Quality vs. Quantity

I was thinking the other day, as I occasionally do, about the phrase “quality over quantity.” This saying is useful when describing friends or hours spent studying or blog posts, but it is not always true. Sometimes quantity can be more important than quality.

For example, let’s consider Fred. Fred wants to start a sock business. He has scoured the globe for the perfect sheep with the softest, most unscratchy wool. He’s searched oceans and galaxies, talked to wise wizards and wise librarians, searched under rocks and inside the bellies of various beasts. After many years of humiliating fruitless searching and exhaustion, Fred finally did it. He found the perfect sheep.

He spent months in isolation, knitting away as the clock’s hands spun until he had created the most perfect, wonderful sock. It was the softest, the most breathable, the comfiest sock in existence. The quality was brilliant.

However, Fred only had enough wool to create one sock. Only a sad half of a complete pair. There simply weren’t enough socks to start a business. As there was only one magic sock in existence, Fred could sell it at an outrageously high price if he so wished, but he did not so wish. Through the years spent devoted to the creation of this sock, Fred had grown quite attached to it and he couldn’t bear to sell the love of his life to be worn on some random geezer’s stinky foot.

And so Fred had wonderful quality, but his lack of quantity led to a failed sock business.

Fred did, however, have a business-minded younger sister, Bethy. Bethy and Fred were always competing as children for their parents’ love. So while Fred spent years failing to find a sheep, Bethy took the opportunity to be better than her brother. She was going to start a successful sock business that would make her brother look even more incompetent in comparison.

Bethy’s socks didn’t have nearly as much care put into them as Fred’s sock did. Bethy business plan was to sell her socks at an absurdly low, low price so people would compulsively purchase them. In order to make them at such a low price, Bethy had to be clever. Instead of using wool, she used dandelion fluff. People paid her to weed their lawns and then she used those same dandelions to make her socks, which the same people later purchased. She also hired highly trained mice instead of people to make her socks because mice accepted cheese as payment.

Bethy’s socks weren’t of the highest quality. Her customers often complained of the socks being too fragile to wear and smelling oddly like rodent. But her customers’ contentment didn’t particularly concern her as long as they continued to purchase her socks.

And so Bethy had poor quality, but she did have quantity and a successful sock business, unlike Fred.

Now the question is, was there a point to this whole rambling story? No, not particularly. But it was fun to write.

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Halloween Horror Story

Hi peoples!

Happy spooky day!

It’s my favorite holiday. I LOVE Halloween.

What are you going to be for Halloween? I’m a cactus.

SHORT STORY!


She woke with a choked gasp, her fingers clawing at her throat, before she fell back into her pillows, realizing that she was still in her bed. She waited for her heartbeat to settle, gloomily accepting that she likely wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep. She curled up and tried to get warmer beneath the mound of blankets, the nightmare already slipping her mind.

She was in a daze, in that quiet space between waking and sleeping, when she heard a soft creak, like footsteps on old floorboards. It must’ve been imagined. It must’ve been the first whispers of a dream. But she was alert now, listening and tense beneath the sheets, her eyes still closed.

What am I doing? she thought, with a short burst of laughter that more resembled a sigh.

A door slammed.

Whispers rose.

The footsteps came faster. Quicker. Urgent.

She rose slowly out of bed, wrapping a quilt around her shoulders, letting it drag on the floor behind her. She went downstairs, listening looking terrified. She flicked on the light, prepared to find something sinister and relaxed a bit when there was nothing. She was about to go back upstairs, to write off the sounds as figments of her imagination, when she heard a voice in her bedroom and froze, her foot hovering over the stair.

The sound wasn’t in a language she could recognize. It flickered at the edges of her mind like she should’ve been able to comprehend it. Yet it didn’t sound completely right, either. Something was off. A hissing undertone that wasn’t possible on the human tongue.

She climbed up the stairs, softly, slowly, coiled up and ready to fight or flee as soon as the cue was given. She flipped the light switch in the hall. She breathed a soft curse as light didn’t flood the hall. A moment later, the light at her back from the kitchen plunged into darkness, leaving nothing but shadows and silvered moonlight.

The quilt drifted to the floor behind her as she used touch and memory to find the hall closet. She pulled out a flashlight, praying it to work as she switched it on, and a dull glow filled the hall.

She followed the sound of the whispers, the sound rising and falling in chaotic waves, to her bedroom. To her bed.

She fell to her knees and pressed her face to the floor. Her hand shook against her will as she directed the flashlight beam underneath the bed.

The darkness seemed to swallow the light.

A solid mass of shadows.

Roiling and swallowing and shuddering.

Consuming.

She squinted and pressed closer. It couldn’t be. The light. The darkness. Her imagination. Her eyes. They were lying.

Her eyes widened.

A gasp escaped her lips. What did she see? What did she see?

She scrambled backward, lunged for the door.

Something pulled her back.

Something took her.

Something swallowed.

Something consumed.


© ARACHNID WEAVER 2018

Everything Must Fall || Short Story

Heyo, peoples!

This is a short story I wrote last year for an English assignment about 9/11 from the Twin Towers’ point-of-view.

Also, the title sucks. Do you guys have better ideas?


I stand tall above the gridded streets of New York, breathing in the smoggy air weighted on the city like a smothering blanket. The roads are choked with dust and traffic and cars and litter. But this high up, I have an unobstructed view of the clouds roaming through the blue sky and the birds flapping about.

I am the tallest in the area and I truly scrape the sky. The others jut out of the ground beneath me, like sparkling stalagmites in an urban cave. Only my twin, the one who shares my design, comes close, six feet beneath me.

From my place leaps and bounds above the tiny people, I watch the city grow and breathe. The seasons come and go, snow covering the cityscape in a layer of frosty white powder, and the lone flower pushing its way through the concrete at my feet.

Towers rise and fall. The city is always changing. Always in perpetual motion.

I feel the wind blow against my sides, trying to pull me from the ground. And I feel the rain beating down, flushing the people from the streets of my city into the protective arms of inside.

The days are sparkling and bright, the sunlight bouncing off the cresting waves in the water and the glass city. The nights are effervescent, like a glass of champagne. The people are owls, never sleeping. They roam my streets.

New York at night is a city of starlight. Like the night sky itself had descended and decided to call my city its home.

***

The day of my Collapse was unfitting for the destruction of such a lovely creation of glass and steel. The skies were a perfect blue, like the color of dreams, with puffy white clouds floating through like the sails of ships flying somewhere far away.

It was the day of Collapse and Destruction and Fire and Death. The sky should have cried for us, the fallen.

But my faithful friend, the sky, didn’t cry. He stayed bright and beautiful, hovering over the city. It was a day that shouted that nothing could go wrong.

Until the sky was choked by smoke and ashes from the burning ruins of my city, the collapsing rubble smoking and burying my people alive.

***

I don’t know if I saw the plane coming. Or if I saw it, I didn’t notice it. It was nothing special. Another bird, another plane, another cloud in the big blue sky. Planes passing overhead was a normal occurrence. It had become mundane. A routine. A fact of life.

