Scenes of a Book

River Town

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 04:01:00 GMT

There is a place where buildings were built beside rivers. Summers were lovely with the trees and plants blooming with rich lively color, and the people would sit on their balconies and gaze at the lively town below. Boats and gondolas would make their way back and forth on the rivers making it seem as if it were a second street! Winters were brisk but never cold. It was windier in the winter than it was any other season. A jacket could cure even the coldest of winter days. The city was busting with a warm, friendly, inviting feeling and it erupted everywhere you went. The dwellers of this city never bore a frown. They would greet any person in eye contact with a lovely smile. Children were everywhere giggling running, and playing. Couples held hands as they floated down the street, gazing occasionally into each other’s eyes. The town was as pleasant as a town could be. Though the town was growing, especially with the wealthy, it was still small enough so that everyone knew everybody.

Mrs. McGregor ran the local bakery. She is a sweet and kind woman. If the pub was the confessional of the night, then Mrs. McGregor’s bakery was the confessional of the day. Everyone shopped there because Mrs. McGregor’s homemade freshly baked bread compared to no ones within the next hundred miles. Everyone ate bread with every meal so Mrs. McGregor’s bread was a must have for everyone. Mrs. McGregor, the lovely woman of 60, was so pleased with her success, she decided to go all out and expand her bakery into a café. You could spot anyone there drinking their daily tea and gossiping with neighbors over such trivial things such as Mrs. McGregor’s secret ingredient in her filled croissant, or the newest socialite to move into town to “get away from it all.” The portly woman, Mrs. McGregor, loved the daily gossipers who chatted away that she often participated herself! She considered those moments in the morning the best part of the day.

Miss Milliken frequently joined in these gossiping discussions just before she makes her way to her class a block away where she teaches the gossiper’s children history lessons. The frail Miss Milliken hardly ever does anything out of her weekly routine. She wakes up alone, makes a pot of coffee, showers, dresses in clothing that would better suit a woman three times her young age of 25, make her way down to the bakery to hear the latest news going around the town. She’d then teach young children a lesson in history or geography. Later she walks back home which is only 10 blocks away, and settles down on the lonely couch to watch old films until she goes to bed at 8:00pm.

The children like her but often contemplate awkward scenarios about her. They assume that her life is not nearly as dull as she portrays it to be. They dream up wild stories that she might do when she is not teaching them. Often times they are dreadfully wrong.

It is no secret between the faculty or the students that Mr. Bee, the math teacher, is absolutely smitten with Miss Milliken, though neither party are aware of this. Mr. Bee, who is a tall, lanky, thin man, fell head over heels for her when he first met her three years ago.

Mr. Bee, a lonely man by nature, spends his evenings at The Queen of Spades, which, despite it’s name, is a highly respectful pub. Many honorable but deeply saddened men go there to be in the company of other men who pine after the loves of their lives but have no idea how to get them.

The pub is built right on the river and has an entrance both at the ground and river level. Mr. Beasley always enters the pub via the river entrance because he works directly across the river at the jewelry store. He feels safer leaving through the river access when he closes up his shop. Mr. Beasley is a regular at The Queen of Spades like Mr. Bee. The two of them know each other quite well, and have made a habit of drinking together every evening.

While Mr. Bee pines for the plain ordinary Miss Milliken, Mr. Beasley longs for Miss Connolly, the daughter of Mr. Connelly, the owner of The Queen of Spades. Miss Connolly, light and beautiful, likes to work in her father’s pub because she feels like helping her father is the best way to pay him back for the wonderful childhood he’s given her. She feels proud to help her father out. Mr. Connelly, blissfully unaware of Mr. Beasley’s feelings for his daughter, enjoys spending more time with his daughter while they work together.

Miss Connelly, young and full of pleasant calmness, is fully aware of Mr. Beasley’s feelings for her, and the two of them lock eyes more times in one night than people come into the pub. Secretly and very discreetly, the pair of them will find a way to slip away from the public and hide away in the storage room where they sweetly and romantically embrace and give each other sweet kisses. They have to hide their love because Mr. Connelly could never accept their love affair. Mr. Connelly has always envisioned his daughter to marry one of those wealthy men who live on the west end of the city.

Miss Connelly’s cousin, Ms. Shannon, is a pleasant woman who has bright red hair and two young boys who are students in Miss Milliken’s and Mr. Bee’s classes. She always wears her gorgeous hair in a bun, and dresses down in old fashioned Victorian dresses which make her appear older, wiser, and strong hearted. Her boys, Victor and Anthony, are her life. She is rarely seen without them. They latch onto her as if they were magnets. She spends her free moments away from them working in a home full of the elderly. They adore her there and treat her as a saint. Ms. Shannon is a loving woman who does all she can to help them in anyway she can.

