Hello, everybody.
It's been a long time since we've had a writing competition!
Raven reminded me :D
How about one now, ay?
Let's say, the theme is sci-fi, i.e., spaceships, laserguns, aliens, sharktopuses, etc. Go ALL out! :]
Ok, word limits don't work very well... Let's just try to keep it reasonable. How many words per page? Um, yeah, I don't know. Well, let's say... 2500 words? Is that large enough? lol, if you go a little over, it's alright.
Turn it in by the 15th of September by emailing me at sakura.c@goowy.com, and I'll post them right around then so we can vote. :]
I really hope you enter! Have fun!!
Everyone... Go Back to Blogland
Blogland needs you, my friends.
I miss you.
I miss ALL of the old-timers, and I would just.... LOVE to see you in Blogland again.
Besides, showing up and chatting like you own the place is exceedingly enjoyable :}
I know, I know, everyone is strange and new. I think every time I go to Blogland now-a-days I meet someone new, but hey, meeting someone new eliminates a strange new person to meet. Plus, if we all go back, even it's slowly, even it's once-a-month or less, we'll find each other.
Don't feel like it's useless. Even if you can only hang out for ten minutes, GO. Chat for ten minutes, then leave if you must. Don't disappear forever. Nothing is worth losing your friends because you're just so busy. If you try, I know you can make a little time. :D
Please come back. :]
I love you guys, and Dereksville Blogland desperately needs your crazy, brilliant, fun, adorable, creative awesome-sauce and epica spontaneity!
When you read this, post it on your own blogs [re-awaken the magic of them!] or email it to a friend from Blogland you haven't spoken with for who-knows-how-long.
Let's rekindle the old-timers.
Let's rekindle our own, special place again.
I miss it, and I desperately miss you.
~hugs a million times over~
I hope I see you soon!!!! :D
I miss you.
I miss ALL of the old-timers, and I would just.... LOVE to see you in Blogland again.
Besides, showing up and chatting like you own the place is exceedingly enjoyable :}
I know, I know, everyone is strange and new. I think every time I go to Blogland now-a-days I meet someone new, but hey, meeting someone new eliminates a strange new person to meet. Plus, if we all go back, even it's slowly, even it's once-a-month or less, we'll find each other.
Don't feel like it's useless. Even if you can only hang out for ten minutes, GO. Chat for ten minutes, then leave if you must. Don't disappear forever. Nothing is worth losing your friends because you're just so busy. If you try, I know you can make a little time. :D
Please come back. :]
I love you guys, and Dereksville Blogland desperately needs your crazy, brilliant, fun, adorable, creative awesome-sauce and epica spontaneity!
When you read this, post it on your own blogs [re-awaken the magic of them!] or email it to a friend from Blogland you haven't spoken with for who-knows-how-long.
Let's rekindle the old-timers.
Let's rekindle our own, special place again.
I miss it, and I desperately miss you.
~hugs a million times over~
I hope I see you soon!!!! :D
New House
My small house, sitting lonely in the countryside, holds up well against the storm. It handles its share of battering wind and rain surprisingly well. I had thought that the building's structures would be weak, which would have explained why it was so cheap on the market. But I have yet to find a problem with my new, cozy little house, even during one of the country's worst storms in five years.
The terrible weather woke me early on my first morning here. Trying to get back to sleep with the racket outside would be a fruitless attempt, so I get up and shuffle to the kitchen. A fairly modern kitchen for such an isolated place, with a large glass sliding door facing the back garden: a narrow rectangle of grass that stretches far, littered with some trees down the bottom, and enclosed by a sturdy fence. The storm is raging this morning, and the far off trees bend backwards against the force of the wind. The rain relentlessly drenches the glass, cascading down it like a waterfall.
I turn to the kettle, deciding to start my day-in with a cup of tea. As the kettle boils, I take a good hard look around the kitchen. It still feels to good to be true. There must be some problem with his house. Yet the worktops aren't scratched, the appliances aren't broken and the walls aren't falling apart. I begin to stroll around the room, inspecting the tiled floor as the kettle begins to whistle. Finding nothing, I turn toward the glass door, expecting to find the torrential rain leaking through its borders.
I find not a leak, but a young man standing outside. The shock takes me back a step before I can determine that he is not a threat - his casual t-shirt and jeans stick to his body, soaked through and through, his tall frame equalling the height of the door. His young face is pinched tight, struggling to see through the early morning darkness and the weather. He looks to be in his twenties. His knuckles tap against the wet glass door, but I cannot hear the noise they make over the howling wind. He moves his lips, and I assume he's asking me to let him in.
