Well, I haven't been here in...forever.  And a day.  Anyway, I'm going to use this as a place to put my writing for nanowrimo.  Anyone who's curious, but please keep in mind that this is a very, very rough draft, which I won't be editing at all until November is over.  At least.  For those not in the know, nanowrimo is national novel writing month.  Start to finish, 50,000 words in November, and this is my first time really attempting it. Without further ado, the book I'm working on:  Murder Most Foul (working title, definitely going to change).  Oh, and it should be about 1700 words every day.

CHAPTER ONE

They say that intelligence is better than beauty. I say to be ruthless is higher than the both of them. But then, I would. I take after our real father, after all. Too slender, dark hair, dull grey eyes, and always, always the last word. Mary, though…she is everything I’m not. Blond, full figured. Flashing blue eyes, an infectious laugh (all the boys she toys with certainly catch something, anyway). The one thing we have in common is a taste for manipulation. Nothing really bad, understand. It’s just that sometimes, sometimes people are so easy to move.

We used to have contests. Toss the fists, winner gets Mom. Dad’s just too easy, so we always tried to get her every time. Then, over a course of, oh, say two weeks or so, we’d pit them against each other. It’d go like this:

“You really going to eat the rest of that cake, Dad?”

He sighs. “What now, child?”

“Oh, nothing. You see Duncan’s dad at the farm the other day? Mom said he’d just toss bales of hey over his shoulder, quick as you like. Strong as an ox, she said.”

Dad wipes his mouth, drops the cake, and goes to his workshop, working on clocks for the next six hours. Then Mom gets home, tired and aching from a day of dealing with customers. Mary offers to cook. I clean dishes. Mom goes straight to bed, Dad walks in, having gotten increasingly more neurotic over the past afternoon.

“Where’s your Mom?”

“She went to bed. I think she’s got the vapours.”

Me to Mary: “Hey, did Duncan come in with his dad to the shop today?”

“I think so. If he could fit through the door frame with all those muscles!”

Dad’s face doesn’t twitch. He and Mom don’t talk all night. She wonders if there’s something wrong, but can’t think of a way to ask that wouldn’t have him sigh and go back to the workshop. Easy. Then we’d do the hard part: reversing the trick. First person to get caught loses.

We still haven’t been caught.

It wasn’t until I was thirteen or so that I thought to ask why I didn’t look like either of my parents. Or why Mary doesn’t have Dad’s, to put it politely, rather large forehead. Sometimes not getting an answer is all the answer you need. Particularly when Duke Cunning stops at your shop that same day with his new bride, sees Mom, turns grey, and walks back out the door without another word. Even at thirteen we were precocious.

Needless to say, we pestered Dad until he told us the whole sordid story. Apparently, he couldn’t sire children, and Cunning likes to do what Cunning likes to do. Ahem. It is his right, after all. Dad just thought hey, why not make the best of a bad situation? Mother simply didn’t go to Lady’s shop after the ordeal. This was all a bit shocking, but true to form, we were able to swing it to our benefit. Mary and I spent many happy hours together, planning out a way to scheme the good Duke out of his easy earned money. Not that it ever came to fruition, but still…those were good days.

Fast forward a few years. Now it’s nothing but “Aelita, why don’t you ever bring boys over like Mary does?” Or, “Aelita, have you ever considered attending to the church in a few years?” As if I wanted to get married or become a priestess. Both ridiculous ways for people to spend their lives.

Now I spend most of my time at Lady’s, learning the apothecary trade. Potions, powders, tinctures. A girl’s best friend. Not that I would mind having a boy drool over me and serve my every whim. Hell (pardon my language), I can hear Mary outside right now, working her magic. That laugh penetrates wherever you go. This is the only time the apothecary shop seems as dark and dreary as it really is. I work in the back, dealing with the light sensitive plants. For some reason Lady never wants me up front.

The place is pristine, naturally. Ivy covers the walls on the inside. I’m still not sure how Lady pulls that one off. The smell of green, growing things surrounds me. I think this might just be the best place in the world. I like the mandrake root the best. I was stealing a look at lady’s books while she slept the other day, and apparently I have to use gloves to tend it because if it even touches your skin, you have nightmares for days. We use it for animals having trouble giving birth. One sniff and they go berserk, straining and heaving like there’s no tomorrow. Of course, then we have to nurse the baby to health ourselves, since the mother won’t go near it for weeks afterwards. It reminds me of the duke.

