The Red Pill, or the Blue Pill?

So. Christmas Break. A rather lovely thing, I must admit, when one isn't sick or working on play lines. Anyway, I've started my official project for 2012. I don't know its' title yet- for the longest time I've called it The Loyal Traitor, but that name doesn't quite suit it (or me) anymore- but I intend for it to be awesome. Anyway, I have three introductions for it, as of now.

So, you tell me which is better: the red pill, or the blue pill?

Well, you'll be choosing between two of them, because I've already discarded one. I'm not going to tell you anything about anything, so you can read without any baggage dragging you down. I'm not particularly pleased with either one, and they are rough drafts, but... you get the picture. I want to know which one is more... salvageable.

The RED PILL:

The letter, in every way, shape, and form, was both beautiful and hideous to him. Ignoring the handwriting, which spoke volumes by itself, Thoramir examined the paper, a thick, leathery sheet that was unusually smooth. Furthermore, it was had an unmistakable silver sheen, like the pulp had been dyed or painted before use.

And what a use! Written in a rich, green ink, the jerky scrawl promised to fulfill Thoramir's dreams, if for a price... a price he could handle, in time.

Murder, in the end, was a small, even miniscule, price. A price Thoramir would very willingly make, considering the victim.

“Tor!”

Thoramir slipped the letter into his boot, being careful to fold it exactly as it had been; he had to focus, for now. He would have to put the glory of his triumph away, if only for a few more hours.

Or, he could quit.

“Tor! If your forge gets any colder-!”

The threat hung in the air, unfinished; to Thoramir, it was nothing more than a fly buzzing around his head, insignificant and easily ignored. The same threat, made a few hours earlier, would have cut Thoramir more painfully than a double-edged sword through the chest.

A few hours earlier, he had been a refugee, a nameless face, an escapee.

But now- but now! He had the opportunity he had longed for, the chance to make a name for himself, to become his own person...

To kill his father, even...

He could just image it-

“Tor!”

Thoramir shook himself from his daydreams and re-entered the forgery; the pulsing of the hammers threatened to drive his new found freedom from his mind, but he couldn't allow it.

“Tor!”

Thoramir was strongly tempted to ignore the head blacksmith, Markus, but common sense convinced him otherwise.

“Sir?”

Markus gave him the eye. “How long does it take to read a letter?”

“Not long.”

“Then act like it! We have eight more orders to fill before the days end, and distractions don't help! Get busy, before I'm busy with you!”

Tor rolled his eyes and picked up his hammer.

Perhaps the letter could free him.

Or the BLUE PILL?

The letter was both beautiful and hideous to Thoramir.

He started with the paper: a thick, leather-like sheet. And rather than sporting the typical white or yellow tinge of paper, the letter glinted with a silver hue, like it had been dyed or painted before use. Not cheap paper, by any standard, but that was part of the letter's glory.

The handwriting, next. It was rather jagged, jerky, like the author had been in a rush. Legible, yes, but narrow and tall, with calligraphic curls and loops on the capital letters. A man's scrawl, undoubtedly. The ink also told a tale; Thoramir had never heard of someone using green ink in a mere letter before. A painting, obviously, but a letter? To someone of his lowly stature?

And the seal, perhaps the second-most important part of the letter. The seal was made of green wax, matching the ink; however, it conveyed a very different personality than the handwriting. There was a triangle imbued in a square, and inside the triangle... he was not sure. It was too small, but something was there, and he knew that it was, by definition, important.

He would have to find out later.

That left the most important aspect of the letter: the content. It was so right it could have been wrong; someone less suspicious than Thoramir would have doubted its truth.

The author made it right: the King had the power to fulfill what he promised, that is, Thoramir's dreams.

But the nature of the promise made it wrong: how could someone fulfill Thoramir's dreams, in all seriousness? Yes, it was the King, but... the last time they met, he had been four and a half. The King didn't know him, and he didn't know the King- he didn't even remember him!

But it was the King! The King had personally asked to meet him, the King had personally requested his services-

“Tor!”

Thoramir folded up the letter and slid it into his boot; he'd have to save the thought for later.

“Tor! We need you!”

Running a hand down his face, Thoramir heaved a sigh; he wasn't sure if this letter was going to make his day better or worse.

“Tor! Tor! Please! Come back! Hurry!”

Thoramir turned from the empty stall and strode into the courtyard of the stables.

Yes, they did need him.

Three men, holding ropes and a halter, failed to calm Braedor, the stables' prize stallion and most tempermental charge. The horse bucked and kicked as the shouting increased; during his last rage, Braedor had ruined three doors and nearly created a stampede- if Markus was nearby, and anything was damaged...

Well, it was too late for that. Blood dripped from the ropes as blisters popped in the men's attempt to hold Braedor down.

“Tor!” One of them cried, relief washing across his face.

“I should leave it to you.”

“Please!” His co-worker pleaded, nearly getting yanked off of his feet by the dancing stallion. “Please, Tor, I know I already owe you-”

“Yes, you do.”

Sighing, Tor took four steps into the courtyard, making his presence known but easily ignored. Braedor stumbled but did not otherwise react; and from the snap and the cry, someone's shoulder had become dislocated from the yanking. -The yanking dislocated someone's shoulder-

“A little speed would be nice-!”

Four more steps, and Tor was immediately beside one of the stablehands- in the way, in other words. He silently took the rope from the hand's bleeding grasp and held tight as the bucking horse tried throwing him, to no avail.

The others holding down the tempermental horse looked towards Tor, waiting for his move. Some people, Tor was convinced, would never learn. With Braedor, you had two options: wait out the storm, or fight the tornado.

They obviously didn't know how to fight.

Tor waited until Braedor needed a breath, sides heaving, mouth foaming-

And Tor pounced.

Leaping from the ground, he mounted the wild horse in one swift move, locking his knees around the barrel of the horse, wrapping his arms around the sweaty neck.

“If you get a broken back-!”

Tor wouldn't, and everyone knew it. He had never lost a horse, as people said; it was that reputation that convinced the stablemaster, Markus, to buy Braedor in the first place. Tor was supposed to break an unbreakable horse.

Now was a good time to start.  

Red or Blue? Neither? Tell me! 

NaNoWriMo!

So, Tuesday starts NaNoWriMo- ahhh!!!!!!

Oh, yeah. It stands for National Novel Writing Month, and as you can deduce, that's November. The goal: write 50,000 words. Translation: a lot.

I'm not doing it this year because I already have too much on my plate. Too much school, to many books. Actually, I came up with another idea yesterday. No, no, the day before that. I don't like it quite yet because I haven't gotten things sorted out, but that's normal.

Something else I've realized is that the more I write and read and just imagine, the more original my ideas get. My first book just makes me want to vomit, because, no joke, it's basically the Fellowship of the Ring, minus the awesomeness.

But this one has potential. I haven't decided a title or anything, but I have a few ideas. Things like The Order of the Griffin, but that sounds to Harry Potter-ish. The story really doesn't have anything to do with Harry Potter, except that both are fantasy and involve magic. Perhaps the Order of the Dragon Claw. But that sounds like Dungeons and Dragons, which I've never played and know nothing about. So... I've got to keep thinking.

But it has potential! This story could actually amount to something!

The Invincibles, for now, is dead. The Act is still near and dear to my heart, but I don't think I'll continue it anytime soon. And the Silver Knight... Ithrean... I may love the kid (haha, that's an inside joke with the book- you might understand later, if I ever post more of it), but he's really driving me crazy. I just can't get any momentum on it.

So here's my plan, since I can't do NaNoWriMo.

1) Write a very detailed outline for one of my potential novels. Scene by scene, page by page, the whole nine yards.
2) Read.

Sounds easy, right? Wait wait wait, I can fit in a quote that I wrote earlier today in here!

“So, what is your plan?” Dyke asked, glancing between me and the saddlebags.

“We find the Order. Simple as that.”

“Nothing about the Order is simple.”

“No, but that doesn't mean that the return journey will be difficult either.”

She gave me a condescending look, like she didn't believe me. “It'll only be difficult if you're wanted in three provinces or attract the attention of every man within twenty megaspans.”

“I might.” She shrugged. “You never know.”  

Wish me luck, and good luck to all the lucky ducks doing NaNoWriMo! 

My First Book... from 2nd Grade

My mom found this the other day... oh, let me tell you, it brings back memories! I wrote this at the very end of 2nd grade- I was seven- and this is the unedited version.