I hurry to the door, anxious to get him inside out of the storm, and yank on the handle. It's locked, and I signal to the man "One moment!". I scavenge the kitchen drawers and cupboards - Where the hell was that key? I find it eventually and rush to unlock the door. I slide it back without resistance and am immediately assaulted by wind and rain. I instinctively shield my face before reaching out to the man.
But my hand doesn't find him. Startled, I look up again, and can no longer see a figure in front of me. Only the grey haze of the storm. I peer harder into the rain, but cannot see him anywhere.
Realising the rate at which myself and my kitchen were being drenched, I tugged the door back into place, locking it again and leaving the key in the handle.
The next morning I wake early again, once more to the fault of the continuing storm. And once again, I don't bother trying to go back to sleep. I trudge through to the kitchen, making a point to glance at the door before switching on the kettle again.
I try to focus on the sound of the water while adamantly staring at the worktop. I try to think of everything except my back door. I try to push the image out of my thoughts. But still I turn around, and find the man back at my door.
He knocks on the glass, more aggressively this time but I still can't hear the sound it makes. Nor can I hear his shouts. He's definitely shouting this time, and he looks angry. Angry at me? I had stayed and looked out for him all day, but he never came back - he has no reason to be angry at me!
I stalk up to the door, unlocking the already placed key, eager to let him in and set him straight. I throw the door open and glare at the man-
Who no longer stands before me.
I pull the door shut without hesitation this time, but keep staring through the glass at the spot where he stood.
The storm continues to rage on, showing no signs of easing off any time soon, and for three more mornings he stands at my door again, banging at the glass, and demanding he be let in. But I am too angry with him to even try. I discover that if I do not try to let him in, he will disappear the next time I go to the kitchen. So I ignore his silent protests and go about my business as usual, throwing the occasional glare his way in the morning.
As the mornings passed, it got easier and easier to ignore him, to leave the angry man outside in the storm. So as I am woken up early on the sixth morning, I expect no challenge as I crawl to the kitchen.
I switch on the kettle as usual, and don't bother to look at the door. This morning, I won't even give him acknowledgement, not even in the form of a glare. I make my tea and take a seat with my back to the door. For a couple of minutes I sit calmly as normal, only the sounds of the storm breaking the silence. But something feels wrong. This morning, it isn't as easy to ignore him. More than usual, I feel the need to turn around, to see him. I'd like to think I could hold my resolve and stay determined, but only after another minute of awful tension do I turn to the glass door.
There he stands, in his usual spot as expected. But today, he does not look angry with me. He looks scared. He looks terrified. He silently slams his hand against the slippery glass and yells to me, pleading, begging. I get up, and guilt slowly drags me forward. He keeps looking back over his shoulder, and his eyes are getting wider. I inch closer. Is his face wet, or is he crying?
I reach the door handle and hesitate. He is screaming now, and his body shakes. But it's one last look at his desperate eyes that melts my will, and I pull the door handle.
He disappears again, and I am about to charge out into the storm and hunt for him, furious with him for tricking me yet again. But the sight of my glass door stops me: the heavy rain that normally runs down the slick glass is now thick with blood. Red is splattered wide across the entire door, and slowly runs down with the rain water.
I watch it until the last drop reaches the bottom. Until his blood is washed away.
The next morning starts as is now the norm, with the storm as my early wake-up call. I dread making my way down to the kitchen, not sure what to expect at my door. I turn on the kettle. A deep breath. I cautiously turn to face the glass door...
And there he stands. In his usual spot, in front of the door now streaked with the messy blood stains he left behind. I hadn't thought to properly clean it. I didn't want to.
He is unmoving, expressionless. He only stares straight ahead of him.
Gingerly, I step to the door and slide it open. He disappears again. I knew he would. But guilt forced me to try.
I look to his spot on the ground, and carefully stand there myself, to see things from his perspective. The rain pounds my back and the wind threatens to throw me off balance. But I close the door from the outside, and look ahead to where he was looking only moments ago. I can see nothing of importance in my kitchen as I try every conceivable angle of vision. I look to the bloody glass around me, and try rubbing it with my hand. It squeaks, but doesn't come off.
I let out a sigh and glimpse the reflection of the trees in the shiny glass. I keep my gaze's focus on the glass itself, and turn to look straight ahead of me. And in the reflection I see a distant figure standing among the trees at the back of the garden.
I turn and narrow my eyes down the stretch of grass to the thin tree line, but cannot see a figure. Yet as I face the reflection again, sure enough, a figure can be seen.
I start to panic. I grab the door handle and pull on it. But it does not open, and I can no longer see the key in the other side.
