Hellos

Hi again, darlings. Monty-chan was bugging me horribly so here I am, posting an update. Funny how these things work out...
Notice: This is probably the worst story ever written.

The garden was overgrown now.
I stared at the mass of green and brown before me. Where there had once been orderly rows of exotic plants, there were now angry weeds and lifeless flowers. The neat walls around it had become overrun with ivy, coated in it beyond recognition. It was a mess.
I blinked a few times, half-wondering if it would all go away if I did so.
It didn't.
I tried to separate the plants.
I couldn't.
This is strange, I thought to myself. This is not the same garden. Your garden is neat, and colorful, and beautiful. It is not ugly, like this one.
Yes, it is, I replied to myself. This happens to gardens when they are not tended, remember? Put some forethought into it next time.
I sighed, reality crashing down. This would be much harder than I had anticipated.
I reached into my coat's pocket, pulling out a small book. It was a dark reddish color, with a few ink splotches spilt on the cover.
Inside the book, there were endless pages of indecipherable scrawl and quick sketches. I found the page in the exact center.
This diagram was much more well-drawn than the others. It had been colored in with watercolor paints, so the pages were a bit wavy. It was titled "The Garden."
I compared the two images: what was in front of me, and what was in the book. Though the two were different in nearly every possible way, they shared the same basic shape, the same border of stones.
I nodded, and turned the page.
This one was a list. It was titled "The Flowers." It was filled with strange botanical names and descriptions.
I nodded again, and turned the page.
Pressed flowers were the pasted onto this page everywhere. I compared it to the list.
Everything was in order.

I am vewy vewy sowwy.

I have been attempting to write a short story of some sort, but I have been utterly unable to think of a way to start one. So that was why I kept the world waiting. But instead I shall, in order to appease the mighty Nifty Porcupine, post something random that I wrote a long time ago....... Darn. I can't find it. Ok, in pure desperation, I shall post something that I did for a school assignment last year. If you haven't read Waiting for the Rain (horrible book), you probably won't get it. But anyway.

Tengo climbed slowly up the steep concrete steps that lead to the dorm he shared with two other boys. His breath created clouds in the air, adding to the mist that he had now grown used to. Tengo shivered, and pulled open the door of his small, and comfortable dormitory. The faces of two people greeted him, one black, and one white, standing next to each other as equals.
            “Hey Tengo! You’re finally back,” said the smaller of the two, who had light brown hair and dark eyes. “I still don’t understand how you can finish all your homework and work a job… and the teachers say they’re being overworked…”
            Tengo smiled shyly. “It’s all worth it in the end, Gerik.” Gerik was a Polish American and had come back to his home country to study at the American School of English in Warsaw, Poland. “Dilongwe will understand. Right Dil?”
             The boy to Tengo’s right, who was leaning over a desk, was writing with the same hungry expression that Tengo wore when he was learning. “Yes, man.” Dilongwe was from Pretoria, South Africa, and had gone over the border to Zimbabwe like Tengo.            
             Tengo hadn’t told either of his roommates of his family’s troubles back home. It had been four months since the day when Tengo received a letter from home, the writing smudged with his mother’s tears. His father had suffered a stroke, and the medical treatment was too expensive for Oom Koos to afford, as his harvest was growing smaller and smaller every year. If the rain didn’t come soon, the Ouabaas would be forced to sell the land, leaving all his workers without jobs. At hearing this news, Tengo sought employment at a local store, and sent his monthly wage back to his family, hoping it would pay for his father’s treatment.
            Tengo threw himself on his bunk, staring at the dust particles floating through the air above him and letting his mind wander. Almost unconsciously, Tengo felt his hand wander towards the small bag of clay he had saved up his pocket money to buy. He felt his hand close around the familiar soft lump, pulled it from the bag, and began to wonder. As Tengo dreamed, a figure began to emerge from the clay, and his mind traveled back in time… back to the veld and the blue sky… the warmth of his mother’s touch…. back to the caressing warmth of the sun’s rays… back to the time when it was Frikkie and Tengo…

