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Lime-Cat

Trash to Treasure: Writer's Scraps

(Idea taken from Dreamweaver38's post in the Review Game Forum's Suggestion topic, post #3010.)

This is the place where we accept any "writer's scraps" that they do not use anymore. In other words, this works like the Trash to Treasure thing - one person's trash, another person's treasure.

Anyone who wishes to donate their old writer's scraps are free to post them in this thread, but please keep these scraps to a maximum of 300 words. Please see the DONOR section for more info.

Those who wish to use an idea of a donor's should make a post stating their wish to do such AND any work they post that was inspired by a donor's writer's scraps should be noted in an Author's Note to give credit where it is due.

IMPORTANT: All "scraps" that are posted here by donors are subject to their own copyrights. Anything the donors post are meant to be for inspirational purposes only. I hope the mods don't find any form of plagiarism stemming from this thread. Anyone found guilty of plagiarism will be reported to the FictionPress administrators and banned from the BWB forum. We are serious about plagiarism here at BWB!

DONORS:

Please keep all your "scraps" in one post for organizational purposes and follow these guidelines when posting your "scraps":

1) Head your post with your penname followed by "My Writing Scraps" in bold. i.e. Dreamweaver38 - My Writing Scraps

2) If you need to add or delete any "scraps", please edit your original post. Multiple posts of "scraps" by the same person will be deleted by a mod.

3) If you wish to retract all contributions to this thread, please edit your post to state such.

RECIPIENTS:

If you see a donor's scrap that has inspired you to write, please make a post stating such as a thanks to the donor. Also, please include an Author's Note in any works you post that result from the inspiration you get from a donor's scrap(s).

--

Format for the Trash to Treasure section is as follows:

Person A: I would like to donate my writer's scraps to BWB's Trash to Treasure project!

A - My Writing Scraps

"scrap #1" ...

Person B: I'd like to use Person A's writer's scraps! I promise to credit Person A in any work that I post that is inspired by Person A's ideas contained in their donated writer's scraps.

I used A's writing scrap: "scrap #1".

----

Sources of Inspiration: Inspirational quotes

1) If you have any inspirational quotes that you'd like to share, please post them here as well.

2) If you need to add or delete any quotes, please edit your original post. Multiple posts of quotes by the same person will be deleted by a mod.

3) If you wish to retract all contributions to this thread, please edit your post to state such.

2/2/2009 . Edited 2/3/2009 #1
Nicki BluIs

Nicki BluIs - The Junk in My Trunk

Scrap 1

“BINGO! I’ve got it! BINGO!”

Anabel Louis smiled. Bingo night was always fun, but tonight was especially long. Not that she disliked spending her Friday evenings with elderly nursing home residents. She just had so much planned for tonight and Bingo could last hours.

“Well? Tell them, Ana! Did I get Bingo or what?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Werschire, not this time.” Mrs. Werschire’s eyes widened with fury. “What do you mean ‘not this time!’” The elderly woman brushed wisps of blue hair away from her face and adjusted her Dolce sunglasses. “Look at my board!”

Ana sighed. “I did Mrs. Werschire. I said O sixty – two and you marked O fifty – two. I’m sorry but all you’ve got is BING.”

“Are you sure? I mean I think I heard – “

“Yes, Mrs. Werschire, I am sure. Besides,” Anabel glanced quickly at the community center’s only clock. 8:52; close enough. “Besides it’s time to wrap this game up.” Within minutes Anabel had the place cleaned up and escorted the last of the senior citizens out the door.

“Well, bye now Sugar,” Ms. Jenkins said. “I’ll see next week.”

“No, you won’t. I’m going to the Amazon, remember.” Ms. Jenkins paused, confused. Like Anabel, Ms. Jenkins had no family to speak of.She lost her husband some time ago and never had children of her own.For this reason she tried hard to watch over the young woman. But with the beginning of Alzheimer’s starting to appear, it became harder for her to remember the simplest details.

“Oh. Well how long will you be gone, Baby?”

“Only a few months, Ms. Jenkins.”

“Well, in that case have fun. But hurry back now; Bingo won’t be the same without you.”

“Thank – you Ms. Jenkins. I’ll miss you too.”

2/3/2009 #2
Dreamweaver38

Dreamweaver38's Scrap Bucket

Scrap #1

Evangeline got up and dressed, brushed her teeth – that kind of stuff. Her parents rushed her along so they wouldn’t miss the exquisite breakfast promised to them by the cruise. Sometimes she thought her parents were a little too enthusiastic about it all. The ocean was beautiful and there was some brilliant photo opportunities, once it a life time chances of seeing things, but Evangeline needed more adventure. They weren’t even allowed to explore any, or steer the boat, or do anything hands-on. She wished for more of that with each passing day. So far they had been on the cruise for a total of five days. There was still another two weeks to go.

The breakfast was okay. It didn’t have anything amazing like rare tropical fruits or anything disgusting like baby squid or octopus. It was just pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon – simple stuff really. It would be more fun to make it yourself, thought Evangeline. But it was food none the less. Still, Evangeline managed to stain her top. With a groan, her mother sent her up to their room on the ship to change.

Evangeline listened to her sneakers click on the metal under her feet as she walked up to the room.

Scrap #2

I looked up at the sky. The sun was no more than a blurr, it’s intense light choked out by the thick smog that engulfed the atmosphere above my head. Yet, it’s immense heat slipped through the pollution with ease, making me sticky and sweaty. I continued walking down the road, past ancient factories keen on making us breathe the disgusting smoke they billowed out of sides of their buildings, and stopped at the bright red LED streetlight. I looked around, only to see the regular armed soldiers at each corner. The streets were deserted, not that many could afford a car. Almost everyone lived in back alleys, stripped of every penny they owned, living in constant fear of getting whipped by more of the soldiers for living in the streets. To the soldiers, anyone could become a terrorist, which seems logical, but I wish they gave things a little more thought before they start whipping someone. At least my father thinks so too and he is one.

Scrap #3

My purple and white sneakers. I’d like to say that this is what it’s about. I’d like to say that it’s some sappy story where everyone’s crying all the time. I’d like to say that it’s about the struggle it takes to fit in and be something. But you wouldn’t see it my way. Yet that’s what it’s all about. Seeing it my way. Standing in my sneakers or looking through my eyes, whatever you want to call it. But I really think it’s more about how you feel.

I mean you can only watch through someone’s eyes. You can see, but you can’t do. And your feet can take you anywhere, but they don’t make that decision. They can do actions, but they don’t say, ‘I should kick her in the leg’. So I don’t think the saying should be "stand in my shoes", or "look through my eyes". It should be "feel with my heart", because that’s what really makes a person who they are. How they act, their attitude, their emotions. What have they felt that I haven’t? That’s what makes them different from everyone else.

Scrap #4

For some people, October isn’t a very good month. When you ask someone to tell you what they think of when you say October, they automatically think of things like fall, cold, winter, Halloween, flu, headaches, work, even Christmas. Not that Halloween and Christmas are negative like the others, but Christmas is a little too far ahead for me. Ask me and I’ll tell you cool breezes, that fall smell, colourful leaves on the sidewalk, candy, school, after-school teams, smiles, friends, left over thanksgiving, fun, and CHANGE! But no matter how much I wish it, I doubt me or my life will ever change.

Scrap #5

I threw on the first clothes I found decent and marched down the hall and down the tube slide to the first floor. Yes, I said tube slide. That would be my dad. Escalator up, tube slide down. I can understand the escalator because of the whole robotics thing he has going, but the tube slide is just wack if you ask me.

