Monthly Archives: July 2014

YeahWrite Summer 2014- Crack in the window

The green bar completes its journey across the monitor. The screen illuminates the room, the only other source of light being the thin rays that filter through the paper blinds. Outside, the sun is setting. Despite the relatively cool air, I am sweating. The air is tense. My muscles ache from exhaustion. I control my breathing to be as quiet as possible, knowing it is useless. Security will be here soon. The comforting pressure of a 9mm gun on my left rib helps me to keep a cool head. A strange thought pierces the surface of my mental stream: How many 16 year olds have infiltrated tight security compounds over the course of espionage’s relatively short history?

Hurried steps echo in the corridor. A short moment of silence is interrupted by the mechanical click of a loaded firearm. A nervous voice is muffled by the wooden door, the crack of a radio following the stereotypical “Over!” A message of completion appears on the screen before me. The data transfer is over

Just in time…

I snatch the USB key from the computer and stuff it in the inner pocket of my suit. The door explodes behind me as I burst into a sprint. The blast of a shotgun erupts from behind. I hear the burning metal pellets whistle by my skull as they crash into the window before me, cracking it. My job thus made easier by my pursuers, I dive elbow first into the glass obstacle, and fall through it. The still, artificially fresh air of the office gives way to the dry summer wind. Thirty floors of empty air separate my falling body from the hot pavement.

After a few seconds, I pull the strap hidden under my suit, releasing a parachute camouflaged within. My velocity is reduced abruptly. Overhead, voices shout in anger. I hear the explosions of a familiar shotgun crack through the evening sky. A quick glimpse downwards allows me to estimate to about 15 seconds the remainder of my fall. I take my small gun from its holster and quickly shift my weight forwards, making the parachute dip back. My line of sight now clear, I aim the deadly tool up towards my assailants, and pull the trigger. The recoil of the gun doesn’t help my muscular exhaustion in any way. One of the men’s silhouette tumbles back into the office, a scream of pain accompanying his fall. Once the distance between my feet and the pavement is reduced to about 6 feet, I cut the strings of my parachute and let myself fall to the ground.

A Porsche 911GT3 pulls up, the new girl, Sam, at the wheel. “Where on earth did you find THAT!?” I ask, a little startled by the beautiful German supercar. “Does it really matter? Get in here now!” She replies, her voice barely understandable because of the engine’s steady purr and her heavy Russian accent. I collapse onto the passenger seat, exhausted, and let the muffled roar of the engine drift me away from reality, and into sleep, as Sam’s expert driving gets us far away from any possibility of pursuit.

Man, who knew being a spy was so tiring? They forgot to mention that in James Bond…


Stereotypical spy story for this week, also the sequel to this post. I decided to write in present tense this week, as a sort of experiment. And sorry for letting my petrol-head ways show in this post, but if you’re going to escape, might as well do it in style right? Consider yourself lucky. I could have talked about the 3.7L, 475 break horse power V6 in AGONIZING detail for anyone who’s not into that stuff… But I held it all in. That’s dedication right there!


Posted by on 28 July 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


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YeahWrite Summer 2014-Nightime Runaway

I burst forwards, using the trees as leverage. Movement behind me. I turn around in mid air and release a wave of magical heat, vaporizing the vegetation, illuminating the night with deadly flames. I turn back around to face the right direction, ignoring the movement in my peripheral vision, renewing my momentum with the nearest branch. Screeches of rage erupt from the flames behind me. Shivers crawl up my spine. I mustn’t let fear take over. Focus! Focus on the trees before you, not the shadows behind!

Tree. Right foot on the branch, left foot forwards. Eyes spotting for the next stepping stone. Burst of energy through the right heel. Left foot anticipating the next branch. Arms stabilizing the jumps and ready to fire death upon anything that gets too close. Spot. Land. Jump. Repeat.

How long I ran? Who knows? I came down to a stop when the trees did, at the edge of a cliff. It was too dark to see the bottom. My exhaustion could be heard in my breath. Soon, shadows landed around me, four colourful dots in each silhouette’s face. Their long arms nearly reached their feet. Their strange necks twisted around as they observed me. These things had haunted me, manipulated me ever since I escaped their lair, down in the depths of the earth. Then again, I had stolen something from them. Now they had cornered me, at the edge of a cliff, so far from civilisation that none will hear me scream. They waited, patiently. I spat a cuss, realising the predicament I was in. Slowly, I reached inside my pouch and took the artefact out. I laid the mysterious stone on the ground before me, the green runes eerily illuminating the grass.

