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@e-k-seaver Not bad at all. And I guess that seemed more realistic to me…but there’s always something interesting about young characters doing stupid stuff and paying for it later, y’know?
the resident romance ghost; last seen within the pages of a gothic novel
@devastate-lasting Alright, that’s okay. Sure; put it up!
@e-k-seaver Bitte schön. Your’s are, er…interesting! Yes, that’s it: interesting. Actually, Finn Balod (I think his name was) seems halfways like me, though a bit different, of course.
@r-m-archer XD Yea, that was an enjoyable commentary; your stories were definitely of a…particular quality (XD). The globe/town/thing seems like a thing found in a Roald Dahl novel.
@gracie-j Haha, yes I am currently. Your’s were nice little clips, I’m sure…strange that this high-tech spy group is watching these kids, planning the rest of their lives. Nice little bedtime story. XD
@lewilliams Right; nice!
@jenwriter17 Nice story; how old were you when you wrote it?Okay, here’s the link to mine.
@leon-fleming LOL. I think the snow globe was inspired by the trailer for the Barbie Nutcracker movie. XD (And then, of course, there are the characters ripped off from The Boxcar Children… and the following stories were rip-offs of Terry Brooks’ Landover books… XD XD)
Yours is really good for a first story! It’s definitely stilted in places, and a little disorderly, but it was still quite enjoyable to read. I can definitely understand how something more put-together sprung out of it.
Speculative fiction author. Mythology nerd. Singer. Worldbuilding enthusiast.
@leon-fleming
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1qhqCj_XfW95SJ9afokBoGqAgKqjjRjJI/view?usp=sharing
I’m not even going to look at it. Once glance has already told me that I had not learned about paragraphs yet.
Lately, it's been on my brain
Would you mind letting me know
If hours don't turn into days@leon-fleming, interesting is a perfect word for it. And Finn later betrays the entire group with little to no motivation and no foreshadowing but it was SHOCKING. Utterly shocking.
B
The pen is mightier than the sword, but in a duel, I'm taking the sword.
ekseaver.wordpress.com@leon-fleming How old were you when you wrote that? Thirty? (Twelve/thirteen is probably more like it, but still. I didn’t know that many words at thirteen (which was when my first novel debuted), and I’m the one they call a walking dictionary.)
My writing was much crappier than y’all’s.
@devastate-lasting It took me forever to discover the art of enter, tab myself–plus, my mom’s computer didn’t work right for the longest time, so my paragraphs didn’t turn out until I finally got my laptop. How old were you when you wrote that?I feel much more embarrassment than y’all ever could over my lack of literal prowess.
the resident romance ghost; last seen within the pages of a gothic novel
@gracie-j I think I was 12…yeah, I was twelve. That was the first thing I wrote in creative writing, for a school assignment, haha.
There was a meme I saw somewhere which went like this:
Me when reading my old writing from middle-school:
Lately, it's been on my brain
Would you mind letting me know
If hours don't turn into days@leon-fleming
XD! This is such a great idea. I have to concur with someone up there somewhere, though, in that my first drafts and inspo and everything was all on paper (notebooks), so that’d be a little odd. Thoughts? XP Love all of this, though, and I wish I had the time to go through and read all of them! 🙂
Prendre garde ~ I bleed ink
@leon-fleming
Dare taken.
Don’t anyone dare laugh. I know it’s terrible. I was 10.
________________________
Chapter One
Once, some time ago, when girls wore petticoats and bonnets, and boys wore caps and breeches and were a great deal more polite than they are now, there lived twelve cousins. For the moment, however, I shall present to you only eight, the Bluebells and the Lilybells. They were in groups of four, these eight, and much alike in ages.
The first batch, the Bluebell children, were named Peter, Edmund, Hermoine, and Adriane.
Peter was a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed boy of twelve years. He was tall and lithe, and delighted in the outdoors. Lessons bored him, and seldom could he be kept still. Ever and anon he would burst out of bonds and go gallivanting till suppertime; but his mother was never worried about him. “He always comes out in the wash,” his mother would say with appalling neglectence, as many tender mothers will think.
