Excerpt from Imaginary Novel? (first and last line of famous novel)

Once upon a time, there was a woman who discovered she had turned into the wrong person. Click. And she didn't hear the blast, a deafening silence only she could detect. The man lay dead on the floor, scarlet ribbons streaming around him. No, he couldn't possibly be dead. She couldn't have killed him. And all of this must have been a dream.

Of course it wasn't, but she hoped it would be. The thing became too heavy the bear. Metal clanked, the floor vibrating. A small child wailed in fear, but he was harnessed to her back. She couldn't comfort him. "I told you... I told you not to follow me," she whispered, briefly hoping for an answer. A chunk of splattered brain coldly ignored her.

Her phone buzzed. With hesitation, she answered. "Yes?"

"...I lost you and Echo, are you alright?"

She looked from the corpse to the pudgy hand scratching her shoulder.

"We're alive."

"Hold tight, reinforcements coming."

And they were stranded in the middle of a parking lot, a sliver of moon illuminating the crusting stains on her hands. The only thing she wanted was a hot shower. Every siren made her flinch and every unnatural light was a signal for her immediate arrest. And her baby... her baby taken from her. "Please hurry..."

It was far too long before they arrived in their armored van, as they were wont to do. The door opened to a man with a shotgun. And it was then she actually felt sick. Years of running, giving birth to a child a spitting image of her, likely with her own abilities, only for it all to culminate in her first murder. She cried. It was a fine cry - loud and long - but it had no bottom and it no top, just circles and circles of sorrow.

Six Word Memoirs

1. I don't know how to smile.
This is actually true in a literal sense. More specifically, I can't smile with my mouth open. I just end up with this weird gaping expression. Mouth closed, it's fine, but the moment I try to smile with my teeth showing... yeah, not going to work.

2. A daily dose of pretentious whimsy.
Creativity and interesting little things are what I live for. My world runs on poetry and the stories going through my head. Not all high-minded subject matters are important but that's why I like them. I want to one day own a library with a section just for unimportant academic subjects.

3. There is only so much hope.
Sometimes relentless positivity is exhausting. I've never liked those reposted Facebook quotes about looking at the bright side and platitudes (such as "It's always darkest before dawn") annoy me relentlessly. If something is bad, I'm more inclined to recognize it as such.

Newspaper inspired story (dystopian parody)

A response to human rights groups and other meddling do-gooders prominent concerned persons...

Progressive TechTM is an open and democratic nation. We do not appreciate this insinuation that we were bought out by robots in 2043. Let's stop with this notion that we do not know what we are doing. We know exactly what we're doing. And what we're doing is great. At least twenty percent of congress is made from organic tissue.

Only 4 percent of that vital organic representation is in the Superbrain - a far cry from the exaggerated 5 percent.  For the record, the Superbrain has all of our citizens best interests at heart, human and robotic. The Superbrain cares about everyone and everything. Even vicious liars like you.

And a good 10 percent is not organic, but from diverse inorganic material. Trailblazing heroes like Barstool, the chair with a sticky note drawing of a smile stuck to him. Barstool was very content with his life, but answered the call to office. Barstool didn't condone those trouble-making protesters and was quick to clarify that he supports Progressive TechTM. He even endured accusations of not actually being a person, his face nearly ripped off by the human rabble.



To left, Barstool after vicious terrorist attack

Other prominent diverse leaders include, but are not limited to: Olivia Urbanos, the self-aware cyborg fetus. Lloyd Anyhuman, who, for the last time, is not a robot with fleshy rubber wrapped around him. Mr. Fuzzy, the Superbrain's beloved Yorkshire Terrier. Johnson Green, known human, is not being held hostage and has many unique, strong political opinions of his own, such as:

"I like... uh, diet oil better than regular."

and

"Isn't this shock collar a little tight?" 

So in the end, if you want to find out about our government, feel free to visit and ASSIMILATE have a good vacation.

