Short Story: "Dreams"

My Dear Reader,

It's been a while since I've posted fiction on here, so here's a little something for you.

"Dreams"

By Cecily Jane

And that is when I realize that they don't love me.

Maybe they never have. Maybe what they love is this life they've made, complete with a house, two cars, and a respectable amount of children. They love their American Dream, and I'm only a part of it. An appendage to it.

I am an expendable part of their life.

That's why they're doing this. No one who loved me would do this. No one who loved me would make me put these chemicals inside me. No one who loved me would let these pills play with my brain and diminish me. They look at me, and they see only the darkness. They do not see the loneliness that feeds it. They do not see the child behind it. They only see a dark spot on their perfect life, and they want to bleach it out of existence. Never mind that I will be corroded, along with my pain. Never mind that I will fade into nothing. In their eyes, it will be a pleasant nothing. An empty shell that will smile vaguely on command and look good in pictures. That's all they want. They have no use for me.

I am a torrent of raging emotions. I am lost in the storm. I am reaching out to for something to hold onto, but they don't reach back. They just glare at me in disapproval.

And so they send me away to the cold professionals who will scoop out my insides.

This can't be love.

Love is what I hold onto, even if I've never seen it. Even if it's only a hope in my heart. If they love me then I have nothing left.

They can't love me.

They can't.

**************

We just don't know our baby anymore.

Neither of us know when it all started to change. There used to be laughter in our house. We took it for granted back then.

If only we could go back to how it used to be.

We are doing the best that we can. It's not enough to simply say that we are struggling. Each member of our family has problems, and with each passing day, those problems get harder to solve. This is not a band aid over a skinned knee. This is our last chance to bring our child back before we reach the point of no return. That's why we rely on those who know how to fix these problems. We put our baby in their hands in the hopes that we will have a future. It's a little scary when the bills come, and sometimes we're not sure where the money is going to come from. But they tell us that it's helping. They tell us that if we just pull through, there is a chance. So we do.

We are overwhelmed and exhausted. But it's not hard to see where this behavior will lead. We've read the articles. We go to seminars during lunch hour, holding hands as we are confronted yet again with symptoms and statistics. The future we have been shown is frightening.

We have to trust the people who understand what is happening to our child.

This is a problem we have to solve.

We do all of this so that one day, we can hear that laughter again. That's the hope we hold onto, even if it seems we may never hear it again. Our baby is everything.

We can't lose our baby.

We can't.

Regards, best wishes, and understanding,

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: "Dear Gentleman, Dear Lady"

My Dear Reader,

I know I've been away for a while, but here I am, with new entries planned. For now, please enjoy this randosity.

"Dear Gentleman, Dear Lady"

By Cecily Jane

Dear Gentleman,

You must understand that there are wolves at my door. I feel that I must be upfront about this at the beginning. I realize that everybody is stalked by a creature of some kind or another, and that the subject thereof is somewhat taboo. I do not mean to boast or complain about the breed or the number of them. I am only trying to inform you, for the benefit of your own safety, that not only are they particularly ferocious, they are so numerous and wild that I am still not sure how many there are. I don't go around counting other people's beasts, but I am of the opinion that this is above average.

I wish I could end it there. In fact, I wish that didn't have to write you this at all, but I know that you must be thoroughly warned. Please forgive me for the intimacy attached to the following:

When I say that they are wild and ferocious, I mean just that. But before you can fully understand the degree of their ferocity, I must tell you that these wolves used to live inside the house. They were very cunning, stealing in silently and tearing my house apart only when they were all the way inside. I am sure that I do not need to describe the destruction that they caused. I will say that it was extensive.

There was a point where it was beyond certain that getting the wolves out would be impossible. This was the general consensus in my entire village. My neighbors were so weary of getting bitten that they had long stopped visiting. I was effectively in quarantine, with the hope that once I was fully devoured, my wolves would no longer be a threat to them.

This, as you can guess, was not how it turned out. It took time, but I was able to drive them out one by one. If you don't believe me, I can easily show you my scars.

Perhaps by now you are thinking that I should have moved. It is obvious enough a solution that I did try it more than once. This seems to solve the problem only temporarily. If I leave as silently and covertly as they once came, I can slip out unnoticed. But they know my scent, and I cannot hide my tracks from them. I am lucky if I have time to put my home in order before I find one stalking along the borders of my property. When one comes, others soon follow.

I do find that moving is helpful, though. It gives me time to devise new defenses and get stronger windows. Most importantly, I find that it is much easier to become part of a new village than to convince an old one that your wolves have been chased away.

So, yes. I have lived in many places. I have slowly been able to replace my damaged furniture stick by stick. I have devised plans and backup plans so the wolves will never be able to cause as much damage again.

Over the course of time, I have learned their habits. I know their moods. Sometimes I can distract them long enough to sneak outside and fix an awning, or paint. It took a full year before I was able to get a fresh coat of paint on the entire outside, but I did it. If you looked at the house, you would see no indication of the pains I took. Most in the village have no idea.

This is another thing: my neighbors don't know my full history, nor do they understand the true nature of my wolves. I have tried to warn them, but it is not often that I can write such a detailed letter as this one. But, of course, my first village taught me that there are circumstances in which it is difficult to determine if this behavior is prudent. Things become taboo for a reason.

Now, I will tell you a secret that I usually keep close. I charge you with it only as a response to the specific requests you have made of me. Please guard it as well as I do.

I will just say it plain: the wolves occasionally get back in the house. It does not happen often, but it happens. I do not believe that it is possible to keep them out indefinitely. Sometimes, if I am careless, they will slip through the crack of an open door. Other times, I will return from the market and find one in my kitchen. I have made discreet inquiries as to possible solutions, but this has lead to little success. I have become practiced at getting them out, but the process is exhausting. The repair work is only slightly easier, if only because the work is spread over a longer period of time.

And now that you know the extent of my situation, you can see why I cannot let you inside. It is hard enough to keep them out when it is only me in this house. You could imagine the trouble if there were more occupants. I would not subject you to that. I could not bear it if you ended up with my scars.

In all reality, it is much more work than you would have expected. These wolves, I know, will never go away. I have a hope that someday they will become tame, but I couldn't ask you to wait for something that may never happen.

This is how things are. This is my fate, and I cannot change it. I dream of ways to get to you, but those dreams will stay unfulfilled. The best way to love you is to let you go.

Please don't share my pain with me. I love you too much to let you near what will tear you apart.

Mournfully,

Lady

Dear Lady,

You underestimate me. You underestimate how much I expect to work. I will tell you: a lot.

There are things that a man learns as he grows out of boyhood. One is that everyone has something. I once met a man whose house was infested with hornets. And if it's not hornets or wolves, it's lice, or rats, or some other kind of creature. There is always something. People with ladybugs and butterflies only exist in fairy tales.

Another thing I know is that when you find a good woman, you work for her. You work hard to get her, and you work hard to keep her. Otherwise, she will only find someone else who is stronger and better looking. Perhaps a boy would be scared by your letter. I am heartened.

I do have my pests, you know. I am not brave enough to write it down, but I have them. You will learn all about them soon enough. When I move into your house, they are sure to follow.

I love your house, you know. I admit, I often come to look at it from a distance. It is quite breathtaking. A man knows that a house like yours can only be kept so well by an extraordinary woman.

I've met your wolves there. I know, I probably shouldn't have come that close, and I apologize. But I saw them. One came up and sniffed my hand. I might have been fooled if it weren't for her wild eyes.

I think you've made a crucial miscalculation. You say that it's harder to fight wolves with two; I would argue the opposite. You have not seen the kinds of doors I can build or the traps I can set. You would be amazed, I think. If I was yours, I would spend my life keeping those wolves at bay. Together, I know we could do it.

Do you think that it's any easier to watch you fight them alone? Let me come and help you. Let me be as near to you as I can be, for as long as I am. We will work wonders together.