Her youngest son, Victor, spends most of his recess with a girl named Clara. Clara is a sweet charming girl who is quite charismatic. Clara loves to pretend like she is in a beauty pageant, much to Victor’s dismay. Clara and Victor’s favorite game is a fantasy adventure, where Victor is an adventurer who manages to befriend the pixie Clara, and together they go through various mishaps such as quicksand for poor Victor, and being captured by pirates!

Clara, who has poor eyesight, requires glasses to which she absolutely detests. They were partially the reason for Victor’s friendship. Victor found them quite charming.

Clara happens to be the daughter of Mr. & Mrs. Garner, a lovely couple who love to dote on their three daughters, Clara, Audrey, and Evangeline. Audrey is the middle child of the Garners. She is around the age of 10 (she keeps reminding them that her birthday is in three more months and then she’ll officially be 10), much like the elder son of Miss Shannon, Anthony. She enjoys walking over to Mr. Parlein’s toy shop with her parents to look at all the new toys he just got in. She also finds gondola rides to be the coolest thing to do in town. Audrey is an excitable child who usually finds joy and excitement in most things she does. Except baths. She finds bath time to be quite violating.

Evangeline is a young woman of 16. She is wispy and lovely. Her mother couldn’t be any prouder of her lovely daughter, except that she has an overactive imagination. Evangeline does daydream more often than most anyone she has ever met but half of the time, she can’t help it. As much as she wants to learn about Astrology, she’d rather dream that she was Cassiopeia and her dear Orion was coming to rescue her from a frightful beast. Evangeline floated instead of walked. She glided. She wore her long hair down so that the perfectly curled tips fell just above the small of her back. She always wore light dresses that flittered about as she glided. Evie, as her parents call her, enjoys telling her younger sister stories she dreamt up during the day. The girls love every story she tells them and beg for more right afterward. Evie loved also loved taking them for walks in the park. The park, which was in a little nook where the river curled, served Evie as a perfect muse for her stories. Her sisters would play and she would write as she watched them and ideas flooded her mind.

The park, also served as a wonderful muse for young Thaddeus Oro. He would come by himself to admire the beautiful streams that constantly flowed. He loved how shallow it was at this part of the town. He also liked that there was a park on each side of the river and not a building. He’d often sit on one of the large rocks on the edge of the park and dip his bare feet into the chilly water. He loved watching the people who passed on through the park. On the other side of the park was this young girl. She appeared to be 16, close to his age, and she’d sit at the base of a tree and continuously write while keeping an eye on her siblings. She came often and he had wanted to meet her but never had enough courage. That and she was always on the other side of the park and there wasn’t a bridge close by to cross over.

Thaddeus liked to live life his way. He liked doing as he pleased. Do not take this as if he was rebellious in any way, for Thaddeus is a peaceful young man. He enjoyed not having any rules to follow, therefore he took this wonderful new responsibility and decided to be responsible with it. He knew it upset his parents if he didn’t tell them where he was going so he always told them. He always came home before 7:30pm unless he told them otherwise. He did not do anything that got him in immediate trouble nor did he stray too far from home.

Thaddeus was always looking for the bigger picture. He may have been 18, but he was much more mature than many boys his age. Where other boys wondered about death, Thaddeus wondered what his purpose in life was. Where other boys wondered if the random girl was interested in them, Thaddeus only cared about “the one” and wouldn’t accept anyone less. Thaddeus was very philosophical and often pondered about things no normal person gave a second thought to. Over all, Thaddeus enjoyed doing as he pleased and living life the way he wanted to.

Thaddeus’s parents, Mr. & Mrs. Oro, were very loving parents. They simply adore their little boy and cherish everything he does. Mr. Oro believes that Thad got his smarts; however, Mrs. Oro would certainly disagree. While Mr. Oro is the breadwinner of the family, working as the chief of police, Mrs. Oro is a housewife who is thoroughly active in the community. Thaddeus was given a wonderful childhood because of his mother being able to be around him through community service, and his father’s privileges being the chief of police.

Mrs. Oro being active in the community, has spent her fair share of time in Mrs. McGregor’s bakery, listening and contributing to the neighborhood gossip.

And this sets up our scene.

A Movie Star Fights For The Girl In The Shower.

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 03:41:11 GMT

She was in the shower washing the shampoo out of her hair when she heard the sound of the glass shower door slide open. She turned to see him standing at the other end of her bathtub fully clothed with his sympathetic eyes staring directly into hers and not her naked body. She didn’t know why but she did not instantly try to cover up her naked form. She just stood there with her hands still combed through her hair. Her face was quizzical while his was pleading, compassionate and intense. It seemed like several minutes had passed before either of them spoke a word to each other but it was only a few seconds.