Frikkie looked out over the farm’s fields, no longer the same green color that he had remembered them as, but a brown, dirty color. He grimaced under the pounding, merciless heat of the sun. Frikkie couldn’t conceive the concept of selling this farm. It had been his sanctuary, his haven, for his entire life. If he could never see it again, and had to take up a military career, the exact thing he had been trying to run away from, Frikkie thought his life would be ruined. As he wallowed in self-pity, Frikkie wandered across the fields, past the barn, and found himself in the hut “village” where the black farm workers lived. Frikkie was at first disoriented, as he had never been back here except for the day, so many years before, when he had come to say goodbye to Tengo.
             Frikkie saw that Tandi was sitting off to one side, singing quietly to a mound of packed earth. Frikkie realized that it was Tengo’s grandmother’s grave. Tandi was startled to see Frikkie wandering over, and instinctively bowed her head. Frikkie didn’t quiet know what he was doing, but he found himself drawn to the spot, as if in a trance. He knelt at Tandi’s side and stared down at the place where he knew her grandmother was buried. Frikkie had never had much connection to the woman, but felt an odd pull toward the grave. He closed his eyes. Tengo, he pleaded, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I did not see. I know it’s not enough, but I’m sorry for everything. I was blind. I was unable to hear your voice. But I ran away from the army. I’m done with that life, and can’t go on killing your people. And… I’d like to say thank you. Forgive me for not saying it ages before. Thank you… Thank you, Tengo…  As he opened his eyes, Frikkie felt a cool wind brush against his cheek. He looked up, just in time to have a soft, wet drop of water fall in his face. The sky began to let loose, one drop after another until the rain was falling in sheets. It was the most wonderful thing Frikkie had ever seen. 

NARLS :D

Um...hi XD I'm Tari and...**is distracted by awesome Ani Difranco music** and--what was I saying? Oh right. Introducing myself. *facedesk* I'm Tari, and I really love to write and the awesomely amazing epical person Nifty Porcupine invited me to this blog and I'm really glad I get to join. I love music like Tori Amos, Florence + The Machine, Neko Case, Lykke Li, KT Tunstall and Ani Difranco, whom I just discovered ^^ I'm a computer addict, and also a homeschooler. No one ever taught me how to spell, I learned it all from reading. And if you're wondering about the title...don't ask. Nifty will get it. Eurgh. OKAY, FINALLY. Time for some real writing. This is part of a story I'm working on, called a Nonconformist Fairytale. I will post more parts soon. I must warn you however it is VERY NONCONFORMIST and may appear anti-religious which I happen not to be even though I'm not actually religious. Whatever. Here goes. Also--her name is EDD-INN, not EE-DINN, or EE-DENN. OKAY? Good.

Chapter 1

"Eden. Eden! Wake up!" Eden groaned. "Go away, Tara." Eden mumbled. "Girl, you gotta dinner party t' go t' at five, we gotta get you ready cuz' yo Mum n' yer Father 'r tryin' t' get ya hooked up with one o' the best boys in the kingdom!" Tara said, shaking Eden more violently now. "Fine! I'm getting up, see?" Eden sat bolt upright in bed. "It's eight in the morning, Tara, really.." She muttered. Tara scowled at her, arms crossed. "When I was your age, I had t' get up at four! You migh' be a princess, but I don' take no gobbledegook from no one, royal 'r not." She said. Eden gave a small, soft laugh and smiled up at Tara, who was still scowling back at her. Eden liked her servant. She was always tough but also kind. Tara's past had been hard. She was raised on a farm, in a family of 13 children who showed little respect for Tara, being that she was the youngest and smallest. Now, however, Tara was 32 years old, with butterscotch colored skin, dark eyes and dark hair pulled back in a loose bun.


Tara's life was much unlike Eden's in many ways. Eden was born in a castle and raised to be used to having most people at her command. She liked this, but she often wondered what it would be like not to be the princess, maybe an orphan, or a Thief, stealing food to keep herself alive. She was so lost in thought she was almost oblivious to Tara, at her feet measuring her for dressess, until she saw her reflection staring at her in the tall mirror that was always in her room. Eden had long, dark red hair, a few small brown freckles across her nose, dark eyelashes and peircing green eyes that often mysteriously glinted purple in the moonlight. She was tall, slender and long-fingered. Most people told her she was very pretty, but she didn't care for vanity. Eden wanted adventure, something she was sure she would never get.

