Monday, December 17, 2012

First-Person Experiment

I tried writing in the first person, for the first time yesterday.

I always stayed away from that kind of writing --- for what reason, I don't know exactly, but I always believed it to be too difficult and felt like I wasn't good enough to attempt it.

But I tried it yesterday, and I think it went pretty well. I'll post the snippet here --- feedback is appreciated! Do you prefer to write in first person or third person? (Or is it second....I always get confused.) If you like writing first person, why do you prefer that way of writing to others? And, please --- any tips from those first person experienced writers??? ;)

P.S. It'll be a long snippet. :P

Rain pounds as I run, mud sloshing around my feet and sticking to my sneakers, water running down my face and dripping off in rivulets, hiding my tears.

No. It can't be true. It just can't be.

I collapse under a nearby tree, and hug my soaked jacket closer. As soon as I stop, a bitter cold begins to seep in, a cold that matches the chills I've been having for the past ten minutes.

No. It's not true. He's lying.

My uncle's face swims up in my mind, his greasy hair clinging to his face and his stale breath tinging my nose. “She's dead, son,” he had said. “Killed in an accident at work.”
I had not believed him, and I wouldn't start now, but … something in his words had rang true. Mom had been acting strangely lately --- not suicidal, like so many others in our family before her, but Mom had been --- no, is --- the happiest woman I'd ever met. She had started telling me that she loves me more than usual. Hugging me more often. Treating me as if she would die the next day, like every hour was her last.

She hadn't wanted to go to work today --- I remember clearly her worried eyes and distracted expression. “Caleb,” she had said to me, “Caleb, I want you to know that I love you with all my heart, and that I want you to believe in God always, no matter what. He has a plan for everything.”

I hadn't thought much about those words at the time, but now that I look back I realize that those were the last words I would ever hear her speak.

No! I bite my lip, my fists clenching. No, you will hear her speak again, you will!

I stare out from under the tree at the dark sky. Thunder booms in the distance, and rain pours from the heavens like nobody's business. It's almost like the sky is crying, harder than it's ever cried before.

Sobs well up inside me, but I choke them down. No. No, she's alive, I know it.

My conscience twinges. I know that that's a lie. I have to face the truth.

She's never coming back.

I punch my fist into the rough tree bark, and my knuckles scrape, mingling blood with the rain. But I don't care. I don't feel the pain.

I punch and kick the tree again and again, my crying drowned out by the ever strengthening thunder, until I can't stand it anymore and I slide to the ground again.
I bury my face in my hands. My bloodied knuckles are warm compared to the icy rain.
“God,” I cried, my lips cracked, my voice higher than usual, “God, why did You do this to me? Why? Don't You care?”

Lightning sizzles above me, and with it comes the memory of the last time I saw my mother --- worried, stressed, yet loving. Believe in God, always. He has a plan for everything.

I have never felt so alone, so vulnerable. I never had friends or cousins. I never had a father who cared and loved me --- I never knew my father. And now I've lost my only friend, my only companion, the only relative that actually cares what I'm thinking, feeling, or wanting.

Mom, why did you have to die?


An unfamiliar voice calls out my name --- crisper than the lightning and tougher than the tree bark, yet gentle and kind. I turn and see no one.

Sighing, I rest my head against the tree and nurse my wounded knuckles. “It's nothing,” I say to myself. “Nothing. Just the voices again.”

The voices, the voices. I hear them all the time. Whispered conversations, sometimes in a language I understand, sometimes not. I hear deep voices talking about battle plans, or evil voices talking about murder. Most people would believe that this is too much for a twelve year old to bear, yet I've been bearing it all my life.


There it is again. Most unusual. I crane my neck and look around again --- still no one. Weird, I think. I always hear voices, but they never call my name, and never ever repeat anything twice.