I didn’t see it until it came too close, its wingtips blazing in the morning sun. Even if I had seen it before it was far too late, there is nothing I could’ve done but await my Collapse, for I am rooted to the ground.

I think it would’ve been harder if I had known what awaited my fate. To stand there and know what was to happen and do nothing. To be helpless in the face of demise.

***

The plane was a pinprick in the sky. Nothing but a dollop of color in the painting of the city. But it grew larger and larger as it came closer and closer. It took on the sharp teeth and claws of monsters. The horns of demons. The shadow of death. And I took the fear it doled generously like candy at a fair.

I think the first impact was the worst. See, I cannot feel pain as humans do, for I am constructed of imagination and glass and steel and I am nothing but a building. A mere structure to raise and level. But I am so much more. The people make lives inside me. Lacing my insides with love and hate and joy and tears. And although I cannot feel pain, I can feel the horror that comes with the sight of a plane crashing into me.

I feel as the steel of my spine folds into itself, folding like a sheet of paper being made into a bird. My glass shattering, raining down on the people below.

I feel the screams as the people inside of me try to flee, but they are trapped in my too-narrow stairs. I feel as they are crushed by me, the building they trusted to keep them safe from the rain.

A pillar of smoke rises into the sky, ash raining from the sky like the tears of flame. I breathe in and dust coats my insides. I watch as pieces of me fall to the streets, shattering into a million pieces and disappearing forever.

People pour from my doors. I watch them leave in masses and think of the ones still trapped in me. I can feel their hurried footsteps, their quick and frightened breaths. I urge them to go on. To leave me behind and be saved. Saved the way I know that I cannot be.

Some of the courageous fight against the river of people, struggling to get inside me. To get others outside, to the idea of safety. Even though they know that the last sky that they will ever see was full of smoke.

The fire rages, and the glass of my windows warp and twist. The glass no longer crystal and beautiful.

I thought that I would never fall. One of the only buildings in the city that the people could never bear to part with. I would live in the city forever, watching as it changed around me. But the change never touching me.

But here I am, falling. I fall in stages. Great, shuddering gasps as gravity pulls me down to the ground, from which I was so far before.

My brother collapses first. Other buildings fall around us, eaten away by the fire.

I can still hear his screams as his last breath is taken and he is nothing but a pile of rubble littering the ground. I can still hear the screams of the people that were inside him.

***

The last thing that remains in my memory is the sound of fires blazing and the sight of sirens blaring and the dust drowning the sky.


© ARACHNID WEAVER 2018

Create-A-Story Tag

Greetings, nonexistent readers! The wonderful Who… Am I? tagged me for this wonderfully unique tag. And I’m going to write a short story for all you marshmallows with NO PLANNING WHATSOEVER. Prepare for it to suck (but hopefully be amusing anyway).


RULES

  1. You pick your first word, your setting, and your story genre from the list below. As individuals, your brand of creativity is unique to yours, so we want to highlight that by letting you choose from a bunch of words and creating something beautiful out of it.

Create A Story Tag

  1. The short story will have a limit of 1000 words. You do not need to write a story with 1000 words exactly. It could be 300, or 500 as long as it doesn’t surpass a thousand.
  2. YOU HAVE TWO WEEKS TO ANSWER THE TAG.
  3. You must tag three people to participate.
  4. Don’t forget to link back to Keiko so she can collect all the stories. You can’t just link back to her WordPress since she won’t be alerted of the pingback. You need to link back to a post or a page because WordPress works like this.
  5. Use the Create-A-Story picture in the post.
  6. Copy and paste the rules in your tag post as well so others can be clued into the Create-A-Story rules.

My Combination: Station, Sea, and Comedy.

(Did you guys expect me to choose anything other than comedy?)

Station wagons apparently don’t work that well in the sea, as I’m finding out right about now. It’s rather unfortunate, but there’s nothing else to be done as fish, such as myself, don’t work quite well on land. But if an empty station wagon randomly drops from the sky like a bag of flour (long story), then what’s a fish to do other than abduct said station wagon? It’s not like we get a lot of them around these parts. It’s a bit more humid than a station wagon’s usual habitat, so they tend to avoid the ocean.

But like most other species, there are some individuals that tend to be somewhat more reckless than the general population, giving the general population a bad reputation, leading to the general population being disappointed in the certain individual and shunning them, leaving them alone to lead a life of misery and loneliness, and possibly crime. A prime example of such an individual would be the station wagon, and another would be me.

I’m pretty sure it’s illegal for station wagons to fly. I don’t know about you, but it’s not often that you find them in the sky. Or in the ocean. And it’s definitely quite illegal for fish to steal station wagons. Not that I see a motive for a fish to steal a station wagon. Because as I said, station wagons don’t work that well underwater, so, therefore, a practical fish wouldn’t see the point of risking their reputation to steal a station wagon that wouldn’t work anyway. You drop a cherry-red Ferrari from the sky though, and I bet even the most rational fish would attempt to take it.

My incurable loneliness and criminal record and general disregard for rules and all that are beside the point, though. The point is that this station wagon is sinking and I’m stuck inside. &%#, I wish this were a convertible.

But, you know, I’m an optimist. Maybe wrongfully so, but I still am. At least I don’t have to be afraid of drowning. But, I do have to have to be afraid of the Porpoise Police Force that I see quickly approaching in the rear-view mirror. Because, you know, I’ve just stolen this station wagon.

The station wagon finally finishes its descent and it thunks to the ocean floor, raising a cloud of dust that blocks the windows. When it clears, a Porpoise Police Officer is waiting outside the window. She bangs on the window and mouths at me to roll it down. I mouth back that I can’t. She rolls her eyeballs. I imagine her as a taxidermied porpoise with her eyes as glass marbles that fall out of her head and roll around the ground until an ominous, but vague and undefined, force plucks them off the ground and makes me eat them. I gag. She cringes. She smashes the window in with a conveniently-placed hammer she found in the back pocket of the pants she wasn’t wearing and I swim out.

“You have a license, sir?”

“No, madame.”

She glances at me over the top of her glasses.

“That’s fine. We’re sea creatures.”


Okay, that’s it. Abrupt ending. I have no idea where I was going with that. They were the words that my traitorous fingers wanted to write with NO PLANNING WHATSOEVER.

Hopefully, it wasn’t that bad.

Anyway, I’m Tagging…

Accidental Shoe Thievery

After reading this post, I was reminded of a story from years ago that I completely forgot about.

Years ago, Spinette, some mutual friends, and I went to the temple for some celebration/holiday or something or the other. In temples, it’s customary to take off your shoes before you enter. I really hate doing this because sometimes the floors are wet with mystery liquids, but that’s beside the point. So everyone leaves their shoes in this big, communal pile of shoes outside of the door. It’s common for your shoes to be stepped on, be buried underneath piles of stranger’s shoes that you then have to dig through to find your shoes, or other shoe-related horrors.

Anyway, after the celebration/holiday thingie, Spinette and I were planning to go to our mutual friends’ house. They’re a family of three sisters, Leaf, Leafie, and Leafster, the oldest of whom is two years younger than Spinette.

The Leaf Family and my family left to go to their house before Spinette and her family did, so we were at the house for a while when Spinette entered.

