What if the World Stopped Spinning?

I started college a couple days ago, and one of the classes I take is General Physical Science. (I tell you this, because I think it may be necessary for you to have a little bit of a background on what is to follow, so that you all don’t think I’m completely weird [which I am, but shh, that’s a whole nother matter]) Anyway, the professor was giving a brief explanation of velocity, and he mentioned the speed at which the earth is rotating (about 1000 mph, in case you were wondering).

And so logically, I wondered what exactly would happen if the earth stopped spinning. Like, suddenly. I’m sure y’all can imagine that some things would go flying. I googled it, and there was this very informative YouTube video (by Vsauce, in case you want to find it for yourselves) that explained it all.

Let me proceed by making a bullet-pointed list (cuz they’re fun) to illustrate what exactly would happen, and then I’ll explain to you all just why I’ve written this entirely random post.

  • First off, yes, things would go flying. Basically, everything that isn’t actually a part of the earth, as in, secured to bedrock, would fly like a missile.
  • Giant clouds of debris would rise into the air, caused by massive winds.
  • Huge storms would arise.
  • There would be gigantic fires and massive erosion.
  • If you somehow survived the sudden stop (which you wouldn’t), half of your year would be day, and the other half would be night.
  • We’d get a whole bunch of unhealthy radiation from the sun.
  • Tsunamis would flood pretty much the world.
  • People (as in, basically everyone) would die.


  • BUT…
  • If you’re at the poles, where the earth’s rotation is less, you might survive the initial screeching to a halt (the resulting weather catastrophes would be another issue, though…).
  • If you were in an airplane, you might fare a wee bit better than the unlucky souls on the ground, since the atmosphere wouldn’t slow as quickly as the earth.
  • If you were in outer space, you would basically be totally fine.

And this brings me to the point of this seemingly totally random post: I wrote this because, well, I wanted to write something.

And also, wouldn’t it make an awesome story from the vantage point of the survivors of this catastrophe??? I mean, it would be rather depressing, because unless the earth was somehow able to start spinning again, everyone would die sooner or later, but happiness shouldn’t be circumstantial, and all that. Plus, I could incorporate some cool themes about hope and perseverance in the face of overwhelming odds.

Anyway, sorry about the randomness, but do you all think I should write this? Maybe post it as a serial story?


Any Young Writers Interested in Joining a Club?

Well, the title says it all. How would you guys like to join a WordPress-based writing club? I think it sounds awesome!! Be sure to comment on Dominic’s post if you like the idea!

The Golden Lands

thank you gif WELCOME!!!

Yes, that’s a long title.  But I wanted to get your attention.

I am literally thinking up all of this on the fly.  But wouldn’t it be great if a Young Writer’s Club was started on WordPress?  Does something like this actually exist?

The purpose of the club would be to promote unity, critical thinking, support, and shared love of writing with other young authors.

Age range would be for people between 15 and 22.  Exceptions could be made.

This would be more a MOVEMENT, not an official club.  I would essentially “run the show”, but I would be equal to every member.  If anyone has an idea for how to promote our club, or an idea for a direction we go in, please voice your opinion!

Once again, thinking on the fly…

We could meet once every week?  Once every two weeks?  Once every month?  Preferably on a…

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A Very Weird Dream

Over at Short and Snappy, there was this really interesting post about a dream the author had. And it inspired me to actually write down the dream I had last night, which was one of those actually semi-coherent, really fun, realistic, etc. dreams. And even though it was kinda dark, it wasn’t a nightmare. Of course, I can’t remember every detail, so I’ll have to add some filler, but this is mostly what I can recall:

I was in the future. The two men were fighting on the rooftop of the school, fighting with fire. There were several wings of the building, for lack of a better word, and they rose higher than the rooftop, so that, even though we were far above ground, we couldn’t see the ground; it was like being in a courtyard. The sky was gray and overcast, menacing. I watched for a while, and then suddenly found myself inside of the school, and somehow I knew I was in the past. My mind was muddled from the time travel, but I believe I had jumped through one of the windows.