Scrap #6

Elevator. I was kind of dreading it. Not only was I afraid of getting lost on the fifth floor, I was worried about passing out cold in the elevator. I kind of have an irrational fear of them. I hate the feel of adrenaline pulsing through my veins as the elevator makes that unexpected lurch. But it was the only way onto the fifth floor.

I swung my bag over my shoulder as I stepped into the elevator. I was ready for this. I stood in the corner, put a hand on each of the railings, bent my knees to lower my center of gravity, chewed my bubble gum vigorously to stop my ear drums from exploding, and closed my eyes as tight as I possibly could. I must of looked like a freak.

"What’s wrong with you?" my dad laughed. I knew I looked stupid.

"Shhhh! I’m trying to stop myself from fainting." I could hear his quiet giggling stop as he started to worry.

"Why... Why would you do something like that?"

"Fear of elevators. Ever heard of it?"

"No, no I don’t think I have. Although I suppose you could have a fear of anything really." He swiped his authorization card and typed in a five digit code.

"You probably never heard of it because there’s no scientific name for it besides ElevATOR PHOBIA!!!!!" I screeched out the last few words as the elevator lurched, catching me off guard. I hung on tight to the railings but lowered myself inches away from the floor of the elevator. My dad laughed again. He knelt down to my level on the floor.

"And how do you know there is no scientific name for it?"

" I Googled it." I stated. Suddenly the elevator came to a rickety stop. I banged my head off the railing. I stood up rubbing my head and walked out the open elevator doors.

"And that’s why you stand up in an elevator," my dad giggled. I was glad to be off the retched thing.

Scrap #7

"Welcome Dr. Jessenvile." A female hologram appeared in front of us. It smiled and nodded at dad.

"Good Morning Emily!" my dad greeted the hologram. Ok, that was just weird.

"Thank you Dr. Jessenvile." chimed "Emily".

"Your very welcome. Emily, I would like you to meet my daughter, Electra." Oh God. I was being introduced to a hologram.

"Dad, it’s a hologram," I whispered to my dad.

"Pleasure to meet you!" the hologram said as it turned and smiled at me and stuck out a holographic hand.

"Uhhhh..." I droned as I stared at the hand. Eventually I pretended I was shaking the imaginary hand. "Um.... nice to meet you too... uhhhh... Emily, right."

"Yes, that is correct." responded the hologram. My dad began to walk down the hallway.

"Uhhhh... I think I have to go now...." I stammered. The hologram actually giggled as I walked down the hall.

"Ta ta now!" Emily smiled and turned herself off. That had to be the weirdest experience of my life.

Scrap #8

"Morning Ham!" my dad said to the man at the table in the corner. He was wearing a face mask and had what seemed like nine blow torches of varying sizes all going simultaneously. He was welding something I couldn’t see. He flicked a switch above his head, turning off the torches and turned to face us. Lifting his mask, I could see that his eyes were as dark and deep as chocolate, and he had a thick moustache covering his upper lip. He looked at my dad with an odd cross-eyed glare. It was quite different.

Scrap #9

I waited, lost in the stars. Suddenly I was disturbed by a loud noise across the street. The light was on in a window in the house down the street and I saw things flying through the room. A pillow, a teddy bear, a lamp... ouch that one broke. I saw two silhouettes and flailing arguing arms. One of them looked a lot like Alex. But it couldn’t be, he was talking to Leigh. Suddenly I got an annoying little jingle that meant someone was waiting impatiently. I looked at Leigh’s window, and sure enough, it was her.

Scrap #10

I signed out really quick and snapped my Macbook shut. Careful to not drop the laptop, I tried to scramble up the roof and through the window. I had one foot through the window on my dresser when the door bell rang. Oh god! Hurry!!!! I took a huge leap toward the floor, knocking several things off my dresser. I missed my footing and rolled onto the floor. Throwing my Macbook onto my bed like a frisbee, I crawled frantically through my bedroom door and scrambled to my feet as I rounded the corner and jumped into the tube slide. I was almost at the bottom when I heard the metallic click of Kyle’s feet on the tile floor. I landed running at the bottom of the slide and swung around the corner toward the front door. But Kyle had been faster, his hand already twisting the door knob.

"Wait, Kyle, don’t...!" I was cut off as the door opened to reveal Alex in the door frame. Oh snap.... this was soooo bad! I whipped back around the corner and peered around it at the door.

Scrap #11

He stood against the wall in the back alley behind the main street stores. Everything from his trench coat to his hair was as black as the shadow in which he stood. The only thing that shone through were his brilliant blue eyes and the silver of his knife. He paced in his fancy Itallian shoes, impatiently waiting for his employer. He looked at his knife. He hoped that the blood was still fresh on it. His employer would want proof that the job was done. But it was starting to dry. If his employer did not come soon, he would have to clean it.

Scrap # 12

I’m going to run tonight. I don’t have a choice. It’s run or die. I know he’ll try to kill me again. He’s tried twice since mum disappeared. And mum disappeared after Lyndon died. Lyndon. I wish he was here to run with me. It’s just me and my keyboard now, and I don’t know how far she’s going to make it in this rain. I wrapped her in whatever I could find in the dusty old attic where I hide. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. I can’t bear to leave her behind. Not with that monster of a father. No, no, she was coming with me. Anything would be better than staying with him.

I don’t know where I’ll go, or what I’ll do when I get there, but I’ll figure something out. The C chords will tell me. They vibrate through the trees of the forest, whispering words only the sharp of ear can hear.

Wish me luck,

Maybelle.

Scrap #13

It’s kind of sad, but it’s the start of a song. I don’t know if I’ll finish it, or if I’ll ever write music again. I don’t know why I’m writing this. It will never get handed in anyway. Not since what happened tonight. I’m still shaking and my hair is still sticky with sweat, even through this piercing cold downpour. Rain. A nefarious criminal’s best friend. And I guess that’s why I’m writing this. To let out the anger, the rage that’s boiling up inside of me. Like when I write my music, to let out the notes that mix in my brain and ring in my ears.

I don’t know where I’ll go, but I think I’ll bring my trumpet. If I can find it. And wherever I go, there’ll be a piano. The C chords are my yellow brick road. They’ll lead me to safety. They rang through the sky tonight. It must be a sign.

Wish me luck,

Jamie.

Scrap #14

He was sweaty, he was crying and he was wet. But worst of all, he was afraid. His heart beat faster and faster, in time with the clicking of the strangers footsteps on the hardwood floor.

The stranger was getting closer to the room in which his parents hid. Jamie stopped. He could not move. He listened. Just as he had listened to the wonderful sound of the C chords that rang out from the skies earlier that night. But now he was listening for something horrid. He was waiting for that dreadful moment. For a while, all he could hear was his own panicked breathing and the footsteps of the stranger, clicking faster and faster like his heart. The stranger was moving in. The tenseness of the moment was eating away at his heart, slowly, ever so slowly. His eyes were glued shut, listening, just listening. And just when he felt he could take it no longer, he heard a door bang open and a single shot, just a single one, fired through the doorway. The sound was incredible, and it shook ever sense Jamie had in his body. But it was the scream that made him move. The scream, oh the horrid scream that would haunt him for the rest of his days. It flooded out through the night, piecing every heart within miles of it’s source. The dreadful, high-pitched, scream of terror and agony that sent shivers down Jamie’s spine was what made him move.

Scrap #15

It was a dismal day. He was gone. He had always made our miserable lives more cheerful in a strange kind of way. And now, we stand in our jet black, hooded cloaks, in the acid rain that burns our skin. We gather our pale faces around the last patch of earth in our steel covered world and mourn our loss. And to hear out the will.

