Go as crazy as you'd like with your own little story! She scowled at her glass of orange juice
oh dude dude! who is the other Robin Mckinley fan on wiki? That's how her The Blue Sword starts, it's the very first line, "she scowled at her glass of orange juice." I love that book! (Betcha all didn't know I could be that gushy!) ~Rosie That's so cool! I just remembered about that book!! I read it a really long time ago and loved it, then promptly forgot that I'd read it, let alone how it started. Yay, another Robin Mckinley fan!! ~Becky~ Once upon a time there was a glacier named Pete. All the other glaciers used to tease poor Glacier Pete because he was so puny. But Glacier Pete could do something none of the other glaciers could do. He created an entire new river valley. So there. So none of the other glaciers teased Glacier Pete anymore. The End Erin went to the kitchen to do the dishes, and there was some half-cooked slimey chicken (for the dog) that she had to put away. She got out a container and plopped the chicken in, which splattered goup all over the place. She grimaced, and soaked her shirt with soapy water to get the ckicken goup out. The End The night was warm, but when the wind blew it was cold. It was a starless night, very cloudy, not even the moon was in the sky tonight. It was dark and lonely out. Deep in the woods you could hear the owls crying, and every now and then you could hear the squeals of bats, and the fluttering of their wings. The wind made the trees shake from side to side. "I hope the wolves are not out tonight," you would think to yourself. Just then you trip over a fallen down tree, and get eaten up by flies. -Alyson Whitworth So anyway, a long, long time ago, I used to be a pirate. Yeah, I know what you're thinking: A bunch of mentally unstable, unshaven brutes running around gnashing their teeth and shouting things like "Har matey!" and "Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!" And you probably imagined that these boisterous, hairy fellows may not smell very good either. And well, what can I say? Partly you've got it dead right. But there's also a whole lot that you'd never guess about life on a pirate ship. Like, did you ever know that pirates sing each other lullabyes at night? The Beginning. Once upon a time there were two little girls who liked WikiWiki Web. One day they got on the computer and stayed there for hours. The next thing they knew, one little girls mommy told them to go to bed. So they set the clock back three hours. Unfortunately, Amtrack set their clock back three hours too, so from then on all the trains were late, which was bad when one little girl wanted to get to the other little girls house, but good when she was supposed to leave. Then the two little girls started thinking, and the results of their thinking was this: staying up all night is good. But not when you have something to do the next day. Work is bad. But not when you need money. Trains are good. Even when they're late. And when you turn the lights out, it's dark. The End. -jointly written by Kathleen and Marina In a night (any night) in a city (anywhere) a girl (she could be you) made her bed (one last time) she made her exit (by the window) she made her entrance (on the street) she made her mind up (in the silence) she started walking (slow and steady) on the sidewalk (rising silver) in the snow (with saint's bare feet) and the moon (so near and burning) rose above her (like a kiss) she felt the streetlights (jealous orange) on her back (like stranger's eyes) she felt the moonlight (a cautious whisper) drifting words onto her lips. ~Rosie
Agent Marcus stood in the dark alleyway wondering how the hell she'd pulled herself away from the book she was reading to come out here. She'd been told by her annonymous contact to be in the alleyway at nine, but nine had come and gone with nothing out of the ordinary happening. She paced around impatiently. It was cold, it was dark, and there were any number of things she could be doing besides standing here waiting for God-knows-what to happen. Just as she started walking in the direction of her car, chiding herself for not staying home, Agent Marcus saw someone emerging from the dense white of the fog. It was, apparently, who she'd been waiting for all night. The figure stopped and waited for the Agent to approach. Agent Marcus hesitated. She was alone, in this dark alleyway, and didn't have her weapon with her. "Who are you?", she asked. "No one important" said the figure. "Then why should