I love you too much to be frightened by you, you see. I certainly love you too much to to give up. I will come and gaze at your house and socialize with the wolves if that is all you will give me. But I think that you are smarter than that. I think that you will see that the best way to love me is to let me in.

Yours always,

Gentleman

Regards, best wishes, and metaphors,

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: "Sunday"

My Dear Reader,

I wrote this today while in Sacrament meeting. To prove it, I've also added pictures of the notebook I keep in my scriptures. So yeah.

"Sunday"

By Cecily Jane

I am waiting in silence.

Perhaps it is not true silence. I can hear myself licking my lips. I can hear the soft bustling of the air conditioner. I can hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. And once in a forever, I hear the scraping of a shoe on the carpet, the rearranging of a suit coat, or the wriggling in a padded pew.

I lick my lips again.

I'm not hungry this month, but then, it's only the first hour. This place has a way of leaving your stomach empty.

What I am is thirsty. So thirsty, that I'm trying to think of things that will water my mouth enough to overcome the dryness.

If I left this room, it would take me only half a dozen steps to find a drinking fountain. They don't turn them off on a day like this, and I've often wished they would. Instead, it sits there, perhaps giving its own gentle hum as its machinery stores water and keeps it cold. If that's how such things work. I do know that it hums.

It would take less than ten seconds to get there, push the button, and get my fill of water. And if I left this building and took a five-minute drive, I would have glasses and pitchers full of water. Not to mention cupboards full of food.

I have so much that I don't use.

But I am not at home. I am here, in the silence, and as the clock ticks out the seconds, I stay. I listen to the stillness. I speak to the One who made both my tongue and that water it craves. I hear the shoes against carpet as they come closer and closer, and when the noise stops, I lift my eyes to the tray I know will be there.

I take a piece of bread.

I pass the tray.

On normal days, I am happy to take it. Today, it is stealing the few drops of moisture that I have.

No, not stealing. Receiving. No one else put this in my mouth.

The piece is almost too small to chew, but I always chew it anyway. I know what it means. I also know what it means to me. I remember.

The shufflings of shoes have stopped, and before I can get a few more silent words out, the silence is broken by words spoken out loud.

No, not broken. Filled. Edified. Sustained.

And the words, now spoken, melt back into silence. I am pleading now, even as the spot on the back of my tongue won't moisten. But I am not pleading about that. There are many other things I lack. So many other things.

I know why I am sitting here. I know it down to my bones. I would do anything to be here. I just need longer in the silence. I have more things to say. I have more promises to make. And I need more time to wait, and to listen. There are so many things I need today.

There's a nudge at my arm, and I look up. The tray is exactly where it should be. I give a weak smile as I take the thimbleful of water and let it pour through my lips. I pass the tray and keep the water on my tongue for a bit. I know what it means. I know what it means to me. I know that today, in this moment, it is more than it ever was.

I open my eyes today. Other people have my tray and are partaking of it, just as I did. Now it's their tray. Our tray. It is the small amount of nourishment that we share together.

My throat is so dry that I can feel every drop slip through it. It is all that I will have for a long while, but I'm not worried about that. How can I? If I had taken more than that thimbleful, I would have drowned in it. How can I worry about that when I have only a few precious seconds of silence left?

There is so much more to say. A lifetime of things. But I am not sending any words out, not even silent ones. I am waiting for the words that will come to me.

I was hungry, and I was fed. I was thirsty, and I was refreshed. But I am hungry and thirsty in so many ways. I could be lying in a sea of fresh water and still crave what I crave now.

The silence will soon be filled with pleadings just like mine. It will be a series of vignettes made by those who hunger and thirst.

But this is my time alone, and I am listening. I am waiting.

And then, I'm not waiting anymore.

I am receiving.

There is more in this world than bread and water. You can survive on bread and water, but there is more to that in living. You need more than a beating heart, if the heart is empty.

I know it again this month, but then, this is just the first hour. This place has a way of leaving your heart full.

And what I am is full to bursting.

There is a silence that teaches. There is water that lives. There is power that speaks to the fleshy tables of the heart.

I know this now. I know it again. And I am full enough to let the silence leave me. I am primed and ready.

In a moment, I will be wading in living water.

-Cecily Jane

*There are several things that make this less than factual. First of all, I was late today, so I took the sacrament in the foyer. Second, it's a fifteen minute drive home. Third, "cupboards full" really means a cupboard and a drawer (I don't eat much at home). However, I was actually as thirsty as I depicted myself. I was drinking a tall glass of water as I typed this.

Short Story: Sacred

My Dear Reader,

I wrote this piece of Mormon fiction a few months ago. Take it as you will.

Sacred

My mother thinks everything is so important.

“Don't drink that!” she says, when I reach for some coffee at the gas station. I don't know why she gets so worked up about it. My friends' parents don't. Of course, they're not like us.

They're not like her.

I'm sacred, she says. Not special—sacred. Made by God. Placed here. Sent.

She says that God made my spirit, and then tailored a body for me to live in. It was crafted, she says. My body is that big of a deal—crafted by God. I'm supposed to learn how to use my body. How to care for it.

How to control it.

Controlling it, she says, it what life is all about. It's why I was sent here, or at least, that was part of it. God took all the trouble of making this body for me, and then He went and made a whole world so that I could learn how to use it. That's how important it it.

Sacred, she says.

And there's more to it, too.

My body, this thing that God created, is some kind of weapon. She says that if I learn how to use it, if I learn how to control it, to master it, all kinds of things are supposed to happen. Joy is one of those things. Not pleasure—joy. They're supposed to be different.

And then, of course, there's the devil. He always gets mixed up in this stuff. My mom says that God wouldn't make a body for him, and that's mostly what he's so mad about. So he goes around and tries to get me to misuse my body, just out of spite. For something that happened eons ago. I don't know how I managed to get messed up in it. And I certainly don't know why he would take so much trouble to mess around with me. It seems way out of his way.

When I ask her, she squeezes my hand and says that he's jealous. That he's trying to make me fail. He's trying to trick me into believing that my body isn't sacred, so that I won't realize that it gives me power over him.

Somehow, my body gives me that—the ability to beat the devil. But only if I use it right, if I feed it right, if I control it at all times. I have to watch what I do with it and what is done to it. I especially have to watch what goes into it, and what words come out of it.

At all times, and in all things, and in all places.

I have to be one who acts instead of one who is acted upon.

Because I'm sacred.

And that's why I can't have coffee. It takes her all the way from the gas station, to the car, to the grocery store, and all the way back to the kitchen table just for her to explain it to me. Like I don't already know. Like we haven't already had this conversation a million times.

Sacred. Of all the things she could say, she says sacred.

And then she takes a deep breath, stands up, and tells me to do the dishes.

I can't wait to get out of here. Tomorrow I'll wake up, go to school, and get away from Mom and her lectures.

One day, I'll be out of here for good, and I'll go far away and do what I want. No lectures involved. No guilt about being so holy. Just me, and what I want.

That's all.

The next morning in the car, she's talking about joy again. She says you have to work for it. I tell her that I'd prefer to never have to work at all. She laughs at me and tells me that it's because I'm still a child.

Laughs at me.

My own mother.

She's saying something at me, but I get out of the car and close the door. Can't let her ruin my whole morning.

You'd think that I would finally get a break from all this, but I don't. Because she doesn't drop me off at school, oh no. That doesn't start 'til eight. Instead, I'm in church. Before the sun even comes up. Church.

At least I'm not alone. They make all of us go this early in the morning. I've spent every Sunday with these kids as long as I can remember, and we understand each other. We understand how ridiculous it is. After all, not everything is a matter of life and death. Not everything matters so much.

I grit my teeth as I get through the lesson. Old Testament people were messed up, and that's pretty much all I get out of it. At least they didn't have mothers who lectured them. Or maybe they did.