Sponsored by Progressive TechTM

Quotes

“Run from what's comfortable. Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious. I have tried prudent planning long enough. From now on I'll be mad.” - Rumi

I like this quote because I think it describes a story I'm writing. Of course, it doesn't actually, but that doesn't mean it can't leave that kind of impression! It's the story of a miserable college dropout, facing homelessness or continuing to live in a toxic relationship, who gets employed by a mysterious criminal to assist in heists.

She naturally doesn't have any criminal experience (only there because she doesn't have a record), but becomes a window to look at the unplanned lives of five other thieves. All of them have been woven together with a frayed thread, and beneath a facade of misanthrope and cavalier antisocial behavior (some more misanthropic and antisocial than others), they look out for each other. As much as they can, given the undercurrent of mistrust inherent in a situation where thieves are working together. 

I don't know exactly where I'm going with the story yet, whether it'll be an exciting thriller or simply action. I don't know yet if I'm going to doom all of my main characters, Usual Suspects style or have them be successful, like in Ocean's Eleven. Maybe I'll decide that when I decide a tone.

Memorable Passages

“Elinor had read countless stories in which the main characters fell sick at some point because they were so unhappy. She had always thought that a very romantic idea, but she’d dismissed it as a pure invention of the world of books. All those wilting heroes and heroines who suddenly gave up the ghost just because of unrequited love or longing for something they’d lost! Elinor had always enjoyed their sufferings—as a reader will. After all, that was what you wanted from books: great emotions you’d never felt yourself, pain you could leave behind by closing the book if it got too bad. Death and destruction felt deliciously real conjured up with the right words, and you could leave them behind between the pages as you pleased, at no cost or risk to yourself.” 

This always struck me as interesting and true, to an extent. Although sometimes when you're going through something, it can be almost intoxicating to read about the struggles of a fictional character dealing with the same thing. 

On the other hand, for me it's never been a good idea to read depressing things when I'm sad or scary things when I'm stressed - it'll often compound the feeling. Doesn't mean I won't, but logic doesn't go into it. 

This passage is truest for me when it comes to writing, rather than reading. I have to restrain myself from excessively punishing my main characters with fate and choice. I've read some of my character's profiles and had to tone down how miserable their pasts were. It's not as bad as it used to be though. Some of the things I wrote in Middle School were so over the top that I laugh just thinking about it.

Dream Threads (late)

I close my eyes and she is standing on the platform, reaching out to me with a sheet of paper in her left hand. The train lurches forward.

It was the summer of '79 and I had just turned 18. The wind had been high that morning, biting the tips of my pale ears. She was a daughter of a member of city council, I was a dropout - much to my mother's dismay. "It's only a couple more months," she'd plead.

But that was a few months too long. I was gonna go places and I didn't care where. Any place but fucking Kentucky. My short hair, gloves and sunglasses (hey, I was cool, I swear) were enough to make folk stay clear of me. Rumors went around about me being a queer drug addict. That was more than enough to get someone to spray paint my locker.

Finishing school? A few more months? Hell no.

So there I was, hanging out on my front porch with a cigarette in hand. Just being the waste of space they thought I was. A heavy jean jacket hung around my shoulders. I had heard her going door to door before, inviting folk to the church. Anna. She had one of those pretty faces. Unintimidating, friendly and open-minded. Impressionable? Nah. That wasn't giving her enough credit.

She wore those matchy outfits. You know the kind. Accented with bows, flowers or "American" jewelry, a little bit of blush, 'nail gloss' or whatever it was. Probably got fashion advice from her grandmother. Totally square. I had her pegged, man.

"Would you like to hear the good news?" And here it goes. Every once in a while a concerned teacher, preacher or nosy stranger would pull me aside and tell me about how I'd be missing out on the joys of motherhood and family life. Or that I'd just burn in Hell. Depends on how much they knew me as a little girl. Anna never really talked to me before.

My family wasn't the right kind of people. I wasn't the right kind of kid. And who could blame her for thinking that?

"Um... let's see, does it involve Led Zeppelin? Otherwise, I'm not interested. You dig?"

Her mouth twitched, but she wasn't going to give way to a smile. "Alright, man," I raised my eyebrows, "Can I sit down?"

We talked and talked until we looked up and saw it was nighttime. The empty church illuminated solely by the streetlights outsides.