The Emerald Journal

(Setting: Victorian Era in an alternate world)

Ordinary World: The story begins with a child named Victor. Victor knows he's different from other people, but he doesn't know what quality makes him different, and he wants more than anything to discover himself and find out what it is.

Call to Adventure: On Victors 18th birthday, the woman he always thought was his mother reveals something life-changing to him: That he's a human clone. He recieves a green book called the "Emerald Journal", and the woman who took care of him tells him to write every memory in that book. The next day Victor wakes up in an empty house with no food or water or life-preserving nececities, and the woman that had taken care of him had abandoned him there. He doesn't remember anything at all, because his memory had been wiped save it be for his name, and the first page in the journal he wrote the day before (Which was basically his discovery that he was a clone).

Refusal to Call: Victor tries to live in the empty house, practically starving himself. He opens the empty journal and reads a note that essentially says from now on he'll remember everything he writes in the journal, but nothing else (he will remember one days events until midnight, and everything he doesn't write he will automatically forget) and it's signed "Your creator, The Engine-Man".

Crossing the Threshold: After much thought, he decides to leave home and search for the "Engine-Man" so he can find his identity. Victor leaves the empty house and searches for society, but he doesn't know where to look since he didn't have a map of any kind, and the house he was living in was remotely located in the middle of the forrest.

Meeting the Mentor: Victor wanders in the forrest for some time until a woman wearing a white mask with no holes for eyes runs past him. Victor hides behind a rock to see what she was running from, and several men with guns follow shortly behind. When the men with guns leave, the woman in the mask sneaks up behind Victor and introduces herself as Beatrice. Victor asks her why she's wearing the mask, and she tells him she's a human clone, and the woman she was cloned from had a 100,000 dollar bounty on her head, which is why she was created and why she was running from bounty hunters, as well as why she wore the mask. She offers to take Victor to the nearest town if he will offer her protection. He accepts, and writes the event in his journal.

Test 1: While Victor is sleeping, Beatrice reads his journal, but mostly discovers the name "Engine-Man". When Victor wakes up the next morning, Beatrice forces Victor to go in the opposite direction they were following. He asks why they changed directions, and Beatrice says "I'm taking you to your creator, he'll have answers".

Allies/enemies: They travel to the capital city and Beatrice takes Victor to see the "Engine-Man", who Beatrice claims was her creator as well, and she blames him for all of her misery. She leads Victor to a door in a hidden alley and they are welcomed by the "Engine-Man". The Engine-Man was so named because he was the first man to create a steam-powered cloning machine. He puts on the facade of someone who wants to help, and he allows Victor and Beatrice to stay the night. They accept, but Beatrice still doesn't trust him.

Approach: Beatrice awakens at knifepoint. Victor is above her ready to stab her to death. Beatrice manages to push back Victor and tell him that he's being controled by somebody. Victor doesn't know what to believe. He's conflicted, so instead of taking action, he drops his knife and breaks down. It is now apperant not only that someone is controling Victors memory besides himself, and that same person wants Beatrice to stop intervening.

Test/Allies/Enemies 2: Beatrice uses a drug to put Victor to sleep, and searches the Engine-Man's lab and discovers a blue book that looks almost exactly like the emerald journal. She opens it up and begins to read passages from the journal. After reading the most recent entry, which said only "Kill Beatrice", it becomes evident that the book she's reading is the method the scientist had been using to control Victors memories.

Ordeal: She rips out the page, but before she can do anything with the journal she gets caught by the Engine-Man, who attempts to kill her. Victor, having awakened, grabs the Engine-Man by the neck and throws him into the cloning machine, which then malfunctions and supposedly kills the Engine-man

Reward: Victor discovers that he doesn't need to know who he was in order to live his life as who he is.

The road back: Victor and Beatrice decide to go together to hide out in the house that the story began with.

Hero: Victor
Mentor: Beatrice
Threshold Guardian: Victors "Mother"
Herald: The men who chase Beatrice at the beginning.
Shapeshifter: Victors "Mother"
Shadow: The "Engine-man"
Trickster: Men who chase Beatrice at the beginning.

A Gift I'd Like to Give (Second draft)

Marie Antoinette lives in Alpine, Utah: A community the does so well that it doesn’t understand the complexities of an impoverished lifestyle. At least that’s how it seems to me, as a member of a high-school community where self-proclaimed “underprivileged children” beg for cell phones and cars, not food and shelter. I’ll admit that even though I seem to write smack about other high-school students, I, too, am capable of envy and greed despite having all of the luxuries of a successful lifestyle.