It takes forever for it to be over. Fifty minutes stretched into eternity. I guess it wasn't so bad; after all, there were some interesting bits. And at least it wasn't just me.

Mom wants to know what I learned about when I climb back in the car. She always wants to know what I'm learning. I have to say something, or she'll start talking again.

It's always funny when I get to school and see my friends getting dropped off. Their morning has just started; I've been up for hours by now. A couple of them hand coffee cups back to their parents as they put their backpacks on.

They must think I come from another world.

And I do. But I try not to show it.

It's really stupid, if you think about it. Making us get up early and not letting us have any coffee. All because of how sacred we are. Sacred people never get what they want, apparently.

It's a certain type that gets coffee on their way to school. They have the hair, and the clothes, and everything. They look at me as they walk by, or rather, they glance as they walk by in groups. I'm not that different from them.

I'm only different in every way that matters.

Regards, best wishes, and I'm not sure what to make of that myself,

-Cecily Jane

Novel Excerpt: Joining Red Squad

My Dear Reader,

Sorry that this is a bit late. I had a hard time trying to find something to show you, but I ended up choosing this because it will give you a real taste of what this story is about. The main speaker in this excerpt is one Admiral Alexander Chapman. He, along with his brother, Professor Angus Chapman, is trying to resurrect a special cadet training group (Red Squad) that had previously been banned because of scandal. In this scene, Admiral Chapman is addressing a number of advanced students whom he has hand-picked to try out for the team.

“We stand here today in full view of the Golden Gate Bridge for a reason. This structure, as many of you are aware, is more than a way for people to get across the bay: it's a symbol of Starfleet's heritage. Starfleet, as an organization that has been around longer even than the mighty Federation of Planets, was built by our intellectual and cultural ancestors, and their ancestors built this bridge. A marvel of its time, it has withstood the test of time better than its designers dreamed. The Golden Gate Bridge, an icon of an age, was all but destroyed in our conflict with the Dominion. Slowly, it will have to be rebuilt, piece by piece, until it is restored to its former glory. Starfleet has a similar fate. Starfleet will also have to be rebuilt with young people like yourselves. You are each here because Professor Chapman and I have reviewed your Academy applications and believe that you could be an integral part of this rebirth. Together, we will form a team that will train the best the Academy has to offer so that they, in turn, will have the skills to serve in Starfleet to the best of their ability. This team, this agent of renewal, will be called 'Red Squad.'”

Red Squad? That was why she was there? A chill ran down Carlotta's spine at the thought. There was a lot to learn when you were waiting tables so close to Starfleet Headquarters—she had heard all the rumors, and she knew most of them were true. She had a sudden urge to just turn and run away, but she decided instead to stay and listen. The bridge that Admiral Chapman had talked about had belonged to her, in the way it belonged to everyone in the Bay. The admiral had talked about intellectual ancestors, but she was the direct descendant of some of the original workers. The blood that built that bridge was now in her veins, and it seemed to speak to her as if carrying the voices of the dead. Her ancestors had built this city, and some had even had a hand in building Starfleet. It was her inherited responsibility to keep their legacy in tact. So, even though her instincts told her to flee, she decided to stay. She would listen to this man, and if he told the truth, she would give him a chance.

“Now, I know what some of you are thinking. This idea is not new, nor is the name. In fact, I'm sure that most of you have heard the sad tales of what happened to Red Squad in the past. I assure you, though, that this will not happen again. Red Squad, in hindsight, wasn't a mistake, but it was dangerous. The idea behind it was to take the red cadets—the command-oriented students—and put them in a position where they would get more opportunities to lead. It worked on paper, and for a couple of years, it worked in the field. Once the war started, everything changed. Students from other concentrations were added with the rationale that they would compliment the command students, but this was twisted into the idea that they were a crew unto themselves. Red Squad went rogue—used by a radical for his own ends, the cadets stuffed with enough hubris to make them believe they could act alone. They were put on a ship, made a crew to fight the war on their own, and all but one died. Red Squad was created to breathe new life into the next generation of officers, to give the exceptional students the chance to excel. Instead, their lives were wasted in an ultimately meaningless pursuit. But we need that breath now more than ever. It's not just San Francisco that's being rebuilt—it's the Federation itself. It's the fleet. Each of you has a chance at becoming part of that process.”

The admiral stopped to take a drink of water and give his brother a glance before he continued.

“It's true that we're still going to call it 'Red Squad.' The name hasn't changed, but the meaning has. Those of you who wish to try out for this project will need to understand this new meaning before you apply. Red means much more than command, more than just the true color of this bridge . . . it has a deeper, more primal meaning. It means courage, passion, and for many species,” he nodded at Saraal* as if to admit that she was about to be an exception, “red also is a symbol for the blood of those lost. The cadets that died trying to fight the wrong war—they deserve redemption. All of those who died in the war do. So when you think about joining Red Squad, know that we will be a team stained with the blood of our betters, of those nobler and abler, and that our true mission is to do whatever we can to to honor the lives lost. Many of you knew one of those lives.”

He looked out over the crowd, and saw heads bowed reverently as he invoked memories of the dead, some out of respect, some out of agony. The noticed that the Esposito girl looked especially grim, almost pale.

“As you go through the application process, I want you to think of those who you've lost. I want you to think of what you need to be in order to truly honor them. That drive is what you will need to join Red Squad.”

The admiral finished his speech and sat down, with Professor Chapman seamlessly taking his place.

“Thank you, Admiral,” he nodded to his brother, “Now, for the practical portion of this meeting. In order to be a candidate for Red Squad, you must enroll in my Survival Skills class. You may be aware that this course is normally reserved for second-semester students, so you will need to have special permission in order to enroll. There are thirty spots in the class, given to the most worthy applicants. Out of those thirty, only nine will be chosen for Red Squad. There will be no changes in the number of students allowed in the class, or to the number allowed in Red Squad. In order to request a seat in my class, please fill out this PADD and turn it in to either Admiral Chapman or myself by the end of the day. Dismissed.”

Regards, best wishes, and honor!,

-Cecily Jane

*Saraal is Vulcan. Vulcans have green blood.

Novel Excerpt: Carlotta's Speech on Equality

My Dear Reader,

Here is another chunk of what I've been writing for NaNoWriMo. You may have noticed that I write about Carlotta a lot, but let's just say that I can identify with her. And sometimes, she says things that I wish I could have said to a bully or two, back in the day. Enjoy!

Carlotta's Speech on Equality

By Cecily Jane

Carlotta tried to smile sweetly at Abigail, but the corners of her mouth twisted into a look of contempt. She couldn't help it. How long had she been trying to be patient to this girl? There were times you were supposed to turn the other cheek, and no one could deny that she'd been doing plenty of that, but there were also times when you had to go to the moneychangers and overturn a couple of tables. There were times when being meek was the wrong thing to do, and now was one of those times. Now was the time to act with boldness in order to stop something and make it right.

You know the feudal system is over and done with, right?”

Excuse me?” Abigail showed Carlotta a face writhing in disgust.

The feudal system, you know—knights, princesses, and serfs? We don't do that anymore. It went out of style, oh, about a few hundred years ago.”

You are an idiot. Why don't you just go back to your kitchen?”

"Funny thing: first of all,” Carlotta wagged a finger at Abigail, “it's my father's kitchen, and it's a noble family history that has preserved and enriched the history of our culture. Second, you may have heard of something called the American Revolution? And maybe, you've heard of the Constitution of the United States of America?” Her voice was ironic and playful, making a great distinction from Abigail's poisonous, vicious tone. “It was seven hundred years ago, but you may have missed it, seeing as you're just the daughter of an admiral. Maybe he couldn't send you to the right schools.”

Abigail's anger was boiling over, and she pounded the table when her rage seeped over the edge. Carlotta wondered if Abigail was being violent in an attempt to intimidate her, but even if it was, the admiral's daughter should have known that it wouldn't work.