I struggle to my feet, focusing my attention on the darker, shadowed forest ahead. With a shudder, I remember, only a week ago on my twelfth birthday, staring out the window and seeing a pair of bright, hate-filled red eyes staring back at me. In a flash, they were gone, a cackle fading into the air, but it still scared me silly. I told many family members of it that day, which was probably not the smartest thing to do --- most of them firmly believe that I should be committed to an insane asylum.

But not my mom.

“You're not imagining things, honey,” she had told me firmly, patting my hand consolingly. “I believe you. But, from now on, let's try to focus on the good things in life, the heavenly things, okay?”

I had nodded and slept in her room with her that night in an extra sleeping bag on the floor. I hadn't seen anything else since then, but that situation reminded me of many in the past --- catching a glimpse of an angel when I was seven, or hearing two men discuss war strategies when I was eleven.

The voices were growing stronger now, though --- stronger than before, stronger than ever. I could only assume that the hallucinations (what else could they be?) of angels and red eyes would grow stronger too.


The voice returns again, firmer and not questioning. I glance around, somewhat frantic --- what if the voice was a demon, or a monster? Coming to kill me?

“Who's there?” I call out tentatively.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man step out of the shadows of the forest. I spin around to face him.

He is an older man, tall, but slightly hunched over. Though his hands are gnarled and his hair is streaked with grey, his eyes radiate life and energy. He leans against a tree nearby, his hands wrapped around a knobbly walking stick.

“Good evening, Caleb,” he says. “I'm glad you finally recognized that I am here.”

“Who are you?”

“You wouldn't know me,” the man says sadly. “We were never introduced --- well, never introduced that you will remember.”

I tilt my head to the side. This man knows something, I can tell. Something important. I have never seen him in my life, but he looks somewhat familiar. “Have we met?”

The man shrugs. “Yes, but you will not have remembered it. At all.” He looks up from where he had been staring at a tree root as gnarly as his hands. “I was hoping you would know who I am.”
I stare at him for several moments, trying to register who he is. And then it hits me, a strange idea, but with the way I am, totally possible.

“Are you … God?”

The man chuckles. “No, son, I'm not God.” He shuffles closer to me, his hands clenched around his walking stick, his footsteps making slurping noises in the mud. He looks at me with kind, warm eyes. “Caleb, I'm your grandfather.”

My eyes narrow.

“Where's your proof?” I ask, suspicion gnawing at my insides.

This man sighs and shakes his head. “I don't have any proof that would be of use to you … only birth certificates, and they were burned in a fire years ago.”

I snort. “Convenient.”

He doesn't respond, only moves closer, until he is right next to me. Though he is dripping wet, he smells good --- he reminds me of warm summer days I used to spend with my mother, out picking apples and cherries and taking them home to make a pie.

For what seems like hours, we sit together, our backs pressed into the tree, watching thunder roar and lightning crack like a whip, splitting the sky in two. We watch nature's display slowly come to an end, and the rain lessen to a drizzle, and faint rays of sunshine poke through the clouds.

Suddenly, he turns to me. I immediately tense, not knowing what to expect --- is he a demon or monster that wants to eat me or possess my soul? Is he really my grandfather? Why did he come here? How does he know my name, and where to find me?

Then I notice something. Something I didn't notice before.

His eyes are sharp and clear, an icy, electric blue that seems to pierce through someone's soul and seek out all their secrets.

Those eyes are familiar.

They are my mother's eyes.

My eyes.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012


Again! Thanks, Cait. :)

I'm serious, now....this is the last time I'm going to do a tag. I'll bet my readers are bored stiff (is that a phrase?) but I couldn't resist Cait's questions. =)

But, honestly. I won't tag anyone, and I won't write any questions of my own, buuuuut.....Cait's questions are awesome. So, here goes:


(Oh, this is a Liebster award thingy, by the way, but I don't feel like posting the picture. :D)

Post eleven random facts about yourself, answer the eleven questions the awarder has given you and make up eleven questions for your awardees to answer in return. Tag eleven fellow bloggers, and notify them of the award. 

