Literary stuff!

So for Creative Writing, we are doing Satire. This is my *very lame* attempt at doing a satirical version of "Cinderella." I'm not horridly familiar with satire (I've probably seen some stuff, but I didn't directly associate it with satire/ wasn't told directly, "THIS IS A SATIRE OF ______"), so this may be a bit horrendous. Or it could be good. Either one.

Once upon a time in the faraway land of the DC Metro area, there was a girl whose name was Nicole (or Nik for short). When Nik was seventeen and a junior in high school, she decided that she would go to the prom, because she probably would never get another chance to go to the prom at the Kennedy Center (though that was the only reason she was bothering to go at all).
The trouble was, Nik had a rehearsal schedule that wouldn’t allow this to happen, and eventually she became used to the idea of not going to prom, and made other plans involving a Friday night in front of the TV.
Why couldn’t she go, exactly?
Well, prom started at eight, and rehearsal ended at nine.

However, Nik’s faerie godmother was able to talk to her director, and between the two of them, they were able to make all the necessary arrangements to let all the prom-bound upper-class-people out of rehearsal on the Friday in question.
The faerie godmother also managed to get a really expensive dress from a designer store for a fraction of the real cost, and also some cool shoes.
When Nik learned about this, she became very confused. Her director was not the kind of person who would cancel rehearsal ever; in fact, he was the kind of person who would plan a dawn-to-dusk run on a summer solstice apocalypse on purpose.
When Nik saw her dress, she became even more confused. Not only was a ridiculously expensive dress laid out for her on her bed, this ridiculously expensive dress was perhaps the ugliest shade of puke-colored blue-green that she had ever seen in her life, and was twelve sizes too big for her and had a long train and lots of ruffles, which Nik hated.
The only cool thing that Nik saw that could come out of this not-prom was that she now had a cool pair of bronze gladiator sandals and no rehearsal on Friday night, which meant she could watch lots of reruns of MythBusters and actually sleep before midnight.
On Friday, when the whole school was buzzing about prom this and prom that and prom-I-do-not-know-what-shoes-to-wear, Nik was looking immensely forward to the afternoon she would be spending watching Jamie Hyneman and Adam Savage blow stuff up on public television. She wasn’t worried about prom, or where she would go to have dinner, since her parents were already going out – Nik decided she’d call the Chinese restaurant down the street from school once class let out, and then eat spring rolls and watch TV all afternoon.
When Nik got home after school that day, armed with four spring rolls, a large serving of fried rice, a large serving of lo mein, and an eager curiosity about what would go down on MythBusters, she found that the size eighteen dress was on her bed and her faerie godmother was standing in the kitchen, armed for the biggest Prom Attendance Battle ever to take place in the history of the world. Nik and the godmother would probably wind up on the history channel.
The faerie godmother assured Nik that her parents would know where she had gone and that Happily Ever After awaited her on the roof of the Kennedy Center.
“But I don’t WANT a Happily Ever After like that!” Nik complained. “My Happily Ever After involves Chinese takeout and the Discovery Channel!”
“Well, deal with it,” the godmother said. “This is my job. I’m trying to make a living doing this. If you don’t go to that dance, I don’t get paid, and if I don’t get paid, I’ll starve next month, and if I starve next month, that means I’m not going to be able to help you next year when you want to go to prom! So you’re going to GO TO PROM, MISSIE!”
“I have an idea,” Nik said, “You can have two spring rolls and my lo mein, and eat half a bite of spring roll and one noodle every day while you go and help your next charge, and then you’ll get paid next month, and then you can pay me the twelve dollars back then. Okay?”
“No, that’s NOT OKAY!” the godmother said. “I’m also about to get kicked out of the World Union of Faerie Godmothers!”
“You have a UNION?” Nik exclaimed in confusion.
“How ELSE could we manage to get so many Cinderellas to so many balls, dances, proms, festivals, celebrations, fairs, carnivals, parties, galas, and general events involving merrymaking and get PAID as well? Now, my Union Card will get you a better dress – I’m sorry I got the wrong size – I didn’t know what size you were, so I just guessed. We can fix that, though. And the shoes – what size are you?”
“Eight. But why are you doing this?”
“Because I’m getting paid, and I want to eat. Now, the shoes should fit. You should start to eat; I’ll handle the dress and makeup and hair. Don’t go ANYWHERE; I’ll be back in three hours.”
Nik looked at her watch. It was about 3:30. She wasn’t hungry enough to eat dinner yet, but she resigned herself to the fact that she’d have to do this over pain of death, and morosely began to consume a spring roll.
Three hours later, the faerie godmother returned with a new dress and what looked like the entire stock of the cosmetics store and the hair care store combined.
The faerie godmother then set about putting far too much makeup on Nik, and then told her to change clothes, and then did her hair, and then sent her on her way.
Nik arrived at the Kennedy Center in good time. She figured out where the dance was being held and proceeded to go to the location in question.
She spent five minutes perusing the perimeter of the dance floor, and then decided that she was a lot more bored than she would have been if she’d had her afternoon the way she would have liked, and proceeded to bum some free soda and chocolate before attempting to leave the building.
Then she was stopped by the assistant director of the show, whose name was Jake. They had a reasonably intelligent half-hour discussion about MythBusters and other good shows on TV, and then they both decided that the dance was really, REALLY loud, so they went up to the top of the roof to continue their discussion of physics and other interesting matters that good, solid, curious students who like to act would normally discuss. When they arrived on the roof, the magic of the faerie godmother was enacted, and a small jazz band consisting of Nik’s three friends, who began to attempt to serenade Nik and Jake as they walked around the roof.
However, this didn’t really work, as the jazz trio hadn’t rehearsed at all, so after about ten minutes of attempting to play some mushy romantic songs and having them sound like something out of a horror movie, the jazz trio returned to the dance so they could get some more chocolate and some caffeine.
After about twenty more minutes of discussing a great variety of stuff, Nik and Jake decided to go back home – first to Nik’s house, so she could change, and then to Jake’s house, so he could change and so they could have a Star Wars marathon while eating ice cream, Girl Scout cookies, fortune cookies, and all of the Chinese food that Nik hadn’t eaten earlier.