My favorite author, Victor Hugo, said this about his work: “I condemn slavery, I banish poverty, I teach ignorance, I treat disease, I lighten the night, and I hate hatred. That is what I am, and that is why I have written Les Misérables”. Exposure to poverty and cruelty is something Victor Hugo and I don’t have in common, but I would like to think that Victor Hugo and I have at least a common purpose. I, too, condemn slavery and banish poverty. That is what I am and that is why I’m writing this essay: To give the gift of awareness to my peers.

I recall being heartbroken in Paris, France. At every corner there was a beggar, often drunken, usually using the same tactic as the other beggar just around the corner. Occasionally they would be old men with long beards and thin jackets with small, starving puppies and a handful or less of dog food spread across a short blanket. Some of them were women who didn’t speak English and had their pleas written on a note-card, so tourists would understand what they were saying. At first I felt as if I was being tricked, but the more I thought about it the more I realized that even if I was being tricked, these people weren’t faking anything. They were simply starving to death.

This exposure to homelessness prompted me change my behavior. I left a coin for the old woman, kneeling outside of a cathedral as lines of people passed in and out. I dropped a pound into the hat of a toothless guitarist that played outside of an alleyway in Cambridge, England. I haven’t taken great strides in philanthropy, but being aware of the problem at least made me realize how easy my own life really is.

Even though I promote philanthropy, I don’t ask it. What I ask of the reader is to look around and become aware of the harsh realities that envelopes us. Maybe we could all try being a little more grateful to our parents, or ask for a little less and learn to appreciate what we already have, keeping in mind that so many people aren’t so fortunate.

A Gift I'd Like to Give (Rough draft)

I remember being five and six-years old, my mother would ask me every December what it was I wanted for Christmas; Mine and my brothers responses would come in lists. My mother would put out plain white paper, a few glue sticks and a collection of magazines that advertised all of the local Christmas sales. Me and my brothers would cut out the pictures of what we wanted to find under the tree on Christmas morning and glue them to the blank pages. When we were done decorating our lists and writing specific notes for certain items, we would give our lists to mother who would assure us that our Christmas lists would be delivered to the jolly old elf up north immediately. On Christmas morning we would find those same items decorated in boxes and bags in our stockings and under the tree, we would be delighted.

To us, back then, finding those items at Christmas was a miracle, but now that I grow older I've realized the gifts my parents gave to me weren't Gameboys and Bicycles, but something more meaningful; something less tangible. My parents gave me a gift I'd like to give.

Maybe some day I'll have a child of my own to raise and teach. If I do I hope I get to be a positive influence in my child's life, because I owe it to him or her. I could think of no gift greater to a child than happiness and a family that cares for their well-being, one like the family I grew up with.

Suppose I don't have a child of my own, I could be a philanthropist. I could feed the hungry, house the sick and befriend the friendless. My gift could be shelter, warmth or conversation. I could be a father to the fatherless. I seem to recall being in Paris and seeing the beggars and the homeless, and I remember my heart breaking. I know it's cliche and I'm aware that writers all around the world have written about beggars, but nobody deserves to live like that. The gift I'd like to give could make it so somebody doesn't have to.

The gift I'd like to give is personal awareness, the gift my mother and my father gave me. My own parents would gladly make any sacrifice to make us happy. When we're young it's hard to imagine something more worthwhile than money, but we seem to depreciate the value of awareness. I believe awareness is something that nobody wants to live without receiving, but most of all awareness is something nobody should live without giving.

My Life Story

My life started as a picture I drew
Turned into a song I played
Then into a play I performed
And now into a poem I wrote

The picture I drew is a lighthearted one
Comedic, cartoonish, creative
It was a portrait of a boy who had no worries
and often drew pictures

The song I played is about an older boy
Whose mother had died
And he wrote a song to help him cope
In a place where he now had to watch over himself

The play I performed was about a young man
Who was warming up to society
In the end he learns to overcome adversity
But still doesn't believe much in people
Except the ones he portrays on stage

And the poem I wrote is about a young adult
Who writes a poem about pictures and plays
To tell his story

My OTHER Blog

http://kristian-talks.blogspot.com

I remember...

I remember when 10-year-olds didn't all have cell phones, if we wanted to talk to eachother we would just talk to eachother.

I remember when we listened to CDs. I remember my dad telling me he listened to cassettes, and my grandmothers record player. My great grandfather remembers when people used to play instruments.

I remember when the west nile became a pandemic. It used to be a river.

I remember when I didn't understand politics. It seems the more I understand about politics, the less I understand about everything else.

