The Game of Lies

The Liar was getting bored. He didn't know who had come up with this brilliant idea of recruiting more Liars, but when he found out, he was going to strangle him. He had gone through fifteen people today, and it was five more minutes until the end of his shift. Those fifteen people had either been blatantly obnoxious, cracking very bad jokes or very, very bad liars.

But the Liar was very good at his job, and he made every one of them think they were going to be chosen.

Last one, the Liar sighed to himself, crossing another name off his clipboard. He read the last name there. "Come in, Visere," he called.

No one entered, and for a second the Liar thought 'Visere' had grown tired of waiting and gone home, which suited everyone perfectly well. But then, slowly, the door opened, and a boy peeked inside. He was barely into adolescence - probably ten years old or so - with a head of untidy brown hair. But the Liar was immediately drawn to his eyes, which were a steady, unwavering green.

"Come in," the Liar repeated, motioning to the chair facing him.

Visere darted in and sat himself down very gingerly on the chair, looking not at all comfortable. His gaze was locked firmly onto the Liar.

Confident, thought the Liar, scribbling the word down. Though the boy was giving some opposite signals... Either confident, or frightened out of his wits, he added. "Well, Visere," said the Liar with a smile, "so you want to join the Diplomats."

There was a brief silence. The boy was taking his time, and he knew it. The Liar crossed out the last phrase he had written on the sheet of paper. The kid wasn't frightened. He was supremely confident. He was just acting.

"I do want to join the Diplomats," Visere said, in a fairly neutral tone. His voice didn't waver. "But I don't just want to. I will join."

The Liar's eyes narrowed. "How old are you?"

"Ten. Which is why I'm suitable."

Yes. Start training from a young age. The Liar made a note on his clipboard, then looked back up. "What if I told you there was hard work involved? It's not all fun and games."

Visere shrugged. "I know that."

Actually, thought the Liar, you have no idea. He grinned to himself. "What if I told you we're not serving the King?"

Visere's eyes widened. He realized his mistake a second too late. "Who are you serving, then?"

"The Queen."

"She's dead."

The Liar raised a patronising eyebrow. "I know that." He waited for a response, but the boy didn't speak. "Well then, Visere, what if I told you that we're not actually serving the Queen?"

"Who are you serving, then?"

The Liar allowed a smirk to play on his face. "The King."

Visere's face coloured. He made a move to stand up, but thought better of it at the last moment. "Two can play at this game," he hissed. "What if I told you I was an orphan?"

Good, thought the Liar, but not good enough. "Truth."

"What if I said my parents were killed in the almost-rebellion?"

Too easy. "Truth."

Visere's eyes narrowed. "What if I told you that my dream is to assassinate the King?"

The Liar's smirk turned into a grin. "Well then, my protege, we'd better hope that's a lie."

An argument

"I said no already!" Visere whipped around, eyes furious. He shot the girl opposite him a menacing glare. "I told you, I'm not going to die!"

There was a wooden table between the man and the girl, who was on a plush leather chair, and looked a little too comfortable. She sighed and took a breath. "You have to, Vis!"

"Look, Therese, I have everything planned out. I have a whole group of Sorcerers from both kingdoms. I have a huge political influence, more than enough money, and an army at my disposal. Who's going to kill me?"

"You'll get killed before you get the money and army."

"I already have them."

The girl called Therese quickly backtracked. "I mean, before you get to them."

Visere's eyes flashed. "I thought you wanted this," he said accusingly, standing up. His intimidating figure was towering over her. "I thought it was your idea to have a four-way battle! To frame two innocents! Why do you want me dead now, at the crux of things?"

"I don't want you dead!" snapped Therese. "There are certain ... sarcifices ... which need to be made. You'll just have to be one of them."

"Why?"

"Why? For God's sake, Visere! You're evil! You're the villain! Villains have to die!"

"So this is for the sake of the plot?"

"Everything is for the sake of the plot!"

"Therese--"

"Stop calling me Therese!" The girl cut across him. "I'm your Authoress! I feel like you're insulting me every time you call me Therese."

"Therese stems from Authoress," Visere explained innocently. "I can't exactly go around calling you Thoress."