"If you were smart enough, and if you had paid attention in school, you would have been able to figure out for yourself that for the better part of a millennium, the rest of us humans have been intelligent enough to understand that all human beings are created equal. Should I look that word up for you?”

Abigail responded with a cold, hard stare that tried desperately to mask the fiery emotions within.

"And because all of us are equal, things like occupations, place of birth, and trivial things like that don't matter. You know why? Because we're not a feudal community anymore. We don't need to have a small, wealthy minority stand on the backs of the weak and emaciated. We no longer have to push others down in an attempt to catapult ourselves upward. Instead, we have a society of equals, where we each have an equal opportunity to be judged based on the factors we can control. Not the things we were born with.” She leaned over until she was only a few centimeters from Abigail's nose. “And it seems to me that only a person who was afraid of being deficient would resort to an attempt at weeding out the competitors based on characteristics that have absolutely nothing to do with the prize. So, Princess, it doesn't matter that my dad is a chef and yours is an admiral. What matters is what we've made of ourselves since we came out of the birth canal, and from a purely objective standpoint, I have managed, through my own hard work, to get higher test scores than you have. That, my dear, is a fact.”

By this point, Abigail's face had turned bright red in a heated rage, and it looked like she should have had steam coming from her ears. Carlotta saw it plain as day, but she didn't let it shake her resolve. She aimed to be heard, and she wasn't going to let Abigail stop her from reaching her goal—not now, not ever.

"Now, maybe you're right about the whole kitchen thing after all. Maybe, because I grew up in an environment where I had to work hard, and where I didn't expect to just be handed things out of status, I was better suited to do my own work when I got here. But what's absolutely clear is that I am proud of who I am and where I came from, and I'm proud of who my friends are. You may feel threatened by my success, but you can't stop it. You won't intimidate me, you won't humiliate me, and if you continue to try to destroy me, you'll find that you've merely wasted valuable time and energy on a pursuit destined for failure. Instead, you'll realize that you could have taken at that time you threw away trying to tear me down and spent that time working hard to improve yourself enough to actually compete with me. And if you take too long to notice that, you may find yourself old and alone, without any skills outside of intimidation and manipulation, which you will then realize are useless. You will have made a life for yourself that will be empty and worthless, with the blame squarely on your shoulders. Then, people won't look to you with the worship you crave, but they will see you as a harbinger of destruction by ego, and take you as an example of how not to live. The only true tragedy will be in the fact that you will see this for yourself only after it is too late to change it, but the cold, hard facts of the matter are that sooner or later, the piper must be paid, Your Highness. So I would think a bit about your future payment options before you run up too much debt in the present.”

And with that, Carlotta shrugged, and left Abigail alone to think about what she had said.

Regards, best wishes, and 11,741 words to go,

-Cecily Jane

Novel Excerpt: Carlotta's Flashback

My Dear Reader,

The following is a snippet of what I've been working on for NaNoWriMo. (I'm writing a Star Trek-thing, in case you forgot. This story takes place in that universe.) It's a flashback that takes place about seven months before the main story. The main character's name is Carlotta Esposito, whose family runs an Italian restaurant called The Stradivarius, which has been in San Francisco since the 1950s. In this excerpt, her brother, Mike, has just left her in charge of the restaurant (against the rules) so he can get an engagement ring for Eva, his girlfriend who is with Carlotta in the restaurant. Earth is at war with the Breen, and she was carrying bags of flour into the kitchen when an announcement of an impending Breen attack threw her to the floor. Later, the story shifts to the point of view of Peter, Carlotta's friend who comes to rescue her. Feel free to ignore any Trek references you don't get. And please, please tell me if it just sounds silly.

Carlotta's Flashback

By Cecily Jane

Carlotta stayed on the ground after she fell, after the announcement had told her that there was an attack on Earth. The voice had said that the Breen were coming for Starfleet Headquarters, and if that was true, the entire restaurant could be flattened along with it. Where was Mike, now that she needed him most? How could he leave her in charge when the world was coming to an end? Crippled with fear and covered in the flour she had been carrying, Carlotta thanked God that her brothers and sisters were out of the city and pleaded with Him for the strength to do what only she could. Then, she forced herself to jump up and take command.

“Everybody, quiet!” Living in a large family had required Carlotta to learn how to be loud. The patrons and employees turned to look at her, a small teenaged girl standing on top of a counter, shouting orders at them.

“There is an emergency shelter underground, if everyone will follow me . . .” the crowd, scared for their lives and hungry for relief, started running at the back of the restaurant in chaos. Carlotta took a deep breath. “I'm the only one who can open it!” she boomed, her voice ringing against the pots and pans and stopping the stampede in its tracks. She got down and she led them to the shelter, giving each person she met as threatening a glance as she could muster. It was a look that had been forged by countless hours of babysitting, a face that told people to behave or else. She tried to hide her surprise when it worked on adults as well as it had on children.

She led them all to the door of the vault, quickly and with order, and put in the code to open the doors and let the others in. She would be the last. It was something she had always imagined doing but never thought would actually happen—opening the door to the bomb shelter her great-great Espositos had built back when the Earth was split into nation-states and every day was filled with fear. They had built it with their bare hands, and through the centuries, other Espositos had kept it stocked with food and supplies, just in case. This would be the first time since the Bell Riots that it would be used.

The crowd, about fifty in all, took no time getting inside. As they started pouring in, she remembered the protocol her father had taught her in a family meeting, when she was bored and complained about the uselessness of learning such procedures. With the door closed and everyone inside, she was now to check the restaurant and make sure that no one was left behind. As the only Esposito in The Stradivarius, it was her duty to make sure everyone was safe. The kitchen was empty, but when she went out to the front entrance, she found Eva sitting at a table, staring hopelessly out of the large windows.

“Eva, come on! We have to go now!” Carlotta grabbed her hand and pulled her up, noticing the tears that were in Eva's eyes.

“Mike, he's out there.” Eva's desperate words made Carlotta pause. He was out there. How far could he have gotten? Was he in a safe place? What would Mike do if he was in her position? She didn't have much time to think.

“I know, Eva. But he'll come back. He knows the code to the door, he can get in even if we close it up behind us. We'll all be safe there, and there's enough food for us to survive on for years. We'll wait for him, and when he comes, we'll wait out the attack.” Carlotta took hold of Eva's hand a second time and pulled her away from the windows. Eva struggled to stay where she was.

“No, Carly, we can't leave him behind. I won't!” Photon torpedoes might explode on them at any moment, and there they were, playing a desperate tug of war. Carlotta looked at the woman who was soon going to be her sister and already was in spirit, the woman who knew her well enough to have to privilege to call her by her favorite name. Carlotta had learned to love her like her own sisters after Eva and Mike started dating seriously—he had seen to that. She had to save Eva now; Mike would want her to. She would force Eva in the door, and go looking for Mike herself. She just had to get her in there.

It must have looked strange to a passerby—both women were thin, but Carlotta was small, and Eva was almost a foot taller. If it weren't for the hours she spent training for soccer, Carlotta probably wouldn't have had a chance, but as it was, she was making progress. Eva was wearing heels, and she was too frantic to focus on her freedom from Carlotta's grasp, but she had managed to dig her heel into a groove in the floor, and Carlotta was pulling on Eva's sweaty, slippery hand harder than she had ever pulled anything before.

They were almost to the hallway when the first volley of attacks came, shaking the earth harder than an earthquake and breaking the beams that supported the ceiling. Three seconds later, and Carlotta would have had the two of them safe in the hallway. Thirty seconds later, they would be safe inside the shelter. But when the first strike came, the crumbling beams started to collapse, one of them less than a meter from the two women. Out of the corner of her eye, Carlotta saw the beam coming at her, like a tumbling column from the Parthenon, and she put all of her strength into one last tug.

