| Sergei. 12.03.2006 15:24 |
Hi, everyone~like i mentioned earlier, ladymercury's egg story gave me the idea to finally write my story and stop being so lazy! (thanks!) So I thought I'd share my first chapter and get appraised! (...) Sorry that it is so long but it takes me a while to get my thoughts out :-D Story #1: Erica The Gossiper Once there was a girl named Erica. She wasn't the smartest person in the world. In fact, her grade point average was lower than the ancient fossils at the base of a mountain. But she merely thought of her GPA as a big jumble of numbers with a dot somewhere in between. She had a reasonably functioning brain, but didn't use it much, except to think about makeup, clothing, and ponder over whether her next skintight t-shirt would come from Aeropostale, Hollister or American Eagle. Another thing that she liked to think about was what it was like to be "unpopular…" not that she herself was popular, you see. She simply thought she was. She enjoyed talking about other people in her small gossip circle during gym class rather than spend that time doing what she was supposed to (exercising), so, rather than get a good grade in gym (at LEAST) to make up for that giant gap in her educational ozone layer that she wasted away in all her other subjects, she got a sucky grade in EVERY subject, including gym. As a result, this unknowledgeable child was held back in sixth grade until she became so old she need three workmen and a crane just to lift a fork to her puckered up little face, which she one day attempted to put makeup on and caused an allergic reaction that nearly killed her-not that anyone sat on the edge of her seat, understand. To this day, she herself says little on the matter. I sat back in my chair and examined my most recent work of literature, frowning. This was worse than Barry Manilow's remake album of 1960's classics. Oh well-I was working in crunch time; wasn't one of those people who painted flowers all over my face and tapped away on my ancient typewriter 24/7. Not that there was anything wrong with that. "Lilly," my mom's shrill tone dared me to talk back in a sarcastic tone. "What," I made a nasty, scowling face to show that I wasn't completely deprived of attitude. My mom had been nagging on me the whole morn. "I thought I told you to get working on that math packet!" I could almost see the form of a long donkey snout and foot-long ears, taking shape on her thin face as I quickly cooked up a smart comment I could shoot back that righteously did not deserve an arse whooping. "I finished working on that math packet," I retort, closing up my "short story notebook" and shoving into my messenger bag/back pack along with the deuced Summer math packet. "Don't get smart with me, young lady." For about the fifth time in the past two weeks, I briefly considered revealing to my mom that I had been calling her "Castro" behind her back since I could think for myself. But I refrain. "Okay, I won't!" I smile widely, ensuring that I reveal as much masticated shrimp in my mouth as possible. Castro looks at me, disgustedly. "And what in God's name are you eating?" Hehe. She was falling for it: hook, line and sinker. "Shrimp," I reply nonchalantly, picking up my fork and proceeding to dig around in a carryout box of cold fried rice. Through my peripheral vision, I watch Castro as she cringes and her face turns the same color as Barcelona during the La Tomatina Festival. "You are not going to eat shrimp for breakfast," she says through clenched teeth. "Whatever for?" I was jockeying to pluck her last nerve. But what the heck. I was doing my job-just like Castro was doing hers. "Fish is brain food." Okay, so I knew shrimp was a crustacean, but, as a 12-year-old I knew that I had to ration my brain into acting smart at school, and to act stupid at home: something t |
| Sergei. 12.03.2006 15:25 |
Ok, so this was the point when I had to give up my short-lived breakfast and do as I was asked. I noisily got up from the dining room table and grabbed the carryout box, rattling the handle of the fork around the edges as loud as possible. Heavily footed, I stomped over to the sink and tossed the fork into the basin with a clatter. I shoot Castro a quick glance so as to check on my progress. Good, Good, I thought to myself. It's getting to her. I carry on with my duty, making as much noise as possible to ensure that Castro's moodiness was not going to raise my white flag anytime soon. How did I do this, you may wonder? Simply this… to prove that I wasn't going to completely obey Castro, I defiantly took another piece of shrimp out of the container with my forefinger and thumb and popped it into my mouth. Castro sighed, a great sign that I had successfully annoyed the crap out of her. Not that I do this every day, you see. These kinds of occasions are reserved for stressful days such as this one: the dreaded first day of school. Of sixth grade. The day that so unwittingly signifies the end of elementary school. The day when you have officially graduated from writing with pencils larger and fatter in circumference than Cedric the Entertainer's middle finger. This...was insanity at it’s peak and I don’t give a rat’s arse who knows it! “MOM!!” Boomed a voice that, if I hadn’t known that I had an older brother upstairs, I would have thought was god summoning Castro and not Shaun Mankovich. “What!!!!???” Castro answered in her concerned, mother like voice. For some reason, she has yet to realize that Shaun is never in Dire Straits when he uses that tone and is merely looking for something that he is too lazy to get up and look for himself. “I don’t have any clean underwear!!” “You have got to be kidding me...” Castro slowly dragged her right hand down her face in exasperation. She then turned to me, still seated at the dining room table, and shook her head again. “Your father had to pick this week to go to Chicago, didn’t he?” she said to me. “I don’t know,” I said in my oblivious teenager voice that I used to reply to questions I knew where rhetorical, but had to answer because I couldn’t stand the silence that hung in the air while I was supposedly expected to ponder the answers. “It WAS for business, you know.” She sighed again and then turned and rested her gaze on Galileo, the family