Help!

Help! I need a name for a male villain.

He is very, very awesome. He just doesn't have a name. =(

Today is the end.

NonNaNo: Lately, I've been feeling so lost and alone. My soul is woeful
NaNo: [Mutters] Absolutely clackety-click. Forty-seven thousand, three hundred sixty three.
NonNaNo: My heart is so heavy! It seems as though I have no where to turn. Except for you. We haven't talked much this past month, and I miss our heart to heart conversations.
NaNo: Absolutely. [feverishly] Forty-seven thousand, three hundred seventy two.
NonNaNo: They improve my outlook so much! So, what's your advice for me?
NaNo: Absolutely. Without a doubt.
NonNaNo: Are you even listening to me? Life is so empty! No one cares about me.
NaNo: [in a preoccupied manner] Absolutely.
NonNaNo: Uhg! The anguish! What shall I do?
NaNo: If you were an elf being chased by a Minotaur, and you were about to fall off a cliff, what would you do? I need help. I'm stuck in my story? What shall I do? I have four thousand words to write. Help!
NonNaNo: [draws up from the floor on which she had been sobbing] Absolutely.


Today is the day. Today is the time. Today is the day that all you poor NaNoWriMo ers desparately scramble to scratch out those last three thousand words. We NonNaNoers, let us take a universal moment of silence to pity those souls.

Perhaps not, let's rejoice! Family of NaNo ers, let's unanimously throw metaphysical hats in the air. Huzzah! After today, our siblings/relatives will return to us! Gone will be the days of lonely contemplation as my beloved sister types and clacks away at the old keyboard.

Tomorrow we celebrate the return of the authors!

The fateful twelve...

First, list twelve characters from any fandom, then answer the questions below.

1. Curdie, from the Princess and the Goblin He's the shorter miner.

2. Bertie Wooster, from Jeeves and Wooster


3. Elsie Dimsnore from Elsie Dinsmore. (Prepare yourselves for some Elsie-bashing, people.)

4. Henry Huggins, from Beverly Clearly's work.

5. Johnny Tremain

6. D'Artagnan, from the Three Musketeers

7. Faramir. Because I had to have someone from Lord of the Rings

8. Alice, from Alice in Wonderland

9. Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle

10. Sunny Baudelaire Series of Unfortunate Events

11. Fay, from That Thing You Do. She's the wardrobe management. Oh yeah. Actually, her job is to hold sunglasses for Guy. (She's Liv Tyler in the middle)

12. Ludovic Lavenham ~The Talisman Ring. He's a exicitable smuggler who likes to shoot people. Tragically, I could not find a picture for him, but he's awesome.

1. Who would make a better collage prof, 6 or 11? D'Artagnan is rather lacking in the brains department, so probably Fay. She could teach music I guess.

2. Do you think #2 is hot? Okayyyyyy. Not my preferred adjective. Bertie Wooster? He thinks mustaches are goodlooking. Need I say more?

3. 12 sends 8 out on a mission. What is it? Does it succeed? Ludovic sends Alice on a mission. Hmmm. I think he would tell Alice to marry Beau Lavenham so that she could inspect his jewelry collection for a talisman ring. Yeah. Actually, that's scarily realistic.

4. What is or what would be 9's favorite book? Mrs. PiggleWiggle's favorite book would probably be 1001 Recipies for Delicious Cookies. That woman is a gem.

. Would it make more since for 2 to swear fealty to 6, or the other way around? Bertie Wooster would swear fealty to any scary-dude with a sword, and then promptly forget about it. D'Artagnan would swear fealty to any pretty girl who chanced his way. As Bertie is not a pretty woman and as D'Artagnan is a scary-looking dude with a sword, I think Bertie would swear fealty. And Jeeves would get him out of it, of course.

.6. For some reason, 5 is looking for a roommate. Should (s)he room with 9 or 10? Johnny Tremain should stay with Mrs. Piggle Wiggle so she can cure him of all his vices. Everyone should stay with Mrs. PW.