The time I found myself in was not a friendly one. It was rather communistic, for one; rigid and dangerous. I found myself walking down the hallway, trying desperately to fit in. A rather ugly female teacher with rather ugly brown hair cut into a rather ugly bob was looking at me; she suspected something. Gulping, I tried hard to avoid her.

At one point, I ducked into the ladies’ room, but to my awkward horror, found that it was full of boys. I used it nevertheless all the while wondering if the mens’ room was full of girls. When I exited the bathroom, sure enough, a lady exited the mens’ room at the same time, and not just any lady, but the ugly teacher.

She looked at me sternly and I hurried away, the entire time feeling as if I was in imminent, very deadly danger. I have a faint recollection of traveling through various passageways, not part of the main school building, but dark, gray passages, something that only the plumbers and electricians would normally use. The next thing I knew, I was in another hallway, the hallway that contained the very same window I had entered through. This hallway contained posters of forbidden things. Alas, time travel muddles one terribly, so I don’t remember many of them, but I’ll tell you the things I do remember.

One poster was of people fighting with fire, like the men on the rooftop had been. Others were various depictions of freedom of mind, mostly artistic expressions of various forms. There was also a wall covered in assorted shapes, I believe all of them kinds of circles, ellipses, and ovals.

Then I found myself confronted by the principle (I can’t remember if he was sent by the ugly teacher or not). He didn’t seem like an actively hostile man, more of a brainwashed minion, and I believe he was dressed in a rather drab brown suit. He began questioning me, about what, I do not remember. At one point, however [and this is the most illogical part of my dream, I think] he took out a cutout of a circle, holding it up to my head, seeing if the shape of it would match the shape of my head. I intuitively knew that if it did, I would be convicted, for it would mean I would match one of the forbidden things, like the posters and circles on the walls.

I began formulating a response in case he found that my head matched the circle, but it would have been rather confrontational, pointing out that his head, too, was about that shape, and I wondered if it would be better instead to simply remain silent. Right at the moment when a conclusion was sure to be reached, a small boy, a student, was brought to the principle, holding the picture he had drawn. It was a very acceptable picture to this communist society, except for one thing: the figures in it had artistic, fiery swirls surrounding them, like the one forbidden poster on the wall.

While the principle’s back was turned as he dealt with the unfortunate boy, I knew I had to make a quick decision. Before my mind was able to fully contemplate my options, my body sprung into action. Even as I moved, my brain started wondering if it would have been better to simply stay put, instead of acting as suspiciously as I did next. I slipped away, turning a very small corner and opening the first door I came to. I can’t remember exactly what word (or words) were written in all capital letters above this double door, but I think it was something like EXECUTIONS.

[And this is where it gets kinda weird and dark and disturbing…] I knew that this was where people with dangerous ideas were, well, executed. It was a rather small gray room, with I think five or six doorways that led to rooms within the larger room, rather like stalls in a public bathroom. There were, I believe, three directly across from the doorway. Then, on the wall on the side of the door, to the left (from the viewpoint of one just entering the room, the door was on the far right of the room) there were two other stalls/doors. On the left wall between these two walls, there was another room, somewhat different from the others, in that it was less stall-like and more of a sturdy vault door. Although I couldn’t see them, I knew that there was a teenage girl inside and her executioner; I think I recall him talking to her. I don’t remember whether or not I then heard her screaming.

I ducked into the farthest stall on the wall with two doors. Inside, there was something that looked remarkably like a toilet, but I got the impression that in fact it was some sort of electrocuting machine. All of this happened in a matter of seconds, and the principle by now had followed me into the room. I began to panic, being trapped in this little execution room, pressing myself against the farthest corner and feeling rather like a coward.

[I don’t remember exactly what happened next here; I woke up several times during this dream, but always forced myself to go back to sleep where I left off. I’m actually kinda surprised it worked, but it left things a bit muddled.] Suddenly I was aware of two other people in the room, in two of the three stalls across from me. I believe they had been prisoners there for quite a while, and they were teenagers as well, a boy and a girl. The principle decided to execute one of them. I don’t remember exactly, but I think that although he had found me, he didn’t have much of a reaction to me. However, I was unquestionably his prisoner now.