It's proof that my destiny is to become a writer! Anyway, it's short, and for a second grader, it's not bad. It made me smile, and I hope you'll enjoy it too. :)

She started like this;… it was a vary hard time for orfens, vary hard time. Chrismas was coming, and the food was going, and the wood was going too, orfans shelter. Thay called her Emma, even thow she did not know how to even spell it. She did make friends with the anamils and the other orfins. One day in fall, a plasent day the ofenins wer waking and then…. BOOM! Thay new what that ment, men were in the forest! Thay all scrambled to hide… Emma could not find a hideing spout, thay wher all taken. Then she saw that two eyes wer wascking her,; She ran as fast as she could but the feet got closer and closer until two hand-s grabed her! Thay pushed her down and rold her over then one gentle fase looked at her, then a dog barked, it was Wildwood! (Wildwood is Emma dog)

I think I've come a long way. :) 

Help!!! There's a Monster!

Wow. I haven't blogged in a while.

Well, here's a little something I started late June. I don't know what to make of it- can you help? I mean, I know *kindof* what goes on, plot-wise, but I don't think this is a strong enough beginning. Tell me what you think!

THE HALF-TAMED MONSTER

 

For the last of a thousand times, Darren wished he had kept his stupid mouth shut.

He stood outside The Cave, trying to muster the courage to walk into the blackness. It wasn’t the unknown that made him reluctant to move any closer; it was the known. The Beast lurked in there- Darren shuddered at the thought- and he had promised to fetch it.

As he stood there, looking up at the gray stone- black in the moonlight, he couldn’t remember why he had made such a promise; had it been for honor? No one had offered him money- he knew that all too well, and there weren’t any girls in town that were good enough for him.

“Hello?” He cried into the darkness; perhaps he wouldn’t have to actually go in there. His voice echoed on and on into the nothing; he craned his ears for a reply. “Monstress? Come out!”

But of course, she didn’t come out. Darren considered drawing his sword- perhaps he could force her out- but decided against it; who knew what arsenal of weapons the Monstress had.

He took a deep breath and stepped into the threshold; he keenly noticed how the floor was scratched and ripped apart, like a mason had repeatedly drawn his tools against it. But no one ever came to The Cave; it was madness. The Beast did it, then; Darren shuddered- the full moon must have helped.

“Come out, by order of King Horun!” Darren cried, fisting his hands to steady his nerves. “He bids you slay Tehor the Troll!”

And still, nothing.

Hope suddenly filled Darren’s heart- perhaps the Monstress was not there. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed; no one had replied, and he hadn’t been killed, and those two factors alone contradicted with everything he had heard about the Monstress.

And that left him with a once in a lifetime opportunity: to scope out The Cave. He’d take something as proof that he had went, gain infinite respect, and all would be well.

There was always the possibility that the Monstress would realize something was missing, smell his scent and hunt him down, but the probability of that was miniscule. Darren decided to entirely ignore that option; he felt around in the underbrush for a torch, lit it, and plunged into The Cave.

The first ten spans or so was a tight tunnel; in the first two spans, Darren learned to not look down. The floor was covered in bones, feathers, rotting hides, and an assortment of unrecognizable, half-decomposed things. And if that wasn’t unnerving enough, pictures appeared on the walls; he could make out tall blobs and fat blobs and buff blobs, all painted black, which were vaguely humanoid- they carried weapons, at least- and all were dying or dead.

He didn’t look for specifics of their bloody end, but he couldn’t ignore the constant presence of the red-colored wolf in every picture.

And as if that wasn’t enough, trophies of the Monstress’ victories hung on the tunnel walls; swords, bows and arrows, a lance, a few spears, a dagger or two, a handful of shields. Darren slowed just to look at them, and stopped entirely at another bend.

A human skeleton was pinned to the wall, save for the right hand- it had fallen to the floor. Tattered, bloodstained clothes hung over the man’s frame, and an arrow was still lodged in his rib cage. Darren leaned closer, just to be sure it was real; the bones were scratched and pecked and splintering in places from where animals had gnawed, scraped, and ripped the rotting flesh away.

Yes, it was most definitely authentic.

The smell, though, was stifled by the cool air and a constant breeze- he didn’t know from where, but he was thankful for it all the same.

“Hello?” Darren asked, calling into the darkness once more- just to check that his suspicion was correct. The skeleton didn’t answer him, nor did anything else.

The hope that had fueled him to go into The Cave morphed into morbid interest; Darren ignored the pangs of worry, of survival, and continued past the bones and trophies. He scrambled up a steep slope- towards the top were two stairs, like the Monstress was carving them herself. On second thought, she probably was.

At the very top, he had to crawl on his hands and knees, and reached the top of the slope gasping for air, and his hands stinging from the many rocks and uneven patches of the stone.

He lifted his torch into the black expanse around him and gasped.

The tunnel had been half-expected; it’s not like the Monstress would have wanted intruders. But this was the very opposite- never in his wildest dreams would Darren have suspected the Beast to live in a place like the the one he had just stepped- crawled- into.

The room- cavern, really- could have swallowed Darren’s entire house, and probably the stables, too. The torch in his hand cast dancing shadows on the rough cavern walls; was that a bookshelf, carved out of the cave’s side?

He eased himself to his feet, slowly, because every noise he made echoed a hundred-fold. The more he looked the more amazed he became-

This was not a monster’s lair.

It mirrored a scholar’s most private study; tables and papers scattered the floor, interrupted by the occasional pillow or chair. In one corner was a fire pit, with a spit and a metal grill. Pots, pans, and rather large knives covered another table shoved into a corner, and herbs were strapped to the wall, drying.

The bookshelf had a skimpy collection, but Darren supposed that was because most of the volumes and scrolls were everywhere they weren’t supposed to be. But other things were displayed on its shelves; a root so twisted and gnarled that Darren couldn’t tell one end from another, an assortment of arrowheads, some feathers, a massive, dead beetle, and a necklace of bear teeth.

Darren made his way towards a table; where had the Monstress gotten her own books? He’d never know, of course, but he bet she’d stolen them. If he could just find one with a name in it, to use as proof that he had entered The Cave and sought out the Beast…

He rifled through the pages spread across the tables lined up in a straight row. Was that arithmatic? He poked through one volume- she must have stolen it from some poor student in Theirshire, since Ravenden didn’t have a school or any great learned people.

Darren froze. Theirshire? But the Monstress was only allowed within a day’s ride of Ravenden, and Theirshire was a solid three days away.

He snatched the book from the piles, stuffing a few pages of notes into the binding. King Horun would be quite interested to hear this news; the Monstress wasn’t a force to be ignored. What other damage had she done?

He’d be sure to get a few Threshes for this tidbit of information.

But what did the Monstress even want from a book of shapes and numbers? She couldn’t benefit from it- she’d probably never handled money in her life. She was scum of the earth, the Beast of the Terren Mountains, the Scourge of Ravenden- why would she even bother to try to advance herself over the rest of them?

Darren shoved the thought away; The Cave seemed more eerie, now that he knew that the Monstress wasn’t totally a mindless beast. She could read, he was sure, and that knowledge alone was a threat to every man, woman, and child in Ravenden.

But at least she couldn’t disguise herself; she was too… unnatural to ever be assumed human.

Darren turned, book in one hand, torch in the other, and started towards the partial stairway, ready to return. He had his proof and honor in hand, and that would be sufficient to calm the other’s anger when he reappeared without the Monstress.

The blow came from nowhere. 

Is there too much description? Not enough action? Please tell me!  

"Bad Christian Art" by Tony Woodlief

This is one of the best articles I have ever read- Mr. Woodlief perfectly describes all my frustrations with Christian books/movies/entertainment. Washed out, over-simplified plots with Sunday School morals and cheesy sentimentality are not what I call good reading/watching/etc. He, however, explains the plague much better than I do- enjoy! 