"Then explain why it sounds insulting."

Visere smiled playfully. "Obviously I'm degrading your title of Authoress into a name which can be given to any lowly character."

"Obviously." The Authoress smiled painfully. She thought that she should pull this back on track. "But I am the Authoress, and I move the plot. Without the plot, the book is nothing! Nothing, you hear me?"

"Aren't I your favourite?" Visere complained. "Don't I get a chance to live? Can't the evil guys win, for once?"

"Well, I planned that until my Muse came up with another idea," mused the Authoress. "Besides, that wasn't High Fantasy enough. That was running away and Eragon-y."

"I can't believe this," said Visere icily. "You're throwing me away because you have to let your main character win?"

The Authoress gave him a nervous smile. "Yes?"

Visere was silent for a moment. Then his lips curved into a vicious smile. "I understand," he said, turning around. He began marching out of the room. "I understand completely."

"Where are you going?" cried the Authoress. The door from which he entered vanished just before his hands touched it.

"Why Therese," said Visere pleasantly, "haven't you realized already? I'm going to kill your precious main character!" He clicked his fingers, and vanished from the room.

Visére

Visére wasn't a person with a good sense of justice. He didn't struggle with morality. He never wondered whether his actions were for the greater good. He only ever wondered about a few things, and one of them was himself. The other was how much money he had. The third was how long he was going to survive for.

So even he surprised himself when he volunteered to become a spy. Yes, he would be pleasing his own lure of danger. Yes, there would be enough money for him to spend the rest of his life. But no, he wasn't going to survive very long. Not at all. Definitely not if he was caught.

Persuading a young, naive, arrogant sorcerer to become a spy was the last thing he wanted to do. He couldn't foresee the reaction. If Klyte said no--and he had every reason to say no--then Visére was dead by morning. On the off chance Klyte agreed, Visére could still be killed later. Klyte could double-cross him. He could be killed in battle. He could be assassinated.

On the other hand, if he didn't get killed, he would spend the rest of his life in the palace, servants flocking to do his bidding. He would be in the greatest honour of the king. That is, unless the king backstabbed him. Visére frowned. That was possible. What use would he be when the war was over, when they had won? The king would have no need for a spy; especially someone who was so good at hiding secrets.

Visére made up his mind, and nodded to himself. Oh, he would play along being a spy for now. But when the time came, he will take his own section of the army, hopefully allied with Klyte's sorcerers, and forge a new empire for himself.

Oh yes, and then Klyte would have to die.

Walking

They were kids once, too. Playing in the park, drawing in the dirt with sticks, shrieking with laughter as the swing brought them one step closer to heaven.

Klyte lifted his head and looked up at the pouring sky. The dark clouds rumbled overhead; it was probably time to go inside. He took a breath and walked forward, away from the house he had lived in for sixteen years. Every step leant him the courage to walk further, and eventually there was nothing but a trail of muddy footprints leading from the silent house.

His feet led him in a straight line, just walking. His tousled hair stuck to his scalp, his muddy shirt was drenched. He kept walking, until the remnants of civilisation gradually started to appear. He kept walking, dark eyes cold and silent, acknowledging and accepting the curious stares that came his way. He nodded towards a child who ran for his mother. He tossed a coin to the homeless man lying in the street. And always, he kept walking.

He walked to the castle gate and gazed at the towers he had once lived in. It was still raining. There were dozens of soldiers on the battlements, and every single arrow was trained on him. Klyte allowed them to take his interest for a few seconds, then stepped forward once more. The bridge of the moat came down silently.

He walked through the courtyard, through corridors of gold and silver. The incredulous soldiers moved out of the way as he slowly but surely walked into the throne room.

He looked up at the newly coronated king.

"Hello, Klyte."

Klyte nodded, as a vague greeting.

"I said hello, Klyte," the king said forcefully.

The boy's eyes showed no sign of interest.

"Not going to greet your king?"

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then spoke. "I already have."

"That nod was not a greeting."

"It was greeting enough."

"I am the king!" thundered the man on the throne. "I will have the respect I deserve. I know you are here on a mission to assassinate me, Klyte. I want to know why you simply walked into the castle, in plain sight."

"You let me."

