put in front of me. Herbert glanced at me nervously every once in a while.

Afterwards we kept wandering towards Satis House. As we approached it, my mind kept spinning with unpleasant thoughts about what might lay ahead. I shuddered with these thoughts.

As the sun began to dip into the horizon, we were outside the deserted gates of Satis House. Herbert put a hand reassuringly on my shoulder.

"You know that you don’t have to do this," he said quietly. I nodded. "But you still do?" he asked. Slowly, I nodded again. After some silence, Herbert spoke again.

"How about we patrol around the fence, and see what happens?" I looked from Herbert, the ground, at the ever-foreboding house, back to my shoes, then up to Herbert again. I swallowed and nodded slowly.

"If either of us needs help, call out in some way," he added, beginning to proceed to the south side of the property. I decided to head in the opposite direction.
As the light continued to retreat, my senses seemed to be ever enhanced, including my sense of fear. I rounded the corner to go along the west side of the property, and I saw two shadowy figures. I considered turning around to go the way I had just come, but it was clear that they had seen me, and were approaching. I felt as if my feet had been turned to stone.

"Where d’ye think yer goin’?" one of them asked savagely.

"Well, see here, I had received a note," I stammered, beginning to take the anonymous note out of my pocket. The other figure seized it and proceeded to tear it to shreds.

"What note? ‘S far’s we know, yer trespassin’."

"We don’ ‘low fer trespassin’," the first said, reaching into his pocket.

I began to back away. "Er, who’s the gatekeeper now?" I asked.

The second one answered. "We’ll be askin’ the questions ‘round ‘ere. An’ who’s the gatekeeper? Ye’ll find out well enough." I tried to call out, but my voice betrayed me. The second spun me around to grip my shoulders tightly, while the first pulled a dagger out of his pocket and held it close to my throat.

"Make one shout, one peep, it’ll be th’ last sound ye make," he croaked. My mind began racing wildly. It was rushing so quickly, it felt as if my head would collapse. My vision became blurry, and I went limp.

When I finally came round, I saw a small light, which lit the small gatehouse. There were three blurry figures in front of me, one cast completely in shadow. From the pressure on my upper arms, I assumed the fourth was still restraining me.

"Thank you, gentlemen. Now, would you be so kind as to show our friend to a chair?" one of the figures asked. I couldn’t tell which one because my vision was still swampy.

The man who gripped my arms forced me into a straight-backed chair and bound my arms to the side of it. I found it astonishing that he bound them so I couldn’t move them in the least bit, yet the ropes didn’t cut into my arms.

"Thank you. Now would you mind looking out for anyone else? If you should see or hear anyone, bring them here so I could personally... deal with them." The two men which had been my welcoming committee nodded their heads and exited the gatehouse.

"Can I do it yet sir?" the figure in the shadows wheezed.

"No, not yet," the other hissed. My vision began clearing, and although I had only seen him twice previous to this, the scar on his face made it so there was no denying who it was.

"Compeyson?" I whispered in disbelief, more to myself than anyone. I was so surprised because I believed him dead.

"The one and only," he said with a sly smirk.

"Okay, he knows who ye are, now let me..."

"Quiet! I will tell you when I am good and ready!" Compeyson then took to slowly circling my chair, like some great predator wishing to pounce on its prey. I was frozen with fear.

"You do realize," said he after some time, "how ungrateful you are?"

"In what way?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"I am the whole reason you are here. No, I don’t mean just the note bringing you here. I mean I am the whole reason you are what you are," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He circled closer.

Now that he mentioned it, now that I thought about it, he was right. If he hadn’t messed between Molly and Magwitch, Estella would be a gypsy, or she wouldn’t be with Miss Havisham. If he hadn’t deserted Miss Havisham, she wouldn’t be so mean-hearted. There also might’ve been life on the Satis House property, and I never would’ve met Estella. If he hadn’t framed Magwitch, I’d still be a blacksmiths’ apprentice.

I must’ve had a look of realization on my face. "You’ve realized?" Compeyson said with a triumphant look that made me sick. "But, it is you who is making my life difficult."

A burst of bravery loosened my tongue. "Really? Your life is difficult? What about all of the other people whose lives are difficult because of you? Miss Havisham? Estella? Molly? Provis?" I immediately regretted this last suggestion, for Compeyson stopped me there.

"Provis? I’m not familiar with a Provis. Who is he?"

"I knows who Provis be," croaked the raspy voice in the shadowy corner. "Oh, old Orlick knows of this Provis," he continued, as Orlick emerged from his shadows. He had a murderous longing in his eyes when he looked at me, a burning vengeance about him.

Compeyson looked curious and slightly amused at my dismay. "Do you, Orlick? Well then, if our friend here won’t tell us, why don’t you give us the pleasure of telling who he is?"

"Aye, I’ll tell. But then can I...?"

Compeyson lost his temper. "Good God Orlick, I’ll tell you when you can!" he roared. After a few deep breaths, he managed to get a hold of himself. "Now, continue."

Orlick had a grin that grew more sinister with every word he spoke. "Provis be the other name, the ‘safe’ name for yer good pal, Magwitch."

"Indeed?" Compeyson seemed surprised by this news. "Magwitch? As in, Abel Magwitch?"

"The very same."

"Really?"

"An’ I knowed where he’s hidin’ too."

"He’s left New South Wales?"

Before Orlick could answer, I desperately cried out, "No! It’s all a lie!" Orlick began approaching me menacingly.

"Why you devil..." But with surprising speed, Compeyson took a gun out of his jacket and shot a small glass close to my head, causing it to shatter.

"You are as rude as you are ungrateful. You will speak when spoken to, or you will be like that glass sooner than you would like," he hissed. Replacing the gun into his coat, he turned back to me.

"Yes, you are making my life difficult. You see, I want this whole thing; you, Magwitch, your ‘expectations,’ the happening on the galley. I want it to disappear from... more prying eyes. You or your friend Provis could let the entire story going back to that gypsy woman out of the bag. So, I thought I’d remove the dead weight that could unravel my whole plan. Magwitch is certainly done for, so I thought I’d remove you as well. Also, you wouldn’t be who you are without me and my, how to put it lightly?, meddlings. If you were any bit grateful, you’d be falling all over me with gratitude. Do you not agree?"

I thought about it for a while.

"I said, do you not agree? Answer me when I ask you a question."

Another brave impulse loosened my tongue.

"No." Compeyson was taken aback.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No, I do not agree. If it wasn’t for you, there would be fewer miserable people."

Compeyson gave a harsh laugh. "Name two, then." A moment before I had a whole list of people, but as soon as he gave the command, the words left me.

He laughed again. "See? You can’t even name one." I glared at him.

"Actually, to name one, a young man by the name of Phillip Pirrup." He gave me a strange look.

"Who’s he?"

"He’s in your presence as we speak," I answered.

"You?" he asked surprised.

"Yes. You’ve caused Miss Havisham and Magwitch much grief. Miss Havisham raised Estella to be who she is because of you, which has been a heartache for me. Magwitch established my expectations, which has now amounted to a mountainous debt, which is a great hindrance on my conscience."