---

I know, it's starting out kinda boring, but it'll get better..hopefully. The adventure part hasn't started yet. FYI, it starts with people shouting a lot and someone almost (but not) getting killed. Have a nice day :)


XD

~Tari

Yay and stuff and walrusi!

Thank you guys who followed so much! We really appreciate it and now love you forever.
And now, for an actually third-party editing help'd story...


The room was dark and barren. Four walls surrounded a cot, on which a frail young girl lay. Frizzy black hair splayed out from all sides of her head, and a white dress covered her bony body. Although she was lying down, her huge green eyes were wide open, staring at the white ceiling with a burning intensity that most people save for their worst enemy.
"Number 4724?" A thin blonde woman in about her 20's knocked on the door. "It's your shift."
The girl didn't move. "My name is Kali," she growled, barely moving her mouth.
The woman sighed. "It's dinner soon, Number 4724. I don't want them to take away your dining privileges."
"Then call me my real name." Kali paused. "Liesel."
Liesel looked pleadingly at Kali. "You know I can't do that." She shifted her weight. "Just because… well… just because…"
"Just because you're the person who brought me here in the first place?"
"Don't say it like that!" The fact obviously distressed her. "You were starving! You're better off here, and you know it!
"Do I?"
Liesel paused, looking away. Finally, she turned back to Kali. "I just want you to be happy. Now come on. I don't want you to be late."
After a few seconds, Kali turned over. She got up, pulling on a pair of blue pants and a shirt before opening the door. "There. Are you happy?"
The woman smiled. "Thank you. Now come on, we've got to hurry."
She took Kali's hand and rushed her through a few grey hallways and stairwells, until they reached a small door. "Hello, Officer," the woman said to the man standing in front of it. "Number 4724, will you please take out your identification card?"
Glaring forward stoically, Kali pulled a small piece of plastic out of her pocket, handing it to the man. She would have refused, would have told them all that, yes, they did have the wrong person, but she simply didn't have the energy. She had nowhere to go other than this, anyway.
After looking at it for a few seconds, he turned around and unlocked the door, ushering Kali in.
It was s small space, painted a dark grey shade. In the center, a woman stood, smiling kindly. "Hello, 4724," she said. "Would you please sit down for me?"
"Like I have a choice," Kali muttered as she stomped toward the chair in the middle of the room and sat down as the woman prepared a syringe. "Close your eyes," the woman said. Kali obliged. The woman poked the needle into Kali's skin, but Kali was so used to the pain that she no longer cared. She didn't fight as the wave of tiredness the shot gave her washed over her, and she could only just see the nurse beginning to connect her to the generator before she blacked out.

Depressingness

The sadness of not having any followers is starting to overwhelm me. Get control of yourself, Monty, it's not that emotional.  But it is! My life is over! How will I ever move on? Do people only pretend to be my friend? Does the universe really go on forever? Why can't my dog speak to me? Do I actually exist, or am I just a fragment of someone's imagination? Why are they called stairs inside but steps outside? Why is it called alcoholics anonymous when the first thing you do is stand up and say "hi, my name's Bob. I'm an alcoholic"? If a person owns a piece of land, do they own it all the way down to the center of the earth? WHY DON'T WE HAVE ANY FOLLOWERS??!!!! 


In light of my depressed mood today, I will post a depressing story:

Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. His doubts and apprehension had been growing over the past few minutes. Chris breathed deeply, as Dr. Vesta had told him to do in situations like this, and pressed his nose against the Mazda’s glass, watching the cars go by around him. Each of those people has a story, each has there own troubles and issues, thought Chris. It was overwhelming, and he turned away, closing his eyes and letting the darkness envelop him. He didn’t want to think right now, didn’t want to worry about the meeting ahead. If only he had the power to close off his mind, and stop the constant flow of information, and memories. Memories that he wanted to forget.