One of the SoulEaters roared out of what seemed like satisfaction. The creature straight across from me stepped forward and grabbed the stone. I didn’t stop however and kept walking towards me. I tried to move away but I was paralyzed, held in place by a cold, invisible hand. It stopped before me. It rose the stone up to its mouth and breathed on it. The stone vaporised, revealing a bright green light within, like an emerald star encased a body of rock, floating in the monstrous palm of the creature. I shut my eyes.

I was fighting the dread rising within. Be logical. If it wanted you dead, you’d be dead! Then why keep you alive? Logic. Fear. Hope. Fear. Confidence. Fear…. Fear.

The familiar tingle of magical runes on my skin interrupted the mental ballet. The creature’s palm was next to my abdomen, the green light illuminating my doublet. Before I realised what was happening, the green star traversed my clothes, phasing through my skin and logging itself within me. A wave of excruciating pain crashed on my body. I heard myself scream. The invisible hand let me go soon after. My legs refused to obey my brain, and I fell to the floor. I saw the feet of the SoulEaters vanish. I wanted to scream, to move, but my muscles shut down, as if the pain had fried my nervous system. My eyelids felt like they weighed a ton. They shut despite my best efforts. I was drifting away from reality. The last sensory stimuli I remember came from my ears. “Am I dying?” a shaky, girlish voice said.

No. It wasn’t death. Dreams of terrible creatures chased me through my mind. Memories that didn’t belong to me flowed into my mental river. I saw a boat through a familiar explorer’s eyes. I saw a boy through the eyes of a mother. I saw a house through the eyes of an architect. I was somehow conscious of memories of those that had fallen prey to the SoulEaters. That green light gave me the collective knowledge of hundreds of people, as if I had a sensory library within me, one I could access at will. I was painfully floating back towards reality when I became conscious of the green star’s second gift: I felt a huge, distant reserve of dark power stored within my abdomen. I was focusing on it when the rising sun forced me out of the nightmare.

I realised the ground below me wasn’t grass but sand. The eerie silence of the mountain gave way to the quiet harmony of waves on a beach. The star within me produced a name: Egora, thousands of miles from where I fell unconscious.


Hello yeahwrite! For those of you not familiar with me (and the many of you who probably forgot), I am running a fantasy series on this blog. This is part three. You’ll find the previous part here, and the whole thing here. Thank you for stopping by, I hope you enjoyed! As always, your thoughts, criticism, and opinions are welcome.

PS: For those who remember the comment section of pt 2, yeah, I’m gonna make this character a girl…

PSS: Bookworm is gonna be at least less active, and at most completely absent from the blogosphere for the next two weeks. She’s out in what some people call “nature”. It’s a strange place where things happen without human intervention or wifi. Crazy right? So you guys are stuck with me for a while… Take that as you will.

PSSS: Isn’t it supposed to be PPS and PPPS, as in post post scriptum, and post post post scriptum?

PSSSS/PPPPS: If you are still reading, congrats! You have just received the Dwagon Seal of Awesome. Now you can brag in the comment section.


Posted by on 21 July 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


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Lost Either Way

I’ve been pulled into many situations against my will these past two years. I seem to have a knack for getting into trouble and then getting back out again but, standing with my hands flat on the table, partly hunched over it I know there’s no getting out of this one.

“I can’t.”

But that’s not enough, he needs an explanation. So he looks on trying to spook my thoughts out and onto the table. Or at least that’s what he looks like, I doubt he was really trying to do anything like that.

“This is suicide, there’s no way I’m getting out of this.”

“There are many ways you could get out”

“Then send someone else!”

“I can’t because no-one has your skill”

“Tryst could easily do it and get out”

“No she’s good at lying, we want you to tell the truth the way you know to and besides he already knows Tryst”

I mumble “she could do it”

“Would you really take that chance?”

He knows I would never put Angel in such danger myself even if he has done it countless times. And had he not known my fidgeting and hand wringing would’ve given it away. I’m a rather bad lier and I suppose that’s just as well because I hate to lie.

I let the table support me so that he won’t see me tremble; he can already see my indecision, he doesn’t need to see my weakness.

“I am not like you or your soldiers or spies or whatever you want to call them, I can’t get through this stuff easily, I can’t kill and it’s bad enough having to stun people with a gun they think will kill them-”

“Oh I’m sorry did you want a nice colourful one with a sign that says ‘don’t worry I can’t kill you anyway’?!”