Compeyson searched for a way to prove my words wrong, but could find none. I felt triumphant. His brow furrowed in frustration and fury.

"You may have thought that you’ve turned the tables on me, but you would be wrong. You have actually put yourself into more danger. You, alone, are bound to a chair on a deserted estate in the middle of the night. I, however, am not bound to a chair in the middle of the night. The second-most important detail: I have no secret that could lose me my life. Well, that no one else knows. But the most important: you are outnumbered." He gave me a look of sinister triumph and nodded to Orlick, who looked thrilled beyond words.

"I’m not as outnumbered as you think!" I shouted, as I made feudal attempts to break free of my entrapment. I hoped that Herbert had heard my shouts, wherever he was.

Compeyson let out a villainous cackle. "You’re daft, boy! Do you really think anyone is going to save you now?"

"Yes, he does!" a distant voice replied. "Tally ho!" A crashing noise against the door followed this last cry. Compeyson lost his cocky air and became flustered.

"Get the door!" he shouted to Orlick. But before he could, the door fell in with a crash, and Herbert appeared in the doorway, followed by a ghostly figure.

"Are you alright, Handel?" he asked, beginning to approach me. But Compeyson leaped between us, his gun out again, pointed directly at Herbert.

"You make one more move towards him," he hissed menacingly, "it’ll be the last move you make."

"That doesn’t sound like the manners of a gentleman," said the ghostly figure that had followed Herbert into the gatehouse. "Then again, deserting your betrothed on her wedding day isn’t gentleman-like either." The figure came into the light.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Miss Havisham, looking in even worse shape than when I last saw her. Her moth-eaten dress was still scorched, her veil (or what remained of it) blackened, the one side of her face seemed shrunken.

Compeyson looked even more shocked than I.

"I... I... I thought... I thought..." he stammered, but she interrupted.

"You thought I was gone long ago, when I realized that you weren’t going to come. You hoped that I would have been wasted away by now. But I’ve been waiting all of these years for you, and I won’t seem to go until I get this settled. I’ve been waiting, but not for you to come back for your wedding. No, I’ve been waiting to tell you that I know you thought of me as an open pocketbook, with anything in it for the taking. When you ran off with your takings, I became a changed woman. I came to loathe all men. I raised a girl to wreak my revenge on men. After she left, I came to realize that I never would have done it had you not deserted me.

"You gave me everlasting misery. Now, I have something for you." With surprising speed and strength, the frail old woman wound up and slapped Compeyson across the face. He stumbled backwards, tripped over something on the floor, and fell. He had hit his head on a table and was knocked out cold by the time he hit the floor with a sickening thud. By this time Orlick was long gone.

Miss Havisham looked exhausted, but her eyes glittered with fire of satisfaction. Herbert rushed to untie the ropes which bound me to the chair. As I stood up, I spied Compeyson’s gun on the floor. I picked it up and realized it was the very gun which Orlick had nearly used to do me in on the marshes a few weeks ago. I quickly tucked it into my pocket.

I looked back at Miss Havisham. She was swaying wildly, when she finally collapsed into Herbert’s arms.

"Help me bring her back to her room," he whispered. I stepped over a motionless Compeyson to help Herbert drag her out of the gatehouse, up to her room with the open wardrobe, half-packed trunk, and various items strewn around it. After we deposited her onto the couch, we went back to the gatehouse. Compeyson was still out cold.

"What should we do with him?" I asked. Herbert looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Let’s get him out of here. We’ll take him outside," he suggested, beginning to drag the still-unconscious Compeyson. We started to leave the gatehouse when Herbert picked up a blanket. I began to think that Herbert had gone insane, but then I remembered that he had an extremely kind heart. Even if someone was holding him at gunpoint, he would still treat that person with the utmost respect.

After we dragged Compeyson outside (and Herbert covered him with a blanket), we went to an inn closest to the carriage stop. We took the early-morning carriage back to London. Both still shaken from lack of sleep last night, we slept restlessly for a ways. When we reached a bridge halfway between London and my little town, I asked the driver to stop. I stepped out of the carriage and walked to the edge of the bridge. Looking down at the water rushing below, I took the gun out of my pocket. I had a feeling that it would haunt me for the rest of my life unless I got rid of it. After pondering it a while longer, I dropped it into the rushing river below.

After watching the spot where it hit the water for a bit, I climbed back into the carriage. We rode in silence the rest of the way back to London.

A few days later I heard that very soon after we had returned to London, a bridge collapsed and a one-person carriage fell into the river. The carriage and horse were found downstream, but the person in it had not. I later discovered it was the very bridge I had stopped our carriage on. I never told anyone, but I had a sneaking suspicion that Compeyson had tried to follow us, but it possibly had lead to his demise. So now all I had to occupy my mind was the upcoming trial.

If Only...

If only I could see your smiling face
Lighting up with gladness
Seeing the beauty of each day.
If only I could see your graceful hands
Dancing over the piano keys,
As they say you do so well.
If only I could see your velvet hair
Thick as it cascades over your shoulder
Falling through my unworth fingers.
If only this barrier of mine
Didn't lay between us.

If only I could hear your voice
Rough but sweet, crooning
The blues in your heart.
If only I could hear you play
That sax filled with the passion of your soul
As they say you do so well.
If only I could hear you laugh
Richly, joyfully, at Life's comidies
Amidst our own tragedies.
If only this barrier of mine
Didn't lay between us.

If only they could see our strength,
Hindered as we may seem,
Our barriers don't effect us.
If only they could hear the music of our hearts
Intertwined like the bramble and rose,
As they say it does so well.
If only they could feel our bond
Holding us fast
Holding us close.
If only they could know these barriers of ours
Don't lay between us.

If only you could see the strength
Of their hearts,
Compassionate and understanding.
If only you could hear the wordless conversations
Between these two so frequently
As I see they do so well.
If only you could know their barriers,
He is blind, she is deaf,
But each understanding of the other's.
If only you could understand that
In His eyes, their love is enough
To break the barriers laying between them

Advent of Spring

Note: For an English assignment, we had to write a poem in the style of Transendentalism (if you don't know what that means, look it up). I decided to write about the coming of "spring" in the Northeast, and hoping for real spring. But, I didn't want to lose the "shiny happy people" mood of the Transendentalists, and this was the result:

I look out the window,
Gazing at the world gilded in white;
The snow lays thick on the ground.
Swirling in the wind,
Gleaming in the sun,
Silent when first painted thick
On the cold ground.
It can bring delight to those
Who adore the winter.
It can bring dread to those
Who long for the rays of summer.
And yet...
I muse, looking upon this
White playground;
And yet, after a time,
Even the most beloved and welcome guest
Can grow tiresome to its host.
I delight in the snow upon its arrival
In the last throws of November,
Or its peaceful coming in early December;
But when it comes to the middle of March,
And the wintery visitor is still residing
On trees, over gables, blanketing fields,
Or becoming neighbors with dark mud
Tired grass, and the skeletons of crops of harvest past,
I grow tiresome of my once-welcome guest.
I pray for the night of winter to be over,
And the dawn of spring to break over the horizon,
Throwing its beams, driving the snow away.
But then again,
Sweet maiden Spring wouldn’t be able to come
If there was no miser Winter to precede its coming,
Just as there could be no breaking of dawn,
If the shroud of night
Did not come before it.