I pull off my gloves, walking through the low hanging vines marking the entrance to the shop proper. Mary’s inside, turns out. I see her wink at me quickly, a flash of the eye that I’m the the only to catch, because she turns to the side at just the right moment. Her hands flash sign that we taught ourselves to speak. Mostly so we can make fun of everyone else around us with no one the wiser.

Duncan is really on his game today.

You going to throw him a bone today, or make him cry into his pillow tonight?

We’ll see. Check out laugh a minute over here. Trying WAY too hard. Watch this.

Mary does the Hair Flip. Golden locks toss over her shoulder, she breathes just a little too heavily, and everything just stops. Duncan stops. Laugh-a-minute stops (seen him around for years, still don’t know his name). Hell, even Lady and I stop. Then she puts her hand Duncan’s shoulder while looking into laugh-a-minute’s eyes. Definitely a challenge. Things are going to get interesting later.

Behind the miller’s. Midnight after mass. Chores for a week on laugh-a-minute.

You’re on. Duncan can take him with one hand tied behind his back.

Mary flashes a pearly smile and says, “Alright, boys. I’d love to stay and chat, but I really need to get back home with Mom’s flowers.”

Cries of protest abound. Duncan glances at me once, blinks his eyes, and then abruptly turns and leaves the shop. What was that all about?

Lady turns to me after they leave. She’s a heavyset woman with hands the size and shape of garden spades, but she’s sharp as a tack. Sometimes I think she sees more than she lets on. She lets me work here, though, so I let it slide. Normally I cannot abide sharpness.

She turns to me and speaks. A rare event!

“You’re not playing her game.”

I feel a wry smile twist it’s way onto my mouth. “Who says I’m not?”

“You never do. You’re the only one who doesn’t.”

Lady turns and heads to the back room, vines parting as she makes her way to the back. I’m a little unnerved. Oh well. Time to put my own plan into motion. Mary’s not the only one who can play games, and I already owe her a week of chores as it is. No chance I’m letting this one go.

“Lady! I’m heading out for now!”

A grunt of response.

The shop’s bell rings as I walk out. The sun shines bright, but I can see clouds coming in from the East. Another reminder that any day now, the sun will fall and rise for the another six months or so. I’m looking forward to it. During the winter months, people mostly stay inside, so I get to spend more time with Mary. Mom and Dad never seem to enjoy it as much as we do, though. There’s always a sudden resurgence of them going to church, without ever feeling the need to take us. Although sometimes Mom gets it into her head that I in particular need to come with. I suspect it’s in the vain hope that I’ll charm some poor sod into marrying me. Maybe someday. After I’ve had my fun.

I head down the town’s bright road, wagons rattling past, people scurrying, hustling and bustling to get prepared for winter. I can see Duncan’s place up ahead. He’s working in their small garden today, pulling up plants. His broad back works in the sun, muscles pulling and stretching. Such a waste. I could do so many things with muscles like that. Wait, what am I saying? I already have them. I walk intentionally louder, letting him hear me coming.

He straightens, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Hey Duncan.”

“Hey.”

He looks suspicious. Guess it’s been a while since we talked. Sometimes I get lost in my own head.

“How’re things with Mary?”

He takes off his hat, twisting it absently. Probably not even aware of how frustrated he is. “Not great, Aelita. I can’t ever figure her out! One second I think we’re great. Next I go from planning the wedding to hoping she’ll notice me this afternoon. I can’t keep this up.”

He angrily pulls up a carrot, dirt flying up in small chunks. Bingo. Got to play it subtle, though. I’m a little rusty. Mary has more natural gifts than I do. Not that I can’t be effective, though…

I hunch down just a tad, then look up at him through a few wisps of black hair. “Maybe I could help.”

He looks wary. “Why would you help me? No offense, but we’ve spoken maybe three times in the last month.”

I straighten and look him in the eye. Staring just a bit too long can work wonders. Makes women nervous and men angry. He might could use a bit of anger.

“I’ve had enough, Duncan. I love my sister, but she’s an idiot and so are you. You two obviously care for each other, but you’ve never even tried to prove it to her. And she’s worse than you are! Too afraid that you won’t be able to protect her. I wish she’d quit talking to that jerk…”

Is scuffing my foot just a little in the dirt too much? I decide to go for broke. I glance sideways, acting embarrassed, then look back up. His jaw clenches, working like he’s got a piece of gristly in there that he just can’t back down from. Looks like I’m home free.

I'm going to start posting samples of my writing here as well as my thoughts. Not all of it, mind you, just sections. Here's the first one. About four thousand words.