“Why,” asks the title of a recent movie review by Salon writer Andrew O’Hehir, “are Christian movies so awful?” He asks this after watching Soul Surfer, a film targeted at American evangelicals, about a one-armed surfer girl. It’s supposed to be a true story, insofar as anything can be true once it has been plucked from the web of human interdependence and stretched across a fifty-foot screen.
Apparently this is a bad movie, though the only question when such movies hit the screen is not whether they are bad, but whether they are better than Left Behind, or better than Facing the Giants, or better than whatever else has been served up to good Christian people who judge art by criteria like message and wholesomeness and theological purity.
I’m convinced that bad art derives, like bad literary theory, from bad theology. To know God falsely is to write and paint and sculpt and cook and dance Him falsely. Perhaps it’s not poor artistic skill that yields bad Christian art, in other words, but poor Christianity.
Consider, for example, some common sins of the Christian writer:
Neat resolution: You can find it on the shelves of your local Christian bookstore: the wayward son comes to Christ, the villain is shamed, love (which deftly avoids pre-marital sex) blossoms, and the right people praise God in the end. Perhaps best of all, we learn Why This All Happened.
Many of us are familiar, likewise, with that tendency among some Christians to view life as a sitcom, with God steadily revealing how the troubles in our lives yield more good than ill. It’s sad that he died so young, but look at how his brother has turned to Christ. The earthquake killed thousands, but see how God’s people are coming together in response.
What good God works from a three year-old who is raped, however, or a teenager who succumbs to schizophrenia, is His domain entirely, and to speculate on how these horrors fit into the Great Plan borders on obscenity.
Sometimes we suffer and often we fail, and there is no clear answer why, no cosmic math that redeems, in our broken hearts, this sadness. The worst Christian novels seem to forget Oswald Chambers’s insightful observation, which is that God promises deliverance in suffering, not deliverance from suffering. And so they lie about the world and about God and about the quiet, enduring faith of our brethren in anguish.
One-dimensional characters: In many Christian novels there are only three kinds of characters: the good, the evil, and the not-so-evil ones who are about to get themselves saved. And perhaps this saved/not saved dichotomy—more a product of American evangelicalism than Christian orthodoxy—accounts for the problem.
I think we might craft better characters if we accept that every one of us is journeying the path between heaven and hell, and losing his way, and rushing headlong one direction before abruptly changing course to dash in the other, and hearing rumors about what lies ahead, and hoping and dreading in his heart what lies each way, and grabbing hold of someone by the arm or by the hair and dragging, sometimes from love and sometimes from hate and sometimes from both.
Sentimentality: Like pornography, sentimentality corrupts the sight and the soul, because it is passion unearned. Whether it is Xerxes weeping at the morality of his unknown minions assembled at the Hellespont, or me being tempted to well up as the protagonist in Facing the Giants grips his Bible and whimpers in a glen, the rightful rejoinder is the same: you didn’t earn this emotion.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s warning against cheap grace comes to mind, a recognition that our redemption was bought with a price, as redemption always is. The writer who gives us sentimentality is akin to the painter Thomas Kinkade, who explicitly aims to paint the world without the Fall, which is not really the world at all, but a cheap, maudlin, knock-off of the world, a world without suffering and desperate faith and Christ Himself, which is not really a world worth painting, or writing about, or redeeming.
Cleanliness: I confess that the best way to deter me from watching a movie is to tell me it’s “wholesome.” This is because that word applied to art is a lie on its face, because insofar as art is stripped of the world’s sin and suffering it is not really whole at all.
This seems to be a failing—on the part of artist and consumer alike—in what my Orthodox friends call theosis, or walk, as my evangelical friends say. In short, if Christian novels and movies and blogs and speeches must be stripped of profanity and sensuality and critical questions, all for the sake of sparing us scandal, then we have to wonder what has happened that such a wide swath of Christendom has failed to graduate from milk to meat.
And if we remember that theology is the knowing of God, we have to ask in turn why so many Christians know God so weakly that they need such wholesomeness in order for their faith to be preserved.
This, finally, is what especially worries me, that bad Christian art is a problem of demand rather than supply. What if a reinvigorated Church were to embed genuine faith in the artist’s psyche and soul, such that he need no longer wear it on his sleeve, such that he bear to see and tell the world in its brokenness and beauty? Would Christian audiences embrace or despise the result?

He Says It Best

Okay people, so Lucius has been abandoned for the time being. I'm too busy; well, the deadline is, um, tomorrow, and that doesn't give me time to edit.

Anyway, L.B. Grahm is one of my favorite authors, and here's an exerpt from one of his blog posts. It is so true... so true... and he says it best. Enjoy! (My favorite part is in bold, in case you're wondering.)

Hitting a pivotal birthday like 40 tends to produce some reflective moments. Looking back ten years, I think about the fact that when I turned 30, I was an unpublished school teacher developing a fantasy idea that I'd had in college. If you'd told me I'd get someone to buy, not just the first book, but all five, and that ten years later the books would be on many different shelves in many different countries, I would have wondered what you were smoking. As I look ahead, I wonder what the next ten years hold. My brain is an idea factory, and I'm not quite sure where the shut-off valve is. Stories cram into my skull, and I have to write them down to relieve the pressure. Unfortunately, it's easier to conceive an idea than to write a novel, so I'm fighting a losing war.
I wonder what the next ten years hold for the publishing world. Will ebooks and digital publishing revolutionize the industry? Perhaps the better question is how much? Will I look back one day and think, "How quaint that my first series was in paper." Kind of like some classic rock band who made it big with vinyl but now sells most of their music via iTunes.
In the end, I don't know that I care a whole lot. I mean, I like writing and care about the world of writing, but the business side of things is something that I do, only because I have to. What really matters are the stories. They're part of me, and I can't not write them.
Don't get me wrong, there are way more important things in life than writing and being published. I know that. Still it's also true that a big part of my heart and life lives in the space between my fingertips and my keyboard, and that's just how it is.

Isn't he awesome? And his books are just as good! Beyond the Summerland is my favorite. Here's the link to his blog: 
   http://blog.lbgraham.com/

Have a good week!

Lucius's Short Story

So... it's been a while. Life gets in the way, doesn't it?

Anyway, I want to enter a short story contest, which requires me to write one. Here's what I have so far- I don't know how it ends. No clue. Nada. Zilch. Nothing. It'll only make things more interesting for me! Tell me what you think of it.

It was his turn to die.

Lucius stared at the noose, his hands tied behind his back, counting the last moments of his life. Eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six...

That was all it took. Eighty-seven seconds before, men who had never known him decided his life was forfeit, decided they had the right to judge between life and death, decided that the rope hanging before him was worth more than his own existence.

Everything had been in vain; all his labors had been for nothing.

The noose swung in the breeze, smiling at him.

Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight...

How did it come to this?

Clinging to the knife in his hand, Lucius slunk around the darkened corner, trying to steady his wild heart rate. This was his duty, he had to do it. It was his task, it was his responsibility... he wiped a sweaty palm on his thigh, trying to sort through the raging emotions in his heart.

This is right. He kept telling himself. This is right. This is right. This is right.

But he couldn't convince himself that it was- why was he trying to lie to himself? His duty was sick and twisted; his task was, simply put, wrong.

But he had to do it.

He had too.

He had too.

He avoided the puddles of milky moonlight that spilled into the street, slipping from shadow to shadow. No money in the world was worth his duty; he was wondering if his reward- the one thing he had wanted his whole life- could ever heal the scar his task would give him.

Was murder worth his freedom? Was another's life worth more than his own?

That was the question- that was the dilemma. Lucius heard the clock tower chime eleven; he had only minutes left to decide. Minutes till he could be free; moments until he could be a murderer.

Was it worth it?

He knew that no one except himself could answer the question- it was his freedom, his choice. He didn't even know why he agreed to it in the first place; everything about it was so sick and wrong.

How could he have been so desperate? Even slavery was better than living with a guilty conscience-

Was it?

The pale moon offered him no answers. The wind, tossing his hair around his head, whispered no solutions; the empty street told him to keep moving, keep thinking...

Every moment meant his time was running out, slipping away like water over rock. Every passing second brought his decision closer and closer...

His master had made his duty very clear: kill the one with the golden telescope, and he can be freed. The thought of liberty made Lucius weak in the knees; he had dreamed of it since childhood, since he realized there was another kind of life, where he was his own master.

Was his life worth more than another's?

Lucius didn't even know what the golden telescope meant, why that man needed to be killed. But his freedom...

Creeping down the dark road, Lucius headed towards the upper-class section of town, closer to a prestigious theater called the White Fox. Perhaps he could... perhaps he wouldn't... his mind split down the middle, cracking under the pressure, and Lucius felt sweat spring across his forehead even thought the night was cold.

He slipped on the mask he had been given, just in case. He couldn't be too careful, could he?

Fanfiction

I swear I posted this yesterday... evidently not, though. I don't have any clue how that happened.

But all my energy has been pouring into my fanfic, Sons of War. Why? Because I love the characters, I adore the plot, and I drool over every review I get. On fanfiction.net, you can create a username and post stories for books and movies (etc) that aren't technically yours. And people from across the world can read them and tell you what they think- hense, my addiction to it.

Right now, Sons of War has 144 reviews, 36 alerts (when someone subscribes to a story to know when it's updated), 33 favorites, and 11,143 hits. In other words, a lot of people have read it. The problem is that there are so many different kinds of stories, and people are looking for specifics (specific characters, specific writing style, etc) and so it's hard to find the people I'm aiming at. But when I find them, or they find me... it's wonderful.

I've never met any of my reviewers in my life, and they're from all over the world- England, Australia, Brazil, Russia, and Egypt, for example- but its like I'm finding some long-lost friend. They're brutally honest and gleefully energetic, and I love them so much! I mean, everyone loves being encouraged and hearing people say that they're awesome, but when it specifically refers to my writing... I get the shivers.