The Truth of the Matter

by la pianista irlandesa

Based on "The Great Automatic Grammatizator" by Roald Dahl

I had been known for my writing for many years. A majority of my works were published in several magazines, and several of my novels were best-sellers. I reveled in crafting each of my stories as if I was painting the Mona Lisa, or sculpting David. I shaped them with great care and pride with the knowedge that what I was writing was unique, from my own head, and made with my meek human hands.
This was before the knock on my door.
I was just about to begin my daily marathon of clacking at my typewriter, when I noticed a fine car pull up my gravel driveway. On closer inspection, I noticed it was a 1940 Cadillac. A mixture of surprise, and (for some reason) panic overtook me. No one I knew owned a Cadillac; I hadn't published anything in quite some time; I had paid my taxes on time. I watched with suspicion from my bedroom window as a young man got out of the car and walked up the dirt pathway up to my tiny house.When I heard the rap on my door, my heart seemed to skip a few beats. Get a hold of yourself, Gwenna, I said to myself. Don't get yourself all riled up about some man you've never seen in your entire life. I took a deep breath and slowly opened the door. The young man outside was dressed decently, his hair was a bit messy, but the most noticible thing about him was his persona. He held his head high, a person who knew what he was doing, what he wanted, and exactly how to get it. He seemed harmless enough, but part of me still didn't trust him.
He nodded to me. "Good day, ma'am. I'm Adolph Knipe, from the Literary Agency in town."
"I see," I replied coolly.
Unabashed, he continued. "I have a proposition for you." Hesitantly, I let him in. I led him to my small, sunlit kitchen and offered him tea, which hegraciously accepted.
As I heated the water, I saw him notice a copy of my most recent book on the table. "I read this just the other day," he said fondly.
"I'm sure you did, Mr. Knipe."
"One of your many best-sellers, isn't it?"
"It was published only a month ago, therefore not having the chance to be one yet," I replied frankly.
"Well, I believe that a novel of Victor Hugo's sold out in one day upon publication."
"That was Victor Hugo; besides, it seems that news about these sort of things travels around more slowly nowadays," I responded. "That trend seems to continue as we speak," I added, trying to emphasize that he was procrastinationg about the reason he was here. He still wasn't taking the hint. "Now, the reason you're here, Mr. Knipe?" I asked rather coldly.
"Ah, yes. I have a proposition for you," he repeated.
"It's not going to do me any good if I don't even know what it is," I replied.
Then he began to explain about the Great Automatic Grammatizator. It was a great machine that was almost like a word calculator; it took words from its huge memory, and assembed them into sentences, which were then spun into stories. A relatively new modification, he explained, was that it could create novels using several buttons, switches, stops, and pedals; almost like a cross between a car, a calculator, and a pipe organ. He told me how he had been a struggling writer, but concieved this idea to build a machine that could write in any style you wanted, to suit any publisher or magazine in the country.
"So, what your saying," I began, stupified, when he had finished his story, "is that you 've built a contraption that writes anything from a bitsy story to a giant novel?"
"Precisely," he answered, a small grin playing with the corners of his mouth. "Here would be the deal: we pay you to use your name on our work, and you promise never to write another word again," he continued, slowly pulling out a contract as he spoke.
I couldn't believe my ears. A machine that writes stories, and a contract to never write again, AND allow for your name to be put on something you had no part of? I had to see this for myself; I was suspicious, to say the least. "Would I be able to try it out?"
"Of course," he replied, somewhat convinced that I was interested.
The machine was housed in a huge brick building. He explained the process, and allowed me to run off a few stories and a novel. He was a bit surprised when I asked for other work that had been done on the thing.
"I only want to see what else this puppy can do," I said innocently. Reluctantly, he handed me a folder. "I'll read the manuscripts, and get back to you on the contract," I said finally, and leaving before Knipe could say otherwise.
I took my time reading "my work." I read it critically, as if it was someone else's work, which, technically, it was. It wasn't in my style, it wasn't my wording, it had nothing of mine in it whatsoever, even though it bore my name. How would I be able to live with this garbage bearing my name being sold? I read some of the other works by some other authors, many which I knew personally. But, in the writing, they seemed to be different people. How could they have agreed to do this?
The next week Knipe showed up at my door again. "Well? What did you think?" he asked cheerfully.
I merely shrugged in reply. "They were okay."
"Okay?" He raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise. "Just okay?"
"They weren't up to my standards. Why don't you come in so we can further discuss this?" I asked, allowing him into my kitchen once more."Yes, even though I had 'written' these pieces, they didn't seem like mine. As a matter of fact, I modeled the pile of junk you call a novel after my most recent novel; it was in no way, shape or form similar."
"Well, you can't expect the same thing twice if one was handwritten and the other machine written," Knipe said, trying to wave my comment away.
"Then what do you call writing something out by hand, then typing it on a typewriter? That's copying from hand to machine." I gave him a minute to comprehend this. "And, also," I continued, "the other pieces you gave me? I recognised many of the authors, and knew those personally. This work was nothing at all like their style." I paused a moment. "Would I be able to have any imput on what my name went on if I signed?"
Knipe tugged nervously at his collar. "Well, it's never come up before..."
"So, essentially, the answer's no?" He slowly shook his head. "How do you expect me to live with the thought that you're putting my good name on some junk I had nothing to do with?"
"Now see here, Ms. Sandon," he began defensively, "what if the writing was good?"
"How would I know, seeing as I would have no imput? It's almost as if I were to enroll you in some organization that you weren't familiar with, I committed some hanis crime, and said you did it."
Knipe was getting impatient. "Are you going to sign or not?"
I stood up so quickly my chair clattered loudly to the floor. "What kind of idiot do you take me for, Mr. Knipe? I don't suppose you've realized that I've been asking questions only about the negative aspects of your 'glorious' machine? I made it very clear that I am not satisfied with the quality of your product, and you're still asking me if I want to sign?!"
"Ms. Sandon," he said calmly, "I'm speaking to you, from one writer to another. I assure you, this will make the whole process easier."
"What process are you refering to, Mr. Knipe?
"We do the grunt work, and you reap the rewards."
"The rewards being what? The knowledge that what bears my name could be a potential embarassment?"
"No no, think about the real reason people write." I gave him a blank stare. "Money," he said simply, a hungry look in his eyes. "That's why anyone writes, correct?"
"Ah, see, that's the mane difference between us, Mr. Knipe," I responded, pointing a finger at his chest. "We have different standards. You 'write' for the cash; I write, as well as many others, for the sake of writing good quality literature, the money is only what keeps us alive to keep writing. Good quality anything can't be manufactured, don't try to deny it." I felt pretty triumphant after my little speech. Knipe, however, gave me a grave look.
"Very well," he said stiffly, "Since you won't easily comply, I have no choice but to place some restraints on you."
"You have 'no choice'? From a monetary standpoint? I'd never believe that you, of all people in this bloody country, have money issues."
"You'll have you're car taken and booted."
"This car doesn't exist."
"You'll be under house arrest."
"I have no immediate appointments."
"You'll have your telephone blocked."
"I've been neding a reason to use it less than I do."
"Your electricity will be cut."
"I've noticed my bill's been rather high lately; besides, I have a typewriter."
"Your food will be severely limited."
"I've been meaning to lose some weight." I felth fury rise in him. "Is that all you've got, Mr. Knipe?" I asked impishly. Knipe, his face beet-red, looked ready to throttle me. "Why, are you hot, Mr. Knipe? You look awfully red," I noted cheerfully. "But, you must be used to being hot because of where you're from."
"Where would that be, Ms. Sandon?" he asked, trying to keep his voice level.
I gave him an impish smirk. "I think you know where I mean."
If such a thing was possible, Knipe's face got redder. "Go to ghenna," he hissed.
"Take that back!" I shouted, unaware that the kettle had been boiling over for the past three minutes.
"Not unless you sign."
"What, is this a 'get out of Hell free' contract now? Oh, but that would be an oxymoron; I'm sure you, as a writer, Mr. Knipe, are familiar with the device known as the oxymoron?" I could've sworn I saw steam coming from Knipe's ears; it gave me an odd satisfaction. Without another word, he stormed out the door.
The restraints that he had mentioned went into effect immediately. I was allowed to keep half of what food I had in the house, but the chain from my bike was torn out and the tires were slashed; the telephone and electrical cables were violently cut off; and, to add extra insult to my injury, a man took my 1925 typewriter to the top of the chimney and dropped it onto the flagstone walk below, where it shattered to pieces beyond repair. I was kept up all hours of the night. I took to writing in a form of shorthand I had learned in high school that looked like scribbles. When a few of the men guarding my house tried to take the papers I had written on, I had loudly proclaimed that they were exceedingly important. They let me keep them, unable to read it anyway, and they probably thought I had gone round the bend. I wrote of my semi-imprisonment, mostly. Then, about a week or so in, I got an idea. I begged for someone to go to Knipe and tell him I was reconsidering. Quickly, I packed a few of my possesions into three brown suitcases: my notebooks, my savings, a week's worth of clothes, a quilt of my grandmother's, a stack of letters and stationary, my favorite blue pen, and three keys from my broken typewriter: G, Q, and S; these were the initials of my name, Gwenna Quinn Sandon.
Two days after I had sent for Mr. Knipe, he pulled up to my house in his Cadillac. "Come round, have you?" he asked as he got out of the car, not even attempting to hide the look of triumph on his thin face. I nodded. He followed me to where the contract still sat on the kitchen table. My left hand twisted in my lap, I signed my name on the dotted line of the contract that stated that I would recieve some of the profits from some of the writing produced by the Adolph Knipe Literary Agency, and to never write another word under the name of Gwenna Quinn Sandon again as long as I lived. I set down my pen and looked up to Knipe; I thought he was going to explode from happiness.
"Pleasure doing business with you," he said, standing and shaking my hand viggerously. I nodded in acknowledgement, a knowing smile on my face.