Chris had no desire to go back, but Susan believed that he had to face his fears, and that it was better to make the trip now than years in the future. She looked back at him from her seat at the wheel, smiling. “Well, this is it. Just a little longer.” Noticing that he wasn’t returning her grin, she said “Come on, you haven’t seen her for two years. Just give her these moments, ok.” Chris turned back towards the window, where the interstate’s concrete walls had transformed into Spruce trees, bedecked by the golden brown hues of autumn. Chris watched the rush of leaves, their colors bringing him back to a warm autumn afternoon a few years before.

Chris sat amidst a large pile of leaves, pretending he was a king perched on his throne. He surveyed the large expanse of concrete sidewalk before him, and ordered an invisible servant to give him a foot massage. “Aaaahh, that feels better,” Chris remarked to no one in particular, leaning into the bed of leaves. He closed his eyes, letting the sun’s heat engulf him, letting himself be taken by the last hints of summer.

Chris was jolted up abruptly by a deep gravelly voice above him, “Hey kid, watcha doin’ here this late? You don’t wanna be hangin’ around Severn Ave when it’s dark, let me tell you.” Chris must have fallen asleep by accident, for the sky was darkening to a deep pastel, and the sun had already disappeared behind the 7-11. Chris got up, waved goodbye to the man, and skipped his way home.

It was from a block away that he saw them. Two police cars, their blazing light illuminating the darkening street. An ambulance was stationed next to them; it’s back open and gaping, as if about to swallow someone whole. Chris’s breath caught in his throat, and an icy hand seemed to grip at his insides. He let out a yell, and sprinted towards the lights.

He should have stopped then. Chris looked back now, and wished he had run as fast as he could in the opposite direction. If he had, it would have saved him the sight of his mother, sprawled on a stretcher, her body ghostly white. It would have saved him from the voices, for a crowd of neighbors had gathered, saying, “The woman tried to kill herself.” Their words felt like knives to Chris even now, years after. He recalled the long trips to the hospital, hours in the waiting room, and awkward moments filled with silence. Then Chris moved in with a foster family three hours away, and after the turnout of his last visit with his mom, had simply refused to go.

“Chris, we’re here. Come on, wake up buddy,” Susan’s voice reached him from the front of the car. Chris breathed deeply and opened his door, taking a very long time to do so. The pair walked up the block together in silence, as if there was a wall separating them from each other. Chris pretended to be interested in the sidewalk cracks, his eyes following each line, studying each weed. Susan pulled open the gate, and Chris looked up. And there she was. Her smile illuminated in the sunlight, her arms open and outstretched. Chris stared into her eyes, a warm recognizable light brown, and he realized that maybe he did have the ability to forgive. His mouth tilted up for a fraction of a second. 

NYAAAAAAA

I guess it's my turn to post. Nyaaaaa. I don't wanna. But duty calls, so... um... I'll just conjure up some chic-lit I wrote a few months ago.

"OW! OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OW OOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Reva rolled her eyes. "God, Lorelei, stop squirming a second or I'll never finish."

"BUT IT HURTS!!!!!!" I protested vehemently. "A LOT!!!!!!!!"

"Beauty's painful, darling," she said, poking another hole "into the dress" (translation: into my skin).

Ira chose this moment to walk in. This distressed me greatly, as it is highly unsettling for your best friend's extremely adorable brother to walk in while you are whining about pins going into your skin. This exudes the sort of wimpy-girl atmosphere that repels boys as strongly as bug spray repels, well, bugs (according to Seventeen magazine).

"Oh, hi, Ira," I said casually, hoping to cover up the fact that, seconds before, I had been screaming my head off. "How's it going?"

"Hi, El, I'm--" Ira cut off suddenly. "REVA! What are you DOING?!?!?"

Reva tossed the waist-length blue hair cascading down from the one unshaved side of her head. "Well, Ira, I was just fitting Lorelei for a dress for the dance, WHICH SHE PERSONALLY REQUESTED, until YOU came barging in," she answered primly.

But Ira still looked dubious. "Really? Is that true, Lorelei?"

"Well, I--"

"WAIT, WHO ARE YOU GOING WITH?" Ira, who had been perfectly relaxed just moments ago, suddenly looked stricken. "WHO?"