It wasn't enough. The momentum that Carlotta achieved in her last push to safety had gotten her out of the way, but the beam had crushed into Eva head on. Carlotta was thrown to the floor and hit her head, but she got right back up again, and turned to face the sight that would haunt her the rest of her life.

Eva was lying underneath a beam so heavy that countless bones had been crushed. Was this what Martirio Esposito had looked like after the car crash? Carlotta had never seen so much blood, didn't know there could be so much, and she felt her self shut down at the sight of it all. Eva's broken body, her legs and arms in an unnatural position, the life spilling from her . . . Carlotta heard a thump! in her brain, and she felt her knees become numb and buckle, taking her to the floor. Her strength was draining out of her faster than Eva's blood, and soon, she would be in oblivion. She was slumped on the ground, her eyes only centimeters away from Eva's, which looked at her as her lips formed the smile of the dead.

“You have to find him, Carly. You have to bring him back,” Eva said with her last breath, her hand stroking Carlotta's soft hair before the darkness overcame the young Esposito.

Eva's dead body was the first thing Carlotta saw when she came to, and she screamed so hard she thought her throat was bleeding, but was filled so deeply with horror that she couldn't stop. Peter was there, burying her in his chest, stroking her hair as Eva had, when Carlotta heard her final words. Peter shielded her eyes and dusted off the debris, hoping the relief he felt at seeing her alive would be enough to soothe her fear.

She had looked dead when they got there, lying in a pool of blood next to Eva. Both women were still and pale, and Peter couldn't help weeping uncontrollably when he saw them. His father had run with him all the way, though the streets where shrapnel was flying from every direction. By the time they got the The Stradivarius, the attack was over, and the city was quiet and cold. It took the two of them to force the doors open, and to create a path through the destruction to where Carlotta and Eva were. Now, he was cradling his friend in his lap, and wailing like he never thought he could. Howling like an animal. His dad was standing over him, eyes full of sympathy, and he leaned down to close the eyes of the deceased Eva and comfort his son with a warm squeeze. Peter saw him, distorted by tears, as he gently picked up Carlotta's arm and started to examine her.

“Peter wait, a pulse! She has a pulse!” He looked at his dad in disbelief, and feeling for himself that it was true, felt himself fill up with joy that dispelled the anguish. He wiped the tears away.

“What? A pulse? But the blood . . .”

“The blood is Eva's. Carlotta must have passed out. I'll try to get us some help.”

The medical team seemed to take forever, but they came. They found Peter still holding Carlotta as if she were a child, singing her a song she had sung to him whenever he was very sick. He tried to sing it as sweetly as she had, but there was too much emotion going through him for him to keep his voice steady. How many times had she picked him up when he had fallen? How many time had she hugged him when he was sad? Memories of finger paint and finding worms after the rain were filling him when she woke up, when she started wailing with the same force he had at first, except with a violence that only true suffering could bring. He pulled her closer. He'd teased her a thousand times about blood, but he knew that her fear was real. He'd never seen such agony on a face before. He would protect her from that, since he couldn't protect her from the Breen. Since he had already failed her once that day. He wasn't sure how long they had sat there, holding each other while his body muffled her screams, when the medical team pulled her away from him. She reached for his hand, and he didn't let go. He would follow her as long as she needed him.

“Mike! Mike, come back!” Somehow, Carlotta had escaped from the people who were trying to examine her and was tearing out into the street, calling for her brother. It shocked Peter, but he recovered quickly and went after her. She was standing in the street, surrounded by crumbling building and covered in blood, looking as lost as a women starved in the desert. Once again, Peter pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her, and for the second time he could remember, she was soaking his chest with hot tears.

“I saw, him. I saw Mike,” she said.

“Where?” Peter looked all around, but saw no one. “Are you sure you saw him?”

“He hates me for what I've done. I killed her. I killed my sister!” She had lost all her control, all of her strength, and Peter didn't know what else to do but stand there are give what strength he could to the sobbing girl who was, in all intents and purposes, his sister.

Regards, best wishes, and 15,201 words,

-Cecily Jane

Song: The One Who's Mine

My Dear Reader,

[Note: I know I promised something today, and even though what I planned isn't done yet, I figured I'd still deliver what I could. I've got the words now, and I'll try to get you the music either tomorrow or Monday.]

I got the idea for this while I was listening to the Beatles' "I Will." Since I'm not very good at writing music, sometimes I try to write lyrics to the melody of a song, and then change the melody. It's weird, but it's the only way I can do it sometimes. Because I'm weird. It's funny because I follow some real songwriters on Twitter, and they all say that music is the easy part, but not for a word worm* like me.

My band is called Cecily and The Think System. It's a reference from The Music Man that means I don't actually have a band, it's just me and some synthesized instruments. I'm so clever.

I'd like to dedicate this to all the single people out there, especially the ones who feel old and have people continually trying to "cure" them of their singleness. We know who we are.

[This is where the song will be once I'm done with it.]

“The One Who's Mine”

She stands there in the airport

Wears a hat, a suit, and tie

And she doesn't know his name yet

Still, she's holding up a sign

She stands there at arrivals

Those that pass must wonder why

'Cause she doesn't know his face, so

Her sign reads, “The One Who's Mine."

[Chorus]

I wish that I could help her

She been there so long

And the sign looks heavy, and

Who knows what she's in for

But she stays there strong

Holds that sign all along

Determined she will find

“The One Who's Mine"

She stands there in the evening

And she dreams of him, but then

She wakes up to find that she is

Standing while she lies in bed

She fills her life with meaning

Saw her friends all find their men

Still, the thought of what he'll be like

Is there dancing in her head

[Chorus]

We wish that we could help her

She been there so long

And the sign looks heavy, and

Who knows what she's in for

But she stays there strong

Holds that sign all along

Determined she will find

“The One Who's Mine”

Some days she must be lonely

Though her life is ice and lime

And most times she seems so happy

But her heart is still in line

And soon her love will find her

He's been waiting all this time

And she'll see he's holding something

A sign that reads “The One Who's Mine.”

[Bridge]

And just then he ran

Down the escalator

Said, “Excuse me ma'am

But that's who I am

I know I seem late, but it took long to get here"

And he looked in her eyes

And she said with surprise

“Yes, it's true, here you are
The One Who's Mine”

And we never had to help her

She was there so long

And the sign got heavy, but

She got what she asked for

And she holds his hand

Together they stand

So happy they could find

“The One Who's Mine”

Regards, best wishes, and I've got more where this came from,

-Cecily Jane

*Yes, I did just put myself in a Cranium category. I kill at that game.

Novel Excerpt #1

My Dear Reader,

This is a small sample of the book I'm trying to write by the end of April. It's essentially about a group of super smart people—a think tank—who solves problems in order to better the world. The two characters in this excerpt are Dolores and Phillip, and while Dolores is the leader of the group, this conversation will prove that there's a lot more going on here than you might expect. You are welcome to ask questions in the comments, but I may not answer them to your satisfaction (before you ask: Sam's a cat).