You didn't think I was giving up THAT easily, did you?

I told Knipe to send the checks to the bank to be forwarded to me, as I was going away for some time. That very same day, I took the late train west, and took a ship further west to Ireland, and settled in Kilkenny. I still recieved my money from the Literary Agency under the name of Quenna Sandon, but I had changed my name to the name I write under today. I began writing in Kilkenny, starting life anew, but remembering who I really was.I clutched the pendant with the three typewriter key initials, as I decided to tell the secret of the Grammatizator and of Adolph Knipe, to tell those with true potential to be great on their own and resist this 'revolution.' I tell these stories slowly, and no suspicion has yet arisen; Knipe believes, from the word from one of her "old friends," that Gwenna Sandon died in a freak car accident.

But only those who truely pay attention really know the truth of the matter.

Something for an as-of-present Unconcieved story

She tapped the counter impatiently with her fingertip. She looked ready to tear her white-blonde hair out by the roots.
"Francisca! Get in here!" she screeched. In almost no time, her right-hand girl scurried in, slightly tipsy and hiccupping.
"Yes, hic, ma'am?" she asked timidly. She turned to face Francisca in her highbacked chair, as small glass of chardonay in her left hand. Her look almost went soft.
"Tell me, Francisca: before I recruited you, you were familiar with that inspector, were you not?"
"Uh, I... um..."
The wine glass shattered onto the flagstone floor as she grabbed Francisca's collar. "Answer me, you ungrateful little..." Just then, a slightly sinister smile flickered onto her face. She dropped Francisca, letting her slide to the floor.
"Francisca, you know I have ways to get information, correct?" She nodded. "I know you have information about that inspector. I intended to get it from you one way or another. One in particular involving speek, a gasp of air, and a few large bottles of sparkling grape juice come to mind immediately." Francisa grasped her stomach and moaned. A devious smirk of victory crept over her face. "Will you give me the information that?"

A "Mild Epiphany" From an Untitled Story

The assembled officers looked at me in surprise. I stared back difiantly.
"What did you say?" one of them asked, voice trembling in fury.
"You heard me," I answered. "This whole this so freakin' messed up. All y'all are violating the first Amendment, if you peabrains have any idea what that is."
"Why you little..." one snarled, lunging towards me and siezing my neck.
"Hold it!" a voice tundered. Everyone turned and parted to show Charlie was coming towards Snarly, who was at my throat, and I. He quickly stood up.
"Uh, sir, um... this.... this.." he stammered, pointing stupidly at me.
"Girl," I interjected. "Woman. Female. Chick. Say something, you nitwit."
"She's breaking the opinion rule, in your presense too!" someone finished.
Charlie looked to the stammering idiot, then to me. He gave me a descrete wink. "Samson," he said sharply to the guy who nearly strangled me, "what are you trying to pull?"
"But... but.... you heard her just now! She called me a nitwit!" he stammered. "That's an opinion."
"Hm. That may be," Charlie pretended to contemplate. "Or maybe she was stating the obvious."
"But... but..."
"Regardless of the gender of the speaker, who doesn't agree with what was said?" Charlie asked everyone. There was a general consensus that they did agree. "Alright Samson. You tried to pull that she was giving an opinion, but everyone seems to agree that she was stating a fact," Charlie concluded.
"But... but sir!..."
"Who's higher than you?"
"You are," the idiot mumbled in defeat.
"Alright then. And I'll deal with you later," he said "sharply," giving me a wink. As the group dispersed, I thought to myself, as much as I hate the new government, I was glad my brother was a high-ranking officer.
But, now that I opened my yap this time, I might be in huge trouble next time. And next time, Charlie or I might not be so lucky.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-
I was a bit freaked out by the cryptic note, but since it appeared to be from someone important, I decided to head out right away. I grabbed my coat and hat and took off towards Gordan Road, out into the rain.
I glanced at the note again; it said to be by the newsstand. I leaned causally against the wall of said newsstand, prepared to wait a while. But, a hst, in the alley by my waiting spot seemed to beckon me. Cautiously, I followed the noise. Then, without warning, two guys pounced on me. I tried to fight back, but it was of no use: one had me pinned against a wall faster than you can say Samantha Alexandra Elizabeth Emma Lynn Chinnana. He had my amrs twisted against my back, and his hand was over my mouth to stifle my screams. When he took me off the wall, the other held a knife to my throat.
"We've been onto you, Inspector Ananin," the one at my throat hissed in my ear.
"Yeah. We have the feeling you haven't been entirely truthful," the other snickered.
"We're gonna take you to talk to The Man, and it's someone higher than Charles Chinnana. You wouldn't dare lie between him, would you?"
I had to think. My job and secret, or worse, was at stake.