She ran like someone with nowhere to run. A sort of frantic, panting marathon deeper into the rain-drenched night, knowing all the while that it must be, has to be, a useless endeavor. Mist rose from the streets, obscuring the future and shrouding the past, leaving only the constant, panicked running. As she skipped around a corner, her peripheral vision caught sight of the truck just a tad too late, and it was almost a relief when it slammed into her shoulder, spun her around, dropped her to the ground like a sack of flour. The truck never even stopped, never saw the look on her face as it thundered down the street.
The woman stared into a nearby puddle as if seeing herself for the first time, and what she saw rang a chord within. Hollow cheeked, skin yellow from lack of proper foods, hair dull and lifeless, she looked how she felt. A trickle of blood waltzed slowly in a fascinating, dizzying dance down her chin from where she had hit her head on the edge of the manhole cover. The manhole cover…the open manhole cover. Gasping, she tried desperately to get to her feet as a warbling, haunting cry rose from the darkness next to her. Failing in even this small battle, her eyes widened in terror as she pulled herself to the light pole on the corner of the street, then used it to stagger to her feet.
She stumbled forward, and then her shoulders slumped, sagging in defeat. Turning, she stared at a door in front of her as a wailing, moaning sound could be heard creeping up on her from behind hunting her, sniffer her, finding her-her hand rapped softly on the door of it's own accord. She stared down at it, as if shocked that it could betray her like that, as the curtains shifted and an old man's voice could be heard mumbling about those dang kids again. Too tired to run, she slumped against the door, then fell in as it opened, spilling light onto the street and banishing the shadows. The wailing stopped, the moaning silent except for one small, soft moan of despair, as she looked at the old man in front of her with sorrow in her eyes.


Darren knew something was wrong with the little thing before him. 'Course he knew, he wasn't blind or deaf, like everybody seemed to think he was these days. Moving carefully so as not to trip and fall over her blurred form (it wouldn't do to break his other hip), he dragged her inside, then stood at the door, peering desperately into the night, straining for some hint of what it was that had the young lady moaning softly to herself. He thought, for a moment, that he saw a flash of gray, like night against night, but put it down to those dang eyes of his. Turning, he saw his wife, Ethel, lifting the girl under the arms onto their couch. "Darren, you old coot, get over here and help me get her up, hear?" The paisley colored couch sagged gently under her weight as she shifted into position on the couch, her black, bedraggled hair spread out around her head in a sickly looking halo.
Darren went to bed, feeling helpless before the matronly onslaught that was Ethel with a purpose. As he lay back, he kept imagining he could hear…something. Sort of like a hungry cat, prowling around his window in the night. It seemed, though, that the more he strained the less he could hear it. Finally, he became frustrated enough to get up and put in his hearing aids, but as soon as he put them in he heard a crackling, ragged noise, like electricity being ripped in half, and he threw them down in frustration. He heard nothing else that night, but he lay awake for a long time, thinking about himself and his life.
Morning came. Sunrise kissed the streets, making everything better, and the girl, for now that he saw her in the morning light she couldn't have been a day over seventeen, the girl was up and bandaged, stuffing buckwheat pancakes into her mouth and looking guilty as sin. Smiling gently, Darren sat next to her, then said in the too-loud voice of the hearing impaired, "Hullo, girl."
A slight pause, then, "Hello."
They ate in silence after that, staring at each other warily. After a bit of visual chicken, Ethel came in with another batch of pancakes, smiling like she'd found a starving kitten in the street. Bustling about the small breakfast nook merrily, she kept up a constant stream of chatter that served to cover everything as Darren stared at the girl in benevolent bafflement. Finally, he leaned over and whispered loudly, "Psst! I'll give you some syrup if you tell me what happened out there!" The girl stared at him for a long time, then burst out laughing, all at once, as if not sure what to do with herself. Darren relaxed, happy he'd done something right. The rest of the day was a whirlwind of confusion for Darren, as he wasn't used to much more than getting up late, reading the paper, then ambling on down to Ben's to see if he was up for coffee and chess. They took the girl to the hospital, where she continued to be her taciturn self. The doctor was a large man who seemed almost resentfully jolly, like an annoyed Santa Claus. Darren and the girl resumed staring at each other while saying nothing while Ethel and the doctor chattered like a couple of blue jays in human form. Darren listened to their conversation while keeping a curious eye on the girl.
"She doesn't appear to have any I.D., Mrs. Gustaffson."
"What? I.D.? What's she need I.D. for?"
"Why, so I can know who she is."
"Look, young man, don't be playing games with an old lady. I'm sure SHE knows who she is, why don't you just ask her?"
"Mrs. Gustaffson, I-"
"Ethel."
"Ethel, it's not enough that she knows who she is, she has to be able to prove it."
"Why's that, huh?"
"Well, the government-"
Darren, sensing an issue he really knew something about, pounced like a dog on a large, juicy steak.
"Another mint! Hah! What's a young thing like her need another mint for? Why, I tell you, if I was fifty years younger…"
The doctor, used to old interrupting men, deftly swung the conversation back around.
"You'd show me what a young person could do. Anyway, Ethel, she does seem to be in good condition. She'll need to stay off that leg for a couple of weeks, and she seems to be severely malnourished, but I give her two months or so and she'll be right as rain."
The doctor mentally slapped himself for using such a hideous cliché. Darren, meanwhile, had gotten severely bored with all the muttering everyone was doing, and had wandered over to stare at the girl-shaped blur on the hospital bed. Darren casted around in his thoughts warily, searching for a suitable topic of conversation when conversing with young blurs.
"So…how 'bout them raiders?"
The girl just stared at him. Getting bored again, Darren started up to wander aimlessly down the hall (he was good at wandering aimlessly), when a soft voice cut through the shroud of silence surrounding his world.
"My name's Mary."
Darren rubbed his ears, sure he must have imagined her voice. Clear as a bell. He hadn't heard anything that clear in years. He looked over at Ethel-blur, but all he could hear was all that Another Mint talk again.
"Scuse me, girl?"
The dam burst.
"My name's MaryIdon'tknowwhat'sgoingonandI'mscaredand-"
"Whoh, hold up there chickadee. Tell you what, you just rest now and we'll get you back to my place. We don't exactly have a guest room, but I'm sure m' son can put you up for a while."
A brief look of pain flitted across Darren's face.
"He's got plenty of room, after all."