Edmund was the most black-eyed, black-haired, and rosy cheeked lad of eleven winters you have ever seen. Robust, agile and mischevious was he, his favorite occupation being reading, playing spy, catch-me, hide-and-seek, or other vivacious activities.
Hermoine was golden haired and green eyed. She was fond of books and sewing, or of playing with the others. Her cousins and brothers were wont to say that she was not good for much; but, silent and barely noticed, wisdom throve and grew in her little head of nine summers, and great virtues throbbed and sprouted in her little heart. Her eyes were often dreamy as she nurtured kind little thoughts, and the children would laugh at her and call her ‘Dreamyhead’. She did not mind this, but would smile, and come back to reality. She did not keep these taunts in her heart, planning for later vengeance, as alas! so many others do, but readily forgave them, for she had not been dreaming as they said she had, so why should she resent their teasing?
And the youngest, Adriane, was a little girl of six, with a stout will, dark brown hair and brown eyes. She could be very stubborn, and her family sometimes had very hard times with her; it was her choice, however, when to be and when not. She also liked to play out of doors (indeed, most of these twelve cousins did), and was never happier than when making little stone bridges over brooks, collecting pebbles, or sewing leaves toghether into a blanket and stretching it over a low branch for a ‘shelter’.
Their father had died in a railway accident when Peter was seven, and Adriane a year old. Their mother seemed tired and more careworn than ever since then.
They lived at the edge of a forest in the Switz mountains, with a brook nearby. The sun shone there every day, and the children increased in health every day from the many hours spent outside in the sun and among the leaves.
Now then, that’s for the beginning about the Bluebells.
But the Lilybells, now, they were a different lot; they were called “favored” by some, “fairy-children” by others, though I should say ‘apart’ were nearer the mark. They looked not much stranger than other children, but there was a different air about them, mysterious almost. The Lilybell four were called Marcus, Evangeline, Hyadine, and Juliana.
Marcus was a tall boy of twelve years, and supple, with hair the color of coffee beans, and eyes as gray as mist. He was a perfect little gentleman (when he wanted to) and rarely wore anything save velvet and lace, but when he was dressed elsewise, oho! the fun began! Whenever Marcus wore breeches, they were in for a gorgeous romp! For in truth he was a lover of climbing and running, skilled in the ways of nature as well as in those of wisdom.
Evangeline was eleven years old, graceful, slender, and nimble, wise for her age, but rather peppery sometimes. She had, however, a healthy streak of gentleness in her character, and had an early sense of discernment. She moved as a shadow at will, and she could see somewhat better in the dark than others. She had dark brown hair and blue-gray watery eyes. I do not mean the color was pallid, but when one looked into her eyes, her eyes looked very like water, and if looked in long enough, the ‘ water ’ seemed to wave and billow. She delighted in books and in playing by streams, brooks, lakes, rivers, waterfalls, or the seaside, for she loved water like a kingfisher.
Hyadine was a willowy young lass of nine autumns, a lover of trees and of all that grows. She so delighted in being in, under, or about trees, that her brother and sisters nicknamed her Dryad. And truly she did look like one fairly well, with her rippling cascade of chestnut locks, her green-brown eyes, her supple figure, her faultless nose, her small mouth, and her trilling voice.
She would sit all day in a tree if allowed, and forget all about meals, baths, and lessons. She would sit for hours perched up in a great beech or blossoming cherry. What she did all that time, I am sure I do not know; yet her brother and sisters say that they hear her singing in her nightengale’s voice, or humming softly to the leaf-buds, or kissing the cherry blosoms, or just sitting still and swinging her legs. Perhaps she likes to feel the wind ruffle her hair, and the sunlight stream down on her.
Whatever she did, she was never off guard. Marcus once tried to pull her out of an unfortunately low peach tree, but Hyadine yanked her leg away, leapt off the other side, and dealt her impish brother a smart cuff for his boldness.
And last of these first eight cousins was Juliana, five years old, dark-haired, green-eyed, merry and small, a little cherry of a girl.