The Inventor had never been very successful. Even though he had the most brilliant ideas to save human kind, no one would listen to one man, in one of the last human settlements of our dying world. If it wasn’t for him, there would be none of us left at all., since he found the cure to the horrible flaming plague that wiped out the globe. And if it wasn’t for him, none of the little hopes in the villagers hearts that the human race would survive would ever be remembered. But he’s gone now, our last hope for survival.

There were only a mere 100 villagers left on the polluted planet. And a will that divided a great many things among them. But of 100 people, what were the chances of saving the planet? What could be done? Repopulation by reproduction was not an option as every child born died within days from the toxic air. The only two little ones left were three years old, sacred because they were considered to be the last people ever to walk the earth, and the fate of the doomed planet rested on their shoulders. But even though they were only three, Ezekial and Isabella had the most hope in their hearts for the human race. When the will was read, Zeki and Bella were given the Inventor’s most treasured possessions. As everyone left, a drenched cloak and an aged book were what were carried in tiny hands.

2/3/2009 #3
Dreamweaver38

Inspirational Quotes

Shoot for the moon. Even is you miss, you’ll land among the stars! ~ Les Brown

-

Books are like flypaper - memories cling to the printed page better than anything else.

~ Cornelia Funke, from Inkheart, pg.15, (Scholastic, 2005)

-

You are stronger then you know. Wiser than you realize.

What was once your life, is now your legend.

~ Eragon, Christopher Paolini

-

Nothing’s gonna change destiny. Whatever’s meant to be, will work out perfectly.

~ Keep Holding On, Avril Lavigne

-

A good friend will bail you out of jail, but a true friend will be sitting next to you saying,

we screwed up bad.

-

Placed above, it makes greater things small.

Placed beside, it makes small things greater.

In matters that count, it always comes first.

Where others increase, it keeps all things the same.

ONE

-

You have brains in your head,

you have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself in any direction you choose.

Your on your own, and you know what you know.

You’re the guy who will decide where to go.

~Dr. Seuss

-

Every artist was once an amateur.

~ Ralph Emerson

-

Your imagination is your preview of life’s coming attractions.

~Albert Einstein

-

Hard work never killed anybody, but why take the chance?

-

Chocolate is the answer, who cares about the question!

-

Everyone has a photographic memory. Some just come without the film.

-

Most people learn by observation, and there are a few who learn by experimentation. And then there are those who actually touch the fire to see if it’s really hot.

~ Anonymous

-

Everyday is a gift, that’s why they call it the present.

-

I have the answer in my head. I just haven’t found it yet!

-

If everything is coming your way, your in the wrong lane.

-

Everyone has music in them. Only the talented have the ability to share it with the rest of the world.

-

The lesson is in the struggle, not in the victory.

-

Only after the last tree has been cut down,

only after the last river has been poisoned,

only after the last fish has been caught,

only then will you realize that money can’t be eaten.

-

Knowledge talks, wisdom listens.

-

I believe in angels, the kind that heaven sends...

I’m surrounded by angels,

but I call them my best friends.

-

Give up for a second and that is where you will finish.

-

Life’s not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

-

If the sky is the limit, than what is space, over the limit?

-

If we weren’t all crazy, we’d be insane!

-

Once you can accept the universe as matter expanding into nothing that is something, wearing stripes with plaid comes easy. ~Albert Einstein

-

There are many types of ships. There are wooden ships, plastic ships, and metal ships. But the best and most important types of ships are friendships.

~ Old Irish Quote

-

A classic, is a book that is much praised, yet rarely read.

2/3/2009 #4
dragonflydreamer

Dragonflydreamer - Crumpled Musings

Scrap #1

“Wha’ can I get for ya?” A middle-aged woman asked with a boisterous smile.

“Whatever you recommend,” the girl replied simply.

The woman, ‘Aggie,’ noted the girl’s accent. “Ah, a foreigner. We don’ get many a those aroun’ ‘ere. You must ‘ave a story,” Aggie replied.

“What’s it to you?” replied the girl irritably.

“Well, ya don’ ‘ave to be so touchy ‘bout it,” Aggie countered. “But a name would do,” she added as an afterthought.

“Eva,” she said simply and dismissively.

“Well, if yer gonna be tha’ way ‘bout it.” Aggie feigned offense. “I’ll bring ya some po’age. It’ll be ‘ere in a few.”

“Bring some ale, too,” Eva instructed.

Aggie gave her a quizzical look. “At’s a bit strong fer a girl li’ you, don’ ya think?”

Eva gave a bit of a snort and replied, “I can take it.”

Aggie returned in several minutes with a pint of ale and a bowl of pottage that had to be at least a week old. Eva didn’t object to the age of the food and ate it quietly. She slowly sipped on the ale, clearly aware of the consequences of swigging it.

Once she had finished, Aggie came to clear her place, but Eva didn’t leave afterwards. Aggie scrubbed her rag over a particularly stubborn spot one last time before tucking it back into her skirts. She kicked some lose dishes under the bar, then swung herself around the counter and strode over to her table. “All right, girl. I’ve go’ a proposition for ya.” She took the silence as an invitation to continue. “I gather ye need food and housin’ for a while, maybe some clothes to keep yer warm. I’ll give ‘at to yer for a small fee.”

“And what would that fee be?” Eva’s tones were nearly as cold as her eyes as they bore into Aggie.

The woman smiled, flicking her curly hair behind her ears before replying. “Jus’ a story.”

Scrap #2

We received a sudden jolt as we turned from the smooth road to the dirt path called Tobey Hill. The car swayed from side to side as the tires rolled over the loose gravel.

“Jesus, Jamie! You didn’t tell me this house was in the middle of freaking nowhere!” Kevin grumbled.

“Quit complaining, Kevin,” I said absentmindedly. I was too focused on the houses we were passing by to pay much attention to him. Each one seemed like a looming shadow, threatening to remind me of things I was trying so hard not to remember.

“One forty-nine. Is this the one?” Kevin’s voice snapped me back to reality.

“Yeah.” Kevin made a sharp turn into the driveway and silenced the engine. I looked up, half expecting to see my grandmother running out the door to great me, a bright smile on her face, and the dog bounding after her. Then I mentally slapped myself and focused my attention on gathering my purse.

They wouldn't be there, and they never would again. I should know that by now.

2/15/2009 . Edited 2/15/2009 #5
Miss Bob

A few scrap story snippets and random conversations

Scrap #1:

“Fear not, sweet Nelissa, for I shall save you!”

Oh, yawn. Here we go again.

“Surrender yourself , Sir Bradbury! Or the girl will die by my hands!”

Why do they always say ‘by my hands’? I mean, was I expecting them to use their feet or something?

“Never! I will never give in! Nelissa, my dear heart, call out to me so that I may find you!”

For the love of all that is holy, how many times have we been through this! I am always gagged. I can’t call out, you heroic fool!

“She is hidden, Bradbury, where only God can find her. Surrender or she will suffer!”

“Fine! I cannot allow her to be harmed, I give in to you.”

Gosh. That was predictable.

“But first, before you kill me, tell my why: why did you do all of this?”

Yeah, I thought so. Here comes the monologue. I decide not to listen, because let’s face it, they are all the same. I'll just wait here, with my hands loosely tied, my mouth gagged and my imminent death staring me in the face.

Yawn.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I know I should be scared but after the first ten times, this whole process gets a more than a little monotonous.

“You’ll never get away with this!”

Phrase number eleven, neatly in the bag.

“And what, pray tell, is going to stop me?”

My sword, that’s what.

“My sword, that’s what!”

He needs new lines. I keep telling him, but he never listens. Not little Nelissa. Just braid your hair and look pretty, Nelissa.

Gah.

Then there’s the inevitable wet metal sound, a crunch or two, a grunt, and then the sound of falling meat on to marble floor.