"I made your job easier because I did not want to humiliate you."

Klyte reached into his bag and pulled out a dagger. "This is what I'm supposed to assassinate you with."

The king chuckled. "Well, aren't you going to do it?"

His cold eyes glinted with new-found interest. "Of course."

Ranting about work

"It's not fair!" said a teenage girl, sulking in the corner of her room which she had deemed the 'Emo CornerTM'. One would only retreat to the Emo CornerTM when one was feeling quite emo, except this girl didn't quite know what emo meant apart from cutting yourself, wearing all black and looking sad all day. As she fulfilled one of these criteria (looking sad), she decided it was enough for her to retreat to said corner.

"It's not fair!" she said again, pouting. "Holidays means holidays! A break from s...sch...sch...the S word! It doesn't mean do more work! If they wanted us to do more work they wouldn't give us holidays! And giving us tests in the 2nd week back means we have to study in the holidays or fail, which undermines the point of the holidays!"

She took a breath and began writing down an essay on why work should be banned from holidays. She tried using as many big words as she could, but it didn't work.

Holidays is defined as 'a period of relaxation away from the dreaded school' and should be exactly as stated by the Dictionary Of Awesome, which means that all activities created by, made by, invented by, distributed by or intensified by school should be banned, shreded, burnt and thrown into the depths of the sea never to be seen by anyone again, except maybe a fish or two. This means that activities such as homework, essays, assignments, study, thinking, writing or mathematics should cease in the time of holidays and should not be allowed to continue lest the subject breaks down from stress, anxiety, depression, tension or more stress.

Happy with her essay, she smiled and photocopied fifty copies, then began mailing them to all the schools in her area.

Magician

Just entertaining an idea. If it works, I might do it for Camp NaNoWriMo
-- 

"Come one, come all! Come see the boy magician!"

The cry came from a man with a megaphone, standing in the middle of a large crowd of people. As he shouted, some passersby curiously joined the crowd, some residents poked their heads out of their windows, craning their necks to have a look at this phenomenon. The crowd grew larger, and the man kept shouting. He had a rather round, red face and a squashed nose, and tufts of hair which made him resemble a tomato.

The crowd was gathered around a small boy, short for his age of seven and a half. He was juggling four rubber balls, and every so often the crowd would toss another one for him to juggle. When the ball count reached ten or so, the boy would toss them up high into the air and clap three times. The balls would vanish in a flash, the crowd would cheer, and the cycle would begin again.

Eventually they tired of this trick, and went on to the next one. The young boy jumped up, did a flip in the air, and the ground beneath his feet suddenly turned a different colour, as if a large blob of paint had been thrown against it. He flicked something in the air, and a circle of blue materialised twenty feet from where he was standing. He blew a kiss towards a girl in the crowd, and her clothes turned a stunning shade of pink.

The crowd cheered. It was Sunday afternoon, and the markets were packed. They needed some good entertainment, and this kid could certainly do that.

"Make way! Make way for the princess!"

Apparently it wasn't only the peasants who wanted entertainment. The crowd quickly shuffled out of the way as an elaborate horse-drawn carriage came into view. The chauffeur, clad in all black with a top hat and a whip, pulled on the reins. The two horses came to a stop. The man slid down gracefully and opened the carriage door, pulling down a flight of stairs as he did so. One dainty slipper appeared, then another, and then the body of a small girl no older than eight, with her dark hair braided and clipped to keep it out of her eyes.

"That's him, your highness," said the chauffeur, bowing low.

The princess eyed the young magician up and down, before scoffing. "He's dirty. And he's ugly. You brought me all the way out here to see him?"

"Oh, but your highness," replied the chauffeur stiffly, "he can do amazing tricks with his magic." He turned towards the boy and nodded quickly. "Show the princess! Go on!"

The magician stood there, bright eyes phrasing an unasked question. The princess rolled her eyes. "He's a mute. He can't say or do anything. He's useless. Come on, we're going back. Besides, I don't believe in magic. I'll have you fired for this."

"No! Wait, princess!" cried the poor chauffeur, but she had already boarded the carriage. With a resigned sigh, he gave the young magician a small smile and climbed up into his seat, and whipped the horses into movement.

