10. Muse of Fear

Hello.

So, I'm going to take a leaf out of Julia's book and just talk for this post. 

I've told you once that most of the inspiration I get comes from music. 

When it doesn't, when writer's block takes over, then I have to go to greater lengths.

Have you ever really felt like you were in a horror film? Like, any moment, something scary as frick is gonna happen and you'll never be the same? Same here, but for me, stuff like that does happen.

So, a couple months ago, I was walking around the lake a little ways from my house. Near my friend Skylar's house, the lake shallows into a stream that stretches about twelve or thirteen feet. I'd been back there a few times before, and I liked to go when I need inspiration. I see and hear all kinds of stuff back there. It's relatively peaceful, but there's creepy stuff too. Once I saw a dead deer in the lake. At first I thought it was a log, then saw it's eyes. 

But if you're asking, no, that's far from the creepiest.

On that day I'd wished someone else had been with me. 

Like I said, the stream goes deep into the woods, maybe a  mile or so, and a good ways away from the houses. While I was walking, I heard something, so I stopped. At first I thought it was the bells of the church that ring sometimes. Then I recognized it. 

It was the voice of a little girl singing. The song was something Christmas-y, I can't remember. It may have been jingle bells.

I would've been fine with this, if it hadn't been August. 

So, as you can imagine, I got the heck out of there.

Another scary thing happened when we were playing Cops and Robbers.

If anyone knows me, I take that game very, very seriously. I'd sooner sprain my ankle than get tagged. 

Anyway, it just so happens that this night, my neighbor had friends over, so they played too. 

The following is the reason I don't like said friends.

Having lived where I do now for almost sixteen years, I know the entire outline of the cul-de-sac by heart. Just by the road, there's a slip of tall fir trees (I think they're fir idk) and, with one of the stranger friends on my tail, that's where I headed. If one made it far enough back, they could climb the fence into Cassidy's yard, and this was my plan. 

I'd expected the boy to stop following me, but he didn't.

There I was, using my bare arms to push past the protruding branches, shutting my eyes and running blindly as the limbs scraped my face. I turned and realized he'd stopped, and he stood on the street by the edge of the trees. I was fine with him not pursuing me, but I was still running at full speed, throwing myself against the offending branches. Then the boy started really creeping my out.

He, too, started to sing.

Three blind mice.

The sound of it was so creepy it actually made me run faster. I finally reached the fence, and I figured he went back to the base. 

That game finished with me and Cody being totally awesome and getting on the base, and our team won.

These above are true stories,

and you know why my stories are so messed up.

>:D

9. Grace and Choice

"I know my weakness, know my voice,

and I believe in grace and choice."

Meet Tane.

He's not a Hunter, something of which occupied most of the land of Elsa. No, Tane is something far more scarce.

Tane is one that wakes the angels.
And the first one he wakes slips through his fingers. 

Now, he's got to find her before she does something disastrous,
or something worse happens to him.

Meet Alto.

He's nothing special.
For his entire life he's been a outcast.
His village betrayed him, pursued him, and he's been on the run ever since.
With only a few measly coins to his name, he finds himself in a cell buried deep in a mountain's base.

What connects these two?

Only the angel Nessa.

After being awakened by Tane, this strong-willed warrior manages to escape before being thrust back into the ranks. She flees to Hynix, a vast land filled with all kinds of danger. She hides from those who pursue her, knowing of the strong bond an angel shares with their Waker.
Can an angel who's only known the protection of the barracks be able to survive here?

In a quest for freedom, all three of these troubled teens encounter two things in their journey:
grace and choice.


A future story/perhaps NaNoWriMo muse.

8. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

Describe your favorite Christmas holiday drink and why.

Easy.

Welch's White Grape Juice.

Describe it? Let's see. It's like a clear green, kind of light barely tossed sea glass.  It comes in a long-necked bottle, like wine, and it's fun to tease my brother with. Usually, we only get one bottle a year, for New Year's, but this year, since I had friends over, Mom agreed to let me get two (also, it was a two-for-five-bucks deal at Harris Teeter). So there I was, two days before New Year's, staring at the bottles that seemed to gather dust as they sat on their shelf in the pantry. I wanted nothing more that to grab one, rip the gold foil from its neck, and chug the drink right there.
I was good. I waited.
Too long for my taste.
Then my mom got a phone call. She'd won the Christmas basket at our dentist's office. When she brought it home, I peered inside, expecting only dental things. Then my eyes fell upon it: a bottle of Welch's White Grape Juice.
Or, should I correct, another bottle of Welch's White Grape Juice.
Two plus one is three. Three bottles of this glorious nectar.
Yet mom still made me wait.
In short, when New Year's finally came, my neighbor Dawson and my best friend Bailey came over, and what did Dawson bring?
Yet ANOTHER bottle.
Four bottles in all.
So, basically, the three of us finished two bottles together, and the other two I kept to myself. I still have one, and to this day, it sits on its shelf, lonesome among the canned soup and peaches, waiting.
Just waiting.
It won't have to wait for long.
>: D
Good thing I can't get intoxicated on this stuff.
Another thing: Bailey, myself, a bottle of this stuff, and a webcam...not a good mix.
Whelp, that's the end of this entry.
Laters.

7. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

Write a story about Santa getting caught by a little kid.

"Little".

Now that was a word that Joseph Dame hated.

Mostly because that was a word often used to describe him, and with that word sprouted others: weak, childish, innocent, stupid.

Joey wanted to prove that these things were wrong about him, and he often stood up for himself against the bullies in his second grade class. He was pretty confident until they mocked him for believing in Santa Claus.

"He is real!" Joey had shouted. Then the bell had sounded, signaling the end of recess. He'd looked the bullies in the eye and said, "I'll prove it," before rushing off to his class.

It was there that he started planning.

He scrounged for the materials he needed, snatching a few of them right from under his mother's nose. He set it up in secret, testing it on his dog, Buckley.

After that, he knew he was ready.

Joey leaned against the wall, peering over the railing of the staircase down into the foyer. From here he could here the dishwasher running in the kitchen. He heard nothing from the family room.

That would change, soon.

Then he heard it: the soft tinkling of the bell, triggered by the thin thread he'd stretched along the boundaries of the fireplace.

Joey sprinted down the stairs, eager to come face-to-face with the Christmas legend.

He couldn't wait to tell his friends.

6. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

Write a letter to Santa.

Oh, geez, okay.

Another story, y'all, cuz I have to personal life to write about.

"Dear Mr. Claus,

I realize that you haven't heard from me in a while. I haven't really had the time to write letters the past few years, but I've decided to change that. You've always given me exactly what was on my lists, and I'm grateful for that, really, but the items on this list are...kind of a doozy.

Let's start with the simple things.

You and I both know that Dad doesn't send you letters, and that's why he doesn't always get what he wants for Christmas. So I'm gonna go out on a limb here and ask you to please get him a new portable radio. He loves listening to the football and baseball games, but his old radio is really crappy. So, yeah, that's number one.

Number two...let's see...oh, okay, how about Pez. I love Pez. 

And, um, Cheerwine? A 24 pack would be awesome."

"Daddy?"

The man stopped reading from his list and looked at his daughter. The five-year-old stayed where she was, on her knees, her arms propped on the chair in front of her. In her hand she gripped a cerulean crayon, the color light against the green construction paper under her other hand.

"Yes, honey?"

"Is that really all you want from Santa?"

The father thought over his daughter's words, listening to the faint beeps sounding in the small room. Then he took his red crayon to his yellow paper and added:

"Also, Mr. Claus....please

...please, help my wife recover."

The last thing a child needs is to lose her mother on Christmas. 

Author's note:

Mwahaha I love giving people feels.

Feel for my characters hahahaha.

>:P

Though I am cursing myself for writing this.

5. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

Write about the reflection of the room you see in shiny Christmas ornaments.

I lie on my back under the tree, gazing up at the different spherical ornaments. In one to my left, Santa's face reflects against the smooth silver, the red of his cheeks and nose clear in the light, his eyes squinted from the large smile he's giving the ornament. The reflection dips down, making him seem slimmer than he's portrayed in his own porcelain form. In his hands are a purple and red present, more a rectangle than a square against the silver. I turn my head to the right, and my movement makes a few green needles fall onto my cheek. I leave them, liking the light tickle they give my skin. I look at the blue sphere to my right, at the angel reflected in it. Her arms are outstretched wide, but her eyes are slits, which make her seem tired. I decide to leave her be and look straight up at the other silver sphere just above my head. It reflects the pale olive green of my living room walls. On the right of it, I can see the dim orange glow of the fire burning in its place. A cream spreads at the bottom of the sphere, the same cream of the carpet under my back. Two rods of blue lay against the cream; my jean-covered legs. A lighter cream shape rests beside one blue rod. But the dog stirs against my leg, and I blink at the ornament in confusion until another form leaned in toward the silver thing, its eyes a glowing blue-green.

"It's time for dinner, Liz," my sister states simply.

4. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

Describe your perfect snow day.

I open the door, prepared for the blast of cold wind that laps against my cheeks. I step out, carefully making my way down the four iced brick steps and then leaping onto the clean layer of snow. It's thin up to the edge of my driveway, which my father hasn't had the chance to clear. I grin against my scarf and raise a booted leg to sink into the two and a half feet of snow. One foot in front of the other, I work my way through my yard until, my goal in sight. I look to my neighbors house, watching as their tiny black dog leaps into the snow, unafraid, as usual. I imagine her digging her way through the deep layers like a mole. I look forward, my grin widening as I reach my destination.