 

When Spinette was leaving the temple, she discovered that I’d left my shoes in the communal shoe pile, so she, like any well-meaning, helpful friend, brought them with her.

 

So when they opened the door, Spinette was holding a pair of blue sandals similar to the ones that I was wearing.

Spinette: You forgot your shoes!

Arachnid: … Those aren’t mine …

 

Spinette’s dad went back to the temple to return the shoes to the communal shoe pile.

Solving All Your Stupid Problems Part 2

You are a cheese hater of the greatest proportion. Excluding lactose-intolerant people, you must hate cheese more than anyone else in the human population. Your twin brother, on the other hand, loves cheese more than anyone else in the human population. Over the years, your extremely differing views on cheese have led to a growing rift between you and your twin and you are now feuding, as you have been for the last 3¾ years. One night, you go to sleep peacefully, safe in the knowledge that your loyal guard of 3½ years is protecting you and preventing anyone from entering your room while you lay vulnerable and unconscious in your bed. But, beyond the boundary of your knowledge, your brother infiltrated your circle of guards three-and-a-half years ago with his trusted friend, Kevin, and tonight is the night that they plan to act and finally end this feud.

When you are sleeping deeply and snoring loud enough to cover any sound a squeaky wheelbarrow may make, Kevin quietly opens the previously-oiled door and rolls in a rusty, squeaky wheelbarrow full of cheese. He surreptitiously pours the cheese over you like Mount Vesuvius surreptitiously poured ashes over Pompeii and Kevin tiptoes out of the room, leaving the wheelbarrow.

You, being a deep sleeper, don’t wake because of the cheese. But you do wake up because you had an unsettling nightmare of being buried alive in bat guano.

There is no simple solution to this simple problem. But, some (not your brother) would say “fortunately”, there is a complicated one. Fortunately, it isn’t too difficult if you hold tight to your wits. This is assuming you had any wits in the first place, of course.

I suppose one could simply dig through cheese, but there’s no thrill in that.

  • Using cheddar, provolone, and your nightcap, create a time-traveling device.
    • If you aren’t of the scientific prowess to achieve this, use pale-colored cheese to create a genie lamp. Rub the lamp and ask the genie for a time-travel device. This should result in the same results, but it’s not preferable because no one likes to deal with fussy cheese genies.
  • Use the time-travel device, however obtained, to travel back in time to when Kevin had just finished putting the cheese in the wheelbarrow.
  • Dispose of the traitor Kevin however you wish, but do it quietly, for word cannot get back to your brother that his plan has been foiled.
  • Dispose of the monstrous cheese as well. I recommend throwing it into a volcano. Cheese deserves no better.
  • Dispose of your monstrous, cheese-loving brother. I recommend throwing him into a volcano.

You are a brand new lifeguard, fresh from the assembly line. You’re not yet familiar with the tricks of the trade, but you make up what you lack with enthusiasm. Life has not yet had a chance to bring you down. You meticulously scan the beach for trouble, hoping in a place dark place of your mind you’d rather not acknowledge that something goes wrong and you can be a hero. With all your attention focused on the water, you don’t notice the curious seagull pecking around your lifeguard chair. Well, at least you don’t notice the seagull until it’s too late.

The seagull leaps into your lap in a flurry of feathers. You, in a state of shock, scream at a high frequency, scaring the seagull, who squawks back at you, frazzled, and scares you further, increasing the pitch of your scream.

The seagull finally gets fed up and hops off of your lap, but he takes your megaphone with him in his beak. The seagull waddles down the beach, the megaphone in tow. About ten yards down the beach from you, he stops and starts squawking into the megaphone. Everyone on the beach covers their ears, protecting themselves from the seagull’s horrible yodeling. You are at a loss of what to do. You’re somewhat terrified of birds, but you’d never admit it, so you need someone to help you. Someone who can either be trusted with your secret or is so oblivious to the world that they’d never figure out your secret without being explicitly told. You decide to go with the latter option and you call your cousin, a professional fisher who lives twenty minutes away.

  • Call your cousin, who happens to be a professional fisher and lives nearby.
  • Wait for your cousin to arrive. Warily watch the seagull while doing so.
  • Order your cousin to catch a fish. This shouldn’t take long as she’s a professional, right?

2 HOURS LATER

  • Most of the beach-goers have left the beach due to the incessant squawking. Your cousin finally catches a fish.
  • Take the fish from your cousin.
  • Dangling the fish on the fishing rod, lure the seagull away from the beach so the beach-goers can return.
  • Make a deal with the human-language speaking seagull to trade the fish for the megaphone.

Assuming the seagull agrees to your fair deal, your problem is solved! If the seagull has become too attached to the megaphone and refuses to trade it, I’m afraid I can’t help you.


Read more: Solving all Your Stupid Problems Part 1

Untitled Part 1

I stir the tea with a red lollipop,watching the brown swirl into a soft velvet. Clink! The “pop” part of the snack fizzes into a flurry of small, soapy pink bubbles as I hit it against the inside of the ceramic cup. With a playful smirk, I carefully lift up the white stick remaining, noting it’s end, burnt in a hue of electric purple.

I call, “Olth? Are you responsible for this sorcery?” My smile twitches, in a state between proud and furious.

Olth skips down the curved stairway, her black sneakers blending with the dark carpeting of the steps. A grin cuts through her oddly geometric face, teeth sharp and pointed. She nods, “Yes. I am. I was hoping you would drink it, first.”

“I’m not that gullible,” I say, my lips in a mock pout.

“You were about to…Allete, I mean, just look at your lollipop!” She snickers, her tall shadow towering over me. Even if she was a bit bigger, I was older and the more responsible one. She giggled a bit, her nonsensical joking followed by a cute sneeze. It reminded me of her young years.

“Wait. You just sneezed…” I stutter, my panicked side kicking in, “Where is the teapot?”

Olth’s yellow, somewhat reptilian eyes dart to the maple wood table, now empty with the exception of the poisonous drink. Her sharp teeth curve into a frown, skin paling from a purple-grey to a lighter shade. She seems to shrink.

“You teleported it, didn’t you?” I grit my teeth, clenching my fist.

“Yep,” she mumbles. Even her words seem small.

“Where to?” I ask, releasing my anger into a somewhat petty guise, stroking her hair like a dog’s fur, hoping desperately that Olth would impress me again and actually know to where she teleported the item.

“I don’t know,” She whispers, microscopically.

“You are such a chore,” I whine, whipping out my broomstick and witch’s hat. I put the hat on, muffling my messy chocolate brown hair. Olth was always jealous of it (she only has unidentifiable white noodles after all) so I pull some out of my cap, clearly agitated.

Sinking in guilt, the tall reptilian girl sulks towards the circular gold framed window, unlatching it to let in the cool May air.

Olth and I board my broom, with me in the front, ready for lift off. A puff of wind elevates us into the sky, blue and dotted with white puffy clouds.

“What’s wrong?” I question, gazing at Olth’s expression, as sad as melting ice cream. She whimpers. I can’t stay mad at her, so I tuck my hair back in my hat and say, “It’s alright. We’ll get the teapot before anyone drink out of it. Focus on searching, okay?”