dog who lay sprawled in the middle of the kitchen, fast asleep and snoring oh so slightly. “And why do you have to be laying in the middle of the damn floor?” Which, obviously, she knew was not supposed to be answered (he’s a dog, for God’s sake) but just another method Castro has of letting out her anger: talking to inanimate objects, or, should I say, nearly inanimate objects (now that I remember the days when Galileo didn’t sleep all day). To which the hairy old mutt responded by letting out a juicy sigh, allowing a long string of doggy slobber ooze out from his mouth and into a thick, syrupy puddle of spit on the hardwood floor. This was ovbiously enough for Claire (Castro) Mankovich, for she hot-footed it over to where Galileo was snoozing and sharply yanked him on all fours by his collar, followed by dragging the wretched, still half asleep creature over to the cellar door and shoving him in before even having time to whimper. I listened to the dull thud of Galileo’s paws as he schlepped down the wooden stairs and into the cold cellar, where he would be condemned when caught doing disgusting things like slobbering or pissing on furniture and the floor. “Honestly, sometimes it amazes me why we even bother to keep that...that...thing around the house,” Castro muttered. “MOM!!!” I watch Castro as she quietly closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths; clearly she’s having a morning from hell. Shaun wasn’t making it any better with his record breaking yelling, and neither was the fact that today was his first |
| Sergei. 12.03.2006 15:25 |
“Jilly?” A voice says from the corner of the foyer. I groan loudly and try to force a smile, though it is hard...but of course. It is Marina-she is the only person I know that does not know how to say my real name. Ever since she was born, Marina had been calling me Jilly. Not that she could help it, you understand. She was autistic, not to mention one year younger than I. I turn around, my fake smile shining and obvious like a pimple on a supermodel. “Hey, Mar.” I watch her as she grins an uneven toothed smile and goes back to creating a color code of stale Froot Loops and proceeds to count the rings in the floor boards. I briefly consider how lucky she is that she still had another week until her school started. Not that she went, you see. Actually, a fat lady named Miss Maloney, who specializes in teaching autistic children, comes to our house every day while Shaun and I are in school and teaches Marina life skills. But, still, to me, it means another week of playing soccer in Central Park, of walking down Broadway eating Italian Ices we have acquired from scraggly street vendors, and snickering at the pencil thin models that walked in and out of Maybelline, day after day. Not that Marina did any of this, understand. She spent her leisure time doing things that the average American considers ridiculous: tearing magazine pages, color coding Froot Loops and counting coins out of the spare change jar. It’s just that everywhere I go with my best friend, Francis, Castro and my dad are always making me bring Marina along. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, you understand. “I’ll see you this afternoon,” I give her a quick kiss and dash out of the house and across the street before Shaun would need me to do him a favor on a whim. Not that I would actually do it, you understand. |
| Sergei. 12.03.2006 15:26 |
Ok that is it for now, but like I said, i am sooooo sorry for it having to be so long. :-( |
| Carol! the Musical 12.03.2006 16:03 |
Fab story! I love your writing style and your word choice!! :D |
| That guy who digs energy domes 12.03.2006 16:06 |
Good word choice and sensory detail |
| Sergei. 12.03.2006 16:56 |
thanks! I'll be writing more when I get back from my favorite place-Borders! |
| magicalfreddiemercury 12.03.2006 23:28 |
So, childwhoevery1hates, what is your plan for this story? If you had to sum it up in, say... three to four sentences, including the beginning, middle and end, could you do it? Could you then compare it to something in modern culture? Meaning, can you compare or contrast popular fiction or TV shows to give a sense of your story? For example, from what I've read of it so far, I'd say something like this: A little Sex in the City flavor seasons The Osbourne's. That's called a high-concept pitch. It gives the feel of your story by comparing it to something most people will recognize. Add your 3-4 sentence synosis to your high-concept pitch and you have a decent query for an agent or publisher. If you're serious about your writing - which is fresh and very chic-litty, IMO - you might want to check out this site: link It's a literary agent's website and according to the information there, he's actively seeking Young Adult stories. After you read his intro, if you're still interested - click on Submission Guidelines. Hey, ya never know. ;-) |
| Sergei. 13.03.2006 06:52 |
ok, thanx, i'll look at it. Well, a Summary...let's see... About a girl living in New York City and has an autistic sister and an average life, she's got a wild friend who likes talking about strange stuff, and she has annother friend who is quite rich and lives in Manhattan. :-D So basically it is about how sometimes, groups of friends break apart once you reach middle school and things become even more diverse. The trio of friends eventually falls apart and in the end the main character's closests friend dies, for she takes the "wrong path." |
| Sergei. 16.03.2006 20:47 |
Oh, furck it. Looks like the man created the site out of goddamned dreamweaver. |
| magicalfreddiemercury 16.03.2006 20:48 |
childwhoevery1hates wrote: Oh, furck it. Looks like the man created the site out of goddamned dreamweaver.lol. What happened? |
| Forever88 16.03.2006 21:25 |
nice story!!!! |
| Sergei. 17.03.2006 15:25 |
Magical Freddie Mercury: I dunno. No oofence to the person that posted the link (thanks, btw) so much as the man just seems dull. For a second I thought I was going to that furniture and sheets company website. Ethan Allen. Except he has "berg" on the end of his name. I shall still continue to write this story, though. Forever 88: Thank you! Chinesedogtorture: Thank you! QOW: Thank you! |
| Sergei. 17.03.2006 15:25 |
The OSBOURNES??? lol! |