Before I can try to open it again however, a woman seems to walk into my kitchen. She wanders around for a while, before catching sight of me. I don't know how she got there... but she can let me in. I knock on the door, and call to her. She stands like a rabbit caught in headlights, utterly stunned. I knock again, asking her to open the door, and eventually she rummages around looking for the key. I tell her where it is, but she doesn't listen.
At last she finds it and comes to open the door. She slides it open-
I'm outside the door again. The woman is still inside the kitchen. I bang on the glass. Why did she not let me in? She doesn't turn around. I'm really getting frustrated. I bang harder and shout to her. I can feel the storm's chill deep within my bones. After a minute she notices me, and I glare at her. How long was she going to make me wait? Just let me in already! She fumbles with the key and opens the door-
I'm still outside? And the woman is still messing around! Get out of my house! Let me in! I start to scream at her, and pound against the glass door, but she doesn't turn. She's ignoring me.
Still I bang on the door, still I yell at the stupid woman, and still I demand to be let in, when I check the reflection in the glass again. The figure is definitely getting closer. I thought I was imagining it before, but he is now halfway across the garden. But now as I look again, he is moving. Slowly but surely, he stalks toward me.
I bang on the door again, but the woman still ignores me.
He is getting faster, and I am screaming louder.
He starts to run toward me, and now so does she.
But he is faster.
The terrible weather woke me early on my first morning here. Trying to get back to sleep with the racket outside would be a fruitless attempt, so I get up and shuffle to the kitchen. A fairly modern kitchen for such an isolated place, with a large glass sliding door facing the back garden: a narrow rectangle of grass that stretches far, littered with some trees down the bottom, and enclosed by a sturdy fence. The storm is raging this morning, and the far off trees bend backwards against the force of the wind. The rain relentlessly drenches the glass, cascading down it like a waterfall.
I turn to the kettle, deciding to start my day-in with a cup of tea. As the kettle boils, I take a good hard look around the kitchen. It still feels to good to be true. There must be some problem with his house. Yet the worktops aren't scratched, the appliances aren't broken and the walls aren't falling apart. I begin to stroll around the room, inspecting the tiled floor as the kettle begins to whistle. Finding nothing, I turn toward the glass door, expecting to find the torrential rain leaking through its borders.
I find not a leak, but a young man standing outside. The shock takes me back a step before I can determine that he is not a threat - his casual t-shirt and jeans stick to his body, soaked through and through, his tall frame equalling the height of the door. His young face is pinched tight, struggling to see through the early morning darkness and the weather. He looks to be in his twenties. His knuckles tap against the wet glass door, but I cannot hear the noise they make over the howling wind. He moves his lips, and I assume he's asking me to let him in.
I hurry to the door, anxious to get him inside out of the storm, and yank on the handle. It's locked, and I signal to the man "One moment!". I scavenge the kitchen drawers and cupboards - Where the hell was that key? I find it eventually and rush to unlock the door. I slide it back without resistance and am immediately assaulted by wind and rain. I instinctively shield my face before reaching out to the man.
But my hand doesn't find him. Startled, I look up again, and can no longer see a figure in front of me. Only the grey haze of the storm. I peer harder into the rain, but cannot see him anywhere.
Realising the rate at which myself and my kitchen were being drenched, I tugged the door back into place, locking it again and leaving the key in the handle.
The next morning I wake early again, once more to the fault of the continuing storm. And once again, I don't bother trying to go back to sleep. I trudge through to the kitchen, making a point to glance at the door before switching on the kettle again.
I try to focus on the sound of the water while adamantly staring at the worktop. I try to think of everything except my back door. I try to push the image out of my thoughts. But still I turn around, and find the man back at my door.
He knocks on the glass, more aggressively this time but I still can't hear the sound it makes. Nor can I hear his shouts. He's definitely shouting this time, and he looks angry. Angry at me? I had stayed and looked out for him all day, but he never came back - he has no reason to be angry at me!
I stalk up to the door, unlocking the already placed key, eager to let him in and set him straight. I throw the door open and glare at the man-
Who no longer stands before me.
I pull the door shut without hesitation this time, but keep staring through the glass at the spot where he stood.
The storm continues to rage on, showing no signs of easing off any time soon, and for three more mornings he stands at my door again, banging at the glass, and demanding he be let in. But I am too angry with him to even try. I discover that if I do not try to let him in, he will disappear the next time I go to the kitchen. So I ignore his silent protests and go about my business as usual, throwing the occasional glare his way in the morning.
As the mornings passed, it got easier and easier to ignore him, to leave the angry man outside in the storm. So as I am woken up early on the sixth morning, I expect no challenge as I crawl to the kitchen.
