A Constantly-Updated collection of works in progress which I'm sure will be Plagurized now that they are on the Internet - DON'T USE THEASAURSES!!!! I DON'T, AND IF YOU NEED TO THAN YOU ARE JUST NOT BEING CREATIVE!!!! - Miscellaneous - http://maxpages.com/absolutecrap/Fiction_of

All of this is my various works-in-progress...not all of them, but the ones I wish to share anyway. The dates are when I started them. The 1st is okay, they get better.

This first story is about a girl who's father is a complete asshole...he was screwing his secretary and then left his wife and daughter, but that doesn't matter to Jane because she lives in a world that is mostly fantasy. Her mother, who has OCD, shelters her daughter from everything, especially boys because of her father. Currently untitled.

July 15, 1999
Jane's eyes fluttered open early on a warm day in late June. The first rays of sunlight were streaming in through thin curtains hung over the window at her bedside, and she could make out the merry chirps of birds who had waken up not long before her. Jane brushed away the hair that had fallen over her face and glanced a the clock. The delicate minute hand of the antique alarm clock was just past twelve, telling her she had not overslept more than a few minutes. Six o’clock in the morning was an ungodly hour for most 12-year-olds to start their day, but secretly Jane enjoyed nothing more than awakening when the house was still and quiet, to have a peaceful moment before plunging into her days. A second in time reserved solely for her and the birds.
Swinging her feet over the side of her high spindle frame bed, Jane thought happily about the day she had planned with her father, starting with strawberry picking and ending with a chamber music concert. Jane shivered when her feet touched the chilly wooden floor, hastily feeling around for her slippers which had (as usual) disappeared under her bed. After a brief search she slid them on and padded over to the large cage which housed her bet rabbit, Nibbles, who was anxious to be fed. Whispering softly to him and smiling Jane poured him a fresh bowl of feed and patted his head as he chewed fiercely.
Jane’s room had become brighter and the curtains had begun to dance to the gentle breeze coming off of the ocean. Quickly grabbing a faded T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts Jane threw off her pajamas and changed into her scruffy weekend wear, while mentally choosing an outfit for the concert that evening. Jane’s smile radiated brilliantly while she leaned out of the open window, inhaling deeply the scent of ocean and the hedge of rosa rigosa far beneath her third-story room. Seagulls swooped over the shore while butterflies lazily dried their wings from the light shower the night before.
Jane had chosen the somewhat cramped bedroom on the top floor of her family’s modest seaside cottage for it’s spectacular view of the gardens, the ocean, and the glimpse of a certain bedroom window in the house next door. The slanting roof and two gabled windows forced her to duck when trekking into the crawl space along on side of her wall, but it provided a most cozy reading environment. The window not facing the house in question was a spectacular viewing place for summer sunrises over the ocean. The third-story room was Jane’s refuge from the world, the beauty that she saw was hers alone, no one else could appreciate her sanctuary that way Jane could.
The clock on Jane’s bedside table, which had a malfunctioning alarm system and broke often, read 6:20 and Jane could hear her mother banging pots and pans together in an effort to put breakfast on the table before Jane awoke, but she was always a little off in her timing. One of those quirky eccentricities that made Jane’s mother so lovable. That’s what she was to the world; the caring and cutely faulted mother of Jane Kerrey, the first child after 4 miscarriages and one still-born. Jane was the most important thing in the world to her mother, her pride and joy, the child that would be protected from the world no matter what was thrown her way.

This was just something I wrote for the hell of it, and I ended up turning it into a short story. The only problem is that I have no idea what it is going to be about. Currently untitled.