The carriage turned and began moving off. The confused magician, still standing there, watched it move for a few seconds, then clapped his hands twice. The horse-drawn carriage vanished without a sound. The princess shrieked as she fell backwards onto the unpaved road, then got up, dusted herself, and began to sniff quite pitifully.

"Your highness!" gasped the chauffeur, who was more than surprised at this turn of events. "Are you quite alright?"

"What happened?" demanded the princess. "Where's the carriage? Where are my horses? Who did this?" She turned around and caught the smallest of smile tugging at the magician's mouth. "You!" she shrieked, pointing a finger in a most unladylike fashion. "You...you... you're hired! You're my personal magician now! Okay? Now come on, come back to the castle with me."

The young magician frowned.

The princess clicked her tongue impatiently. "Is he deaf, too?" she asked her chauffeur, who shrugged helplessly.

"Ah, princess," said the tomato-faced man who had been shouting earlier. "The boy's not deaf, your highness. Perhaps he has some questions he would like to ask."

"Go on then," she said. "Ask!"

The boy made a series of hand signs. The man translated. "What right do you have to order everyone around?"

The princess looked furious. "I'm the princess!"

"Why are you the princess?"

"What do you mean why? I'm the daughter of the king and queen!"

The magician made another few signs. "Why is the king the king?" translated the man, feeling as if he was about to be beheaded very soon.

"Because ... because ... his father was king!" the girl spluttered. "And his father's father was the king! And so was his father! And his, and his, and his!"

"How did the first king start, then?"

"Well, well..." The eight-year-old princess struggled for an answer. "The king was a leader!" she said triumphantly. "Someone who was a good ruler. He was chosen by everyone!"

"Then why aren't the other kings chosen by everyone as well?"

"Because the other kings were good rulers too!"

The young magician made another few hand signals. The translator stared at him in shock, then shook his head. "I'm sorry, your highness, I cannot translate."

"Don't you understand what he's saying?" asked the princess.

"Of course I do. It's just ... a little ... I do not want to die, princess."

"Translate!" the girl ordered.

The man paled. "Very well, your highness. He says that you would not become a very good ruler, if you were going to be queen." But the magician didn't stop there, he kept going. "He also says that he doesn't like you, and that you have a wonderful servant and should treat him better, and that if he were king, all servants in the land would be set free."

"Beheaded!" cried the chauffeur. "This boy is to be beheaded at sundown tomorrow!"

"No!" snapped the princess. She turned to the boy. "Come to the palace. If you have any more questions, my father will answer them. He is the king; he knows everything! And you," she added to the translator. "You come too."

She made to walk off, but then suddenly stopped. "Where is my carriage, boy?"

The magician smiled, and waved a careless hand. The carriage, together with the horses, materialised in front of him. He stepped up onto the stairs and disappeared into the carriage.

"What!" spluttered the princess. "That's my carriage! You can't ride in it! It's only for the princess!"

The boy poked his head out of the window and smiled at her, then the horses began to move.

The chauffeur's mouth dropped open. "But those horses are specifically trained to only listen to royal chauffeurs! He cannot make them move!"

The horses picked up speed, trotting right past the princess and her servant. The boy stuck his hand out of the window, and flicked at the air. Colourful paint splattered onto the wall of a nearby house. The horses sprang into a gallop, and carried the boy towards the castle.

The princess, the chauffeur and the translator could only gape after him. The translator walked over to the paint-splattered wall, and read the sentence that was written there.

I am a magician. I can do anything.

Writing experiment [Original fiction]

Title: N/A (this was a writing experiment)
A/N: I wanted to experiment with writing things that didn't make sense, which is what happened here. I have no idea what was happening, I literally wrote the first thing that popped into my head. I also wanted to include description in such a way that nobody would really notice and go 'oh, chunk of description.' because that's what usually happens to me *sigh*
P.S. If this means anything to you at all, please tell me.


He was running through the forest, under the eaves of darkness. The trees were invisible, blending neatly into the darkness of the night sky. The leaves rustled so evenly that it became a part of the background: droning on and unheeded by the human senses. There were no stars in the sky--it was a cloudy night--but even if there was, the man couldn't see them. They were blocked by the thick canopy above.