I switch on the kettle as usual, and don't bother to look at the door. This morning, I won't even give him acknowledgement, not even in the form of a glare. I make my tea and take a seat with my back to the door. For a couple of minutes I sit calmly as normal, only the sounds of the storm breaking the silence. But something feels wrong. This morning, it isn't as easy to ignore him. More than usual, I feel the need to turn around, to see him. I'd like to think I could hold my resolve and stay determined, but only after another minute of awful tension do I turn to the glass door.
There he stands, in his usual spot as expected. But today, he does not look angry with me. He looks scared. He looks terrified. He silently slams his hand against the slippery glass and yells to me, pleading, begging. I get up, and guilt slowly drags me forward. He keeps looking back over his shoulder, and his eyes are getting wider. I inch closer. Is his face wet, or is he crying?
I reach the door handle and hesitate. He is screaming now, and his body shakes. But it's one last look at his desperate eyes that melts my will, and I pull the door handle.
He disappears again, and I am about to charge out into the storm and hunt for him, furious with him for tricking me yet again. But the sight of my glass door stops me: the heavy rain that normally runs down the slick glass is now thick with blood. Red is splattered wide across the entire door, and slowly runs down with the rain water.
I watch it until the last drop reaches the bottom. Until his blood is washed away.
The next morning starts as is now the norm, with the storm as my early wake-up call. I dread making my way down to the kitchen, not sure what to expect at my door. I turn on the kettle. A deep breath. I cautiously turn to face the glass door...
And there he stands. In his usual spot, in front of the door now streaked with the messy blood stains he left behind. I hadn't thought to properly clean it. I didn't want to.
He is unmoving, expressionless. He only stares straight ahead of him.
Gingerly, I step to the door and slide it open. He disappears again. I knew he would. But guilt forced me to try.
I look to his spot on the ground, and carefully stand there myself, to see things from his perspective. The rain pounds my back and the wind threatens to throw me off balance. But I close the door from the outside, and look ahead to where he was looking only moments ago. I can see nothing of importance in my kitchen as I try every conceivable angle of vision. I look to the bloody glass around me, and try rubbing it with my hand. It squeaks, but doesn't come off.
I let out a sigh and glimpse the reflection of the trees in the shiny glass. I keep my gaze's focus on the glass itself, and turn to look straight ahead of me. And in the reflection I see a distant figure standing among the trees at the back of the garden.
I turn and narrow my eyes down the stretch of grass to the thin tree line, but cannot see a figure. Yet as I face the reflection again, sure enough, a figure can be seen.
I start to panic. I grab the door handle and pull on it. But it does not open, and I can no longer see the key in the other side.
Before I can try to open it again however, a woman seems to walk into my kitchen. She wanders around for a while, before catching sight of me. I don't know how she got there... but she can let me in. I knock on the door, and call to her. She stands like a rabbit caught in headlights, utterly stunned. I knock again, asking her to open the door, and eventually she rummages around looking for the key. I tell her where it is, but she doesn't listen.
At last she finds it and comes to open the door. She slides it open-
I'm outside the door again. The woman is still inside the kitchen. I bang on the glass. Why did she not let me in? She doesn't turn around. I'm really getting frustrated. I bang harder and shout to her. I can feel the storm's chill deep within my bones. After a minute she notices me, and I glare at her. How long was she going to make me wait? Just let me in already! She fumbles with the key and opens the door-
I'm still outside? And the woman is still messing around! Get out of my house! Let me in! I start to scream at her, and pound against the glass door, but she doesn't turn. She's ignoring me.
Still I bang on the door, still I yell at the stupid woman, and still I demand to be let in, when I check the reflection in the glass again. The figure is definitely getting closer. I thought I was imagining it before, but he is now halfway across the garden. But now as I look again, he is moving. Slowly but surely, he stalks toward me.
I bang on the door again, but the woman still ignores me.
He is getting faster, and I am screaming louder.
He starts to run toward me, and now so does she.
But he is faster.
I want to run, run, run; run so far that my ankles have burst, and from them, seeds have spread out and have planted others just like me, trapped in a small place that is inept to hold a person of freewill and far-fetched ideas.
I want to climb, climb, climb; climb these fences that I get better at jumping each and every day, climb the rocky walls built in an effort to control the ones with wild thoughts and uncontrollable urges, the ones like me, the ones who question the definition of reality and the idea of sanity.
I want to jump, jump, jump; jump so high that I can't find the ground again, and my feet are left floating and my hair is left swirling around my head as if it was underwater, as if I was drowning, when really I am flying.
I want to crawl, crawl, crawl; crawl so wholeheartedly that there is a permanent crust under my fingernails, and there are stains on my knees and scrapes on my cheeks that burn when I sweat; but it is the burn that tempts the flame into a wildfire.
