Walking in a Winterless Wonderland

And a fall-less wonderland, as well.

For those of you who live in South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, and the like, you understand what I'm saying.

For those of you who live in other parts of America or the world, let me explain.

We have very odd weather here.

It starts warming up in February.

No lie. 

It starts cooling off in October or November.

We basically have no winter.

I'm 21, and I've seen snow once in my life.

It was around Valentine's Day, and I was babysitting about 20-30 minutes away from my house. The kids' grandmother called and asked if we'd noticed the snow.

I got insanely excited -- 17 years old and it was snowing! Woo hoo!

I was really nervous about driving back into town, because I'd never seen snow, and now I had to drive in it? 

The kids' grandfather followed me into town, which was really nice, but then after running around in the snow like a three year old (which my dad described as "typical college kid behavior"), he wanted me to drive around with him.

I was really afraid of just going 'round town for fun, but it actually wasn't that bad, because no one else here knows how to drive in snow, so no one else was about.

Also, in my biology book, the author mentioned a compound - I think some sort of salty stuff - and called it a "deicer". Well, in my limited knowledge of ice and snow, I first assumed it was a fancy French word for something and pronounced "deh-eye-see-yer".

Um, no, it's "de-icer". A thing that melts ice.

Oh.

Well.

Okay.
This also explains why - when test driving a car - I looked in the dash thing-y (the word escapes me at the moment) and saw this really weird looking object.
It looked like a toothless comb.
I showed it to my dad like "What is this thing??"
He laughed and told me to guess.
Apparently it was an ice scraper.
Oh.

Writing Well is Hard

I'm in a senior seminar this semester. We're all working on either fiction projects or poetry projects.

For those of you who have read my poetry, you've probably gathered that 1) I'm pretty good at free verse, and 2) anything not in free verse is not my cup of tea. 

Now fiction . . . fiction is my cup of tea.

You could say that I've had a bit of experience writing fiction.

I self-published a pretty short book about two years ago, and most of the people who left reviews liked it.

This semester I'm aiming for a full-length novel.

Oh my giddy aunt, y'all.

You have no idea how hard this is.

Keep in mind, this isn't necessarily for enjoyment, though I'm sure I will enjoy it for the most part.

This is for a grade.

And credits.

Mostly the credits.

But get this: there's a prospectus.

We've gotta outline it.

We've got to cover everything from beginning to end, no plot holes.

And we're likely going to get critiqued.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining -- I love critiques of my stories. Love them. It makes for a better, more coherent, more detailed story.

But gosh . . . it's hard.

But hard is good.

Things I will (eventually) Re-create . . .

I've decided to make a list of all the things that I will eventually rewrite and gift to the world . . .
. . . for a small fee . . .
(By the way, this list is actually more for my benefit than yours, simply because I may 1. forget, 2. become distracted, and / or any combination of the two. But if you like what you see, shoot me an electronic smoke signal if there's something you really want in the story. Who knows? Might just end up there.)

- Romeo and Juliet
- Beauty and the Beast
- Lady and the Tramp
- Snow White and the Seven Dwarves
- Sleeping Beauty
- The Little Mermaid
- (a twist on) Peter Pan
and, of course, my personal pet:
- Phantom of the Opera

(Do I have an obsession with Disney? . . . Nope.)

My Valentine's Day . . . Thing

I'm calling this "From Paris, with Love"
(Yes, I have an obsession with 'Romeo and Juliet'. And no, Romeo is not the ultimate guy. That other guy is. And if you want to see the Paris I'm talking about, watch the 1936 version of "Romeo and Juliet". Much less awkward than the newer ones.)

The Capulet Mausoleum.
Near mid-night.

His footsteps were of an unsteady tempo, but they matched the beat that made sore his ribs, that throbbed in his skull. The darkness of the moonless night was compounded by his moist blindness. He fell, tasted blood, spat behind him.
His pain, his frenzy, the blood: they all reminded him he was alive.
He didn't desire to be alive.
He desired Juliet, the innocent, glowing flower he'd danced with at the masquerade.
And Juliet lie dead, just beyond the cold, stone door before him.
He held the torch before him, the flame bouncing wildly, and - as he heaved the door open - it cast unnatural shadows within the crypt.
The flame was reflected by the silk that his bride had been cocooned in.
His fingers numbed and he heard the torch fall.
He collapsed at her side, gathering her into his arms.
"Juliet . . ."
His tears splattered on the girl's face. It looked as if they were her own.
"If I could give my life for thine, I would fain commence the exchange," he whispered, stroking her hair.
He imagined a waking sigh, and buried his face in her chocolate locks, drinking in the scent of lavender and vanilla.
"I know I had not your love. I know the young Montague has stolen your heart."
He forced down the bile that choked him, his face stinging with passion.
"But . . . if your heart desired him . . . I would . . . gladly . . . yielded."
A small void cooled his cheek. His numb hand registered movement within her, and he watched - stupefied - as Juliet's eyelids opened, revealing crystalline azure eyes.

. . . TO BE CONTINUED.

RIP Bucky . . . the Furry Mūs

So today in fiction class, Zack had us write three into sentences to this plot:

"A girl about 11-12 years old finds an injured squirrel and cares for it for a year, until her parents decide it's too dangerous to be kept in the house. They make her get rid of it. She takes it to the park where she often took it to play. She watched it scamper off, but left before it came back."

Oh. My. Gosh.
I says, "That's sad; I don't wanna write about that." But - as this epic author often states - "I said it in my head, so nobody heard it but me". I wrote the three he asked for and then - y'all are gonna hate me  for this - but I um, well . . . I sort of killed it. I implied it was probably dead. Squashed. In the road. Uh, yeah.

However!
In "Development of the English Language", we read words in Old English.
Now THAT was fun!
And no, Old English is not Shakespeare. He may be difficult for you to understand, but he actually wrote in Modern English. Modern as in "what we speak now". Yep.

THIS is Old English.

And that is "Beowulf". Epic. Story. You must read it before you die. You must.
(For those who are unaware.)
[Also, mūs up there is Old English for um, well, mouse. It's pretty neat, actually.]