“you’re in my shower” she stated calmly though her face displayed shock.

“I told your roommate that I had to see you now. She let me in.”

This explained why her roommate, only minutes ago, barged into the bathroom desperate for her mouthwash. It was only to slip him in. Sneaky bitch.

She noticed he was still fully clothed. He was standing in a bathtub full of water from the running showerhead and he was still fully clothed. He was wearing black jeans, a white wifebeater t-shirt with a leather jacket over it. He may even be wearing his shoes and socks.

“Why are you here?” She asked more out of curiosity, and less because of invasion. She couldn’t believe something so absurd was occurring.

“I’m here because I love you.” His eyes flickered truth and sincerity but she was not someone who was so easily fooled. She needed proof to know this wasn’t a front. “I’m here because I cant let you slip away from my life.”

She turned away from him. Her eyes wild and overwhelmed. She remembered their last meeting. They were strolling in a park; she was telling him all about why she was absolutely in love with Linkin Park. He didn’t take his eyes off of her, and this was most unfortunate because at one point their gazes met, and for a split second he leaned in close to her face, and it made her cheeks flush red and heat up like a match. Their lips were a mere inch apart when a flash went off disturbingly close to them. She left, explaining that they belonged in different worlds. They lived separate lives. They ought to leave it that way. She lowered her hands down to her shoulders now. How is this happening?

“You don’t love me.” She coolly said.

“Why are you so afraid?” He took a step toward her. “Why cant you accept that I love you?”

“You’re a movie star... and I’m this girl from Omaha, Nebraska.” She turned around, her face filled with sorrow, doubt, and fear, but her eyes stared at him longing and hungry. “There’s no way...”

“...So what! Why is it so hard for you to accept that maybe I want to be with you all the time? Or that I love the way your voice rings in my ears or the way my skin tingles when you touch me. Why is that so hard?”

“But you’re this respected actor. You choose to be private from the media. Loving me will only make them go crazy. No movie star dates a simpleton. It wont work.”

“I wont care as long as I’m with you.” He had his hands grasping onto her shoulders. His head leaned toward hers.

She stared right into his eyes as she said “Yes you will. Your privacy is everything to you. Your privacy and everything you love about it will disappear in an instant. You’ll be miserable. I know it.”

He stared right back replying “I’d be the most miserable person on the planet if I never saw you again. I’d be more miserable without you.”

She turned away and closed her eyes. Her insides were in a battle. Part of her longed to let go, giving herself to him, but the other part was cautious. He’s a movie star... an actor. Maybe he’s acting his way into her pants. Maybe he’s being honest and does love her, but who’d want to be attacked by paparazzi and be the tabloid’s media darling? Certainly not her.

“I know deep down inside you love me too.” He whispered. “I know you want me like I want you.” He would give any and everything to kiss her right now.

“I’ll cause you so much public humiliation.” She looked down, almost starting to cry.

“Look, I know we’re not Brad and Angelina alright! But I don’t care about that stuff. I don’t care if you chose to be any thinner or be any heavier! I love you. All of you.”

She felt defeated. “You should learn to pick your battles wisely.”

He was confused. “What does that mean?”

“You’re willing to fight for me so hard now, you better be prepared to fight even harder for me when our relationship grows. I’m not an easy person to figure out and I’m stubborn as hell. There are going to be times when you’re not going to like me so much. Are you prepared to fight for me even then?”

He didn’t even give her statement a second thought before he responded “Of course!” His hands were rested at his side but they longed to grab her cheeks and pull her in for a kiss.

“If you quit on me, I’m going to break. Are you still prepared to fight for me?” She was playing all the cards she had, and she wasn’t bluffing.

“Without a doubt! I don’t think I could ever quit fighting for you.”

Her face changed to something similar to disgust. She was in defense mode. “You are so quick to assume so!” She turned so that he saw her left profile. She stared at the misty glass that separated her from the real world. Turning her face toward him, she said “Wait, until you encounter a situation that pushes you to give up. Then get back to me.”

He almost laughed, and maybe a chuckle or two came out before asking “Like this situation?”

Her whole entire being paused, except for her racing mind. She turned to look at his smiling face. It was warm and inviting. His poor clothes were anything but dry. She couldn’t deny him or herself anymore. She could barely resist his long brown hair that was almost wavy and curled out a bit once it hit his shoulders. She couldn’t resist the soft brown eyes that spoke volumes. She couldn’t deny his soft skin and the way they touched her gently. He was picking his battle, and he knew everything she objected against. He loved that about her.