.7. 2, 7 and 12 are going out to dinner. Where do they go and what do they discuss? Bertie Wooster, Ludovic Lavenham, and Faramir. Wow. First of all, Bertie only came because his Aunt Agatha made him. He takes everybody to the "Mottled Oyster" a cheap nightclub. Although he tries to tell the party about the prize he won for scripture knowledge in grammar school, Faramir and Ludovic start fighting. (Of course.) Faramir is convinced that a flaming arrow can do as much damage as a pistol. Ludovic disagrees. They start firing projectiles at the candlebra in an attempt to prove their marksmanship.

8. 3 challenges 10 to a duel, who wins?

Sunny easily wins. In the first place, Elsie is such a coward that the only person she can challenge is a baby. But right before Sunny immobilzes Elsie with her razor-teeth, Elsie calls for her daddy. Coward.

9. If 1 stole 8's most precious possession, how would (s)he get it back? Curdie would never, ever, ever steal. It goes against everything in him.

10. Suggest a story title in which 7 and 12 both attain what they desire. Hmmm. Faramir's desire is Eowyn. Ludovic's desire is a golden ring. How to fit that in a title?

11. What kind of plot device would you have to use if you wanted 1 and 4 to work together? I'd tell Curdie that Henry Huggins was surronded by goblins who were mussing his hair. Then Curdie would appear, full of powerful rhymes to drive 'em away.

12. If 7 visited you for the weekend, how would it go? Great! We'd give each other haircuts. And go riding. And I'd make Faramir teach me archery. Plus, we'd get into metaphysical discussions on the proper method for running a nation.

13. If you could command 3 to perform any service or task for you, what would it be? What could Elsie do for me? I don't think she CAN do ANYTHING! I know: I'd get her to knit a purse for me, just so I could keep her occupied and AWAY FROM ME!

14. Does anyone on your friends list write or draw 11? Nope. Poor Sunny isn't exactly a romantic figure.

If 2 had to choose sides between 4 and 5, what side would (s)he choose? Bertie would ask Jeeves, and then do whatever he'd say.

16. What might 10 shout out while charging into battle? Sunny can't talk yet.

17. If you had to choose a song to best describe 8, what would it be? I haven't a clue.

18. 1, 6 and 12 are having a dim sum at a Chinese Restaurant. There is only one scallion pancake left, and they all reach for it at the same time. Who gets it?

Curdie, D'Artagnan, Ludovic. Hmmm. D'Artagnan would challenge Ludovic to a duel over it. While they fought, Curdie would promptly snatch and eat it.

19. What would be a good pickup line for 2 to say to 10? I think Sunny is a little young for Bertie.

20. What would 5 most likely be arrested for?

Well, he WAS arrested for stealing a silver cup, but he was innocent.

21. What is 6's secret? D'Artagnan likes to fancy himself full of secrets. Which one to choose?

22. If 11 and 9 were racing to a destination, who would get there first? Definitely Fay. Athletics isn't Mrs. PW's thing.

23. If you had to walk home through a bad neighborhood late at night, who would you feel more comfortable walking with, 7 or 8? Absolutely Faramir. Alice isn't exactly physically powerful.

24. 1 and 9 reluctantly team up to save the world from the threat posed by 4's sinister secret organization. 11 volunteers to help them,but it is later discovered that s/he is actually a spy for 4. Meanwhile, 4 has kidnapped 12 in an attempt to force their surrender. Following the wise advice of 5, they seek out 3, who gives them what they need to complete their quest. What title would you give this fic? Curdie and Mrs. PW, team up against Henry? No. They like children. Fay isn't subtle enought to spy, Henry is incapable of capturing Ludovic, and Elsie couldn't complete anything. Coward.

Whew! That's a long tag. I hope I didn't bore you to tears. I hope you actually know who some of those characters are.

Anywho, I tag:

Phil Wordy,

Bethany

Equus Delirus

Fog.

Today I have made a very mundane discovery. The motions which are involved in

a) washing tall windows

and

b)painting hallways

are very, very similar. I feel as though I have not been using my brain at all today.

This post doesn't have anything to do with the Cavalia picture. I just thought that a picture of some amazing, gorgeous horsemanship would be a lot more interesting than a picture of a paintbrush. Has anyone else seen Cavalia?