So, if you want to know, honest to goodness if your writing is worth a dime, get a fanfiction account and post something. Anything- write a one shot about your favorite character, a poem about some inner turmoil about an angsty character, anything. And people will tell you, honestly and sometimes brutally, if they think you're good.

Or, if you're simply waiting for the next in a series or are bored, get on and start reading. Tell people what you think- trust me, people want to know. The authors are on there for a reason.

So... that's fanfiction.net! Enjoy!

The Silver Knight (AKA, My Precious)

Alright people, I'm just in the most fantastic mood (it must be the Starbucks!... or the fact that it's my birthday...), so I'm going to give you the first chapter of my most treasured book. I highly doubt I will post more of this... maybe. It's hard to say. Anyway, PLEASE tell me what you think of it, because I will get this published (if its the last thing I do!). I just love my main character so much... I hope you love him too. He's just so... awesome.

Without further adieu, I am proud to present the first chapter of The Silver Knight. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Day I Started the End of the World

My mother, whenever her patience wore thin, had the habit of saying that I was too smart for my own good. Perhaps she was right- I never really put any thought into it until I almost killed my sister. That day changed everything, as you'd expect; and in my opinion, that day started the end of the world.

I was seventeen and cocky- quite brilliant, really- but with far too much free time on my hands. I'll admit that much. And that gave me quite the upper hand over my petty enemies, primarily Buknor Sluaksson, the local silversmith and outright pessimist.

I hated him more than anyone else had ever hated anything. I planned on killing him someday, or maybe getting him banished. But my plans needed more time- so I busied myself by humiliating him.

That's why I started that fateful day camped out in a tree, right next to the main road. The stillness of the morning ensured my success, though it made me a bit uncomfortable. The chill, for one, combined with the sharp wind, and also the fact that the sun had barely passed the horizon. Any sane person was still sleeping.

No one ever said I was sane- it was a running joke, in my opinion.

My bow was in my hand, warm and smooth and beautiful. No, I wasn't going to kill him- yet. It was just part of the set up, a gear in the machine of my plans. I just hoped I wouldn't be so stiff when the time came, that the numbness in my cheeks and feet wouldn't spread.

My worry was in vain.

My wandering mind crystallized at the first hint of my expected guest- guests, evidently. Buknor had a golden-haired beauty leaning on his arm- poor thing. I decided she had to be delusional to trust him. A basket hung over her arm, and he carried a pack with who-knows-what. I hoped all of it was expensive. That would mean more of a loss for him.

The beauty chatted away about this-or-that, not looking where they were going. Buknor was positively enchanted by her, and just as oblivious.

Until he stepped in my net.

He triggered the weight-sensitive trap, and before he could even scream, he was hanging upside down in the air by his ankle, the net wrapped around him like a cocoon. The beauty stood, stunned, beside him, both of their mouths in wide 'o's.

I unstrung my bow- no need for the weight at the end of the arrow. That was the backup, in case Buknor didn't set off the net. Dropping from my hiding place, I strode forward onto the road, smiling up at Buknor. The beauty didn't see me.

“You rascal! You lazy swine! You fool!” He bellowed, once his eyes locked with mine.

“I'd watch what I said, if I were you.” I replied, still smiling, still gleeful at his hapless state. “I find it ironic that you called me a fool, and yet you are up a tree.”

“Ithrean!” He roared, struggling with the rope. “You- you---! I'll get you one of these days!”

“Like you got my parents?” I snapped. “Good luck. Everyone knows I'm smarter than you are.”

The cocoon started swinging perilously.

I stepped towards the beauty, my arm extended. “You're in quite the dangerous spot, sweetheart.” I began sweetly, swelling with pride as Buknor dared me to move one step closer to her. “Our friend here doesn't exactly weigh anything close to light and if he falls... I would rather you were out of harm's way.”

“What if you're the danger?” She replied.

I laughed- how far had Buknor gotten in his traditional brainwashing? “Just look at him, blondie. What if, one day, you're on the receiving end of his anger? Do you think you'd escape without a scratch?”

I supressed my laughter as she turned and gave Buknor an odd stare, like the question honestly perplexed her. Of course she would get hurt- just like he had hurt me. His struggling had resulted in a piece of net being fixed in his mouth like a gag- he couldn't respond, though I could tell he wanted too.

“Now, dear, will you come?” I asked, offering my arm again.

This time, she took it without hesitation. I properly introduced myself as we pranced down the road together, and got her talking again. I know it was immature, but I couldn't pass up the opportunity- just before we turned around a bend and out of Buknor's sight, I gave him a triumphant smile. Not only had I bagged the worst criminal in the area, but I got his girl out of it too.

Not bad for a morning's work.

We followed the road up a rocky hill, lined on both sides with carefully planted trees. The pink and blue sky started driving away the coolness of night, and I couldn't help but glance up at the sky- if you were lucky, some days you could catch sight of a Dragon coasting on the wind currents, glinting in the sunlight like a diamonds that had been thrown to the sky. But the road, however, earned more attention.

The hilltop revealed a sight I would later miss, that I would later dream of. A valley unfolded beneath our feet like an unrolled map, revealing a wide, fertile plain dotted with houses. Both the brown, dirt road and a blue-and-white river cut through the green ocean, pointing to the center of the plain. A cluster of buildings squatted there, quaint and simple, welcoming us back. Grey smoke wafted to the sky from stone chimneys, the only dull color on the scene, and little people like toys meandered up and down the road. Others were already in the fields, dressing the land to fit their needs.

Home, sweet home.

Ravenden- that was my town's name. Population? About a hundred fifty, give or take a few. I could see my little house from this hilltop, a little apart from the others, a little dirtier. It didn't really matter though- no one could tell that from this distance. The most important shops lined the road, like the tavern, the butcher, and the blacksmith. I didn't realize I was hungry until I smelled the bread, wafting down the road from the bakery.

The Blond Beauty and I sauntered into town and parted ways, she to the seamstress, and I to the stables. That's my job- I ride wherever people need me to go. A messenger of sorts, if you'd prefer that terminology. And I'm the fastest on any horse around. Partly because I'm not fat, the horses like me, and I'm flexible. People like that.

Most of the time, at least.

I can't say I was a town favorite- people were getting fed up with my pranks on Buknor, and I couldn't blame them. All I wanted was a decent apology... and some blood. Maybe a match to the death, or something. But these people were like family, since I didn't have any others, and they tolerated me.

We all knew each other by name, knew each other's strengths and weaknesses, and just about everything about each other. Everyone knew where I was in life, I knew where they all were.

“Hello Ithrean.” Said a soft, cheerful voice. “You seem happy. You're walking awfully bouncy.”

“I am, Livie. It's been a wonderful day, and it's just starting!” I replied, putting as much energy into my voice as I could muster. “Do you want to go somewhere? Need help with something?”

“Oh, I don't know.” She replied, shrugging. “I haven't made up my mind yet. Do you want to play dolls with me?”

Here's the thing- Livie's blind. Has been since she was born, and as people said, always will be. A blind, five-year old girl doesn't exactly go unnoticed in a town like Ravenden. She was our pet, you could say. Everyone cared for her, everyone kept an eye out for her- in that sense, she had more eyes than the rest of us.

“Would you like to ride the ponies?” I countered. No, I did not want to play with her dollies.

“Oh, I don't know. Do you want too?”

Her heart-wrenching smile warmed me from top to toe as she looked in my general direction. Bouncy brown curls fell around her shoulders in ringlets like springs, and an array of freckles played across her apple cheeks. Her eyes, though- I had never adjusted to them. Long eyelashes blinked over murky eyes, both gray and white and clear simultaneously. You could see red and blue veins around the middle, but the further from there, the less color there was at all. Gran Blie- the local apothecary- said it was the wood nymphs who stole her vision. I said it wasn't fair.

“That's where I'm headed right now.” I replied.

“Sure, I'll go.” She replied, pronouncing sure like shore. “But I'll just listen, if you don't mind.”

Always polite, always careful.

She reached up and I set her on my shoulders- my little sister. Not by family, of course, but who couldn't love Livie? I carried her walking stick so she could focus on holding onto me- she clamped both hands underneath my chin, since my hair's length didn't suffice, and began chatting as we headed down the road.

But there was a slight problem at the stables.

A full-blown argument had exploded there- one man, in the middle of a crowd, shrieked his fury as several others yelled their opinion over his roar. It took me about two seconds to realize why he was so angry.

Buknor's brother, Soir.

“You!” He screamed, pointing an accusing finger at me. “You--”

“Watch your language, Soir. Livie's here.” Markus, my boss, interrupted. Soir swallowed back whatever curse he had planned on using to describe me.