“Then get ready for your mission. You can assemble a team to go with you if you want.”

“But if I fail they die too. So actually you’re just allowing me a team because you know I won’t take one with me.”

“I thought you knew better; even if they don’t go in with you you can have a team that follows you with comms and a tracker who could look up anything you need to know and tell you where to go. You could also have an extraction team in case you can’t get out.”

“That place is a fortress that’s why you didn’t want a big team to storm in in the first place! The extraction team wouldn’t get past the front door.”

“Then don’t have one.”

“I can’t do it”

“You have to.”

He left the room before I could answer. Angel would’ve given her life without hesitation, she would’ve followed her orders and she would’ve gotten out all alone with no team at all yet here I am trembling despite leaning on the table, tears slowly smashing against the glass surface. Knowing that I alone could do this. I’m not a soldier, even less a spy, I’m a coward. It’s kept me alive so far. Sure I’ve been through a lot but I’m still terrified of dying and afraid of being hurt, it’s human nature and unlike most people here I can’t suppress it. And when I’m that scared I can’t move which hardly makes for a difficult target. My skills (though not that developed) lie in hiding, waiting and persuasion. Angel taught me a little self defence too though I’m still useless against the people here (except for a few scientist that never go in the field but that doesn’t count).

The table is useless against my trembling now and I hate seeing the tears fall almost like rain splashing over my hands so I put my back against the wall and slide down it until I take up very little space and I cry silently but breath a little heavily.

I’m not a hero, I’m not strong, I’m not brave; I’m weak and cowardly, maybe my only redeeming quality is that I’m smart, and even then that’s not much compared to some people. I can’t face this. I can’t face this alone and yet anyone who comes with me dies and I can’t let that happen either. I’m a bad excuse for “the only one who can save us now” whoever said that was highly over exaggerating. Either that or the world was doomed from the start. I’m the flaw here. If anyone here had half what I had they’d put it to a better use when I would just cower in a corner wishing it all to be over but no, it’s people with strength and courage and a license to kill (that part I don’t envy) who could get in but not do what needs to be done and then there’s me, who could perhaps manage to make it work but I’d have practically no way in and definitely no way out. I have to sacrifice myself for the good of all and no matter how I see it or try to think of it I can’t bring myself to face it. These past two years I’ve been avoiding the truth but it’s hard to do that when it’s staring you in the face and this is one of the hardest of truths and I just can’t deal with it.

Will the world die? Or will I be able to sacrifice everything I have and then even my life, to make it go on a while longer? I wish I were a proud martyr. But I’m not.
I’m lost either way.



This kind of maybe follows another post (can you guess which one?)
Ok, being optimistic (hoping people actually read this that is) I’m guessing you either haven’t been here before or you forgot everything you read here already (which I don’t blame you for) so here it is: Pick A Side
Anyways I’m always glad to to get feedback, good or bad 😉

For those of you who did remember it (or who just read it) I know I said I wouldn’t be writing any more of this… I lied… I meant it at the time but now I’m not so sure… you may or may not see something related to the adventures of mysterious Tiger again, I don’t know, I guess we’ll all find out!

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Posted by on 16 July 2014 in Banzaï


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The place that life did shun

Where have all the flowers gone?

For winter’s been and done,

What have all the people done

To make such beauty run?


It is because the flowers know

That people burn and kill,

The war and devastation show

That coulors suit us ill.


The sun starts to fades away

To leave us in the dark,

Such creatures don’t deserve to stay

Lighted by a spark.


The flowers bleed their sorrow and hurt

For Man has pierced their shield:

Their brothers laid down in the dirt

Under the poppy fields.




I’m sorry this had to be so sad and I’m not sure I’ll be uploading this to the grid, I’ll probably find something more fun :/

Ok scrap that I wrote something I liked a little more but it was way too long (over 900 words) and I didn’t have the heart to cut it that much so I’m going to cheat by adding a link if you want to see it but feel free to ignore it. Here it is

Feel free to comment on anything you see should you choose to roam around this blog (I even encourage you do so) even if something is months old it’s always nice to get new feedback or even just appreciation (or depreciation but with reason). Also if you want to participate in a friendly prompt or prompt me (or us, I think DragonSpark would be happy to give it a go) do so, go ahead 🙂

By the way I’m leaving for two weeks on Friday so don’t be offended if it takes me a while to answer, I promise I’ll answer you when I get back.
If you read this far thank you for bearing with me as I rambled on ^^’


Posted by on 14 July 2014 in Banzaï


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YeahWrite Summer 2014-It’s a rough job…

“The shifts are demanding. Around 7pm-7am, knowing the starting hours vary depending on the day. You have to start the job at the exact assigned time, not a second earlier, not a second later. Everyone has to be in perfect harmony. We’re more synchronised than a orchestra of Swiss watchmakers.