I listen to anything you have to say?" "Because your life depends on it." She wasn't in the mood for this. "I'm sorry, you've made a mistake." she said, turning and walking away from the stranger. "I'm not who you seem to think I am." "I wouldn't walk away, Agent. Your welfare is of no concern to me. I'm just obeying my orders. I'm here to tell you you're in danger." "Yes, I agree." said Agent Marcus, starting to run towards her car. As she unlocked her door and climbed in, she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She was putting her keys in the ignition when something caught her eye. A can of Coca Cola sitting on the passenger seat. She'd sworn off Coke years ago, and she hadn't given anyone a ride in weeks. Understanding struck her, and she bolted from the car. She looked to see if anyone was hiding in the trunk or back seat, but found nothing. There was no damage to the door locks or windows. Someone must have unlocked her car, and left that Coke can. She shivered, chilled to the core, and re-entered the vehicle. As she drove home, she knew it was going to be a long week. To be continued The ghost glided silently down the black, icy cold hallway, moving without a whisper towards the partly open door at the end. Toward the girl sleeping untroubled in her bed. Maria tossed slightly under her heavy coverlet. It was April, and the days were newly warm, but the nights were chill, the icy mist rolling off the ocean in the evenings and enveloping the old house on the top of the cliffs that overlooked the ocean. Maria was dreaming of Nathaniel, blue eyed Nathaniel. Tan, short, dark haired, muscular Nathaniel. Nathaniel finally talking to her, after all the countless hours she'd spent watching him on his father's fishing boat. Nathaniel reaching out, touching her arm... But her dreams changed suddenly, and in Nathaniel's place a woman came, a gray woman, her face strangly taut, her eyes large and dark, her long dark hair wet and covered in clinging seaweed. Maria shuddered away from her, even in her dream. The woman looked so horrible, so wrenchingly sad. But Maria's dreams changed again, almost as if she were watching a slide show, a helpless prisoner in her own mind. She now saw a young woman, walking along the sea cliffs, the same ones that ran down from her house to the tossing ocean below. Her thick, dark hair was blowing in an unseen breeze. The woman's clothes were strangely old fashioned, her dress long and full, a blue shawl draped around her shoulders. Suddenly, Maria saw the woman shade her eyes, looking out to the moody, blue gray sea. Then the woman's expression changed to horror, and she rushed down the winding path of the cliffs, her light shawl flying from around her shoulders, lying unnoticed on the muddy path. Maria felt terror clutch at her throat, tear at her heart until she couldn't breath. She strained to see what the woman saw. And then she did. A young man, far out to sea, flailing his arms, his face a tiny white dot in the deep blue gray water. Suddenly Maria was down on the cold, wet sand of the shoreline, standing among the tangles of seaweed and shells, watching as the woman with the long, dark hair waded into the water, screaming at the boy to just hold on, to just hold on for a few more minutes, until she got to him. But the tide was going out, Maria could feel it even though she wasn't in the water, could feel it tugging at her. She felt the water in her mouth, her eyes and nose. She felt a huge wave go over her head, and she thrashed her arms to keep from going under, but she was getting so tired. She wasn't sure who she was anymore, if she was herself, or the woman, or the young man drowning in the water. The tide was strong, stronger than it looked, strong enough to drown her pathetic, struggling body without any effort at all. Suddenly she saw the drowning boy's face. It was Nathaniel. But even in her shock at seeing him, she knew that as surely as he was drowning, that she was drowning too. "Nooooo!!!" She screamed, her lungs filling with water, burning, burning, burning. Maria sat up with a jolt in her dark room. Her face and back were drenched with sweat, she was cold and shivering, and for a panic filled moment, she thought that she really had been in the ocean, drowning. It was then that she saw the gray faced woman, a woman with long dark hair, and a long, old fasioned dress, sitting at the foot of her bed. Waiting. ~Becky~ Wow. That was good. -Kathleen The knife shuddered, hanging inches above Keen's