I was rather scared as he prepared the boy for execution, but also completely helpless. I had the impression, though, that since this was going to be electrocution, it would be relatively short and painless. I think the principle stepped out of the EXECUTION room and flipped a switch or something.

Although the boy was in one of the stalls, I could see inside through a rather large gap between the door and the wall. To my horror, his death was not quick and painless. In fact, his face turned purple and then blue and puffed up horribly as he screamed. Finally, he died. Terrified, I was desperate to save my own skin (and at this point, I had the impression that there was someone else with me; maybe it was the teenaged girl, maybe someone else). I felt a bit guilty as I formulated a plan of escape, since I could have saved the boy using this plan, but his execution had caught me by surprise and I didn’t dwell on it, knowing I had to act quickly.

At this point, I believe the principle had reentered the room. I quickly pulled out my cellphone (which previously I hadn’t realized I had had) and, while hiding somewhat behind the teenaged girl, I called the principle. He answered his phone and ducked out of the room, while in a fake voice I told him that the prisoners he had were not to be executed yet, under the orders of some important person.

Then, quickly, the girl and I dashed through a door that I hadn’t previously realized was there, on the wall that before had had nothing. We opened it and stepped through. Sort of. I think there was a brick wall behind the door, but at the same time, I think there was a gray, dank passageway, similar to the ones I had skulked through earlier. Of the two options (brick wall or passageway), I think the passageway is what actually happened, because somehow I got out of there, back onto the roof with the men fighting with fire, into my own bleak, gray, futuristic time.

And that, my friends, is all I can remember, and a glimpse into my rather strange mind. Curse time travel and all that. 🙂 I really wish I could remember my dreams a bit better, but honestly, I think dreams really do skip around like that, leaving large, illogical gaps. Ah, dreams….. This one should have been really depressing, but it was actually kind of awesome. As I said before, each time I woke up, I had this desperate need to know what was going to happen, so I forced myself to go back to sleep.

Kudos to you if you actually read all of this. Have any of you had a weird dream? Or any dream that you can remember, for that matter? Tell me about it!

Pictoprompter: Peep Gone Bad

First off, I’m back from Nicaragua! (have been for a while, actually…) If you want, I can write a post all about it. I’m really sorry I missed so many of your guys’ posts, but there are simply too many to catch up on. 😛

Anyway, there’s this awesome picture writing prompt over at Smudged Thoughts (complete with an awesome button!!) and I thought I’d give it a try. *deep breath* Here goes!

Warning: it’s WEIRD….



creepy peep thing.jpg

Behold, the prompt in all its *cough* gorgeous splendor….

It wasn’t just ugly. It was hideous. The stuff of nightmares. Every time Thomas saw it, he slung insults its way. He couldn’t get rid of it, since it was a present from his nephew, who was staying with him for two weeks, but it quite literally haunted his dreams. The first night it had taken up residence, he had imagined it bouncing towards him, fabric beak flapping with every hop, chirping, “I want you!” When his nephew was in the room, he managed to coexist with the nasty thing, but the moment the little boy left, Thomas would glare at it suspiciously.

But within that frightening exterior, it had a heart.

Sort of.

Its heart was a pink sugar-coated peep.

You see, despite the fact that the thing had a sign hung around its neck that said “Peep” on it, it most certainly was NOT a real Peep. You can eat Peeps. They’re marshmallows. With sugar on top, in case they weren’t already unhealthy enough. This thing… this was not a Peep. It was made out of coarse fabric and had the frayed end of a rope sticking out of its head. Its eyes stared hauntingly and maniacally out of its flat excuse for a face and its beak, already mentioned, was made of a floppy orange fabric. The thing resided in a nest made out of dried grass, with green wires twisted around it.