Okay. I'm going to break like almost all of those rules, but hey.

Eleven Random Facts

1. I am on Facebook and Pinterest.
2. I have three wild, competitive younger brothers. (Which happen to be running around the kitchen right now in the middle of a race, one of them cheating, but denying it repeatedly)
3. I'm better coming up with cool girl names than cool boy names. (Ack.)
4. I want to be a stay at home mom with a bunch of kids when I grow up. And a writer, duh. :P

5. I'm homeschooled - never been to public school in my life.

6. I don't like public speaking. Yet Drama is my favorite class. I'm confusing....(:

7. Sci-fi is my favorite genre --- for everything, books, movies, TV shows.....

8. I think it would be fun to make a movie. Or be on the set of a movie.

9. Though I LOVE writing a lot, it still would be really awesome to be able to draw well. (I can't.)

10. ^It would also be awesome to be able to sing well. (I sound like a dying frog.)

11. I'm good (most of the time) at coming up with titles, but the backs of dust covers? Forget it.

Now for Cait's questions!!!!! :D

1. When did you start writing?, Mom says kindergarten. :) She says: "I had to write it down, but you told me what to say." But I think that I actually started started writing novels around age 10 or 11, when I co-wrote a book series with my friend called Princess Quest. It was horrible (my writing was so bad!) but, hey, you live and learn.

2. Do you have a soft spot for a particular character? (Come now, be honest!) of right now, for The Shadow Conspiracy, I think it's Sophie. :) She's a lot like me in the fact that she's "half and half" -- tomboy and girly girl. She also has the same personality (ish) as me, so we have a lot in common. Because of that, it's easier to write from her perspective, so I tend to do so a lot. I need to get out of the habit ... The Shadow Conspiracy will turn into the Sophie Show. :) (Not that she'd be against that, of course.)

3. If you had to choose between writing or reading, which would you pick?

I don't know, this is tough. I like them both --- with reading, you get to experience different worlds; with writing, you get to create them. They both have pros and cons. One thing I like about reading, though, is it's portable (I write on my home computer, and I can't lug that everywhere), perfect for boredom, and you learn techniques from it. Not to mention that it brings awesome fandoms. (HP rules!)

But, I have to say I like them equally. :)

4. How often do you have to "rush off" to write down an idea before it escapes?

ALL. THE. TIME. My brain isn't the best at retaining my brilliant ideas (*chuckle chuckle*) so I try to always have a notebook handy. At the moment, I tend to have most of my ideas in my Composition and Science classes at school, so my class notebooks are filled with random scribblings.

5. Do you plot and outline your books or wing it?

I do both. Normally, I'll sketch a basic outline for a chapter (I want this and this to happen, etc.) and things are open to being changed. I'm never set on an outline --- it's just a way to keep my scattered brain focused on what I need to have done. I normally break my guidelines, but it's nice to have them.

6. Are you a sucker for a happy ending or do you leave your readers in misery?

Well, real life is hard --- not every person has a happy ending. I believe in telling it like it is, but I always try to aim for a "heroes triumph" ending. Though I DO NOT believe in serious cliffhanger book endings. (There's the reader coming through.)

7. How protective are you of your baby novel?

Kind of protective, I suppose. :") I won't let anyone read over my shoulder while I write (unless it's a parent, then I have no choice) because it's distracting and I don't want to give anything away. :) But as for posting bits and pieces, I'm fairly open. :)

8. Plans for publishing eventually? Are you going to self-publish or go traditional?

Definitely want to get published someday --- it's every writer's dream. ;) I would prefer to go traditional ... if I get turned down, I'll just keep trying. Scholastic and Disney/Hyperion are my favorites right now. 