It was this spring that something happened, something odd for both families. Mrs. Lilybell (who had lost her husband to a snowstorm), had gone to town so as to buy a flowered scarf for Evangeline, and a muff for Hyadine, and met her sister, Mrs. Bluebell. They found out from each other that they lived merely half a mile’s distance from each other, and so planned a visit to Mrs. Bluebell’s later that week.
When our dear Mrs. Lilybell returned, Hyadine was up in a blossoming cherry tree, Juliana was making a pile of pebbles and stones, Marcus was up the roof, and Evangeline was shouting at him to get off. When they saw their mother there was a mad scramble to get to her first, and Marcus nearly broke his neck in his haste.
“Darlings, this week we shall go to-”
“Where, where?”
“-to your aunt’s house, over-”
“Which aunt? When?”
“Stop interrupting! She lives half a mile away, down by ‘Pebble Brook’ as you call it.” She said. “And-” But she was interrupted again.
“And what ?”
“ And she has children-”
“Really?” “How many?” “Their names?” “Ages?”
“Yes, really; four; the only one I remember is Peter, and he is about twelve. ”
“Hurrah!” shouted Marcus, and Evangeline felt that she never had, and never would envy him more than she did then.
“But when shall we go?”
“On Wednesday. Now run along.”
The children groaned dolefully. It was Monday morning and Wednesday seemed half a century away.
But Wednesday did come around- impatient as they were -and well in its own time.
At about four o’clock they started off. When they reached the house door, Mother Adelaide Lilybell knocked upon it. It opened almost immediately. A smiling Aunt Lilian Bluebell stood before them, a warm yellow light and four curious faces behind her.
“Ah, Addie dear, there you are.” She said. “The children have been asking all day about you they have. Do, do come in. ”
They entered and the children beheld each other for the first time………….
Chapter Two
“Who are you exactly and what are your names?” said Peter.
“Cousins of first degree, exactly,” said Marcus, a trifle tartly, “and I am Marcus Roland Lilybell, she Evangeline Rahela, she Hyadine Rebbecah, and she Juliana Ermengarde.” He said with much pomp.
“And I am named Peter James Bluebell, he Edmund Phineas, she Hermoine Paulina, and she Adriane Charlotta.” Peter replied, with equal hateur.
“Children!” cut in Aunt Lilian. “Do go upstairs and get aquainted. We have a little business down here. Now scoot along. ”
The children obeyed and skipped up the stairs as skillfuly as mountain goats. Aunt Lilian watched them rattle upwards. Then she turned to Aunt Adelaide.
“I have a letter from Aunt Josie,” she said in a low voice. “ I am positive it is not good news. I have a feeling we will have to part with the children.”
“I have had the same feeling,” replied Aunt Adelaide.
“Come and I will show it to you,” said Aunt Lilian, slowly striding towards the sitting room.
“Here it is,” said Aunt Lilian, sitting down beside her sister. And clearing her throat she began to read in a low, clear voice.
“ ‘ Dear Lilian: 29th April 1838
Harold and I would like to present you with the offer to take the children here and educate them.
The reason: I and your uncle are rather lonely, the change would do good both to us and the children, and it would be our way to contribute to their welfare.
They would have good, wholesome, varied food, vegetables and fruit off the estate, and meat, milk, cheese, butter, cream, and eggs from the estate livestock.
They would have the whole grounds to run and kick about in, the pond to fish, swim, and row in, and the trees to climb in, and the very ground to lie on.’ ”
Here Aunt Lilian snickered. “The very ground,” she said.
“Go on!” urged Aunt Adelaide, smiling.
“ ‘ They would have the very best clothes of finest quality cotton, linen, silk, velvet, wool, and flax. The best leather shoes and slippers.
They would have the whole house to roam in, to play in, every article as their own (excepting my chinaware), the walls to muddy, the sofas to ruin, the capets to track upon.
They would have their own bedrooms, their very own parlour, sitting room, study rooms.
They would have the best study books, the best reading books, the best ink, the best paper, the best notebooks, and the best mahogany desks and chairs.
They would have our good treatment and discipline, our utmost–quality spending-time, our heartfelt efforts.