Another arch fiend taken care off. Whoopee.

Ah, here’s himself. The grand Sir Bradbury saves the day! Joy, jubilation!

Good Lord I am so bored of this.

Scrap #2:

“You know, Galdor, I honestly never thought I could love someone with hair longer than mine” Silmarwen said thoughtfully.

The jet man looked up from his reading perch, flashing her a feline grin.

Scrap #3:

"Everytime I hear the phrase 'credit crunch', I start to think about good a cereal that would be..."

-

"Good morning."

"Matter of f*** opinion!"

-

"Show me one person who has never tried to stick a jaffa cake to the roof of their mouth and maybe I will be inclined to believe you on this occasion."

-

"See that?"

"I'm blind."

"So? Try harder!"

-

“That cutlery isn’t gonna fit in there.”

“It will fit because I will it, such are my powers.”

“You dropped a spoon.”

“...There is no spoon.”

-

MC: Don't worry, my love. I'm here for you, anything you need, just say. *holds her close*

FC: *sniffles* thank you (name)

Wandering friend of both: wow, she's lucky your STDs arent spread by body contact *wanders away from the hugging couple*

MC: *cough*

-

"I worry about you sometimes... Thats why I keep an eyes on you when I can."

"Uuurgh! I did wonder why I had this squishy ball on my head..."

"You are just validating my point here."

"Oh. You dont want back?"

*considers* "Nah, I've got plenty to spare."

"...You're weird."

3/15/2009 . Edited 3/15/2009 #6
sophiesix

Hi Miss Bob,

I was wandering if I could yse a few of your lines for Said Author's and my story "403 Forbidden'. The main characters travel to a Forum to solve their writer's block, so i figured using some realia would be kind of neat. I was thinking of using “He needs new lines. I keep telling him, but he never listens. Not little Nelissa. Just braid your hair and look pretty, Nelissa.Gah.” if thats okay? attributed to you, of course.

6/29/2009 #7
sophiesix

Hi Dragonflydreamer,

I was wandering if I could yse a few of your lines for Said Author's and my story "403 Forbidden'. The main characters travel to a Forum to solve their writer's block, so i figured using some realia would be kind of neat. I was thinking of using

“I looked up, half expecting to see my grandmother running out the door to great me, a bright smile on her face, and the dog bounding after her. Then I mentally slapped myself and focused my attention on gathering my purse.They wouldn't be there, and they never would again. I should know that by now.”

if thats okay? attributed to you, of course.

Kind regards, Sophiesix

6/29/2009 #8
Lime-Cat

Hi Miss Bob,

I was wandering if I could yse a few of your lines for Said Author's and my story "403 Forbidden'. The main characters travel to a Forum to solve their writer's block, so i figured using some realia would be kind of neat. I was thinking of using “He needs new lines. I keep telling him, but he never listens. Not little Nelissa. Just braid your hair and look pretty, Nelissa.Gah.” if thats okay? attributed to you, of course.

@sophiesix

Per the rules of this thread, you're allowed to use any "scraps" posted in this thread as long as you include an Author's Note in your work crediting the person(s) who donated the "scrap(s)". If you wish to contact Beatles (Miss Bob), she can always be reached via PM. Happy writings to you (and Said Author)! :)

6/29/2009 . Edited 6/29/2009 #9
sophiesix

Hi Dreamweaver38,

I was wandering if I could yse a few of your lines for Said Author's and my story "403 Forbidden'. The main characters travel to a Forum to solve their writer's block, so i figured using some realia would be kind of neat. I was thinking of using

He was sweaty, he was crying and he was wet. But worst of all, he was afraid. His heart beat faster and faster, in time with the clicking of the strangers footsteps on the hardwood floor.”

if that's okay? attributed to you, of course.

Kind regards, Sophiesix

6/29/2009 #10
Miss Bob

Hi Miss Bob,

I was wandering if I could yse a few of your lines for Said Author's and my story "403 Forbidden'. The main characters travel to a Forum to solve their writer's block, so i figured using some realia would be kind of neat. I was thinking of using “He needs new lines. I keep telling him, but he never listens. Not little Nelissa. Just braid your hair and look pretty, Nelissa.Gah.” if thats okay? attributed to you, of course.

Oh sure, knock yourself out :D

And tell me when you've written the story, I'm really interested!

7/1/2009 #11
sophiesix

Thanks guys, the chapter is now up (chapter 5 of 403 forbidden) . I don't know how to stick a link in here, but if you go to my profile, it'll be at teh top of my list. thanks again!

Sophisix

7/6/2009 #12
Siriano

Siriano's Scraps (a.k.a. writing bursts)

Scrap #1:

I wonder if Kris notices the way Adam looks at him like he's a smiley little southern cupcake -- complete with pretty blue frosting and chocolate sprinkles.

Sometimes I wonder if Adam notices the way he looks at Kris like he's a smiley little southern cupcake.

Scrap #2:

The first thing I remembered was the rain, sprinkling gently over the trees, the faintest roar barely audible over the few cars on the narrow road that cut through the mountain. The streaks of misty water came down in perfectly straight lines like in movies, unphased by the gentlest of winds. In the light it resembled snow, dainty and thouroghly covering every inch of bare ground. The tiny droplets pricked my skin, sending slight chills that were odd for the first day of the local kids' summer vacation. And just as quickly as it came, the droplets dried up and the clouds moved on and the sun shone over the high gloss of water clinging to the broad leaves and pin needles.

Scrap #3:

"Oo-kay Xander! Wake up!" the scratchy voice called before a heavy pile of clothes fell on me. My eyes squeezed together and opened widely. The light from the open archway that led to a tiny balcony outside my room shone in my face, blurring my vision of what was happening. I groaned and pushed the clothes off of me into the floor.

"What is it?" I asked the owner of the voice, Talc Morgan. He and another man, Turner Couch, were tailors that had a shop set up in the middle of our rather wealthy village. I was their apprentice, seventeen years old and already working to keep somebody else's roof over my head. According to them, my mother had left me here when I was only a few months old. Couch's late wife Angela took the lead role in raising me until she died when I was six. I barely remember her.

Morgan grabbed my arm and threw me out of my small bed a little too rough. "Get dressed." I asked him why and he snapped at me. Something about people being here for me? Hardley anybody knew I was even anything more than a tailor's assistant, let alone that I lived here.

"What ... time is it?" Morgan grabbed his pocket watch off of a table covered in chalky powder and needles and told me that it was about five in the AM. My room was the storage room on the top floor of a tiny apartment that Couch and Morgan made into their shop. They lived next door, in two apartments like everyone else. I wished at times that I could live there too; the storage room reaked of dirty laundry and there was more chalk in the air then oxygen.

I pulled a pair of demin pants on and a loose white shirt with long sleeves over my head. Morgan had shoved a few boxes made of cardboard out of his way and headed downstairs. I trotted down the narrow iron staircase and whipped around on the railing at the bottom. Two similiar-looking women, most likely sisters, were standing in the open front space. They were in drastic contrast to the homely space in which they stood. They were lavishly dressed in corseted dresses that reached just past their knees; one was gold, one was green. The corsets were both black with the color of the skirt being the color of the ties. One with long, curly, blond hair was giggling wildly at me while leaning on the other woman's shoulder, clawing at it like a cat. She was whispering something in the other's ear, but I couldn't hear what it was.

The other was clearly older and more mature. Her hair was chocolate brown and similarly styled like the blond's: swept over her shoulder and pulled to one side by a jeweled clip. She starred at me in a way that made me uncomfortable. It was as if she were going over a checklist of things to look for; nice hair; well built; handsome? After an akward moment of horrid silence, her gaze melted into a pleased sultry one. I didn't like this look either.