Think Tank: Excerpt #1

Dolores woke up to the phone ringing, and immediately regretted opening her eyes. It wasn’t until she was blinded by the light that was streaming in from the window that she realized how sore she was from her night in an awkward position on a stiff chair. The phone seemed to be particularly screechy this morning, despite all of the time that Dolores had spent deliberating over which of the tacky options offered grated on her nerves the least. It could only be worse if Brandon was on the line.
“Hello.” Dolores rubbed the shooting pain in her left hip and blinked until the room came into focus. She debated sitting at her nook for a few seconds before she decided that she was too tired to get over there.
“Dolores? You don’t sound happy. It’s Phil.”
“Hello, Phillip.”
“Are you okay? I can come over.”
“No, no,” she said as she spotted a pile of books that had been knocked over while she had stumbled for the phone. “I’m just . . . I’m just tired.” She tried to straighten the books with one hand while she held the phone to her ear with the other.
“Dolores, it’s one in the afternoon.”
“Yes, well, it was a long night last night.”
“Right. That’s why I called. What did you come up with?”
Dolores had to stop and think about that one for a second. What did happen last night? He was probably calling about something specific, she could tell from the tone in his voice. Something he would have known about. Something that they had talked about . . .
“Are you still there?” Phillip seemed to be less patient than usual.
“Yes, of course. I just have this headache and . . .” Oh, yes. The group had met last night. About Caroline. “They couldn’t find anything, and we even brought James in.”
“That’s impossible. You had to come up with some suspects at least.”
Suspects. Yes. “We have a list . . . somewhere.” She scanned the floor for a while before she realized with a sigh that it was directly underneath the pile of books that she had just finished. “Hold on.” She put the phone down so she could reach down and get the paper—not an easy task for a woman her age—and she turned back to find that Demeter, the earth-brown kitten with one white paw, was meowing into the receiver.
“Who was that?” Phillip asked after Dolores had picked the kitten up and placed her gently on the floor.
“Demeter . . . the brown one.”
“Is that the one that keeps tracking in mud?”
“Unfortunately. I haven’t let her out in a while, though, so she’s clean today.”
“Okay, so what do you have for me?” Phillip had that annoying pep in his voice that he used whenever he wanted to keep Dolores focused.
“Six names, no . . . seven. I don’t recognize any of them, but I think that James is going to bring us some research tonight.”
“Is he coming in person?”
“He said he was. Are you?”
“Yes. Definitely. Sorry about last night; I’ve had some families who are going through some hard times right now. I told you about the layoffs, right?”
“Yes, and . . .”
“Yes, I know.” Phillip said with a pause. It wasn’t hard to detect the frustration in Dolores’s voice. “I know that you called the company. It’s that CEO’s fault, not yours. It’s just too bad that my flock has to pay for his mistakes.”
“It’s horrible, that’s what it is.”
“Well, let’s talk about things that we can control, shall we? What do you want me to tell Caroline when I call her?”
“If it were anyone else, I’d say that we should give her the names and have her tell us if they ring a bell. But with Caroline . . .”
“Yeah, I know. The Christmas party all over again. Does George think that this is even a threat?”
“There’s no way to know, not yet,” Dolores sighed into the phone, “I had this dream that an army of sentient computers was rising against her, but I don’t think that theory holds any water.”
“You mean because there are no sentient computers?”
“Well, that and also because of Caroline’s record of supporting technological advancement. I just don’t see why . . . I mean it would be rather ironic if . . .”
“Dolores . . .”
“Well, fantastic or not, it is the only theory that we’ve had so far. The numbers don’t really make sense in binary, or any other numerical code that we know of. I think that I’ll ask James to look at the numbers and see if he can make any sense of them, but Hannah and George are probably our best bets in that department.”
“Are they coming tonight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And what about Ute?”
“James is coming, too. That makes you, me . . . six in all, with Lot.”
“Why do we need Lot?”
“I think that he needs us more than we need him.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sure we can keep him busy. Dolores?”
“Yes?”
Phillip gave the kind of pause he liked to give when he was trying to word something carefully, “Dolores, why don’t you call Caroline this time? She told me last week that she wants to hear from you.”
“Oh, no she doesn’t.” Her head suddenly hurt a lot more, and her stomach didn’t feel much better. “She’s just . . . I . . . I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Yes she does. She’s your friend too, remember? And you know that she isn’t going to care what you’re wearing when you talk to her on the phone. She won’t make you teleconference or anything. She won’t even know.”
“It’s just . . . no. you talk to her. You’re so good at it. And you have kids to talk about when she asks. No, you call her.”
“Fine, Dolores, but I promise that she really wants to hear from you. Besides, what am I supposed to say when she asks why you’re never available? Caroline doesn’t understand things like that. She’ll think that I’m keeping you away from her.”
Before Dolores could think up an excuse, Sam jumped on her lap, in an obvious search for attention. She rubbed the back of Sam’s head thoughtfully for a second before she responded. “I can’t talk to her, Phillip. I can’t.”
Phillip must have heard the shakiness of Dolores’s voice, and perhaps he could hear how weak she suddenly felt, because he dropped the subject, promised to call Caroline, and told her how much he looked forward to seeing her that evening. As soon as she heard the dial tone, the phone dropped from her hand, and Dolores sank to her knees, feeling a paralyzing wave of anxiety wash over her entire body. There were too many memories, too many lost opportunities, pulsating with disappointment, embarrassment, and guilt. She was going to drown in it all.


-Cecily Jane

Short Story "Blind Date"

My Dear Reader,

I apologize for missing my post last Tuesday. The truth is that I found out about the tragic loss of a friend just before I sat down to write my post and, well, it just didn't work out. I hope that you will instead enjoy a light-heearted story I wrote over the weekend. I often write stories to help me get over things, and this story acted as a kind of therapy to help me through an unrelated (and essentially trivial) circumstance. I'll see you again on Tuesday.

"Blind Date"

By Cecily Jane
The way that Wilbur’s sweaty head shone in the yellow porch light made it resemble a serving of mashed potatoes, smothered in butter and surrounded by a meager helping of black gravy. Sweat was seeping out of his hands, so that salty beads were casually weaving their way down the stems of the carnations he was holding. He could run right now and no one would know, except her. Even then, she would probably think that he hadn’t come at all. He could go right back to work tomorrow and tell Cheryl that everything had worked out just as terribly as he had warned her that they would, and then give her enough disappointing details to make her buy it. Heaven knew that his brain was concocting a new horrendous scenario a second.

It took him a full five minutes before he mustered the courage to dry his hands on his khaki pants, leaving a thick, dark streak in their wake. He knocked on the door. The sharp yapping of a dog started before Wilbur could bring his knuckles back to the flowers, and it was the kind of barking that came from a dog that would bite.

He was opening the door to the passenger side of his Buick before he knew it. What did she say her name was? He should write it down somewhere, just in case. She had a hard time getting in at first, and had to recline the seat a little to fit. He was relieved to see that she was about as heavy as he was; one less thing that he had to worry about. He usually reclined the seat a little, too. He waited for her to buckle her seatbelt before he started the car and pulled out to the empty street.

“You didn’t put your blinker on,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your blinker—you’re supposed to put it on when you merge into traffic.”

“Oh.”

There was silence in the car before Wilbur managed a strained, “So how do you know Cheryl?”

“We used to work together,” she said. Wilbur could see a scowl start to form on her face.”

“So where do you work now?” he said.

“At the DMV.”

“Doing what?”

“Drive tests.”

“Ah,” Wilbur said, making sure that he had turned his headlights on and checking his mirrors an extra time. He could tell by her voice that she really wanted to work just about anywhere else.

“How do you know her?” she finally asked.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Cheryl.”

Wilbur gulped loudly. “I work with her now.”

“At the capitol?”

“That’s right.”

The wheel was starting to get slippery in Wilbur’s hands, and he hoped that she wouldn’t notice as her eyes periodically darted towards his speedometer. As they went down a hill, he saw her clutch the armrest out of the corner of his eye. He checked his mirrors again.

The stop at the light wasn’t as smooth as Wilbur meant it to be, and he closed his eyes for a second so he wouldn’t see her shake her head at him.

“It’s green,” she said. She hadn’t loosened her grip on the armrest.

“Oh, thanks.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” she more demanded than requested.

“Well, I . . . I . . .” The wheels squeaked a little.

“Are you purposely staying in that van’s blind spot?”

“No, I . . .”

“Slow down! You’re going forty in a construction zone!” she shrieked.

“Um . . .”

“Did you just change lanes in an intersection?”

