Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg (000_hester_000) wrote,
Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg

Death by plot holes

Unfortunately I happened to stumble across some of my old writing while I was looking through my files today. And oh dear god. OH DEAR GOD. Uh... please enjoy the following; it's probably pretty good for wtf value, at least. Anyway, I've realized that given the amount I tend to snark out beginning writers for having purple prose and just generally awkward descriptions, I should probably go ahead and have a taste of my own medicine. (Btw, if you ever see me doing any of the stupid things here in my current writing... please feel free to smack me over the head with my Stupid.)

Although in my defense, I was only about twelve or thirteen when I wrote this first one.

it was a traditional day at the hospital. The whining kids, the sickly adults, and, of course Jan Casbalica and Mary Tamsujub. The ER ward was full and Nathen and Mocha and Bill and Lauren and Gary walked in "We got the AIDS donations!" they had been collecting and recycling cans for 2 months and donated the $$$. Then they each went home. they all seemed so perfect he thought. How nice it would be 2 rip them apart limb from limb. That would be good. Yeah. Stupid little kids Lauren was only 8; but already a full fletched bitch. Still, time would rip them apart. Lauren and Gary would be preps. they'de probably get married and have a score of defective, children with lauren's snubby, bitchy nose, and gary's untidy flea riden hair. Nathen would be a punk and end up ripping little girls up in prison. He smiled Nathen had promise. Yeah. Bill would be a nerd. ugly twit. But what of little Mocha? He didn't know. probably rapeing the female population with Nathen. But Mocha just didn't have

I honestly have no idea where this was going anyway. Probably nowhere good. Also, I'm still unclear on why there would be little girls in prison in the first place. And I am quite sure I meant 'ripping up little girls while in prison' instead of 'going to prison for ripping up little girls,' which would at least have made some sense.

Mitzi Ian was slender with long copper-colored legs sticking out of her dress. Her dress was pure white with ruffles at the bottom and it laced up across the chest. A silky red scarf with white butterflies painted on it was tied around her neck. A golden female symbol hung on a thin chain around her neck, everybody who saw it guessed she must be a feminist. Her black hair ballooned out like a silky black cloud behind her. Her eyes were dark with an odd intensity, and her skin glowed bronze so strongly she might have swallowed a lightbulb.

Tl;dr explanation of the story this and the next few quotes were from: sexy ancient Egyptian mummy comes back to life. Somehow he's able to speak English, and he decides that the first thing he's going to do now that he's alive again is move to Washington DC and enroll in high school. But his wife that he stabbed to death a long time ago is pissed about this, so she decides that she's going to come back to life too and track him down and kill him again. So she also goes and enrolls in the same school. But instead of actually, you know, going ahead and killing the guy, she spends most of the year chilling at school and being unbelievably sexy, even more so than her husband. Meanwhile, hubby decides to seduce an Abercrombie and Fitch bitch type high school girl for no apparent reason-- but anyway, apparently being around mummies is dangerous to your health, because then the girl starts fainting all the time and goes crazy. Hijinks ensue. This weird nerdy girl who's supposed to be the heroine starts stalking the mummy chick for reasons best known to herself. Then everyone goes on a senior class trip to Egypt, and mummy chick finally gets around to killing her evil husband, then dies. The end.

She stared deeper in to his eyes as they danced, and crazy half-formed thoughts swirled around in her head. Her reflection looked different. She was falling into his eyes!

Josh couldn’t believe how late he was to the dance. Now where was Courtney, his brunette angel? Over there. Over there, dancing with Nick. She was staggering slightly as she danced, and then with a moan slumped over on the floor. Nick smiled, then walked away.

Most of the students were at least positive about it, although a few were worried about terrorists or scorpions.

Idk why, but for some reason this makes me laugh every time. Maybe just because it's such a bizarre juxtaposition of things to be afraid of.

As Mitzi’s face grew closer to his, her lips looked like big, sensual spaghetti noodles.