The Golden Rule (or Lack Thereof)

It’s always occurred to me in some way before, but for some reason more than before I see how little people in general (not all, mind you) ignore the “golden rule.” Y’know, do unto others what you would have others do unto you? Again, there are examples of it being done all over the place. However, there are almost as many examples of those not doing it. As a society we seem to put onto “doing what you want others to do to you,” but for some reason, I see it being interpreted as “do what you want others to do to you every once in a while,” or “when you feel like it.”

You could just laugh off this next part, but if you don’t, consider this: If you’re the person who constantly knocks people’s stuff out of their arms as they rush to class; or verbally cut someone down, either just “j/k-ing” or for real; or, God forbid, poke fun at someone else’s misery, pain and suffering (when the suffer isn’t doing so themselves), just swap sides with the person, even if just for a minute.

Sure, to you it may seem hilarious now, but look at it from the other person’s angle.

Not so funny now, huh?

Suffering is nothing to laugh at. But, for some strange reason, people in general don’t seem to realize that until it’s happened to them. But sometimes after that, unfortunately, it’s too late.

GE: Write Like Dickens

There wasn't much context to this one, we just had to pick a "gap" from the story and write about it. (Those that have read GE already, this was written before I finished the book, and some certain things were revealed)
The steely grey water lapped against the small rowboat, bound for the looming shadow of the hulks before us. I gazed ahead, my mind replaying the last week's events. I shuddered as I thought of them. Why had I been so ignorant of the consequences? The one that now loowmed over me, literally.
I came out of my daze when the little boat bumped the tower ship, sillohetted by the setting sun, framed by the bloodred sky.
A rope ladder was tossed down to us, a dismal crew of two convicts and myself. I hesitated. Should they go up first, or should I? One scurried up the ladder. I glanced at the other, a surly grouchy-looking man, who glared back at me.
"Well?" he asked gruffly. "We ain' got all day. Go!" Startled, I went up as fast as I could being unsteady over the greay water on a fraying ladder.
When I finally made it up, two soldiers firmly grasped my upper arms and led me below the deck. When we did, a mass of humanity greeted my eyes, ears, and nose. Waves of rough grey material lay before me. The little talk that was going on, a low somber buzz, ceased as the soldiers who flanked me and I entered But the most noticible thing was the absolute stench of humanity, particularly sweat. It was almost enough to gag me. But the surrounding men and soldiers seemed unaware of the surrounding smells.
We stopped at what looked like a horse's stall. One soldier released my arm, and and took a chain and iron, which he was about to fasten to my right ankle.
"Wait," said the one still tightly gripping my left arm. The other nodded, as if they were communicating in a way I couldn't understand. He tossed me some rough grey clothes. I glanced at the clothes, then at the chain and iron, then at the soldiers. They looked at me expectantly.
"What? You want me to change now?" I stuttered.
Exasperated, the one gripping my arm leered at me. "No, we want you to do it next Tuesday. Of course now!" I changed the fastest I had ever changed in my years.
After changing, the soldiers fastened the iron to my ankle and left. The situation was hopeless.
"So, what's a young man like you doing here?" a voice asked. I looked up to see a man staring down at me.
I sighed. "Only a grudge that went too far."
He smirked and asked, "How so?"
I told him of the grudge with an old neighbor, an all-around dislikeable fellow. We always fought with each other. But one night, he had called me the offspring of the most vile of vermin. My temper rose. He then said that of my family, my mother was the worst. I turned, grabbed a large branch and beat him in the head a few times. When he fell to the ground in a heap, I dropped the branch and backed away mortified.
Within a few days I was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to the hulks.
The man shook his head. "That's nothing," he grunted, waving off my tale of woe. At that time, a soldier came handing out food. He tossed everyone some bread, about half of a small loaf. He handed me a whole loaf. The man eyed it enviously.
"Say, you're young, right? Less than five-and-twenty?" he asked slyly. "You have more strength. You give me your bread, I'll keep mine. Sounds good, yes?"
I was shocked. Give him my bread for nothing?
He stared at my bread intently. "You'd be giving up a bad offer."
"You're mother's a bad offer," I snapped without thinking. Then, when I realized what I just said, the man had siezed my neck. I couldn't breathe, my eyes seemed to be popping out of my head. Someone broke us apart, but not before I realized that I had to get out of that place. That man would eventually kill me if he could.

GE: Choice or Chance?

I'm fairly sure the context of this assignment that Pip had just been made Joe's apprentice
Pip is in kind of a tough spot. He's doing what he wanted long ago, but he was forced into it, and he's seen "the light" of reality. Because now between twelve and fourteen, and if people our age [at the time this was written] haven't changed over the last two hundred years or so, if adults "strongly suggest" something, they [the young people] won't wnat to do it; even if it means changin past dreams. Because Pumblechook "strongly suggested" Pip ge Joe's apprentice, and Pip "strongly disliking" Pumblechook, naturally he's going to resent everything he [Pumblechook] suggests.
Generally things that determine a person's class is income and occupation. It depends on a person's situation if they can change these or not. If a person is really determined to, they could possibly change some aspect of their life. But you would need lots of time, patience, and sometimes lots of money to change their entire life. And sometimes a stroke of luck.
In life, it's a combination of both decisions and some luck. If I relied heavilly on luck, if anyone did, I wouldn't do anything. Nothing good would happen, nothing that lasted anyway. But someluck with decisions is good from time to time.
The conflict between fate and free will is universal. Through Pip, Dickens shows that he believes in free will. Based on personal experiance, I agree with Dickens. For most people, what they become in life is a matter of individual choice with a small bit of luck.

GE: Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic

Note: In 9th grade, we read Charles Dickens' Great Expectations in installments, as it was originally published. See, it was originally published in weekly chunks of 1-2 chapters in a Victorian magazine, All the Year Round. ('betcha didn't know that, did'ya?)
After reading an installment, we'd do a writing assignment having to do with that installment. I'll be posting some of my personal favorites of these assignments.
This assignment had to do with Pip learning to read and write. We had to write about our own experience with reading and writing.
Ever since I learned the alphabet and how to count, I loved reading and writing.
I never had much trouble with school in any subject. Reading has grown into an absolute passion. And generally a love of reading brings a hunger for books. I eat up books thew way a child eats cookies - fast. I've always read very fast. My mom would think I wasn't really reading, that I was just skimming. Once I was reading a book called Little Bo. She made me go back two or three chapters. Or she'd quiz me on the books. I always got it. Because I read so fast, I always end up rereading the books. Just to make sure I got everything, and because the book was so awesome.
When I learned to write, that was different. I remember, on the paper with lines as wide as [four college-ruled] lines, putting my finger in between each word. The teacher had told us to space in between each word. So, my brilliant five or six year old mind came up with using my finger.
I also remember in kindergarden one method we used to learn to count to ten. There was a computer story based on the Bugs in Boxes stories. It was called "How Many Bugs in a Box?" I also remembered how the song before it went!
Learning how to read, write, and count was always a great experience.