And Thomas’s nephew, while he forced his uncle to watch, took a Peep (the last one, I might add, which was from Thomas’s Easter basket. And no, despite the fact that Thomas was 35, he did not consider himself too old to still have an Easter basket) and stuffed the pink marshmallow goodness into the un-sewed back of this hideous thing. Then he sewed it up with thick black thread, making an ugly, jagged scar down the thing’s back.

And there it sat, in all of its appalling glory, for a week. No less, no more. No more, because one night, Thomas had another nightmare.

In this particular nightmare, the thing was dragging itself forward, using its floppy beak. Somehow the thing was permanently fused to its nest, so it could not walk like a normal chick. He could see, like you can in silly cartoons, the heart thumping inside of the thing’s chest, Peep-shaped, of course, and ignoring any prospect of there perhaps being ribs in the way. And he could hear it too: kaTHUNK kaTHUNK kaTHUNK kaTHUNK.

He woke up in a cold sweat, filled with a solemn determination of what he must do. The curse of this monstrous thing was that within it resided a Peep, trapped and unable to fulfill its true potential, the true meaning for which it was created.

So, flashlight in hand, Thomas crept down the stairs, terrified of what he might find.

His worst fears were confirmed. The thing was in its usual place, staring at him. Although he had expected to find this, he jumped nonetheless.

Then, with a steely resolution, he found the ugly black seam down the back of thing and ripped it apart. Within, he could see the pink sugary goodness, almost free. Ignoring the cotton stuffing that was flying everywhere, he tore out the Peep, admiring it.

Then he remembered: a Peep must fulfill its true potential, and a week old is when it is at its prime. He stuffed it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, sighed happily, and went back to bed, visions of sugar plums dancing in his head. The fluffy carcass of the demonic thing laid strewn on the floor, its evilness vanquished forever.

When Thomas’s young nephew came down the stairs the next morning, all he could do was stare in mild shock.

The end.

Okay, so officially, I have a weird mind. I literally had no idea where I was going with this until I just starting writing. And then the words just started flowing, and VOILA! You have a slightly disturbing story about a 35 year old man who sneaks downstairs in the middle of the night to rip apart stuffed animals with Peeps inside of them. But that chick thing seriously looks kind of demonic. I sympathize with Thomas. Except I think I’d be too scared to actually face it. I’m dead serious.

I’d love to hear what you all think!!!


My friends…. must apologize, but I won’t be able to be active on the blogosphere for a week, because…


EEEEEK!!!! It’s kinda a medical mission trip, but I say “kinda” because I’m sixteen and I am not a doctor or a nurse or anything, but my grandfather IS (he’s a surgeon) and he invited me to come. So yeah. For ME, it’s more of a come-along-and-see-if-you-can-actually-speak-Spanish-as-well-as-you-think-you-can-and-donate-stuff-to-small-children-and-be-awesome trip.

Anyway, I’ll blog all about it when I get back. Until then, I’ll be roasting in humid, 95 degree weather.

Adios, amigos! 😀

Sherlock vs …Sherlock *dundunDUN*

My dearest friends, followers, and commenters….

Eh, too formal.

Yo, people, I need ideas for what to blog about.

Thank you in advance.


But in the meanwhile…. I am bored and I am going to write and HAHAHA you can’t stop me. And I will duct tape you to your chair and glue your eyelids open so that you must read my post (which as of yet I am not sure what it will be about)…. That escalated quickly. 😛

Maybe I’ll just rant about something….

You know what, I’m going to compare the BBC Sherlock to the Robert Downey Jr. Sherlock Holmes. Because Sherlock = awesomeness. Just a side note, I haven’t seen season 4 of Sherlock yet, and if anyone spoils it I will track you down and throw a mango at you. (Why a mango, you ask? Because there’s one right next to me. Because you needed to know that.)





Things are gonna get dirty.


Let’s make a list, shall we?