9. Are you guilty of using the odd cliche plot element? How are you trying to make it fresh?

Not really ... I mean, I'd rather not be cliched. Nobody wants to, but sometimes it just happens. I try to make it fresh by not having a strict, solid, "filled in" outline. I like to color outside the lines. :) I'm always open to suggestions and random fancies that would spark something strange and fresh. 

10. Tell a little about a character you're currently fleshing out.

The Stranger that I posted about last --- Falcon, a.k.a the Clockwork Master (Jack, you're awesome.) He's very sketchy right now....I might make him a cyborg. Still deciding on that, though. But, he's supposed to be mysterious, maybe evil, maybe good, totally untrustworthy, yet he's the leader of the Fallen (the Resistance against the Raven King). He's seen better times --- he's scarred, outside and inside. By what, I'm not sure yet. But I know he's been made stronger by his rough times.

11. Which is the better type of chocolate? White and milky or 75% dark? (This has a lot to do with writing.)

Agreed. I like milky ... if I eat a lot of dark, it doesn't agree with me. :S But I am in love with Sarris's chocolate pretzel candy bar. Reese's, Nestle Crunch, and Swedish Fish are good too. (The cool thing is, Sarris Chocolate Factory is only a half an hour from my house. They have the best ice cream. <3)

Thanks Cait for the AMAZING questions. I won't ask any (sorry, guys!) because I already did, several posts before. Feel free to go back and do them if you want(:

Monday, December 10, 2012

The Stranger

I need name help again.

Though this time, it's for a character.

This character --- a man --- is tall, skinny, and gaunt, with hollowed cheeks and jet-black hair. His eyes, electric blue, are filled with intelligence and cunning, though they are sunken. He is (surprisingly) a good guy ... the leader of the Resistance! (Which will be dubbed the Fallen). He is shrouded in mystery, and my three main characters are still unsure whether or not to trust him. I myself am unsure.

But, as of now, he is a good guy, and a good guy without a name. I was going to go with the name Morpheus, but if you have ever seen the movie The Matrix, you know that I can't do that. I like the ending -pheus, though, so my names that I have come up with are as follows: (Google Translator is perfect for name inspiration - just type in a character attribute and translate it into Latin or some random language. It's awesome.)

  • Alpheus
  • Orfeo
  • Alipheus (pronounced uh-li-fee-us)

The mysterious man paused, his hand hovering over his computer mouse, then, pulling his arm back and resting it on his leg, he spun around.
            His hair was jet-black, and his face was gaunt, his cheeks hollowed, his electric blue eyes sunken, though the life in them had yet to fade.
            A long, white scar crossed his pale face, from his temple to his chin. His washed-out skin seemed to let off an unearthly glow, making his eyes appear like they were lit up in comparison.
            He stood. Tall as a tree, but skinny as a twig, he towered over the five.  His long bony hands were curled, almost like they yearned to grasp the computer mouse.
            His frosty eyes searched Skylar’s, Sophie’s, and Sierra’s. Sophie felt like he was scanning her brain. She had the uncanny feeling that he could hear her thoughts. No, no, that is just an illusion, she reassured herself. But was it?
            He took several steps towards them, away from his chair. Sophie tried not to look frightened. It took all her willpower not to high-tail it out of the creepy place.
            “You three look familiar,” the pale man said, staring at them.
            They didn’t answer.
            “You seem very much alike,” he murmured to himself, beginning to pace. “I wonder …”
            Shaking his head, he stopped his pacing, directly in front of Skylar. Their eyes met --- vivid blue against steely blue.
            “You are triplets?” he asked her.
            She nodded once, her face not betraying any ounce of fear. I wonder if she’s afraid, Sophie asked. Probably not … this Drew person sounded pretty scary.
            “Who is your father?” he asked, his eyes probing.
            Skylar stared defiantly back. “Why do you want to know?”
            Ransom and Maize looked shocked, and the man looked surprised for a moment as well at her sudden insolence. But then the moment passed.
            He lifted his chin slightly. “You are under my authority now, and mine alone,” he said coldly. “You will tell me what I want to know.”
            Sophie’s stomach clenched. He’s threatening us, she fretted. I knew it was a bad idea to come here, and trust that Maize person.
            “I’ve dealt with people like you before,” Skylar rebutted icily, her eyes shining in anger, “and I won’t give in to your blackmail. We were brought here by your men, and we have a right to know who you are, what’s going on, and why we were told to come here.”
            The man stared at her for a moment in amazement, then suddenly burst into laughter.
            Skylar stepped back, confused by the display.
            The man smiled, his teeth glittering against the lantern light. “You are a brave little one, I see that now,” he said. “You will be perfect for the job.”