I rather don't like eating bananas. I have nothing against their existence, so I can't really say I don't like them, but I don't like eating them.
My story has been on my mind quite a bit lately. Until, of course, it was driven out by Switchfoot Nothing is Sound and the monotony of painting. So far, the name Giselle appeals to me for a girl. Or Sylvia. How about Sylwyn?
I feel the need for a poll. Hmmm...

Names??? Ideas anyone?

So, our family's official first day of school was last Monday. It will be interesting to see if I can quite keep up with my set schedule...

But enough boring stuff. Let us venture into the land discussion of the Written Word, specifically stuff that we write ourselves.

For school, I am writing a story. I am afraid that I have boring all my friends to tears with descriptions of how excited I am to write fiction, that actually counts as school work.
Anyhow... I have a Plot. I have Characters. I have a Setting. I do not have names.

I have two characters, a girl and a guy, that need names. The setting is this day, age, planet, world, and dimension. Check that: I need three. I need a good name for a villain, which ought to be fun.

Ideas anyone? Suggestions?

The Dr. #3

Click here to read the first two.

A strange look appeared on the stranger’s face, and without a word, he began backing towards the window.
The doctor figured that if this fellow was inclined to silence, so much the better for him. Reflecting on the fellow’s plight, Dr. Batwinkler began to devise a scheme to help him, but one that would also lift out of his predicament.
“Well now, my good man, ah, you’ve come a long ways up and I don’t doubt it was healthy exercise, and seeing as we’re coming on noon, well –how about a fried egg?”
“An egg?” he asked bleakly. “Yes. I shall accept it as a last comfort before my impending doom.” Here the fellow buried his head in his arms in a posture highly resembling the Dr. Fritz’s stance several pages ago.
“Come! This way to my eating area.” Dr. Fritz beckoned cheerily, determined to rouse the spirits of his guest. Leading, he navigated out of the office, into the laboratory, past mountains of expensive-looking equipment, and through piles of shabby looking-artifacts. Pausing to switch on a Bunsen burner, he came to a stop in front of an apple crate rested on a stack of musty books. Inside was a large, blue hen.
Uttering the civility of “If I may, Henrietta,” the doctor reached into the nest and pulled out three eggs: two cobalt and one silver. With his left hand, he weighed the silver egg and promptly chucked it in a remote corner of the room.
“My Henrietta has funded many scientific discoveries!” he said proudly, “But those aren’t edible, you know!” Deftly, he buttered a frying pan and heated it, and when the butter began to pop, he cracked the eggs and tossed them in.
All through this, the stranger had remained mute, as passing from the sparse, professional office into the laboratory, a chaotic mixture of science and lore antiques, had astounded him. The large, rectangular room was broken into three-sided nooks by tall, chrome, book and display shelves. They were like houses on a street: all were connected by a long hallway. Everything was neatly labled. Reminiscent of Arabian nights, hundreds of oil lamps lit the room brightly. Another was entirely stocked with greatly varying jewelry catalogued “according to property”. A little ways in the hallway was a cardboard box, marked “No apparent ability” full of plain gold rings. Machinery, lavishly coated in buttons, was dotted here and there like islands. Labeled, “Trash,” an especially large nook was almost entirely filled with broomsticks and curiously pointed hats. *Like a library of the ancient world, parchments, tightly curled, were stored in glass jars. Cracked, worn, and dusty, books occupied every other available space.
As Fritz handed over the expertly-fried, blue egg, the guest noticed that something, on a shelf of musical instruments, was moving. It appeared to be twisted rope. Answering to the doctor’s whistle, the rope picked up speed and dropped neatly to the ground at their feet.
“This, my new friend, is Zither, of whom I mentioned previously. And speaking of introductions, my name is Batwinkler, Dr. Fritz Batwinkler.”
“P-p-p-pleased to meet you. I am Savvel Vastion.” Savvel’s voice and vocabulary lost its magnificent, despairing tone as he became more awed and less focused on awing. “What is this stuff?”
“It is my scientific collection. Which reminds me, I have something in the way of a… business proposition.

* Just so you know, I am not really into witches. Please note that that nook was labled, "Trash."

Critiques? Pointers? Anyone?

The Dr. #2

#1.