Not only are the shifts hard, but the job itself is hard too. You are expected to be brilliant all the time. You don’t get brakes, not even to go to the bathroom. It’s a job that will anchor you in place for sure.

We’ve got nobody protecting us. We don’t have a union, politicians are always trying to cut our budget, and the media doesn’t give a crap about the real, hard working folks out there.

We’re never appreciated either. One flicker of failure, and any passer-by will be cussing at or about you. Nobody ever compliments us, even if we’re the one lighting up the city. Dogs sometime urinate on us for Christ’s sake! And don’t even get me started on the pay.

It’s a hard job being a lamppost…”


I wasn’t planning on posting anything to the first supergrid this week, as I had already posted something for the Moonshine, and because I was traveling. The idea for the post above came to me while observing the city lights as the plane was taking off. So here is my humble homage to a piece of infrastructure we often forget.
Up next, traffic lights!! 😆


Posted by on 14 July 2014 in Dragonspark, Speakeasy


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Why write?

I’m relatively new to WordPress, and one of my favourite things about blogging has been comments. I love to read, write and answer them. Recently, we were awarded a Liebster (not incredibly prestigious but still sent shivers through me when I saw Sue Blake’s comment). So we did the whole Q&A and nominated some bloggers we liked. One of my nominees was a girl whose blog I had just recently started to visit regularly, the amazing SJ Paige. During the ensuing comment chit-chat, she briefly mentioned her motivations for blogging. This seemingly casual remark caused a surprisingly big reaction within my brain. Why do I blog? Why do I spend countless hours in front of my PC screen telling stories of mages, secret agents, and spaceships?

Rationality gave me the answer. “You accepted your friend’s invitation and challenge to join the SpeakEasy” it declared, “after which you realised you could learn how to write better from these people.” Yes, but why do I feel this urge to write more? Why am I addicted to all sorts of feedback, comments especially?

Analytics then spoke up. “It’s a form of human interaction. You’re a human being (a bloody teenager at that). Evolution has wired you to pursue social interaction. It’s how you’re gonna meet a mate to further ensure the continuation of the human race.” Ok, but then why are the most satisfying comments tips, advice, constructive criticism etc… Why am I so proud when I put the final period on a post, one that outshines the tingle of satisfaction I feel when I hit “publish”? Why do I feel like a kid in a candy store while surfing through WordPress?

Dead silence from Analytics and Rationality. Well Ramble, it’s just you and me.

The way I see it, two possibilities stand out. Either I’m a lot more of an attention seeker than I originally thought I was, or this is what artists feel when they create a piece of art, or at least something that goes beyond the status of words on a piece of paper (Don’t have the pride or notoriety necessary to call myself an artist… in public… yet).

I feel like we all have an inner need for attention. We all need some sort of proof that we exist, that we are more than the sum of our actions, that we transcend the status of mere animated physical body. Maybe that is how Evolution makes us pursue human interactions: by making us addicted to them, being the most efficient and visible testimony to our existence (how it affects the life of others). Maybe it’s just a quirk produced by our overly complex brain. Maybe the machine in our heads has a desperate need to verify the reality perceived by our senses, to make sure it has a place in it.

Then again, this inner need for attention wouldn’t answer the whole question. It might justify the glee I feel when I see the high five comments on the SpeakEasy posts, and even part of the immense satisfaction caused by the comments with reactions in them (every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Here is a reaction caused by my action. My action is capable of causing a reaction, therefore it is real, and therefore I’m real). It doesn’t, however, explain the sheer pride I feel when surfing around on WordPress, knowing I’m part of that big machine. It doesn’t explain the satisfaction of finishing a post, or even that of having a good idea for a post.

