[  Hello Everyone!  This is a rough draft of a story I am writing because 1) I was bored and 2) I was feeling revengeful (don't ask me why) that my mom won't let me take my flute to camp –  o.o *slaps hand over mouth with a horrified look on her face* Oh no!  What have I done?!?  I've given away the big – oh.  No I haven't, not really.  Whatever.  You'll see.  As the story progresses, you might see requests for a new title, but not yet.  It doesn't make sense yet anyway.  I'm rambling.  So I'll stop now.  By the way, if there are any words that you don't know, please feel free to ask.

Disclaimer – Any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead is unintentional.  The title does not belong to me.  It is an opera by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. 

ANCAMNA – Thanks!  (see The History Of Novem Manor for my full gush.)  I'll tell you more about the history of the cast members later in the story.  Don't you agree that a little mystery does for a story what a little salt does for food?   And YES!  I will definitely use at least some of your ideas!  Thanks!  (It's always fun to get a new reviewer)

EARTHSONG12 – Thank you for your ideas!]


            "Sara, hurry up, you're going to be late!"  Mrs. Tipony called up the stairs. 

            "I know Mom, I'm coming, don't worry!"  Sara yelled at her mom as she repacked her bags for the fifth time.

            ///Now don't get Sara wrong.  She isn't the type of girl who packs too many clothes because she has to stay in style.  In fact, she's the opposite.  Her favorite outfit is a long broomstick skirt and Egyptian cotton blouse with flared sleeves while the fashion is micro-skirts and tube tops.  Read on and see why Sara is repacking yet again…\\\


            "ARRRRGH!!!" Almost in tears, Sara dumped everything out yet again.  "How can I fit this in when I need everything else?" she wailed.  Three bags, one month in Camp Borniette. "Camp BORING, more like!" she muttered.  Sighing, Sara sacrificed yet another outfit to make room for the long rectangular box.  Sitting on her bag and roping it shut just barely cut it. 




~/~/~/~/~One hour later~/~/~/~/~

            Sara's mother sighed nostalgically as they pulled under the gate of Camp Borniette.  The gate which was iron-wrought with close-knit flowers and vines and clanged forebodingly after them.  Sara sighed hopelessly.  Her mother had dragged her here every year for the past five, and every year, Sara nearly went mad.  Not only was it a haven for the "in" crowd of ignorant society slaves (thereby making it a torture for the ones like Sara), it was a government brainwashing facility. 

            Driving up to the front desk, Mrs. Tipony gave her name and Sara's.  Primping her hair, the girl hastily swallowed her gum.

            "YOU'RE Mrs. Tipony?!?" she blurted out, surprised.  "And you're Sara." 'No question there,' thought Sara.  'The whole darn camp must know me.'  "Don't worry about a thing,  Mrs. Tipony," simpered the girl.  "We'll take real good care of Sara.  In fact, we'll put her in the SPECIAL bunk!"  And did Sara catch a smirk at that last, or was it her imagination?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~TO BE CONTINUED~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~