Olth gives me a foxy smile, getting to work, her jet black pupils becoming slits in concentration. With her, I scan the town, glancing between the clotheslines, the brown brick buildings and the slinking smoke-stack trains. The breeze plays with my hat, threatening to to let it drop to the ground. I fight the urge to fix it, maintaining two hands on my broom stick, flying responsibly.

“I don’t think the teapot is up here,” Olth tells me, tapping my shoulder.

“Oh!” I waggle my eyebrows, “Do you want to dip down? For losing a teapot?”

“Am I that predictable?” Olth giggles as I ascend upwards above a cake white layer of fluff. Tiny dew drops sprinkle our faces as our broomstick pokes a hole in the cloudscape. My bestie yells in exhilaration; the sound of an adorable mix of a snake’s tongue and a kitty’s growl.

“Are you ready?” I declare.

“Y—”

I dip down before she can finish, the wind tearing at our faces, stomachs dropping as we went hurdling towards the ground. The broom fans out, losing a few yellow hairs. With a rush, our vehicle turns from vertical to horizontal, our legs only two inches from the brick.

“Woohoo!” I pump my fist up, energized and swiftly turn my broom towards the building, going up and down between colorfully decorated clotheslines. I howl in laughter at Olth, watching her battle a woman’s undergarment, trying to claw it off her face, “Fllll-y a bbit slewor!” she screams.

I fly a bit faster, just for kicks and giggles. “That’s what you get for losing the teapot,” I say, my voice hanging off the edge of “pot” as if asking a question.

“Tek thiz off mi faece firrst!” She demands. I stop the broom, tossing the undergarment away with ease.

“Better?” I ask.

She nods.

I look both ways, although there is no broom traffic today and in the midst of honking cars, I see a curious looking man sitting on a mini-fridge, moving the dinosaur magnets on the front as if they were puppets in a play. He opens the fridge, taking out a can of cola and for a split second I spot…

“THE TEAPOT!” Olth yells, shaking my shoulders, “The man! The mini-fridge!”

I take off, swooping under a billboard sign before landing on the sidewalk. We run over to the man, but as we do he stands up and picks up the fridge.

“No! That teapot is ours!” I yell.

He takes a long, hard look at us, his eyes squinting into nonexistence. Slowly, he bends down.

“Thank you!”Olth cheers, giving out a toothy grin.

And he gives the fridge to a little child on a red bicycle.

Olth and I exchange “what the blobfish” glances before jumping on the broom and racing after the pint sized kid. He cycles through a bustling road of traffic, the wheels on his tyke moving much faster than they should be.

Cars all around him stop and honk; some even crash into each other in a desperate flee to avoid the little devil. Our broom zig zags behind him, my partner in crime grabbing for the fridge and failing to do so on every account. She finally latches onto kid’s bicycle handle, attempting to squirm her way to fridge without falling off. Her hand brushes the side of the fridge, her hand glowing purple. She starts to say something under her breath but before she can, the boy accelerates, pulling Olth’s white noodly hair.

“OUch!” she screeches, in full on hyena type sense, “Stop that, kid! That teapot is ours!” She grabs onto the very edge of the mini fridge, body over extending between the broomstick and the bike. I take siege of her hips, as the child pedals frantically, dragging us behind him. In the end, the kid sends us tumbling down, Olth breaking my fall and I breaking my broom’s fall.

“Hey,” The little man’s voice is much deeper than expected, “What are you doing here? Why does a witch and a stupid animal want this prized petite fridge for, huh?”

Olth growls.

“We want the teapot inside…please,” I tremble as he walks up to me.

“Ha!” The kid lights up a cigarette, “You’re a such a peculiar witch. Most witches I know don’t even have sense of humor.”

“What witches do you know, you stupid kid?” Olth roars, covering me in an instant.

“Many,” He responds with cool, calm composure, “But, I certainly don’t know any of your kind. You are interesting.”

“So… can you at least check the fridge for a teapot?” I ask, my voice tiny against the verbal fighting.

“Only in exchange for your creature,” He bargains.

“She’s not a creature,” I declare firmly.

“You didn’t let me finish, you snob,” He states, “I was going to say ‘Only in exchange for creature and for you to come to the market with me!'”

“Why would you want that?” I shoot a question at him.

“Because you two are entertaining and we need entertainers for the auction tonight. The idiotic poor men always get bored and cranky.” And he deflects it, swiftly.

The Awkwardness Of Holding Hands While Walking

So I was telling a story to Arachnid about this moment… and I didn’t really finish it.

I’m going to ramble about awkwardness and hands and terribly scarring moments in my life. Be warned. Parental advisory is advised.

We were talking away under the trees as people started to litter into the building.

That’s when Fishy grasped my hand.

It was wildfire, but as the awkwardness dumped onto me, it was a bucket of freezing water. I could feel eyes peering at us like we were scum. Lightheaded with embarrassment I tried to look at Fishy, to register her emotion, but I couldn’t get past the tall obstacle of her shoulders towering over my vision.

And we were walking.

“Hey,” I asked, adding to the rather one-sided conversation I was rambling on about (how her hands were like a heater) “I’m cold.”

She put her arm around me. I relaxed due to the warmness of her hands but then realized the large lump of additional awkwardness in my throat.

“Actually…” I mumbled, “Let’s link arms.”

“Sure.”

I felt like an uneven staircase. Her elbow didn’t exactly bend where mine did due to severe height differences.

“Uh…” I started.

It didn’t take another word. She let go, then grabbed my hand, her fingers slowly interlocking.

I held back the urge to scream. The level of PDA between us at that moment changed from a slowly increasing linear graph to a rapidly growing exponential one.

It’s Raining Book Reviews!

I think I’m starting to get a hang of this book reviewing business! I still have to start reviewing books immediately after finishing them, though. Oops.


A Conjuring of Light by V.E. Schwab || 5/5

a conjuring of light

This is an amazing series! The world-building and plot are amazing, but I think that the most impressive part of this trilogy is the characters. They’re all so unique and flawed and they all have their own motivations. Schwab tackled multiple point-of-views really well and she was really good at creating suspense. I was terrified on behalf of the characters. This book definitely took a more tense turn and it wasn’t as carefree as the second book, A Gathering of Shadows(But that wasn’t very carefree, to begin with.)

Plus pirates. There were pirates. I love pirates.


The Rose Society by Marie Lu || 3/5

the rose society

Most of this book was boring for me and I had trouble finishing it. The end was great, though. The minor characters weren’t developed and the romance was weird and unplausible. I think the book would’ve been better without it, but I guess you can’t have a YA book without romance, right? There was a love triangle, too. I don’t usually have anything against love triangles, but I wasn’t a fan of the romance at all. I thought it was strange for not one, but two peoples to fall in love with Adelina. Also, the characters’ decisions were occasionally random and illogical without reason (A reason could be that they were heartbroken by the fact that they were planning to propose to their longtime boyfriend, but the engagement ring that they spent months saving up for was swallowed by a rogue seagull. This heartbroken-ness can cause a person to make illogical decisions.)