He let off the gas, but the car kept going faster, and faster, and somehow the steering wheel melted away as he tried to put on the break, but the car was screeching out of control even louder than his date was. And then, though the car was speeding up, time seemed to slow down. He saw the intersection come closer and closer, but he couldn’t do anything about it. They were doing to die.

When the blue Buick collided with the side of the Chevy, Wilbur could hear the scratching of metal against metal. He could smell the burned rubber. He could even feel the impact throw him against his seatbelt. But more than anything, he could hear the incessant screaming that came from the passenger seat. If only he could close his ears.

***

Wilbur opened his eyes to find himself still on the front porch, holding carnations and sweating like a pig. It had all been in his head—the woman, her job, the crash. Realizing how long he had been holding his breath, Wilbur took a deep breath and hailed a cab.

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: "Rachael and Sarah"

My Dear Reader,

I wrote this a couple of years ago, so it may not be as great as stuff I've written recently, but I decided to post it anyway because I think that it captures a part of humanity that isn't documented often. Or something.

"Rachael and Sarah"

Rachael was cutting celery in the kitchen when she heard the familiar jingling of keys outside of her door. She placed her knife down gently, rinsed her hands, and quickly walked to the door. Turning the knob, she found Sarah standing in the welcome mat, shuffling through her backpack in the search for keys. Hearing the door open, Sarah looked up, saw Rachael, and frowned.

“You don’t have to keep the door locked all the time, you know,” she said.

“I know,” Rachael replied, sighing to herself a bit, “but I was home alone and, well, you can never be too careful.” Rachael stepped back into the apartment, closing the door and making sure the door was locked.

“So, how was your day?” Rachael asked as she went back to her celery. Sarah waited until Rachael was too far away to see her unlocking the door, and then flung herself on the couch.“Oh, you know, the usual,” she said, taking a deep breath and resting her tired eyes for a second.

“You don’t sound very convincing,” Rachael replied with a smile, “did you have a rough day?” Sarah rolled her eyes and scowled.

“I said it was fine. Just an average day. Nothing out of the usual,” she insisted.

“Well, if it was just and average day why are you . . .”

“I said it was fine!” Sarah interrupted as she angrily got up and stormed to her room. Rachael sighed again as she watched Sarah leave. There was obviously something wrong, but why wouldn’t she talk about it? Why was she always so cold and unresponsive? They were already two months into the semester, and yet Rachael felt they were practically strangers. How would she and her other roommates be able to gel as an apartment when Sarah was always either gone or in a bad mood? Would they just have to tolerate each other for nine months, or would they become actual friends?

Lying on her bed, Sarah closed her eyes, took deep breaths, and tried to calm herself down. She hated Rachael’s constant questioning and goodie-goodie attitude. Her other roommates didn’t demand to know what she was doing at every single minute, so what was Rachael’s problem? Sarah was an adult, after all, and she answered to no one. So who cared if she had just broken up with her boyfriend or not? And why did she have to report it to anyone? Rachael is nice and all, Sarah thought, but sometimes she can be just . . . intolerable.

-Cecily Jane

Short Story: "Oscar Night"

My Dear Reader,

Here's that short story that I promised back in October. Enjoy!

Oscar Night

The red carpet was so crowded with stars and paparazzi that some reporters had to put their hands over their eyes to shield themselves from the constant flashing of cameras. Two or three photographers buzzed around each couple as the actors were interviewed, testing the composure and professionalism of all involved. When another limo pulled up to the carpet, the flashes started even before the passengers came out from behind the tinted windows.

When the limo door opened, and the flashing got worse, Roland Burns had to squint as he waved. When he turned back to help Mina Needham get out, he held his hat out so it could cast a shadow over her eyes. Mina smiled graciously and called back to Brendon Everill, who closed his eyes completely as he stepped out into the swarm of reporters and photographers. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Mina’s cream, tea-length gown would no doubt be splattered all over celebrity magazines in the next few days, with commentary on its elegant simplicity and what it meant about her career and character. Her cream shoes, pearled handbag, and dark curls would get a similar treatment. The same would probably not be so for Roland and Brendan’s black tuxes and bow ties, but that didn’t seem to calm Brendan’s nerves as the trio was inundated with questions.

“Roland! Are you and Mina a couple?”

Roland had to put on a smile as he shook his head, and the three of them walked a little ways down the carpet arm-in-arm. They separated as they were interviewed about their upcoming movies, though Mina cast a few concerned glances in Brendan’s direction.

“I think that this role was very important to me, because it let me flex a few muscles, as it were,” she let out a small laugh and apologized for the pun. “It was great to take a break from my usual characters—you know, the girls-next-door and such—” She stopped as Roland put his hand on her shoulder and whispered something in her ear, then excused herself. It was too noisy to hear what they were saying, but the cameras followed them as they made their way back to the beginning of the red carpet, Roland looking more and more worried. When they stopped on the curb, one of the sound technicians was able to put his boom mic close enough to pick up some of their words.

“What do you think is wrong, then?” Mina asked. Her tone was strangely genuine.

“I don’t know; it’s just a weird feeling. Like something bad’s about to happen. . . oh, no.”

A camera was able to follow Roland’s gaze fast enough to catch the flash of a knife going into black leather, only a few feet away. As one man sunk to his knees, the other took his weapon and fled.

Without a word, the stars sprinted off in two directions, and while Roland managed to catch the man before he hit the ground, Mina kicked off her high heels and chased the stabber barefoot across the busy street. She was going at top speed, with her dress and her hair flowing behind her, dodging cars left and right. When she caught him, she pulled his leather coat with her left hand and clenched the arm that held the knife with her right. He went down like a roped bull, and Mina was able to get the knife out of his hand quickly. It took a few seconds before the police caught up to them, and she wiped her forehead as she walked away, an army of policemen handcuffing and reading rights behind her.

“Mina! What just happened?”

Mina rubbed her temples as she tried to guarantee everyone that things were under control and that she was definitely not a hero. As she explained the martial arts she had taken in preparation for her latest role, she heard a familiar voice call her name, and saw Brendan put his hand on his upper arm and point to hers. It was only when she looked at her own arm that she realized that the knife had grazed her, and that she was bleeding pretty badly. She excused herself and went towards Brendan, who was undoing his bowtie.

“I talked to Roland; the guy will be fine,” he assured her, taking his tie and wrapping it around her wound. “He was able to stop the blood, and the ambulance is on the way. It’s a good thing that you were there.” He winced as the cameras started flashing in his face, and Mina suggested that they should tend to the large number of actors who were probably feeling very neglected.

When they left and it seemed that there were no eyes on them, he was able to finish stopping her blood. She reached out her hand and touched his arm as a gesture of gratitude, and suddenly, after a full year of playing opposite her, Brendan finally found the courage to plant an unscripted kiss on her lips. She returned the kiss with even more appreciation.

From the window of a nearby hotel suite, two children watched them in amazement.

“It’s just like a movie,” Katie squealed, watching the chaos unfolding down below.

“Well, it’s the best movie I’ve ever seen!” Mikey said.

-Cecily Jane

Poem: "Anger and I"

My Dear Reader,

Fiction Fridays are back! The return to Fiction Fridays will be kicked off with this Emily Dickinson-inspired puzzle-poem. True to puzzle-poem form, you have to figure out what the subject of the poem is based on clues in the text. (A great Dickinsonian example can be found here.) This particular poem is structured that way because I think it adds to the feeling of the poem, not because it's hard to figure out. In fact, it should be pretty obvious.

Anger and I

Anger and I, we work as a team
He turns them red, and I turn them green
I whisper that something they love has been lost,
He keeps them worried, and shaken, and tossed
I make them fear that their love's on a hinge,
He makes their hearts burst and cry for revenge
I lie to them about what they deserve
He lies of audacity, gall, and of nerve

We work well together, dear Anger and I
So no lover can love, despite how they try.