Scraps of Patrick's Story

Note: there's are little "mild epiphanies" that I'm going to eventually string into a story. For now, you can just imagine what links these bits of stories together. I'll be adding more eventually. -lpi

He was running for his life; from what, he didn't know, and quite frankly didn't care. Running through the misty woods, staying about 3 steps ahead of his pursuer. But in the blink of an eye, his foot caught on a knarled root, bringing him to the hard dirt ground. A large shadow loomed over him, but before it could swoop in on him, a loud beeping noise cleared the shadow, the mist, even the woods.
Opening his eyes, Patrick realized that the pursute was only a dream; but realistic enough, he was dreanched in sweat. He slowly lifted his short scraggly figure from the bed, and stood in front of the long mirror propped against the wall. Running his fingers through his disheveled chestnut-brown hair, he thought to himself, I wonder what will go wrong today...
~-~-~-~-~-~-
"I'm not any more thrilled about this than you are," Patrick said bluntly.
"Well, that makes me feel REALLY welcome," Sarah answered, feeling slightly hurt. "I was thinking we could use this as a chance to get to know each other."
"What's there to get to know? What you see is what you get."
"Y'know, I've heard things about you..."
"Really?"
"And the thing I keep hearing over and over is that you're a loner, and that you have no friends. When I first saw you, I didn't seem to understand why, but now that I hear what's coming out of your mouth, I can see why." Sarah seemed on the verge of tears.
"Hey, I can't control what people say about me," he answered defensively.
"You can control how you act! That might change what people say about you!"
Patrick was getting nervous. "Y'know, people are staring..."
"Let them stare!" she shouted, tears running freely down her face.
"I thought new girls were supposed to be shy."
"Well, you obviously haven't paid any attention to me, have you? Oh, that's right; you keep to yourself! Well, next time you're in your own little world, think about how to shape up and get back to me on that! Until then, you can do this little project the way you like it: solo!" With that, she grabbed her books and stormed out of the library.
Patrick sighed. "Why can't I ever do ANYTHING right? What the heck is wrong with me?" He put his head in his hands and took a deep breath.
-~-~
She was sitting on her bed, sighing. "Why did we have to move to this place?" she asked herself. Then she heard slight tapping on her window. Curious, she went to the window, opened it, and looked down. There, on the back lawn, was Patrick. She came out onto the small balcony off of her room.
Clearing his throat, he called up, "Um, hey."
Sarah shrugged. "What do you want?"
Tugging at his collar, he answered, "I, uh, wanted to appologize for earlier."
Sarah couldn't believe her ears. Was this for real? A small smirk curled at the corner of her mouth. "Well?"
"Well, what?"
"What do you have to say?"
"Uh... I'm sorry for... um..."
"For what?"
"For... er, being a smart aleck, and being rude...uh..."
"Is that all?"
"And, I'll maybe try to change the way I act."
Sarah couldn't help feeling sorry for him. "You've never done this before, have you?"
He smiled sheepishly. "Do you really want to know?"
She shook her head with a smile. "Apology accepted, for now."
"For now?"
"Well, I'll see if you keep your word about changing the way you act."
He looked up at her. Clearing his throat, he brought out a small bouquet of flowers. "I, um, brought you flowers; y'know, to help make it up to you?"
She smiled. "I'll come down to get them."
"No need. I've got a rope. Can you catch?" Before she could answer, he tossed a giant knot up to her. She caught it, and he began to climb up to her balcony. Slightly out of breath, he reached the top, grinned, and nonchalantly said, "How ya doin'?" Sarah couldn't help smiling. "Uh, here's the flowers," he continued, handing her the bunch of small forget-me-nots. After she took them, he asked, "So, about that project..."
"We can start tomorrow. I've already started research."
"And I've got the supplies for the presentation."
"Cool. So, see you tomorrow?"
"See you tomorrow." He handed her the knot again. Going to the balcony together, she held the rope while he slid down, then she tossed the knot down to him. As soon as he caught it, he took off across the lawn.