  • OK, so both Benedict Cumberbatch and Robert Downey, Jr., are amazing actors. There are some differences in their personalities, though. Benedict Cumberbatch Sherlock is, in his own words, “a high-functioning sociopath.” Basically, he’s really rude and antisocial, and although I love watching him on TV, I think if I knew him in real life I would end up murdering him and then someone would have to solve the mystery of Sherlock Holmes’s murder. Watson, maybe? Robert Downey, Jr., on the other hand, although he’s funny and somewhat rude at times, has a more serious streak. In an odd way, I’d also say he’s… weirder. But that’s kinda a good thing… I think. Makes for some really funny scenes. It’s also amazing the way he plans ahead his every move. (That boxing scene where they played the Rocky Road to Dublin = ❤ ) You really appreciate his genius. (but the real question is… does he EVER shave????)


  • Elementary, my dear Watson! (I accidentally wrote “dead” at first instead of “dear”…. 😛 ) Anyway, I must pick a favorite between the two (very much alive) Watsons. I like the BBC Watson, played by Martin Freeman. He’s just the most adorable awkward dude ever! And he’s so chill with Sherlock’s eccentricities. The Watson from the movie, although he has his moments, is just kinda annoying….


  • About the actual productions, I personally prefer TV shows. They last longer and you get more attached to the characters, which makes you really really really REALLY mad when the show takes a turn for the worse, and your heart is devoured with grief when your favorite characters die or (even worse) the show ends….. It was physically painful when I finished the last episode of season 3…. While I still love movies, you can’t get into them the way you can with TV shows.


  • Mycroft Holmes. Is. Hilarious. In both the TV show and the movies. I mean seriously, I love that guy. But in the TV show especially.


  • Moriarty. He has so much more personality in the TV show, because again, TV shows are longer and you get to know the characters better. But I’ve got to admit, the Moriarty from the movie was pretty cool, too, in a deadly way. It’s really easy to underestimate the TV show Moriarty (which makes him all the more frightening). The Moriarty from the movie is very obviously evil and dangerous.


  • Mrs. Hudson. Is this even a question???? The BBC Mrs. Hudson is probably the best character in the entire show! (That may have been a slight exaggeration, but still.) And Sherlock’s attachment to her is adorable.



image, like all the others in this post, is not mine


Now, I could go on and on and on and, yes, on about both Sherlock productions. But I will un-duct tape you soon and let you go on with your miserable little life, so I’ll wrap this up soon.

Overall, I think the BBC Sherlock is much more polished and sleek; it feels more sophisticated and has more substance, whereas the movie is more of an explosion-y action movie. It’s fun but it doesn’t leave as much of a lasting impression. And the characters don’t cause you physical pain.

And personally, I LOOOOVE Benedict Cumberbatch’s portrayal of Sherlock’s character. As in, he’s probably one of my favorite TV characters ever.


But what do all of YOU think? The movie or the TV show? And don’t forget about my heartfelt plea at the beginning of this post: tell me what to blog about!!! …Please. 🙂 And THEN I’ll un-duct tape you and get you some glue remover for your eyelids.

The Pianist

So I saw this writing prompt picture on a blog post by Jaylee. And because it’s really cool and random, and because I need something to write and I can’t think of anything else… I present to you a short story.


It was cold. Not freezing, but cold. That kind of cold that just sort of seeps into you and sits there. And the steady drizzling of the rain only added to the chill.

They had been marching through the woods for a while, but that didn’t warm them up at all. One of the men trudging alongside Alexei had been muttering colorful complaints nonstop for three hours, ever since the rain started. “I didn’t sign up for this,” he grumbled.

“I know, Pyotr,” replied Alexei. “You forget that I didn’t sign up at all. Yet I’m not complaining. We’re soldiers; we’re supposed to deal with this kind of stuff. Now be quiet.”

The leader of their little group held up a hand, and the five men following him — Alexei and Pyotr included — stopped walking. They were standing in a little clearing, ringed on all sides by trees. “We’ll camp here for tonight. Alexei, gather some firewood.”

“And make sure it’s dry this time!” interjected Pyotr, as he wrung the water out of his cap.

Alexei stared at Pyotr for a long second. “I’ll do my best,” he finally said. He slung his gun over his shoulder and trudged back into the woods. The sky was darkening, so that it was that time of day when there’s enough light to see clearly, but you can tell that night is nearly upon you anyway. He had no idea where to look for dry wood; everywhere was just wet. So instead he simply walked, relishing the silence, here and there glancing around, in a half-hearted attempt at pretending to look for firewood.