There didn't seem to be anyone--or anything--behind him, but the man kept running. He had to get out, he had to get somewhere else, somewhere that wasn't so...

He shook his head, then suddenly burst into a clearing, and he could just see the dawn of a new day as the sun shed its light onto the clouds. There was a river, there were children laughing, unaware of the hidden danger that lurked. There were women sitting outside their houses on a hot summer's day, exchanging stories. There were men newly returned from the hunt, dragging carcasses behind them.

The man watching hesitated for the slightest second, and turned almost as if to go back into the forest. But there was no longer a forest. It was a dirt road, neatly made, stretching on for miles on end and leading towards the sun. He couldn't raise his eyes and stare at the ball of fire. Instead, he kept his eyes on his feet, and began to walk.

Then, slowly, the village behind him faded from sight. There was no one else. Only him.

Feeding Time [Original Fiction]

Title: Feeding Time
Fandom: Alternate
Character(s): Vaidryn Benitez Leal and his pet tiger
Other: I'm lazy today, so this will be very very short.

 When Damian and Laik had left, Vaidryn spoke to Quillenn briefly on the phone. Five hundred soldiers should be more than enough to subdue two elusive outlaws. Of course, there was the possibility of escaping back to their own universe, but that chance wasn't high at all.

Was it?

No, it was impossible. They didn't know that the portal couldn't be moved. He most certainly had the upper hand.

Vaidryn's eyes slid over to the tiger, now awake once more and pacing expectantly. He wanted food, and he wanted it now. Sighing, Vaidryn opened the door and walked out then, moments later, returned with a huge raw steak. He threw it into the cage, and watched as the tiger ripped it up.

"Good boy," he told the tiger, smiling.

The Chase [Original Fiction]

Title: The Chase [begins]
Fandom: Alternate (Original fiction)
Character(s): Echo Nightingale, Vaidryn Benitez. [Mentioned: Laik Campbell, Damian Farrow]
Other: To celebrate Damian completing his mission--that is, finding the Key (but he still has to get out alive >.>), I have decided to write Echo/Vaidryn's reactions. Haha, what a fail celebration. Yeah, this won't make any sense to anyone except me 8D

Echo Nightingale stumbled into the private elevator prepared for her, and collapsed onto the couch. Vaidryn was going to kill her. She was so, so dead.

How was she supposed to know that they weren't caught? That they knew what was going on? The control room... Yes, that was guarded, but they must have knocked out the guards.

White hot anger shot through her. Those idiots just came in and ruined her life. They were not going to escape!

The elevator doors opened. Vaidryn turned around and smiled her. Opposite him, Laik was helping himself to some dried apricots.

"Did you find it, Echo?" asked Vaidryn, though there was really only one answer. Or so he thought.

"Uh..." Echo paused for a second. "We did find it, my lord, but..." She hesitated, and Vaidryn's patience disappeared. He looked into her mind; into the events that had just taken place. His eyes hardened with anger, but that was the only reaction.

"That's okay, Echo," he said. "You can take a break. Damian and Laik will handle the rest."

Rain [Original fiction]

Title: Rain
Fandom: N/A; Original fiction
Inspired by: Listen to the Rain by Evanescence (it's an amazing song)

She sat by the window, half-watching her reflection in the glass. The small droplets outside continued to rain from the sky, splattering noiselessly onto the pavement. The sky was overcast; the clouds dark and threatening. Lightning crackled in the sky. Then, a few seconds later, there was an explosion of thunder.

She watched, entranced, as the rain hit the ground, and rolled into the gutters. Cars traveling past were barely visible through the curtain. The rain grew heavier, the noise grew louder, and lightning flashed more frequently. The storm was getting closer.

The girl left her position next to the window and opened the door to her house. She took one step outside, then another, then slowly stepped into her front yard. Within seconds, she was drenched--the rain pounded on her head and soaked her clothes. Her wet hair clung to her scalp.

The wind blew. The lightning flashed. The thunder roared. The storm raged.

And the girl smiled up into the sky.