Charlie was tired. Bone tired, dead tired, the kind of tired that reaches down into your soul and plants roots. He wandered around in a fugue, stumbling from room to room as a dead man walking, and only a little more alive. The bare walls yelled at him, screaming their loneliness and guilt. He stumbled into his bathroom, and caught a look at himself in the mirror. Three day's stubble creeped across his face like an invading army, and a foul, rank odor corroded the air around him. S' the smell of despair, he thought to himself. No, wait, it's the smell of me not showering for three days. The bottle in his hand crashed to the floor unheeded as he peered closer into the mirror, searching for some sign of the man he had been. He couldn't find anything, but oddly enough it was more comforting than sad. Figuring it was about time he went shopping (vodka can only keep you going for so long before diarrhea sets in, as he found out to his dismay), he stumbled out the door and into his car, where he had left his keys in the lock. All of a sudden, a thought struck him with perfect clarity. S' no good, driving whatsit. Drunk, thas' it. S' no good, driving drunk. Should walk drunk instead. With that sage wisdom running through his head, Charlie left the keys in the car and proceeded to zig zap back and forth across the street, wincing as he ran into a telephone pole. He made his way down to the grocery store, then stood there for a while, trying to remember why he was there. A sudden screaming filled his ears, as from a distance away, and he turned curiously to see a man pointing a shoddy-looking gun at a cashier. Ice ran through his veins, sobering him up quicker than three jugs of water and a horrible night's sleep. He reached for his gun, then realized that he didn't own one anymore. As he watched, the situation crawled along painfully slow, and he had a horrid sense that he knew, he just knew that he wasn't going to do anything. Time sped up, and the man stuffed a grocery bag full of cash. A big man walked out of the bathroom behind the gunman, apparently unaware of what had been happening in his absence. The gunman, backing away slowly from the cashier, ran straight into the man and then shot the gun twice. The woman went down in a splash of blood as the store erupted in screaming and Charlie woke up.
What a horrible dream, Charlie thought to himself. It then occurred to him to wonder why he was laying in a clean white bed. Last he could remember, he was walking to get groceries. He tried to get up, then collapsed back in weakness, realizing suddenly that it all had been real, but that he hadn't done nothing. A gloved hand touched his arm, and he looked up into the face of annoyance.
"That was really stupid."
"Yeah, I know."
The nurse glanced down at her clipboard.
"So, after running forward and screaming bloody hell, you tripped on a bench and fell on the gunman, who then proceeded to beat the ever loving tar out of you with his gun. You went unconscious, after which he crawled out from under you (trodding on your face in the meantime) and ran off with the money. I'm sure you'll be glad to hear that the cashier is fine, and the worst injury you've sustained is a couple of severely bruised ribs and a broken nose."
Charlie nodded, looking properly embarrassed.
"The broken nose was from him trodding upon your face, Mr. Gustaffson."
Charlie nodded, unsure what she was getting at.
"Your face. He stepped on your face."
A slight snigger escaped from the nurse, but she looked properly shocked and fled out of the room before bursting into gales of laughter. Charlie sat back, contemplating a world where nurses sniggered at people who'd had other people viciously step on their faces.
The nurse walked back in, then said in a severe voice,
"Also, you smell like vodka and grossness. I'm not giving you a sponge bath, but I strongly suggest you take a shower first thing when you get home. Also, you can leave this afternoon, assuming you're feeling better."