chest. The hand gripping the knife was shuddering also, the knuckles white. It was not Keen's hand. The man holding the knife crouched over him in the dim room, his eyes wild and scared...mad eyes, killing eyes. Every nerve in Keen's body shook and screamed a slient and terrible scream as he clenched the man's arm, every muscle trembling as he fought the arm with the knife held over his chest, fought for his life. Suddenly, the man made a wild lunge forward, and Keen felt the tip of the knife pierce the skin of his chest. He struggled and screamed, but the knife was too close now, it was slowly cutting his skin, in a moment, it would be inside his chest. It was only then that his life started flying before his eyes, it took only a second, he knew he was going to die, it was over. He closed his eyes. But nothing happened. I must be dead Keen thought vaugely. At least it didn't seem to hurt as much as I thought it would He tentitively tried opening his eyes and gave a strangled yelp of surprise. A woman was standing over him, her face taut, her fists clenched. Lying at her feet, alongside of Keen, was the man, the man with the knife who had been trying to kill him. Keen felt his stomach wrench at the sight of him. He was dead. Not just dead, but horribly dead. His eyes were rolled back in his head, blood dribbled from his open mouth, and driven up to the hilt in his back was a black handled knife. The knife that he had been trying to stab Keen with was still clutched in the man's hand. Keen was shaking so fiercely that he thought his body would come apart. He looked back at the woman, his mind screaming with various emotions, his lips forming a silent question. "No." Said the woman, her voice deep and firm. "You aren't dead. But if I hadn't come along, you certainly would be. Here." She wiped her hands, which Keen realized with a sick feeling, were covered in blood, on her faded jeans, then stretched her arms out, gripped his wrists, and pulled him sharply to his feet, where he would have promtly fallen over again if the woman hadn't supported him. Keen stared at the her. The woman had fine lines around her light blue gray eyes, and around her mouth, but she could have been any age between 19 and 35, it was hard to tell. Her hair was a non descript brownish color, and was pulled back off her face in a ponytail. Keen's eyes traveled reluctantly back to the man on the floor with the knife in his back. Then he looked back at the woman. "Call me Miriam." She said gruffly. "And don't get involved with the Mob again. They're too dangerous for a high school kid." ~Becky~ an exaggerated story i wrote when i was thirteen years old, about a situation experienced with my sister's ex-boyfriend... nightline the phone rang loudly and obnoxiously. I hate that phone; it's blue, and sort of translucent. I looked at the clock "Hello?" "Hi, is Patricia there?" I didn't recognize the voice. "Uh, no...she's at Mary's. She's staying the night. Who is this?" "It's Robert." Whoa. I don't know what happened. I guess some unknown force threw me out of bed; I was up in a second, putting on make-up and tidying my hair. "Hi, Robert." I replied, in a very deep, sultry voice. "Uh, hi River. How's it going?" "Okay, I guess." Ow. My throat hurt. Robert Andrew was my sister, Patricia's ex-boyfriend. He's 13 years, 2 months and 4 days older than me. So what. Anyway, if anyone ever asked me who I thought was the most attractive male still breathing, or ever to have breathed, the name Robert Andrew left my lips without hesitation. If my dream hadn't been about John Lennon, it would've been Robert (and they often were). Once, in a poem, I described Robert: /His fingers as long as seal's teeth/ /His hair bleached blonde as lemonade in the summer time/ /His torso as firm as a punching bag/ /His legs like a chicken/ /His bum as round as a cherry/ /His.../ "So, tell me about your week." Robert sounded...tired. "Oh, I did a little bit of this, a little bit of that. You know." Silence for 2 minutes and 6 seconds, tops. Sheer turmoil. "Let's talk about SEX." Uh... did he just say that? "Um, what about it?" my sultry voice was wavering. "Have you...ever?" "Well...not really." "You know, River, I always thought you were very..." "What?" "Hot." What was going on? Was this Robert Andrew, my sisters ex-boyfriend? Was he....no, no, he couldn't be. "You should be a bellydancer." He was! Robert Andrew was FLIRTING! "Um, what exactly do you mean when you say 'bellydancer'?" "Or better yet, stripper." "Uh, Robert, are