That’s when the whole “artist’s pride” theory comes in. Again, I’m not calling myself an artist. I’m a teenager who happens to know how to use a keyboard. I have no qualification as a writer other than an unfinished high school education. Except quality doesn’t matter in this equation. The point is that it’s a creation, something my brain made from a set of electric impulses. Somehow, that simple fact makes us proud. Proud that we have created something. It doesn’t matter that it won’t make us rich or famous, what matters is that it is a contribution to a community (WordPress), and to a culture (the internet’s blogosphere). And that is a beautiful thing.

This pride does explain my urge to come up with new ideas, new stories, and new worlds. It explains my fascination for this community and my happiness to find my humble posts contribute to it. Is this artistic drive within all of us? Is it only due to yet another brain quirk? I have no idea. Do you?

Which one of these is the fuel my brain feeds off of when writing? A mix of the two probably. Which one is dominant? Are they fundamentally linked, and thus, impossible to separate? Am I an attention whore or Picasso?

Here is another question: Was Picasso an attention whore?


Posted by on 11 July 2014 in Dragonspark


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Patricia’s Q&A

One of my recent nominees for the Liebster, Patricia Riviera, wanted my answers to the questions she asked to her own nominees. My oversized ego immediately said yes!

1. What writer most inspires you?
I would say Isaac Asimov. I love his scientific approach to fiction. It’s driven my high school literary analysis, thus making me the nightmare of some of my literature teachers. The ones that didn’t like science anyway.

2. Do you write/blog for yourself or for others?
As of writing these words, for myself. It’s strange, but writing fiction is fun. Writing is a key part of the modern world, so practising it is also constructive, time well spent. Besides, our humble corner of the internet doesn’t attract enough people so that my sole drive for writing becomes that traffic.

3. Who is your favorite visual artist of all time?
Not sure if this fits your question, but it’s Ian Callum, the design director of Jaguar, as in the car. I consider the car as a piece of visual art, in some cases. Jags are beautiful pieces of human ingenuity and technical proficiency. He’s responsible for making them aesthetically pleasing, might I say impressive.

4. If you could learn a new language, which would it be? How would you approach it?
I think Russian is the most beautiful language ever. It would have to be that. As for the “approach”, take classes I suppose, until I’m good enough to go to the country and learn by living. However, I’m not sure I want to stay in a country with the politics and economics of Russia. Then again, I only get the over mediatised political incidents. I wonder what it is really like to live there.

5. What is your biggest phobia? What is your biggest dream?
Easy question, unfortunately. My biggest fear is failure. My biggest dream is success. If that doesn’t fit the bill, I’m scared to death of hornets (I lived in the south of the US), and I’d love to go ‘round the world in a sweet car. Like an Aston, or a Nissan GTR.

6. Assuming you believe in reincarnation, who do you think you were in a past life?
I’m probably the least religious person on earth but I’ll play along. Given that I live a life of relative peace, I’d say whoever I was, he/she wasn’t a bad person. Maybe a merchant of the Renaissance? That would be cool.

7. What mythical creature most represents your personality, and how?
Dragons, duh! I love heat, I hate cold, I love meat, and I have a borderline scary love for chimney fires.

8. If you could invent something to improve the world, what would it be?
A way to safely stabilize the plasma of a nuclear fusion power plant (Nerd alert). That would mean clean, practicaly infinite energy for humanity. No more use for Petrol, cheap electricity due to abundance, spread of access to the damn thing etc… I’d be great.

9. Would you rather: Be a recognized, acclaimed writer in your lifetime, or Remain unnoticed until your death in which then your words will live and be studied forever? Explain why.
I’m not sure if my words are worthy of the honour that is eternal study. I’d rather use my influence while alive to draw attention to things that need it (flaws of the classical educational system, lack of interest in politics, and the classics like world hunger and wealth distribution. I’d add sexism and racism to the list, but a  white teen would probably get accused of doing it for the attention, thus minimalizing the problem and shifting attention away from it in the media. People love to bash on people that do selfless acts that they themselves do not). Bessides, I don’t want all the students of the future to damn me for their bad grades, or the teachers to look for some kind of meaning in every thing I’d write.

10. Tell me about your perfect dessert.
I’m really not a foodie. Anything that contains chocolate will do just fine.

If you don’t know the rules of the Liebster, then you are either new to WordPress (in which case, thank you for flying with air DragonSpark during you discovery of this strange new world) or your incredible skill has catapulted you to fame before someone could nominate you. Either way, the rules are on top of our post concerning it.
For the practicality of the award, I won’t be nominating anyone new.


Posted by on 10 July 2014 in Dragonspark


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