From the small insight into his character that you saw, what do you think his name should be --- should it be powerful, strong, with a tinge of sinister and dab of evil? Should it be the name of a criminal mastermind, flavored with cunning yet sprinkled with insecurities? Names tell a lot about the person, you know. When you read the snippet, what names came to mind?

Thursday, November 29, 2012



*screams inwardly*

I made it. I made it. I made it to 50,000. 

*screams inwardly*

That was an interesting journey, but I know it paid off. I now have almost halfway finished novel in my hands! (Yes, you heard it right --- I'm not done yet. I tend to be a long writer, if you know what I mean.) 

But, I can no longer wait for November Snippets. xD If Katie does it, I'll link up, but I'm doing mine now. :) And I have a LOT of snippets to post. A LOT. :D Prepare give me corrections. Please. :)

(P.S. All of these are from The Shadow Conspiracy, my NaNo novel.)

“Well, if you’re bored …” Skylar began, a smile growing.
            Sophie realized what she had done, too late. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean that. Not that! Please! We already did it!”
            Sierra chuckled, catching on. “Yeah, I think exercise would be a good way to get rid of that boredom, don’t you think?”
            “Oh, come on, guys, I was kidding, you know I was kidding …”
            “Well, we’re not kidding.”
            “Oh, crud.”

“So,” said Skylar slowly. “That was Branton, huh?”
            “He’s very cute,” Sophie flittered. “Is he your boyfriend?”
            Sierra looked disgusted. “Eww! We’re just friends! And what happened to tomboy Sophie? I liked her much, much better!”
            Sophie made a face. “Hey, I’m not entirely tomboy. I’m half and half.”
            Skylar laughed. “Okay, okay.”
            “But yes, that was Branton,” Sierra said, pretending like nothing had happened, though her face was a little red. “And Selena is who I paired him up with --- to help take care of the children,” she added in a huff, as she saw Sophie snicker. “They each get a group of kids to take care of. Amy and Carson were the other group that had Emery --- a little girl I was particularly attached to --- and apparently they formed an alliance.”

A half an hour later, it was Sierra’s time to teach. She started by stretching Skylar and Sophie, then doing “basic” jumps, kicks, and rolls.
            Skylar excelled, but Sophie struggled. Immensely.
            “You can do it, Sophie,” said Sierra encouragingly, though Sophie could tell that she was trying not to laugh.
            “Yeah, add a ‘hiya!’ onto the end of that, too, it helps,” said Skylar, trying (and failing) not to snicker.
            “Oh, shut up,” Sophie snapped. Sticking her tongue between her teeth, she rolled her shoulders and went into the roundhouse kick, ending up spinning herself around and nearly hitting Sierra in the face. She ducked.
            “How did I do?” Sophie asked eagerly, but got no reply --- both Sierra and Skylar were laughing too hard to respond.