“Where is he?” He asked, his face bright red and the veins bulging from this neck. “Where is he, Ithrean?”

“Down the road, past the first bend.” I replied, nodding in that general direction. “You'll want to bring a knife with you, if you want to get him out.”

“If he's hurt, Ithrean, I swear—!”

“Blah, blah, blah.” I shrugged, “You'll hurt me, whatever. I don't really care what you say.”

“Ithrean, don't antagonize him. Soir, get out of here.” Markus snapped, annoyed that all of his workers were distracted. “Livie, would you like to ride?”

“No thank you.” Her wispy soprano voice chimed. “I'll just sit and listen.”

“Alright then.” He answered, nodding. “Ithrean, get busy, before I send you to help Soir.”

That was enough motivation for me. I set Livie down on the front step of the building and set out to muck out the horses stalls- not the funnest job, but heck, it's money in my back pocket. Buknor would know not to come here, especially during the work day. Markus would kick him out and whip him all the way back down the road- but that's beside the point.

So, in a sense, my day was going perfectly well until lunch break.

Livie left, probably to Gran Blie's, and I had more time for more mischief. And, of course, I made total use of it. It only took fifteen minutes to set up the tripwire- a new record, considering that I had to navigate around the main road- and I parked myself in front of the tavern to watch the scene. The deserted smithy begged for Buknor to come home.

My nightmares chose that particular day to come to life.

I didn't hear Livie shuffle down the road, as I craned for the stomp of Buknor's boots; I didn't notice amid the murmur of the milling people the soft thump of her stick, guiding her down the road. I didn't see her tiny form amid the crowd.

But I did see the door open.

My legs moved of their own accord; my mouth screamed her name without my realizing it. Adrenaline drove me across the road, shoving away the crowd in my haste. Her name tore through my throat once more- this couldn't be happening. Not her. Everything else in Ravenden became blurry as my horrified eyes watched her chocolate mop begin turning, hearing her name-

Internally, I died, knowing I was far too late. Knowing that my prank was designed for a two-hundred pound man, rather than a forty pound girl. Knowing she could die- knowing that my plans were going to hurt her.

Livie. Anyone but Livie.

I screamed as the trap unfolded before my appalled eyes, as I saw Livie fly back, flailing, her tiny form struggling to use invisible wings. Her silent scream of terror, her mouth open in a wide 'o', made me yell all the harder.

And then the sickening thud of her hitting the ground rang in my ears like thunder, echoing in my mind long after the sound vanished in reality.

I reached her side just a moment later, her screams of agony harmonizing with mine. A drop of relief dropped in my system- screaming meant she was alive.

For now.

Her sobs shook her whole body as my trembling voice tried asking her what exactly hurt- where the bucket of stones crashed into her small form. Even now, the pail swayed in the doorway- the wire had pulled it off the shelf. It would've done little more than knock the wind from a man, perhaps leave a bruise; to a little girl, though... her gasps warned me she could have several broken ribs.

Or a broken back.

“Ithrean,” She sobbed through broken lips, “it hurts.”

“I know.” I cried, “I know. You'll be okay, it'll be okay.”

The words were half meant to console her; the other half was to comfort me. But the unquenchable horror tightened my chest, hurting me- the fear that she wouldn't be okay, that she would be permanently hurt for the rest of her long years.

And that it would be my fault.

The roar of the crowd reached my ears, crawling towards my mind. At first it was random babble; then words, specifics echoing in my mind. Voices I knew, people I loved- all yelling, a proverbial riot on my hands.

Gran Blie shoved her way through the crowd- strong, even for an old woman- and didn't give me a second glance as she knelt down by Livie, her gentle and skilled hands prodding and poking as Livie whimpered.

My nightmare completed its circuit when the old lady gave me a ferocious glare- if she made it to my neck first, I would definitely be dead.

And then someone pulled me away from my Livie, yanking me back as I screamed and kicked, my eyes never leaving Livie. I felt the first punch, through it never registered as pain in my mind, and a second later it was all black- I didn't hear anything, I didn't see anything-

It was even worse than being awake, because I dreamed Livie was dead. 

Well...? Do you like it? I, for one, adore my hooks. I'm very proud of them. What do you think of Ithrean so far? It's pronounced ITH-reen. Please tell me! 

Thank you!

Go Ahead And Whack Me

Okay, okay, I'm a bag of lazy bones. (How can bones even be lazy? It makes no sense!) I've started the next chapter of the Act, but it's coming along pretty slowly. As in, baby steps. Plus negative one. Or something like that. I know what's going to happen, but I- just- can't- get- it- on- paper! So I'm slightly frustrated right now.

It's been happening more and more often; I stumble across a scene I was looking forward too, and then poof! The words get stuck between my brain and my fingers, caught in traffic of my mind. I have a few theories about it- what causes it.

1) Reading too much.

I've been reading a lot lately. As in, more than I've read in a very long time. I had forgotten how nice it is, to never run out words to wallow in. I mean, technically, it should never happen since there are so many books out there, but... it happens anyway. But the more plot lines and characters I'm learning about, the slower my mind can work. Maybe. It's just a theory.

2) Writing too many opposite stories simultaneously.

It's my greatest weakness, the strongest disease, and the bliss and bane of my existence. When a story pops up in my head, I just- have- to- write it! So right now, I'm working on... five stories? Let's count, 'cause I'm not sure. 1) The Second Book (title unknown) (currently at 760 pages... and counting) (my most serious project) 2) The Silver Knight -the first book of the Chronicles of the Keepers, which I wrote out of order. Accidentally. I'm only about 2,000 words into it, but I'm working on the outline. 3) Sons of War, my Inheritance Cycle fanfic, at 45,000 words. I love it, and evidently, so do my reviewers. :D 4) My Pride, Their Pain- a little fanfic for the Hunger Games. Poetry. Easy to write, hard to get people to read. 5) Reunion, a Percy Jackson fanfic 6) Like We Once Were, another poetry fanfic, only for the Inheritance Cycle. 6) The Act, of course. 7) The Invincibles. 'Nuff said. 8) random Viking story that I will probably never show anyone, 9) random Hush Hush story I will only post under extreme circumstances, as in, I fall in love with it, and... 10) Descent Into Madness, another fanfic I've started, but haven't posted.

Wow. That's ten. Hmm.... I should probably cut some of that out, but that'd be like cutting a baby in half. It doesn't really work.

3) Stress.

Yeah... it definitely puts a dampner on the whole creativity process.

4) Homework.

No explanation necessary.

So! You all can whack me for not finishing up the next bit of the Act. I'll get it cranked out sooner or later... maybe... (sighs)

Poll Results, Lois Lowry, and What's Killing America

First things first: a big thank you to everyone who voted on the poll! As you can see, The Act and They rock tied at five votes, with The Invincibles at three votes and They suck at one.

To the person who voted 'They suck': Well, this is awkward. I respect your opinion and everything, but could you please tell me what you think I'm doing wrong? If you're too much of a coward to just tell me, make a fake google account or something. I just want to become a better writer, okay? Okay. Thanks.

Anyway, I will post the next chappie of the Act very soon- to be more precise, as soon as I write it. :)

Now, last night I went to the annual May Hill Arbuthnot lecture at the Saint Louis Library Headquarters with Anna the Dane. The author of the Giver, Lois Lowry, was the main speaker.

And you know what?

She's awesome. I mean, she's 74 and very much alive- she's hilarious and cheerful and clearly very wise. She spoke on the importance of reading at a young age and how books shape cultures- how true! I mean, look at To Kill a Mockingbird. To say that book has not changed the U.S. is like saying Uncle Tom's Cabin means nothing. Anyway, she point is so much more important, considering how many kids are spending their time on their iPods or Wii or x or y. Our culture has devalued the written word and turned to technology that requires less energy, less time.

I think it's going to kill America. Correction- I think it's killing America. As in now.

That probably sounds harsh, but does anyone else agree? How many people now a days actually know how to think for themselves, besides choosing this gadget over that one? How many people have actually read something worthwhile in the past month? Year? Decade? The numbers seem so bleak- heck, our government shows that. The fact that the people stand aside and watch the building burn rather than getting water to put out the flames shows how selfish and impatient our culture is.

I suppose I'm ranting- sorry. But does anyone else agree with me? For those of you who disagree, why do you think I'm wrong? I mean, listening to Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber isn't exactly going to get people anywhere in life, and that's how people spend their time. Watching Transformers isn't going to teach people how to make their own decisions. Spending hours shopping or glued in front of the computer isn't going to help people make the right decisions.

And there I go again. I don't feel inclined to apologize a second time, but I do think this is a major problem in American society. What do you think?

P.S.- I started this post not knowing what I was going to write. Ironic, right?

Last Day to Vote!