Literary Update!

well... here is the Beginnings of the Fairy Godmother story. Hope you like it. It's nowhere near done, obviously, and I'm quite sure it's not going to be close to finished for a while. But here it is.

Chapter 1
One could say that the reason high school really sucks for the fantasy-loving girl is because it is definitely not like the fairy tales they read about as kids. There are no fairy godmothers that carry magic wands, no princes that can come along to sweep a hard working and deserving young lady off her feet and into a Wedding-Bound Happily Ever After. Life just does not work like that for most people.
For other girls, fairy tales are stuff to laugh at. And, honestly, I sometimes wish I could be you.
But for kids like me… fairy tales are the reason we're dorks. They are things to analyze from a literary perspective and to study for the archetypes and motifs and themes that come up. I have never really believed in fairy tales and happy endings; I have never really bothered fantasizing about getting carried off into a Happily Ever After. It just seems like taking the easy way out to let a man do all the dirty work.
If truth be told, I really wanted the girl to shove the prince off the horse, take the reins, and gallop off to do her best to save the world on her own terms at least once in at least one of the stories. The Savior of the World did not have to succeed; I just wanted a girl to attempt to fill the role for a change.
This would also be a wonderful time to point out that nowhere in any volume of Grimm’s tales, Andersen’s tales, and most volumes of folk tales does anything remotely like having a butt-kicking female exist.
Which, I might add, really sucks.

High school can suck, do not get me wrong – but what I've learned is that everyone could use a little magic. And, generally, I'm the one who has to provide that magic – it's an occupational hazard.
I know, I know – all you skeptics are saying, “Oh, fairy tales are just fiction” and “These fairy tales would never work out in the twenty-first century” and “Fairy Godmothers don't exist at all.” But you're wrong – I know that for a fact. I've already done enough to realize that how wrong the third statement is.
You see, I am a fairy godmother.

