that would be meeeeee (except I am not Blake Shelton. I'm about two feet to short and too far up north. Sorry to disappoint). |
I'm one of those little persons who thinks they can do anything and everything. So I tend to bite off more than I can chew, overstudy for exams, and drink too much coffee than is good for my small stature and fast metabolism. Yet I'm still surprised when I sit down for the first time at the end of the day and almost fall asleep, or get an insane caffeine rush after a single latte. I am the overachieving nursing student that your parents warned you about.
Ready to become a chihuahua with a license to stick needles in you. |
As I am sure you are all aware, today is the start of NaShoStoWriMo, the 3rd annual round story writing event which takes place every November here on OTAS. This year, we wanted to go for a more haunting, ghost story sort of tale. So here goes nothing:
IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.
(I apologize, I'm horribly lame and incapable of starting off any ghost story without that phrase).
The wind outside Becky's window howled like a football player with a stubbed toe. Becky sat huddled at the head of her bed, curled up in a quivering heap of fear. Today had not been a good day-the local trolls under the Toll Bridge had thrown bat droppings at her on her way home from school, and she had failed a calculus test on top of that. It was bad enough that Salem University only accepted students with the top math scores for their major in Accounting with a Concentration in Disappearing Leprechaun Gold. Becky had also informed her father that she was failing math, and had been read the riot act about how "McGunnigals don't fail math, we are born and bred to succeed at counting" and had been shouted over when she tried to explain that she just didn't feel like accounting was right for her- that she didn't even want to go to a magic school, that more than anything she wanted to attend UMass Lowell and study education to become a normal preschool teacher. But her father, Sir Ernest Michael McGunnigal XVII, would have nothing of it. "There are people who would kill to have The Sight you were born with," he barked. "You cannot be so willing to throw away your opportunities and become...normal." He had then shuddered, and sent her upstairs to review her calculus notes for the duration of the evening.
But Becky was certainly not studying. As she sat atop her pillow, her head leaning against the bedpost in utter exhaustion, she thought again about how easy it would be to just leave- to climb down the rose trellis outside her bedroom window, sneak out through the garden gate, cross the stream and disappear into the woods until she reached the highway, with nothing but the clothes on her back and whatever she could stuff into her backpack.
Becky was thrown out of her reverie rather suddenly, when a tapping on her window startled her back to reality. "It's just the old oak tree outside," she thought, but the tapping increased to the point where she thought that whatever it was would surely break the glass. Agitated, she jumped off her bed and hastened over to her window.
Becky drew the drapes, pulled the shade up, and unlocked the window. Much to her surprise, what seemed to be hitting the window was a continuous stream of vibrant yellow BB gun pellets. When she looked down, she saw none other than--
I am so sorry folks. This is all I have. Excuse me while I cram for pharmacology for the rest of forever. Mercy, please salvage this hot mess of a round story tomorrow.
--Laura :)
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