"H-hello," I stuttered as I stepped back. My hand felt behind me to make sure I didn't hit anything but a wall. Morgan clamped his heavy hand on my shoulder and pushed me towards the two women.

"S***!" the blond hissed in her sisters ear, "S***, it's a boy!" She devilishly cackled and continued to paw at her sisters ear and shoulder. I jumped back into Morgan who yanked me forward once again.

"Xander," he politley introduced me, "these are the Varlander sisters: Marlene and Alicia." The brunette, Marlene, stepped forward and took my chin in her long, gloved hand.

"Such a ... pretty child." I jerked my head away and glared at her. What did they want? Morgan must know and isn't telling me. He wouldn't just let two strange women in to see me without good reason.

She clicked her tounge and shook her head. "Temper, temper," she cooed while wagging her finger slowly. "You're fiesty. I love that in a boy, especially one as handsome as you...."

Morgan broke into the one-side conversation again. "Xander, these ladies," -- at that he sheepishly grinned and nodded his head, "are here for their employer."

"Oh really? Who's your employer?" I snapped at this Marlene. She ignored me and continued to talk "buisiness" with Morgan.

"Xander here's always been a little different!" he cheered with a slap on my back. I blaunched. I could honestly feel my face cool and harden. Why would he openly admit that about me?! Why? "Haven't you Xander?"

"Don't touch me," I grumbled quickly. Marlene's green eyes instantly lit up. She looked so excited that it scared me.

"Really...?" Her voice cracked into a witch-like tone that sent chills down my spine. "Excellent...." I then felt something lift my arm. It was the ditsy blond, Alicia. I had been so fixated on Marlene that I didn't notice her come over and start inspecting me. She crouched down and circled around me, getting into my face. She scurried over to her sister and hissed into her ear again, this time, loud enough that I could hear her.

"S***! S***, let's get him! The master will love him!" She was grinning and cackling like crazy. Morgan chuckled along and stepped forward. He placed his hand on a bare part of both of their backs and led them towards the door.

"He's all yours!" Marlene smiled at this then replied with:

"Well stop by tomorrow to settle the payment planning." And with that, Morgan swept them out of the tiny front door with a jingle from the brass bell. He leaned against the door with a greedy thirst in his eyes.

"Xander," he said to me, "after all these years, you've finally paid off."

7/15/2009 . Edited 7/15/2009 #13
Avant-garde and Dream Realms

Rae's Over-Emotional Inspired Outbursts

Scrap #1:

They're at it again. Don't get me wrong, because I'm happy for them. After all, I've made so many personal sacrifices just for the sake of keeping them together. But she can't appreciate anything I've done, can she? Of course not. It sickens me to hear them and the noises they make. Pawing all over one another, moving against each other, kissing any skin they can find that isn't the other's mouth. They can't keep their hands off each other for five seconds? Jesus Christ!

I know she's only doing it while I'm in the same room because she enjoys rubbing it in, but she doesn't know I know. He does it because he thinks it keeps her happy, but I know the moment I leave the room, she'll go right back to ignoring him and playing her stupid, precious Sims. He'll hold her and ask her what's wrong, going so far as to take the blame for something he can't possibly be blamed for and apologize like he's just murdered her mother. It's worse than all that because even though he's smart, he's still so damn oblivious that it makes me angry.

I've built up so much anger at the both of them, but mainly her, that I can't begin to understand how I haven't gone off on her yet. The most I've said to her these past few days is, "It's just a game. Don't take it so damn seriously."

What gets me is how she really has no reason to treat him the way she does. What has he done besides love her unconditionally and treat her like a goddess? Oh, right, how could I forget what he's done in the past? Gotten a job just so he can buy her whatever she wants. Not once look at another female longingly. Turn down time with his best friends (who he never sees anymore) because she wants to come over and fall asleep on his bed without him. Spent money on separate fares for two buses and a train to get to her house to pick her up, pays more fare for the ride back to his house, and then twice more when he takes her home and has to return home himself. Goes into the store, alone, to buy "feminine products" for her while she gets a visit from her darling Aunt Flo.

But of course, he's such a horrible person for doing those things, right? Especially when he's kept his virginity for her and not once asked for more.

I can't picture anyone more ungrateful than her. As of now, I'm feeling physically ill at the sight of them cuddled up together and hearing the sounds of their voices baby-talking one another. She's such a damn hypocrite, always yelling at me when I baby-talk animals and other people. I can't walk away again because it's dinnertime, so I just turn to the side so my back is facing them. Naturally, they don't notice because they're too involved with each other to care.

I feel like I'm twelve years old again, sitting in a chair facing the wall of my psychiatrist's office, tucked away in the corner like a child being punished. The only difference is no one is asking me why I'm not talking. No one is telling me I've got nothing to feel guilty about. No one is trying to convince me that I'm worth more than I think I am and that I deserve to show my face to them.

They're oblivious.

No one says a word until I silently leave the kitchen. That's when he storms out, face knotted in worry, and I can't tell if he's genuinely concerned or just playing the part. I can hear anger in his voice when he asks me if I'm okay, and I suddenly feel just like the friend who infuriates me. I'm upset for no real reason but I expect everyone to notice I'm upset and fawn over me. Just because.

But I have a reason to be upset.

What makes me feel even more sick is the fact that after I tell him I'm fine and thank him for asking, he doesn't move. He doesn't rise from his seat across from me and leave with the same playbook words I've heard for years from people who pretend to care but really just want to get back to whatever they were doing before. They think it beats talking to a brick wall. Those words I had crafted in the most simplistic form didn't work on him. He doesn't buy them, even though everyone else does. He doesn't just linger like he's borderline ready to stay if I change my mind or bolt if I reassure him I'm fine. He clings like a parasite because even though he's totally oblivious, he's smart.

But then again, intelligence has nothing to do with it when someone gives a constant cold shoulder before storming out of a room. You'd have to be stupid not to see something was wrong.

I finally force him away. I don't know how, but he must have sensed that I wasn't going to budge, no matter how much I was hurting. Because really, how am I supposed to tell him he and his girlfriend, my so-called best friend, are hurting me? That's admitting defeat to her selfish games and it'll only hurt him more because she'll toy with him worse than before.

It's what happened the last time I saved their relationship. I told him how they were tearing me apart, how it killed me inside to hear them complain and then turn around and blame their problems on me. Especially her. She told me time after time that the two of them would get into a fight. "And guess who it was about this time?" she would ask (like it wasn't a mystery after the first five times she'd told me). "You again!" But she'd say it in this childish voice that made me want to slap her right across the face and tell her to get the hell out of my house and to grow the hell up.

What kills me is that first time she tells me, "He wanted to date you first."

And then I can't stop thinking that if he did, he had a funny way of showing it. He never asked me out the whole two years I knew him before he even met his now-girlfriend. We never talked on the phone, never hung out or anything. He never hinted toward wanting me, and as soon as my friend met him, she wanted him. She went as far as pushing me out of the way at my Sweet 16 while we were dancing.

If he wanted me so badly, why didn't he ask me out? If he wanted me so badly, why does he want to marry her?

Needless to say I learned my lesson.

I realize that I'm feeling more depressed once he's gone because he looks even more angry and pained than he did when he followed me outside. It's as if my depression has hurt him more than his girlfriend's mind-games and ignorance. My lies have cut him deeply, because friends are supposed to trust and be honest with one another, but here I am, not trusting him with my problems and lying to him to cover that lack of trust right up. I've just shown him he can't be trusted, and that really, I can't be, either.