"Liz!" A chorus of voices cheer as I reach up and wrap a gloved hand around a thick branch of the magnolia tree. I pull myself up, out of the thick snow, and onto the branch, clean save for a light dust of snowflakes. I stand on the branch and peer through the surrounding branches at children preparing to their sled down the sloped hill, attempting- and sometimes failing- to dodge the few trees and bushes. I hear the strong wind before it hits my face. I turn towards it but keep my eyes on the snow above. As the wind comes, the snow goes, falling to the curled magnolia leaves around me. They sound softly as they land, almost like they're singing their way to their own destination. But that one is only temporary. In the next gust, they'll be blown somewhere else.

Yet they still sing.

3. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

What would you do in a Christmas zombie apocalypse?

Once again, I hold my breath as loud moans leak through the cracks in the wooden trapdoor, barred with two long iron bars. walls. Heavy footfalls and the pounding of fists sound above, and I'm suddenly thankful for the basement to hide us, and the strong amount of dust and musky scents to mask our own from the creatures. I let out a light sigh when the noises cease and focus on the small fire that Pete had built in a metal bucket in the middle of the concrete floor. The fire leaps from the curling corners of newspapers set aflame for warmth against the chilly night. The cold stings my bare fingers, which I bury in the folds of my extra-large (I actually think it's a men's) jacket. I look around at the group, all of us strangers. Some cling to each other, either because by some chance they know them, or they just need comfort.

Family is an almost unknown thing in this new world.

I have Pete, one of my dad's fishing buddies. He'd come to check up on my family after the disease broke out, but he was too late for us.

Not me, though, as you can see.

He'd found me curled up in the corner of the pantry, blood on my hands, knees, and cheeks, a gun with an emptied magazine in my grip. A girl, in a house empty save three rotting corpses. 

I watch from my spot against the cold wall as two girls, both maybe thirteen or fourteen, cover their ears so as not to hear the moans from above. I glance at Pete, noticing his gaze is on them as well. Then he does something I almost don't expect.

But I know Pete.

And I remember that tonight is Christmas Eve.

Pete opens his mouth to speak, or, better, sing.

"Hark! the herald angels sing 'Glory to the newborn King'."

I listen as he continues to sing, the words along with his southern accent sounding better from his lips than any church choir. Others join in, timidly, then growing stronger, louder. Brave tears trickle down bloody, dirty cheeks.

Probably because it was only a matter of time before each of us turn into the things hammering against the wooden walls protecting us.

2. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

Put yourself in your favorite Christmas movie.

Hope y'all like Scrooge.

I stand still as time passes, almost like it's being fast-forwarded. It stops every now and then and lets some scenes play at their normal speed. I watch as an old man walks across a snow-covered street, while the people around him shy away. He passes me, and a chill runs down my neck as his passing brings a cold air to my skin. I turn to watch him go, but time moves fast again, the scene in front of me a kaleidoscope of black and white dotted with bits of color. I see a flash of a candle, a man draped in chains. The old man from before is scared, confused. The chained man leaves the other there, but he isn't alone for long. The scenes slow, showing the man in his bed. Then a bell tolls.

Time moves faster. A woman in red appears and takes the man for a journey in his past. I stand beside them, watching children running, people dancing, and a younger version of the old man arm in arm with a woman. 

Happy.

The scene pauses, showing me a scale, one side holding a few coins, the other an abandoned wedding ring.

What happened that made this man so miserable?










Yeah, I didn't really know how to finish this, so there you go. : /

1. Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence

Describe your drastic mood change after your parent spills coffee on your favorite gift right after it's opened.

I gaze down at the smooth black screen of my new laptop as I push aside the rest of the wrapping paper holding the device prisoner. I pull it onto my lap and look around at my family members, grinning broadly to show my approval. I run my hand along the keys, happy with its size and length. 

Dad did pretty good picking this out.
I'm about to move to plug it in when the unthinkable happens. Scalding hot liquid hits my skin and slides across the keyboard of my gift. I swipe my burning hand along my pajama pants and drop my laptop as it starts to spark. It hits the floor, and I imagine that the black screen grows even darker, and I know that it's gone. I look for the source of the substance that killed my gift, and see the slightly tipped mug in my father's hand. He looks at me with horror, and I know that the my face must look the same.
Dad did not do good.
The burning in my skin is nothing compared to that of my cheeks as I continue to stare at my dad. I can feel tears coming on, but I keep them at bay. I bite my lip and glance back at my ruined laptop in its pile of wrapping paper that had kept it safe until now.
Dad's gonna get me a new one.