If you have ever attempted to open a window with someone attached to it, in order to let the someone in, you will know it is a tricky business. The Doctor managed somehow, and the someone deattached himself and tumbled safely inside He stood up wearily, leaning against the wall, panting, for some moments.
Being a scientific man, and thus always making observations, the doctor used this time to gather a first impression. Fritz was immediately struck by the guest’s appearance as a model of human perfection. Classically, strikingly, dashingly, startlingly –whatever your preferred adverb may be- it must be followed by the adjective, “handsome.” However, the author is employing a double meaning in the phrase, “model of human perfection.”
The stranger was beyond what society would term, “short” and would be more accurately described as “miniature.” According to the Dr.’s highly accurate observations, he would have stood about 3 feet 4 inches in his stocking feet.
Silence had reigned in the101st floor until the stranger spoke, having recovered his breath.
“Have you got a rope?” His voice was surprisingly deep for one so small.
“Eh?” said the doctor.
“I said, ‘have you got a rope!’”
“A what?”
“A rope, man, a ROPE! Can’t you expend a few measly moments to help a man before his resolution fails?”
As the astute reader may have gathered, Dr. Batwinkler, though highly intelligent, did not possess outstanding communication skills, except when speaking of his work.
“Ahhhhg!” the stranger’s self control seemed to have broken. “Can you not see that there is no life for a man of my… stature? Jobless, friendless, there is no place in the world for me. I have made it, well almost, to the top of this building with every intent to cast my wee physique from it, if only to send my weary soul upward to great heights?” he whispered the last two words almost reverently.
“It would have been easier to take the elevator,” said the Doctor, impassively.
The dreamy eyes took on the expression of a frightened horse.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhgggg! My woes pursue me. Please Sir, speak of mountains: I’ve climbed them. Speak of wild creatures: I have wrestled them, fought them, tamed them. Speak of caverns: I have explored the deepest of them. Speak of any fearful thing: it will not faze me, but I entreat you, sir, speak not of those mechanical tombs.”
“You mean, an elevator?”
The stranger drew in a shuddering breath.
“Yes. But you must assist me. I found, even as I mounted skyward to this grand building’s roof, that my stature failed my in yet another thing: I cannot reach the top. My arms are too short to grasp on the roof. So I have changed my means of destroying myself: I shall reach my end with a rope. Have you got one? Please?”
The doctor scanned his memory.
“Ah, yes, I do. He dances to music, as a bonus. You know, like a cobra. His name is Zither.”

That Story

The story I am writing (see post below) has been interesting because I have never written a piece involving magic. For one, I don't feel any moral obligation not to write with magic, but typically, I thought it boring to plot where my characters can achieve anything with a force. However, I am finding this to be more interesting than I previously supposed.

I started it as an assignment for a book Gail Carson Levine, the author of Ella Enchanted, wrote for aspiring authors. I am enjoying doing her assignments because they are stretching! But... I am in a lazy summer mood and I haven't finished yet. More is coming!

The Dr.

