Hi everybody. This is the story I wrote for NaNoWriMo last year. (If you don't know it, I suggest looking it up. Just stype it into the Google box.) It's a gpod story, completely finished so other than editing, it'll just get posted once a week or so. (You know how good I am at keeping consistent. (I can hear you booing now...)

Continued summery: Ten boys she's dated in the last 13 years, all living with her, all nonhuman. Vampires, werewolves, mereman, angels, devils, drag queens...everything you can name, she's got one living with her. She's been fighting for the perfect man for a long time, but hey? Isn't everyone? Then, just as Moralis finds him, her last man, the one she sent to prison and got a restraining order against, he returns and boy is he pissed! No one is getting his girl but him, no matter what he does, or who he has to go through.

Chapter one: Ten’s a Crowd!

Lyrics:

Each night we meet and talk about you
We reminisce about the things
You used to do
We just sit around broken hearted
'Cause all of us are still in love with you

Oh, yes we're ten lonely guys
With ten broken hearts
We thought your lies were true
Yes we're ten lonely guys
With tears in our eyes
Ten lonely guys who still love you...

She spun the dial on the radio, in a hurry to change the song. As a cheerful country tune flowed, she returned her hazel eyes to the road.

If Moralis had to listen to Neil Diamond’s “Ten Lonely Guys,” one more time, she swore she’d track down the man himself, and demand a stop to its production. However, she was certain this would not be tolerated by her employer. This tune was the theme song to the TV series he’d started, which was based off of her life’s story.

She still didn’t see how her life was so amazing, but apparently it was.

She paused at a traffic light, and let her fingers drum lightly on the dashboard. She ran her opposite hand through her hair, only to realize it was still held up in a bun. She let it remain there; knowing work still awaited her, both the type that paid in money and the type that paid knowledge.

She was heading to the Central Library in downtown Portland Oregon. She had some research to do for the next book she was writing. She needed to research different places in Portland, the cute romantic places for couples, the local playgrounds for young children and the best malls for teenagers to waste their time. This was the best place to obtain this information. The building was four stories tall, all floors and stairs made of gorgeous marble. It was quiet there, as it often was in libraries, and it provided Moralis a solitude she could never find in her own household. Considering those who took up residence with her, it was quite understandable that she’d need to venture out for comfortable silence.

When she arrived at the large, old building, and swept inside the front doors, serenity fell upon her as fast as the silence. These double sensations always graced her when she was in the presence of books or knowledge.

For an hour, she wandered the large marble staircases. She paused at the top level. This was the reception room. The space was often dedicated to musicians and occasional afternoon concerts. She’d wasted hours observing them, forgetting responsibility and drowning in the frivolous.

No musicians played this afternoon, so Moralis returned to the bottom level. As she swept over the reflective marble of the floor, floor length white coat whirling, her heart fluttered. She knew it was the familiar sensation of inspiration. It always struck her when she wandered among books. It made sense then to think how Moralis had written her book here. This was the very novel the TV series was based off of. It was two years ago that Johnny, her producer, had read her book and sought her out. In fact, it was within these very walls he’d offered her his proposition.

She withdrew from her pocket a small piece of paper. Scrawled on it was a list of fifteen book titles she needed. Since she knew the library so well, it took only 30 minutes to gather her material, and settle into a comfortable corner to go through it.

Taking notes in a notebook she’d withdrawn from her messenger bag, Moralis worked her way through the pile. She perused the collection, enjoying herself, even as the hours ticked by, unnoticed.

When her stomach began to rumble, she decided she’d done enough. Moralis gave back all the books but two, which she checked out and then left for her car.

She’d once considered working at the Central Library, but decided against it. Kenya, the person who rented out the bottom section of her house to Moralis, had once told her, “careful Moralis. I’ve heard that if you love something, the last thing you should do is surround yourself with it in daily life. You’ll get tired of it. Don’t make that mistake with something you love as much as books, libraries, and knowledge.” Moralis had heeded this bit of wisdom.

Her pager went off.

Moralis Aveve was juggling two jobs, one of which needed her now. She did hospice work both in the hospital, as well as house calls. She also helped out the nearest Search and Rescue team whenever they needed her. She had to support a house where she lived with nine other boys, only one of which brought in an income. They’d been to the brink of bankruptcy more than once.

She dropped her purple messenger bag on the passenger seat, and then slid into the drivers spot. She drove to the call that had just come in.

The page had been for a house call, but she wasn’t there long. It turned out to be a false alarm, so once she confirmed everything was alright, she left. By now, it was late evening, and nearing dinner time. She was so very hungry, and was delighted to be heading home now.

When she pulled up in front of the two story house, she searched for a place to park. There were four vehicles filling up the driveway, so Moralis left her car parked by the curb. She grabbed her bag, locked the car, and then paused at the end of the gravel driveway. She slid her hands into the pockets of her long white coat. On the back her name—Moralis Aveve—was scrawled. Each of the other actors on the TV series, including all the ex-boyfriends that lived with her, had an identical coat, all with their own names emblazoned on them.

Truly, if there was ever a contest for “who has the weirdest household,” this one would win first place. Who could disagree? Every boyfriend she’d had over the last ten years, since she was 18, now lived with her. They spanned from the age of 20, to 38. They all had different religions, hobbies, and backgrounds.

Suffice it to say there were constant disputes, in this first place winner for weirdest household.

CRASH.

Moralis looked up, to see a bundle of flashing lights of red, blue and green, come out of a window and tumble down the wall, to fall into the large green bushes at the bottom. This left a string of light going from the bush, up to the window.

“For the last time Jonane, I’m a Jewish vampire and I don’t want to have anything to do with Christmas lights!”

Oh, and something else that would surely earn them first prize? None of the ex-boyfriends were quite…human.

When she heard the shout, Moralis crossed the lawn, and over to the bush. She looked up.

“Hey,” She shouted, and saw a head stick out the window. “How about the next time you shove lights out the window, you unplug them first?”

“Hey Moralis!” The young male replied, flashing his bright, white pointed teeth. “Welcome back!”

“Get back in here.” Said a second voice, and the head that had been leaning out the window, was jerked roughly back within. A second later, the lights were unplugged, and the slack dropped into the bushes. Moralis gathered them up. It was also a good thing the window had been broken two days ago, so there wasn’t any glass to clean up this time.

Yep. Weirdest household indeed.