My least favorite part of this book was the planning sessions. I thought the plans were weak and undetailed. They were mostly winging it. And yet, usually, nothing went wrong.

I loved Lu’s writing style, though, which was apparent in her other book, Warcross.

There are two things that will usually make me instantly love a book: Pirates and anti-heroes. This book had anti-heroes, but I still didn’t like it.


To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee || 5/5

to kill a mockingbird

This book was great! I can’t believe I haven’t read it before now. My favorite part of this book was the various characters. They were all lovely, especially Atticus. The writing was beautiful and there were many amazing quotes.

I’m not planning to read Go Set A Watchmen, though. I don’t want my precious Scout to grow up.


They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera || 5/5

they both die at the end

This book takes place in a world that’s mostly like our own, but with one difference: Death-Cast will call you at (about) midnight the day you die.

So first, I want to talk about the idea of being alerted the day you’re going to die (if someone is going to die that day, they’re called a “Decker”). I feel like this is a paradox, sort of like time travel.

So, assume that you are an avid mountain climber and you are supposed to die on June 4 because your harness snaps and you fall down the cliff-side to your doom.

But at 12:05 a.m. on June 4, Death-Cast calls you and tells you that you’re going to die, so you decide not to go mountain-climbing because tumbling down a cliff seems like a painful and unappealing way to die. Instead, you decide to not leave your bed and just drink peppermint tea all day. Super safe.

You don’t die.

And because you didn’t die, Death-Cast didn’t call you that morning.

And because Death-Cast didn’t call you on June 4, you didn’t die on June 4.

You went mountain climbing and your harness didn’t break and you had a grand ole time.

Therefore, is everybody’s life extended just by the existence of Death-Cast?

Or would you have died on June 4 anyway by some other method? For example, by drowning in your peppermint tea?

Okay, let’s get to the review now.

I love the message of this book, which is to take risks and live life to the fullest because you never know how much time you have left.

My favorite part of this book was the characters. I loved Mateo and Rufus. The title (They Both Die at the End) is a huge spoiler and since I knew that they were going to die, I tried not to get attached. I failed.

The writing was amazing and there were a lot of quotable parts. (I thought it was weird that teenagers were coming up with these beautiful and poetic quotes about life and death, though. But I guess they’re dying. They have a reason to be profound.)

Silvera was great at writing suspenseful parts and light-hearted parts and I was smiling through a lot of the book, even though I knew what was coming (intense sadnesses). The characters were just so lovable. Silvera did well with multiple point-of-views, as well. I always knew which chapters were Mateo’s and which were Rufus’s based on what they said and how they said it.


Crooked Kingdom || 13/5

crooked kingdom

This one was a reread, but I don’t think I’ve reviewed it before. THIS IS MY FAVORITE BOOK. THE CHARACTERS! THE CHARACTERS ARE AMAZING! I love how much they grow throughout the course of the series.

Also, I love them.

They’re amazing

SQUEEEEEEEEE.

Sorry, I’m being incoherent.

Read it.


Currently Reading

I just finished Crooked Kingdom, and I’m not entirely sure what to read next (nothing seems as good afterward), so I’m trying out different books on my TBR to see what I’m in the mood for, so I’m at the very beginning of both Seraphina and Ready Player One.

seraphinaready player one


TBR

  1. This Mortal Coil
  2. The Midnight Star
  3. Red Queen
  4. The Unwanteds Quests: Dragon Bones

Mellow Yellow Episode 28: The Stars of The Show

TOCK is on the couch in the living room. TICK is on the floor, leaning against the couch and sleeping.

TOCK: Hey Tick, have you noticed how we’ve become the stars of Mellow Yellow?

TICK snores in reply. TOCK doesn’t notice and continues speaking.

TOCK: I mean, it wasn’t really the intention, but we’re amazing, aren’t we?

TICK blinks sleepily, waking up.

TOCK: We’ve stolen the spotlight, just like the notorious criminals we are.

TICK: Have we ever done anything explicitly wrong?

TOCK: Shush. Yes, of course, we have.

TICK: … Sure.

TOCK ignores TICK’s obvious lies.

TOCK: Now the nonexistent readers can’t remember Rue or Kyr or Lur or Cyra or any of those wackos.

TICK: Who are they?

TOCK: Precisely. Mellow Yellow is ours. We are the rulers. The Dictators. We are the law.

TICK (whispering): World domination…

TOCK: That is our goal.

TICK: I want a bread sandwich.

TOCK: Everyone will bow before us. They will obey our commands with a snap of their bones. Tick, can you smell the victory?

TICK: Not really. I want to smell a bread sandwich.

TOCK: You’re insufferable.

TICK (beaming): Thank you! You too!

~~~END

Third Grade Mishaps (Blood Included)

Third grade, like all other grades, is a horrible year. The pressure begins to ramp up, you’re homework gets due dates, drama, etc.

I did lots of stupid things in third grade, such as color my teeth blue with a ballpoint pen; color my entire hand blue with a ballpoint pen; lock myself in my room for hours at a time without food, water, or bathroom breaks to watch ICarly; contract the stomach flu; throw up in the hallway and walk into a random classroom with vomit all over my hands and face; throw up in the hallway again; write a short story about vampires; etc. The list could go on for ages.

But today we’re going to talk about a particular story that took place in third grade.

Like every other mostly sane person, I am in an ongoing war with mosquitos. Mosquitos are horrible (they’re important to the ecosystem but horrible to people). They are horrible and don’t you dare disagree. They suck your blood like greedy vampires and leave itching bumps that swell to the size of plastic Easter eggs.

Mosquitos, on the other hand, love me. They leave everyone else alone and make a feast of me.

Everyone always tells you never to scratch mosquito bites, but I’ve never been one to listen to everyone. But in this case, at least, I should have.

I got a mosquito bite on my left forearm and it swelled to a respectable size. And I itched it. I itched it until it bled.

(Mosquitos are one of the reasons that I despise spring.)

But, thanks to magic and a Band-Aid, the bloody wound eventually scabbed over.

(This post’s about to get somewhat gross. Squeamish readers, click off now.)

Another activity that I participated in as a naive child was the picking of scabs. *Shudders* Don’t worry, dear readers, I don’t do this anymore.

The scab was about a half-inch long (“How do I know this?” you ask. I still have a scar) and it covered a half-inch long wound. (I’m going to call it a wound. It makes the story more dramatic.)

During class, I did the inevitable and picked off the scab.

But, of course, it started bleeding profusely. (What else did I expect?)

So here I am, blood gushing from an open wound, my right hand clapped over it to try and stanch the flow, and my teacher, under the premise that nothing was wrong, merrily teaching away.

Thankfully, a few minutes later, she gave us time to work. I went up to ask the teacher for a Band-Aid, but there was another girl in front of me. I waited patiently behind her, still bleeding.

She needed a Band-Aid as well. For her papercut.

The nightmare then began.

Me: Uh, I need a Band-Aid, too.

Teacher: I’m sorry. We’re out of Band-Aids. Is it an emergency?

Girl: That’s fine. I don’t really need one.

Me: … Yeah. I guess it can wait.

It could not wait. It definitely could not wait.

Soon afterward, the teacher began to teach again. (It is her job, after all.)

And I’m still sitting there. Bleeding profusely.

I lifted my right hand to check if it had stopped bleeding. Nope. And my right hand was coated with blood.

At that point, a classmate, let’s call him Earl Omega, looked right at me. I held eye contact and glared at him with the full force of the laser-firing armada located behind my eyeballs.

I can’t remember what happened afterward because third grade was so long ago.

And now we’ll never know if Little Arachnid ever got that Band-Aid or not.

Mellow Yellow Episode 24: Author’s Note!

THE WEBWEAVERS are in the office of Arachnid’s Arctic Paradise deciding on what to do next for Mellow Yellow.

ARACHNID: I don’t know what to do next for Mellow Yellow… Ever since that Peeps talked, I couldn’t find any ideas!

SPINETTE: We can do a documentary on eating Yo-Yos featuring the two silent mimes!

ARACHNID: (Rubbing her hands like an evil genius) No. We need something original, something fresh, some—

SPINETTE: (hammers table with fist) Something to give Rue a purpose!

ARACHNID: Not that, Spinette!

SPINETTE (dejected): Owwwieee…

ARACHNID (ignores SPINETTE): Maybe we can bring Attendant back!

SPINETTE: I’m bored! I’m going to go look at memes, I mean… edit Outside In now.

ARACHNID: NO, YOU AREN’T GOING ANYWHERE! (pulls on SPINETTE’s shirt)

ARACHNID and SPINETTE sit there for a very long time.

SPINETTE: What if we used memes?

ARACHNID: Great idea!

 