However, the most interesting thing in the small room was the water bed. It had orange silk sheets, and pillows that were patterned cartoons. It was round, and it had curtains around it. Still, they weren’t ordinary curtains. They were made of thongs clipped together.

After almost a minute of decisive stabbing, Mitzi straightened up, and turned around, her hair billowing around her, inseparable from the moonless night sky. Her vitreous black eyes reflected every ray of starlight, then seemed to suck them in, tiny desolate points of light swirling in a sable whirlpool with no end. She looked like a fairy. A fairy of pain. The blue blood was cold in the warm night air, almost icy.


What do you call a fallen angel who tries constantly to complete an impossible quest? It doesn’t matter what you call her, because she calls herself Catastrophe. Catastrophe raked her long, claw-like black nails through her vivid maroon hair. The dorm room around her smelled like heavy metal, and smoke rang through the air. No, fuck that, she’d gotten things all mixed up again. She had actually felt so crazy at the beginning of Spring semester, she had gone to see a doctor. “Sounds like some sort of stress disorder” Dr. Mittel said. “Have you been under any stress lately?” Catastrophe laughed, spraying crystalline powder from her nose. “Oh, nothing, Doc!” she leaned confidentially close to him, and he smelled like aftershave and Nurse Lowell’s perfume. “Except”, she said, giggling at her own clever juxtaposition of the bleary, mindless words. “See, in May, I gotta stop this guy from jumping off this railing, you see! Because if I don’t, then I have to do this all over again. Got any meds?” The doctor looked out-of-place. “Meds?”, he echoed, his thoughts bouncing off the inside of Catastrophe’s head. “For the stress thing”, she said, glaring at him from beneath her curtain of hair. The doctor wrote a prescription nervously. It was obvious that he didn’t want to, but Catastrophe had no trouble with making people do things. She was a drug, a date-rape drug who left her victims disoriented and memory-less, but made them do what she wanted. The doctor gave her the prescription. She waved her hand, and his eyes unfocused as his memory erased itself; “just to be on the safe side.”

Oh, angsty. Actually, I still kinda like the idea behind the story this one was from; it's just that it would need some serious rehabilitation.

But, she thought, that had been years ago, during the atomic age. Still, she couldn’t deny what had happened to all her other foster families. They had all died during bizarre, usually impossible circumstances. A fire that blazed purple engulfed a hair salon. A freak current pulled a family down to the bottom of the ocean. A lightning bolt as wide as a house struck a passenger train. An entire family baffled police by appearing to have hung themselves with ivy that had somehow grown over them in the two hours after they were dead. A family that dropped dead with no reason as to why it happened. A monster rockslide. An opening sinkhole. A football that flew at supersonic speeds. A shooting where no gun was ever found. Acid in the bathtub. Falling up a hundred feet then dropping. Killer butterflies. A haunted house that killed its occupants. A blizzard that froze a cruise ship solid. Reports of a dragon attack.

Note to self: next time you want to be scary and mysterious, leave out the killer butterflies.

The sky seems so brilliant, beautiful and dark. It boils with turbid indigo, at once calm and ferocious, serene and deadly, a satin lid placed over the world to stop the stars from falling in and crushing us all into diamonds-hard lumps. The moon is low on the horizon, crescent something and tinged pale yellow like a child’s drawing, or the glow-in-the-dark constellations that I used to have all over my ceiling, before I had decided that they were too childish. A few stars dance up in the sky, looking for once warm and close, small useless and yellow.

Umm... okay. Also, enter the urple.

We replaced our old, faded outfits with shiny purple stretch that could pass for silk in the right light, bright and beautiful as amethyst, bordered with the golden shade of yellow that high schools seem to favor, tight and different-feeling. We admired ourselves in the long mirrors that clung to the walls beside the lockers, watching the way the metallic violet caught the light, undulating along the slim, muscular bodies that were so attractive to guys, like purple gift wrap. Cali slapped her ass for our benefit, feeling up her own thighs for excess fat with one hand and trying to apply mascara with the other, the brush waving wildly like a miniature hedgehog on a stick, smeared with tar.