I want to shake, shake, shake; shake so jerkily that from my ears pour millions of trapped thoughts, thoughts that have been crushed between the pages of my mind and tucked into the corner of my head, the corner that is not allowed to be untucked.
I want to rip, rip, rip; rip into people, and words, and lullabies, and rip into pages so hard, so hard that the book it’s folded into falls onto the floor with only shreds as remains.
I want to scream, scream, scream; scream because I am terrified or furious, because I am miserable or delighted, because I am pleasured or burned, screaming with pain and with intensity and with a fierce love.
I want to burn, burn, burn; burn others and have others burn me, burns that come from vicious romance and burns that come from sudden realizations, burns that turn into open flames in the soul that ignite our need to be beautiful and our own person.
I want to stretch, stretch, stretch; stretch my words into novels or my emotions into decisions, or my ideas into inventions.
I want to grab, pull, mend; grab the arms of the person who is burying me beneath the soil that is my fears, and pull their hair so that their skull bursts and their own doubts come flying out, and mend their bodies back into the beautiful person they were before they let their own insecurities mold them into a creature of spite.
I want to walk, listen, learn; walk along a road that I have helped pave with my own memories, and listen to the sounds of life around me, and learn to let the everlasting beauty in the universe keep me forever satisfied and of peaceful mind.
I want to be free, and one day I will look back at the desires I describe in this very moment, and I will chuckle at the fire in my head that told me I could control my own path.
Christmas Competition Winner!
{Note from Skyril}
Some of you-the perceptive ones- might be realizing that we didn't have a voting period. Well, there's an explanation to that, you see, we only got one entry this time. However, it was utterly brilliant! I thoroughly enjoyed it, and it's such a wonderful story for Christmas time!
I present to you.... RAVEN'S STORY!
Layla lay in her bed, listening very intently to see if she could hear
Santa yet. So intently was she listening, that she hadn’t noticed her
dog push the door open and come inside until he had jumped up on her
bed, scaring her.
“Jeez, Milo,” She said with a laugh as she leaned forward to scratch
him on his ear in that way that he loved. “Let me guess: nothing
downstairs yet,”
He let out a quiet little bark in response, making Layla laugh again as
she lay back on her pillow.
There was a soft knock on the door and Layla’s mother walked in. “Hi
sweetie, are you alright?” She asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Layla said, sitting up again. “Milo just scared me,
that’s all,”
Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and tucked the comforter in
tighter around Layla. “Are you all ready for bed?”
Layla nodded and her mom turned to Milo.
“How about you?” She asked with a smile and Milo let out a bark and
crawled closer to Layla and laid on her lap, tail wagging.
“OK you two,” she said, getting up and walking towards the door. “Best
go to sleep now, because Santa isn’t going to come if you’re still
awake,”
Layla nodded. “Night mom,” She said, pushing Milo off of her lap and
turning over. Milo went to the other side of the mattress and lay down
at her back.
Her mom smiled at them. They had been inseparable since they had gotten
Milo at the rescue center for Layla’s birthday. She turned the light
out and closed the door behind her, leaving it open just a crack.
She went downstairs where her husband was trying to put together a doll
house for Layla, and appeared to be failing. He was frowning over the
instructions, occasionally muttering a disagreement with it.
She rolled her eyes at him as she walked over to the large chair in the
corner and picked up her coffee mug.
“How’s it coming?” She asked with the tiniest hint of a smirk. He
looked up at her.
“They don’t have it right,” He said, moving towards her to show her the
directions and started pointing at pictures. “See? That doesn’t fit
there, it should go over here, but they have it over there, it just
doesn’t make any sense, it would confuse any other person attempting to
put this thing together,” He said with a sense of pride in his voice
that he had caught onto their little game to frustrate father’s
everywhere.
His wife decided not to tell him he was holding the instructions upside
down in order to spare his ego.
“Well, Layla is finally asleep,” She said, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Good, so that means that I have a little more time to put this thing
together,” Her husband said, setting the directions aside and picking
up two pieces of the doll house and tried to get them to fit together.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” She said, getting up. “But first,”
She walked into the kitchen and picked up a plate of cookies and took
the wrap off and walked back into the living room and set it on the
table next to a bottle of soda.
Her husband saw what she was doing and rolled his eyes and went back to
work.
She started off towards the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late, hon,” She
threw back over her shoulder.
“I won’t,” He answered as he finally got one side of the house set up
and went to work on another.
An hour and a half later, he finally finished. He set it underneath the
tree, in front of the other gifts and put the purple bow on it.
He went into the closest and got a couple more gifts out from their
hiding places and set them beneath the tree.