-Cecily Jane

Character Sketch: Tracy Bingham

My Dear Reader,

I take great care in naming my characters, something that I share with J. K. Rowling (I believe that she said on her website that she "collects" names, which explains a lot). I know all of the best baby name sites, because I always need to know the meaning of the name before I brand a character, sometimes picking a meaning and working backward.* Sometimes, when I come up with a really good name, a character just springs out of it, which is the case with the following character. I don't know where I'm going to put her yet, though.

Tracy Bingham

• White, primarily of English origin.
  
• Has dark hair that goes to her shoulder blades, which she wears in a ponytail.
  
• Early twenties, on the thin side.
  
• A little on the geeky side. Dabbles in games that involve logic and strategy. Has an above average sense of curiosity, which can get annoying at times.
  
• Well-read for her age. Loves epics.
  
• Switches off between glasses and contacts depending on her mood and the weather.
  
• Occasionally wears turtlenecks. Would probably wear one of those awful Christmas sweaters without realizing how tacky it is. Wears jeans, but never t-shirts unless it comes from some academic club. Even then, she only wears t-shirts on Saturday.
  
• More of a listener than a talker, mostly because she is more interested in learning about others than she is about talking about herself.
  
• Not very picky, and sometimes has a hard time deciding trivial things like what to eat or which movie to watch. Tends to let others make these decisions for her, making others think that she is a push-over. As a result, she finds herself drawn to people who are laid back and not egotistical.
  
• Is respected by many of her peers, but she doesn't exactly have any friends to do things with.
  
• Her mother was a beauty-queen type when she was Tracy's age. Tracy has to constantly deal with her mother's disappointment because Tracy is not the same.
  
• Has read The Holy Bible cover-to-cover and considers herself religious, though she doesn't belong to (or attend) any specific church.
  
• Absolutely loves the history of the British monarchy, and is somewhat sad that the topic doesn't come up often in regular conversation.
  
• One of those people who waits for others to come to them, and as a result, spends a lot of time waiting.
  
• Nervous tick: blinks a lot when she's nervous, and the more nervous she gets, the more she blinks.
  
• Gets almost giddy about the most obscure facts, such as Judy Garland's birthday or where Winston Churchill is buried. Gets these facts from her extensive study of Wikipedia.
  
• While she has a strong sense of morals, she will have no real desire to see change in the world until some kind of cause presents itself to her. After this happens, Tracy will shed her shy shell and become a fiery advocate for what she believes is right. This transformation scares Tracy, but it also makes other people like her. Which is the real Tracy?

-Cecily Jane

*I wonder if I care so much because my own name means "blind son of Harry." I think this also might be why I like to include my middle name, because "blind God is gracious son of Harry" sounds slightly better.

Short Stories: Five Six-Word Novels

My Dear Reader,

There are those who have said that my posts are too long; especially my Fiction Friday pieces. So, in order to drastically reduce the average length of my blog entries,* I will instead write you some six-word novels, a genre developed by Ernest Hemingway. Feel free to add your own (or title mine) in the comments.

Novel #1: I won. He lost. And died.

Novel #2 (or: Gone with the Wind): Two selfish people--one stupid movie.

Novel #3: He drank; she screamed. He stopped.

Novel #4: One man, one sacrifice. Mankind redeemed.

Novel #5: She's going to Paris; I'm unemployed.


Chao!

Regards, best wishes, and brevity,

-Cecily Jane

* And yes, I'm being sarcastic.

Poetry: Olympic Haiku Medley

My Dear Reader,

In honor of the 2008 Olympic Games in Beijing, China, I have constructed several haiku poems that kind of run together to form one big poem. It's not exactly Emerson, but I think that I caught the spirit of this year's games.

Yes, I know that haiku is Japanese.


If my team has more medals
But you have more golds
Than which team is the winner?

Well, since I can't change the past
I'll say that we win;
The one with the most is best.

Of course, if it were reversed,
If more golds were ours
I would say that gold wins.

We have to win, even though
You cheat with your girls
Who are less-than-sixteen.

Though we are in your home, we
Hate your government
And must prove ourselves better.

We also hate that you cheat,
Though we did before,
And may cheat in the future.

Because, even though athletes
Stumble, lie, and steal
At least that scum lies alone.

While we feel this in our hearts
We will flash our teeth
Pretend Olympic ideals

But no matter what happens
We will say we win
Because we want to be best.

-Cecily Jane

Scene: Pokey-Man

My Dear Reader,

I'm so sorry that this post was late. The truth is that with the craziness of my family coming into town and other stuff (like moving out of my apartment), I plum forgot. Worry not though, Gentle Reader, as I have something special prepared for you today. This is a small portion of the short film that I was going to make with my brothers and sisters before I left for college. It was supposed to be a parody of Pokemon, as I have three younger brothers, and during the time that the show was insanely popular I was constantly being bombarded with the phenomenon. Unfortunately, however, my hard drive had an aneurysm after I finished the script, and all of my hard work was lost. I managed to recreate some of it, part of which is below. I don't think it's that bad, considering that I wrote it when I was seventeen. In this segment, we join new Pokey-man trainer Smash Ketchup as he leaves home for the adventure of a lifetime and comes upon a rustling bush . . .

Pokey-Man

Smash: Now, lets see why that bush was a-rustlin’!

Nathan: (comes out from bush) Na-than. Nathan.

Smash: What is that? Some sort of lizard?

Smisty: (appearing out of nowhere) It’s a Pokey-man, doofus!

Smash: What’s a Pokey-man?

Smisty: Duh! Weren’t you just singing about them, like two minutes ago! A Pokey-man, as the name suggests, is a slow (or pokey) guy (or man). You catch them, and then train them to fight other Pokey-man.

Smash: Why would I want to do that?

Smisty: Well, when you train them and you get really good, you can battle against a gym trainer and win a badge.

Smash: So?

Smisty: When you get eight badges, you get to compete in a huge tournament and you could become the best trainer ever!

Smash: (Pause) Why would I want to do that?

Smisty: (Sighs) The badges are shiny.

Smash: Shiny badges! Wow! I love shiny objects! Let’s go!

Smisty: First you need a Pokey-man. Gosh, are you really that dense?

Smash: Hey, why are you calling me fat? (looks at himself) I mean, I’m not an Olympian but I’m in pretty good shape if I say so myself.

Smisty: (smacks herself in the head) Just get that Pokey-man already!

Smash: Don’t you want it? Ladies first.

Smisty: No, I specialize in blue-shirted Pokey-man. That Pokey-man has a yellow shirt.

(both look at Nathan, who indeed has a yellow shirt and is staring at them blankly)

Smash: Okay then. Pokey-box, go! (Smash catches Nathan)

Smisty: Hey, if you don’t even know what a Pokey-man is, how did you manage to catch one? How do you even have a Pokey-box?

Smash: I got it over there. (Smash points to a stand with a sign that reads: Want to catch Pokey-man? Get your free boxes here! (Limit 500 per customer).

Smisty: (gapes in amazement and runs over to gather as many Pokey-boxes as she can.) Wow, I wonder why I didn’t see that!

Oswaldi: (comes out from behind the bush) Os-wald-i!

Smash: Now there’s a lizard, if I ever saw one!

Smisty: (Completely astonished) Oh my lucky stars and stripes! It’s Oswaldi, the rarest Pokey-man that ever existed! I thought they were extinct, since none have been seen by humans for a hundred years!

Smash: Watch out, Oswal-whatever. Ima gooona catchya!

Smisty: You? Catch the famous rare Oswaldi? Are you joking? It’s impossible to . . . (Smash catches Oswaldi) catch.

Smash: Yaaahooo! I dun caught me a good un!

Smisty: What? How? You?

Smash: Come on, little missy! Let’s ride into the sunset! (Walks off camera)

Smisty: (Still stunned) What? There was . . . Hey! Wait for me! (runs after him)

-Cecly Jane