The next morning was bright, clear, sunny, and balmy, showing no sign of the blood that had been spilled the day before. Naturally, this weather left everyone feeling a little happier --- all except for one.
            Eleven year old Santiago Maximilian Gaver felt discontent.
            He just had an uneasy feeling, like something bad was going to happen. He had seen much more doctors than ever around his family’s chambers, and his father was looking way more stressed than usual. He finally found out what it was when he had been sneaking around the house, searching for answers to the abnormal amount of doctors.
            “There’s no hope,” he heard Doctor Sotok say to his father.
            Santiago’s heart clenched. No hope of what?
            Through the crack in the door, Santiago saw his father shudder. Wait --- is he crying? Yes … yes he is! This must be bad.
            Lord Gaver never cried. He could be facing death, and a tear would not slip from his eye. Yet, why was he crying now?
            “Are you sure there is nothing you can do, Sotok?”
            Santiago frowned. That was his father, but … it didn’t sound like him at all. He sounded … weak, insecure, frightened.
            Santiago could see Doctor Sotok shake his head sadly. “I’m so sorry, my lord,” he said, “but there is nothing I can do.”
            Gaver shuddered again. “How long does she have?”
            Santiago’s heart thudded. When they say she, do they mean …
            “Leah has four days, at most, sir,” said Doctor Sotok, his voice filled with sympathy.
            Santiago felt his throat clench up. He was speechless, without words, grief filling his heart so suddenly, a feeling he’d never felt before. His brain could hardly register the thought, hardly register what he just heard. It can’t be right. I must have heard it wrong.
            Is my mother truly dying?

How I pictured Sierra, with vivid green eyes and dark  brown hair

“Is everything clear?” Sierra asked Sophie.
            “What?” asked Sophie confusedly.
            Sierra shook her head. “I meant, do you see anyone. ‘Is everything clear’ is soldier speak.”
            Sophie blushed. “Oh. Right. No, I don’t see anyone --- are you cleared up, too?”
            Sierra sighed. “Yes, I’m perfectly clear. Better give the signal.” She performed it.
            She saw Skylar give a tiny nod and vanish.

 “Oh, come on, Skylar, there’s nothing wrong with that!” they had said. “All we have to do is make sure no one’s watching --- piece of cake!”
            Skylar didn’t mention that it wasn’t a piece of cake to make sure no one was watching --- people could hide easily out of her eyesight. People like prowlers. Or assassins.
            She chided herself for worrying. Shut up, Skylar. Everything is under control. Everything’s going to be fine; you’re just overthinking.     
            But how come she couldn’t shake this ominous feeling?

And, just so you know, in the next Snippet, Sophie is pretending to be a ghost named Gilderoy, and Billy is some idiot who stumbled into their hiding place, which happened to be a "haunted and cursed" mansion.

Billy shook in fear on the ground, his love for gold leaving him in the fear for his life. “Please don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me,” he pleaded, like Joe. “And --- almighty ghosts --- h-how do ya know my name?”
            “Silence!” Gilderoy boomed. “We know everything about you! But your time has come, William. Soon, you will join us in this mansion …”
            “No!” Billy screamed, writhing on the floor. “No! I beg ya, please, please don’ kill me! I’ll --- I’ll do anythin’ ---”
            “Very well!” Gilderoy said. “We will let you live, but only on three conditions.”
            “Anythin’ --- I’ll do anythin’ ---”
            “Number one: never come back to this house again.”
            “Yes, yes, of course ---”
            “Number two: tell everyone you know never to come here.”
            “Almighty Gild’roy, sir, you know I will ---”
            “And third --- learn how to speak properly, your language is disturbing!”
            “Yes, sir, thank ya, sir ---”
            “Now --- before I change my mind --- get. Out.

Sophie, with darker hair

This would have been a sweet, beautiful, memorable moment, if it wasn’t for sudden loud voices from outside the manor, near the front door.
            Skylar got up and ran to the window facing the front courtyard, and she gasped.
            “Someone’s coming! Quick!”
            Immediately, like they were all of one mind, the girls darted into the guest bedroom and shut the door.
            “I thought you said everyone avoided this place!” Sierra said to Skylar.
            “They do,” said Skylar. “well --- all the sane ones, at least.”
            “So you’re saying that we’re insane?”
            Skylar chuckled. “Yep.”
            They both stopped talking when they saw a slow smile grow on Sophie’s face.
            “What is it?” Skylar and Sierra both asked in unison.
            Sophie grinned. “This mansion isn’t actually haunted, I’m pretty certain of it now. But the people coming in --- they don’t know that, now do they?”