Now I feel worse because I've turned away the person who genuinely cares, and it goes even more downhill because I feel happy about it. Like I've won some victory against him by angering him and pulling him down to my level, even if just for a few moments. Because I know as soon as he walks through the door, the two of them will be on each other like dogs in heat.

I feel like a terrible friend for putting him through what she has. If anyone doesn't deserve it, it's him.

But deep down, a hateful, selfish little part of me really believes that he does.

Scrap #2:

I don't understand how you can expect me to handle this. Alone, with you nowhere to be seen. Nowhere to be found. What if I lost control? How much of myself would I lose? All of you, I'm sure. I just can't imagine being alone through all of this. I know the others went through this, but I can't begin to describe the terror I feel. The isolation. The hysteria. I'm so afraid I won't feel anything at all after this.

And it'll all be your fault, once again.

How could you expect me to just take it and figure it all out by myself? I don't care if it's been done before. I'm not like the rest. I lack the strength to survive without you. I need you here to hold me and tell me everything will be okay. I can't change alone. I can't be expected to defeat this by myself. I need your comfort, your peace. These tremors won't stop until I have you back. Please convince me that what I'm going through isn't real, that I'm just imagining it!

They're telling me that this is what's real, and that you're what's not.

Scrap #3:

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

Beep. Beep. I can't breathe. I can't believe I'm even doing this! What was I thinking?

"A boyfriend then?"

What do I press? I want him to know who I am so badly, but...I can't let him know! He'll hate me! ...Beep.

"Yes?"

God, I can't let him think that. But what else am I supposed to explain through buttons? If I talk, he'll know it's me...Ugh! ...Beep. Beep.

"No?"

Jesus help me! Make up your stupid mind, Rachel! He's just a dumb boy! He's going to hurt you no matter what! Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Are you sure you're a girl?"

I've been at this for days. What's the point anymore? Click.

Scrap #4:

I've yet to see the man walking outside our house, waiting for a moment he deems important to do whatever it is he's planned. I only know that my father has seen him on the prowl, watching, ducking behind his hood, waiting for something to happen. I'm scared, even though he hasn't done a thing. I know single men can be dangerous. One man's mind could be the equivalent of a dozen, after all.

I've become paranoid, I decide a week later. The man is still stalking our house, my father says. I've still yet to see him, not that I've gone to check, mind you. My brother has been nervous lately. He's been on his toes, so to speak. He's anxious for something, though I don't know what. He tells me he's expecting a delivery.

It scares me.

The doorbell rings, and that horrid feeling churns inside of me. I feel fear bubbling up, anxiety eating my lungs. I rush to the door, matching my father step for step. "Leave it be," I plead, tugging on his arm. "Let them leave the boxes outside," I beg.

This is wrong. I know this is wrong.

My father opens the door and and is knocked to the floor by the man barging through. I run to barricade the door, to shut him out, but he's stronger than I expected. He easily pushes the door back, sliding me along with it. I look at him in terror. I am only two feet from him. I feel deja vu. I've seen this man. I've seen this scene before.

My father is unconscious on the floor. The man just stares at me, all alone but tall and intimidating. I see the delivery men swarming outside from the corner of my eye, but they're in on it.

I know it.

My brother is in on it, too. He's responsible. This man, I've seen him before. I know him! Jesus, where have I seen this before?He grins at me, a dark, knowing smirk that steals my breath in a bad way. He reaches his arm up from his side, a small remote hiding in it, and he presses the button.

Nothing happens, but I know we're all going to die. The man (I know him! I've seen him before! Where!) places the remote in his pocket, nods his head mockingly, and tells me everything is done. He leaves, satisfied, and I slam the door and lock it. I turn to the radiator where packages are placed, packages that weren't given to us by the man but were never there before. But they were? I know they weren't, but their appearance isn't unnatural, is it?

Like the man, who I've seen before. Where have I seen him? I know him! And those packages weren't there before!

I nudge my father with my foot, bring my hands to my hair and tug.

"I told you this would happen! I knew it but no one listened to me! Now we're all going to die! Why didn't any of you listen to me? You all are at fault! It's your fault we're going to die!"

Wake up.

Scrap #5:

As she lays dying, she starts to hallucinate, but she doesn't know if she is dreaming or if it's all real. She's stuck in this past life, but cannot fully die. She's stuck in the Badlands, where all her nightmares are hungry for her. There is no entrance. There is no exit. There is only the life on one side that she cannot return to, and the darkness that lies ahead of her that she cannot reach. Forever stuck in the world of limbo where those things forgotten are very much alive.

Scrap #6:

We are the other half that lives. Our faces make the perfect veil for our secrets. We show this other face to our friends, to our colleagues, to our peers. We laugh when we are supposed to. We get angry when it is expected. We are selfish because we dare to question God, because we want to know what exactly it is we've done to deserve this. We wish we could run away...but there's no place to run to. Everyone is watching. Everyone is whispering. Everyone is waiting.

But the blame never leaves us.

Scrap #7:

"No one cares what I think," he tells her, protecting the contents of his glass by talking with a pointed pinky.

"I do," she says, honesty filling her with light and anger that he can see, that he hates.

"Yes, you do," he concedes mockingly, then downs his drink like it's air. "But you weren't supposed to know."

Scrap #8:

Love thy enemy.

Follow an empty path.

Never agree with logic.

Quest! Go to the places that don't exist. Mention what you know. No way out? Open the door! Run for your life. Count out loud, talk to trees, listen to metaphors, fear my shadow.

Pace this space! Go out, never stop running.

Maybe this is real?

Don't let it get to you! Be strong, even heroes get scared. Take chances, count out options. Vast spaces? East or west? Take your time.

Stop!I can't breathe! Please, don't leave!

Apparate to an unknown place, over the rainbow.

Maybe I'll survive?

Can you wake me up?

Listen to my logic, feel my fear.

7/19/2009 . Edited 7/21/2009 #14
DreamingEternal

DreamingEternal -- My Writing scraps

Scrap #1: The Thunderstorm

I’ve always loved watching thunderstorms. Nature’s little light shows, as I like to think of them. They’re like earthly fireworks displays, to be oohed and ahhed at.

But I can see why some people might find them frightening. The thunder, it just sounds so urgent, like something is coming for you and it can’t be stopped. But then the lightning comes and illuminates the sky – bright and beautiful as day and you realize that everything is fine. Just some electrons doing their thing in the sky. And you get to kick back and enjoy the show.

9/1/2009 #15
Mirrorgirlrox

Scrap #1 - My Teacher Is Crazy

I sat in my classroom in the way back behind a packed room full of desks and bodies. My eyes drooped heavy with sleep and a tired mind. I am not afraid to admit that I had gotten almost no sleep the night before. I had sat up the entire night attempting to calm down a friend after her mother was taken to the hospital. We had talked long into the night. When I finally hung up with her, I was unable to get back to sleep. Have you ever been in that spot? You feel sleepy but just cant seem to sleep. You lay in bed for hours staring up at the ceiling until you heave your body out of your warm bed. You walk lazily over to the television and switch it on; the next morning I awoke laying by the television with the screen noisily playing a rerun of a Jerry Seinfeld episode. That had been my night.

Now, I sat in Mr. Haze's fourth period Ancient World History class. I slid back in my seat and attempted to sleep, but found this impossible. No one could ever succeed getting a wink of sleep in Mr. Haze's class. Sure, Ancient history is boring enough to put anyone asleep, but Mr. Haze never allowed anyone to sleep. The reason people couldn't sleep in his class wasn't because he was a mean teacher and wake a sleeping student with a shout. Anyone who met Mr. Haze for the first time, they considered him strange and very energetic. For students new to his class, they concluded he was insane. After you've been in his class for a good month, you figure out that he wasn't insane like you first thought but really over energetic and enthusiastic.