I entered the courthouse, looking up at the place where the faded brick walls joined the voluptuous creamy plaster ceiling, the plaster forming little decorative plant-buds as it flowed along, curves of whiteness. I wondered if, upon glancing up at the ceiling from one of the oak staircases, anyone had seen a decorative flower, just out of reach on the ceiling’s curving plane, and had fallen to their death trying to touch it, if their agonized, falling fingers had scraped the surface of it, their smooth, nubby fingertips caressing the stiff curves for a split second, before they fell to the brown floor, and one tiny drop of blood had shot up, onto the deceptive flower, which had, for a moment, like all those statues you hear about in the news sometimes, cried blood.

I wondered about the new judge, and why she wanted to see me in her chambers. Maybe she was going to try to rape me.


She is sitting on one of couches that lie like golden sandbars on a white cream river, and watching the Catholic channel with Venus. Venus is very religious, and belongs to just about every religion she’s ever heard of. It would be quite unique, if she weren’t just doing it because she tries to be like Penelope. Penelope was yet another sister of ours, although unfortunately a dead one. Penelope, Penelope, what can I say about you? Movingly spiritual, powerfully magical, corpulently beautiful, unfortunately dead. Alas, poor Penelope, I knew her not at all. Penelope and Mackenzie died six years before I was born. I wish they hadn’t. But I’ll get to that later.

She downs a glass of vodka, finally falling into a hectic chair.

I hate to say it, but that chair really was extremely hectic.

Snow fell softly silently
d. i .s .a. r. r. a. n. g. e. d.
and Christmas lights were pouring bucketfuls of strange shimmering light. Cars honked and beeped and the wind blew fiercely a razor cutting down from the North Pole where the stars shone ice onto the landscape like showers of arrows pierce the frozen hearts of the ghosts of the North. His hands were in his pockets and he was looking up into the cold blue sky a bottle of ink that gave birth to the stars and would someday swallow them up again into the soft blackness like the wool scarf he had wrapped around his neck that was collecting snowflakes like stars or possibly dandruff. The moon was glowing radiant like a silver sickle thrown into the sky by the careless child of Summer, a pink balloon wrapped tightly around one wrist floating off into the stratosphere cotton candy clouds and a pastel dress and messy blonde hair. The ice was slipping beneath his feet sheets of glass nailed to the ground by the careful deadly child of Winter brown hair and a brown fur coat and ice in her hands that froze you to the core staring up at the Northern lights forever like celestial rain. Shop windows bustled noisy activity hanging up garlands of bright green to hang in the widows overfed snakes biding their time and hissing at passers-by with red Christmas ornament eyes sparkling like rubies full of destructive flame. The moon was still above him sitting atop an invisible tower to hold it up like silver on the snow wolves howling at the moon a certain wolf howling at the moon

Read the above again with the knowledge that it was meant to be a Harry Potter angst!fic from Snape's perspective. Oh god, Professor, what have I done to you? When I showed it to my mom at the time and she said it didn't seem IC, I almost cried though, because I was a fanbrat of the OMG NO CRITICISM!!! type.

Before I say any more, I should explain about Felicia. Felicia is blind, and her mommy moved out here because of it. She used to live in the city, in Indianapolis, but the other kids had tormented her about her blindness there, and her mommy had been angry. Her mommy used to be a police officer, and there had been a lot of legal trouble with her and the other kids’ parents. Then, Felicia’s grandparents had died in a car crash, and her mother had inherited their mansion out here. [...] Felicia and I exchanged a look.

...*Facepalm* Apparently I really wasn't quite clear on the definition of blind, was I?

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    (Uh, tw for rape and absolutely repulsive victim-blaming.) SO DAMN CLASSY.

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