Dr. Fritz Batwinkler slumped down on the desk, his hands clutching his head. His name, the author recalls, is supposed to be followed by lots of initials that mean something, but at the present moment, she cannot remember what they are. Though his name connotes an association with the medical field, Batwinkler was not the stethoscope toting, stick-out-your-tongue-and-say-aah kind of doctor. Rather, his profession was that of the field of science: particularly the development of unique forces, specifically that force of magic. The doctor’s peculiar profession was not without its trials including, well, ridicule. Other, more conventional men of science constantly referred to him with derogatory names: “Bat’s-Wings,” owing to their traditional involvement in magic, “The Old Bat,” despite the doctor’s youth, “Alchemist,” and sometimes just “Quack.”
Yet Dr. Fritz pressed on in the face of persecution, and his perseverance was rewarded bit by bit, with discoveries which he had yet to reveal.
So why was the successful doctor slumped on his desk, cradling his hands? Only that morning, his assistant (or to put it candidly, his sort of guinea pig,) had deserted him, stating that he was finished and applying many of the aforementioned derogatory names. It seems that Batwinkler’s ability to make hair grow at the rate of ten inches an hour, and then his inability to undue the potion had perturbed the assistant. Relations between the two had never been of the Ivanhoe-Gurth kind, and it was not emotion that left Fritz distraught. It was the lack of a subject on which to test his four new magical items.
Using himself was out of the question: who would record the scientific data or run the sensory monitors? New Potential candidates were scare. No one owed him money, he had no unsuspecting relatives, and placing an ad in the paper had been fruitless.
Though the spirits of Batwinkler were low, he was physically located at a high point. To be precise, his office and laboratory were the 101st floor of the Practical Science Centennial Building. The skyscraper had been supposedly built with one hundred floors in honor of the 100 birthday of Practical Science research foundation. However, the building was put in by a man who couldn’t count, and the trustees decided the best course of action was to conceal the top floor’s existence. Being money grubbing, as fiction supposes all trustees to be, they hired it out to Batwinkler, promising him to secrecy. So he lived in seclusion, like an alchemist. Besides the office and Lab, there was a bathroom and two tiny bedrooms: one for an assistant, and one for Batwinkler. The absence of a kitchen did not bother the doctor for he cooked on a Bunsen burner and kept his food in the Lab refrigerator next to the bacteria samples. Renting the whole floor was surprisingly cheap and that negated the fact that it took seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds to reach via elevator.
What was bothering the doctor? Returning to the office, we see Fritz had shifted position and was now glumly staring out the window. To him, the panes of glass were just seeming very unsympathetic, when a very curious development took place: a small but muscled, quivering hand attached to what looked to be a large suction cup appeared. A second hand latched on to Batwinkler’s window. The owner of the hands groaned. The someone heaved himself up and wearily banged his hand against the glass presumably in some kind of polite knock.
“Eh?” said Batwinkler, and he opened the window.

Vegetables of Labor

About a medium time ago, in a land that could be quite close, there dwelt a tree-chopping, seed-sowing, hard-working and altogether resourceful farmer. He was knowing in the ways of growing, and his farm was exceedingly prosperous. Consequently, his wife and two sons lived in considerable comfort, and after paying the bills and buying the dairy cow that Mrs. Farmer really wanted, Mr. Farmer had heaps of cash left. So he bought a piano. He employed a pianist to teach his sons to play. Both sons were equipped with long, spindly, gifted pianist hands, and they were wondrously talented. They became famous quickly, and neither of them visited their parents on the farm. Time passed, and Mr. Farmer got a sickness of the lungs which came from chewing tobacco and smoking his corncob pipe. Now, when Mr. Farmer had a hunch that the end was near, he got to fretting and worrying about what would become of his wife and farm since it was apparent that his sons didn’t care. He began to reflect on what treasures they were when the solution to ensure their safety and well being smacked him upside the head. When he had worked through the details, he chuckled to himself and summoned his sons with the news that he was on his death bed. They arrived and presented themselves before him.
“My sons,” he croaked in an unpleasant wheezy voice, because it’s hard to have a pleasant voice when you’re dying of a lung disease, “Let me tell you something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time; in my fields there’s a treasure, dig for it!”
With that spoken, he gasped and coughed a couple of times and then he died. Entranced, entrapped and enraptured by the gleaming prospect of treasure, the two sons donned straw hats and hefted heavy shovels out to the fields. One after the other and then the next, the fields were turned over and sifted through. Mrs. Farmer had been informed of her husband’s plan, and she sowed the fields at night. After multiple months of hard work, when every last field had been turned, the sons, weary and angry, marched home.
“Errgh,” grumbled one.
“Errgh-ow!” growled the other as he stubbed his toe. Looking down, he perceived a radish as big as a beet.
“Who put a radish there?” he snarled. Just then, their aged mother hobbled out.
“Did you find the treasure?” she asked mischievously.
“Nope,” they responded glumly.
“Look again!’ she snorted, “I think you stubbed your toe on it!”
Both sons looked down at the huge radish, and then out at the lush, green fields. That year, because of the excellent plowing, the land yielded an astoundingly abundant crop. The Farmer’s sons became farmers themselves, because they realized that the true treasures were the vegetables of their labor.

Hi everybody! Sorry I am foisting ancient writing assignments on you... but I've always liked this one.