I looked around, wondering what had made him ask such a neutral question so loudly and forcefully. Was there a fire going on behind me? Was their dog doing an interpretive dance? "I'm going with Sartre. He asked me yesterday at lunch, while you were with the literary club meeting. Why?" I was seriously curious. I had been a little bummed out because Ira hadn't asked me, but Sartre was a perfectly nice guy, and there's nothing wrong with going to a dance with somebody who you aren't irrevocably in love with. There are some girls who go on dates with guys who they don't even know. Well, at least on TV.

Ira muttered something. "What?" I asked. "Oh, nothing," he said, a forced smile on his face as he left the room. "Nothing at all."

After he was gone, I turned to Reva, who had been sticking me with pins the whole time. "What was that about?"

Reva blinked a few times, a dazed look on her face. Then she snapped back to reality. "Oh, that?" Her face had gone from girl-lost-in-her-art to girl-smirking-evilly in a matter of seconds. "Hm, I wonder. What do you think, Lorodo?" Lorodo is the dwarf nickname Reva gave to me. I hate it, partly because there's no way to get back at her. I mean, Revodo? Seriously? "What could make my brother upset about you going to the school dance with another guy?"

"What do you mean, another guy? Who's the first guy?"

Reva smacked her palm to her forehead. "HE'S the other guy, you idiot! IRA!"

Oh, my God, how did I just post that? It. Is. So. STUPID. But whatevers. And Monty? If you make fun of me, I will hold no bars in attacking you back.

Back to Monty!

Well. I just pushed Nifty off the stage. It's my time to shine. I have a particularly long story to share with the world this evening so, fasten your seat belts, turn off your mobile devices, and prepare for a flight with Wombat Airlines. Anyway...

Two figures, their forms casting dark, lean shadows on the sidewalk, hurry along a lamp-lit street. A bead of sweat drips slowly down the man’s forehead, his face crushed in a fearful grimace. His lips part, and he gasps for breath. When he speaks his voice cracks, as if it is weighed down by the night’s heavy humidity. “I’m sorry, Stella,” he gasps, searching for something that would explain the phenomenon that has just occurred.  

Stella Kestler, her soft blue eyes betraying the confusion that she feels inside, whispers, “Who were they, Nick? What did they want from you?” Her voice is sharp and tinged with anger, and yet she can’t seem to hide her concern.

“I’ll explain it all when we get inside.” As they ascend the concrete steps to the 7^th floor, Nick’s mind begins to race. He struggles to fit together the puzzle pieces of his perfect world, now shattered. I mean the prospect of being caught was so small… how could they have found me? Nick changed as much of himself as was possible. He had died his hair jet-black, shaved his moustache, worn colored contacts to change his eye color, and gone to the other side of the world. To begin again. Without the stereotype that seemed to follow him everywhere like a shadow, shading his true character from the public. He remembered the disappointment, his father’s disgusted booming voice, and his mother’s depression at having born an inadequate heir. The thought of returning to his old life envelops Nick, giving him an overwhelming sensation of vertigo.  Nick gropes for the key in his pocket, his shaking hand losing its grip. He fits the rusty object into the keyhole, breathing hard, a silent prayer in his mind. And then, all of a sudden, Nick’s body goes rigid, every ounce of his being listening.

A soft rustling, drifting through the keyhole, is barely audible over the buzz of the city street below. The sound grows steadily, and a small voice is heard… Then a thundering crash shattered the night, breaking the petrified silence that seemed to hang in the air outside the apartment. Stella and Nick’s eyes meet, their fear turning to determination, as if their whole lives have culminated to this moment. Nick faces the door, fits the key into the lock, and turns it. The pair exchange glances, and ready themselves. Nick pushes open the door, bracing himself. The door swings in, immediately swallowed by the darkness. The space beyond the door seems to be engulfed in a sea of tar, so deep that it is impossible to tell whether the hall stops feet away or goes on forever.