NEXT SECTION: I'm not too big a fan of this part. I'll probably redo it or cut it entirely. 523 words.

Charlie had a dream that night. He was standing under an overhead sprinkler at work, and it was speaking to him. He couldn't understand what it was saying, but he knew that it was important. Something about his wife and kids. Also, he needed to buy celery. He woke up in a cold sweat, wondering why exactly the dream had been so terrifying. "Well, I did forget to buy celery," He thought. After that, he couldn't sleep (for fear of recurring celery dreams), and so he went out onto his back porch and lit up a cigarette. As the burning tip glowed in the frosty morning air, he couldn't help but wonder where it had all gone wrong. He remembered the birthday party…
"Look, Charlie, it's not that big of a deal, really. You can go to work, she's just going to have some friends over, and we might go to the zoo."
"Marta, I will NOT surrender my principles to those self-serving egomaniacs at JW's! I should think you would be supporting me in this, as well!"
There was a long pause, while Marta glared at the kids, who were tearing up the living room. Charlie just knew that she wasn't saying something, and she wasn't doing it very loudly, as well. Frustrated, he stomped into the kitchen, realizing that he'd forgotten to get Celery on the way home, which only made things worse. She just doesn't get it. I can't not go to my own daughter's birthday party! What kind of a dad would I be? Marta came in and read his mind, which always seemed so easy for her.
"Charlie, it's not like that. Everything's a big deal with you. When the goldfish dies, sometimes it's just a goldfish. You don't always have to have a funeral. And no, I'm not some sort of sick, twisted person."
"I just don't understand how you can be so cavalier about everything! What are you going to do when Mary's birthday comes tomorrow and I'm not there? She'll be wondering where Daddy is, and what will you say? Daddy had to go to work. Ugh, even saying it sounds despicable."
Mary tore through the room like a miniature tornado, then stopped in front of Charlie with an incredible stillness, looked up, and said, "Guess what, Daddy? I'm going to the zoo for my birthday! Gerty's gonna come over an Helen an Jackie an Steve (even though he's a boy) an Sara an…" Her voice trailed off into a long chorus of names, most of which Charlie had never met, much less knew about. He looked helplessly at Marta for a minute, imploring her to understand, but she merely rolled her eyes and walked out of the room. Later that night, Charlie went up to his room while thinking heavy thoughts. He slipped into his bedroom, sat in his old, stuffed armchair, and stared at Marta thoughtfully. "Amazing…", he thought to himself. "How is it possible to care about one woman that much, for one woman to be that beautiful?" He shook his head, staring in slightly melancholy wonder, and then went to bed.

NEXT SECTION: Segment about Charlie's son, Danny. About 1400 words.