Aesop's Fable (Re-written)

Beside the rocky shores of Greece, there stood an island of prosperity. The fields yielded bounty and the trade was rich and prosperous. Ruling over this place of abundance was a rather foolish king who was obsessed with gold. His name was Midas. Also in this wealthy kingdom resided a poor, yet compassionate camel boy, who surprisingly looked upon riches with disdain. He was obsessed with camels. Each day he drove his beloved beasts down to a sparkling stream and then rested while the camels grazed in emerald meadows.
It happened one morning, on the very morning that King Midas received his golden touch, that a ferocious lioness named Malicious, (but commonly known as Molly,) escaped from the palace menagerie because the beautiful sunshine had lulled her captors into a relaxing state of slumber. She paused outside the princess’ park in hopes of dining with the royal maiden (as the main course,) for, as Molly deduced, one with all her sweetness must surely taste delicious. The lioness’ move was well timed; the princess walked out of the palace accompanied by a gaudily clad female who was, unknown to the ravenous lioness, the princess’ cousin. Molly crouched into a clump of reeds, lying in wait for the princess to come close.
“Oh, Cyrene darling, how droll your little walk is! This sunshine sets off my new tunic just divinely, don’t you think?"
“Yes Bleeria,” Cyrene responded meekly.
“Did you chance to feast your eyes on these gorgeous earrings of mine? (Gasp) Just look at that little glade with the sunshine streaming through! Wouldn’t I look lovely standing right there in the center of it… just about where you’re standing?”
“I’m sure you would, Bleeria dear,” agreed Cyrene.
Molly, huddled in the bushes grinned a wicked, lion grin. She prepared to attack, making exactly to the center of the glade, slipping through the reeds noiselessly… almost.
“Cyrene! Someone’s coming! I can hear them walking through the reeds. Move! Move! Get out of the way, I must be seen in the best light!” gurgled Bleeria, and having shoved Cyrene out of the center of the lovely glade, closed her eyes, attempting to look peaceful and elegant.
Just then Molly sprang. It wasn’t quite as tasty as expected, Molly speculated. This was because Molly had mistakenly killed Bleeria, who was standing where her original target was positioned.
Gasping with horror but a little relieved, (glad to be rid of her obnoxious cousin,) the princess raced to her father to tell him the tale of woe.
“Oh Father!” she cried, and thrust herself into his arms. Immediately upon contact, the princess transformed from a living being into a golden statue which wore a terrible expression of horror from witnessing the spectacle in the park. Midas groaned. Unknown to most, the real reason of Midas’ grief was that expression. A nice golden statue would have been pleasant, but not one with a face twisted into a position like that. Moaning, he withdrew to his study. Back at the park, things were not progressing grandly for Molly. During her delightful snack, a sharp, gold earring had lodged itself in her thickly padded paw, causing her much anguish. The alarm had been raised about a loose lioness, and every aspiring adventurer was more or less on her trail. Molly skedaddled to the shelter of a forest. Once there, she found that she was horribly thirsty. Journeying for seven minutes led her to a crystal creek just big enough to be called a sparkling stream running through an emerald meadow. To her relief, our friend the camel boy lounged nearby. She slowly approached his sleeping form and growled softly in his ear. One look at Molly and he began to scream and recite the Greek alphabet. Finally calming down, he stopped somewhere around epsilon and realized the beast was in pain. As he was not called the compassionate camel boy for nothing, he found the source of her pain and performed the minor operation of pulling out the earring. Scarcely believing his good fortune, because that gold, jewel studded earring could buy all his camels put together, he raced home, shouting his good fortune all over the village. This commotion alerted five palace guards who were searching for the murderer of Bleeria. When they spotted the heavily ornamented earring and the camel boy, they put two and two together and arrested our camel loving friend as the murderer. Unfortunately, everyone at the palace came to the same conclusion, completely looking past the possibility that the missing lion could be the culprit, in other words claiming that two plus two equals 17. The Camel boy was sentenced to be eaten alive by lions that very afternoon. King Midas, attending the ceremony, was not in a good mood. He was hungry and thirsty, because he couldn’t eat anything before it turned to gold. He was tired, for the stiff, golden mattress offered him no comfort. Most of all, he was distressed about the problem of his statue/daughter. In the arena was the boy who had caused this problem; if he hadn’t killed Bleeria, his daughter wouldn’t of run to him in that manner. He could have had time to warn her.
Yes, Midas’ lips curled into a smile, I will enjoy this execution. The boy will not.
The camel boy trembled as he stood tied to the post.
Who could have known that assisting a lion would cause me all this trouble? he sniffed, On the other hand, who but me is dumb enough to help a lion?
Fear mounted within him while he stood. Opposite him, two gates swung open, releasing a furious lioness. Fear rose to hysteria, and he began to scream alphabetically in Greek, on through the letters, getting louder and louder.
Molly was exasperated. With fifty aspiring adventurers on her tail, it had not been long before she was recaptured. She had gone into the arena frustrated, but not hungry. From the ever approaching post there was coming an unpleasant, chanting scream that was strangely familiar.
How annoying, grumped Molly, It’s that dolt who pulled out that bothersome earring.
She briefly considered eating him, but grudgingly left him alone because he had helped her.
Besides, she reasoned, he smells like camels and will probably leave an aftertaste. Who wants to eat camels? Isn’t that why I escaped anyway?
The Camel boy stopped, finally, and opened his eyes. The lioness was staring at him, her nose wrinkled strangely. He laughed hysterically. Midas was astonished. What could he do with a boy whom lions wouldn’t strike? What could he do with a lioness who wouldn’t strike? Immediately he gave orders for the lioness to be returned to Africa. He needed time to decide the boy’s fate. He retired into his chambers for the night. There he was greeted by the little man who had bestowed upon him the golden touch. He begged his forgiveness and pleaded that the man would reverse the touch. This was granted to him. He embraced his now joyful daughter and she revealed to him the truth about her cousin’s death. The camel boy was allowed to keep the golden earring, so he was happy. Molly dined upon fresh antelope in Africa, so she was happy. The princess was a living being, so she was happy, and the king rejoiced because he had his beautiful daughter back. Because of the compassionate camel boy’s act of kindness towards the lioness, everyone was repaid in full, except maybe Bleeria.