Satisfied, he finally climbed the stairs to his bed.
Layla sat in her bed, trying to sleep but finding herself unable; she
sat up.
Milo had jumped down not too long ago and was lying on the floor by her
dresser. She got up out of bed and went downstairs to the kitchen to
get a glass of water, followed by Milo.
She quietly descended the stairs, being careful not to wake her
parents. As she was walking into the kitchen, she saw that her mother
had set out the cookies, and was disappointed that they hadn’t been
touched yet.
She went into the kitchen and got a glass from the cupboard and turned
the faucet on, filling the glass halfway. She walked over to the cookie
jar and took out a chocolate chip one and munched on it as she walked
back into the living room to go back to her room.
She was watching Milo as she walked back into the living by force of
habit. He always found the stairs without bumping into anything, so she
found herself relying on him in the dark, even though the tree was lit.
She had just reached the wall that separated the living room and
kitchen when Milo stopped dead in his tracks, hackles raised and a low
growl escaping his throat. Layla, confused peered around the corner and
nearly dropped her glass at what she saw.
There was a man standing in her living room!
She panicked. Her parents’ room was up the stairs and she had to go
past him in order to get to them, and she had no idea what she should
do. She tried to stay perfectly still.
From what she could make out in the dim light from the Christmas tree,
he was a large man.
He was bending over something near the tree.
Layla slowly and quietly moved backwards and set her cup on the table
and then, with the same care, walked forward again.
Milo hadn’t moved, hackles still raised, though the growl had died. She
patted his back, and his tale wagged briefly before going still again.
His eyes never left the large man.
The man stood up and moved to the table and, Layla’s eyes finally
adjusting to the dark and the Christmas lights seeming brighter, Layla
could make out more of the man.
He was an elderly man, making her wonder why he had broken into her
house at this time of night when everyone should be sleeping.
Layla’s jaw dropped as it finally hit her who she was seeing: Santa
Claus; The Santa Claus.
Santa moved over to the table with the cookies and took a bite, sighing
in contentment before going back to, what Layla now realized, setting
presents beneath her tree.
She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She wondered if she should
say something, who else could say they talked to Santa Claus? And not a
mall Santa, the real Santa; then another thought struck her: What would
she say?
She was suddenly tongue tied; it was an interesting experience, since
Layla had never been tongue tied before. She jarred herself back to
reality and took a deep breath and started forward bravely, prepared to
walk right up to him and say hi, and promptly walked right into the
side of the wall, which bounced her into the dog, who let loose a small
squeal of fright.
Santa looked up at the noise, and Layla suddenly found herself wishing
she was able to curse.
He looked confused for a moment, not sure what he had heard, but then
saw her and the dog, the former peering from behind the wall rather
sheepishly. He smiled at her and went back to work, filling the
stockings.
He then picked up the bag and moved towards the fireplace and, just
before disappearing up, turned to her and gave her another smile, and
winked at her.
She was reminded of the end of “Twas the Night before Christmas.”
She was grinning from ear to ear when she finally went back upstairs to
bed, until she finally fell asleep.
Her mother opened the door quietly and walked over to Layla’s bed,
sitting down and gently shaking her shoulder to get her to wake up.
Layla groaned and turned over.
“Don’t you want to see what Santa brought you?” Her mother said, and
that brought back the memories of the previous night. She sat bolt
upright in bed, startling her mother.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” she said, smiling. Her mother smiled back
and got up and walked out the door.
Layla sat there. So it did happen, she thought. She had seen Santa
Claus.
She finally threw back the blanket and climbed out of bed and went
downstairs.
When she got halfway down, she stopped dead in her tracks in shock.
The presents were all the way from the back of the Christmas tree, to
the chair where her mother currently sat, drinking her morning coffee
and watching Layla’s father as he tried to set up the recorder.
Needless to say, he wasn’t the best person to go to if you wanted
something built or set up.
Layla grinned widely and jumped the last of the steps.
Milo raised his head from where he had been lying by Layla’s mothers’
chair.
“Merry Christmas, Layla!” Her mother said.
“Merry Christmas!” She replied, still smiling, looking at all the
presents.
“I think it’s a little much for one little girl, but I’m not going to
complain, you’ve been a very good girl this year,” Her father said,
looking at all the presents with a slightly dumbfounded look on his
face.
“Merry Christmas, Dad!” Layla said.
“Merry Christmas, sweetie,” He replied.
Layla then walked forward and sat at the beginning of the presents as
her father began sorting them.
Outside, the snow began to fly, covering up the sleigh and reindeer
tracks on the roof.