Escape [Original Fiction]

Title: Escape
Fandom: Alternate (original fiction)
Character(s): Vaidryn Benitez Leal
Other: This seemed like an interesting part of Vaidryn's past, so I'm expanding on it...there probably will be more later.

He slammed the door behind him and ran. His footsteps rang loudly on the marble floor, but that was the last thing on Vaidryn's mind. He flung himself up the stairs, biting his lip hard and concentrating, so that those tears in his eyes would not fall. They could not fall. Not now, not ever.

He reached the fourth floor, panting, but didn't stop. He rushed past the doors, past the people wondering how he had just materialised from thin air. He reached the room.

Vaidryn didn't remember deciding to leave, so his things were still there, scattered. But the choice seems to have been decided for him.

He grabbed his savings for the last 3 years, a jacket, and a box full of his most treasured possessions, then turned heel and left the room.

Everything else--his clothes, his toys, his precious items of worth--was left there, never to be touched by him again.

Out the door, through the corridors, down the stairs and outside. The sun was partially obscured by cloud, and it was a humid day, but he didn't dare take his jacket off. Night would plunge temperatures down to freezing.

He set of running, hugging his box of possessions, and not looking back even as the first yells went up in the Headquarters. 'Vaidryn has escaped', they would say. 'He has ran away'. But that wasn't true.

Vaidryn Benitez was free. Finally.

Two kilometers from Headquarters, he stopped and looked around. He was in the middle of the market, and there was a stall buying gold. Ah, problem solved. Striding up confidently to the stall-owner, Vaidryn opened the box and tipped the contents out. There were music players, game consoles, antique rings, books and CDs spilled out onto the table.

"How much," asked Vaidryn, "for all of it?"

His eyes caught something--a glint of gold. It was a bracelet; his mother's, one of the last things she gave to him before she left. He quickly snatched it up. "Except that."

The owner looked greedily at the items. "50 dollars," he said.

"No. That DS is worth $100 at least. That mp3, $30. I want $200 for all of it."

The man hesitated--it was a good deal but he could usually get better. But the boy was desperate. Why not do one act of kindness? "Fine. Here's four 50s."

Vaidryn nodded. "Thank you."

Guest speaker [Original fiction]

Title: Guest Speaker
Fandom: N/A (original fiction)
Character(s): Vico Veneto, you.
Warnings: Half-crack

Vico beamed at you, and the countless other people who are behind you (even if there aren't any).

"Hi," he said dramatically. He was sitting on a couch, on the stage with a giant 'VICO' banner behind him. The spotlights were trained on the teen, who had brown hair with streaks of violet in it. He was wearing baggy pants and a hoodie which wrote 'Vy-oh, not Vee-oh', an inside joke which may or may not be explained later.

"Anyway," said Vico, adjusting the microphone near his mouth, "I am here to introduce myself. As you can see--" he gestured towards the banner behind him "--my name is Vico. I came from my Author's imagination in some very strange daydreams, I'd prefer you not ask.

"The first thing you need to know about me is that I like cake. Also, my original name was Vio, which was short for Violet, of all things! However, the author wanted it changed to Italian and so chose Vico, which is not pronounced Vye-ko and more like Vee-ko, which is horrible because Vio is pronounced Vi-oh and I know you're all very interested in my name."

"Boooooo!" said the audience (including you).

Vico pouted. "Well the thing is!" he shouted over the boo-ing, "Author couldn't think of anything to write today. She ran out of muse really quickly. So I'm here. I'm like the guest, I'm so awesome."

Meanwhile, backstage, the Author checked the traffic of her blog. It went from normal to zero within a matter of seconds. Vico was so getting fired.

Too much caps [Original Fiction]

Title: Too much caps (courtesy of Damian Farrow)
Fandom: Alternate (Original fiction)
Character(s): Damian Farrow, Author (me)
Warning: Crack!
Disclaimer: I do not own anything SMH related. This contest is real, feel free to enter.

"Chaiiiiinnnn!" screamed a 15-year-old girl hysterically as she ran around in circles. "Chaaaaiiinnn!"

Her Main Character, known as Damian Farrow, was sitting in the corner trying not to crack up or go insane. He was also trying to ignore her. He was failing. "What chain?" he finally asked.