Mr. Haze currently stood in the front of the classroom telling a random story about his youngest and only son and attempting to relate to an old story about Rome. His arms flew wildly making gestures to demonstrate the story better. He always used his hands when talking like the Italians were famous for. Mr. Haze stomped across the classroom floor as he explained how far Roman soldiers had to march during battles. The next movement Mr. Haze did left the classroom bursting with laughter. He leaped across the classroom front and barely landed on his feet. He swayed side to side trying to regain his balance. Laugher erupted like the roar of an exploding volcano.

I jerked upright in my seat surprised by the this sudden outbreak of noise. I glanced around the room at happy laughing faces. I did not have a clue as to what was happening. My eyes darted to the white board where Mr. Haze stood dramatically yelling out an order to march. He posed in front of the class as a famous general in the Roman army. He pointed his finger about the room as he shouted out random commands that military generals might give. I could not help but to laugh at the sight. He looked utterly ridiculous standing in the theatrical pose.

10/21/2009 #16
Windbound
Windbound's Scraps

I

(An abandoned school project. It's old, so not the best. Feel free to rewrite.)

The sky had been dark all day. Wind and rain pounded the red rocks that surrounded the hidden cave. A small bird twisted anxiously on its perch inside. He stretched his wings out and chirped angrily at the man that accompanied him.

"Stop whining Red, I've been stuck in here all day too." The man said with a smile. But this didn't help. Red felt as if something bad was happening, but he couldn't do anything about it. Flying in a storm was just too risky; he would have to wait till it stopped.

"If your hungry, here." The man stood beside his perch and offered him three bright blue berries. Red flapped his wings angrily making the hand that was trying to feed him pull away. "Fine." The man said evenly.

The bird hadn't meant to be rude, and at the moment he was wishing he could speak human. After all the bizarre characteristics he had, why not this one? He was a raven, though not the kind that you might just so easily spot outside of your bedroom window.

II

(Another abandoned project. Best used as a historical fiction.)

December 24, 1804

Finally, the fort has been finished. After so many weeks of the below freezing temperatures, it is so nice to sit inside in the warmth. The fort smells of fresh wood, and is so welcoming. It is a great Christmas present, even though it is only Christmas Eve. Most of the others have already fallen fast asleep inside. They did so quickly this night.

Lewis, Clark, a few others, and I are sitting around a table discussing how we shall continue our exploration. I fear there is not much to talk about though, because we have no idea what kind of lands lay before us, only what lay behind. Our faces are illuminated by candle light, it is the only light we have tonight since the stars and moon are hidden behind clouds.

The Mandan do not seem so bad. So far this winter they have been quite welcoming of us.

I always find myself thinking about all the strange animals we have seen. Most of them have disappeared for the winter. I can't wait till spring when I will see them again

4/3/2011 #17
VelvetyCheerio

VelvetyCheerio's Odds and Ends

Scrap #1

Well, it's not really a scrap, it's just a title. I don't have an idea for it, but maybe it could inspire someone else

"The Audacity of Hope"

7/24/2011 #18
only breath

only breath's scrap heap

Scrap #1

Pandora sighed and smiled as she gazed up at the clear night sky, dotted with thousands of stars and constellations, but that wasn't the only thing up there.

She pulled her thick blanket up to her chin as her eyes observed the aurora australis, its swirling green lights taking the spotlight away from the stars. It was truly an amazing sight. Pandora had never imagined she would see an aurora – not since the evil Being, Aurora, was put to death. But there it was, staring Pandora right in her face, an aurora as beautiful and mystical as the universe itself.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Fat Freya sighed dreamily from Pandora's left. They were lying on flat deck chairs in the garden of Pandora's manor, pillows, blankets and cookies all set up for a perfect night of stargazing – or rather, aurora-gazing. It was a cold night, but the three felt quite snug with their blankets.

"Just like magic," Pandora breathed. "There must be fairies up there…"

"Actually," Gabe interrupted from Pandora's right. "The aurora is caused by the collision of energetic charged particles with atoms in the thermosphere. Tonight it is unusually low for an aurora because there is a geomagnetic storm going on right now. A geomagnetic storm is a temporary disturbance of the Earth's magnetosphere caused by a disturbance in the interplanetary medium. The interplanetary medium-"

"Oh, honey, we really don't care what the interplentary medium is," Pandora said kindly.

"He's a full-on nerd," Fat Freya said flatly and without subtlety.

Gabe sniffed and said quietly, "Well, excuse me if I have an insatiable thirst for knowledge," and then there was silence once more.

Pandora could make out shapes in the aurora, but then they would disappear and she would search for another one in the bright green phenomenon. The moon could not be found in the sky.

"Hey, Pandora," Gabe whispered, as though speaking loudly might disturb the aurora. "I never got to thank you for letting me stay in the manor. I would have had to sleep on the streets if it weren't for you."

"This is way too sappy for me," Fat Freya sighed at once and lumbered away from Gabe and Pandora.

Scrap #2

Piper May Magenta stumbled a little as the bullet train burst into life. Her unusual sapphire-blue eyes scanned the first-years' carriage for an empty compartment. Two suitcases and a gym bag were enclosed tightly in Piper's sweaty hands, but they fell on the floor as a pair of laughing first-years pushed past her, their luggage making sharp pains in her back. She winced, picking up her bags, and proceeded towards the end of the carriage as she searched for empty compartments.

The air was full of excitement and restlessnees originating from all the fifteen-year-old first-years - all, that is, except for Piper. She was looking forward to a cozy, overnight train trip containing reading, drawing and sleeping during the day, and wearing UGG boots, cute jumpers and draping fluffy fleece blankets over herself during the night. She loved cold weather - not exactly when she felt the cold, but when she became cozy because of having to dress up in warm, thick clothes.

On the train station, Piper had picked up snatches of conversation about a trolley lady. That would make her trip even better; she could eat noodles and warm bread and, well, any other warm food. She had indeed looked forward to the ride on the train to Mirriam Academy, her new boarding school.

But now, bit by bit, her spirits dropped as she saw that the end of the first-years' carriage was approaching and she had not yet found an empty compartment. Disappointment overwhelmed her when she finally did reach the end and find two final inhabited compartments.

Oh well, she thought. I suppose I'll just have to make a friend.

Piper had not anticipated that everyone would shove her to the back of the queue in front of the train doors. She had not anticipated that there wouldn't be a single empty compartment. She had not anticipated that her well thought-out plan might not work out after all. However, she could adapt easily to new situations, and this was a great trait of her personality.

Sighing and pulling her luggage beside her, Piper opened the door of a compartment occupied by a single girl. She was a rather pretty girl, but one had the impression that she did not know this. Her long hair was golden, her eyes aquamarine and her skin almost as fair as paper and smooth-looking like glass.

"Hi," Piper began awkwardly. The girl had been looking out the window, but it whipped round now, and unique eyes examined Piper carefully. When it seemed that Piper had passed the examination, the girl opened her red lips to speak.

"Hello. You may join me if you wish," the girl said kindly and Piper smiled gratefully. She pushed her luggage through the door and sat down on the comfortable bench seat, allowing her to face the girl directly.

"My name is Esme Holly Losner, and you are Piper. I rather fancy your name, you know," Esme said with her breathy voice.

Piper was astonished. How had she known her name? Maybe there was a list of new students at Mirriam Academy on the train station that Piper had missed - but then, how would Esme know what she looked like? In fact, if there was a photo beside her name, how would she tell Piper apart from other girls - she looked plain and normal, with wavy, long brown hair and almond skin. Though, of course, Piper did have eyes quite unlike any other. They were the colour of sapphires and sometimes they glinted, just like real gems. However Esme had found Piper's name, now was not the time to ponder it, for she had just entered her new home for the night and needed to get to know her temporary roommate.