As he slid into bed, he began to feel a strange feeling in his chest. Was he coming down with something? No, this was a... good feeling. It was a pleasant feeling that coursed through his whole body. After pondering it for a while, the answer came to him. "This must be how it feels to have a friend." Content, he slipped into sleep.
-~-~-~-~-~
Patrick tried to make out the features of the face that spoke to him in the dark. The voice had a thin face, with small, dark, sunken eyes that were constantly moving from side to side. The face was complimented by a scrawny body, slightly hunched over.
"Who are you?" Patrick asked, squinting in the dark.
"Is that really important? I'm not the important one here, you are."
"Me?" he wondered aloud.
"Of course. You have some, how shall I say, special talents that not all of us have. You don't have to waste them, you know. You can do some very useful things with them."
"Like what?" Patrick asked, getting suspicious.
"Oh, I can find things for you to do. What do you say?"
Patrick was unsure. Could he trust some guy who had ambushed him into a dark closet, and now asked him to use his "gifts"? What "gifts" did he have? Was he implying his way to cause trouble and be able to get out of it? How was he to know? And what about the promise he had made to Sarah? He couldn't bear to let her down.
"You're thinking about that new girl, aren't you? Oh yes, I know you two are good friends. She doesn't have to know; what she doesn't know can't hurt her, now can it?"
"But what if she found out?"
"What's it to you? You're a loner by nature, I can tell. You don't need people, especially females, to be happy. All other people do is judge you, despise you, insult you, desert you. Why do you need that? People turn their backs on you, why shouldn't you return the favor?"
Patrick thought about it some more. If he took this opportunity, it would give him something to do. What could go wrong?"Alright, I'm in."
"Good, good," said the stranger, an eerie grin spreading across his face. "I already have a job for you. I'll give you the specifics tomorrow."
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
“Is there a problem?” he asked, imitating nervousness, coming in slowly.
“Possibly,” the principal answered. “Have a seat,” he continued, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. Patrick took it. “You are, I assume, familiar with the incident discovered this morning?”
Patrick shrugged. “How could I not? Everyone in the school saw it.”
“Then you noticed that the tool used to do the deed was left at the scene? Covered with fingerprints?” the principal asked, cocking an eyebrow suspiciously. He was hoping to catch this troublemaker in the act. But Patrick showed no signs of cracking. He looked... what would you call it? Certainly not nervous, or terrified, or about to confess. Of all things, he looked calm and serene. Almost too serene. “Patrick, we have hired a professional investigator, and is taking fingerprints of all of students.”
Patrick looked exasperated. “Is that why I’m down here? To get my fingers all inky?”
“Patrick, other students have complied to this. Why do you have to make this difficult?”
“I’m being difficult? Do you realize how big of a hassle it is to come from a class on the other side of the school, worrying like crazy, and be told, ‘Sorry for the inconvenience, but we just want you to get your fingers dirty.’?”
“Why would you be worrying?” he asked, waiting for the confession.
“Don’t you get worried when you get called to see, oh, I don’t know, the superintendent? Or the governor? Or someone else really important?” Patrick asked frankly. The principal slumped back into his chair. This was not the answer he had expected. But, he had to admit, it was a perfectly legitimate answer.
Patrick sighed. “If I must, I will,” he said.
The principal smiled. “Good, good.” This is the moment of truth, he thought to himself. This will show, beyond a doubt, that this wise-guy is the one! This little insect that’s been itching me since the sixth grade! And this incident, along with the other mischief on his transcript, will give me reason to kick him out for sure! The investigator had just finished inking Patrick’s fingers.
With a smirk, Patrick said, “Careful you don’t smear it now. Don’t want to ruin the evidence.” The investigator rolled his eyes, but Patrick noticed a small smile on the corners of his mouth. Pressing his fingers against the paper, the principal was nearly jumping out of his skin from excitement. But when Patrick picked up his fingers from the paper, the two men were hugely surprised about what they saw: only black ovals. No ridges, no white-and-black striping. The principal was nearly twitching. He was sure that he had done it! He was ready to bet anything on it!
Patrick looked contented. “Well, boys. The black don’t lie. I knew that you suspected me. But, someone with fingerprints would’ve had to have done it. And, as you can see, I do not have them. You probably checked ‘my record,’ but I can see that you didn’t even glance at my medical record. Now, I’ll assume that you’d be saying, ‘Of course. I’m sorry we ever suspected you. You can go back to class now.’ Why, thank you, I thought you’d never ask.” And with a smirk of triumph, he turned and walked out of the office. Off the ol’ hook-aroo. If I can get away that, I wonder what else I can pull...
-~-~-~-~-~-~
"I'm glad that worked out. Now, you're ready to take on something more, ambitious," he said.
"Like what?"
"Well, I did a little digging, and I found out some stuff about that Sarah girl."
"What sort of stuff?" Patrick asked, cocking an eyebrow in suspicion.
"She's not as good as she seems to be. I found that she knows you did the thing at school yesterday, and is planning to frame you."
Patrick slammed his fist on the table. "She would do no such thing!"
"Or would she? Think about it," Carter said, leaning back in his chair.
Patrick sunk back into his chair. Now that he thought about it, she might do such a thing. This whole nicey-nice persona she gave off could just be a set up, to get him to slip up. "What do you have planned?"
Carter smiled that Cheshire-cat smile again. "I knew you'd come around. I need you to bring her to the old abandoned church, telling her you just wanted to show it to her. Then, I'll take care of her myself."
Patrick was taken aback. "What? What do you mean?"
Carter waved his hand, "You can be persuasive and naive, just wing it."
-~-~-~-~-
"This is going more smoothly than I thought, Derrick," Carter said, a smile of sinister satisfaction.
"It's, um, Dylan, sir," Dylan corrected under his breath.
"Whatever. I've been tracking this girl down for some time. And I tell you, it hasn't been easy, not in the least. It's been troublesome that her father's job causes them to move around constantly, but I've got the help I need to get it this time!"
"Brilliant sir," Dylan replied in his chronically wheezy croak. He paused a moment, his dull eyes crossed, deep in thought. "Er, can you tell me why you've been after this girl for so long, sir?"
Carter glared at his lackey. "You've been thinking again, haven't you Daniel?"
"Dylan."
"Whatever! But no matter; this girl has some information. Information very necessary in my ingenious plan."
"I see, sir." Carter was looking over some complicated diagrams and spreadsheets on the computer screen in front of him, muttering to himself.
"I can't go through with the next stage until I pry that information from her."
Dylan shifted nervously. "But, what if she's not willing to tell you?"
Carter gave him a sly look. "Dylan, you know that I have ways of, persuasion."
"But, what if those don't even work?"
He thought about this a minute. "If I have to resort to prying it out of her cold dead hands, that can be arranged."
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Patrick tried to ignore the horrid cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, to no real avail.
Sarah was still oblivious to his discomfort. "So, why are we going up to this old church again?"
He sighed. "I told you, I wanted to show some of the old places around here." She seemed content with that answer.
The great steeple loomed over their heads, silhouetted by the setting sun.
Patrick took a deep breath. "Well, come on."
Sarah was caught off-guard. "What, you mean we're actually going in?"
He shrugged. "Why not? It's never locked, and no one ever comes up here." Sarah seemed hesitant.
"I don't know, Patrick..."
"Aw, come on. It's not wicked old, you know; nothing's gonna fall on your head." He swallowed. "Trust me." The words seemed hollow and jagged in his throat. It seemed to worsen the feeling in his stomach.

