"I can't believe you said that! Apologize to the entire continent of England!"

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Oh, folks! I just dug up a rather bad story I wrote for Creative Writing last semester. The story itself is rushed and anvilicious, so I may fix it up and post it all later, but for now, I leave thee with some of the good parts. The story is titled 'The Name of the Game is Mau', which is possibly just a thing that SHHS theatre/band/chorus/artsy folks'll get, but who knows? Could be a universal game. Quick run-down: ( Read more...Collapse )

Snippets:

And lo, on the fourth day, He created football. And no one cared about the other days, 'cos hey, football, thought Taylor Collins in annoyance as he switched off the television. The screen flashed white for a moment and then died with a buzz. The buzz probably wasn't a good thing, but he didn't exactly have the money to fix the TV. As for fixing it himself... he had a sudden flashback to how he electrocuted his first Sim and shuddered. Better not.

---

Taylor woke up to a dingy room lit only by a single flickering 50 watt bulb. That and the glow of four Apple iBooks. They were obviously going for a noir-style hideout and failing miserably, but you had to admire their determination.

He leaned forward to get a glimpse of one of the computer scream and yelped when he fell over. From his position on the ground with his face smashed into the floor, he made an important mental note: Trying to walk forward while strapped around your waist to a chair, not a good idea.

"Well, it seems Special Agent Cavanaugh has awoken," a sinister-sounding voice echoed through the room. Taylor lifted his head off the ground and looked around, attempting to find the source.

"Really? Good for him," he said, just to have something to say.

"Don't be an ass, he meant you," snapped another voice, less echo-y and sinister, and more annoyed.

Taylor raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh. Are you crazy or something?"

"No, we are not 'crazy'! Crazy people kill people, or blow up buildings, or don't pay their taxes!"

There was a sudden silence in which you could have heard a pin drop, had there been a pin in the room. But there wasn't, so you ended up hearing nothing.

"Moving on," said the sinister voice. "We're sure you know why you're here, Agent Cavanaugh."

"Not... really, no," Taylor said, his voice more than a little muffled by the carpet which, in the tradition of motel carpets everywhere, smelled vaguely of bleach and cat urine. "Why don't you set my chair up and tell me why you keep calling me Agent Cavanaugh?"

"Very funny." Someone sat his chair up though, so he wasn't too concerned. "Now look, we've got the FBI on the phone, they need to make sure you're alive and all that, so talk." An ear piece was shoved into his ear and Taylor winced, wondering what sort of damage that possibly did.

There was a bit of the crackling universal to cell phones, and then someone spoke. "I'm Agent Dan McGrew-"

"Congratulations," Taylor said sarcastically. "I hope you know that I'm not Agent Cavanaugh."

"Oh, we know. He came into work this morning and is understandably upset about being reported kidnapped. Now look, the important thing here is to stay calm, and not to do anything that would incite them to violence. We're tracing the phone now-"

There was some sort of commotion in the background, and Taylor waited patiently.

"What do you mean, 'untraceable'?" a voice hissed. Taylor rolled his eyes.

"Way to inspire confidence, jackass."

---

It was about an hour later when the FBI bust down the door with cries of "Nobody move!" Nobody did move, although they did give rather odd looks to the agents before them over the tops of their cards.

"And I was just about to win, too," Taylor said with a sigh, setting down his hand.

The sinister kidnapper took a card off the top of the deck and placed it on Taylor's card. "You didn't call P of O," he explained.

"Somehow, I doubt that matters."

Agent Danielle McGrew pulled off her helmut. "You're playing cards with them," she snapped at Taylor. "They're kidnappers!"

"So?" he asked defensively. "They're very nice people, once you get past the insane, psychotic part of their personalities!"

She stared at him. "You're crazy. We just rescued a crazy person from a group of crazy people."

"I am not crazy! Crazy people don't pay ta-" He paused. "Never mind."

---

Oh sweet Jesus.

I joined a Numb3rs slash fic community, and now I'm going to get banned from it because I have my age in my userinfo and I'm not over eighteen. Let's ignore the fact that I'm probably not going to get offended by the fics if I'm the one who joined it, jackass. And that's the only reason I can come up with for banning me from the community.

And for that matter, if they have a 'you must be over eighteen' rule, then why would they let me stay in the community if I take my age out of my userinfo? That's all kinds of dumbass.

Whatever.

Quotes and thoughtage, yo.

LOCI
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Crossing Jordan
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Damn it Mom, you know how much I hate staying with family members! Or at least you should, since whenever you bring up spring break I tell you that I don't want to spend half of it with Grandma Eileen and Grandpa Don. Visit for a day, sure, but I don't want to stay with them. I hate being a guest.

Maybe she just doesn't get it, the same way she doesn't get that I'm not even looking at University of Toronto for college anymore, or that my dearest dream ISN'T to be "a lab rat in the basement of the FBI building". These are the things she always brags loudly to random people about, ignoring the fact that I'm resigned to (even looking forward to) going to Metro for college and that my fear is that I'll be a lab rat instead of an agent.

I thought I was doing pretty well with avoiding the usual teenage sterotypes of "no one understands me" and the like, but I'm sick of my mom thinking she knows my dreams - and telling everyone - and for treating me like one of her best friends and then getting mad when I don't follow her orders. So. Over. It.