“I love the way your hair smells, and the way it bounces as you walk. I love your brown eyes and I love the fact that you think they are ugly. I love the way you talk and the way you sing. I especially love it when you fumble your words because you make the cutest face. I love how you are so compassionate towards other people even though then annoy you so much. I love... I love how you see so much more in life than most do and I love how passionate you are towards the things you love.”

He was curiously enthusiastic and didn’t have to think about any of these points. She was crying but the water from the shower cloaked them, so she thought. Once he finished, he stepped toward her, and placed the palm of his right hand in the nook of her cheekbone. He believed God chiseled it perfectly so that it fit in the palm of his hand. His thumb gently grazed her cheek, wiping away the tear she thought he couldn’t see falling down her face. She leaned her cheek into his palm. His heart was pounding. He moved his hand down to her chin, and with a curled index finger, he moved her chin closer to him and soon their lips locked.

It lasted a second but it felt like an hour. When they parted, she kept her eyes closed and didn’t move her pose. She was savoring every little bit of the kiss. When she opened her eyes and leaned back to stand straight she saw his illuminated face. She couldn’t resist any longer. She launched forward, wrapping both of her arms around his neck, and landing her lips on top of his. His hands instinctively wrapped around her bare back. Her smooth skin felt like porcelain. It would’ve been intoxicating, except he was too occupied with the intense sensation that was going on in his lips.

When they separated she immediately grabbed his jacket. “Let’s get this off of you.” Instantly he focused all his might on taking off his black leather jacket, but it still took several tries to get it off of his left hand. She chuckled as he hurried the best he could and failed.

“You’re tangling it!” she giggled.

He was reduced to flat out flailing his hand to get it off. Opening the glass door, he flailed until it finally slapped onto the tile. They both laughed hysterically as they kissed once again. As he kissed her, she reached down and peeled the drenched wifebeater off of his body. She launched in for another kiss after his wifebeater left his hands and fell in the soapy shampooed water.

His kisses were electric. They ran down her spine every time his lips touched her skin. He would kiss her eyelids, her cheek, the back of her earlobe, her cheekbone, her neck, her shoulder, her breasts. Every kiss sent shockwaves down her spine.

Her embrace sent shivers racing throughout his body. The feel of her skin on his skin was exhilarating. Her breasts were pressed against his biceps and it sent tremors through-out his body.

He never wanted to let her go. She never wanted to be out of his arms.

A Woman's Jog Is Interrupted By A Silver Convertible

Wed, 02 May 2007 20:48:47 GMT

Author's Review: When I wrote this, I was on vacation in Estes Park, Colorado over two years ago. It's not the best scene i've ever written, and it could use some work, but this was the first non-romantic "scene" that i've ever written, and i thought it was written amazingly well for my first time. I was also really really really into the show Alias when i wrote this.

My mind just kept telling me to keep breathing and keep running. I was running the fastest run of my life. I could hear my sneakers smack the cement sidewalk along Appleton Road. I could feel the heaving of my chest with every breath I took. I could hear the screeching of the tires on the silver convertible that was chasing me. I could hear the occasional bullet that roared into the air geared at me. I needed to outsmart them… whoever they were.

I took a sharp right into the driveway of a random house and I jumped their fence into their backyard. No way could they get back there. Well, no way the car could get back there. I still kept running. Who knew who they were, what they wanted, and what they’d do to either shoot me or capture me. I didn’t know, I didn’t think about it. I needed to get away from them. I jumped random fences and ran into random yards. Finally, when I hadn’t heard any distant rattling of fences, or the crunching of grass behind me, I, then, ran back to a street. It wasn’t Appleton Road, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t be caught dead back there. No screeching tires, no sounds of distant footsteps, no sounds of anything other than nature and my footsteps. I’m sure if someone looked out their window, and saw me, they’d think I’d just been spooked by a ghost or something. Where was I? I saw the green street sign. Iratoga Avenue it read. I was so far away from my house. I didn’t realize I was this far away. I barely knew anyone who lived in this area, except, possibly… no. No. I cannot let her harbor me. I cannot put her in any type of danger. Especially not this type of danger.

My feet were in so much pain, and my legs were burning. Even my clenched hands and arms were receiving undesirable pain. I kept going though. I kept running, kept losing track of where I was, and kept up my straining energy, all of it unconsciously. She’s the closest one to here. Where is here? Arbor Lane. Arbor Lane? No… that’s so even more out of my way than I should be! Now I don’t have a choice. I have to have her harbor me… for a little while anyway. The screeching tires again. So they didn’t follow me through the backyards. I turned to the left of the random house by me at the time. I ran through their yard, and ran into their fenceless backyard. This was a nice neighborhood. No dogs apparently, for only a few houses had fences around it.