Danny spat in the dust, and then immediately felt guilty for doing so. After berating himself for feeling guilty, he got painfully to his feet (sticking his hand in the congealed glob of dust and spit while he was at it), and turned around, looking meekly at the ground. A rough hand grabbed his face, and he heaved a tired sigh inside, though he was careful to not let it show on his face.
"So, Dansy-Pansy, think you can mess up my yard like that, hmm? Maybe I should give you another taste of fist, teach you some manners?"
Hating himself as he did it, Danny said, "So-sorry, Chaz. It's your dust, and I shouldn't have spit on it. I'm really sorry."
Chaz laughed aloud. "Hahaha! Pathetic! What a loser. Let's go, guys."
Danny watched as Chaz the Monster walked off. "One of these days I'll call him that to his face," Danny thought. A hand touched his back.
"Hello, Lise."
"Hey, Danny. You ok?"
"Yeah, sure, never better. You know, I think I've actually grown to like a little dust first thing in the morning. Really starts your day off right, you know?"
"Danny, you should-"
"What, Lise? What should I do, hmm? Punch him? Is that what I should do? I think we all know how that'd go."
Danny turned around furiously to berate his friend some more, than stopped in shock as he saw Lise. Her long brown hair was curled around her head in a wild halo, mixed with grass and little pieces of cheese. Blood trickled out of the corner of her mouth, and a large scrape was just starting ooze on her right arm. She turned away, as if to hide what had happened, and then turned back defiantly.
"So I guess you're not the only one with problems, Danny."
With that she hurried off, leaving Danny to gape like a fish for the next ten seconds. A mocking laugh echoed across the courtyard, a parting shot from Chaz.
Danny splashed water over his face in the bathroom, then stared in the mirror and tried to pinpoint exactly what was wrong. All he saw was the same Danny he saw everyday. Dark brown hair fell across his forehead, and green eyes peeked out at the world from eye sockets a bit too cavernous for his comfort. He had a long, aquiline nose and low set cheekbones, giving his face an angular appearance. It was almost like he'd been put together by a mathematician instead of an artist. Drab clothes draped his tall, lanky frame, making him look like a scarecrow with a weight problem. His mother always said he just needed to fill out, but with his luck he'd just get fat and bony instead of skinny and bony. Danny snapped out of his reverie as he heard the bathroom door open, and hurriedly slipped past the two boys coming in.
Danny moved like a ghost down the hallway, never quite touching or making eye contact with anyone. Homeroom was awkward, to say the least. He sat next to Lise, and he couldn't help avoiding looking at her face even more than usual. First of all, he would never admit it to anyone, but he thought she was pretty, and whenever he thought that he couldn't look at her. Her injuries that day only exacerbated the problem, as it was a little disconcerting to see someone else on the wrong end of a punch, and he didn't quite know how to ask about it. He and Lise had been neighbors for most of his life, and while he knew her, he still found it difficult to talk to her at times. This generally happened when he most wanted to talk to her, in fact.
Danny dreaded lunch. It was always so awkward. He and Lise always sat together, but they never sat in the same place twice. She was one of those girls that could sit anywhere and be perfectly comfortable, above all the cliques, and she dragged Danny along like some sort of human kite wherever she went. Today, however, they sat by themselves at one end of a table and talked about everything except anything important, studiously avoiding any subject that involved words like "fist" and "face". Danny was about to broach the subject of kangaroos and how they were considered pests in Australia (he couldn't think of anything else), when a dreadful event occurred. Someone slid down the bench to sit next to Lise, which was ten times worse than just sitting down. It smacked of familiarity that bothered Danny in a way he couldn't quite define. The guy who slid over looked kind of sleazy, which wasn't anything new at Danny's school. He wore a t-shirt with some name on it that sounded vaguely bandish, and his hair was slicked back with an obscene amount of gel.
"Hey baby, how you doing?"
Lise shifted in her seat uncomfortably. "Fine."
Time seemed to slow down as Danny watched with open mouthed horror at the scene unfolding before him.
"Yo, I was sitting here, right, I was sitting here and I was thinking. I was thinking, who could I show a good time. Then I saw you, and I was like Daaaaang, I'll show Lise a good time!"
The kid looked inordinately proud of himself, especially when Lise became obviously flustered and uncomfortable. Taking this as a sign from heaven that he should proceed, he slid a little closer, than noticed Danny for the first time. It was almost surreal, because the kid looked directly at Danny, right into his eyes, and then with an almost audible *click*, dismissed him as nobody of importance.
"So, Friday then?"
"Wh-what?"
The kid looked a little impatient. "I SAID, Friday, baby. You come to my place, I'll show you a good time."
Elise shifted nervously, and then salvation came calling. "Yo, dude, get over here! Whatchyou doin', man? We gots to go!" The kid smirked a bit, patted her hand, then walked off.
Later that night, Danny paced. "I can't believe it! How much of a putz am I, that I couldn't even say anything!", he thought to himself. Emotions and recriminations churned and raged within him as he stalked the driveway in front of his house. It had felt almost like a tiny wall had been built inside his mouth, so he couldn't say anything, couldn't do anything, and now it was too late. "Some friend I am. Never asked about how she got hurt, couldn't protect her from the sleazebag, what is WRONG with me?" He lifted his foot back to kick his brother's basketball into oblivion, but then stopped in utter frustration as sudden guilt plagued him, making him even more furious at himself, until he raged and raged with nowhere to go, inside the cage of his own body. Finally, he leaned against the fence bordering his neighbor's yard and sank to the ground slowly, tears clouding his eyes.
A moment later, he felt someone above him, looking down. He quickly wiped his eyes and looked up mournfully, expecting his brother, or maybe his dad. The man before him was someone he had never seen in his life, and yet he looked strangely familiar, like an uncle he'd never seen. The man was tall, tall, with hair like graveyard soil and madly twinkling eyes, like a deranged Santa's elf. He gave the impression of being slightly hunched over, and thin as a stick, a scarecrow come horribly to life. His body lurched like one as well, as if the stick he had previously hung on was still there holding him up. One horrible, clawed hand reached down and grabbed his shoulder as Danny scooted away involuntarily, and a disconcertingly normal voice came out of the man's horribly wide grin.
"Danny, Danny, Danny. How are you, my boy?"
As if breaking a spell, the voice of the man turned him into something more human. The shadows around him broke, and his eyes lost some of their twinkling eeriness.
"Fine, I'm fine. I have to go, though. I have to go, umm…place."
The man let out a sort of half-laugh, half shriek that sent shivers down Danny's spine. "Not so fast, Danny me boy, eh? What can ole' crawface do for you, hmm? Tell you what, I knows exactly what I can be doing for you. I knows, Danny."
The man's tone sent a sharp scurry of both fear and hope through Danny's body, like carsickness in reverse. He knew, somehow, that the man could do something for him.
"I don't want to be afraid anymore, mister."