Quick question:

Alrighty, I seriously need some advice here: what is every one's favorite, hysterical book/short story?
P.S. I know this isn't a real blog post. I merely avoiding the fact that I haven't posted hardly at all in the commendable month of February.
Wait, is February a commendable month? Actually, I don't think that fine adjective applies to the situation at all. February is the tricky month because every year, about the third week, we get 3-4 days of mild temperatures, and glorious sunshine, and then BAM! Rain falls from the sky like bullets and clouds "hang ominously" in the sky.
(Note: I am sure that "hang ominously" is a famous phrase from something, even if I am not exactly sure what.)
I don't mind it; I love the rain, and once I wrote a poem about how after the "dry, wicked summer," rain fell again in the Autumn and the whole world was alive again. Poor Mom had the task of breaking to me that my views on the seasons were almost directly contrary to the rest of the world's, who thought that in Autumn everything went to sleep.
Come to think of it, maybe there is a reason why I am not a famous poet. I also think that fear is like a quick rush of heat rather than a cold feeling.
P.P.S. Anyway, please be sure to answer the question!

The Third Chronicle in the Adventures of Miss Penelope Faulty

Also known as "Adventures in Logical Fallacies"
The first Chronicle
The Second Chronicle

Penelope: (disdainfully) "You already asked me that question! I do believe you are going round in circles in your arguments."
Inspector: (indigantly) "I'm going round in circles? It is you who is confusing me."
Penelope: (matter-of-fact-ly) "I never take people around in circles. I infinitely prefer squares. With squares, you can corner people's words or back them up against a wall, and that is physically impossible with circles."
Inspector: (snappishly) "What about rectangles? Ha! You can't find a problem with those!"
Penelope: (haughtily)"You underestimate me, Inspector. Anyway, everyone knows that rectanglar gems are the most unattractive cut possible because they are usually emeralds. Peridots are vastly superior to them and besides, are almost always circle cut."

Inspector: (confusadly) "Wait, I thought you didn't care for circles!"

Penelope: (brightly)"You live entirely too much in the past, dear inspector."

Inspector: (Angrily) "Argh!" Lays head down on table for several seconds "Alright, where were we?"

Penelope: (sweetly) "We were speaking of the past."

