other bits of blog

Friday, January 22, 2010

i think i needed to write

Hey, you all! I wrote a couple pages tonight. And I found out that my story is 10 pages long, at least on Word, it is...
You know which story I'm talking about. Oh, come on, how can you not? It's the best one! Diana, Mica, magic. Okay, now you figured it out.
And now you can read the other, um, seven or eight pages. Nope, nu-uh. You can't read this first. Refresh your memory. I want you to get the whole picture! So read, this first, this second, and this third.
Then you can go down.
Plus, I started at the beginning of a paragraph. Now will you agree? Okay, get started!

Dancing With Thieves
Mica sits on a large, black leather-bound chair. When he sees me, he smiles. His coal black hair flops in front of his eyes, and I reach to my neck to play with that amber necklace that I always wear. It brings me luck. I look at him and I get that feeling again. The feeling that I trust him, even though I know nothing about him. The feeling that I could follow him anywhere. The feeling that when I look into his eyes, I see my own.
She was born on March third, 1921, at 11:11 PM, in Oxford, England. The day, or rather night, was surprisingly mild for the beginning of March, even though it was one of the worst downpours the city had ever seen. The first crocus of the year had just pushed itself out from the ground, cracking the snow, and painting it with colors.
The mother had touched the crocuses that very morning, as she went out for a breath of fresh air. She had bent down over her swollen belly and brushed a purple crocus with her fingertips. It seemed to unfold at her touch, and she knew it was a sign.
At exactly 7:53 PM, the labor began. It lasted only about three or four hours. And at 11:11, she pushed her own way out of the snow. And the mother held her in her arms as she cooed and teased. The father was there, leaning over the mother’s shoulder. And he knew, as he saw this little girl, even before he looked into her dark blue eyes, that she was born to him. She was born to dance with the spies and the thieves and the traitors. He knew.
As the child grew older, her sapphire eyes changed color. They became darker and darker until all that was left was a deep lavender. Her eyes were purple. By the time that happened, the girl had turned five. She grew quickly, as did her hair. The girl’s hair was fire red, and seemed to grow an inch a night. By the time she turned seven, her hair was to her knees. At first she refused to cut it. The young girl couldn’t bear to lose that part of her, that fire.
But she agreed once her father told her what was inside of her. The fire there was even stronger, and the girl was delighted. She cut her own hair the next day, singing of course, while raising her left hand. He father watched and yearned. All his life he had wished to be as his great great grandfather had been. He longed for magic. But he had none.
Then the father remembered the boy in school. He had it, too. But he didn’t use it for a good cause. He used it to hurt others. The father had been one of Edmond’s main targets. He was small, he was weak, and he couldn’t fight back, no one could. So the father had left and for years he had trained himself, so he could be ready to meet Edmond, but he never saw him again.
Time seemed to fly by for the young girl. Her mother was kind and a good cook, but her favorite was her father. The girl’s father taught her all he knew. By the time she was ten, she could pick the pocket of any man even better than her father. But he also taught her mathematics, astronomy, history, and three languages. By the time she was thirteen, the girl spoke them all fluently. That same year the girl stopped being a girl and became woman. One day she woke to find blood covering her sheets. Thinking she was wounded, she showed her mother, who was also a doctor. The mother just laughed and explained the cycle of womanhood to her daughter. At first the girl, a woman now, was puzzled. She didn’t understand why. But eventually she learned to accept it.
When she was fourteen, the girl met a boy. He lived in Oxford as well. But he had moved there the following year. Curious, she skipped over to see him. They started courting. And she kissed for the first time. A month later, he left Oxford. The girl was heartbroken. But she forgot him, by and by, what with her studies to keep up, and now this annoying fault of becoming a woman.
On her fifteenth birthday, the girl was given a necklace from her father. It was amber, shining against her hair. She clasped the cord around her neck, and kept it on all the time.
And that very night, the night that her magic became the strongest it had ever been, it started to pour. It seemed like there was a knock on the door. The girl went to open it. All she saw was rain, then it went black.
The rain was as hard and dark as the night that the girl was born, the night that Diana Wesley was born.

Don, don, don, don. (Hee, hee, I can't help saying that. I mean, it's not really supposed to be dramatic, but, there you go, that's just me.)


  1. u posted at 1 maia!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11

  2. what you mean?
    huh huh huh huh?
    u no make sense...

  3. Helloooooo!

    I'm commenting, as you requested, oh wonderful author. (I am NOT being sarcastic; your story is good!!!)


  5. madi: u so funny
    irregular girl: thnx!!!

  6. yo maia, when are you gonna post another one!?!?!?!?! i wanna read more! :)

  7. sooon! hopefully tomorrow. i started a new story-civil rights-and i will post that soon. or maybe my poem about isis and leo. or maybe i'll hit you a double!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    hee hee