August 2, 1999
Jealousy. Part of being a good writer-- a deep human begin, even-- is pain and intense emotional struggle. Depression, insomnia, addiction...these worked for some, fueled their masterpieces, but for those based primarily on animal instinct and lacking the convenient family history of mental and physical disease can feed off of the ripping agony that is jealousy. To purposely become involved in a situation you cannot perceivably win that has much at stake is what some writers do enhance the emotion of their works, to add the subtle, minute, details which separate the mediocre from the divine. Those who survive off of pain could perhaps revel in the soul-wrenching wrath of the green eyed monster, but lurking just over the precipice of despair is a risk of becoming hardened. How far can one push one's emotions before the gift of feeling anything at all slips from their clenched fists? To find a lover devoted to another or to learn of a friend who has betrayed you will ensure a storm of rage...or jealousy, where it is appropriate. Those cursed with naturally jealous dispositions will no doubt sympathize with the younger ones, who are just learning to feel their blood turn to fire. Innocence is lost, giving way to self-pity and a constant bombardment of murderous thoughts and loathing not only of one's self, but of the object which stirred this tempest.
And I suppose you could say that is where it all started.

This is my earliest work that I haven't destroyed (don't ask) and it is like a fantasy thing patially inspired by this book called "sbariel" and partially from an amazing dream I had. It's about these kids at this fantastic wicca/ astronomy/ arts/ classical studies school in this made-up country trying to save it from some sort of disaster (I haven't decided what). This is going to be tough to write, so don't expect it updated for a couple of months.

March 7, 1999
The night was warm, and if you concentrated, you could smell the scent of peaches wafting through the air. Above the sky was clear and the starts were brighter than they had ever been before, almost outshining the large moon creeping above the horizon. Monarch butterflies and blue-green dragonflies danced together around the yard, and their colors shone with an magical glow. The grass was covered in dew that caught the light of the moon, as were the fragile spider webs draped across the stone fountain located in the middle of the yard.
On the outskirts of the lawn there was a grove of peach trees, their fruit a shimmering gold, hinted with shades of orange and deep red. The water that had gathered on the leaves made the trees appear silver from a distance, but in actuality they were the darkest shade of green. Wild flowers in most intense tints of amethyst,magenta, azure, and saffron grew thickly beyond the grove, and beyond them was a small beck that twisted and turned on the border of the land.
All of this was not as spectacular as the dominant feature of the land. A large house that glimmered with a brilliant honey-colored light seemed ablaze with magic. It rested on a tall Rowan tree, with a ladder of gold twine hanging down from the porch. The light invited you to it, as did the soft wind chimes rattling in the warm wind. The front door was adorned with a large smiling bronze sun, and beside it was an equally cheerful pewter moon. Drying herbs and flowers bunched and tied with ribbon were hanging from the eves of the porch, and they swayed in the breeze keeping time with the gentle melody of the chimes. The paint on the house seemed to be made entirely of golden sparkles that shimmered in the moonlight. A tower rose into the sky from the northwestern corner of the house, and on top of it was an iron weather vane, and on the roof of the house there was a widow’s walk surrounded by a short fence of the same iron.
The windows were dark, but you could feel energy harbored within the walls of the house. You could see inside a massive hearth with pots and pans surrounding it, and an impressive, yet somehow ordinary stone fireplace. The interior of the house had dries flowers and branches of various trees scattered everywhere, and the wooden floors looked old and worn. The many bedrooms all had beds with canopies of different colors in rich velvet for the winter and delicate silk for the summer. The silk canopies had patterns of golden suns and stars, while the velvet ones were decorated with silver moons instead of suns. All of the rooms had Victorian furniture and oil paintings except for one, which was minimally furnished with simple wooden chairs and a small table.
On the other side of the beck there was a large hill sloping up toward the sky surrounded on all sides by a huge expanse of empty field, dotted here and there with patches of clover and goldenrod growing along the edges. The focus point of the treeless area was a small observatory on the hill, which stood looming against the darkening sky. A stone archway with black wrought iron gates lead to a narrow, winding cobblestone path. The bright colors of a magnificent garden surrounded the path, and during the day birds could be heard chirping merrily all around the observatory. As the path approached the tall circular building the stone steps come into view, as well as the modest doorway that lead to the stairs. Once inside the observatory, you could see murals of the sky, each bend of the staircase bringing a new month. Mingled in amongst the stars were portraits of Galileo and constellations outlined in gold paint.

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Page Updated Mon Aug 2, 1999 9:03pm EDT