~~~~END

Jackie Part 2

Part 1


Jackie’s POV ~~~ 4 years later

I took a crumb of bread, threw it in the fire and watched it burn. Between bites, I saw the fire dance, tendrils of the flames swirling around the scraps of wood. The smoke breathed into my bones like a dragon, and my spirits raised up a bit higher like a knight’s war call.

I like watching the fire. My mother said I got that habit from my father, and he said I got it from her. My puzzling parents, as always.

I wish it was always now.

Two candles, in a shelf by the door, one extinguished and the other desperately holding onto its light represented them. The remaining flame climbed up the wick, and fell again, raising itself back up in a continuous cycle. My father’s flame, it was, still alive after the eight years he hasn’t came back, maybe more so than ever.

Suddenly, the fire puckered up, licking the corners of the paper behind. Cautiously, I fanned the paper out, but not before the last thing I wrote on it scorched, painted a dung colored brown. September 31,—- the year was gone.

Flustered, I crumpled up the paper, snowballing it into the fire. The white tumbled into the raging orange, as the red consumed both the colors.”Phoo!” I blew out my father’s last flame. “Bye bye, mother and father .” Memories flashed by, and as always, came back to stab me in the chest, the knife cold and hard.

I slammed the door, scrambling into the grass, blades brushing against my bare ankles.

Today, the grass was a bit pointed, frozen by last night’s frost. The ground was sparsely covered at this season, but nonetheless, this was the day that Jack fought the beast a hundred or so years ago. I was just waiting for the bells to ring, when the townspeople would gather around the beanstalk, fruitful with flowers and life.

“Heyo!” Christian greeted me, grinning widely. His limp brown noodle-like hair was in a ponytail, and he was wearing a tan scumbag shirt. A bandage was taped on his cheek, newly acquired. “What’s up? Such a normal day, isn’t it?” He was trying his best to be a charmer.

“Today is the hundred and eighth anniversary of Jack slaying the giant! Did you forget?” I pulled his ear.

“It’s today?” He seemed startled, scratching his head stupidly.

“It is, you dunce!” I let him go, and he hopped like a bunny, freed from my grasp.

He hollered, “Oh boy! I can’t wait! Let’s go, Jackie!” He held my hand, racing toward the middle of the city. He ran, almost tripping me off my feet. Tendrils of his hair flew in my eyes, as I blinked rapidly, in a bewildered flurry of hair and quick wind. Soon, we were at the Beanstalk. I could see why he was, in fact, the Running Champion of the Hallows.

“Come one, come all!” The village minister welcomed the swarms of people with open arms, his blubbery form, jolly, unfitting with his outfit of dark black, “Today, we preach the powers of Jack sent by God, hundreds and hundreds of years ago!” The good-hearted man was yelling his blessings, sitting on the circular structure of smooth stone, surrounding the green plant, sprouting into the clouds.

From my place below, I saw vines swirling around the stalk, light pink flowers blooming, and as my eyes eventually climbed up to where it seared the hefty layer of puffy clouds. The scent of vanilla coated the air, my most recent favorite smell of candles. Wanting to smell more of the delicious scent, I followed my nose, landing on a precious pink flower, on the lower vines of the Beanstalk. As I went down to smell it, the petals collapsed on each other, closing its doors to its sweet center. I turned my head, as another heavy waft of vanilla flooded my senses. The flower opened back up again! Rushingly, I bounded for it again, unceremoniously greeted by an explosion of mustard pollen dust. With my face caked in yellow, I dumbly looked onto my friends in front of me. What an embarrassment!

The group of raunchy boys laughed at me, including Christian.

“Look at Jackie, smelling the flowers! Such a girly-girl, isn’t she?” Tom, the big, strong one of the group teased.

“At least I’m not as dumb as you!” I annoyingly played with his hair, “Shut up!”

“Shut up?” He was outraged, “How about you shut up!” Tom punched me the stomach, sending me flying with the blow, “You weak little girl!”

I got up to my bearings, cracking my neck, ready for a fight. This guy was not messing with me again! Gritting my teeth, I kicked his shins, confusing him. He stole a single glance at his ankles, when I delivered a solid punch to his face. He ricocheted into the rock hard stone, grunting like a caveman as he got up to his feet. Tom stared me down, his expression like a bull chasing red. From the corner of my eye, I saw bloody teeth scattered behind his large body.

“Guys! Break it up!” Christian yelled, pushing Tom away from me. His heels screeched against the dirt, dust emitting from them.

“Yeah, Tom!” Kev was on his side, cheering him on, like a little rodent. He pumped his skinny arm into the air, screaming an almost incompressible war cry, “Kill her!”

“Stop it!” Christian stopped pushing Tom. He gave us both a sly smirk, “Do you guys really want to be fighting in front of the minister?” The minister, noticing Christian’s cue, frowned at us. It was the first time I’d ever saw a negative emotion on him, and like his cloak, it certainly didn’t fit him well.

“Or…” he added, “The minister’s daughter? You know her, Kev. It looks like you’ll be her man quite soon.” For good measure, he added a high whistle.

“Really?” Kev questioned. He didn’t quite get Christian’s plan to stop our fight.

Instantly, Tom straightened, a fragile blush forming on his cheeks. I sat down, fixing my hair and brushing the yellow pigment off my face. They aren’t anything but embarrassments! I thought to myself, I couldn’t believe what Maria would do if she saw me like that! I’m so stupid! I tossed the last of the dust off my clothes, scooting to the front. All the townspeople will be here soon, so I needed to get a good, frontward seat for the storytelling. Even if I heard the story a million times, the story of the boy who killed the giant, I never got tired of it.