It takes a few moments for Nick’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. He shuffles forward uncertainly, afraid that he will run into the source of the noise. Stella stays by the door; her short cropped blond hair the last bright thing before the sea of black before her. She stares, no longer certain of her trust in Nick. Her mind can’t seem to fit the night’s events together. The uniformed men storming through the post office mail room, Nick’s surprise and fear, his voice calling for her to run. Stella looks forward into the apartment. She pushes back the curtain of darkness and advances toward Nick, fighting back her fear.

Nick fumbles blindly toward the source of the commotion, the living room, and passes his hand along the wall, searching for the light switch. The soft creak of a floorboard behind him signals that Stella is close by. Nick’s hands reach their target and he flicks it up, breath held.

Illuminated by the cheap fluorescent light bulb above, standing in the middle of the room are three men in light blue uniforms. One is short and stocky, his red sash barely able to stretch around his midsection. The other two look young and scared, surprised to see that the apartment has another occupant.

“How did you find me?” Nick’s voice is shaking with anger and apprehension.

“Aaah Your Highness! Kings orders, sir. Kings orders. But we are so happy to see you safe and sound. You see, we were afraid that our rescue mission would fail…” The short man was pompous in attitude, and continued to gesticulate after his words were spoken.

 “I’m not going back… I’m not going back to that life.”

“But sir, you were kidnapped, surely you don’t want to continue life here… “ He motioned his hands around wildly, as if this would deepen his word’s affect. “We will bring you back to Jabordia, and will be regarded as your brave and honorable rescuers.” All of the soldier’s piggish eyes seemed to light up with their own greed for wealth and prosperity.

Stella had been standing in the shadows of the doorway, not yet visible by the soldiers. She stepped out suddenly, to the astonishment of the men, “Rescue mission? What are they talking about?” Stella turned on Nick, eyes cold, “Who are you?”

“I was not kidnapped, I ran away. I left my father a letter. If he didn’t read it, that was his choice,” Nick was staring blindly at a point some five feet away, speaking to the wall. “And,” he added as an after thought “I have no intention of being rescued.”

“So you lied to everyone! You told us you were a farm boy from the county, moving to the city to make some money. But, instead you’re a… a… some sort of prince?” Stella was beginning to panic.

“Sir, if you would kindly refrain from talking to the locals, we should be on our way to the air port now.” His hands were ringing excitedly.

“No!” Shouted Nick suddenly.

He sprinted toward the door, though the dark hallway, and out onto the landing. Nick scrambled down the stairs, tripping over his legs and leaping the last six. In an alleyway next to the main entrance, he knew there was a dumpster that supplied the perfect hiding place. Nick leaped inside, among the half eaten happy meals, soda cans, and empty bottles of spray paint.

Nick only numbly heard the shouting voices, the heavy fall of boots on concrete. He felt separated from the angry swearing of the men, and their panting, strangled voices. It was only when he heard their army vehicle pull away, only when the whine of it’s engine faded into the distance, that Nick awoke from his trance.

Nick pulled himself from the dumpster, covered in banana peels, and pieces of trash. He set off into the night’s darkness, searching for Stella.

Ish Nifty-chan!

Hiya. So, um, I guess Monty already covered the introductions. So I'll just post some, a'ight?


I look back down the alley, breathless.
I know I have to hurry, but I just can't help it. The curiosity is too much for me. I can't just run on endlessly, never seeing how far I've come.
They were closing in.
I swallowed my panic. You can still beat them, I tell myself, pushing even harder. My thighs burn, my calfs ache, but I don't care. The only thing I care about is getting away right now.
Streets move past in a blur. Old houses, windows boarded, stare at me as I run. But I can't risk slowing down. I can't…
My foots catches a stray stone. I try to keep running, but it only makes my fall harder. I start getting up, but realize that there's no point. They'll have caught up to me by now, anyway…
"Hi, River."