Just a friendly reminder that you're running out of time to vote! The poll closes on April 12 at midnight. The winner will be continued, and if 'Both rock!' wins (like it is right now), I will equally post on each story. You can vote multiple times.

I do plan on setting up more polls, but they will not last quite as long. If you have any suggestions on topics, leave a comment!

And to give you all a glance at my latest form of inspiration...

Yes. I am addicted to How To Train Your Dragon, and I'm proud of it too. :) No, I won't post anything I write about it.
Probably.

Happy voting!

The Giver

First things first: there are still a few days left to vote on the poll! Right now 'They rock!' is winning, and I'm pleasantly surprised. And very glad that no one thinks they suck. :)
If 'They rock!' ends up winning, I'll just keep writing in both. Obviously.

Anyway, onto the post! The last time I reviewed a book on paper (or with ink, if you prefer that terminology) was for a sixth grade book report. But... I'm going to give it another shot.

My wonderful friend Anna (I don't know how to tag people, but her blog is the Adventures of a Quadropus) told me to read the Giver by Lois Lowry, and I'm in love. As I told her: "I'm not reading that book. I'm inhaling it."

Without giving too much away, its basic premise is that Jonas, the twelve year old main character, is chosen to be the Receiver of Memory in his community. It is the most prestigious position, but also the hardest. (This is so much harder to explain than I thought it would be!) He has never lied, never thought of lying, never skipped school, never made a bad decision... you get the picture. His life so far has been perfect, because the ones who designed his community made it that way.

Jonas quickly learns that to reach 'perfection', everyone had to lose many things. The most obvious gap is that no one makes their own decisions- before he became the Receiver, he didn't even know he had that capability. The Elders chose his name, his parents, his everything. They even picked him to be the Receiver.

There is no color in his world. No music, no animals, no hills, no snow, no rain, no love, no pain.

To reach perfection, everyone had to lose the ability to chose wrong, which meant taking away any options. The Giver, Jonas' mentor and the previous Receiver, has held all memories of everything they lost.

The setting is stunning and original. Hands down.

The plot is engaging, because Jonas struggles with moral duties and the question of the welfare of his community.

The characters made me laugh and cry; each was obviously unique and developed individually.

I won't say anymore because I don't want to give to much away, but all in all, a great read. And it's relatively short too, so if you have a free afternoon, you can finish it in one sitting.

Not much of a book report, but who cares? You've heard my opinion- what's yours?

The Invincibles, Chp. 2

See that? That purple-ish bar to the left? Yeah, that. See the poll at the top? <------- You should do it. Now. 'Cause that would make my day- and I'll write more on whichever wins! But remember, you can vote multiple times, so if you're crazy about one and not so hot on another, make it clear. :)

Without further adieu, I present to you the second chapter of The Invincibles. Enjoy!

Chapter 2: Good Guys- Yeah Right

Waking was painful. My head throbbed, and my leg groaned, complaining about... something. What had even happened?

It crashed down on me in one overload, drowning my weak mind. I remembered the van, the thugs, the pain-

My dad was dead.

Dead.

Dead.

That pain made everything else seem like nothing. Knowing I would never hear his voice again, see his smile, have a decent conversation with him... and it made me furious.

I blinked back burning tears, and realized that my eyes had already been open- and I couldn't see anything. Rather than panicking and thinking I was blind, my mind immediately registered that I was simply in a black room.

And everything hurt.

My head throbbed right behind my eyes- migraine doesn't cut it. Every muscle in my body moaned when I rolled over and realized that my leg was strapped to something; my fingers told me it some sort of brace. Whoever had taken me had cut off my jeans below the knee. I remembered the gun and groaned. Thankfully I wasn't completely tied; my fingers wandered over my bruised form, finding all the minor cuts and wounds I carries. My arms, palms, and face all had been scraped by my insane jump out of the van, but were already scabbing. My arms also bore bruises- places where the men han help me- and dried blood ran over my knuckles. Maybe I packed a little to much in a punch- I was pleasantly surprised to find out that I hadn't fractured my hand.

I could take the physical pain without crying; it didn't compare to the time I had broken my arm and leg in a bike accident. But the emotional scars burned around the edges, and I had a sinking feeling that my keepers had picked last night- or whenever it had been- for a reason. They attacked when I was weakest.

Creepers, definitely. I could probably sue them with charges for kidnapping, stalking, and molest. I decided I would, as soon as I busted out, which would be soon. Very, very soon. The first thing I needed to do was find the walls, and the door.

You'd think that'd be easy.

It wasn't.

I found the walls lickedy split, but the door was the problem. It just wasn't there- I groped blindly, looking for anything, something, and found absolutely nothing. It was all uniform, as rough and hard as concrete, like I was a fish swimming in a glass bowl. But I couldn't look up to see the hole at the top of tank- it was all too dark.

And it sucked.

My mood rapidly deteriorated as the second, then minutes, ticked past me, uncountable. It was only made worse when my stomach rumbled, and then the bandages around my leg started leaking, the liquid- I thought it was blood- oozing down my leg and dripping into a puddle on the floor.

My worst day had become the worst days of my life.

I didn't expect the pain when the door eased open on silent hinges, someone stepping into the room, a remote in one hand, a tray in the other. The light from the hallway blinded me- white and brilliant and driving nails of pain through my scull. My guest tapped her remote and lights turned on in my cage, and I used my arms to cover my face, hissing in pain.

“Cut it out, would you?” I croaked- my tone didn't come out like I had wanted it too.

“I'm sorry, Hailey.” She apologized, her voice gentle. No one with a voice like a mother could be anything other than a snake with my situation- I wondered if she was married to the man with the gun, the one with the careful, chiding voice of a father. “But you caught us unprepared- we didn't think you'd wake up for another hour. That's why we didn't bring your food sooner- it wasn't ready.

“But here you go. A couple days ago when you were at a restaurant you ordered fried eggs and hash browns, so that's what you're getting today. Hope you like orange juice.”

The juice came first- I didn't want to sound like some pathetic, wheezing innocent.

“Where the heck am I?” I growled as she leaned against the far wall, remote still in hand.

“You're in a scientific laboratory. You fit the description of our needs, so you're the newest participant in one of our greatest tests.” She gushed- why did all of these creepers act like kindergarteners on Christmas?

Science wasn't my best subject, but that sounded really, really bad.

“Was kidnapping really necessary?” I spat, glancing at my leg. Yep, that was definitely blood puddling around my boot.

“I'm sorry for that too.” She apologized- I wasn't sure whether or not to believe her. “The men were told to not hurt you, but the camera explained it. You're quite the fighter.” Why was she so freaking happy? “It wasn't the preferable method of getting you here, but some excused it as being the final test- your reaction to threats. That's not my opinion, of course. You already fit the criteria- no need to test you further. It was simply that your foster parents probably wouldn't have let you come, though we're sure you would have. The benefits...!” That maniac grin spread across her face again. “You're going to become the best of the best.”

I had the feeling their definition of 'best' wasn't mine.

“I'm going to change your bandage now.” She continued, watching me, that happiness still in her eyes. Her expression, though, was careful and controlled. “If you hurt me or try to escape, we'll put you out again.”

“Whatever.” I grumbled. She took that as a yes, and crept forward. A click on her remote opened a drawer in the wall, and she pulled out several medical things I didn't recognize.

“What's your name?” I asked.

“Doctor Gerus.” She smiled, her hands busy with my leg. My fingers tingled, wanting to grab her plastic face and turn that smile upside down, because I couldn't take much more of it. “I'm the head of human resources here.”

Human resources- meaning me. But she said resources- plural- and the men in the van had mentioned others...? My muddled mind tried pulling up the memory, but the room started spinning.

“Tell me how you're feeling.” Doctor Gerus began, still working on my leg.
“I feel like I deserve an explanation.” And much more.

She rolled her eyes, but that maniac grin never left her face. “You're a silly girl. Physically, Hailey.”

Silly girl? Oh yeah? I wanted to shout. Look at yourself, see that grin plastered on your face, and tell if laughing gas isn't funny. I attacked the hash browns rather than her face- I was fairly sure she appreciated that.

“Well?”

“Why should I answer?” I snapped, my face full of potatoes.

A gentle, motherly smile came across her face- again. I shuddered; something was very wrong with this situation. “Because we want to help you, Hailey. Everything will go so much smoother if you simply participate- you're about to reach your best life! You should be so honored- so thrilled! Please, Hailey; just help us help you.”

“Fine.” I snapped. “I feel like someone clubbed me over the head with a brick and proceeded to beat the living tar out of me.”

“Interesting choice of words.” Doctor Gerus chuckled- I glared even fiercer.

“And I feel like killing every person in this lab, because this is wrong.”