And then he saw it.

A piano.

Just… sitting there, in the middle of the forest. The pathetic remainders of an old fence stood by it.

Alexei just looked at it for a while. Then, shaking himself, he turned his head first to the left, then to the right, straining his eyes to look through the trees. There was no one else around. He bit his lip for a moment, hesitating, and then walked up to the instrument.

Every step he took seemed to ring out loudly in the silent forest, and he felt a bit like he was trespassing, Before, he had been a soldier, powerful because of his gun. Now his gun didn’t matter. Once he reached the piano, he looked around again, and still saw no one. He considered calling out, but then decided against it.

Now that he was closer to the instrument, he could see that it was rather beat up, almost as if someone had dragged it all the way out there and just left it. Alexei looked around for footprints or dragging marks, but could see nothing.

Then, impulsively, he pulled his fur cap down over his ears with a sharp tugging motion and pushed back the cover, so that the ivory keys glistened slightly in the fading light. Gently, but nonetheless knowing the power behind the motion, he dropped his fingers onto the keyboard, letting them fall with just enough heaviness to elicit a sound.

It was a very simple chord, and the piano’s tone was very mediocre, but it was music. The last decade of Alexei’s life suddenly vanished, and he remembered so well sitting at another keyboard, with his teacher standing over him, telling him that yes, he had to practice that scale one. More. Time.

And young Alexei had obeyed, and played the scale again. And again. And then, a week later, he moved on to playing little songs. And then minuets. And soon he was absolutely in love with the music. And then his father died, and the piano was sold, and at seventeen Alexei got a job in a factory that made trousers.

And he completely forgot about music. When he had been drafted into the army, it was as if the little boy at the piano had never even existed, except for the times he would wake up in the middle of the night, with a faint recollection of a dream just beyond the reach of his memory.

But now, confronting him boldly in the woods, so that he simply could not ignore it, was a piano. And as Alexei played that chord, he realized that it was the first chord in a song that he had played so many times as a boy. With a ridiculous excitement growing in his chest, and his heart pounding, his fingers began to remember their old pattern, and he was playing piano again, chords and notes rolling from underneath his half-frozen fingers, and then… and then he stopped. He couldn’t remember. And his ears began to correctly hear what his brain had been twisting as beautiful. The notes were wrong, the song was botched. He was no musician. He was a soldier. Many years ago, he might have been able to be a pianist, but now he was not.

He backed away quickly from the piano, his hands dropping to his sides and his face turning red with disappointed shame. He glanced one last time at the piano and then turned — crack!

The sound ripped through the silence of the forest. Several more gunshots, and then silence. Alexei tore the gun off of his back, hands shaking, and he crashed back the way he came, stumbling into his camp too late, too late.

The captain of the little squad was dead, his eyes staring like glass into the tangled mess of leafless branches above. Three others were slumped over or lying in unnatural positions, blood seeping through their ugly, yellowish uniforms.

Pyotr was sitting propped up against a tree, a hole in his stomach. He coughed, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth, the sound causing Alexei to jump.

“Pyotr, Pyotr, what happened?” he cried, rushing over to kneel beside his fallen friend, placing his gun on the ground.

“You forgot to get firewood,” Pyotr said after a moment.

“I found a piano in the woods, Pyotr,” Alexei blurted.

Pyotr looked mildly surprised.

“I used to play piano, you know,” pressed Alexei. It was the only thing he could think of to say. “I was really good.”

“Why –” Pyotr coughed again, blood gushing from his mouth “– why did you stop?”

Alexei’s vision suddenly blurred. “Because I’m a soldier now.”

“Oh.” And then Pyotr’s head lolled forward, his eyes staring at nothing.

Alexei put the back of his hand over his mouth, trying to block the sobs. He closed his friend’s eyes and then quickly stood up. He slung his gun over his shoulder and stumbled backwards away from the clearing, then turned and ran.