I remember when childrens television wasn't this deluted blender of weak dialogue and overdone life-lessons, turning brains to cole-slaw. I remember when children used to watch childrens television.

I remember when we didn't play with matches.

I remember when my peers hadn't forgotten that their parents work hard to provide them with shelter, food and means of living. I remember when it became cool to forget, and society became a war where the winner was the person who had the worst parents.

I remember when "cool" meant you had a boy-scout pocket knife. This was before "cool" meant you had been stabbed with a boy-scout pocket knife.

I remember when sex was a bad word.

I remember when being smart was a compliment, and being dirt-stupid wasn't trendy.

I remember when we used to go to the internet for information; now we go to the internet to be misinformed.

I remember playing cops and robbers. I remember losing cops and robbers. I'm glad I havn't lost cops and robbers again since I've grown, but we see more people losing it every day; it isn't so forgiving anymore.

I remember when everyone wanted to be a "space-man" when they grew up. I remember when we grew up and realized we couldn't be space-men.

I remember when I used to dwell on the past.

A Day in the Mirror (Prompt #6)

The mirror was her conviction of silent judgment. She had golden-blond hair and bright blue eyes; she was beautiful. But in the mirror she was as ugly as sin.

When she stared at herself in the mirror she had been deemed narcissist, but in reality the mirror filled her with distaste for herself as opposed to self-obsession. It was a necessary evil, the mirror was the only thing that kept her tongue in her mouth.

When she saw herself, she could only compare herself to everyone else.

Coffee Shop scene

1- It’s cold outside.
2- …But the birds are still here.
1- Correct. So you’re the man who requested the murder.
2- Y-yes.
1- I like you. Usually my clients either back out at the last minute or forget the password.
2- How hard can it be to remember “But the birds are still here”?
1- You have a point. Maybe some people back out at the VERY last minute. So… tell me about the victim.
2- His name is Preston Cushrinada.
1- I see. Brother? Coworker? Ex-lover?
2- He was a coworker.
1- Why do you want him dead?
2- He took me job, he took my girlfriend… he stole my identity.
1- And you want him to die because--
2- I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I want him dead because I want my life back.
1- I wasn’t, but I am now.
2- I-I want him dead because I despise him! I’ve lost many hours of sleep because of him, if there’s anything I want back I guess those hours would suffice more than anything!
1- So Preston Cushrinada made you an insomniac, and you want him to die so you can sleep peacefully again.
2- Yes. He’s plagued my thoughts hourly. I will not rest until I have my vengeance.
1- You talk big.
2- You talk small.
1- Touché. I’ll tell ya what. Come up with a better excuse and maybe we’ve got ourselves a deal. *Get’s up to leave*
2- … Wait!
1- *stops* yes?
2- What if I told you he was a national threat?
1- I would think you were full of—
2- I’m serious. I can explain if you’ll just sit down and listen to me.
1- … Fine, I’ve got another minute. *Sits down*
2- Good. Preston Cushrinada is the leader of an underground anti-federalist anarchist organization called “The Pack”
1- How do you know this?
2- … B-because it was my organization. He stole it from me.
1- So you were serious when you said he took your identity.
2- Yes.
1- And this man could kill the president.
2- If he wanted to.
1- Funny… you don’t look like a member of an underground anarchist network. You look like an underpaid office intern.
2- *glare* oh, you’re hilarious.
1- Heh. Okay, we got ourselves a deal. I expect the money by tomorrow.
2- You’ll get it. Trust me.

The Captain (Sketch)

The captain walks slowly with a limp in his left leg like an injured rescue dog. His beard is a forest at midnight, a dark shade of black to contrast the pale, moonlight white of his face. His amber eyes reflect a threatening sunset. He commands his crew with a thunderous voice and the pointer finger of Zeus, lightning casted upon pointing and ordering. He wields a sharpened sword, a sharpened eye and most importantly a sharpened tongue that impales his enemies upon contact, sending them hastily to their graves. The seas and the winds obey his word and the earth trembles at his fury. As his ship is tempest tossed he stands calm, with his flask in his mouth and his finger directing the subordinate crew, attempting to save lives with conviction and determination. His dusty hands constantly hold the shoulders of his crewmen.