you saying..." "Call me Andy." "Andy?!" Not even Patricia called him Andy. "Uh, River, do you wanna come over, or something?" Okay. I was losing my head. Robert Andrew. Andy. He was asking me to come over. "Robert -- Andy. Are you...are you dating anyone? As of now?" He seemed to hesitate. "Well, no, I'm not. Why do you ask?" "Well, I've always found you very attractive, and from what you've said tonight, I'm assuming..." "Listen, River, you're a cute kid and everything -" Cute kid?! " - but you are 13 years, 2 months, and 5 days younger than me..." "4 days!" "If you were, maybe, a couple days older, then I guess I would reconsider, but, the circumstances being what they are..." "You know what Robert, forget I brought it up." "Uh, okay. So, you, uh, still wanna come over?" Click! the end An airplane drones above, a vague and abstract sound that must have traveled millions of miles to be heard in this moment. The dull sun beats through the cracked windows, and dust particles float lazily in the air. They eventually come to rest on a wooden chair, the only piece of furniture left behind in this place. Then all is silent, but the heart of the house beats a slow and constant rhythm. On the chair sits a music box, a velvet-and-porcelain doll dressed up like a sad circus clown. She holds no reminder of the mystery that has left this place stripped and deserted, but slowly, carefully, the key begins to turn. Long seconds come between the intervals of music, like pausing for tears, at first. And then she gains courage, the sad note droplets coming faster, as too many memories... And it becomes darker, the sun a ball of dark orange sifting through the walls. Tired now, her music comes more slowly. Softly, the key stops sometimes as it turns. Presently, all is quiet again. One half-note hangs in the air, never finished ~Eire Brunhilde made the mistake of opening a book she used to love. The words came rushing out and tore her from the safeness and carried her away. "Canary yellow. vine. love. smoke hope dream egg. yesterday the? moon in it's loveliness the well with&& sweet water by husband your breasts honey pigeons wall: the fields,snow covered yew tree! black brocade strolling." Those were the last she heard. Since this is the beginning of the story, and not the end, She was washed ashore on remembrance island where, after putting herself (as best she could ~ being tired and so on) together again, she began to think. If it wasn't for her friend being gone she wouldn't have opened that book up at the wrong time. And the space where her friend wasn't seemed to get deeper and more obvious. Black, not moss-draped and camouflaged. She got mesmerized by the blackness and immensity of this hole and got lost in thinking of the how-lovliness of her friend. Every little thing, and all the big things behind those. When she was just getting into it properly, really stewing in her own little pool of misery, she started to shiver. She woke up and remembered how much she (and, of course, he) love oceans. She started walking along the shore. The waves set the tempo, her blood pulsed: love love love. This is what it's like to have love. Yes. And she walked. I wonder. What is he looking at now? And thinking. She tried to guess, being quite good at reading his mind when he was here, you see. The waves washed a bottle up to her feet, midstride, sometime between love being said again. Well, duh. She whipped out her trusty enlayed knife, carved a pen out of a conch shell, (yeah, I swear) and wrote a letter to her friend on a piece of cloth torn from her hem. She tossed it out into the ocean in a happy arc. Since this is a happy story, with a happy ending, he received the bottle, wrote that he would come rescue her and.. That was yesterday. She's sitting on the shore, trying to get herself in order. Being reduced to just loving someone is hard, and she didn't want to be all weird when he appeared.
Once upon a time, stories always began this way. Birds sang and sunlight sparkled and you danced in the sand in the ocean, wondering if someone was watching you but knowing they weren't for then they would be dancing too. Then you said, I hate this story I've read it before., and then you read a new one. Once upon a time, a girl got very cold and decided to go bake some bread. So that is what she is doing. ~wind NBTSWikiWiki | Recent Changes Edited 31 times, last edited on January 3, 2001 by 169.207.205.31. © 2000 NBTSC Webmasters |
and then realized that was the beginning of a different story.