He didn’t know where he was running to, but he wasn’t very surprised when he saw the piano again. He stared at it for a very long time. “I’m a soldier,” he whispered. “A soldier, a soldier, a soldier.” But he knew it wasn’t true. And he walked up to the piano, put his fingers on the keys and played. And the dam in his mind that had said he made pants, and then had said he was a soldier broke, and he knew, in the very depths of his being, that he was a pianist. He always had been.

The end.

Well, what do you all think? I know it’s completely random, not to mention a little depressing…. And don’t ask me what it’s supposed to mean, because I don’t know. (Every time I’m asked to analyze some piece of literature I wonder if the author is in reality just like me, just writing for the sake of writing, and if some meaning slips in, it’s absolutely accidental. At least in my case it is, because heck, I don’t have the skill to add meaning into my writing.) Either way, I’d love to hear if any of you have some insightful interpretation of this. 🙂

Beautiful People, March Edition

This month’s Beautiful People will focus on none other than Lily, the main character in my friend’s and my book Lily. (isn’t that just like the most amazingly creative title??!!!!) Anyway, on to the questions….


1. What’s their favourite book/movie/play/etc.?

Um, if Lily even CAN read, it’s very little, and she’s not the kinda gal who would want to sit and read a book.

2. Is there anything they regret doing?

Lily has a lot of regrets about her life (which is kinda sad, since she’s only 12). One of her biggies is how far she’s grown from her siblings, the only family she has left.

3. If they were sick or wounded, who would take care of them and how?

Honestly, probably a stranger. Poor Lily. Every so often, I realize that this is a story about a small child’s really dark, messed up, and traumatic life. Fun stuff.

So yeah, either Lily would be totally on her own, or some random Good Samaritan would help her out. Or maybe her older sister.

4. Is there an object they can’t bear to part with and why?

Um… I don’t think there is. Lily is all about cold hard survival.

5. What are 5 ways to win their heart (or friendship)?

  1. be consistently nice to her (she probably won’t trust you at first, so it might take a while for her to realize there are no ulterior motives. unless there are ulterior motives. in which case be careful, cause she’d probably sniff them out and really make you regret it.)
  2. be vulnerable. she DOES have a heart.
  3. be like her. although she probably wouldn’t trust you, cuz she’s not all that trustworthy herself.
  4. …and that’s all, folks.

6. Describe a typical outfit for them from top to bottom.

Top: Um… hair? 😛

And then just a dress, probably dirty and some indistinguishably grayish color. Probably no shoes, either.

7. What’s their favorite type of weather?

Just that niiiice day, when it’s not too hot, and not cold, and not humid. Maybe 70-ish degrees and a cool breeze…. Ah….

8. What’s the worst fight they’ve ever been in?


Um. Yeah.

Lily gets in fights a lot, actually. A lot of times, though, she fights verbally, and she has a really biting wit.

8. What names or nicknames have they been called throughout their life?

Well, people call her Lily! *really, oh my gosh, I NEVER would have seen that one coming*

And the poor thing’s been called a lot of nasty names…. Idiot, worthless, b****. Like I said, traumatic childhood.

9. What makes their heart feel alive?


Or at least she thinks so…. Sometimes getting what you wish for ain’t always as great as you’d expect.

Are any of your characters weird and antisocial??? 😀 I’m loooonely, please talk to me!! (actually, my friend is sitting next to me right now, but she’s not a person, so that doesn’t really count.) 😉

In Which You Will Cringe at my Horrible Writing

As my friend Clare puts the finishing touches on Lily, and I finish working on the cover for it, I thought I would give a little bit of a backstory on Lily.

We started writing it together something like six years ago. It was really, really, I mean really bad. And of course we thought it was like the most amazing thing ever. Which just makes it all the more painful (and I mean it’s literally physically painful, laughing that hard) when we look back at it.