Her smile faltered; the light in her cheerful expression dimmed. And then it returned, softer, more careful. “You don't know what we're going, Hailey. Don't assume we're evil- in the end, when this is all over, you'll realize we were the good guys. You'll realize that you wouldn't be alive if it weren't for us.”

That sounded, in a word, bad. The more Doctor Gerus talked, the more creepy the entire situation became.

That's when I decided it was high time I should leave.

I restrained myself until she finished with my leg and stood, smiling apologetically down at me. It was only a minute more- more than enough time for me to create a plan.

“Better?”

“Whatever.” I muttered.

“Just believe me, Hailey.” The Doc began. “It'll make things easier all around.”

“You know what?” I asked, staring her down; “Easy has never been a part of my life- why start now?”

I swung my legs around, whacking her stiletto heels. She toppled, medical supplies flying everywhere, and I lept to my feet, adrenaline fueling my attack.

I suppose I attacked her- she probably could've filed charges. To be more precise, I tackled her, wrestling her little remote from her perfectly manicured hands, and scrambling across the room to where the invisible door was.

“Hailey, you don't want to do this.” She coughed, propping herself up. “You don't know what will happen- you don't know what's in store for you-”

“I don't want to know.” I snapped, pointing the remote at her like it was a gun. I half-wished it was a gun.

“Hailey, the Director hand-picked you to be a part of this-”

“I don't care. Pick someone else, but do one thing- don't kidnap them. Ask them like civilized people.”

“Hailey, don't-”

But she was too late.

I pressed the button on the remote- the one that said 'door'- and it swung open. I was through before anyone could have told me to stop, not like I would have. Charging down the disturbingly white hallway, I struggled with the remote, trying to find something like a map app. Wonder of wonders, she had one of those too.

The place was huge- massive. I zoomed into the little red dot labeled 'You are here!' and decided on my course, straight to the little sign labeled 'Exit'.

These scientists were really stupid.

Where was the thunder of hurrying feet? The cries that I had escaped? The announcement over the sound system- there had to be one- that everyone was to be on the alert?

How stupid did they think I was?

Pretty darn stupid, obviously.

I made more noise than I wanted too, since I only had one shoe, and a rubber puddle boot at that. I tossed it off the first chance I had, though it burned to hop on my bad leg. More blood was seeping through the fresh bandages- I blamed it on the adrenaline. And I slipped on through the lab in my socks, sliding along the suspiciously clean floor.

And I was off again, blurring past windows showing scientists bent over their work, whatever that was. There were doors, too, labeled with random numbers in no particular order.

But the quiet told me that something was wrong.

You'd expect there to be sound in a scientific lab- people discussing various obscure ideas, chemical explosions, you know. But there was nothing. Sometimes I could hear the murmur of voices, but they faded as quickly as they came. Once I heard someone wearing heavy boots, but since we were headed opposite directions, it wasn't a problem.

They at least had the sense to lock the door labeled 'Exit'. I morbidly thought about how it gave me some respect, that they would at least try to keep me in the building.

I gave it a solid round-house kick, right to the doorknob.

All it did was send bolts up and down my leg- I hissed in pain. But that wouldn't stop me.

So I tried again.

And again.

And again.

After three minutes of doing very little damage besides getting more panicked and anxious (and flustered and angry and sending more blood trickling down my leg), I pulled out the remote and flipped through the apps. I'll admit- I was starting to freak out. But not a lot. Just enough to send more adrenaline through my system.

And lo and behold, what did I find?

Yep. I found an app to open that door too. I decided they were even stupider.

Since I didn't know how long I had been missing, I didn't really expect it to be night outside, but it was pitch black, darker than I'd ever seen before. I flashed the remote before me, using it like a flashlight. Where the heck was I? I took a few careful steps forward, blindly trying to go somewhere. Gravel crunched beneath my feet, and I felt a pleasant breeze toss my hair across my face.

And that's when things started going downhill.

The dark was blinding- so was light. A spotlight suddenly fell upon me, silent and paralyzing; I growled, throwing a hand over my eyes, and darted forward, trying to get away from it.

“Don't bother, Hailey.” Came a laughing voice. “I'm sorry that you want to leave, but you simply can't. I chose you to come here, to be one of the best. I'm the Director-by the way- and I must admit, I'm impressed. You're quite the escape artist, but you fell for the oldest trick in the book. You'll have to learn to do better.” He laughed as I glared up, not at the light, but somewhere by it. His voice echoed around me- where was I?

“Did you really think we'd give you the tool to get out of here? Please, Hailey, give us some credit. We knew you'd try to get out; we knew you wouldn't settle as a hostage. So we gave you the tools, so we could see how you'd do. And I'm sorry, Hailey, but you're not even outside. Turn on the lights, boys. Show her where she is.”

I stood in the middle of a square room, with black walls and a gravel floor. If I had gone fifty feet further, I would've run into the wall. Silent fans built into the room caused the win, and to be honest, I was impressed too.

And then I was angry.

I could hardly speak, my rage was so controlling. “You--!” I managed to stutter. “I swear, I'm going to kill you!”

“No you won't, Hailey. In the end, you'll love me, because I'm opening so many doors to you- I'm the best Benefactor anyone could ever dream of it. Think of everything you want- anything!- and I can give it to you. Just wait, Hailey. You'll understand soon enough.”

I pounded the remote, telling the door to open.

“Sorry.” The Director sighed. “I turned off your remote. It's time for you to go back now.”

“In your dreams.” I snarled.

“Right back at you.” He chuckled. “Give her the gas, boys. She won't go without a fight.”

I clamped my hand over my mouth and nose after taking a deep breath- I wasn't getting knocked out again. No way.

But I had no choice, and just like before, I slipped into blackness.

Well...? Do you like it? Why? What's your favorite (or least) part? 

The Invincibles

Okay, confession time. I haven't really been writing in the Act lately. But I told you all that I wasn't crazy about it, and I have these other fantastic ideas... I won't give up on the Act, but don't expect regular updates.
This one is titled- guess- The Invincibles. I'm not done with the first chapter, but I really like what I have so far. I love the main character because shes nothing like me, and it's really fun to write in her POV (point of view). And she's really crazy, too. That's one of the few similarities between us. :) 
Enjoy- and don't forget to comment! I live on reviews (just ask my Fanfiction readers)!

Chapter 1: Worst Day Ever

I remember each detail of that night; it was dark, and raining, and I was cold and absorbed in my misery- I didn't realize until later how perfect the night had been for a kidnapping.

Normally, I would have enjoyed puddle jumping- but not that night. Normally, I would've danced in the rain- but not that night. Normally, I would've been smart enough to not go walking down a major downtown road in the middle of the night- but especially not that night. My searing agony hindered any rational thought, pulled me from my normal careful shell. It left me blind in the dark, stumbling along an endless road of bitter memories and broken promises.

It started when I got a phone call from my dad's lawyer. I guess it was around 10:30 or so, and I was sitting in a slow bookstore cafe, reading Emma (for the ga-zillionth time).

It was always a bad thing, when Mr. Jaggers called. He'd either tell me that my dad is back in jail, or he's going to trial. Again. This time, it was different.

He was calling to tell me my dad, my last living parent, was dead.

Gone. Eternally sleeping. Not coming back.

And the worst part about it? He had committed suicide. Offed himself because he was too selfish to think of me, his sixteen year old daughter, who may have wanted to talk to him, who may have wanted to see him again, who may have missed him after five years of foster care homes.

I sat there until the place closed, too numb to do anything. From there I wandered to an even slower diner, and from there, the street. I guess it was 12:15. I needed time to think- time to recover- before I got back 'home'. That's why I didn't call my foster family for a ride; that's why I didn't take the bus or catch a cab.

And that's how I got kidnapped, sealing the nightmarish qualities of my declining day.

My hair clung to my face as I wandered down the dark road, water sliding down my back. My jeans were heavier than usual, and I could feel the luke-warm water seeping through to my skin. My shoes squeaked,but I hardly noticed. The wind- I did feel that. I shivered in the storm, for even the slightest gust stole all heat from the warm water. The stinging rain kept my gaze fixed on the sidewalk, and I passed from the shadows into the strained streetlight like a wraith.

The street, normally busy, was silent; any sane person was indoors avoiding this weather or sleeping. Even if the rush hour traffic had been there, I wouldn't have noticed. The lightning didn't make me flinch; the thunder didn't make me shudder. The hurricane in my heart made this physical gale seem like a mere drizzle.

I didn't notice the van trailing me; not the splash of it inching down the wet road, not the sharp smell of exhaust fumes, not the rumble of the engine. Its' headlights were off, in my defense, so it hid in plain sight.