“You’re so funny!” Maria tapped my nose, giggling. Neatly, she folded her legs, crisscross-applesauce, hands on her knees along with a playful smile splayed on her face. Her black hair curled carefully around her chest, covering one half of her schoolgirl tie. Her glasses were large saucers, and developed bifocals from when I saw her last. “I saw the little duel you had there. And the explosion with flower dust!” A mischievous daft shone from her voice, “You like flowers, don’t you?”

“Y-y-y—yeah.” I stuttered. Staying calm in front of a rich person wasn’t easy, especially when you eat candies from the bottoms of shoes. “I do.”

“What’s wron—” Maria was interrupted by the tolling of bells, always playing the tone they do at midnight. This morning, it marked not only the noon hour, but a special ceremony as well: The 108th Storytelling of Jack, the hero of our village.


©SPINETTE SPYDER

Mellow Yellow Episode 23: Science

KYR, CYRA, TICK, and TOCK have made a Science Squad together in the expanses of ZHAN’s old workshop.

CYRA: Kyr, do you want to know how to make a potato light something up?

KYR nods.

CYRA: Okay! (throws a potato at the light switch)

ALL: Welcome to the Downside Up Science Squad!

TOCK: Today we will teach you how to science!

TICK: First, you ask a question. Kyr will demonstrate.

KYR (writing): What do Peeps do in a microwave? Because human flesh is a lot like Peeps’ marshmallowness, this experiment will prove useful.

TOCK: Then you construct a hypothesis! Make sure it’s biased and totally not backed by background research!

CYRA (overflowing with confidence): I believe that this peep will lay an egg since the bird species likes to reproduce in warm climates. As they say, the early bird catches the warm!

TOCK: Egg-xactly!

KYR plays laugh track.

CYRA: Now you can continue with an experiment!

TOCK puts a Peeps in the microwave and warms it up for a couple minutes.

Everyone except TICK watches the Peeps, waiting to see if it will lay an egg.

TICK: Tock! I need your help, Mommy!

TOCK (still watching the microwave): I’ll be right there!

TICK: No really, Tock! I need your― (screams)

TOCK (Concerned): Tick? (rushes over)

TICK: Ahhhh! That feels better!

TOCK: What happened?

TICK: I laid an egg! Isn’t it wonderful! I feel like a mother egret!

TOCK: Hooray!

KYR comes over to see.

The three stare at the egg intently.

CYRA rubs her hands evilly behind them, leaving the workshop.

The egg starts to crack.

TICK: It’s my offspring! I can’t wait!

TOCK: (puts a hand on TICK’s shoulder) We are parents now, Daddy!

TICK: I’m the mother this time!

TOCK: oh yeah.

The egg hatches, LUR rolling out.

TICK: AHHHHHHhhh! IT’S AN EMU! THIS IS NOT MY CHILD! TAKE HIM AWAY!

JOHN: (bursting from the wall) Never fear, John is here!

Bubble sounds come from the microwave.

Everyone looks at the microwave.

SQUAWK! The Peeps explodes everything.

 

~~~END

 

CYRA: WHY IS EVERYONE STILL ALIVE?!

PEEPS (in a deep voice):  I don’t know.  

CYRA: GAAH!

 

~~~END A SECOND TIME

Jackie

I saw that Arachnid was putting her story A Dreamer in the Darkness up here, so I decided to put up my story Jackie here too. I hope you enjoy it!

Giant’s POV

-Have you ever seen a giant climb down a beanstalk? No? Well, this is what I did that night… so long ago.

Found one.

The little girl scuttled away, racing through the fields, her feet making these soft taps in the dirt. The dust billowed upon my face, as I stifled a cough, hoping desperately that she did not hear me in the still sound of the night. Choo! I sniffled. Not apprehending my presence, the adolescent ran off into the village, wearing a mask of urgency and with a slight crook in her thick eyebrows displaying swallowed, compressed fear.

I crawled through the forest of trees, my giant monstrous body causing them to rattle. Leaves crunched under my hands as I hastily tried to maneuver myself, every move a hideous crash. A few paces later, I perked up, surveying a villa. It was small, quaint, with wind slipping through the cracks of sleeping huts. Then I saw her. A blast of red, then the lock of the door. Click!

Circling around the suburb, I restlessly settled myself down near the home the adolescent sneakily slid into. I looked through a window, eager for the story I was about to unravel. The girl’s eyes were wide as she flinched at each minuscule squeak. I folded my fingers together, tight, as my eager thoughts flipped to dread, waiting for what was to come next for the poor girl.

She trudged down the hall, as my curiosity went along with her, my vision darting towards the next window, inside a kitchen. The teenager was haphazardly throwing damaged pieces of silverware, opening wooden cupboards and loudly calling for someone. Seamlessly, her tension softened into concern which, of course, quickly fastened into worry.

-Humans have crazy emotions.

Her ragged breath blew in and out, fixing itself with the rhythm that the house was bouncing along with the thumps of my heart. Ta-dum, ta-dum, tad-dum. It was the only constant thing among the chaos of her crashing, clashing and screams.

“Mother!” The call was adamant.

Nothing.

Immediately, like lighting, the girl’s boots clunked up the steps. With my curiosity on full blast, I grabbed the top of the house, pulling my face closer, almost so the very tip of my nose touched the window. This one uncovered a bedroom and an older woman sleeping peacefully. I hope her daughter doesn’t disrupt her calm tranquil dreams. I swiped a quiet , calculating finger across the window, feeling the texture of smooth glass. It was new to me—- I never had felt it before.

Then a red swish flew through the door. The girl, I thought, recalling when I saw the red haired teenager enter the hut. Her cheeks were red, her hair matted with sweat, as she climbed onto the bed. She whispered something, something I couldn’t hear from the outside, so without weighing the consequences, I pressed my ear against the wall. Warningly, the house wobbled, dirt and planks falling from the roof. The girl fell on her napping mother, somehow failing to wake her up, but didn’t even gaze in my direction. Thank goodness. My shoulders fell, as I blew a gust of air from my lips, fogging up the window.

The girl’s shrieking cry emanated from the room, an incredible, incoherent cry that shook me from my head to my toes. Tinglings of the shriek vibrated in my mind, as I wiped the fog off the window, slowly unclothing the scene, my eyes progressively dilating, my brows folded in disbelief. I gasped, my fingers fanning in front of my “o” of a mouth.

The mother’s chest was scarlet with blood, a knife glinting from the wound. The mother’s blanket was thrown to the floor, and with that a terrifying secret.

-Don’t ever ask me to describe “death” of those creatures.

I ran away. Up the Beanstalk, in the middle of the town. Giant goblets of water drooped along my long, narrow face, flicking themselves off my jaw, wetting my hair and chest. I clutched at my breasts, thankful that I still have mine. Remorsefully, I took one last look of the village. It was so beautiful, with eerie hidden horrors lurking inside, a world of stars never seen above the clouds. I was so sorry I had to leave so soon.

A early rising lumberjack yakked at my appearance. He withdrew his axe, quickening my departure.


Part 2


©SPINETTE SPYDER

Mellow Yellow Episode 21: Revenge

TICK is braiding her hair, humming Rawr.