Some of you-the perceptive ones- might be realizing that we didn't have a voting period. Well, there's an explanation to that, you see, we only got one entry this time. However, it was utterly brilliant! I thoroughly enjoyed it, and it's such a wonderful story for Christmas time!
I present to you.... RAVEN'S STORY!
Layla lay in her bed, listening very intently to see if she could hear
Santa yet. So intently was she listening, that she hadn’t noticed her
dog push the door open and come inside until he had jumped up on her
bed, scaring her.
“Jeez, Milo,” She said with a laugh as she leaned forward to scratch
him on his ear in that way that he loved. “Let me guess: nothing
downstairs yet,”
He let out a quiet little bark in response, making Layla laugh again as
she lay back on her pillow.
There was a soft knock on the door and Layla’s mother walked in. “Hi
sweetie, are you alright?” She asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Layla said, sitting up again. “Milo just scared me,
that’s all,”
Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and tucked the comforter in
tighter around Layla. “Are you all ready for bed?”
Layla nodded and her mom turned to Milo.
“How about you?” She asked with a smile and Milo let out a bark and
crawled closer to Layla and laid on her lap, tail wagging.
“OK you two,” she said, getting up and walking towards the door. “Best
go to sleep now, because Santa isn’t going to come if you’re still
awake,”
Layla nodded. “Night mom,” She said, pushing Milo off of her lap and
turning over. Milo went to the other side of the mattress and lay down
at her back.
Her mom smiled at them. They had been inseparable since they had gotten
Milo at the rescue center for Layla’s birthday. She turned the light
out and closed the door behind her, leaving it open just a crack.
She went downstairs where her husband was trying to put together a doll
house for Layla, and appeared to be failing. He was frowning over the
instructions, occasionally muttering a disagreement with it.
She rolled her eyes at him as she walked over to the large chair in the
corner and picked up her coffee mug.
“How’s it coming?” She asked with the tiniest hint of a smirk. He
looked up at her.
“They don’t have it right,” He said, moving towards her to show her the
directions and started pointing at pictures. “See? That doesn’t fit
there, it should go over here, but they have it over there, it just
doesn’t make any sense, it would confuse any other person attempting to
put this thing together,” He said with a sense of pride in his voice
that he had caught onto their little game to frustrate father’s
everywhere.
His wife decided not to tell him he was holding the instructions upside
down in order to spare his ego.
“Well, Layla is finally asleep,” She said, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Good, so that means that I have a little more time to put this thing
together,” Her husband said, setting the directions aside and picking
up two pieces of the doll house and tried to get them to fit together.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” She said, getting up. “But first,”
She walked into the kitchen and picked up a plate of cookies and took
the wrap off and walked back into the living room and set it on the
table next to a bottle of soda.
Her husband saw what she was doing and rolled his eyes and went back to
work.
She started off towards the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late, hon,” She
threw back over her shoulder.
“I won’t,” He answered as he finally got one side of the house set up
and went to work on another.
An hour and a half later, he finally finished. He set it underneath the
tree, in front of the other gifts and put the purple bow on it.
He went into the closest and got a couple more gifts out from their
hiding places and set them beneath the tree.
Satisfied, he finally climbed the stairs to his bed.
Layla sat in her bed, trying to sleep but finding herself unable; she
sat up.
Milo had jumped down not too long ago and was lying on the floor by her
dresser. She got up out of bed and went downstairs to the kitchen to
get a glass of water, followed by Milo.
She quietly descended the stairs, being careful not to wake her
parents. As she was walking into the kitchen, she saw that her mother
had set out the cookies, and was disappointed that they hadn’t been
touched yet.
She went into the kitchen and got a glass from the cupboard and turned
the faucet on, filling the glass halfway. She walked over to the cookie
jar and took out a chocolate chip one and munched on it as she walked
back into the living room to go back to her room.
She was watching Milo as she walked back into the living by force of
habit. He always found the stairs without bumping into anything, so she
found herself relying on him in the dark, even though the tree was lit.
She had just reached the wall that separated the living room and
kitchen when Milo stopped dead in his tracks, hackles raised and a low
growl escaping his throat. Layla, confused peered around the corner and
nearly dropped her glass at what she saw.
There was a man standing in her living room!
She panicked. Her parents’ room was up the stairs and she had to go
past him in order to get to them, and she had no idea what she should
do. She tried to stay perfectly still.
From what she could make out in the dim light from the Christmas tree,
he was a large man.
He was bending over something near the tree.
Layla slowly and quietly moved backwards and set her cup on the table
and then, with the same care, walked forward again.
Milo hadn’t moved, hackles still raised, though the growl had died. She
patted his back, and his tale wagged briefly before going still again.
His eyes never left the large man.