Ok, so I'm going back to where I was, Iratoga Avenue. 29^th Street shouldn’t be too far away. That’s where Helena lived. Helena Waterstone, my most shy, yet one of my good friends for many years. I didn’t want her to harbor me whilst this was continuing to happen to me. She’s a fragile woman. She’d crack under the pressure. She did not come into this world to deal with such troubles as random people trying to shoot her oldest friend near her house. But in this time, I have no choice. My shoes smack quickly against the pavement, and with every step, the pain becomes a slight bit more unbearable, yet I remain running. I hear the tires, but they’re not behind me. They seem to be going farther away, and then they sound a bit closer. They must not know that I’m running up Iratoga Avenue. That’s good. That’s very good. Just keep running. Just keep breathing, even though my chest is heaving, and every breath I take is a struggle. Just keep breathing.

I’ve always had a lot of stamina. Even when I was a child, I would never give up, and I’ve always admired that about myself. Oh no. The tires are getting closer. Closer. Closer. The closest mailbox in front of me suddenly got a small forceful blow to it, leaving a small round hole in it. My body explodes in fear and panic. I'm not going to make it. I can’t cut off now! I'm so close to her house! I, now, force my body to go faster. I don’t know how to shake them. They are coming down the hill I’m climbing. I can see the silver sparkle of the sun reflecting off of the hood. They’re ready to get me. I just need to make it to the next corner, and then I’ll be home free. I heard bullet shots, but not from the silver car this time, but from a black Toyota car that’s coming up the hill near me. It hit the windshield of the silver convertible, and shattered it, however, it stayed intact, yet the convertible managed to lose control, and swerved around away from us.

Out of habit, I look back at the source of the shot, only to see the car stopped beside me, and an arm coming from the backseat of the car, grabbing a hold of my shirt, and pulling me inside. My mind was racing. I didn’t know what was going on, whose car I was in, or what was going to happen to me. Everyone in the car wore suits, and looked like perfect striking gentlemen. I, on the other hand, was less graceful in my mannerisms. I fidgeted, touched everything, and got all sorts of prints everywhere on the window, from my fingers, to my forehead and nose.

The man to the left of me reached into his coat jacket, and pulled out a wallet-type thing. He faced it towards me with his hand placed in the center to avoid the flap from falling. “Don’t be scared, we’re CIA” he said really fast in the calm, monotonish type voice. Inside the wallet thingy was a shiny gold badge, and a paper that said something, but he quickly flicked the flap back up and put it back into his coat jacket.

The guy in the passenger seat turned and faced me. Apparently they were all wearing sunglasses too. “How’re ya feeling kid?”

Uhh, kind of confused and in the middle of a heart attack, so, good? “I'm fine… what’s going on?”

“What’s your name kid?” said the guy to the left of me.

Did I want to give them my real name? Hell no. “Helena… What the hell is going on?”

“Your real name… first and last”

“Helena Waterst…son. Helena Waterson” I could tell I was wearing down their patience. I’d bet if the driver weren’t driving, all three would be glaring at me. “Rebecca. Rebecca Danner.” A smirk arose on the two men’s faces. The one in the passenger seat turned around facing forward. “Now, will someone care to tell me what the hell is going on?” The car made a soft rumbling sound as it continued riding down random streets.

“Rebecca, do you have any idea who was in that car that was chasing you?”

“No…”

“…We do,” His tone was strong. I could sense tension in all of them. This was serious… as if it wasn’t already when they tried to kill me, but this isn’t just some case of mistaken identity. This wasn’t a case of me being tracked. This is life altering in the most un-clichéd term of the phrase. “and they are not to be taken lightly, you understand?” I nodded, very scared, very afraid. “They are powerful, and they usually get what they want.”

“What do they want from me? I don’t have anythi...”

“…On the contrary you do. You don’t know it yet, but you have a lot to offer both them, and us.”

“Well, let me ask you again, who are they? What do they want from me? What do you want from me? Why were they shooting me if they needed me? What is going on here?” I couldn’t take it. I had too many questions, and I’m sure they had some of the answers, but not all. This was all overwhelming. I went from being a normal 22 year old woman living in Topeka, Kansas, trying to live a successful life, so close to graduating from college, creating my own life for myself, to being chased after like I was a rabid wild dog. I have plenty of friends, a… close friend, and good relations with my parents, and, well, my life was great. I do my share of partying, but I do plenty of studying. I work for a bank and I do my job well. I’m working to pay off college, but I’m also in the market for a new apartment. I mean, I love my friends dearly, but I need a life of my own.