"Um, thanks. but I never really liked it," Piper said, unzipping her gym bag but smiling at Esme. She got out a book and some clothes for when the night brought cold. It was only midday at the moment, though. Outside the window, Piper could see that the train was leaving the city and starting to travel into rolling hills that stopped at an uneven horizon, and what was beyond that, Piper didn't know.

"I know, but I believe you should," Esme said, also getting out things for the train ride. She paused. "I'm excited for when the night will come."

"Same," Piper beamed. "I just hope no one mugs our stuff when we sleep. I heard a rumour on the train station that the students in the highest year liked to slip into our compartments when we're sleeping and steal things they liked."

"Oh, those are just silly stories. The fourth-years are actually quite nice - my sister's in the fourth year and she's always telling me how considerate everyone becomes in their senior year," Esme said.

"I also heard that they leave people in G section alone. What's the G section?" Piper inquired curiously. She was glad to have someone to lay questions onto.

Giving a look that Piper translated into, "Duh," Esme asked, "Didn't you read the pamphlet?"

Piper shook her head. "I didn't get one."

"Oh, that's unfortunate. It had lots of information on it. Anyhow, the school is divided into the four years and seven sections, A to G. People who get into G are secured a place in G section from birth, but those in A to F are selected randomly. You share your classes with your section and year; for example, let's say I'm in the first year and in G section, which I know I am. Then the people I share classes with will be called 1G. G students get their own set of teachers and different subjects to other students, because we are special in a special way."

Piper had to comprehend Esme's quick release of information, then she frowned. "Special in a special way? What are you talking about?" Surely Esme couldn't know about her secret...

"I think you know exactly what I'm talking about, and I'm sorry to say that I know all about your secret, for I have one of my own."

Piper was speechless. It wasn't possible. Seeing that Piper couldn't talk, Esme showed Piper a heavy, red leather book with tiny gold letters etched into its cover. Squinting, she could just see the title of the book...

"The Art of Clairvoyance... So... you can, like..." Piper couldn't make words. Without proof, she would have scoffed, but Esme had known her name and told Piper that she knew she was thinking about her secret. What more did she need?

"You can..."

"Read minds, that's correct," Esme said, finishing Piper's well-spoken sentence. "I can take a look into your eyes and delve into your mind, into your deepest, darkest secrets. Dont' be frightened," she added, seeing Piper's white face. "There are many like the both of us here. Everyone like us goes into G section, that's why we take different subjects. The girl about to open our door, she's like us. And you, Piper, I know that you are a w-"

The compartment door slid open.

"Hi, people, I'm going to stay here now," the girl in the doorway said. "It's Vivian Cobalt, by the way," she added, already pulling her luggage in the compartment.

When she settled down and realised that Esme was staring at Piper, and Piper was staring at nothing particular, she said quietly, "Hello? Anyone home?"

Piper woke from her open-eyed sleep. "Huh? What? Oh, hi."

Esme gestured hello to the newcomer. "Greetings, Vivian."

Opening her huge black suitcase, Vivian said, "Er, greetings..."

"Esme," Esme said.

"Esme," Vivian said.

"And Piper," Piper said.

"Piper," Vivian said. "Right. Check it out!' She pointed enthusiastically at the window, and both Esme and Piper looked outside.

The train was entering a dark wood, while tall trees that towered over the railway whizzed past. It was suddenly a lot darker, and Vivian brandished a wallet with triumph. She then shut her suitcase and sat patiently on the bench seat with Piper.

"The trolley's coming soon, you know. You should get your money out," Vivian said to Esme. She shook her head.

"I brought my own lunch and dinner. I find sugar very clouding for the mind," Esme said, ruummaging in her bag. She took out two corn kernel sandwiches a container of cold stir-fried noodles. "Though I suppose I'll need breakfast in the morning. Ah well. Oh, here she comes."

And sure enough, a plump lady with curly, short hair, pushing a trolley knocked on the compartment. Vivian opened it, her bouncy curls bobbing up and down with her movement.

"Would you like anything, girls?" the lady said, looking very worn.

"Cup noodles, please!" Piper said immediately. She swapped her money for a closed cup of chicken noodles.

Scrap #3

I inhale. An excitement of aromas wafts up my nose and I smile. Mocha-coloured tables and a stack of dusty chairs stand in the corner of the cafe, untouched for probably at least five months. An old abstract painting hangs from one of the peeling walla. A half-emptied container of coffee beans stands on the counter.

The aromas of beans and old shop are soon overcome by dust and rotting garbage. I grimace and wave my hands in front of my nose, an obvious sign of my disapproval. Cafes aren't meant to smell like this.

"Come on, Opal," Dad says. "Sure, it needs a bit of fixing up, but when we've finished that job the customers will come rolling in!" he shouts enthusiastically. Mum scolds him and tells him to be quiet.

I suppose Dad's right so I breathe with my mouth and step into the shop. My older brother, Ben, follows. Ben, Mum, Dad and I all agree that the shop is full of potential. There is a display cabinet for muffins and cakes. A space on the wall behind the counter to stick up a menu. An empty bowl which can be used for tips. And there's the free tables and chairs, too.

The chairs and tables were what had sealed the deal for Dad when he bought the place. He's a sucker for free stuff.

Mum sprays some perfume in the air and walks into our new cafe. Dad bounds in like a dog and starts checking every nook and cranny of what used to be Pit Stop Coffee Shop. He starts making a list of repairs that need to be made.

Ben and I begin to explore while Mum plans in her mind the pastries and muffins that will be for sale.

I walk into the back and find myself in some sort of empty, large storage room. If Dad lets me, I can use this place as a hideout for my friends and I.

Coughing because of the dust, I walk through the room. It's pretty dark so I fumble along the cobweb-infested wall for a light switch. I find one and the room is only slightly illuminated. In front of me I spot a small door - so small it comes up to my hips.

I am about to peek through when Dad calls everyone to the front of the shop.

Scrap #4 (get ready for a load of useless paragraphs about sweeping)

She sits on the floor in an empty house, the ghosts floating around her. She can sense them, but not see them. The ghosts of her mistakes. Her whole body shudders with great sobs as she crouches in the pool of her dirty dress and she knows she will have to sweep the floor soon. What else is there to do?

You swept me away, with all your secretive glances and beautiful smiles that made my heart soar like a butterfly. You made me feel like I was the only girl in the world who mattered, until you stripped away your mask, and showed me what you were like. You showed that beneath the mask was simply a collection of devious lies, the most twisted of evil thoughts and a black, black heart.

Sweep. Wipe. Dust. The mechanical movements bore her out of her mind. She can't understand how the daily grind can be so inescapable, so ensnaring in this neighbourhood. Nothing will make any of the inhabitants budge out of their robotic routines; it's like a clock made of diamonds – the clockwork can't be destroyed by anything other than itself. Eventually, the system will collapse in on itself, like a black hole.

Scrap #5

I choose you. Or do I choose you? Indecision envelops me like a cloud of violent thunder and rain, I am stuck, I can't see in this storm of possible decisions. Which way to go? Whom do I choose? No one knows but God. I am soaked to the bone by this thunderstorm. Someone please help me.

1/9/2013 . Edited 1/18/2013 #19
only breath

I'd like to use Miss Bob's writer's scraps! I promise to credit Miss Bob in any work that I post that is inspired by her ideas contained in her donated writer's scraps.

I used Miss Bob's writing scrap: Scrap #1.

1/13/2013 #20
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