It was originally the story of four orphans (John, Lily, Kyle, and Jessica, aged 2, 6, 10, and 12… I think) who, after running away from an abusive orphanage, lived a rather idyllic life in a clearing in the woods in a log cabin, which somehow they had managed to build by themselves. Oh, wait, no, it wasn’t by themselves. A woodcutter and his wife lived in the same woods and helped the kids out. This was supposed to be historical fiction people, not a really bad fairy tale.

And the driving plot of the whole thing was that they all wanted parents. Understandable, I suppose, but why the childless woodcutter and his wife didn’t just adopt these kids who they basically took care of is a mystery. Anyway, the orphans decide they must go out and find some parents to adopt them………… *cringe*

They met a couple named the Crushers *shudder* who they basically stay with for a big chunk of the story, as if that isn’t just a little bit weird. Meanwhile, they’re being hunted down by… drumroll please… the vengeful orphanage lady.

Then they get mugged by this random stalker (still not sure what exactly he wanted). Oh, have a laugh and just read it for yourself. I take full responsibility for the horribleness of it all. My ten-year-old imagination was… interesting.

The town looked creepy in the dark, and Lily, who sat in the front of Lightning [a horse that they miraculously won in a horserace, of course], felt that someone was watching them. indeed someone was watching them and that was why they had left in the middle of the night. the man that had grabbed the children weeks ago in the dark of night in the town where they met the Piles was waiting and watching for a chance to get revenge.

he crept behind them hardly making a noise until he saw his chance. Kyle was getting off Lightning to distribute food when the man lept! he knocked Kyle to the ground and would have beaten him up terribly if not Lily, who was furious at the man, jumped down and with all her might whacked the criminal on the head with her crutches [she twisted her ankle a while back…]. a loud crack rang through the still early morning air and the man fell limply to the ground, unconcious. Kyle and Jess stared at Lily with open mouths and then John started to laugh.

“Lily,” said Kyle in astonishment, “i didn’t know you could do that. you, you saved my life! wow! i want to make a pair of crutches for myself so that i can do that too!”

(And meanwhile, I am curled up in the fetal position rocking back and forth and moaning.) It HURTS!!!!! And the spelling. And grammar. And capitalization at the beginning of sentences. (Or lack thereof… on all of those)

Now, thankfully, Lily has undergone something like five total rewrites (the most recent and by far the best of these was entirely written by Clare), and it’s literally another story.

And because I must at least attempt to save a little face here, please allow me to tell you what it’s about now. Actually, I’ll tell you whether you allow me or not. So, uh, yeah.

Anyway, now Lily and her siblings (who are still four in number, but have different names and different ages) are living in New York City in 1918 (there is no cabin, no woodcutter, no woodcutter’s wife, and no vengeful orphanage lady). The older brother William is an abusive jerk, the older sister Maggie is beaten-down and despairing, and the younger brother John is just kinda a pathetic little orphan.

And Lily hates it.

And because that was probably about the worst explanation of that book ever, here’s what my friend wrote for the back cover:

    “Stay with your siblings, Lily, you understand me?  Don’t you never leave ‘em.”


In New York City, once you’re cast onto the streets, there’s no getting back up.  Lily’s been there for years now, and, even though she’s got the ingenuity to go somewhere, the weight of her siblings is chaining her down.

…but can’t all chains be broken eventually?

So as you can see, the plot’s changed just a little bit. 🙂 For anyone who has read this whole long post, congratulations. Have some cake.cake.jpg For my next post, would you like to see some excerpts from the shiny, new, and much improved Lily? Or maybe some more cringe-worthy ones from the old? Or something completely different? (I could blog about squirrels. Or fuzzy purple socks. Or anything at all.) Please comment; I’d love to hear what you guys think!!!

Fantasy Cover Design!!!

Hey everyone! So lately, I’ve been learning how to paint on Photoshop, and my friend over at The Golden Lands requested I make a book cover for the upgrade his awesome fantasy series, Elithius, is going through.

Naturally, I said no.

Just kidding, just kidding. I said yes, of course! And here’s how it turned out:


I’d love to hear what you all think of it! And of course, soon I’ll be revealing the cover of Lily, which I hope turns out as well as this one!