Inspector: (stiffly) "Ah yes; the past. Where were you on the 23rd, around 7:00 P.M.?"

Ophelia, the car-jacking hoodlum

The only known picture of Ophelia in a Beanie

is one where I am attempting to look like my non-existent cousin "Asher." The only other times that I wear beanies are when it is below 30 degrees or I am working away at my job: Alpaca Pasture Maintenance. "But why?" You, gentle reader, ask, "Why has Ophelia come up with this unbreakable fashion rule of no-beanies-in-public?"
I'll explain. One morning last March, having an I-don't-care day, I slapped a beanie on my crown and jumped in the car as we were running errands on that particular day. Like usual, I wore a pair of comfy, faded blue jeans. The air had a bite to it, so I pulled on my well-broken in grey hoody. I stayed in the car most of the time, but when Mom approached the coffee shop, she told me to hop out and take Ava to the bathroom while she went through the drive-thru. I did as asked, and then I walked round to our van, which was at the last window of the drive-thru. I opened the car door to put Ava in her car seat when I heard a startled gasp.
"Ma'am! The cashier said shrilly through the window, "some person is trying to get into your car!"
Mom turned around, slowly, slowly. "That person," she stated, "is my daughter." Then, I got in the car, and we drove away, quickly, very quickly.
Since that fateful day, I have never worn a beanie at a public place.

A Pedantic Pedagoge instructs his Puerile Pupil

"Miss Finston, I am afraid I shall be forced to report your infraction of the No-Gum-in-School policy," said the new teacher, punctuating his nasally voice with wheezes. "And Master Fitzs-Williams, you shall remain after class to discuss your work with me."

The children, excepting the unfortunate Fitz-Williams, rushed out the classroom eager to escape the presence of the exacting Mr. Dagogepe.

"You wanted me?" asked the sturdy lad whose father, possessing an innate sense of humor, named him Fritz Fitzs-Williams.

"I wish to discuss your utter lack of regard for the rules that I have taught and those which I have set for this class. Your complete inattention to the i-before-e-except-after-c rule has led me to mark down your grade! This composition, entitled, "Freind or Feind" is a disgrace. And look here; you wrote "decieved" instead of following the rule which correctly renders the word, "deceived." And you begin the story, "On the 31st day of june" which violates both the 30-days-past-September-April-June-and-November-all-the-rest-have-31-except-for-February-which-has-28-and-on-leap-years-29 rule and the always-capitalize-the-name-of-a-month rule. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Sorry sir, about my spelling and what-not. Father says it comes with time," Fritz mumbled. Then he brightened. "But isn't it a grand story? I think it's just smashing. Surely you can look over a couple blunders."

"There you go again! Disregarding my every word. Was it not just yesterday that I clearly instructed the class only to use the word, "couple" when referring to a group of two. And I specifically pointed out four blunders," interrupted Mr. Dagogepe, with something like a gleam of triumph in his eye.
Fritz, however, was not to be put out. "Well, sir, four mistakes then. Still, I spent an awful long time writing it, and I do think it's good, especially the part where the cowboy pulls out his six-shooter and says-" Fritz paused to give the aforesaid cowboy's words a dramatic entrance.

It was just enough time for his teacher to squeeze in another criticism, "And how many times, how many time a day do I ask you to stay on topic? Heed my words!"

"Okay. But sir, you have really got to remember how long it is. I did four extra pages. That's one to cover every mistake. Think about it, sir, four extra pages!"

"I have thought about them, young man. You didn't obey the guidelines I set out when I gave the class the assignment. I clearly stated the requirement that the composition be 5 pages long. You must not be so careless. And blah blah, there are seven extra commas blah, blah blah blah blah blah"

Fritz looked out the window at the green slope. If he tried hard enough, he could just ignore the teacher, Mr... Mr... Oh forget it. He noted what a wonderful place it would be for a gun fight. That line that the cowboy said in that one part, that was pure genius... Fritz ran the words through his head...

Several minutes later, Fritz's daydreams were broken by an especially loud wheeze.

"So in the future, you must pay more attention to what I say. You are dismissed."

THE END

Alrighty, this post has a challenge attached: see if you can invent a stunning dramatic line for the cowboy to say, "just as the cowboy pulls out his six-shooter."