I walk better when I walk alone. I wonder why that is...

So, I watched the movie "bedazzled", the old school one with Brendan Frasier. It got me thinking, so let's flesh it out. What it got me thinking about is the fact that I don't *want* anything. You know, like people want to be rich, or popular, or have more friends, or be better looking, or any number of things. I used to, but not anymore. I wonder why. I guess I figure that if I really want something, than I should just go get it. It's not really that hard. If I cared about being rich, I'd go be a lawyer, or an engineer, or something, but the key thing, the really important thing about this is that I don't. If I really wanted to be rich, I mean really wanted it, then I would be. People, as general rule, get the things that they really, really want. Not just the surface desires, but the things that you truly want, beneath all the surface desires. There's a plane of desire in our souls, the core of things, that exists beneath everything, and it's not the level that most people think it is. We THINK we want to be good, be righteous, go to heaven, get married, raise a family, be rich, help people, etc. etc., but you know what? Most of the time (not all the time, obviously), most of the time we don't really want those things. If we did, we'd have them. I think the challenge is to become people who truly want good things, rather than people who WANT to want good things. Anyway, I digress, as I usually do. The point is, I know what I want, but for some reason I don't want it enough at the moment. I'm working on it though. Some things I do want and am doing the right thing to get those things, but it's more a factor of time, or is dependant on things I can't control. Meh.

Seems to me that by looking at things we are currently getting, we can discern the things we truly want, and then change ourselves based on that discovery.

Wow, so, dos posts. This is sort of journal-esque, so I guess I don't mind boring anybody who reads this with two posts in one day. Heck, I might even do another one later on. I was thinking (dun dun dun), probably the reason so many of the girls I know don't get dates (despite the aforementioned cowardice of much of the male population in provo) is the type of girl I tend to be friends with/date. Here's a recent theory I've expounded on to a number of friends of late that I've been thinking about for quite a while: I cover the perfect niche. See, I've tried going out with normal girls. They're very nice and sweet and all, but quite honestly, I get bored. I know this probably sounds like a cop-out or something, but it's true. There a number of incredibly gorgeous girls I've gone out with that I just got bored with, simply because they were too...normal. Let's face it, I like 'em weird. Admittedly, it's a certain type and degree of weird (more type than degree), but weird nonetheless. I've gotten off track. Anyway, the perfect niche: being as how I'm a nerd that was raised in a normal environment, I pass quite easily in normal society. As a result, this also means that I have passable social skills and a halfway decent sense of style. This, sadly enough, oftentimes puts me leaps and bounds over the competition for girls that I want to date. It comes down to what I call the "uber-nerd": you know the type. He's the guy that loves nerdy things, but even more, he seems to love flaunting his love of nerdy things. To me, that's kind of like...I dunno, walking around in your underwear, or something. It's not like the underwear is bad, but that doesn't mean you should go shoving it in people's faces who, let's face it, don't want to see it. Anyway, me and this type of guy, we both want to date the same type of girl. She's the "attractive nerd girl". I.E., a nerdy girl who also knows how to do hair, makeup, that sort of thing. I know, some think it a myth, but really they just hide it more than guys do. You do get the uber nerd girl version, but thankfully they seem to be less prevalent among the female persuasion. So, this type of girl has a dilemma, to my way of thinking. They want to date normal guys, but not really. Allow me to explain. They see the uber nerd. They see normal guys. No contest, normal guy every time. Here's where it gets complicated. This part is more theory. Theoretically, they would get bored dating normal guys like I get bored dating normal girls. Oftentimes in practice, however, they never get the chance to get bored. Normal guys like normal girls. What they don't realize, however, is that a hybrid version of guy DOES exist. Admittedly, he is not often found in nature, but being as how I am one, I can attest that they are out there:} Hence, it often comes as quite a pleasant surprise when they see a guy who one: is not afraid of them. Two: is socially able, and is not afraid of society. And three: isn't boring. The uber nerds really only have one out of three there. Hence the reason that I cover the perfect niche. Although, to be fair, it can be quite hard to find this type of girl, as they tend to have developed a sort of social camouflage for survival purposes. Not as hard as you might think, though. Anyway, that was long and mostly pointless. Just something I've been talking about with a couple friends of mine recently, fleshed out on paper.