Sarah pushed open the large oak door to the church; it echoed eerily throughout the sanctuary. The term "sanctuary" seemed to be an oxymoron in this context. Patrick felt a sizable lump rise into his throat.
"Wow," she exclaimed, her voice bouncing off the cobweb-strewn walls. "I can't believe this is real!"
"I can't believe it either," a voice from behind the pair called. They whirled around to see Carter, standing in front of where an altar would've stood, flanked by Dylan and two large brutes. Sarah nearly collapsed from surprise. "You're surprised to see me again, eh Sarah?" he asked her, coming down the stairs and up the aisle at a brisk pace, the two guards two steps ahead of him. "It's a small world, isn't it? You didn't think you could avoid me forever, now did you?" A wide malicious grin was spread across his face. Sarah slowly tried to back up, eyes as wide as a frighten deer's. But before she could turn to flee, the two guards seized her by her arms. Carter couldn't have been more delighted. "But, thanks to Patrick over there, you'll elude me no longer."
Sarah was stunned. "Patrick? But he would never do such a thing!" She craned her neck to look at Patrick. "Would you?"
Carter laughed. "You're smart, but you can be so naive sometimes! He's a loner by nature! He can never be true to a friend!"
Her eyes began to fill with tears. "You lied to me?"
Patrick couldn't bear to look at her."Well... you were going to blab about what I did!" he barked hoarsely.
Carter started laughing again. "Another gullible one! She couldn't have found out, your tracks were too well covered. I just had to put the situation in the right light to get you to help."
It was Patrick's turn to be shocked. "So... so, YOU lied to me?!" he stuttered.
Carter chuckled. "Well, 'lie' is such a harsh word..."
"I can't believe you lied to me!" Patrick shouted at Carter.
"I can't believe YOU lied to ME!" Sarah shrieked. She would've said more, but Dylan swung a gag around her head and tied it tightly.
"Now that's enough," Carter called out, snapping his fingers. On cue, the two thugs dragged her along the back and up a set of stairs. Patrick couldn't bear it any longer. He rushed out of the church, eyes glued to the pavement, hot tears stinging in his eyes. He sprinted across a nearby park, oblivious to the now pouring rain, towards a small grove of trees. As soon as he was behind a large maple, away from anyone who might see or hear him, he slid down the trunk to the dirt, and began to bawl. How could he have done this to himself, let himself be made a complete fool of? But, more importantly, how could he have led Sarah into this? He was such a freaking idiot! Sarah was one of the only friends he had. No, strike that; she was the only friend he had. Now she probably hated him, like everyone else. "Oh God," he thought aloud, with his head between his knees, "why can't I do anything right? How can I make this right again?" Then, almost as if it was a sign from above, the rain stopped, and a shaft of sunlight came down onto him. He slowly brought his head up. He didn't know how he was going to do it, but he was going to rescue Sarah and do whatever it took to make it up to her.
-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sarah shuddered to have Dylan touch her as he tied her to a post up in the old choir loft. She wanted to scream from disgust when Carter took off her gag.
"There," he said in a faux sicky-sweet tone. "That's better, right?" She turned away from him. "Now, that's no way to act, is it? I mean, we haven't seen each other since, oh, since I can remember!"
"It's a wonder you can remember anything. You have a small head, but it's too inflated with that macho ego of yours!" Sarah cried.
Carter took on a fake surprised look. "Well! That's no way to talk, now is it?" he asked, turning to Dylan with a smirk. He tried to stroke her cheek, but she turned her head quickly to take a snap at his finger. "Geez! What do you think you're doing?"
"Trying to bite that finger off, that's what! Don't you dare touch me or I will bite you! You hear me!" she shouted, her elusive southern drawl slightly emerging.
Carter looked a tad nervous. "You know we're in a church, right? Y'know, you should be quiet in a sacred place..."
"We could be in God's waiting room for all I care!" she cried at the top of her lungs. Carter suddenly got a serious persona. He leaned in very close to her face; she turned away."I want to make myself clear: you know something I need to know. I don't want to hurt you to get that information..."
"Don't lie, you snake," she hissed. "You know you'd strangle me like the constrictor you are."
He glared at her. "I won't stand to talked to like that."
"Really? I thought that's what they would call you where you come from."
Surprised, he asked, "Where would that be?"
"Gehenna, of course."
Blind with fury, he wound up and slapped Sarah across the face. "You may be smart, but you need to be taught manners. I'm going to leave for a while, so you can think about if you will tell me what I ask you for when I ask you for it. If you do easily, I'll consider letting you go quietly. But, if you make it difficult for me, I'll make it difficult for you, understand?" She nodded, trying to glare at him, but not succeeding in hiding the fear in her eyes. Carter let this sinister smirk curl flicker onto his face. He handed Dylan the gag, snapped his fingers and motioned for the two guards to follow him down the stairs. Dylan started to reach to tie the cloth, but Sarah took a snap at him."Hey! Watch it!"
"You touch my skin, you're gonna be losing some. Got it, boy?" she hissed, her drawl tinging her voice.
"Alright, alright," he answered annoyed. "Geez, people are right when they say girls are picky and violent," he added under is breath. She clamped her teeth down onto his ear. "Ow! Ow! What the frick are you doing?"
"Oo ber-rer ake ah bah, oo ih-whih!" she shouted as clearly as anyone could while digging one's teeth into someone else's ear. Dylan resorted to whimpering. "Ay ih! Ah ain' oh-ah leh oo oh uh-ill oo ake ah bah!"
"Alright! Alright! I take it back!" he whimpered.
"Ah-ih?"
"Yes, I promise! I take it back!" She let go slowly; Dylan clutched his left ear, moaning in pain.
"Now, you were going to gag me again?" Sarah asked impishly.
Dylan hesitated. Did he want to risk getting bitten again? He slowly approached her from behind, tying the cloth over her mouth and onto the pole. "There! Now you won't be able to move even if you wanted to! And you can't bite me!" Dylan said with a snide smirk, chuckling stupidly. With that, he lumbered off down the stairs. Sarah sighed. Now that she was alone, she could collect her thoughts. She found herself bewildered, scared, but especially betrayed. She couldn't believe she had trusted Patrick! What an idiot she was! But, maybe it wasn't her fault; maybe Patrick just wasn't able to change. She leaned against the pole she was tied to and sighed against her gag.
Just then, she heard a door creak open, followed by quick footsteps. She froze. Then, without warning, a grappling hook shot into the air and grabbed onto the edge of the choir loft. Sarah's eyes widened in surprise. A few seconds later, Patrick's head popped up over the ledge. A grin spread across his face, and he said, "Miss me?"
Sarah wasn't sure whether to be ecstatic or furious. He swung himself over the ledge and climbed the couple stairs up to her. He sighed with relief that she was okay. A little shaken-looking, and a nasty five-star on her left cheek, but at least alive! He threw his arms around her in an embrace.
"I'm so happy you're safe!" She made some gutteral noises, motioning towards the back of her head with her eyes. Understanding, he untied the gag.
The first thing she did was take a breath of air. Then, she said, "Well?"
"Well... what?" Patrick asked, confused.
"Would you like to explain this to me?"
Patrick rubbed his neck. "It's kinda complicated, and..." He hesitated. "I don't want you to hate me for my stupidity. I have been, let's face it, a real idiot. I mean, probably the biggest idiot in the history of idiocy! And, and..."
Sarah gave him a frank look, then smiled. She sighed in mock exasperation. "Alright, I can stand to wait until later. But you'll have to work quick to get me out of here, I don't know how much this place echoes."
Patrick thought. Then an idea struck. "No, not yet."
Sarah's eyes widened. "What?! Are you insane?"
He gently shushed her. "We'll let Mr. Slither and Spunky think they've won. We'll have a system, see? We'll strike at the perfect moment, to catch 'em off guard."
"How will we know what the 'perfect moment' is?" she asked.
"I'll know. You can trust me; and this time I mean it, or strike me down!"

To be continued and filled-in.....

To Start Off...

Who knew it could be so hard to introduce yourself to the world? (especially if you're a pretty modest person to begin with?) Hm... I guess I'll start out simply.

I'm a pianist, a writer, a self-proclaimed nerd, and self-proclaimed lunatic. I love music of all kinds (nearly), I adore English, reading, writing, and such, and I love to hang out with my family and friends.

Some of my less-than-orthodox hobbies are knitting, listening to NPR, and organizing random things.

If I seem relatively normal, here's some proof that I'm not: our family got an upright piano about 10 years ago. But, I started getting so good with the piano, I starting breaking parts in it. Relatively normal, you say? Here's where it gets a little odd. Last summer, some of our friends said that they were downsizing and had a piano. So, we went to look at it, and we thought it was a mistake: it was a 9 foot Steinway concert grand piano! We wouldn't be able to afford something like that! But, the great friends that they are, they sold it to us to such a low price, they practically gave it to us! Then we had to find a place to put it... which isn't all that easy if you live in a house so small that people walk around the "long way" to the kitchen just for kicks.
The room where we had the most space was the dining room. So, the brilliant people we are, we moved the dining room table out into the living room (which is now a kind of combo of the two rooms now), and as I type, there is a 9ft concert grand piano on the verge of turning 120.

I also love old-time radio. The highlight of my weekend (usually) is when I get the chance to hang out in my room with a shower radio, tune into our local NPR station and listen to A Prairie Home Companion on Saturday nights. I usually catch a program of all old-time shows afterwards. If not on Saturday, I usually catch APHC and Selected Shorts on Sunday. It gives me hope that most entertainment has the potential to actually be entertaining.

I'll be posting some of my writing stuff occasionally, and more about myself, along with my random thoughts on almost anything I think of.