Rune Beast0 needs to update his blog.
He also introduced me to an amazing site called Impish Idea that ranks at the top with Anti-Shurtugal. It’s pretty much a site like AS, with criticism and critiques on Inheritance and Twilight along with tips for writing and other excellent articles. The mass of writing articles they have are helping me think about how to write better, though none of them are giving me idea sparks. I want to actually try NaNoWriMo this year (not just sign up and forget about it), but November’s approaching fast, and though I have a small handful of plot bunnies, none of them are big enough to write a 100,000 word novel about. I hate that I can’t think of original story ideas anymore. I used to have tons of plots in my head when I was younger, but they were all completely clichéd and stolen off books I read. Now, after changing my writing style, I’m so cautious about writing clichés or stealing themes from other books that I can’t think of anything innovative at all (which may say a bit about my originality). Darn you karma.
Kudos to MQ for telling me that River Flows In You by Yiruma is now Bella’s Lullaby in Twilight. I learned to play that song several months ago after a friend introduced me to it, and I absolutely love the piece. Knowing that it’s being used in Twilight makes me slightly sad though. It’s like the song is being degraded by being used in a book (and possibly the movie?) as badly written as Twilight. I would find it highly amusing though if Edward was playing the piece and sunlight shone onto his face through a window, thus creating a flowing river (oh I’m so ingenious) of sparkles that made Bella permanently blind, which in turn would nullify all the sappy, gooey descriptions of Edward for the rest of the series since Bella wouldn’t be able to describe what she couldn’t see. One can only dream…
Once again, Rune Beast0 needs to update his blog. Kthxbai.
EDIT: After writing this post I came up with some sort of prologue to some sort of story. C&C will be appreciated XD
—–
Officer Travis Wagner drove down the highway at twenty miles over the speed limit, possibly a little too fast for his own good, but despite this he didn’t seem heed the white numbered sign to his right as he continued on the road. His eyes were shadowed and his forehead was scrunched as he stared straight ahead at the flashing scenery. His hands gripped the steering wheel at six o’clock, not even inching close to the nine and three positions that he had been taught in driving school. Driving school… oh what Officer Wagner would have given up to be sixteen again! He wouldn’t have needed to deal with any of the crap that was currently going on that made him lose sleep and weight. He would have given up his badge, his house, his money (or maybe just half of it), and he might even have gone as far as to think about giving up his wife had he not remembered the reason for his weary looks. The thought of his wife rejuvenated some sense in him and he applied more pressure to the pedal, cranking up his speeding to thirty over the limit.
Most of the cars gave leeway to Officer Wagner’s shining white jeep. They saw the siren up top and, with some intuitive sense, immediately switched over from the left to center lane. Officer Wagner didn’t mind, for it meant that he would be able to get to the station faster. Those who didn’t switch lanes fast enough would extract a curse from the cop before he changed lanes himself and sped past them. During one of these hasty lane switches he nearly rammed his car into the front of a tractor-trailer, as he hadn’t bothered to look out his side-view mirror before jerking the wheel.
A few times he passed other cop cars, early birds (probably wanting to impress a higher-up) who had snuck themselves into the middle of some trees on the median. They ignored Wagner though, taking him to be an official who was on the tail of some chaotic chase. So as they sat there with their speed-measuring devices and caught Wagner going at 105, they simply shrugged, wished they were of a high enough rank so that they could go on wild pursuits of wrong-doers, and continued to spy on other less-fortunate driving citizens.
Wagner’s speed didn’t let up very much, not even when he pulled into an exit off the highway. He slowed ever so slightly to round off the road clover and then screeched to a halt at the light that had just turned red as he turned around the last curve. His fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel as the cars in the perpendicular intersection crossed the road, and then as soon as the light turned green, his foot jammed again onto the pedal and his engine roared to life as he took off at ninety.
The innocent civilians driving behind him got rather annoyed at the times when Wagner’s jeep screeched again and again as he turned onto smaller roads. Those damned policemen, they thought, silently shaking their fist at the police car. They do whatever they want, go as fast as they want, and they never get pulled over for it. And yet what happens when we go five or ten above? We get ticketed.
After a half hour ride, Wagner arrived at the station. He pulled into the parking spot closest to the door (the spot was still open since it was the weekend and all the other lazy-ass officers hadn’t bothered to show up yet). He grabbed his briefcase from the shotgun, readjusted his collar quickly in the mirror, and then stepped out into the brisk fall wind. The sudden change in temperature chilled him, so he quickly grabbed his keys, locked the car doors, and power-walked the ramp that led into the station. At the door, he looked around him warily, then punched in his six digit passkey on a digital device near the doorknob. When the light on the device turned green, Wagner pulled out his ID from his right pocket, slid it through the machine, and the door automatically opened. As he stepped into the building, the door closed behind him.
The station was a bit of a mess. On each of the desks were numerous folders and papers, most of them stacked haphazardly with papers leaning off the side. Filing cabinets were still half open, cups of coffee were only half drunk, and most of the work was only half done. Chairs were everywhere – in the middle of aisles, in front of desks, on the side of cubicles – very few were actually positioned correctly behind the desk. The secretaries’ desks didn’t fare much better than their officers’ counterparts. On one of them a phone lay, still not put back on the receiver from some unknown call. Wagner went to put it back in place and wondered why that annoying sound wasn’t going off when he looked to the side and saw that the line was pulled out. With a grunt, he stooped down and put it back. As he straightened and cracked his back, he sat down at one of the secretary’s desks where the computer was still turned on. The auto-logout hadn’t worked, Wagner noted to himself. Despite this, he logged the secretary out and logged himself in.
As he waited for the system to load his files, he opened his briefcase and pulled out a large manila envelope. It had once been taped shut, but Wagner had pried it open with his hands and the back now lay in a torn, disfigured mess. He ripped off some more of the envelope and pulled out the papers that it held. One contained a picture of a woman, slightly older than Wagner, with brown curly hair and a jaunty smile. The others were forms and applications of some sort. Wagner disregarded the papers behind the printed picture and instead took the picture into his hands. On the bottom of the picture he had scribbled two letters – AE – and some smaller words underneath the two prominent figures.
When Wagner looked back at the computer, he saw that it had loaded. With two quick mouse clicks, he opened up Firefox and went to Google. Taking a breathe, he typed the two letters and the words he had written on the woman’s picture in Google’s search engine and hit enter.
A gunshot rang out and Officer Travis Wagner fell out of the chair, dead.
Posted by bluebrisingr 
Posted by bluebrisingr 
Posted by bluebrisingr 