I look up at the girl. At first, I'm confused, but after a few seconds my eye fill with recognition. "Azar."
She laughs a little. "Yup, that's me."
At this point, I couldn't form words if I tried. All I can think about is the fact that Azar- Azar!- is in front of me. Eventually, I get out, "But- but- why are you here?"
She smile sadly. "It's… it's kind of a long story. Just… you need to come with us, okay? It's not a big deal. I think there's been a misunderstanding."
I nod, unable to really decipher what she's saying. I follow her to a helicopter that I had somehow not noticed before. Silly me, I think.
We board the plane. I don't know why I suddenly feel so fuzzy and tired, but I like it. I curl up on the floor.
As I drift off to sleep, I am very happy. The happiest I've ever been in my life, in fact. Why was I running away, again? It was just Azar. Silly, silly me, always so cynical. It just doesn't make sense! These are my friends. It's okay.
Before I drift off entirely, a man comes toward me. He's wearing all black, and is holding a shot.
"So this is the boy," he says, staring down at me. "Doesn't seem like much of a threat."
Azar glances from the man to me. "I know," she answers. "But let's just says he's more than meet the eye.
The man shrugs, brings up the shot. At this moment, my senses choose to re-sharpen. I start to protest, but can't find my voice. I try to struggle, but my limbs feel like lead.
The last thing I see is my best friend and worst enemy smiling down at me together.

Ummm.. well hi!

Welcome to the world of Monty the Wombat and Nifty Porcupine! (grand applause)
So. This is supposed to be a writing/short story blog, so I guess I should post something I have written. Hmmm... looking through files. Aha!

In the dusty corner of a dark, shadowy room stands a young woman; her face caked in mud and her hair, once red, matted in a thick pile on her head. Her gaunt features are barely visible in the dim light streaming from the lone window mounted at the top of the thick concrete walls. This small portal to the world is perhaps the only thing preventing the eyes of the woman from becoming dull and lifeless, fragments and memories of a previous life. It is perhaps the only hope that keeps her going day to day.

She looks up, her gaze slightly unfocussed, illuminated by the poolof sunset on the cold tiles of the floor. Her cell is square, it's sole furnishing a thick reed mat laid in the right corner, it's surface coated in grime. The door stands; with it's promising yet torturing presence, firmly planted in the right wall of the cell. This is where the woman stares now, her memories returning in full color.

         He had pretended to be her friend. Perdio, the night guard. He had snuck in extra rations, feigned sympathy for her unjust arrest, and entertained her with his stories and musings. For a while, life in The Reformatory had almost been bearable. However, her happiness had once again been stolen away, pulled from under her. They had been planning her escape, to a better place, without a cruel, corrupt government controlled by power hungry, fearsome men. Without the inspections, the cries of families being broken apart, and the hum of The Machine, powered by children who had no window to the outside world. The pair had planned each detail, running it through until they had no chance of capture. She had done her part, hacked open the vent in her cell, crawled for hours through the dark ventilation system, and waited at the other end for Perdio to open the hatch. She could still remember the fear, the paralyzing feeling of anticipation that surrounded her. Time passed, and she continued to wait, refusing to give in to the thoughts of regret, the small doubts creeping into the back of her consciousness. After hours, the woman heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The latch had been eased open, and to her dread, instead of Perdio's soft dark face and brown eyes, the crooked grin of a gate guard, eyes narrowed in excitement, swam before her tired eyes. After that, her memories became a blur, a rush of pain and regret. Long periods of isolation, the taste of dried blood and the crack of splintering bone. She had paid dearly for her trust in the night guard.

Perdio never returned. His face is just a memory now, beginning to blend in with her imagination, the happiness he brought no clearer than a dream. She believes that it must have been him who betrayed her location, for no one else knew of their plan. Half of her knows it must have been him, and that she should move on, and forget. She attempts to wipe her mind of his memory, but somehow, it's as if there is still a small part of her that believes his betrayal wasn't on purpose, that he stayed truthful.

         She is awoken from her reminiscence by the sound of falling footsteps drifting through the window. They pause for a moment, and a sparkling, bright object falls from the bars above. It lands with a clatter on the damp floor; it's shine contrasting immensely with the grayscale room. It's a large brass key. The woman gasps, her frail hand reaching out, not daring to believe it. And then, a soft voice whispers from above, Jasina! Jasina, it's me."

         The sound of her name seems to break a spell of darkness, athreat of invisibility. Jasina whispers, her voice rough and colorless from lack of use, "Perdio."