His authoress ignored him. "CHAAAAAAIIIINNNNN--"

"What chain?" he asked again, in a considerably worsened mood.

The girl, who will now be known as Author, stopped screaming temporarily and turned around. "I need a chain!"

Needless to say, at this time Damian was beginning to get quite annoyed. Not only was his creator completely and utterly insane, but she had to go around screaming her head off in his ear. Just wonderful. "Why do you need a chain?"

"Because I need a chaaaiiiiinnnnnnnn!" she cried hysterically.

"SHUT UP!" Damian shouted over her. "Why do you need the damn chain?"

Author whimpered and said something about a top-secret competition. Damian rolled his eyes. "What sort of competition is this?"

"I'M NOT TELLING!" shouted Author dramatically. "If I say anything, more people will join and I'll have more competition!"

Damian headbashed. "Does it involve killing someone with a chain?"

"If you want it to involve that, yes," said Author helpfully.

"Does it have to involve a chain?" asked Damian. "I mean, can it be killing someone with a gun?"

"NO!" shouted Author. "IT MUST BE A CHAIN! CHAIN, I AM  YOUR FATHER!"

Damian cracked up, but quickly recomposed himself. "It must be a writing contest," he thought.

"HOW'D YOU KNOW?"

"I guessed."

"Oh." There was a ridiculously quiet moment. Then: "I NEED A CHAIN!"

"THERE'S TOO MUCH CAPS!" yelled Damian, hypocritically. "You have to write about a chain?"

"Yes!"

"Is this that Sydney Morning Herald thing?"

Author blinked. "Yes, how'd you--I MEAN NO! OF COURSE NOT! YOU'RE NOT TAKING MY PRIZE AWAY FROM ME!"

"Migraine!" snapped Damian. "Shut up!"

"Sorry," said Author, in a considerably quieter tone. "Can you think of something for chain?"

"Why don't you kill someone with it?" Damian suggested.

"THAT'S STUPID--Sorry, I mean: that's stupid," she said in a hushed whisper.

Damian rolled his eyes. His head was already hurting. This wasn't helping matters. "How about," he said reasonably, "we ignore this post and come back to it when your muse is here?"

"Good idea," said Author, "but what do we call this story?"

Damian Farrow grinned a rare, evil grin. "We'll call it...THERE'S TOO MUCH CAPS!"

"Let's cut the 'there's'," Author grumbled.

To be Understood [Original fiction]

Title: To be Understood
Fandom: Alternate* (Original fiction) 
* Technically not a fandom at all. It's my novel. But one day, oh yes...8D
Character(s): Echo Nightingale (mentions Vaidryn Benitez)
N.B.: This takes place in a half-fantasy setting. Echo is turning 11, Vaidryn is 23 turning 24. In the to-be book, Echo betrays the 'good' side to join the 'evil' side, which Vaidryn commands.

They told her she was a genius; they told her she was perfect. They told her that in the next few years, she would rise to become one of the most successful commanders in their battle against Vaidryn Benitez. People who passed her in the corridors stopped just long enough to tell her how amazing she was, just long enough to ask her to demonstrate an illusion or two.

There was really just one problem.

She wanted fame, and not within the next few years. She wanted it now.

Not to mention there was something strangely alluring about joining the side of darkness. No cookies, nothing of that sort. She was just sick of being so...used. Every day, it felt like she was nothing but a tool for the Seniym to win. It felt like she wasn't really needed if she couldn't fight, or if she couldn't gather information, and that everyone would just forget about her if she fell sick, or died, because nobody really cared.

Those people in the corridors didn't like her. They were only awed by her, and though that was fine, she wanted to be loved. Loved by someone who truly knew her, not just some strangers who happened to pass her by.

And then one day, the letter came. It wasn't signed, and it mentioned nothing of importance, but she knew its purpose immediately. It was from someone who wanted her abilities and personality and actually appreciated who she was as a person. It was from someone who wanted to know her personally and to give her everything she had now, and much, much more.

It was from Vaidryn Benitez, but she wasn't about to tell anyone.

The letters kept coming, and suddenly, there was an outright question. Will she give her life up here, to join and gain so much more on the other side?

Echo Nightingale smiled, and began packing her bags.