The Impulse (scene)

1- Were you going to say something?
2- No.
1- Oh. Okay.
(Silence)
2- I was going to say something about the weather, but I didn’t.
1- Why not?
2- I hate small talk.
1- Oh.
(Silence)
2- But it really is poring out there. It’s hard to see on the road.
1- I can tell. I think we missed our exit.
2- Did we? I wonder where we’re going then.
1- Paradise.
2- Paradise? What do you mean?
1- We’re going to die.
2- How do you know?
1- Everyone does.
2- That’s true, but it’s a very glum outlook.
1- It’s an honest one.
2- Unfortunately.
(pause)
2- We’ll be in Seattle soon.
1- I hope so.
2- Why?
1- I love Seattle.
2- Ah.
1- And the ocean.
2- Why’s that?
1- My father was a sailor. I’ve seen the world.
2- I’ve seen the world in pictures.
1- Photos?
2- Paintings.
1- Its not the same.
2- No, it’s not. It’s more than the world has to offer. I have seen majesty that the world doesn’t poses in paintings.
1- Paintings are emulation of life.
2- No, paintings are emulation of hearts.
1- I see.
(Silence)
1- I think we're here.
2- We are.

Short Story

Waves. I was awakened by the sound of waves and the glare of the sweltering hot sun in my eyes. I sat up half blinded by the sun and waited for my vision to return to me. Even after the remnants of the suns glare disappeared from my eyes, my vision was still blurry. My glasses weren’t on and I had a headache; possibly a hangover. I was drunk the night before, but that’s all I could remember; I’m fairly sure I didn’t fall asleep on a raft in the middle of the ocean, but regardless, somehow that’s where I winded up by morning.

I was wearing a suit; On any normal day I wouldn’t fall asleep in a suit. I recognized it; it was the business suit that I would wear to work. It was stained red, but not with blood, with wine. I reached my hand behind my head as if to scratch; but instead of finding the momentary comfort from scratching my head I found a lump. The back of my head was bruised and swollen. There was no question about it, I had been tricked.

I panicked frantically, but regained control over myself; It was no use panicking, I would only lose my energy and die faster. I knew I would die, I had suspected it for a while. As a wealthy entrepreneur of a successful company the figurative bounty on my head was exceedingly high and constantly increasing. There was always someone after my money, and finally someone went as far as to abandon me on a raft in the middle of the ocean. But who? I decided to take a deep breath and think it through. I thought that maybe if I used deductive reasoning I could figure out who the culprit was. The first clue was that the man or woman left me alive, which meant for some reason the person couldn’t kill me; or maybe the murderer didn’t have the gall.

Intro

I'm not a writer yet, just a young man who wants people to hear his philosophies and ideas. Even though I'm not a writer, I've been speaking English for over 15 years now, so I believe I have potential.

Do I want to be a writer? Absolutely. I've wanted to be a writer since I was young. I first made the decision that I wanted to write when I discovered the limitless nature of writing. On paper, as an author, you can never be wrong. I can be a creator of worlds that exist in the minds of my readers. Worlds that before only I was conscious of.

I'm not an avid reader, but I am very interested in literature. I first realized this when I read "Harry Potter" as an 8-year-old boy. Since then I've moved on to more advanced works, but when I read Harry Potter I was captivated by the world J K Rowling created, and I wanted to be a part of that world more than anything. Since then my favorite works have been The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas, The Foundation by Isaac Asimov, Hamlet by William Shakespeare and Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Victor Hugo today is my greatest inspiration to write, because his prose is absolutely beautiful; the kind of prose I would like to see myself create.

My least favorite writer is Orson Scott Card. No offense, Card fans, but I thought Ender's Game was poorly written trash. It had the same plot as the first book in the Harry Potter series, but I don't consider J K Rowling a plagiarist since she wrote the book so much better than Card. I guess I just couldn't find a book appealing where all of the characters reminded me of my younger brother when he was 8-years-old.

My favorite genre's of writing are good sci-fi (ex. Isaac Asimov), good historical fiction (ex. Alexandre Dumas), good plays (Ex. William Shakespeare; Neil Simon) and good satire (ex. Dave Barry). I also respect some fantasy, western and horror (J.R.R Tolkien; Louis L'Amour; Stephen King) but seldom do I become entranced in the text.

As a writer I plan on writing sci-fi, fantasy, plays, screenplays and satire. I know I said I wasn't easily entranced by fantasy, but the fantasy I plan on writing will be very mild fantasy and will be used for analogical purposes. I'm very excited about many of the ideas I've already formulated in my head in each one of those categories, and I aspire to attain the tools and abilities it takes to put those ideas on paper.

I firmly believe that with a heart, a mind and a keyboard I can change the world. I look forward to the day my ideas fleet from my mind onto paper, and from the paper into the eyes of people to further share the excitement before them. The day someone is inspired by my works, I will become a writer. But until then, I am just a young man who wants people to hear his philosophies and ideas.