This morning, I woke up, took a shower, combed my short straight blonde hair into shape, as I blow-dried it. It felt especially silky today. I walked back into my room, greeted my roommate Larissa hello, and put on my undergarments, then, slinked into my soft comfortable pink tee. The feel of the lightweight material against my newly washed skin felt wonderful. I soaked it in. Then I put on my khaki pants, brushed on some make up for today, and then looked at myself in the mirror. I'm not satisfied with my skin. It’s too pale. I’m so afraid of tanning though, so I have to deal with it. I wish there was something non-surgical that I could do to get rid of the huge mole on my neck. I do like the way the tiny mole below my left eye looks. That’s what I call my sexy mole. Overall, the shirt made my waist look particularly more in shape today. The khakis, however, did not show my smooth, thin legs. Overall, I was satisfied. Larissa, Azura, and Reilly were already sitting at the table and eating. Azura, however, just sat down with her bowl of Fruit Loops, that disgusting five-year-old chow of a breakfast. I ate with them, had a good conversation, learned that Larissa dirtied up her clean slate, and Azura has, yet a new boyfriend, and that only means, that in two days she’ll bed him, and then he’ll be yesterday’s news. Reilly has yet to find a girl he’s truly interested in since he’s roomed with us. Girls hit on him all the time because he’s absolutely fantastically gorgeous, but he’s too shy around them. It’s a wonder he actually agreed to live with us three girls when he was asked to. According to Larissa, Azura has her ways, and she knows how to use them. But since then, I’ve gotten to know Reilly, and he’s just not like that. Nothing tempts that man. How can it be that just an hour later from that moment, when I go out on my morning jog before my first class at 11 o’clock, that I would be chased by a car, shot at, and be rescued my CIA agents.

“So many questions, and so little we can answer.” Said the driver.

“You must tell me. I don’t know about you, but this doesn’t happen to me every damn day.”

“Get used to it. You’re their main target right now. They will hunt you until they’ve caught you, or until something, or someone new catches their eye.” I’ve never felt shear defeat in my entire life.

“Now tell me what I have that you all want.”

“We’ll get to it, but not right now. We must take you to our agency immediately.”

“Tell me everything that you can tell me now.”

“You’re in danger, Rebecca. We’re the only ones who know how to outsmart your enemies. You must fully trust us, and we’re aware of how difficult it will be for you to completely trust anyone right now that has anything to do with this mess. Once you trust us fully, we will train you, and, of course with your permission, train you as one of our own.”

“So, you’re, for lack of a better word, recruiting me before the enemy does?”

“You can look at it that way if you wish. I prefer thinking about your safety first, and then any chance of recruitment.”

“You must tell me who they are.”

“Rebecca, I don’t know if you’re ready to fully understand who they are, and what they do, and why. After all, we have yet to figure out their full concept other than to create eccentric and detailed plans to harm humanity.”

“I’m ready for anything now. Just tell me. Now.” My face was burning. I was sweating, and I was getting riled up from the obvious lack of communication between me and the other occupants of the car. The man beside me looked, and nodded towards the man in the passengers seat, who returned the gesture.

IS IT CRAP OR GOLD? LET ME KNOW BY WRITING A COMMENT. BEFORE YOUR FINGERS TYPE THE "C", "R", "A", OR "P" LETTERS, BE SURE YOU HAVE A REASON AND A WAY TO IMPROVE MY STORY. ALSO, ANY COMMENT THAT CRITICIZES MY GRAMMAR WILL BE IGNORED, FOR IT'S APPARENT YOU DIDN'T READ THE ENTRY "INFORMATION BOOTH"

Information Booth

Mon, 30 Apr 2007 06:03:51 GMT

Hello. Welcome to the wonderful blog that is Scenes of a Book!

We want your stay here to be as comfortable and easy to understand as possible. In order to make your stay as comprehensible as possible, i've devised a list of F.A.Q.'s that hopefully will answer any question that comes into your mind.

What is the purpose of "scenesofabook"?

It's quite simple really, but let's start from the beginning. If you read the prior entry, entitled "The Story of a Girl Who Hates Grammar and Dreams of Being a Great Author Someday", then you'd find out that girl behind the words is a young woman who has quite an imagination. She uses her expansive imagination to occupy her when she is bored or when she is stressed. Sometimes her brain chooses to play out a scenario, a fantasy if you will, that she pretends is going on, though it only exists in her mind, while she continues doing whatever it is that she's doing. Sometimes these scenarios, or fantasies, call them what you will, have potential.

You see, the young woman is a writer, and she constantly comes up with ideas that tickle her fancy, and yet doesn't always have an outlet for these ideas. She's always been the type of writer who writes from the very beginning, to the body, to the end. It's only worked out for her once, and that was because it was an assignment for school she had to have in order to graduate. She generally gets stuck trying to transition from the introduction to the body of the story.   This has left her confidence in her writing abilities in shambles.