The shouts grew louder.
            “Blood! Blood! We want blood!”
            The girls looked out the window. The people, as one, were storming the gate, screaming and waving their chosen weapons. The sentries on the other side, apparently, had called for help --- hundreds of guards stood, their guns raised, looking very afraid.
            A giant creak seemed to shake the world --- the girls could hear it clearly, though Gilderoy Mansion was a good ways away.
            The gate trembled, the weight of thousands of people pressing against it. Then, with a giant crash, it fell forward. The guards screamed in terror and backpedaled, the gate barely missing them.
            It was as if someone had hit the pause button on the world --- the Lower East Siders hesitated, shocked that they had actually done it; the soldiers froze, shocked that the Lower East Siders had actually done it.
            Then everyone moved, and guns fired, swords clashed against crowbars, and people on both sides fell.
            Skylar turned away from the window. “Again, stupid,” she said. “There’s too many guards, with better weapons than crowbars and pitchforks. It will be a bloodbath.”

Bitterness spiked her voice for moment, then disappeared. Silence overcame them as Skylar reflected on her past, Sophie missed the tidiness of King’s Crossing, and Sierra digested this new shock of information.
            The day had gone by quickly. Already, dusk was starting to fall, and the nocturnal creatures were beginning to awaken and come out --- animal and human.
            Skylar was the first to notice the change in time. Eyes widening, she jumped to her feet, startling her sisters.
            “We need to get out of here. Now.”
            They scrambled to their feet.
            “What’s going on?” Sierra demanded.
            Sophie bit her lip. “What’s wrong this time?”
            Skylar pointed at the sky. “Look. It’s nearly nightfall. We probably only have a half an hour before dark.”
            Sierra shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with the dark. We can just sleep here.”
            Skylar turned to Sierra, her voice deadly serious. “I’m not worried about the dark --- it’s what’s in it that makes me nervous. If we’re out after night, we’ll be dead by morning.”

The two paused for a moment. The one with brown eyes said to the one with the blue, “See? I was right, wasn’t I?”
            “Right about what?” Sierra demanded, hearing the footsteps of the jailer grow ever nearer.
            The blue eyed one shook her head, her long dark brown braid swaying. “Never mind. Come on! We need to hurry. Follow me!”
            As they ran, darting around corners, seeing no guards whatsoever (Sierra assumed they were outside), Sierra asked, “So --- who are you, anyway?”
            The brown eyed girl shook her head. “It’s complicated. We’ll tell you later.”
            “No --- what I meant is, are you here to kill me? Take me to the Slave Warden?”
            The two exchanged a look. The blue eyed one smiled, Sierra could tell. “No, of course not --- isn’t it obvious? We’re here to save you.”

I might have posted that one before ... deja vu :P

Skylar....with slightly bluer eyes

After tying her curls back into a ponytail with a ribbon, she looked nearly unrecognizable as she stepped out onto the street. Despite her better judgment, she began making her way to the prison, desperately hoping that somehow a divine miracle would arrive --- in a package named Skylar.

It was much less extravagant than King’s Crossing. It seemed like color had run away and hid. Only black, white, and brown seemed to be around. Occasionally, there would be a hint of red, maybe even yellow or green, but that was it. Even the peasants themselves wore dirt-stained aprons or tunics with brown pants or skirts and downcast expressions. All you could see were thatched roofs, muddy sidewalks, and the faint outline of the King’s palace in the distance.
            Sophie, however, noticed none of this. She was too busy trying not to have a heart attack.
            The adrenaline and power she had experienced had gone just as quickly as it came. It left her slumped against the tavern, her mouth open and gasping for water, her leg muscles frozen and stiff, and her hands twitching. Reaching in her satchel, she pulled out a canteen and poured the precious water in her mouth, spilling it all down her dress in the process.
            As she struggled to get her shaking hands to twist the cap onto the bottle, a voice from nearby made her jump in fright and spill more of the precious liquid.
            “Aren’t you a littl’ young to be drunk?”