Well, I can't sleep at the moment, so I guess I'll blog. Freaking Dave came over this morning. It was good to see him, but the kid needs to get himself a girlfriend. Bad. Plus, now I'm in kind of a bad mood on account of he kept pushing me to get up and come get breakfast and hang out etc. etc., which is not normally a problem, but the more someone pushes me to do something, the more stubborn I become. I also become significantly more rude/blunt. Fortunately, only people who get extremely pushy see that side of me. Not the blunt side, I tend to be a little blunt in general, but the rude side of blunt. Criminy, going to bed at 4 in the morning is actually kind of early for me, so getting up to hang out with someone at 8 in the morning? Yeah, so not happening. Unless it's a girl. Huh. Weird, but true. Well, not too weird. I do love the ladies. And not just dating them (although that's tons of fun, as well), I just like them more than I do dudes. Most of my friends are girls, in fact. I wonder why that is. Actually, I don't wonder, I know. Numero Uno: Let's face it, being with the opposite sex in any capacity is just more fun, I'm not gonna lie. Numero Dos: Weirdly enough, I quite often have more in common with the ladies. For example: chick flicks. I saw Definitely, Maybe a while ago (good movie, by the way). At the time, I had a girl friend, but she couldn't go. So what did I do? I went and watched it with Ashley and her friend whose name I don't remember. Numero Tres: TV sports. Not a fan. I love playing sports, but watching them? Ugh, pass. Every time. Numero Cuatro: This isn't a way we're similar, it just kind of fits the general theme. Me and the ladies, we complement each other. Where they're emotional, I'm not. Where I've got dating problems/theories that I need to expound upon, they're generally willing to listen/they know what they're talking about. I make them laugh, most girls. Not all, but a signifcant number of them. And I especially love dating them. I'm not talking the physical side of things (that's more girlfriend material), despite that also being fun, I just like to show a girl a good time. Seeing as how quite a few, if not most, of the guys at BYU/in provo in general seem to be deathly afraid of actually going on dates, I see it as my very pleasurable opportunity to remedy the situation. So many incredibly awesome, beautiful girls that I know never get asked out. It's a crying shame, although I suppose it's good for me:} This is turning into a really long exposition, so I'll seperate the next thought into a completely different post.

So, first blog ever. It's kind of intimidating, but will probably help me flesh my randomn thoughts and theories out. I tend to use people for this sort of thing, but perhaps this will be less confusing for my friends:} As such, allow me a caveat: Most of the things I write here, unless stated otherwise, are merely general musings, rather than something I've decided/believe.

Anyway, something that's been occupying my mind a lot lately, and consequently some of the conversations with some friends, is the almost control I have over my own emotions. It seriously kind of freaks me out sometimes. In general, I believe it to be a good thing, but still...An example. My grandma died recently. It was sad, but oddly enough, people were more sad for me than I was for myself. I was more sad in a technical sort of way. Like I said, creepy. Heck, I joked about the corpse with my sister at the funeral. Sure, I'm not exactly proud of that, but it shows what I mean. Additionally, however, sadness is not the only emotion I have almost total control over. It runs the whole gamut. Happyness, depression, anxiety...heck, even love. Although more falling out of than falling into. But that's a whole different subject for another time. Things that I see other people get depressed about or down because of or anything of that nature...they don't touch me. It's like they're in a different world. Even crazier, I wasn't always this way. I can't pinpoint it, but I think something just happend, or clicked, or switched, or something. About two years ago or so, by my way of thinking. I can't help but wonder what triggered it. Ah well. This is getting long.

Reading: Mistborn, Brandon Sanderson
Listening: Lollipop, Mika
Mood: Contemplative

Think I've seen other people do that at the ends of blogs. I kind like it.