Then one day recently, she had an idea. Why not start writing the body first, and leave the introduction (her strongest point if you ask her) to be written last. It sounded brilliant.  She had a better idea. Why not start with the very moment that caused her to write the silly story to begin with! Even better! Then she got into the shower, and out of boredom her mind kicked in and caused her to imagine that a certain actor had barged in on her shower, fully clothed. A fantasy you say. She would've said so too, except that she saw potential in the scene.   She started writing it down until the fantasy had ended. She realized that her scenarios or fantasies could be ideas masquerading themselves as relief from boredom.

Scenes of a Book was born out of this very thought.

Back to your question though, the purpose of "scenesofabook" is to record the scenes that just happen to come to the girl behind the words. To keep them recorded and retrievable just in case a situation pops up when the scene could come in handy in a story.   She also sees potential in having people distinguish crap from gold, and to hone her skills as a writer.

She says she wants to be a great author but she doesn't use grammar. How can she hone her skills if she doesn't use them?

What an excellent question. She could use grammar she supposes, however, she chooses not to. She doesn't like using up her creative energy making sure that punctuation marks are all correct and in the right place. Plus, she feels the purpose of this journal is to preserve an idea, not to make sure every "T" is crossed and every "I" is dotted. She knows her grammar, and she knows when to use it, but if she feels she doesn't have to use it, then chances are she wont.

Also, it's not as if she's abolishing ALL grammar. She just doesn't capitalize every letter that ought to be capitalized, or put an apostrophe between the "n" and the "t" in "couldn't". It's not like she wont put a comma in a sentence when there is a pause, nor put a period at the end of a sentence. That's just awful writing skills. She chooses to be lazy with her writing, but not confusing.

Who is this "Girl Behind The Words"?

She chooses to be mysterious and anonymous for now. She'll divulge that she recently turned 21, and that she lives in the United States. She also mentioned in a prior entry that she has long wavy brown hair. She also has a personal journal on LiveJournal, however she wont say which one.

She'll admit to being a huge TV and Movie fanatic. She's a fan of Alias, Lost, 24, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Office (british and american), Grey's Anatomy, Veronica Mars, House, Prison Break, Bones, and Arrested Development. She is also a fan of Lord of the Rings, The Notebook, Titanic, Romeo + Juliet, Harry Potter, Donnie Darko, Minority Report, Hook, Dogma, Chronicles of Narnia, and Pirates of the Caribbean (and a lot more, but if the list didn't end now, it never will).

She has other things she'll let slip. She secretly has a huge collection of stickers. She has a love of fairies, pixies, sprites and angels. She is an iTunes addict, and her iPod is practically attached at her hip. She is not a shoe person at all, and is quite picky when buying a pair (but if she had a weakness in shoes, it'd be for sandals and boots). She has a large collection of blank journals. (she's too afraid to write in any of them, in fear of not completing them and/or ruining them.) She has recently been trying to learn to crochet because she wants to make her own scarf. She likes every genre of music except R&B. For some unknown reason, she simply cannot listen to any R&B songs, and she believes it's because they feel manufactured and fake while most other genres of music are generally from the heart, but that's just a guess. She doesn't like to discuss politics, religion, or body image issues to other people. She simply cannot pay her car insurance fee on time despite her many attempts to try. She yearns to travel.

As far as her writing abilities go, she tends to write more romantic stories than anything else because she has a lot of unresolved sexual and romantic tension within her. Other people have commented that her strength in writing is her style of writing; her voice. It has been said several times that her writing is easy to read and feels like a conversation rather than a story. She believes her strength lies in her ideas, and doesn't feel one way or another about her writing style. She doesn't think it's horrible, but she certainly believes she has a ways to go and many lessons to learn before her writing style can be truly great. Her weaknesses, besides grammar and punctuation, are her organization skills. She has trouble seeing the difference between the relevant information and the irrelevant, and where one person would omit, she might leave it. Certainly a point to work on.

What if I only want to read a certain kind of story, like what if i only wanted to read the love stories?

Another good question! There are several ways to find out this type of information. First, each scene will have one or more tag that describes what kind of story it is. An example is, that all the "love stories" will have the tag "love story" whereas all the action stories will have "action story" as it's tag.   The profile should provide you with the links to each tag and clicking the link will give you a display of all the stories that have been tagged "love stories", and will show them in descending order from when they were posted.

If that is too complicating for you, or you want to find a certain entry, then you might want to browse through the memories. If you browse through the profile, you'll see a link for the memory folder. Clicking the the link they provide will lead you to an area that is categorized by type of story. Each scenario/fantasy/entry will be put in the memory folder and categorized accordingly.

Do your icons have a pattern to them?