Her father’s study was almost as big as the library Skylar was searching almost directly above. Books and papers were neatly stacked, and below a humongous portrait of himself was William’s desk, a beautiful mahogany piece made from the finest oaks. The drawers were full of miscellaneous things, though tidily organized --- charts, maps, contracts, even drawings Sophie had made when she was three. An inkwell and a quill lay ready beside a stack of fresh, crisp parchment.

“Sir,” said the man on Drew’s left, a tall man who stood and walked stiffly, “our scouts have reported that a nobleman’s wife recently bought a fabulous antique, from quite a bit ago. Apparently, it was all the rage back in the Technology Age.”
“What was it called?” Drew harrumphed.
“I believe it was a cell phone, sir,” said the man.
“Ah!” Drew clapped his pudgy hands together. “I’ve heard of those. That’s how those old fools back in the day talked to each other, right? Not face to face, they would just ---”
He mimed putting a hand to his ear, then guffawed loudly. The man cracked no expression.


“No, it’s not your fault,” said Sophie, her voice hardening. “It’s mine, for not recognizing this sooner.” Turning to face Skylar, she said bluntly, “what are you here for?”
Skylar did not ask why the sudden change of topic. She had learned never to question a question, unless it was questionable. Which made no sense, unless you were Skylar.
“Drew sent me here to steal that new antique your mother bought,” she replied. “The check tone --- no --- cello bone ---”
“Cell phone,” said Sophie. “Yes, I remember seeing her bring it in. It’s under heavy lock and key. Heavier than you’ve probably ever seen.”
“I doubt it.”

“I think we’re going to do it my way, General,” she said, seeing his badge ---- General Hayden. And with another blow, she knocked him unconscious.
            She knew she had no time to waste --- quickly taking his gun and slipping it into her belt, she grabbed the cell phone off the pedestal and stuffed it into her satchel.
            Time to go. 
            She remembered the windows in the library … they looked like they could be easily opened. If I can get to them, I can make it to the rendezvous.
            Making sure her climbers were ready and waiting for her command, she put her ear to the door and listened. Nothing.
            She quietly opened it. Like her ears had suggested, there was no one there. The library was vacated. She could hear distant voices and footsteps, but that was all.
            But she had no time for investigating. Hurrying over to the window, she pried it open with ease and latched onto the outside wall.
            Problem was, there were now guards waiting below.
            Waiting for her.

(Drew always wears bowler hats :P)

“We can’t afford to lose her, sir, she’s our best,” the man reminded him. “And if you drop that cigarette, you will burn the warehouse down.”
Drew’s face reddened. “Do I look like someone who can be bossed around, Sherman?” he growled, putting out the cigarette.
Sherman’s lips twitched. “No, sir,” he said quickly.
“Good,” said Drew, letting the cigarette remains fall to the ground. “That necklace the girl brought in today? I found a customer for it, easy. He was so na├»ve. Let me take it for six gold pieces, when it’s really worth two!” Drew let out a bark of a laugh that raised the hairs on Skylar’s neck. “Ha! The fool. Didn’t know it’s real value.” Chuckling to himself, he turned to leave. “Bring the necklace to the palace, Sherman. Our customer will be picking it up within the hour.”
“Yes, sir,” Sherman replied smoothly. As soon as Drew waddled off, however, he muttered “Moron,” and reached up to grab the necklace. Carefully taking it from its shelf, he shoved it in his pocket and left.

There you go! Congratulations, you have survived the Snippet onslaught. xD What did you guys think?