The man stood up and moved to the table and, Layla’s eyes finally
adjusting to the dark and the Christmas lights seeming brighter, Layla
could make out more of the man.
He was an elderly man, making her wonder why he had broken into her
house at this time of night when everyone should be sleeping.
Layla’s jaw dropped as it finally hit her who she was seeing: Santa
Claus; The Santa Claus.
Santa moved over to the table with the cookies and took a bite, sighing
in contentment before going back to, what Layla now realized, setting
presents beneath her tree.
She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She wondered if she should
say something, who else could say they talked to Santa Claus? And not a
mall Santa, the real Santa; then another thought struck her: What would
she say?
She was suddenly tongue tied; it was an interesting experience, since
Layla had never been tongue tied before. She jarred herself back to
reality and took a deep breath and started forward bravely, prepared to
walk right up to him and say hi, and promptly walked right into the
side of the wall, which bounced her into the dog, who let loose a small
squeal of fright.
Santa looked up at the noise, and Layla suddenly found herself wishing
she was able to curse.
He looked confused for a moment, not sure what he had heard, but then
saw her and the dog, the former peering from behind the wall rather
sheepishly. He smiled at her and went back to work, filling the
stockings.
He then picked up the bag and moved towards the fireplace and, just
before disappearing up, turned to her and gave her another smile, and
winked at her.
She was reminded of the end of “Twas the Night before Christmas.”
She was grinning from ear to ear when she finally went back upstairs to
bed, until she finally fell asleep.
Her mother opened the door quietly and walked over to Layla’s bed,
sitting down and gently shaking her shoulder to get her to wake up.
Layla groaned and turned over.
“Don’t you want to see what Santa brought you?” Her mother said, and
that brought back the memories of the previous night. She sat bolt
upright in bed, startling her mother.
“I’ll be down in a minute,” she said, smiling. Her mother smiled back
and got up and walked out the door.
Layla sat there. So it did happen, she thought. She had seen Santa
Claus.
She finally threw back the blanket and climbed out of bed and went
downstairs.
When she got halfway down, she stopped dead in her tracks in shock.
The presents were all the way from the back of the Christmas tree, to
the chair where her mother currently sat, drinking her morning coffee
and watching Layla’s father as he tried to set up the recorder.
Needless to say, he wasn’t the best person to go to if you wanted
something built or set up.
Layla grinned widely and jumped the last of the steps.
Milo raised his head from where he had been lying by Layla’s mothers’
chair.
“Merry Christmas, Layla!” Her mother said.
“Merry Christmas!” She replied, still smiling, looking at all the
presents.
“I think it’s a little much for one little girl, but I’m not going to
complain, you’ve been a very good girl this year,” Her father said,
looking at all the presents with a slightly dumbfounded look on his
face.
“Merry Christmas, Dad!” Layla said.
“Merry Christmas, sweetie,” He replied.
Layla then walked forward and sat at the beginning of the presents as
her father began sorting them.
Outside, the snow began to fly, covering up the sleigh and reindeer
tracks on the roof.
The End
Merry Christmas!
Writing Competition
Today will start the new short story writing competition!
~cheers heard all around~
~pauses until the cheering dies down~
Thank you, thank you....
Now! I bet you can all guess what the theme will be this time... CHRISTMAS!!!
Ok, anything, my friends, so long as Christmas is involved :D
Merry Christmas!
Rules:
No more than 1700 words.
Must be your own, New characters.
Must be sent to sakura.c@goowy.com by the 12th of this month.
No "Xmas" stories. It's CHRISTMAS, got it? I'm a stickler...
And that's all! So long as you have fun ;]
~cheers heard all around~
~pauses until the cheering dies down~
Thank you, thank you....
Now! I bet you can all guess what the theme will be this time... CHRISTMAS!!!
Ok, anything, my friends, so long as Christmas is involved :D
Merry Christmas!
Rules:
No more than 1700 words.
Must be your own, New characters.
Must be sent to sakura.c@goowy.com by the 12th of this month.
No "Xmas" stories. It's CHRISTMAS, got it? I'm a stickler...
And that's all! So long as you have fun ;]
HAPPY RE-SCHEDULED HALL O' WEEKEND~!
YES.
FOR THE EAST COAST INDEED.
I was going to show you all a story, but understandably, It's just a teensy bit not done. But. I'll probably get it in soon. Probably.
So. I give you a picture. And OH LORDY LOOK IT'S THE TROLLS
FOR THE EAST COAST INDEED.
I was going to show you all a story, but understandably, It's just a teensy bit not done. But. I'll probably get it in soon. Probably.
So. I give you a picture. And OH LORDY LOOK IT'S THE TROLLS
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