I did noticed when it slid up beside me, stealthy- not the typical squealing of brakes like they show in Hollywood- and I definitely noticed when the sliding door grated open, several men pouncing out onto the street.

Reality crashed onto me like an imploding building- my body moved before my brain recovered. Adrenaline shoved my emotional pain to the side, ordering my feet to start moving, for my ears to start listening, for my eyes to start seeing, for my brain to pick up my broken pieces and glue them together quick, because each and every one was necessary.

I was fast- I used to be in track- but these men were faster. My feet pounded down the slick pavement, and I took a deep breath to scream, but massive hands clamped down on my mouth, another wrapping around my waist. My left arm was pinned to my side, but that didn't stop me from elbowing the man in the gut. His grunt told me I did something good- I struggled and managed to pull away, my mouth opening-

The click of a gun cocking made me freeze, stopped me from following through with my plan. It stopped the breath as I tasted it, it clamped my mouth shut, it stopped my eager feet, sending a shudder down my spine.

“Get in the van.” The man began- his tone didn't fit with the situation unfolding before me. It was the voice of a gentle father, reprimanding a child who had taken a second cookie from the jar, not some thug with a pistol.

“Get in the van, sweetheart, because I don't want to shoot you.”

The man I had shaken off had my arm, and his grip tightened.

But wouldn't they have shot me already if they wanted me?

“Come on, sweetheart.” The man repeated.

I bit my wet lip, scanning the road for any help. There was nothing.

“You have to the count of ten.” The man with the gun began, more force in his voice.

“One.”

He and I started a staring contest.

“Two.”

The beginnings of a plan began putting themselves together, mapping out my epic escape.

“Three.”

That's when the plan began- I bolted.

Whipping around, I smacked the man who held me right in the nose- I felt the crunch of breaking bone as blood gushed over my hand. I kicked the next thug right where it counted, morbidly pleased when he toppled over. Two down already!

I wasn't prepared for the crack of the gun shot, for the blood, for the pain. My leg wailed in protest- the bullet had grazed my calf, ripping through my jeans and spreading blood all over the wet concrete. I ducked from the next thug, punching him in the gut as I slipped through his fingers.

Someone with really calloused hands grabbed my shoulder- I whipped around to face him, punch him, kick him, bite him, something-

He cocked the pistol right between my eyes.

“Now sweetheart, let's not fight.” He murmured, death in his eyes. “Just come along with us and you'll be fine.”

Yeah right.

I let my terror show in my expression- the face of an innocent, frightened teenage girl. A crooked smirk came across his face, and I took my golden opportunity to spit in his eyes. Blinded, he reached up to wipe it away, muttering profanities, but I was faster. I elbowed his nose- too bad his didn't break too- and twisted his wrist. It took more effort than I expected, but in a moment his fingers loosened and I pulled the gun from his grasp.

“Now honey, let's be nice.” I crooned, smiling at him, the gun poking his nose. “If you just leave, I won't hurt you.” His men didn't move, though I could hear them getting up and breathing loudly- I suspected the adrenaline high made them seem louder than they were.

“Got some spunk, don't you?” He asked. I gritted my teeth.

“You're going to get in your van right now.” I smiled, letting my warning burn in my eyes. “And your thugs.”

“They're professional bodyguards.” He corrected.

“Sorry you wasted your money, honey, 'cause they suck. Now, you have to the count of three to move.”

His expression dared me to start counting- I gladly accepted.

“One.”

He started backing away, and I heard the shuffle of his lame guards.

“Two.”

I gave him the sweetest smile I could muster through the growing pain, and using the gun, I encouraged his pathetic minions to move.

“Three.”

They were all in the van- I made sure to notice the one with the broken nose and the other that glared at me with a passion- I must've kneed that one.

“Okay, honey, you're going to shut the van and drive away now.” I smiled, feeling like Professor Umbridge from Harry Potter.

And that's when my brilliant plan and execution fell apart.

Someone caught me around my waist- his arm wrapped all the way around, locking me in his grip. I bashed the gun against his head, blindly flinging my arm back to hit him, but he didn't budge. Rather, he reached to grab it, and that's when I screamed bloody murder.

Distracted, his huge hand clamped over my face, but the sound of my cry echoed in the empty road- surely someone would notice!

“Get in!” The ringleader roared, and the man who held me stumbled forward as I struggled, kicking him, punching him, hitting him over and over and over. He didn't seem to notice, and my hands were really starting to hurt. The force of him dragging me into the van sent the gun skittering across the sidewalk- I watched as my best weapon fell out of reach, horrified.

The thug threw me into the van- literally tossed me in- and I landed on the dirty metal floor, scrambling up again- they weren't done with me yet. Not in a million years.

But the door squealed shut, the massive thug- he was a bodybuilder, or something- clambering to a seat as the van lurched forward.

Yep. Officially the worst day of my life, and it was getting steadily worse.

“You need to stay still, sweetheart.” The leader began, pulling out a box of first aid. “You're bleeding.”

He made the mistake of coming too close. I kicked him in the face with my good leg- watching with vengeful glee as his head snapped back and he slid back, slamming into his minions. My leg throbbed, but I seriously didn't have the time to check it as I turned to see if anyone else dared stop me.

“One of you please hold the girl. She's a tad angry.” The driver laughed.

“You wanna see mad?” I bellowed, my voice sounding so much more threatening than I felt.

“Someone stop her before she hurts herself.” The man sitting shotgun began, his gaze focused on a touch screen he held. “The boss wants her unhurt.”

“Too late for that.” I snarled, backing into the van wall- most of the seats had been taken out, giving the thugs plenty of room.

“Fights like a demon.” One of the thugs laughed. “Who is she, anyway?”

To say I was ticked off would be like calling a tiger a cuddly, family-friendly pet. I watched the thug leader, at least, the one nursing a bruised cheek in the back.

The man with the touchscreen answered- I saw my picture appear in his hands. “Hailey Telliks, age sixteen, weight- a hundred and thirty-two pounds, height- five foot nine and and a half inches, eye color- green, hair color- blond, been in foster care since she was four, 2.74 GPA average... anything else you'd like to add, Hailey?” He asked.

“Sorry, but you've got the wrong person.” I snapped. “Have fun explaining this to the cops.”

“Don't lie.” The touchscreen dude chided me- his tone was no-nonsense. “I know you're Hailey- we've been tracking you the past three months.”

Talk about creepers.

“I was being serious, about adding something to the list. It'll be a help, in the end.” The touchscreen dude continued. I slid over to the door, another, not-as-brilliant, more I'm-freaking-out-so-I'll-do-anything plan throwing itself together.

“Yeah, I've got something to say, besides for the fact that you all are-”

“Be nice, Hailey.” The techy dude interrupted. He had good timing- I felt the van hit the bump I had wanted- and we were on the bridge, right where I wanted us to be.

“You know what?” I began, furious.
“What? I'm tired of you talking, because it's not helping you. Someone put her out please.”

The gargantuan thug leaned over, throwing a mask over my face. I held my breath as he counted, but he seemed stupid enough to fall for anything, so I only pretended to be falling asleep. My eyelids fluttered; my thrashing grew weaker.

I let my head roll limp over my shoulders, my eyes closed.

“Why do the bosses want her?” One of the cronies asked- his tone told me he was the one with the broken nose.

“Just look at her!” The techy dude sighed. “She fits the age requirements, and admit it, she's smarter than the lot of you, even if her GPA doesn't show it. She's the perfect contender.”

“The other ones didn't struggle as much as she did.”

“What about the third? Didn't he break someone's leg?” The techy dude sighed again, like today was the perfect day. “Yes... she'll be great. I can't wait to see how she turns out.”

That's when I had enough of their chit-chat. Leaping to my feet, I threw open the van door- they had left it unlocked- and flung myself into the street. Suicidal, yes. Unexpected? Undoubtedly. But it worked- I tumbled onto the bridge, rolling and skidding across the pavement, and scrambled to my feet. I was lucky to not have broken anything, though my arms, hands, and face all stung, bruised and scraped up. My leg screamed in pain- I'd have to get a taxi, this time.

I could hear them yelling, the van screeching to a halt, the thugs jumping out the door. How many minions does it take to catch a girl? I thought. I scrambled to the railing of the bridge, grasping the metal bar that was supposed to stop suicides from jumping.

I wasn't really suicidal- but they couldn't exactly follow me when I was swimming, could they? And it was only a thirty foot drop... I tried ignoring that part.

I hissed in pain as something hit my side, and I yanked out a dart.

My mind managed to realize I was in trouble, and then-

Everything went black.

Well...? What do you think? (Oh, and if you have suggestions for her last name, I'll take them. I happened to be listening to Skillet (the song Hero- ironic, right?) and for lack of a better idea, I just flipped it around and plugged it in.) Thanks for reading!