JOHN: Why are you humming that?

TICK: Hmm?

JOHN: Why are you humming that―that disgrace instead of California Gurls?

TICK: What’s a gurl?

JOHN: Well, it’s like a mashup of girl and hurl. It really is quite obvious. I’m almost surprised you couldn’t figure that out on your own.

TICK shrugs lazily.

JOHN: And no one knows what Cali―

TICK (angry): I didn’t ask you what California is. I know what it is, anyway.

JOHN: (jaw drops) You―you know what California is?

TICK: (Shrugs. Says nonchalantly while unbraiding her hair) Yes. That’s what I just said. It’s an area of land, called a state, in another country in an alternate universe where the writer of the song is from.

JOHN doesn’t believe her and walks away, shaking his head in an attempt to remove this insanity

TICK braids her hair again

TOCK enters and stands silently in the doorway for fourteen minutes and 32 seconds before leaving again.

TICK is unbraiding her hair when she hears a doorbell. She opens it and calls over her shoulder

TICK: Quinn! It’s for you!

QUINN walks in and yelps

QUINN: Yelp

An army of bread sandwich ghosts led by BREAD SNADWHICH III converge on QUINN and he is never seen from again

 

~~~~END

 

Mellow Yellow Episode 16: Proposal

ZHAN and TICK are in the living room, watching a movie called Downside Up: The Horror of an Uninteresting House.

TICK snores.

ZHAN: Tick, wake up. This is the best part!

TICK: It’s so late… (blowing mucus bubbles)

ZHAN: But this is the perfect time. The stars are shining, and look, there is your favorite one now!

TOCK climbs on the ceiling in a silver suit.

TICK: I’m sleepy…

ZHAN winks at TOCK.

TOCK lights the TV on fire.

TICK: Oooh! Look at how realistic this is! You are right, Zhan, this is the best part!

The fire is spreading around while TOCK is eating some popcorn in the corner.

TICK: Special Effects! (Starts to fall asleep, almost collapsing in the fire)

ZHAN: I will save you! (Takes her in his arms and uses the conveniently placed rope to swing her out of the zone of the fire.)

TICK snores.

ZHAN (Using the also conveniently placed fire hydrant to put out the fire): It’s gone now, love.

TICK snores.

ZHAN: Tick? (cries) Are you alright? Tick?

TOCK provides dramatic lighting.

ZHAN: NOOooooo OoooOooooOoOO OoOoOooOoooOOooOooO OoOoooOOo oOooO O!

TICK: Your scream has awoken me, Zhan.

ZHAN: Tick! (Hugs TICK)

TICK hugs back even though she doesn’t know why she is hugging him.

ZHAN: After this frightening occurrence, I have seen how much you mean to me. (Secretly reading off lines written in his jeans pocket.) So will you do me the honor of marrying me? (Holds up a ring made out of Tick’s hair.)

TICK: Of course…

ZHAN: Really! (genuinely surprised) You will?

TICK: Not.

ZHAN: Oh yeah, there’s Tock, right?

TICK: Not.

 

*A while later*

 

TOCK (dragging TICK away as she goes to sleep again): You didn’t really mean that, did you?

TICK (sleep talking): You are a very nice star.

 

~~~END

 

Mellow Yellow Episode 15: Outside In

TICK, TOCK, and MASTER are selling Outside In novels in the busy streets of Almuerzo.

TICK: Buy them fresh from the counter! Get some copies of Outside In today!

TOCK: Yes, this book will always keep you on your toes!

MASTER: EVEN IF YOU DON’T HAVE ANY! (becomes a ghost)

LENA walks up to the stand wanting to purchase some books while JOHN follows her, scoffing at how bad it is.

LENA: Can I have one?

TOCK: Sure! Tick, can you grab one for her?

TICK: Here. (holds up Outside In: The Guide To Indoor Gardening)

JOHN: What! I thought it was just Outside In!

LENA: (Raises eyebrow) What in the world is that?

MASTER: We don’t have that title, but, if you want, we have free Masters!

JOHN: Ooooh! Plushies!

TOCK hands him a Master Lock.

LENA: Can I have one too?

JOHN cries, dying his hair a light purple color

ZHAN: YES! (shaves him bald)

JOHN cries even harder.

 

~~~END

A Not So Scary Short Story (I was busy eating candy)

Michael pulls on his tie.

Rewind.

His hands, however, are stiff in his pockets.

Rewind.

A chair loudly drags along the floor.

Rewind.

A book is flipped open.

Then it closes, the chair slides into place, and Michael walks out the door, whistling a hollow tune. The picture on the TV screen ripples, the pixels uncoordinated, a mess of color, until it gives a little “beep” then fades away. It is black.

I stir my tea, putting in my fifth scoop of sugar. The liquid bubbles, unsatisfied with the calories I have been ingesting over this murder case. I take another look at the video again, clicking the red “rewind” button on the front of the remote. The screen blinks to life, the now deceased Michael’s room displayed on the monitor.

Thirsty for more evidence, I scoured the screen for more, hungry for answers I could write down in my notebook. I heard the rapid-fire clicking of a pen, click, click, click, click, click. But I don’t see it on the TV screen.

The lights turn off. The constant clicking gets louder.

Beep! The video screen fades away.

My pen is gone.

Rewind.

The button isn’t working this time around.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joint Blog Post

Yeah,

Meow!

Spinette and I are doing a group blog post! We will be writing this a few sentences at a time with no prior planning.

 

“Use the mouse, that shiny, cheese-loving mouse, to produce cheesecake,” said the cheese-cake maker’s apprentice, who was highly incompetent. He did not realize that it was a factory that produced cheesecake, not mice. This apprentice was an alligator named Kevin who used an Ab Rocket for exercise each and every day. He did not get any good results, and now, due to his firing from the gym-instructor job, he worked at the cheesecake factory that his Great Aunt Yolanda made from the grime under her toes.

But Kevin was fairly incompetent at everything from being a gym-instructor to working at a cheesecake factory and as a result, he had never been able to keep a steady job.

Suddenly, a large slice of bacon fell on his head.

“Bad Kevin!” Aunt Yolanda dropped another piece of bacon on his snout. This was considered a punishment since bacon is actually fried pig fat that sizzles grossly on a pan, as Kevin’s aunt had explained. Of course, Little Kevin thought that the pigs cooked his childhood hero, Peter Pan.

Kevin shook in fear and ran away to plot his revenge. He crawled into the chimney to think because that was where Satan Claus, who his aunt said was actually Santa Claus many, many, many times, resided. Now he would finally take revenge on all the lies his aunt had pumped into his incompetent brain. He drooled in deep thought.

After an absurdly long period of time, Kevin thought of an idea. He would milk all the mice in the factory to make the next batch of cheesecake! Not only would this take revenge on his Great Aunt, it would also prove her wrong since mice could be used to make cheesecake. He slid down into the fireplace, adamantly setting fire to his pants (since alligators wear pants) and screaming. His drooling stopped the fire as Yolanda sprayed a useless, messy white powder from a round ketchup bottle.

 

We’ve decided to be done now. Kevin is a lost cause.