Please consider, Lilian, and send them by the 4th of May. You may come to stay yourselves, or if not, you may visit any time, and send as many letters as you please. Don’t bother to send clothes or any thing else. They may bring any small what-not, favorite ornaments, and such, but there is no need of any thing else. All will be provided. Send me a letter with the children with any other requirements you might want taken into reckoning.
Thank you. With all our love and care, Aunt Josephine & Uncle Harold
Utúlië-n äure - auta í lomë
@r-m-archer Yes, I noticed the Boxcar Children influence. XD
Why, thanks! It’s understandable about the story; my purpose in the was not necessarily the story, as much as it was presenting something of the style and the characters (especially those elves and the things of them).
@devastate-lasting XD Nice story; you should pick it back up, change all the characters, change the story, and rework everything. I say you’ve got a bestseller! (I actually had a book idea off it, but…not sure if I’ll do anything about it. XD) Really interesting, despite the lack of paragraphs and random addition of quotation marks. You should have seen my first, first page. Terribly terrible. I probably would’ve shown it here, but I don’t have it at the moment…so I didn’t, of course. XD Is that Rowan Atkinson in that meme?
@e-k-seaver Wow; well I don’t plan on betraying anybody anytime soon, so I’d say he and I would be enemies if we ever met. B?
@gracie-j XD! I think I was ten or eleven. I’m not sure, it was a while ago. Hey, I read a lot then (and still do, of course; hint, hint: you should read David Copperfield. You’ll never forget it…most likely).Hey, they all o’ them started somewheres. Not sure if you read Christopher Paolini’s The Inheritance Cycle (which is questionable in quality, but that’s not my point). His main character’s name (Eragon) was originally Kevin.
@selah-chelyah Thanks! If you wanted to, you could type it/them out on a google doc and post a link, but I don’t blame you if you don’t. (I might not, either. XD)
@morwen Well, I must say I was a bit surprised. I felt like I was reading my own writing, or past writing more likely (not the stuff I presented above; other writing). Honestly, your style there seems like a bit of a fairy tale mixed with a fourth hint of Tolkien, a lot of my own, a very, very tiny bit of C.S.Lewis, along with something else. Very well written for 10 and interesting, although – as is of natural course – there were a few blunders. I cannot say I am surprised, though, on the style overall; it would make sense, I suppose. Very nice!@leon-fleming Ahaha thank you XD I might do that in the future after I’m done with all my current story ideas, but I feel that there are too many fairy tale retellings out there. That probably is Mr. Atkinson, judging by what came up when I Googled.
Did you happen to share yours here? I seem to have missed it.
Lately, it's been on my brain
Would you mind letting me know
If hours don't turn into days@devastate-lasting XD Yeah; yes, there are too many, perhaps. I’ve only recently come into contact with the idea of a fairy tale retelling (after my own ideas of something like it…but very wholly different, too), but haven’t actually read any – at least, no modern ideas. Unless you include the Disney “retellings”, if they can even be called such. XD Yea, I thought so; he’s a memorable guy from what I’ve seen of his (Mr Bean, Johnny English, etc.).
Why, yes, I do believe I did. I think it’s on the second post on this second post thread. At the end of my post there.
@leon-fleming I was told that the story was pretty much exactly like some show called Into the Woods. And the ideas were all from a prompt, so personally it didn’t feel very original, haha.
…I think this dare was of much less embarrassment for you than for the rest of us. Your writing sounds like something from 90 years ago. In a good way, of course.
Lately, it's been on my brain
Would you mind letting me know
If hours don't turn into days@leon-fleming Ten? If I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you were lying. (And, no, I haven’t read The Inheritance Cycle, and I might, per your suggestion, read David Copperfield. You really did enjoy that, didn’t you?)
@devastate-lasting 😆 The struggle is real. It’s still surprisingly good for a twelve-year-old. Most twelve-year-olds I know can’t write to begin with. (Not that I know many twelve-year-olds, come to think of it.)the resident romance ghost; last seen within the pages of a gothic novel
@gracie-j Ahaha thank you XD. I had good teachers. (I don’t know when twelve year olds started looking so tiny. They seem absolutely minute at this point.)
Lately, it's been on my brain
Would you mind letting me know
If hours don't turn into days
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