How observant! Yes! They do. If you'll see, each has a reference to books. Some are obvious, and some are very subtle, but hopefully not too subtle. As you can see, they are also the girl's favorite movies and TV shows (or both!) as well.

Are the subject lines the "title" of the scene?

Yes and no. The subject lines are actually a way for the girl to categorize her ideas so she can recall them without having to really search for them. You'll see how she didn't title her first entry "introduction", and instead "titled" it "The Story of a Girl Who Hates Grammar and Dreams of Being a Great Author." This is her way of showing you how she'll be titling her scenes.

I've read one or more of her ideas and i have some advice to give her. Can i?

Yes. Absolutely. The Girl may be a little sensitive to criticism, but she herself will be the first to admit that she needs to get over it, and develop a layer of thick skin, and the only way to do so is to first receive constructive criticism. Though, it is most certainly not necessary for anyone to give constructive criticism either. This is a collection of ideas first, and a way to hone her skills second.

She only wishes that, if you do choose to give out constructive criticism, not to criticize about grammar. She knows. She wants it to be known that she's doing it on purpose, and she's let it be known several times. Constructive criticism over grammar will be ignored, because it'll be a tell-tale sign that they did not bother to read over these F.A.Q.'s.

I love these stories! Can i tell my friends about them?

You are allowed to tell them until you're blue in the face.  She'd prefer it if you went to a hospital if your face turned blue, instead of telling people about her stories.

Well, i hope you learned a lot about "scenesofabook" from this F.A.Q. cheat sheet!  Have a great stay, and dont forget to try the veal, i hear it's excellent.

The Story of a Girl Who Hates Grammar and Dreams of Being A Great Author Someday.

Mon, 30 Apr 2007 03:59:07 GMT

Imagine a girl who is sitting on a grey chair, at a small white desk which is too small for her. Her hands are extended, touching black keys on a black keyboard. Around her is mess; papers, pop cans, letters, wrappers, index cards, tape, pens, stickers, speakers, pictures, post its and cd's.   Resting on a stand is a monitor which visualizes the glitches going off in the black computer tower which stands to it's right. This, above all things, is the most important object on her desk.

When her fingers aren't rapidly punching away at the poor buttons on the keyboard, they rest in place, or sometimes grab the blue can of Diet Pepsi. Sometimes they comb through the waves of brown hair that float down from her head. Most times, it's to allow the right hand to grasp hold of the black contraption that causes a little arrow on her monitor to move about wherever she pleases.

When this girl is not clicking and clacking the keyboard, she can be found at the Bakery section in SuperTarget. Lately she's been dreading the moments before arriving at her inevitable destination. Her job isn't tough, but it's demanding, and she doesn't have a lot of energy devoted to working. She's currently running on an empty tank, and somehow she's surviving, but she's in dire need of refueling. Due to the empty tank, she draws her energy from another tank... another, more enjoyable, tank. She retreats into her mind when she doesn't need to think, which is surprisingly quite a lot. Her mind is vast and never-ending. Most of the time her attention is focused toward a song or a part of a song that she particularly likes. This satisfies her when she is at her most unsatisfiable, and time flies miraculously.

But it's not always a song that occupies her. Sometimes... just sometimes... a scenario breaks out in her brain. In her imagination, she's doing her job, but out of the corner of her eye her imagination places the image of whoever her heart is beating for that day. Dare i mention that Orlando Bloom, Hayden Christensen and Joseph Gordon-Levitt are frequent players in these scenes.   Sometimes, these fantasies play out pretty nicely and turn out to be pretty good.   Sometimes, they are worthy enough to be put into a story... a book. The downfall, is no such stories exist for them to be put into.

Why not just record them? Just the scenes themselves, and nothing else? I can put them in a story later, or i can build a story around it. Why not?  This is where Livejournal comes in. This girl believes, that typing out these little sequences of events out in a public forum will not only help her to distinguish crap from gold, but it just might hone her skills! She desperately wants to have a clear cut talent, and the closest thing she has is writing.   Honing her skills in writing will bring on so much more than success. It'll bring out confidence; the one thing she wishes she had but greatly lacks. However, getting no responses wont damage her either. Her main objective is to record these moments of genius created during times of utter boredom.

Someday soon, that girl will finally decide what she wants to do with her life. She'd love it if writing were apart of it in some way, but can survive if it doesn't. A fantasy of hers is to write a book that will affect and inspire every reader that has the good fortune of turning it's pages. This is far fetched for her now, but someday, she hopes it can be achieved.

For now, the girl with the wavy brown hair who works in a bakery at supertarget and sits on a grey chair typing on a black keyboard, will settle for typing out scenes of a book on livejournal completely grammar free (because grammar is for the professionals *wink*) , and keep them right at her fingertips if she ever needs them.