It all started when I walked into a tree on the last day of eighth grade.
Yes, a tree.
In the middle of the sidewalk.
Where did this tree come from?
I had no clue whatsoever.
But this tree changed my life.
Like most people would, I became very confused. Why was there a tree in the middle of a sidewalk? Why did it look like this particular tree had ALWAYS been in the middle of this very sidewalk, when I knew for a fact that it had not been there the day before?
And then a little man with a crooked nose, sagging skin, irate black eyes and a scraggly beard poked his head out of a knot in the tree and said in a deep voice that had a bit of a Brooklyn accent, “Oh, wonderful. She's here!”
“Um… what?” I said. This was even more confusing – this tree housed a little man, and both of them looked like they had been here since forever even though they most assuredly had NOT been in this very location twenty-four hours ago.
“You're here!” he cried again.
“Um… yeah…” I said. “Were you expecting me?”
“Of course we were,” the little man exclaimed with glee. “Why wouldn't we be?”
Um… because I don't know any little people who live in trees? And also, I don't know anyone who lives in a tree, period? And also, I have no idea who you are? “Uh… I think you have the wrong person…”
“You are Ericka Rose Dalnorn, address is 25 Rosenburg Street?” he confirmed.
Yeeesss…” I said slowly.
“Yes, we were expecting you,” he said briskly. “Come on in, and we shall get this interview started.”
“Um... like a job interview?” I asked cautiously. I was also becoming wary of the long-imprinted Mom-Quote: “do NOT enter anyone’s house if you don't know who they are.”
“What other sort of interview is there?” he answered.
“Uh…”
“Don't answer that. Come inside.” He disappeared from view and reappeared a few moments later from a small door near the base of the tree.
“Um, I didn't apply for any job. I think you have the wrong person,” I said as I ducked into the tree, feeling extremely uncomfortable with the situation.
“No, you are Ericka Rose Dalnorn, and you live on Rosenburg Street, and your appearance matches our descriptions. This meeting is scheduled.”
“Then why was I not informed of it?” I asked. I felt I had a right to know.
“Because your guardians are stupid humans. Take a seat anywhere.” He gestured around the room. Unfortunately, all the furniture looked as if it were better suited for someone more the size of – there’s really no other word for it – the dwarf, who was currently telling me that I had applied for a job.
“Now,” said the dwarf, settling himself on a small wooden rocking chair and giving me a critical look as he pulled out a clipboard, “Basic questions. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” I said slowly.
“Do you have a best friend?”
“Yes.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
The dwarf gave me a sharp look. “Name?”
“Alexander James Nolanew.”
“Any romantic interest in Alexander James Nolanew?”
“No…” Alex and I had been friends since kindergarten, and nothing had changed since then. I mean, I had thought about liking him, but the idea died three seconds after it came into existence.
“I see,” the dwarf said skeptically and made a note on his clipboard. “Anyway… age?”
“Fourteen.”
“Hair…” he glanced up. “Straight and coppery. Eyes…”
“Hazel,” I said.
He squinted at me for a second or two. “Green. With glasses.”
“Hazel,” I insisted. “With glasses.”
“Oh, very well,” he sighed, then added something like, “Hazel-eyed blahblahblah my arse,” under his breath. The “blahblahblah” sounded kind of like “godmother,” but I wasn’t entirely sure. “Height…”
“Five foot seven and growing.”
“What height do you expect to be at in four years?” he inquired.
“Um… I don’t know. Five-nine, maybe?”
“It doesn’t have to be definite.”
“Then go with five-nine,” I decided.
“Body type…”
“Body type?” I repeated. “Why do you need to know my body type? I don’t even know what my body type IS.”
The dwarf gave me a long, searching look, as if he were sizing me up, which he probably was. “Hourglass,” he concluded after a few moments of staring awkwardly at my midsection. “And it is part of the archetype identification. It has no lasting effect on whether you get hired; it is only to identify which archetype you will receive.”
“Archetype identification?” I repeated. “WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?”
“Do you know nothing, Miss Dalnorn?” the dwarf asked in an exasperated tone.
“Apparently,” I answered in equal irritation. “Would you care to inform me, or do I have to figure it out for myself?”
“Well, since you're here, I guess I should be the one to tell you,” the dwarf mused. “Very well, then. Take a seat.”

Creative Writing Stuff!

Sooo this is something that I did for a Creative Writing assignment - it's "describe your main character's hands, eyes, or posture in one or two (or three) paragraphs.  Try to convey as much about his/ her personality as possible."  I did Shyasha Rinkari.  Hope you like it. :D


Four and a half thousand years can do a lot to a person. When I was born, for example, my eyes were hazel-green. I died of heartbreak when I was seventeen, but the gods chose to spare my life in exchange for my sight. When I re-awoke, my vision was gone, and my irises were downy white, according to everyone I asked. When I regained my sight, my eyes found color – my left one is purple, and my right one is yellow. These are known as triple-lucky eyes. Lucky eyes are two-tone, normal-colored eyes - blue and green, black and brown. Double-lucky eyes are the ones that are a combination of two abnormal colors, or one weird color and one normal one, and are usually caused by enchantments – orange and pink, red and white, blue and yellow, black and purple. Triple-lucky eyes are purple and yellow only – they are contrasting colors that are abnormal outside of enchantments. It has also been said that one who wears triple-lucky eyes have been marked by the gods. I do not know whether my survival has been based on luck or the will of the gods – whichever it is, I thank them for keeping me from the death I face on a daily basis.
As I have to do rough, physical tasks every day, my hands are not in the greatest shape. Well, they are fine by Ranger standards – downright smooth for a Ranger, in fact. However, if my mother the Queen saw them, I am quite certain that she would lose her head in frustration and also several limbs. I have calluses in the inner joints of the middle three fingers of my right hand – an occupational hazard of being a Ranger armed with a bow for four and a half thousand years. These calluses will never fade, no matter how many creams that my mother makes me try. My hands have plenty of cuts – nothing but dragon magic and my own fairy magic will heal those, and I refuse to let them mend, especially the big X that crosses my left palm. This is how I am recognized as a Dragon Friend, especially now that the Age of Dragons has come to a close. Poachers can attempt to imitate this scar, as can anyone who wants to see a dragon for real. It will not work. Only dragons can mark their friends. No ink or knife is made from the claw of a dragon king, the fire of its mother’s queen, and the blood of the wearer’s palm. I am the only being alive who has been trusted enough by the dragons to wear this scar on my palm, and I will not misuse it.

Whenever I am forced to go back to the palace, be it for a gala that I am forced to be present at or a meeting with the king that I am mandated to attend, my mother seeks me out and demands to know why my posture is so horrible, and why I choose to slouch all the time. The truth of the matter is that I do not slouch all the time. I only slouch in Mother’s presence to irk her and in Telsiel’s presence because he irks me. Mother hates me on purpose, and Telsiel has no reason to love me. When I am with the dragons, I must stand as tall as possible, just so the dragons can see me properly – at five feet and eleven inches, I am almost too short for them to see. When I am traveling the back roads, I am forced to bend over – unlike with the dragons, I am too tall for most of the forest, and I must make sure not to hit my head on something.